Caterwauling

There’s an offline discussion arising around the book “One Month to Live.” My copy hasn’t arrived yet, but the question arose today as to how I would spend my days differently if I only had 30 of ’em left.

You know, people always pontificate that they would travel. That seems to be the going theory — that they’d finally hop on a plane and see where they came from or go plant their butts on a beach till the end drew near.

I was thinking about my meager savings and wondered, “Wow, other than gas money to go *somewhere,* what else could I possibly afford? And wouldn’t the ‘right thing’ be to leave it all to my mom, anyway?”

A friend joked that we could always open up as many credit card accounts as possible. Of course, you have crap-credit me here, so I wouldn’t get much and of course I’d need about 40 cards to get to France. Hell, one card might get me to Manhattan, the next might get me to the Atlantic Ocean, another card might get me about 50 yards into the water. Oh well — at least I wouldn’t be around to have to pay them all back!

In seriousness, though, I wrote down what I would do if I were told, “All right, on April 30, you go *poof*.” Not astoundingly, this was it:

“I would either quit my job outright or hang in there till the next pay period ends BUT I’d work ‘normal’ hours. I’d stop resenting everything I believe to be unfair in every aspect of my world. I’d do a pre-need package with the closest funeral director and spend the rest of my savings on one last — er, first bona fide — vacation.

“Before I board that plane, though, I’d need to find time to write just a few more pages of that novel and to will my writings to the right person who will take care of my ideas for me.”

That’s some deep stuff or, at least, some deep shit anyway. When did I get so responsible as to ensure no one had to worry about paying my final tab? Why do I care so much about the writings that I’ve damn near outright abandoned? And who the hell would I designate to carry on the contents of my heart and mind — who do I trust that much?

And funny, too, how I just want to work one 40-hour week. 😉 LOL. If THAT’S all it would take for me to die happy. … 😉

But seriously, I keep talking about getting a passport. What if I did, in fact, go *poof* in a month? I wouldn’t be able to leave the country. (Although I’d be glad to go find something tropical that’s considered to be on U.S. soil. Puerto Rico doesn’t require a passport, right?)

I think the purpose of the exercise was to get us to think more existentially — to see whether we’d be prepared to go into that gentle good night because we know we’re going somewhere good, or whether we’d be scrambling to make everything right that we know is wrong.

I think it was also to kick us in the pants to forgive someone or apologize to someone else. Hey, I’ve forgiven everyone who needed it, even if I didn’t want to open the door to let them back into my life. I forgive in my heart. No need to actually say it out loud. Likewise, I may owe an apology or two. But I’m also not nuts enough to stalk people who don’t want to talk to me.

To everything, there is a season, and if the leaves were all doused with gasoline, there’s nothing to go back to. There’s a reason why some people make it into the next chapter of your life story and others need to be hit over the head with the hardcover version.

But yeah, I really don’t know what I’d do with a month left to live. The material things come to mind — book a cruise, eat at all my favorite restaurants, finally make time for my friends, drink expensive wine (i.e., uncork the good bottles I’ve been saving for a special occasion that I have yet to deign), etcetera.

I can joke that I would put my cat to sleep so I can meet her on the other side, but give me a few years without cleaning up her poop landmines, mmkay? But what I would definitely do is come up with the endings of my half- or unwritten books and tell the lucky beneficiary to write those stories or at least find a good writer/editor to make them happen.

I might also joke that I want to administer one good old-fashioned ass-kicking. Because I can, you know? What, you’re going to deny a dying woman’s God-given right to bitchslap those who deserve it so? Line ’em up!

What I don’t want is to spend that time sad or depressed. I earned every gray hair on this head, every laugh line around my eyes, every eyeroll at examples of immaturity, laziness, pettiness and whininess.

I was at a little gathering at my church, and someone got to talking about how differently it is when a Christ-follower is about to pass, compared to a non-religious person. She said how beautiful it is, to see the “saved” person ready to go be with his or her King. I hope to cultivate that kind of faith — I’m afraid, right now, I’d be more than just a little resentful on all that I was missing out on.

And to that end, I’d want one last kiss — a good one (sad how you have to qualify that). But not with that (theoretical) one eye open — a bona fide, eyes closed, heart racing, churning-lava-at-your-absolute-core, goose-bumps-inducing, life-altering, mood-ring-changing as body heat rises, moment of utter and complete surrender.

That last “first” kiss would serve as a reminder for when I’m up for reincarnation in one of these millennia — that I’d actually want to come back again just to be able to experience the warmth of someone else’s skin.

Maybe the best things in life are free, when you look at it that way. 😉

Anyway, I will no doubt have more existential angst over this subject when I get the book in-hand. But what I expect from myself and others in my circle who are in this little book club, is that we’ll probably all be changed for life by this exercise.

If there were an Internet connection here at La Madeline, this would be a blog entry. But as there isn’t, oh well. (Hello, free Wi-Fi/ Since a girl had to disconnect hers at home per Comcast and now it won’t hook back up because there’s no love for Mac people in a Windows-based router world?)

I’ve been having trouble with the morons at my apartment rental office. I mean, I want to light the office on fire and probably would if it wouldn’t get me arrested. And that just wouldn’t agree with me too much — I think the reason why I stay as calm and serene as possible is that I just wouldn’t be able to survive in prison without all my girly products.

And besides, what’s the point of losing one’s cool if her single-lifetime meltdown moment ends up on the nightly news? I would surely hate to wait all this time for my 15 minutes of fame and it would find me doused in gasoline and touting a .38-caliber. (Although, the peaceful, accomplished grin on my face would be epic)

Anyway, the rental office somehow managed to hire someone competent and, dare I say, the only non-native English-speaker is the most-articulate of the bunch. (Shocker!) In fact, we talked for a good two hours about his travels. (Born in Mozambique, lived in many places, last seen in Santa Monica, planning a two-month journey to South Africa, Barcelona and Paris, etc.)

I was mystified as to how a management-office money could afford that, but he said he only works when he feels like it — just one or two days a week. He’s got all kinds of enterprises going and says that one good commission can pay for him to live/travel for a year. Damn.

I needed to run into him when I did. I wanted to hear all about a world other than workweeks and familial obligations and no time for oneself. I mean, this dude looked like the corners of his mouth were permanently upturned — he’s one of those people who “works to live’ (and not the other way around like the rest of us). And damn it, I want to be him when I grow up.

He says he’s quitting this job in May to start his travels, and he’ll come back when it darn well pleases him — not to the job, but to America. I was enthralled with tales of the friends he’s made around the world, and how there are so many more journeys to be experienced that one simply cannot know about when one is imprisoned in one’s circumstances.

Blah blah, if you can dream it do it cakes.

He asked what I was doing this afternoon, and I said I was inspired to go find some travel literature and get my passport. He said to get that passport ASAP and to go buy maps and books and rent movies on France. (I told him about naming my savings account “Paris.”) So I found myself driving to Le Madeline for some cawfee (er, café) and some stinky-cheese dish. (The latter wasn’t such a hot idea, but le café est magnifique.)

We exchanged e-mail addresses with a promise to meet for cocktails before he leaves and for him to keep me motivated to keep my travel/escape dreams alive.

Hmm, that’s ponderous, what I just typed. I dream of escape these days, not travel. I’ve sort of fallen into a “can’t make it happen now — best not to dream about it at this time” mode. I think that sentiment could apply on a grander scale, too, truth be told. I can do it all “someday,” right?

He told me to not only get that passport, but frame that thing and stick it in the living room. To remember that every day that goes by without me using it is time that I am missing out on experiences that I’m destined to have.

I always, always say that people are placed in our path for a reason. I admit I thought he was put on this earth to annoy me (as it seems damn near everyone else was) because he works for Miss Management (oh, I hate the woman who runs that office). But he could care less about the dumb games they or anyone plays, because he has his own thing goin’ on.

In fact, he’s going to be doing volunteer work in every city he’s traveling to. He set his own agenda and seems like he shows up and introduces himself to helping organizations and gets put to work wherever. And he picks his hotels and destinations based on how much of his tourism dollars will go to the poorest people in those cities.

I would never have thought to do that. Of course, I’m not doing a lot in the way of crafting creative solutions to anything because I’m having enough of a challenge just keeping up with the bare minimum that I’ve committed myself to.

Anywhoo, I’m going to go find myself a bookstore or something. I don’t want to lose out on this rare inspired feeling — lord only knows, if I don’t hang on to it this time, when I’ll come across it again. …

I was just staring at my bank account (the savings, named “Paris”) for a moment and contemplating how badly I want to spend that twee little nest egg on a new ‘puter or a vacation or a lobotomy. And yet, for as much as I want, want, want, I am loath to spend the money burning a hole in my (theoretical) pocket.

(Off-topic, I have my iPhone’s iPod on shuffle and the last seven out of 10 songs were from Evanescence. Seems fitting.)

Where was I? I don’t know. Lost, I guess. I usually end up spending my savings on moving. And while that’s not out of the realm of possibility, I sure would like to use my “Paris” fund for, well, a city that has the full-sized Eiffel Tower in it.

(Ooh, Patton Oswalt bit came on. “Sprinkle some fries on those cupcakes!” Ha!)

Everyone seems to be collectively in PMS mode in my world. I personally ready to kill anyone who comes within three feet of me. I am actually purposely making myself unbearable to be around. (Yes, I know, I don’t have to try very hard to achieve that.)

I’ve got people in the offices on both sides of me on their speakerphones. I’m blasting Melissa Etheridge, Evanescence and Bon Jovi to keep myself sane, although I’m sure everyone else within earshot will agree that I am, in fact, annoying them — and not even on purpose!

It’s almost dunchtime (dinner/lunch/whatever — that’s the vernacular in these here parts). The moment I stepped away from my computer yesterday, all hell broke loose. So today I’ve chained myself to it. And besides, there’s usually that 11th-hour submission (er, 11 hours, 59 minutes and 58 seconds). Although today, I don’t think I’m getting one and so help me, I was finally prepared for it and my hyper-vigilance for nothing irritates me even more.

I keep making the joke that no one can cover us if we get hit by a bus, but that I hate that theory because, really, if any of us gets hit by one, it’d be because we jumped in front of it!

Oooh, five minutes till the witching hour. Oh, terrific, my Word AND Outlook just crashed. Screw it — I declare the witching hour to be now. Let the scavenging for dunch commence!

This one was based on birthdate, so it may or may not apply to other Geminis:

“Someone who lives fairly close to you has stronger feelings for you than you think. You might not even know this person very well, Goddess, but don’t be surprised if you find yourself attracting some rather goofy looks from him today. Whether you decide to pursue this attraction or not, of course, depends on your situation. However, you need to be prepared to deal with it in one way or another.”

This is assuming, of course, that I would even pull my head out of my butt long enough to notice …

At some point today, I declared I was going to be sprung out of my little hole during daylight hours. The cheers that erupted from various Twitterfriends was encouraging. And then, at 10 p.m., I came home. *sigh*

The worst part of it is not that I didn’t finish my work (and what I did finish, well, sucked), but that a certain Calico cat took a big, steaming, bloody dump in the middle of my eggshell-colored duvet cover. I just washed that thing this past weekend, too.

I noticed that my bedroom had an eau de barnyard scent about it right away — thank God I figured it out before I absentmindedly tossed my purse on the bed, as is my habit. And the poo pile, of course, permeated the duvet itself. Mmm, yummy.

I always tell my mom that she’s getting custody of my tuxedo cat (those two are best friends — good for them). Today, I declared she’s getting both of ’em.

In other news, a friend texted me that he was rushed to the emergency room with chest pains but needed to know who got booted off of “Idol.” Ha. I’m assuming the condition isn’t THAT serious, because knowing the outcome of the show (which I missed — I turned it off at 9:58) wouldn’t exactly be on my bucket list. *prayers for my friend*

All right, so someone had a worse evening than me. I can stop complaining now. 😉

On Instant Messenger last night, circa 9:30:

Colleague: I just checked the server for (project). It hasn’t been uploaded yet.
Colleague: I always check before I go to bed.
Me: Thanks! And clearly, you need to get a life.
Colleague: Aren’t you still working on (other project)?
Colleague: I can’t take advice on getting a life from others who don’t have one.
Me: Touche.

So, I haven’t bought shampoo in about four months. The one new year’s resolution I made (because I can stick to it) is to start using the basket filled with mini shampoos, conditioners and lotions that I’ve taken as souvenirs of various hotel stays.

Today, I used my Marriott Marquis products. It’s funny how you get a whiff of a familiar scent, and suddenly you’re transported to the heart of New York City. That’s my favorite place to go, mostly because it’s the most expensive price and the least amount of space, but you have the whole city waiting for you with just a short walk and/or a taxi ride.

I remember going to Serendipity for frozen hot cocoa (packets, anyway — the wait for a frozen hot chocolate was 2 1/2 hours!). I also remember standing on the street with my friends outside Thalia’s restaurant.

And I *should* remember the night we went to Mesa Grill and I got railroaded by sidecars in the 8th floor lounge at the Marquis, but I don’t recall much past wandering the streets with my friends and my camera and insisting that I simply MUST get a picture of Bear Stearns and Lehman Bros. (You know, those brokerages in the news these days. Go figure.)

Anyway, I had honestly forgotten where my latest shampoo/conditioner set had come from, as I didn’t recognize the Nirvae product line. But from the moment I stepped in the shower, I knew where I was the last time I’d inhaled these scents. I remember the people, the foods, the drinks, the stories … especially the ones NOT fit for print.

I’m in a New York state of mind today. If there were anywhere I would want to be right this very moment (other than a beach), it’d be there. So hey, anyone who messes with my state of mind? Fuck you! 😉

Happy 6th anniversary to this blog, give or take. I can’t remember the exact date I started it. But it’s been a wild half-plus decade — this space has kept me from killing those who might have deserved it and yet made me want to suffocate some others in their sleep.

I notice that, as my friends get busier, they blog less. And I always thought, nah, I’ll find something to write about every day. And I try to. Even if it’s insignificant, it means something to me when I commit it to WordPress.

I realize that, the busier I am, the more I want to blog but the less able I am to do it. Like, I cannot manage to put together a succinct list of what’s happening here in the Potomac promenade that is Washington, D.C., but I assure you, I could write 50 blog entries on the past three days alone.

One thing I can say is that it’s the first year in about three that I haven’t moved. But I may still — I’m getting screwed on a rent increase anyway, and because these bastards will not give me my lease (but will leave notes and voicemails daily to come in and sign the fucking thing), I am in jeopardy of going month-to-month at an even-higher rate.

I did stop in the office today to ask for the damn lease already. (I had a laundry list of complaints for them to address — no time like when I’m committing to give them $18,000 over the next 12 months.)

Good God, that was my annual salary right before I started this blog. Now it’s my annual rent. Shit. Just goes to show that you can make more money, but your expenses increase incrementally so you’re never really as well-off as you think you SHOULD be.

Anyway, back to this place. The management-office monkey said he wasn’t ALLOWED to print out my lease … that only the manager could give it to me but she wasn’t going to be in for another two hours.

Pfft.

I said fine, you can have her slide it under my door. She left me a message today, but screw her — maybe it’s a sign to just take the monthly deal so I can hightail it on a whim if need be. And trust me, I expect this whim shall hit sooner rather than later. Besides, I rather enjoy being a moving target — it means I can’t be too much of a pack rat, if nothing else.

Boy, I wasn’t kidding when I said I blog about the insignificant! But it’s mine, all mine.

I’ve been having a bizarre load of deja vu today. There are always certain occurrences that prompt it, like the universe is telling me I’m “getting warmer” to where I’m supposed to be. It’s amazing to be feeling and not (just) thinking. I could get used to this.

Went out last night, which in and of itself isn’t an unusual occurrence, but as ALWAYS there’s no such thing as the perfect evening.

I looked fine when I left the house — not exotic or anything, but you know. Clean. Slightly fashionable outfit. Makeup. All that happy crap.

And I know I looked in the mirror and must have approved myself before I left, but I had somewhat of a drive to go meet someone. So when I got to my destination, I did the whole freshening-up thing in the ladies’ room just to make sure I was still somewhat cute and fresh and all.

And I noticed that there was a big, oily stain on my green tank top. Bizarre.

Luckily, I had another shirt to pull over it (and I was headed into a movie. *whew*) but it didn’t cover it fully and I admit, I was all “WTF?” over the mystery stain.

I mean, I admit that I miss my mouth most of the time when I’m eating. I’m one of those women who doesn’t eat much on dates — not to be dainty or anything, because you can look at me and know I like food. So, it’s really pointless to pretend to eat like a bird when everybody at the table knows better.

But I end up “getting more on me than in me,” as I am fond of saying. (Ahem.) So, knowing that I tend to spill a lot, I tend not to want to eat at least until the evening is almost over.

Anywhoo, got through the movie. (I rather loved “Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day” although I highly doubt it’ll be nominated for Picture of the Year.) And as a side tangent, I was very depressed for a moment during the show when I realized I no longer put myself in the young heroine’s shoes but, instead, I related more to the dowdy (read, “older”) Miss Pettigrew. When did I stop being the heroine of my OWN fantasies? Lord. < / tangent >

Dinner was at Brio, which was wonderful of course. I’ve been to its counterpart (Bravo) a few times but this was waaayyy better. The Italian Wedding soup tipped me off, as I knew I had tasted that recipe before. I rocked some lobster risotto for dinner, and it almost usurped Carrabba’s as my favorite Italian restaurant.

Anyway, I don’t think anyone noticed the stain — which, when I got home, I found out the one side of my Wonderbra had EXPLODED and the gel is what leaked all over the shirt. (Joy.) Luckily, the theater was dark, the restaurant was dim and I toddled off on my merry way like a good girl so I could be up for church today. 😉

Proof positive once again that you can dress her up but you just can’t take her out!

So thanks to Craptastic Comcast, I’ve had spotty Internet connectivity for two weeks and the modem was dead as a doornail for the past two days.

I finally called to talk to a rep last night, who was just a rude little thing. She was mouth-breathing into the phone and giggling at whatever her coworkers were doing.

I knew there was an outage in my area but I was trying to reassign IP addresses and figured I’d effed something up. But, alas, I was fine and the rep should thank her lucky stars that she’s still employed. (She asked if I’m running XP and I said, no, I’m on a Mac. And she said, “Is that new?”)

My favorite moment was when she said, “I have 29 minutes to go and I can not WAIT to get out of here for the night.”

God forbid we talk about MY problems! She went on to say her brother locked himself out of the house and that he works there too and she had to go by his place before she goes home. Huh?!?! The fuck? Who gives a shit?

She wasn’t able to give me a reference number for the call because her computer froze up. I had full intentions of complaining. But then again, at least my call wasn’t outsourced to India this time and, minus the mouth-breathing, I could sort-of understand what she said, even if it was pure nonsense that has nothing to do with all the money I pay these morons each month.

Good to know that the world may change, but Comcast customer service has no shortage of suckage when there’s an outage.