I am never more vital than when I am multitasking. And I feel like I've been ahead of the rat race this week, or, if not ahead, then at least on track. But this moving around like a freakin' Tasmanian Devil means I'm starting to get tired. Twenty-nine hours till party-time! I will be the snoozin' mess curled up on one of the cat beds, for those who haven't met me face-to-face yet. :)
The apartment wasn't too atrocious to get together. It was already clean -- I just needed to empty some boxes and shove extra knickknacks in the basement.
I am pissed, though, because my purple party lights on the balcony are only semi-functioning, and they worked just fine before I wound them around the damn railing. *sigh* As long as the grill works, though, I'll be fine.
Shawn and I are going out tonight. I probably won't have enough energy to be much fun, but it'll be nice to be away from my abode during trick-or-treat hours. Ugh. Like those little psycho Children of the Corn really need sugary treats to make them even more obnoxious than they already are!
Just spent my lunch hours (yes, plural!) doing last-minute shopping. And I realize I need a few more items, anyway. *growl* I am allowing myself one more store trip, and that's it, damn it!!! Here's to hoping for lots of leftovers from the party, 'cause if I planned just right, I have exactly enough left over for rent!
1. What was your first Halloween costume? I was an angel. Whatta joke.
2. What was your best costume and why? I was Little Orphan Annie, replete with the requisite little red dress with a collar and black-and-white belt, just like Aileen Quinn wore in the movie. Had the cute little curly wig and everything.
Of course, Annie has freckles, as do I. I remember my mom using her eyebrow pencil to put even more freckles on me, and she started rubbing my face raw at one point, trying to erase her work. Turns out, she was trying to erase my real freckles. So I had brown and red patches on my face for an hour. :)
3. Did you ever play a trick on someone who didn't give you a treat? Yeah, but not necessarily on Halloween. Only for people who withheld sex from this horny broad, but I ain't talkin' about how I made them pay for their Scrooge-like behavior. Y'all would think I was psycho or somethin'. :)
4. Do you have any Halloween traditions? (ie: Family pumpkin carving, special dinner before trick or treating, etc.) I have to go to the pumpkin patch every year. I'm kind of like Linus from "Peanuts" in that regard -- I try to find a new field every year or so. And I miss the fields where you had to climb around the pumpkin vines and have somebody cut the pumpkin you want off the vine.
Part of the tradition is to drink alcohol among friends in celebration of our day in the patch, although, after the past two years of adventures in pumpkin ghettoes, the drinking is done more to recover from our adventures, rather than celebrate them. ;)
5. Share your favorite scary story...real or legend! I always loved the scary story about the babysitter who keeps hearing noises in the attic. Can't remember how it turns out, but that was popular among my friends when I was a wee lass.
My other favorite scary story is how Dubya became president. That was enough to scare the pants off of me! (Although, admittedly, it ain't THAT unusual for my pants to hit the floor within a bat of an eye!)
Apparently it's the former, seeing as though I just had a most excellent fantasy in my head that left the nether regions a-tingling. Woops -- I can't believe I just thought my way into orgasm, here in my office. Heh. Good thing I am alone with the door closed!
Seriously, the best fantasies are of the things you think will never happen in a million years. And being here and editing a 140-page document of reader submissions, creaming your jeans is better than taking a sledgehammer and killing the idiots who can't even spell the names of their companies correctly (don't think I'm jesting -- I'm floored at the fact that the only thing these people can spell are the abundance of academic degrees that follow their names). Detest. Stupid. People.
I'm goin' back to my damn fantasy. At least the mouse isn't sticky and my wrist doesn't hurt!
It's 1:13 p.m., and my boss's secretary just ducked out for the day. My supervisor is out sick for the week, so her bland assistant goes AWOL on a moment's notice. Good thing those of us in our department aren't allowed to really ask her for anything or give her anything to do, because we wouldn't get it. ;)
I just had one of our employees come in here while I was eating my lunch to ask me a professional favor. You know, I asked him for a favor two fucking weeks ago, and I have yet to see the results (it's too late now -- the paper was already printed). He wants me to take a photo of some people standing around a plaque. Of course. I am so sick of that same request -- it comes at least twice a month. Luckily, we anticipated the request, and Angie graciously offered to take the stupid photo because I have neither the time nor the patience for it.
And I was so rude to the guy -- who really is nice, sadly. He said that Pride Fag wanted this photo, and I interrupted to say, "Oh, let me guess -- we're going to line up people around a sign?" And he said yes. So I said, "Perfect. Y'know, 'cause that's the type of photography our readers really want to see."
I know, it's nothing. It's 10 minutes of our time. But I was also asked to be on Capitol Hill at the crack of fucking dawn on Monday morning. Not fun, but much more important. Again, it's gonna be a photo of 200 people standing on steps, but hey, it's a lot more interesting than four people lined up against a wall holding a fucking sign. :)
My office is usually Arctic or sweltering. Today it is on the latter end of the thermometer. I can't fucking concentrate to save my life, not to mention that I wore a heavy sweater because it's usually so damn cold here.
In good news, I don't have to work during Halloween weekend. The CEO will take photos. You'd think he'd make Town Crier take them. Oh well.
I got a good, subtle zinger in to TC today. I'm sure she never even realizes how I manage to use her own words against her at every opportunity.
Angie and I were chatting about winning the lottery and how many people outright quit their jobs as soon as they learn of a financial windfall. I wouldn't quit here -- at least, not right away. I love my team and my job functions too much. But I would go to part-time, and I would definitely work on opening my own side business(es). And I would definitely give a royal "fuck off" to those who deserve it most, when they deserve it. None of this bottling it up or writing politically correct e-mails to convey yet disguise my frustration.
Like Santa, I would like to start making a list of people I'd like to tell to go to hell. I'd even like to write the script for what I would say. My friend Chris always wanted to write a book on fantastic exits from the workplace. Mine would probably include a Zambelli fireworks display and lip prints tattooed to my ass. In fact, I'd start my own company and hire the truly talented people with whom I've worked over the years -- nothing would screw old employers worse than having an army of their minions go on to greater success (and more enjoyable environments) together without the employer.
I don't mean to be so hard on the Veggie Patch today. It's really some of the people who are frosting my flakes today, and of them, most are not in upper management. Surprisingly. :) I just think of the pay scale and wonder why I work so much harder for less money than some of these losers are taking home.
So Angie and I were having a rousing discussion about masturbation as we stood outside of our offices, rifling through the new copies of the magazine. We were going on at length about battery-provided joy, and then we were chatting about how our cats try to see what we're doing and/or join in on the action (Maddie used to jump up and swat at my vibrators till she was exiled from the room; Kadi just likes to jump up and claw at the discarded clothing).
Angie had just finished describing how her cats love to jump up on the bed and see what's happening, and she punctuated it with, "Get off the bed, Kitty!" when Cruise Director came whipping around the corner, headed to the men's room. He overheard and went, "Um, okay" and looked disgusted.
The funniest part is that she was standing on one leg, kicking the other one back, and doing some pelvic thrusts to really show how to kick a cat off a bed while masturbating. Fun times, I'll tell ya.
We laughed nonstop for 10 minutes after that. :) And now we're in our respective offices, giggling to ourselves.
I went to a candle party tonight, thrown by my upstairs neighbor. Attendees included a large faction of defected Pennsylvanians, and someone started a discussion about the various ways of cooking halushki (huh? who the hell puts potatoes in it?). And then someone asked me how I make it (which I don't -- Mom does -- but I am indeed a cabbage fan), and I was floored that this strange food would be a topic of discussion both online and off.
Of course, then the talk went to pierogies. Ah, to be among kindred. ...
I didn't buy anything from the candle fiesta. I have a lot of Party Lite crap already, and that shit is way expensive, especially given my current budget (and the fact that I hit the liquor store after work). But I did ask the woman doing the show (who has the personality of a fucking cardboard box) if they happened to have any cobalt glass items.
So she said, "Well, what's your definition of cobalt?" I looked at her like she was nuts, and I pointed to my way-cool plastic cobalt shoes. I also pointed to the lone Hanukkah item in the book and told her that was the blue I wanted. So she showed me a candle dish, and I said I already have that one. She said, "Well, why don't you just slap my hand next time I try to show you something?" I was perfectly aghast. So I got up and talked to some of my friends across the room, and I left with no purchase.
Too bad, because I was eyeballing the creme caramel candles and a gingerbread votive house for Mom. That's OK -- I kept the catalog and will order from somebody else. Dumb bitch.
Speaking of dumb bitches, Town Crier needs to die. Lazy fatass bitch. Honest to christ, what is her purpose on this earth, let alone in the workplace?
Had a tense manager's meeting today. I had plans on running into Arlington for my lunch hour on an errand, but then the reminder popped up in my calendar, so I had to find other ways of accomplishing the errand (god love the phone). The meeting revolved around budget issues, furlough days, raises, outstanding bills and morale. All in all, it was painful.
I left work right after it. And when I went to the liquor store and slapped down $80 in purchases, the guy behind the counter said, "Party?" I said, "No. Dinner."
LOL. He's still scratching his head over it. And boy am I tempted to crack something open and enjoy. But I've got work to do (after losing two hours of my life in Candle Hell), so I'll pass. For the time being, anyway. ;)
Insomnia is plaguing me again. Too many worries. The smaller paycheck (thanks to furlough days) bit me in the ass pretty hard. I was planning to buy dining room chairs (because I threw out the old set in the last move) so that my guests on Saturday don't have to sit on the floor. But oh well. I'll have them for the New Year's party. We hope anyway.
Leslie called from Ireland to let me know that she'll be here for the New Year's soiree. Hurrah! It's been way too long since we've hung out. I have got to get my ass to Ireland one of these months -- and hopefully sooner rather than later!
I cooked last night. Yes, moi, the non-domestic goddess. My neighbor Sue sent over a meatloaf via her husband Bob, and of course I was all bedhead and Halloween jammies when he arrived, so I kind of bumbled through a thank-you. I haven't had meatloaf in oh, years, because it's not something I would typically make, were I interested in something that didn't come from Popeye's or the freezer section at Safeway. :) So I asked Shawn to come on over, and I made sides and had wine and whatnot. We watched "The Omen," although I missed most of it while cooking and chatting on the phone with Shan, who's crazy enough to return from maternity leave to the veggie goodness of Club Medicated next Friday.
Hell, I even whipped together a raspberry mousse, which was great except for the sweetness. I got to use my new blue silverware as well as my blue-and-green-glass margarita glasses, in which to serve dessert. I'm proud of myself.
Shawn and I were laughing about how, in our adulthood, we avoid foods like meatloaf and spaghetti, just because we were poor as children and ate those foods altogether too often. I also have a distaste for "shit on the shingles," too, for the same reason. But I will admit to missing my mom's halushki, of all things. Another poor-folks' food. :)
At any rate, after this soiree on Saturday, you can bet your ass that I won't cook again till New Year's. :) This domestic stuff is for the birds!
One of these days, in between cleaning, I need to figure out how to use my grill. If you're into prayer or stuff like that, say a hail mary or two for me, will ya? I'll probably singe my eyebrows off when I attach the fuel to the unit!
My room is mainly in order. I finally got all my Garfield collectibles displayed. Kadi promptly got up on the dresser and tried to play with the figurines. This is in addition to eating the word magnets off the fridge (she's a little porker for saying she's only 4 months old -- if I don't feed her as often as she wants, she eats my possessions). That earned her a good hour in her cage.
Well, off to watch late-night "Sex and the City" reruns on digital HBO. Later taters. :)
Alternate title: In which Dawn is inspired to share long-forgotten poetry and not-so-forgotten ambition
I just ventured onto a website that was spectacularly done. Fucking brilliant. No, I'm not providing the link (yet), but I was transfixed by the complexity and the beauty of the presentation. It's rare that I find something that's truly edgy and classic all at the same time.
Makes me wonder about the incredible things I'm capable of doing but have never done. Instead, I toil away in 9-to-5 jobs where I am chastised for my unconventionality and insights but rewarded for being submissive and for not breaking too many rules.
I realized a few days ago that I haven't written a poem in years. And I just pinpointed why -- I applied for a graduate master's program in poetry, and I was rejected. I had sent 30 full pages of poems for review, and even though I know the program was fiercely competitive, it kind of rocked the passion out of my soul for writing in verse. Sure, I wrote some abysmally dark stories, but every last one of them held a piece of me, so it wasn't necessarily that I was concerned that no one liked the poetry (hell, even I don't like a lot of it -- it's just what flowed that day). It was that I didn't earn the chance to grow with supposed experts, who could have guided me closer to a dream I once possessed.
Reminds me of the times my diaries were discovered by various roommates -- I would sooner skywrite than put my thoughts in blue ink for weeks and even months afterward. I wonder where all of those words and dreams went ... did they float into a parallel universe, or are they still within me somewhere?
And will they ever flow from within me again?
I also realized recently that I am a waste of an IQ. No numbers, please, but suffice it to say that I spent my education and much of my working life just learning what to do to please people. I can memorize entire encyclopedia sets (and I have) and regurgitate them on exams. I can learn within hours how an organization operates and use that information to my advantage.
On the downside, I typically use my powers for evil. I tend to grasp concepts much more quickly than most of my peers, so when they are struggling to catch up with me, I'm letting my imagination (and sometimes my actions) wander free, oftentimes saying and doing things that equal throwing an M-80 in a kiddie pool. And, luckily, I am enough of a quick talker to avoid either being caught or being too severely reprimanded for causing an explosion of reactive thoughts.
I guess I feel like I do about 20 times the amount of processing that a normal brain can handle. Sometimes, I look around my workplace, my apartment complex, any given retail or service establishment, and I wonder if there are many other people like me out there who are just whiling away their time. It's not even that most of us are waiting for something wonderful to happen to change our lives, but rather, we're just fading into an already homogenized world. The oddballs stand out -- those of us who have had our hands smacked and our mouths duct-taped for questioning the establishment have a lot of Pavlovian issues to overcome. We learn to proceed with caution. Unfortunately, that leads many of us to stop advancing entirely -- we learn how to function within lowered expectations.
I'll say it loud and clear -- I have an anxiety disorder. I never used to -- I never used to be afraid of anything. And, on some level, I'm still pretty fearless ... but it's usually when the mood strikes. I'm noticing, of late, that I hold my breath and tense my body. My knuckles are usually white from the death grip I have on the steering wheel. My eyes twitch and water. My head feels like it's going to implode most of the time.
I can attribute my the onset of my nervous condition to June 30, 2001 -- the last day I did something truly defiant. It was the day I realized that I'd gotten caught -- that I wasn't such a blessed faerie child after all. I hurt for a long time afterward, and even now, the ripple effects of that day still bite me in the ass at the most random moments. And, as I understand it, I'll never live it down. Ever.
Before I go off on one of my usual tangents, suffice it to say that a lot of dreams have died one by one during the past decade ... and this is supposed to be the best decade of my life! And on a variety of levels, life is grand. But on the other hand, I have this ridiculous yearning inside of me -- so many unrequited passions. I love to create -- I love to weave words and thoughts and images together. I always meant to pick up a paintbrush and meld poetry with imagery. I used to be brilliant at calligraphy -- these days, I never even pick up an ink pen, in favor of typing instead -- I barely even remember that art form now.
The fine arts have a strong undercurrent in my family. My grandfather was a songwriter and guitarist and vocalist. He also wrote a poem for a friend of mine who was in despair. My grandmother made the most amazing porcelain sculptures, and her handwriting/calligraphy was superb. Mom is an artistic genius -- she gets an idea in her head, buys the supplies and goes to town (someday, I'll have to tell you about her Pop-Up Pussy cards). She never makes a sketch -- she just lets her intuition guide her. Fucking brilliant family. (This is my mom's side -- I'm pretty sure, judging from the two times I met the Sperm Donor, the rest of his family is as much of a bumbling twit as he.)
Me -- all I ever needed was a pen and paper. I painted my armoire last year in black and silver and stars -- it was the most creative thing I've done since tie my straw wrappers into bows at every restaurant I enter (and even that was something I noticed my mom doing absentmindedly). But there are so many colors and shapes and lightning bolts flashing through my head (and this is without drugs. LOL). I feel like right now, everything is just scattered about, waiting for me to go in and clean some house.
Perhaps it is the chaos in my existence that is reflecting the perfect pandemonium in my head.
I just want to take a machete and smash everything around me -- not just the possessions, but the edicts and mandates and everything else that contributes to the status quo -- and sort it all out and put it back together in a way that is aesthetically pleasing for me. And, of course, I reserve the right to throw everything off the island that causes me any sort of rise in blood pressure.
At any rate, I will leave you with two poems, and you be the judge whether I need to find the inspiration to start writing again or if I should pack it in and pursue other avenues of expression:
Color You Mine Chaotic canvases of purples, sables and blues Senseless and irrelevant without the theme of you. Decades trapped in grainy images and empty rooms As I longed for pink shades of love and lilacs in bloom.
Twenty-six years of patterns I could never follow Fruitlessly breathing vermilion into hearts gray and hollow Spending neverending moonless nights coloring outside of the lines Awaiting the precious moment that I could color you mine.
I’ll bathe you in sunshine’s ethereal golden hues Wrap you in endless skies of softest blues Tuck you away safely in satiny crimson sheets Swaddle you in white terry against summer’s blazing heat.
I’ll immerse you in lavender and other scents of love Paint rainbows in the sky; draw a heaven up above Embrace you with white-capped waves of clear aquamarine Before a backdrop of vibrant wildflowers in fields of emerald green.
I want to paint your life in any shade but black I want to give you brilliance; give you every shade you lack Because I know your shadows are as grim and achromatic as mine But our world will be prismatic if you’d just let me color you mine.
Transience My hand was tingling For how long, I didn't know Until I looked over at you And realized That I didn't mind That you were grasping it. Did I reach for you? Or you for me? Or have we been reaching out For each other All along? It was just something that happened So easily, so naturally. And I felt a moment of fear That you would let it go Unannounced And for no particular reason Just like you'd captured it. I don't know what has happened To each of us Or what is happening Between us, But I hope we don't stop it With the little games That potential lovers Tend to play To test each other Or test themselves For whatever reason. Just keep holding my hand Like you are now For however long it takes Until we're sure That this is more than transitory ... That this can be forever Because from the tingling in my fingertips Right now, I want it to be."
-- "Color You Mine" (c) 2000 and "Transience" (c) 1999 by Samantha Ashley. All rights reserved. I will personally kick your ass for reproducing these works without permission and/or attribution. --
Do yourself a favor and skip Butlers Orchard. Unless you live in Maryland and you're not the type to say, "I can't have sex with her -- she's my sister!" (Man, there were some butt-ugly people there. Sheesh)
I can't believe I put 80 miles on my car for that round-trip fiasco. If you do it, you'll be singing the holiday song we were singing.
On the plus side, I had a fabulous day out in the sunshine with my friends, but I'm still trying to figure out why on earth I had to pay an admission fee to see one rooster, one pig and eight million Children of the Corn. I can see the latter merely by stepping out onto my balcony. :) (Aside: five families here are getting evicted by Nov. 15 because of their bastardly offspring. Hurrah!)
After the soaring disappointment of the "harvest days" -- not to mention the ridiculously lame cornstalk maze that we got through in zero point five seconds, we walked down to the patch, where it was the Land of Pumpkin Innards. Not to mention, but we wouldn't have had to pay to go into that patch.
So when we picked out our sad pumpkins, I walked back to the top of the hill to bring my car around to get my buddies and our purchases. But I got stopped by the Gestapo guard, who yelled at me, thinking I was trying to sneak into the harvest days festival. I chortled heartily at that. He said I should have gotten my hand stamped if I was there and planning to leave and come back. I said, look, jackass, nobody told me I had to get stamped to have in-and-out privileges at this adventure land. So he kept trying to press my buttons, and he asked if I were planning to go back to the harvest days after I got my car. My response? "Dude, you've got to be kidding me. I can't believe I had to pay $7 to walk through it once -- you can guarantee that I won't further disappoint myself by re-entering that field." He shot me a dirty look, and I walked away.
Shawn began singing the line in the subject of this post. We had a whole rousing chorus going, but I'm too tired to even think about it.
To add to our misery in Germantown, we attempted to have lunch afterward, but we had to wait so long after we ordered the food that it became dinner. And that fucking state of Maryland doesn't allow smoking in its restaurants, so you had five smokers, sitting around a table, gnawing on our arms in hunger and nicotine withdrawal. And when Shawn got his food (a chicken dish), the staff had to come back and confiscate it because, well, they kinda forgot something -- yeah, like the chicken. What the fuck?!?! Horrible dining endeavor. Just horrible.
I had Shawn drive my car home. I fucking hate 495. I hate 270 just as much. Not that I had much luck on Washington Boulevard this evening, either -- some asshole wanted to pass me on the left, even though the only thing on the left was a lane that had just ended. And he had a big old SUV, but I wasn't nervous. I figured if he'd hit me, well, it would suck but no one in their right mind would try to do what he was doing. Dildo.
We did have a delightful time -- snugly returned to our beloved Northern Virginia -- at Shawn's hacienda. Paul and I made apple crisp, I did a fast and furious hot apple cider/toddy kind of disaster, Angie and her husband carved pumpkins (beautifully, I might add!), Bryan made caramel apples, and those of us left standing at the end of the night settled down to watch "The Exorcist."
Alas, though, the adventures didn't end with dropping Bryan and Paul off in Arlington. When I got home a few minutes ago, I locked the door behind me, as I usually do. I put food in the cats' dishes, and then I realized that Kadi wasn't around my ankles and going apeshit. I looked for her for awhile and then, just on a lark, opened the front door. Her dumb ass had run out between my ankles and she was stuck outside for five minutes. Heh. I was feeling charitable, so I let her in. But I admit to taking a pause before I bothered opening the door. :)
No posting for most of today -- we're gettin' the gang together for some punkin pickin' this afternoon in Maryland (yeah, because I love driving the Beltway so). It'll be good to spend a day outdoors and away from the insanity that is my existence.
Send happy thoughts to Dave, who came over last night for a mutual therapy session over pizza and a foreign flick. Remember, it's all about fun, and failing that, don't forget, "GTHU!"
Oh, and send a "Go, Mom!" to my dear mother Robin up in Pittsburgh, who is being propositioned for some wild sex by a 28-year-old. Go Mom!!! She called at 8 a.m. for advice, and my advice, of course, was to bring a box of Trojans and a case of KY. Y'know, 'cause it's been awhile for her. ;)
And as an aside, I'm doing some blogroll changes. If you aren't on there and want to be, leave a comment to that effect. The list is done in no particular order, just by category, so if you want to be moved up, I am open for oral favors as bribery. ...
The warm and fuzzy feelings of last night were immediately shot straight in the ass today when I went into the office, straight from the print shop, to fix something and re-send it.
Town Crier accosted me immediately. Those who remember TC recall that she's not my favorite fruit loop at the Veggie Patch.
Apparently my workplace is having a massive meeting next weekend (um, the holiday weekend, for those calendar-phobes out there). It runs from Friday through Monday. TC had asked for me to be present for the miserable mess and to take photos of it. I had told her that I have a lot of plans that weekend (yes, weekend -- remember those? yeah, me either) and that I wasn't promising anything.
So my staff writer and I were skulking in this afternoon, trying to fly under the radar and escape being seen, but god damn it all to hell anyway, TC jumped right in front of us (yes, physically blocking us in the hallway) and said that, if I'm not available, then Cruise Director wants Staff Writer to be available.
I stomped off.
Perhaps it is my own fault that I do work during two to three weekends a month -- by rights, work should only consume one weekend, if that. I blame it on some of my own poor planning/execution skills, but I share that blame equally with ridiculous, time-consuming e-mail arguments and contradictory mandates from the Upper McManagement.
At any rate, I've given up enough weekends this month -- not that any of them knows this, because I go in, do my work and leave. I don't brag about it -- I do what needs to be done and I go on with my life.
And that's where the anger arose within me again today -- it's not just any ol' weekend -- it's friggin' Halloween. I have plans on Halloween (Shawn, what's the scoop?). I have a housewarming party at my abode on Saturday (nothing exotic, but I've got a buttload of shopping, cooking and cleaning to do, so time is precious here). I plan to be hungover the next day -- or, at least, really fucking exhausted.
But, alas -- that's my choice. Because it's MY TIME.
Work doesn't really demand a lot of me. But when they asked me to work, I said I had personal plans. And the neat thing about them asking if my staff writer could shoot these stupid photos -- of a weekend-long TRAINING SESSION ... how fucking BORING is that?!?! -- is that she can't because she's Pagan. Yes, Halloween is a religious holiday for her, and she has events going on the whole weekend (like coming to my soiree, for instance. LOL).
I zipped off a quick e-mail to my supervisor, who responded with a terse, "We'll talk." Fuckin' fine with me -- am I going to get overtime for this? Or comp time? Looks to me that every second or third paycheck is short $100-plus because of our fucking furlough days, and I seem to recall doing some work-related activities during those unpaid adventures. All I have are my weekends, damn it.
And seriously, this weekend-long fiesta would require me putting some miles on my car (because they can't host these meetings locally or conveniently for drones like me), and it would take me away from either preparing for, or recovering from, the plans I've had for two friggin months now.
Can't these losers take their own cameras? The people at this meeting are of little interest to me anyway. We supposedly have a P.R. staff (read: supposed to be Town Crier and her septogenarian assistant) -- do they seriously think I want photos of people sitting at tables and lining up against walls for my paper? I hate that shit.
I mean, really, to look at this month's issue of the paper is to know what phenomenal photography was. And let's just say that I didn't take any of the photos. They were supplied by my ridiculously talented designer (and I'm not just sayin' that 'cause he's reading this!), or they were professional shots taken of the people profiled in the stories we ran. I have voiced my opinion till I'm hoarse that I just don't get why I have to attend retirement parties and going-away parties and meetings, meetings, meetings just to be the staff shutterbug. What do I do with these photos? I develop them and shove them in a drawer. And if I can find one to run, I can never get much help with the cutlines, so I end up running something bland and barely coherent, just to fill up the space beneath each photo of some dickhead holding a plaque.
*sigh*
Fuck them -- they're not going to ruin THIS weekend! And hopefully not the next one either.
"These are my words That I've never said before I think I'm doing okay And this is the smile That I've never shown before." -- Staind, "So Far Away" --
I'm exhausted but alert. Paper went to bed tonight. I normally hang out at the print shop and chat with the gals on the night shift, but I only stopped by and apologized for just not having it in me to hang out this month. Next month, I'll make an effort. Just right now, eh. Couldn't hang.
But this is the moment each month that I await. The moment when I realize that I don't have to be up really early the next day, because I put in a hell of a lot of hours during the week. The moment when I realize that, one week earlier, the amount of work and aggravation seemed insurmountable. The moment when I can say, hell, the team did a great job, and we have a lot of which we can be proud.
The magazine is amazing this month. The content is top-notch; the design is no less than spectacular; the glory (would there be any glory) is well-earned.
More dragons remain to be slain next week, but I'll get to that when I can think straight. Production days like today usually leave me as an incoherent, rambling, babbling fool. But my eye has finally stopped twitching (woo hoo!), the teeth grinding has slowed to almost a halt, and I look forward to as deep of a sleep as a rambunctious kitten will allow (which, sadly, ain't much!). Maybe Kadi needs to be reacquainted with her cage tonight. Yes, that sounds like a plan. :) I'm sure Maddie will appreciate it, as she is the first one Kadi attacks before the little cat decides to get stuck in the blinds (five nights a week -- what a ridiculous animal!) or knock over the ironing board that has, this week, been acting like a hamper/dresser/jewelry disposal (oh, and Kadi ate the necklace I wore yesterday, because I was stupid enough to leave it on the ironing board -- fucking freak. (Oh, and the little bitch knocked over a bottle of perfume today. Right off the computer desk, because, you know, that's where expensive water in glass bottles belongs!)
I have to say, when my staff writer, my designer and I are in a room together, it's a wonder the glass in my office doesn't shatter from all the brilliance and laughter we emit -- it's like the room can barely contain us sometimes. It's times like this when I'm glad nobody in the building "gets" what we do or how we operate. Most people are smart enough to stay away from our end of the hallway during press week (some are not, but that's a story for another day!). We could all probably work more efficiently, but when all is said and done, it doesn't feel much like work.
And I feel kind of good that my name is on this great product. Sure, I may deal with waaaayyyy too much administrative bullshit throughout the month, but in the end, it is the magazine copies that I will take when I move out of that lovely corner office. It is the friendships that have quickly taken place of the working relationships that I will cherish. It is the personal and professional introspection tempered by the inane discussions about VH1's "I Love the '80s" and "Romy and Michelle" behind my closed door that makes us all realize that we're not only putting together a magazine, but we're also putting back together our sanity that is eroded incrementally throughout the course of any given month.
So, waxing poetic aside, I feel incredible. I'm not quite ready to take on the world at this late hour, but I can manage a contented and accomplished smile, and for me, that's even better than world dominance. For tonight, anyway. ;)
I'm hoping to do some insightful posting, but I'll probably just start whining. At any rate, move along and find another blog to read if you're not up for my self-therapy today.
Some people in my life have said I was the most caring person they knew (obviously they didn't know many people. ...). Some people have even gone so far as to say I was "too nice" or "too sacrificing" when it comes to other people. Others know me as a bit on the insensitive side. Hell, my former employer used to say I was "cavalier" (hence my username and nickname on every website and IM program imaginable).
At any rate, I have this ridiculous blurting habit. Yes, as in, I blurt out the first possible thing that comes to my mind. I have lost so much self-restraint during the past few months. I used to work at a job where everything I said/did was held against me, and even things I didn't outright say/do came back to haunt me, too. At jobs before that, when I was disgruntled, people heard about it loud and clear. And as time wore on, I realized that I needed to put a cork in it sometimes -- and "sometimes" became "more-often-than-not."
But then I lost those newly acquired social graces. I can't even remember how. But, for as long as I can remember, the weirdest shit just pops into my head. In the right company, I can share it. But I can't always be 100 percent "Dawn" when not everyone needs or even wants that. I need to replace the filter that used to keep that weird shit contained in my head.
I also have a family problem, in that nobody ever held anything back. That, and some of my grandfather's relatives are the most uncouth assholes ever born. I mean, jeebus, his older brother is one of the cruelest people I've ever met -- the man just slices you down to size and laughs at his own jabs. He's the only one laughing. And that humor has trickled down through the branches of the family -- they think they're so damn funny, when all they're being is hurtful.
I really tried to escape the path of using humor to hurt. And I guess I don't do it directly, but I think I still do it.
For instance, I was talking with my designer yesterday, and he mentioned something personal (which he rarely does). And then he made a comment that it was probably too much information, that it wasn't something I needed or even wanted to know. The first words out of my mouth were, "You know I don't give a shit about stuff like that." But what I MEANT (and should have said) was, "I appreciate you sharing that information with me. It doesn't bother me in the least. In fact, I think you're a terrific person and that it's awesome that you said that."
I think he knows me well enough to understand that, when I say I don't care, it means that hey, nothing fazes or offends me, so your secret is safe with me. But why can't I just SAY that in the first place?
Even today, the poor guy is sick, so I offered to run to the store or run errands for him, and he of course said thanks but no. What comes out of Little Miss Unfiltered? "Hey, I'm trying to be nice. It's hard for me to be nice. Work with me here!" I guess, in the grand scheme of things, it's not so bad (considering that I was laughing and being goofy when I said it), but there is some truth to the fact that being nice doesn't come altogether that naturally for me.
I hate for this to turn into a therapy session, but what the hell ... here goes:
I'm a product of tough love. While my family unquestionably loved me unconditionally (and still sometimes remains obsessive about it), there was an element of sarcasm and psychological torture that kept us together. (Yeah, we were dysfunctional, but families aren't "normal" if they don't have an element of dysfunction! We didn't call it "Dysfunction Junction" for nothing!)
That tough love concept carried its way into my earliest of friendships. We lived for teasing each other. But it was teasing in a loving kind of way. Sometimes, sure, it went too far, but it was always in context and apologies were usually given when somebody got hurt. Unless we meant what we said. But that's a whole 'nother blog entry.
I always viewed teasing/joking (done lovingly of course!) as a sign that you were close to somebody -- close enough to know them inside and out and be able to laugh WITH them at their foibles and idiosyncracies. Or, in some of the instances described above, I might not be that close with someone, but it's my way of getting to know them -- if they can handle me, then they're pretty damn cool. But then there are the folks who don't know me so well and who don't get it that I make a joke out of just about everything.
And that's my coping mechanism. I laugh. Not hysterically, mind you. Not "they're-coming-to-take-me-away-ha-ha" laughter (not always, anyway!), but I tend to find the humor in nearly every situation. And if there isn't any, I create my own. Maybe that's the journalist reporter in me -- when there's no news, you still need to get paid, so you find or exaggerate whatever you can get your grimy little mitts on. I mean, take this very blog for instance -- it's all real, but instead of just calling my boss, oh, I don't know, how about "Boss"? I call him Cruise Director of Club Medicated. Or King Kumquat, king of the Veggie Patch. Everybody bitches about work -- I just like to put a creative spin on it, because you can get the vanilla job kvetching just about anywhere else.
At any rate, I guess what spurred all of this on is that I guess I need to better distinguish my professional self from my personal self. Hell yeah, I'm gonna keep making my snarks and asides to the people who enjoy it most, but maybe I need to, at least at/regarding work, re-adopt the old, "bite yo' tongue, biatch!" attitude that used to, for the most part, keep me out of trouble. Although it did cause me to implode on more than one occasion!
And for those who don't know me or who don't know me well, always take me with a grain of salt ... and a couple of shots of tequila. :-D
Here are the songs that got me through my workday (read: working weekend) from hell:
1. Prodigy, "Smack My Bitch Up" 2. Holly McNarland, "Elmo" * 3. Staind, "So Far Away" 4. Fuel, "Falls on Me" 5. Type O Negative, "Christian Woman" 6. Jonell Moser, "Crossroads" 7. Puddle of Mudd, "Control" 8. Kilgore, "Providence" 9. Stone Temple Pilots, "Sex Type Thing" 10. Godsmack, "Awake" 11. Black Lab, "10 Million Years" 12. Jack Off Jill, "Angels Fuck" 13. Cold, "End of the World" 14. Joan Jett, "Do You Wanna Touch Me" 15. Evanescence, "My Last Breath" 16. Pulp, "Like a Friend" 17. Butthole Surfers, "Whatever" 18. Seven Mary Three, "Wait" 19. Lauren Christy, "Walk this Earth Alone" 20. Live, "Run to the Water"
Yeah, it was a rip-roaring kind of day. :)
* I wanted to upload the song, but that went bust, so I'm going for sharing the lyrics. It's one of those songs that makes you think waaaay too much about your past, yet remember it somewhat fondly. :) Or maybe I'm just nuts.
"I'm still thinking about Elmo Elmo 5 o'clock special I'm still thinking about you 1000 ways to kill you I'm still dreaming in pink Gives me reason to think When I lay down my head I'm still okay When I lay down my head to go to bed Were do you fit in Didn't say to come in Where the hell you been I can see you're excited You can tell you're invited Justify your evil ways Make up for the lost days Didn't mean to close the door When I throw you to the floor Didn't mean to close the door Oh my personal whore Where do you fit in You run out of expression You let me make a suggestion I can see to this day You're no innocent man Come and catch me if you can Didn't have the time of day But I fucked him anyway Didn't have the time of day to play Where do you fit in Where the fuck have you been? I'm still thinking about Elmo Elmo 5 o'clock special I'm still thinking about you."
I was up early this morning (thanks to Short Bus cat being an asshole at 6 a.m.), so I got up and went driving.
I was halfway down King Street when a song came on my CD that I made yesterday. I was groovin' to it and, for the life of me, I couldn't remember the artist. (Short-term memory: non-existent.) In all irony, I stopped behind someone at a red light, and that person had a Kilgore bumper sticker. Would you believe that Kilgore was the band name I was struggling to remember?
At any rate, somebody must have released all the hot people from the dungeon this morning -- yum! I went to D(r)unkin' Donuts and to Tar-zhay, and everybody I walked past was hotter than the next one. I suppose it pays to get up early sometimes -- the scenery was incredible!!! Of course, my eyes were only half-open at 8 a.m., so you be the judge. ;)
Scott and I were wisecracking when we arrived at the ghetto theater at 8:15 p.m. -- he thought we should buy tickets to the movie that started at 7:55 p.m. (to shorten our misery). I figured we should buy tickets to the 6 p.m. showing and just miss it altogther. But no, we went to the 9:20 show. Regrettably.
Shawn and I loved the original, made in 1974. It was psychological. This one is blood and gore. And it's not quite the same storyline.
But then again, let's just say that the movie audience missed its flight to "The Jerry Springer Show" -- I can't tell you how many times I heard, "You go on girl!" from everyone else in the audience. Everyone was hooting and cheering and laughing and yelling at the screen. And, of course, having their own conversations for the whole theater to hear. My boys noted that, when we were leaving the theater, the adventure seemed incomplete without "Jerry's Final Thought."
If you're into a movie that's a hybrid of "Blair Witch Project," "Halloween" and "Scary Movie," go spend the nine bucks. If not, go buy some weed and save yourself the aggravation of leaving the house. ;)
Cruise Director, you're a pussy! Stand up to Pride Fag for one fucking day in your life!!! We are going to lose advertisers over this!!!!!
Update My horoscope said something yesterday about being tempted to quit my job on the spot. Editors have walked out over less than this. Not that I feel like being peniless and homeless -- I ain't walking out. But if I had unlimited funds to fall back on, you bet your ass I would be creating more of a riot than I already am, that's for damn sure.
Seriously, i have been stressing myself out this week (over various issues, not just today's serving of shit souffle), and today just brought a sudden wave of anger and anxiety that is starting to feel very familiar. It is also starting to get harder to control.
Late yesterday, I was calm. I figured fuck it -- work crises are not worth wrecking my personal health and well-being. And I was right and just need to return to that place in my head where everything's OK. My designer sent me a hilarious mock-up of the paper that made me laugh so hard that I cried. I have that posted next to my monitor, to remind me that someday, we'll laugh about this. And the sooner we start laughing, the longer we'll live.
Till then, I've got to go calm down the throbbing vein in my forehead. ...
I've been workin' like a dog this week, and it ain't over till it's over. And it ain't over in the forseeable future. Fuck. I'm ready to pay someone to clean my house, seeing as though I don't have the time to do it.
I just realized that, not only do both of my cats have black collars with rhinestones, but my new favorite necklace is black with rhinestones. My god, are are we color-coordinated. Frightening.
She's two months old now, but I finally got some photos of her today from Shan.
Here's Shan with the lovely Alexandria Marie, back in August:
Here's Alex, photographed Aug. 10, the day after she was born:
And here is Alex and Dad with her favorite book, courtesy of Aunt Dawn. I couldn't be there with the family, so I provided her first book (about a caterpillar becoming a butterfly, much like the little one herself):
1. Name five things in your refrigerator. Coffee grounds, Diet Vanilla Coke, French's Wasabi Horseradish GourMayo, apple butter and eggs.
2. Name five things in your freezer. Garlic bread, a Red Baron pizza, a pack of Hot Pockets, a pack of Hershey's chocolates and a gel eye mask.
3. Name five things under your kitchen sink. Two vases, a can of Raid, a jug of Palmolive dishwashing soap, a bottle of Jet Dry and a box of dishwasher soap tablets.
4. Name five things around your computer. Lamp, ashtray, empty glass (from last night), empty cigarette box and a cup of coffee.
5. Name five things in your medicine cabinet. Tampax Lites, hair spray/gel, Band-Aids, peroxide and sparkle gel for when I'm goin' out on the town.
Only my old friend Kristin would understand what I'm saying with that phrase, but suffice it to say that it used to induce giggles and clinking of beer bottles. :)
Just finished some editing. Have to write a story tomorrow and edit last-minute submissions. One of my mega-documents is pending approval -- it took two fucking days to edit that 42-page monstrosity (I didn't write it, and it sucks mightily because of it).
Met my upstairs neighbor last night. The cats howled till I came in the house and fed their fat asses. She asked if I'd want to go to church with her sometime. I politely declined, so then she invited me to a candle party the night before my housewarming. I debated inviting her to mine but decided against it, but I will go to the candle soiree. Like I need more fucking crap around this house! :)
Well, I've smoked my last cigarette and am going to finish my last cocktail (oh, yeah -- I need to drink/smoke when I edit! The stories usually turn out better, I think, when I'm loaded). Too bad I have to go to bed when my energy and concentration is at its highest.
I had a two-hour conversation with a convicted child molestor, an hour-long conversation with a lady visiting my office from South Africa, and a whole buncha coffee and caramel corn while I edited submissions of varying coherence from people who want to run for elected office in my agency. I'm going to chase it all down with a Diet Dr. Pepper and a handful of semi-sweet morsels and try to cram four days' worth of work into the next day and a half. Not to mention that my ass was here till 8:30 last night and will be there at least that late tonight.
Upper McManagement just snuck another furlough day into the schedule in November . Of the three furloughs we've had so far, I've worked during two of them. And the next one should be no exception. Y'know, I was on board with it when they were supposed to be the occasional half-days, but now they've become monthly full-days -- and the paycheck it impacts is the one that rent comes out of.
I was gonna offer up some MP3s that are getting me through the day, but both Blogger and my web host are being menstrual (as am I), so fuck it. Another day. :)
And if you can't get enough of the jokes (and my asides), go tease your hair or comb your mullet and visit Pittsburghese dot com for some language lessons! :)
YOU KNOW YOU'RE FROM PENNSYLVANIA
You know what a "State Store" is, and your out of state friends find it incredulous that you can't purchase liquor at the mini-mart.
You don't understand what all the hype is about for Yuengling or Rolling Rock beer, you've been drinking it for years even though Iron City is cheaper.
You live for summer & fall, when street fairs signal the beginning of funnel cake season.
You know what REAL potpie is. You ask the waitress for "dippy eggs" for breakfast. Your turkey has "filling," not "stuffing," and most certainly, NOT "dressing."
You consider Pittsburgh to be "out west," and you know the fastest way to Philly is the Turnpike.
When someone says 1972, you think "Agnes," and when someone says 1979, you think "TMI". (Personally, I think of being 5 years old and celebrating the Pirates winning the World Series and the Steelers winning the Super Bowl -- D.P.)
You call sloppy joes, "barbecue."
When it snows, they put cinders on the roads instead of sand.
Know that Yuengling is pronounced "Ying-ling," and believe that it really is a premium beer (which comes from growing up on Schlitz and Iron City).
The first day of Buck season and the first day of Doe season are school holidays.
One of the highlights of your life was a field trip to Penn's Cave and Horseshoe curve.
You know exactly what to do when your mother tells you to "redd up" your room.
You know the time and location of every "wing night" in a 20 mile radius.
You don't think people from Philly or Pittsburgh talk funny.
All of your childhood vacations were trips to the Jersey shore.
You design your children's Halloween costumes to fit over a snowsuit.
Driving is always better in winter because the potholes are filled with snow.
You find 20 degrees just a little chilly.
You can recite the four seasons: almost winter, winter, still winter, and construction.
Words like "hoagie", "crick", "chipped ham", and "pop" actually mean something to you.
You can use the phrase "fire hall wedding reception" and not even bat an eye.
You think nothing of an Amish buggy on the road.
You learned long ago how to "step carefully" around the buggy tie-ups in the supermarket parking lot.
You constantly refer to Pennsylvania as "PA" (pronounced Pee-ay). How many other states do that?
You can go 2 weeks in winter without sunshine and think this is normal.
You know that Blue Ball, Intercourse, Climax, Bird-in-Hand, Virginville, Paradise, Mars, and Slippery Rock are PA towns. (Don't forget Beaver, Big Beaver, Beaver County and Beaver Falls. Oh, and what about Moon Township? -- D.P.)
There is no such thing as a "Philly Cheesesteak". Its just called a Cheesesteak since everybody knows where they come from.
Your idea of a traffic jam is ten cars waiting to pass a tractor on the highway.
"Vacation" means going to Hershey Park for the weekend.
You know several people who have hit deer more than once.
You often switch from "Heat" to "A/C" in the same day. (Um, we do that in Virginia, too -- D.P.)
You use a down comforter in the summer.
Your grandparents drive at 65mph through 13 feet of snow during a raging blizzard, without flinching.
You see people wearing hunting clothes at social events.
You install security lights on your house and garage and then leave both unlocked.
You think of the major food groups as deer meat, fish, and berries.
You carry jumper cables in your car and your girlfriend or wife knows how to use them.
There are 7 empty cars running in the parking lot at the Sheetz mini-mart at any given time.
You can actually eat cold pizza (even for breakfast) and know others who do the same. Those from NY find this "barbaric." (And here I thought all college students did this, too -- D.P.)
You not only have heard of Birch Beer, but you know that it comes in several colors: Red, White, Brown, Gold.
At least 5 people on your block (for the city folks) have electric "candles" in all or most of their windows all year long.
You know several places to purchase or that serve Scrapple, Summer Sausage (Lebanon Bologna), and Hot Bacon Dressing. (Mmmm, I miss Sweet Lebanon -- D.P.)
You can't go to a Pennsylvania Wedding without hearing the "Chicken Dance" and at least 5 other Polkas. (Don't ask me to polka. It's ugly -- D.P.)
You actually understand these jokes and will send them on to your PA friends too.
You. Yes you, moonbat. The asshole in the lavender Beamer. The one at the corner of Jordan and Duke. Yeah, I'm talking to you. See, you were in the right-turn-only lane. I was beside you in the lane that could go left, right or straight. But see, you wanted to go left (but your dumb ass was in the wrong lane) and I wanted to turn right (which I had every right to do). So when I went to turn right, your stupid ass decided to go straight. So I had to throw on the brakes and let your stupid ass escape unscathed and I actually had a schoolbus driver behind me throwing his hands up in the air because of your stupidity. That's why I honked. If I'd been in a worse mood, I'd'a followed your ass and inserted my hooker heel in your rectum.
But because I was in a good mood this morning, I just let you off with an angry honk. But next time, kindly remove your headpiece or whatever was blocking you from reading the clearly illustrated markings on the pavement. Moron.
Budget meeting in two hours. Speaking of wanting to shove a hooker heel into someone's rectum. ...
Seriously, the whole federal battle over the Pledge of Allegiance, particularly whether the "under g-d" line, is taking place in the wrong arena. Then again, what the hell do I know?
As a longtime nonsectarian, I used to fall silent during our morningly Pledge when I was a wee lass, particularly at the "under g-d" part. Even now, the Pledge is more of a tradition (and a PITA, as far as I used to be concerned) than a battle cry. I excelled at skipping homeroom, so I don't know that I said it even once when I was in high school.
What I'm not getting is whether the atheist activist in charge of this brouhaha wants the Pledge to be banned or whether he wants to get rid of the "under g-d" part. Anyone who's seen a news report that I haven't seen, please feel free to enlighten me. (For the record, I've been an atheist and, most recently, an agnostic. And I still don't get this guy's point.)
I mean, with what would we replace that particular phrase? One nation ... in purgatory? In hell? Under fear of terrorists? Under economic distress? Not under much of an ozone layer? Under a dominatrix? Over a couch cushion? In a hole? In denial? The list goes on.
I revere our flag. I salute it when necessary. I get mad when people burn our flag. I am careful to never let the cloth touch the ground. I am frequently reminded of what that symbol meant so long ago and what it means today. And while, on one hand, I don't need a mantra in my head about it, the Pledge did come in useful for teaching me how to tell my right side from my left.
I'd sooner, though, pledge allegiance to our fags. I mean, come on, at least they wouldn't have put red, white and blue together on the same piece of fabric, right? And horizontal stripes make anything look fat -- I am certain they would have done a nice print or at least some vertical stripes. Now THAT, my friends, I would salute!!!
I swear, some of the people who contribute to my newspaper should all form an Ice Capades team ... and the ice should crack under the sheer weight of their stupidity alone.
One chick wrote in at great length on how devastated the country became after Sept. 11, 2002. Um, did I miss something on that day? Or is she that discombobulated that she forgets what year our world fell apart? (She's running for agency president, BTW.) The same chick sent in four photos of herself and told us to pick which one we wanted to use, but then to send it to her for approval of our choice. Um, why the hell, then, would she send four photos if she wasn't OK with all of them?!?!
That's not even going to touch today's e-mail battle about our Problem Child division president who keeps sending in photos of herself every month and writing 1,000-word cutlines that are libelous on a good day and just plain false on other days. A group of 11 former presidents have launched a flame campaign, directed partly toward the newspaper, about how we need to discredit the Problem Child. I loathe the woman just as much as the next person, but when a leader sends me information, all I do is cut it to fit (and to have the photo run as small as possible) -- I don't exactly call and verify that someone with power over me is blowing smoke out of her ass (and up everyone else's, apparently). That would cost me my job, duh.
My final complaint is the fact that these yo-yos need to go back and watch them some "Sesame Street" so they can learn how to count. I do not understand how, when given a word limit of 200, 300, 500 or 1,000 words, how these moonbats can write 2,000 words and wonder why we get mad at them. One dildo in particular -- I gave her a limit of 500 words -- she turned in 1,500. I sent it back to her and told her that she should be the one to cut it (it was a courtesy on my part). So she sends it back at 1,200 words and asked if she cut enough. *scream* So I sliced out the next 700 words myself, and she had the audacity to tell me to e-mail what I did to her boss so she could approve it. (Um, don't think so.)
I think I have a bruise on my forehead in the shape of my space bar key. :)
I'm safely at work (not being paid, as it's a furlough day, so I essentially cleaned/decorated my office and uploaded photos. Heh), away from the beasts, but if you want to know what a typical day in our life is like, then visit that link to Maddie's page.
Here are my two favorite shots of Maddie (taking her bag of catnip prisoner!) and Short Bus Kadi (at my feet, begging for food, as always!):
Funny gal Margaret Cho shows there's a hell of a lot more to her than jokes about being a famous fag hag. I was prepared to be amused, but instead, I am full of insights and rage and sadness and everything else I never expected.
Rejected headline: In which the infidel reminisces about publishing a magazine under the bold cover headline, 'What if God were one of us?'
Talk about overdosing on nostalgia (again), but I just found an old issue of my college magazine ... when yours truly was the editor.
My editorship (then) and my editorship (now) are two different eras. My stories and cutlines were so ballsy and defiant then. Shit, my issue went to bed one week after a proposed merger between Point Park College (a nonsectarian theater/journalism school with a high gay/lesbian/bi population) and Duquesne University (a really good -- and really Catholic -- school) was announced -- so I marched my staff -- all of us clad in PPC T-Shirts and sweatshirts, BTW -- up to the big marble sign outside of Duquesne and had our staff photo taken outside of it. The cutline reads: "Point St. Duquesne: The infidels of The Pioneer staff wish to pay homage to the Holy Roman Empire."
I went on to write up an interview with the president of Duquesne for the pompous asshole that he was. I blasted our school trustees for lying to us, claiming to be searching for a president but all the while planning to become an affiliate campus of Duquesne. I got everyone on my staff to submit thoughts/fears/concerns on the proposed alliance and I printed every last one of them in a collage. I profiled the woman in charge of recruiting for my college, and I printed even her off-color remarks and asides, just to show the people who were really in charge of our lives at that time.
And I got away with all of it.
Damn, I had fire.
These days, I tiptoe and whisper and shake my head and run to my office and lick my wounds. The only thing I can do around my office (other than fight the good fight) is to write stories about topics that normally don't appear in magazines like mine. I take deep breaths and plot strategies to present ideas and information to people who can either make me really happy or make me really mad.
Back then, I could tell people to shove it. I also had people to whom I reported who would back nearly everything I said or did because they truly wanted us to have real-world experience and for us to make a product of which we'd be damn proud -- then and in the future. God love Joe Knupsky for letting me alternate between being the fiesty readhead and the fearless fuck-up routine that I've perfected over the years.
The sad thing is, Joe is teaching at Duquene these days. :) PPC lost a great spirit in him, and in Mark Vehec as well, who's doing techie stuff at Duquesne right along with him.
For those interested, PPC and Duquesne parted ways (i.e., no alliance). PPC brought in a new president, and for as long as I had a leading voice in the student media, no one championed her more than I did. She has since turned the school around, doubled enrollment and added majors and departments. I hear PPC might apply for university status in the next year or two, and that's great. But I will always remember it as the little college that, on one hand, prepared me for the bullshit of non-profit management ... but it also nurtured that snarky little rebel in me who just doesn't have enough opportunities to shine.
I'm going to keep this magazine handy for awhile -- to remind me how far I've come and how many screaming fits I've had with non-editorial people in my day. :) Will I ever be understood again?!?!
I just realized that I have an immense fear of going to the laundromat -- not, surprisingly, because of the questionable quality of its other patrons, but because the last thing I did, the day that my appendicitis struck, was go to the laundromat.
I've been meaning to do laundry for weeks, but the thought of dragging 10 bags of clothes to the car and going to some ghetto laundromat just makes me ill.
Besides, "Message in a Bottle" is still on. *swoon* I'll leave after that. Maybe. :)
I love this movie. Never lived it though -- I usually find men who are attached to their mothers, their exes or to OPPs.
The noise around here quieted down around 11 last night, at which time I made myself a few cocktails and tried to forget about my frayed nerves. Of course, at 9 a.m., another car alarm went off. The thing is, I could tell it was an accident -- the poor guy parked next to me set it off and jumped 10 feet. He scurred for a few minutes to make it stop, and when it did, several people around here started honking and yelling. Funny how nobody said a word when it was the greaseball who was doing it incessantly last night.
I put up some Halloween decorations last night. Had to lock the cats in my bedroom to do so. I hung 25 feet of shimmery spiders from the ceiling. In theory, it would've been easy, but this is me we're talking about. They're hanging by pushpins and Scotch tape. I wait for one cat to breathe on them, and the whole house of cards will come tumbling down, with their nasty breath. ;)
Some moron has been setting off his car alarm (purposely!) for 45 minutes. Add that to the throng of brats who convene beneath my balcony (oh, god, I pity the guy who lives below me) and then the brat in the next building who has been blowing a party horn nonstop for two hours, I am ready to fucking MURDER someone!
Oh, and I'm out of cigarettes. Joy.
One of the little monsters threw a basketball at the sign above my car. The ball bounced and rolled into my tire. I saw the whole thing and gave him the poison darts. I gave the darts to the asshole with the car alarm too -- who, just my luck, is parked directly under my bedroom window.
I am giving everyone nasty looks and snarky comments, but I am not complaining to management because when I throw my housewarming party, I want my guests to make all the noise they want. If someone complains, I will kill them on sight, after what they and their kids make me put up with every fucking night of my life.
I got up early to clean the kitchen and to start the process of putting my 5,000 word magnets up on the fridge (it'll never be finished, BTW). I played referee while the cats ate (i.e., I kept yelling at Kadi every time she tried to attack Maddie to get to her bowl, while her own bowl sat half-full), made some coffee, and overdosed on nostalgia.
Today is my beloved Samantha Jones' second birthday -- I bought her on this day in 2001 and didn't even know how to drive her. :)
Today is also the birthday of someone I used to care about (Brat, for anyone interested). But for the life of me, I can't really remember what he looked like, other than the visage in some drunken photos of us that I have around here somewhere.
But I thought back to about this time four or five years ago, when I was (surprise) planning for a Halloween happy hour at my place. I was putting the word magnets all over the fridge door (and I had far fewer magnets back then!). I remembered the scent of my then-favorite Glade Plug-ins -- tropical mist. On a whim (this year), I bought a pack of them. And I guess the familiar scent, coupled with the familiar activity, took me back in time for a minute.
Last night I dreamed about one of my old and dear friends from Pittsburgh. While life took us down such separate paths, I am glad to exchange the occasional e-mail with him. But he was so clear in my dream -- I dreamed that I was staying in some far-away hotel with my colleages (because we travel once a year to host a conference), and I bumped into him. We had breakfast in this huge, wall-to-wall glass lobby and laughed while we pondered the aesthetic and the esoteric, as we'd done so many times before.
I miss those conversations -- we had so many right in my tropical-mist scented kitchens and living rooms. And I guess, when I awoke, I was kind of sad that those days really are over. I felt alive when I was with him -- that my dreams and thoughts and plans really mattered. I always felt beautiful around him (even though, when I see the photos from those parties, I was a drunken, slovenly mess in every last shot!) -- he was a person who looked at your heart before he saw the rest of you, and he found immense light and beauty in everything that came within close proximity of him.
And the feeling was mutual.
I wanted to drop him an e-mail today, to say all of this. Maybe he'll wander by the website and see it. Or not. I just have to laugh that I feel more comfortable telling 50,000 people how much I miss him today, yet I can't even write a private e-mail to that effect.
I'm so glad my old friends Dawn and Rob will be here, because I adore them and and also because they were such a part of my life -- such a part of me -- during those years. But they will serve as a small reminder that I can't bring everybody from my old life into my new world. But I can bring the magnets, the air fresheners and the memories, and at least it's something.
There are new beginnings and new memories to be made, though, in my rooms that now smell like Glade's butterfly garden and Renuzit's mandarin-and-green tea and my Nag Champa incense. But for all the changes, it never hurts for a moment to stop and remember who I was and the people who loved me because -- and maybe in spite -- of it. :)
Alternate headline: This is what we've waited two weeks for. Why god why?
1. Do you watch sports? If so, which ones? Sheet wrestling (i.e., porn). Used to watch tennis. Also used to just go to the gym and watch all the buff people lifting stuff. Now I could give a shit less.
2. What/who are your favorite sports teams and/or favorite athletes? I am a fan of the Pittsburgh teams, mostly because it's the only city that outfits all of its major sports teams in the same colors (I am a sucker for men who can color-coordinate) -- da Pens (Penguins), da Stillers (Steelers) and even those overpaid losers da Bucs (Pirates).
3. Are there any sports you hate? It's more that I hate the commentators. I can have sports on in the background without being too weirded out, but I'm not going to willingly sit down and watch.
Another thing I hate ABOUT sports is when you're dating a guy and his team loses the Super Bowl. Every fucking time I've been with somebody around that magical time of year, it has been a given that I will NOT get laid because he's too depressed to do anything but lift beer after beer to his mouth and then pass out on the couch. Not even a blow job can mend their broken little hearts. :)
4. Have you ever been to a sports event? Back when Three Rivers Stadium still stood, I saw the Pirates. Actually, I was there selling raffle tickets for my then-employers, so I didn't really watch the game. I went to PNC Park, the new baseball stadium, after it was built -- but that was mostly for the great restaurants and certainly not to watch the Pirates lose play.
And then when Heinz Field was built for the football team right next door to PNC Park, I went there for social events with other young professionals. I even stood on the field for a minute. The drinks were overpriced but the food was good. And the view of the city from both of the new stadiums was just freakin' breathtaking.
5. Do/did you play any sports (in school or other)? How long did you play?
This will surprise everyone who knows me, but I actually did work with our women's volleyball team in high school (no, silly, I couldn't play -- I ducked every time the ball came near me!), but I ran the scoreboard. My (then) friends Judd and Stephanie were the team's statisticians, and I basically had to have them tell me when to give a team a point.
I do have a great memory from that time, though. Our team was full of the most incredibly sweet and academically gifted people, but volleyball champs, well, they were not. They only won one game during the whole season, and that was thanks to me sneaking points into the scoreboard when nobody was looking.
Oh, that was a riot. Judd came over to me and said I needed to remove some points because his and Stephanie's sheets only showed that they had made X number of points. I just kind of looked at him blankly and said, "Well, I was keeping up on my own, and I'm pretty sure I called it right."
I don't know if he ever knew what I was up to, but he realized -- as I had -- that the other team hadn't brought any statisticians. And the reason I even did it was because it was Senior Recognition Night, and those girls had worked so hard and felt like they had nothing to show for it.
At any rate, for the rest of the night, whenever I would see fit to add a point (and don't get me wrong -- the girls were doing great -- I probably only padded the score by about five or six points), Judd and Stephanie would hurry up and credit the point to someone on their sheets.
What's funny as all hell is that the other team had a HUGE parent turnout, but not a fucking one of them raised a question.
I retired from the team after that game -- there were more to be played, but I was carrying four advanced placement courses and was editor of the school paper and the (worthless) president of the school's national honor society (not to mention that Judd's and my friendship was starting on its path to hell in a handbasket). But I, like the ladies, had the joy of tasting a sweet dose of success. They went on to play their little hearts out with renewed confidence in themselves, and I have secretly known for 11 years that I might have had a little something to do with that. :)
Rejected headline: Yes, kids, even YOU can buy a crack house
*updated twice*
I went to Urban Outfitters' website to purchase the newest game sweeping the nation, Ghettopoly, but "Due to customer concerns, we no longer sell the game."
That's OK -- I visited our fine friends at Ghettopoly.com and found, in addition to the item I wanted: Hoodopoly, Hiphopopoly, Thugopoly and Redneckopoly, which are currently in development and on my holiday shopping list (particularly Redneckopoly -- as a former Pittsburgher, I shall easily win any game!).
Sure, the masses are crying about how horrible this game is supposed to be, but I worked in the buttcrack of the East Liberty section of Pittsburgh, where my brand-new car was attacked by gang members when she was two months old. Not to mention the, um, array of people adorning the streets and either whistling at, throwing up on, or slurring toward you as you scurried from your building to your car down the street.
All this hype is SO making me want to buy a game pronto. Seriously, no media hype = nobody really wants it. But all these groups had to make waves, so now, demand is up. Oh, these are gonna be worth some serious money someday -- if you do buy it, don't even open it. Sell it in a decade for cash mon-ay!!!
Update It's on backorder till Nov. 10. And shipping was $9, but what the hell, right? ;) I want it just for the little smokey-tree shaped "playa" piece!!!
This just in They even have a Cafe Shop! Get yer ghetto thong!!!
An Indian walks into a cafe with a shotgun in one hand and a bucket of buffalo manure in the other. He says to the waiter, "I want coffee." The waiter says, "Sure chief, coming right up."
He gets the Indian a tall mug of coffee, and the Indian drinks it down in one gulp, picks up the bucket of manure, throws it into the air, blasts it with the shotgun, and then just walks out.
The next morning the Indian returns. He has his shotgun in one hand and a bucket of manure in the other. He walks up to the counter and says to the waiter, "I want coffee."
The waiter says, "Whoa, Tonto. We're still cleaning up your mess from the last time you were here. What the heck was all that about, anyway"?
"I'm in training for upper management position. Come in, drink coffee, shoot the shit and disappear for rest of the day."
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
An airline's passenger cabin was being served by an obviously gay flight attendant, who seemed to put everyone into a good mood as he served them food and drinks.
As the plane prepared to descend, he came swishing down the aisle and announced to the passengers, "Captain Marvey has asked me to announce that he'll be landing the big scary plane shortly, lovely people, so if you could just put up your trays that would be super."
On his trip back up the aisle, he noticed that a well-dressed, rather exotic looking woman hadn't moved a muscle. "Perhaps you didn't hear me over those big brute engines. I asked you to raise your trazy-poo so the main man can pitty-pat us on the ground."
The passenger calmly turned her head and said, "In my country, I am called a Princess. I take orders from no one."
To which the flight attendant replied, without missing a beat, "Well, sweet-cheeks, in my country, I'm called a Queen, so I outrank you. Tray-up, bitch!"
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
A mama mole, a papa mole, and a baby mole all live in a little mole hole. One day the papa mole sticks his head out of the hole, sniffs the air and says,"Yum! I smell maple syrup!" The mama mole sticks her head out of the hole, sniffs the air and says "Yum! I smell honey!"
The baby mole tries to stick his head out of the hole to sniff the air, but can't because the bigger moles are in the way so he says, "Geez, all I can smell is ..."
Good stuff: Insurance issue solved. Some major paperwork at the Veggie Patch solved. Two major freelance bills paid.
Bad stuff: Accidentally deleted a folder from our network. Didn't know for days because I can't access the network from my computer. Put in a work order to have it restored. I actually needed that info today for my paperwork, so I committed some slight fraud on federal forms. Whoopsie. ;)
Ya gotta love the weather down here. It went from dog-breath hot to nipple-hard-on cold. And the mornings roll in with a low of 42 degrees, but it's damn near 80 degrees outside right now.
There are mice running around the building at work. We were just notified to report any sightings of rat tails or mouse droppings. Should I report all the human rats I have to deal with altogether too frequently?
Everyone knows that Maddie is my beautiful and brilliant cat and that Kadi, well, she's lucky she's cute or she'd be in trouble. ;)
I told you a few days ago how Kadi rammed her head into the sliding glass door, trying to catch my black-and-purple bat garland I was working with outside. Well, yesterday, I was outside playing with garland again, and ol' Short Bus Cat was hot on the case, trying to get this garland. This time, though, she was trying to bust through the screen to get the shiny, crinkly stuff dangling from my hands. Dumbshit jumped up and threw her claws into the screen, and she got stuck up in the air for a few minutes -- she was afraid to let go and had this delicious look of terror on her puss. Heh. I was amused.
Tonight, I was in the bathroom (grabbed Taco Hell on the way home from work -- you decide why I was on my human litterbox -- *giggle*), and of course the furry fuckers had to play at my feet the whole time. Shit, they have a whole apartment to dance around, but as soon as my scandalous guchies go around my ankles, these two think they're invited to puss-fest. *shudder*
At any rate, the kitties started fighting, and the bathroom door ended up closed. I know for a fact that Maddie knows how to open the door, and as Kadi tried desperately to pull the door open, Maddie sat there looking so smug. It's almost like Kadi looked imploringly at her for assistance, but Maddie wasn't budging. In fact, while Kadi was preoccupied with the door, Maddie took that opportunity to get a running start and jump right on her (see an 18-pound cat jump on a 3-pound cat and you WILL laugh your ass off!).
Kadi then lost interest in the door and chased Maddie's tail, even though Maddie wasn't moving her pudgy ass anywhere. Finally, Kadi jumped into her haven -- the bathtub. Once she was out of sight, Maddie jumped up and pulled the door open and sauntered out, hiding a smile behind her whiskers.
Sometimes having feline company while you're on the throne ain't so bad, especially when you see your favorite cat win the battle. Although, arguably, it doesn't take a genius to outsmart Kadi. ;)
After spending half the day waiting for my *new* insurance rep to call me, I called someone else.
Initially, I was informed that I can't have my policy renewed, because it's been canceled for two months. It could only be renewed if it were within 30 days, which blows because I didn't KNOW until yesterday that my car insurance was gone without my consent.
I can, of course, and WILL at this point, go with another insurance provider, but I will be a higher risk -- and therefore have to pay a higher fee -- because I'VE HAD NO INSURANCE COVERAGE FOR MORE THAN TWO MONTHS.
Oh, I'm sure you know you can't get your car inspected without insurance coverage. And don't forget the DMV's Uninsured Motorist Fee during lapsed months.
I called both my old agent and my new agent and went apeshit. In fact, while I was on with my OLD agent (who told me I'm pretty much SOL and it's my own fault), the NEW agent called someone else in that office, who said that my coverage is good until tomorrow.
So together, my new agent and I called Insurance Company's Big Headquarters, and that office confirmed that I'm covered through tomorrow.
My colleague insists that the sudden change in tune on the part of Insurance Company could be my simple, firm, "Fine, if I've been canceled, then send my refund, because I pre-paid for months my policy was supposedly expired." Heh. Suddenly, they say I've had coverage all along. Ah, the sweet threat of making them part with money works every time! ;)
So, I've had knots in my stomach and shoulders all fucking day. And I will have a new policy -- with a new carrier -- tomorow. Hurrah.
I can't take any more bullshit. I really can't. Some area of my life needs to go smoothly, 'cause my sense of humor has been severely tested during the past three months (moving, surgery, hospital hell, insurance, etc.).
I recommended that my mom go with my car insurance company because it's got the best prices around. So she met with my old agent yesterday, and she was pleased and signed with them immediately.
The bad news is that she was told that Insurance Company canceled my policy on Aug. 7. Yes, canceled. As in, "Oh, sorry you're driving 495, 395 and 95 and nearly lose your life every day because of moronic drivers, but you're not covered."
*Scream*
I called Insurance Company's Richmond headquarters to pitch a bitch. Apparently, my policy was canceled because I moved out of Pittsburgh. I said, look, that's nice and all, but they've been sending my bills down here for the past year-plus, and nobody EVER indicated that my policy was invalid once I left Pennsylvania. Not to mention, but I NEVER RECEIVED CORRESPONDENCE TO THIS EFFECT. All I got was a letter last week to tell me that my renter's insurance was canceled ... nobody ever said word one about the car insurance.
The gal at the Richmond office noted that I don't have any pending claims. I snarked, "Well thank GOD -- who'da thought that my insurance company decided not to insure me even though I've PAID them to!"
She told me to find a local rep. I told her to pick a fucking name out of a hat and give me a phone number. So I called a local agent and just left a message. Sweet jesus on a pogo stick. It's pretty bad that I wouldn't have even KNOWN I wasn't insured, had not my old agent told my MOM that my policy went buh-byes.
And it's not even that I want to reward their bad behavior, but at least my VIN and all that pesky detailed information is in their system. I hate details. Hate 'em with a passion. I want them to punch in my old account number and send me a bill. Cripes -- how rare is it that you WANT to spend money with a company and they REFUSE it?!?!
Came home today to find that the kitties had shat in five places. Yes, shat. As in, took big whopping dumps in several spots around the apartment. Furry fuckers!
What was interesting is that one of them shat straight into the litter scoop -- there were chunks in it, waiting for me to dump them. How considerate of them. The rest of the chunks were not at all chunks but instead the runs. *shudder*
It's all cleaned up now, and I not only gave them fresh litter (instead of scooping it at my leisure), but I just threw out the two existing litterboxes and replaced it with one fresh one. Both have already taken a ceremonial dump in the new box, just to show me their pleasure and gratitude.
I've been awake since before 5 a.m., and it wasn't even a cat-induced shoot-up-out-of-bed-because-Kadi-is-destroying-something occurrence! (She's in her cage right now, BTW.)
Of course, when I tried to go back to bed, she ensured that my slumber was permanently interrupted, as she knocked over the coffee pot and got stuck in the blinds again. :)
I started to wrap purple lights around my balcony railing yesterday; I might finish it if I ever get around to it (I've been having an attention-span problem lately -- there ain't nothin' done around here!). I bought some garland for outside, too, but it wasn't long enough (Aside to my female and gay male readers: Ain't that usually the case? Sheesh!) and couldn't find any similar strands, so I brought it in the house, defeated. But when I was outside, I decided to torment Kadi by dangling it above her head (she was inside). Dumbshit thought she could catch it, and she rammed her head against the glass, trying to jump for it. *snicker* Mom told me to quit putting the Short Bus Cat in situations where she could cause herself even more neurological damage. :)
It's looking like there will be about 20 of us at my apartment-warming soiree (if you're in the area and I've not invited you, let me know and I'll send you an invite!). My good friends Dawn and Rob, formerly of Pittsburgh as well, have RSVP'd, and I'm ecstatic about that -- we used to have many drunken good times together. And I will get to meet the infamous and ever-fabulous Silver Blue, Tink and Polo Randy.
I'm much like the Wizard of Oz when it comes to planning parties -- I try to get an interesting mix of people, to keep things lively. I have great faith that I shall get my wish. :)
Mom helped me to plan the menu last night, and I look forward to learning how to pick some good meat from Grillmaster Scotty K. (Aside to Scott: Hey, buddy, how 'bout a Harris Teeter adventure prior to the soiree?) Scott is the self-proclaimed Harris Teeter whore (of, at least, the Arlington store), and I shall look forward to learning his shopping secrets. I might even let him swipe his VIC card on my purchase so that he can earn lotsa points toward the knife set that they are offering that he's currently salivating over coveting. :)
The good news is that I have enough Italian genetics to be able to cook for 20 people without even batting an eye. The bad news is that I live next-door to one of the apartment complex managers. :( Perhaps I should invite her, to keep the complaints at bay.
I'm not going to give away the menu, but I think I will save my usual bounty-o-specialty-appetizers for New Year's and just, for now, stick to side dishes instead. I have a ton of things I usually make for parties, but I need to do new and different things, not to mention that Halloween is fun to celebrate foodwise. Maybe I'll just make a shitload of baked goods this time around -- and with enough wine in me (and there will be MORE than enough, thank you), I shall revisit my role as Betty Crocked.
I know I'm babbling like a fiend about this party, but I haven't thrown a shindig since my 27th birthday party (two years ago, for those keeping track!). I wish I could invite more of the usual suspects from times since passed, but it will be good to have old friends mixed in among the new friends.
Now to just continue the unpacking so that I can decorate!!! :)
Well, in weird news, I fit into a skirt I haven't been able to squeeze my fat ass into since I lived in Pittsburgh. How 'bout that? I am not sure how much longer I can live wthout eating "real" food, but this is a liquid diet I will enjoy while it lasts!!! ;)
That's all. Nothin' special. Just wide-eyed at this hour, like I usually am.
Watched movies and "Sex and the City" reruns for hours. The kitties each curled up on me and slept the whole time. I just had to wake the brats up so I could go pee. I'm sure that now, as I try to go to sleep, the little fuckers will be energized and will bounce off the walls all night. 'Cause that's what always happens.
Weep for me.
In better news, finally sent out invitations for my housewarming. Does that mean the apartment is remotely close to being ready for visitors? Oh hell no. Do I feel inclined to even cook for it? Not especially. I've been trying to plan a menu, but all I keep coming up with is hot buttered rum cider and beer. Of course, who needs anything else when you've got that? ;)
Perhaps it's a good night for masturbation. Had the best session last night -- took me no more than three minutes to explode. Damn, I'm good! Either that or the fantasy was particularly superb. But they usually are. :) However, I'm lookin' for some fresh material. What do YOU think about when you're in need of release?!?!
On a complete whim, I just bought a beige suede jacket that screams "Flower Child!" It's very Janis Joplin or Joni Mitchell -- it's got neat criss-cross stitching on the bottom of it and along the sleeves, and it ties in two places in the front with long beige strings. I spent way too much on it, but I love it.
Lately, people at work have been commenting about how different I look. Yeah, I've actually been putting on makeup and doing something with my hair once in awhile. I stopped getting my nails done, though, so I am trying to wear stuff with pockets so I can hide them. :) I'll get back to it soon, but I just haven't had the time to actually sit in a chair for an hour and get them manicured.
I've been revisiting my black clothing a lot, and I bought a lil medieval-inspired black top today just for giggles. And I also purchased one in red, because I'm just ridiculous like that.
I felt like I was dressed for a funeral last night, in my all-black outfit (save for a white collar and cuffs) to go to some photography showing at Vida in D.C. (The bar was decent, as was the photography, but it wasn't a memorable experience, by any means). Shawn invoked my status as his interim "boyfriend" to accompany him and his roommate and his girlfriend out for the evening. Long story short, he actually had the hostess refund our admission price, as we were supposed to get food and a drink in our admission price, but we had neither. The bartender actually refused to honor the drink coupons because he ran out of whatever vodka they were promoting that night. WTF? I did buy a round of drinks, although it took them -- and I'm not kidding here -- 25 minutes to go find a fucking bottle of amaretto for my drink. E. Gads. And they didn't even use the top-shelf variety either, and the bartender *only* made me pay $10 because I waited so patiently. Pfft.
I wrote a review about the experience on the Washington Post. In a few hours, you can click the Vida link in this post and go see pretty much the same shit I just wrote here. :)
We had dinner at Thai Tanic afterward. I tell ya, I can't eat the spicy foods like I did before my surgery. My meal set my mouth on fire, and I drowned it in much water and in the uber-sweet Thai iced tea, which had more sweet cream in it than a cow in a sugar cane field. I like to refer to my entree as Bad Pad Thai. :)
OK, I am going to kill my other kitty, Maddie. Earlier, I alluded to the fact that Kadi had the runs between the litterboxes. Right this second, Maddie took a dump and just dragged her ass across the carpet -- and it's a chunky trail. Fuck around. Well, I need to go AGAIN to go clean up cat shit.
Anybody want some free pussy? Ya got three to choose from!!!!!!!!
I just cleaned out the litter station (20 pounds of poop, I kid you not!) and was in the bathroom drying my hair when Kadi (aka Short Bus Cat) went into her box and decided to have diarrhea. The problem? She missed the litterbox entirely, so there's a good two pounds of runny, slimy shit on my rug. So I must clean it immediately. But first. ...
I haven't answered the questions in awhile, and while this week still ain't worth it, well, I'm just tryin' to kill time before I scrub my butt and head over to the insane asylum Veggie Patch.
1. What vehicle do you drive? Pontiac Sunfire, 2002, indigo, coupe.
2. How long have you had it? Two years on Oct. 12. My dealer told me I will go down in history as the first person to buy a car without knowing how to drive -- I had to have my mom take two buses with me to get to the dealership so she could drive it home. :)
And now she drives the same damn car, only hers is a 2004 and has that XML satellite radio. I'm so jealous! :)
3. What is the coolest feature on your vehicle? I'm all about the sunroof, but I think what I liked most when I bought the car was 1. the color, and 2., the way, when I brake (which is a rarity), the word Pontiac lights up just above my license plate. Gas mileage is pretty good, too. And that it's tiny and fits into any parking space. And that because it's small, it's easier to cut people off when I'm feelin' the need for speed.
4. What is the most annoying thing about your vehicle? That people keep slamming their doors into mine. Motherfuckers.
Also, when I'm listening to a CD and it goes back to song one, it jumps past the first two minutes of the song. And the ignition doesn't always start on the first try. And that I smoke too much, so the inside windows are always in need of cleaning.
5. If money were no object, what vehicle would you be driving right now? I'm hardly a car elitist. I bought the one I wanted. But I might want a Mustang or a Mitsubishi in my next life -- I'll probably always have a sports car.
On second thought, I want some big-ass Hummer or something so that I can retaliate against all those assholes in huge vehicles who tailgate me at night and shine their headlights into my car. That bugs the shit outta me. Big cars try to bully my little Samantha Jones and attempt to make her scared for her life because she's so small. Bastards.
OK, I probably stepped into some type of parallel universe, but after the last month of frustration (sexual and otherwise), I'm feeling strangely giddy. I find myself laughing out loud for no apparent reason, and I find myself smiling over funny conversations I've had with my buddies lately. Dare I say it, but for all my kvetching, am I actually happy?
Raising the practice of wasting time & bandwidth in the nation's capital to soaring artistic heights, searching for sapience in a cesspool of despair, indulging an addiction for coffee & cigarettes and ranting about nothing in particular.
Send lovin' to: P.O. Box 9663
Alex., Va. 22304
goddessdawn AT gmail DOT com
