Caterwauling

What a weird little day. I awoke before 6 a.m., sobbing. Which usually denotes a weekday, so I was understandably confused. I don’t know what the hell I dreamed about that made me nuts, but seriously, I thought the ritual was to cry oneself to sleep and not into waking instead!

I do remember one of my dreams. I was in Old Town Alexandria, at a wedding. My own. (Stop laughing — I dream in fiction!)

It was a breezy summer day and I was wearing white (Dear Peanut Gallery: I KNOW. Move along now.) and a bunch of us were at The Chart House, hanging out on the pier and laughing, drinking and being merry.

I’ve never eaten there, as it’s out of my price range. But I used to love to go hang out on the boardwalk and sit on the rocks of the Potomac River and watch planes descend into National Airport, so it seemed right to be there.

I saw lots of familiar faces (several of you bloggers were there, even if I’ve never seen you before, I recognized you from your profile pictures). But more importantly, I saw the groom. So, any man who meets me in the next 100 years should be forewarned that I will be peering into his face to see if there’s a match or even a passing resemblance. I don’t ever see faces in my dreams, so this was strange in and of itself.

But the real bizarro part of it all was that everyone was doing a champagne toast, and I announced that I would be leaving the workforce to be a full-time wife and mom.

*faints*

*loads gun, cocks barrel, splatters brains on wall*

So I was telling this dream to my mom today (she requires encouragement that I’m not entirely disinterested in the concept), and she swears she had a dream the same night of me with two little boys. Hahahaaaaaaa, funny! *shudder*

Talk about taking dreams and turning them into nightmares!

CHEERS!

I expect I was thinking about kids because my best friend had called when I got home and we talked for a few hours, well past 1:30 a.m. She told me how she’d handed sippy cups to her kids, ages 1 and 3. The 3-year-old sat next to the younger one, put her arm around his shoulders, clinked her sippy cup to his and said, “Cheers!”

My friend was stunned because she’s never had a drink in front of them. But before we knew the first one was even in existence, she and I had done many rounds of clinked glasses. (We clink both the top and the bottom. It’s our rule. Not sure why — we were drunk when it came about, and it stuck.)

So, I’m sure her daughter learned it in utero. In any event, we’re so proud!

It’s bad enough that I’m rolling home past 10 p.m. with a pile of work still undone, but to come home to cozy up my favorite spot on the floor (as who could afford a couch with fucked-up memories of vacation plans gone awry to recover from?) and see a big, wet shit streak on it courtesy of my elder cat just makes those long, crazy days worth it. Not.

Some days, I just get tired of having to be OK with the fact that this is how it always is and this looks to be the best it’ll be for the time being. It’s hard to dream from a shit-stained floor. Or maybe I’m not OK with it but I’m just too tired to react.

I was talking to a freelance instructor this week — an otherwise wholly unimpressive sort — about how she got her own business launched. And she said, very simply, that those who can’t stop thinking about it are never going to do anything BUT think about it. It’s the person who says, fuck it, why can’t today be the day, who’s got the best chance of making it work and just doing it already. It’s just that discipline thing that’s been my barrier, but when am I going to be motivated enough to overcome it?

I looked at her and realized that I’ve got just as much to offer, intellectually, not to mention I’d add my own brand of sparkle that would put everyone else out of business. And I wonder why not try. Seriously. Exhaustion and ennui have become a security blanket in my life. I feel OK if I’m disappointed and annoyed. I’ve learned to revel in my existential discontent. In fact, I don’t know how to function outside of it.

But I need to figure out how to reverse that and start loving being alive. A day without dysfunction, even if it’s all only in my head — can I handle it? Be encouraged enough to try a second day without wanting to tie a noose around my neck and jump off a chair? consider it a victory to achieve something more than scrubbing the cat shit out of the carpet? I s’pose there’s a first for everything!

Talk about the poison pen:

These trinkets were available to attendees of my company’s fall picnic today. There are days when I want to light myself on fire instead of coming in for the day (early morning, regular business hours, evening, night, weekend — whichever), but then there are days like today when I’m fed and too stuffed to think. As you can tell, I’m doing everything within my power from getting started on real work. …

Me: “If you squint and cross your eyes, there are actually quite a few attractive men in our building.”

A colleague and I were chatting the other day, discussing the eye candy (or paucity thereof) in our building. We probably threw out three names, tops, and agreed on exactly one of them.

If only those boys knew how we talked about them when they thought we weren’t watching them. …

Yesterday I accomplished more at work between 4 p.m. and 9 p.m. than I did between 9:30 a.m. and 4 p.m. Figures.

I had to run out and get cat food before going home, when it occurred to me that dinner wasn’t something I’d considered. So I’m in this shopping plaza and conveniently parked by about nine restaurants. I go into one. Get in line behind someone who’s served. Easy, right?

The kid behind the counter looks exasperated and horrified that he might have to serve another customer. He asks if I’ve placed an order. I said no. He looks to have a panic attack, looking around at the other employees like it would piss them off to do one more sammich. I said look, I’m trying to find dinner at 9:47 p.m. and you close at 10; I wasn’t aware that you had a choice to not serve me. Because it’s not like I really wanted to have dinner that late yet here I was with money to spend at that establishment. He looked nervous. I wasn’t going to deal, though. I have my limits, so I topped off my visit with a merry “Have a nice fucking night!”

I hate people.

I tried three more places before I could find someone who would talk to me. And that restaurant was out of what I normally order. But yeah, what’s up with all these tip jars? That would require providing basic service on the bare minimum. I have yet to see someone go above and beyond anymore, let alone get the regular order right.

Anyway, while I’m on a tangent (and running late for work). …

What I would like to know is how Red Swingline Stapler chick can get away with wearing a denim skirt on a Wednesday. Was I not invited to the hoedown? She gets an undeserved window and dressing comfort? Gah. Way to make an impression on your new colleagues. *kick*

I didn’t sleep last night (see: bitch, crabby), twisting over way too many things in my mind. I’d left a comment on someone’s blog yesterday (because it’s all about me baybee), that I have a hole where happiness should be. And the suck in life, whether big or small, tends to grow in size to fill the void.

I’d advised my friend to put on her shitkickers and push the suck back into its corner for as long as possible. Some days, I need to take my own advice.

I need a vacation. And Xanax. And a screaming orgasm. Whichever comes first.