We Are Officially “Those” Neighbors

So, it turns out when you buy a property on 7 acres, it requires a lot of upkeep. I know, when I read that back to myself it seems insane that one wouldn’t fully realize that, but what I can say? I’m a city girl in the country, figuring it out as I go.

When Gil and I bought the house last year, we had a deal. He would take care of the land, the barn, fixing things in the house, helping me hang everything I bought, doing small renovation projects, and I would…. wait, what exactly WAS my side of the deal? Oh, right, he was going back to school full time and working at a local high school (more for the experience than the pay) so I agreed to take care of everything on the financial side for the house, because I could. That way he could focus on school, his job, and the 4 mile long list of things I wanted him to do around the property.

So, it’s been going really well so far. He’s done a ton of work in the house and I’ve been decorating up a storm, so things have been slowly starting to come together. Our well broke at one point (yep, we live on a well in California – seemed totally reasonable to buy a property on a well in the middle of the craziest drought in history) and since neither of us have any idea how wells really work, we called in a professional. $1,200 later, and it was good as new. But other than that, the property itself hasn’t given us much trouble.

Until a few months ago. See, California got rain this past year. Lots of rain. More rain than we’ve seen in years and years and years. Record breaking rain. Which was amazing because we’ve been in a drought for so many years that we had forgotten what rivers and lakes were supposed to look like. And I was thrilled, because the ground water was great for folks living on wells like we do.

HOWEVER. I did not consider that it also meant that the grass (weeds?) on the property would start growing at record speeds. Across 7 acres. And that no one was coming to take care of it for us.

So I started nagging Gil to figure out what we were going to do about it. What kind of mower did we need to handle it? Could we get a push mower? Or a riding one I could tool around on like something out of a movie? How much would it cost? Not more than a couple thousand dollars, right?

I mean, how cute. I thought we could just get a riding mower for 7 acres of 5 foot tall grass. Turns out that belief is not based in reality. And the heavy duty tractors cost upward of $10,000 which we couldn’t afford in that moment. We didn’t really know what to do. So we did what any responsible adult couple would do: we ignored it.

Well, not entirely. We bought a weed whacker. A WEED WHACKER. Which I’m pretty sure is meant for someone’s front lawn in a suburban neighborhood, not 7 acres in the middle of the country. But to his credit, Gil was out there sweating his balls off, hacking his way through our property. But at the rate he was able to go because he’s a human man, it would take about 10 years to get through the whole property.

Sidenote: I really wish I had a picture of Gil weed-whacking on 7 acres to show you, but I know when not to push my luck.

So anyway, a week or two later when I was out of town for work, I got a call from Gil. Our next door neighbor had stopped by. He must have seen Gil out there with his weed whacker and just laughed at the poor naive city folk infiltrating his neighborhood. He knocked on our door and asked Gil what was up with our grass, and if we had plans to cut it. Cue TOTAL MORTIFICATION.

We had become THOSE neighbors. The ones making the rest of the neighborhood look bad. Those entitled city people who decided to buy a farm without knowing anything about actual country living. People tease me that I am a living embodiment of Green Acres, and I’ve never felt like it was more accurate than when Gil called to tell me that.

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In fairness to our neighbor though, he wasn’t coming around to criticize – I think he truly just felt sorry for us. Plus, it would have turned into a fire hazard once the rain let up, and they do live next door to us, so it’s just good sense. But when Gil called to tell me I wanted to die of embarrassment.

Our neighbor was really just offering to help us poor city schmucks out by bringing over his tractor to clear the brush for us. Which he did, because he’s a wonderful guy, and we offered to pay him whatever he thought was fair because we’re city people who have no idea what it should cost to have someone mow 7 acres with a tractor.

So now, I just keep thinking about what’s going to happen this fall and winter, because we will be right back where we were. Luckily, we have a plan. A super practical plan. That nothing could possibly go wrong with. We’re going to get a bunch of goats and let them roam the whole property and eat all the grass.

But as it turns out, you need something called a “goat rated” fence to keep those fuckers where they’re supposed to be. And I don’t know much, but I have a feeling that fencing 7 acres with heavy duty fencing is going to make quite a dent in my Amazon Prime and Homegoods spending money.

So we’ll start pricing fences, and when I regain consciousness after fainting from the sticker shock, we’ll start to really plan out our timeline. Until the next project that requires our immediate attention pops up. Because, you guys, apparently living on 7 acres IS A LOT OF WORK.

True Love Means Peeing In The Woods

I am sooooooooo behind in documenting our first foray into camping as a couple, because, you know, life happens. And if you’ve been keeping up, life has been kind of shitting on me recently. So I really just never sat down to finish writing about our camping trip from last summer.

Which is a damn shame, because I really should have documented everything while it was fresh in my mind. Luckily however, it really wasn’t THAT long ago, and the concussion was minor enough (we’ll get to that later) that I have retained most memories from this little adventure. So I am here to share with you what essentially qualifies as my second camping trip EVER.

If you’re not already familiar with my disastrous camping history, you should be. I am what you would call an “indoor girl.” I need makeup, an outlet for my curling iron, air conditioning, and although I kind of thought this went without saying – indoor plumbing.

So when Gil told me one of his best friends was getting married in the mountains and it was going to be a “camping wedding” and that we would LITERALLY be sleeping outside on the ground, this was my face:

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But I am nothing if not a trooper. And a damn good girlfriend. Since I knew it was important to him, I faked a smile, said it sounded like an adventure and that I was willing to give camping a second chance. And I was told there would be a bathroom and indoor plumbing somewhere on the camp site, and NO WILD BOARS, so I figured I’d survive.

So Gil, being a good boyfriend, went to a camping store to get a battery powered blow up mattress that would fit in the bed of his dad’s truck that we were borrowing. He had a truck tent (that’s a thing? and I know those words now? what??), that fit on the bed of the truck, so it seemed as close to “glamping” as I was going to get.

But I want to make one thing really clear – he didn’t just do it to be a considerate partner. I mean, he is, and that’s part of it. But REALLY, he just didn’t want to hear me squawking at him the whole time and this was his preemptive strike against it. Seriously, sometimes when I get on a tear about something he just caws at me like a giant bird. HE LITERALLY SQUAWKS AT ME UNTIL HE DROWNS ME OUT. So let’s be really real – he was trying to placate my inner bird-woman.

So away we went. To a camping wedding. And… it was kind of amazing. His friends who were getting married are pretty much the most amazing people on the planet and have the rare ability to make everyone they meet feel incredibly special. They had all their friends and family in one place, and it was one of those weddings where there was so much love it was palpable. Even the bride’s broken leg couldn’t dampen the excitement and activity going on.

Day one was essentially the rehearsal dinner and a huge party. Oh, did I not mention this was an entire weekend of camping, not just one night?

With the party in full swing and what basically amounts to a huge reunion of Gil’s friends, we stayed up well into the night. Gil decided there wasn’t actually enough room for both of us to be comfortable in the bed of the truck, without running the risk of one of us rolling over and falling into the cavern between the airbed and the side of the truck. So he very gallantly slept on the ground in a tent and gave me full reign of the truck.

It wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it was going to be. Until I woke up in the middle of the night and had to pee. Real bad. As I crawled out of the truck, I realized in this particular instance, I would have actually been better off if we’d really been camping in a more remote location, instead of surrounded by other cars and trucks and campers. I was not prepared to just fully drop trow since I had no idea who might be walking around and I do try to limit full on flashing people until at least the second or third time we meet.

And remember – there was a bathroom. It was just up a hill from where we were all camping. Which in the light of day looks like no big deal. But in the middle of the night when you’re half awake and regretting those margaritas from earlier…. well, it may as well be Everest.

But I survived, and we made into the wedding day relatively unscathed. And then I realized I had to get ready for a wedding. In a truck. In the woods.

Turns out, there was actually a shower inside the building where the bathroom was. But the walls surrounding the shower? Glass. Remember my rule about flashing?

I had somehow not anticipated the need for a bathing suit, so I made my way into the bathroom where I gave myself a quick whore’s bath at the sink, and patted myself on the back for bringing dry shampoo. I have to admit, we cleaned up pretty well.

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And the wedding was flawless. The ceremony was back on the property under the trees, and we got to watch two of the most genuine people I’ve ever met pledge their love to one another. Totally worth it.

From there, it was time for another party! I’m getting a little old for this whole two nights in a row business, but if the bride could get out on the dance floor and bust a move even in her cast, I had no excuses.

But the thing is, dancing is not one of my gifts. I’m not what you would consider graceful. I fall a lot. I trip over my own feet. I lack rhythm completely. But as we stood there watching a group of his friends go through what was essentially a choreographed dance they had perfected over all their years of partying together, I felt a little… inspired.

To be clear, we will never be the couple with the choreographed moves on the dance floor. Gil is actually a pretty good dancer but I’m more of what you’d call a flailer. I flail. Or shake my boobs. Those are my only moves. So I dragged him out on the dance floor and commenced the most graceful flail I could muster. We were both pretty into the song at that point, and since we have an ongoing competition in our relationship over who has the better hair (he’s been growing his out since I met him), we were both whipping our hair pretty aggressively.

But I’m 5’4″. He’s 6’3″. He’s also a long time heavy metal concertgoer. He’s used to mosh pits and has what I am now convinced is literally the thickest skull in the world. Because as I was coming up, he was coming down, and his forehead cracked down directly on the top of my head.

As it happened, one of Gil’s best friend’s is an EMT and his girlfriend is a nurse, so when the world was still spinning a few minutes later, I knew I had back up if I needed it. I didn’t, but I did wind up with a killer headache that had me turning in early, leaving Gil to party on into the night. Which is kind of shame, because it sounds like things really got going after that. At one point in the night, I could hear someone in the tent next to our truck having sex, which if I recall correctly, is essentially the whole point of a wedding when you’re single, so hooray for them!

When dawn broke, there were a few sheepish faces and a couple quick getaways, and I think we were all in desperate need of a shower and a nap. But at the end of the day, it was one of the best weddings I’ve ever been to. I would do it again in a heartbeat. Only next time my request will include no wild boars AND no concussions.

That One Time A VP Threw Up In My Hand

She threw up in my hand. SHE THREW UP IN MY HAND. I had to look down again to make sure… was this real life? Yup, that was vomit, in my hand. I wasn’t babysitting one of my friends’ new babies (I don’t think I’ll ever be on the top of the list for that favor) or helping out a friend with food poisoning – I was in the hotel room of a forty-something senior vice president of a large national advertising firm, putting her to bed after she consumed her body weight in red wine.

OK, let me back up. This was a few years ago, but it’s one of those moments in your life you just don’t forget – no matter how hard you try, you can’t forget it. And honestly, the story is great party fodder so I don’t know that I’d really want to forget it anyway.

But to put this story in context, you need to know a few things first. One, I work in tech sales. I have for most of my adult career. Two, I am a pretty good go-to person in high stress situations. Typically I can get things done and have been told I can be a bulldozer, which I choose to take as a compliment, whether it was meant that way or not. And three (and most importantly), alcohol and sales go together like peanut butter and jelly.  If peanut butter could embarrass you in front of your co-workers and make you vomit on your shoes without noticing.

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And I think there is a lot of boozing that happens in the human resources industry in particular. Maybe it’s because they have to put up with so much shit during the day that they just need something to take the edge off – kind of like how I imagine most moms must just have a constant supply of wine on hand. In either case, you can’t really blame them. Anyway, I’ve worked for a few different companies that sold into HR, and the conferences were crazier that most of the frat parties I attended in college. You have to know what you’re getting into. You have to be prepared.

In my first tech sales job in the Bay Area, I was not. I wasn’t prepared guys. I worked in the coffee and tea industry in my early twenties, selling high end teapots and mugs. There were six of us. We had no money. We couldn’t even afford Diet Coke, let alone alcohol. We never hosted any customer events. There was no “culture” to speak of. It was a different world.

But in my first real sales job in the Silicon Valley, I learned very quickly part of the deal was socializing with the entire sales organization and knocking back a few drinks with them. Team events, kickoff meetings, happy hours, customer dinners. There was always something. But the most debauchery I ever witnessed was at the HR industry conferences, which we would attend with one primary goal: schmoozing our customers.  It was at just such a conference where our story really begins my friends.

I was in Las Vegas with a group of co-workers for a large HR conference. Most of the attendees at the conference were married with kids, and this was an event they looked forward to all year. Not only were they in Vegas without their kids or spouses, but they were there on their company’s dime, usually in a hotel full of other people in exactly the same situation. It’s basically freshman year of college in the dorm, where kids are finally away from their parents for the first time and have easy access to booze and each other – it’s a shit show.

One of the nights we were there, we hosted a VERY fancy cocktail hour and dinner for some of our larger customers and partners. We had a private room in a 5 star restaurant and an open bar. It was a formal dinner, and actually the first time in my 25 years I’d been to a place with a choreographed wait staff – one waiter for every person at the table, all working in unison to create a beautiful display, like that scene from Beauty and the Beast where all the plates come to life. I didn’t even know that was a thing. It was fancy as fuck and a little intimidating. I was doing my best to sound sophisticated while talking shop with our customers but little did I know, sophistication was not the theme that night.

One of our partners, a senior vice president of a national advertising agency, had already clearly had a few before we all gathered at the restaurant. And before we go any further in this little adventure, keep in mind some of the customers at dinner were her customers too.

I watched her go through multiple glasses of red wine over appetizers. I didn’t think too much of it though – like I said, there is always quite a bit of booze flowing at these things. She was flirting with the VP of a major hospital to her right, who was clearly uninterested in anything but business with this woman. Not only were they both married, but the hospital was a customer of this advertising agency. Frankly, I was kind of enjoying the show and only marginally trying to run interference – he was our customer too so I didn’t want him to be uncomfortable.

I turned to talk to my own VP across the table when out of my periphery, I saw her lean over to him and in slow motion, like a car crash with smeared lipstick, she shoved her tongue into his ear. At the dinner table. In front of everyone. Holy shit. He must have had some experience with hammered 45 year old women, because he handled it like a champ. He disentangled her and immediately engaged the rest of the table in conversation to distract her. She was a persistent little beaver though, and eventually he excused himself to the other end of the table. Dinner hadn’t even been served yet.

When it was, she immediately spilled red wine all over her $60 steak and her white pants and got into a tug of war with the waiter trying to clear it. “I can eat it out of the wine!!” she protested. I really didn’t know whether to laugh or leap up to try and help her poor waiter.

This VP wasn’t actually my customer and I had no prior relationship with her, but luckily our advertising rep who did was at the dinner as well and she finally took Drunky McTongue to the bathroom to compose herself and clean up. The rest of us politely pretended it hadn’t happened and continued on with dinner. Until I felt a frantic tapping on my shoulder and my co-worker desperately whispering that she needed my assistance in the bathroom. Fuck.

Once I got into the bathroom I saw that she had locked herself in a stall and was refusing to come out. I could see through the crack that she was practically passed out. I immediately started trying to put together a game plan. I couldn’t crawl under the stall door because A) I’m not a small girl and B) Those fancy 5 star bathroom doors went all the way to the ground. The only way in was up. I took off my heels and stood on the toilet in the next stall so I could see her and thought, You have got to be kidding me… I am going to have to scale this wall in a cocktail dress. They do not pay me enough for this shit. 

Suddenly I had an idea though – I told her McDreamy from the hospital was still at dinner and was waiting to go get a drink with her. BAM! Door unlocked. I’m a genius. I led her out to a table in the back room and pulled my own VP into the mix. We had to figure out how to get her out – we could NOT take her through the main part of the restaurant. So while he went to talk to the kitchen staff about dragging her out the back way, I tried to get her to drink some water and eat some bread. She was face down on the linen table cloth.

When I finally got her to look at me, she stared at me blankly and then slurred, “You drugged me!” Awesome. I should have just left her there. But I found her purse, and dug through for her room key. She was staying a hotel down the strip. Myself, my VP and my coworker essentially carried her out and caught a cab to her hotel. Once we got there, my VP looked at me and said he didn’t think it was a good idea for him to be in her hotel room. Based on her behavior at dinner and her apparent propensity for making wild accusations, I agreed. But that just left me and my coworker who, frankly, was completely overwhelmed with the situation.

We got her to her room and I sat her on the bed and forced her to drink some water. Once I could establish she wasn’t going to hurt herself or try to go find the bar, I planned to put her to bed in her clothes and get the hell out of there. Her eyes started to clear up a bit and she told us she was feeling better. I grabbed the trash can from the bathroom just for good measure. As I walked up with the trash can and gestured to my coworker for something, the senior VP of a national advertising agency chose that moment to throw up. In. My. Hand.

I never got an apology from her, and somehow, she didn’t lose her job. But a couple weeks later, I did get a gift and a note thanking me for helping her when she had a “bad reaction to something at dinner.”

It was a pink Las Vegas shot glass with the $3.99 price tag still attached.

An Ode To My Procreating Friends

I currently have two best friends who are pregnant. I also have a handful of friends who have had babies in the last couple years. And if I understand correctly, this whole creating a human being from scratch business isn’t a walk in the park on the female body.

There are things that… happen. In fact, I remember being at a baby shower when I was 23, surrounded by my co-worker and all her friends (most of whom were already mothers), choking on my Chardonnay as they told her she should prepare to poop in front of her husband during birth and that her tits were going to resemble deflated balloons by the time her kids were through with her. That is one party I definitely left early.

Side-note: that party was the most effective birth control on the planet. THAT’S what we should be doing for high school kids. Forget these bullshit abstinence programs or just teaching them the practical need for contraceptives. Make these kids sit through a few baby showers. They’ll think twice before getting it on in the bathroom at prom if they know they’ll never be able to sneeze again without peeing their pants.

That actually brings me to my point. I have decided to share a story today as an ode to my pregnant friends and friends with babies. Since I’ll never experience the things you’re going through (not a sad moment, it’s totally by choice), I won’t be able to empathize completely, and I probably won’t be the first person you go to when you want to talk about how your body is betraying you.

But, I have been there on some level. My body has betrayed me too. And today, my procreating friends, I’m going to tell you about it. To level the playing field in a sense, so that if you want to talk to me about something your body is going through, you’ll know I’ve experienced at least a sliver of what you have, and I didn’t even have pregnancy or a baby as an excuse.

It all started when my heels tried to kill me. That’s a story for another day, but the important part of the story is that I shattered my ankle, and required major surgery and more metal than I like to think about to put it all back together. At the time, I was living in my condo alone (this was pre-lumberjack) and so for the first few weeks following surgery I couldn’t stay there. I was on so many pain-killers, and wasn’t even supposed to be up on crutches for the first week.

So, I moved in with my parents (who are completely awesome) and slept in the reclining sofa downstairs. I work in sales, so although I took sick days for that first week, it was the end of the quarter and I had a bunch of contracts I needed to bring in to make my commission. So I worked from home, and got on the phone to try to guilt my customers into getting their contracts all completed on time.

I basically lived in the recliner in my parents’ family room for a couple weeks. I could set up my computer on the couch and talk to customers, and the one downstairs bathroom was literally right behind me. OK. So here’s the thing… when you’re on a couch all day, and you sleep in that reclining couch, you get REALLY tired of it. And it starts to get uncomfortable… you just want to stretch out. So one day while I was working at home alone, I decided to slide off the couch and lay on the carpet to so I could work from there. Much better – mission accomplished. I stretched out like a giant starfish and was generally pretty pleased with myself.

Until about an hour later, when I encountered a slight problem. I had to pee. It was then that I realized the fatal flaw in my plan. I slid off the couch with my freshly butchered ankle elevated no problem, but getting UP without putting any kind of pressure on it wasn’t a trick I had practiced yet.

But no one told my bladder that. NO ONE.  I was clutching the arm of the couch on my knees, trying to remember the physics formula from high school that would give me the answer to this…. what leverage point was going to let me do this without putting myself back in the hospital. Nothing… I couldn’t think of anything. I probably should have been paying more attention in class. But in this moment in time, there was nothing I could do about that. All I could do was desperately start to crawl toward the bathroom and hope I’d figure something out.

I realized in horror I was fighting a losing battle. The sheer panic and humiliation of the situation granted me some superhuman strength, and somehow I was able to use one last burst of energy to pull myself up. And as I did… I peed. I peed my pants. In my parents’ house. Pants I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get off by myself because of the huge cast on my ankle. Pants I couldn’t put in the laundry because I couldn’t get into the garage on crutches. Pants that sat on the bathroom floor in a ball of shame, mocking me. I totally and completely peed my pants.

So, my pregnant and mommy friends… if you ever want to share any mortifying stories or talk about the things your body is going through, just remember that time I peed myself while trying to crawl to the bathroom in my parents’ house, and know that I will never judge you.

How To Survive A Shitshow At Work

Ah, the shitshow. It comes in many forms and can strike at any time. It can be as minor as a dinner party gone awry, or it can play out on a national stage, like that time in 2013 when the federal government shut down for 2 weeks because they didn’t want to play nice with each other.

What I’m talking about it somewhere in between. The mini disaster at work that isn’t going to cost you your job, but requires damage control.

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Personally, I am at the tail-end of just such an event. I, unfortunately, was the catalyst for this particular event. I misunderstood something that a customer wanted, and it set off a chain reaction of events that quickly escalated into something much bigger. Much shittier.

The details would bore you, but it wasn’t good. There was just a breakdown in communication. Which, incidentally, is the cause for pretty much most problems is it not? Gil works with 8 year old kids all day long and has taught them to resolve conflict with rock paper scissors so everything is fair and there are no misunderstandings. Maybe we should implement that in corporate America…. but I digress.

Anyhow, a work shitshow takes many forms: A new boss doesn’t understand your process at all and slams you in a review. You messed up a purchase order that is going to impact inventory in your store for weeks. You almost gave the wrong dosage of medication to a patient. Your panties fell down in front of a group of high school students as you were dancing on stage as Minnie Mouse.

These are all things that have happened to people I know. It’s not fun. But there are some things you can do to mitigate the damage and survive the situation with grace. This happens to be my personal list for just such an event.

1. Own up.

I’m listing this as number 1 because not only is it the first thing I think you should do, but because I actually think it’s the most important. And what is that saying – the hardest part is admitting there is a problem? Once you identify it, own up to your part in it.

The minute I realized my mistake with this customer, I let my boss know and took full responsibility. You know, after that gut punch feeling had passed and I had bolstered myself with caffeine and chocolate (which you may want to skip so you’re not vibrating down the hall).

2. Wear a power outfit. And fierce eyeliner.

This one sounds silly, but stay with me on this. Basically, do whatever you can to build up your confidence and keep yourself feeling good. I went into work today with a killer outfit on and perfect cat-eye liquid eyeliner. Head held high. Because whether it’s an incident meeting you have to attend, or you’re just going into the office in the midst of the drama, you owe it to yourself to be kind even if everyone around you isn’t.

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Plus, if you don’t go in with your tail between your legs and your head down, people will be less likely to try to pile on blame and will instead see you as the confident, capable employee you are, who just happens to have made a mistake. People tend to use your behavior as a cue for how they are allowed to treat you.

3. Be loud. With intent. 

The squeaky wheel gets the grease right? If there were other issues in play that contributed to your own personal shitshow, be vocal about them. But beware – timing and tact are critical here. This is not about using outside circumstances as an excuse. Remember number 1 – OWN IT.

However, if there are other issues that need to be evaluated that may have contributed to the problem, point them out. But make sure you are bringing solutions and ideas to the table, otherwise it just sounds like a complaint. If you can approach your team with the attitude of “Hey, I know I dropped the ball here, and in the interest of making sure it doesn’t happen again, I’ve been looking at our process and I think there are some simple improvements we can make,” you put yourself in a much better position. You’ve now made yourself an active part of a solution. Sweet.

4. Agree on a plan for the future. 

Once you’ve brought your suggestions and insights to the table, make sure everyone is clear on how similar situations will be handled in the future. Maybe there is a process change that needs to be implemented – agree on  how is that going to be communicated, who is going to enforce the change, etc.

This is when you will really learn a lot about your colleagues’ personal communication styles. Some may prefer to be completely non-confrontational and need to be handled more gently than others. Some respect blunt directness more than anything. Take note of how everyone handles the shitshow and the plan for moving forward, and make note so you know how to best approach them in the future.

5. Move on.

Open a bottle of wine. Get a massage. Go test drive an entirely impractical car. I did all 3 of these things over the weekend. I didn’t think about work once. And while there will still be some fallout from this particular shitshow, it’s manageable and it’s not some shadow looming over me.

That frees me up to keep doing what I need to do and bring in business, which is my number 1 priority. And for me, I’m lucky enough to work for a great company where people want to collaborate to make things better, and this is just a blip on the radar. A learning experience.

If you happen to work for a company or a boss who has no interest in actually working through this process with you, then moving on might actually mean moving on from that job or that boss.

I’ve been in that situation too – I had a boss whose idea of conflict resolution included hurling a teapot in my general direction and screaming at me in front of the rest of the office.

I quit. His company went under. So sometimes things work out the way they’re supposed to. Because while we are all going to experience a shitshow at work every once in awhile, it should definitely be the exception, not the rule.