Caterwauling

I was having my evening conversation in my head during the drive home when I had a revelation that perhaps there is only so much luck and strength to go around in the world. It always seems like we’re sending good wishes, hopes and maybe even prayers (depending on your faith) to someone else who’s in need. And, when things are rocky in your life, others vow to try to send a little bit of their luck your way — if you haven’t already asked them to.

On the other hand, it seems like some people are strong, no matter what. I’ve had that said of me, at times, but that’s because they didn’t see me crumbling from within. And I’m a pretty tough broad, but when you’ve had to be a pillar of strength for your whole life, the inner destruction starts to slowly, but ever so surely, corrode your facade.

I joked when I had my appendix taken out that I’d been internalizing so much rottenness around me that my insides turned poisonous — when the appendix burst, it was like something had to give, literally. Or, to put it crassly, my mom always used to tell me that, if you don’t poop for awhile, it will eventually come out your ears. LOL.

I’ve spent a lot of time trying to find the meaning, the beauty, the reason behind the strife — not just mine, but everyone’s. Worldwide, even. I guess I am uncomfortable without having a reason or, at the very least, an excuse for why things do or don’t happen to us or the people who matter to us. I work very hard at becoming a better person and trying to siphon the wisdom and insight from even the most senseless of tragedies, and it has made me cherish what I do have and maybe even be glad for what I don’t.

How do I say it — you think of the children’s song that goes “Rain, rain go away — come again some other day.” But at some point as I got older, I realized that, if it’s going to rain, then it might as well happen now. And hell, maybe it should just fucking pour already, if that means that even brighter days will lie ahead.

But my attitude has shifted recently — I dig a light rain. It’s a reminder to appreciate the sunny days that preceded it as well as to take special notice of the ones that follow. I guess what I want to say is that it seems like we’ve all taken our turns through hurricane season for the time being — it’s time for some sunshine. Even though, we all know that even sunshine burns if you get too much.

Unfortunately, there will never be a time when everyone is sailing along smoothly at the same time, and that’s why I wonder if there’s only so much love, luck and strength to go around — we each get our turn with it (some more often than others) and/or maybe we get more of one than another throughout the course of our lives.

Fortunately, though that’s why we all have each other — to balance out the elements, because when one of us runs out of what we really need, we find that if we simply just reach out and ask, we can borrow as much as we need to regenerate our own. Which we are happy to share when the day comes that we can help someone back or even someone else who wouldn’t be quite the same without us. Sometimes, the world forgets to turn. But, we can help it along until it finds its axis again.

On iTunes: Breaking Benjamin, “Rain”

Y’all might know that my hypothesis on Lexus vehicles is that they don’t come standard with turn signals. My other hypothesis is that people become braindead when they purchase said vehicle, because I have yet to witness the phenomenon of a Lexus owner driving safely.

To that, our beloved Amy gave me the key to unlock the hell on wheels: It’s a violation of privacy!

Dear Goddess,

Love,
The (Southern) Snarling Marmot

I will have a whole new attitude toward my commute after this. Thanks, Amy!

On iTunes: Jodi Sheeler, “Boston”

*updated*

Today’s entry is brought to you by the letter “E” for excavation. Put an “F” before that “E” because I’ve said the phrase “fuck me” about a dozen times already.

I have been trying to get in touch with my inner bitch peace, and it’s been pretty apparent that my life is chaos when my apartment is chaos. My sanctuary is anything but. So, I’ve started hauling non-functioning lamps and other assorted crap out to the trash bins.

It’s cathartic, really. It’s funny to look at things that I just had to have when I saw them in the store — I have sufficiently gotten my value out of them, having admired them for years. But now, they’re collecting dust. And I’m allergic to dust.

I have a veritable shitload of Garfield memorabilia, and while I love it, I suppose it’s inappropriate in the bedroom of someone about to turn 29+2 next month.

Anyway, I suddenly have an itch to go see a movie or otherwise run the hell away from this avalanche of crap with which I must contend today. The thing is, I buy everything on sale, so I don’t think about feeling guilty about my purchases. That is, until I take inventory and realize just how much shit accumulates over time. That, and I have pretty much every size of clothing ever created (well, no extra-smalls — that’s just wrong! LOL).

Oh, speaking of extra-smalls, I ran out to the mall to do some exchanges. (Because apparently I think I am skinny or something — HAH. People with bulimia and anorexia think they’re fat — not me — I think I will look divine in these micro-minis, which look more like a fucking garter than a skirt — might need to buy a skirt for each leg, in that respect. But, I digress. Tee hee.) Anyway, I saw some emaciated chicks holding up some clothes to themselves, wondering aloud if they should buy them (as they were on sale) and shrink them in the dryer. I swear, I was ready to kick some bony ass — leave the big-girl clothes for the big girls. Go to the children’s section and buy the 6X and some Elmo Underoos, thanks. And, for God’s sakes, EAT SOMETHING!!! (Cake. Try cake. Cake definitely works. Mmmm, cake. …)

Anyway, I’m trying to get my surroundings to be a little more Zen — not in the spiritual or the Feng Shui sense of things but, rather, more to the “just so” mentality. Now, I’m not the type to (really) notice if you move something a hair to the left, but the hacienda is to the point right now that you could run a flamethrower or a Zamboni through it and I stand a chance of not even noticing.

So, if you don’t hear from me again from this time tomorrow, please come over and check my closet — I’ve got boxes of old paperwork on the top shelves and I have a funny feeling that “death by paperwork” might not be a metaphor after all. …

UPDATE
The vacuum cleaner? Fucking DIED. Rest in peace, dude. You’ve picked up your last kitty chunk, although admittedly, it was a frog sock that killed you. Even though I dismantled you (because I was NOT done cleaning!), you still wouldn’t get that last suck in even after I thought I’d made you all bettter. *weep*

Dear Cats: Please don’t shit on the rug until I can get a new vacuum cleaner on May 1, mmmmkay? And for that matter, just don’t shit on the rug. Love, Mommy.

On iTunes: Joss Stone, “Killing Time”

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”