My Bad Attitude

Ever since I returned to work on Tuesday from my last trip to Youngstown, I have had a horrible attitude toward work.

The fact that started this downward spiral is my inability to telecommute, thanks to a manager in Raleigh who values control more than he values the good of the enterprise. Because of that, I had to take Monday as leave without pay and am behind in my work, dancing as fast as I can every day this week to catch up on the tasks that lead to the next set of product announcements.

Then I walk to the ladies' room and sit down in a stall for a moment's peace and quiet, and I'm faced with a sign (8½ by 11 in a sheet protector) on the back of the stall door:

Just a brief line to
gently remind you.
Be nice, flush twice.
(Maybe thrice)
And always look behind you.

What the fuck?! (Excuse me if my language offends you.) How old are we? I've been potty-trained since I was less than a year old (my mother brags), and my mama taught me how to flush! And really, if you're the type to skip flushing, the fanciest sign and most clever prose in the world is not going to cause you to flush.

(This reminds me of husband #3, out in the foothills of the Blue Ridge, who used to complain that family members didn't turn out the light when they left the basement. So he printed a small sign that he affixed to the light switch reminding people to turn out the light. Excuse me. If I don't remember to turn out the light, a sign on the light switch is not going to change that!)

I got ticked off a couple of weeks ago and stole the sign off my favorite stall. I tucked it inside my sweater to get it back to the office, then put it in my purse and threw it away when I got home. A few days later it had been replaced. Then I wrote on a sticky note "I find this sign demeaning and insulting" and stuck it on the sign. The next time I went into the bathroom, my sticky note was missing. But when I exited the bathroom, I noticed someone had stuck it on another sign — the one on the door that says "Please wash before exiting rest room".

Geez! Do I work with imbeciles?

I took my virtual headache home three hours early yesterday and immediately went into my sewing studio to work on a nightgown for Riah. Frank called at 4:30 and came to get me with the top down, taking me to dinner at Vivace and then for an hour of sitting in his garden watching the Tucson sunset. A truer friend has never been born. He helped my attitude enormously, at least for yesterday.

I'm moving quickly to the point of wanting to figure out my finances so I can quit work and move to Youngstown and sew and learn and teach others about arty things.

Oh, and I gave notice on my gig at Raz. The final straw was when the "agent" (I use the term very loosely) told me "the doctor" (this is what she calls the owner, a podiatrist whose middle-eastern last name she's too lazy or too stupid to learn to pronounce) said I wasn't bringing enough people with me to Raz each week. This is not cocktail-piano-as-Tupperware-party! Enough! Basta! Treat me with the respect to which I'm due!