18 November 2005

I guess there's too much to say

I'm sitting here listening to John Mayer as I am finally loading all of my CDs into iTunes. "83" is playing, and the song makes me long for more innocent days. Maybe it's getting older, but lately I'm remembering so many childhood experiences. There's a phrase in "83" that makes me think of my little brother and how much I miss him and the relationship we had when we were kids.

I just wish he knew that I've never stopped feeling for him the way I did then.

We were inseperable until I turned 15, got a job, saved enough money for my first car. I left home at 18 in a fit of independence. If you had lived there, you'd understand. I had to get out. I got engaged, went off to college, found out she was seeing someone else, broke up, met new people at college and eventually accepted being gay.

At the time my mother rejected me and lectured me about things in the Bible (I could go on about my beliefs and that I think the purity of the Bible has been compromised throughout the last 2,000 years -- but not here, not now). And since my brother was only eleven and still at home, I was kept pretty far away. I am sure he felt abandoned and didn't understand. I don't know what he was told. I don't suppose things will ever be like they were for us. We live hundreds of miles from each other and see one another barely once a year. He's busy, on the road most of the time and rarely answers his phone.

But I am proud of him, I love him. And, I miss him.

14 November 2005

Oh, Joy. Part 2

In reference to my earlier post today, it has been a pretty good day. No heated arguments with AEs. I made a lot of progress on an annual report I'm working on until I "shut down" at 5:15, realizing that the format I had chosen won't work because I am already at 38 pages without the cover -- and we've budgeted 36 including cover.

I am just feeling a bit contemplative right now.

First, I'm sad that I am home now, alone, with the exception of Doris and Billie who constantly need a cookie and will stalk me if they don't get it (whose fault is that?, you may ask). The love of my life is going to be gone for the next three days -- and these feelings are not unusual. For the last thirteen years he's been gone several days a week, working, and I miss him every minute he's gone. I know this may sound so petty given the thousands of families who live without their loved ones while they are in Iraq or stationed in Germany or wherever else to protect our way of living -- be it truth or not -- but it's tough. He is my best friend. We do most everything together.

There are a few things we don't share. One of them is finances. And, before I left my office tonight I checked my bank balance so I could be educated about what I had available to pay bills tomorrow. It wasn't pretty. And, I really was surprised by what I learned. "F"-ing math. How the hell one little mistake in subtraction ends up in $200+ overdraft charges still escapes me after all these years.

So, as I was driving home, I thought I'd come home and do some sort of "audit" so I could give American Express an honest answer about when they could expect my account to be paid. I got out of the car, walked up the steps to the front porch and peeked in the windows to see two very excited 50+ pound dogs waiting for me to open the door. And, honestly, I was equally as excited to see them. Talk about unconditional love.

Before I opened the door, I opened the mailbox. Hooray! Two new magazines, one in a white wrapper to hide its identity from the rest of the world, and another chock full of things that I couldn't possibly afford. Even though I knew that these were either distractions from the course I'd set for myself for the evening, or answered prayers to divert my attention from the disaster called my finances, I opened the one in the white overwrap first, guessing it was "Out". I opened a few envelopes that littered the pile of mail that contained offers for refinancing my house because creditors are doubling minimum payments that asked, "can you handle it", or another for the "safe driver" at my address. I opened the other magazine, "Departures" which I am sure AmEx will repossess once I send them back my Platinum card. I threw away the Macy's mattress offer that comes seemingly every week and a couple of other usless wastes of paper.

So, I figured that a martini and a cigarette was a good way to start the evening before I began my audit. And a quick glance at what "Out" had in store for this month wouldn't hurt. I made the drink, grabbed my cigs and phone and went out back. Sitting my drink on the bar, I grabbed the koi food and fed the eagerly awaiting fish. I sat down, loved on Doris while Billie was in the back forty searching for an imaginary intruder and noticed a note I'd scrawled on a pad Saturday night when a friend, one I've had since third grade, called me after having been out of touch for four years. So, I programmed the number into my phone and tried to give him a call. He's on a ranch somewhere in Wyoming where they don't have mobile phone towers, so I'm sure he'll get the message later.

I picked up "Out",and was immediately intrigued by an entry in the Contents: ART + DESIGN "Speeding". Actually, I was probably more intrigued by the black and white photo referencing the article -- rough trade with boxing gloves on. So, I looked at that first. I read the article and thought, "I think I'd like that book in my library of 'art books'". Then I flipped backward to read Cynthia O'Neill's article, "Life, The Musical." It was about the pending opening of the screen version of "Rent".

First, if you haven't seen "Rent" on stage, you must. O'Neill mentions seeing it in East Village before it moved to Broadway. I was lucky enough to see it at the Normandie Theatre after it had moved. It was very moving. Sad, but uplifting. Almost empowering. Kind of like O'Neill's retelling of the events leading up the the successful production of the show. Some people might be uncomfortable with some of the story. But they need to get past that. Reading her words about meeting the author of the musical during the time he was developing the work, his death before the show opened and how this all touched her moved me to tears. Especially when you consider the "coincidence" that Jonathan Larson, the author of "Rent" had contacted her a second time to ask her to speak to his cast on January 17, 1996. This was her 38th wedding anniversary, her first without her husband. He had died in 1995.

Yes, I do believe in divine intervention, or that everything happens for a reason. This was obviously a wonderful experience for her. And, if she'd said "no" to the phone call, imagine what she'd have missed.

I don't know what the future holds for me, but for now, I am thankful to be alive, to be loved, to love. I am glad to have had a good day at work. I feel blessed to have been able to come home to a warm home with anxioulsly-awaiting "children". I'll love my leftover spaghetti and get on with figuring out how I'm going to pay these bills. And, I am thankful that I have bills I can't pay, at least for today.

Anyone want to buy a built-only-one-year 1967 Grand Prix convertible that needs a little work for $13,000?

Oh, Joy.

No, really. It's Monday morning, I made it to work on time and the traffic meeting went very smoothly. We even had a couple of laughs. It looks like I'll be having a good day. I hope you do too.

I'm going outside now.

08 November 2005


I went home last night and Cameron, who historically hasn't cooked much but has worked really hard for several weeks to give me a break from it, had dinner prepared. All I had to do was cook the already prepared pork chops. And, there was a martini on the bar and a second one in the freezer for me. Doris and Billie had baths and the entire west side of the house (kitchen, dining room and living room) had been cleaned from top to bottom yesterday. Everything sparkled. It was so nice.

Then, this morning I woke up 1/2 hour later than I had planned. I had an 8 AM dermatologists appointment. I frantically let the dogs out and feed them, make coffee, grab a clean pair of black khakis from my closet, shower, shave and begin to get dressed. DAMN! These pants have been worn twice and now the button is missing. I don't have time to find something else, so I throw on a belt and a nice shirt that I can leave untucked. I race out the door with a little more than 20 minutes to get to the doctor. I've never been to this doctor so I sort of don't know where I am going, but I know where Park Avenue is and I can read address numbers. It'll be ok. I am driving out east to my doctor's appointment to have a sometimes painful derma-fibroid-something or other scar removed from my leg.

The address is 6005 Park Avenue. Driving east on Park the numbers skip from 5999 to 6500. WTF?! So I'm late to my appointment because I passed the place two or three times before I ventured on a road named differently than the address on the building -- 6005 PARK is actually on the portico in front of the building in two and a half foot tall numerals and letters. BUT IT'S ON PRIMACY PARKWAY. Ugh. At least they had free valet parking. That saved me a little time.

07 November 2005


It's been a while since I've posted. For a lot of reasons, I guess. There has been quite a lot going in in dminmem-land. Some big stuff. Some scary stuff. Some fun stuff. I guess none of it matters, really. And, it's mostly uninteresting. And, I am tired. I have been thinking that I need to take this blog in a different direction, but I don't know what that is. There is part of me that wants to keep a lot about me and my life private. But, who want's to read about some fuck bitching about plastic mayonnaise jars?

So far, the Northwest thing is the only important post. My partner has been flying for that corporation for over fifteen years. He's paid his dues, never calls in sick, and just basically does what is expected of him very well. Numerous letters of commendation attest to that. But, the greedy corporate fucks in Minneapolis have convinced themselves that what they're trying to do is the only way to run a profitable airline. Seems to me that they need to look within the black holes that we might call their souls, and see their reverse-Robin Hood ways. They say that they have to pay ridiculous bonuses and award stocks to retain great talent. If you ask me, anyone with a little talent could figure out how to earn what most would consider a nice salary and run an airline without running it into the ground, screwing the people that operate it every day and selling us out to cheap Chinese and Indian labor.

I could go on forever about this, but I am tired of it.

But, I can't stop thinking about it. I can't stop writing letters to congresspersons. Letters to the editor. It's going to take hundreds of flight attendants and their sympathizers making their voices heard, contacting our leaders to let them in on the facts, such that CEO Doug Steenland is trying to keep out of the public's view and conveniently omitting in bankruptcy proceedings, if we expect to incite change and preserve our (their) jobs. But, I digress.

I am tired because I have kept my Air Force enlisted sister's cats for 13 months while she was transferred to a location where they couldn't be in her care. And, these are cats that wouldn't and/or couldn't assimilate into our two boxer-one cat household. So, I have been a prison warden for all these months. Crating cats is not fun for them, let alone me. But, they went back home this past week. Some closure there. And, she tells me that they are doing fine. That makes me happy. But, I am still tired, because the former office, cum cat kennel is now going to be the guest room it should have always been. Top-to-bottom cleaning for two weekends in a row just isn't my bag. A little dust really doesn't bother me. Except for kitchen, bathroom, linens or other "unhygenic" areas (thanks for the word, whacked-out Brit-former Hollywood non-star neighbor of one of my closest friends), I don't spend every Saturday cleaning the house. Every other Saturday works fine for me.

I am tired of some new rash on my historically clear face. What? It's Exzema? Oh, wait. After a week and a half on this prescription, it's changing. So, it's not exzema, now. But, we don't know what it is. My dermatologists appointment that was originally to remove a painful scar on the back of my leg now includes trying to figure out what these red lines on my cheeks that itch like crazy are, and why I have felt like my lips are on fire for two weeks. Hopefully, we'll find out and fix it. Then, there's folliculitis on my chest, apparently a bacterial infection from when I began sweating profusely at USMC Fitness Boot Camp. It's great to be in better shape. But this sucks. And, I'm tired of it and the antibiotics.

The convertible's top has stopped working. And, I've already spent several hundred dollars on a new motor and installation. But, because that happened year before last, I have no warranty. I want to keep the rare antique, but I am beginning to think that this isn't just the right time in my life to have it. Will I find a buyer that will pay what it's worth? Not anytime soon, I fear.

I'm tired of my credit cards are maxed out -- making big payments only to be strapped and have an emergency come up that I can't ignore. I'm tired of knowing that I haven't managed my money well for the last year. Just two short years ago, I was completely debt free (with the exception of my car payment and the mortgage).

I'm tired of my Passat -- both the car and the lease.

I am tired of working on projects that should have been completed in less than three months that are now nearing two years on the job log. Especially ones where the AE and I disagree on the direction the project is going -- which requires that I burn even more brain cells coming up with two or three different ideas until we compromise on something that will be rejected because the only input we get is "we want something 'cool'".

I guess I'm tired of being here, today. My husband is waiting for me at home. And, he's on vacation this week. I need to go home, give him a kiss, pet my children and make a martini. Then, he and I can talk over a couple of cigarettes on the patio. It will be nice. And, I can relax.

I'll worry about what direction I want this blog to take some other time, I guess.