Wednesday, October 12, 2011
I did it.
A major accomplishment.
I changed the light bulb in my kitchen.
Not impressed yet?
What if I told you it had been two weeks since I could see after 8 pm in the magic kitchen place because I didn’t feel like looking for a step stool AND a light bulb?
I opened the refrigerator to illuminate the kitchen.
What if I told you the new underwear I brought at Target - just so I didn’t have to do the laundry - are now dirty and piled on my living room chair with unopened mail and a retractable saw I bought on Amazon.com. [Online shopping is evil.]
Impressed yet? No. Really?
[Note to self: Duct tape the light bulbs to the step stool. Put the step stool in the refrigerator.]
Ucking-fay grad school. It’s like chewing glass 24 hours a day, but not as delightful.
I am sucking in 64 oz of decaf a day and I am cranky and my hair is not “did” and I am cursing like a sailor who needs a pedicure in a bad way. Yes, my friend, Chloe, has given me the lecture that decaf is still coffee – [um, no it’s not. It’s my lover, my life, my everything, and the only reason beeyotches are not getting slapped on a daily basis. Hello.]
Of course, she is right. Hm… I love Chloe to pieces.
I am still cranky.
Grad school has invaded my life. I started this class on September 12. The class ends November 17. And I have one more class to graduate. And I am done with this degree [and school and reading and books.]
My Master’s in Interactive Design and Gaming can suck it. A pox on you!
Grad school is consuming every second of my day. I resent it like my bunions resent a pair of painful pumps.
I hate when people say “just be grateful” when I am venting.
I am grateful. I am also cranky.
Learn to multi-task or just stop talking [to me.] Yeesh.
Anyway, the other day my professor started her email to me: “The point is…” followed by two paragraphs of attitude. [Like – ONSD. Oh, no she didn’t.]
If she weren’t communicating via email, it would have been a slappation-fest. Some people are very lucky that they have the benefit of hiding behind the internet – and that I am managing my anger issues. [I’m just sayin’.]
Slappation is when you want to metaphorically slap someone. Rest your hand. And then slap again.
Yes, I am a demanding student. I read volumes of self-important jibber jabber. If I have questions, they will be answered. And?
That is why I paid 3,500 dollars [to be completely intractable.]
I totally have the nicest, fairest boss on the planet. She thinks all of my nonsense – the outlandish divaness of it all - is a hoot and half.
[Question: Isn’t “nonsense” the best word ever? I am in love with it. Discuss.]
So she asked, “Aren’t you afraid you will alienate her?” But she already knows the answer.
I am never afraid to ask for what is mine.
This seems simple to me. If I pay you, you give me stuff. And by extension, if you are my teacher, it is your job to answer my questions. End of conversation.
Unless you have a good reason not to… like Denzel Washington is standing in front of you naked [then feel free to invite… um, I mean ignore me.]
I tell my boss being cranky is part of my healing process. She says it doesn’t sound very peaceful.
I certainly hope not…
I am raging against the machine
Banging on the door of complacency
Shining the light on things that need to be seen – and heard, for that matter.
I know. Right? Over-the-top much?
Anyway, not everything is about the saccharine spaceship. [I am not talking about my boss – who is the coolest of the coolest – and not on the spaceship.]
I love that she knows how to get me to do what she wants without being confrontational – and she makes me feel good about doing it in the first place. [Like what is that?!]
I study her – knowing I will probably never reach that level of patience [unless sedated or unconscious.]
And she respects me like a person – not a minion. I don’t do minion anyway. Dedicated to my pay check? Yes. Minion? No.
I am not just saying this because I just got a promotion. [Who’s a bad mamma jamma?! Me.]
I don’t like to work for people who “like” telling me what to do. I know it’s their job.
I just don’t care for it.
And I’ve always had a low threshold for this…
I left my last job because my boss said things like, “In your email, it sounded like you were “telling me” you were taking a vacation and not asking?” [Duh.]
I was telling her.
Why would I ask for “my” vacation days? They are mine. So unless there was a justified business reason not to vacation – I. was. telling. her.
She was also a totally annoying blowhard among other things. I had to go…
I once dated a guy who told me – right in the middle of waxing on about work war stories – “If you worked for me, you would do what I said.”
Seriously, dude. That nonsense couldn’t wait until I was done embellishing. [He never knew how to wait until I was finished.]
Fired him from my life too.
I guess it could be perceived that I have an attitude problem. I do.
My attitude is I am not taking any crap from anybody.
End of story.
Anyway, back the saccharine spaceship. It is the home of these sweet little aliens who act like anger is not as relevant as other emotions. They float down from their saccharine spaceship after giving birth to bunny rabbits and cotton candy
To pour uninformed, short-sighted drippy nonsense
Over authentic self-expression.
Or to make you feel guilty about having feelings in the first place. [If you have a vajayjay, multiply this by 50.]
And the sanctimonious speech or judgmental comment usually comes right in the middle of a good old rant.
People have emotions. Mad. Sad. Glad. And so on. That is all.
I am not talking about living in a state of perpetual anger. I am talking about celebrating all of one’s pieces, not just the ones that make other people feel comfortable.
I am not sure why people look to my vajayjay for enlightenment about me. I know I am woman. But I have another organ that does the decision-making.
Besides, my vajayjay is not that smart.
Does it know different languages? No. Read voraciously? Nope.
Is it an astronaut? Quantum physicist? RuPaul? No. No. And no.
It brings very little to the table – besides being adorable. [But who cares about that nonsense?]
The other day I rushed into my scheduled appointment with Dr. T, my therapist of five weeks. Yes, I got a therapist to get through grad school and to write a book that I somehow have not managed to write.
“I intend to be livid until this class is over,” I declared. [Drama queen much?]
She said, “Does venting make you feel better?”
“Yes,” I replied forcefully [for no reason at all. I think I was auditioning for Telemundo.]
“Then go for it,” she says. “Just do it.” [She is complete awesomesauce.]
“I know this is all about my childhood. I don’t care. I want an A.”
I rambled on about how I was struggling with a project that was just lines and lines of programming code. It was like giving birth to porcupines who liked math. I also don’t know what the hell I am doing [which complicates things.]
I got a B on that project. It was the 2nd project of many.
Yes, I know grades don’t matter in the scheme of things.
Yes, this maniacal obsession is psycho.
I still want my 4.0 maintained.
“What do you mean it’s about your childhood?” She stayed on point.
When I was growing up we moved a lot – New Jersey, California, New York, you name it. With no support system and abusive mother, I learned to get the love and acknowledgement I needed from teachers.
By learning fast.
By getting awards or winning spelling bees or always being in the top of class.
Teacher approbation kept me from wanting to kill myself.
I told her how school meant love. A’s meant more love. School made every dreary day living with an abusive mother bearable, liveable.
And teachers saved my life. They happily gave me the love I didn’t get at home.
Look - I am not looking for love now. I know that I have internalized this association.
That is not the point.
I want a friggin’ A.
For years, I have looked for a therapist that doesn’t annoy me. It really is like dating – most test runs feel like a waste of time – until you find one who clicks.
Dr. T is smart and sassy and vocal and insightful and doesn’t miss anything. [My kind of gal.]
Speaking of gals, my friend here emailed me and asked me if I was a drag queen. [How cool is that?! And it was totally sweet at the same time. That was one of the high points of last month...]
I love RuPaul. [Ain’t no shame in my game.]
Feel free to align me with any queen you like.
We must stick together.
I told Dr. T. - the other day I was walking to my car. And I heard a voice as clear as day in my head.
“Nobody loves you,” it cooed.
Just for the record, I have never heard a voice in my head. That it-shay is scary as hell.
I started trembling as I sat at the steering wheel.
Clearly, I know this is not true.
I thought for a second – and then I said, “I will not do this. I will not.” And that was it.
I knew this was about school – and the deeply internalized associations between getting A’s equating to love and struggling with the subject-matter and the impending doom of getting a B.
So there I sat.
On the verge of tears.
And then 20 seconds later, I crushed the darkness like a bug.
This is where the saccharine spaceship and I disagree. Their mantra is “forget the past" for everything.
Why? That is where the answers are.
Just find the answers. Put them in your back pocket. Use them when necessary.
Not live there.
That is my opinion.
Anyway, I was so proud of myself for immediately deconstructing the issue and getting rid of it. Two years ago, that would not have been possible.
“That is amazing,” Dr. T affirmed reassuringly. [Damn straight.]
And then, she did her thang.
“But what did you do about the little girl who needed love? Yes, your [warrior side] fought and won. But what about her? Does she still have be ignored?”
No, really. How does she do that?
I collapsed into a river of exhausting tears.
She went on to explain how the little girl was a champion too. She had no guidance but figured out how to get the love every child needs. She could have turned to drugs. But she turned to school. “She is completely remarkable,” she asserted.
“Tell her she doesn’t have to be perfect anymore to be loved.”