Stress Therapy

I am welcoming myself back to my own blog. Huzzah!

Now that we've dispensed with that...

I just have to say that it's been a crazy three months at work. Having to deal with around fifty individuals --- all of whom I consider beyond the range of normal --- every single day has driven me to run (more like sprint, in fact) back into the arms of my most faithful man named Jack Daniels. There were days when I felt like being run through a wringer and days when I felt like I was running a day care. On most days, my role resembled more of a zoo keeper. I survived by the skin of my teeth and with a whole lot of sense of humor. Thank heavens for partners who are actually more evil than I am despite assertions to the contrary!

Despite all the rantings and the mumblings, I honestly like my work. It's gratifying. Besides, I enjoy the company of the people I work closely with. Of course, we still need HR to hire some serious eye candy (and I mean SERIOUS eye candy like Hugh Jackman or Matthew MacFadyen) to stand beside my workstation and be at my beck and call twenty four-seven, but I'm willing to wait.

I have to admit, though, that the stress has gotten to me enough that I've gone crazy. Yes, I know that some people would actually go so far and say that I've always been crazy, but it really isn't true. I was normal before the stress.

Anyway, because of stress I went shopping. Now, normal people would go shopping for clothes or furniture or even jewelry. They call this retail therapy. Then there's me. I think I belong to a completely different type of retail therapy. I went for a condo unit. So now I am cash poor and about to live a hand-to-mouth existence once again just to make sure I make the payments. What did I get myself into?!

Now I imagine myself scrimping so much that if I actually went out to buy a kilo of meat, I'd make it last a month by boiling it and making a gallon of broth, then drying the meat to turn into jerky. The end of the month will be the only time I can actually feast on the meat. Or I may just completely forgo eating. How sad is that?

I don't regret buying the unit though. It's an investment. I can always sell or (when it's completed) have it rented out... or so I keep telling myself. I'm really too selfish to have someone be the first to use something that I worked so hard to purchase. I'm sure I'll be living there myself. With or without Mr. Darcy.

Impossibilities

“How could a city crammed with so many millions of people remain, for so many of them, precisely one person short?”

                -- Nicholas Weinstock, As Long as She Needs Me

 

We single and unattached persons between the ages of twenty and forty have been given such labels like singletons or walking wounded. It makes me wonder if these tags are meant to be derogatory terms or merely statements of fact.

 

I am single. I am unattached. I am my own person. And yes, I have had relationships that ended badly. (The others ended without bitterness or rancor or very hard feelings. Honest.) So yes, I agree. I am a walking wounded singleton. But it doesn’t mean I am defeated. I am Invictus.

 

Yet. I do agree with the words I read from Nicholas Weinstock’s novel. “How could a city [like this city that I live in] crammed with so many millions [and I literally mean millions] of people remain, for so many of them, precisely one person short?”

 

We’re all walking around in search of that one person to be with for the rest of our lives. Like swans seeking their one and only lifelong mates. But in the melee, one or two… or more… get lost. Some of us end up mismatched, so we try again. Sooner or later we start wondering when we’ll ever get things right… if we ever do. [Suddenly, I am reminded of the Indigo Girls’ song, Galileo, that sings, “How long till my soul gets it right? Will any human being ever reach that kind of light? Call on the resting soul of Galileo, king of night vision, king of insight…”

 

In another book, this time by Nicholas Sparks, A Walk to Remember, the heroine, Jamie Sullivan, tells the hero, Landon Carter, that she “prayed for him.” It’s interesting how even that small phrase has more than just one meaning.

 

When we pray for someone, we always think of asking favors in behalf of the person we are praying for. But then, as Jamie points out in a subtle way, her prayer was really quite simple and quite literal. She prayed for Landon. To be hers. It was a simple matter of asking for something you want. It wasn’t so complicated after all. And maybe the simplest prayers could be granted much faster.

 

It reminds me of something I learned when I was very young. This came from a wonderful Jesuit priest who had a wonderful way with words. “The difficult we do at once. The impossible takes a little longer.”

 

So here I am… wondering if I should ask for Mr. Darcy, but at the same time thinking that it will never happen because if God took me too literally, I will never find Mr. Darcy. After all, he is a fictional character from Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. But then again, maybe I should still ask for my Mr. Darcy because I’ve asked for difficult things that have been granted in one way or another. This impossible request of having my Mr. Darcy has taken longer than expected, so… I fit the bill of the difficult being done at once while the impossible is taking impossibly longer. Right? Hmmm…

 

I’m still short one person.

Make and Have

There is only one very simple rule of language. Make sense. And there is one important rule in surviving life. Have sense.

 

Following the first rule, I always try to make sure that what I say makes sense to the people that I am saying what I am saying to. [Notice how I cleverly avoided a dangling participle. And yes, it is quite acceptable --- even to Strunk & White --- to end a sentence with a preposition.]

 

Unfortunately, not many people are as conscientious about making sense as other people would like them to be. They seem to take perverse pleasure in speaking without any real point or having no idea how to make their point. It’s quite aggravating, really.

 

Since one of the qualities I look for in my Mr. Darcy is wit, then I can safely assume that he isn’t among those that I have encountered whose language skills leave much to be desired. And that lack is but just the tip of the iceberg. Behind the underwhelming language prowess is the overwhelming realization that there really isn’t much sense behind the words themselves.

 

It isn’t just about making sense. It’s also about having sense. One can easily make sense if one expresses himself clearly and purposefully. And anyone can easily make sense if he puts his mind to it. But to have enough sense to deal with various situations will demand for more of a person’s abilities. Making sense requires one to exercise his tongue. Having sense requires one to exercise his brain.

 

These two should go hand in hand. Sadly, it is not always the case.

 

I find myself with impatient thought bubbles whenever I get stuck in situations where one or both (making and having sense) are missing from the conversation. Thoughts like: “What was it I said that makes you think I give a shit?” or “If I throw you a stick, will you go away?” Unkind and plagiarized, I know. But many times, I just couldn’t help it. I do have one original thought bubble though… “Help! I can feel my brain imploding on itself!”

 

So, to a snob like me, all I really want when dealing with people is to interact with people who make sense whenever possible, which is often, and who almost always have some sense, common or otherwise. Is that too much to ask?

 

Apparently, it is.

Eye Candy

It’s amazing what a good looking face can do to a group (or should I say “a gaggle”?) of women, particularly eye-candy-deprived women.

 

It was quite amusing to watch, really. They were like friendly vultures circling their prey. No real intentions to devour, of course. Just to look their fill. I hope.

 

These women… they could get really inventive when finding an excuse to be in the viewing vicinity of their target. I’ve had to field various reasons, one more ridiculous than the next. It was hilarious! The best kind of amusement I’ve had in a few weeks really. I am heartily thankful for it.

 

Unfortunately, while I do appreciate the tall, dark, and very good looking bloke who made the happy mistake of entering our work premises to seek employment within our erstwhile organization, he is not my Mr. Darcy.

 

I’ll have to sit out this dance a little bit longer, I believe. I don’t mind. I’m sure my Mr. Darcy would make his way through the assembly crush and find me tolerable enough to tempt him to dance a reel. Maybe he might discover that I have fine eyes, too.

 

No matter. Eye candy is always a good distraction. It helps make my day lighter and more interesting. Maybe I should ask our HR Department to include that requirement for applicants…? Oh, wait! Here’s another novel thought! Maybe I can get our HR to find me my Mr. Darcy!

A Dull Life?

As a long train of grain-bearing ants frequently comes and goes,

     Bearing the usual food in their mouths,

Or as bees, having reached the woodlands or the fragrant pasture,

     Fly through the flowers and above the thyme,

So rush the most elegant women to the crowded shows:

     Often has the throng impeded my judgment.

They come to see, and they come to be seen:

     That place is the ruin of chaste decency.

-        Ovid, The Art of Love, lines 93-100

 

I had dinner last weekend with my best friends at this wonderfully posh and classy place. For appetizers, we had Portobello mushrooms ravioli and a salad of fresh vegetables and beef carpaccio. While they went for fish, I went for the duck. All were beautifully plated. Even the complimentary bread basket was marvelous. (It was my first taste of tomato-basil bread. Yum!) And how can I ever forget the two bottles of chilled champagne (Veuve Cliquot)? They were divine!

 

The ambiance was muted elegance --- candles and soft music. Conversation among the well-dressed patrons was discreet and polite. It was like having Breakfast at Tiffany’s except that it’s at night. We even had the whole little black dress with diamonds and pearls thing going. I have to admit, we looked gorgeous that night.

 

We started the weekend, which was actually a birthday celebration for one of my best friends, with a seminar with Sebastian of Bobbi Brown. The only real makeup my best friends and I use. The funny thing about attending the makeup seminar is that none of us actually use makeup on a daily basis. We’re the clean and scrubbed kind --- the wash ‘n wear lifestyle that suits our personalities rather well.

 

So, looking duly glamorous with our makeup (care of Sebastian and crew), we donned our little black dresses, strung our pearls and diamonds around our necks, ears, and wrists, clasped our little elegant clutch purses filled with cash and credit cards, stuck our freshly spa’d feet in three and four inch heels, and daintily made our way to the restaurant. (I probably wobbled and tottered, but I must have faked my way enough to pull off the whole catwalk strut thing.)

 

Remembering the whole experience made me think about the whole seeing and being seen concept. It also made me wonder… For someone like me --- one who’s hardly ‘seen’ because I hardly go out --- I would also be unable to ‘see’ anyone for precisely the same reason. No see equals not seen equals no Mr. Darcy. How depressing. I need to go out more. I live a very dull life with the occasional exception of those ‘outings’ with my best friends. I don’t go on dates and don’t get to meet new people. My choice in men is very limited. In fact, I have no choice because there are none to choose from. These ramblings are getting even more depressing with every sentence.

 

In an email I sent to a friend, I answered her query about how I was doing with these words… and I quote myself: “I trudge to and from work (distance: approximately 2 1/2 songs on my iPod from my flat to my office, including elevator rides), hardly going out of the building (unless I'm going to the bookstore to indulge my addiction or to forage for food), and never going out on dates. I've forgotten what women do on dates and, since I've been sporting short hair for a long while now, cannot hide behind glorious tresses or twirl strands of hair around my fingers in order to flirt to save my life... or at least my dignity. I have given up on ever starting on a diet. In fact, I've pretty much given up on even thinking about going on a diet. I do wish my building had a better cable network provider so I could at least claim vegetating in front of the tube as something that I actually do. Alas! Even at that I am foiled. I am in great need of a sturdy and solid bookshelf... or shelves more like. I have to get around to buying that LPG tank I've been meaning to get for the past 3 months but never got around to doing, therefore, forcing me to buy unhealthy fast food fare or those that come in cans, plastic cups, take away cartons, or microwaveable containers. I try to stick to a budget so that I could go clothes shopping (if not furniture shopping), but passing by bookstores is a great temptation I find hard to resist. (A wise man did say that the best way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.) I spend too much time at work. I keep hoping and dreaming that my ideal job would land in my lap. (Do you know of anyone who would pay big bucks to have me read books all day?) That's about it, I guess. All in all... pretty boring stuff.”

 

I have a strange life. Not quite a hermit, but very much alone. And then I ask myself… Am I sad? Lonely? Depressed? Hell no! I’m pretty content, actually. Except for one thing. No Mr. Darcy yet.

Over the Edge

Have you ever tried conversing with someone who is more monkey than man? Not literally, of course. I mean in the brains department. It’s really quite trying. It made me feel like I was hopelessly stuck on Planet of the Apes, population two. One ape and me. Hmmm… It would probably have been better if I felt like I was on the movie set of King Kong. At least that would have been somewhat romantic… of the huge and hairy… er… that didn’t sound good… uhh… let’s say, the gigantic simian kind.

 

Anyway, while stuck in the middle of that mindless and mind-numbing (and rather one-sided) conversation (if you can actually call it that), I wondered if I hadn’t seriously lost my mind yet. (And joined the bloody idiot in his little world of empty spaces between the ears… where all the lights are on but nobody’s home… where you’re always a few french fries short of a happy meal… where you’re one beer can short of a six-pack… and where you’re one hysterical laugh away from the funny farm.) After all, I’m not one to actually willingly subject myself to suffering inane chatter and pointless preening without chafing and champing at the bit. (Holy bloody hell! I’m using equine quips! I’m comparing myself to a horse now?! Bollocks! I’ve definitely lost my mind. In fact, I’m starting to miss it now.)

 

This supposedly silly and insignificant exchange with someone I wouldn’t normally spend an inordinate amount of time chatting with has now become a trigger that has successfully tipped me over the edge of reason and sanity. Proof that I am now certifiably mad --- I am now obviously babbling. I have finally, irrevocably fallen off my bloody tree and hit my head on a large protruding jagged rock, which has addled my brain, turned it into soup and mush, and has left me simpering and whimpering in the agonized throes of despair.

 

Ha! NOT!

 

I’m just bored and in need of stimulation. (And do get your heads out of the gutter before I take a knife to your distended yellow bellies and gut you! Not everything has or should have double entendre!) I simply meant mental stimulation. Right. Although… Never mind. *Giving self a quick and rueful shake of the head*

 

Fine. Just bored out of my mind, then. Bugger. Where’s Mr. Darcy when you need him?

The Subtle Art of Throwing Insults or What was it I said that makes you think I give a s--t?!

You only comprehend things which you perceive. And as you persist in regarding your ideas of time and space as absolute although they are only relative, and thence form a judgment on truths which are quite beyond your sphere, and which are imperceptible to your terrestial organism and faculties, I should not do a true service, my friend, in giving you fuller details of my ultra-terrestial observations…

-        Camille Flammarion, Lumen, 1873

 

Now that’s what I call a great put down of another’s insufficient and inadequate intelligence and perceived self-importance! I would love to be able to spout off disparaging remarks like that --- where the sting is hidden amidst such gracious and elegant phrasings. They wouldn’t know what hit them, leaving them dopey dazed and definitely confused. It’s the best kind of attack, if I do say so myself.

 

It’s not that I enjoy reducing people in their esteem or rank on a daily or regular basis. I don’t. I only enjoy it when the target is one who has truly annoyed me with a glaring lack of wit and common sense. Happily enough, I don’t get to practice the art of great put downs all that often. (I try not to associate with people who are easy targets for put downs like these. No fun at all. And it may just turn me into a homicidal maniac in a microwaveable instant.)

 

Call me an intellectual snob, but I can’t apologize for having very little patience with people who don’t bother to use their God-given brains even for the littlest of things. Ignorance is never an excuse. Never. And if one attempts to use it, it falls flat and pathetically short. I find it even worse when ignorance is coupled with a healthy dose of self-conceit. It then becomes intolerable.

 

I’m not saying I’m the world’s most intelligent person. I’m not. Hardly that. I just know how to use what I do have and try to improve myself at every moment. It’s the least I could do --- to spare those who are more intelligent than I am from mortification at having to endure my dull and trite conversation. Oh, and to make the world a happier place for all, of course… You know, world peace and all those Miss Universe platitudes…

 

I’m just waiting for a chance to pull out one of those glorious and powerful put down lines that I’ve been collecting and storing in my arsenal of great and witty put down lines.

 

I do have stupid moments, but they only happen because I was either befuddled or not thinking clearly. Well, okay, sometimes I find myself not thinking at all. Stupid me. It’s when I let my id have full reign and allowed to come out and play that I get into trouble. However, let me just state for the record that my stupid moments aren’t completely stupid in the garden variety lights-are-on-but-nobody’s-home kind of way. I do have a whole lot of common sense, which allows me to extricate myself from situations that have me possibly sinking further into the quicksand of idiocy or from digging for myself a deeper and darker hole all the way through to the other side of the earth.

 

I was not, am not, and will never be a *expletive deleted* golgafrincham.