Shut Up Already

Aloha from the Big Island of Masochism, and a Farewell to Blogging

Well, I took the job.  I could outline for your the painful process I underwent to arrive at this decision, but I've already re-lived it for so many people that I just can't.

Work is going to take up every waking minute of my life and every iota of my brain power for at least the next six months.  I'm trying to think of it as a trial by fire, from which I will emerge transformed and cleansed, but from this vantage point it just looks terrifying.  I just now taped a teeny-tine reminder on my phone handset: You asked for it.

But the real problem with continuing this blog is that people in this office know about it.  Only a few, and I don't think they check it, but they could.  I already feel a little constrained because so many of the people I know in real life read this and are subsequently aware of what a lunatic I really am; if I can't even obliquely refer to work for fear of being dooced I'll really be constrained.

And this place is a lunatic asylum, honestly, so not writing about it in any way will be extremely difficult.

But this is where I need to be right now, so here I am.  It's my journey, as my boss and mentor told me when I accepted their offer.  The announcement of my triumphant return will go out this morning, and I will endure several hours of snide remarks about how I swore I would never come back, while I try to negotiate a mountain of backlogged work that would kill an ordinary mortal.  So it begins.

This blog will reappear in some form, at some point.  I'll keep this page up for a while before I archive these posts somewhere, and then start a new one at a secret undisclosed location.  If you would like to be informed when the new site kicks off, after I get my feet wet here, please comment below or shoot me an email (lendmesomesugar AT yahoo. c o m). 

I have really loved writing this thing, and I've appreciated every one of you who has read it.  Thank you so much.

Set Sail on the S.S. Self-Hatred

Well.

I still haven't heard anything.  But after spending all day yesterday reassuring people that yes, I did want the job, and yes, I'd thought about it long and hard, and yes, I was sure, I've sort of decided that...maybe I don't want the job.

But is that fear of failure and rejection talking, or the real, true me?  News flash:  the real Cara is nothing but a seething roil of fear of rejection and failure.  That's my shtick!  I've been kind of trying to overcome it lately, but old habits die hard and all that.  Any way, in this case I think my fears are justified.  They need someone who can jump in with both feet and take a load off the meetings manager immediately.  If I were hired, it would be because they like me, not because I'm qualified to do a mid-level meeting planning job.  The advantage I do have is that I know the culture of the place; most new hires don't last a year because the atmosphere is rather...special, in the Amityville Horror sense of the word. 

Actually, I think it's that aspect that I kinid of miss.  It's like a battlefield, and your colleagues get to be like war buddies.  But I can't negotiate the mine-laden terrain and learn how to march and fire and whatever else people in the army do at the same time.  Never mind the guy above me who was counting on artillery support and instead is being peppered with questions like How do you load this thing?

Good metaphor.  And a small example of why many new hires don't last.

So now I have about an hour to be sure that I'm sure that I don't want this job.  As sure, or more sure, than I was yesterday that I did want this job.  Then I have to figure out how to tell a bunch of people who spent a big chunk of yesterday wrestling with the decision of whether or not to hire me and conferring on the merits and drawbacks of The Cara Package that, Oops.  I changed my mind.

Do you hate me yet?  Because I do.

And worst of all, I still think I want some kind of job there but that possibility seems especially remote now.

I am fucking DYING for a cigarette.

Captain Codependent, Reporting for Duty

I should know in a couplemof hours whether or not I have a job here again.  Careful what you wish for, and all that.

The immediate benefit is that I'll have health insurance again, because I clearly need to be in therapy on a regular basis.

Stay tuned.

UPDATE: I was just asked to attend an interview today at 4.  Do I have to go home and change into a suit?

If I worked any more I might die

Seriously.  This place is an insane asylum.  I'm working like crazy, coming in early, staying late, no lunch, etc.  I had a panic attack before 10 a.m. yesterday, or maybe a small heart attack; my lips and hands went numb, breath went all raggedy, and my chest hurt, which made me feel all the more panicky.

No, I did not consult any medical professional, because I have no health insurance and also?  No time.  If I am going to have a heart attack, it better kill me because there's no way I can pay for treatment.

So posting will be lighter than air until I return from Philly--where I am helping run a conference for these lunatics--next Wednesday.  I'll try to entertain you between now and then, but I also have to try to eat and sleep and not have a heart attack.

Also, my boss-man keeps taking smoke breaks, and that makes me want to cry and rend my garments, because I would like a smoke break.

Also, I am not taking the job that is being offered here because if I start spending all of my time with these crazy people, I will become one of them.  Honestly, it would be a short trip for me.  I am a delicate flower-type person, and must be shielded from the hot sun of type A, compulsive, anxiety-ridden lunatics lest the tender blossom of my creativity be scorched.

Lo, though I am sad about the money, health insurance, and generous pension package I am also turning down.  But I have to trust that not dying of job-related stress will be worth it when my book comes out.

Also, I got a 1000 word article accepted for the next edition of the magazine.  Movin' on up.

To Fold or Not to Fold

The two jobs ago job people, for whom I'm now working temporarily, are offering me a full-time position.  I'm going out to lunch with my old boss today to discuss whether or not I even want to hear the terms and how serious they are.

As I discussed here, I was very unhappy when I worked here before.  But I'm genetically wired for full-time work, and I hate being poor, and I really hate always having to cross in the crosswalk because I have no health insurance.  I think I'll regret any decision I make here, but which one will I regret more? 

I'd make a pros and cons list, but I'm too busy.

Eek.

Smote

I think yesterday was the worst shift I ever worked.  And believe me, in eight years of sporadic employment, I've worked some pretty hellacious days and nights.  This time, I had my least favorite section, in which six tables sat down at once (no ones fault, it just goes like that sometimes) and then, as soon as I had taken all of their orders, the printer in the kitchen ran out of paper and no one noticed for 20 minutes. 

Which means no food came out to my tables, who were the last to order because they were the last to sit, for well over an hour.  There comes a point as a waitress when you just can't face your tables any more and bear the shame of their judgment, and so you hide in the server station and cajole your colleagues to drop checks, fill water glasses, etc. 

I was well past that point when I received word that the surly assholes at table 19 wanted more water.  Of course, their food and the food of their neighbors was still stuck in a kitchen labyrinth somewhere, and it had been a good fifteen minutes since I'd assured them all that their food would be out in five.  Also, my shoulder had started to hurt pretty badly when things went to hell in the kitchen, and by this time my stomach was hurting too because I'd taken 1800 mg of ibuprofen, and it was not yet quite one p.m.  Things were going badly, and  could see my potential tips dwindling by the second.

And it was then, as I prepared to face my angry section and quell the riot brewing there, with the prospect of carrying a tray of water glasses in the wrong hand through the throng, with no food imminent, that I dropped a glass and shattered it.  This seemed like a little more than I should be expected to bear on my second day back after an absence of over a year, and so I did the only thing I could do: I set everything down, stepped delicately over the shards of broken glass, and locked myself in the bathroom stall for a little cry.  It had to be a little cry, because taking the deep breaths necessary for sobbing caused my shoulder to hurt like I was being stabbed.

After a few minutes, I got myself together and went to each of my tables and explained that there had been a fire in the kitchen and that it wasn't my fault their food was so late.  Most restaurants would have probably bought them a drink or something, but we pride ourselves on being a little surly at M's.  I mean, why would waiters want to keep their customers happy?  What's in it for us? (It's actually the management who's not so interested in keeping the customers happy.  Or the staff, for that matter.  Though we did get McDonald's for lunch.  I hate McDonald's.)

Anyway, universe: I'm sorry I said I had a good day Monday.  I'm extra double sorry that I said I'm a good waitress.  I understand now that I was arrogant and presumptuous, but I think I've been punished enough at this point.  Let's start with a clean slate tonight, 'kay?  I'll be humble and industrious, and you see to it that some people who tip 20% sit in my section.

Whack for the Daddy-O

Ten hours of waiting tables done, innumerable to go.  I served my first Guinness at M's nearly eight years ago now.  Though it had been well over a year since I last reported for duty, it all came back immediately.  The memory of how to get through a big rush has apparently just been living in my muscles all this time, and today it just tumbled out.  In short, I rocked.

Until my back started hurting at about hour 6, I felt like I was 22 again.  Just smarter and not so hungover.  Right now I'm thinking that if I could just get a few more  freelabce copyediting and writing jobs, I could work a few shifts a week at M's for the cash and have a pretty good life, with the right mix of work I like and contact with humanity.  I can just see myself slipping back into that kind of life.

We'll see how I feel after I drag my tired old ass through the rush tomorrow.