Caterwauling

The HOA called and descended on my doorstep yesterday.

There was an injured pelican. And they said you’re the only person who might know what to do.

I racked my brain. FWC is useless. Duck Haven didn’t even thank me for a big donation. Audubon is south of Miami. Animal Control will gas it.

Out of my mouth comes, “If my mother were still alive, she’d know exactly who to call.”

I never told any of them she was gone. And they seemed unfazed, as they probably never even saw her while she was here.

It’s Christmas Eve. Which I know because of my Seven Fishes dinner reservation.

But … there is no magic here anymore.

Sure, there’s a tree. And the cats got presents.

But I’ll always long for the Christmas I dragged the whole fam damily to Islamorada. Mom and three cats.

I still think about the Christmas when I was like 5 and got a life-sized stuffed elephant who I named Happy. Grampy built a circus tent for him. We would conduct transactions through the window, Grampy and me. I charged admission.

I still think about how Gram had flocked trees and velvety reindeer she cherished. And gorgeous crafts she made for holidays in classes with her friend Arnetta. How she loved the color red. And cardinals.

I think about all the appetizers Gram and then mom made. So many appetizers.

Rosemarino salad.

Cherry-pineapple cream cheese on celery.

Tiny pigs in a blanket.

Bacon/cheddar/cream cheese dip in a Cool Whip tub.

Kickass deviled eggs.

Sticky wings.

Mom would always ask what was the one thing I wanted. I’d tell her. But I knew she’d make them all anyway between Christmas and New Year’s.

Never sure where the money came from, other than Grampy’s clothing allowance he got as a veteran. Mom was SO good at budgeting.

We always had a spiral ham for Christmas. That was fancy. Gram made the mashed potatoes and then Mom did.

Mom’s favorite food was her own mashed potatoes. Mine was her stuffing balls.

Of Gram’s food, pot roast was her signature. Shit on the shingles. Pasta, as she was Italian.

A friend said to me that he loves my commitment to Christmas Eve fishes. I guess I’ve talked about that before but I don’t even remember. Nice that he does.

The Feast of the Indeterminate Number of Fishes was something I grew up with.

Seven was expensive. I got up to five one year through the magic of cheap Krab.

Mom and I settled on steak and scallops with cocktail shrimp. Crab claws the final year she cooked.

This year I’ll have seven fishes.

But I’d trade it all to have Mom frying up some scallops.

To see Cocoa saunter into the kitchen, ready for her share.

Mom would cut everything “so nice” for the cats.

Three perfect napkins of diced-up turkey or ham or bacon.

Three little plates with dollops of Grandma’s mashed potatoes.

Three little bowls with a generous swirl of whipped cream or vanilla custard.

And she’d cut up her own food for when at least one of those little “Halloweeners” went up to her for seconds.

They don’t do that with me. I wouldn’t share anyway because I’m a piggy. But that was their thing with Grammy.

I wonder if the two I have left miss Mom and Cocoa as much as I do.

I always wonder, too, whether they get to meet the relatives before them who I always talk about.

Mom. Cokie. Maddie. Kadie. Gram. Grampy. Old Gram. Janna. Sia. Lenna B. Elaine.

Merry Christmas, wherever you are, family.

A little down in the dumps today.

Yesterday was the last day Sorcerer/DVC pass holders could go to Disney till the New Year.

But I have a project hanging over my head.

And I am sick to death of taking my work woes to Disney.

So, I am going to cheer myself up before I start my last joyous project of the year.

My promise to myself in 2025 was to find places to wear all my cute clothes. And to go!

Result: It may have been the saddest year of my life. But it was also the most well-traveled.

2025 Concerts and Shows:

Alanis Morrissette at Caesars Palace Coliseum
Chelsea Handler at the Cosmopolitan (Chelsea at the Chelsea theater)
Def Leppard at the Hard Rock Holly
Ethel Cain at Anthem, Washington D.C.
Hard Rock for the Holidays
Kamala Harris at the Adrienne Arscht Center (I saw Joe Biden there a few years ago)
Kenny Chesney at The Sphere
Kesha at iThink West Palm Beach
“John Proctor Is the Villain” on Broadway (when Sadie Sink was in it)
“Life of a Showgirl” theater release at the Delray Beach iPic
Macy’s Fourth of July fireworks in NYC
Nikki Glaser at the Kravis Center
Sarah McLachlan at Anthem, Washington D.C.
Stevie Nicks at the Hard Rock Holly

“Sunset Blvd.” on Broadway (when Nicole Scherzinger was in it)
“The Notebook” on Broadway
“Wicked” on Broadway
“Wicked for Good”
“Wizard of Oz” at The Sphere

Cities Visited:

Orlando/Lake Buena Vista — MONTHLY visits
NYC — THREE times in a year
Vegas — TWICE in a year
DC — TWICE
New Orleans — honorary as it was late 2024
Key West — twice and that counts an honorary late 2024 trip
Miami — twice and it counts bc it’s a pain to get to lol

Anaheim

West Hollywood
Beverly Hills
ACTUAL Sunset Boulevard (not just the play, above)
Other parts of Los Angeles

Lots of cool places visited within them.

Notably Musso & Frank’s, Elizabeth Taylor’s favorite restaurant on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

And of course Oogie Boogie’s Bash at Disney California Adventure, Mickey’s Not So Scary Halloween Party, Jollywood Nights and Mickey’s Very Merry Christmas Party.

What a year. I am so grateful.

Cried the whole time at each but man, what wonderful places to cry at.

Like Wall Street.

Like Joy to the World, but biblically accurate.

My friend did a wellness check on me by contacting one of my employees. He said I’m sure it’s the same year-end nonsense that all publishers inflict on their directors.

I thanked him and said I only have capacity for people I am paying, or those who are paying me.

I’ve never been so tired in my life.

Not in a bad way. Not a complaint in sight. Just … tired. So, so tired.

One thing I am happy about is going dead on social media.

I can’t way I missed Cindy’s 17x annual complaints about being the grand host of the holidays and acting like she wasn’t in bed half the time and up/complaining the rest.

That’s the beauty of a 9/Hermit year ending. I shed that snake’s skin and there is zero interest in seeing what Lizard Lady is saying to insult me now.

I was watching a Kody Brown Cameo (ugh) and that’s what it was. Hello (insert name), these are the contents of my head.

And it made me think of the Annie Lennox song “Why.” Particularly the lyric in the headline.

I hate Kody but I related to him. I open up meetings with my unhinged thoughts and babble till I run out of them.

At least I try to be funny.

In any event, I’m stressed.

Like, I work up until my vacations. Worry about work during my vacations. Do a little work during vacations. Come home exhausted. And even more behind. And then they need more stuff.

Which, I don’t mind any of it. What I mind is not having any energy EVER.

I blew a big deadline and continue to blow it.

I took on a project I didn’t want to take on. (This was the one Ready Treaddy ran after me about while I was in Disneyland.)

I didn’t want to take it on because I didn’t have the bandwidth then.

I took it on and guess what? It requires exactly as much bonus bandwidth I thought it would. And even more if I’m honest.

And this MF called me four times Monday, But I was handling expenses for other people and I don’t pick up the phone when I’m mathing.

So he called Ready Treaddy, who called me yesterday.

Like … I admit this is my own fault.

But also my staff is burning out from the outside in, so I am trying to help them where I can.

So no I don’t have the mental bandwidth for ONE MORE THING.

And yes new HR lady, thank you for the 88th reminder that reviews are due Friday.

I love love love my job and would psychologically die without it. And financially of course. But I was without this job for a year and a half and I went crazy.

But I also see why I left. The moment you catch your breath, you get a roundhouse kick to the head from three directions.

I’ve been loath to hire because I don’t need another damn review to do.

But I’m guessing it’s time to cry uncle.

Because otherwise, MY review is just going to be a list of everything I didn’t do on time or at all.

At least the stuff I DO do, I do well.

Which is why I don’t like to agree to projects I know I’m going to half-ass.

I gotta at least three-quarters-ass it.

Also deleted without reading.

The final message appears to be a Thanksgiving promise to keep messaging.

The prior “final” message, sent on Halloween when I was dancing at the corner of Santa Monica Boulevard and Robertson, promises to never contact me again.

An ex who I CAN stand is ready to punch this freak for me.

He also has a loser to contend with.

I told him you will in fact feel no greater joy than when you tell them to die.

The problem is, they don’t.

And then they gaslight you for being a meanie rather than address their own abominable behavior.

So, whatever this fucker said, my reply is “Noted.”

I don’t want to know. I don’t let myself get pulled back in.

And if anything happens to me, my friends know exactly who this asshole is and where to find him and his wife.

Note that.

Confession.

I cannot for the life of me concentrate on work.

The only time I can is A) when a staffer is off or B) when I have pushed a deadline harder than Kody Brown’s skin headband clings to suicidal follicles.

My boss had recommended a book to me on getting organized. That was about a month before Mom died.

I didn’t tell him then that reading a book is literally the last thing I am going to do amid what the hell is happening in my house right now.

And I never read that book. Or any others for that matter.

Still, don’t think that doesn’t concern me. That I can’t read anymore. My eyes are just tired and achy and blurry. All the time. It never gets better.

Then tonight (Friday after Thanksgiving) … after avoiding my long ass to-do list all fucking day … I finally sat down to read a report on a company that’s trying to solve sleep problems.

Jesus Tap Dancing CHRIST … that is what’s wrong with me.

I would say I haven’t slept one full night since Mom died. And that’s true.

But let’s be real, I didn’t sleep during the height of her sickness either.

In fact, the night she died … I stayed in her room till 11 or 11:30. Then I took Bella to bed for a half hour.

Around midnight, Mom started calling for me. I was SO angry. I had only slept a good 20 minutes and I NEEDED MORE.

Well. by 2:47 a.m. she was gone. Violent, awful throwing up. Then the nurse getting stuck at the gate. What a fucking mind fuck.

And before ol’ Psycho tries to get a message through to me that I’m a loser, guess what? Who is calling YOU in their time of need? Absolutely no one. You selfish shit, you only take — not give. Unless it’s blowjobs, I’m sure.

Anyway, someone who’s known me since I was 18 reminded me that sleep and I have never been friends. We shared a pillow a time or two, so he’d know.

I even forgot, but he remembered, that I told him it wasn’t him. I cannot force myself to stay asleep. No sounds, humans or animals bother me the way I bother me.

And I think that is why I cannot work.

I show up — I direct, I coach, I attend to the Teams pings … but I cannot read.

And now, I have a growing list of to-dos that I cannot get to-done.

The cats hear me say, “Oh I’ll do it when my eyes aren’t burning” or “God I’m just so tired today; tomorrow I’ll feel better.”

Narrator: She never feels rested/better.

Anyway reading this whole sleep report was the biggest A-FUCKING-HA moment of my life.

Lack of sleep leads to dry eye disease. Leads to thyroid problems. Leads to fatness. Leads to diabeetus. Leads to colds/inflammation. Leads to early death.

Who has two thumbs and gets sick every time she leaves the house? The only time I don’t is when I freebase zinc and echinacea.

I mean, now that I say it aloud, it is definitely no earth-shattering revelation.

Bon Jovi sang, “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

But he was out touring the world and partying. I’m just sitting here eating gingerbread men, Black Friday shopping and drinking coffee like my life depends on it.

I really don’t know how to sleep. I mean, it’s not like I have any practice.

Mom was the youngest in the family to die of natural-ish causes. But what if I beat that record since living on two hours of mostly REM sleep is the only life I know?

Mom’s friend texted me happy thanksgiving yesterday.

I was doing a “Once Around” at the funeral home where I’d taken Momma at the time.

They probably still talk about me there. How I insisted on knowing where Mom was. Where all the real end-of-life stuff happens.

I stopped at that back corner where I wasn’t allowed to be. And cried the whole way out.

Mom’s friend got the “Once Around” reference. I told her to enjoy her meal and try not to be sad today.

She said of course I’m sad. “Nothing’s the same anymore.”

Girl, don’t I know it.

I had wanted to try out the Thanksgiving buffet at the Aloft for the past couple years.

But it’s indoor, so Mom would have never agreed.

Also, she used a walker, not really out of necessity but more for balance if needed. Also it made for a fine cage if rowdy Proud Boys or bastard children were underfoot.

Which they surprisingly are, which you’d think they’d give someone with an aid some berth.

But she didn’t want to be seen with said walker, not outside of Holla Dolla Tree or Ross.

Come to think of it, she quit going to those after a while, too.

Anyway. I checked out the buffet and it was SO GOOD.

Most Alofts are cheap because they don’t serve food. That’s why I stay at them. But this one has two ghost kitchens. And the only way to order from them is via Uber Eats.

Anyway I stopped at the W XYZ bar for a cocktail.

Got my fill of green bean casserole and all the other side dishes.

There is literally a toothful of turkey on there. That’s all I needed.

Then I took my happy ass next door to the iPic for “Wicked for Good.”

Where I cried of course.

For our democracy mostly.

I have read the book, saw the first movie and even saw the play …

Twice at the Kravis.

AND once on Broadway.

The cocktails have typically been … typical high-priced-venue bad.

But iPic … rather, my server Alexandria? Made a kickass cocktail.

She was great company too.

Also she gave me extra everything for my final drink of the night.

Including lots and lots of glitter.

We talked all about Taylor Swift and that stupid cat plushie that no one who’s a true fan can procure.

Good times. Truly.

I wandered around Delray afterward, as I did last year when I picked DaDa for my Thanksgiving dinner.

It was much busier than last year. I was bored out of my tree last year, but there was a lot more open this year.

I did not photograph my ice cream from Kilwin’s. But if three strong cocktails AND ice cream doesn’t give me diabeetus, hopefully nothing will.

Nothing’s the same, indeed.

I loved my Thanksgiving.

But I’d have traded it all for just one of Mom’s stuffing balls.

Because that would mean she was here to fry it up in butter and serve it to me.

Well well well.

The 15 pounds I lost since New Year’s are back, as the leather skirt I wore last Christmas Eve fits the same as it did back then.

I got an invitation yesterday to Thanksgiving that made me cry.

My cousin always issues me an invitation. So do T&T.

I am grateful and not even deterred that both dinners involve a plane ride.

But not only did I get an invite to feast literally up the street, but it was a good invitation, too.

I had already made/paid for a reservation in Delray. So I’ll head there as soon as I get my act together.

But I could cry that anyone knows I’m alone and even cares.

I know it doesn’t HAVE to be this way. I make friends SO easily.

The lady next to me on the plane probably would have had me over.

If I would have texted/called back.

She looked like Cindy though was absolutely the opposite personality. So I didn’t hold that against her.

But … she has a heart condition, seven kids and 14 grandkids.

Not that that holds her back … she hopped on a plane to DC because, like me, she just felt like it.

But … I feel like I need to make a conscious effort to hang out with people who keep me young.

That’s not age-limited. Two of my best friends are 65. Young at heart and as in love as teenagers.

They just happen to live in California, so the friendship is as high- or low-stakes as we want it.

I do feel bad about the local lady. But I remember talking to her on the plane — well, her talking over the announcements that were particularly LOUD as the plane was EMPTY — and I thought, why am I paying such rapt attention? I won’t see her again.

I do try to be fully present for these surprise friendships of the moment that I develop.

So I should have known that, when I gave myself permission to Krispy Kreme, it wouldn’t end at the taxi stand.

In any event, I am not even hungry because I’ve been up since 4 a.m. and have eaten everything but myself at this point.

I did see people commenting on this dining place’s Facebook page. How they wouldn’t pay that price without alcohol.

Listen.

The buffet wasn’t wildly expensive. They were probably salty because we were required to pay that AND gratuity upfront.

Which … not cheap when you see the final total.

But if you live in Palm Beach, as I do, you get accustomed to gratuity being automagically added.

Also.

Name me one restaurant that offers open bar at any time. (This is a hotel.)

Also, it being a hotel, do you honestly think that open bar would be anything but well drinks and sparkling piss water I mean Aldi prosecco? GTFOH.

I’d rather buy a glass of wine with a label I’ve heard of … from a bottle that hasn’t been open for a week.

Whether that’s at the hotel or at ANY of the available bars within a six block radius, I don’t care.

Shit, I might take myself to see “Wicked” if I’m sober. Can always get a crappy cocktail at Cinemark.

In any event, another Thanksgiving without Mom and Cocoa. And 21 years to the day that Grampy died.

Y’all are lucky my purse is too small to smuggle in my own 750mL dessert.

It’s 6 a.m. and I just made my to do list.

I am already fully depleted. Emotionally bankrupt. Spiritually overdrawn. Tired in every chakra.

If Teams pings one more GODDAMNED time, I fear I may actually ascend to a higher plane of exhaustion.

I need a snack, a nap and possibly a wellness check.

And more coffee.

And no goddamn more Teams.

I was toying with that idea overnight for a children’s book.

I’m sure it would sell well.

Last week, I asked Kelly how she’s doing now that Buddy the Cat died. Was she as sad as I still am over Cocoa? Does he visit her?

K said oh she’s OK. Buddy was too much of a pain in the ass to wait at the Rainbow Bridge. He’s probably already back on earth, annoying someone else now.

That’s where the idea for a book came from. But all it did was lead to more questions.

I feel like I get nightly visits from Mom, now that she seems to have learned how.

Some are detailed. Some seem fast.

The other night, she checked in to make sure I’m good.

As for her, she was still stunned that she’s been off the mortal coil for a year and a half.

But she’s not the same Momma who relied on me to take her places.

Now she’s thinking about What all can she do where she is.

But she still wants to hang out with me. Does that mean waiting behind the veil for my time … or incarnating back onto Earth to hang out with me some more?

And maybe it’s all Buddy-inspired rather than a visitation. But let me have my Momma however I can, thanks.

That got me to thinking over coffee — how DO we all become a family again, if everyone reincarnates? Does my great-grandmother have my Gram? Gram marries Grampy and has a baby late in life? Mom becomes a teen mom again? People don’t have kids anymore. Do we all just hang out behind the veil and plot to find someone using IVF and we all manifest as triplets or quints or whatever?

Anyway. Food for thought for never.

I had dinner with Janna in last night’s dream. And Ian Wyatt. Not two people I would put in a room together, but I did drink a lot of spiced wine before bed.

Anyway it’s good to get to see people young and vibrant. Weird to be the only one in the dream who aged, though.