Caterwauling

Dawdling

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

The president isn’t the only one with idiots for advisers. That is all I’m going to say about that. (Fuckin’ Snooki!)

George and I are watching “Grey’s Anatomy.” I’m fairly certain my fur-nephew is one of my soulmates. He’s pretty much the love of my life, at this point.

Apparently the idiot maintenance dude flooded my apartment while putting in the new hot water tank. I always say that place is one safety violation from falling into the Intracoastal. Apparently parts fell out of the wall that we didn’t even know existed.

I got some weird news today. (No, not that my bouquet of bribery flowers arrived safely to my cousin. Which they did. I hope she wonders how she can ever thank me. By taking the UEOEH for the holidays would be a nice start!)

My sixth-grade history teacher died a few years ago. He was awesome. Loved that man. I had had his wife for a class somewhere else along the line. Didn’t love her as much. Can’t remember what she even taught, for that matter. Apparently she was found in her basement, dead, having hanged herself in her grief. How friggin’ sad.

I can’t imagine killing myself over losing the love of my life. Hell, one of my boys just told me today that clearly I hate foreplay — I must be a “wham-bam thank you ma’am” type. I couldn’t really argue. A girl gets bored while a boy tries to Google-Map her G-spot!

This is probably the last chance I will have to babysit George. So I’m trying not to be sad. We’re curled up on the floor while Aunt Goddess drinks her hard cider and avoids work.

Change is afoot here in so-called paradise; George is moving back to Maryland soon. And it pisses me off that my beloved fur-friend is going away, yet my Ultra Extra Over Extended Houseguest is like a burr nestled up my ass for the foreseeable (and even the unforeseeable) future. NOT FAIR. Waaah.

If the rope or the ceiling beam wouldn’t break under the weight of my pudgy pork-roast ass, I’d hang my damn self too! Not because I’m lonely, but because I haven’t gotten the chance to be!

Have you ever broken a fingernail, and it’s so deep into the “meat” of the nail that you can’t cut it off? Sure, you can trim around it, but there’s always that piece that hangs precariously — ready to catch onto a loose piece of clothing and snag the delicate fabric — until you finally say “the hell with it” and cut it and try not to whimper in pain?

Yeah, it’s been like that here for a little while now.

I’m happy to say I have custody of my fur-nephew starting today and through the weekend. That’s nice.

I’m happy to say that after three Halloween parties, I wake up on All Saint’s Day and fly to Mexico. You know, where they’re beheading Americans at the border. Whee! Although I highly doubt that the exclusive four-star hotel on the peninsula has any rogue gang-bangers who are out to get the gringos.

My hot water tank exploded last night. I have to admit, the UEOEH cleaned up the mess while I was having my usual Wednesday night date with Lady L at our favorite restaurant. (These dates save our sanity. As does the grilled brie in honey butter.)

There’s no hot water right now, so staying at George’s house couldn’t have come a moment too soon. And it’s pretty damn ironic that I am going to the Porn Palace for a hot shower, with its 24-gallon hot water tank that gives you a warm shower for three minutes on a good day!

I’m kind of “feh” right now about everything. I’m also struggling as a McManager. All the experts say to spend the most time and effort on your stars. And yet, it always seems to end up the other way around — the stars are off on their own because your hands are too full with everything/everyone else.

And then former stars (like myself) are just plain unmotivated to do the mounting challenges in front of them. I have a mile-long to-do list, but when you’re told not to focus on details and then a detail (or 10) gets fucked up, it’s kind of frustrating.

A friend just got her dream job. And I am SO HAPPY for her. I’m thrilled to know that those exist. And it makes me vacillate between “I can do this for the rest of my life” and “How much longer till it’s been a year?” And what is my dream job?

I’d be perfectly happy to write my novels on the side again, without the UEOEH hovering all the time. (And Lady L can confirm, the woman HOVERS.) I feel like other than my escapes (whether to our favorite restaurant or our favorite cities) with Lady L, plus the occasional fur-nephew-sitting when she’s out of town, there’s nothing I do that stokes the creative fires.

Oh well. At least I don’t have 10 kids, a mortgage (or a foreclosure) and a deadbeat husband. There is something to be said for, if not having the stimulation I seek, then not having a level of aggravation I didn’t bargain for, beyond what’s already there.