Revenge of the Turkey

I decided to cook a Thanksgiving style dinner today: turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy. And naturally, I opened a bottle of wine to assist me in this endeavor. It was a mellow Saturday afternoon. Cooking always relaxes me. I enjoy hovering over the food, adding spices, tasting, etc. I take solace in the fact that a finished product is never too far around the corner. And it certainly doesn’t hurt that I can eat the finished product when it arrives.

But, for some reason, the turkey didn’t want to cook. It sat in the oven—all thirteen, fully thawed pounds of it—for three hours and forty-five minutes. When I took it out, the juices were slightly pink. I cooked it another thirty minutes, airing on the side of caution, then, instructed Rey to carve it up.

The final product was somewhat…how do you say…pink. Don’t get me wrong, I love my beef bloody. But, bloody turkey seems dangerous. And by dangerous I mean salmonella infested. Even looking at it may result in death.

So, I ate it. And after half a plate, pretending to stay true to my diet, I excused myself to the couch to admire the blog’s new layout. But before I could get the computer on, it hit me. I was extremely nauseous. My stomach was upset. My palms were sweating. I was disoriented.

I was exhibiting the beginning stages of salmonella poisoning.

I passed out in a fit of panic and after waking to throw my guts up in the bathroom, I still feel the salmonella festering in my intestines. Now, granted, I have had about six glasses of wine, but still, I ate undercooked turkey!

I’m praying I’ll live to die another day. It’s not looking promising.

Excuse Me, I'm Gonna Need to See Some ID

That's right, according to this site I have a NC 17 rating.

Why you ask?

Apparently, these words did the trick:

• pain (19x)
  
• death (8x)
  
• breast (6x)
  
• hell (2x)
  
• suck (1x)
  

Who knew being a hypochondriac was Rated R?

Gotta Love the Founding Fathers

"Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy."
- Benjamin Franklin

I've worked a 10 hour day, an 11 hour day, and a 12 hour day, and it's only Thursday. I'd call in tomorrow, but I'd lose all that overtime.

I could really use a beer. But, I have self-control, and just for "the record," I haven't had a beer (or a burrito), since that fateful trip to the scales.

Okay, so I've had a beer, but just three, and wine every night, but NO burritos. And wine is almost 60 calories less, per glass, than beer. Which explains my 5 pound weight loss. But who's counting?

Bored?

At work? Nothing to do? Too much to do? Just don’t feel like working? Well, it’s your lucky day! I introduce to you, the Weird Converter.

Here’s what I got:

• 1 million 1 dollar bills weigh just under 500 chickens.
• Testicle of a Right Whale weighs just over 2,500 bowel movements.

Go there already!

Give Me a Mammogram and Give Me, Cancer?

In case I haven’t mentioned it, I’m in dire need of a mammogram. I have a painful and palpable lump in my left breast. Cancer, I’m sure. My doctor has repeatedly refused me a mammogram, despite my many demands, and today I’m thanking the good lord that she did.

After reading this article, a mammogram is the last thing I need. The crux of the article is this:

A study of 1,600 women with BRCA 1 and 2 mutations, defective genes linked to breast cancer, found they were 54 per cent more likely to suffer the disease if they had ever had a chest X-ray.

For women given chest X-rays before the age of 20, the risk of developing breast cancer before their 40th birthday more than doubled.

Can you say, “close call?”

It's Official...

I’m one of them. That’s right, I’m a decaf drinker. Pathetic, I know.

I’ve always chuckled when I heard people order decaf. Snickered whenever I saw the orange handled coffee pot. I mean the whole point of drinking coffee is the caffeine rush, right? Caffeine’s that pick-me up when you’re feeling down. The beginning to your day. It’s the afternoon jump-start, when your eyelids feel heavy as concrete.

Of course, there is the darker side of caffeine. The sweaty palms. The shakes. The heightened sense of dread. The churning in your stomach.

No more!

I’m now the poseur that I’ve always ridiculed, either that or I’m old.

Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep...

I’ve come to the realization that fish sticks and mac-n-cheese may be my last dinner. I’d prefer something more along the lines of filet mignon and lobster, but life didn’t quite serve that up for me.

I’m having a severe allergic reaction to the amoxicillin. I’m certain liver failure will set in before morning. My symptoms have steadily progressed with each pink pill I’ve solemnly choked down.

The intense aching pain that resonates through the core of my body is unbearable. The perpetual sensation of being punched in the bread basket never ceases. I’m dizzy. Disoriented.

I can barely breathe.

I can’t shake the feeling that as soon as I close my eyes for bed I’m done, finis. But I’m a fighter, and fish sticks and mac-n-cheese are not how I’m going out.

Yoda Knows Best

"Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering."

The Attack of the Freaky Spoon Biters

I spent the last three days entertaining the closest thing to in-laws I’ll ever have. And I use the word entertaining very lightly because all I offered was conversation and a bed. The entertaining, was done mostly by them. They bought groceries, cooked, cleaned and took us out on the town. It was a pleasant time.

And aside from the lingering belief that I was always one second away from liver failure and lung collapse from an allergic reaction to my amoxicillin, I controlled my anxiety surprisingly well. Until Friday night, when Rey’s dad pulled out a spoon and black cherry yogurt after dinner, and I suddenly heard the familiar sound of teeth grating across metal.

He was doing the same “spoon bite” as Rey. The same spoon bite that makes me want to punch myself in the face.

Instead of gently wrapping their mouths around the spoon and removing the food from its hard metal surface, the Ramirezes have it in their mind that it’s better to chomp down on that hard metal surface and rake their teeth across it while spewing ungraspable food back into their bowls. It’s disgusting. They're disgusting! Spoon biting is my number one pet peeve.

But, I sat silently as Rey followed his dad’s lead and chomped down his spoon, I mean bowl of raspberry sherbet. I sat silently as their teeth raked across the metal. Sat silently as I imagined myself removing their eyeballs with those spoons they were chomping.

Then I died from liver failure, because what else could I do? Certainly not stop Rey from biting his spoon. It’s in his genes.

If a Hypochondriac Gets Sick, is She Still a Hypochondriac?

After last night's mini-breakdown, I ended up in the hospital this morning with puss gushing out of my throat. And it’s been confirmed, I’ve got strep, (for the third time within a year). But, that’s not all, I was also informed that I need my tonsils removed. As in they’re going to cut part of my throat out.

I’m not supposed to drink with the amoxicillin they prescribed, but I don’t think I can restrain myself. Hopefully, I don’t die.

Life Lessons #72

Apparently, that pearl of wisdom also extends to phone calls. After too many glasses of merlot, or beer, or whatever-the-hell it was the other night, I decided to answer a call from my mom, a call that somehow ended with a plane ticket to her house.

I hadn’t spoken to The Beast in quite some time, and not since she’d moved from California into my dead grandparents’ retirement house in Idaho; a house that I spent much time at as a child. A house that is inevitably linked to the essence of my grandparents, (who were more like parents to me than the people I lived with). So, I had a weak spot when she called, I answered the phone more because I wanted to know how the house was doing, than I did how she was doing. And I got my wish, Rey and I fly in in a couple weeks.

I’ll be reunited with that three-story house and it’s sprawling yard in the middle of the mountains. Reunited with the red cedar decks that overlook the river; the river where I spent countless afternoons swimming and catching tadpoles and learning how to cast. But, most importantly, I’ll be closer to the memory of my grandparents than I have been in a long time. I’m overwhelmed, not only at being reunited with that special place and those special memories, but with the fact that The Beast is lying there in wait.

The hangover that I woke up with the morning after that call never left. I’ve been riddled with anxiety and diseases ever since. Every other thought is of plane crashes and car crashes. I’ve even gone so far as to imagine The Beast murdering me while I’m there. I’m suffering from arthritis, strep throat, breast cancer and cervical cancer. I can’t sleep at night because I’m plagued with these thoughts.

But it’s not just the thoughts of death that keep me up, it’s the nagging possibility that the real thing (the house, its smells, its contents, its nostalgia), won’t live up to my expectations; won’t be as grand as they were when I was a child basking in the love of my grandma and grandpa.

I’m terrified at the prospect that nothing will be exactly as I remember it. That my doll collection from the auction won’t be under the stairs in the garage where I left it. That the card house my grandpa and I built in the living room won’t be collapsed near the fire. Terrified that my grandpa’s straw hat won’t be hanging on the dining room chair and my grandma’s curlers won’t be under the bathroom sink. Yet, I know they won’t be.

But, what will be there is my mom, something I never wanted to encounter there.

Excuse me while I go bawl my eyes out.

Dr. Jekyll and Ms. Hyde

Anyone who knows me, knows I’m a sweet, caring, compassionate and understanding girl. If my neighbors need help carrying their groceries into the house, I’m there. If I cross a homeless person pandering for change on the corner, no problem. I even tip my garbage man on Christmas because I understand how hard his job is. People will tell you, I’m an all around saint.*

*And if you don’t know me, you probably don’t know that the preceding paragraph is a line of shit, except, of course for the saint part.

But being a saint doesn’t preclude you from problems, mental problems in particular, because of those I have many. When I started this blog, almost ten months ago, I was a wreck. And today, because of this blog, I’m more like a fender bender. Putting my thoughts down in writing has helped me enormously. What’s helped me even more, is hearing those cries from the blogosphere telling me they feel the same way.

But when I blog, something happens. Something dark and sinister. Leila V. The Saint, is replaced by Leila V. The Nefarious Villain.

No noise is allowed in the room where she blogs. There will be no TV or music, unless it is that of her choosing. She hurls insults at innocent bystanders (read Rey), and peppers them with scowls. Manically writing and reciting and rewriting over and over the sentences that make up her post. She neurotically probes and scrapes the flesh from her face with ten-inch nails as she thinks.

But, once the finishing touches are put on the latest entry. Once it has been ceremoniously reread for the fourteenth time. Poof! Leila V. The Saint reenters. The silence is lifted. The scowls and insults die away. She fades into the night, a little more sane, with a sense of satisfaction, and blood dripping from her face.

A Trip to the Scales

My digital scale ran out of batteries a couple months ago. Being the “adapter” that I am, I didn’t bother replacing them. I just carried on with my business the same way I did when the fridge light went out. I’m a simple girl, I don’t need those luxuries.

And, so I carried on, in bliss, for several months without a scale or fridge light; not having to look at the science projects in my fridge or the numbers on the scale. Until yesterday that is, when Rey returned from his shopping trip with AAA batteries and light bulbs.

And so my happiness was shattered into a million pieces.

At first I thought the purchase was a kind gesture. Then I stepped on to the scale, and saw the numbers 1-5-0 appear on the screen. It was then that I realized he was the most evil person on the face of the earth.

150 pounds. One hundred and fifty pounds. 1. 5. 0. Not three months ago, I weighed 135. I’m in shock! I have no idea how this happened! But I’m lying, I know exactly how it happened: daily super burritos and six-packs of beer since long before I can remember.

So, in an attempt to get back my girlish figure, I’ve made a vow not to eat burritos or drink alcohol during the week. But meanwhile, I feel thoroughly depressed. Like a fat old slob. And so I’m posting the below YouTube (courtesy of Lacy), to remind me that we’re all different and beautiful in our own ways, even though sometimes it doesn’t feel like it.

On Tonight's Agenda...

"There are better things in life than alcohol, but alcohol makes up for not having them."
~Terry Pratchett

And I'm the Crazy One

“It’s just a pain,” Rey says. “Everyone gets pain,” Rey says. “Stop being a sissy,” Rey says. “You’re a crazy hypochondriac,” Rey says.

I say, “screw you, you know nothing know-it-all.”

According to this article, abdominal pain could be the first sign of ovarian cancer!

***Warning: Hardcore hypos, DO NOT ENTER. All others, feel free.***

Excuse me while I go die in peace.

Mind Your Mind

So, last night I stroll into my favorite casino and am greeted, as I always am, by the girl on the screen of the ten foot tall, six-seater, Let it Ride poker machine. The girl—who on any given day can be a brunette or a blonde, in a red bathing suit or black lingerie, in front of a pool or in a ball room, but always always with gargantuan breasts—is the bane of my existence.

As soon as she comes into sight, I tense up. I can feel my blood boil. I give Rey the “even think about it and your eating anti-freeze laced Jello for dessert” look, then proceed to stare down each man at the machine and silently tear them a new one as they drool over the plastic breasts dealing their cards.

According to this article, that is where I went wrong.

Apparently I exhibit a low level of “mindfulness” when I judge the whore and the slime bags who are salivating over her. Instead of labeling them “bad,” as the article puts it, (which is much nicer than the set of words I had in mind), I should accept it for what it is. If I'm interested in avoiding anxiety, that is.

According to the article, passing judgment inevitably leads to anxiety because it’s not mindful, and mindfulness is described as the following:

...awareness, acceptance, description, and act. Awareness is the ability to observe without judgment what is going on around and inside of the individual. When someone has awareness, they can sit back and recognize both internal and external events. Acceptance is the ability to deal with what is really going on, saying, “This is what is,” without placing judgments of “good” or “bad” on the situation. Description is the ability to put words to those events. It’s the ability to use language to describe one’s feelings and thoughts and the events that triggered those feelings and thoughts. Act is simply that; the ability to take action after conscious, mindful deliberation.

Hmm...so under this theory the whore isn’t a whore and the slime bags aren’t slime bags? I’m the one with the problem? I’ll have to marinate on this for a while...

Goodbye Blogosphere

I hate to say it, but this is my last post. That’s right, I'm done blogging. And while I'll miss you all greatly, I've decided to take a few years to travel the world and sip drinks with umbrellas. Why you ask? Well, aside from the obvious reasons, it's because I'M RICH BITCH! I won the lottery! Read it and weep suckas:

We happily announce to you the draw (1068) of the UK NATIONAL LOTTERY,online Sweepstakes International program held in May 2007 as part of our Monthly Promotion. Your e-mail address attached to ticket number: 56475600545188 with Serial number 5368/02 drew the lucky numbers:07-10-22-24-34-44 (Bonus number 18) which subsequently won you the lottery in the 1st category i.e match 6. You have therefore been approved to claim a total sum of £2,532,137 (Two million, Five hundred and Thirty Two Thousand, One Hundred and Thirty Seven pounds sterling) in cash credited to fil XYC /26500460037/08.

My prayers have finally been answered! And all I have to do to collect my winnings is send them my social security and bank account numbers! The crazy thing is, I don’t even remember entering this lottery. But, why would they lie? I do have a drinking a problem. I was probably drunk and just don't remember. Whatever the case, it doesn't matter. I won!

And, I'm no dummy. I know a fraud when I see one. I mean seriously, the widow from South Africa who desperately wants to transfer her millions into my account...definitely a scam. The Brazilian banker who's in charge of multi-millions, but needs my help...what am I stupid? And the heir in the Bujumbura refugee camp...please.

Peace out peeps! I'll try to post pics while touring the French Riviera.

Life is Like a Game of Cards

In case I haven’t mentioned it, my lovely boyfriend fancies himself a counselor, and he’s not too far off, considering he’s entering the counseling psychology graduate program within the next year. He’s got a natural talent for it, and in his spare time devised a self-esteem building exercise that I’m supposed to do throughout the day, every day, at specific times during the day. We call it saying your cards.

It’s pretty simple and basically positive self talk. With Rey’s help, I’ve identified my characteristics, i.e. my cards; the exercise is just to repeat them and embrace them throughout the day. The important part is not to arbitrarily divide the characteristics into the categories of good and bad, but embrace them all. For example, many people view sensitivity as a character flaw, so when saying their cards they might leave out that characteristic. That contributes to low self-esteem because they’re denying a real part of who they are.

My cards, though I’m embarrassed to share them, (because I have low self-esteem), are:

1. I’m smart
2. I’m sensitive
3. I’m pretty
4. I’m a hard worker
5. I have common sense
6. I’m honest
7. I’m funny

Rey insists the last two aren’t characteristics I can claim, but he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

Saying my cards has really helped me; helped me to accept who I am. The tough part has been getting past the guilt that accompanies the praising. For instance, constantly telling yourself throughout the day that you’re smart and pretty seems arrogant and shallow. But the truth is, every person should think they possess those qualities. Part of self-esteem is being able to acknowledge the inherent worth we all have.

At any rate, it’s much better than beating yourself up all day, which was previously one of my favorite past-times.

The Scientific Method Leila V. Style

Being the humanitarian that I am, I’ve decided to dedicate my Saturday to the greater good of science. I’ve planned an experiment involving forty Coors Lights and a 5’2”, 135 pound girl, (yours truly).

You see, typically, a light beer would never get within ten yards of my house, or hand. My taste for beer runs more along the lines of Sierra Nevada, Guinness, Black Butte, Newcastle and Anchor Steam, (not in that order). But, the problem is, those beers are expensive, especially when you drink them in the quantities we do around here.

Hence, the Coors Light. We were able to pickup forty bottles for $24.00. And that’s not even the kicker. They’re “cold activated bottles,” you know, the ones with the mountains that turn blue when the beer is “as cold as the Rockies!” Let me just say, I’m a sucker for good advertising, and there’s no end to the pleasure this novelty brings me. I’m actually spending more time playing with the bottles, than I am drinking the beer.

But, back to the experiment. It’s all fine and dandy that these light beers are so cheap, but can they really intoxicate me down to my bones the way a few good Guinnesses can? That’s the question, and here’s the hypothesis: It will take at least twelve beers at the rate of four to five beers an hour to get a good beer buzz, thereby making the extra dollars saved moot.

If I’m wrong, I’ll drink exclusively Coors Light, until I start making some real money of course, (or enter the twelve step program).

I’m on beer four passing the one hour mark and don’t feel a thing. Results to follow…

* * *

Update: Yesterday’s experiment was inadvertently interrupted by and unexpected nap after beer eight in the end of hour two. I will admit I felt a slight buzz prior to the nap, which lasted only an hour, but upon waking, it was completely gone, which leaves me skeptical of the power of the light beer. A nap after beer eight is typical; waking fully rejuvenated after only an hour is not. The experiment resumes this morning…

The Source of My Anxiety a.k.a. I Love You Mom

I haven’t spoken to my mom in months because she’s overwhelming. Abusive. Intrusive. And I can’t stand the sound of her obnoxious voice. Up until the time I cut her off, an “ordinary”—if it could be called that—conversation with her would leave me crying for hours because I wasn’t a good sister, or daughter, or person, or student, or girlfriend. Because I didn’t make enough money, or live in the right town, or have big enough breasts, or take enough classes.

And, sure, I know she means well, (in a sick, twisted kind of way). I suppose she thinks she’s motivating me to pursue greatness. But she’s not! She’s a walking talking insult, (hence, her nickname, The Beast). Her mouth spews shit on everything within a fifty mile radius. And that’s exactly what I told her when she called on Friday.

Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have picked up the phone. I would’ve left her on the answering machine to leave her bitchy, customary five minute message about what I need to do and when I need to do it, but I’d been drinking heavily, (and I can’t pass up a good confrontation after a good beer buzz).

So, I picked up the phone with a sarcastic exclamation of how happy I was to hear from her. Then came the first blow. She was beside herself that I didn’t call her on Mother’s Day, or send her a gift. She was positive that Rey had at least called his mom, and what kind of daughter was I! If her mother, my grandmother, was still alive, she would be ashamed! And what kind of example was I setting for my brother! You know he does have cancer!

Then, I gave her a left hook to the body. You’re not gonna pull the “my son has cancer,” “my mom is dead” cards on me, lady! There’s a good reason I didn’t call you on Mother’s Day and it’s the same reason why I’m not gonna talk to you tonight.

I went on to explain that nothing is ever good enough for her. That I didn’t call her on Mother’s Day because it wouldn’t have been good enough, she’d have wanted to know why I didn’t send a card. I didn’t send a card because that wouldn’t have been good enough, she’d have wanted to know why I didn’t send a gift. And I didn’t send a gift because it wouldn’t have been enough, how dare I send such a such a trivial present.

I proceeded to tell her that I don’t need her guilt, or her insults, or her nasty messages. Bottom line is, I basically Cesar Milan-ed her ass. And I felt good after I did it. There was no crying after the conversation was over. No guilt. No hours of cleaning to make myself feel better. Just the pure, sweet scent of accomplishment.

But, then Saturday hit, and I woke up with neck pain, which turned into muscle dystrophy/spinal tumor/loss of bowel of control, which carried me into Tuesday. And today brought me a “rotten tooth.” It actually rotted overnight and is causing me such intense pain that I can only chew on one side of my mouth. I’m certain the “rot” is on the verge of invading my brain.

But, the only rot plaguing my brain is The Beast and her insults.

When I talk to her, my fear of rejection and need for approval is brought to the surface. Then, stomped on. I want approval. I need it. Especially from her. Especially, when the rejection from my absent father is always lurking. I shouldn’t be so weak-minded. I should know my worth. But, I don’t. I need approval and praise from my parent, her, The Beast.

Ironically, she’s shallow, and values possessions and appearances above all else. She encourages drugs as an avenue to loose weight; sleeping with men for their money; and selecting friends based on the cars they drive. In order to gain her approval I’d have to do everything I stand against. But even knowing that, doesn’t lessen the pain, or the desire for her approval.

So, I subconsciously use sickness as an escape.

Where to Begin

I woke up Monday morning with neck pain. Not the typical “I slept wrong” neck pain, but muscle dystrophy/spinal tumor neck pain. I’m talking even thinking about moving my head towards my chest would send crippling pain shooting through my upper back into my ears.

Somehow, between the shower and the car ride to work, I attributed this sensation to loss of muscle control, which in turn became loss of bowl control. I proceeded to panic the whole twenty minutes to work about crapping myself in the car. Not panic as in I was worried. But, panic as in the core of my body was tingling and my inner voice was consumed with the urgency to be near a bathroom.

I arrived to the office without incident, but the drama continued. The bathroom became a non-issue, but before I could step out of the elevator, the ungodly neck pain was back.

Between 10:00-11:00 a.m., I became convinced that my future would be spent in a Stephen Hawking like existence, i.e. chin permanently glued to the chest. (I mean no disrespect, I fancy Hawking one of the great geniuses of our time).

This panic attack was monstrous. Usually, I can ride them out, this one was different. They typically last twenty minutes, this one lasted all day. A sure sign that it wasn’t a panic attack at all, but a side effect of muscle dystrophy/spinal tumor.

My neck doesn’t hurt anymore.

It was very disheartening for me to relapse this hard. I thought I was beyond the stage where impending doom could consume me for an entire day. What a blow to the ego. One step forward, two steps back.

(I think I know where all this panic is stemming from, but seeing as I've had six Sierra Nevadas, that post will have to wait until tomorrow).

How to Make a Bad Day Worse

Monday, June 04, 2007, 8:37 p.m., checking voicemail after returning from casino...

“Leila, it’s your mom.”

“If you’re there you need to answer the phone.”

“Your brother ran away today and told his therapist you told him to do it.”

“And you know what? I’m glad you told him to. Good for him!”

Muscle dystrophy/spinal tumor, move to the back. There's a new sheriff in town...

One of Those Days

In case the picture doesn't say it all, details will follow...

Float Like an Elephant, Sting Like a Lady Bug

On Friday afternoon, I was passing the time with my customary eavesdropping campaign. Nothing exciting was going on, just run of the mill conversations, a request for an extension of time over here, a failure to respond to a letter over there. I was nearly falling asleep at my desk, when I suddenly heard yelling coming from one of my attorney’s offices.

“YOU wanna have an adversarial conversation with ME! That’s what you wanna do? Okay, let’s do it then.”

I perked right up. This is getting good, I thought as I set down my pen and flipped into full eavesdropping mode.

“LEILA!”

Oh, fuck! I immediately picked my pen back up and pretended to be so engrossed in my work that I didn’t hear a thing. My mind was racing. Did I misconstrue the last message I took? Send docs to the wrong office? The other secretary in my office, a.k.a. "my friend"—who I’m not speaking to, which is an entirely-nother post altogether—comes sprinting over to my desk to inform me that Edison is looking for me. I act surprised and as calmly and slowly as possible stroll over to his office and peak my head in the door.

“HAVE A SEAT!”

I’m literally shitting my pants as I rigidly waddle to the chair.

“Here she is! Let me put you on speaker phone, so we can get this settled right now!”

Who the hell is on the phone and what did I do? I’m done. Fired. Finished. I could feel the flesh on my body turning a flattering shade of blood red.

“Leila, tell Mr. Spocchio exactly what you did to try and get his documents delivered to him.”

Mr. Spocchio? Who? I know that name. Documents? Holy crap, Edison, I process tons of documents a day. Think, Leila! Then it hit me, I knew what he was talking about. It was one of our workers’ comp claimants accusing us of purposely withholding documentation. Voice wavering, palms sweating and flesh burning, I attempted to explain…

“Um, I, um, prepared the documents as I typically would, um, (You prepared the documents? Of course you prepared the documents! Great thinking, Leila.), um, for hand-delivery, then contacted our delivery service and was informed that they couldn’t deliver to a P.O. Box.”

I’m an idiot!

“Really, what P.O. Box did you try to have them delivered to?”

Then Edison, (probably feeling guilty for the shade of red I was now sporting), stepped in.

“That’ll be enough, Leila, thank you.”

I nearly fell out of the door, only to find four co-workers gathered around enjoying the show. Great, now they think I’m an idiot too, but at least I’m not fired!

I shakily wobbled to the bathroom to regain composure.

* * *

The good news is, I didn’t beat myself up for the rest of the day over my crappy debut into the world of adversarial conversations. While it took some time for the shade of red to dissipate, I was surprisingly easy on myself. I’m even debating whether or not I should chastise Edison for bringing me into that situation.

Score one for the good guys!

My Kind of Therapy