Caterwauling

I think we should combine personal ads with “for rent” listings.

Face it, while we love most of our former roommates (I loved them all but the one I called “Salad Shitter” — the idiot who never bathed and who shat salad greens in the toily and couldn’t be bothered to flush twice when necessary. Well, come to think of it — nor did I love the wannabe drag queen who left dog shit everywhere and always hosted homeless, stinkin’ drag queens, letting them sleep on the floor while I was at work — the B.O. stench alone had me moving out within weeks. And I swear I left that place sans quite a few scandalous underthings. … OK, I’d better digress right now before I conjure up any other bad memories!), sometimes you’re too daggone old to live with others again.

And in my state of being forced to move, I am highly upset because I always hoped my next move would involve shacking up with someone. So, let’s turn getting fucked by your landlord into an opportunity to get fucked … and to possibly enjoy it! (Alas, it’s too much to ask that getting some and wanting some more from that person should go hand-in-hand. Or, something-in-something. Anyway. …)

Hence, the “For Rent Personals” — no lease, no contracts, no credit check. However, a trip to the free clinic is mandatory. They have an apartment in the part of town you want to inhabit, and voila! Instant concubine. If you have a home (or hole) to fill, sign up through your local City Paper and screen/interview potential live-ins. Forget movies-on-demand … get other, better things on demand AND get half your rent paid!!!

Seriously, my talents are being wasted in the “real” world. 😉

On iTunes: Portishead, “Roads”

WTF is UP with these gas prices?!?! Jesus H on a stick, I was at one of my favorite gas stations in Springfield, Va. (yes, I put MILES on the car just to get a cheaper rate) and actually watched the station workers CHANGE the price while I fueled my precious baby Samantha. Like — more than just a few cents. I had to check my receipt to make sure I was billed at the price advertised when I pulled in. Insanity!!!

Samantha, incidentally, is very mad at me because she is accustomed to being washed at least once a week, but Mama needs gas to feed her with, and making her all sparkly and shit is not altogether that high on the priority list anymore. She is angry and it shows, because she always drives better when she’s pretty.

I’ve decided that higher gas prices will be the new diet revolution sweeping the nation. Seriously, I left work late last night and I would normally have stopped somewhere for a drive-thru dinner — particularly because I never really do more than a vending machine lunch (ugh) and can’t always wait till I get home to seek nourishment.

(And besides, why have two — or, for that matter, ANY hands on the steering wheel when you’re going 90 mph? And don’t question me on my speed — the later I get out, the faster I drive. It evens out.)

In any event, I figured that the cashish I’d spend on some crappy cheeseburger and a drink would be better spent on cheap-ass, low-grade unleaded.

Seriously, if we’re going to be fighting this unnecessary war in Iraq, could we at least liquidate Saudi Arabia while we’re over there and send some oil-filled care packages home to the citizens who keep having to fund this insipid war? (And for you fundamentalists, no I do not believe we’re doing a “blood for oil” war. I’m just saying that we aren’t exactly philanthropists, wanting a peaceful world — we might as well take a souvenir or two in the form of a few thousand barrels of something special, eh?)

And speaking of being driven to distraction, why the hell is it easier to get a driver’s license than a green card in this city? Jimminy Christmas, this guy in a brand-new blue Honda with temporary Virginia tags was terrorizing the greater D.C. area on the Beltway today. I counted 17 times — SEVENTEEN — that he tried to swerve into the left lane with no turn signal. And he only seemed to do it WHEN A CAR WAS COMING. I refused to pass him because I didn’t want him lodged into my passenger-side door. Moron.

I did pass him at the Rockville/Bethesda split, and he was driving all granny-like, sitting all the way forward and sweating bullets. And I truly don’t mean this as horrible as it sounds, but sometimes it’s WAY easier to turn one’s head to see what eludes our peripheral vision if we don’t have the contents of our linen closet plopped on top of our noggins. Just saying — I’ve seen NASCAR drivers less wedged into their seats, helmets and all. …

On iTunes: Bon Jovi, “Have a Nice Day”