Caterwauling

This makes me feel better about the network not working at work, as well as the voice mails I am not there to receive. …

Our ‘Net connection went down at work early yesterday afternoon and STILL isn’t up. Shan saw the dumbshit in MIS going home at 5:30 p.m., but alas, the problem was not and has yet to be resolved. That ain’t right. I remember when the network would go kaput at Two Strikes – CTL would stay until dawn, if that’s what it took to make the network available for his colleagues the next morning. And then he would be there at 9 a.m., when everyone else arrived, to ensure that any last-minute problems could be addressed in a timely fashion. THAT was a work ethic. Not to mention, we typically knew either why things weren’t working, or we had a ballpark estimate of when we would get our files back. Not here at the Veggie Patch. Oh, hell no. Everyone popped their Zoloft and is quite happy to be staring at the walls. I just came home so that I could try to access the server from outside the firewall, but alas, no luck. Our dependence on technology is alarming — we can’t function without it anymore.

I wonder, though, with all of Shan’s and my suspicions of being spied on by the associate executive assholes esquires (damn them and their titles!!!), whether dipshit is simply exporting all of our e-mails so that they can be scrutinized and held against us at a later time. Hmm. I killed off most of what was not work-related, as did IKEA Boy and Shan, which doesn’t mean that those e-mails are lost forever, but it will take them a little bit more time to find them in the system. Hee hee.

While the winter season here in NoVa is tropical compared to Western Pa., I still hate feeling cold. My shoulders are so tense, from trying to hold myself upright when I walk over icy snowdrifts (parking lots are sheets of ice down here – granted, I know these store owners don’t have to mobilize for snow much, but come on – I don’t want a concussion because I need to run to Wal-Mart for a tree skirt). I’m also tense when I drive, trying not to hit random ice patches at night and hoping that other drivers don’t hit them, either.

Speaking of tension, something I’ve noticed is at my last two jobs: I avoid learning who everyone is. I wasn’t always this way, but now, I cannot tell you who is whom. I looked at the phone list and realized that I can’t put a face with most of those names. I’ve been here six months, and I still can’t say, “Hi ___!” in the halls ‘cause I don’t know who they are. Nor do I care. How sad is that? I’d rather work for a start-up company (i.e., my OWN) and intimately know a handful of people instead of being able to exist without knowing who works on the other floors. Hell, Scott’s two new people have been here for two weeks, and I have yet to even run into them in the hallways (he’s the only straight man there who can remotely spark my interest, anyway). Besides, the girl looks like she needs lots of cake – I saw her from behind, and I swore I could see her ribs through her sweater. She needs CAKE!!! Lots and lots of CAKE!!!

Mmmm. Cake. … (lol – havin’ a Homer Simpson moment. …)

Had the most bizarre dream about JO (not to be confused with J-HO!) last night. Haven’t seen him in years, yet he popped into my subconscious. In the end, we were silently hugging – almost as if we were clinging to each other for dear life. In the dream (and only there), bygones were bygones. I got the impression he was sick (something serious, but I don’t know what) and that he wanted to end our childhood war. I awoke feeling peaceful but curious why he would come to me in my dream, but then again, there was a bizarre cosmic connection that held us together for many, many years.

Then I looked at a calendar about an hour ago – and realized that today is his 29th birthday. How very odd that I would dream about him on this particular morning, after all the birthdays of each other’s that we’ve missed.

Despite all the heartache between us, I do hope that he’s OK – for the past two or three years, I’ve felt like he isn’t. But I Googled him and saw that he has a great job in another state. Of course, that doesn’t mean anything … I live in a great place and am alternately bored, upset and even amused. Oh well. At any rate, I just want to say Happy Birthday, old friend … wherever you are.

Addendum

I called his work. Damn it if he didn’t answer. I apologized and said it was a wrong number. He was silent for a moment or two and said, “That’s okay. No problem.” And we hung up. I wonder if he knew it was me.

I’m not sure why I called. I certainly didn’t expect to talk to him. What would I say, after all this time? The last time we ran into each other was on a snowy streetcorner in downtown Pittsburgh, and even though I said hello to him, he acted as if I weren’t even there. But even after all the years and miles between us, I suppose I just wanted to know that he was, in fact, okay. And he is. And without him, so am I.

Okay, so I totally could have gotten laid tonight.

Chatted with Greg this evening, who called to invite me over to watch the football game (um, who’s playing? lol) and to partake of nighttime festivities. Damn. I’ve at least got to play a little hard-to-get, so I tantalized him with what we COULD be doing tonight, if I weren’t tucked in for the evening. Heh. We were laughing so much, he said his face was hurting. I told him I could make his face hurt from exerting it from other types of activities. 🙂

At any rate, we ended the conversation with a promise from him that he will call me tomorrow. I love men who call. Ability to dial 10 consecutive digits is a remarkable trait in a homo sapien, and I should reward him accordingly. And I probably will, soon. Not that I shared this with him, but I’m just dealing with the not-so-fresh feeling that accompanies the end of the Red Tide, and let’s face it, I want the full treatment when I finally do hook up with a hot-blooded male, so it was completely in my best interest to wait … and to make him wait. (It wouldn’t have been a case of the Wacky Wild Kool-aid Smile, if that’s what you’re wondering. Ewwwww. Just a mild case of Ick.) Ahem. At any rate, men like the thrill of the chase, and he’s going to need to work a little bit harder before I can help him to make something ELSE harder.

RK told me today that he had a date this past Saturday and that he’s misplaced my number for the second time. He’s lucky my Internet connection went down right at that very moment, because I was unsure how to respond to that, but chances are, it probably wouldn’t have been courteous anyway. Hey, we’re all free to date, but #1., I wonder what his intent was in sharing that tidbit, and #2., what does he want me to say, when I believe he’s had ample opportunity to ask me out and, yet, hasn’t?

I get it, though. I really do. I was at least amused with our conversations, but all-talk/no-action has never been my speed, and that’s exactly what this has been. The thrill of the chase works both ways — I love to be chased, and let’s face it, I allow myself to get caught. And it’s to everyone’s benefit that I get worked up in the process, trust me, but there’s got to be an outlet eventually. And not just a sexual outlet, but a method of in-person companionship as well. Honestly, is that asking too much?

No shit, Sherlock. At least my cigarettes don’t go on a date with another woman and come back and tell me about it. The only disease my smokes can give me is lung cancer. I can suck on a cigarette only when and if I feel like it. Cigarettes are just the right length and can fill you up after you’ve had just one, and if you want another go-round, there’s always another one waiting for you, instead of waiting till it’s ready to be fired up again. Oh, I could go on and on, but yes, I can go a month without sex without wanting to hang myself — but then again, maybe I haven’t met the right partner, who will make sex a lot more difficult to live without. …

Oh, and check out Reuters’ headline:

“Smokers say no sex easier than no fags”. As a bona-fide fag hag with a dozen years of being an expert fruit fly, I have to agree with that — the reason why I am not getting enough sex in my diet is because the hot men I meet, well, want to suck on a fag themselves. …

IKEA Boy and I are planning to do a remake of the “Die Another Day” movie — starring IKEA Boy as James Bond, his boss (who looks like Janet Reno) as Bondgirl Pussy Demure, his dog Jynx as, well, himself (Jynxie would look adorable in a bikini, despite the fact that he would be eating his beach towel), Jackie as Odd Job (our nemesis) — and a special appearance by J-HO as she sings the theme song to our film, “Die this Instant.” 🙂

There is a distinct possibility that I will see Greg this weekend. I hope he turns out to be a good guy — I’m sick of these bozos who think they can jerk me around, hurt me and piss me off. The question is whether they intend to act like dumbasses or if it just comes naturally. …

Visit Rebecca. Now!!! Before the photo in the upper left corner is banned. 🙂 Link shamelessly stolen from Dawn Olsen.

I spend so much time trying to map out my career, and yet I don’t give much thought to all the *fun* stuff that I want to do. In addition to having a fulfilling (read: quasi-lucrative) career, here’s some other stuff I need to do, while I’m on this carousel-ride called Earth:

1. Take singing lessons;

2. Teach classes on writing, P.R., and whatever else I want to do;

3. Find time/inclination to return to writing my books and poetry;

4. Get my ass out to the shooting range and learn how to fire a gun;

5. Either maintain a journal again or really start pouring my heart into this blog;

6. Learn web design better than my amateur-at-best level;

7. Master graphic design software (again);

8. Read more books;

9. Read the magazines to which I subscribe;

10. Acquire a dog and/or another cat (oh, Maddie would hate that);

11. Have more sex. Or some sex. With anything not requiring a battery; and

12. Donate some eggs.

The egg thing has been on my mind lately — I may never settle down and have kids, or it may be a long ways away, and I’m impatient. Look, right now, I wouldn’t be such a great mom, but I heartily believe that it is my womanly duty to produce at least one good citizen to contribute to this warped world. If I donate my eggs to a fertility-challenged couple, I can ensure that will happen (assuming they are sane and wanting a munchkin for all the right reasons). Plus, it would give me some desperately needed cash, but let’s face it, if I am donating these precious eggs, damn it, I am going to use the money and take a freakin’ vacation, in exchange for my efforts. I don’t want my eggs going to cover my late car payments — I’d better ENJOY the money I acquire from having a syringe stuck in an ovary.

On the other hand, I have been half-seriously debating the thought of donating eggs to specific donors — i.e., maybe a gay couple who frankly can’t have a child without a woman. I think I could carry a child and give it to a stable, familiar home. I’d prefer to not be the carrier, but I guess I could do it, for the right people. Like Shan says, we’re meant to change the world, not change diapers. Maybe I should pop out some of those “good citizens” that I owe the world, and leave the rearing of them to people who are more capable of doing it. But can I give up drinking for nine months, while a little creature incubates? Hmm. This subject matter is waaaaayyy too heavy for the present moment, but I hate to say it, it’s not a half-bad idea for me. But in the meantime, I am SO firing up a cigarette and grabbing a glass of wine. …

Link courtesy of The Hun. Good grief.

I swear, it is NOT fair that women must shave their legs and the extremities of their tender parts. Damn it to hell. I totally gouged the back of my leg and I’m sitting here, trying not to kill the cat. Oh, the pain. New razors SUCK!!! I can completely understand why “granola girls” become that way — not that I want french-braidable armpit hair, by any means, but I would imagine that electroshock therapy would sting a bit less than razor burn. Shit. IKEA Boy asked why I even bothered, unless I were planning on getting laid. lol. Not bloody likely. Heh.

And I’m going to further ruin my day with a strapless bra. Oh, why the hell not, right? Bring it on. … It matches the black underwear with which I’ve paired it, though, not that anybody’s gonna even see it. 🙂

IKEA Boy and I decided to blow off going to Mark’s party today — he moved to Maryland, and who the hell wants to drive to Maryland? I was planning to take a road trip to Tyson’s Corner or Potomac Yards today (short trips, of course), but we decided we’re going to take a jaunt to IKEA (surprise) out at Potomac Mills instead. Not like either of us can afford to shop, but it’s better than sitting here with my thumb up my ass.

I was reading some of my old blog entries. I was also reading some old journals, wondering what — if anything — I should share in this forum. Hell with it. There’s a certain disdain I have for those who live in the past, and right now, I think that rehashing all the drama from the last few years of my life would serve to depress the shit out of me. 🙂

I visited Kirby and Jynx when IKEA Boy was at school yesterday. Those dogs are so damn BAD! They are Maddie’s little brothers, and she is eternally grateful to not have to live with them. Kirby is such a shithead — literally. He took a dump and started eating it, even as I yelled at him to stop. I had to slide my way to the back of the yard to grab him and drag him back to the house, and he stopped along the way to graze on Jynxie’s droppings. Argh. To make matters worse, Kirby, once inside the warm house, decided to thank me for my efforts by licking my leg. I had to wash my jeans with a paper towel in the sink before I left. Oh, the joys of being an aunt. …

I’m going to start randomly posting “ancient” entries from 2001, when I get the inclination to do so. I have created several links that are presently inactive. These are not necessarily for the public’s consumption — I’ve done a lot of dumb shit that I am simply not proud of. However, this blog is for me, and I’ve been holding off on making a lot of things public because, well, they hurt to revisit, especially in print. I’ve noticed that I am attracting a lot more visitors than usual, including many of the people to whom I make reference.

I’ve thought long and hard about exposing my past — granted, I’ve not done anything that will get me sent to prison, but I’ve said and done some things that, when put in writing, just seem that much more hideous, especially when the “wrong” people learn about them. But those were my mistakes, my experiences, my thoughts and feelings that were at stake. And they are mine to either conceal or broadcast, too, because everything comes from my point of view. My diaries are nothing like Anais Nin’s, and it may piss off a lot of people, but I’ve decided that I want this online record of my life.

The challenge, though, will be as I am dating and perhaps even meeting the significant other(s) with whom I will spend the rest of my life. There is a certain comfort in having those people NOT know my past … I love having mystery in my relationships. But that is a chance I am going to take, of having people read my innermost thoughts and giving them the choice whether to abandon ship or jump on and sail the mighty seas at my side. I don’t encourage anyone to read the previous entries, but now they’re out there, and all I can do is sink or swim. And come hell or high water, I’m going to doggie paddle. 🙂