Caterwauling

That’s my latest idea for a title for my autobiography. But, alas, I’m too busy to write it, so I’ll just keep on pretending my newly restarted smoking habit wasn’t only limited to Marlboro Lights. …

Ah, the witticisms are flying.

“Have a nice day.”

“I was until you called!”

Wanted to wish a belated happy birthday to Tiff, whom we actively celebrated on Saturday but who we always mentally celebrate every other day.

The quote of the day from that gathering: “Sit down and enjoy your birthday next to the brown man!” LOL.

I also wanted to take this moment to celebrate all the veterans and soldiers on active duty on this Veteran’s Day. Here’s to hoping they can all get private insurance, because otherwise the Veterans Hospitals will finish the job that the wars started.

Here’s to remembering my own fallen veteran today, who triumphed over Hitler’s men but couldn’t survive the ineptitude of some horse-faced cunt named “Dr.” (ha!) Trang at the Veterans Hospital in Aspinwall, Pa. It’s been a rotten year without you, buddy. I miss you.

ZOMG!

15 Minute Lunch takes us back in the time machine to the 1977 J.C. Penney catalog. What a trip …

Strap in, shut up and hold on. We’re going back.

Go visit for the photos. Stay for the captions. My favorite was with the matching his-and-hers bathing suits:

“And nothing showcases your everlasting love more than the commitment of matching bathing suits. That, and an appreciative blonde with a look on her face that says ‘I love the way your junk fights against that fabric.’”

I’m not going to tell you which outfits I had, but I will admit that I unwittingly committed several fashion offenses because I wasn’t the one doing the clothes-buying in that year. I’m not culpable!

“Maybe I was much too selfish
But baby you’re still on my mind
Now I’m grown and alone
And wishing I was with you tonight.”

– The Wreckers, “Tennessee”

It’s a rare, quiet Saturday night. Summer has gracefully stepped back and allowed fall to blow its draft up our skirts, chilling us to the bone and promising us something different than what we’re used to.

Mercury is also retrograding, so the universe feels a bit off-balance. And yet, it’s seemingly always off-kilter, so I tend to feel less sure when all is supposedly well.

I’ve been noticing something about myself lately, how I can’t seem to finish a project. I don’t think of it as a deficiency, but rather a recognition that my strength is barfing out ideas and letting others figure out the execution part. I’ve been sort of ass-deep in the day-to-day matters, which hasn’t given me much time or leftover creativity to really jump headlong onto paths not yet pioneered.

And therein is my strength — spelunking through the unknown. It’s less daunting than downright enthralling. It’s the whole, “OK, now I know how it works; I must maintain the velocity” where I start to wander.

I don’t finish a lot of things. Or, rather, I finish by passive-aggressive proxy. I get two dozen responses to my dating profile and then stop responding to them all. Hell, I take down the profile so I don’t have to take that next step. I also make a whole lot of friends and then I fall off the earth for myriad reasons. It’s not personal, just business. Seriously. Then I make a whole bunch of new friends because I cannot think of one thing to say to most of the old ones. I can’t pick up a phone without having three things to discuss. I’ve been that way my whole life.

I rarely dial someone just to chat. It’s similar to the trend in business in which we’re gravitating away from voicemail. It’s delayed communication. Hell, half the time, I’m not even at my desk. But an e-mail/IM gets my attention. Maybe not POSITIVE attention, because I hate that I can’t be in a meeting without someone knowing where to find me at all times, but ya know. Talkin’ ’bout my generation and all.

My past has sort of been in my head lately. Not prominently, but someone from a thousand years ago just had a milestone birthday. Not that I acknowledged it. (He wouldn’t have wanted me to, and I didn’t want to anyway.) It was one of those rare times that I was forced to change direction in mid-sprint — against my own will.

And it’s really (not) funny what it did to me — I meet people I do like, and I talk myself out of it. Immediately, if not sooner. I call it intuition and maybe even self-preservation. You can’t hurt over what probably wasn’t meant for you anyway.

But to my detriment, I can’t attach myself to anything as a result. Don’t get me wrong — I care very deeply about plenty of people, things and tasks. But I’ve also got the escape latch in my hand at all times, because if others aren’t going to invested down the road, I won’t be too hurt about it.

I wonder what life would be like if I didn’t hold myself back by default. I know exactly what’s keeping me from being an outright, smashing success in all areas of my life. But that’s the thing — I identify the problem, I have a thousand creative ways to solve it, and … I start over from a different point instead of working on solving the conundrum du jour. Commitment scares me more than anything because it means I have to work on me, and that means I’m not as perfect as I think I am.

I’m not sure what I want to do with all this information. Maybe to pick a cause and stick to it. Maybe to justify wiping the slate clean once again. Maybe to WANT to get out of this pattern because it looks terrible in black-and-white. Moreover, maybe to remind myself to finish my battles so that things from the past can stay there and stop rearing their ugly little heads at the least-opportune moments.

I like waking up and looking forward to what each day will bring. What I don’t like is ending a day with thoughts about how I wished that it had gone. But perhaps recognizing that is the first step toward feeling the sense of accomplishment that I seem to prevent myself from enjoying.

With relationships and project goals, I’ve always been a fan of the thrill of the chase. But maybe I’ve gotten it wrong all along — maybe the real thrill is being pumped up from meeting outcomes that will carry me to the next, bigger challenges.

I’ve never been a fan of coloring inside the lines, but if someone could help me to draw some dotted lines as a suggested border, I’d blow them away. But that someone, right now, has got to be me. So, I’m going to start moving in baby steps toward what I KNOW I need to be doing. Like, I need to sign up for an exercise class as opposed to getting myself to the gym “whenever.” I need that “you must be here at this time on this day” regimen.

Similarly, I’m never going to write that novel of my own accord, but I can take a course on how to write one well. And nothing bugs me more than spending money to learn something and not using that knowledge.

Goals are tough for me because I dream big. It can be just as daunting as it is energizing. I envision the endings of my books before I ever type a single word. But setting smaller goals has always annoyed me because it has meant (to me) that I have to scale down my dreams. Which isn’t necessarily true; I know that now. It’s less about thinking smaller than seeing whether the things I think I want are really, well, what I’ll want in the long run.

Some people fear failure. Me, I’m paralyzed by the prospect of success. But no more — I just started a hobby with no real goal other than to enjoy it. But if it takes off and takes me somewhere new, I’m going to fight for it and not let it end up in the heap of “could’ve beens.” Whatever will be, will be, even if I have to go against my very nature to make it so. …

I’ve refrained from blogging about squeak toys, although I seem to meet them all the time.

A “squeak toy” is Sabre’s word for the variety of bubble-headed bimbettes we come across who get an “9.5″ for the hair flip and the high-pitched giggle but a negative score when it comes to mastery of English, abstract concepts or just plain fuckin’ sense.

The original squeak toy, I remember not (completely) because of her yellow polka-dotted high heels and Daisy Dukes, but for the fact that her boyfriend had such a hard-on at the party that he was trying not to visibly cringe every time she emitted a squeak that made us all look at him with pity.

I know, I wish I were dumb and pretty myself. I admit it. I’d probably be too oblivious to the world to actually care about it. In fact, I was watching Fox News Channel (*stabs out eyes with pen, hangs self with iPhone charger*) yesterday, and they announced that a new study says men choose beauty over personality in the opposite sex.

Um, DUH.

Glad to see Fox is just as adept at making up news as ever. The world hasn’t yet gone mad.

The thing is, I guess I think dumb is ugly. Or, at least, most of these chicks aren’t cute enough to be airheads. I mean, I’ve had to define more fourth-grade vocabulary words so that they could participate in the grown-up conversations to last me a lifetime.

Case in point: I was in the purse aisle at one of my favorite stores, and this dumb bitch and her dumber-bitch daughter — who was about 22 or so — were looking for a new purse. Now, Baby Airhead knew a Michael Kors bag on sight, but she wasn’t impressed by it. In fact, in her words, “I am mediocred by everything.”

*eyeroll* *headslam*

Dear “thinkerbelle”: You might be pseudo-cute to look at (and that’s stretching it, to be perfectly honest, as your mouth hanging open did nothing for me), but that will fade soon enough. And the idiots who pick you over the smart girls may never be smart enough themselves to see past the tips of their dicks, but we won’t feel bad for them when they wake up and realize they could have done better.

Hopefully by then, the rest of us smart girls will have found someone to stimulate our brains, although if these guys have been spending their lives not having to kill themselves to make conversation with the likes of you, no wonder none of us can find our intellectual equivalents. Thanks for dumbing down the population, one conversation at a time, and perpetuating the stupid genes. …