Caterwauling

My vacation week is going well, if you define vacation week as “being at work every single day.”

I wrote a whole post that I haven’t yet published on unexceptional assholes. 

Then I remembered I had this saved, and it says it all for me. 

It took me going out with a really good guy to realize how much I’ve been forced to put up with. 

Mr. Trump, I love your opponent. But now my vote is just as much against entitled assholes as it is for strong, capable women who have put up with the likes of you for too long. 

Number of Arnold Horshack-sounding belly laughs out of me today: 1

Number of random crying jags: 2

Number of times someone said, “Aren’t you supposed to be on vacation this week?”: 3

Number of articles left to edit at 4 p.m.: 4

Here’s to not hearing another Trumpish cocaine stiff for the balance of the day. I have a big fight to go have with a neighbor later, so I’m saving my rage for that.

Hurricane Matthew was thankfully a non-event here. Which was shocking, really …

The TV network coverage has been nonstop. The governor took every opportunity to tell us we would die if we didn’t evacuate. 

It’s clear and cool and almost even sunny today. Daytona wasn’t so fortunate. 

Matthew is set to make a U-turn after it visits the Carolinas. He might even clash with Nicole out at sea. 

The weekend forecast is lovely here in the Palm Beaches. But next week is thunderstorm central. 

I wish we were off next week too, but I’m happy the top management at my work was kind/wise to let us have these days to prepare, to deal with our fear and to be with our families. 

I love the top guys (and the middle guy who was kind and helpful to me) that much more today, as I am utterly exhausted from worry. 

And a wee bit hungover too…

I wore one of my favorite outfits, drank my best beer and cracked open a really good bottle of wine to pass the time. 

Now what to do with all the snacks I didn’t manage to devour before the hurricane? (And I demolished a fair amount.)

Open a Wawa, I guess. Or polish off the ice cream, quinoa tortilla chips and pumpkin salsa for breakfast. 

Yes, that’ll do, pig. That’ll do.

Thank you, God and many northern friends who prayed for us, for this gloriously calm day. 

What does that mean, exactly? There’s a Category 4 — possibly 5 — arriving in three hours. You’d think there was something more appropriate to say or hear. 

It’s like when you someone dies (only not among my friends, who will just ignore you), you say “I’m sorry.” Sorry for what? How does that improve matters?
It doesn’t. I know that. It’s just something you say, hopefully with the intent of making someone feel less alone. 

It’s a lonely life.  It really is. My governor is all over TV, saying that Hurricane Matthew is a “bonding time.” So check on your neighbors and get through this together. 

Of course, this is also the guy saying people are gonna die and his family is safe. Reminds me of someone. 

In any event, I took a walk today. Tried to speak to everyone. Not one person said hello back. Well except for the ducks. I had food and they were thrilled. 

I often carry on rhetorical conversations with these assholes. After I say hi and they ignore me, I fill in for them. 

Loudly. 

“Hi!” *silence*

“I’m great thanks. How are you?” 

“Good, good! You all ready for this storm?”

“Well let me know if you need anything. Stay safe and enjoy your day.”

“Fucker.”

Yeah. That comes out too. 

I don’t want to wish that every one of these deplorables gets washed off the coastline. 

But my friend’s husband got the call that FEMA is sending him here to rescue us, and I asked if I can pick and choose who gets saved first. 

Because if these fuckers can’t fvdn say hi, what makes anyone think they’d say thank you for keeping them safe?

Well. Never endured a Category 4 hurricane before. Sure I lost power for a week after Wilma. But it wasn’t 100 degrees out like it is here now, with 120 mph winds. 

Have plenty of food. And LED lights. And candles. And booze. Diet be damned. 

Didn’t shutter the windows. I’m not in the mandatory evacuation zone this year. But I am in the second zone, where it is strongly encouraged to GTFO. 

I’m sick of hearing from everyone who is prepared. How expensive their preparations were. How other people will die but they will be fine with their AC and gas grill. 

Meanwhile I’m in the Chinese drywall palace where our idiot management trimmed the trees and left the debris on the ground. You know, the better to impale people with. Or to go through the windows that have no screens, let alone shutters.  

And don’t get me started on how the pools are still full. Fools.

They chained up the clubhouse from the inside. I went to grab mail tonight and couldn’t get in. How da fuck will they get in to unlock the chains holding the doors together? Also there are “no exit” signs on the inside. How about “no entry” signs on the outside? Fools. 

This place will remain standing just like Trump’s empire and other shitty companies do. That is, despite themselves. So I should be more worried than I am.  But in a world where ineptitude is most richly rewarded, I am definitely in the right place. 

Lord please keep my coffeemaker running for the next four days. Or six, if this shit hooks around like it appears it will. 

Hey at least I’m getting two days off. Not the vacay I had planned for next week. But no long meetings while I’m under a time crunch? Greater joy than the hell any hurricane could inflict. 

Hurricane party!!!

There are people who annoy the crap out of me. To the point where all I need to do is hear a breath or some suck-ass comment out of them, and I want to stroke them lovingly with a shovel. 

Then there are the assholes who I choose to be around and they still disappoint me. You give them condolences on a death and they totally miss a passing that’s destroying you. But go on, keep posting political memes. 

Or now, with a hurricane the size of Arizona just 400 miles from my spindly house, by all means send me stupid shit or crack jokes if you even think of me at all. When I’m barely holding it together and having to step up/step in for people who can’t or won’t help me. 

I had no idea I had any friends left to lose at this point. I was wrong. 

Basically I need to hire friends and put them on my payroll so they are forced to choke down their ambivalence and shit out something helpful every now and then to prove they aren’t dead inside. Money talks, even if it’s full of it more often than not. And that’s ok enough. 

My favorite, favorite, favorite teacher passed away.

I’ve written about her often in these pages. Never by name though. I wish I had.

Loved everything about this woman. She would say “my poet” when she saw me. She kicked my ass and made me better.

I have yet to meet anyone so inspiring.

I wonder if people know how much they impact someone. Like, does she know the McKeesport graduating classes of the past 30 years are in tears today because this amazing woman is no longer on this earth?

Miss you so much, Madame. Thank you for everything you did for me, from our AP English classes, to French lessons, to personal growth exercises and private chats about being a gracious and graceful teenager/high schooler.

I hope I made you proud. I know you’d hate this blog, and I know you’ll see me now and want more for me than what I have now. But know that I wouldn’t have gotten this far without you.

My heart …

That moment when you can’t even “can’t even” anymore.

I won’t lie. I am filled with a very familiar feeling right now. And it’s ugly. 

Hearing about Trump’s taxes pushed me over the edge. Sure, I get to pay 2% of my income, on top of the other 30%, because of Obamacare. But we reward Trump for being a terrible businessman. 

The thing with the candidates in this election is that the one you won’t vote for reminds you of every boss you hated. 

He’s the blustering butthead you couldn’t escape till you were mad enough to take the first halfway decent offer that came along. 

He’s the one who made you turn your back on your cool team for greener pastures. 

The one who found a way to scratch a fingernail down the chalkboard of your soul 260 days a year. 

The one who got promoted and rewarded as dozens if not hundreds abandoned their passions because of him. 

And I know plenty who worship at the Cheeto Jesus altar who feel the same way about my candidate. 

As I’ve said before, some you’d want to go over a cliff for and others will kick you over it. 

That’s the choice on Nov. 8. I choose not to get kicked. I’m fuckin’ Lucy this year. That ball is mine. And if it isn’t, I am not giving it to him.