Caterwauling

I’m not watching DWTS like I did with Mom.

Really not into the “90-Day Fiancé” franchise either.

I am sticking with “Golden Bachelorette” though.

Her old best friend texted to tell me it was on the past two weeks. And I texted her today to say they are showing the first two episodes on Freeform. We are watching it together and picking out who Mom would have liked.

The guy who drove in with the station wagon, for sure. Keith. Keith looks like an old friend of mine from Phillips who I recently reconnected with. But it’s the driving up in a relic that caught my attention. Scumby and his Chevy tin-can, as Gram used to call it.

I think she would have liked Jack. He reminds me of someone I dated, looks-wise. She liked that look.

I’d take Frenchie. Any man who promises to fly me to Paris for dinner is worth a few dates.

And Kelsey’s dad. OH MY GOD, what a sweetheart. He probably wins this. He’s a total package for sure.

One of the guys at the end of the first episode said, “I’m not looking for someone to grow old with. I’m looking for someone to stay young with.”

As I look at the ruins of my life … and being alone in my house for the first time in 18 years … I’ve started thinking.

Like, oh shit. I really don’t want to die alone. But … I really need some live-alone time.

So I dig that. Someone to stay young with.

Or someones. Who knows.

I did get a vision the other day. Was talking to my tarot cards and trying to see why I got the Knight of Pentacles.

I can’t get the vision out of my head. I know exactly who was in it and where I was.

And I thought, OK, it’s all good. I turn out fine.

That’s my favorite question lately. How do I turn out. How do things turn out for me.

Haven’t seen a bad card yet.

Two decks gave me 10P today.

I wish I were as gorgeous as Joan Vassos. And that I had a mansion full of prospects.

But that’s OK. I have a lot of work to do in the meantime.

And I hope that whoever I saw is doing the same.

I wasn’t invested in Dancing With the Stars this season.

Mom and I watched last season. We loved our Greg from the Brady Bunch. Watched Carrie consistently shit on him and viewers save him.

I didn’t realize it was on till Anna Delvey competed with her ankle monitor. Which, I live in Florida. Those are always setting off the metal detectors at Ross Dress for Less. Or maybe those people are shoplifting, too, who knows.

What caught my attention was when, after being eliminated on Night 2 and being asked what she learned, she said, “Nothing.”

Carrie went after her apparently. But I am not clicking on any of those links. I am no fan of either woman’s, but less of hers.

Didn’t think much about it till I watched the “Grey’s Anatomy” season premiere last night. Since when is it on in the 10 p.m. hour? I mean, I got to watch my RHOC at 9 so I was happy. But still. Demotion?

In any event, Miranda Bailey got fired (just from Seattle Grace, thankfully) and they brought in an old hippie-dippie castmate from the past to replace her. I forget her name. I plan to forget it again.

The new doctor was very much like me — the “that’s OK” and “what can we learn from this” and “let’s fix it together type.”

The interns were so used to getting yelled at, they realized they would have preferred that.

I stopped and wondered if I haven’t been tough enough on some people. They are all my favorites. And I think they work hard for me. So I don’t get nuts when things go awry. I help them fix it so I don’t have to fix it again.

But I’ll leave my “should I channel my inner Miranda Bailey more” for another day. Though I do wonder about whether people like the toughness.

I haven’t had a tough boss who was good, IMHO. My favorites were the nice ones. Not the too-nice ones. Fucking “Snip snip” ballerina Wayne.

OMG FUCK that guy. Having to send him screenshots of my work to prove I did it. When I was literally writing, editing, doing layout, posting to the website and social media, and BROADCASTING TO EMAIL AND SMS. Jesus fuck, wayne, figure it out.

He called them “snip snips” because of the snipping tool. I hope someone snips his fucking scrotum off.

He NEVER helped when I needed it. He had too many emails to read. Bitch, I did too — and 19 pubs to put out in a day. And a marketing department to jump high for.

When I got his job, I didn’t feel bad AT ALL.

Now, I did learn a lot from the assholes. But mostly about how I don’t want to be.

Every story I tell about Brad reminds me what fucking asshole he was. And inept. There were some good things he did, don’t get me wrong. But it’s a shortlist.

So, when Anna said she learned nothing from the experience and Carrie clutched her pearls and went after her in the media, I took Anna’s side.

Carrie seems mad because you have to consciously be refusing to learn.

No, actually. You don’t.

I found some notes from a performance review today. That I have to be more of a leader. And some other stuff.

Hey, I am open to feedback. Always have been. From those “in it” with me. Anyone who’s handed a stack of questions to answer about me better know me before I take that seriously.

I mean, I take everything seriously. I like paying rent. I take it too seriously.

And no one knows my shortfalls better than me. No need to shame me for them. I question every word out of my mouth and out of my fingers — who is listening. Who is recording. Who is spying. Who is going to make judgments of me. Who is going to decide if my cats eat tomorrow.

Anyway I was going to toss those notes. But maybe I will keep them to ensure my anxiety stays at an elevated level.

So, in that context, maybe you do have to be anti-learning to learn something. But again, what you learn might traumatize someone else if you model that behavior. And you might end up in an ankle bracelet of your own.

I write every day about how sad I am and this ghoul is still shitposting about me.

I didn’t post about mom forever. I had told her that if Cindy flaps her chins about her, I am not strong enough to keep from snapping.

Bitch, it is on.

Hey dumbass.

Responding to my blog only proves what a gaslighter you are.

Run along and die now.

I saw Beetlejuice on Broadway twice.

And today I can say that I saw the movie for the second time, too.

It’s amazing how much you miss when you are sad as shit the first time around.

I won’t be the first one to say I wish the afterlife had visiting hours. But I will say it loud enough for the universe to hear.

It’s not fair that our beloveds come to us only in dreams, if we are even that lucky to get (or remember) those visitations.

Seeing Astrid and Lydia get some closure with Richard killed me the first time I saw it. Today it gave me joy.

It rocked me both times when Astrid said to Lydia, why can’t you talk to the one ghost who we both want to hear from. Lydia said this gift didn’t come with an instruction manual.

I used to say that to Mom. Why couldn’t we hear from Gram and Grampy via her, since hers was the stronger gift.

She didn’t know. But she seemed to know everything else.

Here in the most silent 100 days of my life, I keep having new revelations.

One of them is that the woman who was the smartest and most intuitive person I’ve ever known … focused on the wrong things.

The wrong men, though she ALWAYS put me first.

The wrong friends, though it’s not like she met better ones.

I wouldn’t say the wrong healthcare choices, as we are pretty limited here in South Florida when it comes to doctors and the treatments they bothered to offer.

But I would say that she was insistent on one aspirin every 24 hours. When I literally had an entire cabinet of oxy (she called it Ozzy, like the hero of my cousin Elaine, who died one year ago today) and morphine.

(Elaine and Robin must be proud that their daughters have become close like they were.)

Not that the meds touched the pain either. But she had herself convinced the aspirin was better.

Stuff like that.

I mean, her advice to me was mostly rock-solid. But I would still be an asshole and tell her I had more life experience so, zip it every now and again please.

She usually did end up being right. Also, I had no qualms about saying I picked the wrong job or apartment or guy and how do you see me worming my way out of this one.

Thank god she wasn’t the “I told you so” type.

She did get mad at me for calling Magic “Fuckface” and expressing my regret for stopping to take that call from Norbit before I returned to my current job.

I had looked down and saw this tiny kitten playing at my feet.

And I couldn’t resist — I picked him up and he slept on my lap the whole drive home.

I put him on Mom’s (temporary) hospital bed that was delivered after a surgery, and they had their little love affair.

Her boy.

Her “good boy, good boy,” as he likes to be called.

Anyway I blame Norbit for that and SO MUCH MORE. Which … Mom called it that being his “Kate” would be great and that it would be awful and then it would be done.

No, Rasputia, ain’t nobody talking about you today, boo. Go be the mayor of Key West 10 years before I ever set foot in it, like usual. I’ve been wearing an Italian horn — maybe you were suddenly born in Italy like 11 other cities you claim birthright to.

Anyway, Momma and I had a great relationship. But I feel like I could have been less of an asshole on so many occasions.

I also feel like I should be more attuned to her frequency. Like, I do see her in my dreams all the time. But is there more?

I hope she doesn’t have a shitty ghost job. Poor shrunken-head Bob having to report to Beetlejuice till BJ’s soul-sucking wife came along.

I know about soul-sucking wives too, Bob.

I will close out with one thing I noticed in “Beetlejuice! Beetlejuice!” today that I missed the first time.

When Delia was being forced for the final time to go to the afterlife, Lydia said “I’ll miss you” and Delia said “No you won’t.”

I got the oddest deja vu.

Not from seeing the film twice, as I clearly blacked out for that part the first time around.

But … Mom always said I loved to hear myself talk. That she didn’t even need to listen most of the time because I was usually just processing things and coming to my own conclusions. That and I love to hear myself talk.

That used to make me so mad. I had CATS for 30 years. I TALK for THEM.

But, she wasn’t wrong. I did have the life experiences.

And the problems.

And the people (usually men) with different work and life experiences always having something to say about the things I say and do (or don’t say/do).

Seriously, the lack of dangly bits has really not been helpful. Maybe shut the fuck up about trans people till you see how hard it is for the women in YOUR lives to breathe when you are standing on our necks.

But, that Delia line really made me see my mom.

She really did give me more freedom over my own decision-making than I ever perceived.

So many times I said “I’m not allowed” to do something. That would infuriate her. You have the money and the car and the free will, she’d say.

But that’s why I’d hold back. I did have the money, the car and the freedom. She had none of the three.

Was that her own doing, at least in part? Possibly. Yes, sure, and it was the source of a lot of my frustration 16 or 17 or even 10 years ago.

But really I could do — and did — what I wanted. And I picked her 95% of the time, at least.

So while I was never ever perfect, I do believe I got closer than most.

I don’t want to relate to that “no you won’t miss me” line so much.

HOWEVER, I do think she is laughing somewhere.

That I get to talk to her anytime I want … and never have to listen for a reply. Just like before.

My friends tell me that they see me as the picture of grace in my grief. Someone whose existence is a tribute to her mom.

I mean, they don’t know all this madness. But, I’ll take it.

I don’t want to say grief gets easier. It fills the space left behind by the one you loved.

And eventually, it’s like that dopey cat you took home. It provides consistency and even comfort after a while.

Grief is just there, with no car or money to go entertain itself, so you just have to take it with you everywhere you go. Though, that’s what you used to do with your momma and it would sure be nice to have her as your copilot and navigator again instead.

Decided to delete social media today. Time to pay for therapy instead of getting it online.

Rather, time to stop talking online. Or at all since this mouth somehow reacts faster than my face.

But that would mean controlling my brain. And that is not going to happen.

Not that I’d ever consider social media as a form of therapy. But when it comes to grief, I see a lot, learn some and share some.

So, not quite ready to delete my accounts or my personality.

In any event, I saw one of the most prescient posts about grief that was ever written.

It’s that you never have a full grasp on your own mortality or the concept of time in general until you have to go through a loved one’s belongings.

I was telling my friend tonight, it’s sheer heaviness.

For me, it’s seeing all the stuff with tags on it. The remembering how happy Momma was when I gifted these things to her or bought them for her because she liked them in a store. Where she planned to wear this or what she planned to do to make that more beautiful.

I think the OP was referring more to going through things their loved ones used and cherished. Seeing what brought them joy.

Being my mom brought her joy. The rest was all a bonus.

I can’t find much from my grandparents. It looks like my storage unit was robbed for the third or fourth time. So who even knows what was missing; all I know is my packed 10×10 unit has only about 4×6 worth of boxes.

I have Grampy’s guitar and Gram’s Italian horn necklace.

The latter is how I made my friends at Epcot. The ladies noticed it and asked if I was Italian.

I am, via Gram, but I said I didn’t know. I am not one of those dopes who claims to be from 17 country or from 17 different cities like Cindy.

I don’t have anyone to ask about my heritage and who even cares because I’ll be dead soon enough and my poor cousin is going to have to deal with three generations worth of stuff if I don’t figure this all out first.

Anyway. What I really need is to get my ass to a city where I’m appreciated.

Kelly was saying she’s a West Palm 4 but a Tampa and Cape Coral 7 and a Baltimore 8.

Reminds me of “A Chorus Line” — “Dance 10, Looks 3.”

I laughed because we were sitting in Boca Raton, the most plastic place on planet earth. And she said I see why you gravitate to Orlando and Pittsburgh and whatnot. Your chances of meeting quality people — who want to meet you too — are quadrupled.

We also got to talking about how she is so thankful to Depressed Kelly who buys all kinds of event tickets and hotel stays so that Future Introvert Kelly has to get out of the house.

Saaaaammmme.

I bought so many concert tickets and dresses when Mom was dying. I knew I’d need to get my ass off the couch. Mom even said why are you spending all this money. What with all her medical debt that I was paying off every month out of MY pocket.

She would rather me have had the entertainment and not paid the bills, to be clear. But I did both. Not like we were doing much else in the last three years.

So, I have an event coming up on Tuesday that I’d forgotten about. Thank you, Depressed Dawn. Introvert Dawn is hoping one of those cute dresses fits because grief spikes your cortisol bigly.

I have a dress I bought the day Momma passed. She was still here. I was drinking and reading Kindle books and surfing a really good sale at Macy’s.

I mean, who doesn’t need the “Speak Now” dress from the Eras Tour, right?

It’s important to me to wear that to a party next month. Because it was the last thing I can claim Momma “bought” for me.

I did that a lot. Bought myself stuff and let her give it to me. I usually forgot about it and was genuinely surprised. And she got to feel good doing it.

Depressed Dawn told Depressed Kelly to plan us a Thanksgiving adventure since we’re both going to be alone so why not go someplace where we’ll be extroverted 8s instead of introverted 4s.

That’s what I love about her. We can say this shit and know the other one won’t take an ounce of umbrage.

But hey, being a Boca Raton 2 ain’t so bad. We spend five grand on trips and not on facelifts. I think we win.

An old colleague recently rejoined the company.

HR does this thing where she puts introductory calls on the directors’ calendars. Every new hire, no matter what their department or position, gets a 1:1 with leadership.

This month, we had a few new hires. So, she did something different and made it a party with all of them.

It was literally the cast of “Inside Out.” I am not going to say who was “Sadness.” But I will say the new staff got to see me conjure up some serious grace under pressure.

One wasn’t so new. He not only used to work here (and so did his mom, who I loved), but we met at ANOTHER publisher.

We actually sat back to back in a dark little office. He wrote copy; I was in marketing at the time.

I remembered him fondly because he was always kind and he loved to strum on his guitar when he was in deep thought.

He told the group he’s surprised I wasn’t a copywriter by now.

I laughed and said well who would edit all this stuff if I was out living the dream.

He said you use a lot of metaphors. You take people with you. You don’t leave anyone in the group — in meetings or in writing — behind. You make sure everyone goes on the journey with you. And that’s a hallmark of a great copywriter.

Friends, do you know how long it’s been since I wanted to cry HAPPY tears?

My own staff rocks the block too.

I need to pay these people more.

The same one who liked the special issue also messaged me yesterday that “Purple is your color!”

I said thanks but don’t you think I’m channeling Grimace or the Fruit of the Loom grapes.

She said we are the only two in our department old enough to know either one of those.

She’s not wrong.

90 days ago, my Momma passed.

30 days ago, I said that out loud for the first time.

17 years ago today, she moved in with me. I thought then that my life was great and this would change it.

To be clear, my life was NOT great. It was fine, though. I thought I would meet a nice guy and start a family. Stop working so much at some point.

I was 33, after all. Back when I cared about such things.

I was not nice about Mom moving in. I am sure there are dozens of posts about my “houseguest” that I would regret today.

But at some point, I went from feeling obligated to realizing that the right thing to do would be to WANT her there. That it was a choice we — I — made. And that helped a lot.

And life did change with her … for the better.

Every memory was made with her.

Every ordinary thing was made more beautiful by her.

She always had advice. Or a joke. Or an outfit to lend. Or the right encouragement at the right time.

I probably wasn’t the best daughter, even so. I did kind of have my moments where I wondered if I would have found a better man than the losers I did find, since there really wasn’t much room for three of us.

Though she did have me buy things in threes for a while. Boy did she like one of the losers. Three plates, three cups, three placemats, etc.

So now I have her stuff, my stuff AND stuff for that someone who didn’t stick and all the others who weren’t worthy of being part of a “Big Three” situation.

I asked the Tarot what becomes of me.

My favorite question.

Its favorite answer is “The Lovers.”

So, there will be another someone. Of some sort.

Also if I understand tarot timing, I also get the Two of Pentacles on that one.

Two years.

In the meantime, there is silence. So much silence.

And that means … so much THINKING.

I was thinking out loud a bit today. I’ve had cats for 30 years so force of habit.

But I stopped myself.

“You have nothing to say … and no one to say it to. SHUT UP, MIND.”

What I was thinking was that I still need a lot of grace.

It will be a long time before I come to terms with going from being Robin’s daughter to just being another kid who lost their mom.

Not to act like a saint here. I was ready to be “just Dawn” a whole lot more than I let on.

When she was slipping, I said something awful.

It was something I had been thinking about, to justify my utter and complete exhaustion with feeding and bathing and dressing and cleaning and working and worrying — MY GOD the worrying.

I had let it slide right out of my face that I’d nearly raised her for 18 years. My obligation was complete.

I still want to cut off my ponytail and hang myself for that one.

I didn’t mean it. It was in my head because I was thinking that, for someone who did not ever want kids, I ended up raising one for the number of years you are obligated to raise one.

But when you are at your wits’ end and so frustrated that she hates the food or can’t swallow it or throws it up on both of you, your filter works as well as some howler monkey’s on a treadmill.

I’m sure I said a lot of stupid shit over the years. But that one bugs the fuck out of me.

She was hurt, too. But didn’t fight. She knew it was in the midst of an awful moment and she hated how many of those she had to subject me to.

In the silence, this is what you are left with.

There’s a new meme going around that when our parents said, “I’l give you something to cry about,” they meant decades of unresolved trauma.

I don’t laugh much, but that one got a smile out of me. She never meant to make me crazy. I did that to myself

She never felt entitled to anything. Though I did shower her with gifts and meals and trips and hell she even got the better bedroom in most of our places.

That was something I felt my grandmother did. Was not wildly affectionate but could show affection in other ways than love and hugs. I am more like her. Mom and Grampy were more of the huggy, emotional types. I won’t hug you but I will send you an incredibly personal gift that I searched 14 stores for.

I mean, Mom did that too. Always perfect. The right thing to say, to give, to respond, to fix everything.

So, here’s hoping I have that too.

I know I do. I am many things, but Robin’s daughter is the only one worth a damn in this messed-up world.

I just worry that “just Dawn” ain’t shit without her.

Growing up with a mom who worked in a funeral home gives you a fascination with death.

That all started when my cousin’s husband died. He got drunk and his dog ate his face. Not sure if he was dead first or if Prince killed him. But dude was always drunk.

I was living in Highland Park at the time. Came home to a message from my mom singing, “A tisket, a tasket. We’re going to pick a casket!”

My Disney princess was the best Disney princess.

Anyway Mom ended up working part-time at that funeral home. She was the greeter and she decorated the place and ran the show.

I am not supposed to share that she cosmetized the bodies sometimes, as that requires licensing. But like all family funeral homes, it got gobbled up by a national chain.

So it doesn’t even exist anyway. Like anything or anyone I loved.

And it’s not that I was a fan of the original “Beetlejuice” movie beyond hometown hero Michael Keaton’s appearance in it.

And I never got to see Beetlejuice’s Graveyard Revue in Orlando or the Dark Universe land at Universal. Both closed, boo.

But I saw the off-Broadway production … TWICE … and it stole my heart.

When Kelly and I went the first time, I cried the whole show. She even asked me if I was OK a few times. And I said no but I loved it.

I much prefer the Broadway adaptation. In the original, Lydia’s mom left. In the show, her mom Emily died and Lydia runs through the afterlife trying (unsuccessfully) to find her.

But isn’t it weird that Lydia can see everyone’s ghost but the one she wanted most?

My mom was psychic. I remember all the stories she would tell me of what she saw, heard or just innately knew.

She had all kinds of spirit encounters, mostly through dreams.

I used to rib her, like why do you know all these random people’s business (Cindy) but you never hear from your own mom? You can’t figure out where we should move or if I’ll ever get married … but you can pinpoint Howler Monkey’s deepest insecurities without even hearing her record-scratching voice?

Anyway, that was why the Beetlejuice musical was so exquisite.

I knew I was losing my Momma. I knew I would want to run through the afterlife to see her again … and couldn’t.

Lydia went on to live a happy life with Geena Davis and one of the Baldwin brothers. Not too shabby. She also had Catherine O’Hara and the guy who had kiddie porn or something. And he didn’t make it to the reboot that I saw in Orlando last week; nor did the ghosts who aren’t supposed to age, so they didn’t even try to show them.

I loved the movie sequel. Again, not the storyline I fell in love with. But a GenX Lydia haunted by ghosts and questionable life choices is my spirit animal.

Anyway I’ve been on this weird hunt for Beetlejuice merch. In the midst of cleaning out all the stuff we bought (and never used), I do not need more stuff.

But it’s my season, Halloween, so all bets are off.

I already plan to be more depressed at Christmas, so I won’t be joyfully doing anything other than having a salad instead of a two-person family feast.

I even have a few Beetlejuice Halloween costumes and a leather coat lying around here. I mean, I bought a few sizes but I am pleased to say I am not as fat as I think or say, hooray.

In any event, I read a lot about people who are experiencing a death. I envy those who have all these beautiful bedside conversations. I think 90% of those stories are exaggerated. But, whatever gets you through this hell, right?

Mom’s last food-food was a bite or two of birthday cake, which I’d wisely ordered for the day before my birthday. It’s like I freaking knew.

She spent my birthday in bed. The whole day. For the first time. She was ALWAYS out in the living room otherwise.

She thought, let me just rest today and we’ll have a good day tomorrow or the next day.

She never got out of that bed other than to use the bathroom or shower. That took every ounce of strength, and back in she had to go.

She could manage that on her own and I dressed her wound and got her clothes on.

It was always a race while she showered to get her bedsheets switched out because I insisted on a fresh bed for her several times a week.

So I would often go dark on Teams because we did it when she felt good enough. Or, less lousy, as it were.

In my head, I knew it was an honor and a privilege. But I was tired, too. I spent my birthday on the couch streaming “The Eras Tour” from whatever country she was in that day.

She was cogent till the end. But that last day, when I finally got smart enough to drag a chair and the Christmas tree (!) into her room, was pretty silent.

Her eyes were open and darting around. She was watching a “television” only she could see. I read a Kindle book and drank a bottle of wine from the bottle.

I can’t drink that vintage anymore.

I did hold her hand. I was never good at affection. Ask anyone I ever dated. I repel hugs. I squirmed away from my Momma a million and a half times.

Belly does the same to me now. Like love me … from over there.

Anyway she wasn’t really up for conversation but she definitely laughed and reacted to the few witticisms I offered up.

I just wish the last moments were “I love yous” exchanged or wisdom imparted.

But the thing with illness is you have plenty of time to talk about that stuff. So, it’s not that there wasn’t much left to talk about. It’s just that there is no passing peacefully.

You just try to be present and aware.

To love them out.

I’ve become acutely aware of the spirit world since she’s been gone. She sends me dreams all the time.

And I don’t believe in God or heaven or anything like that. But I do think there’s a parallel universe, about a foot or two off our ground.

I think they are zipping around like Star in the Disney movie “Wish.” They see and hear us, but not like they used to. I think it’s more of an awareness of us rather than seeing us in the shower or other weird shit.

But I do have to laugh. Mom was good at picking losers. I wouldn’t be surprised if some Beetlejuice type was always trying to pick her up now. I hope she outruns him eternally.

One of the many things I liked about the Beetlejuice sequel was when Lydia’s daughter Astrid saw her dad in the afterlife.

Where Lydia didn’t get to see her mom, her dad rescued her in one final act of love.

Kelly and I had a disagreement the other day. She’s one of those “everything happens for a reason” people. I am not. You tell me why my mom had to get sick and die. You tell me why Israel is killing hostages and people in Gaza just got their first shipment of fruit and vegetables in 11 months.

She shrugs. It just does, she says.

I’ll leave it at that for now.

Maybe Mom saves me in some way from the afterlife. Maybe she pushes a howler monkey off their treadmill.

Like Grampy, days after he died, surely pushed Blob off his Harley.

As if I needed more reason to believe in the spirit world.

I always cry when awards shows get to the “In Memoriam” part.

Like tonight’s Emmys. Where I was quite moved by one Jellyroll.

I woke up today
I almost stayed in bed
Had the devil on my back
And voices in my head
Some days, it ain’t all bad
Some days, it all gets worse
Some days, I swear I’m better off
Layin’ in that dirt.

Ran myself ragged again today. Had one errand to run (I couldn’t find my favorite chocolate peanut butter beer from Epcot locally) so I went to North Miami and made a day of it.

Just as I was taking my exit, the skies opened up.

I was grateful that I wouldn’t be driving in the rain.

But then I saw two abandoned shopping carts filled with someone’s (or someones’) entire life possessions, and my heart broke.

I like to think my angels are watching me and making sure I’m safe and happy. Where were their angels?

When I came home, I saw the street cats. They still perk up when they hear my car.

I haven’t fed them in five months now. I still feel like shit every day about it. I love them and hope someone loves on them.

Kind of like I hoped someone loves on those people whose carts (and probably whose bodies) were getting soaked.

I finally accept that I wanted to give up on the street cats.

Everyone knows (because I told them) I was just at my wits’ end and not sleeping and ready to murder Butterface and Latin Bitch Boy.

Which is true. But now they know my Momma was dying and I was BEYOND my wits’ end.

I mean, I should have returned to the routine. But … I don’t wanna. I still hate my neighbors.

And now I have this fun problem of having no strength or motivation.

Mom lost her dad when she was newly 50. The irony is not lost on me.

I used to get so mad at her that she grieved for the next 17 years. Like, you came to live with me. Now, LIVE.

Hindsight being what it is, grief takes everything out of you. Your ability to feel good. Mentally or physically. I have never hurt so much and not just my heart.

Losing her daddy was Mom’s downfall. What if it’s mine?

Anyway I know it’s wrong to look at the people with the carts or the sad, skinny little cats and hope someone else is kind to them.

But, I’m not asking anyone to be kind to me. I helped in my better seasons. And I hope I will again.

Could someone, anyone step in and be the angel that is clearly missing in these and a billion other scenarios until I figure out how to get my shit back together to do my part again?

I’ve been listening to the Disney Halloween playlist on Apple Music.

It includes a lot of songs from “The Descendants.”

Which, I discovered after a long and miserable day at my storage unit, is an adorable series of movies about the children of Disney villains given a shot at redemption.

The music is amazing. It reminds me of “Six,” the play we saw earlier this year about the wives of Henry VIII. And now those are all mashed up in my tear-stained brain.

In the first (2015) Descendants movie, Mal, daughter of Maleficent, is on a date with Belle and Beast’s son, Ben.

Mal sings about whether he’ll still want her after the magic spell she put on him runs out.

Given that one of the movies is “Mal & Ben’s Wedding,” I’m going to say she’s fine.

I like the inherent struggle all these characters face, between taking over the idyllic kingdom and restoring their parents’ power or actually enjoying the fruits (literal fruits; Mal has never had strawberries before) of being good.

Anyway the title of this post really struck a chord with me.

How do you go on when the magic your momma brought to your life every day for 50 years is gone.

I used to get in fights with people and think it was worse than them being dead. That they are out there living and either don’t want anything to do with you (with you dead to them) or cannot leave you alone (e.g., always ready to remind you they aren’t dead).

There is a certain peace in knowing that your beloveds (or be-hateds) have crossed over. You know where they are.

You do not get new information to process, generally. You get some more perspective on who they were and your relationship with them.

But overall, they are preserved in amber and even the less pleasant memories tend to fade faster than the rest.

What’s sad is when there was so much magic and then it runs out because their time did.

Like I cannot wait from trump and his ilk to kick off. But no, those Disney villains keep reproducing and recruiting.

I wonder how many people out there are walking around with their hearts and tear ducts ready to explode because they had something so good and now they have nothing.

I got to talking to Peanut’s mom last night. Mom was a huge fan of Peanut. And she just died not from surgery but from the anesthesia.

I told her mom that MY mom was a huge fan. And that my mom was probably in line to love on Peanut at the Rainbow Bridge.

Peanut’s mom remarked on me losing Cocoa and Mom together, as she lost a hoomin recently too. That it’s unforgivable to have so much loss, so close together.

It’s in moments like that where we still find magic. Another person seeing you, really seeing you.

That’s what I don’t have anymore. That and stuffing balls.

Christ, I cannot even think about Thanksgiving. With no magical balls to be grateful for, what else is there?