Caterwauling

If it isn’t one thing with my kitchen, then it’s another.

Let’s see: in the last year, we’ve had one major natural-disaster-related power outage (seven days), one fridge that died (and even though I told management it was dying, they waited till AFTER it died to replace it (four days), and now, tonight, I have been instructed (as have all residents) to remove every single item from every kitchen and bathroom cabinet for bug spraying tomorrow.

So, unless the neighbors want me doing this at 3 a.m., I’m doing it now. Which means that all of my glassware, silverware, cookware, etc. are all on the dining room floor for cats to wipe their fudge-striped asses upon. Oh, the joy and rapture of it all.

I haven’t gone food-shopping in months, but last week, I finally broke down and bought some food. Nothing spectacular — in fact, mostly canned and dry shit that IS IN THE FUCKING CABINETS. Alas, I shoved it all in the fridge. Believe me, it wasn’t a whole lot, but still, seeing my wine glasses, beer glassses, margarita glasses, and regular juice and iced tea glasses on the floor is making me insane.

Even more appallingly is that there is DUST all over my cookware and appliances that I keep in my cabinets! Shows how little I cook, huh? Shit. I mean, I was planning to re-wash all six million pieces of glass that are adorning my floor anyway, but it’s really sad how little interest I have shown in being a home wrecker maker. Of course, for as BAD as Kadi is, I am certain I will have fared better by just throwing the cranberry cookware against the wall and seeing what survives!

On iTunes: Minnie Driver, “Ruby Adeline”

It’s my favorite time of year — “American Idol” season!

My votes to go Bo, Constantine, Anwar and fellow Virginian Travis. I *~*heart*~* me some long-haired rocker boys — it’s about time they got a shot in the competition!

Mmm, Jon Bon Jovi-esque knee drops onstage. … *slurp*

On iTunes: Kelly Clarkson, “Since You’ve Been Gone”

Someone I know who had seen “Finding Neverland” had told me that one would shed a tear at the end. Just one, single, solitary tear.

So, alas, I traipsed to a matinee of said epic, only to start bawling three-quarters of the way through it and to continue sobbing uncontrollably from that moment (when the orphans took their seats at the theater) through the credits. When the lights came on, I looked like Michael Jordan had beaned me in the head with about four basketballs. Sheesh. Superb film, I say.

I’d gone to the theater, undecided about seeing that one or “Hitch,” because let’s face it, I can use a laugh. But the latter was showing on two screens and sold out three shows in advance, so I was glad to have had the choice made for me. And, as always, I was an hour early for the show, so I settled with an overpriced drink into what I think is the best seat in the house — in the center of the theater, with the railing in front of me.

Anyway, I was hoping to not have to sit shoulder-to-shoulder with the unwashed masses, but alas, fate was not on my side in that respect. Remember, I am very claustrophobic, and unless my seatmate is a hot, straight man with a cologne that makes me need an underwear change, well, I ain’t happy. I tried to at least save a seat with my coat but I must have those vibes of “She isn’t saving that seat for anyone,” and I got screwed. To my right was an older woman who took off her shoes immediately and smelled like a GIANT FOOT, replete with fungus. She also had popcorn, which really turned my stomach when coupled with the stench from her stockinged feet that she parked on the rail in front of us. Ugh.

Surprisingly, my inner bitch was off to Tahiti (or, in this case, Neverland) for the day — I’ve been rather pleasant of late and I’m not quite sure why — but the inner bitch of the gal to my left was enough to power the entire theater. I had moved my coat to the seat between us, but when the lights went down and the previews kicked on, a couple asked her and her friend if they could shift down one seat so that they could sit together, as there was another empty seat beside her friend.

The gal next to me hissed, “Well, that’s why the rest of us come EARLY so we can get seats TOGETHER!!!”

The woman was stunned, but the gals next to me did shift down (and the one directly next to me was sighing heavily toward my drink on our shared armrest — I ended up holding it throughout the movie so she wouldn’t snarf in it). The woman thanked the women not only twice then, but also when the lights went up. You could just feel the ire in the air. And I felt weightless, like it was so nice to be freed from wishing ill on people (I have others I wish it on — I suppose I was conserving energy! Must. Control. Urge. To. Link. …).

Anyway, I found it unfortunate that every woman in my row stayed seated through the credits. I was sobbing and couldn’t breathe in general from the claustrophobia — all I wanted was air and/or some ridiculously hot man to hug me at that moment. But alas, I got neither.

As I emerged from the theater, Foot Fungus was bitching to a member of the cleanup crew. Her inner bitch was upset about the volume and about something else. I wanted to push her out of the way and say that the volume was fine but it was the stench of death coming from her over-worn black shoes that was more effective than Chloroform.

In any event, I do have to agree somewhat with the gal who snapped about arriving early to get a good seat. I agree. I get there early so I can have my pick of the place, and it kills me when the Johnny-Come-Latelys with colds and stinky feet and bad auras park their asses next to me and ruin my experience. Next time, I think I will just wait for the DVD to come out!

On iTunes: SWV, “All Night Long”

Random observation: Most women love a guy who can speak different languages, and let’s face it, we sometimes need a thong change when we hear a good, thick accent (for me, it’s an Italian accent that gets me every time).

But, I’ll tell you what: Nothing makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside like hearing a man speak English. There is something about subject/verb agreement spoken in a clear voice that gets me all hot and bothered. Impeccable grammar is so underrated! (Can you tell I’m a editorial type? LOL.)

Potential suitors: Yes, I am that easy!

Potential e-mailers: English language proficiency also applies in the written form. Bonus points if you don’t use Internet-speak because I don’t know if you really are k-e-w-l or simply braindead.

On iTunes: Janet Jackson, “If”

I decided I needed some retail therapy today, but after all is said and done, I have few purchases yet a great need for SOME kind of therapy!!!

Because the car missed its inspection by about five months, I got that and its emissions test today. Hooray. Got gas and paid the insurance and monthly payment today (the latter is an absurd amount, but I digress), too. Debated about getting a wash, but after unloading upward of $700 on the car this month, I figured it was enough. Gotta leave some money for ramen and mac ‘n cheese!

To clear my mind (Don’t ask why. Just don’t — it’s far from bad, but it’s hard to see where anything good will come of where my mind wandered when it was unsupervised!), I went to Springfield Mall, which was a nightmare, although no less of a nightmare than when I’d gone to the Tar-zhay at Potomac Yard last weekend. At Chez Potomac, I’d found the last available parking spot in the lot (at the Waaaaaayyyyy back of it), had the blinker on and waited for the occupant to pull out. What happened but some crazy bitch swooped in and took the spot I’d claimed! Oh, I was furious. I parked it right behind her and waited for her ass to get out so I could kill her. But, alas, I waited at least five minutes and she was stupid enough to take the spot but not stupid enough to get out when I was in a frothy fit. Grrr. Kill. …

Anyway, Springfield. *sigh* Parking was an atrocity, but the wait in line at a clothing store damn near killed me. I know I shouldn’t be spending money on anything right now, but I’d promised myself to buy one outfit for work every month. I didn’t get an outfit, but I saw a shirt on a sale rack that was sort of cute. A little slutty for the office, but this is me we’re talking about — most of my clothes fall under the headings “whorish,” “sleazy,” “casual” or “denim.” In any event, I didn’t want to try on the shirt because I had to pee, so I jumped in line and hoped for the best.

Forty-fucking-five minutes later, I got waited on. Was I in the back of the line, you ask? NO!!! I was THIRD — behind two girls who were buying like $500 worth of shit EACH. And they had coupons and sensor tags and shit to deal with. There I stood with my $15 shirt (which rang up for $20, but I was jaundiced and really couldn’t care what the price was), as everyone in line BEHIND me put their shit back and stomped out.

In any event, that’s all I spent on myself. Hooray. But what I did do was renew my vehicle registration and get a personalized plate. w00t! It will say “I-BLOG,” after Pratt’s brilliant suggestion. So there went another $50 on the car today, but it was for me, because I have HATED my plate because the letters remind me of the name of one of the thousands of people in my life who are better left forgotten.

Related, as my beloved Samantha got her innards examined, I was reading the new Cosmopolitan, particularly the part where men say they really get annoyed by all the peripheral relationships to which women cling. I found that interesting — I pretty much can figure out what a straight male thinks, but I didn’t know that one. Per the article: “Women retain draining relationships … out of some twisted sense of obligation. … Bottom line, Life is too short to spend a Saturday night dining with the girl who occcupied the mat next to you in yoga three years ago.”

That struck me pretty hard. I tend to feel guilty when I don’t do my part to upkeep relationships with old colleagues and friends, but that little blurb made me breathe a huge sigh of relief. I attempted to send an e-card to an old friend this week for her birthday, but it bounced back because the address is no longer valid. And I felt awful for not knowing how to reach her after we’d been such good friends for such a long time. But maybe growing apart was the universe’s way of letting us end on a good note and, more importantly, make room for people who would have a bigger impact on our present and future. Wow. This was a BIG revelation for me!

Now, of course, good friendships take work and both parties need to be working equally hard at it. But some people treat the end of a friendship (or romantic entanglement, for that matter) as the end of the world. Which is the furthest thing from the truth. There are people I will miss to death — people whose names I will be screeching in the old-folks’ home, after a lifetime of wondering where they were. But there are the people who will be at my side long before that day comes and — if I’m lucky — when in fact that day does arrive. And, sure, I wish I did have more time to talk to those whom I wish to keep close, but like my beloved Shan says, true friends know that the other will always be a phone call away, no matter how busy they are (we do it, and we’re three time zones apart!). And when life gets crazy, a true friend understands that sometimes you’re going to be buried under an avalanche; these friends will be there waiting for you when you’re reaching for daylight again (after they’ve reached in to help you out of it, of course — none of this cowtowing to the assholes who left you to flounder and suddenly remember you when you’re doing better. But I digress). And if they’re lying in wait in hopes of ambushing you, then you need to call your magistrate ’cause they’re stalkers.

People who were once true to you will leave you in peace, if peace is what you couldn’t find when they were around. The rest who poke at you with a stick are better left to seek others who might be able to love them in the way you just couldn’t anymore without jeopardizing your sanity. And, accordingly, we ourselves will find others who will love us more and who will find ways to keep from losing us to the ravages of time.

On iTunes: Faith Evans, “Kissing You”

We interrupt this otherwise perfectly boring existence to ask, because inquiring minds want to know:

Did you ever have a deliciously lascivious thought pop up out of nowhere (typically at the worst possible time), last only a moment but yet serve to disturb your entire center of gravity for an extended period of time?

Yeah, neither have I. Nor have I ever been so downright discombobulated by it that I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

I need to go to the bathroom now. Carry on. …

On iTunes: Jeff Buckley, “Everybody Here Wants You”

On iTunes: Crossfade, “Cold”

I’m going all “Bridget Jones” after being inspired by an uninspiring report by NBC4 on how singles get the sucky end of the deal sometimes. I wanted to rise above the whining that the people in the report did and, well, do some whining of my own.

(Disclaimer: I am not talking about any place in particular — I’m just sharing some errant thoughts and observations from friends’ lives and from my “wild” past.)

Folks in the report brought up that they feel like, as singletons, their lives aren’t viewed as being as “important” as their colleagues’. Now, I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve never felt that kind of discrimination in the workplace, although I did take it upon myself in many instances throughout the years to put in extra time because I knew others couldn’t. I figured, I needed the experience or, if I were lucky, the overtime. But as I get older and — let’s face it — wearier, I find that time is valuable. I love to work — don’t get me wrong. I love to just be doing something, even if it isn’t curing cancer or saving the world, just so long as I am making a difference in somebody’s world.

To that, I say that’s our own damn fault. Really. I don’t blame the married or otherwise coupled folks for the way I choose to spend my time. Sure, I’d rather be relaxing somewhere, but when you love what you do, there’s no harm in giving it your heart — especially if you don’t exactly have another human to whom to give that heart.

But I do feel strongly that singles don’t have it so good. I mean, I would be willing to shack up with somebody so that I can pay less rent money and actually have a few bucks left over from my expenses to actually enjoy a dinner out or spoil myself with something that I’ve always wanted. On the downside, there is often bathroom-sharing, doubled electricity bills and bigger supermarket totals, but to have a regular fuck buddy wouldn’t be such a bad tradeoff. Hell, I don’t even need a ring — unless it is of another variety.

One thing they said in the news broadcast was about health care — how employers contribute more money on behalf of their employees with spouses and offspring. To that, I say that employers should, then, write us a check for what we didn’t get that our breeder friends did. Of course, one could argue that dragging pint-sized humans to the doctor with their snotty noses every two weeks deserves some kind of bonus, but until my day comes, I’d be happy to have that money dumped into my future privatized Social Security account (yeah, like that’ll ever happen, cowboy).

On the other hand, I can say that friends and I have been treated as second-class citizens because we haven’t shat out a kid or 10. I remember I was at a job when I was 27 and everyone treated me like a spinster because I hadn’t had kids yet (oh, the story that I didn’t choose to tell them …). By my age, most had had at least one and I can name several colleagues who had shat out three by that “old” age. And it irked the living hell out of me when there was no school and they’d bring in their brats to run rampant through the halls. Something that bothered me, but to a much lesser extent, was married folks who could get away with making personal calls because the calls were going to their spouses. Even if they were talking about grocery shopping or what color the sky was that afternoon, it was deemed acceptable because they were Married.

God forbid a single gal chat with her boyfriend or even her best gal pal about barhopping and have someone overhear it. In this case, I get where the whiners on the newscast felt that their lives were less important — what is important to the single person is often frowned upon by those who are settled and/or those who are charged with holding up decorum. Sure, some former “wild children” listen wistfully to your oh-god-my-underwear-was-hanging-off-the-chandelier stories as they wipe baby goo from their blazers, but let’s face it, the debate between scandalous thongs versus sweet boycut shorts has no business being discussed the same way women gather and talk about the size of their engagement rings.

And in an example of equality in life suckage regardless of committed status, I guess that neither one will ever get ahead in the rat race. One doesn’t get it based on not being taken seriously as a singleton; the other doesn’t get it based on the fact that she’s saddled with grown-up responsibilities. Related, I called two interviewers about why I didn’t get jobs with them (not that I cared — I got what I wanted. But I wanted to see what I could have done to improve my presentation). Simply put, I was told I was overqualified, and I was livid that others deemed that I wouldn’t commit to the long haul because of that. And it kind of burned my ass that people sit around judging you about your capabilities or your long-range plans when they don’t know anything about you. What would they have said if I had a munchkin at home? Would they have viewed me as responsible, or would they have turned me down based on, “Oh, she won’t be available round-the-clock, so no thanks”?

Let’s face it, I agree that being single sucks. My closing argument is that your primary role in life is as a worker as opposed to a lover. Not to say that we don’t have various secondary roles as children, siblings, friends, etc., but those aren’t always top-tier commitments. And when you’re broke and hungry, there ain’t nobody to take your miserable ass out to dinner. Also, when you’re feeling hideous and crappy, there ain’t nobody required by law to fuck your funky ass. On the other hand, we always have the possibility that things will change down the line for us and that, someday, we will be the ones who are the envy of everyone else. Let’s hope so, anyway!

P.S. Oh, and if I do have kids, I cannot WAIT to force people to buy cases of Girl Scout cookies and other shit like others’ brats are selling for school/youth groups/churches/etc.! I have bought more unnecessary shit because more unnecessary progeny wanted an iron-on patch for a sash, I swear!

On iTunes: Tori Amos, “Taxi Ride”