I'm an Iceberg

I'm pretty pissy these days.  So much so, that my boss has noticed. I had canceled my therapy appointment due to other stuff going on and my boss informed me that I needed to call my therapist back and reschedule that appointment.  I guess I must seem on the edge.  I called my therapist and got my appointment back for today.

Today we talked about how much I feel angry and hateful.  I hate everyone that is happy, perky, active, achieving their dreams, losing weight, living a fun life.  I hate their guts.  Maybe not in my heart, but in my head, I do.  My therapist, the Rug Doctor, loves analogies.  She says I am like an iceberg.  Twenty percent of me is above water and angry.  This is the part everyone sees, the part I project.  The other 80% is under the water and is comprised of all the reasons I am angry on the surface.  The stress, anxiety, jealousy, vulnerability, sadness, fear, it's all there and it's driving the anger.  So, basically, all you skinny, happy, healthy, financially secure bitches are all wining and dining on your little boat called the Titanic of Life.  You are having sex all over the boat, eating whatever you want, wearing your diamonds.  Some skinny bitch wearing some big old amulet that is dangling in her robust cleavage is hanging over the front of the boat screaming that she is the king of the world with some heart throb standing behind her with a boner. (You can hear Celine Dion singing in the back ground ) I hate her guts.  I can't be her, so I'm going to destroy her.  Come here you big old Titanic of Life, come slam into this iceberg, let me show you what I think of your happy cruise of a lifetime.  Fuck off.  Oh, what is that? You're drowning?  That's sad, I hope you can push all those ugly people out of the life boats so you can get to safety.  Here, let me call my iceberg friends over to chill the water so you turn in to corpse-cicles.  I'm over you happy people.

No, I'm fine being an iceberg, really.  I've got all sorts of penguin friends that come over and climb all over me and shit on me.  Then, next thing you know, all these effing misfit toys show up and inhabit my cavernous hillsides.  Really, I'm okay with destroying the Titanic of Happiness, getting shit on by stupid penguins that just keep falling down over and over and using my iceberg ass for a slide for eternity, and then becoming the freaking land of misfit toys in hopes that some dentist with stupid hair and his mother trucking reindeer friend with a nose so bright show up and save the effing misfit toys when Santa gets word where they are.  That is just fine with me.

For the record, that probably isn't where the Rug Doctor was going with all that, but since she opened that door, I'm powerless to stop the train wreck of emotions that follow.  Speaking of trains, specifically runaway trains (aka, my train of thought), I told Rug Doctor about my anxiety when I see homeless people.  I'm torn between empathy and sadness and distrust.  I mean, some of those people are scammers out there on the corner.  Others are legit people that have fallen on hard times.  What if that is me someday?  What if I lose everything I have?  Financially, we are a mess right now, so what if it all goes to shit?  Then, that is me, my dog in a wheel chair, my pimp, Big Daddy, and there I am holding up a sign that says, "Homeless whore with a gimpy dog...anything helps, God Bless."  I'm wearing some wealthy bitches coat that she donated to the salvation army in 1986, I've got a half eaten hot dog in my pocket that I found in the dumpster behind Weinerschnitzel and a black eye from Big Daddy from putting up a fight when he took the $20 I earned blowing some crack head.  It's cold outside and I'm not sure where to go or what to do and I want more crack.  The other street whore bitches don't like me and I pretty much pray for a blizzard so I can walk out in it, curl up and die.  Rug Doctor just blinks at me.  I think my levels of crazy sometimes take her by surprise.  She says that scenario is unlikely to happen. She can't guarantee it won't, however, so the fear remains.

Here's the thing, I don't like being angry and feeling incapable of achieving the things I want to.  And don't tell me how I have achieved a lot over the last year.  I'm not buying that story.  I expect more from myself and this wishy washy ground of "I can't" is kicking my ass.  I'm angry.  I'm an iceberg.  And you bitches partying on the Titanic of Life, you better get your iceberg detection system checked.

Near, far...wherever you are....I  believe that the heart does go on...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PKS5DwSC0fo

Barnacles are not plants?

I don't really know what was going on in the universe today, but people were weird.  It isn't a full moon, so that isn't it. There must be some other planetary thing going on.  My whole day was non-stop head shaking, but I won't bore you with all the details, I will just hit some of the highlights.

So, we have a few things going on at work.  First, my boss is on vacation, so I am baby-sitting her fill-in, Cross Fit Crazy. Secondly, we have new hires coming out of training and taking their first calls.  And thirdly, we are moving people around as we have just re-aligned our reporting structure.  All of this affects me in some way.

To start off, my bosses fill in, Cross Fit Crazy, has some random hair going on now.  He keeps his head primarily shaved, but has it long on the top.  He's been growing it out.  The general consensus is that he needs to cut it, but no one wants to say anything.  His one buddy even went so far as to get a picture of Sonic the Hedgehog and put on his ID badge.  Today, Cross Fit Crazy says, "I have a problem, I need your help."  I have my admin hat on, and said, "okay, what's up?"  He says, "I need to know what to do about my hair."  All at once, about 10 different responses bounced to the edge of my tongue.  I  felt like I was being tested.  I replied, "Well, I'm not really a fan of what you have going on now, I think you should shave it.  I'm not saying it looks bad, but I like it better shaved off." Then another supervisor came up and gave her opinion, turns out she liked it.  I knew this was a desperate time, I had to stop this positive re-enforcement.  I spotted Valerina.  "Valerina, Cross Fit needs to know what to do with his hair, what do you think?"  Without skipping a beat she did this finger thing where she pointed at it like "oh no you didn't!" and said, "you need to shave it and don't let this happen again."  There. It was done.  I knew I could count on her.

As the day progressed, I kept getting requests from people moved into their new desks needing things,so I am buzzing around taking care of business.  I get stopped by one of the new girls  and she is standing there, no shoes on, licking a big spoon and she is giddy as a school girl and says, "Did you know that barnacles are not plants?  They are animals!  I JUST learned that!"  I looked at her and contemplated the last time I had thought about barnacles. Hmmm, let's see, 3rd grade?  I said, "Well, that is interesting news...dare I ask how this conversation about barnacles came up?"  Her and three other girls giggled and said, no, they couldn't talk about it.  Okay then. I started to think what they were talking about that they couldn't share, I immediately thought of sex, but then wondered what barnacles had to do with sex.  Maybe her boyfriend had something on his junk that looked like a barnacle?  Ah man, I can't go there, sick. I guess my mind went to the sex part right away, because I understand one of them was walking out a few weeks ago talking about how being effed up the ass is not okay.  These girls clearly lead lives that are way more exciting than mine.  Anyway, I continued on to someone else that needed help.  I relayed the barnacle story because I thought it was kind of funny.  I was asked, "Why do people tell you these things? How does that happen?"  I shrugged and guessed, "Because I am so approachable and friendly?"  We both laughed.  That must be it.

I go back to my desk and I have yet another request in my email.  This person wants stickers.  Wait, what? Stickers?  I email back to Sticker Boy, "What do you mean...stickers?"  He emails back, "you know, like the kind on our badges."  I take my badge out of it's holder.  Side story: as I take it out, a sensor device falls out of my Coach lanyard-badge-holder thingy.  It was a security device.  No wonder every friggin' store I go to sets off the damn sensor! No wonder my poster is probably up in back rooms all over the stores I frequent.  Well, at least that mystery is solved.  Anyway, I email Sticker Boy back and advise him that those stickers came from our security department.  I ask him what he needs the stickers for, because I do have address labels I could put our logo on.  He emails back and says that would work, but still won't tell me why.  I'm getting irritated, why does he need the mother trucking stickers???  I email back, "You still have not told me what you need them for."  He replies, "Just a random thought.  I don't NEED them right now.  Just need to know if I could get them."  He is still not telling me.  He is withholding information, in which I need to process how much of a lunatic he is.  I mean, "random thought?"  A random thought for me, is like, "hey wonder what I should make for dinner?"  "Should I cut my hair?"  "Should I drive into oncoming traffic? What would that feel like."  You know, real stuff.  Not, "I wonder if I can get some Glass Palace stickers."  I guess it will just have to be a mystery.  I think he wants to label everything at his desk, his car, his home...possibly his body.  I'm not giving him any effing stickers.

Then, my day gets exciting when someone from another state calls and wants to know who in my department reached out to their VIP.  Our person didn't give their VIP a name and now the VIP is waiting for our person to get back to them.  Well, shit, that isn't a lot to go on, so I activate the bat signal.  I send an email out to the entire center asking who contacted VIP - Joe Blow and to please let me know ASAP.  It was a long shot, but you never know.  Well, since it is my lucky day, I got a response right away.  Okay, mystery solved. I can now go on with my day.  Then, I get a second email from Seriously Confused.  Seriously Confused says that she talked to this VIP days ago and told that VIP to come downstairs and see  her when they got a chance, so why does this VIP want an email from her?  I wrote back advising Seriously, that this was not the same person and that she did not need to worry.  This VIP is from another state and doesn't work in our building.  I get another email back, "Then why do they want me to email them?"  I shook my head.  Was I not clear? I wrote back again, advising Seriously that she did not need to take any action as the person involved in the situation had come forward and is taking care of the situation.  I thought that settled it.  I get another email bordering on hysterical demanding to know why I had emailed her specifically and to let her know why she needed to email this VIP.  I was losing my effing mind.  I wrote back.  I used Caps Lock and advised her something along the lines of "This isn't about YOU. YOU do NOT need to take any action. I did not email YOU, I emailed the center. This is NOT your situation.  I do not know how to be more clear than to tell you that YOU DO NOT need to take any action."  I just finish my rampage when Camo Boy chimes in and says, "did you know you sent that email about that Joe Blow VIP to the whole center?  I didn't understand it."  I said, "No kidding, it was supposed to go to the whole center since I needed to know WHO IN THE EFF talked to him and I had zero info to go on!  Do you even read your frigging email? Now, sit down, shut up and take a call!!!  A-B-C your way out of this conversation and SIT DOWN."  Camo Boy says, "oh, I didn't really read it, I just scanned it." It was a two line email. Mother Trucker, a girl wants to punch people some days. And, so help me, if I come in tomorrow and have an email waiting for me advising me that Seriously needs to know what to do again, I will snap...crackle...and pop.

Just when I think I can start to wind down and all the people that need a chair, keyboard, printer, fax line, stickers, Clorox wipes and a lesson in "slow down and read your mother trucking emails," Cross Fit comes over and says, "hey, I need you to send an email..."  Sweet Jesus.  So, apparently tomorrow is "shorts day."  Hoo-friggin-ray.  I send out an email advising of the do's and don'ts of shorts.  I make a list for guys and a list for girls.  In the list for girls, one of the things I stated was, "Daisy Duke does not work here, don't even think about it. If your shorts were cut off by you or someone in a factory, just don't."  First reply back to my email after I send it out was, "So, you don't mention the Daisy Duke thing on the guys list, does that mean they can?"  I guess you can never be too specific.  If I see one guy wearing Daisy Dukes tomorrow, I will have failed.  I will turn around and walk out.  Now, I'm actually kind of worried about it.  Sweet Maryanne, these people don't even know what category to put a barnacle in?  What are the chances they understand the list is universal?  I'm screwed.  Some one is going to get me on  technicality, I know it. "Cassondra never said the boys couldn't wear short-shorts..."

Thank God tomorrow is Therapy Thursday is all I can say...