Piss and Vinegar

"I'm filled with piss and vinegar! At first, I was just filled with vinegar." -Abe "Grampa" Simpson

When I was a kid, I loved Beverly Cleary's Ramona Quimby books. In one of the books (and for the life of me, I can't remember which one it was; if you remember, please let me know, I'd love to reread it), Ramona spends a great deal of the story in a state of righteous anger and responds by planning to do something she's never done before: swear. Most of the book is comprised of Ramona telling various people in her orbit that they better be careful because she's going to swear one day very, very soon. Different people have different reactions to the thought of the precocious little girl cursing a blue streak. Her parents, I recall, are supportive of her desire for self-expression, but make it clear that swearing is not the best way to handle her anger and pent-up emotion. But feisty Ramona is undeterred, and in the book's climactic scene, she finally lets it rip:

"GUTS!" she screams. "GUTS, GUTS, GUTS!"

Well, today at work I almost paid homage to Ms. Quimby's tirade by letting fly a few choice words of my own. Granted, they would've been far more colorful and far more offensive, but they would've been appropriate. The day called for a swear of massive proportions, but I kept my maturity in check.

This is surprising because typically, in the course of my conversations (and writings) throughout the day, I am not so mature. For I do love to swear. I mean, I really, really love it. There isn't a single swear word I dislike or won't use. They are all so totally powerful and diverse, and most of them are interchangeable. I like the fluidity of the multi-purpose swear best, as these words can be acceptably used in a variety of circumstances.

Example: I might say something along the lines of, "That moronic f--k! He/She wants me to read the entire f--king catalog over the phone. F--k that!" Notice that in this one sentence, I am able to use the F word (and slight variations thereof) as a noun, an adjective, and a verb. This excites me.

To be entirely honest, not a lot of people in my life swear. My friend Tony, for one, never swears. Never ever. It baffles me as to how one can go through life without the beauty of an expletive passing between one's lips, but I have the utmost respect for the much more dignified road he takes. It is inevitable, though, that every time he and I have even the most basic and unassuming of conversations, I come off as a wizened, bitter, flannel-clad truck driver. But that's OK. That image captures my swear-crazed self pretty accurately.

The truck driver almost made his first appearance at my workplace today. You see, I realized something huge about my job and the lack of satisfaction I have with it. All along, since the day I started, I'd thought something was wrong with me. That I am the crazy and ridiculous one who just can't make the job work. But today it became evident that I am not the crazy one at all. I am quite sane, and the responses I've had to various people and situations at work are totally understandable. Not just understandable, but sane. I am working in a company rife with INsane (and I mean that quite literally) office politics, fragile egos, and misguided energy. And when you're one of the few sane ones in a setting like this, you have two choices. You can A) join the batshit craziness and respond in turn, or you can B) step away from the damaging environment in the name of self-preservation.

Despite it all, despite everything I've been through in my life, my sense of self-preservation is unshakable. It guides me with its fountains of awareness and knowledge and miraculously remains intact in even the most clusterf--ked of circumstances. Ah, there I did it again: a short prologued word slapped on, and f--k has yet another meaning!

It's grown apparent that I need to leave my job and find better employment (and money), and hopefully some small grain of happiness, with another career. But the idea of starting the job search again is about as appealing as getting pistol-whipped. And, of course, there is the very probable chance that I will land the exact same job with another equally-unfixable company.

This brings with it massive amounts of frustration and anger. When my mini-epiphany happened today, I wanted to jump on my desk and let loose with every swear word in the book. Partly in frustration, partly in anger, and even partly in celebration. Making a realization like I did can also be tremendously liberating. It can light the fires of change. Hopefully that fire will burn directly under my ass, so I can hightail it outta Dodge with no regrets.

I see now that having the truck driver show up at work today wouldn't have been appropriate. More appropriate would've been Ramona Quimby. Had she had the courage to show herself, Ms. Quimby could have captured my thoughts, my sadness, my rage, with one inoffensive and powerful statement:

"GUTS! GUTS, GUTS, GUTS!"

Guts, indeed.