Category — respect my authority

Dear Creeper from the Gas Station this morning:

You can look. You can appreciate. Staring slack-jawed and following me to my car? Not cool. I wouldn’t touch you with a 2000 ft. long cattle prod, but someone might be willing if they couldn’t smell you before they saw you.

NOT fondly,

girl in dire need of coffee who does not flirt before noon

Dear Walgreens Pharmacist:

I have taken birth control since I was thirteen. That’s over half of my life. I do not have questions about it. I know you have to ask. You don’t have to apologize for asking, and it isn’t awkward. It’s my body and my medicine, and my health, and if I had a question, I would ask you, even if it was really unpleasant. Obviously, you feel it is awkward to ask me if I have any questions regarding my birth control, and that begs the question…  why do you dispense medication for a living?

Respectfully,

that girl who’s cool with her reproductive organs, like on a first name basis and everything.

Dear He Who Must Be Tolerated and Managed Up:

Seriously, quit trying to engage me in conversation when I am trying to leave for lunch. You’re two hours behind me, and I’m sorry that when you get settled in and ready to pester me, I’m starving and bitchy or not even here, but a girl has to eat (and go to Walgreens). Also, why schedule a call for a two minute conversation easily handled by email? Modern technology- is like it!

Not so respectfully,

The Thorn in Your Side

PS: Unrelated- I need some of your finger clippings for a craft project….

Dear You Know Who You Are*,

Well. We established that you make me crazy in the good way, so it only stands to reason that sooner or later, you were gonna make me crazy in the bad way. I warned you that I was difficult, and you shrugged it off… until last night. I actually feel better about you than I did before all the crazy leaked out my ears, and I almost feel safe in saying that you feel better about me. Well played, my dear.

quite fondly,

The girl who warned you that she idled at difficult

PS:  um, i probably shouldn’t tell you this, but threatening to turn me over your knee when I’m being difficult is probably not the deterrent you think it is….

Dear Daddy,

You know that thing you do where you just send me money for no reason? Now would be an excellent time to do that.

all my love,

your spoiled silly daughter

Dear You Won’t Know Who You Are, Because You’re Too Humble:

I truly enjoy our friendship. You’ve taught me more in a few months than I learned over the last ten years. When the little chat box pops up from you, I grin. Every time.

affectionately,

The girl you keep on the straight and narrow

*We have not declared open season on the blog, so he is not reading here. Yet. I’m spoon feeding him posts, and if he doesn’t run away or vomit them up, then soon. Soon.

“Hell is the absence of heaven, Cathy*. It’s about knowing what you’re missing out on, it’s about having been *this close* to everything you ever wanted, only to miss out in the end.” – Daddy

I thought this was extremely profound, and my father said this to me while a similar conversation was happening on Facebook- one friend telling another that his desire is the root of his suffering- remove the desire, end the suffering. My friend replied with something along the lines of “hell to the no, I can’t do that.”

Much of my passion and intensity is rooted in desire (and, unfortunately, in suffering); I want things. I desire things. I lust after people and things, driven to pursue them at almost any cost.  When that desire hits its apex, my crazy flag is flying high and proud, and I am reduced to a writhing mewling cat (figuratively or literally, depending) and can see nothing else but the object of my desire. It is all consuming at that point, and I either get what I’m after, or I begin the slow downhill slide into acceptance that I won’t get what I’m after. Which is the suffering.

So, of course removing my desire would alleviate my suffering.

That brings me back to Daddy’s definition of hell, as the absence of heaven.

I can’t remove my desire for this very reason.

I know professional heaven. I know what it’s like to love my job passionately, to be fully engaged and motivated, heart swelled with pride and mind buzzing with challenge. To feel deeply that I am making a significant contribution, that I matter to the organization. I know what it is to own my function, and it is thrilling and fufilling in a way that being Girl Friday to a pompous ass of a Controller and trying to herd the cats that are our corporate accounts isn’t.

I know the heaven of real love. I know what it feels like to be held at night as I fall asleep. I know how it feels to live with a man, to love him wholly- in full surrender without reservation or hesitation. I’m too well aware of the joy and delight in being desired and cherished. The simple feeling of being appreciated for who I am as a person and a woman, and stretching deeply and easily in its light, as warm and bright as the sunlight on my bare shoulders on a summer afternoon.

I have come *this close* to having heaven, to establishing a permanent residence there, not to desire to have it again. At work and at home. It is my desire that drives me, that keeps me in this chair at my desk in my office, being pushed around by a bunch of silly men that condescend to me but apparently still need my contribution to complete their own work. It is my desire to stand in the warmth and light of real love that propels me to hope against hope, to forge ahead in this cold mean world and keep my heart and mind open to the possibility of loving and trusting again.

All of that to say that though I sometimes feel like I am operating in a living hell, if the alternative is to be happy playing second fiddle professionally and living a cold and solitary life personally?

Give me hell.

*My father is the only person who is ever, EVER allowed to call me Cathy.