Caterwauling

“The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.” Ladies, go see it. Leave the boys at home because they are not going to want to see you after two hours of nonstop sobbing and laughing. I’ve never had to actually come home after a movie to freshen up, but after this one, it was unavoidable. (Damn you, Delia Ephron! I should have known an Ephron sister was behind this screenplay!) Now, to go out and buy the soundtrack!

I have about a million things to say after the movie, but I don’t give spoilers. All I will say is that it’s about four friends who have something connecting them as they go off on their separate life adventures — the world’s best jeans, of course, but they’re a metaphor for the comfort, versatility, durability and dependability of the sisterly bonds among friends.

I started thinking about my group of friends from college — Janna, Becky and Jody. There was a time when we were an inseparable foursome, and I found myself missing them desperately. And aside from them, I was remembering both good and tumultuous times with other friends — all of us have scattered like tumbleweeds since we all first met in whatever the city. Shan sent me a birthday card that very definitely mentioned a time “when” we will be living in the same city again. And we’ve always believed it. We’re on our own adventures right now, but the roads will converge again. They have to. We will accept no less from Fate.

As far as the characters, I found myself immediately identifying with Tibby, the girl who chooses to be an iconoclast — who immerses herself in sarcasm and in observing life through movie-making than actually being the one who has or shares any feelings. Her evolution is most similar to mine. But then I saw myself in Carmen, with the father who found a better life without her and her mother. And then there’s Lena, the scared little girl inside who turns her back on opportunities for happiness at every turn.

And, unexpectedly, I saw myself in Bridget, who doesn’t know what she’s looking for but she’s determined to find it in everything she encounters. And Bridget, after giving 100 percent of her passion to her athletics, is constantly chastised for being so good at what she does. I have always been told to take my passions down a notch or 20 so that others can keep up or, at least, not be made to look bad. But when your passion is really all that you have, how can you help but excel at it? And shouldn’t others, then, be trying to keep up with you instead of holding you back?

I guess what I miss most of all about my friends is their physical presence. I know we’re all here for each other in spirit and on the other end of the phone/IM. But some days, all you really want is someone who can look into your eyes and understand what you’re thinking without you saying a word. You want someone who will laugh with you and help you to dry your tears and to point you toward solutions that your brain is too addled with confusion to immediately comprehend. You don’t want to have to give the backstory and all of its gory drama when you need comforting right at that instant — you want someone who just knows … and who knows what to do in response.

And while I love men and for all of their boy abilities and parts and senses and the magic and wonder and butterflies (and even the heartbreak, oftentimes) that they bring, there’s something about friendships between women that defies the logic that men always seem to require. And while, sure, I took issue with some of the things that happened in the movie (like when the boy came back at the end to apologize — yeah, whatever, that was clearly fiction), I remembered the magic that is in each of us that we often forget and that it’s our girlfriends who hold up the mirror and remind us just how smart, strong and downright special we are. And, we don’t ever let each other forget it.

So, girls, here’s to us. And you WILL see me at this movie again and again. It might even encourage me to buy a DVD player when it’s released to the masses, and I know quite a few people who will be receiving copies of it as gifts from me. 🙂

On iTunes: Sister Hazel, “Champagne High”

The new seatbelt PSA campaign, “Click it or Ticket”? It’s irritating. I am trying to figure out a way to hijack the electronic signs on 270 and the Beltway to make them read, “Lick It or Stick It.”

Speaking of my new campaign, I always relish a chance to whore around out a new blog worth reading. Irrelevant Rantings has been long overdue in the blogworld, and it’s by my dear friend Chris who has known me since 1992 and has inexplicably stuck around that long. 😉

Chris promises goatee rides for any female reader who clicks through this page to get to his. Guys, I don’t know what to tell you, other than that there is something in it for you, too, and that’s it’s like your inner voice went and signed up at Blogspot without you even realizing it. You’ll love him — I promise! It’s pretty hard not to. 😉

Anyway, Go. Read. Now. It’s pretty damn good so far, so let’s encourage him to keep it up!

On iTunes: Jack Johnson, “Crying Shame”

There is not enough alcohol in this world right now …

I just got notice that something I ordered as a GIFT (see “$19 shipping”) has been backordered for several weeks. Gah. So much for having a great idea. Whoever said it’s the thought that counts clearly knew the effort the person went to — but I’m not tacky enough to tell people that they *almost* had something special.

I’m asking for a refund — we’ll see. I don’t understand how any company has the audacity to still want to charge me for “express” shipping when the item will arrive three weeks after I needed it in the first place.

Oh, but wait, there’s more.

It’s no longer raining in my bathroom. However, the “handy” assholes saw fit to rip down all of my shelving and to take all of my personal items out of my bathroom/shower/sink area. Like, um, shower toys and all. *cough* And they left them all on the floor for the cats to play with.

Barf.

Not to mention, but I had a glass dish full of about a million hair thingamabobs, earrings and other assorted jewelry items — nearly ALL of which are missing. I have no doubt that I will be seeing them in Pooh Corner in the coming days. Those cats can and will eat what does not eat them first.

Oh, and the house not only stinks from whatever they did to stop the waterfall from the sky, but there is also cardboard taped to the bathroom ceiling, the sink is leaking now and there is an inch-thick pile of dirt in the sink.

But, worse, the maintenance people apparently went through my closets to find a broom and dustpan. I guess I can’t complain because they took out my wet garbage, which unfortunately contained, um, last week’s feminine products. I am feeling so freaking violated, but I would have felt loads better if they’d just emptied the litterbox, too, while they were at it. 😉

OH — and my air conditioning, which was on for a week, has been shut off. I’m havin’ HOT FLASHES from the anger here!!!

I need to take up a collection to get myself out of this ghetto. Because that’s the only way it will happen and it NEEDS to happen. Joy.

On iTunes: Papa Roach, “Scars”

The only thing worse than getting no sleep is having not a thing to do while you’re pacing the house like a caged animal. I almost wished I’d e-mailed home a report I’ve been working on at Dream Job — I probably could have gotten it done, for as long as I’ve been awake.

So I shopped online. I cleaned out iTunes, Old Navy and a few other places. Just don’t mention the words “$19 shipping for one item” to me — doesn’t seem like such a good idea in the morning light, now does it?

Why was I awake, you ask? Well, for one, the cats angry with me that I don’t let them play on the balcony 24/7 (oh, they whine and throw themselves against the glass balcony door now — spoiled brats) and Kadi HOWLS at me to get up. Maddie has no problem sleeping next to me — hogging the bed and rubbing her stinky ass against my head (ugh). Oh, but wait — it gets better — it’s also RAINING in my bathroom.

I was probably at home for at least 14 hours before I would finally allow myself to use the facilities (no beverages were allowed last night), and even then, I did my business in 20 seconds and got the hell out of there. The fan vent in the ceiling has steadily dripped yellow water since long before I got home last night — I yanked everything out of the bathroom, including my beloved rug, and I am not sure anything is worth saving.

And, dummy me — if I hadn’t washed the car, it wouldn’t have RAINED all night. I had hung the rug over the balcony railing for it to dry. HAH! Now it’s just full of rainwater. Hooray.

I’m an idiot, though — I used the garbage can (which had crap in it) to catch the water. So now I have a bag full of water and wet tissues. Genius. I finally got smart and left the toilet seat up, and the water is going straight into it. Yay Dawn! She’s not the brightest bulb in the box, but sometimes, the synapses connect.

In any event, speaking of bathroom items, I have a bone to pick with Wal-Mart and cashiers around the country. I am one of those anal-retentive assholes that they hate who will group my items on the conveyor belt in the way I want them to be bagged. Meaning, just because I buy tampons and toilet cleanser, it does not mean you are to bag them together because they will be used in the same room. Just because they might be used within proximity of each other does not mean they are used in the same hole and, therefore, I don’t want them bagged together.

And, yes, I am also one of those assholes who takes an extra bag and rearranges my parcels before I leave the store. (My mother would be so proud.)

Well, gotta go scrub my butt — hopefully I have water in the SHOWER and not just raining into the commode.

On iTunes: Ivy, “Let’s Go to Bed”

I have nothing to rant about. Like, not a goddamned thing. Is there a rip in time and I’ve somehow traversed into a parallel universe where the “nice” Dawn is all sunshine and puppies and shit?

Cripes.

Ted and Mookie were discussing people and their online personas — particularly, people who go apeshit online and seem like suicidal maniacs. But when you meet them in person, they’re kind of cool and certainly not as effed-up as they’ve portrayed themselves to be.

I believe Ted was the first who told me that I am nothing like how I used to be online. See, once there was a little blog named Caterwauling. It was my therapy. It was my documentation for all the injustices I faced. No topic was off-limits, although I mostly used the space to keep the Fist of Death from choking those who, I believed, richly deserved it. Anyway, my old tagline mentioned “pissing and moaning,” but to know me in person, I conserve my words and, especially, my emotions. Unless I’m asked, of course — then I might launch a tirade or 20. But alas, I have gravitated toward being quiet, observant, compliant. I guess I just don’t have the energy to rage anymore. That, or I have become a Grown-Up.

Oh, don’t get me wrong — I have my tipping point. But I guess I don’t have people tap-dancing on it with steel-toed shitkickers anymore. My mom recently unloaded a lot of dead weight from her life, and when I asked her what motivated her, she said, “You did. Everything and everyone that was causing you pain? Gone. You’re 100 percent happier without all the bullshit weighing you down. I want to feel like that, too.”

She’s right, you know. And it occurs to me that I have spent a lifetime feeling guilty — nay, being made to feel guilty — after giving people, places and things every ounce of effort, energy and creativity I possessed … and then some … and being treated like it was never enough. And I don’t exactly half-ass ANYTHING. At some point, it occurred to me that it was about time to channel my strength into ME. And I started realizing that, after jumping through hoops to please the users and abusers and being TERRIFIED of not meeting their expectations, I never ONCE demanded that they meet MY expectations. Or if I did and they missed by a mile, I was altogether too forgiving.

In any event, I don’t mean to sound like a hard-ass (*checks ass* — nope, still pretty padded and soft! LOL), but I’ve always held myself to exceptionally high standards. And the best friendships/relationships I’ve ever had were when my expectations of others were equally high. I mean, I’ve written off so many people’s behavior as typical of them — something to be forgiven and even ignored because they were too ignorant to figure out that they were lucky to have had me pass through their lives and establishments. No more of that crap — I demand the world of everyone around me now. Again, not to sound like I wouldn’t accept them after they might miss the bar once or twice, but I fully expect them to redeem themselves. And, eventually, to blow straight past that bar to make me set it even higher.

I’ve always operated on overdrive — I’ve always left people in my dust. But as I get older, the stress and anxiety is beginning to show its wear-and-tear. So, I do try to chill the fuck out a bit more and conserve my energy for more trying times. But it’s almost a relief to stop being surprised when people genuinely want to impress and even please me … I know I’m worth it, but for others to demonstrate it, well, knocks off my frog socks.

On iTunes: Everything But the Girl, “Mirrorball (DJ Jazzy Jeff Full Sole Remix)”

But is it wrong that I feel so damned special that five people are logged into my iTunes stream? 😉 It’s like experiencing the madness that happens in my office without ever actually having to witness it firsthand.

In any event, would any of you be interested in a Goddess Dawn commemorative CD? I make a special CD on every birthday of music that describes where I’m at in my life, and if there’s any interest in that kind of insanity chick music ephemera, I’m happy to share it. Drop an e-mail to goddessdawn AT gmail DOT com with an address, and I’ll be sure to get it in the mail before, like, Halloween. 😉

On iTunes: Lili Haydn, “Anything”

Live (Aid) 8 in Philadelphia. July 2. Bon Jovi. Rob Thomas. Will Smith. 50 Cent. P Diddy. Sarah McLachlan (shut up, I will throw underwear at her, too).

Pratt, count me in! Although, you are responsible for unclamping me from humping Jon Bon Jovi’s leg. That is, if you can. 😉

On iTunes: Vanessa Daou, “The Long Tunnel of Wanting You”

I could be wrong. I often am. I wish I were this time. But I doubt it — my intuition’s too strong.

Not to say that “someday” couldn’t still happen. But, it seems so much further away. I always knew that, even if this weren’t an acid trip without the actual hallucinogens, there would be a delay. I’m OK with occupying myself in the interim — I’ve never been the type to open a gift before it was time. (Not that I get altogether that many gifts — you’d think I’d be a little more eager to tear into things when they come along as rarely as they do.) I don’t know. But I tend to appreciate things more than anybody else in the world — I know special when I see it. And I treat it accordingly. I guess I just wish the sentiment were reciprocated more often and in bigger, more obvious ways.

If my theory is correct, maybe it can be a good thing. I will see to it that it is. Maybe the impetus is there to eradicate the drama and the other roadblocks that I’ve inadvertently placed. I don’t know — I’m trying not to be shattered by a hunch, but do I really need something this huge to be confirmed? I can always at least try to comfort myself that a few too many drinking binges and happy pills in my 20s might have killed off some essential brain cells and that I’m not *always* right. But how, though, do you get over something that you believed was yours and could still be, but you’ve got to walk away for awhile? I’ll tell you how — you need to erase the possibility so that you can be pleasantly surprised if the horse you wanted on the carousel comes around again and is waiting for you to ride off into the sunset with it.

I suspect tonight will be the fourth night in a row without any sleep that doesn’t involve nightmares. But I guess those are better than having no dreams at all.

On iTunes: Tori Amos, “Sleeps With Butterflies”

Any gal who’s read Greg Behrendt’s “He’s Not That Into You” is familiar with his admonition of “Don’t Waste the Pretty.” He doesn’t want us fabulous gals wasting our time, energy and youth waiting around for assholes. In any event, Mom has a new saying, which is “Don’t Waste the Stupid.” She hates morons and believes that if someone is capable of assholitry, then he or she won’t waste a bit of energy in being the biggest possible jagoff. And, after spending the weekend sitting in traffic with people who shouldn’t be trusted with a sharpened pencil, let alone a vehicle, I get her point. 🙂

Anyway, weekend. Too bad it’s over, although I got *just enough* of a happy-hoedown at the family hacienda to be overwhelmed satisfied.

Not long ago, I told you that my grandfather started playing guitar again. Well, not only did he surprise me by playing for me, but he played one of my all-time favorite songs. He asked if I’d ever heard of “Me and Bobby McGhee,” and I asked if he could play it. And he did! When he was a musician in his day, he said that was often his opening song. Who knew? I mean, I have been in love with the song for-freakin’-ever, and who would have known that it was one of his signature live songs?

He also played me some original things he’s been working on. He was having some trouble with the fingerwork, but he knows so many advanced moves that I suspect it’s only natural that, at age 79, some of the moves are harder to do. But he remembers them. And he’s trying to limber up to play like he used to when he taught himself how during World War II, sitting in the bunkers with his buddies and playing the early rock songs and writing his own when he had a chance.

I guess I got to thinking (I, for one, NEVER waste my stupid!) about how many people are absolutely rolling in money, doing what they love. And the rest of us poor schleps are lucky to get by, most of the time. We put aside our hobbies as things to do “if we have time” as opposed to making a living — or, at least, a side venture — out of them. And we have no one to blame but ourselves, especially those of us who don’t have family obligations and are just too tired, lazy or unfocused to commit to creating beauty when it’s so much easier to park our asses on the Internet or in front of a television. I’d thought getting rid of cable and having no DVD player would encourage me to be more creative with my time. Heh. Yeah, not so much. And what is there in this world to commemorate the fact that I spent a lot of time in it?

In any event, it was weird being back in Pittsburgh. I love it there — don’t get me wrong. I dragged Mom up to my old apartment on Mount Washington to admire the view from my old balcony. But we went to watch the Memorial Day parade in my old neighborhood (in the South Hills), and it occurred to me that all of my friends who have moved to D.C. and now scoff at the people from back home, well, are kind of right. It looked like nobody even bothered washing their asses to be seen in public. *twitch* Like George Carlin said, if you wash nothing else, at least take care of four places every day: armpits, mouth and asshole. I swear, there are days when I really feel bad about my own appearance, and I feel like a fucking supermodel when I go back home.

Alas, but it wasn’t me attracting attention. A lot of the folks in the parade went to high school with me, but I couldn’t put names with the faces, and I don’t look a thing like I used to, so I was safe. *whew* But Mom was wearing some, uh, boob-enhancing attire, and you should have seen the old geezers killing themselves to stare at her chest. LOL. The two cops patrolling our side of the street were dancing around, craning their necks to look at her. And we knew one of the guys in the parade carrying a flag, and let me tell you — he had TWO flagpoles hoisted once he got a look at her! LOL. Gotta love these small-town shindigs. *shudder* I feel so dirty. 😉

Anyway, I did the trip up in three hours and 40 minutes. It rained like a mofo through Pennsylvania, and while all the pussies jammed on the brakes, I got it up to 95 mph on the Turnpike and hydroplaned the whole way. I kid you not — I was convinced I was going to get a ticket, but apparently the state troopers couldn’t catch me. Go Speed Racer, go!

Hope y’all had a safe and happy weekend, too, and that you didn’t get stuck in the traffic jam on I-70 like I did. If you were in the mess with me, I’m sure you heard me swearing. In fact, if you listen real closely to the wind, I’m sure you might hear me screaming “Fucknut!” in the distance to anyone who deserves it for not only not wasting their stupid, but also for sharing it with the few remaining “good” drivers in the greater metro area. …

On iTunes: Willy Porter, “Watercolor”