So I have this one good friend who has a policy: she doesn’t want to hear about your cr@p at work. I mean, she’ll listen–but she’s not hearing it. She doesn’t care. Her point is, everyone has crap at work (let’s call a spade a spade). She does too. She doesn’t need to hear it.

She will always, always talk about celebrity gossip. And she’ll also talk about husband gossip. IE, compare notes about bad behavior. She has her priorities.

This makes me think of my ongoing mantra to my husband (and many, many others): Derek Jeter. He loves his job. He’s the shortstop for his dream team, the NY Yankees. He excels at what he does. He LOVES. HIS. JOB.

We are all not Derek Jeter. Only one person is. And from there on down, the rest of us might not LOVE our jobs like him. Why am I bringing up Derek Jeter? Because if you have some foolish expectation that you are supposed to love your job, you better go hit batting practice harder, or realize it ain’t ever going to happen. Why complain? Just go with it.

So this brings me to the next logical step, from not wanting to hear about the crap at work: I’m tired of hearing how busy people are.

(Note, if you’ve gotten this far. Bit of a rant. Pack it in if you’re not in the mood.)

I am struck, lately, by how many people with whom I’m in contact, in a work capacity, are complaining about their busy-ness. They are SO busy they simply can’t (a) return a phone call or (b) review material or (c) in one memorable case, hit the head.

Here is why this is weird to me. Many, many of these people are men. They are complaining about the big projects they’ve done. They’re fussing about how just completely overwhelmed they are, how they haven’t slept for ages.

I, personally, am busy too. I: consult for 7 clients. Manage a house. Mother four girls. One of them is a baby who wants CONSTANT attention. I do this with not a ton of help. I get to the gym. I make dinner. Granted, it is literally the same dinner night after night for the four girls: noodles and chicken. Moment of clarity: ask them what the want for dinner. Answer, noodles and chicken. So I alternate grapes/corn/peas/carrots as a side dish and everyone’s feeling like a winner.

I get out from time to time. I pick up/drop off (who doesn’t). I try to hit the gym (who doesn’t). I’m busy (who cares).

See, that’s the thing. I’m busy. As my consulting partner pointed out, we are busier than anyone we know. We’re full time moms and full time workers. I am so, so not slamming men, but I doubt they are working AND providing full-time child care (disclosure: I had a babysitter 6 hours last week). But my point is the who cares. The last thing I’d do, the LAST thing, is to start whining about how busy I am. Why?

Because I feel like the automatic response would be: oh–that’s because she’s in mommyland. And she can’t handle it.

Any day, Any day, I can handle it. I just don’t fuss about it so much!! And this, I think, is why moms can make the best employees.

We’re busy. We perhaps just handle it a bit more stylishly? Or at least, with a whole lot less whining.

So that takes me back to college. I had to take this golf class. It was horrid. I hated every moment–except one day we had to watch a video. It was something like “How to play 18 holes in 10 minutes”.  Not really, but close. They said, over and over, “If you’re close to the hole, just knock it in. It doesn’t matter if you make it. Nobody cares. Putt.”. This rule applied if you were 200 feet from the hole. “Nobody cares. Putt”.

For a long, long time that was my mantra in life. “Nobody cares. Putt.” What that meant: stop sweating the small stuff. No one’s thinking about it but you–so it probably doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.

So you’re super busy. You simply can’t breathe due to all the work. How many diapers did you change while writing that report, how many times did you get up during the night to give the baby her plug, and when you started that 8am conference call, was that after you had  put 3 on the bus and were you muting the phone to play with a fourth?

No?

Nobody cares. Putt.

It has come to my attention of late that I am not the only one dealing with the following so I thought I’d share my thoughts. I have had a LOT of thoughts to share lately but no time to do the sharing, so along with all of the other guilt I carry now is the “Update the blog” guilt. Part of the issue is many of my items have to do with life at home, including my husband, who has expressly forbidden his inclusion in the blog except in terms describing him glowingly and in the best possible light. He is a good husband and a great father but nonetheless this blog does concern something a trifle annoying.

(I believe he has some sort of alert when I write about him that allows him to immediately know about it and pay attention, in a way he does not when I’m asking him to, say, fix the fridge. Since he’s home today [NOISY work from home conditions to say the least, how do couples survive who both work from home??] I will take this opportunity to say hey, if you are alerted and have read this far, can you call about the refrigerator?)

This is the thing: the going out. I’m not talking about wild nights in Vegas or even semi-wild nights at Indian Casinos. I’m talking about leaving the house without any or all of my children in some way attached, to attend a meeting or MAYBE, MAYBE have a drink with a friend. I can get away with one night a week, IF I have the kids fed, homeworked, cleaned, etc. Two nights, however, is met with mass uprising from the father and the children.

Number one. When he meets friends, which I totally don’t mind, I don’t ask him to first come home and feed/clean/homework the kids. I do it. And then when I go out…I still do it. Number two. Sometimes, sometimes I have to go out twice in a week. I mean, the upside to the round of complaining that ensues (“You are NEVER here” (lie) “You are ALWAYS out” (exaggeration) “I MIIIISSSSSSSSS You” (sweet, but I’m ALWAYS here so how can you miss me and follow up, if you miss me why are you so fresh?) is that I get so indignant about it I don’t feel one iota of guilt for gasp, taking two hours away from the house.

I got extra dirty looks, I felt, the other night when I ended up having to go to the ER after a night out to dinner with a friend. The ER was related to a stupid ongoing stomach issue but the point is, it was as if I had chosen to end my dinner by losing said dinner (that’s gross, I know, but it proves my point that no one would actually choose it) and then spending 8 hours with the fine folks at the hospital. It was like I couldn’t get sympathy (not that I was asking for it but still) for the ER BECAUSE it had been preceded by one of my many, many, many nights out.

For a while, I wasn’t allowed out without the baby, who came to all manner of restaurants and meeting places–I realized, in fact that the only time I’d been without her was two meetings with my doctor, whose town council campaign I was helping on. How WEIRD is it that my social calendar, for a year, included either my baby or my OB/GYN?

So I’m not alone in this. One friend could feel the resentful eyes of her husband from 3 floors away after she spent two nights in a row, gasp, at board meetings. Another, after heading out (with kids in bed, tucked away) hears “Must be nice”. Here’s how she reacted: she stayed out till 2:30 am at a wine bar, having an awesome time with girl friends. YES, indeed it WAS nice.