Caterwauling

“Now the parking lot is empty
Everyone’s gone someplace
I pick you up and in the trunk I’ve packed
A cooler and a 2-day suitcase
Cause there’s a place we like to drive
Way out in the country
Five miles out of the city limit we’re singing
And your hand’s upon my knee.”

— Indigo Girls, “Power of Two”

So I had moment in the car last night, between stops to get a cheeseburger for the cat at one place, and chicken for the hoomins at another.

NPR was on the radio, and my hand fell from the gearshift to the passenger side.

I had a strong memory of someone I knew a long time ago. Almost felt like he was there at that moment.

It passed quickly. As feeling calm often does.

Made me think about how I say my lucky number is three. But maybe it’s two.

After all, I’ve had two jobs I’ve loved … two apartments I’ve loved … and two men I’ve, well, gotten all warm and fuzzy about.

Wonder if the third would be the charm or if I should just quit while I’m ahead.

I love my Planned Parenthood app. No incriminating words needed.

I have a friend I quote here from time to time. Because she’s brilliant.

Her latest is stuck in my head:

“Life will throw you curveballs. But you don’t always have to swing at them.”

We’ve always been told the opposite. Wayne Gretzky said, “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.” And that man sure scored a lot of points for my beloved Penguins. Other than every Wayne I’ve ever known being a compete douche (and one more follow-up douche moment for the books), wouldn’t you want to be like this particular Wayne?

I don’t have anything profound to say after another night of listening to the neighbors gallop across my ceiling and then the cat yanking me out of bed to feed her hungry belly.

But yeah. Lots of curveballs here.

I’ve felt pretty helpless, swinging at them till my arms hurt. Today I’m going to stand still and let a few whiz by. Let someone else swing. Let someone else endure the injury today. I’m too old for this shit. And so is the screwball lobbing all these blunt objects at my head.

Made the mistake of walking into a store to buy Momma some bread last night.

Went through the entire display (it was Big Lots. Shit be janky) to get the perfect one.

Walked straight to the register. No one was in line.

Well, one guy THOUGHT he was in line.

He said, “Excuse me. EXCUSE ME. I SAID EXCUSE ME.”

I turned around and saw a big dumb doofus with a cart filled to the brim with crap. I looked at him quizzically because I walked FREE AND CLEAR to the register. I figured maybe he was trying to flirt or joke or whatever it is I deal with when I am not in the mood to talk.

He said, “You cut in line.” Like it was recess and we were 8.

Honestly I still thought maybe he was joking. And he commanded me to get behind him.

I was stunned for a second and waved him FORWARD. You know, INTO MY SPOT.

I thought, maybe he’s a little special? I mean WHO THE FUCK would cut in front of a girl … who’s already at the register … WITH ONE ITEM?

And it only took me a split second of looking at this tall twit’s basket to say, “Let me guess. You MUST be single.”

Then I threw the stupid bread at him and motherfucked his very existence the whole way out.

I’m proud that the “Probably voted for Trump” was the SECOND thought out of my mouth. Clearly that makes me even more of the adult in this situation!

“Leaving’s hard, trust me, it’s really bad
It’ll shake you, damn near break you, it always has
You don’t go until you’re praying to break even,
Until staying is worse than leaving.”

— Sunny Sweeney, “Staying’s Worse Than Leaving”

I prayed to keep this apartment. Now it drives me crazy again.

I prayed to keep this job somehow. They (sort of) gave it back to me. And when I approached after another fucked-up commute and saw smoke billowing out of a (nearby, damn) building, it was an “Office Space” moment. I thought, hmm, should I turn around?

Have to keep reminding myself that, yeah. Staying definitely feels worse than leaving. But no paychecks are MUCH worse than paychecks.

When you are putting your employees on the street for the holidays, pro tip: Don’t put up signs for a company blood drive. Truly. Just, don’t.

Although … the Red Cross is offering a free fleece blanket to entice us. Perfect for when we are living outside!

Of course, I would wonder about the quality of our blood. I have none left — they took everything I had to give. And considering everyone’s coping methods, yeah. Sorry Puerto Ricans and Californians in need. If we are your last hope, you’re doomed.

Sat in accident traffic on the way to work. Sat in accident traffic on the way back.

95 was foo-kayaed. Turnpike was hosed. At least on the return trip, I took a (lonnnnggg) back road. So, three hours commuting — then another hour running errands. After another day of joy and another night of NO GODDAMN SLEEP. GAWD PEOPLE; HOW MUCH MORE AM I SUPPOSED TO TAKE.

In any event, a friend and I sat and compared notes about all the kangaroo ball strokers (Flopsy and Mopsy) … the “hey, MY EYES ARE UP HERE” fools (so many more than two) … the “um, did I ASK you to stare at my ass” one … the Eric Trump lookalike who picks his nose and eats it … and all the other weirdos across the creeper spectrum we’ve encountered over the years.

Honorable mentions to the ones who stroke themselves in hopes we will swoon and find their erect nipples or thrust-out bellies sexy.

It was interesting to really sit and compare notes at the absolute ridiculousness two perfectly professional women have to endure, on top of treacherous commutes and impossible workloads and a sadly limited number of hours in a day.

What really makes us sad is all the stupid fucking white women who will elect the pedophile in Alabama tomorrow. Because it would kill them to do anything that might benefit their fellow sisters. What, the Democrat is an upstanding guy AND he believes you should have a say over your own body? NO WAY, WHITE BITCHES. WE WILL VOTE FOR THE GUY BANNED FROM THE FUCKING MALL FOR SOLICITING YOUNG GIRLS so you don’t get an IUD that’s covered by your insurance.

So, I don’t just hate white men. I hate white women. Fuck it, I hate EVERYONE WHO EVER DROVE A CAR ON 95.

So much for my zen. Better luck tomorrow.

Because a traumatic November just wasn’t enough …

The apartment I prayed to be able to keep is going to be the end of me.

Thundercunts Part IV decided to party all night. Usually it sounds like they are riding their suitcases around the hardwood floors. And stomping like they are 5 years old. That’s daily.

But generally they settle down. Generally.

Last night they were drinking and loud-talking and what sounded like letting a horse gallop from room to room. They have a big ugly dog. So he was riled up while they partied.

Finally after “Saturday Night Live” was over, I called security. Thank the baby Jesus, I got the one competent guy. He paid them a visit very quickly.

And … the night got worse.

The good news is they took the party outside for EVERYONE to enjoy their drunken whooping.

The bad news? They turned on every TV in every room to top volume. It’s 10 a.m. Sunday and they are all still blaring.

I’d figured since we don’t have any other loud neighbors, maybe they didn’t realize how thin the walls/floors are. So, courtesy knock, keep it down plz kthanksbai.

Hahahhaahaha nope.

When my job got eliminated and the landlord wanted to sell, I prayed to keep this place. I know it’s not perfect. But it’s on the water, I have covered garage parking and a great space not 50 feet from my front door, and come on who can move without a job.

Today I have my job back (sort of). And a landlord who wants me to get settled before he lists the place.

Moreover, I have regret that I prayed to keep things the same.

I mean, my real prayer was that we’d be fine. We’re fine. Ish. But not happy.

God I’m sick of not ever feeling safe, secure or happy. Or rested. Maybe if I got a good night’s sleep for once in my sad little life, I’d have the energy to make a good decision and do the work necessary to make it happen.

There’s a guy I write about here from time to time. Nicest guy ever. Also not the brightest.

I’ve probably referred to him as “soccer ball to the skull” more times than not. Dreaming out loud, sort of a modern-day Lucy to the good grief his Charlie Brown-ness creates in my life.

So, we’re all hitting the street, yes? He told me he had two great interviews. I gave him the DL on both, and when he said the one he really wanted, I immediately called my executive friend over there and raved.

Not only that, but I called a friend who knows the guy he interviewed with. And HE raved too.

Look, I did it to spread good karma. Not for any other reason. But …

I can’t help being hurt that he told everyone ELSE about getting … and accepting … an offer. An offer that I am pretty sure having two strong references helped him to get.

He’ll make more money, too. You’re welcome.

He got the offer around the same time a project I sent over got completely fucked up. Completely. His great talent is asking 1,000 questions and yet not reading/listening to most of the answers.

I’d normally have a shit fit. But hey, I get that both feet are out the door now. I say we push the rest out before I try to shoot a goal at his tonsils.

The way I think of it, I just made him someone else’s problem. Maybe he’ll excel. He’s never going to do that where he is now. Never had to. Never planned to.

My real fear? I don’t want to turn out average and checked-out like him. I’m afraid that’s my path if I don’t find a fork in the road that actually whets my appetite rather than ruins it at every turn.

Honest to God. There’s not just a small part of me that was looking forward to being unemployed. I literally cannot form a thought, I am so mentally destroyed by this whole endeavor.

Easy to be grateful. Hard to be happy. Impossible to get excited. Everything could change again. The new org chart is depressing. I mean, if i could have reconfigured the company myself, it would look a LOT different.

I need to finish this big cup of feeling sorry for myself and move on. But I don’t have the energy and this cup has bottomless refills.