Thursday, June 10, 2004
The Mean Reds
Audrey Hepburn, in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, said that instead of the blues she got the mean reds, and that they were worse than the blues. She described the mean reds as being sad and scared, and you just don't know why. Tiffany's was the only place she could go that brought her peace.
I'm having a mean reds sort of a day, and it's not just me either. Just about everyone I've talked to - complained to, really - have confessed to similar feelings. Like the craziness believed to accompany a full moon - do bad moods also follow a cycle? Predominant stereotypes indicate that women will be angry once a month; when women are close to each other their cycles often coincide and that results in a whole gaggle of irritable women. That's not the case with me right now; however, I'm just ticked. It was one of those days.
Things started off with the feeling of not being quite awake, but I kept trying to jolly myself out of the grogginess. I started my day at work by sending out, what I thought would be, a very sweet email. It was one of the rare times where I was one hundred percent sure of my motivation. I was writing to someone I care about to try and make him happy and show that I was thinking of him. Wow, did I ever misread that situation. In the process of trying to compliment someone very close to my friend I ended up saying something potentially insulting. There was too much room to read between the lines, and I was totally misrepresented. Now, as I mentioned above, I was fully not trying to be sarcastic or ambiguous or cheeky. People who know me might find that hard to believe because of every day for the past twenty-seven years, but it's true. It was the high road all the way this time.
So, in addition to the craziness at work, I also got to enjoy feeling guilty and self-righteous for the rest of the day. Add to the mix feeling angry at myself for being guilty over something I didn't think I needed to feel guilty about. Man, I could use a drink.
I hate one of my coworkers. I'm going to come right out and say it. I don't hate many people, hardly any really, but this woman is special. She works from home, but comes into the office once a month. She never uses her keys, but rather buzzes for me to let her in every time she arrives, goes for lunch, walks someone to their car, or just when she feels like watching the big vein in my forehead throb. One of my illustrious tasks is to make coffee in the morning. I'm usually the only one who drinks regular; maybe one other person will have a cup of it, so I usually only end up making coffee once a day. One day she sauntered down the hall toward me:
"Um, Lynx....there's no more coffee, and I don't know what we do when that happens..."
Well, shit, let me think, we could...panic and close the office for the day, curl up in a pile on the floor and nap like kittens, or WE COULD MAKE ANOTHER POT OF COFFEE. Honestly, it's like one day the wolves who were raising her said, "It’s time for you to take everything you've learned from us and go into the city to work."
Today, while I was doing three other things a man called to say that he would be late for his interview with her because he was on the bus and it was running late. I relay the message. He calls back while I'm still working on these three things, and he's well and truly late now, to ask for directions. I give them to him, but obviously, since she wasn't the one giving them, they were wrong and I'd inconvenienced her. I apologized and explained that I hadn't had much time and felt that I had given perfectly adequate directions, at which point she informed me that I didn't need to "get defensive." Ho ho ho! I may not need to get defensive, but now I GET to fuck her shit up. Next time she heads out in the rain to grab a curry meal from the corner cafe I'm going to head off to the bathroom with a crossword puzzle. Take your keys, you dumb twat.
The homecoming wasn't satisfying, either. Traffic was bad on the way, and then I babysat for awhile. When my brother and sister-in-law came home there weren't hellos, there were questions. They were all fairly reasonable questions, but you wouldn't have heard me admitting that then. “Are you watching the Stalker episode from CSI AGAIN? You’re messed up.” “Is the baby eating hot dogs? He’s never eaten those before. You know those are one of the foods babies can choke on.” This was all in the first five minutes. It turned out the hot dog point was moot as the baby would have nothing to do with veggie dogs and cried every time he put a piece in his mouth. The Stalker episode of CSI (season two) is brilliant and creepy and I really like it. I can understand why my having watched it four times in the past few months could hint at a problem, but I just really enjoy watching Nicki cry.
I came upstairs for awhile to regroup and decide what I needed to do to break the mood. Audrey had her Tiffany's, what did I have? Music? A little Rage Against the Machine when you're ticked works wonders. Nothing like lip synching along to "Fuck you I won't do what you tell me!" for five minutes straight without feeling a little better about life. And there's this. Expelling anger onto screen, or paper, or a sympathetic ear is quite cathartic.
Days like this, when everything conspires to fuck you over, remind me of when I used to work in the food court of our local mall. Periodically I'd have these wretched days, and I'd just be foul to deal with (I was seventeen). On one in particular I was stocking the fridge with pop and muttering angrily to myself when two things happened in unison: a child started wailing, and I banged my hand against the rack I was loading the drinks onto. Instead of screaming, or walking out of work I must have howled with laughter for ten minutes solid, no breathing. It was either that or go postal. Maybe that's the way it works, you either suck it up and laugh it out, or your rage builds until you're up on a water tower with a semi. Let’s all just keep hoping that I continue to find writing a serviceable release.
Audrey Hepburn, in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, said that instead of the blues she got the mean reds, and that they were worse than the blues. She described the mean reds as being sad and scared, and you just don't know why. Tiffany's was the only place she could go that brought her peace.
I'm having a mean reds sort of a day, and it's not just me either. Just about everyone I've talked to - complained to, really - have confessed to similar feelings. Like the craziness believed to accompany a full moon - do bad moods also follow a cycle? Predominant stereotypes indicate that women will be angry once a month; when women are close to each other their cycles often coincide and that results in a whole gaggle of irritable women. That's not the case with me right now; however, I'm just ticked. It was one of those days.
Things started off with the feeling of not being quite awake, but I kept trying to jolly myself out of the grogginess. I started my day at work by sending out, what I thought would be, a very sweet email. It was one of the rare times where I was one hundred percent sure of my motivation. I was writing to someone I care about to try and make him happy and show that I was thinking of him. Wow, did I ever misread that situation. In the process of trying to compliment someone very close to my friend I ended up saying something potentially insulting. There was too much room to read between the lines, and I was totally misrepresented. Now, as I mentioned above, I was fully not trying to be sarcastic or ambiguous or cheeky. People who know me might find that hard to believe because of every day for the past twenty-seven years, but it's true. It was the high road all the way this time.
So, in addition to the craziness at work, I also got to enjoy feeling guilty and self-righteous for the rest of the day. Add to the mix feeling angry at myself for being guilty over something I didn't think I needed to feel guilty about. Man, I could use a drink.
I hate one of my coworkers. I'm going to come right out and say it. I don't hate many people, hardly any really, but this woman is special. She works from home, but comes into the office once a month. She never uses her keys, but rather buzzes for me to let her in every time she arrives, goes for lunch, walks someone to their car, or just when she feels like watching the big vein in my forehead throb. One of my illustrious tasks is to make coffee in the morning. I'm usually the only one who drinks regular; maybe one other person will have a cup of it, so I usually only end up making coffee once a day. One day she sauntered down the hall toward me:
"Um, Lynx....there's no more coffee, and I don't know what we do when that happens..."
Well, shit, let me think, we could...panic and close the office for the day, curl up in a pile on the floor and nap like kittens, or WE COULD MAKE ANOTHER POT OF COFFEE. Honestly, it's like one day the wolves who were raising her said, "It’s time for you to take everything you've learned from us and go into the city to work."
Today, while I was doing three other things a man called to say that he would be late for his interview with her because he was on the bus and it was running late. I relay the message. He calls back while I'm still working on these three things, and he's well and truly late now, to ask for directions. I give them to him, but obviously, since she wasn't the one giving them, they were wrong and I'd inconvenienced her. I apologized and explained that I hadn't had much time and felt that I had given perfectly adequate directions, at which point she informed me that I didn't need to "get defensive." Ho ho ho! I may not need to get defensive, but now I GET to fuck her shit up. Next time she heads out in the rain to grab a curry meal from the corner cafe I'm going to head off to the bathroom with a crossword puzzle. Take your keys, you dumb twat.
The homecoming wasn't satisfying, either. Traffic was bad on the way, and then I babysat for awhile. When my brother and sister-in-law came home there weren't hellos, there were questions. They were all fairly reasonable questions, but you wouldn't have heard me admitting that then. “Are you watching the Stalker episode from CSI AGAIN? You’re messed up.” “Is the baby eating hot dogs? He’s never eaten those before. You know those are one of the foods babies can choke on.” This was all in the first five minutes. It turned out the hot dog point was moot as the baby would have nothing to do with veggie dogs and cried every time he put a piece in his mouth. The Stalker episode of CSI (season two) is brilliant and creepy and I really like it. I can understand why my having watched it four times in the past few months could hint at a problem, but I just really enjoy watching Nicki cry.
I came upstairs for awhile to regroup and decide what I needed to do to break the mood. Audrey had her Tiffany's, what did I have? Music? A little Rage Against the Machine when you're ticked works wonders. Nothing like lip synching along to "Fuck you I won't do what you tell me!" for five minutes straight without feeling a little better about life. And there's this. Expelling anger onto screen, or paper, or a sympathetic ear is quite cathartic.
Days like this, when everything conspires to fuck you over, remind me of when I used to work in the food court of our local mall. Periodically I'd have these wretched days, and I'd just be foul to deal with (I was seventeen). On one in particular I was stocking the fridge with pop and muttering angrily to myself when two things happened in unison: a child started wailing, and I banged my hand against the rack I was loading the drinks onto. Instead of screaming, or walking out of work I must have howled with laughter for ten minutes solid, no breathing. It was either that or go postal. Maybe that's the way it works, you either suck it up and laugh it out, or your rage builds until you're up on a water tower with a semi. Let’s all just keep hoping that I continue to find writing a serviceable release.
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