Caterwauling

French Pedi, originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn.

I stopped for a French pedicure on Friday night, which was divine. I watched last season’s finale of “Desperate Housewives” as I got my calves massaged and my claws sharpened. I had to have mah talons lookin’ fine for my first/last stroll in the sand for the season.

Yesterday was spent in Chesapeake Beach, although I preferred North Beach for the frolicking part, as the Chesapeake Beach Resort & Spa seemed to lay claim to the only patch o’ beach for its guests. Pfft. North Beach was nicer, anyway.

There was a wedding taking place at Chesapeake Beach, and we ran into the groom on the boardwalk — he was smoking a cigarette and looking like he was being led to the electric chair. Mom had come down to visit, so I took her there to go to the beach and to have dinner at the Rod ‘n Reel (excellent food, shitty service. The server named Erin? Useless. I hated leaving a tip, when the people at the next table had the most-attentive server in the world). But the crab imperial? To die for. Anyway, Mom saw the groom before the nuptials and said, “You look handsome.” And the groom? Would not stop staring in my eyes as we walked past him. I wouldn’t have minded getting married on the beach.

I saw the bride. While she was tanned and blonde and looks like she hasn’t eaten anything since 1989, I had a way better disposition. Oh well. Good luck to him. I saw them after the wedding at the restaurant, as they’d rented out the Chesapeake Room, and boy was she snapping at everyone in the bridal party. *shudder* Welcome to married life, buddy. Hope you didn’t lose your hard-on for your wedding night.

Anyway, I saw their cake, and it was adorable. White, of course, topped with two tiny Adirondack chairs and covered in chocolate seashells and sea horses, and accented with tiny expanses of white-picket fences.

Speaking of men, there was a very nice and good-looking guy on the beach who offered up his bed for the night so I wouldn’t have to drive back to D.C. in the dark. I don’t think he meant it in the way that he would sleep on the couch. His name was Egan. He suggested eating at Neptune’s, and I would bet my money on him going there to see whether we actually showed up.

Anyway, this is the end of my vacation week, and at least now it feels like I did something “vacation-y” by heading to the Chesapeake Bay. It was lovely to be without cell phone coverage — I only used the iPhone for its camera.

The visit was strange. There were so many signs there — lots of familiarity, like I was meant to be there. I would kill for a condo on the water. Not to live there full-time, mind you. I’m a city girl at heart and would die without having Tar-zhay within walking distance. But to just stare at the water and feel inspired and refreshed all the time? Is one of many goals on my list to experience more frequently.

Till then, I have some happy feet, indeed!

Went to the Rockville Chili Rip-off — er, Cook-off yesterday. Blah. It wasn’t anything special. It’s simple to navigate — go buy the Texas and Cincinnati chili from Hard Times Cafe and then leave. Period. A Frito pie and a chili dog are enough to make the adventure worth it.

Other vendors are supposed to give you free samples, but nobody had any food ready. It’s a six-hour festival, people. Figure it out. One woman actually was smart enough to put up a sign, “Not Ready Yet,” but a bunch of us stood in line for one place, then the next place, then the next place, for nothing.

But it was no loss — I did get a sample of “Blame the Dog” chili, and I blame the bad taste on them cooking up dog meat! After that, I was ready to go home. (Well, I went to the beach, but metaphorically home.)

The only real saving grace was the fact that it was also a music festival, and I was introduced to the lovely Sarah Buxton. Her band members were hot, so there was something for everyone to look at, up on that stage. I was looking for a good place to get rid of that last couple of dollars’ worth of iPhone credit — methinks a handful of MP3s will be the only thing I can digest from the 20 minutes I spent in Rockville yesterday. …

The plot? It thickens.

I’ve had violent images all week (and I wasn’t sure whether they were psychic flashes or merely dark imaginings with no basis) of one of our friends being injured. Information came my way (I am not seeking this shit out — honest. I hate drama. And yet …) that he was injured in a motorcycle crash and that he was at a particular hospital.

Which would explain why the bellowing heifer keeps e-mailing me from his address and calling from his personal and work cell phones. It would also explain why she just had a medical bed put in her house yesterday. (The neighbors? Are nosy. And they LOVE to call with info.)

Anyway, I called not only the hospital system I was told he was in, but every other one, just for good measure. Nothing. He’s nowhere.

She’s cruel, vicious, violent and radical. She’s also twice his size and bounces him around like a super ball. You know when your friends tell you to GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM THAT CRAZY BITCH, whoever that crazy bitch may be? FUCKING LISTEN TO THEM.

I’ve actually had images of him chained to a pole in his basement and her branding him with the cattle iron that obviously stamped “USDA choice” on her fat ass. How can you emasculate someone so much? And you think they’d want to go BACK to you? Lord.

That’s the thing — if you have to injure a man so severely that he cannot walk, talk or function, do you really want/need him? I know she’s as ugly as it gets, but to have someone who resents every fiber of your being that you’d have to bludgeon them and make them powerless just so they come back to you, it’s just plain sick.

Now, I want to get away from all of this. I can’t stand having 20 calls coming to both of my phones each day with 10-minute-long messages about how she wants me to die and leave her alone. When all I asked is if he is OK, blink once for yes and twice for no. I don’t care about the stuff. I just don’t think he deserves to be abused because she’s a fucked-up nut.

This is why I use the buddy system. I want everyone to know that if I disappear, there’s a reason for it. She got all my information out of him somehow — beating him to death, no doubt. If she gets my address, hoo boy. I’m dead meat. And I didn’t even fucking DO anything! I just intervened on behalf of a friend. No more, no less.

Now, there’s always that, “What can I do to save him?” Because he probably needs to be saved. I think she’s brainwashing him and she probably has his balls in a jar beside her bed.

And then there’s that, “Not my problem” attitude. I’ve had more than enough psycho for one week, thanks. Self-preservation, kids. I put my oxygen mask on first before I help others — didn’t the in-flight demonstrations teach anybody anything around here?

The psychic side of me is saying this is all going to end badly. Not that this phase is a fucking picnic, of course. But that if I don’t butt the fuck out, I’ll be chained up to a medical bed in her house, too. Her therapist sounds like a nutjob — talk about brainwashing. I have no doubt that there’s some electroshock therapy going on behind closed doors.

I called his job, since the hog has his work phone. I was told he was hospitalized (but I doubt it, given that he wasn’t where they said he is) and that he’d be gone for “quite a few weeks.” How the hell does that happen? Accident, OK. But nobody’s seen hide or hair of a 6-foot-tall man in a week. A man who used to have a presence about him.

How can someone go missing, right under everyone’s noses?

And who’s the next victim on her unhinged warpath?

All for him being happy. That’s the only reason.

I always believed that a life well-lived is the best revenge. But for the clinically insane, it’s just a red cape in front of a bull. And to the point that she doesn’t CARE that everyone thinks she’s insane (the whole neighborhood is talking), I don’t know that you can return once you cross that threshold.

Actually, this just in: He is apparently in the hog’s house, probably chained up so he can’t enjoy the freedom he had so briefly. Even though the neighbors are on a 24-hour drama stakeout, no one saw him moved in there in the middle of the night.

One of the bitches on the street is clairvoyant. She said she sees fire and tragedy on that street, probably at that very house. I have warned my friend to stay the fuck away, and off that street, lest she be a part of it. And all my friend wants to know is whether he will be all right.

He was allowed one phone call yesterday, from this prison sentence. A very strained and scripted message for us to stop bothering him. I’d recognize the illiterate cow’s words anywhere. I’m happy to honor it, but again, is this one of those times that I’m going to look back on and wish I had done something?

God will settle the score. I know it. I just hate that in the meantime, the ones doing the terrorizing appear like they’re actually winning — even if it’s only in their sick, twisted, demented little minds.

Everyone at work told me to enjoy the week of Maury and Montel. And my answer to that was, “Will I be watching it or will I be ON it?” Perhaps the clairvoyant in me saw the mess from miles and days away. And if nothing else, boy does it put the rest of my life into perspective. …

In addition to a perfume cloud of heterosexual-male repellent, Tom pointed out that I forgot to turn off my crazy-person attractor.

I’ve now officially met the world’s most insane person. Makes all the others seem like functional, normal citizens. Oh. My. God. I never dreamed this day could actually come.

There’s an old Poe lyric, that “You can’t talk to a psycho like a normal human being.” And yet, I keep trying with the newest nut. Because Crazy has something of mine that I paid a lot of money for and want to have back. Someone lent it to them without my permission — nay, AGAINST my stated wishes. Is it replaceable? Sure. But the principle is that I’ve been (mostly) nice and calm and friendly and patient, only to be the target of their mania. And there ain’t enough lipstick in Sephora to put lipstick on THAT pig. Lord.

I’ve always been the one to be the better person. And as tiring as it is sometimes to stay beyond reproach, I don’t stoop to others’ levels — I’d throw out my back. And that’s the thing. When you finally have had enough, especially from some asshole whose opinion has no bearing on reality and certainly not my reality, your options are pretty limited. I take Pisco’s advice to heart, which is to ask God to “please give that asshole EXACTLY what they deserve.” And move on. Quickly.

I have this bellowing pig of a woman who got hold of my phone number and e-mail. And boy, when I say “bellowing pig,” I’m being nice about it. I’ve been called so many names and been the recipient of an inordinate number of ugly comments that it’s just funny to sit and watch her try to get to me. The good news is that she can be obliterated with visual voicemail. But I’m sitting on a pile of threatening e-mail addresses and the IPs behind them, and wondering whether to tell the hog’s employer what his pwecious piggie is doing on company time. Or do I just re-route everything to the trash folder and call it a day that went by without seeing her obituary?

I just don’t get people who have to inflict their own self-misery on others. Nobody cares. Really. These idiots are like tornadoes, trying to tear asunder everything and everyone in their paths whether those folks did them wrong (per their perception) or not. You wonder how they look in the mirror and live with themselves, but then again, they get off on being obnoxious. So why indulge them? They continue creating drama in their own minds and then acting upon their ire that has no basis.

It’s not even worth it to ask why they’re targeting you. The answer is always the same, anyway. Jealousy. Insecurity. Boredom. Pettiness. Insignificance. No less, and certainly no more.

OK, so I did call her a double-wide, conniving, cruel, mean-spirited, evil, vicious bitch. Deservedly so, might I add. She says she’s calling an attorney and the police chief if I show up to get my stuff. *yawn* Honey, I have the FBI on speed-dial — let your Mayberry cops have at me. And quite honestly, the stuff I want back, I would probably end up bashing over her head. (One item being a television — I do have a delicious fantasy of throwing her through it and seeing her feet sticking out of it.)

Karma’s already hit piggly-wiggly with the homely stick, so I’m counting on God to finish what he started with that mess. I just find it funny as all hell that every time I say give me a time to get my stuff so I can get out of your life and, more importantly, I can get her mess of an ass out of MINE, I’m told to rot in hell. Please. That path has been pioneered. *yawn again* Me, rot in hell? With you? Delusional.

I’m not changing my phone number, my e-mail or my URL. Get used to it. If you want me to be out of your lives, STOP LOOKING FOR ME. Honestly, I won’t be hurt.

And BTW, Cowbell can HAVE the TV and whatever else. I’ll make more money and buy bigger and better. Honestly, I have just LOVED being calm and watching her head spin as I refuse to be rattled. For the record, silence is not a sign of weakness — it’s a sign of STRENGTH. It is also a blatant clue about my not actually giving a shit.

If it makes everybody feel better to rain on everybody else’s parade, fine. I will dance in the rain because that’s what I do — even if it’s someone else’s rain. The universe is watching our every move, and whether it’s a lawyer or a detective or Jesus Christ himself standing before me, I’ll be standing there guileless. And my suite in hell will have a spa and a martini bar, so I’d suggest being nice to me now while you still can.

Had one of those invasive doctor’s appointments that it hurts to talk about, let alone how much it hurts to breathe afterward. Oprah girlfriend said it best — my va-jay-jay is truly painin’!

I realize I have given about 20 urine samples in the past month. I hate how, every time the need to poke or prod you or stick things in every orifice, they need to be certain that you’re not knocked up. Seriously. As if. But they won’t take your word for it or even ask.

Considering, though, that I haven’t even so much as shoved wriggly, battery-powered plastic up there in awhile, I admit that it doesn’t bother me to have someone rooting around down there, even if it involves needles and such. And hoo boy, it might have been a quick procedure but damn, my cooch has felt WAY better in its day.

The good news out of this adventure is that we finally have a diagnosis, and things are a whole lot less serious than they originally seemed. I have a prescription and a follow-up appointment in three months. Read: NO SURGERY. *whew*

One couple in the waiting room had the cutest baby boy. And he was flirty. I don’t know what it is with me and baby boys, but the wee one and I were goofing around for a good 20 minutes. The baby’s daddy was hawwtttt, so it’s not surprising he made a cute kid. I just wish daddy were flirting instead of baby!

Speaking of flirting, there’s a cute guy watching me right now. I just hope he isn’t catching my probably not-so-subtle grimaces every time I get one of these twinging-twat pains that are a residual effect of today’s snatch attack. (They say I’ll be back to normal by tomorrow.)

Anyway, I’m sipping butternut-squash soup from the Corner Bakery and slobbering drinking my beloved hazelnut coffee. I am trying not to go home, but genius just dribbled coffee on her off-white sweater. But luckily, those feminine-wipe thingies? Are fabulous at getting stains out of fabric. (I’ve also done that in reverse — used a Shout wipe on my hoo-ha. You DO shout, all right!)