Caterwauling

Oh, why do I bother?

I’m answering in terms of pubic hair only:

1. Is your hair naturally curly, wavy, or straight?

When I let it grow, it has sort of a wave. But I trim the hedges quite frequently, so it stays straight and tidy.

2. How has your hair changed over your lifetime?

I used to tweeze it, but that took too much work, so I decided that the military buzz-cut worked much more efficiently for me.

3. How do your normally wear your hair?

Like Hitler’s mustache. And usually as a hat for someone’s head, when I’m lucky.

4. If you could change your hair this minute, what would it look like?

I think a weave and some cornrows would be hysterical. And make it blonde.

5. Ever had a hair disaster? What happened?

I have an allergy to Nair. ‘Nuff said.

With a new Aberzombie Classic Tee!

Rejected headline: Club Dead, bad memories go hand-in-hand

Today at Club Med/Club Dead/Veggie Patch (take your pick — they’re interchangeable!), we are having a retirement party for a 42-year veteran of the hellhole. I will miss him. We don’t talk much, but he’s a sweet fellow who always has a smile for you.

Other than the fact that I am appalled that half the association decorated the conference room yesterday in black (sweet jesus — black is for death or “over the hill”! Retirement parties should be in primary colors, you morons! < / party planning expertise >), I am dreading the fact that I am expected to attend such events and take photos. And I hate that.

Let me tell you why.

I started working at Easter Seals on my 24th birthday (it’s a theme, really, because I started my next job on my birthday, too, but I digress). We were hosting a graduation party for the kids in our school program. I was handed a beautiful Nikon and told to cover it for our newsletter, which I was in charge of. I was already somewhat nervous about acting like an idiot in front of the kids (as I had not really interacted with children with disabilities before that), but the kids were the highlight.

What was not the highlight was this derelict clown they hired (I have photos of the whole ordeal). He was in an orange-and-yellow clown suit, but with no hat, no wig, no makeup (and no brain, but again, I digress). He had a mullet and needed a shave.

He was frustrated with the kids, who understandably couldn’t pay attention well or even get his stupid jokes. So he started frothing over all of us young ladies, as the schoolteachers were all about my age. He decided to play a game, and long story short, I ended up blindfolded and having a whipped cream pie thrown at me.

Luckily, I saw enough movement to know that I was in for something, so I ducked, but I ended up with cream all over the side of my head and part of my suit. And as it was my birthday, I was planning to meet friends at the Funny Bone after work, so I had hoped to not have to take the bus all the way home to change. But I did.

After the incident (which my colleague Sheela caught on tape — she was so stunned, she didn’t know what to do but keep snapping photos). I stalked out and took my lunch hour right then and there. I went to CVS and sprayed myself with body splashes, as it was 90 degrees and I was smelling like a wet cow, thanks to the dairy delight in a foil pan.

I had to stay the whole workday, with my Eau de Spoiled Milk scent. Everyone at work was surprised when I came back. So was I. But I left at 5, cleaned up at home and met my friends and family late. My employer eventually stopped payment on the clown’s check and contacted the magazine they had found his advertisement in, Pittsburgh Parent, to announce that he was a flake. The magazine pulled his ad immediately. So I did get justice, although I still have a hard time laughing about the situation. 😉

So, long story short (as if it were possible) is that I have a physical, negative reaction to any event in which I am required to be staff photographer. Last event we had (our president’s going-away party), Shan suggested I grab my camera, and I said “NO” with such vehemence that she almost fell over. I realized, after a few minutes, that I associate taking photos with that horrible event in 1998. And sorry Tiff, but I hate clowns because of it (except you, of course! lol).

Diet forecast: dismal.

I’ve stuck to my Atkins wonderland pretty faithfully (aside from some rum drinks on Tuesday night, and I’m sure I’ll indulge again at Scott’s party tomorrow night), but the scale seems to be pointing in the wrong direction. And I’ve had no luck with the color change on my Ketostix, but I realize that they expired (!) and that it could just be a false reading. That, and PMS is abounding, so whatever water I’m drinking, I’m retaining. Gaah!

So, I guess it would be fair to say, I’m no loser! 😉 Although I am certain that the smoking and caffeine are the culprits, so I’ve resorted to drinking decaf and broke down and had a Diet Cherry Coke this evening. But in other news, I am damn proud of myself for not having had sweets once during the past two weeks. So, I’m going to stop looking at the numbers and concentrate on enjoying the salads I’ve been forcing myself to eat!

… Garfield!

(Something about those younger men. …)

My boy turned 25 today!

(Story link via Shawn)

Sweet ever-loving cripes.

Left work a few minutes ago. Thought I’d go to the grocery store, but oh hell no. It was pouring like a motherfucker. I got to Duke Street and was absolutely blinded. Never mind the fact that poor Samantha was bravely trying to keep from hydroplaning. I decided to turn around and come home when, after plowing through three inches of rain on the highway, I almost hit a cop. I thought he was pulled completely off the highway and that I was fine in my left lane, but about 5 feet before I would have hit him, I realized what I was about to do, so I pulled over three lanes and made a big fat turnaround.

Little featherweight sports cars do NOT survive well in tohurriquakes.

Rejected headline: ‘Green Eggs and Spam’

Not surprisingly, 70 percent of all e-mail, by 2007, will be spam, according to the ePrivacy Group. That is, if we don’t make any changes from the way things are today.

After tabulating that I receive more than 1,900 spams a week, including crap from assholes who spoof my domain, I think the Internet mascot should be Uncle Spam.

You’ve been warned.

Sue Johanson’s Oral Sex Tips.

Tiff and I watch Sue on the Oxygen Network. Nothing like somebody’s great-grandma telling you how to give head!

(Link via Milk and Cookies.)

UPDATE

Props to Erica for sharing her “Sunday Night Sex Show Drinking Game”! I think we need a chatroom for this! 😉

Club Medicated’s incoming president wrote his first of 12 columns for me. He’s very proud of it. It’s titled, “Meet (Pride Fag).” Now, my readers know that I inserted the Pride Fag bit, but if I actually used that term instead of his name in the newspaper, nobody would be surprised.

Other than misused adverbs, made-up words and a flair for redundancy and “you’re telling me this because. …?”-inspired moments, I suppose it’s not the worst writing I’ve read. I’ll even look past his inserted Internet-speak (do you know how much I hate that kind of shorthand? Use English, asshat!). I’ll even look past his, “Do you care about me yet?” sentences that punctuate the end of every sentence … he’s looking for readers to fall in love with him based on his tales of woe.

And woe is me. Writing sample below — identifiying info changed to protect the insane:

“I was born a poor, gay, (Injun) boy in rural (southern state). This has possibilities for a book or maybe even a movie, eh? I wear each of those descriptors like a badge of courage. I am proud of who I am … I figure it is better than hating yourself.”

< Editorial commentary > This man is no more “Injun” than I am male. But he’s got the gay part right — as if anyone could have MISSED that! Yet he insists on pointing it out to EVERYONE who will listen. < / editorial commentary >

Pardon my French, but this is gonna go over like a fart in church with my readers.

And I’m not altogether that impressed myself.

Besides, don’t all great tragedies begin with, “I was born a poor (insert race) (insert gender)”? A quick Google search of “I was a poor” turns up 4,680 results. At least.

I sent a priority note to Cruise Director, asking if he really, truly read this piece before he channeled it to me. I started the e-mail with, “Great — 11 more months of this.”

And isn’t THAT the sad part, when you think about it? I can (read, have) to deal with incoherent writers (except for Scott, who is going to be my savior), but incoherent leadership is just another matter I cannot handle.

Oh, and Pride Fag punctuated his e-mail to Cruise Director with, “Oh, isn’t Dawn writing a story about me?”

Traditionally, we do stories on the incoming and outgoing officers, but I’m lucky I remembered to put on my scandalous underwear this morning. (That reminds me — I need to do laundry, ’cause I only have sleazy underwear left in my dresser, and not many, at that rate.) Ahem. Anyway, no, Dawn did not do the stories because Dawn has eight million other details to work on. Like making your column sound coherent.

Where is that Exacto knife that I can impale myself on? Oh, there it is. …

I have to thank Shan for trying to block Demure from meeting with me today. Demure needed to see Cruise Director, so Shan gave her the time slot when Demure usually drags me kicking and screaming into her chambers. And Demure didn’t want that time slot, because of her meeting with me. Shan even went so far as to say that it was Cruise Director’s only open time slot, and besides, it’s crunch time for me, so she was certain I would appreciate having that extra time to work on the paper.

No such luck. Demure stalked down to my office with her datebook and explained the situation. She asked when I would want to meet. I said, look, you know how I feel about meetings during production weeks, so I would be fine if we canceled entirely. She pursed her lips and told me that was unacceptable. So now we’re meeting half an hour later than normal.

I can’t take this anymore. I really can’t. Meet about what? We had a McManagers meeting yesterday. Demure and I already met on Monday. And our meetings are never less than an hour. I am so ready to cry, it isn’t even funny. I literally have nothing on my agenda this week, other than to work. She’s going to want a progress update. Here’s your update: “NOTHING!” And why does it have to take an hour out of my life to convey that?