Caterwauling

Women in power are just wrong. I get why everyone wants us back in the kitchens. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if the next political uprising was over the proposed revoking of the women’s suffrage movement.

Given some of the people I’ve dealt with lately, I might be willing to give up my right to vote if it meant getting THEM out of the workforce and FAR AWAY from the ballot box.

I wasted four hours last night and four hours this morning over just the most inane shit. I don’t care how old or young anyone is — just don’t try to bullshit me that you know more than I do, when you are literally going to the Web for “helpful tips” on how to do the job I have been doing since you were in middle school.

I had all my work done on one project at 5 p.m. yesterday. It is now 1:30 p.m. and I’ve had enough of the quibbling/squabbling/mind-changing/hemming/hawing/whining/”just trying to help”-ing and CC’ing my friend the CEO on how you hate everything I’ve done that YOU TOLD ME TO DO IN THE FIRST PLACE.

And I did it better. That has to be the sticking point. It certainly is on every other day.

I’ve been standing up for myself. I’ve had it with mood swings and egos and shit. But damn, the emotional toll it takes when people are fighting to prove how much book knowledge they have (and, ergo, why they are omniscient or omnipotent or, more appropriately, just plain ominous).

And seriously, do not think for one second that I don’t forward dippy e-mails to every state in the continental U.S. You better get good at your job because you will NOT be getting another.

One of these days, I really need to have a “Come to Jesus” with our mutual friend about this b.s. But right now, I have to walk out of the house and leave my phone inside it so that I don’t make that call in as much of an utterly pissed off mood as I am right now.

Of course, as my beloved Lady T said to me, “Don’t let her take up real estate in your mind. She can’t afford it, and neither can you.”

Words to live by, kids. If you can’t pay penthouse prices, get off my ass and out of my brain. Because we haven’t hit the threshold where I am paid enough (or anything) to deal with your crap, and I’m letting you take away time from the assignment that IS paying the rent.

I understand men now when they scoff, “Ugh! Women!!!” This is why I’ll never go gay — I can’t TAKE IT ANYMORE!!!

As part of the “child-free” set, it’s a wonder I clicked on the link to read My Blog Got my Daughter Kicked Out of Preschool.

But I’m glad I read it — it reminds me that whistleblowers (like me) are the ones who get in trouble for questionable behavior and actions on the part of people who should know better than to act that way. Yet, it’s us who blog who are faulted for putting our lives online. As though talking openly and honestly with friends were a crime.

Read it if you wish. I’m not going to talk about it. It just made me mad and it makes me wonder whether I lost yet another job because of something I put online. (That is, when I finally got sick of being belittled for how I ran meetings, I put a note up here that I am not measuring my career by meetings.)

As the author of the preschool post noted, this is our coffee klatch. And to some degree, for the people who are interested in our lives, we almost owe folks an update on where we find ourselves. I almost feel that I need to integrate the occasional snark so that folks know I haven’t gone all “goodness and light” on them — that the Goddess they subscribed to, perhaps as early as 2001, is still here.

But our coffee klatch is an international one. It’s not like everyone is in my area of Florida and can attach names to people and organizations … not the way they could were all my friends local. That’s the real danger — when, say, a mom has a shitty experience with a daycare and tells all her local girlfriends about it. Then people pull their kids out of school and spread the gossip to people who can and do send their kids elsewhere.

I have a friend up north who pulled her two kids out of their private school because the math teacher was bullying her son. No amount of complaining made any difference. Then she found out that another little boy was being bullied even harder by this same guy.

Long story short, she pulled her two kids out of the school AND the other mom pulled her kid out of the school. Even worse, my friend’s husband coached soccer and served as a substitute teacher at the offending academy. Because the school refused to do anything about the bully teacher, the school lost three students AND a faculty member.

I wonder whether the power of the blog would have gotten the situation some well-deserved attention, or whether my friend would have just been branded a troublemaker instead of being begged to keep her kids/husband right where they were, in an overpriced private school with a “zero tolerance” policy for complaints.

Now, I don’t take the power of the blog lightly. I don’t use names, companies or job titles for a reason. I try to skew the city name where possible. And again, it’s so that I can kvetch to my far-away friends while NOT starting a revolution on local soil. Quite simply, anyone can start up a blog and I’m certain that, if they had, my name would be quite happily smeared on their Web space. The hypothetical knife cuts both ways.

Anyway, this story just made me so mad, that if people can’t take out their frustration with you ON you, then they do it on your kid or someone you love. And that’s just bullshit.

There was a wonderful comment that you would think more people would want to do their jobs brilliantly, what with the risk of your shortcomings appearing on the Internet for the world to see and mock. But oh God no, let’s blame the bloggers instead.

I know I personally get under the skin of a lot of people who keep me around as a guilty pleasure — scanning the metaphors for their likeness. I don’t mean to. This isn’t for their eyes and I don’t expect them to understand where I’m coming from. I don’t desire retaliation toward them, and certainly not FROM them if their widdle fee-fees get hurt.

I just need to make sense of things so I can move on from them. Other people pay thousands to therapists for the same result that costs me a whopping $11 in Web hosting fees every month.

What I’m saying, I guess, is that if people get their dander up about honest, heartfelt and confused sentiments tacked cryptically on their constituents’ blog pages, they should be quicker to try to figure out how they contributed to the situation and how they can rectify it.

We’re not all troublemakers. We’re just analytical people with audiences who clearly come to us for our way of looking at the world. And that frightens people whose only audiences are those who are compensated to listen to them — the rest of us, to whom people willingly come in their free time, are the ones with the real power. And we’re not dumb enough to abuse it.

You’d think the school director in the linked article, and everyone like her, would be smart enough to use their power for positive means so that people like us don’t have anything to write about!

OMG.

I left Mexico, oh, Sunday morning. I got to Miami on Monday afternoon.

Hence why my Facebook status has said, “I’m in Miami, bitch!” since about 12:30 p.m. Eastern. *bounce*

Grr.

So, apparently Continental and United have merged. My fellow stranded passengers and I declared that the name of the newly joined companies is, appropriately enough, Cuntinental.

You know, so they can lick you where you pee when they won’t let you on your connecting flight that you RAN LIKE THE WIND to catch.

All right, so leaving Los Cabos wasn’t a joy. We stood in one line for 90 minutes and another for 15 minutes. I didn’t get to do ANY shopping on my trip. Which pisses me off, as all I want to do is shop.

Well, since we got thrown out of Cabo Wabo — the other thing I wanted to do on the trip — after 30 minutes (and how DOES one get thrown out of a bar in goddamned MEXICO, you ask? Good question), well, this trip was full of enough FAIL for a year.

But wait … there’s more!

My travel karma must have gotten lost in the time zones, as Cabo is on Mountain Time but they turned back their clocks a week before the States. So, while she got me onto the plane in Mexico, she left me to ROT in fucking Houston for more than 12 hours.

*shoots self in head*

I’m sure it’s not entirely Continental’s fault. God knows that the rep I spoke to in person and the other one on the phone were QUICK to say that NOTHING was their fault.

Remember when the customer used to be right? That was before their share price was dependent upon recording flights leaving on time/early … at the expense of hundreds of passengers whom they got to their gates LATE.

Ahem.

So I was told we arrived at the gate at 6:05 p.m. last night in Houston. (Note — I got ticketed on George Bush Boulevard in Florida last month, which ended up in a suspended license. And then I get trapped at George Bush Intercontinental for half a day. I HATE THAT NAME. Love, Goddess.)

Well, I tweeted FROM THE PLANE at 6:07 to say we were stuck on the tarmac in what they call “bank.” (What us laypeople call “clusterfuck,” or, “traffic as usual on 95.”)

OK, so whenever we DID get to the gate, we were in the back of the plane. Then we had to go through U.S. Customs. THEN we had to pick up our checked luggage, go CHECK IT BACK IN, and then rip upstairs to go through security AGAIN.

Our beloved travel agency gave us an hour to do this.

Despite Customs being on one end of Houston and our gate being ON THE OTHER, the three of us traveling together ran our ASSES off to get to our gate before our 7:15 p.m. departure time.

I was in misery, I tell you. MISERY. I just spent a week eating Mexican food and consuming tequila by the truckload. My pudgy pork roast butt is a LOT of ass to haul!

Anyway, my more-athletic travel companion got to the gate at 7:09. I know this because of the CLOCK above the gate.

The other colleague got there at 7:10 and I made it at 7:12. Yes, it was a goddamned marathon.

Even though the gate was open … and even though a whole bunch of people were on the Cabo-to-Houston-to-Miami itinerary (as I know the people at the travel agency) … they told us we weren’t allowed on.

And then they shut the door at 7:13 p.m.

OMG, I was furious. I had to stop and catch my breath. Had to save it so I could yell at people later.

There were no other flights out that night. There was a flight to Fort Lauderdale at the same time, which my other colleagues made. I don’t know how, since one of them is 72 and I don’t know how the fuck he managed to make it.

Lord knows I tried to flag down one of the golf cart drivers, but naturally they didn’t stop. FUCK CONTINENTAL.

You would think they’d have carts at security for those of us about to miss a flight. You know, like in San Jose, where they asked those of us on the Houston flight to please let the Newark passengers ahead of us, as the plane left a half-hour before ours and it was BEING HELD FOR THEM.

*scream* Why is it so hard to get good service in the U.S.? I’m ready to expatriate to Baja California Sur. Mark my fucking words.

Anyway, they had two monkeys working at the Continental desk at Houston. And Sha-nay-nay was happily telling everyone that it was all Customs’ fault that we missed our planes, not theirs. And too fucking bad for all of us, but she had to jump on the next flight out.

So I called Continental customer service. And I got through before I even made it through the ever-growing line. They basically listened to me and said they could only put me on the 7:30 a.m. flight today. But that the gate monkey could check other airlines for us.

So of course, the gate monkey said there was nothing he could do. I said, “Well, your headquarters said to check competing airlines.” And he was all, oh yeah, sure I can look at our partner itineraries.

You know that I did not carry a firearm into any of these airports, because I would be in jail right now. People are lucky I’m a liberal Democrat!

The long and the short of it is that the “bank” (i.e., high traffic, meaning that there was a plane at our gate when we landed and then two planes sat between us and the gate anyway so we were fucked) of which our pilot spoke was suddenly, “We don’t know what you’re talking about” at the gate.

“Well, it says here that you were at your gate at 6:05, which is plenty of time to make it to your boarding time at 6:40.”

I’d say “die in a fire” to everyone at Continental, but I’ve said that to my landlady, and my building (and my FLOOR) caught fire while I was gone. So I’m gonna be careful about my curses from now on!

Long story just beginning, we took the 7:30. They said we could have a discounted hotel room. But at this point it was after 8 p.m. and I didn’t want to go through the hassle and expense of going to a hotel, showering and putting on the (now-sweaty) same clothes.

You know, since my luggage was IN MIAMI by the time we got this resolved.

CUNTINENTAL, ahoy!

But it gets better.

While arguing with the ticket monkey, my friend said he should write an article about it. And since I’m, oh, HIS PUBLISHER, heheheheheh. I announced to the monkey that we have access to a half-million names and a publish button. Where’s the Wi-Fi?

*muahahaaa*

So, we took a hiatus from our frustration and enjoyed an expensive French meal in the airport (viva Pappardeaux — SO GOOD), with lots of wine, Cajun food and desserts for everyone. Which I am going to bill to our travel agency for making this STUPID booking.

(Another colleague got stuck in Phoenix. You know, the one who LIVES in Miami. He was flying into Fort Lauderdale. While us Fort Lauderdale people were flying into MIAMI. I am also billing my fucking therapy to our travel agency!!!)

We took the fucking Miami itinerary to save $200 on our tickets. Which ended up losing us a whole day of productivity for three employees. So, we saved $600 and lost three salaries this Monday. Fucking brilliant.

Anywho, we had a “Breakfast Club” kind of night. We talked. We bonded. My writer wrote about how much Continental blows. (In a way that relates to our business, of course.) I approved it, we sent it to home base, and we settled in for a ridiculous night.

We basically rode the people-movers for a while. Backward. Our own personal gym!

The airport was COLD. And we were all in summer clothes. We all managed to curl up into a ball (on separate chairs, of course) and get an hour or two of sleep each.

I wandered the whole airport while the others slept. There were clusters of other stranded travelers, since there were no flights out of IAH after 7:30. It was depressing.

What I found funny was that our whole plane leaving Cabo was seated and boarded early. And they announced that we were leaving the gate early … BECAUSE everyone was on board. I do not know how Continental justifies closing the door to the 7:15 Miami flight at 7:13 when you just know that there were a ton of people still coming.

Fuck Continental!!!

I watched “My Sister’s Keeper” during my flight. And I cried at the end because it was sad. And I cried even harder when I saw the Biscayne Bay (which is BEAUTIFUL from above).

I met up with my colleagues outside the gate, put my arms around their shoulders and bounced with glee the whole way down to the Lost Luggage office. I told them that my travel karma was back and that our suitcases would be waiting for us.

They were!

I’ve been snoozing on the couch and emptying out my DVR for the last few hours. But yeah, I left my hotel in Cabo at 11:30 a.m. Mountain Time on Sunday, and got to my car at 12:30 p.m. Eastern on Monday.

AND I got thrown out of Cabo Wabo.

Here’s to hoping for an uneventful week … although I know better than to expect one.

And Cuntinental? Call me. Really. Or burn down. At least, IAH can burn down. That would be fine.

Mark my words, I will NEVER fly Continental, and I will NEVER set foot in Texas, for the rest of my life.

Fuck y’all!!!

I have a huge pain threshold, but my boundaries are quite defined.

And that is why I have no idea why people are tap-dancing on my last nerve. Do they not realize what happens when I snap?

So I mentioned I had to ask a friend to stop contacting me. That was Monday. A Facebook message Monday, a Facebook comment Wednesday and a weird text message Friday does not constitute “not contacting” me. Grrr.

This is a person who wouldn’t apologize even if you were about to clamp his widdle wee-wee in a vise. He could have the cookie jar STUCK ON HIS HEAD, and insist that he doesn’t eat sweets.

And yet, I have nothing but apologies and “hope I haven’t disappointed you” and “your friendship is valuable to me” messages.

Yeah, he’s up to something.

Men are so transparent. This one in particular.

And he managed to blame someone else in the whole equation. Which, this is between you and me, bud. I owned up to my end of the deal. I could have blamed someone else, and I chose not to. You, on the other hand, have no right to throw anyone under the bus. Excuses are unbecoming, yo.

I am too annoyed to reply. Because that’s what I do — I tune out and give up. The end. Love, Goddess.

It’s not that I want to kill the friendship. I invested a lot of time and effort into this. And frankly, I’m not mad. Just … done. Whether for now or for good, I’m over it and out of it.

This is the longest break-up I’ve ever had with somebody I wasn’t even with!

Speaking of people who don’t realize the love is gone, I had to explain where I got the UEOEH’s name. It’s Ultra Extra Over Extended Houseguest. She started as the Houseguest. But I add an adjective for every year that she’s underfoot. Who the hell knows what I can add for 2011, but I’m hoping to ship her ass back to Pittsburgh by then.

I couldn’t sleep this morning. I mean, I went to bed early last night and I was up before dawn today. But it was nice. Kadie and I were curled up on the bed, listening to the waves lapping against the dock and enjoying the breeze now that it’s FINALLY cool enough to have the windows open.

I thought about how much I love coastal living, and yet, how much it costs. I don’t want to move inland, even though I’d get more space for less money. I already tried living inland with the UEOEH (back when she was just the OEH), and I’ve since discovered that having salt water within smelling distance helps immensely.

But now that I have a travel itinerary that includes Mexico, Baltimore, Dublin and Paris, I realize that I need money. The dollar ain’t worth shit when you’re buying euros, people.

I don’t need another job. I just need to stop stress-shopping as a way of avoiding coming home. (Oh, what a grammatical nightmare that sentence was — says she who also just corrected a romantic text sent her way!)

Anyway, I like having “international travel” on my list of stress-relievers. I just wish my list of “stressors” were shorter than my cures for them.

It’s yet another “woke up screaming, realized it wasn’t a dream, and kept on screaming” kind of day.

God didn’t put me on this earth to be miserable. And yet, everyone who meant anything to me is either with Him or too far away for me to hug.

But there are plenty of assholes still mouth-breathing their way through this earth. I saw this firsthand yesterday when a particularly loathsome twat from high school showed up in my list of friend suggestions on Facebook.

Now, I’m grateful for Facebook for putting me in touch with all the “good” people — the ones I liked and respected and even found that I missed. I’m glad to see how they turned out, and I wish them all the happiness in the world.

Then I see a rotting twat like (name removed) showing up with a husband and kids and, basically, she didn’t die in a crack den like she SO rightfully deserved, and I ask the universe, “Where is the justice?”

I mean, how can this miserable asshole, who is responsible for years of torture on my part, be allowed to have a good life? Meanwhile I work my ass off, everyone I love is gone and I’m struggling just to pay the bills right now. Fuck that. Fuck HER.

I know I can’t judge whether she’s happy. But the fact that some pimp didn’t smack her into 2012 irks me. That she looks normal and happy and that life has treated her well. Nuh uh. Forget that shit. She doesn’t deserve it.

I know we all do things in life we regret, and maybe she regrets the things she did to me. I doubt she has enough brain cells in her widdle noggin to achieve that sort of realization, though. I vaguely remember the boys thinking she was pretty. I remember her grating voice, her very loud mouth, and the ugly, ugly facial expressions on her puss as she was being such a royal cunt that I couldn’t fathom why anyone would want to see/hear her when they could put their face into a meat grinder for a more pleasant experience.

It’s the people like her who made me so driven to get the fuck out of where I grew up. I might be miserable most of the time now, but so many people tell me I’m living the life they wanted, so maybe all is not lost after all.

But what I wouldn’t trade for a husband, maybe a kid, a little freelance job to keep me busy during Junior’s naptimes, and the weight of the world to come off of me already.

I’m sure Rotten Twat’s dumb ass can’t form a thought, let alone have the stamina to live my life. I don’t want to be her .. ugly from the inside-out. And even though an apology would mean nothing to me from the likes of her, I’m just looking toward the universe to wonder why the hurt and disappointment avalanche is always barreling toward me while others who DO NOT DESERVE SHIT seem to be ambling along OK.

Anyway.

She had a partner in crime of course. By the fact that THAT twat nozzle hasn’t surfaced anywhere keeps my dream alive that she became the crack ho she was destined to be.

And don’t get me started on the cunt whose future hopefully involved a mental institution.

God, it’s funny how far you can go in life, and how one ugly face can unleash a repressed flood of memories. I never cared what this miserable wretch thought or said about me, or even why she did the things she did to me. I wasn’t looking to live down to her standards.

But when all was said and done, I guess I thought my suffering would end at some point, and the happiness would eventually start. I mean, really, haven’t I been through enough?