Caterwauling

I got to thinking about the times someone assumed I was my favorite pint-sized person’s grandmother.

I mean, I’m fiddy-ish and she’s three apples tall, I get it.

Like, it’s not even worth it to explain that I’m just an “other.”

Like, there’s no term for me.

Fourth wheel, if you want to get technical. And I don’t.

The term “other” came to me as a derivative of grandmother and mother.

But I looked it up and apparently it’s a thing.

M-W lists it as a transitive verb. “To treat or consider (a person or a group of people) as alien to oneself or one’s group.”

They gave the example of nice plus-sized sections in stores rather than relegating (othering) you to a dark corner.

I like my connotation better.

I feel a bit “othered” at work too.

Not “bothered,” though lately I’ve been crabby but nothing that slamming shut the laptop at 6 can’t cure.

But funny how that “othered” word keeps appearing.

Like, I don’t think anyone knows what to make of me.

I don’t think they really knew when I was taking care of mom. Like … is that my other half? Why am I not talking about dates or husband-hunting?

Now that I’m not taking care of mom … I mean, no one has said anything beyond, “Go enjoy the single life for all of us.”

Though someone did say the most important job one has is to procreate. And I said well, I thought that would be in the cards but it wasn’t.

I didn’t say am I somehow “lesser than” because of it?

And I certainly didn’t think it.

But I literally sit here sometimes, agonizing over whether I said something inappropriate or hurtful … and I remember humans human.

I have seen personal growth in this person, so I’m not holding it against them.

It’s not like they looked at my experiment with platinum hair and call me a “scarecrow” in a meeting like G did. (He called to apologize.)

But I’m the one who says too much.

In any event, that’s two more instances where I felt othered.

Like, with no one but myself to defend me.

I think those of us who are fiddy-ish … who don’t want a man who can’t provide us the quality of life we provide for ourselves … who practice witchcraft and rescue (and/or TNR) cats … who work hard to travel, then travel hard to continue on in the workforce … and who really do want love but haven’t exactly been shown any by anyone who wasn’t their mom …

And I feel like us former QuirkyAlones need a new name that isn’t just “GenX women who were raised by Alanis, Tori, Madonna and Fiona.”

We’re the Othered.

How does one stay inspired in a world built to look — or, worse, move — right past you?

I don’t know, but it’s feeling like a whole damn literary genre, waiting to be written.

Mom had the stars spell out Bon Jovi on my ceiling.

Full moon tonight.

Good time to put out the bottle of champs that we’re saving for When It Happens and say an incantation to make it happen faster and painful-er.

I’ve spent 20 years complaining about storage units.

It was a glorious day when I emptied my “temporary” one in West Palm that housed our shit for a decade.

But the Pittsburgh one was always out of reach, you know?

I never had the money. Never had the time.

And even though I feel like I let go of those resentments …

I never had the money to buy a laptop so I could travel …

I never had the time because work was always too busy to take more than a day off here and there.

And buying plane tickets for Mom and me … and a hotel for at least a week or two … was daunting.

Like … why go to observe/inventory the unit if we weren’t going to clean it out?

Then she got sick. Not that I probably could have gotten her on a plane anyway, what with covid and security screenings.

There was no way she was going to be that close to people.

But then … I did it.

Whoever says you can’t go home … you can, even if it’s two decades later.

But what do you do afterward?

What do you do when the trip that gave you the will to live is now over?

I mean, after you eat all the baked goods and use up all the condiments that you picked up while you were there.

Now I have a house full of boxes from TWO storage units …

Not to mention a living room full of balcony furniture because your HOA told you to clear it off so they can “do work” on it.

Like they “did work” on the elevator for six months.

I’m sitting here watching the Steelers-Saints game in Paris. And I want to see the Eiffel Tahr for myself.

But … we are a LONG way away from my credit card’s recovery from my fulfilling-yet-frustrating trips to Tokyo and Pittsburgh.

(For real, I will never not think of those selfies I took from some stupid Tokyo burial ground, trying to act happy when I was pissed off to be standing there by myself.)

I’m almost afraid to plan Paris with K. Like … is that going to be another “higher highs” and “lower lows” trip?

That’s a separate topic, I guess.

For now, it’s wow, the big thing I anticipated/dreaded is over.

What do I do in the meantime till I find the next high to chase?

All I really want is someone to talk to. Who will listen. Really listen.

And maybe … for once in my stupid life since Mom was still alive … someone who will put me, if not first … at least not a distant second?

I don’t know if it was being home but man, something stirred up my anxiety.

I have spent my whole life “in trouble” for what I say.

I say what I mean and mean what I say.

But I also joke so much that I would hope people know I’m delirious half the time.

But I can recount back to high school when people stopped talking to me for whatever I said.

Instead of asking me hey, I heard this — what the hell.

I can recount back to college when I was at someone’s house, talking shit about her.

Pretty sure her parents heard.

I quit answering her calls.

But honestly … I was talking shit because I was TIRED of her shit.

I only went to the party because a group of us had plans to travel to West Virginia together.

But I cannot fake my way through much of anything. I was really annoyed that she wouldn’t listen to me that her boyfriend was a goddamn abuser.

Maybe it was wrong that I said I thought she was an idiot about it — at that venue — but she was still a goddamn idiot about him.

I was going through some stuff that I wasn’t even telling her about. Since every conversation was all about Kyle raping her on his workout bench. Or mentally fucking her.

The memories sparked anxiety at work.

Like yes I think H is a dipshit. I also think G is a dipshit. I didn’t always think G was a dipshit. But after the way that person has treated me and J … dude, find me a more professional way to say it, because I am going to say it.

I notice things get around about me too. And I laugh.

I talk shit about Jordan and Medusa and Karen, who are no longer on the team.

I talk shit about them because they talked shit about me.

Trust me, I examined everything they said. And who they said it to.

And I reject 99.9999% of it.

I’ve since realized Karen was in a tough spot, so what I criticize is her reaction to it.

G was not good to her either. But he was good to me then, so I was quick to blame her.

Now that our relationship has changed, I get it.

Now … that doesn’t mean you can write about fucking pickleball and whine when your editor rejects your shit. But I can see where she stopped trying, not where she took offense to me saying go back and write something I can publish.

And frankly I almost wish I’d get more than “stop saying stuff” — what did I say, how did it land, is there changed behavior on that person’s part (since I tend to talk shit about people and processes) or are we cool with me still thinking they are a dipshit?

Like clearly I talk shit about H and she’s actually less annoying toward me. I mean, still annoying, but tolerable.

So … was my bad behavior rewarded?

Anyway, I often think oh just go find another friendship, relationship or job … that’s what I always do.

Rather than face whatever I said or did that I absolutely meant.

To put it in context — I had some dumb lady say to me yesterday, “Oh I love that fake hair thingy on your head, it’s so cute!”

Like honey that’s not a compliment.

Now, I’m too secure in myself to think oh wow they think it’s fake.

Also my mom had always said you tend to blend colors and your own hair with them well enough that even if they spot it’s a fake, they would also spot your effort to make sure it is an enhancement, not a distraction.

I love that her words are so inscribed in my soul that I don’t spend more than five seconds wondering what losers think of me.

And with that, I shall hit publish.

I continue to be fabulous. And if these others I talk shit about are so concerned that I do NOT think they are fabulous … well either keep being a dipshit or change. Your choice, as continuing to be me is mine.