Caterwauling

Doing all these “first” holidays without mom is less fun than my photo posts make it look.

What my three readers see on the socials:

Goofy selfies, and lots of them.

Cool places.

Good foods.

Fun things I forced myself to experience.

Last trip in September for Mom’s birthday, I did a mix of “our” things and new things.

This time, it was all me. Even though Delmonico’s was open early for Easter, I decided to go to the parks. Because we didn’t and then we couldn’t.

And now I can. Just like I’ve updated all my Sirius XM presets.

I love her Coffeehouse and Kenny Chesney but Miss Gen X here needs her Lithium and ’90s on 9 and Ozzy’s Boneyard.

Not that I leave the house much to enjoy any of it.

I think that was the main driver behind me upgrading my Disney pass. My friend who inspired me to get the pass will literally get her ass on a plane to go to Disney.

Why can’t I take a road trip once a month for one night to escape my own mental Eight of Swords moments?

I don’t get many “likes” but I don’t care.

Momma always said do you notice how nobody likes your posts when you’re traveling or doing something they can’t do.

A-yup.

I am always good for liking and commenting on people’s posts when they put up a selfie or a trip photo.

My family always taught me to be happy for others. Begruding them won’t make it come to you, they’d say.

Plus, the bravery of putting up a selfie is nothing to sniff at. For others, I presume.

I love seeing me happy-ish, even if I have a bonus chin or a dopey expression.

I mean, I’m fuckin sad sometimes. If my eyes are puffy, taking extra pics isn’t usually going to yield a better one.

Gotta celebrate the moment while I’m still in it.

I always celebrate a great outfit.

Also, as for celebrating others, I can wish I were in the Maldives while also liking your photos from them.

You know, the booming metropolis of the Maldives that Cheetolini is picking a tariff fight with because they export sooo much here (not).

Where was I? Oh, how glad I am that I post what I do.

After all, the Memories features slap me in the fucking face every day to remind me of what Momma and I were doing two, five, six, 10, 18 years ago, I’m glad I did.

And now, as random memories come to me, I want to capture those too.

Like how she loved cherries and whipped cream. I told her I didn’t like either so she wouldn’t give them to me even though they were the best part for her.

Interestingly, those get more likes than the happy photos. Misery loves company, apparently.

Got some nice feedback from my trip to the Hollywood Brown Derby for Easter lunch.

This after seeing so many signs from my family over the weekend that I didn’t share.

I was eating an amazing piece of cake from Cake Bake — Neapolitan, which the servers said they were so jealous of me getting to eat because it’s their favorite — outside when I thought, damn, I wish Mom had gotten to try this.

A baby robin bopped by me and dived into the topiary next to me after I thought it.

I was still on Disney’s Board Walk when I saw someone wearing a Cocoa Beach shirt. MY BABY!!!!

I decided to look to the sky. To my joyful surprise, I saw skywriting just starting.

That’s always how we remembered my Gram.

After she had her stroke, she lost her ability to hold a pen. Which was terrible because she was a beautiful calligrapher.

So she wrote in the sky.

Anytime we would see skywriting, we’d say, “Rosie Girl!”

I looked at my watch. 6:19. Grampy’s favorite number.

Don’t tell me I didn’t have my whole family with me on the Board Walk.

My Easter miracle.

When I go out to eat, I always click two forks together and say “click click!” like Momma did to toast us.

(I do it at home too, if I bother using silverware. I remember when the Kathy Bates of Greenacres, speaking of “Misery,” used to slam me for taking food pics on Dixie plates. Bitch, I had a mom with stage 4 cancer and I have no daughter to run the household and be the party hostess while you languish. I would have paper pots and pans if I could. I throw away silverware — yes actual silver — so I don’t have one more damned thing to clean.)

And I always raise my glass and say “Cheers to my Momma.”

Today I did a click click with a blood orange margarita to the pomegranate one in my flight.

I felt like she was saying “Cheers to my baby” back.

She would have loved these, even though they used Cuervo. The blood orange margarita was amazeballs.

Jimmy always used to say “No Jose!”

Speaking of Jimmy, I drove by his house on the way home from Orlando.

He had a houseful. I texted a pic of that shit-brown abode with the five cars to mom’s bestie/frenemy. Who wants so badly for me to drive him to his door.

Which, I will someday. I promise.

I also almost slammed into one of those cars. They had to have heard me lose some tire rubber from that hard brake. Instant karma for being evil.

I texted the friend (which, I’ve concluded she may not have been a great friend to mom, but she is good to me. So that is something to cherish) that he doesn’t even need an Easter ham. Jimmy is the whole damn pig.

Anyway it was interesting to have Momma in the car (in her travel urn, in the cupholder and a Baby’s Coffee cardboard sleeve to keep her in place) while I looked at that shitbox. The house, not the owner, to be clear.

I almost wished he’d come out. I am 100% sure he contributed to her poor health.

But that’s a post for never, because he isn’t worth celebrating or even remembering. Unlike her.

I’m no Miranda Lambert fan but that song gets me.

Just rolled in from a much-needed Disney weekend that turned into a Disney week.

I decided to upgrade my FL resident pass to an annual pass. Look out, (Disney) world.

I figure 17 visits will make it pay for itself. Six down!

Anyway I just turned on the History Channel (though I do try to watch a lot of PBS because it’s apparently an act of resistance). They have “The Foods That Built America” on and I got the “A Box of Chocolates” episode.

It reminded me that my Grampy would buy a box of Russell Stover chocolates for each of us, every Valentine’s Day.

Gram would get a huge heart. Mom would get a medium one and I’d get a small one.

I loved that. I looked forward to that every year.

When he left us, I always bought Mom a Dove truffles heart. We got bougie, clearly.

What’s funny now is how I’m watching the Whitman’s, Hershey’s and Russell Stover of it all on this show and going meh.

That shit is SO mid.

Once you’ve had Max Brenner, ain’t nothing going to impress you.

Since my one reader loves to try things I love and pooh pooh them, I’m sure she’ll follow me to Brooklyn this summer and ride over to Union Station to try it and then whine about how meh it is because it isn’t Ferrero Rocher or some shit.

Anyway, I just had that powerful memory of my grandfather with those hearts. It’s been 19 Valentine’s Days since he could give me one.

But I will never forget how happy it made him to give us his heart.

I am a Real Housewives stan.

OG New York was the best. I do like the new cast, though.

Beverly Hills is my next favorite. Though I preferred the Vanderpump Rules spin-off, I like seeing actual famous housewives with interesting resumes and families rather than these janky hoes they put on Salt Lake and Orange County.

Everyone’s talking about Garcelle walking away from the RHOBH reunion before the final moment where they take a cast photo.

That was effectively her resignation.

The rest of the cast was outraged. But I get it.

Many prefer not to “break bread” with enemies.

Some of us don’t want evidence we were ever with them.

I was dating this guy Mike for a while. He pursued me. He took me nice places and treated me OK. I say OK because we had great conversation but that was it.

“He said that if the sex was
Half as good as the conversation was
Soon, they’d be pushin’ strollers
But, soon, it was over”

Oh Taylor how do you always KNOW?!

Mike and I had gone somewhere, I forget where. I took a photo of him.

He asked if I wanted a picture of both of us.

I surprised my mother, myself and the entire universe when I said, “Nope.”

I have exactly zero photos with Mike. I mean, this was all I wanted was a pic with him. And when the moment came, I was like why.

Pretty sure that was the last time we saw each other. We’ve spoken since. Awkwardly. I don’t hate him. I just do not want to remember that era when I really really wanted to love him.

Anyway, everyone is shitting on Garcelle. But I get her. When people have hurt you so deeply … when people didn’t back you up … when her friends that she defended to the death didn’t fight the battle with her … she was done.

Garcelle, unlike Poorit, is someone I’ve watched in TV and movies for decades. She doesn’t need this paycheck. She doesn’t need to continue being the sane and sage one. You could see the moment when she mentally said, “Let it burn.”

Anyway, I type all this to say the moment I decided I didn’t want Mike to be just another picture to burn (again, hattip to Taylor) might have happened a decade ago. But I remember it now as clearly as I experienced it.

Mike accidentally texted me last week, ironically. He was asking someone if they needed an errand run. I ignored it. Let him sit there and be mortified that I came to his mind and not whoever he was trying to reach.

I don’t think I’ve ever named a post by the same name as the blog.

But I was up late working (as I avoided a task for five days and the clock had more than run out) last night and I heard a cacophony of cats.

Faceypages had told me yesterday, via Memories, that it was the last day I fed the street cats.

Meatball knew I was done. He followed me all over the complex, which he never did. Almost begging me to reconsider.

I didn’t even know I was done at that time. But he knew.

Anyway I was already feeling like shit about it all when I heard cries at midnight.

I was hoping it was one of the annoying kids who come here for the winter/spring. But when I went to my balcony, I could see a bunch of cats. And hear them.

Don’t know if they were howling at the full moon. Honestly I have lived here six years and never heard that before.

Given the time, my guess is Rita hadn’t gone to feed them.

Given the time, I was very tempted to break into my new delivery of cat food and go take care of them.

But I didn’t, as I am an asshole.

I finished my project and went to bed.

But I can’t get their screams out of my head.

I remember Butterface on a Bike threatening to round them up and take them to the kill shelter. As if they’d ever go near her.

You know, those cries were so loud, you’d think people would band together and say hey let’s help these little guys. Let them eat. From a bowl, not the pavement. In peace.

I’d decided not to get involved again because of that. I don’t want to be put in situations where I want to punch people (or punch them back). I don’t want to drop expensive food on the only pavement they are allowed to be on, which is covered in dog pee and bird shit.

My guess is the new cats aren’t fixed. But I forfeited my right to know anything.

Anyway if there is a hell, this is why I’ll be going. For being able to help and actively choosing not to.

Mike White doesn’t accept criticism of “White Lotus.”

If you don’t like it, he says get out of his bed. That was a colorful quote, but I’d rather post this one instead:

Mike White addressed viewers who complained about the pacing, saying, “It definitely gets under their skin. There was complaining about how there’s no plot. That part I find weird. It never did. Part of me is just like ‘Bro, this is the vibe. I’m world-building.'”

Someone made some comment to me awhile back that I don’t DO anything.

My bestie said, “Tell them you have a rich inner life.”

So when I heard “I’m world-building,” I resonated so hard with that.

I spend a lot of time thinking but very little time doing.

I plan vacations. I mentally map out articles. I rehearse conversations. For hours, days, weeks, months.

Then I bang them all out.

Few understand this. The ones who do, don’t say dumb things about my process.

Like right now. I was supposed to have written six major things this weekend. I did one.

The rest, Sky Daddy willing, will come to me tomorrow. And probably keep me up in the meantime. Not writing; just worrying whether the Muse will kick in.

The Muse is rightly offended and unfortunately on strike today because of it.

I used to sit at my desk all weekend. Mom would have to sit home and wait for me to force myself to write for 48 hours.

I don’t do that anymore. Most of those worlds I built no longer exist.

I can’t get her or that time back. But I have learned from it. I’d rather write blogs or organize my photos from my week at Disney with Kelly. That’s the stuff that lasts.

I’m hoping all the deja vu stays. It comes on stronger when I do what I believe is the right thing for myself. Parking my ass in the sun today, for example. I had such a good idea for a trip, to stay at two different hotels and plan my activities by east vs west.

My spidey senses tingled even harder when I got that nudge. It reminded me of another dream where I did something else cool. So I texted Kelly and said I’m going to go to XYZ if you want in.

And the universe sent me the name of the place to stay … from a dream, from memory, from a past life, from a future life? Who knows.

I wonder if this is Mom coming through. Or if the veil thins for full moons, which I’ve read it does, moreso than quarter or dark moons.

I don’t actually believe there is a veil. Veils are breathable anyway. I think information is always passing through.

I’m just lucky enough to finally be catching more of it. And rebuilding my world with what is sinking in on the second or third trip through my mind.

I was out walking today and freakin Connie started walking in front of me.

Connie is a bitch. I try not to look her way.

Same with Peppermint Patty, who I saw next.

I realized Kelly was spot-on when she told me the other day that I have a VERY active bitch face.

“At least you soften quickly,” she qualified it. “When you want to.”

She pointed out stories of men approaching us in bars and wherever else we go, which is everywhere.

She said they try so hard to come up to you and you look at them like they are about to ruin your good time.

I mean … aren’t they?

With this in mind, I’ve tried to check myself the past few days.

I called everyone with a red MAGA hat in Disney a Nazi. One and his disabled wife with a matching hat turned around and about beat the shit out of me in Epcot.

But hey fuck you — wear mouse ears like the rest of us and hide your racism.

Honestly they probably saw my face and changed their minds about attacking me. That and I can outrun them. Especially when their orange overlord cancels their disability payments.

But Kelly isn’t wrong. I really am just braced for nonsense.

From MAGA dipshits. From Connie and Peppermint.

From men who aren’t going to be worth it.

Like don’t fuckin talk to me or look at me or breathe my air.

Mom’s friend asked if I have Mom’s same bad luck with men. I said yes and I have the track record to prove it. But unlike her, I am not nice. I scare them off quickly.

She said good girl, you’re more like your grandmother.

That’s what I need — a good man like my grandfather who wasn’t scared off by her no-bullshit-allowed vibe.

I wonder how they met. All I know was he had just come back from the war.

You know, back when boys gave their lives and/or health fighting Nazis instead of needing to beg them for their military pensions.

I’ve been having mad deja vu.

Got it while I worked on this fine Saturday. Thought it was about my project.

I felt good, like the deja vu was forecasting I finish the thing and it was going to turn out fine.

I did finish the thing but I don’t know how great it is. And I didn’t finish four other things. So maybe that’s why my senses are heightened.

Of course, it’s also a full pink moon. Welcome, Aries.

This is one of those moons that’s the farthest from earth, so it’s a small one. But still, the pink calls for love if you want it.

I asked tarot for a message today. Two of Cups.

Soulmate card. Love if you want it.

The universe is funny, man. I figured the spidey tingly senses were planetary.

But then Delta let me know I had a $200 credit. And I got the heightened sense of deja vu again.

So since I can’t let a credit burn a hole in my pocket for more than six hours, I planned a trip to (redacted).

I am convinced I booked this trip already in a dream. I know I get there. I know I have X number of days of fun.

But I can’t envision the end of the trip.

Maybe I stay?

I went to pick the flight home and was fine with the departure time. But honestly I didn’t want to go home at all. So I picked the latest flight out.

And I got that weird fuckin ass feeling. Like PIPER NOOOOO.

I did some vacillating but stayed with the late flight. I mean, all in, the flight was $88 after the credits. How could I not?

I mean, I know why not. Some religious dipshit from “The Real World” is in charge of the nation’s aviation, and planes drop out of the sky hourly now.

But deja vu isn’t usually forecasting bad when I have it.

And boy do I have it.

Anyway. I type all this to say I am either going to have the best time of my life or else my plane is going to fall out of the sky on the way home.

Better hire the cat sitter and not chance being home to give them their next meal then.

Might be seeing Momma sooner than I’d hoped. Or might call up (redacted) or (redacted) and bring them home.

Never know with me.

I got in trouble last year. We launched a product right around now.

As ever, I didn’t know shit about the product. Am only in charge of the products.

I was not wildly nice about preparing all the product materials. Hard to write the how-to guides, FAQs, onboarding letters, debut “gala” issues, etc. when you have zero fucking idea what’s going on or who the editor is even going to be.

Said product is, a year out, a failure by all accounts. We still don’t know who the fuck is supposed to write it but we get it written.

Anyway I got in trouble for losing my patience over the whole thing.

I ate that spoonful of shit and apologized to everyone.

Then mom died a couple of weeks later and that criticism of my attitude faded. Oh, she had real problems and had to spend all her time on hijinx. We get it.

Well here we are again with a new launch (and relaunching last year’s product with the same questions we had last time) and all sorts of other big launches.

And I went to Disney World.

Today is Saturday and I’m writing the how-to guides and FAQs.

Monday was my first glimpse at the product. Friday was my first day at my desk.

And I had a pile of other shit to do that didn’t require pulling an entire book out of my ample ass.

Well i just pulled said book out of my ass. And I still have to write FAQs, which got some “meh” feedback because it didn’t contain the components of the product I had never heard about.

I did manage to BS my way through the manual about some of those. But now that I see the product live, I am just laughing about all the feedback coming my way about stuff I didn’t include.

I am being very careful not to have an attitude, as I must have last year.

I really do like what I do. And truly, if I had all the information I needed to make decisions, I wouldn’t believe it anyway.

I just hope they realize that I am pretty pleasant, not to mention pretty useful at guessing and hitting deadlines more or less around the time I need to hit them.

One of my staffers, god bless her, used Chat GPT to draft all the materials.

On my way out the door to Disney, I said you know what, submit them. I don’t have anything to add.

Boy did people not like those materials.

So, I love that I am the only person who can pull 30 pages out of my ample ass in 12 hours that people might actually want to read.

Not to knock my staffer. She also knows blank pages terrify me and that I will destroy anything handed to me.

All I gotta say is ChatGPT will never replace us. Jesus. Talk about rage-editing.

I knew GenXers were going to rage against machines. I just didn’t know they’d be software, not robots.

Anyway, the website looks nice. And I am not mad about launching something on a Saturday. I’m not drowning in invoices and meetings and PIPs and breathless “what FOTUS did now” updates.

But no rest for the wicked. I still have some things to do for this launch, probably including rewriting the damn book. And thanking all the people who hopped online today to wait for the link to that stupid book.

When am I going to write my own book, though, instead of doing this twice a year about the stock market?

Strange week but good weekend.

My Maddie’s birthday just passed. She was born 29 years ago. How would I be a mom of a near-30-something?!

It was also five years ago that I nabbed Cocoa. Best thing I ever did. Wish I could save them all, but so glad it was her.

I miss those little ladies.

I heard a “Kadie” song this morning. “Apple bottom jeans. Boots with the furrrrrr.” Kadie had white boots.

I got to go to The Taylor Party in Fort Lauderdale Friday night. The DJ started off her set with the whole “It’s been a long time coming” that kicked off The Eras Tour. She even did the countdown from 13 seconds.

I cried. Literally so starved for Taylor and livestreams and, yes, concerts themselves.

The first song the DJ played was, of course, “Miss Americana.” I had sung that to Cocoa on her way off this mortal coil. It’s you and me, that’s my whole world.

Speaking of my whole world, yesterday I asked to see a fat Robin. No luck. But I did go get a smoothie and left. Ran back for something and two tiny robins were sitting outside the door.

I also heard “Mambo Italiano” twice. Or, the Dumbo Italiano song. I can still hear Momma calling everyone that.

Heard “Lying Eyes” today too. She hated that song.

Someone had called her and played it over the phone when she was pregnant with me. At first she thought it was someone she loved and did not get pregnant to, DK.

I am named after him.

In any event, she always wondered whether it were really her best friend who did that prank with the song. She’s done some evil shit so it makes sense. I think of it every time her friend texts me.

Anyway. Play it for the dumb hunkie, not me.

Also, I’ve been seeing Grammy’s lucky 619 number a bunch.

Maybe there are even more signs. But after a long time without them, it feels good to be surrounded.

Spent the better part of this week throwing up.

No, not because of that. God.

Just plain old sick. And watching the orange baboon speak for however long today only made it worse.

But the whole cleaning up after myself reminded me of mom’s final months, days, minutes, seconds.

I mean, it was no fun barfing into my garbage can and having to clean the bathroom when I missed.

I did that without a complaint for momma. Didn’t mind it at all. Didn’t even think to mind it.

I had issues with dressing her wounds. Oh man if I didn’t get it exactly right, that ended in two people crying.

That said, she was always so grateful to me and I whatever’d it.

Like, you’re my mom. You didn’t choose this. You’re still a source of joy to me. Let’s not dwell on this horror that you can’t control.

At least when it was her, I had no problem running trash out to the chute multiple times a day. Or scrubbing a floor or washing clothes or sheets or pillows or or or, etc.

I finally got around to washing my rugs and clothes today. Wednesday. After a very long Monday night/Tuesday morning.

She deserved better. She received better. I mean, I would rather she had a caring doctor who didn’t let things go the way they did.

But man, would it have been nice to have someone who knew I was sick. Even better if they gave a shit if I recovered.

We were always so thrilled she didn’t have to die in a hospital or a nursing home.

This all kind of jerked me back to those discussions. Like, welp, better make sure that isn’t my fate either.

Anyway now I get to stay up all night doing projects I didn’t expect to do on a timeline I thought would work before I felt like hot buttered death.

At least I’m not my friend who works in foreign trade policy for the federal government. I’ll take my life/job any damn day over that, thanks. Any damn ay.