TGIFPalooza!

Earlier this week, we had our monthly department meeting (I call it the monthlies). I am so in denial of my employment that I blank each month and forget that we always go around the table and talk about what we've been working on. As people list their projects and special cases, I jot notes on my ruled pad about the stuff I've done, quickly editing mentally how I'll make the most tedious job in the world sound like a manned flight to Mars.

"I worked on the PM Book, the DO book, the Australian book, and I've taken over the bond processing."

Translation: "I muttered 'are you f*cking KIDDING me?!?!?' all week under my breath while my supervisor obsessed about completely pointless things in the books that I had to keep changing for her, refusing to understand that we have a department of certifiable anal retentives who find it physically impossible to let go of a document so I can proof it in time to hand off to the department head. These books are making my life a living hell of stomach pain and Prevacid, and I am hugely nostalgic for  unemployment."

Seriously, in a meeting my supervisor kept saying, "The department head wants these books perfect, so you have to look at all of the formatting to make sure that it is all absolutely consistent." And I replied, "To get that kind of perfection, you have to give me time, ideally a full day undisturbed. I have people handing me stuff at 4:57 pm and expecting me to take care if it."

"Well, as I've said--" (imagine, please, the most patient, condescending tone you can. Imagine a parent talking to  a misbehaving kindergartener with special needs) "-- time is not something we always have."

Translation: "Nobody here can manage their time, including myself. In fact, while you all were working frantically to get two books together by close of business today, I decided to announce at 10am that I'll be leaving early and need everything by 1."

I replied, "And what I'm saying (consciously not raising my voice or getting shrill) "is that I don't disagree with you about the desired quality of the finished product; I'm simply saying that without the time, I can't deliver it the way you and I would like."

I no longer die on the cross of unrealistic expectations. And I'm OK with that.

Then there's the analyst who literally hovers over my left shoulder as I take a nightmare of tabs and spaces and put the data into a nice neat table.

"Um--"

"No. No, you are NOT standing there being a back-seat typist."

"Well, it's just - are those LINES going to stay there?"

"No. They are not. I know what I'm doing. Please let me do it. Go away."

"It's just--"

"OH. MY. GOD, please don't make me kill you."

Seriously, there is nothing like poor time management and micromanagement combined with incompetence to make my day.

Did I mention each book contains about 20 files? So I don't have say, one Word document that I can use one set of styles for, or run one set of corrective find/replace exercises. Oh no, I have to navigate among well over a dozen files taken from last year and updated by several people who divide them amongst themselves, trying to get them all to look the same. Then there are the  multiple-tabbed Excel workbooks that, as part of the total INSANITY, cannot be allowed to round up. The boss literally takes her calculator and adds the numbers horizontally and vertically, and if they are off by a dollar due to rounding, it's unacceptable. We are researching Excel to see about a formula that might address this. In the meantime, I print the page for reference, and hard-type in the face values to keep everyone happy. Because a dollar matters so much when you're talking about hundreds of thousands of dollars. Yep, an underwriter is going to lose their shit over that dollar.

All this goes through my head during the meeting as I make it sound like I'm having just the best! learning! experience! in the world! I'm learning all right; learning how to not kill people who print emails and make me file them.  Because my supervisor doesn't want  to learn how to save emails as html in folders that can be put on a CD and stored, rather than printing out emails that I have to mark up and file in a drawer. Oh, and send to offsite storage in a year. Oh no.

The thing is, I'm liked in this department, because on some level they realize I'm good. I'm fast, I'm competent, and I'm grossly underpaid. And I'm also fun, and, it might sound odd, but I do like the people there, even when their work habits drive me up the wall. They aren't awful people, just terrified of anything new. Like effectiveness.

At the staff meeting, the department head mentioned reviews and personal assessments and goals and putting together a list of objectives preparatory to meeting with her. So on one hand, I need to come up with objectives that sound real, but that won't actually cost me a lot of effort, because I just refuse to give more of myself than they're already draining from me. And I can't be honest, because my real objective is another job.

So we had cake, as is the custom, to celebrate staffers who have birthdays this month. August is just me so far. And it was nice, and friendly.

Today was an insane day ending an insane week, and we were looking wistfully out the window at the people flocking into Millennium and Grant parks for Lollapalooza, and wishing we were there and not where we were. Lady Gaga there; flush-left bullet points here. *sigh.*

Then a beautiful Friday thing happened. My supervisor left early as promised, and the department head had gone for the next several days. For me the feeling of relief was palpable.

My coworker brought out the leftover cake, which we'd forgotten about, and I sang "Bad Romance" to it. Then I found mini Tootsie Rolls in a common dish and threw them at co-workers. When they looked up, puzzled, I intoned, "We are a very conservative company here," and threw some more.

When I wondered aloud whether the department head would find it funny if I put a picture of a flasher on the Exposure Data section of the book draft, my closest coworker laughed that I would almost certainly be fired.

"You wouldn't tease a girl, would you?" I asked.

Back Seat Typist sniffed, "A lot of people don't have jobs."

I said, "That's like complaining of your husband beating you, and all someone can say is 'at last you're married.'"

And then I scooped up a huge fingerful of frosting and said to it, "I want your loving, all your lover's revenge; you and me could write a bad romance."

And I ate it all.

I'll give you fish! I'll give you candy!!!

A friend was given tickets to the B-52s at Ravinia for her birthday. She invited three friends, including me, so I was pretty stoked.

I'd come close to seeing the B-52s in oh, I think it was 1982. They were playing a club in Boston, and my boyfriend and I had tickets. I was in college just outside Boston, and he lived about an hour away. The day of the show his car was acting up, but he took me anyway. The car died in the parking lot of the club, and as we got to the door I'd realized I'd grabbed my college ID by mistake, and left my license in my dorm room. We couldn't get in, and with the car dead couldn't go back for my license. I remember crying in the parking lot. My boyfriend had been very comforting - he was a great guy.

So now, thirty years later, I'd get my chance. Sure, instead of a ratty semi-condemned club it would be a tony outdoor venue that hosted acts like Yo-Yo Ma and Patti Lupone, nestled in a very upscale northern suburb, but what the hell.

The plan was for them to drive out early and snag a spot on the lawn, and I would take the train from work to meet them.

I got to the train station, checked the board, and got on a train. A few stops out, the conductor announced "This train will not stop at Ravinia Park."  I went to the door to get off at the next stop, and the conductor signed my ticket so I could board the next train.

"Am I crazy?" I asked him. "Didn't I see 'Ravinia' on the board?"

"That's Ravinia. You want Ravinia Park," he answered.

Of course.

When the next train came, I was going to ask the conductor whether it was the right one, but the plethora of folding chairs and Whole Foods shopping bags answered my question. I hopped on and watched as houses I could never afford in a million years began to pass by.

I was close.

At Ravinia Park I got off and headed to the gate. I opened my purse..and realized my ticket was in my date book.

The datebook I'd left on my office desk.

Serious Deja vu.

I went to the window and bought a lawn ticket to replace the free one I'd had. Fortunately, they were not too pricey. I found my friends,  we ate the food we'd brought, discussed girl things. ONe of the women was recently laid off. She's a single mom who'd gotten a good severance.

"Use the summer to spend time with your boy," I suggested. "I had to learn to not feel guilty for not looking for a job every second."

"Yes, but you didn't have a child to take care of."

Oh, good lord, this again.

"No," I said, "but I had four pets who all ate, and who blew through litter and hay at lightning speed, and I wasn't getting anything extra in my unemployment for them," I said.

Amazingly, she conceded that I had a point.

 I drank an entire glass of wine, so became drunk very quickly.

"I'm going to walk around while it's still light, before the band starts," I said. I was a little unsteady, so I decided I'd be better off walking firmly. Striding.  I strode around the grounds, watching the little tables, the tea lights, the elaborate setups of people sitting out on the lawn. The golf shirts. The careful hair.

I returned to Girls Base Camp and announced loudly that there were no attractive men at Ravinia.

Darkness fell and the band came on. I walked to the barricade separating the path from the seated area in front of the stage. Thirty years later, and they still sounded the same. They were great. I danced and cheered, and a woman next to me did the same. The couples around us stood appreciatively, but nobody danced. They had a sort of amused, "I'm glad we were able to get a babysitter for this evening" look.

They looked... domesticated.

"Party Gone Out of Bounds" came on, the woman next me grabbed my arm, and we let out a victory scream.  I had a blast.

"HEY! WE JUST THOUGHT WE'D DROP IN!!" I  yelled.

At one point I rejoined Base Camp and the girls finally stood up to dance to "Love Shack."  The encore was "Rock Lobster." As I danced on the grass, people with their belongings passed us by, headed for the parking lot. When the show was over, I turned to my friend.

"If I ever get to to a point in my life that I walk away during "Rock Lobster" because I want to be out of the parking lot early, just put a bullet through my head. Don't tell me you're doing it; just come up behind me and put me out of my misery," I instructed her.

We got to the car, and one of the girls noticed the car next to us. It was a very pretty BMW 2-seater convertible.

"The guy who owns that," I said, "is older and divorced. Trust me."

We wanted to take our picture, so we decided to ask a passerby. A man who looked to be in his early fifties approached. He was trim and good looking, and I sensed money. Then again, we were in Richville, so go figure.

I asked him to take our picture, and he obliged us. He was very nice, very polite. Then he walked over to the BMW.

"I knew it," I sighed.

I'm not into rich men, don't get me wrong.  But it's tempting to think about being with someone who can open doors for me that are closed right now. Like dinner. Travel. Groceries.

Holy Hannah, it's mid-July!

Which means I watch all of my co-workers take vacations.  But there are always things a gal can do to make her day more fun:

• Perform a "welcome back" drum solo for your co-worker, using cheap pens and the area table.
• Explain to North America Payroll that you *know* they don't have wage info for the Australian John Smith, so perhaps you mean the John Smith in Connecticut. Yes. THAT John Smith. Oh look! You found him!
• Sing selections from "Avenue Q" 
• Pay back all the baseball and hockey addicts by constantly mentioning the roller derby game coming up. "Windy City Rollers vs. The Boston Massacre!! The Jam is ON! UIC Pavilion! There! Can! Be! Only! ONE!" Follow up by singing Jim Croce's "Roller Derby Queen."
• Nap in the onesie bathroom.
• Pick up work from the photocopier, and by this I mean exit the other door and head to the lobby for frozen yogurt.
• Taunt the pregnant attorney who thinks she hears a kitten mewing ("I think it's the hormones. You sure this kitten isn't calling your name?") Begin mewing when she walks by.

Did I mention the department head is out all week?

Goodbye, Harry.

Last Wednesday I'd noticed Harry was slightly favoring one of his front legs, and noticed his leg and foot were swollen. A call to the vet confirmed that it was part of the lymphoma: tumors in the lymphatic system were blocking the drainage of lymphatic fluid. I was advised to increase the prednisone and apply hot compresses, and--  to expect more of this.

That evening the rear leg on the same side had also become swollen. Harry was looking tired, and I emailed my vet to confirm her availability, as he was clearly going downhill. She was very sweet and accommodating, and I said Sunday but sooner if Harry got much worse much more quickly.

"Will you tell me when it's time?" I asked him. "If you need to go, I'll be OK. " He'd always been a tough cat, protective, my pal, and I wanted him be able to let go.

That night we climbed into bed as usual, and he settled on my shoulder.  He kept shifting, getting up, turning around, trying to get comfortable, failing. At one point I woke to the sound of him rapidly licking his lips and got him to the bathroom just in time for him to vomit on the tile floor. He lost his balance and fell into the sick.

"OK, Pal, " I whispered, wiping him down with a damp cloth, hating to see him losing his dignity like this. I got him back to bed, where he once again tried to lie against my head, his paws across my shoulder. I dozed but woke to find him sitting up, looking haggard, staring at nothing in particular. He had an expression I'd never seen on him before. The expression said, "I'm done."

I scratched his head and stroked his back. "OK. Tomorrow. We'll just go in." And I simply knew that was the right decision.

Early the next morning I called my vet as she was on her way to work. "I don't want to wait until tonight after work for you to come here," I explained. "He's ready now, and I want to do this before discomfort becomes suffering. He's ready, so I'm ready."

She told me to call her back in 15 minutes so that she could get to the hospital and check the schedule. I put on some jeans and a T-shirt and sat on the floor cradling Harry, talking to him, crying a little.

The rabbit hutch is across the room, and I keep the door open. The rabbits have had a peaceful but neutral relationship with the cats. Amie, the girl, prefers to stay in the hutch most of the time, and both rabbits tend to keep their distance when the cats are on my lap.

So I was surprised when I felt something on my lap and looked down to see both rabbits at my side. Amie's chin rested on my leg, and she looked up at my face. This was unusual. I reached down and stroked her head. She stayed still, and then began licking my leg, moving down until she found my bare foot, licking my ankle.

I can promise you all this was new. And it was lovely.

I called the vet, who said they were booked, but could I come in now? I sure could. I debated bringing George, so that he could see Harry afterward know he was gone, but I decided I wanted this to be Harry and my last ride together, just the two of us. I didn't use a carrier, worried that Harry in his state would be uncomfortable and cramped, so I just set him in the front seat with me, where he settled into the passenger foot well and rode calmly all the way, with an occasional trip to my lap to check out the scenery. I chatted to him the whole way. I was reminded of our trip to Chicago, Harry getting car sick but then spending the ride on top of a crate in the passenger side, where he could be next to me. He's always been next to me.

We arrived at the the vet's and the staff at the front were lovely. I paid the bill first, because I didn't want to hang around afterwards. Harry sat patiently in one arm, held against my shoulder, blinking at the women behind the counter.

Because I've worked at an animal shelter and have actually performed euthanasia myself, I was given the choice to assist or let one of the techs assist. I wanted to assist, because I know that the person assisting holds the animal, and I wanted that to be me. It was only natural that Harry and I be together to the end.

Harry's veins are bad, so we had to use one in the rear leg. Harry was very cooperative as I held him in place while the vet ran a catheter. She was very good. Once the catheter was in, she got the syringe and asked me to let her know when I was ready. I shifted so that my arm was under Harry's head and my cheek was against his. I  kissed him, rubbed his side with my other hand, ran my fingers through his paws. He lay calmly on my arm.

"Thank you for being such a great friend," I whispered. Then to her, "OK. We're ready."

She administered the solution, and Harry went quietly and quickly. I felt him relax, and kept talking to him the whole time, thanking him over and over, telling him how wonderful he was. I knew he was deaf, but hoped he sensed the sentiment.

The word "euthanasia"is Greek for "Good Death." A Good Death is free not only from pain but also from fear. Harry had a Good Death, for which I was incredibly grateful, as was I grateful for the chance to say goodbye to him during the previous week. I know that everyone loves their animals and every pet is so special to its human companion, but Harry will always be so much more than my cat, so much more than my pet. He was really my friend. He met me every day when I came home, followed me around the house, sat outside my bathtub when I had my evening soak, slept with me at night. He loved to be with me, and the feeling was mutual. I felt special; I felt loved because I was important to him. We've lived in over 13 places together, and each one has felt like home because Harry was there to welcome me each evening.

He deserved a good death at the end of such a generous, wonderful life.  Rest in peace, pal. I miss you.

Two Legs Bad

Harry now has two swollen legs. I made the call to the vet, and it looks like Sunday will be the day, unless things get much worse much more quickly. My stomach is killing me, but man, I'm glad for the time I've had with Mr. Harry. Nineteen -- NINETEEN!-- great years with this cat. I've been so blessed.

None shall pass?

Woke up this morning to find Harry, as usual, doing a Vulcan mind meld with my face.

MEEEEEEOOOOOOOWW!

"Yes, Deaf Cat, I hear you. So does all of Chicago."

MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWW!!

I got up and plunked Harry onto the floor where his brother, George, waited. I headed for the bathroom, and noticed Harry's gait looked odd. I couldn't put my finger on what it was, and then realized: his left front leg was swollen. I squatted down and felt it - it felt like a hot dog wrapped in a water balloon. He's been favoring it a bit, probably because the paw was also swollen.

"Oh, Buddy," I said. I feel awful, watching this happen. So guilty that I can't make it better.

Harry just purred at me, his expression all, "This? 'Tis but a scratch!"

And then we all had breakfast.

Have You Seen This Belly?

I woke up this morning to Harry lying on my shoulder as usual, reminding me that he was on the brink of starvation as he was most days, what with him never getting food or love. (My cats can be positively Dickensian when it comes to the Food Ploy). As usual, I grabbed him and rolled him onto my stomach, holding him tight and calling out "Prisoner of Love!" while he purred.

It was then I noticed his swollen belly was... well, gone. I kneaded his stomach; where there had been a tight swollen drum of tummy was his usual soft self. What the----?

My vet called me at work to confirm that the slides showed a form of lymphoma, and I told her about Harry's vanishing belly. Apparently, this is a sign that the prednisone she put him on is having an effect; in cancers like this it has a short-term "anti-cancer" effect of shrinking tumors, so she thinks it has shrunk the tumors in his lymphatic ducts such that they can drain properly again. It's not a fix, but for now it means Harry can be more comfortable, and right now, that's good enough.