Caterwauling

I’m going to temporarily lift my moratorium on workblogging to pitch a fit because the cleaning crew is somehow cleaning EVERY bathroom on EVERY floor simultaneously. My bladder? She hates me. And housekeeping, of course.

I don’t drink alcohol anything during the day, except for the occasional, glorious cup of coffee. I don’t really get off my ass much at all — I’m glued to the computer and it never fails that, the second I get up, something urgent rolls in. So, call it a pre-emptive strike.

But at 7 p.m., I remember that I have a bladder. And that’s usually what prompts me to go the hell home already. (That and delirium.) The ritual is the same every night: I visit the toily on my floor. Barricaded. Men’s room, too — I have no shame. So I will work my way down the stairs, looking for restrooms that are not filled with five women with mops and brushes. By the time I get to the first floor, I’m ready to introduce the mops to the business end of their holders.

I’m convinced they somehow beam themselves downstairs, or else send in their clones or at least close family members who will taunt me with their, “Oh, you wanted in here? Hah. Tough! I will hang out in here and laugh at your miserable little bladder out there!”

Seriously, for the next four months three months and 27 days, I have a 33-mile drive home. Please don’t make me do it jaundiced. I drove home tonight in 21 minutes — don’t fuck with a girl who has to pee. And sure, I could have stopped at a nearby business to relieve myself, but I was also trying to make it home for “American Idol” so extraneous stops weren’t an option.

As if I needed another reason to move closer.

Speaking of, what the HELL is up with the high rates/move-in fees/pet deposits/pet rents per cat/security deposits/ass-wiping fees that these apartment complexes have the audacity to charge? In BFE? Christ, it’s not a fucking honor to live in Maryland. Get a grip, you holier-than-thou apartment-management types. All I want is one bedroom and a damn toilet. Hell, just the toilet will do — lord knows I never use the ones at work. …

For those of you who’ve been following this saga, here’s the latest installment:

http://qwk.net/quibbling.html

Who knew 7-year-olds were so precocious at HOTLINKING IMAGES and STEALING BANDWIDTH? One would think that if the child were so adept at theft, a lil LemonParty action wouldn’t have offended her so.

1. If you could have the athletic ability of any world-class athlete for a week, which sport would you choose to try?
Sheet wrestling I’d love to be able to do gymnastics. It’s been years since I’ve been able to put my ankles behind my neck — I’d give anything for the flexibility. 😉

2. Who would you add to the list of the 50 Most Loathsome People in America?
Heh. Don’t make me link!!!

I’m going to go with Du(m)bya, as I see the right-wing, barking moonbat’s not on the list. Then add our merry band of Rick Santorum, Samuel Alito, Jerry Falwell, Clarence Thomas — the list goes on. Oh, and any of you fuckers who carry signs of mutilated babies outside of women’s clinics — ESPECIALLY if you make YOUR children carry the signs and scream at people. They’re too young to know that you’re spreading hatred.

In any event, back to the slackjawed imbecile, The Wall Street Journal had an interesting piece recently on how, if Dumbya were assassinated, that would make him a martyr and all his stupid policies and initiatives (that are destroying this country) would HAVE to be carried out — that we would OWE it to the martyred twit to fulfill his vision. Gah. It’s really sad that he’s less dangerous alive than dead!

I don’t hate Republicans, BTW. I hate ASSHOLES. Although these days? Hard to tell the difference.

3. What one decision do you feel has had the biggest impact on your life?
Hmm, “biggest” as in the superlative sense, eh? Not the seemingly inconsequential series of small decisions that culminate in chaos?

While I was editor-in-chief of one of my college newspaper, we had the fuckup to end all fuckups. It was a skeleton, overworked crew who practically lived in our offices and who thrived on our evil senses of humor. Me? I worked two jobs beside it AND took five classes AND lived off-campus (but never slept — I spent three nights a week at the paper). Disaster was bound to ensue.

Long story short, we liked to put nasty captions in the boxes where real photos would go. This was back when we did pasteups and didn’t have photo software. (I hated that wax machine. Ahem.) Anyway, we were joking around with a very libelous statement (that the son of a TERRORIST at my college. Yes, TERRORIST) said but claimed he didn’t. We put it where a cartoon of O.J. Simpson would appear.

I was exhausted and had been in bed two hours (at 11 a.m.) when the phone rang. The printer was — get this — half-blind and Polish (I shit you not) and wasn’t smart enough to paste the cartoon over the caption like the regular guy used to. So now we had the libelous statement with O.J. Simpson (during the murder trials, to boot). The paper had been printed/distributed and the Dean of Students wanted my HEAD on a platter.

I lived, but holy SHIT, Terrorist Boy and his friend the Other Terrorist’s Son stalked me for weeks. (We called them Shithead & Shithead, because both of their names rhymed with that word and we couldn’t pronounce their names for the life of us otherwise.) And yes, we attributed the libelous quote to “Shithead.” *sigh*

And my boss wonders why I am freaking anal-retentive about every single thing that I send to press. I have that innate horror that something is going to go ridiculously wrong and all because I forgot to double-check my work. *shudder* That feeling washes over me quite frequently, as I publish multiple items a day. My head hurts, just thinking about it.

But my editing skills? Superb. The Associated Press should fucking WORSHIP me.

4. Would you rather fart loudly while in a meeting with everyone in your office, or have a giant booger hanging from your nostil for an entire day?
Jesus H. You used the one “f” word that I cannot for the life of me say aloud! Let’s go with the giant booger — nobody said I had to be seen with it!

5. If you could have dinner with any blogger, who would you choose to done with?
Considering that I’ve dined with about half of the bloggers on my blogroll, I’d say that my “next” person I’d want to meet is definitely Erica.

6. Did you ever have a sticker collection?
Oh god yeah. And I was just as anal retentive at age 6 as I am at 31 — I wouldn’t remove them from their original sheets — I had decided I would save them and keep them in pristine condition. Everything somehow got given away or tossed. *sigh* If only I’d had eBay back then. …

I do still have several sheets of Garfield stickers. Because I collect Garfields and love him dearly.

7. What is your favorite board game?
Hate board games. Ouija board is about all I’ll touch.

8. Do you have one foot which is bigger than the other?
Left foot bigger. Eyes different colors. One hip slightly higher than the other. Yeah, I’m pretty fucked up.

Shotz

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn.

9. Do you ask people to send you postcards when they travel?
Nope. I buy postcards of landscapes for my own entertainment, but if you’re traveling, please please please bring me back a cobalt blue shot glass. And it should be glass, not porcelain or anything opaque and cloudy.

Here are some of my shot glasses — the pretty, tall ones are from Aspen (Colo.), Pittsburgh, NYC, the Bellagio Hotel (Vegas) and the Paris Hotel (Vegas). The short ones are from San Francisco, the Heceta Head Lighthouse (Oregon), Charleston (S.C.) and Presque Isle (Erie, Pa.).

I’d love any of you forever if you wanted to add to the collection — I’m sure I can provide some sort of reward for your thoughtfulness!

And the Eiffel Tower is from the Paris Hotel and filled with flavored condoms and lube. Now THAT’s a souvenir! Too bad I didn’t have anybody to use it on while I was there. 🙁

Again, anyone who wants to help me with THAT project, well, there’d be gratitude involved, I’m sure. … 😉

10. Ask me something.
Do you want to kick Bush in the head as hard as I dream about doing?