Is There a Career after Twittercide?

I did it. I should have stopped and counted to a hundred before I hit Send, but I didn’t.

No; not me. I committed career suicide at a time when I most need to become independent. Driven by anger and desperation, I hit Tweet.

It’s just been one of those years. The eighteenth year of a crumbling marriage. In spite of working at a really good company, I make less income, much less, than I need to support myself, but I certainly can’t leave in the middle of a collapsing economy. Which means that I can’t leave my Insignificant Other, either. At the time I wrote this, I was, and may still be—stay tuned—stuck living in a house with a man whose newest BFF’s are a parolee fresh out of prison, and a hooker named Trixie.

And this was after the stress from The Roommate. First, my Insignificant Other bought a Harley. Then he lost two jobs. Unemployed for five months, he moved a friend of his in to cut our costs. Even without his bullying and manipulating, I had to consent if I didn’t want to be evicted.

The Roommate was about twenty-two, 6’2”, and had a Mohawk that lay across his head like a limp penis. He displayed tattoos of game controls on his arms, and wore an earring in each ear. A third dangled from his lip and nested in his goatee. I couldn’t believe he’d once had a job delivering flowers or fruit baskets or something. If I were home alone and saw him on the other side of the peephole, I’d yell through the door to just leave it on the porch, while I stood behind it wetting my pants with laughter at his fugliness. And honestly, you know, I would be very nervous about opening that door. He was like a creep from a slice & dice movie. Would you like it if that guy and his pet fleas were sleeping in the bedroom next to yours?

I like to think it was my witty sarcasm that drove him away, but it could have been that he didn’t have the money he left owing like a bad cliché. At least he was gone. I put a curb alert on Craigslist for his forgotten laundry. I’m colorful that way.

Soon afterward, my husband went to withdraw cash from his bank account to pay his share of the rent—because things are “yours” and “mine” now—and there was no money. It was when he showed me his bank statement to prove he’d once had some, I suppose, that I noticed the $30 lunches at a Mexican grill every Thursday. And when I said, “Oh, no you dint,” he stood there swearing that he never set foot in the place. As a matter of fact, he wasn’t even in the state at the time.

The bank might make one mistake, but they don’t make the same mistake every Thursday, which also happens to be his payday, at a grill specializing in his favorite food, exactly one mile from his place of employment. Someone I confided in said, “Go there. Follow him.” Really, I’m not that type. I didn’t need more proof. I didn’t want a bunch of drama. Besides, I didn’t have the gas. I just stuffed it.

Was it a week after that?—time flies when you’re freaking out—that the man from the gas company came to disconnect the service? When I called with my credit card to stop the disconnect, I learned the bill hadn’t been paid for six months. Six months. I wondered what took them so long. I couldn’t pay the whole thing, because, remember, I work at that really good company where I don’t make enough income to support myself, but certainly can’t leave in the middle of a collapsing economy. So the following month, they cut the gas off on a Monday, the water off on a Wednesday, and the Internet connection off on a Thursday. The saving grace was that I was e-filing Insignificant Other’s taxes for him at the time. He immediately went down and paid the bill, but we had no heat or hot water for about a month.  God bless the IRS clerk who found I’d shortchanged myself. Seriously.

It was at about this point that a former co-worker, one married to a doctor, one whose wife just had their first child, one who kept asking me to meet him for a drink, sent a private message and asked me how things were. I made my first mistake by telling him. A week went by and he didn’t reply. Then I made my second mistake. I twittered that if you don’t want to know how I am, don’t ask. And I detonated an f-bomb.

One of the people who could very well influence a hiring decision in my future follows me on Twitter. But I just didn’t care. I needed that immediate pain relief. Politicians, AIG, and celebrities screw up in public all the time. They say they’re sorry, and everyone forgives and moves on. Will there be a career for me after Twittercide? I’ll be finding out in the near future.


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One Response to “Is There a Career after Twittercide?”

  1. Power Plays and Little Pricks « Colorful That Way Says:

    […] IO paid the rent. By that, I mean that he took the check over to the landlord’s house and gave it to him. In their eyes—and this is another example of how men deduce matters in their own little minds—by signing that check, IO provided all the funds to cover it. Now during the two years of my unemployment, that is true, but otherwise, I don’t think either man has any concept of community property. I may not have separated a set amount out of my paychecks and specifically said, “this is for the rent” (or utilities, which is another thing IO “paid”), while placing it in his greedy little hands, but I contributed every cent of my income to the household. At that time, my check was still going into the same bank account that his was deposited in. Later, when he at first took my name off the checks, then later opened his own checking account, I bought the groceries, toiletries, detergents, trash bags, toilet paper (priced Charmin lately—the only kind IO would wipe his delicate tush with?) medications, pet food, cat litter, garden seedlings, and all the other “invisible” items it takes to run a home. Believe me, I bought quite a lot of beer, and I can’t stand the stuff. In that original lease, there was a three-day grace period for when the rent had to be paid, and IO used it every time. And no, he has not always paid it within that three days. […]

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