2003-10-24 @ 12:49 p.m.
|Ever walk into your house from an afternoon of doing errands. Just errands. You were just driving around. Car's working ok. No body cut you off in traffic or anything, and you put the key in your front door, open it, step inside, shut the door, and scream...
Ok, maybe I had some reasons. Maybe they're hormonal. Maybe they're mentally related. Maybe they're related to the fact that everyone is stupid but you're not. Yeah, that's it. You're witty kitty...the supreme. You who can do no wrong. No that's not it. Hardly.
Boy, talk about crashing and burning so completely in one short week. And I don't even really know what its totally about. Here's a partial list of maybes.
1) On Monday I met with my CD producer. In an e-mail she had promised to pay me $100 for services rendered AND give me a free CD of our project. I get there for a meeting for something else. She wants me to lead an art class in November (not looking for any $$$ there either...just the total thrill of telling people not to SNIFF the glue while pasting pieces of paper to a collage). So she shows me the completed CD. It looks nice. But NO check. No mention of money. And then she asks me if I want to BUY one of the CDs from her. But being the wimp, I didn't forcefully mention my need to GET PAID for 900 hours of labor. No, no. I just quietly put the CD down on the table and walked away. Fruck.
2) Tuesday: Another hard one with shrinkster. Yeah, I know, I KNOW. Married Man Bad. Love makes you stupid though. I need Mr. Right Here, more than Mr. Who's Down the Road. I don't have any confidence to pursue Mr. Who's Down the Road. What if he doesn't like a wildly insecure, bipolar chick who doesn't like herself? We're a very special breed ya know. Is there anyone out there who likes us?
3) Wednesday: I am in week two of withdrawing from my much hated DBT class, but I am feeling a great deal of guilt and anxiety about calling the head of the mgmt. place each week to cancel. She speaks to me in this calm, assuring voice telling me I'm capable of making good decisions and have always been reliable, but I should give the class a second chance. Don't do that. I find Voices of Reason very confusing. I'm also afraid of running into the wingo ringo-nose chick, who I can't stand, in the building where I have to go several times a month. I'm struggling with what's worse? Dealing with Ms. My Life is Worse Than the Towering Inferno for 2 hours a week or the guilt of disappointing the head of the place who helps me out. I feel like a total loser.
4) Thursday: Under much duress I went to a senior citizen theatrical performance with my aunt last night. I was originally scheduled to go with my mother, but she's been really sick. I did not want to go, but the guilt train was barreling down on me, and when you see a bright light in a dark tunnel, you had better run. So it was two hours with my Aunt, who I do love and adore, but she is such a perfectionist, every time a senior performer hit a sour note, she had to point it out and when she didn't I could feel her body language telling me the same thing. I was just glad we made it through the performance without Harold or Betty dying on stage... I mean literally.
5). Friday: Saw the Friday shrink today. He had to ask me a most odd question. He asked me if I would ever ask the Married Guy to make me "come" during a massage. Huh? I'm not exactly up on all my sexual vernacular. I guess "come" is "orgasm", right? I was actually embarrassed by this line of questioning. Maybe if I was manic I would have come up with some snappy "come"-back, but I'm not. I feel like drinking a glass milkshake today.
Things only got more fun when I headed over to the "art" show, and I use the term lightly. I was actually scared I would run into the Ring-Nose chick. I was slinking up and down the hallways, even climbing three flights of stairs because I knew, the Titanic of Pain, would never go that way.
The art show was in a large conference room and the only thing I could compare it to was a church bazaar. Or in some cases. Bizarre. The stuff was total crap. Yarn hook rugs of Tweetie Bird. Plastic bead bracelets. Pencil drawings that I could have done when I was eight. Country folk art ducks. Needlepoint that said LOVE. Some people were selling stuff, like plastic earrings. But the people selling, unlike your average craft show matrons, looked more like subjects from a Diane Arbus photo shoot.
My photos and collage were stuck in the corner as soon as you walked in. Like where the light switch would be. It was kind of a strange location. The woman who put the show together said they were unable to hang the collage because of a faulty hook.
I really don't know what I was expecting. And my reaction to it is way out of line. I guess I'm really disappointed. And I'm glad I didn't drag anyone in to see it. What made it particularly disappointing was the fact that there was another show across town for other disabled people that had been put together with a big government grant. And had been hung like a museum expo and they had a nice magazine promoting it, which was really slick and there had been a gala for it. And I wanted to be in that one. But I had missed the deadline last Spring because I had diverticulitis.
Instead I got to be in this one, with the Diane Arbus nut-nuts, and a tray of cookies, and an ink jet printed parchment saying I had participated in the "First Annual yada yada..." with my name spelled wrong.
So I guess coming in my door today and screaming, "Fuck" was somewhat warranted. Or maybe not. Who knows. I could really use some drugs. Now when I say drugs I don't mean uppers or downers, I merely mean chocolate.
So what am I doing this evening? Piano bar with Betty and Harold (whoever they are). Sour notes, as are sour weeks, are acceptable, as long as you can sing Gershwin and wish weeks like this into fucking oblivion.
Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty