Caterwauling

French Pedi, originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn.

I stopped for a French pedicure on Friday night, which was divine. I watched last season’s finale of “Desperate Housewives” as I got my calves massaged and my claws sharpened. I had to have mah talons lookin’ fine for my first/last stroll in the sand for the season.

Yesterday was spent in Chesapeake Beach, although I preferred North Beach for the frolicking part, as the Chesapeake Beach Resort & Spa seemed to lay claim to the only patch o’ beach for its guests. Pfft. North Beach was nicer, anyway.

There was a wedding taking place at Chesapeake Beach, and we ran into the groom on the boardwalk — he was smoking a cigarette and looking like he was being led to the electric chair. Mom had come down to visit, so I took her there to go to the beach and to have dinner at the Rod ‘n Reel (excellent food, shitty service. The server named Erin? Useless. I hated leaving a tip, when the people at the next table had the most-attentive server in the world). But the crab imperial? To die for. Anyway, Mom saw the groom before the nuptials and said, “You look handsome.” And the groom? Would not stop staring in my eyes as we walked past him. I wouldn’t have minded getting married on the beach. 😉

I saw the bride. While she was tanned and blonde and looks like she hasn’t eaten anything since 1989, I had a way better disposition. Oh well. Good luck to him. I saw them after the wedding at the restaurant, as they’d rented out the Chesapeake Room, and boy was she snapping at everyone in the bridal party. *shudder* Welcome to married life, buddy. Hope you didn’t lose your hard-on for your wedding night.

Anyway, I saw their cake, and it was adorable. White, of course, topped with two tiny Adirondack chairs and covered in chocolate seashells and sea horses, and accented with tiny expanses of white-picket fences.

Speaking of men, there was a very nice and good-looking guy on the beach who offered up his bed for the night so I wouldn’t have to drive back to D.C. in the dark. I don’t think he meant it in the way that he would sleep on the couch. 😉 His name was Egan. He suggested eating at Neptune’s, and I would bet my money on him going there to see whether we actually showed up.

Anyway, this is the end of my vacation week, and at least now it feels like I did something “vacation-y” by heading to the Chesapeake Bay. It was lovely to be without cell phone coverage — I only used the iPhone for its camera.

The visit was strange. There were so many signs there — lots of familiarity, like I was meant to be there. I would kill for a condo on the water. Not to live there full-time, mind you. I’m a city girl at heart and would die without having Tar-zhay within walking distance. But to just stare at the water and feel inspired and refreshed all the time? Is one of many goals on my list to experience more frequently.

Till then, I have some happy feet, indeed!

Went to the Rockville Chili Rip-off — er, Cook-off yesterday. Blah. It wasn’t anything special. It’s simple to navigate — go buy the Texas and Cincinnati chili from Hard Times Cafe and then leave. Period. A Frito pie and a chili dog are enough to make the adventure worth it.

Other vendors are supposed to give you free samples, but nobody had any food ready. It’s a six-hour festival, people. Figure it out. One woman actually was smart enough to put up a sign, “Not Ready Yet,” but a bunch of us stood in line for one place, then the next place, then the next place, for nothing.

But it was no loss — I did get a sample of “Blame the Dog” chili, and I blame the bad taste on them cooking up dog meat! After that, I was ready to go home. (Well, I went to the beach, but metaphorically home.)

The only real saving grace was the fact that it was also a music festival, and I was introduced to the lovely Sarah Buxton. Her band members were hot, so there was something for everyone to look at, up on that stage. I was looking for a good place to get rid of that last couple of dollars’ worth of iPhone credit — methinks a handful of MP3s will be the only thing I can digest from the 20 minutes I spent in Rockville yesterday. …

The plot? It thickens.

I’ve had violent images all week (and I wasn’t sure whether they were psychic flashes or merely dark imaginings with no basis) of one of our friends being injured. Information came my way (I am not seeking this shit out — honest. I hate drama. And yet …) that he was injured in a motorcycle crash and that he was at a particular hospital.

Which would explain why the bellowing heifer keeps e-mailing me from his address and calling from his personal and work cell phones. It would also explain why she just had a medical bed put in her house yesterday. (The neighbors? Are nosy. And they LOVE to call with info.)

Anyway, I called not only the hospital system I was told he was in, but every other one, just for good measure. Nothing. He’s nowhere.

She’s cruel, vicious, violent and radical. She’s also twice his size and bounces him around like a super ball. You know when your friends tell you to GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM THAT CRAZY BITCH, whoever that crazy bitch may be? FUCKING LISTEN TO THEM.

I’ve actually had images of him chained to a pole in his basement and her branding him with the cattle iron that obviously stamped “USDA choice” on her fat ass. How can you emasculate someone so much? And you think they’d want to go BACK to you? Lord.

That’s the thing — if you have to injure a man so severely that he cannot walk, talk or function, do you really want/need him? I know she’s as ugly as it gets, but to have someone who resents every fiber of your being that you’d have to bludgeon them and make them powerless just so they come back to you, it’s just plain sick.

Now, I want to get away from all of this. I can’t stand having 20 calls coming to both of my phones each day with 10-minute-long messages about how she wants me to die and leave her alone. When all I asked is if he is OK, blink once for yes and twice for no. I don’t care about the stuff. I just don’t think he deserves to be abused because she’s a fucked-up nut.

This is why I use the buddy system. I want everyone to know that if I disappear, there’s a reason for it. She got all my information out of him somehow — beating him to death, no doubt. If she gets my address, hoo boy. I’m dead meat. And I didn’t even fucking DO anything! I just intervened on behalf of a friend. No more, no less.

Now, there’s always that, “What can I do to save him?” Because he probably needs to be saved. I think she’s brainwashing him and she probably has his balls in a jar beside her bed.

And then there’s that, “Not my problem” attitude. I’ve had more than enough psycho for one week, thanks. Self-preservation, kids. I put my oxygen mask on first before I help others — didn’t the in-flight demonstrations teach anybody anything around here?

The psychic side of me is saying this is all going to end badly. Not that this phase is a fucking picnic, of course. But that if I don’t butt the fuck out, I’ll be chained up to a medical bed in her house, too. Her therapist sounds like a nutjob — talk about brainwashing. I have no doubt that there’s some electroshock therapy going on behind closed doors.

I called his job, since the hog has his work phone. I was told he was hospitalized (but I doubt it, given that he wasn’t where they said he is) and that he’d be gone for “quite a few weeks.” How the hell does that happen? Accident, OK. But nobody’s seen hide or hair of a 6-foot-tall man in a week. A man who used to have a presence about him.

How can someone go missing, right under everyone’s noses?

And who’s the next victim on her unhinged warpath?

All for him being happy. That’s the only reason.

I always believed that a life well-lived is the best revenge. But for the clinically insane, it’s just a red cape in front of a bull. And to the point that she doesn’t CARE that everyone thinks she’s insane (the whole neighborhood is talking), I don’t know that you can return once you cross that threshold.

Actually, this just in: He is apparently in the hog’s house, probably chained up so he can’t enjoy the freedom he had so briefly. Even though the neighbors are on a 24-hour drama stakeout, no one saw him moved in there in the middle of the night.

One of the bitches on the street is clairvoyant. She said she sees fire and tragedy on that street, probably at that very house. I have warned my friend to stay the fuck away, and off that street, lest she be a part of it. And all my friend wants to know is whether he will be all right.

He was allowed one phone call yesterday, from this prison sentence. A very strained and scripted message for us to stop bothering him. I’d recognize the illiterate cow’s words anywhere. I’m happy to honor it, but again, is this one of those times that I’m going to look back on and wish I had done something?

God will settle the score. I know it. I just hate that in the meantime, the ones doing the terrorizing appear like they’re actually winning — even if it’s only in their sick, twisted, demented little minds.

Everyone at work told me to enjoy the week of Maury and Montel. And my answer to that was, “Will I be watching it or will I be ON it?” Perhaps the clairvoyant in me saw the mess from miles and days away. And if nothing else, boy does it put the rest of my life into perspective. …

In addition to a perfume cloud of heterosexual-male repellent, Tom pointed out that I forgot to turn off my crazy-person attractor.

I’ve now officially met the world’s most insane person. Makes all the others seem like functional, normal citizens. Oh. My. God. I never dreamed this day could actually come.

There’s an old Poe lyric, that “You can’t talk to a psycho like a normal human being.” And yet, I keep trying with the newest nut. Because Crazy has something of mine that I paid a lot of money for and want to have back. Someone lent it to them without my permission — nay, AGAINST my stated wishes. Is it replaceable? Sure. But the principle is that I’ve been (mostly) nice and calm and friendly and patient, only to be the target of their mania. And there ain’t enough lipstick in Sephora to put lipstick on THAT pig. Lord.

I’ve always been the one to be the better person. And as tiring as it is sometimes to stay beyond reproach, I don’t stoop to others’ levels — I’d throw out my back. And that’s the thing. When you finally have had enough, especially from some asshole whose opinion has no bearing on reality and certainly not my reality, your options are pretty limited. I take Pisco’s advice to heart, which is to ask God to “please give that asshole EXACTLY what they deserve.” And move on. Quickly.

I have this bellowing pig of a woman who got hold of my phone number and e-mail. And boy, when I say “bellowing pig,” I’m being nice about it. I’ve been called so many names and been the recipient of an inordinate number of ugly comments that it’s just funny to sit and watch her try to get to me. The good news is that she can be obliterated with visual voicemail. But I’m sitting on a pile of threatening e-mail addresses and the IPs behind them, and wondering whether to tell the hog’s employer what his pwecious piggie is doing on company time. Or do I just re-route everything to the trash folder and call it a day that went by without seeing her obituary?

I just don’t get people who have to inflict their own self-misery on others. Nobody cares. Really. These idiots are like tornadoes, trying to tear asunder everything and everyone in their paths whether those folks did them wrong (per their perception) or not. You wonder how they look in the mirror and live with themselves, but then again, they get off on being obnoxious. So why indulge them? They continue creating drama in their own minds and then acting upon their ire that has no basis.

It’s not even worth it to ask why they’re targeting you. The answer is always the same, anyway. Jealousy. Insecurity. Boredom. Pettiness. Insignificance. No less, and certainly no more.

OK, so I did call her a double-wide, conniving, cruel, mean-spirited, evil, vicious bitch. Deservedly so, might I add. She says she’s calling an attorney and the police chief if I show up to get my stuff. *yawn* Honey, I have the FBI on speed-dial — let your Mayberry cops have at me. And quite honestly, the stuff I want back, I would probably end up bashing over her head. (One item being a television — I do have a delicious fantasy of throwing her through it and seeing her feet sticking out of it.)

Karma’s already hit piggly-wiggly with the homely stick, so I’m counting on God to finish what he started with that mess. I just find it funny as all hell that every time I say give me a time to get my stuff so I can get out of your life and, more importantly, I can get her mess of an ass out of MINE, I’m told to rot in hell. Please. That path has been pioneered. *yawn again* Me, rot in hell? With you? Delusional.

I’m not changing my phone number, my e-mail or my URL. Get used to it. If you want me to be out of your lives, STOP LOOKING FOR ME. Honestly, I won’t be hurt.

And BTW, Cowbell can HAVE the TV and whatever else. I’ll make more money and buy bigger and better. Honestly, I have just LOVED being calm and watching her head spin as I refuse to be rattled. For the record, silence is not a sign of weakness — it’s a sign of STRENGTH. It is also a blatant clue about my not actually giving a shit.

If it makes everybody feel better to rain on everybody else’s parade, fine. I will dance in the rain because that’s what I do — even if it’s someone else’s rain. The universe is watching our every move, and whether it’s a lawyer or a detective or Jesus Christ himself standing before me, I’ll be standing there guileless. And my suite in hell will have a spa and a martini bar, so I’d suggest being nice to me now while you still can. 😉

Had one of those invasive doctor’s appointments that it hurts to talk about, let alone how much it hurts to breathe afterward. Oprah girlfriend said it best — my va-jay-jay is truly painin’!

I realize I have given about 20 urine samples in the past month. I hate how, every time the need to poke or prod you or stick things in every orifice, they need to be certain that you’re not knocked up. Seriously. As if. But they won’t take your word for it or even ask.

Considering, though, that I haven’t even so much as shoved wriggly, battery-powered plastic up there in awhile, I admit that it doesn’t bother me to have someone rooting around down there, even if it involves needles and such. And hoo boy, it might have been a quick procedure but damn, my cooch has felt WAY better in its day.

The good news out of this adventure is that we finally have a diagnosis, and things are a whole lot less serious than they originally seemed. I have a prescription and a follow-up appointment in three months. Read: NO SURGERY. *whew*

One couple in the waiting room had the cutest baby boy. And he was flirty. I don’t know what it is with me and baby boys, but the wee one and I were goofing around for a good 20 minutes. The baby’s daddy was hawwtttt, so it’s not surprising he made a cute kid. I just wish daddy were flirting instead of baby!

Speaking of flirting, there’s a cute guy watching me right now. I just hope he isn’t catching my probably not-so-subtle grimaces every time I get one of these twinging-twat pains that are a residual effect of today’s snatch attack. (They say I’ll be back to normal by tomorrow.)

Anyway, I’m sipping butternut-squash soup from the Corner Bakery and slobbering drinking my beloved hazelnut coffee. I am trying not to go home, but genius just dribbled coffee on her off-white sweater. But luckily, those feminine-wipe thingies? Are fabulous at getting stains out of fabric. (I’ve also done that in reverse — used a Shout wipe on my hoo-ha. You DO shout, all right!)

I had the pleasure of being in Pittsburgh this weekend to watch the Steelers kick San Francisco’s collective asses over a yummy South Shore Steak and Egg sammich. And it occurred to me that the only time it’s acceptable for a couple to sit on the same side of a four-person table is when they are watching the Steelers play on a plasma screen, plain and simple.

Oddly, while I was at the bar (Fathead’s), I ran into someone else from college. (See here for the previous day’s encounter.) We didn’t talk — I didn’t really have the balls to go talk to him, even though we were really close in school. (He was the one we called ‘Fro Bro, again for those who remember. Holy memory lane, people.)

I had gone to the restroom and planned to say hi to him, as he was at the bar. But he was gone when I returned. Oh well. It’s not like I was looking for meaningful conversation — I just wanted to see that he’s doing OK. It occurred to me that we graduated from college 10 1/2 years ago. A veritable lifetime, by all standards.

But I’m sure he keeps in contact with at least one person that I’m still close to. That’s the thing — we had a solid group that started at Point Park in ’92. It’s weird — the group was so diluted by the ’93 arrivals. (Well, more that dummy me grew apart from the true friends for maybe more-exciting, but certainly less-loyal, individuals.) I miss that old group with Janna, the Chrises, Robyn, Jody, Becky, Ryan, Lisa, Isadora, Stephanie, Patti, Kristin, Scoots, John-Boy and pretty much everyone who lived on the 18th floor in ’92-’93. A part of me even wants to list their last names in case they go Googling themselves, because I’d love to know where some of them ended up.

But the good thing is, everyone knows how to get in touch with someone from that era — if you want to know how so-and-so is doing, you call such-and-such. This group, no matter how much drama arose, is still fundamentally one that wishes the best for each other.

So, I don’t think it was that ‘Fro Bro saw me and left — I think it was probably that the Steelers had won (yeah!) and it was time to go back home. Him to the South Side and me to Southwest (D.C., that is).

I think about what I miss most from my college years. It was the way I felt with this group of friends. I said anything. I could do anything. I had the most-solid support system around. I think, on some bizarre level, we were all in love with each other. There was just this, I don’t know, magic that drew us all together. You always felt safe and loved. You weren’t always watching your back because someone invariably had it. If we hurt each other, it wasn’t ever on purpose. I miss those days and those people more than they can possibly know.

They also had no problem telling me when I was making foolish decisions and tried to support me even when they disagreed with my choice of new friends. And they were so right. I can say that now. But I didn’t know it then. Or maybe I did and I still didn’t care. Yes, we all annoyed the shit out of each other — that’s what roommates, lovers, friends and some combination thereof tend to do. But the love in that circle, especially in the core group of us that did stay close till graduation and beyond, is impossible to replicate.

So, while I truly have no plans to go back to Pittsburgh ever, because every trip ends up being a goddamned disaster (y’all can come visit me. Seriously), it’s a place that I will always miss in my heart. When I get there, I can’t wait to leave. But when I haven’t been back for awhile, I long for the scenery, the people, the friendliness, the love of the black-and-gold, and the familiarity of it all.

If you who are still up there see someone I knew, tell them that I’m hoping life turned out the way they hoped it would. And if anyone sees Ryan, tell him it was good to see a familiar face, even if he didn’t see mine. And if anyone’s interested in reconvening our old rock band, Blood Clot and the Constipated Cats, I’m always down for a jam session. 😉

… I slit my wrists.

(Don’t worry — the furniture is tarped. I won’t bleed on anything.)

*sigh*

So I have a new roommate, who is a lovely person yet is someone whose baggage is filled with drama. I found myself comparing this one to Psycho, as the amount of anxiety in my life is about the same, although it does come without the mean-spiritedness that the other one could generate on a dime.

I’m suffocating, I’m dying, I’m looking for sharp objects. I’m not used to having someone up my ass at all hours, accusing me of this and getting mad at me all the goddamned time for that. I’m so tightly wound, one of my colleagues invited me to church. Church, people.

And I agreed to it! So, if you hear of a big, blazing fire caused by spontaneous combustion in the metro D.C. area one of these days, remember your old friend here and leave a nice comment, mmkay? 😉

I’m just losing my shit because I have a groove. I’m on an even keel. I wipe butts all week and when the week is done, I wrap myself in silence. No more. Oh god, no more.

I could tell the story of being exiled from a hotel room during a trip we made together. Well, she had just left her loser douchebag ex after a big fight. And it was 1:30 a.m. and the idiot followed us to the hotel. Whereupon he stripped down to nothing and jumped in the whirlpool tub. And she got in with him — just to “talk.” Which I don’t doubt. But at now-2 a.m. and I hadn’t slept in days and I was just wound up in general, but how the fuck was I supposed to sleep?

I grabbed my laptop and hid in the fitness room. Fuck, I walked on the goddamned treadmill in flip-flops to work out some aggression. Luckily it was only midnight where my best friend lives (now 3 a.m.) and I could call and bitch. I was going to get another room, but I’m already poor from throwing away money on senseless things to keep some peace.

I need therapy. I need Valium. I need Vicodin. Christ, I had five Guinnesses last night (my only escape) and came home to a barrage of things I missed during the mere four hours I was away. And I was late to my plans anyway because I got caught in drama with her ex and HIS ex.

I don’t think I deserve being called a whore and a bimbo and a waste of existence by some hateful, double-wide, conniving, bellowing pig who happened to find his phone and see my number. And while I told the cow that I’ve been put down by better people than her, it still shook me.

I hate drama. I eliminated all the drama from my life. Men hate girls who bring drama. I should know. I like my work and my life. Well, liked. Now I just want to blow my brains out. The side of beef bitch just called my phone now. Insecure twat — he’s going back to you. Be happy and leave my friend and me alone, for Christ’s sake. Karma already hit you with the ugly stick, but I’m SURE she’ll come up with something else to beat you with.

In the meantime, I don’t know how much more I can take. I really don’t. I woke up to my friend yammering in my face about what I was “too rude” to not listen to when I was buzzed and trying to fall asleep (in my clothes) last night. She’s come into my room three times to tell me that she just got a call from the insane buffalo. I DON’T CARE.

I can’t even sneak in a few minutes of vibrator time because my door is always being opened so I can hear the latest installment of the drama. NOT INTERESTED. But now I’m the mean one because I would rather read my lab test results than hear the drama. (I never finished reading the lab results that I got six days ago — I balled them up and threw them across the room as I was getting yelled at for being selfish.)

Life, I miss you. …

I am sitting in a Panera in Pittsburgh, and this guy was checking me out for awhile. Which, good lord, I haven’t slept in a week and had a terrible night at a crappy hotel in Monroeville last night to boot. But he came up and asked whether I attended Point Park College — which, oh lucky me, I did. And even though we never really ran in the same circles (he was a radio-station geek; I was a newspaper geek), I remembered his name and he was thrilled.

We caught up for a minute — he got SO much better-looking with age. I thought he was dorky-young-cute in school but he really is kind of actually hot now. (Tim something-or-other, for the handful of you who remember the glorious era called the early ’90s.) He told me about Ant and Lumpy and Amy B., and I was just wowed at the number of them who have kids now. KIDS!

He has a beautiful little girl named Morgan and he was saying that Amy B. just had her second kid. My god. When did we get this old? And how did all these people go on to find mature relationships and actually decide it was time to multiply?

I still get cool points for living in D.C., working in metro D.C. and carrying an iPhone. I guess here I am, wishing I could slit my wrists because my personal life is a FEMA-level disaster area (and, similarly, FEMA ain’t doing shit to help. Shocker), but I can come back to the motherland and feel good about myself again.

While I know I made Tim’s day by knowing exactly who he was, he made my day for reminding me exactly who I have become … which may not feel like much to me, but to others? I am the Goddess I should know I am. But every girl needs a reminder now and then. 😉

What I said the other day? About needing a massage, makeover and orgasm, in whatever order? Did I mention I’m willing to pay for ALL of them, if necessary?

And it’s sooooooo necessary. …

Dear Goddess,

I don’t know why you’re torturing me right now. Please lift the drama from my life. Or else send the sharpest knife you can find so I can slit my dainty little wrists appropriately.

And that two- to three-date curse? Yeah. I’m pretty sick of that shit, too. It’s not their fault they suck; but maybe it’s my fault that I realize it too early on. Give me some damn oblivion, will ya?

Anything you can do, y’know. We deity-types need to stick together.

Love,
Goddess

I need a day with no responsibilities, obligations or pressures to meet anyone’s expectations.

Today? Has SO not been that day.

Network’s down and has been for the past hour. Not that I love working on today’s set projects, but getting them done would feel good. Oops, can’t get to ’em. Which, waah. I’m just mad I saved my work to the network drive and didn’t put it on my desktop like I normally would.