Caterwauling

I am having an era in my life reminiscent of Debra Winger’s scene in “Terms of Endearment” in which she has to put back some groceries because she doesn’t have enough money to pay for all of them. The cashier starts to un-ring the Midol from the tab, and Debra snatches it back and makes sure that particular item stays intact.

I’ve never taken the stuff before, but I was at Costco recently and actually put something else back so that I could buy the trough-sized bottle, as I figured it probably couldn’t hurt to have it handy. And lemme tell you, I went from bursting into tears this morning on the I-270 offramp to feeling like I could conquer Osama Bin Laden’s raggedy ass.

Today, I can enjoy being a girl again instead of bemoaning my overanalyzing, hyperemotional and bizarrely irrational tendencies.

And I totally feel an addiction coming on. … 😉

On iTunes: Martina McBride, “This One’s For the Girls”

During my 95-minute drive home, I promised myself I wouldn’t blog till I had something witty or happy to report.

So, see ya next year, right? LOL

But seriously, I have been on this quest to make the perfect CD. I’ve put it through about 47 incarnations since May, and I still don’t have it down yet. But I keep trying. 🙂 Today I wasn’t feeling it, because it’s predominantly concupiscent (that’s for you, Ted!) and that wasn’t exactly my driving mood.

But listening to the few sappy songs I liked at the time of the last CD burning, it occurred to me that I’ve never really had those “our song” types of tunes in my world. Don’t get me wrong — I’ll hear a song now and again and associate it with a time in my life or with someone from that time, but not intentionally — I don’t make “mix tapes” for that purpose anymore. LOL. But I’ve always loved when people told me that they heard a song and thought I’d love it and/or always think of me when it pops up, even if I didn’t care for said song in and of itself otherwise.

I’ve been aware that associating a song with someone would eventually come back to bite me as, let’s face it, more people than not drop out of our lives. And even if it’s good riddance to be done with them, it blows to have them pop into our minds. Like, I was once told rather snottily by someone, years down the road, that he couldn’t stand hearing Bon Jovi because he will forever associate that band with me. Heh. Well, all the shitty bands HE liked evaporated 10 years ago, so I can’t say that I have occasion to reminisce over the bile in my throat like he does.

But I also don’t have any songs that come to mind that make me feel giggly and stupid and remembering better days, either. Or maybe that’s because my better days have yet to HAPPEN.

And don’t think I won’t have a few songs handy for when those days arrive. 😉

On iTunes: Gina Rene, “U Must Be”

Do you ever have a day where you want to call off and play with your blog all day? I’m working on moving this page back to its original home (yay Tiff for conquering my server! Farging PHP switch — seriously, I can set up a MySQL database but not know to flick a switch), but it’s gonna take awhile. Unless, of course, I rush home and don’t get any sleep tonight in favor of template-building — which is entirely possible.

I might keep Maddie on Blogger, but I’m moving on to WordPress. Other than the install not being as easy as they claimed, it’s ridiculously simple to use. Like, so simple that OF COURSE I’d screw it up. 😉

On iTunes: Garbage, “Cup of Coffee”

And I’m doing it on a Monday. Amazing!

On iTunes: Willy Porter, “Watercolor”

updated

Spent last night with Three-Buck Chuck. Tonight? Had LOTS of good shit. How I drove 32 miles successfully? Beyond me. Really.

Afraid to blog more, I am incoherent and folks have finally realized that the nutjob with the “IBlog” plates happens to be moi. *waves* Welcome to the abyss, boys!

Admittedly, I’ll miss those Virginia plates when I move to Maryland. But then again, I won’t have to drink-and-drive so freaking far. But Mary-Land — UGH!!!

No lectures, kids. I’ll be hatin’ myself in just a few hours. But that Silver Oak red wine? To fucking DIE for.

Update
Mornings. Hurt.

Ow.

Where the hell did I park my car?!?!

On iTunes: Ivy, “Let’s Go to Bed”

Sometimes, my emotions get the better of me. I try so hard to prevent inappropriate displays of emotion that I theoretically “shove a cork in it” when I feel myself wanting to react to anything with 100 percent authenticity. Because, really, who wants to hear what I think of anything?

Emoting through road rage
Other times, my emotions become volatile within my widdle head to the point that I overreact to stupid things so as to at least contain my reactions to real events. Like, I was a holy terror on the highways this morning — I won’t go into detail about the number of multi-car collisions I nearly caused, but I will tell you about the soccer mom who thought she was too good to wait in line like I (and dozens others) had to because there was construction at the exit we needed. Bitch ripped up the empty right lane and tried to merge left in front of me.

Hah. Bloody fuckin’ HAH.

I had coffee in one hand, a CD case in the other and a fit waiting to be pitched. She was literally going to kill us both to get in front of me. And I was perfectly willing to keep flooring it and to rear-end the Volkswagon in front of me if necessary to prevent the snotty bitch from letting her pinched-face, minivan-driving ass get to work any sooner than the rest of us who saw the “lane ending” sign and merged accordingly.

She tried quite a few times to merge, but I wasn’t having it. But when she gave up trying to assault me and got behind me, I totally remembered where my brake was. LOL.

Anyway, I say this to say that I’m tired of always losing seemingly every little battle. I’ve gotta start scoring some victories, or I’m never going to have the strength to win the war.

Regeneration
Do you ever get the feeling that the universe is never going to be done testing you? The universe and I have a deal — I will tolerate the random series of annoyances (like today — accidentally spraying/staining my pale shirt with cologne, breaking an earring, slamming my fingernail in a drawer, spilling coffee through the car, stepping in a pile of cat droppings, just to name a few) if it means I don’t have to deal with Bigger Problems. You know what I mean — be glad all our appendages work, we’re not homeless, blah blah blah.

But once we’ve had one or two Big Problems rattle us to the core, I think we have every right to inquire of the universe just when we’re going to start living Happily Ever After. Maybe we need to stop reading kids fairy tales, if all we’re going to get is Marginally Tolerable Till You Die.

Alas, though, I know inspiration and hope come from the strangest places, but that doesn’t mean we have to give up hope on actually getting it — even from people and places of which we happen to have high expectations.

I’m tired of expecting the worst and being pleasantly surprised when it doesn’t come to that. I see no reason to NOT expect the best and to expect it to keep getting BETTER.

Like me — I function best within expectations. Because then I have a measure to SURPASS. Perhaps the same is true of expectations themselves, then. …

And today’s grab bag emotion is …
Sadness.

Yup, I’m wishing I were able to crawl under a rock today, but how do you call into work for being sad? And lord knows we’re all entirely too accustomed to having to function not just through a day — but rather a LIFETIME — feeling icky.

And that, in and of itself, blows goats.

Here’s the deal, it’s been a year since I left the old job. And while I do NOT miss it, there are certain elements that I miss. My incredible team, my ridiculously fantastic office, my four-hour lunch hours (hey, I worked 72 hours a week — I deserved my shopping trips!) and a couple of other people. But many of those people have gone, too, or just haven’t evolved in the same direction as I have. But I kept as friends the ones I needed, and I am also surrounded by another amazing team now, too, so life goes on. The things I miss are replaceable, for the most part, and those are quite few in comparison to the reasons it was time to throw in the towel.

I think the reason for my sadness is that it seems like so many people have Plan Bs and places to land, while my own safety net was so flimsy that my fat ass fell straight through it when I needed it. Rock bottom hurts, friends. Don’t try it at home.

But while my abrupt resignation was scary, it was needed. And I felt less scared than relieved, even though I didn’t even have a Plan A, for crying out loud. I wish we could all have the security to wake up one day and say, “NO MORE!” in whatever aspect of our life needs an exorcism.

Just like it would be nice to say, “DAMN IT — I NEED A CARIBBEAN VACATION” and thus, it is granted. Long live Jambi. Meaning, the exact amount of vacation time and fundage magically appears because you deserve it. Wouldn’t that be DIVINE? Although I’d much sooner want to go to the French Riviera and anywhere in Italy, but still.

But alas, the world doesn’t work that way. Like, don’t you wish you could just go one full stinkin’ year without some calamity occuring to disrupt the fragile balance you have tried so hard to achieve and to cling to?

Yes, I did have a point to all of this
I had an ugly revelation the other day, of the “be careful what you wish for” variety.

I was one of those dipshit feminist types as a teen — I wanted to immerse myself in a career. I didn’t want kids. I wanted to prove that I could survive just fine without being married — that I could take care of myself, damn it. I wanted to live in a big city with a Big Important Job and grow old with cats and buzzy toys. And I hated female friends and wanted none of that bullcrap.

Seriously, Jambi? You shouldn’t listen to hormonal teenage girls. Because we totally talk out of our asses. Not that I’d want to give up what I do have, but there’s a hell of a lot more out there that doesn’t sound so bad anymore. And maybe it never did sound so bad, but you know me — I’d rebel against anything just for the sake of rebellion itself.

So, in sum (yes, she IS capable of shutting up), I am grateful for all the opportunities life has presented to me to help me to advance or grow in every way — even those miserable experiences because I totally kicked ass and surmounted quite a few obstacles. But I’d totally dig an opportunity to throw it in cruise control and regenerate some of my spirit, because I am emotionally burned the hell out and want something, anything to just change for the better.

Don’t get me wrong, though — I appreciate that my calamities have happened successively and NOT concurrently. I would just like my happiness to kick in sometime soon and to follow a similar, successive pattern. …

On iTunes: Hooverphonic f/Depeche Mode, “Shake the Disease”

updated

Because I paid my rent, oh, five minutes late and even overpaid the late fee, I got an immediate-eviction notice. Can you tell me WHY they would give me an eviction notice … but with my RENT CREDIT scrawled at the top of it? Fucking idiots.

Bonaventure Realty, people. Public service announcement: Stay the hell away from them. Love and kisses from the bitch on the second floor with the cat who wipes her ass on the walls. 🙂 I hope the housing bubble bursts all over their faces, and no I will NOT pass them a tissue. Hah.

Adding to the morning’s auspicious start, I was coming off a ramp onto 395-North today and, as you local yokels know, if you don’t merge left, oh, IMMEDIATELY, you’re regaled to going right back off the highway ’cause you’re barreling toward the exit that’s about 10 inches from the ramp that put you ON the highway.

My dumb ass tried to generate good karma and let somebody in front of me so I could take their spot in the other lane. I did not count on an 18-wheeler FLOORING it and not letting me merge. *sigh* Guess who had to drive around fucking East Jabip to get back on course?

Oh, but wait — there’s more. A blood vessel in my right eye BROKE during all of this. This is my eye that twitches when my nerves are in overdrive, but alas, now it’s dry and sore and, um, RED. Hooray.

In better news, the troops at work have been coming up with many potential apartment sources for me. Although the one wonderful lad who asked his landlord about rental properties was told by said slumlord rather gleefully that they can charge any damn price they want because this area is in such high demand. Again, hooray. Something tells me the next place will cost me about $1,300, rats and mice included. 😉

Update
Here’s a list of things landlords can deduct from your security deposit when you move out. Me? I don’t get mine back, but given what the puddy tats have doneo to assault the place, I wouldn’t be surprised to get a bill. …

On iTunes: Black Lab, “Keep Myself Awake”

I think we should combine personal ads with “for rent” listings.

Face it, while we love most of our former roommates (I loved them all but the one I called “Salad Shitter” — the idiot who never bathed and who shat salad greens in the toily and couldn’t be bothered to flush twice when necessary. Well, come to think of it — nor did I love the wannabe drag queen who left dog shit everywhere and always hosted homeless, stinkin’ drag queens, letting them sleep on the floor while I was at work — the B.O. stench alone had me moving out within weeks. And I swear I left that place sans quite a few scandalous underthings. … OK, I’d better digress right now before I conjure up any other bad memories!), sometimes you’re too daggone old to live with others again.

And in my state of being forced to move, I am highly upset because I always hoped my next move would involve shacking up with someone. So, let’s turn getting fucked by your landlord into an opportunity to get fucked … and to possibly enjoy it! (Alas, it’s too much to ask that getting some and wanting some more from that person should go hand-in-hand. Or, something-in-something. Anyway. …)

Hence, the “For Rent Personals” — no lease, no contracts, no credit check. However, a trip to the free clinic is mandatory. They have an apartment in the part of town you want to inhabit, and voila! Instant concubine. If you have a home (or hole) to fill, sign up through your local City Paper and screen/interview potential live-ins. Forget movies-on-demand … get other, better things on demand AND get half your rent paid!!!

Seriously, my talents are being wasted in the “real” world. 😉

On iTunes: Portishead, “Roads”

WTF is UP with these gas prices?!?! Jesus H on a stick, I was at one of my favorite gas stations in Springfield, Va. (yes, I put MILES on the car just to get a cheaper rate) and actually watched the station workers CHANGE the price while I fueled my precious baby Samantha. Like — more than just a few cents. I had to check my receipt to make sure I was billed at the price advertised when I pulled in. Insanity!!!

Samantha, incidentally, is very mad at me because she is accustomed to being washed at least once a week, but Mama needs gas to feed her with, and making her all sparkly and shit is not altogether that high on the priority list anymore. She is angry and it shows, because she always drives better when she’s pretty.

I’ve decided that higher gas prices will be the new diet revolution sweeping the nation. Seriously, I left work late last night and I would normally have stopped somewhere for a drive-thru dinner — particularly because I never really do more than a vending machine lunch (ugh) and can’t always wait till I get home to seek nourishment.

(And besides, why have two — or, for that matter, ANY hands on the steering wheel when you’re going 90 mph? And don’t question me on my speed — the later I get out, the faster I drive. It evens out.)

In any event, I figured that the cashish I’d spend on some crappy cheeseburger and a drink would be better spent on cheap-ass, low-grade unleaded.

Seriously, if we’re going to be fighting this unnecessary war in Iraq, could we at least liquidate Saudi Arabia while we’re over there and send some oil-filled care packages home to the citizens who keep having to fund this insipid war? (And for you fundamentalists, no I do not believe we’re doing a “blood for oil” war. I’m just saying that we aren’t exactly philanthropists, wanting a peaceful world — we might as well take a souvenir or two in the form of a few thousand barrels of something special, eh?)

And speaking of being driven to distraction, why the hell is it easier to get a driver’s license than a green card in this city? Jimminy Christmas, this guy in a brand-new blue Honda with temporary Virginia tags was terrorizing the greater D.C. area on the Beltway today. I counted 17 times — SEVENTEEN — that he tried to swerve into the left lane with no turn signal. And he only seemed to do it WHEN A CAR WAS COMING. I refused to pass him because I didn’t want him lodged into my passenger-side door. Moron.

I did pass him at the Rockville/Bethesda split, and he was driving all granny-like, sitting all the way forward and sweating bullets. And I truly don’t mean this as horrible as it sounds, but sometimes it’s WAY easier to turn one’s head to see what eludes our peripheral vision if we don’t have the contents of our linen closet plopped on top of our noggins. Just saying — I’ve seen NASCAR drivers less wedged into their seats, helmets and all. …

On iTunes: Bon Jovi, “Have a Nice Day”

“Got a wife and kids in Baltimore, Jack
I went out for a ride and I never went back
…
I met her in a Kingstown bar
We fell in love I knew it had to end
We took what we had and we ripped it apart
Now here I am down in Kingstown again
…
Everybody needs a place to rest
Everybody wants to have a home
Don’t make no difference what nobody says
Ain’t nobody like to be alone
Everybody’s got a hungry heart.”

Springsteen lyrics done in homage to my beloved Bill. *mwah!*

Because tossing $20 in the gas tank every three days doesn’t hurt enough (Jesus H, $2.79/gallon?!?! Fuck!!!), I took my happy ass out for a ride today. Not an exotic one — certainly not to Baltimore — but in fact to the Kingstowne area of Alexandria because the cats needed litter and being in the ghetto Wallyworld there usually makes me feel so much better about my life.

And while I was out, I went to my favorite playground — not my favorite park, though, the one I abandoned to avoid some idiot who works there who officially garners the title of World’s Worst Date. But I went to the adjacent playground, where I love to hang out on the swingset. I swear, I have made nearly every major life decision on one of those things — it’s like my cure-all for whatever ails me.

Today it was too hot to swing toward the stars, but I did sort of hang upside down and let the blood (and hopefully some brilliant thoughts) dump into my head. And while I don’t know that I came to any major conclusions, I did get a semblance of a blog entry in my head.

The thing is, there are two types of people in this world. There are the people who, come hell or high water, do not give up on their dreams. They know what they want and they know they will reach them, sooner or later. The pictures in their heads might change throughout the years, but the images only get bigger, better, more vivid, more real. They are the people who — once they’ve reached the top of their respective games — others reminisce about, “Oh yeah, he never gave up on his dreams. She always knew this day would come. He never lost sight of his goals. She always had faith.”

The other type of people are the, “Fuck it, it’s never going to come. I’m just happy to survive without anything of significance happening in a day. This is as good as it gets — what’s the point of hoping for more? My luck, I’d lose what little I have.”

More often than not, I’ve found myself in the latter category. And if I don’t believe in me, who the hell else is going to?

The thing is, it pains me that losing one’s idealism is every bit considered a “rite of passage” just like losing one’s virginity. Both are probably equallly abysmal when they happen, and it’s impossible to get either one back.

Or is it? I mean, I’ve heard of people getting stitched up to regain the former (that’s called having more money than brains), but could we have some sort of theoretical surgical intervention to restore hope to our hearts?

‘You know, some of us are still on that dream trip.’
The quote above came from Savannah (Whitney Houston) in “Waiting to Exhale.” And one I don’t let get too far from my mind.

Nothing revives my convictions more than seeing and hearing people — with heads just as full of thoughts and dreams and desires as mine — being afraid to let their imaginations run amok. I mean, when you think about it, the super-successful people to whom I referred earlier got where they did because they had a plan. Sure, some people fall into their success and we all scratch our heads, wondering why they deserved it when the rest of us work so hard and seemingly get nowhere. But I’ve learned to not begrudge people any good fortune they may achieve — let them try to hang on to it, and we’ll see whether or not it should have ever found them in the first place.

For the rest of us, I assume some degree of success would challenge us to not only cling to it, but also to surpass it. I imagine it’s like getting high — you only really realize the pain of your humdrum existence when you come down. You want to score another sensation as soon as possible. Like, what if I actually finished one of the dozens of books that I’ve started writing throughout the years? Wouldn’t I just be racing to do it again — bigger and better the next time around?

And so, like there are two types of people, there are also two types of coping mechanisms. You can either take the randomless series of heartbreaks and conundrums that are peppered with occasional highs and turn them into inspiration, or you can wallow in your existential discontent and resign yourself to getting the occasional kicks if they happen to come. It’s the difference between pioneering your own path and not looking back or else sitting inert and waiting for life to happen to you.

The way I am looking at my life is this: Shit happens, whether I want it to or not. The universe is watching me to see how I handle it. And this whole pending move thing may actually be good for me. Why? Because I’ve been getting by, and that’s all. I’ve been so happy lately to survive that I’ve been afraid to make waves, lest I lose what I’ve fought and clawed to achieve thus far. But am I happy? For now, sure. But that’s because I’ve achieved the picture in my mind of what I wanted.

But I’ve got new pictures that I want to make into reality. That’s the thing with actual photographs — you always want to go back to however happy you looked on film at that particular moment. But with mental pictures, you want to be as happy as you seem in your own little fantasies.

And like I always say, my dreams are as good as anyone else’s — therefore, why shouldn’t I feel free to dream them? And not just when I’m down — I need to also dream while I’m happy because that will take them even further into the stratosphere. Because those are the best visions — when I’m happy, I want to find ways to prolong it … intensify it. Imagine not just feeling happy, but being happy.

With the pending move, I am hoping the hardship it temporarily brings will be like an investment into my future — my long-awaited, blissful future. Maybe I will move into the apartment or condo where I will live for the next few years (instead of moving every one to two years like I currently do). Maybe I will run into the love of my life in the same building or in the local grocery store there. Maybe my attitude will improve so much that I will make waves where and when they need to be made — and maybe I will be able to surf on those waves instead of being pummeled by them, like always seems to happen otherwise.

Maybe, just maybe, I’ll feel at home — long enough to want to stay. Maybe if I can put down some roots, I can finally start to do some real growing. Maybe those books will come out of me in the right environment, and maybe all that has been eluding me thus far will finally know where to find me because I’m going to walk right up to it and announce that I’m in the neighborhood.

The universe positions us “just so.” We aren’t supposed to understand it until the time is right and all the puzzle pieces interlock — probably all at the same time. No matter how I’ve struggled to patch up all the holes in my heart, only for a leak to spring somewhere else while I wasn’t looking (like right now, as a matter of fact), maybe it’s the universe’s way of kicking me in the ass and making sure I’m not staying where I’m not supposed to.

All right, already, Let’s get this show on the road, then. And as a bonus, I won’t have to drive past the same places that used to bring me pain — a new start might be scary, but it also might just be what the doctor ordered to let me leave the dead, rotted-out piece of my heart behind so that new things can flourish in its place.

I look forward to the adventure. Not the move itself, of course, but to whatever is destined to follow. …

On iTunes: Minnie Driver, “Hungry Heart”