Caterwauling

Blessed Solstice.

A sign that these longest nights will come to a merciful, if not temporary, end.

No bored games for me, ever.

I did light a candle. Least I could do to honor the Mother night.

I haven’t left the house since I got back from New York.

Well, I take that back. I did go get groceries, and the elevator was broken. So I struggled with 10 bags and diminished lung capacity to scale the stairs.

The wine survived. But I can’t find my Ross treasures. So, they could still be in the stairwell for all I care.

Oh and I got a new bridge. It doesn’t fit right because I held my mouth wrong during the measurements.

So, leaving the house really isn’t working for me, overall.

Speaking of never wanting to interact with others again…

To retaliate against my dipshit neighbor’s MAGA banner, I put up a big rainbow flag and a “We’re Not Going Back” sticker.

And now suddenly Peppermint Patty, who yelled at Mom and me six years ago and whose death I have prayed for every day since, keeps trying to hit on me when I dash to the trash chute.

The elevator being broken wasn’t the worst of the week’s events, though Peppermint Patty following me around is definitely worse.

I went to get my passport renewed … and got rejected.

I’d had the photos taken after I came back from Key West, so I was tan and happy and blonder than ever.

Waited a month for my appointment at the post office. The lady took one look at my pics and said you need to get your money back. The State Department won’t let you have anything on your head.

A HEADBAND.

I said wouldn’t the State Department want me to look the same way I would on a street camera instead of for some kid at FedEx’s camera?

The lady offered to take a pic, but I was in a Santa hat from London & Martin, a gift from Matt at the gala afterparty.

I wasn’t about to take off that hat — with no makeup and snot coming out of every orifice — oh and hey, can we talk trauma for a minute?

Why the fuck do you think I cover my head at every available opportunity? Fucking think about it. There is a goddamn reason I don’t show my hairline.

I melted down in the post office.

Since I was in Boynton, the absolute trashiest place on earth and you cannot convince me otherwise, I said I wouldn’t even have to leave the country if all you low-class dipshits didn’t vote for trump in the first place.

The lady laughed.

I didn’t think I could hate trump or trumpers more. But now to dig up 40 years of absolute trauma that results in denying me my ticket out of the country that I don’t actually want to leave? Fuck y’all.

I tried to explain all this to my cousin when it happened. She didn’t understand why I was so upset, and I did what I always do. I shut the phone off for a week.

Only Mom would get it. Only Mom would know. Only Mom could say the right thing and have the right solution.

But no, that’s all on me now. To process shit alone and solve it if possible.

Or, more likely, to crawl on the couch with a blanket and Hallmark movies.

Which incidentally I wrote in my most recent newsletter because I am sick of everyone writing “I hope you can spend the holiday with family.”

Fuck you, no, I can’t.

And to top it off, Macro died.

And if you didn’t know Macro, you lost out.

Mom loved Macro. I hope she gets to give him a hug.

Macro and Jack, together again.

The thing they don’t tell you about rock bottom is there always seems to be another layer of parking beneath it.

It is bottomless bottom. It never fucking ends.

Rock Fucking Bottomless.

My bestie is incorrigible.

I am not saying that in a bad way.

They have got to know I’d rather masturbate with a chainsaw than hear from them.

Yet they persist anyway.

So today I decided to say yes to them getting brave enough to ask me for something. Give ’em a win for a change.

They were thrilled that I lost my will.

They gave me “approved” copy to run.

It’s literally what I wrote/published before.

I said can I edit out a couple of grafs that don’t apply?

(Seriously. It promised something that never happened. I mean, maybe it will. But it isn’t my project.)

They said sure. You’re the one who wrote them.

I mean, I’m glad we all agree on that. But it was such a weird moment.

Maybe I make too much of situations and people.

I’ve always said that, though. Most people I tell stories about aren’t as as interesting as the stories I tell about them.

Like Cindy. My god, I remember finding her Twatter funny because of all MY personality she was trying to co-opt.

Like, I would call her beige, and she’d spend 11 tweets owning her beigeness.

So I politely/creatively called her boring. But she had to spend 300 words proving that she was actually just plain old boring.

She threw in a few “old married farts” for good measure to assure us that there was literally nothing to see there.

I just feel bad I wasted so much of Mom’s good years (and mine) on this nonsense.

The best was that one time I said I was setting a boundary. Just like she claimed to be from Pittsburgh, Philly, Key West, the Old Key Lime House and Voodoo Bayou, she co-opted “boundaries” as something her Columbus Day ass discovered.

Surprising she hasn’t claimed “delulu” as her own.

One of these days.

Anyway. Enjoy Blue Sky’ing or whatever about me. Yawn.

I keep avoiding contact with Howler Monkey.

I tried to reach out recently. To share information.

Was met with a bunch of hysterical “why did I not know about this” (um, I just told you) and a bunch of illiterate questions (um, what part of I am telling you what I know about this situation did you miss).

This was sort of in response to this person commanding me that I do something for them.

And to not only do it, but to run it by them before I publish it.

And to not add any details or anything else that would make it sound like me, even though it’s being written in my voice in my newsletter with the whole goal of getting people to take an action.

This happens a few (dozen) times a year. I usually just end up saying well write something I can sign my name to. They tend to go away.

The last time they told me to write something and to run it by them, I said well why don’t YOU write something so I don’t have to speak to you.

Guess what they did? They rounded up the last seven or eight times I wrote something (without their approval) and said I have their approval (!) to use it.

No doubt they told the superiors that they did ALL THIS WORK and I ignored it.

I don’t doubt it because they told ME “I did ALL THIS WORK” and you didn’t use it.

You … copied and pasted? Kewl kewl.

My final straw with this hoe came last week.

We have a meeting where all we do is talk about numbers. On a scale of 1 to 10, what’s the likelihood this will be done by the end of the quarter.

I mean, it also ends up with her presenting her Festivus list to our boss. With 14 bored people who do not understand any of it.

I was giving my numbers — after being in NY for four days and sick for two — and this bitch says I don’t know WHY you give this a NINE. I haven’t seen it or been consulted about it.

A task … that is mine … and has nothing to do with you … say what now?

The meeting moderator asked me if I need another meeting scheduled where it could be discussed. I said I DO NOT. I’m talking to my team later today and that’s who I need to talk to.

I keep waiting to get called out on my behavior. Which is to draw a big fat boundary and not even acknowledge any of this.

I have my comment ready to go, too. Why do I dodge Howler at all costs?

Well, because we’ve not had one single productive interaction. They have not once given me advice — solicited or otherwise — that was of any value to me or that improved anything I was working on.

I watch others, too, when this one talks. They don’t get the same gas face that I do. But some do the same nonresponse and I think that’s great. Some others do the patronizing “oh that’s so great” and then who knows if they do it.

I gotta give an award to someone on my team. I was in the throes of covid last week and a girl I LOVE said she was gonna get one of those treadmills so she can keep up with Howler.

I could feel my face go ugly. Like fuuuckkk not this shit again.

My staffer said something absolutely delightful and got me talking and cracking up.

I thanked said staffer today. I said I know exactly what you did and I cannot thank you enough.

She did one of those “whatever do you mean?” deals, but I could tell she was pleased I saw her.

After all, she witnessed a lot of the bad behavior toward me. She knows exactly the moment I turned. And that there’s no turning back.

I don’t know how “I’ve never had a productive conversation with or suggestion from this person” would go over if/when confronted. It’s a lot nicer than “I’ve lived 50 years without their advice or opinion and I could go another 50.”

I liken this all to when you have some annoying guy grab your ass at a Christmas party or stare at your boobs or otherwise try to enlist the IT guys to spy on you and they’re still your boss. You can’t kill them or have them arrested or even disciplined. But for your own mental health, you can stay far away from them.

If their opinion or input is so valued, then whoever values it can find a way to preserve those wisdomy pearls and let those shine like the crazy I don’t have the capacity for.

To be clear, it would be nice to have an ally. I do not see having or being one here. I do like and try to work with their staff. But it really would be nice to not think of ways to not be noticed, in a world where recognition is everything.

I’d say I forgot that Mom and I used to go to Delmonico on Dec. 9, but I don’t forget much. And I hope I never forget.

I haven’t posted much in the past six (holy hell) months since she passed.

You can either find me on the couch or out of state. There are no in-betweens. I’m either in a pit of depression or else trying to outrun it.

At least my step count gets averaged out. 20 or 20,000, take your pick.

In any event, I spent the days leading up to THIS Dec. 9 on Wall Street.

Long story, but a good one.

I also spent four days walking past Delmonico on Beaver Street. And my tears freezing to my cheeks every damn time.

The whole being located on Beaver Street was hilarious. Mom always called us “Twin Beaves” when we dressed alike — completely unaware of what the other was doing, mind you.

Twin Beaves used to make me cringe so hard. Now I would give anything to hear her say that.

I already got to the Orlando location this year for Mom’s birthday. Still the hardest I’ve cried all year. And that’s saying something.

As it is a time for thinking about the less fortunate, I just took a swing over to Cindy’s twitter, since I know she loves it so much.

Her “last post” (as if she ever goes away, hah) is a repost of her getting to Delmonico’s in 2019. Looking down her nose at it, actually.

What a petty, vile piece of shit you have to be to continually shit on something because it was special to me and my family.

I’m not going to die on the hill that she could have been the victim/hero of the whole five years ago mess. (Instead she chose to be the villain.) But she’s welcome to.

I will, however, Luigi her or anyone on the hill that the absolute best person to ever grace any Delmonico (and this world) will never get to do that again.

I am what a loved, proud daughter looks like. In case anyone was curious.

Minus the Sahara part ofc.

Interesting how, once again, people who don’t show up for our scheduled meetings feel the need to call and message me on vacation.

If you remind me of Brad, seek therapy or Sky Daddy or whatever it takes to get right.

My cousin asked how my day was.

I told her about someone who had ruined it.

Her guess is the title of this tome.

I guess it’s less a psychic vibe than an educated guess.

Also, she’s not wrong.

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.