So I've been in HR at a major tech company for nearly seven years, and throughout my tenure I've spent a lot of time putting on a smile and pretending to be nice to assholes. Well, as of today, I'm done.
This morning, at the request of my client group, I gave a optional, extra, special, not-required-by-my-job presentation on new performance management practices to about 30 people live and on video conference. These practices are controversial and are causing folks some consternation, which is acceptable.
What happened during the meeting, however, was not.
About halfway through the presentation, one of my senior clients got up, wrote a word he "didn't want to hear" from me anymore on the whiteboard in huge letters, and then crossed it out to demonstrate to me and the room (because I'm a fucking five-year-old kindergartener, apparently) that he really doesn't like that word and he doesn't want to hear it ever again! He was visibly agitated the whole time, his eyes widening and his jowls shaking as he chastised me, his colleague, in front of his peers and direct reports, for the HR department being "the politburo." Of course, as all assholes who want to cover their asshole-ish asses do, he proceeded to clarify that he "wasn't directing any of this at me" but was "just so frustrated with the system," etc. After holding back tears for the remainder of the presentation, I tried to take him aside to give him some feedback about treating me like a 10 year old in front of a good chunk of his team. He cut me off abruptly: "I know what this is about, and, you know, I apologize, but I'm just so frustrated..." I told him that I found what he did humiliating, and that my hurt feelings were not related to what he said, but how he said it. He cut me off again: "I don't understand why you feel that way! I'm just frustrated about the process!" We decided to talk more later. He sent me one of those "sorry that you were offended" bullshit emails, and I repeated that we'd talk later in the week. I didn't think I could look at his fucking face twice in one day.
I'm sure some people reading this would say that I'm overreacting. That I'm too sensitive. "He apologized, what's the big deal?"
I'll tell you what the fucking big deal is.
The big deal is that this man thinks it's ok, just because he's frustrated about an HR process, to belittle a colleague in front of his peers and reports.
The big deal is that these same peers and reports will now think it's ok to treat me the same way he does.
The big deal is this guy has a history of intimidating and bullying his coworkers, and he's never been disciplined for it.
The big deal is that my boss's response to it was, "That's too bad, I'm so sorry!" In case you were wondering, my boss is also in HR.
The big deal is that if I were a man, this never would have happened.
Oh, yeah, I'm pulling the sexism card. I'm fucking doing it. And you know why? Because it's in my hand, motherfuckers.
I've supported dozens of leaders over the years, nearly all of them men. I have lost track of the number of patronizing, rude, and downright overtly sexist remarks and attitudes I've witnessed and experienced from almost every single one of them.
There was the guy who once referred to me as a performance management "dominatrix" in front of his team. The guy who spent an entire meeting staring, quite obviously, at my chest while we were supposed to be discussing talent strategies. The guy who called me "hot" to my fellow HR coworkers in the office while I was standing 20 feet away (this guy was also in HR, whaddya know!). The countless, countless managers who have praised male workers for being aggressive go-getters while, in the same breath, suggesting their female reports "tone it down." I could write a fucking book.
Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of female assholes, too, all over the place. But while the majority of leadership positions in corporate America are held by men (and yeah, they mostly still are, especially in tech), the majority of assholes I work with will be men, too. Leaning in is great and dandy, unless you want to avoid assholes and sexism, apparently.
That's the big deal. Today, this man was such an asshole to me that he made me want to quit my job. He looked down on me from his position of power and maleness and decided that it was ok to belittle me, the HR girl, because I am not powerful and not male. And he taught a bunch of other people who look up to him (most of them male) that this is how they should treat me, too.
So I'm done being nice. I will be Catbert the evil HR cat, if that's what these fuckers want. I'll give back as good as I get. I'll be the asshole. Let's see how they like it.
Monday, February 24, 2014
Thursday, February 13, 2014
Windbreaker Pants
About a third of my mornings, I take a later shuttle (meaning it leaves after 7 am) to work, and whenever I do I inevitably encounter Windbreaker Pants Couple.
Windbreaker Pants Couple are, as you may have guessed, in a relationship. A very close and publicly displayed relationship. They cuddle while waiting for the bus to arrive, their arms linked. They take a pair of seats in the front of the bus, their heads bowed towards each other like a pair of doves as they share a soft chuckle over something displayed on one of their mobile phones. They occasionally kiss, the rest of their coworkers looking on.
I call them Windbreaker Pants Couple because the guy only has one pair of pants, and they are glorious. They are made of (you guessed it) windbreaker material, with a pattern of grass-green and highlighter-yellow patches. The waist and ankles are secured by drawstrings, ostensibly so he can tighten them to protect himself from the harsh San Francisco weather. Again, these are the only pants he owns. I have never seen him not in these pants.
The sight of Windbreaker Pants Couple always raises so many questions, both practical and metaphysical. Here's what I would ask Windbreaker Pants Couple if I were capable of working up the physical and emotional courage:
Windbreaker Pants Couple are, as you may have guessed, in a relationship. A very close and publicly displayed relationship. They cuddle while waiting for the bus to arrive, their arms linked. They take a pair of seats in the front of the bus, their heads bowed towards each other like a pair of doves as they share a soft chuckle over something displayed on one of their mobile phones. They occasionally kiss, the rest of their coworkers looking on.
I call them Windbreaker Pants Couple because the guy only has one pair of pants, and they are glorious. They are made of (you guessed it) windbreaker material, with a pattern of grass-green and highlighter-yellow patches. The waist and ankles are secured by drawstrings, ostensibly so he can tighten them to protect himself from the harsh San Francisco weather. Again, these are the only pants he owns. I have never seen him not in these pants.
The sight of Windbreaker Pants Couple always raises so many questions, both practical and metaphysical. Here's what I would ask Windbreaker Pants Couple if I were capable of working up the physical and emotional courage:
- Where did you get those pants? Are they a family heirloom, passed down through the generations?
- Do your pants have magical powers?
- How often do you wash your pants?
- Girlfriend, have you every suggested to him that he might want to invest in another pair of non-windbreaker pants?
- I'm in HR; do you really think cuddling and kissing on the work shuttle is a good idea?
- That being said, you guys look really in love. That must be great.
- Did you meet at work? Online? Seriously, how did you find each other? Any good dating sites I should try?
- I'm so lonely. So, so lonely. No, I'm not crying, there's just something in my eye.
- Ahem. Anyways. So, as an HR representative I could probably get up a donation fund to buy you some jeans or something. Though I guess windbreaker pants would be really comfortable.
- (To myself) Hmm, maybe I should get some windbreaker pants? They seem to bring love and contentment and look non-restrictive.
- (To them) Seriously, though, I'm in HR, please stop kissing on the shuttle. It's freaking everyone out and also reminding those of us who are single that we are going to die alone. Also, get some new pants.
I swear that one day I will work up the guts to engage Windbreaker Pants Couple. On that day, I suspect that many mysteries of the universe will be revealed. Until that day comes, however, I will simply gaze upon Windbreaker Pants Couple from afar, wondering at their epic love and the enigma of that dude's pants.
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
So I've had some wine...
...and everyone at work is, like, resigning and I need to get ready for several months of WERK so, whatever, I deserve all the wine.
But as usual when there is wine, I have thoughts. Here they are, in no particular order:
1. Olympics: what is the difference between ice dancing and pairs skating? It appears to be the same except the Americans who are doing the pairs thing are not as good as Davis and White. Or are they the same thing and I have missed something? CONFUSION.
2. Olympics thought number 2: Did you all see that thing where the 2 skiers tied for gold? That's crazy! I cried. Might have been the wine, BUT WHATEVER IT WAS AWESOME, OK?
3. Olympics thought number 3: So, these people work out like 10 hours a day and I am sitting here drinking wine and eating chocolate. I feel awesome about myself.
4. Non-olympics thought: I have four weddings to go to this year. I should probably stop drinking wine and work out more.
5. THE VERONICA MARS MOVIE IS COMING OUT SOON! This is like all I have to look forward to in life...yay?
6. I should start my taxes.
7. Wow, these Russians are really good at skating.
8. Have I really had that much wine?
But as usual when there is wine, I have thoughts. Here they are, in no particular order:
1. Olympics: what is the difference between ice dancing and pairs skating? It appears to be the same except the Americans who are doing the pairs thing are not as good as Davis and White. Or are they the same thing and I have missed something? CONFUSION.
2. Olympics thought number 2: Did you all see that thing where the 2 skiers tied for gold? That's crazy! I cried. Might have been the wine, BUT WHATEVER IT WAS AWESOME, OK?
3. Olympics thought number 3: So, these people work out like 10 hours a day and I am sitting here drinking wine and eating chocolate. I feel awesome about myself.
4. Non-olympics thought: I have four weddings to go to this year. I should probably stop drinking wine and work out more.
5. THE VERONICA MARS MOVIE IS COMING OUT SOON! This is like all I have to look forward to in life...yay?
6. I should start my taxes.
7. Wow, these Russians are really good at skating.
8. Have I really had that much wine?
Thursday, January 30, 2014
Thirteen years
When I was sixteen years old, I had my first full-blown encounter with depression, a disease that has followed me from high school, to college, to my first job (still my only job); from dorm rooms to roommates to my first one-bedroom; from the West coast, to the East coast, and back again.
I remember crying so hard that I thought I'd blinded myself with tears on the floor of my childhood bedroom. I remember one of my college roommates dragging me to the campus health center as I blubbered and babbled. I remember breakdowns in a dizzying array of bathrooms - high school bathrooms, lecture hall bathrooms, grimy nightclub toilet stalls. I recall many impromptu outdoor walks at my office campus spent sobbing and staggering, incoherently wailing on my cell phone to my poor, beleaguered mother.
I remember going on meds and the elation of the cloud lifting for the first time. I remember thinking I was "better" and could go off them on my own, leading, of course, to a sudden drop back down the familiar black hole. I remember doing this two or three times until I finally realized that I needed the meds, that I would always need them, that I could very possibly die without them.
I remember five or six failed attempts at therapy with awful practitioners; women who thought that if I could just eat better and exercise more and meditate daily I would be fine. I remember thinking that if one more therapist told me to eat more fruit and meditate I actually would kill myself.
I remember wanting to kill myself, more times than I can count.
Most of all, I remember this week last year. In late January of 2013, I had what I now think of as "The Big Breakdown." We had some sort of awful week-long work meeting with "planning" and "strategy" and a million people milling around everywhere, asking, "How are you, it's been so long," and I lost it it. I got a migraine that turned into a flu that turned into a bleeding, aching hole in my chest out of which my depression screamed "DIE DIE DIE YOU ARE NOTHING." I made some sort of minor mistake at work and lost my shit. My boss at the time, bless her heart, had no idea what to do with me, but was compassionate when I realized I needed to get some help and didn't guilt trip me about what happened next.
I took two weeks of medical leave. My poor beleaguered mother flew out to stay with me, and she helped me get what I needed. She listened to me when I cried, and she helped me make and keep therapy and doctor appointments. She walked with me in Golden Gate park and watched TV with me and took me to IKEA to buy a side table for my living room, which was something I desperately needed, apparently. She washed my dishes.
I found, for the first time in over a decade, an amazing therapist. I had begun to think that they didn't exist, but they do, and he is one of them. I got a new diagnosis and new meds and they helped.
My mother went home, I went back to work, and it was hard. Really hard. A year later, it still is. But I have a therapist now, and my friends, and my family, and the knowledge that after thirteen years of this shit, there are good times in between the bad ones and that I have what I need in place to get through the bad ones. This past week was a bad one, this Anniversary of The Big Breakdown. But I survived it, and I can feel myself coming out of it. It will be ok, for now.
I turned twenty-nine earlier this month, which means it's been thirteen years with this disease. That's nearly half my life. I know that I will have this disease as long as I live. I know that it's a part of me, and that no matter how many times I beat myself up about not being "normal" that this is my normal - and that many others share this normal with me. And so I try to remember instead that I'm one of the lucky ones. I have help. I am lucky. I am so, so lucky.
I write this not to indulge in self-pity or self-aggrandizement, nor to celebrate my triumph over depression (especially not the latter, because there is no triumph over depression, as any sufferer knows). I guess that on this Anniversary of The Big Breakdown, and after thirteen years of my brand of normal, it's good to remember where I've been and what I have and to be grateful. And to take a breath before diving into whatever's next. Here's to the next thirteen years.
I remember crying so hard that I thought I'd blinded myself with tears on the floor of my childhood bedroom. I remember one of my college roommates dragging me to the campus health center as I blubbered and babbled. I remember breakdowns in a dizzying array of bathrooms - high school bathrooms, lecture hall bathrooms, grimy nightclub toilet stalls. I recall many impromptu outdoor walks at my office campus spent sobbing and staggering, incoherently wailing on my cell phone to my poor, beleaguered mother.
I remember going on meds and the elation of the cloud lifting for the first time. I remember thinking I was "better" and could go off them on my own, leading, of course, to a sudden drop back down the familiar black hole. I remember doing this two or three times until I finally realized that I needed the meds, that I would always need them, that I could very possibly die without them.
I remember five or six failed attempts at therapy with awful practitioners; women who thought that if I could just eat better and exercise more and meditate daily I would be fine. I remember thinking that if one more therapist told me to eat more fruit and meditate I actually would kill myself.
I remember wanting to kill myself, more times than I can count.
Most of all, I remember this week last year. In late January of 2013, I had what I now think of as "The Big Breakdown." We had some sort of awful week-long work meeting with "planning" and "strategy" and a million people milling around everywhere, asking, "How are you, it's been so long," and I lost it it. I got a migraine that turned into a flu that turned into a bleeding, aching hole in my chest out of which my depression screamed "DIE DIE DIE YOU ARE NOTHING." I made some sort of minor mistake at work and lost my shit. My boss at the time, bless her heart, had no idea what to do with me, but was compassionate when I realized I needed to get some help and didn't guilt trip me about what happened next.
I took two weeks of medical leave. My poor beleaguered mother flew out to stay with me, and she helped me get what I needed. She listened to me when I cried, and she helped me make and keep therapy and doctor appointments. She walked with me in Golden Gate park and watched TV with me and took me to IKEA to buy a side table for my living room, which was something I desperately needed, apparently. She washed my dishes.
I found, for the first time in over a decade, an amazing therapist. I had begun to think that they didn't exist, but they do, and he is one of them. I got a new diagnosis and new meds and they helped.
My mother went home, I went back to work, and it was hard. Really hard. A year later, it still is. But I have a therapist now, and my friends, and my family, and the knowledge that after thirteen years of this shit, there are good times in between the bad ones and that I have what I need in place to get through the bad ones. This past week was a bad one, this Anniversary of The Big Breakdown. But I survived it, and I can feel myself coming out of it. It will be ok, for now.
I turned twenty-nine earlier this month, which means it's been thirteen years with this disease. That's nearly half my life. I know that I will have this disease as long as I live. I know that it's a part of me, and that no matter how many times I beat myself up about not being "normal" that this is my normal - and that many others share this normal with me. And so I try to remember instead that I'm one of the lucky ones. I have help. I am lucky. I am so, so lucky.
I write this not to indulge in self-pity or self-aggrandizement, nor to celebrate my triumph over depression (especially not the latter, because there is no triumph over depression, as any sufferer knows). I guess that on this Anniversary of The Big Breakdown, and after thirteen years of my brand of normal, it's good to remember where I've been and what I have and to be grateful. And to take a breath before diving into whatever's next. Here's to the next thirteen years.
Saturday, July 13, 2013
I just can't anymore you guys. I cannot.
Seriously, guys. I just can't with these people. I know we're supposed to be calm, and collected, and engage in serious debate, but I just...no wonder people go rage-y on the news and in comment boards.
Last night, Texas went all to shit and it's no surprise, considering the progress of things in Ohio and Wisconsin of late. People yelled, and tampons were confiscated, and shitty people gloated, and I went to bed early because I Just. Cannot. Anymore.
People love to employ the trope of the "angry feminist." And sometimes, we feminists make it easy, because we are angry. GUYS, WE ARE SO ANGRY I CANNOT EVEN TELL YOU. We are angry because no matter what progress is made, hatred, devaluation, exploitation, and belittling of women is still everywhere. Even in America. It's in workplaces, and doctor's offices, and government chambers, and homes, and schools. It's in the act of walking down the street near my home in San Francisco at 7 pm when it is still light out and being called a "cunt" because I won't smile at the drunken homeless man on the corner who makes a lewd comment. And last night, it was in the actions of the Texas state senate, which not only passed a bill that will (if enacted) severely restrict TX women's access to safe and legal abortions, but also refused to entertain amendments that would otherwise help women and families (sex education improvements, funding to update clinics, exceptions to the bill for women's health). If you care about or even remotely like women and the quality of their health care, you do not pass this bill and you certainly don't reject all amendments out of hand that would improve women's lives. So yeah, we're angry. When people are detested and held down because of their skin color or ethnic background or which set of reproductive organs they possess, they tend to get fucking angry.
I get that people don't like abortion and vehemently oppose it. I get it! You know what? I don't like abortion either! It sucks! It's a traumatic process, and is usually being performed because of less-than-ideal (unwanted pregnancy due to BC failure or lack of BC, no financial or other resources to birth or raise a child) or outright tragic (serious birth defect, result of rape or incest, mother going to die) circumstances. However, if human history, medical science, and common fucking sense are any indication, its existence is critical to the overall health of the female population. If you are not a woman choosing to get one, it is also (according to the Supreme Court and, you know, personal autonomy) none of your fucking business.
So why do so many conservative lawmakers make it their business? Do they really think our idea of a fun Saturday is to head to the abortion clinic with our gal pals with the theme to Sex and the City playing on our iPods? Do they think we all have those cards like you use at Panera: "Get nine abortions and your tenth is free?!" I know they don't care about kids, because once they're born many extreme conservatives would rather let them die of a preventable illness than pay a bit more in taxes to get them affordable health care. I know they don't care about life because they refuse to support reasonable gun control laws and love executing incarcerated criminals. So my conclusion is that, if they're men, they really just hate us. If they're women, they really just hate themselves.
So what do I, a woman with a brain, do in the face of such hatred? I give up on tolerance and calmness of manner. I just don't care anymore; I can't care and be measured, because it is damned exhausting. I don't respect your views, and I don't respect you. You hate me because of mine, and also (mainly) because I have a vagina. So why the fuck should I turn the other cheek? What the hell: I hate you too. If you are anti-choice, go fuck yourself. Or die. Whatever works. Because I. Just. Can't. Anymore. You. Guys.
Last night, Texas went all to shit and it's no surprise, considering the progress of things in Ohio and Wisconsin of late. People yelled, and tampons were confiscated, and shitty people gloated, and I went to bed early because I Just. Cannot. Anymore.
People love to employ the trope of the "angry feminist." And sometimes, we feminists make it easy, because we are angry. GUYS, WE ARE SO ANGRY I CANNOT EVEN TELL YOU. We are angry because no matter what progress is made, hatred, devaluation, exploitation, and belittling of women is still everywhere. Even in America. It's in workplaces, and doctor's offices, and government chambers, and homes, and schools. It's in the act of walking down the street near my home in San Francisco at 7 pm when it is still light out and being called a "cunt" because I won't smile at the drunken homeless man on the corner who makes a lewd comment. And last night, it was in the actions of the Texas state senate, which not only passed a bill that will (if enacted) severely restrict TX women's access to safe and legal abortions, but also refused to entertain amendments that would otherwise help women and families (sex education improvements, funding to update clinics, exceptions to the bill for women's health). If you care about or even remotely like women and the quality of their health care, you do not pass this bill and you certainly don't reject all amendments out of hand that would improve women's lives. So yeah, we're angry. When people are detested and held down because of their skin color or ethnic background or which set of reproductive organs they possess, they tend to get fucking angry.
I get that people don't like abortion and vehemently oppose it. I get it! You know what? I don't like abortion either! It sucks! It's a traumatic process, and is usually being performed because of less-than-ideal (unwanted pregnancy due to BC failure or lack of BC, no financial or other resources to birth or raise a child) or outright tragic (serious birth defect, result of rape or incest, mother going to die) circumstances. However, if human history, medical science, and common fucking sense are any indication, its existence is critical to the overall health of the female population. If you are not a woman choosing to get one, it is also (according to the Supreme Court and, you know, personal autonomy) none of your fucking business.
So why do so many conservative lawmakers make it their business? Do they really think our idea of a fun Saturday is to head to the abortion clinic with our gal pals with the theme to Sex and the City playing on our iPods? Do they think we all have those cards like you use at Panera: "Get nine abortions and your tenth is free?!" I know they don't care about kids, because once they're born many extreme conservatives would rather let them die of a preventable illness than pay a bit more in taxes to get them affordable health care. I know they don't care about life because they refuse to support reasonable gun control laws and love executing incarcerated criminals. So my conclusion is that, if they're men, they really just hate us. If they're women, they really just hate themselves.
So what do I, a woman with a brain, do in the face of such hatred? I give up on tolerance and calmness of manner. I just don't care anymore; I can't care and be measured, because it is damned exhausting. I don't respect your views, and I don't respect you. You hate me because of mine, and also (mainly) because I have a vagina. So why the fuck should I turn the other cheek? What the hell: I hate you too. If you are anti-choice, go fuck yourself. Or die. Whatever works. Because I. Just. Can't. Anymore. You. Guys.
Sunday, July 7, 2013
What I learned on my summer vacation
I spent this past week in NH with my family, just chilling out. I haven't been on vacation since Christmas, unless you count the two weeks of medical leave in February when my mom had to come stay with me in SF because my medication stopped working and I was severely depressed and generally not ok, which I don't. Overall, it wasn't very eventful - went to see some movies, slept a lot, went to the beach, slept some more, read a crappy novel, drank some wine, pet the dog, ate potato salad. It was nice.
I was supposed to leave this afternoon for SF from Logan. My parents very kindly drove me down to the airport. Online, it said my flight was only delayed an hour, but of course when I got there it was canceled due to terrible, terrible things happening. So now I am due to fly on Tuesday, all flights tomorrow being completely booked.
What was weird, though, is that my first emotion upon learning I couldn't fly out tonight was unadulterated panic at not being in the office tomorrow. I found myself freaking out, thinking, "But I have meetings! They will be mad if I am not there! I will get in trouble!" My heart rate rose and I started sweating like a damned pig. It took me five minutes to talk sense into myself and realize that I would just have to work remotely tomorrow and Tuesday morning and then fly back Tuesday afternoon and, you know, NO ONE WOULD DIE (and, also, probably no one would be mad). It would be fine. I re-booked my flight and came back home.
It got me thinking, though, about my relationship to my job. I have worked for my present company for six years (come August) and have always done well. I've been promoted several times and have more responsibility and all sorts of good stuff. I've only rarely had a manager who was weird about working remotely or scheduling issues or taking vacation. And yet, I'm ALWAYS terrified that I am going to get fired. Every. Single. Day. It's not a mild anxiety, mind you - it's a pure terror. Every quarter we get a performance review, and every quarter I hear some variation of the same story: "you're doing great, you have things to work on and here they are, but you are awesome at xyz and are great at these things so have a good quarter." And EVERY quarter, I dread that meeting as if it is the Red Wedding. I have nightmares about getting fired, thrown out on my ass, being told that I am terrible and useless and a waste of space. This past week, on vacation, I had a nightmare almost every night about work. The dreams are always similar: someone in a position of authority (one of my managers or a senior-level client) telling me that I've made a terrible mistake or messed something up and that they know this is a hard message to hear but today is my last day. And I wake up in a cold sweat and remember that it wasn't real...and fall back asleep to resume the next horror-firing scenario.
This isn't normal, right? Other people don't live in constant dread of losing their job for non-existent reasons? I mean, it would be one thing if my company weren't doing well and there were layoffs, or if I'd ever been given feedback that would lead me to believe that I was doing poorly, but...this is not the case. Like, it is not normal for me to say to myself: "Ok, there was a tragic crash at my home airport that means I will have to come home from my vacation a couple days later than planned and work remotely in the meantime - THEY ARE SO GONNA FIRE ME FOR THIS!" These are insane thoughts, right?
I'm not sure what to do about them. I guess I should talk to my therapist about it more openly (YES I AM A YUPPIE WOMAN IN SF WITH A THERAPIST, DEAL WITH IT) because what I'm really worried about is what is going to happen if and when I do get fired from a job one day. Let's be honest, it will probably happen - I'll be in a job that isn't right for me, or I'll get laid off, or the aliens will come to destroy us and all the employers will shut down because, you know, ALIENS. How will I react then? Will I collapse and never leave my bed again because something bad actually happened? Will I become a hippie barista and open a coffee shop that only serves organic coffee made from beans grown in a cave off the coast of Ireland and flown over to the U.S by kite? Will I join a startup (this last one seems most likely, actually)?
In any case, what I learned on my summer vacation is that I am batshit crazy per the usual, so...nothing new, I suppose. I'm off to bed soon to prepare for my day of working remotely and steeling myself for the inevitable firing ;)
I was supposed to leave this afternoon for SF from Logan. My parents very kindly drove me down to the airport. Online, it said my flight was only delayed an hour, but of course when I got there it was canceled due to terrible, terrible things happening. So now I am due to fly on Tuesday, all flights tomorrow being completely booked.
What was weird, though, is that my first emotion upon learning I couldn't fly out tonight was unadulterated panic at not being in the office tomorrow. I found myself freaking out, thinking, "But I have meetings! They will be mad if I am not there! I will get in trouble!" My heart rate rose and I started sweating like a damned pig. It took me five minutes to talk sense into myself and realize that I would just have to work remotely tomorrow and Tuesday morning and then fly back Tuesday afternoon and, you know, NO ONE WOULD DIE (and, also, probably no one would be mad). It would be fine. I re-booked my flight and came back home.
It got me thinking, though, about my relationship to my job. I have worked for my present company for six years (come August) and have always done well. I've been promoted several times and have more responsibility and all sorts of good stuff. I've only rarely had a manager who was weird about working remotely or scheduling issues or taking vacation. And yet, I'm ALWAYS terrified that I am going to get fired. Every. Single. Day. It's not a mild anxiety, mind you - it's a pure terror. Every quarter we get a performance review, and every quarter I hear some variation of the same story: "you're doing great, you have things to work on and here they are, but you are awesome at xyz and are great at these things so have a good quarter." And EVERY quarter, I dread that meeting as if it is the Red Wedding. I have nightmares about getting fired, thrown out on my ass, being told that I am terrible and useless and a waste of space. This past week, on vacation, I had a nightmare almost every night about work. The dreams are always similar: someone in a position of authority (one of my managers or a senior-level client) telling me that I've made a terrible mistake or messed something up and that they know this is a hard message to hear but today is my last day. And I wake up in a cold sweat and remember that it wasn't real...and fall back asleep to resume the next horror-firing scenario.
This isn't normal, right? Other people don't live in constant dread of losing their job for non-existent reasons? I mean, it would be one thing if my company weren't doing well and there were layoffs, or if I'd ever been given feedback that would lead me to believe that I was doing poorly, but...this is not the case. Like, it is not normal for me to say to myself: "Ok, there was a tragic crash at my home airport that means I will have to come home from my vacation a couple days later than planned and work remotely in the meantime - THEY ARE SO GONNA FIRE ME FOR THIS!" These are insane thoughts, right?
I'm not sure what to do about them. I guess I should talk to my therapist about it more openly (YES I AM A YUPPIE WOMAN IN SF WITH A THERAPIST, DEAL WITH IT) because what I'm really worried about is what is going to happen if and when I do get fired from a job one day. Let's be honest, it will probably happen - I'll be in a job that isn't right for me, or I'll get laid off, or the aliens will come to destroy us and all the employers will shut down because, you know, ALIENS. How will I react then? Will I collapse and never leave my bed again because something bad actually happened? Will I become a hippie barista and open a coffee shop that only serves organic coffee made from beans grown in a cave off the coast of Ireland and flown over to the U.S by kite? Will I join a startup (this last one seems most likely, actually)?
In any case, what I learned on my summer vacation is that I am batshit crazy per the usual, so...nothing new, I suppose. I'm off to bed soon to prepare for my day of working remotely and steeling myself for the inevitable firing ;)
Saturday, July 6, 2013
An Open Letter to Scott Walker
Dear Scotty (can I call you Scotty? I'm going to call you that, OK?),
I greatly dislike you. This should not come as a shock, given that I am a hedonist liberal woman under thirty living in San Francisco with All The Gays, and you are...Scott Walker. I know this is Way Harsh Tai, but, Scotty, I think you are politically shortsighted, unintelligent, and unfeeling toward your fellow humans, and the fact that you are the governor of an entire state frightens me. The way I feel about you running Wisconsin is the same way I felt during Aladdin when Jafar was the Sultan for a hot minute: scared and disgusted.
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| This is how I imagine you in my nightmares. |
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| You and the inevitable crowds of thankful women. |
If you are serious about improving women's mental and physical health, may I suggest some alternate solutions? Here are a few just off the top of my head:
- Support a single-payer universal healthcare system that would provide preventative care, including family planning and pre-natal care for women, to all Americans. Or at least get over Obamacare and admit it's here to stay.
- Work to reduce the stigma of mental illness and work to ensure all Americans, including women, can get treatment for mental disorders such as depression, anxiety, etc.
- Partner with your fellow politicians to improve working conditions for women nationally, including equal pay, affordable day care options, and swift responses to workplace discrimination. It would also be great to standardize a paid maternity leave for women to be with a new child and recover from having a fetus living off of them for 9 months. Also, paternity leave for fathers and adoptive parents would be great.
- Watch this movie.
Scotty-boy, I'm also very pleased that you want women to be able to make informed choices about their health! YET ANOTHER AREA OF AGREEMENT BETWEEN US, OMG! However, I could argue that a woman's difficult choice to end a pregnancy is NOT actually "informed" by an unnecessary and invasive procedure as she's definitely aware that she's pregnant and has made the decision to end that pregnancy. I'm sure that you just haven't taken a lot of time to think all of this through, because if you and your friends in Texas and Ohio and all over the country had, you might have realized that if you want to "inform" and educate women, you should probably spend time and money and political capital on, you know, improving education (including sexual education) for all women and Americans rather than on making ladies look at a grainy image on a screen. In fact, the areas you could focus on aren't even limited to the public schoolroom! You could invest in educating women AND men (please, especially men) on domestic abuse and sexual violence and how to stop it! You could invest in organizations that teach women about their bodies and how to care for them and respect them and demand respect for others! You could hire someone to give a seminar on vaginas to every male (and maybe a some females) member of the GOP, since some of them think that vaginas have magical powers! SO MUCH YOU COULD DO! And, interestingly enough, improving the standing of women through work in healthcare, women's rights and working conditions, education, and public awareness would all have the trickle-down effect (AND I KNOW HOW YOU LOVE THAT, SCOTTY!) of reducing the need for abortions. Because, you know what, I get that you don't like them, and that's ok...but Scott, I think, if we pull together, we could prevent so many of them while actually improving women's lives! WIN-WIN, SCOTTY-POO!
So yeah, I hope this is constructive commentary, S-Dawg, on our mutual points of concern regarding women's health. However, I can't help but wonder if maybe the welfare of women isn't your main concern? You do look like this in my dreams, remember?
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| God, you are terrifying. I forgot because we were having such a good time earlier. |
And ultimately, I am worried that this may be your actual problem, Scotty - what it is that women are doing with their bodies. When you think about it, women haven't had much say in that up until a few decades ago. And now we do, and you know what? I think that scares the ever-loving shit out of you, Scotty. Most men are cool with women being, you know, full-fledged people now, but for some reason you and a lot of your friends are just freaking the hell out. I mean, I guess it makes sense, because we are pretty great and that can be a lot to handle. There are more of us in college than men now, and we are landing plum jobs and moving up the ladder just as quickly as our male counterparts in many instances. We are waiting to get married and have children, or (gasp!) not getting married or having children at all! We are having sex for recreational reasons with more than one partner and we are taking birth control while we are doing it. Hell, we are even reading Fifty Shades of Grey.* Basically, for the first time in human history, we are actualized and shit and you know what? You. Can't. Handle. It.
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| You cannot handle this. |
If this is the case, Scotty, then I'm not really sure where we go from here. If history is any indication, you will probably not see the light any time soon. You will continue to believe that women cannot be trusted to make decisions about their own bodies and will simultaneously neglect to invest time and effort in initiatives that could assist women in living better and making (actually) more informed decisions about their bodies and health. You will sit in Wisconsin with your parrot...er, advisors, and come up with even more draconian restrictions that will prevent women who need access to legal medical care from receiving the help they need. You will continue to put the priorities of the rich and the corrupt over those of the middle class and the poor. You will continue to suck the big one.
You would be pitiable, Scotty, if you didn't have so much power just now. But you do, so all women can do is continue to run for, and win, some of the highest offices in the land, and filibuster insane legislation in badass sneakers, and be amazing Secretaries of State (and hopefully future Presidents), and generally just continue to freak you and your buddies the hell out. Because, honestly? I don't think you ready for this jelly, Scotty.
Sincerely,
J-dawg
*P.S. WRT Fifty Shades, I would be ok with you passing a bill to outlaw that book, or its reading. Not on any moral grounds, but it's just really bad Twilight fanfiction and the guy smirks a lot and they drink a lot of wine and email. So like, if you're going to pass a bunch of bullshit laws, you might as well make one of them mildly useful to humanity.
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