We had a division staff meeting this morning, which for me runs an emotional gamut from giddiness about all the weird shit that will be said, to depression when I remember that this isn’t performance art but actually my place of work. I hide these emotions, though, behind the cloak of my cellphone. I’m sure people who see me playing on my phone during these meetings think I’m totally disengaged, but actually I’m being quite heroic, in that I’m trying to prevent myself from flipping the fuck out, which can only be accomplished by either leaving the meeting to reduce (really fucking annoying) stimuli, or by playing on my phone. So from my perspective, me playing on my phone is saving lives and not only should people ignore my candy-crushing, but they should also encourage the local news to do a feature story on me, right after the story about a Fitbit preventing a heart attack, as read on FaceBook that morning by the TV journalist.
The phone-thing goes beyond playing games and texting other people in the meeting (“what is wrong with her face?”). See, I like to think that I’m the Margaret Mead of my division and that my documentation is essential if we ever want to truly integrate with government employees (a perspective which only further legitimizes me not paying attention). Because, I’m telling you, the weirdest shit goes down at my job: never have I worked somewhere more like the Valley of the Dolls, not even as an 18-year old barista dating a weed-dealer, no, not then, but now, when working with folks who are on opiate task forces or testifying to our state legislature about mental illness and whatnot, a job where having a backache from ambitious gardening (I was certain that a dead and fallen tree couldn’t possibly weigh that much) results in multiple offers of muscle relaxers and painkillers, not to mention the time I was given a Xanax at work for no other reason than disclosing that I’ve never tried it (see? Tried it, not “I have never been prescribed Xanax”). I mean, everyday there’s something said or done that makes me think, dang, I need to write that down.
And so I do! And it’s in these larger, more anonymous meetings that I’m furiously taking notes in my keep.google app. In today’s meeting, for example, it occurred to me that the corruption which exists within my division is horrible but not because of the actual offenses; no– those are really more on par with the time my niece (then aged two) was sent to her room but defied her punishment and came out just far enough so that my sister and I could see her from our blind in the kitchen, and she stood in the doorway (technically still in the room), curiously nude, and with her clinched dimpled fists and ramrod straight legs, screamed “I HATE YOU MOMMY!” a bold move tantamount to a monk setting himself on fire, at least to her. And similarly, for me and everyone else who works here and is outraged and angry, the “corruption” is big fucking deal, and someone should shut us down Tiananmen- Square- style, but to everyone outside of our little group, we’re just a two year old trying to manipulate and negotiate with what little power we have, but in the end there will be no TV for my niece and no investigations into my division, and worst of all, no Pacino/Scorsese biopic expose of my job, and that is what offends me the most, that it’s not even good corruption.
And that’s what I wrote down. Well, no, not all of that. More like– “corruption of the sunshine committee” (a story to be revealed in a later post, no doubt).
Of course, in smaller meetings there’s no way I can get away with playing on my phone (although sometimes I try, but I cleverly keep my phone under the table, and no one is the wiser!!!!), which means making notes the old fashioned way, with a freaking pen and paper. The problem here, though, is that my notes start off legible but quickly deteriorate into scribbles that even I can’t decipher. But you know what? It’s not like the google-keep app fixes that. First there’s auto-correct which turns “lesbian” into “orangutan,” which makes for a compelling note, but then there is user-error, specifically drunken-user-error, leaving me with 100% nonsensical madness, like the following:
- everything is paved except for where the hand was
- couldn’t figure out how to UN invite it invite to change
- I had a Mounds bar and I had half and the other half disappeared, where did that half piece go??
- Goblin KING sounds sexual
- lies then and now
I wish I knew what drunk-Lee was trying to say to sober-Lee. Sometimes I take notes because I like how the words sound together, or maybe just a phrase (“label people with utility”) or maybe because it’s just really fucking funny (“if they aren’t going to like you, it will be because of something you said”) (except it’s really hard to incorporate these things into a story). And so, while waiting for our greasy hangover-special at Lena’s Cafe, I bust out my keep-list and read my notes from the night before to Michael and ask if he remembers what I thought was so funny.
Me: “Lies then and now… what were we talking about?”
Michael: “Remember when we went to the Getaway with your niece?”
OH, riiiiiiight…The one and the same naked, mommy-hating niece, who is now 27, asked if I could help with her resume. And so, 7pm on a Wednesday night, we are sitting on the couch together with a good 20 minutes of work under our belts and my sweet niece says, “Geez, thanks for your help. I’ll buy you a drink next time we go out.” And I say, “How about now?” And off we go with Michael in tow to our favorite local tavern, the Getaway, where you get a tumbler of rum and a splash of Coke so drink up because karaoke starts in an hour.
My poor, long-suffering baby girl. Every time we go to karaoke together, we both throw out duet ideas to each other but always, always end up singing my songs, which means that when I drunkenly decide that I’m DONE with this song because it won’t end (“Just Can’t Get Enough” never seemed so long in my car) and walk off the stage, she is left holding the mic, singing a song she’s never heard before.
And that’s the last thing I remember about that night.
The next morning I woke up to clickety-clacking pug-nails on the wood floor, because it’s past 6am and goddamnit, where’s the food?? I wish I had cameras set up in my house, because I’d like to watch the video of me still drunk, a lurching Quasimodo unable to raise my head, searching for my phone to call in sick (remember the days of yore when phones were tethered to one spot?) and finally giving up. Four hours later I wake up on my spinning bed and realize, shit, I’m just missing in action at work and I really need to find my phone to let my boss know that I’m otherwise committed for the day. I search the car, the driveway, pants pockets and jackets, tabletops and counters, and give up, slumped against the back door, where I happen to see in the recycle bin my fucking purse with my fucking phone. I text my boss,
niece roofied me
not coming in
And here is the lovely thing: this is exactly what I was telling my niece, lies then and lies now, because nowadays I don’t bother to lie to my boss when calling in sick, and actually that’s been true for oh, 10 or 15 years. I’d say the last time this happened was when I worked at a bank, my first job post-bus-driving when I was still freshly traumatized. It’s almost like those 9 months spent interacting with clean people who were just as rude as the crazy bus-riders but in a more veiled way was like my rehabilitation, like a halfway house for people leaving prison after 20 years—this is life on the outside. I was still coming down from the bus driving horrors and called in sick constantly to the point where HR had to sit me down and tell me to either stop or leave. I chose to up the ante: if I say I have hemorrhoids, there’s no way they are going to question that because it’s just too embarrassing and why would I make that up? And by the way, are hemorrhoids something that would prevent a person from doing their job? Or when I pretended to run to the bathroom to throw up, saying “I think I might be pregnant,” which actually is not that bad when considering the “lies before.”
Because, okay, so I was 17 and working at B. Dalton Books and one Sunday I picked up a shift at another location which was staffed by characters from the Simpsons who were busy talking about 20-sided dice (I assume) while I stocked books. And to top it off, my period started. No tampons on me or in the store. Shit (although in retrospect it was in a freaking mall with stores that, you know, might actually carry tampons, but that’s not the point). I remember standing in the bathroom in the back of the store thinking about what to do next and I got to tell you, I didn’t like my options, what with all of them ending with, “…and then I went back and finished my shift.”
Let’s stop here and take stock: I mean, I don’t know what it’s like for other teens, I have no gauge as to how weird this is, or if it even is weird. Maybe it’s common. I DON’T KNOW. All I know is that I was more willing to FAKE A MISCARRIAGE than go to a store and buy a box of tampons. So I gather my belongings and head to the front and say to comic- book- guy- from the Simpsons, “I think I’m miscarrying; I need to go home.”
Holy fuck, just thinking back on this totally floors me.
His response, naturally, is HOLY FUCK, YOU HAVE TOTALLY FLOORED ME, followed by the verbal response of “Should I call an ambulance?”
Me: No, I’m fine. I’ll be fine. I should just go to the doctor.
Comic Book Guy: Okay, here’s my card, call me when you know what’s going on.
Not because this 20 year old cared about my unborn baby but because he was hoping that there’d be a chance I’d come back to work and cover his break. And so yes, I eventually called Paddy (he scrawled his name on the card–DADDY? I’m not calling you Daddy!) and let him know that I was ‘okay’ but my doctor said I should stay home. I’m now curious how long I waited before I called him to tell him the news; I hope I had the good sense to consider lengthy emergency room waits but I suppose the details aren’t that important when faking a miscarriage.
Big deal.
So they’re short staffed for one day. Big deal.
THIS IS WHAT IT ACTUALLY SAYS IN MY JOURNAL. July 5, 1992: “So I lied about miscarrying. So they’re short staffed for one day. Big deal.” God, I could slap my 17 year old self. So what? Big deal.
“I can be selfish. I felt shitty, I had my period, they wouldn’t have let me go otherwise.” Well, no, probably not.
Then the entry ends, “I should take advantage of today. Rest up and sleep, try to feel better.” It’s almost like I started to believe in my own miscarriage and fake- doctor- advice. “It’s my right to be sick and rest.” And you know what really seals-the-deal for me? The next journal entry is a poem I wrote that was an homage to my fucking spiral-bound journal:
Mead
I like your pages
So crisp, crinkle-less new
With nothing spaces
And nowhere lines
Which wraparound
Wraparound
A spiraling spine.
So I wrote poetry about my notebook.
So what?
Big deal.