2006-09-20 @ 5:28 p.m.
Since I’m the most neurotic person on the planet (Woody Allen? Total amateur!) and have about 9 million things that are bothering me and since I start a new job tomorrow and I’m besides myself with anxiety, I have decided to look at some of Post-It Notes that are affixed to the inside of my brain. Are they logical? No. Do they make any sense? No. Am I making something out of nothing? I’m sure my shrink would look over the top of his everpresent laptop and say “Its just a new job, witty. What’s the big deal.” As in, oh pshaw, neurotic people are just so....so...neurotic! But there are a few things I’m thinking about, and since I’m the queen of my universe, here they are:
Post It Note #1 Like what the hell am I doing tomorrow, walking into a large grocery store chain, dressed in a little uniform (me...an artist....in a uniform? Ha! I thought those days ended when I graduated from Catholic School in 1972) and be taught how to make cakes? Like how did this all transpire? Did someone knock me on the head and send in my evil twin who agreed to all this? And how am I going to stand for 6 hours? I am in so much pain from my fibromyalgia, I can barely walk. I’m practically a crackhead with my pain pills. How am I going to do this all? Its insanity, I tell you. Insanity!
Post It Note #2 Its been 6 years since I had a “real” job. One where I had to actually adhere to a real schedule. Or answer to a potentially tough boss. Or deal with the public (shiver). A lot has happened in those 6 years. I have gotten healthier mentally, but I have also found my inner-goddess. My saucy, naughty talking goddess. The one that makes sexually inappropriate remarks about canoles. And it only gets worse when I’m stressed out. I use humor when I’m stressed, ya see. A lot. The more stressed I get, the funnier I am. A friend who used to work there told me to keep my sense of humor under wraps. WHAT???????? But that’s WHO I am. Smart-ass wittycakes. Ha! wittyCAKES the Cake decorator. Get it? See, its all your fault, HissandTell! You’ve been calling me wittycakes for years, and now its coming true. Maybe you should have called me wittybigboobs or wittymoneybags or
Post It Note #3 Will I really be able to “meet” (ahem) somebody there, looking like a chubby chef with a white baseball cap on? “A” has already told me not to scope out married men. Dang. There goes 3/4 of the population probably. I already got verbally spanked yesterday for my dalliances amongst the married and engaged. My bad. “A” didn’t even like that I talked to “J” at the hippie parade. I have absolutely no romantic inclinations towards him. None. He’s just a friend, but I guess “A” thinks I’m encouraging a romance by talking to him, since he’s obviously smitten with this kitten. He was also really up in arms about Charlemagne, since I do have some feelings for him. But he is otherwise engaged. Not that I would act on them. Nope. If I managed to hold off on Married Guy for five freaking years, I certainly can keep Charlemagne at bay. Even if he’s like a large gangely puppy who wants to lick your face alot.
And then “A” did do something rather unusual. He gave me the name of someone who’s divorced, who he thinks might be a good match for me. “A”s record of being a Yenta ain’t exactly stellar (think creepy Nanny Guy and Harold the Geek), but I am so lonely, I am willing to take a look-see at almost anyone at the moment. I did Google the heck out of his name last night and if I had the right person, he’s a writer (BIG BONUS POINTS. I read a couple of his newspaper stories and they were good) and he’s a member of the local Audubon Society. He likes nature. Me too!! Him: “Hey look a red-wing blackbird.” Me: “Yeah I know!” See how much we have in common already! He’s also Charlemagne’s neighbor and friend. I wouldn’t think Charlemagne would have any geeky, safari-clothes wearing dudes as friends, so this might be a good thing. I just wonder if I could handle someone who was actually...you know....(starting to hyperventilate)
Gulp! Calm down, witty. Maybe “A” was just kidding or it was a hologram or something.
Post It Note #4 Its now officially less than 24 hours away from the start of my new job. Clonopin, anyone?
Post It Note #5 Guardcat wants a new job too and has been practicing for her stint as the cat version “Where’s Waldo” by sitting amongst my pillows and stuffed animals and not moving. I’m thinking a psychiatric intervention might be in her immediate future.
Post It Note #6 Day Five without a cell phone. Wait...I think I’m feeling a bout of profuse weeping coming on. Who would have thought, me, the one who’s made fun of cell phones and their minnions for years, would be so broken up about not having one anymore. I was never obsessed with mine like I see so many people are. Like the Flipper-Openers, who are constantly flipping open their phones looking for messages. Or the Loud Talkers who walk down store aisles screeching into their phones, “Do you need Kotex, Jennifer?”. Or those idiots trying to turn the corner in their Hummers, while making an appointment with their pilate instructor and nearly mowing me down on the sidewalk. No. It was just little me and the phone that allowed me to call AAA everytime my old car broke down. And allowed me to call my mom and tell her to get her ass out to the sidewalk when I was waiting for her. And allowed me to find the house where the nekkid drawing class was this summer. It was just a nice convenience. I’m not really rich enough to have both a real phone AND a cell phone. Because, after all, I never actually ANSWERED my cell phone, nor did I ever learn to retrieve the messages nor did I ever learn to send text messages to vote for my favorite singer on American Eye-dol. Ha! Like I really would do that. I just liked having a little phone in my purse for emergencies. It was nice.
Post It Note #7 Help, I’m getting an anxiety attack. Breathe. Breeeeathe, witty!
Post It Note #8 Remember how worried I was about having to listen to people saying nice things about me. Well, worrying about whether my new co-workers will like me is even worse. Because at least at my other job, I was fairly certain about the outcome. I figured in the words of Sally Fields, it would largely be, “They like me. They really like me” (sob, sob). But here, I don’t know. I’m an interloper. There’s probably cake decorating gangs like in "West Side Story". The stars and garland gang over there. And the roses and pretty printing gang over there. Which one will like me? Or will neither. Will I be an outcast? I was an outcast at my last job before I went on disability. Nobody would talk to me. I felt like George W. Bush at a Bob Dylan concert. It was horrible and contributed in a large way to my feelings of self loathing. How could I not be self loathing when ever I came into a room and all my coworkers would immediately stop talking and look at me like I had giant boogers hanging off my nose? It was around that time I started throwing things in anger. Probably not a good thing at a Catholic organization. Now see, if I had been cast on the reality show like “Big Brother” it would have been cool.
“Hey Bill, the artsy chick is flipping her cookies. Lets make this a big part of the episode tonight. Okay, thanks!”
Post It Note #9 What if I see someone at the store I don’t want to see, namely Married Guy or Zenshrink. Do I pull my dorky hat down over my face and hide behind an oven? Because once they see that you work there, they’ll know for life. Right? Ack. I saw “A” at that counter once. He was buying canoles. I figure he’ll probably stop by. And “J”. He’ll stop by. And practically everybody at my old job knows what department I’ll be in. Why did I tell them? I should have said I’ll be working the cheese department. Yeah, I’ll be cutting cheese for a living. Heh! A life long dream for sure.
Post It Note #10 I’ve also been running across this really strange thing. Everyone I tell where I’m working, they’ll lean over and say, “Well, if THAT doesn’t work out, you can always apply for another department in six months or so. I MEAN WTF?? Thanks for that incredible vote of confidence. I’m already nervous as it is. And then you’re anticipating my failure? That’s my job, mister! And don’t you forget it!
Anyways, its almost time for my art class. And I’m so anxious I have to take a clonopin before I leave. Why? Impending job. The name of a divorced man with similar interests. Charlemagne grabbing my face and kissing it. I feel like I’m about to puke.
Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty