here today

 

good-bye therapist

Last night I realized that I just didn't have anything left to talk about except being happy.  And we sat there for awhile, my therapist & I, smiling at each other.  I met her in February and it feels like we've been on a long journey together and now we've landed.   

She suggested we say good-bye and put a nice ending on our work together.  I've never said good-bye to anyone in that way.  When I end a relationship, I either just stop calling (preferred method) or I say something mean that I've been storing up for awhile and then they stop calling (all too often).  Then one of us calls the other one in six months - drunk in the middle of the night and yells or cries.

So, she showed me one last thing - this therapist who has changed my life - she showed me how to say good-bye.  (Turns out it can be done with lots of jokes --- ).  Then she played a song she improvised for me on her viola (it was very sad, then peaceful then oh-so-happy) and we both cried and hugged and that was it.   Jokes and sentiment.  Nice. 

um, so, obviously, I love her.  How sweetly brave to stand in front of a client and take your shoes off and play a song that you're making up there on the spot? 

Have had other therapists - but I always left town in the middle of things or quit after a few sessions.   My record was 6 minutes - she kept asking me how it made me feel that she forgot about our appointment --- while looking at her watch.  I bawled, handed her a check and left - crying all the way home.  Apparently it made me feel real bad. 

My childhood therapist was hired by my parents.  He went to our church.  Mostly, I drew pictures of happy families until the time was up.  See, everything's fine, Dr. Price.  Don't talk to my mom. 

My L.A. therapist charged a million dollars an hour and wore a bowtie.  I liked him but when I found out he had incurable cancer I stopped calling.  I just felt too uncomfortable talking about my anxiety with him dying.  Every time he shifted in his chair I'd think OH MY GOD I am selfish and weak and bad - and alive! Living!!  What kind of problems could I possibly have?

My NYC therapist forgot me in between appointments.  She'd look confused each week until I said my name so I just started making stuff up to entertain myself.  Not really a path to healing.

And so here I am today.  Done.  Finis. 

Cured? 

 

Posted by: 120pages at 12:09 | link | comments (1) |

At The Office

It's 9am. I'm on my sixth tea bag and finally see normal approaching. I started drinking tea instead of coffee so as to consume less caffeine. It's not working.

It takes me quite a few cups before I'm ready to face The Steel Trap. I sit outside his office with my back to the big window and for the first few hours I like to pretend that he's not there.

The Steel Trap remembers everything. This fact sometimes makes things tricky for us. Because I make sure that no space in my brain is taken up with insurance information. So I often do something for him and then immediately wipe that action from my memory. Which leads us to a conversation like this:

Steel Trap: "Remember the meeting that I had with the Alberooozans in March?"

Me: "No."

Steel Trap: "I believe you set it up. And then created a black binder and then a client binder. And then called to remind them. And then sent out a follow-up letter detailing the work we did."

Me. "Hmmm. That sounds right."

Steel Trap: "So, you remember?"

Me. "No. But it sounds like the kind of work I do here."

Steel Trap: "Could you just check your notes and get back to me?"

Me: "Good idea"

The Steel Trap walks away shaking his head in disgust? But secretly he gets high from the fact that he's the only one really on top of things here. TST is an Aries and he's my age and he makes ten times the money that I make. He loves all of those facts, too.

I hate my job.

Posted by: 120pages at 07:20 | link | comments |

wordsmith

last night we lay in bed (bed being my very favorite place) and thought of the funniest words. Ben - the husband - won with "plumping" (that's with a P, not plumbing with a B, which is just yucky and not funny at all).  Plumping, as in "I'm plumping the pillows".

He also came in second with AssClam. He's better at that game. I just laughed and repeated the word "plumping" about fifty times while kicking my feet in the air.

You try it... "plumping".

Posted by: 120pages at 09:14 | link | comments (4) |

thanks, Rusty

thank you to Rusty for the hot tip on new viable international crush material.  I will check out Possible Lives & post my thoughts on hunky Brazilian star.  Have been trying to make myself long for Jason Bateman as surely nobody else loves him in that way, but cannot do it.  I think I need some sort of smoldering in my leading man. sigh.  Or maybe an inability to speak English.  I'll get back to you on that one.  Yesterday, I only thought about Mark Ruffalo once.  Ok, maybe twice. 

I work in a department.  In an office.  At an insurance agency.  And my department is small.  There were three of us, and I was the one who didn't do any real work.  All of that is in the past tense, of course, since my wacky, fun and hardworking bisexual coworker got a better job and now I have to do half of what she used to do which is Securities.  Securities suck.  Securities work is created by small men in small rooms with small minds who make up forms that I have to fill out and send in and then the small men send them back to me because, inevitably, I check the wrong box.

Here is an example of an email that I just received:

You are not missing any forms....in fact, there are too many forms.  When $ is for SEI, all I need is the SEI paperwork, copy of the drivers license and the Park Avenue Securities Agreement. The non-brokerage application would be for mutual fund business (like American Funds) or for variable annuities. If you do complete one again, remember to add the number of dependents (I am assuming it would be "0" in this case) on the account owner form and if the client is employed, you do not need to list the source of income - there are 3 questions in the middle of the page that are usually answered "no" (you checked off 2 of them) and you only need to complete one account owner form for each owner (joint accounts would include two adults and an adult and child (like for 529 plans))

 Holy God.  I am a smart girl.  My mom told me so.  But I find myself hitting the top of my computer when I get emails like that.  Actually, my computer has started making a high-pitched whining noise lately and so I have to hit it often. 

And I'm blaming it on Securities.

Posted by: 120pages at 08:30 | link | comments |

mark ruffalo

I am really embarrassed.  It turns out that having a crush on Mark Ruffalo is not very interesting.  It turns out that women & men all over America are in love with him just as I once was.  There are web sites devoted to him.  Crazed fans catalog his every move, they know his favorite foods and what he likes to do on the weekends.  Apparently he once had a brain tumor and his son's name is Keen.  Keen?

I hate being one with the crowd.  I hate loving something or someone that everyone else loves, too. 

And so, I am resolved to give up Mark Ruffalo.  (see below).  I won't think about him anymore today, for example.

Posted by: 120pages at 08:59 | link | comments (1) |

we don't live here anymore

Rarely do I get crushes on celebrities. But when I do, something inevitably happens to disillusion me and suddenly I no longer love them. It can be an interview, or something I read or a piece of gossip (I stopped loving Gwyneth Paltrow when I heard that she owns 6 pair of black leather pants. I feel very judgemental about that. Who really needs 6 pairs? ) Sometimes I'll fall for someone kind of obscure - like I really had the hots for Jason Lee (Enemy of the State, Mumford, Chasing Amy) until his charming grin started to look a little smug and then my crush was over. I moved on to Javier Bardem (pardon me, Javier, if I mispelled your name) who starred in Before Night Falls... but then I couldn't find him anymore and so my crush died from lack of attention.

My most recent love has been Mark Ruffalo. I found him in You Can Count on Me and followed him through 13 Going on 30, In the Cut, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and then last night, finally and fatefully to We Don't Live Here Anymore. (And before going further, let me just say that the sex scenes in In The Cut are the best I've ever seen on film - including porn - even porn filmed "by women, for women".) If I'm ever feeling like I'm just not in the mood, or a little lazy about sex but knowing that I'll feel good once I start, I just dwell for a moment on a scene from that movie and I am ready to go. Like the one where Meg Ryan fucks Mark Ruffalo in the chair or the one where Mark Ruffalo fucks Meg Ryan in bed or when Mark Ruffalo calls Meg Ryan and talks dirty to her while casually driving down the street. So, yeah, he's hot, he makes me hot. My crush on Mark Ruffalo was one of the big ones.

Until I saw him as a sneaky little mean man in the movie last night. And just like that, the love affair is over. Mark Ruffalo is done. I am finished with him. No more Mark Ruffalo. No more.

I might have to rent In the Cut one more time, though. Just to check.

Posted by: 120pages at 07:38 | link | comments (1) |

charts and such

I've decided to get organized with my office gear. This morning, instead of working on my screenplay du jour, I got up and created a chart of all the possible work outfits that are normal and acceptable (see yesterday's entry). I included tights/necklace/shoe combos as I often get thrown by that final component.

I feel very good about this activity and am sure that it will lead to a promotion or at least eliminate the comments from the woman obsessed with my fashion sense. So, Ha. Take that, woman obsessed with my fashion sense. I am an organized, well-put-together office lady with a coordinated look.

Until the season changes. Sweaters always complicate things.

Sigh.

Posted by: 120pages at 13:34 | link | comments (1) |

wardrobe mistake

This woman I work with has a way of making me feel like I maybe get dressed in the dark. She’s always looking me up and down and shaking her head like I’m just nuts. (The thing is, she’s right. I do get dressed in the dark …eyes half-closed, feeling around for the right skirt. It’s cave-like in the bedroom and I want it that way. Cozy and warm and dark and sexy. A place for sleeping and sex and, oh yeah, getting dressed for work at the insurance agency.)

I do okay with the office attire. Mostly, I think I pull it off. I wear black and I iron things and make sure nothing’s stuck in my hair.

But then she stops me and gets this goofy smile like she caught me at something:

Co-worker: “That is such an interesting outfit. You wear the most interesting things. I mean, I couldn’t get away with that.”

Me: “Thanks?”

Co-worker: (throwing her hands up in amazement) “How do you come up with this stuff?”

Me: “I never really thought about it that way. Um, I just get dressed.”

Co-worker. “I don’t know. I think you’re pretty creative. (trying to pull someone else into the conversation about my outfit) Patty, isn’t she wacky?”

Me: “I have to get back to my cubicle now”

Do these people go to school for this stuff? Did I miss the class and now everyone knows that I’m not really cut out for the office? Dressing for work 101 – i.e. don’t wear the red shoes and the flowered pj’s peeking out from under the black dress thinking that all the black on top will cancel out the rest and nobody will notice?

poop.

Posted by: 120pages at 09:16 | link | comments |

FAMILY REUNION

My grandmother Effie had 11 children. ELEVEN. She got pregnant and delivered 11 babies. Not one or two or six or eight.

E---leven.

She stopped this activity, from what I can tell, only because her husband died. (run over by a train while drunk, which is really another story for another day which ends with my college roommate's grandfather dying the same way - though with a different train). and I don't know if it's because they didn't get a lot of attention growing up, there being so many of them, or if it's genes (um, let's hope not) or what but most of them are truly psychotic. And, just like grandma, boy can they procreate.

So, I avoid family reunions. But this one, this time, my mom got me. First of all, the reunion lasted for five days. FIVE DAYS. Five. I got out of the first three by having a job. But she got me on the weekend. Mom is persistent.

My ideal family gathers on an island somewhere for the reunion or rents a villa in Tuscany. A few of the family's fabulous cooks throw together something simple - you know, using the local produce, and we all sit down at a long table outside and someone makes a speech and then someone else tells a story and we pass wine around and the kids and dogs run naked and later that night I take a walk with my cousins and we compare interesting lives and our husbands all like each other and when it's over we can't wait to plan the next one. Ahh.

That was not yesterday.

Yesterday, nobody drank wine. The long table was filled with crockpots and KFC and at the end of the night, my artichoke spread was untouched and everyone's raving about Rhonda's ham'n'beans. Aunt Jane stole some food, kids were everywhere and some of them smelled bad. Clydine made a speech but it was not funny though everyone else laughs. The whole thing would have been easier were I drunk but I can't drink because my family loves Jesus and hates beer.

We gather for pictures and my mom beams at me and The Husband and we smile back and for the camera and I see that this day-use park with kind of dirty bathrooms is her villa in Italy. This is it, and she's happy that I'm here with my weird food and no kids and men's pants.

I drank three beers when I got home and today my head hurts. But no more reunions. 

till next year.

Posted by: 120pages at 11:18 | link | comments |

continual progress orbit

argh. deleted funny meditteranean diet newsletter that kills me every time they send it. which is randomly, not monthly or weekly or daily - but whenever they get around to it in their island-y sunshine-y lives. the latest one, which I saved for like months, described a successful olive company as having a "continual progress orbit". and I loved that. I would like it on my tombstone. please tell them that. the people who need to know these things. the ones who will decide what kind of music to play at the funeral (please not my cousin singing "I Come To the Garden Alone"* that song makes me cry and also mad that I'm crying) or maybe just the engravers. you saw it here and I mean it.

* here are some of the lyrics in case you're not familiar with this song:
He speaks, and the sound of His voice
is so sweet the birds hush their singing;
and the melody that He gave to me
within my heart is ringing.
And He walks with me, and He talks with me,
and He tells me I am His own;
and the joy we share as we tarry there
none other has ever known.

Posted by: 120pages at 13:22 | link | comments (1) |