Fine, let’s go with “chipper.”
Bolstered mostly by a rock-em-sock-em 25-call day today, I’m feeling groovy as to my current job at Apple. This is also reinforced, however coldly, by the fact that some of my coworkers are fed up with the whole tech support gig. You know I think I’m cut out for this sort of thing? What with the whole Mr. Patient thing and all. I hear people speaking harshly into the phone and I wait for those calls to hit me. Except they don’t.
Perhaps on very, very rare occasions; there was that guy who asked to talk to my supervisor within 2 minutes of me picking up the phone. People watch too much TV. What does “let me speak to your supervisor” mean, anyway? Some perception that he/she will get the job done quicker? Mostly an ego battle with the techie, i.e. me, I suppose. Fortunately I’m ready for that. This might help me deal with kids, come to think of it.
Ya know, my dog can be mighty stupid sometimes, but when I ask her “Want some food,” she always knows EXACTLY what I’m talking about. Second place: “Wanna see Mommy?” I have no idea if she gets the same reaction from “Wanna see Daddy?” Is there a way to test this?
Last night I was running improv scenes in my head instead of sleeping. I think my hobby is too high pressure! At one point – and this doesn’t happen often, I hope – I leapt out of bed into my darkened room, ready to begin acting out a scene. Hell, I may have even said a couple of words to the blank wall before recovering, reminding myself in rather harsh terms that I was NOT at an improv show (thankfully, due to my underdressed state), and returning to bed. This can’t be healthy.
And then, inspired perhaps by my little memory diary project, I had an even more unhealthy dream: that Olivia and I were together, spending one last day together – at a shopping mall, that minor symbol of juvenile peer pressure – before she returned to her husband. The weird part of the dream is this: she was holding my hand, and it FELT like her hand. Olivia always held my hand in a certain way, firmly from fingers to palm, letting me know that I was NOT getting away. How very possessive of her. How tragic to recall. On top of that, I smelled her in the dream. Why do women have to smell so good? Is it just the perfume and body wash? I think not.
I’d had a minor debate with myself as to whether the memory diary should include bad memories. Suddenly I suspect there’s not too much difference between good and bad. I woke up and realized ouch, no one has held my hand like that since then – since I was 18.