Catsup, or Catsoup?

I find myself playing a game of catch-up in the story that is my life. This would be a mundane task for a Saturday night, had my life not advanced several years in the past week!

Progress, and Regress

It was lately pointed out to me that, for a woman of action, I spend an awful lot of time pondering what might be, instead of actually doing anything to bring it about. (The boxes in the hall bear witness with their not yet installed ceiling fans and pedestal sinks.) In many ways, my life is not so much a life, but a series of theories.

When it comes to Graples (or any job, really) I am somewhat efficient, tidy, and proactive. My reputation has been one of a woman who can “get shit done.” As an Operations Manager, I’ve mastered the art of problem-solving by anticipating and heading off concerns. I direct my worries into pre-emptive strikes aimed at making my own life and experience easier. I hate surprises. I do whatever I have to do to avoid them, and am rarely caught off guard.

Heart: Healthy. Brain: Fried.

Graples has never been a job requiring the full engagement of my mind. For nearly a year, I sailed into work five minutes late for every shift, and most days, I hit the door again at the end of the day right on time. In between, I sweated, hollered, catered, coddled, and hustled; but rarely did a brainwave register. I was merely passing time, attempting to look busy enough to earn the respect of my townspeople. I hated my boss, and I hated my job, and I hated my company. My brain cells were reserved for living my life.

Poor Richard

Richard and I spent most of our time together talking about how much we hated what we do for a living. We shared our dreams for the future, and our memories of how good things used to be where we’d been before. We talked about our families, and groused about our coworkers, and shared funny dog stories. He became like a grandpa to me, even though he is the same age as my dad.

One Plus One Equals One Plus One

Determined not to return to the dregs of Lonesuckiness after my drama-filled breakup with Daniel, I’ve begun reaching out to the only people who are handy: my coworkers. I spend way too much (highly inappropriate) time complaining about how I feel, wondering what went wrong, seeking validation from these young people I’ve selected and hired.

Harmonious Joy

When I was young, I used to love to sing in the choir at school.  I managed to make time for it every year in high school (along with band class), becoming a leader and remaining emotionally invested.  All my friends were in the choir, and even my enemies were friends when our voices were joined together.  Our director always picked challenging pieces which were so satisfying to learn and master, and we performed well in contests, achieving wonderful ratings.

In college, I joined a choral group and stayed with it for all my semesters.  Each year, I would audition for our well-known director, hoping to make it into the “big” choir–which was a position of some status within the music college–and each semester, I failed.  He thought my voice was more suited to the smaller group, which sung pieces not nearly so challenging, and met not as often.  Three times a week was not nearly enough rehearsal for my taste.  I desperately loved the act of singing with a chorus, and wanted to be in the larger choir not only to perform more challenging pieces, but to be able to rehearse daily.

In my last semester there, the choral director began skipping our class very regularly.  He had always complained of bursitis, and was having a lot of challenges with his directing arm.  He made it only to one or two classes a week.  But he rarely, if ever, skipped out on the large choir.  He cancelled three of our four scheduled concerts, citing that we were either not ready, or he didn’t expect a turnout.  I could tell he didn’t like our group that semester.  And I began not to like him very much, either.

There were a core group of us who had been dedicated members for some time.  We knew the newer additions were not great, not of the caliber of past groups, but we also believed in the power of a chorus, and knew that with practice, they would improve.  We would improve.  Apparently, our own director did not believe in the power of singing.  As he stopped coming to class, I, too, stopped coming to class.  I failed that semester by skipping out on the “final.”

I hadn’t sung in a chorus since then.  I felt some bitterness, like the joy of singing had been sucked from me by one cynical man, whom I had once respected and now could not.  Then last week, a young woman was in my store making photo copies, and I stopped to help her.  Nosy as I am, I took a look at the paper I held in my hand.

“What’s this?  ‘No audition necessary’?”  She was copying a flyer for the local choral society. 

Tilting her head with a sly squint of her eyes, she asked, “Why?  Do you sing?”  She was willing me to say yes.

I thought about it for more than a second.  Do I sing?  I sing in the car.  I sing in my head.  I used to do a mean karaoke.  “Yyyyes…I guess I do.  But I haven’t sung in a group since college.”  Saying it out loud made me wince a little.

Excitedly, her face now animated, she began, “Well!  Let me tell you a little about our group….”  She gave me the hard sell, talking about the importance of younger folks joining now, about the choir’s storied history and world-class director.  And she did her best not to frighten me.  “Listen, I know how you feel.  I hadn’t sung in years.  But everyone is very accepting, and you’ll realize that you remember more than you think!  It all comes back to you.”

I doubted this.  It’s been more than twelve years!  How could I possibly remember how to read sheet music, how to harmonize, how to take cues from a director?  And could I still hit those high notes?  I wasn’t sure.  But I told her I would come.

Last night after work, I put on some street clothes–a rare treat, as all I do is work and lounge–and drank plenty of water.  My instrument was tired as well as dehydrated.  I checked the internet for a map to the church where we would be meeting, which was in an unfamiliar area.  On the drive, I began some familiar warm-ups.  I was disgusted to find that not only could I not hit those high notes, but the low notes and in-between ones sounded quite sour to my own ear.  I was about to embarrass myself.

I was among the first to arrive, and was immediately struck with terror.  The women at the registration table were kind, longtime members who were excited and curious at how I came to join them.  They introduced me to the director, whose reputation had preceded him.  (He, along with most of the people I met during the night, was familiar as a customer at Graples.  I didn’t bring it up.  I’m not great at the small-town thing yet.)  I was then led to the music librarian, who issued me a packet of sheet music and told me I’d be responsible for taking care of it for the next twelve weeks.

I selected a chair in the soprano section (which I feared was a mistake), a few seats from a woman I guessed was in her early seventies.  By now there were ten or so of what appeared to be other members.  Before long, the woman picked up her things and slid over next to me.  “Hello, are you new?  I’m Annette!  You’re going to LOVE the choir!”  She was lively and engaging, and sang a lovely coloratura under her breath.

Annette told me about her own musical history, how she’d lived in “the City” for many years, then in Philadelphia, living a life in musical theater.  She’d moved to a nearby town in Massachusetts last year, and had happened onto this group in Bennington through an acquaintance.  She promised I’d be “moved to tears” by several of the selected pieces, most of which she’d sung before.  “And the director is not only world-class, he is also hilarious and very good.  He will pull things out of you that you don’t know are there.”

By the time we were ready to begin, nearly fifty people had joined the half moon of assembled voices.  Most of them, as my recruiter promised, were older, of retirement age.  I spotted a small handful of thirty-somethings sprinkled through the crowd, and one girl who could’t have been more than 20.  I had picked a spot on the front row so the voices behind me could prod me along; but also so no one would be in front to hear my singing.

The warmups made me nervous, which is not their purpose at all.  I had snuck a peek at most of the sheet music pieces, and was blown away by their seeming difficulty.  I just knew I was in over my head.  When we cracked open the first piece, I was convinced I hadn’t sung it before; but as Ed began to play the parts through the first time, I realized it was familiar.  Had it been high school?  College?  I knew the song, and the poem attached.  I was able to read the lines once, then watch the director intently on each successive run-through.

This was my only really lucky break, other than having sat next to Annette.  She was very good, and had that rich textured high soprano that is so common in established choirs.  The rest of the music was extremely challenging, the lyrics strange and beautiful.  But I slogged through, listening to my neighbors and to the guidance of the piano.  I was better at reading the tunes and the rhythms than I thought I would be.  My voice was embarrassingly weak, or strained, but I could feel all those years worth of knowledge and experience flooding back.

I needn’t have been embarrassed by my voice, nor worried about my selection of section.  The altos, who faced us and sang into our space, were a strange blend of blats and dragging.  They slouched, and faced downward, and drove the director a little nuts.  But he bore it with grace and graciousness.

By the halfway point, I was in heaven.  Parts of my mind had been awakened that had long stood dormant.  Pieces of my heart were floating and flying on the wind of fifty assembled voices singing the words of poets long dead and yet still alive.  I could have sung all night.  I no longer cared that I was not as good as my neighbors, or as experienced.  I was having a great time!

I found myself, while seated, clinging to the front of my chair, lungs and diaphragm open and sucking for air.  Without prompting, I held my music high so I could read it and see the director at the same time.  I smiled like an idiot when he made jokes, and sighed with the group when we ended a particularly glorious harmony.

I am a team player.  I enjoy being part of a group more than anything–that is, if that group is one dedicated to a singular purpose and its members are equally interested in being in it together.  A choir is the perfect sort of team, with each member playing his or her role, but not alone.  Two voices singing the same part bring two different textures to the tapestry of sound; and ten voices singing the same part can be heard at a distance blending into one rich voice.  Adding more layers, more parts, only adds to the richness of sound and unity.  There is nothing like it in the world.

I am continually amazed at how breaking my routine brings with it such amazing gifts of adventure and purpose.  I am also aware of how returning to my roots brings me closer to my future.  I am sure that my Monday night would have been perfectly pleasant had I stayed at home on the sofa with my pups, folding laundry and chuckling at television reruns.  But in breaking from my routine, and doing the thing I was scared to do, I found pure, unadulterated joy.  I can’t wait for the first concert, but I also dread it.  Because when it is over, so will be the season for singing.

The Influence of Old Friends

Today is my friend Shawny Mac’s birthday.  I won’t reveal her age, but will only say that she will, forever, be older than I.

Shawny Mac was one of the first people I met at Big Overpriced Fancypants (not the real name), a national chain of designer specialty/department stores.  That was more than ten years ago.  She was an administrative associate in my department, and taught me all the ins-and-outs of overpriced, fancy pants.  And jackets.  For rich women.

We worked together for a short time before she moved along to greener pastures.  Shawny was always smarter than your average bear, and had a talent for planning and organization.  BOF was too institutionally stupid to recognize her talent, so she went on to a management position with They.Blew.

A year and a half later I went looking for my own greener pastures.  She thought I’d fit in at They.Blew.  She was promoted to Store Manager, and I was hired to be one of her assistants.  It was a tough time, and she was a tough boss.  She is probably the toughest boss I ever had.  She made me cry a record 136 times.  (To be fair, I’m just estimating, based on my best recollection.)  But I quickly noticed her reputation building within the company as one of the best operational managers out there.

I would have followed Shawny Mac anywhere, and eventually I followed her to another store.  Her approach softened a little when she fell in love with one of our former associates, Tony the Tiger, and even though she was still known as a tough-as-nails boss within the company, she became rather enjoyable to work for.  I started to enjoy it so much that I decided I wanted to be a Store Manager, too.

For a little more than a year, we were peers and rivals.  From a bit of a distance, I got to watch her life grow and change–she had a baby with Tony the Tiger, and built a life with him–as her priorities changed along they way.  It was inspiring to watch.  I began to understand how difficult her job had always been, and how much she shielded me and the rest of the team from the pressure that was put on her.  I grew to respect her in new ways.

Eventually, our mutual priorities changed enough that we both left the company.  But we continued to be friends, even doing “couple” things together when time and life permitted.  Shawny and Tony were “cool” parents whose kid was cute enough to be around, even for two happily childless freaks like us.  When we lost our house in the fire and were set to leave Kansas City, Shawny and Tony came to see us off at our favorite Mexican restaurant.  (Shawny is still one of my favorite people to enjoy Mexican with.  It’s sort of a prerequisite to being a friend of mine.)  They brought us a bag of “there’s no place like home” presents to take on the journey.

I think Shawny Mac is still probably one of the best bosses around.  Her focus is on her family these days, which is a far cry from the way things began ten years ago.  She’s learned to lace her management technique with a lot of humanity, which is why associates love her.  But she’d still kick your ass for breaking the rules.  I try to channel her whenever possible, though I will never match her talent for planning and execution.

I hope I can be like Shawny someday.  Happy birthday!  I would have sent you a They.Blew gift card, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t because I’m broke.  (grin.)

Some Days, Almost Worth It

Yesterday, I had what could almost have passed as a decent day.

First, I had a long talk with the District Manager.  I was able to express myself, and to complain about my senile old needs-to-retire boss.  He challenged me on some of my behavior–namely, my inability to control my self-expression when it comes to written communication.  Seems my “passionate outbursts” are read as “risky” and “negative” by the higher-ups, and are not currying me favor, nor strengthening my career at Graples.  Uh, no shit.  I didn’t bother bursting his bubble by letting him know that I don’t care much about my “career” in retailing any longer.  That ship sailed years ago.

Second, I got to meet and flirt with a couple of the handsomest guys I’ve seen in a while.  One had the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen.  The other, a Latin American hottie, owns a Bed&Breakfast.  He invited me to come and visit.  I must say, I’d love to check it out, but I’m not that into the breakfast.

Today was a tough one.  It was one of the roughest days I’ve ever had at work.  It’s a good thing I was riding the wave of yesterday.  Otherwise the undertow would have eaten me alive.

Live in a Zoo, Work in a Circus

Most days, I wish I worked among adult people. People who act like people. In a workplace. Not a circus. I don’t want the role of Ringmaster in a circus where the worst of the worst performers have come to retire. I was only passing by, when someone shoved a whip in my hand and a hat on my head, and said, “Here! Lead this!” I was too stunned at the time to run.

In a Box

I love wine from a box. It’s not because it tastes so great–because it doesn’t, let’s face it. I love the fact that I can open my fridge door, turn a spicket, and within seconds enjoy a tasty glass of chilled relaxation. I love that only a small glass can transport me from the stresses of the day, to a place where my shitty job and my money troubles just melt away. And I love that I have an excuse for misspelling things. Is that how you spell misspelling?

Exclusive on Insomnia…NOT.

I don’t have anything against kids. People think I hate them, but I totally don’t. I may be afraid of babies, and people talking about pregnancy may freak me out, and I may actually stick my tongue out and squirm if I hear a person talking about childbirth–but I like little kids who can talk. Kids can be delightful, so long as they’re not throwing tantrums.

It’s the parents I don’t like.

Perfect Imperfection

I was working with a kid who lives here in HF. He’s been one of our better employees since he started a few months ago, and I’ll admit that for a while he was my favorite. (Someone newer and more enthusiastic always comes along, and I do appreciate enthusiasm.) He loved to compete, and he wanted so much to please the managers that he was constantly ingratiating himself. I love a good ass-kisser, a horn-tooter, a spotlight hog.