Caterwauling

On Instant Messenger last night, circa 9:30:

Colleague: I just checked the server for (project). It hasn’t been uploaded yet.
Colleague: I always check before I go to bed.
Me: Thanks! And clearly, you need to get a life.
Colleague: Aren’t you still working on (other project)?
Colleague: I can’t take advice on getting a life from others who don’t have one.
Me: Touche.

So, I haven’t bought shampoo in about four months. The one new year’s resolution I made (because I can stick to it) is to start using the basket filled with mini shampoos, conditioners and lotions that I’ve taken as souvenirs of various hotel stays.

Today, I used my Marriott Marquis products. It’s funny how you get a whiff of a familiar scent, and suddenly you’re transported to the heart of New York City. That’s my favorite place to go, mostly because it’s the most expensive price and the least amount of space, but you have the whole city waiting for you with just a short walk and/or a taxi ride.

I remember going to Serendipity for frozen hot cocoa (packets, anyway — the wait for a frozen hot chocolate was 2 1/2 hours!). I also remember standing on the street with my friends outside Thalia’s restaurant.

And I *should* remember the night we went to Mesa Grill and I got railroaded by sidecars in the 8th floor lounge at the Marquis, but I don’t recall much past wandering the streets with my friends and my camera and insisting that I simply MUST get a picture of Bear Stearns and Lehman Bros. (You know, those brokerages in the news these days. Go figure.)

Anyway, I had honestly forgotten where my latest shampoo/conditioner set had come from, as I didn’t recognize the Nirvae product line. But from the moment I stepped in the shower, I knew where I was the last time I’d inhaled these scents. I remember the people, the foods, the drinks, the stories … especially the ones NOT fit for print.

I’m in a New York state of mind today. If there were anywhere I would want to be right this very moment (other than a beach), it’d be there. So hey, anyone who messes with my state of mind? Fuck you!

Happy 6th anniversary to this blog, give or take. I can’t remember the exact date I started it. But it’s been a wild half-plus decade — this space has kept me from killing those who might have deserved it and yet made me want to suffocate some others in their sleep.

I notice that, as my friends get busier, they blog less. And I always thought, nah, I’ll find something to write about every day. And I try to. Even if it’s insignificant, it means something to me when I commit it to WordPress.

I realize that, the busier I am, the more I want to blog but the less able I am to do it. Like, I cannot manage to put together a succinct list of what’s happening here in the Potomac promenade that is Washington, D.C., but I assure you, I could write 50 blog entries on the past three days alone.

One thing I can say is that it’s the first year in about three that I haven’t moved. But I may still — I’m getting screwed on a rent increase anyway, and because these bastards will not give me my lease (but will leave notes and voicemails daily to come in and sign the fucking thing), I am in jeopardy of going month-to-month at an even-higher rate.

I did stop in the office today to ask for the damn lease already. (I had a laundry list of complaints for them to address — no time like when I’m committing to give them $18,000 over the next 12 months.)

Good God, that was my annual salary right before I started this blog. Now it’s my annual rent. Shit. Just goes to show that you can make more money, but your expenses increase incrementally so you’re never really as well-off as you think you SHOULD be.

Anyway, back to this place. The management-office monkey said he wasn’t ALLOWED to print out my lease … that only the manager could give it to me but she wasn’t going to be in for another two hours.

Pfft.

I said fine, you can have her slide it under my door. She left me a message today, but screw her — maybe it’s a sign to just take the monthly deal so I can hightail it on a whim if need be. And trust me, I expect this whim shall hit sooner rather than later. Besides, I rather enjoy being a moving target — it means I can’t be too much of a pack rat, if nothing else.

Boy, I wasn’t kidding when I said I blog about the insignificant! But it’s mine, all mine.

I’ve been having a bizarre load of deja vu today. There are always certain occurrences that prompt it, like the universe is telling me I’m “getting warmer” to where I’m supposed to be. It’s amazing to be feeling and not (just) thinking. I could get used to this.

Went out last night, which in and of itself isn’t an unusual occurrence, but as ALWAYS there’s no such thing as the perfect evening.

I looked fine when I left the house — not exotic or anything, but you know. Clean. Slightly fashionable outfit. Makeup. All that happy crap.

And I know I looked in the mirror and must have approved myself before I left, but I had somewhat of a drive to go meet someone. So when I got to my destination, I did the whole freshening-up thing in the ladies’ room just to make sure I was still somewhat cute and fresh and all.

And I noticed that there was a big, oily stain on my green tank top. Bizarre.

Luckily, I had another shirt to pull over it (and I was headed into a movie. *whew*) but it didn’t cover it fully and I admit, I was all “WTF?” over the mystery stain.

I mean, I admit that I miss my mouth most of the time when I’m eating. I’m one of those women who doesn’t eat much on dates — not to be dainty or anything, because you can look at me and know I like food. So, it’s really pointless to pretend to eat like a bird when everybody at the table knows better.

But I end up “getting more on me than in me,” as I am fond of saying. (Ahem.) So, knowing that I tend to spill a lot, I tend not to want to eat at least until the evening is almost over.

Anywhoo, got through the movie. (I rather loved “Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day” although I highly doubt it’ll be nominated for Picture of the Year.) And as a side tangent, I was very depressed for a moment during the show when I realized I no longer put myself in the young heroine’s shoes but, instead, I related more to the dowdy (read, “older”) Miss Pettigrew. When did I stop being the heroine of my OWN fantasies? Lord. < / tangent >

Dinner was at Brio, which was wonderful of course. I’ve been to its counterpart (Bravo) a few times but this was waaayyy better. The Italian Wedding soup tipped me off, as I knew I had tasted that recipe before. I rocked some lobster risotto for dinner, and it almost usurped Carrabba’s as my favorite Italian restaurant.

Anyway, I don’t think anyone noticed the stain — which, when I got home, I found out the one side of my Wonderbra had EXPLODED and the gel is what leaked all over the shirt. (Joy.) Luckily, the theater was dark, the restaurant was dim and I toddled off on my merry way like a good girl so I could be up for church today.

Proof positive once again that you can dress her up but you just can’t take her out!

So thanks to Craptastic Comcast, I’ve had spotty Internet connectivity for two weeks and the modem was dead as a doornail for the past two days.

I finally called to talk to a rep last night, who was just a rude little thing. She was mouth-breathing into the phone and giggling at whatever her coworkers were doing.

I knew there was an outage in my area but I was trying to reassign IP addresses and figured I’d effed something up. But, alas, I was fine and the rep should thank her lucky stars that she’s still employed. (She asked if I’m running XP and I said, no, I’m on a Mac. And she said, “Is that new?”)

My favorite moment was when she said, “I have 29 minutes to go and I can not WAIT to get out of here for the night.”

God forbid we talk about MY problems! She went on to say her brother locked himself out of the house and that he works there too and she had to go by his place before she goes home. Huh?!?! The fuck? Who gives a shit?

She wasn’t able to give me a reference number for the call because her computer froze up. I had full intentions of complaining. But then again, at least my call wasn’t outsourced to India this time and, minus the mouth-breathing, I could sort-of understand what she said, even if it was pure nonsense that has nothing to do with all the money I pay these morons each month.

Good to know that the world may change, but Comcast customer service has no shortage of suckage when there’s an outage.