Caterwauling

My brain is toast. Sludge. Soup. And yet, I persevere.

Had to give up the ‘puter for well over an hour today. All the morning’s momentum is lost in a sea of algae and I’m swimming upstream.

And it’s a long swim home from here, since I lost two hours’ worth of work time and it’s going to take four hours to get my brain back into gear.

So, anyway.

At some point yesterday, I’d asked the universe for a sign.

So, within the next three minutes:

1. A Bon Jovi song (”Livin’ on a Prayer”) came on the radio.

2. I knocked over my coffee cup and damaged half of the stack of business cards I had pulled out to take on an upcoming trip.

3. A friend I never see came upstairs for a visit.

Now, I can attest to the fact that the universe does answer when you ask. The only problem I have now is, “WTF were these things a sign of?”

Other than the fact that I have GOT to stop ending my sentences with prepositional phrases, that is.

There are about a half-dozen times in a day when I think, “There’s a blog idea!” But, alas, something always crops up and the idea is lost forever. Probably just as well.

I have to go yell at my apartment-complex office monkeys on Saturday. I also realized that by tomorrow, I have to tell them whether or not I’m renewing the lease. Actually, if I have to give 60 days’ notice, then I should have done it three days ago. Le sigh.

I mean, it’s not like I’ve inherited a pot of gold. Nor has her royal roommateness gotten off her tuffet and given me my life back. I know exactly where I would live, if I could move.

Dreaming out loud here, I have two places in mind — a swank little 1BR plus loft in a chi-chi area, or a sensible 2BR (with two baths this time. I can’t share anymore. Bad enough I have to fucking share everything else) in an OK area. (Or, Option No. 3, stay here. *hork*)

And in case anyone missed the memo, I fucking loathe the suburbs. Am city girl. And, by golly, if these are the best years of my life before I buy the minivan and shuffle it to soccer games, then God damn it, give me my city living.

I had a long talk with a good friend the other day, in which it became immediately apparent just why I become violently ill at the thought of never getting my mommy out of the house.

1. Birth to age 3, lived in a two-bedroom rowhouse. Yes, the projects. I shared a room with my mom and my grandfather. My great-grandmother had the next room. My grandmother had the couch. My cousin and her daughter stayed with us for a while during this period. I believe this was my onset of claustrophobia.

2. Age 3 to 10. Lived in an apartment with mom and abusive, drunken stepfather. I was often locked in my room while he had violent, drunken tantrums. Lots of property damage. And what’s funny is I remember the landlord looking at me and saying, “She’d better not upset the apple cart.” It was a weird phrase that stuck with me. Who, ME be loud? I wasn’t the one who bounced the thanksgiving turkey off the wall while still in the pan. Oh NO, I sat in my room quiet all day so as not to bother anyone (read: him).

Age 7 to 10, grandparents rented very nice house on very nice street. I had my own bedroom! With a canopy! And a Mickey Mouse phone that worked! And a Barbie Dream House! I LOVED going there on the weekends. Neighborhood girls were whores, though. Hated ‘em all. Preferred to play alone in the backyard — my first and only one.

3. Age 10 to 13. Shared a bedroom with mom. By this time my grandparents had gotten a duplex near my school. Grandfather had a room. Great-grandmother in hospital bed in dining room. Grandmother on couch. Dysfunction much?

4. Age 13 to 18. Moved again. Every house they rented, we got kicked out of as they were sold and the new owners wanted to live in them. Nice little house. I kicked and screamed to have my own room. Needed a quiet place for homework and to write my books. And my family? Nebshits. Always in my business.

Got my own room. Grandfather had one of his own, as did great-grandmother. Mom and grandmother shared the living room. When my great-grandmother died, they moved into her room and shared the bed.

5. Age 18-22. Moved the fuck out. Mom took my room. Grandmother got sick. Hospital bed in living room. On my own, went through various roommates till I was 26, and again from age 28-29. Great people (most of ‘em), but nothing makes me want to smother someone more than having them in my personal space. Even if they’ve done nothing but breathe the same air. Clearly, I have issues. But can you blame me?

6. Age 22-31. They got kicked out of that house. Moved to “The Ghetto,” as I called it. Dilapidated townhouse. Next-door neighbor was bona fide crack whore. Mom and grandfather had the bedrooms; grandmother in hospital bed in the living room. When I stayed over, slept on my friend’s couch that I’d bought from her for $80 so I could have a place to rest.

Amid all this, my grandmother died. So I kept bringing boxes from my various moves so that they’d be inspired to leave for greener pastures. But the boxes were piled to the ceiling. I bought them a new TV, which made them line up the boxes on the other wall. That TV was put on top of the non-working TV. (In Pennsylvania, this should go without saying.)

7. Age 31-32, mom and grandfather moved to cute 3BR rental house. Clean, pretty, no boxes. Lived there nearly one year till my grandfather was murdered by the incompetents at Veterans Hospital.

8. Age 32. Mom held on to the house for a couple of months. Met derelict boyfriend; he moved in. He moved out and took her stuff (and eventually her) with him to ugly little carriage house in neighboring town. I had JUST moved into brand new shiny 1BR near work that I loved. Canceled THAT lease real fast due to impending inheritance of said maternal unit.

9. Age 32. Derelict boyfriend dropped her on my doorstep. And kept her stuff. And moved back in with his ex-wife. Whom he hadn’t actually divorced. Who is now enjoying all her stuff.

10. Age 32-34. Living in OK but certainly not spectacular 2BR. Everything breaks. Repeatedly. 1,068 square feet too small. Boxes stacked up to the ceiling in all rooms. Just like The Ghetto. I still have nightmares of that place, then I wake up to realize that EVERYTHING I RAN AWAY FROM, HAS FOLLOWED ME.

11. Age 34-?. How does the song lyric go, “We’ve gotta get out of this place, if it’s the last thing we ever do. …” I don’t want to move because I have to take her with me. And I can’t afford anything better. And yep, it’s all on my shoulders. And it’s hard to run away from your problems when you’re under obligation to cart 175 pounds of baggage wherever you go.

Wow, this was surprisingly therapeutic. Didn’t solve anything, but after I told my friend about all the uncomfortable living conditions — that I’ve tried SO HARD to overcome — it gave her a real insight into me and how I keep everyone at arm’s length because IT’S THE ONLY FUCKING SPACE I CAN POSSIBLY GET.

I am more successful than anyone in my family, but when am I going to be old enough to fly the nest without them coming to crap on my twigs of my very own?

I think it explains a lot about me that I hate noise. Chatter makes me nuts. Unless I’m the ringleader, of course. I work in silence, I come home and don’t speak. I don’t talk on the phone anymore. I don’t really talk online if I don’t have to. I like small, intimate in-person groups of friends, both at work and outside of it.

And it’s funny because I found myself walking in on chaos recently. Creativity was bubbling over in a brainstorming session. I got pulled in … sucked in. And I was outright exhausted when I left. I was out of ideas. Out of energy. Out of my mind with having spoken more words in one hour than I had in the entire previous day.

And, in retrospect, I rather liked it. I was challenged. I was out of my comfort zone. I was pushed to perform on command. And I did.

I never envied people with big families. A guy friend of mine always said he’d love to find a “nice orphan girl” so he wouldn’t have to deal with any crazy in-laws. (O HAI, didja notice me over here? One family member to my name, at least, till I smother her with a pillow.)

I liked my peace and quiet. I still do and always will. But damn, to have someone else sibling-like in nature who could share the burden? I would give ANYTHING to not have the weight of the world on my thighs AND on my shoulders, even if just for half of the year.

Oh well. Keep dreaming. I keep reminding myself that God has done this for a reason … well, a reason OTHER than torturing me for all those years I spent as an atheist witch. …

Overheard on colleague’s speakerphone:

Colleague’s spouse: “What time will you guys be done with today’s projects?”

Colleague: “Springtime.”

I know we’re all familiar with “The Bucket List” and how those things work.

If you’ve hung out in the blogiverse with my friends and me throughout the years, we often referred to the “Fuck it Bucket”, which basically purports giving up on whatever’s troubling you and eating candy to feel better.

Today I’m coining the phrase “Fuck it Bucket List.” Because I have one. And that is what I call it.

I have a little notebook, with one full page so far, filled with Shit I Needs to Do. Sooner rather than later. While I still have the opportunity.

I’m not talking about bungee jumping or having sex with a horse or anything like that. I mean, hell, “Eat at Ray’s (Steaks AND Hellburger)” and “Attend a Wine Cruise” are probably the most-interesting things I’ve written to date.

I guess I just realized that time is so short, y’know? I was looking at an event that takes place on Friday night at 6:15. And I immediately scoffed and thought, “Yeah, not unless I have the day off.”

And I want a dining room set (I gave away my dining-room-table fund last summer). But I’m tired of thinking, “Pfft. Maybe when I have the money again. And preferably in a different apartment. Whenever that may be.”

So, fuck it — “get a goddamned dining room set already” is on the list right after “get a new goddamned apartment!”

There are other things — get new glasses (since I JUST BROKE MINE), get a wine rack, stock up on that tasteless flaxseed oatmeal at Trader Joe’s because it’s Weight Watchers-friendly and tastes SO GOOD when spiced up, shop for computer monitors, etc.

Nothing exciting, by any means. Except for that “Passport, then Paris” note. One of these days, y’know?

Anyway, what I’m trying to do is to “love the one I’m with.” No, not the roomie — that ship has sailed. But to acknowledge that I could be much happier if I didn’t have this list of regrets that I would carry if I didn’t do these things.

I was talking to a friend recently about regrets. She has none. I admitted I would have one. I probably shouldn’t have admitted it at all. And in the long run, I’m absolutely fine with things not happening for a reason. But stuff like not being able to go on a spur-of-the-moment / awesome-price-deal cruise because I don’t have a passport? Unforgivable.

I mean, what if during one of my world adventures, I meet the love of my life or find someone willing to pay me to never return to D.C.? Have I seen all the branches of the Smithsonian that I’ve “meant to” get around to visiting? Did I see my friends enough? (We all know the answer to that one.) Did I leave it in better shape than when I found it?

Etcetera.

That’s why it’s a “fuck it” bucket. I’m reaching my hand in and pulling out what’s going to satisfy me. To you, it’s a Reese’s cup. But to me, it’s a Godiva truffle. And I am gonna suck the filling out of that bitch and savor every second of it. …

Sand lion

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

Yesterday, I cleaned the snow off the car at 7 a.m. I re-emerged after 8 a.m. only to find my work was all for nothing. Cleaned it off again.

Had to run to the post office. Well, “run” is overstating the issue, as it was more like “skidded.” I was pulling out of my apartment complex and as I went down the hill that would put me on the interstate, I braked. But then they started popping and stopped working, so whee I went for a spin. The good news was that the normally insane stretch of road was unnaturally quiet at that moment.

I spent five, maybe 10 minutes inside the post office, where the whore charged me 42 cents to mail a postcard. (Of course, all my vacation postcards bear a D.C. postmark — why do you ask?) I asked why and she said it’s “oversized.” I said, “What other size is there?” *smack* A friend later in the day said he thought I was going to go postal, and I made everyone crack up when I said, “Let me tell you something about THOSE whores. …”

Anyway, I had to clean off my car AGAIN at the post office.

I got to work, where of course the car sat in the same spot for more than eight hours. I tell ya, I envied those who get to go to lunch, because at least they didn’t come out to two inches of packed snow when they left for the night. Yeesh.

I went out, as I am apt to do on Tuesdays, but I had given up on my “Tuesdays with Goddess” nights since I inherited this exhausting new project that is easy (for me. Not for a rational, normal human being, no doubt) but it’s rather time-consuming. But alas, I was told that I needed to surrender my computer to the IT gods because, as they put it, “You never stop working.” Apparently the fix I need takes an hour and that everyone else in the building, save for another workaholic friend, had already been serviced.

I busted my booty to get done at what I would determine a reasonable hour. But alas, the ‘puter update got moved to today. The only thing that kept me from going postal was that, even though I was about to gnaw off my own arm from the stress, I finally made it to my Tuesday night “thing” after several weeks away.

So after my “thing,” during which the fucking sleet started, guess who was chipping ice off her windows? And all night as I slept, I kept hearing the ding of text messages from AlertDC about all the street and school closings.

I can’t bring myself to look at my car, since there will be one more ice sculpture in progress. I feel like Edward Scissorhands when he was carving the block of ice and making it “snow” over the town.

That’s why I’m posting the photo of the sand lion I saw at the beach. Apparently there’s a guy who gets up at the crack o’ moi each day and does these very elaborate masterpieces. Just for fun.

Here’s a shot of the lion, a rhino and the tip of a tail all the way at the bottom of the shot. Neat stuff.

All right, enough whining. For all intents and purposes, Mother Nature’s tampon being full of TNT aside, it’s been a good week. Kicking ass, taking names, playing project whack-a-mole. People who are not normally the type I would describe as “cooperative” are downright helpful. Mountains have become molehills, to some degree.

Can has Mercury in Retrograde? Can has! And for once, I’m not complaining about it!

Toes

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

O HAI, this was me, baking in the sun at the hotel pool yesterday after taking a nice long walk on the beach along the ocean.

Today, I am back in my cubicle with my back to the window, where it is snowing outside. Capital Weather says there could be a snow’ice storm through Wednesday. Mmm, joy.

I got an e-mail that the next National Blog Posting Month theme is “Want.” (It’s for February if anyone’s doing the daily theme posting.) I know I’m starting the theme a week early, but I want to have my toes back in a pool in the sun.

The neat thing about vacationing in sunnier climes is that people are so flippin’ nice. Except those who think that anorexic is the new black, because they don’t have the energy to try to smile past the Botox. But when you get to the airport, you’re back with all the rude a-holes from your city who are going to be on your plane back home.

What’s really fun about being a grown-up, since there’s so precious little these days that seems like a privilege to have achieved that status, is that we used to pile a ton of us into a hotel room to travel as cheaply as possible.

Now, when you travel with a buddy, you not only fly in from different cities, but you also get your own rooms. THAT is living, my friends. And if you’re lucky, as I was, you can hear your friend talking on their cell phone, three floors down, as they stand on their balcony while you’re catching the rays on your own.

Well, I got nuttin’ else to say today. Just hoping for a good week and that I can actually get my Tuesday nights back since I haven’t made it to Weight Watchers in quite some time. Of course, after all the eating I did during the past four days, this might be a good week to NOT kill myself to get across town to hop on the scale. …

Today’s Gemini horoscope, courtesy of Astrocenter.com:

Your fantasies could come true at this time, especially when it comes to relationships, Goddess. This could be the moment that you have always dreamed about, so get ready. … Remind yourself that all dreams can come true on a day like today.

Exciting stuff, I tell ya. And at a time when I’ve been saying that anything remotely resembling a love interest will do a lot in determining, well, everything right now, I wonder if the universe is throwing me a bone(r).

Speaking of things a girl dreams about (I meant love, not the boner. Keep it in your pants, people, and wash your hands before you touch your keyboard, K?), I am doing the Dick Cheney thing and will soon board a flight to an undisclosed location. One where the weather is about four times warmer than it is here in ol’ D.C.

I actually didn’t have to be awake at 3 a.m., but since a cat locked herself in a closet and I’ve been listening to her beat on the door (I thought she was outside of it) for the past hour, I’m up way earlier than planned.

Oh well. Sleep is overrated, yes? I’ll catch up on my Zs next week. Maybe. Till then, I hear there’s sand, sun and water in my future. And wine. What more could a girl need in life?

A lot more. But we’ll deal with that another day.

*goes poof*

“Have you ever thrown a fistful of glitter in the air?
Have you ever looked fear in the face
And said I just don’t care?”

– Pink, “Glitter in the Air“