Caterwauling

Waterway Cafe, Palm Beach Gardens

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

As I blew out my candles on my birthday cupcake, my fondest wish was for a man to take me away from all of this.

I normally don’t reveal my wishes. And they normally don’t come true. So, this year we’re doing it a little differently.

My disclaimer on this is that a man is what I want in the long term. I don’t really care about the short term. I’ve always said, and I’ve always meant it, that it’s the heart that attracts me. And far be it from me to walk away from someone who treats me well, since there are so few who seem remotely capable of doing so. In other words, no limits, kids.

I was telling a friend the other night though that since my life has been nothing short of a disaster, is it so wrong to want the fairy tale/happily ever after? Maybe not a white-picket fence, but a lovely modern condo in the sky that serves as a home base for all the world adventures that await would do just fine.

But this tender age where normal women start to feel their biological clock ticking, the only “24”-like explosion in my life is going to be my HEAD if things don’t get better.

So, for those who aren’t aware, I moved mom back in with me. That would explain the clawing at my own skin, in case you’ve seen me lately.

I had to kick her out. I couldn’t have my days sucking AND my nights sucking almost as bad. Three years and counting here. *gnashing teeth*

So when I made some life changes … and realized she was NEVER going to be able to help me with the rent — which was WHERE EVERY DIME WAS GOING — I found a bigger place in the same building and moved us both into it.

I had been promised financial assistance when I moved Mommy out on her own. Which was the main impetus for doing so. And it eventually came in a lump sum a few months after the fact. Which I used to float myself between jobs. Thanks! 🙂

The financial hell was part of the reason for taking her back. I had stopped hating her for being underfoot — and started enjoying the ability to work from home, to have the cat be silent because nobody was riling her up, and to mostly come and go as I pleased — but I could have been renting a six-bedroom oceanfront mansion for the same cost.

I mean, GOD FORBID I wanted to do anything fun with my life. Two sets of rent, electric, cable, and groceries … what the fuck do I look like here, an ATM?

Plus, her health is in such rapid decline that, much as I DON’T want to keep an eye on her, at least she’s underfoot so I know if she’s OK.

But who has two thumbs and ISN’T OK? *this guy*

Why? SHE’S DRIVING ME CRAZY.

Oh, the reasons are too lengthy to list. But I’ll try. 😉

She loves to play with the cat. The cat screams constantly. She loves to drag the screaming cat through the house and out on the balcony all day long. (Did I mention the baby talk? All fucking day long to the cat. I remember my grandfather used to baby-talk occasionally. Mom said I would miss it when he was gone. I miss him, absolutely. But the baby talk? Not so much.)”

I cannot work from home anymore because it’s like I have a burr nestled up my ass. Between having to hear her TV and having her enter my bedroom a thousand times a day because she wants to pet the cat, I want to kill myself.

For the record, I’ve told her that her tormenting the cat is just a cry for attention — negative, at that — from me. And that my room is not a fucking thoroughfare. The cat will come out. You can see her all you want then.

So I have an L-shaped balcony. My bedroom is at the heart of the L, with floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors on two sides. The kitchen is to the left, the living room is to the right and her bedroom — the master bedroom — is on the other side of the living room.

So instead of her, say, walking across the living room to get to the kitchen, she walks the L-shaped balcony damn near constantly. Since it’s all sliding-glass doors, you can access any room from the balcony.

So I have to look at her face fucking constantly. And hear my poor screaming cat as she dances her along the balcony.

I’ve actually been able to go out and have some fun lately. Mostly, I’m back in my “not going home till bedtime” mode. Whereupon I have to be asked 20 questions about where I was, what I ate, who I saw, where I got my outfit, why I didn’t answer all 30 of her e-mails, why I didn’t buy her X, Y or Z like she asked, and anything else screamworthy.

I just don’t want to talk about what I do or don’t do while I’m away. I can’t even fucking whack off in my “water room” (as it sits on the Intracoastal Waterway) because princess is parading up and down the walkway at all hours.

God forbid I actually brought somebody home. I can’t go outside to make a phone call in private because she’ll come out too.

I can’t go anywhere on the weekends without her claiming me. Like last night when I rolled in at stupid o’clock, she parked her ass on the couch over my shoulder (the computer is in the living room because my bedroom is tiny, so I can’t write uninterrupted anymore — GAH). And she said, “Whatever you do tomorrow, I want to go with you.”

She does this all the time. It’s basically pissing on me and marking her territory. It’s always done after I had a day to myself, so that I feel sorry for her for being ALL BY HERSELF all week and maybe also on a weekend day that I was otherwise supposed to babysit but failed to live up to my job description.

She doesn’t care where we go — be it the beach or a four-star restaurant — just as long as she’s nestled up my ass so that I couldn’t possibly enjoy the day. And then I will hear all day, “YOU’RE SO MEAN!” because I will drag your ass around town but I don’t have to like it.

I brought her back this pretty necklace from Canada. She left it in my room the next day. (Because she’s always in my fucking room.) Apparently there was a 90-page e-mail explaining why, that I treat her like shit and I make her feel like she doesn’t deserve anything.

Because GOD FORBID I deserve to have my life back. Which one of us doesn’t deserve what we want in this scenario?

So I told her to throw it away. She doesn’t deserve nice things? Then wipe your ass with them. Really. Fuck you. Over it.

So of course she wore it yesterday and got compliments on it. No thanks to me, of course, since “You always make me feel like shit.”

So now I’m sitting here, trying to get some writing done while she dances a very angry cat around the back of the couch, with her asking what’s in the picture on the screen, and her saying, “If you go to the beach, I want to go with you. Are you going to the beach? it’s Memorial Day. Do you want to get a burger? I know you say you’re not eating meat but it’s Memorial Day — you HAVE to eat a burger! Oh hey I put cake in the fridge with that ten bucks you gave me. I couldn’t afford anything else so I bought you cake. That won’t hurt your diet. When are we going to the beach? What are you typing? Where did you get that shirt? Can I see it? Why not? You’re SO MEAN!”

*headfacepalmdesk*

That’s for my boat. Someday…

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

Today’s highlights:

1. An employee who was, ah, overlooked in some way (don’t ask) graciously said, “This is the best place I’ve ever worked. Truly.” And my boss responded with, “Huh? Where did you work before? (Goddess’ old company?)” *snort*

2. A friend referring to an e-mail we all laughed at: “Committee? Don’t they mean ‘psychotic, under-qualified, disbarred bunch of assholes’?”

3. Blowing the cover off the biggest, stupidest lie EVER.

4. Having my 2 p.m. meeting canceled on Meeting Tuesday^TM.

5. Using said meeting slot to go buy cupcakes!

6. Eating said cupcakes. Some of them. :9

7. A Starbucks run with my boss. And getting a sort-of promotion.

8. Pushing off a pain-in-the-ass project or two.

9. Lovely messages from friends around the globe. And a late-day bitch fest with mah girl T.

10. Turning 30. For the 7th time. (Or was that just turning 35 again?)

Saw that via Goddess Sabre on F-book, and I simply cannot say it better (or else I would!).

So I came home yesterday to a torrent of “Why didn’t you call me while you were away?” blah blah cakes.

Because I didn’t call anybody.

“Yeah right — you probably were on the phone every day with T and all your other friends. I’m trying to die here. The least you could do is CHECK on me.”

What fucking part of “phone will be off due to international rate charges” did you not hear, woman?

“You know I am about to die, right? You have absolutely no concern about me. I know you hate me and want me dead. And I will be soon. You can’t spend $15 on a quick call — that shows me what a cruel little girl you are.”

I’m turning 36 tomorrow. And since the first thing you told me about was some guy who died right outside our apartment building because he fell off a boat, and how Bret Michaels blah blah something or other, do you BLAME me?

“You KNOW I have the same thing Bret Michaels does. I could have been DEAD and you were too into yourself to have the courtesy to find out.”

Inner voice is going to become an outie. “I gave you cash to go to the doctor. Did you make an appointment? Did they take you?”

Silence.

“That’s what I thought. Are you PLANNING to call?”

“No.”

“Well, I want it back. I left you enough for food and a doctor’s visit and then some.”

“I spent the money.”

“Of course you did.”

“I wanted you to go WITH me!!! I can’t go ALONE!!!”

“You didn’t have any problem taking that money to make that appointment while I was gone, did you now?”

I’ll spare you the long e-mail I got this morning about what a miserable wretch I am and how she knows I’ll be happy after she dies. But on (her) second thought, I’m SO miserable that her dying won’t even cheer me up.

Welcome to my world. Happy birthday to me. Another year, another calendar full of total bullshit. Whee.

*bashing hot frying pan into my forehead*

City street, Old Montreal

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

I’m sure if you’ve ever over-indulged on culinary delights, you’ve lugged around a “food baby” for a while. After last night’s dinner, I’m calling mine “fondue baby.”

Things I have consumed my weight (and possibly yours) in during the last 7 days:

1. Brie
2. Goat cheese
3. Baguettes
4. Croissants
5. Bordeaux
6. Coffee
7. Escargots
8. Beer
9. Fondue. Swiss cheese and white wine, with tomato bread pieces, merci beaucoup

Tonight, whilst back in dog-breath-heat-and-humidity-land (i.e., South Florida), I went for the tried-and-true native cuisine, fish tacos and key lime pie.

While I miss all the fabulous French food, a girl just can’t eat like that every day. Well, she COULD, but not if she wants to continue buckling that airline safety belt over the fondue baby!

Rev Run (of Run-DMC fame) said something interesting on Twitter, that you never lose when you love; you lose when you’re afraid to. Hmm. I’ll get to that later.

So Day 6 of my 7-day Montreal adventure is upon me. I will be in customs at this time tomorrow, heading back to sand and sun and bullshit.

I’ve had my phone mostly off for a week, thanks to international voice/data charges. It’s been heavenly.

Don’t get me wrong — I’ve had a few calls and texts, most notably from my mother — whose calls I never answer — who taught herself how to take a photo and sent a photo of herself to me to remind me of her.

(Gee, thanks for the data charge.)

I spent the first few nights by myself here. It’s quite a difference with this group from the Ye Olde Workplace Establishment of days past. We worked for a bigger company, but were part of the coolest division within it. The people in our division were the Teletubbies — we were all really good friends who spent every waking (and some passed-out) minutes together.

I was surprised but ultimately happy to be on my own for the first few nights. Then everyone started asking where I kept disappearing to. So I’ve been present the past two nights.

It’s different from years past. But I gotta say, it’s been worth it.

It think the cast of characters at every job has been a cross between “The Island of Misfit Toys” and “The Real World.” While I may never find the group of BFFs from my ill-fated Awesome Department (thank God I still have those people in my life. Thank. God.), I managed to find a group of very astute young people who are actually kind of a riot outside the office.

Two of us rolled up to Crescent Street the other night, which is sort of the Clematis Street of West Palm Beach or Carson Street in Pittsburgh. Canada had just triumphed over Philly (boo) and the streets were FILLED with thousands of happy Canadians in my high school colors of red and blue.

Just fair warning: They take hockey seriously here. I didn’t realize the Canadians and the Maple Leafs were two separate teams … and got corrected by a VERY angry cab driver about that. Screw them — Philly lost. (Did I mention, boo?)

So we ended up at Sir Winston Churchill Pub (on the British side of town, clearly), and my new friend said that I seem like I’m drowning.

That caught me off-guard. I don’t think she was talking about work. I didn’t ask — I just contemplated it.

I guess I was just so unfamiliar with being out and having fun. I do it on occasion. But I guess I don’t ever thoroughly enjoy myself anymore. Work, home, friends, boys … everything’s good — even great sometimes — but not of the remarkable and memorable and “I can’t wait to get out of bed because it’s going to be the best day of my life” caliber. But then again, what is?

At the pub, as if on cue, my fun sat right down next to me. James is a sailor from Scotland. And when my gal introduced me as her boss, he was very interested.

And I let myself … just for a few moments … get caught up in it all. I thought, wow — what a story this will make. Florida girl meets Scottish boy in Canada. Reminded me of an old colleague, a U.S. Navy chap who met his Australian bride in Japan.

And while I’m not “happily ever after” girl because I harbor no delusions, I gave a sweet, passing thought to how I would describe the night to my friends.

Suffice it to say, my gal has blackmail material on me. 😉

But when it boils right down to it, no delusions can be a good thing. I watched all his sailor buddies trying to pick up chicks. It’s what they DO.

They roll into town for a night or two in their clean, pressed white uniforms. They put their white caps with their country’s emblem on girls’ heads and tell us how sexy we all are. If they are anything like me, they make the joke that later, that’s the only thing we’re going to be wearing.

(That IS what you all say, right? No? Just me? Carry on…)

And I had to decide between having him (which there was no doubt I could) and being content with just knowing it.

The Goddess of her 20s (and the occasional time in her 30s) would do it just for the story. The Goddess of her 30s, as I explained to one of my young charges last night, has to make a decision whether to spend 30 minutes of her night staring at the ceiling. 😉

Because, sometimes that’s what a girl needs … even if it’s not what she really wants. But if it’s not what you really want — and it comes with risks that just aren’t worth taking — well, there you have it.

So, if you’re looking for the punchline here, I’ll say this: If someone isn’t that great of a kisser, they ain’t gonna be all that wondrous anywhere else. Put THAT on a bumpersticker and remind your friends (or yourself), OK?

So maybe I am drowning. Maybe I forget how to really truly have fun.

I’m not even in a dark place right now — it’s simply devoid of color and light. And I can always flip on the light switch and paint the walls purple. I just haven’t gotten around to it yet. Or maybe I’m just lazy and I’m not ready to decorate till I’m willing to live with it for a while. 🙂

I work in trading and investing, and at the bottom line of everything I do is the risk/reward ratio.

And I’m range-bound right now. I’m not at my 52-week lows, but when it comes time to break through overhead resistance, I am willing to invest in a risky security (hell, they’re all risky) as long as I I believe the volatility will pay off.

And I’m NOT talking about stocks.

081

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

I tell you, five years of high school French don’t mean SHIT when you’re turning 36 in a week. I’m not even trying to pretend I know the language!

After the Tuesday Day o’ Meetings, I was free to do mah thang. The lovely gal in the gift shop — who was born in D.C. and left South Florida a few years ago … does that mean Montreal is my next home? — recommended I should explore Rue Saint-Catherine.

Apparently Rue S-C has a string of British shops/pubs on one end, and French cafes/stores on the other. I walked the length of it. Same stores on both sides, although the British side rocked my world. Highlights? H&M and Urban Outfitters — neither of which South Florida has the courtesy to offer. Bastards! 😉

Actually, there were a variety of designer outlets — mirroring The Magnificent Mile in Chicago — but there were two locations of many of them on this street.

The bummer is that everybody but the restaurants rolled up their sidewalks promptly at 6 p.m. Excuse me, but this was my only night to go out and shop, merci beaucoup.

With literally not a damn thing else to do, I want to have dinner at Les 3 Brasseurs. I never spoke a word, and I was handed a French menu.

I had it mostly figured out (biere! terrine! salade! s’il vous plait!) until my server started talking. Upon seeing my very blank stare in response, she said, “Want an English menu?” LOL. Yup.

The nice thing up here is that the U.S. dollar is almost at parity with the Loonie, so I can actually pay with the money I have in my wallet without bothering with the exchange rate or having to go somewhere to get Canadian dollars.

At first I thought people were kind of rude up here. But really, if you run into someone with an attitude around Montreal, chances are that they’re from the United States.

I’m not saying anyone’s overly friendly — other than the gal at the hotel boutique and a guy on the street who was asking me to support the local AIDS organization, I haven’t had my socks knocked off by any signs of intellectualism or sweetness.

I think I had visions of Montreal being a grand city on a hill. And it is, to some extent. But far from being paved in gold, it’s easily interchangeable with Baltimore, Pittsburgh and Chicago.

If the signs weren’t in French and I were a little too tipsy, I might not be able to tell the difference. (Until I tried to get a cab and couldn’t remember that my hotel is on Rue Rene Levesque.)

We’re going to take a little walking tour this morning. All I brought were my dressy flip-flops, so I shall be suffering in the name of cute. It’s a hard life, I know!

Today’s highlights:

1. Learning that “Montreal” is derived from “Mount Royal.”

2. Having a bumpy flight for three hours, surrounded by people who refuse to wear deodorant. The guy next to me was so nice, but I wanted to jump off the plane every time he lifted his arm to operate the video screen on the seat in front of him. Woof.

Oh, the highlight? The plane didn’t crash. It sure felt like it. At this time last year, I was on a plane that almost DID crash. And I was so through with my job/life that I willed it to go down in flames. This year? Not nearly as unhappy with my life as I was then. Not even close!

3. Cheese and cabernet. Emphasis on cheese, and lots of it. Cheese platter and a brie-and-artisanal ham (whatever that means) baguette. Mmmm, cheese.

4. Met a guy from Zurich, for whom it’s now 5 a.m. (he flew in earlier today). He said he only stays up till 5 a.m. when he screws a hot woman, which only happens every five years or so. Ha! I like it here already. 😉

5. Joke of the night (not from the guy in No. 4): Q: What did the two tampons say to each other? A: Nothing. They’re stuck up bitches.

6. Re: No. 3. I was at a hotel bar up the street called Le Beaver Club. I’m not kidding.

7. Joke No. 2 of the night: Q: What did the egg say to the boiling water? A: I just got laid; not sure I can get hard right now.

What a weird week. Mostly in a good way, though.

Several of my beloveds from “up north” are in town.

I spent Wednesday and Thursday with one, eating oysters and foie gras and the most-amazing peanut-butter pie over expensive red wines on Atlantic Avenue. And I spent last night with my beloved Goddess Sabre and her family, in from D.C. for her son’s graduation.

The diet? Is blown, by the way. Pudge muffin. Yaar. And I don’t suppose heading out of the country for the next seven days is going to do any favors to my waistline!

I had two major battles to resolve before Friday. (Hence, the drinking. En masse.) And despite numerous odds stacked against each deal, I prayed for miracles to prevail. I had half of Facebook praying along with me, after I did everything I could and the rest, as they say, was in God’s hands.

The result? Not so good on one account, but progress on the other.

One of my Twitterfriends posted a link to a commencement speech from 2005. And I’m bored and actually sitting upright from the three-day boozefest that just concluded. (Fat. Ass.)

I HIGHLY recommend you read that speech. It was the reality check I didn’t get until I’d been out of college for six months.

I can quote a passage from it, to give some perspective on what went down this week in Goddess’ world, mostly because I know the person who NEEDS to read it is READING THIS RIGHT NOW.

“Worship power, you will end up feeling weak and afraid, and you will need ever more power over others to numb you to your own fear. Worship your intellect, being seen as smart, you will end up feeling stupid, a fraud, always on the verge of being found out. But the insidious thing about these forms of worship is not that they’re evil or sinful, it’s that they’re unconscious. They are default settings.”

I’m just mad because there are too many people who wear their diagnoses like a decorated soldier. Once you discover exactly how fucked up you are, you’re supposed to work on it, right? Let me clarify: You work on FIXING it, not PERFECTING the psychosis.

And from where I stand now, they just seem so small and petty and insignificant. Sound and fury, signifying nothing. The very large butt of a very big joke. The one whose epitaph will read nothing more than a name, whose final resting ground has grass that’s dry and brown and dead from everyone in THIS generation who pissed on it, the way everything in which they believed was pissed upon.

In any event, I’m just mad that Lilith Fair has a sucky lineup in West Palm (and I spent a lot of money on tickets), but it looks fabulous for Washington, D.C. I mean, throw a girl some Missy Higgins here, pretty please?

(Hello, no transition between subjects!)

I invited one of my up-north friends to come down here for the concert. I’d rather go up north and see it there instead, truth be told. (I’m happy to see Sarah McLachlan and Sia here. But Indigo Girls! Missy Higgins! Sara Bareilles! Are in my homeland but NOT HERE. GAH.)

In any case, that invitation was made in one of my liquid-courage moments.

But what’s so funny is that it’s perfectly the norm to ask someone to fly somewhere for an event. Just like I have plane tickets booked for the rest of the year for one-day meetings and weekend events. I love that this is my new normal.

This year, I’ve decided to simply hop on a plane and just DO shit, when opportunity arises. Life’s too short to sit on a pile of “somedays,” especially after too many YEARS have been robbed of me otherwise.

“I’ve been running all my life
I ran away, I ran away from good
Yeah I’ve been waiting all my life
You’re not a day, you’re not a day too soon.”

— Sia, “Day Too Soon”

Even if I only get two hours of face time with a long-distance friend here and there, it’s two hours I didn’t have otherwise.

So, M, I’ll see you in Sonoma; C, I’ll see you in Philly; V, I’ll see you in West Palm; B, I’ll catch up with you in Baltimore; L — Key West, here we come; and to whomever is in my life then, we have a hot date in Mexico at the end of summer.

And all these thoughts will keep me warm when I’m freezing my Florida-girl ASS off in Canada on Monday! 😉

Lazy Afternoon

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

Either the planets were out of alignment this week, or else the Apocalypse is nigh, but last week? SUCKED.

Today? Started out for shit, with all of my smoke detectors going off for an hour. The fun part was that they didn’t even have batteries in them.

If you’ve ever wanted to throw a social mixer where you could meet your neighbors at 8 a.m. on a Saturday, I highly recommend it!

The gal right below me came up in her jammies (I was also in mine). I answered the door with tears streaming down my face and clutching a hammer in my hand.

O HAI I’m Goddess — pleased to meet you! *pound, pound*

The landlady lives down the hall and didn’t answer her door when my lovely neighbor went to fetch her. There’s a real shocker right there. (Almost as shocking as how much work I got done today with no meetings and no Over-Extended Houseguest underfoot — imagine!)

I was worried about seeing Miss Thang … after the scathing review I left on ApartmentRatings.com about this shithole on stilts and the cunt in charge, I’ll NEVER get anything done around here if I don’t do it myself!

I had to shut off the electricity and untangle the wires in order to get some peace. My ears are still ringing. I imagine the potheads next door slept through it, but I feel bad for all the dogs within an eight-apartment radius who — if they weren’t annoyed by the smoke detectors — were probably dying over my own high-pitched screams.

It’s about 90 degrees outside and 130 in here. I’m still not sure about turning on the a/c after the last apartment I leased here (i.e., $600 first electric bill due to shoddy equipment).

Incidentally, I look like I just emerged from the pool. After spending 15 minutes on the balcony. *pant, pant*

And since I spent however many of the past few months paying for the OEH to have her own place and she spends EVERY WAKING MINUTE in my house because apparently the cat needs her), it’s my easy way of smoking her out of here. Like, maybe she’ll go DO something if it’s too hot. But nope, not bloody likely.

Overall though, I have to remind myself that life is good. I know others have it worse, and that’s the bleeding-heart socialist in me.

But the emerging capitalist in me knows it can be better, and I want that instead.

I didn’t get the house, the white-picket fence, the 2.3 children and the hot, wealthy husband. I did get a waterfront apartment, good job, great potential side gig and a few good friends around the world.

I guess I just want to feel free, whatever that means. Money in the bank, a stamped-up passport, admirers and lovers around the world, and the ability to go where I want, when I want … without having to check in with anyone and/or having to reschedule around them because they have that power and I don’t.

I’m working on it all. And I hope that when I have it, I’ll finally know that ever-elusive happiness that I so desperately seek. Something tells me, though, that — when all is said and done — it just might turn out that I had known it all along. We’ll see, my darlings; we’ll see …

So, it’s Day 7 of my diet and I hauled my pudgy pork roast ass back to Weight Watchers. Lost a whopping 3.6 pounds, which would be good if I hadn’t put on 18 in the first place. *snarl*

My leader, Johnny, is awesome. If he isn’t a flaming gay man, he sure as hell plays one on Thursday nights. He asked if I’d talk for a second about my ‘first week’ on the program.

I announced my status as a “two-time loser,” as it’s my second time around. And he LOVED it and referred to me as a “two-timing loser.” Yeah, we’re gonna get along just fine! 🙂

He asked how things were different during the past week. I said that for the past year, I was VERY roughly counting points, saying things to myself like, “Oh, that’s about 2 points.” When, in reality, I do the actual math and write it down and say, “Oh, hey, fatass, it was more like 8 points.”

A hush descended upon the room at the “F” word. Johnny loved it and said, “Oh, you say that to yourself, too?” And I said yeah, I suck at the “positive self-thinking lesson” and he said, “I know!”

And I was kind of comforted, mostly because I wasn’t sure he got my reference when I was on the scale and asked, “Did you deduct 16 pounds for the shoes?” (“Romy and Michelle,” in case you’re lost.) So, I think he got it. 😉

Then we broke up into groups to talk about our challenges. I picked the “food pushers” group so I could bitch about the Over-Extended Houseguest who bakes and cooks good food with a stick of butter and then gets hurt that I spurn what little contribution she feels she can make. Which I punctuated with, “No wonder I’m fat!”

And that pissed them off even further. Whoops.

Look, you have to learn at a young age (if you’re pudgalicious at a young age) to deal with people calling you names. Fuck, there are people in their 30s who act like 5-year-olds and address you as such because they’re pissed off that their skinny asses are having a miserable life. (*points and laughs at one in particular*)

Sticks and stones, yo. Sticks and stones. I get the last laugh AND the first one.

I call myself names when I do something stupid. Like eating the whole cake when I’ve already ruined my diet with one piece. Like trying to wear my “skinny jeans” that were a little tight 15 pounds ago, if I’m being honest about it. Or like when my confidence turns to shit and I don’t grab somebody and kiss them when I know perfectly well that I CAN, because I get struck by sudden shyness that they couldn’t POSSIBLY want my pudgy butt.

Anyway, someone in the meeting today called me my nickname (a derivation of my real name, NOT fatass!), with a certain accent in his voice, that reminded me of my friend Vitamin D. And I missed her very much today. (*waves*) And she was my real champion, when I did this the first time.

So, yeah, I’m back. Hopefully this time, it’ll stick. But at least I’m trying. And maybe I’ll find another name with which to berate myself for the dumb things I do in the future: “OK, skinny ass!”

Second time’s a charm, I hope!