2006-09-29 @ 2:00 p.m.
Re: The sad condition of my life
So karma. Howíve you been? The kids? How are the renovations on the house in the Hamptons been going? Good? Well, my life, not so good. I have this thing where I keep making decisions and they keep turning into royal fuck-ups. I swear Iím a smart person. I was an honor roll student throughout most of school. Iím like way smarter than most homeless people and checkout clerks at Walmart. Iíd like to think I have a natural ability to subconsciously weigh out decisions and somehow get them right by sheer natural ability, but my god, the last five years, I have made some truly butt-ugly mistakes.
And rather ironically, a customer complained about her later in the day saying she was indifferent and sarcastic (but not in a fun wittykitty way) and she was all huffed out. ďMe? Indifferent? I didnít do anything wrong. I was nice to her.Ē She acts like she has a huge chip on her shoulder and yay, sheís the person who is training me...a person who is extremely sensitive to criticism and needs to be told Iím doing okay. I know the world is a big mean place and that isnít always possible, but a single, ďthat one turned out okayĒ would have super powered me into Julia Childs stratosphere. Instead I felt like a failure and kept getting worse and worse. It was like having the worst performance anxiety ever.
Plus the job is too strenuous for me physically. Lifting 25 pound things over my head is not doable. I have fibromylagia. Iím in constant physical pain...before I do anything. After? I feel like I just ran the Boston Marathon.
After work, at 9:10 (mega-witch had me cleaning everything and I was 10 minutes late getting off and then she gave me a look like I was abandoning her. Hey, I had a commitment!), I walked out to my car in the pouring rain and just sobbed. I cried for about 10-15 minutes. I am so miserable. I feel like Iíve made a huge mistake. Something that I thought was going to be fun and delightful for a company with a great reputation, has been a huge downer. And Iíll totally fess up, Iím not made for physical labor. Never have been. Iíve never had a job where physical labor has been involved. Always been an office geek, except for a brief stint in retail. Sitting on my ass is a good thing. Booya!
So I finally gathered myself. And cursed at myself. Why did I promise Iíd stop at my brotherís karaoke show in The Village.
The show was in The Village and my mom was driving down and since our relations with him are very raw and unhappy, we were doing this to try and be nice. He had bought some new equipment from Timbuktu or someplace and this was its debut. Plus....BONUS!!!!!....he had booked an Elvis Impersonator!!!! YAY!
Why, oh, why are there so many Elvis impersonators in my freakiní life?
So I get to the restaurant and nobody was there yet. I hugged Guido, perhaps cringingly and told him I had just gotten off work and was really tired and would only stay until mom got there. Naturally he didnít acknowledge anything I said. It was pretty much just, ďMe-me-me-the-me-me.MEEEE!!!Ē like it always is. My hair could be on fire and Guido would be talking about how he invented electric kleenex boxes.
My mom finally arrived about 9:45 and for the next hour and a half there were some of the most bodaciously awful karaoke singers known to mankind including the retarded guy who my brother referred to as ďBobby the Chick MagnetĒ. His singing was so horrific, that I almost thought I was getting an aneurysm and had to run into the bathroom only to discover that I had eye makeup smeared all over my eyes and globs of frosting in my hair. Iím hot, I tell you. Hot!!
And then it was time for Elvis. I know this was a direct slam to my momís Gay Elvis friend who my brother is jealous of. Why else would you hire an Elvis Impersonator at a karaoke event to sing 3 songs? The guy was super greasy looking too. Older. Black greasy hair. And when he came and took my momís hand to sing her a song (per direction from my brother), his fingernails were filthy. Ewww!!!!! Also between songs he kept mentioning all the Elvis competitions heís been in. He sang well....better than Gay Elvis, although my mom furtively whispered, ďOh, heís nowhereís as good as Gay ElvisĒ.
By then I was just looking for ways to cut my wrist with a butter knife.
Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty