Caterwauling

I just canceled my Bally’s membership (I think three years of paying nearly $50 a month and not USING it qualifies as a good enough reason) and immediately signed up for Netflix (as it took me three years to hook up my f’in DVD player).

This should lead you to (accurately) conclude that

1. I am a blonde (well, a brunette/redhead, but with an Inner Blonde).

2. I am a lazy ass.

3. I will continue spending more time on the couch, but it will cost me a lot less and therefore I will not have the guilt of, “I should be using that gym membership.”

Oh, and FUCK BALLY’s. I e-mailed them two months ago to say please don’t renew my membership. So I got a letter this week to thank me for renewing and my debit card will be dinged again in a week. The HELL?!?!

Phone Monkey: How can I help you?

Moi: Hi, I just got a letter saying my membership was renewed. Two months ago, I e-mailed customer service to ask to let the membership expire at the three-year period. Please discontinue my membership immediately.

Phone Monkey: Is your address still (blah blah blah) Alexandria?

Moi: That P.O. Box is still valid, and that’s where I got this letter. (Editor’s note: Here’s your sign!). I don’t live in the area anymore, if that’s what you’re asking.

Phone Monkey: So why do you need to cancel?

Moi: As I mentioned, I do not live anywhere near the club anymore (Editor’s note: I live right behind it. Why do these reps have the need to look up my ass and see what I had for dinner?) and, well, DON’T use the membership because I cannot GET to the club.

Phone Monkey: Well, if you’re not currently using the membership, I can put it on hold and charge you $4 a month till you come back to it.

Moi: No. I want out of this membership, please.

Phone Monkey: (long pause) Are you sure it’s a good idea to cancel? Because then you’d have to pay $50 to reinstate your membership when you come back around.

Moi: I just told you that I can’t get to the club. Why should I pay for the privilege of someday maybe making the drive to a club I never went to when I lived there?

Phone Monkey: You have a nice day.

Thanks for reminding me why I quit going in the first place (not to mention the rude personal trainer who insulted me liberally).

I’d rather pleasure myself with a chainsaw than pay them another dime.

On iTunes: Goldfrapp, “Tiptoe”

With NaNoWriMo coming up sooner than I’d care to admit, check out the list of writerisms of which we’re all guilty yet we somehow cannot fail to avoid. And despite my being (I think) a bona fide grammatical goddess (although it’s not so obvious on this blog! LOL), I should very well be stoned for having more interesting vocabulary than content. Mmm, being stoned. … 😉

And from Writer’s Weekly, World’s Worst Book Proposals. When submitting your finished masterpiece, I suggest using this line: “After all, hard work doesn’t necessarily get you anywhere in life. If anything, working hard is stupid, and theft seems a lot more intelligent.”

With seemingly everybody and their brother on the interview trail (and/or on a Doocing rebound), I saw this on MediaBistro: You can remove yourself from Google searches. If you try it, let me know if it works, ’cause I just got a big surprise the other day when I found that pieces of a website I killed are still very much alive in some parallel dimension. 🙂

On iTunes: Kelly Clarkson, “Behind These Hazel Eyes”

Meet my latest addiction: the Post Secrets website.

A local guy (from Germantown, Md.) shares intimate secrets from others that are too intense for them to keep.

My favorite (so far):

Many thanks to D2 for turning me on to this!

On iTunes: Black Eyed Peas, “Sexy”

Reader Poll Monday:

“So how’s your move coming along?”

*bristle* *snarl* *hiss*

I’ve been pitching a lot of crap, I will tell you that much. Bags of knickknacks and failed attempts at skincare (i.e., wrong-color makeup, allergy-induced rashes thanks to alpha-hydroxy, fuck-it-like-I-ever-have-time-to-use-bubble-bath, etc.). And then of course the oh-yeah-I-remember-THAT-hobby joy. *sigh*

And my furniture? Cannot stand another move. It has seen at least a dozen since I was 19. The only new addition I’ve made has been a spindly $50 bookcase from IKEA to replace the spindly credenza-type display unit that so-called professional movers unceremoniously broke as they were moving it from Pittsburgh to Alexandria. How, you ask? They put my COUCH on it.

Fools.

I inherited some furniture from friends who have moved, and it’s in varying stages of disrepair, too.

I was talking to my mom today, who said that I really need to get rid of that couch. And the bedroom set. And the dining table. And hell, can’t I just leave it all here, go get a new place and buy all new shit?

She does realize, however, that I will never get a cheaper place, and as I am spending $60-$65 a week on gas for the car, saving? Not an option.

But she means well — I’m certain my clothes alone would fill a good-sized moving truck. And that’s enough effort to move all that without adding furniture to the mix. 😉

Hell, after my last move, I gave up on the wrought-iron-and-pleather dining chairs. Having furchildren will do that. But did I ever replace them? Hah. If I eat at home, it’s usually sitting on the couch or at my crappy pleather computer chair that falls apart because I lost the bolt that holds the back to the seat.

My friend Shan had given me a lovely wrought-iron bedframe when she left town. Problem is, I never figured out how to put it together, so most of it is UNDER the bed, save for the headboard leaning against the wall. *sigh*

When I was in college, I spared no expense in buying Good Furniture. We didn’t have IKEA back then, or if we did, it wasn’t in my neighborhood and I didn’t have a car anyway, so bleah. I had thought said Good Furniture would last me till I got married or otherwise was shacking up with someone, at which point I’d be doing SO much better in life that I could get Even Better shit.

*bristle* *snarl* *hiss*

I used to take great pride in my apartments. And the fundamental reason it’s time to leave this one (other than eviction due to their fucking renovations) is that I am a big believer in changing environments — cutting ties with everything that reminds us of pain. And while I love, love, love my place, I went through a bad time here too. So maybe it’s time to go somewhere with better karma or, at least, without an ocean of tears filling its hallways.

I had to get a new parking sticker today, which was a joy I simply cannot tell in just one paragraph. But I did ask if we had any sister properties in my desired destination area. Which, if you like Wheaton, Md., you can get a 1BR for $1,300 plus all utilities. (!)

How that area commands that price tag is beyond me, but I ain’t gonna be the idiot to pay it.

I did, however, find a FABULOUS place on the Internet. I mean, FABULOUS. The price unfortunately includes a comma (argh) and does NOT have a balcony (the kitties would be so pissed, and I could not continue the tradition of the Housewarming BBQ) but utilities are all included and there are hardwood floors. Read: nowhere for Maddie to drag her butt after she takes a dump.

The virtual tour makes the place look so PRETTY. The problem? The area. It’s a lovely, clean and respectable area, but there is ONE area of town where I just cannot be right now.

*bristle* *snarl* *hiss*

The reason is best left unexplained, but think about what I said about generating new karma by completely cleansing oneself of the old. Serenity explained it in a recent post way better than I ever could. (Go. Read. Now.)

I get the feeling from my apartment folks that renovations are taking MUCH longer than they’d anticipated, so my Christmas move could go a couple of months later. Which would be fabulous in the “affording to move” department. I’ve had exactly three people volunteer to help me to move, too, so maybe I can breathe and not pay so-called professionals when people who know me care more about my sanity and my stuff than people who are actually on the clock (go figure).

Or maybe, I can dream a little and life will work out “just so” that I can leave behind the crap that now mortifies me at the prospect of people I respect seeing just how gnarly shit has become. But the heavy-ass entertainment center? Still in great condition. (Heh. Figures.)

But while I have the universe’s attention, here’s my laundry list of what I want, and my hope is that I at least get what I need for a price that won’t have me strapping a mattress to my back and hanging out in Anacostia looking for a corner (*shudder*):

Cat-friendly (i.e., no pet rents and hopefully no outrageous pet deposits). Utililties included (I like lots of light and 40 things running simultaneously). Air-conditioned. Dishwasher. Washer/Dryer (preferably inside; I went to the laundromat today and nearly killed myself at the pain). Hardwood floors (I spend hundreds of dollars in pet-stain sprays because Maddie shits everywhere, although come to think of it, she wipes her ass on walls and throw rugs too. So I’ve got to toss all my rugs before I go).

Possibly dog-friendly, too, as I so very much want a Shiba Inu like this Sumi (or if Bayou and Lach bring her out from Seattle, I can keep her. LOL — jus’ kiddin’!).

Wow, I feel like I should be on Santa’s lap, wriggling happily, as I’ve never listed all the things I’ve wanted like this!

Well, Santa Baby, I need walk-in closets. And a balcony! I want a garden-style community — highrises attract elderly people and elderly people just scare me (Shan was on the 17th floor and the fire department was there every night because they were leaving ovens on and not blowing out candles and such. Sca-RY!

I’d also love a second bedroom or a den, but alas, now I KNOW I’m dreaming! I just want some kind of writing alcove/window seat/inspirational area with an OK view where I can dream out into the great blue yonder.

And lord, please let there be intelligent, witty and charming single people with whom I can interact. I’ve got great neighbors right now (quiet, courteous, friendly), and I’d like that plus a little upstairs-downstairs action, if you don’t mind — I’d like to *break in* the new digs as soon as possible. 😉

See? It’s all about having something to look forward to!

On iTunes: Ivy, “Undertow”

In amazing news, I found Inspiration at a coffee shop, and I wrote till my brains fell out I ran out of pages and my ink-stained hands destroyed my new (totally on-sale) white Nine West purse with the snakeskin strap. But that doesn’t matter — my beloved black-and-pink dream journal, themed “Letting Dreams Run Their Course,” is now officially jam-packed with nothing but.

Now to muster up the courage to read it. 😉 Else put the damned thing away and not ruminate over its contents and start a new one already, themed “Turning Dreams into Reality.”

And while the madness shall stay firmly between the pages of the journal that will ultimately be buried in the box in my closet marked “Bondage Materials,” I still get a giggle when I read this passage (written today) when somebody said something surprising to me as we were eating ribs:

*takes a bow*

That was the only funny thing written, I assure you. The rest is this weird mixture of reality and delirium, expectations and wishes, disillusionment and hope. Lots of roundabouts inspired by my observations but nothing fully quantified. Like a handwritten version of this blog, truth be told.

And while I still truly believe I need some tangible beauty and color and inspiration in my world, I’ve found that I’m perfectly capable of creating my own in the interim. And even regenerating it when all else seems lost and barren and otherwise impossible to swallow. (Heh.)

In any event, until I get wherever I need to go — in every sense — I’ll just keep searching for it in my own mind so that I will know my Utopia when I finally reach it. Till then, I — we — all need to keep believing that such a place exists, else we’ll rush right past it and not even recognize it if it reached out to trip us. And maybe, if I’m right, we’re already more than halfway there, and each experience brings us closer to the “better days” that we’ve been promised.

On iTunes: Martina McBride, “Anything’s Better than Feeling the Blues”

I had plans on escaping to a local beach this weekend to do some writing and people-watching. It was a beautiful, temperate and sunny week, so GOD FORBID that kind of weather should carry over into the weekend. It’s pouring. Scattered T-storms on the horizon today and tomorrow. Whee.

Seems sort of pointless to travel in these conditions, especially because I am in high need of relaxation and things of beauty surrounding me — not amped-up Virginia drivers and mini panic attacks and CERTAINLY not more drab walls closing in on me.

Suggestions for overcoming burnout otherwise? If I don’t experience some measure of inspiration and freedom and color and escape and time outdoors SOON, my head is going to explode. Or maybe it already has exploded and I’m just trying to fix what’s broken before it outright dies inside me.

On iTunes: Emiliana Torrini, “Dead Things”

As seen at Liv’s and Neil’s and Lachlan’s.

Presenting … (just) Five Personal Idiosyncrasies. Or, as I like to say, IdioTsyncracies. That, and …

Gimme an O! Gimme a C! Gimme a D!

Ahem.

1. Straw wrapper bows. When I get a beverage that happens to be accompanied by a straw with a wrapper, I MUST tie the paper into a bow. I’ve totally picked this up from my Mom. In fact, I have a straw wrapper bow in my purse from the last time I saw her a few weeks ago.

2. American manicures. That’s what my manicurist calls them — they’re like French manicures, only it’s a soft white paint on the tips, not chalk-white. It looks more natural, like you didn’t just pay to have your nails done. I just got a French manicure and, while I love it, it is so odd to look down and actually see bright white on my nails.

3. Denim skirts. I don’t mean, gee denim is comfy sometimes. I mean, when I worked in casual work environments, I had a different denim skirt for every day of a fiscal quarter. I *~*heart*~* denim — denim purses, denim shirts (only cute ones, not workshirt-types), denim dresses. Everybody always knew me by my wardrobe. But jeans? Don’t like ’em. I hate pants in general on me.

4. Bathroom items “just so.” I have an unnatural (and possibly unhealthy) obsession with order, perhaps because the rest of my life is CHAOS. Like, toilet paper and paper towel rolls MUST be installed properly (i.e., paper coming up and over the roll — none of this backward shit, because even if it’s at your house, I WILL make it hang correctly).

Gimme an O! Gimme a C! Gimme a D!

And shower curtain? Out of the tub. Toilet lid DOWN, preferably before flushing begins — not a girl thing, but a sanitary thing. Also, my younger cat likes to jump in the toilet when it’s full of piss, so you’ve got to be REAL quick when flushing and such.

And let’s not talk about things that go on in the bathroom. Some things are better done in your own home and NOT in public areas. People need to pinch their cheeks and not pollute areas that are already overpopulated and claustrophobic. Don’t eat things that make you root and toot if you’re not close enough to hope to release them into your local portion of the river, k? Some of us have highly overfunctioning olfactory nerves (and are already stir-crazy without the fumes).

And related, hoo boy, you get your bang for your buck with THIS portion of the entry. I do NOT understand how, if there are five or seven stalls in a particular ladies’ room and the place is empty and I choose the stall at the end of the line, the next person who walks in MUST OCCUPY THE STALL NEXT TO ME. Look, I know there’s a partition between us, but for GOD’S SAKE, would it KILL you leave a “courtesy stall” between our bare asses? PLEASE?!?!

Gimme an O! Gimme a C! Gimme a D!

5. Must talk things out. With myself. As the best listener I know, I often play therapist, editor, psychic, parent and best friend to … well, myself. This usually takes place within my head, but the occasional outburst has confounded many people into thinking I’m on the phone or have a visitor. Look, I’m an only child and I play with by myself very well even now. Although my ramblings are very reminiscent of “Milton Waddams” in “Office Space.” Where’s my stapler? 😉

BONUS QUIRK

You just KNOW I’m going to be adding to this list till the end of time right?

Anyway, I read things backward. I start on the last page of magazines and catalogs. I start in the middle of books. When my boss gives the team stuff to edit, I start on the last page or the last section because I figure everyone else will be tired by that point and I can give it my full attention and editorial goddessry.

I also eat dessert first. Yeah, yeah, it might give me a heart attack and it will be the last thing I ever ate. And who wants to die choking down vegetables? 😉

No kids, that’s not my first, middle and last names, although I can’t say those don’t fit right now. 😉

But first, tunage!

Is it possible to feel anchorless and yet like you’re carrying the weight of a thousand worlds on your weary shoulders?

I’ve spent the last year not feeling like I am entitled to any of my feelings — good or bad — and I am feeling an insane need to emote, even though I know better. No matter how valid I believe my feelings are (and how desperately I need someone, anyone to validate them), conventional wisdom dictates that this has never done me any good, so why start (again) now?

I’m just speaking generically, by the way. I am rather adamant that one should do something splendidly bitchy like leaving meat and fruit in the vents of an apartment she is being unceremoniously forced to vacate. Because, fuck, why act civilized when, say, your management company is telling you your car will be towed on Sept. 1 if you don’t get a new parking sticker from them even though you’re getting an eviction notice 30 days later?!?!

There was a moment when I had too much time alone with my dark thoughts today (I believe it was on the Beltway. LOL), and I almost started to believe this fucked-up little voice in the back of my noggin that told me that I worry about everything because I don’t have any real problems — or, at least, I feel like my problems don’t *count.* (Yes, holy shit, PITY PARTY.)

I was reading some old blog entries and just doing my usual manic processing of a million unrelated events (hello Deep Thought!), and I spit out one correllating factor — I don’t always emote when I need to because I’m always absorbing what everyone else around me, near and far, is outputting. And I end up turning it all inward and otherwise DRIVING MYSELF INSANE.

What a revelation! It sucks now that I see it (theoretically) on paper, but dude — I get it now. And I’m not special in this, mind you — we all do it. When all others are losing their heads, someone’s gotta keep it together, no? Problem is, it’s like the commercial with the raft that springs a leak and, while the guy is scrambling for an idea of how to save his girlfriend from drowning, she plugs it with a Tampax Pearl and the world is right again.

But I hate those screwy-shaped tampons just as much as I hate BEING an emotional tampon, to borrow a phrase from a male friend who always seems to attract hormonal females who just want to dump their problems on him because he happens to be one of those good guys who listens and dispenses useful advice, just so long as you can accept the truth.

In any event, I guess I’m just hormonal now and I just want to feel like I’m actually contributing something to this world and making the most of my time in it and not just waiting. And waiting is a loaded word in this use, but I don’t know that I have enough server space to talk about all the things we’re waiting for (Godot?) and all the things we could/should be doing in the meantime.

Is it guilt that drives us to this feeling of absolute inadequacy if we cannot list 20 things at the end of every day that we’ve conquered? And even if we do, people like me might multitask like madwomen but, while we seemingly accomplish a lot, we can’t give anything or anyone the real level of attention that they deserve. Except for the one itty-bitty thing that makes our right eyes start to twitch uncontrollably — and people probably think we can’t handle anything, if something that ridiculously MINOR sets us off.

Ah, what goes unsaid behind what IS said — talk about the real books and movies and plays that are inside all of us. But will we ever find people who will listen and not judge, who will encourage and not discourage, who will make sure you cast away that weight on your shoulders and not allow you to acquire another layer of worry and regret?

And so we drift from person to person, thing to thing, looking for some level of trust that can be turned into longevity.

But that scares people like me, too — was it Groucho Marx who said he’d never want to a club that would actually want him as a member? I don’t believe it’s that we think we can do better in a different environment — we’re just terrified that this restless feeling will haunt us for eternity and we’d have to suffer with it. Not that we wouldn’t be restless elsewhere, of course, but that doesn’t occur to us at the time.

Yet nobody wants a home more than we do. Ponder the dichotomy — I do it every day. I fear being real because I am terrified of the repercussions. Yet, it sure would be nice to feel safe enough to drop our anchors and not worry about being seen with our guard down.

Maybe that would encourage us to learn how to swim, for those of us who don’t know how already. If, of course, we can get up the courage to let others see us in our uncertainty and be truthful in admitting that we don’t have the faintest idea how.

It’s almost like some of us treat life like a series of motel stays — and maybe that’s just the way it has unfolded thus far and that’s why we’re in that cruise-control mode — in that we’re constantly shuffling groups of friends, relationships, cities and surroundings. If we get too comfortable, maybe we’ll wear out our welcome, so we should go before they *don’t* miss us. Perhaps it’s also like dating and flirting and all that crap — we’ve been taught to put a cork in it and not reveal too much, because people will call us back and want to take us out again to keep learning incrementally more.

And so, we are rewarded for holding back, for being enigmatic, for hiding our whole selves. I find that so difficult — I want to be 100% me, well, 100% of the time. Yet when I am, I always walk away from the situation, wondering if I’d done the right thing.

Perhaps I need to pop more Midol — this is way too deep for me right now. 😉

But I don’t want to imply that I’m fake in any way, either. I hate confrontation in a big way, but when asked for honesty, I don’t hold back. It’s just deciding how to serve it up otherwise, in palatable, dainty little petit-four-sized bites that’s the challenge. Like, I tend to bring up certain issues when it’s really something else (usually ridiculously minor) that’s chafing my cha-cha.

In these small ways are how I test the waters, so to speak. It takes a lot for me to feel safe.

Because that means I’m trusting them with me — with my heart, my memories, my mistakes, my lessons, my evolution. And also with the one thing I cherish more than anything: my soul. Some people save their virginity for someone special. For those of us whom it’s, well, WAY too late for that, our soul is the one thing of precious value that we’ve been protecting in our hope chests.

And when we’re ready to open those hope chests, perhaps that’s the land-walker’s equivalent of tossing out the anchor at the spot with the greatest view of the sunrise. It’ll be good to see what’s inside and how well it was preserved for the perfect time and place, where it could be most appreciated. And, god, won’t it feel good to bob along the waves instead of fighting against them?!?!

On iTunes: Black Lab, “Keep Myself Awake”