Caterwauling

Let’s see. FOTUS was the one who raised a stink about TikTok during his first vladministration.

The Biden administration carried that stupid torch.

Now TikTok is banned on the eve of FOTUS’ second coronation.

I’m sure he and Felonious Musk will find a solution to yet another problem of their own making.

Not sure which of the magalomaniac tech founders who’ve donated millions to this abomination will take over the Tickety Tocks.

But once again, the bread-and-circuses set will celebrate.

And the rest of us will all just be rats in a cage. Literally.

My people seem nervous.

I promise, I have given them no reason to be.

They are feeling a sort of way, and I love them because they are good at anticipating (and being ready to fix) problems.

I remember after a big layoff, I got a call from above. “WHAT ARE YOU TELLING YOUR PEOPLE.”

Um, what?

Partly it was that I was candid about that and previous layoffs.

The bigger part — that they were talking amongst themselves and with people who had just been laid off — was a thousand percent out of my control.

The biggest part was that I had three immediate quits afterward. Two to avoid a similar fate (in their minds; this never came from me), one because she was struggling with the doubled load.

I still try to be candid. Less so than before, though. I gotta look out for me more than ever now.

So, I withdraw when I’m in my head.

They figured this out.

One said to me they were especially nervous because their investments aren’t doing well.

Like, if something happens, they don’t have the cushion to fall back on that they’d hoped to amass.

That just about broke me. Half because they feel that way. Half because “I” have the same low-key worry.

I pretend to act dumb about math and money. And sometimes I do things like spending five grand to see The Eras Tour … four times.

I don’t regret it. I would have regretted NOT doing it.

Also, I used a combo of cash and credit, and I paid off that credit as soon as I could.

But I am also pretty smart about money. My mom became the family caregiver, yes, but she turned out to be a phenomenal saver and accountant.

And among the compliments she showered on me, was that I was very good at that myself.

Anyway, hearing concerns about sad broker accounts hit me hard.

After all, Little Miss Speculative Risk Lover over here bought a bunch of quantum stocks and saw those drop 50% last Wednesday. In one day. Fuckin ouch.

So I sold off my DOGE and a couple cryptos to get liquid again.

Yes I should have kept DOGE for FOTUS’ inauguration. But I was getting nervy and I wanted my profits banked while I wait for quantum to crawl all Mr. Hankey-like out of the shitter.

Look, we don’t live in a fair world. Continuous employment is not guaranteed unless you’re Howler, probably. Being able to get a new job at the same/better salary, within a year, is a pipe dream.

Fascism and the adjudicated rapist rattling stocks on an hourly basis is really the only guarantee.

Also your house could get sold out from under you or engulfed in a wildfire.

And all the cash and jewelry you stuck in a fire box in your freezer could get washed out to sea in a hurricane.

And your mom could die and your favorite cat could die and all your friends could die (and have) and then you’re also broke and unemployed and your family heirlooms are gone and you can’t even find a steak knife to slit your wrists with.

Anyway.

When my person expressed fears, I showed her my tarot card of the day in response.

The Four of Swords.

I said, “If we feel a certain way, this card reminds us there are still options available to us to save our own day.”

She too is a reader. And she loved that response. She said she will meditate on that card as soon as we hang up.

I wish we all lived in a world where we didn’t have health care and 401(k)s and brokerage accounts and general well-being connected to something that can end at any moment, for whatever reason.

I also wish we could all just wander off into the woods and be able to find food, shelter and sanity whenever we wished.

And I really wish that, once you’ve had enough catastrophic losses in your life, you didn’t always still have to worry about the next one.

It’s been nine months since I fed my street kitties.

I think of them every day.

I don’t leave the house in case I run into them. Says the girl who used to take regular walks and had a somewhat normal weight because of it.

They don’t come out anymore. Not often. They know they are unloved.

They know someone who loved them very much, doesn’t anymore. And I can only imagine how that scarred them.

I do see them from time to time. Usually the one I called Kadie who was named Whiskers. Saw Meatball once or twice. Maybe saw Fancy once.

Haven’t seen Poppins or Amelia or Smalls or anyone, really. They know this place is evil. The are good at hiding.

But I know they live here. That they deserve food and love and a warm place to sleep.

It’s little comfort, but it dawned on me the other day that the person who loves and cares for them most — Rita — was unable to get the HOA to leave us alone. To set up a safe zone. To chastise these asshole residents for abusing us and the cats.

Not blaming Rita. Not her fault we live among fuckface tRumpers.

But I did get sick of not being allowed to use bowls. To throw food on the ground. To be forced to feed cats by the pet walk where all the dogs piss and shit themselves. Where those same dogs go fucking apeshit because nobody fucking trains them.

I mean, it’s not the cats’ fault. But I try to assuage the overwhelming guilt with knowing I no longer have to go out at 5 a.m. or midnight. That I would happily buy those heated cat houses but no one would let me. That I’d leave water bowls without having residents threaten to kidnap the cats behind my back.

I still hope Carl, Latin Bitch Boy and Butterface on a Bike die. Violently, preferably. And slowly, even better.

But if the cats can move on or at least enjoy their nothing in peace, maybe that’s better than struggling to get some slop thrown at them on the cold and stinky concrete.

If I were in charge, man, things could be so different. But I’m not. And I have to accept that things could only change if I actually cared enough to be. And clearly, I don’t.

I always say I am the champion of waiting.

You can put a gift under my tree or mail me a birthday box a month in advance. I am that person who can leave it alone till the right moment.

That way I have time to build anticipation and the joyful reaction the giver no doubt desires.

It’s low-stakes though. I have the item(s) in hand. I can afford to wait.

I come from a family of shoppers.

Not shallow shopaholics, as someone shouted from the troll holes she dug on the interwebs.

Rather, people who are thoughtful gift-givers. My grandmother, despite us barely having a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of, was always thinking of everyone else.

Especially me. Giving me pretty things brought her joy.

But hearing from distant cousins now with wonderful stories of Aunt Rose shows that she was beloved across the family. And not even for gifts, but for her time and wit and her phenomenal back-scratches.

Mom and I shopped together all the time. At our peak, we hit seven Ross Dress for Less stores in a day. We didn’t buy a ton — usually we saw something in a small at one store and and XL at another store and so we’d set off to find the perfectly fitting large.

And we’d try new restaurants and be able to sleep well after our adventures.

We did that in different FL beach towns too. Of course we’d see the beach and the attractions. And I’d always buy a pink souvenir tank top somewhere that Cindy would make fun of.

But those are souvenirs of my time with my mom. So before you flap your yapper, know that I have an array of sentimental items that make me smile.

I usually don’t think of mean people. But I saw a pic of a happy person they know. And he looked stressed. No wonder, if Meanie Cottontrini snapped the photo.

Anyway, my theme this year is delayed gratification. It’s Jan. 17 and I’m already twitchy.

But that’s the point. I can do hard things. I have done hard things. I can do hard things again.

Kanye reminds me of someone.

And Taylor reminds me of me.

Speaking of Jan. 17, it’s the birthday of two people I know on the other side of the veil.

I have a mug that Sia brought me back from Germany on my altar.

And I have a photo of Janna and me leaning up against it.

Posed them w the blanket that Cocoa and Momma both died in.

“Me and my ghosts, we had a hell of a time.”

I dreamed about Janna two nights ago, and mom last night. Haven’t dreamed of Sia in a minute but I think of her often.

I have a new travel partner now. Two of them. I miss my spicy Capricorns (and Virgo, Momma!), but my Pisces and Cancer girlies are fun, too.

Taylor’s lyric, “There wouldn’t be this if there hadn’t been you,” comes to mind.

Sending love to my birthday girls in the great beyond. And to the ones who showed up — really showed up — for me at my lowest and alone-est.

Gratification in the friend department was a long time coming. (“It’s been a long time coming. BIG REPUTATION. And they said Speak Now-ow!”)

I’m just grateful it finally came.

Here’s to me getting the good luck that was denied to my departed family and friends. I am ready to receive it when it comes.

I’m on call for federal jury duty this week and next.

It’s giving low-stakes draft roulette, calling in every night to see whether I’m needed.

I mean, Palm Beach has some pretty prolific criminals. Epstein and FOTUS, for example. And they deserve me as a juror.

I had a lot on my mind I wanted to write about tonight. But I got to scrolling through my screenshot collection on Xitter.

I LOL’d pretty hard at a couple jokes I wrote. Then I remembered those funnies came straight from Mom.

Head over troll feet, hah. Among others that I published where no one could see them.

I love that my lone female stalker isn’t within my line of sight anymore. Though I will never be far from hers.

She’ll probably have a NYC trip booked after tax season, since I just got there twice.

It doesn’t take a crystal ball or tarot deck to predict. But I’ll be lovingly unaware.

You can have Havana Central. If you like the garbage Key Lime House serves, you’ll love this too.

In any event, I love that Joe Biden brokered a ceasefire deal in the Middle East today, just hours before his farewell address.

It really is the end of an era. Gotta conserve our energy for resisting now.

I read today that my beloved Dave’s Killer Bread — which is tasty AF and also the company hires people who’ve been incarcerated — is owned by a terrible MAGA type company, Flowers Foods.

I mean, boycotting Carrie Underwhelm / Temu Taylor Swift at Hitler’s swearing in isn’t exactly an inconvenience.

But losing out on Epic Everything bread? That one’s gonna hurt.

Anyway, I really appreciate those who give me all their energy. Speaking of New York.

But, I humbly ask you use it instead to make MAGAts cry.

I’ll be all right without you.

Now go on now, shoo.

Yesterday I made a big Freudian slip at my staff meeting.

I said “my resignation for 2025” and not RESOLUTION. Whoops.

My department is under strict scrutiny this year. It’s a Four of Swords moment for me — there are still solutions to be found. Here’s to finding them before they ask for a resignation.

That resolution is to stop saying, “If I were (department) director.”

I fucking am and the time for dreaming about how to improve things is over.

Improve them or die trying.

Gonna die anyway. Might as well have some good stories to tell on the way out.

Very interestingly, I was given two projects this quarter that should have been in my purview all along.

I mean, I’m kind of terrified because I’ve talked shit about their previous home. No Freudian slips in me believing I could do better.

So now I gotta prove it. And I will.

Anyway I gotta reset my brain on the rest of my resolutions/intentions. I already failed at one, which is to eat good food and not get fat on crap.

I literally just came back from New York where I had a pass to eat terribly and I didn’t. But I came home and raided the Costco food court. The fuck, Goddess?

I did do something I’m good with, which was say no to something at the Kravis Center.

I mean, I’d have fun and I may still do it. But I thought, meh, I want to go back to New York sooner rather than later.

That sixty bucks can be a cab ride. Or a good meal to make up for that Cuban mess we had on Friday night.

Kelly was like who from South Florida goes to NYC for Cuban, like we don’t have 40 places within driving distance?

It wasn’t my pick. My ass would have been at Lillie’s.

But I will celebrate the company and the black beans.

And the fact that I was smart enough to pick up two sandwiches at Boluud because I was at the airport long enough to eat them both.

Maybe I’ll put that $60 toward afternoon tea at Cafe Boluud. That ought to get me two tea sandwiches.

Anyway, the 14th was Orthodox new year, so I figure now’s a good time to refocus. And if I fuck up again, Lunar New Year is just around the corner!

I got the idea for the title from one of my witches.

She was hosting a Full Moon in Cancer thing.

But I was on my way home from New York because, hey, FOTUS returns to the White Nationalist House next week.

And I wanted to enjoy one last trip across state lines without having to take a pregnancy test to prove I’m allowed to go to a blue state unattended.

Lots to write, which who knows if I ever will. Sorry, tiny fan club.

Funny, I never really need a journal prompt. But now having one, I don’t know what to do with it.

And so it came to pass that … what?

Well, I have one. My cousin had a work trip and said come up and I’ll take us to see “Wicked” on Broadway.

That came to pass, and it was breathtaking.

Or maybe the “And so it came to pass that …” is more aspirational.

Like, and so it came to pass that the last great American president, Joe Biden, did not investigate the reams of election fraud and the white devil ascended and let fElon Musk take over TikTok while the antivaxx twat who won “American Idol” over Bo Bice had to play at the inauguration because 3 Doors Down was busy.

This journal prompt isn’t going very well. Maybe I’ll do some thinking about this one.

I know it’s from a bible verse or some shit.

Which … I took the wrong train to Queens and, while I was wandering around looking for the Jackson Heights station, a bunch of Spanish speakers kept trying to force religious shit into my hands.

I finally said, “Atheist” and the one lady about clutched her pearls. “No Hay-soos?” she said. I said, “No sky daddy. Vamanos!”

One of my NY-bred colleagues was proud of me for that one. I mean, not the absolute lack of understanding of Spanish. But the being able to shake off this chihuahua of a human being so I could get my directional bearings.

Anyway, it wasn’t the only time I was mistaken for a local. The other time, my cousin was like damn how the hell did you pick that up in six hours.

Because I was meant to live there, probably.

In the city, not the airport. Which, Haysoos Christo, why is every flight to PBI three hours late?!

The whole local thing happened because my cousin saw someone with a handbag she coveted. She said, “You’re the social one. Go find out where she got it.”

The girl’s dad told me where he got it but couldn’t help me with details. And I whipped off with, “Oh that’s gotta be down by 23rd. I’ll find it.”

Hell if it wasn’t off 23rd when I checked the map.

And so it came to pass that … I decided to live the dream of enjoying culture and good food and mental stimulation in NYC rather than always waiting for my stupid popcorn ceiling to cave in.

I continue to wish I’d never met Tina. Not Tuna but Tina. But she once said, “Girl, live at the beach and travel to cities. Not the other way around.”

The only wise thing out of her always-running mouth.

How about THAT being what comes to pass … for more trips and, as my other NY-bred staffer said today, the meet-cute story of a lifetime on the next one?

Self-care was the theme of 2024 for me.

Since that mainly manifested in swiping right (or down, as it were), my credit card issuers have stopped asking, “Were you the one who made this purchase?”

They know, yes, yes it was.

So, 2025 is a year for restraint.

I heard about the no-buy challenge and I thought, now this I can do.

Well it’s Day 8 and the only thing I’ve done is buy groceries and a manicure.

Here’s hoping the banks start texting, “Where are you and what have you done with our swipe fees?”

Kelly and I made a pact after we saw the Christmas markets in New York. We decided we will see Christmas markets in Europe.

Preferably we will find men to fund this trip. But still, we gotta get ourselves liquid for this adventure.

This detox hopefully means regulating my dopamine.

That hopefully results in reducing my carbon footprint.

THE YES LIST

One pair of good boots.
Fitness expenses.
Experiences.
Budget travel.
Signature pieces. (skulls, sparkle, Betsey Johnson)
Donations (charity, political).
Gifts for others.
Nails.
Good food — e.g., no cheaping out/wasting $ on crap.
Cleaning lady (one of these days).
Making store exchanges — using store credit means it’s OK to spend a little more since I’m not fully paying cash.

THE NO LIST

“Little treats.”
Clothes.
Makeup.
Lipstick/lip gloss.
Home decor.
Denim.
Coffee.
Wine. (at least until I drink my stash.)
Technology.
Any company that supports tRump.
Doom spending.

EXCEPTIONS

Vacations = all bets are off.
If something vital breaks (computer, phone).
Walmart (and only online) is the only place that has my kids’ litter.

For saying my storied career at the Veggie Patch ended so poorly, I became and stayed social media friends (and, in two cases, actual friends) with people from the Club Medicated playset.

I learned through the socials that Frosty died of breast cancer not too long ago.

The friend I learned that through, had two strokes this week. Which I learned from her daughter.

I didn’t think 50 was the age you started to hear about all the big health crises. But it’s clear the Boomers are bowing out younger and younger.

The one who had the strokes will be OK, at least per the post. I know from my own Gram having a stroke that there was no recovering.

Of course, her medics LEFT THE SCENE after examining her. And different ones came back.

Which was how we met Jimmy.

We had such lawsuits on our hands with every death. I could be rich right now instead of fielding one person’s remarks about the “new life” I have in front of me now and what I am going to do with it.

New life, huh. Sounds sexier than “Going to NYC or otherwise crying on the couch.”

Actually I’ve been doing good I’m on some new shit. Been saying yes instead of no. Thought I saw you at The Bus Stop but didn’t though.

It would’ve been fun
If you would’ve been The 1.

My original Veggie Patch friend was equally squicked out by “your new life.” She said ain’t nobody who has the power to derail that life needs to know about it.

I think there is an intent to help me get to it … if I’m ready or worthy. But she’s right. What if me saying what I really want to do with my life is just inviting more delays to it?

I mean, I think of Sia and me planning to go to Paris and I got fired that Christmas. Dare I put Paris back on my wishlist, only for it to be yanked away again 15 years later?

Not that the dream is dead; I’ve just been too afraid to dream it again.

So if I put something else on my list instead, maybe that’s something else to lose out on. Why have the same heartbreak twice.

Plus, maybe I’ll care a lot less if that also ends up on the pile of dreams half-dreamt.

New life, maybe. New things keeping me from believing in it, definitely.

Now, if I were to pull up my big Goddess panties, I would say with utmost confidence that those old things and people need to fight to stay in my new life.

Because there may be something better I was too afraid to go for in The Life Before.

Looking at Mom, Frosty, Jacky, Sia and so many others, it’s clear “the greatest loves of all time are over now.”

And I don’t want to waste what’s left of MY time NOT looking for “the 1” … whatever that will be.

“You throw your head back laughing like a little kid
I think it’s strange that you think I’m funny ’cause
He never did.”

I made myself a Swiftmas playlist last year. Never realized how many songs refer to the holidays, winter, falling snow, etc.

I was fortunate to sit in the “falling snow” of white confetti at the Miami Eras Tour during “All too Well.” It even got into my little purse. People sell that shit on eBay and Etsy for big bucks. I should know as I just paid $10 for two packs of “Karma” confetti. Whether it’s actually from my show or not, who knows but I have a craft project that depends on it.

“Begin Again” was also a fine song for this new year that began on a Wednesday. Also she wrote that song in Paris, which I aspire to see by Dec. 31.

Anyway that song gets me because it reminds me how my Mike/”Red” era started. Which I’ve tried to forget. Mike, anyway. I love the Red era, and always will.

I asked my friend CJ to call yesterday. He did. And I got that “Begin Again” vibe.

I specifically had a career-related topic to noodle over. But, as ever, our entire conversation was one distraction after another.

In a good way, I mean. Thinking up new things to talk about. Not like rude friends I’ve had over the years who let their kids scream into the phone. (Fucking Tina and that brat Ingrid.)

As we were hanging up, he said I feel like you had more to ponder and we didn’t get to it.

I said, no, I’m OK. I have a lot of thinking still to do.

And honestly, it was just nice to have someone to talk out loud with.

I said I used to have my Momma here. She’d tell me (redacted) sucks and (redacted) has no business doing (redacted) and you’re a goddess and you’re so much more magical than anyone will ever know. So go shine like you always do.

And in the absolute absence of that for the past six months and, now, the rest of my life, it’s nice to have a friend.

(INTHAF is also an adorable Tay song from “Lover.”)

In any event, he said tell you what, do your thinking. Text me your top three questions you come up with over the weekend. And I’ll try to give you some of that direction it sounds like you still need.

I mean, maybe this is how men are supposed to be. Shit, maybe this is how friends in general are supposed to be.

Anyway. I said to my boss on Thursday that I have no one looking out for me anymore without my Momma. And with CJ, I articulated how I also don’t have anyone to listen to and love me like her.

It’s not that it feels good to say it out loud or type it for posterity. But it feels helpful to put it into words just how great my loss — and how big my sadness — really is.

I mean, it still sucks that there is nothing or no one that can even begin to be all — or any — of that for me.

But, hey. A moment of connection when I needed it will go a long way.

I still have an impossible task ahead of me, and it’s ruining my sleep and now my weekend.

And even though he wouldn’t say this or that sucks, he did say you’ve got this.

I don’t know if I got this. But it was nice to hear that again.

“We walk down the block to my car
And I almost brought him up
But you start to talk about the movies
That your family watches every single Christmas
And I wanna talk about that
For the first time, what’s past is past.”