Caterwauling

Rejected headline: I enjoy being a girl

Am purposely wasting time this morning, as I am in no mood to do anything that remotely resembles work. Thus, I present to you two things that happened to me this morning that men just don’t have to deal with, and one just plain annoying thing that nobody should have to deal with. And no, this post doesn’t reference anything of the intra-uterine variety.

1. Must have put the emergency brake on too hard last night, as I could not release the damn thing. I’ve had this issue when someone else drives the car, or when I take it to a full-service auto wash. I was trying from my seat, the passenger side seat, and finally tried straddling the damn thing — anything to put it into the flaccid position. Finally had to find some random stranger in my apartment complex — who was running to catch a bus — to help me. I hate being a wimp.

2. Once I was ready to drive, I put on my sunglasses, which promptly fogged up from being left in the cold car. I was facing sunlight and couldn’t see through the fog but had cars up my ass at this point, so I whipped off the glasses and drove without them till I could wipe them off. Dawn is a bad driver in general, but take away her vision and it can only get worse. Luckily, I did not hit anybody or anything, although there were some pedestrians who almost bit it today, as they trusted me to not hit their stupid asses as they jaywalked. Argh. Don’t they realize that Northern Virginia drivers — self included — don’t value their lives?

3. Put on makeup at work today — only on the wrong places of my face. Grabbed the wrong tube at the wrong time and made a big mess. I thought I’d reached for my concealer (for under the eyes), but I instead grabbed my lipstick tube (and didn’t notice that it was a different brand as well as a darker color!). So I had lipstick under my eyes for a second. Beautiful.

I could add a “boys are stupid” entry, but I won’t embarrass him for his asininity, even though he doesn’t read this page anyway. For the record, I don’t bash men in general — just the dumbass things that specific ones do. But the short version is that he was whining about being alone on a certain day, and my question to him was, well, did he ask anyone to spend the day with him. His answer? No. Well, there you have it. I told him that perhaps if he’d invited people to spend the day with him, they could have accommodated, with some advance notice. I think he’s a smart guy and fun to talk to sometimes, but it’s stuff like this that makes me want to drown him. I thought it would make him feel better if he’d send me some flowers (yes, I am still on my I-Want-Flowers-On-V-Day kick), but he didn’t get it when I intimated it. Or he just ignored me. Oh well. I can’t help the helpless.

And how is your day?

1. Office is 600 degrees;

2. Decided not to post a rant I just completed — will quietly fester awhile longer;

3. Came in on time for once, for nothing! Big meeting going on about the merging of two departments (processing merging into membership, all of which will fall under Demure);

4. Am thinking about hiring a maid to keep up with the housework;

5. Preparing for an interview for yet another fucking obituary;

6. Still stinging over King Kumquat’s whiny bitch fit yesterday over stuff like hyphens and italics. But pleased over the fact that I told him that he didn’t see the other 30 errors just like it that I did fix;

7. Also pleased that, when he reminded me that I need to speak to division heads for all articles, I was able to point out where I did, in fact, contact them and they had nothing to contribute. That shut his trap in a hurry;

8. Had dinner with Shan last night and continued plotting the overthrow of our present lives and vocations;

9. Continually astounded by people who feel that things are your job when they have a responsibility to pitch in in a constructive way themselves;

10. Willing to accept the fact that the assholes for whom I work are content having me as a peon yet doing all the work. I really believe they will find some reason to not promote me. I have never seen a sneakier set of managers in my life — they can try to justify putting sugar in your gas tank, and think they have made a perfectly reasonable argument; and

11. Annoyed with everyone and everything in general today. Today is not a good day to aggravate me. Trust me.

Oooh, the meeting just broke up. Someone just slammed her office door rather loudly. This is going to involve a lot of physical moving of offices as well as removing the call center cubicles from my area. Yay! But they are either going to put in one desk in that area or build two offices. We’re not sure yet. I don’t care — anything is better than the bitch who hollers at everyone who calls!

Update

12. Raises (or lack thereof) — merit raises of 2.5 percent will go into effect after our annual reviews in June. Shan was taken aback at the low rate, but as I’ve worked in non-profit forever, that’s unfortunately pretty standard. But still, who wants to work hard for that? Besides, it kills me that 2.5 percent for the town crier is $2,500 and for me it’s under a grand. And I work 75 times harder than she ever will. Pffffftttt.

Two and a half hours of my life have passed before my eyes — I threw away time I will never, ever get back.

Hour One of the summit was spent critiquing the paper. He was whining about registration and spots and leading and fonts and what not. I was having none of it, and basically said, “My fault. Yeah, I did that, too.” And I finally said, “I did that at 11:30 at night between bouts of vomiting — can you let me slide on this one?”

He asked if I had anything to say. I said yes, as a matter of fact, I do. I said that the paper was out on time, it looked great, and that I can totally live with the errors that were pointed out to me because it was a hell of a lot better than nothing, right? Oooh, he was pissed.

I got to explain the Ad Angel complaints before she was called to join by phone, so that went more smoothly than expected. He also criticized some of her work too, and she was none too pleased. But she as well as Graphics Goddess very sincerely commended me for making things happen, and they, too, noted that if those are the worst complaints Kumquat can come up with, well then, everyone should be grateful to me. I loved it!

Luckily, Shan pulled him out of the meeting around an hour and a half into it. This is where I had to tell them all the stories I’m writing for the next three months, along with the special features I am including in the next few issues. He of course had his two cents. I realized then that Demure truly isn’t evil — she just wants to have her ass, and her staff’s asses, covered, for when Kumquat decides to go on a criticizing binge. And I was able to knock a number of his comments right back in his face with a how-I-tried-to-prevent-that or what-I-did-to-prepare-for-that or how-I-solved-the-problems-you-never-heard-about. Ugh. It’s like having to apologize to your fourth-grade teacher for throwing a spitball in her hair. Pain-FUL!!!

I’m still playing the good lil girl role, but it’s killing me.

The Commonwealth of Virginia is known for its vast array of vanity plates, but I just heard on the news that a new one — stating “Choose Life” — is going to be the next in line.

Initial thought:

Didn’t George Michael wear a shirt with that tagline in an early ’80s Wham! video?

Second thought:

Why don’t they just hand out the “Jesus Loves Me” bumper stickers when you get your plate?

You all know my politics, so I’m not going into it again. But license plate promoters are hoping this plate will encourage people to “choose adoption,” according to the newscast I just heard. Yeah, just like the “Baby On Board” window decals discouraged people from rear-ending those cars.

I just want a plate that says, “Don’t hit me.” It is the only thought I take with me on the road — my politics are better left at home, and I wish other people would agree.

The Veggie Patch Gazette Summit is in an hour. Ad Angel is ready to rip Mac Guy a new one over the way the ads were placed. I was having none of that and said to tell me what’s wrong so that I can ensure it doesn’t happen again. But I did thank her for going off on me in advance of the Summit, because I know that no matter how hard I worked, I’m gonna get my ass wrung out for something. I want to fucking scream right now.

In two days, Maddie and I have had contact from aliens who are looking for, among others:

pissing mania

wash the coochie

asian ass agony

aunt bedroom hide her ass

black coochie close up fucking

butt bunnies

cat circle skirt

cat won’t poop in litter box

crap

haunted scary crap

smother box

stank booty poop

Good grief! If I could only see the less popular search strings, as I can only see the Top 30. Yee-ikes!!!

Update

Okay, who searched for grandma fucker? You’re a sick fuck, whoever you are!!!

I rarely take lunch hours, but today I snuck over to Landmark Mall for a little while. I don’t often take lunch hours, because the inevitable happens — I never want to come back to work. It’s hard enough to drag my ass outta bed every morning to come into this sad-sack place, but to come back after an hour of window-shopping, well, sucks ass. Coming back to a note on my chair from Demure only added to the utter malaise and discontent I was already experiencing. ::sigh::

The furry little fucker from Punxsutawney says winter ain’t gonna be over for a long time to come.

You can tell I’m a native Pennsylvanian, as I can actually SPELL Punxsutawney!!!

I got to thinking about some of the sentiments behind that entry from Jan. 31, as well as some of the discussion it sparked both inside the comment box and out in the real world.

I don’t want to convey that I insist on any man in my life giving me flowers. On the contrary, I don’t exactly love flowers. I’ve been to more funerals than China has rice, and flowers usually remind me of death. When my grandmother died, we had scads of roses, stargazers and baby’s breath. And while I love each of them, it hurts me to smell them. Besides, if a man would send me a huge bouquet of flowers — especially on a random day — I would think he was up to no good and was trying to divert me from the really sleazy thing he doesn’t want me to discover that he’s done.

And what flowers I do love, in addition to the above, well, are not exactly available at your local Safeway or Shopper’s Club. I love heathers, lilacs and hydrangeas. Yes, I have to be exotic. lol. You have to put some thought into it when you want to impress me.

But that brings me to a point I wanted to clarify for my loving readers, something at which Tiff intimated. It’s not that I — or many women, for that matter — necessarily desire flowers or chocolates or whatever the hell it is that is “traditional” for Valentine’s Day or other holidays. We appreciate gestures that are as unique as the person making the gestures. As I cannot come up with any loving, romantic gifts that I’ve received in recent years, I will say one thing that knocks my frog socks off — greeting cards.

Yes, gentlemen, you don’t have to spend a shitload of money to make a girl swoon. Just prove to me that you walked into your friendly neighborhood Hallmark store, read a few cards with me in mind, and purchased one that you thought I would love. Yes, get that last part — if you put some thought into it, I will take note of that.

Flowers are a good stand-by because you can have them delivered to the office. Granted, I try to keep my personal life out of that godforsaken hellhole, but Valentine’s Day is the one day of the year when people are cruising up and down the halls with the bouquets they receive, seeing who else has someone who cares about them enough to send a little special something. My mom used to send me these adorable arrangements — like one year, the pot had M&M characters and had little bags of M&Ms (plain, my favorite) mixed among the roses and carnations. It was adorable. And she didn’t sign the card other than “Love, Your Secret Admirer.”

I knew and loved her trick — because people in the office are too goddamned nebby for words, and they die to see what you got and what the card says. And when people would ask questions — and you can bet your sweet ass they were lined up and waiting — I would say, of course I knew who sent it, and no, I would not divulge any details to them. Hee hee. Men don’t really get this concept, but this annual ritual has forced many of us to order our own damn flowers, just to save us the aggravation of seeing Slutty Sally and Bland Bertha getting arrangements on this special day, while we rot at our unadorned desks.

Granted, it’s a bitch to take your lovely arrangement home on the metro, bus or even in your car, and the flowers never look quite the same when you get home, but still — the eight hours of glory in which you bask as they stare at you from next to your computer is just an unparalleled thrill sometimes.

Besides, for those of us who casually talk to a few guys at a time (don’t worry, I’m good and not sleeping with anybody right now, but I do have a few prospects!), sending flowers — especially on this most romantic of days coming up — is a damn good way to ensure that I’m thinking fondly about the one who cared enough to think of me in advance of that day.

And remember, March 20 is “Steak & BJ Day.” Whoever does right by me on Valentine’s Day gets his own special holiday, celebrating him and only him, in one short month.

Now, who needs my work address? lol.

I know it’s only 5:30 p.m. on Sunday, but the back-to-school butterflies are waging war in my stomach right now … dreading another five solid days of bullshit ahead.

I went in for awhile today, to work on my resume to submit to H.R. for the position I am already doing in addition to the one I took when I moved down here. My cover letter was on the cocky side, noting that I have been doing the two jobs just fine, so why shouldn’t I be easily and quickly promoted? Although, they are now on a witchhunt, per Shan, about dress code, and I know I have my moments of conflict with it. Thus, they’ve already emotionally assaulted me on a few issues already, and I know I fall victim to some of their new pet peeves, so I expect they will be dredging up any minute reason to prevent me from having the job.

Speaking of pet peeves, I HATE IT when people cough without covering their mouths. Hate it!

Case in point: I breezed into my nail parlor (read: Vietnamese sweatshop) today to get my lovely French manicure done at 3 p.m., and the girl who did my nails snarfed and arked in my face for awhile, until she finally put on her little surgeon’s mask. Then she continued to snarf and ack through the thin paper. Naturally, she was busy with my nails, so even if she covered her mouth, she was still touching me with her germ-infested little hands.

And it’s so weird being there. It’s silent, save for the employees communicating in their language. Once in awhile, a worker will speak to a client, but in my case, I never realized it and had to ask three or four times for her to repeat herself. She was very sweet, though, and much gentler than the gal who did my nails the last time I was there. I didn’t bleed or cry once today, so I got her name and figured that a little bit of cold germs are decidedly better than getting HIV in my open wounds from their nail files.

Nails look really good. Not as good as Dina used to do them, though. I miss my early-Saturday appointments at Cardamone’s in Pittsburgh with her. She rocked. We chattered the whole time I was there, and as it was a big family-owned place, the owner was there b.s.ing with us, and all the manicurists, hairstylists and customers were all in each other’s conversations. It was like a big Italian-family dinner, every time I had an appointment there. Here, in the Sweatshop, you can hear a pin drop, for the most part. I was wondering if the workers, when they did speak, were talking about what assholes they thought their clients were. lol. At any rate, Dina really did do a better job, but she was waaaayyy more expensive, so I guess it’s a trade-off.

I like having pretty nails, so that when I drive by the Veggie Patch, I can flip it off with a beautifully manicured finger. Heh.

Shan and I were there at the same time, but we only spent a few moments together when we were both done. We did hang out yesterday, though. Treated ourselves to a disgustingly sinful dinner at Lone Star — Amarillo cheese fries, filet mignons, etc. etc. Stuffed ourselves silly, but it was so very worth it. Highlight of the evening: we were walking to our cars, and this short little asshole in an ancient car came pealing around the bend at 60 mph, almost running straight into us. I started to move aside and attempted to pull Shan with me, but she wasn’t having it and continued walking exactly where she was. Then the little shit pulled into a spot just behind us.

As if on cue, we both — at the top of our lungs and completely in unison — yelled, “Dumbass!” Then we realized we’d heard an echo or something, and we dissolved into giggles and high-fived each other. Just goes to show how alike we think. It was hysterical. And the little runt got out of his car — he was all of 5’2″ — and I shouted back to him, “Perhaps if you could see above the steering wheel, you could drive better!” I was also laughing at him because he had his seat reclined all the way back, and I know I hooted about that, too. Hee hee. The dumbass didn’t bother with us, though — he would’ve gotten his ass kicked, for sure.