Caterwauling

So, I hate “The Bachelorette.” Especially this season. Desiree was the epitome of phoniness. And yet last night, we saw real, raw emotion as her beloved Brooks — the only one she loved, the only one to NOT tell her he loves her — dumped her on national TV.

I have dated plenty of men who look like Brooks (dark hair and strong jaw with sexy facial hair. *quiver*) and every last one of those bastards walked away from me. The nerve.

Anyway, I didn’t feel sorry for Desiree but I found myself really feeling bad for myself. I mean, I just KNOW that feeling. Whether they just want out or else they’re passing you over to cater to some (other) hot-ass mess, the common denominator is that they just don’t love you enough.

You can tell yourself they do love you on some level, and I think they do. At least, that’s what I tell myself because I always find out later that they did. They just couldn’t hang around long enough to see where things could go.

Or didn’t want to risk being uncomfortable — whether they stayed with someone else who couldn’t ignite their soul but they had too much time invested, or whether they really were happier where they were, it was my heart that was expendable.

Of course, you can credit them for breaking your heart early AND all at once. That’s how I like to do it. No sense incrementally shattering their soul with moments you’re not “in” and eyes that are always on the door as you tense your body and plot your eventual escape.

It’s a sign of respect when I do it. Mostly for myself, but still.

Anyway, Brooks wasn’t perfect either, which I needed to see because I wasn’t watching “him” on that TV. I was playing reels at warp speed from various talks I’ve had in my day with his doppelgangers.

I was Desiree at that moment, lighting up like a palm tree with LED Christmas lights when she saw the one who held her heart. I stopped breathing alongside her when the boy clearly had something to say but couldn’t get it out … we both thought, maybe just maybe, he’s about to make me his. That he’s searching his heart for the words that will make this the best moment of your life.

And then … it comes. The letdown. The “I don’t love you.” “I’ll never love you.” “I don’t even want to try to love you.”

I made a mistake and put a comment to this effect on FaceyPages, one that I ripped down while speeding to work this morning. Because, I have had more than one of those conversations in my day and even though I was aiming it in one specific place, well, I have plenty of rugged Brooks lookalikes — for whom I’ve learned to be happy because it’s either that or a bitterness I don’t have the heart to carry where they’re concerned — to think any less of me.

After all, I am still the one who got away, even if it was one of those rare occasions when I wasn’t the one going anywhere.

My takeaway is that we never end up with the one we want. Desiree has a boatload of men who want her but the one she can’t have is the only one she wants. I can’t imagine why there is even a finale next week — how could anyone go try to pick a husband from the remaining contestants when, let’s face it, the show is over for her?

I remember with my last Brooks-like experience, I went over it in my head eleventy frillion times … what had I said or done? What is his perception of me? What could have made him love me if only I’d just done something differently?

And I came to realize, over time and certainly watching my life on the TV screen last night, that you can’t do that. If you’re being true to yourself, you’re doing a disservice to YOU if you’re trying to figure out what ran them off.

My Brooks, as it were, is a scared little wabbit who doesn’t feel he deserves anyone good. So he hangs around with riff-raff if anyone at all. He dismisses someone like me as being out of his league instead of raising his game.

Someone like me … or just me? *stabbing temple with a pencil*

Either way, we’re two of a kind. I’d rather be alone than wish I were. Ask anyone I know … if they can even remember me!

Anyway, I ramble. Per usual. I felt like my heart broke all over again last night but maybe it needed to. I spent enough time feeling like shit that they (collective they, not just the Whorothy fan) chose no one or someone else over me.

Frankly they chose themselves. And isn’t that the REAL lesson to take away from all of this?

Great article on Medium last week on “Why Can’t We Just Be Happy for Each Other?” Highly recommended.

It’s funny. I am mostly always happy for people when they get married, find out they’re expecting, traveling and other assorted life events they’ve wanted. Or they have everything compared to my nothing. That’s always fun. Of course, it depends on the person/people — a very short list of my friends really DO deserve it all and I really do root for them to have it.

However, I might get pretty bitter when they have work success. Like, I’m usually a decade older and working my pudgy little tail off and probably making less money. They’re out exercising and getting fit and I’m not even near starting my long commute home. They are out with friends and meeting new people (including people to date) and my tired ass is home with Mom. Again.

Don’t get me wrong — I do covet those life events. God knows my life has been little more than a series of disappointments, many of which were caused by me pretending not to care when MAYBE I DID. But work victories that aren’t mine are more-challenging to celebrate.

I guess as I’m here pushing 40 (Jesus.), I always thought I’d be a hotshot editor in Manhattan. Trust me, I’m happier being in Florida and I have a great title and I live in a great condo with a killer view in a chi-chi ZIP Code. People WOULD KILL to be me.

I guess I just read Julie Baumgold’s article in “Vogue” titled “Life’s a Beach,” about her and her husband’s self-exile from New York’s publishing elite to a waterfront condo in Amelia Island and I feel like I deserved that fabulous life or line on my resume. Or that I deserved a better economy so that I didn’t have to settle for so many less-than-ideal jobs that changed my path.

Of course, we end up where we need to be. And we might as well be happy for ourselves so that we can be happy for others. Or, at least, genuinely happy … and maybe that will unlock our own true joy that’s even better what we’d expected we’d already have by now.

I have just in the past two hours gotten rid of the headache I got on Friday. Two days ago.

I can’t drink wine after a miserable Friday because I weigh in on Saturday mornings.

I blow all my points on Saturdays on a good meal (healthy but higher in points than I’d like) and on wine. Sweet, merciful, delicious wine.

Even after Friday — when I didn’t even get to pick up dinner for Mom till about 8:45 and I got home around 9:30 (what a lousy daughter I am; if only I’d been out having fun) — when I missed the lunch hours for the cafe at work AND I skipped dinner (and wine), I was still up half a pound.

The lessons we take away are this:

1. Starvation doesn’t make you lose weight.

2. Giving up a much-needed glass or four of well-deserved wine may be good for the scale but NOT good for the soul.

3. Either weighing in on Saturday is a blessing (so I don’t drink myself into a coma) or a curse (I can’t ever unwind from a hard day/week until I’m halfway through the weekend).

I have work to do this weekend but I’ve had so many work dreams/nightmares the past two nights, I think I’ve put in my quota of working hours. Just broke out of my isolationist mode and asked a friend to join me for brunch. And all I have to say is that there WILL be Bloody Marys. After all, if I’m going to be putting on weight, there at least should be a heaping dose of vodka involved.

And weep.

Microaggression and management

I crack myself up. Just tried to log in from work and I see I’ve banned our IP address. My message to spammers brings me joy, inviting their miserable asses to curl up in a ball and die.

Of course, I wrote that to my stalker after he slipped up and left a harassing comment from an IP other than a public library. I marked his ass as spam and it felt terrific

I know there are other ways to read me than by visiting. But it reminds me that there are more people who hate me who keep up with me than there are people who genuinely have my best interests at heart when they check in on me.

Anyway, I’m having what a colleague called a “kick the cat” kind of day. I’m detoxing from manic busy-ness and now seeing all the drama I’ve been too preoccupied to care much about.

What people need to realize is that speaking favor produces better results. When you talk shit about me, I seem to do more stupid things to prove their points. Ugh.

I spoke favor over someone today. I hope he receives it and that more love will go around this world today because of it. I guess it should be a “hug the cat” day, then, yes?

Memo to: Those who can’t hold a candle to me

Subject: You suck

______________

If you have to invent things I’m doing wrong and complain about them at length, especially when you had opportunities to help or train or basically get out of my way, you are only further solidifying my case that I am awesome and you will never be me.

Wait till I get my strength and my sanity and my will to live back. You think I’m a threat now? Please. I will dance circles around you even more than I already do.

Most people flap their jaws. The rest of us get our jobs done and YOURS TOO.

Love,

Goddess

“Once, once in your life
Won’t you do what feels right
Instead of waiting for the next big compromise
Stop running your mouth
Get out of the house
Get yourself downtown
And shake it all out tonight.”

— Butch Walker and the Black Widows, “Synthesizers”

One of my boys looked at me — really looked at me — in the past day or so and said, “Wow! You’re starting to turn gray! Must be that fucking job of yours. Christ, your job is aging me too.”

Don’t tell anyone there. They’d probably think it was a perk. And they’d believe it when they said it too.

Dreams and reality are one in the same

Had a horrid dream last night that two friends in D.C. died in a freak accident. At an event I said I’d be there for but, as usual, I couldn’t escape from work.

I dreamed that a third friend asked me to please make time to come up for the funerals.

I went to ask someone at work to release me and all they did was change the subject and talk about other stuff that just didn’t matter. Like, not even work-related. While my heart broke even more.

I awakened today to hear that two people died in freak rollercoaster accidents. Luckily not my friends, but still. What about their friends who hadn’t seen them in years who figured “someday” would come along and they’d all see each other again?

Depudgification, part whatever

Lost 2.5 pounds this week although I think I gained it after going to Bubba Gump’s yesterday for lunch.

I told my meeting leader that I was surprised because even though I always stay on plan (more or less), I really only get the good losses when my stress level abates somewhat. And this week is still waking me up in the middle of the night even though it’s the weekend.

She said the best way to combat the cortisol is to jam in some bursts of physical activity. Because if the stress is killing me, my weight is going go go UP no matter how well I eat.

And that is interesting because I really haven’t changed my eating habits much since I rejoined. In fact, basically I’ve cut out cake, candy and hard liquor … and I wasn’t exactly going overboard with those in the first place.

Now if I could eliminate the work anxiety … and get one of my guys to quit calling/texting me all weekend … I would actually be skinny.

Chew on THAT for a minute. Eliminate stress and be healthy. Go figure.

Of course, if I cut out stress, what would be left?

Whorothy!

There are some great things I want to post on Facebook to the tune of “you just went from whore to old whore” and “how nice that you always post pics where you’re drunk with your friends and no pics of your kids.”

It was her birthday and she makes 48 look like 112. I wouldn’t even know she had kids if her baby daddy didn’t have a photo of them. Mother of the year, I tell you.

I went stalking yesterday. Not just online. I can’t help it. I have no feelings left for him in that department but I will always, always be on the lookout for clues on why he puts that wrinkled-ass whore on a pedestal above me. I know, though, that I will never get an answer that satisfies me.

Speaking of answers, and more questions

Mom found an old answering machine that she hadn’t used since my grandfather died six and a half years ago. Thirty messages were saved.

Half of the messages were from the various men she was dating. Half were from one of their wives. Lord.

What’s really sad was that she was dating a doctor. He sounded hot. And nice. And he was. She really liked him. (He was single.)

And for all the sickness in her life right now, just one different decision — to be with him — could have created such a different outcome. She could have insurance. She could be wealthy. She could be WELL. But instead she let Fat Fuck move in with her and then he stole everything we owned and ran back to his wife.

JESUS CHRIST MOM.

And we wonder why I don’t let men get close to me. I’ve said it a thousand times, fuck me all you want but don’t fuck me OVER.

That’s why I’m alone and she lives with me in all her pain and poor health and that’s why I work so goddamned hard to support us even though this was never meant to be our lives.

No wonder I let myself get fat. I can use that as an excuse for not having a normal life instead of admitting the moments where everything went wrong and everything spiraled out of control from there.

God, what I wouldn’t give for her to have made just one different decision. How different my life would be. I’d be living in Europe or NYC and not in this overpriced Roach Motel. Maybe I’d even be happy or, at least, dealing with different problems than the ones I have now …

I’m going to take five minutes to blog and pretend it’s a lunch hour. It’s more than I’ve done since December so let’s call it a victory.

Speaking of since December, when I accepted this crazy-ass title promotion, I’ve put on some weight. As of this morning it looks like I’ve taken off what I’ve put on since then. So again, victory.

However, to unravel all the psychological and physiological damage I’ve incurred in that time frame, it’s probably gonna take years.

I’m in so much pain and I’m intellectually depleted. I’ve gained two new people to manage and while I excel at managing extraordinary difficult people (which one of them is), I simply cannot rise to my level of Goddess that is required because I spend too much time fussing around with HTML and production issues and making sure the lists are split right and that everyone’s seeing the right price and the right offer and that their messages aren’t getting caught in spam or showing funky characters and that I get six tests when I need six tests and are all 17 of my splits right because this stuff is life-or-death in this biz.

Next week has to be better. That is, if I don’t have to carry my new albatross project (and its five offshoots to come) into Monday …

Well, this week sucks.

I’d blog it but why?

I will say I see it’s Whorothy’s birthday. HOLY SHIT that woman should give us all a gift and stop posting pics. Seriously, my girl R always called her the Crypt Keeper. She was being generous.

On her newest pic, I want to comment, “You don’t look a day over 104! Or, for that matter, a day under!”

I feel fuckin’ beautiful now after looking at that mess.

The things I do to entertain myself when my body is radiating stress and pain.