Caterwauling

Subtitle: (Dis)Orient(ed) Express

I once did a posting called “On the Blue Line,” referring to my observations on the Metro. These days, I take the Yellow Line because, well, the station closest to my house can suck it, charging me $10 to get out of the lot after midnight on a Friday. Bah.

Anyway, I opted to Metro down to the Love Cafe for Fray and of course cake (Mojito Rum Buttercream tonight, thanks). The joy was overwhelming as the escalators were off and/or in disrepair at both my station and at the side of the U Street Station where I exited. Minor delays, but nothing eventful. At that point, anyway.

So, Fray. Good Fray Day. (I think that could be a new religious holiday for the non-Catholics among us (I say this despite being baptized) — Good Fray Day!) *ahem*

Where was I? Oh yeah, stories and stuff. 🙂 Tiff did an amazing job pulling the event together on no budget, Tom was perhaps my favorite storyteller of the night and an excellent right-hand to Tiff, and, well, there was cake. AN EIGHT DOLLAR PIECE OF CAKE, but cake so good I just wanted to do graphic things to it. (Sorry for that visual, Tiff. Really! LOL)

Anyway, Tiff was trying to nudge me to go tell stories when the mic was open. I wanted to. Lord knows I have about six million of them, and I always love hogging the spotlight when there’s a live mic around (*cough JournalCon cough*). But I couldn’t find my voice tonight, even though I was desperately patching together story remnants in my head to make a cohesive one, just in case. But it never gelled. Bah. Clearly, I’m not gellin’ tonight.

Speaking of patching remnants, I wanted to impale the knitting club with their needles — they were clearly having a stich-and-bitch session. This group of chatty women knitted together in the cafe, and they weren’t exactly quiet when I was hanging around next to them, trying to hear the storytellers. So I moved into the draft of the front door, but at least I could hear. 🙂

A really good story that stuck with me was Amy and her “meat dance.” A former vegetarian, she was asked if she ate meat by people who clearly anticipated the answer to be no. And she remembered a lovely Greek sandwich she’d eaten earlier and did a little meat dance in her seat (kind of like the Cabbage Patch or Churn the Butter) and said “It. Tastes. So. Good!” ROFL. I know one of my readers can appreciate the meat dance as much as I did.

In any event, it should go without saying that featured speakers Bill and Julia were superb, having us laughing and crying, respectively, and sometimes having us do both simultaneously.

Anyway, back to the Yellow Line. First, I had the pleasure of Tom and Tiff’s company on the Green Line (minus the stankalicious guy who waited on the platform right next to me for 16 minutes. Pooh!). But, alas, I was left to my own devices and bravely hopped onto the Yellow at L’Enfant Plaza.

I was in for a good ride. Until. …

We had just made a stop and inched forward three feet and THEN WE STOPPED. The driver patiently explained something to the effect that “We have zero speed capacity.” He came on seven or eight more times, getting edgier each time, to repeat that information and to say, “And no, I am not going to open the doors. I cannot open the doors. We have left the platform and the doors WILL NOT OPEN.” I guess some of the people in the other cars must have been asking.

Me? Oh, yeah, that’s the fun part. I. AM. CLAUSTROPHOBIC!!!! The only thing I fear more than failure and down escalators (major fear of falling) is an enclosed space. I mean, you don’t want to ride with me in the winter because I’ve got the sunroof open — anything to feel/hear the breeze. I must have been suffocated in a past life.

Anyway, the announcements kept up regularly, and the driver said there was a big computer failure somewhere and well, deal with it. I love WMATA, don’t you? 😉

In any event, I occupied myself during my imprisonment by listening to a guy two rows of seats behind me. He was speaking in a normal tone of voice, asking such questions as “Why” and “I don’t understand how it happened this way” and “It wasn’t supposed to be like this” and “What am I going to do?” Quite honestly, I suspected he was a mindreader, because, well, those are the kind of things I say to myself on the Metro. 😉

But that’s the thing — he was saying all of these things to HIMSELF. This just goes to show how our society has (d)evolved in just the past decade — I assumed he was on a cell phone! Nobody shows up on our radar anymore as people about whom to be concerned … we don’t think to look for phones or hands-free devices. In any event, this only served to exacerbate my claustrophobia.

Maybe 10 minutes passed, and we were off. My stop was the very next one (“Hallelujah and holy shit” — Clarke Griswold) and I managed to be the first of probably 80 people out of the station. I jumped into my beloved Samantha and pealed the hell away from my parking space.

I really do love D.C. Honestly and truly. But some days, I really love it when I cross that invisible line into Old Dominion … particularly when it’s my foot on the gas pedal.

On iTunes: Bon Jovi, “I’d Die For You”

Dear Bon Jovi:

P.S. Jon, I would rather get you for the holidays any day. 😉

On iTunes: Bon Jovi, “We Can Dance”

Fray Day at the Love Cafe tonight! Come out for Cake. Yes, that’s Cake with a Capital C because it’s from Cakelove. Mmm, cake.

Oh, yeah, and there’s some awesome storytelling, too. But seriously, there’s cake involved. What more do you need?

Yay to Tiff for coordinating the event!

On iTunes: Bon Jovi, “Something For the Pain”

Dear Karma:

Love,
Dawn

On iTunes: Bon Jovi, “Something to Believe In”

Things are getting entirely too serious around here, and I am going to go into hiding and continue cracking my head off the wall. In my absence, I leave you with:

Via Chris, An Important Release!

The Republican National Committee announced today that the Republican Party is changing its emblem from an elephant to a condom. The committee chairman explained that the condom more clearly reflects the party’s stance today, because a condom accepts inflation, halts production, destroys the next generation, protects a bunch of pricks, and gives you a sense of security while you’re actually getting screwed.

And out of the archives, a self-portrait!

On iTunes: Bon Jovi, “The Hardest Part is the Night”

When I lose my optimism, I lose myself. And thus, I really feel like there’s nothing left to me these days. And I’m working full-time to turn that around, but I have yet to see it pay off.

Many people are telling me, “You are what you think,” the way our parents and grandparents used to tell us, “You are what you eat,” giving us visions of walking around like Hostess Cupcakes and Twinkies and Snoballs with arms and feet, kind of like those M&M guys. If I could come up with a visual for me right now, it would be one of those Koosh balls we had in the late ’80s. Not just with the pre-coffee bedhead, but just the stressball in general that I have become.

But you haven’t seen that. Or maybe you have, if you’ve read closely enough. You certainly haven’t seen it if you’ve seen me in person in the last two months. You’ve witnessed me being giddy and not very worried and just thrilled to be happy for the first time in a long time. And there is some accuracy to those sentiments, don’t get me wrong. I stated in an earlier entry that you either have financial security or happiness, never both. And while I was never financially secure, well, at least I could count on a paycheck twice a month.

I started this blog with the intention of chronicling my journey into self-employment. I wanted to inspire others who were just as lost as I was, to preserve the roadmap that I designed, and to give a big middle finger to my detractors. I wanted people who hate me who visit this site to say, “Damn.” Just damn. In a good way, of course, like “damn, she was the one who got away.” Kind of like how I hope all my exes realize that I was just fabulous and they let me get away and their lives are forever changed because of me but that they will never get me back because I’ve gotten so much smarter and have acquired such better taste since I settled for them. 😉

The problem for me right now is that I started working for myself too soon. I mean, sure, I was kind of catapulted into it. I liken it to my friend’s toddler who had no interest in crawling — she was more interested in standing up and trying to take off. It took a lot of discipline on my friend’s part to ensure that her little girl did, in fact, learn how to crawl, because we had read somewhere that her leg muscles wouldn’t develop correctly if she skipped the crawling stage. And we couldn’t have that happen.

The metaphor applies here. I jumped out of the playpen and tried to run a marathon. And I wasn’t exactly in competitive shape. Hell, I get tired just walking up the stairs to my gym, let alone actually getting on the damn elliptical!

In any event, I awaken several times a night, usually in a panic. I have some potential clients, but well, let’s just say their intentions were/are good. The work is just not going to pan out for a couple of months. What does that mean for me? My meager savings is gone. I’ve actually started applying for *real* (gasp!) jobs to ensure somewhat of a steady income. And I’m hearing weird things like I’m overqualified or I don’t have the right kinds of experience or that they simply don’t want someone who has a side business. (The business is losing money, for cripes’ sake, but I don’t dare tell them that!)

But I don’t talk about this stuff. Nobody wants to hear me whining and bitching. Hell, I hate whining and bitching. (Those of you who have been with this blog for more than a few years will say, “What? She loves to bitch!” And you’d be right.) But my heart is just hurting. I don’t know when the tow truck is going to come take my car away. I don’t know when I’m going to come home and my door will be padlocked. I don’t know why on this earth that people with talent and ambition who happen to march to a different drummer than corporate society expects are truly social rejects. If there is one thing I’ve learned in my 12 years in Corporate America, it’s that youth and innovation are secondary to seniority and status quo. I don’t fault anybody in particular for this — my dreams got punctured ages ago and have been steadily deflating ever since.

Let me give you an example. I went to hear NaNoWriMo founder Chris Baty speak at the Metro Center Barnes & Noble last Thursday night. I was in one of my moods and didn’t really feel the need to be sociable with anybody but Chris. But you know me — I’m observing and absorbing every detail I could about my fellow novelists. A small group in front of me were comparing their word counts at the time. One guy mentioned he knew someone who was at 40,000 words (and that was only 10 days into the month!). A girl laughed and said, “Well, it’s not like anybody really works when they’re at work. He’s probably writing his novel on company time.”

And that struck me. Several months ago, I would have scoffed at that — it’s one thing to take a few minutes to fuck off during the workday to kick-start your creativity when you return to your work, but to write a whole novel? Jebus H. On the other hand, I kind of surprised myself by saying, “Good for him.” If that’s the kind of behavior and performance that is incentivized, bravo for realizing it and taking advantage. But that bastard’s probably pulling in a sizable salary while I’m all but begging people to hire me, even if for the tiniest of projects, just so I don’t lose absolutely everything. Bah.

Some days, I catch myself calling myself a talentless hack. Other days, I refer to myself as an erupting volcano who can’t fucking contain a single opinion for more than three minutes. In between, I wonder just what I did to have Karma showing up at my doorstep, waiting for its daily turn at kicking my ass. I wonder where my spirit guides are and why I seem to be steered into a thousand directions instead of into one or two foolproof avenues. I understand I’m still young and have a lot more dues to pay, but come on. Throw a girl a bone, here! I can’t have hopeless day after hopeless day and still be expected to have the strength to face yet another day — one that might be more productive than I’d expected.

But it all comes full circle to “you are what you think.” One of my friends wrote me recently, saying he was worried more for himself than for his financial situation at the moment — as a fellow underemployed person, he was a workaholic who, like me, tied a significant portion of his identity to the work he did. And my feeling is the reverse. Money is the immediate worry. For the time being, I think I am fine and will be fine. Because I know that I am damn good at my writing and that I can whip up a party or a special event like nobody’s business. I know that I absolutely care about every client and friend and even stranger who enters my realm. I have values and ideals that keep fueling my fire. I have contributions to make to the world. I guess I just wish the world could kind of help me out right now so that I can give back to it in the grand ways I am planning.

Not saying that I want handouts. Fuck that crap. I just want my hard work to pay off in the form of money so that I can for one fucking day out of my miserable existence worry about something else. I wasn’t smart enough to save money when I could. I was born poor, I’ve been poor my whole life and damn it, when I finally had money, I wanted to treat myself to the little luxuries I knew I could never have had otherwise. I loved my manicures and my sales at Old Navy. I loved walking out of the mall with more than one bag full of stuff that was for me — all for me, just to enjoy! And days like today, I am looking around, wondering if anything has any value that I could just sell it and catch up on the phone bill (Curse you, AT&T Wireless, for your overage charges!!!)

In case it hasn’t been obvious, I’ve been keeping to myself a lot. I don’t go out with my friends and I have blown off a number of requests for parties and lunches and what not. Because it reminds me of how poor I was growing up — like, oh yeah, let’s invite our poor friend out. Woo hoo. And I like my pride too much for that. I don’t like feeling like there’s something wrong with me when everybody else is doing OK and I am not. And that’s not to say that they ARE doing OK, of course. But it’s a toss-up whether I find inspiration or despair, and I don’t really have the energy to deal with either. Not today, anyway. I’m accustomed to being the strongest one — the one who loves to throw the parties and be the life of them. This is a weird role for me, to just fade into the background. But it’s the only place I feel comfortable right now.

But again, I have to keep reminding myself that I am what I think. If I think I’m not going to make it, then I’m a terrified little girl. If I envision all the bad things that are swirling around in my head, then they’ve got a better chance of coming true. BUT … if I just believe that TODAY IS THE DAY, or this week is THE week, that something absolutely phenomenal is going to happen, then I can’t give up hope that maybe it will.

And because it wouldn’t be a day without me quoting Bon Jovi, “You live for the fight when it’s all that you’ve got.” (“Livin’ on a Prayer,” of course.)

Right now, it IS all I’ve got. And I’ll take it, because it’s something. And I know life isn’t always going to be this, well, disappointing. My well of strength to get to the other side of this is just running dry faster than I had anticipated. It kind of makes sense to me now why people get very much into their religions and pray for god or allah or whomever to provide. It’s probably how they preserve their sanity — to feel like somebody, anybody is listening.

And that is why I blog. 🙂 So, thanks for listening. Isabel says the universe will provide. And it will do so for all of us. I know I’m not the only one going through shit right now — we all are, in some way or another. We’ll get by. It’s the only thing we know how to do.

On iTunes: “American Dreams” theme song, “Generation”

From Go-Quiz.com

Via the lovely Apollonaire

On iTunes: Indigo Girls, “Closer to Fine”

That number could be the amount of curse words I’ve uttered in the past 24 hours or it could also be the number of words contained in my wacky adventure of a novel that I am spending entirely too much time writing.

According to plan, however, I should really be at 25,005 words. So I’m not THAT far behind, but every day, I tell myself that this is the last day that I’m going to write. I have too many other things to do that involve survival. But the novel-writing has been so therapeutic that it keeps me from thinking about living under the National Christmas Tree this holiday season. I’ll think about that when it happens. 😉

I have this permanent lump in my throat, of late. I’d love to give more details, but there are too many people out there who love to read about me suffering (reason #216 to not use your real name online!). Suffice to say, I’ve decided for the time being that it is impossible to be both happy and financially secure. You get one or the other. I know a doctor who wishes he had my freedom from a spouse and kids (!). He envies ME? I want his fucking bank account! Screw the family — can’t he figure out a way to purchase some peace of mind?

I don’t know anybody with a combination of happiness and security, particularly in my age group — I know I’ve never experienced it. And if you are familiar with having both, well, what is it like? I watch “Maury Povich” and “Springer” and whatnot in the mornings, and I see us rewarding women who bring in 10 potential fathers for their kids, and they’re being handed trips to Disneyland and financial assistance … we’re essentially rewarding them for their erratic behavior and failure to use a condom. My business (yeah, that thing I spend all day working on!), however, is not going well at all, to the point of me thinking seriously about torching my shit and backpacking across the country.

I am at my wits’ end. I really am. I have always been one of those people who lands on her feet, but it always happens at the last possible minute. I’m thinking it’s the 11th hour and 59th minute and 40 seconds, at this point. Failure to me is losing my car/apartment and going back to Pittsburgh. Failing is something I’ve never done and don’t know how to handle. Failure is NOT an option.

The girls at my rental complex, unsympathetic to my rough patch, gave me a photocopy of a picture of St. Theresa (I am not religious and do not know her from Moses). They told me to believe in her and pray to her. So, the agnostic/pagan here at this domain had a photocopy of a saint taped to her fridge. I’d do witchcraft if it would give me one good night’s sleep, quite honestly. I haven’t seen any results, though. They told me a miracle would occur if I just believed in her. But I am reminded of a Bon Jovi lyric (of course) — “Luck ain’t even luck; you have to make your own breaks.” (“It’s My Life,” for the unfamiliar.)

*Oooh, shiny!*

OK, unrelated, how hot was Jon Bon Jovi last night on the American Music Awards? I was so totally wringing out my panties after seeing him. *swoon amd slurp*

Anyway, I still believe in miracles. I mean, I just heard that a man set himself on fire outside of the White House, and we can always hope that it was Dubya, right? 😉

On iTunes: Jane Siberry, “In the Bleak Midwinter”

All I have to say today: Mandalay. Thanks to Isabel for introducing me to the fabulosity that is spring roll salad and eggplant and squash fritters.

Realization: I suddenly love to drive. Hated it for a long time, but now, it’s in my blood. I’m still directionally illiterate, but with Isabel as my navigator all day yesterday, we lived and we got to our myriad destinations in one piece. It’s like a game, driving in D.C. — if you get fewer than three scratches or one dent in any single odyssey, you win! If you only have 17 assholes cut you off and you only cut off 10 people, you’re in the bonus round! Blow through more than five red lights (without getting ticketed, natch), and you are a champion!

In any event, Isabel is an awesome backseat driver, swearing at everyone just as much as I do and applauding my car’s excellent turning radius, because we did a number of brilliantly executed U-Turns. 😉 Good times!

We went to an awesome workshop on Myers-Briggs Personality Typing. I was always an ENTP, but for giggles, I tested again and found that I am now an ENFP (extrovert, intuitive, feeling, perceiving). The facilitator was also the same type as me, and I got some really great insights into how my personality relates to (and offends) the rest of the world. And apparently my best love match is the INTJ. Anybody out there fit the bill? I’m looking! 😉 In any event, I’m a harmonizer, truth-teller and no-holds-barred bullshit detector who needs honesty or won’t invest in a relationship on any level.

Anyway, the free version of the test is online here, and you can assess your results at Personality Page. Our group was most interested in the indexes in relation to working better with colleagues and finding good employment fits.

One thing that was scary, though, was that my type — particularly the NF — is the most-often represented group among the homeless (a rank I am trying desperately to avoid joining). We are scattered and love to scurry to the beat of our own internal drummers. We don’t want to stay anywhere too long, and our hell is being stuck somewhere. (!) Yeah, that’s me in a nutshell, and that explains why I’ve been applying for work in New York City. 😉

Anyway, I know nobody reads this on the weekends, so I can be nice and verbose because nobody’s reading anyway. But seriously, the facilitator made an interesting point that he won’t go out on a date without knowing somebody’s personality type. And if the prospective date doesn’t know A) WTF this is about or B) what their type is, then they just aren’t a good match off the bat. I love that. This whole self-science field is just fascinating.

In any event, we topped off a full day with a fabulous board game party in Silver Spring, full of familiar faces. It was nice to get out of the house and, in essence, escaping the prison of myself. I am truly hoping that I can speak things into existence — if I were really as happy as everyone says I look and sound, wouldn’t that be divine? In any event, the resounding factor is that people notice that I just don’t bitch anymore. What has happened to me?!!? LOL. Well, I guess that really is one personality trait I can live without. 😉

On iTunes: Pilot, “Oh Oh It’s Magic”

So. Ridiculously. Funny. AND TRUE!!!

I keep joking with my friends that I’ve got this lovely toybox full of lotions and potions and whatnot, so I should advertise on Craig’s List that I need a “product tester.” A good friend sent me this link to kind of break my typing fingers before I could go that far, I guess. 😉

On iTunes: Ani DiFranco, “The Million You Never Made”