Entry #688232, added on 02-21-10 @ 7:15 pm EST
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M. is baking a pumpkin pie. I haven't decided if this means hell has officially frozen over, or if I suffered brain damage while trying to do raven pose this morning.
I made a lemon pie yesterday, 'sans' meringue, and the entire thing was devoured in a three-hour period, so today I decided I wasn't going to bake the pumpkin one I'd told him I would, because eating an entire pie in a few hours is every kind of wrong, right? I told him if he wanted one then he could make it himself, and I snorted after I said it, because the visual was just that ridiculous. Then, didn't he go and make me look bad by making one? So, it bakes, and it smells great, and I'm still thinking I'm caught in an alternate universe. If I am, I hope it's one in which pumpkin pie is calorie-free.
I did the yoga this morning after weighing myself and seeing that I'm officially yo-yo-ing in my weight. It's a four-pound variance, which isn't huge, but I like stability so I decided to worry about it. What I can't understand is why I get headaches as I begin stretching and posing, because yoga is supposed to make all that stuff go away, right? Oh, and also, the last few times I have done yoga I have ended up on the verge of tears, if I don't burst out in full-on hysterics, that is. I have never been one to believe in all that chakra nonsense, but I have to wonder if there is something to it. All the pent up aggression and sadness seems to burst forth as soon as I do active cat, and I have trouble concentrating on much else. I looked up crying and yoga on the web and found an article on The Huffington Post, which I skimmed through and came away from feeling like a semi-normal emotional cripple. So, for the remainder of the day, I have been feeling low, and I have been doing things to bring myself out of it, like sit-ups (you may laugh at this if you want), and a long walk around the neighbourhood which lead me to the store where I bought Kashi bars, prunes and bananas. Eating healthy is supposed to make me feel better, as is exercise, but so far I just want to sleep. I want to wrap myself in my sheets and forget about the life outside. I have rubbed peppermint oil on my temples to ease my throbbing head and so far all it is doing is making my eyes water. Maybe sitting around in a chair eating potato chips really is the pathway to glory?
I don't think the way I feel is an adverse reaction to physical stimulation or healthy eating, though. I think it's more of a job-hunt related thing. An anxiety waiting to lunge from behind the bushes thing. It's getting to be a frustrating thing, trying to find a job despite having the credentials required to get one. It's a popularity contest; it's a matter of luck. I am feeling defeated and I hate myself for it. I know that I have an interview in a couple weeks with one clinic, but I am truly surprised that no one else has called. Also, I'm having trouble figuring out what I want to do. There was a job opening at the local street clinic and I ignored the posting which made one of my schoolmates raise her eyebrows.
'You're not going to try for that one? I did! You should try.'
'No,' I shook my head lightly. 'I don't have the patience for that kind of place.'
'What do you mean?' she asked, confused.
'They're all drug addicts in there,' I explained. 'I just don't have a lot of compassion or patience for addicts. They'd come in acting frenetic and desperate, and I'd have to fight the urge to punch them in the head for being so stupid.'
She laughed hysterically.
'You don't really mean that!'
'I do,' I said flatly. 'I worked around the corner from there, and every day one or more of them would come in to the store trying to steal merchandise so they could sell it for drug money. Once, one of them fell asleep on a table in the kids' section, and another time, a speed freak who was about six months pregnant came in and tried to steal a pile of polo shirts. I have had to call the clinic to have them come and remove dirty needles from the back parking lot, and I have watched people shoot up in broad daylight just outside the front door. I don't want to know why they started doing drugs because in this day and age, there's no good reason for it. Even pot,' I rolled up my sleeves, 'is proving to be dangerous.'
G., the woman I was speaking to, eyed me cautiously. I forgot that her husband is a biker and that the two of them roll around on a Harley from April until November each year, spending time with other bikers and partying like it's 1999.
'Pot's not addictive,' she said.
'Well, the thing is, one of my best friends works in a psych ward, and apparently, there is some seriously strong evidence supporting the theory that marijuana triggers schizophrenia in those with a predisposition.'
'Really?' she looked mortified.
'Doubles the risk,' I nodded.
'That's not good news.'
'So,' I sighed, 'I can't work there, because all the information says not to do it, and they do it anyway, and want everyone to feel sorry for them when they can't stop. My compassion has limits.'
The thing is, I do feel badly for people so wrapped up in a drug or alcohol addiction that they can't think straight, but I still wouldn't want to work in an environment where you have to be non-judgmental about it, because it's not my style. I would react to their antics, I believe, because the few times I have watched 'Intervention' or 'Celebrity Rehab' I got so worked up I wanted to smash something. I feel bad that they may want to stop and haven't the first idea how to do it, and I also can relate to the desire to dull my emotions or at least to manipulate them in some way, but the thing is it's a cop out. Not only that, but it's the kind of cop out that ruins other people who didn't ask for it. How many murders, beatings, robberies or rapes happen because the person(s) involved were drunk or high? Yeah, that many. So, no, I can't be soft with these people, and for that reason I did not apply. Better for everyone, I think.
'What do you want to do, then?' she asked.
'I think I might like transcription, or even working in records,' I replied.
'Oh,' she pulled her face, 'I think you'd hate it! My best friend worked in records for a year and nearly went nuts with how monotonous and lonely it was. She said she sat in a room without windows and typed for eight hours every day and nearly went stark-raving mad because of how boring it was.'
I had to give pause to consider whether or not this would be something which would affect me and decided that it might. So, I don't know what to do, and what's more, the point is basically moot because no one has responded to my resume and also there are very few postings these past few weeks. This means that I am in the beginning stages of panic. School's nearly done and then what? So, I feel defeated and my heart keeps messing up its beats.
I find it amazing that I allow myself to feel hopeful. Very seldom does anything happen that seems miraculous to me.
***
I leaned over to hug M. the other night, and truly only meant it to be playful and loving. I wasn't intending for it to lead anywhere, that is. So, when he began to show signs of passion, I was a little surprised, but I was game, obviously. So, it started off slow and gentle, and then things began to get a little more primitive, which he seemed to enjoy immensely. I had intended to make it so he wouldn't achieve maximum satisfaction before I did because he seems to lose all momentum at that point and I feel like my fulfillment is completely incidental, but I guess he couldn't stop himself, and before I knew it, there was an explosion of epic proportions. He heaved and he sighed and he smiled, and then, just as I was about to ready myself for all kinds of communication with a higher power, M. developed a wicked, merciless migraine. It came on instantly, without warning, and he was sitting on the edge of the bed holding his head in his hands. I guess I blew his mind.
Needless to say, I fell asleep most dissatisfied, and have not been attended to since. Oh, and just before his headache hit, he said, in a mesmerized voice 'Why don't we do this every single night?'. An hour later, after he fell asleep and snored softly, I lay awake, looking at the ceiling, feeling the urge to slap him until the pain was spread out evenly. This may also explain the post-yoga tears, if I think about it.
***
Last weekend, the wee one asked me what I type about on the computer. I said I write all sorts of things, like stories and poetry, and that one day I'd like to try a book. She thought this was amazing, and I said that it would amaze me too if I actually got around to doing it, and after a few more mindless words, I decided to take a nap. When I woke up, I went to the kitchen and saw that the wee one had taken it upon herself to write her own book, complete with vivid illustrations and numbered pages. She had dictated the story to her father who had written it as neatly as possible on the pages. She had bound the book with ribbons, and titled it 'The Princess, the Dragon, and the Very Lovely Day'. She insisted that it was going to be for her teacher, but M. said he'd make sure we got it back because he has an entire filing cabinet drawer that contains all things wee one.
Turns out that the teacher has decided that my wee one is 'exceptional', and it has been decided that the book will be copied and featured in the county newsletter which will be distributed to all its schools.
My girl is five and already she has had a painting featured in an art gallery and she has 'written' a book which will be read by thousands.
I am thirty-eight and I cry after yoga.
***
I haven't been watching the Olympics. It's not because I'm not patriotic, because I am in many ways. It's more to do with the fact that there are so many politics involved in it that I don't really think it's a fair event. Those from poorer countries have very little chance of succeeding because they don't have the same advantages those from wealthier countries do, like better equipment or training facilities. Also, when it comes to events like skating, it's not about fairness at all. How does someone who falls down or who cannot complete a complicated move when others can place first? It galls me to watch it, so I don't. Also, when it's over and done, most people don't remember who won, anyway, unless the person signs a contract to endorse a product, which makes them a celebrity instead of a national treasure or athlete.
Tiger Woods apology? I didn't watch it. I don't care if he wants to pretty up his philandering ways by calling it an 'addiction'. He may be contrite, but he should save it for his wife. Oh, and she should divorce him, but if she doesn't, that's entirely up to her. 'Private matter' aside, though, the man took vows. He not only broke those vows but he publicly pissed on them. Not one mistress, but a legion of them. Should he give the public an apology? Is it anyone's business? Well, it has nothing to do with how well he plays golf, that's true, and when I had my personal romantic problems, it would never have occurred to me to apologize to my co-workers or friends for my behaviour because it was none of their business. On the other hand, he took endorsement money and wholeheartedly agreed to be a 'role model' by allowing his image to be associated with 'family-oriented' products. I mean, his likeness was used for a children's action figure. So, by my reckoning, if you take money as payment for being the face associated with a product or image, and you willingly tarnish these things, you should make amends to those you've disappointed. That said, most of the people annoyed by this are women who become blood-thirsty when they hear about a man straying. At the end of the day, it's between him and his wife, but if I were her, I'd divorce him. He should continue golfing, though. I didn't think Bill Clinton should have been impeached for his affair because it had little to do with how he did his job, and I don't think Tiger Woods should lose his career over it, either. I do think the endorsements should probably stop, unless he is endorsing golf balls or condoms. Stick to what you know. Also, he has enough money and probably can afford to let others get a piece of the pie.
I'm the sort of person who won't buy a product endorsed by someone I don't respect or care about. I will not listen to music by someone I think doesn't deserve my money, and I won't watch a film with an actor who has shown them self to be less than respectable. These people make too much money and are afforded a lifestyle that most of us will never know and they need to act as though they appreciate it. No, they don't need or deserve the kind of money they make because you'll be hard pressed to convince me they work harder than the woman who scrubs toilets fourteen hours a day or the guy who climbs scaffolding until sundown with only one day a week for rest. So, if you want my money, you have to be a decent person, too, and if you choose to behave like a buffoon, then I will withdraw my support and look for someone more deserving, because there is always someone just as talented who merits the opportunities that you are thumbing your nose at.
In the real, minimum-wage world, if you're a jerk at work, you get fired and are replaced by someone who is just as capable as you are. You don't get to be nasty and you don't get to call yourself superhuman. You got lucky and you shouldn't forget it.
***
I did sit-ups in a bra and panties today because I thought it would be more comfortable. My child came in and burst into hysterics because of the way my 'belly jiggled'.
And people wonder why I look irritated all the time.
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