Caterwauling

I’m in the new Twitter Mosaic. And I recognize some of you, too!

Just another step toward becoming Internet famous. 😉

Given the week my emotions just (barely) managed to survive, I thought this video was a rather fitting tribute to it.

Tom reminded me last night about SadKermit.com, and here’s the poor puppet singing NIN’s “Hurt. *sniffle* I hear ya, lil’ dude.

Alternate title: Putting the ‘twit’ in Twitter

Are you guys on that thing? Like I need another damn distraction in my day! 😉

Everyone’s abuzz about the proposed Bloggers Code of Conduct today. That’s the thing, though — bloggers are fine. Bloggers are great. It’s the trolls who need to be shot.

My only problem with the code is that it’s up to the hosting site to control the handful of idiots who may read it, to shield the “good” readers from the assholitry. I get that. I do. I have turned off comments for that very reason. I don’t care what some lonely asshole has to say about me, but don’t turn the attacks to my readers and/or the people I care about. It’s boring.

But moreover than shielding the loyal, fabulous readers, why do I even have to see that shit? I pay good money for domains, bandwidth and other nifty tools that keep my words alive. I don’t give a rat’s ass about what some nut has to say, and it’s my right to ban people from my life, so why do I even have to acknowledge their existence online? Meaning, I don’t need a code of ethics. But certain readers? Need a freaking gag order. And an electroshock from their keyboards.

That said, I’m not posting the “Anything Goes” badge. Quite the contrary: my blog, my thoughts, my rules, my world. Not to sound like a complete douche, but I’m sharing myself here, heart and soul. I don’t need to be held accountable by anyone or anything. Because who’s to hold everyone else accountable for their actions? It’s like how we as a society would rather pass laws rather than take the remote out of kids’ hands and actually parent them. I’m living by my (high) standards and everything I do is accepted by the people who pay me, so screw everyone else.

Like Tiff says in her blog policies, “In case you’re wondering, though, I take a particularly dim view of personal attacks, threats, and epithets of a racial, sexual, religious, or ethnic nature. If you want to engage in that kind of behavior, get your own damn blog because you won’t be doing it here.”

So, come out from behind spoofed IPs and anonymous e-mail addresses and THEN type what you have to say. If you really want to contribute to the conversation, or initiate your own, then you need to be willing to hear the response. It’s like the kid who thinks he “wins” because he pees in the sandbox and forces all the other kids out. But all he really accomplished was being stuck in a wet, stinky sandbox, all by himself. Call us when you break out the Pampers Pull-ups and can sit nice at the table. Till then, bugger off. And have a nice day! 🙂

I wonder if this blogging thing, for me, has run its course. I’ve been staring at this computer for two hours, just wanting to use this space to make sense of so many things, and it just isn’t coming. Instead, I probably just dropped $50 in the iTunes store and am happily listening to all the music I’ll probably forget about in two days. 😉

I find it funny that probably my best writing is done behind the password-protected screen. Funnier still is that probably all but two of you have the password. (If I know you and you want it, just ask. Honestly, one person is purposely excluded and the other, well, the entry is about and he doesn’t know that this blog even exists. LOL)

Aside: Do you other bloggers do that — meet people and casually forget to mention that this is a huge hobby for you? I figure that if they become important enough, they’ll see it eventually. But if they’re just another overnight sensation, is it really worth it to expose them to your growing pains?

I love this blog. I rush to it to share what’s going on in my head and in my life. It’s been the source of some problems in my life, sure, but the people I’ve met because of it and the improved writing skills I’ve gained from it, not to mention the permanent record of moments I’d otherwise forget, have been the reasons to keep it going for more than five years.

I don’t want to do one of those swan songs, the “I’ll be back … someday” stuff. Because the second any of us types something so trite, we end up having the Big Idea for the next entry just five minutes later! In fact, I’m sort of hoping for that major epiphany to hit. It’s like when you’ve got a crush on somebody and the minute you decide to give them up, they remember that you’re alive. Accordingly, I’m hoping my Muse realizes that I want to give up — maybe she’ll come back with a vengeance, to remind me to keep on plugging along.

ONE MORE TIME, WITH FEELING

I mean, if I were doing a “real” entry today, I’d say that I went to IKEA yesterday to get an Easter present for the cats (the red cat tent — we already have the blue, as I always decorated in blue but now I’m moving toward adding some red to the kitchen). (*yawn*) And that I got stuck in traffic, trying to go home. I’d say that my poor little fingers need a manicure (a pedicure wouldn’t hurt, either), because from packing boxes, they look like smashed little sausages.

It’s weird how I’ve invested so much in decorating in cobalt blue glass, especially when it was so hard to find. Now it’s everywhere, and I’m ready to toss out everything I have because it’s not special anymore. But I’ve got to be careful with red — a friend and I went to a party with a red room, and it felt like being trapped inside a blood clot. Used wrongly, it’s such an angry color. So I’m trying to do it with class, for when it all comes together.

One thing I didn’t do with my last three apartments was decorate. I used to live in cheap apartments with pretty furniture and accents. Now, my apartments are getting better (or, at least, more expensive) and I’ve got nothin’ in them.

I find that a lot in D.C. — we’re all dumping so much of our salaries into real estate (rental or otherwise) that we can’t afford to furnish those spaces. I looked in a lot of windows during my mad apartment-hunting journey, and to say things are sparse for everyone is an understatement. Your gross income is what qualifies you for these spaces (you need to earn at least 30 times the rent), but I see what the government grabs from my paycheck. And it sucks. That could have bought me a whole lot of furniture!

I’ve been trying very hard to save money, and for the first time in my life, I actually have something in my savings account. Not a lot, but I don’t ever want to be in dire straits like I was just a couple of years ago.

Of course, the temptation is there to blow it. I went furniture-shopping yesterday (and there it goes — *wave goodbye*) because I want to do it differently with my next space. I would rather be poor and have a nice place to escape to. Nothing hurts worse than working your ass off and then going home to sit on the floor. Then again, I tell you, that nest egg might just go toward a MacBook Pro, because at least I can take my life with me and go sit on a couch at Starbucks, if I really need a soft place on which to plant my ass!

I saw some nice-enough furniture. I’m cheap these days. I’ll pay $50 for a good meal in New York or $100 on a bag in a Las Vegas boutique, but when commas start to get involved, I get a big case of “ick.” It’s not that cute, is one of my arguments, as is, “Well, the cats would just TRASH that once they got their hot little claws on it.”

I finally got the keys to my new place. I asked them to do a bunch of repairs and stuff, and they complied. My mom and her boyfriend came down to visit, and they loved it. I let the cats run around in it for awhile, and Maddie left her first official shit streak on the carpet, so I know she’ll gladly call it home.

I’m almost done packing up the “old” place. (An Easter miracle, I tell you.) It’s sad, looking around and remembering all the dreams and plans I had for it. But it’s not a lingering sadness — it’s a gratitude, really, that it was a great experience and that so many greater adventures lie ahead. I mean, my life and my work is done mainly on the Web, so my life is actually a portable one.

I had a dream the other night, that we were being forced to bid on our jobs, and if someone underbid you, you were fired. I dreamed that the probably most-vital person to our operations was underbid and decided to pack up and go to L.A. for greener pastures and a whole ream of different, more exciting opportunities. And the suggestion came out of it that I should do the same, and not wait to see whether I had a job or not. And in the dream, I’d said, “Hell, I’m already packed. Why not?”

I don’t even know why I just told that story. Maybe to illustrate that a single decision made on a whim can alter the course of the rest of your life. And that being willing to travel light is a good thing — leave the baggage behind, wipe the slate clean and just start living. Who only knows what’s behind Door No. 2, if only you just look?

I wrote something profound in my last entry, about being torn between what’s “right” and what really IS right. The thing is, you never really know, but my sneaking suspicion is that eventually, you can tell the difference. But the choice is yours.

And I’m glad to be able to have choices.

So, happy Bunny Day to all of you who celebrate it, and happy Sunday to those who simply use it as a day off. Me, I’ve got places to see and people to be with, and no matter what I do, or where (or with whom) I end up, it’ll be a good day. I hope you have one, too!

We all know I’ve been trying to tell my stupid apartment management since DECEMBER that I intended to vacate. So they never answer e-mail or pick up a phone, right? I went and gave my notice, only for them to fuck up and tell me I’m outta here sooner. So I went and got a new place for the adjusted (i.e., closer) date. And THEN I came home to a note saying I was LATE in giving my termination notice (?) and that I have to pay on the apartment till an even LATER date.

May Karma scorch your crotches even more so than she already has, you slimy mofos.

I think it’s safe to say that I have officially seen every apartment within a five-mile radius of the one I currently occupy. Maybe a 10-mile radius. Jeez.

I had called this one place when I moved last year, and the guy was such a dick on the phone, I refused to see it based on his rudeness. I called back this year and loved the guy on the phone, so I made an appointment for today. I showed up for it and OMG, perhaps this was the dick from last year. He said I didn’t have an appointment. (Fucker couldn’t speak English — no wonder he couldn’t find my name in the computer, ’cause I KNOW he didn’t type it right after I spelled it four times.) Then he tossed a brochure at me and wished me well. I asked if I could at least see a unit, but he told me nope — couldn’t. It was like pulling teeth to learn that the model was only a 1BR, at which point I said, “You know? I don’t want to see it anyway.”

To say I was upset was an understatement. For what they charge per month, they should have fed me bon-bons and given me a foot massage. But alas, it was a sign to keep running, since I wasn’t smart enough to do it in the first place.

Alas, I saw more places, and stopped when I found the one I love. A little pricey but not as much as 95% of the places I’ve seen. It was cheaper because I have to pick up more utilities, but that I can at least spread the wealth over two paychecks and not just part with one in its entirety, we’ll call it a plus.

Not to mention, it’s so close to where I live, I can do most of the move myself and maybe recruit some unfortunate souls for furniture transport. *bats lashes*

It feels good to know that I have a plan again. And that maybe next year, I’ll get my laptop as I will hopefully NOT be moving again!

It’s weird because I realized how much I need a friend right now. I have good friends, but everyone’s got a million things going on and I try not to take up too much (if any) of anyone’s time. I date here and there and maybe even more “there” than “here” lately, and I try to just be on my best behavior and not let them know that I’m as real as it gets. I’m usually cool and laid-back but I do get riled up and need for them to understand that I don’t want to be hiding the 10% of me that I don’t let them see.

Bottom line, I just need a few minutes here or there to rant and maybe even cry, so I can get back to normal. And I guess that’s why I blog, because I let perfect strangers become more intimate with me than anyone whose flesh I could reach out and actually touch.

I felt really bad today because I used my mom as that person — I admitted I was scared I couldn’t afford this or do this or take another minute of drama because I am going to collapse because I’m so afraid Im going to do all of this and regret whatever decisions I make. So of course she took it as me not wanting to “inherit” her and thus leaving her destitute. *sigh*

You know, I don’t have kids. I don’t want to have to filter myself and pretend everything’s OK or that it’s going to be eventually. I want to say what’s on my mind so I can get it OFF my mind and move on to the next thing. But I guess it’s like being a parent or being at work — you just have to grit your teeth and quietly flip people off from behind the safety of a closed door. 😉

In any event, the new apartment building keeps me in D.C. (huzzah!) and I am sure this one won’t reject me the way the last one did. I feel like the shitkicker has been removed from atop my trachea — I feel like I can make plans and be all right. Besides, I walked in and two good-looking gay men were running the show, and I felt right at home.

And that’s what I’ve been waiting to feel all along.

It’s not perfect, or anywhere close, but at this point, I’ll gladly take “happy enough.”

Losing the will to blog is, to me, the equivalent of someone else losing the will to live.

I mean, I’m never short on things to talk about. If I had the time, I’d blog 20 times a day. I revel in my weird little thoughts. I even like to talk about nothing in particular at all. Shit, I EXCEL at prattling at length about the irrelevant things in life!

I have had SO many good stories to share — hell, I’ve even gone so far as to write the blog entries in my head. But then? I fire up the computer, log in to my little widget, and go “Enh.”

And lose the story forever.

Like a handful of my other online friends, lately I’ve come to a point where I want to say “enough.” As in, everybody gets a timeout if the clown acts out in class — one turd in a punch bowl threatens to ruin the party. You don’t get the best of me anymore. You just can’t. I could be channeling my energies elsewhere: developing a new hobby, nurturing some friendships — vegging out and keeping my thoughts to myself. Writing a damn novel already!

I don’t know. If this blog closes up shop, I assure you it’s because I wanted to do it and not because anyone made me. But the one thing I do like is that if I don’t make an update, the genuine people in my circle (and all of you know who you are, because there are amazingly and thankfully plenty of you) actually worry and wonder and inquire what happened to me.

And in that, I appreciate the safety and warmth of a caring circle of friends, because I too notice when they’re not showing up in my newsreader. I might not be thoughtful enough to ask, but I do care and miss them and will welcome them back with open arms when I see them resurface.

To anyone who blogs in my circle, I’m one of your biggest fans. You share your heart every day with me. You enlighten me to things I might never experience. You broaden my worldview and my understanding of things that will help me to become a better person. And if I can manage to do the same, in some small way? Takes my breath away.

So maybe we’ve moving into Caterwauling 3.0, the first version being hidden and the second stab at it being where my heart was on my sleeve. I don’t know what’s coming for this newest iteration, but I do know that the exits are always open and you’re encouraged to walk through them. (And for some in particular, the escort service of my foot is also available.)

In the meantime, I might be tapping out Morse code from my squatting position in the rabbit hole, but I’m having a lot of experiences that I love capturing for myself and maybe even sharing — if I can stop typing in tongues and start sharing in plain English again. But maybe now is my time to just live ’em and I can write the memoirs later. I don’t know. I just hope that they’ll be worth reading!

Via Amy, (Ms. Marmot, if you’re nasty. And you know you are!), personalized greetings from Samuel L. Jackson have been cracking my shit up all morning.

Click here for Snakes on a (Mothafuckin’) Plane: interactive edition!

I-Blog

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn.

Perhaps the most-complimented license plate around (I think, anyway!), this was mine until yesterday when I registered my car in the District. *sniffle*

It was Pratt who’d given me the idea for this plate, which I got when I started my most recent job — as a tangible reward for surviving the previous phase of my life. I’ve gotten all kinds of smiles and stares with it, all good. In fact, last week, some guy was tailgating me in a strip mall, killing himself to snap a photo of the plate. Which means it might’ve been Flickr’d already, but tough — my plate, my photo!

Tiff left a great comment the other day, how someone at the church where we attended her wedding saw my plate and mused that it just had to be one of her guests. *grin*

Anywho, Samantha (my car) and I have decided to retreat back into anonymity (i.e., no more vanity plates) for sanity’s and perhaps even safety’s sake, but it was fun to shine while it lasted. … 😉