2005-06-10 @ 11:00 p.m.
”WANTED: Tall, well-toned, hunky man with excellent eye-hand coordination and the ability to anticipate my every need and to meet it with a combination of willingness, enthusiasm and a certain degree of athleticism. Apply at: *** ********* Dr., ************, NY”
My sMatch.com ad? Hell, no! I just want some guy to follow me around and fan me, since its so freakin’ hot outside.
Last summer we had exactly one day where it went over 90 degrees. This summer, its only June 10th, and we’ve already had 4 days over 90 degrees. Fruck! Not a good sign, especially when you hate the heat and humidity!
But I guess if you know any guy who really wants to apply for that position..you know, somebody to treat me like the princess my inner goddess says I already am, send him on over. Because man, I am such a potential trophy wife. Maybe not the traditional trophy wife, but perhaps the trophy wife of some alternative, holistic, hippie guy millionaire who sells special healing herbs/pilate tapes/Cabala training/tattoos to movie stars in L.A.
See, I’m just on the wrong coast. Damn.
So...the heat! Yarg! And I have an air conditioner in my closet. And I even mentioned it to “J” the married guy at work yesterday and he was all over, coming over to the wittykitty bedroom area and inserting the air cooling unit. I really wanted him to, but 1) “*)(#*&@#” is what “A” would say if I told him I was inviting married men into my bedroom 2) I wasn’t sure if I had done my dishes and I didn’t want a co-worker to think I’m a total slob. And 3) I wasn’t sure if all the sex toys were safely put away, and god knows I wouldn’t want “J” to come into my bedroom and see some extremely large stray vibrator sitting upright on my computer desk. Gah! How would I explain it? I suppose I could tell him, it was an experimental satellite dish, designed for vertical transmissions.
So my air conditioner is still in the closet (along with Tom Cruise) and I’m sitting here making like a human sauna.
Fortunately the last couple of days, I’ve had an excuse to be at my air conditioned office for vast expanses of time. I’m usually only there on Mondays for our weekly meetings and then just occasionally if I’m co-facilitating a group. But yesterday I had an 8 hour day because of a training session. Yay! Plus they fed us. Yay! Cookies and cake. Yay! Plus it was air conditioned. Yay! Well, sorta. The meeting was on the top floor of the building and even though we have A/C, by mid-afternoon, it was pretty damn hot in that room. But not nearly as hot as outside. Plus there were cookies and cake. Yay!! Oh, I said that one already.
The training was good though. It had to do with treating mentally ill people with dignity and not talking down to them like they’re ca-ca. And I’m all for that. Too many times people are pigeon-holed just because they have an illness and aren’t given a chance for a happy or meaningful life. Instead they are just sort of kicked to the curb like they don’t matter. I get really tired of the mentally ill label. I’m so much more than that. If I were making up a list of things that I am, bipolar would be about 10th or 11th on the list. I’m not defined by my illness, it just happens to be something that transpired when I was in high school. I still managed to live a productive life up until about 4 years ago. I always worked full time. Paid taxes. Took classes. Had relationships. Wrote for newspapers. What the hell...don’t just look at me and say, “You’re so bipolar!” I’d much rather be bipolar than what you are, because at least when your bipolar you can take drugs, but when you’re ugly, there’s no cure.
We had this one exercise during the training where you got to choose either a job title or a personality trait and then try to think of as many jobs as you could where those skills or traits could get you hired. Our group chose the word....FUNNY! Ok, I sort of maybe influenced the vote, because I was convinced that there were probably a lot of jobs you could do if you were funny and there were. We had everything from newspaper columnists to Easter Bunnies in the mall. I even tried to slip in President of the United States, but my group all looked at me strangely. Guess I was amongst Republicans. Gulp.
After the training ended I went downstairs and tried to get on my computer. “J” came up behind me and scared me. I hate having my back to the entrance to my cubical, since I can only sense the presence of interlopers. He hadn’t really been talking to me much in the last couple of weeks. I wondered what I had said or done. As usual, I thought it was my fault. I told him I had been upset by something that had happened at the end of the training. It was just some loose talk among the providers about their clients. Because you see, they don’t know that I receive services from the company, even though I work there. They were being snarky about the people they work with...as in the very idea, our seminar was trying to circumvent. It kind of pissed me off. So I ended up talking to “J” for almost an hour. It was nice talking to him again and he reiterated that he was my friend.
As we were walking out together, we stopped in the reception area and someone said, “Oh, we just saw a drawing of you two upstairs. It was on the table.” A drawing of us?? That’s pretty weird. “J” was immediately all excited and took off up the stairs. I had to follow him. I wanted to see what this drawing thing was all about. When we got up there, several of the presenters were just locking the door. “J” asked about the drawing. The woman said, “Oh, I have it, but I have to get going.” “J” clearly wanted to tackle her and confiscate it by any means, but he just accepted the news rather glumly.
I was mainly wondering, who in the hell was drawing us. In one way it was flattering, but in another way, it was a little creepy. Who was it??
I have to admit, about mid-afternoon, I had started to doodle too. I drew a tree with a moon on one side and the sun on the other side. And then a stream. And then a Mexican trying to cross the border into a waiting black Chevy Mustang. And then piranhas jumping out of the water trying to bite the Mexican. Not really sure what it all meant, except that there used to be a Mexican worker who used to do yardwork in a rental we lived in when I was a teenager and I used to be so scared of him, because he used to stare at me all the time. And I would be especially nervous if my mom wasn’t home when I got home from school and had to walk up to an empty house. And then there would be that darn Mexican guy trimming hedges or bushes and he’d slowly follow me with his eyes, as I walked to the house. And as soon as I got into the house, I’d slam the door shut and lock everything and then run up to my bedroom and lock everything there too. It had nothing to do with him being Mexican, by the way. I had Mexican girlfriends in high school. Its just that the guy was a creepy, staring guy.
So I’m still trying to figure out who did the drawing. I’m interested because, well, I thought I was the only artist in the building. Hrrrummph!! And if the drawing was good enough to identify, both “J” and I, it must have been pretty good. I’d like to see it. I have a very, very vague idea of who it might be, because, well, being paranoid does have its advantages. You basically are almost always aware of everything and everyone in a 360 degree radius and I was aware that this certain guy Tim was looking at me from across the aisle. He’s an upper mgmt. guy. Very brusque, but polite. We always exchange pleasantries.
About a month ago, on free-dress Friday I had noticed he was wearing a MOMA t-shirt and I commented on it, saying, gee, I wish I could go and gaze rhapsodically at all the artwork at the MOMA for several days. He said he had done that earlier that year, and then I told him I was an artist, he said I should bring in some of my artwork to put up. I then kind of sheepishly grinned and said, “Well, they’re nudes.” and he said, in his usual brusque, business-like manner, “That would be an interesting addition to our office.” and walked away.
So was he the mystery artist? Don’t really know, if I’ll never know. And just for the record, “A”, he’s married too.
Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty