Caterwauling

Is it a sacrilege to put your scandalous underwear and vibrator in the same drawer as the Bible? 😉

How easy it is to fall back into the pattern of smoking. I’ll probably get through my little pack within the week, but hopefully I won’t be tempted to do it again … at least, not until this time next year. 😉

I’m staying in a hotel that goes for $300 a night (I’m here at a steep discount) and I’m so annoyed at the lack of tech support and basic room service (light bulbs in the lamps — that’s all I’m asking for, people!), not to mention the service at the restaurants. Outstanding food, no doubt, but waiting three hours for it in two different places? You could feed me a platter of dry-roasted ass and I’d probably devour it!

OK, ew. 😉

In particular, I think they had to fly Wolfgang Puck himself in to cook dinner last night — either that or my striped bass had to swim here itself. I’m not ruling out either argument at this point!

I do have to give mad props to Emeril’s. Food is magnifique, and the service is unparalleled. Headed to a steak place in an hour — nice to have something in the way of intelligent conversation to look forward to!

That’s the thing about trips — I’m so tired, all I want to do is crawl into a fetal position and sleep for the next 24 hours, but I can’t stand missing a minute of just being elsewhere, y’know? Because I can sleep when I’m back in the ol’ routine again, although I’m trying to figure out how to hop off the red-eye and be fresh for an early-a.m. conference call. That is, traffic (read: lack thereof) permitting!

Anyway, speaking of dry-roasted ass, I’m off to scrub my butt. The restaurant is business casual. Do you THINK I packed biz casual? Do I even OWN biz casual? Gah. I own suits and jeans, heels and sneakers. I do have some things in-between, but they’re a whole friggin’ continent away!

Oh, well. Worse problems to have, eh? 😉

So my vacation turned into a working one. Which is fine but after staying up into the wee hours to catch up, I awakened to a phone call with more work. 🙂 And when I checked out of my first hotel, I got another call with more work! Yay for the business center, as I was trapped in a homeless purgatory before I could check into my second hotel. But after that, I was free and have walked miles, spent lots of money I shouldn’t have and cleared my head quite happily. Fow now, anyway!

But boy, I’m having a blast — even though I’m incoherent and insane right about now. I’ve met a fantastic array of people. The fun thing for me about traveling alone is that I have no problem striking up conversations with people on planes, in stores and in restaurants. I even came across Mamie at National Airport again!

I am in a great hotel with a tub that’s as deep as a Pennsylvania snowstorm. (Or a D.C. flood. Gah.) There are a bajillion other amenities, but my time left is too brief to partake in much other than great restaurants, which is definitely the one thing I always make sure to do when I’m out of town — eat well! (And I bought a pack of chocolate-flavored cigarettes. *blush* Nonsmoking room? Not in my world. 😉 )

And BOY did I get a lecture from the gal who sold them to me! How the hell do you work in a smoke shop and be a militant nonsmoker? I only do it once a year, damn it — don’t annoy me!

In any event, I just ran into a familiar face in the lobby and if I can stay awake (and it’s pushing it at this point) I will have dinner plans. So hooray for that, although the lure of room service and a hot toddy are almost more than I can bear. … 😉

Just kidding — got the call to go for drinks and appetizers. I? Am SO There!!!!

Oy friggin’ vey.

So I was to catch a plane at the crack o’ moi this morning. But DUMBASS (dat’d be me) decided to start from work and not from a location within a stone’s throw of the airport, and I hit every GD traffic snag possible. Even on the back roads!

Kee-rist.

And then … the airport? Ran out of parking! Whee!

Seriously.

So the car? Is somewhere. Possibly in Virginia. Could be Maryland. Hell, it might be in the fucking Potomac River or an impound lot when I get back to town.

But Ze Plane? Came and WENT.

Yup, without me.

*thunk*

I got to the airport not 20 minutes before takeoff. Which meant no fucking way in hell was I going to be allowed on the plane. Which meant that my 2 p.m. arrival on the West Coast? Turned into 10 p.m. (Eastern) because:

1. I had to sit at the airport to wait for a flight to Philly. (A 22-minute flight from D.C. that took two hours to wait for. Joy!)
2. A four-hour layover in Philly.

Now, I know I have friends up there (I also hear it’s a good place to pretend to live in), but I ended up checking out mentally, shopping, doing some work and parking my ass at the bar at TGI Friday’s, where THANK GOD I had hours to kill because the incompetence was out of control. The only reason I left a tip was because a guy who was not my server kept me entertained and flirted with me, although he did take a break from it when a prettier girl sat down next to me at the bar. (Grrr!)

In any event, I waited longer for a taxi at my destination that it would have taken me to walk to the hotel from the airport, but I haven’t slept in days and am slightly delirious and not overly confident of my sense of direction. Or sense in general, for that matter.

I wanted to partake of some nightlife today but I believe I need to finish the project that I meant to start seven hours ago for work and then we’ll see about entertaining myself. Hell, sleep can wait till TOMORROW!!!

You know what kills me, though? That the only flight that was on time today WAS THE ONE I MISSED!!! There was a half-hour delay from D.C. to Philly and again from Philly to my undisclosed location right now.

It’s cool, though. I mean, would I rather be in D.C., indoors? Oh hell naw.

But there was good news today. I saw my direct deposit statement this morning and it’s a tad higher than usual. I wasn’t thinking the raise thingy would take effect so soon, but hey, I’m taken care of and I’m happy about that.

But you — the gubmint? Give me back my raise! MINE, YOU HEAR ME? MINE!!! I don’t see you putting in those extra hours, so give it BACK!!!

In any event, greetings from wherever I am, and enjoy the rest of your week! Thanks for all the well wishes — they must be working, so keep ’em comin’! 😉

There’s nothing sweeter than hearing your 3-year-old niece squeal “Congratulations!” into the phone …

… Well, I guess there is something sweeter — the fact that she said it because I just got a promotion! And the all-staff memo reads like an Academy Award ceremony introduction. Wow.

*cabbage patch dancing around my office*

No, I don’t mean that bestseller wherein some chicks told you how to land a husband. I mean, after spending lots of time with my mom, I get to see where all my neuroses stem because she’s one of those “just so” people.

When you enter her domain, you are immediately informed of rules that you must follow to make your stay a pleasant one. These rules are subject to change on a moment’s notice and mostly only if she’s the one transgressing them. 😉

Rule No. 1: The bathroom wastebasket. Don’t use it. It is for decoration only. Use the wastebasket in my grandfather’s bedroom, except for when mom wants to put it in the hallway, so you can then throw your trash in there.

Rule No. 2: Bathroom rugs. They must be removed from the bathroom while you’re taking a shower. Only use the designated bathmat. When you are fixing your hair and makeup, you may put a towel on the floor. But it is one of a pile of towels designated solely for floor use. When everyone is done getting ready, the original rugs must be returned to their spots.

Rule No. 3: Purses. You may not leave your purse or car keys in the living room; they will be moved and you will freak out the next morning that they are lost. However, if you leave your purse and car keys in the dining room, you will awaken next morning to find them missing from there, too, as Mom will have put them in her room. The new rule is that you may not leave anything where you will actually FIND it the next day!

Rule No. 4: You cannot park in front of the house. Your car must be in the driveway — BACKED IN — for ease of escape. You can’t park on the street because the MORON across the way just plowed into her brand-new car and caused damage to the tune of $1,000 and refuses to pay for it. Before that, you were NOT allowed to park in the driveway because there’s a big hole in it and you could ONLY park on the street.

Ya with me so far? Welcome to my world!

Rule No. 5: All doors must be locked at all times. This includes the screen door when I go out to my car (she locks it, waits, and lets me back in. And when I come in to drop shit off, the door gets locked again) and the cellar door when washing clothes. See, when I would go to say move a load from the washer to the dryer, the door would be locked and you’d hear expletives echoing because the door was locked and I had run smack into it. Gah!

Rule No. 6: Underpants match bra. Both match shirt. All match shower curtain, bathroom rug and tea towel in kitchen. EVERYTHING MUST MATCH. CHAOS, DOOM AND APOCALYPSE ARE ON HORIZON if not. Open your umbrella, as it’s going to rain frogs if the gutchies clash with the decor. Seriously.

Rule No. 7: Placemats? TOTALLY FOR DECORATION. You must place a paper towel on top of the placemat so you don’t drop food on it.

Oh GAWD I could go on for months, but now I’m traumatized. 😉

“There is magic all around you
If I do say so myself
I have known this much longer than I’ve known you.”

— Stevie Nicks, “Rooms on Fire”

I was just about to go into what turned out to be a really good meeting when my mom called to put my grandfather on the phone with me. Joy! I couldn’t understand him very well but he sounded almost buoyant — like he’s not in absolutely chronic pain per usual and that the “real” hospital is agreeing with him. He could barely hear me so I apologize to everyone in my hallway who heard me shouting into the cell phone.

I know Mercury moves out of retrograde Saturday, but I’ll take an early miracle, especially when it comes to him. Yay!

And there’s other magic in the air, and it feels like it’s surrounding me right at this very moment. Not sure what, when, where or why, but it’s there. Unfortunately, there’s a lot of patience to be exercised and strife to be endured in the interim, but today, I’m donning the rose-colored glasses. It’s fun to shine again!

I swear, that’s the next bumper sticker I am going to buy. Even if I have to make it!

I’m broke, I’m migraine-y and I’m in a fucking hurry. I take my four items to the “12 items or less” aisle and am second in line. I think, great, this will be the first and only time I escape that hellhole in less than an hour.

Haaaaaaa!

Bitch in front of me — who, incidentally, looked like she used one of those industrial-sized Sharpie markers for eyeliner — was busy slapping all 47 of her items onto the conveyor belt when I came up with an equal number of ways to beat her silly. Now, you know me. I can be a graceful Goddess when need be. But I’m so tired of dealing with everybody else’s idiocy that I bitched at her the whole goddamned time I stood in line.

She ignored me. Ha! Oh, what fun.

I went on a tangent about how I got into the express lane because that’s what it’s supposed to be, and who the hell does she think she is that she can clog up the line with her massive pile o’ crap? I asked her if she could read, because I clearly saw digits representing “12 items” and was it a language barrier or just a stupidity barrier? Because I could forgive stupidity, really I could. But outright assholitry is absolutely inexcusable. Was she trying to be an asshole on purpose?

The cashier was killing herself to keep from laughing. And when it was my turn (finally!) to be rung up, I asked her quite loudly whether she get a lot of morons like THAT one (and I pointed) or whether most normal people can follow a simple instruction.

Now, you may ask, do I always get my bitchitude on? Not necessarily. I always like to pretend that oxygen thieves will go away and die in a corner somewhere, but then they don’t and THAT’s when I get bitter.

Besides, I was carrying a giant thing of dry cat food in one arm and another big thing of catty litter in the other. My arms were ACHING and thanks to that cumb dunt, I had to hold onto them because all her shit was clogging the conveyor belt.

Perhaps that magic-markered eyeliner of hers had clouded her vision of the two-foot-tall sign denoting the fact that the aisle was an express lane!

Other times, you’ve got to force them until you feel them.

“Held for so long
Are you wasting time as it marches on
And as you intrigue with your smile
That’s what we have to believe.”

— Supine, “Smile Until Further Notice”

I don’t even know where to begin today. I guess with the good, which was that the boy I met like a thousand years ago? We’ve finally, finally gotten to touch base. *happy dance, genuine smiles*

And then? There’s everything else.

You can tell a lot about my family from the things I type in this space — the grace, the gratitude, the strength, the selflessness, the love. And usually all that in the face of events that make you question your very will to get up and face another day of whatever idiot safari you’re going to be dragged along on.

At any rate, I feel like I’ve aged 10 years in the past 12 hours. And I’ve got the best end of the deal. …

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All anyone wants is to be heard.

I’ve been away from the blogosphere during my time of tumult and turmoil (I know the words are synonyms, but it represents how everything happens en masse), so it’s taken me awhile to plow through everyone’s feeds. And via the always-empathetic and -insightful Lachlan, I learned about 300 letters to God being sent up shit creek. Literally.

“Letters to God end up in ocean, unread”

“The letters — about 300 in all, sent to a New Jersey minister — ended up dumped in the (Atlantic) ocean, most of them unopened.

“The minister died two years ago at 79. How the letters, some dating to 1973, wound up bobbing in the surf is a mystery. …

“Many were written by anguished spouses, children or widows, pouring out their hearts to God, asking for help with relatives who were using drugs, gambling or cheating on them. One man wrote from prison, saying he was innocent and wanted to be back home with his family. A woman wrote that her boyfriend was now closing the door to her daughter’s bedroom each night when it used to stay open, and wondered why. …”

Now, I personally would have sent them to PostSecret, but then again, I’m not an asshole. Why do I point that out? Because the guy who found the secrets is gonna sell ’em on eBay. Class-ay.

Around every corner is an opportunity to do the “right” thing. Even if you repeatedly blow past these moral speedtraps, if you will, some of them just reach out and bonk you over the head. I don’t know what the right thing to do with the letters would be — we’re not God; we can’t answer them. Goodness knows we’ve all got a few thoughts of our own that we’d love to have acknowledged in some way.

But I wonder whatever happened to the people who wrote them. (The story says half of the notes are not salvageable due to water damage, so we’ll never know who they are or what they requested prayer for.) Did they go on to heal from the particular trouble they’d sought guidance on? Did they think someone was listening?

IS someone actually listening?!?!

I’d like to go on the theory that it doesn’t take some man of the cloth to be a conduit to spiritual guidance. I’d like to think that “mind over matter” isn’t just some hippie hogwash — “love one another” and all that jazz, and the world will be fine. “Golden Rule,” blah blah blah we shall overcome our dilemmas and dramas.

Some people play air guitar — I’m sitting here thinking in “air quotes”!

The good (we hope) minister took the burden of these unopened secrets to his grave, and I wonder if he got some sort of karmic comeuppance for that. In any event, whomever set sail to the bag o’ secrets (as it seems to have been done recently and Dude’s been dead for two years) has an interesting story to tell.

Did they intend to set the secrets free? Most of the letters were unopened — was it the mysterious third party who read a few and wanted to keep these confidences sacred in some way? Or were they hoping someone would find these unbottled messages and do something about them?

I hope everyone who wrote saw their suffering abate. I hope everyone’s mental loads throughout the world can be alleviated in some way, if we’re going to go the humanitarian route here. In the grand scheme of things, I’m sure this was no big deal, but to sell these secrets is a horrid, wretched way of tempting Karma.

Of course, in my experience, the worse things get and the uglier the things that happen are, I always, always get a silver lining of some sort. ALWAYS. Karma may be a bitch, but I can cite many instances in which she’s played fair and rewarded me commensurately. Retribution isn’t mine to mete out, for She holds the scorecard in a game to which only She knows the rules. But I trust Her.

Which leaves me to conclude that if our letter-writers didn’t get the grace they were looking for, I believe the fates must have smiled on them in some way and brought them some sort of resolution or good luck next time around.

And in that, the world is turning as it should be, and will continue to do so.