Caterwauling

That would be, the maximum aggravation for the minimum price, my new slogan for TJ Maxx.

I hate that store with the fire of a thousand suns. But I love discount shopping. The only reason we went there yesterday was because Mom called from Pittsburgh to ask me to try to hunt for a rug she needed. (She needs two of everything. Don’t ask.)

Anyway, I didn’t find the throw rug but I did see a small carry-on case that I really needed. I’ve been carrying this silver-and-black duffel bag on planes, and it’s great but I can’t stick it atop my rolling suitcase. The new bag was $13 and the fabric matches my “good” suitcase.

So we were about ninth in line at a register. There were four other lines, equally long.

Our cashier was waiting on someone when she decided to, oh, LEAVE. In mid-transaction. She brushed past all of us, whining, “My finger hurts!”

The woman at the counter was all, “Did she just ABANDON me?”

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So I was sitting at the mechanic’s this morning, reading the WaPo, when this article whacked me over the head.

“Before Vacation, An Out-of-Office Experience”

As someone who rarely if ever takes vacations (as most of my disposable income is spent on retail therapy and, yes, car-related issues), I admit that I hate taking any time off. Because it seems like you’re already working X number of hours per week (X = a number greater than 40), but in preparation of skipping town (even for work-related reasons), that X variable increases by at least a third.

I’ve left the office past 10 p.m. and often lamented having to actually deduct eight hours of vacation time from the next day on my timesheet. I say this tongue-in-cheek, because I am also of the attitude of “What can you do?” but there’s a part of me that wonders how you can ever get that time back. But there’s a greater part of me that still doesn’t get everything done and frets about it during my “off” time.

Sometimes, I feel like mental vacations (i.e., those taken on the clock) are the only real reprieve we ever really get.

“Pre-vacation exhaustion and disengagement” is what some psychologists call it. Employers call it other names.

There’s also something interesting in the article that made me actually mentally pat myself on the back.

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I’ve been neglecting the House of Caterwauling for a long time. Now, I know I post almost daily and oftentimes twice-daily, but there are a million posts that sit unfinished and others that I killed off halfway into them. I start to talk about dates and outings with friends and rethink it and decide to keep those to myself because, well, a girl’s gotta have something to cherish. And besides, the dreams of cosmic Greyhound buses are better left offline. 😉

But before we get into just a sliver of the latest in my world, I present tunage. I’m so over Nelly Furtado — never liked her music and don’t find her sexy enough to pull off “Promiscuous,” but if I don’t have to look at her wooden facial expressions, I rather like the emotional well from which she draws. This is “I Am”:

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I have always been a believer of divine intervention/retribution, of the score being evened in the end. And as people and things are testing my patience in ways that I can only describe as “abominable,” I struggle to maintain my inner zen.

Some days, it’s like the inner goddess, inner child, inner bitch and inner peace are fighting the mental equivalent of the Iraq war within my being. But the bottom line is that I am a patient, patient person — to my own detriment, at times, but to quote Richie Sambora’s song “Ballad of Youth”: “Everybody rides on the karma train.”

Before I launch into today’s tirade, here’s the song:

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So I’m at the repair shop today. And let’s not talk about my meltdown in which I burst straight into tears with a simple, “Fuck me. Just fuck me. God damn it, haven’t you given me enough to fucking deal with this week? Do I really need this shit?”

Five minutes prior …

Mechanic: Did you know your exhaust pipe is cracked?

Me: What’s that do?

Mechanic: You’re kidding. Right? (eyes me warily)

Me: Can’t we just remove it, like an appendix?

Mechanic: (realizes I really AM serious)

Mechanic: That thing you drive is called a car.

Me: I’m with you so far.

Mechanic: And see here? (points) That’s your exhaust pipe. There’s the crack in it.

Me: Well, whoda thunk it?

Mechanic: Can’t you hear the loud sound your car always makes?

Me: My car makes noise? I didn’t notice.

Mechanic: Just how loud do you turn up your music anyway?

Me: I have earbuds. I have no need to listen to anything, and definitely not to a passenger when I have one. All hail the iPod.

Mechanic: Sometimes you can do a personality assessment in just one conversation.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

So this part is going to cost all of $980 because it has to be special-ordered from my dealer. Hahahahaaaaaaaaaaaa. Funny!

I left in disbelief. What could I do? I needed to get to work, because just what I need is to go put on my happy face when I’m losing my cookies.

But first, I went to the DMV for more torture, pain and hell. (And again left empty-handed). But in the midst of it, the phone rang.

Mechanic: OK, you can pay $980 and get the part next week, or I can get a used one, have my guy weld it and you pay $245.

Me: I fucking LOVE you!!!

Mechanic: Not only did I anticipate that you’d say that, but also in those words.

A quote was brought to my attention today, a proverb to the effect of those who put up with insult are actually inviting injury.

I am one of those people who shakes off insults because, well, once you consider the source, I mean — really. Trainwrecks cannot look at non-fusterclucks without hoping they will reach their own lows. And if everyone doesn’t collapse into a sobbing mess on the floor, then said trainwrecks will do their damndest to take everyone down with them — the stronger the person, the better.

I’ve been following the blog of one such trainwreck (although if you happen to be a trainwreck, this message is for you too), and I have to refrain with all my might from leaving a comment or 20 about the “woe is me, pity me, waaaah nobody loves me/everybody hates me/gonna go eat worms” bullshit that spews forth from every stupid ass entry he makes.

I don’t even know why I read it. Well, yeah I do — I know the full story behind it. I know the person he’s unjustly attacking, the facts he’s not revealing, the reality in which he never steps foot. (Do we not all have one of these in our lives?)

The thing is, I leave well enough alone with the blog of the person I don’t really know. I read it, I ponder it, and I commiserate with my friend who is wondering WTF synapse happened in his head where the sensitivity or at least the smart gene used to be. I hope he doesn’t go beyond using words to wound her. And I hope even that gets old someday soon. I don’t wish him love or luck — I wish him a fucking lightning bolt up his ass that jolts him back into the real world.

One thing I struggle with, as someone who often ends up being the better person because somebody’s got to be, is the proclivity of persons of faith to forgive, forget and make amends. I forgive. I refuse to forget — I have documentation going back decades. I have a great propensity to get revenge by moving on with my life and not looking back. My survival is contingent on focusing my energies on what will propel me forward and not on looking back, wondering what was done and what could have been done differently. That would imply that I care. And I sure as hell will never lie to you and god damn it, if I don’t care, I am so not going to fake it.

Which brings me to some very touching e-mails from folks who think I’m wishing an untimely end on them. Jesus Christ, nobody but nobody I keep in my circle would ever be hurtful or petty or downright terrorizing like what’s motivating my posting today. I don’t want negative energy in my life and I refuse to keep it around me when it shows up. I am a good person who tries very hard to pay attention to life lessons and learn from them and live by them.

I don’t fight losing battles. I find my happiness right where I stand. If I can’t help you, I step back and refuse to hurt you. If you hurt me, I usually let it slide. But no more. No fucking more — hear me?

So when you, you petty little fucker, decide to not only assault me via text with deliberate misspellings so you think I might be thrown off the case, think again. If you want to use the “n” word in reference to anyone I love, whether it’s my niece or anyone I date or othewise hold in high esteem, you may reserve the right to get your dick caught in a vise. We don’t see color (or even gender) here at Chez Dawn. We look for the heart, the promise, the inner light. Maybe we didn’t always, but after not finding it for so long where we were looking for it, we wised the hell up and suggest others do the same.

When we see a cold rotted stump where a soul had once grown, that’s when we call it for what it is — a lost cause. I think you know where this is leading.

If you want to talk smack about the people who have been true friends to me, the people who were not only friends through the good times but who also loved and supported me through the terrible times that not only did you step on my head and screw me over through, but that I suspect strongly that you CAUSED, again, feel free to fall off a cliff.

Sometimes I think I don’t deserve those wonderful people in my life. But I’m wrong on that. I don’t deserve the crap I took from everyone else. Again, let’s envision where this is leading.

If you, so help me, think that your opinions of who I am and what I am not and what I do or don’t look like or what the fuck ever runs through that twisted little brain of yours could ever matter to me again, wake up to the pot of coffee being poured over your head. The lower your blows that come, the more I think to myself, “Yeah, I was right about you.”

Prove me wrong.

Prove to me that you can be the man you want to be.

Prove to all of us that — despite some poor judgment calls and threats and property damage and wounding comments you’ve made to so many people throughout the years — you’re on your way to becoming the man God intended you to be. That you are someone to be loved, not feared or loathed. That you are someone strong, who can be looked up to as an example of strength and fortitutde and knowledge.

Prove to me that you’re the person I saw so long ago — the inner you that no one else took the time to get to know, to nurture, to cherish. I don’t see that person anymore. I haven’t seen that person in ages. I tend to wonder sometimes if I only imagined it.

But, don’t try to prove it to me personally. Lead a good life, live by example to others and leave well enough alone those bridges that got singed along the way. I know you’re out there. You don’t have to remind me. Let’s cherish the good times that did exist — because they did and we know it. It’s just that, past a certain point, there can’t be any more of those, not with this magnitude of heartache.

I don’t want to fear you. I don’t want to pity you. I don’t want to know you. Not anymore. All you think you know about me is what you glean from this Web site. I can’t keep you from reading it, but I ask you to respect what is here. It is a piece of my heart, but just that. I want to continue to share myself and continue feeling and believing in all the world has to offer. I’m not about to let you or anyone destroy that hope and faith in the world and in myself.

I’ve kept silent for far too long. I never thought you’d listen. I never thought you’d get it. I never felt like you could identify. And I never wanted to waste my time.

You wanted a rise out of me — this is it. But I’m accustomed to being hurt — you of all people have known me so well and know how to break my heart with one shot. But I can’t give you that anymore. You forfeited your right to matter to me. I would never, ever stand up for you, not after all you’ve done to me. So get that fucking fake and forced reference from me off your Web site, or else they look me up and give me a call.

So, take the love you once had for me and give it away. Do something nice for someone else. Donate a dollar to charity for everything you’ve ever done to try to destroy me.

Share your gifts. Open your heart and use it only for good. Love instead of resent. Someone, somewhere, will thank you for it. And even though you might never hear it, it might just be me who is most proud of you for living the life you’ve always wanted.

If someone’s dead to you, why can’t they take the next logical step and just die already?

I download a lot of music (most of it turns out to be crap), but don’t really listen to it until I’ve loaded it onto my phone or burned a CD for the car.

But I came across this gem that I believe I heard on “Laguna Beach.” (Shut up.) It was playing on the way to work as I was stressing about, well, everything. And hot damn, I’ve found me a melody that I can totally dig as “my” song.

Here’s it is, with lyrics below the fold:

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For those of you who have somehow mistakenly gotten the impression that I am at all serious (or smart. I doubt you have, but let’s take that leap of faith for this purpose, shall we?), I present to you two things that defined my day yesterday that no one who knows me would ever doubt that I actually, in fact, said or did.

On Ben Roethlisberger’s motorcycle accident in Pittsburgh yesterday:

“You know, I’m not shocked he was recognized. Those Pittsburgh ball players are famous. They are always out in public, eating next to you at the restaurants and moreover, they’re as familiar as members of your family. Even bruised and bloodied, people knew exactly who he was. Here in Washington? A Redskin could walk up to me and say ‘How’ and I wouldn’t know who the fuck he is.”

*ba DUM bum*

Seen Heard at the DMV

I had the misfortune of visiting the DMV yesterday and, unfortunately, of also leaving empty-handed. Because no matter how high your IQ is, you cannot glean the proper car registration procedures from the Internet and god forbid you let your Virginia tags expire, because you’re treated like a terrorist.

That’s not the pun to the story. What is, then? Well, when *somebody* left all pissed-off yesterday and frustrated and wondering when the FUCK she’s going to find time to make all this bullshit happen before getting *another* ticket or tow, she wasn’t paying attention and Backed. Into. Somebody’s. Vehicle. At the motherlovin’ DMV. *gah*

Here I was thinking I need a personal assistant to just take care of all this detail crap. Fuck it, while we’re dreaming, give me a chauffeur too!

In perhaps the most bizarre incident of peer pressure, I suddenly want to find a church. Now, if I know me, this will last exactly 20 minutes and will probably pass. Otherwise I’ll go one week and then try to find a pagan temple or something to counterbalance it, but maybe that’s what I need right now. God or something like it.

I don’t know if my reasons are right, but I guess the motivation doesn’t matter — just that I show up and mean it. I’m hoping it will be a leap I need to take to learn to commit to myself, to stop saying, “Well, maybe NEXT week. …” with that and everything else my lazy ass puts off. Because I? Will never run out of excuses. For anything. I think I’ve been handed so many in my life that I’ve learned how to dole them out like a Costco-sized case of cat treats.

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