Caterwauling

I don’t think it’s any grand secret that my Grand Floridian adventure hasn’t exactly been a thing like I pictured it would be.

If the photos have done their job of lying, however, feel free to subscribe to the myth that it’s just all sunshine and oranges here.

(For the record, all the oranges in the supermarkets came from California. The hell?)

But if you see the stormclouds in those perfect photos, know that they’re the predecessor to a boatload of rainstorms.

I had sold myself on this brand-new life. And it looked like I’d gotten it. But when it all boils down to it, I still have a clingy, needy Over-Extended Houseguest^TM and the pay differential between there and here basically makes up for the extra hours that I’m putting in.

In other words, while I crave some of the familiarity of my adopted homeland of Washington, D.C., it’s been the abundance of similarities between my old life and new one that have been driving me batshit insane.

I’m at this place in my life where I’m really tired of working. Not of the job; I don’t mean to imply that. I just mean, I’ve been working 60- to 80-hour workweeks since I was 20 years old. I worked just as hard for my salary now as I did for my $3/hour gigs 15 years ago.

That’s the dream, right? To go from slave’s wages to making something resembling a living.

But I guess I thought there’d be more time for me in there, too.

When I was in San Antonio a week and a half ago, I met this extraordinary man and asked him how he got his start in our industry. He said he was a very young lawyer, working around the clock and racking up billable hours.

His epiphany came one Sunday afternoon when he was going out for coffee. He saw a big boss also in the office — a man who looked at him fondly and said, “I see a lot of myself in you. Someday, you’ll no doubt be as successful as me.”

And my friend said he wanted to die on the spot as he looked at this middle-aged man with more money than God and a wife and kids at home and saw his future. He was cool with working a shit-ton of hours as a “nobody,” but he figured if he ever had wealth and a family, he’d want to be able to ENJOY them.

The irony now, of course, is that he still works lawyers’ hours. But he’s HAPPY. He’s doing this “work thing” on his own terms, as he’s in business for himself.

I wonder whether having a couple of very tasty margaritas with him at the Iron Cactus wasn’t meant to change MY life as well.

I’ve been in emotional hell the past few weeks. I’ve been working a lot — nothing new there. In fact, I’ve had a rather light two days so far this week … in preparation of the vicious cycle to pick back up tomorrow … and I’ve been rather cranky that the ebb-and-flow seems to ebb FAR more than it flows.

The thing is, I’m working on industry-changing products. When all is said and done, we’re gonna turn our section of the world on its ass. And the next steps are for me to get off of MY ass and make things happen … at a time when I couldn’t produce a million-dollar idea even if someone advanced me the cash.

Here’s where I am right now. (I’ve been here before — I know it well.) I was a rock star where I was. I still get calls from potential employers, saying they want to hire someone JUST LIKE ME or, hey, feel free to give us a call if this new gig doesn’t work out.

I’m not bragging and I’m not threatening anyone or anything — I have a great reputation. I owe it all to my former company. I really do. They took Cinderella out of the chimney and gave her a castle. I’m sure I had a little something to do with that, but I’m not so dumb as to not give credit where it’s due.

But here I am, with a quadruple-platinum debut album, and everyone’s looking at me for my sophomore effort. And you know how it goes — second albums SUCK.

This Lateral Action article best describes the “second-album syndrome”:

“Debut albums are usually the result of an irrepressible musical spirit that bursts forth from the band. It’s great when fame and fortune result, but it also gives you a challenge: how do you ignore the weight of expectation – from your fans, the media, your management and each other – long enough to write and record music for the sheer joy of it? Sometimes it’s easier to get famous slowly.

“So getting paid to do what you love can be a blessing or a curse, depending on how you deal with it. You could create the Sistine Chapel or Led Zeppelin IV. Or you could end up as another rock ‘n’ roll casualty, burnt out and/or selling out.

“Either way, money and creativity are an explosive combination. Handle with care.”

God, that article turned my life around. I was drowning. I was dying. I was seriously feeling so very trapped … like I am living life at gunpoint.

I HAVE to take care of Mommy. I HAD to give her money. I HAD to bounce my goddamned bank account because I didn’t HAVE that money. I HAVE to work hard to earn a paycheck. I MUST top all of my past accomplishments to PROVE I’m the star everyone thinks I am. I CANNOT fail. I have NO OTHER OPTIONS.

The big realization from today is that I am caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place, both at home and work. I can’t check the OEH into Shady Pines, but I can’t stand another minute of her being underfoot.

With work, I want so very badly to shine again, and to outdo myself. But I cannot be that no-life, sad shell of a girl who died on the vine (socially) at her last job, either. I struggle SO HARD between wanting to dazzle/impress, and not wanting to raise expectations too much.

Because, as I’ve learned, you can’t ever fall short of those expectations once you’ve set the bar.

So, wow do I feel better after having typed all of this. I’ve been so miserable, trying not to become the shadow of myself that I once was … while the unavoidable happened and I’ve BECOME A SHADOW OF WHO I ONCE WAS — AGAIN!

As always, the decision remains whether to become irreplaceable (again) or to amble along just fine and have the balance I so desperately crave. Or is there even free will in this at all and will I just continue defaulting to “superstar”?

Even if my second record is Teh Suck, I am under contract for a good five or 10 of them. No wonder all these celebrities take drugs and die young — it’s fucking HARD to change an ingrained ethic.

But, and I hate to say it, imagine what we’d achieve if we channeled ALL THIS PASSION into something that we truly loved, instead of just something we found that we’re incredibly good at. …

Mmm, mmm. Twenty-five years and counting of listening to Jon Bon Jovi, and I still turn into a quivering puddle of goo when I see/hear him. Yum.

Lovely yet ominous. Like the photographer

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

While trying not to be entertained by the fact that I accidentally (I promise!) locked out the over-extended houseguest last night, I was out running my 10,000 errands today (I have another billion more to do) and, oh gee.

Guess what? I locked myself out of my car.

With the ignition running. *facepalm*

Luckily I had just parked at the beach. It’s usually treacherous to get out of the car because of the traffic, so it’s always a quick exit. Usually I leave the sunroof open and I can reach for the keys when I forget them. (Yes, this isn’t the first time I’ve locked myself out.)

But with the pending storm, I figured I’d just take a quick walk to the water. Hahahaaa. Not so much. 🙂

Luckily, AAA was quicker than normal, although I had to stay on the scorching-hot sidewalk while I waited. But alas, one wonders whether it’s God’s retribution for last night. Or, as Scot said, just a run of bad “car-ma.”

*ba DUM bum*

Beach, post-evacuation

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

When I see my friends going from one hazardous relationship to another, or making the same mistakes in innovative and awe-inspiring ways, I always write off the common denominator as, well, them.

Then as I start wrapping caution tape around my world for the umpteenth time like I’m dancing around a goddamned maypole, I have that moment in which I realize, hunh, what is the common denominator here?

I often find that I feel so out-of-control in so many domains of my life that when I do have a choice — say, whether to guzzle a gallon of red wine or smoke a cigarette — I often choose poorly. Why? Because it’s my choice. Nobody can take that away from me.

Sure, I could choose right (say, instead of abandoning my diet for a month now). But in my world, exhibiting control doesn’t always mean doing the BEST thing.

I’m starting to see why instant gratification rules those tiny pockets of my life. It’s because I’m sick to goddamned death of waiting for everything else to pay off or at least mercifully end one way or another.

I often wonder whether I left my heart in D.C. But I think I did my best to take my heart with me when I left. Even if I did have a great dream last night in which all my friends from Arlington and I were at a big dinner, celebrating my return.

I don’t see going back — at least, not for any extended stay — as being in the cards. And a part of me is almost afraid to go back, in wonders whether some of the ones I want to see most wouldn’t make an appearance.

Dear Lord, one day, please let me be as happy as everyone else seems to think I am and/or that they seem to think I deserve. Because I still feel like I’m doing this life thing all wrong. Again.

“Tides and waves have kept me
Kept me going
I’m longing for the calm
I’m heading for the pastures
I can see on your dry land
Let the sea that once did take me
Bring me back safe to your door
For I long to touch the dry land of your shore.”

— Joan Armatrading, “Dry Land”

Adding to the epic failure that is my life, I locked the over-extended houseguest out of the house last night. And not even on purpose!

She’s been after me for a new phone. Yes, that person whose phone service is paid by yours truly. I had bought her a phone awhile back that broke, so I gave her the phone I had before I got my iPhone. And of course that isn’t working right either now. So she’s been asking me to buy her a phone. Which of course I had responded to with some vitriol about how other people get jobs and buy their own.

So last night, I dragged myself in after a whole month of working with exactly one day off. And I locked the door. I normally don’t lock the “chain” lock (less a chain than a hunk of steel) but because it was late, I did. Because it has always driven me nuts having people in my house because I can’t ever feel secure without all the locks being fastened.

I got out of bed around 9 a.m. today — very late for me, but again, SECOND DAY OFF IN A MONTH. I was outside on the balcony with my coffee and I saw her out there, asking me from the first floor to unlock the door. Uh, whoops. There are several messages from one of her friends. Which, I keep my phone on silent at work all the time.

I just handed her $500 because she needed money from me anyway to pay some bills this month. (It’s not guilt over this; I was planning to do it anyway.) But yeah, something tells me that I have to go get her a new phone today, not like I would have picked up had SHE been the one calling!

All clear

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

Went out to dinner last night with the lovely realtor who took me around here and showed me apartments on that miserable March day that resulted in me finding the place I’m in now. Her sister joined us and we had a wild and crazy night on the town — those two are a riot. Yeah, I’m not used to going out and drinking and having fun. It was nice. We’re all in the same age group and they seem to want to adopt me.

P. actually had news for me, which was that she found me a new place to live that I will love. She remembered me saying that I was a writer and I needed inspiration, and she found me a condo on the Intracoastal Waterway about 10 miles from where I am now. So, actually she moved into this building herself and she’s trying to get everyone she knows to populate it, a la Melrose Place.

Apparently the person who owns these condos found out that she couldn’t sell them in this shitty market, so she’s renting them. And P. is in charge of renting them out. I was worried about my lousy credit score, but she said fuck it — this place is open to good people, regardless of what our credit reports say.

I’m locked into a year lease here, but I vaguely remember signing an addendum that said I can break the lease for a fee of $3,000. So, while it’s not that I have that kind of cash at my disposal — plus deposits and moving costs and whatnot — but P. said she’d try to get me three months free at the new place, to make up for it. All in all, it sounds like a good deal.

She’s having a paella night this weekend and wants me to come out and check out the place. Hell, she’s pretty much taken control of my social calendar for the rest of the year — she and her sister are from Peru and they insist I go with them in November — so perhaps it was fate that brought me to her and she will be the reason why I don’t just jump in the Atlantic just to escape the sheer exhaustion that haunts me.

When she met me, she said, “You seemed so blue. I could tell you were very sad.” Which, I was. I wasn’t sure about leaving my old life behind and I really took it as a sign that I could not find a soul who was willing to rent a place to me. Sure, I had a job and the movers were scheduled, but with homelessness so imminent, I really wondered WTF I was doing.

And for as worn-out as I am right now, I wonder whether moving and getting locked into another lease is just another in my series of ever-so-bright decisions. But having a water view and a pool on the Intracoastal? Doesn’t sound so bad.

I suppose I’ll have to drag the Over-Extended Houseguest along. Since I seem to have no choice in the matter and all. I wish I had enough money to pay everybody’s bills AND pay two separate rents. Well, I wish for not having to do all that, but since I must, I might as well dream big. It’s the only dreaming I find myself doing anymore.

My friend said her heart aches that I look even sadder than I did when we met. She was hoping I’d be happy and thriving by now. And she asked whether I’d been writing. I didn’t have the energy to laugh in her face.

I feel like my life is just a series of loveless marriages, and the only real “me” time is when I’m in my car. It’s pathetic and somewhat inescapable at present. I’ll take “looking sad” as a compliment, given the circumstances.

Maybe after the clusterfuck it will entail to move, I’ll love living on the water. I’ve enjoyed the six-minute commute, given the crazy hours, but maybe it will be good for me to have a view of something that’s not construction, although it seems a fitting metaphor for my life — orange cones and caution tape should be inside my head, too.

Well, this was just a thrilling post. I meant to share the great news that I can have my dream apartment after all. But when the same old crap seems to find its way onto the moving truck no matter how far I go, it’s hard to get too excited.

Woo.

Chili Raspberry Cosmo

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

I was waiting for something to come in last night that was due at noon and arrived at 11 p.m. I’d actually made dinner plans so, really, it’s not like I was missing anything.

Went to a great sushi place on the Avenue. I don’t know if folks do “Taste of (city)” days like we had in Bethesda, Md., or Restaurant Week like we had in D.C. But I saw this offer for a five-course sushi dinner and was all over that like, well, white on rice. 😉

The highlight? A chili raspberry cosmo. I never dreamed that jalapeno would make a cosmo even better. But it does. *slurp*

I think they put a roofie in my drink, because I pretty much went home and passed out on the couch. And I found that I whipped together my daily project in an hour this morning, as opposed to toiling over it for a couple of hours late at night because I’m tired and ADD and just want to crawl into bed.

Methinks I might have to do this “working in the morning” thing again — I used to have a daily early morning project, and nothing lit a fire under my pudgy butt like the deadline being RIGHT THERE.

I’m not a fan of working in general, but definitely not daily projects. But then I heard that what I work on is required reading at West Point, and suddenly I see how what I’m good at yet doesn’t register on my radar as earth-changing, isn’t a bad thing after all. Hunh. Who knew?

San Antonio Riverwalk

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

Happy Baby Daddy Day and all that jazz. And “you’re welcome” those who aren’t paying child support thanks to the loving wonder that is non-rhythm-method contraception! (That’s the REAL meaning behind “getting lucky,” eh?)

Am currently sitting in the San Antonio airport, waiting to fly home to my mommy. Barf gag and kill me now.

Actually, we did have a near-death experience on the way out here. I flew to Charlotte, where my beloved T and I ended up on the same connecting flight to Texas. The flight was fine until about 10 minutes before landing, when the captain came over the PA system with some not-so-encouraging news.

Let me explain first that about five minutes before this, my seatmate pointed out the window to the wing that we were directly over. She said, “Do you notice that we’re flying REALLY LOW and the flaps haven’t come up yet?”

Hmm. She was right — we WERE kind of busting a move considering that we were about to land. She went on to tell me she had gotten trapped for 10 hours in Norfolk, and another eight hours in Charlotte, so maybe this was her bad luck manifesting itself ONE MORE TIME before she landed in her destination city.

So the captain comes on with a, “Ladies and gentlemen, there’s nothing to worry about … but there is an ABNORMALITY with the wings, as the flaps that slow down our speed stopped working in mid-flight.”

In other words, “O HAI the brakes aren’t working properly.”

Now, there was a mild amount of panic on the plane. Except for seat 12A (mine). I was channeling Ron White in an old “Blue Collar Comedy” skit and thinking, fine, let it crash — “I don’t want to limp away from this thing.”

I had probably cried during half the flight because I suddenly found myself with far too much free time to obsess over the federal disaster area that my life has unwittingly become. It didn’t help that my plane from South Florida to Charlotte was ultimately bound for National Airport (DCA), my home-away-from-home when I lived in D.C. The pending crappy landing on the plane from CLT to SAT was even-more of a sign that I should have stayed on the CLT-to-DCA flight.

Anyway, the pilot went on to warn us not to be alarmed but we were going to make a bump on the landing strip and not to worry about all the additional emergency personnel and equipment that would be waiting for us. (I never saw fire trucks on a runway before. What an epic experience.)

Meanwhile, T was talking to the flight attendant, who was telling fear-inducing stories about some recent rough landings. I am almost jealous that she was rattled by the airborne events because she has stuff to live for. I tend to find that all my traveling partners have people to call when they land and before they take off. I Tweet. That’s it. And I don’t even know why I do that, to be quite honest with you.

Anyway, we were re-routed to the longest runway and emerged unharmed. In fact, had the pilot not said a word about the faulty equipment, we wouldn’t have noticed. I’ve been through some tumultuous landings in my day and this wasn’t one of them.

God bless the pilot on that U.S. Airways flight. I know this landing won’t ever make headlines, but apparently this pilot went to the Captain Sully school of flying, and despite my overall death wish, I’m glad, because I had a great weekend ahead of me.

San Antonio is all right. I neither loved nor hated it. It’s boring and crappy in the daytime, but things light up at night. The Riverwalk is absolutely beautiful — it’s like all the city’s culture is down at water level.

We went out with a bunch of old colleagues last night — people who treated us like absolute royalty. Because we rock and all, but still, it’s good to remember where I came from and to know that certain people will always have my back.

I’m sure I could type for another 40 pages, all the stuff rolling through my head. Most of it boils down to “WTF did I just do to my life?” It’s not that anything big has happened, but rather a series of little things that have created a surmountable, but certainly stinky, shitpile.

And whether or not I’m in the right place, being with “my people” last night reminded me to be very, very grateful for the experiences I’ve had during the past five years and to kiss the ground for the relationships I’ve developed throughout the years.

I seriously need to write a thank-you letter to my old boss and the owner of my last company to thank them for every door they opened for me. Because people I thought I’d never see/work with again, are back in my life and God I am so happy that THEY are are excited to be crossing MY path again.

One of the guys did a lovely toast to us and WOW was I surprised at what he said about me. It’s all true, but my cold, dark heart warmed at the respect and damn-near REVERENCE he showed.

So, all in all, I came to San Antonio with tears in my eyes as I once again grieved for my old life in D.C. But I am leaving again with a tear or two … mostly from exhaustion but definitely with a huge sigh of relief that this very rough period is going to pass and that I have a lot of really amazing, influential people looking out for me.

And it goes without saying that my gratitude for them reminding me who I am — even if I feel my star hasn’t been shining much of late — will carry me through and will hold up my little heart if and when it threatens to break again.

I have two thoughts on today:

1. Wednesday deserves a spanking, and would receive one if the dirty bastard wouldn’t enjoy it.

2. It’s been an all-you-can-eat shit sandwich buffet. I can take long days. But the universe can stop serving me now, plz.

After the beach was evacuated for lightning

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

You know, I had about eleventy billion loads of laundry to do today. Which was made impossible by the fact that, during the last month-plus, I’ve only been home to sleep and shower. So today it was further made impossible by the fact that there was no detergent with which to do my laundry.

Wouldn’t it be nice if you had someone who lived in your abode and took care of these things and replaced shit after it was used up? Oh, wait. …

So I ran to Boutique Tar-zhay to get detergent. And while I was out and dressed for absolute crap (my weekend uniform is a tank top and shorts. And since today IS my weekend, there you have it), I headed to the shore.

I put my two hours’ worth of change into the meter, parked my ass on a lounger, Tweeted that I was on the beach and … six minutes after my arrival, thunder cracked and some sort of air-raid siren went off. Yes, the beach was being evacuated.

Meanwhile it was about 90-odd degrees and super-sunny and the sand felt like it were on fire. (TheFuckingWeather.com assured me “IT’S FUCKING HOT.”) I walked up to the water with my camera — having fully planned to walk along it for an hour or so — and some douche in an ATV nearly ran me over and shouted at me that the water was closed.

He got a double-barreled salute out of me. Hey, I’m a grown woman and if I want to get hit by lightning and float away in the ocean and wind up in Africa or something, SO BE IT. And did I LOOK like I was there to swim? Bah.

So there went my day off. Six whopping minutes at the beach and eleventy billion loads of laundry that are in progress.

I hung out on Ocean Avenue for a while, mostly just to recoup some of what I’d fed the parking meter. I finally gave up and, I tell ya, as soon as I pulled away, the thunder cracked and the skies opened up.

Four minutes later when I got home, the sun came out again and it was like nothing had ever happened. Until an hour later when the next monsoon hit and flooded my bedroom and balcony. That was almost as fun as losing power.

Gotta love South Florida in the summertime, I hear. The only thing that would save this day is an early bedtime, which would work if my sheets and duvet cover weren’t in the dryer. …