Caterwauling

And Catholicism arrives in America

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

I feel the need to blog. Why, I do not know, because “Teen Mom” is on and I shudder to admit that it’s my favorite show of the moment.

The amazing Lady L and I packed up her furry four-pawed wonder and headed north to St. Augustine for the weekend. It was the perfect amount of time there — the town was tiny and charming and the people were absolutely lovely.

My boss refers to St. Augustine as “South Georgia,” because Southern hospitality is alive and well there. People make eye contact with you, and the servers are attentive, and not only are you never waiting for a refill but your server will ask you if you want a to-go cup so that you can enjoy your beverage as you go off on your next adventure.

It made us realize that South Florida? Blows. It’s just plastic and fake and rude and barely tolerable for nice Northern girls. If northern Florida is South Georgia, then southern Florida is South New York.

I will be spending my now-fourth weekend away from home this weekend. Yeah! I’m happily hanging out with my fur-nephew again at his palace by the sea. I prefer vacationing with him and his mom, of course. Even if his tiny 20-pound puppy butt takes up the middle half of the king-size bed while we cling to opposite corners.

My cat is slightly irritated at my absence, given the UEOEH’s proclivity to dance said cat around the apartment like a marionette. Also given that said dog ate said cat’s dinner and then peed in her dish for good measure. But, the further away I am from my roomie, the happier I am.

Work’s been good although I should probably stay up all night to deliver a project I’ve been promising for two months. Due tomorrow. Sigh. It’s not that I’m NOT working — it just keeps falling to the bottom of the “urgent” pile.

Anyway, we loved St. Auggie’s. LOVED. It’s a place to take someone you enjoy hanging out with. Even someone you downright adore. I could retire there someday; I loved it that much.

I still want my summer home to be in Vancouver, and I can always return to South Florida to attend to the business that Lady L and I plan to start. But to eat French and Spanish food in a town where everyone (even the ghosts) are friendly (minus those nasty spirits in the Old Jail), I could live happily ever after by the Matanzas Bay.

Especially if our business employed my mother a good four-plus hours away!!!

Gastown Steam Clock

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

“You’re askin’ her to dance now
She spins a solid white light
She gonna make love to you today
Today and every night.”

— Beth Hart, “By Her”

T-15 hours till we pull outta this joint and head to the Great White North for 48 hours of … well, I don’t know what, exactly. Not being anywhere near home or work or anything like that. *Squee!*

I haven’t packed. Just gave myself the world’s hastiest pedicure. And really — it’s all good. Nothing that can’t be overcome with a little sleep and a LOT of hustling to get my work done in the morning.

The UEOEH actually washed all my clothes. I’m shocked. I rarely wash clothes because the W/D is in the master bath. And who has the master bedroom? Ain’t me! And I stay as FAR away as possible, lest conversation is engaged and I get to hear in person how mean I am instead of just via e-mail.

I have two new pairs of glasses. That my optometrist is about to staple to my head like I’m Eric Cartman. Sigh. I hate wearing glasses. But I’m not a candidate for Lasik because I’m farsighted and he said it’s only for nearsightedness.

Crap.

The glasses are cute. I have a brown jeweled pair for casual, and a black jeweled pair for dress-up. I surprisingly don’t have a headache, but my eyes are ready to defect from my head from being corrected all day. Yeesh.

I moved into a new office this week. It’s nice having a door, even though the walls are paper-thin. It actually feels like I have some amount of authority, especially because there are only two offices in our whole building. 🙂

Of course, I find I have a lot of free time, being down one employee. Which is not the way it’s supposed to be, right? Which means I made the right decision. But, alas, le sigh nonetheless.

Oh well. Tomorrow is a new day, indeed. And I look forward to the road trip, the ghost-hunting, the cozy hotel, and (I’m sure) the world tour of restaurants that we will pack into our weekend away.

And it will feel good to be about 250 miles closer to someone I miss, although I won’t be truly happy till we’re sharing the same breath again. But that will come soon enough. I am sure of it.

“She may be waiting
‘Round the comer of your mind
But still you know she’s there
You can feel her inside.”

A friend’s little girl started kindergarten today, and it reminded me of my first day of school back in, oh, 1979.

I was so thrilled to get away from my crazy family, you couldn’t hold me back. I took the schoolbus (a long one, thanks!) and was on my merry little way. LOVED it.

I learned later that my mom and grandfather had trailed the bus, parked at the school and hid behind another parked car so that they could watch me.

They were shocked that I didn’t even look around. My whole life, I’m pretty convinced that they just could not believe the fact that I didn’t really NEED them. And that day was the first of thousands just like it — I just strutted straight up to the building and went to Miss Ashenbaugh’s room (Room 1 — I’ll never forget that) like I owned the damn place.

Other kids were clinging to their parents, who dropped them off. I had opted NOT to be dropped off. I seriously must have just been ready to get the fuck away from those people. Truly. I was so deprived of social contact as a wee one that ANY chance for escape was to be seized immediately, if not sooner.

Even today, I am a good 1,500 miles away from where I grew up, and I’m STILL trying to outrun the last of them! Why the hell doesn’t my mother GET it that the more you chase me, the faster I run away?

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Well, what can I say — obviously, by this photo, you know I’m at home!

I’m so very through. So. Very. Through.

I’ve been struggling with something huge lately. Other than the ominous, whiny, demanding, critical, dependent cloud of gloom and doom that permeates my apartment.

And I realized today, it’s in God’s hands. Not mine. It was never in mine. I don’t know WHY I thought it was.

Well, I DO know why. Because this fucked-up home life of mine refuses to solve itself. I’ve stopped trusting God. I remember when I was unemployed back in 2004. It took me finding God and trusting Him for the situation to turn around.

And here we are, six years later, and I’m doubting Him again. I think He’s going to take me back to the brink of absolute insanity again.

You know what I fear? Other than my mother living with me FOREVER and me missing out on life and love and wanting to come home? I fear stupid shit. Like illness. Or having a kid with some sort of problem or another. (I can’t even articulate it.)

I used to be grateful for “stupid” worries like I have now. I always figured it saved me from having bigger problems … that if I just had a series of utter annoyances, I would avoid Problems with a capital P.

And while I don’t want anything more-serious than what I’m dealing with, when does my break from it all come?

Work is good. Busy. Stressful sometimes. Not bad, overall. Had I not worked at the goddamned insane asylum, I might not be as happy as I am in a mild form of chaos. I like teambuilding and having visitors from out of town/out of the country. I had lunch with a former Congresscritter yesterday. Life’s not too bad these days.

I just wish the UEOEH (Ultra Extra Over Extended Houseguest) would move out. She loves to tell me how cruel I am. Today I asked her (nicely!) to get a package from my cunty landlady, who signed for it a week ago and never BOTHERED to tell me it had arrived. Since, you know, she doesn’t do anything else. (Which, I didn’t mention!)

So she tells me she got the package and asked what I was going to do to thank her for seeing the cunt. I replied with a quick, “Enjoy another day rent-free.” So I got about six e-mails blah blah blah “You’re so mean” and “You’re cruel” blah blah blah.

Hey, if all anyone wanted ME to do was get a fucking box from the landlady instead of paying half of the (*mumblemumble*) rent, honey, I’d be pretty FUCKING happy to stick a Swiffer up my ass and dust the floor on my way out!

I don’t know, God. I know lots and lots of people have it worse. But I also know lots and lots of people have it better.

I know I grew up poor. I didn’t have two nickels to rub together till I was 27 years old. I’m finally at a point in my life where I could enjoy said life. And, I can’t. I try so hard. And it just doesn’t come together.

I have been thinking about kids a lot. A LOT. It’s not that I really want to have one. But it was someone reminding me that I have a finite time to decide either way that really sent my clock into overdrive.

And again, it was always something I (mostly) left in God’s hands. Minus the extreme birth control. God bless Plan B. And Plan C, for that matter.

But I always thought that would be worked out by now. And yet, after Princess plopped her obnoxious ass into my house, I don’t want to live with anybody. No tall people, no short people and no furry people beyond the cat I already have. (And she’s annoying me too — she goes wherever UEOEH goes!)

I started wondering about adoption. Or even a turkey baster. Or hitting the pound for a puppy. But again, I need Miss Muffet to move off of my tuffet so that I have room in my life, heart and apartment for something else. Because anything/anyone else daring to siphon another breath of my oxygen is gonna get a size 8 1/2 foot up their ass.

God? You’ve got my back, right? You’ve helped me with, well, everything else. I want to save my prayers for when I REALLY need them. But I kinda need You now. Actually, more than just “kinda.” I know You’ve got a plan, and I’d be an asshole to question it. But could you throw a girl a hint about Your timetable?

Boo Boo

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

I’m babysitting my fur-nephew/furry godchild George. And I call him a lot of names — Giorgio, G, Munchkin and The One Without Opposable Thumbs. (The latter name has won me a few arguments with him!)

But the one name I think fits him best is “Man About Town.” Because everybody KNOWS him.

I can’t walk down the A1A without hearing a, “Hi George!” at least once a block. I have to put on my damn makeup ’cause people stop to talk. And since George’s mom is a beaming ray of sunshine, I don’t want everyone seeing my surly ass and wondering how we got to be friends. 🙂

And even if they (or, for some of them, their dogs) don’t know George, the walk isn’t complete without people stopping to pet him. He is that damn cute, I have to give him that.

People think I’m the dogwalker. I don’t even stop them and try to explain my actual career. As one of my employees noted when I took George into the office yesterday, it might not hurt me to put a bell on certain employees. It would be way easier to keep track of them. (Someone else said it, not me!)

I did have an in-depth chat with Boo Boo (pictured). I’ve run into him twice. He’s from Honolulu. He has a big story, and it’s consistent so I believe him, and I did tell him mine.

In fact, when he saw me today, he said, “I know you — you’re the girl who publishes that shit that don’t make no sense!” And I said, “I’m putting that on my business cards!”

He’s the nicest person. Has a smile and a compliment for everybody. I took this photo of him making some art for me and George — he’s using a magnifying glass to burn words into a palm leaf. On the back it has my name and George’s with a fish for me and a bone for him. On the front is where we met him.

Boo Boo says he has made millions of dollars in his life as a corporate motivator. And I can see that — he’s got bright eyes and a million-dollar smile. Conversation comes easily.

He’s been married three times. Says he hasn’t seen his last wife since 2003 and they never got divorced.

He got sick of the corporate world a few years back and became a beach bum. Lost all his money and makes a few bucks here and there with his art.

What I loved about him is that he just needs enough to buy Budweiser, cigars and the occasional steak. He lives on the beach. (His nice way of saying he’s homeless.) The corner of A1A and Atlantic is his “office” where he does his leaf-burning art.

He told me a story about meeting a woman down here over a year ago. They had a long-distance relationship for a couple of months, and she invited him to come up to the northeast to live with her.

He said she fell in love with the long-haired free spirit who had had enough of corporate life … the guy who takes pleasure in smoking and drinking and shooting the shit with like-minded people.

But then, she got him into her family business and yelled at him about his hair, his drinking, his smoking and pretty much everything that she had fallen in love with.

One day, he quit the job working for her brother in law. Changed out of his shirt and tie. Lit up a smoke and cracked open a beer. She started yelling at him and he said he was going out to the convenience store.

He left and never came back. And, he says, he always finds himself back in Delray, although his heart is in Honolulu.

Boo Boo told me his real name but I like keeping his cover. He doesn’t want anyone to know where to find him. He prefers it that way. He said he’s been featured on CNN. I can’t find it but I admit I haven’t been looking too hard.

But, I just had to re-tell his story because I loved it. I love that he says he made a half-million dollars last year, and pissed it all away. That he works just enough to get what he needs. And all he needs now is a bus ticket to California so he can get home to Hawaii to see his dog.

He said they are partying down at the beach tonight, him and two of his buddies. He wants me to come. He said he was going to go to Publix and get three steaks — well, four, now that I was invited. I said I don’t eat meat (a lie. Sigh.) because I wasn’t sure if I’d go.

I’m not afraid — I just know that I was meant to meet him, for the amount of time we met. If I run into him, I do want to pay him for his art. I of course carry no money on me whatsoever. Hell, I’ll buy him that bus ticket. Or a case of Bud. Whichever. 🙂

I guess he had a wild night with some woman he met. I asked a question about her, and he said it happened somewhere between “Bud” and “Weiser.” Hah. I’m stealing that line!

Anyway, while I love me some George, I’m definitely cured of my curiosity about wanting a dog.

Don’t get me wrong — I have LOVED stopping to see all the trees and flowers that I have walked past no fewer than four dozen times in the past year. I saw black-eyed Susans and calla lillies and, thanks to Boo Boo, smelled the awesome fragrance of burning palm leaves.

I’ve stopped to smile at people, to have conversations I would never have had, to pet other dogs and wave at babies who call out “Woof-woof!” when they see my furry little four-pawed wonder.

But I’m still selfish. I don’t mind going at the puppy’s pace. But after I carried him home for four blocks because he was hot and tired and so very over our world tour, I realized that I’m perhaps not ready to be on anyone else’s schedule but my own.

I’ve lived for everybody else. It’s kind of like how my mom took care of everyone in her life till they all died off. She doesn’t know how to take care of herself now. I thought she’d thrive once all her dependents (of which I never counted myself) were gone. But she’s withered.

Not me. Once she’s out of my house (whenever the hell THAT will be), I think I’m OK with finally starting to live for me. And whether that involves a puppy or adopting a kid or, hell, walking away from it all and living on the beach just like Boo Boo, all I know is that I will have earned it and, probably, not a soul will question my reasoning.

English Bay

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

So, the photo may be of Vancouver, but I’m back in my souper-seekrit location in South Florida. Mom-cation, the revenge!

I’m puppy-sitting the most-adorable four-pawed wonder I’ve ever met. (Of the canine variety — I still think my Maddie was, paws down, the coolest kitty ever.) In the past 24-ish hours, we’ve gone for three walks, met no fewer than 25 people who knew him on sight and eaten an untold amount of treats. (And that’s just me!)

I quipped that picking up dog poop, oddly, wasn’t the lowlight of my day. Everybody knows my Tuesdays suck. Today was a Thursday masquerading as Tuesday. And didn’t Mercury just hop back into retrograde? Sure feels like it.

I had a Big Work Situation today. And it was mine, all mine, to take care of. And I did. I’m so damned relieved, but so very exhausted.

I didn’t have a lot of anxiety going into it. (It begins with “T” and ends with “ermination.”) Of all the people I’ve let go in my career, this one was the most-talented. But there is a LOT to be said for it not being a fit … and for the fit changing over (albeit it a short) time.

I’d been documenting and agonizing out the wazoo because it was a delicate, delicate situation. But I hit a point where it was just time to eliminate the position — trying to save it and morph it was just ending up in disaster, and I don’t have time for disaster. I have enough disasters to address on my to-do list, thanks!

Also disappointing was the fact that I’d left a vintage Far Niente in my trunk (in the HOT Florida sun) for far too long. Not that I was planning to do this event today. Tomorrow was my planned day. But when I’m through, you should just stick a fork in me and run for the hills before I stab back. Because I will. Hard.

Anyway, my wine is kinda skunky, but I don’t care. This is NOT the day to be picky.

All in all, it was a good day. Productive. But exhausting. Even though my nerves were fine, I was just good and mad. And then I had a few moments of “please, please don’t let us get sued for this.” But I had done my due diligence. The whole company (well, just Corporate, which was in the know) was standing behind me.

I’d done everything I could … for the company. And I will always wonder whether I did right by the employee (I tried. I don’t know whether I was met halfway), but in this case, the one thing we agreed on was that this was for the best.

Was it that easy? Apparently so. But I refuse to breathe a sigh of relief just yet. My heart is still pretty broken at the way things turned out.

Life goes on, though. I have a new employee — whom I recruited, recommended and cannot WAIT to see perform — starting in a completely different position soon. I have work that I just couldn’t part with that now I will be able to relinquish. That’s exciting for me. I won’t get calls when I’m out of the country anymore. Yeah!

So, I got to play Glenda the Good Witch with her on Monday. Then I pulled on the striped socks and played the Wicked Witch today. Tomorrow, I’ll bring Toto (er, George) to the office to entertain the Munchkins. And I will ROCK my ruby-red stilettos from one end of Oz to the other.

Oh, and Baltimore? Here I come. Not forever this time, but don’t rule me out yet. …

Canada Place

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

So I haven’t been to church in weeks. so I attended online services this morning PLUS I’m going to go to services live-and-in-person tonight. A double dose of Jesus couldn’t hurt right now.

The other night, I came home after 9 p.m. per usual, and went straight to my room, per usual. And the OEH texted that I could have my living room back. (As she had been in it when I flounced past without an acknowledgment.)

I replied back, “Don’t care about the living room. I want my HOUSE back.”

And she replied back, “I made pasta salad.”

Gotta love the state of passive-aggressiveness here. How does one register her car THERE?!?!

I just rented a storage unit, as this place is an avalanche of boxes that I am sick of looking at. I have gorgeous views of the Intracoastal and I can’t see ’em over the boxes. (And the closed vertical blinds, as I’m trying to keep the damn heat out.) I wonder whether it would be cruel to move the OEH into said storage unit — I would consider that 30 bucks a month a bargain for my sanity!

In attending online services today, we examined the Lord’s Prayer and the five stations of prayer. One was how you just have to keep forgiving people, the way you’ve been forgiven. See, this is where I have problems.

I’m not saying I’ve lived an exemplary life. Believe me, if there were some things (and some friends) I would have been smart enough to run screaming past, I’d go back and undo that shit in a heartbeat. But mostly, I’ve been ambling along, minding my own business … just trying to be a good person and a dutiful employee and otherwise attempt to not rain on anybody else’s parade.

Now, I know better than to think my life is terrible. I also know that it’s not the picture of grace and joy.

One thing I try to keep in mind is that I’m a good person, but maybe not a great one yet. If I do something slightly unholy, I figure I’m a better person than X. But I also know not to compare myself to a wretched piece of shit and, instead, I should compare myself to someone like Mother Theresa.

Like, WWGD? As in, What Would Gahndi do? And if that means go on a hunger strike, well, would that REALLY do my pudgy pork-roast butt any harm at this point?

So, beyond the “keep forgiving people” crap, as I’ve found that sometimes the only way to speak to people is to stop speaking to them ENTIRELY because they keep driving me NUTS, I found one other flaw in today’s sermon.

And that was the comment how many of us are on drugs to calm our nerves. That we clearly don’t believe enough in Jesus to take care of things.

Look, when I was dealing with all kinds of problems — perhaps bigger, albeit less-permanent than the ones I currently face — I had faith in God. I knew I couldn’t be unemployed forever, or that PsychoFailureFaggilicious had to run out of stupid ideas eventually. And maybe it took moving to Florida, but both problems are as solved as they can be. Woo hoo!

But that was the thing — the end may not have been in sight for either worthless situation, but I knew it would come eventually. And it did.

So here I am, starting to get kind of excited about life again. Like, it ain’t a dream job but it pays well and I have free time. And I’m starting to have faith that maybe there are single men under 50 out there worth getting to know. And maybe — and this is a BIG maybe — I might be amenable to the whole marriage and kids thing. Now, I don’t want to go out on a limb here, because that’s a HUGE development for me. But you know, I’m open to discussion. Which is a change from even six months ago.

In any case, I didn’t need meds back then. But I do now. And it’s truly because the OEH seems to think that this is permanent. That she’s entitled. That SO WHAT if I’m miserable — hey, at least she cleans the toilets and bakes, so what more do I want from her?

I think even Jesus would agree that the Paxil/Klonopin cocktail I ingest daily is keeping the homicide rate down, and that’s a GOOD thing!

Now I see why I drop out of church every now and again. I know their job is to show us the light and the truth and the way. And the truth hurts. No arguments there.

But what this yin-yang in the next room doesn’t realize is that the longer she wears out her welcome, the less-likely it is she’ll ever get a son-in-law or, gasp, a grandchild. Because I HATE sharing my space. HATE IT. There is no way in God’s green earth that any man will be moving in with me A) with her here, or B) even if she gets the fuck out of my space (into my storage unit?), I want my house back. I mean it.

I went to the eye doctor yesterday. Beyond the financial annoyance that Costco doesn’t take my insurance (I’ll submit it to my provider anyway. If I remember. Which, I never remember), I realized that masturbation really DOES make you go blind. God damn. They said I’d be pretty much fucked by age 38. My eyes themselves are healthy; my vision has just deteriorated off a cliff.

Time to get a new profession, one that doesn’t involve, oh, PUBLISHING?!?!

And that’s worrisome, you know? It’s like, bitch, get outta mah house. If I have two years to catch a man before I have to wear glasses 24 hours a day till the day I croak, can a girl have a lair where she can seduce her poor victims?

And then I think, fuck her. Seriously, fuck her. My house. I shouldn’t be hiding at my friend’s apartment when she’s out of town to enjoy the quiet. I should be bringing a parade of people through my house. I shouldn’t hide in my room. I should sit my stormcloud ass on my couch and command the remote.

I’d turn the TV off, BTW. I hate the TV. Silence is lovely. The TV is only on to keep people from feeling the need to TALK TO ME.

Hm. So yeah, at this point I’d have to pay for her to stay in a hotel if I have a guest here. So the solution is to get my own damn hotel. And what’s the fucking point of that when the view here is lovelier than any hotel I’ve ever stayed in? I’m literally watching a plane land at the airport as I type. THIS is what I’ve worked so hard for. And if my vision goes and, in turn, my career goes, well then won’t we all be out on the streets?

At least we’ll be together, she says.

*head—>desk*

That’s what I’m afraid of. I can think of worse people to spend my future with. (I’d type the name again but I’m aware of the “Beetlejuice” effect.) And I really don’t want to spend the rest of my life alone.

But I also don’t want to spend it medicated because I have to numb my basic impulses to A) knock the Jesus freaks upside the head with their “forgive everybody BUT you are not a good Christian if you are on the psychotropic hayride yourself, and B) to duct-tape someone to a surfboard and push them out to sea.

This is why I need two doses of church today, I guess!

How is it only Wednesday? How?!?!

It’s been a good week. Markedly improved over last. I’m more focused, although I HAVE to be. Deadlines and such, y’know?

I think I have two very strong candidates for the two open positions for which I’m hiring. One’s going to bring a few sticky problems with getting a work visa. And I know unemployment blows in this country, and believe me, it hurts my heart that the talent pool is about fingertip-deep. But I have such specialized needs that I can’t just hire any idiot and hope for the best. We’ve tried that already. Which is why we’re trying another way!

The problem is, I had some really good interviews. And those people are stalking me. And I would have taken a chance on any of them in a heartbeat. But I also don’t have the final say. So, in a decision-by-committee situation, I’ve gone the route of believing in Santa Claus. I have three requirements for these positions. And the two “winners” (can I call the race so soon?) let me believe in Santa, the Tooth Fairy AND the Easter Bunny.

What’s funny about the whole hiring process is the wide array of applicants. I have everything from fresh-out-of-college kids asking for six figures, to laid-off vice presidents at the (formerly) Big Banks who are STALKING me and only asking for $30K/year.

And don’t get me wrong — the JPMorgan guy and the Morgan Stanley dude would do JUST fine with little training. But … they’d also hit the bricks the moment the economy turns around.

I kind of hate having people’s fate in my hands like that. I don’t want them to think I’m violating any EEOC rules and not considering them because of their, ah, extensive experience. I just know not to waste my time (or, too much of it, as some of these stalkers are trying to bully me into interviewing them. Which is a tactic I’ve used myself. Successfully, at that. Surprisingly enough).

But what said stalkers must understand is that I’m wearing several capes right now, and having extraneous conversations goes to the bottom of the to-do list that’s about as long as a James Michener novel. And if my inability to call you right back at your convenience offends you, just WAIT till you get a dose of the CrankyPants on the phone!

But I’ve been there. God, I’ve been there. And a LOT of people wasted MY time, too. Between impossible editing tests and six rounds of interviews that didn’t so much as garner me a courtesy call to say they hired someone else, I know. Between living hand-to-mouth and not having next month’s rent or, hell, that week’s electric bill, I know. Not having a single soul to rely on if I get kicked out on the streets .. trust me, I KNOW.

I am looking forward to the “Glenda the Good Witch” moment when I can make two offers. Because this is my chance to build my team with MY people. I inherited a gaggle of great people, overall. Quirky as fuck, most of them, but in a generally lovable way. And at a time when the houseguest is like a bad employee who keeps getting fired but keeps showing up (and getting paid for nothing), and at a time when I’d go crazy if I actually TRIED to attack my whole to-do list, bringing in people who worship the very ground I fall on will be a nice change of pace.

Florida has been good for me. As I interviewed someone today who has had a very abbreviated version of my career path, I was proud to say that the person she met briefly a few years back is different now. Sure, I CAN work 14 hours a day again. And some times, I will have to. But I’ve found a bit of a balance that I never would have dreamed of allowing myself back in D.C. I HAD to overachieve. I HAD to haul ass. I was green in my field and I was hell-bent on learning everything I could. Now I can kind of chill. I know my shit. No one can pull the knowledge out of my head, or the experience out of my pocket. It is worth waiting for. I promise!

What I loved about my interviewees is that they’re still hungry. You get a lot of laid-back people in Florida. They don’t have the drive that we did in the Big City. We dress differently at the beach. We move a little more slowly. We know we deserve sunshine and time to enjoy our nice weather. We know things will get done and everything will be all right.

Or maybe the rest of the world was always like that, but I’ve only just now discovered how much BETTER life can be if only you choose to live it and not put it on hold indefinitely.

But, I still have some of my city-inspired expectations. Like, the lack of hunger for more responsibility, or to impress one’s elders, frustrates the FUCK out of me.

I was thinking about one in particular today — “toying” with the thought, if you will — how at that age/position/experience I would have been crafting projects for myself to impress my superiors — to get them to notice me. Hell, to ensure that I would still have a job the next day.

I appreciate when people ask how they can help, but when I’m changing from my Wonder Woman cape to my Bat Girl getup, I need people to play nice by themselves.

And I would CERTAINLY make the time to read a well-thought-out marketing plan on how to revamp the Web sites or how to monetize social media (and thus to make the case for utilizing it), if anyone thought TAKING THE INITIATIVE to hand me one might be a good idea.

Don’t get me wrong — I like lazy time. I believe that downtime is a great creativity enhancer. But if you’re gonna show up at work, grab a spare cape and figure out how to fly, because THAT is where I’m going to see you and think about taking you with me on the journey!

My Mom-cation of this past weekend was so short — too short — but so very lovely.

The weather was crappy yesterday — gray and, ultimately, super-rainy. I headed home early so that my friend could have her lovely apartment to herself when she came home from the airport.

See, that’s something I miss about having my freedom — coming home to a quiet, empty apartment.

When I got home, oddly enough, the Ultra Extra Over-Extended Houseguest was nowhere to be found. A dear friend advised me, “Masturbate and call the locksmith!” LOL.

If only it were that easy to call the locksmith. I was willing to pay the double-time for a Sunday, plus a convenience charge for making them swim to my house in the pouring rain. I also would happily have kicked in extra for them to bring my groceries up to the house, as I got SOAKED trying to drag my cat food and yogurt into the building!

The UEOEH and I got into it this morning. She tried to reserve me for Friday night to take her out to dinner. The drive is a pain in the ass; it’s a restaurant I don’t particularly care for, and guess what? I already made plans with my friend — and we SPLIT THE BILL!!!

So, WHY would I want to take UEOEH out at her command?

I’d slept in Friday. My alarm re-set itself during the night. (I swear, I’d checked it twice before I went to sleep.) So as I was flying around like the Tasmanian Devil to get ready, she stops me and says, “Oh, are you off today?” I asked what does she care. “So we can do something together!” she exclaimed.

Now, for three years, she has assumed she can claim any weekend day, day off or evening. That I would be THRILLED to spend any of my free time with her. Uh, PLEASE.

Sometimes I get charitable and do it wordlessly. But once my friend moved to town — with whom I have SO MUCH MORE FUN — I realize I don’t HAVE to babysit anymore.

It still costs me the same, maybe more, as I always have to make sure princess has an allowance so she can eat. As that’s her usual guilt-trip schtick — “I’M HUNGRY!”

She did not “get” why I was away this weekend — to be ALONE and FAR AWAY from her. To recapture my lost youth as a single apartment-dweller.

So today after she commanded my Friday night, I said simply, “Why?”

The answer, unsurprisingly, “BECAUSE I’M HUNGRY.”

And after being told by my boss last week that I am entirely too accommodating (this was work-related, though), I said, “Well, aren’t YOU demanding?”

She was dumbfounded and repeated it. I could just see the little hamster in her brain, waking up and plotting to tell her useless friends — using the phone I paid for as well as the minutes that are on my tab — what a bitch I am. How she’s SO NICE and I’m SO MEAN.

I wasn’t about to be told I was mean. (Again. For the eleventy billionth time in four years.)

I said, look, it’s time you made me a list — a written-out, detailed list — of everything you need to move out. Instead of just telling me that I don’t help and I suck and I’m mean, just write out in exact terms what it is I have to do to get my apartment back by Dec. 31.

I said that this is the only way we can salvage what’s left of this relationship. It isn’t working … it hasn’t BEEN working … and isn’t four years of this shit enough for either one of us to take?

In usual Cleopatra (Denial) fashion, she decided to compliment my shirt and ask to see it. (As I was trying to hide in my bathroom with the door cracked open ’cause it’s HOT in there.) I said no and go away. She does that all the time — wants to see whatever’s new. So she can borrow it, no doubt. Or, because SHE doesn’t get anything new.

I’m not claiming to be better or worse or anything — I work hard for my money. Sometimes. I treat myself to new (and mostly cheap) stuff. I don’t need a fucking parade to commemorate each occasion.

And besides, it was like our earlier conversation had never happened. Like thousands of similar conversations before it.

Every time I remind myself that I don’t have it too bad in life, she flares up and I go through the roof. And as we know, my landlady refuses to patch the roof — just paint over the wet spots — and it’s rainy season and I cannot AFFORD to have a hole in the ceiling right now!!!

I’m on a gastrointestinal tour of a local city. I’m trying to pretend to be a tourist in a town I know like the back of my hand, and I ALMOST get away with it … until I tell the goofy asshole who’s harassing the seating host at the restaurant where I’m chowing down on a salad and ancho-bourbon boneless wings that the Starbucks to the north is WAY closer than the one to the south. Whoops.

I had some unexpected dinner companions the other night. They had a kid who was a few years old. Cute kid. Inquisitive. Sharp as a fucking tack. I made sure to only talk to adults, as it was past 8 p.m. and I just don’t “do” kids.

I was talking to his mom, who may be a couple years younger than me, but I was too polite to ask. I threw out my own age to see if she bit — she didn’t — but I was as clever about it as I could be, given the late hour. I said, with nothing but truthfulness, that dating over age 36 is a bitch because you have the “having children” discussion WAY sooner than you ever thought possible.

Shit, just get me to the next date already — I’m not ready to allocate my eggs. Besides, what if I end up like Charlotte on “Sex and the City” and all the birth control over the years was for nothing, and I couldn’t have any if I tried anyway?

The gal I met was happy to have just one child. And she lamented how she used to be the breadwinner — and how she couldn’t keep up with her career and the kid at the same time, so she had to choose. Clearly, she chose the kid.

And it’s an interesting debate that I’ve had with myself. I’ve been the breadwinner in most of my entanglements. And believe you me, I am THROUGH with working … you don’t have to ask me twice to get off the career track.

Like another good friend said, it’s time to quit being a workaholic, and work on finding and nurturing a functional relationship. We already did the “work thing” — time to work on our personal lives for a change.

But now that our friend’s life is starting to return to normal — i.e., she said it takes till the munchkin is about 3 years old for some semblance of your former life to start to return — she’s been off the career train for three years. That’s a long time. How do you jump back on?

And how do you “make do” in the interim?

It’s funny for me to even be thinking about this stuff, as I’m on holiday from the Ultra Extra Over Extended Houseguest (who keeps texting — she texted as the cat, asking where I am. Gah), and she’s damn good at driving away any urge I have to meet a guy and perpetuate this fucked-up gene pool. I mean, really — when she dies, shouldn’t I just enjoy the silence that she’s deprived me of for so long?

Anyway, I told our friend my theory, that I want to go to Paris. I want plastic surgery. And if I can throw in a kid, yay. Win. I want it all. Or I have to make choices … which likely don’t involve something that shits in a diaper.

And our friend, who is trying so hard to regain some sense of normalcy, says to me, “You can always have Paris. But your window to have a child is, unfortunately, not open for a lifetime. Just be sure that you can look back in 20 years and be OK with that decision.”

I hate voices of reason.

I’m not on the baby train just because of my advanced biological-clock age. It would need to involve the right guy, and the right financial situation for me to scale back on work … or (prayerfully) to be able to take a hiatus entirely.

I don’t know that kids are in my future. Bu I do admit that the idea of working myself into my grave is less and less appealing.

Of course, it’s all contingent upon finding the right guy. And I need to be happy with “just” him … someone I can play with and talk with and have fun with and not want to choke because he’s in my space … before I can even think about “doing it for our country.” (As apparently the Japanese are financially incentivizing their population to ensure that the pagoda’s a-rocking.)

Good lord, I’ve had such a good day on my own. Why am I typing about babies? Does all the alcohol I’ve consumed (Blue Moon drafts with orange slices) send my mind THERE? Or is it seeing all the baby carriages on the Avenue … filled with purse dogs … that makes me want to head off my boarding of the crazy train?

Or maybe is it that I want my chance to do something that isn’t soulless and insipid, like pretty much everything else that I’m known for that serves as the sole thing that defines my contribution to this world?