Caterwauling

English Bay

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

So, the photo may be of Vancouver, but I’m back in my souper-seekrit location in South Florida. Mom-cation, the revenge!

I’m puppy-sitting the most-adorable four-pawed wonder I’ve ever met. (Of the canine variety — I still think my Maddie was, paws down, the coolest kitty ever.) In the past 24-ish hours, we’ve gone for three walks, met no fewer than 25 people who knew him on sight and eaten an untold amount of treats. (And that’s just me!)

I quipped that picking up dog poop, oddly, wasn’t the lowlight of my day. Everybody knows my Tuesdays suck. Today was a Thursday masquerading as Tuesday. And didn’t Mercury just hop back into retrograde? Sure feels like it.

I had a Big Work Situation today. And it was mine, all mine, to take care of. And I did. I’m so damned relieved, but so very exhausted.

I didn’t have a lot of anxiety going into it. (It begins with “T” and ends with “ermination.”) Of all the people I’ve let go in my career, this one was the most-talented. But there is a LOT to be said for it not being a fit … and for the fit changing over (albeit it a short) time.

I’d been documenting and agonizing out the wazoo because it was a delicate, delicate situation. But I hit a point where it was just time to eliminate the position — trying to save it and morph it was just ending up in disaster, and I don’t have time for disaster. I have enough disasters to address on my to-do list, thanks!

Also disappointing was the fact that I’d left a vintage Far Niente in my trunk (in the HOT Florida sun) for far too long. Not that I was planning to do this event today. Tomorrow was my planned day. But when I’m through, you should just stick a fork in me and run for the hills before I stab back. Because I will. Hard.

Anyway, my wine is kinda skunky, but I don’t care. This is NOT the day to be picky.

All in all, it was a good day. Productive. But exhausting. Even though my nerves were fine, I was just good and mad. And then I had a few moments of “please, please don’t let us get sued for this.” But I had done my due diligence. The whole company (well, just Corporate, which was in the know) was standing behind me.

I’d done everything I could … for the company. And I will always wonder whether I did right by the employee (I tried. I don’t know whether I was met halfway), but in this case, the one thing we agreed on was that this was for the best.

Was it that easy? Apparently so. But I refuse to breathe a sigh of relief just yet. My heart is still pretty broken at the way things turned out.

Life goes on, though. I have a new employee — whom I recruited, recommended and cannot WAIT to see perform — starting in a completely different position soon. I have work that I just couldn’t part with that now I will be able to relinquish. That’s exciting for me. I won’t get calls when I’m out of the country anymore. Yeah!

So, I got to play Glenda the Good Witch with her on Monday. Then I pulled on the striped socks and played the Wicked Witch today. Tomorrow, I’ll bring Toto (er, George) to the office to entertain the Munchkins. And I will ROCK my ruby-red stilettos from one end of Oz to the other.

Oh, and Baltimore? Here I come. Not forever this time, but don’t rule me out yet. …

Canada Place

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

So I haven’t been to church in weeks. so I attended online services this morning PLUS I’m going to go to services live-and-in-person tonight. A double dose of Jesus couldn’t hurt right now.

The other night, I came home after 9 p.m. per usual, and went straight to my room, per usual. And the OEH texted that I could have my living room back. (As she had been in it when I flounced past without an acknowledgment.)

I replied back, “Don’t care about the living room. I want my HOUSE back.”

And she replied back, “I made pasta salad.”

Gotta love the state of passive-aggressiveness here. How does one register her car THERE?!?!

I just rented a storage unit, as this place is an avalanche of boxes that I am sick of looking at. I have gorgeous views of the Intracoastal and I can’t see ‘em over the boxes. (And the closed vertical blinds, as I’m trying to keep the damn heat out.) I wonder whether it would be cruel to move the OEH into said storage unit — I would consider that 30 bucks a month a bargain for my sanity!

In attending online services today, we examined the Lord’s Prayer and the five stations of prayer. One was how you just have to keep forgiving people, the way you’ve been forgiven. See, this is where I have problems.

I’m not saying I’ve lived an exemplary life. Believe me, if there were some things (and some friends) I would have been smart enough to run screaming past, I’d go back and undo that shit in a heartbeat. But mostly, I’ve been ambling along, minding my own business … just trying to be a good person and a dutiful employee and otherwise attempt to not rain on anybody else’s parade.

Now, I know better than to think my life is terrible. I also know that it’s not the picture of grace and joy.

One thing I try to keep in mind is that I’m a good person, but maybe not a great one yet. If I do something slightly unholy, I figure I’m a better person than X. But I also know not to compare myself to a wretched piece of shit and, instead, I should compare myself to someone like Mother Theresa.

Like, WWGD? As in, What Would Gahndi do? And if that means go on a hunger strike, well, would that REALLY do my pudgy pork-roast butt any harm at this point?

So, beyond the “keep forgiving people” crap, as I’ve found that sometimes the only way to speak to people is to stop speaking to them ENTIRELY because they keep driving me NUTS, I found one other flaw in today’s sermon.

And that was the comment how many of us are on drugs to calm our nerves. That we clearly don’t believe enough in Jesus to take care of things.

Look, when I was dealing with all kinds of problems — perhaps bigger, albeit less-permanent than the ones I currently face — I had faith in God. I knew I couldn’t be unemployed forever, or that PsychoFailureFaggilicious had to run out of stupid ideas eventually. And maybe it took moving to Florida, but both problems are as solved as they can be. Woo hoo!

But that was the thing — the end may not have been in sight for either worthless situation, but I knew it would come eventually. And it did.

So here I am, starting to get kind of excited about life again. Like, it ain’t a dream job but it pays well and I have free time. And I’m starting to have faith that maybe there are single men under 50 out there worth getting to know. And maybe — and this is a BIG maybe — I might be amenable to the whole marriage and kids thing. Now, I don’t want to go out on a limb here, because that’s a HUGE development for me. But you know, I’m open to discussion. Which is a change from even six months ago.

In any case, I didn’t need meds back then. But I do now. And it’s truly because the OEH seems to think that this is permanent. That she’s entitled. That SO WHAT if I’m miserable — hey, at least she cleans the toilets and bakes, so what more do I want from her?

I think even Jesus would agree that the Paxil/Klonopin cocktail I ingest daily is keeping the homicide rate down, and that’s a GOOD thing!

Now I see why I drop out of church every now and again. I know their job is to show us the light and the truth and the way. And the truth hurts. No arguments there.

But what this yin-yang in the next room doesn’t realize is that the longer she wears out her welcome, the less-likely it is she’ll ever get a son-in-law or, gasp, a grandchild. Because I HATE sharing my space. HATE IT. There is no way in God’s green earth that any man will be moving in with me A) with her here, or B) even if she gets the fuck out of my space (into my storage unit?), I want my house back. I mean it.

I went to the eye doctor yesterday. Beyond the financial annoyance that Costco doesn’t take my insurance (I’ll submit it to my provider anyway. If I remember. Which, I never remember), I realized that masturbation really DOES make you go blind. God damn. They said I’d be pretty much fucked by age 38. My eyes themselves are healthy; my vision has just deteriorated off a cliff.

Time to get a new profession, one that doesn’t involve, oh, PUBLISHING?!?!

And that’s worrisome, you know? It’s like, bitch, get outta mah house. If I have two years to catch a man before I have to wear glasses 24 hours a day till the day I croak, can a girl have a lair where she can seduce her poor victims?

And then I think, fuck her. Seriously, fuck her. My house. I shouldn’t be hiding at my friend’s apartment when she’s out of town to enjoy the quiet. I should be bringing a parade of people through my house. I shouldn’t hide in my room. I should sit my stormcloud ass on my couch and command the remote.

I’d turn the TV off, BTW. I hate the TV. Silence is lovely. The TV is only on to keep people from feeling the need to TALK TO ME.

Hm. So yeah, at this point I’d have to pay for her to stay in a hotel if I have a guest here. So the solution is to get my own damn hotel. And what’s the fucking point of that when the view here is lovelier than any hotel I’ve ever stayed in? I’m literally watching a plane land at the airport as I type. THIS is what I’ve worked so hard for. And if my vision goes and, in turn, my career goes, well then won’t we all be out on the streets?

At least we’ll be together, she says.

*head—>desk*

That’s what I’m afraid of. I can think of worse people to spend my future with. (I’d type the name again but I’m aware of the “Beetlejuice” effect.) And I really don’t want to spend the rest of my life alone.

But I also don’t want to spend it medicated because I have to numb my basic impulses to A) knock the Jesus freaks upside the head with their “forgive everybody BUT you are not a good Christian if you are on the psychotropic hayride yourself, and B) to duct-tape someone to a surfboard and push them out to sea.

This is why I need two doses of church today, I guess!

How is it only Wednesday? How?!?!

It’s been a good week. Markedly improved over last. I’m more focused, although I HAVE to be. Deadlines and such, y’know?

I think I have two very strong candidates for the two open positions for which I’m hiring. One’s going to bring a few sticky problems with getting a work visa. And I know unemployment blows in this country, and believe me, it hurts my heart that the talent pool is about fingertip-deep. But I have such specialized needs that I can’t just hire any idiot and hope for the best. We’ve tried that already. Which is why we’re trying another way!

The problem is, I had some really good interviews. And those people are stalking me. And I would have taken a chance on any of them in a heartbeat. But I also don’t have the final say. So, in a decision-by-committee situation, I’ve gone the route of believing in Santa Claus. I have three requirements for these positions. And the two “winners” (can I call the race so soon?) let me believe in Santa, the Tooth Fairy AND the Easter Bunny.

What’s funny about the whole hiring process is the wide array of applicants. I have everything from fresh-out-of-college kids asking for six figures, to laid-off vice presidents at the (formerly) Big Banks who are STALKING me and only asking for $30K/year.

And don’t get me wrong — the JPMorgan guy and the Morgan Stanley dude would do JUST fine with little training. But … they’d also hit the bricks the moment the economy turns around.

I kind of hate having people’s fate in my hands like that. I don’t want them to think I’m violating any EEOC rules and not considering them because of their, ah, extensive experience. I just know not to waste my time (or, too much of it, as some of these stalkers are trying to bully me into interviewing them. Which is a tactic I’ve used myself. Successfully, at that. Surprisingly enough).

But what said stalkers must understand is that I’m wearing several capes right now, and having extraneous conversations goes to the bottom of the to-do list that’s about as long as a James Michener novel. And if my inability to call you right back at your convenience offends you, just WAIT till you get a dose of the CrankyPants on the phone!

But I’ve been there. God, I’ve been there. And a LOT of people wasted MY time, too. Between impossible editing tests and six rounds of interviews that didn’t so much as garner me a courtesy call to say they hired someone else, I know. Between living hand-to-mouth and not having next month’s rent or, hell, that week’s electric bill, I know. Not having a single soul to rely on if I get kicked out on the streets .. trust me, I KNOW.

I am looking forward to the “Glenda the Good Witch” moment when I can make two offers. Because this is my chance to build my team with MY people. I inherited a gaggle of great people, overall. Quirky as fuck, most of them, but in a generally lovable way. And at a time when the houseguest is like a bad employee who keeps getting fired but keeps showing up (and getting paid for nothing), and at a time when I’d go crazy if I actually TRIED to attack my whole to-do list, bringing in people who worship the very ground I fall on will be a nice change of pace.

Florida has been good for me. As I interviewed someone today who has had a very abbreviated version of my career path, I was proud to say that the person she met briefly a few years back is different now. Sure, I CAN work 14 hours a day again. And some times, I will have to. But I’ve found a bit of a balance that I never would have dreamed of allowing myself back in D.C. I HAD to overachieve. I HAD to haul ass. I was green in my field and I was hell-bent on learning everything I could. Now I can kind of chill. I know my shit. No one can pull the knowledge out of my head, or the experience out of my pocket. It is worth waiting for. I promise!

What I loved about my interviewees is that they’re still hungry. You get a lot of laid-back people in Florida. They don’t have the drive that we did in the Big City. We dress differently at the beach. We move a little more slowly. We know we deserve sunshine and time to enjoy our nice weather. We know things will get done and everything will be all right.

Or maybe the rest of the world was always like that, but I’ve only just now discovered how much BETTER life can be if only you choose to live it and not put it on hold indefinitely.

But, I still have some of my city-inspired expectations. Like, the lack of hunger for more responsibility, or to impress one’s elders, frustrates the FUCK out of me.

I was thinking about one in particular today — “toying” with the thought, if you will — how at that age/position/experience I would have been crafting projects for myself to impress my superiors — to get them to notice me. Hell, to ensure that I would still have a job the next day.

I appreciate when people ask how they can help, but when I’m changing from my Wonder Woman cape to my Bat Girl getup, I need people to play nice by themselves.

And I would CERTAINLY make the time to read a well-thought-out marketing plan on how to revamp the Web sites or how to monetize social media (and thus to make the case for utilizing it), if anyone thought TAKING THE INITIATIVE to hand me one might be a good idea.

Don’t get me wrong — I like lazy time. I believe that downtime is a great creativity enhancer. But if you’re gonna show up at work, grab a spare cape and figure out how to fly, because THAT is where I’m going to see you and think about taking you with me on the journey!

My Mom-cation of this past weekend was so short — too short — but so very lovely.

The weather was crappy yesterday — gray and, ultimately, super-rainy. I headed home early so that my friend could have her lovely apartment to herself when she came home from the airport.

See, that’s something I miss about having my freedom — coming home to a quiet, empty apartment.

When I got home, oddly enough, the Ultra Extra Over-Extended Houseguest was nowhere to be found. A dear friend advised me, “Masturbate and call the locksmith!” LOL.

If only it were that easy to call the locksmith. I was willing to pay the double-time for a Sunday, plus a convenience charge for making them swim to my house in the pouring rain. I also would happily have kicked in extra for them to bring my groceries up to the house, as I got SOAKED trying to drag my cat food and yogurt into the building!

The UEOEH and I got into it this morning. She tried to reserve me for Friday night to take her out to dinner. The drive is a pain in the ass; it’s a restaurant I don’t particularly care for, and guess what? I already made plans with my friend — and we SPLIT THE BILL!!!

So, WHY would I want to take UEOEH out at her command?

I’d slept in Friday. My alarm re-set itself during the night. (I swear, I’d checked it twice before I went to sleep.) So as I was flying around like the Tasmanian Devil to get ready, she stops me and says, “Oh, are you off today?” I asked what does she care. “So we can do something together!” she exclaimed.

Now, for three years, she has assumed she can claim any weekend day, day off or evening. That I would be THRILLED to spend any of my free time with her. Uh, PLEASE.

Sometimes I get charitable and do it wordlessly. But once my friend moved to town — with whom I have SO MUCH MORE FUN — I realize I don’t HAVE to babysit anymore.

It still costs me the same, maybe more, as I always have to make sure princess has an allowance so she can eat. As that’s her usual guilt-trip schtick — “I’M HUNGRY!”

She did not “get” why I was away this weekend — to be ALONE and FAR AWAY from her. To recapture my lost youth as a single apartment-dweller.

So today after she commanded my Friday night, I said simply, “Why?”

The answer, unsurprisingly, “BECAUSE I’M HUNGRY.”

And after being told by my boss last week that I am entirely too accommodating (this was work-related, though), I said, “Well, aren’t YOU demanding?”

She was dumbfounded and repeated it. I could just see the little hamster in her brain, waking up and plotting to tell her useless friends — using the phone I paid for as well as the minutes that are on my tab — what a bitch I am. How she’s SO NICE and I’m SO MEAN.

I wasn’t about to be told I was mean. (Again. For the eleventy billionth time in four years.)

I said, look, it’s time you made me a list — a written-out, detailed list — of everything you need to move out. Instead of just telling me that I don’t help and I suck and I’m mean, just write out in exact terms what it is I have to do to get my apartment back by Dec. 31.

I said that this is the only way we can salvage what’s left of this relationship. It isn’t working … it hasn’t BEEN working … and isn’t four years of this shit enough for either one of us to take?

In usual Cleopatra (Denial) fashion, she decided to compliment my shirt and ask to see it. (As I was trying to hide in my bathroom with the door cracked open ’cause it’s HOT in there.) I said no and go away. She does that all the time — wants to see whatever’s new. So she can borrow it, no doubt. Or, because SHE doesn’t get anything new.

I’m not claiming to be better or worse or anything — I work hard for my money. Sometimes. I treat myself to new (and mostly cheap) stuff. I don’t need a fucking parade to commemorate each occasion.

And besides, it was like our earlier conversation had never happened. Like thousands of similar conversations before it.

Every time I remind myself that I don’t have it too bad in life, she flares up and I go through the roof. And as we know, my landlady refuses to patch the roof — just paint over the wet spots — and it’s rainy season and I cannot AFFORD to have a hole in the ceiling right now!!!

I’m on a gastrointestinal tour of a local city. I’m trying to pretend to be a tourist in a town I know like the back of my hand, and I ALMOST get away with it … until I tell the goofy asshole who’s harassing the seating host at the restaurant where I’m chowing down on a salad and ancho-bourbon boneless wings that the Starbucks to the north is WAY closer than the one to the south. Whoops.

I had some unexpected dinner companions the other night. They had a kid who was a few years old. Cute kid. Inquisitive. Sharp as a fucking tack. I made sure to only talk to adults, as it was past 8 p.m. and I just don’t “do” kids.

I was talking to his mom, who may be a couple years younger than me, but I was too polite to ask. I threw out my own age to see if she bit — she didn’t — but I was as clever about it as I could be, given the late hour. I said, with nothing but truthfulness, that dating over age 36 is a bitch because you have the “having children” discussion WAY sooner than you ever thought possible.

Shit, just get me to the next date already — I’m not ready to allocate my eggs. Besides, what if I end up like Charlotte on “Sex and the City” and all the birth control over the years was for nothing, and I couldn’t have any if I tried anyway?

The gal I met was happy to have just one child. And she lamented how she used to be the breadwinner — and how she couldn’t keep up with her career and the kid at the same time, so she had to choose. Clearly, she chose the kid.

And it’s an interesting debate that I’ve had with myself. I’ve been the breadwinner in most of my entanglements. And believe you me, I am THROUGH with working … you don’t have to ask me twice to get off the career track.

Like another good friend said, it’s time to quit being a workaholic, and work on finding and nurturing a functional relationship. We already did the “work thing” — time to work on our personal lives for a change.

But now that our friend’s life is starting to return to normal — i.e., she said it takes till the munchkin is about 3 years old for some semblance of your former life to start to return — she’s been off the career train for three years. That’s a long time. How do you jump back on?

And how do you “make do” in the interim?

It’s funny for me to even be thinking about this stuff, as I’m on holiday from the Ultra Extra Over Extended Houseguest (who keeps texting — she texted as the cat, asking where I am. Gah), and she’s damn good at driving away any urge I have to meet a guy and perpetuate this fucked-up gene pool. I mean, really — when she dies, shouldn’t I just enjoy the silence that she’s deprived me of for so long?

Anyway, I told our friend my theory, that I want to go to Paris. I want plastic surgery. And if I can throw in a kid, yay. Win. I want it all. Or I have to make choices … which likely don’t involve something that shits in a diaper.

And our friend, who is trying so hard to regain some sense of normalcy, says to me, “You can always have Paris. But your window to have a child is, unfortunately, not open for a lifetime. Just be sure that you can look back in 20 years and be OK with that decision.”

I hate voices of reason.

I’m not on the baby train just because of my advanced biological-clock age. It would need to involve the right guy, and the right financial situation for me to scale back on work … or (prayerfully) to be able to take a hiatus entirely.

I don’t know that kids are in my future. Bu I do admit that the idea of working myself into my grave is less and less appealing.

Of course, it’s all contingent upon finding the right guy. And I need to be happy with “just” him … someone I can play with and talk with and have fun with and not want to choke because he’s in my space … before I can even think about “doing it for our country.” (As apparently the Japanese are financially incentivizing their population to ensure that the pagoda’s a-rocking.)

Good lord, I’ve had such a good day on my own. Why am I typing about babies? Does all the alcohol I’ve consumed (Blue Moon drafts with orange slices) send my mind THERE? Or is it seeing all the baby carriages on the Avenue … filled with purse dogs … that makes me want to head off my boarding of the crazy train?

Or maybe is it that I want my chance to do something that isn’t soulless and insipid, like pretty much everything else that I’m known for that serves as the sole thing that defines my contribution to this world?