Caterwauling

“They say that the world was built for two
Only worth living if somebody is loving you.”

— Lana Del Rey, “Video Games”

Went to a party last Saturday night.

No I didn’t get laid but I didn’t get in a fight either, Lita Ford.

I went alone. As I always do. And the first question everyone asks, if they bother to talk is, “Who are you here with?” Because they’re all coupled off, as happens in my age group.

I did invite a friend to go along. Story for another day. Useless.

I also had a birthday gift for a friend I thought would be there, whom I didn’t know moved out-of-state two weeks ago.

So, yeah. Anybody else have any surprises for me?

I realize that for all my extroversion at work, I have developed a bit of social anxiety, methinks. I have zero desire to initiate a conversation. I cannot STAND small talk and refuse to generate any. And honestly I was happy sitting outside in the freezing cold by the bonfire by myself.

I mean, I joined a bunch of conversations. But nothing really took off. For saying I’m a damn journalist and can ask great questions, I just … don’t always ask ones that generate much follow-up.

Polite but detached. Eye on the door. Ready to defect. That’s me since I moved to Florida.

The thing is, I have nothing to talk about but work and mom. I have unparalleled expertise in both. I don’t have time to read the damn headlines or have a hobby. What on earth can I say that people will relate to?

My boss and his wife were the only people I knew outside the party hosts. We’re cool and I’m happy to socialize but if there’s one thing I know about couples, it’s to not go near them too much. Because, women.

Besides, I occupied my time making all the other coupled-off women cringe when their significant others shook my hand and said hi.

Meanwhile, I was contemplating my escape (did I mention I stayed sober till about 2 a.m.?) around midnight when a nice gal struck up a conversation with me. And she and her boyfriend were just awesome.

She was terrific at the small talk. And it quickly became Big Talk.

I cannot tell you how grateful I was for her. She asked me to friend her on Facebook while we were talking, and her boyfriend friended me today.

It was as though God Himself wanted us to connect. It’s like, all the Swiss cheese holes in my heart, she had answers for. She’s beautiful and brilliant and telling ME I’m beautiful and brilliant.

I admit, I go to these parties hoping that they will help me become the social butterfly I once was. And that maybe going to parties with cool people means I’ll meet a cool person to add to my circle.

I also admit I wouldn’t mind meeting a guy at one of these things, especially since the hosts just have the world’s nicest group of friends ever. But coming out of it, making a genuine connection for the first time in a long time? Even better, I think.

“You deserve better than what you sometimes get. But if you accept less, people have no reason to give you more.”

Ergo my “bukkit list” of resolutions that all revolve around working less. That I still haven’t managed to cross off said list.

The year is young, but Goddess feels old.

Truth.

14 Fucks I Refuse to Give in 2014

“If I learned anything in 2013, it’s that love — the overwhelming, this-is-the-one kind, the love that makes you weak in the knees, if not slightly duller in the head — isn’t real. It exists outside of reality, in a world devoid of calories and Kardashians.

“I prefer the little loves. … Neglected nuances, subtle sincerity — that’s where love lives.”

My favorite was No. 12, about saving destructive relationships.

Last week I talked about how things sometimes just end, yet we find reasons to keep them on life support. Or dig them back up and see if maybe they’re still alive. Whether of our own morbid curiosity or because someone nudges us.

And with so many cases in the news right now about people who are dead but either they’re being kept alive because they’re pregnant (fucking Texas) or the California family that isn’t ready to let go of their daughter after a tonsillectomy basically killed her (although I blame medical incompetence. Because, reasons), that shows us: Dead is dead.

So after I blogged last week about how things just end sometimes, it pains me now to admit I let the random third party get into my head. And I followed the plea to “Be a Friend!” to someone who just didn’t show much interest in having me as one.

Look, I am That Girl. The one who gets scared about being friends with anyone in my professional field because it’s too tightly knit and your business is up for discussion.

Let me say this: I had great and interesting and certainly colorful histories with many people. I will love what we had (friendship or otherwise) for always.

And maybe I didn’t work hard enough to save some relationships. But I think I should get an A-plus and a Purple Heart for some others.

But … I’ve put a lot of distance between myself and my beloveds. Some for good reason, some out of laziness and some because I figured to let it go quietly and remember the beauty rather than what could have come next.

Besides, even if they really do care about you and want the best for you, which I believe for the most part, it’s a world where everything you say/do can/will be held against you. And in a world where your social connections are what make or break your career, it’s better to retain some mystery.

Again: Because, reasons.

And for the record, I DID try to step up and “Be a Friend” this week. And … crickets.

I told myself last year that I wouldn’t continue to try on this front. And I got happier. I really did. So to bring anything bad from 2013 into 2014, well, shame on me, I guess.

But you know what? I am not going to be mad at myself for taking every opportunity to be not only THE better person, but also A better person.

Here’s to everyone getting, being and doing better this year. And while I do believe we as a society and network of people all need each other, maybe we all need to expand those circles to get closer to where we’re going.

Here’s to new connections …

Ever get a social media friend request from someone toward whom you not only harbor an unlimited amount of vitriol, but who also someone whose real name continually eludes you because you have SO many creative, compound cuss words that fit said person so much better?

When I saw that notification come through this week, intestinal distress hit instantly. Like, what’s the motive? To see what I’m all about, to call me out, to threaten me, to prove a point?

I see nothing altruistic about this development. And yet, terminal curiosity is enough to make me say yes.

Now to practice the world’s biggest feat of self-restraint and not type anywhere in public anything about What a Homely Old Ridiculously Obnoxious Twat-cicle Hot-ass mess Yardbomb I perceive said person to be (with reason, of course).

Whenever I start to feel like, wow, things are good and maybe they’re going to turn out OK after all, I suddenly look skyward for the meteor that immediately started mapping its coordinates and charging toward my Cabbage Patch Kid shaped head.

Everyone is happy and cool that I’m setting boundaries and not planning to have a year like I did in 2013. And yet, I am in the middle of a mess that is largely of my own making (because when you have 10 fires to put out, generally you pick the one that’s going to cost the most money if you don’t).

Now, I feel like there’s no WAY I’m going to be able to climb out of all this rubble from the ones I had to leave smouldering in the meantime.

Otherwise known as, Thursday.

I’m still stuck on the whole husband-hunting thing.

The hell, man.

My mom and my friend I just visited both had the same commentary: Wouldn’t he be the lucky one to land me? Because, I am a catch, damn it.

Plus I think you need a few hundred more dates for that, yes?

I found a journal I was keeping at this time last year. I gave him all the space he needed. And he needed plenty.

I don’t mind working on a relationship. I look forward to it. But dating shouldn’t be hard.

Sorry, but I want someone who’s thrilled to get my time.

So when the impartial third-party friend said, wow, you two are just so GOOD together, I meant when I said it that this particular ship has sailed.

And sunk.

Funny how you are a certain version of yourself at a certain point in time. And so is the other person. And I’m not that girl anymore and he’s not that guy.

Would our newer versions of ourselves like each other more? Maybe, maybe not. Can’t say I’m in a hurry to find out.

I read something on Thought Catalog today, that we should abolish dating and the farce of going to places we don’t normally visit in clothes we don’t normally wear while trying to represent ourselves in otherwise-unnatural habitats.

Dates should all take place at Starbucks or somewhere that’s “us” (individual us, because that’s what we are and will always be). Save the fancy dinners and the zip-lining for when the coupling happens.

Because otherwise, you (like me) might convey that you’re husband-hunting when EVERYONE WHO HAS EVER MET YOU can attest that you just want someone to have a little fun with … who shares the same interests and who looks good and has bright eyes and a killer smile who brings out your playful side and who, if you’re lucky, throws you up against a wall and pulls your hair a little and makes your thighs and other places quiver.

Husband-hunting. Pfft. I ain’t mad, homeskillet. I’m just sorry that you couldn’t stand the idea of being Goddess-worthy. It’s a lot to live up to, I understand.

As Prince once sang: “The beautiful ones, they hurt you every time …”

“Welcome to the inner workings of my mind
So dark and foul I can’t disguise
Can’t disguise
Nights like this
I become afraid
Of the darkness in my heart.”

— Ms Mr, “Hurricane”

My handsome California friend (you know, the one who sent me wine from Napa that got stolen at this dump I live in) posted on Facebook Friday. And it got me to thinking.

I was killing myself to end my day early because, on the second workday of the year, I was already burned out.

He worked a 14-hour day where he wrote a book chapter and did a whole bunch of other stuff that had him PUMPED.

He’s quite the Renaissance man, too. Plays guitar and sings, has horses and a gorgeous dog and cat, loves his wines and basically loves the shit out of his wife and life.

And it occurred to me that even though I work and try hard, I don’t have that, “OMG I LOVE MY LIFE” feeling at the end of every day. Or any day with the exception of my recent and altogether too short vacation.

I want to feel that way. That’s not a resolution for the new year. That’s a resolution for NOW.

My anxiety is killing me. Quitting early only leaves me feeling incredibly nervous — either that I’ll be replaced with cheaper, less-sassy labor or that I’ll have to work 80 hours next week to make up for it.

I’m never really sure which is worse. But I’d also like to NOT find out.

Like the old Garbage song, “I’m only happy when it rains,” apparently I’m only relaxed when I’ve given every ounce of energy to everyone else. I just wonder how I can give what I can, still keep my job and give some more to me so that I am better-equipped to keep going and serving and doing and producing and, maybe this year, dreaming up big ideas too.

Any suggestions from the peanut gallery?

You know, there’s a certain peace you can derive from when a relationship ends, when you accept that, “Sometimes, relationships just end.”

Then you hang out with someone who has the details on WHY it ended and what ended it, and that rips open the nicely healed scar with a jackhammer and pries it apart with a rusty crowbar.

I knew it. I knew it. I knew it. I KNEW he thought I was after a damn ring. JESUS H. PEOPLE I AM NEVER AFTER A DAMN RING.

I wanted his heart. I would have been OK with more. Hell, I started dreaming that maybe I could have the normal life after all with him. So FUCK ME for maybe giving off a vibe that I was considering NOT GOING ANYWHERE for a while because he seemed like a keeper.

So, fine, it ended. He pushed me away. I didn’t let him at first. I fought. Oh how I fought. And I gave up.

And now I hear, “I knew there was a You before there was a YOU. Do you understand that? I heard about everything wonderful you did … how you never gave up … and how he appreciated how you loved him and fought for him because he’s no easy man to love.”

The hell, man?

I might have given up too soon, to hear the tale told from the impartial third party. I felt like I hung in there longer than I should have. At the point I was hurting MYSELF over and over and over again, I had to let go.

My friend says to me, there’s still a chance if I want it. Of friendship or otherwise.

I would be OK reviving the friendship. I wanted that more than anything on this earth. Even when everything else was supposedly gone.

And I see how people who can’t take a hint wear on my nerves. Whoever told them that girls mean yes when they say no, needs to be cannibalized.

I said I took all the hints. Why does this make me a bad person?

It doesn’t, but I need to stop taking them. And going back to the way I was and helping to bring this person back.

Apparently only I can do it.

My superhero costume is at the cleaner’s. My capacity to care for anyone beyond myself is sorely limited. And even that’s as half-assed as I can possibly half-ass it.

Trust me, I’m not husband-hunting. And certainly not among my current and immediate past circle.

But if someone needs me, well damn it, count me in.

I don’t know where I’ll find the capacity, but where this one was concerned, I could always find it without batting an eye.

Because I don’t get my fill during the day, Evil Landlady 3 (yep, 2 got fired and the new hydra head reared itself) is responsible for me NOT getting the only Christmas present shipped to me this year.

My handsome California friend sent me a gift on Christmas Eve. Mom has been in that rental office every day before and since to get it, only to be told I received NOTHING.

UPS tracking reveals the new bitch signed for it on Christmas Eve. And Goddess is out one expensive bottle of wine.

I am giving my 60 days’ notice today. I give up. I seriously cannot take their stupidity and lies anymore.

Now to figure out how to get rid of all the other disappointments in my life …

All I wanted on my first day back to work yesterday was to leave at 6 p.m.

Since I started at 6 a.m., I figured this wasn’t too lofty a goal.

So at 8 p.m. when I arrived home to find Mom was waiting to have dinner with me because she thought I’d be home at 6, I sort of short-circuited.

And by “sort of short-circuited,” I mean “searching the want ads.”

I love my field. I love what I do. I love most of the people. But damn it all to hell, I am not certain that compensates for everything else anymore.

I smiled all year as people ignored me and I learned their jobs. I “licked dick” begging people for things I desperately needed and never got. I danced circles around people outside of my editorial/marketing expertise and fixed HTML and FTP and other issues hours before they even read my SOS e-mails.

Last night, great example. We needed to change 2013 in an HTML template to 2014. After I broke the UTF-8 encoding on one of the templates, I called everyone for help. 3 out of the 4 experts have less expertise than me. The fourth and ultimate expert is on vacation, so I tried another department.

So I make the other guy stay late and he helps me make the fix, but then the fix broke the usability function for the non-adept in HTML layout. And as I didn’t want to do the layout myself (because, it was past 6 and that would take me till 8), we reverted back to the wrong date so I could leave at 7.

This after I fixed an FTP issue that occurred at 4:31 p.m. because, really. The building alights at 4:29 p.m., as (my imaginary) folklore has it.

Now, you say, Goddess, you could have stayed the extra hour. And yes, I could have and normally would have. But to what end, really? Yes I want the date right but no, frankly I’m tired.

My smile has been stretched to the absolute limit. I don’t know how much longer I can hold it.

That’s why I’ve created my 6 p.m. rule. I have to feel like I have some control, some freedom, some respect for myself.

I read somewhere that kids’ job is to play. They don’t need to “relax” like the rest of us do. When they have “free” time they play some more … they play till they go to bed … they play till they’re dead.

When’s the last time any of us played?

Let me rephrase, when’s the last time any of us played whilst frolicking through NYC, NJ and PA and didn’t come back home and get slammed with a crapalanche and immediately regret having a taste of playtime that they’ll never see again at this rate?