Caterwauling

Apparently threatening one’s management company that you will book a hotel room and deduct it from your July rent if the a/c isn’t in proper working order by the time you arrive home is the magical combination of words that gets your shit fixed … even if it’s after the major heat wave has broken.

I’ve officially hit my capacity for stupid. Seriously. There’s a trio of people about whom I am really starting to wonder — do they actually think they are smart/useful/worth the oxygen they breathe? Between the one who’s trying to get their contract extended (HELL to the no), the one whose mind *boggles* when you ask them to do their job and who is thrilled with the job they do (even if no one else is), and the other who refuses to fix problems that you ask for help with but suddenly meets with their team and declares to the whole company, “We have identified a problem! And we have asked Goddess to fix it,” well no goddamn wonder there’s a stapler imprint in the middle of my forehead.

Oh and the insurance company I’ve told six times to change my address? Stop charging me late fees when every fucking statement is returned to you and you have to forward it to my right address again. Type it into the fucking computer! The home office did, a year or so ago. But the local office? Not so much. I can has somebody in my life with brains? Plz?

Moving on to amazingly competent people who aren’t in charge, I’ve been asked what the experience of seeing Hillary Clinton’s speech live-and-in-person was like. Other than feeling like the country is 14-karat fucked that she’s not the nominee, well, it was magical.

The love in the National Building Museum on Saturday for her was outstanding. The hope that we all had was so fragile and raw — as we all shared our stories together about why this was our candidate, you saw a lot of pain in wondering whether anyone else could fill those stylish high heels and address the things that matter to us most.

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I was just staring at my bank account (the savings, named “Paris”) for a moment and contemplating how badly I want to spend that twee little nest egg on a new ‘puter or a vacation or a lobotomy. And yet, for as much as I want, want, want, I am loath to spend the money burning a hole in my (theoretical) pocket.

(Off-topic, I have my iPhone’s iPod on shuffle and the last seven out of 10 songs were from Evanescence. Seems fitting.)

Where was I? I don’t know. Lost, I guess. I usually end up spending my savings on moving. And while that’s not out of the realm of possibility, I sure would like to use my “Paris” fund for, well, a city that has the full-sized Eiffel Tower in it.

(Ooh, Patton Oswalt bit came on. “Sprinkle some fries on those cupcakes!” Ha!)

Everyone seems to be collectively in PMS mode in my world. I personally ready to kill anyone who comes within three feet of me. I am actually purposely making myself unbearable to be around. (Yes, I know, I don’t have to try very hard to achieve that.)

I’ve got people in the offices on both sides of me on their speakerphones. I’m blasting Melissa Etheridge, Evanescence and Bon Jovi to keep myself sane, although I’m sure everyone else within earshot will agree that I am, in fact, annoying them — and not even on purpose!

It’s almost dunchtime (dinner/lunch/whatever — that’s the vernacular in these here parts). The moment I stepped away from my computer yesterday, all hell broke loose. So today I’ve chained myself to it. And besides, there’s usually that 11th-hour submission (er, 11 hours, 59 minutes and 58 seconds). Although today, I don’t think I’m getting one and so help me, I was finally prepared for it and my hyper-vigilance for nothing irritates me even more.

I keep making the joke that no one can cover us if we get hit by a bus, but that I hate that theory because, really, if any of us gets hit by one, it’d be because we jumped in front of it!

Oooh, five minutes till the witching hour. Oh, terrific, my Word AND Outlook just crashed. Screw it — I declare the witching hour to be now. Let the scavenging for dunch commence!

Nothing’s news around these parts. The whole hallway at work is still populated (circa 9 p.m.). Good thing is, I was so engrossed in my day that I didn’t realize it was so late. I also got mah monies for the next year, as it’s raise time. Whee!

Hell, I’m just glad to have a job in this economy. But they were kind to me anyway, so whee. Now if I could just get the cats to get a job, life would be pretty damn good.

What else? Lots of alcohol this weekend. Went drinking out of state with the lovely Sabre et al. A creepy dude was trying to pick up our friend, and he asked my name. I said it (think “Sunshine”) and he’s like, “John?”

Do you know how many times people do that to me? Do you know any girls named John?!?!

So I repeated my name. And he goes, “Ah! Like the dishwashing detergent!”

He was all sorts of special. I’ll stop talking about that now — can’t breathe past the vomit in my mouth from the memory.

But speaking of things, well, I shouldn’t speak of (but isn’t that why y’all come here?), I was driving home that night when I almost made an illegal left turn (there was a sign pointing to the road I needed — the problem was, the actual exit was another 35 yards away). So, genius goes to make the turn when she sees that:

A) It’s a one-way
B) There’s a cop sitting right there, waiting to pull my inebriated ass over

Oy.

So, I corrected myself in a big hurry and got on the right track. And hell if that cop didn’t follow me for five solid miles.

I wasn’t worried — believe me, I can drink. But I was really tired, hence why my judgment was off about where my actual exit was. Thank the lord above, the cop decided I was fine and toddled off to irritate some other out-of-towner.

I ended up sleeping through church yesterday, even though they very kindly e-mailed us to remind us to set our clocks ahead so that we wouldn’t miss Sunday services. Fuck, I usually roll into church with the prior night’s bar wristband(s) — this time, I kept my drunk ass in bed and missed out altogether.

I was dumb and didn’t drink my requisite gallon of water, nor did I have any headache medicine on the premises. I did get a glass of water and put it on the nightstand, although I was rudely awakened two hours into my slumber because Maddie was trying to drink out of the glass and ended up knocking it over because her pudgy widdle head got stuck in it. Scared the crap outta me. Brat.

What else? Oh, I dyed the drapes to match the carpet. Exciting stuff, I tell ya. Don’t you wish you were me?

Am down to no money whatsoever till payday. I could return two pairs of shoes I have in my closet, but really — who gives up shoes for food? But alas, my bonus is arriving on payday, so if the blog goes dark for a month, assume I’ve taken a vacation and left the laptop behind. …

Tuesday Tunage: Bon Jovi, “Hallelujah”

I work from home in the mornings because I can either be the first car in the lot at work or the last, not both. And yet, thanks to Craptastic Comcast, I get to be both. WHEE!

In other EPIC FAIL news, yesterday morning started with a comedy of errors that prevented us from hitting the hard-and-fast deadline. At five minutes past deadline, I started getting polite inquiries about why all was quiet. I blame it on Comcast, and nobody ever questions it because everyone knows COMCAST BLOWS.

Today, I had no Internet AT ALL. Rebooted everything, unplugged everything — nothin’. I had slept in (a whopping 15 minutes), so I had to scrub mah butt at lightning speed and turn a 40-minute. rush hour commute into 30 minutes. (It ended up being 27. Bitches.)

Nothing much else to write home about. I loved the dude on “American Idol” who did the rock version of Lionel Richie’s “Hello” last night. Nobody on the show really stands out yet; I can’t remember any of their names. (All right, I looked him up: David Cook.)

Well, I do know the flaming fruit loop (Danny Noriega), mostly because he was the hot topic on Hot 99.5 today because there’s apparently a Christmas video of him saying everyone deserves coal and their mothers to be raped. Awesome. He’s special. All that rage isn’t healthy. And he isn’t that talented, either, so someone please explain to him that enjoying assholes and BEING “the shit” are completely different things.

Anyway, then there was dreadlock-boy on “Idol” (Jason Castro) who did Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.” I’ll tell you what, he got mad props from the judges, but I was like, meh. I love that song. I mean, psychotically LOVE that song. SilverBlue had sent me Bon Jovi’s version of the song and, I’ll tell you what, that’s the version to beat. (Although I do have to give Jeff Buckley the credit for setting the bar very high for covers of that song.)

Well, that’s about as much interestingness that I can muster for now. Which is probably no more or less than usual.

I was just about to post on how nice it would be if people on social networking sites would think before they type, but if I’m going to waste my wishes on things that will never come true, I have way better fantasies to entertain.

Anywhoo, today’s Gemini whore-o-scope, courtesy of Astrocenter:

“With today’s planetary configuration, you will be asked to take a risk and let your intellect take a back seat to your emotions. You might be surprised by what you discover.”

Anyway, the whore-o-scope made me think of a line from “Practical Magic” — where Jilly says, “What wouldn’t I do … for the right guy?”

Indeed.

Putting my wants/needs/emotions first isn’t my style, but they sure do influence my output. I mean, I was torturing myself the past couple of days, unnecessarily, and holy sourpuss, Batman. Can we say missed opportunities, boys and girls? I’ll bet we can!

(I also miss the days when it was difficult to stalk people. Now all you have to do is load Twitter or Facebook or something. Pfft.)

I can see why people turn to God or religion or whatever on days like I’ve been having. When all you want/need is a shred of *something* to keep plugging along, sometimes that’s all there is.

It’s been hard to stay upbeat lately. But I’m going to give it a go today and if it doesn’t kill me, I might try it again tomorrow.

So, happy V.D. to all. Valentine’s Day (or Vibrator Day — otherwise known as a day that ends in “y”) and all that jazz.

And a reminder to those of us celebrating the latter, there may be a lid for every pot, but many of those matching sets are empty, scratched, cracked and otherwise not attractive or useful. So be careful about what you might be envious of!