Caterwauling

So I’m having one of those weeks that I had, well, every DAY at the InvestorRanch. Just a cyclone of deadlines and the crushing weight of two jobs (manager vs. the person who has to get shit done too).

I’ve been stressed. But not as much as I used to be. In fact, I know my limits so much better now. I used to just sit there till midnight, cranking out my to-do list like a good little girl. And it took a pay raise and a few dozen trips to the beach since then, but I have things to do.

I play too vital a role to bring a burned-out brain to the situation. I have too many people counting on me — even if I can’t whip through the massive to-do list on their preferred schedule, I need (hell, I WANT) to be professional and approachable and not a snappish, psychotic mess. Which is pretty much my default setting after the past year spent working in the den of iniquity.

The good news is, this week will end. The bad news is, this week will end. I have my furry little buddy sitting here at my feet as I attack my inbox. And I’ve had to leave every day by a certain time to make sure he didn’t have any accidents in the house while waiting for me.

So, by rights, I probably WOULD have worked till all hours this week. But that this just so happened to be my week with George … with seven THOUSAND deadlines plus a new (glorious!) employee starting … I’ll take that as a sign from God that keeping my balance was the universe’s priority. And that it should be mine.

I didn’t get to celebrate any achievements with wine last night. But tonight? Bring it on, baybees. …

The more I think about the movie “The Switch,” the angrier I get.

As a lady in the theater told me, it was a “waste of film.” And she only paid $6.75 because she got the senior discount. She said she felt sorry that I paid the full 10 bucks.

You and me both, sister.

I often wonder whether I were abused in a past life … or I am just THAT disenchanted by my mother’s lifelong string of failed, fucked-up relationships that has her parked in MY house and not happily married off somewhere … but I don’t take being degraded by men.

Don’t get me wrong — I’ve worked for enough nutcases (male and female) to know what psychological torture is. But romantic, physical or just plain relational rape is, well, still rape.

It’s not a word I use lightly. It’s not a word I use at all. I get annoyed when people claim to have been raped or even sexually harassed. As an employer, I’ve had to deal with those kinds of claims. Fuck, I’ve entertained filing said claims.

Not that I’m a prude. Oh, not me. I’m probably more sexually overt than any woman I know. But I also know that “no” means “oh HELL no.” And to see people (male or female) abusing their power, and victims (again, male or female) being victimized makes me VERY angry.

And this stupid-ass movie, based on a stupid-ass story (“Baster”) from 1996, wasn’t just a waste of film. It is an affront to victims worldwide … to anyone who was powerless (knowingly or unknowingly) to someone violating their personal space or, worse, their BODY because someone COULD.

So, I’m giving away the plot. Fuck it — DON’T spend money on the movie or The New Yorker archive to read the story.

Nerdy boy (as though Jason Bateman could be anything less than yummy) meets lovely girl. They date and, to his chagrin, they end up as “just friends.” In the written story — which writer Jeffrey Eugenidies clearly articulates is as similar to the movie as a “cello” is to “cellophane” — said girl had gotten pregnant years ago and aborted it.

Naturally, Hollywood left that part out. But in the written story, the man exacts revenge by switching the sperm that was left out at a party that was, of course, to be used to impregnante the now-40-year-old lovely girl.

In the movie, Jason Bateman was rip-roaringly drunk when he spilled the intended sperm and, in his drunken stupor, he reasoned that he had to replace said sperm.

The written story took place over 10 months, and the character never ‘fessed up to his crime. The movie spans seven years and the character realizes the kid is his, and confesses and wants to be a dad to him.

Predictable, yes. Cute, sure. At times. But regardless, the character “Wally Mars” violated his friend’s body and trust. And a brand-new life was created on a lie.

Of course in the movie, I can’t figure out how Aniston’s character doesn’t realize that her fucked-up neurotic kid couldn’t POSSIBLY belong to the suave donor she paid. But OK. Suspension of disbelief … from a bungee cord that’s ready to snap. I get it.

But even if there was no penetration involved, this was still rape. Using someone else as a vessel to fulfill some sick desire cannot be called anything else.

So I didn’t just dislike the movie. I loathed it. It deserves to go straight to DVD … and make a beeline for the $5 bin.

I’m more disturbed by the story. That Wally was exacting revenge on the woman having an abortion.

Look, I’m close to the subject matter. So I have my back up for a reason. And decisions are made for whatever reasons they are made for. The end. Revenge or karma or a different afterlife or what the hell ever is not supposed to be in humans’ hands.

I’ve had revenge taken on me for denying a friendship. To the point of costing me one job and making things really scary at another. I’ve had to look under my car for a psycho a thousand times. I hid online where I lived for years. It’s only recently that I will gladly publish my latitude and longitude because I am up for a fight if that’s what it must come to.

And even though I know better than to wonder this, I do have to wonder whether certain, ah, actions I have taken in my day will haunt me later in this life. It’s between me and God, as far as I’m concerned. But again, if people think they have the opportunity to PLAY God … would they?

I hope not. I think not. And I know it’s only a story. But the general public is too stupid to have original ideas. There, I said it. Probably 97 percent of the public gets its ideas from somewhere/someone else. I don’t want any would-have-been baby daddies getting any ideas with this cinematic rape story. (There’s no other way to describe it.)

I know there will always be women (most of them young) who trap men into fathering their children. And that’s no better than men inserting their sperm where it’s not wanted. But making an (albeit shitty) story and movie cannot end well for the general population.

I’m not one to ban or burn books or other forms of art, but I sure as hell want to light myself on fire right now.

Watercolor skies

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

So, I forgot to pay rent this month.

No big deal, really. The miserable whore downstairs usually threatens me with eviction when I ask for a repair. I can just say I don’t live here!

We have a saying at the office, “I barely work here!” When you get hit with a curveball or a problem seemingly too big to solve, that’s always a good first answer — kind of like cramming a Twix bar into your mouth when you “need a minute.”

But for me, I barely do live here.

I’ve spent the last five weekends elsewhere. And I’ll be gone tomorrow through next weekend, so let’s say it’s seven in a row.

My friend Lady L, who I am usually with or, at least, staying at her place while she’s AWOL, had some interesting things to say last weekend.

Usually, I scoot out of her place when she’s coming home. I load up the car, tidy up the mess I’ve made, walk the puppy and I’m gone. It’s like I was never there.

Last weekend was the UEOEH’s birthday. I had told her that I’d come home and take her to dinner at her favorite place. She ended up e-mailing me (Internet connection is FABULOUS atop the cross) to just hang out with Lady L and to forget about her.

You don’t gotta ask ME twice, yo!

So, I did stay and wait for my friend. And she was … grateful, to say the least.

She asked why I always vamoose when she’s on her way home. And I thought I was doing her a favor.

You see, I always come home to a UEOEH sitting around the house like a fucking gargoyle. Her fucking TV is always on. And I HATE noise. There’s a reason why I don’t have kids, people. Silence is my friend.

I miss the days of coming home from a trip and just having peace and quiet and familiarity. My house. My stuff. My cat. My pillow/bed/couch. Not answering to anyone or anything other than myself. True recovery.

My friend was feeling kind of the opposite. She actually welcomed having someone to talk to, to share pizza with (yum!), to decompress with.

I *could* have that in the UEOEH, but I can’t look at her with anything much less than disgust anymore, so I don’t share. I just go to my room and shut the door so I don’t have to hear her TV or her mouth.

Or the way she drags her feet (literally) so that I hear her fucking flip-flops flip-flopping all over the fucking floors. Lift your goddamned feet, woman!!! (And take them elsewhere. Thanks.)

Or the way she complains about everything — the ants, the mold, the maintenance, the drug dealer next door. As I just told her four minutes ago, MOVE. You don’t like it? Nobody wants you here anyway. GAH. LEAVE.

Lady L had observed that I was truly happy, just sitting on my laptop (doing my expense report. Ugh) and hanging with the puppy. I was calm and relaxed and very peaceful. She travels to the ends of the earth to find her zen, and I find it right on her leather chair with her beloved George at my feet.

Of course, she doesn’t have my dumbass mother living with her either. Who is a lovely person but I am THROUGH. She could fucking hand me a check for a million dollars and I’d still be annoyed that she spoke to me.

Anyway, the real revelation to me is that, yes, I am VERY happy hanging out with George. I miss my kitty, of course. And she slept in my bed last night, like she knows I’m going away again.

Kadie started sleeping with me every night since Maddie died last year. But then I had to move the UEOEH back in, and I have to shut the door to silence her. I don’t need visits at all hours to tell me what she just saw on TV.

So, Kadie can’t be with me or else she will be throwing herself against the door to escape. (Just like her mother!)

Anyway, I miss my Kadie. Hell, I miss my apartment on the water when I’m gone. And it is a damn shame how much I pay to NOT live here. My dipshit mother has the master bedroom with a Roman tub in a bathroom that’s almost the size of my entire bedroom.

She told me her friend just sent her money so she can eat. She is always telling me she isn’t eating. Look, there’s always crap here to eat. Yogurt and fruit and frozen dinners. I don’t replace them if they aren’t gone.

Incidentally, when I was really losing weight? Was when the bitch was working. I was hopeful. I was happy. I was looking forward to the next phase of my life. Now that I’ve gained part of it back and the scale keeps creeping upward, I realize that I have NOTHING to look forward to. That she will NEVER leave so why be thin and attractive to a man? I know it’s my problem, but I still hate her for it.

And in addition to free rent and utilities, she gets an allowance. I tell her not to buy me anything but she always does. Then she gets mad when she runs out of money and I tell her I’m not an ATM. So if her friends are feeling bad for her, then she should go live with them. Really.

Recently, I had a brief discussion with someone of the male variety that involved “moving in” and, my favorite phrase, “temporarily.”

The “old” Goddess had no problem with the prospect of living with someone. Not a roommate — I fucking hate sharing my space. Remember, only child here — I don’t share my toys willingly. But if I’m getting laid regularly, I am open to discussion. 🙂

But the resentful Goddess who is never going to get rid of her fucking mother doesn’t want to live with anyone. EVER. She rather LIKES her long-distance relationships.

Sure, nothing would beat having a nice Florida boy nearby for some skin-on-skin action and, more importantly, cozy comfort. But for all the boys who were damaged by their childhood, I’m a girl who was damaged by her adulthood.

And that’s one diddle you can’t undo, Homeskillet.

So, yeah, I pay *mumble mumble* a month here, only to live in someone else’s apartment.

And that’s where I find my happiness. Go figure.

Matanzas Bay

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

The Matanzas Bay got its name from being dubbed the “bay of blood” or “bay of bones” after the Spaniards captured a fleet of 200 French (Protestant) sailors.

The Frenchmen were given the option to join Spain in its fight against France, and to convert to Catholicism. All 200 refused. They all were forced to walk the plank, where at the end their throats were slit.

It is said that the Bay shines red at night on many an occasion. Hence the “Bay of Blood.”

From where Lady L and I stood, it was just a beautiful sight in St. Augustine, across from a charming little “Old Town” of shops and restaurants. The buildings were ancient but so properly preserved that it looked like Walt Disney’s finest architects had swooped in and designed the tiny village just five years ago. It was almost puzzling to be riding in rickety trolleys (one that blew a tire three seconds after we hopped on!) and not to be boarding the famed Monorail.

Today we pause for the annual moment of silence for the lives lost on 9/11 … and the thousands more whose vim, vigor and youth has been stolen from them on enemy territory nearly 10 hours away from here.

I don’t disagree with my conservative friends that Obama isn’t doing a great job. But do you think that this man is probably counting down the days to 2012 so he can tell those assholes, “Fine, jackasses. Look what I inherited. I tried. Why don’t YOU figure it out?”

My friend Jeff posted an amazing blog about growth in China. seeing as though he’s traveling from Hong Kong to Singapore today, it’s appropriate and timely. And something he wrote struck my bleeding Socialist heart:

“Two scenarios. Tell me which one makes the most sense …

Scenario 1: China’s national, regional and local governments are throwing gobs of incentives at companies that are building the technology and infrastructure for tomorrow. The aim: to position China as the global leader in alternative energy, regardless of whether it’s solar or wind or biomass or whatever.

Scenario 2: America is incentivizing the production of cars from automakers that, had the laws of economics prevailed, would have died. America is keeping overleveraged, financially incompetent homeowners in houses they never should have afforded. America is throwing money at banks that made boneheaded financial decisions and, as a result, should have perished in a financial reckoning. America is incentivizing consumers to buy new cars they otherwise would not have purchased, new homes they clearly don’t need, and new appliances to replace otherwise fine appliances they already own.

Hmmm. I don’t know … the strategies are just so close …”

Wow, is our country fucked up, when you look at it that way!

I miss living in Washington, and having discussions like those. I am thrilled, however, to have worldly friends with whom we can talk like this until my liberal blood curdles and I have to walk away.

I still have to read “Atlas Shrugged” for work. Then when I finish that hot mess, I have to move on to “Fountainhead” and something else. I’d sooner get a sex change than shift my political leanings! Good God, who can READ that shit? I’m on page 4 of Atlas — Ayn Rand is a shitty writer, by the way. The fact that she’s also fucking crazy is the only thing that makes her interesting.

However, given that my house has become a welfare state, maybe just maybe I can drink enough tequila during the next week to get me through that stupid book. Maybe there *is* something to this “not giving to those who didn’t earn it” that is clearly apparent in Jeff’s blog and in my master bedroom. *Grr* (And Mom has the nice Roman tub while I have a tiny stand-up shower. Fuck me.)

Maybe that loony Ayn Rand was on to something after all. …

Heh heh heh

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

Look at the puppy. The puppy is cute, yes? All is well when you’re hanging out with a cute, furry little puppy. That is why we are looking at the puppy.

That’s George, by the way, my beloved fur-nephew — ready to come home after a lovely weekend in St. Auggie’s. He’s also the one who took a smelly shit in the copywriters’ office on Labor Day when I brought him in here so I could get some work done in silence. Whoops — who knew he would go upstairs all by himself? What a big boy! (And frankly, I’m not surprised that he picked the spot he did. Just sayin’.)

This has been one motherfucker of a week. I have a meeting in 9 minutes as a follow-up to another meeting and we’ll probably schedule another meeting to meet about this one. Motherfucker!

Seriously, I like my job. I have just had some stressful days, and my “Oh, you haven’t done that, either?” list is longer than my list of reasons why I want my mother to move out.

Today I got a call from my boss that she was in an accident. And to start the 9 a.m. meeting without her.

It was 8:53 and I was cruising along the A1A. Meeting? FUCK!!!

So I punched the gas and a cop going northbound PROMPTLY did a U-turn and pulled my southbound ass over.

One of my team members (because clearly nobody was going to make it to this meeting!) advised me to unbutton my shirt. Which I did. The speeding ticket? Was waived.

However, genius still hasn’t registered her car in Florida. And my tags are three months expired. My friend JB let me know that at six months, I could get arrested. Whee! Thank God to have a cop-in-training for a friend!

So yeah, that ticket was warranted. It was hilarious though, as I got the same ticket in Virginia and it was like $300. This was $115. I asked if I could pay cash right then and there. 🙂

I also put on my makeup while I was pulled over. I am a multi-tasker, yo!

Got treated to a lovely, lovely dinner last night. Discovered a tasty “baby Amarone” that Mama Like. I appreciate people who can sense my stress and actually do something about it other than antagonize me. (Thank you, thank you!!!)

I’ve been too busy working to really plot my next move. But my beloved Lady L (George’s mom) and I are cooking up a scheme. We are also planning a Christmas trip, and another for St. Patty’s Day.

In other words, this is all just a dream. It’s not particularly memorable, and nor do we need for it to be. Each day is just a bridge to the next great experience.

I don’t remember much about anything anymore. And that says something. But I have all the hope in the world that as long as we can keep smiling and stay nimble, the wind will blow us exactly where we’re supposed to be.