Theatre of the Absurd and the Absolutely Clueless

An (A)morality Play in, eh, at most 5/8ths of an Act:

*CLC innocently, and rather sleepily, wanders into the breakroom looking for her mid-morning coffee pick-me-up. She is yawning and contemplating how long till it is no longer unreasonable to begin contemplating lunch. She reaches for a styrofoam cup - one of management's "eureka!" cost-cutting strategies which offends her left coast upbringing sensibilities to no end, but which she ignores as the pull of the caffeine addiction and its sweet siren song clearly outweigh any fleeting concerns about landfill, CFC's, ozone layer depletion, melting of polar ice caps or any other such environmental apocalypse.

Cup under dispenser.

Press button.

Ah, sweet nectar....

D'oh!

The leaded stuff is gone. Only de-caf left! Agh! Blaspheme!

She wonders - does anyone actually drink decaffeinated coffee? And if so, why? CLC realizes she is, among other identifiable groups for her in this world, a Beverage Pragmatist: she only ingests fluids for their utilitarian value - cocktails are not for show, they are for getting crazy-assbackwards-drunk y'all. Gatorade is not ingested for tastiness, it is for curing the "I will neeeeeeeeeehveeeeeerrrr drink again, and this time I swear it is true...at least until my next family event, or, well, the next scheduled Happy Hour, or then next time the clock actually strikes 5" hangovers (especially the original green flavor). Coffee is not to be consumed in its simplest form for appreciations of subtle flavors, dude, it is for waking up, staying awake, and effectively approximating being up awake and attentive. Diet coke is not sampled for pleasure, it is... well, okay, maybe that is the one exception. Diet coke (most especially diet cherry coke) is indeed guzzled for pleasure. Sweet, sweet DC.

CLC is clearly experiencing numerous tangential reveries in the breakroom, when she is jolted to attention by one of her less frequently seen co-workers*

Less Than Frequently Seen Co-Worker ("LTFSC-W"): So how're things?

Currently De-Caffeinated CLC: Ah, can't complain... *She is literally on the cusp of mouthing the standard follow up -- "...and you?" -- when....*

LTFSC-W: Yes, you can.

Still De-Caffeinated (and perplexed as to how one actually starts the coffee machine - evil, thy name is Mr. Coffee - so her defenses were down and she was distracted) CLC: Well....

LTFSC-W: And you do.

CLC: *Dumbfounded*

LTSFSC-W: Often.

*Stupefied silence ensues*

*2 beats*

CLC (in what she is now imagining is an uncanny Porky Pig stutter): Well, well... today I don't want to.

*As less than moving and persuasive as this last response was - reason #11579 that it is hard to believe CLC is actually a lawyer, though she plays one every day and twice on Sundays, and according to the State Bar was still a licensed and practicing one at the time of this whole interaction - it did accomplish her immediate goal. It got LTSFSC-W to stop speaking. At least for a few seconds before adding curses on her mother or her unborn children or something on top of the insult that had been heaped on the injury. So upon issuing the utterly unwitty, undevastating, unsuave, un-put-you-in-your-place-for-messing-with-her-not-as-yet-caffeinated-but-not-seeming-too-bad-Wednesday "Th-th-th-that's all folks!" pronouncement, CLC with a little shimmy, a little shake, and mostly scuttle, fled the room.*

*Back in the safety of her own office, she realized that even in her hurry, her shock, her unwitting dismay, that in the end, her cup did still runneth over. Runneth over with decaf. All over her pants.*

THE END.

*Curtsy, Curtsy*

Psst - over here...

I swore I was just going to call back, leave a message, and let that be that. I wouldn't think of it any longer.

In the "cat-mouse-mouse-cat and so on and so forth" game, I had let an appropriate amount of time elapse.

Returning a call is just good manners, after all. Isn't it?

And so the message was left.

Casual, calm, cool, collected, care-free. My voice just dripping with "c's."

And so there it is. Out in the ether, recorded, memorialized.

And that's it. Que sera, sera...right?

Given that "gato-raton-raton-gato" precedent of communications, interactions and anticipations, I shouldn't expect a response for 2 days to 3 weeks.

And it's fine. Because that's the way it is. Really.

And I know. And I expect it to be that way.

I play the game. Same as he does.

And yet, I can't stop staring at the damn phone.

I look away and then I catch myself sneaking sideways glances at it. Willing it to light up. To ring.

This is not part of the deal. No expectations. No worries. Chillin'.

Odd.

Damnit. I looked again.

Just the idea of him brings my senses to full attention. I am alternately frustrated, excited, lit up, and petrified, all in the same breath.

It is exhilarating and taxing.

It is the anomalies that bring me back. And the certain conveniences.

Familiarity breeds more familiarity. And with familiarity, there is affinity.

Affinity. That's the ticket. Non-intrusive, non-committal, boomerang like affinity.

Affinity that keeps me stealing glances at my phone.

Damnit.

Just call me Lay-Z

• So apparently, the Cray-zee Cat Lady Phenomenon, my fear and loathing of which has been well documented, is not urban legend, but actually a documented psychiatric illness. Well, maybe not quite DSM-IV documented, but significant enough to have it's own dedicated consortium.
• Apparently the Diddification of America may have to continue without my esteemed Mr. Combs as it looks like he is about to make yet another name change. That's m'boy - a truly inspired impresario/attention whore/who knows how to "keep [his] sexy all the way right." Wow, it's like he's my spiritual twin. Maybe I should change my name too. Lord knows the current one has run it's course, and as much as it boggles peoples minds in writing it down (as it requires heavy lifting in both the spelling and grammar departments), it certainly wouldn't be as catchy as say, oh, Desdemona Cherry. Though then again, that name would either brand me a new wave folk singer or a B-List porn star. Perhaps it is better to stick with the See-Elle-Sea.

This however....

Makes me so very happy.

As does this.

Taking my bat, Taking my Ball, and Going Home

I. Need. To. Quit. My. Job.

Now.

It does nothing but fill me with dread. Of course, now, post-Happy Pill, it is more like "Crap, I am moving and I have to pack up all of the things I call valuable belongings, but as soon as I begin the process, I will just refer to as 'crap.' And it is going to take up my whole weekend and it is going to *suck*, *suck*, *suck.* Agh! Eh, whatever" dread, rather than "OM-Fn-G, I would rather have my eyelids taped open, have my finger nails pulled out one by one, and be forced to eat a jug of mayonnaise like it was ice cream" dread. But it is dread nonetheless.

Dread should not be the definining emotion of something you spend 50 or so (give or take, or give some more) hours a week doing.

I realized today that I have never looked forward to coming to work. Not once. In four years. And I have only taken one vacation. In that whole time. And it was with my parents and various and sundry other relatives.

Damn. That is not good.

This is not good. I am definitely over it.

I was under it for a long time. But now, I super-doubly-certainly-positively over it.

Double, Double; Toil & Trouble

Is it worrisome that I think I am starting to feel antsy because Tom Cruise hasn't done anything abjectly "NFW!"-insane in the last week? Or perhaps it is more worrisome that everyone else has picked up the slack in filling the crazy/creating signs that the apocalypse is clearly coming in Tom's conspicuous absence:

• Katie Holmes' disturbing imitation of a fembot.
• Colin Powell's deciding to turn in the bronze stars and well tailored suits for dockers, a blue button down, and a Blackberry (firmly attached to his belt).
• A-Rod making the contextually ridiculous pronouncement, "I want to say it out loud: I am Dominican." Funny, I though he was a weenie. And certain handmovements of his in last years ALCS might have led one to believe he was an asian martial arts expert. Either way, I bet he can't make any of these out loud pronouncements in spanish. A-Rod eres un salchicha!
• Billy Beane's "Ah-ha!" moment as to how to solve his problem with an embarassment of riches in terms of talented outfielders which has culminated in certain outfielders being unhappy at not getting enough playing time, is to trade away the outfielder not happy at not getting enough playing time, for... another outfielder not happy at getting enough playing time. Oh, the plan is just so clear now. Obviously, he is now just trying to do everything he can to infuriate Joe Morgan and make his head implode on itself, through continued success despite ever-more ridiculous moves. Which, conceivably, may actually be well worth the emotional pain inflicted by this roller-coaster of roster moves.

The only person making any sense these days is Rob Thomas:

He says, "If I were gay, Tom wouldn't be on the top of my list...It would be BRAD PITT."

"I'm more offended by the rumors saying I'm Scientologist."

Back, back, back, back...gone!

The Ubiquitous H.I.T.

I know I shouldn't always start my posts with questions, but since when does knowing it's wrong stop me from indulging in bad behavior? (May I please have anooooooooooother Cap'nnnnnnnnnndiet, puuuhleez?!!!)

When trying to show support for a friend having a tough time, is there a viable alternative to saying "Hang in there"?

"Hang in there" bothers me because it feels so trite and cliched and not nearly enough. Your friend needs a life raft and by invoking the ubiquitous "H.I.T." you are lobbing them one slightly used and rather deflated water wing. Fat lot of good that will do.

But what, pray tell, would help more?

An express "I feel your pain" (gratuitous biting of lower lip, holding of thumb up)?

The curt and kitschy "That's the way the cookie crumbles"?

The quasi-political and vaguely ethnic "You shall overcome....someday"?

The angry, subversive, yet oddly satisfying, but always inappropriate "Tell'em [IN REFERENCE TO WHATEVER THE OPPRESSIVE INFLUENCE OF THE MOMENT MIGHT BE] to fuck themselves"?

The resigned and flatly oblique statement favored in my profession "It is what it is"? (Is there a statement that could possible be any less profound? People pay by the billable hour for that kind of insight?)

All of these alternatives are clearly unacceptable, if only for the unifying reason that "Bitch, please!" is an appropriate and timely response to each and every one of those statements, and while certainly emphatic and perhaps cathartic, is not necessarily the response one wants to invoke from a friend to whom one is trying to show support. Well, unless you are the friend assigned to go pick Whitney Houston up from rehab.

So anyway, I continue to puzzle over my lexicographical conundrum.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

It is official. In my life, I have now seen more therapists than men I have slept with. Neither number is all that large and the ratio is only disproportionate by one - which I suppose should give me comfort that I am neither too crazy nor too slutty. In any event, it is always good to know that the general yin and yang of one's craziness and sluttiness are well balanced out. Just hate it when my various vices and/or addictions throw off my chakras.

Anyway, I realized I reached this milestone the other day when I actually accomplished the feat of seeing not one, but two mental health professionals in one day. One - my regular therapist, a Ph.d. - unendingly patient and kind, somehow able to restrain herself from breaking into peals of laughter at many of the absurd things that come out of my mouth. The other - a psychiatrist, M.D., who prescribed my happy pills, and who seemed astounded when I told him that I don't smoke pot. It was about three hours of confession, self analysis, and angst-emoting in one day. In the end, even I felt overly-self actualized.

The gist of all of this is that though I have now seen more therapists than I can count on one hand, and every consultation with them (long or short) goes the same way:

Doctor, so what should I talk about?

Whatever you want to talk about.

Okay.

*Ensuing hand wringing, hand waving, ranting, raving, rambling etc.*

"Doctor, why do I think/do/say/feel these things?"

"Why do you think you think/do/say/feel these things?"

And so there's the rub. That's the thing about therapy, and why it can continue on for years and years and never come to any kind of resolution. You pay the doctor to force you to listen to yourself. It is all based on self examination and being willing (and able) to listen to yourself as you talk and to come up with an answer to your own questions that you find suitable.

The right answer is impossible. A suitable answer is more realistic. Both, however, can be elusive.

So, in that spirit, and because I want to feel at least slightly accomplished (and not just a waste of - a lot - of space today), here is the question of the day:

Why do I (think) I do the things I do?

I cry: Because I don't have words for things that hurt me, and where no action is required. Major life events (e.g. like a death in the family etc.) have social protocols and actions that can be effective substitutes for the need to express one's feeling effectively. Someone betraying me by saying something nasty about me behind my back (or my imagining they have done so) does not.

I worry: I have always worried. About everything. Worry-wart does not even begin to describe. I was voted "Most Over-Stressed" in high school. I had an ulcer the summer I was 22. None of these things surprise the people that know me well. In fact, none of these things surprise most people who know me casually. I am, well, rather tightly wound. And it is very obvious.

I have spent time worrying about things that would never happen: How the plane will crash, how I would contract ebola, how I would fail the background investigation required for admission to the State Bar. I suppose on some level, these things were always possible, but to say that they were highly unlikely would not even begin to come close to their infintesimal possibilities of occuring. Catching ebola is quite difficult when one has never traveled outside of the Northern Hemishphere, let alone to the Congo. But I have worried about so much, for so long and none of it has ever happened that I have started to use my worry as a talisman.

I worried about that rare tropical disease, so of course, I didn't contract it.

I worried about getting fired (from a job I want to quit anyway), so of course I still have my job.

I worried about offending my friends or having upset someone, and so it turns out they aren't actually mad at me.

On the other hand, those people in that Dateline profile became victim's of that horrible flesh-eating disease, precisely because they didn't worry about it.

It's silly. It's a waste of time. But now it's a habit. A tiresome one to be sure. It is starting to get better, but it is something I have to put a lot of effort into. In my new worry-minimal life, I am going to have an awful lot of time on my hands. I am going to have to come up with a list of hobbies to take up, or something.

I overeat: Because it comforts me.

I don't eat: Because it comforts me.

I over-exercise: Because it makes me feel like I am in control (and I am a serotonin junkie).

I love good-looking men affiliated with the military (often as officers, sometimes as lawyers, sometimes as both) in some way who live outside of my time zone (or at least outside of my zip code): Because I like emotionally, geographically and physically unavailable smart gregarious (but fundamentally insecure) men, who are also searching for an imposition of structure, control and stability on their lives, to make up for their lack of emotional IQ to build their own structure, control and stability from within. I always think they are so much different from me. So much stronger than me. So much more independent than I am. So much more in contro than I am.

Turns out, we are two sides of the same coin.

I hate my job: I hate the fact that I feel my job strips me of all control. It makes me feel helpless. But I do find more recently, that I have in fact learned some things along the way, and the abject terror I used to experience every time the phone rang or a partner e-mail popped up has really dissipated. I still hate the fire drills. But I can actually say I am a lawyer without laughing out loud. (More like an inner smirk these days. ) Here's hoping I can get to that point when referencing my undergrad education.

Why I don't leave my job: The money is good. And that is a reason. But that is just the surface. Truth of the matter is, I have a hard time believing I can do anything else. I feel like I have been putting something over on my current employer as it is. I feel as tough someday they will discover, like some bad after school special ("I failed that class because it turns out.... I never learned how to read" *dum*, *dum*, *dum*), that I don't have the skills they think I do. Can I get so lucky (and yet so unlucky) again? I have felt to ill-suited to this job for a long time, I fear making another erroneous decision. As they say, the evil you know...

But in the end, inertia (much like karma) is a bitch. Sooner, rather than later, it will be time to get going and set out to make those dreams come true.

Another secret: I still don't know what my dream (other than living in abject laziness, sipping a cold frosty beverage, and watching VH1 reality TV all day for as long as I like) is. I don't have a "thing" - some people play music, other people sculpt, still other hike, others cook.

I just am.

Have yet to find a career that pays you for that.

I drink too much: I am a funny drunk. When I go out, either I do not drink at all, or I end up feeling absolutely no pain (as many unexplained bruises the next day inevitably indicate). I refuse to drink alone. I love group happy hours. When I drink, I drink to get what Brick in Cat On A Hot Tin Roof described perfectly as the "click" in his head. When the "click" comes, I get to stop thinking, stop worrying, stop feeling guilty. I just get to be. And I get to dance (which otherwise I am too self conscious to do) and I just love to dance.

I feel guilty: I feel guilty about my behavior, nearly all of the time. Which, though I am not perfect, is not awful (at least most of the time - I think). I do try very hard to be a good person, to be considerate and thoughtful, and to keep my narcissism to a manageable level. I aspire to be a good friend, or at least a faithful one with good intentions who though a pale imitation thereof, emulates the wonderful friends she is lucky to have. But I always feel guilty. I feel out of line. This is the one thing I haven't quite been able to identify why I do. I am always feeling like the other shoe is going to drop. That people will find out what I have done. It is a funny thing because my life is pretty much an open book. I will tell people things, I will then write them here. I will answer any question posed to me. Many times people don't even have to ask, they can read what I am feeling all over my face. (I can never ever play poker. Unless, I am like that guy who pulls the sweatshirt over his head before every hand... which BTW, is a total cop out). Truth of the matter is that I cannot think of anything about me that someone else does not know. The best explanation I can come up with is that I think I just feel guilty about feeling guilty (how is that for a ridiculous statement?). I know my life is such a gift and that I have so much to be grateful for: my friends, my family, everyone's health and well being, my ability to support myself, the advantages and opportunities I have been lucky enough to be granted in this life. In short everything. And yet I complain, I am sad, I kvetch, I am disconsolate. What is that? Who does that when they have so much?

If I could have one wish, it really would be to "see the forest for the trees." I often feel like that guy in Mallrats staring at the optical illusion poster looking desperately for the sailboat. He had been staring at it for hours. He knows it's there. He is determined not to leave till he sees it. He concentrates. He squints. His head begins to hurt. But he will not leave till he sees it. He cannot see it. Every other person who walks up sees the sailboat almost immediately. He is frustrated. He still cannot see, but he knows it's there.

That is how I feel about my life. I know it is wonderful. I know it is amazing. I know it is ripe with nothing but possibilities. I know I am so profoundly lucky. But I have not yet been able to see it. To feel it.

Occasionally, I feel a wave lap at my foot. Or I catch an appreciative glimpse of the hull.

But I am still squinting, concentrating, waiting and willing myself to see the boat.

(Soon?)

Heehee