Caterwauling

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.

Dreamed about my grandmother.

She passed 25 years ago.

I got to hug her. And she smelled so good.

I got my love of designer perfumes from her.

We had a pier cabinet inside the front door. One shelf was for her perfumes. So I could always sneak a dab on the way out the door.

The last perfume I remember her wearing was an Elizabeth Taylor one. I want to say it was Passion. Whatever the purple one was.

She bought me White Diamonds. Haven’t worn it in forever but it makes me think of her when I see it.

In the dream, everything was perfect. I had a beach house. We were watching Taylor Swift videos because my grandfather had said in the dream that he loved “Fearless.”

Mom was there too. She was feeding Cocoa in the kitchen.

Hugging Gram felt so real. I squeezed her so tight. She kept saying I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

I said don’t ever be sorry. You didn’t want to leave.

If anyone is sorry, it’s me for telling you it was OK to leave. I didn’t think you would.

I think this all stemmed from being in Ross Dress for Less yesterday. I got invited to a gala and I was looking for some shoes.

Since it’s Christmas, they have perfume gift sets by the register.

They had Mugler Elixir for $34.99. Pretty sure I spent $300 on my bottle of Mugler’s Angel. The girl in line behind me and I smelled the Elixir and agreed it was awful. So that was a no-go.

They also had a Calvin Klein Euphoria gift set for $34.99. JACKPOT. I haven’t had Euphoria in years.

Anyway I remember saying, “Thanks, Gram,” when I picked that up.

This all makes me realize what a charmed life I’ve lived.

My family didn’t get a good life. Lots of bad things happened to all of them.

Meanwhile I have them all on my altar, and I call upon the power of the universe to give me all the good fortune they were denied.

If I know all of them, they are conspiring to give it to me.

Thank you, Gram, for that hug. This little orphan child really needed to see and touch you.

My friend Jared writes that all the time.

Go out and create things and do things. Take risk in the stock market. Build your dream home. Go see the world.

Easy for him to say, as an ex-investment banker type.

But he’s written a bunch of books, runs a newsletter, has a publishing deal with my ex-employer, etc.

And like nine cats.

So basically, we are birthday twins but I wouldn’t mind being him when I grow up.

In any event, I was thinking about standing in line for beignets at Cafe du Monde. Which, honestly, Baby’s Coffee makes such better ones. I got a key lime one that changed my life there.

In any event, I had a Swiftie in front of me at the Cafe, and two tourists behind me.

The Swiftie, age 25 from Maryland, was just going on and on and ON about not having anyone to come with her to the concert. So she did all the hotel and StubHub stuff all by herself.

Welcome to adulthood, friend.

People behind me asked how many times she’s seen Taylor. She said this was her first.

Meanwhile I’m there with friendship bracelets up to my elbow, so they said how many times have you seen her.

Four, I said.

The Maryland one stopped bragging.

I read her loud and clear that she wasn’t the one who paid for that big fat ticket. Sure, she can use the platform, but that was daddy’s hunk of cash.

Which … I wouldn’t have known about but the people behind us asked.

There is a rule in Swiftie-dom, that you don’t ask a woman her weight, her salary or what she paid for Taylor Swift.

I usually honor it.

But not this day.

The 25yo and I gave our numbers — which, I’ll add to the previous list, I will give you my sex number AND my weight any day before I ever tell you what I spent on my tickets (let alone the inflated hotel prices) in four cities.

Let’s all say our sex numbers! And … go!

In any event, after I said my “what I paid for Miami and NOLA seats” … I felt absolutely like shit.

That was because the couple behind us scoffed, “Oh, I would NEVER pay that.”

I said well my mother and my favorite cat just died. I get my kicks where I can.

The line diverged at that point, into dining room and takeout. I took the takeout line and left the other three, happily.

I was telling JH about it later. She, too, had a “telling her number” story.

Like the 25yo, she didn’t have tickets or anyone to go with. But she said life’s too short and bought herself a spur-of-the-moment weekend vacation.

When someone asked what she paid, she answered.

She, too, said she felt awful and won’t do that again.

I said you know what it is? It’s not that we are bragging. We assigned a value to a life experience and we got our money’s worth.

The ick, I think, comes from feeling like speaking it into the universe makes us a target for misfortune. Like, will the universe take it as bragging. Will the paychecks and good luck still keep coming.

She said oh my god yes that’s it.

I said my rule was if someone is rude enough to ask, I’m rude enough to reply. But now I don’t want any sort of weird karma chasing me.

I never did get her Taylor number. Nor she, mine.

Like with all my numbers, I can’t count that high.

I said, so what did you say to the person who asked what you paid?

She said oh after they did the whole, “I would NEVER pay that,” she said, “Good. More tickets for the rest of us.”

Brilliant girl.

I got to thinking about this today because I have one more trip on the horizon before year-end.

Talk about an impulse trip.

I am calling it self-care.

I’m all about funding NPR and PBS in the new year.

For now … I am trying to reclaim my fucking joy.

Look. Orange Fuhrer rigged the part of the election he didn’t win.

My friend T., who is an expat and helps other people get out, says he is getting most of his calls from REPUBLICANS.

People who voted for the shitstain and tell him, “I don’t like where the country is going.”

You fuckers dealt it so you best fucking be around to smelt it, or whatever the fucking metaphor is.

Christ.

I mean, yes, I voted for a sales tax increase in FL. And I sure love that it passed. It’s supposed to benefit the unhoused. But having these trump-votin’ dipshits here to pay it if/when I leave feels kind of nice.

Where was I?

Oh, one more odyssey.

People who’ve got shit to say about anything I’ve done in 2H can eat my entire ass. And it’s a big badonkadonk.

Look what I had to lose to get it.

My joy, not my bulbous bottom.

But like J-rad says, nothing’s going to happen for you while you’re sitting in your apartment.

That said, she happens TO you. The HOA fee is going up 42%. That’s … $1,500 a month.

Big yikes.

Maybe I should start looking for real estate where I’m going.

At least it’s Blue AF in the city.

Last year when we heard Taylor Swift was going to play in Miami, NOLA and Indy, one of my colleagues said let’s try to get Miami tix.

If one gets in, we agree to take the other one.

Man, my ass signed up for the presale for two of the three Miami nights. I fortunately got a presale code; many didn’t.

Was about 6,000th in line at the presale. Competed like HELL once I got in to buy tix.

Didn’t get shit for either of my nights.

Crushed, I told the colleague of my failures. Asked how she fared.

Answer: “You had to sign up as a Verified Fan?”

I was SO MAD. It was an indicator of performance to come. Like, THINK, woman.

If I’d had my way about it, I would have chased tickets in NOLA during the pre-sale. I felt like that was the easier path. Especially since Caesars Superdome is a lot fucking bigger than Hard Rock Stadium.

In any event, I was on Facebook and got to talking to a fellow Swiftie named Maddison.

She knew of a girl, Emily, who bought four tickets and wanted to sell one of them.

Emily and I made a deal and nervously executed our first (for each of us) transaction like this.

I held my breath and sent her a big fucking sum of money. And she held her breath and parted with her spare ticket.

We didn’t talk for about a year. Before the show, I messaged her to say hey are you still using all your tickets, because my cousin is very interested in buying one.

Emily was very sweet and said everyone was still coming. She wondered if I was going to sell my seat to try to get two seats together with my cousin.

I said, no. You were so great to do business with. I am not giving up this seat for anything,

She said awesome and can’t wait to meet you there.

Fast-forward to the concert. I trip over a bunch of people with my water and booze to get to Seat 15.

There are three seats to my right that remain empty well into Gracie Abrams’ set.

There’s one seat to my left that’s empty.

I was SIMMERING.

Like, I figured the three empty seats were for Emily & Co. And if these bitches weren’t coming, I would have bought all the seats.

Two of five.

Meanwhile the empty seat to my left gets an occupant. She’s stinky, is the nicest thing I can say.

Finally the three seats get filled. A very pretty girl with her mom and aunt.

I kept trying to catch her eye, but no luck.

Then they all decide to go pee before Taylor gets on. They walk past me and the girl says, “Oh my gosh, I LOVE your dress.”

I said thank you and are you Emily? She smiles, says no, and promises this will be their only trip out of their seats.

So. Hmm.

So that means the girls I stumbled over were Emily and one of her people.

Now, she knew she sold Seat 15.

I did not know whether she owned 12-14 or 16-18.

Clearly I eliminated 16-18.

Would you believe none of these heifers to my left said boo to me before, during or after the show?

Stinky, woof. I mean, she kept to herself. But she must have had some of that gator sausage that the vendors were selling. But the dry-roasted ass smell was enough to make me vomit up my Lavender Haze.

All three of them.

Seriously, Caesars Superdome. Everyone loves nachos and brisket and sausage. But not when we are breathing each other’s air.

I ended up at Nina’s Creole Cottage after goddamn midnight to get some grub.

I still dream of her boudin balls.

In any event, I saw the girl on the other side of dry-roasted ass in the bathroom. I struck up a conversation and she was perfectly nice.

But she wasn’t Emily.

Ironically enough, I was standing in line at Cafe du Monde when I not only saw JH there with a tour group … but EMILY and the nice friend were three tables away.

I debated introducing myself then.

Stinky was nowhere to be seen. Table for two, in fact.

I was now steaming.

Obviously I COULD have bought that seat, as they were clearly not even talking to her at the show (and she kept leaving) and definitely not with her the next day.

So, I mean, I get that our relationship was transactional.

But Christ, you are there with 1-2 friends. Say fucking hello.

My cousin, who didn’t get to come even though I said grab a flight and enjoy my overpriced hotel with me, is an introvert. So she said maybe Emily is an introvert too.

I said sure but for the fact that her pretty friend was halfway social, you think she’d say oh hey we are glad you made it or some shit.

Anyway. I bought an actual fuckload of souvenirs for my cousin and her kid. They were supposed to be a Christmas gift. But with the election and American women in general sucking, I sent everything over the weekend.

I got us both a hand-painted tumbler with a Swiftie theme. Limited edition, Not available after the concert.

Hilariously she saw me comment in a forum about mine and she said she was kind of jealous. She even told her husband she was bummed she didn’t get one.

Then, boom, it arrived in the mail the next day.

I am magical.

I do wish she could have come. Honestly I didn’t have as much fun AT the NOLA show as I did at the Miami one.

(Thank you, resale.)

Miami show was fun AF.

But I had way more fun toddling around The Big Easy and shopping and eating and enjoying all the Swiftie love.

Anyway, I wish Emily and her pretty friend well. And I don’t have any thoughts about the other one. Shame she traveled all that way to not enjoy herself … when there’s someone who really would have loved to take her place.

Momma always made me the best breakfasts.

Like, to the point I preferred hers over eating out.

Since she died five months ago (omg), I mostly order a fuckload of breakfast sides once a week from one of the local diners. Heat the meats and then fry or scramble some eggs in the grease.

I know she’d be proud of my feeble efforts. But I also know that somewhere, she’s so sad that I don’t get anything made with love anymore.

Today I opened a pack of turkey bacon and fried up three pieces.

What she would always do is make three pieces of any sort of meat. She would make a beautiful egg and give me two pieces of the breakfast meat.

And then there would always be one extra piece of meat wrapped in a paper towel on the stove for me when I felt snackish.

I’ve noticed for five months, but never really put it together till today, that I always want some sort of after-breakfast treat.

Always chalked it up to just not feeling satisfied anymore.

And I usually end up killing a bag of popcorn or chips or chocolate that somehow is supposed to have six servings but hahahahah it’s really just one. Fatass.

Today I remembered, Mom always left me that “extra” so I could feel like I had dessert or whatever.

I still can’t believe she’s gone and yet so many people who are so dense that light bends around them refuse to die.

With every trip away from home, I’ve gotten more used to Mom not being here.

I mean when you think about it, I went to NASA and Cocoa Beach, Orlando and Lake Buena Vista, New York and Pittsburgh, New Orleans, and Key West and the Middle Keys. Just in the back half of 2024.

It was the worst year of my life with losing Cocoa and Mom and democracy. But look what I gained.

I’m plotting out one more escape before Project 2025 kicks in and my interstate travel is either banned or, at least, hampered by the tracking of menses in women under age 55.

I am literally here with an invite to my cousin’s for Thanksgiving, Christmas AND to an event at Carnegie Science Center in early December.

I also have plans with K for Thanksgiving. We were thinking Disney.

But then she mentioned Tennessee for Christmas. And that sounded nice too.

Then I got to thinking — what if I took (redacted) up on his offer to join him in (redacted) for a few days next month.

And frankly I kind of want to see Tennessee but in March. Reasons undisclosed.

K will be in (redacted) at the same time I would theoretically be. But with her dope of the month.

Shame she and I couldn’t travel and stay together. Save a few bucks at least.

In any event, when I was leaving Key West, I realized that I hate going home because I am trapped there.

I don’t walk, I don’t shop, I don’t do shit. I work and I die after I snap the laptop closed.

All those things I thought I would do now that I didn’t have to worry about dinner and getting supplies — things like writing, exercising, dreaming, doing — I don’t.

Literally I am either free as a bird on vacation or I am a prisoner to my own inertia at home.

But this trip felt different. I thought, OK, you are going to go home. Keep your tan. Tackle your to-do list. Bloom where you’re planted.

Then Trump had to steal the election again. Or Republican women delivered it to him. Whichever. Both.

Now I am worse than depressed. I am crippled.

I figure with the adjudicated rapist president picking a Fox News host to lead the Pentagon and a sex trafficker to be attorney general, he’s going to kill us all but at least we will die laughing.

And looking at everyone wondering how they let this happen is exhausting. Like you should be fucking branded with your IQ if you voted for him.

In any event, I was kind of thinking “stay local” and “save money to flee the country.”

But I need to chase that high again — anywhere but here — because the inevitability of Trump burning down the country once and for all doesn’t motivate me like it once did.

In the end, I do think we are all either going to be Winona Ryder lighting her cigarette from the explosion in “Heathers” or we’re going to be Christian Slater with the bomb strapped to his chest in the high school’s boiler room.

I think I’ll be Christian Slater because I will never be a Heather. Which, ponder the irony that I would choose to be a Christian. In any sense.

Being a Heather is worse than being a Christian. Huh. Who knew.

I had a moment today.

I used to often start sentences with, “If I were (department) director.”

Knowing full well I was, of course.

But I kind of always hedged it. Maybe I was waiting for my idea or will to be overturned.

I’m a lifelong Democratic voter after all. My will isn’t exactly done.

Anyway it became a joke and then Howler spelled “director” wrong on a badge and honestly the life and humor got sucked out of me.

Today I was brainstorming with my team. And I started to say, “If I were (department) director.”

And I stopped myself and said I am the director. So AS director, I say (what I needed to say).

I told them, if this election has taught me anything, it’s that I want all of us to step into our power.

I made them promise they will own their feelings and beliefs, too. And own reality.

You ARE in charge. Show me. Show the world.

I hope this was a good meeting today. I mean, we covered all the business stuff. But I checked in with them personally.

The kids aren’t alt-right, thank god. But they will be all right. I know it.

I will be too. I have to be. For them. For me, most of all.

Yesterday I wrote an article about Tesla stock. How it was up some 30% after that pile of garbage I’m forced to call an election.

It’s up about 50%.

I knew before this election not to buy pot stocks (but I did because I couldn’t imagine that Florida would defeat Amendment 3) …

And I knew to buy tRump’s shitty shell companies $DJT and whatever the fuck World Liberty Financial is. Not the coin though. That shit got laughed off the planet because it was more obviously fraudulent than the rest of the fraud.

In any event, today I am considering buying Tesla.

Honestly, owning $TSLA or $DJT is the equivalent of telling someone to erase your browser history and destroy your homemade porn when you die.

Do what you want, while you can. But you don’t want evidence of that bad behavior.

I think this might be the topic of my next letter.

Mom always told me the right one would meet me more than halfway.

“If he wanted to, he would.”

I didn’t really see that till I was a lot older.

I mean, men always were the ones to hit on me, sure. But I always ended up giving way more effort.

Most of the effort.

“All day, every day.
Therapist, mother, maid.
Nymph, then a virgin.
Nurse, then a servant
Just an appendage.
Live to attend him
So that he never lifts a finger.
24/7 baby machine.
So he can live out
His picket fence dreams.
It’s not an act of love
If you make her
You make me do
Too much labour.”

I see it now with the whole “I voted against you, now give me a hug” shit.

I see it in my inbox. You gave no effort, drained me, cheated on someone else to be with me, and you wonder why I am near-carefree without you?

(Calm your un-bra’d udders, Cindy. Not your concern or business. I’ve been stupid before.)

I mean, how many studies do I need to cite that single, childless women are happier than married ones?

Anyway, I had an interesting experience with a real man last week.

He comes to the West Siiiiide of Florida every year. And he did while I was on my NOLA/Key West adventure.

Which I still haven’t written about because Jesus FUCK how is tRump president-elect again?!!?!

In any event, I said if we haven’t expatriated by next year’s visit, maybe I’ll drive over and we can indulge in some libations.

He said well yeah but how about I extend my trip so I can drive over to your side of the state.

I said well now that is something to look forward to.

So, if he wants to, he will.

Yet I get “men” who couldn’t even give a quarter-ass worth of effort, sitting around wondering why nobody likes them.

“If we had a daughter
I’d watch and could not save her
The emotional torture
From the head of your high table
She’d do what you taught her
She’d meet the same cruel fate
So now I’ve gotta run
So I can undo this mistake”

Least of all, their wives.