Caterwauling

Two Easters ago was our Last Supper.

I ordered Ruth’s Chris. The one in West Palm, though Boca was superior. But, Boca closed.

Mom was already barely eating, but showed interested in a ribeye sandwich.

Two of those, no onions, coming right up.

Well, it was one of those “oh did the customer want EXTRA onions” experiences.

Got that shit home. The bag reeked of onions. Even though I tossed the onions in a baggie and ran them straight out to the trash chute, the house reeked of onions.

I called and disemboweled the manager verbally.

He said come back and we’ll make it right.

“It’s my mother’s last Easter,” I had spat out. “We don’t get do-overs anymore.”

I know I’ve written here that the last food she had was a tiny bit of my birthday cake. (That I’d ordered early. and that she promptly threw up.)

But this was the last real meal we attempted.

She couldn’t cook anymore. She couldn’t even stand. The cancer had ravaged her organs and her bones.

Anyway I got to Ruth’s Chris for a wine tasting the other night. First time there in two years. My rage was palpable.

But it was also my Easter dinner, as it were, though a few days early. And there was an amazing wine pairing happening with every course. So, had to do it.

Glad I did it. The food was amazing, the wine was amazing.

Oh, and I won a $40 bottle of wine.

(Don’t ask me how I won it. I just WON IT, OK?)

Joe and Kathy next to me were very happy about that. Joe won a bottle too. Judy at our table was not amused.

But this was a core memory unlocked that none of them knew about.

Not that the place owed me, necessarily.

But … the place certainly gained favor with me after two years of not going near it.

My friend who incited that Democrat on Democrat violence has continued to like all my posts and make nice comments.

I blocked her.

For fucking real, if I had the audacity to say oh do you not like fat people (which I am) … because they posted a meme that is ANTI PEDOPHILE and ANTI GENOCIDE … I would hope they’d block me, too.

I’d say I don’t know why I’m still annoyed.

But I know why.

Just because you close a door, doesn’t mean you don’t look at it sometimes.

At least we’ll always have our annoyance with Don’t Treadmill on Me and one of their specific minions in common.

An old friend got mad at some meme I posted about being sick of waking up in a world where old white men are killing women and girls.

The word Zionist was used. A word I have never used in my life. But one I thought was correct in its context. And yes I did that gut check before I posted it.

So my friend, who’s known me over a decade, decided I’m an anti-Semite.

I got to talking to another friend. Not about that, but about how I have always voted others’ interests above mine.

How I put up with low-EQ people in the world and workplaces and everywhere and try to see life from THEIR viewpoints.

When they haven’t (yet, I hope) learned how to do the same for me and anyone else.

How I excuse THEM for being good at, say, running a business and not necessarily talking to the people in it.

And then to have someone — first of all, call me that shit over A MEME — incite what i can only call Democrat-on-Democrat violence …

And dude, I SEE why people vote for the pedophile party.

I mean, I have heard the pedo and even adult-woman grape rumors for years and not just about tRump.

But, yeah, if we are all gonna hold each other accountable BUT NOT THE GODDAMN RACIST PEDO RAPISTS in charge, come the actual fuck on.

I didn’t feel held accountable. I felt inconvenienced.

Yes I believe Israel has the right to a homeland. But I also believe it has no goddamned right to exterminate Palestinians to have it.

So if that makes me hate that particular Zionist and his henchmen, do I REALLY need to explain that to someone who — I thought — believes the same?

Wanted to say honey I checked my biases 20 years ago. I went through a lot of self-reflection and soul-searching. I am wildly aware that even though I’ve gone through some shit because of privileged white men, I’ve benefited from the system in a way my brothers and sisters have not. And it’s up to me to speak for them.

What I did say was a very I am angry at any goddamned white man who doesn’t know how to fucking act and SO SORRY IF THAT OFFENDED YOU.

I haven’t been back on the socials since.

Her reply was oh I didn’t think you were antisemitic, just had to check.

Which only made me more annoyed.

I mean, I treat the Z word like the N word. Don’t let it leave your lips.

Now I’m over here wondering who else has some big feelings about me posting it as one of the dozen memes I usually post in a day.

No I’m not really thinking that. I’m over here streaming the “Elizabeth Taylor” music video since the pedophiles in charge have cut AIDS funding but proceeds from Taylor Swift’s new video go to Elizabeth Taylor’s AIDS foundation.

If anyone wants to challenge someone like me about not being sensitive about others who need help more than I ever will, they can kiss my pudgy pork roast butt.

I’d “cry my eyes violet” but I’ll save my tears for the useless 11 am meeting with DTOM. Who I can assure you does not think about how any of their comments land on anyone.

Figures.

Meet a hot guy. Who likes me.

With money. Nice car. Harley.

From New York City.

And … comes clean eventually that he’s seeing someone else.

Like … I mean, an upgrade in every way from every other situationship.

“We were supposed to be just friends
You don’t live in my part of town, but maybe I’ll see you out some weekend
Depending on what kind of mood and situation-ship I’m in
And what’s in my system.”

And honestly, even the honesty is refreshing.

But if the ball’s in MY court?

Hard pass, Grimace.

It’s funny.

I’ve been walking around thinking how I always meet someone when I’m leaving.

And wondering if it was a sign to stay … or a sign to not get involved so I don’t give up on my plans.

And I’ve had all that anxiety, too. Like. his car is IMMACULATE. He’s HANDSOME. Not a cat hair on his high-priced Emirates and other couture.

Literally — I asked the universe for a Disney daddy — and I got a Disney Hong Kong daddy.

For a minute, I was walking around thinking the universe finally sent me a good one.

And maybe I wouldn’t have to sweat can I get a 2BR vs. a 1 BR because someday, it might not all be on me financially.

Amazing.

And while I know I am a catch, my mind was still racing. Thinking about my shitty apartment and my shitty cats (seriously, woke up to poo-poo on the rugs I washed YESTERDAY) and my holy terror at giving up my alone time.

Well, that resolved rather quickly.

I should probably say call me if anything changes.

But would that make my next Manhattan excursion better or worse, to have company next time that isn’t Kelly?

Ciao, bello.

I yelled at someone yesterday.

They deserved it. But I imagine this won’t go unpunished.

We all know someone who is committed to misunderstanding you so they can gaslight you.

I mean, if I were still reading a certain person’s social media, that’s a textbook example.

I say I like a sandwich. They say they were born in the restaurant and that I don’t understand sandwiches. I attempt to explain that Miss D. Point, well, Miss D. Point. Shitposting war ensues.

There’s this person IRL who literally jumps down my throat if I say something in a way that doesn’t make sense to them.

Christ, I ask my TAROT CARDS clarifying questions.

Guess what? That works on humans too.

But I don’t get those.

Usually I laugh, apologize, rephrase.

Other times, I figure I died six hills ago. Too dead to die on this one.

So, when I found someone inside my throat yesterday after I answered their question, I didn’t smile and laugh like I usually do.

I emitted a guttural uttering that, I assure you, my ancestors felt.

And I said my god, this is why I don’t tell you anything. This shit is getting old.

Yeah I’m bout ta get my ass handed to me.

Right after, I texted a friend who used to interact with this person.

She said OMG they are KNOWN for that, and it’s NOT COOL.

It was comforting to not be the only one who’s perpetually misunderstood.

I don’t think it’s purposeful.

OTOH, it’s weekly.

And while I know to measure my words to avoid it, sometimes I just don’t.

I was trying to show that a person is wildly valuable in all the best ways and in an extra detail oriented way.

But what they thought they heard was said person is sacrificing all else to focus on this detail. Who said that? Not me.

I did spit out exactly that — I am trying to praise someone for ALL they do.

And typing it out now, it’s just so absurd. Like, there was no fuckup anywhere that I was trying to explain away. It was just conversation. You know, with performance reviews looming.

Not only is this my main complaint, it’s my only complaint. So I know I am LUCKY AF.

But thinking about my friend’s ex-roommate who is STILL posting shit about her … when my friend is off living her best life … really made it clear to me that some people will just see what they can do to set you off. Then cry victim, in this ex-roommate’s case.

So I am particularly sensitive to it.

And that’s what my point really is. Trying to figure out where people are coming from. So you can see a problem from THEIR side before you come in hot to address it.

That’s why I’m beloved. I never had the Machiavelli chip; like me ANY day over that.

But being over 50, I am not losing sleep over being unloved by people who do seem committed to NOT loving me.

Well, I knew that living in FL-87 would pay off at some point.

We elected Emily Gregory to a FL House seat over some dumb ass Republican dopey man who doesn’t even live here.

I got to thinking briefly about some ignoramus who talked shit about me for saying I live in Palm Beach.

After years (17 years TODAY!) of me living here.

And of me not even TALKING about it all that much because I don’t want people to think I have money.

I asked that heifer’s cellmate I mean life mate if they voted in the election today.

But alas, THEY don’t live here and — gasp — NEVER DID.

“You lil’ stupid ass bitch, I ain’t fuckin’ with you
You lil’, you lil’ dumb ass bitch, I ain’t fuckin’ with you
I got a million trillion things I’d rather fuckin’ do
Than to be fuckin’ with you, lil’ stupid ass.”

I’ll let the forthcoming “I was born here and ate a sandwich here before you were born” remain far out of my sight.

As I’ve done for … what, is it a year now? More?

“Bitch, I don’t give a fuck about you, or anything that you do.”

Omg that felt FANTASTIC.

The winning. And quoting BIG SEAN.

The other one.

Hah.

“I mean for real, fuck how you feel
Fuck your two cents if it ain’t goin’ towards the bill, yeah”

When Mom was about to leave, I got a performance review that I was too exhausted to be affected by.

I was given a list of books to read on improving my productivity.

Mom died three weeks later.

I never heard about those books again.

It was two years ago tomorrow that she last left the house.

A very stressful drive to Deerfield Beach. Where I got a lousy parking spot and she was in pain and couldn’t walk and couldn’t really see the beach either.

I knew we wouldn’t be back.

That’s why, the day she did pass, the first thing I did was drive to Deerfield Beach.

To show her the way, since she never drove there herself.

I got to thinking how the guy at Poppie’s called me bubbly.

I think that my attitude has spared me from a lot. May not be productive at times, but I make it a good environment for everyone. I coach and encourage and, if you’re not showing me your O face from your treadmill, I can make you feel like you matter.

But I really am sad.

So if you catch me smiling, don’t think I’m healed or over it or moving on.

If you catch me smiling, I assure you, I am five seconds away from remembering that my mother is dead.

So, let me have those moments before I remember the most important thing in my life has left me forever.

Trust me, if I had the chance to get my mom back …

If I would give up this nonsense life where tRump kills and SAs children … women are getting shot in the streets …

Where I refuse to have sex with a man till my period stops (whenever that may be) bc I am tired of birth control and oh I have no rights to my own body anymore …

And where I have to hide my social media from people who think Charlie Kirk was the tits …

I would do it in a fucking HEARTBEAT.

My Farewell to Delray adventures took me to Sal’s for some pasta e fagioli.

Which I haven’t had since Mom was here.

Now I know where the phrase “Crying in my soup” comes from.

Stopped at Poppie’s, a place I always felt Grampy would love, for some takeout matzoh ball soup.

Saw chocolate-covered macaroons.

I am a macaron fan (and Macron). But he was allll about the macaroons.

Bought two. Offered him his when I got home.

At Poppie’s, the guy at the deli counter asked if I have a husband.

I figured be truthful. I said no.

He said oh I was going to say your husband is so lucky to have someone as bubbly as you.

I laughed. “That’s probably why I’m bubbly!” I said.

He did not laugh.

Handed me my shit without another word.

My guess is he’s over here thinking he’s got a mean-ass wife at home. And here I am saying that your ass makes her unhappy.

Don’t get me wrong — she could be a Goonhilda for all we know. But from his reaction, something tells me she was a free spirit once.

I hopped over to Ross and just about got killed by an old lady who AIMED AT ME and another pedestrian.

I thought surely she’s not going to turn left into the crosswalk without at least stopping.

Yes the fuck she did.

My next stop on the journey was to Saltwater brewery.

That was totally unplanned but I saw the Cousins Maine Lobster truck there.

I only went to Saltwater with Mom … to park, get “wobster” for Wobin … and GTFO.

Well yesterday I got beers … and I was happy.

And I got wobster rolls … and I was VERY happy.

Also got a clam chowder for the road, to go with my pasta e fagioli, matzoh ball soup and now chowda “soupie” trio.

Soupie is what mom called Lil Soups for the cats.

Grampy used to always summon us for dinner with, “SOUP!”

Which I assume came from the military. You know, back when we fought fascists and didn’t reward them with our tax dollars.

In any event, I like to think my relatives appreciate being included.

Or maybe they are busy with their new afterlives or reincarnated lives and are like WHAT.

I try to think back to being a kid and there were some times I definitely went out-of-body. I wonder if I were being called back to a former life for some reason.

My psychic said Mom and I have traveled many lifetimes together. Maybe someone called ME back for a question or to give an offering.

I sure hope I’m right about all this. I’ll definitely come back and watch over my nieces Alex and Riley.

I just hope I don’t get blown up in this stupid religious war before I can leave them a lil something to make them miss me a bit.

I fell into a content creator’s feed that resonated.

She must have lost her mom two years ago as well.

She said how when your mom dies, there’s the “before” you and the “after” you. And there’s no going back.

Truth.

She also said that, two years in, you’re mostly settled into the person you are now.

More truth.

The big truth, which I could have also told you, is that once you’ve watched your person die, you don’t give a singular shit about anything.

This girl phrased it well. That she used to cry over work or boys. That she just felt everything SO BIG when her mom was alive.

And now, who cares. No one to talk about it with anyway.

Had to double-check and make sure her username wasn’t mine.

I have a couple friends who ask a lot of questions. It’s not that it bugs me, but it’s that I personally do not care about the details of my own life that much to give them oxygen.

So to ask about an event and then follow up with how did I feel about it or what prompts in ChatGPT did I use to find that event, no.

I would have told mom because we had 24 hours to fill.

It’s weird how happy I am in silence now.

That is absolutely not who I was two years ago.

I think back to when my Old Gram, Gram and Grampy died.

Don’t get me wrong, I was devastated. More devastated with each death, really. Like, I went from “They won’t be sick anymore” to “They won’t be mine anymore.”

But it wasn’t permanently debilitating, you know?

Losing your person, your mom, is that emotional car crash that alters your personality for life.

Like I assume I’ll see ol Goonhilda this year after mercifully not having to look at that deconstructed dump cake last year.

Two years ago, I was just disgusted and honestly ready to punch back if wackadoodle wackadoodled. Like why you insist on being in my space, hoe.

This year, I could stand five inches from that thing and look straight through it. Shit I don’t even dread seeing Don’t Treadmill on Me because that’s how I deal with that, too.

Well, the latter I did laugh at on a call yesterday. Loudly. And it wasn’t at a joke.

I mean, I guess I DID laugh at a joke. Ahem.

Two years ago me used to just hang up. Now to sit there with my wish a bitch would face was my entertainment for the day.

I didn’t say you change for the worse when your mom dies. You just change.

And you realize the less time you spend tolerating losers is time well not wasted.

I know I need to post a job opening.

Put out some feelers first, as I know what hell a posting will unleash.

Sure enough, I heard from a bunch of people I never wanted to think of again.

The first didn’t read my plea carefully. He bragged that he’s writing for Newsmax. Not the flex you think it is, Sparky. And he ended with, “I’m crushing it!”

So, Pete Kegsbreath’s spirit animal, back from the dead-to-me.

Does he forget WHEN HIS BOSS FUCKING SUED US.

When I had to turn over my PERSONAL DEVICES to a FORENSIC INVESTIGATOR to prove that I wasn’t doing anything fucking nefarious.

GOD.

I was telling my HR person about this. I said what next, the lady who I hired to write finpubs but all she wanted to write about was pickleball?

Well, fuck me, guess who wrote to me six hours later.

When I fired her, it was after six months of her complaining to everyone about me. That I edited her stuff too much. That I don’t value her wonderfulness.

The phrase you’re going for was “I rewrote your stuff too much,” Cupcake.

Pickleball. Fuck you for wasting my time.

Look, in hindsight, I asked her to write some very hard things.

I write them now.

It’s driving me absolutely bugshit nuts.

But for Christ’s sake, it is not hard to write about the stock market without mentioning PICKLEBALL.

Getting back to when I fired her, it wasn’t an “I understand” or “I would like another chance.”

It was “I’m OLD and no one else will hire me — can’t you hold on to me till I retire in xx years?”

You know, the last time I got shitcanned, I asked if there was anything I could do … or could have done … to change their minds. They said no and I said thanks for the opportunity.

I didn’t say “But my mom was diagnosed with cancer three weeks ago and I crashed my car four times because I was preoccupied and now I have repairs and have to rent a car to drive to Miami Cancer Center.”

Now this person emails me, right?

Not “Hi Dawn would love to work with you again.”

But …

“No one else will hire me and I know you have a heart, please hire meeeeeeeee.”

You know, I don’t know where she got that I have a heart.

From what she said behind my back (and never to my face) was that I was satan incarnate.

Cindy! You two could be friends!

So no, I don’t have a heart.

I used to think that if you appealed to someone’s emotions, it would soften them.

Turns out, it has the opposite effect.

I asked HR is there a fun way to say ineligible for rehire.

She said if you figure it out, let me know.

Here’s what I came up with.

I am feeling more horrible than I’m letting on, believe it or not.

Not that I feel sorry for either.

But that I don’t want bad karma for NOT paying people a minute longer who weren’t worth what I did pay them.

Both were dicks to me, yes.

But I do hope there is grace if they need it.

I just don’t have any more to give. Believe me, I begged for my people to get a raise before I bring in anyone else. Failing that, I gotta bring in someone who can alleviate everyone’s stress.

And neither of them has “Your Photo Here” next to the cavalry we so desperately need to rescue us.