Work

Guyz!

I have completely checked out of my job emotionally, and that means that on Thursday and Friday, I just didn’t show up. This is bad. It’s not how I was raised and it’s not who I am or want to be. I have deep personal issues that need to be addressed so that this doesn’t happen for the next place. Here’s the problem. When you’re gay, and you parents are Mr. & Mrs. SuburboWASP, they usually send you the following message: you don’t have to BE perfect. You just have to look as though you are. What they don’t realize is that sending this message is incredibly destructive and can do horrible lasting damage, because it installs a very powerful button that other people can push, long into adulthood. It surely plays hell with your self-esteem.

It’s done damage to the perception of my professionalism, because the untenable and unchangeable fact is that the CFO is my de facto boss (even though that’s point blank illegal). The conflict of interest in such an arrangement is so obvious a kid could see it. If I’m responsible for enforcing the rules, and the guy in the best position to break them is capable of hiring or firing me and dictating my compensation, I’m in a bit of a bind.

I could almost deal with this if he wasn’t undermining me at every turn. So, I dropped my standards to the level of his expectations. And I blame my boss-on-paper, the CEO, for knowing about this situation and doing nothing about it. But at the end of the day I’m responsible for me. And when you quit, you should at least tell the guy who signs your paycheck.

It’s done a bit of damage to me and the Cap’n, as well, although he’s got the patience of a saint and is one of the kindest, most generous men who ever lived. (He ain’t perfect either, but being late to a dinner party shouldn’t trigger an uncharacteristic screamy rage-y meltdown in the car. And it was his fault, but still.)

Lessons For My Crasstalk Friends: It’s clearly time to make some changes, but recognizing that I require and deserve to be treated with respect is a real good start. Add to that the concept that I should tell people who don’t / can’t / won’t respect me to f-off very clearly rather than being passive aggressive.

Never – ever – give an unethical person so much power over you that he causes you to lose self-esteem, self-respect, lower your standards, or compromise what you know to be true. Certainly don’t let them drive you to do self-destructive things. It’s just wrong. I do enjoy a cocktail, but my limit is two. Friday night was a full-on Barfy Billyburg Barfly Booze Bacchanal. Unacceptable for someone my age and it ruined my Saturday, too. I even got the side-eye from Crocker Kitty Edmund – I’m told I picked him up and sang “Sweet Child O’ Mine” in his face and he hates loud noises. Then I puked in the guest room bathroom and he stepped in it. No more ‘tinis for me for a while.

So, my fellow Crasstalkers, this little Internettythingamabob that we have here has definitely been – and will continue to be – a safe spot for me to vent, brag, observe and complain, and that’s the fault of all of you. I’ve never been a part of such a diverse, fun, funny, brilliant club in all my life, and it’s making my wee crisis a lot more… wee. Thanks for that.

Interview 2 with the I-bank is on Tuesday. Wish me luck, because I think I need it.

Update – After taking the weekend to chew it over, and to rehydrate after a rollicking Saturday AM hangover, the Cap’n and I reached some conclusions. We’re going to just take this as it comes – if they can me (which would be bad for their business), Cap’n will take overtime to keep us afloat.

Lovey Howell spoke these words on Gilligan’s Island, when it seemed that a ship might pass their uncharted desert isle. Ginger immediately leapt to her feet and took Lovey by the arm – “Oh, I’ll help you.” The next scene shows Lovey in a nautical ensemble, complete with a jaunty hat.

I remember this because it’s precisely the question I would ask. I don’t always know what I’m doing, but I know how to find out. Remember, I’m the guy who brought brie, french bread and shrimp cocktail to a cop-and-marine-filled paintball match, was scoffed at, and proceeded to shoot the crap out of everyone. I will never forget looking John – a Nassau County Corrections Officer with a psychotic gun collection – in the eye, aiming at my friend Chris, and hissing “I’m gonna off that motherfucker.” He looked at me like he was scared, and he’s 6’6″ and diesel as hell. I held up some corrugated plastic as a shield, crawled through the scrub brush, and blew my beloved Chris away with a paintball at point-blank range.

The paint was purple. Not a coincidence.

So work sucks, and it’s time to go. My colleagues are nice except for the CFO, who is an undermining asshole. I didn’t know that the SEC was in to do an examination until the day after I agreed to take the job. The CFO makes a mint while I and my assistant are at the very bottom end of the pay scale. It’s a 3-person job and there are two of us. My bonus was inappropriate. Everyone’s was, including the CFO’s, but his was in the wrong direction.

And ultimately, I blame the CEO – a man I like and respect who has given his trust to the CFO, whom I don’t. No one does. If the man Googled himself, he would be appalled.

An international bank wants to see me on Friday – they have a huge real estate trust and a private wealth management division where Compliance work is needed. I must haircut, manicure, buy new shoes, buy a new belt, pick up my fancy suit pants from the cleaners, and find a way to turn Casual Friday into Froufrou Fund Friday.

I’m a bit unprepared – I can’t find the people I’m meeting anywhere online. But I will.

I am very sorry that I will be incommunicado tomorrow, but personal business calls me out of state and I can’t be back here before late tomorrow night. Peace, all.

I might know what to wear to this rescue. But the fact is… I want to write for a living. There’s half a novel in the can. Well, the Ralph Lauren shirt box.

Call me irresponsible…

“Thurston, what do you wear to a rescue?”