Caterwauling

The Book of Faces’ Memories feature is enough to make me crazy.

The memories it sends of Mom are really puzzling. Never vacations or happy moments. More like snarky shit from Messenger — photos of people we hate or screenshots we captured but didn’t want to be public.

Then there was the Thanksgiving memory from last year of some dumb meme … and me saying I bought turkey for nine cats.

Nine.

Cocoa, Belly and Magic, of course. Meatball, Fancy, Whiskers, Amelia, Smalls, Poppins and the gray kitty I called Harry (as he was kind of a “Spare” who showed up inconsistently).

I miss those kids.

It’s been since April that I fed them. Mostly they don’t even look up when I drive by anymore.

Mostly.

The other night, I was coming home late and saw a brand-new kitty out there. Super pretty. Gorgeous coat.

A part of me felt happy that this beautiful creature was here.

Another part was sadder than ever. Like, why come here where no one is allowed to love you.

Rita had a big blue storage tub out there with a hole cut in it. I would guess something to protect them from the rain. Or maybe to house food. I don’t know.

What I do know is it was out there for three days before one of these dinglberries complained about it.

I keep reading that all the MAGAT assholes are moving to Palm Beach en masse to be around their roach king.

I’m also reading that <a href=”https://www.newsweek.com/florida-home-sales-plunge-1991806″>people are fleeing this area in droves</a>.

You say correlation; I say causation. Tomato, tomatohe.

Just what we need. More illiterate fuckheads who vote for dictators and tyrants.

I was checking out real estate in (redacted). Honestly it’s not that much more or less than around here.

Most people who come here are snowbirds. And look at me, about to go into reverse snowbird mode.

Thanks, America. You really couldn’t stand having a Black woman as president, could you.

I broke my bridge.

Stupid stress eating.

This is going to be a $5,000 adventure, but that’s not the point of this madness installment.

My dentist moved. Right across from the last hospital I put Mom in.

As I made that all-too-familiar turn from Don Ross onto Militree, “Thank U” came on.

It was well before work hours. I planned to get the initial exam out of the way (as they like to jab you for three to four visits, because they make more money that way) and go work at the place with the good breakfast margaritas.

Which I did. For a while.

I was feeling a way about being up in Joopiter again. Seeing all the restaurants Mom loved and the medical supply store that was such a pain in the ass to drive to. And now here I was … with no one to buy for.

How ’bout me enjoying the moment for once.

Two days ago would have been my grandparents’ 74th wedding anniversary.

Yesterday was the 18th anniversary of Grampy’s death.

Today is Thanksgiving Eve. A day I have ALWAYS worked too late and driven my mother NUTS because all the shopping and the prepping had to wait till the last minute.

Not today.

I mean, I should have done this when she was alive and well. But I said fuck it, mental health afternoon ahoy.

How ’bout them transparent dangling carrots.

I’ve worked in this industry 21-ish years now. I’ve always worked late into and over the holidays.

I hate myself that it took my mother dying to get a fucking grip.

Like, somewhere she’s probably saying why didn’t you give ME some of that time.

How ’bout grieving it all one at a time.

Even if we got the shopping done over the weekend, she had to do all the cleaning and prepping.

I mean, that was our partnership. I drove and paid. She made everything magical.

Her end of the deal was MUCH more laborious.

Anyway, I have to miss a meeting monday for Dentist Visit No. 2. And oh, hahahah, I am going away the next day. OOPS.

How ’bout me enjoying the moment for once.

I used all my vacation days in October and November. ALL of them.

That’s been my custom the last couple years. Previously I lost them. Glad to have ended THAT tradition.

There’s never really a good time to take time off. But by the end of the year, I’m burnt out and worn out.

And this year — the year my Mom and my Cocoa died … and the populace elected motherfucking fascist ass tRump again, JFC — I’m done. I’m cooked. I hate EVERYTHING and EVERYONE.

I’m not sad I have to miss this Monday meeting. Though it occurs to me that I’ve missed five out of the last six weeks’ worth of meetings with my boss. This will be 6/6.

How ’bout that ever elusive kudo.

I finished writing my performance reviews. HR was happy with them. Now to deliver them. And to wait for the inevitable follow-up question that I can’t answer.

In any event, as I drove around my old work neighborhood, I thought of all the people in our industry who have died.

Our beloved receptionist Susan … our beloved copywriter Jesse … my beloved Chip (from Phillips) … the legend Myles (though he promoted Erika way too many times to the top of that company) … the truly legendary copywriters Clayton and Dan … etc.

And then there are the ones who’ve gotten sick. I’m thinking of L. in particular. Who kept us all organized, sane and on track … and now, who’s there to take care of her? (Also, who the hell is supposed to take care of us now?!)

One day they were all busting their asses … and the next day, they weren’t at the office and/or on this mortal plane.

I don’t know that I’ll see L. again. And that makes me sad.

She sent me a ginormous bouquet when my mom passed. And I don’t even know what to do for her when I’m not even supposed to know what I know.

Anyway. She sure as hell didn’t fuck off the day before Thanksgiving. Even though she had a million personal details to attend to. You never heard about those.

My intention for this coming year is to have the social life to match the amazing wardrobe I’ve amassed.

I think a secondary intention should be to be known for having the time of my life.

Not just for all the sadness that will never leave my body.

How ’bout no longer being masochistic
How ’bout remembering your divinity
How ’bout unabashedly bawling your eyes out
How ’bout not equating death with stopping.

I gotta say, it was nice not going to a single grocery store in the last week. I went to Victoria’s Secret and Altar’d State and several TJ Maxx stores to buy a winter wardrobe. And saw “Wicked.” And ate sushi and cake in the parking lot.

I miss Momma’s stuffing balls something awful. But maybe I’ll try to make them next year. Too freaking painful right now to even think about it.

My day started with me offering an olive branch to someone I should have just beaten with it.

My day ended with me trying to figure out the easiest way to fill out paperwork that’s 14 days overdue.

I had plenty of time today to figure out how I could use smaller words for the first one.

And to figure out how to make the second one useful if it can’t be spiritually fulfilling.

I admit it — I chose not to.

And I continue to sit immobilized by it.

What was I saying yesterday, that I don’t want to have an unlived life?

I know you gotta do shit you don’t want to do.

But, putting it off yet another day is more satisfying than it should be.

It’s not that it’s an unlivable life. Not always. But the days between trips and treats could be just a little bit more exciting.

Now and then, she rereads the manuscript
Of the entire torrid affair.

I really don’t.

Not only do I not go through old text messages, I will admit to deleting most of them.

But I do have a million journals. And even those are collecting dust right now.

If I did read them, I’d either remember why I loved them … or why I didn’t.

And neither of those is good for me.

In the age of him, she wished she was thirty
And made coffee every morning in a Fr?nch press.

30-ish. Right, Wildebeest?

Afterward, she only ate kids’ cereal
And couldn’t sleep unless it was in her mother’s bed

Literally everything makes me miss my mother.

Like, Nov. 25 is my grandparents’ wedding anniversary. 1950. 74 years ago.

And my grandfather died in the wee hours of Nov. 26. Killed by the Veterans Administration hospital in Aspinwall (Pittsburgh). I hope Dr. Trang killed herself because she was so incompetent.

Anyway. I would normally be sad with mom right now. Now I’m sad without her.

The years passed like scenes of a show
The professor said to write what you know.

I spend my life worried I’m not good enough for/at my job. Then I spend five seconds with Howler.

But then I get out and about — on vacation, with other Wall Street types, in jury duty — and I realize I’M FUNNY AS HELL. First of all. And second, that people LISTEN to me. And LOOK TO ME for leadership.

And I think about Taylor Swift. (Shut up if you have a problem.) Like, if there was never an Eras Tour, she never would have broken up with Joe … dated Ratty … and met Travis.

Also, I remember the Tampa show. She was so serious. So sad. I mean, hell of a show. But seeing her a year and a half later in Miami, she’s all giddy and giggles and just GLOWING and shit.

And Travis — he was already a phenomenal player. But he’s gotten even BETTER. His track record, already near impeccable, has gotten even closer to perfect.

Iron sharpens iron, the bible thumper types say.

What if my iron struck someone else’s iron? Would there be alchemy there, too?

Meanwhile I am sitting around all dull and shit. I don’t want to end up like (redacted).

Forget the unexamined life. I’ve examined it plenty.

I don’t want an UNLIVED life.

Lately I alternate between living hard for a few days and then sitting on my uncomfortable couch for weeks at a time.

Like, even last week I felt alive. Hell even today I did about 10 loads of laundry of unused shit I can’t wait to donate. But it’s all done in procrastination of shit I find so tedious. Nothing like a painful work project to ensure I have a clean house.

And at last, she knew what the agony had been for.

Nothing happens to/for you while you’re sitting in your apartment.

And I’m not going to find what the agony has been for inside these walls.

Maybe I’ll never have my own Eras Tour level of success. Or my own Travis.

Or maybe I would, if I just set out to find both.

Now and then, I reread the manuscript
But the story isn’t mine anymore

Time to write a whole new story. Let (redacted) stay right where I left them.

So, after I penned my eponymous “Fuck VITAS Hospice in Boynton Beach, Florida” tome, I didn’t expect it to go anywhere.

I mean, other than Cindy, Scott and two Chrises, and maaaaybe Psychofag on occasion, who the hell reads this thing, right?

Anyway, VITAS sent me a survey. Which I thought was hilarious. So I created a Bit.ly link and said you can read the blog.

So, a month goes by. Finally someone calls me and says so what do you want us to do with this.

I said are you people for real. You swoop in every four to six weeks to reopen my very raw wounds.

I reminded them YOU asked ME to fill out the survey.

What do I want you to do? Provide better service to the terminally ill.

What do you want me to say — to please keep providing substandard care? STOP CALLING ME is what I want you to do.

I hung up after that.

Jesus Fuck All CHRIST what is WRONG with people.

I can’t leave well enough alone.

The legal case, I haven’t stopped Googling.

The incident happened right at the same time Mom took a turn for the worst.

I remember her telling me about it from the news. And it went right out of my head as fast as it entered.

Even though I knew the location very well at the time of the trial, I drove around the area yesterday.

There is no possible way the defendant wouldn’t have known (redacted). NO WAY.

It’s also unforgivable that the defendant (redacted). Like, we got tripped up on “willfully” in the jury room. Fuck that shit. Everything had to be willful, including ignorance. You know, like tRump voters.

(He and his ex-wife are independent non-voters. Yes I looked up that shit, too.)

What really fries my chitlins is the legal charge that was either thrown out or given to another jury. What the fuck else did they keep from us?

Like, I feel like my time was wasted. WASTED.

I am very glad we the jury arrived at our collective conclusion.

For a while I felt like ass that the lone holdout thanked ME of all people in the end. For explaining the law to her. For her to see why we all said guilty.

Like, what if she was one of the “Twelve Angry Men” who saw something we didn’t?

I had even asked my fellow jurors, OK, this is it. Before we turn in the paperwork, what are we missing? What if we can end up being “Twelve Angry Men?”

We didn’t. We were just six humans who knew that our job was simply to listen and to give the judge the piece of information she couldn’t legally determine on her own.

Anyway. I just have to bleed out the wound here so I don’t carry it with me.

I still can’t figure out what the victim was thinking when he (redacted). But in no way, shape or form did he deserve what happened to him. And if (redacted) didn’t happen, he’d still be living his life.

One last thing and I’ll shut up about it forever (or until tomorrow) …

I am truly shocked at how many prospective jurors also said they are single. Just like the defendant and the decedent.

Like, how many of us are alone (or lonely, or both) while more than half the room is also unattached?

And this shit was said under oath. It’s not like all these married guys I meet who either have a hope or a plan for getting out of their relationship/marriage.

In any event, maybe that’s my takeaway. Have prospective partners say under oath whether they are single or have some attachment that could complicate matters.

I don’t mean to make light out of any of this. I just need to figure out what I need to take away from this other than yanking the Very Good Researcher(TM) crown out of Will D. Beest’s matted mop.

Before the trial began, the judge asked us not to Google the case.

I was fine with that. My laziness will win out over my curiosity any day of the week.

After my sleepless post-verdict night, Howler Monkey immediately started screeching in my direction.

Jesus FUCK, babe. I cannot stand you on my best day, and today is not my best day.

To buy myself some time to come up with an answer that contained no “F” bombs, I finally Googled the case.

Holy FUCK.

There were a few times I had felt bad for the guy, like, his lawyers were trying to lose him this case.

But it looks like they did well by him. They got a very serious charge thrown out before it came to the jury. Or, at least, it was not THIS jury’s responsibility to decide on it.

Knowing it now explains a lot. A LOT.

I found the PBSO report too. Not that I am in the business of trusting cops. But the ones I saw on the stand were credible, thorough and, honestly, they made our jobs easier.

Anyway, with good investigators and attorneys, we arrived at the right verdict.

Getting the extra information reinforced it.

I hope the other jurors who wrestled so hard with it made the same discoveries.

What the smart guy on the jury, along with the third-grade teacher and I, wondered was why would Lil Dude request a jury trial.

I get it now. We could have gone with not guilty. Or we could have picked one of three other verdicts.

So, a 25% chance of going free.

Once again, luck was not on his side. Not on the day of the accident. Not on the day of the verdict. Maybe, even when he finishes serving his time, not ever.

I think about luck a lot.

I violated no fewer than four traffic laws on Thursday alone.

But I slept in my own bed with large purring loafs.

And, unlike him, I didn’t have an ex lurking in the audience to see to it that I was put away for a good, long while.

(I have enough exes lurking, but from a safer distance.)

Also I am grateful that everyone ex-Howler been gracious about my blown deadlines and messed-up mind.

Here’s hoping my charmed life (as it were, as I am aware I’m the dog in the fire saying “This is Fine”) never runs out of charm.

And that Lil Dude can turn his luck around somehow. Or at least get back to a base level of unlucky from current levels.

There’s a saying in Swiftie-land, “Screaming, crying, throwing up.”

It’s a takeoff on Taylor Swift’s lyric, “Screaming, crying, perfect storms” in “Blank Space.”

We usually use it when Taylor performs a surprise song on The Eras Tour that we consider “ours.”

For me now, up at 2:15 a.m. after finding a defendant guilty of the worst charge put in front of me, it feels appropriate.

The judge — who I remember voting for, and I am glad I did — said we enjoy a special privilege as jurors. That is, to never speak of this again. Not to reporters or people who just want to know.

What I will say is I was very happy with the juror pool. Super smart people. Really great discussions.

I was pretty happy that the smartest one in the room and I wrote down the same exact questions. And wanted to see the exact same exhibits again.

The law is written so obtusely. We both took issue with “willfully” and “involved.”

And even though we asked the judge for some clarification, all she could do is read the charging documents to us again.

Like, those lawyers KNEW we’d get tripped up on those words. I gotta hand it to them, they did their jobs well.

Still. We sent a nice man to jail for what I assume will be a very long time. Over a stupid thing that could have happened to any of us. Because the law apparently mandates how you are supposed to react in this sort of moment.

I will miss the court deputy most of all. He was so kind to us. I of course kept cracking jokes, and he couldn’t keep his serious facade for more than 30 seconds.

I asked him why we got picked. There were 63 other people who got quizzed during jury selection. I said beyond voir dire, you guys only talked to two other people in this room.

The deputy said you listened the hardest, answered the most directly, and basically just had the right body language.

He said you can just tell who will absolutely upend the process, and those are the people we send home.

Anyway, when we all parted — after days of sitting stone-silent in a room together, and then debating fiercely and eventually laughing together because JESUS CHRIST THIS SHIT IS STRESSFUL — I wished everyone well, thanked them for being so cool and adding, “It was a pleasure NOT speaking to you for the last four days.”

They all went to the garage. I walked my happy ass back to Elisabetta’s for the third and final time of the week. Because, drinks. So many drinks. All the drinks.

(At this point I imagine old Cindy is either going to rush her happy ass there or post for no one to read that she built the building it’s in and therefore lays claim to it.)

Anyway. I could write all night. But I feel like absolute dog shit. Even though it was a unanimous vote, the smart guy and I said a lot to get the whole group to that outcome.

Honestly I was praying the defense said or did something to make me go the other way.

I think we all were. So, it’s not on me by any stretch.

But that won’t stop me from thinking we just helped the “justice” system to make a tragic situation even fucking worse.

I am not speaking of jury duty.

While we do get a lot of breaks, most of them are actually whilst sitting in the courtroom. With white noise blasting over the speakers so the million microphones don’t pick up what the judge and lawyers are whispering about.

I am proud of me for controlling my facial expressions for a whole three days.

Tomorrow is the final day of testimony. Then deliberations begin. They expect we’ll be done late Friday.

I’ve had performance reviews hanging over my head since before my vacation. That was a crazy week, with writing extra stuff and my bestie not fucking comprehending simple goddamned information about what I was trying to do. Not that any of it was their business.

Then I was off. Then the catch-up week was hell.

Then I had a normal week. Yes I should have done reviews but I feel A Certain Way about those in general.

Now Jury Duty week. Which I did not expect but honestly I’m appreciative of the new experience.

I know this isn’t supposed to be emotional. But sitting expressionless for three days — observing what I am observing — is freaking emotional.

I just ask Momma (who I swear is sitting behind me at the trial — she LOVED watching trials on TV and always told me she was “going to court” on those days) to help me be fair and just when the time comes.

Imma have to ask her to keep me off the court docket, though, because I was told today there’s a MANDATORY FUN event coming up next year at la oficina, planned by my bestie.

So, planned by a hired group that I happen to love. But still. Lucy Van Pelt the Christmas Queen and all. Clap for T-Shirts.

Anyway, here’s hoping that I can remember how to remain expressionless during the day.

Which, I am sure has been aided by the fact that I scream in my car before and afterward.

I just have to remember to keep the windows up next time.

Maybe I better schedule myself on that court docket while I’m in the building after all. I hope defendants get free parking.

I’ve been asked not to Google the case. Or to blog about it. Or to use any sort of social media.

Check, check and check.

So I’ll do what I do best. Obfuscate the issue.

Monday was juror selection day.

How the hell I ended up as one out of 70 is beyond me.

Actually, no, I take that back. I knew from the moment I saw the other 69 that I was doomed.

For starters, dress code said professional.

The only reason I was in Ralph Lauren was because it’s the only thing in my closet that fits my fat ass.

But still. Lots of beach wear. Yoga wear. Wrinkled wear.

Look. I know I’ve had professional jobs and I have a whole ass wardrobe for this shit. This is NOT me judging quality. I saw a few people really tried.

I also smelled a few people. Who clearly, shall we say, gave their clothes a wearing before. And I am speaking of the attorney to my right. I know day-old funk when I smell it.

Appearance, again, I can give a pass to. But I knew when I walked into the courtroom and the prosecution’s AND the defense’s eyes brightened up — and they made some quick notes — my fate was sealed.

Meet Juror No. 6.

Six out of 70. Also, I totally agree with their choices of one out of five. If indeed it’s a rank.

How did I get selected, indeed.

Let me answer that with a statement.

Which is …

After eight hours with all walks of society, I can understand how Trump got votes.

I’m not saying everyone is dumb or mean. Necessarily, anyway. But what I will say is their logic is as circular as some of their family trees.

Like, everyone got to ask questions. Or to say why they feel they might not be objective.

How my face — and my voice — refrained from screaming, “Sir, this is a Wendy’s!” about 40 times is BEYOND ME.

I thought, Jesus, this is who didn’t understand Amendment 4 and voted against it. This is where the 3% we needed to get it to 60% live.

Like, don’t think so hard. Just listen, read, and quiet that weird little brain of yours. You are not that deep.

In any event, when my name got called, I was not surprised at all.

If you think about it — we just put voters in charge of the election. And we collectively fucked up that assignment.

And then they put voters in charge of people’s fates. Jesus H. Tap-Dancing Christ.

Hanging out in the jury room with this group, I really feel like the attorneys put the best people from this jury pool in charge of the outcome.

So, to answer Kelly, it’s my mad English-speaking and -comprehending skillz that got me to round 2.

It’s my mad “answering questions succinctly and directly” that got me to round 3.

And frankly, I think hearing I live five minutes from the courthouse and have no spouse or kids to accommodate that sealed that deal.

Actually to answer very seriously, they were SUPER clear that they need people who can make decisions.

So when I said my job title, I got more notes made about me. I decide shit all day long. So, I hope I can help them get a verdict when this wraps up.

Also I don’t know if I’m decisive. But I am opinionated AF.

For example, I wonder whether all the people who said they don’t comprehend English well were truthful. Maybe they saw that as a way out. That was a third of the group right there.

Same with the dumb question gang. This guy next to me disqualified himself with his first dumb statement. (That people who don’t testify are cowards.)

But then he said something else really ridiculous. (That cops are second only to God in terms of truth-telling.)

Like dude, they know you’re either an idiot or trying hard to appear as one.

That all said, I realize how judgmental I’ve gotten in my advanced age. I have seen a lot of the world. I have spent time with all kinds of different people, creeds, races, cultures, etc. I’ve taken care of someone till the end of her life.

I get that no one’s had my experiences. I also get that I haven’t had theirs. But still.

I may or may not be the adultiest adult in the room. But the weight of making good decisions on my own is a heavy one. Making a good one WITH West Palm’s finest is even more daunting.