Wisdom of MY Words

Random Musings & Book Reviews

Archive for the 'Passive Aggressives' Category

30 June


People are unreal. Juan Carlo is looking for work and I’m on that, I’ll help you because what the fuck else does someone that’s dying and that’s why she’s no longer working or in IT. Some recruiter on Juan’s LinkedIn connections got his email and she forwarded to a dude named Sharif. This Sharif guy made a whole lotta assumptions, like 1) the person with end stage cancer is still alive and he has to get her to appointments, 2) that Juan would go to DC to work onsite, 3) Rate indicative of a local to DC tai-state area. So this recruiter, not a noble man,made a bunch of assumptions.He told Juan that rate for the job wasn’t good for someone that wasn’t local. That’s one those bullshit phrases that mean nothing because the people on the receiving end have to extrapolate. What that means about rate is that for Juan to travel to DC he’d need a per diem, transportation money, and hotel, plus plane to DC. Juan doesn’t ever want to live in a hotel room, and he most certainly doesn’t;’t want to live in a hotel room right now with me dead by January 2018.

It’s super hard to stay positive when there are people like this guy in my sphere. So, Sharif told Juan he couldn’t;’t pay well, and the job he had wasn’t in Minnesota anyway, and his only client was the City of Minneapolis. Ugh. Both the DH and I are working on being direct and answering people instead of leaving a communique Han king, which is what we should have done. I already cry quite a bit. Every day, matter of fact. Only 52, and any day now I’m waiting for some awful pain to start relentlessly banging away on my brain. The brain swelling is where a considerable amount of the pain comes from, but the minute I know it’s selling I’m fucked. I’m still thinking about moving to Colorado or Oregon, because I don’t want the VERY END OF LIFE to be nonstop pain. I am unequivocally the kind of person that will do something drastic if the pain gets to a certain point.

It’s super hard to stay positive when there are people like this guy in my sphere. Because of my Asalamalakium book I do know that this guys surname, Almamun was the same as the seventh caliph, and I believe he ruled for like 20 years. The name means:  Mamun or Ma`moon is a Quranic name for boys that means trusted, trustworthy and honorable. It is derived from the A-M-N root which is one of the most used roots in the Quran, and it is source for Imaan (faith), Mu’min(believer),  Aamana ( he/she attained to fatih). It is mentioned in Quran 70:28

Because Sharif asKED for a resume I felt it polite to tell him Juan wasn’t interested. So I did: Thanks for reaching out. It doesn’t seem like you’ll have a fit for me with your limited connections in the real world outside of the district. I’m not particularly interested in working for the City of Minneapolis.

And then, for no reason, except to become a complete fucking jerk emails the person Juan emailed + he copied Juan on the email. The email said,

Please do not forward anyone from your connection to me for help. See below Jon’s email.
Yup, rudeness all around. Talk about salty because I said not interested. Every time crap like this happens I think, well, better it happened now before Juan would actually go work for this person. We both believe that attitude starts with management, and as the owner, he’s management. Working for his company sounds hideous.
17 March

Say Hello Wave Goodbye

d. Sad to the core of me. I’m beyond devastated that I stopped cheating and he was unable to open up to me. These men from Minnesota are so broken it makes me weep. My mouth, mucus heavy at the back of my throat, tears streaming down my face, I am simply emotion. I am nothing but feelings. Tragedy. Sorrow. Pain. I want to be a damsel from 1820 and throw myself off a cliff. The great dilemma of the start of the twenty-first century; romantic love is elevated to such a degree that a love of the minds is discouraged. I remember the moment I decided to get pregnant with Zack. I remember the moment I gave my will up to “the spirit,” as my beloved cousin Dawn calls it.

My daughter is twenty-two and owns a dog, or he owns her, giggle, giggle. She’s wanted a dog since she was tiny. The Wolski-Davis’ didn’t own dogs. “We weren’t animal people” Nana Wolski would say, in that voice reserved for low-tone. Now in my fifties, I know that is a shaming tone. It is rude, judgemental, belittling, demeaning. It’s the tone my husband uses when he talks to myself or our son. It’s the same dismissive way his own father spoke to him. Dirty is how I feel after Jon gives me a verbal lashing. Most of the time it’s the nonverbal that are the hardest though.

Because Jon doesn’t speak. I don’t know if I’m loved, hated, desired. I don’t know what he expects of me, and since he’s mostly stopped speaking I can only seem to attack him. I can’t get my tongue to say, “Please let’s go to Walkin Counseling. You keep saying we have all these years behind us, a child, raising children together, but I don’t see you doing a damn thing. You aren’t suggesting counseling. You aren’t making appointments with therapists covered by our shitty insurance. As you can see, I start out and then I attack. I can see where my language changes. I can feel the words and their colours, but I can’t stop myself from being angry. I’m tired of being the only person that wants to solve our problems. I’m tired of being told I’m worth nothing by this technique called stonewalling.

In the Year of Trump, lalalalalalala, she comes out of the sun in a silk dress, in the year of the Trump, mumble mumble because Trump takes more space than cat in the song and changes the pacing. Sniffle sniffle. Don’t bother asking for explanations, She’ll just tell you that she came
In the year of the Trump.
She doesn’t give you time for questions
As she locks up your arm in hers
And you follow ’till your sense of which direction
Completely disappears
By the blue tiled walls near the market stalls
There’s a hidden door she leads you to
These days, she says, I feel my life
Just like a river running through
The year of the cat
While she looks at you so cooly

By my husband’s own admission, he waits for me to take action. What I call “waiting me out.” And I’m sure I’m going to come across as a callous bitch here, but I can see why women can’t handle lagabout husbands that don’t even pull their frair share. Like Sunny bitching about Scott. My own husband has expected me to find him work for 18 years! I’ve navigated two careers, been treated like shite by recruiters, internal HR, the local IT community, neighbors, and friends for the bizarre way Jon has decided to handle his career. Jean Fox-Pearson said to me once, “You need to make him responsible for his career, he’s getting a reputation for being difficult.” Guffaw! No shite Jean, I wanted to say. I remember asking Jon if I could speak with him and I told him that recruiters were talking about us and he said, “Fuck them. Just keep sending out my resume.”

Then my own IT career started taking on water. I was generally disliked by women, in or out of IT, and while men treated me better, they all wanted to fuck me. It was easier to tell myself that I could lose the weight on the back end since guys left me alone for the seven years I was fat. It was a relief. As I tipped the scales at 200 I could see my appeal wearing off. Recruiters who’d been happy to flirt with me before started to actively avoid my calls. That was a bitter pill to swallow.

Before I started writing this, whatever this may end up being, I’d been looking for my voice. Month after dreary month driving through Nebraska and Iowa, long brown landscape damp and sinister. I realized one day, while lying in bed in pain, that I couldn’t find my voice because I was trying to mask it with teenage narratives, IT narratives, things I was not passionate about because I am frantic to make money. Every day we spend more than we bring in. We are not in retirement. I didn’t plan for this liquidation of assets at only 52. I’m having constant panic attacks because we will run out of money at the rate this is going. I don’t want to go back to sex work. I cannot go into an office for $35/hour. I earned more with less education and hands on experience than I did a decade ago, yet cannot earn enough to pay the bills.

Jon’s trained me not to spend money on computer equipment. That it runs through him. My computer and my phone don’t work right, I can’t drive because of the pain and headache due to an antibiotic resistant middle ear infection, ottis media. I can understand how Jon doesn’t know where to start with the job search. Just like he doesn’t know how to invest because he expects me to do it all. I’m currently struggling to make sense of iPhone and Apple laptop reviews. I dreaded doing this myself because he’s done the research. He’s more deal savvy. He hates to talk to recruiters. That the interview is hard enough for him. The interview itself is soul sucking to him. He gets upset that Simon questions me whether Jon is working or not when he calls from jail. Zack said us arguing and Jon’s chronic unemployment is difficult to live with. He told me it was too late, even though I’m only 52, for me to find happiness. I gave him a dirty look and he replied, “Not that you shouldn’t try to achieve it, or get divorced because it’s the better than the alternative. What I heard was, “You’re doing the alternative. You’re settling.” I can’t seem to explain that I feel like I am in quicksand all the time. The bullying of my youngest son in Minneapolis, Jon’s constant need for my attention, Miriam’s wishy washy texts. We plan on her bringing the dog over today because she’s going drinking like a good Wagner/Meyer/Davis/ Wolski alcoholic on St Paddy’s Day. My daughter’s drinking will wind up costing her much during her life. Writing those words feels so final. I’ve prayed and begged for my daughter to go to therapy, or read up on addiction and get help. My daughter and I have a precarious relationship that perplexes me. She’s part of this chick squad, the smaller one First Communion kids from Annunciation, and the wider one includes gals from college that grew up in St Paul with exotic names like Lily and Vanessa. She went to Michigan to work at the Eileen Fisher store in Sterling.

01 February

Chanhassen Pickup Fuss

RE: Michele Davis and David Meyer
Court File No. 246637

Dear Nancy:

This letter is to inform you of issues that have been detailed in the Modification we created in March 2001 which my client is getting harassed by Mr. Meyer to change.

In the parties 2002 calendar Ms. Davis let Mr. Meyer have a weekly custodial day and alternating weekends during summer break. She did this to avoid continuous argument over the 2002 calendar. Yet, on page 3 of the Modification it states that Mr. Meyer gets a custodial weekday and every other weekend during the school year only, not during the summer. Mr. Meyer has sent Ms. Davis a proposed 2003 schedule where he gets 5 consecutive weekends in a row 2 times during the summer. Ms. Davis is strictly following the Modification in which Mr. Meyer does not get weekends and a custodial week day during the summer, but does get his Sunday to Sunday custodial week and other time as detailed under Other Holidays on page 3 and 4.

As you may recall we established a weekly custodial night of Tuesday or Wednesday from 5:00-7:30PM. This was what we called, “dinner with dad.” It was a check in time for Mr. Meyer to visit briefly with the children. Mr. Meyer sent an email to Ms. Davis that states: “Dinner with Dad was when I was living in Minneapolis. The drive to Chanhassen makes it physically impossible to have dinner with dad and Simon’s & Miriam’s new family.” When we created the Modification, Mr. Meyer knew he would be moving to Chanhassen since he stated he was moving in February 2001 court paperwork because of his summer 2000 engagement to Jeanna Paradise. Mr. Meyer did not add in the Modification that “dinner with dad” would only last while he lived in Minneapolis. A lack of planning on Mr. Meyer’s part does not justify changing the custodial calendar. Ms. Davis is maintaining the Modification regarding Mr. Meyer’s custodial night pick up, which is 5PM.

The last issue Mr. Meyer is arguing with Ms. Davis about is who picks up the children in Chanhassen. The Modification clearly states that “…when they shall be returned to Petitioner’s home.” This statement can be found in the Modification on page 3, under the titles School Year and Summer. This indicates that Mr. Meyer is required to return the children to Ms. Davis at her home.

To reiterate, Ms. Davis plans on following the Modification in reference to: 1) the summer custodial time, 2) weekly custodial day pickup time of 5PM, and 3) dropping off the children at Ms. Davis’ home after Mr. Meyer’s custodial time. Ms. Davis is willing to work with Mr. Meyer to eliminate any ambiguities in the current Modification, such as pick up times on Mr. Meyer’s additional custodial days, i.e., Halloween every other year. However, Ms. Davis will not continue to discuss issues that are clear in the Modification. At present, Ms. Davis is being harassed via email by Mr. Meyer to change the aforementioned issues. She also gets non-stop weekly phone calls where Mr. Meyer asks to pick up the children earlier. As an example, Mr. Meyer states in an email to Ms. Davis dated December 19, 2002: “I made the biggest compromise possible by letting the kids live with you. I don’t see where I can compromise with the amount of time I deserve with the kids.” And: “The kids do want to spend more time with me. In the past year, Simon has asked repeatedly to LIVE with me. I feel Miriam is afraid to tell you that she would like to spend a reasonable amount of time on Tuesday nights because of your past reactions she has witnessed.”

We all know the history of this case, and Mr. Meyer wants to paint a picture of this being an unhealthy arrangement, yet Mr. Meyer agreed to this Modification in September 2001. Mr. Meyer is also presenting issues in an attempt to hurt Ms. Davis. Simon’s requests to live with Mr. Meyer occurred in summer 2002 and were addressed in his October 2002 Affidavit accompanying his Motion which was denied by Referee Moehn. Ms. Davis does not need to be harassed with this information. In addition, when Ms. Davis asks Mr. Meyer to compromise he continues to state that “Just a reminder, we initially agreed to $600 in child support. And now you get $160 more per month because of your “life change”. So please remember, that I have been flexible to your changes in your life.” Additional child support wasn’t a compromise, as Mr. Meyer now pays the state mandated minimum. He acts as if additional child support were a favor he was granting Ms. Davis, but it is the complete opposite, as it is ensuring that the minor children are entitled to the same life style they had prior to the divorce.
The incessant nagging my client is receiving from Mr. Meyer, of which I have included a small sampling of, is becoming intolerable and it hinders progress between the two parties. Please reiterate to your client that the Modification is clear and final on the issues discussed above.

Please contact me at (612) 370-0376 if you have any questions or concerns.



01 February

Always Arguing Dave

From – Thu Aug 15 22:40:48 2002
From: “David Meyer”
Subject: RE: Miriam
Date: Thu, 15 Aug 2002 22:41:34 -0500
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i’m confused that you told me on sunday pm, ‘don’t believe what the kids
say.’ but yet you bring up what they told you about drinking. no, i do not drink a
bottle of wine nightly.


—–Original Message—–
From: Michele Davis [mailto:michele@krautgrrl.com]
Sent: Tuesday, August 13, 2002 10:39 AM
To: dmeyer@bitstream.net
Cc: Jon Phillips
Subject: Miriam


After your veiled threat that Miriam could be abducted, I did a search
on Minnesota abductions. The last one was 4 years ago of a 22 year old,
and before that Jacob Wetterling. I see no reason to panic, and not let
Miriam go to Pearl, which is 3 blocks away, alone on her bike, or scooter.

Since you’re so keen on constantly criticizing “my” parenting, perhaps
you should consider what the kids say about YOU: “Dad drinks at least an
entire bottle of wine a night. He doesn’t drink scotch now, only wine,
all the time, every night.” Perhaps the level of alcohol in your
bloodstream is impairing your ability to think rationally and send me
civil emails that actually address “real” issues, not bahooey like you
not liking Miriam’s hair cut, especially after you had the audacity to
call my beautiful daughter “ugly when she has long hair.”

As Schuchman said, “Just don’t argue,” but you try to start an argument
with your accusatory and inflammatory emails. I have many “gems” of
yours in email and voice mail format, for ~4 years now. I will no longer
put up with your harassment, if you have nothing critical to convey,
please do not email or call me.


21 January

Personal Space

When we were dating my husband was unusually considerate about personal boundaries. I figured that’s because we met at work and first had a working relationship, then worked on a friendship, before we started dating. Bound to not make the first mistakes I made with my Wasband, I was much more comfortable with the whole aggressive/passove-aggressive husband stuff, and had never really encountered a combination of narcissism and passive-aggressive before, it is, um, like a big hot wind of emotion when you meet someone that greets you first, before they extend their hand.

That’s passive-aggressive. I’ve noticed since I shut my gob and started listening, that all people with subdued anger exude this steam. Blake had that steam, that underlying anger roiling underneath this blonde haired blue eyed Dolce & Gabbana spectacle wearing tight little Scando package. He’s 5’8″, approximately, and yes, they can stack shit that high. Who knew, right?

I’ve been trying to teach my husband to stop caressing my body, especially my post breast cancer implants, as he walks by, like I’m a soft curvy fleshy statue that he can’t resist touching. If I don’t see his hand coming the shock of it jolts me to distraction. I like him touching me, so it’s not that it always makes me feel one way or another, but I’ve watched myself and very rarely do I grab or cares or stroke a body part of his unless it’s his exposed hand or face, occasionally his leg if he’s sitting next to me. Yet I don’t stroke his body parts like he does to me. I believe unless I’m being silly and playful and swatting his arse or I’m being sexual and caressing his blue jeaned arse because I want to get to the front bits; I don’t really have personal space permission to grab or stroke a body part off his. I was taught to keep my hands to myself.

That’s why him wanting me to constantly stroke his beard and it now becoming a habit is disconcerting. Then I think, well, you’ll be dead soon don’t fret, yet it feels like I’m giving something away when I am lured into stroking his beard. My perceived femaleness? No, more like autonomy I guess. Reading all these articles about misogyny since the Trump allegations of sexual impropriety has been me examine my sexual encounters with my husband and by that definition of rape I’ve most definitely been raped by him. We never looked at it like that at the time. Armed with this new data we acknowledged the power that the word rape has and agreed to not touch each inappropriately unless it was part of the dance for intercourse.

As I read about the difference between men’s expectations and how they go through life and women’s, I realize how far apart we are because of the social experiment gone awry: the middle classe. Which is right behind the drug war as another failed experiment for the “white way or no way.”

06 January

Matt & Dena: Everything I Did Wrong

Hiring and firing employees isn’t just difficult, it is almost impossible. Peter made me believe that I could be friends with my interns. Chris Janda taught me the same thing before him. While Janda wandered off somewhere, and I wish him well, but he had an inner drummer that was calibrated differently than the rest of us, Peter was different. From the moment he stood tall and tree-like in my front door with his foppish blond hair and his horse teeth, he looked exactly like Scott. Peter is my crowning glory.

Hiiiyahhh, Janda screamed at the top of his lungs and do jump while extending a leg, in a Bruce Lee stance, scaring the hell out of Zack, focused on his Legos. I am laughing as I write this blog post because I’m thinking about my son, Zack. His yellow teeth he refused to brush, the hair he refused to cut, and the query of “WhatTheFuck” in his eyes, staring at Janda as he held. the. pose. For 15 seconds, no, 60, no, almost 180 seconds. Cool dude, but ugh, is what my bean counter brain was thinking.

18 December

Loft Antiques

Yesterday was a rough day. After an older woman, easily 60s with angry grey hair and a permanent scowl embedded in her pasty flesh, told me “Sure hope you don’t have a horrible accident outside.” As anyone that knows me knows I am the least passive aggressive person in Minneapolis. I am also a nice person. Now, I was always nice, but I became much nicer after that whole terminal cancer diagnosis. As I’ve written on Facebook, most of the time I’m shocked to wake up next to Jon every morning. I’m shocked to smell things. To feel my knees. To cream my face. And to run my hands over my absolutely ADORABLE Barbie body! Cute boobs and a thin waist. I’m hot. I mean, I don’t even know who I am when I look in the mirror because I am stunning. I don’t look like the Prussian by way of Stonehenge beet that I am.

At the corner of 50th and Xerxes, where you’d turn to head to Southwest, is an antique store that’s been there forever. I shopped there when Geoff and I first moved to the #southside which was actually Franklin and Lyndale. Some Googling produced this nice article, which seems accurate, except that the owners have never been nice. Loft Antiques SWJournal Article So, our brutal blonde that wished a stranger ill-will must have a story behind it.

Ahem. Here is the series of events…

I’ve a bag with me that has my wallet and car keys in it. I have my left arm snaked around my new thin chest and it’s holding the bag tight against my body, just as I’d hold it on the El, or as I check out the people on the train out of the Gare du Nord, or Euston Station. However, I am wearing a two thousand dollar German boiled wool coat with a foxy fur collar. This coat is well made, and makes me look like a member of the Russian Army. I’m wearing custom ordered fur lined Sorel’s, and a grey cashmere hat. Whatever the cost of this dish, if you look at me through my $400 purple glasses along with my white girl weave you’d have to be a moron to not know I’m good for it.

My bulbous iPhone in it’s case, along with leather lined gloves are in my coat pocket. My damn phone hits a white glass dish that was on the edge of a table. I was in a bit of a fugue state when it fell as I was looking at something and deep in thought. I’m looking for gorgeous one-of-a-kind containers of at least one gallon to make pea and I a batch of homemade laundry detergent. Prodigal Son used to call us both “tree huggers,” as if we were offended by that pejorative.

The other reason I go to antique stores is to remember. I smell Nana Wolski, and Aunt Hattie, Nana Davis, Aunt Marg, Aunt Dorothy, and more. I go to these stores to remember and to mourn. A cursory walk through an antique store usually generates income for them, and a profitable writing session for me. I never saw the dish, but I heard it break. I was mid-realizing that it was my phone and not my bag that created the mess when I felt an angry uncomfortable shift in the air. I turned around because I could feel it, like heat felt from a great distance.

Behind me 15 paces was a short angry-looking woman. Her mouth curled in disgust and the vibe in the room goes from, “Oh man, that’s broken, now we have to pay for it, geez I hope it wasn’t part of a set.” to an angry Stalin “Don’t even think about moving out of this space until I have castigated you.” vibe. Jon felt it too. I turn and say, “I broke this dish. I’m sorry. I will pay for it.”

I am waiting for acknowledgement and in the silence I count. Jon and I fight about my counting. I do it to him. After chemo I can’t distinguish time. I don’t know what is a long time or a short time any more. Although I realized yesterday that it’s also some residual trauma stuff, but regardless, I counted as my judge stood blocking the door for 32 seconds. She said, “It was your bag. Those bags cause all sorts of problems,” laconically. I said nothing, she said nothing, staunchly blocking the exit. The silence shamed me. My apology wasn’t accepted. My money wasn’t good enough for her. I was hurt. Stunned. Pained. I felt trapped. I grew overly paranoid that maybe this dish was actually some $2000 heirloom that I broke with my coat. As I said thirty two thousand in my head she spoke again in a measured tone, not angry, but cold, my nose was starting to freeze from the shade she was throwing. “It’s your bag.” No acknowledgement of the apology or the offer of payment.


It was a two-second stand-off before I bent down and looked at the price tag, scoffing, saying, “Honestly, Jon, it’s eight bucks,” and I chortle because I’ve realized that it wasn’t a bazillion dollars. I’m in an antique store because I have money issues. Hello.

I’m no longer feeling contrite or generous. I’m no longer feeling Nana Wolski and her love, and I lash out, because this is the millionth person in two weeks to treat me like absolute shite, starting with the fucking bitch of a server at Tullibee last week-end. I wave my arm at the woman, looking at Jon, “This is exactly why I can hardly wait to move to Denver. She’s the typical Minnesotan, she can’t accept an apology because she wants my pound of flesh,” as I walked towards her, my 5’9″ 150# frame, I’m sure, seemingly threatening, coming towards her blocking the door and she moved out of the way. I started up the steps grasping the railing because my Knee Replacement is giving some problems with pain.

She says, “I sure hope you don’t have a horrible accident outside.”

Jon, jonny jon jon, who never ever ever says anything rude to people said, “Hey, fuck you.”

When I asked him about it this morning, he said “Nobody is going to talk to my wife like that. Who does she think she is, after the fracture and you immobile in a wheelchair with that brace on for three months, and all that after cancer,” he wailed. And that’s the whole problem.

I may look like this healthy, certainly not 52 year old, woman who is gorgeous, and thin, with a cute bod and expensive outer wear; but really I am one step away from metastasized cancer. I’m mere stress and ill thoughts away from death. Now I just feel sad. We left the store after she said that, and I now I have to go back and drop off the $8 for the bowl/plate, whatever, because it’s the right thing to do. But like hell I’m going back without putting this out on the web. So, in the event this woman’s sentiment that she wishes me more horrors than I’ve already experienced happens and I end up in traction or worse, you’ll know why.

This song man, perfect for this blog post. Back Stabbers

I’m going to end this blog post on a positive note. Tonight we are having Kate and Zack eat with us and I’m making a Porketta from Duluth. First time for porketta, let alone a porketta from Duluth. It’s super liberating to not have many cans of anything, and can buy your meat drop shipped from a Smokehouse in Duluth, well, life is good, regardless of what happened yesterday. So, as we are off to The Galleria to get gifties for people, I leave you with a happy, optimistic song: Fleetwood Mac Makes You Smile