Caterwauling

Productive day. Well, it is if you call seeing “27 Dresses”, laughing and sobbing heartily, and then leaving and having an awesome panic attack a shining example of productivity.

The movie was delightful. But it’s not your movie … oh, no — it was written, produced and filmed for ME and no one else. Katherine Heigl’s “Jane” was so busy attending to everyone else’s every need that she neglected to realize that she had any needs of her own.

Everyone took advantage of her generosity and grace — they came to depend on it and take it for granted. (Hmm, does that sound like anyone we know and love who, say, authors this blog?) And being forced to organize the wedding of the love of her life — a wedding that was NOT to her — well, *gasp* and *sigh.*

I’m going to can it right here and now, lest I write my own movie in this blog post, although one can argue that the movie WAS written with me in mind. But it makes you wonder whether — if you find you might be able to be with the person about whom you’ve dreamed — the magic that you expect will be there, well, WILL actually be there.

In any case, I’d told my friends that I had three things planned for the weekend: eating, seeing this movie, and dying. The order in which those happened, however, was optional. And now that I’ve knocked out two of three, the last can come at any moment now.

Actually, the last moment almost came when some fuckhead in a big, ugly truck changed lanes and almost killed me. I was laying on the horn and high-beaming but I couldn’t slow down because everyone has to live up your ASS on the highway, so I practically got run off the road.

I ended up jamming on the brakes as fuckwit came over into my lane and actually went over one more so he could turn left. Motherfucker. (There was a great scene in the movie where “Jane” went outside to scream “Motherfucker!” to release some steam, and she ended up realizing she had stepped into someone’s 50th anniversary party. Hah. Perfect. That’s something I would do/have done!)

Anyway, when I got cut off, I screamed my usual, “DIE! IN A FIRE!!!”

And I realize I need to stop saying that. Someone pointed out to me yesterday that I am under so much stress lately that the perhaps-not-so-major things are fair game for my rare-but-colorful, full-on conniption fits. OK, so maybe it wasn’t fair of me to suggest at a very loud volume that someone deserved to be anally prodded with prehistoric artifacts and then beaten with them. But in my mind, the reaction was an equal and appropriate response to the undue duress caused to me.

Almost everyone I know is falling apart, healthwise. We’re in our 30s and comparing maladies and meds. Moreover, we’re all coming out of the doctor with the same advice from them: “Reduce your stress levels.” I’ve been on medication for a (physical, thank you very much) condition for over three months and guess what? THE PILLS AREN’T WORKING. The doctor’s assessment: “It’s a stress-related condition. And losing weight wouldn’t hurt, either.”

Um. Stress = stress eating. Stress eating = ass fat = more stress. Ergo, more stress eating.

In other news, I renewed my lease today. Thank you, bastards for the $75/mo. increase. It sounded nicer when they said it would be a 5% increase. Hah.

But yeah, when I turned in my lease extension, my grumbling to myself was, “Here’s to another year of total bullshit.” The home I have grown to hate because it offers me absolutely nothing in the way of comfort, privacy or peace, I’ve just agreed to pay more for, and for another 14 months. How FUCKING special.

No wonder I had a panic attack in the middle of 355. I am accustomed to moronic drivers. Fuck, this car has cost me so much money, go ahead and dent it or steal it. Shit, I had it at the mechanic’s this morning — unlocked with the keys in the ignition for the two hours it took them to get to my 9 a.m. appointment (at 11 a.m. Shit).

The panic wasn’t that I was going to die. The panic was that I have to suffer through another year, fiscal quarter, month, week, day, hour, MINUTE with this sandbag that’s standing in for a heart. That all my problems are happy to sit on their asses and make themselves at home for the long haul while I’m suffocating at not having a moment without something that feels like wrenching your asshole down a double-dong that’s void of Astroglide.

There are days when my faith comes easily. There are others in which it comes eventually. Tomorrow, I am going back to church after my one-week hiatus. Mostly because someone wrote to me and asked me specifically about meeting up afterward. I had written back that I was a little concerned from the prior week, that if I can’t spare the time to volunteer for the church, then maybe I’m not the type of member they’re looking for.

So help me, I cannot take on another commitment. I mean, I FELL ASLEEP IN A MEETING on Friday. Awesome. Nothing says “polished professional” like FALLING THE FUCK ASLEEP at a conference table.

So, we’ll see how tomorrow goes. But I’m telling you right now, it’s like Amway and they’re no doubt looking to get me involved. And right now, they’re not on my “If I Could Murder 10 People and Get Away With It” wish list, because the top spots are quite secure, but I could very well change that “10″ to an “11″ (or “50″) without a second thought. …

That’s my latest idea for a title for my autobiography. But, alas, I’m too busy to write it, so I’ll just keep on pretending my newly restarted smoking habit wasn’t only limited to Marlboro Lights. …

Any of you who see me on Instant Messenger may recognize today’s post title from my status bar. Because it’s Thursday night and I’m now past 40 hours into the workweek, and what have I achieved? NOT FUCKING MUCH.

I’m still working on restoring world order from last week. I’ve had it with e-mail chains and cc: lines and one cook to fuck up a meal but 17 cooks to tell you how they think you really meant to tell them how to fix it. AAARRRGGGHHHH.

I don’t know the secret handshake and I don’t want to know it. I want to stop having to fix everybody else’s issues so I can work on some of my own because after I’ve played nice in the sandbox all day, I have to go to my people and tell them how my real work isn’t getting done.

I got a grand suggestion from someone today and I’m going to take it. Next week, I’m on vacation — figuratively, of course. Everyone else can deal with the regular business, the crapfest stuff goes to the wayside and I work on the project that needed to be launched this week but is actually delayed for a month because I don’t have any time to do it. And in fixing others’ costly mistakes, I’ve got advertisers with no place to advertise and boy isn’t THAT great for business?!?!

We had a training this morning in which we were talking about “How to Say It” — coming up with how to appropriately address problem employees and employee problems. There was this one case scenario that my group got, that an employee is overworked and putting in tons of hours and has tons of Styrofoam food boxes in their office because they’re practically living there.

One person in my group said, “I don’t understand the problem with that.” Another said, “Perhaps it’s a recycling issue?” And I said, “Give ‘em a pat on the back.”

And boy, if that isn’t telling of what kind of manager I am becoming. Sheesh. So they work late — so what? My thought was to ask what kind of food they were eating and whether they’d recommend it, although I didn’t say that out loud.

The correct answer, of course, was to talk to the employee about the workload and see about redistributing some tasks among other team members or easing up on expectations. Ha. Of the 50 people in my training session, we were all bleary-eyed from being at work late and up early to do tasks so we could afford to be in a 2 1/2 hour training session. This isn’t a group that’s sympathetic to giving up personal time to work on projects! How can someone be expected to address burnout issues when they themselves are actively perpetuating them?

Tiff Twittered that there’s something awesome going on, on Friday night. Which, heh. Me? Free on a Friday night? But you know, I think I need to do that “on vacation” thing, which may mean leaving the office at 7 instead of 9 and not technically being able to claim vacay time on the timesheet. Lord knows I haven’t accomplished shit else this week — why not knock off “early” and NOT have another moment in which I’m not pissed off about the fact that I am no further ahead on my to-do list than I was on Monday morning?!!?

You’d think that, after working a good 26 or so hours in the past two days alone, I’d be crabby. But quite the contrary — life’s been fairly amusing lately, to the point that I’m just grateful that the hours were worked over two days and not solely in one!

I think my brain went on vacation and left the rest of me here since sometime late last week. I don’t even know how to describe it. Maybe it’s like a dream or something. I don’t know. I hate being at home, but both work and social commitments have kept me far away from it, so I’m always thrilled about that.

I guess I’m just trying to cultivate the mental equivalent of Club Med in my head. I’m collecting all those moments in which I was happy, and I’m splicing them together into a “greatest hits” DVD that I’m playing on a loop to get me through.

“Alarm clock rings, it’s 6:45,
Must have hit that snooze button least three times,
I’m wishing this morning,
Was still last night,
On any other day,
I just might want to die.”

– Bon Jovi, “On Any Other Day”

It’s funny how your memories/fantasies change throughout the years. I remember having such good moments that I didn’t want to think about them too much, lest they lose their “fail-safe happy place” sheen. And guess what — I’ve forgotten them all. Occasionally I’ll have a dream or a flashback and have to remind myself that it was a real moment long since buried. And it’s comforting to know that I had some happiness somewhere along the line.

Then I have the moments that I’ve played to death. And even most of them, I don’t remember all that well — at least, not the details, the ones I probably obsessed over at some point.

I guess, despite everything, I’ve been feeling more like myself lately. Working a lot, sure, but being a social butterfly again. I’d retracted my wings for a long while because of money, and I find myself being forced to do it again. (Mom asked if “we” could afford to put $50 in somebody’s birthday card. Guess who “we” is in this equation. Barf. Do “we” really need that expensive cell phone plan, then?)

Anyway, I’ve just been hanging out socially with people who are good to me, who compliment me and laugh at my jokes and tell me they enjoy me and hug me with all the sincerity in the world. Like, my being on this planet makes a difference to them. They demand nothing of me and appreciate any energy I can afford them.

“On any other day I’d be blue *green* eyes crying,
I could tell the world that at least I’m trying,
The clouds are breaking the sun is shining new …
Maybe luck and love, will pull us through.”

I realize how little it takes for me to light up and sparkle — a conversation with handsome young men, a safe environment, a happy memory tucked safely in my mind to bring a smile to my face randomly. Everyone says it, and it’s true — happiness attracts happiness.

When I’m out in the world, positive vibes come my way when I’m feeling good. When a friend “gets” me or puts me on a pedestal for a moment, I carry that with me. You have no idea how I cherish it. And you might never know what transpired in the moments that “made” me, but you’ll see it for days to come. People see that and want to be around that. It rubs off on those who are receptive to it.

Anyway, so much more than meets the eye is going on here at Chez Caterwauling, per usual. So many secrets, so much effort behind appearing to be clueless and pretense behind being guileless.

I don’t mean to be crabby and upset and standoffish when I am. It’s just my way of demanding my space, and there are the (rare) people who respect that. Then there are those who could give a flying fuck and push their way into my face anyway. And, best of all, there are those who respect it but edge in carefully to distract me and make me enjoy a moment, sometimes even despite myself.

I just hope the high can last a little while longer, and maybe it will attract even more good. Or, at least, maybe it will keep the bad from hurting so much.

Via my favorite Boston Creme sweetie.

You Are a Caramel Crunch Donut

You’re a complex creature, and you’re guilty of complicating things for fun. You’ve been known to sit around pondering the meaning of life… Or at times, pondering the meaning of your doughnut. To frost or not to frost? To fill or not to fill? These are your eternal questions.