Caterwauling

“I am full
I’m choosing to be full
I’m on a boat, I’m in a lake, I’m with the water, I see the trees
I’m with the sun, I see the moon, I touch the sky
And I’m with you
I’m with you”
– Sheila Nicholls, “Elevator –

I was planning this big, long post about my inability to shut off my brain for five consecutive minutes when I hopped over to my writing soul sister’s site and saw her brand-spanking new post on her inability to relax on command.

And, as Amy would say, it scared the boojabbers out of me yet again how freaking alike we are.

And I’m still going to give you a long, rambling post, so grab a chai tea and the Prozac dispenser.

I was kind of composing this entry in my head as I drove home tonight. I think I unsettled someone at the Dream Job who had made a little joke about how pleasant I always am and I’d said, in a moment of bluntness, that it’s probably better to not be able to see inside my head sometimes. He’d looked surprised and I laughed it off by joking that actually, there isn’t a whole lot of anything going on inside this old noggin. It was the safe answer. It was the one he needed to hear.

It was not the truth.

“So if you ask me
I’ll keep saying that I am fine
So just don’t ask
And if you see me I’ll keep
Flashing that winning smile
Cause that’s my mask.”
– Tara MacLean, “That’s Me” —

Now, I’m not saying I’m thinking bad things (it’s typically the contrary — like, why did I allow myself to SUFFER for so many years before this?). But anyway, no bad thoughts even today, despite the hormones threatening to start raging at any moment. But a girl’s got her days wherein she’s bitchier than others. It’s like we need our own personal editors because we have the potential to detonate over the least thing … or, say it with me guys — over nothing at all. And, I tend to take offense when people make cracks that our defiant and surly moods are somehow connected to our biologies, because it strikes randomly (and WAY MORE OFTEN THAN MONTHLY!!!).

I half-wonder if women, especially, don’t drive ourselves half-mad in our lives from all the pretending we do on the surface to be *fine* when we’ve got a thousand emotions swirling beneath the surface. It’s like an anger/arousal/empathy/sadness/fear/lost cocktail still in the damn blender and the “off” button isn’t working. Perhaps we would, in fact, be *fine* if we weren’t so concerned with how we would be perceived if we’d have an honest-to-goodness emotional eruption once in awhile. No wonder why I write — it’s like bleeding the poison out of our wounds sometimes — wounds we don’t even remember acquiring.

“Same place I’ve always been
Just lost on these roads again
Just as I got near the end
I keep falling in the holes you left in me.”
– Tara MacLean, “Jericho” —

I’ve had many people in my life tell me that I’m “nice” or “perky” or “enthusiastic.” I like that — it means that I light up around them. I like being someone on whom people can depend to brighten — or, at least, not RUIN — their days. My enthusiasm for them is genuine. My compliments are sincere. My enjoyment of talking with them is thorough.

I watch for the special spark in people. I don’t know how to describe it better than to talk about my gay high school boyfriend (*sigh*). In photos with him, my mom always said I positively lit up (no accounting for taste!). Anyway, I know that sparkle. I watch for it when others are around me. I know it when they bring out that sparkle in ME, too. Such magical combinations are so rare, but I’ve found it en masse. I have NO complaints!

Believe me, if I don’t want to be near someone, then they know it (I make sure of it). If someone’s aura is crowding or bruising mine, then mine will push theirs back a few feet and not let them get any closer. I tend to hang around with kindreds and keep them at my side. We old souls can spot each other from miles away, and it’s good to travel together again. And I will lasso your ass and haul you in, if that’s what I need to do to keep myself surrounded by good company!

But I always wonder when my head’s gonna turn like Linda Blair’s in “The Exorcist” and everyone else will be bathed in projectile green goo. I wonder if my “too good to be true” niceness is, in fact, that.

“Captured in a photograph
Inside her eyes
She’ll wrap you in her blanket
And then she’ll tell you some lies
And you will kneel before her
At her altar in the trees
Because they say no matter who you are
She’ll bring you to your knees.”
– Tara MacLean, “Let Her Feel the Rain” –

Like today, I had a really good day. Great drives, ran a lot of errands in the morning, accomplished what I could, talked with great people. But inside, I felt like hot lava were swirling within my center of gravity. I know my sign is the Twins (Gemini), and it’s like they were at war today. And I’m surrounded by kind souls all day long now — I’m not accustomed to not having at least SOMEONE toward whom I can direct my case of the crazies!

Going back to what Amy wrote, it is, in fact, writing that soothes the savage beast — I am never happier than when I’m in a coffeeshop with my joural or sitting here, parked at my G4 with the iTunes going at top volume, me singing off-key and the cats taking their evening shits and stinking up the place and then me burning my Nag Champa incense to kill off the scent of ass as well as to induce tranquility for all of us.

(I am healing. By the time this entry is done, I will have healed enough to watch the special “American Idol” presentation. But, I digress.)

On the whole, I find that all writers are raving insomniacs — we never go to bed at a reasonable hour because there’s so much to see and do, and then when we do try to get enough sleep to try to function the next day, we’re too absorbed in what we coulda/shoulda/woulda done if we’d had more time and what we can/will/should do tomorrow.

And for most of us? We spend our lives spinning our wheels. I have six million projects I have yet to finish — half of which I have yet to START. There’s a certain guilt that goes along with having the writing aptitude — being torn between wanting to record/observe life and getting out there to LIVE it.

“I want to give no reason
To touch your perfect face
I will die between your lips
And live in your embrace
Forever more.”
– Tara MacLean, “More” –

I think I can speak for all of us in that we’re dreaming of someone or somewhere we aren’t, or someone we’re not with (whether anymore or yet). We want some opportunity or person to notice or remember that we’re alive. We obsess over every detail about what we will say or do when that time comes. We miss things we never had. We miss things that we do have.

The reason I don’t really talk about my writing is beacause, if I tell you anything substantial, well, I don’t see any point in writing the story. Does that make sense? If I’ve told the story, then I don’t want to deal with it anymore — it’s been exposed to outside influence or reaction. If you delay a millisecond too long in telling me how fabulous it is, I will think it sucks and therefore it should never be written. Or, fuck, if I’ve already TOLD the story, why should I then go about WRITING it? Because I so abhor redundancy.

And the real reason I don’t talk about my writing? My lazy ass doesn’t do nearly enough of it.

Mental health professionals tell us to envision what we want to happen with our lives, and scarily, I believe that … on some level. If I don’t paint the picture of my life that I might want to live in, well, I’d be running blind with no goal in sight. But, on the other hand, if I picture myself doing laundry or taking out the trash, I forget in real-life to DO those things because, in my head, I’ve kind of been-there-done-that. Creative types hate routines. We hate paying bills, not just because the creditors are siphoning money we don’t have but, rather, it’s boring. We have Gifts. We have Vision. We have Talent. We do not have Patience, damn it!

Anyway, this entry has been all over the place, but it has only followed my hormones wherever they wanted to lead.

“And if there is such a thing
As winter in the spring
Then I’ll make angels
And I’ll see you in the wings.”
– Tara MacLean, “In the Wings” –

There comes a moment when it occurs to you that what you considered to be extraordinary, well, might not have been quite exactly that. However, if you find, upon examination, that you still love it anyway, then that might be even better, because it’s realistic.

I guess choosing the right life for you is like choosing the right lifemate. Once the shiny newness wears off, it’s comforting to know that you LIKE it as much as you were IN LOVE with it. And maybe the two can co-exist, ultimately. But that probably only comes after you peel the layers and live with them for awhile independently before putting them back together and realizing that, indeed, the whole package is filled with exactly what you wanted … even if you didn’t really know it in the first place.

On iTunes: Suzanne Vega, “Blood Sings”

“And I said we are interdependent
And the effects on each other neverending
And that the air has no boundaries
I think this water that surrounds me
Is the same water soaking through to you
So what comes floating to me
Eventually
Will come floating back to you.”

1. I wanted to write a poem today, but I’ve started leaving my journal at home, and it was like I was too lost to bother. But, this song sums up what I wanted to say anyway. Download away. See above for part of the song; full lyrics are here. And I may post something original, if I can just get it right.

2. I was doing an artsy project tonight while I watched “American Idol.” It involved cellophane and ribbons, and as I was using some scissors to curl the cobalt-blue ribbon, I had a vivid memory of my grandmother. She used to make the most gorgeous bows. She taught me how to properly wrap a gift — from picking the most exquisitely beautiful wrapping to getting all the coordinating ribbons to make lovely bows. And she taught me how to curl ribbons with extra-sharp scissors. Even though I was a wee lass, she trusted me to not land myself in the hospital with the blades. And I never felt like I could do it as well as she could. I still don’t. But I’m left to carry on her legacy, and I do what I can. I know she’d be proud that I still remember.

3. I finally got to talk to my best friend tonight (damn time zone difference). We laughed and philosophized and caught up and laughed a whole lot more. She did a dozen television, radio and newspaper interviews today in her community, and I am so proud of her. It also reminds me in a big way, though, that I wish I could be helping her. But, as I told her, we have to be on separate coasts right now because the universe is simply not ready for us and all the things we can achieve when we’re working alongside each other. And, I will get back to her neighborhood soon enough. I just don’t know that I will be able to stop hugging her once I see her again.

4. My apartment complex was sold off yesterday. My rent is cheap (by Northern Virginia standards — not by sane people everywhere else, however), and I am nervous. See, we’re all on month-to-month leases now — when our leases came up for renewal, we were thrilled to not be locked in for a year. Heh. Yeah, let’s watch to see how long our current rates last.

5. From my journal: “I look forward to what my days will bring. And, even if they don’t seem to bring too much, well, they have at least brought me one day closer to fulfilling my destiny.” One by one, I’ve been getting rid of the negative people, places and things that used to devastate me. No more. I’ve taken back my life and changed my expectations. And my happy place? Way happier now.

6. The Terry Schiavo case. I’ve kept mum because of how my grandmother was murdered by McKeesport Hospital and its imbecilic personnel — they forced us to sign a DNR, told us to “go take a break” and then shot her up with enough morphine to anesthetize the Washington Redskins … all of them. They didn’t give her a chance to live — they didn’t TELL us that they were going to KILL HER. I’ll spare you the drama, but I am not in favor of killing someone when they have life and vim and vigor within them as the fucktards at McKeesport Hospital keep operating a death chamber.

Whew.

Anyway, I don’t know that it’s *right* to deny Terry food and water as the way to let her die. But, it is in fact time to let her die. Time for everyone who is still living to get on with their lives. What frosts my flakes is how many people in this world lack health care and are unemployed/homeless, yet this person who has ceased to be a productive human being gets more opportunities to eat (theoretically) and live and have a warm bed every night while millions of Americans don’t have such luxury. I’m tired of the partisan politics being dragged into this — suffice it to say, Terry’s husband invited due process into this to help him make the agonizing decision. Justice, were it to prevail, would call for an end the semantics and let the woman die a dignified death. Where is Kevorkian when we need him? I know — send her to the pinnacle of incompetence that is McKeesport Hospital!

On iTunes: Cyndi Lauper, “Eventually”

*Swiped from my beloved Swirly Girl.

1. Do you wear a watch?
I have 25 watches, and they all need batteries (and all I have lying around the house are Double As). I’ve all but given up on wrist-wear thanks to a mild case of carpal tunnel, so I rely on my cell phone for the time. In fact, a woman asked me the time the other day, and I pulled out my phone. She said, “Oh, I guess I could have done that.” And we marveled how watches are heading the way of the dinosaurs.

2. What’s your favorite pizza topping(s)?
In order: Extra Cheese, Ranch Dressing. Chicken, Pepperoni. Preferably, a combination thereof.

3. What’s your blood type?
*scratches head* I think it’s O. But I do know it has the Rh Factor.

4. Lunch/supper/dinner…what do you call your mid-day meal and your evening meal?
Lunch and dinner. Or, “Chocolate”!

5. Men: do you prefer women to have long or short hair? Ladies: do you prefer men to be clean-shaven or to have facial hair?
Mom and I were discussing this yesterday, how we will always have a weakness for scruffy, long-haired, rocker-type dudes (see Constantine and Bo, who always get my votes on “American Idol”).

But, I go the opposite way, too — there’s something about the clean-shaven professional types that makes you wonder if they are really animals underneath the tidy exterior. Rowr. There are many uses for a tie collection, I say. And I know how to sew buttons back onto dress shirts.

6. If forced to choose, would you rather lose your sense of smell and taste or your sense of hearing?
I’d rather lose my sense of smell and taste. It would make public restrooms so much more pleasant.

7. What’s one of your guilty pleasures?
Shopping. Like, I hate to be in the house and will spend a whole day driving all over creation to shop. I give myself little adventures — like a new denim miniskirt or a green hair clip or whatever — and go nuts finding everything BUT.

8. What color underwear are you wearing right now?
Black boyshorts with a hot pink trim around the waist. On the front, in tiny letters on my left side, it says “I Love Me” and, on the right-side cheek, it says “Who Doesn’t?”

9. Are you allergic to anything?
Mold, dust, fresh-cut grass. Pet dander (says she who has two puds). Lactose (although I will gladly suffer for ice cream!).

10. What are your thoughts on abstinence-focused sex education?
Y’all are screwing yourselves if you think THAT will work!

… of gum, that is.

Today is my six-month anniversary of quitting smoking. And while I might not have quit for the *right* reasons, well, I can’t think of a bad reason to kick the habit that plagued me every day for 12 years and sporadically during the years before it.

“You’re hiding underneath the smoke in the room.”
– Natalie Imbruglia, “Smoke” —

I took my first drag at age 11 — behind the old movie theater at Rainbow Village in White Oak, Pa. Back then, the cashiers at the Thrift Drug never questioned selling smokes to middle-schoolers. The prices were WELL below $2 a pack for Newport Stripes (the kind without menthol; I didn’t learn how to enjoy menthol till I was about 15).

When I did smoke, I would kneel on top of my desk in my bedroom and blow it out the window late at night. Or, I’d go into the basement — where my grandfather had his own bathroom where he loved to read the newspaper, drink coffee and smoke for entire mornings — and smoke freely (again, in the wee small hours) because the basement was *his* space and it was always hazy from his Pall Malls (without the filter. ewww). But, admittedly, I didn’t get that brave very often. I was, after all, a Good. Kid.

“Drowning past regrets
In tea and cigarettes
But I can’t seem to forget
When you came along
Ingenue.”
– Mono, “Ingenue” –

I wouldn’t say I started my heavy smoking till I was 18 and off to college, where there were study areas with smoking sections and a ready supply of insomniacs who were as riddled with caffeine and nicotine as you were. Freshman year was the best — seriously, I met some of the greatest people ever. Particular to the Point Cafe, you always found me with Isadora, Stephanie and Ryan and the rest of the crew whose names I don’t remember but whose presence I won’t forget. We had some of the world’s best conversations over coffee and Camels — I learned about different cultures, religions, musical tastes, political viewpoints, family lives, philosophies … I became an amazing person because amazing people were rubbing off on me. And we met because of our mutual addiction.

Cigarettes were our appetizers, main courses and desserts back then and for me, for the 12 years that followed. They took the place of breakfast and lunch and served to punctuate a good dinner. They danced with me at the clubs and made the buzz from Long Island Iced Teas and Hawaiian Punches that much stronger. They perfectly complemented late-night conversations over decaf and cookie sundaes in Squirrel Hill. And when we got a little bit more money to afford breakfast, cigarettes helped us to awaken over strong coffee and chocolate-chip banana pancakes.

“In a black and far-off corner of my mind
There’s a box of something I can’t quite define
It houses circus freaks, temptation and the Fayette County Fair
And it reeks of love gone sour, suspicion and big hair
Do you know where you’re going when you’ve taken your last breath?
Do you know what you get?
Do you know where you’re going when the devil starts to sweat?
Do you know what you get?
A cigarette.”
– The Clarks, “Cigarette” —

Sometimes, when I see smokers, I will walk right through their circles just to get a whiff. I know, lecture me all you want about secondhand smoke, but for all the times I have been tempted to run to 7-11 and get a pack of Camel Lights (especially the vanilla-flavored pack. Mmm mmm!), I’ve gotten *just enough* of a contact high from others to tide me over.

The thing about cigarettes? They’re your best friend and your worst enemy, all rolled up into one. When you’re out and having a terrific time, they’re at your side. When you’re lonely and lost within yourself, they are dependable — waiting for you to reach for them. There are always more even when you run out. They are something you can share with your friends or that you can bum from a friend when you’re down to your last dollar and can’t afford your own.

Best of all, they are social. “Demented and sad, but social.” No matter where I worked when I was smoking, I met all the other *cool kids* and, thus, got all the good gossip. I found that fellow smokers would do favors for me a hell of a lot faster than they would for the people whom they didn’t know as well.

“And I’m down to your last cigarette and
This ‘we are one’ crap, as you’re invading
This thing you call love — she smiles way too much but
I’m glad you’re on my side.”
– Tori Amos, “Taxi Ride” —

I did quit smoking for six months in the late 1990s. A friend of mine (who just got married on Christmas — yay Melissa!) and I would take “M&M” breaks — we’d get a case of plain M&Ms and take 15 minutes every morning at work to kvetch and consume chocolate. We figured, if the smokers were having a break, then why couldn’t we? Of course, I gained weight back then because of the chocolate consumption. And during the past six months, even though I had little money for food, I still gained a lot of weight. I mean, cigarettes often served as MEALS for me. When that was gone, I was hungry and stressed out and just plain unpleasant. And junk food is cheap, plentiful and fattening as all hell. And I had given up enough back then — I wasn’t about to deprive myself of what little pleasure I could possibly derive from the world.

“You’re my ashtray when I’m angry …
You’re the weakness that I need
When I feel like I need to be strong.”
– Arthur Loves Plastic, “Ashtray” –

Now that I’m 30, I get comments from *older* friends who mention that I will soon have to start limiting my caffeine and watching my cholestorol. And to them, I say a big fat FUCK YOU. They don’t know what it’s like to give up, essentially, the love of your life (i.e., Joe Camel) and try to cope with that and a thousand other changes that were happening concurrently (related or not).

An old friend joked with me that most people get down on their luck and smoke/drink more. Not me. I stopped both. I knew I couldn’t afford to keep smoking (financially) and, ultimately, I knew the cost to my health was going to be a doozy eventually. I quit drinking because it’s just no fun without having fire in your hand. I’m able to drink again (*whew*) — you can’t keep a girl from her Riesling for too long!

“Don’t look for me
I’ll get ahead
Remember, darling
Don’t smoke in bed.”
– k.d. lang, “Don’t Smoke in Bed” –

I heard something today about perpetuating bad habits and how we ourselves are tainted by the things our families did, but we don’t have to forward the cycle. And I thought about it — my mom is the only non-smoker in the family (being that she’s deathly allergic to smoke). Everyone in my family (immediate and extended) love their cigarettes, even now that they surpassing $5 a pack in some areas (they’re still hovering around $3 in Virginia, though). We’ve had numerous deaths traced to emphysema, lung cancer, heart disease, bladder cancer, breast cancer, etcetera — all linked to smoking. And not to say that I didn’t inflict long-term damage on my body because of it, but a physician once told me that, if I could just stop by the time I turned 30, I could almost reverse all the damage I’d done up until then. I am hoping she was right.

“Later in the evening as you lie awake in bed,
With the echo from the amplifiers ringing in your head,
You smoke the day’s last cigarette, remembering what she said. …”
– Bob Seger, “Turn the Page”

So, not that I’d ever consider myself a heroine of anything other than my own novels-in-development, but today is a day I didn’t think I would see arrive. But, then again, I have seen a lot of near-miracles happen for me lately. I guess it’s setting measurable goals — just getting through days and weeks at a time until I can look back and say “Wow! Look how long it’s been! If I made it THIS far, then imagine how much FURTHER I can go!”

And that, my friends, is how I approach my life. I just try to make good decisions while being true to myself. It’s a difficult balance, but during times like these, I realize that I can lose, bit by bit, the bad things of my past and replace them with days that I look forward to living — days that are filled with things that don’t drive me to self-destruction but, rather, to a place where everything good about me will shine. I’m capable of more magical things than this — and now that I’ve made it this far, I can start concentrating on making a difference in this world to more than just me. …

*updated to include tunage*

As a storyteller by nature, I know that my ultimate editing project is myself. And, when others are self-editing, I can spot it a mile away. I wonder, then, if they know that I am holding back on them, too … or that I want so desperately to share more. And that I will, in time, if the door opens a bit more. That’s a big IF, though.

And, what a loss to the world it is — all the creativity and originality and random bursts of brilliance that are squelched during our everyday existences. All the words — so many glorious insights and dreams and questions we all have — that remain unspoken, all the feelings left unacknowledged, all the chances we missed to give someone the inspiration they needed.

Let me insert the caveat that the people who should think before they speak (or act) don’t give us that courtesy. Bertrand Russell once said that “The trouble with the world is that the stupid are cocksure and the intelligent are full of doubt.” I had an ex who was dumb as bricks (I wasn’t exactly dating him for his intelligence. *wink*), and never again will I associate myself with someone who doesn’t mentally stimulate me. He was the first one to babble incessantly about the nothing in particular that fascinated him (and only him). And that taught me a bad lesson — I wondered what if people were compelled to cut off their hair and hang themselves with it while they were listening to me?

In a politically correct society, we have so many laws against indecency and harassment that broadcast entities are only permitting the most vanilla messages to go live. Men and women are afraid to speak to each other for fear of lawsuits and gag orders. And, that has all seeped down to a more fundamental level — where we tend to figure it is easier to keep to ourselves than to share ourselves with others. We silence — or, at the very least, censor — ourselves instead of waiting for a day when someone else might fight to silence us.

We all have legitimate secrets, and that’s how those should stay — secret. But so many of us stop in the middle of our sentences. That to me is usually the flashing red light indicating that something fascinating was just prevented from coming to light. Like I said, I spot it in others and, quite honestly, will try to drag it out of them if I am interested in hearing it. And if I don’t ask, well, I might have started to form the words but censored myself for whatever reason. Or, worse, they might have shared something and I bit back the words I needed to say in response because I was terrified how my sentiments would be taken. And, on a truly personal note, it’s possible I wasn’t ready to deal with what I felt at that moment and wasn’t ready to be heard saying something I wasn’t expecting to feel.

As a writer, I study human nature. I absolutely feed off of what others might consider mundane personal details (remember, I am a budding author — I write character sketches and need storylines!). Everyone (real) is a puzzle to me — well, everyone worthy of note, which isn’t a whole lot of people, quite honestly. And that’s not to say that I want to get people figured out right away so that I can either compartmentalize them or write them off and move onto other victims subjects of interest. Oh, hell no — it’s the person who throws me a curve ball now and again who will cause me to keep my eyes and ears open for the next tidbit — it’s that person whom I will approach and ask what’s new … because I know I will enjoy hearing about it.

I liken my sense of curiosity to my method of receiving/opening presents (which just doesn’t happen too much lately!). Everyone who crosses my path is my gift — I might admire the exquisite wrapping and, after a little while, rattle the box a bit. But if the gift is to be saved for a holiday or to accompany some special occasion, I am totally cool with that. I will never slit open the tape, peek at the gift and put it back where I found it, pretending I’d left it undisturbed all along. I can’t do that because my reaction needs to be genuine. I’m not going to Google you to find information you aren’t ready to give me just yet. I’m not going to give you a line of bullshit because, if I am lucky enough to have you consider me to be trustworthy, I don’t want to jeopardize having you confide in me again and again.

It’s just funny how we can all have extensive conversations with each other and somehow manage to say nothing. And, I’ve never been a fan of idle chit-chat. Sure, I can (and do) ramble at length about nothing at all, but know that it’s not how I prefer to spend your time and mine. Of course, again with the caveats, with some people it’s just wonderful to bask in their presence and, if conversation is mind-numbing but it keeps them in the room or on the phone with you, well then, I’ll take “Let’s Discuss Network Television” for $100, Alex.

The thing about having an active imagination is that I tend to wonder what goes unsaid in many of my conversations. For example, I can share a story about a guy I knew in college. He was able to bullshit everybody but for some reason adored me because he knew I’d see right through him if he even tried — I guess I didn’t let him get away with much. (He gave me way too much credit — I wasn’t even listening half the time. *wink*)

Years went by and we lost touch before one of our mutual friends revealed to me that the guy carried a torch for me for the longest time. Well, who fucking knew?!?! To say I was intrigued was the understatement of the century — I’d never even considered the possibility because it didn’t even occur to me that it WAS a possibility.

And, looking back, maybe I can pinpoint a few conversations that I perhaps took too lightly. Which leads me to make sure, now, that I don’t miss much when I’m talking to others. Don’t worry, guys, that doesn’t mean I’m attaching any extra, fabricated meaning to anything — I’m observant, not delusional!

In any event, you may be wondering if there is, in fact, some hidden meaning behind this post? If so, I’ll never tell.

On iTunes: Tom Waits, “I Hope That I Don’t Fall In Love With You”

Had a $200 oil change today.

Now, don’t worry, that’s not all I got. I was prepared to pay the $35 for an oil change because my regular place (where I haven’t gone in awhile because I needed to do the uber-cheap oil changes during the last half-year) rocks and actually gives decent service. Read: They at least kiss you while they’re fucking you.

All told, I have some new filters, new steering fluid and a new fuel injection system. Which is grand, because the inside of the car smells like vanilla and the outside smells like a fucking grease fire. I look forward to that heinous scent wearing off one day soon.

To top it off, when my car was done, not only did the mechanic park it facing the wrong direction on a one-way street, but he also Left. It. Running. And it took like 20 minutes to get rung up because the cashier kept charging me incorrectly (although I would have been happy to pay below the $208 that it turned out to be). Even worse — the tank was on “E” (I swear, I go through two and a half tanks a week — yay rising fuel prices. Not.) and the mechanic told me to get some gas in it so that the fuel injection system had some, well, fuel to inject.

Before I get too mad, I’m just glad I actually had the money (read: have not paid bills yet). And whether or not they recognized the car and knew a chick drove it and they upsold me pretty fiercely, well, at least I know Samantha is in top shape for NASCAR the Capital Beltway. I guess it’s a good thing I don’t actually go out and spend money on things I want — this car practically eats paychecks as quickly as it eats $2.10/gallon unleaded!

But, alas, there was a mild bit of humor. I pulled in at about 100 mph (I had to beat a traffic light and do a hairpin turn). As soon as I walked into the office, the cashier said, “You must be the Sunfire.” Now, there were 10 other cars there. I said yeah, and she proceeded to rattle off my license plate number. I was slightly amazed, but again, she said, “Yeah. Hard to miss YOU pulling in!” LOL. That’s why I don’t question needing so much work on that vehicle — I know I drive like a maniac!

On iTunes: Madonna, “Sky Fits Heaven”

Last week, I told you I was going to start rating my commutes by the cups of java consumed. You heard about the two-coffee commute. Today, we have the no-coffee commute.

Why was there no coffee? ‘Cause I was an idiot and didn’t make any on the way in, but I figured I’d get *good* coffee once I was in the vicinity of Dream Job. Anywho, I left the Bachelorette Pad at 6:52 a.m. (I still have makeup to apply — it ain’t pretty right now).) I hit my 32nd and final mile at — get this — 7:21 a.m. Yes, less than a half hour! w00t!

I could get used to such an easy-breezy commute, but yeah, 6:52 a.m. departure time? Don’t think so. I am too BITCHY in the mornings to pull this off for anyting but a special occasion.

Anyway, it took that exact same 29 minutes, however, to stand in line at Krispy Kreme to wait for one freaking glazed donut and a coffee (a motherfuckin’ LARGE). Dear keepers of the piping-hot, crack-like beverage we so desperately crave: Hand us coffee at the door. Seriously. You are lucky we don’t kill anyone before taking that first, glorious sip.

OK, now I have to go function. Happy Friday!

On iTunes: k.d. lang, “Suddenly”