Caterwauling

… when, after she asked AGAIN what I wanted for Christmas, I said, “a strap-on and a girlfriend.”

One of her biggest fears is that I am a lesbian, or at least bi. Not sure why she is so nervous about that, but she wants grandmunchkins so badly she can scream. I told her I have memorized more ceilings in my sexual career (and, I neglected to add, have bitten a few pillows in my day, too), and well, minus some exceptions, hetero sex just doesn’t do it for me anymore. Honestly, I’ve always been middle-of-the-road on which gender I preferred, but I’ve leaned toward men, ’cause, well, they’re easy. Tell them they can get free fucks galore from you, and unless they’re gay (or sober), you’ve got them. 🙂

Okay, so I just got laid. Close to an hour ago, actually.

Before the rousing chorus of, “Yay, Dawn!” deafens the blogosphere, I just need to ask, why the FUCK do I leave the act so disappointed so often? Cripes. I thought it was building up to something good — I’d heard around town that G3 was supposed to be a hot lay. I’d like to refute that rumor. ASAP.

Well, I can admit that I’ve had worse, but frankly, I was out for sex — pure, unadulterated, hot, nasty, dirty fucking. None of this, “Oh, I should make him wait so he’ll respect me” bullshit. No way — I wanted a rock-hard cock and I wanted it tonight, and frankly, I didn’t give a shit who it belonged to.

IKEA Boy has this theory that if you didn’t cum, well, then, it didn’t count as sex. Well, then I’m still a fuckin’ re-born virgin, if that’s the case. He tried, but not enough. And then, after HE came and came back from getting rid of the evidence, I was lying on his bed, still practically fully clothed, wondering WTF I was doing there. I watched him come back in and start pulling on his clothes.

I asked, “That’s IT?!?!”

(Women everywhere can feel free to thank me for voicing what more-often-than-not rolls through our heads.) heh.

He looked puzzled and said yeah. Then had the audacity to ask, “Do you want to watch a movie?”

I said no, I was leaving. Thanks anyway. So he walked me out to the security door, hugged and kissed me, and said, “Let’s keep in touch.”

What, so I can be your hole again? There was no oral, whatsoever. Cripes. I was longing for that. Oh well.

For as many men as I’ve been with (and there ain’t enough bandwidth in cyberspace to name all of THOSE names), I can’t say that I can find a reason to continue sleeping with men. I really can’t. The few I have enjoyed, well, disappeared from the face of the earth, and the rest, well, I must’ve been a good, willing and happy hole for them, because a number of them have come back. Sometimes, I’ve even accommodated, but that’s because I needed sex, not because I needed a man. Maybe I should start dating women — I’d like to have meaningful sex for a change. 🙂

The evening, prior to offering my orifice to the closest candidate, had been going remarkably well. Flirting and serious conversations intermingled beautifully. I’d told Shan earlier this week that this guy was SO not marriage material, but he’d be good as a fuck buddy. She has known him for years and thought he might actually BE that “good guy” for whom I’ve been searching. But I knew better, from the beginning, so I’m hardly disappointed in the fact that I have NO reason to see him again. Argh.

I drove around Alexandria for a few minutes, after I sprinted for his front door and pealed Samantha Jones out of his lot at 70 mph. I realized how much I despise leaving or being left, with cum running down your inner thighs and a sense of ennui drowning your brain. I have gotten to a point, with my one-night fucks throughout the past few years, where I possess no emotion after the act — like I know it’s going to end dismally, so I might as well just leave first, before I have to pretend that I’ve had a great time. I should get a fucking plaque on the “Walk of Shame,” for all the times I’ve pulled on my scandalous panties and run for the hills.

:::Sigh::: Another pair of scandalous guchies wasted. Oh joy. I think retailers should pay you the cost of your racy bras and panties when you have a bad lay, ’cause I will not be wearing those items again any time soon, if ever.

I swear that the “leaders” at the Veggie Patch are pumping formaldehyde through the air ducts to keep us drugged and preserved. There is just a noxious odor that permeates the building, and I think it’s eating away at my brain cells. And let’s face it, I no longer have blood flowing through my body — it’s been replaced by coffee and beer. Mmm … beer. … At any rate, my job isn’t so bad, yet the toxic gas that’s infiltrating our offices has GOT to be the reason why I just want to die, every time I come in here every day. …

… and it wasn’t mine!

While the 18-wheeler Bud Light truck was busy loading up Bennigan’s bar (for Shan, of course! We’ll be heading over there in a few mins, actually), Shan was entranced by this sight from her window, so much that she immortalized the vision in an e-mail to Yellow Haired Bitch and several others. Shan wrote, “the phone numbeer is …” Hee hee. Priceless. 🙂

I’m still trying to become accustomed to winter in Virginia. It simply defies logic, though, how the day can start off perfectly warm and comfortable and then become colder than a corpse’s crotch by midday. Argh. I attempted to go mail my overdue vehicle and car insurance payments (not even the full amounts that are due, but somethin’ to keep the creditors quiet for now), and I froze my patoo-tay off.

Mom laid a bit of a guilt trip on me last night — I don’t call her the Kathie Lee of the Carnival Cruises of Guilt Trips for nothin’. When she called, I’d had my fill of drama and agony for the day, and she had her usual serving platter of issues filled and awaiting my consumption. I kinda rushed her off the phone, which launched the Extended-Stay option of the Guilt Trip Cruise — that I never have time for her, never have the energy for a real conversation. I’m always on my way to do something or I’m with someone or I’m too pooped to speak coherently (like today, when I accidentally told IKEA Boy about the b-day gift I have on order for him — cripes!).

She’s right, though. I have little left to give her emotionally, and I am her only friend and only outlet for the shit happening in her own life. And when I do call her, it’s usually to rage and rant and dump my emotional trauma on her. But she’s Mom — she can handle my life. I can’t. But I can’t handle hers, either, and I feel terrible about that. Some days, I can barely function, I’m so emotionally exhausted. And she doesn’t listen to me, anyway, when I try to give her advice about her problems, so I’m less inclined to want to help. Of course, like me, she just wants someone to listen, to sympathize, to empathize. And she hates it that I can give that to everyone but her. And I hate it too, because she’s the only one who’s ever been able to give me all of that and then some.

She did heap her usual ladle-ful of guilt about me moving 250 miles away, but I tend to tune out for that segment of the conversation. I did, though, say I’m happy enough here and am not interested in moving back to Pittsburgh. She snapped that I mention that during every damn conversation, and can I stop hurling that at her and hurting her with that dagger? Argh. My shoulders have tensed up, just writing this paragraph. My head feels like I’ve been sleeping on a concrete pillow.

So she told me that since I’m so busy and so involved in everybody else’s lives but hers, why can’t I drop her a note or something? Buy a card. Write in it. Act like I’m concerned. I told her I don’t write to anyone, and it would be great if we could get her one of those little e-mail machines, since that’s my main form of communication these days. She seemed open to that but sounded dejected anyway. Said my grandfather asks about me all the time. Says he prays every day that I will move back to Pittsburgh. (He prays? When the hell did THAT begin?) It’s like the guilt noose has suddenly been crafted of rosary beads. Jesus Tap-Dancing Christ.

Add to the guilt trip that she wants to know what I want for Xmas (um, an oil change for Samantha is the only thing I really need. That, and enough cash for two car payments and three student loan payments — $1,500, all told, but I know she doesn’t have that). I told her that we should really focus on my grandfather, because he’s frail and we never know when it’s going to be his last Christmas. Further, she’s running around with no winter coat — I told her to make my gift a coat for herself. So then I got the guilt trip that I am ungrateful and not helpful to her, when she’s trying to make us a little Christmas and I’m not even helping her to make it a bit easier.

Oh, I just can’t WAIT for Christmas dinner. Fuck me running.

*for those who loved last year’s “South Park” Xmas special.

“For one day we all stop burning, and the flames are not so thick

All the screaming and the torture stops as we wait for old Saint Nick

So string up the lights, and light up the trees

We’re damned for all eternity

But for just one day, all is well

It’s Christmastime in Hell!!”

Ahem.

So F/OM e-mailed me today, in response to a note I had dropped his way that mentioned my heartfelt desire to launch my own business.

He suggested we go for it together.

I was floored.

This is a GREAT thing! Despite the horrendous hell that was working at Two Strikes, he still holds me in high esteem as a worker. Granted, he knows I’m a 14K fuckup at the new job, but he knows that I need a lot more challenge and stimulation (and money!). I’ve always loved and idolized F/OM, and to have his personal endorsement of me meant so much. I sent him my ideas and thoughts about what it is that I want to do when I grow up, and I assured him that it’s a work-in-progress. Shan and I are going places in this world, and to have his encouragement and even his potential cooperation, my ego is doing pretty well today. He said with my writing ability and personal/business connections, J’s creativity, his financial sense and ability to fix toilets (allusion to all the SHIT at Two Strikes, I’m sure) and Shan’s business sense (and of course the girl’s god-given networking charm), we’re sitting on a goldmine of talent.

I just need a business name and then I can go to City Hall to get my business license. Any thoughts, folks? Media relations, promotions and parties. I need all the help I can get! It has to be short, sassy and memorable, just like lil ol’ me. 🙂

Am lookin’ forward to the weekend, even though I’m going to be scrambling to do my writing. I fear I will only be able to produce four of my five assigned stories, but given the way this month has gone (self-induced concussion, inclement weather, Frosty the Snow-Cow saying that we’ll have to live without our promised raises, and three days with no network access at the Veggie Patch), that’s fine by me. Besides, I still average six stories on any given month, and it’s Xmas, so my gift to myself is to earn my given salary. 🙂

At any rate, it’s almost Friday the 13th and IKEA Boy’s 28th Birthday!!! Saturday night brings dinner and a candlelit walking tour in Old Town. And drinking. Lots of it. Woo hoo!!! Food, fags and an alcoholic funk. What more can a gal need in this life? (Oh, yeah … SEX!!!) Well, we’ll see about that last part. Best offer (okay, okay … FIRST offer!) wins!!!!

No, the flip-flopping isn’t in reference to Frosty the Snow-Cow’s heaving bosom (our HR person at work, for those just tuning in) — I’m talking about making my webpage accessible to folks who view my profile at Classmates.com. I see no reason why I should, but then again, why shouldn’t I? Perhaps it is safe for me to say that it’s cool that people I used to know can read the profiles I so artfully crafted for that site about my high school, college, work and general life experiences. They only see the “journalist in D.C.” job title, instead of coming here to read about my third consecutive missed car payment.

Maybe I’ll keep this fabulous site on the QT for a little while longer — because I’ve gotta pitch another bitch. I cannot BELIEVE how many people are married, divorced, separated, with kids, etc. And let me put it this way — I remember these folks from second grade — I will never forget the kids who picked their noses and ate their boogers; I clearly recall the kids who sat and flatulated all day, silently but surely; I remember the dumb bitch who sucked on her red ink pen till the ink exploded in her mouth; etc. And to read that these people are REARING CHILDREN right now just fucking ASTOUNDS me!!! (oh, almost forgot ’bout the girl who screamed, “My tampon just fell out!” on the schoolbus one morning. lol)

Which leads me to wonder, when I am starting to date people, what they were like when they were kids. Did they eat paste or have head lice or scratch their asses or stink because they hated bathing? I shudder to think that the next love of my life was, well, a booger-eater. 🙂 Yet the booger-eaters from my schools are married with kids, and I’m still single. Humph. What gives?

World’s.Best.Holiday.Song.EVER!!!

“It’s coming on Christmas

They’re cutting down trees

They’re putting up reindeer

And singing songs of joy and peace

Oh I wish I had a river

I could skate away on

But it don’t snow here

It stays pretty green

I’m going to make a lot of money

Then I’m going to quit this crazy scene

I wish I had a river

I could skate away on

I wish I had a river so long

I would teach my feet to fly

Oh I wish I had a river

I could skate away on

I made my baby cry

He tried hard to help me

You know, he put me at ease

And he loved me so naughty

Made me weak in the knees

Oh I wish I had a river

I could skate away on

I’m so hard to handle

I’m selfish and I’m sad

Now I’ve gone and lost the best baby

That I ever had

Oh I wish I had a river

I could skate away on

I wish I had a river so long

I would teach my feet to fly

Oh I wish I had a river

I could skate away on …

I made my baby say goodbye”

— Joni Mitchell, “River” —

Tiff reflects on the Beehive, and of course I have to throw in my two cents. 🙂