Caterwauling

Wednesday can lick me where I pee, too.

Electric shut off at my apartment till tomorrow, pending past-due payment of $750 for the last two months. Who would have thought about putting the electric bill in my name and that it would have cost that much?

Oh yeah, and don’t I have to pay two rents tomorrow, too?

God, please stop laughing at me. I give up, Dude!

Tuesday is not only so very fired, but I’m emasculating that bastard with one swift steel-toed shit-kicker swat to the balls. Die in a fire, Tuesday.

I found a rhinestone in my belly button midday. Turns out that someone had her gutchies on inside-out. Joy.

Actually finished working at a reasonable hour. (Ask me how I define reasonable. Wait, don’t. It’s all relative, anyway.) Went back to the old apartment one last time because Mom wanted to go to the pool. I thought I’d be nice. But all she did was talk. And talk. And talk. I was so very over it.

Took my last load of crap to the dumpster. Also took my brand-new vacuum cleaner and was banging the filter off the sides of the dumpster. Had my laptop and all kinds of other shit on my shoulder so I was barely balanced.

I was just contemplating the $80 curtain rod I was throwing away — never used — when the filter broke free from the lid and went inside.

The dumpster was empty save for the metric ass-load of dust I’d just deposited in there. (Old cat hair. The last remnants of Maddie, save for her faded shit streaks on the carpet. *sniff*)

And guess who went in after it? Just guess. I have dirt and dust in every crevice of my being, and I smell like someone else’s unwashed ass. *squick*

I stopped at a fast-food place to get dinner for Mom and me. (Between her rent, bills, allowance and meals, I have so precious little left over for myself. Why oh WHY did I think that was a good idea?) I did have antibacterial wipes in the armrest, so I gave myself a good ‘ho bath before shoveling in my very naughty, tasty dinner on the highway.

I was just lighting up a post-heart-attack smoke when I saw a cop with flashing lights at an intersection. I realized that the power was out in that part of town and he was at a non-functioning light. Genius went from 60 (in a 40) to a dead stop in the intersection.

I started up again and that cop tailed my ass for two miles. Whoops.

The way I figured, I just hauled my pudgy pork roast ass out of a dumpster. A moving violation seemed so trivial in comparison.

He ended up doing a fast U-turn and went back under the rock from whence he came. And I lit up another cigarette. Because, really. Wouldn’t you?

I do have one more story, but it’s kind of TMI. But then again, this IS me we’re talking about here.

So, OK, after my half-assed, hurried swim, I got dressed. In a hurry. So I just got home and put on mah jammies and noticed that I must have turned my gutchies around to be on the proper way. Problem is, since I take Midol 30 days out of the month because I’m a raving bitch, I don’t know when the fuck my cycle should be. So I usually do the pre-emptive pantyliner thing.

Which, fine, I probably need to go to Narcotics Anonymous to wean myself off the anti-bitch drugs. But genius thus had her pantiliner on the wrong side of the gutchies during the dumpster-diving excursion.

(To my peeps in Rockville, you’re welcome. I can hear you laughing from here!)

Oh wait, there’s more!

So I’ve had a leaky roof because I live in Amityville. The ceiling is damaged in two rooms. So instead of replacing the rotting ceiling, the apartment monkeys came in while I was gone and PAINTED THE FUCKING CEILING. You know, so it’s not water-damaged-looking anymore. FUN! Guess who gets to fall asleep to the smell of paint tonight?!?!

I just WISH all my stories weren’t true, you know? I can’t make this shit up. …

I remember when Elisabeth Kubler-Ross died. (She was known for identifying the five stages of grief.) I was working in the mental-health field, and things felt like they did when Michael Jackson died this summer.

Anyway, I realize it took me five years to go through the five grief stages, from ages 30 to 35, on missing out on stuff.

(For the unfamiliar: Denial –> Anger –> Bargaining –> Depression –> Acceptance.)

South Florida is full of people in recovery from alcohol and drugs. It’s also full of bars. The dichotomy is laughable — everyone is either sober or stoned. But while they’re busy working their 12 steps, I’ve mastered my five steps in just a few months. I’m a pro!

A friend from D.C. was in town this week. And I just couldn’t break away to see her. I tried. Believe me, I tried. (And I’m gonna plug my ears and go “la-la-la” while you mention the other times I didn’t see my old friends this summer. How is it nobody ever traveled to D.C. but everyone seems to come to Miami?)

*la-la-la*

I just saw a Facebook post on the wall of the friend who was JUST HERE, saying another friend of hers passed away suddenly. (Dude, we’re 35, yo. Scary.)

Well, it was sudden to her was the point I’m making … that regular communication with our friends is critical so that we aren’t blindsided with bad news about people we love when we’re focused on everything else.

I find I’ve gotten too familiar with, and subsequently comfortable in, the acceptance phase. I’d go nuts otherwise. But I’m thinking that it’s finally time to start planning a visit back to the nation’s capital. I don’t want to find out that the people I love so very much aren’t going to be there for me to go back to.

So, anybody want a visitor?

In the case of Goddess v. Thursday, the plaintiff submits the following evidence against the defendant:

1. Started working at 7:30.
2. Web links didn’t work.
3. Web links started working but videos wouldn’t play.
4. Electricity went off but came back. Minor time delay in restarting the works.
5. Reams of edits made to very valuable files.
6. Documents previewed, links tested …. and the Web page goes down and redirects to something wrong…
7. … with four minutes till deadline. (Read: Just as I’m about to communicate with tens of thousands of people.)
8. Aaaand, the power goes out. For good. Because some schmuck hit an electrical pole and wiped out the whole damn island.
9. But did all my edits to the second broadcast get included before the power went out?
10. The home team at the ranch fixes everything and saves my butt.
11. Traffic jam on the A1A.
12. Team member needed for Very Important Project tomorrow morning calls to say they can’t participate. I’ve already advertised otherwise.

In the defendant’s favor, however:

1. Coffee was freshly brewed upon arrival at the ranch.
2. Yummy quiche and spanikopita awaited my consumption.

Due to the overwhelming evidence, I hereby declare Thursday FIRED, but he will receive severance for bringing in breakfast.

CASE DISMISSED!

9/19/09 Intracoastal Sunset

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

Every once in a while, it will come up in conversation, “Who would you want to have dinner with (alive/dead/historical/popular figure)?”

For me, the answer became clear. I want to have dinner with myself at age 22, when I thought I knew everything and when I was fearless and ready to conquer the world.

I wouldn’t want to have dinner with me at 35. Sure, I have more stories to tell now. I can tell you what I’ve seen and done as opposed to what I want to do. But I definitely don’t have as many forward-looking statements as I once did.

And that’s why I want to meet the person I was — to see if she can’t inspire me a bit.

I remember thinking that once I had a job, a car, a life partner, whatever — that my problems would be over. That once I surmounted those huge problems, it’d be smooth sailing from there.

As we all know, they’re all just means to an end and cause their own set of challenges. And that there’s so much more to conquer than those “basic needs.”

I’ve been consumed with living life for other people that I tend to forget that I’m on this planet to please the one who put me here. Of all the relationships with others that I’ve neglected over the years, I realize I’ve always put off my relationship with God, thinking that, well, I’ll meet Him someday — we’ll chat then.

But I realize now that even though I wasn’t much of a believer back then, I still had faith. I still thought things would work out right. And despite the fact that I’ve at least managed to open a line of communication to God, my faith is nowhere near as rock-solid as it once was.

I was very fortunate to connect with my old pastor yesterday; she reached out at a point when I was feeling like I didn’t have a friend left in the world. I acknowledge that it’s my choice to isolate myself. I don’t want to be isolated — it just seems to be less problematic in the end, that I don’t have to remember what I told to whom and whether an innocent remark would get mangled and passed along. Life never stops being like high school in that regard.

But I often think about how holding myself back, not sharing myself as I am, does such a disservice to me and maybe even to the world. Whose mold, exactly, am I trying to fit into? Why do I feel the need to apologize for things I think and feelings I have? I understand showing restraint and refinement. But at what point do you stop being yourself entirely, and how do you retain that person?

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately. My apartment has been a source of financial and emotional stress because everything broke within the first week and everyone took their sweet time getting me my mailbox key, fixing my dishwasher/washing machine/sink/refrigerator and whatever else went kaput.

Mom’s apartment was another source of aggravation. I had approved another apartment for her, only to be moving in and signing the lease (while the moving guys held on to my credit card and my cell phone) and being told, no, you’ll take the one next door. We had agreed on a price, and they didn’t honor it. But when your shit is sitting in the middle of the street, your choices are limited.

My health has been better. I have these occasional bouts of anxiety, and I am having one right now. I had a tooth break out of my mouth and I am running a fever and getting headaches. Good times, yo. Good times.

I don’t like to talk about the bad stuff because it always feels like it multiplies. I would rather keep quiet, deflect questions, and count my blessings. Like, most of the apartment crap got fixed (minus the leaky roof. They’re clearly waiting for the rainy season to end to do something about it). The view is beautiful. My church is nice. I’m doing more interesting things at work.

But then I realize, now that I actually am starting to have a relationship with my mom again (having two apartments has helped greatly), that maybe I was wrong in getting two apartments. Her health is in rapid decline. I should have used the money to get her health taken care of. Instead of beating her up because she doesn’t have a job, I should be helping her to get to a point where she can actually sustain one.

It’s in those wee small moments where I start to get scared. Like, at least she has me to take care of her. And if I live to be old, I’ll be the crazy old cat lady or will be by myself in some government-run facility, left to rot because anyone who meant anything will have forgotten me because I wasn’t smart enough to at least keep up my friendships with people who actually cared about me.

And that’s where I want to meet the 22-year-old Goddess again. The girl who could see past the problems and into a place where things were better. I find myself very wrapped-up in the here-and-now. I also seem to have this complex where I think I *can* fix everything. I fall into a pattern where I’d rather hang onto the old problems than get new ones.

I met a guy on the A1A yesterday; he asked if I’m from around here and I said I live across the street. He cocked his head and said, “You aren’t from around here — you’re a city girl.” I said yeah. He said he splits his time between Florida and Chicago. I swooned that I LOVE Chicago, and he said, “If you spend all year living here, you’ll kill yourself. There’s nothing to do here. I hope you get to spend time in ‘real’ cities.”

I laughed and said I’m here to stay. We chit-chatted about how many older people wait their whole lives to get to Florida, and how so many younger people probably can’t wait to leave if they grew up here. I said I was hoping the slower pace would calm me down, to put life into perspective for me. But, we agreed, it’s a good home base to come back to — just as long as you can escape it from time to time.

It’s funny because, before I left the house yesterday, I asked the universe for a life-changing encounter. Just, put me in a conversation with someone with an outlook that can spark my imagination. And how funny that within an hour, I met John from Chicago.

I don’t know that there was any life-changing information exchanged. But to remember that the world is bigger than the space I take up in it was huge to me.

I guess what I take out of it is that we have myriad chances to get it right. And I’ve been focused on what I’ve seen are my “one chance” opportunities — that I have to get it all right on the first try, to live with what I didn’t get right, and to not look at the “greener grass” on the other side of whatever.

Maybe the grass is greener in other people’s yards. But what’s to stop me from kicking off my flip-flops and frolicking through their foliage and returning with a renewed outlook on mine?