Caterwauling

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.

OK so I won’t write about (redacted) messing with me AGAIN …

But I will say the “Mother Maiden Crone” episode of “Agatha After All” was really good.

So I was about to publish one of my signature unhinged blog posts.

Out of nowhere, a photo of mom opened itself on my laptop.

I thought I had lost this photo. And no I cannot explain how it happened.

Momma always used to check me. Used to make me mad, but I always listened.

Obviously, I did not publish that rant. Clearly she slapped the shit out of me spiritually.

I am still pissed off about all the topics and people I covered.

Maybe I will find a better way to channel my energy today.

I had done a lot of Christmas shopping already. Maybe I should send out those things now. Lord knows we could use some joy since it just got taken from us

I’m channeling an old Ron White sketch where he’s getting arrested and he says he has the right to remain silent but just not the ability.

If I don’t end up getting fired that would be the miracle of the year.

But hey, Momma died. Cocoa died. Janna died. Abortion protections failed in Florida by 3%. And fucking Trump stole the goddamned election.

So yeah, I mean, it would suck but it would also poetically become the final bookend on the worst year of my life.

I am out of tears. I am beyond enraged. And I’m saying whatever I want, whatever I CAN, till they cut out my tongue, take my job and my savings, and remove any ability to have property or a credit card.

Fuck all those “oh it didn’t turn out so bad last time.” YES IT DID and he had guardrails! Those are all gone. Now the depraved lunatic is surrounded by billionaire enablers who are going to deport all the workers and make everything 10x more expensive for the rest of us.

“Democracy dies in darkness.” Remember when the WaPo adopted that as their slogan in 2017?

And now this year, Jeff Bozo said the WaPo editorial board couldn’t endorse Kamala Harris.

Democracy dies in broad daylight. Nov. 5, 2024.

One of the Rs in my orbit said empires fall all the time. I get the feeling they all want anarchy.

I just want sick people like my mom to have treatments. Women to stop bleeding to death in hospital emergency rooms because doctors are afraid of getting sued. People who’ve built a life here and paid more taxes than Trump stole from children’s cancer charities to not worry about being deported. For Black Women to stop having to fucking step up and try to save us and THEM never actually winning a damn thing.

I’ve curated my friends list enough that most agree with, or at least ignore, my rantings.

Today some dipshit who I never really liked, who I have not talked to since 2017, said I was a bad friend because I don’t want to affiliate with tRumpers.

I didn’t think well of him in the first place for professional reasons. He never cared if the work was done. He left when HE was done. Left me in a bind many times.

To hear that he supports tRump? I mean, not surprising, given what I just wrote. But disheartening.

I did unfriend him immediately. His wife, daughters and granddaughter can deal with him directly.

I told my expat friend in South Africa it’s time. Set me up for my consultation. I’m done.

I just need to hold my job so I can have proof of income.

But I also want to punch all the Nazis in the world.

How do I turn THAT into an income stream?!

Seriously, fuck Republican women. And someone better figure out why Missouri is missing so many votes. I would bet when the orangutan assured us he has the votes, the fix was already in.

I would also bet that we can find another 15 million to 18 million, if we look.

Dude wasn’t gonna lose the popular vote this time. Hurt his widdle ego to keep losing it, so he somehow found a way to brag about it.

What I really don’t understand — other than how my mom always said there were more good people than bad, but here we are — is how we supposedly had “record turnout among women for Harris” BUT there are like 15 million fewer votes than the record.

Someone explain to me in small enough words that JD Vance would understand.

Jesus Christ, we’re fucked. It is finished. No more elections, no more democracy, no more gay or trans people, no women who aren’t (for lack of a better word) Karens.

Mom would roll over in her grave if I’d buried her.

I am so sad, I could die right along with her.

I mean, if the vote counts are accurate (highly unlikely) that means everyone who told me they voted for Kamala is suspect. They couldn’t have.

So all these people who tell me I’m great and valuable and they can’t live without me … they would replace me the next day if I bled out in the parking lot. Got it. Valuable.

Not accusing anyone. I respect the one who voted for Chase Oliver. He was never going to vote anything but third party and wasn’t like the Rs I’m thinking about who were all, “Oh we can’t hold our nose and vote for tRump this year.” Bish yes you did. All of you who were looking for libs’ permission to vote your conscience. Vote WITH a conscience, preferably not your own.

Well, I guess I can’t say do it next election. There won’t be one.

Right now my only hope is tRump is buffoon enough to have a lovers’ spat with Elon Musk and deport him.

I mean, it’s not out of the realm.

My only other hope is Joe Biden appoints Kamala as 47 so that all the shitty Temu Trump 47 merch becomes even more useless.

Now THAT is something to live for. That’s about it though.

Landlady just contacted me to say she received a nasty cease-and-desist letter from the HOA.

My crime? Neatly broken down and stacked boxes on a hidden corner of my porch.

Though the letter says I am creating a visible disturbance.

I said oh PLEASE tell them I am SO SORRY for my tiny little corner (that you cannot even see from the street) when there’s a lady with a WHOLE ASS MAGA FLAG two doors down who they don’t bother.

You know, I have been away for the better part of a month.

Pittsburgh, where my cousin is BEGGING me to return to so we can be close (and I can watch her kid grow up).

New York (mostly LaGuardia, but still. Better than this fucking place).

New Orleans (people are so so SO nice. Though that could have just been Swifties and not necessarily locals).

Key West. I mean, my god, who WOULDN’T be a happy person there. I remember a guy saying, “This beats working, huh” and I said you have no idea.

Middle Keys. Same thing. I fell in love all over again with Islamorada, which was the first and only place to see us vacation as a family of five (Mom, Cocoa, Magic, Belly and me).

Meanwhile I get back here to dumpster fire Palm Beach and everyone’s been rude and awful in any store I’ve dared to set foot in.

And now this HOA shit?

Shan says that, if we’re being technical, one is recycling (mine) and the other is trash. So tell THEM to get the trash off their balcony.

You know, I like my landlady because she hasn’t raised my rent. Also I don’t take care of the place AT ALL.

But I am sad when I am here. My mom and my baby died here. I want to die here. I hate it here.

And then fucking Howler Monkey Heifer managed to ruin my first day back at least six times.

Why can’t she kill herself and save me the effort?

In any event, I know I can’t get rid of Heifer BUT I can abstain from dealing with her. And from going to her idiotic event that would be so much better if I were in charge of it.

I think I’m going to do that, after today.

Election Day is tomorrow. I’m either moving to (redacted) or I’m hiring my friend (redacted) to get me the fuck out of the country.

Either way, it’s clear I have to get out of Palm Beach. And out of shrieking distance from Howler Heifer. And this shitty fucking HOA.

What a whirlwind October.

There was the Pittsburgh trip to watch my baby cousin turn 1.

Though I might have positioned it on social media as a trip to New York (which, fair, I spent ample time in NYC. Er, LaGuardia).

One of my NYC friends was hoping I was there. Matt, who I met at Epcot and is so much fun.

I think he’s just trying to hook me up with his friend Rachel, though. Which, she is pretty cute but also pretty young.

So is he. I’d asked where he was on 9/11 (as a New Yorker of course) and he said something like third or fifth grade. Oy.

Anyway Matt invited me to a charity ball on Dec. 4 up in the city. But I’ve traveled so much (cough, SPENT so much) that maybe I should give it a damn rest.

I’m talking about my body, not just my wallet. Jesus, I’m exhausted.

I could spend this whole post on airport visits, and I think I will.

First of all, I met Randy Fenoli on my flight out.

He was adorable. I walked past him in First Class. (I was two rows behind him.) He is so TINY! He shared his seat with his tiny white dog.

I only saw one other person fangirl over him. So maybe y’all don’t watch “Say Yes to the Dress.” But Mom and I loved it, so we loved him.

And I’m thrilled to say he’s as nice in person as he is on the show.

I mean, any man who grabs my hand and says, “Hi Beautiful!” before letting me gush about how much I love his dresses and enjoy seeing him on TV is all right by me.

I won’t speak about our connection at Atlanta. (I HATE ATL and Delta for having that shit cyclone as one of its hubs.)

But I will say the flight was exquisite. Total Swiftie plane.

The pilot asked if we are “Ready for It?” and the flight attendant said they were “Enchanted” to serve us.

My row was filled with amazing people, including a man wearing the “22” hat. Though he had a cane, so they made him get out of the exit row. Which made me sad because he was so dapper and cool.

In his place I got a girl whose concert ticket was a birthday gift from the lady on the other side of me in a fabulous Etsy jacket.

The fabulous lady took a pic of my Eras-themed toes.

No orange for Evermore. Then again I am not a Hemingway cat and therefore lack an 11th toe.

Anyway, landing at MSY was such a delight. I put up some videos on Insta of the pilot making one last Swiftie reference. And also of our sad “Love Story” sing-along. We so half-assed it.

Anyway, the AIRPORT. It was all decked out for us Swifties!

So was the whole town, really.

I don’t know of any other city that rolled out the red carpet (and les bons temps) for us even on a low level of magnitude, much less the high holy welcome we got.

Skipping ahead to the taxi ride out of town, I got hit on by the cabbie. He was super sweet and eager to come to Miami … and for me to return to NOLA so he could take me around. He even gave me his card and said let me know when you land safely.

Anyway, I paid cash and tipped well.

Then there was the whole JH of it all. Already covered that.

And we’re just talking about flights in this post.

So, my first flight out — from MSY back to that cesspool ATL — was a dream.

Delta was offering $900 in credits to anyone who was willing to be bumped. I said give me cash so I can see T-Swift in Indy and I’ll take it, but they didn’t.

Also, I told my senior Swiftie seat mates I wasn’t really serious. They were so much fun and I know to appreciate terrific people in my row.

Karen and Ben just turned 65. AND this trip to see Taylor was a gift to each other for a milestone anniversary — I want to say 25 years.

But my head was all sorts of full from everything that preceded that meeting, and I don’t remember exactly.

Oh, I’m fallin’ in love
I thought the plane was goin’ down
How’d you turn it right around?

Karen is a third-grade teacher and Ben is a pastor in California. We talked about Disney, as they are in Anaheim.

They are “rescue fails” — they have eight cats, most of whom have medical issues. And they are the freaking cutest people I ever met.

Karen and Ben and I have texted about a million times since that flight. It would be more, but I drove my happy ass to Key West and murdered my whole data plan in two days.

Swifties are the best. Hands-down.

Also anyone Swiftie-adjacent, like CJ, who appreciates us for all the good we put out into the world.

Which, CJ — I am hoping — is a story for another day, too. I keep pulling Wands cards around this situation.

I see sparks fly whenever you smile.

In any event, my final flight, from shithole ATL to floating island of garbage PBI, was awful.

From the sparkly tRump/Vance jacket to all the MAGA hats and shirts to the bitch in my aisle who was complaining loudly on her cell to someone that she was owed tens of thousands for an election night party but wasn’t paid for it, ugh.

Let me guess — the “Republican Party Election Night” email subject line that I saw over her shoulder on her iPad might be a giveaway here. Trumpy hasn’t paid for his party?! GO FIGURE.

Honest to God, I was willing to take the plane down for the sake of democracy at that point.

Anyway, we didn’t crash and I didn’t kill any MAGAts. Well, I did get into a fight with a bunch in Marathon.

Fuckers, you came up to MY car with your signs. You get what I fucking say/gesture in return. You don’t get to tell me to go to hell when I was having a nice day without you.

I swear, 10 trumpers constitutes a riot.

In any event, I ALSO saw a ton of Harris-Walz signs and supporters all over NOLA and Key West.

Granted, two very amazing towns in two very red states. But still. I think we have a lot to be hopeful about come Tuesday.

I can’t believe Miami N3 got “Guilty as Sin.”

Or that N1 got “Daylight.”

But that’s OK. I got Debutation and that’s the best outcome for my soul.

I was riding high on Sunday after the Big Concert. Brightline called it the Big Concert so I get to do the same.

I had to laugh though. All I did was sit for two train rides, two shuttle rides and at least part of the four-hour show.

Which, I’ve never sat at The Eras Tour. But for what I paid for that seat, Hard Rock Stadium is lucky I didn’t take it home with me.

And I needed all of Sunday to recover.

Meanwhile Blondie sang and danced in the rain for three nights straight. How the hell has she done this for two years?!

I technically didn’t know I was going to the show till I heard “Rocking Robin” completely randomly at Brightline. And, of course, till I forked over my credit card and waited for the confirmation screen.

But I always felt like I’d find my way to at least one of the Miami shows.

Now that the anticipation is over, now what?

Like that thing I have literally been living for … TO LIVE FOR THE HOPE OF IT ALL … is over.

And yes it was magical and even better than I remembered/could have imagined.

I even got to see the brand-new TTPD set!

And Billy Joel attended Miami N2 just like he attended Tampa N3 and he’s now my Eras Tour Twin. I don’t make the rules.

What the fuck else is there to live for?

I mean, I do have ONE thing.

That other thing, “I Did Something Bad” (ha) last year.

THAT has kept me going.

As Mom’s health declined. As Cocoa died. As my neighbors assaulted and stalked me to the point I couldn’t feed my street kitties.

As my sanity unraveled. As Mom could no longer leave the house. As she took her final downturn on my birthday. As she eventually died just steps from where Cocoa did.

As I kept working through my grief because I need my job and no one else knows it like me anyway.

Through it all, I knew there was an Eras Tour ticket at the end of this fucked-up rainbow.

But beyond the one fun thing I still have left, what’s next for me?

Clarification — what’s left that’s GOOD?!

I say this because I ran out to buy food for the street kitties yesterday. Probably about $50 worth. I left it on my neighbor’s doorstep and said “thank you for being my treat dealer.”

(Those babies are so skinny. I don’t know if she’s able to feed them enough. Now, I don’t have to worry about that for a while.)

While I was out, I saw a Christmas decoration Mom would have begged for. Christ, I wasn’t ready for Christmas. Not yet.

I could hear myself grumbling about that decoration, if she wanted it (which, of course she would) and saying something I couldn’t take back.

But that was the ritual. I also could see myself buying it anyway. And I could see her cherishing it like she cherished everything.

It hit me I will never have that argument again. Or a beautiful house with delicious Mom-made food.

No more waking up like I did last Christmas and thanking the universe for our family of five.

I did, you know. I was so worried about Cocoa. Not worried enough about Mom.

Who knew I’d be left with the other three jabronis just three months later. And two jabronis five months after that.

“Say it once again with feeling
How the death rattle breathing
Silenced as the soul was leaving
The deflation of our dreaming
Leaving me bereft and reeling
My beloved ghost and me
Sitting in a tree
D-Y-I-N-G.

I’ve always had the Eras Tour.

And all the unhinged posts.

Like, how cool that this Mama Swift lookalike got to watch football with Mama Kelce at the Brightline station?

But when Blondie said during N3 that this was the last rain show because the next shows are all at indoor stadiums, that hurt in a “first Christmas without Cocoa and Momma” way.

All I have left are the livestreams. What do I do when those end?

Early car appointment today. First in, first out.

Made the mistake of going to Einstein and sitting by a lady by herself. That is till some dope joined her and they talked about voting.

I was trying to eat my jalapeno bagel and finish an article for the employee newsletter. But all their idiotic comments about immigrants and how terrible it was that Liz Cheney and all those generals turned on tRump turned my stomach.

They said Dick Cheney isn’t looking so good. Maybe he won’t make it to vote for Ka-Mahhh-la.

My face joined the conversation at that point.

I was just mad I hadn’t worn my Kamala shirt from LaGuardia Airport as planned.

Figured why instigate a fight? I am a Democrat, not a RethugliKKKan.

Which, did you ever notice that the so-called “silent majority” cannot fucking shut up?!

In any event, I was in my Eras Tour shirt that my cousin sent me.

Me and my ghosts they had a hell of a time, for those who celebrate.

These tools decided to ask me if I like Liz. I made heart hands. Because, Taylor.

The bitch said everyone has heart. Some hearts are just different from others.

Theirs are clearly disinformed.

I silently sent my completed article to HR and overheard the “man” declare that Kamala lowered gas prices so she can “get the poors’ votes.”

Fucking Boca bitches. Rich fucking whites with nothing to lose under fascism. Also that’s not how gas prices work!

I closed my laptop and stood up. He said oh you can’t take truth?

I said I can’t take post-truth.

He said aww did we drive you out?

I said I’ve hit my limit on listening to idiots. Open an economics textbook sometime. Maybe a civics one too.

He said something else as I exited. I said, “Idiots!” And stopped my car with the Kamala stickers next to their window for good measure.

I know the cunt voted already. I hope he drops dead on the way.

Idiots.

Couldn’t concentrate very well on Friday. Kept watching Ticketmaster for the surprise Taylor Swift ticket drop.

Got notified, got IN … and my FUCKING PASSWORD was rejected.

A million thoughts went my way as I changed it. Not the least of which, were my OTHER concert tickets still safe?

Alas, I reset my password and got in AGAIN …

And all face-value tickets were gone.

Crushed.

Spent the rest of Friday and most of Saturday morning searching StubHub — which had the better seats — and SeatGeek — which had the better prices/fees — in vain.

I DID book a trip on the Brightline’s Swiftie Sing-a-Long train.

My plan was to take the train down to Miami and go have some “This Is Me Chai-ing” ice cream at Sweet Melody’s.

(At least I’m chai-ing. #evermore)

Also Lavender Haze-ing at the Mary Mary bar.

And the train was AWESOME. You can tell a Swiftie works there.

My Reputation themed seat.

Every car was decked out in every single Era.

Plenty of selfie stations.

Every car had a different era (album) playing.

People dressed so elaborately and beautifully.

And cocktails!

There were makeup stations. Hello side-eye.

Friendship bracelet making stations.

And no one was scream-singing. Just normal singing.

The train ran from Orlando to Miami Center.

I hopped on in West Palm and got off in Aventura.

I figured, let me just try StubHub ONE MORE TIME.

And …

A ticket popped up that hadn’t been available an hour earlier when I boarded.

With fees, the cost exceeded my rent.

BUT LOOK AT ALL THOSE 13s.

TAY’S LUCKY NUMBER IS 13!

HELLO “I GAVE SO MANY SIGNS — SO MANY SIGNS.”

When I was in the WPB station, I was feeling sad because I blew out a tire on the way.

Like hi ok fine don’t buy a ticket to Hard Rock Stadium.

Car repairs, yo.

Just like when I went to see Melissa Etheridge at the Hard Rock Casino last month. Blew out a tire there too.

At the station, waiting to board the train, they were playing Swiftie music.

I looked out the window and said Momma, I could use a sign.

I wasn’t clear about what the sign should be. Just to know she’s with me, really.

“I should’ve asked you questions
I should’ve asked you how to be
Asked you to write it down for me
Should’ve kept every grocery store receipt
‘Cause every scrap of you would be taken from me.”

Mom works fast.

I figured the sign was to buy a cocktail. So I did.

Then as I watched everyone floating out of the train to go to the concert, I booked that ticket.

If I didn’t know better
I’d think you were singing to me now
If I didn’t know better
I’d think you were still around

I know better
But I still feel you all around
I know better
But you’re still around.”

And off I went to the Brightline shuttle to Miami Gardens, wondering what the hell I had just done.

But you know what? The Brightline runs over someone at least daily.

It could very well have run over ME. Right then!

And that money would have gone to the state because I have no one to leave it to.

There’s a line in “New Romantics” where Taylor sings, “We wait for trains that just aren’t coming.”

My train was THERE.

And who knows when Girly Pop is going to tour again after this year.

I practically skipped from the shuttle to Hard Rock Stadium like she and Florence (!!!) did during “Florida!!!”

And that’s where my Miami era begins, not ends.

Thank you, Momma. I hate not “taking you with me,” either physically or via constant text companionship.

But …

“You’re alive, you’re alive in my head.”