One of those (*%^& days
Oct. 21st, 2003 01:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gwynOne of the things I didn't put in my list of 100 things about me was that I'm a good go-to gal in a crisis, but the little shit will send me into a hysterical tizzy. Lose a limb or appendage, or receive a critical head injury? I can help! Have a massive heart attack, or wreck your car? I'll be there, calmly telling you what to do or administering CPR. Being attacked by a lunatic on the street? I'll jump out of my car and come to your rescue. Sometimes people think I'm actually not doing anything, because when a big emergency hits, I stop for a second and think about what's the best course of action to take. But right away I'll figure it out, and I don't panic, strangely, when it's really, really bad. Chopped off fingers, burning cars, you name it, I'm ready, I'm calm, I'm capable.
But tell me I missed the shuttle to the airport and will probably miss my flight? Unglued. My car suddenly has a tire going low and part of it is shaved off? Completely freaked out. And so on. I don't know why it is so, but it is. I think it has to do with the control-freak thing: I'm so obsessed with having control over things that the big stuff is just so big and so monumental, I cede control to the fates and just try to stanch the hemmorhage. Little stuff, technically, I should be able to control, so when it goes wrong, I sweat it. I mock derisively anyone who tells me not to sweat the small stuff. It's not even much past lunchtime, and today I have already freaked out about ten times over little things. At this point, I'd rather someone nearby have an aneurysm, because then I would know what to do.
I don't know if people heard about our flooding rains yesterday, but when I finally left the safety of my soggy house this morning, I slipped on the rhododenderon branch that the telephone guy who'd come yesterday to put in a phone jack had left, unceremoniously dismembered. It was sitting there, my poor little rhodie, on top of a pile of soggy leaves, and zzzip! I nearly conked my head on the brick railing thing. Then I get on the bus, and zzzip! again -- and I'm wearing lug-soled boots, so this is kinda embarassing. I nearly passed out on the bus, because along with biblical rains, we got warm weather as well, and they had the heat cranked up to dry out the soggy bus. Bus driver missed my stop. Then I get to work after having had a day off, and they've moved all the kitchen things, and I can't find anything except the boxes of half and half for my tea, which are on top of high cabinets, and there's nothing to stand on to reach them in their illogical new hiding place. Getting a cup of tea now takes me about fifteen minutes and a couple of acrobatic tricks.
I go out for lunch to get cash and mail a dvd, and the cash machine spits out a withdrawal receipt but no money. I freak and try again. Receipt stating withdrawal, no money. Someone else tries. Same thing. We both start panicking -- I'm up to $100 so far in withdrawal statements. The next person tries and it works for her. How do you prove you did not get money? I mean, come on. Then I go get the Irish soda bread from the only good thing about working in Pioneer Square, Grand Central Bakery, and I get back and find out it's a scone. With sugar all over it (blech) and strange things inside that I don't actually like. I debated taking it back, but it seemed easier to just eat it, the way this day is going. I'm pretty sure one of the resident seagulls in the park will shit on me if I go out again (god knows I've watched them do it to countless others).
Then I get the plan for how my office is going to be redone (my veal fattening pen, actually) and it's going to be terrible and even more depressing than now. I want to cry. Talk about no control. And I know, and am dreading, that if I make it home tonight without any kind of minor but debilitating injury or being urinated on by the homeless creeps on my way to the bus, that the water has backed up from the downspout and is in the crawlspace. I mean, I know it has, but I just didn't want to deal with it; tonight, I will have to.
And there isn't even anything good on TV to mitigate it all, no new Queer Eye or --sniff!-- Buffy (and I won't get to see MI-5 till tomorrow), and yesterday I was prevented from meeting up with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
shellmidwife in Portland, which I'd so wanted to do, and and and... I hate these kinds of little crap days. These always feel so claustrophic and frustrating. I want to sit in a corner and invent imaginary friends who will soothe me, and maybe do something like pry loose an eyeball so I can save them.
But tell me I missed the shuttle to the airport and will probably miss my flight? Unglued. My car suddenly has a tire going low and part of it is shaved off? Completely freaked out. And so on. I don't know why it is so, but it is. I think it has to do with the control-freak thing: I'm so obsessed with having control over things that the big stuff is just so big and so monumental, I cede control to the fates and just try to stanch the hemmorhage. Little stuff, technically, I should be able to control, so when it goes wrong, I sweat it. I mock derisively anyone who tells me not to sweat the small stuff. It's not even much past lunchtime, and today I have already freaked out about ten times over little things. At this point, I'd rather someone nearby have an aneurysm, because then I would know what to do.
I don't know if people heard about our flooding rains yesterday, but when I finally left the safety of my soggy house this morning, I slipped on the rhododenderon branch that the telephone guy who'd come yesterday to put in a phone jack had left, unceremoniously dismembered. It was sitting there, my poor little rhodie, on top of a pile of soggy leaves, and zzzip! I nearly conked my head on the brick railing thing. Then I get on the bus, and zzzip! again -- and I'm wearing lug-soled boots, so this is kinda embarassing. I nearly passed out on the bus, because along with biblical rains, we got warm weather as well, and they had the heat cranked up to dry out the soggy bus. Bus driver missed my stop. Then I get to work after having had a day off, and they've moved all the kitchen things, and I can't find anything except the boxes of half and half for my tea, which are on top of high cabinets, and there's nothing to stand on to reach them in their illogical new hiding place. Getting a cup of tea now takes me about fifteen minutes and a couple of acrobatic tricks.
I go out for lunch to get cash and mail a dvd, and the cash machine spits out a withdrawal receipt but no money. I freak and try again. Receipt stating withdrawal, no money. Someone else tries. Same thing. We both start panicking -- I'm up to $100 so far in withdrawal statements. The next person tries and it works for her. How do you prove you did not get money? I mean, come on. Then I go get the Irish soda bread from the only good thing about working in Pioneer Square, Grand Central Bakery, and I get back and find out it's a scone. With sugar all over it (blech) and strange things inside that I don't actually like. I debated taking it back, but it seemed easier to just eat it, the way this day is going. I'm pretty sure one of the resident seagulls in the park will shit on me if I go out again (god knows I've watched them do it to countless others).
Then I get the plan for how my office is going to be redone (my veal fattening pen, actually) and it's going to be terrible and even more depressing than now. I want to cry. Talk about no control. And I know, and am dreading, that if I make it home tonight without any kind of minor but debilitating injury or being urinated on by the homeless creeps on my way to the bus, that the water has backed up from the downspout and is in the crawlspace. I mean, I know it has, but I just didn't want to deal with it; tonight, I will have to.
And there isn't even anything good on TV to mitigate it all, no new Queer Eye or --sniff!-- Buffy (and I won't get to see MI-5 till tomorrow), and yesterday I was prevented from meeting up with
shellmidwife in Portland, which I'd so wanted to do, and and and... I hate these kinds of little crap days. These always feel so claustrophic and frustrating. I want to sit in a corner and invent imaginary friends who will soothe me, and maybe do something like pry loose an eyeball so I can save them.
