Caterwauling

Hey now, I’m aging fast enough, thanks

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

I was out with some of my boys at Mix in Las Vegas recently, high atop THE Hotel for a tastily overpriced meal.

All the boys had ordered dessert but I was happy with my skim cappuccino. But apparently before our order was taken, we were talking about some injustice or another, and one of the boys had said to me jokingly, “Well, happy birthday to you!” And we’d laughed and I’d said “No kidding.”

Well, our kidding turned into our server giving the boys their desserts, and then presenting me with this beautiful plate with a candle, candied nuts and “Happy Birthday” written in chocolate.

AND I got serenaded — the boys sang along because they honestly thought it must be my birthday. The server charmed me with his “Happy birthday, dear Mix guest. …”

But wait, there’s more! I was also treated to a free glass of their best champagne, a Muscat imported straight from France. OMG, yum. Yeah, I won’t be drinking any cheap-ass Asti Spumante or anything like that again — once you’ve had the real stuff, seriously I think it’s better to just do without any until you can have it again.

So once all the fuss died down, my oldest friend in the pack asked what the hell just happened. The newer friends in the group asked how they knew it was my birthday. I thought about it and said, you know, my REAL birthday is in exactly six months … technically the celebration was an accurate one if you’re into half-birthdays.

Which, I’m sorry to say, sent me into a very mild panic attack and I snarfed in that Muscat like someone was gonna snatch it out of my sweaty little palm. (My palms don’t sweat. Just an expression.)

I’ve babbled ad nauseam on this blog that “34 is my year! 34 is my year!” and OMG, it hit me that “34 is halfway over! You’re almost 35!” and I’m lucky my $100 entree only consisted of two lettuce leaves and three scallops or else I would have thrown up in my lap.

Anyway, I’m not quite ready to see that landmark birthday and I wish I had more than six months to prepare for it. I suddenly have this weird pressure to achieve everything I’ve ever wanted to do before I turn 35. Maybe I should just declare that “my year,” too, but I’ve wasted far too many years to keep putting off living, truly living.

In any case, my half-birthday party in Vegas is going down in company lore as “that time when Goddess managed to score a free dessert at a five-star restaurant.” At least it’s a Vegas-based antic that I don’t mind being talked about for!

Christmas at DCA

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

I went to see “Four Christmases” yesterday and pretty much loved it. Reese Witherspoon and Vince Vaughn’s characters are living exactly the life I want — surrounding themselves with expensive things, taking exotic vacations and avoiding all things family-related. Ah, to dream. …

Without spoiling it, the question does arise whether that’s all there is to life. And my answer would be “That’s fine by me!” but nobody’s asking what I think.

I’m making a conscious effort to not go all manic-depressive this holiday season, but this one is testing me more than most. (Minus the one four years ago. Just, don’t ask.)

I just want to know what a good holiday season feels like. One that’s not reminding me how financially fucked I am or how significant-other-challenged I always seem to be at this time of year. And now that I’ve got a built-in roommate (whoever said it’s cheaper to keep her, needs to get smashed over the skull with a brick fireplace) who is either clueless to, or simply ignores, my absolute discomfort at the situation, well, what’s the point of surviving the holidays when nothing looks to be getting better?

I skipped church today — I tend to do that when I need it most. But the bathroom was occupied when I woke up to start getting ready, so I rolled over and went back to sleep. That and, hey, it’s raining. I hope the baby Jesus will understand.

My recent vacation was my Christmas present to myself. I didn’t do nothin’ but shop, eat, drink and lounge in the tub. No cat fur, no intrusions, no sharing my oxygen.

And no answering the phone or looking at the e-mail, during the latter part of the trip. I’ve been so caught up in the details of making other people’s dreams come true, I’ve forgotten how to contribute my vision to the executing of others’.

I’m at this weird place in life where I could continue the career I have — I can get really good at it and do this forever. Or … maybe I’m at the point where I’ve learned enough and maybe it’s time to learn/do something new — preferably something that’s more immune to the recession at hand, if such a thing exists.

I dunno. I’ve always been happy to let my fate find me, whether it’s job, career, friends, family (or urban tribe), pets, boys, etc. I don’t actively seek anything.

And what I seek now — to have my house to myself again, to not be worried to death about losing employment in this tough economic conditions, to enjoy a healthy and functional relationship — seems downright impossible at this moment. I know everything’s within my power to obtain/achieve, but at what point are you just too beaten-down to pursue anything other than the occasional scrap of peace and quiet to simply exist?

Anyway, I don’t wanna just exist. I don’t want to “get through” the holidays, the next fiscal quarter, the next year of the lease.

I don’t want to keep putting off a computer purchase till my meager savings is dwindled down to nothing to pay all the bills.

I don’t want to be where I was four years ago, missing a job I hated with all my heart because I needed the (pathetic amount of) money it provided.

I don’t want to look back on this time where I alternated between anger and passivity when I could have been nicer to people who are rubbing my nerves like a fluffy cloud of steel wool.

I don’t want to believe that this is as good as it gets.

I don’t want to find reassurance in that there are plenty of others who have it way worse than me.

I don’t want to feel like my best days are anywhere but in front of me.

I want to see how great others have it and continue being happy for them. And I also want to feel that I can achieve that level of joy and love and accomplishment and completeness for myself.

I spend a lot of time in denial, of avoiding the things and people that stress me out. I guess I just want them to know how miserable they make me, that I have to pretend they don’t exist in order to get through a day/week/whatever. I also use that exhaustion as an excuse for not keeping up with the people with whom I very much want to share my time and love.

But now that I’ve had a week to myself, I’ve had a chance to chill out and look at the big picture again, instead of being mired in all the details that mean so much to seemingly everyone else but me. And I feel like I can continue in this path and rise to the top of it. But what’s going to motivate me in the meantime, other than fear and obligation?

I know I’m going to end up where I’m supposed to end up. But how am I going to recognize/fulfill my own dreams when I’m so busy tending to everyone else’s?

Live music at Mandalay

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

When I travel on business, I either do my partying with my associates or I wait till long after they leave town. And on neither occasion do I act like a drunken fool.

On my last night in Vegas, I saw “Mamma Mia!” at the Mandalay Events Center and spent the remainder of the evening at the J-Pop Lounge (pictured) where the service is fantastic and the live music is nothing short of amazing.

I was sitting alone at a table when a gal came up and asked if she could pay me for a cigarette (as Vegas is the last town where smokers can take refuge, even though they removed the smoking lounges at the airport, YOU BASTARDS). I gave her one and she invited me to join her and her friend at a table by the stage. And what the hell, right? I took her up on her offer.

That was my first mistake.

So I sat with Ashley and her friend Ward/Wyatt/Weirdo/Whatever and she tried to help us bond over the fact that he and I both live/work in D.C. So he said to me, “What do you think of the new president?”

I wasn’t sure what kind of company I was in, so I said casually that I was really a Hillary supporter but I was still pleased with how the election turned out.

At which point they groaned and said, “You can leave the table now.”

And believe me, I wanted to but I was hoping I just didn’t know how to read them at that point.

So these two go into a full-scale attack on Obama and why he’s not qualified to run the country. They said how much they hate him and Biden and they just KNOW that someone’s going to take out Obama in the next two years and we’ll be stuck with Biden as our president. And they will be thrilled in 2012 when their party resumes office again.

My head was spinning. I’m getting tired of forgiving every sore-pawed Republican who feels the need to tell me how much they hate my candidate. They aren’t the first, they probably won’t be the last, but you’ve got to do what I did — quit whining and go support your party in the next election. Period.

And I don’t want to call them racist because that’s a powerful word and certainly not a nice one. But if the shoe fits, please to allow me to beat you with it.

So Ashley wanted another smoke (she couldn’t smoke in front of this guy who she swears was not her boyfriend), so I pretty much just slid her the pack under the table and decided to keep the idiot company. There were football highlights on the TV and we actually had a very pleasant discussion about the sport. But then Ashley returned to the table with some latent comment about Sarah Palin and I decided it was time to change the subject. Since Weirdo works at Andrews Air Force Base (locally), I asked if he were a Redskins fan.

His answer? “Redskins SUCK! Go Cowboys!”

At this point, I’m thinking great, here’s a redneck Republican who loves Dallas. Please to be shooting me soon, yes?

I opted to ignore them for the rest of the night in favor of watching all the crazy white people trying to dance. Which, I assure you, is always good for a laugh.

There was a guy who had tried to pick me up earlier in the night, whom I had pretty much run screaming from (pickup line: “Your first baby’s going to be black!”), and he was there with someone he had managed to pick up. Awww. Barf. Does that line actually work or was she even drunker than she looked?

I was laughing my ass off at them trying to dance — it’s a pop-music lounge, and he was making this poor girl slow-dance to Fergie and Gwen Stefani tunes. I mean, come on. I was glad I had passed on that sorry sap.

I did tell Ashley that he had tried to pick me up earlier. And since his hue was similar to Obama’s, she almost crapped in her seat. At this point the cogs in my head are starting to turn to figure out how I can offend them by trying instead of my mere presence making them sick.

And opportunity presented itself when the sorry sap came over and grabbed my wrists to pull me onto the dance floor.

I shot a terrified look toward at Ashley and Weirdo, and they said go have fun.

Yeah, not likely. You know WHY this idiot couldn’t pick up a girl and keep her? Because he’s an asshole. We were on the floor no less than 60 seconds when he starts trying to pinch my nipples.

Seriously? The hell?

I started slapping his hands and shouted, “This ain’t the hokey poke-me!” But I don’t think he was smart enough to get that.

I kept smiling because I wasn’t about to cry rape on the dance floor. But what the fuck is it about Vegas, or business trips in general, that makes people think they can act like total douchetards in public? Clearly he can’t get laid at home, wherever that is, but trying to molest classy ladies such as myself (shut up!) isn’t going to get you very far either, cowboy.

For the record, it’s cold in the casinos because they pump in fresh oxygen to keep the smoke at bay and to ensure everyone’s nice and awake to keep gambling all night. Ergo, I don’t wear anything but padded bras when I’m in Vegas. So nyah, no titty-twisters for you!

Meanwhile, I had given this guy all of two minutes on the dance floor, if that, and I decided to make my escape. I looked toward the table, only to find that Ashley and Weirdo had taken the fuck off.

Which, I was perfectly fine with — he’d bought me two drinks and it was definitely a great substitute for intelligent conversation — but to leave my pocketbook sitting there with my credit cards and room key? NOT COOL.

The idiot on the dance floor asked me to stay but I said I needed to find my friends. Fuck that, I grabbed my full glass of wine and went over to the next bar, where I moved on to tequila and lots of it. (Yay $20 half-yard mojito with extra shots!)

Luckily, I had kept one cigarette for myself and definitely celebrated being free again.

Anyway, I don’t really know what to make of that night. Clearly that alcohol plus destination city equals freedom to be an idiot. But what of Ashley and Weirdo? Maybe if what I saw of them was who they really were, maybe they could stand to act like different people when they’re on the road.

I had liked Ashley instantly because she, like me, is accustomed to traveling alone, and she said she knows how hard it is to go into a bar by yourself and she always wished someone would invite her to sit with their group. But that’s where my admiration began and ended.

I mean, you don’t ditch a fellow female, do you? I’m sure she was even more disgusted than I was by the idiot pawing me up, but I was the one getting molested, thanks much. If she’s so concerned about women having to fend for themselves at the bar, why did she think it was OK to run in the other direction?

Just goes to show why I’m mostly happy to hang out by myself when I travel. I can handle myself just fine, and I’m the same person you meet at the beginning of the night as you say goodbye to at the end. Just a little drunker, that’s all.

Enjoy all the money I spent at your fine establishment!

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

The photo has nothing to do with the blog entry, but it’s nice to have something pretty to look at while I type.

Well, I woke up and wished I were dead, so that’s definitely a sign that I’m back at home. Even the sitting on the tarmac at McCarran for an hour yesterday before a long six-hour flight with no food, drinks or movies (Dear U.S. Airways, you suck. Love, Goddess) beat coming home to the smell of cat shit and a phone bill in which someone talked for 5,000 minutes last month.

I keep a photo of my grandfather in my wallet, and I noticed I’ve been especially emotional when I see his face. It occurred to me this morning that we lost him two Thanksgivings ago, and I gained an Extended Houseguest^TM who seems to be content as a permanent one.

So, today I’m having a wee bit of trouble with the “things I’m grateful for” list. Let’s see, I gained eight pounds on my eating tour of Vegas. I spent $100 on (adorable!) boots when I should have checked the phone bill instead. I spent $60 on a (so cute!) DKNY sweater when I haven’t yet been able to turn on the heat for the winter. My job was spared from cutbacks but that means continuing to do more but with even less.

All right, I’ve got to turn this around or else I am going to carve my wrists instead of the — oh, wait, no food in the house. Shocker! — turkey I will be having with friends tonight. (Thank you, God, for my friends. I mean that.)

I needed this vacation (eight glorious, glorious days. Half work, half play. As it should be). My sanity hinged on this escape. It almost didn’t happen and I’m so grateful the powers-that-be approved the expense because I can’t take a real vacation ever (I’ve learned to stop asking for days off) but no one could say a word when I tacked on a personal leg of this journey when I ask for so very little.

I’ve been suffering with “too much to do-itis” because there are always more projects but not the manpower unless it comes from within. And while I get that we’re entering a period of belt-tightening and taking one for the team to keep the boat afloat, well I’ve been operating that way for a lot longer.

Now that I’m at the end of my rope, I am being asked to find even more rope — and by the way, could I braid it myself? Super!

And I’m OK with that. For now. But I just needed to get the fuck away for a while to regain whatever sense of balance that I might have found, for the five minutes I might have found it to recognize what to emulate.

I did a lot of networking while I was away. And the thing I always walk away with, are compliments paid by the dozens, on what a happy person I seem like. That I worship my boys and bend over backward for them. That I genuinely come across as loving what I do for a living. That I will stay two hours after the conference ends to help ONE CUSTOMER to make up his mind about something.

Yep. That’s me. And you know why? Whether it’s Thanksgiving or any day, I am grateful for the opportunity to get to fall in love again with why I do all of this in the first place.

So, yeah, my vacation haze was shot within 60 minutes of collecting my luggage last night. But while I know I will probably never get another vacation day ever, from the home or the job, I was no dummy — I lived it up while I could.

And while a part of me wishes that I DIDN’T know what it was like to live the high life — because it really hurts to leave it — I at least have something to keep aspiring to and not just climbing into the hamster wheel, day after day, because it’s the only life I know. …

Pyramid

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

There’s a thing called time decay when you’re trading stock-market derivatives, in that not only do they have a limited shelf life, but their level of deterioration accelerates most rapidly as their lifespan zooms to a close.

In that vein, the time decay of my vacation is making my head spin.

I got an alert from my bank today that I’d fallen way below my designated balance. (Did I mention I didn’t pay bills — mine or anyone’s — this month?) So I took that as a sign to use the remaining funds to go book a show ticket for tonight!

Now, every hotel here hosts some sort of live production. I was particularly interested in the show at my hotel — especially because they keep leaving me voicemails to tell me that I can get 20% off tickets by stopping by the box office and showing my guest card.

So today, I said what the hell and went to the box office. I picked the 10 p.m. show, I picked my seat and I asked for the discount.

You’d think I’d have asked Twatzilla behind the counter to go kick a puppy on my behalf.

She asked what kind of discount I thought I was entitled to. ! I said I kept getting these voicemails telling me to get my 20% off, so that’s the discount. She asked whether I had gotten any discount books when I checked in. I said yes. She asked me to show them to her. I said look, I’ve been here for a few days — I’m not carrying around all the crap I was handed on day one.

So I had to show her a credit card, room key, room charge card, and a driver’s license and she said she needed to verify with the front desk that I was entitled to the discount I claimed I was entitled to.

HUNH?

Look, I get that maybe there are different levels of discounts for different guests. I have a suite at the top of the hotel, so I presume the fact that I got a really good room must have opened me up to some spectacular offers. Great! Give ‘em to me. God knows I’m usually considered to be the riff-raff (see previous entry on WHY I FUCKING HATE RUM JUNGLE).

But gah, this was turning straight into a production. And I don’t do productions. I took back all of my cards as she got on the phone ,and she said, “What, don’t you want the discount?” And I said, “I did. But there are other shows in the area that won’t require this kind of effort. Thanks anyway.”

I was so angry — in fact, when I got back to my room, there was ANOTHER voicemail from the front desk, telling me to stop by the box office and ask for my 20% discount off my tickets.

Look, had I waited, I’m sure I would have gotten it. But seriously, this is my vacation. I don’t tap-dance for anyone and NOT for box-office monkeys. Sorry.

Before I returned to my room, though, I wandered over to a neighboring hotel to see about getting a ticket to its featured show. I would find out later that I had a coupon to get $30 off a seat to that production, but I had stomped there in a huff and didn’t exactly think to look at my pile of coupons. (Including several 2-for-1 dinner offers, which I found myself unexpectedly not needing, so you can see my reluctance to look through my stuff.)

Anyway, not only did I buy a ticket to the neighboring hotel’s show, but I also paid less than I would have for the one at my hotel.

And the best part? I said I wanted to pay the least amount possible, and I was shown my choice of seats. So I picked one and when the woman ran my credit card, she said, “Hey, I upgraded you to the $90 section but you’re only going to pay $50. The seats are better there. Enjoy!”

So, holy shit, I had to practically give blood and piss samples to get the guest discount at my hotel, but the other hotel (where I have stayed before — maybe that’s why they were so nice to me) automatically gave me a great deal WITHOUT ME EVEN ASKING.

I know they all deal with dipshit tourons all day long, but man, to have someone do something so nice for me — without it even being within the realm of expectation — was absolutely exquisite.

So, I’m out of money for dinner but I have enough in my pocket for a big fat cocktail after the show, and damn it, I’m about to have a really fantastic night. Once I finally see the show, I shall pay mad blog props to the hotel in question.

The sad thing about my hotel, though, is that I’ve never been treated better anywhere else that I’ve stayed … with the exception of box-office twat-nozzle. Amazing what one asshole can do to crap on your day, but luckily, that day has been so very saved. And I am so very grateful!