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?’