Caterwauling

I have perhaps the tiniest office on my floor, but I love it with all my heart because it has a window and a television. You can’t beat that. I have good neighbors and live in a happy hallway, so life is good.

Anyway, I struggle with claustrophobia and am very much aware that the obvious layout that I chose a year ago is no longer working for me. I’m moving into a creative period, which translates into “I’m doing some really routine shit and I’d like to see both the TV and the sun so I can get some inspiration here.”

So, I moved my desk to face a wall, which leaves my back somewhat toward the door but not completely, so I don’t have to feel wigged out that someone is staring over my shoulder because I at least have the doorway in my peripheral vision. The layout is good now — I’ve gotten compliments. My chi is sated. Writer’s Block Goddess is now Energy Flow Goddess.

But …

So I am known as the Imelda Marcos of the floor, although I actually had someone say to me, “Are you old enough to know who she was? Of course you are — never mind.” (Do not overestimate the Goddess’ age. Even though, yes, she is aware of the inaugural shoe queen.)

Anyway, I have all my shoes neatly tossed into a big mesh storage cube, but it’s the shoes I wear to work each day that are the problem.

Read: I cannot work with shoes on my feet.

For that matter, I find myself absentmindedly molesting myself here and there, too. Whether I’m touching my boobs or feeling my ass to see if I remembered to wear underwear, I’m not someone who should be given the illusion that she is in a private space because I end up invading my own privacy but with an audience. *sigh*

So, I have to mind my manners and try to convince myself that people are nearby and, in fact, watching. I sort of miss being holed up in the back corner with my ass not hanging out of the doorway. Even more, I miss the modesty panel that hid the fact that I usually sit Indian-style with bare feet. It’s making my attempt at Feng Shui more like a steaming pile of Feng Shit, and I’m hoping more goes unnoticed than I think!

Dear Montgomery County Safe Speed,

Fuck you. Did you hear me? Fuck you. I don’t think you got that, so let me say it more clearly: FUCK YOU!!!!

Screw you and your cameras. I’m spreading my knees and you fuckers can eat me. And I’m not even going to wash mah coochie for a week before you do it.

Love,

Goddess

ARGH.

I had to go to Baltimore three times in October. I got a speeding ticket on two of those three days.

But GENIUS here, well, didn’t realize that she received two separate tickets. Why? Because I was clocked in the SAME PLACE at the SAME SPEED. The third day, I took a different route, so that’s why I didn’t get three tickets.

But it gets better. I didn’t have the money to pay for the (what I thought was one) ticket, so I got slapped with a late fee. Guess what? I GOT SLAPPED WITH TWO LATE FEES.

I seriously hate the state of Maryland with the fire of a thousand suns right now.

Happy fucking Christmas to you, too, bastards.

I had seen an e-mail floating around last night about a meeting for this morning, which I tried to head off at the pass by having a conversation with someone before they left for the day yesterday. What I did not know is that I still wasn’t off the hook for today’s meeting.

So, I was in need of caffeine this morning before I went into la oficina and decided to treat myself to a latte, as I gave those up because of the expense. Hah. I made the mistake of checking my e-mail and found, lo and behold, that morning meeting was starting in less than five minutes. Fuck.

I left the Starbucks with no purchase and was about 15 minutes late to said meeting. In which I learned that, yeah, that stuff I was spending a lot of time doing? To stop doing it that way. I’m not sure what way to do it, but I guess I’ll figure that out.

I left that meeting and flew to yet another one 15 minutes late. (Today’s theme, apparently. No 15 minutes of fame here — infamy, yes, but no fame.)

Anyway, three hours after I first tried to get coffee, I finally have a cup. And I’m humming some bizarre hybrid of, “If I Had a Hammer” and “Can’t Touch This,” so to say I’m dreaming of bopping myself over the head with a hammer and putting myself into a coma that lasts until Jan. 15 is probably redundant at this point.

*making a note to go home and look for parachute pants to wear to tomorrow’s meetings. Because I’m Rick James, bitch.*

Confession: When it comes to MTV’s “The Hills,” I am a junkie. I vote in the polls on the Web site and on People.com. I read every stupid news article about the cast. I watched “Laguna Beach” and never missed an episode of either show. I buy all the music I hear in the shows, too.

I’m so ashamed.

I’ve watched the “Lauren Looks Back” special as many times as it’s been on. I was hooked on “Laguna Beach” back in the day. I have missed only about a half-episode of “The Hills” this season, and no worries — they will replay the series till the end of time or, at least, till the end of this year.

And yes, even though I’ve seen most of the episodes eleventy billion times, I still watch them. I love the fight between Lauren and Heidi. I’m totally “Team Lauren.” I just LOVE how Heidi can either do all kinds of stuff to hurt Lauren, or egg on that dipwad boyfriend of hers to do it, and try to talk to Lauren like, “I don’t know what you’re mad about, as I am fabulous and innocent and so special. And hey, remember all the stuff I did for you when we were friends?”

We all have a Heidi. The one who kept score when they did something wonderful but magically forgot everything ELSE they did to not only cause a rift, but to exacerbate it. And what kills me is how Heidi just keeps showing UP in Lauren’s life. I know MTV has orchestrated a lot of of those run-ins, but sheesh. How much clearer can Lauren be that she wants to “forgive her … and FORGET her”?!?!

But really, I’m watching because I’m rooting for Brody and Lauren to get back together. Because, let’s face it: We all have a Brody, too. The one who is PROBABLY better left as a friend, but who would probably be such a PERFECT match, it wouldn’t even be funny. We all have those moments where you *think* they’re on the same wavelength as you and would totally be on board for moving things a step further, and yet there are so many other moments when we just run scared or cut off our little dreams at the source because, nah. Either they won’t feel the same way or are we just imagining what we felt in the first place? Decisions, decisions.

And yes, I swooned when Brody kissed Lauren goodbye before she jetted off to Paris. I’ve been waiting all damn season for that. Do you get to a point with someone that it’s too late to turn it into something else, or will it be fireworks no matter when or how it happens? I know she was focused on hightailing it to the airport, but did she sit in the car going “OMG, OMG, OMG” on the way?

I can even forgive Brody for being Bruce Jenner’s son. You know, Bruce Jenner of “Keeping Up with the Kardashians”fame. At least that’s a show that’s below MY low standards — I’m not a total loser.

But is Brody as much of a player as he makes himself out to be? Maybe Lauren’s right not to let herself fall for him. You wonder about these guys whose phones are full of ladies — makes you wonder whether you’re just one of a million instead of being treated like the one IN a million that you are … and if they’ll ever fully realize that.

I was reading Mel’s post today about her male friend who’s getting married … who confessed to having a huge crush on her for years. (And how could he not? She’s FABULOUS!) And she’d had a crush on him, too. You wonder how many of us have those stories (and how many will go on with their lives never even knowing about it).

I guess that’s why I’m all about Team Lauren and Brody — you can see the spark that everyone keeps dancing around and is either pretending it doesn’t exist or isn’t actually aware of it. I mean, I guess we all tend to default to, “Meh, they wouldn’t be interested anyway so why entertain it?” But what if. …

What if, indeed.

Hell, I actually turned my work TV to a “Hills” marathon yesterday — figures my boss only visits when I’m chatting with someone or when I’m watching MTV. Gah. I promise, I really do work a lot!!! But I am a sucker for that stupid show — lick me, please. There ain’t no rehab that’s going to dwarf this addiction!

I was watching the movie “Catch and Release” the other day, because I am SO on the cutting edge when it comes to watching movies. (It was from 2006.)

And for the record, I’m not totally out-of-touch with new releases — I did manage to catch “This Christmas” when it came out a couple of weeks ago. The ability to stare at Mekhi Phifer was reason enough to see it.

Anyway, speaking of movies better left to Comcast On Demand, “Catch and Release” wasn’t necessarily cinematic genius but part of the plotline got me to thinking. The summary is that Jennifer Garner’s fiance died, we learn he was doing dirty deeds on the downlow, and she ends up hooking up with his best friend, a nice piece of eye candy named Timothy Olyphant.

But we learn that yet another of the fiance’s friends, “Dennis,” has apparently carried a torch for Jennifer’s character for six years. And while he had just a bit part, he was the one I walked away from the movie pontificating over, wondering how he ended up.

Dennis confessed this crazy attraction he’d had for her since she had come into their lives. And I thought, wow, isn’t everyone wishing they could have someone who was secretly in love with them? But of course, don’t we all hope it will be someone GOOD when it does happen?

But Dennis still haunts me because he was cute and nerdy and sweet and sincere. And when you’re the person who’s been hoping and wishing and dreaming for years, what do you do with all of that if that dream is taken from you? I think a lot more of us would go confessing these torrid feelings if there weren’t a 50/50 chance that the other person would look at us as though bugs had started crawling out of our myriad orifices.

I don’t know. I guess I made a conscious decision awhile back to take several years’ worth of dreams and wishes and wants and lock them away in the ol’ hope chest. I don’t have balls enough to ask for a chance to see whether those visions can live outside of my head, so I figure I don’t get to entertain them anymore. Plain and simple.

But again, the question arises, what do you do with all that, I dunno, stuff? If you’re pushing it out of your head, what do you do with all this new, empty space? It’s like moving into a bigger place and not having furniture in all the rooms. All I can do sometimes is yodel and listen to the echo when there’s still a part of me that DIDN’T get locked up that wishes it were the voice I have always been longing to hear, answering me.

I’ll be fine someday. I know it. I can feel it. Hopefully sooner rather than later. I just don’t know WTF to do with myself in the meantime, or what it’s going to take to either throw the hope chest into the ocean or to open it and DO something with its contents. …

I remember when staying out all night on a Sunday meant finding a “buck a bottle” beer special and an accompanying “wing night” deal. Last night, I got home late because I went to a church meeting.

I finally decided to accept an invitation to talk with the church elders about my spiritual journey. There were other folks there, too, and let me tell you, I was praying for the strength to NOT go slam them over the head with a Bible because all they did was talk-talk-talk about everyone at the church they just left (in a nice way) and yap-yap-yap about everybody they knew in common with our lead pastor. I was silently moving my complaint bracelet from wrist to wrist, because the thoughts were very un-Christian-like.

It’s funny how the elders knew me but no one could put a name with the face. The pastor’s wife had seen me bring in the wrapped Christmas gift for the toy drive yesterday (she had complimented my mad wrapping skillz) and the pastor himself had actually tapped me on the shoulder after the service. I told him later, “When you did that, I knew that, damn, I had to come to tonight’s meeting!”

They were sort of fascinated by me, because everyone else in the room was all holy rollin’ all their lives and there I was, smiling and joking nodding along and yet still sort of distrustful of the whole deal. And I made a comment about my dear friend Tiff who encouraged me to get my “heathen ass to church” and they loved that. Of course, they asked how I heard about them and I mentioned the source of the referral, and that’s probably why they liked me — always helps to know someone they adore!

The pastor figured out that it’s not that I distrust religion, but church itself. Which is a thousand percent true, although I probably shouldn’t have admitted that I have my skeptical moments with some elements of the sermons, too. And I said I continually question my own motivation for seeking out a formal religious setting in the first place — I go there for peace of mind, for escape, for a chance to be around happy, faithful people whom I assume are wonderful, upstanding citizens. But whether or not those are the “right” reasons, I still keep showing up, figuring I’ll find whatever it is I’m supposed to be looking for eventually.

I basically go to get the hell away from myself and expectations I can never seem to meet — and I like the whole “none of us is perfect” approach that they take, that if we had achieved the final rung on our spiritual climb, then none of us would need church in our lives.

A lot of the attendees of our little group last night were sort of saying that they were looking for a church and they didn’t know whether this was the right one for them. It’s funny — of all the things I’m grappling with, this is the one thing I never doubted for a moment. That, if I’m going to do this, this is where I want to be doing it.

They say we all have “next steps” to take. For me, they handed me a book and said to just keep on coming till the spirit moves me to get more involved. Because you know, just coming to church is only part of how you should be serving the Lord. That is, you need to be making a difference in the community, whether your own or the greater global community. But we all agreed I have decades of damage (distrust, indifference, disbelief) to undo, so I get a pass till I come to some sort of internal peace that I’m ready to turn my life over to Christ.

And that’s a lot to ask. I think it’ll happen — I’m just sort of like, whoa, this is HUGE. Far bigger than anything I can wrap my little head around. But then again, as the pastor said, if something existential/spiritual can be solved by us mere mortals, then that would make it, well, NOT supernatural, yes? I guess I just don’t want to blindly walk into something I don’t understand, but on the other hand, isn’t that what “taking it on faith” is all about?