Caterwauling

… is the United States Postal Service!

I went to my P.O. Box yesterday, and in it was a birthday card from my mom. Look, I know she has no idea how old I am (29, but she’s been telling people I’m 30 for the past five years), but being that my birthday was back in, oh, MAY, I was confused. The postmark read Jan. 14.

So I called Mom today to ask her what the hell that was all about, and she said she sent it in May … and that there was CASH in it. She had forgotten all about it, although I do remember her asking way back then if I’d received her card.

In any event, when I opened the envelope, there was NO cash to be found — someone had steamed open the envelope, re-sealed it and put it in my box. The NERVE of those motherfuckers!!!

I remember chastising her for sending money through the mail (she’d told me back then that she had sent me some cash for my birthday so I could pay my phone bill, which was out of control). I cannot fucking BELIEVE the postal service is so shady.

I have had problems with them before. Years ago, I had sent a long letter to a friend, pouring my heart out about some very sensitive subjects. Months later, I received the envelope that contained said letter, but it came with a note that the envelope was damaged and that there was nothing in it. Um, I don’t THINK so. I used to decorate my envelopes with stickers and little made-up song lyrics and personal jokes, and I think someone got curious and wanted to see what else I had to say.

And they WONDER why we have all reverted to e-mail!!! Yeah, keep raising the cost of stamps, motherfuckers. I hope the Internet puts your fucked-up monopoly out of business within the next decade.

ARLINGTON/FALLS CHURCH/ALEXANDRIA VA

… WIND CHILL ADVISORY IN EFFECT UNTIL 11 AM SATURDAY…

IT’S FUCKING COLD! GET IN YOUR GODDAMNED WARM HOUSES AND STAY OFF THE ICY ROADS AND QUIT CAUSING ACCIDENTS, MOTHERFUCKERS!

MAKE SURE THAT ALL EXPOSED SKIN IS COVERED … UNLESS YOU’RE HOT AND IN DAWN’S BED. THERE, YOU ARE ENCOURAGED TO WEAR AS LITTLE AS POSSIBLE.

You have just won one million dollars:

1. Who do you call first?

Mom. Of course, she’s like me and never picks up the phone, so the technical answer is “Mom’s answering machine.”

2. What is the first thing you buy for yourself?

Can you buy peace of mind? Failing that, I’m getting the best Powerbook under the sun, complete with Quark, Photoshop and any other pricey program I covet. Then I’m going to take my current computer into the shop and have it upgraded. Then I’m going to clean out my Amazon Wish List — only I’m gonna add a LOT more to it! (Like a Plasma TV.)

3. What is the first thing you buy for someone else?

Easy — my mom and grandfather have never lived in a house they owned, so I’d make that happen. Only thing is, I’d bring them down here with me and not leave them in Pittsburgh. I miss them!

4. Do you give any away? If yes, to whom?

Um, after the IRS takes its hefty chunk, I’ll need some tax write-offs. I’ve already worked for three screwed-up non-profits (securing donations for two of them), so I’ll pass on those. I’d probably send a few bucks to NARAL or Planned Parenthood, cancer research, mental health/illness research and maybe corporate Easter Seals (and not the affiliate I worked for!).

5. Do you invest any? If so, how?

I suppose so. But I don’t know nothin’ about saving money, so this question is lost on me.

Quote of the Day:

“I’m the only person in the world who tried to cook Tuna Helper then burned my foot and still forgot to put the tuna in.” — Shan, who burned herself (again!) making lunch.

Site of the Day:

Regular readers will get this. Viva Pussy Demure!

Yesterday, I felt empowered as a journalist and as a professional. Today, I return to my place as the object of micromanagement.

My boss (whom I will just call Exclamation Point from now on; see here for the story) corners me in my office this morning to discuss various items. And then chastises me because I do not keep her in the loop about where I am, every moment of every day.

Case in point: I am supposed to have a meeting at 11 a.m. (in a few minutes) with our Internet person, to teach me how to update my corporate website. (I haven’t even seen this person in the office yet, mind you — I’ll bet he’s forgotten). It seems that, four weeks ago, when I set the training time, I had mentioned to Exclamation Point that we were to meet on Jan. 28. Let it be said that I just got the date wrong, and the training was always set for the 29th.

In any event, Exclamation starts breathing deeply and says, “You were out at that luncheon yesterday.” Um, Duh. “And (the other one) wasn’t here yesterday either. I assume you have scheduled a different date to meet?”

I was stunned but recovered quickly. “No, today is the day we are meeting. It was always today; I must have mentioned the incorrect date.”

A normal supervisor would leave it at that. But not Exclamation Point.

“It is your responsibility to tell me these things,” she said. I said, I thought I just did. She goes into this long schpiel that she was expecting that the training would be done yesterday, and she was concerned because neither myself nor the trainer were in the office, and I need to realize how important this is. Blah blah blah. I said it’s always been a priority and that the date was always set and will still be honored, if Dude comes into the office today (it’s 10:59 a.m. — I ain’t holding my breath, at this point).

I think she’s nuts because she told her supervisor (who is also Dude’s supervisor) about this “date.” And her supervisor isn’t even here — I mean, jesus christ, I do not need her to act like a secretary. I am perfectly capable of attending the various meetings I am forced to attend. Of course, I tend to skip our weekly supervision meetings at least two weeks out of the month, so I can see where she’s concerned about my meeting-attending skills, but come on. She knows I want to learn this website bullshit because Dude has only updated my page once in 14 months, and that’s only because his boss went apeshit on him because his most recent column wasn’t featured.

In any event, I was verbally spanked for not realizing that I told her the wrong date for a meeting she wasn’t even involved with, and I was told that, the moment I knew that I had told her the wrong date, I should have reported it to her immediately.

MicroMcManagement special — what number is that on the menu board? And can I get a side of rage to go with that, with an Apple Martini for dessert?

OK, the Spy Museum rocked socks. Not only did we have a great lunch (mostly Atkins-based, although it hurt to pass up the creamy, cheesecakey, whipped-cream-and-berries-topped dessert), but the speakers were excellent and we got story ideas for a future edition of the Veggie Patch Gazette.

What I loved was how worshipped the journalists were. Usually, we’re considered to be the scourge of the earth, but I could not believe how well-respected my publication and my career really are — in the right company. I guess I don’t realize that influential people actually are reading our work and admiring it from afar. I was seated at a table with other editors of comparable papers (circulation and topic-wise), and they knew my publication. What was weird was that people there actually had heard of me. And they didn’t run screaming. 😉

Also for attending the luncheon, we were given complimentary registrations to a gala next weekend at the museum. Angie was worried that she doesn’t know what to wear, and I told her to throw on an old bridesmaid dress or something else that’s foufy and uncomfortable, and she’ll blend right in. Ugh. This means I have some dress-shopping to do, unless any of my old gala dresses actually fit (I won’t hold my breath, though!).

Would you believe I just got another reader calling for my resignation? She of course sent it to everybody under the sun. Look, I published the fucking thing in November, I published all the irate reader responses in January, and I learned a lesson. I am getting really sick of this shit.

To Theresa, who wrote the newest letter: Bite me.

You would think that, with all the masturbation I do, my wrists would be in better shape for cleaning up my car. But nooo, I’m sore and think I’ve got the early onset of frostbite (or, if not frostbite, then a burning desire to kick Mother Nature’s frigid ass).

I couldn’t get into my car today. The driver’s side was frozen shut. I crawled over the mounds of snow to get to the passenger side, only to find that somebody parked right up against me. Really, is this necessary? (And don’t think I didn’t take great pleasure when the end of my ice scraper kept whacking the other car — it was that close!) I started to crawl in through the trunk, but then I realized I had a second, smaller ice scraper back there (the big one was of course in the car, along with my de-icing shit that isn’t worth a damn anyway). So I managed to pry the door open with said tiny ice scraper. Woo hoo! So I cranked up the radio and blasted Joni Mitchell for all the neighbors to enjoy. 🙂

You can tell that nobody here must have to go to work — cars have been sitting here since Sunday night and have a veritable shitload of snow on them. But I can’t blame these people — the ice was ridiculously difficult to budge this morning, more so than yesterday (it made a gorgeous crystal mosaic when I cracked it yesterday). Today, the ice was just being a bitch. Like me.

I really don’t even have to go into the office for more than a half-hour today, but I signed Angie and me up for a press thing at the International Spy Museum. My hope is that lunch, catered by Zola’s, will be Atkins-friendly. 🙂 Failing that, then I hope my car doors don’t freeze shut again during the event!

I’ve been in no mood to post today. Really, I’m in no mood to do anything today. But I do have to mention that the “American Idol” auditions are getting scarier by the day — is it me, or do some of the contestants sound like Donatella Versace?

Anyway, on with the humor I promised:

WOMAN’S PERFECT BREAKFAST

She’s sitting at the table with her gourmet coffee.

Her son is on the cover of the Wheaties box.

Her daughter is on the cover of Business Week.

Her boyfriend is on the cover of Playgirl.

And her husband is on the back of the milk carton.

CIGARETTES AND TAMPONS

A man walks into a pharmacy and wanders up and down the aisles. The sales girl notices him and asks him if she can help him. He answers that he is looking for a box of tampons for his wife. She directs him down the correct aisle. A few minutes later, he deposits a huge bag of cotton balls and a ball of string on the counter. She says, confused, “Sir, I thought you were looking for some tampons for your wife?” He answers, “You see, it’s like this — yesterday, I sent my wife to the store to get me a carton of cigarettes, and she came back with a tin of tobacco and some rolling papers; cause it’s sooooooooooo much cheaper. So, I figure if I have to roll my own … so does she.”

Of course . . . I figure this guy is the one on the milk carton 🙂

OK, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen seven inches, and when it finally happened, it had to be snow. Bah.

No calling off from work today for me — the paper rolled up on press today. This morning, I found it hysterical that only, say, three people in my apartment complex’s parking lot (yes! I got a spot! woo hoo!) left to go to work this morning. And, of course, all three of us drive tiny sports cars. The people with the big-ass trucks and SUVs stayed happily snug in their respective spots this morning, while the rest of us valiantly braved the un-plowed lot.

Yeah, in all the plowing going on around Alexandria, my corner of the city failed to be accommodated, minus the main roads of Seminary and Van Dorn. I cut through a strip-mall lot (as I do every morning), and my featherweight car didn’t know whether to shit or go sailing, so she chose the latter — almost running headfirst into a medial strip. But I turned into the skid, held my breath and, luckily, Samantha was able to fly straight for (most of) the rest of the trip to Springfield.

And it’s time for Dawn’s annual bitch-fest about snow-time drivers, although Scott did an eloquent job covering the same acts of assholitry. A word of advice: clean off your cars, or we will assemble our mini-Mafia (of the two of us) and bruise your kneecaps with our ice scrapers. Even though you can’t see us through your snow mountain, we are still there, being buried in the avalanche of white shit that you didn’t see fit to manually remove from your vehicles.

There was a Big Important Meeting scheduled at work this morning, so I asked Angie to cover it for me. When she got there, there were only four people in the whole building, so the meeting was canceled. People, please. At least two thirds of the employees live within a normal five-minute drive of the place, yet everyone freaks and stays home without even calling off. I personally was waiting for Pussy Demure to activate the phone tree to tell me to stay home, but alas, I got no call. Maybe I’ll just “forget” to go in tomorrow, to make up for my sleigh ride down Van Dorn this morning.

I had meant to do laundry today (we’re going on three months of me just buying lots of new clothes here) — I have seven bags of clothes in my trunk. But then, once I got home, I decided fuck it, I ain’t going out again (and my clothes soap is FROZEN in my car). That reminds me, I fueled the vehicle last night and went to wash the crystallized bird shit from my back window, only to find that the window-washing fluid was frozen solid, too. Bah.

I hate this fucking weather. Anybody else have fun commuting stories?