10:17 p.m. - 2005-08-16
Who writes this shit?
Show of hands: how many of you suffer from cringe-worthy moments of embarrassing idiocy? I’m not talking about the time you wore one black sock and one brown sock to a meeting of the board. Nor do I refer to the Thanksgiving when the potatoes were lumpy and Uncle Sal vomited gin and tonic all over the sofa cushions. (Upon reflection, this would probably only embarrass Uncle Sal and Aunt Ethel.) I do not speak of embarrassing moments that go down in collective office culture, family folklore, or the annals of friendship. Nothing so tame as to be able to laugh about it to yourself in the quiet corners of your mind.
The moments I speak of are referred to in Lacanian psychoanalytic thought as moments when the Real burbles over the surface of the nice structure of Symbolic and Imaginary we typically like to keep our consciousness in. The Real is trauma, disturbance, frisson. It makes us wince – a flash of all that is degenerate about ourselves, about those we love completely. The Real is space shuttle Challenger jokes, dead baby jokes, 9/11 jokes. Why is it all about awful jokes? Well, these are the boon of a child’s existence, and children typically are not yet so immersed in the rules and structure and niceties provided by the Symbolic and Imaginary. These are the best – most American – examples of the Real popping its zit-like head into our everyday lives.
Some examples? Would you like to laugh at me now? Oh, please! Oh, please! Yes, Reader. My pain is your gain.
Usually, the embarrassing moments which keep me up at night are of Bridget Jones proportions – and they almost always have to do with me not knowing something and it somehow leading me to say or do the wrong thing in public. Doesn’t that sound trivial and vain? Oh, yes. It is. But it’s my psyche, not yours. You go wince about your mismatched socks or your Higher Order Concerns. I wince about looking The Fool.
For the longest time, my prevailing wince had to do with The Mall in Washington, D.C. Ahem. It’s not a very amusing story. Suffice it to say that a teacher played along with my visions of Shopping, and I found out a few weeks later that The Mall is really more a promenade. I didn’t sleep well for months.
I might not sleep again. Ever.
At 3:30 p.m. last Friday, my boss assigned to me the task of reviewing my department’s portion of the company website. (Quick, unasterisked sidenote: Who hands out assignments at 3:30 on a Friday? Who? Who?, I ask you!) By the third page, I was Angry and Vocal about the state of affairs (typos in headers; poor word choice, such as “usage;” pages duplicating information erroneously). I marched my sweet knowing arse to my boss’s desk and demanded an explanation (under guise of clarification of the assignment).
WARNING: The exchange which I will replicate below is not pretty. Reader discretion is advised. Adult language and moronic situations.
me: Who writes this shit?
bosslady: Well, in most cases, Dear – I do.
me: Oh.
Ohchrist. In Bridget-speak “ohfuckafuckafuckafuckafucka.”
His Royal Friendliness, Joey, asked me – “yeah, but you didn’t really say that, did you?”
Eep.
I remain, as ever, yours unfortunately.
— Lis’
Endnote: I had email today from bosslady, inviting me to a six-month review on Friday. No one else I know of here has had a six-month review. Egads.
