I have a friend who describes a funky day — the kind filled with both highs and lows — as a ‘curious’ day. I’m stealing his phrasing today as I think I had a curious day myself.
My morning started off well rested and well fed (I just love my banana bread oatmeal, y’all!) and surprisingly spry after five hours of sleep. I got to work 45 minutes early so I could re-write my resume and a cover letter before sending it off to my boss’s friend.
Can you believe that someone from work would contact his friend, the Director of Something or Other at a major movie studio, and say, ‘Flo is a good assistant. Can you get her a job?’? I was so flattered by the gesture that I could barely say thank you. I think my gratitude was expressed as, “Whoa. Are you serious?…Wow…uh, thank you! That’s so kind of you to do that for me. Oh my God, thanks.” I’m the temp — that stuff never happens to the hired help, right?!
I, being the calm, mellow person that I am, didn’t fully freak out ’til three or four hours later. Interviewing is so hard for me what with my racing heart, my inability to remember anything except my name, and my newfound penchant for starting every sentence with the word uh. Throw in Mr. Director of Something or Other going to bat for me and it’s just too much for my little nerves to handle!
So, of course, I put the whole resume and cover letter thing off a good week before sending it over today. Shortly afterwards Mr. DSO wrote me a nice little email to say he passed on my resume to a friend in human resources. If I’m not contacted within the next week, I should feel free to give him (Mr. DSO) a call…
Are you thinking what I’m thinking? If you said, “Whoa. Are you serious?…Wow…uh, thank you! That’s so kind of you to do that for me. Oh my God, thanks,” then you are correct!
I walked into my boss’s office — he’s one of the top three dudes in the company and just six months older than me, oy! — and repeated the email and all of my predictable whoas and wows (heartfelt but still completely predictable). My boss, who speaks and thinks at 100 mph, said, “He’s a good guy to build a report with, by the way. AND he’s cute…”
[Before I go any further, I should probably mention that my boss, let's call him Mr. Principal, has offered to set me up on dates since my first week with the firm. That 'Let's set Flo up with a billionaire! She's 35! That's even better than the 40 year old (he's banging!)' joke sparked some real talk about elegible men -- rebound and marriage material alike -- I should get to know, in every sense of the word! Photos were shown, references were made (such as, 'Hey, what do you think of Marvin? Don't you think he'd be good for Flo? He's one of my closest friends and a great, great guy.') I didn't take it seriously until Mr. Principal started making calls. There was a whole lot of, "No, no, no, no, no, no,no, no! I was just kidding. No, really, hang up the phone!" on my part until Mr. Principal finally put down the phone!
Since then every Friday workday ends with Mr. Principal saying something like, 'When I come in on Monday, I want to hear that you've been bad this weekend! Come on, Flo, you need to get back out there.' Of course, that means that every Monday starts with, 'Come on, girl, tell me what you did this weekend! Anything good? No? Flo you've got to get out of your apartment, meet people and get into some trouble!']
Mr. Principal shrugged, “…but he’s short. He’s only 5′ 10″.”
I gasped. Cute, kind-hearted, gainfully employed, highly recommended AND 5′10″?! “5′ 10″ isn’t short! I’m 5′ 10″!”
“He is the nicest guy, Flo. I’m not just saying that…If I was going to set up my sister with a guy, it would be him. He’s the nicest guy — unlike the rest of my friends! And me!”
On my drive back to the Valley, I wondered when I’ll finally stop hurting myself. If it’s not the panic attacks, or me ‘forgetting’ to take the medications that would stabilize my depression and anxieties (it has to be on a subconscious level, right?), then it’s my body literally attacking itself (rheumathoid arthritis). Where did this self-loathing come from? Why can’t I let myself be happy? Will this madness ever go away?…That’s when my favorite radio station, Indie 103.1 played the Smith song, “There is a light and it never goes out.”
Not the most cheerful song ever written, but it strangely resonates with my current separation/divorce angst. Truthfully, it works with anyone’s angst and self-pity — that’s why the Smiths rule!
Take me out tonight
Where there’s music and there’s people
And they’re young and alive
Driving in your car
I never never want to go home
Because I haven’t got one
Anymore
So I drove over Mulholland, quietly listening to Morrissey’s personal brand of anguish until I heard this:
And if a double-decker bus
Crashes into us
To die by your side
Is such a heavenly way to die
And if a ten-ton truck
Kills the both of us
To die by your side
Well, the pleasure - the privilege is mine
That’s when I snorted! I love that its humorous, gloomy and (this is the big one) makes my life look cheerful by comparison! I laughed all the way down Coldwater Canyon.
I received a call in the early evening regarding someone I know who may have some very serious health problems. Not sure what to make of that just yet. I think I’ll wait a few days, hear about the test results (if they’re offered to me), then re-access whether or not to freak out. No, it’s not lost on me how funny it is that I don’t freak out when I finally have a real reason to do so. Didn’t see that one coming, did you?
There is a light and it never goes out,
Flo
February 12th, 2007
I got an email this evening from my best bud, Jean Luc. Here it is:
Jesus woman! Add to favorites (estimated)…50%…You’re on fire - the tipping point has begun. Start posting 1-3 times per day and see what happens.
Jean Luc has long told me that this little slice of heaven I call IXH could be huge. There are so many separated and divorced women without a home on the internet, all with lots and lots of stories they could share — the good, the bad and everything in between. Some of them are (occasionally) amused by zany stories from my silly life. If I would just post more, I could bring it all together…He’s probably right — makes sense to me. But it won’t happen anytime soon. Certainly not this week.
Every day there is some funny little moment in this divorce experience that should be posted here, but isn’t. Though I want to write, I can’t bring myself to do it. I’m pretty sure it’s because I’m sick again. Not the swollen joint and muscle pain that comes with having rheumathoid arthritis — that’s easy to deal with it. It’s this stupid depression that is holding me back. Until you’ve felt this yourself, you probably couldn’t understand how hard it is to function in even the most basic way.
I spoke with my psychiatrist a few days ago (as I strolled through Costco with my three-pack of organic milk — yummy!). He phoned because I missed my appointment with him two hours earlier. Yeah, sorry about that. I couldn’t find a parking space so I finally gave up at five p.m., a half hour after my appointment time. I expected him to point out the obvious, like, uh, why didn’t you just park in the medical center parking structure?
Imaginary Me: I would have, but I spent my parking money on stamps and didn’t have time to hit the ATM.
Imaginary Dr. Patience: Hmm, yes, now why would you spend that money on stamps when you knew you’d need it to pay for parking?
IM: Well, I forgot about the self-addressed envelopes I had to turn in to the Court until the very last minute. Of course.
IDP: The court? Which court would that be?
IM: The Courthouse where I filed my divorce paperwork today.
I guess I really wanted to tell him, and anyone who would listen, that I had a big, big day. I finally got off my ass, and completed the divorce paperwork. Two years into my separation, yes, but at least it wasn’t three, four or even five years into my separation. I know some people who hit the five year mark before it was all said an done. Can you even imagine that kind of hell? I can’t — and I’d like to keep it that way!
Turns out he didn’t ask any of those questions. He phoned for three other reasons:
- He re-scheduled my appointment for three weeks from that day and I’d better show up if I ever want to see my meds again (that’s not an exact quote but its pretty much the same message).
- I need to be consistent with my anxiety medication. He can’t be sure what does or doesn’t work if I’m not using it the way it was prescribed. Three times a day, every day.
- He spoke with his attending about my request for more xanax. He does this every time I ask for it as it is a powerful anxiety drug and not well liked by him or his superiors. Something about the way it’s metabolised by the body makes the highs and lows of the anxiety more pronounced. Everyone of them — and I think I’ve seen five different attending physicans by now — raises and dips their hands as if they’re riding some huge wave. Dr. Patience and the most recent attending decided that I should up my intake of my regular anxiety medication before being prescribed more xanax.
Dr. Patience emphasized (over and over and over again) that his attending wanted me to understand that I HAVE to be consistant with my medication and that I CAN’T have xanax unless its an emergency.
“Uh, Dr. Patience,” I said, “I haven’t been prescribed xanax since mid-December. I was given ten pills but have only used nine of them over these last two months. I don’t overuse them. I horde them because they’re like gold! I feel the need to point this out because I feel like I’m being scolded…But I’m not being scolded.”
“No, you’re not being scolded,” he said.
I was good for a day and now I’m back to being inconsistent. The only reason I know is because I feel like crap and don’t want to do anything but curl up on my couch and cry. I forced myself to leave my apartment and run errands, buy some groceries, drop off a car full of recycleables and paint cans though all I wanted to do was go back to bed.
I set an alarm on my cell phone to remind myself when to take my pills. It worked at first, but now I just turn it off and tell myself I’ll take my pills in a minute. Hours later I wonder whether I took them after all. I think I might have to make a pill log with little boxes I check every time I take a pill. That would work until I tell myself I’ll check them in a minute only to wonder hours later if I took the pills at all. Sheesh.
So, yes, dear reader, I would love to spend more time with you, and hear your stories — the good, the bad and everything in between. Hopefully I will very, very soon. Until then, I’m going to bed and might not come back for awhile.
Feeling funky,
Flo
February 12th, 2007