Caterwauling

Gastown Steam Clock

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

“You’re askin’ her to dance now
She spins a solid white light
She gonna make love to you today
Today and every night.”

– Beth Hart, “By Her”

T-15 hours till we pull outta this joint and head to the Great White North for 48 hours of … well, I don’t know what, exactly. Not being anywhere near home or work or anything like that. *Squee!*

I haven’t packed. Just gave myself the world’s hastiest pedicure. And really — it’s all good. Nothing that can’t be overcome with a little sleep and a LOT of hustling to get my work done in the morning.

The UEOEH actually washed all my clothes. I’m shocked. I rarely wash clothes because the W/D is in the master bath. And who has the master bedroom? Ain’t me! And I stay as FAR away as possible, lest conversation is engaged and I get to hear in person how mean I am instead of just via e-mail.

I have two new pairs of glasses. That my optometrist is about to staple to my head like I’m Eric Cartman. Sigh. I hate wearing glasses. But I’m not a candidate for Lasik because I’m farsighted and he said it’s only for nearsightedness.

Crap.

The glasses are cute. I have a brown jeweled pair for casual, and a black jeweled pair for dress-up. I surprisingly don’t have a headache, but my eyes are ready to defect from my head from being corrected all day. Yeesh.

I moved into a new office this week. It’s nice having a door, even though the walls are paper-thin. It actually feels like I have some amount of authority, especially because there are only two offices in our whole building.

Of course, I find I have a lot of free time, being down one employee. Which is not the way it’s supposed to be, right? Which means I made the right decision. But, alas, le sigh nonetheless.

Oh well. Tomorrow is a new day, indeed. And I look forward to the road trip, the ghost-hunting, the cozy hotel, and (I’m sure) the world tour of restaurants that we will pack into our weekend away.

And it will feel good to be about 250 miles closer to someone I miss, although I won’t be truly happy till we’re sharing the same breath again. But that will come soon enough. I am sure of it.

“She may be waiting
‘Round the comer of your mind
But still you know she’s there
You can feel her inside.”

Boo Boo

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

I’m babysitting my fur-nephew/furry godchild George. And I call him a lot of names — Giorgio, G, Munchkin and The One Without Opposable Thumbs. (The latter name has won me a few arguments with him!)

But the one name I think fits him best is “Man About Town.” Because everybody KNOWS him.

I can’t walk down the A1A without hearing a, “Hi George!” at least once a block. I have to put on my damn makeup ’cause people stop to talk. And since George’s mom is a beaming ray of sunshine, I don’t want everyone seeing my surly ass and wondering how we got to be friends.

And even if they (or, for some of them, their dogs) don’t know George, the walk isn’t complete without people stopping to pet him. He is that damn cute, I have to give him that.

People think I’m the dogwalker. I don’t even stop them and try to explain my actual career. As one of my employees noted when I took George into the office yesterday, it might not hurt me to put a bell on certain employees. It would be way easier to keep track of them. (Someone else said it, not me!)

I did have an in-depth chat with Boo Boo (pictured). I’ve run into him twice. He’s from Honolulu. He has a big story, and it’s consistent so I believe him, and I did tell him mine.

In fact, when he saw me today, he said, “I know you — you’re the girl who publishes that shit that don’t make no sense!” And I said, “I’m putting that on my business cards!”

He’s the nicest person. Has a smile and a compliment for everybody. I took this photo of him making some art for me and George — he’s using a magnifying glass to burn words into a palm leaf. On the back it has my name and George’s with a fish for me and a bone for him. On the front is where we met him.

Boo Boo says he has made millions of dollars in his life as a corporate motivator. And I can see that — he’s got bright eyes and a million-dollar smile. Conversation comes easily.

He’s been married three times. Says he hasn’t seen his last wife since 2003 and they never got divorced.

He got sick of the corporate world a few years back and became a beach bum. Lost all his money and makes a few bucks here and there with his art.

What I loved about him is that he just needs enough to buy Budweiser, cigars and the occasional steak. He lives on the beach. (His nice way of saying he’s homeless.) The corner of A1A and Atlantic is his “office” where he does his leaf-burning art.

He told me a story about meeting a woman down here over a year ago. They had a long-distance relationship for a couple of months, and she invited him to come up to the northeast to live with her.

He said she fell in love with the long-haired free spirit who had had enough of corporate life … the guy who takes pleasure in smoking and drinking and shooting the shit with like-minded people.

But then, she got him into her family business and yelled at him about his hair, his drinking, his smoking and pretty much everything that she had fallen in love with.

One day, he quit the job working for her brother in law. Changed out of his shirt and tie. Lit up a smoke and cracked open a beer. She started yelling at him and he said he was going out to the convenience store.

He left and never came back. And, he says, he always finds himself back in Delray, although his heart is in Honolulu.

Boo Boo told me his real name but I like keeping his cover. He doesn’t want anyone to know where to find him. He prefers it that way. He said he’s been featured on CNN. I can’t find it but I admit I haven’t been looking too hard.

But, I just had to re-tell his story because I loved it. I love that he says he made a half-million dollars last year, and pissed it all away. That he works just enough to get what he needs. And all he needs now is a bus ticket to California so he can get home to Hawaii to see his dog.

He said they are partying down at the beach tonight, him and two of his buddies. He wants me to come. He said he was going to go to Publix and get three steaks — well, four, now that I was invited. I said I don’t eat meat (a lie. Sigh.) because I wasn’t sure if I’d go.

I’m not afraid — I just know that I was meant to meet him, for the amount of time we met. If I run into him, I do want to pay him for his art. I of course carry no money on me whatsoever. Hell, I’ll buy him that bus ticket. Or a case of Bud. Whichever.

I guess he had a wild night with some woman he met. I asked a question about her, and he said it happened somewhere between “Bud” and “Weiser.” Hah. I’m stealing that line!

Anyway, while I love me some George, I’m definitely cured of my curiosity about wanting a dog.

Don’t get me wrong — I have LOVED stopping to see all the trees and flowers that I have walked past no fewer than four dozen times in the past year. I saw black-eyed Susans and calla lillies and, thanks to Boo Boo, smelled the awesome fragrance of burning palm leaves.

I’ve stopped to smile at people, to have conversations I would never have had, to pet other dogs and wave at babies who call out “Woof-woof!” when they see my furry little four-pawed wonder.

But I’m still selfish. I don’t mind going at the puppy’s pace. But after I carried him home for four blocks because he was hot and tired and so very over our world tour, I realized that I’m perhaps not ready to be on anyone else’s schedule but my own.

I’ve lived for everybody else. It’s kind of like how my mom took care of everyone in her life till they all died off. She doesn’t know how to take care of herself now. I thought she’d thrive once all her dependents (of which I never counted myself) were gone. But she’s withered.

Not me. Once she’s out of my house (whenever the hell THAT will be), I think I’m OK with finally starting to live for me. And whether that involves a puppy or adopting a kid or, hell, walking away from it all and living on the beach just like Boo Boo, all I know is that I will have earned it and, probably, not a soul will question my reasoning.

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!

Good morning

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

Greetings from an undisclosed location somewhere in South Florida. The photo is from the balcony — there’s an ocean back there but the morning is too bright (or the iPhone camera is too low-megapixel) to show it.

I spent yesterday giddier than an orgy participant in a roomful of naked, sweaty bodies and a neverending supply of Ecstasy. Why? Because I got the keys to my freedom … literally.

While a dear friend is traveling, I’m crashing at her place. So last night — after spending the day doing nothing but daydreaming about the absolute silence and calm I was about to enjoy — I went to my favorite Italian restaurant to buy a metric assload of my favorite pasta. I accompanied it with the wine we’d started drinking Thursday night. And I texted with my favorite person.

And did not a damn thing else.

The Ultra Extra Over Extended Houseguest texted that she missed me. I don’t know why. I mean, really. I go home and lock myself in my bedroom … exactly the way I did when I was counting down to my 18th birthday when I could get the hell away from what I called the Manson Family.

I’m not sure how to spend the next 48 hours. I actually forgot a lot of stuff at home. I literally packed nothing but a bathing suit, beach towel, sunscreen, PJs, a sundress and a toothbrush.

But see, that’s the glory of not having anyone nestled up your ass. I really don’t need much. When I don’t have someone who’s financially and emotionally needy, not only do I not need my medication (which is one of the things I forgot at home), I don’t need to be out shopping both to be alone as well as to find a new toy to reward myself for another week that I haven’t inflicted physical harm on someone else or myself.

So, if nobody hears from me for the next 48 hours, just know that I’m happy. I’ve consumed said metric assload of pasta and can’t really move from the couch right now. I should have probably eaten healthily since I can’t do that at home. But if I’m gonna be bad, I’m doing it on my own terms. And damn, that feels good. …