KFC or Happily Ever After?

My day started off just a little off--with my blackberry pinging early. I just finished doing my treadmill, about to watch the news, but I had to check it in case it was something important. Not important. But indicative of where exactly I am in my life. I read two emails from staff members at work. One was about being "courteous when using break room refrigerators--crock pots from pot lucks must be removed." I hate pot lucks. The other was from someone asking me to please explain what "BTW" means. "You always use that in your emails to me." she wrote. Hmmm. Good morning Lynnie. This is who you are now. The manager of The Office.

When I lost my gig at the small house that Grover built, I panicked. Wasn't quite sure if it was time to leave the life I made here yet. Even if that life had morphed. No guy anymore. And now no gig. But I had my park. And my cute little house. And the few friends who didn't abandon me because I wasn't their manager who could promote them anymore. But it was enough. For now.

I took the first job that came my way. Okay the second. The first was so bad, I had to quit. In a recession. I quit a job. The one I have now is working for the State. My ex worked for the State and encouraged me to look into these government media jobs "in case something happens." But at the same time, he secretly warned me: You'll hate it. He was right about both.

As I read the message about "what is BTW" I thought--what am I doing here? These people aren't like me? Some don't even know how to attach a word doc to an email? This place isn't like me--I don't do nacho day pot lucks?!! I drank my coffee, now laced with something called Stevia, thanks to the 8 lbs I gained working at my prisoner-made state desk. And I watched a story on the Today Show about a couple who just won $226 million in the lottery. They almost didn't. She wanted KFC for dinner. He wanted Hawaiian BBQ. That's where he bought the winning ticket. Now normally I would rail on anyone who eats at a restaurant that also sells lottery tickets--but thank god this guy had fried poi instead of giving into his wife's cravings for that new chicken on chicken sandwich thing.

Second cup of coffee. I thought--See? One tiny decision can change your life forever. For some--it brings millions. For others, it brings you to Sacramento. And keeps you there. If I had said no to the PP--when he first asked me out--where would I be? What would I have gained? (besides the 8 lbs) I know what I've lost. I DO believe, that all the experiences have been worth it--even the losses--but this morning I felt--Hey!BTW--WHEN IS IT MY TURN?

I wish I could like the state gig. It's a good job. Free xrays as I mentioned before. And it's a job I can keep forever. They can't fire you! They've got this super-human-union with people shouting in purple shirts--anytime you get mad about nacho day! I"m managing a group of  mostly--young, enthusiastic communications peeps who want to learn. Them--I can handle. But it's what's hanging out at the pot lucks along the periphery that is making me sad. Sad maybe, because I wish I could be like them--rushing home at 4:48 to their families. Counting down the days til they retire-- on post-it notes. But I can't. I've had 20+ years of loving my jobs. Loving the people. Laughing like crazy. And yes. I haven't always had benefits or a 401K but I joked with the KGB in the Kremlin waiting for Raisa Gorbachev to join us. It's never been "just a paycheck."

If I just made the decision to say no to that dinner, would I still be working with those high caliber creative types that don't care about their fifteen minute breaks or accumulating 3,291 hours of sick time? That's hard to say. One little decision can change your life forever. What was yours? I said yes for a reason--or maybe for hundreds. The first date turned out to be the best I ever had. Then, I thought--wow--right decision--no matter what happens.

Well it's happened. And I think it's time to make another life-changing decision--even if the choices are moving in with mom and dad at 47 or joining the Peace Corps. And BTW...everything you heard about how great government jobs are--is wrong. And BTW...I may be calling Michael Moore. More on that later.

Cinco de Something

Cinco de Mayo. Cinco de crapo. I just finished a bean burrito and bud light lime. Ole! Alone! Apparently everyone under 30 is dancing in the streets right now, in front of a Mexican food place I had my first Sacramento boy date at...Centro. Cinco de Centro! (I just like saying cinco de something...) What is it about this day that gets everyone in the mood for tacos? Columbus Day doesn't head mobs towards the pizza parlors? But I digress...back to tacos--or actually nachos.

Where I'm working now had nachos everywhere! I mean EVERYWHERE! Every department in the building had a Nacho lunch buffet going on. Now, I'm the manager of said nacho-eating department, but I had to decline. I know it's not a good manager move, but I simply decided to go to yoga and eat yogurt instead. Maybe not as fun. But then neither is this job. I call it my "McDonald's job. Because it pays about that much. And hopefully is just a recession-buster gig.

So I told you I work in TV. Most of the time. Until that bad run in with the local version of the house that Bert and Ernie built. After one year, of doing what they said they hired me to do, make changes--I got "laid off." Although, like the break up...I have my suspicions of ulterior motives. One of my staffers got fired before my lay off and ended up saying some pretty icky stuff about me and my job.

In all honesty--losing the job wouldn't have been so bad--if this person didn't go to the newspapers with the story. And even that would have gone away, if it weren't for our friend Google. And that began the worst year of my life. No guy, no job, and a local paper with a quote saying mean spirited, nasty, untrue things about my efforts to make change. Now come on. I volunteered to save dying children in Russia and read to dying nuns in a convent! I"m not the one to pick on! Or am I? (Note to self: Next time volunteer for a non-dying non-profit.)

I'll say it again. Change is hard. For everyone. But it is the only thing that continually happens in life. So get on board or that train will run right over you. I'm great at giving out advice but not taking my own...Secret: I only took that job because I wasn't ready to leave yet. I thought for sure "we'll get back together?!!" Wrong.  So the fact that the job I took to stay next to ex-man, ended up potentially making me an ex-TV producer.

I had to face that mess over and over again when I went on job interviews--and they Googled me. Some could tell--"that person clearly had an axe to grind." Others had issue with it. If it's in print--it must be true right? A good lawyer and a few thousand dollars later--that issue has been resolved. And my good name is in tact. But my heart was hurt. NO one has ever said bad things about me. (to my face or in print!)

Communication is a tricky thing. Words can be such a marvelous tool for expressing love, laughter, life. But used incorrectly-- they can hurt. And we've all done it. I was raised by a man who often chose the wrong words. My dad never learned to communicate his feelings. It's not his fault. He only did what was done to him. He loves me with all his heart--and gave me everything--but he never figured out the "check it before you wreck it" thing. I struggle with that too. But only when I'm feeling vulnerable or like I'm losing control. It's never mean in purpose.  (see above: dying non-profits)

Part of why my relationship ended had to do with words. I would question something, or make a comment--and he would interpret it as: "You think I'm a bad dad," or "She hates my life." Now, I'm smart enough to know part of the "you make me feel bad" argument has to do with his own self confidence--maybe a stronger person would have just said "what's wrong? I know you don't think that, why'd you say it?"  But still...I'm trying harder. Not to be a critic or give advice. I"m learning when to say what I'm really feeling--like "your going to boy scouts again, instead of our dinner makes me feel alone."

Now if that disgruntled employee could have said what they were really feeling. "I'm scared I'll never get another job again," instead of nasty, mean things about me, I could have landed that job back home that paid $125K...and saved myself from cinco de mayo conference room nacho parties.

I'll See Your Bunion and Raise You Two Periods and a Gallbladder!

Is this what it means to be in your late 40's? If so, I want my Mommy. Actually no, I'm mad at her right now--the Gallbladder issue could be her fault--er her genes. I suddenly have a plethora of lovely health issues to choose from, all looming, just waiting their turn to be cut out, opened up or dried up. All the yoga in the world can't solve this. But health insurance can.

But does it mean you have to keep a job you hate because of the awesomeness of free xrays? I have been a contract TV producer for many, many years. (and no--not the "Friends" kinda TV, the "Fix my Crap Yard" kinda TV) I say that so you won't think my blog is me making up stories for my next sitcom. Suddenly my life IS a sitcom.

I moved from SF to Sac exactly five years ago--for a morning show gig--oh--and the guy. But the early morning hours had me scaring myself at 3am every morning when I looked in the mirror. And while the relationship was baking nicely--I needed a new gig. In true Lynnie fashion--I was offered another great TV job -- right here in lovely Sacramento. Two executive producer jobs in Sacramento? Seriously. Arnold is here--but he didn't bring the pretty TV with him from Hollywood? So I left the morning show and moved on to a really fun job producing your favorite -- wait for it--cable TV landscape makeover shows.

I often wondered if Wilco Boy--oops--I mean Mr. PP--was interested in me because I worked in TV. I mean really. When I met him--I just returned from Japan shooting a National Geographic Channel program. (More shit you can't make up--sending a producer who hates flying to cover a sinking airport? Whuck?) So I was kinda flying high, basking in self confidence. They always say, when you're not looking...Right? Fast forward 2.5 years--the fun TV job and the fun guy went away. And I was left with a choice. Now I know what you're saying. Get out. Leave. Run back to the City, home and family. Too much loss. Abort! Abort! Of course I didn't.

Because lo and behold--yes--I got offered a third executive producer gig in Sacramento. Okay--not so lucky in love, but lucky in labor? I used to think so. Until this job. And to think--I coulda taken something back home working on a star celebrity face cream infomercial and avoided it all. But no! "We could get back together?!!" Blech. I can't go into it now. But I will soon. This 3rd Sacto TV job changed me. Maybe more than the breakup did. I worked for that old school network that still airs Lawrence Welk...and after a year it didn't end well. (for me or Lawrence) In fact, Ernie and Bert would be pissed if they found out how badly I was treated.

So back to the question of sticking with a job you don't love or feel passionate about--for health insurance. Would you? At my age--tough choice. When do you say--Okay, I kinda achieved my dreams--maybe I give in/up and act my age? 401K. Disability insurance. And yes, free xrays! We'll see. After they look at my gallbladder on Monday.

Can't You Move On?

Okay, so by now, you've realized this chick is gonna talk a lot about her ex boyfriend. Yep. For now anyway. It's been a big part of my life the past five years--even though only half of those were actually spent with him. But this is not a blog written by someone who's stuck. I think I've morphed and had to change these past five years more than anyone should have to-- this side of puberty. I think I'm just finally at that last stage of grieving, where you learn the lessons and move on. (Either that or the first stages of Lesbianism.) And that's what you're reading...the lessons learned and those I've yet to uncover.

Maybe I need to go back a little. I moved to Sacramento exactly five years ago. The signs were all pointing towards this being the place I needed to be. (I was big on signs) My best friend's mom died. And her funeral, which I spoke at, was in Sacramento. I got a job lead and then offer for a TV gig in Sacramento. And the sign I read into hook, line and stinker--at a Wilco concert back home, a sweet, goofy boy from Sacramento came walking up to me as I sipped champagne with my sister. (yes--we were the only two well-dressed women at a Wilco concert sipping champagne in the lobby. Perhaps that was the reason he came walking up rather than the stars aligning?) This all happened in a two week period. Weird right?

So...three bright, flashing signs that my life was headed two hours north for a fun adventure. I thought--you really can't make this shit up...there must be a reason I'm supposed to be in Sacramento?  It was way more than coincidence? I was scared to say no! But five years later, the gig and the guy have ended...and I'm now trying to teach myself to IGNORE the signs. Live more in the moment. Lesson one: Crap just happens. You can marvel at the synchronicity of it all--but really, my wise Mr. Jung--there are some things that ARE just accidents. Lesson two: moving for someone rarely ends well. Especially when you trade San Francisco for Sacramento.

If I did have trouble letting go (did I say that?)--it wasn't because of the whiz-bang way we met and how things started. Sure it seemed star-crossed, but I did feel PP was the first guy who really loved me the way I wanted to be loved. So no, not a blog about another girl who's stuck--but yes another blog by a girl who has "daddy issues." We'll get into that when I feel like it. If I feel like it.

For now, let's just say that I've learned I need to work with, play with and date --really, really confident people. Not asshole confident-- just people who know who they are. And take responsibility for their own cracks--instead of blaming you. Mr. PP used to say "You're not in love with me--only the idea of me." Wow. Thanks. And PS--that's some confidence in yerself bud. But maybe he was partially right. I wanted to be loved. I never heard any man say such nice things. But would you give an "idea" a 20K dollar kitchen makeover?* I'd say that's love.

And no. I didn't get the fridge in the split. I tried.

*Next up...we'll chat about what I do. I work in TV. But don't think this is some made up script for a bad sitcom. This is my life. Which is currently on hiatus from TV.

Downward Farting Dog

I should be doing yoga instead of sitting at my computer right now. Yoga is a big part of my life. (Please don't read "hippie") I started it as a way to relieve neck pain, but what I found was, it happened to be the only thing that calms my overactive creative noodle. When you're trying really, really hard to stand on one foot while grabbing the other over your head--you have no time to think about exes or bad jobs.

In fact, I joined a local yoga studio after losing my job. Up to now, I had been mostly doing yoga at home. And in fact, sort of fell away from it during the aforementioned relationship. So finding this new "community" was a good thing. I liked the people, I liked the teachers. I started to get strong. What happened next, was one of the reasons why I decided to write this blog. You can't make this shit up.

I decided to try a new class with a new teacher. I liked him. I liked the time of the class. I liked some of his regulars. Then one night as I left class, and backed out of my parking spot, I saw a bumper sticker on the car behind me. It said "Metallica"--okay well it didn't say "Metallica" but let's just say it was the name of the local band my ex is in. I thought. Huh. They have fans? (Let alone bumper stickers) And as I drove off wondering why anyone would put a local garage band sticker on their car--I saw my new Yoga teacher walk over and get in. In the "Metallica" car.

Now maybe it was a coincidence. Or maybe God, Buddha, and Shiva have a really insane sense of humor. At the next class, I had to ask. "I noticed you have a "Metallica" sticker on your car. Do you know that band?" He replied. "Know it? I'm it it!"

Of all the yoga joints in the world...I had to walk into the drummer's. I decided not to let that bother me. And yes, told him "I'm friends with the lead guitarist." Didn't take him long to find out it was THAT kinda friendship. And even though I got hell from the EX--almost insinuating I "sought out" his band mate's yoga class--in a very, contemplated, stalker move that would have required some sleuthing skills beyond what the FBI currently possesses-- (I never saw his new band--only knew the name) I figured I needed to rise above it. You like the class, keep going. (I admit I wondered if he would report back to the ex about the rolls of post-break-up depression fat under my sports bra, but still...)

Eventually, I got back to calm breathing, and a still mind. I never think about the unbelievable synchronicity that brought me to meet Mr. PP and his drummer. Well not in Yoga anyway. Inevitably though, something breaks my concentration in class--and most teachers will tell you--that's okay. Just let those thoughts of "why that guy isn't wearing a shirt" or "who was the one who strategically farted while transitioning to downward facing dog" just pass by like clouds. Even if they smell.

Namaste.