One of The Ones to Be Grateful For

Today is one of those days. You know, those days -- the ones that, even though you're awake, feel like some sort of dream, or maybe an out of body experience where you're watching life happen to yourself without actually feeling any of it, like it's not even you experiencing things, like it's someone else.

My therapist calls it "disassociation" and says that it's my mind distancing itself from stressful events or feelings that might otherwise be overwhelming. Its a defense mechanism, she says, so that I can keep functioning through whatever life throws at me. Personally, I think that explanation makes me sound crazy, and much more fragile than I am.

Some things just take more time for a mind to process, and during that delay I think we associate what's happening to the first similar thing we can find in our memories. For those of us who are part of the modern world, the most prevalent sensory and informational input we get is from a television screen or computer monitor. And the majority of that is either fiction, or non-fiction that is so sensationalized that it comes across as fiction.

So it's not that we're "disassociating." Quite the opposite. Its that we're trying so hard to immediately figure out how to think, feel, or react to a situation that our minds are misassociating with things that we know to be fake. We think, subconsciously as well as consciously, "this stuff happens on TV, or in movies, not in real life." Thus, whatever is going on ends up feeling surrealistic -- like it isn't happening to you because these things "don't happen to real people."

Now, I'm not saying that people don't ever truly disassociate. I fully admit to doing it sometimes. I did it when I was at my worst, refusing to admit that I was hurting, throwing myself into work and school. I did it as a new mom, when diapers, spit up, throw up, etc., etc., were too disgusting to handle. I do it now, at work, when the stress and frustration gets to be overwhelming. But those times, I go numb. I become robotic; completely and totally unfeeling and blind to anything but the task at hand. It doesn't feel surrealistic. It doesn't feel like anything at all.

So today, I'm not disassociating. I feel okay. It's just that... Things just don't feel right. They don't feel real.

This morning, on my way to work, I got a call from my ex husband telling me that he's been the victim of identity theft, and that I should keep an eye on the joint bank account we still have. Great. Lovely. So I have to go, at some point, and close it just to be safe. And that wasn't even how the day started.

My wake up call this morning, instead of my normal 6:30am alarm, was a 5-something am phone call from my boyfriend to let me know that his grandfather had passed away. It wasn't an unexpected thing. But that doesn't make it any easier on anyone involved. I don't think its all really hit him yet... But it will eventually. In the mean time, my heart is breaking for him.

I remember how hard it was on me when my great grandmother died... She'd been ill for a long time, and each time I saw her, she was less and less of the woman I knew. She was one of the strongest, most alive, feisty and fun loving people I've ever known. But the last few times I saw her, she wasn't any of those things. She was wasting away, hooked up to more and more tubes and machines each time. The number of pill bottles in her bathroom soon overflowed the medicine cabinet, and lined the sink and even the top of the toilet tank. Certain bottles took up residence by her bed, or by her recliner in the living room.

On my last visit, the entire house had become a sick room, and the woman I'd loved and admired was a mere shadow of her former self. She couldn't even sit up on her own, let alone stand at the stove teaching me how to cook like she always had.

Between her medications and the dementia that had set in, she could barely recognize her family. We even had to have my dad's wife step outside because my great grandmother couldn't remember who she was, and kept getting scared about "the strange woman in my house." In the fog she was in, my father had to keep reminding her who he was because she kept confusing him with my uncle and my grandfather.

But she knew me. She called me by name, and grasped my hand with more strength than she should have been able to muster.

"Do you have a boyfriend?" she asked, her voice weak, but seemingly determined.
"Yes Nanny," I replied. I was fifteen, and did have one... Kind of.
"You love him?" she asked, a glimmer of hope slipping into her voice.
"Yes Nanny," I said. I thought I did, given how much fifteen year olds know about love.
"You're going to get married?" she asked, hope lighting her eyes, and color coming back into her face.

Who was I to deny her that hope? Who was I to deny her a last moment of happiness? What would it hurt to tell her what she wanted to hear?

"Yes Nanny," I lied.
"Good," she said. A soft smile spread across her face as her hand slipped from mine and she fell back into a state halfway between consciousness and unconsciousness.

My conversation with her ended up being the last conversation she had with anyone. She never quite regained lucidity again after that. And a day later, as I was on the plane home, she passed away peacefully after months of battling to hold on to life's last threads. It was as if she was waiting for me... Waiting to see that I had a bright future, before she felt it was okay to let go.

When we got the call that she'd passed away, I cried like a baby in my father's arms. But my tears weren't for her. She was in a better place, and she'd gone there happy. She wasn't suffering anymore, and I was glad for that. But me... I was stuck here, without her. My tears were for me; my hurt, my loss, my emptiness.

She was everything I'd always wanted to be; one of only two people I ever admired growing up. And I still miss her. I always will.

There was nothing that anyone could say or do to help me feel better. All the I'm sorries, and the I know how you feels did nothing but annoy me. Only the friends who really did know how I felt were honest enough to admit that there was nothing they could say. They were the ones that would hug me. They were the ones that would ask to hear about her. They were the ones that would share stories about the loved ones they'd lost. They were the ones that would cry with me. They were the ones that helped; that made me feel less alone. They were the ones I was grateful for.

I just hope that I can be that... One of the ones that help... One of the ones to be grateful for.

Blogging Bind

I haven't really had much to say here lately... My mind has, for the most part, been caught up in other people's lives, and my focus has been on being there for them in whatever way I can. Instead of looking inward, I've been looking out, and now I'm in a bit of a blogging bind. You see, all the people that I'm talking about read this blog, and now I find myself thinking about how what I say here might affect them. I don't feel I can be as open as I usually am, because it might impact them, or the relationships I have with them, which is not my intention here. On the other hand, this is MY blog, and its here that I generally get stuff off my chest, whether it be good, or bad. Aside from making sure not to name names, or otherwise give out any personal information, I've never censored myself, and I don't want to start. It would defeat the purpose of the blog if I did.

So here's my solution. I'm going to remind you, now, that this blog is much like a personal journal for me. I share it this way because... Well, I don't really know why I share it this way. Maybe I'm practicing letting myself be vulnerable. Maybe I'm tired of hiding everything I think and feel. Maybe I want there to be an easy way for people to see the real me. Maybe all of those, maybe none. It doesn't matter really. What matters is that, as you're reading this, you take it all with a grain of salt and remember that this is just the brain spillage of someone who feels the world around her a little more than she knows how to handle sometimes.

What A Weekend

Okay. So. This weekend rocked. Seriously.

First of all, my Friday night was one of the best Friday nights I've had, ever. Not only because I was out with really great people, or because I got so drunk that I actually danced and didn't give a shit if I looked stupid or not, or because I looked cute enough that total strangers were giving me compliments (it was a gay club, so they were actually complimenting me, not hitting on me), although all that was beyond fun, and I'm definitely going to have to dance more often (it's great exercise, and thanks to my four inch heels, my legs were sore all the next day). The thing that really made my night though, was one little phrase.

As we were walking into the club, the bouncer asked the guy I'm seeing if I was his wife. I of course found that idea hilarious, given my feelings about marriage, and laughed. The guy I'm seeing though, says to the bouncer "No, she's my girlfriend." That was the first time I'd ever heard him call me that, and it felt so good... I know, it seems kind of juvenile of me, or girly in a high school way... But there's something about that title that gives me the mushy little warm fuzzies. I mean, I know its just a title, I know it doesn't actually change anything, but... Being called that makes me feel important, special, possessed. And I like that feeling of belonging to someone. A lot.

The other totally awesome thing that happened this weekend was that the board of directors of my boyfriend's (note the change in terminology *grin*) company voted to make me their new CFO. Uh huh. That's right. Me. CFO. Chief Financial Officer. At 26. Yup yup. I so rock *grin*

In all seriousness though, as thrilled as I am at being given that opportunity, the sheer magnitude of being a CFO is a bit daunting. Yes, Berkeley gave me a crash course in accounting policy and procedure. Yes, I've taken accounting classes. Yes, I've taken management classes. But I don't know everything that a CFO should. I know a lot of it, but not everything.

Now, I'm not saying that will keep me from doing a great job, because it won't. It just means that I'm going to have to do a lot of research on top of everything else. A LOT of research. Both about the job, and about the company. And its intimidating, jumping into something that you're maybe not quite prepared for.

I have confidence in myself though, and so do other people. This kind of situation is the kind I excel in, actually, and this is the kind of work I was born for.

High level financial management is not what it might seem. It's not just number crunching like everyone thinks. Its much more abstract than that. A financial report isn't just about account balances or cash flow, and accounting isn't just about knowing when the bills were paid. If it were, anyone could do it. What a financial report really does, is tell a story. If you know how to read it, that is. It tells you everything you could ever want to know about a company. Where it's been, where it is now, and where it's going. Liquidity, profitability, potential growth, productivity. I can look at a financial report and tell you where a company needs improvement, where it's losing money and why, where it's profiting and why. All that, just from a screen full of numbers.

There's also an amount of creativity involved. Creation of policy and procedure, the sculpting and molding of processes, building a company from the inside out...

It's all exactly what I'm best at -- a mix of art and numbers, creativity and practicality... A lot of it is intuitive for me, innate skill that I just... Have. The rest... I've either learned already, or will learn soon.

My Mom Is Weird

She sent me a "Liv. Breast Self Exam Kit" in the mail.

A what?! Yes, you read that right. A breast self exam kit. Why I need a kit, I have no idea... But according to the box, it comes with a tool thats designed to "greatly enhance sensitivity" and its "made of soft, latex-free polyurethane and filled with a non-toxic lubricant." I'm sorry, but to me, it sounds more like a sex toy than anything else. It really does. It even comes with its own little velvet bag to keep it in!

Amused, I called my sister to see if she'd gotten one too... And got her voicemail. When she called back, I found out that she'd been on the phone with Mom, and just as I was ringing through, Mom had said "oh! I didn't tellyour sister I was sending her one!" Ha Ha. Good timing, that. So then my sister tells me that Mom sent one to our grandmother...

I nearly died at the thought of my tiny, 77 (I think) year old, prim, proper, reserved, UPTIGHT grandmother opening that package in front of my sweet, quiet, SHY grandfather... OMG! I can't even begin to imagine the conversation that must have sparked... And for the sake of my sanity, I'm not even going to try!

I know my mom means well. Really, I do. And given that she works as a mammographer (taking mammograms all day, every day) its not as weird of a "gift" as it seems. But Oh. My. God! *laughs* That was SO the last thing I ever expected to get in the mail!

PeopleSoft 8.8 -- Software From Hell

Well here I am again, stuck not being able to work, and this time, its all PeopleSoft's fault.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with PeopleSoft -- the erectile dysfunction (I secretly think of them as PenisSoft, hehe) of the packaged software industry -- they are the company that designed the AP/AR software that UCB (as well as just about every other public college and university) uses.

We recently (2 weeks ago) upgraded from 7.02 to 8.8 -- a drastic change that moved us from a VPN based interface to a web-based interface -- during which our AP/AR system was down for 2.5 weeks. Yes, you read that right: 2.5 weeks. 2.5 weeks that we couldn't pay bills. 2.5 weeks that we couldnt process incoming payments. 2.5 weeks that several million dollars of grants could not be initialized. 2.5 weeks that NOTHING could be accomplished.

This is something that in the corporate sector would NEVER have happened. Having your AP/AR system down for more than a few hours in the middle of the night is pure business suicide! But this isn't the corporate sector now is it. Us non-profit folks don't need to hold ourselves to the ridgid business standards that the rest of the world lives up to... Ooooooh no.

Well fine. With all that downtime, when the system comes back up, it will be shiny and new, and work like a liberally oiled machine... Right?

Wrong! The first day it was up, it crashed the authentication servers for the whole campus! And every day there after, there were more and more bugs found. More and more weird error messages, less and less functionality. Tasks that originally took me an hour to finish using 7.02 now take up to five times as long, if I can get them accomplished at all... And today, today, 2 whole weeks after implementation, I can't even approve a fucking payment because of a "mysterious SQL error"!!

*Side note: I always think of SQL as "squirrel," and when there's an SQL error, I wind up envisioning a little squirrel inside my computer throwing a hissy fit because he can't find his acorns*

Well hell. Someone want to tell me why I even bother showing up to the office? I mean, if they want to pay me to sit on my ass and do nothing all day, can't I at least do it by the pool? Somehow I don't think that idea would go over well with HR... But I'm tired of this. Really sick and tired.

And in my humble opinion (Or maybe not so humble. Maybe rather indignant instead.) PeopleSoft needs some Cialis or something to get their asses in gear. It sure would be nice if we could charge them for every hour each staff member has to spend twiddling their thumbs instead of working because of whatever system glitch 8.8 has, and send us the fuck home on PeopleSoft's tab. That would sure wake them up quick. Pity theres things called indemnity clauses in contracts... *sigh*

Public Transit Code of Ethics

Okay people, Melissa's getting fed up with inconsiderate office mates, and I'm getting fed up with inconsiderate mass transit riders. There is an unspoken code of ethics when using public transit you know...

For example:

Respecting Personal Space: No matter how crowded the train, you never, I repeat NEVER, jam the crack of your ass against your neighbor's arm so hard that she can tell, without looking, what cut underwear you have on. And when that neighbor tries to extricate herself from your ass, you do NOT push back against her harder! Maybe you have an ass play fetish. I don't know, I don't care. A crowded train is not the place to get your fix, especially not at the expense of the complete stranger who is unfortunate enough to be standing behind you.

Shoe Choice: If you have chosen to wear stiletto heels on the train, either sit down, or stand perfectly still. Do not keep rearranging your feet. You run the risk of stepping on the toes of an innocent bystander. And when, invariably, you do put your 4 inch pencil point heel down on someone's foot so hard that they cry out in pain, the proper response is "Oh, I'm so sorry! Are you alright?" Glaring at them, and rolling your eyes, is unconscionably rude. After all, it was your stupid idea for you to wear stilettos and step on their foot, not theirs.

Escalator Utilization During Rush Hour: There are two lanes of traffic on the escalator during commute hours. The left side is for those of us who choose to run up, and the right side is for those of us who choose to stand still. If you are going to stand still, please stay to the right and let people pass you. Don't just stand in the middle, blocking everyone who actually has somewhere they need to be.

Turnstile Ettiquette: Have your ticket ready before you get to the turnstile. Don't stand there fumbling through your purse while everyone piles up behind you. Most of us have better things to do than stand around waiting for you to get your act together.

Backpacks, Purses, Briefcases, Laptop Cases, Etc.: Watch out! People do not appreciate it when someone swings around and bashed them in the knee with a briefcase. Similarly, we also do not appreciate being knocked in the face with a backpack, or having a stray purse hit us in the stomach. It's your responsibility to make sure that your baggage isn't accidentally transformed into a weapon of mass distruction, not ours.

Cell Phones: The train is always crowded and noisy. Your cell phone also will get horrible reception on the train. The proper way to deal with this is NOT to yell into the mouth piece at the top of your lungs about how your boyfriend is a lying, cheating, piece of shit. Turn off the damned phone, and wait til you're somewhere a tad less public. We really, REALLY don't need to know about the STD he caught from his whore (or possibly from you, 'cuz there was that one time you slept with what's-his-face from that club...OOOOH girl! That brotha was FYNE!), or that you're going to throw his clothes out on the lawn and burn them. Truly, we don't. And really, if you think about it, neither does the person you're screaming at through your cell.

Unnecessary Conversation With Strangers: One sentence -- Don't talk to me. It's either way too early in the morning and I'm on my way to my crappy job, or its late and I'm on my way home from my crappy job. Either way, I'm not in a good mood and don't want to make idle chit chat or hear your life story. The fact that I have earphones on with the volume cranked so loud that anyone within 5 feet of me can hear what I'm listening to is not an invitation to ask me about my iPod. Quite the opposite. It's meant to deter morons like you from asking me stupid questions like "What does an iPod do?" and "Oh, so you need a computer to use an iPod?" I am not an Apple representative, I am not an information kiosk, I am not the latest issue of Consumer Reports Magazine. Leave me alone!!

All that said, go over and check out Melissa's office ettiquette rants, which served as inspiration for this post.

Between A Rock And A Hard Place

I don't know how you do it. All you people who are faithful to the jobs you hate so much. How do you get up every morning and make yourself get to the office on time? How do you convince yourselves to do the work you find so monotonous, and such a waste of your talent? How do you do it, day after day, not taking time off?

Don't you ever resent your job, your supervisors, for wasting your life? Don't you ever find yourself wishing you could just quit? Wishing that you could stay out all night on a Wednesday and not have to worry about aking up the next morning, or having to work all day with a hang over? Envying those friends who have their dream jobs, who can work whatever hours they want, who telecommute while lounging by the pool?

I hate my job. I find myself resenting every minute I spend in my office; resenting it for everything I give up just to be able to show up here. The parties, the trips to tahoe, the late night social gatherings, the sleep, the time... Most of all the time. God the things I could do if I only had the time...

It feels like my potential sufferes and bleeds away with every second I spend at this job. And yet, without the paycheck it generates, I wouldn't have the money to do any of the things I want to do. Hell, even with the paycheck I don't have the money to do half the things I want to do.

I work, so I can afford the life I want... I work, so I don't have time to live the life I want.

Stuck between a rock and a hard place... Perpetually.

Pepper Spray & A Cell Phone

Monday night, a man followed me home from the train station.

I was minding my own business, standing outside the station waiting for the 82 bus. It was almost 7pm, later than I usually am because I'd gone to the gym after work, and it was starting to get dark. The failing light didn't bother me. I've been taking public transit my whole life, at all hours of the day and night, in and through all manner or neighborhoods (many worse than where I was right then), and had never had any trouble.

So I'm standing there, not far from several other people, and a man I've never seen before turns to me and asks if I'm going home. Definitely not an unusual question, as I'm used to people making small talk while waiting for the bus, and I've definitely been asked weirder things. So I say that I am, he nods, and wanders off a ways.

When the bus shows up, a group of us get on, the man who'd talked to me included, and the bus got on its way. Everything seemed normal enough -- no one sat unnecessarily close to me, no one talked to me -- except that that guy kept staring at me. Eh, whatever, I thought. Plenty of guys stare at me on this bus. I'm always the only white chick, and I always look out of place.

After what seemed like years (but was only 3 songs on my Ipod) my stop comes up, and I get off. And so does that same guy. Thats when the alarm bells started going off inside my head. No one gets off at my stop after 5pm except for me. And on the off chance that someone does, they never walk the same direction I do. But this guy was following me, walking the same way I was, keeping pace about 15 feet behind me, even when I walked faster.

I tried to keep my cool. I focused on walking fast, but not too fast. I focused on getting my keys out of my pocket. I focused on acting like I hadn't noticed him, and everything was just fine. All the while I was creating a mental image of the guy just in case.

My height, latino, short black hair, brown eyes, brown skin, khaki shirt, dark blue carpenter style jeans, black work shoes, no scars, no tattoos, no limp, no goddamned distinguishing features...

It was less than a block, but it seemed like an eternity before I got to my building, like life was happening in slow motion.

Time seemed to speed up when I got to the front security door, and I couldn't get it unlocked at first, fumbling with the key, as the guy got closer and closer. Finally, just before he got through the lobby door, I got through the security door, and pulled it shut behind me, my heart pounding in my chest as I leaned back against it gratefully (thank GOD for security doors!).

I nearly screamed when he hit the door, I was so caught off guard. Looking over my shoulder, I hurried down the hallway as he kept pounding on the door, and rounded the corner to the mail room. Safely out of sight, I could still hear him pounding, POUNDING, on the security door while I waited for the elevator.

You're fine, I kept telling myself as I made my way through the building to my apartment He can't get in. He didn't see where you went. He doesn't know which apartment is yours... But I was shaken, severely, and I still had to pay my rent and take out the trash.

There are a couple of ways to get to the manager's office (which is empty that time of night), the quickest being to leave the building and cut across the parking lot. So, as I was just about to step out onto the lot, I saw someone studying the back gate. It was the guy who had followed me. He couldn't get in the front, so he'd gone around the back to try that way!!

I freaked. I lost my cool entirely, and ran back into the building, slamming the door behind me. I took the long way, through the building, to the office and back, practically hyperventilating the whole way.

Unfortunately, there's no way to get to the dumpsters without leaving the safety of the building... And stubborn me was determined to take out the damned trash. Now, I've never liked taking out the trash, but I've never been afraid to do it. Now though, I was terrified. Terrified to leave the building alone. Terrified to walk the 30 feet from the front door to the dumpsters. But I went anyway, holding my keys between my fingers in a fist, looking over my shoulder every other step... I did it, and once I was back in the building safely, without incident, I cried the whole way back to my apartment.

So... I've lived in, and travelled through, some of the most dangerous parts of the Bay Area, and I have never had anything like that happen before. NEVER. I've lived next door to drug dealers, ridden the bus with "gang bangers" and wanna-bes with guns in their pockets, seen drive by shootings (no one hurt, thankfully), had cars broken into, been accosted by homeless people, been felt up on the train... I hear sirens scream by my building every night. But I've never been afraid for my own safety. Not ever. Until now.

The guy I'm seeing dropped everything and came right over as soon as he found out... Which was incredibly sweet, and I adore him to death for it, but I still had nightmares all night that night, dreaming of being chased down narrow corridors by someone or something I couldn't see. I don't like being afraid. Not truly afraid, for myself, or people I care for.

So yesterday, on the advice (and scoldings) of several people, I took the afternoon off work and bought pepper spray and a cell phone. The bright yellow pepper spray canister has taken up permanent residence on my hip, and the cell phone has matching prime real estate on my other hip, and from here on out, I will never leave my apartment without either one. They don't exactly make me feel safer... I just feel a little better equipped to deal with whatever might come my way.

Getting Thrashed

This weekend, we drank too much.

It was my idea to get thrashed. I needed it. I needed to drink until the world became a pleasure filled fuzzy haze. I needed to drink past that point, until I threw up once or twice. I needed to reset myself that way, like I do a couple times a year. I'm used to my inhibitions melting away, to becoming nothing but raw emotion. I revel in it. But he's never been that drunk before. And despite the fact that he's a whole head taller, and about 60 lbs. heavier than I am, he had the same amount to drink as I did (half a bottle of Jack Daniels) and he was the one who ended up getting rather very ill.

Maybe its that I've been drinking since I was twelve, and he's only been drinking for a year or two. Maybe its that I get totally wasted every few months on purpose, and know what to expect, and he didn't. Whatever the reason, I ended up stroking his hair, and rubbing his back as he bent over my kitchen sink sobbing and choking up all the hurt and frustration he'd bottled up inside himself. I cried too, seeing all that pain, feeling it as if it were my own, and promised over and over that everything would be alright.

As much as I wish it hadn't taken getting drunk for us to talk that way, I'm glad I got to see that side of him. So maybe getting him thrashed, just this once (I promised that as long as I was around, I'd never let him drink that much again), was a good thing. I got to see part of him that I might never have gotten to see otherwise... A part that made me feel needed... And a lot less alone.