Caterwauling

Some days, do you ever just feel like a bona fide fraud? That maybe you’re a complete lunatic to want more, more, more from life when you can’t even manage to make work what you’ve already gotten? That how dare you even want to make some sort of a shift because you can’t manage to juggle or solve the stuff that’s going to help you to figure out other things?

On the other hand, if you’re having a hard time adapting, can’t things just be custom-tailored to fit you? Maybe I’m a Gen Xer who’s closer to the Gen Y “make it so I want to be a part of it” mentality, but oftentimes I feel like I’m trying to force the proverbial square into the proverbial circular hole. (Although, dare I say that I don’t care *what* goes in the hole, just so long as it’s something!) 😉

I have a funny feeling I’m going to have an “A-ha!” moment in years to come and my older self is going to tell my current self, “Duh — and you thought you had to figure it out all by yourself. All you needed was an example and some help and reassurance.” Then again, the only part of aging to which I look forward is getting to that Zenlike state where I realize that I did my best and all that extra stressing out really didn’t matter.

In the meantime, I’ll try hard not to develop ulcers as I wonder whether I’m really missing the point because I just can’t aim or because it seems like it won’t stop moving.

I am exactly at the edge that I reach every few months when it feels like I accidentally swallowed a stiletto, which is usually assuaged (temporarily) by escaping from the world. But how does a girl escape to some exotic locale on a homeless person’s budget?

I need a change of scenery. I need sunshine and daylight and an absolute lack of being chained to a computer. I want absolutely no feeling of urgency to do anything unless it’s to make it to a facial in enough time to go catch a brilliant sunset somewhere. I want to leave a “goodbye, cruel world” note on the door and retreat into my own head for awhile.

So, where do you go for respite when you’re on the broke side, that’s safe to travel to alone and would actually be memorable (in a good way)? Beaches are OK (although I burn and don’t swim), but seeing kitchy shit like giant balls of twine and other oddball landmarks is NOT my idea of fun.

I would just hate for yet another decade summer to go by as unremarkably as the last. I can’t keep accepting this ho-hum life I’ve fallen into, or it will never change for good. Even local-yokel tourist traps like Ocean City or Virginia Beach are on the list (definitely in the budget, anyway). If I ask Calgon to take me away, where should I ask it to go?

I am sittin’ here, jonesing for a Ho-Ho or some other chocolate-themed goodness to get me through the rest of this day (believe me, it’d burn off by the time I go home). And the thought of eating something and my skirt thus feeling any more snug is enough to go make me throw up my coffee and Black Cherry Vanilla Diet Coke.

See, there’s the easiest weight-loss idea ever — wear your favorite clothes, even if they no longer fit. Makes you want to sooner stab a fork in your EYE than let it spear some scrumptious goodness that’s going to ensure the zipper that’s holding on for dear life doesn’t commit suicide till you can put on something a little more forgiving.

Well, it works for now, but alas, don’t think I ain’t going home and snarfing down some Black & Tan to make myself feel better. … 😉

I just remembered today that, years ago, I used to get newsletters from Contented Cows. I haven’t thought much about them because I haven’t been in leadership/management for awhile. Then again, I’ve never lost that ambition, to get back. Even though it’s the getting through to that point that’s the challenge.

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Due to lack of original content, I am answering survey questions. Via Lasadh. Courtesy of Sarcomical.

1. What childhood vacation do you remember the most fondly?
Virginia Beach, 1979. I was 5. I loved the water, the boardwalk and my little boyfriend named Adam. Awwww. 😉 I drank a Shirley Temple and I thought I was the shit!

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I’m slated to host the Carnival of the Recipes on July 2.

I think my theme will be “Fireworks” — spicy, sparkling and splendid.

Can ya throw a girl a bone and post a recipe around that time that fits the bill? I can post it here if you’re sans blog. I’m looking for stuff you’d serve at a Fourth of July picnic.

Bonus points if it’s easy, as this is the girl who buys out half of Safeway and Costco and then orders pizza and drives through fast-food joints so that I don’t have to cook.

Double bonus points if it’s a pretty dish. Photos encouraged!

… and tan …

(I’m talkin’ about stout, people. Where did you THINK I was going with this?) 😉

Let the summer threesome season begin — Ben & Jerry’s has released a glorious summer flavor hereby known lovingly as Black & Tan. It’s an orgasm without lube (or batteries, depending on your situation).

The kid at Safeway told me that there’s apparently some drama around the name, as B&J had to apologize to the Irish for using it when it refers back to British soldiers. The kid also suggested that the controversial packaging might be a collector’s item, which yeah, right — like I was going to leave a pint of ice cream unopened in MY house!

I think he was overstating the issue a bit, but this was probably the first time I had a checkout clerk not only speak to me, but also speak English, and coherently at that. That’s about as historical as this experience will ever be!

If the shoe fits, is all I’m gonna say.

1. Jeez, I get it, for crying out loud. Stop tryin’ to prove your point. It’s been made. We’re clear. Crystal. Gawd. And you’re only punishing yourself.

2. Aimed elsewhere: I think I get it. Well, no, I guess I really don’t. But I’m willing to find out.

OK, I’m already appalled at how much time it takes for me to get ready in the morning (so much so that I need a fucking NAP afterward), but the time it takes for me to get ready at work is usually minimal.

But then, there was today.

I got into the habit of getting a shower and throwing on jeans back when I was making the tri-state/District commute, as it was comfortable for driving. Now that my driving time is not even a third of that, however, I still throw on comfy clothes because I hate pantyhose and sucking in my ass to fit into whatever work ensemble I have just ironed. Thus, I oftentimes still leave the house in bejeweled flipflops and whatever jeans I had on.

I used to change in the first-floor bathroom, but these days, I do it in my office and oftentimes within my first half-hour of arrival, if something urgent hasn’t arrived first. Or if I really need to see my horoscope. Priorities, friends.

Today I decided to change in the first-floor restroom, for old times’ sake. It was mostly because this odyssey had to require an underwear change.

Now, it wasn’t for any other reason than that you just have different types of gutchies for different occasions. I had thrown on a pair of fire-engine red silk bikinis this morning, which went well under my low-rider Old Navy jeans with the cute decal on the thigh. But I knew that trying to pull off a flimsy linen skirt for the rest of the day (I can’t find any of my slips anywhere. Damn move) would require more, ah, coverage.

Hence, I brought a silky lavender pair of high-cut gutchies. Most days are a waste, but not if you’re wearing scandalous or even semi-scandalous underpants.

OK, so while I was doing the switcheroo in the toily, I figured hell, I should just throw on the skirt and pantyhose at the same time. But then I realized my gold jeweled espadrilles wouldn’t exactly make walking upstairs comfortable, with the pantyhose and all. So I figured I’d throw on the skirt and wait for the pantyhose till I was upstairs and had access to regular high heels that don’t have the toes separated.

So I went to move my jeans to get the skirt I’d had hanging beneath it. What I’d forgotten was that I had $5 in quarters that I’d meant to leave in the car for parking and toll-road emergencies. So I accidentally dumped out the pocket onto the restroom floor, and I heard someone in there, so I shrieked, “Son of a BITCH!” and, in my shirt and underwear and espadrilles, crawled as far as I could under the stall door to retrieve my lost money (screw the clothes — money matters more!).

Perhaps I was hoping I could find some dignity down there too, despite the big purple Tinky Winky ass in the air. 😉

At said point, I figured the hell with it, so I threw on the jeans and stuffed the coins in my pocket. I emerged to see a fellow colleague standing at the sink, laughing her ass off at me. I laughed too — what else can you do on these No Good, Very Bad, Sweet Jesus Why Are You Torturing Me Mornings?

I trudged upstairs with my lavender gutchies peeking out of my low-rider jeans. I even tightened my scarf belt a bit, but alas, no dice. Luckily, I don’t think anyone saw me skulk into my office, trying to yank my jeans up over my britches all the way.

And now I’m fully dressed. Whee. But at least no one witnessed me falling ass over teakettle trying to pull on pantyhose in the dark. …