Caterwauling

When I said this ends here, I meant for me.

Who only knows what’s going on over there these days. Probably more unintentional hilarity.

In any event, I was searching my email and stumbled upon this ancient gem. Which of course I sent to Momma.

A friend asked me awhile back, why do you watch this train wreck.

I said for when they say something stupid and people call them out for their inanity.

For when divine justice comes knocking.

For when they say something intelligent. It has to happen, even by accident.

My friend said when has the karmic GPS found its intended destination when you were watching?

She’s not wrong.

Toodaloo, twuntzilla.

Oh and my friend sold his bakery. Dipshit can hold on to her imagined title of best customer ever since I quit going two years ago.

An old friend asked me to introduce him to my most recent ex-boss. He’s pitching a new venture and needs a home to do it from.

He clearly had no idea that this boss was now of the ex variety. So I said no I can’t, and I wouldn’t even want to if I could, knowing what I know now.

At the same time, a different friend posted about not being able to face one more day of his soul-crushing job. Four days later, he had a new job and quit the current one just in time to enjoy a stress-free holiday.

What do these things have in common? Other than good people in my life being sick of THEIR lot in life and deciding to make a change, nothing.

I was beyond the edge of burnout before I decided to take two weeks off. And we made a goof on Friday that I knew how to correct but when I told my team to “fix it,” I wasn’t specific about how I would have fixed it. And now it’s going to come back to bite me.

Will I lose my job over it? I hope not. Will my team? Not if I have a say.

Why didn’t I fix it the way I wanted? It would have been more complicated than usual. So I heaved a heavy sigh at the way the “light” fix was done and returned to whatever monumental task I was in the middle of.

I spent a lot of time last week fuming at how some person is a complete and absolute shit and yet has so much influence. But being nice and trying to be a leader (who understands that Fridays are miserable and the extra layer of complexity was only going to fuck up the two projects in line behind it) rather than a manager didn’t get me fuck all of anywhere in this situation that’s vexing me.

Anyway I think about my friends starting new ventures. I really don’t want to. Not right now. The one said very powerfully and poignantly that he felt like he was dying in his previous role.

I don’t feel that way. I mean, I felt dead and dug up from burnout, yes. And I’m hoping that my half-working two-week vacation sees some of that abate.

But I really am fortunate to like what I do, most of the time. With people I like, most of the time.

In any event, what really touched me was the one friend not wanting to make any waves or changes because he has bills, a car that’s almost paid off, a vacation scheduled. Can’t fuck yourself up financially to deal with your mental health.

Meanwhile I have tickets to a bunch of events next year and still have to figure out travel and accommodations. And I’m sitting over here nuts about making any wrong moves that could fuck up those plans.

Anyway, I wish them both all the best.

I’m sure the first friend will land on his feet. He takes big risks and loses big. But he wins big too.

The rest of us are just happy to stay off fate’s radar, lest shit get any worse.

The Club Q shooting got me to thinking about the Pulse shooting. And those got me to thinking about all the time I’ve spent in gay bars and all the friends I made there.

I’ve always had four-person barfly friend groups.

Thirty years ago, I’d go out dancing with Pinhead, Psychofag and Frumper.

Then I went with Kristin, Steve and Psychofag.

Then I went with Joe, Alan and the Queen of the Night.

Then back to Psychofag, now with Bryan and Paul.

There were other combinations. Other cities. And plenty of other states.

But there was always that group that looked out for you.

Even if they (or I) happened to be hitting on/hooking up with someone, we always made sure everyone had a friend to dance with … a way home … and, at the very least, a safety net should something happen.

But nothing happened, you know? We’d drink and dance and laugh and buy mixtapes (later CDs) from the DJs.

And now all that music is available on Utopia on SiriusXM.

In any event, everyone I mentioned is married off. I was an attendant at Bryan and Paul’s nuptials — long before it was legal. Another just had a baby with his husband.

None of the straight girls from that era ever had kids, go figure. Not even in my non-barfly friend foursomes.

Anyway, I type all of this to say that I am so glad my friends and I are alive.

That the only fucked up thing to happen was Psychofag tossing himself from the second floor of our parking garage onto Steve’s convertible as we sped away from the club.

Not even the unhoused guys in Southeast ever bothered us or our cars. We would hand them a couple bucks, and the only cars that weren’t rummaged through were ours.

That we could drink and dance and talk openly and grind up on random people we thought were attractive and make out with people we might never acknowledge in the light of day.

The things that happened between dusk and closing time are precious. You wear what you want. You be who you are. You pop some Molly and let your inhibitions that didn’t already melt away in the dark dissolve completely.

And you live to never tell if you don’t want to.

In any event, I love that a drag queen with a giant high heel kicked the shit out of the Club Q shooter while a straight male dad held his bitch ass down.

I’m just sad that the (non-binary) shooter, who was from the LDS sect, had so much self-loathing and a firearm he never should have possessed, that he turned another sacred space into a battleground.

I was blessed for a long time in that I loved just about everyone I worked with, and the ones I didn’t love were still pleasant and/or tolerable.

We’ve expanded a ton. And there’s a whole new regime in town. Which, I was all about the Brady Bunch-ing of our family and the extended family.

But I look around anymore and there are fewer of “us” than “them.” And it really feels like I could replace the “than” in that sentence with “vs.”

I dared to say that to HR awhile back. Surprised to still have a job, since they’re “Team Them.”

Other than having two unpleasant types to deal with these days, I’ve been mostly unaffected.

That is, till I got texts over the weekend with some casualties I wasn’t expecting.

I don’t mean to talk out of school. And I certainly don’t mean to draw straight lines where there aren’t even dotted ones.

But … “us” is definitely shrinking under the new regime.

You can’t tell me it’s performance. You also can’t tell me it makes any sense to yeet that depth of institutional knowledge.

I might have sent up another flag at that point. Like, WTAF, man.

I mean, if I were in charge of the yeeting, I’d definitely have chosen much differently.

In any event, one of those doing the yeeting actually told me to stop talking on a call the other day.

In front of 11 subordinates.

I was already furious over the yeeting. So I decided to hang up rather than get myself yeeted.

I crush this person’s head on video calls all the time. Goddess, why are you pinching the air? I’ll never tell.

I’ve heard of leaving because you hate your boss.

But I survived Brad and Ed, so I can survive just about any boss. Jesus what a pair of passive-aggressive pussies.

In fact, I rather love my current boss. I ran right back to him rather than find a new job. And I’m glad he welcomed me.

I would absolutely die if he retired. Or if yeet-a-licious somehow got into his head about me.

I’d really die if this yeeting foo ascends above me. I can call them Mudder Su-PEER-ior for now. Let’s keep it that way, mmkay?

I have an adorable orange kitty I call Bella.

Found out not too long ago that Bella is a Bailey, since I never noticed what he was packing in his blooming pumpkin pants.

In any event, I had a friend who has always had orange cats. She offered on many occasions to adopt Belly (my compromise name) from me.

She said I could visit and hang out with Belly anytime. Which is vital to the next part of the story …

A few weeks ago, Instagram showed me this person as a friend suggestion.

Wait, what? I checked all the other socials. Turns out, she’d already defriended me across them all.

Look, I don’t care. All I ever did was be nice and hopefully helpful to this person.

Look, you wanna Marie Kondo me out ya feed, bye furrlicia. That goes for anyone. Don’t let the cat door hit you on the way out.

I’d actually forgotten she’d wanted Belly till Mom brought it up after she and another suddenly absent friend invited me out this week.

People who I worked with, laughed with, CRIED with.

Now they suddenly besties after complaining about each other to me, yet I’m the one on the outs.

Again, I get it. I’m not in the same place in life as they are. I’m not a skinny little blonde. I don’t work for that company anymore. And I definitely don’t ever want to hear a word about that place again.

It’s just, damn. You can move 1,000 miles away from your high school, but the smell of teen spirit follows you everywhere.

Anyway, Mom said thank god you didn’t let her have Belly.

Not that it was ever a serious consideration. But still, what if it had been?

Now, I wouldn’t even be able to see her on social media, let alone in person.

Meanwhile, there’s this person at my job whom I seem to remember the orange cat lover saying that THEY loved.

I am not in that particular fan club for myriad reasons. This person doesn’t seem to care for me at all, and they don’t hide it.

This almost seems preferable, you know? They don’t know shit about me. Which means they aren’t running it all over town to our mutual contacts.

Of course, I’m sure my former friends spread my past. I won’t return the favor, but I sure could.

(Interesting how everyone “up there” got together this summer and, in unison, all the calls and texts stopped from all but four people in that orbit.)

When I think of everyone who’s betrayed me … which is in effect everyone … I am glad I have my mom. Thank God for her.

Before the plague, I planned to skip a gathering in my honor (!) because an uninvited guest tweeted they’d be in my ‘hood.

My boss doesn’t go to anyone’s parties. But he was coming out for mine. So I had to swallow my pride and admit I wasn’t going.

He wasn’t having me. I would be there, darn it.

I don’t say no to this guy. I went. And between human and divine intervention, it worked out fine.

In the end, I would have been terribly sorry to miss out.

History repeated last week. I knew there was a chance that lookyloo would put on a human suit and shapeshift into my line of sight.

I debated whether to rent a car or a security guard or both. In the end, I decided to go with remarks I’ve waited a long time to deliver.

Then I realized, that’s what they want.

Me.

To react.

To acknowledge them.

To give any sort of shit beyond what might happen to my own safety and reputation if this person is as bonkers in real life as they are online.

For a moment, I thought, yeah say something. You’ve waited forever to reality-check this person.

Then I thought, nah.

They’ve gotten their wish. They are in my line of sight. They think they are getting my goat. Let them enjoy that.

Maybe they’ll finally lose the taste for having my name in their mouth.

Baby don’t do corners

Either way, I thought, wow — THIS is what’s behind that iPhone keyboard. Behind all those put-downs and quasi-truths and never-ending claims of superiority.

OK then.

Once again, I would have been terribly sorry to miss out on what turned out to be another very special event.

I ordered some cookies from the local store of a national gourmet chain.

When my order was up, I told a worker that I was Dawn.

He was clearly packing up my two cookies. But he said no, these are for Michael.

Michael was a safe six feet away. I said oh look at that; we got the same order.

For a moment, I had that “this is how it happens” thought. Like in “Sleepless in Seattle,” Meg Ryan and Bill Pullman both ordered lettuce and tomato sandwiches (hers on wheat, his on white) and they met because the orders got switched.

Anyway, Michael regretted to inform them that he did not, in fact, get snickerdoodles.

And our “Sleepless in Seattle” turned back into “Braindead in Boynton Beach.”

I took my order and mourned what could have been not with him, but with that five minutes I’ll never get back.

Between Ye making the world less safe for Jewish people and Yael Braun being another wife who believes her contribution to society is to shitpost about Taylor Swift, I know to avoid people whose name starts with “Y.” Except my friend Yvonne. She’s awesome.

In any event, what really got my taco in a twist was that Taylor always writes at least one hauntingly personal track. I’m not talking about the ones about Scooter Braun. (Another name to avoid, Scooter.) Although “My Tears Ricochet” and “High Infidelity” and “Vigilante Shit” are worth many listens.

It’s more that Yael et al sit around and listen to deeply moving lyrics like those in “Bigger Than the Whole Sky” and they STILL choose to make a nuisance of themselves. When Taylor is clearly giving us the gift of going through Some Things and a lifeline because we’ve gone through, or will go through, them too.

I get it. Taylor uses her voice and people react just as publicly. I too have tried to just live my life and tell stories and entertain or at least just PROCESS in the only way I know how. And I too know what it’s like to have those who want to be heard feel compelled to weigh in. Hell, I stay quiet and they still complain.

Anyway, I give Taylor credit for still writing and singing and producing songs. I would understand if she decided not to, so as not to give that hausfrau more reason to @ her. And I love her for what she’s probably doing, dressing for — and getting — her revenge.

Didn’t like this song at first and wasn’t sure why.

Then the memory unlocked of the time I wasn’t going to show up somewhere and I did.

And the moment we saw each other was so joyful, the whole place erupted.

“Can I ask you a question?
Did you ever have someone kiss you in a crowded room
And every single one of your friends was making fun of you
But fifteen seconds lat?r, they were clapping, too?
Then what did you do?”

Happy I forgot that moment. But happier still that I found it again.

There’s nothing like walking into a room and seeing someone there hoping that the next person to walk through the door will be you.

In a way, I wish the veil were always so thin.

Then I remember that I drink at night in October because it’s the only way to get any sleep.

Maybe I’ll let myself dance with the dead tonight and see what messages I’ve been missing.