Continued Frustration

My Soap-Operatically Pathetic Life

"Anger is a thief who steals away the nice moments." -Joan Lunden

Even besides the midterm that I have tomorrow (I forgot to ask about an essay question- oh shit).

In order of most to least annoying, which also happens to be in reverse order of occurrence (just to confuse):

1. The basketball outing did NOT go on at 9 tonight. If it went on, they musta all left early, 'cause no one was there at 9, not even the RA's. I'm pissed off yet again. I'd say how much, but well, you've heard all my cussing on a similar subject recently. I think I hate everyone.

2. The bimbos have a bunch of people in there, and apparently are putting on costumes or something. However, I cannot testify to that, as they obviously close the door a few seconds after I go in to use the can. Not like I want to see them, but to be so obvious is annoying me.

3. I get in from afternoon class and go to get the mail, and as I've just emptied the box Kayda, Chelsea, and Megan come down after the mail. I just hand it to Chelsea- they basically ignore me, I walk away.

All this crap has ruined for me what was a relatively pleasant day (again), got an A- on my Holocaust paper, bought some books, my midterm studying is almost done, I managed to find stuff to do my drawing homework with without having Mom find it, bought earrings . . . but I am still fricking pissed.

I should mention (in a short thing here) what occurred last night, which I would have done in a separate entry except it seemed too short.

Yesterday after class I'm forcing myself to go to the DC when I run into Angela, we wind up talking about how nobody does anything around here, etc. I actually hung out there for a while. She called somebody to help her haul brownies to that night's meeting- she mentioned that she wouldn't get Jensen to do it 'cause he'd just eat them all and leave- she actually mentioned "pulling a Jensen." Hmmm.

I did go to that meeting, and yes, some others showed up (not Jensen though).

Right now though, I am incredibly annoyed with them all. I have got to get over this. I don't have any way to get close to the guy if I don't have any opportunities to be around him. AAAAAAARRRRGGGGGHHHH!!!!!!

Of course, I SAY that, but I don't ever DO IT. Like Felicity.

I want to put a quote from another journal here that is quite opposite from what you'd think about the subject:

"I think it's incredibly relaxing to take a book and go to lunch or dinner by myself, sit alone with just my thoughts and the story and food I enjoy and just…be. It amuses me to walk into a restaurant and when the host/ess asks me how many, to say "One" and see the expression on their face. The censure against someone eating alone never ceases to amaze me. I look around at people eating together and wonder what they think about someone who eats alone. I'm certain some people think it's sad. It's not. What's sad is when I look at couples eating who have nothing to say to one another or families eating when the parents do nothing but yell at the kids, who are horribly behaved spoiled brats anyway. If I lived in New York I would spend time in sidewalk cafes constantly, a book and a really good mocha as my only companions."

"One reason I think we get so angry mad at our children is because we can. Who else can you talk to like this? Can you imagine hissing at your partner, "You get off the phone NOW! No, NOT in five minutes ..."? Or saying to a friend, "You get over here right this second! And the longer you make me wait, the worse it's going to be for you." Or, while talking to a salesman at Sear's who happens to pick up the ringing phone, grabbing his arm too hard and shouting, "Don't you DARE answer the phone when I'm talking to you."

I KNEW that was why I always get chewed out! No defense if you're a child.

"No, you can't. If regular people saw your secret angry inside self, they'd draw back when they saw you coming. They would see you for what you are -- human, flawed, more nuts than had been hoped -- and they would probably not want to hire or date you."

Sounds like why I act like a doormat around everyone.

"At the same time, if you need to yell, children are going to give you something to yell about. There's no reasoning with them. If you get into a disagreement with a regular person, you slog through it; listen to the other person's position, needs, problems; and somehow you arrive at something that is maybe not perfect, but you don't actually feel like smacking them. But because we are so tired sometimes, when a disagreement starts with our child, we can only flail miserably through time and space and the holes in between; and then we blow our top. Say, for instance, that your child is 4 and going through the stage when he will only wear the T-shirt with the tiger on it. With a colleague who was hoping you'd come through with the professional equivalent of washing their tiger T-shirt every night, you might be able to explain to them that you were up until dawn on deadline, or you've got a fever, and so did not get to the laundry. And the colleague might cut you some slack and try to understand that you simply hadn't had time to wash the tiger shirt, and besides, they've worn it now four days in a row. But your child is apt to -- well, let's say, apt to not."

Again, sounds like Mom.

"What has helped recently was figuring out that when we blow up at our kids, we only think we're going from 0 to 60 in one second. Our surface and persona is so calm that when the problem first begins, we sound in control when we say, "Now, honey, stop that," or "That's enough." But it's only an illusion. Because actually, all day we've been nursing anger toward the boss or boyfriend or mother, but because we can't get mad at nonkid people, we stuff it down; we keep going without blowing up because we don't want to lose our jobs or partners or reputations. So when the problem with your kid starts up, you're actually starting at 59, only you're not moving. You're at high idle already, but you are not even aware of how vulnerable and disrespected you already feel. It's your child's bedtime and all you want from Jesus or Baruch Hashem is for He/She/It to help your children go to sleep so you can lie down and stare at the TV -- and it starts up. "Mama, I need to talk to you. It's important." So you go in and you muster patience, and you help them with their fears or their thirst, and you go back to the living room and sink down into your couch, and then you hear, "Mama? Please come here one more time." You lumber in like you're dragging a big dinosaur tail behind you and you rub their back for a minute, their sharp angel shoulder blades. But the third time they call for you, you try to talk them out of needing you, only they seem to have this tiny problem with self-absorption, and they can't hear that you can't be there for them. And you become wordless with rage. You try to breathe, you try everything, and then you blow. You scream, "God fucking damnit! WHAT! WHAT? Can't you leave me alone for FOUR seconds?"

Found a page in worship of the RA on Felicity Great non-related quote of the day from Joshua Jackson, answering "What kind of girl are you looking for?"

"A girl with a pulse."

I have nothing nice to say.

© 1997 jdrutherford@ucdavis.edu

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