1. A Peek at The Perfect Voice
RUBY
“Oh My God, Trudie, I just can’t do it anymore! I’m so tired of being disrespected and being taken advantage of by asshole bosses.”
My poor friend sat by while I mourned yet another epic work failure. Trudie passed me a third glass of wine. “Come on,” she said, “don’t give up yet.”
I was trying to figure out where my life went sideways. I couldn’t believe I was back living in my parents’ suburbia home in the Midwest after another dismal attempt at “adulting.” This most recent marketing position was a step outside my comfort zone, but once again, I was let go for some contrived reason.
I racked my brain trying to find a thread that connected the last two positions I’ve held and lost. All I knew was my ideas and contributions were recognized and praised by my immediate supervisor and that both misogynistic bosses thanked me for my ideas, took credit for the projects’ success, and then “unfortunately” let me go.
As per usual, security marched me over to Human Resources to sign some papers and hear a “good-bye/good-luck” scripted speech. “We don’t want to get into the ‘weeds,’” the HR rep stuttered out. Weeds? What the hell is that? Does that mean my boss was threatened by me? That’s crap!
Disgusted with corporate bullshit and my lack of control in the world, I stormed out of the HR office carrying my one box of pictures, a “No Hablo El Stupido” coffee mug, my Groot bobblehead, and the sock monkey plush that Trudie gave me when I landed the job.
Nearing the front reception desk, I heard mumblings of why I was let go from Dumb and Dumber, the two bimbos that sat there every day, filing their nails and batting their eyes at every Y chromosome they encountered, instead of doing their fucking jobs.
“I heard she slept with her boss,” Dumb said to Dumber.
“OMG! I overheard she was leaking company secrets to our competitors,” Dumber said to Dumb.
Whipping around to face the reception counter, I screamed “FUCK YOU! I’ve heard you’re both raving bitches, but I’m not talking behind your backs!” at the two receptionists who loved to see one of their own fail. “Or…maybe…again, my jackass boss stole my work and passed it off as his own! I’m through with this bullshit! Perhaps you two lackeys should stop sucking your bosses’ dicks to get ahead.”
I was out of control and these girls were in the line of my wrath. Too fucking bad! Two years down the tubes, AGAIN! Christ, why can’t women have great ideas and get recognized for their contributions instead of their male bosses stealing their work? UGH!
Placing my wineglass on my whitewashed nightstand covered with want ads and candy wrappers, I rolled onto my back in defeat. My fluffy white duvet with Madonna’s Vogue album cover emblazoned on it flattened under my weight.
“Why does this keep happening to me?” I moaned as I hung my head off the side of my childhood bed.
I had been lucky as a kid. When I turned thirteen, my mom fought hard with my dad to get me a full-sized bed. “My baby Girl is growing up and needs a Big Girl Bed.” Big Girl, indeed! Now look at me, crying like a baby and pity-drinking wine and scarfing down Oreos, trying to pick up the crumbled cookies of my life (and the crumbs in my ample cleavage and bedsheets.)
I had become a successful independent event planner even though I kind of fell into after helping a friend out at her wedding. I had a different degree out of college, but not a vision of where I wanted to go and what I wanted to do with my life, so I pulled my resources together and became the Go To Girl Assistant, LLC.” I was the master of my domain. From there, I spun off into work as an executive assistant. I helped one long-term client for three years before I decided to work for another organization. My talents were praised and respected by my clients, and if I could have made enough money to move out of my parents’ home, I would have kept that career. Hence, the recent decision to stay put in the safety of my parent’s home while I got settled into a long-term career.
Doing her best to offer support, Trudie, my best friend from college, had come over to shore me up. Lying alongside me, she propped herself up on her elbows with her cleavage pressed into Madonna’s nose, closed her eyes, and sighed. She knew I needed to keep venting this out.
“Listen, Trudie. You know my parents are the best. They have always supported everything I’ve tried. They were the ones who shook the cowbell at my marching band shows, brought flowers to my recitals, and called the local newspaper to do an article about the beautiful weddings I did down on the Detroit River. But even my wonderful parents only have so much patience with me. I’m twenty-eight years old and if I have to hear, ‘we know you’re doing your best, Ruby, but…,’ one more time, I’m going to scream!”
When my dad’s eyes drooped after hearing that my best-laid plans had gone south, a piece of my heart died. My mom even started to leave magazine and newspapers clippings for job opportunities around. Subtle, and a little passive-aggressive, I’d say, but I knew she did it out of love.
I saw some pictures and notes she made about turning my bedroom into her dream crafting space while looking for some sheet music a few days ago. Soft blue curtains with tiny little cherries, white IKEA storage cubes, and with a high-end sewing area were not going to happen until I moved out for good, which made my heart hurt. Again, sorry to disappoint you, Mom.
At breakfast this morning, my dad sat down at our worn maple kitchen table with his favorite hazelnut coffee in the “World’s Best Dad” mug I gave him in third grade and a copy of the Detroit Free Press. As he took his first sip, he looked up at me and let out a breath. Yeah, I knew what was coming.
“Ya know, Ruby, your brother could use a little help at his accounting firm. Why don’t you give him a call?” My Dad turned slowly in his seat, and reaching for me, pulled me into his barrel chest, covered with his softest flannel shirt. I gazed over his broad shoulder and fought back the tears of yet another failure. His words sounded like, “See how well your brother is doing? Why can’t you be more like him?” Stepping away with leaky eyes and an attempt at a smile, I fled upstairs to my room. I wasn’t sure how much lower my ego could go. Didn’t Dad know that I’m a creative person and Doug was more traditional and linear? I can’t fit my square-peg self in a round hole any more than he can feel nuance. Why can’t my parents see that?
Trudie sat up, arranged her legs crisscross style, and grabbed her wine off the nightstand. Do you know that look that a mama bear gives to a predator when her baby is in jeopardy? It has nothing on Trudie.
“All of those other careers have made you what you are today, Ruby,” she soothed. “You loved being an event planner. You got to use all your creative juices, and it forced you to be organized. Your attention to detail is off the charts.” She toasted into the air, spilling some wine on my comforter. Thank goodness it was a pinot grigio.
Trudie continued animatedly, “You were a President’s Club saleswoman for two years, proving you are amazing at negotiating and persuading clients to buy whatever you were selling.” She cocked her head to the side, giving me puppy dog eyes and then looked at the empty bottle. “Maybe we should switch to the hard stuff instead of opening another bottle of wine?” She just wanted to get me wasted so I could forget my troubles. Not a bad idea.
I looked around my room and took in the awards and ribbons of my previously happy life. Trophies dusted with time, pictures of me and my bestie making glorious music, me on piano, her singing. I saw playbills from a high school performance of TheMusic Man, and thanks to my mom, my acceptance letter to attend a distinguished music school in Michigan. In retrospect, I should have known that my above-average abilities would only take me so far.
Maybe I had needed to take an extra “beat” when I chose to be a piano performance major? That probably would have been a better financial decision. But my high school senior recital and college auditions were amazing. I played an intricate Haydn Piano Sonata in F Major and a deeply moving Chopin Mazurka in A Minor, and I felt so accomplished and proud of the final product. I fantasized that I was destined to become another Horowitz or Cliburn.
These pieces were game-changers for me. I hadn’t played them in over two years, but when I heard the music, I was still deeply moved. Perhaps poetry in motion wasn’t the best way to describe how I felt; maybe “the most erotic love-making you can think of” would fit the bill. Which reminds me, I really need to get laid!
“I remember your audition, Ruby. You were so jubilant, confident, and proud of all the hard work you put in. I can’t remember you feeling that way about anything since then. What happened to that girl?” Trudie asked, as she licked her fingers to swipe the last Oreo crumbs out of the package.
Good question.Where did that girl go? I failed as a music major. I changed to business management, but couldn’t get through statistics and finance. What was I supposed to do after failing two majors by my senior year, leaving me without a chance in hell of graduating in four years? Oh, and guess who was still paying for these “life lessons?” ME! I was drowning.
I sounded like a whiny bitch, but I was twenty-one years old and had no future to look forward to. I felt like a loser in my parents’ eyes, although they’d never say that out loud, and I felt like a loser in mine because I kept changing my mind about a career. The only thing I had going for me was my resilience.
“Come on, Ruby! Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and go find another degree to get the hell out of school,” was my daily mantra.
So, I did what I should have done after my freshman year—I went to a guidance counselor. It was like seeing an accountant. You pushed all your receipts (credits) in front of them and they would tell you what your net worth was. Well, good news! Not only did I have enough credits for a piano and voice minor, but I also had enough credits for a management minor, too. Yay me! Except you can’t graduate with three minors.
Suffice it to say, I found an area of study where I excelled and graduated with a bachelor of fine and applied arts with an emphasis in communications—on the five-year plan. Finally, I had a degree, (and only $17,000 in debt). More importantly, I could move on to the next chapter of my life! Or home, as the case may be.
Crap! By the way, how does one monetize communications?