At the point where I do this for therapy more than any other reason, I admit I’ve been melancholy lately. I am very dissatisfied with my job. I think my husband said it best tonight. “It’s a shitty company with poor quality control.” Well, there’s that, and the fact that I sit in a room with a silent person (except when she’s barfing up a lung) all day. I see no one and talk to no one. I wonder if some of the staff even know my name?
Today I very delicately tried to tell a co-worker that something she wrote for the corporate blog was grammatically incorrect. Oh laws, was it bad. And I really walked on eggshells, and was all “Please don’t get mad at me, but I just wanted to let you know….”. There was no good way out of the situation. I tried to explain that I did this for six years, and every article that went to press went through four or more separate reads to get it right. This is what I did! I know this!
But you run the risk of insulting someone, and all I got was “I just do what I’m told.” Well guess what, sister, I’m tired of doing what I’m told. Why should we put poor quality on our corporate page? Where’s our pride?
Doing what I’m told hasn’t gotten me anywhere. But guess what. I found a job listing for….a copy editor, and I’m applying for it. So there. I might not get this one, but I will keep on trying.
Oh, the Emmys were Sunday, and you know that, and maybe you don’t CARE, because you’re above all that, but I want to throw up two dresses that rocked my world. First, Danielle Brooks, AKA Taystee, from Orange is the New Black.
But just to add a little Salt to the Pepa, there is this creature.
Let’s be honest: This one rarely gets it right, and believe me, no one understands her….particular issues (there are two of them) more than I. Although I will never have that face. I don’t get cable anymore, so I didn’t get to hear her shut down Seacrest, that unrefined boob, with the tidbit that she picked this Christian Siriano out because it reminded her of a Sargent painting. Be still my heart. I was never a big fan of Christian when he was on Project Runway, but I love that fact that he seems to love ladies who have curves. Bless. Oh, and the side view where you can’t see her face is my favorite shot — it truly IS like a painting.
So, other than me bitching about work, and wonking out over Emmy dresses (which I did ALL DAY Monday. At work) and freaking out over Stitch Rock next week, I have been thinking deep thoughts about deep things, like who am I, and why am I no Jack Handy, and what’s it all about, Alfie? You get the picture. I sometimes wonder who I am anymore, and where the girl I used to be went. I don’t think I’ll ever find her again, but I hope to find something. I won’t find it on Pinterest, where I’ve discovered I prefer black and white graphics and a bit of whimsy for my fashion, and mainly British men with big noses, dark eyes, dark hair and preferably horn-rimmed glasses. If you haven’t followed me you know you always can, I’m tangodiva.
And I’ve noticed a ramping up of people on Facebook from my college class posting about the reunion next year (the one I missed five years ago because I had just lost my job). I always thought I HAD to go, especially since I was so broken up about missing the last one. But I think that’s because one of my few true friends showed up, and that shocked me and I was broken up about not getting to see her again.
I have nothing against any of my classmates, but the truth is I always hung out more with the underclassmen. Heck, I did it in high school, too. And I feel funny when I see all the pictures they’re posting of back in the day, because I wasn’t one to gather in groups, if you know what I mean. What I mean is I’m not in them.
I have pictures, but mine are of students who left after one or two years, or my own small posse of friends who are far-flung to the winds. I don’t want to put their photos up, because if someone doesn’t want to be found, it’s not for me to reveal them to the world.
But the thing I’m thinking most about is my former best friend from college and beyond. I haven’t spoken to her since Hurricane Katrina. I know that sounds weird but she was in Baton Rouge at the time. I called her the week I got married, and left a message to tell her…I was running away to Vegas to get married. But I don’t know if she got the message. She never called me back.
She was an artist, a very talented one, but she had a lot of mental health issues. And it had gotten harder and harder over the years to get that call in the middle of the night that she had just tried to kill herself, and she was telling me but please, don’t tell her therapist. These weren’t “Girl who cried wolf” calls, either. I saw the scars. And I did call her therapist.
So tonight I am missing my old friend, and wondering where she is, and hoping she is happy, or at least content. I will not lie: I am practically a skip tracer, and I know where she’s living. But I think it’s best to let her be.
This is part of a painting she did of me back in the 1980s. She mailed it to me, out of the blue, several years ago. I’ve had it in the trunk of the car for almost a year since we moved. I thought it was time to take it out. It was just damned lazy to keep it in there. Sometimes, I feel that to other people I am nothing more than HAIR! TITS! LIPS! and even though that is the case here, I will always love the look she caught in my eye. The “I’m pissed at the entire world!” look. I’m not too naive to admit it was probably true.
And here’s a selfie I took in the work bathroom a few weeks ago when I was trying to figure out what to do with my HAIR! Funny, I still look pretty much the same except for the glasses. And the scared look in my eyes. So I’m thinking I’d like to get that pissy look back. It had its charms….