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Friday, Feb. 01, 2002 / 10:11 p.m. ~After an Incredibly Long Day~ I've just been eating the frozen Pad Thai with tofu, a vegetarian pasta bowl thing, and I'm not sure I can finish it. It's fairly awful. Actually, it's vegan, not just vegetarian, and I think the flavors suffer. I like a noodle made with egg. But I ate some tomatoes and bocconcini with olive oil and herbs and spices, and I needed something more......and typically, even with a fridge full of good stuff, didn't feel like actually "preparing" anything. There are too many dishes in the sink and surrounding to really get into cooking right now, and after work I stood looking at them, thinking, There is NO WAY IN HELL I can stand here and wash dishes after the long day I've had. How do people work all day and then go home and wash dishes? Or go home and cook? Or go home and cook for families, children, then wash dishes, wash children, help with homework, etc., etc., have sex with partners? Where does the energy come from? I think I can remember having it. The energy. Where did it go? This morning was nothing like it was supposed to be. My coffee hit me hard, I was severely caffeinated, severely adrenalized, everything felt exaggerated, every noise made me want to scream, I constantly wanted to ask people to SHUT THE FUCK UP BECAUSE I CAN'T FUCKING HEAR ON THE FUCKING PHONE, I DON'T CARE IF IT IS FRIDAY! So I asked D., the Supervisor, instead. "Um, this is delicate, but I need to say it" (her eyes bug way out in preparation, she is SO easily intimidated, like a squirrel or something), "....it feels REALLY tense in here and Rasta has his radio turned way up and everyone is shouting over cubicles, and it's really hard to concentrate on the people on the phone, getting their addresses into the system, in both programs, getting it right, you know, it's just really....loud.....am I the only one who notices????". I mean it. I had this dream before I got up. Rasta got fired. And Lulu was on her way out too. They'd been taped on some phone conversation, and I got to hear part of it, Lulu talking about me, purposely mispronouncing my name, which is not really Joleen, duh, but I didn't get to hear all of their conversation, just got to see the look on her face when she realized she'd been caught. And I looked to see Rasta's desk cleared, his stuff gone, him, gone. I was elated. Positively elated. So, there I was, in reality, not a waking dream, not a sleeping dream, but in my actual real cube, and I was hearing his radio, blaring, "And we're in New Orleans, getting ready for the SUPER BOWL", and on and on it went, and I wanted to scream, I was clenching anything I could clench, I was stuffing my finger in my empty ear, the other with the earpiece so I could hear the caller, each caller, and they called, fast and furiously, one after the other, W-2 reissues, address updates, new addresses on W-2s. People shouting over the cubicles, procedures, and how do you do this, and what if it's that, and how do I, can you, should we, blah, blah, blah...... It started out that way. Then the radio died. I guess she said something, I don't know. I'd wanted a meeting, I'd asked her, yesterday, "Can we all huddle together or something, before the process starts? Make sure we're "on the same "page"? I don't think we are, I really don't". But she hates it when I'm right. She hates it when I have better ideas than she has, hates it when I try to tell her how to do her job. But I wouldn't try to tell her if she'd only DO her job. And she clearly hates presiding over actual meetings. They'd been huddled when I first walked in, but I'd missed it, and I wasn't late, but she didn't wait for me. I assumed I knew everything anyway, it was THEM I was worried would do the wrong thing, fuck it up for the rest of us later when people call back all pissed off. Michael, the old Supervisor, used to walk down the aisle, his '70s Blaxploitation flick pimp daddy walk, all slow and suave, rhythmic and cool, in his fancy suits, his matching socks and shiny shoes, and in his little voice, his soft little voice, he'd say, "We need to keep it down", using his hands to press to the floor, his impersonation of keeping it down. Press it down, keep it low, chill out. And everyone would say, "Oops! Sorry! I guess we were kind of loud". But now, with D., it's a fucking circus, every day. Every day. I'm embarassed. I missed the NHL Young Stars game tonight. I didn't know it was on. Apparently, Thrashers' number one dude, Ilya Kovalchuk, the 18 year old future Wayne Gretzky, was a big hit. Dammit. Now is the Super Skills competition, and I'm missing that too. And I typed too much today, and my mouse hand hurt. At one point today, everything hurt. I was killing myself. Now my hands are seizing on me, they're too hot, more typing, I need to stop, but there's more to say...... We'll see if a splash of cold water will help. Kind of. After the day, the phone calls, the typing, the mousing, the noise, oh, the NOISE!, and the power surge which knocked some of us out, our PCs, and I had fun figuring it all out, got people to plug into separate outlets, and D. scrambled because she doesn't know anything, and again, I did, and she hates that. Hates it. It was a challenge. Sure, Lulu's PC goes down, she has no surge protector, sure mine is up, but my protector beeps, it's a warning that the outlet is no good. All we need to do is flip the breaker, it's in the box on the wall. "Oh, I don't want to go near it!", she says. *Sigh* I write that sigh because I just sighed. Thinking about it, the surge, about me knowing what it was, about D. not wanting me to deal with it, about her not liking me, me not liking her, no one liking me and me liking no one, and how tedious it all is. Was. So I go out to my car, turn the key, it's a click, the engine lights light, then go out, then it's blackness on my instrument panel. No click when I turn the key again, nothing. Again. No lights, nothing. Penelope comes out, with Kim, and I say, "Guess what? My starter is dead.", and Penelope is prepared to do anything for me. The one who hugs me every morning, says, "Bless you", then doesn't speak to me the rest of the day. Until it's time to say goodbye, then she says, "Good night _____. Have a good evening.", and I say, "Thanks. You too." But her battery is covered by some plastic thingie, and we don't want to remove it (what the hell is that? how ridiculous!), so Kim moves her car around and I whip out jumper cables (I bought them last year after my battery died on me - figured I'm better off safe than sorry - a Wal Mart purchase), and thankfully they have instructions on them. My first time jumping my battery while other people stand around and watch. Usually it's me watching. In fact, Michael, the old Supervisor, came and gave me a jump almost this time last year when I was stuck at the bank on a break from work. It was raining and my car was totally dead after I used the ATM. He stood in the rain, me holding my umbrella over him so his fancy suit wouldn't get wet, and he manfully attached cables, unmanfully set off a spark, and got me going. I was so appreciative and he was so humble. The car wouldn't start. Today. The day over, me thinking of the Big Game, getting a ticket, getting some ham and cheese to eat with herbed cheese bread, depositing my paycheck in the ATM outside Publix, and it wouldn't start, even with juice. Dead. Totally. Then I heard the alarm, the high pitch you hear when the key is left in the ignition and the door is opened. The engine lights were on, the car started, I went to Goodyear, after thanking Kim "Very Much", and she said, "You're very much welcome, ____", and it was for a moment strange, and awkward, because she and I were once like Lulu and I are now.....former fast friends who separated after a betrayal. She went to M (Manager) to say that I didn't feel I could talk to Michael, the old Supervisor. But I'd told her that privately. Why do people feel the need to tell others what I tell them privately? So, Kim gave me a jump, and suddenly I was thanking her, and going on my way as she sat and watched, from her driver's seat. And Goodyear said it sounds like a loose connection. And without getting any info on me at all, they pulled my car in and fixed it. I think the mechanic recognized me. He must have. He was the one who gave me the bad news when I had the alternator put in, told me the voltage regulator was no good, that I'd have to leave the car, after waiting all day. He must have known it was me, or maybe, like a good mechanic, he recognized the car, but he didn't look at it, someone else did......either way, he said that when they put in the new starter they had to take out the battery and they didn't tighten down the positive side, a bolt, or something, and it had come loose, and that's all it was. And I didn't need a tow, I didn't have to leave it, and I said, "Don't you need any info on me? My name or anything?", and they said nope. I said, "You just trust me?". I mean, I could've been anyone off the street, I could've lied. But no one ever believes my lies. I am terrible at lying. Reminds me of when I returned from Europe with two suitcases (one more than I'd left with) filled with stuff, wine, olive oil, olives, etc., etc., and I said to the Customs guy, "Aren't you going to look in my bags?", and he said, "Look me in the eyes"........."Nope. Don't need to". So I said, "Huh? Why? Do I look too honest and straight?", and he said something about being in the business for so many years all he had to do was look a person in the eye to see if she was lying or not. I wonder if he'd feel that way today, post terrorist attack. Okay, this is really long. This is where I say, okay, for all you scrollers out there, anyone left reading, etc., etc. So, I go to Publix, right? I go to the ATM, right? I get my ham and cheese for my herbed cheese bread, right? And I am waiting for the nice lady at the Deli Counter to slice some rosemary and sundried tomato ham for me and I hear someone say, "Well hello, Miss _____" (what, you think I'd print my real last name?), and I turn, and it's a woman from work, the one who assists the HR Manager, the one who does the Payroll, the one who made us all, ALL of us, a Christmas ornament, yeah, handmade, twisted wire (and her hands were sore too!) and crystal beads, beautiful personalized ornaments, she's really crafty. And she's there, shopping, and I never see anyone I know there, at Publix, and I'm spacey, what a day, right? And the car thing, and me panicking about the car, and it all being fine, but me being so wiped out and just way out of whack, and there she is. Shopping. With a man, and he's pushing the cart, and he's tall, and he's, well, he's black. African American. Um, she's white, like really white, very light skinned. I mean, I've dated black men, my ex-best friend, the one I couldn't be friends with anymore because he wanted to sleep with me, not the one, the white one, but the black one (yeah, there were two, two men with whom I was bestest friends, neither of whom I was attracted to physically, but they were to me, so, etc., etc., etc.), anyway, he was black. I have no problems with it, of course not, but her? She? I didn't figure it. I don't know why. I just didn't. It's always a surprise to me to find out someone I know is married to someone of a different race. Not knowing in advance. It's still not anything expected. It's still unusual. Not everyday. Out of the very ordinary. As if she had turned to a woman, and said, "This is my partner, Louise". She said, "This is my husband, _____". And I shook his hand, got her to repeat his name, and I thought, omigod, he sees it written all over my face, so does she, how surprised I am. But they don't know the day I've had. It's not just this, although, yeah, sure, but it's so much more. SO much more. I felt so terrible. Like I'd said, "Hi, nice to meet you, you're black, aren't you?". I really hope I can DO something tomorrow. Anything. Clean. Cook. Take my car filled with recyclables to the recycling center at the Farmer's Market, the other one, 35 miles away. Take a drive. Not worry my car won't start. Go see that "Brotherhood of the Wolf" movie, or "Amelie" again. I seriously have been wanting to see it again. Like no movie can ever compare. I hope I can. I hope I win the Big Game. That would be nice. I did spend a dollar on it. I'm tired of playing. I want to go ahead and win. Okay? Cost of the War in Iraq
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