Caterwauling

OK, so I washed my car four hours ago, and there’s a goddamn storm starting outside right now. WTF? At least the inside is sparkling clean and Armor-alled in preparation of my day at the INS … oops, I mean DMV … and going in search of a property tax sticker (and a whopping tax bill too. Oh goody).

Apparently, I am going deeper into hell than Dave is. You mean it’s going to get worse than today was?!?!

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Rejected title: Blind fury

Day. From. Hell.

I am already pissed about dropping a couple of hundred bucks on Maddie’s shots and exam yesterday. She only needed about $65 of the work I commissioned, but thanks to precautionary leukemia shots/vaccinations and some other line item I’ve already forgotten, she will now never get any type of disease for the rest of her life, hopefully. And let’s not even talk about the booster shots she is supposed to get in three weeks, although if we find the other cat doesn’t have leukemia or any respiratory issues, I can skip it.

Anyway, I go out to my car this morning to find this ugly white Bonneville parked three inches from my passenger side. Sure enough, there is a major dent in my door — the paint is gone and there is a big dimple in an obvious spot. I wanted to flatten the other car’s tires. All of the damage on my car has been done by OTHER cars. Some of us actually don’t hit people for fun — some of us actually try to drive like normal human beings. Fuck me running.

So then, I went up Yoakum Parkway to get to work — I usually just take South Whiting. Well, lo and behold, guess who got pulled over and fined for not having an updated registration and property tax sticker? Guess who’s got a court date and threats to be pulled over again if I don’t take care of it immediately? Guess who has to drive out to fucking Fair Oaks Mall to get the goddamn sticker? Guess what day the DMV is closed … Wednesdays!!!

So, I am grumbling. Today is not my day. My moving fund has officially gone up in smoke. Oh, and I have a meeting with Pussy Demure in 20 minutes. Kill me.

UPDATE

Demure is a dipshit. I have never been reprimanded for going above and beyond the call of duty before. Never! And then she piled on even more work that she wants immediately. Then she snarked that maybe I should put the paper first instead of attending to all the paper-related details. Huh?!?! Maybe if she’d leave me alone and not drag me into hour-and-a-half supervision meetings every week, I’d do fine.

I had to laugh, though. She said one of the big reasons they hired me was because of my management background, only it seems I don’t have time to hire someone to actually manage. LOL. Sister had a point there.

To add to today’s litany of pain, I lost my wallet and cell phone for a few hours. Not that I have any money left, particularly after I pay a year’s worth of back property taxes tomorrow, but at least I finally recovered the items — seems I forgot to put them back in my purse after I had to find my driver’s license. Oops.

THEN there was no toilet paper in the ladies’ room, and no paper towels either. We have taken to wiping our asses with seat protectors. Gaaah! When will this madness END?!?!?!

Editor’s Note: I try not to let Brat cross my mind too much, but tonight, I’m letting out one of my “draft” blog entries that I’d written about him not so long ago.

I am glad I finally reached a point in my life where I could fuck someone and not feel anything emotionally. But in a way, when all I really want is to feel someone with my soul in addition to my PC muscles, it’s like getting fucked over is a parting gift … a “thank you for fucking me … now fuck off” kind of booby prize.

And just as I was prepared to either fall back into Brat’s arms or slap him senseless, I was prepared to guard my heart more tightly than security at the Pentagon. And that’s so very sad, when you think about it, because as I was preparing to get fucked in the literal sense, I was also expecting to get screwed in the emotional sense. So I didn’t hurt one bit when I left his place, his space, his arms and his city. It’s not mine anymore. And maybe it never really was.

“He doesn’t believe in anything

It’s not given to him to believe

He never sleeps if he can help it

He doesn’t waste time on such things

I saw his face and I lie awake

Waiting for him to see me

I followed him home and into his bed

And that’s as close as I’ll ever be

I do not have the key to get into his heart

It’s shut away where I can’t find it

And I’ve torn this place apart.

— Red Delicious, “Want Me” —

Oh, Brat. He was all hot to trot when I was heading to Pittsburgh, as well as when I was there but not with him those first 24 hours. And then when it was over, it was over. I hated him so much when I went back to his place (at the end of my weeklong stay in the ‘Burgh), only to be rejected when I was the one making the moves. I was good enough to sit around and watch TV with, but not to fuck? I wasn’t looking for a goddamn marriage proposal — I just wanted his cock. And when I didn’t get that, I was frustrated and angry and out for blood. For a moment, anyway. Now I’m just too tired to feel much of anything.

I wasn’t mad about not getting laid again *per se,* but I was mad that he still could call the shots, despite what I wanted. What I wanted never really mattered to him. Sure, we went to the places I wanted to go, and when he was in the mood, I got what I wanted sexually. But cripes, is this what men go through when they’re dating a woman? I swore I knew what it felt like to have blue balls that night.

But that’s the shit that keeps many guys coming back to girls — when they can’t have what they want, they try try again. When they get what they want (i.e., Dawn goes running to Brat when he gets a hard-on), they don’t need us anymore. They’ve conquered us. They’ve made us want them. And they are satisfied with the concept alone.

So now, I don’t want to imply that my entanglement with Brat has ruined me and has made me callous toward other men. But it has made me feel comfortable with being unattached, as well as with wanting to be chased. Damn it, I have chased after enough men in my life to last me 10 eternities. It’s okay to desire someone who really wants to win my affections. I’m not opposed to this, by any means. In fact, the harder he works, the more I will appreciate him. All Brat ever had to do was look at me, and I would fall in love all over again. And again. And to have him kiss me and hold me and penetrate me … well, damn, I was smitten. To have him awaken from slumber and have him start trailing kisses up and down my back, well, fuck, I was addicted. I wanted more, more, more.

But like the song lyrics say, I ripped his world apart, looking for the key that would open him up to having me in his life permanently. But maybe this is where I take a good, hard look at the disaster our relationship always was, and still is, and realize that he is not the one. And he never was.

He’d made a comment on my way out, something about timing. And it stayed with me all this time — our timing sucked. And apparently it still does. And I don’t expect it to improve in this lifetime. So it’s time to move on.

So goes the epitaph on that entanglement. But I just can’t guarantee right now that, if he’d turn up on my doorstep, I’d tell him to spend the night somewhere else. Not yet, anyway, but in time. I know it.

Who else thinks Josh Gracin looks like George “Dubya” Bush?

I just received the “American Idol, Season 2: All-Time Classic American Love Songs” CD. It was released today, but thanks to the wonderful world of the pre-order, I had it in my mailbox this morning (and I’m just as surprised as anyone that Mailroom Dipshit didn’t lose it or ship it to Oklahoma, which he did with a CD my mom sent here for me — which I got six months later).

Anyway, you can just tell who has star quality and who got lucky to be involved. Granted, the CD producers obviously picked everyone’s strongest songs (like “Three Times a Lady” for Josh Gracin and “How Do I Live” for Carmen Rasmusen), but my boys Clay Aiken (“On the Wings of Love”) and Ruben Studdard (“Superstar”) brought chills to my flesh with their haunting and powerful voices. And I will always love Julia Demato’s rendition of “At Last,” and it’s a shame she couldn’t get any farther in the competition than she did. And you can just hear the potential in Kimberley Locke’s voice with “Over the Rainbow,” so you can only be happy when you look back and be glad the American public ensured that she had an opportunity to grow and flourish in the limelight.

At any rate, while the CD is definitely worth a listen, I fear it’s not worth more than five rounds in the CD player. I am in love with the show far more than I am in love with any of the songbirds’ voices. My suggestion to the producers at Fox and American Idol Music is to just tape all of Simon Cowell’s comments and release them on a CD. I’d pay twice as much and get five times the use out of that!!!

Class #2 of 6 came and went tonight uneventfully. Some of the men from last week didn’t return (Onion Breath Gary did return, though, with much fresher breath this evening, thank god!). Debonair Gary continued to express his frustration with me for fucking up all of my steps and his as well. 😉 Oh well.

I was desperately tired, as I didn’t leave the publishing house till 6, at which time I went into work and checked e-mail. My dinner consisted of a Diet Coke (no ice, like usual — can’t stand ice), two caffeine pills, and far too many cigarettes to admit to. 😉 Anyway, the caffeine and nicotine didn’t kick in till about 8:30 p.m., at which point I was twirling like a maniac. Heh.

I came to the conclusion early on that I go there solely to have some fun as well as meet some nice people. I met two Stephanies this evening, and they were cool. One Stephanie was the friend of Sweetheart Mike, with whom I enjoyed messing up the steps again tonight. I danced with him twice; at the end, we pretty much got to choose a partner, and I went to grab Dave, because we hadn’t danced together all night, but a gal took him first and Mike came over to me within a split second.

I tried to crack a joke with Mike, that I am in control at work but I can’t command my feet to move correctly for the life of me. He smiled and kept on counting. 🙂 But hey, he remembered my name, and he approached me when he arrived at the studio, so I was a happy Dawn. (What the hell is wrong with me? I feel like I’m in third grade!)

I am getting irritated with the left-turn business that we ladies have to do. There are too many steps required in order to make that happen, and I happily fuck them up almost every single time. But tonight, we learned the right turn — in one step — and I got it on the first try. w00t!

Dude, all I have to say is this: if it’s a nightclub-dancing class, why the fuck aren’t we all on Ecstasy? Who the hell dances in nightclubs without it (or at least a beer or 10)?

The instructor pretty much avoids me. That’s OK — I am easily twice her size; I feel awkward around her. Suddenly it’s like gym class again, and all the perky and petite ones are the stars of the class, while I just try to make it through another session without falling on my ass. But at least it’s amply padded, should such an occasion arise. 😉

Dave and I had a wonderful chat afterward at Dunkin Donuts, the only place that’s open, even if only for an hour, after the class ends. He’s such a special and just plain fabulous guy — and I’m glad our paths now cross at least once a week. 😉 I spent a long time when I moved down here bemoaning the fact that I was having a nearly impossible time meeting genuine, caring and dynamic people down here. Between him and Shan, I have officially been proven wrong, and I’m damn glad about that. 😉

I’ve put about a dozen posts into my Drafts folder this weekend. I wish I could publish everything that’s running through my head, but well, I know better. There’s a lot of juicy stuff, a lot of heartbreaking stuff, and a lot of snarky stuff. I have to keep reminding myself that people actually read this page, so please forgive me for not telling all — I am sure it will all come out in due time, but this ain’t the time or the place, but I’ve got to get it outta my system.

Still can’t work the damn DVD player. Bleah. Guess that means I need a new TV, but I’ll save that for when I start using my entertainment center for more than just a dust bunny collection. The entertainment center is built to house all kinds of media, but as my TV equipment is piled up on a desk in my room right now, well, the TV will just be a planned purchase for after I move (one less thing to lug, anyway!).

Anywho, I’ll be at the publishing house all day — cross your fingers for no major errors in the paper!!! Demure and Kumquat will probably LOVE to have my ass for any slight mistake. And as for you, loyal reader, try not to miss me too much! Dance class update coming late tonight or early tomorrow! (Will I ever learn how to do those fucking turns?!?!)

Ah, payday came and went while I was working my 26-hour-plus shift, so this weekend, I managed to blow a boatload of money on:

1. Rent

2. Overdue car insurance

3. Overdue student loan

4. A DVD player that I can’t fucking figure out how to hook up

5. Jewelry

6. A manicure and a full set of nails. Aaaah, hand massage …

7. Clothes I didn’t really need

8. A caddy for my six TV remotes

9. Car accessories (oh god, a black lace steering wheel cover and rearview mirror cover)

10. Hair accessories

11. Alcohol and snacks at Bennigan’s

12. A pre-order of the soon-to-be released American Idol 2 CD

13. Junior Mint-flavored lip gloss (I could have chosen either that or the Pez-flavored gloss; I’m glad I chose to be bursting with chocolate-mint flavoring!)

14. Bras ‘n’ underwear

15. Entirely too many personal care products at the dollar store

Guess who’s broke till next payday on May 7?!?!

And here I’d thought it was Maddie Castle all these years. Who knew?

Your Stripper Name is Candy Delight!

You are always the feature dancer at the best clubs.

Your customers pay big money to see you, even if it means starving six days of the week.

For you, stripping is an art form, and you are a grande artiste.

Very classy and never trashy – you won’t stoop to doing anything sleazy.

You are constantly posing in magazines and winning Miss Nude contests.

In StripperLand, you are the ultimate queen.

Other strippers may be jealous by all the attention you get, but you walk away with the most money!

What’s *Your* Stripper Name?

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