I Want to Be a Fuckup

I’m sitting here peacefully on the shitter, typing away after a long day at work, drinking a glass of really damn good wine.  Our neighbor friend bartender said he discovered a rare deal (i.e., $2.98) for a bottle of Merlot at a local convenience store.  I swear to God this wine is better than the $40 bottles we just had at the Mark Hopkins.  This is so carmelly and smooth.  It’s like liquid happiness.  I told Dean to go there tomorrow and buy out their inventory for the wedding.  It’s that good!

It’s been a long, hard work week already.  Tonight, someone said, “Catherine, you’ve been such a dynamo to work with.  I don’t know what we would have done without you.”  That made it all better.  That’s all it takes.  It’s not about money or an incentive comp plan.  All I need to know is that I’m appreciated.  I’m so thankful for her kind words.  I was like, halleulujah, someone who doesn’t think I’m a fuckup.

I always tell people, “Good job.  Perfect.  Thank you so much for your hard work.  You are a rockstar.  Grazie!”  Yet I hear it so rarely.  And I know I do a good job.  I’m juggling so many things at once, I’m surprised more things don’t fall through the cracks. But as soon as something does, I hear, “Catherine, you need to be more careful.  Your attention to detail could be improved.”  It’s demeaning.  It makes me think, ‘why do I even care?’