Sometimes (or a lot of times lately as it seems) I come home from work genuinely fed up, worn out, and downright annoyed. Shocking, right? I mean, how else would I have come to be known as the “Often Annoyed Designer”…
A little backstory.
To put it simply, I work for a micromanager-in-denial. It’s extremely annoying. A direct quote of theirs said to me in a one-on-one meeting about a month or two ago is:
“I’m not trying to micromanage you. I’m just asking that you copy me on every email and that you review everything with me before sending anything out.”
Last I checked, the definition of “micromanage” – or at least according to Dictionary.com – was the following:
mi•cro•man•age [mahy-kro-man-ij] verb. (used with object), mi•cro•man•aged, mi•cro•man•ag•ing. to manage or control with excessive attention to minor details.
Interesting that you should claim you’re not one when, according to this, you most certainly are. DENIAL.
Anyways, one can only take so much of being put down, practically told that everything you do is shit (in other terms, because heaven forbid they use any type of curse word), and forced to “copy me on every email that you review everything with me before sending anything out” before reaching their breaking point. Trust me…when this person stands between you and your paycheck, you begin to wonder if you’re doing the right thing with your life.
So anyways, if you haven’t guessed already…today was one of those days.
I finally got home around 8:30pm tonight (okay, fine, I only worked until 6:30pm then went to H&M before coming home, but still…it’s well past my 9-5 requirements and exceeding my 40-hour regulated work week…ah the joys of hourly with no approved overtime, yet you’re still expected to put in an extra 20 hours unpaid if you have to in order to get things done for Mussolini hence you face the firing squad), slightly more annoyed than usual. The typical routine ensues.
- Say hi to the doorman and ask how his day was then go on your merry way
- Check for mail/packages, throw away junk mailers
- Consider either throwing away bills or throwing up instead
- See who’s working out (if anyone) and if I should go to the gym now or wait until later in the evening
- Come upstairs and start the evening – either with a pre-workout drink or a bottle of wine, depending on the day
Today, however, my grandma threw a wrench in my plans.
I seriously think she’s psychic. No, for real.
So back in the day, I’d been at my cousin’s birthday party. I was probably about 13 or 14 at the time. Obese (okay, hefty and wearing husky sizes), nerd glasses, neon shirts…whatever, it was the late 90s. You get the picture. So anyways, here I am, sitting on the front porch swing being antisocial because I could have cared less about the annoying 7 and 8 year olds running around like maniacs and taking whacks at a piñata or whatever other birthday game kids that age in the 90s played.
My aunt’s brother (she’d married into the family and has since divorced on out) was also there with his partner. I think it was my first time ever encountering a gay couple and had no idea what was going on. At the time, I thought I liked girls. (Funny, right?!?!)
My grandma apparently knew something I didn’t. See, psychic I tell you!
She came up to me on the porch and interrupted my Britney Spears (because, I mean, don’t all straight boys listen to Britney?) jam session on my knock-off Walkman to sit down and inform me that “Josh and Ray are really nice guys and it doesn’t matter that they like each other because that’s okay.” Then she proceeded to sit there for a couple minutes before goingback to the party.
A couple years later, I was back at her house visiting and we’re watching Ellen of all shows. Out of the blue she proclaims, “I don’t give a shit if that Ellen is a lesbian. She’s funny as hell. I like her.” And that was that.
Meanwhile, for as long as I can remember, she’s had this cross-stitch or tacky-looking something-or-other hanging in her bathroom that says:It doesn’t matter who you love. It doesn’t matter what you love. It matters most that you love.
Or something to that effect.
I never thought too much about it until then a few years ago when I realized, “HOLY SHIT! Grandma knew before I even did! That was her way of saying, “Hey you little shit, I don’t care if you’re a homo. Go for it. Realize you like guys and come out already.” Hmm…I’m beginning to think she’s a white version of Miss Cleo without the Haitian accent.
SIDE NOTE: Funny story that makes me laugh every time I see the half-full bottle of Sloe Gin in my cupboard. She came to visit me when I lived in Nebraska and learned from a friend that my roommate and I had been dabbling in drag – after seeing a photo of me and saying “That looks like a man in a dress!” Needless to say, shoes came out to prove that I could walk in 5″ heels. Yes, there was a substantial amount of alcohol involved. Yes, she thought it was hilarious and took pictures (or “pitchers” as she pronounces them). Yes, she also proceeded to ask me when she was leaving if I had an extra water bottle and would make her a Sloe Gin Fizz for the road. Yes, this is my grandma. She’s pretty cool.
So anyways, yes. Grandma is a psychic.
So what’s going on you ask?
Grandma has an uncanny way of predicting when I’m going to have a shitty day (or a birthday or any random holiday), because it seems that on days like this I come home and there’s something from her in my mailbox. It’s usually some container with sponge candy, a card, and some random stuff like rogue m&m’s out of a package, peanuts, cheese crackers, or a pack of gum. I think it’s whatever she finds around the kitchen. Sometimes the plastic container she sends it in is broken from the Postal Service’s shitty service. Sometimes it’s in a recycled diaper wipe container (dear god I hope she remembered to wash it). Nevertheless, I don’t care.
There’s always a card with some underlined words, stickers, hearts, highlighted bits and pieces, and other randomness scrawled on it. It’s the little things though. I know she’s thinking of me and it’s always exactly what it takes to put a smile back on my face.
And with that, it’s off to the gym I go to work off the two miniature Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and the couple pieces of sponge candy I ate from today’s diaper wipe box. Apparently grandma only knows best sometimes…she apparently doesn’t know that summer is right around the corner as is a trip to Mexico next week…which consequently means the chocolate I just ate to get rid of the image of Mussolini still fresh in my mind needs to be worked off sooner rather than later.