Inner mono(b)logue

Subtitle: The things that run through my head

I realize that whenever something happens in my life, I immediately start blogging it mentally. I try to remember every detail surrounding me, every word exchanged, every emotion coursing through my veins. Good, bad, ugly — I craft how I’m going to share it with you.

But, then, I don’t. I cool off or I decide to keep the information locked safely in the nuthouse between my ears that launched a thousand nervous breakdowns. 🙂

Or, I come home and try to think of a way to emote without actually sharing the thing I need to share. And somehow, that works for me. And you get to read this from the safety of dozens, if not thousands, of miles away. 😉

Lucky for you, I’m passive-agressive like that. So, on with the freak show:

From the “you know you’re jaded when” files:

I was driving along the GW Parkway yesterday when I saw a very large, black garbage bag lying in the grassy medial strip. It was full, and I realized it looked like a body was in it. I kept driving, thinking, “Now THAT’s a creative way to dispose of somebody! NOBODY can even stop to see what’s in the bag!”

It never occurred to me at the time that there might have actually only been TRASH in the damn bag. 🙂

I remember when, as a pre-teen, I locked myself in my bedroom and just wished the world would leave me the hell alone. Now, I come home, lock the door behind me and wish I had somebody waiting here who just can’t leave me alone (*wink, wink*). For all the times our moms said, “Someday, you’ll wish you had listened to me,” well, you will kick yourself in the ass (or your shin, if you can’t quite reach that high). My mom always said, “You’ll miss me when I’m gone.” She was right. I have actually apologized to my mom for my entire teenage existence. And for the decade thereafter.

Being that we’re already on a stream of consciousness here, I just remembered a horrible fashion statement in the late ’80s — T-shirts that said “Leave Me Alone.” I remember some of the biggest losers at school (not to exclude myself from that group — I just had better fashion sense!) wearing those shirts, and I thought how redundant that was. Um, wasn’t gonna come near ya anyway. Of course, anyone who made me look like less of a dork was A-OK in my book! 🙂

While I’m on the subject of dorkdom, I had a horrible memory recently. Believe me when I say I am NOT bragging, but I was president of my high school honor society. I swear, I had the lowest GPA in the club and DEFINITELY the lowest SAT scores. I think I got the job because everyone else outsmarted me and realized that only the one dumb enough to accept the job should have it.

So I was making a quart of Gatorade (it comes in a mix now — not that I love it or anything, but I saw it on sale at Wallyworld, so I bought it). The instructions said to add water, shake and chill. Chill?!?! Is my predisposition to anxiety obvious to even a packet of Gatorade? Sheesh. 🙂 Apparently I DO need to chill, then!

I was musing how oxymoronic the phrase “mild-tempered” is. I have a mild temper myself — but don’t forget to put the emphasis on temper. I have enough Italian blood (thanks, Gram!) that I can ignite a verbal fireworks display practically on command.

But, of course, I try to keep that in check. It is a civilized society, after all. 🙂

Now, I love my grandfather and my mom. That said (I’m trying to avoid the “but” word), there’s something my grandmother (and I, in turn) spotted in them that made us nuts: They’re pussies. They’re sensitive, they’re meek, they’re unlikely to challenge anybody.

I fluctuate between the two demeanors. Or, at least I try not to make waves, but when I do, it’s less a wave than a tropical storm.

My problem? Spending so much time being mild when I really should be painting the sky with profanities that, when something insipid happens that’s normally not worth a second glance, I lose my shit. Trample my emotions, you might get a Look of Death (passive agression, friends). But, meow at me the wrong way, get a five-minute verbal tirade.

Actually, please meow at me. It will make me seem less crazy. 🙂

Until then, on with the crazies:

I call my younger cat ‘Tato Bug. I used to call her Short Bus, then Shorty B., then Bad Kitty. I tried calling her Kadi for awhile (her name), but that never sticks. Kadi became Katydid, then Katydid Kadoodlebug. But it’s difficult to remember all those syllables when she’s being bad. I swear, if she were human, she’d be the type of child who murders its family and spends its life institutionalized. Lucky for me, she doesn’t have opposable thumbs, or Guinness would recruit her as a minion in his plan to take over the world. Guinness looks just like Kadi, too — white-pawed wonders unite!

In any event, Kadi now answers to ‘Tato Bug. The problem? There’s someone at work with her same name, and I ALMOST called her ‘Tato Bug the other day. *sigh* I found it hilarious, but I’m sure I’m the only one who’d be drinkin’ that Kool-Aid. 😉

You know you’re in trouble when the only thing in your life that doesn’t suck is your f’ing vacuum cleaner. I just lurrve trying to clean up Pooh Corner and have litter flying out the back of the vacuum, smacking my ankles. And it’s usually after a shower when I have lotion on my legs and then I get a protective coating of cat fur and piss crystals. The joy, I say. The joy. …

Some people say “kitty corner” to mean something is diagonal. Not in my house, unless you’re referring to Pooh Corner (the litterbox) being positioned diagonally in a corner of my dining room.

In any event, I changed the box on Friday morning — I was doing anything to avoid leaving the house at 8:15 a.m. because traffic is nightmarish until about 9:15 a.m. I find my cats are always trying to one-up each other. Kadi raced into the box to take the first dump. Maddie strolled to the outside of the box and made sure to be the first one to take a dump on the carpet.

Ah, I could go on forever, but Maddie’s out on the balcony torturing Kadi (I keep Kadi caged on the balcony ’cause she’s dumb enough to take a flying flop into the dumpster across the parking lot.

In any event, thanks for listening to my inner mono(b)logue. And this is the edited version. 🙂

On iTunes: Lynyrd Skynyrd, “All I Can Do is Write About It”

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