Caterwauling

I’m so running late for the ’80s bash tonight. One wonders if I should REALLY leave the house looking like
this.

I don’t know — what do YOU think? 😉

On iTunes: Bon Jovi, “Without Love”

So I keep this box of clothes that I hope to wear again someday.

Not that this shit is particularly stylish anymore, mind you. But it contains sizes the likes of which my fat ass hopes to squeeze itself into again. I own practically every size of clothing ever made, and I like to also buy things “that I’ll fit into someday … just not today.” Hence the array of clothes with the fucking TAGS on them cluttering my poor walk-in closet.

Now, I know life’s not about sizes — hell, most designer stuff runs big, and other cheapie brands cut small. And your dryer will take your perfect-fitting jeans/shirt/guchies/whatever and make them appropriately sized enough to fit onto your 20-pound puss.

We won’t mention how I wish skinny girls would just fucking eat more cake already. Because cake is goooodddd. And watching someone rather emaciated eat some is the obvious solution to wanting to feel thinner in a hurry. 😉

In any event, my box. (The one with clothes. Ahem.) What took me into that hellish journey last night was the need to find something to wear to Angie’s hella-cool ’80s birthday party happening tomorrow night. I figured, shit, I actually HAVE clothes from the ’80s that I can wear.

Not, of course, like I can squeeze my ASS into those jeans, but I digress. 🙁

But alas, I did pull a few good items out of the mothballs. I have this fantastic John Cusack T-shirt (you know the scene: it’s a still in which he’s holding the boombox above his head in the “Say Anything” movie — *swoon*). I figure I can cut the neck out of it and throw a tank top under it and voila! she’s done. I also found a black mesh short-sleeved shirt — I can wear a lovely hot-pink Wonderbra under it and can look like a groupie in 10 seconds or less.

What I was looking for, though, would be any one of my bona fide Bon Jovi concert T-shirts from the mid-’80s. But they don’t seem to exist in my apartment anymore and for that, I am heartbroken. Not like I’ve WORN them in the last 15 years, but still. Memories. 😉 I do, however, have their concert program from the “Slippery When Wet” and “New Jersey” tours, and therefore I regain my specialness.

I bought some long-ass chain earrings with skulls at the end (reminiscent of my youth, of course). I also have jelly bracelets with skulls and lightning rods on them (in hot pink — it’s as girly as skulls can get).

In my day (jesus H am I OLD!!!), I wore lots of gothic shit — lots of silver crosses with snakes and roses wrapped around them, lots of handcuff-style earrings and belts, lots of daggers and lightning bolts and spiderwebs and condoms.

Yes, condoms.

I had found this company that made condom earrings. Like, they used real condom wrappers and totally jazzed them up with paint and jewels and feathers and shit. Now, I was kind of a goody-goody in school (minus that incident in which I tried to set my ninth-grade building on fire with matches and hairspray. We had an odd sense of humor, my friends and I. That and we REALLY HATED ninth grade.

But I got away with murder — my guidance counselors knew my IQ and my GPA. I was once caught sitting on the sink in the girls’ room, drinking peach schnapps (ugh) out of a hairspray bottle (I promise, I sterilized that thing first!). And I had a cigarette in my other hand. Yes, I was loved — whichever authority figure spotted me being bad, well, kept on walking.

I’ll never forget the purple T-shirt and purple frosted capri jeans I was wearing at the time, too. With my white purse and the neon pink strap, I was The Shit. And don’t even ask how many Bon Jovi pins I had tacked onto that hideous handbag. The answer is TOO MANY.

In any event, the earrings. My teachers thought I was awesome — they were youngish themselves and probably hating the business attire, so they totally dug whatever weird look I was going for. I particularly loved the leopard-skin condoms — I used to joke that it was an “in emergency, break glass” handy kind of accessory. Heh — I threw out that pair just a year ago — I figured they had LONG outlived their usefulness. 😉

But what these clothes/accessories remind me to do is to love me for all the crazy shit I’ve done and to maybe once in awhile indulge the Inner Wildwoman again.

And tomorrow night, she’s gonna break out the surf wax/pomade hair shit, the Aussie Sprunch Spray, the curling iron and maybe even some blue eyeliner. She’s gonna pick a great shirt to wear, a cute miniskirt and maybe even some bike shorts (think Debbie Gibson). I swear I have a pair of clear hooker-heel jellies somewhere in the hacienda, too, ’cause a girl’s gotta wear the right shoes to this shindig. (I think I just heard Chris Rock have a heart attack — only trashy strippers can wear clear heels!)

Oh, and I found legwarmers at Hot Topic. Legwarmers! I am so freaking excited about those things — reminds me of when I used to take dance classes. Not that I have an iota of rhythm or anything, but I totally dug my jazz lessons circa 1984, where we grooved to Tina Turner’s “Private Dancer” every week.

Ah, I’ve come a long way since then. The evolution has spanned decades and miles upon miles. I’ve wanted things and not wanted other things, only to do an about-face and find opportunities and beauty and sunshine where I’d never expected to see it; on the flipside, the things that were so tempting on the surface? Just that — surface. Nothing beneath it. Wants and needs and dreams can change. We all “grow into” the people we were always meant to be. Life gets harder, but it gets better, too.

While I’d never permanently want to be the girl I used to be, I’m happy to slip on her trashy shoes for just another night and pretend to dance in her old Strawberry Shortcake nightgown on her Smurf-themed sheets to “Boom Boom Boom, Let’s Go Back to My Room.”

But we’ll never, ever go back to her natural hair color. … mostly because we FORGET what it was!!!

On iTunes: Nick Drake, “Wasted”

1. What was your first job?
Camp counselor for troubled youth. I was 16 and got involved because I was a member of this peer-counseling group at my high school. What they didn’t tell us in advance was that kids were coming to the day camp who were in the child protective services system — most of the kids were way cool and totally fun, but some of the behavioral problems were a bit much for a group of 16-year-olds to handle.

But I really built a rapport with my kids and a bunch of others. We played a lot of sports — and I am NOT athletically inclined — so I volunteered to sit out with the kids who were afraid to play or just not in the mood. Sometimes we did arts-and-crafts, but more often, we just talked and hung out and had a good time. Those kids had seen such sadness and violence and loneliness — and I was in charge of the 8- to 10-year-olds — and I became kind of a big sister, a confidant, a constant for them.

I always wonder where those kids ended up. And if those girls ever hated cheerleaders (who were practicing their routines in the next quadrant while we worked) as much as I did. 😉

Oh, but the irony? When I was 22, I went to work for child protective services in my county — in the P.R. department. And when I was 27, I went to work for a foster care provider. Talk about your first job setting you on a career path!

2. How much did you make?
I think it was $5 an hour. Which is substantially more than my first three retail jobs, which respectively paid $3.90, $4 and $4.10. *sigh*

3. Describe your least favorite co-worker of all time.
Town Crier. Aptly named for doing a lot of whining and gossip-mongering but not actually doing WORK. I remember her for when she must have been low on meds (she openly told us she was on them). She shoved me into a bathroom stall in a rage and she tried to accost a very pregnant friend of mine — all over ridiculous situations that involved us, oh, ASKING her to do her job. The head cheese (get the pun) loved her and therefore, we were the ones who were frowned upon for tattling on her. And people wondered why we were unhappy!

4. What is your dream job?
Something that combines editorial mastery and event planning and blogging. 🙂

5. What do you currently do and do you like it?
Something that combines editorial mastery and blogging. 🙂 LOL. Sure, I like it. I really care about it, which I know I have with all of my jobs, but this is the first place that hasn’t driven me to come home and touch up my resume every week. 🙂

On iTunes: Pussycat Dolls, “Don’t Cha (Remix)”

Either that or, with my period finally starting today (hooray!), my emotions are actually regulating. I just wish I could say the same for my oil glands. *sigh*

UPDATED

I hate fast-food establishments in Alexandria. In this area in general, really — I’d say I’ve had a 6% success rate with actually driving off with what I ordered. Sure, you can argue that I overcomplicate things by saying “no ice” in my drink and “no onions” on just about everything, but come on — a girl deserves some luck once in awhile.

For those of you who do not have a grab bag of “Which language will I be greeted with today?” when hunger hits, let me explain how to reduce the chances of error at the drive-thru. First, do you see the list of combos? Order one. I don’t care that you don’t want the fries — accept that you will live when they come with the combo and eat them and you will love them. Trust. Do not ask for salt or ketchup for them, though — you will end up with no fries and yet a packet of ketchup. While it’s not difficult for a worker to screw up “Combo No. 3” with no other instructions, it happens. Like it did to me today.

But before I go there, one other thing: You have two drink choices. No, I don’t care that they have seven fountain drinks, five milkshake flavors and a host of things like milk and OJ and shit like that. Your choice is either “Coke” or “Diet.” Period. The end. If you have any hope of trying to make it to a particular destination on time, you say “diet” and you do not argue if it does not TASTE like diet. Got it?

That said, I was running early this morning — a mighty feat. So I decided to toddle up to King Street and actually walk into the McDonald’s in Bradlee Center. You know — because walking in is supposed to increase your odds of getting the breakfast you order, no?

No.

I was near Shirlington Village when I found out that I had somebody else’s breakfast — a novel concept, given that I was THE ONLY PERSON IN THE STORE AT THE TIME AND THE DRIVE-THRU WAS EMPTY.

Oh, and by the way, I ordered a No. 2 with coffee. Hence why I went inside — I like to fix my own java, thankyouverymuch, instead of holding the cup between my knees and stirring my brew as I accelerate to 85 mph to avoid getting kilt on the highway. I’ve had many a scorched thigh in the morning. 🙁

Let me tell you something about me. I am just so nice and sweet and perky sometimes that even I want to kill me. Other times, I am a grab bag of misdirected emotions, and believe me, I’ve got a few toiling around that really, really need an outlet.

I take after my mom in the martyr respect. Both of us, separately of each other, have gone back to whatever store it was and literally THROWN the wrong order at them and stormed out without even asking for a refund. Seriously, when you are hungry for something and you get something that you would never in a million years order (like today), you get turned off by the prospect of food in general.

I also take after my grandmother in that I am happy to tell someone who has wronged me to take that sammich and wipe their asses with it. I shudder to recount how many times I might have let that slip out of my mouth. 😉

On occasion, I will ask for them to fix their mistake. But when you’re on the ramp to 395 North and there’s no place to turn around, it ain’t worth it to try to go back.

So let’s chalk this up to me being a mature adult for not losing my cookies on some poor girl who wouldn’t have understood what I was saying anyway (and who clearly didn’t in the first place, apparently). I gnawed on half of the offending sandwich before deciding it tasted too much like ass to continue.

However, if this had happened just two days ago, I would have HELPED her to wipe her ass with it!

UPDATE
The Wendy’s on South Van Dorn? The CAPTIAL of suckage. I forgot about them, but alas, after half the order being f’ed up (and no straw — come on people — no FUCKING STRAW?!?!), I remembered that their record with me is 100 percent JACKED UP. And they gave me food poisoning last summer. At least they got the sammich right — this time. But the ice? When have I EVER asked for ice? Or, for that matter, a creeping rash. …

On iTunes: Bob Seger & Martina McBride, “Chances Are”

Might have been a telephone pole — happened too quickly.

But first — tunage!

This entry brought to you by the letters A, D and D.

OK, so anyway, I guess I should start this off with the fact that I cast a spell a week or so ago.

Maybe I’d better give you even more tunage — this entry’s gonna be a long one!

Gimme an A! Gimme a D! Gimme another D!

Anyway, I don’t cast spells often. I only did it once before, when I literally had no idea what else to do. And let’s say that one worked, which I believe it did.

I’ve been very careful to not rouse the spirits much, and the reason is twofold. One, I don’t want to upset the apple cart o’life by disturbing the order of my universe with my request (although, in the grand scheme of things, I don’t see the harm in wanting something, anything good, no?). And two, I want to earn what I have, not feel like I willed it toward me and that would be the only reason why it became mine.

On the other hand, how many times does life simply pass us by because we’re not smart enough to stick out our foot and trip these opportunities before they pass up their rightful owner?

In any event, what I got for conjuring my own spell (this time around) without any sort of guidance is a whole lot of unwanted stress. And sure, I can’t control the stressors — just my reaction to them.

When crap happens, I have several coping mechanisms (other than the usual clamming up and suffering in silence). I envision tossing things into the Potomac River. I also envision writing the problems on a blackboard and totally erasing every square inch of the board — eradicating the issues’ existence from my mind.

This works well — I employ all my coping skills, often concurrently. The problem, though, is other things crop up to take their place, and they exacerbate the intensity of the wounds that never really got to heal in the first place.

I guess this is how we acquire baggage — we try so very hard to have good intentions, but if we don’t patch up the holes in our hearts, any good things that might come to fill the space will drift out as though through a sieve.

So, the spell. I decided that I didn’t really give a shit about screwing with the order of the universe — I’m tired of saying inane crap like “good things will come when they’re ready to happen” or “I must not have deserved for that to happen the way I wanted it to.” Screw that! Whatever happened to Shan’s motto of “make it happen”? Or even Mom’s motto of “do something, even if it’s wrong”? Or my own motto of “speak/think things into existence”?

And thus, I envisioned things I wanted. In the general sense, of course … although I couldn’t help but see a picture in my mind. Not that I was wishing for what said vision was, per se, but I didn’t ask for the picture — it came to me. And I wasn’t opposed to it.

Gotta have something to aspire toward — can’t move toward a goal with no idea what you want the end result to look like, right?

In any event, that brings me to the telephone pole/tree/large solid object that I almost hit whilst lost in thought (and changing a CD, truth be told) tonight. I was kind of bumming about plans I had last night that I was unable to attend, and I was kind of wondering about the line between being a good sport and a doormat — when is it right to be cheerful despite wanting to scream and when it is wrong to NOT speak up?

We live in such an odd society — we hold back on sharing affectionate banter when all we really want is to have someone who cares about us who we can care about right back, even on the most basic level.

On the flipside, we also hold back letting others know when we have to keep moving our boundaries to ensure proper distance to keep us from reaching out and throttling them.

And it all goes back to someone or something from long ago that prevents us from freely reaching out, either way, just to let people understand us better. I think we might care about ourselves more if we thought others felt the same way.

I know, I know — self-preservation starts with us, and I think quite a few of us preserve ourselves by not rocking the proverbial boat when we really want to throw it in high gear and sail to the Orient and back. And if we do reach out and are made to feel like we shouldn’t have, then we pull back even further — and lord only knows when we’ll build up enough courage to reach out for someone, anyone again.

Why is it so hard for us to ask for what we want and to refuse what we don’t? How do we let some people know it’s OK to approach and others to back away until they rethink their strategy?

So, the long and the short of it is this: I promised myself things would be “different” this time around. And I’m back in a similar rut, although with a little less freedom and a little more peace, for the most part.

Which brings me to the tree/pole/whatever it was. No, I’m not saying I’ll pay more attention to the road! LOL. I don’t mean that I got a life-or-death revelation or anything profound like that.

I did, however, realize that Happy Dawn needs to come off of hiatus — seriously, I had the BEST laugh today over a cucumber (don’t ask) and I MISS laughing like that! I can’t remember the last time I didn’t hold back on what I was feeling in a particular moment.

And I need to do whatever it is to coax the Happy Dawn out of her shell or off her ledge or wherever the hell she keeps disappearing to. ‘Cause she’s a real fuckin’ riot when you let her be herself.

And maybe I have to tighten some boundaries to give her some room outside of which she can feel a bit free and unafraid. For the longest time, I didn’t have that power to make things better. But now I do.

As far as what I wished for? The balance to make everything better. That’s all. Whatever form(s) this “balance” might take. The adventure and risk and exhilaration that comes with creating opportunities where there were none. Of dreaming in color in an era where the only colors that you are familiar with are black-and-blue.

And the harder the challenge, the more fulfilling the end result will be.

All right, Muse. I’m ready to do my part — bring it on, whatever it is!

Reader Poll Monday:

1. If you had to live in one season all year round, which would it be?
Autumn

2. Did you ever walk in on your parents making whoopie?
Yes. Also, when I went off to college, Mom and her then-boyfriend broke my childhood bed during the deed. Luckily I was 19 and had moved on out by then.

3. Has anyone ever walked in on you?
I’ve left doors open when I’ve had roommates. (My apologies to all of you who still read this page! LOL). I’ve had windows and doors open and nosy neighbors o’plenty. Damn it, I’m too caught up in the moment to care who’s observing!!!

4. Name a song that suits your mood today.
“Maybe it’s Me” — Smith and Mighty

5. Have you ever been audited by the IRS?
*ducks* Not yet. 🙂

6. Is there something you do regularly for the sole purpose of annoying someone else?
Hell yeah — how do you think I can hold all my emotions inside without igniting a fireworks display? Girl’s gotta get her kicks somewhere.

Oh, you were looking for me to admit WHAT I do? Heh. Being annoying and having people puzzling over whether I’m doing it on purpose is half the FUN!!!

7. If we were playing charades, how would you act out self-indulgence?
Is molesting guests included in the rulebook?

8. Do you keep mementos from past relationships?
No. I don’t burn them in a ritual, but I hang onto what I want for as long as I think I still want it around. I don’t like to throw away pretty things for the sake of getting rid of them, but if I keep them around sufficiently long enough and I decide the items no longer fit my style (long after the gifter no longer fits my style), then I gleefully purge.

9. If forced to choose, would you rather fart every 20 seconds or hiccup every 20 seconds for the next month?
Hiccup. Because I do a lot of that anyway — my cats do the former and I can’t stand their funky butts!

10. Ask me something. 🙂
What’s a girl to do to keep from going crazy over summer skin? I have control over more oil than OPEC in this fricking humidity!

I was talking to Angie the other morning, and we were chatting about her uber-fabulous ’80s birthday party that’s coming up on Saturday.

MEAT

Anyway, I make kickass cheese plates, and she was wondering what one particular meat was that I use (Sweet Lebanon). And I recalled a story that I probably shouldn’t have shared, but I own up to it when I do stupid stuff, so I’ll tell you, too.

After one of my parties, another friend wanted to know what this fabulous meat was. (I think there’s crack in it. Seriously.) So I took him to the one grocery store in the area where I can find it, and we each bought a quarter-pound. Well, this stuff really stinks (especially in the D.C. area’s legendary humidity), so we decided to eat our lunchmeat.

Unremarkable, right? Well, picture this: I was driving us to Krispy Kreme at the time. So, we snarfed up lunchmeat and THEN grabbed a half-dozen donuts.

Angie found it wildly funny. So I am telling it. But what’s really funny are the photos of me from the ’80s that she wants me to submit for a Wall of Shame at her party.

Here are two — and I shudder to admit that I miss my ’80s hair. And, for that matter, having Jon Bon Jovi plastered on my bedroom walls. …

CHEESE

On iTunes: Iio, “Runaway”

Plethora o’Friday Five. On a Saturday, no less.

On iTunes: Spiller, “Cry Baby (Royksoop’s Melselves Memorabilia Mix)”

Despite my ongoing quest to phase UPS out of my life because they SUCK, especially the bitches who work in my local pickup center (who like to complain about what assholes their customers are … TO OTHER CUSTOMERS), I have to go there again. *heavy sigh* I ordered a FABULOUS skirt and it was delivered today via those bastards. I’d told the originating company to use FedEx or the postal service!!! Why does it keep happening to me that NO ONE listens to me?!?!

Seriously, UPS? Saturday hours would be fucking wonderful. Really. Because I don’t want to wait however long it would take to ship this to an alternate address, given that the last time I asked you to do that, it got shipped back to the sender in California, then out to their new HQ in Las Vegas, and THEN got back here a month LATER!!! Because, like, shit was BROKEN but I missed the window to EXCHANGE the item. Thanks much, you goat-blowing sons of bitches.

Breathe. I can’t think of a more fitting way for this week to end. Oh, yeah, who has unresolved vitirol? You’re lookin’ at her. I’ve been pissed off about something since the Thursday before last and I’m happy to channel that rage onto my unfriendly neighborhood UPS counter workers!.

On iTunes: 50 Cent, “Thug Love (remix)”

Dear Clarity,

Love,
Dawn

Tread carefully. I’m fra-geee-lay today.

On iTunes: Rob Thomas, “When the Heartache Ends (acoustic)”