Caterwauling

I know I put myself down a lot, but believe me, I know I’m pretty darned special. Magical, even. I’ve accomplished a lot (more than I will ever truly let on) and I’ve got a hell of a lot going for me. I imagine that there are people who think that I have the world by its ass.

This is the illusion I have painted for so many. This is what I want you to think about when you hear my name — I want you to see me having so much fun and being so successful that you simply wish you were me.

And lately, I don’t know if I’ve ingested some kind of truth serum or what, but I can’t do it anymore. Sure, I do have my happy moments and personal triumphs in general — don’t get me wrong. But I know that people are starting to see that the woman I sold them on was, quite possibly, a masquerade — the cloak of someone I used to be. Someone I hope to become once again.

Maybe I’m overly full of myself, but people used to be in awe of me. Afraid, even, of what I was going to say or do to interrupt their status quo. Because I abhor the status quo — you can always be/do better; so can I. Actually, I take that back — half the people in the room would dread what I was going to do to shine a spotlight on their inefficiencies, and the other half mentally licked their chops and waited to see whatever piece de resistance I was going to pull out of my sleeve. Yes, I know I added entertainment value (if nothing else) to everything I touched. I never doubted that my contributions were brilliant, even if they weren’t always wanted.

I was reading this amazing entry over at Helen’s, and it made me uncomfortable, it was so spot-on. You will see me throughout that entry. You may see yourself. The bottom line is that when you’ve fallen once, there is always that expectation that something will give at any time thereafter. You realized you aren’t, in fact, invincible. And you never were, nor will you ever be. I think Helen and I are both in peril of going into a paroxysm if someone simply says “Boo” to us — we’re that fragile now.

I try to remind myself what my A.P. English teacher said during my senior year of high school. She looked at this class full of too-smart-for-our-own-good kids and said, “You’re not special. None of you.” And we hated her for that — we walked on water, even if only in our own minds. But she was so very right — academic ability and maybe even some talent wasn’t going to keep us immune from the fate of mere mortals. We might have had more of a running head start in life, sure, but she was trying to tell us that we were too full of ourselves to think we were owed special consideration for anything in life.

And I don’t think I ever felt entitled to special privileges (I came from nothing — believe me when I say my feet are firmly planted in reality), but maybe I hoped that my aspirations, my dreams, my beliefs, my convictions would make a difference in this world. So I let everybody know what they were. I raged against perceived injustices. I called bullshit when I couldn’t stand the stench of it anymore. I am an expert problem-solver and believe that I am part of the problem if I’m not busting my ass to get others to pitch in on the solution. I am only one person — I can’t save the world. Not all by myself, anyway.

But despite what the teacher said and what has happened to support her theory, I cling to the theory that I am special TO ME. I just need to parlay that to everyone else, even when I’m struggling internally to support that sentiment.

In sum, I think it is safe to say that I ran before I crawled. And circumstances have occurred to make me lie on the floor and want to die. And crawling was the best I could do for a long time. And, I think I’ve dusted myself up and am starting to walk. I’m wobbly — my muscles are still a bit weak, theoretically — but I am getting better at standing without crumbling.

You don’t see that. You see me dancing. Or, at least, you can envision it because that is what I’ve wanted you to see. And most people left it go unchallenged. Heh. I always said that the person who captures my heart will be the one who doesn’t take me at face value — so, for god’s sakes, ask me when you think I’m blowing smoke.

And I’ll flourish (again) someday and be everything I promised — AND MORE! Believe me, I want to see it more than anybody.

But I feel like I lost my place for awhile. And that my opinions are still valuable, but that my voice isn’t as loud as it used to be. Nor as steady, truth be told. I mean, I know I willingly dropped out of life for awhile, but I was STUNNED that it didn’t want to take me back as quickly as I expected it would. Stunned, I say. And it’s freaking hard to jump on the merry-go-round when the fucker won’t stop — or even slow down — to let you back on it. And sure, this is where I insert my fuzzy-wuzzy “it had to happen when it was right, and it did” crap. Which isn’t crap, of course, but my confidence suffered in the process.

I was thinking about how we spend our whole lives reminding ourselves that we’re fabulous — after someone or something has stripped it away. For those of us who were bullied/tormented as kids, we know what it’s like to smile through the pain — to pretend we didn’t hear those comments or feel those icy giggles incurred at our expenses chilling our hearts. We watched the boys we “loved” take other girls to dances (or other boys. Whichever. LOL) while we sat home and pined. We got up every day and put on pretty outfits and painted on smiles to match — we weren’t going to let the world see what it was doing to us.

Then we found ourselves in other situations where we had to acquiesce — our turns were yet to come, we knew it, right? And if you were me, fucking up wasn’t an option. It’s a combination of internal pressure for perfection and the complete lack of a safety net if I fell on my ass. Those who see me as a perfectionist need to know that I used to be anything but — it’s a wonder I never became bulimic or anorexic or started cutting myself, because those are based on one thing: the need to control something, anything in one’s life. For me, that control freak thrives on work. And if that isn’t going swimmingly, then I get nuts. And during the five months that I “freelanced” (read: sat on my ass and got to know myself way too well), I self-destructed. My identity evaporated nearly as quickly as my money. I realized that I had the capacity to make the WRONG decisions in life. Who knew? Moi, not perfect? Puh-leeze!

But to do my sing-song “everything happens for a reason” hoopla, I am going to cling to it for dear life even though it makes me want to hold back my hair and hurl. What I’ve found is that, in self-destruction, you have an opportunity to lose the bad shit and cultivate the good that you just never had time to nurture. Of course, sometimes the sad stuff follows you around like a lost puppy dog, and you keep it to remind yourself of what you used to be and never want to experience again.

For me, it’s time to get that lost puppy neutered. I know it’s possible to become who you’re supposed to be without the constant reminder of who you were and the pressure of who you’ll never be. In my case, the illusion? A precursor to reality. A combination of what I loved about myself and what I hope to become — an extra couple of layers to what already exists.

I will be OK, no matter what. I know this. I just don’t believe it yet. But I will. But I am not just special — I am magical. The powers I have just need to be used for good, and the best I can do is empower myself to bring my arsenal of fairy dust to the world and prevent others like me from ever doubting themselves. Imagine what this world would be like if only we were brave enough to not only dream, but also to bring those visions into fruition, whatever they may be.

On iTunes: Jonny Van Zant, “Love is Not Enough”

Shrub-a-dub-dub is droning away on the television (I love my mute button), and he’s looking stupefied as always. Not like the blog provides much more intelligence, but it’s real fucking hard to provide less.

I was talking to my neighbor Dwan (I typed it right — Dawn (moi) and Dwan have the two one-bedroom units on our floor) yesterday about the weird arbitrary rent hikes being imposed by the new management company. She got her notice already — $155 more per month for her. I am guessing, then, that this is what my rent hike will look like.

I’d decided NOT to tell her that my next-door neighbor in the 2BR unit only got a $75/month hike. But once I get my notice (and if it exceeds $75), I plan on raising holy hell. In any event, Dwan is moving in a few months — another good neighbor going away under the new regime. Fabulous.

In other semantics, we’ve been informed that the new company doesn’t want us sporting our old parking stickers anymore, and that if we don’t scrape those bitches off our windows and bring their tattered carcasses to the rental office post-haste, then we get a $100 fine slapped on us if we want our new tags. (And, of course, we DO want the privilege of parking in our lot!)

In other news, I’m getting older. Like, I am going to be 29+2 really soon. And I think I mentioned that we have a work soiree on my birthday, which is fine. It’s actually a good thing. My past two birthdays were spent with my best friend, eating and laughing and shopping and just having a ball. Both times, I’d been eyeballing things that I’d always wanted but never wanted to buy full-price. And both times, I got my dream item … and on a discount.

On my 29th birthday, I bought my emerald ring. And sure, it’s a tiny stone, but it’s the first genuine emerald I’ve ever owned (it’s my birthstone, not to mention that I love green on me). And it was set in white gold — ideal for this silver fanatic. It was too perfect to pass up.

And on my 30th, I found the most fabulous party dress — one I’d been watching for weeks — with a sale sign above it. But when the cashier rung it up, she said it wasn’t on sale. I was ready to leave it, but Shan dragged a manager over and raised holy hell until I got the the dress for the price on the sign. Yay!

But this year, Shan’s on the West Coast with her family, and I’m missing her every day. I know I’m going to be suicidal without her on my birthday, although her husband’s friend (who lives here!) is getting married on Memorial Day, so it’s possible they might come back East to attend. Believe me, that would be close enough to the ol’ birthday to make it seem just like old times. Hmm, maybe I need to go pick out my birthday gift while it’s at retail price so that she, my good luck charm, will bring me happiness and DISCOUNTS. LOL.

In any event, I think I came off the wrong way to someone when I was joking about the work event on my birthday. I really don’t mind being with my colleagues on my special day. I genuinely like them. Really, I do. I don’t go through the motions with them, like I’ve had to do pretty much everywhere else. I look forward to possibly getting to know them better. I tend to keep to myself during the workday — I’m busy, of course, and I always find that the less people know about me, the easier my life is. But maybe I don’t need to take that attitude anymore — I honestly do feel safe. And it gets lonely, keeping yourself on the outside looking in. And, besides, maybe I need to get a lil more chummy because, if my rent goes up $155/month, I might just be moving my clothes and the cats into my office for the time being.

What I want to say now that what I didn’t let on earlier is that I am glad to have someone — plenty of someones — with whom to spend my special day, even if nobody knows about it but me. Because without Shan, it was just going to be another day of nothing special — and I’ve had enough of ordinary days.

On iTunes: Big Wreck, “Blown Wide Open”

The scrumptious Constantine Maroulis was booted off of “Idol” tonight.

Look, I stayed loyal when the very talented Jessica Sierra didn’t get enough votes to continue. I even tried to look past it when we lost Anwar Robinson.

But for fuck’s sake, tell me how that girlfriend-beater Scott Savol and that weiner-on-a-stick Anthony Federov outlasted CONSTANTINE?!?!

The boycotting of “Idol” happens in my hacienda every season — last season, I gave up when Jennifer Hudson and Latoya London got the boot and Ghetto Fabulous stayed. And don’t say a word to me about voting — I spend a LOT of money on votes every week.

Dear neighbors: Sorry about the blood-curdling screams I emitted around 9:28 p.m. as the results were read.

On iTunes: Not a Goddamned Thing — I’m Having a Moment of Silence

It occurred to me that we’re all losers.

And it’s OK — we’re in good company.

I was thinking about how, when we meet someone whom we know is single and otherwise lacking a second head, we wonder why a “catch” like that simply hasn’t been caught. Like, wow, how has this seemingly perfect person remained on the market so long?

Of course, once you start dating them, you find out REAL quickly why they were left on the clearance rack, marked at a discount — or, maybe even free to good home. And for girls like me, you can’t resist a bargain. And yet, we learn (eventually) that you get what you pay for.

Anyway, I was kind of reversing the theory and applying it to me. You see, we have a work event coming up, and we are able to invite significant others. Oh, and HAH. It’s on my birthday, nonetheless, so wouldn’t it be nice to bring like a date, if only I could unearth one?

Well, I don’t have time to go looking under rocks for my next ex, and that’s when it occurred to me that people could be looking at me, thinking, “I wonder why she’s single?” But then they talk to me for 10 minutes and realize, “Holy shit, what a loser! Run, child, for the daylight — while you still can!!!”

I guess — at my age and for as dreadfully long as I’ve been single — you just hope to happen upon another lovable geek whose beauty and value, like yours, simply wasn’t recognized by the untrained eye.

In any event, speaking of losers — or, more particularly, assholes — we have a running theory at work that there’s always one asshole on the road, and if you can’t find one, then it’s … you.

Yesterday, I was that asshole. I was in a mood and was ripping and tearing down the highways at warp speed. I have a great story out of it, though. I was pulling out of work, which involves a right turn and an immediate zip left across four lanes to make the first left turn. Some days, it’s really cake. Days like yesterday, not so much — it’s less cake than shit souffle.

So, I pulled out like a bat out of hell, but swerved in front of this grandma-type. I couldn’t make a straight shot — I zagged right and then bopped back and left to get into my turning lane. What did granny do? Pulled up beside me (nobody was behind or in front of her — she just dead-stopped in the middle of the interstate) on my passenger side and SHOOK HER FINGER, TSK-TSKING ME for cutting her off. She said out her window, “You can’t drive!”

Seriously, if it were anybody else, I would have gesticulated appropriately. But it was so fucking FUNNY that all I could do is laugh. I mean, we all know I can’t drive — no arguments there. But I’m one of the BETTER drivers in D.C. — what does she do to other people who ride the exit lanes and jump in front of you whether or not you were planning to let them merge? She’s just lucky I didn’t have a pistol in the glovebox — I can’t imagine anybody else would have laughed so heartily at her observation!

On iTunes: Avril Lavigne, “Nobody’s Home”

Dear (insert name of doctor),

Kisses,
Dawn

On iTunes: Van Morrison, “Moondance”