Dear Mr. President of the Hospital Where I Used To Work,

I'd just like to say what a pleasure it's been working at the hospital. I'd like to say that, but I'm afraid that I can't. You see, in the last twelve years, this institution has gone from one that made me proud to work there, to one where I cried on my way in, every day.
It was getting to that point when you came, so I can't blame you for the depths to which it has sunk. Many people do, but that isn't fair. No, the seeds of its destruction were sown many years ago, and I'm afraid that you are merely bringing in the sheaves.

Some of the senior management you inherited was incompetent and corrupt. Some of the senior management you brought in to replace those people were even worse.

One of the most recent casualties of your reign was a man I've known for twelve years. He was down in the pharmacy when your man came in. Your man tossed him out. Your man then went on to overbill the hospital on a regular basis, and even put in for reimbursement on his trips to strip clubs and fishing get-aways. My friend would have seen that and blown the whistle in a New York minute. That's why he was sent away.

What reason is there for sending him away now, after that particular whistle has been blown, and blown by someone who was left in nominal power because he was thought too insignificant and weak to do what he did?

Some of the most incompetent and stupid of the senior management you inherited, you let remain in power. Your PR director, for example. I have had a long and bitter struggle for integrity and devotion to duty with that particular bitch, and every time, she has won.

What does that say, that your PR director's position on talking to the media is "If you don't talk to the press, they can't misquote you." This institution has devolved into a bunker mentality. Is it Hitler in the Eagle's Nest, or merely Nixon praying in the halls of the White House?

I guess that I'm particularly bitter about the PR director, because it was she who told me, all those years ago: "Nobody wants to hear what you have to say. All you'll do is tell us what we're doing wrong, and it doesn't have to be done right, it only has to be done."

You were supposed to be our saviour. You were supposed to come in here and pull this institution up from the waters it was foundering in, and bring us back to fiscal health and management well-being.

I'm not seeing it. I never saw it. The old president may have been barking mad there at the end, but he always cared. You and your team have treated us like less than dirt. That was why I laughed when my VP told us that those of us who were going to be laid off were going to be treated with dignity and respect. You didn't treat us like that before you laid us off, why should we believe that dismissing us would improve our lot?

I had been ordered to put together a team to do volunteer work for Hands On Miami Day. Nobody asked if I wanted to, I was ordered to do it. I was livid with rage, that I should be asked to shanghai people to do field work on a weekend when we were all waiting for the ax to fall on our necks. I wasn't allowed to refuse, but neither did I work it like I had the first year, when I offered to do it.

Two days after Hands On Miami, I was laid off. My VP knew that he was throwing me away, and yet he still expected me to happily organize an after-hours event for the public face of this hospital. Oh yeah, respect and dignity, all right.

And while I'm venting about respect and dignity, let me tell you about my last responsibilty. My manager, oh he of little brain and pointy hair, had dicked around with the servers for a good nine months before we finally got my new content management system installed. He installed it while I was sitting at my father's deathbed. No less than 15 minutes (FIFTEEN FUCKING MINUTES, DO YOU HEAR ME, YES I'M YELLING, 15 MINUTES) after my father died, my asshole boss said, "While I have you on the phone, could you walk me through adding a row to a table in HTML?"

Is that respect? Is that dignity? Is that even fucking human? Huh? Anyway, I came back to work from my father's funeral and was given 3 months to convert the entire web site over to the new system. Yes, the PHB had taken three times that long to install the software, but I had three months to convert the site. By myself. Working longer hours, maintaining the existing site, creating hundreds of PDFs for secretaries who couldn't do it themselves, and never complaining. I did it in the time alloted too, which is ridiculous. Nobody should have been able to do it.

For my efforts, I received a thank you note from my boss. I was nominated for Employee of the Month. I didn't win, though. That honor was given to some gomer who sat in the server room during a hurricane that never hit and never disrupted power. When I finally did complain about that, the director of my department said that Employee of the Month didn't have anything to do with work, it was a perk that was doled out where and when needed for morale in any particular group.

Respect? Dignity? I don't think so.

Imagine my surprise when no less than two months after I finished that conversion, the PR director decided to outsource the web. Why another department was allowed to cut my job is something I don't like to ponder too much, but there it was. She also cut my counterpart in her own department, the lovable Loogie, my editor and bane of my existence. Imagine how much greater my shock when Loogie called me at home yesterday to tell me that she wasn't fired or reassigned, after all. She's going back to the PR office to oversee the firm that will be doing the web. She was given that news by the PR director one day after I had been separated from the company.

Respect? Dignity? Not having to do with individuals? Yeah, right. Tell me another one. I have some dry land out in the Everglades for sale, if you're interested.

In conclusion, let me say that I think it's really nice that those good old boys in management still have their jobs. My boss, I see, has been updating the web in my absence. I can tell, because it isn't done right.

But then, it didn't have to be, did it? It only has to be done.

Yours truly,

A bitter, bitter, bitter ex-employee

I was called for jury duty yesterday, in the district court, civil division. One day or one trial. Sworn in to tell the truth. I swelled with civic pride and duty. Unlike most people, you see, I love jury duty. It's a good thing, too, because I must get called every year.
Of course, I wasn't actually chosen for the trial. I think the defense attorney would have wanted me on the case, but the plaintiff's attorney couldn't throw me off fast enough.

It was a medical malpractice case. Negligence on the part of the primary care doctor. The plaintiff had bladder cancer. I could see, by the questioning, where this was going. So I answered those questions as honestly as I could. Even those questions that were unasked, but implied.

I was potential juror number 14, which meant that I got to listen to a lot of answers to the same questions before they got to me. The question was "What do you think about cigarette smoking?" Most of the other jurors answered that they didn't like it. Or that it was a nasty habit. One or two people said they smoked. I said that it was a matter of personal choice, but one that carries with it personal responsibility.

Danger. Warning. This person thinks. Whoop, whoop, whoop.

They asked us if we would be capable of judging a doctor, of holding one accountable. I said yes. I did NOT say that I'd be even more capable of holding lawyers accountable.

They asked how we felt about large money awards. Most people said, of course, if they're called for. I said: "I'm ambivalent." GAH!!! That juror used a multi-sylable word. Danger! Warning!

Could you elaborate? I could, and I did. Pain and suffering are pretty subjective things, no? Sometimes there is merit in the claim, but there are a lot of frivolous lawsuits in this world.

Have we ever had a problem with a doctor? Yes. Elaborate. I did. But then, I allowed as how I was very young and naive, and never sought a second opinion. By the time I did, years later, for what the first doctor claimed was a relapse, there was no sign of the condition the first doctor wanted to do surgery on, nor was there any sign that I'd ever had the condition. I fired the first doctor. I never looked back. And (although I didn't say this)neither did I sue.

What about cancer? Family members? Yes. And close friends. By the time I'd finished my list, the whole room looked a little dazed. Uh, OK, so this is something you might have strong feelings about?

One attorney asked about Monday morning quarterbacking. The young man to my left didn't understand the term, nor had he ever heard of 20/20 hindsight. The lawyer explained the concept and then turned to me... And you? Can you look at the facts and not be a Monday morning quarterback? I snorted, C'mon, anyone who's been a Dolphin fan as long as me knows the futility of that exercise. The room cracked up.

Good. Leave 'em laughing. We were interrogated a little more, and then the lawyers settled in to pick the jury. It came as no surprise to me that I was not selected.

When they say a jury of your peers, what they mean is, someone who has no opinion and never reads the paper.

I got up early, again. Figured out why, though. The pounding of the caterpillar truck next door, crushing its way through the coral rock as they prepare to lay the pipes and foundations of the new, million-dollar strip mansions.

Then it was off to do errands, where I was forced to consort with the riff-raff that lives in this city.
I have a new pet peeve: people who cut in line, with the excuse that they only have a question. Or one item. Or any other damn thing that they thinks makes their time more valuable than mine.

My Clie has a burnt-out screen, and I thought I was still within the year warranty, so Cicuit City was on my list of places to go. When I got there, I saw that there were two registers open at the Customer Service counter and both were occupied. There was also a woman standing a discreet distance behind them, clearly (to me, at least) in line.

I stood behind her. Some antique Jersey skank came up and parked her skinny, badly dyed, leathery self at the counter, beside the woman who was being helped.

The woman in front of me said in a timorous voice, "There's a line here." New Jersey Skank said, "Oh, but I'm not buying anything." As if that made a difference.

I said "That makes no difference. You are asking for the clerk's time, as are we all. There is a line. Behind me." I’d like to note that I was firm, but polite and didn’t swear or use demeaning language. The timid little woman in front of me turned to me and said thank you.

NJS got in said line, protesting all the way. She didn't let it go, either and bitched volubly the whole time.

And then, the next one came up. This was an Hispanic skank, also of a certain age. Also with time too valuable to stand in line. I remarked to her as well that there was a line. She allowed as how she knew that and was standing in it. I told her she was not, and pointed behind the NJS. She said that the line wasn't where she would expect a line to be, it was too far away from the desk, (Yeah, a polite distance, giving the people at the counter privacy, and the people wandering around the store, an aisle. Apparently both were foreign concepts.)

Now I had the two of them behind me, commiserating over my bad manners, ill dress and questionable upbringing, that allowed me to speak to such obviously fabulous people as them in such a manner. “Oh, the mouth on her,” the NJS kept repeating… loudly.

By this time I was at the counter, and I had had enough of those two. I turned around and said in my teacher voice:

“Oh, you two haven’t begun to hear the fucking mouth on me.”

They gave it their best, trying to be supercilious and tee-hee, oh aren’t you quite the lady, but they just didn’t have it in them. I turned and gave them one last glare and shut them up. And the Jersey Skank? Just for the record, her “I only need a second” was still in process when I finished my business, found and collected the RLA, and walked out the door.

Hmmmph. The fucking nerve of some people.

I slept in. All the way to 7:30AM. Whoopeee.

After a cup of coffee, and the delicious realization that I didn't have to put on make up today, I sauntered off into the living room, where twelve years of employment and hard work has been packaged into six cardboard boxes.
I pulled out the office sweaters and the Happy Bunny desk sign book, the spare pair of socks, the container of mints, and the squishy brain that sat on my monitor.

I sorted out the tech books. Outdated systems and program version learning guides went into a bag for the used book store. Usuable manuals and in-depth guides went into smaller box, for me to finally read and work through.

I pulled out my desk calendar, marked the day of separation (free at last, free at last) and the upcoming jury duty and interviews.

I sat on the couch, depressed despite myself.

I went back to the boxes, extracting the cables, cradles, docks and chargers. Those will go to my studio. Ditto the radio/cd player.

My awards and framed samples will go into storage. I sigh. I sit on the couch and remind myself how much joy and relief I felt yesterday when I sneered at the senior vp and told him to spare me the platitudes.

I wander off to refill my coffee, pet the dog. This is going to be fine, I think.

I got to work this morning and was greeted by the PHB. I was to report to the HR office immediately.
So I did. And then I was fired. The PR office decided to outsource the web, thereby rendering my job pointless. Even though I'm an MIS employee, and even though there should have been some interaction with the group that actually built and maintained the web, there appears to have been none.

I'm sure that management was lying about that. So much for my hard work.

I'm pretty sure, too, that laughing in the VP's face when he tried to shake my hand and tell me how much they valued me and all the work that I had done for the institution was bad form on my part to.

All I have to say is:

Free at last, free at last; thank God almighty, we're free at last.

This is at least as liberating an experience for me as losing my portfolio was twenty years ago. I'm not kidding. I loved that book. I was proud of the work in it. Some of it should have been tossed out years prior, but I couldn't because I loved whatever it was. Having my portfolio stolen allowed me to rethink how I presented my book; my work. I was free to reinvent myself artistically because those pieced that I was attached to emotionally were gone. I could start new.

Kind of like today.

Yesterday sucked.

I'm twiddling my thumbs at the office these days, what with there being no content provider, anymore. I'm explaining things about server technology to the PHB, not that I actually understand server technology.

And then the phone rings.
My best friend here, a woman with more than twenty years with this institution, and pretty much the brain trust in her division, was on the phone to tell me that she had just become a victim of the downsizing.

My mentor. My friend. My sister-girl. Unemployed. At one in the afternoon, after breaking our lunch date because she just had too much work to do.

Because the administration of this institution appears to have been raised by wolves, and by that I mean every single one of them, and I'm sorry if that is an insult to wolves, not only was she fired in the middle of the afternoon, the meeting she was supposed to chair at 4 was not cancelled. No. She went to leave, to say goodbye to her staff, and there was no staff available. They were all in her meeting. The one she was no longer there to chair.

The VP who fired her kept saying the usual shit about how hard it was for him. How much it hurt him. How terrible it was for him. Yeah?

Fuck you, buddy. How terrible, how painful, how hard do you think it was for her? Oh. I'm sorry. That means you would have had to pull your nose out of your own ass long enough to smell the air. Not going to happen.

Of course, there was more. My mother's caregiver seems to have snapped her last thread binding her to reality and is having some identity issues regarding who, exactly, is my mother's child. As in: her, or me. I cannot move mummy fast enough. Assuming, of course, that the caregiver doesn't kidnap her and move her away.

Oh, yeah. Fucking blue skies here. I sent the RLA out for a pack of Shermans. I was an ex-smoker for all of three weeks.

In unison, gentle readers: BITE ME.