When I was a little girl and refused to cheer up because I was mad about something, or upset, my grandmother would say, "Don't be a pill." I don't know where that phrase comes from, but I feel lumpy, and hard to deal with, and thoroughly foul so maybe it's applicable.
I went to Denise's to rubber stamp our Christmas cards. I'd been looking forward to it for weeks. I deliberately dragged myself up and out of my bad mood of the last few days so I wouldn't sob all over her shoulder every time I thought about my dog. I gathered up a huge shopping bag full of stamps, and paper, and ink pads, and my Christmas cards, and barrelled up the freeway to spend a quiet Saturday with my best friend. I thought we'd drink coffee, and rubber stamp, and have a nice time.
Unfortunately, I'd forgotten she'd invited one of her dear friends named Maya. This is someone I have never spent any time with, and haven't seen since about 1986 anyway, so I was instantly grumpy for A) having forgotten she'd be horning in on my time with Denise, and B) being such a despicable, grouchy, ungenerous person. I tried to rally myself, but I failed miserably. I was cold, having mistakenly chosen to wear a t-shirt instead of several layers of wool and a fur hat. It was damp and chilly out, and Denise had been airing her house out as well, so the room temperature, actually a relatively mild 60 degrees, seemed to set my teeth on edge as they chattered. I demanded coffee. I demanded windows closed. I demanded a blanket, then a sweater. I tried to convey them as requests, but I'm pretty sure my requests came across as implacable. I just wanted to go home and hide myself in a dark corner until I snapped out of my mood, but I felt obliged to try harder than that. I had coffee, wrapped a blanket around me, made cheerful conversation, and got started stamping.
The rubber stamping part was great fun. Denise and I got very into it, creating scenes with various stamps: pine boughs, ornaments, snow fields, toy soldiers. I caught up a bit with Maya as she sat across the room sorting through her huge collection of unmounted rubber stamps. I was feeling happy as I looked at everyone's collections, and messed about with the inks, and taught them how to use a heat gun with embossing powder. We ate Japanese salmon roe on crackers with sour cream, and little quiches, and drank Mimosas. Denise put on Frank Sinatra. Maya began to sing loudly.
I cannot stand listening to people sing along with records.
I mean I really can't. It drives me out of my mind. If I wanted to hear someone else sing, I'd ask them to sing. I'd much rather hear the recorded artist with the background music as it was meant to be heard. I like to hear the whole thing and not just the catchy vocal part. It doesn't matter if the person singing along is the greatest singer in the history of the world, frankly; it has nothing to do with how well they perform. I don't want to hear anyone singing over the top of the record.
I hung in there for about ten minutes until I sensed my irritability growing to the Extreme Bad Manners point. I broke down and politely asked her not to sing. I am of the "give someone a clue as to how you feel about behavior that's making you crazy" school of dealing with problems. She was gracious about it, but I'm sure she thought I was a freak. Denise was probably rolling her eyes at my super-crabbiness as she changed the record and put on Bonnie Rait. That was even worse. Both of them started to sing.
I went home. I just packed up and went home. There wasn't much point my being there if all I was going to do was be a pill and ruin someone else's good time. It wasn't their fault I can't stand listening to people sing along with records, and it wasn't Denise's fault that I felt possessive about spending that time with her. I loaned a couple of stamps and my dark green ink pad to Denise so she and Maya could finish the stamp scenes they had in mind, and promised to be in a better mood next time, and drove off into the night. I cranked up my CD player and sang along in my car where no one else had to hear me.
My Christmas cards look beautiful. I'll ask Denise and Maya to forgive me, and maybe tomorrow I'll figure out how to live with the cloud of gloom over my head so it doesn't affect anyone around me.
