Caterwauling

“You throw your head back laughing like a little kid
I think it’s strange that you think I’m funny ’cause
He never did.”

I made myself a Swiftmas playlist last year. Never realized how many songs refer to the holidays, winter, falling snow, etc.

I was fortunate to sit in the “falling snow” of white confetti at the Miami Eras Tour during “All too Well.” It even got into my little purse. People sell that shit on eBay and Etsy for big bucks. I should know as I just paid $10 for two packs of “Karma” confetti. Whether it’s actually from my show or not, who knows but I have a craft project that depends on it.

“Begin Again” was also a fine song for this new year that began on a Wednesday. Also she wrote that song in Paris, which I aspire to see by Dec. 31.

Anyway that song gets me because it reminds me how my Mike/”Red” era started. Which I’ve tried to forget. Mike, anyway. I love the Red era, and always will.

I asked my friend CJ to call yesterday. He did. And I got that “Begin Again” vibe.

I specifically had a career-related topic to noodle over. But, as ever, our entire conversation was one distraction after another.

In a good way, I mean. Thinking up new things to talk about. Not like rude friends I’ve had over the years who let their kids scream into the phone. (Fucking Tina and that brat Ingrid.)

As we were hanging up, he said I feel like you had more to ponder and we didn’t get to it.

I said, no, I’m OK. I have a lot of thinking still to do.

And honestly, it was just nice to have someone to talk out loud with.

I said I used to have my Momma here. She’d tell me (redacted) sucks and (redacted) has no business doing (redacted) and you’re a goddess and you’re so much more magical than anyone will ever know. So go shine like you always do.

And in the absolute absence of that for the past six months and, now, the rest of my life, it’s nice to have a friend.

(INTHAF is also an adorable Tay song from “Lover.”)

In any event, he said tell you what, do your thinking. Text me your top three questions you come up with over the weekend. And I’ll try to give you some of that direction it sounds like you still need.

I mean, maybe this is how men are supposed to be. Shit, maybe this is how friends in general are supposed to be.

Anyway. I said to my boss on Thursday that I have no one looking out for me anymore without my Momma. And with CJ, I articulated how I also don’t have anyone to listen to and love me like her.

It’s not that it feels good to say it out loud or type it for posterity. But it feels helpful to put it into words just how great my loss — and how big my sadness — really is.

I mean, it still sucks that there is nothing or no one that can even begin to be all — or any — of that for me.

But, hey. A moment of connection when I needed it will go a long way.

I still have an impossible task ahead of me, and it’s ruining my sleep and now my weekend.

And even though he wouldn’t say this or that sucks, he did say you’ve got this.

I don’t know if I got this. But it was nice to hear that again.

“We walk down the block to my car
And I almost brought him up
But you start to talk about the movies
That your family watches every single Christmas
And I wanna talk about that
For the first time, what’s past is past.”

Boss was asking how my 2024 was.

Obviously I lost Mom and Cocoa. And I went from worrying all the time to eating to fill the void.

I said I was stressed out and he said over what. I realized I should probably stop talking. I also realized I really wasn’t stressed. Just empty.

I did say I got to meet a Kennedy. I pointed out “Not the whale juice one. A good one.”

For a moment, I teleported back in time. To being in New York in my best dress, fearless. To everyone thinking I was funny and sweet and treating me like an esteemed guest.

I did say it was so fun to be up there, talking to important people and them thinking I’m not the riff-raff.

I said I know I haven’t been the riff-raff for some time. But still. To be in the presence of a KENNEDY — a good one, Kerry — WOW.

Hindsight being what it is, I hope that registers as I am cool and funny and appreciated and employable.

Like, I know I could volunteer for the charity any old day. But if I wanted or needed a job, is that door open too?

I won’t answer that. I just wish they’d wonder. More importantly, not tell me to pursue it.

I did say that’s what I love most. Being OUT. Being social. Dressing up. Going to jury duty and cornering the energy analyst to ask how he values stocks. Learning and sharing information. Communicating. Being out of the house and with cool people.

Makes me wonder what I’m fighting for, if not that.

I don’t have bad days at work. But I have the occasional weird hour.

I got an email from my pal, chastising me for daring to edit.

Let me be clear. Edit is in my title.

I wrote about this before, of this one giving me something to run that I wrote before. And then some other entity made a bad edit to it.

Well, I made what I thought was a good edit to it (saying where they are based, which was incidentally useful to the next part of the story).

Anyway, today I got a big fat tsk tsk for adding where they are based as they are not actually based there.

OK.

And a big “stop editing their shit.” My words of course.

I said well ok fine but remember that creative/incorrect edit they made that YOU caught?

And I said I’ll remove it on the website.

Email comes back an hour later, “I don’t see it on the website.”

*blink*

I hopefully won’t think about this ever again after I hit publish. But at a time when I’m getting my own performance evaluated, it’s really really hard to keep these hard discussions focused on me when there’s that.

Well, the first New Year’s.

Honestly the first anything, really, without Momma.

I mean, I’ve had six and a half months of firsts. First day without her, first night without her, first week/month/season, etc.

Her first birthday not on the planet was pretty awful. That’s why I spent it in Orlando. And the day was still sucky AF, though I met Matt the next day and that ended up in me seeing New York for Christmas.

First Halloween sucked because she used to decorate the house so spectacularly. But even that kind of fizzled out bit by bit over the past couple years.

First Thanksgiving sucked but honestly I forget most of it. I know I went to DaDa, my happy place. But that time of year was always the anniversary of losing Grampy. And before that, it was celebrating, then mourning, his wedding anniversary. So, never my favorite time.

Christmas was HARD. I was kind of thinking I was OK but, nope.

At least I got back to Orlando, and much better weather, for Christmas.

Once again, I cried my way around the world, as I’d done in September, but this time without the rain to mask it.

So here I am at New Year’s. And honestly feeling a bit less worse than I expected.

There’s still the whole, “How on earth is there a year Mom and Cocoa weren’t alive in?! HOW??!!!”

But I did end up getting some pork and kraut. She’d normally want hot dogs, but I went with chicken sausage. And she’d normally prepare 10 sides to provide color and variety. I went with blackeyed peas and tossed the pork in to flavor them.

And none of Momma’s mashed potatoes, which were magical. So was her kraut. Mine was just OK. Just “arright,” as her mom would have said.

I didn’t take a pic of my plate. She would have been proud of me for trying, but she’d definitely say that monochromatic mess looks like a Cindy or a Kelly (not MY Kelly) special. Boring/bland/beige for the first and just plain weird for the second.

I wonder if Kelly (again not mine) is still making goofy cakes and shit. I miss peeking in on that social media. We definitely did the Statler & Waldorf thing, mom and me.

That’s what I’m missing most. Not the good food, though mine was definitely “arright” to her “holy shit, yum.” It’s the having some wine and cackling like two bitches.

She always called us two bitches. I think that might have originated with my grandmother over something arright. But I don’t really remember.

Anyway, I wouldn’t say it was my favorite holiday. But it wasn’t my worst, either. For that, I am grateful.

I saw on the bulletin board downstairs that Cheryl’s husband died at Christmas.

I looked at his photo — with a big old invite to his services on whatever day — and said sorry your wife is such a bitch.

She’s the one who screamed at me off the balcony for feeding ducks and threatened to fine me.

Still waiting. Have some balls, bitch.

Cheryl’s also the one who plays stink finger in the pool with Peppermint Patty, who has started trying to talk to me now that I put up a rainbow flag to counter the MAGA flag on the other side of me.

Anyway, I thought about all this stupid fanfare for Ron. Who I didn’t know and never cared to. Who I am sure is no loss, if he’s related to that wretch.

Made me think it’s high time to write an obituary for Momma. Someone who ACTUALLLY deserves to be celebrated.

I got to thinking about my Aunt Marion, who my cousin Elaine loved. I looked up Marion’s obituary and read it with new eyes.

“Survived by her loving husband Harry.” “Loved being a homemaker.” “Loved her nickname Penny.”

Where to start?

Penny … a short version of our shared maiden name? Nobody called any of us that. Lie.

Loved being a homemaker … you mean how Harry demanded she be a slave to him? Also she had some injuries I ALWAYS questioned. LIE.

Loving husband Harry … who sexually harassed Mom and Elaine? One of the uncles my Mom and Gram told me never hug and feel free to sit in your room while he visits?! HAHAHA FUCK THAT SHIT, NO LOVNG HUSBAND HERE.

That’s how I imagine writing Harry’s obit. It’s how I imagine writing Ron’s.

(Ironically, Ron is another name of another uncle of mine, though his obit would be more like FAKE FUCKING CHRISTIAN WHO JUDGES EVERYONE BUT HIMSELF who also somehow married well.)

In any event, since I have nothing nice to say about Cheryl’s husband, all I can really say is stay dead and take that bitch with you at your earliest possible convenience.

I never said new year/new me. I love me. In fact, I’m taking me up to a damn 11 or 12 in 2025.

Dawn: More extreme and unhinged than 2024. Fucking deal with it.

I’d say eat me, Cheryl, but she probably would.

“Please don’t
Ever become a stranger
Whose laugh I
Would recognize anywhere.”

Happy New Year’s Day to everyone who didn’t vote away my right to credit cards, bank accounts, property ownership and the Social Security that I have already paid FAR MORE into than most of the voters ever will.

The rest can fuck alllllllll the way off. Go into your fucking holes and die in pain like my mother had to.

Speaking of going into a hole, it’s a Hermit year for the collective. 2025 adds up to 9.

If I add in my month and day of birth, I get 12, the Hanged Man as my personal card of the year.

I could reduce that further to 3. But that would make 2026 my Emperor year. Unfortunately President Musk ascends this year, so I don’t need to extend that shit.

My friend CJ got the Hanged Man card and it spooked him. I said it’s a good card unless your reader used the Thoth deck.

He sent a pic … of the Hanged Man in the Thoth deck. Yeesh. No wonder he won’t look at it otherwise.

I mainly use decks from Tarot Collectibles, and he’s reimagined Rider-Waite very lovingly and positively. Like, one of the Hanged Man cards has butterfly wings. Another has bat wings. And the colors are psychedelic and/or, depending on the deck, sparkly.

And we know how I love pink and sparkly anything!

It’s Italian tradition to wear red underwear on New Year’s Eve if you want to attract love.

Fuck that shit. I wore green to attract money.

When I sat down to write my vision for this year, I focused more on manifesting discipline than companionship. So, the Emperor’s main quality.

I didn’t even bother with my usual list of things I want in a place to live. In true Hanged Man style, I just want to chill and see what comes to me.

I also decided to do a No-Buy 2025. I have a page full of things I can/can’t buy.

Even right now, I’m twitchy because I didn’t buy pork and sauerkraut for New Year’s Day for good luck.

But, I had both last year and my baby died 25 days later. Will not eating the lobster sushi I bought for today make me luckier? Keep that 15 bucks, girlie and enjoy that $19 sushi as intended.

And that bottle of Mom’s favorite champagne, too, obviously.

I did promise myself that. All traditions are out the fucking window without Momma.

But I promised myself to always toast her with “Bug Juice,” the original name of the sparkling wine she loved most.

Hold on to the memories
They will hold on to you
I will hold on to you.

I really hit the jackpot living with her. Which I didn’t really realize for most of the 17 years I had her.

I know two people who are pursuing legal action against people they lived with. My one friend bought a house with a deadbeat who won’t help her sell it. She’s paying half the mortgage, rent, all the utilities at her new place, PLUS Florida just ordered her to pay half HIS utilities. Even though he’s trashed their house to the point no one will buy it.

Man did I get lucky “just” having my mom instead of someone to suffer through boring ass sex but a proper financial fucking from.

Yeah, definitely not in a rush to put myself out there for that kind of shit outcome.

As for me, Taylor Swift said something profound during one of her rain shows.

As she prepared to play her first surprise song of the night, she said, “My life finally makes sense.”

That’s what I want more than anything. For my life to make sense.

I know that’s a big “resolution” for New Year’s Day. But I picked a couple areas where sense needs to return. And I think it’s quite manageable and even possible.

Though I still think I need some kraut anyway. Don’t wanna forget how Momma used to make it. Which was goooooood.

Happy 2025, Momma and Cocoa, wherever you are. You’re coming with me, wherever it takes me. And I hope it’s quite far.