When you ain’t got no schedule handed down from “the man” weekends are interesting. I spent part of the weekend not being sure what to do, because I didn’t have to worry so much about having time enough to get things done. Having that extra 50 hours or more I think I’ve spent week after week at work back gives you a lot more play.

While I ponder my fate and wonder what in fuck will happen and/or can happen, and whether at the heart of all of this mess is simply the desire of my workplace to find some way to extricate me from the workday life, I can’t help regretting or resenting all of the time I spent at work. I fucking tried and worked my ass off, and I found a lot of good in even the most trying situations. There is tangible evidence of my impact, and several people do know (or fucking should anyway) that I pulled some mighty big shit out of the fire (OK, that was fucking awkward and mixed metaphorish). But, honestly, I did some work that sucked badly at the time, but I’m proud of from the distance of time, and I know would have caused weaker mortals to weep; Simultaneously organizing, clarifying, encouraging, pushing, pulling, prodding and fucking doing it all with a goddamn sense of humor. I missed two different comedy shows, because I stayed until midnight once and 10 p.m. another time to make sure folks had the help they needed to meet unrelenting deadlines. For a while, it was a regular occurrence that I would be given sketchy details at 6 p.m. and would show up at 10 a.m. the next morning with well-thoughtout spreadsheets tying those sketchy details up in a honking big red bow. For fucking fuck sakes, the night before my big meeting where I found out at least one person thinks I’m nuts, I worked until 11 p.m. sending out five separate emails with five separate spreadsheets to five separate organizations giving them precise budget breakdowns detailing several changes and future scenarios over several years, because the boss decided what I had previously provided wasn’t detailed or clear enough. I can’t help wondering if she knew what brick was about to smack me upside the head most rudely, when she wrung that last bit of workaholic productivity out of me.

If you asked me why I worked so goddamn hard (and I really did, and someone must fucking recognize that), I would say it’s because I honestly cared about the people with whom and for whom I worked, and I cared about the work they are doing. (Watch the tenses in here deteriorate. I have no fucking idea whether I am now to my employer clearly the past tense, and they are just waiting for the right moment to yell “last call.” And, I don’t know if I should give a shit anymore, because only a drooling imbecile still fawns and cares after the folks who kicked her to the curb. With each day I feel more and more like a character in a Toni Morrison or similar novel. You know, it’s a modern classic cliche, the impoverished black woman takes a job in the wealthy white peoples’ home. They bond together and suffer adversities and the women’s friendship is strong and nurturing. Until some terrible shit comes down, and everyone has to deal with the fact that the maid is just a goddamn maid afterall and there was no use in her getting all uppity and thinking she mattered. I’m not a black maid, obviously, but I was servant under the ivory tower of academia and now they all be up in my face letting me know I gots too uppity by reading and writing on this here world-wide web.)

I really, truly felt as though one of the people from work thought more highly of me and cared about me more than just the maid. But, clearly, I read that fucking WRONGO! Dumb shit that I am, I didn’t realize I was so expendable. But, live and learn I guess and always remember your place. I will never be the equal to a non-ethnic (because face it there is no WASP ethos), highly ivy-educated, academic leader. I suspect that would be true, even if I got my doctorate, because some pigs will always be more equal than others. I can’t explain how much it hurts to have this light dawn on me.

You wanna know the one thing worse than being told you are being investigated for the potential for workplace violence over something you wrote in your private life as a joke? Finding out that people who should know better are going along with the aburd accusations for some reason you will never likely know.

Meanwhile, as I learn about who doesn’t give a shit about me, cosmic balance keeps reminding me about the people that do. What would I do without M. listening to my harangues? Jesus, that man has some mighty big store of patience. Either that or, as I veritably wallow in my soap opera, he still manages to find some of my better qualities in the pity mix.

This weekend I heard from a couple of people who saw the thing in the Boston Globe’s Sunday magazine about the chick who was fired from Harvard. Someone else offered an anonymous corner of his domain to let me get my well-lathered dander up. (I think he’s waiting to see the torrent of literary abuse excellence this workplace tempest could inspire. I’d link to his site now, but you never know I might need to take him up on his offer.) I also got some of the web stats from the sites I’ve linked here. Good to see Big Brother is making such a thorough game of it. I ain’t naturally paranoid, but I was fucking relieved to have the weekend, when so many hits from work domains weren’t racking up my totals. Let’s hope tomorrow they find other target to analyze. (Actually, I don’t want that last bit, since I know it blows and wouldn’t wish it on anyone. I’ll just hope “they” find something else to read or do.)