After spending a few perfectly good days trying to make sense of a colleague’s bad behavior at work, I find myself coming back to the same set of solutions.
1. Arrange to have her struck by lightening.
This is impractical, because I do not have lightening bolts in my fists, and even if I were to scoot around the house in my socks for a few hours, I would probably not be able to keep the static charge long enough to blast her out of her faux Reeboks. At best, I might accidentally shock my dog while kissing her on the nose. At worst, I might forget I have an electrical charge and decide to put gas in my car. Kaboom.
Also, there is the karmic damage I might incur by wishing ill on this walking, talking snotrag. I don’t have to like her behavior. I don’t even have to like her. But wishing her ill would make a serious dent in my Karma bank account, and I really don’t want to spend my cosmic brownie points that way.
2. Tit for Tat, butter for fat. You kick my dog, I’ll kick your cat.
If I thought giving her back what she sends my way would do any good at all, I’d do it. After all, I’m way more clever than she. I can pronounce words like “picture” and “cat” and “heinous bitch.” But she has 50 years of bitterness and consummate evil on her resume, and I can’t possibly outlast her in a battle of nastiness. She oozes hostility; straps it on and violates others with it. I don’t have to stoop to her level, any more than I have to bend over and take it.
3. Ignore the Behavior, Extinguish the Behavior.
This seems more the tack to take, but some tweaking is necessary. After all, ignoring a snapping dog hurts like hell for awhile. That’s why shock collars sell so well, (see above discussion of static charges) because they Make It Stop. A bark collar might do a world of good, but getting her to wear it won’t be easy. So, simply ignoring her isn’t going to work. I must use my wits to distract her, or find a way to respond that doesn’t require me to amp up emotionally.
4. I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you leave a message…
So, I have come up with a list of stock responses to her verbal attacks that will confuse her into temporary silence. If I am really good at anything, it is confusing others.
“Wait, hold on, I need to write that down.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that. What did you say? (Repeat until she stops talking.)
“Oh, poor you! I hope you feel better soon.”
“I wish I could fix that for you.”
“Wow. Wishes do come true.” and my stepmother’s favorite line:
“How embarrassing for you!”
If you have other suggestions, send them to me at beaglefish@live.com. I’ll let you know how they work.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Saturday, May 15, 2010
When a Rose is not a Rose
I thought I was ready to start again, ready to share light and life and beauty with another from the depths of my heart. Unflinchingly honest, I explored every furrow, fertilized with hard-won self knowledge. I planted the seeds of cautious optimism and watered the ground with genuine interest and attention. I knew, positively knew, that I could be part of growing something beautiful. And I met Rose.
Rose’s air of accomplishment almost scared me off at first. I wondered what someone with her self-described strength, joy and intelligence would see in someone like me, someone who has admittedly struggled to survive and grow in a lifetime of inhospitable conditions. I calmed myself with the thought that I have lots to offer, that the shit I’ve been through would make fabulous fertilizer.
So I reached out to Rose, and Rose reached back. But, oh, the Rose that grew took hold like kudzu, grew fast and choked out the sun, the air and whatever sexual interest I had at the outset. She chased and spread and just scared the bejesus out of me. I wanted so much to stick it out, stake it up. After all, we barely knew one another. Try to allow time to grow us roots, I said. Growth takes as long as it takes.
I know I tend to be hard on people and that I really could benefit from being more trusting. But I would have to really deceive myself to convince myself that I love her, that I could love her after so few days together. I told her that last night that all I could feel were a few moments of tenderness toward her. I reminded her that I want to date more than one woman at a time. I stressed that we had discussed all of these issues at the outset.
She needed reminding. Not because I think she is that into me. She is into her idea of me, and that is sad at best and delusional at worst. She sees my humility as a lack of confidence. She sees me like most people see a shed that requires improving. My life needs tweaking, she is just the woman to adjust the dials. Openness is dangerous in that way. I say I want to make some changes in my life, she sees me as a lost soul, a hopelessly confused spirit. No. I am an expert at living with the consequences of my actions, and to be honest, I wake up each morning feeling pretty okay about my world.
She wants answers now, answers I gave her before cutting her out of my life, answers she chose not to hear. Like how, outside of a hostage situation, three or four dates is not enough to decide that you know someone. Oh, be quiet…I know…crushes happen and hormones happen. There is, however, a huge difference between what we want to believe about someone and the reality. The potential for misunderstanding is mammoth.
If I am the only woman who feels insulted by the pressure of false intimacy, then shame on me. To be subjected to terms of endearment from someone I hardly know causes me pain. I want a vote when it comes to the number of sexual references I endure in the course of a day. And when I summon the courage to ask for what I need, for my air and my own patch of soil with room for my roots, I want to be respected.
We all takes risks when we open our lives to a possible friend, an eventual lover. If we are smart, we talk things out and make sure we share the same expectations. I will not ask you to move to Buenos Aires, you will not ask me to role play in a bunny suit and allow you to videotape us. There are many negotiations, and when entered into honestly, they help us build trust and leave us free to be romantic and maybe, just maybe, fall in love.
Not this time, though. As I strip the kudzu from my body one vine at a time. I fight the urge to return to the shadows. Rose sends out shoots; email, texts and mail, and I steadfastly spray defoliant in her direction. Respect my garden patch, I say, and I mean it. A Rose by any other name? Well, she can be a real pain in the ass.
Rose’s air of accomplishment almost scared me off at first. I wondered what someone with her self-described strength, joy and intelligence would see in someone like me, someone who has admittedly struggled to survive and grow in a lifetime of inhospitable conditions. I calmed myself with the thought that I have lots to offer, that the shit I’ve been through would make fabulous fertilizer.
So I reached out to Rose, and Rose reached back. But, oh, the Rose that grew took hold like kudzu, grew fast and choked out the sun, the air and whatever sexual interest I had at the outset. She chased and spread and just scared the bejesus out of me. I wanted so much to stick it out, stake it up. After all, we barely knew one another. Try to allow time to grow us roots, I said. Growth takes as long as it takes.
I know I tend to be hard on people and that I really could benefit from being more trusting. But I would have to really deceive myself to convince myself that I love her, that I could love her after so few days together. I told her that last night that all I could feel were a few moments of tenderness toward her. I reminded her that I want to date more than one woman at a time. I stressed that we had discussed all of these issues at the outset.
She needed reminding. Not because I think she is that into me. She is into her idea of me, and that is sad at best and delusional at worst. She sees my humility as a lack of confidence. She sees me like most people see a shed that requires improving. My life needs tweaking, she is just the woman to adjust the dials. Openness is dangerous in that way. I say I want to make some changes in my life, she sees me as a lost soul, a hopelessly confused spirit. No. I am an expert at living with the consequences of my actions, and to be honest, I wake up each morning feeling pretty okay about my world.
She wants answers now, answers I gave her before cutting her out of my life, answers she chose not to hear. Like how, outside of a hostage situation, three or four dates is not enough to decide that you know someone. Oh, be quiet…I know…crushes happen and hormones happen. There is, however, a huge difference between what we want to believe about someone and the reality. The potential for misunderstanding is mammoth.
If I am the only woman who feels insulted by the pressure of false intimacy, then shame on me. To be subjected to terms of endearment from someone I hardly know causes me pain. I want a vote when it comes to the number of sexual references I endure in the course of a day. And when I summon the courage to ask for what I need, for my air and my own patch of soil with room for my roots, I want to be respected.
We all takes risks when we open our lives to a possible friend, an eventual lover. If we are smart, we talk things out and make sure we share the same expectations. I will not ask you to move to Buenos Aires, you will not ask me to role play in a bunny suit and allow you to videotape us. There are many negotiations, and when entered into honestly, they help us build trust and leave us free to be romantic and maybe, just maybe, fall in love.
Not this time, though. As I strip the kudzu from my body one vine at a time. I fight the urge to return to the shadows. Rose sends out shoots; email, texts and mail, and I steadfastly spray defoliant in her direction. Respect my garden patch, I say, and I mean it. A Rose by any other name? Well, she can be a real pain in the ass.
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