Psychotic Glee
The hormones have arrived. One of the opening scenes from E.T. flashes to mind: an innocent creature is being chased by crazed men with loud voices, bright lights, and an apparent intent to harm. The Innocent Creature doesn’t know what the hell to do, so he hides in a storage shed and only emerges when someone kind and patient – and not loud, scary, or overly-curious – offers him chocolate. Yeah, that sounds about right. Gimme some Reese’s Pieces, beeotch. And teach me how to do that thing with my neck so I can look around the office without actually having to move.
Over. It.
I’m over my chunky black sandals despite the fact that they are comfortable and match 99% of my outfits. I want to work at a job where I can dress in funky jeans and chunky boy shoes and wear my hair in a way that shows off my stylish earrings instead of dealing with the not-so-subtle suggestion that I embrace the wearing of a skirt and heels. (Ha – I initially typed “hells” – hello, Freud!) I am not One of Those Femmes and I never will be. You aren’t going to find me in a skirt and a blazer and stack heels, a la Heather Locklear circa Melrose Place. Hello, I’m black business slacks and a nice-but-remarkably-casual top; nice to meet you. I’m not putting on makeup or a demi-cup bra or getting sculptured nails (even though I like the way they make my hands look). I’m not Chick Grrl. I’m Business Casual Grrl. I’m Two-Inch Black-High-Heeled Mules Grrl about once a month. I’d be Black Men’s Dress Shoes Grrl every day if my wearing of the male attire hadn’t been forbidden. (King V = fashion Communist.) I can’t wear my denim jacket to client events because apparently clients will shriek in horror and decide they can no longer work with us if they see me in a jacket that isn’t made of silk or linen. What will they do if they see me on the weekend? I saw a client in Starbucks on a Saturday a few weeks ago and I was in capri yoga pants and flip flops. I’m glad he didn’t see me; we might have had a psychological emergency on our hands.
I really think employee motivation, friendliness, and general demeanor (read: my “attitude,” another hot topic during performance reviews) would improve if I could just work a little denim on the runway. That’s all I’m saying.
The phone, she never rings
I am OVER waiting for people to call me. I need information about a poetry reading I’m participating in on Friday and I can’t get anyone to answer my phone calls or emails. This is NOT the week to make me feel invisible, people. Here’s a note on hormone-related rage, in case you don’t really understand how it works: Earlier today, I stopped at Starbucks for my venti nonfat vanilla latte. (That’s enough adjectives, ya know? I was behind a woman who ordered something sugar-free, venti, extra hot, with extra foam, and something else. It’s just coffee, lady. Fuck!) I left all my possessions in the car and went inside, not wanting to lug my laptop, etc. inside Starbucks for a whopping five minutes. While I waited for my frothy concoction to be whipped up, I stared at my car through the window, half-wishing someone would break into my car so I could run outside and beat them to death. Yep. That’s my rage -- irrational and omnipresent this week. Sometimes I wonder if people know how close they are to dying every minute of every day.
On a sad note
On my way into Starbucks, I saw a man pick up a discarded cigarette butt – note: NOT one he had just tossed away – and walk away with it. I wanted to be a smoker again just so I could give him a 'clean' cigarette. There was something about the look on his face and my brilliant guess that he was probably homeless that really got to me. Again, not the day or week for generally sappy AT&T commercials, or Hallmark card moments, injured animals, crying babies, or extraterrestials on the lam. For Goddess' sake, someone help him out and give him a cigarette that no else has already smoked. Jesus.
The tears of Pompeii
I have been treated to violent crying binges (I think I scared George last night) and I’ve been vacillating between depression and the aforementioned rage since Sunday. Today, during a routine staff meeting, I teared up for absolutely no reason. None. At all. Men, next time you want to chide a woman for being “too emotional” or you scoff to yourselves and say, “Must be PMSing,” check yourselves. Imagine a woman on the edge, someone whose nerves are set on edge by the sound of you swallowing water, someone who is just aching for a fight so that she can kill a man just to watch him die. You might want to think about buying that woman some flowers. Or at least a Hershey bar and a couple beers.
Happy days are here again
No, not in the Cunningham way. Soon it will be the end of the workday and I will be meeting a friend for beer. Or a tattoo. I’m in the mood for some pain. Part-time masochists, raise your hands. I know you're out there.
Soon it will be Thursday and time for a visit with my therapist. Let's all breathe a sigh of relief together now. Ahhh...
And soon it will be Friday and maybe I’ll be reading some poetry in the evening, or maybe I’ll be hanging from the overpass of our local interstate, hoping that I won’t bounce too hard when I hit the pavement with my face.
In conclusion
I wouldn’t mind a little extra testosterone to balance out the Estrogen Flood that’s apparently drowned Noah, all the animals, and that fucking dove. I’ll tell you what you can do with your olive branch, sweetheart. (Hmm, cracking on biblical stories. Guess that rage is back.)
I want a job where I can write and doodle all day. I don’t think that means I want to be a cartoonist though.
Off to continue the obsessive checking of my email to find out about Friday. Off to stare at my cell phone, willing it to ring. I can’t stand not knowing what’s going on, especially with events *I* am directly involved in. Hard to convince a crowd of poetry enthusiasts to cheer you on (or politely snap their fingers while wearing their black berets and turtlenecks and chain-smoking) when I, One of the Poets, doesn’t know what the hell is going on. Sigh. Find the Valium.
No comments:
Post a Comment