Caterwauling

Jetted up to Pittsburgh for the weekend.

Strange to type words like that. I’ve waited my whole life to say I want to fly somewhere and then just GO there.

Thanks to the amazing cat sitter I hired, now I can.

I was invited to the party of the year. My baby cousin’s first birthday party.

It’s a fun story when you think about it.

My mom and her first cousin E were best friends.

Mom had me young and E had her kids older. So, I was graduating high school when she had her son.

I didn’t meet her daughter at all. Not till last year when I had two Eras Tour tickets (for me and Mom) and Mom was too sick to go to Pittsburgh.

I was going to take my soon-to-be ex. Meanwhile my cousin — at the urging of E., who clearly suspected she was sick but wasn’t telling any of us that — to go find Mom and me on Faceypages.

Anyway, the MUCH shorter version of the story that I tell people who ask is that M. and I met at the Eras Tour, and she was pregnant. Now here I am coming back a year later to meet her Taylor Tot.

OK maybe I should have just led with that. 😀

It was an emotional trip for many reasons. It was exhausting and spiritually fulfilling and full of hills just like the ones I drove in that Audi I ended up with.

I reserved a Mustang, as I always do. But the rental people left me in the lot so long — frozen in my tank top and shorts as it was 87% humidity in Florida when I left — that I said fuck it what can you give me. And it was this tall, sweet Audi.

I say tall because Anthony opened the trunk for me to unload all my presents for the baby and her mom.

And i couldn’t reach the trunk to close it. I was jumping up like a jumping bean and poor Anthony was doubled over in laughter.

He said you know there’s a button and I said NO I DON’T KNOW because I am a short person who asked for a SHORT CAR.

Anyway, now I have an Audi on my “must buy” list. Right next to the house on my cousin’s street that would allow me to see the baby every day.

So much more to say. But I was stuck in LaGuardia for six hours because they had to locate a pilot for us.

And I didn’t get home till 2 a.m. And my formerly clean car was disgustingly dirty and smelled like the moldy ass airport when I was reunited with it.

But, still. So glad I made the trip. Even though my body and brain are freaking jet-lagged after a three-hour flight in the same time zone.

Mom was always the one who worried about hurricanes and tornadoes and whatnot.

Honestly I can’t name anything she didn’t worry about.

She knew someone who died doing just about any activity you could name.

Like, she never wanted to wear too much deodorant because it causes cancer.

The irony.

She would get so frustrated when I had to apply it for her and I used “too much.” Then I’d take too light of a touch and not get any on her at all.

But I wasn’t allowed to try again. You get it right the first time or not at all.

Strange bird, that Robin.

Now if someone ELSE dared criticize me, well fuck them. You and me against the world, she always said.

That was the last song I played for her. Hours before she left.

I’ve been doing good lately. I mean, depression-wise. Started eating better and knocked out a bunch of little goals.

Not on the way to being skinny or sane. But, not hating life as much as I probably could or should.

That is, till Hurricane Milton was projected to hit my area.

He’s coming in a few hours. But he’s going to ruin the other coast, rip through the Orlando area and probably submerge St. Augustine.

Down here, other than a tornado hitting near my office and near Amerant Arena, where I saw Bon Jovi at some point in my life, it’s fine. Windy AF. That’s about it.

The airport is closed, which is interesting. Mostly because I have a FLIGHT SCHEDULED. Sigh. I’ll deal with that shit another day. Not today.

Even though I’m really not in harm’s way, I’m still distracted. I mean, when am I not, right?

But when I remember I have to meet with my boss tomorrow, I’m just like ugh.

I made progress on my goals but probably not enough. I was doing other stuff.

What that stuff was, well, was a mixed bag of driving through a rainstorm to meet a VIP at my job, attending a bunch of meetings, trying to help a friend who WANTS to work with us (which involved myriad calls with myriad people) and well, staring into space.

I do that a lot. I’m not working a side job or goofing off (much) on Amazon’s Prime Days deals. I stare at the fucking sky.

I really need a job where I can make money and stare at the sky. Or the ocean. I am SO GOOD at it.

Anyway I kind of made myself cry-laugh today when I thought, “Baby’s first hurricane without her momma.”

She would do the worrying and I’d do the working. She’d have this place cleaned top to bottom so we could watch the rains through sparkling glass.

I had so many things to do this week. Because, flying out. But other than hiring a cat sitter, that’s about it. I’ve slept a lot. At least I washed every piece of linen and every towel in the castle. I could go to bed right now but I should at least remove my nail polish.

Meanwhile I am watching the meteorologist I loathe most. Momma, at least Vytas isn’t wearing his ugly green plaid jacket and red tie and blue pants and beige shoes. Which he wears at least twice a week.

The classy meteorologists with the nice suits are working with him tonight. What a visual contrast. Vytas did step it up a bit, so good for him.

The cats are doing good. They keep looking to me to see whether they should be concerned with the howling winds. But I don’t care. So, they are actually lounging by the flimsy window and snoozing like champs.

I miss my Cocoa too. I keep wanting to see if she’s hiding under my bed. She wasn’t ever afraid; that child loved fireworks more than anyone. She just didn’t feel good and tried to hide.

I feel like I let her hide too well sometimes. Even mom used to say, “Go get your baby.” And I’d drag my feet a bit because she would just hang for 10 minutes and run right back. So why disturb her?

I know why now. I know so many things now that would have been more fucking useful than telling Mom no. I should have disturbed her because she needed to know her Momma loved her.

The same way my Momma tried to love on me and I didn’t often let her.

Man, in the last couple years, she was so fragile that I barely hugged her. She would hug ME tight but I was so scared with all her pain that I would cause more. And all she ever wanted from me was a damn hug.

Anyway. I’m not drinking my way through the hurricane. And other than demolishing a giant bag of popcorn, I don’t have any hurricane snacks that aren’t fruit and tomatoes.

Quite different from spending 15 years of hurricane watches and warnings with my momma.

It’s funny, the things you miss.

Yes the big things like vacations and days that used to be celebrations.

But also clinking glasses and forks. “Click click!” she’d say with the forks. “Cheers to my Momma / Cheers to my baby!” we’d say in unison.

And watching Jim Cantore look SO BORED like we didn’t just thaw him for this one day and we’ll freeze him in a few days so we can thaw Mariah Carey for Christmas.

Hope Momma and Cocoa are somewhere beautiful. Because this ain’t it. And whatever happens to our beloved Ft. Myers (again, sigh) will depress me all over again.

Sorry to say but I’m almost glad it doesn’t have to break her heart again too. That poor lady suffered enough.

Someone on Xitter wrote that “The Golden Bachelorette” is their weekly dose of hopecore.

I like the show and the way they described it.

Joan and so many of the bachelors are widowed. They know great loss.

And unlike shows like “Below Deck” and of course the more youth-oriented Bachelor/ettes, there really aren’t drunken orgies. I mean, there was Jack, who loved his cocktails and cannonballs. But the decorum is pretty high overall.

It’s interesting to watch people help each other through their guilt and discomfort and feeling some joy. And it’s fascinating to see how otherwise well-adjusted people can be thrown back in time by an anniversary or a sign (in the form of a hawk, a memory, whatever).

I know my loss wasn’t a romantic one. But it was profound in every other way.

I do wonder about the guy who said his wife woke him up and left him. Out of the blue, really? Or just out of the blue to you? Red flag core, yo.

I could say I don’t have a lot of people to talk to, which is true. So I see myself in these guys who suddenly have a support network. How they can be vulnerable. How they can get information they never had access to.

Charles L. had no idea why his wife died with a mouth full of blood. And Guy the ER doctor said she bit her tongue. And the relief that this one little fact gave Charles was palpable.

This is the first real instance I’ve seen on any of these shows with actual brotherhood.

I like it.

I do have a support network. My cousin and best friend. Everyone on my staff lost a parent this year, too.

While we don’t talk about it all the time, it’s very namaste. We see the gods and goddesses in each other, and also the deep, deep scars we incurred that double as matching tattoos.

I, for one, am still just bewildered. I walk past Mom’s door and say out loud, “How on earth is there a world without Wobin?”

Like, I literally just bought a ticket to Kennywood. KENNYWOOD.

I must say, Magic Kingdom is so much more efficient and effective. I made a mistake on a ticket and the gate agent fixed it right there on MY phone.

I did NOT make that mistake with K’Wood. I have the PDF receipt (not the app, sigh) to prove it. But still, friction.

Anyway, my hopecore is also leaving town. I seem to come back stronger every time.

Well, I come back sad as fuck but then after a week I’m OK.

I couldn’t do any of this before. While others were sitting around blah blah blahing about all their stupid plans … and then posting boring-ass pictures because they don’t know how to make plans … I was just here happy we were all still alive.

Now my family of five is three.

And at the rate I’m going, imma have three bucks in my account if I don’t ease up on the accelerator.

Anyway, I have a pint-sized queen to meet. And I cannot wait.

I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time for sadness as we remember all who came and left before us. But, I’m glad we can meet at all.

Nothing like meeting a one-year-old to give you a reason to want to stay on this side of the veil for a few moments longer.

I couldn’t watch that debate last night.

I mean, you’ve got smarmy Garbage Pail Kid on one side, Vladimir Futon.

On the other, America’s Dad. Which, you can tell the so-called right wouldn’t know a functional fatherly relationship if they saw one, so they don’t know how to handle it.

From the beginning, I could see Walz was a touch unsure and uncomfortable. And his answer to the first question — which, let’s face it, any debate coach will tell you to get your message out there, not the answer — didn’t really dazzle me.

Anyway, at the first sign of hating the bought-and-paid-for candidate less, I switched to the RHONY season premiere and was not disappointed.

That said, I was thrilled to see Norah O’Donnell and Margaret Brennan as moderators. They were my mom’s favorite journalists. She would have enjoyed seeing them together in such powerful seats.

I busied myself, too, catching up with a friend from my Kauffman’s days. I always thought she was magical. And after 30 years, I finally used those words. Because she still is.

She lost her best gray kitty friend this week. And her mom, back when we knew each other.

I of course lost my best gray kitty and my mom this year.

And I am so thankful to my beloved friend — or as I told her, she was a glittering, golden, Stevie Nicks-esque enigma who inspired awe — for reaching out to me first, to offer comfort.

I hope I was able to do the same.

We knew each other when she was 30 and I was 23. That just hit me.

As did this:

“She’s still 23
Inside her fantasy
And you’re sitting in front of me
At the restaurant, when I was still the one you want< Cross-legged in the dim light Everything was just right I, I could feel the mascara run You told me that you met someone Glass shattered on the white cloth Everybody moved on."

I’ll just be over here with dust collecting on my pinned-up hair, if anyone is looking for me.

Actually after I posted this, I remembered we did meet up again in Baltimore about 15 years ago.

She called me to meet. Then she was over an hour late but she was charming and intoxicating and introduced me to the most amazing beer I ever tasted.

It probably wasn’t all that amazing. But I still remember its name and how it felt on my lips.

Anyway, just funny how all the memories from 23 are the ones that came rushing back first.

The tarot cards keep telling me I’m about to be surrounded by admirers, and that half of them are going to be longtime ones.

Mom’s prediction would be that one from the 2018-’19 era would be first in line. So, maybe not first, but there’s still time for that prediction to come true yet.

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.