Caterwauling

Starting today I plan to hide the metaphorical razor blades and start living, loving and hoping again.

Joel Osteen said something profound, that God already heard you loud and clear the first time you prayed for something. No need to beg. He doesn’t react to begging. Just keep praising him for making your wishes come true, and that’s when they will.

Even though I’m a little older than the entitlement generation that wants/gets everything now now NOW, I have to admit that my patience is the only thin thing about me.

I’ve begged God for five-plus years to get my mother healthy and on her own. I’ve begged for financial stability and the love of a good man. I’ve begged for happiness and peace and a plane ticket to Paris. And I continue to wonder, well, “When? What do I have to do to be heard in a universe of 7 billion that are praying for similar and, let’s face it, probably more-important things?”

Osteen’s solution is to pray it once, and thank God for bringing it to pass, whenever it will be brought to pass. And you know what? I’ve tried everything else. I’m going to try it his way on this one and see what happens.

I look back fondly on my 20s, on the time I spent alone and scraping together my last few bucks to do whatever I wanted to do. Friends didn’t want to show up for anything I wanted to do? Fuck ’em. I tried not to miss out on too much.

Now here I am in my 30s, and it’s mostly the same song and dance. It’s pretty bad when the most-stressful years of my life were the best years. And if these are the traditional best years, please tell me they’re not going to get so much worse that I WILL be looking back at this time with any degree of wistfulness!

I figure this is my last chance to make absolute miracles happen. To really figure out what I want to be when I grow up … to become the woman that no man in his right mind would resist … to be so in love with life that it can’t HELP but love me back and shower me with all the blessings I desire and a bajillion that I didn’t even think to ask for.

I hate being ordinary. I hate how willingly I’ve accepted it. I hate how enslaved I feel to situations that are absolutely fucking hopeless. I hate continually battling for my joy, and for the anchors tied to my ankles that keep pulling me under to the point that I cannot fathom continuing to tread water, let alone swimming away.

Some people let hate or fear or frustration motivate them. It doesn’t work like that for me. I have to be happy to want to do and be more. Happy isn’t a destination, though, I’ve learned. It’s the gas in the car — broken-down as said vehicle may be — that gets you the fuck out of Pity Party Town.

My home situation hasn’t been what’s broken me, although it’s certainly driven me over the edge and I’m sitting in the sealed-up car at the bottom of the ocean, living on borrowed time. It’s love, of all things, that tore me apart … that I could be treated so horribly when all I did was try to love someone who just doesn’t want to be loved by anyone but a horrid piece of shit who, if he’d just fucking examine the damn situation, doesn’t give a fuck about him … this fucking wrecked my entire world.

The thing that I thought would finally save me, was what smashed the window on the sealed-up car at the bottom of the ocean and caused me to drown on impact.

And here I am, dragged upon shore and looking around at what’s left, and not being overly excited about still having to deal with it.

“See me jump through hoops for you
You stand there watching me performing
What exactly do you do?
Have you ever thought it’s you that’s boring?
Who the hell are you?

I am extraordinary, if you’d ever get to know me
I am extraordinary, I am just your ordinary
Average everyday sane psycho
Supergoddess.”

— Liz Phair, “Extraordinary”

I stopped dreaming in that car. I forgot about setting goals. I quit envisioning the life I once believed I was meant to have. I see the anchors affixed to my ankles and I don’t know how anyone expects me to get up and walk away from all of this when it will keep FOLLOWING ME.

I realize that nobody else is going to change and I am sick of always having to be the one to change, to do better, to dream bigger, to carry more of a load with every step I take.

But I think today I decided that, well, it’s OK. This is it. If I don’t do something so over-the-top spectacular — and soon — to rescue my mind and heart and body and soul, then I can buy the hats and horns for the pity party.

But in the meantime, I have one last miracle in me … the last drop of oil that can last for 40 days if I just thank God for that to happen … and damn it, as soon as I figure out what it is, I’m going to come out of this stronger, better and anything BUT ordinary.

Just because someone special turned out to be just as ordinary as everyone else, doesn’t mean I have to follow his lead.

Move over, world. Imma show you how a real comeback is done. …

Had lunch with an old friend today. It did wonders in reducing my anxiety. It had been a super-busy morning — I said it’s like I did eight hours’ worth of work in four — and it was just good to chill the hell out and talk about nothing in particular.

I may need to do that more often.

We were talking about my need/desire to get the hell out of Dodge, and he agreed that Virginia is clearly calling me home for a while.

So I mentioned to Mom that, hey, all signs seem to be pointing due north for me. Whereupon I get the whole “You’re going to lose your job — they’re going to think you want to move back” and “You don’t have the money” and “We can’t even afford to eat and you want to go on vacation” and “Oh but have you paid off the IRS yet” and “Well don’t you need a car first” and “Well you were miserable when you lived there, weren’t you” and “You don’t have vacation time — you want to come back and find that they’ve hired someone else” and “You’re miserable no matter where you are” and “There you go trying to revolve your life around other people’s schedules when you should be focusing on working harder.”

My anxiety shot through the roof. My depression actually wasn’t sure whether it should take root or remain in a suspended state of BAFFLEMENT, so I went from wanting to die to wanting to stay at work six more hours.

And we wonder why I’m just a teensy bit on edge?

I’m having dinner with another old friend tomorrow. I know that people come and go in my life and I really hope that they stop the “going” part because I need things to look forward to and while I don’t expect a soul to save me, I can’t paint the mental picture of the life I want when I’m continually thinking up ways to avoid or otherwise escape the one I have.

I’ve only managed to sneak back to D.C. once since I moved down here. And it’s time to change that.

My money goes straight into housing and bills. What’s left over is for wine and dinners out. That’s it. No new technology or trips or anything that used to make me, well, me.

Getting sick these past few days has been an adventure in anxiety and depression. I am not a good sick person. I am a steaming ball of misery. And I question everything … the meaning of life, my place in the universe, whether I’m wasting my time, whether I’m good enough, am I going to die alone, will I end up on the streets, am I going to get dumped again for another unattractive ‘ho, etc.

Fucking miserable. And not the sort of thoughts I tend to entertain on a regular basis … if at all.

I can’t allow myself to stop and rest, you know? I have to be working around the clock to distract all those voices in my head. To forget what’s going on at home. To ignore what’s not going on in my personal life. To somehow justify not doing everything I want to do.

And I’m falling to absolute pieces.

I’m wondering whether a quick weekend trip to Virginia to see a friend or two might help. To be with someone who loves me, to be on a plane, to get the fuck away from this crazy place … I really have no reason NOT to.

Really, the only anxiety I have about it is whether I’d show up for the return flight!

I worked my first 40-hour week this week. Being on death’s door will do that to you.

I’d wish for this superbug to go away, but shit, it’s like having a vacation, only having the strength for 40 hours of work! (And nearly 10 hours of commuting, natch.)

I was on my way home from the converted alligator farm today (no joke — we’re in the middle of a swamp. Maybe since the job I loved most was Ye Olde Workplace Establishment, this should be Ye Olde Alligator Ranch?), lost in thought as usual.

I was trying to remember which politician said recently that you should get as much education as you can afford. I’m assuming since it was a pretty asinine statement that it was Mitt Romney.

But anyway, it got me to thinking about all the colleges I got accepted to. Sarah Lawrence was my top choice. And I was in … if I could afford it. And I couldn’t.

We won’t even talk about the letter from Princeton, which of course was my dream school but I really wanted Sarah Lawrence because Hillary Clinton had gone there.

Anyway, I am a big believer thanks to my history professor Ed Meena that college is college — it’s just the ticket to the audition. The name embossed on the diploma doesn’t matter just as long as you made the most of your time wherever you went.

But … I always think back to how hard I worked in school. How many extracurricular activities I was in. How many extra books and intellectual pursuits filled my free time in hopes of getting a full scholarship to an Ivy League (or close) school.

And it seems like it started a theme in my life of, “Oooh, SO CLOSE.”

I had no problem gaining admission to the best schools. I just didn’t have a pot to piss in, or a window to throw it out of.

Family contribution? Not so much. My family did sacrifice to get me bedding for my new room. And a word processor for typing research papers. And the occasional $40 for treating myself to Mountain Dew and cigarettes during those all-night cram sessions.

And I am who I am today thanks to all of it.

But I got to thinking about a lot of things in my life. And how I don’t even give 100% anymore because, well let’s face it, my 60% is better than most people’s 100%. And besides, I get the same return no matter what I put out.

I got to thinking about the boy, since I ran into him again yesterday. I was actually on my way out of the coffee shop and ran smack into him on his way in.

He looked good. Not a sad old man this time. Like, so good that I spent a lot of time wondering just how different life could be, if only.

And that’s another, “Oooh, SO CLOSE” for me. I was the best version of myself. I said all the right things and did all the right things and basically *I* fell in love with me, since he wasn’t so good about holding up his end of that bargain. 😉

He had sent me a song not too long ago that I am still puzzling over. And what I read into it is, “Yeah, I was almost there with you but something is stopping me and I don’t expect you to understand.”

I don’t know — you tell me.

Anyway, I don’t judge my self-worth over a college I couldn’t attend or a man I couldn’t tame. I’m just sick and feeling self-piteously and waah it’s my party and I will whine like a bitch if I want to!

I guess what’s sparking all of this is the bimonthly notification from my bank that my checking account is near negative territory.

After I pay the rent and the IRS and the student loan and the car insurance and car repairs and the gallons of gas … after I’ve worked my widdle bushy tail off … after I’ve downsized to having cable in one room and I have to watch the fucking housewives of whatever city or say yes to the fucking bridal dress even though your ass ain’t within sight of a wedding of your own you near-40-year-old and here comes honey boo boo child (OK, I DO love me some Alana. *hides face*) … and how I can’t scrape enough together for a new car and the car I LOVED got sold three days before I went back to try ONE MORE TIME to strike a deal … and damn it will I EVER get a laptop? If I don’t buy the iPhone 5 maybe I can do it, yes? … I feel like I need SOMETHING to make me happy.

My happy place this month was spending $70 in Total Wine. Whee! That was pretty awesome. And I had a coupon, which totally was free money and thus a pack of Dogfish Head Punkin Ale. Because, I miss Dogfish Head and I love me some wine.

Not that I can DRINK with this rabid case of typhoid I’m harboring. But, you know, whatever.

Anyway, this pity party is almost over. I guess I’m just sick of commuting, working, worrying, stressing the fuck out over shit that REALLY doesn’t matter one bit in this world, not wanting to come home at night and being resentful that weekends are for babysitting and not for friends because WHERE THE FUCK ARE THEY and oh wait I have to admit I’m isolating right now anyway, I guess. So whatever.

Anyway, I notice that other than this last relationship-type-thing, I don’t give my best anymore. I don’t want to. I don’t get what I want, anyway, so why even try? I’ll get “close enough” and who the hell wants that?

Of course, I suppose I’d rather have “close enough” for trying my best than “whatever else” for only giving a close-enough level of effort.

I often think that when I get sick, it’s God’s way of slowing me down and forcing me to take a good hard look at my life. He knows I’m “happy enough” with “close enough.” I think He wants me to say, hey, I have all this fire and passion and innovation in me. Why the fuck am I living below my potential and, therefore, below my MEANS?

Hmm.

A-ha!

*lightbulb flickers on above my widdle head*

Seems that when I don’t have love or work to complain about, I get pretty damned dull. Really, what else is there to talk about?

So I had a dream last night. Met a really nice guy and kept marveling at all the things we had in common. He was good-looking, smart, big. *ahem*

In the midst of this dream, my phone vibrated. (Doesn’t everyone keep their iPhone under their pillow?) I had gotten a message from a dating site right at that moment. Could that be the one?

I continued sleeping (as I’m on Hour 48 of some hideous strain of typhoid/ebola/West Nile) and when I got up and logged into the dating site, I got taken to someone else’s profile. Someone I’ve never met or gotten a message from or anything like that. Someone … who has a whole shitload of things in common with me, just like in the dream.

I wonder whether that’s my someone? Or, rather, my next someone, since I’m not in the mood to go “all in” again anytime soon.

We shall see …

In other news, apparently it’s talk like a pirate day. And one of my boy’s whores (Whorothy) is all about wanting to be a wench for Johnny Depp. I’m waiting for her to post something crass on his Facebook page about what day it is, since I saw her call him “Pirate Boy” on his birthday and I wanted to fly out to God’s country and plant a foot in the scorched cornfield she calls her crotch.

Please, Lord, keep me from posting, “But you’re a wench EVERY day, you ignorant slut! Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum — any man would have to be PISS FUCKING DRUNK to be attracted to your skank ass.”

Here’s to hoping that saying it here is enough. 😉

South Florida is a small town. At least, the part where I live.

We’re a narrow land mass with a big-ass swamp that’s situated between two oceans. Our population really only lives on either side of alligator-land. In other words, if you want to run into someone, you really only need think of them and they’ll appear.

I ran into him this week. I was looking cute that day. Not as cute as two days earlier. But, you know, not hideous. Hallelujah.

We were grabbing coffee from the same joint on Thursday morning. How we both picked the same place at the same time is beyond me. But you know, I don’t question it anymore.

I had a bit of spunk that day (new, cute dress and new, cute shoes will do that to you). He seemed so happy to see me. He was on his way out but hung around for a couple of minutes to catch up.

I was not oblivious to him looking me up and down and up and down again. The man never was shy about admiring me. I always felt absolutely gorgeous when I was near him. And that’s saying a lot since I think he’s hotter than Jon Bon Jovi. (Did I just type that? BLASPHEMY!)

Just as a reminder of how it’s the little things I loved about him, I got a drop of coffee on my hand as I was affixing the lid. I didn’t even have time to blink and I saw him handing me a napkin. I don’t even know where he GOT it from … he’s just always that fast and thinking that far ahead.

It was effortless, the way he took care of me sometimes. The way he does, still.

We parted ways shortly afterward. Didn’t talk about anything personal. Chatted about what an idiot Mitt Romney is, what a vile excuse of humanity Paul Ryan is, and whether Ben Bernanke would launch another round of monetary easing that day and what I thought he would do instead. (And I was wrong. Oh, Ben, you’re not saving any ammo for when we plunge off the fiscal cliff!)

I missed that. I missed everything right at that moment. I don’t have anybody like him in my life anymore. I don’t have anybody in my life, period. Not a nearby friend with an ounce of reliability or even the hint of a man who measured up to what he once was to me.

But I smiled and wished him a wonderful day and went on my merry little way.

Now, we all know this is someone I cared about deeply, and will always care about. And while he will always be a bright spot in my otherwise-colorless little life, I couldn’t help but feel sad. For him. He will always be a vibrant part of me, but he seemed like a sad old man that day.

And maybe that attracted me to him in the first place. Just a sweet, sad soul hoping for something wonderful to happen. He reminded me so much of my grandfather. I was so worried I’d be the one to hurt him. Never ever dreamed it would be the other way around.

“Tell me how to use
The love that people say you make.”

— The Avett Brothers, “Laundry Room”

Sure, he brightened up considerably as we talked. And I’ve always loved how we lit up around each other. It’s a shame that’s all we’re reduced to are chance meetings and an ocean full of distance and regrets.

I blame him that we can’t be friends. But I thank God for my spark, my smile, my resolve to be cheerful and my ability to turn away and keep on going without looking back that day.

I’d wanted him more but I think he misses me more. And while that doesn’t make things even here in the end, I’ll count that as enough. Till next time, since there always seems to be one. …

“Hold my breath and I’ll count to ten
I’m the paper and you’re the pen
You fill me in and you are permanent
And you’ll leave me to dry
I’m the writer and she’s the muse
I’m the one that you always choose
She will falter and gift her blame
And it’s starts all over again
Again again again.”

— Sara Bareilles, “Bright Lights and Cityscapes”

I can’t tell you the last time I talked to him. Well, I could look back on these blogs and figure it out right-quick. 😉 But it’s been well over a week and a half, and I can’t say my life is any different.

Found myself missing him late last week. Had the chance to do something we used to do. Shrugged it off at the time and, hours later, realized that I missed something sweet he used to do for me every day. Hadn’t thought about it in a long time. Have been fine without it. But missed the days when he cared and showed it.

Mom’s psychic and has always told me we’d end up together. She’s encouraged me to give him a hundred chances too many. And now I’m exercising my free will to channel my energies elsewhere. Nowhere specific, just … into the universe, somewhere.

I never wanted to shut down my heart to this. I figured once he grew back whatever part of his brain lobotomized itself, this would go back to normal. And I wouldn’t say the door is hermetically sealed shut. It would just take a pretty big windstorm to crack it open again.

Oh, anyway. Psychic. Mom said he’s feeling blown off and afraid to reach out to me. I guess my non-response to him sending my horoscope to me from time to time (he still reads it every day) and the occasional article of interest I get via Facebook or e-mail speaks volumes.

How about a “Hi, how are you?” Can we be normal like that? Instead of my passive-aggressive song postings and his horoscope-sendings?

And guess who’s feeling blown off? *two thumbs pointed thisaway* You don’t let women like me go. We don’t come back.

I have decided he has to be gay. He’s too good-looking for words, anyway. And since he’s playing with those ancient-ass exes of his, that would make sense too. After all, they put the HAG in fag hag!

God, thank you for giving me the opportunity I requested with him. I’m sorry I bothered You so much and for so long about it. I’m sorry I still feel so sad at such random moments when You have such a great life laid out before me.

Thank you for the experience, Lord — next time I’ll let You pick. He said he’d never met anyone like me … that I’ll be a wonderful wife and amazing mother … that he never knew someone like me could exist. He’s not stupid, clearly. Just not bright enough to make me his.

Bless his steps. Heal his heart. Knock some sense into his noggin. Help him to feel whole, minus the part I used to (and will always) occupy.

Make him miss me every day for the rest of his life. And thank You for helping me feel a smidge better with every passing day. In the meantime …

“She is bright lights and cityscapes
And white lies and cavalcades
And she’ll take all you ever have
But I’m gonna love you
You say, ‘Maybe it’ll last this time.’
But I’m gonna love you
You never have to ask
I’m gonna love you
‘Til you start looking back.”

Last Labor Day, when I was still freelancing, I thought I’d get a head start on filling the Web site of a new project I had joined (and had quit a very rewarding gig to do this full time) with content.

I remember getting very nasty e-mails INSTANTLY from VaJayJay telling me that I was producing “Sloppy Copy.” Like her sloppy-ass cunt, no doubt.

I was the victim of several e-mail chains between her, VaGina (who has no experience in our field. Or with grammar, for that matter) and the other Twunt who owned the business. The word Greenhouse was part of the company name. I call it Outhouse.

Anyway, that was such a frustrating day, and one that was foreboding. It was my mom’s birthday and I should have been celebrating it with her instead of getting into e-mail battles about proper verb conjugations and where to put apostrophes in phrases that everyone in my field knows (that these bitches didn’t and they thought I was full of shit).

I knew that day that the gig was going to end in disaster. Which it did not even a month later. Luckily an old employer swooped in and offered me part-time work to tide me over till I got the job I have today.

I don’t say all of this to dredge up horrific memories. But to remind myself, as I have a shitpile of work to do before tomorrow (after 70 hours last week and 12 hours of commuting) that this is what I asked for.

I asked the universe for a fulfilling full-time job that treated me well. To never have to deal with people like the “Va” twins and the rest of the Outhouse gang that was simply trying to make me feel like I didn’t deserve to be paid (to justify them NOT PAYING).

I’ve avoided that whole group for a year, but I did hear from an old friend who knows all the parties involved. I hear VaJayJay is still working for him, and I made it a point to caution him against her … that she’s still friends with Twunt … that they may be in business together … and that he’d better watch his back because she’s a big enough bitch to screw him over.

I didn’t provide details. Not my place to. But I couldn’t live with myself if she screwed him over the way she was planning to.

It tells me, since she’s working for him still, that she didn’t manage to get the Outhouse off the ground. That she’s still seething, freelancing for someone she hates, to make ends meet. I heard something else unfortunate was happening to her. And while I’d never wish ill on anybody, it’s good to know that Karma doesn’t take a holiday just because the rest of the world does.

With that, I will attack my projects today with a little more enthusiasm, as I am happy to have a job where my colleagues value my skills and would never be insane enough to challenge them. It ain’t always easy, but as I’ve said before with my love life, my passport has been stamped in hell and I do not plan on repeating the journey.

I just need to get past the anxiety of remembering this day last year, because my heart is pounding and I don’t like how I felt and I pray — oh God how I pray — to never feel be at anyone’s mercy like that again.

Well color me shocked. Not that somebunny and I don’t have any plans tonight, but that my day has been excuse-free.

Of course, he DID hedge by saying he was doing Raggedy Ass’ bidding today, although I would say the task should have taken no more than an hour.

But oh well. Seriously, color me UN-surprised about that. Never met somebody so enamored by the assholes from the past. Seriously, I have yet to hear one story that paints either of ’em in a light that would make their fake hair colors, bitchy and demanding demanors, and crust-filled wrinkles look good.

Of course, my immediate reaction to this picture (other than WANTING TO SHARE IT WITH THE WORLD) was that the best answer to bitches who can’t count is to subtract yourself from the equation and let them COUNT YOU OUT. Because, really, if that’s where else he spends his time, why distract him with what he could have had when he’s clearly happy picking shit with the chickens?

Anywyay, it’s OK. I’ve been at work all day. I’m exactly halfway done with my project, which considering that I’ve been here seven hours, that isn’t good. 🙂 I’m just bummed because I wanted to go to the event myself, and it’s nearby, but there ain’t no way in hades that I’m going to pull this together in time.

Hey, I’m just happy to be among the land of the employed, is all. Life? Events? Rest for the wicked? Puh-leeze. You all have known me for a decade. When on earth has any of that ever been on the docket? 😀

The blue moon was blue. Well, not really.

My “once in a blue moon” was that I got home before 9 p.m. on a weeknight. Of course, that’s A) because I got out to the middle of nowhere around 6 a.m. yesterday to start my 12-ish hours of joy and rapture, and B) I have to go in for a full day today.

It’s like working at Ye Olde Workplace Establishment again, but with more alligators. (Or gally-ators, as my Grampy used to call them.)

Need to have some coffee and scrub my butt so that Hour 60-ish of my captivity (and hour 10-ish of my commute) can resume.

Will also wait for the text from you-know-who that cancels plans we never had. Now THAT would be the once-in-a-blue-moon occurrence right there … if somebunny came through with a promise! I wouldn’t know what to do, honestly, if the same guy I met/adored almost a year ago was the same one who showed up/came through in my life now.

Would I say yes out of curiosity or no out of self-preservation? And will I ever get a bona fide chance to find out?