Caterwauling

Jesus H.

Do yourself a favor and skip Butlers Orchard. Unless you live in Maryland and you’re not the type to say, “I can’t have sex with her — she’s my sister!” (Man, there were some butt-ugly people there. Sheesh)

I can’t believe I put 80 miles on my car for that round-trip fiasco. If you do it, you’ll be singing the holiday song we were singing.

On the plus side, I had a fabulous day out in the sunshine with my friends, but I’m still trying to figure out why on earth I had to pay an admission fee to see one rooster, one pig and eight million Children of the Corn. I can see the latter merely by stepping out onto my balcony. (Aside: five families here are getting evicted by Nov. 15 because of their bastardly offspring. Hurrah!)

After the soaring disappointment of the “harvest days” — not to mention the ridiculously lame cornstalk maze that we got through in zero point five seconds, we walked down to the patch, where it was the Land of Pumpkin Innards. Not to mention, but we wouldn’t have had to pay to go into that patch.

So when we picked out our sad pumpkins, I walked back to the top of the hill to bring my car around to get my buddies and our purchases. But I got stopped by the Gestapo guard, who yelled at me, thinking I was trying to sneak into the harvest days festival. I chortled heartily at that. He said I should have gotten my hand stamped if I was there and planning to leave and come back. I said, look, jackass, nobody told me I had to get stamped to have in-and-out privileges at this adventure land. So he kept trying to press my buttons, and he asked if I were planning to go back to the harvest days after I got my car. My response? “Dude, you’ve got to be kidding me. I can’t believe I had to pay $7 to walk through it once — you can guarantee that I won’t further disappoint myself by re-entering that field.” He shot me a dirty look, and I walked away.

Shawn began singing the line in the subject of this post. We had a whole rousing chorus going, but I’m too tired to even think about it.

To add to our misery in Germantown, we attempted to have lunch afterward, but we had to wait so long after we ordered the food that it became dinner. And that fucking state of Maryland doesn’t allow smoking in its restaurants, so you had five smokers, sitting around a table, gnawing on our arms in hunger and nicotine withdrawal. And when Shawn got his food (a chicken dish), the staff had to come back and confiscate it because, well, they kinda forgot something — yeah, like the chicken. What the fuck?!?! Horrible dining endeavor. Just horrible.

I had Shawn drive my car home. I fucking hate 495. I hate 270 just as much. Not that I had much luck on Washington Boulevard this evening, either — some asshole wanted to pass me on the left, even though the only thing on the left was a lane that had just ended. And he had a big old SUV, but I wasn’t nervous. I figured if he’d hit me, well, it would suck but no one in their right mind would try to do what he was doing. Dildo.

We did have a delightful time — snugly returned to our beloved Northern Virginia — at Shawn’s hacienda. Paul and I made apple crisp, I did a fast and furious hot apple cider/toddy kind of disaster, Angie and her husband carved pumpkins (beautifully, I might add!), Bryan made caramel apples, and those of us left standing at the end of the night settled down to watch “The Exorcist.”

Alas, though, the adventures didn’t end with dropping Bryan and Paul off in Arlington. When I got home a few minutes ago, I locked the door behind me, as I usually do. I put food in the cats’ dishes, and then I realized that Kadi wasn’t around my ankles and going apeshit. I looked for her for awhile and then, just on a lark, opened the front door. Her dumb ass had run out between my ankles and she was stuck outside for five minutes. Heh. I was feeling charitable, so I let her in. But I admit to taking a pause before I bothered opening the door.

No posting for most of today — we’re gettin’ the gang together for some punkin pickin’ this afternoon in Maryland (yeah, because I love driving the Beltway so). It’ll be good to spend a day outdoors and away from the insanity that is my existence.

Send happy thoughts to Dave, who came over last night for a mutual therapy session over pizza and a foreign flick. Remember, it’s all about fun, and failing that, don’t forget, “GTHU!”

Oh, and send a “Go, Mom!” to my dear mother Robin up in Pittsburgh, who is being propositioned for some wild sex by a 28-year-old. Go Mom!!! She called at 8 a.m. for advice, and my advice, of course, was to bring a box of Trojans and a case of KY. Y’know, ’cause it’s been awhile for her.

And as an aside, I’m doing some blogroll changes. If you aren’t on there and want to be, leave a comment to that effect. The list is done in no particular order, just by category, so if you want to be moved up, I am open for oral favors as bribery. …

The warm and fuzzy feelings of last night were immediately shot straight in the ass today when I went into the office, straight from the print shop, to fix something and re-send it.

Town Crier accosted me immediately. Those who remember TC recall that she’s not my favorite fruit loop at the Veggie Patch.

Apparently my workplace is having a massive meeting next weekend (um, the holiday weekend, for those calendar-phobes out there). It runs from Friday through Monday. TC had asked for me to be present for the miserable mess and to take photos of it. I had told her that I have a lot of plans that weekend (yes, weekend — remember those? yeah, me either) and that I wasn’t promising anything.

So my staff writer and I were skulking in this afternoon, trying to fly under the radar and escape being seen, but god damn it all to hell anyway, TC jumped right in front of us (yes, physically blocking us in the hallway) and said that, if I’m not available, then Cruise Director wants Staff Writer to be available.

I stomped off.

Perhaps it is my own fault that I do work during two to three weekends a month — by rights, work should only consume one weekend, if that. I blame it on some of my own poor planning/execution skills, but I share that blame equally with ridiculous, time-consuming e-mail arguments and contradictory mandates from the Upper McManagement.

At any rate, I’ve given up enough weekends this month — not that any of them knows this, because I go in, do my work and leave. I don’t brag about it — I do what needs to be done and I go on with my life.

And that’s where the anger arose within me again today — it’s not just any ol’ weekend — it’s friggin’ Halloween. I have plans on Halloween (Shawn, what’s the scoop?). I have a housewarming party at my abode on Saturday (nothing exotic, but I’ve got a buttload of shopping, cooking and cleaning to do, so time is precious here). I plan to be hungover the next day — or, at least, really fucking exhausted.

But, alas — that’s my choice. Because it’s MY TIME.

Work doesn’t really demand a lot of me. But when they asked me to work, I said I had personal plans. And the neat thing about them asking if my staff writer could shoot these stupid photos — of a weekend-long TRAINING SESSION … how fucking BORING is that?!?! — is that she can’t because she’s Pagan. Yes, Halloween is a religious holiday for her, and she has events going on the whole weekend (like coming to my soiree, for instance. LOL).

I zipped off a quick e-mail to my supervisor, who responded with a terse, “We’ll talk.” Fuckin’ fine with me — am I going to get overtime for this? Or comp time? Looks to me that every second or third paycheck is short $100-plus because of our fucking furlough days, and I seem to recall doing some work-related activities during those unpaid adventures. All I have are my weekends, damn it.

And seriously, this weekend-long fiesta would require me putting some miles on my car (because they can’t host these meetings locally or conveniently for drones like me), and it would take me away from either preparing for, or recovering from, the plans I’ve had for two friggin months now.

Can’t these losers take their own cameras? The people at this meeting are of little interest to me anyway. We supposedly have a P.R. staff (read: supposed to be Town Crier and her septogenarian assistant) — do they seriously think I want photos of people sitting at tables and lining up against walls for my paper? I hate that shit.

I mean, really, to look at this month’s issue of the paper is to know what phenomenal photography was. And let’s just say that I didn’t take any of the photos. They were supplied by my ridiculously talented designer (and I’m not just sayin’ that ’cause he’s reading this!), or they were professional shots taken of the people profiled in the stories we ran. I have voiced my opinion till I’m hoarse that I just don’t get why I have to attend retirement parties and going-away parties and meetings, meetings, meetings just to be the staff shutterbug. What do I do with these photos? I develop them and shove them in a drawer. And if I can find one to run, I can never get much help with the cutlines, so I end up running something bland and barely coherent, just to fill up the space beneath each photo of some dickhead holding a plaque.

*sigh*

Fuck them — they’re not going to ruin THIS weekend! And hopefully not the next one either.

“These are my words

That I’ve never said before

I think I’m doing okay

And this is the smile

That I’ve never shown before.”

— Staind, “So Far Away” —

I’m exhausted but alert. Paper went to bed tonight. I normally hang out at the print shop and chat with the gals on the night shift, but I only stopped by and apologized for just not having it in me to hang out this month. Next month, I’ll make an effort. Just right now, eh. Couldn’t hang.

But this is the moment each month that I await. The moment when I realize that I don’t have to be up really early the next day, because I put in a hell of a lot of hours during the week. The moment when I realize that, one week earlier, the amount of work and aggravation seemed insurmountable. The moment when I can say, hell, the team did a great job, and we have a lot of which we can be proud.

The magazine is amazing this month. The content is top-notch; the design is no less than spectacular; the glory (would there be any glory) is well-earned.

More dragons remain to be slain next week, but I’ll get to that when I can think straight. Production days like today usually leave me as an incoherent, rambling, babbling fool. But my eye has finally stopped twitching (woo hoo!), the teeth grinding has slowed to almost a halt, and I look forward to as deep of a sleep as a rambunctious kitten will allow (which, sadly, ain’t much!). Maybe Kadi needs to be reacquainted with her cage tonight. Yes, that sounds like a plan. I’m sure Maddie will appreciate it, as she is the first one Kadi attacks before the little cat decides to get stuck in the blinds (five nights a week — what a ridiculous animal!) or knock over the ironing board that has, this week, been acting like a hamper/dresser/jewelry disposal (oh, and Kadi ate the necklace I wore yesterday, because I was stupid enough to leave it on the ironing board — fucking freak. (Oh, and the little bitch knocked over a bottle of perfume today. Right off the computer desk, because, you know, that’s where expensive water in glass bottles belongs!)

I have to say, when my staff writer, my designer and I are in a room together, it’s a wonder the glass in my office doesn’t shatter from all the brilliance and laughter we emit — it’s like the room can barely contain us sometimes. It’s times like this when I’m glad nobody in the building “gets” what we do or how we operate. Most people are smart enough to stay away from our end of the hallway during press week (some are not, but that’s a story for another day!). We could all probably work more efficiently, but when all is said and done, it doesn’t feel much like work.

And I feel kind of good that my name is on this great product. Sure, I may deal with waaaayyyy too much administrative bullshit throughout the month, but in the end, it is the magazine copies that I will take when I move out of that lovely corner office. It is the friendships that have quickly taken place of the working relationships that I will cherish. It is the personal and professional introspection tempered by the inane discussions about VH1’s “I Love the ’80s” and “Romy and Michelle” behind my closed door that makes us all realize that we’re not only putting together a magazine, but we’re also putting back together our sanity that is eroded incrementally throughout the course of any given month.

So, waxing poetic aside, I feel incredible. I’m not quite ready to take on the world at this late hour, but I can manage a contented and accomplished smile, and for me, that’s even better than world dominance. For tonight, anyway.

I’m hoping to do some insightful posting, but I’ll probably just start whining. At any rate, move along and find another blog to read if you’re not up for my self-therapy today.

Some people in my life have said I was the most caring person they knew (obviously they didn’t know many people. …). Some people have even gone so far as to say I was “too nice” or “too sacrificing” when it comes to other people. Others know me as a bit on the insensitive side. Hell, my former employer used to say I was “cavalier” (hence my username and nickname on every website and IM program imaginable).

At any rate, I have this ridiculous blurting habit. Yes, as in, I blurt out the first possible thing that comes to my mind. I have lost so much self-restraint during the past few months. I used to work at a job where everything I said/did was held against me, and even things I didn’t outright say/do came back to haunt me, too. At jobs before that, when I was disgruntled, people heard about it loud and clear. And as time wore on, I realized that I needed to put a cork in it sometimes — and “sometimes” became “more-often-than-not.”

But then I lost those newly acquired social graces. I can’t even remember how. But, for as long as I can remember, the weirdest shit just pops into my head. In the right company, I can share it. But I can’t always be 100 percent “Dawn” when not everyone needs or even wants that. I need to replace the filter that used to keep that weird shit contained in my head.

I also have a family problem, in that nobody ever held anything back. That, and some of my grandfather’s relatives are the most uncouth assholes ever born. I mean, jeebus, his older brother is one of the cruelest people I’ve ever met — the man just slices you down to size and laughs at his own jabs. He’s the only one laughing. And that humor has trickled down through the branches of the family — they think they’re so damn funny, when all they’re being is hurtful.

I really tried to escape the path of using humor to hurt. And I guess I don’t do it directly, but I think I still do it.

For instance, I was talking with my designer yesterday, and he mentioned something personal (which he rarely does). And then he made a comment that it was probably too much information, that it wasn’t something I needed or even wanted to know. The first words out of my mouth were, “You know I don’t give a shit about stuff like that.” But what I MEANT (and should have said) was, “I appreciate you sharing that information with me. It doesn’t bother me in the least. In fact, I think you’re a terrific person and that it’s awesome that you said that.”

I think he knows me well enough to understand that, when I say I don’t care, it means that hey, nothing fazes or offends me, so your secret is safe with me. But why can’t I just SAY that in the first place?

Even today, the poor guy is sick, so I offered to run to the store or run errands for him, and he of course said thanks but no. What comes out of Little Miss Unfiltered? “Hey, I’m trying to be nice. It’s hard for me to be nice. Work with me here!” I guess, in the grand scheme of things, it’s not so bad (considering that I was laughing and being goofy when I said it), but there is some truth to the fact that being nice doesn’t come altogether that naturally for me.

I hate for this to turn into a therapy session, but what the hell … here goes:

I’m a product of tough love. While my family unquestionably loved me unconditionally (and still sometimes remains obsessive about it), there was an element of sarcasm and psychological torture that kept us together. (Yeah, we were dysfunctional, but families aren’t “normal” if they don’t have an element of dysfunction! We didn’t call it “Dysfunction Junction” for nothing!)

That tough love concept carried its way into my earliest of friendships. We lived for teasing each other. But it was teasing in a loving kind of way. Sometimes, sure, it went too far, but it was always in context and apologies were usually given when somebody got hurt. Unless we meant what we said. But that’s a whole ‘nother blog entry.

I always viewed teasing/joking (done lovingly of course!) as a sign that you were close to somebody — close enough to know them inside and out and be able to laugh WITH them at their foibles and idiosyncracies. Or, in some of the instances described above, I might not be that close with someone, but it’s my way of getting to know them — if they can handle me, then they’re pretty damn cool. But then there are the folks who don’t know me so well and who don’t get it that I make a joke out of just about everything.

And that’s my coping mechanism. I laugh. Not hysterically, mind you. Not “they’re-coming-to-take-me-away-ha-ha” laughter (not always, anyway!), but I tend to find the humor in nearly every situation. And if there isn’t any, I create my own. Maybe that’s the journalist reporter in me — when there’s no news, you still need to get paid, so you find or exaggerate whatever you can get your grimy little mitts on. I mean, take this very blog for instance — it’s all real, but instead of just calling my boss, oh, I don’t know, how about “Boss”? I call him Cruise Director of Club Medicated. Or King Kumquat, king of the Veggie Patch. Everybody bitches about work — I just like to put a creative spin on it, because you can get the vanilla job kvetching just about anywhere else.

At any rate, I guess what spurred all of this on is that I guess I need to better distinguish my professional self from my personal self. Hell yeah, I’m gonna keep making my snarks and asides to the people who enjoy it most, but maybe I need to, at least at/regarding work, re-adopt the old, “bite yo’ tongue, biatch!” attitude that used to, for the most part, keep me out of trouble. Although it did cause me to implode on more than one occasion!

And for those who don’t know me or who don’t know me well, always take me with a grain of salt … and a couple of shots of tequila.

Here are the songs that got me through my workday (read: working weekend) from hell:

1. Prodigy, “Smack My Bitch Up”

2. Holly McNarland, “Elmo” *

3. Staind, “So Far Away”

4. Fuel, “Falls on Me”

5. Type O Negative, “Christian Woman”

6. Jonell Moser, “Crossroads”

7. Puddle of Mudd, “Control”

8. Kilgore, “Providence”

9. Stone Temple Pilots, “Sex Type Thing”

10. Godsmack, “Awake”

11. Black Lab, “10 Million Years”

12. Jack Off Jill, “Angels Fuck”

13. Cold, “End of the World”

14. Joan Jett, “Do You Wanna Touch Me”

15. Evanescence, “My Last Breath”

16. Pulp, “Like a Friend”

17. Butthole Surfers, “Whatever”

18. Seven Mary Three, “Wait”

19. Lauren Christy, “Walk this Earth Alone”

20. Live, “Run to the Water”

Yeah, it was a rip-roaring kind of day.

* I wanted to upload the song, but that went bust, so I’m going for sharing the lyrics. It’s one of those songs that makes you think waaaay too much about your past, yet remember it somewhat fondly. Or maybe I’m just nuts.

“I’m still thinking about Elmo

Elmo 5 o’clock special

I’m still thinking about you

1000 ways to kill you

I’m still dreaming in pink

Gives me reason to think

When I lay down my head I’m still okay

When I lay down my head to go to bed

Were do you fit in

Didn’t say to come in

Where the hell you been

I can see you’re excited

You can tell you’re invited

Justify your evil ways

Make up for the lost days

Didn’t mean to close the door

When I throw you to the floor

Didn’t mean to close the door

Oh my personal whore

Where do you fit in

You run out of expression

You let me make a suggestion

I can see to this day

You’re no innocent man

Come and catch me if you can

Didn’t have the time of day

But I fucked him anyway

Didn’t have the time of day to play

Where do you fit in

Where the fuck have you been?

I’m still thinking about Elmo

Elmo 5 o’clock special

I’m still thinking about you.”

Posting will be AWOL today — v. busy at work. Nerves are so shot that my left eye is twitching constantly.

Allow me to redirect your attention to the fine blogs in the right-hand column.

Just one last note, when someone sends you in a story and their byline at the top is spelled wrong, you know you’re in for editing hell. …

But before I go:

Happy Birthday Scott!

I was up early this morning (thanks to Short Bus cat being an asshole at 6 a.m.), so I got up and went driving.

I was halfway down King Street when a song came on my CD that I made yesterday. I was groovin’ to it and, for the life of me, I couldn’t remember the artist. (Short-term memory: non-existent.) In all irony, I stopped behind someone at a red light, and that person had a Kilgore bumper sticker. Would you believe that Kilgore was the band name I was struggling to remember?

At any rate, somebody must have released all the hot people from the dungeon this morning — yum! I went to D(r)unkin’ Donuts and to Tar-zhay, and everybody I walked past was hotter than the next one. I suppose it pays to get up early sometimes — the scenery was incredible!!! Of course, my eyes were only half-open at 8 a.m., so you be the judge.

Saw “Texas Chainsaw Massacre” tonight with Shawn and our birthday boy Scott, who has a milestone birthday coming up on Monday.

Scott and I were wisecracking when we arrived at the ghetto theater at 8:15 p.m. — he thought we should buy tickets to the movie that started at 7:55 p.m. (to shorten our misery). I figured we should buy tickets to the 6 p.m. showing and just miss it altogther. But no, we went to the 9:20 show. Regrettably.

Shawn and I loved the original, made in 1974. It was psychological. This one is blood and gore. And it’s not quite the same storyline.

But then again, let’s just say that the movie audience missed its flight to “The Jerry Springer Show” — I can’t tell you how many times I heard, “You go on girl!” from everyone else in the audience. Everyone was hooting and cheering and laughing and yelling at the screen. And, of course, having their own conversations for the whole theater to hear. My boys noted that, when we were leaving the theater, the adventure seemed incomplete without “Jerry’s Final Thought.”

If you’re into a movie that’s a hybrid of “Blair Witch Project,” “Halloween” and “Scary Movie,” go spend the nine bucks. If not, go buy some weed and save yourself the aggravation of leaving the house.

*updated*

Cruise Director, you’re a pussy! Stand up to Pride Fag for one fucking day in your life!!! We are going to lose advertisers over this!!!!!

Update

My horoscope said something yesterday about being tempted to quit my job on the spot. Editors have walked out over less than this. Not that I feel like being peniless and homeless — I ain’t walking out. But if I had unlimited funds to fall back on, you bet your ass I would be creating more of a riot than I already am, that’s for damn sure.

Seriously, i have been stressing myself out this week (over various issues, not just today’s serving of shit souffle), and today just brought a sudden wave of anger and anxiety that is starting to feel very familiar. It is also starting to get harder to control.

Late yesterday, I was calm. I figured fuck it — work crises are not worth wrecking my personal health and well-being. And I was right and just need to return to that place in my head where everything’s OK. My designer sent me a hilarious mock-up of the paper that made me laugh so hard that I cried. I have that posted next to my monitor, to remind me that someday, we’ll laugh about this. And the sooner we start laughing, the longer we’ll live.

Till then, I’ve got to go calm down the throbbing vein in my forehead. …