Caterwauling

I’ve had this post in draft mode for days but I figured the NSA would probably take it for a suicide note. Not that they’d do anything about it … but, you know, I’m sure it would be in a giant file on me somewhere and could bite me in my pudgy pork roast butt when I least expect it.

But anyway, Paris Jackson. My heart breaks for her because I completely get her suicide attempt. She apparently swallowed 20 Motrin and took a meat cleaver to her wrists.

When I was her age, I took half a bottle of Excedrin. I got a really good sleep and had a migraine for the next three days as I came out of it. No one knew. I don’t know if I’ve ever told anyone about that. I was just so sick of the bullying and bullshit of high school that I really didn’t see the point of going there every day to be existentially tormented.

If someone had told me that working for a living was the same way, I would have taken the whole bottle and finished the job!

Anyway, the kid got committed to a mental ward. She may still be under her psychiatric hold. I don’t know. I assume it was a cry for help — I think it happened on the four-year anniversary of her dad’s death. Which is still a clusterfuck in all of our minds. I can only imagine being young and confused and publicly tormented simply for being who she is — a beautiful reminder of what was good about her famous dad’s life.

But, institutionalization.

That’s what happens when someone comes out alive when they didn’t mean to — you get the “cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs” cuffs.

We as a society declare them as absolutely nuts, and brand them for life as mentally ill. The smarter among us pinpoint it as one time in their lives that they experienced mental illness. But I feel bad that the kid is going to have this mark against her for life.

I don’t get that. I think if you are aware enough of what you’re doing … that you understand this life is ephemeral and you want to get back to your Source where everything is perfect and you need/want for nothing … who’s to say you’re not the sane one and the rest of us who keep enduring all this crap aren’t the crazy ones?

I had a hard week. Not suicidally hard. But hard nonetheless. I had a couple of flip-outs and was glad they weren’t witnessed. Yet I just wish somebody would ask sometimes.

By Friday afternoon when everyone was mad that my shit wasn’t done (last I checked, I was the only one who hung out till 8 p.m.), I was so calm, it wasn’t even funny. I just hadn’t been looking at the clock. I was too busy trying to pull everything together. All I can do is shrug and work a tiny bit faster.

Everyone else was trying to get home because of the thunderstorm in progress. Like, didn’t I care enough about myself to get out? (Everyone asks this of me.) As if I really wanted to have four hours’ worth of work ahead of me so that I’d have to make the drive in the dark. As if it’s up to me what can wait and what can’t.

I care about myself. More than everyone on this planet combined. I just … don’t know what to do.

I wish things could wait. I wish having a lunch meeting didn’t add two hours to the end of my day while everyone else frolicked home at 6. But I’ll never work in this town again if I don’t (and I don’t think I’ll work in this town again even if I do; this field is strange like that), so I guess I just wish people wouldn’t remind me that they have plans and care about their lives and I should make plans and care about my life too.

So, Paris. I give ya credit, girl. Maybe things will change for you. I hope they do. But I fear that all cries for help, whether in the form of pills or self-injury or public blog entries, just paint you as a liability when all you want is to make someone give you permission to care about/treat yourself with respect and reverence and love … the way you deserve. The way they don’t hesitate to treat themselves.

Thought for today: Those who can’t, irritate the motherfuck out of the rest of us who not only can, but who also HAVE.

What kills us more is that we can’t do anything about it other than to keep doing it. And to try not to inflict physical harm in the process, on them or on ourselves.

I haven’t been smoking but I’ve started cutting. Not with sharp objects, just with my nails. I wish I were one of those people who got frustrated and decided to, I dunno, exercise.

But at least I’m exfoliating every time someone pisses me off. That counts as self-improvement, right?

So as I was about to leave the house today, I learned that Tropical Storm Andrea was also a tornado about to touch down at the county airport due east from my office. I sat my pudgy pork roast ass on the couch for the next two hours, watching the pregnant meteorologist freaking the fuck out on camera.

No way in hell I was making that commute through four inches of water out to God’s country. And the TV station brought in a calmer meteorologist to relieve her.

We had an armadillo cross our path the other day. Ye Olde Alligator Ranch is now Ye Olde Armadillo Farm. Or, as a friend of mine said, “You guys have pigs and chickens and shit out there … the hell?”

Mom got to hear our 8:30 conference call. She was busy hanging herself about 15 minutes in. Twenty minutes in, I was ready enough to kill myself that I got into the car and started barreling straight toward the eye of the tornado, four alleged inches of rain on the ground and a jacked-up inland neighborhood be damned.

Mom was like, “You have four calls a day? No wonder you never get to come home.” She had a few other fun comments but I will keep those off the record. 🙂

It was such a weird day when I got there. I mean, nothing unusual. Weird is the norm. But it really makes sense for me to arrive at 10 given what time I leave. Wish I could pull that off every day.

Speaking of Whore-nadoes, I see Whorothy changed her profile pic again. The bitch is looking better lately. I still want a tornado to plop her ass into another dimension, but she can HAVE Topo Gigio. Really. When I am over somebody/something, there’s no getting that lovin’ feeling back.

Of course, I admit that I’ve been thinking about all the great guys I left behind, thinking there was someone more-perfect for me out there somewhere (like, say, TG). Maybe there is. I hope there is. But I have those moments lately of, “What if I would have been happy?” I mean, obviously not or else my gut would have told me to stay. Right?

You know what my gut is telling me right now? That peppermint-chocolate anything sounds good. Maybe I should stop trusting said gut … or, at least, start hiring a translator to interpret what it’s really saying that I’ve clearly been missing.

Of course, what if what I’ve been “hearing” has been right all along, and all the good things are about to come flooding like a tropical rainstorm into my arid little life?

I started an entry a week ago and my laptop crashed as I hit the publish button and lost it all. And I’ve not been the slightest bit motivated to rebuild that marvelous piece of prose. Mostly because I believe things happen for a reason and I think the universe didn’t want me to put those words “out there.”

Things are OK right now. I continue to wonder when the proverbial next shoe will come flying at my head. I realize all the things that bug me about work are fixable. Problem is, I can’t fix them. Same goes with home. The problems are beyond fixing but I’m never going to move forward till I do.

The chronic Catch-22 is a killer. So I’m in m shiny happy place in my head. Everything is FIIIINE. LA LA LA if our country and our markets can pretend our problems away, why can’t I?

I got to thinking about one of my boys today. I never recorded it here but I met one of them while I was on contract status at my employer. A big part of me saying yes to the job was the little voice in my head that said, “He’s going to be very important in your life” the moment that we met.

I’m not saying I didn’t have other reasons to take the job. But the idea of getting to know that cute boy sure wasn’t at the bottom of that list!

He’s gone from there now. Five of my friends resigned in the last two weeks. Six if you count the one who went on contractor status. I feel like I’ll be the last one standing, although I’m sure it’ll be more like “curled in a ball in a fetal position under my desk” rather than standing.

Again, my problems are all fixable. I just wish we could hop to it so I could get to the business of fixing my other problems. Maybe they could help matters and hire a hot guy to distract me from everything that’s making me nuts in the meantime? That would bring it all full circle.

There’s a joke that you can put four Geminis in a room with the sole task of deciding what they want to do that night. You can come back five days later and they will still be there, because each one says, “I don’t know, what do YOU want to do?

This makes me a good date for the guy who likes to plan. Hell, I don’t mind if they order for me too, so long as red wine is involved. They don’t have me asking for stuff they don’t want to do, and I get to see how romantic they are.

Seriously, when the last one would give me choices, I still couldn’t narrow it down. I’d tell him I’d gladly follow his lead. He might have thought I was a doormat but, really, I didn’t care as long as we were hanging out and having fun together.

(We always had a blast. And he always had red wine ready for me.)

(Of course, I think he judged me by the activities I did suggest and request. So, you know, I’m not overly sad that I don’t have to worry much about that anymore.)

Same thing with friends. We were to have a big birthday bash at my favorite restaurant, one I haven’t gone to in years. The restaurant decided they couldn’t accommodate us, and oddly enough it was a Gemini who made the alternate plans that turned out to be fabulous. Again, four Geminis would equal no consensus. It all works out. (I can’t remember the last time I had that much fun, stumbling from bar to bar in search, and receipt, of free birthday drinks!)

Night before, I went out with some other folks. They asked what I wanted to do. I REALLY wanted to go to the favorite restaurant, but alas, I picked an area that was convenient to all. Because, peacemaker, yo. Again, everyone was happy so I was happy. Total birthday win.

Back when I was little, my mom would try desperately to throw birthday parties for me. But being born on Memorial Day weekend meant everyone went away with their families. And I was always left feeling A) unimportant and B) like, why the hell can’t we ever go to the beach, too?

So as I grew up, I learned to celebrate alone. Oh don’t get me wrong — I threw some fabulous parties in my day. Mostly when the urban tribe was all too broke to go away and anyone would show up for free liquor and a cookout. Besides, I used to be a fabulous cook. I enjoyed all of it.

So last year everyone flaked. I mean everyone. If not for a last-minute invitation from friends who felt sorry for me to join them during their plans, well, yeah.

Maybe that’s a part of the reason I don’t make any demands. If you have plans, what does it really matter what they are?

Of course, I see the same thing playing out in all my relationships — love, home, etc. I wouldn’t say I’m a master (mistress?) at keeping the peace, because I can be an asshole when I want to be. But I feel like so little is actually my choice. Rather, my choice is allowing everybody to get what they want in hopes I will get what I want. Which is happiness.

Of course, the birthday is the one time of year I feel like it’s on my terms, whether at home or otherwise. The people who wanted me, reserved me weeks in advance. And I’m still puzzling over a couple of strange communiques over the weekend, and a lack of them coming from a certain direction.

That’s OK. I also have some big invitations from other corners of the world to come see them. I really have to ask to be able to use some of my vacation days. Not that I want to disturb the peace; after all the last job that put me out on the street was the one where I used and enjoyed the hell out of my vacation days.

Wait, what was I just saying about putting what everyone else wants before what I want? Damn it, this is how it starts … and, I hope, where it can come to an end …

At what point does one’s life become too publicly lived? I have always blogged, Tweeted and other social media’d basically as a means of therapy. To purge whatever is in my brain to open it to the next new experience or adventure. To say whatever it is that I just can’t to those who so richly deserve it (love or hate). To put out a word of encouragement and wait for its seed to manifest for myself or whomever is watching.

Right now I find myself so glad I haven’t been blogging about work, friends, life. Sure I blog, but in a roundabout dance that is designed to leave more questions than answers. And right now, in the absolute dearth of genuine relationships anywhere in my face-to-face life, is when I’m both glad to have kept my silence/distance and annoyed to absolute death that have to bottle up what I’m feeling so as not to offend people who have proven that they don’t give a shit about me.

If turning 39 has done anything for me, it’s made me realize that my life is half-over and what do I have to show for it? If these are my peak earning years, the height of my “pretty years,” the last gasp of summer before the third season starts to turn the leaves from vibrant greens to rustic reds and, eventually, drab browns … well, they leave a lot to be desired.

I don’t even know how to change all of this fukkery. And I can’t say I don’t see more ahead. I guess my parting thought for now, to everyone who needs to hear it, is if you don’t expect others to buy your b.s., why on earth do you think I would?

“Fourteen today and you went dancing
Music mixed with laughter and boys can be so immature
They made you drink a bit too much
Everything’s a blur to feel and touch
Did he really like you? Well, how can you be sure enough?

Twenty-three today and all your friends are gettin’ married
You say, they’re so scared of bein’ alone
So self-righteously you march through teachers’ college
Still so much in life you gotta get to know
Seems like everybody’s so content to move so slow

And when you think, you’ve got your life so well-controlled
It slips away
And the years, like raindrops falling from your life
Are washed away, washed away

And you’re so brilliant, you’re so gifted
So sensitive, so strong
As you hide behind your barricade of words
But no one got close enough to you to have ever heard

I met you at a party
You were drunk and full of world advice and I was gettin’ nervous
And you said, you had a child who was a genius
Then you smiled as the living room transformed into your circus

Someone whispered you were 39 today, a face so young, eyes so old
You collapsed into the corner, like some body of raw nerves
You near seduced me with your verbs as I reached out for you
You said over and over

Oh, when you think, you’ve got your life so well-controlled
It slips away
And the years, like raindrops falling from your life
Are washed away, washed away

And you’re so brilliant, you’re so gifted
So tragic and so wrong
As you hide behind your barricade of words
But you know, no one got close enough to you to have ever heard

Children come home from school
Shout and laugh with all their life
Shut them out fast before you think of the past
Turn out all of your lights

Go to bed, go to sleep, don’t think, don’t feel
As the nighttime owns a prayer
But maybe somewhere deep inside
There’s some meaning, aching to be shared

Fourteen today and you were dancing.”

— Dan Hill, “14 Today”

Didn’t sleep. Cat kept me up all night, just howling. No idea why. And I think I’m starting to get sick. At least, my head feels like it’s full of cotton, wrapped around a lead weight. So, ask me how much I’m looking forward to getting through this day!

I find myself fluctuating every day between “Holy shit, do I rock” and “Holy shit, other people are doing better work AND in less time.”

And after I had that epiphany yesterday about, when you have balance, nothing feels like a chore … well, I started itemizing my passions during the long morning commute.

(Seriously, the less time I have with my thoughts, the better. This is getting to be a dangerous habit.)

I’ve always said I wanted to write a book. Well, I’ve written bunches of them. My new goal is to publish a book I’ve written. And not one of the ones I already have. Those were just to keep me out of trouble or occupied.

But what about?

My passion really revolves around office dynamics. Well, the interpersonal dynamics of colleagues, anyway. From supervisory approaches to teambuilding to accountability to leveraging friendships into making the workdays something special. Work is not to be dreaded or tolerated. Job-hopping is not the answer. Of course, neither is staying in the wrong environment.

Anyway, I dig this stuff. And that’s why I have often dug my grave via this blog. Because I’m not the only one who notices this stuff … I just feel like I have a passion for well-taken-care-of people being happier, healthier and more-productive overall.

My fear is that, other than my sarcasm, I don’t have a unique take on it. And that’s why I’ve never sat down to outline it. I have a working title that would work with a sarcastic tone. But I don’t love it. And therefore I’ve never started writing it.

I guess I’m ready to start growing again. My latest load of tasks have given me a broader knowledge base, but I was already at the top of my game before I took them on. I need to break past that glass ceiling instead of just getting wider, kind of like my ass is from parking it at a desk chair and then in a car seat all day.

I guess no time like the present to start an outline …

You know what’s worse than my usual 40-minute commute? It taking 40 minutes to travel seven miles because the roads are flooded and the highway’s a parking lot.

Despite the wondrous start to today, I achieved a huge victory. Got the Daily Albatross Project done at 4:45 p.m. I usually don’t push the live button on that hot mess till around 8 p.m.

Yesterday morning, one of my neighbors said, “See you in 14 hours!” during our a.m. elevator ride. He’s right you know. 12-ish hours at the office and 1-ish hours on each end of it to commute, and no one ever sees me. I hadn’t realized anyone noticed.

Got home during the 7 p.m. hour tonight. Another neighbor said, “I never see you at this hour!”

Got home late last night. What I hate is that the asshole who parks facing me is always coming home at the same time … him from the bar, me from the office. And he may not be an asshole, but he’s inebriated and happy and I’m not.

Read a great article today. Well, I can’t remember the last time I read a great article, but it qualifies when I find a piece of myself in it.

“I never felt plagued and I never longed for balance. What I was doing just felt right, and I knew this level of focus and absorption was temporary.” — Inside the Stiletto Network

I long for balance. And this made it dawn on me that you really don’t need balance when you’re overjoyed with one or more areas of your life. When you’re instead ENDURING one or more areas (or all), you need balance … even if it’s like I have, moving from one glorious adventure to the next.

Oh well. Better than being in Oklahoma City, right? Albatross Project got out on time, shitty car/tires/brakes didn’t give way and the engine didn’t flood during the rain, and I’m busy working toward dreams (even if they aren’t mine, since I don’t have any right now). The blessings are bigger than the bullshit. And if that isn’t a prayer, to ensure that this state continues, then I don’t know what is.

I picked up my Powerball tickets today. I had to, after I told my friends at work to “enjoy my stuff” because I am not coming back for it.

The guys at the convenience store screwed them up. It’s a long story but here’s to hoping I got the numbers I was meant to have.

So, what else can I actually type about that won’t earn me hate mail or a disciplinary notice? Hmmm. I got a laptop. I did NOT get a MacBook Pro. Every time I have started to buy a MacBook the past few years, I’ve gotten fired, believed I was in danger of it or otherwise encountered a big expense. So as not to tempt fate, I got the world’s cheapest HP.

You get what you pay for, is all I’m saying. You forget how handy a backlit keyboard is when YOU DON’T HAVE ONE. This is my first and last Windows-based product. And Windows 8? Can bite me. There’s a reason why computers that don’t have it cost an extra hundred bucks or so more.

I’m learning to live with it, though. It’s my gift to myself, a baby step in the direction of getting out of this rut I’ve been in. I have been fluctuating between feeling trapped to being scared that the lobster trap will open and I’ll fall out before I’m ready.

Curiously, something happened after I got the computer. My fear went away. I’ve awakened every day for the past month in absolute terror. Last Saturday, I shot out of bed with a work nightmare and it turned out it was a work MEMORY.

Yet I got this stupid machine a few days ago and I feel like, well, it’s you and me, kid. We’ll be OK. I don’t know that I’ll rediscover my abandoned love for writing but at least my excuses for NOT putting thoughts on paper in a non-public place are over.

And that’s the best feeling of all — not the writing; I still have some hostility toward it right now. The best thing for me right now is knowing that, even when you can’t see when or where or how you’ll possibly be OK, you just know it’s happening.

The humans in the world may not care all that much about you unless you’re helping them, but the universe is helping you whether you can see it or not.

I have a lot of thoughts swirling through my head that I’m not ready to reveal. Although I may say, with “The Office” ending this week, I have 20 years’ worth of journals to start my own damn show. Mine could also be a comedy but I’m thinking a cartoon would be more appropros. (Some of you may remember my Veggie Patch comic strip. I cracked myself up.)

Anyway, till I get back to whatever it is I was meant to do with this life, Powerball I’m counting on you. Momma needs healthcare, I need emotional rehab and we both need a trip to Italy. I’ve got an attorney on speed-dial for when I win — now all I need is for my numbers to be called. …