Caterwauling

I am never more vital than when I am multitasking. And I feel like I’ve been ahead of the rat race this week, or, if not ahead, then at least on track. But this moving around like a freakin’ Tasmanian Devil means I’m starting to get tired. Twenty-nine hours till party-time! I will be the snoozin’ mess curled up on one of the cat beds, for those who haven’t met me face-to-face yet. 🙂

The apartment wasn’t too atrocious to get together. It was already clean — I just needed to empty some boxes and shove extra knickknacks in the basement.

I am pissed, though, because my purple party lights on the balcony are only semi-functioning, and they worked just fine before I wound them around the damn railing. *sigh* As long as the grill works, though, I’ll be fine.

Shawn and I are going out tonight. I probably won’t have enough energy to be much fun, but it’ll be nice to be away from my abode during trick-or-treat hours. Ugh. Like those little psycho Children of the Corn really need sugary treats to make them even more obnoxious than they already are!

Just spent my lunch hours (yes, plural!) doing last-minute shopping. And I realize I need a few more items, anyway. *growl* I am allowing myself one more store trip, and that’s it, damn it!!! Here’s to hoping for lots of leftovers from the party, ’cause if I planned just right, I have exactly enough left over for rent!

1. What was your first Halloween costume?

I was an angel. Whatta joke.

2. What was your best costume and why?

I was Little Orphan Annie, replete with the requisite little red dress with a collar and black-and-white belt, just like Aileen Quinn wore in the movie. Had the cute little curly wig and everything.

Of course, Annie has freckles, as do I. I remember my mom using her eyebrow pencil to put even more freckles on me, and she started rubbing my face raw at one point, trying to erase her work. Turns out, she was trying to erase my real freckles. So I had brown and red patches on my face for an hour. 🙂

3. Did you ever play a trick on someone who didn’t give you a treat?

Yeah, but not necessarily on Halloween. Only for people who withheld sex from this horny broad, but I ain’t talkin’ about how I made them pay for their Scrooge-like behavior. Y’all would think I was psycho or somethin’. 🙂

4. Do you have any Halloween traditions? (ie: Family pumpkin carving, special dinner before trick or treating, etc.)

I have to go to the pumpkin patch every year. I’m kind of like Linus from “Peanuts” in that regard — I try to find a new field every year or so. And I miss the fields where you had to climb around the pumpkin vines and have somebody cut the pumpkin you want off the vine.

Part of the tradition is to drink alcohol among friends in celebration of our day in the patch, although, after the past two years of adventures in pumpkin ghettoes, the drinking is done more to recover from our adventures, rather than celebrate them. 😉

5. Share your favorite scary story…real or legend!

I always loved the scary story about the babysitter who keeps hearing noises in the attic. Can’t remember how it turns out, but that was popular among my friends when I was a wee lass.

My other favorite scary story is how Dubya became president. That was enough to scare the pants off of me! (Although, admittedly, it ain’t THAT unusual for my pants to hit the floor within a bat of an eye!)

Apparently it’s the former, seeing as though I just had a most excellent fantasy in my head that left the nether regions a-tingling. Woops — I can’t believe I just thought my way into orgasm, here in my office. Heh. Good thing I am alone with the door closed!

Seriously, the best fantasies are of the things you think will never happen in a million years. And being here and editing a 140-page document of reader submissions, creaming your jeans is better than taking a sledgehammer and killing the idiots who can’t even spell the names of their companies correctly (don’t think I’m jesting — I’m floored at the fact that the only thing these people can spell are the abundance of academic degrees that follow their names). Detest. Stupid. People.

I’m goin’ back to my damn fantasy. At least the mouse isn’t sticky and my wrist doesn’t hurt!

I need a bitch break.

It’s 1:13 p.m., and my boss’s secretary just ducked out for the day. My supervisor is out sick for the week, so her bland assistant goes AWOL on a moment’s notice. Good thing those of us in our department aren’t allowed to really ask her for anything or give her anything to do, because we wouldn’t get it. 😉

I just had one of our employees come in here while I was eating my lunch to ask me a professional favor. You know, I asked him for a favor two fucking weeks ago, and I have yet to see the results (it’s too late now — the paper was already printed). He wants me to take a photo of some people standing around a plaque. Of course. I am so sick of that same request — it comes at least twice a month. Luckily, we anticipated the request, and Angie graciously offered to take the stupid photo because I have neither the time nor the patience for it.

And I was so rude to the guy — who really is nice, sadly. He said that Pride Fag wanted this photo, and I interrupted to say, “Oh, let me guess — we’re going to line up people around a sign?” And he said yes. So I said, “Perfect. Y’know, ’cause that’s the type of photography our readers really want to see.”

I know, it’s nothing. It’s 10 minutes of our time. But I was also asked to be on Capitol Hill at the crack of fucking dawn on Monday morning. Not fun, but much more important. Again, it’s gonna be a photo of 200 people standing on steps, but hey, it’s a lot more interesting than four people lined up against a wall holding a fucking sign. 🙂

Why am I so friggin’ BITTER today?!?!

My office is usually Arctic or sweltering. Today it is on the latter end of the thermometer. I can’t fucking concentrate to save my life, not to mention that I wore a heavy sweater because it’s usually so damn cold here.

In good news, I don’t have to work during Halloween weekend. The CEO will take photos. You’d think he’d make Town Crier take them. Oh well.

I got a good, subtle zinger in to TC today. I’m sure she never even realizes how I manage to use her own words against her at every opportunity.

Angie and I were chatting about winning the lottery and how many people outright quit their jobs as soon as they learn of a financial windfall. I wouldn’t quit here — at least, not right away. I love my team and my job functions too much. But I would go to part-time, and I would definitely work on opening my own side business(es). And I would definitely give a royal “fuck off” to those who deserve it most, when they deserve it. None of this bottling it up or writing politically correct e-mails to convey yet disguise my frustration.

Like Santa, I would like to start making a list of people I’d like to tell to go to hell. I’d even like to write the script for what I would say. My friend Chris always wanted to write a book on fantastic exits from the workplace. Mine would probably include a Zambelli fireworks display and lip prints tattooed to my ass. In fact, I’d start my own company and hire the truly talented people with whom I’ve worked over the years — nothing would screw old employers worse than having an army of their minions go on to greater success (and more enjoyable environments) together without the employer.

I don’t mean to be so hard on the Veggie Patch today. It’s really some of the people who are frosting my flakes today, and of them, most are not in upper management. Surprisingly. 🙂 I just think of the pay scale and wonder why I work so much harder for less money than some of these losers are taking home.

So Angie and I were having a rousing discussion about masturbation as we stood outside of our offices, rifling through the new copies of the magazine. We were going on at length about battery-provided joy, and then we were chatting about how our cats try to see what we’re doing and/or join in on the action (Maddie used to jump up and swat at my vibrators till she was exiled from the room; Kadi just likes to jump up and claw at the discarded clothing).

Angie had just finished describing how her cats love to jump up on the bed and see what’s happening, and she punctuated it with, “Get off the bed, Kitty!” when Cruise Director came whipping around the corner, headed to the men’s room. He overheard and went, “Um, okay” and looked disgusted.

The funniest part is that she was standing on one leg, kicking the other one back, and doing some pelvic thrusts to really show how to kick a cat off a bed while masturbating. Fun times, I’ll tell ya.

We laughed nonstop for 10 minutes after that. 🙂 And now we’re in our respective offices, giggling to ourselves.

I went to a candle party tonight, thrown by my upstairs neighbor. Attendees included a large faction of defected Pennsylvanians, and someone started a discussion about the various ways of cooking halushki (huh? who the hell puts potatoes in it?). And then someone asked me how I make it (which I don’t — Mom does — but I am indeed a cabbage fan), and I was floored that this strange food would be a topic of discussion both online and off.

Of course, then the talk went to pierogies. Ah, to be among kindred. …

I didn’t buy anything from the candle fiesta. I have a lot of Party Lite crap already, and that shit is way expensive, especially given my current budget (and the fact that I hit the liquor store after work). But I did ask the woman doing the show (who has the personality of a fucking cardboard box) if they happened to have any cobalt glass items.

So she said, “Well, what’s your definition of cobalt?” I looked at her like she was nuts, and I pointed to my way-cool plastic cobalt shoes. I also pointed to the lone Hanukkah item in the book and told her that was the blue I wanted. So she showed me a candle dish, and I said I already have that one. She said, “Well, why don’t you just slap my hand next time I try to show you something?” I was perfectly aghast. So I got up and talked to some of my friends across the room, and I left with no purchase.

Too bad, because I was eyeballing the creme caramel candles and a gingerbread votive house for Mom. That’s OK — I kept the catalog and will order from somebody else. Dumb bitch.

Speaking of dumb bitches, Town Crier needs to die. Lazy fatass bitch. Honest to christ, what is her purpose on this earth, let alone in the workplace?

Had a tense manager’s meeting today. I had plans on running into Arlington for my lunch hour on an errand, but then the reminder popped up in my calendar, so I had to find other ways of accomplishing the errand (god love the phone). The meeting revolved around budget issues, furlough days, raises, outstanding bills and morale. All in all, it was painful.

I left work right after it. And when I went to the liquor store and slapped down $80 in purchases, the guy behind the counter said, “Party?” I said, “No. Dinner.”

LOL. He’s still scratching his head over it. And boy am I tempted to crack something open and enjoy. But I’ve got work to do (after losing two hours of my life in Candle Hell), so I’ll pass. For the time being, anyway. 😉

Insomnia is plaguing me again. Too many worries. The smaller paycheck (thanks to furlough days) bit me in the ass pretty hard. I was planning to buy dining room chairs (because I threw out the old set in the last move) so that my guests on Saturday don’t have to sit on the floor. But oh well. I’ll have them for the New Year’s party. We hope anyway.

Leslie called from Ireland to let me know that she’ll be here for the New Year’s soiree. Hurrah! It’s been way too long since we’ve hung out. I have got to get my ass to Ireland one of these months — and hopefully sooner rather than later!

I cooked last night. Yes, moi, the non-domestic goddess. My neighbor Sue sent over a meatloaf via her husband Bob, and of course I was all bedhead and Halloween jammies when he arrived, so I kind of bumbled through a thank-you. I haven’t had meatloaf in oh, years, because it’s not something I would typically make, were I interested in something that didn’t come from Popeye’s or the freezer section at Safeway. 🙂 So I asked Shawn to come on over, and I made sides and had wine and whatnot. We watched “The Omen,” although I missed most of it while cooking and chatting on the phone with Shan, who’s crazy enough to return from maternity leave to the veggie goodness of Club Medicated next Friday.

Hell, I even whipped together a raspberry mousse, which was great except for the sweetness. I got to use my new blue silverware as well as my blue-and-green-glass margarita glasses, in which to serve dessert. I’m proud of myself.

Shawn and I were laughing about how, in our adulthood, we avoid foods like meatloaf and spaghetti, just because we were poor as children and ate those foods altogether too often. I also have a distaste for “shit on the shingles,” too, for the same reason. But I will admit to missing my mom’s halushki, of all things. Another poor-folks’ food. 🙂

At any rate, after this soiree on Saturday, you can bet your ass that I won’t cook again till New Year’s. 🙂 This domestic stuff is for the birds!

One of these days, in between cleaning, I need to figure out how to use my grill. If you’re into prayer or stuff like that, say a hail mary or two for me, will ya? I’ll probably singe my eyebrows off when I attach the fuel to the unit!

My room is mainly in order. I finally got all my Garfield collectibles displayed. Kadi promptly got up on the dresser and tried to play with the figurines. This is in addition to eating the word magnets off the fridge (she’s a little porker for saying she’s only 4 months old — if I don’t feed her as often as she wants, she eats my possessions). That earned her a good hour in her cage.

Well, off to watch late-night “Sex and the City” reruns on digital HBO. Later taters. 🙂

Alternate title: In which Dawn is inspired to share long-forgotten poetry and not-so-forgotten ambition

I just ventured onto a website that was spectacularly done. Fucking brilliant. No, I’m not providing the link (yet), but I was transfixed by the complexity and the beauty of the presentation. It’s rare that I find something that’s truly edgy and classic all at the same time.

Makes me wonder about the incredible things I’m capable of doing but have never done. Instead, I toil away in 9-to-5 jobs where I am chastised for my unconventionality and insights but rewarded for being submissive and for not breaking too many rules.

I realized a few days ago that I haven’t written a poem in years. And I just pinpointed why — I applied for a graduate master’s program in poetry, and I was rejected. I had sent 30 full pages of poems for review, and even though I know the program was fiercely competitive, it kind of rocked the passion out of my soul for writing in verse. Sure, I wrote some abysmally dark stories, but every last one of them held a piece of me, so it wasn’t necessarily that I was concerned that no one liked the poetry (hell, even I don’t like a lot of it — it’s just what flowed that day). It was that I didn’t earn the chance to grow with supposed experts, who could have guided me closer to a dream I once possessed.

Reminds me of the times my diaries were discovered by various roommates — I would sooner skywrite than put my thoughts in blue ink for weeks and even months afterward. I wonder where all of those words and dreams went … did they float into a parallel universe, or are they still within me somewhere?

And will they ever flow from within me again?

I also realized recently that I am a waste of an IQ. No numbers, please, but suffice it to say that I spent my education and much of my working life just learning what to do to please people. I can memorize entire encyclopedia sets (and I have) and regurgitate them on exams. I can learn within hours how an organization operates and use that information to my advantage.

On the downside, I typically use my powers for evil. I tend to grasp concepts much more quickly than most of my peers, so when they are struggling to catch up with me, I’m letting my imagination (and sometimes my actions) wander free, oftentimes saying and doing things that equal throwing an M-80 in a kiddie pool. And, luckily, I am enough of a quick talker to avoid either being caught or being too severely reprimanded for causing an explosion of reactive thoughts.

I guess I feel like I do about 20 times the amount of processing that a normal brain can handle. Sometimes, I look around my workplace, my apartment complex, any given retail or service establishment, and I wonder if there are many other people like me out there who are just whiling away their time. It’s not even that most of us are waiting for something wonderful to happen to change our lives, but rather, we’re just fading into an already homogenized world. The oddballs stand out — those of us who have had our hands smacked and our mouths duct-taped for questioning the establishment have a lot of Pavlovian issues to overcome. We learn to proceed with caution. Unfortunately, that leads many of us to stop advancing entirely — we learn how to function within lowered expectations.

I’ll say it loud and clear — I have an anxiety disorder. I never used to — I never used to be afraid of anything. And, on some level, I’m still pretty fearless … but it’s usually when the mood strikes. I’m noticing, of late, that I hold my breath and tense my body. My knuckles are usually white from the death grip I have on the steering wheel. My eyes twitch and water. My head feels like it’s going to implode most of the time.

I can attribute my the onset of my nervous condition to June 30, 2001 — the last day I did something truly defiant. It was the day I realized that I’d gotten caught — that I wasn’t such a blessed faerie child after all. I hurt for a long time afterward, and even now, the ripple effects of that day still bite me in the ass at the most random moments. And, as I understand it, I’ll never live it down. Ever.

Before I go off on one of my usual tangents, suffice it to say that a lot of dreams have died one by one during the past decade … and this is supposed to be the best decade of my life! And on a variety of levels, life is grand. But on the other hand, I have this ridiculous yearning inside of me — so many unrequited passions. I love to create — I love to weave words and thoughts and images together. I always meant to pick up a paintbrush and meld poetry with imagery. I used to be brilliant at calligraphy — these days, I never even pick up an ink pen, in favor of typing instead — I barely even remember that art form now.

The fine arts have a strong undercurrent in my family. My grandfather was a songwriter and guitarist and vocalist. He also wrote a poem for a friend of mine who was in despair. My grandmother made the most amazing porcelain sculptures, and her handwriting/calligraphy was superb. Mom is an artistic genius — she gets an idea in her head, buys the supplies and goes to town (someday, I’ll have to tell you about her Pop-Up Pussy cards). She never makes a sketch — she just lets her intuition guide her. Fucking brilliant family. (This is my mom’s side — I’m pretty sure, judging from the two times I met the Sperm Donor, the rest of his family is as much of a bumbling twit as he.)

Me — all I ever needed was a pen and paper. I painted my armoire last year in black and silver and stars — it was the most creative thing I’ve done since tie my straw wrappers into bows at every restaurant I enter (and even that was something I noticed my mom doing absentmindedly). But there are so many colors and shapes and lightning bolts flashing through my head (and this is without drugs. LOL). I feel like right now, everything is just scattered about, waiting for me to go in and clean some house.

Perhaps it is the chaos in my existence that is reflecting the perfect pandemonium in my head.

I just want to take a machete and smash everything around me — not just the possessions, but the edicts and mandates and everything else that contributes to the status quo — and sort it all out and put it back together in a way that is aesthetically pleasing for me. And, of course, I reserve the right to throw everything off the island that causes me any sort of rise in blood pressure.

At any rate, I will leave you with two poems, and you be the judge whether I need to find the inspiration to start writing again or if I should pack it in and pursue other avenues of expression:

Color You Mine

Chaotic canvases of purples, sables and blues

Senseless and irrelevant without the theme of you.

Decades trapped in grainy images and empty rooms

As I longed for pink shades of love and lilacs in bloom.

— “Color You Mine” (c) 2000 and “Transience” (c) 1999 by Samantha Ashley. All rights reserved. I will personally kick your ass for reproducing these works without permission and/or attribution. —

On Nov. 4, Caterwauling hacienda favorites Sarah Maclachlan and Bon Jovi are releasing new CDs.

All I’d need is for Melissa Etheridge to come out with a new album, too, and my head would explode in joy. 🙂