Caterwauling

View from my desk

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

It has been a shitty week, with a capital shit.

After I left the last job, I never dreamed I’d be anything other than enamored with my career. But alas, it was a trying, trying week.

I was out of the country last week, so there were all the crises that popped up while I was 4,000 miles northwest. And then this week was spent overcoming some of those challenges.

Toss in a nasty sinus infection caused by people snarfing all over me while I was abroad, and the wine I drank last night and the mango mojito I had for breakfast this morning are not only deserved, but damn well ordained by God to be coursing through my veins!

As some woman said while Lady L and I were wandering the streets of the Gayborhood, “You can’t say you’ve been drinking all day unless you started at breakfast!”

(OK, so it was funnier at the time.)

This week, in addition to work being a bear, I had to get both cars registered in Florida and also get the extra-over-extended houseguest her driver’s license. Needless to say, it was an 18-ring circus and the only thing I achieved was taking her car out of my grandfather’s name and putting it into mine.

We’re going on six trips to the DMV to get her goddamned license. The next one should be it. Oh, and why couldn’t I register my car in the state? Because goddamned GMAC never stamped my FUCKING title that the loan was paid off. So the tax collector had to assume there’s a lien against the damn vehicle. Which has been paid off since 2006.

It got paid off right before the OEH crashed into my life. The car payment became the extra money I had to spend on getting a new apartment with a bedroom for her. Isn’t that depressing — four fucking years of this shit?

So, anyway, I didn’t put her car into her name. I had to pay the $500 fee. (It would have been $140 if I did it in Pennsylvania, but Miss Priss over here on her tuffett never got off her ass to do the paperwork LIKE I ASKED A THOUSAND TIMES. With the car set to be turned over to the state by yesterday if the conversion wasn’t done, I had to pay a steep premium.)

You know, tomorrow’s the one-year anniversary that my beloved Maddie left the earth, and man am I an angry bitch about that. But just as one of my friends said she’d love to come back in her next life as my cat, apparently my mom has no motivation whatsoever to get off her butt and out of my house. I mean, she lives in a condo on the water. Bills are paid. Utilities are covered. Allowance is provided.

The only difference between her and my 23 other “kids” is that I am at least paid to deal with them. And she costs me dearly.

One of my boys e-mailed me after he saw the position for which I’m hiring. Because, I need someone who’s not a dipshit. And the job description make me seem like I must be smart, to supervise said position. So he says to me, “Wow. Can you be my sugar mama?”

And I replied back, “No more freeloaders allowed. At capacity, thanks.”

That ended THAT conversation!

Now she says she can’t use her car now that it’s in my name. Because I told her that if she gets a fine or a ticket, I ain’t paying it. So she won’t take any chances.

Good Christ, isn’t that how teenagers think? Well, someone else will pay for it. Oh, honey, I’ll sell her into the drug-mule business to get my money back. Just you wait!

I spent the last two days with my friend, and another person too. I was, for the most part, relaxed and happy. We had a SPECTACULAR night out last night, and today was damn near perfect. When I’m allowed out of the house, I thrive. Work be damned. Kids who leave shopping lists on the coffee pot for me are far, far away. Over-extended houseguests who cost more than babies (and are certainly more demanding) melt away from view.

Instead, it’s replaced by pinot noir, Brie soaked in french onion soup, crusty bread, peanut-butter-and-jelly tortes, homemade ice cream, gourmet omelets and pina coladas flavored with my favorite fruit: mangoes.

And text messages. Can’t forget those. Friends in person and far away are my only connection to the real world. And I love it.

Anyway, to continue my vehicular homicide rampage that’s soon to start, tomorrow I have to go try to figure out WTF is wrong with my car. Whose registration expired today. As did the OEH’s but I’m mean and nasty for not putting the new license plate on her vehicle — er, as she keeps saying, MY new vehicle.

So, I’m in unfamiliar territory. Not the financial escapades. I’m just glad I can foot these bills. But in my head, I keep wandering somewhere better. All it takes is one word from the right person to send me into warm fuzzies and tinglies and otherwise fantasies about cashing in a round-trip ticket to Mexico for two first-class (and one-way) ones.

And coming home to anything but, well, is kind of wearing me down.

At least the view is nice. It’s just sad how prison-like it feels from this side of the screen door.

While I want to blog about how awesome my trip to Vancouver was, and how I am willing to give up my citizenship on the spot to go live there, I was just reading Plumcake — as I am apt to do — and was moved by a post about when hot men go for big girls.

It’s not that I consider anyone “out of my league.” I just know that, at one point in my life, my reputation certainly preceded me. And after I swore off boys for a couple of years (yes, it happened. Pause at the wonder of it all), coming back to the minefield showed me that not a lot had changed.

I liked to laugh it off and joke that big girls give the best head because we’re always so damn hungry. And I sold sex toys at some point in the middle of all this (ironically, during my “dry spell”), so there has always an expectation of theatrics to accompany that period of my life. Which, hey, I don’t say no to much. 😉 But that’s more about an active imagination of my own than having formidable opponents!

I’ve also been (not purposely) working on a correlation between income level and prowess. Not necessarily enthusiasm — that runs the gamut. Usually with men, though, you can count on that part to be pretty high. 😉 Whether they have millions in the bank or they just got laid (ha!) off from Wall Street, though, some try way harder than others.

Or maybe it’s me. Maybe some of them don’t have to try as hard. They simply just don’t need a flashlight and a Trip-Tik. They don’t have to rip the copy of “War and Peace” out of your hands because you didn’t feel the need to pick it up in the first place!

I feel like I don’t try as hard anymore. Which is kind of where Plumcake’s article starts to go — that we as women of size (oh, let’s face it, I will always call it my Pudgy Pork Roast Ass, even when it gets down to a lean cut of meat) tend to be suspicious when the Abercrombie-model-candidate tries to pick us up.

Like, either you’ve heard we’re easy (we are — er, well, we CAN be, depending on our needs), or you lost a bet with your buddies. Which is it?

(Since you know to expect TMI when you read this blog, my needs tend to vary with frequency. Have it more, want it more. On hiatus? I can extend that out indefinitely. Except now that I’m approaching my sexual peak, like HELL I’m hitting that summit with just my Purple Peter Eater and other various accessories, kthx.)

So, yeah, when someone who, like, runs when he’s not being chased — or otherwise is more buff than my car after I drop $50 at the auto spa — sure I have to look around and wonder where the Candid Camera is. But again, it’s not that I don’t feel worthy. On the contrary, I guess I assume he’s frosted a thousand cupcakes in his day and why should I be his next, uh, Hostess?

And in that, I wonder — I think those who are “size-ists” are absolutely unfair in overlooking a group of people where they might just find the happiness that seems to continually evade them. I also apply this to women who rave that size DOES matter … till I find out otherwise. And I always do. 😉 (Don’t ask!)

But does that mean I’m guilty of reverse discrimination here — that I’m always seeking the ulterior motive … or that I’m quick to dismiss someone just because I think they’d drop me for the cheerleader chick at the other end of the bar … or, worse, that people would look at us walking down the street and wonder how the hell I got HIM?

I’m not saying I’m looking for someone who looks like me. Quite the contrary — I want to be challenged to be my best. To look my best. To, uh, perform the theatrics quite willingly.

I guess what I’m saying is that I’m looking for someone who melts me. Who touches my skin and every single nerve ending feels like it’s erupted in flames. I guess I’ve felt that before and, while it may not necessarily be a measure of love and hearts and all that fuzzy-wuzzy crap, it definitely does indicate a level of compatibility that, frankly, I’m unwilling to live without when I do finally succumb to co-habitation or left-hand-jewelry-collecting and that sort of thing.

So, I’m all about hot men. Hell, at this stage of my life, I probably shouldn’t rule out women, either, as I always say I need a wife more than I need a husband. 😉 But it’s all about instinct, too.

Do they touch me and my skin erupts in flames or goose bumps? If yes, go to question 2. Do they stimulate my brain?

Sub-question 2A: Does that happen because their penis is so big, it tickles my brain, or 2B: They can form a coherent thought … with proper grammar? If 2A, take them home. If 2B, take them home and tie them up (and ravage them) and don’t let them get away.

That sort of thing.

So, tall or short, slight or buff, dark or light, this or that … or even the other thing — I don’t care. I’m just looking for some magic. And if Hottie McHotster enters my space and I feel anything resembling annoyance, discomfort or boredom, I would gladly encourage him to keep walking. But if not, I don’t care a thing about what the rest of the world says — I’m going to turn on the charm that I save for special occasions, and see what happens.

And maybe I’ll find a better way than a treadmill to burn off those excessive calories I’m storing in said Pudgy Pork Roast Ass … and it won’t be to get/keep a man!

CityPlace … from Palm Beach

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

So, I stopped at Rita’s in Lake Worth because they are making coffee ice cream this week (NOM to the third power, yo).

I was sitting on the Avenue, snarfing in my coffee ice cream like it was my last meal on earth. (Although I’m sure normal prisoners take hours to eat their last meal — I wouldn’t. Get me on my way!) And I saw a very normal sight.

I saw two women, walking and holding hands.

Maybe I live in a world (in my head) where that’s the norm. Maybe I’m a little bit jealous, truth be told, that people find their soulmate — or, at least, someone who really stirs their loins 😉 — and they want the world to know.

It’s very rare that I find myself in the position of BEING the one having the time of my life whom everyone is watching. So, while I was a little bit envious, I was also more than a lot proud that two women can walk down the street in Lake Worth, absolutely unafraid to be in love with each other.

I guess I was staring at them, wistfully of course. And I saw this older guy behind them, trying to catch my eye.

I looked over at him and he was grinning from ear to ear, obviously at the two girls. I had to laugh — while I was celebrating love in my head, he was obviously trying not to sprout a hard-on.

Hey, whatever — at least it’s acceptance, yes? 🙂

Then of course a truck full of idiots yammering in Spanish had to roll by. They started yelling really loud. Since I couldn’t understand what the fuck they were saying, I couldn’t tell you if they were offering a social commentary on the couple who had captured my attention.

But I watched the girls stop in their tracks, for just a moment, before walking on.

And I knew exactly how they felt. Any kid who has ever been teased in school knows what it’s like to have people yelling nasty shit at you — anything to make you turn around. And most of us became exceptionally good at ignoring the rest of the world … just in case that comment they were making was about you.

In any case, my moment of pride became one of sadness — that I live in a world where people just try to be happy … try to stay out of everyone else’s way … just want a little bit of peace and maybe even respect. That’s all. And even though it doesn’t cost us a dime or inconvenience us in any way, we simply can’t give people that.

I had a dream last night that a friend I saw recently had come to town to visit me. And we were at my boss’ house for a party. And he had his arms around me, and nobody said anything other than, “Yay, Goddess,” pretty much. Nobody looked twice.

And while I was happy in my dream, I awaken to a world where as long as you fit the “norm,” whatever that may be, that you’re fine. That you don’t have to worry that some dipshit yelling out of a car is aiming their comments at you.

It’s so hard to find happiness. I’m 36 and still searching. And I can’t guarantee that what ends up being my family will be anything resembling traditional.

But I will tell you this — I’ve had it with everyone else (people who aren’t all that happy themselves) trying to define it for the rest of us.

Watercolor sunset

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

I was just reading Lachlan’s bucket list and wondered whether articulating/formalizing my own might make me more-inclined to start tackling it.

1. Visit Ireland. (Plan has been hatched for 2011!)
2. See every major city in Europe.
3. Kick out the Extra-Over-Extended Houseguest. Again.
4. Visit all of the Florida Keys. (The inhabitable ones. I’ve done stuff on two of 30. Lots more to see!)
5. Raise my credit score above my IQ.
6. Fall in love.
7. Get married. Hopefully to the person in No. 6.
8. Help to rear a child. Doesn’t have to be biological. I’m all about fostering or adopting, although I’ve had it with freeloaders. 😉 I may reconsider this one!
9. Feel beautiful. Whether through diet, exercise or plastic surgery. Or all of the above.
10. Forgive my mother.

Hopefully these will all become “Mission: Possible” in time, although I’m more likely to find my pot of gold than to achieve No. 10 in this lifetime.

Gorgeous!!!

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

Ah, Key Largo. Crayola executives probably take their boats out into the Atlantic to dream up their newest colors. I don’t even know what to call this, other than extraordinary.

I introduced someone new to the blog today. Perhaps against my better judgment. But I don’t blog as much as I used to, so there is far less incriminating evidence on this page than there used to be. 😉

I’d rather have stories and scandal and choose not to tell them, than try to make my life sound interesting when it might not be. Let’s just say it is, and leave it at that.

I had a dream that I got fired. And it was no big deal, really. I made one phone call and was hired as the publisher at a new company my friends just started. (My friends really liked that dream!)

I am in the position I wanted, but someone else in a similar position deals with the subject matter that I am a master at. It’s very weird. On one hand, I’m like … but I know that stuff (trading) so well — why did they assign us the divisions they did?

And then on a day like today, where I got an incredible compliment from someone I NEVER expected one from, I realize that I’m growing. Sure, the subject matter (investing) isn’t my forte. it’s borderline dreadful on a bad day. But I have a lot to learn, and I’ll emerge from this smarter.

I learned the hard stuff first. Story of my career, actually. I learned options before I learned how to trade. I learned trading before I learned about long-term investing. Normal people do it the complete opposite. Most never learn options. I can teach them in my sleep.

Mind you, I don’t trade. Cash flow issue. 😉 But those who can’t, apparently market and edit for those who do!

I’ve been in friggin’ la-la land in my head these past few weeks. Perhaps it’s that the subject matter — say it with me — is bo-ring. Maybe I’m avoiding reality. (If only one could get paid a salary for that. …)

Mom’s really sick. I mean *really* sick. And I’m just so tired and burned-out and over it all, you know? I have traveled about a half-dozen times in the last month and I have a week away in a week from now. And I can’t wait to run for the (northern) border once again.

I am bummed that a friend who was supposed to head to Canada with me next week isn’t going. Another friend might meet the caravan, but I don’t know. I do love that my friendships are transcontinental. I’m more likely to see someone on the road than I am living in their damn zip code!

Lady L and I made a pact to visit the Emerald Isle next year. Speaking of transcontinental friendships, I’ve been meaning to reconnect with a friend from that area. I suck at this shit. I really do.

There’s a period in my life where everything went to hell, and I single-handedly destroyed every friendship I had at the time. Granted, a lot of fair-weathered types flocked the fuck away. But there were those who wanted to be there. And I just … couldn’t. And every time I look back, I feel those feelings of just, utter defeat. And I think I don’t deserve to have those friends back, because I couldn’t nurture those relationships.

So, their e-mails sit read, but unanswered, in my Facebook and LinkedIn accounts. I don’t know what to say. O HAI I suck. You look great. Congratulations on your life events. Wish I hadn’t gone through that dark period because we missed out on a lifetime of friendship. Kisses!

Yeah.

Anyway, this year … this summer … has been all about reconnecting. With my beloveds. With nature. With myself.

My friends who travel like I do, often get homesick. Not me. I find myself when I’m on the road. It’s when I’m home that I’m kinda lost.

I’m lucky that at least I’ve had the pleasure of making my own acquaintance. And if I have to get a passport stamp to go have dinner with her every once in a while, so be it.

Liberty Bell

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

The only thing that irritates me about social media — other than my absolute dependence on it — is when it’s a holiday and everybody’s posting good tidings.

Skip the Suzy Sunshine shit and entertain me, damn it!

*cough* So, OK, nothing really newsworthy here. L and I spent the day sailing around Key Largo yesterday. We figure, if we’re going to live in paradise — for a brief time, probably — then we owe it to ourselves to explore it.

And we had a blast. 🙂

It was raining like hell here in Palm Beach County yesterday. But we went to Monroe County, and it was lovely. Absolutely lovely. We got into a glass-bottom boat at John Pennekamp Coral Reef State Park, and had nothing but blue skies and sunshine and oil-free waters, which I captured with my new camera.

I need furniture. And a storage unit. And a boat to Cuba that I can toss my mother into. But alas, I bought a camera because that — shy of the boat — is what I will get the most use/enjoyment out of.

Hell, I’m just happy to get the hell out of Dodge. I can’t stand being at home. Work was really stressful last week. Not “crackhead”-level stressful by ANY means. But, you know, not easy, either.

Given the theme of today’s holiday, however, celebrating one’s independence is in HIGH order.

I don’t have much else to say … well, that I CAN write … but life is just too short to be stressed out. Our existence doesn’t really end here, so we should be living it up while we’re in this life form because it’s the briefest. It’s all about collecting experiences, and let me tell you, I know EXACTLY how lucky I am to be who/where I am.

And I just want to enjoy it while I (can) have it. Which is why I leave crap jobs and so-called friends behind, and jump on the wind and ride it wherever it’s blowing. I’m not always as light of heart and spirit (or ass) as I should be. But I will do my damndest to not let the wrong things weigh me down.