Caterwauling

Just in time for him to return to palm beach for the fourth time since ignoramus-ation day. 

Make it convenient to do the right thing.

This was the e-letter message from one of my favorite writers today. He never seems to post those articles online, so no link love. But much, much love.

His building makes recycling hard (so does mine). Finding a place to have a cigarette makes smoking a pain in the ass. Not signing up for a class at the gym makes it easier to stay in bed, but now you have to explain your absence to others if they don’t see you. Might as well go to the gym.

I got to thinking about regulation, since Cheeto Benito is so hellbent on it. He’s already got the House rolling back regs that keep our drinking water and our air clean. (Shit. For. Brains.) President Bannon finally admitted that he picked Cabinet members who hate their industries so they can destroy them from within. And the Enabler in Chief is going along with it.

(Politics will kill me, I tell you.)

In any event, regulations make it easier to do the right thing. Or at least illegal to do the wrong thing. In the purest sense, of course, and I’m not here to argue against the regs that I think are stupid. (And there are many.)

I got to thinking about my lack of wanting to write. Well, it’s not necessarily that I don’t want to. I just have an array of not- to half-working computers all around me. And finally breaking down and buying a new computer last weekend was like hearing the angels sing.

I’ve left this laptop in its cute hot-pink bag for the past week. And the whole idea of buying the damn thing was to make it easier to get to my music and my bookmarked sites and, gee, the thousands of pages of typed-out notes for the stories in my head.

I almost wonder too, if I should go back to Weight Watchers. I did so well when I went to meetings. This whole tracking food online and then hitting the lentil chips after I put the phone away is killing my scale game. But when I have to face the judgy eyes of a leader who’s been skinny for the last 50 years, well. Makes me want to put the Big Gulp down, Tubby.

I also don’t say things out loud, so as not to commit to them. There’s not a public speaking opportunity that I don’t dodge. Heck, I can’t even commit to lunch just in case I want to worm out of it. (And trust me, I will always want to worm out of it. Generally leaving my schedule open means peace of mind and harmony at home.)

I want to commit to making it easier to do the right thing, or at least harder to do the wrong thing. Am hoping Lent can provide that opportunity.

My plan was to swear off the lentil chips. But mom said i am pretty angry when I am not crunching on things. And I gave up the chips the past week and she’s right. What else will curb the rage? (I’ve been trying sugar. Because we always have it in the house and I can usually resist it IF I have things to crunch on. Not so much now. Bad Goddess.)

My next plan is to quit going over my daily/weekly points allotment. Not giving up meat or sugar or booze or, God forbid, lentil chips. And that means stuffing my face with King Cake on Tuesday, yes. But that’s so I don’t have the temptation to snarf in the leftovers Wednesday.

If i can stay in my daily points again, I can do anything. Truly. And I hope someone, anyone can help encourage me and not either try to excuse it or just shame me in their own special ways.

Interesting study out that you’re a completely different person at 77 than you were at 14.

I like to think I’ve gotten more goddess-like over the years. But I’d also like to think I was just as kind and as thoughtful and thinking as I was then, too.

Yet when a good friend from back then said to me around the primaries that he assumed I was voting for Bernie, I was rattled. Like, um, not into socialism.

Granted it would be better than this communo-fascism shit we have now. Citizens getting stopped at airports and other random checkpoints to make sure they aren’t illegal or intersex? Christ.

In any event, I saw “Year by the Sea” yesterday and was so moved that the heroine had so much spunk. She was mom’s age and left her husband and moved to Cape Cod, where she had to go by rowboat to her apartment without running water.

At the point I had to walk through mud to get to the rowboat, I would have been out of there. Or maybe when there was no water or coffee waiting for me when I finally turned the breakers on in the dead of night.

But I bet my 18-year-old self, who lived in the haunted hotel … or maybe the 20-year-old girl who lived in the attic with the gargoyles and the entire homeless drag-queen population of Pittsburgh sleeping on the floor while she worked her three jobs … would have made an adventure of it.

I mean, I’d still take in a band of refugees over a single Trump voter any day. The latter would require heavy vetting if I were that into risk. Which, I’m not.

I feel like I try to get back to the girl who once was. Hard to do when you spend more than a paycheck on rent and somehow have to keep duct-taping your car together to make it go. I thought THOSE kinds of adventures would have ended in my 20s.

In muy seven-ish years by the sea, not much has changed. Same job title, same cat, same mom, same weight and same low-grade anxiety about everything. But a whole lot of peaks and valleys that keep drawing me back to the current mean.

As long as the heart keeps on ticking after it takes a beating, I suppose, all is well. And maybe the changes are there but I don’t see them.

I’d like to think I’m the “other” Joan in the film. Dancing on the beach and helping everyone else along their journeys. Colorful and wild and wise. Of course, she got a book deal. I’d like that for me too.

There’s a line in the movie (and there were many good ones) that says “I’m beginning to like the person I could be.” That didn’t make me cry as much as “True heroines write their own endings,” but I’ll take inspiration wherever I can get it. Seeing as though I don’t get it from everywhere like I used to.

One more line I need to remember was that things start to happen as soon as you start seeking. At this point I’m in search of some turkey sausage because the cat got me up too early and I’m hungry.

Otherwise I’m usually seeking a way out. Maybe I need to seek a way in to something that my 77-year-old self will thank me for. I just wish I knew where to look …

I was reading a piece in the Guardian this morning about a gal who’d lost 200-ish pounds freaking out on a guy who held the door for her.

She didn’t mean to lose it. But she was well-aware that two years ago, nobody would have held a door for her. She was a cool, fun, nice person her whole life. But it’s only now that she has a smaller ass that people are suddenly kind to HER.

Can I relate? You bet your shrinking ass I can. But I’d be thrilled if someone held a door for me. On the rare occasion it happens, it’s generally because it’s someone here on vacation rather than a native-ish Floridian.

I got to thinking how we suddenly can become someone else’s type when we lose weight. But even then, that’s not always enough.

A friend and I got to talking about “Girls” and I joked that he watches it to see Lena Dunham naked. And he very audibly reacted with horror. Which, whatever. I know that ain’t near his type.

But I look at her and see myself. In fact, about a 25-pound-lighter version. And I thought, welp, guess I’m still not attractive then since that’s kind of what I look like.

And of course, then I thought welp, for those who are interested and I don’t feel it back, maybe I can tell them to go watch “Girls” and whack off and pretend it’s me. That should get them over it right-quick.

Am genius, yes?

Naturally I had to buy both versions of “We Can Always Come Back to This” from last night’s “This is Us” episode.

Listened to both on the way to work on a loop.

So many feels.

I think of my Momma too, just like William did.

I thought of someone else who would appreciate it. Posted the iTunes link on Facebook rather than saying “this would be our song if …”

He knows.

Lyrics:

Standing at the station
We don’t know what to say
Looking out the window
As you’re rolling away
If I’m gonna be alone
Let it be with you.

Mother don’t you cry
We’re gonna be all right
Open up your suitcase
When you get there tonight
You’re not alone
I’m always
Always here with you.

No matter where we go from here
No matter how the cards will fall
I’ll pick you up
And you’ll hold me too
So don’t give up on me
I’ll never give up on you.
Everything’s gonna be all right
I know you believe it too
If I’m gonna be alone
Then let it be with you.

Look up not down
It all comes around
Even when you’re gone
We can always come back to this
We can always come back to this
We can always always always always always come back to this.

— “We Can Always Come Back to This,” written by Siddhartha Khosla and performed by Brian Tyree Henry and also by Hannah Miller

The thing that makes “This is Us” so unbelievably awesome is exactly what I posted about yesterday.

I am still reeling from last night’s episode that took Randall and William to Memphis. And why?

Because the writers leave nothing on the table. They pack every brilliant idea they can find into each episode.

They know the show could be canceled at any moment. (It won’t, thank God — it’s been renewed for the next two years already.)

I cried and laughed and cried and did I mention cried? That’s how you do it. That’s the writer, the producer, the director, the talent, the EVERYTHING coming together.

I really need to sign up for Shonda Rimes’ screenwriting class. I have to. These stories aren’t telling themselves, you know.

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you,” as Maya Angelou said.

And mine is killing me with each day that passes with it going untold.

I got an invite to a housewarming.

Personally, I haven’t thrown a housewarming party in years. Mostly because I left my cool friends in Pittsburgh and D.C. and couldn’t get two people to even come to my house these days.

Also, I don’t cook anymore and I used to LOVE to make a million appetizers. Who the hell has time for that anymore?

Plus, I’m over 40. We’re still doing this?!

I was shocked when I heard there was not only an RSVP date, but a gift registry.

I also got invited to a wedding in Pittsburgh this summer. That wedding registry was a doozy. Everything was white. White plates, white sheets, white towels, white rugs, white cookware and white shower curtain. Like, something out of a horror film.

(And I won’t even say that I think the groom is gay … whoops, wait, just did!)

At least the stuff on the housewarming registry is tasteful and has a few pops of color.

Although, I am more of the “stop at the liquor store on the way to the party” kind of gal than an “OK I will buy your bed in a bag” type.

Also, I have never quite spent that kind of money on a housewarming (A) or someone I don’t know all that well (B) or taken kindly to being told what to bring (C).

Shit, my ex-neighbor kept inviting me to gatherings and begging me to bring cheese and crackers and I abstained based on that alone.

I ain’t a cheese-and-crackers kind of party gal. Sorry. Ain’t a big fan of the bed-in-a-bag, either. And I don’t touch anything white because I will ruin it.

However, I will buy you a very nice bottle of wine that you probably never tried before and you will LIKE it if you can get past your affinity for Boone’s Farm Snow Creek Berry.

In any event, I made plans that day already but the party is way closer to my house. And would still cost less, net-net.

One day I will get to decide between hanging out on a yacht with champagne and lying on a beach in the Maldives. Till then, it’s more Sophie’s Choice than living la vida Sophia Loren.

Got to talking with a friend last week about “laying it all on the table.” Like, when you’ve left a relationship or job or friendship or other commitment, what will you have wish you’d given that you didn’t?

So yesterday, that translated into “four hours.” I worked for four hours and Mom cleaned the office. It feels like a completely different place. I took out four massive bags of trash that contained months worth of onions and god knows what. I haven’t yet sat on the cleaned-three-times toilet but I honestly cannot wait. Truly, it’s the little things.

So that, that’s what I wanted. Not going to claim I can die happy now or be escorted to the curb feeling like I achieved world peace. But the scent of newly mopped floors is quite stimulating for the brain, so I’m going to enjoy it.

So this happened (again):

?

I returned the last one within 24 hours of purchase. And here’s why.

This one’s a keeper. I managed to get all my stuff off my Time Capsule this time, so I don’t have to take the old iMac in for service. Now to not wait 10 years to return it to Apple, like I did with the G4 that lived in six different apartments with me before I offloaded it last year.

I should probably have anxiety about the purchase. It cost just less than a month’s rent (and yes, rent is THAT HIGH). But I’ve wanted one of these for close to a decade. And look, the world is going to end whether or not I have a computer that doesn’t suck, right?

It’s been 222 days since I was able to back up my iPhone. Funny how much of a luxury that felt like, connecting my phone to a working computer. I’d say it’s a first-world problem, but given the tinpot dictator who spends his weekends three miles up the road, I like to think of it as a “gone-bananas republic” problem.

Easier to just screenshot my latest screw-up.