Caterwauling

I got an invite to a housewarming.

Personally, I haven’t thrown a housewarming party in years. Mostly because I left my cool friends in Pittsburgh and D.C. and couldn’t get two people to even come to my house these days.

Also, I don’t cook anymore and I used to LOVE to make a million appetizers. Who the hell has time for that anymore?

Plus, I’m over 40. We’re still doing this?!

I was shocked when I heard there was not only an RSVP date, but a gift registry.

I also got invited to a wedding in Pittsburgh this summer. That wedding registry was a doozy. Everything was white. White plates, white sheets, white towels, white rugs, white cookware and white shower curtain. Like, something out of a horror film.

(And I won’t even say that I think the groom is gay … whoops, wait, just did!)

At least the stuff on the housewarming registry is tasteful and has a few pops of color.

Although, I am more of the “stop at the liquor store on the way to the party” kind of gal than an “OK I will buy your bed in a bag” type.

Also, I have never quite spent that kind of money on a housewarming (A) or someone I don’t know all that well (B) or taken kindly to being told what to bring (C).

Shit, my ex-neighbor kept inviting me to gatherings and begging me to bring cheese and crackers and I abstained based on that alone.

I ain’t a cheese-and-crackers kind of party gal. Sorry. Ain’t a big fan of the bed-in-a-bag, either. And I don’t touch anything white because I will ruin it.

However, I will buy you a very nice bottle of wine that you probably never tried before and you will LIKE it if you can get past your affinity for Boone’s Farm Snow Creek Berry.

In any event, I made plans that day already but the party is way closer to my house. And would still cost less, net-net.

One day I will get to decide between hanging out on a yacht with champagne and lying on a beach in the Maldives. Till then, it’s more Sophie’s Choice than living la vida Sophia Loren.

I figure Iron Maiden is a nice break from Metallica in my post titles. But given that Vince Neil was invited to play at inauguration, it appears the America the Angry Yam wants to return us to is circa 1983. (The “Theater of Pain” era. How quaint.)

It was in 1984 when I wrote to then-President Reagan to complain that he took away the steelworker jobs in Pittsburgh and my family broke up because of it.

And how all the people I grew up with vote Republican now is BEYOND ME.

Of course, how my candidate won the popular vote by more than 1.7 million and we’re stuck with this Cheeto-colored turd is even more BEYOND ME.

But anyway.

No rage here. None at all.

I forget what I even came here to blog about now.

Also, fuck Trump.

So mom and I watch “Southern Charm.” On last night’s episode, Landon claimed that she invited Evil Kathryn to Shep’s birthday party. But then everyone (who HATES Kathryn) called her to ask why she wasn’t there. And the jig was up — Landon didn’t want to invite drama.

Shep was pissed because he’s all about inclusion. But I’m Team Landon on this one.

I say it because I’m lucky enough to be on an invite list for an event this week. And I noticed the absence of my own Kathryn. Now … do I stay in Landon character, or be the better (Shep) person and open my mouth?

Honestly this person usually forwards all my notes to someone else to handle them. So perhaps if they forwarded the invite too, it would be a win-win all around. Although, I’ve never quite met anyone who loves lunch as much as our Kathryn …

I haven’t talked about my pudgy pork roast ass in two weeks since I lost 3.5 pounds (which, rock), but I’m still plodding along the journey.

Maintained last week and dropped 1.6 today. Again, rock.

Today the leader decided to have a conversation with me while I jumped on the scale. Which, eek. Because, I barely tracked my food this week and I knew a surprise to the upside could very well be in store.

Oh, sweet Jesus, hallelujah.

I took a minute and welcomed a brand-new member today. Something I wish anyone would have taken the time to do for me. I also thanked my leader for taking time to have a real conversation with me about my journey so far.

I do different things every week. I eat whatever I want. I eat whenever I want. I never abide by my daily points and I stop eating whenever I decide I am done.

Back in the day your points value changed every time you dropped to a new “decade” in weight. If you went from 190 to 180, you lost a point. The new system is different, and even though I am certainly between numbers, I lost a daily point.

Again, not that I adhere to them because I have “bonus” points, if you will. So I presume I won’t even notice. Although, perhaps maybe I should.

My tweaks to my life have been small. For instance:

• Powdered coffee creamer 100% of the time. And no skim milk or my fake milk if there isn’t any — go for the half-and-half and enjoy it. Otherwise skim milk means it will suck and need two packets of asparteme, and asparteme gives me headaches and possibly causes cancer.
• Whole wheat is just as bad as white bread. And if my local bagel joint’s nutritional page is to believed, it’s actually worse. So, multigrain whenever possible, when it comes to starches.
• Egg whites are terrible. Says she who has consumed gallons of them. Real eggs only now. With yolks. Fuck you nutritional studies that say they’re good, then bad, then good again. Done listening.
• Light beer sucks. Give me a Magic Hat, a Purple Haze, a Guinness. I will drink less and enjoy it more.

And that’s the key — when you eat or drink something that doesn’t fulfill you emotionally or physiologically, you won’t stop till you find what might … no matter how many points you’ve already consumed.

We all just want to go to bed happy, I think. If I “cheat” per se but DAMN IT WAS WORTH IT, those are the weeks I lose weight. And more of it than just three-tenths of a pound.

My boss gave me a book on how to “Choose Yourself” and I have been reading it. Funny to get that from a workplace that I give 60-65 hours of work, eight hours/300 miles of commute, five Advils, three nightmares, two tanks of gas and one night of lost sleep every week, and it’s still not enough. But, you know, I appreciate the thought.

But really, choosing to get healthier IS me choosing myself. Because as the book says, you can’t have success if you don’t have your health. Just look at my mom, whose health has declined so much that I can’t even look at her anymore. (And yes I hate myself for it.)

So fuck you GOP for blocking Obamacare and fuck you Michele Bachmann for “earning” an $80,000/year pension for life for contributing NOTHING to this word and fuck you everyone who sees us decreasing humanitarian aid overseas and worrying WHAT ABOUT THE OIL TANKER STOCKS because there’s less caaaarrrrrgoooooooooo. And everyone like them who would rather let us die on the inside and the outside when it wouldn’t exactly kill them to throw us a lifeline. Ted Cruz and your goddamned Goldman Sachs healthcare plan. Fuck you most of all.

Anyway.

Down a pound and a half. This week in my life counted for something. Hooray.

Well, this week sucks.

I’d blog it but why?

I will say I see it’s Whorothy’s birthday. HOLY SHIT that woman should give us all a gift and stop posting pics. Seriously, my girl R always called her the Crypt Keeper. She was being generous.

On her newest pic, I want to comment, “You don’t look a day over 104! Or, for that matter, a day under!”

I feel fuckin’ beautiful now after looking at that mess.

The things I do to entertain myself when my body is radiating stress and pain.

I wanted to send a Faceypages message to one of my dearest friends of yestercity. So I typed her name into the search box and was shocked to see Whorothy (who I’m not even friends with!) pop up in the list before my friend with the same name.

Heh. Somebunny must have done a lot of stalking in her day!

*hangs head shamefully*

I was drawn to do a quick stalk. For old times’ sake.

Funny when you go dead inside, the snark doesn’t come as easily as it used to. I mean, the best I can say is that when you’re that old, you really should think twice about posting drunk photos. I almost messaged HER to say, “Oh honey, if you want to keep a classy guy or build some semblance of a new career, think a little.”

Of course, I reverted to self for a moment to wonder, “Holy shit, what if that’s NOT a drunk picture?”

And then I thought, wow, I hope nobody thinks I’m drunk in any of MY photos.

*scans photo library fearfully*

Seriously. Hobby. Need one that doesn’t involve Teh Intarwebz.

Speaking of tragic accidents that you just can’t unsee, I got to thinking about that ugly old hag Whorothy.

Anywhore, she needs a new nickname because frankly it just insults proper whores everywhere to lump her in the same category. (How she got TWO and probably more men is beyond me.)

I decided she will henceforth be known as Home(ly) on the Range.

Would it be wrong of me to steal a photo of hers and post it here so y’all can agree with me? 😉

There’s been a bit of a baby boom in my circle of friends of late. And, as I just learned, Satan’s sidekick is quietly baking her own demon spawn as well.

Alas, once again it boils down to the fact that so many WONDERFUL people cannot have children and, yet, those who even God has to admit were a mistake are hatching their own versions of dipshit devils.

I know they can’t POSSIBLY be happy — she really is, bar none, one of the most excruciating individuals I’ve ever encountered. I highly doubt motherhood will soften her — I’m sure the child’s cloven hooves will scratch her coochie on the way out and make her even less tolerable.

Seriously, I need to go pray or something. I cannot believe how easily I resort to grade-school insults when it comes to certain people. I have to say something nice. But, what?

There’s a therapist out there who will have a job for life.

There you have it. She’s helping the employment data. (For a change…)

‘Violent Torpedo of Truth’ ticket

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

I’m saving you a hundred bucks here. You’re welcome.

Things I learned from the Charlie Sheen “Violent Torpedo of Truth” tour:

1. One of his “goddesses” left him. Pity, because the combined age of the two almost added up to his.

2. Jeff Ross? Is hysterical. Lisa Lampanelli has wanted to do a Charlie Sheen roast, and I think she would have been fantastic, but Jeff brought a lot of order and sense (and laughs) to a trainwreck of a show.

3. Otherwise, the real humor was taking place in the audience. Oh, Greg Giraldo, I would rather have heard you than that drunk bitch behind us!

4. Charlie, problems aside, seems like a nice guy. He hugged everyone who came up on stage (fans were allowed to ask questions — and those were all too damn stupid to be planted) and kissed an 82-year-old woman from Key West who was looking for love advice.

5. I would have regretted missing the show if I hadn’t gone. It was the closest I’ll ever get to an acid trip. Charlie has a sense of humor about himself, albeit not much in the way of comedic chops. Like most performers, he’s situationally funny but not so much in the execution.

6. The cutest merchandise was being sold inside. (I coveted a pink “Goddess” T-shirt.” But we got shirts in the parking lot for five bucks that were good enough. Mine says “Charlie’s Angel.” 🙂

7. Donald Trump is not only an asshole, but a cheap asshole. Charlie ain’t voting for him, and neither am I. Holy shit we have something in common!

I recorded the “official” roast portion of the show. Give it a moment if it hasn’t finished rendering yet — I promise it’s worth the watch….

I’ve had the same e-mail address for years. And I mean YEARS. To the point that I had 11,000 unreads and it was time to either shut down the inbox or clean it out.

Upon cleaning it out yesterday (as I had missed a VERY important e-mail over the weekend and I decided I couldn’t stand the clutter anymore), I found a gem of an e-mail that had once pissed me off seven ways to Sunday. But I remember why I kept it.

I won’t give it a year, a city or even a hairstyle or jean size, but the e-mail chain goes a little something like this.

I was pretty much told to run absolutely every thought, question or idea past someone above me. In my own rebellious little mind, I wrote imaginary e-mails that entailed asking whether I could use the restroom or get another cup of coffee, if that would be OK. (Yes, I am inherently 5 years old.)

At the time, I was formulating my plan to document what a good minion I really was. (Because I WAS. Sure, I could have been better, but I wasn’t a slouch, either.)

I was kind of suspecting that this person was looking for reasons to give me the boot. And hoo boy, does my diary have some fascinating transcripts. But alas, an entry for another year. 😉

Anyhoodle, even though I knew exactly who could answer a question I had, I put on my little halo and dutifully typed a note to, not the person who requested my obedience, but their designee while they were AWOL.

The response was a hilarious and sarcastic, “Let me introduce you to ____.”

In other words, I was directed to the one I knew could answer the question. Someone I had known a LONG time, and pretty well, actually. The request wasn’t forwarded to the right person but, instead, replied to me and cc’d to the usual recipient.

That was one of those pivotal career moments I will never forget. One I will NEVER employ myself. I’d rather put a gun to my head than intentionally make a subordinate feel small or stupid for trying to do the “right” thing.

Look, I felt dumb even asking the question when I knew who could answer it. Shit, I even knew the answer to it. But I had an idea how to change it to make it more effective.

And I also knew that, if I took the question above instead of across the hierarchy, I could also get the blessing to *change* the status quo. That if we had some discourse, as I admit I prefer to “apologize later” than “get permission,” I could freely go about my day and everyone would know what I was up to and, thus, order would be restored in the magical kingdom.

In the end, someone else was left feeling smug, and probably feeling that I was pretty damn stupid. And I was feeling that way. Because I fucking knew better and there was a reason why I didn’t engage in discussion with things I could identify and fix without an iota of fanfare.

In retrospect, I do get it. I get when people can’t give up control. They get paranoid that everyone is against them and plotting their demise. Shit, I don’t have that much energy OR creativity. I just wanted to make things easier so that we could have the capacity to take on more-challenging projects without having to expand the staff size.

And perhaps I should have said all that stuff. But I didn’t. I just put my head down and never really picked it back up after that.

“Let me introduce you to _____.” Heh. That’s the kind of thing I think in a day but would never dare SAY. Bravo on that one, old friend. Bravo.

I never figured out whether they were crazy enough to have the balls to say that and still expect loyalty in return. Maybe it was to incite a reaction in me other than defeat. I don’t mind tough love and, in fact, sometimes I truly welcome it. But there has to be love somewhere in there for it to be effective.

Oh well. Water under the bridge that I didn’t manage to jump off of. Huzzah.

I’m deleting that e-mail now.