Caterwauling

Shan called this morning and asked if I’d want to go work out this afternoon at the evil empire of Bally. I said sure, got ready, cleaned the metric ton (it seemed) of snow off of my car, fought moronic drivers down Little River Turnpike and parked right by her. She jumped out of her car and said, “Wanna go to the Chinese buffet instead?” So I said sure, and off we went. Our workout was running around the buffet spread, picking out lunch. Now THAT was my idea of a workout!!!

I LOVE this!!! Thanks, Leslie, for making me smile today!

You know, it snowed way more when I lived in Pittsburgh, but I just don’t remember the sticky white stuff being such an inconvenience there.

On the news last night, I heard that the City of Alexandria only budgeted for $24 million for snow-related services — after blowing the budget sky-high last year with more than $48 million spent on salting, shoveling and hauling the shit somewhere. I was also disturbed when the newscaster noted that they will not pre-salt the roads just before the snow starts, nor will they be able to get to all the areas of the city — just the ones that really need it, and if there are materials left over, then they’ll take care of the areas that weren’t hit so hard.

*thunk*

Really, in Pennsylvania (and I’m sure, many other northern states), the reason the commutes aren’t overly treacherous is because PennDOT is on the roads all night, salting away so that, when the storms hit, the snow is melting practically upon impact. And as far as the “we’ll get to you …. maybe” point, well, I would like a refund on my personal property taxes, then, if my residence in the city doesn’t mean a damn thing (remember how I went without power/hot water for seven days after Hurricane Cuntrag this summer?).

It seems like only an inch has accumulated outside, but on the radio this morning, the list of accidents in the D.C. metro area was mind boggling, and most of them are in Northern Virginia. I’m sure there are horrifyingly bad drivers everywhere, but an unusual number of them seem to be concentrated here. That’s all the more reason to prep the roads before the masses get behind their wheels and terrorize innocent drivers.

In any event, I shall keep watching for the federal government to close, because, even though I’m not really afraid of driving in snow, I sure can use a day off from work!

I had a vision of my name in lights.

I write often about how I’m going to change the world … or, rather, how I’m going to change mine. So everyone may be yawning and saying “whatever” when they read that first sentence of this entry, but this time, I’ve raised the stakes. If I don’t make a difference right now, I never will. And I will no longer permit myself to dream about it, if I don’t get off my ass this instant and start my own personal revolution.

I was doing a lot of thinking during the brief drive to work (thank you Van Dorn Street for being traffic-free today!). I thought about the cliche of “having shoes to fill.” No, I’m not talking about Carrie in “Sex and the City” with her $400 Manolos. I’m talking about people’s expectations of you versus your own expectations. We think of filling someone’s shoes as being an honor, a privilege, a challenge — for example, carrying on in the name of fallen heroes, or even stepping into a higher position at work when someone has left.

But sometimes, it feels like we are expected to fill smaller, tighter shoes that chafe. Like, when you hear enough negative things about yourself (from the source or from third parties) that you might start to shrink into those shoes. Like if someone has an opinion about you — and you don’t even necessarily have to agree with it — then there is that fleeting moment of paranoia that maybe everybody is thinking that about you. Why are they thinking it? Is that because that’s how you are, or maybe that’s the road you’re heading down? And if you’re heading down that path anyway (or you arrived and didn’t even realize it), maybe you just grow into those shoes and just be as (insert adjective) as people see you?

In my bedroom closet, I must have at least 100 pairs of shoes, and I probably can name 100 different adjectives about myself that I can wear with each pair. So what if I’ve gotten most of them from Parade of Shoes, Payless and Marshall’s (i.e., on discount) — each one, in some way, reflects a little bit of me. Some are loud and flashy, some are funky, some conservative, some barely noticeable, some brand-spanking and never worn, some worn about a dozen more times than they should have been. Some are too loose, some too tight and some fit beautifully and make me feel great when I have them on.

Some days, I choose my shoes. Other days, I’m running late and grab whatever’s nearby. One could say that, each day, I make a conscious or maybe even subconscious decision about the shoes I plan to fill for the day. Metaphorically, I don’t give a shit about anybody’s opinion but mine. And that’s an opinion I really need to carry over into my personal life and work life.

Our on-site mental health professional was talking to me today about my horrific letters to the editor of late. He asked what the publisher does to ensure that I am personally OK after reading the onslaught of insults. I laughed and said nothing. He said he’s concerned about my well-being, that a person can only hear so much crap about themselves (particularly when it’s fabricated in someone else’s mind) before it takes a toll on their mental well-being.

You know, this was the first time anybody ever asked me what I felt — I always read the letters, call the people assholes, edit the letters and run them in the magazine. Same with other kinds of criticism I get — I process it and take what I want out of it. And I likened the process to going to a psychic. I said that the psychic tells you all kinds of things, and it’s up to you to decide what you really want to take out of the reading, and you have to just not let yourself be bothered by the rest. Same with the letters — I find the point or the news in each one, and I just look past the personal slights that are made in someone else’s anger. He told me I have an impressively thick skin, and that if I ever want to process my thoughts with a professional, his door is always open.

I guess I’m just feeling really good today. It’s nice to be validated. The negativity surrounding me has been sitting on my shoulders, and no matter how hard I shake it off, it clings harder to me. And I don’t want to become negative just because it’s always there, tempting me to wallow in its power. And like the quote I posted yesterday, confidence comes with action, not before action. Same thing with hope and happiness — waiting for it to happen isn’t going to make it come any sooner — we’ve just gotta hang in there and make our own. And it’s my time to do just that.

I’m not going to be original today (because I am up to something and I’m staying on the downlow), but I did want to share something that inspired me today:

Living confidence

— Ralph Marston

I love letters to the editor, even if they are telling me that I am a freak who is in favor of child molestation (which I am not) and that I am too sympathetic toward sex offenders (again, which I am not).

The common thread (other than insanity, fingerpointing and whining) among the 10 letters I received was a complaint that I didn’t get a professional rebuttal that was specific to the interviewee’s personal statements (I suppose they’re right, although I do submit the excuse that I wrote the story on furlough days; therefore, it was unpaid time, so they’re lucky they had a story to read. LOL). But the beauty of the vicious and twisted viewpoints these “professionals” presented was that they have just provided the balance they sought. Wonderful. Happy now?

Word to the wise: if you ever write a letter to the editor, kindly do NOT use the editor’s name in every sentence. Especially when it’s a two-page fax that I’m going to have to type in anyway. Really — I like my name, and I hate hearing you use it, especially when you rant for two pages but fail to make any real point.

And this “Have a nice day!” shit at the end of your rant — really, a woman sent in an exhaustive but fairly intelligent argument, but when she ended her letter with that, well, she lost my respect and attention. Quit while you’re ahead, friends. That’s all I’m askin’ here.

Now that everyone’s had a chance to say their peace … can’t we all just get along? Finally?!?!

Subtitle: Hark, hear my screams

First of all, a warm welcome to visitors who come via Dave Copeland, a fellow journalist and Pittsburgher. The link he referred you guys to was this one, although you might also enjoy this pic, sent to me from another Pittsburgh (Fox Chapel) expatriate who’s enjoying life in Ireland these days!

I neglected to mention in yesterday’s post, when the kitties found the condom under my bed, that Kadi managed to bite straight through the wrapper. She hasn’t died (damn it all anyway!), so it’s safe to say that condoms make good toys for cats AND pussies! 😉

Spent the day at the print shop and also wandering around Springfield Mall. Things went OK with the paper this month, give or take enough arguments with influentials to choke a fucking horse. I may get some shit because I printed a candid thumbnail of one of our presidential candidates. (It’s a no-no to give them any press after their candidacy is announced, but King Kumquat has ordained that I must give press to Evil Bitch, who is running, so I figured I would quietly promote the candidate that I personally favor. Muahaha. I might as well get the fan ready for when he sees the paper tomorrow. …)

I am already so motherfucking SICK of holiday music already! I went shopping for something cheap for Shan’s birthday (which was Saturday), and every miserable store was playing the same crap that the last store was playing. Hark, hear my screams, I tell ya. One more month of this aural torture to go … will I make it without ripping the beard off a fake Santa or breaking an antler off a reindeer and sticking it up the ass of a small, screaming child? The sounds of the season are more frightening than the theme music to the “Friday the 13th” series!

In personal news, I finally got the missing part to my gas grill, and I made filet mignons and hot dogs tonight (food for the week, friends — payday isn’t till Friday). Too bad I didn’t have the grill part for, oh, my housewarming party, when I had to buy a fucking grill especially for that occasion. But I’ll give my little charcoal wonder to my neighbor/colleague, RC, whom I have kind of been taking care of in little ways (i.e., sending groceries and/or cooking meals and taking a plate down to her). Maybe I’ll clean it out and buy some charcoal and some utensils at the dollars store and make kind of an early holiday gift out of it. She’s one of those people who’s really grateful for anything you do to help, so I know she’ll love it (I just hope she doesn’t call seven times to thank me, like she did when I bought her groceries last month — a single thank-you is wonderful, but I prefer to do nice things because I want to, not because I desire recognition).

Actually, RC is another Pittsburgh (Mount Lebanon) expatriate (what the hell is it with D.C.? I can’t believe how many of us have defected to this area!), so it was neat to have that bond during our first conversation. And even Clyde and Gisele at the print shop lived and/or have family in my old stomping grounds. Funny how we all stick together down here, even though not a one of us has a desire to go back there to live anytime soon (if at all).

In any event, if you’re like me and happen to be shopping for Pittsburghers this holiday season, then I have to refer you to Dave C.’s list of Pittsburgh Barbies, for that pesky yinzer on your shopping list. Enjoy!