 |
2004-11-29 @ 9:52 p.m. |
It was really hard getting out of bed this morning for my meeting because I had gotten to bed so late (around 2:30). Plus my fibromylagia is hurting and burning like a bitch. I guess I�ve made the decision that when I get paid on Thursday, I am going to seek out a new masseuse and get a half hour massage some place. Its now been close to two months since I�ve had a massage with Married Guy and my body is screaming with pain. I�ve run out of my heavy duty pain pills. I�ve run out of muscle relaxants. And sitting in the YMCA�s whirlpool for 15 minute just isn�t doing it for me. I can barely move and I�m not getting any kind of refreshing sleep. I need some relief. So poverty be damned, I�m getting a massage! Had my usual pre-meeting mini-panic attack I get every week, but since the adoring lesbian girl was out sick today, (and she was really part of my anxiety coming into the office today), the meeting was okay. �J� gave me, I guess, nice comments about my participation as co-facilitator in Saturday�s group. He said I came in and �wiggled and giggled�. Really? Me? Wiggling and giggling? Funny, I don�t remember that part. I don�t think I have giggled since 1972 when I was 14. Must have been my evil twin. My boss then grumped at people for not taking me or the other new hire out with them so that we can get experience. The other guy has got me beat though, because he�s been out three times. I�ve been there a month and have only been out once. My people either don�t show up or nobody asks me. I�m starting to feel like a freakin� wall flower. So this young twenty something body builder guy finally said he was going out right after a meeting to meet one of his clients, and then he added, �Unless you�re afraid we�re going to hit on you.� Everyone laughed. Well, I wasn�t until you said that. I didn�t look over at my boss, because I have told her I don�t want any male clients once she starts assigning people to me, because of several bad experiences I�ve had with men in the last year (Zenshrink and the Nanny Guy). But I was just the usual good sport that I am at work, and said, �No problem!� I did sit there and worry for the rest of the meeting about going out in some guys car I don�t really know and going to a mental institution and picking up another guy and then being alone with them. Once in the car though, he was very business-like which was good, but then when we got to the mental institution, instead of the guy waiting for us out front, we had to go in. EEP. I�ve been in the hospital twice for mental illness, but both times it was at a nice quiet place which was like a Holiday Inn with meds. This place though was large, noisy and literally, wall to wall people...sitting, standing, running through the hallways, yelling, squatting on chairs, curled up on the floors. It was really scary to me. And my, what a great motivation not to get mentally ill again!! At least the kind that would put me in a hospital like that. I remember �A� threatened that once. He said, �You�ll end up at ********� and I was like (shiver) �ok, I�ll work on things.� So I kept very close to my co-worker who walked through the halls like he knew them. He finally found his client out on a back patio smoking. He was a young kid about 20. We were introduced and the first thing he said to me was, �Your eyes are really blue, are you Irish?� I told him I was, and we seemed to form an instant bond (I guess because he was Irish too. Imagine...finding an Irish person in a mental institution. How unusual.) We were soon whipping up the highway to eat at the yuppie grocery store deli. The kid wanted to listen to some heavy metal music and my co-worker had to make sure it was okay with me, his rather �elderly� car-mate....you know since I probably only listen to Lawrence Welk and Arthur Godfrey. I said no problem. I told him when I�m in a bad mood, I�ll frequently turn up heavy metal music in my car and engage in road rage. Ok, I didn�t tell him about the road rage part, but hey, I�m sure that would have upped my coolness factor about 10 points. And then I started noticing something about my body building buddy. He was a nice guy and all, but he kept ending sentences with phrases like, �girls can�t do that� or �girls aren�t as strong.� And I�m going to myself �What�cho talkin� about Willis?� Girls aren�t as strong? Girls can�t do that? Yeah, he may have a lot of muscles, but can he survive 10 days of PMS without killing anyone? When we got to the restaurant I wanted to get Chinese food. He thought I was getting a sub sandwich. He was worried I was going to go over our budget. It was $6/each. Chinese food was $6.99/lb. I don�t know how much he was expecting me to eat. A pound? I assured him that I ate Chinese food alot but it usually only cost $2-$3, He still seemed nervous though. So him and the client went and got their subs and I went to get some vegetarian lo-mein and rice and came back and had the clerk weigh it and total the bill. All three of us, only cost $14.32 with drinks. When we got back to the table he looked at my plate and started grinning. �I can�t believe how little you got! Is that enough?� He then dug out the receipt and looked to see that my food had only totalled $2.22. He started laughing. Me: �I told you!� So guys on the Internet, who want to date the wittykitty...see, I am a cheap date. Afterwards it was decided we would go bowling. How�s that for a cool job? Free food and a trip to the bowling alley. How many of you get to go bowling during your work day? I was a little worried about bowling though because 1) I was in a lot of physical pain, but I had taken two Aleves before I left the office 2) I haven�t bowled since 1975 (in high school), two years before my co-worker was even born. We stopped off at the Strike �N Spare. What a clever name. I wonder who thought of that? Probably the same person who named my laundromat The Spin Cycle. It�s actually a place of great reverence in our family, believe it or not. I�ve never been in there personally, since I grew up in California, but my family has been bowling there for two generations. My aunt and uncle had bowled there in a couples league for at least 25 years. And then my grandfather had bowled there for like 40 years. They had even given him a special plaque inscribed with his nickname �Pops� when he retired from bowling in the 70�s. So I felt strangely welcome as soon as I went in. I also really liked the cool, retro bowling shoes. Can I have some? How cool would I be walking around in red and black bowling shoes? Finding a ball was a little more difficult. With my pain factor, I definitely had to look for the lightest ball possible. But my co-worker, was very into, making everything run smoothly and quickly, as in don�t dawdle witty, so I finally grabbed this really pretty purple marblely 10 pound ball and was set to go. He also had me first on the roster to go, so I stepped up to the line to throw. I figured they were probably waiting for me to throw a gutterball, but as I was standing there, I suddenly thought about my grandfather. He had probably stood on this lane at some point. So I said his name aloud to myself and then threw the ball and knocked down 7 pins! Pretty damn good for somebody who hasn�t thrown a bowling ball since two years before those guys were born! I didn�t get the spare, but who cares. So then they started bowling. The kid from the institution started out good, but then started to crumble about half way through, throwing gutterball after gutterball. I felt bad for him, but I encouraged him every chance I got. Muscle-boy from work, was a little better. He got one strike and a couple of spares. He also felt the need to tell me how to bowl when I first started. I�m one of those people who just walks up to the line and drops the ball like dead weight and then it rolls like 1.6 miles per hour and hits the pins in slow motion. Well, he seemed to think I should take 3-4 running steps and toss the ball like I�m tossing an Olympic discus. Yeah right. I just barely got this walking thing down, and now you want me to run and throw a heavy object simultaneously? So everytime I got up to bowl, I invoked my grandfather�s name. My co-worker finished his game with a score of 85, since he bowled alone on his own lane. (See, we won�t exactly be going out for professional bowling leagues anytime soon). When I looked up at my score board, I was on the 8th frame and had 82. Man, I better not fuck up. I can�t let the muscle twerp, who thinks girls aren�t strong win. No way. So I got up to the bowling line and said, �Grandpa, I know you probably would have agreed with that guy, that men are stronger, and women are weaker, but could you help me out here? I really need to do something spectacular. I know I have gotten several gutterballs. And I hate gutterballs. But I know I have it in me. I have your DNA. And you were always the best bowler. They gave you that plaque. Remember? It said �We love you �Pops�. So can you help?� I knew the guys were waiting for me, so I finally took aim and threw the ball. It rolled with determination. It rolled slowly. But it also rolled right down the middle of the fucking lane, and knocked down every last pin. YEAH BABY!! STRIKE!!! I jumped up and down like a little girl. They laughed at me, although I think the muscle-boy was secretly distressed. Beat by a girl. Beat by an �elderly� girl. Even worse. Sigh. I then walked off the lane and said, �Girls rule!� Yeah, that�s right, tell the guy who�s giving you a ride back to the office, your true feelings. He just sort of said we had to finish up and get going, so our client rolled his last ball, which was of the gutter persuasion. I only hit 3 pins on my last ball, but who cares. 95 seemed like a good score to me. And it was like WAY BETTER than muscle boy�s 85. Don�t gloat now, witty . . . . . . . . . (whisper) girls rule :-) Older Entries |
Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty |
>