Caterwauling

Throughout the years, I find that my dreams seem to grow smaller in range and scope. I suppose, as reality sets in, I cling to what seems manageable — the smaller victories don’t seem so sweet, but then again, there are more of them. I got out of bed! I got a paycheck! I paid my rent! These were not the goals I set out to have in life.

In reality, though, I’m moving on and moving up. And I know it. Because no matter how bad things get and even the fact that sometimes I have regressed in both living situation and career, as they say in the stock market, I was simply experiencing a mild pullback — a correction to support, if you will — before ascending to new highs.

Accordingly, it looks like I’ve been fortunate enough to regain my momentum and yes, I feel ready to continue the uptrend. But first, I had to leave behind the old trading range.

All right, enough with the metaphors!

Last night, as I left behind my keys and life as I knew it in Alexandria, Va., I realized that what used to be my “dream” apartment is a dream I had actually outgrown and that it will be someone else’s dream to grow into now. I have bigger dreams — and a bigger, nicer pad — to grow into.

In my head: Vonda Shepard, “Neighborhood”

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Because for the first time in Dubya’s presidency, I agree with him on something:

Bush Opposes Singing Anthem in Spanish.

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I’ve lived in my beloved new abode for exactly one week. It hasn’t changed much, as I’ve been pretty tired and busy and not very much in the mood for manic unpacking and arranging, but that’s OK. The mad dash to meet deadline is over. As long as I can keep affording the rent on this joint, I have all the time in the world.

Truism: I have driven to work in one week as many miles as I would put on in an average DAY doing the D.C./Maryland/Virginia trifecta. I’ve used a half-tank of gas, whereas I would normally have used a tank and a half. With gas at $3.16 in my ‘hood (yay D.C.), well, you do the math.

Not to mention: eight hours saved, all told, for being able to sit in moderately light traffic and still make it home within 20 minutes of leaving the office.

What have I been doing with my extra time? Working. Blogging. Sitting on the floor and staring at the TV that’s also on the floor. I never promised I was going to save the world with my extra time.

My only complaint is that I have to make a lot of left turns, and some without traffic lights/green arrows. And that there’s one left where I do get an arrow, and it only lets Two Cars Through. Yes, two. When you’re eighth in line, well, it’s a tad frustrating. But there are alternatives, which I never had before insofar as Highway A had to lead to Highway B so I could get to Highway C.

I might be nuts but … I admit to missing the interstate drive. Not for the near-death experiences or the traffic jams or the ridiculous repetitiousness of it all. But it was a scenic drive, one that allowed me to listen to about 20-25 of my favorite MP3s and allow me to get lost in thought for the better part of the drive. I made a lot of phone calls during that odyssey as well — I knew I had an hour to kill and I sure as hell didn’t feel social when I got home.

For the sake of sentimentality, I took these photos during my last commute from work to my apartment in Virginia. It’s too bad they’re from a camera phone, but it’s OK. They’re of I-395 South, heading out of D.C. toward Alexandria.

These were taken while I was driving at the speed of light, so I apologize for the distortion.

What I don’t miss? Alexandria’s plethora of “No Turn on Red” signs. Bugged the fuck out of me. Actually, the only time those brought me joy were when I had someone behind me who didn’t see the sign and who would scream at me to move. I would sit all serenely and shit and watch them go postal. I had to get my kicks somehow — that always did the trick. Lord knows I had my own meltdowns on the Beltway, so it all evened out!

Rather, I apologize to my new neighbors. And superiors, for that matter.

Had some ASAP-work come in while my hair was still wet and I was wearing all of a pale-pink push-up bra and jeans. No time to close the vertical blinds, so my bad. I apologize to any and all colleagues who I might have spoken to during said crunch time who read this and get squicked out.

(I was asked if I were at home or at work. The appropriate answer was “At home” and not “I’m half-naked and soaking wet and being peered at curiously by people on the sidewalk and BY THE WAY the cats keep rubbing up against my wet skin and you can’t even TELL that I just shaved my legs.” But then that’s TMI and we don’t wish to scare our employers.)

It’s 11 a.m. — I suppose I should go in now and address the shitload of stuff that had to wait in the meantime. Luckily the commute is a breeze, although this is the case for staying home. This “face time” stuff is overrated, as I will now have to lug with me a suit and pantyhose and heels and makeup. Yuck. It’s SO a ponytail day!

I suppose I should go make the acquaintance of my hair dryer now. Not because my hair is still wet but because it needs the life the heat gives it. Speaking of which, my coffee’s cold. Gah. Is it Saturday yet?!?!

I haven’t “Idol”-blogged in awhile. I really haven’t had much to say other than that I’m emotionally involved in each contestant’s performance (except Katharine. She lacks the likability gene in my book) and yet that I can’t be sad when someone goes because that’s the nature of the game and, at this point, there are very few upsets left to experience.

In any event, I think the judges were smoking crack this week, because I didn’t hear what they heard. Other than their original assessment of McPhee, which they retracted last night (gah), my opinion was at the polar opposite end of the spectrum.

And I’m sorry because I love love love Chris Daughtry, but I wasn’t as impressed with his “Have You Ever Really Loved a Woman” as the judges were. I was impressed with him of course because he’s sexy as all hell and his voice incites underwear changes at 9:30 p.m., but enh. I never liked the song and have certainly never known a man who was in love with anyone but himself (or his mother). But hey, if it got him the highest number of votes, then good on him.

My votes went to Taylor Hicks this week. I heard “Just Once” from him, and maybe it’s because it’s a song I grew up on, but day-um. And Elliott? I admit I was riding the “E” train this week, too. There’s something bafflingly wonderful about him — if he didn’t end up a singer, then I’d pit him as a kid who shoots up his high school. Ouch, I know, but I’m glad the genuine artist is emerging, ’cause that boy’s voice is better than all the crap I am hearing on mainstream radio these days.

This week we said goodbye to Kellie. I was surprised — I would’ve booted Paris myself. I think Kellie’s going to go places in this world regardless, but I thought her “Unchained Melody,” while admittedly all over the place, was really a refreshing take on a very tired, overplayed song.

The same article mentions that the finals are on May 25 — this is the third year in a row that the finals are on my birthday. I guess I know what my plans will be THAT night!

Editor’s note: This is the third installment of an occasional series of stuff that’s clogging my mind and I don’t have the ability and/or the balls to direct it to its intended recipient. See here and here for other historical hysteria.

• There are times when you frustrate the living shit out of me. And the only thing that keeps me from bopping you upside the head every time you’ve gotten me completely mystified is the undeniable fact that there is something about you that intrigues me.
• Go. AWAY. Seriously, bye. Do I need to send an engraved thank fuck-you card?
• God, I wish I knew how to read you sometimes. I don’t know how to (re)act so I just don’t at all.
• The amount of time I spend thinking about you is unnatural.
• I suggest you go to the U.S. Patent & Trademark Office and secure “half-assed apology^TM” and “I’m sorry, BUT^TM” for your exclusive, repetitious use. Oh, heh, too late — you already did.
• You would have been so good to me. And I treated you like you didn’t even exist. I feel bad for anything I did (or, more likely, that I didn’t do) that hurt you. I feel even worse that I couldn’t feel anything for you, because I really wanted to.
• I don’t feel safe knowing you’re out there.
• You inspire me.
• I hate you for walking away from me. If you disagreed with the path I was on, for God’s sake, why didn’t you fight harder for me? You told the world you missed me but then you silently walked away from me when I approached you on the street. You taught me my trick of people who’ve exhausted me becoming dead to me. Because I know I’m dead to you. And the feeling is mutual … now. By the by, I’m so glad you’re back in the old hometown again after some time away while I have moved on and am not going back. You can have the memories, and believe me, I know you won’t forget a thing.
• I miss you.

That’s all for this installment. Thanks for listening.