Caterwauling

“It’s good to see your face

You ain’t no worse for wear

Breathing that California air.”

— Bon Jovi, “Just Older” —

I actually cried when my plane touched down at Reagan National, just along the banks of the Potomac. I saw the Capitol building and was grateful not only that I made it safely through four flights, but that I wanted to come back to my adopted home. Even my mom, who hates it that I live so far away from her now, was grateful that if I can’t be in Pittsburgh, at least I’m in D.C. and not three time zones away from her.

The air was so clean in California, come to think of it. It was invigorating to walk outside and immediately feel the gentle breezes blowing my hair out behind me as I walked between venues, and the air smelled of the endless flowers and trees around me. I only have a few digital photos, as my formerly beloved Nikon pooped out after taking a photo of the “Brady Bunch” kid (Christopher Knight, aka Peter) with Pride Fag, our incoming association president. Yep, Pride Fag officially broke my camera! Allow me a “South Park” moment — “You bastard!” 🙂

The flights were fine — it was less than two hours between here and Chicaco, and nearly four hours between there and John Wayne Airport in Santa Ana, Calif. The longer flights were more arduous and turbulent. On the way to Cali, I was blessed to have window seats, but on the way back, I was sandwiched between passengers in middle seats. For the four-hour flight to Chicago, I was between two hot men, one of whom is the proud possessor of my contact information. 🙂 His name was Richard and was a beautiful California boy with blue eyes and sun-streaked hair and a golden tan. We hit it off and had a lovely talk about anything and everything.

On both of my longer flights, we had a set of twin one-year-old girls. The first time around, they were cranky and miserable. I suggested to a fellow convention attendee, before the flight back, that we ask their parents to thoughtfully consider seventh-trimester abortion before hopping on a plane with those little sacks of screams. Luckily, they were sacked out and quiet during the flight back to the Windy City, but that was because their mom was running them around the airport, trying to tire them out. I was going to ask the pilot if we could put carseats on the wings. 😉

Security at airports is even stricter than it was post-Sept. 11, 2001. On the flight between Chicago and D.C., the pilot made an announcement that if we had to go potty, do it ASAP, because no one is permitted to walk around for a half hour before the plane touches down on the runway. And of course we were all practically naked as we checked our carry-on luggage before we boarded — we had to remove our jackets and shoes, and even remove our cell phones and cameras and computers from their respective bags. So, it looked like a unisex dressing room at the end of the conveyor belts, as we all hurried to get our shit together and back onto our bodies. Luckily, I move 100 miles an hour anyway, and I got it together before the security guards yelled at us to shake a leg.

Shake a leg. That’s a term I used a million times in California. It isn’t another state to me — it’s another country when you think about it. Everyone there moves so slow — nobody’s really in a hurry, and everybody’s all smiles when you look at them. I was 14th in line at a confectionery, waiting for the best caramel apple of my life, and I was tapping my foot and flipping out at how fucking slowly the cashiers were moving. But that is their way there. Some pals of mine couldn’t get a cashier to come to the front of the 7-11 store for 15 minutes to wait on them — can you picture that in Northern Virginia? Half of the store would be shoplifted in that time! Hell, our 7-11s have police stationed in most of them here! But yeah, in Cali, everyone’s in sandals and Bermuda shorts and without a care in the world. I think the traffic is so damn bad out there because everyone’s got their cars on cruise control at 40 mph. Argh! Some vendors in Downtown Disney, where I went during my final hours in Anaheim, even remarked on my impatience with a, “Oh, you must live on the East Coast.” lol — was I that obvious? But really, is it a bad thing to want to accomplish a thousand things in a day? 🙂

At any rate, while I was sad to leave the sun and the fun of California, I was happy to see Shan in the airport, waiting for me. I ran up and hugged her, and she and John got me safely onto the highway and into my apartment complex … and back to my beloved Maddie.

Maddie was waiting for me at the door when I arrived. I was bogged down with four pieces of luggage, so I asked her to follow me to our bedroom, which she did. As soon as my bags were on the floor, she cooed and jumped up on me and wouldn’t leave me alone for quite some time. That was perfectly OK with me — I’d missed that loving sack of fur and poop. 🙂 She’s been attached to my side ever since, and she doesn’t even suspect that she and I are hitting the bricks tomorrow and heading to Pittsburgh for another whirlwind trip. I look forward to seeing My Hero, Susan and her newly expanded family, Lori and possibly Brat, if our paths should happen to cross.

Again, clicking heels three times. Blogging will be lighter than before, as I will have no computer within any reasonable proximity. But I assure you, I will be running around like a fool and loving every minute of it!

I got suckered (read: roped) into going to dinner with the boss, Pussy Demure, and other event organizers. J-Ho was there too, sucking up to me as usual. I think she wants to interview for my newly opened Managing Editor position. Heh — good luck, I don’t think so!

Anyway, my last bitch fit before the closing ceremonies of this damn convention — Demure and the gang (and we all work together) went to dinner at Tangerine’s, and we were also with a rep from the convention and visitor’s bureau from the city we’re visiting next year. Would you fucking believe that Demure refused to pay for our dinners, except for the CVB chick? She pulled out her credit card, and two of us figured that, shit, she brought us to dinner so she would pay for it. Oh, but no. She declared that she was paying only for the other chick’s meal. Dumb fucking cunt! For all the hard work we do, the bitch couldn’t pay for our meals? The bill wasn’t even $150, and she could have gotten reimbursed by the company!!! Asshole! She only makes three times more money than I do — and I’d had plans to meet Karen and Chrissy, which I had to cancel. God damn it. Cheap crusty ole biatch!

Anyway, party till midnight tonight, and a day full of traveling tomorrow. I will miss living in an immaculate hotel suite — I am so damn neat, it’s frightening. Here’s to hoping I can get motivated to retain my rediscovered passion for immaculateness when I get back to D.C.

Anaheim’s been fun — and the balmy near-80-degree weather has been charming, but it will be good to get back to having a car and a cat. My clothes look so different without feline fur!

Clicking heels three times.

The Veggie Patch Board of the Directionless passed a bylaw this past weekend to advocate for piece. One of the “Whereas” clauses included sending this new piece of hippie legislation to President Bush. It reads something to the effect that we disagree with the aggression that our country is taking out on other, smaller, poor, unfortunate countries.

!

Sweet Jesus. Luckily, one of the girls in our membership meeting created a stink, because her organization would have its funding revoked if this were actually followed through on. Unfortunately, we had our President-Elect there, whom I’ll call Pride Fag (not flag), who shot right back that we in fact are peace loving hippie freaks who need to take a stand. I was practically spitting nails and had a few choice words to say that we need to choose our political battles, and this ain’t one of them.

Damn it — gotta run, but I will finish this diatribe later.

I didn’t come out as a lesbian, but god only knows that the inclination is there — especially after the failed relationships and seemingly endless series of first dates and no seconds. But what the aforementioned Goddamn hippies have done for me is allow me to be free to display my longing for equal human rights in my own nation. Our hippies and our gay group have been handing out rainbow stickers, and I’ve been displaying them proudly on my name badge.

Sometimes, I wear the badge to walk down the street — away from the safety of my hippie convention — and it’s scary and thrilling all at the same time to see people look curiously at my badge, which displays a variety of symbols about me. But it’s the large rainbow that stands out — it’s perhaps the only thing that they see.

And when I leave this convention, I will never wear this badge again. But for a few days, I have known what it is like to be different — to not be accepted as a portrait of the mainstream society. And even in here in the convention hall — my colleagues and other professionals have gotten to know me as me, and it was only two days ago (of this five-day ordeal) that I picked up this vibrant sticker. And now these people look at me and see the sticker. Many look at me and smile, because they are damn proud of me for showing my support of ALL communities. Many look at me and think, “What the hell? She’s a dyke?” And still others look at me like almost dismissively, like, “Oh, she’s one of THEM.”

I know I can never truly walk in another’s shoes, but I’ve been walking around a hell of a lot in my own, and my feet hurt. I can only imagine how the feet of those with one more burden must feel. I salute the gay community, and while I may not be gay, I am still one of you. But it’s a shame that you can only feel safe in such a protected environment as this, and not in the society at large in which you are a huge part.

Went to a candlelight vigil last night, sponsored by our social justice group. I properly offended the 90 participants with my photography and my incessant need to talk during the half-hour of silence. I had to clarify that it was simply an event in favor of peace, not a protest against the war. Folks were properly horrified that I am for the war, but that’s another story.

When I was 18 and living in Pittsburgh, I was attending such vigils for a variety of causes. I had respect and passion and a sense that I was accomplishing something — even if only for myself — as I held those lit candles whose flames were contained and kept alive by their protective Dixie Cups. Now I’m 28, living in the political mecca of the country, and now a citizen of the world. And for awhile last night, I was thinking that I’d become jaded, but this morning, I realize that it might just be that I’ve become a hardened realist. The vigil was sweet and all, and it made its hosts and attendees feel good, but what did we really accomplish? Perhaps our prayers for peace were heard somewhere, and maybe those wishes will come true someday. But instead of praying solely for peace, I was sending my thoughts and my love to the soliders who are laying down their lives to fight for world freedom. I was hoping that someday, I will tell my kids about this horribly unjust world in which I grew up, and I was hoping that they would laugh and treat it like my generation treated the “I walked to school barefoot 20 miles each way. …” stories — like, damn! Things were like that? No way!

Anyway, whenever I snapped photos, I was snarled at. So I put the camera down and eventually burst into silent hysterics, waiting for them to burst into “Kumbaya” or something. And they DID!!! They started singing some Beatles-era song about peace and love and what not, and some chick with a booming opera voice started her own reprise. It was moving and laughable at the same moment. It was one of those times when, as my grandmother would say, you just didn’t know whether to shit or go blind.

The hippies staged a day of peace here at the convention center. I thought it would be a good photo op, but I lasted 10 minutes and had to leave and go indulge in some capitalism (I bought a Los Angeles shirt to sleep in). And unfortunately, their hippie-ness carried over into other non-hippie sessions — they took off their shoes and sat Indian-style, they laughed and sang and carried on, and they talked about how terrible it was for our country to invade Iraq. First of all, the smelly feet were enough to KILL me in most of the sessions (and believe me, my feet were hurtin’ too but I didn’t remove MY shoes!), but what really frosted my flakes was when our presenters were bitching about “Blood for Oil” and how President Bush is a bully who coerced his staff and his military into terrorizing Iraqi civillians so we can get our hands on that country’s resources. Let me tell you, I walked out of a bunch of sessions, just based on that alone. I came here to be educated on topics of interest to me — if I wanted to hear about the war, I could’ve stayed in D.C. and turned on the fucking news.

They say the No. 1 rule of surviving a convention — and 14-hour days on your feet — is to flush your tootsies. Yes, stick a foot in the bowl and flush away. Something about the pressure and the coldness is supposed to reduce the swelling.

Well, I am not so sure I endorse this practice, but last night, I was ready to try anything. I laughed the whole damn time — I think that part alone was the best therapy possible!

Met some new friends — Karen and Chrissy — both school counselors from Philadelphia. We were at the “Peter Brady” luncheon yesterday — we’d all slipped in late and ended up together at a front table. We were chatting for awhile before Chrissy put it together that we actually knew each other from before. Turns out, my publication — The Veggie Patch Gazette — gave away a free registration to this conference, and it was Chrissy who was my winner. I hadn’t put it together because her name tag had “Christina” on it. But she asked if I were the Dawn who had left her a bubbly little message a few months ago, and we ended up marveling how cool it was that, in a convention center full of at least 3,000 people, we would end up sitting next to each other at a luncheon we each attended on a complete fluke.

The three of us went to dinner at Napa Rose last night. It was over $60 a person (let’s say I blew my lousy $42 per diem!), but we got to visit the California Grand Hotel and ate exotic foods. Our goal was to go somewhere new and try something new. I think I’ve made some very good friends who will be good contacts for me in the future.

Seventy-five degrees and balmy. Am stealing a quick minute to blog, as I am twitching from withdrawal. 😉 Flights were fine, although six hours in a pressurized cabin did not help my dry sockets in my mouth, but I’ll live.

Haven’t done anything touristy. Am working uber-long days and blogging only in my head. Walked around on Friday night — through Downtown Disney — and took some photos. LOVE the palm trees and breezes and flowers-o-plenty. Am so bloody tired — keep awakening at 3:30 a.m. because my body is on East Coast time.

J-Ho is such an asshole. Luckily, she is staying the hell out of my way, but she has been whiny and pissy and bitchy to all. But she’s surgically attached to her boss, so we’re all happy to be rid of her. Other folks (Town Crier and someone else from her hallway) are creating much drama for others who are actually working for a living. ‘Tis a shame.

I’ve been keeping to myself, and that’s the best thing I can do for myself here. I wish I could stay longer — long after these jokers leave. But next time I come back, it will be for vacation and vacation only, I promise you that.

Photos coming in April!

Well kids, the day has arrived for me to drag my ass (and Samantha’s, too!) down to Reagan National for the first of my flights to/from Anaheim, via Chicago. Tooth (or lack thereof) is still screaming with pain. Dentist told me it’s a dry socket … honey, I never knew any socket on my person could ever be a dry one!

Maddie has been sullen and suspicious the past few days. She knows I am either abandoning her or taking her with me — she hasn’t quite decided which, and both are equally worse, in her opinion. But I bought a feeder that will keep her stuffed and happy for four days, and I think she will revel in having unlimited servings of Mow Mix from the second I leave the house this morning.

I’m not looking forward to my trip with the Club Medicated Cruise Lines, and J-Ho seems to think we’re going to become friends or some shit like that. Ha! I know she’s pissed that she didn’t even get a second interview for the job she wanted — the job I now have — and she’s got her nose so far up King Kumquat’s and all the other men’s asses that she’ll hopefully leave me the hell alone, for the most part. I think she’s either slept with, or wants to sleep with, most of the (few) men in our (dis)organization — you should see her flirt with them! But she recently put on like 40 pounds or something, so I am pleased that she looks more like a Macy’s day float than, well, a Macy’s day float. Tee hee.

Well kids, don’t pee in the sandbox while I’m gone, and be good! Hope that my little Samantha is safe at the airport without me, hope that Maddie doesn’t shit on everything that doesn’t move in my absence, and hope that our country and our troops are safe and secure during these uncertain times. And hope that I kick Town Crier into the Pacific Ocean or walk in on J-Ho sucking Kumquat’s dick — and hope that I have my camera on and flashing for either instance!!!

Ever feel like this?

I stayed up most of the night — mainly because of ongoing mouth pain — but also to watch the humble beginnings of Gulf War II. I had a brief moment of memory of a time, 12 years ago, when the air strike began for the original Desert Storm. I was with a friend, studying in his basement, when the TV news reports started exploding. The liberal that I was, I was pissed off about the war, but my friend explained that sometimes, force is needed to maintain some sort of equilibrium. And he was right, but a part of me looks back today and wonders what if Dubya’s daddy had finished the job? What if he had found a way to oust Hussein and bin Laden before they would go on to terrorize their citizens as well as our own? Would I be as terrified to step on a plane tomorrow as I am, or would the thought of domestic terrorism never enter my mind?

Unfortunately, we struck last night (or early morning over there) in hopes of bombing Saddam into the fiery pits of hell, but new reports are saying that he is alive and well. Then again, he is a clever, sniveling little bastard — he supposedly has several look-alikes that he sends out into public. He’s probably in a cave, jerking off bin Laden while the rest of us are hoping for their deaths.

Blogging will be light to nonexistent for me for the next two weeks, due to travel and lack of Internet access, but I’m sure a million others will provide blow-by-blow reports and commentary. I just hope I live to read it when I return in April. I hear that Anaheim and D.C. have been declared no-fly zones, both of which are my destinations and departure points, and it’s a good thing that security will be uber-tight, but still, it’s unsettling to be forced to go somewhere I don’t want to go, to do something I don’t want to do, for people for whom I don’t want to risk my life. Several hundred of our attendees have canceled, along with at least a dozen presenters. Do they know something we don’t know? Town Crier said they’re all a bunch of wimps — that they are afraid for nothing. (Lest I remind you that the Town Crier is a fucking moron.)

I understand that the Academy Awards are going on as scheduled, too. WTF? Didn’t we just have like eight award shows already this year? How many fucking self-congratulatory events do these assholes need? So they read some lines and wore costumes and cosmetics designed for them — why the hell are they awarded? Millions of people work harder and for a mere fraction of what those ego-trips-on-ice earn, and do they get stupid little statues and five minutes in front of a camera? Shit, Julia Roberts spends more on a dress for one wearing than I earn in a whole year. That ain’t right. Please make these actors stay home, out of respect or safety or whatever it takes to get them away from my television screen.