Caterwauling

Yesterday, I felt empowered as a journalist and as a professional. Today, I return to my place as the object of micromanagement.

My boss (whom I will just call Exclamation Point from now on; see here for the story) corners me in my office this morning to discuss various items. And then chastises me because I do not keep her in the loop about where I am, every moment of every day.

Case in point: I am supposed to have a meeting at 11 a.m. (in a few minutes) with our Internet person, to teach me how to update my corporate website. (I haven’t even seen this person in the office yet, mind you — I’ll bet he’s forgotten). It seems that, four weeks ago, when I set the training time, I had mentioned to Exclamation Point that we were to meet on Jan. 28. Let it be said that I just got the date wrong, and the training was always set for the 29th.

In any event, Exclamation starts breathing deeply and says, “You were out at that luncheon yesterday.” Um, Duh. “And (the other one) wasn’t here yesterday either. I assume you have scheduled a different date to meet?”

I was stunned but recovered quickly. “No, today is the day we are meeting. It was always today; I must have mentioned the incorrect date.”

A normal supervisor would leave it at that. But not Exclamation Point.

“It is your responsibility to tell me these things,” she said. I said, I thought I just did. She goes into this long schpiel that she was expecting that the training would be done yesterday, and she was concerned because neither myself nor the trainer were in the office, and I need to realize how important this is. Blah blah blah. I said it’s always been a priority and that the date was always set and will still be honored, if Dude comes into the office today (it’s 10:59 a.m. — I ain’t holding my breath, at this point).

I think she’s nuts because she told her supervisor (who is also Dude’s supervisor) about this “date.” And her supervisor isn’t even here — I mean, jesus christ, I do not need her to act like a secretary. I am perfectly capable of attending the various meetings I am forced to attend. Of course, I tend to skip our weekly supervision meetings at least two weeks out of the month, so I can see where she’s concerned about my meeting-attending skills, but come on. She knows I want to learn this website bullshit because Dude has only updated my page once in 14 months, and that’s only because his boss went apeshit on him because his most recent column wasn’t featured.

In any event, I was verbally spanked for not realizing that I told her the wrong date for a meeting she wasn’t even involved with, and I was told that, the moment I knew that I had told her the wrong date, I should have reported it to her immediately.

MicroMcManagement special — what number is that on the menu board? And can I get a side of rage to go with that, with an Apple Martini for dessert?

OK, the Spy Museum rocked socks. Not only did we have a great lunch (mostly Atkins-based, although it hurt to pass up the creamy, cheesecakey, whipped-cream-and-berries-topped dessert), but the speakers were excellent and we got story ideas for a future edition of the Veggie Patch Gazette.

What I loved was how worshipped the journalists were. Usually, we’re considered to be the scourge of the earth, but I could not believe how well-respected my publication and my career really are — in the right company. I guess I don’t realize that influential people actually are reading our work and admiring it from afar. I was seated at a table with other editors of comparable papers (circulation and topic-wise), and they knew my publication. What was weird was that people there actually had heard of me. And they didn’t run screaming. 😉

Also for attending the luncheon, we were given complimentary registrations to a gala next weekend at the museum. Angie was worried that she doesn’t know what to wear, and I told her to throw on an old bridesmaid dress or something else that’s foufy and uncomfortable, and she’ll blend right in. Ugh. This means I have some dress-shopping to do, unless any of my old gala dresses actually fit (I won’t hold my breath, though!).

Would you believe I just got another reader calling for my resignation? She of course sent it to everybody under the sun. Look, I published the fucking thing in November, I published all the irate reader responses in January, and I learned a lesson. I am getting really sick of this shit.

To Theresa, who wrote the newest letter: Bite me.

You would think that, with all the masturbation I do, my wrists would be in better shape for cleaning up my car. But nooo, I’m sore and think I’ve got the early onset of frostbite (or, if not frostbite, then a burning desire to kick Mother Nature’s frigid ass).

I couldn’t get into my car today. The driver’s side was frozen shut. I crawled over the mounds of snow to get to the passenger side, only to find that somebody parked right up against me. Really, is this necessary? (And don’t think I didn’t take great pleasure when the end of my ice scraper kept whacking the other car — it was that close!) I started to crawl in through the trunk, but then I realized I had a second, smaller ice scraper back there (the big one was of course in the car, along with my de-icing shit that isn’t worth a damn anyway). So I managed to pry the door open with said tiny ice scraper. Woo hoo! So I cranked up the radio and blasted Joni Mitchell for all the neighbors to enjoy. 🙂

You can tell that nobody here must have to go to work — cars have been sitting here since Sunday night and have a veritable shitload of snow on them. But I can’t blame these people — the ice was ridiculously difficult to budge this morning, more so than yesterday (it made a gorgeous crystal mosaic when I cracked it yesterday). Today, the ice was just being a bitch. Like me.

I really don’t even have to go into the office for more than a half-hour today, but I signed Angie and me up for a press thing at the International Spy Museum. My hope is that lunch, catered by Zola’s, will be Atkins-friendly. 🙂 Failing that, then I hope my car doors don’t freeze shut again during the event!

I’ve been in no mood to post today. Really, I’m in no mood to do anything today. But I do have to mention that the “American Idol” auditions are getting scarier by the day — is it me, or do some of the contestants sound like Donatella Versace?

Anyway, on with the humor I promised:

WOMAN’S PERFECT BREAKFAST

She’s sitting at the table with her gourmet coffee.

Her son is on the cover of the Wheaties box.

Her daughter is on the cover of Business Week.

Her boyfriend is on the cover of Playgirl.

And her husband is on the back of the milk carton.

CIGARETTES AND TAMPONS

A man walks into a pharmacy and wanders up and down the aisles. The sales girl notices him and asks him if she can help him. He answers that he is looking for a box of tampons for his wife. She directs him down the correct aisle. A few minutes later, he deposits a huge bag of cotton balls and a ball of string on the counter. She says, confused, “Sir, I thought you were looking for some tampons for your wife?” He answers, “You see, it’s like this — yesterday, I sent my wife to the store to get me a carton of cigarettes, and she came back with a tin of tobacco and some rolling papers; cause it’s sooooooooooo much cheaper. So, I figure if I have to roll my own … so does she.”

Of course . . . I figure this guy is the one on the milk carton 🙂

OK, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen seven inches, and when it finally happened, it had to be snow. Bah.

No calling off from work today for me — the paper rolled up on press today. This morning, I found it hysterical that only, say, three people in my apartment complex’s parking lot (yes! I got a spot! woo hoo!) left to go to work this morning. And, of course, all three of us drive tiny sports cars. The people with the big-ass trucks and SUVs stayed happily snug in their respective spots this morning, while the rest of us valiantly braved the un-plowed lot.

Yeah, in all the plowing going on around Alexandria, my corner of the city failed to be accommodated, minus the main roads of Seminary and Van Dorn. I cut through a strip-mall lot (as I do every morning), and my featherweight car didn’t know whether to shit or go sailing, so she chose the latter — almost running headfirst into a medial strip. But I turned into the skid, held my breath and, luckily, Samantha was able to fly straight for (most of) the rest of the trip to Springfield.

And it’s time for Dawn’s annual bitch-fest about snow-time drivers, although Scott did an eloquent job covering the same acts of assholitry. A word of advice: clean off your cars, or we will assemble our mini-Mafia (of the two of us) and bruise your kneecaps with our ice scrapers. Even though you can’t see us through your snow mountain, we are still there, being buried in the avalanche of white shit that you didn’t see fit to manually remove from your vehicles.

There was a Big Important Meeting scheduled at work this morning, so I asked Angie to cover it for me. When she got there, there were only four people in the whole building, so the meeting was canceled. People, please. At least two thirds of the employees live within a normal five-minute drive of the place, yet everyone freaks and stays home without even calling off. I personally was waiting for Pussy Demure to activate the phone tree to tell me to stay home, but alas, I got no call. Maybe I’ll just “forget” to go in tomorrow, to make up for my sleigh ride down Van Dorn this morning.

I had meant to do laundry today (we’re going on three months of me just buying lots of new clothes here) — I have seven bags of clothes in my trunk. But then, once I got home, I decided fuck it, I ain’t going out again (and my clothes soap is FROZEN in my car). That reminds me, I fueled the vehicle last night and went to wash the crystallized bird shit from my back window, only to find that the window-washing fluid was frozen solid, too. Bah.

I hate this fucking weather. Anybody else have fun commuting stories?

Chinese New Year came and went on Thursday, and I didn’t post my resolutions. So here they are, and I encourage my loyal and incredible readers to hold me to them.

1. Talk less, say more.

I tend to be quiet most of the time, but when I talk, I babble. And it’s usually random and incoherent. I actually do have a good vocabulary, and I’d like to start sounding more intelligent. That, and I tend to fall silent when I’m annoyed — I’ve cut off so many people in my life by just assuming they knew why I was mad instead of telling them that they’ve burned my butter. Also, I’m not always direct (too many years of playing workplace politics is to thank for that). I’m sick of wasting words, and that stops here.

2. Get off my ass and go to the gym.

Fuck, I’m going to be paying my monthly membership fee to the evil overlords at Bally’s for another two years — might as well take advantage of it. I always felt good when I was going regularly — it’s time to get back into a shape that isn’t round or oblong. 🙂

3. Eat better. And yes, that means sticking to a diet.

Tiff had an awesome dinner party last night, complete with a various sampling of low- to no-carb foods. The food (and the company) were immensely enjoyable. Dude, all I have to say is “whole wheat pizza crust.” If Dr. Atkins weren’t already dead, he would’ve keeled over, knowing we were eating such tasty (yet minimal!) carbs.

Tiff is raving about the South Beach Diet, and I’d like to learn it. Till I do, I am going to make my refrigerator more Atkins-friendly, starting today. I had to buy groceries anyway, so I loaded up on some meats, cheeses and green veggies at Giant. And I just made a terrific shrimp salad for dinner. If I can continue eating good stuff like that, I know I won’t (really) miss the ice cream, caramel popcorn, cookies and other crap that usually serve as meals as opposed to after-meal treats.

My lifelong idea of dieting has been eating all the bad stuff in the house so that it isn’t around later on, when I actually plan to start a diet. Unfortunately, you know what that means — I buy more junk to replace the crap I already ate. 😉

In good news, I’ve been forcing myself to take Olay vitamins (the stress defense/skin improving variety). And maybe it’s just my imagination, but I’ve been handling my stress remarkably well ever since I’ve gotten into the habit of swallowing those big yellow pills every morning.

4. Write more.

At this point, I’ve already started updating some old writings. I had applied to get into a graduate poetry program more than two years ago, but I didn’t get in. That killed me in such a way that I didn’t write a poem for two years. But I started back up with it (poetry was always my way of keeping at writing, even if it wasn’t the stuff I wanted to be writing — at least it kept my brain from falling too dormant). And writing is way cheaper than going to therapy.

5. Say “no” more often.

Ask me a favor. I’ll say yes (usually) even if I’d rather masturbate with a chainsaw. (‘Cause I’m just a girl who “cain’t say no.”) When I attempt to resist, I feel like I get bullied into spending my time catering to other people (i.e., when people ask me to host parties like for, say, cosmetics companies), no matter how sweet and genuine I know they are. And then I get mad that I wasn’t able to say, “Um. Not interested. Never will be. I know you need the sales, but I need my company to stop furloughing my salary when the mood strikes.” Or that I said it but it still wasn’t a good enough excuse. (See Resolution #1.) I don’t owe anybody anything, and believe me, it’s way easier to get me to do you a favor if it’s my idea or suggestion.

But that’s not to say that I don’t enjoy lending people a hand when I really want to and they really need me — and when I CAN help without sacrificing my very vital “me” time, although I’ve gotten better at preserving that time during the last year. It’s just the approach — be courteous, be grateful and be sincere. I rarely ask favors of anyone else, but the courteous/grateful/sincere approach charms the pants off them every time. 😉

6. Stop being afraid.

No, I’m not afraid of killing bugs and spiders (or fixing shit around the house), nor do I really fear meeting a knife-wielding asylum escapee in my parking lot after midnight. But I am afraid of disappointing (at least some) people. It comes from a lifetime of being unhappy with how I look (let me tell you someday about my high school bout with anorexia, and then my subsequent don’t-give-a-shit attitude that has me tipping scales today). I think it’s this neurosis that led me to be a people-pleaser (see Resolution #5). I admit, I get into these moods where I just don’t feel like being seen in public, which leads to — you guessed it — depression eating (see Resolution # 3).

7. Stop smoking. Again.

Turning 29 again in May is my milestone. And I plan to smoke like a chimney till that time comes. 🙂 But this smoking habit has really aged me, and I simply cannot be lying about my age when my skin has been ravaged by stress and smoke in my “actual” 20s. I don’t necessarily have a burning desire to live to be 100, but if I do, I’d like to have people think, “She was 100? But she didn’t look a day over 60!” 😉

*updated*

Finally, an OutKast video that doesn’t annoy me (other than the music): Hey Ya, Charlie Brown. (via Tiff)

Forget that prissy bitch “Dear Abby,” who has one foot in reality and her head up her ass. Jane answers Dear Abby’s mail. (Note: you’ll need to register to view this. Thank the fucktards of the troll underworld for this.)

Bill offers to read my novel before it’s published. Being that he is responsible for this website finally working correctly, I know he’s a great editor. And don’t worry Ted, you’re on the distribution list, too. 🙂

It’s male PMS time over at Random Thoughts.

John posts the magnet that I have on my fridge. She’s almost as cute as Roxette Bunny!

Sounds like Tricia’s colleagues went to the same school of mismanagement as mine did.

Erica posts a link to a Backstreet Boys parody, I Want a Fat Babe. Personal aside, I had an ex send me that link (was he trying to tell me something?), and the only reason I wasn’t offended was because he had a big belly covering his wittle pee-pee.

Over at Up Yours, Dawn’s doctor says she can finally have sex again, now that her new little bundle of joy has been out in the real world for a few weeks. Lady, find some time and have at it!!!

So it ain’t the blogosphere, but real life:

Quote of the day: “I’d rather douche with gasoline, and light my fart.” — by the always-eloquent Shawn. This totally trumps my personal expression for trying to convey that I don’t want to do something, which is, “I’d rather masturbate with a chainsaw.”

And one last thing. …

See you there!!!

UPDATE

Everybody give a warm Caterwauling welcome to Chuck, who was Visitor Number 306,306!!!

It goes on and on my friends. …

(Sing along, damn it!)

OK, just got off the phone with the print shop (12:07 a.m.). I think we have finally, finally resolved all the issues that cropped up to make this the craziest week ever.

And today’s joy started with a call from said print shop around 9 a.m., as I was in a fucking coma from last night (I was too wired to get to sleep until 2:30 a.m. or so). So I had to drag my butt into the office to fix some shit and to resolve a handful of problems (or, rather, attempt to resolve ’em). I was immediately accosted by the Popcorn Bandit, who had to visit the candy jar in Angie’s office, where I was fighting with our Quark document from hell (that document wasn’t behaving well on my own computer and not too much better on hers). I had NO patience whatsoever — why the fuck don’t people notice my “Emergencies Only” sign?!?!

A few minutes ago, I had to fix a problem of my own making, what with asking the printer to shoot an ad from our January issue when I should have realized that I needed to shoot it from the December issue instead. *growl* At least, though, the thought occurred to me before pre-press staff left (at midnight!) for the weekend. *whew* I have notes written from my elbow to my fingertips (couldn’t find paper — fuck it all anyway). I hope this shit washes off!

I was actually in the midst of writing some crappy poetry when tonight’s fun festival went down. I hope the muse returns and maybe helps me to improve upon the verbal diarrhea that I’ve already dumped into my Word doc. 🙂

In any event, I was trying to be alcohol-free this evening, but look over there in the kitchen — there’s a big vat of Chardonnay with my name on it. … *clink* To the end of another workweek! Woo hoo!!!

Ah, the reason I awaken every Friday morning. Not.

At this moment, what is your favorite…

1. …song?

I hate only picking one. But I’ll go with Beth Hart’s “Leave the Light On,” although I have a strange fondness for Black-Eyed Peas’ “Shut Up.”

2. …food?

I can dig any Italian food, although I prefer pesto sauce over marinara. I suddenly started craving chicken & eggplant pesto from a little restaurant I used to frequent in Pittsburgh. Of course, a good filet mignon trumps any food, and I could totally go for that right now, too. Mmmm, steak.

3. …tv show?

I was about to say “American Idol,” but I’d have to specify that it is the auditon portion. Who didn’t laugh when the guy was singing Elvis’ “I Can’t Help Falling in Love With You” and sounding exactly like the Chinese restaurant waiters in “A Christmas Story”?

4. …scent?

Favorite scent to wear? Ralph Lauren Romance. Favorite scent overall? Pretty much any kind of men’s cologne. And my lovely Nag Champa incense.

5. …quote?

Oh, that’s easy. I adore Anais Nin, and I actually have the following quote framed in my bathroom. I believe I saw it in “Cities of the Interior,” but I’m too lazy to go check. 🙂

“There were always in me, two women at least — one woman desperate and bewildered, who felt she was drowning and another who would leap into a scene, as upon a stage, conceal her true emotions because they were weaknesses, helplessness, despair, and present to the world only a smile, an eagerness, curiosity, enthusiasm, interest.” — Anais Nin