Caterwauling

When asked my sexual orientation, I usually say, “Yes, please!” But after a trip to the ladies’ room here at the Veggie Patch today made me shudder at the thought of all the stanky pussies in this building. Good lord, do these people wash themselves? *twitch* These women leave a trail of stench behind them — I can’t imagine anyone wanting to venture into that territory. *gag*

*updated*

Well, H.R. swears she contacted Sports Guy on Tuesday about the job offer. He left her a VM at 8 p.m. Tuesday night. She called him again Wednesday morning. Here it is, Thursday morning, and I still don’t know if he is accepting the job or not.

The cynical side of me wonders if H.R. isn’t sneaky enough to claim to be calling the guy but isn’t bothering. I mean, sheesh, the one time I sent him an e-mail, I received a response within 10 minutes. And of course, Witchy Woman has already called H.R. to find out where we are in the process (just like she called to bug me after her first interview — career coaches need to quit telling people to do that, because people like me don’t view it as being efficient and interested — we take it as call number 56 of 100 to answer in a day).

In a strange way, I like her. I felt like she was “the one” from the beginning. But my feeling is that she’s too good for the job — that she’ll spend one week in that loony bin and run screaming.

When I told H.R. that I chose Sports Guy as the lucky winner of the position, she was crushed. She said she hates to let the better candidate go. But really, ARE we letting the better candidate go? I chose Sports Guy based on his potential to grow into his, and eventually my, job. I feel like Witchy Woman would take to her job immediately … and then want mine six months later. But I could be wrong. In fact, I think, given her work experience to date, she’s dealt with enough corporate idiocy to know how to hang in a wacky environment.

We’ll see, friends. We’ll see.

I’m feeling like I made the wrong decision with Sports Guy. I really do. But my decision is based on who can roll with the punches … who will just grin and bear it … ’cause that’s about 50 percent of the job on any given day.

UPDATE

We think Sports Guy must be waiting for an offer from someone else. H.R. did make the offer to him, but he wanted till noon tomorrow to think about it. H.R. won’t be in the office, so he’ll call me with an answer either way. We don’t have enough of a grasp on his personal integrity to know whether he will accept this position but then bow out if someone comes in with a better offer. I’d just like to know if they’re interviewing elsewhere, ya know? Makes ’em much more appealing, to know that somebody else might get them first. 🙂

Dave challenges us to identify our blues names. And we all volunteered our porn names.

As for moi — call me Horny Banana Clinton or Maddie Castle. I’ll answer to either. 😉

Editor’s note:I missed the original airing on Sunday because of my beloved Bon Jovi concert. So tonight, we watch the re-airing!!!

Harry proposed to Charlotte at a Jewish singles event. *swoon* She had gone on a bunch of blind dates, arranged by a handful of the mothers at her synagogue. They just couldn’t figure out why their sons weren’t married or dating lovely (although albeit newly) Jewish girls like her. They were duds, they were gay or they were too hot for words …. but they just weren’t her Harry. And now she has him back. For good.

The question of the night: do we need distance to be close? Burger and Carrie continued their combative conversations, and he decided to escape alone to his house in the Hamptons for a week. Carrie decided during that time that she really loved him, and apparently he decided the same, as he arrived on her doorstep a week later with a bouquet of pink carnations with the same “L” word on his tongue. But alas, she awoke to a Post-It Note and not to Burger, and he broke it off on that yellow sticky note. Kind of appropriate for the guy who starred in “Office Space.” *snerk*

Some discussion evolved early in the show about how a guy should never give a gal carnations. I agree, to some point. I’m not a flower fiend, but I do love the exotic ones. Shows the guy put real thought into it. But I have received carnations in the past, and it kind of made me happy that I occurred to the guy while he was strolling past a stand or happened to see a nice bunch while he was grocery shopping (what I wouldn’t give to be on someone’s mind for something other than a revenge scheme. …). But Carrie and Charlotte had told Burger that men who bring carnations or who wear Dockers are just bad news. But then Carrie qualified it that she likes pink ones — hence the final bouquet, which she ended up smashing after reading his eloquently cowardly note. SATC has never ended a show quite so dramatically … usually, there is a promise that life will be good again. She couldn’t offer that — not this week, anyway. It felt real, though, because so many of us are still searching for happy endings that just keep eluding us.

Smith Jerrod posed nude in an “Absolut Hunk” ad, which made him uncomfortable to see himself on a Times Square billboard and as the pinup boy in a bus shelter, whereby the phrase “Absolut Asshole” was graffitied onto his washboard abs. But a moment later, he was accosted by a gaggle of private-school girlies who wanted his autograph, and he was happy with his newfound throng of admirers.

Miranda cut back her workweeks to 55 hours (!), so as to spend more time with the darling redheaded Brady. (No Steve nor Dipshit Girlfriend surfaced in this episode — cheers!) Her colleagues chastised her for coming into work late a few times and, god forbid, leaving on time on Monday, and her response was that she is doing damn well at work — but it’s at home where she’s a screw-up. So, while leaving Brady in the care of her beloved nanny Magda, Miranda made Brady a crib mobile with her photos smiling down upon him as he lay in his cozy little nest.

Samantha was just as gorgeous and witty as ever. Her role was small this week, but she did advise Carrie that wearing a frowny face is an indicator of a relationship on its way straight to hell. She noted that if you’re not wearing the dreamy face, then there is a breakup in your future. (Can I say that Samantha is the big sister I always wanted? She could have saved me thousands of hours of stress over souring relationships!)

Scott pointed me toward an article in today’s New York Times about a new love interest for Carrie. I’m wondering how that’s going to play out, especially with the article hinting that Mr. Big and Carrie will NOT end up together (unlike in the original “Sex and the City” book, but I digress). But then again, one never knows. Tonight’s surprise ending kicked me in the ass, so I am certain that the series finale will be no less shocking.

I don’t know what I am going to do when this series ends. I mean, sheesh, the fabulous foursome are having the conversations my friends and I have been having for years. They do date more men (and women — *winks at Samantha*) than most of my friends and I combined, but it’s so reassuring that the same thoughts that are running through our heads are the basis for the characters’ life situations. It shows that even the “beautiful people” have problems, too … and it shows that together with your close friends, you can, in fact, survive anything. *sigh* But I will sure miss my four on-screen girlfriends when the series ends early next year.

There are just so many dumb bitches at my workplace that I simply can’t give out one award and stop there.

Today’s honoree is Town Crier, whom you may remember as being a major thorn in my ass. In regard to something that didn’t appear in the newspaper (which I had asked her pointedly to help me obtain), she sent the following e-mail to Cruise Director and Demure:

“It has been pointed out to me that the (New England-based branch), and its rep, (Dumb Bitch on Ice), don’t appear in the (Veggie Patch Gazette’s) piece on region goals.”

My response:

“I received (Dumb Bitch on Ice’s) photo, which she handed to (Town Crier) at the (Idiots Savante) meeting, which was two weeks after the established deadline date of June 30), but I never received the goals. I sent a follow-up e-mail to (DB on I) and asked (Town Crier) to assist me in contacting her. The goals never arrived — I had an open space for them until two days before we went to press.

Moving forward, I would be glad, if she does send goals, to include them in the September issue.”

Cruise Director’s response to my e-mail:

“Sounds good to me. (Town Crier) — please let whoever brought this up know what transpired so we don’t get dumped on.”

Heh heh. Town Crier got the smackdown. Fucking cunt.

Head hurts from too much thinking. Insomnia, much? Sheesh.

Rejected title: All over the fucking board. And then some.

To blog, therefore I am. Or some shit like that.

For some reason, I don’t feel like the blog is serving its purpose lately. I mean, I am just not having fun writing in it. I am trying to faithfully keep up with my life, but it seems that I’ve been altogether too conscious that I have an audience. And while I think I’ve always written in my private journals with the thought in my mind that they would someday be published, I guess I still regarded the bound books as sacred space, while this space seems to be anything but.

I think I’ve been as honest as I can possibly be here, but it’s the offline conversations that hold so much truth and insight about me. It’s civility that keeps me censoring myself, to some degree. Just like you don’t punch someone who pisses you off, you just don’t go apeshit in a public forum (as we’ve all been known to do, from time to time, with varying degrees of regret). And I’m even shying away from writing solely in “Drafts” mode, as an errant post somehow went live for about two minutes until the exclamation point lit up above my head and I went into deletion hell. And it’s not that I wouldn’t stand behind that post — it just really contained explosive content that should probably have never been captured in writing.

And I’ve been rather direct and even confrontational at work lately, which seems to make me want to avoid conflict in my personal life … even to the point of me not saying things that need to be said. And I can harbor resentment and/or disappointment like none other. But I am just not asking the questions that I need to ask. I’m not sure if it’s that I don’t care or if I’m just too tired to. I think I’m leaning toward the “I can’t take one more fucking detail” schtick. My heart has really gone through some strange situations during the past six months, and frankly, I’m lucky that it’s still beating.

God, I’m tired. Emotionally just as much as physically.

In other news. …

How do you tell a friend to NOT care so much about everything?

I am really worrying about Shan. She spent last night in the emergency room. Again. Apparently, she’s acquired a really bad cough that caused her to crack a rib from its ferocity (and her doctors can’t do anything about it till she has the baby). And she’s still itching like a maniac. Ten doctor’s appointments, and they have given her every prescription under the sun. Right now, the Vicodin is miraculously halting the cough and keeping the itchies at bay, but it’s certainly no cure, and it’s only temporary.

She didn’t go into work today, but we talked for two hours in the evening. I really, truly feel that if she didn’t have to work for Cruise Director and Club Medicated in general, she’d be in great health and spirits. Her doctor is recommending that she cut back to a 30-hour workweek, and she’s against it (because she does the work of four people), but I really tried to talk her into it. She’s now considering taking off every Wednesday, and believe me, I will be making sure that she goes home (relatively) on time and doesn’t come in during weekends. The battle lines at work were drawn long before we got there, and war will be waged, whether we are there to clean up the mess and dress the wounds or not. She will be a wonderful mother, just for the mere fact that she has to wipe asses all day, every day, at work. A kid should be so much less work!

I keep trying to get her to do baby registries. I might end up just doing it myself, just to get her started. People at work are really getting antsy — they adore her and are begging me to tell them what to buy for her — which says loads about her character, that people truly want to help her out in any way that they can, for all the help she gives them. We have fewer than two months till Alex makes her premiere, and I am so worried that Shan will be confined to bedrest and we won’t be able to do a little surprise shower for her (don’t worry — she doesn’t read the blog — she’ll never know what I’m up to!).

But the shower is trifle — I am so concerned that she doesn’t know how to take it easy. She runs around like a maniac, her boss is a great guy but a real shit to work for, she’s got to convert her home office/storage room into a nursery, and she’s got to find the money to make it all happen. There’s just no time for her to be sick and tired and to pamper herself. And lord knows I don’t have the money to really help her, nor would she ever take it. So I try to do little things, like just being there. And that seems to help the most, but I just don’t know how to convince her to let the work shit slide, because her health is just so much more important than any bullshit assignment her boss barks at her to do at 6 p.m.

She’s actually planning to attend my moving soiree next Wednesday (although it’s not a party). I asked her to sit home and enjoy the day off, but she wants to be there for me. Can you imagine? I may have to break her fingers if she tries to lift something.

Good, home-grown values come in handy. Sometimes.

Speaking of breaking fingers, she threatened more physical harm on me if I buy her another baby gift. (Let’s not poke into my work closet, where I have a nice stash of baby goods.) I told her look, it’s not like she would ever accept it if I wanted to give her money for all the wonderful things she’s done for me, but she sure as hell can’t say no to cute little things for her child, right? She knows that the only thing I want in return is a photo of the munchkin in any pretty duds I might happen to find for her. Of course, I’ll probably be the one taking the photos, but still. 🙂 I love it that she doesn’t expect or want anything. Those are the people I love to take care of — the ones who would never expect it. She is going through a tough separation with a former best friend who refuses to congratulate her on her wedding because Shan didn’t send her kid a birthday gift. Not like Shan didn’t pay for the child’s entire pile of Xmas gifts, to help out her friend, who was down on her luck. This former friend reminds me of so many people my mom and I have known throughout our lives — the ones who get pissed when you don’t pamper their kids (as if it’s your job).

I remember people going nuts on my mom/grandmother for not sending a card with money or something, at which point they would ask, “And what did you do for Dawn’s birthday?” Which was, of course, nothing. But then again, I remember them always commemmorating other kids’ birthdays. That was just my family — poor as church mice but too proud to admit it. And the card would always arrive on time, no matter what they had to give up to put something in it. This has stuck with me throughout the years — how shitty it is to feel obligated to celebrate some brat’s birthday, but how tradition always dictated to be good to your family. Fuck that crap — my friends and I are good to each other. The family I acknowledge is limited to a select few. And even my one cousin — I went all out and really went nuts over her wedding gifts, and do you think the cunt ever sent me a fucking thank-you card, let alone called me after the wedding, which happened four years ago?!?!

Same thing with graduations. I was the first member of my immediate family to graduate from college, not to mention that I was one of the oldest ones of my generation (as mom was a mere sweet 16 when I came into the world). But when all the younger cousins started graduating from high school, my family got hit up for donations to their college funds. My grandmother lovingly reminded the evil assclowns in my grandfather’s family that I had acquired a bachelor’s degree on my own, with no help from any of them. And to this day, the extended family wonders why I just never saw a reason to have anything to do with them — something about my own requirement to care about people who never knew that I was in college — I saw them at a funeral, and they asked what grade I was in. I was completing my junior year at Point Park College at the time.

On the other hand, I did (do) have one cousin, Carole, who was always more than generous. I was always reluctant to take any kind of help, because I never knew when I’d be in a position to pay her back. But she was a proponent of “pay it forward” long before it ever became a Kevin Spacey movie (with a nice guest appearance from Jon Bon Jovi. Yum.) — she told me specifically to be kind to someone who needs it, when I am in a position to give it. I will never forget her for that … for being the only member of the extended family who ever made any kind of sense, and it just happened to be good sense. 🙂

Shan and I were discussing tonight how our families truly brought us up right. We didn’t have money, but we had a great deal of values instilled in us. We never expected anything from anybody (and when we did, whoo-boy, were we disappointed when nobody ever came through). We were taught to be classy and gracious and well-mannered. But at times, it was to our detriment, when we started expecting reciprocal treatment from everyone else in the world. Boy, that was dumb — and sadly so. But why is it so wrong to expect a little bit of consideration in this world? Why is it so much to ask that people say what they mean and mean what they say?

Don’t get me wrong — the circle of friends keeps narrowing in both of our worlds. Nothin’ wrong with having contacts everywhere, don’t get me wrong. But recently, I sent out my address update to my friends, and the list was shorter than ever. When I moved last year, I sent my update to no fewer than 60 people. Maybe more. This year, 36. And of that 36, I expect maybe eight of those people to actually use that address for something more than a holiday card.

Random thought of the evening

Is that what happens to friendships and relationships, as we get older? Do they resort to “holiday card” lists? It kills me that I can’t keep up enough with certain people, whether they live down the street or overseas. And it breaks my heart when there are certain folks who can’t/won’t make the time for me (again, whether they live down the street or a state or two away). Maybe it’s a vicious cycle — for every person you cut out of your life, someone you want to be in your life walks away (or runs, depending on the situation). I watch Shan with her strange friend on the West Coast, and I wonder if friendships don’t just run their course, just like relationships. Rarely do I “get rid” of people, but I’ve learned not to cry a river if things just happen to come apart over time.

Shan and I are strong proponents of the “bank account” theory of friendship — you need to make deposits before you can make withdrawals. And if both parties aren’t depositing equally, then it simply isn’t a joint account. Friendship is hard work, but at times like this, we all need for it to be easy. And right now, it really is. The account is full to overflowing. And now that things are just plain old tough all around, it’s good to keep going back for withdrawals and finding that the account isn’t going to run dry anytime soon.

Just got a lovely e-mail from Paul about my move on Wednesday. Seriously, he and Bryan just stepped off the plane from their California adventure, and they wanted to let me know that they took the day off and that they don’t want me to worry about a thing. 🙂 I swear, I have some of the best friends in this world.

There’s this ghetto chick who works as a telemarketer here who sent this loving e-mail last hour:

Stolen Soda:

“Whoever took the Pepsi out of the vending machine not more than five minutes ago please return it to me or reimburse my 50 cents.”

First of all, we don’t have Pepsi in the machine. Secondly, how fucking dumb do you have to be to put the money in the machine, hit the button and walk away? She’s acting like she left a wad of cash in there. Idiot. The can was probably lodged under her fat, lazy ass. And for the record, if you saw a nice cold can of carbonated, syrupy sweetness, wouldn’t YOU take it? Especially if it were sitting right there, with no one claiming it? My buddy down the hall suggested that we take up a collection for her and go buy her a case of Pepsi, to avoid further annoying all-staff e-mails.

Ah, but wait, there’s more:

Soda Recovered:

“The Pepsi has been recovered…”

What’s up with the points of ellipsis? Is there to be a third e-mail either telling us who “stole” it or apologizing for wasting our time? I’m just breathlessly anticipating the resolution to this nonsense. 😉

“Tuesday just might go my way

It can’t get worse than yesterday

Thursdays, Fridays ain’t been kind

But somehow I’ll survive

Hey man I’m alive I’m takin’ each day and night at a time

Yeah I’m down, but I know I’ll get by

Hey hey hey hey, man gotta live my life

Like I ain’t got nothin’ but this roll of the dice

I’m feelin’ like a Monday, but someday I’ll be Saturday night.”

— Bon Jovi, “Someday I’ll Be Saturday Night” —

You know I’m grooving to Bon Jovi’s “One Wild Night” live album right now. *smiles*

I decided to hire Sports Guy. I don’t think H.R. is very happy with me right now, but she’ll get over it. She hates seeing the better candidate get away, but she agrees that Sports Guy is a better fit, overall, with the department and the association. (Some folks have advised me to hire the worst possible person and then quit right away and leave them with a mess. Heh. But even I am not THAT cruel!)

H.R. is going to make him an offer today, and she advised me to think about giving him a performance bonus next year, if he does well. Did I get a performance bonus, even though I’ve been a lone staffer for seven months? Fuck no. But I am definitely a better leader than Demure is, and I will reward my staff accordingly, if it is so deserved. But why was I not entitled to any kind of benefits, especially when I (not to toot my own horn) busted my ass to ensure that the newspaper production was seamless and uninterrupted?

At any rate, my August issue is off the presses and is lookin’ good. The bad news is that our cover wraps are fucked up. When a person’s subscription is about to expire, they get a nice special cover that tells them that this is their last issue if they don’t renew. Well, first of all, the dum-dum heads who coordinated this process failed to spell the word “research” properly (they spelled it with two a’s — reasearch), which is in 32-point type). And secondly, they made the damn wraps the wrong size, and the print shop called me to say thanks for jamming our bindery machines — they have to work at half-speed because we didn’t leave a backlap. I told them to not even put the fouled-up cover wraps on (Per Demure, who officially made her first on-the-spot decision today!). The bad news is that we are going to have to re-print 40,000 wraps — the good news is that I had nothing to do with the process and therefore cannot be blamed for any of it!

Just wanted to thank everybody who hits (and continues to hit) this site. My stats shot through the roof this month (in the 40,000 range and counting), and I don’t even deserve it — I haven’t been so good lately about visiting all my favorite blogfriends. But once I get through the madness of the next coupla weeks, I will be back up-to-date on everybody’s lives. And thanks to the folks who keep sending hits to my buddies via this page — it helps to hide what a slacker I’ve been! 😉