Recession Rubric for Recouped Rubels

Alright, so I absolutely adore alliteration.

Almost as much as I love coffee.

Speaking of coffee. As I was grinding a bag of coffee beans with my great-grandparents’ cast iron mortar and pestle this morning, I started thinking about all of the cost-saving measures Andy and I have implemented since my foray into unemployment.

Grind that coffee! Work those muscles!

(Like, say, salvaging the cast iron mortar and pestle instead of buying a new one.)

And since I’m a giver, I’ve decided to gift you with a short list of how you can cut costs, too. Even if you’re employed. (Show off.)

(1) Cull the Fat.

Y’all may remember that, immediately after our cross country road trip, we culled the bejesus out of our apartment.

(With a little help from Grey Goose.)

We ended up pulling out so much stuff that we devoted two weekends, and a few weekdays, to shedding it. But you know what? Having our apartment in complete disarray was worth the outcome: a lighter, brighter apartment. Which got its face-lift right before its second feature on Apartment Therapy.

(2) Cull More.

Right when you think you’ve gone through every closet, combed through all of your books, you realize that, while beautiful, you don’t really use that vase.

Cull, cull, cull. (Except that vase of cars, and that fabulous green bowl.)

And those piles of books you’ve been wanting to read for years should go to people who will actually enjoy them. And yes, even though you like a drink on occasion, you don’t need all of those glasses. Keep it simple.

(3) The Great Pantry Cleanse.

No, this doesn’t involve copious amounts of paprika and prune juice. But I do recommend doing this while humming or playing Eminem’s “Cleanin’ Out My Closet.” Just because.

We all have that partially used bottle of soy sauce for that stir fry we made last year (what?), or those dried beans that should really be cooked instead of sitting in that cool pottery canister.

Clean out that pantry!

And don’t get me started on what’s in the freezer–the vegetables you couldn’t eat but refused to throw away, the 10 or so pounds of venison from Alabama. You know, the usual stuff.

Well, kittens. It’s time to get your creative juices flowing. Because it’ll surprise you how long you can last on what you have in your house. Sure, you may have to run to the store for one random ingredient. But you’ll be amazed at how awesome the stuff that’s been sitting around can taste with a bit more effort than what you usually cook.

By the time I took stock of everything we had, I realized we were totally prepared in case of a zombie apocalypse. Sure, tangerine-chocolate-chip cake isn’t the healthiest alternative, but it’s better than the brains I’d crave after getting mauled by a zombified Harris Teeter cashier.

(4) Wear Your Heart (and Everything) In Your Favorite Sleeves. 

Yes, this doesn’t really make sense. But you get the gist: wear what you love and get rid of the rest. I’ve read several articles about culling stuff, mostly because I find it fascinating how far we’ll go to justify what stays and what goes. Especially when it comes to clothes. (Especially bonafide or poseurish clubbin’ clothes. FYI, you’re too old for that shit.)

But one of the best articles detailed a month-long experiment that went something like this: after you wear an article of clothing, turn its hanger around; then, at the end of the month, get rid of everything on the un-turned hangers. (Unless it’s that really expensive job interview outfit.)

Rinse and repeat Steps 1-4 until desired results are achieved.

***

Now, this isn’t an exhaustive list. But as Andy and I figure out our next steps, and become increasingly envious of those who can move everything they have in a 14-foot rental truck, we’re glad to have these mad skills under our belts. Because, regardless of where we end up or how much money we make, we’re still going to implement these lessons.

Why not?

Sometimes a simpler life is the way to go.

Because as amazingly bright as our material possessions shine, they can never trump the glow we get from unshackling ourselves from the past to take steps toward a lighter future.

From realizing how little we need to carry on our journey.

A Hand On the Wheel, A Head Under Water

Why is it that we have some of the best thoughts, experience the most crystal clear realizations while navigating a steel cage hurtling through space at 70 miles per hour?

Yes, I mean me in my Toyota Matrix.

Some of which is steel. Or aluminum.

I think.

(Except that plastic zip tie holding something to my bumper.)

Anyway.

***

Everyone experiences Inspiration While Driving (IWD).

This time, my IWD was courtesy of Girlyman.

No, not that guy.

One of my favorite bands. And one of their songs, “Easy Pearls.” Specifically, these lyrics:

We dive for easy pearls and leave the rest forgotten

We leave the best of worlds on the bottom

I know.

You’re like, “Well, what about that pearl necklace in my bureau? I didn’t leave that in the ocean.”

But I don’t have any such necklace, so you need to shut up and focus on the beauty of those two lines.

Why?

Because they basically sum up my entire life.

Alright, maybe not my entire life. But the last chunk of it.

***

The past few years haven’t really been great for anyone.

Jobs haven’t panned out. That bonus check never came. Joseph Gordon-Levitt didn’t fall into your cubicle.

All-around rough.

So, as a natural default, I started grabbing at whatever was within arm’s length.

Which was usually an antique. Or food. Or a bottle of scotch.

But listening to the music, and thinking about the conversation I’d had with a friend earlier that day, I was reminded why that quick fix–that easy pearl–is never quite what I need.

***

My friend and I had spent the afternoon catching up and talking about unemployed life, and the horrible place we both used to work.

And we talked about the future. The uncertainties. How each of us is going to try our respective hands at making a go at things ourselves.

How we almost have to get super innovative in an economy where baby-boomers (BB’s) are holding onto their jobs longer because of losses they took during the recession. How we’ve both had our fill of the rifts that occur in the workplace when BB’s collide with Gen Xers, Gen Yers, and Millennials, because the inherent power dynamics end up ripping everyone apart Lord of the Flies style.

But we also talked about the good side of things going to shit.

How we’ve learned to streamline. To embrace practicality.

To acknowledge that things won’t be the way they were, and that it’s for the best.

All of these things were tumbling around in my head when those two lyrics broke through my stream of consciousness.

And when I stood on my brakes and slowed behind a massive blue Le Sabre.

Whether it was my mind searching for some thematic thread for my discombobulated thoughts, or my eyes boring into the Le Sabre, I started analogizing my time in North Carolina to a road trip.

So, buckle up, kittens.

***

Early on in my professional career, I’d set a Point B on my life’s TomTom: Professorship.

Nothing was going to get in my way. I’d have a PhD by the time I was 30, a house, a husband, and a three-legged, diabetes-afflicted Corgi rescue named Chunk.

But after undergrad was over, I merged back into academia too soon, and got redirected into a cesspool of angst and anxiety with academics ill-equipped to deal with other people who didn’t fit a particular mold.

And floundered.

And gave up listening to the drone of “recalculating, recalculating, recalculating” echoing in my noggin.

And just kept going, pedal-to-floor, until I ran out of gas.

***

After a tune up and complete rebuild, professorship was a distant dot in my rear view. And I found myself traveling bumpy roads to make things work in rough economic times.

Everywhere I looked, people were stalled out. No one had the necessary parts they needed. Everyone was running past empty.

So, I made do with the little I had, and channeled The Little Engine That Could.

Then, when that “Maintenance Needed” light interrupted my “I think I can, I think I can” chanting, I had an out. Which a lot of people didn’t.

And I took it, because it was that oh-so-welcomed gas station in the middle of a desert.

But then, I got trapped there.

Stuck in some sort of bizarre mirage where everyone acknowledged that it was an absurd illusion full of delusional people. But no one left.

Until we had to.

***

Get lost in all of that?

Yeah, I sort of did, too. But you get my gist.

As every driver knows, it’s only a matter of time before someone cuts you off, or you get behind a wide load.

And things slow down. Sometimes, you idle. Sometimes, it’s stop and go, stop and go, stop and go until you want to pull out your hair.

Sometimes, there’s a break in the logjam, and you blow through, cutting off time and covering a lot of ground. Inevitably, though, you come to a screeching halt.

Or swerve off the road.

Or have an accident.

And things stop.

And you think, “How did this happen? I was being so careful.”

And sometimes, we’re just coasting along on cruise control, listening to our life play on like a record, and we don’t even notice that we’re slowing down for that big rig. And it’s not until others start blowing past that we realize, “Damn, I’ve been going ten miles under the speed limit for the past 55 miles.”

Or you hit a pothole and are jarred back to reality.

Back to the fact that roads can be easily traveled. But that everyone has to go their own speed. And that sometimes we’re all stuck in the same traffic jam.

That there will always be stretches where we can speed, and stretches where obstacles lie around every turn.

But vigilant drivers can avoid a pile up by recognizing the warning signs.

And can motor on.

***

I guess the reason why those lyrics switched me into uber reflective mode was that I realized that I’ve just been going for what’s easy. What’s familiar.

I haven’t taken a leap into murky water.

I haven’t gone deep.

I’ve just barely gotten my head wet.

So, whether I have to come up for air a few times before going for it, I’m planning to reach for what’s just beyond my grasp.

Stretch myself a little bit more.

Just to prove to myself that I can reach that treasure at the bottom of it all.

Cold Reality

Sometimes, we all just need a day.

So I let my hair default to Chia Pet, blasted Silversun Pickups through defunct iPod earbuds, and ventured into a hand-numbingly cold, blustery day.

Oh, Chia Pet hair. How unwieldy ye are.

Because, sometimes, we just have to walk it out.

***

Reconciling unemployment with everything I’ve been conditioned to think about success has been harder than I thought.

Even though I thought I knew better, I’ve realized my default definition of success has involved a 9 to 5, 8 to 4–whatever. You know, the American way: working yourself to the bone, even if you hate what you do, because that’s just how it’s done.

Because you’re told to keep your head down, your nose to the grindstone.

Because your parents did it. And their parents. And their parents’ parents.

Because that’s just how you derive from life the things that make it worthwhile.

***

Life throws shit at you. And you step in it. And you drag it around with you, stinking up everything.

But there comes a time when you have to scrape it off your shoes with as much grace as possible and move on.

Get that mess off your mental shoes.

Because the people who matter know better. They remind you that you’re not useless. That your contributions don’t have a price tag, and don’t come with a pay stub. And they never have.

***

Self-worth in our society has long been measured by bank statements, rather than by the degree to which what we do impacts others.

That’s what really matters. Not who contributes what or how much.

These relatively simple realizations smacked me across the face with more punch than the freezing wind and snow flurries as I walked around Raleigh today.

As I looked for answers in battered facades.

Battered, but not yet beaten.

In signs.

Posted.

In street notes.

Priority mail for "Witch Kult Friends." You'd think they'd at least get the spelling right.

In unfinished portraits.

Unfinished body. But aren't we all?

In masks.

Masked temporarily. But the beauty underneath is what counts.

In inner-workings.

Inner-workings.

In emergency exits.

Escaping halfway.

In pops of color.

Pops of color.

Not in me.

But that’s where they are.

Locked away, layered with dust. Waiting for today.

When the pity party ends.

When I realize that I did this.

That I’m happier for it.

That I’ll be fine.

The Weird Factor

Humans are odd creatures.

I mean, this isn’t a noteworthy or earth-shattering realization. But I’m always intrigued by the degree to which some people exercise their weirdness.

Like the bizarrely huggy gal I met at a social event I organized last week. Who, quite seriously, hugged every single person she encountered, and then debated with me about the potato-ness of a particular bag of chips.

HG: “THESE ARE NOT POTATO CHIPS!”

Me: “Yes, yes they are.”

HG: “NO THEY ARE NOT.”

Me *in Yodaese*: “Chips, they are.”

Or a researcher who’s determined to follow through with a batshitcrazy study, despite push back from so many professionals, one of whom is a dear, dear friend.

DF: “And then, he’s going to ——– and have them use ——– to measure their ——– response to ——–.”

Me: “WHAAAAAAAAAT?!”

DF: “I know. It’s nasty.”

Me: “Are they at least going to clean it first?”

***

Still.

I can’t really talk.

I mean, I’m weird by nature.

Weirdness incarnate? Or a birthday wish to a friend? A little of both.

I have plenty of neuroses, of which all too many people are aware by sad happenstance.

Like being in the room when I spy an unopened jar of Nutella.

Or standing beside me when I botch French toast with the last of the eggs.

Or having a conversation with me when I see a differently abled dog puttering along on wheels or hopping on three legs. (And if there’s a bandana or a sweater. Watch. OUT.)

But it seems that unemployment has had an odd effect on my own neurotic weirdness factor. I mean, I figured that I’d be cleaning the floors every other day, or screaming down from the window at random passersby about no more goddamned wire hangars.

But I’m actually a bit more subdued than usual.

Sure, that doesn’t mean much when I’m still OCD-ADD fabulous every single day.

The floors are clean, things are in order. And I don’t accost passersby.

Still, it’s sort of interesting that I’m not freaking out to the excessive degree to which I supposed I would. I guess it’s because Andy and I have a few plans in the works, and we’re in limbo right now–waiting to see which one works out, or if one isn’t in the cards this time around.

I guess I’m strangely optimistic that, even if things don’t pan out according to our plans, we’ll still be fine. We’ll soldier on and still be fabulous.

Because if unemployment and the road to it have taught me anything, it’s that a little optimism can be spread far and wide.

Like new asphalt on a pothole-marked highway.

Quiet Things

Maybe I’ve been listening to “Brand New” a little too much.

Or, perhaps my mind is starting to re-tune itself to life, minus the initial detox it often needs after a life-changing move.

Either way, I’m starting to feel a bit more like myself. Taking pleasure in the little things, the quiet moments that would’ve normally been obliterated by a hasty Starbucks run to stave-off realizing a daydream of smacking McNutterpants upside her head, or a crazy-long work commute.

Just this and that.

Like roses drying in a kitchen warmed by a yellowed 1970s stove, the air filled with a hint of vanilla-bourbon and chocolate from cookies cooling on the farm table.

Like pops of color.

Pops of color, courtesy of our ever-expanding Fiestaware collection.

Like pulling together a recipe without instructions. Just flour, sugar, eggs, and butter. And, voila, cookies.

Baked happiness.

Like dreaming of being a writer, piling up some of my favorite authors’ books and hoping that, one day, I might have front and back covers with some pages sandwiched between them.

Author-atative inspiration...

Like realizing how fortunate I am to have Andy beside me when I wake from a horrendous nightmare.

Like receiving Andy’s unsolicited reassurance that I’m adding value when I’m feeling completely useless.

Like dreaming about the future, and planning a weekend getaway.

Quiet things that keep each us going.

Keep our glasses colored rose.

Even if it’s just around the rims.

The Glitter Incident

Do you ever think about your legacy?

If part of your life will be recorded in some, even arcane, historical tome?

Well.

I think I have my answer.

Because, according to my informa…friends, my grand bon voyage to my employed life on a military installation has been recorded and dubbed by the great, delusional McNutterpants.

Sparkly accomplices

And the name attributed to it?

“The Glitter Incident.”

Seriously.

I can’t make this stuff up.

I mean, I can almost envision the poor sap who, decades into the future, is combing through files, uploading reports into some grand database lorded over by robots. Or Clint Eastwood.

And then, right before lunch (which, in typical futuristic flair, will consist of a pill stamped “Lunch”), some, since forbidden, glimmer on the next file’s heading will catch their eye.

They’ll put down the pill.

Pull the file closer, out of view of the mechanical, cycloptic eye monitoring the enslaved humans bent prostrate, thumbing through the metal file cabinet catacombs.

And there on the heading, speckled with shimmering glitter, will be printed in bold, character-devoid lettering: “The Glitter Incident, 2013.”

Furtively scanning the details, penned in crazed chicken scratch, the peon will become emboldened by the originality and quiet execution of the plan contrived by Unknown Suspect X.

And then, taking the residual glitter from the file folder and dabbing it onto their brows, the wee peon will rally their surrounding cohorts, rail against the mechanical monsters, and bring about a time of peace and tranquility.

Too much?

Perhaps.

***

Sure, maybe my penchant for a flair-filled, dramatic exit won’t be remembered for posterity. But harmless antics like mine will at least create a moderate amount of confusion among the McNutters out there.

Because, really, the more you can screw with a horrendously awful person from afar, the better. And double-plus bonus if said McNutterpants doppelganger ends up turning her paranoid delusions on those surrounding her. Because then, maybe those too willfully ignorant of her cray cray operations will be forced to acknowledge the extent of her insanity.

And offer her her own, less grand exit.

But, really, that’s not the world we live in. The McNutters of the world will keep doing what they’re doing–driving competent people away in order to lord over their tragic anthill.

And you know what?

Each McNutter can have their crumbling kingdom.

Go ahead, let them have it. Find somewhere else to be–someplace you’ll actually be valued and treated with respect.

Or, take the time to become the person you’ve wanted to be. And be happy being that person.

Because, really, being happier than you were is the best revenge.

Someone who smiles and laughs far, far away.

Someone who sparkles.

My Fabulous Unemployment Checklist

Now, kittens.

Y’all know that I recently bid a glittery farewell to my Pit-O-Despair job.

(And y’all, they’re still trying to figure out who bestowed that shimmery fabulousness on their horrible office carpet.)

But now, I’m coming to terms with the fact that I’m unemployed–floating, like a polar bear on a glacier in the open sea, wondering where in the hell that Wilson volleyball came from.

Too much?

Maybe.

Still, I’m appreciating the way my mind is compartmentalizing things–letting itself adjust to the reality of my situation, like it experienced some sort of trauma.

And, slowly, I’m making peace with the fact that (1) I’m approaching 30, and have only a haphazard collection of jobs to show for it; (2) I have some ideal notion of what I’d like my life to be, but I’m terrified that I’m going to fall flat on my face and become some sad cliche; (3) There’s no certainty in anything, especially in this economy.

So to help pull myself out of this unemployment-induced mental funk, I made a very short list of random things that have helped to make the whole process of starting over a little easier.

(1) Hoodies. While a box is preferred, it’s by no means required. These are basically the best things ever. As long as you don’t end up like cat lady Goldie Hawn in Death Becomes Her.

Box-o-hoodies=box-o-love.

(2) Plants. Feel completely useless? Water a plant. You may have just saved its life. (Especially if you’ve neglected it for weeks. Not that I’d know anything about that.)

You know who doesn't care that you're unemployed? Skeeter Plant don't care.

(3) Tea. Tea time is completely underrated. I didn’t really get into tea that much until Andy and I started having tea after dinner. It’s surprisingly calming. (And gives you a reason to buy more Fiestaware–kidding! Not.)

Tea time=mental relaxation.

(4) Books. Want to escape from updating your LinkedIn profile or Indeed.com? Pick up a book and catapult yourself to a small French town where you can grow a garden and remember that you’re an award-winning New York Times reporter who can spend two months in a small French town growing a garden. (Not that I’m bitter.)

A necessary, papery escape.

(5) Memories. We all have little boxes of keepsakes–movie stubs, old notes, XX-rated Polaroids. So what better time than now to smile and laugh and do something great with them? Make a little album. It’ll make you feel good. (Especially those photos.)

Memories help you make a better future.

Now, it doesn’t take a genius to realize that no single one of these things is going to bring employers knocking.

But they can re-center your mind.

And that’s the first step of starting over: re-tooling your mental frame to bring into focus those details of yourself that have long been blurred around the periphery. Those things that you’ve always loved to do but, until now, didn’t have time to fully explore.

So, take some time to remember those things during the quiet, retrospective moments. Then try and figure out a few ways to make a living doing something you love.

What a concept, right?

But so many of us have been trapped by what pays the bills, and have let the rest rot away. Or at least gather too much dust.

And, hey.

If it doesn’t work out, at least you dusted off those skills. Gave them another go.

And, who knows?

Maybe they’ll help give you another go, too.

Boiling Off the Fat

Oh hey, insomnia.

It’s me, Matt.

I know you like pitter-pattering around the periphery of life changes, haunting those who make them, trying to convince them that they have something to be alarmed about.

Have something to reconsider.

Have some nerve-wrapped balls of stress needing to be unwound like yarn balls.

But I also know that you, too, shall pass. And I will actually be able to get some sleep.

And will stop anthropomorphizing some state of being.

***

It’s 4:10 AM on the Saturday after my last day of work. After a carb-rich meal and two delicious drinks at my favorite restaurant. After a cathartic ear-lowering–shedding dead ends and weight like albatrosses around my neck.

Liquid comfort...and chocolate to boot

But still, here I am. Wide awake and listening to the rain pouring down outside.

I guess I’m not sweating the bags under my eyes because I’ve been here before–wondering how long it’ll take my body to detoxify from the past three intensely stressful years.

And I guess it’s sort of apropos that the last time I felt this way, I was choosing to leave graduate school. Because, in many ways, this departure is haunted by many of the same shades.

Ghosts of professions past, of passions blasted asunder.

This time, though, my archaeological palimpsest has been balled up and thrown atop a mental pyre, lit along with the contents of my office–the collapsible files bursting with pottery typologies and lithic assemblages, the dendritic diagrams of subjective interpretations of soil-caked artifacts, the military training certificates, the increasingly despicable email chains that sparked in me a more deep-seated antipathy for failed academics who wave certificates in lieu of morals: it’s everything that fits so neatly into a banker’s box, making my leave of that past life seem all the more cliche, like a scene from a movie.

Past lives...

 ***

But I know that I’ll shed this uncomfortable skin–let it slough off with every new experience that I create for myself, that gets me closer to who I really want to be.

A person unshackled to the past, making the future happen with every new step.

And while that means that I’ve got to start off green, growing bit by bit each day, I know I can do it.

Something green and growing...

Because I have so many reasons to make it work. The best of which is sleeping now, recuperating from his own weekly battles.

Because we all have wars to wage. And the endgame of each isn’t necessarily about winning. But rather, learning how to distill out the best strategies for future battles. And knowing when it’s best to direct your energies elsewhere.

It’s about skimming away the boiled-off fat, and starting with what’s left.

Bitch Sprinkles and Glitter Bombs

With the last of the bitch sprinkles trickling onto the pavement, just shy of the compound’s barbed-wire exit fence, I twirl around to take in the rainbow trail that turns the building’s corner and stops at my Harley-Davidson boots.

Bitch Sprinkles and Glitter Bombs

The sun glances off the top of a neighboring, equally sad building, and I squint slightly, letting a wry smile inch across my face.

Then turn, and sashay away. Leaving behind a noxious emotional stew that’s been simmering for nearly three years, and letting the troglodytic characters who deserve  nothing more marinate in it for the rest of their unprofessional days in this insanitarium.

***

The whole process has been a long time coming–the downward spiral documented time after time ad nauseum.

And then, five minutes after my boots lift from the pavement into my car, it’s a memory blurring into a background bespeckled with glitter.

Glitter?

Well, yes.

Because this queen has to make an exit somehow. And leave little reminders to drive the trolls further into their madness.

***

See, my leave from my working life on a military installation isn’t just that.

It’s the final nail in my archaeology career’s coffin. Which is exactly what I told my supervisor. (Y’all remember Precious, right?)

Precious: “So, uh, can I, uh, do anything for you professionally?”

Me: “Well, Precious. When Starbucks calls and asks, just tell them that, yes, I can make a decent cup of coffee.”

*Precious laughs nervously*

Me: “Seriously.”

Precious: “Oh, er…uh. So you’re not going to do anything more with, uh…what’d you get your degree in?”

*Inward sigh*

Me: “My degrees are in Anthropology, Archaeology specifically. And no, I’m done with the whole shebang. Wiping my slate clean, starting from the ground up.”

Precious: “So you’re really done?”

Me: “Well, Precious. Ironically, graduate school zapped what interest in it that I had, and this place took the rest of it.”

Precious: *Silence*

Me: *Picks up my last venti soy no-whip mocha from base, and sips loudly*

(Did y’all really think kitty was going to retract her claws on the last day? Oh, hunties.)

Precious gives a few of his signature fake, nervous laughs and asks if I can take about five or ten minutes later in the day to speak with him privately.

But later in the day comes about 45 minutes after our riveting conversation.

***

I waltz in, letting my shit-kickers thud across his office floor as I shut the door behind me.

Precious: *Leans back in chair* “So I know we’ve talked before about plenty of stuff going on over there. But I just, uh, wanted to know what you think I could do…and I can’t fire the federal folks…to help support the others over there.”

Me: *Puts diva hand up* “Let’s back up for a minute to the whole ‘Can’t fire federal employees’ bit.” (I love not giving a shit.)

*Precious shifts nervously*

Me: “Now, you know my history over there. So I’m not going to beat that horse deader than it is already. But here’s the thing, and I’ll, um, analogize it to some sort of medical procedure. What you have over there is a malignancy…and you have to do whatever you can to mitigate it toxifying the rest of the body. You know who I’m talking about.”

*Precious nods*

Me: “But there’re some components of that body that’re already at gangrene stage, and it’s best to just lop’em off. [This is when I realize the extent to which our recent evening viewings of The Tudors are creeping into my conversation]”

Precious: “Well, uh, what can I do with what I have?”

Me: *Gives up on the medical analogy* “You can be transparent in your actions. I know no one likes a public smack-down, but I think if you went over there, gathered them up, and turned to McNutterpants and said, ‘You are not any of their bosses,’ it’d be appreciated and actually start to have an impact. You just have to be direct in what you task to particular people, and you have to bypass her at all costs.”

Precious: “But I can’t figure out how to do that. I don’t know how the information flow works over there.”

Me, in my mind: *Leaps across desk Mean Girls style*

Me, in reality: “Then you have to start learning.” (Baby’s first training wheels!)

Precious: “But there’s only so much I can do with what I have. Like, it’s just so hard to be able to put my finger on something and say, hey, you need to cut this out. It’s all intangible.”

Me: “Precious, I know we’ve discussed this whole tangible-intangible bit. But the fact that five staffers, six including me, have walked out the door and cited McNutterpants as a principal reason for our departure is tangible enough for me.”

*Silence*

Precious: “Well, wow, yeah. When you put it like that. That’s true.”

*Mental facepalm*

Precious: “Well, I really appreciate your time. I’ve always appreciated your advice and input. It’s really sound.”

I nod, get up, and thud my way out the door on my way over to the Pit of Hell for a final meeting.

But then, Precious calls from behind.

“Oh, Matt. Could you, uh, wait ten minutes after I leave for the meeting over there before coming over yourself? I don’t want them to suspect anything.”

Really?

“Sure.”

After all, I have something more fabulous planned for later in the day.

***

It should come as no surprise that, after making my leave a reality, I’ve daydreamed about the ways I could torture McNutterpants one last time.

Remind her that, while I may be gone, I’ll always be floating around, driving her even more insane.

And then it hit me: glitter.

GLITTER.

So much glitter that it’ll never come out of generic office carpeting. It’ll always be there, sparkling away.

And then I thought of how exactly to best deliver said glitter bombs.

So, after consultation with co-conspira…, er, friends who shall remain nameless, a costume was born.

With a tiara, fairy wings and wand, short red silk shorts I bought for a party several years ago (don’t ask), my “Have A Gay Day” shirt, and my Harley Davidson shit-kicker boots.

Fairy princess style, y'all.

So, with this mental image in my mind, I watch Precious skulk over to Hades, and remind myself that I’ll be spreading bits of cheer over there soon enough.

***

But as the day wears on, and I discover McNutterpants hasn’t yet defaulted to her usual 8 to 4 “ten-hour” shift, I begin to suspect the beast senses something’s amiss.

And as friends go home, and we exchange goodbyes, I realize this might not happen. McNutterpants may just foil my plot.

So, I resign myself to this annoying fact, and begin making preparations to leave, including a final epistle to Precious and his supervisor, Sir Drinks-A-Lot.

Dear Precious and Sir Drinks-A-Lot:
I hope this note finds you both well.
Given that I did not have the opportunity to participate in an exit interview, I wanted to provide my feedback to you both, if for nothing else than record’s sake.
As you both know from intra-office email exchanges and general discussion, my time with the Pit of Hell (POH) has been, for lack of better terminology, a mixed bag. While I have padded my resume with skills I had not anticipated gaining from my role, I also experienced some less than educational experiences that, nonetheless, taught me a few things about working–or participating–in a military context. Now, this is not going to be an email chocked-full of disparaging commentary; rather, it is my honest, uncensored assessment of the POH and its management. If nothing else, I hope that this will provide some context for understanding my experience and the actions I have taken in the past to preserve my professional character.
Before I begin, I would like to sincerely extend my thanks to you both for the interest and concern you have expressed directly or indirectly for my personal and professional well-being. If I have not been diligent about expressing that sentiment, I hope that you both know that I do appreciate the strides you have both taken.
At the onset of my nearly three year experience at the POH, I quickly gained insight into the program–its inner-workings, and all of the characters involved with it. And without any skewed or biased interpretations from anyone, I gleaned from staffers’ interactions with one another the ways in which the program’s operational efficacy was being undermined. Whether by mismanagement or overbearing personalities’ decisions bleeding into professional matters, the program suffered; and, by extension, POH and the installation suffered: projects were unnecessarily delayed, monies allocated for mitigations or other projects were redirected, etc. Moreover, certain staffers took it upon themselves to act as directors, program managers, and police–inserting themselves into professional matters specific to POH staff members.
Now, I like to think of myself as a mature adult, despite the fact that I have been the youngest of all of the POH staff with whom I have worked. And yet, oftentimes, I am the one who has repeatedly taken the higher ground–bitten my lip, sucked it up–to push a project through to completion, or avoid unnecessary drama. Drama has no place in my professional life; each of our personal lives is full of it. But when I have found myself constantly being the adult, and federal employees left unchecked and their actions enabled by managerial inaction, I can only maintain my resolve so long. As evidenced by the emails I sent out a few weeks back between McNutterpants, myself, and Precious, I can no longer stand the ridiculous, petty, and hurtful actions taken against me–even if they are putatively “intangible.” Certain events have transpired in the POH that are very much tangible, such as: (1) McNutterpants pulling my shirt and looking down my chest at my sternum tattoo during my first year (Did I keep quiet? Yes. Should I have? No.); (2) Despicable Gnome coming into the CRMP and talking about sociopolitical matters that directly affected me and —, and becoming belligerent to such a degree that I asked — to leave the building with me (I cried afterward. And emailed Precious. Did I hear anything about it? No. Should I have? Yes.) Now, could I have let the past emails go, let their sting subside? Sure. Have I done that time after time over the past three years? Repeatedly. Can I take it any longer? No.
Regardless of the one-on-one office time each of us–be it me, McNutterpants, etc.–spends in your office(s), it sometimes takes more. And while it is clearly more comfortable to deal with confrontation or disengagement head-on, direct action is sometimes the most appreciated, even if it is not articulated by those in the background. For me–and other former POH staffers–it was appreciated to have our concerns heard. But when there is no perceived improvement in the work environment, and the tension is still very much palpable, it feels like placation rather than resolution. For instance, I should not have had to move offices because of the tense work environment. The fact that, in the past year and a half, five other POH staffers have left with similar rationales as mine speaks to a larger problem than personality clashes.
And yes, it is easier to let incredibly competent people like me leave instead of initiating the termination process for a federal employee. But I refuse to believe that it is as impossible to terminate a federal employee as has been conveyed to me. My partner is a Human Resources Generalist for a nationally known corporation; he has to terminate people all of the time, in multiple countries, and has to initiate countless processes and follow innumerable protocols. But he gets the job done, because he knows that, if left untreated, a sore will infect the rest of the body and nothing will ever heal or be productive.
There will be no change in the POH if direct, transparent action is not taken immediately. And it will only be a matter of time before the POH fails in its duties, opening the installation to legal action in the form of ARPA, NAGPRA, or NHPA violations. This is not a dramatic, overwrought interpretation; it is fact. When unqualified individuals wave degrees in lieu of actual experience, it is only a matter of time before their incompetence is made painfully clear. In fact, the installation’s POH is the butt of many jokes on a statewide and regional level, mostly because of the long-time staffers who have driven it into the ground.
I do not presume to think that my opinion means anything to either of you, and I do not assume that anything I have written here will resonate and actually inform or effect change. But if I did not provide an honest assessment, I would have felt as though I personally failed those CRMPers whose voices are drowned out by the rabble of a few, whose heads are kept down by choice because they feel that standing up for themselves will elicit the same bullying, reactive behavior that —, —, —, —, —, and I experienced.
Even though I will soon be unemployed, I can finally hold my head up high. Because I would rather stand with those who have stood up for themselves, despite the repercussions, than remain timid and bullied.
With respect,
Matt
***
And as I sign and fold the note, placing it in an envelope with my access cards, I start to feel the weight being lifted. Still, there’s glitter to tend to.
***
After begrudgingly confirming the fact that McNutterpants still lingers in her office, I return the wings and tiara and wand, and load my bag down with glitter bombs and bitch sprinkles. If nothing else, I figure I can go out with some sparkly pizzaz. So I walk over, say my goodbyes to the few people I can still stand, and then determine the monster’s location. Hearing her high-pitched Disney voice breaking the eardrums of some poor bastard, I uncap a few vials of glitter and dance down to my old office, coat it, then sprinkle the main hallway full. Then I stop into the former McNutterpants office, dump a bit in there, then skip into the exhibition space and generously apply a little sparkle, emptying the vial on the welcome mat, and outside the door. The heavy door swings closed with its signature Tales from the Crypt squeak, and I pull out my container of bitch sprinkles, open the cap, and walk away.
***
Soon after turning out of the compound, I notice a familiar vehicle coming up behind me. Cue the Wicked Witch of the West’s entrance music. And there she is: McNutterpants, following me off post. But it just so happens I have another glitter bomb at the ready. So, as we turn onto the road away from the installation, I speed up, tip the vial out the window, and watch the glitter blow out behind me. And while I don’t know if the glitter actually makes it to her car, I like to think that it does. And that that’s why, a few seconds later, she turns off into a gas station.
***
With her car disappearing into the background, McNutterpants starts to fade from my immediate thoughts. And I delight in the bits of glitter flitting around inside my car like a fabulous tornado. So I relish the cool wind whipping my hair, the glitter funneling about, and Meredith Brooks belting out “Bitch” above it all.
A fabulous farewell...
And I raise a glittery middle finger, saying a fabulous farewell to it all.

Beating the Bastards to the Pink Slip

Halfway through his second sentence, my supervisor (whom we’ll call “Precious”) smiles warily.

My eye starts twitching.

And I know what’s about to pop out of my mouth like the Kool-Aid man through a brick wall.

“Matt, you’re killing me,” he laughs.

“Oh, Precious. Before I provide further comment on that issue, let me say something.”

“Oh…er, okay.”

“I’m done, Precious. I’m done. Even if Congress sorts out this mess.”

*Silence*

Thanks, Congress! I love pink.

*Precious tilts his head*

“Now, Precious. About the emails I sent.”

***

Kittens, y’all know about McNutterpants. So I’m not about to drag that toe up horse out of the barn and beat it to death. But yesterday, when she started shooting off emails lined with crazy, I lost it.

And the bitch sprinkle cap popped off.

And those sundaes got coated, y’all.

Coated.

But just so y’all have an idea, here’s a sample email I sent after I was excluded from yet another office-wide email:

Hi all,

McNutterpants, thanks again for including me. I know I’m invisible, but it’d be great to be told so directly (like this) instead of typical passive-aggressive tactics. I’ll be sure to contribute a representative (—-) photograph, too.

Best,

Matt

Which was followed by:

Matt. Please do not email me again.

McNutterpants

Because, as we’ve seen, ignoring the problem is the best way to solve it.

***

So, Precious and I chat a bit, and I try not to vomit up my lentils as he begins assuming the apologist role instead of his supervisorial mantle. And then, when the patronizing commentary starts trickling between his statements, and the subtle chastising begins, my other eye starts twitching.

And I do a complicated hand motion.

And I serve up a plate of insubordination with a side of realness.

Because I can only be professional to a degree before I start laying it out and my Italian chattery kicks into overdrive.

(This is when Precious begins faltering. Because reconciling confrontation isn’t his strongest suit.)

Nearly an hour later, the realization that I’m nearly free from this welter of madness begins to sink in. And I get tired. Really tired. Exhausted–like with imitation Luis Vuitton bags hanging under my eyes.

I think I feel a few hairs suddenly go gray.

And I go print off a two line notice, sign it, then turn right around and hand it to him.

With the warm paper between his fingers, and my signature still slightly wet, he suddenly looks like I smacked him across the face.

And he, too, looks tired.

“Oh, uh, so, uh, you’re sure? Were you planning to, uh, do this already?”

“Positive. And as you’ve well known, it’s been a long time coming.”

***

That’s how it ends.

Two lines and weary eyes.

Because as much as I’d love to rock out to “Dancing Queen” while raising my middle fingers and wearing a skin-tight pink leotard and doing cartwheels and knocking over cubicle walls, I’m just too damn tired.

It’s as though the nearly three years I’ve let this place suck from my life have suddenly been multiplied by ten, and I’m standing at the edge of a new world like Brooks in The Shawshank Redemption.

Too dramatic?

Probably.

***

But there’s no curmudgeonly crow on my shoulder, and I have no need for a noose.

Not when I have a partner reassuring me that I’ve made the right decision—that we’ll make it work.

Or when there’s a birthday to celebrate, a cupcake tower to demolish, and liquor to drink.

Cupcake carby overload!