Work woes, forgotten birthdays and mandatory menopause seminars

The other day was a difficult one for me. It actually started the night before, when I checked my work email around 8 pm – yes, a bad decision, and something that has become a bad habit. In essence, the email enlightened me as to the basic nature of what I thought was a reasonably good working relationship with one employer (I have two jobs). Even worse, the fallout would cross over into my other job and make it appear as though the coworker who, according to Deloney, the Buddha would off in an instant with an icepick, is actually more like the Buddha and I, the inept Clouseau. Unable to sleep much of the night, I spent hours composing a resignation letter in my head.

The next day I did go to work, stayed for a couple of hours, composed resignation letters to both employers, spewed some emotional vomit in the presence of coworkers, didn't send the resignation letters but did send a terse email saying something unexpected had come up and I had to leave, and left.

I took a circuitous route home and went down to Lake Ontario. I sat for about an hour, not doing much except trying not to cry, then started walking. I passed through a waterfront park where families and friends plant trees in honour of those who have died. The majority of those others seemed to be people in their teens or twenties, which of course made me think about how short life is and also, to paraphrase Shirley Valentine's words, what a little life I've led. Then I headed home.

When I got to my house there was a large bag hanging from the mailbox. Inside was a box on which two of my coworkers had written: “We suck. We totally forgot. Happy Birthday.” Inside were six cupcakes from the new cupcakery downtown, as well as two chocolate bars from the relatively new chocolatier beside the totally new cupcakery.

Digression re forgotten birthday: Shortly before my birthday, which was about three weeks ago, two of my coworkers called me into their office for a secret consult on what kind of cake we should get for our boss to celebrate National Boss Day. With a smirk, I rattled off a few of my favourite types. When I walked into the National Boss Day celebration, I expected everyone to yell “Happy Birthday!” When that didn't happen, I thought they were attempting to prolong the charade and delay the element of surprise. By the end of what I had thought of as the “National Boss Day celebration” (in quotation marks), there were still no birthday wishes. To my surprise, it actually was a National Boss Day celebration (no quotation marks), somewhat ironic given what prompted me to write this post.

Still digressing into forgotten birthday: It's not like there weren't subtle hints that my birthday was imminent. Subtle hint #1: Shortly before the actual day, I brought in a card that a friend had given me. That friend knows how much I like charades, and had found a card with a cartoon showing the back of a man, pants down, holding a large anvil over his head, ready to swing it down in front of him. Five other cartoonish people are watching, expressions serious, rubbing chins. The caption reads, Despite Eric's best efforts, on one guessed 'Bangkok'. And on the inside, Have a bang-up time on your birthday.“Look at this card,” I said to my coworkers, who all did and had a good laugh. Subtle hint #2: “What are you doing for the weekend?” my coworkers asked, the Friday before the weekend of my actual birthday. “I'm going to a yoga retreat. Some of the women from the Italy trip are going to be there.” Last year a friend and I rented a villa in Italy to celebrate our 50th birthdays. Everyone at work knows this; I made sure of it. Subtle hint #3: “Look what someone gave me,” I told my coworkers when I got back to work on Monday, passing around a book called Porn for Women. It contains photos of super-sexy men holding, for example, a piece of cake, with a voice bubble that reads, Have another piece of cake. I don't like you looking so thin. Or one with a huge smile on his face, accompanied by the words, I know. Let's take you shoe shopping! Or the triptych, the favourite of the gift-giver, which started off with, Foreplay. 10:12 p.m. Next scene: Foreplay. 10:50 p.m. Final scene: Foreplay. 1:30 a.m. My coworkers passed the book around and had a good laugh. Who ever buys a book like that for themselves? It's a quintessential birthday gift. Apparently, even the most blatant hints are ineffective with my coworkers. Perhaps, when I presented the card, I should have added, “In Western liberal democracies such as ours, cards like this are often given to celebrate citizens' births. Even amidst the cost-cutting measures of the current government and global economic retrenchment, families, friends and coworkers will often present cards such as this one on the anniversary of a person's birth to support local retail initiatives.”

Final digression into forgotten birthday: I attended a mandatory menopause seminar at work this week. Somewhat surprisingly, instead of the expected curmudgeon of women fanning themselves, there was lots of vegetarian sushi, a salad, a cake, and some contrite coworkers. I mentioned all the birthday hints they had missed and we had a good laugh. During Pictionary we realized that, in addition to failing memories, some of us are starting to experience vision and hearing loss -- that round thing was meant to depict a ball, not bald -- and were reassured by the fact that we are all in this together.

Back to the story that I was telling before forgotten birthday digressions: After recovering from a cupcake-induced coma, I spent the afternoon exploring the financial ramifications of leaving work. I wouldn't qualify for Employment Insurance, even though I've paid mega-amounts into it. One has to be fired, or be able to prove “just cause” for quitting, to be eligible. I asked someone at Service Canada if receiving seven pounds of cupcakes and chocolate from coworkers constitutes a workplace-related threat to my health; she said no. I found out that I'm not eligible for social assistance either: I would have to sell all my assets – basically, my house – and run myself into abject poverty before I would qualify. I don't have the three-month “emergency fund” planners recommend for situations such as this. To sum up, I can't afford to leave work unless I'm fired.

I had plans to go to movie with a friend that night. I didn't know what we were going to see, but he said it was supposed to be very good. Unfortunately, I discovered once the movie started that some of it takes place during WWII; I avoid such movies like the plague (I've never seen Schindler's List, for example, and it's not because I was making out with someone in the theatre like on Seinfeld). About 20 minutes into the movie, during a scene where French guards were ripping children away from their parents, I whispered to my friend “I can't stay,” and left. That's the first time I've ever walked out before a movie ended.

I'm ever so grateful for forgotten birthdays and mandatory menopause seminars, which make this sometimes bleak world bearable.