Prayers for all!

One of the things I’ve found astounding, working with clients, is their total lack of appreciation that there is a line of demarcation between Friendly Customer Service Representative and Person Who Gives a Shit.

Frequently I receive emails from clients that inform me of some kind of trial or tribulation they are experiencing, some political stance they are sharing with the world, or, you know, stuff that has nothing to do with my job for them.

Today I received a missive calling for love and prayers (and cash donations) because the client’s adult daughter has been hospitalized due to a “critical medical emergency.”

I’ve never met this daughter. I’ve spent time with her parents because they were my clients. I don’t know where they live, if they prefer contemporary oak dining sets to repurposed barn boards and I’m not sure whether they have a dog. But for some reason, I’ve been included in this mass email cause to give a damn about humanity.

This all irritates me considerably as it intrudes upon my consciousness*.

However, my time in reading the whole thing was rewarded as there is a fantastic typo in this heartfelt, massively inappropriate email.

“May Bod bless us all.”

That’s right, the Bod that watches over us and keeps us safe. Thank you, Bod, for all of your blessings.

*that’s right, I got it in!

Things Overheard

Overheard isn’t quite right.  More like, “Things said directly to me that out of context, or even in context, make someone sound like an ass.”

We’ve all done it. My best blunder occurred when I was 16. My boyfriend, a notorious pain-in-the-ass-weirdo,* dumped me. Months I had put up with him and the questions and the constant ups and downs.  I defended him.  I swore I loved him.  And he dumped me. I was indignant. Which led me to leave the following message on a friend’s answering machine:

“Well, Kevin and I broke up.  But not in the way you think.  That asshole dumped me. HE dumped ME! I hate men.  Yes, I even hate you.”

Classy, I know. But I digress.

A close friend of mine recently began again communicating with a high school classmate, Garrett. They had lost touch roughly a year after graduation for a variety of reasons, the largest of which she explained to me with the utmost tact:

“I mean, I couldn’t say, I’m sorry I took your virginity and then stopped talking to you, could I?”

No, no you couldn’t. But I’m glad I got to hear it.

To class acts.

 

 

__________

*People used to stop me in the hallway to ask me why I was dating him.  On one particularly memorable occasion, a jock noted that Kevin was wearing a cape, sporting a nametag that read “El Chupacabra,” and leaping through the hallways declaring “I’m a little fairy.”

Jock: “You are dating that fag?”
Me: “Are you planning on using him to start a fire later?”
Jock: “What?”
Me: “Fag…it’s a term for fire kindling…you know what? Nevermind. Yes, yes I am.”
Jock: “He calls himself a fairy.”
Me: “Maybe he means in the Celtic tradition.  You know, scary little things that steal teeth and switch babies.”
Jock: “I’m gonna kick that guy’s ass.”
Me: “Um…ok.”

A Personal Note about Being Crazy

So, I am crazy.

I am not saying this to be hyperbolic; I am saying this because in the most basic medical sense it is true. The psychiatrist calls my particular kind of crazy anxiety disorder, which is a fairly manageable with medication, therapy, or both—and a tub of ice cream.   Anxiety disorder has to do with my brain.  My brain doesn’t make enough of a certain chemical or it makes too much of it (I’ve really given up on trying to make sense of just what my brain is doing), and as a result, I spend my life heavily scheduling things and being “tightly wound” so that there are no unanticipated deviations. I am Vulcan. Logical. Reasoned.  Unable to adapt to the unordered and unplanned, telling them to “Live long and prosper,” while inside I’m screaming “die in a fucking fire you megalomaniacs!” At least, that’s what I imagine what Spock does.  I think that’s the only way he could possibly put up with Kirk*.

But the problem is not with my anxiety.  I take pills for that. And I count to 100 slowly.  And I breathe. The problem is with my hormones.

The medical world, for all of its advances, knows shit about hormones.

I have polycystic ovarian syndrome. This means that my little eggs are angry about leaving the safe world of the ovary and try desperately to cling to the outside like dust bunnies  battening** down the hatches at the sight of the vacuum cleaner. Because my case is not too severe (and because I’ve been on birth control since I was 17), the doctors are largely able to manage my condition with hormonal contraceptives.  The pills make sure that the eggs make the long journey down the fallopian tube and keeps my girl bits healthy.  At least, that is what they are supposed to do.  My body doesn’t like artificial hormone.   After a length of time on the birth control pill, I start developing morning sickness every time I start a new pill cycle, then come the  migraines.  And then, just when things start to get predictable, I start having bleed through and headaches that last days. Then I start a new medication that confuses my body long enough for me to feel fantastic and to say things like “I’ve never felt so alive in my life” *twitch* or “I’ve harnessed the energy of 7 toddlers and paired it with my mind of steel.”

In short, I feel like this:

Courtesy of Hyperbole and a Half. hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/

And I am HIGH on the feeling.  Until I return to the state of hormone rejection.  Like all rejection, hormone rejection sucks.  Your reproductive system is sobbing in a corner because Hormone*** has decided he likes Brain better.  She’s smarter, you know.  But Hormone is  emotionally confusing, and  makes Brain question her logic: Does he love me? Is he really just the asshole my kidney keeps telling me he is?  Is he worth the constant unrest and emotional pain? Until finally, like a parent, I have to step in, kick Hormone to the curb, and try again.

But today, on what have previously been happy hormone drugs, I do not feel happy.  I feel cranky/sad/happy/mournful/gleeful/sick/disgusted/elated/grumpy all at once.  Ok, more like a new one every 4-7 seconds.

The last time this happened, I was in the car with my roommate.  We were driving to the mall.  I love the mall because I am a shallow, fickle human being who would consider prostituting herself for a friends/family discount at Anthropologie. That is the level of my illness. Regardless, as we drove, she was talking about something on the radio when all of the sudden I started crying uncontrollably.

Roommate: What the hell just happened?
Me: *sobs* It’s not you.  I’m just *sobs* really *sobs* sad *blubbers*

Roommate:  Um…
Me: It’s the hormones *smiles* I feel fine now.

True story.

And that, my friends, is crazy. Because inside my body it’s a reenactment of 90210 but with more modern fashion.  And even though my Vulcan self knows that I am being unreasonable, my human self is weak to the hormones.  Mr. Spock should be glad he wasn’t a woman.

*It’s not really that I have issue with Captain Kirk.  It’s that I have issue with William Shatner. Perhaps, as a friend of mine claims, it is that Shatner is “too big” an actor for TV, that he belongs on the stage.  Perhaps it’s just that William Shatner is a one-dimensional actor. Just putting that out there.

**Ok.  The only time I have ever heard anyone use the word “batten,” it was in the phrase “batten down the hatches.”  Little did I know that is actually not the most common usage, which instead refers to fattening up.  Seriously.  The dictionary does not lie. Wikipedia might.

*** Hormone wears a wife beater and has Justin Bieber hair.  He is the James Dean of the emoverse.

 

My day

Today my day started out better than yesterday as I actually slept all the way through to to 5:20 a.m. when my alarm was going to go off at 5:30 a.m.

The day before, I woke up at 3:30 a.m. and couldn’t get back to sleep until 6:25 a.m. (which was then horribly interrupted by my bed mate’s alarm going off at 6:30 a.m.).
So honestly, today really did start out better. Even if when I woke up at 5:20 a.m. a dog then stepped on my foot and it was cold.
Then my day perked up. I found my new motto. Well, at least another new motto. My favorite still being the family motto which is, “Fuck ’em.” Someday I must design a family crest with that emblazoned on it.
My new motto is: Pretend you are right and just move forward. Really this motto is not much different from the family motto, but it does have more syllables. Wait, that makes it harder to embroider onto a pillow. Hmmm…
Then the crash of the day. I called a client, happily told them I’d help them on their message machine. Then got off the phone and started complaining about said client. Shortly thereafter I realized I’d not clicked the button to hang up, but rather hit the button for SPEAKERFUCKINGPHONE. So not only did I maybe record my message and me the subsequently berating them to a colleague but also recorded THE COLLEAGUE berating said author.
Luckily, they are old, so either they didn’t hear it, there is a god (or several as I did go to an Indian place for lunch and may have winked at their Ganesh statue for help and a few other lesser Hindu deities — for the record I first spelled that dieties which is kind of funny — nearby) or maybe it never happened. I’ve talked to them since and they seemed unaware of my verbal thrashing, so, fingers crossed. Luckily I’m pregnant and I can blame everything on the fetus. Might as well, when it’s in therapy later in its life, it will blame me for everything. I’m just getting started early in the parent-child blame game.
In three minutes, I will call another client who is a slow talker who may or may not understand my jokes. I WILL make sure the phone call is disconnected before telling my coworker all about it.

Why Sex-Ed in Schools Is Important

I asked my coworker: “How was your honeymoon?”

Coworker: “Good, but I got a bladder infection.”
Me: “Really? That sucks!”
Her: “Yeah, I didn’t think it would happen since this time I’m not a virgin.”
Me: silence
Me: “What does a UTI and virginity have to do with it?”
Her: “Well, you know.”
Me: “Um, well, no. You don’t get a UTI because you break your hymen. You get a UTI, sometimes after sex because of the bacteria getting transferred to the urethra.”
Her: “I know, but I wasn’t a virgin this time.”
Me: Silence.
Me: “So how was the rest of the trip?”
Her: “I hit my head on the windowsill in the hotel room. I got a huge bump on my head. Poor Xxxxx, first I have to go to the doctor, then I bump my head. At least he didn’t get angry at me.”
Me: “Angry at you? Why would he get mad at you for that?”
Her: “He didn’t, that’s what I’m saying. He didn’t get mad.”
Me: “It is unreasonable for anyone to be angry about those things.”
Her: “I guess.”
Me: “No. No ‘I guess.’ No one is allowed to be angry at you for needing medical care.”
Her: “Well, he didn’t get mad!”
Me: “Good!” (wtf? Obviously, I am not a certified therapist and one should be called, immediately.)
One week in and things are going well according to some very low standards! Mazel Tov!