Caterwauling

I took my work home with me last night and still didn’t finish anything that needed to be finished, oh, last night. I like to think of it as “empowering others to do their part” instead of “I didn’t do all their work for them this time.”

Anyway, we all had a long night — even though the old team is disbanded, they’re still all the names you see on Instant Messenger at stupid o’clock.

I say it not to whine but to sort of segway into a colleague’s brilliant idea for evolution. He suggests that since all we do is sit on our cans and stare at the computers for 14 hours a day, our bodies are going to evolve into a giant ass with fingers (for typing) and beady eyes (for computer-screen staring).

This give whole new meaning to telling one of us that we’re an ass. Am looking forward to having a reason to channel Pee-Wee Herman with an, “I know you are, but what am I?” 😉

Janeane Garofalo’s nerdy, nervous “Janis” character on 24 is simply not cocky or confident enough to fill Mary Lynn Rajskub’s “Chloe’s” clearly too-tight shoes. She cannot triangulate on command — ergo, what good is she to Jack Bauer? Damn government employees. 😉

I probably won’t be home from work to see tonight’s episode of “24.” (We pack three meals for work on Monday, or else we will have our grubby mitts elbow-deep in Candy Corner.) But so far, the season’s looking promising, with great shots of D.C. landmarks and even a “news” clip featuring Fox5DC’s Brian Bolter. I give the producers props for paying attention to the little details like that.

Of course, those seem to be the only details they got right. C’mon, people. Skyscrapers? In D.C.? Parking lots? No gratuitous Potomac River shots, not even from National Airport?

I’m going to try to give credit to them for basing their layout of the city on wishes and dreams, so as not to compromise our “real” national security. But go check out WeLoveDC.com’s liveblog from the first two hours of Jack Bauer’s latest case of the Mondays for a much-more-detailed look at the geographical anachronism that is the new season of “24.”

So, after what I like to call a “fail-filling” day because, well, it was so very full of FAIL, I got great news tonight … that I lost 4 pounds during the holidays.

Sure, I skipped last week’s meeting so the loss was for two weeks. But still, I’ve practically had a feed bag (of FAIL) strapped to my face since mid-December. The hell?

I can only suspect that actually eating real food and not living on all things vegetable- and soy-based did great things for my system. I had cookies for dinner last night, since I worked late and everyone who didn’t want to keep sinful foods around their houses ever-so-graciously brought in their crap for the rest of us. Gee, thanks!

Anyway, whee being 0.2 pounds away from my next goal. Of course, I wore paper-thin clothes today — it might be a little harder to show a loss next week, when I resume dressing for sleet and snow. 🙂

I was paid a compliment earlier today by, well, let’s say someone who’s never paid me a compliment before. She told me to feel free to keep on wasting away, but to leave some meat on my bones. Just a little — something for someone to hold on to. I was stunned and pleased that she even noticed, let alone said something!

I was going to write about how sucktacular my day was otherwise, because it was, but it feels good to say nice things so I’m going to keep on going. (I’ve got smelling salts for those of you who just fainted. …)

With it being a new year, naturally I figured we’d see some new faces at my de-pudgification meeting. And one in particular stood out — well, her story did, anyway, and I wanted to write it down and remember it because it’s inspiring.

We all know that pudgiliciousness leads to infertility. Which is kind of funny when I think about all the birth control I’ve consumed, probably for nothing. (But since birth control can also be so very full of FAIL, I don’t regret it. Not one bit.)

Anyway, a new girl joined tonight who works for a local fertility clinic. And she said Weight Watchers is probably the biggest boon to the fertility industry she’s witnessed, and she’s living proof. Apparently she had joined WW two years ago and was going to pursue IVF treatments. Well, after she lost her initial 10%, she dropped out of the program because, surprise, she had gotten pregnant!

She says that happens all the time. Imagine the hundreds of thousands of dollars saved in fertility treatments simply because women took steps to get healthy. Wow. Just, wow.

So, now her son is 10 months old and she’s ready to lose weight again. I had to applaud that. I mean, I applaud for everyone, but it’s neat how people make such an impact on those who are listening, even if she will never know that I was sitting directly behind her, in awe of every word.

I actually wore clothes that fit today, which I don’t often do — I was explaining the “Hammer pants” phenomenon, how all my pants crotches hang by my knees and my pants drag on the floor; maybe M.C. Hammer’s sense of style came from a big weight loss? — and my group of friends was double-taking and asking how much I’ve gotten rid of so far. With the 0.2 that I have to lose to get to an even number, it’ll be 47 pounds gone in seven months.

What’s cool is how, with all the new people in the meeting, I’m plain old average, size-wise. Sure, I’m still pudgilicious by all accounts. Ain’t no mistaking me for a supermodel anytime soon, trust me on that. But instead of always looking around at those who’ve been there longer than me and seeing how far I have to go, I could kind of sit back and enjoy how far I’ve come, too.

I was just looking at my final paycheck of the year and feeling grateful to have one, yes, but also rather stunted, that my standard of living is defined by the salary I agreed to at one job. (I should have multiple profit centers — my income should not be capped — my creativity should be paying me off, again and again, if only I’d harness it.)

But the same is true for my life. Because I’ve had this or that wrong with me, or because my ass was the size of a small island, my enjoyment of my time on this earth has been severely curtailed.

I mean, not just the health or the fear aspect of dropping dead at a moment’s notice, but you wonder what kind of relationships or jobs you would have had, or whether the ones you’ve experienced would have been different … and how.

Anyway, I’m just watching the new season of “Biggest Loser” and being genuinely angry that nine people who need help are being sent home tonight, on the very first episode. So I’m going to end this feel-good fuzzy-wuzzy fest now and just be glad that, at my present weight, I would never have qualified for this season.

And while I won’t focus on it, I’ll never forget that, six months ago, I could very well have been “big” enough to be on the biggest season of the show in history.

If I were younger or dumber or looking to get fired, I would write about my day. But let’s assume that I’ve just spent the last 5,000 words describing every tool in the box, and we can all move on from here. 😉

I feel better already!

Actually, you know what’s been making me happy in my captivity these past few days? VH1’s 100 Greatest Hard Rock Songs of All Time countdown. Who knew that all the songs that defined my youth would appear in a five-hour retrospective special on the former Video Hits One, where adult contemporary once went to die?

I had to giggle when one of my F-book friends from high school became a fan of Poison. We were all such wannabe hoochies, dressing up like Madonna as we went to all the heavy metal concerts we could afford from our summer camp job money. She was going to marry C.C. Deville while I was lusting after a three-way with Jon Bon Jovi and Kip Winger.

My dreams haven’t changed all that much. 😉

I’d say “seriously, though,” as a transition to the next thought, but I ain’t kidding … not one bit!

Nothing makes me happier than either dancing around Metro stations with R&B on the iPhone (check the security cameras at Metro Center from last weekend. You’d be amused), or listening to all that “devil music.” At a time when I’m feeling particularly lost and devoid of the bulk of life’s pleasures, it’s weird how I rediscovered my soul while listening to Megadeth and Dio and Dokken and Ratt and Motley Crue and Alice Cooper and all the other music that is now too loud because I’m too old. 😉

I don’t have any deep epiphany beyond remembering when I was a wee lass, scribbling my early books in my spiral-bound notebooks for school, while listening to that music. Dreaming of those rock stars, of being the one they pulled up on stage for a song or two, of being a rock star someday myself and traveling the world and living the shit out of every day I was lucky enough to have been given.

I wrote my first book 20 years ago. It wasn’t any good and I’m sure I lost it about 85 moves ago (one hopes). But man, the dreams I had and the stories they inspired.

Wistful. I was so wistful. Now I’m nostalgic for that wistfulness. Funny, that. I always figured that, in 20 years (from then), I’d either still be partying like a rock star or I will have done all my partying and then I’d be settling down a little bit into a real life.

Not that I ever saw myself as a corporate type — I figured I’d be wearing flip-flops to work and being a cool mom who wasn’t embarrassing for the kids to be seen in public with.

And I do wear flip-flops to work — the better for sitting barefoot and Indian-style in my ergonomic chair — I just shove on “real” shoes for meetings lest anyone see my flagrant disregard for things like rules and decorum!!

I wonder if my Poison-loving friend would be shocked to know how many different kinds of music I follow these days. How I’d rush to the next Lillith Fair, were it ever reprised. How you might never catch me country line-dancing, but I know all the lyrics. How when you see me grooving and lip-syncing on the Orange Line, I’ve got some Montell Jordan/Next/Rico Love jam going on. And in the middle of it all, a little Christian/gospel for good measure?

Anyway, I totally get why older folk listen to the “golden oldies” station. It’s not really that they don’t like “that rock ‘n roll music” — it just didn’t define their dreams, their memories, their generation the way it did mine.

*making the ‘devil horns’ and headbanging, and then taking an Excedrin ’cause OW!*

I’ve been walking around, knowing that I need to make changes in every area of my life, and not knowing where to start.

And then I accidentally turned on “Bromance” and decided that, yes, that’s what I need. Not a reality show, but someone to call once in a while and hang out with.

The rules are simple:

1. At least split the damn bill once in a while. Between the one who forgot their credit card every single Friday night and, well, those who want to go certain places and yet sit there with a glass of water until I intervene, I’m drained.

2. Pick up the phone on the rare occasion I need to talk about something. I don’t call often. In fact, I’m more likely to text or Tweet. I realized last night that I haven’t had a heart-to-heart with anyone in over a month. No wonder I’m clawing at my own skin.

3. Must be a foodie. If you turn up your nose at gourmet fare and can’t help me to cross off all those restaurants on my “must-try” list, stop reading.

4. Wine consumption mandatory. Preferably in large quantities. It goes without saying that my quota on long-distance ‘ho-mances is full. Must be local. Within stumbling distance, preferably.

5. Help me to get motivated to get off my butt and exercise. You’re not doing me any favors if you enable my own enabling ass.

All right, well, I’m no Brody Jenner so I’m not going to be throwing any parties with lingeries and pole dancers to let everyone compete for my affections. Of course, there can be more than one winner.

I can’t call it a “Bromance,” but how about “‘Ho-mance”? All right, people. Whore yourselves out and let’s see if we can put Brody and Frankie’s relationship to shame!

Even though I celebrated the shit out of Festivus (i.e., the airing of grievances) this year, little has changed. There was progress on one front, which I am thrilled about. But I’m impatient for more results.

Since I decided I’m not going to have a panic attack when I turn (*gulp*) 35 later this year, I seem to be celebrating early and, instead of making plans for the new year, I’m finding that my focus is now wandering to exactly where I didn’t want it to go in May, and that would be where I haven’t gotten yet, and pondering why.

Adding to the domino effect of disappointment after being tapped out beyond my resources, I’ve also been feeling rather trapped after yet another ill-fated dating foray because, let’s face it, it was a much-needed distraction. Not that I was all that into him, and I knew it. But still, I don’t need to be in love to get out of the house … I just need an invitation. 😉

But my brain got a little bit of relief today when, incidentally, I did get out of the house for church for a whole hour. (Since I’m always grounded. At 34. Grounded with guilt trips.)

I don’t know what got into the pastor, but he was even more “on” than usual. He was preaching about creating an authentic community, and I was rather pleased when he acknowledged those of us he knows are cringing when we’re forced to stand up and greet other church patrons.

Ooh, that’s so me. I absolutely dread the part of the service where we’re told to play nice. I don’t want people to look into my eyes and know I’m just not all right these days.

I don’t want to slap on a goofy grin when I’ve just lost my shit on someone who might not have deserved it. (Even though they might have poked the penguin for the 10,000th time, though, they still make me feel like shit when the only response I have left is to explode.)

Anyway, I got lost in a story about the pastor and his wife in the early years of their marriage. They bought a dump of a house and lived in a friend’s garage while they renovated it. And what he said — “We did our vocation by day, and came home to our dream at night” — knocked off my froggy socks.

And I thought about all those people at workplaces across America who act like someone whizzed in their Cheerios, as well as those who take the opposite tack and put on a sanctimonious ray of sunshine, and suddenly I didn’t feel so alone in feeling like I’m living someone else’s life 24/7 and not knowing whether to shit or go sailing most days.

I mean, I try to be cordial. When I had a happy (read: alone) home life, I always had enough joy to go around during the day. And then I got my peace to recharge in the evenings. But I also used to hang with a group that got each other, no matter what our moods. And I’m overly aware that I need to change to fit in where I am. And THAT stresses me out more.

Now every moment of every day, morning and night, is tense for me. Sure, it is my choice to feel the way I feel. But I don’t how not to feel that way and I was never one to make excuses for being exactly who I am. But I do pity the first fool who visits me every morning and expects that I’m NOT going to gnaw his little head off. *nom nom nom*

But what the pastor said — “they came home to their dream at night” … wow. I mean, sure, in retrospect it was just a little dump of a first house that would be replaced by bigger and better. But what got them through the day at work was knowing that they were coming home each night to build a life.

Meanwhile, the rest of us seem to just come home for Round 2 of the “Try Not to Kill Anyone” Polka. Only difference is, at least we’re PAID not to kill anyone in the earlier part of the day. 😉

Anyway, even though I guess I never really came home to my dream at night, on some level I really did. I always figured that I had to get rid of roommate-types so I could enjoy my own company so that someone else, of the male variety, would come to enjoy my company almost as much as I do. What do they call that? Oh yeah. Making progress.

Now I’ve regressed and just living the dream nightmare. But even though I can hide in my locked bedroom with the shades drawn if I really want to be alone, I’m not happy anymore. At all. I could deal with a dry spell in my career when I had free time and hobbies and, oh let’s spell it out, free will to come and go as I pleased on my off time. But for work to be a welcome escape from my free time? That ain’t right.

I know today’s church message was to immerse yourself in community, that God intended for us to be social creatures who work in tandem for the greater good, and that we’re here to fulfill God’s dreams and not necessarily just our own. But what do you do if you just don’t have another iota of yourself left to give, because she just isn’t there anymore?

Son of a bitch.

Just learned there’s a Bloggers’ Cruise leaving from New Orleans on Feb. 7.

And did I mention how much I’ve been wanting to go to NoLa? And Cozumel, for that matter?

Son of a bitch.

I’ll be out of town that day (note to self: book your damn flight already), not that I could go on the damn five-day cruise to Mexico anyway, since I’ve not hit the goal weight at which I was going to get my passport done.

/*cry*/

Am down for the count with a nasty sinus infection. I’m actually mostly OK and don’t have to be self-imprisoned in my freezing-fucking-cold apartment. But since I was informed I have to drag along my little sister if I go out, well, I did what I always do and climbed up on the cross decided not to go out at all.

I never did make it to my de-pudgification meeting this week. I meant to go today but was besieged by girlie aches and pains (in addition to the perennial ass-pain next-door). But to my credit this week, I finally got back into the groove of writing down everything I’ve consumed — I find that when I stop recording, I start ballooning. (See: lying on the bed the past two weeks to zip up jeans.)

And perhaps my biggest problem both during the holidays as well as now is not necessarily that I’m indulging in bad things. Quite the contrary. It’s the portion sizes that I’ve been letting escape me. Sure, the occasional one-point cookie is fine. But a whole box in two days for 12 points … what made me think THAT was a good idea?

Even though I did indulge myself during the past few weeks by eating meats and potatoes and pastas and sauces that I would normally steer clear from, nothing was inherently terrible and, quite honestly, I won’t miss any of it for a long while again now that I’ve had it. It was mostly as good as I remembered. But I tell you, eating a whole bag of apple slices yesterday (see: “portion creep”) was just as tasty and as filling as could be. And refreshing, too, since I wasn’t the slightest bit guilty over eating (also, “overeating”) froot.

What I do miss are two things: extra-cheese-with-pepperoni pizzas from Potomac Pizza and the stromboli from Ledo’s. These weren’t everyday eats, but rather rewards after Friday nights that were spent at work. (Assuming anything was still OPEN when I got out.)

There were a lot of those nights. Which explains a lot.

I have no idea why I’m even confessing this right now, given that my taste buds are pretty much drowning in a river of sinus snot. I guess it’s the habits that I miss — the little traditions of things that would cheer me up and satisfy me after a grueling day in a way a Boca burger on a half-slice of double-fiber bread never will.

Oh, and I also stopped smoking again. Whee. Which I did 4 1/2 years ago but when I started dieting earlier this year, it just made sense to revive one vice to replace the other. I never had more than 2 or 3 smokes in a day, and usually none on weekends unless I had to be social.

Since it was quitting smoking that led me to satisfy my oral fixation at the fridge, I figured reversing it would help. And to some extent, it might have. But what’s going to satisfy my oral fixation now, other than yelling at people who piss me off simply for the fact that they’re breathing? 😉

Thanks to a New Year’s Eve misadventure, my formerly beloved Bilbo Baggins bar/restaurant is heretofore known as Dildo Baggins.

It’s a shame, too, since the beer list is killer, the wine list isn’t too shabby, the bartenders are absolute babydolls, and it’s a special place for us because it’s where Internet friends turn into bona fide, cherished friends for life.

It’s also where I turned slightly homicidal on NYE when all I wanted to do was kill time before First Night fireworks that, incidentally, didn’t happen because it was too windy and I would NEVER have made this damn reservation had I known that.

Here’s my Open Table review, since it killed me to write it but I’m not one to have a shitty experience and not share it with the world:

I’ve dined at Bilbo’s about a dozen times in the last two years and expected it would be a great place to spend NYE. Well, that’s the last special occasion I’m giving this place.

My reservation was for 9 p.m. At 9:36, I asked our hostess to re-seat us in a section where servers were actually SERVING people. I was in the back room that had six tables, so it was hard to miss us.

When a server finally did come by at 9:45, I ordered the “Terrine 208,” which promised prosciutto mousse and Gruyere on crepes. Really? I got ham and cheese strips over a bed of onion slices. I hate onions but I was too hungry to complain.

The bartenders are great and the hostess was apologetic, but I’m disappointed at how I had to usher in 2009: with incompetence.

Open Table also gives you the chance to write a small note to the restaurant. Which, I’ll give the longer version of the story.

OK, when I go to any restaurant, I usually start at the bar and take my drinks to the table. I had been having a great time at the bar and loved the servers. So, I wanted to order another round before I cashed out, so that I could give the bar staff a better tip because they deserved it.

Later, the hostess came to visit me to see whether I had gotten served yet, and she said it was her fault for not alerting the servers that I was arriving with drinks in hand. According to her, all the servers who were hanging around (as it was busy but no busier than a normal Saturday night, IMHO) assumed someone else was taking care of my table because there were adult beverages there.

Really? I said I was glad I had brought drinks with me since everyone saw fit to see me sitting there with MENUS for the first 40-odd minutes of my visit. After you walk past a table for the ninth time, don’t you get suspicious as to why people are gnawing on the damn table legs?

The food was good when it came, despite the stinky, oniony awfulness of the Terrine 208. (I’d wanted the duck spring rolls but my companion did not.) The filet was fabulous; the veal was divine.

And I tipped well, despite my better judgment. It was a holiday, after all. And I hope that fruity flamethrower who was ordained to wait on us (and treated us like he was God’s gift to us) realized that we were just ordinary nice people going out for what could have been an extraordinarily nice night instead of having to settle for less than the bare minimum. Maybe next time he’ll be a little nicer and, oh I don’t know, cognizant of the fact that he’s working for tips.