Caterwauling

The struggle between needing friends and not really wanting them continues.

There’s another witch in my coven who’s single, fun, smart and likes to do shit.

She’s been after me forever to hang out.

Never to do anything I was also interested in. And then the whole “everyone I love died” thing happened and I became a living ghost.

We ran into each other at a psychic thing down in Pompano. And she bugged me about my ghostliness.

I said I will say yes to the next thing.

She’s like Paddleboarding! And I said OK I lied.

Anyway I see the messages coming across Messenger. Lots of them.

And I at least had admitted earlier that I lied. I don’t open them.

I like her very much actually. I think we could be good friends.

I just … like my house more.

Honestly I don’t even feel all that bad about it.

Like, last weekend, I met a guy when I was out doing my single girl thing.

And he literally talked through the entire thing I went to.

I didn’t even post from/about it.

At some point he said wow you seem stressed out. I said I came here to hear THAT person speak, not you.

I wasn’t a total ass. After the thing was over, I hung out and it was mostly fine.

But then I wanted to meet the speaker.

I asked him to take a photo of me and the speaker. He THREW my phone at someone else and jumped BETWEEN us.

I was PISSED.

I ran to the other side of the speaker and got my damn photo.

It was a shitty photo anyway so it will never see the light of day.

But like damn.

Then he pulls this can you give me a ride home shit. I said no, but thanks for offering to ride with me.

I left him very confused with that one.

He may still be standing dazed in Delray for all I know or care.

Now, I’m not saying this chick would be like this. But I pay attention to my reflexes. Some people get a response in five seconds. Maybe five days or five years. Whenever I’m ready. And something in me isn’t ready.

And yes, I get why people give up on me. But I guess when you’ve had three people stalking your every move online for anywhere from seven to 30 years, it’s easy to assume everyone will be waiting if or when you’re ever ready.

Hint to the seven to 30 set: Don’t hold ya breath. Die mad. Be buried mad.

Two years ago last week, I visited my old apartment.

It comes up in my Memories now and man, it’s bittersweet.

Got a similar jolt the other day when I saw the address of a guy I’ve gone on some dates with.

His apartment number is 712.

And a lightning bolt shot through me for some reason when I saw that.

Last night after mostly finishing this recurring project from hell, I treated myself to playing dead on the couch.

And it hit me why 712 meant something to me.

It was the house number where I spent a great deal of my formative years.

I met JO when we were 10, but we really spent high school together.

Anyway guess who fell down the Google rabbit hole last night.

The house looks the same on Zillow. Though I might have screamed when I realized the pool was gone.

Fut the wuck?

Had a lot of fun times and wore a lot of cute swimsuits there.

Sat on that window seat a million times. Because I didn’t trust his waterbed. Lordt how cool that was then!

Mom always found cute clothes and swimwear for me in Lerner’s and the Newport News catalog. Heck I am still finding clothes she bought from back then with the tags on. Always saving it for something special that never came. Fashion Bug and Dot’s too. This paragraph is a fast-fashion time capsule.

Anyway, it looks like JO’s parents sold the house in 2016. Bought a new one across the street from him in 2017 in the state where he had moved to.

I love that for them. We may not be friends anymore, but they were my bonus family for a lot of years. I will always, always wish them the best.

The Google stuff wore out my already tired brain. But I did want to see how JO’s been voting these days. Since he was one of those who registered Republican when we were 18. And our idiot friend Frumper did the same.

Thankfully, JO is now a faithful, active Democrat. Good boy.

It was really the whole 712 of it all that sent me into Wonderland here.

But the whole “Orange president gets mad that no one attends his $45 million birthday party so he bombs Iran in an Adderall-fueled rage” really got me to thinking about JO.

Change the “N” to a “Q” and now it’s 1991 all over again.

JO turned 18 that December. I was worried sick that he’d be drafted. Shit, that conscription would come for me in 1992.

How he registered Republican after that, I’ll never know. That’s what cemented me going the opposite way. And never looking back.

Anyway. I wonder if anyone who doesn’t have anger issues goes down the Google hole about me.

My age and address are wrong on most sites.

And there’s no record of my Momma anywhere.

My grandparents appear to be my parents on every family tree type of site.

And apparently my email address is still the one I got in 1995 at college.

Of course, there are so many people with my name, maybe everyone thinks I’m the animal killer or the girl who went missing when we were teenagers. Or at least the software executive in Orlando.

I just hope any random Memory Lane strollers see my better photos and not the Kim Lardassian ones. I never mind being fat till I Google myself. Like, can the AI algos promote the less-fat ones, please?

It’s my cousin’s birthday.

And the three-year un-anniversary of Roe v Wade.

And this shit.

I got Mom’s urns back OTD last year. And Bella loved the flowers Liz sent us.

That’s enough for today. Where my least favorite person is demanding a meeting today because she promised someone else.

I pulled a her and said i am busy today but free as a bird first thing tomorrow. So she is pinging me every 10 minutes to whine that I am not available to provide my ideas on how I am going to take on this project and execute on it so she can cross it off her to do list.

Like maybe approve my employees’ expenses already? I make you wait half a day but you make them wait two months? How did resolving YOUR problems with it become MY problem?

GTFO, DTOM.

Now that’s some shit.

Anyone know where that fountain pic was from? I want to say Alexandria or Philly. Maybe my avid reader who was born in every town I’ve set foot in will know.

Not to be confused with Sia, my other Anastasia, who has been gone — gulp — is it 10 years this summer?!

No wonder her death hit me so hard. As she and my great-grandmother shared a name.

And those two ladies were just pure magic.

I don’t write much about Anna Banana. I called her Old Gram. As, in my childhood wisdom, I had a “Gram” and it was only natural that her mom should be “Old Gram.”

I got to thinking about Old Gram, the original OG, today.

Fell into a social media rabbit hole about the Catholic Church and I mentioned how she was excommunicated for leaving an abusive husband.

Immediately, some dude told me I’m an idiot and wrong because the church doesn’t excommunicate you for that.

I said, “By all means, please continue to mansplain my family to me.”

On the other side of the spectrum, a nice woman said oh that poor woman. How awful that had to have been for her.

I said you’re not kidding. She had three small children and made 10 cents an hour cleaning some doctor’s house in Squirrel Hill.

Mom had told me the doctor was cheap, too. And it was a damn mansion right near where Fred Rogers is buried.

In any event, it made me happy that someone would be so kind as to say warm, loving words about Old Gram.

I also told her, “What a badass she had to be, huh?”

I was thinking about the gall of that guy who basically called me a liar. I’m bored with idiots who have keyboards that are as dusty as their crotches.

And I decided to think about Old Gram instead.

I remember cooking with her. Simple things, as I was young. I just about killed her because I made her a hot dog and then a grilled cheese in the hot dog pan. Learned to wash every damn thing between uses with that episode.

I remember playing with Cabbage Patch dolls with her. And her listening to me sing at my Commodore 64K computer. And sitting on the porch with her at the projects.

I got to thinking, too, about how accepting my family was of Mom having me at 16.

My grandparents were 30 when they had her. But Old Gram would have had Gram at 19. I’m not sure of Uncle Joe’s or Vince’s ages, but my guess is Gram was the oldest. She always had that Lucy Van Pelt energy.

I can’t find Uncle Joe’s obituary to confirm he was younger. But I think I found Joe Sr.’s. If so, he passed in 1961. Interestingly, Joe Sr. and his granddaughter Dana died at age 55. So, Mom wasn’t the youngest when she passed.

Sorry, I get so off track when I’m trying not to do work.

I remember Old Gram whipping up Mom’s and my ice cream so it would be more like custard than whatever hard Breyer’s came out of the cardboard carton.

I remember her arthritic hands. Once pretty, from the rare photo of her from the 1940s that I saw. But one hand was permanently in a fist but as if her nails were too long to close into a proper fist.

“Her poor little hands,” I remember Mom saying. How she cleaned that stupid doctor’s house till she collapsed, six days a week, and for what?

Mom always told me not to let men steal my pretty. That must have been where the idea came from.

I wish I had more memories of Old Gram. I do remember those final years of her having a hospital bed in the dining room. And her passing in Jefferson Hospital. And how I was at peak asshole when it happened, just like I was when Mom was going.

Mom always said her people passed when she finally told the universe she’d had enough of all the pain and stress. She was careful to never say it about herself.

Oh! I remember Old Gram waving at me from her hospital bed with one finger from her little crooked hands. When it was time for visiting hours to be over.

She was so cute. So freaking cute. What a twinkle in her green eyes. Green eyes that Mom and I inherited.

Oh wow, I hadn’t thought of all this since I was 12. When she passed.

That little finger wave.

Goodness, I am so grateful for this surprise memory.

Man, it’s 40 years gone by and it makes me cry even now. How those little hands must have hurt but she was tired from the blood transfusions and could only wave and not talk.

Love you so much, Anna Banana. I hope you got to meet sweet Sia at some point. I’ll always love your shared name because of all the love you both shared with me.

I wonder if Taylor Swift ever decides not to release or even write a song/album because of all the idiots out there who don’t deserve it.

There was some female maga idiot who just posted that she loves her president in our Taylor Swift group.

Someone said do you know where you are. And this idiot knows full well but posted more love.

Someone else said Taylor wouldn’t approve. This idiot said she would approve standing by my opinions.

Like, not idiotic opinions, OfDonald.

Taylor recently said she’ll release the Reputation vault tracks “if you want them.”

Naturally we do and I claim all six (?) of them as my own.

BUT I also said in the same group that I’d understand if Mother decided it wasn’t worth it to give them to us, either. Since we don’t all know how to vote or behave.

Seriously she was just out in NYC with her man and I couldn’t believe the ridiculous comments FROM FANS about her having drinks. Like she worked harder in two years than you ever will in 50. Sit back and be glad she lets you be part of her world.

Anyway I get to feeling that way about this blog.

It was never for likes or clicks or anything other than me to become a better writer and clearer thinker. Unlike Cuntasia who convinced herself long ago that it’s all for her.

Seriously, the server doesn’t like you. I promise. They like your money. And I bet most would rather not get the two dollar tip if it meant not having to hear that voice.

But when the three people who read it hate my guts, I hate those rare times anymore when I feel compelled to post.

I usually let the feeling pass and go rewatch “Gossip Girl.”

Or I post something like this to at least get something out of my system while I’m avoiding the new monthly work project that I never wanted and it isn’t under my name anyway so what is even the point of it.

The best way to handle an abusive, manipulative narcissist is to become what’s called a “grey rock.”

Which is the only time I will spell gray with an “E.”

After 30ish years of bad friends, bad boyfriends, bad bosses and one weird beige-loving freak on social media, I’ve got the ability to play dead down pat.

Heck I don’t even think I am playing. Pretty sure my fut-the-wucks (hat-tip GG season 4 Queen Blair Waldorf) ran dry in 2003.

“Fut the wuck is she doing here?” indeed.

Another underrated GG quote, courtesy Wallace Shawn:

Confidential to Wildebeest, bye:

I’ll never understand though why the most vampiric ones can’t get the hint after all these years.

Like I don’t even find them interesting enough to hate or have any other sort of feeling about.

Yet they dedicate emails and social posts to me for years upon years.

I feel like Taylor Swift in this light, we’re lovin’ it.

I picked Las Vegas for my birthday trip this year.

Kenny Chesney was playing at the Sphere. I had to see the Sphere. And he was playing ON my birthday.

Then I heard Bitcoin 2025 was going to be at the Venetian a couple days later.

Asked my boss to sponsor part of the trip. He said pass unless I get a media pass.

So I got one.

I was thinking about Chappell Roan when she made a country song and all the rednecks said a lesbian can’t be a country star.

And Chappell is like I can and I DID.

Be like Chappell.

Interestingly with BTC2025, my friend who works in the crypto world exclusively tried to get a media pass and was DENIED.

Anyway, I had chosen the Cosmopolitan as my birthday weekend hotel. But now that I was staying for this conference, I extended my stay at no small expense.

For whatever faults the company finds with me, they have to realize I went there of my own accord … on my own dime … and contracted the plague from the tRump mosh pit I ended up in.

The conference is a story for another day. Or, at least, another outlet, so I can get future media passes. (Though I will definitely talk here about what a miserable MAGA rally that turned out to be.)

In any event, all I had to do was say Cosmopolitan and everyone treated me like a rich bitch.

The hotel, too. They know they aren’t attracting riff-raff.

Sure, the riff-raff comes through there, as it’s got a casino and restaurants and all. But never once did I feel like I was anything but a VIP.

MGM of all places treated me like riff-raff. I went to see my friend Jared DJ at the Palm Tree Beach Club. I got frisked at the door and they took my Tylenol.

The kids asked why I had Tylenol. I said I could see this pool from my room at the Cosmo yet it still took 40 minutes to walk here.

At least they didn’t take my Mucinex. I realize in hindsight they thought I was cooking meth in the 107-degree desert heat.

In any event, I liked feeling like a rich bitch.

Even hanging around with the Bitcoin bros — in everything from Armani suits to pajamas — I felt special.

I mean, I am.

I understand internet money. Or infinite money, as they also call it.

I even trade it.

A guy at the Cosmo asked what brought me to town and I said BTC2025. He asked to use my phone because he lost his.

I have a wrist strap on my phone and said you can use it in my hand. He did for a few minutes but gave up.

Lordt. I am never going to give my phone to someone to crack into my crypto account. Or any account, for that matter. Especially my private equity one.

Also fun tip, these hotels make you use public Wi-Fi. Even Bitcoin didn’t have dedicated Wi-Fi and those dopes begged us to spend Satoshis and help them set a Guinness World Record.

We set it. But without me, as I wasn’t touching the Wi-Fi or my sats over it.

My good friend published an article the other day about VIP summer.

She’s always going on about not wanting “peasant” coffee or wanting to bunk with the masses. She’s got a boatload of Marriott points and is amassing JetBlue ones at the speed of sound.

Anyway she wrote about being tired of “peasant” experiences. Time to upgrade, now that she’s traveled with people who’ve given her a taste of the good life.

I would love to know what her readers thought about that. I say this knowing MY readers wouldn’t do peasant shit. I mean, some would/do. But not the ones I have been hanging around with lately.

I just got back from Orlando. My Apple Maps and Waze think I’m still sitting in that swanky Annual Passholder lounge in the Morocco section of Epcot.

Same with Ticketmaster. It’s defaulted to Las Vegas somehow. And yes I WOULD like to attend more concerts there, thanks.

And don’t even talk to me about Expedia. It’s convinced I live in the West Village.

I think we’ve just outlined my life goals in three easy steps right here.

RBS summer, ahoy!

My manicurist (jesus does this sound bougie) and I got to talking about this.

We love to have nice nails. To plan good trips. To eat good food on them.

And we’re at home eating hot dogs and using the apartment pools and Ross shopping and not driving if we can help it.

To save up for the good life.

I consider the nails a necessity. I started on manicures back in December when I went to a charity gala in NYC. (Bougie bitch.)

Now I just love feeling “polished.” That my hands are ready when I get a good offer to go out. And my manicures last a good 4-6 weeks. None of that two-week “fill” shit the acrylic girls used to do.

That said, I do get spendy AF when I want to. I sat on my ass all year till my birthday.

Now that the travel bug has bitten me … and so has the new credit card fairy … I’m like INTERNET MONEY AHOY.

Internet money means BTC profits. Of which I don’t have much.

But I have a wallet full of cards that earn me either Disney points, Delta miles, cash back or other travel points. And I’m not afraid (enough) to use it.

Delta cheesed me off with its new tiers. I used to do the row behind first class. Now I’m pretty much booking the damned cargo section of the airplane.

The trade-off in price means I’ll take a better hotel since they can’t even afford seat belts in my new section.

After all, I can stand three hours to LGA in the fetal position. I cannot stand three nights in Chelsea in a cardboard box.

There is a saying that always irritated me about “keeping up with the Joneses.”

Bitch I don’t know the Joneses and they probably voted for tRump anyway so fuck all of them.

I only keep up with what impresses ME.

I love the Cosmo. I LOVE the pool with the techno music and $50 Cosmopolitans.

I also love that you don’t find a lot of riff-raff with Delta Amex cards. So the cheap seats haven’t been all that bad.

So, it’s rich-ish bitch summer. And VIP-ish summer. But still. Those tastes of the good life mean the difference between great and regrettable getaways.

Now to just work enough to keep RBS underway into perpetuity.

At least until internet money/PE summer kicks in.

Every so often, Frank Warren posts questions he was lucky enough to get to ask his father.

Since I got so used to answering for Mom on the phone and in the hospital, I’m going to use the questions to see what I can shake out of my memory about her.

25 “Dad” Questions by Frank Warren

Do you have a favorite snack, song, television show, recipe, comedy?

Snack — She loved a good muffuletta from Renzo’s, tempura cauliflower from Ganzo or Ramen Lab Eatery, buffalo cauliflower (with marinara) from Renzo’s. Cabot sharp cheddar cheese. Gherkins. She loved to graze rather than have meals.

Song — “I Can See You,” Taylor Swift. “Roll Out,” Ludacris. “Something Sexy About the Rain,” Kenny Chesney. “Does He Love You,” Linda Davis and Reba though she hated Reba. “She’s in Love With the Boy,” Trisha Yearwood. (“Don’t call me boy!” — Scumby/Randi.) Pretty much any “Sounds of the ’70s” — I loved listening to those with her. “No Charge,” Shirley Caesar. “You & Me Against the World,” Helen Reddy.

TV Show — If it was on Bravo or TLC, it was on in our house.

Recipe — Her enchilada chicken and “Whore Sauce” were my favorites. No one made a better burger. Grammy used to say “Pumpkin makes everything better.”

Comedy — My grandmother loved Gallagher and George Carlin. Mom and I always made our own dumb jokes. I don’t really remember Mom caring about comics or comedies. We loved dramas and romance movies.

Can you tell me about your best friend when you were a kid and one of your adventures?

She and Sherry had been friends since middle school, I think.

When Mom was pregnant with me, she was dating a few people but knew my idiot father was Tom. There was a “DK” and a Gabor in her orbit.

Gabor was fabulous and gay. I looked him up and he lives nearby. DK — Donnie — I got named after.

Anyway when she was pregnant with me, someone called her up and played The Eagles’ “Lyin’ Eyes” on the phone. She was convinced for 40 years that Sherry and their other idiot friend Debbie did it, not DK and his people.

OK maybe this was to solicit a good adventure but that’s all I got.

I do know she was close to her cousins Val and Dana. Uncle Joe and Aunt Claudia’s kids. I don’t remember much offhand except we loved Dana’s first husband Ronnie. When they divorced, we stopped believing in true love. If they couldn’t make it, no one could.

Can you describe a favorite memory about a family member?

Hmm, one of her favorite memories about a family member?

She loved her Uncle Tom, Grampy’s brother from Lancaster.

Uncle Tom always came over smelling like expensive cologne. Always handed her a $50 every time he saw her.

When she died, I found a bunch of $50s in cards from him to her.

I remember when he died. Mom and I were in the car on the way home from Port St. Lucie. Elaine called and Mom’s soul just broke in two.

I looked over at her and saw cows grazing on the side of I-95. I’ll never forget that drive or the spot where we were when we heard the news.

My Gram was best friends with his wife Mary. Mary went on to marry another Tom.

Mary and Gram always cooked together and were total besties. Gram hated anyone who had (my last name) by blood but was totally cool with those who married into the family.

What is the oldest story you know about our ancestors?

Mom’s dad Calvin loved his momma Jessie. Or Jesse. No one is really sure how she spelled it. She was French, is all I know.

I looked up Jessie a few years back. She had divorced Grampy’s dad and married a guy named Hugh G. Dick. This is not a typo or a joke.

Jessie’s obituary caught my eye. It was not my last name or Hugh’s but, rather, her maiden name Davis on her headstone.

I sent a pic of Jessie to my cousin Meg. She said oh wow you look like her.

I never knew Jessie. Honestly I always thought I looked like a combo of my mother and maternal grandmother. Who knew I also looked like my paternal grandmother, too?

But the oldest story I have is about my maternal great-grandparents.

Again, not a great one. Those are unfortunately the stories that stuck with me.

Anyway, my great-grandmother Anastasia lived with us. Anna Banana.

She was divorced from Joseph Sr.

She never said he was an abusive piece of shit but the stories led to that.

She was excommunicated from the Catholic church for divorcing him and not promising she wouldn’t remarry. (She didn’t remarry.)

Joseph Sr. beat the shit out of their son, Joseph Jr., when their dog sneezed and he said, “Bless you.”

And their son Vincent died as a baby.

Uncle Joe worked on the railroad and left his fortune to his second wife, Barbie. I fucking hated her. Loved his first wife Claudia, her daughter Val and my first cousin (once removed? I really don’t get this shit) Kara.

Something stupid happened when I was 10 that the family became less close. The Thing happened directly to me. It caused me lifelong annoyance but I never blamed anyone for it. Let’s just say it’s been character building.

Anyway, I don’t really affiliate with anyone blood-related these days other than Val, Kara and Meg.

Everyone good is dead and the rest (minus those three, plus Bobby, John, Brenna, Kylie and Riley) might as well be.

Is there something about me that you have always wanted to know but have never asked?

So if I read this right, this is Frank asking his Dad if he had any questions about him.

Would Mom have had any questions about me that she couldn’t answer? I don’t know.

I do know my cousin Carole was very concerned when I was spending a lot of time traveling with Laura. Carole was convinced that something was going on there.

Uhh … she was a travel writer who got paid to travel and eat, and Laura took me along for the ride for a couple years?!

Mom and Carole had a fraught history. So Mom quit talking to her and cited that as the last straw. But there was a whole straw factory behind it.

Still, I would guess Mom always did wonder if that was something I might be interested in.

Not Laura (def not — we were just travel buddies).

That said, I don’t think I hid the Melissa of it all very well.

In any event, I do wonder if Mom had any inkling that I crashed my car coming home from the hospital in Miami one night.

I showed up in a Mustang next hospital visit (and I also lost my job at the same time).

And I KNOW she wondered. But she was so messed up from the cancer and the surgery and the terrible hospital experience that she couldn’t find the words to ask.

I miss that Mustang but I miss her more.

Mustangs are easy to come by. Good mothers are not.

Just look on BlueSky for evidence.

If this was to be our very last conversation, is there anything you would want to say to me?

Well ouch. I asked Mom so many times to leave me one voicemail. Just one. Just a hello or something, knowing the last conversation was coming.

I never got that voicemail.

Is there anything I want to say to her? I mean, in death I do.

I was never a hugger or a love bug or anything she wanted or needed me to be.

But in life, even in the end, I was just my annoyed and annoying self.

I loved Cocoa out, in her words.

I like to think I loved her out, too.

(One thing I just realized is she wasn’t with her parents when they died. They died alone. I was with my mom and all three of my cats who’ve passed. I got to see that last breath. It’s so sad and yet so beautiful to know they felt safe enough to go because I was there.)

Now THAT said …

Between cleaning up all the black vomit and all the laundry I did and all the trash I had to run downstairs because the chute was broken, I was operating at peak asshole levels.

So yeah, I’d say I am sorry you never got to help me pick out a wedding dress and do all the “normal” things good moms should have the chance to do.

Not sorry, however, I didn’t end up with a loser just to give her those experiences.

She was hopeful for Mike L. But the L stood for loser, just like all the rest. I think she just wanted me with a guy who was equally hot and kind. Me, too, Momma. Me, too.

What is your first memory?

I know Gram used to bop her with a hairbrush when she did her hair.

Gram was just strong — she would give me head massages with her nails and it was intense. Elaine and her half-sister Lisa loved Gram’s back scratches. But mom did NOT like getting bopped with the hairbrush.

I also know Grampy took Mom and one of her friends (either Sherry or her cousin Val) to see Bobby Sherman in concert.

Grampy took a clipboard and pretended to work for him. And he got Mom in to meet him.

Bobby Sherman. I gotta look him up. If I still read Cindy, I’m sure she’ll have 47 tweets about how she knew him before Mom did. And since she’s older than Mom, she probably knew Sky Daddy when he was a boy, too.

I really don’t know a lot about her childhood since we really grew up together. A lot of my firsts were hers, too. And I was the adventurous one — I took her on all my expeditions, whenever I could. So at least the memories were shared.

Did you ever get into trouble as a kid? What happened?

Other than getting pregnant a week before her 16th birthday, not much.

I know she didn’t tell anyone about me. Then at about six months, Gram and Old Gram were commenting on how skinny she looked.

Old Gram had wisely predicted, “The fall before the rise.”

And … not long after, her belly popped and she couldn’t hide it anymore.

If there was a biography of you, how would you want to be described?

I don’t think she’d want a biography. She always felt awful that she was a “freeloader” in my house.

Sometimes she’d text and say, “It’s your worthless mother.” But then we met a worthless mother or two and she quit saying that.

I do think “Harper Valley PTA” would have to be the lead song on the soundtrack. She dressed me in frilly little dresses as a kid. And she’d get called to school because my skirts were too short.

So she’d pick me up instead of bringing a change of clothes. We’d go to lunch a lot. I wonder if she dressed me like that so she’d have a reason to take me to Chi-Chi’s instead of leaving me there to rot.

Chi-Chi’s closed years ago, but is making a comeback.

I invested in its Reg-CF offering. I never invested so much in my life.

I know it won’t bring Momma back, but if it brings Chi-Chi’s back, it’s worthwhile because she LOVED it there.

What choice are you thankful that you did not make?

Roe v. Wade went into effect around the time I was conceived. I often asked why she didn’t just do it.

She always said I was the best thing she ever did.

Sometimes I joked I was the only thing she ever did. Because she really was born to be a mom. She loved me, and motherhood, and all that came with it.

Even when I was a shit, from ages zero to 50, she loved it all. Or at least didn’t let it show that it might not have.

She would have never sat on social media and complained like some people do.

What is the best advice you remember from your father?

Grampy thought she hung the moon. She was his princess. His punkin.

I will have to think about any advice he might have given her.

I know when (my) Juddy didn’t get Homecoming King, Grampy wrote him a beautiful poem about how these big disappointments will fade away when the big victories come our way.

He was right about that.

I think the fact that my grandparents — who lived in a 2BR row house/Section 8 with my great grandmother, mom, cousin Carole, Carole’s daughter Robyn (named after my mom) — welcomed the news of me speaks volumes.

Mom always said they loved me more than they did her. I was their chance to get the parent thing right.

Not that they were bad but she said the love was SO different for me.

And I somehow made them love HER more, for giving me to them to help raise.

She took care of them their whole lives. We really all were so close.

It hurts more to lose people like that, who loved you so unconditionally.

On the upside, there was nothing unresolved. We all knew we loved each other.

The only sad part is that they had more love to give but their bodies just wouldn’t let them.

Is there anything you wish you had said to someone but didn’t have the chance?

Gram used to say Mom wouldn’t say shit even if she had a mouth full.

Gram would read you to fucking filth. She would have eviscerated Cindy and every boss I ever had. Everyone in the family got told who and what they were.

In time, I learned she was right about them all.

I think Mom would have told more people off instead of accepting it. She sure fucking told off anyone who ever dared to mess with me.

But when it came to her? She was like well fuck you then and wouldn’t “lick dick,” as my grandmother would say.

That said, I regret all the time we wasted on laughing at Cindy.

I mean, she gave us so much material. Plus, Mom encouraged me to see what her mentally ill ass was up to, in case she was dumb enough to telegraph that she was going to hurt me. (She IS dumb enough.)

When Mom was at her sickest, I did stop reading. I didn’t have the bandwidth.

And I can predict with more certainty than a pregnancy test that she’s making fun of me for hurting that I lost my mom. So who wants to read that shit anyway?

Anyway, I would love all that time and mental bandwidth back that we wasted on losers.

Can you teach me something?

Momma taught me everything I know.

She didn’t want to leave because she said she had so much to teach me still.

Now, exactly one year after I lost her, she taught me that I can somehow survive the worst possible hurt I could ever have imagined.

I would rather have learned how to get a good man and what kind of wedding dress would work with my figure and where to honeymoon.

What is something you would like me to ask you?

Probably how she felt after I said something stupid or hurtful.

We always laughed things off. Never really just said man that was terrible and I am sorry. As soon as we had food, the slate was wiped clean again.

What do you wish you would have spent less time worrying about?

Everything! I couldn’t microwave her food or put “too much” deodorant on her because, cancer.

Jesus Christ the shit was in her bones and every organ. A swipe of deodorant or a goddamned cup of hot tea was not going to be what killed her.

She also worried what people thought. Got up and dressed and hair fixed every day. Even with Stage 4 cancer.

Like, you don’t have to be a wreck of the Hesperus like you know who.

But you don’t have to draw on your eyebrows to sit in the car while I run errands, either.

What is something you deliberately did not tell me as a child and why?

She told me just about everything. And the rest, I guessed.

I would guarantee my stepfather was as abusive as my maternal grandfather.

I knew something was wrong with his ass in 1977, when they were about to elope and I begged her not to. I was 3.

My family never doubted that kids know everything and that spirits talk to children. How the hell else would I have known to say that?

What is the best part of your day? What makes you feel most alive?

Hanging out with me. Going shopping. Picking out outfits for me. Sharing a piece of cheesecake with Kadie. Giving all her “ribbies” to Cocoa. Sneaking treats to Magic. Hugging Bella, the forgotten middle child. Collecting memes and pretty pictures to paste to Facebook as collages.

Simple things.

She was always amazed at our weekends away. I always wanted her to have something to look forward to. We would eat good food and shop in new stores. She loved that.

So when Wildebeest would say shit about shallow shopaholics, I would want to transfer Mom’s cancer over there.

Fuck it, I still do. Especially when my friend who still reads that trainwreck reports back with whatever lie she’s posted about me lately.

What is the last thing you changed your mind about?

Hospice. She didn’t want me to call those incompetents but in the end she asked why I didn’t call.

Of course then I did call and as she was passing, the night nurse was stuck at the gate.

So I barely got to be with her for her last breath at 2:47 a.m. (and the light went out in her eyes at 2:49) before I had to run down and fuck with the stupid gate at 3:10.

She was pronounced at 3:26.

What things helped you get through a difficult time in your life?

Jimmy. And T-Bird Jimmy. And Randy. And Randi. Jesus how did these names keep recurring.

Oh then there was Blob. Sherry texted that he died last month. I hope Momma stays far away from him. Of course, he’s probably in hell so I am not going to worry.

The most difficult time of her life was when Grampy died. I gave up my 1BR and got us a 2BR. And Blob moved her to Maryland (and stole whatever shit of ours she didn’t have in her purse).

That was the worst. I was so angry at the world. But I understand it now. At some point, you really do just need to rest after going through hell.

I wanted her to fight. Now I see I had enough fight in me for both of us.

And I shouldn’t have wasted it trying to fight with her to be more independent at that time.

Over the course of your life what trip or place was most special? Why?

There was one “family trip” — I took Mom, Cocoa, Bella and Magic to Islamorada. All five of us. We stayed in a room that walked out to the ocean.

She had a walker by that time and didn’t go too far onto the sand. But she loved sitting on the lanai and having cocktails with me.

Best trip ever. Only one we got as a family of five.

What would you like to re-experience again because you did not appreciate it enough the first time?

She was a pretty happy person. I would think anything that involved good food. A nice night at Delmonico. Stuffed shrimp at Island Fish Co. in Islamorada. A fried fish sandwich at Skyview or Reenie’s back in Pittsburgh. A Jim’s hot dog in Dravosburg.

On second thought, the last time my grandfather played guitar lived rent-free in our minds.

He hadn’t played in forever. But she got him a cord for his amplifier and he busted out “Me and Bobby McGhee.”

We cried. We literally sat there and sobbed. It was wonderful.

I wish with all my might we had smartphones then, in 2006. I would have recorded that and played the shit out of it for the past 20 years.

Cousin Bobby has that amp now. I forget what happened to Grampy’s songbook. Someone wanted it. I hope it was Bobby but I really don’t know.

Can you tell me something about yourself that I don’t know that you think would surprise, shock or delight me?

I was always surprised and delighted by my momma. She would sing that Christmas song her way: “Oh the fire’s so fucking frightful. And your momma’s so fucking delightful.”

I remember when she was little, she saw a horse with a big dick and asked Grampy about it. He told her the horse was “sitting on a stick.” Hah.

He didn’t like to talk about sex. We always said his nose would wiggle off his face.

It’s so true — anytime he was uncomfortable, his nose would wiggle.

What habits served you the most through life?

She was psychic but about dumb stuff. So am I. Life decisions, no luck. But knowing what route to take to avoid traffic? We’re your girls.

She never developed her gift and was so proud that I have a coven and take classes regularly to communicate with the spirit guides and the dead.

What is the best mistake you have made, and why?

Becoming a mom. See above. I brought the family closer together. And her parents were AMAZING about having me in our little Section 8 townhouse. They scraped together some money and got us a nice rental house in a nice part of town. Truly I had an amazing childhood because of these angels.

What do you hope my siblings and I have learned from you?

Mom tried so hard to soften me. I was always kind of a hardass. I don’t care about hugs so much. Or romance or anything like that. I just always wanted to work or be left alone.

She really did make me more compassionate. But as i fought with doctors and hospitals and loser boyfriends, she remarked that all she’d done to soften me was being undone by incompetence and insensitivity.

She wasn’t wrong. I was seeing someone recently and I told him, “You are competing with my peace.” And my peace, ultimately, won.

How are you doing right now? Is there anything on your mind right now that you’d like to talk about?

Considering she’s been dead for one year, I will skip this one.

I do talk to her a lot. And I have about four million signs she’s around me.

Like, the fact that my hotel room this weekend was 616 — she died on 6/16.

Or the fact that I accidentally tried to get into 619 — Grampy’s favorite number.

Or that a moth sat next to me at the hotel pool for 35 minutes while I talked to him about her.

I knew the one-year mark would cement for me that she was gone.

I really did get the feeling that the little moth friend I made was telling me, just like her last words on earth, “I gotta go.”

She hung out with me in spirit for a year. Now it’s time to find and use her wings.

I truly believe that. I hope I get to ask someday if I was right.

Love you so much, Momma. I know I cry more for Cocoa. But I got more time with you. Though you were both equally dependent on me.

I hope I didn’t fuck up too much. I also don’t know what to do with all this love I had for you guys.

Maybe you can throw me a sign sometime about that.

Some troll I decided to engage with has zoomed in on a photo of my flab and sent it to me.

Jesus Christ.

I am tired of everyone’s over-stylized, AI-generated photos. I made it to 30-ish-ish and I’m damn happy about that.

Besides, I’ve had Cindy Lou Whothefuckdoesshethinksheis picking me apart for years.

All that’s ever resulted in is her luck getting worse and mine better.

The new (very self-proclaimed racist, homophobe and fatist) troll can enjoy the same fate.

Does anyone really think I care what they see?

As ever, I said thanks for letting me live free in the low-rent district between your ears.

Tearing me down
Passing the phone around
Like the queen of the mean girls committee
Keep on telling yourself
I’m not pretty
I’m not cool
I’m just one of those girls
Who peaked in high school
Yeah right.

Never got to post this but somehow I believe it never goes out of style.