I went to my P.O. Box yesterday, and in it was a birthday card from my mom. Look, I know she has no idea how old I am (29, but she's been telling people I'm 30 for the past five years), but being that my birthday was back in, oh, MAY, I was confused. The postmark read Jan. 14.
So I called Mom today to ask her what the hell that was all about, and she said she sent it in May ... and that there was CASH in it. She had forgotten all about it, although I do remember her asking way back then if I'd received her card.
In any event, when I opened the envelope, there was NO cash to be found -- someone had steamed open the envelope, re-sealed it and put it in my box. The NERVE of those motherfuckers!!!
I remember chastising her for sending money through the mail (she'd told me back then that she had sent me some cash for my birthday so I could pay my phone bill, which was out of control). I cannot fucking BELIEVE the postal service is so shady.
I have had problems with them before. Years ago, I had sent a long letter to a friend, pouring my heart out about some very sensitive subjects. Months later, I received the envelope that contained said letter, but it came with a note that the envelope was damaged and that there was nothing in it. Um, I don't THINK so. I used to decorate my envelopes with stickers and little made-up song lyrics and personal jokes, and I think someone got curious and wanted to see what else I had to say.
And they WONDER why we have all reverted to e-mail!!! Yeah, keep raising the cost of stamps, motherfuckers. I hope the Internet puts your fucked-up monopoly out of business within the next decade.
1. Who do you call first? Mom. Of course, she's like me and never picks up the phone, so the technical answer is "Mom's answering machine."
2. What is the first thing you buy for yourself? Can you buy peace of mind? Failing that, I'm getting the best Powerbook under the sun, complete with Quark, Photoshop and any other pricey program I covet. Then I'm going to take my current computer into the shop and have it upgraded. Then I'm going to clean out my Amazon Wish List -- only I'm gonna add a LOT more to it! (Like a Plasma TV.)
3. What is the first thing you buy for someone else? Easy -- my mom and grandfather have never lived in a house they owned, so I'd make that happen. Only thing is, I'd bring them down here with me and not leave them in Pittsburgh. I miss them!
4. Do you give any away? If yes, to whom? Um, after the IRS takes its hefty chunk, I'll need some tax write-offs. I've already worked for three screwed-up non-profits (securing donations for two of them), so I'll pass on those. I'd probably send a few bucks to NARAL or Planned Parenthood, cancer research, mental health/illness research and maybe corporate Easter Seals (and not the affiliate I worked for!).
5. Do you invest any? If so, how? I suppose so. But I don't know nothin' about saving money, so this question is lost on me.
Quote of the Day: "I'm the only person in the world who tried to cook Tuna Helper then burned my foot and still forgot to put the tuna in." -- Shan, who burned herself (again!) making lunch.
Site of the Day: Regular readers will get this. Viva Pussy Demure!
Yesterday, I felt empowered as a journalist and as a professional. Today, I return to my place as the object of micromanagement.
My boss (whom I will just call Exclamation Point from now on; see here for the story) corners me in my office this morning to discuss various items. And then chastises me because I do not keep her in the loop about where I am, every moment of every day.
Case in point: I am supposed to have a meeting at 11 a.m. (in a few minutes) with our Internet person, to teach me how to update my corporate website. (I haven't even seen this person in the office yet, mind you -- I'll bet he's forgotten). It seems that, four weeks ago, when I set the training time, I had mentioned to Exclamation Point that we were to meet on Jan. 28. Let it be said that I just got the date wrong, and the training was always set for the 29th.
In any event, Exclamation starts breathing deeply and says, "You were out at that luncheon yesterday." Um, Duh. "And (the other one) wasn't here yesterday either. I assume you have scheduled a different date to meet?"
I was stunned but recovered quickly. "No, today is the day we are meeting. It was always today; I must have mentioned the incorrect date."
A normal supervisor would leave it at that. But not Exclamation Point.
"It is your responsibility to tell me these things," she said. I said, I thought I just did. She goes into this long schpiel that she was expecting that the training would be done yesterday, and she was concerned because neither myself nor the trainer were in the office, and I need to realize how important this is. Blah blah blah. I said it's always been a priority and that the date was always set and will still be honored, if Dude comes into the office today (it's 10:59 a.m. -- I ain't holding my breath, at this point).
I think she's nuts because she told her supervisor (who is also Dude's supervisor) about this "date." And her supervisor isn't even here -- I mean, jesus christ, I do not need her to act like a secretary. I am perfectly capable of attending the various meetings I am forced to attend. Of course, I tend to skip our weekly supervision meetings at least two weeks out of the month, so I can see where she's concerned about my meeting-attending skills, but come on. She knows I want to learn this website bullshit because Dude has only updated my page once in 14 months, and that's only because his boss went apeshit on him because his most recent column wasn't featured.
In any event, I was verbally spanked for not realizing that I told her the wrong date for a meeting she wasn't even involved with, and I was told that, the moment I knew that I had told her the wrong date, I should have reported it to her immediately.
MicroMcManagement special -- what number is that on the menu board? And can I get a side of rage to go with that, with an Apple Martini for dessert?
OK, the Spy Museum rocked socks. Not only did we have a great lunch (mostly Atkins-based, although it hurt to pass up the creamy, cheesecakey, whipped-cream-and-berries-topped dessert), but the speakers were excellent and we got story ideas for a future edition of the Veggie Patch Gazette.
What I loved was how worshipped the journalists were. Usually, we're considered to be the scourge of the earth, but I could not believe how well-respected my publication and my career really are -- in the right company. I guess I don't realize that influential people actually are reading our work and admiring it from afar. I was seated at a table with other editors of comparable papers (circulation and topic-wise), and they knew my publication. What was weird was that people there actually had heard of me. And they didn't run screaming. ;)
At my workplace, my varied career background, for some reason, is considered a handicap if I expect to proceed in the editorial field. I had a few years of fund-raising/grantwriting/gala-planning/public relations/communications experience under my belt before I returned to journalism, and I've always been treated like such an oddity. But I had conversations with no fewer than six people who did exactly what I did or who wear all those hats at their current jobs. Sometimes I feel like, at the Veggie Patch, when I toss them ideas for how to do quick and cheap promotional activities, they look at me like I'm mad -- like, "No, that's not your job. We already overpay someone to sit on her ass and claim to do P.R. Stay in your corner." In fact, they don't think it -- they tell me as much. And it was so refreshing to trade horror stories with my peers -- it made me realize, in a big way, that I am pretty damned accomplished for being still under 30 -- and accomplished even related to others who have been in the field(s) for more decades than that.
Luncheon attendees were given a free pass to go wander through the museum. Oh. My. Goodness. I LOVED it!!! Angie and I were kind of tired and bleary-eyed, what with having to take an hour each to dig our cars out of snowdrifts and to chip ice like Edward Scissorhands off our car windows, not to mention making an appearance at the Veggie Patch to boot, so we didn't *really* read everything or partake in it. But it was way cool -- you're given an identity that you need to remember throughout your visit, and you are tested twice on the details. And if you haven't been given the details to the questions they ask, you are to evaluate your character and make decisions on how you should answer. I am proud to say that I scored perfectly each time, and I would be a valuable asset to the CIA. *rofl* Loads of fun, I tell you. I need to take Shawn there so we can really get into the exhibits without time constraints.
Also for attending the luncheon, we were given complimentary registrations to a gala next weekend at the museum. Angie was worried that she doesn't know what to wear, and I told her to throw on an old bridesmaid dress or something else that's foufy and uncomfortable, and she'll blend right in. Ugh. This means I have some dress-shopping to do, unless any of my old gala dresses actually fit (I won't hold my breath, though!).
Would you believe I just got another reader calling for my resignation? She of course sent it to everybody under the sun. Look, I published the fucking thing in November, I published all the irate reader responses in January, and I learned a lesson. I am getting really sick of this shit.
You would think that, with all the masturbation I do, my wrists would be in better shape for cleaning up my car. But nooo, I'm sore and think I've got the early onset of frostbite (or, if not frostbite, then a burning desire to kick Mother Nature's frigid ass).
I couldn't get into my car today. The driver's side was frozen shut. I crawled over the mounds of snow to get to the passenger side, only to find that somebody parked right up against me. Really, is this necessary? (And don't think I didn't take great pleasure when the end of my ice scraper kept whacking the other car -- it was that close!) I started to crawl in through the trunk, but then I realized I had a second, smaller ice scraper back there (the big one was of course in the car, along with my de-icing shit that isn't worth a damn anyway). So I managed to pry the door open with said tiny ice scraper. Woo hoo! So I cranked up the radio and blasted Joni Mitchell for all the neighbors to enjoy. :)
You can tell that nobody here must have to go to work -- cars have been sitting here since Sunday night and have a veritable shitload of snow on them. But I can't blame these people -- the ice was ridiculously difficult to budge this morning, more so than yesterday (it made a gorgeous crystal mosaic when I cracked it yesterday). Today, the ice was just being a bitch. Like me.
I really don't even have to go into the office for more than a half-hour today, but I signed Angie and me up for a press thing at the International Spy Museum. My hope is that lunch, catered by Zola's, will be Atkins-friendly. :) Failing that, then I hope my car doors don't freeze shut again during the event!
I've been in no mood to post today. Really, I'm in no mood to do anything today. But I do have to mention that the "American Idol" auditions are getting scarier by the day -- is it me, or do some of the contestants sound like Donatella Versace?
Anyway, on with the humor I promised:
WOMAN'S PERFECT BREAKFAST She's sitting at the table with her gourmet coffee. Her son is on the cover of the Wheaties box. Her daughter is on the cover of Business Week. Her boyfriend is on the cover of Playgirl. And her husband is on the back of the milk carton.
CIGARETTES AND TAMPONS A man walks into a pharmacy and wanders up and down the aisles. The sales girl notices him and asks him if she can help him. He answers that he is looking for a box of tampons for his wife. She directs him down the correct aisle. A few minutes later, he deposits a huge bag of cotton balls and a ball of string on the counter. She says, confused, "Sir, I thought you were looking for some tampons for your wife?" He answers, "You see, it's like this -- yesterday, I sent my wife to the store to get me a carton of cigarettes, and she came back with a tin of tobacco and some rolling papers; cause it's sooooooooooo much cheaper. So, I figure if I have to roll my own ... so does she."
Of course . . . I figure this guy is the one on the milk carton :-)
OK, it's been a long time since I've seen seven inches, and when it finally happened, it had to be snow. Bah.
No calling off from work today for me -- the paper rolled up on press today. This morning, I found it hysterical that only, say, three people in my apartment complex's parking lot (yes! I got a spot! woo hoo!) left to go to work this morning. And, of course, all three of us drive tiny sports cars. The people with the big-ass trucks and SUVs stayed happily snug in their respective spots this morning, while the rest of us valiantly braved the un-plowed lot.
Yeah, in all the plowing going on around Alexandria, my corner of the city failed to be accommodated, minus the main roads of Seminary and Van Dorn. I cut through a strip-mall lot (as I do every morning), and my featherweight car didn't know whether to shit or go sailing, so she chose the latter -- almost running headfirst into a medial strip. But I turned into the skid, held my breath and, luckily, Samantha was able to fly straight for (most of) the rest of the trip to Springfield.
And it's time for Dawn's annual bitch-fest about snow-time drivers, although Scott did an eloquent job covering the same acts of assholitry. A word of advice: clean off your cars, or we will assemble our mini-Mafia (of the two of us) and bruise your kneecaps with our ice scrapers. Even though you can't see us through your snow mountain, we are still there, being buried in the avalanche of white shit that you didn't see fit to manually remove from your vehicles.
There was a Big Important Meeting scheduled at work this morning, so I asked Angie to cover it for me. When she got there, there were only four people in the whole building, so the meeting was canceled. People, please. At least two thirds of the employees live within a normal five-minute drive of the place, yet everyone freaks and stays home without even calling off. I personally was waiting for Pussy Demure to activate the phone tree to tell me to stay home, but alas, I got no call. Maybe I'll just "forget" to go in tomorrow, to make up for my sleigh ride down Van Dorn this morning.
I had meant to do laundry today (we're going on three months of me just buying lots of new clothes here) -- I have seven bags of clothes in my trunk. But then, once I got home, I decided fuck it, I ain't going out again (and my clothes soap is FROZEN in my car). That reminds me, I fueled the vehicle last night and went to wash the crystallized bird shit from my back window, only to find that the window-washing fluid was frozen solid, too. Bah.
I hate this fucking weather. Anybody else have fun commuting stories?
Chinese New Year came and went on Thursday, and I didn't post my resolutions. So here they are, and I encourage my loyal and incredible readers to hold me to them.
1. Talk less, say more. I tend to be quiet most of the time, but when I talk, I babble. And it's usually random and incoherent. I actually do have a good vocabulary, and I'd like to start sounding more intelligent. That, and I tend to fall silent when I'm annoyed -- I've cut off so many people in my life by just assuming they knew why I was mad instead of telling them that they've burned my butter. Also, I'm not always direct (too many years of playing workplace politics is to thank for that). I'm sick of wasting words, and that stops here.
2. Get off my ass and go to the gym. Fuck, I'm going to be paying my monthly membership fee to the evil overlords at Bally's for another two years -- might as well take advantage of it. I always felt good when I was going regularly -- it's time to get back into a shape that isn't round or oblong. :)
3. Eat better. And yes, that means sticking to a diet. Tiff had an awesome dinner party last night, complete with a various sampling of low- to no-carb foods. The food (and thecompany) were immensely enjoyable. Dude, all I have to say is "whole wheat pizza crust." If Dr. Atkins weren't already dead, he would've keeled over, knowing we were eating such tasty (yet minimal!) carbs.
Tiff is raving about the South Beach Diet, and I'd like to learn it. Till I do, I am going to make my refrigerator more Atkins-friendly, starting today. I had to buy groceries anyway, so I loaded up on some meats, cheeses and green veggies at Giant. And I just made a terrific shrimp salad for dinner. If I can continue eating good stuff like that, I know I won't (really) miss the ice cream, caramel popcorn, cookies and other crap that usually serve as meals as opposed to after-meal treats.
My lifelong idea of dieting has been eating all the bad stuff in the house so that it isn't around later on, when I actually plan to start a diet. Unfortunately, you know what that means -- I buy more junk to replace the crap I already ate. ;)
In good news, I've been forcing myself to take Olay vitamins (the stress defense/skin improving variety). And maybe it's just my imagination, but I've been handling my stress remarkably well ever since I've gotten into the habit of swallowing those big yellow pills every morning.
4. Write more. At this point, I've already started updating some old writings. I had applied to get into a graduate poetry program more than two years ago, but I didn't get in. That killed me in such a way that I didn't write a poem for two years. But I started back up with it (poetry was always my way of keeping at writing, even if it wasn't the stuff I wanted to be writing -- at least it kept my brain from falling too dormant). And writing is way cheaper than going to therapy.
5. Say "no" more often. Ask me a favor. I'll say yes (usually) even if I'd rather masturbate with a chainsaw. ('Cause I'm just a girl who "cain't say no.") When I attempt to resist, I feel like I get bullied into spending my time catering to other people (i.e., when people ask me to host parties like for, say, cosmetics companies), no matter how sweet and genuine I know they are. And then I get mad that I wasn't able to say, "Um. Not interested. Never will be. I know you need the sales, but I need my company to stop furloughing my salary when the mood strikes." Or that I said it but it still wasn't a good enough excuse. (See Resolution #1.) I don't owe anybody anything, and believe me, it's way easier to get me to do you a favor if it's my idea or suggestion.
But that's not to say that I don't enjoy lending people a hand when I really want to and they really need me -- and when I CAN help without sacrificing my very vital "me" time, although I've gotten better at preserving that time during the last year. It's just the approach -- be courteous, be grateful and be sincere. I rarely ask favors of anyone else, but the courteous/grateful/sincere approach charms the pants off them every time. ;)
6. Stop being afraid. No, I'm not afraid of killing bugs and spiders (or fixing shit around the house), nor do I really fear meeting a knife-wielding asylum escapee in my parking lot after midnight. But I am afraid of disappointing (at least some) people. It comes from a lifetime of being unhappy with how I look (let me tell you someday about my high school bout with anorexia, and then my subsequent don't-give-a-shit attitude that has me tipping scales today). I think it's this neurosis that led me to be a people-pleaser (see Resolution #5). I admit, I get into these moods where I just don't feel like being seen in public, which leads to -- you guessed it -- depression eating (see Resolution # 3).
7. Stop smoking. Again. Turning 29 again in May is my milestone. And I plan to smoke like a chimney till that time comes. :) But this smoking habit has really aged me, and I simply cannot be lying about my age when my skin has been ravaged by stress and smoke in my "actual" 20s. I don't necessarily have a burning desire to live to be 100, but if I do, I'd like to have people think, "She was 100? But she didn't look a day over 60!" ;)
Finally, an OutKast video that doesn't annoy me (other than the music): Hey Ya, Charlie Brown. (via Tiff)
Forget that prissy bitch "Dear Abby," who has one foot in reality and her head up her ass. Jane answers Dear Abby's mail. (Note: you'll need to register to view this. Thank the fucktards of the troll underworld for this.)
Bill offers to read my novel before it's published. Being that he is responsible for this website finally working correctly, I know he's a great editor. And don't worry Ted, you're on the distribution list, too. :)
Erica posts a link to a Backstreet Boys parody, I Want a Fat Babe. Personal aside, I had an ex send me that link (was he trying to tell me something?), and the only reason I wasn't offended was because he had a big belly covering his wittle pee-pee.
Over at Up Yours, Dawn's doctor says she can finally have sex again, now that her new little bundle of joy has been out in the real world for a few weeks. Lady, find some time and have at it!!!
So it ain't the blogosphere, but real life:
Quote of the day: "I'd rather douche with gasoline, and light my fart." -- by the always-eloquent Shawn. This totally trumps my personal expression for trying to convey that I don't want to do something, which is, "I'd rather masturbate with a chainsaw."
And one last thing. ...
See you there!!!
UPDATE Everybody give a warm Caterwauling welcome to Chuck, who was Visitor Number 306,306!!!
OK, just got off the phone with the print shop (12:07 a.m.). I think we have finally, finally resolved all the issues that cropped up to make this the craziest week ever.
And today's joy started with a call from said print shop around 9 a.m., as I was in a fucking coma from last night (I was too wired to get to sleep until 2:30 a.m. or so). So I had to drag my butt into the office to fix some shit and to resolve a handful of problems (or, rather, attempt to resolve 'em). I was immediately accosted by the Popcorn Bandit, who had to visit the candy jar in Angie's office, where I was fighting with our Quark document from hell (that document wasn't behaving well on my own computer and not too much better on hers). I had NO patience whatsoever -- why the fuck don't people notice my "Emergencies Only" sign?!?!
A few minutes ago, I had to fix a problem of my own making, what with asking the printer to shoot an ad from our January issue when I should have realized that I needed to shoot it from the December issue instead. *growl* At least, though, the thought occurred to me before pre-press staff left (at midnight!) for the weekend. *whew* I have notes written from my elbow to my fingertips (couldn't find paper -- fuck it all anyway). I hope this shit washes off!
I was actually in the midst of writing some crappy poetry when tonight's fun festival went down. I hope the muse returns and maybe helps me to improve upon the verbal diarrhea that I've already dumped into my Word doc. :)
In any event, I was trying to be alcohol-free this evening, but look over there in the kitchen -- there's a big vat of Chardonnay with my name on it. ... *clink* To the end of another workweek! Woo hoo!!!
2. ...food? I can dig any Italian food, although I prefer pesto sauce over marinara. I suddenly started craving chicken & eggplant pesto from a little restaurant I used to frequent in Pittsburgh. Of course, a good filet mignon trumps any food, and I could totally go for that right now, too. Mmmm, steak.
3. ...tv show? I was about to say "American Idol," but I'd have to specify that it is the auditon portion. Who didn't laugh when the guy was singing Elvis' "I Can't Help Falling in Love With You" and sounding exactly like the Chinese restaurant waiters in "A Christmas Story"?
4. ...scent? Favorite scent to wear? Ralph Lauren Romance. Favorite scent overall? Pretty much any kind of men's cologne. And my lovely Nag Champa incense.
5. ...quote? Oh, that's easy. I adore Anais Nin, and I actually have the following quote framed in my bathroom. I believe I saw it in "Cities of the Interior," but I'm too lazy to go check. :)
"There were always in me, two women at least -- one woman desperate and bewildered, who felt she was drowning and another who would leap into a scene, as upon a stage, conceal her true emotions because they were weaknesses, helplessness, despair, and present to the world only a smile, an eagerness, curiosity, enthusiasm, interest." -- Anais Nin
After yet another long, unfulfilling day at the Veggie Patch (and yes, I just got home), there was not a single parking spot to be found in the entire fucking apartment complex. I filled up the rental company's voice mail with vitriol and made plenty sure to bitch that the library parking lot around the corner has signs up that forbid overnight parking. So where do I park? Bumfuck Egypt. I told them I'm tired, it's fucking freezing and I'd really like to know if they tow at midnight, like they claim to, 'cause there sure ain't enough parking for me. And that's the shit of it all -- some families have up to four cars, and I can't even get one lousy little fucking space for just me.
Spent half an hour wandering around the print shop -- seems I arrived after the pre-press night shift went home, and not a goddamn person seemed to know what to do with my print order and film negs. Finally, a kind soul offered to take it to post-press. And of course, he and another woman had to wander with us to get us through the uber-secure building. I think I am going to ask Customer Care to get me a goddamn security card so I can roam freely and drop my shit off when I get there.
Yeah, I get really fucking cranky when I'm tired. :)
And thanks for the e-mails/comments asking me if Gandhi at the Payless in Springfield Mall got any kind of reprimand for sexually harassing me. I haven't heard a word from that company. They have lost a customer for life -- I will return to buying my shoes at Marshall's or on sale at the *finer* shoe retail establishments. Or, maybe I'll just go in my closet and wear one of the 150 pairs I already own!!!
I ordered one lousy CD from Amazon -- and it arrived today in a box so big I could pack my friggin G4 Tower in it. It's just a shame how we get ripped for shipping -- the box was full of airbags. If I wanted to see an airbag, I'd just go meet with my supervisor!
Oh, where do I even BEGIN to talk about the complete stupidity I have encountered today?
It started off with an e-mail from Cruise Director, asking me to please juggle the layout to run an important letter to the editor that just arrived last night. No big deal -- all I have to do is cut a letter that already made it into the layout and just keep it till next month.
But then, an e-mail arrives from my idiot supervisor who has not a god damn thing better to do. It arrives with the big red priority flag on it, and it reads:
Dawn,
(Cruise Director) didn't put the exclamation point next to this to let you know it is important. See what you can do, please.
(Pussy Demure)
I must have laughed for a good 40 minutes. Really, it wasn't funny -- just pathetic how ridiculously seriously she took her role in this. I mean, shit, it's not like I would ignore an e-mail from the head of our organization, for cripes' sake. I mean, when you get an e-mail from him, you know it's important. He doesn't need a fucking exclamation point next to his name, does he now?
Of course, other things happened during the day to test our sense of humor, not limited to the fact that Town Crier, pissed off about the lack of access to the second-floor restrooms, sent a scathing memo to Cruise Director, who, in turn, went nuts on CFO, who went nuts on the gal here in charge. The gal here has been harassing the workers five times a day to get their asses in here and finish their damn job. In fact, she has promised us that she will go in tomorrow and clean it herself if the workers don't come back. Y'know, it's not like it's say, the elevator, that's inaccessible. Fuckmonkey.
But then even more stupidity occurred when the Queen Pooper (and High Priestess of Toilet Town) got mad at the 17 strips of masking tape barricading the door to the ladies' room (it looks like a British flag), so she ripped them all down and went in there to take a shit. Like she couldn't fucking walk up or down one motherfucking flight of steps -- or take the elevator. Assnugget.
And this doesn't even begin to cover all the dildos on ice who have been bugging me about the delicious-looking King Cake that our beloved Tricia sent my way. I was saving it for my first-ever full-staff meeting (my worker in Indianapolis was in today for production day). During the past few days, I have gotten at least a dozen and a half inquiries about when I planned to cut the cake and whether I'd give them a piece. I even had one fucktard yesterday ask if I'd cut it, and I said no, so he opened the goddamn UPS box just to check it out and make sure I wasn't lying to him. I wanted to castrate him.
The cake was fabulous, BTW (nods to Tricia). My gal in from Indy got the baby in the cake, so she is happy to buy the cake again next year, so long as she doesn't actually have to have a baby!
Despite having to limbo beneath layers of masking tape to get into our filthy restrooms that haven't been worked on in at least a week, Town Crier decided to go in and do her thang. When she came out, she ran into Shan, who had to stifle a giggle when Town Crier said, "Damn -- I almost had a strip of masking tape stuck to my head like someone running across a finish line!"
*roflmfao* Oh, the tears of laughter I cried when I heard that!!! Dumb bitch!
So I was at Sears this weekend, picking up some phenomenally cheap clothes during their awesome holiday sale, and I almost murdered a woman in line.
Well, that was the problem -- she wasn't in line. The way the desks are set up, there are two cashiers working. So the rest of us form a single line and go to the next available clerk. Rocket science, apparently, to the unwashed masses in Alexandria, Va.
I was in line for about 15 minutes, and finally, I was at the head of the line. Both cashiers were busy. Then some dumb bitch with frizzy hair decides to stand at the desk right behind the lady being rung up -- three feet in front of me. I was debating how I would inflict death upon her if she actually thought she would get waited on before me.
Finally, that clerk was free, and I started to walk up to her. Frizzy-Haired Bitch looked mortified as I put my stuff down on the counter. "I was next!" she wailed. "Um, no you weren't," I informed her; meanwhile, she stood there debating her purchase -- she had grabbed two sizes of the same thing and was clearly incapable of picking one. However, she did manage to wail, "I was SO! I was standing here and you WEREN'T!"
Nyah nyah -- did this invoke fourth-grade recess lines, anyone? The cashier was too meek to help me out, but she was interested in what I was going to say. I said, "Look, bitch -- the line's back there. Get some fucking manners." She said, "WHAT?!?!" and I handed my credit card to the cashier, as she rang up my two items quickly and efficiently. And when I left, Frizzy Bitch jumped out of line again and got the same cashier, and I could hear her STILL debating which item to purchase as I bolted out of there, as if the cashier could really tell her which one to pick. Fucktard.
Some days, I think the mental institutions let all of their patients out for the day. And usually, it's the day I am at the mall.
I'm exhausted. Really. I did post last night, but it's still in draft mode and will probably stay there till the end of time. :) Have loads of editing on the magazine to do, but right now, I'm feeling the effects of a major case of insomnia last night, and my patience and energy are limited. My boss asked me a stupid question this morning, and I held up my thumb and forefinger and said, "I have exactly this much patience today; I plan to expend it wisely." Meaning, don't waste my tiime with the usual inanities.
Had to park in BFE last night -- I got home around 10:30, and I had to park over at the Safeway in the neighboring plaza -- between one car with a window busted out and covered with a trash bag and the other with a mosaic-style cracked windshield. I don't pray much, but I said a prayer as I left my little Samantha shivering between the two scary cars.
So "The L Word" premiered tonight. What does it stand for, you ask? Hmm. Labia. Lust. Longing. Licking. Lots of soft porn. But in the case of the inaugural episode, I'll say it stands for Long.
And before you even ask, I've already reserved my copy of Melissa Etheridge's "Lucky".
Spoiler alert!
I had high hopes for the show, and I did enjoy the debut. I will definitely tune in for future episodes. But one L word -- lifelike -- is not one that I would use for some of the scenes.
Shawn watched the first hour with me but skipped out on the last 35 minutes, which was a shame, 'cause that's when it really started to get good. They saved all the girl-girl sex scenes for the last few minutes. But the early part of the show was devoted to hetero sex -- not that I have any problem with that, mind you, but it seemed really weird on a show that the L.A. Times dubbed, ""Imagine the women of 'Sex and the City' sleeping with each other. ..."
Well, that's really impossible, because it's not LOL-funny like SATC, but it's got its own merits. Shawn and I were just shocked how unreal the sole "straight" couple (and I use that term loosely) were -- after a party at the home of Bette and Tina (who are planning to have a baby together), token straight girl Jenny gets kissed by the ridiculously sexy Marina in the bathroom. Jenny freaks and drags her sorta-cute boy Tim out of a conversation, begging, "Take me home!" Um, dumb bitch, y'all live next door. Walk your scrawny ass over there yourself, mmm-kay?
So he gives up an opportunity to talk to reporters about his glory hole days in the Olympics to take her sniffling ass home. When they get there, she rips open his pants and gives him a blow job. Now if that wasn't unrealistic enough for you, he pushes her away and says, "Let's talk!" Um, yeah. Women are just dying to give blow jobs, and men are simply more interested in having a heart-to-heart conversation about why we're so upset over something that we jerk their dicks outta their pants and start licking it like it's a melting ice cream cone in the desert. Like Dr. Phil likes to say, "Get real!"
Like our soon-to-be-retiring (and in my case beloved) sitcom "Friends," they all hang out at a coffee shop, Planet, which happened to be owned by Marina. And Jenny just happens to stop by there every day (girl, what was WITH your hair that first day you stopped by? It looked like you slapped a hairnet over a weave. Wash your fucking hair before a shoot!). So she clearly wasn't all that wigged (ha, I slay me!) out over playing tongue twister with a hot chick.
Of course, I wasn't so cynical for the rest of the show, or I'd have turned the damn thing off. When I first saw the previews, I thought Shane was going to be the character I liked the best, what with her irreverence and proclivity for casual sex. (Let me insert the note that Paul, Bryan, Shawn and I were looking through my old photo albums tonight, and well, it was duly noted that I'd slept with, oh, everyone pictured -- and most of them had dated one of my friends beforehand.) But I kind of thought Marina was the hottest, at least tonight -- she was waxing poetic about literature, and admittedly, my mind is my "real" G-spot, so I strangely found myself mesmerized by her mouth while she talked.
(OK, the raving bisexual in me is coming out tonight.)
We laughed heartily, though, when the gay dads' group strolled by, with their babies strapped securely in Snuglis for their weekly walk together. It was just cute, not to mention a desperately needed humor break.
I do look forward to the continued development of the characters. Jenny was an obvious first choice for the focus of the pilot episode -- the naive girl who comes out to big, bad L.A. to be with her sweetheart (who proposes at the end of the episode, the morning after she slept with Marina). Jenny was compelling and believable, but a touch on the whiny side. I'm certain the next episode will probably pick up more about Bette and Tina's attempt to become mommies -- they had a tangle with slow-swimming sperm, interviewing various men about donating their sperm and finally, taking home a hottie for a threesome in an attempt to get Tina pregnant, which was foiled when the guy broke out a condom.
Showtime offered an online chat session with Jennifer Beals (who plays Bette) immediately following the show, but I tried to log in and was unsuccessful (fuck you for not supporting Mac users!). I think she was the only one whose nipples weren't shown, and I wanted to ask why she was so friggin' special. :)
In any event, I was turned on by the sex scenes and headed straight to the bedroom for five minutes of fun with the vibrator before trying to log into the chat session. LOL -- I have a confession: I rarely masturbate to thoughts of men. I mean, really, my masturbation sessions are longer than most sexual encounters I've had with the opposite sex. I really do enjoy dating men, but there's something about sex between women that will always turn me on. ...
I've been planning a book series for the past 15 years, since I was 14. It's Just Another Set of Trashy Fiction Novels. I mean, I don't expect it to change the world or even to make a blip on The New York Times' Bestseller List. But it's something I've been wanting, waiting to do.
Now, I never talk about this, so typing this entry feels really strange. I have identified my major challenges to writing this series, and topping the list is my lifelong mistake of talking about something while it's in development. My problem is that, once I've talked about something, it's as good as having done whatever was on my agenda. And so I drop the subject and, ultimately, the project. But I'll be vague enough so that I can't use my typical excuses. :)
So yesterday, I wrote my first 15 pages. What stuns me is that they're not great. But that's what rounds of editing are for.
At times, it seemed like the writing muse guided my fingers, and I was pleased at how easily I cranked out the words. Of course, I have no fewer than a thousand pages of handwritten and typed notes scattered about the apartment (and I've rejected about 70 percent of the ideas in them), so I at least knew the general direction in which I wanted to go.
I view it like writing a news article (something with which I'm altogether too painfully familiar). The secret to any good article is getting the lead graf just right. It's possible, but not ideal, to write the rest of the article and go back and write the lead. And that's what I've been doing all these years with this series -- I've written the ending, and I've written vignettes throughout the course of the characters' lives. And they have hit the trash because I never found the main character's voice until yesterday.
The writing was therapeutic, even if it did point me toward some massive holes and weaknesses in the storyline. I stopped when I got writer's block -- Chapter Five has a notation: Figure this part out later. Skip to next chapter and write from there. Don't lose the momentum.
It's hard to be original -- everything has been done before. So I did come up with something, if not outrageous, then just a little bit over the top. But that is presenting its own problems in that I really don't know what I'm talking about, but what else is new? :) So I've attempted to make it as much a journey for me as for the main character in figuring out how to react to said situations at hand. Write what you know. Sit back and think about it. The rest will follow.
One of my unresolved struggles is whether to set it in the present or put it back in 1991, when I wanted the story to begin (although the ideas evolved circa 1988). I want to reflect some pop culture and politics here and there, but another part of me doesn't want to date the story. My favorite novels are not too dated -- they could have happened in the 1980s or in the year 2024 -- and I can read them again and again and still identify with the narrator, no matter where I am in my life. I like that and wish to emulate that.
At this point, I'm babbling. But I really do feel like something's missing in the character's development. At this point, she is embroiled in so much drama and chaos created by other characters that I feel like I'm neglecting her, much like the other characters are. I have her giving a lot of historical information at this point, which of course is needed (it is the exposition, after all). But I struggle with the fact that nothing's really happening to her. I boil this down to the fact that there is already so much going on that I don't want the reader to have to pull out a scorecard to keep up. But on the other hand, she is the one who is going to survive this storyline, and I need to get a subplot going to ensure that she does have some distractions. But that's where I'm getting stuck -- she needs to have something really good happen for her, and I don't know what, because her life is about to take a turn for the worse and she's going to become an emancipated minor.
Drat.
I was hoping that by typing out loud, some fabulous revelation would hit me. It hasn't. *kicks computer* I guess I have to take her age into account (16) and remember what was important to me back then (um, sitting in my room, listening to heavy metal cassettes, writing in my journal, planning this book series, sneaking a smoke and a drink here and there, doing well in school, avoiding ridicule and heartache in school, putting up with all the assholes my mom was dating). Hmm. Maybe I can get her mom out of her hair for awhile by introducing yet another character. It's like both of these ladies are searching for their identities after their lives go into upheaval, and all they want is a little bit of comfort, understanding and acceptance. And isn't that what we all want?
In any event, the lesson I've learned is that I have to use my voice in order for this to work. I can create all the fictional characters I want, but I have to truly fall in love with each and every one of them (and I have). But I feel like I have to understand one more so than the rest -- I'm not saying the main character is me, but she is everything I want to be, yet also everything I love and even hate about myself. In a word, she's irreverent. She's going to make an impact on her world, but it will be accidental. She's going to make some bad choices and have to live through the consequences. But she is going to be loved, even if she never fully realizes it. And she's going to earn every last ounce of success that can possibly come her way. It's just getting the story to that point that I am struggling with. :)
Because I'm about three days behind in my e-mails and other online activities, I'm rather impressed with myself that I got this up within the same week it was posted. :)
1. What does it say in the signature line of your e-mails? At work, the usual hoopla about who I am, where I am and the website to visit if people happen to want to know more about my newspaper. At home, I do a simple signature with my name and e-mail address, because all these mail forward programs strip out the original e-mail addy. I used to be cutesy and put quotes in the signature, but Pride Fag trumps it with 17 quotes and all 9 of his academic degrees, and I realized how pretentious it is that a quote (or acronyms after your name) that means something to you could ever do anything but waste the reader's time.
2. Did you have a senior quote in your high school yearbook? What was it? If you haven't graduated yet, what would you like your quote to be? Eeek! Don't ask me to pull out that book!!! It's been collecting dust since 1992. I don't remember contributing a quote, but if I'd had the opportunity, it would have said, "Fuck all of you -- I will never see any of you again, and I will be more successful than all of you put together. Watch for my name in lights!"
Of course, I do remember voting on a class quote by Langston Hughes -- "Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly." And our class song was "Wind of Change" by the Scorpions (all my metal-head friends and I made sure that was chosen!).
3. If you had vanity plates on your car, what would they read? If you already have them, what do they say? Bah. I keep trying to get vanity plates, but every combination of letters and numbers that I've come up with are already taken. I wanted to do something simple like "writer" or "goddess" or something that would make people realize how fabulous I am. ;) Failing that, I want a plate big enough to say, "Back the fuck up, motherfucker!" or "Hit me and live, and I will kill you with my bare hands." Or some other vitriol related to highway rage.
Down here in NoVa, the capital of the vanity plates, I've seen some really creative ones. There's the "IH8-495" (they hate the Beltway -- who doesn't?) and of course its counterpart, "IH8-395"). I saw a Maryland plate with "2ndHOME" and it made me laugh. I want to do something along those lines, if I can think of something that hasn't been claimed.
4. Have you received any gifts with messages engraved upon them? What did the inscription say? I think my grandparents might've gotten me an engraved bracelet some time ago. Or not. The memory fails me. So I guess not.
But every time Shan buys me a book, she inscribes a message inside the front cover. Most of the books have to do with writing or starting a business, and she always throws in some encouraging words that make me feel empowered.
5. What would you like your epitaph to be? You know, I always loved "Spoon River Anthology" and what really surprises me is that, 15 years after I read it, the epitaph of "Lucinda Matlock" sprung to mind:
"At ninety-six, I had lived enough, that is all And passed to sweet repose What is this I hear of sorrow and weariness, Anger, discontent and drooping hopes? Degenerate sons and daughters, Life is too strong for you -- It takes life to love Life."
Ahh, much better now, although the neighbors must think I am having sex or something. And yes, I've been known to moan and shriek when it's only sex for one, too. Lord knows I haven't always had a reason to moan with pleasure when there is actually another person in the room!
But back to the here and now (or, the here and none) I was up till 2 a.m. doing edits. Just woke up, only to find that I have acquired another cold. Bah. Fucking sub-zero wind chill factors. I want to keel over and quit breathing, I feel so wretched, although Mother Nature has done her part to ensure breathing is difficult today. And I was hoping the watery eyes were a result of taking a break to watch an amazing episode of "ER" last night ("NICU" -- reminded me of Alex's early days/weeks. I didn't realize that I was even crying until I went to fiddle with my necklace and realized my shirt was sopping wet). But, alas, the evil cold has planted itself in my being. Fucker.
I still have about five more editorial items to do before the paper can be laid out, but they're gonna have to wait for me to drag my butt into the shower and then cover said butt with about four million layers of clothes.
I can't wait for the weekend so I can catch up on the life I thought I left lying around here somewhere. ...
Let's see, editorial deadline was two days ago, and I am still getting in submissions. Two people at least had the courtesy to call me and ask me about a possible extension (i.e., they could turn in a crap piece on time, or I could wait a day and get their version of editorial gold). I always choose the latter, because their gold wouldn't buy a dime-store hooker a gumball.
I got a late submission today, and of course it came after me repeatedly hunting these people down and finally telling them that I won't accept a word over 1,600 because of their lateness. OK, this led them to A) Crawl out of hiding, B) Promise me an article and C) Assure me that 1,600 words was perfect and I would receive it post-haste.
Four hours later, I get the document. What's the word count, O Great Editorial Goddess, you ask? 2,750. D'Oh! Was their, oh, "Word Count" feature not working properly?
Not to mention, it sucks. Blows. Hurts my ass worse than butt floss. I'm in editorial hell, I tell you. Hell.
I worked from 9 a.m. till midnight last night (with breaks, of course), editing pure shit. And today was no different. Sure, I did read some redeeming submissions, but my eyes are tired and my hands hurt from rewriting sentences and moving paragraphs.
In better news, I had great (work-related) phone conversations during the last two days. I really do love my people, even when I want to beat the shit out of them. :) But some of these people are doing the work as volunteers (read: unpaid), so it is arguable that I get what I pay for.
Bah.
We have a furlough day tomorrow (read: I'll be here till midnight again tonight) and a holiday on Monday. The printer graciously gave me a one-day extension, given this fact, but I ain't tellin' nobody that -- I am going to ask my proofers to just work really fast so next week can be a little less painful than this one.
In any event, thanks to everyone who took Tricia's survey (for her thesis)! If you haven't done it yet, go now. Thanks!
I stayed home today to do intense editing (that, and I had a wicked migraine last night, so bad that I had to leave work before I murdered someone, just so they'd feel my pain). So I've been engrossed in talk shows and soap operas (I love the former, detest the latter).
I think daytime soaps and maybe even porn have totally ruined sex and romance for us. Sure, they're turn-ons, but is it really like that in real life? (Allow me to insert the caveat that, on the few occassions that I've been lucky enough to have porn-quality sex, it was usually with someone who couldn't form a complex sentence if they tried, and my brain needs just as much stimulation as my clitoris.) I swear, I blame television for making me want to find a storybook romance. But on the other hand, it makes me hope that it really is out there somewhere.
But until I find it, I've enjoyed masturbating like a dozen times today. :)
Yesterday, Cruise Director was giving away a pound of nuts to the first person to respond to his e-mail. When someone claimed the prize, he sent an e-mail saying, "Nuts are gone!" Shan wrote to me, "Um, we're still here."
Another prize quote came from Ronnie at the dinner party on Saturday, "I'm going to start dieting tomorrow, honest. Right after I go to church." *snerk* And hell will be freezing over next!
And one more. ...
After my hour-long meeting with my supervisor today, I told Angie that I will absolutely kill myself if I hear, "Just so we're on the same page" again. Ergh! I told her, "Yeah, you wanna know what page I'm on? The fucking epilogue!"
OK, because you've been good, one last one. ...
During my meeting with my supervisor and Cruise Director, I made mention how my digital camera broke when I took a picture of Pride Fag. Cruise Director said, "And here I thought he only broke mirrors!" *rofl*
"Meetings: where people take minutes and lose hours." -- author unknown
OK, so today is my new day to meet with my supervisor, which was established at my request so that I wouldn't have to wait around, waiting for her prior meeting to finish. Of course, at 10 a.m., I was ready to get it overwith, but she had people in her office. I left a snarky message for her to please correct me if I got the time wrong. She got back at 10:40 a.m. to inform me that I should KNOW to just knock on her door and tell her I'm there and ready (note that I work three doors down from her -- it's not like I make a special trip to the end of the earth for this misery).
In any event, we met. And I have to meet with her and Cruise Director later today. She wants us to face off (I'm not kidding) about our frustrations with each other. What's weird is that my job has been going rather well lately. I really don't have any complaints. The few issues I've had, well, I've told her about, but since she can't make a decision, she takes them to Cruise Director and usually loses a few vital pieces along the way, because he apparently doesn't get what she's talking about (her words, not his).
She was really provoking me today to come up with a bitch list, and I said look, any problems I've had, well, I've identified and solved them. Or I've got a plan in motion to solve them. Further, I told her, my dealings with Cruise Director have uncovered three truths: I tell him that I had a problem and I solved it; I tell him that I have a problem and here's how I plan to solve it and I need his blessing; or I tell him that I have a problem and I need some guidance on how to solve it effectively. I told her that I have no intention about going to him and whining, nor do I feel the need to come up with things to whine about.
The thing is, he's very direct. Don't waste his time with whining. Our members, governance and other miscellaneous leaders are permanent thorns in his side. He hears pissing and moaning every minute that he is working. And he turns off when one of us sees fit to whine -- he really does tune out and (appears to) pray for death when you go in there, rambling and expecting him to make the decision for you. And that's the thing with my supervisor -- she doesn't make decisions. And what I refrained from saying out loud is that, with every problem I've had (with readers, software, hardware, colleagues, etc.), I've fixed it myself. And, of course, there are some ongoing personality clashes, but those were happening long before I took this job and they will continue long after I'm gone.
Anyway, she seemed really pissed that I didn't have an agenda. I said, look, I'm not trying to be combative, but I really do have to say that I am appreciative of my employer for approving some major expenses that I need to make to upgrade my equipment. I am pleased that, when leaders start fighting among each other and I get caught in the middle, Cruise Director jumps in and is usually quick to support me and to minimize the bullshit that distracts us all from doing our jobs.
In any event, I know I'm going to go in there this afternoon and feel stupid. I mean, Cruise Director hates meetings (especially time-wasters) as much as I do, but my supervisor is gleefully rubbing her hands together and beaming because she's gotten the superpowers in a room together. All I know is that I need to get through this without saying anything negative (that will cost me my credibility). Maybe if she weren't in the meeting, I could say that my No. 1 obstacle, sadly, might just be the supervisor herself.
Went to Springfield Mall to go shoe shopping. Found two awesome pairs of boots at Payless, and when I went to check out, the lady behind the desk told me that it's a buy two get one free deal, so I should go grab another pair (let me insert that this is my favorite shoe store for a reason!). As I was debating over a pair of white high-heeled boots, the male worker in the store accosted me (we'll call him Al Bundy for the rest of the entry).
Apparently, Al Bundy has waited on me before and has developed a thing for me. He came right up to me and asked me out. I told him I was flattered but that I had to decline. Yadda yadda 20-questions-cakes. He wasn't going away. So I said, look, I'm gay and I am not dating men right now.
Stupid stupid stupid. That is the WORST thing to say when you're trying to get rid of somebody. Of COURSE he expressed interest in being invited to watch hot female-female action (which I obviously cannot provide, because I was saying I was dating someone just to be left to shoe shop in peace). He begged for my number, and I did the old, "I'm happy and I'm not looking for anyone else right now" schtick. So he asks me to stick around, and he gives me his number. He told me to call him at 5 p.m. so I could come over for dinner tonight.
Pest. Fucking pest. I took the number and put back the shoes and ran like hell. The lady at the register (who just saw me with about $40 worth of shoes that I'd fully been ready to buy) watched me duck out, and she looked startled.
I hate myself for putting back the shoes. It's ridiculously hard to find hoof covers that I like, and it's even harder to find them in an 8 1/2 (and I didn't think it was a common size). The problem was, when he asked my name, I did my usual fake, "I'm Melissa!" But my dumb ass needed to pay with a credit card, and I didn't want him having my real name so he could track me down with a simple Google search (that, and my name is NOT Melissa). I'm also mad because the Payless at Landmark Mall didn't have the shoes in my size, and that's why I trekked to Springfield in the first fucking place.
I called Mom when I was safely away from the store, and she said, "Honey, why don't you just carry cash when you go out?" LOL
Now, I know I'm in for a lecture from at least one reader here, but I'm certain the next question will be, well, why didn't you agree to go out with him? Lord knows there ain't anybody else exactly beating down the door to come and sweep me off my feet.
The reasons are as diverse as I am (probably) bipolar. I believe in love at first sight, and all I felt was creeped out -- I've worked enough retail to know better than to harass a customer for 20 minutes, begging them to go out with me (i.e., it's a really good way to lose a sale, for one). Secondly, I've already enlighened you to my quirkyalone status (i.e., I've waited too long to just go for whomever's asking at the time). Of course, it can be argued that I don't need to be alone while I'm waiting for The One, but I've administered enough mercy fucks to last me a lifetime, and the person who's less interested in the dating relationship hurts just as much as the one who's always hoping for more.
And of course, it has run through my mind repeatedly how the types of people I'm interested in aren't always interested in me, and this was a classic example tonight of how cruel the circle is. And the thing is, I am interested in a couple of people right now (always have a few in mind, because if it doesn't work out with one, there is always the dream of someone else to soothe the heartache). On one hand, it is probably stupid for me to be waiting for something that may never happen, but on the other hand, if it can happen, I want to be free to let it.
In any event, I am PISSED that I didn't just buy the shoes and take the loss on the free pair because I NEEDED those fucking boots!!! ;) And of course, none of the other shoe stores had a single thing that held my interest. Damn it all anyway. :)
UPDATE I went to the Payless website and registered my complaint:
I was just in your store in Springfield Mall (Springfield, VA) today (Sunday, Jan. 11, around 3 p.m.), and I had a shopping experience that will ensure that I never return to that store, although it is my favorite location. I had just picked up two pairs of boots (an impending $40 sale, when the woman behind the desk graciously reminded me that today is the last day for the buy-two-get-one-free promotion). I was thrilled and went back to the racks to look at another pair of shoes that I'd been debating about. Unfortunately, the male employee on the shift (who recognized me from previous visits) came up to me to ask me out on a date. I told him I was flattered but that I had to decline, and then he asked several questions about that (i.e., I couldn't just say no but had to explain myself). After about 20 minutes, I was ridiculously annoyed and decided to put back the shoes (because I had to pay with a credit card, and I didn't want him to have access to my name). He asked me if I would take his number (since I wouldn't give him mine) and he asked that I call him tonight (I took the number and left the store empty-handed, and no, I did not call him). I don't necessarily want to get him in trouble, but I did want to tell you that, unfortunately, a sale was lost because of this, and I really wish I had cash so I could have bought the boots and left the store in peace.
(*Line stolen from Sandra Bullock in "Hope Floats.")
OK, it is fucking FREEZING outside. And of COURSE I couldn't find parking in my lot when I arrived home 10 minutes ago. Bah.
Busy day. Kidnapped Shan from her evil mother-in-law long enough to go sign up for the National Body Challenge down at the Discovery store in Old Town. The MIL kept us waiting for hours, so I did some light shopping and picked up some ridiculously cute outfits for Alex while I wandered Landmark Mall.
I did get to visit with Alex -- it's so funny, but as soon as she hears my voice, she turns to me and is all smiles and giggles (she just turned five months old yesterday). I held her and fed her and we sat and chatted for the longest time. She's quite the talkative one -- she's always got something to say when she isn't eating her fist. :)
She's a strong one -- she loves to stand up on your thighs. Even though, of course, we're holding her up, she's really doing her part to ensure that she is standing up. She's probably going to start walking before she crawls (apparently Shan walked first, too). I can't get over how much I love that kid. Shan of course yelled at me for buying clothes for her (she gets mad when I spend money), but I couldn't resist this ridiculously cute fuschia polar fleece sleeper (to match this adorable fleece hat her sister made for Alex), and of course a lovely blue sleeper from Carter's (my mom bought her four sleepers and a bib last weekend, and we were bummed that her store didn't have the blue sleeper in her size, so I grabbed it. Mom was pleased). Then I found this awesome black onesie with a lettuce-edged turtleneck and lettuce-edged sleeves (for $2.99 at Old Navy), and I had to have it. Shan loved it all -- Alex has officially outgrown almost everything (13 pounds and counting!) she has, and Shan loves anything that has bold colors. I took a risk on the black, but she flipped and told me how much she has wanted to find black baby clothes for Alex (to wear under her cute, colorful polar fleece vests), so she was happy.
It is hysterical how easily Alex took to me (of course, she was hiding under the table every time Shan and I went out while she was baking). Shan always says that I saved Alex's life -- I practically dragged her to the hospital myself the week before she was born. As it happened, Shan went to the hospital (after my begging) and never left because they did a sonogram and saw the umbilical cord was wrapped around Alex's neck. I would never in a million years take credit for saving Alex, but it was sweet to hear nonetheless. :)
What was REALLY hysterical was when the MIL arrived (hours late and with a friend who was not invited to Shan's place). The friend snatched Alex out of my arms, and Alex began to really fuss and whimper. She kept looking at Shan and at me like, "Save me!" And the woman refused to give her back to me. Instead, she gave her to the MIL, and Alex (I'm not kidding) looked at her like, "You are SUCH an asshole!" And she fussed and whimpered again. It broke our hearts to leave Alex with her, even for the short period we were gone.
We were glad (although scared) to sign up for the Body Challenge. I certainly don't want my story to be broadcast on the Discovery Channel, but there was something serious about having to get weighed in public and to now have my moves tracked by their fitness experts. There will be another weigh-in on March 31, but I'll be out of state. We didn't have to see what we weighed (it was written down), but I did look and I said, "Holy shit! Damn holiday feasts -- all 18 years of them!" Everyone was laughing at that. I told Shan, "Damn, I've never seen quite that combination of numbers before -- maybe we should play the lottery?" We both walked out, kind of disgusted with ourselves (we've both hit an all-time high weightwise). But this was the kick in the ass we need to start dieting. Tomorow, of course. :)
After the weigh-in, I was stuffed senseless by Carlos and Todd at a lovely dinner party, along with Shawn, Bryan, Paul and the adorable Mickey who is in from Canada. And of course we drank enough alcohol to irrigate the Sahara. And of COURSE I got my drink on the second I walked into my apartment. :)
I suppose that, tomorrow, I should get rid of all the cookies, licorice and other bad stuff that I always have in the house. *sigh* It's going to be a riot to start to undo the three decades of rotten eating habits that I've perfected. Weep for me.
Well, not really, but here's the Friday Five from last week, since I missed it and there isn't a new one up today. And forget this "one thing" shit -- I will list as many things as apply.
What one thing are you most looking forward to . . .
1. ...today? Leaving work early.
2. ...over the next week? Paying my bills and learning/implementing a weight-loss plan with Shan (starting tomorrow).
3. ...this year? Being able to wear the clothes hiding in my closet that used to fit. Maybe letting my guard down a little bit more. Maybe taking more risks in my career and personal life. To, like Erica said, quit doing my job half-assed if I'm not just going to quit entirely.
4. ...over the next five years? To, if not get married, at least get into a long-term relationship. To publish a novel or two. To have started several small businesses. To travel. To figure out whether or not to reproduce. To decide where I want to live permanently (stay in NoVa, go back to Pittsburgh or find someplace else that appeals to me more).
5. ...for the rest of your life? To plastic surgery and to living off the royalties from my publications and the profits from my businesses. To not being lonely, or, at least, to not being alone. To teaching the next generation, whether or not it is my own offspring -- I may decide to adopt or to become a mentor to someone who may really need me.
Today's another furlough day. Well, it's a half-day, with another half-day next Friday. And a paid day off on the 19th. Why the fuck didn't they just furlough the 19th? Oh well. At least they did listen to me when I requested that we do half-days during different pay periods, so I suppose I shouldn't complain.
I'm not feeling very creative today. I hate that. I am ridiculously horny, though, and I hate that, too, 'cause I've burned through a pack of batteries this week and I've got to go buy more. Heh. No wonder I've developed carpal tunnel-like symptoms -- it actually hurt my hand to brush all the damn snow off my car this morning!
I swear, I really do begin the workday with good intentions to work. And I really have done a lot today, but some of it was for me.
Shan and I have hatched our biggest scheme ever, and we have managed to identify and overcome every obstacle to making it work. All I can tell you is that we are designing the funniest line of greeting cards. I am in tears every time we talk about it, it's going to be so ridiculously hilarious.
Now to get up the friggin' energy to leave work, go home and actually work on them. :)
OK, so at our upcoming conference, we are having a big party with a "Wizard of Oz" theme, chosen by Pride Fag. Today, Angie noted that, instead of "Wizard," our theme should be, "Priscilla: Queen of the Desert."
*roflmfao* It works, since it'll probably be a drag show anyway. Oh, I can't WAIT to start planning the decorations!
Before I launch into it, be sure to buy me some "bitter"-themed candy for Valentine's Day at Despair.com. I think the "Dejected" set fits me more than the "Dysfunctional," although I'm willing to listen to any argument (and eat the damn candy) if the latter seems more appropriate!
Anyway, back to the Quirkyalone personality type:
We are the puzzle pieces who seldom fit with other puzzle pieces. Romantics, idealists, eccentrics, we inhabit singledom as our natural resting state. In a world where proms and marriage define the social order, we are, by force of our personalities and inner strength, rebels.
For the quirkyalone, there is no patience for dating just for the sake of not being alone. We want a miracle. Out of millions, we have to find the one who will understand.
Better to be untethered and open to possibility: living for the exhilaration of meeting someone new, of not knowing what the night will bring. We quirkyalones seek momentous meetings.
...
But when one quirkyalone finds another, oooh la la. The earth quakes.
I honestly have little to add, other than the fact that the book is already on my Amazon Wish List. :)
The search for a kindred -- clearly a fellow quirkyalone -- has proven an exhaustive field trip through a labrynth of false starts and dramatic (sometimes premature, but always inevitable) endings.
My theory on dating is simple: I'd rather be alone than wish I were. Even at the time of year when coupledom is especially celebrated (New Year's Eve, Valentine's Day), it's not that I'm thrilled to be alone, but rather, I'm glad I'm not with the wrong person. I've been with the wrong person. And I'm pretty impatient on that front -- it's impossible to pretend that all is well just for the sake of having someone to do things with (although simply having someone to DO has enough benefits in and of itself to make it somewhat worthwhile!).
I was thinking of having an anti-Valentine's Day party (and dressing in black, as is my tradition), but I am surrounded by married or otherwise committed couples. Bleah. I've never really been the one who is half of a couple yet surrounded by single friends. It's historically been the exact opposite. And you can get really tired of the well-meaning people who want to fix you up with someone or who otherwise lecture you that you need to get "out there" in the dating field. Most of it stems from the fact that, if they're happy in a couple, well, you should be too (not an unreasonable sentiment, but a frustrating one nonetheless). And as the biological clock is smacked into snooze alarm phase for yet another undefined period of time, you wonder what you're waiting for. But then you date someone who clearly ISN'T "The One" and you're reminded of why you took a dating hiatus in the first place.
To make this personal, I have a really low body image, so I really don't feel comfortable going out to bars to meet people when I'm surrounded by anorexic types in titty tops. Trust me, all eyes are on them bobbing around the dance floors. And when I meet somebody who piques my interest, I figure that they could never be interested in me, even though I have probably achieved more in the past 10 years than they ever will in a lifetime. Not to mention, but I've been told that I come across as a real airhead when I first meet people (said by someone who was clearly NOT The One).
But I'm not always wallowing in neurosis. The other side of me (I'm a Gemini, for those who are looking for an explanation of my wide range of mood swings!) figures, why the hell wouldn't someone want me? I have a good (although frustrating) job, I have a social life, I'm not the slightest bit clingy and I'm very much of the attitude of showing you to the door if you think something better is outside of it. Damn it, I should be nominated for Woman of the Year, when I think about it! ;)
I just figure that this isn't my time to shine. But when will that day come? When I stop looking to find that other quirkyalone whose quirks mesh with mine. But after I've spent nearly three decades collecting and refining those quirks that make me so lovably me, where on earth do you start (or continue) looking for someone who will respect, and ultimately complement, those idiosyncrasies? And will I learn to fall in love with their own quirks, or have I truly become the person I want to marry? ;)
UPDATE:Tink reminded me about the quiz results. Here goes:
"How quirkyalone are you? Your score was 125. Very quirkyalone: Relatives may give you quizzical looks, and so may friends, but you know in your heart of hearts that you are following your inner voice. Though you may not be romancing a single person, you are romancing the world. Celebrate your freedom on National Quirkyalone Day, February 14th!"
So Cruise Director sends out this long e-mail today, kind of like a presidential State of the Union address. He asked us for ideas to increase our membership. Both Shan and I, in offices across the building from each other, started mentally ticking off ideas, but then we each stopped in mid-thought and went, "Eh. Fuck it. They wouldn't listen anyway." The joke arose that he should have just told us, "Give us ideas so we can ignore them."
So much for my positive attitude. Heh.
Met with my supervisor today. As usual, the meeting occurred 40 minutes after the planned start time. I finally told her that my time is just as valuable as anyone else's, and if I have to be in meetings, then I want them moved to a different day. She looked stunned but complied. We actually went on to have a good talk about various issues that have been rather demoralizing lately, and she checked in about various things that she knows I have been internalizing. I was rather impressed.
Toilet Town is still in chaos. I went downstairs today to the very clean restroom (so. unlike. ours), and I guess Queen Pooper was in there, because in the accessible stall, someone sat very silently with her pants around her ankles until I finished my business and left. That's how I know it's her -- she can't void her bowels until the room is empty, and she won't show her face till everyone's gone. But the shoes always give her away. That, and the trail of skunk funk she leaves behind. ...
UPDATE: Apparently Fudge CAN use any toilet. I had to use the restroom shortly after the last visit (evil Diet Cokes), and damn it if I didn't think and went into *her* stall, whereupon she had left a lovely truffle surprise in the bowl. Yech. I hate her.
OK, so our restrooms are being renovated here on the second concentric layer of hell floor. We have been asked to use the restrooms downstairs. This is not an instruction that is difficult to comprehend.
However. ...
I sit near the men's room. The workers placed a strip of masking tape across the door, ostensibly to warn people to stay out. The tape is, heightwise, about where my forehead is. Now, knowing I work with the living dead, you probably won't be surprised to hear how many people went into the restroom anyway, despite this little barricade (the workers don't speak much English, so I am not surprised that they didn't put up a "Do Not Enter" sign, although it probably wouldn't have been effective either). I just had visions of someone walking into the tape and coming out and walking around with the tape flying from his forehead, like a marathon runner crossing a finish line. Or, like Angie put it, like a mayor cutting a celebratory ribbon. That's one way to identify the crown idiot of the day -- we can name him the Mayor of Toilet Town!
The problem got so bad yesterday that, in addition to the strip of masking tape over the door, the workers had to put an additional seven strips across and one strip vertically down the center, just to keep the morons away. Proof positive that we do NOT hire the best and the brightest 'round here.
Shan sits across from the ladies' room. The Queen Pooper (or Fudge, you know, the fucknugget who wipes her ass on the seat) tried four times in one hour to access the throne room, but every time, it was being worked on (a memo DID go out to this effect). She stormed away in a huff every time. I suppose she just can't shit anywhere else -- maybe Shan can give her one of Alex's diapers to tide her over till the renovations are done!
Yep, we're back to dressing up for work. As usual, it was like stuffing ten pounds of ass into a five-pound bag of pantyhose. *sigh* It should be illegal to wear anything other than sweatpants during December and January.
I just got the funniest letter to the editor. This asshole apparently sent a letter in last month, criticizing an article that was not mine (whew!), and I didn't run it (space reasons, friends). Well, he sends a new letter demanding that I explain the exact criterion for choosing letters (because I ran a letter praising the same article he hated). He made a snarky remark that clearly I don't print critical letters. Hah! Did he miss the three pages of letters to the editor in the latest issue that slammed me for writing a profile of a sex offender? Are people HIGH when they decide to e-mail me?!?!
OK, so I am broker than broke, but I paid rent today. And Mom gave me the money to pay my car insurance this month, so I won't have my policy suspended again for another late payment. Hurrah! It's amazing how well I can breathe when my major worries are taken care of. The problem is, they're done for the month and will creep up again in way too short a time.
I'm trying so hard to keep that fresh feeling about the New Year being a clean slate and a time for new beginnings. Angie and I decided, though, that maybe we should just look at Chinese New Year as our new year later this month -- it's too hard right now to be peaceful and positive and all goal-setting and shit when we're all stressed out from being poor and tired from holidays that were anything but. I swear, most of us need a vacation to recuperate from this recent holiday season!
In any event, I am not starting any resolutions till Chinese New Year. Really, I think that's a brilliant idea on our parts -- the problem with resolutions in general is that you make them, fully intending to start/stop doing something on a day (Jan. 1) that is simply a continuation of the previous day (Dec. 31), not a brand new day, in and of itself. I mean, how do you quit smoking on Jan. 1, when you were puffing like a fiend at 11:57 p.m. on New Year's Eve? And it's pointless to say, "I'm going to eat more healthily or I'm going to consume less alcohol or I'm going to act my age" when you've got a plateful of Sweet Lebanon bologna (nods to Shawn) and a fridgeful of leftover cookies/snacks (looks in mirror) and a lampshade on your head (*looks innocent*) when the ball hits Times Square and champagne glasses start clinking.
As for me, be it resolved that I will quit smoking when I turn 30. But because I shall remain 29 for at least the next five years, I've got PLENTY of time to stop! *wink*
Just spent two nights in Pittsburgh (totally unexpected jaunt) and lots of nights on the couch. Ergh. Just took one of my remaining Percocet to soothe my aching back.
On Friday, I spent 12 solid hours driving. No kidding. I was so lost in D.C., and I drove straight into a cop trap. A cop looked in my car and decided to let me through, but he did pull aside the Middle Eastern man in front of me. *whew* Like I had time to waste. The drive back was about five hours or so -- through torrential downpours in three states and fog thicker than the smoke in my apartment during any given party. I was able to unwind this evening wtih Shawn, though, for the newest episode of "Sex and the City."
How I spent my New Year: eating, boozing, chain-smoking and sitting my ass in the car for another whirlwind trip. If how you ring in the New Year is truly the indicator of how the rest of your year is going to go, then I will be in a whirlwind motion for the rest of 2004. Even when I sleep, I feel like I'm moving -- I dream about driving and my legs and arms are constantly twitching.
Kadi managed to trash the house during the 48 hours I was AWOL. What the hell IS it with her and ripping everything off the fridge and countertops? Although I must admit she has been adorable with fetching coffee stirrers. She is one of the rare cats who plays fetch, and stirrers are her new favorite toys.
*yawn* Percocet is kicking in. Work starts tomorrow -- I hope the warm, fuzzy "It's a new year -- hurrah! I'm going to make big changes" feeling doesn't dissipate the second I drag my ass into that building sometime around 9 a.m.
1. Shannon got into a car accident on the way to meet Leslie and me for breakfast.
2. We saw four car accidents on the way out of Crystal City. One of the accidents involved a nurse who works at the emergency care center Shan went to to have her injuries checked.
3. My directions to Union Station from Mapquest were WRONG so Leslie missed her bus.
4. Amtrak didn't have anything timely leaving either; thus
I have put on 14 pounds since HALLOWEEN! Holy fucking Christmas, no wonder I can't fit into anything.
After I got out of the hospital in September, I put on 15 pounds from the I.V. fluids alone. Tons of cranberry juice later, I took off the weight and then some, and I bought a bunch of skirts in a smaller size. Now, I am wearing my "big" clothes, and even they are squeezing the damn stuffing out of me. Fuck.
Had a lovely New Year's party at Bryan and Paul's yesterday. They made the most amazing spareribs, kielbasa and sauerkraut, garlic potatoes, etc. And, of course, there was a divine chocolate cream cake from Whole Foods for dessert. Not to mention an unlimited supply of wine. I felt like one of those old Weebles, sitting on the couch, leaning over in a weird mixture of ecstasy and agony.
I have a veritable shitload of leftovers from my party in the fridge. I have the makings for at least another 60 pigs in a blanket, about 400 crackers' worth of my cheddar/bacon/horseradish dip and enough cookies to make the entire country of Ethiopia obese.
This, my friends, is why I find it IMPOSSIBLE to have New Year's resolutions. You just can't start them on Day One -- you just have to make a commitment to move toward not eating (and cooking!) like the world's about to end and you must hide rations in your little bomb shelter (only in Dawn's bomb shelter, you will be bombed ... with the full bar of alcohol and boxes of wine I have ready!)
Unrelated, I can't believe I'm up and showered at this hour. Leslie and I didn't leave Bryan and Paul's till after midnight (hours after everyone else departed) and we stayed up till at least 2 a.m., talking about the book for which Leslie will kick my ass if I don't write. :) She leaves today, which is such a bummer, because I have had loads of fun. We only see each other around the holidays (although if I ever hit the lottery, I will meet her in Dublin, Ireland, post-haste!), but even she said it -- it's like no time has even passed since the last time we hung out.
It was really a wonderful New Year's. Truly awesome. We called our mutual friend Chris in Minnesota (who introduced us), and it was ridiculously nice to have that connection among all of us again (even though I was cooking/cleaning like a madwoman and couldn't stay on the phone long). Things change so much from year to year, and we're not all as close as we like to be, but the love all we have for each other never really reduces in its intensity. That's comforting to have, in this crazy world. And I am lucky to be surrounded by amazing people at (nearly) all times.
May your new year be as bright as mine is shaping up to be! *clinks glasses, even if it's only a coffee cup*
Leslie and I just woke up and are nursing some Starbucks Christmas blend coffee and watching the "I Love the '80s Strikes Back" marathon.
Party went perfectly. I'll post photos at a later time. This was Kadi's first party not being caged, and she behaved rather well, although Shawn kept scaring the shit out of her with my various noisemakers and horns.
At midnight, we drank lots of champagne and ran out onto my balcony with our noisemakers. We were whooping and shouting and, well, waking up the neighborhood. The parking lot was overflowing as usual, but NOBODY was awake!!! We were the only people outside, and of course, the only apartment that was all lit up. Heh. Yep, all the crazy drunks congregate under my roof, and we love every minute of it!
Bryan and Paul have invited us over for the traditional pork festival -- you know, good luck and all (which we all need desperately!). Of course, they had their own little pork festival in my bathroom shortly after midnight -- damn it, I can't believe I wasn't the first person to have sex (with a partner, let's make that clear!) in my own apartment!!!
In any event, I'm tired and must return to the coffee pot. How was YOUR New Year? Hope it was a splendid one!
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
