Caterwauling

I don’t get lots of comments around here, but when I get folks contacting me in person to learn more about the story behind an entry, I am only too happy to oblige.

Yesterday, I told you about Scumby, the poster child for abstinence.

*pauses to thank God that Mom doesn’t read this page, or she’d kick my ass* Mikey, don’t tell Wobin or I’ll kick YOUR ass!

During the trip from hell that I descibed, let me mention that Scumby had sold the trip as “a week at my cabin in the woods. And we will go boating!”

OK, right on. Although I was mortified when he pulled up in his beat-up, rusty tomato-red van (my grandmother called it the “Tin Can”) with a camouflage-painted canoe attached to a hitch. A CANOE!!! The hell? No boat? No motor? No little fridge full of refreshments for a hot summer’s day?

And, as I mentioned earlier, NO CABIN. A tiny trailer clinging to shaky ground was more accurate. And no hot water. Cheap bastard. Never felt so icky in my entire life. Hello Matt Foley!

Oh, but wait — there’s more.

Like no seats in the VAN.

Oh, the humanity.

Now, I am a prissy girl. Don’t get me wrong — I drink and swear like the boys and, thus, have always had a harem of straight male friends because they liked my low bullshit tolerance and my appreciation of swinging brews, throwing darts and watching football, even if I don’t understand a minute of it but what girl can’t appreciate hot asses in tight pants?

Where was I?

Oh, OK. Priss. Anyway, I like girly things. I appreciate what makes me different from my beloved boys and do my best to appreciate those parts of me and enhance them in any way I can.

Suffice to say, I was expected to flop out on the van floor for the ride. HAH! We ended up buying a bean bag chair for me on the way, and lemme tell you, if I ever end up with a guy with one of those chairs, I will set fire to it. And then kill him for good measure.

I tell you all of this to set the stage for the return trip. Mom was forced to drive the Tin Can twice, with equally abysmal results. First, she had to back the hitch into the water to get the boat canoe (no, we never got into it!) and it’s HARD to judge a piece of shit without sideview mirrors, so she almost annhilated the Scumbalicious one himself because she couldn’t SEE him. Oh, he was hopping mad — I was entertaned.

Let me explain something about Scumby — he was a skinny (ugh — we like big boys, thanks — what was she thinking?!?!) and tall thing who let his beard grow scraggly. I think it weighed more than he did. And remember I told you how he fell in the pond and decided to rot in his own filth? Well, the irony is that he LOVED to wear ballcaps — in particular, an orange cap advertising Surf detergent. So, I turned around to see this orange-cap-with-a-beard literally hopping up and down in the water, swearing. Drunken asshole.

Anyway, once we made the pilgrimage home (and I was completely seasick — I get carsick in backseats, oftentimes, and I get carsick when I’m the one driving, too. And shut up, it’s from the truck exhaust and not from my driving, thankyouverymuch), the adventure wasn’t ready to end.

Mom had to drop Scumby off somewhere (probably at the bar — that two-hour drive must’ve killed him). Although he did enjoy tormenting me by playing Tanya Tucker cassettes and cracking the same joke 40 times: “Tanya Tucker — I’d love to fuck her!”

Oh, you clever rhyming bastard you. Die.

All right, so Mom and I took the Tin Can on the highway. We were chugging along the interstate when …

… oh this is too fucking funny …

… the front seats collapsed!!!

ROFLMFAO

I shit you not, the seats came loose (they were probably lodged in place with chewing gum in the first place — I swear it wasn’t our asses that did it!) and I went SAILING into the murky depths of the Tin Can.

Mom is a goddamned miracle worker — she always has been and remains my heroine. I don’t know HOW she did it, but she clung to the steering wheel and managed to drive STANDING UP while I found the seats and tried to push them back into place.

We got to our destination as safely as humanly possible, and I called my grandfather to come pick us up.

And thus ended the Summer of Scumby.

On iTunes: Emiliana Torrini, “Ruby Tuesday”

Tom Cruise kills Oprah.

I want to kill Oprah myself for starting the TomKat phenomenon.

On iTunes: Better Than Ezra, “Lifetime”

Friday Five. And I’m feelin’ chatty this morning.

The 4th of July is coming up, what plans, if any, do you have?
Dare I travel to see the family during holiday-weekend hell? I’m sure they’d love it, but lemme tell you how SICK I am of sitting in traffic right about now. I got home ONCE this week before 8 p.m. ONCE!!! I dunno — anybody wanna adopt me for a cookout? ‘Cause I’m too lazy to do one this year. I might just toil around town and make fun of the tourons — I’ve been wanting to hit the Visual Music exhibit.

What are you looking forward to doing most before the summer ends?
Let me dream and think about what if I had enough free time — I promised myself that I’d try to drive up to Baltimore and hang out and even try to go to some of the beach communities around here. I’d love to go to Virginia Beach again — haven’t been there since I was 6 years old. But I need a road trip partner — any good conversationalists out there who want to be my co-pilot (requirements: must have a death wish. I drive FAST). Anyone want to travel with, or maybe even host, a gal on an expedition?

On iTunes: Bo Bice, “Freebird”

Things I’d really, really love to say but for some reason cannot.

Idea swiped from Swirl and Lach.

Thank you for giving me back my most cherished possession that I lost for a long, long while — me. You breathed life into me — into my belief in humanity and in the universe working as it should. And I’m writing again, here and there. It’s a start. You have no idea, but you saved me, and I am grateful that we were able to cross paths in this lifetime.

On iTunes: Lori Carson, “Snow Come Down”

However, when I am not quite sure whether I should actually TELL the stories, you get tunage, like a nice Thunderpuss club mix.

And if you’re going to face the day with one eye open, then choose it very, very carefully.

It’s a big one (file, you fools)!

Don’t worry — the song’s instrumental so it’s quite SFW. Just don’t stream your playlist, mmmkay? LOL

This is your brain after a 2.5-hour commute.

Ah, the punditry that happens when you’re confined to a small space with yourself. The problem is, I don’t even remember any of it.

But I was thinking about how much effort I expended to get ready to go out Saturday night. I mean, I do a LOT of crap — not just then, really, but every day.

The amount of personal-care products used within a half-hour? Mind-boggling:

And that’s enough of the products. That doesn’t include grabbing scissors and hacking off an inch worth of split ends, plucking eyebrows, trying on four outfits, running around the house with one shoe because the other cannot be found, etc.

Don’t get me wrong — I love every minute of it and I’ve just described a typical morning routine in general. It would be nice, though, if when you go through all the effort, it would be met with a similar standard of excellence. It’s amazing how, when it’s time to impress, so many people think they can skip that valuable step.

Of course, like I figured, it’s better than getting to know someone and then they turn out to be a dud after you’ve invested even more energy — might as well figure it out up-front and conserve your energy for the classy people and events that you deserve.

On iTunes: Britney Spears, “Don’t Let Me Be the Last to Know”

Friday Five. Shut up, I know it’s Sunday.

Do you make your bed everyday?
Really, I am just using a sheet right now, so it’s not that hard to straighten up and make the little haven look presentable. I like getting into a tidy bed at the end of the night.

On iTunes: Zero 7, “Home”

And who doesn’t love a drunken Dawn?

This is moment No. 3,648 (this week) that I’ve wished to be private-blogging again. Because there was a date tonight and I want to dish.

Let me put it this way — it’s less a dish than wanting to hurl the fucking plate off the top of the Grand Canyon.

Oh, fuck it — I’ve been out drinking for hours. All bets are off tonight!

Apparently “8 p.m.” and “date” mean different things to different people. And if this just means that I’m another step closer to meeting Mr. Right, well then, let’s keep rocking.

Seriously, nice guy, but I am apparently a horrible judge of age. This made the Tom Cruise/Katie Holmes mindfuck seem like a couple of weeks’ age difference.

Dear God, for the love of — well, you — help a girl out here next time, mmmkay?

Earlier tonight, I had written on a scrap of paper tonight that, “If he’s a good guy, please let me like him.”

That was before I took my own happy ass out on a date with ME instead of wasting my night.

Fast-forward to the bar, where I went to ALONE. I’d left the scene and decided I was way too cute to sit home tonight (or to wait for the follow-up call that came).

Seriously, no night wearing scandalous underwear is a waste of a night, and thus, I wasn’t about to take them home when they just weren’t yet ready to retire. Damn it, SOMEBODY was gonna take me out, even if it had to be ME!!!!!

So I ended up at Bennigan’s — where, as those of you who have been with me since Caterwauling know, Shan and I LIVED when she was still on the East Coast. So I needed comfort, familiarity, friendliness tonight, and I knew where to find it.

I was not disappointed. Slainte, people.

So, OK, met this HOT guy named Tony. No numbers exchanged, but lots of hugs. I still smell like his cologne, whatever it was. And he bought me some Hennessy — amazing how good a “non-date” can be to a lonely gal. At least he had balls enough to approach — most other guys were losing their eyeballs in my cleavage, but nobody else was brave enough to say hello.

Actually, in great news, I made a friend tonight — Michelle. She asked if the seat next to me were taken, and we proceeded to talk for hours. And it didn’t feel the slightest bit strange, exchanging intensely personal life stories and dreams like it were nothing. Again, that’s why I love Benny’s — it’s that place where everybody DOES know your name … and the drinks keep flowing. And she’s a regular, like I used to be. I foresee lots of drunken nights ahead — w00t!

Oh, and OF COURSE I had to include Shan in the imbibing — we were text-messaging across the miles. If only she were here in person, it woulda been perfect.

Anyway, I know that I am going to have the hangover from HELL in the morning, but I am one buzzy bee right now. *grin*

On iTunes: Ludacris, “What’s Your Fantasy”