Caterwauling

Thirty days sober.

Social media sober.

Although hey, thanks for the gift off my Amazon registry. Damn, that’s some next-level stalking. But I love presents. So, thanks.

In any event, it’s been 30 days since I visited any of the near two dozen sites that chip away at my IQ.

Mmm chips.

A couple friends are still seeded and one asked if I want an update for old time’s sake.

I said hard pass, G. And unsub yoself. You live in the Acela corridor. Look outside instead for some high-speed wreckiness of the train variety.

Unsub Yoself.

I gotta get me that on a T-Shirt.

Best month ever. Looking forward to repeating it.

But first, chips.

ETA 3/13: Math never was my strong suit. It was 32 days at the time of writing. 36 today.

I just told my West Coast crime partner I can physically feel my IQ rising again.

Hanging at the HOA cookout today.

Good looking Swedish/Finnish guy starts talking to the people on grill patrol. Says:

“I don’t know how men have five, 10 wives. I have two women and I can’t take it anymore.”

All Fraggles and Doozers’ ears perk up. They ask how he got himself two!

He pulled out a fat wallet, bursting with dollars and euros.

No one:

Me: You need a third?

Twenty minutes later, as I’m still waiting for my Impossible Burger, everyone is still talking, “And then this younger girl asks if he wants a third!”

To be fair, I’ve never cared thing one about anyone’s wallet. It’s all about what’s in their hearts and heads.

But hey, he was kind of cute for a a septuagenarian.

And mom always tells me get us a husband. She didn’t say whose!

So I got to tell the person the thing.

Not in person. Via a dream.

I’ve gotten messages this way before. This was my first time sending one.

I just hope it was received.

Never thought the day would come that I couldn’t pick up a phone and talk to this person.

But I can send love and light and healing and information any old time I please.

I’ll never not care.

And I don’t need someone to be in my corner for me to be in theirs.

ETA: Whoa, I forgot I wrote this:

The time when you have important information for someone.

But you know the only thing they will do is report it back to their pit bull that you reached out.

And the rabid beast will eviscerate you both and the problem (that they helped create) will never get fixed.

It’s hard to do the right thing when it means everyone is going to need a rabies shot.

So why even bother.

I’d ask when folks have time to cook or clean or work or be a decent human being. But women always know the answer before they ask any question.

They don’t.

I guess all I can do is be grateful that I don’t have some ankle biter in charge of anything related to my financial and general well being.

That and send flowers to the whip-smart, focused, Twitter-less gal who does my taxes.

Jimmy told me to come up for dinner on his birthday in a few Fridays.

I’m bringing Clorox and sage. Because, coronapocalypse. Also since apparently they’ve been letting anyone in.

Tomorrow is Jon Bon Jovi’s birthday. Then there’s Paddy’s Day and the Spring Equinox on the 19th.

But today is a cool day, too.

It’s a new month, for starters.

March 1 was the original celebration of New Year for the Roman empire. Priestesses would be prepare herbs, sacrifices and feasts for the masses.

Speaking of feasting, it’s National Peanut Butter Lovers Day. Or, MY DAY.

I get creamy for someone who’s a little chunky.

Where was I?

Oh yeah …

National Wedding Planning Day.

Or Wedding Planner Day. Whatever you prefer.

I got some heaux who says I’m planning a Disney wedding over here.

Which, I am …

But Sooper Sloooth didn’t think to inquire whether it were mine.

It isn’t.

That one is not a very good researcher.

Bless their adorable little heart.

Moving on to porcine valves and other parts …

It’s also National Pig Day.

No lipstick here …

Lots of other things today …

And of course, it’s a sacred day in witch world …

It’s also Zero Discrimination Day. Imma leave that one alone because, tRumpism.

I met Jack on a flight from Tampa to New Orleans around this time last year.

He was flying from Fort Lauderdale, as was I, but we didn’t see each other on the previous flight.

I’m glad the universe decided to put us in the same exit row, him on the aisle and me in the middle. We talked the whole flight.

Jack and I graduated from high school the same year. His wife left him and married his best friend. He was looking to get back into dating again and told me all about his three beautiful daughters for whom he lived to be their hero. And I was charmed.

Maybe he was too. Jack looked me up on Facebook five minutes after we said goodbye at MSY.

My mind was a thousand miles away before the flight. But then Jack started talking about how, when you give your body to someone, you give them a piece of your soul every single time.

I saw a tweet the other day to that effect:

“When we give our bodies to another being, we are giving them a piece of our souls. Take the time to find out if they deserve it.”

He had a wonderful voice. But this comment was LOUD.

Jack’s and my paths never did cross again. But they didn’t need to.

He might not have given my soul back that day. But he alerted me to protect what I have left.

I’ll always remember how beautiful it was when souls touched. Among other things.

And I’ll always wonder where those soul pieces go.

Lucky for me, my soul keeps regenerating.

Someday, when he can smile again, his will too.

And I’m not talking about Jack.