Caterwauling

That’s “coma,” not “comma,” although I wish commas were also contagious because some people don’t write with enough of them. But anyway. 🙂

Today kicked off with the receipt of a $600 phone bill, to top off last month’s $400 one. I don’t make this much money, people. Lately I’ve been putting in the type of hours that would afford such an atrocity, but man, this ain’t the way to start off a day. My bill has been manageable for five years; why the sudden surge? Apparently they say I called and asked them to cancel my 7 p.m. nights. I’m like, huh? Why would anyone do that? So, I did the honorable thing and upgraded my plan, because $120 a month sure beats $600.

*headdesk*

*headdesk*

*headdesk*

I’ve gotten myself mostly caught up at work, which is joyous. But I’ve also hit a wall in doing so — it’s taking me longer to crank out the creative when the space bar key is embedded in my forehead. I keep hoping that if I whack my head hard enough, I’ll induce the coma that I so desperately seek.

It’s not all work and no play, although the “play” has turned into “too much fucking effort” so the pleasant distractions aren’t so pleasant anymore.

I told my friend D. that my single New Year’s resolution is to become a lesbian. Because, really, I can’t come up with one single reason why not. Sorry boys, I’m going off the market. Clearance sale in progress, so get me now before it’s too late! 😉

Got this nugget of inspiration from the amazing Barbara J. Winter in my inbox last night. Shows we don’t need any special magic powers to make a difference in this world:

Another source of inspiring stories is the highly under-acclaimed CBS SUNDAY MORNING. … Last Sunday introduced me to a young man I can’t get off my mind. After Hurricane Katrina struck, City Park in New Orleans was left in shambles and abandoned by the city. This bothered 13-year-old Jack McShane who decided something needed to be done. So every Saturday Jack and his crew of Mow-Rons tackle the 1300 acres with their push mowers. Interviewer Steve Hartman said to Jack, “Aren’t adults supposed to take care of this?”

“Yes,” said Jack, “but nobody was so I had to.” The Mow-Rons motto is Weeding by Example. “Our original motto was, ‘The Mow-Rons are in the park. The idiots are in city hall,'” Jack says. “But we thought that was inappropriate.”

Jack has also actively recruited the other mowing volunteers. His father says Jack didn’t get his passion for community service from him, but that he’s learned about the importance of volunteering from his son.

So there’s that old formula for success again: find a need and fill it. Not waiting for somebody else to give directions or permission is at the heart of every authentic entrepreneurial undertaking. It never fails to inspire me.

I realized today, as I moved my bitching bracelet from wrist to wrist (to wrist …), that my struggle with faith isn’t limited to whether or not some grand deity created the earth but that it also encompasses the way I approach my own shit.

I am thisclose to finishing a HUGE project. And I? Am procrastinating.

I’ve put in the legwork. I’ve agonized. I’ve brought it into my personal time. I’ve done/redone so many parts of the bigger project that it’s an understatement to say I have a vested interest in its success.

But when the alarm went off at 5:55 a.m. today, I snoozed it till I heard “Bang Your Head” on DC-101, in tribute to the recently departed but eternally awesome Kevin DuBrow.

They say deaths come in threes. Add to that Sean Taylor dying of a gunshot wound (he’s with the Redskins. Which is like a washed-up ’80s band that refuses to stop making records, in carrying with today’s theme), and it’s like, damn. Who’s next? I still have Bob Barker in the dead pool, so we’ll see. 😉

And it was the prospect of not waking up, not being able to do everything I want to do, that finally got my ass out of bed. Not to say I did any good deeds or that I stopped complaining in my head, but it was hard getting up today. Someone told me a story yesterday about someone who “took a $100,000 pay cut” and I’m like, wha? I’d be in negative numbers if I did that. So would most of the rest of us.

And I’m not one to begrudge anybody anything. By all means, if good fortune comes to you, embrace it. But I wondered why MY time isn’t worth that much money. I work hard and miss out on a lot of life’s little moments — I wouldn’t mind being in a position to scale back if it means I could only buy a new car every other year. 😉 Shit, I’d be happy to take lunch every once in awhile — no need for extra pay when it’s really “Goddess” time that’s the precious commodity missing from my life.

So to bring this crazy train full circle, minus some stops at the Cuckoo Cafe, I am in no mood to come to terms with the fact that I may never make a million dollars a year. (Argh.) And I’m never going to work less hard because of it. But I do want to shift more into the mindset of not working full throttle until I get just shy of a goal. Because I know me — once I throw on the brakes, I have to be dragged across the finish line.

Maybe I’m not in the mood to start a new project. Or maybe I know that once this one takes off, I’ll have the resources to devote to yet another monster masterpiece that’ll kick my ass even harder.

I wonder why I fear and dread approaching the things that will make me happiest. It’s like how I seem to have this errant gene that makes me kill potential relationships — I seem to default to doing the same thing everywhere else. I hold everyone and everything at arm’s length because the moment I have tried to reach out in the past, I’ve gotten my hand slapped.

So, whether it’s friends, boys or projects, my new year’s resolution is to be “more than friends” with them wherever possible, and not leave the good ones early in the morning and definitely not overstay my welcome with those that don’t deserve my time. I tend to forget how valuable I am, and I’m even worse at proving it to others. I may never know why that is, but even if I get my hand slapped, there’s no reason to pull it back right away, if at all.

I want mine. And damn it, I’m going to get it. I’m sick of hiding my (theoretical) balls. It’s Christmas, damn it. Deck the walls and show your balls and get what you want this holiday season, even if you have to get it for yourself!

I’m already thinking about putting a moratorium on dating American men because, well, unless you can show me one who’s not selfish and spoiled and absolutely NOT worth the heartache they inevitably bring (and oftentimes on purpose), I’d be perfectly happier in a long-term relationship with my suitcase full of toys.

In any event, someone called my attention to “Older white women join Kenya’s sex tourism,” and I thought, awesome, now THERE’S an enterprising opportunity. Ship “cougars” by the busload (or boatload, I guess) over to Africa to find their “Winston” as they re-enact “How Stella Got Her Groove Back.” Ingenious.

I’m happy to give up my fantasies of being a kept woman in exchange for having enough money to rent a boy for the length of a vacation stay. Preferably one who is silent because, really, since when do any of them say anything without hurting our feelings or making us wonder if this is the best we’re ever going to do?

And let’s face it, is anyone really watching “Private Practice” because it’s a good show or am I the only one tuning in to see “Winston” all grown up? 😉

*pulling complaint bracelet around my neck because cutting off my oxygen is the only way I will stop bitching*

Was at work Saturday and Sunday in hopes of catching up, but my new definition of “catching up” is “not as far behind as I was.”

Today’s thought is, “Wow, I was here all weekend and I can’t believe how far behind I STILL am.” *thunk*

Didn’t sleep last night. Not one wink. Door’s shut, instant messenger’s off, phone is going unanswered. Too much to do and no capacity whatsoever to be nice on command. I’m like George Costanza but with a real job. 🙂

So at church today, they handed out these magenta rubber bracelets from A Complaint-Free World dot-org with the goal that, every time we bitch about something, we have to move the bracelet to the other wrist.

I’m pretty sure I’d need about a dozen bracelets on each arm like I wore in the ’80s because I am pretty sure I complain more than most. Today’s speaker said the average person complains 15-20 times per day. Amateurs! 🙂

As always, I walk out with more questions that I had going into the service. I was looking forward to today’s lecture because it was all about “containing complaining.” And it kills me that the one thing I excel at, is a mortal sin!

I think the most interesting thing I walked away with was that you’re supposed to tell God everything that’s troubling you, and no one else. With others, the best we’ll get is a little sympathy, and the worst is that we share our cup of bad cheer and bring everybody down with us. Which I disagree with in the fact that therapists would be out of a job, for one, and maybe even the fact that friends would be out of a job, too.

Does that make blogging a sin by proxy, then? That God is hurt when you take your problems to everyone but Him, and when you willingly pay your Web host and your statistics service and not tithe that income to the Lord, are you going to burn in the circle of hell reserved for journalists, paparazzi and Perez Hilton?

I guess I tell my friends some of these things because A) They ask, B) They care and C) They answer me when I talk, even if it’s to say that they don’t know how to help me but that they are willing to help me shoulder the burden because I usually come to my own conclusions after hearing myself talk.

Of course, I could also quote a BarlowGirl song, “I Believe in Love,” to answer that last part:

“I believe in the sun even when it’s not shining
I believe in love even when I don’t feel it
And I believe in God even when He is silent.”

I used to know someone who, when you asked her how she was, she always said, “Can’t complain.” And it wasn’t diluted with a, “No one would listen, anyway.” It was a very simple, effective, even jovial, “Life’s good,” kind of vibe.

I always envied her. I never really knew what she was hiding, if anything at all. I always thought, fuck, I’ll complain on your behalf, then. 🙂

But I try to be careful these days of releasing too much negativity into the world. There’s plenty of that already. On the other hand, lately my calm exterior has started popping some leaks, and vitriol spews from random orifices. (There’s an image. Ew.) And then there’s a part of me who starts to understand those who can’t be happy for anyone else — those who have to try to bring everyone down to their low level. I’m not justifying it, mind you, just saying that sometimes you wish others with happy news would be respectful of the fact that you haven’t had a reason to cheer for quite some time.

But then I have to go all “Law of Attraction” here and remember that goodness begets goodness. Experiencing fun and excitement and joy, even if vicariously, takes root in your mind and brings about more positive things. Instead of complaining about what you don’t have, you focus on what you want and wait for the roots to grow so that the things you want will blossom.

I wholly believe that whatever’s in your mind is what manifests into being, so why waste energy on that which is unworthy? You’ve got to picture what exactly it is that you want so that you’ll know it when it comes your way.

In any event, one thing that was said today was that we should be thankful in — and not always necessarily for — all the situations you find yourself in. On the year anniversary of the end of the world, I don’t know that I could ever find a way to be grateful for/in/whatever that event. My prayers weren’t answered. I don’t have evidence that anyone even heard them.

“Though I can’t see my stories ending
That doesn’t mean the dark night has no end
It’s only here that I find faith
And learn to trust the one who writes my days
So I’ll stand in the pain and silence
And I’ll speak to the dark night. “

When I lost my grandmother, I gave up on faith. But when I lost my grandfather, I wanted to find it again so I could question it. I can accept that things are out of our hands, for the most part. I’m happy to give my burdens up to God so He can point me in the right direction toward solving them. I know I’m only here because He wants me to be — that He put some dreams and purpose in me that I have yet to fully realize. That the relationship I need most is the one with Him before I can get any of the others right.

And that He put a whole lot of hot-looking attendees in the church, I think that was his way of saying hey, here’s your reward for getting up early every Sunday. Maybe He really DOES know what’s best for me, and isn’t above a lil bribery to allow me to keep the faith for another week. 🙂

All right, before this becomes a no-complaint zone (tee hee), I have one last bitch to pitch: arbitrary deadlines. Seriously. *kicks arbitrary deadlines*

*moves bracelet over to other wrist*

This shit is going to get real old, real soon. I might just have to slow down the complaining so I don’t have to stop typing to move my wristband.

Oh well, if wristbands get me to be more thankful, and hot men mean I show up in church more regularly, it doesn’t matter how I’m becoming a better person — just so long as I am. Right?

In this season of being thankful, I’m just grateful that things aren’t worse. (Hey, I had to come up with something to be happy about!)

I seem to have developed a case of acid reflux because I’m so behind at work. I had a project delegated far beyond my realm, and I got it back and my brain has since atrophied. Which means, the time that was to have been saved is now being spent salvaging the errant project. And when will I have time for the other project? *pops antacids*

Because I blog when I’m under pressure, I keep thinking about “Grey’s Anatomy” from the other night, how Meredith noted that she was the one who told a woman her husband is going to die, so she’d better come to the scene of the accident to say goodbye to him.

But what struck her is that this is her role in that woman’s story — Meredith would always be the woman who delivered that terrible news to her.

And it makes you wonder who you are in people’s stories, and hopefully it makes them wonder what role they will always play in yours. Are you the friend who kicked someone’s ass when they needed it, the great love who happened along when someone had all but given up, the wrench thrown into an otherwise-working machine or the one who could only wake somebody up by walking away?

I try to forget things and people that didn’t matter. But at the year anniversary of losing my grandfather, I pray that the string of asshole Veterans Hospital doctors, especially the one whose negligence ultimately killed him, feel the ugliness and disappointment that I have for them every day because their role in his life was ending it and the role in my life was ruining it.

Kind of makes you wonder what YOUR impact in others’ lives has been/will be. Personally, I don’t think I have any reason to have someone refer back to me as the crazy one or the useless one, although who only knows what role I have been cast in. I think back on so many people in my past and I guess, for one or two, I just hope that I’m “the one who got away” whom they shouldn’t have let go.

Hell, I look into my present and future, and I hope that I won’t be the one who got away from them, that they are smart enough to figure it out before I lose patience and give up. Further, I hope I’m not left pining because there was something that I didn’t do, either.

The good news is that in different plays, we are cast in different roles. I read a really great article on “Your Jerk Boss is Her Favorite Uncle”, and while I’m lucky to have an awesome boss, it reminds you that the douchebags you deal with in day-to-day living are actually pretty special to someone out there somewhere.

Perhaps it is not that they are downright douchebags after all but, instead, are only capable of douchebaggery when it comes to you but they are the center of the universe to someone else.

Which means that the people who make me slam my head off of blunt objects might be good wives or boyfriends or parents. Just like they probably view me as a cranky perfectionist who makes their lives hell because I demand excellence, they probably don’t know that I’m the person who will hold up traffic because I see a person crossing the street and I won’t move till I know they’ve gotten across safely.

Do we ever really know when we were, in fact, the ones whose existence changed someone’s life for the better? Do any of us who have a list of people we would thank at the Academy Awards ever let them know that they are on that list? Or are we saving it for a time with fanfare, if we ever plan to let them know at all?

It’s sad how people will get on the horn with each other to tell them off because of how they feel they’ve been wronged, but a simple call to say that “You were the reason I improved myself in this way …” is so much harder to make.

I guess the hopeless romantic in me will always be waiting for the one who not only becomes a better version of themselves because of me, but who isn’t afraid to say it. Because not changing someone’s life for the better is a prospect I’m more afraid of facing than death itself.

“I get to go home in one week
But I’m leaving home in three weeks
They throw me a bone just to pick me dry.”

— Stone Sour, “Zzyzx Rd”

I’m still adjusting to Eastern time and trying to not sleep just because my body tells me to. And if it ain’t my body telling me to grab a nap, then it’s the wild winter concoction of cold meds that’s knocking me out when I have to do a week’s worth of work in two days. Holiday? What holiday? I still haven’t even had a weekend!

I’m hoping a blog break will make me feel better, but I doubt it. I’ve been blogging in my head for a week straight. I could have gotten on the Internet, but uninstalling/reinstalling drivers on my craptop every time I changed IPs was fairly low priority. Life’s been full-speed ahead and I’ve been loving it, and this coming-home bullshit sort of sucks to no end.

If I could be anywhere right now, it would be on the Beach Level of Mandalay Bay. I’d be bouncing between the hot pool, the eucalyptus steam room and the redwood sauna. I’d be snacking on cashews and having hot orange tea with half-and-half, which tasted like a warm creamsicle, watching CNN and loving the fact that no one on earth knew where I was or how to get to me.

Since everyone’s asking, the boy. Ha. Oh my. I sort of went to Vegas this time with the mindset that I was bound and determined to meet someone — hookup, overnighter, whatever — and let me tell you, that universe? Is listening.

Not to say I did any of the above (and I wouldn’t say if I had), but perhaps I shall be a bit more specific next time I make a request. 🙂

You wonder about these men sometimes. I mean, they’re cute if they don’t have a lot of game, because that means they are either nervous or don’t do this all the time. I want them to have game, though, but I get suspicious when they have too much. This one? Not an ounce. But funny. Very, very funny.

I was out there at a convention (the town was full of Democrats. Yay!), so I was sort of annoyed that with all the men of class and money out there, I get picked up by the damn security guard. 😉 LOL.

NOT ONLY IS GOD A WOMAN,
BUT SHE’S ALSO A COMEDY WRITER.
WITH PMS.

So we were talking here and there during my stay, and he was trying to gauge my interest. So in front of my friend, he asks me, “Do you like chocolate syrup?”

And I’m thinking, the hell? Are we making sundaes? So I said sure. But then Gameless in Vegas said he loves his momma and his sister, but he really prefers “white meat.”

My friend was just shaking her head, wondering what the hell I was getting myself into.

So he goes on to ask what time I get off. I said, in textbook fashion, “Well, that’s largely dependent on you, is it not?”

This goes on for days. I finally gave him my business card (he begged) because my badge sort of had my name and company, oh, emblazoned on it.

And once he got the information, he proceeded to give me his whole life story. And he said he is never fortunate enough to get women like me — he always gets the wild, weird and fucked-up Vegas-types. And THEN I had to hear about his dead ex-wife, their three kids, his baby momma and their daughter.

At which point I told him to give me back my card. 🙂

(I wasn’t kidding.)

The worst part of it was when he asked what I thought about dating younger men. Now, I could look at him and tell I was younger, so I really didn’t understand that line of discussion. (This was prior to the four kids disclosure.) And yeah, younger men? I’ve got a collection of ’em that I’m proud to show off. 😉 But I told him if he thinks he’s younger, there’s no way in hell he’s going to be right.

Yeah, he’s five years older than me. So I said some pickup line — telling me he thinks I’m older than I am!

He just called — he swears he’s coming to D.C. someday soon. But I’ll probably see him next time I’m in Vegas, although I took myself off the circuit for awhile to give someone else a chance to go to the desert. Besides, I’d much rather meet a local boy next. (Hear that universe? LOCAL BOY. One with a good income so I can become a kept woman and stop this “working for a living” shit.)

Anyway, back to the digital salt mines. And while I’m asking the universe for some good fortune, if I can dream about these projects being done, will they get done? 🙂

It’s been a whirlwind week here on the scenic South Strip of Las Vegas. So much to report, so little inclination to share the comedic wonder that is my life. I have to do some quick work and attempt to sleep before a flight leaving at the crack o’ me, so greetings and salutations and adios and sayonara all at the same time.

Executive Summary:

1. Met a boy.
2. Saw Zumanity.
3. Bought Zumanity panties.
4. Ate lots of five-star cuisine.
5. Put in some significant spa time.
6. Didn’t gamble.
7. But learned how to play craps.
8. Have been snarfed/barfed on a million times and now I’m sick. Yarr.
9. Who the fuck cares about anything else? Didn’t you see in No. 1 that I met a boy??!?!

All right, be good until Hurricane Goddess blows back into town. Kisses!