Caterwauling

So, I’ve been reading my “One Month to Live” book. (Sounds remarkably like an old soap I used to love to watch.)

And they said something rather profoundly obvious in that, we all keep shoving our dreams in a box/freezer/back burner/metaphor of choice, and every time we go back to see if they’re still there? They are. They haven’t moved, grown, nurtured, left us or, alas, fulfilled themselves. Go figure.

I say all of this because last week, I talked about running into someone who is better for/with someone else. And yesterday, I have another story about the opposite situation: I ran into someone — or, at least, a doppelganger of someone — and I just wanted to die on the spot because that one wasn’t so easy to give up on.

We were having dinner at Coastal Flats yesterday and, seated at the next table, was someone I swore I know very well. I mean, I was actually offended that he didn’t say hello, which no doubt means that someone in the back of my head clearly has a twin.

I spent dinner staring at him. He was with a girl and honest to God, that’s the perfect diet — I couldn’t eat, breathe, think or even make conversation with my dinner companion. (Sorry, honey, I’m staring at the guy over your shoulder. Cheers!)

And he kept staring back, and I was all sorts of fucked up inside. Was it who I thought it was, or was he wondering who this crazy woman is who has gone all Mennonite on his ass? (I’m told they like to stare.)

I swear, I spent a half-hour convincing myself it wasn’t the person who I put in that proverbial box, on that proverbial shelf, in the back of that proverbial freezer. That he’d never wear a hat during dinner. That he has better taste in bling. That he would never order a bottle of Zinfandel for the table. Oh yeah, I didn’t miss a thing.

OK, the short story is that I thought I put the feelers out there. I felt the feelers be avoided/stomped on/ripped out of their sockets. And I said OK, fine. I get it. Doesn’t take a brick wall falling on me to get the hint. What-evah.

But like I said earlier, sometimes you look in that box and it’s like, whoa, what’s that still doing in there? Didn’t I get busy with my life and move along and put this behind me? Why’s it still there and what do I have to do to get rid of it?

Oh yeah, that’s right. I keep leaving it in there. I guess it’s my spiritual hope chest after all.

Humph.

I was absolutely rattled. I mean, I went from running into someone last week and being happy for him, and then this week I see someone else (or, at least, someone with whom they were clearly separated at birth) and I just wanted to stab my temple with a salad fork at the thought of someone else being in “my” place.

If I had one month to live, what would I do?

Probably the same thing, just walk away … but not without looking over my shoulder and wondering why this dream, no matter how much I refuse to entertain it (and I oftentimes succeed), can’t seem to go away. …

Scratch, originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn.

Took the poop monsters to the vet today. Maddie has slimmed down to a little over 10 pounds (down from 18 three years ago!) and Kadie is up to 10. That’s a whole lotta angry pussy to drag around town!

I have the scratches and the empty bank account to prove that I went today. *sigh* $300 for shots, exams and a “geriatric workup” for Maddie, who turned 12 years old last week. And, sadly, I forgot her birthday till I was forced to remember it for paperwork today.

Years ago, I took Maddie to the vet (pre-Kadie) and some little girl looked at her in the cage and asked me, “Izzat a dawwwgggg?” And I was like, how the hell do you figure a cat is a dog?

Fast-forward a good 10 years here, and as I dragged my little fudge muffins from the clinic, a family with four little girls stopped to look at what I was carrying. And, hand to God, one of the little girls asked me about Kadie, “Izzat a puppy doggy?” I said nope, it’s a kitty, take a look. And she was so cute — she said, “I’m very sorry I thought it was a puppy!”

Hell, I was ready to put down the cats and adopt HER!

Speaking of cuteness, this is Scratch in the photo — he’s the official mascot of my veterinarian’s office. My kitties had just gotten their shots and Kadie — who hissed and howled the whole time — was back in her cage. Meanwhile, Maddie was scooped up for some extra tests and it was the one time she wasn’t with me.

Scratch wandered in to say hello to me, and as I petted him, Kadie started having a huge hissy fit in her cage. Scratch went over to the cage to say hello — he’s very docile and quiet, but totally unfazed by Angry Kitteh.

In fact, to get some peace, Scratch found the opening in Maddie’s carrier and got comfortable inside of it.

I thought Kadie was going to go into convulsions over it, so I gently asked Scratch to evict the space, and he did.

The next vet visit for me will be to get Maddie’s test results (why oh WHY does she miss the litterbox by three rooms?) and the visit after that will be to get her furry ass shaved, as she’s a matted mess. (Poor baby.)

You know, the point of this visit was to find a way to put a stop to shit landmines. But after all the trauma my girls endured today, does anyone really think they’re NOT going to pay me back for this epic voyage?!?!

This is the only possible way I can spin this clusterfuck of a day.

Gemini horoscope:

You might feel as if you are juggling ten plates at once, dawn. Hopefully, you have everything under control because about five more are going to be tossed your way. To make it even more fun, you’ll be asked to stand on just one foot. Challenges present themselves when you are ready to handle them. Be flattered when someone offers to toss you yet another plate. This shows that people are confident in your abilities.

Failing that? Film at 11. …

El Happy Hour, originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn.

I am too busy to know whether to scratch my watch or wind my butt, to quote the awesome Dolly Parton in her “Steel Magnolias” role.

I did, however, get out to happy hour on Tuesday, and the world didn’t end. (But I missed a few deadlines.) But it was to celebrate a lovely colleague’s departure — and it also involved hanging out with some of my favorite partners in crime — so work could wait.

We went to Chevy’s, which has the WORST POSSIBLE SERVICE EVAH. Happy hour ends at 7; I ordered my first drink at 6:45 and got it at 7:10. So much for half-price margaritas. *kick*

We were all laughing at the sign for “El Happy Hour.” Because would the article be “la” or something (I didn’t take Spanish — I had no idea that having perfect English grammar/diction doesn’t mean SHIT in D.C.). Like, they couldn’t find SOMEONE within five feet of the restaurant to translate?

I’ll translate for you — “Service as slow as a tortuga.” *slap* Although, the margaritas were actually worth the 30-minute wait. …

The ratio of friends leaving town versus moving back to the city is at 2-to-1 on a good day — more like 5-to-1 or some equally heinous ratio. I got word that one friend is thinking about coming back, and then I learn that we’re losing another two to four in the next month or so.

Humph.

I was speaking with one of my lovelies, who lamented the fact that it’s just downright impossible to meet a good man in good ole D.C. I had read an article on Forbes.com that listed our fair capital city as one of the most lustful in the country based on condom purchases, but that speaks more to getting screwed than making love, IMHO. (I hear there’s a difference.)

Anywho, my friend said it’s disheartening — to be part of an amazing circle of beautiful, intelligent, educated and outgoing women who have no luck whatsoever in the dating game. And that it’s a gaggle of eligible women who are either settling or going without finding even so much as an imperfect mate, she rationalizes that it’s the city — NOT the women — that has something wrong with it.

I couldn’t agree more.

I say this because I was at the ballpark the other day — a natural habitat of the ever-elusive male species. I’m no dummy — I don’t expect to meet ‘em at shoe stores or chick flicks. Nah, I’ve learned that an appreciation of sports and even having a favorite team or two can go a long way.

Anyway, I ran into someone I had a couple of dates with toward the end of last year — nothing exotic. I mean, nice guy but nothing clicked. It happens … er, rather, sometimes nothing happens and it’s cool. Sure, you go through that phase of “Is it me? Why doesn’t he like me?” until you realize that “Hey, wait a minute. I wasn’t into HIM, either!”

Or maybe you knew you weren’t into him but you were also willing to hang in there and see what transpired because — again — see “no eligible men in D.C.”

Standards? What standards? Oh, right, those things I’ve started tripping on. *headslam*

Anyway, I met the latest (I’m sure) replacement. It was nice to see him and slightly horrifying to meet the new girl and to act like I was never a girl who came before her. (Heh. I made a funny.) I am content being a “friend from a past life.”

No need to make anyone uncomfortable — besides, women will presume that other women in their male companions’ lives were either bedded or he WANTED to get down and dirty with them. And while I’ve had/have platonic male friends, well, desperate times plus desperate people blah blah blah you know where that all goes.

But I had one of those oddly triumphant moments in which I realized that those two? Are a perfect couple. Really. I say it as a compliment but maybe it’s a backhanded one. (And it’s just between you and me, Internet. And you’re not going to tell anybody, right?)

I had struggled to figure out why he didn’t seem to be all that into me — despite my having a lack of interest in him — for that very reason. This wasn’t George Clooney or Brad Pitt (not that they’re my type, but I digress because I’m hardly starstruck by anyone) or anything like that.

It’s not that I WANTED him to like me, but — and I mean this as nicely as possible — I was clearly out of his league. He was obviously into New Chick, and from her absolute, uh, non-descriptness, I say if that’s what floats your boat, then no wonder two or three dates with me didn’t turn into anything else.

Seeing them together at the ballpark reminded me of a simple phrase: pot: meet lid.

And it was an important lesson for me, one that I shared with my delightful-yet-disillusioned friend: We are better than what we get.

Or, more accurately when it comes to the men my friends and I are meeting: Calphalon, meet dollar-store cookware. Not only do these lines not complement each other together aesthetically, but they don’t function together very well.

I shared this theory with a male friend, too, and I think a lot of us are on this same sinking ship:

Most of us have big personalities. We are the PRESENCE in the room. We are dynamic, well-versed, confident, successful and downright magnanimous. And to some extent, we already expect that we will be the bigger personality in the relationship.

But …

Are the people we’re seeking out/dating simply lackluster in comparison to us, or are they simply, well, just lackluster?

My friend is contemplating going back to a city where she had no trouble picking up men. But what about me — I had no trouble in my motherland, but I’m in the city I want to be in. I have no concrete plans to draw up anchor and start sailing away in the next couple of years.

Why do I have to choose between a city with excellent dating prospects and a city with excellent career opportunities? Why can’t I find both in the same/neighboring zip codes?

One of my guy friends joked that he’s lowered his standards substantially, and he hopes to meet a woman with equally lowered standards, so they can date either happily ever after or at least until they want to kill each other.

And in that, is the perfect summation of “Dating in D.C.” Here’s to hoping that whomever gets elected brings some awesomely hot fresh meat blood to town to shake up the dating pool a bit. That’s always the good news — 9 times out of 10, the people you dated leave and you never have to see them again.

Too bad, though, that the nature of this town also sends the GOOD people on their way to less-expensive, lower-velocity, higher-dating-pool-quality areas, too. *sigh* Good luck to all my lovely lady friends who are seeking the important things in life elsewhere.

And better luck to the rest of us who are going to continue looking for that proverbial needle in the haystack while sorting through all the other pricks in the process. …