2004-09-21 @ 11:59 p.m.
While most cats just lay around and sleep and poop and make odd noises when they want to eat, not my cat. My cat, Guardcat, is exceptional. Two mornings ago when we were in bed I started noticing that Bear Bear, my sleepmate, was having some kind of discomfort. Now Bear Bear doesnít have a mouth. Heís a stuffed animal. But he started to point at his chest...kinda like my mother does when sheís faking heart attacks for attention. And thatís when Guardcat leapt into action, doing what I guess, amounted to Cat CPR.
I watched in both shock and awe. Here was my cat giving my teddy bear CPR on the edge of the bed. I mean, who knew that this noisy lump of fur was good for something besides stinking up the house with her cat box? I now realize why I couldnít find her sometimes when I got home. EMT training.
Good kitty! :-)
So yesterday morning around 10 a.m. I got a phone call. A call Iíve been waiting for since the end of July. A call for a job interview for the mentoring position. Finally! The woman was a little worried about asking me if I could come that afternoon at 4.
Hmmm, let me see..Me: looking through my datebook for the entire months of September, October, November, December through 2010. Nope. Donít have anything at 4...ever. I was both thrilled and then stressed. A job interview. Gulp. My last one with the Nanny Guy was pretty much a non-interview. It was more like a look-at-me-Iím-rich-and-I-have-a-big-house thingie. I guess I should have gotten a clue when he never once asked me ďDo you like children?Ē or ďAre you a serial killer?Ē
I knew I had to do something productive between 10-4, otherwise I would sit and obsess about how I was going to fuck things up, so I did my favorite thing. LAUNDRY! And I once again, offered my laundering services to my mother who is still finding large bags of unwashed clothes stuffed in closets from like 4 years ago.
Theyíre not caulking, mom, theyíre clothing.
She even entrusted me with her panties. Sheís never done that before. Mommy panties. And now as I just wrote that, I suddenly feel strangely unclean. ďAĒ?
But, as usual, the laundry took longer than I thought, and suddenly it was almost 2:45 and I had to race home and take a quick shower and wash my hair. Now I have long hair. Iím not sure what I was thinking. Hair washing 3:00 p.m. Job interview 4:00 p.m. Yikes!
Plus I had to find one of my resumes. I havenít had a use for a resume in almost 4 years. And could I find the frickiní thing? Here I was heading into a job interview without a resume and I started totally ripping my house apart. I looked like Jack Lemmon in ďDays of Wine and RosesĒ when heís trying to find a bottle of booze he had hidden in a greenhouse. I tore through all my files in the desk. I looked in storage bins under my bed. I looked in my kitchen hutch. I then spotted a plastic storage box under my kitchen table. It was full of files. It had to be there. Unfortunately, it was pretty much hidden by a chair full of junk so I cautiously pulled it out.
And then THEY caught me. A cloud of gnats. And then I realized why Iíve had a severe gnat problem for the last month. Its not a body in the basement as previously thought, but a bag of grapes, which must have slipped under the table when I was putting my groceries away. The bag was hung up on the files...rotting. And bug-filled. Yark.
3:28 p.m. I have to leave for my job interview in like two minutes. Great time for a crisis. So I gingerly picked up the bag, which was now just lumpy brown goo, and ran out the door to the garbage can in a cloud of swirling gnat.
And to think, usually before job interviews, Iím just looking in the mirror, trying not to feel like a loser and listening to ďGod I Hope I Get ItĒ from ďA Chorus LineĒ.
But I got to the interview early of course. Thatís my M.O. Arrive early and you will be a success! I then filled out an application. Unfortunately without my resume, I could only guess at the dates employed. And forget about the phone numbers. I couldnít even come up with the phone numbers of the people I was using as references.
And since Iím not talking to Married Guy at the moment, I didnít think I better put his name on my application. Yet without him, I have no one to put there. No personal references. Just references from shrinks and people in support groups. In other words, people who have seen me cry and fall apart on a weekly basis. Yay!
ďYeah, witty is great. But she does cry alot and blame her mother.Ē
I also got a little shock when the woman came and got me for the interview. It wasnít just her. There were THREE people interviewing me. Cripes. Now I have to worry about THREE people loving me, rejecting me and then loving me again.
The interview went fairly well. (thanks Clonopin). My main problem was getting lost when I was talking. Itís called Ambien-Brain. Theyíd ask a question like ďIf you were mentoring someone and they told you they wanted to be a psychiatrist, what would you do?Ē
Laugh? Well no, most of the people Iíd be mentoring would be nearly homeless, trapped in a broken mental health system, low income, and possibly a little delusional. Of course, I wanted to say, ďSo do you want to be a psychiatrist, or do you only want to play one on TV?ď
heh, heh. (ahem) OK, I didnít really say that. Just kidding. Iíd probably just hit them up for some clonopin.
But I was gracious as possible, and even made them laugh on several occasions (I AM the wittykitty after all). And they seemed to like me. They really liked me. Gee, why do I suddenly feel like Sally Field giving an acceptance speech?
Unfortunately I have to wait until mid-October to hear whether Iím hired. Iím up against 9-10 people. Other people like me. People, who themselves are being helped by a social service agency. I was a little disappointed about the long wait. Iím broke NOW. I need income NOW. But I guess Iíll have to wait. Snerts!
But the woman I interviewed with is in charge of an art show at the agency in October. SCORE! I know I will be bringing in a few art pieces for that show. I remember last yearís show. I had been all excited about exhibiting work at my first ďartĒ show (that was before my current Art Renaissance Period. Last year I just entered a photo). Well, when I got there, all the artwork hung on the walls in the large conference room was, in a word, disappointingly amateurish. Not that Iím Diego Rivera or anything. But my photo really stood out really nicely, although, for unknown reasons, they had hung it over the light switchplate as soon as you entered the room, so a lot of people walked by it and perhaps never even saw it. I had been disappointed about that.
But this year, I plan to absolutely kick ass. Iíll have like a whole wall with my work, if I could only find a cheap source of frames. Like free. And of course, having work in the show, will also put me in contact with my new possible boss again, and how could that not be good news?
Can we have a ďthanka Jesus!Ē
So I saw the ever intriguing ďAĒ this morning. He offered to do a role play with me, but we mainly ended up talking about me not being so fearful around the male species. I told him about all the things I had done over the last week (art class, the Board Meeting, the hippy-de-festival) and how I tried to throw myself into the path of some eligible gentlemen. Tried, being the operative word here.
But I just canít seem to let my loveliness out. ďAĒ again had to tell me, all that I have going for me, like being nice looking (Did he say that? Or am I just being delusional? Canít remember, but weíll keep it on the list, so I can remember that it might possibly be true), funny (OK, Iíll give that one to him), intelligent (Ummm, Cat. C-A-T. Yup, and I can spell too!), able to talk to people (whatíchu talkiní about Willis??) and I think he said Fun. Although only under the penalty of death.
And then he brought out the Match.com guns. Damn. He does this about every 2-3 months. Try to convince me to answer ads from Match.com. Match.com....Iíd rather go on ďFear FactorĒ and eat a bag full of gnat-infested, rotting grapes, than answer an ad on Match.com. I mean, I saw first hand, what Match.com had to offer.
1). The Nanny Guy, for instance, slobbering all over his computer keyboard, 3 months after his wife died, looking for cyber fuck buddies.
Ok, its only one example, but its a helluva spooky one. I could very well get a guy like Nanny Guy. And thatís about on par with those horrific movies you see in Traffic School, the ďDonít do this (answer a Match.com ad), or this (a decapitated head hanging off a fender) will happenĒ one. Okay, okay, Iím convinced!
So I never went to Married Guyís today for kidletís music lesson. He usually calls to see what time Iím coming over, but nothing today. I guess its really my fault, because I never answered his e-mail last Monday. Iíve just been too angry to do so, fearing that I would say something really stupid and inflammatory about wifie. So I've been sitting here tonight wondering whether our friendship has ended and I didnít get the MEMO or what? Not really sure. Weíve had these before, but it still makes my heart ache. A lot. Iím so stupid for being in love with a married man. stupidstupidstupid.
And then I just realized something else really stupid. I mean more than being in love with married men. Yesterday for my job interview, I wore this pink cotton sundress which is very comfy and flowing. Last night, my house was a little cold, because the Eye-talian landlord still hasnít turned on the furnace yet, so I just left on my dress, minus the bra which I had taken off through the sleeve, to sleep in. Its very soft, like a nightgown.
This morning I was going to change into my jeans for ďAĒs appointment, but I just left on the dress. Minus the undergarments.
Well, tonight when I went to put on my real nightgown, I made the most amazing discovery. Iíve had my dress on backwards since yesterday. For my job interview. For my appointment with ďAĒ. For my stroll through the yuppie grocery store where I watch boys. Iíve been wearing my fucking dress backwards for the last 30 hours.
Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty