Caterwauling

I scrambled to get all my shit done by 3:30 so I could leave early.

The joke at the home office is that if I leave before 6, I have to call it a vacation day.

And sure enough, ’twas the day before a holiday and I’ve worked late and come in early every day this week. (Like always.)

And now I have projects rolling in that require my presence. One I can guarantee you won’t come even though I was just asked to stay for it.

Because, I’m sure Harvey and Martha and Morty and Edith are putting off their plans to go to Early Bird dinner in breathless anticipation of receiving this.

Plans? What plans?

It’s only been a couple months since the #YesAllWomen hashtag hit the Twittersphere (because of that little twit in California who shot up his campus because girls wouldn’t sleep with him on command).

But what most don’t realize is that it’s such an ongoing “Thing” for many of us.

Look, I like getting hit on. It happens more than occasionally. Hell, it happened yesterday outside Starbucks. I ain’t mad at that.

What I am mad at is the men who refuse to take the hint.

Look, I am not a dummy. I know that when a man pays you a compliment, he’s genuinely being nice. But there are some creepazoids in my life that are only saying nice things because they think that’s what they have to do to fuck you. (Which, yes it does help.)

And while I can commend some of the men I’ve encountered for their, ah, persistence … I feel like I have to blame myself. Not that I want to or SHOULD. But because they suck at taking hints and I suck at telling people to just light themselves on fire and die already.

Not that I haven‘t said it. It just takes a lot.

Like, I let people hug me a little too hard or a little too long. I tolerate them putting their arms around my shoulder or holding my hand. Look, I’m a girl. I don’t hate affectionate signs like these.

But …

I’ve been holding out for a hero and I don’t want that hero to walk by while I’m being groped at by some close-talking fool who thinks that because he’s bought me a drink, I have to bear his children.

Or, at least get bored to death as he jackhammers me with his teeny peenie. LUCKY ME.

I am nice to everybody. But I do get standoffish because I’ve had to compromise my personal space too many times.

This is why I say no to people for two years on end. Because the one time I say yes, that means I have opened the floodgates to hell and now have to put up with constant harassment about when there will be a next time.

Or “accidental” communiques — “Ooh I was trying to reach someone else but now that we’re talking WHAT ARE YOU DOING RIGHT NOW?”

It’s hard to tell the difference between a friend and a creepazoid. So I have lately started assuming everyone’s probably out to maul you against your will. Because, that seems to be the trend.

So, I pay for my own drinks. Buy my own meals. Artfully dodge invitations. Conveniently leave my phone a mile away from where I currently am. Tolerate just enough touching until I have to go throw up somewhere. (True story. Or should I say “stories.” Because, I can vomit on command these days.)

I’m lucky I have never been violated, to my knowledge. Of course, it’s the little violations that I try not to count that add up to “OMG DANGER DANGER!” signals blaring in my brain.

On the opposite side, I wonder if I make too much out of everything. Like, no Goddess, they really don’t want you. Chill the fuck out. Everybody needs a friend.

That’s what Mom always says. Be nice. Everyone needs a friend.

Well, why does it have to be me?

Plenty of men have flat-out said, yeah, no, move along here Goddess. And I’ve respected that.

And I wish I were as good at saying, “Forget the ice bucket challenge. I challenge you to light yourself on fire.” And, moreover, having them take it seriously rather than, “Awww what a CUTE LITTLE SPITFIRE YOU ARE.”

I guess my problem now is how do you close Pandora’s box without slamming your own fingers in it?

But if I tell you, after you pester me all weekend, that “Mom had a mini-stroke” and all you can say is “Bummer,” well, you get what you give.

Which, is nothing.

After our wonderful wild night with the fire alarms, Mom endured another TIA.

Her first mini-stroke was five Septembers ago, after she fell in our wet stairwell and pulled something in her neck/head. I have the unpaid ER bill to prove it.

Evil Landlady 1 tossed her blonde hair and laughed at her.

This place has officially killed my mother.

And yet, when I told her I called six different condos this morning, she said she didn’t like any of them.

Because this is SO much better, apparently.

Came home close to midnight last night to find the fire alarms going off in my unit. I had one traumatized kitty so who only knows how long they’d been going off.

I left a message on our “Emergency” line at this dump. And knowing how I’ve had repairs outstanding for five years, I did what I always do. I called the fire department.

I have them on speed-dial.

A cop arrived and then two firemen. Evil Landlady 5 came up with the firemen. She saw me and she said. “YOU!” And proceeded to tell me, “We get charged every time they are called. YOU WILL BE PAYING FOR THIS OUT OF POCKET.”

I said very calmly my alarms are going off and how about we go figure out why.

She said, “It’s going to be FIFTEEN HUNDRED DOLLARS!”

I ignored her. Everyone came in, she screamed a bit more, and the fire folks took down my info. They were super-nice and explained to me that they used to be able to help. But now we’ve gone and installed such a wacky system that the fire department has not only been forbidden from fixing it, but they don’t even know how anymore.

Meanwhile the cunt was screaming, “YOU DIDN’T FOLLOW THE RULES!”

I didn’t ask what rules. I love watching her dissolve into a puddle of psychotic goo.

She said I needed to call the emergency line and NOT the FD. Mom said I did. She said no I didn’t because it would have rung her cell phone. And it didn’t ring.

So this is my fault?

Apparently someone else called the fire department out earlier (the nice fire folks told me this). The “good” news was that the earlier call was resolved by tapping into the main unit downstairs whereas my call basically brought them out for nothing.

Let’s pause for a moment. If fire alarms are going off in your house, do you call the most useless maintenance person in all the lands? OR DO YOU CALL THE FIRE DEPARTMENT?

I’ll let you contemplate that for a moment.

And for the record, I didn’t call 911. I called and said, hey, alarms are going off. Anything going on over here that I need to know about? And what should I do?

In other words, they said hey you may be in danger over there. We should come out. But evacuate if your unit explodes into flames, eh?

So the landlady screamed at me some more that now we have to call the alarm company. And that’s what should have been done in the first place. And I’m like, “And I’m supposed to know this how?”

So everyone leaves. I take my cart downstairs because she has already threatened to fine us fifty bucks if she ever sees a cart outside any of our doors.

Well I get downstairs and there are no lights on outside. At all. And I go sailing and drop my phone and bend my wrist backward. Then I see a sign to not leave carts outside the back door — to go push them to where they belong about 300 yards away — because it’s rude to do to our fellow neighbors because the lights are out.

Here’s an idea. FIX THE FUCKING LIGHTS BITCH. And the goddamned potholes in every inch of this goddamned lot.

So I came back to the front door after returning my stupid cart to the right place and I see a guy, lost. He said, “Do you know the door code?”

I asked who he was. He showed me ID and said, “I’m here for (Goddess). She called the emergency maintenance line.”

So, proof that I called!

I said I’m Goddess and come on up. He’s from one of our more-upscale sister buildings and he was asked to cover this call.

He looked at my alarms (now blaring for 1.5 hours) and said, well OF COURSE you should have called the fire department. MY GOD.

So I said apparently he’s supposed to fix the fire system. He said well that’s nice. He’s never seen it before. And he doesn’t have a key to it anyway.

He examined my apartment to make sure there were no fires. Meanwhile I wandered downstairs to take a photo of the stupid note telling us not to be rude and to return our carts. And who did I see but a resident examining the fire boxes downstairs.

“Hi, I’m Harold. I’m in 202. Do you know how this thing works?” he asked.

“Let me guess. Are your alarms going off?” I asked.

He said, “Yeah! My neighbor just yelled at me to get it taken care of. She can’t sleep. So I called the fire department.”

I just about pissed myself, laughing.

I said, oh boy, you should have called emergency maintenance. He said, “We have emergency maintenance? I just moved in. How am I supposed to know that? How do you find them?”

I said, come on upstairs and meet him.

Now that we knew the whole column of “02” units were affected, the maintenance guy (again, not the regular lazy asshole who steals packages and fixes cars and fucks the maid all day) cut the wires to all our units.

The good news: silence. The bad news: good luck if there’s a fire because the wires are cut.

In the midst of all this, Evil Landlady 5 calls the maintenance guy and said her porch light is out and he should come fix it. He’s like, um, yeah, no. Good luck with that.

So she won’t even call the regular asshole to fix her shit. But she can interrupt urgent fire-related matters to get a goddamned light bulb. PERHAPS we can get some light bulbs from the dark and treacherous parking lot?

And she gets offended when I call this place a dump!

“She’d rather wear a pair of cut-off jeans than a fancy evening dress
And with her windows rolled down
And her hair blown all around
She’s a hot southern mess.”

Brad Paisley, “Old Alabama”

Oh hai, I saw Brad Paisley live this weekend. Not that I remember any of it. Because, drunk. Thank you Fernando the Marine from Miami who kept pouring shots of Fireball down my throat in the parking lot. I forget the concert in its entirety, but I won’t forget you!

In unrelated news, had a date tonight. I was so fed up with a couple people/situations that by the time my friend said, “Um, I’ve ordered a drink. Where are you?” I picked up my shit and ran.

God I love working in civilization.

So here’s the thing. One of my boys has been chasing me. And while I will never, ever let myself be caught … I slowed down a bit to let one catch up.

I do this faux-lationship thing every now and again. Because, a girl does get tired of running away. That, and you know, fun is a nice thing to have, too. God knows you don’t have to marry the guy.

In any event, it’s always amusing when someone figures out just how ticklish you are beneath your hard-ass exterior …

“I never wanted to be your weekend lover
I only wanted to be some kind of friend, hey
Baby, I could never steal you from another
It’s such a shame our friendship had to end.”

— Prince, “Purple Rain”

I posted something to his wall when he joined Facebook all those years ago. Sweet. Cute. Not overly flirty. But, you know. Familiar.

Which, I figured he would appreciate. Yet by the next day, he had deleted it.

I understood.

Since then, I haven’t posted or “liked” or done anything to indicate we ever knew each other, beyond being “friends” on that nebulous platform.

Not that I’ve missed a single post, picture or link. I’ve clicked on every single one.

So it always blows my mind when I get a “like” or a sweet comment. Which, happens once in a while. My heart jumps about 4,000 feet each time, actually.

I often wonder if he is trying to capture my attention. Or whether he wonders why I just don’t interact with his postings that, let’s face it, he knows I would love. Or if he sees himself lost among my wonderful group of friends from all over the world.

Or whether he remembers this page and comes here instead to search for signs of himself.

I think a big reason I don’t go back there is because I’d show up where I know I would find him, and only let him out of my sight again when I’m good and goddamned well ready.

There’s no replacing him. And yet, no telling whether I could still even stand him for a long period of time. Or anyone, really.

The forced-solitude thing I’ve done these past couple years has made me antsy to be around people in general, and downright suffocated to be physically/emotionally close to anyone.

Yet it never stops me from wondering.

And if he’s wondering, no, I’m not waiting. But I’d be a liar if I claimed I weren’t watching for a sign.

I’ve gone out more in the past week and a half since my company relocated to civilization … than I have year-to-date.

Not only have I managed to take daily walks (OK, coffee runs), go out for lunch a couple times AND have a life, but my productivity has also been pretty steady. Of course, it’s the summer slump and thank you God for that.

It’s an amazing moment when the rage abates. If I can make it to the dentist on time tomorrow, and to most if not all of the events I have planned during the next seven days, I’ll be … what’s that word … oh yeah, happy.

Ran into two old colleagues from two different companies yesterday. They now work at another new company, together … in the office next door. At a company where I turned down an offer (and regret that occasionally).

But I think we’ve all done better for ourselves — me independently of them, and them together — so the ache abates somewhat.

One of the current esteemed colleagues said something yesterday that stuck with me, that we hurt each other’s feelings sometimes. And maybe by sometimes they probably meant “often.”

Funny, I never really thought much about that before.

Like I told my new hire when he started (not the same person who made the comment), we will annoy each other least three times a week. Hopefully total, but maybe apiece.

Then again, I guess I never want to believe anyone would think I am anything other than charming and delightful and productive and AN AMAZING ASSET and, on probably three days a month (because, humidity. And carbs), somewhat cute too.

Because I sure plug my ears when they try to indicate otherwise.

After all, a girl can drive herself nuts if she allows more voices into her head, especially when she has five or seven of her own sounding off at any given time.

I also guess I figured they do the same. Or at least that they are better at coping with it and can help me to redirect my rage into more-productive channels.

It’s almost comforting to remember that we’re all just trying to figure out our way. I guess what I can do is to find ways for us to evolve together as opposed to “in the same general location.”

Call me Ishmael. Or Sisyphus. Technological Sisyphus, that is.

I don’t want to post how hideous today was from a technological standpoint. But between being logged out of the home office’s wireless network every 45 minutes and then being logged out of our new remote desktop system every half-hour … and the Powers That Be deigning me unfit to be allowed on the home office network with my laptop that was not company-purchased (but is used 98% for company travel) … I deserved that mega-sized Modelo I stopped for on the way home from the jungle.

In unrelated news, I heard a name I don’t hear anymore. As in, dating a friend of mine.

Which, I don’t care. Trouble was, she quit talking to me because of a boy. And now that she’s canceled on this second boy for an upcoming event, I’m going to hang out with him instead.

Thing was, I really enjoyed this girl. You just can’t help it when matters of the heart get in the way.

I’m not interested in her man but I don’t think I can say the same is true on his part. I’ll deal with that later. (And again.) But I did sort of warn him that he may not want to mention my name. Because, too many reasons to name.