Caterwauling

OK, this is a first — I am going to tell you about the BEST commute EVER!!!

It started at the Pentagon, where I watched a helicopter take off from the roof. I mean, it was so close that it kicked up like weeds and grass and shit, and some of the grass got IN the car because I had the sunroof open.

From the Pentagon, I got on the GW Parkway … where I immediately found myself behind a motorcade going from Washington to Potomac, complete with the cops with the flashing lights, the Secret Service SUVs, etc.

Seriously, I would LOVE to have a police escort like that every day, because we totally blew the speed limit (it’s a federal highway — it’s supposed to be 50 mph but my car just doesn’t go that slow and, apparently, neither do theirs) and I got to work in no time at all!

In any event, I assume it was a presidential motorcade — it was like a fucking parade route at high speed. As for me, I was hoping for a Princess Diana-being-chased-by-the-press type of event itching for us to get onto the Beltway, because I knew I would experience no joy greater in my pathetic little life than to pass Shrubya and have him see my “Don’t Blame Me — I Voted for Kerry” bumpersticker. Of course, that’s giving him enough credit that he can, oh I don’t know — READ!

I did pass the motorcade on the Beltway, though. Seriously, 75 mph is for pussies! Unfortunately, they took exit 39 (Potomac), a right-hand exit, and I took 38 (Rockville), a left-hand exit, so I was four lanes away when I passed what I presume to be the simple son of a bitch and his entourage, but still, it was exciting to me. I mean, it’s something that could only happen in Washington, D.C., and I was glad that even if I think the president is a complete bumblefuck, I still count the nation’s highest political official as my neighbor. Just a neighbor that you’d want to leave bags of flaming dog shit on his doorstep, but a neighbor nonetheless. 🙂

On iTunes: Chantal Kreviazuk, “In This Life”

On iTunes: Jimmy Eat World, “Work”

Are there any card stores left in the world? I’m not talking about the supermarket aisles or the Wal-Mart hells, which are crawling with millions of little kids, that don’t properly allow you to quietly sob in the sanctity of an honest-to-goodness haven for syrupy messages and women with a fistful of tissues who need a box of Tampax and a case of Haagen-Dazs and a roll of stamps to overcome the experience.

I went to my last-known card store in Alexandria the other day, and *poof* it was gone! So, sorry to those of y’all with May birthdays — no soup card for you because I can’t FIND any! I mean, has the universe been so altered by the era of the e-card that we no longer buy the real deal? Are we that pissed off that ever card Hallmark seems to make anymore requires extra postage?

I’m sad to see the card stores evaporating from existence. Really, I am. I am one of those fools who cries at Hallmark commercials and who allocates no less than an hour when I need to pick out the most special card for the most special persons. It’s not just an obligation to find the right card — it’s an odyssey.

And this is a message for men — I was talking to someone the other day who was just struggling with what to get his (snotty) wife for Mother’s Day. He’s such a good guy and he was trying so ridiculously hard to please her (I don’t think even a trip to Paris could please this woman, but I digress). And while I’m a gal who would never say no to a well-thought-out gift, there’s always something special about the card (even if there isn’t money in it. Hah!). Like, someone had to actually walk into a card store WITH YOU ON HIS OR HER MIND. Then he or she had to stand there and THINK ABOUT YOU SOME MORE. Then they actually have to write something in the card that tells you how special you are.

For me, I’ve always practically re-written any greeting card I could find — my Mother’s Day card to my mom had more of my ink in it than what the thing came with. (It needed to make up for the fact that her gift is still on its way to me, thank you UPS, you motherfuckers.)

Let me just say this: UPS’ signature color couldn’t have been more appropriately picked — BROWN. I placed an order several weeks ago with a company that only uses UPS. And believe me, it will be the next-to-last order I ever place with them unless they start using carrier pigeons or burros with backpacks — anything that’s faster and more efficient than the BROWN gang. Apparently they decided I was going to retrive a package from them when I asked them to redeliver it elsewhere. But they’d called to tell me they were going to keep sending it to my home. And my telepathic waves could not provide me with the information that I was to pick it up before they shipped it back to the sender. But could I get it re-routed? Nope — not without the sender’s approval. Which, ask me if the sender has bothered to intervene on my behalf, even though I requested it. Of course not. I told UPS that I am ready to drive to fucking Richmond, where the package was yesterday, and get the goddamned thing myself, despite the insane amount the sender charged me for shipping.

Oh well, it’s Friday the 13th — typically a good day in my existence. I will get good news about this, damn it. I have to. And to cop a card store slogan, “When you care enough to send the very best.” In this case, if I don’t get sufficient resolution in this dilemma, I will care enough to wear my very best stiletto heels … and will lodge them in someone’s temple if I must.

Does EVERYTHING have to be a production? No wonder we rely on the Internet so much and are factoring out more and more humans — life is so much easier without IDIOTS!

On iTunes: Sheila Nicholls, “Elevator”