Caterwauling

That’s “coma,” not “comma,” although I wish commas were also contagious because some people don’t write with enough of them. But anyway.

Today kicked off with the receipt of a $600 phone bill, to top off last month’s $400 one. I don’t make this much money, people. Lately I’ve been putting in the type of hours that would afford such an atrocity, but man, this ain’t the way to start off a day. My bill has been manageable for five years; why the sudden surge? Apparently they say I called and asked them to cancel my 7 p.m. nights. I’m like, huh? Why would anyone do that? So, I did the honorable thing and upgraded my plan, because $120 a month sure beats $600.

*headdesk*

*headdesk*

*headdesk*

I’ve gotten myself mostly caught up at work, which is joyous. But I’ve also hit a wall in doing so — it’s taking me longer to crank out the creative when the space bar key is embedded in my forehead. I keep hoping that if I whack my head hard enough, I’ll induce the coma that I so desperately seek.

It’s not all work and no play, although the “play” has turned into “too much fucking effort” so the pleasant distractions aren’t so pleasant anymore.

I told my friend D. that my single New Year’s resolution is to become a lesbian. Because, really, I can’t come up with one single reason why not. Sorry boys, I’m going off the market. Clearance sale in progress, so get me now before it’s too late!

Got this nugget of inspiration from the amazing Barbara J. Winter in my inbox last night. Shows we don’t need any special magic powers to make a difference in this world:

Another source of inspiring stories is the highly under-acclaimed CBS SUNDAY MORNING. … Last Sunday introduced me to a young man I can’t get off my mind. After Hurricane Katrina struck, City Park in New Orleans was left in shambles and abandoned by the city. This bothered 13-year-old Jack McShane who decided something needed to be done. So every Saturday Jack and his crew of Mow-Rons tackle the 1300 acres with their push mowers. Interviewer Steve Hartman said to Jack, “Aren’t adults supposed to take care of this?”

“Yes,” said Jack, “but nobody was so I had to.” The Mow-Rons motto is Weeding by Example. “Our original motto was, ‘The Mow-Rons are in the park. The idiots are in city hall,’” Jack says. “But we thought that was inappropriate.”

Jack has also actively recruited the other mowing volunteers. His father says Jack didn’t get his passion for community service from him, but that he’s learned about the importance of volunteering from his son.

So there’s that old formula for success again: find a need and fill it. Not waiting for somebody else to give directions or permission is at the heart of every authentic entrepreneurial undertaking. It never fails to inspire me.

I realized today, as I moved my bitching bracelet from wrist to wrist (to wrist …), that my struggle with faith isn’t limited to whether or not some grand deity created the earth but that it also encompasses the way I approach my own shit.

I am thisclose to finishing a HUGE project. And I? Am procrastinating.

I’ve put in the legwork. I’ve agonized. I’ve brought it into my personal time. I’ve done/redone so many parts of the bigger project that it’s an understatement to say I have a vested interest in its success.

But when the alarm went off at 5:55 a.m. today, I snoozed it till I heard “Bang Your Head” on DC-101, in tribute to the recently departed but eternally awesome Kevin DuBrow.

They say deaths come in threes. Add to that Sean Taylor dying of a gunshot wound (he’s with the Redskins. Which is like a washed-up ’80s band that refuses to stop making records, in carrying with today’s theme), and it’s like, damn. Who’s next? I still have Bob Barker in the dead pool, so we’ll see.

And it was the prospect of not waking up, not being able to do everything I want to do, that finally got my ass out of bed. Not to say I did any good deeds or that I stopped complaining in my head, but it was hard getting up today. Someone told me a story yesterday about someone who “took a $100,000 pay cut” and I’m like, wha? I’d be in negative numbers if I did that. So would most of the rest of us.

And I’m not one to begrudge anybody anything. By all means, if good fortune comes to you, embrace it. But I wondered why MY time isn’t worth that much money. I work hard and miss out on a lot of life’s little moments — I wouldn’t mind being in a position to scale back if it means I could only buy a new car every other year. Shit, I’d be happy to take lunch every once in awhile — no need for extra pay when it’s really “Goddess” time that’s the precious commodity missing from my life.

So to bring this crazy train full circle, minus some stops at the Cuckoo Cafe, I am in no mood to come to terms with the fact that I may never make a million dollars a year. (Argh.) And I’m never going to work less hard because of it. But I do want to shift more into the mindset of not working full throttle until I get just shy of a goal. Because I know me — once I throw on the brakes, I have to be dragged across the finish line.

Maybe I’m not in the mood to start a new project. Or maybe I know that once this one takes off, I’ll have the resources to devote to yet another monster masterpiece that’ll kick my ass even harder.

I wonder why I fear and dread approaching the things that will make me happiest. It’s like how I seem to have this errant gene that makes me kill potential relationships — I seem to default to doing the same thing everywhere else. I hold everyone and everything at arm’s length because the moment I have tried to reach out in the past, I’ve gotten my hand slapped.

So, whether it’s friends, boys or projects, my new year’s resolution is to be “more than friends” with them wherever possible, and not leave the good ones early in the morning and definitely not overstay my welcome with those that don’t deserve my time. I tend to forget how valuable I am, and I’m even worse at proving it to others. I may never know why that is, but even if I get my hand slapped, there’s no reason to pull it back right away, if at all.

I want mine. And damn it, I’m going to get it. I’m sick of hiding my (theoretical) balls. It’s Christmas, damn it. Deck the walls and show your balls and get what you want this holiday season, even if you have to get it for yourself!

I’m already thinking about putting a moratorium on dating American men because, well, unless you can show me one who’s not selfish and spoiled and absolutely NOT worth the heartache they inevitably bring (and oftentimes on purpose), I’d be perfectly happier in a long-term relationship with my suitcase full of toys.

In any event, someone called my attention to “Older white women join Kenya’s sex tourism,” and I thought, awesome, now THERE’S an enterprising opportunity. Ship “cougars” by the busload (or boatload, I guess) over to Africa to find their “Winston” as they re-enact “How Stella Got Her Groove Back.” Ingenious.

I’m happy to give up my fantasies of being a kept woman in exchange for having enough money to rent a boy for the length of a vacation stay. Preferably one who is silent because, really, since when do any of them say anything without hurting our feelings or making us wonder if this is the best we’re ever going to do?

And let’s face it, is anyone really watching “Private Practice” because it’s a good show or am I the only one tuning in to see “Winston” all grown up?

*pulling complaint bracelet around my neck because cutting off my oxygen is the only way I will stop bitching*