Treading water. Running in place. Watching the same two minute short over and over again. Yes, things are good. On the surface. Technically, I should be clicking my heels in the air and doing the Mexican hat dance con mucho gusto.
But I'm not. I'm frustrated.
Things are good. I swear. The possibilities are endless. They're exciting. They're just around the corner. They'll be here any day. It's gonna be fine, really. But they stay around the corner. They don't come. They're elusive, hidden. A manic 4-year genius playing "Hide and Go Seek".
You being unhappy is not acceptable. You're valued. You're prized. We'd do anything to keep you here. But we'll talk about your role in a few weeks. And in the meantime, take on your new role but be compensated for the old one. Oh, and read our minds as to what your role is.
Be fake happy. Everything will get better soon. A positive attitude goes a long way. Chin up while your schedule doesn't permit you to attend out of state family functions and drains away your joye de vive. Rainbow thoughts while your salary doesn't permit you to save money, buy a necessary airfare or pay to repair your damaged car. Skip and gallop along as your job puts you in a bad mood and makes you alienate people away with your pissiness. 'Cause you're going places, and that's all that matters.
The siren's whispered murmur of a successful career just may be the death of me someday. At the very least, it'll be the cause of my baldness and heart attack at age 30. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was nice today, though, to get some necessary kinks worked out of a relationship that I'd be lost without. When two women get pissy, the results can never be good. Thank goodness we're both sane (enough) to recognize and talk about it.
Now it's off to bed so I can be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for the damage estimate on my poor widdle car tomorrow morning at 7 a.m. Woo-hoo!
Life (tm) - A perpetual alternating smack on the ass and peck on the cheek.
What a week. It's been full of (as Homer says), "the terrifying lows, the dizzying highs, the creamy centers".
Chronologically, in the past seven days I've:
- watched a heartbreaker of a playoff game (terrifying low) - gone shopping (terrifying low) - seen The Rev (dizzying high) - stayed up until the wee hours playing card games of a sort (creamy center) - sweated out ten pounds while moving boxes hungover (dizzying low?) - been reduced to a pile of googly-eyedness and flittering stomach butterflies (dizzying high) - had more projects piled on top of an already mountainous workload (terrifying low, with plans to have it turn into a creamy center.) - stayed up until the wee hours again drinking vodka and talking (dizzying high and creamy center) - had my world rocked in the sack...quite a few times (dizzying high and creamy center) - moved into new work position...of a sort (all combined, with emphasis on the terrifying) - lost a relative with whom I finally bonded only two years ago/regretted the waste of time before that (terrifying, terrifying, bawl-inducing low) - bailed on plans repeatedly and vegged alone with my thoughts (creamy low) - been given a massage g.c. as a thank you (creamy center) - realized how happy someone makes me (dizzying high)
That exhausted me just reading it.
Hence, this holiday weekend* I'm going to give my burned-out mind and body a rest. On the list of things to do? Collect on said massage, hopefully swim in a body of water that's not a swimming pool, BBQ with the Pops, and possibly go to an art event. And sleep as much as possible. And buying paints and canvas sounds like a good idea, too. *Yes, I will not be working at all during the weekend or on Monday. Sometimes, even crack monkeys need to chill and recoup.
A pre-dawn phone call. A shock. A sob. A lament for more time.
The grief. The numbness. The tears. The waiting to make plans no one wants to make.
Isn't it amazing how you discover exactly how much you care for someone after they're gone? I think I'll miss the hugs the most - great, strapping bear hugs that were full of love and comfort.
You know that feeling where your muscles are screaming? Where typing or even lifting a ciggy to your lips is agony? Forget trying to nurse it with a beer - you might as well be trying to lift 1000 lbs. Yeah, *that* feeling. Got it? Holding it? Ok, now imagine it over your entire body.
Being the wonderful daughter that I am (paha!), I helped the Moms move yesterday. In the midst of a wicked hangover. In 98 degree heat. For seven hours. With the "Duff Beer" song on constant repeat inside the 'ole noggin.
Suffice to say, within the first 45 minutes after steady carrying, going up and down stairs and dolly pushing, I got the spins so badly that I laid down. And then promptly got up to purge a nasty breakfast sammich and the remains of the beer debauchery from the night before.
I felt better after that. Recovery complete, we tackled boxes and furniture like Bill Clinton on a cheeseburger pre-heart surgery. Being a tad delirious, I was inspired a la' Julie Andrews style:
Boxes of cookbooks and crap storage units, 25 bins of old baby tunics, Crappy wire shelving that cuts and stings, These are a few of my favorite things!
Fragile white chine packed altogether, Boxes of papers the weight of wet leather, Sweating and panting and bugs that go cling, These are a few of my favorite things!
When the glass breaks, when the back aches, When I'm feeling ill, I simply remember the pain won't last long, And that I can always take a pill!
How *does* one accumulate so much STUFF? Moms had three whole boxes of cookbooks, to which I asked, "Don't you know how to cook by now? You're *insert age here*!" And, since our family is male-deprived (depraved?), I get voted as requisite boy - carrying the heavier items and pulling box laden dollies.
So, if you see me and I happen to have a keyboard imprint on the left side of my face and I'm walking like Frankenstein on a bad acid trip...you'll know why. Anyone out there with a gallon of lotion and strong hands? I'll give you my next paycheck if you'll administer to my weeping muscles.
Here's a great idea: go shopping for two things for which I hate to shop for AT THE SAME TIME.
Spurred by a bit of confidence and a severe desire to go swimming, I went bathing suit shopping today. Last weekend was the first tube float of the season, and packing for it led to the discovery that the elastic was shot in one suit, and the other's support has gone the way of the dinosaur. I also decided I needed a few new bras, since the current ones have been working their cups off for years.
For those that haven't met me in person or haven't gotten the subtle (or not) hints, I'm a pretty buxom woman. Have been since a freshman in high school. So, the recent weight loss didn't take anything away from the chestal area. Not many bathing suit designers build for the well-endowed, and bras for my size are almost always inspired by grandmothers (nothing against them, mind you). It's always a depressing, frustrating, humbling experience. Today was no exception.
After picking through yards upon yards of crap in the lingerie and suit section, I warily made my way to the dressing room with a few selections that I thought might work.
Oh, how very wrong I was.
None of the bras were padded well enough to concel "office nipple", and some retail genius had attached the tags in a way that prevented the straps from being adjusted to fit properly. Even if they had been adjusted, none would have kept The Twins from bouncing worse than a giant fun ball. Out of necessity, though, I picked one that is tolerable-ish.
The bathing suits were worse. On the bottom, the larges were too large and the mediums too small. On the top the extra larges were too large and the larges were too small. Fucking Goldilocks syndrome. But unlike that lucky bitch, I never found anything "just right".
I retreated and licked my wounds with a new tank top instead. Those always welcome me with open arms, unlike the coldhearted bitches of swimsuits and bras.
Well, I've had two huge ego strokes in the past 24 hours. But don't worry, the meekish monkey with low self esteem will be back by the weekend, I'm sure.
First (though not most important), the meeting for which I've been preparing and sweating and waiting with nervous anticipation went extremely well. It's nice to know that major players value my input on certain things and trust me enough to make suggestions and decisions that affect the whole company. Holy cow...I just sounded like a business woman. Must be all the dialouging and thinking outside the box that was done today. I feel as if I've shifted into a new paradigm. It's very proactive and empowering. ;)
Second, my heart is filled to bursting over...well...something so good it's scary. A good scary. A too-good-to-be-true scary. A "am-I-gonna-wake-up-to-find-it was-a-dream" scary. But that's the kind of backstabbing sorority girl my brain is - the heart is much smarter. It doesn't do that thinking crap; it just leads in the right direction. More to follow when I'm done singing the entire soundtracks to South Pacific, Oklahoma!, and West Side Story.
Cripes, I must be annoying today. I can't stop smiling. My face hurts from the grinning. Will someone please smack me? The cheeks need a rest.
Good for her. It's about time she let go of her white-knuckled grip on the safety bar, past assholism aside. —------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Bad on him. If you talk about "no fire", then you shouldn't even think the phrase "friends with benefits", let alone mention it to someone that has poured their heart out. And ending with "you know I'm crazy!"? Tsk, tsk...but I'll bite my tongue now. —------------------------------------------------------------------------------ It's always nice to go tubing in New Braunfels on a day where the asshole ratio is significantly lower than usual. Makes for a relaxing float where one can concentrate on the beer in the hand and the tube chutes ahead. The only glich was that my tube's circumference was a little large, hence I looked like a kindergartner hanging on for dear life. Or a monkey in a hammock. I like that one better. —------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Water balloons are still fun. So is throwing them at an unsuspecting party. —------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Tequila is still bad. Spider-Man decorations, however, are freakin' awesome. —------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Three+ hours on a road trip with the windows down and the music blaring will affect your hearing the next day. Just a fair warning to the weekend warriors out there. —------------------------------------------------------------------------------ I've come to the realization that I don't wear near enough hair product or makeup. And I've also come to the realization that I'm completely fine with that. More time to nap/play/read instead of applying/blending/spackling. —------------------------------------------------------------------------------ We've just been informed there's a product called Sphincterino. "Feel fresh all over...even back there!" Wow. I've been sent a few trial samples. If you'd like to report on how it feels like to have a minty ass, let me know and I'll mail one out to you. But you have to share the results. It's only fair.
I'm skeeved off that the breaking news of the evacuation of the White House and Capitol the other day raised my personal terror level. And even more skeeved that CNN chose to issue breaking news emails (for which I'm not registered - it came through a co-worker) bearing the bad news, which looked pretty silly five minutes later when the "Breaking News: All clear given at Capitol..." yadda yadda yadda came over.
The media in this country is obsessed with geronimo journalism.
Geronimo Journalism (n.) : Breaking a sensational story that causes or is designed to cause fear and/or confusion without waiting for 5 minutes to fact check or see if it was just a false alarm for the SOLE PURPOSE of being the first news outlet to get the information to the people, however wrong it may be. (See also: jumping out of an airplane without checking to make sure your chute was packed correctly. See also the 2000 elections.)
Well, actually, to be honest I physically woke up on the *correct* side of the bed, but dammit if humanity at large isn't trying to figuratively fuck it all up.
Rant to commence in 3...2...1...
I don't understand people. I truly don't. How fucking hard is it to treat other folks decently, no matter if you know them or not? Don't cut other people off on the road, fucking smile and respond when someone says "Good morning!", and always, ALWAYS have the decency to let a potential S.O. know if it's not working out.
Case in point:
One of my dearest friends has been seeing a fella for a couple months. Classic "meet on the internet, instant connection in real life" type thing. A nice guy - well read, loves kids, maybe stresses about his job a bit much. But funny and musically literate and sweet to her, which scores big brownie points with her friends. He's done a few sketchy things like bailing at the last minute, but that's attributed to panic attacks, which is completely understandable. (Interestingly enough, I know more and more people as I get older that develop panic attack disorder, including myself. It's a scary, scary thing. But anyhoo...)
Lately, he's been leaving her in limbo, though. I don't know him well enough to attribute it to any one specific thing, but limbo is a terrible place to be regardless of the reason. And I know it's killing her to not have an answer as to what's going on or if things are going to get better or such. She did get a sort of non-answer when curiousity led her to see if he's been back at the online dating site where they met. He has. And he's posted new pictures.
Internet dating is not faceless. It is not emotionally safer than dating "in real life". It is not without reprecussions to both parties. It is not like an online community you join and then forget that you're a member. And, especially if you end up meeting a person in real life, decency to communicate still applies.
Like I said, I just don't get it. I've had enough failed relationships - romantic and otherwise - to where I've learned that the one thing that can keep the other person from feeling lower than scum on the bottom of shoe is just to treat EVERYONE with the respect and love. Regardless of what is/will/can transpire...keep in mind that all anybody needs is love and kindness. And that doesn't have to be a soulmate-butterfly-in stomach-googly-eyed type love for everyone. Save that for someone special. But, kids, let's all play nice here and start treating your fellow humans with just an IOTA of respect. Everything else will follow after that. Stop cheating on your S.O. Smile at the cashier. Say hello to a stranger. Don't steal your girlfriend's pain pills after surgery just because you need a fix. Pay for your mom's lunch. Quit expecting that everyone owes you everything and get the nasty, bitter taste of unrealistic expectations out of your mouth. You'll say much prettier things then.
Please? For the collective human sanity? I swear I'm not some sort of naive, idealistic hippie that thinks peace and love will solve it all. But dammit if it wouldn't make a good start. (And make morning commutes, shopping and relationships much more pleasant.)
Curses. I've got a jaunty little tune stuck playing on auto-repeat inside my head. At least it's not "I'm All Outta Love" by Air Supply. (And how many of you want to kill me for putting THAT one in your head?) Smooches.
This weekend was...fun! By Friday, the noggin was exhausted and a bit fragile, so pretty much just chilled with a good (cheap!) bottle of vino and a documentary. I highly recommend both - the former for the fun graphics, worthy cause and delightful taste, and the latter for the emotional twist you'll get in your gut and the realization our current business lifestyle is careening the human species and earth as a whole toward utter destruction. The mind bender is how to stop or at least slow it down. (/rant)
Saturday was full of couch laziness until I got a phone call to join in go-kart racing. Holy cow, it's been a while! The karts seemed so much faster years ago, but it was still a blast. Alpha Male Friend and Beta Male Friend were giggling manically the whole time while trying to run each other into the wall. Funny thing is, I was only about 6 inches taller than the "You Must Be At Least This Tall To Drive By Yourself" line. My buds got a kick out of that.
Saturday night was a delightful combination of: patio time, acoustic tunes, a fucking fantastic Mavs game, darts, meeting an extremely cool namesake, and terrible, terrible karoake. (But really, is there any other kind of karoake?) Sunday was the requisite time with the Moms, and I'd have to say she had a nice time, with brunch and sculpture gardens and collections of Asian art and such.
Tomorrow I get to go to the Rangers game and covertly drool over Texiera's massive...playing abilities. That man could guard a bean bag and make it look good, I swear. /fantasy man crush
And I'd like to give a big internet hug to my beautiful Tree Hugger. Thanks for being you, you precious hippie.
I've come to the conclusion that I need supervision while I sleep.
Due to being a tad overtired and a bit burned out (these past five months have been killer...where the fuck did January go?), I had more fun sleep antics last night.
I woke up in the middle of placing a phone call to an ex.
The odd thing is, I was dreaming about something completely unrelated right before I woke up. Thankfully, the number must belong to someone else now, because some dude named Robert picked up. He sounded awfully confused. But then again, so was I. It was a "why am I on the phone?", "did I call this person?", and a "holy flurking snit! I just dialed the Tool's number!" clusterfuck of confusion. And it was 1:22 a.m.
I've heard of drunken dialing before, but sleep dialing? How effing ridiculous. Let's look at the progression of the sleepy antics over the years, shall we?
By all things logical, I should be Sleep Cliff-Diving, or Sleep Lion Taming, or something dangerous that fits with the pattern that has developed. Though, I guess calling exes while in a highly suggestive state is pretty dangerous in its own right...
I had this nice, long post written, and then Blogger had to go shit itself again. So here's the short version of the uber update:
Work shendig. Last night. Went well. Success measured by size of hangover today. Head pounding. Vision blurry. Need a nap. Event was huge success.
Promotion coming soon. Hard work of past years paying off. Nervous, but excited. Ready to be challenged again. So happy I could puke.
Keep singing show tunes. Damn happy, girly feelings. Things well in romance dept. Obviously, since singing show tunes like idiot. Need to buy vibrator diminished.
Sister home from abroad. Think she had good time. Not quite sure, though. Talking not her forte. Teenager.
Mom home from abroad. Dumped a margarita in her ear. Knocked 15 points off golf game. Approached by natives looking to sell weed. Had a blast.
Room messy. Closet on floor. Car almost paid off. New brakes needed. Want to plant flowers. Want to get dog. Want to go tubing in Austin. Kinda hungry. Really thirsty. Need an Aleve.
...you burst into singing "Wonderful Guy" from South Pacific at anytime. Nellie Forbush style, with the Little Rock accent and everything. And while holding a hairbrush for a microphone.
