Caterwauling

Subtitle: The things that run through my head

I realize that whenever something happens in my life, I immediately start blogging it mentally. I try to remember every detail surrounding me, every word exchanged, every emotion coursing through my veins. Good, bad, ugly — I craft how I’m going to share it with you.

But, then, I don’t. I cool off or I decide to keep the information locked safely in the nuthouse between my ears that launched a thousand nervous breakdowns.

Or, I come home and try to think of a way to emote without actually sharing the thing I need to share. And somehow, that works for me. And you get to read this from the safety of dozens, if not thousands, of miles away.

Lucky for you, I’m passive-agressive like that. So, on with the freak show:

BODYBAG
From the “you know you’re jaded when” files:

I was driving along the GW Parkway yesterday when I saw a very large, black garbage bag lying in the grassy medial strip. It was full, and I realized it looked like a body was in it. I kept driving, thinking, “Now THAT’s a creative way to dispose of somebody! NOBODY can even stop to see what’s in the bag!”

It never occurred to me at the time that there might have actually only been TRASH in the damn bag.

YOUR MOTHER WAS RIGHT
I remember when, as a pre-teen, I locked myself in my bedroom and just wished the world would leave me the hell alone. Now, I come home, lock the door behind me and wish I had somebody waiting here who just can’t leave me alone (*wink, wink*). For all the times our moms said, “Someday, you’ll wish you had listened to me,” well, you will kick yourself in the ass (or your shin, if you can’t quite reach that high). My mom always said, “You’ll miss me when I’m gone.” She was right. I have actually apologized to my mom for my entire teenage existence. And for the decade thereafter.

Being that we’re already on a stream of consciousness here, I just remembered a horrible fashion statement in the late ’80s — T-shirts that said “Leave Me Alone.” I remember some of the biggest losers at school (not to exclude myself from that group — I just had better fashion sense!) wearing those shirts, and I thought how redundant that was. Um, wasn’t gonna come near ya anyway. Of course, anyone who made me look like less of a dork was A-OK in my book!

DORK DORK GOOSE
While I’m on the subject of dorkdom, I had a horrible memory recently. Believe me when I say I am NOT bragging, but I was president of my high school honor society. I swear, I had the lowest GPA in the club and DEFINITELY the lowest SAT scores. I think I got the job because everyone else outsmarted me and realized that only the one dumb enough to accept the job should have it.

CHILL
So I was making a quart of Gatorade (it comes in a mix now — not that I love it or anything, but I saw it on sale at Wallyworld, so I bought it). The instructions said to add water, shake and chill. Chill?!?! Is my predisposition to anxiety obvious to even a packet of Gatorade? Sheesh. Apparently I DO need to chill, then!

MILD-TEMPERED
I was musing how oxymoronic the phrase “mild-tempered” is. I have a mild temper myself — but don’t forget to put the emphasis on temper. I have enough Italian blood (thanks, Gram!) that I can ignite a verbal fireworks display practically on command.

But, of course, I try to keep that in check. It is a civilized society, after all.

Now, I love my grandfather and my mom. That said (I’m trying to avoid the “but” word), there’s something my grandmother (and I, in turn) spotted in them that made us nuts: They’re pussies. They’re sensitive, they’re meek, they’re unlikely to challenge anybody.

I fluctuate between the two demeanors. Or, at least I try not to make waves, but when I do, it’s less a wave than a tropical storm.

My problem? Spending so much time being mild when I really should be painting the sky with profanities that, when something insipid happens that’s normally not worth a second glance, I lose my shit. Trample my emotions, you might get a Look of Death (passive agression, friends). But, meow at me the wrong way, get a five-minute verbal tirade.

Actually, please meow at me. It will make me seem less crazy.

Until then, on with the crazies:

‘TATO BUG
I call my younger cat ‘Tato Bug. I used to call her Short Bus, then Shorty B., then Bad Kitty. I tried calling her Kadi for awhile (her name), but that never sticks. Kadi became Katydid, then Katydid Kadoodlebug. But it’s difficult to remember all those syllables when she’s being bad. I swear, if she were human, she’d be the type of child who murders its family and spends its life institutionalized. Lucky for me, she doesn’t have opposable thumbs, or Guinness would recruit her as a minion in his plan to take over the world. Guinness looks just like Kadi, too — white-pawed wonders unite!

In any event, Kadi now answers to ‘Tato Bug. The problem? There’s someone at work with her same name, and I ALMOST called her ‘Tato Bug the other day. *sigh* I found it hilarious, but I’m sure I’m the only one who’d be drinkin’ that Kool-Aid.

THINGS THAT DON’T SUCK
You know you’re in trouble when the only thing in your life that doesn’t suck is your f’ing vacuum cleaner. I just lurrve trying to clean up Pooh Corner and have litter flying out the back of the vacuum, smacking my ankles. And it’s usually after a shower when I have lotion on my legs and then I get a protective coating of cat fur and piss crystals. The joy, I say. The joy. …

POOH CORNER
Some people say “kitty corner” to mean something is diagonal. Not in my house, unless you’re referring to Pooh Corner (the litterbox) being positioned diagonally in a corner of my dining room.

In any event, I changed the box on Friday morning — I was doing anything to avoid leaving the house at 8:15 a.m. because traffic is nightmarish until about 9:15 a.m. I find my cats are always trying to one-up each other. Kadi raced into the box to take the first dump. Maddie strolled to the outside of the box and made sure to be the first one to take a dump on the carpet.

Ah, I could go on forever, but Maddie’s out on the balcony torturing Kadi (I keep Kadi caged on the balcony ’cause she’s dumb enough to take a flying flop into the dumpster across the parking lot.

In any event, thanks for listening to my inner mono(b)logue. And this is the edited version.

On iTunes: Lynyrd Skynyrd, “All I Can Do is Write About It”

Via Erica.

On iTunes: Black Sabbath, “War Pigs”

Not only might I get a change of scenery in the near future, but everything else around me is changing, too.

And it’s about damn time.

My friend Shan and her husband are going to try to come and visit for my birthday next month. w00t! Well, not ON it, but during the weekend after it. I’m trying not to burst at the seams with joy at the prospect, but let’s face it — I’m thrilled at just the idea of it!

I also found out today that a dear friend is going to be having a BOY. A boy, I say! I love little boys. If ever the day should come (lightning strikes, Dawn goes *poof*), I would prefer to have a boy over a girl (I saw “Thirteen.” I almost got my tubes tied after seeing THAT). And now I get to shop for insanely adorable boy clothes — and blue IS my favorite color. Hurrah!

We won’t mention that I knew three months ago that it would be a boy. Why people pay for sonograms when all they have to do is call me is beyond my guess. The daddy is thrilled — he looked at the sonogram and said, “He’s packing!” and made a comment about how certain ethnicities are predisposed to having bigger penises than others. The mom was mortified. I have no comment.

Anyway, it all serves to remind me that no matter the degree of life suckage that occurs sometimes, there are always miracles waiting to happen. And to think how easy it is to just give up — but, look at the rewards if you can manage to keep it together long enough to see the good things that are in store. …

On iTunes: Breaking Benjamin, “Rain”

I’ve done a lot of thinking since today’s audio post. For those who missed it, apparently the new owners of my rental company are jacking up rent prices, striking at will and setting increases rather arbitrarily, it seems.

I didn’t get my notice yet. I assume it’s coming, because my place was assessed on Friday. Hopefully they saw the damage that the cats have done and have decided to charge me LESS rent. LOL.

So, the aspiration is that my rent doesn’t go up astronomically so that I can hang out for another year and try to get my life in order in the meantime.

But, I want to be ready “just in case” things don’t quite work out that way.

To move, or not to move?

TO MOVE
1. Fresh start? Love it. More bad memories within these walls than good memories.

2. Opportunity to move closer to work. SHORTER COMMUTE!!!

3. Gas prices: $2.36/gallon. And I put 400 miles on the car every WEEK. Moving closer to work means it’d be not only quicker, but also CHEAPER.

4. Possibility of getting a unit with a washer/dryer. No more laundromats or fighting for the one washing machine in my basement.

5. I need another bedroom for when the day comes that I will take my mom in. I have been hoping, though, that the day wouldn’t come for a loooonnng time (by then I would hopefully be able to afford to give her her own place. And she’s too young for a retirement home. LOL. I know — evil of me!)

6. Although — it would be nice to have an OFFICE or a DEN.

7. Eventually shopping for lots of pretty new home furnishings.

8. Change of scenery. Not having to drive past old employment establishments and not being where people better left forgotten can find me.

NOT TO MOVE
1. I live at the ramp to I-395. Totally convenient to everything in the metro D.C. area.

2. Might not be able to stay in Virginia — what would become of my lovely personalized license plates?

3. Pet deposits? Fucking ludicrous. I was looking at some places today that charge $300 per cat as a flat deposit and/or $35/month pet rent. Um, do they have jobs? Fuck that crap.

4. Financial ruin. I’d have to spend a lot of money in the short term (MONEY I DON’T HAVE RIGHT NOW) to save a tiny bit of money in the long run.

5. Dealing with the semantics: movers, security deposits, getting boxes, packing up my shit. Ugh. Pain-FUL.

6. Might have to give up my beloved balcony, depending where I end up going. Oh well — I’m grilling inside, then!!!

7. I need a new computer, TV and assorted furniture (to replace what years of moving/extended use/cat assaults have done to the current batch). Because I will throw a lot away when I move and do NOT want a bare apartment.

8. Learning a new commute and possibly leaving behind my ride alongside the Potomac River and my twice-daily views of the Washington Monument, Kennedy Center, the Lincoln Memorial and the cherry blossoms (in season).

OK, it’s pretty even right now. And maybe all the fretting is for nothing, but alas, it gives me impetus to excavate the hacienda and to live simply, any way you slice it.

On iTunes: Liz Phair, “Why Can’t I”

While I was enjoying a 90-minute commute home (ugh — Note to self: Never leave before 6:22 p.m.), I was thinking about how I can never find a good neighborhood fair or amusement park in the area. Sure, there’s the Fairfax County Fair and Six Flags, but both are quite a hike away and I’d hate to go it alone. And who wants to get on rinky-dink street-fair Ferris wheels and such?

I got to thinking about my dozens of trips to Kennywood Park, just outside of Pittsburgh. And my inner child put down her scissors and got a craving for a frozen lemonade and a funnel cake with strawberries.

Kennywood was a rite of passage, growing up. Every June, we had a school picnic there. And there were other special events — like Italian Day and EMS Day and whatnot, so you would want to go to see your “peeps” or your family’s colleagues or whomever the day was honoring. I just loved the special days, particularly at the end of the season, when there would be parades and fireworks.

Not that I am a “joiner,” mind you — I hate parades. But that’s when the lines for the rides were gloriously short, assuming the rides you wanted were still open. I am pretty sure they shut down everything along the parade route, but I always headed on down to Lost Kennywood (where rides that were once retired were restored to their former glory), which was out-of-the-way enough that you could escape from the throngs of people for a few moments.

Kennywood Day for school was kind of on par with going to a dance — you had to be asked by the “right” friends and wear the “right” outfits. Oh, god, I won’t forget eighth grade year (1988), when four of us wore these GOD-AWFUL tie-dyed shirts, spandex pants and huge-ass leather hip belts. Holy crap, we looked like a bunch of rock-star BEES (yellow and black — what the HELL were we THINKING?!?!). Seriously, I think that was back when Stryper was popular — SCARY!!!

That was about the time when it was “totally uncool” to go to the park with your family — if you were seen with an adult, like, GAH. I mean, we all started smoking when we were 11 — going to Kennywood sans parental units meant that we could smoke all we wanted to. Because, you know, we had high aspirations like that at 14. But we had some “older” friends (like, a grade level or two higher), which made us “cool.” And we thought everybody wanted to hang with us or be us.

Yeah, we were severely delusional.

And the weird part? I never had a better time there than when I was with my mom. Neither one of us had much interest in riding — we used to joke that they should have had an Eat-All-Day pass instead of a Ride-All-Day pass. The fries down here at Five Guys are reminiscent of the fries from the Potato Patch at the park, only the Potato Patch has better toppings. Seriously, you are from western Pennsylvania if you eat gravy and seasoned salt on your fries. And, if you go back again during the season, you need to get the cheese fries. And the hot dog on a stick. And …

Yes, it’s all about the food — it’s a wonder our fat asses even FIT into the damn rides!

I was thinking about where I would rather be as I was riding the brake around the Beltway tonight — the Beltway being a 60-plus-mile circle around the metro area where you either go 2 mph or you go 85 mph, bumper-to-bumper. No in-betweens. Anyway, having an outing or an adventure right now appeals to me like you would not believe, so that explains the dreaming out loud.

In any event, I don’t love roller coasters. It’s not the speed that gets me but, rather, the combination of velocity and heights. But rides like the Turtle, where you are in an open car and fly around a racecar-like track with only minor bumps, make me squeal with joy. I remember when my buzzy-bee friends and I were on the ride, no one else was on it with us (I believe we scared everyone away), and we got the ride operator to max out the speed. I swear, we rode it for a good 40 minutes at top velocity, and I was never happier. No seatbelts or any kind of safety device — you’re just supposed to hang on to the center bar in an open-top, turtle-shaped car. And I don’t remember even bothering to hold on — I just loved the feel of the wind and my hair dancing around my shoulders.

I had no fear — I knew I would be safe. It’s a feeling I mourn, time and again — now, every move matters, and there are no guarantees. Not that there ever were, but I had more important things to worry about back then (like boys and clothess). Oh wait, not much has changed, when you look at it that way! LOL.

The thing with your Kennywoods of the world is that they make you nostalgic at 4 years old. You stand in reverence of these rides that were constructed the year your grandparents were born. You admire the old-fashioned font on the menu boards. You know that, later in life, you will wish you could find a candy apple as sweet as the one that you are wearing all over your face at the time. The parks seem so big to you when you’re knee-high to Kenny the Kangaroo, who hops around the park in his hot mascot uniform, greeting children and asking if they’re having fun. It made you feel like such a big deal to sit on his knee and tell him about your favorite ride in Kiddieland. And the walk to the car seemed sooooooooo long, to your tired little legs. You would learn, in time, to conserve some energy for the hike to the parking lot. But, when you’re still small enough to be carried (by your equally exhausted mother), it makes perfect sense to throw all your energy into enjoying this wild, wonderful experience that gives you the best day of your life — at the time, anyway.

In any event, those were also the days when my family and I would just hop in the car and find amusement parks and fairs and such. We often went to Kennywood’s sister park Idlewild in Ligonier, Pa.; to Ohio to Geauga Lake (and Sea World and Cedar Point, of course!); to Lake Erie (I know there was something cool up there but can’t remember what) — oh, it was Conneaut Lake Park.

Conneaut closed for a number of years but is back in business. I particularly loved the ride (in its glory days — I don’t know if it’s still operational in its original form) The Scrambler. You see variations of these everywhere — it’s a bunch of cars that are picked up and whirled around in the air. The ride frightens the shit out of me, but at Conneaut, they put it indoors. The lights were off and rock music blared from the speakers as neon lights encircled you. It’s kind of like riding the Space Mountain Coaster in Orlando. In fact, that is probably one coaster ride that I remember fondly — because it’s in the dark. I love the dark — there’s something magical and mysterious about it.

And, not to say that I didn’t scream my little head off on the coasters or any other rides. But, I miss the days of being terrified and thrilled, all at the same time, as I gaped at the majesty of some of these rides. I admit that I often chickened out and that I insisted on going to the parks in uneven-numbered groups of friends so that I could sit out if the fear got the better of me.

My favorite thing to do at Kennywood, as a kid, was to go into this awesome cinema house they used to have (and oh, how I wished it had resurfaced in Lost Kennywood!) — I guess you’d call it IMAX these days. Everything was surrounding you — the movies had you flying over canyons and soaring over oceans and catapulting over waterfalls and even riding roller coasters from the comfort of your seat. I loved the thrill, and nary a hair was out of place when all was said and done.

Anyway, riding the Beltway simply doesn’t compare aesthetically to the sights, sounds and smells of an amusement park come alive for the summer season. But it’s nice to close my eyes and escape while I’m jamming on the brakes and waiting for traffic to break so that I can drive just as fast as my favorite rides used to take me. …

On iTunes: Melissa Manchester, “Don’t Cry Out Loud”

1. What would be your ideal “last meal”?
A bottle cask of Riesling, cheesy potatoes and bloody marys from Jack Stack’s, chicken eggplant pesto and frozen amaretto sours from Alexander’s, pizza from Vinnie’s, chocolate-chip banana pancakes from Pamela’s, a sammich and wings from Fathead’s, sweet potato fries with gorgonzola (in season) from Cap City, and a bacon cheeseburger from Five Guys. Oh, and chocolate/liquor-of-my-choice fondue from the Melting Pot. And about 40 gallons of coffee from Borders, Starbucks and Caribou. Oh, and a chocolate berry basket from Alexandria Pastry Shop.

Yup, all that should kill me.

2. Do you wear a watch? If so, describe it.
I have 17 silver watches in a drawer with dead batteries. If I want the time, then I glance at my cell phone display.

3. When was the last time you made non-microwave popcorn?
College. I had an air popper. Loved that stupid thing till the plastic cracked. We used to use like two sticks of butter for every five kernels popped — real healthy. LOL.

4. Would you rather shove your arm into a beehive or shove it into a scorpion pit?
Beehive, thanks. There’s at least a chance of it not being a deadly experience.

5. What’s one thing you feel you really must do before you die?
To be absolutely, 100 percent myself — saying and doing whatever I damn well please — without fear of repercussion. I guess that’s what old age is for.

6. Why haven’t you done it yet?
Because every time I realize that I am fabulous, something happens or someone manages to ruin it for me. That, and most people don’t laugh with you when you say “Bite me.”

7. Do you take a multi-vitamin?
Yup. Olay. Supposed to be for healthy skin, but tell that to my pre-teen-esque complexion.

8. Are you going to any weddings this summer?
Not this summer. I was a bridesmaid last summer, though.

9. Do you have any online “wish lists”?
Amazon.com. Also, I’ve gotten hooked on 43 Things, which is where you list what you want to do with your life.

10. What would you rather be doing right this very second?
Starring in a porno.

On iTunes: John Mellencamp, “Pink Houses”