Caterwauling

There are times when I think all the grief of the last 14 months has run its course.

Like maybe the well of tears is finite. Or if I just refuse to drink liquids, my tear ducts will cease their productivity.

Then I think of what my doctor cousin warns me about perimenopause. How there will be a time when I go a whole year without a period. And that year will turn into forever.

Well, I am still on my regular 28-ish-day cycle, so nope, no peri here.

But I do read about people who go the full year without a period. And then BAM, they get one and the clock starts anew.

I think that’s what my grief is going to be like. Somewhere between this 14-ish months without Cocoa and the 3-ish months before it’s a year without Momma, I’ll be OK-ish.

Then Father’s Day is going to hit and the tear duct levy will break.

I was just sitting here thinking how I can do anything this weekend.

I mean, I probably won’t do any of it. But indulge me right now when I’m ambitious enough to have options.

I thought about grabbing a flight to (reacted) to see (redacted) Saturday. Then maybe hitting a pop-up club at (redacted) and then flying home at the crack o’ me without missing but two hours of work on Monday.

Not budget-appropriate, by any means. But, I could do it.

I talked myself out of it because I wouldn’t take a laptop and I need to do some reading this weekend.

Also I could delay the flight till Monday night and instead go to (redacted). But I’d want to stay longer than two short nights. And the price there is higher.

And if I stay longer, I need a cat sitter. And I promised myself I wouldn’t have her back till my house was in order.

Which … yeah good luck with that.

I have other options for the weekend. I could wake up at Dawn-crack and go take my friend’s final (redacted) class before she leaves for Memphis.

That’s likely my option, but here I am whining to myself that I need to locate (redacted) in my house — one stupid item — before I go. How am I more motivated to pack a whole ass duffel and matching purse than find basically a piece of pink elastic?

Last weekend, I tooled around in Boca for two days. I loved it. Ate something good each day. Window shopped. Grabbed bougie groceries. Had my Fatbit buzz at 10k steps for the first time in months.

I remember during Mom’s last couple years, we sat on the couch, ate and watched reality TV and scrolled our phones.

She often said she wished I talked to her more. Usually I was in my phone or working on my laptop. But, too, if I said something at the wrong time, she’d be afraid of losing her place and the socials refreshing on her.

I didn’t want to remain that person. But I do feel daunted by the house projects. The only time I’m alive is when I’m planning phantom trips. Then I watch from my balcony as those same flights take off.

Not complaining. Not like I’m on a Fulbright Scholarship in another country and my funds got cut off today so I’m also unable to pay for rent or to fly home or to continue my education. Thanks fuckface tRump. Not like I’m the mother of a child receiving cancer treatments but I was dragged away in handcuffs because I never got my green card but I otherwise paid taxes for 23 years. Thanks tRump. I’m also not the president of Ukraine being told I didn’t smile or say thank you or wear an ill-fitting suit by a demented Cabbage Patch Kid who wanted to fuck the couch he sat on. Thanks tRump.

Anyway. I just wanted to process how I feel like the precious lives lost — Mom and Cocoa, but everyone who’s gone too soon — deserve so much more reverence than we can ever give them.

Also, what’s so wrong about running away. Momentum begets momentum. Hard to go from 0 (couch) to 60 when there’s no gas in the tank and nary a gas station around for five miles. How do you fuel up when you’re so down?

The title is a nice way of calling someone a twat to their face.

I would rather skip the niceties since most are too dumb to pick up on subtleties.

Emily and I got drinks at Louie Bossi on Tuesday.

Today I woke up and said I need another of those spicy margs.

Hibiscus Spiced this time.

The Spiced Passion Fruit marg was better. But maybe that’s because it was to celebrate Em’s birthday with her.

But the Cinque Terre I upgraded to was better than both combined.

I picked the last open seat at the outside bar, as the inside bar reeked too much of cleaning products.

Also it’s 80 degrees in Boca Raton. I don’t sit inside.

I sat next to a guy by himself, drinking red wine and lost in thought.

Won’t lie, I was surprised when he started talking to me.

But I was really surprised that two hours went by and we were still talking.

We’re both in finance. He’s from New York. We traded stories about clients and Laguardia.

His mom is dying. And we all know that’s a topic I know intimately. So we talked about that.

The surprise date closed with him asking for my name so he could look me up on LinkedIn. And maybe we can connect on his next trip down here.

Now, for the Goonhilda at home, yes he had a ring on. Yes, he’s happily married. No, she’s not a disaster of a human being. She sounds quite amazing and he’s quite enamored.

We were just two random strangers who had a handshake and a heart-to-heart.

Why are all my best conversations with people I will probably never see again?