Caterwauling

‘Cuz I’m screwed.

IKEA Boy just resigned today. He met with Jackie, the king kumquat of the Veggie Patch (or the cruise director of Club Medicated, take your choice on titles), to discuss the unfairness of the lack of his promised tuition reimbursement and my promised promotion/raise. Bottom line, Jackie said no way could those happen (at least, the tuition — we have yet to see what happens with my raise, as Frosty said she’d at least consider it), so IKEA Boy quit.

He did a huge minesweep of his office. Took everything. I kinda stood there — I didn’t want to help. I came to Virginia for two reasons: to get away from my other job, and to work with him. Well, for six months, I had what I wanted. And now, I am left with an issue that isn’t even started, stories that I haven’t written, and a fragile grasp on understanding how to do layout in Quark.

Well, so much for my resolution to quit smoking once and for all. :::puff, puff:::

After he wiped the place clean and gave me a hug, I sat in his office and called RK, who had offered for me to call to talk. I was glad he resurfaced today — I needed to rant. And Tiff witnessed it all through a scattered IM convo, so she can give you the details that are eluding me right now. 🙂

I had a long talk with Frosty today, after IKEA Boy left. Or, should I say, after he left calling her a stupid cunt and an evil bitch. lol. While it was in exceptionally poor taste, he was right — what are they gonna do, fire him for saying that?

I indulged in some pseudo-retail therapy after this debacle (yay Wal-Mart! of course, I needed all the shit that I bought, so it wasn’t a TRUE shopping spree, but humor me). And I got a pair of sleep pants for $2, so I am damn happy. 🙂

But back to Frosty, I said I was just as angry as IKEA Boy over the unfairness of our situations (i.e., the promised money not being available), and I emphasized that I gave up my life in Pittsburgh to move down here, only to struggle and be disappointed in the association to which I now belong. I added that this month, I was supposed to get a promotion, which was going to lead to me learning IKEA Boy’s job. However, I was never promoted, and I never had time to learn his job until now, and well, he’s not here to teach it to me. I assured her that I am not jumping ship, because it’s my career that’s on the line, too. But … I told her, and I quote, that it’s a shame that I had to take it up the ass with their managerial bullshit, and that it’s very difficult for me right now to even know what the fuck I should do next.

I steamrolled her, and all she could do was listen — I wasn’t letting her get a word in, and when I was quiet, she really didn’t have anything to say. I told her that I would love to be able to rant and scream and quit and fight for justice, just like him, but I know that in order to survive in a non-profit, you can’t act like that. She said that in the workplace, that’s just unacceptable anyway. I acknowledged that, and I told her that I used to be just like him — I was a nightmare employee, haunting HR managers across Pittsburgh with my demands and my outrage. But … I told her that I wised up and learned how to play the game, and well, IKEA Boy is probably better off, so he can get a real journalistic job instead of playing the games in a company like ours. And I told her I hope he never loses that fire, because my own fire had been extinguished long ago by working in non-profit organizations for the past decade, and well, I miss my passionate nature. Further, I told her that while I do not and never will agree with IKEA Boy’s methodology in name-calling and file-cleaning and cork-popping, well, I agree with the sentiment behind it.

I also put her on the spot a couple of times. I said I was well aware of the fact that nobody wanted me to work there, because they were afraid that I was going to be another IKEA Boy clone. She said yes. (Wow! An admission!) I said I am not, and now that I gave up my career and moved my entire life down here, I am not going to jeopardize my own career by walking out after him, although, granted, it’s tempting. I told her I’m just as pissed off as he is about my own unfair situation, though, but I meant what I said in my letter to her — I will give them my all, but first, they’ve got to help me to figure out how and why I should do that.

One other time I got her goat — I said that I used to be on her level in another company, and that I know human resources tactics better than most people. I said I know that half of anyone’s job description is the duty to play the corporate reindeer games, am I right? She again said yes. I said that while I admire IKEA Boy for not bending to those games, well, I know exactly where they are coming from, and I know that they are forced to play these games with us, like it or not. She nodded. I said that she and I and the powers-that-be are going to need to sit down for a long conversation tomorrow, and we are going to need to figure out TOGETHER how it is that we are going to save this publication. And that I am willing to cooperate to the fullest extent, but I have got to have my own demands heard and fulfilled, or this is just not going to work otherwise. She said yes, and that was it.

She went to touch my arm — a surprising move for her, as I know she hates me — but to me, it showed a newfound respect. Unfortunately, she ended up touching my boob instead (my arms were crossed and I was shooting fire from my eyes), and she shuffled out, embarrassed. 🙂

At that point, I visited Ollie, got my shit together, and left for the day. My face was flushed, my skin felt as though it were on fire, and I knew that I wasn’t going to get a damned thing accomplished anyway, because my blood was boiling. But shit, I was so fucking proud of myself to standing up to her in a calm, controlled manner.

I ended up at Panera (incompetence central) for soup in a breadbowl and a brief bitch-fest with Shan via cell phone. She was proud of me, and her praise is worth a million dollars, as far as I am concerned. I told her the conversation, word for word, and she said that no wonder Frosty couldn’t speak — I had complete control of the situation, and well, who could argue with such reason? 🙂

At any rate, IKEA Boy and I are supposed to leave for New York City on Wednesday, which I hope we still do. However, I hope the yo-yos at Club Medicated realize that I have this pre-approved vacation time, and if they expect me to stay and work, well, I’d better be compensated for it. Heavily.

My worst nightmare is that they bring back my predecessor, J-HO. Oh, Christ. That would make me walk out, no doubt. Because she apparently hated having IKEA Boy as a supervisor and let the world know it, and she probably would hate me just because I am and will always be his friend. I was theorizing this weekend that perhaps they are keeping her as an overpaid consultant, waiting for the day that IKEA Boy and/or I resign in a fit. As far as I am concerned, I want to contact our freelance writers and have them do the stories this month, so I can work on bringing in someone to do the layout, and I’ll learn it along with them. Personally, I’ll commit for another three to six months, but there had better be some more money in it for me, or I am outta there. I have no slush fund, though, to fall back on, but now might be the time that I think about freelancing again, but I also want to commit to helping Shan with her business, so that I can learn from her and build up some stamina to launch my own endeavor.

The good thing is, the powers-that-be are in a huge budget meeting right now, and well, at least they are now having to figure out how to keep me around (I assume) and how to fix the mess that’s now on their hands. Again, I told Frosty I am prepared to clean up the mess, but I cannot and will not do it alone. I will need a lot of help, and I expect and demand it. She said she agreed.

Argh. That’s all I can really say now.

Well, friends, I suggest you turn now to IKEA Boy’s website for his side of the story. I am certain that, when I publish this and head on over there, you will see unbridled joy on his part. 🙂 Best of luck, IKEA Boy. I don’t know where life is going to take you from here, but you’re the only person I know who can fall in a pile of shit and come out smelling like a flower bed. Happy trails, old buddy. Happy trails. …

Yes, you. You know who you are. You’re the dumb asshole who doesn’t bother cleaning the snow off of your car before you hit the highways. Yes, you dumb shit, I can’t see your face through the small hole in the snow that you DID manage to clear for yourself in the windshield, but I still want to kick your ass anyway. Hey, I got my ass out of bed a half hour early to clean off my car, why the fuck do you feel that you don’t have to? Sure, the wind will knock the snow off, but it will knock it onto me, the unfortunate asshole behind your illiterate ass. Dumbass.

This was problematic for me when I did the nasty Christmas Day drive north. I’d be flying along just dandily, then some asshole would fly in front of me from one of the exits on the interstate, and next thing I knew, I’d have a white-out on my OWN windshield because Jim-Bob in the pickup truck didn’t feel the need to get out the ice scraper. Motherfuckers. This happened dozens of times, unfortunately, particulary on icy patches. I hate people. They do not deserve to have a car, if they can’t clean it off.

Okay, so I became a Blog Mommy for the FIFTH time tonight! All bouncing baby boys, all of whom love bouncing boys themselves. Damn. But really, I wouldn’t have it any other way. 🙂

Check out Bryan!!!

Oh, and BTW, the Steelers won! Yay Pittsburgh!!! 🙂

1. The Steelers are getting their asses kicked by Cleveland (gaaaaah);

2. Vibrating underwear is the best fucking invention in the world;

3. Snow finally seems to have stopped — 1 to 2 inches are on the ground;

4. I’m still in my jammies and have been since noon yesterday (after a luxurious candle-lit bath with almond-scented bubbles. Mmmm.)

5. I am lonely.

Usually, I get up on Sundays and just drive aimlessly. Shitty driving skills and maniacal Virginia drivers aside, I love to go grab some coffee at Starbucks, a sandwich from Mickey D’s, and a pack of cigarettes from the INS (insert Wal-Mart or CVS here). Today I made my own coffee, made garlic bread and wedding soup, and am suffering withdrawal symptoms from having no nicotine in four days. Argh.

Steelers: 28, Cleveland: 33. For the love of god, of all people to beat us, not Cleveland!!! C’mon boys, pull a fourth-quarter miracle out of your tight little black-and-gold clad asses, will ya?!?!

Flashback

Came across a very old journal entry today, not even written in a journal. I wrote it in a small notebook that I used to keep in my purse, about CR:

“26 May 01”

Can’t believe, after all this time (close to a year! Or more — oh god!), I finally held him in my arms again.

I know he feels it too. I just know it. But he has to make the next move. I just need to let him know that I can offer him a safe place to land, if he’d ever let himself fall for me. …”

Back to the Future

No, I wasn’t a little slut and fucking a married man. We were just such good friends that an intense emotional affair developed. And even today, although the miles and our lifestyles separate us, I know that if I ever need anything in this world, he’d be there for me. We still send the occasional card or e-mail, and while it’s not the same, it’s as much as can be done at this time. But I loved him. Oh, how I loved him. And the kiss was friendly, sudden, ephemeral. I can only imagine what a partnership between us could possibly have produced. But we’ll meet again, in another season, in another life.

This entry, found in an old purse that I unearthed yesterday, reminded me of how far I have really come in this world. The irony was that well, his wife wasn’t the only one with child — I, on the other hand, would later learn that I happened to be knocked up by someone who also shared the first name of the man I really loved at the time. And while mine was brief and now gone, CR did welcome a son into the world last year at this time. What became my freedom is what became the tie that binds him forever to his wife. And she’s really a wonderful person — I had to comfort myself repeatedly that, if I couldn’t be the one to love him, at least he found someone who could come close to loving him the way I knew I could.

Honestly, I’d forgotten about him — well, not him exactly, but that birthday party that I’d thrown for myself, the way he pulled me into his arms when he saw me, the way we kissed when we were alone, the way we sat on my porch for hours, looking at the night sky and holding each other. There was never a doubt in my mind that he loved me back, with all the heart and soul that he could possibly afford. And, I’ll never forget my friends Kristin and Steve, hiding in the bushes across the street, waiting for him to leave (they SAID they were leaving but really hid outside, waiting to see some action inside. LOL).

He will never know how happy I was to have him in my life. He will never know how much I yearned for him, like a schoolgirl in pigtails, writing in her diary every night. And now that I’m a lot older (we met on my 24th birthday — four and a half years ago), I see that he was my first real “love,” if you can consider an emotional affair with a married man “love.” But he was a soulmate for me, and I learned to believe in soulmates and in passion and in the dizzy rush of blood to the head when you see or touch that special person.

And he could very well be the reason why I learned to believe in love. I don’t think I can firmly say that love conquers all, because obviously, we’re not together. But learning to love in such a way is a skill I hadn’t yet acquired by that age. It’s ironic that we met on my 24th birthday and last touched on my 27th birthday. How very odd. At any rate, I still see photos of him or read journal entries about conversations we’d had, and I still smile. He’s a wonderful person, and I hope that wife of us knows how beautiful his heart really is, and always was.

I can’t wait to feel about someone again the way I felt about him. And although I felt it again one more time, with Brat, and that also went nowhere for other reasons, well, I look forward to the time when I feel that way about someone again. We worry so much about how others view us, feel about us, think about us, talk about us, etc. We hate to admit that we wonder what so-and-so is doing right at this very minute, why they’re not calling, who else they’re with. But what really matters is, well, do we really even WANT them to call, to think about us, to be with us? Are we being competitive with other women who may or may not even exist in their lives, or do we really want to give our hearts to these guys?

I responded to one of Bryan’s e-mails today, about love and relationships, and I’d joked with him that I’d said something blogworthy. This is kind of an addendum to yesterday’s entry “Aimed at No One” and is a good way to conclude this entry. ..

“I totally agree with you that it’s best to be alone, to not have sex [with a potential partner] right away, to discover yourself as a person before blending yourself into someone else’s life. Because they owe you that same courtesy, right? I was just ranting on my blog about how in relationships and friendships, everbody needs to bring 100 percent effort and 100 percent of themselves to the table. No 50/50 — that’s a load of crap. The strongest teams have two people giving 100 percent, and the weakest have a total of 100 percent, and you can bank on the fact that one person is giving more than the other, in an immature relationship, at any given time.

And my own goal in 2003 is to make myself into the individual I always wanted to be. I mean, I’m fine with myself now, but there are a lot of adjectives I would like to call myself, and I don’t feel worthy of those yet. But I will. And I hope to meet someone equally strong and dynamic, because I’ve met enough wishy-washy assholes to last me a lifetime. I need someone who will complement my strength, not drain it.

I think CR, in another time and place, could have complemented me. Brat wasn’t ready to, not yet anyway, but he had potential. I know for a fact that RK wasn’t ready. And well, maybe I wasn’t ready either, and I still might not be. But this year, I think I might be at that 100 percent, and if there are any takers out there who are ready, well, my e-mail addy is below. 🙂 And I could go on forever, but well, my vibrating underwear need to be washed, so I’m signing off!!!

So I’m awake and having a nic fit. Before I run, not walk, to the 7-11 that’s shining its light into my lava-lamp-and-candle-infested bedroom — like the Carpathia to a Titanic survivor — for a pack of Marlboro Ultra Lights, I’m attempting to amuse myself with the Internet. It’s not working. I am going to have plans next Saturday night if it KILLS me!!! So, who wants to take me out? lol. Reserve me before Tuesday!!!

At any rate, temporary amusement provided by this Dysfunctional Care Bears quiz was provided via Jimmy. OK, is anyone surprised by the results?!?!

Which Dysfunctional Care Bear Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Oh, and while we’re on the subject, since nobody’s donating to my PayPal or Amazon Honor System tin cups on the right of the page, I will be adding a new button that will be more valuable to ALL donors. Thanks to Ren for the idea!

CLICK AND LICK, MY FRIENDS! CLICK AND LICK!!! PLEEEEAAAASSEEE?!?!?!

“A layover in Boston, this is a town I used to know

feels like a lifetime, it wasn’t that long ago

now I’m smoking a cigarette as I wait for my train

scanning the faces for something of me that remains

A layover in Boston, this is a town I used to know

feels like a lifetime, it wasn’t that long ago

now I’m smoking a cigarette as I wait for my train

scanning the faces for something of me that remains.”

— Jodi Sheeler, “Boston” —

While I still like her song “No Regrets” better, this kinda infiltrated my head this morning. I need to buy this CD. 🙂 Now!!!

Disclaimer: The following rant is aimed at no one, or maybe it’s aimed at everyone. I don’t know. The problem with being an online diarist means that I am my own censor, and I don’t rant nearly half as intricately or brilliantly as I used to. I would fill up volumes upon volumes, agonizing over minutiae, beating the dead horse till it was a bottle of glue. But I always felt better then — I always said my peace, even if it were only between me and my spiral-bound, hardcover journals. I could resolve my sadness, my strife, my hostility and my counfoundedness simply by writing about it.

At any rate, today’s rant is courtesy of Expectations — of friends, family, people I date, colleagues, etc. People have high expectations of me, and they always have. And I would have it no other way, because when I act like a goofball, I have no doubt that someone will call me on it — and in keeping with the theme, well, I would EXPECT nothing less. Personally, I am not the most politically correct or grown-up individual who ever walked this earth, nor will I ever claim to be — and frankly, nor do I really want to be. But because I hold myself to a higher standard than most, well, I tend to hold everyone else to a similar standard.

Granted, over the years, I’ve learned to hold people to different standards. When I supervised Incoherent Twit, those standards plummeted into the swamp, because she was HRP’s useless godchild and I could never tame her freakish ass, anyway. But for the people whom I choose to have in my life, I get angry over the little things. But I know this is wrong, and I don’t know how to change that. I really don’t pop a cork over huge issues — I simply jump in and fix things. I am the ultimate Mommy in the theoretical sense — I’ll clean up your cuts, bandage them and kiss them to make them all better. Crisis management is my artwork, and wounded people are my canvases.

I guess I am exhausted physically and emotionally, because I am so damned dependable that people just take that for granted. I can bitch till the ends of the earth that I expect (insert certain behavior), but I have this problem that when shit doesn’t get done, I will do it. That can go for taking out the trash or it can go for standing up for what’s right in an unfair scenario or it can go for answering a late-night panic call from me. I don’t want people to perform miracles, and I don’t want them to do anything I myself wouldn’t do. But I also don’t want to be the casualty because of something they knew they had to do but didn’t. I don’t want to have a kitchen full of cockroaches or a job full of aggravation when steps can and must be taken to prevent those situations. There is always a course of action — like my Mom says, “Do something, even if it’s wrong.” I take that to mean that it’s futile to be inert, passive or oblivious, because you can either make an excuse or you can make a change, and which would you rather be remembered for?

And the thing is, not only are my expectations reasonable, but damn it, I don’t hang around with morons. The people in my life are perfectly capable of excellence, and I’d like to see them achieve it. But it’s got to start somewhere, y’know?

I love everyone in my life, but god damn it, there are days when I just want to line them all up and fan-kick (fanny-kick?) their asses like a Radio City Rockette. And it seems like many of these folks take my remarks or actions very personally when that was never my intent. I guess it comes from having been a supervisor for many years — I can’t do everyone else’s functions (home, family, friends, work, etc.) when I have a job of my own to do and expectations of my own to meet. And sometimes I wonder if these same people are hearing me perfectly well but are simply ignoring me, hoping I’ll shut up and go away and just do myself what it is that I desire for them to do.

But one of the golden rules of management is to criticize the behavior, not the person. Sure, Incoherent Twit was a complete oxygen thief, but I could only discipline her for the dumb shit she did to make my life hell. Similarly, just because I am itching to turn you over my knee and slap you on the ass doesn’t mean that I am disappointed in you — just your actions. Oftentimes people expect praise for doing nothing or contributing one minor thing to the cause, when that is not the definition of teamwork — at least, not for any team that I want to be on. In a recent post, I said I believe each person brings 100 percent to the romantic relationship — not 50/50. Likewise, in a team effort, three people don’t each give 33.3 percent (or sliding-scale variations thereof) — they all give 100 percent, and that, my friends, makes your team stand out above all the rest.

That takes me to the scenario of when folks might just meet one or two of my expectations, once or twice. And then they are happy to have me off of their backs for awhile, and they just don’t get it that one-trick ponies do not impress me. And never will. Moreover, I hate to nag. If I wanted to be a mommy, I’d squirt out some freckle-faced munchkins and hop my ass onto the welfare payroll post-haste. And I have learned to spot the art of double-talk — because I have expertise in it myself. I know when people are trying to distract me and make me forget why I was so hopping mad in the first place. I know that Maddie likes to distract me when she has pooped on my blue bathroom rug — similarly, I know that when I’m about to blow a gasket, people know to dangle something shiny and more interesting before my eyes, because I switch gears really easily. Maddie knows that if she nuzzles up to me and plays with me before I walk into the shitpile in the bathroom, I’ll go a bit easier on her (and only give her two treats instead of four). That’s always been my worst point — rewarding negative behavior. No more treats, damn it!!! No more treats for bad little kitties. 🙂

At any rate, I don’t know what shifts, what clicks, what makes me go fuck this, I’m gone, as said in the above song. Rather, I don’t know what doesn’t make me do that, either. This year, I’ve resolved to look out for me, but I am going to become even more egocentric and self-absorbed than ever. I am not going to do what I do to set an example, but rather, to get me through the day. I meant what I said as part of my New Year’s resolutions — No Looking Back. I want to be happy with the person I see in the mirror, and I want to go to sleep every night, knowing that I lived that day the way I wanted to live it. I resolve to never drag people along or beg them to learn from my example — I will, however, hold their hands for as long as they need, but sometimes, I’ve got to pull my hands away and do the damn dishes, too, or they’ll pile up to the ceiling. Of course, Mom has thrown away even more plates since my stay in Pittsburgh. Maybe she’s on to something — instead of cleaning up after everyone and wiping everyone’s ass, fuck it — let them eat cake, out of their own hands. Save her the mess and the aggravation of being everyone’s maid. 🙂

And I didn’t even begin to talk about my expectations of people I am dating/fucking. 🙂 But in summary, everybody orgasms or it’s not fair play (or foreplay, come to think of it). And please make plans with me on or before a Wednesday for a weekend date — I do have friends, you know, who will take me out when you would rather sit on your hands and wait. And never, ever give up a night with your own friends because let’s face it, they will be around long after I’m gone, most likely. Pay for my dinner, but at least thank me when I offer to cover my half (and if you don’t pay for my half on the first date, there will be no second date. Trust me on that — it’s an issue of manners, not finances, and I never order anything more expensive than you yourself are eating, either, so keep that in mind!). Don’t expect sex, and you will get it. I promise! And don’t just give a lick and expect for it to be your turn. Nope. Give bountily and you shall receive accordingly. Amen.

I decided to write a dating book (when/if I ever get somebody stable in my life, proving that I’ve finally gotten the formula right). It’s going to be called “Step Up” — i.e., if you’re man (or woman) enough to handle me, then step up to the plate and show me what you’ve got. No, I’m not talking about the biggest cock (or dildo) or wallet — I’m talking about proving your mettle. Why should I have you in my life (and in my bed)? At any rate, once I find someone worthy, I will write about what s/he did to capture my heart and my interest.

In the meantime, I feel fucking GREAT after writing this diatribe!!! I am going to go dust the snow off my car and hit the Dollar Store, in my own honor, as a reward! 🙂

So I was just surfing my multitude of favorite *free* porn sites. (Note that word *free* — I don’t need to pay for porn, when I can find any asshole off the street and strip his or her ass naked for free as well, only porn is just SO much safer and, sadly, more rewarding!!!) What the hell, what else do I have to do with my life? The first episode of “Trading Spaces” sucked, and the second was only marginally better, so I started looking for some eye candy (as I am not getting any “live action” of my own).

While I love porn, I have to pitch a bitch (a recurrent theme on this page — pitching a bitch!) about the fact that I have to look at a hundred pictures before something amuses me. I mean, I’ve seen enough women-doing-dogs (of the canine, not homo sapien, variety) to last me a fucking lifetime. And I’ve seen enough busty, blonde, anorexic bitches with implants. Ergh. It’s enough to make me sick. But it annoys me that these chicks get all dolled up for their little photo shoots, then they stare straight into the camera. I hate that. I hate those “still-life” porn shots, where the “characters” dead-stare the photographer. I’m totally a voyeur — I want to feel like I am peeking in on their sordid bedroom activities. I don’t want to see beautiful naked people (although, let’s face it, could the men in the shots, when they’re there, get any uglier?) who think they are models. I want to see fucking-and-sucking and I want to pretend that I’m snooping, unnoticed, through their bedroom windows.

I’m also finding that, as I consume more porn, the photos just don’t do it for me anymore. I have loads of magazines in my room (from pre-Internet days), and I just deleted most of my Internet porn photos tonight, actually. Give me a movie any day — hell, even the 1970s “baum chicka baum baum” music is preferable to the sound of my own bitching at still-life photos. At least the players in the movies have the sense not to look at the goddamn camera, and with the movies, you find a great scene and rewind it till the tape breaks. 🙂 I only have one porno tape, but something tells me it’s time to get more. …

Wreaked havoc in the bedroom today. No, silly, not with a partner — hell, not even with myself. I just decided to rearrange. See, I don’t clean just to clean. I have to revamp and clean along the way. Brilliant, eh? I’m allergic to dust, so it takes a lot for me to pull out a dustcloth, so I justify it by, um, moving shit. And Christ, does my back hurt.

The room looks the same. I have no “extra” storage, as the storage cubes for our complex are limited, and they smell like manure anyway. So my bedroom is the size of a large dorm room, and I have a pile of boxes and also four (or is it five?) hampers and baskets full of clean clothes (small closet — I had five closets at my old place, and gave away three closets’ worth of clothes to charity before I left).

One other painful move I made today was changing my cell phone number. Yes, I finally gave up the 412 (Pittsburgh) number. Now I’m a 571 (as AT&T ran out of 703 area codes). Will I ever learn this damn number? Oh well. At least G3 and a shitload of others are not privy to the new # — I only e-mailed it to my top 50 favorite friends and colleagues, and I realize now that I forgot quite a few more. 🙂

I’ve been listening to Bon Jovi all day. I just got two new double CDs in the mail that cost $50 — the albums are “Acoustica” and “The Jersey Syndicate.” Now that I have them in-hand, I have no doubt that they were bootlegged, but fuck it, I am a die-hard fan and could give a shit where they came from — as long as they’re bona-fide Bon Jovi, and they are. Thank god.

I found an old song on CD in my Bermuda Triangle (ahem, my room) today, written, arranged and performed by the staff choir at Two Strikes. The song isn’t nearly as annoying now as it used to be, when I had to hear it 100 times a day and had to be the one responsible for marketing that piece of shit. It’s a top-notch choir, with some of the best voices in the land. Unfortunately, the song goes nowhere. It’s nonsensical, has no beginning or end, and well, sticks in your head like pubic lice adheres to your underwear (NOT that I’d know THAT firsthand. …). I told Tiff that I’m gonna send that CD to “American Idol” and have them rip the shit out of it. Although, I can just SEE Her Royal Pretentiousness bitching out the judges, telling them that they’ve had more opportunities in life than she has, and who the hell do they think they are?!?! LOL. All in all, she’ll treat them like she treats her staff, and as much as I abhor my current organization’s leaders, well, it’s so GOOD to be away from HRP and her twisted family wreath! (And as far as I know, they STILL haven’t written another song! Heh heh. I was stupid when I worked there and arranged for us to use that fucking song as our “hold” music on the phones — Tiff, Susan and I learned early on to NEVER put each other on hold — it’s just cruel!!!)

Oooh, “Jay and Silent Bob” are on Showtime!!! Gotta run. …

Update

Showtime sucks. There is no dialogue track for the movie — it’s just a “Bugs Bunny” type of soundtrack. Fuckers. I’m moving to TLC for “Trading Spaces.” 🙂 Gawd, my life is pathetic. I hate being broke and having to sit in the house on a weekend. Damn it all anyway. …

Perhaps my goosebumps are forming and my teeth are chattering ’cause it’s fucking frigid in the apartment (ok, so I’m in flannel boxers and a cute little short-sleeve top — not my warmest bedtime ensemble), but I just had a cold realization. While I am one of the happier singles you’ll ever meet, there are nights like tonight when it would be wonderful to have someone with whom to curl up (not to fuck, for once, just to hold — oh god, those are my ovaries speaking!!!). Look, I am a firm believer in the fact that each individual person has to bring 100 percent of him or herself to a relationship (no co-dependency here, no 50/50 bullshit), but while emotional co-dependence is, of course, a big no-no for me, there are nights like tonight in which a little physical intermingling would be most welcome. Independence has become an altogether too familiar entity to me, and it makes a shitty bedfellow sometimes. 🙂

Perhaps it is hell freezing over — why I’m so cold — for the fact that for the first time in my life, I am admitting that I might just need someone. Bleah. It’s just so damn difficult to curl up with a dildo at night — I’d prefer a life-size dildo that can wrap its arms around me until I fall asleep. 🙂

So I saw Shan’s new office space. I believe that my bathroom is bigger than it, only my bathroom doesn’t have 1960s gold carpeting. 🙂 But she has access to a huge lobby that will be all hers, and there is a boatload of storage space, as well as an elevator-shaft-cum-locked-storage-room.

It’s kinda like the Charlie Brown Christmas Tree — we’re just gonna wave our hands and watch that, um, special little space become a corporate empire. 🙂 At any rate, she signed the lease today, and she gets the keys on Monday. The owner’s name is Samba (phonetically spelled — I have no idea how to really spell it). I decided our first book about our road to success will be “Saturdays with Samba,” as we’ll be working weekends there — as a parody of “Tuesdays with Morrie.”

Thank god for the extra space — I am quite the claustrophobe. But what’s cool is that there is a spa downstairs, and I plan to make friends with those folks REAL quick so that I can sample their services (hopefully for free). Shan decided to keep her business hers, and I will keep the party-planning business as mine (but we’ll help each other out, natch) for tax reasons. And of course, we always have each other as a loyal client. lol. My first idea was to invite all the tenants of the three-story building together for a Get-To-Know-Us soiree — so that we can build our client base as we charm the life out of them with our poise, grace and connections. 🙂

As Shan’s dad says, This is where it all begins. In fact, he is flying out here on MLK Day (or, as we called it up north, Robert E. Lee Day, as it is his birthday, too) to see this scrawny space before we whip it into shape. He wants to see our humble beginnings, so that he can remember it when we skyrocket to the top of our chosen fields. And it’s cute how he includes me in her success — I told her, it’s like the Pope coming for a visit, like I should be ready to bow down and kiss the man’s feet. She raves about her dad (none of my friends rave about their dads — I don’t really even know mine, but I do know that when I make it, I am going to find his deadbeat ass and send him all the wonderful press coverage I know I’m going to receive). Ahem. At any rate, it’s Friday, it’s 10:30 p.m., I’m here for the night ’cause I’m broke, busted & disgusted, but I am enjoying myself. Put together Maddie’s kitty sofa today, and it’s so damned cute I just want to hold my hair back and puke. Seriously. It’s wrought iron and matches all of my furniture. Unfortunately, I was just taking a photo of her on it when I got a knock at the door tonight, so she headed for the hills, the camera battery died, and well, my computer’s too outdated to handle my camera software anyway. Keep an eye on Maddie’s page to see a photo of her on her new sofa in the coming days!!!