Caterwauling

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*