Caterwauling

Subtitle: The ‘But Wait, There’s More … And Still More’ Entry

No, I didn’t buy a membership — I got PULLED OVER in the two blocks between my apartment and the fucking health club.

Apparently my plate or something has been suspended because I never got my emissions done. Huh? It took me hundreds of dollars to get the inspection/emissions done and they DIDN’T DO THE EMISSIONS?

I miss living in Virginia and Pennsylvania, where they were done together. Oh, but NO … I have to drive out to East Bumfuck to get them done. On a workday.

This cost will be ON TOP OF the $140 ticket.

I would REALLY like to know why other people’s screw-ups become my responsibility, and then my own screw-ups come to bite me on the other ass cheek. Seriously.

Here’s the real fun in all this — I had arrived at the gym around 8:30 p.m. Got a parking spot in the lot tonight and didn’t have to leave this precious EXPENSIVE vehicle in the delicious, delicious McDonald’s lot. Got down to the club and realized I was severely lacking in, um, WORKOUT WEAR.

So, I had to run home to get it. And I changed while I was here. Whatever. No big deal.

I went to grab my wallet and, oh yeah, here’s the kicker — I CHOSE not to take my driver’s license. Like I told the cop, after I got a lecture for not having it, “I figured I couldn’t POSSIBLY get pulled over during a two-block drive.”

head —> desk

This is my third ticket in this goddamned neighborhood in fewer than six weeks. GAH. I’d like to know why I’m always hemorrhaging money and not commensurately bringing it in. Universe, got any answers on that one?!?!

Oh, heh, one last thing. Got a letter in the mail today from the rental office. Rent’s going up $75 a month. Of course it is. Why wouldn’t it? And why on earth would I be surprised that the letter would arrive TODAY?!?!

I had three goals for this weekend: Wash car, get oil change, join/work out at gym.

Meatloaf needs to write the song for “one out of three ain’t bad.”

Car wash: Pseudo-check. However, I don’t know how I paid $18 before the tip and I left with the car only slightly less dirty than it was when I drove it there.

The outside was mostly clean, although nobody cleaned the crud out of the tire rims. And the inside was vacuumed but the windows were smeared. Not to mention, but someone left a big muddy footprint just inside the passenger-side door. The hell? Britney Spears could have snorted a few lines of coke and done a more-thorough job.

And what kills me is how the three guys who cleaned the car stood there beaming. It’s said frequently around these parts that Mexicans are lazy. And I don’t want to believe that. In the case of the guys who made my car dirty in different ways than it was when it came to the car wash, I think they had a misguided sense of doing an excellent job. In any case, I feel like I got screwed out of a hell of a lot of money for no reason whatsoever.

Oil change: No check. Not so much. I had plans to do that but, alas, I’d been screwed over enough for one day. My last oil change resulted in more problems than it fixed.

Joining the gym: Sort-of check. I activated a temporary membership at 5 p.m. while the gym closed at 6. I did bring my yoga bag with workout clothes; however, Miss Genius took her LAPTOP bag into the gym and not the WORKOUT bag. *sigh*

Sure, I could’ve gone back to the car, but damn, the parking garage is FAR away from the gym. Damn it, I got exercise walking to and from the club — no need to work out IN it!!!!

Most days, we’re all holed up in our offices with our respective doors shut, as we are all engaged in heavy-thinking work. We are not hiding in our offices like the non-productive folks at my last job, who blatantly left their doors open while they took naps and competed in Solitaire championship games all friggin’ day.

Anyway, we all had our doors open today, and I tell you, I would have gotten more peace pulling out my laptop in the middle of the Metro Center station. My beloved neighbor (I really do like him. We kid because we love!) was so loud today that someone coming to meet with me thought that my neighbor was in my office, thanks to the volume. I realize now that this can come in very handy — everyone thinks I’m in a meeting! My door will be closed more often. 😉

But the real kicker was that I was listening to my iPhone without the earbuds. (I think a cat may be trying to hang herself with them right now — can’t find ’em in my purse.) And that’s just a bad, bad idea for the number of comedy albums I store in there. Case in point, a bit came on from Lisa Lampanelli, (“Pillow Talk,” if you’re familiar.)

If you’re not familiar, it’s the track that starts off with:
“‘… See ’cause I’m an older white bitch and I started banging black guys late in life, so I’ll be honest — it scared the hell outta me. …”

*thunk*

I’d apologize to my neighbors, but meh. I think forgiveness is just understood on all of our parts. 🙂 Like Lisa’s album title, we all just “Take it Like a Man”!

I have perhaps the tiniest office on my floor, but I love it with all my heart because it has a window and a television. You can’t beat that. I have good neighbors and live in a happy hallway, so life is good.

Anyway, I struggle with claustrophobia and am very much aware that the obvious layout that I chose a year ago is no longer working for me. I’m moving into a creative period, which translates into “I’m doing some really routine shit and I’d like to see both the TV and the sun so I can get some inspiration here.”

So, I moved my desk to face a wall, which leaves my back somewhat toward the door but not completely, so I don’t have to feel wigged out that someone is staring over my shoulder because I at least have the doorway in my peripheral vision. The layout is good now — I’ve gotten compliments. My chi is sated. Writer’s Block Goddess is now Energy Flow Goddess.

But …

So I am known as the Imelda Marcos of the floor, although I actually had someone say to me, “Are you old enough to know who she was? Of course you are — never mind.” (Do not overestimate the Goddess’ age. Even though, yes, she is aware of the inaugural shoe queen.)

Anyway, I have all my shoes neatly tossed into a big mesh storage cube, but it’s the shoes I wear to work each day that are the problem.

Read: I cannot work with shoes on my feet.

For that matter, I find myself absentmindedly molesting myself here and there, too. Whether I’m touching my boobs or feeling my ass to see if I remembered to wear underwear, I’m not someone who should be given the illusion that she is in a private space because I end up invading my own privacy but with an audience. *sigh*

So, I have to mind my manners and try to convince myself that people are nearby and, in fact, watching. I sort of miss being holed up in the back corner with my ass not hanging out of the doorway. Even more, I miss the modesty panel that hid the fact that I usually sit Indian-style with bare feet. It’s making my attempt at Feng Shui more like a steaming pile of Feng Shit, and I’m hoping more goes unnoticed than I think!

Perhaps it would be somewhere with food, because there sure as hell ain’t any in the house and I’m not about to get dressed to go spend money I don’t have.

Today’s the 7th. Payday’s the 15th. I have just enough to get through UNLESS you count the Christmas gift I have to buy before Sunday and, oh, unless you top off the speeding ticket I didn’t pay with the LATE FEE that practically doubled the fine. *headdesk*

I have two offers to go out tomorrow, but as I will not go out without a buck in my pocket, I’ll be making myself scarce. Meh. It’s always good to have a lil mystery — being cash-flow-negative isn’t exactly the sexiest reason for canceling, so we’ll just say something came up. Being poor takes care of being coy without even trying!

So I have a higher phone bill to pay for minutes I don’t use, and I’m paying for digital cable that’s on a TV I don’t use, either, because it’s a room I no longer want to be in. I’m not real sure how so much joy got piled into my stockings at one time, but my stockings are getting runs in them and there’s no cashish to replace ’em.

I’m trying hard to hold onto my joy. But I have no idea where to start looking for more to take the place of what has come and gone.

I have two bottles of wine. Good stuff, too. I think that’s where I’ll be finding my holiday spirit this year. Just hope I can make it last. …

Well, I managed to stay awake through “Grey’s Anatomy” last night, although I’m admittedly bored by the Izzie/George “romance” storyline.

Looks like they’re going to end it, though — at the conclusion of the show, they had a discussion about how it’s not a question of chemistry but instead one of timing.

And once the screams in my head quieted down about “WHAT chemistry?” because, well, ew, I thought, wow, boy does that explain a lot in my own life.

In any event, when I did fall asleep, I had a dream in which there was a whole roomful of people with whom I had chemistry but something was wrong with the timing. It was like a reunion party with that particular cast of characters — “Goddess’ ghosts of Christmas past.”

I’ll admit, “poor timing” often translated into “worked together at the time” or “somebody was somebody’s ex and the other was their friend and you KNOW you’re not allowed to date friends’ exes.”

Which, for the record, I am NOT a fan of leaving chemistry in the dust for such petty reasons, because all those friends and jobs are LONG gone. But, you know. You do what seems right at the time and leave it up to the universe to decide whether to rekindle it.

But what you don’t remember is that the universe is busy and forgets about you. I can just hear it telling me, “Well, I GAVE you all those chances — you want more when you didn’t try to make any of those work? Ungrateful brat.”

And it really fucking sucks when the “right thing to do” is to give up what you wanted, when all you were really doing was hoping one of you would grow a set and commit to sticking around and figuring it out. I hope they don’t think they were as easy to walk away from as it might have seemed. Likewise, I hope I wasn’t that easy to leave, either.

They said at church a couple of weeks ago basically how God gets angry when you lose faith and take your concerns to others and not Him. What was the quote, “He is displeased when you run to the phone and not to the throne.” But I have been asking for His help. I’ve had the same four items on my list for two decades, give or take some modifications. What if those things are never meant to be? Then what should I be asking for?

And am I missing opportunities in the meantime? I need someone to bop me over the head sometimes. Or kick me in the ass. Or both.

Chemistry is such a tricky thing. You feel it when it happens. You feel it when the other person isn’t in the same state or country. And even when it’s supposedly gone, you feel its hot fingers grip your heart when you merely think of that other person’s name.

And squelching it is about as easy as battling a California wildfire. Sometimes I think I deserve an award from Smokey Bear for (at least, on the surface) winning the battle. But when it all comes down to it, why am I always fighting against and never fighting for anything?

Speeding ticket: $40
Cell phone bill: $400
Late-arriving car insurance bill: $340
Monday being a planned vacation day but now full of meetings: yarr

Knowing I’m getting the fuck out of Dodge tomorrow
and have a Jacuzzi suite in the mountains for two nights?: Priceless

I never seem to blog about my weekends anymore, and since they’re the only thing interesting in my existence, that’s a damn shame. Oh well. Yay for having fun and not having time to write about it than NOT having fun and ONLY having time to write!

Went to the Shirlington Oktoberfest to celebrate Tom’s birthday. (Which is today. Happy Birthday!) I was sort of over it before it began because the only thing I hate more than crowds are crowds of drunken 21-year-olds. Which, hey, I WAS back at that age, so good for them. I guess I belong more to the wine-tasting crowd these days — I like the lower-key, higher-falutin’ atmosphere that comes with being a budding sommelier, I suppose.

I had gone to Oktoberfest with full intentions of drinking myself into oblivion, but meh. The lines were too long. And the hops-and-barley wasn’t anything to brag about. I had to dump out one of my glasses (into a trash can like a civilized human being and not into the streets like everyone else seemed to be doing) so I only pounded three beers in total. Whee. The gang retired to Guapo’s for Coronas, and a part of me wanted to go try more brews, but I ended up dashing off to Caribou for an iced mocha because I needed to be up early on Sunday. (For the church visit that wasn’t.) Damn this adulthood thing!

I did end up going to church for all of 10 minutes. It was fine. I met nice people. I figured I had finally gotten up the balls to go to Sunday services so I might as well take advantage of it. And it was cool — the band was singing a song by Switchfoot, which made me fall in love. I mean, there was a BAND and not a choir. It was a song I actually knew the words to and have the MP3 of. Not the usual church visit in which I don’t know the scriptures and certainly don’t know the hymns.

Will I go back? Maybe. Probably. Yeah. Yes. Even just 10 minutes there was good for me because I might have never entertained the thought of going back. Like, unless another part of my car decides to commit suicide, I’ll make the effort to show up on time. Too bad I had to tithe $100 to the car-repair gods for a freaking battery when all I wanted to do was get a little bit of spiritual uplifting. Oh well.

If I’m feeling particularly ambitious next time around, I might even go to the earlier services. 🙂 Well, OK, maybe not, but for as long as it takes me to get ready, I’d probably *just* make it for the late session if I plan to hit the first! And if I’d just done THAT in the first place yesterday, maybe I would have MADE IT to the services I’d planned to attend all along!

< / ramble >

Oy.

Returned to work yesterday with a mere 12-hour shift. You know, I had a friend in Pennsylvania who had a meeting in D.C. yesterday and made it a day trip. We left our respective houses around the same time, only he drove four hours each way AND had time to have a meeting and have lunch. And guess which one of us got home first? Yep, NOT ME.

I actually attended my inaugural and perhaps final PubQuiz last Monday, because being able to be anywhere on a Monday at 7 p.m.-ish had to require a vacation day being taken. It’s all good, although I suck at trivia. (Royal Air Force? Seriously? Why on earth would I give up a spot in my brain for Melissa Etheridge lyrics for that?)

To my (small) credit, I was surprisingly knowledgeable during the Britney Spears round. 🙂 There was a question I missed that I shouldn’t have, and I was sort of annoyed, but my friends reassured me that it’s a GOOD thing when I don’t know absolutely everything there is to know about Brit-Brit. (Who, in fact, has to give up custody of her kids by noon tomorrow. Ahem.)

Oh well. When I say it’s good to be back to work, I absolutely mean it. I mean, you know that back-to-school MasterCard commercial where the little boys are dancing to the Parliament song? Blah blah, “Backpack: 20, Being with people who understand you: priceless.” Honestly, that was me dancing around my office yesterday.

Here’s the video, because I suddenly love it so:

Everyone popped in to say hi and welcome back, and it was truly like, wow! I haven’t seen you guys in forevah! Thank gawd I’m home! *resolves to never click heels to be taken away again*

Of course, then you get the snotty comments and the roadblocks and just plain grief from the ones who you needed to escape in the first place, and you’re reminded of why you had to get away in the first place. But at least I’m paid to deal with them. (Note on door, peeps. Is for reading.) But it’s the dumb shit you have to encounter on your “free” time that’s really aggravating.

Speaking of, I’m being summoned to the city to the north that I’ve grown to abhor to do some dirty work. If I have to cancel my plans, as October’s a very social month for moi, somebody is going to get a pointy-toed boot up their badonkadonk.

All I know is that Monroeville’s Red Roof Inn can suck my ass for keeping my iPhone charger (even though I sent them the URL of what it looks like to PROVE it’s mine) and the Greensburg Hampton Inn can eat me — their tub was filthy, General Manager Eric J. Kubas wrote me to say they can find no evidence that my claim can POSSIBLY be true.

I wasn’t looking for a free ride, just a courtesy of hey, that sucked and maybe there’s something wrong with your pipes. Asshole. Put THAT in your pipe and smoke it.

Speaking of smoke, damn it, I’m out of Marlboro Lights. …

The plot? It thickens.

I’ve had violent images all week (and I wasn’t sure whether they were psychic flashes or merely dark imaginings with no basis) of one of our friends being injured. Information came my way (I am not seeking this shit out — honest. I hate drama. And yet …) that he was injured in a motorcycle crash and that he was at a particular hospital.

Which would explain why the bellowing heifer keeps e-mailing me from his address and calling from his personal and work cell phones. It would also explain why she just had a medical bed put in her house yesterday. (The neighbors? Are nosy. And they LOVE to call with info.)

Anyway, I called not only the hospital system I was told he was in, but every other one, just for good measure. Nothing. He’s nowhere.

She’s cruel, vicious, violent and radical. She’s also twice his size and bounces him around like a super ball. You know when your friends tell you to GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM THAT CRAZY BITCH, whoever that crazy bitch may be? FUCKING LISTEN TO THEM.

I’ve actually had images of him chained to a pole in his basement and her branding him with the cattle iron that obviously stamped “USDA choice” on her fat ass. How can you emasculate someone so much? And you think they’d want to go BACK to you? Lord.

That’s the thing — if you have to injure a man so severely that he cannot walk, talk or function, do you really want/need him? I know she’s as ugly as it gets, but to have someone who resents every fiber of your being that you’d have to bludgeon them and make them powerless just so they come back to you, it’s just plain sick.

Now, I want to get away from all of this. I can’t stand having 20 calls coming to both of my phones each day with 10-minute-long messages about how she wants me to die and leave her alone. When all I asked is if he is OK, blink once for yes and twice for no. I don’t care about the stuff. I just don’t think he deserves to be abused because she’s a fucked-up nut.

This is why I use the buddy system. I want everyone to know that if I disappear, there’s a reason for it. She got all my information out of him somehow — beating him to death, no doubt. If she gets my address, hoo boy. I’m dead meat. And I didn’t even fucking DO anything! I just intervened on behalf of a friend. No more, no less.

Now, there’s always that, “What can I do to save him?” Because he probably needs to be saved. I think she’s brainwashing him and she probably has his balls in a jar beside her bed.

And then there’s that, “Not my problem” attitude. I’ve had more than enough psycho for one week, thanks. Self-preservation, kids. I put my oxygen mask on first before I help others — didn’t the in-flight demonstrations teach anybody anything around here?

The psychic side of me is saying this is all going to end badly. Not that this phase is a fucking picnic, of course. But that if I don’t butt the fuck out, I’ll be chained up to a medical bed in her house, too. Her therapist sounds like a nutjob — talk about brainwashing. I have no doubt that there’s some electroshock therapy going on behind closed doors.

I called his job, since the hog has his work phone. I was told he was hospitalized (but I doubt it, given that he wasn’t where they said he is) and that he’d be gone for “quite a few weeks.” How the hell does that happen? Accident, OK. But nobody’s seen hide or hair of a 6-foot-tall man in a week. A man who used to have a presence about him.

How can someone go missing, right under everyone’s noses?

And who’s the next victim on her unhinged warpath?

All for him being happy. That’s the only reason.

I always believed that a life well-lived is the best revenge. But for the clinically insane, it’s just a red cape in front of a bull. And to the point that she doesn’t CARE that everyone thinks she’s insane (the whole neighborhood is talking), I don’t know that you can return once you cross that threshold.

Actually, this just in: He is apparently in the hog’s house, probably chained up so he can’t enjoy the freedom he had so briefly. Even though the neighbors are on a 24-hour drama stakeout, no one saw him moved in there in the middle of the night.

One of the bitches on the street is clairvoyant. She said she sees fire and tragedy on that street, probably at that very house. I have warned my friend to stay the fuck away, and off that street, lest she be a part of it. And all my friend wants to know is whether he will be all right.

He was allowed one phone call yesterday, from this prison sentence. A very strained and scripted message for us to stop bothering him. I’d recognize the illiterate cow’s words anywhere. I’m happy to honor it, but again, is this one of those times that I’m going to look back on and wish I had done something?

God will settle the score. I know it. I just hate that in the meantime, the ones doing the terrorizing appear like they’re actually winning — even if it’s only in their sick, twisted, demented little minds.

Everyone at work told me to enjoy the week of Maury and Montel. And my answer to that was, “Will I be watching it or will I be ON it?” Perhaps the clairvoyant in me saw the mess from miles and days away. And if nothing else, boy does it put the rest of my life into perspective. …