Caterwauling

Waterway Cafe, Palm Beach Gardens

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

As I blew out my candles on my birthday cupcake, my fondest wish was for a man to take me away from all of this.

I normally don’t reveal my wishes. And they normally don’t come true. So, this year we’re doing it a little differently.

My disclaimer on this is that a man is what I want in the long term. I don’t really care about the short term. I’ve always said, and I’ve always meant it, that it’s the heart that attracts me. And far be it from me to walk away from someone who treats me well, since there are so few who seem remotely capable of doing so. In other words, no limits, kids.

I was telling a friend the other night though that since my life has been nothing short of a disaster, is it so wrong to want the fairy tale/happily ever after? Maybe not a white-picket fence, but a lovely modern condo in the sky that serves as a home base for all the world adventures that await would do just fine.

But this tender age where normal women start to feel their biological clock ticking, the only “24″-like explosion in my life is going to be my HEAD if things don’t get better.

So, for those who aren’t aware, I moved mom back in with me. That would explain the clawing at my own skin, in case you’ve seen me lately.

I had to kick her out. I couldn’t have my days sucking AND my nights sucking almost as bad. Three years and counting here. *gnashing teeth*

So when I made some life changes … and realized she was NEVER going to be able to help me with the rent — which was WHERE EVERY DIME WAS GOING — I found a bigger place in the same building and moved us both into it.

I had been promised financial assistance when I moved Mommy out on her own. Which was the main impetus for doing so. And it eventually came in a lump sum a few months after the fact. Which I used to float myself between jobs. Thanks!

The financial hell was part of the reason for taking her back. I had stopped hating her for being underfoot — and started enjoying the ability to work from home, to have the cat be silent because nobody was riling her up, and to mostly come and go as I pleased — but I could have been renting a six-bedroom oceanfront mansion for the same cost.

I mean, GOD FORBID I wanted to do anything fun with my life. Two sets of rent, electric, cable, and groceries … what the fuck do I look like here, an ATM?

Plus, her health is in such rapid decline that, much as I DON’T want to keep an eye on her, at least she’s underfoot so I know if she’s OK.

But who has two thumbs and ISN’T OK? *this guy*

Why? SHE’S DRIVING ME CRAZY.

Oh, the reasons are too lengthy to list. But I’ll try.

She loves to play with the cat. The cat screams constantly. She loves to drag the screaming cat through the house and out on the balcony all day long. (Did I mention the baby talk? All fucking day long to the cat. I remember my grandfather used to baby-talk occasionally. Mom said I would miss it when he was gone. I miss him, absolutely. But the baby talk? Not so much.)”

I cannot work from home anymore because it’s like I have a burr nestled up my ass. Between having to hear her TV and having her enter my bedroom a thousand times a day because she wants to pet the cat, I want to kill myself.

For the record, I’ve told her that her tormenting the cat is just a cry for attention — negative, at that — from me. And that my room is not a fucking thoroughfare. The cat will come out. You can see her all you want then.

So I have an L-shaped balcony. My bedroom is at the heart of the L, with floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors on two sides. The kitchen is to the left, the living room is to the right and her bedroom — the master bedroom — is on the other side of the living room.

So instead of her, say, walking across the living room to get to the kitchen, she walks the L-shaped balcony damn near constantly. Since it’s all sliding-glass doors, you can access any room from the balcony.

So I have to look at her face fucking constantly. And hear my poor screaming cat as she dances her along the balcony.

I’ve actually been able to go out and have some fun lately. Mostly, I’m back in my “not going home till bedtime” mode. Whereupon I have to be asked 20 questions about where I was, what I ate, who I saw, where I got my outfit, why I didn’t answer all 30 of her e-mails, why I didn’t buy her X, Y or Z like she asked, and anything else screamworthy.

I just don’t want to talk about what I do or don’t do while I’m away. I can’t even fucking whack off in my “water room” (as it sits on the Intracoastal Waterway) because princess is parading up and down the walkway at all hours.

God forbid I actually brought somebody home. I can’t go outside to make a phone call in private because she’ll come out too.

I can’t go anywhere on the weekends without her claiming me. Like last night when I rolled in at stupid o’clock, she parked her ass on the couch over my shoulder (the computer is in the living room because my bedroom is tiny, so I can’t write uninterrupted anymore — GAH). And she said, “Whatever you do tomorrow, I want to go with you.”

She does this all the time. It’s basically pissing on me and marking her territory. It’s always done after I had a day to myself, so that I feel sorry for her for being ALL BY HERSELF all week and maybe also on a weekend day that I was otherwise supposed to babysit but failed to live up to my job description.

She doesn’t care where we go — be it the beach or a four-star restaurant — just as long as she’s nestled up my ass so that I couldn’t possibly enjoy the day. And then I will hear all day, “YOU’RE SO MEAN!” because I will drag your ass around town but I don’t have to like it.

I brought her back this pretty necklace from Canada. She left it in my room the next day. (Because she’s always in my fucking room.) Apparently there was a 90-page e-mail explaining why, that I treat her like shit and I make her feel like she doesn’t deserve anything.

Because GOD FORBID I deserve to have my life back. Which one of us doesn’t deserve what we want in this scenario?

So I told her to throw it away. She doesn’t deserve nice things? Then wipe your ass with them. Really. Fuck you. Over it.

So of course she wore it yesterday and got compliments on it. No thanks to me, of course, since “You always make me feel like shit.”

So now I’m sitting here, trying to get some writing done while she dances a very angry cat around the back of the couch, with her asking what’s in the picture on the screen, and her saying, “If you go to the beach, I want to go with you. Are you going to the beach? it’s Memorial Day. Do you want to get a burger? I know you say you’re not eating meat but it’s Memorial Day — you HAVE to eat a burger! Oh hey I put cake in the fridge with that ten bucks you gave me. I couldn’t afford anything else so I bought you cake. That won’t hurt your diet. When are we going to the beach? What are you typing? Where did you get that shirt? Can I see it? Why not? You’re SO MEAN!”

*headfacepalmdesk*

That’s for my boat. Someday…

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

Today’s highlights:

1. An employee who was, ah, overlooked in some way (don’t ask) graciously said, “This is the best place I’ve ever worked. Truly.” And my boss responded with, “Huh? Where did you work before? (Goddess’ old company?)” *snort*

2. A friend referring to an e-mail we all laughed at: “Committee? Don’t they mean ‘psychotic, under-qualified, disbarred bunch of assholes’?”

3. Blowing the cover off the biggest, stupidest lie EVER.

4. Having my 2 p.m. meeting canceled on Meeting Tuesday^TM.

5. Using said meeting slot to go buy cupcakes!

6. Eating said cupcakes. Some of them. :9

7. A Starbucks run with my boss. And getting a sort-of promotion.

8. Pushing off a pain-in-the-ass project or two.

9. Lovely messages from friends around the globe. And a late-day bitch fest with mah girl T.

10. Turning 30. For the 7th time. (Or was that just turning 35 again?)

Saw that via Goddess Sabre on F-book, and I simply cannot say it better (or else I would!).

So I came home yesterday to a torrent of “Why didn’t you call me while you were away?” blah blah cakes.

Because I didn’t call anybody.

“Yeah right — you probably were on the phone every day with T and all your other friends. I’m trying to die here. The least you could do is CHECK on me.”

What fucking part of “phone will be off due to international rate charges” did you not hear, woman?

“You know I am about to die, right? You have absolutely no concern about me. I know you hate me and want me dead. And I will be soon. You can’t spend $15 on a quick call — that shows me what a cruel little girl you are.”

I’m turning 36 tomorrow. And since the first thing you told me about was some guy who died right outside our apartment building because he fell off a boat, and how Bret Michaels blah blah something or other, do you BLAME me?

“You KNOW I have the same thing Bret Michaels does. I could have been DEAD and you were too into yourself to have the courtesy to find out.”

Inner voice is going to become an outie. “I gave you cash to go to the doctor. Did you make an appointment? Did they take you?”

Silence.

“That’s what I thought. Are you PLANNING to call?”

“No.”

“Well, I want it back. I left you enough for food and a doctor’s visit and then some.”

“I spent the money.”

“Of course you did.”

“I wanted you to go WITH me!!! I can’t go ALONE!!!”

“You didn’t have any problem taking that money to make that appointment while I was gone, did you now?”

I’ll spare you the long e-mail I got this morning about what a miserable wretch I am and how she knows I’ll be happy after she dies. But on (her) second thought, I’m SO miserable that her dying won’t even cheer me up.

Welcome to my world. Happy birthday to me. Another year, another calendar full of total bullshit. Whee.

*bashing hot frying pan into my forehead*

City street, Old Montreal

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

I’m sure if you’ve ever over-indulged on culinary delights, you’ve lugged around a “food baby” for a while. After last night’s dinner, I’m calling mine “fondue baby.”

Things I have consumed my weight (and possibly yours) in during the last 7 days:

1. Brie
2. Goat cheese
3. Baguettes
4. Croissants
5. Bordeaux
6. Coffee
7. Escargots
8. Beer
9. Fondue. Swiss cheese and white wine, with tomato bread pieces, merci beaucoup

Tonight, whilst back in dog-breath-heat-and-humidity-land (i.e., South Florida), I went for the tried-and-true native cuisine, fish tacos and key lime pie.

While I miss all the fabulous French food, a girl just can’t eat like that every day. Well, she COULD, but not if she wants to continue buckling that airline safety belt over the fondue baby!

Rev Run (of Run-DMC fame) said something interesting on Twitter, that you never lose when you love; you lose when you’re afraid to. Hmm. I’ll get to that later.

So Day 6 of my 7-day Montreal adventure is upon me. I will be in customs at this time tomorrow, heading back to sand and sun and bullshit.

I’ve had my phone mostly off for a week, thanks to international voice/data charges. It’s been heavenly.

Don’t get me wrong — I’ve had a few calls and texts, most notably from my mother — whose calls I never answer — who taught herself how to take a photo and sent a photo of herself to me to remind me of her.

(Gee, thanks for the data charge.)

I spent the first few nights by myself here. It’s quite a difference with this group from the Ye Olde Workplace Establishment of days past. We worked for a bigger company, but were part of the coolest division within it. The people in our division were the Teletubbies — we were all really good friends who spent every waking (and some passed-out) minutes together.

I was surprised but ultimately happy to be on my own for the first few nights. Then everyone started asking where I kept disappearing to. So I’ve been present the past two nights.

It’s different from years past. But I gotta say, it’s been worth it.

It think the cast of characters at every job has been a cross between “The Island of Misfit Toys” and “The Real World.” While I may never find the group of BFFs from my ill-fated Awesome Department (thank God I still have those people in my life. Thank. God.), I managed to find a group of very astute young people who are actually kind of a riot outside the office.

Two of us rolled up to Crescent Street the other night, which is sort of the Clematis Street of West Palm Beach or Carson Street in Pittsburgh. Canada had just triumphed over Philly (boo) and the streets were FILLED with thousands of happy Canadians in my high school colors of red and blue.

Just fair warning: They take hockey seriously here. I didn’t realize the Canadians and the Maple Leafs were two separate teams … and got corrected by a VERY angry cab driver about that. Screw them — Philly lost. (Did I mention, boo?)

So we ended up at Sir Winston Churchill Pub (on the British side of town, clearly), and my new friend said that I seem like I’m drowning.

That caught me off-guard. I don’t think she was talking about work. I didn’t ask — I just contemplated it.

I guess I was just so unfamiliar with being out and having fun. I do it on occasion. But I guess I don’t ever thoroughly enjoy myself anymore. Work, home, friends, boys … everything’s good — even great sometimes — but not of the remarkable and memorable and “I can’t wait to get out of bed because it’s going to be the best day of my life” caliber. But then again, what is?

At the pub, as if on cue, my fun sat right down next to me. James is a sailor from Scotland. And when my gal introduced me as her boss, he was very interested.

And I let myself … just for a few moments … get caught up in it all. I thought, wow — what a story this will make. Florida girl meets Scottish boy in Canada. Reminded me of an old colleague, a U.S. Navy chap who met his Australian bride in Japan.

And while I’m not “happily ever after” girl because I harbor no delusions, I gave a sweet, passing thought to how I would describe the night to my friends.

Suffice it to say, my gal has blackmail material on me.

But when it boils right down to it, no delusions can be a good thing. I watched all his sailor buddies trying to pick up chicks. It’s what they DO.

They roll into town for a night or two in their clean, pressed white uniforms. They put their white caps with their country’s emblem on girls’ heads and tell us how sexy we all are. If they are anything like me, they make the joke that later, that’s the only thing we’re going to be wearing.

(That IS what you all say, right? No? Just me? Carry on…)

And I had to decide between having him (which there was no doubt I could) and being content with just knowing it.

The Goddess of her 20s (and the occasional time in her 30s) would do it just for the story. The Goddess of her 30s, as I explained to one of my young charges last night, has to make a decision whether to spend 30 minutes of her night staring at the ceiling.

Because, sometimes that’s what a girl needs … even if it’s not what she really wants. But if it’s not what you really want — and it comes with risks that just aren’t worth taking — well, there you have it.

So, if you’re looking for the punchline here, I’ll say this: If someone isn’t that great of a kisser, they ain’t gonna be all that wondrous anywhere else. Put THAT on a bumpersticker and remind your friends (or yourself), OK?

So maybe I am drowning. Maybe I forget how to really truly have fun.

I’m not even in a dark place right now — it’s simply devoid of color and light. And I can always flip on the light switch and paint the walls purple. I just haven’t gotten around to it yet. Or maybe I’m just lazy and I’m not ready to decorate till I’m willing to live with it for a while.

I work in trading and investing, and at the bottom line of everything I do is the risk/reward ratio.

And I’m range-bound right now. I’m not at my 52-week lows, but when it comes time to break through overhead resistance, I am willing to invest in a risky security (hell, they’re all risky) as long as I I believe the volatility will pay off.

And I’m NOT talking about stocks.