Posts Tagged ‘managing’

Nightmare

November 8, 2015

On 46th Avenue.

I woke up this morning from a nightmare.

I don’t have them much any more and it wasn’t the worst nightmare I have ever had, in fact, it so pales in comparison to the night terrors that I had just prior to getting sober that I hesitate to even call it a nightmare.

It was a bad dream, however.

And though I can laugh at the absurdity of it when I shared it with a friend earlier today, I can also recognize that my stress level and my anxiety about having enough time are making themselves known in my subconsciousness.

I dreamt I was back at The Angelic.

That is, I dreamt that I was back running the Angelic.

The Angelic Brewing Company that is.

A now defunct micro-brewery that I helped manage for six years from the time I was 22 years old to the time I was 29.

Yes.

I know, that looks like seven years, but it was six years, perhaps 6.25.

I digress.

The point is, that it was a stressful job and there was a period of four years when I was not only running the Angelic, I was also in school full-time and I was training in Shaolin Kempo Karate at a dojo on State Street.

Said dojo being conveniently located between campus and the brewery.

I spent a lot of time in downtown Madison between those three places.

And I worked hard.

I am good at working hard, if you haven’t noticed.

I ran a successful business.

Was my job title the most prestigious?

Nope.

Floor manager does not have a prestigious ring to it, like say, General Manager, Kitchen Manager, Bar Manager, Head Brewer, etc.

Shit.

Sometimes it felt like the bar back was getting a better job title than I.

However, I had a lot of responsibility for the establishment and I worked full time hours when I was not in school and about 32-35 hours a week when I was in class.

Similar to what I am doing now.

The only difference being is that I drank to cope then.

And I certainly do not have that option now.

Not that I even want that option.

I used up all my drink tickets from the holiday party.

And yours.

And yours.

And hers over there.

And definitely his.

He’s holding out, there’s some I stole from his back pocket.

Needless to say,  I was managing my drinking or I might not have been able to manage the brewery as well as I did.

I would go through periods, then, when I had stress dreams about work.

i would dream I had forgotten to set the alarm or I left the safe unlocked, or I had miscounted a till, or somehow, while I was busy in the back, some bartender or cocktail waitress had left for home, after the bar had closed for the night, accidentally leaving the door wide open and somehow all sorts of people wandered in and I had to get them all out and no one would listen and the cops were on the way.

And.

You get the point.

This morning I woke up having dreamt that the General Manager had booked a band (the brewery was also a default nightclub and very popular bar during the evening hours–day time hours it functioned mostly as a mirco brewery with a semi-decent pub fare menu–burgers, fries, nachos, homemade soups, etc) that was too expensive to pay out.

I dreamed I was in the office counting out tills (the queen was in the parlour eating bread and honey, the king was in the counting house counting all his money) and I noticed that people were coming into the bar.

We didn’t have video monitors or cameras at the brewery, so that’s a made up thing in my brain, but it was very real in the dream and l looked in aghast at the doors to the establishment swinging back and forth as more and more people were coming in for the show and no one was paying.

Fuck.

Where are my bouncers?

I need to put someone on the door and start collecting money.

There won’t be enough money to pay the piper.

But there was.

And I paid the piper yesterday.

My scooter is parked in front of my house, locked thank you–I got a disc lock–safe and sound and fully paid for.

But I could see my financial insecurity coming out in the dream.

As well as my time management issues.

I’m not going to have enough time, I hustled about the office at work, finding the contract for the band and gasping at what the GM had agreed to pay and furthermore.

What the fuck was Metallica doing playing at the Angelic?

That’s when I woke up.

Part of me laughed.

And part of me sighed.

It’s been a while since I have had a stress dream and I know that ultimately, I do all my own stressing.

I tell myself that I am not going to have enough time.

That the things I need to do are going to take up too much time.

Like picking up my scooter today.

Which I successfully did and it got it’s plates put on it and a tidy little basket and rack on the back.

One, said basket, that I have already used today, I went grocery shopping!

Oh how lovely was that?

To not wear my messenger bag over my shoulder and haul a big sack of groceries on my back.

There’s still going to be some bike riding for a bit until I get the parking permit at work, but soon, my bicycle will be getting a lot less action.

I intimated to myself that I wasn’t going to have enough time.

Time to get the scooter.

Time to meet with the ladies.

Time to hear a big inventory.

Time to grocery shop.

Time to do that Therapeutic Communications transcription that was due today.

(I just sent it out an hour and a half ago)

Time to do anything.

Of course, but fret.

And have anxiety.

But the thing is.

All the things got done.

And it wasn’t a nightmare.

And time just sort of folded and here I am sitting at my table, writing my blog having sent in a big transcription project and read a long tiresome chapter in preparation for a paper I’m going to have to write next weekend, and I met the ladies, and I got a ride in on my scooter along the Great Highway at sunset to get groceries.

There’s no need to hold onto any anxiety.

All the stuff.

It got done.

And.

I have a lovely new scooter.

Yay!

Life.

She is grand.

Yes.

Not a nightmare at all.

But a truly sweet dream.

Plenty of which, I shall have tonight.

May you as well.

Sweet dreams.

Good night.

(don’t let the bed bugs bite!)

Just Got The Message

September 30, 2015

My new mattress arrives tomorrow!

Last night on this cruddy one I have had for the last two years.

I am not complaining, it’s done it’s job and I have slept on worse.

The fold out futon shenanigans that I slept on in Paris for six months was by far the worst thing I have slept on.

Well.

Not true!

I just realized.

I have slept on worse, and really, when I compare and contrast, even on a shitty mattress, it was a shitty mattress in Paris.

I had a friend once who said it didn’t matter how bad things were, if you just tacked on the end of the sentence, “in Paris.”

I was caught in a sudden rainstorm, “in Paris.”

I got lost, “in Paris.”

I overslept, “in Paris.”

I have to do my laundry, “in Paris.”

So.

Yeah.

That futon mattress, in Paris, sucked, but it was in Paris.

I have slept on far worse in Homestead, Florida.

Yes.

There.

On a piece of cardboard box that was slid underneath the thin tent floor of the two-man tent I was sharing with a friend, the cardboard scant protection from the sharp coral rock that our tent was set up on.

Even with the cardboard and a sleeping bag, I could still feel that rock underneath my back.

Imagine, I am imagining now, that for months I slept on cardboard boxes.

I have slept on plywood set up on top of milk crates.

I have slept in cars.

I have slept in the back of Grey Hound buses.

I have slept, on the ground.

I have slept on other people’s lumpy couches.

I have slept on the thin, worn out cushions in my ex-brother in-laws fathers’ camper truck bed.

That sucked.

I have slept in far worse places and on many a baggy couch with broken springs.

I have slept in dangerous neighborhoods were gunshots woke me up in the middle of the night.

I have slept on beaches.

I have slept in the woods, “camping” aka “homeless” in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.

I have slept in the moldering basement of a duplex on a mattress on the floor.

I have slept cramped against my sister’s small body on a mattress on a floor.

I have slept in the bottom well of an old beater Dodge with a thin pillow braced against the door.

I have slept in far worse places on far worse beds, some which really had no right to be called a bed at all.

I am so grateful.

I have so much.

Do you see how much I have?

I have a full plate.

I have a job.

I have a bicycle.

I have this laptop.

I have graduate school.

(I have a lot to still read, but I’m getting caught up!)

I have stories.

(“Writers would kill to have some of the life material you have, Carmen,” Alan Kauffman said to me with an incredulous shake of his head, “you have had so many experiences!”)

I have love.

My God.

Do I have love.

I found myself pulled up 18th street tonight after work, my feet just knew the way and despite my brain saying, “go home, go read, go study,” I knew that I needed to be somewhere else tonight before I could do just that, go home, go read, go study.

And I found myself at Most Holy Redeemer in the Castro.

And I found myself at home.

I shared my piece.

I don’t remember what I said.

I got my God on.

I got on my bicycle and I got on the way back to the Outer Sunset.

And mysterious coincidence?

Is it odd?

Or.

Is it God?

I ran into a very dear, most welcome, super amazing and loving person on my way home.

“That’s H____________!”

I almost shouted his name.

I could see he was working with someone.

I almost kept riding.

But when you see your person, or I should say, when I see my person, I had to stop, flip a bitch on my whip, and pedal back to where he was sitting with one of my mates.

Oh.

Was it good to see him!

I got the best damn hug.

From him and from my contemporary and we just had us a great big love fest right there on the corner of Sanchez and Noe.

Thank you God for always knowing when I need to see my people.

We made plans to see each other soon and I got a brief, intense, full of love check in.

Then.

Merrily on my way.

Through the autumn turning Pan Handle, through the quiet dark of the park lit only with speculative sodium lamps and the bright white flare of tents being erected in the meadows.

There must be a concert happening this weekend.

I am out of touch.

I have been so busy in my own little world of school and work that I am not paying a lot of attention to other things.

Outside Lands has already happened, so it must be Hardly, Strictly, Bluegrass.

Translation.

Hardly, strictly, ain’t gonna be anywhere near it.

I’ll be in school this weekend.

I made good for the family already, getting them prepped by making not one but two homemade chicken pot pies for them–one to freeze and one to eat Friday when I am not there to make dinner.  Plus I made ginger chicken with hoisin sauce, soy sauce, rice wine vinegar, garlic, onions, and water chestnuts to wrap up in lettuce for dinner this evening.

I’ll do more prep for them too.

And.

A little for me too.

Although, I am pretty set as far as groceries go since my dear friend helped me out with the pick up and lift back to my place last weekend from SafeWay when I was having my near panic attack.

I do have to do a little more reading.

(A lot, but who’s counting)

But I’m kicking through it.

Every morning before I leave for work I have been reading.

Every evening when I get home I have been reading.

Add to that I have managed, don’t ask me how, to continue with my morning writing routine and my evening blog.

I don’t have to know how it works.

I just know that it does.

And it’s going to work even better.

Even sooner.

I’ll be sleeping on a brand new bed as of tomorrow night.

My life.

It rocks.

And it’s not because I’m sleeping on any.

Rocks that is.


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