Caterwauling

Last night was a series of victories:

1. Getting to join Tiff at the Nats vs. Braves game (and the Nats won!)
2. Getting out of work at 4 p.m. (gasp!)
3. Not having to go home (bonus!)
4. Half-smoke and chili fries at Ben’s (need I say more?)

So what if I got the invitation in the middle of the day yesterday and when I went to find my tennis shoes, whoops, I realized I’d already taken them home. (Drat.)

Am officially the only idiot who tooled around the ballpark in heels. Feet all torn up today but that’s fine with me — we get to wear jeans! and casual shoes! to work today.

Life is good. Today, anyway!

I was cleaning out my office yesterday (don’t ask), and I wish I could tell you that I am known for my brilliance, my creativity, my super knowledge of all things related to my field. But, alas, what I am known for? Shoe Mountain:

And everyone always asks, is that my entire shoe collection?

And that answer is, oh God no.

Four storage tubs full of ’em on one side of the walk-in closet alone, baybee:

Behind it is a guitar and a tub full of belts and purses. In addition to the other storage tub not on screen full of purses. Don’t even get me started on all the clothes I had to pull out of the guest bedroom and put in — you guessed it — storage tubs in the dining room.

Am girl. Also have addiction issues. Am aware!

Inspired by an e-mail from the MGM Grand today to find my “happier place,” I decided to try. Note that I’m not even bothering with the happy place –that’s way too ambitious right now. But happier? Sounds more achievable, anyway.

A friend gave me some interesting advice today, as I’m struggling to keep the faith in more ways than one. The advice was simply to remember that I don’t have to be perfect — that I am forgiven. Which was nice to hear at a time when I don’t mean to be doing everything wrong, yet it all sure seems to come out that way.

I was watching “Rock of Love” (because I am addicted to trainwreck reality programming) and I was watching all of these women throw themselves at Bret Michaels. (20 years ago, I might have done the same.) And I loved the one gal Destiney, who very boldly proclaimed that she was not in love with him but that she could be in time. It wasn’t that she didn’t like him, but she could not boldly proclaim “I love you” like the rest of the whores skanks disease machines women on the show. In time, she was very amenable to growing to love him. But it just wasn’t really happening in those bizarre circumstances.

I realized that I’ve found myself feeling like one of those whores skanks disease machines women. No, not that I’m whoring around — just the opposite. I’ve been rather disillusioned with the other gender and have been activating my birthright (i.e., Gemini) three-foot force field around my heart and, well, my other bits. Y’all want to go out sticking your dicks in keyholes and myriad other crevices, feel free. But my health (emotional AND physical) is way more important to me.

And, I guess, I’ve fallen off the proverbial horse. In my horse-riding hiatus (ahem), I half-wonder if I’ve forgotten how to ride. 😉 My numbers were very impressive pre-30 years of age. But they’ve sort of evened out over time. Sorry, but I want quality over quantity. And as the last few go-’rounds have been, shall we say, lackluster, I really haven’t missed it.

And when I get a rare glimpse of that elusive beast called free time, I’m greedy. I want it for myself. Because even when I get some of it, it isn’t much to write home about and it’s almost always followed up with a guilt trip on how I should have spent that time.

I guess while we’re admitting things here, I realized I have my ideal in mind. I have for a while now, I guess. And that has made it really hard to want to go look for something else.

But going back to “Rock of Love,” I’m thinking that it’s the train wrecks who have more mass appeal. Apparently having steady employment, above-average IQ, lack of hygiene issues and simply carry-on baggage (as opposed to the full-out mismatched wardrobes full of suitcases that others seem to lug around) are apparently just not that attractive in this town.

I had one of those pot-calling-the-kettle-fat moments with a hostile reader who commented that apparently it’s the size of my ass that keeps me from “getting laid” as they put it. Hah. I’m not saying I don’t have opportunity — good grief, half my workplace reads this blog (do you think I’d be nuts enough to write about that stuff?), But the fact is, I don’t WANT to.

After you get through all the “this is all about me” and” “tell me all about you,” you invariably come to the point of, well, this isn’t necessarily my spiritual soulmate but hey, a few more glasses of wine and you can be my soulmate tonight. It’s annoying, it’s boring and it’s stress I don’t need. Will he call again? Should I text him? Was it something I said/didn’t say? Or … oh God please don’t let him call. Oh God please say the condom worked — where’s my period? Fuck that noise. I have so little free time that I really have no raging desire to spend it that way.

I guess, again in that “Rock of Love” vein, you just wonder whose tanks they’re filling up while you’re busy trying to only put premium-grade fuel in yours.

What was I saying about visiting a happier place? Oh well. Maybe I’ll just go play with my Nintendo for a few minutes and recharge my brain from seven hours (so far) of being in various sectors of seclusion with people I need to act somewhat professional around. And I’ll try not to wonder too much whether I should re-up my dating site subscription even though I have an unread e-mail waiting for me the moment that I would. …

Paul Davis just passed away.

Blah.

I’ll always remember him for this uber-amazing song “Cool Night.”

Audio provided for those who actually come and visit my site today. …

Staying in the groove of my “One Month to Live” book-reading odyssey, he may have died at the young age of 60, but he left behind something that will live on long after he’s gone. I can only hope that I can somehow do the same, in whatever way I can.

Today started off with chaos, destruction and turmoil — in other words, business as usual.

Then it led into a meeting — again, all is right with the universe.

And THEN I ran to the ladies’ room to notice that my two shirts (to coordinate perfectly with my skirt) were soaked through on one side.

Damn it.

*shakes first at the entire water bra empire*

And it ain’t water in those padded puppies — it’s oil. I had this happen a couple of months ago, so unfortunately I am NOT unfamiliar with the level of humiliation that it SHOULD bring. I just don’t give a fuck anymore.

So I went home, grabbed lunch and changed my shirt. And I just got back to the office, only to stop again in the ladies’ room and JAM MY DAMN FINGERNAILS THROUGH MY PANTYHOSE. ON BOTH LEGS.

*taking Tuesday out behind the woodshed and assassinating it*

And don’t even get me started on some sort of legalized kleptomania that is taking place ’round these parts. I am appalled at people’s greed on the high level and basic discourteousness on the basic level. Maybe I’m being oversensitive, but I am thoroughly disgusted with humanity right now. *eyeroll*

But on a funnier note — and speaking of heads being firmly nestled into one’s nether regions — I was woozy from a big bad motherfucker of a painful project and stated to my crime partner that I was, in fact, woozy. The response? “Put his head between your knees. Er, put YOUR head between your knees!”

see more crazy cat pics

After consuming nothing but a frozen dinner and vending-machine cookies yesterday somewhere around 3 p.m., am feeling very full from a nice dinner at Los Tios and nummy ice cream at Dairy Godmother with mah homegirls this evening, after a full day of PodCamping.

Actually, it’s not just mah belleh that’s full, but also my heart as well. Thanks, ladies, for everything. *mwah!*

I usually keep my outings to myself, but this one bears repeating. We were talking about how, if we won the lottery, we’d join the ranks of the unemployed faster than you can say, “We’re going to need you to go ahead and come in on Sunday, too.”

While Tiff outlined her brilliant plan for tormenting people, Steph suggested she’d simply crap on her desk if she got the winning lottery ticket. I guess I went somewhere really bad in my own head after that comment, as I volunteered about myself, “Somebody spray some Febreze — I think Goddess just quit!”

I don’t think I’ve laughed this hard since, well, my friend at work and I discussed, well, our usual roster of things we discuss. 😉 It was just nice to do it on an 86-degree, sunny day on the patio of a Mexican restaurant with margaritas, sangria and queso for a change.

It’s been an emotional day. I finally reached the end of my rope and instead of hanging myself with it, I tied it around myself and anchored myself in a safe spot.

Something that’s hard for me is saying when or crying uncle. But in these days of my plate, well, runneth-ing over and the contents spilling like a chocolate fondue fountain, I am but a lowly suicidal strawberry — OK, marshmallow — floating under the surface that everybody forgot to grab with the “search and rescue” spoon.

In the space of a half-hour, I had a piece of pound cake tossed on top of me and I had someone come spear me and force me up for air.

Weird food references aside, I took a short walk (it was 76 degrees today!) and came up with a search-and-rescue plan. And presented it. And it was well-received.

Today was a day of meetings — about work, of course, but also about preservation. Of relationships, sanity and strength. The day started with polite death threats (no, not from THAT wacknut) and ended with the feeling of missing the anvil that Wile E. Coyote hurled off a cliff at me.

In some ways, I got nothing done today. Nothing that can be quantified, anyway. But a little dead part of my spirit found a pulse again. Don’t get me wrong — it’s faint and there are no guarantees. But with a little more nurturing, I think I’m going to live after all.

*whew*

If the squeaky wheel gets the grease, why are the rest of us forced to bend over and take it dry?

I was thinking of taking someone to lunch who, aah, is assimilation-challenged. But then I thought, fuck it — why not reward the others who actually were not put on this earth to make me question their mental and physical acuity?

Editor’s note: Wow, I’ve never had occasion to quote a Prince song before. And certainly not that one!

I don’t think it’s much of a secret that I hate being a pet owner, mostly because of the regular poop grenades that get lobbed around my carpeted areas. But really, I do love my girls, particularly my 12-year-old Calico, Maddie, who’s been my best friend since I was 22.

I took the cats to the vet on Saturday for shots and the vet asked if I’d be game for a geriatric workup on Miss Molly (one of my 40 other names for her). I said sure — what’s another $100 when you’ve already got me on my knees, bent over and accepting a half-shaft already?

What I didn’t expect was the call on Monday to tell me all the medicines I’d now be ordering and the conditions we’d be treating. And then the visit yesterday for chest X-rays and blah blah blah surgery this radioactive iodine that hey come back in three weeks for a follow-up mmkay two thousand dollars *eekeekeek*.

*headslam*

So I write all of this as a setup to yesterday’s visit. I dropped Maddie off at the vet and when they took her from me, she started crying. This isn’t a vocal cat. She purrs a lot but Kadie’s the whiny one. So when Maddie is protesting, well, it breaks my little heart.

I mentioned to one of my friends yesterday that, “If I were handing over a human …” and oh God, I am SUCH a girl. *swallowing past throat lump* However will I take a kid to daycare?

Anyway, I left work at a reasonable hour to go pick up my frightened little kitty. And in the waiting room was this bellowing pig of a woman who was, well, bellowing. Incidentally, we’d gone to see the circus on Sunday and it was called — ha ha — “Bellobration.” Bellow-licious!

So this woman was just SCREAMING. And why? Because she was in the wrong. Because she brought in a cat and had LIED about it having its shots. Because they can’t treat/board animals that are not up-to-date on their vaccinations.

She had brought in a cat because his fur was all matted … as she was screaming, “It’s matted around his PENIS and he PEES through his FUR.”

Oh gawd. I was so sick just listening to her holler — I was hoping the kennel where they housed my sweet, loving, quiet, ‘fraidy cat was soundproof, as I was ready to climb the curtains myself.

To make matters worse, she had a little boy, probably about 2, who was tearing up the waiting room. I mean, taking plastic brochure holders and throwing them up in the air, creating a majestic airborne display of advertisements for pet insurance. He was screaming because his mom was screaming, so she was screaming at HIM to stop screaming. (Oh, my aching head.)

My vet, to his credit, never raised his voice, although he looked absolutely exhausted. He took me into the next room to look at Maddie’s X-rays while the loudmouth complained about having to pay $25 a night to have her cat boarded and that she has a husband in bed with a herniated disc and she gets off work at 3:30 and doesn’t want to have to pay for two days blah blah blah *stabstabstab*.

There are signs in the lobby to please restrain pets at all times. I volunteered to the vet to write “and small children” on the sign. He joked that, well, the sign DOES say to keep small animals in cages. 😉

I like him already!

I think Maddie’s going to be fine. I mean, we’ve got a lot of work ahead of us but I feel like I’m in good hands. I also think the vet enjoyed me, because I asked questions and hung around and talked stocks with him — anything I can do to ensure Maddie gets good treatment, well, count me in.

But, and I say this all the time — after hearing that this bellowing mess of a woman has a husband at home in bed, well, I gotta say it. How did SHE get a man?!?!