Bosses Don't Have to Suck, Part I

In honor of National Boss's Day on October 16, this two-part post is dedicated to the one boss I have had who knew how to be a great boss. Before I tell you about her, though, let me tell you about some bad bosses I have had.

Bad Boss #1 (not necessarily in order of appearance in my employment career): BB1 was the kind of person that makes you think she is evolved, fair-minded, even-handed, and capable, but if you get on the wrong side of her, you will quickly learn that you should not turn your back on her. She was also a lunatic.

Every year we planned and organized a huge fund-raising event. Everyone in the office had a role to play, but I was the lead staff member. On the night of the event, one of our staff members--I'll call her Monday--never showed up, and never called. We scrambled and re-assigned volunteers at the last minute to cover for her, and worried about her safety.

The following Monday, there was Monday, sitting at her desk, apparently oblivious to the inconvenience and concern she had caused. I asked her what happened, and she said she had gone to get her hair done, and it had taken longer than she had expected. By the time she was done, the event was mostly over.

As a white woman, I understand that I am almost completely clueless about the intricacies, politics, and meaning of a black woman's hair.

However. To blow off the biggest fund raising event of the year, planned months in advance, because you couldn't schedule your hair appointment around it? Unacceptable. I spoke to my colleague in an honest and respectful way, and she acknowledged my personal and professional disappointment and appropriately offered a heartfelt apology. We had a good relationship both before and after this incident.

But when I spoke to my boss about it later, she gave this jaw-droppingly lametastic, white-guilt-fueled response (slightly paraphrased): "Her behavior can be excused because of 400 years of oppression." She said I was wrong to call Monday on her lapse of judgment, and that I should have just let it go.

I...I...I got nothing.

BB1 eventually fired me, ostensibly because I was a poor writer, and dishonest. She took a sample of my writing to an editor-friend of hers, she said, and the editor-friend said it was filled with grammatical errors. She also accused me of trying to torpedo a direct mail campaign in order to make her look bad. I did have a hard time managing the direct mail project because we were rolling it out at the same time that I was dealing with a high risk pregnancy and the subsequent death of my daughter--but it doesn't even make sense to suggest that I would purposely fail at my own project, hurting myself and my own work record more than hers.

As I said: lunatic.

I think the real reasons she fired me were that a) I let her know that I felt that it would not be appropriate for a social service agency to receive funding from The Playboy Foundation; b) I questioned the methodology we used in creating budgets for proposals to make them look less like general operating requests and more like specific program requests; and c) I was starting a family.

Another bad boss was an incessant micro-manager who had a predilection for telling me not just what to do, but how to do it. She had the irritating habit of sending me emails saying, "Call me!" instead of picking up the phone and, well, calling me. Because of her borderline personality and bipolar disorder, her expectations and moods were constantly moving targets, and it was almost impossible to predict whether she would love me or hate me. It kind of depended on whether her other direct reports were in or out of favor at the moment.

At one point, I was venting to Dr. PS about the constantly frustrating and emotionally unstable work environment (at times, she literally danced on tables, and at the opposite end of the spectrum, there were times when she'd be sobbing in her office), and she gave me wise advice.

"You are dealing with too many borderline personalities," she said, mentioning a close friend and a family member who were both exacerbating my stress level. "You need to get rid of them." Well, I couldn't change families; and I didn't want to give up my job.

Fortunately, the friend took herself out of my life, and the situation with the family member subsided into occasional fits of dysfunction, so I was left only dealing with one borderline personality. Eventually, I traded up to the best boss ever--ME!-- and entered the (ahem) lucrative business of freelance writing.

Which I would not trade for a real job, even if said real job paid < Austin Powers voice >One Meellion Dollars < /Austin Powers voice>.

Unless Mr. Peevie insisted.

Which he wouldn't do because he loves me too much to want me to GO INSANE.

But I digress. Let me tell you about the really great boss, and what makes the really great boss really great.

Tomorrow. That will give you time to get out pencil and paper so you can take notes.

Monument to Ego

Mr. Peevie recently brought this to my attention: Roland Burris' headstone, a monument to an enormous ego.


On the right side, Mr. Burris has listed his Major Accomplishments, and on the left, hilariously, his Other Major Accomplishments. (I borrowed the photo from the Politico.com blog The Crypt, which offers commentary on breaking news in Capitol Hill.)

Two additional, carbon-based monuments to his own Goliath ego: Roland Burris' two children are named Roland and Rolanda. Seriously. He even uses the Royal We to refer to Himself. Mmmmmkay.

Roland Burris, like most of us, wants to know that his life had meaning and significance. That he wasn't just another blip on the timeline of humanity--but that his existence added value, so to speak. I get that; I really do. Sometimes, when I'm wiping the smell of pee from my bathroom floor (why can't those boys aim better?!), I wonder about the meaning of life, and in particular, the significance and value of my own life. When I'm folding underwear, or scraping crusty batches of nature from various surfaces in my house, I wonder what people will say at my funeral.

"She was a lousy housekeeper, but she sure had a good throwing arm."

"She really didn't have much of an edit function in her brain, but she was mostly not a horrible person."

"She sure did watch a lot of television."

But anyway, to get back on point, Mr. Burris has written the script, basically, for his eulogy, and had it engraved on his stone crypt, which he sensitively endowed with a comfortable bench for those of you who would like to rest in the shade while you visit with the Spirit of the Trailblazer and ponder his Major Accomplishments and his Other Major Accomplishments.

Seriously.

Does he really not understand that by accepting this contaminated appointment from our legally plagued, morally ambiguous, allegedly sociopathic governor that he is causing his own reputation to depreciate rather than to appreciate?

Or is he so blinded by his own ambition that his brain keeps blocking out messages about integrity, process, and character, and the only ones getting through are the ones that say, "Fuck 'em. Fuck 'em all. I'm getting this title because I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me."

Not that he'd use language like that. He's not the governor, after all. He's a church-going man, causing some of the rest of us church-going folks to wince mightily. Burris even boldly, if not sacrilegiously asserted that his Senate appointment was ordained by the Big Guy.

I'm sure Mr. B has his headstone engraver on speed dial.

Meanwhile, my brother Deedee, who lives in Argentina, accurately and a tad meanly pointed out that Illinois is a lot like a third world country, with its political scandal and pervasive corruption. It's nice to know that our state is the source of so much entertainment to the rest of the country, even the world.

Step away from the Senate seat, Mr. Burris. Drop the weapons (supporters who play the race card, blind ambition, ethical ambiguity), and step slowly away. There you go. Now you can salvage what's left of your reputation.

Landfill

Apparently, my beautiful, brilliant, and talented daughter has inherited my genetic disposition toward slovenliness--and she has taken it to an all new level.

As a baby, this girl would not allow any toy, blanket, or even the tiniest stuffed animal in her bed. We'd put her down in her crib, and she'd toss everything out before laying down and promptly going to sleep. This need for a pristine sleep environment continued for years, even after she switched to a big girl loft bed. It was kind of endearing.

But lately, she started to keep a giant Pooh bear plus a couple of other smaller stuffed animals near her at night. She'd cover them up with a blanket, and sometimes she'd go to sleep on top of the lump. Gradually, a few more animals joined them, and the bed tumor grew. It became less endearing.

Meanwhile, I had been making a gradual attempt to organize and de-clutter the kids' bedrooms. I sorted through drawers, filling bags with too-small pants to give away or too-stretched out tops to toss in the trash. I picked up tiny Polly Pocket shoes and Zip-Locked™ them with Polly Pocket outfits and Polly Pocket purses. I filled up two bins with current-age-appropriate books, and packed up a bag full of If You Give A Mouse a Muffin-type books for Salvation Army. I was feeling good about M. Peevie's room: it was more neat and organized than it had been in months, and possibly years.

Then we had a set-back. I was alarmed to notice that the lump had metastacized to the point that there was only a sliver of bed available for M. Peevie to sleep on. The situation required drastic and immediate measures.

"M. Peevie," I said, getting out my stern voice and reaching for the blanket. "We have got to make this bed lump smaller, or pretty soon there won't even be room for you in your bed. What the heck is under here, anyway?"

"No, mom!" M. Peevie said with a tiny bit of hysteria in her voice, "Don't take away the blanket! I like having my things in bed with me. It helps me feel safe."

"It must be done, darling," I said grimly, and as M. Peevie screamed, "Nooooooo!", I pulled the blanket away from the HUGE PILE OF RANDOM CRAP that filled her bed. My jaw hit the floor in astonishment.

"M.P.," I hollered, "What is going on here?"

She started bawling. "I'm sorry!" she wailed. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

I began to grab stuff and toss it onto the floor. It wasn't just stuffed animals and dolls under the blanket. It was like Pod and Homily and little Arrietty and all their cousins had moved in: scraps of notebook paper, markers, paper clips, torn-out pages from catalogs, a giant wad of (unused) toilet paper, doll clothes, Woody's cowboy hat, an entire collection of Junie B. Jones books, a three-foot long tree branch, socks, a jacket, and enough other random shit to fill two 30-gallon plastic bins.

"Stop crying!" I yelled, putting my excellent parenting skills to work. "Just get all this crap out of this bed RIGHT NOW!"

M. Peevie climbed up into the loft and started tossing things out one by one, still sobbing, her eyes getting redder and puffier by the second.

"Why did you put all this crap in your bed, M.?" I asked, in a Guantanamo kind of way. "What were you thinking?"

"It helps me feel safe," she said between sobs.

"No, it doesn't," I said harshly . "No way. That's not it. I'm so angry at you, M. P.! I spent hours cleaning and organizing your room, and now you've turned your bed into a giant dump!"

Again with the primo parenting skills. M. Peevie just cried harder, picked up a Chinese restaurant menu, and tossed it over the edge of the bed. I watched it flutter to the floor, and decided that I needed a parental time-out. Mr. Peevie took over and I took my angry, lame-parenting self out of there before I did more damage.

After about 30 minutes, I went back in. M. Peevie looked at me sadly from red, puffy eyes, and I gingerly stepped through the landfill that covered her carpet to stand next to her bed. "I'm sorry, Mommy," she said. "I'm sorry I'm so bad."

Geez. Shoot me through the heart, already.

"M. Peevie, you are not bad," I started. "I'm the one that behaved badly. I raised my voice and spoke very harshly to you. I'm very sorry." I told her that we'd take some time the next day to clean up the mess and to talk about the problem.

"We'll figure it out together," I told her. "We'll talk about it, and we'll clean up the mess and we'll figure out how to help you not do it again, OK?"

"OK, Mommy," she said. She held up her arms for a hug, and I gave thanks that this child, like most children, was so resilient and forgiving.

Tune in tomorrow for Landfill, Part Two.

Dr. Peevie on Healthy Boundaries

Everywhere I go, I see/hear/read about people having trouble with boundaries. It seems that for many people personal boundaries end up trampled in the dirt under the feet of other people's expectations. A lot of times setting a personal boundary means saying "no." And almost always, not setting appropriate personal boundaries brings unnecessary feelings of responsibility, stress, and guilt.

Feelings of responsibility, stress, and guilt are important in all relationships; and when they come from appropriate situations, they help us remember to treat people with kindness and respect--just the way we want to be treated.

But when those feelings arise from inappropriate situations, or a lack of appropriate and healthy boundaries, they are not helpful. They hurt our relationships, and they hurt our own emotional and mental health.

Before I go any further in our boundaries workshop, let me first acknowledge that I am just as emotionally unhealthy as the next person, and frequently moreso. I'm often depressed, moody, and hot-tempered. I am sometimes a martyr, and sometimes I'm just plain selfish and lazy. There's a whole bunch more, but I'm starting to feel bad about myself now, so I'll leave it at that. You get my point.

But boundaries, for some reason, I get. Maybe it's because my best friend is a therapist.

I was reading a blog written by a mom who was uncomfortable telling her child not to do something that other nearby parents were letting their kids do--because she didn't want the other parents to think she was judging them.

Call me rude or insensitive, but I would have no problem at all saying, "M. Peevie, do not climb that tree,' even if the other parents within earshot were letting their kids climb it. So the other parent thinks I'm too strict? Don't care. So the other parent thinks I'm judging her? Unfortunate, but not my problem. (I might actually be judging her, but not out loud.)


I am especially particular about boundaries in the parenting arena. I do not want other people parenting my children unless I or Mr. Peevie have turned over direct or implied responsibility. For example, if we're at your house, and you see my toddler approaching your irreplaceable collection of Lladro sculptures, I totally understand that you might want to step in front of her and redirect her. (Of course, an even better option might be to ask me to redirect her--but sometimes a situation calls for urgent action!)

But if I'm at the grocery store with my hand on the back of my child who is standing up in the cart, I do not appreciate the pimply grocery clerk telling my child to sit down because he might get hurt. I will be responsible for protecting him, thank you very much, person-who-is-making-minimum-wage-and-is-not-even-close-to-getting-laid-let-alone-becoming-a-parent. If you absolutely must insist that the child be seated in the cart, then please direct your instructions to me, but NOT to my child.

Here's another example: My friend Josephine helped her SIL plan and execute her wedding, and she was telling us about all the stress she had felt during the process. A lot of the stress was caused by the bride not being willing or able to make decisions, and as the wedding approached, major items on the plan-your-perfect-wedding checklist remained unchecked. Like the music at the reception, for example. And the flowers.

I felt bad for my friend because she had experienced such a stressful time. But at the same time, I did not really understand why she felt so much stress about a wedding that was not her own. Her SIL was making choices (or NOT making choices) that would have an impact on her own wedding, and the outcome was not only out of Josephine's control, but also not her responsibility. I understood that she wanted to help her SIL--but I could not understand desiring to help someone so much that their own negligence would cause me to feel stress.

So I said this to Josephine, and asked her why she felt so much stress. She said, "Because I care about my SIL, and I wanted her to have a really great wedding." OK--I get that. But again, isn't it possible to care for someone and want the best for them, but also to step back and let them bear the responsibility for their own choices?

In other words, under those circumstances, aren't you making a choice to feel stress about something that is out of your control? And why would you make that choice? Why would you choose to add unnecessary stress to your life?

One place where I'm not as good at setting boundaries as I'd like to be is with my parents. For some reason, I often let them suck me into arguments about theology or politics, and those discussions sometimes leave me feeling beat up. A person should be able to express opinions without being emotionally filleted--but in my family, if you step outside of certain lines, you better be wearing body armor.

I know I'm simplifying things a bit too much. But let's have a conversation about boundaries. Are you good at setting them? Have you set boundaries that people don't seem to get, or constantly try to erode? Do you worry too much about other people's feelings, at the expense of your own mental health?

Nepotistic Nonsense in Cook County

Patronage sucks, both literally and figuratively.

I am chafed and incensed that Cook County officials get away with this kind of nepotistic nonsense: a 12 percent pay hike for the CFO--who happens to be the first cousin of Cook County Board President Todd Stroger. She'll make $160,000 after the $18,000 raise.

In a CBS2 news video, Donna Dunnings defended her exorbitant increase, saying, "I work 12- to 17-hour days...the employees of Cook County see me more than my two children...I do have 20 years of experience, and I am the first African-American as well as the first female" to hold the job.

If Dunnings really does consistently work 12- to 17-hour days it doesn't mean she should get a raise--it means she should take some time and personnel management courses. The woman needs to learn to delegate!

And I don't even believe that she works those kinds of hours. A 17-hour work-day leaves seven hours for sleeping, eating, peeing, transportation, and everything else. I call bullshit.

A county government official doesn't deserve a raise that's nine percent higher than her subordinates unless she can point to prodigious accomplishments and documented improvements in county government. Working hard doesn't cut it--she's supposed to work hard. Nor does having the right amount of experience; again, that's a given. And especially not having the right race or gender! Some of those qualities might help her get the job--but they have nothing to do with deserving a massive, disproportionate raise.

Dunnings' defense of her inappropriate, selfish, excessive raise smacks of entitlement, which of course is the sleazy, insubordinate stepchild of patronage. This is just one example of patronage sucking resources out of the county budget, which has already gained national notoriety for having the highest cumulative sales tax rate in the U.S.

In general, the art of government consists of taking
as much money as possible from one class of citizens to give to
another.

Ms. Dunning, Mr. Stroger--Voltaire was being sardonic! He didn't intend for you to take it to heart. Can you re-think your philosophy of government, please?

My Strong Friend

This blog's dear friend Roseanne (names have been changed to protect the innocent) has just told me that she has stage two uterine cancer. This causes me deep distress--mostly on her behalf, but also on my own, because I love her.

She faces a total hysterectomy, plus some tests to determine if the cancer has spread beyond her womanly parts. But that's just the medical stuff. She also has to somehow figure out how to pay her bills while she's off work for six weeks after surgery. (And we're not even thinking beyond that at this point.) Her employer has informed her that she gets three weeks of short-term disability--but of course, that probably pays about half of what she normally makes.

There's no help from her husband, Kirk Van Houten, who has not worked at the cracker factory for at least seven or eight years. All he's able to do is watch cable, wash dishes occasionally, and fall apart at the thought of losing his meal ticket, I mean Roseanne.

His emotional maturity never grew beyond pre-teen self-absorption, which is to say he just doesn't understand about taking responsibility. He's not a bad guy, or a toxic guy--he's just kind of emotionally retarded, which makes him more of a liability than a life partner.

Kirk Van Houten has been known to proudly say things like "I cleaned out the cat litter for you" or "I mopped the floor for you" to Roseanne when she gets home at midnight from her second job. No lie. And he says these things without the slightest trace of irony or shame. I honestly do not know how Roseanne does not smack him with a frying pan.

Roseanne's younger sister died from cervical cancer at age 36 about six years ago. Her out-of-state brother has some kind of brain cancer. Roseanne's mom--let's call her Narcissus--had this response to Roseanne's news: "I'm just sitting here wondering what it is in my genes that has given all three of my children cancer." Because of course, her daughter's cancer is all about her. I'm not even lying. She might as well have said, "Why me, God? Why me?"

Narcissus is retired on a humble fixed income, and doesn't drive. Roseanne's kids are old enough (14 and 17) but not emotionally healthy enough to be helpful.

And yet, facing all of this, my strong friend Roseanne laughs in the face of danger. She makes fun of herself, she cracks jokes about "pulling the cancer card" to get away with a moment of well-deserved crabbiness, and she lets me weep on her shoulder about my own comparatively minor troubles. Nobody makes me laugh harder than this woman.

Roseanne gets me. When I recently had a brief bout of depression and anxiety, she said to herself, what would cheer E. Peevie up? And she brought over The Departed to watch with me, because she knew that there's nothing like a bloody action movie to lighten my mood. "Most folks, you'd bring a light-hearted comedy to cheer them up," she told me, "but not for you. You need explosions and shooting!" And she was right.

How lucky am I to have a friend like this.

God, I'm asking for a special dispensation of healing for my friend Roseanne. She could use a break.