Caterwauling

I’ve been trying to stay positive. But it’s been a shit festival this week (month). The more I disappoint people, the more I disappoint them. You know?

Like the Law of Attraction just gives you a ride-all-day Shit Festival pass. And I see no way out of the outhouse unless they throw me out. I don’t even know if I’d fight it at this point. Getting out or staying out if I ever do get a whiff of rosier days.

I read something today that said you will be happier if you plan a vacation even if you will never have the time, money or other resources to take it. How does that work, exactly?

No, you don’t have something to look forward to (cough cough canceled Key West trip for mom’s birthday cough) eventually. You have a big fat fucking reminder in the form of your wussy little Pinterest board that nice things aren’t meant for you.

Of course, I type all of this to say I said something smart this week. No, not the “Wow, what you earn during 8 hours dictates how you enjoy the other 16 in a day.” Although it is true, even if it affects what you eat for lunch during those eight-ish hours.

But after the latest tragedy to hit Disney, a 2-year-old boy’s death at the Grand Floridian, an old friend said she’d delete anyone who wrote anything stupid about the parenting skills. And my response was, I wondered why they were out at 9 p.m. Then I remembered, awesome fireworks during the 9 p.m. hour. Then I heard a gator snatched the kid. And then I thought, how sad. And then I stopped thinking.

The smart thing I wrote? “If you don’t think stupid things, you don’t say/write them.”

Well, then I would have saved thousands of dollars in hosting costs for this blog, had that occurred to me 15 years ago.

I notice everyone is on edge lately. I mean everyone. Maybe it’s summer but we’re all swelled up and the elastic on the crankypants is about to explode. And we’re all taking it out on each other. And it’s righteously pissing me off.

Thus I (we) continue to attract strife.

And the cycle goes on. And on. And into next week and no doubt into that vacation that once was but that I won’t let exist in my head because I’ve had enough pain this week, thanks.

Allow me to channel my inner Jamiroquai (love that song) but modify it to seven YEARS in sunny June.

That’s because it took me THAT LONG to get back to the weight I was at when I arrived here seven years ago.

I’ve still got mah pudgy pork roast ass. And I worry about losing too much weight and not being able to wear all my sleeveless shirts that took me a lifetime to get up the nerve to buy/wear.

But fuck it. I don’t have college tuitions to save up for. Plastic surgery, baybee.

I’m also in zero danger of being skinny. I’m quite thrilled to be teetering just on the wrong side of the normal/overweight BMI line.

Anyway I keep thinking my clothes will be loose. Not so. They actually fit properly now. Who knew skirts weren’t supposed to be so short and that you don’t have to unzip your jeans to pull them on? IT’S MAGIC, I TELL YOU.

That’s all. Carry on. Ain’t nothin’ nobody could do to piss me off today. And I promise not to even notice if they try.

It’s gone from annoying to unnerving, the way 10 Cherry Tomatoes Short of a Salad keeps asking when the position I hold will open up. I’m led to wonder whether I’m getting a promotion or the business end of a boot. I vote promotion. 

Eureka I say. 

I get it now. Everything makes sense. 

Clarity is a wonderful thing. 

I don’t see the solutions. But I see the reasons. 

And maybe the latter will accelerate the arrival of the former. 

I normally listen to NPR on the way to work but today I caught a local show. I’m glad I did. 

They did a surprisingly touching show about the shootings at Pulse and the Plaza Live in Orlando this weekend.

I don’t have a lot to say. The biggest terror attack post-9/11 happened in one of my favorite towns in places I’ve visited. Rattled doesn’t begin to cover it. 

I thought I gave up terrorism — well jihadism, and my little pet terrorist friend too — when I hit 95 south and never turned north again. 

That’s what kills me. Omar what’s his nuts was investigated by the FBI three times. I put my pet terrorist on the CIA’s and FBI’s radar too. To little avail. 

It’s one thing when these idiots snap and pledge their allegiance to terrorism. But when you can spot it from a million miles away, what can you do other than arm yourself and learn how to shoot and be ready to protect your family at any cost?

Love to Orlando. Love to Disney. Love to my friends who work there who adore that club as a place to celebrate the end of a long day. Love to anyone who deserves it and especially everyone who doesn’t. 

That moment when you see your old high school friend front row (omg squee!) at the Tony Awards and you know the path you’re on will never lead you there. 

So proud of my friend. I hope when I do something big, everyone else will be just as happy for me. 

I finally got to see “Money Monster” today. It was masterful. 

It also distracted me from the pile of work I needed to do today because I really needed to do it three weeks ago but it’s been nonstop chaos and I already canceled a vacation so someone else can take theirs and Jesus the tasks never stop. 

I often think about how I probably would have been Vice President of the company I last worked at in D.C. 

I mean I might have been the janitor too. But this whole starting over again every couple of years is for the boids, I tell ya. 

Anyway. I love my field. Not always my place in it. But my current deal with God is to be patient and it will all be worth it someday.

As I watched the movie, which was masterfully written, I thought that’s what I should be doing. Explaining complex things to the masses in an entertaining way. 

I’ve been reading a book in my free time. Just a lovely summer beach read, Judy Blume’s latest. I’m in love with it. It reminds me why I wanted to be a writer. 

She has a massive cast but it’s not hard to follow and it tells a million sides of the same story. Love love love. 

Yeah. I should be writing screenplays. Or something like that. It’s time to get back to that. But hopefully without giving up everything and starting all over again. Although taking a nice week off to write may be harder than going off the grid entirely …

Gotta love going in for an oil change and out with a list of six other things to fix. 

My new mechanic said how the hell did your last guy let you get past 100K miles without regular scheduled maintenance?

I need to check on some of the recommended items. I’m letting him do the transmission fluid. But that’s worth more than the car itself. He gave me a good idea. Just think of each repair as a car payment and then in two months I won’t have a “car payment.”

I like the idea but won’t discount a meteor falling out of the sky first. You know, just like it rains the day you wash the jalopy. 

What I like about this place is they open early and stay late. I always arrive 20 minutes before they open. Not a car left over from the previous day. But the lot is packed by 9 am. 

Vinny has cars wrapped around the block at all times. I always appreciated that he got me right in and out as soon as he could. But what about other people who need to get around? 

It got me to thinking about people I work(ed) with. I would finish the cars to be considerate that my customers have things to do and don’t need further inconvenience. Others I could name would take two weeks off in mid-repair. 

Once I had one of those people leave early and say in their email autoresponder that they believe they are done for the day and all caught up. I would have laughed if I weren’t strapped over a barrel because of it. 

Anyway. Fuck Vinny. Welcome Dave. If I’m gonna be strapped over a money pit, I’m happier that it’s with this guy. 

I wasn’t going to say anything about Brock “the Rapist” Turner. But then I read Joe Biden’s statement and I got all weepy and shit. 

I’ve always said I’ve been very lucky. At best, my experiences have been mind-blowing. At worst, forgettable. They’ve ranged the gamut from weird to embarrassing to filled with bruises from falling off furniture. It’s all good. 

But there was one. 

Not that I would classify it as “that word.” But he was way way stronger than me. Wanted it way more. Was already showing signs of becoming a problem. 

My deal with myself was simple. Go with it. Stay in control. TAKE control. And change my address and phone number as soon as humanly possible. 

I left it at that and I leave it at that. I am blessed that I never ran into trouble on my drunkest nights. 

I’m thrilled to have plenty of stories, all of them with — ahem — happy endings. 

But I can’t say I’m unfamiliar with looking for the exits. Calculating my strength vs his. Wondering if I had said or done something wrong … Or what would happen if I did. 

It would be a few years before my slutty phase would end. But I’ve never quite forgotten to assess the situation properly. To think about where my phone is or my keys. To keep one eye half-open. You know. Just in case. 

Of course, if you know me — I mean know me — you know I mapped my way to the exit before the lights went out. 

It goes back to an old family saying. It’s been fun but I’ve got to run. 

That all said, I’m so glad we are having a national conversation about this. The only thing that girl was “asking for” was a hangover. The three months in jail Brock Turner got from a probably paid-off judge is an insult to womankind. 

But the moment of pause it gives to generations of young men? More than we all could have hoped for. And if it gives a kick in the mental nuts of the men we used to know, even better. 

I don’t get too personal with people. I mean, sure, I get personal HERE. But when people start asking me about movies and TV shows they watch, I got nothin’. Haven’t seen ’em. Not my cuppa tea. Even if I wanted it to be, my entertainment budget is far less.

They talk about having blood and sorority siblings, or workout routines, or whatever they’re into … and I still got nothin’. Husbands, kids, play dates, fancy trips — nope.

Sorry I bore you by simply existing here. I would bore myself if I thought that hard about it.

I do try to talk politics, because that’s my love, and their eyes glaze over. Either that or I get a dissertation on my candidates (yes I follow more than the presidential election). And I just want to put a foot up someone’s ass.

I hate feeling like there’s nowhere I belong.

But then I just got off a short, 15-minute call with the Hillary Clinton volunteer organizers. And Hillary herself got on. And I felt so … where I belong.

Granted, I hate talking to people in person. What the campaign needs most — people to get the message out — is what gives me the biggest anxiety ever.

Talking to people who might get it but who probably never will. Talking to people IN GENERAL. That’s why I became a writer, yo. It’s why I edit others. Thinking on one’s feet is a talent best reserved for the politicians themselves.

It’s weird. I finally found my homeys. And I have the chance to embrace them and be embraced. But what will our heroine do, and will she ever not just find her home but also enter it?