Caterwauling

I speak often of finding oneself, but some days, forgetting is the next-best thing.

Now, I am not talking about not upholding one’s personal grace and mannerisms. (For the sake of this discussion, let’s assume ours are simply impeccable.) Nor am I speaking of blurting out the crazy things that cross our minds that we try desperately to trap within our clenched jaws when we’re squelching some type of emotional reaction (or controlling the Fist of Death(TM) from reaching out and choking someone).

My anger issues really surface sometimes, don’t they? 😉

I am one of those hyper-aware people. Not even so much that I am ridiculously attuned to everybody around me, although I do have my “on” days in that regard every now and again. But I know all my idiosyncrasies enough to try to disguise myself as a “normal” person at every possible opportunity — oftentimes to compensate for one of those pesky “real” moments that slips through unfiltered.

What’s funny is that when someone else catches one of my “real” moments in progress, he or she might view it as an abberation — a “boy, she lost her mind for a second there” assumption. And I let them think that — lest my Outer Poise be written off as the true abberation, which I often believe it to be. I find that the people who find me easiest to read don’t know the first thing about me, yet those who indicate that I am the slightest bit complex oftentimes have the most access to the truth but don’t have the first idea about how to verify that.

In any event, I find that I’ve been attracting people lately. And I just don’t get it — I haven’t put myself “out there” in quite some time, and I am feeling anything but attractive anymore. And while I will always take care with my cosmetics and my color-coordination, I get my moments of feeling like it’s a lost cause, some days. But on days when I know I pulled together a work of art — or I just don’t give a shit what anybody thinks because I did my best, damn it — I get all the attention in the world.

When I forget to put up the barriers, more people see me. And they want to get closer, learn more, absorb whatever specialness they seem to see me emanating. When I get outside of my head, I actually start to notice this newfound attention.

I tend to assume people are either looking past or through me or, worse, looking at me in some type of judgment. Not like I wouldn’t have a snappy comeback for any and all of them, but the fact of the matter is that I judge myself before anybody else gets the opportunity. And my inner judge? Should marry Simon Cowell. But when the judge takes a couple of days off, I become so much more pleasant to be around, apparently — so much so that I have men in traffic honking at me and men in malls following me, trying to get me to say hello. It’s fascinating, really, when I don’t automatically think, “Who, me?” when someone attractive flashes me a winning smile and wants me to respond in kind.

Now, if I would just be brave enough to give someone my real phone number, life would be good. 🙂 Old habits are hard to break, y’know?

I like forgetting myself, when what I am forgetting is everything that holds me back from being myself. ‘Cause I do think the Inner Me is bursting full of life, enthusiasm, concern, grace. She’s just been hiding for so long that she forgets that other people can see her sometimes — and that they want to see her again. As long as the world continues to be receptive, maybe she will take a recurring performance role until she’s comfortable enough to resume the role permanently.

It’s amazing what hides inside — what the world has scared into submission or that we’ve voluntarily squelched. Too often, we lock that person away until it either dies or decides to burst out in old age, when our filters go away and we have enough “elder” respect that we can say and do whatever the fuck we want without anyone daring to challenge us. Youth really is wasted on the young — and we shouldn’t lose our originality and our je ne sais quoi, because the real beauty is on the inside, and it becomes even more breathtaking when the sunlight nurtures it.

On iTunes: Beth Nielsen Chapman, “Sand and Water”

Some days, you know what your day is going to be like before you even start the car.

Case in point, I put a big, full vat-o-coffee on my roof as I got situated. I got into the car and started it. (You see where this is going, don’t you?) Then, I popped the sunroof. Down came the coffee — all over my car and the car next to me. Heh.

Thank goodness for car-wash wipes and glass wipes — I bet I wouldn’t have truckers honking at me and waving if they’d seen the creamy mess I’d made earlier. Or, maybe they still would’ve. Whatever. 😉

On iTunes: Jewel, “I Won’t Walk Away”

You can tell I’m short on blogfodder today. 😉

On iTunes: Everything But the Girl, “Downtown Train”

1. Do you own any power tools?
Care to elaborate on what kind? 😉 My neighbor dropped by yesterday to see if I had electricity in the bedroom/bathroom (’cause he didn’t). My electricity was fine (although my oven doesn’t work. Go figure), and I had some, uh, power tools very visibly lying around. He tried very hard not to notice. 😉

2. Did you pass your driver’s test on your first try?
Hell no. I was relying on Mom and me both wearing short skirts (that’s how you passed at the center I chose), but leave it to me to get a woman cop with no sense of humor. I’d only driven twice before I took the test (I’d aced the written part, though). My friends had told me the steps of the test in order, and the cop confused me by cutting out a step I was already prepared to do. So, the car went up on a curb and she screamed, “YOU. FAIL!!!” Then she yelled at my mom, “GET THIS CAR OFF OF THIS CURB!” I passed the second time around — I didn’t drive at all between the first and second tests, but I did way better. And, I had a nice male cop who appreciated two women in short skirts. 😉 I remember him telling me I could drive faster than the posted speed limit!

3. Would you rather have a constant itch or a constant headache?
The headache. Actually, I’ve lived with tension headaches and now I have a banging toothache, so the feeling of someone tapping a nail into the back of my eyeball isn’t exactly an unfamiliar one. At least you can drug yourself for a headache!

4. What color looks best on you?
I love to wear black, although I found myself doing a full load of pink laundry last night. But my best colors are blues and greens — they help my eyes to pop.

5. List 3 foods you don’t eat.
Onions, although I can deal with them fried or diced into miniscule pieces. I would gander that I don’t necessarily hate any food but, rather, the way it is prepared at certain food establishments.

6. In the shower, do you use bar soap or liquid soap?
Liquid. Right now, it’s Bath and Body Works’ aromatherapy line — the eucalyptus-spearmint. Usually, I use the blue Softsoap for Men — I love men’s scents more than women’s.

7. When is the last time your rode a bike?
I had a Sweet Thunder 2 and I was the SHIT, I tell you! Pink and white streamers and a little white basket with pink flowers. Damn, I rocked at age 8. I had just learned how to ride without training wheels when we moved to a place without a driveway, and my family gave away the bike because I wasn’t allowed to ride on the street. I hated them for that.

8. Have you signed the petition over at one.org yet?
Yes, although my passions are for more domestic poverty issues. Like, where was the fucking system when I had nowhere to turn?

9. Have you ever had braces?
Nope.

10. If you could re-live one year of your life, which year would it be?
1984. Something very bad happened to me that year that has caused me recurring grief every day of my life, and I’d love to go back WITH HINDSIGHT and try to prevent it.

On iTunes: Holly McNarland, “Elmo”

I don’t actively seek life’s little signs to validate that I am indeed in the right place at the right time, but when I do see them, I definitely take notice.

Mom’s been trying to ask me about a classic rock song for the longest time, but the artist and title have eluded her, so I’ve not been able to help. But, I called her to tell her a story yesterday — about the name of a street — and she said, “That’s the song I wanted!”

And, of course, I have said song in iTunes. And now, so can you: Brickyard Road.

First things first — I need to send out some love to one of the girls at work who lives by me and who knows that, some nights, the commute’s a wee bit on the stressful side. So she gave me this alternate route that, while it’s longer and involves two-lane roads, it totally bypasses I-270 and the Beltway. Whee! I tried it on Friday, and in the sign to end all signs, I drove past a HUGE yellow sign that marked “Brickyard Road.” Which, of course, is one of my FAVORITE songs.

It’s one of those songs that defines my youth. Sure, it’s about Johnny Van Zant remembering his brother Ronnie (of Lynyrd Skynyrd fame). And when I first heard it (circa 10th grade), I kind of knew that the people I held so dear would be lost to me as well. I wasn’t wrong. But the memories? Clear as day.

What I remember is it being a hot summer night in 1990 — I was 16 and with the supposed (OK, I was delusional) love of my young life as well as our two friends. We were dropping off our friend Harry, who lived down this mile-plus-long stone road. The car we were in was an old beater, and we figured it wouldn’t possibly make it. But, good kids though we were, we refused to let Harry walk home alone, so we made a pilgrimage out of it.

“Doesn’t seem that long ago
Three of us walkin’ down that road
Grey ’55 Chevy parked in the front yard
Little Melody tagged along
Those were the best days, now they’re gone.”

Beth and I were both in girly shoes, which we would eventually live to regret. But at the time, I don’t think we noticed. The trip was kind of like “Stand By Me” but without the leeches and the dead body. That we knew of, anyway. 😉

It was a still night. The path we walked was near a lake — we couldn’t see the water but we could kind of feel the dampness in the air. The thing about that night was that it was such a journey — the things we talked about, the poignance of our silences as we pondered the moonlight, the constellations, the shape of the trees, the simple mystery that could be found — nay, created — if we would only take notice of its potential.

I was always kind of scared to be around this crowd — I felt like they came from such higher stations in society, if you will, and I always felt like J’s parents regarded me like I wasn’t good enough for him. I mean, they enjoyed me and all, but one of the many things that girls learn throughout their lifetimes is that mothers are terrified what it will do to the family if/when you take on their family name. It’s so provincial, really, how girls are expected to “marry up” and boys find someone on their level or to bring someone up to their level. I don’t know — I don’t think they really cared about society, but if you think about any book you’ve read or movie you’ve seen, the antagonistic Society always wins or, at least, never suffers.

And the thing is, factor out money, and he and I were no different. Our class ranks were tied, or at least neck-in-neck, throughout high school. What made our relationship, as it were, work was that we were equal opponents. We never let the other person “win” — we fought fairly (and often). And when the fighting turned dirty, we were still able to outsmart the other’s strategies. We exhausted and energized each other, in our best days. I miss him for that. And that alone.

As for him, his parents really had nothing to worry about, with me. He didn’t end up marrying me. But I hear his boyfriend is wonderful. 😉

Anyway, while I admittedly hated my school years, I had a couple of moments like the night I just described, and I can see moments when my personality, my introspection, my perception developed significantly. The thing I took away from that night was to be present and in-the-moment. We were such a cerebral bunch, playing mental chess with each other and with ourselves. We’d already taken our SATs and knew which colleges we wanted to attend and what careers we wanted to pursue. We were old souls — walking midlife crises with curfews. But that night, we were traveling companions. And we finally realized — or, at least, I realized — that’s the sum of most of our relationships throughout life. And it’s not a bad way to look at it, especially when everybody’s been long gone and not a one of us are looking back.

“Momma and Daddy’s doin’ all right
I saw Melody last Saturday night
She’s all grown up, she’s such a pretty girl
Things just ain’t the same since you left our world.”

I don’t think any of us would have a thing to say to each other if we would meet today. Which would never happen, as we are all scattered along the East Coast (although I hear that Harry is in D.C. nowadays — not like we’d recognize each other after so many years, I’m sure). But instead of awkward moments wherein we’d reminisce about old times and then have nothing new to discuss, we can walk down that road in our minds and part ways at the end of it — alone but changed forever from it.

“I know I can’t bring back yesterday
But we’ll be all together again someday
Down on brickyard road.”

The neat thing about meeting other bloggers in person is that you get to hear/tell the stories that none of us are brave enough to put online. Add alcohol and an unfortunate series of events, and you’ve got comedy gold.

Our party host, the amazing Ted, rallied the troops last night for an evening out at a baseball game (which was unfortunately rained out partway through) and for adult beverages afterward.

I wasn’t sure whether to share this story, but I’ve decided to tell it. With love, of course. 😉

After the game was rained out, Ted gave me one of his kids, asking Mookie to ride with me. And we were in a discussion about her odysseys in driving school and about her instructor, the Turtle, who used scare tactics to teach students to remember details about other vehicles on the road.

She got to apply that lesson when I was in the turning lane for the restaurant and I noticed a car merge in front of me, and its backup lights suddenly flashed (the traffic light had turned red and the car had been ready to turn). Eep! I looked in my rearview and saw another car behind me. And the funny things that run through your mind — I have TED’S KID in my car! Holy shit, I can’t go two miles without injuring one of Ted’s kids!!! Argh — I’ll never be invited to another baseball game AGAIN!

*smack*

OK, Samantha is a wee little girl, and a dark one — and I know she is very hard for people in bigger cars to see. Which explains the scratches on the HOOD … my car fit UNDER the other car! (It’s not too bad — I went to the park this morning (with some scratch-out solution) in a shirt that made all the soccer dads avert their gaze away from their girls’ game, so that was worthwhile right there! LOL) I have some blue StreetWear nail polish that should take care of the rest.

Anyway, I’d looked at Mookie — she was OK and had her seatbelt on (along with her orange inmate shirt and Robyn’s FBI hat. Stop and get a visual of this. OK, carry on). Me to her: “(Expletives.) The license plate is (***) — remember that. (More expletives.)” I STOMPED up to the next car, saying creative things — Linda Blair had infiltrated my body. The same thing happened to me once before in Tyson’s Corner (another rainy night) and I almost ripped the driver out of the car with my teeth back then. I was ready to repeat the process. …

Until I saw that I KNEW the driver!

At which point, I was all smiles and concern. Linda Blair’s spirit evaporated and Donna Reed’s entered. I asked if everyone were OK. I laughed. I think I scared people with my newfound bipolar disorder. 🙂

Nic decided I need a tip jar on this site — the “Help Dawn Buy an SUV Fund.” I think that was the smartest thing I’ve ever heard (although her story about the family photos was rather priceless, too!). Can you imagine me on the highways in an assault vehicle? Woo hoo!

Ted looked at the car and thought the front wasn’t so bad in comparison to the back. Har dee har harr. 😉

In any event, everybody’s fine and we’re planning on getting together for another game soon (our tickets are still good). Although, I have a funny feeling Mookie might NEVER want to drive after this! 😉

On iTunes: Beth Orton, “Feel to Believe”

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”

I wouldn’t say I’m in the midst of an existential crisis (well, not too much of one, anyway). But I’ve had some stuff clogging my mind, and I think the unraveling has passed.

When I was asking the other day if this — the right here-and-now — is all there is to life, it came to me that I was thinking about my family. It pains me to admit that, while I absolutely adore my family and owe them lifetimes of gratitude for everything they sacrified for me, it’s difficult to call and hear about everybody’s deteriorating health. I’ve watched — and continue to watch — people I love suffer and wither away.

Oh, sure, they had dreams in their vital days — big ones. But that’s where it ended. I watched these truly incredible, selfless, deserving people live lives of quiet desperation, only to end up decrepit and eventually dead, after having nothing of any significance ever happen for them. And it terrifies me that I could carry on the family tradition.

I know it won’t be the case — I have too much passion, too much fire, too much faith that my happiest days haven’t even begun happening yet. I have too much to give to this world, and damn it, I deserve everything good that I want and 10 times more, for that matter. When it comes, nobody will be more ready or more grateful than me.

Awhile back, when I had reached my lowest low, a friend who’s known me for years had pointed out to me that I wasn’t meant for an “OK” life — she said I always took chances and I always had the highest highs while she chose to make “safe” choices that she believes, in retrospect, were “boring.” And even though the lows knocked me off my feet now and again, she reminded me that never used to faze me — she told me how she’d always envied my perseverance, my resilience, my conviction that living a forgettable life wasn’t living at all. And if it pisses off the detractors, all the better.

I think we all spend more time than we’d like to admit in trying to blend in and conform to what society wants us to be — we’ve all been told everything the all-important “they” don’t like about us and what they believe is “wrong” with us. Such unwanted input has a corroding effect on our psyches. But like my computer programmer friends say, “Garbage In, Garbage Out.” When you’re told you can’t do something — or you’re never shown that you even can, you don’t know to want what you haven’t got because you never thought it could be meant for you. But look back on your childhood idealism — before you were ever aware of whatever invisible boundaries you would eventually encounter — you realize that all you ever wanted was everything that could ever possibly be yours. We shouldn’t ever stop wanting that for ourselves — because if we don’t think we deserve the best and then some, well, neither will anybody else.

And I will NEVER settle for less.

And neither should you.

On iTunes: Shawn Colvin, “You and the Mona Lisa”