Caterwauling

Shan and I went for salads and desserts at Ruby Tuesday at Landmark Mall tonight. The workday was particularly depressing, and we laughed it away over tallcakes.

I made a pitstop in the ladies’ room before we went window-shopping for wedding dresses for her, and I saw a discarded pregnancy test kit in the trash. All I saw was the box, and I felt sad. Someone most likely bought it at the CVS down the hall and couldn’t wait till she got home to take it. Or maybe she couldn’t take it home, so she had to pee on a stick in a public restroom. I don’t know who she was or what her results were — or whether she got the results she expected or even wanted — but I have a feeling that somebody in my area is going to be having a difficult time going to sleep tonight.

I’ve never bought the do-it-yourself test. I’ve passed them many times in the drugstores, and once in a blue moon, I wondered if I should buy one. But time passed and the monthly red hurricane arrived right on schedule. It’s easier, really, not having sex. I’ve never really been emotionally involved in the act, save for once or twice. And the only feeling I ever left with, other than occasional exhiliration or disappointment, was fear … fear that I’d have to buy one of those sticks and see it turn blue. I wonder what it would be like to want it to turn blue, to want the man you’re with to be the father of that child.

That’s why I assume that someone who was taking that test in that bathroom wasn’t happy when she did it. I would imagine that, were I to ever take one of those tests, I’d want to be doing it with someone I loved sitting in the next room, someone who was hoping for the white test to show some, any signs of coloration. At any rate, while I will never know the outcome of what I saw so briefly tonight, the person who was there before me will probably remain in my memory for a long time to come.

“Six Feet Under” — it was like butta.

Ok, who didn’t cry when Claire saw Lisa and her son in heaven? And then when Lisa said she’d take care of her child while Claire was taking care of Maia? That reminded me of a conversation I’d had long ago with my mom — good grief, I cried for a half hour after I saw that scene!

Shan and I made a quick breakfast run to Chez Mickey’s, where I chose to abstain from ordering (Shan just seemed like she needed some company). And thank god I did. First, they told her the total was $4.07. When she got to the pay window, they said it’s $4.18. We went to the pickup window, where they handed her the wrong drink. She said no, in fact, that’s not what she ordered, and for that matter, was the sandwich wrong too? In fact, it was, and this woman started bitching in half-Spanish at her that no, in fact, she did not order what she said she ordered. I had listened to her order as well as the total, and I had to reassure her that she wasn’t losing her mind. So then the woman started screaming at someone in the fry line in full-out Spanish — practically burst our eardrums in the car. Cripes, will there ever come a day when you spend less than 20 minutes at the Chez Mickey drive-thru?

I’m home for lunch today. When I pulled in this morning, I immediately wanted to back out and run for the hills. I’ve been left pretty much alone thus far today, other than a query from our next president about our stupid Spanish column. I responded to him and to Cruise Director that those arrive irregularly at best, and although I’ve asked Town Crier to look into getting those supplied to me a year or a quarter in advance, I’ve heard nothing. I chose not to copy her on the e-mail, and what was funny was that when she responded to the query (I was copied on it), she contradicted what I wrote by saying that we always, always have several columns on hand at any given time. What a fucking joke!

Just goes to show that while the right hand (me) is on top of things, the left hand is always playing with itself. No wonder nothing ever gets done correctly.

Cruise Director asked me to run a regular, supplied column every month. So, as I am trying to keep my page count in check, I am getting more editorial content. Sheesh. Seems like somebody (moi) has to put on the fighting gloves and demand a budget adjustment. Or I just take the extra stuff and do less work. Hmm, what ever shall I do? 😉

I had a dream that I personally wrote a column (instead of just straight news features), a la “Sex and the City” (which is shaping up to be an awesome summer read for me, BTW). I would love to write first-person accounts of whatever I see and know. And I will, just not for my own publication. I think that’s my goal this summer, to get an SATC-type column going somewhere, only not about sex, ’cause I don’t know nuthin’ ’bout that. 😉

We got the lease renewal the other day; last night, we found out that our rent is being jacked up almost $200/month in order for us to go month-to-month. Gaah, with everything that goes wrong in this place, one would think we’d get a friggin’ discount for putting up with it. And now that the weather is warm and I’ve been keeping the windows open, I am treated to hysterical Hispanics screaming on the sidewalks. Sweet Jesus, are all apartment complexes like this around here?

Tiff and I are going apartment-browsing this weekend. We’ll probably hang on to the current pad till Sept. 1 or maybe even Aug. 1, if we find a good special somewhere — and who wouldn’t want to have two fabulous young ladies taking two apartments in whatever residential facility appeals to us? 😉 It would be neat to be next-door to each other, so that we can go wireless and therefore, split the bills for DSL. Oh, to dream — keep your fingers crossed! It’s expensive to live in these here parts, and I’m certainly not above keeping a low DSL/cable bill, as I would probably forego it all on my own. (Well, I’ll definitely get DSL — I refuse to pay another phone company to screw me over. MCI is still fretting over the fact that I blocked them from greedily depleting my bank account any further. LOL.

Much as I’ve bemoaned the fact that many of my earthly possessions are in boxes, just as many are not. Not to mention, but when I haven’t felt like pawing through a box for something, I’ve been known to run to the store to buy another one. I do NOT look forward to moving all of my crap across the city, but as Tiff pointed out, it’s easier to move across town than across the Eastern seaboard, where we got rocked for $1,800 for the evil empire of so-called professional movers. I’m not quite sure why they decided to put my kitchen furniture in my bedroom at the new place, but I was so happy the furniture showed up (three and a half days later than expected), the bruises didn’t hurt all that badly because at least I had furniture to move around. 🙂

Maddie is going to be one of my professional movers this year. I’m sure I can strap something to her back and make her useful! And as for the stuff she can’t lift, I have to resort to bribery of human friends… I’d resort to paying in oral favors, but something tells me that with my friends (most or all of whom like men), that just wouldn’t work. But don’t worry guys — I’ll think of somethin’. 😉

Subtitle: Too bad I’m not. 😉

Went with Dave to a party at Lex’s house last night, in honor of Lex’s 29th (again) birthday. Met lots of cool people and had to refrain from lying under the keg-erator spout, although I didn’t do too bad in the beer consumption department. 🙂 We hung out on the patio with Jen’s gorgeous dogs, Annie and Bunny, who provided fantastic entertainment. And was it Andy who brought the Wasabi peanuts? He’s welcome at any party I ever throw in the future, with those in hand!

At any rate, when I told my mom about the kegerator, she said, “And did you even bother using a glass?”

Before the kickin’ soiree, I’d gotten a manicure/pedicure. Friends, get a pedicure. Now. Trust me, I’ll be here when you get back. Half an hour in a chair that massages your neck and back, and I swear, all of your problems will go down the drain with the bubbly water. Other women chose to read magazines — I lay back and let my eyes roll back in my head a few times. You’re so vulnerable there, and it’s divine. I will definitely be building regular pedicures into my tiny monthly budget from now on.

One of my friends at work was telling me about this new apartment she is moving into on Seminary Road. I was sniffing around for info about it on the ‘Net, and I’m hoping that my current management company doesn’t own it (I fear they do). She got a great summer special, $800 with utilities included. But as the current leasing company doesn’t allow for transfers, which means I wouldn’t get a discount, I may have to cross that place off my list of places to visit later this summer. My buddy lived in Mt. Lebanon (just down the street from Mt. Washington, where I lived in Pittsburgh), and we were bemoaning the fact that, for $800, we could’ve gotten upscale two-bedroom units in our old city. I just can’t see spending a third of my net income on housing and another third on utilities, DSL, cable, etc. We’re truly working to survive down here, and that just sucks donkey balls.

I haven’t done much this weekend. I may dye my hair before the day is through — it became naturally uber-highlighted while I was in California, and it just doesn’t match the dark roots, so I’m going to go for a light-brown tone. My hair is fragile, so I really shouldn’t be abusing it much more than usual, but I love how soft it becomes after I nuke it with the post-dye conditioner.

For those who didn’t know, my mom is the coolest gal on earth. She was telling me how, last night, she was watching “Real Sex” on HBO and something on Skinemax where there was this big FFM threesome going on. She hasn’t gotten any in awhile, and I s’pose she’s just horny as hell (as am I — damn hot summer weather gets me every time!). She was wishing that she actually paid for those channels (they were just coming in really clearly last night) so she can see more cable-TV B-movies. I was surprised that she’d be turned on by anything remotely related to two females gettin’ it on, but I think after years of having me being undecided on what the hell it is that I want in my bed, she’s seen the light. Go, Mom!

I asked her if she were leaning over to the other side — that given her disastrous dating history, perhaps she might want a chick next time around? We laughed, and I said that’s just another gender to reject us. She agreed and said it’s enough getting rejected by men — no sense in having no luck with two genders!

I credit Mom with exposing me to porno. I used to have a TV and VCR in my bedroom, and she would hide pornos in my collection of Bon Jovi and other ’80s hair-metal video compilations. But I wasn’t stupid — I saw those unmarked tapes (as I so painstakingly inventoried my own tapes) and popped ’em on into the player when nobody was around. Woo-hoo! Mom was into some trashy shit, and it just served as a foundation for my own love of porn. 😉 And she also bought me my first vibrator too.

Warning: Reminiscing ahead!

I will never forget the time that Shawn and I were moving into our apartment in Pittsburgh’s Highland Park neighborhood. My current vibrator had broken in half (yes, my muscles are that strong, and no, I’m not going to share THAT story!), and instead of throwing it away, I figured I’d duct tape it or something once I settled into my new home. Well, the base of the vibrator came rolling out the side of one of my boxes, and it looked a little bit like one of those personal hand fans, with the motor hanging out there. Shawn’s friend Dustin picked it up and showed it to all of us (with Mom standing there) and commented on my little fan falling out of the box. ROFL. He had no idea. But Mom did. And Shawn and she never fail to remind me of that day. 😉 I wasn’t overly mortified, although after Dustin removed his paws from my vibrator, I did end up throwing it away and Mom bought me a replacement.

Mom used to make my old roommate Janna and I the best Easter baskets. They were filled with vibrators, lube samples and condoms. And candy — can’t forget the candy — she didn’t want us to have any kind of aftertaste lingering in our mouths after we used the other items. 😉

I need to get Mom laid. Really, as I am not currently getting any, perhaps I should use my free time to find someone for her. At any rate, she’s 45 (looks 27), blonde, loves sex and has been known around town as giving “the best blowjobs ever!” She also thinks like I do, so if you enjoy reading the blog and happen to find yourself in Pittsburgh, PLEASE let me know so I can hook you guys up!

< / shameless pimping of Mom >

At the risk of being entirely too inspired by A Small Victory tonight, in chatting about songs that have changed our lives, this song literally solved an identity crisis for me. I can’t thank MV, wherever she is, enough for playing this CD for me when she did.

UPDATE

So I put on the “Fumbling Toward Ecstasy” CD and cleaned the bathroom. Feels just like old times! 😉 Good thing I’m getting a manicure/pedicure tomorrow — damn products did a number on my nails.

Oh, and let’s add why I hate my apartment, other than the fact that I ran out of hot water just as I finished cleaning one friggin’ room — I have been trying to dry a load of whites for three days. Yes, three. Everytime I run an hour-long, full-blast cycle, one more sock gets dry. Shit, by this time next year, maybe the whole frickin’ load will be done!

No, you lil pervs, this isn’t sexual. 🙂

Michele had a great post about multiculturalism and the proliferation of many languages into mainstream America, and it got me to thinking.

There is a media committee that oversees Veggie Patch publications. They really do stay out of my way, but once in awhile, they have an idea that serves to put ants in my pants, and not in a good way. One of their latest ideas is to translate all of our columns/stories into Spanish.

After I bashed my head repeatedly on a blunt object, the quandries came spilling out. Right now, I am forced to have one ridiculously small and insignificant column run in both English and Spanish. It’s like pulling teeth to get these, and when I do get them, it’s like someone’s 4-year-old wrote them (this is just the English version). As I am only fluent in English and can swear pretty well in Italian and French, I cannot verify that the Spanish version of the column even says anything other than, “Fuck you for the two column inches you allow to diversity!”

At any rate, running my articles in two languages would double the size of the newspaper (which they are asking me to contain, as I keep expanding the size of it and blowing my production budget) — who’s gonna pay for that? And who is going to translate said columns, hmm? Wouldn’t you have to pay somebody pretty well to do this?

Not to mention, but my argument from the get-go with this so-called push for diversity has been the fact that Spanish isn’t the only other language spoken in this country. I can’t drive 10 feet without seeing a Middle Easterner in D.C. — god knows I can’t go into a 7-11 and get a pack of cigarettes in less than a half hour because “Camel Lights, in the box” is enough to confound all five people behind the counter. Today it took an additional 15 minutes just to order a hot dog to go with my cigarettes, and they gave me the wrong dog anyway.

I commented on Michele’s blog about two girls I knew growing up. One was Italian and the other was from India, and to please their parents, they spoke their native tongues all the time at home. In the Italian family, English was unacceptable at home, and speaking it there was cause for discipline. The families, we understand now, just wanted their children to love and appreciate their culture so that they could pass it along to their own children. But in school, those girls spoke better English than 75 percent of the kids who had been born to native English-speaking families.

Instead of forcing us to learn additional languages so that we can communicate with people who emigrate to this country, perhaps we should be enforcing better English skills for all. It’s amazing how many adults cannot form a complex sentence without bungling the verb tenses and the dependent clauses. I appreciate diversity — and I’m sad because although I am Irish, Italian, French and English myself, I really don’t have or do anything (other than getting reeaaalllly drunk and swearing loudly) to celebrate where I came from. But that’s OK — it was my ancestors’ choice to not retain anything particularly cultural. They probably wanted us to fit into society as best we could.

Yes, America is a “melting pot.” To me, that means that eventually, everyone blends into the culture, which may shift over time of course, but the whole point is to adapt. I can’t imagine going somewhere overseas to live for awhile and not make a full-blown effort to pick up the language.

I’ve been saying it for 10 years, and I’ll say it here. Instead of forcing kids to pick a foreign or second language to fulfill their high school requirement, schools should offer American Sign Language classes. I took one when I was 25, and I loved it. Granted, all I remember is two ways to say “bullshit,” but I didn’t practice anything other than fingerspelling and some other random gestures that I have long since forgotten. And ASL is much more useful when you’re in a bar and you can’t really hear the person next to you anyway. 🙂

But as with English, ASL would also be railed against by those who can barely comprehend, “Can I have a pack of matches?” I just don’t see why I have to deal with Spanish-speaking ATMs and voice recordings when I had thought American English was the official language of my country.

ADDENDUM

I grew up in Pittsburgh, which has its own dialect that is composed of two parts laziness, one part nonsensical words and one part redneck. When I got into school, I had no idea that “redd up” (to clean) wasn’t a real phrase. Nor did I first understand why teachers put “ing” at the end of words, when we said it, “in’.” And so on. But I loved learning English (and it was my best subject), so I got over the hick language really quickly and truly enjoyed speaking our language properly. It’s a choice to embrace our language, unfortunately, and even more unfortunately is that so many people resist it.

It’s a hard one this week. 🙂

1. What do you most want to be remembered for?

Being the life of the party.

2. What quotation best fits your outlook on life?

a. “You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars — you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, the universe is unfolding exactly as it should.” — from Desiderata.

b. “Life is too short for you to be the caretaker of the wrong details.” — Alexandra Stoddard.

3. What single achievement are you most proud of in the past year?

Gaining editorship of the Veggie Patch Gazette — the surprise wasn’t that I was qualified for the job, but rather, that my superiors agreed with me that I rock. 🙂

4. What about the past 10 years?

I’m proud of surviving. Seriously, I’ve grown up so much during the past decade — I’m starting to really piece together the puzzle pieces I picked up along the way (i.e., I learned some lessons and tucked them away for future use) and realize that, in fact, my life is unfolding exactly as it was meant to.

5. If you were asked to give a child a single piece of advice to guide them through life, what would you say?

a. “There are so many selves in everybody, and to explore and exploit just one is wrong, dead wrong, for the creative process.” — James Dickey.

b. If you’re going to do something, do it right or don’t do it at all. Giving a half-assed effort or compliment is worse than withholding the effort or praise.

c. Don’t bother with the 9-to-5 world. Find a need and fill the gap — there are people out there who would pay to have the ideas in your head and the skills you possess.

I know, I know — I promised to not rant about work. But this is a generalist statement.

Today is my boss’s birthday, and her secretary decorated her office with banners and streamers. She also sent out an invitation to a select group of us to join them for bagels at 9:30 in said festive office.

I wonder if my boss is thrilled or embarrassed by this. Personally, I don’t really like for a fuss to be made over my birthday (hey, I spent it with Shan and Shawn, two people I love, and I have yet to see some other folks — but let’s face it, every day should be a celebration of me, right? lol). I used to throw my own birthday parties — and maybe I’ll get back to that next year — because even though I love my friends, sometimes it’s hard to get them out of the house unless it’s for an event such as a party where they will see 10 other people they haven’t had the time to catch up with, either.

At any rate, corporate birthdays are awkward. You have to sign the bland but cheerful message in the company card, you have to paste on a grin and go attend the corporate party and you have to refrain from wanting to kick certain people whom you normally go to great lengths to avoid. I opt not to eat at these things — it’s an obstacle to a quick getaway to have food in your hands. But I do bring my coffee — gotta stay awake somehow!

And in my case, I was going to go to Mickey D’s to pick up breakfast for Shan and me at 9:30, but now it’ll just have to wait till the par-tay’s over. *Stop growling, stomach!*

UPDATE

I did have half a bagel. They talked about trees and property lines and prom dresses and weather. I threw in a few lines about our avalanche of Gemini birthdays and how many multiple personalities we have in the building, with so many of us bearing the sign of The Twins. God, it (as well as this entry) was boring — let me go impale myself on a letter opener now and end this saga. 🙂

I have been recording my trials and tribulations about work because I want to write a book about it eventualy. Not this workplace, per se, but in general — after I’ve made a success of myself with my own company, I want to write about why everyone should go off on their own. And when I hit some low points with my business, I want to be able to look back on my experiences, so that I can re-fuel my fire when it wanes and remind myself why I took the risks to go out on my own.

But in this information age of computer literate managers (imagine!), as well as after reading and hearing about dismal terminations after an employee’s weblog was found, I think I need to keep my work posts tucked safely into my draft mode. I suppose that means that I’ll have to blog about news and other wacky goings-on in the world, but so be it. Even though I have never once referred to Club Medicated by its real name, nor have I identified the players by anything other than terms like Town Crier, Mouth Almighty, Solitaire and others, I think it’s time to retire these online characters for the sake of my job. I do like my job, just not the other players in the game. And I want to leave on my own terms, not because they fire me because they don’t like what I have to say about them.

I know that our company webmaster trolls MetroBlogs, of which I am a member. When the webmaster showed me the MetroBlog map, I could have shit a brick, because I’m on it, right at the stop where we work. He saw me blogging at our convention in March, and he asked my blog address, but I wouldn’t give it, nor would I even visit my own site, as he could have checked the history of the computers we used. If he’s found this haven, well, I haven’t heard about it. Nor would I want to. Again, I am definitely leaving that job, but definitely not for awhile and definitely not on their terms.

At any rate, bear with me while I change my focus in the coming days. I may post less, but really, would that be a bad thing? 😉