Caterwauling

I liked the cold open on SNL tonight. It was refreshing to hear French being spoken. 

I’m pretty through with hearing Spanish everywhere with no attempt to use English. 

And anything beats that clickety Congo shit that peppers the screaming and blubbering from upstairs. 

I tried to go to bed at 11 — my wisdom tooth cracked clean off and the exposed root is making me insane. Upstairs picked 11:10 to start throwing shit, stomping and playing loud music. I need for them to run along and die already. And for the money fairy to visit so I can function again.  

“You’ve changed,” mom said to me today. 

“How so?” I asked, thinking about some stupid Faceypages quiz I just took that says I’m more confident than I was in 2011. 

“You used to wake up early and take walks. You used to feed cats and birds and ducks. Now you won’t even go out on a balcony because you don’t want to be seen.”

She’s right you know. 

I used to work in bum fuck Egypt. Nearly an hour drive each way in my crappy car, doing familiar work to what I’ve done for years. My highlight: I would stop on the way home in a bad neighborhood and feed a big family of stray cats. 

Then I’d go home to my beautiful island view that I couldn’t see because it was always dark when I got home and it was still dark when I left for the long drive to nowhereville. 

At some point Animal Control rounded up and destroyed my kitties. I went back every day for two weeks. No furballs were there to greet me anymore. 

Then I got moved to a nearer, and certainly more fun, town for work. And just as I got a coveted work from home day, I lost my precious view when I had to move. 

Alas, I got an ok view at the new house. And constant screaming, banging and furniture-dragging from upstairs to destroy my sanity. 

After confronting the violent fucks, I kept to myself. They threatened me twice and hey, my pepper spray is no match for psychosis. So I withdrew from being seen too much. 

Then I got in trouble for feeding ducks from the balcony. So when I went downstairs to feed them, I got terrorized by an ugly cunt wirh a big mouth, unleashed mutts and an aversion to cleaning their poop. And she has a bunch of friends with dogs who are equally ugly and irresponsible. 

So, here I sit. The ducks have left save for one who stands downstairs and looks up here all day and night. Mom is sad and sick all the time, and between that and Thundercunt’s giant meat flaps, I have nothing left. 

Looking at old photos, I can see my happiest times. And what they all had in common were exercise, dating, friends, animals and freelance. Right now I have none of that. And that’s probably why I look so bad in pictures now. 

I miss me. And I don’t even know where to look for her. Or if I feel like scrubbing my butt and getting off the couch long enough to put an ad on a (lactose-free) milk carton to find her. 

Mom went to bed early because she’s dizzy. Again. This is a thing now. 

Nae-Nae is stomping around on her wood floors in heels. The kids are beating on mom’s ceiling. I can hear them from the living room. 

My colleague who lives across the lake apparently has no clue about my nine lives online. So he said innocently enough, “Do you still like it there?”

I said when did I ever like it? He said he knows the upstairs people are awful. He can even hear them screaming and see them walking around from across the lake. 

He says he’s encountered a lot of snooty people here. I said trash is more like it. Not enough money to buy class. Then I told him about the crazy who charged me around the lake with her unleashed dog. He said wow. 

I said it out loud that I’m not renewing my lease. It felt freeing. I don’t know if by speaking it into existence that I’ll come into money and move to Tuscany or that I’ll be without means to pay the rent. Either way, I’m looking for daylight and running toward it. 

I just hope mom is strong enough to run with me. 

I just saw the saddest Veterans Day parade go by the office.

There was a U-Haul decked out in red, white and blue bunting and party favors.

Then a SWAT team van.

Then a cop car.

The end.

It reminded me of the “Straight is Great!” parade my friends and I tried to throw in 1992 at our musical-theater-student-dominated school.

Four of us showed up. Because we were the only non-dancers/-actors in the joint.

Of course, the “inclusive” events didn’t get any attendance either. I mean, why go out of your way to hang with your people when the entire college is your people?

In all seriousness, though, how sad that traffic was blocked off for a mile in each direction, and all the thanks we can show our veterans is a car full of cops and a van full of soldiers.

I continue to tip my hat not only to my grandfather, but also to his mom Jesse, who had five sons in World War II and proudly displayed a sign in her front window that she was a “Five-Star Mom.”

I have a problem with the rights that many people take too far, yes, but it’s because of Calvin, Clair, Red, Russ and Tom (and even little brother Ron) that we have those rights to appreciate or trample on. Thank you all for loving your country.

And so very sorry, Grampy, that the Veterans Hospital in Oakland/Aspinwall took your life so senselessly. Somehow this parade seems a fitting example of how our vets are really treated in exchange for their sacrifice.

Dear Head Cheese, Olive Loaf and Stinky Cheese,

I don’t know if you watched “Talk Soup” back when “The Hills” was going off the air. Joel McHale showed the final clip of everyone driving off into the sunset, and his graphics department added in a big giant explosion blew them all to smithereens.

That is my wish for you.

Enjoy living in hell with my soon-to-be former neighbors.

Love,
Goddess

I had the longest, most pointless exchange with the dumbest person on this earth. This one out-dumbed the last dum-dum by about 5 points on the dum-dum scale. 

Remember, these people are driving on your roads, cooking your dinner and handling your money. Be warned. 

Sad to think of all the cute animals killed in traffic but these people, thanks to modern healthcare, will spread Teh Dumb forever. 

Watching “Eat Pray Love” as I await the arrival of tonight’s work. 

I will no doubt be asleep before it gets here. But that’s ok.

 Fraggle will awaken and throw her full weight (and what will sound like six vases) to the floor at dawn. Which will be my signal to get up and do the work.  

What ever will I do without them at this time next month?!

I’ve been thinking. Which one does as one waits for demon children to go to bed around midnight. 

I’ve been thinking about the exact moment when I stopped believing I could have everything and started believing I can’t have anything I really want. 

When mom moved in eight years ago, I knew she’d never leave. So naturally you can see why I don’t believe the thud muffins upstairs will ever actually go. 

Today we were on one of our adventures and she said she’s so glad she doesn’t have to cater to some sweaty, hairy, gross man in the Florida heat. I held my tongue for a while. But later I said, well, no one ever asked me what I might want. 

Of course, her parents didn’t ask her what she wanted either, when they got sick for years on end and needed her there, too. 

I guess I just see how she lost her few healthy years. What if this I all I get too? Is this the way mine end?

I feel terrible for thinking and saying all the awful things in my head. She can barely move now. What if she becomes confined to a bed like Gram and my dreams of Europe go from on hold to deader than my soul?

I’m not blaming her that I don’t have everything I want. That’s my own fault. I let us waste money I could be retiring on. Rent, bills, Ross and eBay. She likes me home so home is where I am — not meeting my next soulmate, my next colleague, my next friend, my next connection to the life I still feel is out there. 

 I recognize that maybe I can have it all. Eventually. But I don’t really believe it, most days. 

I want to live in Georgia. In New York. In Italy. I want to marry an Italian man who agrees dual master bedrooms for each of us are mandatory for a healthy relationship. I want a fuck-it fund so huge, I could board a spaceship tomorrow and take four weeks’ paid vacation. Like, really take it and not wave goodbye to it every year. 

You get the idea. 

The movie is at the part where we learn the phrase “dolce far niente.” The sweetness of doing nothing. 

I’m pretty great at doing nothing, actually. I’d prefer the sweetness of doing everything that I started out wanting. And maybe the place to start is finding out how to say that in Italian. 

Anyone know what Jon Bon Jovi is up to these days? I was supposed to marry him by now. 

Hey, setting goals means remembering the old ones from when I had full intentions of getting the most out of this life, right?

Given the joyful experience of living where I live, I’ve been thinking about moving to Miami. 

After spending the day there yesterday, I loved seeing city lights and watching plane after plane land at MIA. 

Air France incoming …

But not only did not one person act nice, but not a soul attempted to speak English. 

Except here at the Mall of the Americas … 

 
Mall of the Latin Americas, apparently. 

I’m thinking Savannah for my next stop. All I know is when my lease is up, it’s “go big” time. No staying at where I currently call home. 

Maybe the true south is where this belle belongs. 

Behind-the-8-ball landlord texted today to say he was going to call his “layer” to see what he could do about the neighbor situation. 

Eight months of this shit and suddenly he gets a good idea, right? Nah. 

Consider that this text arrived in a string containing his months-old promises to bring in a maid service (hah), order screens for my windows (tee hee) and pay for a repair (roflmao). 

He finally texts later to say the thunder bunch will be out at the end of the month. Which he would have known had he called the HOA like he’d claimed he’d already done.

I didn’t reply. I mean he’s an ex-trader. Like all the men I’ve met in finance, he’s a goddamn liar. It’s a feature, not a bug, with that set.

Either way, my lullaby was rolling oil drums over my head. 

Mom got a rude awakening to screaming a half-hour before I did. 

Mine was hearing Thundercunt yell, “I will kick your ass!” And then she threw something to the floor that was heavy — I figure a dresser or a Fraggle — and she charged his loser ass. 

I worry with my mom so sick that she will die. With those fuck nuggets, my fear is that they won’t.