Caterwauling

I’m on call for federal jury duty this week and next.

It’s giving low-stakes draft roulette, calling in every night to see whether I’m needed.

I mean, Palm Beach has some pretty prolific criminals. Epstein and FOTUS, for example. And they deserve me as a juror.

I had a lot on my mind I wanted to write about tonight. But I got to scrolling through my screenshot collection on Xitter.

I LOL’d pretty hard at a couple jokes I wrote. Then I remembered those funnies came straight from Mom.

Head over troll feet, hah. Among others that I published where no one could see them.

I love that my lone female stalker isn’t within my line of sight anymore. Though I will never be far from hers.

She’ll probably have a NYC trip booked after tax season, since I just got there twice.

It doesn’t take a crystal ball or tarot deck to predict. But I’ll be lovingly unaware.

You can have Havana Central. If you like the garbage Key Lime House serves, you’ll love this too.

In any event, I love that Joe Biden brokered a ceasefire deal in the Middle East today, just hours before his farewell address.

It really is the end of an era. Gotta conserve our energy for resisting now.

I read today that my beloved Dave’s Killer Bread — which is tasty AF and also the company hires people who’ve been incarcerated — is owned by a terrible MAGA type company, Flowers Foods.

I mean, boycotting Carrie Underwhelm / Temu Taylor Swift at Hitler’s swearing in isn’t exactly an inconvenience.

But losing out on Epic Everything bread? That one’s gonna hurt.

Anyway, I really appreciate those who give me all their energy. Speaking of New York.

But, I humbly ask you use it instead to make MAGAts cry.

I’ll be all right without you.

Now go on now, shoo.

Yesterday I made a big Freudian slip at my staff meeting.

I said “my resignation for 2025” and not RESOLUTION. Whoops.

My department is under strict scrutiny this year. It’s a Four of Swords moment for me — there are still solutions to be found. Here’s to finding them before they ask for a resignation.

That resolution is to stop saying, “If I were (department) director.”

I fucking am and the time for dreaming about how to improve things is over.

Improve them or die trying.

Gonna die anyway. Might as well have some good stories to tell on the way out.

Very interestingly, I was given two projects this quarter that should have been in my purview all along.

I mean, I’m kind of terrified because I’ve talked shit about their previous home. No Freudian slips in me believing I could do better.

So now I gotta prove it. And I will.

Anyway I gotta reset my brain on the rest of my resolutions/intentions. I already failed at one, which is to eat good food and not get fat on crap.

I literally just came back from New York where I had a pass to eat terribly and I didn’t. But I came home and raided the Costco food court. The fuck, Goddess?

I did do something I’m good with, which was say no to something at the Kravis Center.

I mean, I’d have fun and I may still do it. But I thought, meh, I want to go back to New York sooner rather than later.

That sixty bucks can be a cab ride. Or a good meal to make up for that Cuban mess we had on Friday night.

Kelly was like who from South Florida goes to NYC for Cuban, like we don’t have 40 places within driving distance?

It wasn’t my pick. My ass would have been at Lillie’s.

But I will celebrate the company and the black beans.

And the fact that I was smart enough to pick up two sandwiches at Boluud because I was at the airport long enough to eat them both.

Maybe I’ll put that $60 toward afternoon tea at Cafe Boluud. That ought to get me two tea sandwiches.

Anyway, the 14th was Orthodox new year, so I figure now’s a good time to refocus. And if I fuck up again, Lunar New Year is just around the corner!

I got the idea for the title from one of my witches.

She was hosting a Full Moon in Cancer thing.

But I was on my way home from New York because, hey, FOTUS returns to the White Nationalist House next week.

And I wanted to enjoy one last trip across state lines without having to take a pregnancy test to prove I’m allowed to go to a blue state unattended.

Lots to write, which who knows if I ever will. Sorry, tiny fan club.

Funny, I never really need a journal prompt. But now having one, I don’t know what to do with it.

And so it came to pass that … what?

Well, I have one. My cousin had a work trip and said come up and I’ll take us to see “Wicked” on Broadway.

That came to pass, and it was breathtaking.

Or maybe the “And so it came to pass that …” is more aspirational.

Like, and so it came to pass that the last great American president, Joe Biden, did not investigate the reams of election fraud and the white devil ascended and let fElon Musk take over TikTok while the antivaxx twat who won “American Idol” over Bo Bice had to play at the inauguration because 3 Doors Down was busy.

This journal prompt isn’t going very well. Maybe I’ll do some thinking about this one.

I know it’s from a bible verse or some shit.

Which … I took the wrong train to Queens and, while I was wandering around looking for the Jackson Heights station, a bunch of Spanish speakers kept trying to force religious shit into my hands.

I finally said, “Atheist” and the one lady about clutched her pearls. “No Hay-soos?” she said. I said, “No sky daddy. Vamanos!”

One of my NY-bred colleagues was proud of me for that one. I mean, not the absolute lack of understanding of Spanish. But the being able to shake off this chihuahua of a human being so I could get my directional bearings.

Anyway, it wasn’t the only time I was mistaken for a local. The other time, my cousin was like damn how the hell did you pick that up in six hours.

Because I was meant to live there, probably.

In the city, not the airport. Which, Haysoos Christo, why is every flight to PBI three hours late?!

The whole local thing happened because my cousin saw someone with a handbag she coveted. She said, “You’re the social one. Go find out where she got it.”

The girl’s dad told me where he got it but couldn’t help me with details. And I whipped off with, “Oh that’s gotta be down by 23rd. I’ll find it.”

Hell if it wasn’t off 23rd when I checked the map.

And so it came to pass that … I decided to live the dream of enjoying culture and good food and mental stimulation in NYC rather than always waiting for my stupid popcorn ceiling to cave in.

I continue to wish I’d never met Tina. Not Tuna but Tina. But she once said, “Girl, live at the beach and travel to cities. Not the other way around.”

The only wise thing out of her always-running mouth.

How about THAT being what comes to pass … for more trips and, as my other NY-bred staffer said today, the meet-cute story of a lifetime on the next one?

Self-care was the theme of 2024 for me.

Since that mainly manifested in swiping right (or down, as it were), my credit card issuers have stopped asking, “Were you the one who made this purchase?”

They know, yes, yes it was.

So, 2025 is a year for restraint.

I heard about the no-buy challenge and I thought, now this I can do.

Well it’s Day 8 and the only thing I’ve done is buy groceries and a manicure.

Here’s hoping the banks start texting, “Where are you and what have you done with our swipe fees?”

Kelly and I made a pact after we saw the Christmas markets in New York. We decided we will see Christmas markets in Europe.

Preferably we will find men to fund this trip. But still, we gotta get ourselves liquid for this adventure.

This detox hopefully means regulating my dopamine.

That hopefully results in reducing my carbon footprint.

THE YES LIST

One pair of good boots.
Fitness expenses.
Experiences.
Budget travel.
Signature pieces. (skulls, sparkle, Betsey Johnson)
Donations (charity, political).
Gifts for others.
Nails.
Good food — e.g., no cheaping out/wasting $ on crap.
Cleaning lady (one of these days).
Making store exchanges — using store credit means it’s OK to spend a little more since I’m not fully paying cash.

THE NO LIST

“Little treats.”
Clothes.
Makeup.
Lipstick/lip gloss.
Home decor.
Denim.
Coffee.
Wine. (at least until I drink my stash.)
Technology.
Any company that supports tRump.
Doom spending.

EXCEPTIONS

Vacations = all bets are off.
If something vital breaks (computer, phone).
Walmart (and only online) is the only place that has my kids’ litter.

For saying my storied career at the Veggie Patch ended so poorly, I became and stayed social media friends (and, in two cases, actual friends) with people from the Club Medicated playset.

I learned through the socials that Frosty died of breast cancer not too long ago.

The friend I learned that through, had two strokes this week. Which I learned from her daughter.

I didn’t think 50 was the age you started to hear about all the big health crises. But it’s clear the Boomers are bowing out younger and younger.

The one who had the strokes will be OK, at least per the post. I know from my own Gram having a stroke that there was no recovering.

Of course, her medics LEFT THE SCENE after examining her. And different ones came back.

Which was how we met Jimmy.

We had such lawsuits on our hands with every death. I could be rich right now instead of fielding one person’s remarks about the “new life” I have in front of me now and what I am going to do with it.

New life, huh. Sounds sexier than “Going to NYC or otherwise crying on the couch.”

Actually I’ve been doing good I’m on some new shit. Been saying yes instead of no. Thought I saw you at The Bus Stop but didn’t though.

It would’ve been fun
If you would’ve been The 1.

My original Veggie Patch friend was equally squicked out by “your new life.” She said ain’t nobody who has the power to derail that life needs to know about it.

I think there is an intent to help me get to it … if I’m ready or worthy. But she’s right. What if me saying what I really want to do with my life is just inviting more delays to it?

I mean, I think of Sia and me planning to go to Paris and I got fired that Christmas. Dare I put Paris back on my wishlist, only for it to be yanked away again 15 years later?

Not that the dream is dead; I’ve just been too afraid to dream it again.

So if I put something else on my list instead, maybe that’s something else to lose out on. Why have the same heartbreak twice.

Plus, maybe I’ll care a lot less if that also ends up on the pile of dreams half-dreamt.

New life, maybe. New things keeping me from believing in it, definitely.

Now, if I were to pull up my big Goddess panties, I would say with utmost confidence that those old things and people need to fight to stay in my new life.

Because there may be something better I was too afraid to go for in The Life Before.

Looking at Mom, Frosty, Jacky, Sia and so many others, it’s clear “the greatest loves of all time are over now.”

And I don’t want to waste what’s left of MY time NOT looking for “the 1” … whatever that will be.

“You throw your head back laughing like a little kid
I think it’s strange that you think I’m funny ’cause
He never did.”

I made myself a Swiftmas playlist last year. Never realized how many songs refer to the holidays, winter, falling snow, etc.

I was fortunate to sit in the “falling snow” of white confetti at the Miami Eras Tour during “All too Well.” It even got into my little purse. People sell that shit on eBay and Etsy for big bucks. I should know as I just paid $10 for two packs of “Karma” confetti. Whether it’s actually from my show or not, who knows but I have a craft project that depends on it.

“Begin Again” was also a fine song for this new year that began on a Wednesday. Also she wrote that song in Paris, which I aspire to see by Dec. 31.

Anyway that song gets me because it reminds me how my Mike/”Red” era started. Which I’ve tried to forget. Mike, anyway. I love the Red era, and always will.

I asked my friend CJ to call yesterday. He did. And I got that “Begin Again” vibe.

I specifically had a career-related topic to noodle over. But, as ever, our entire conversation was one distraction after another.

In a good way, I mean. Thinking up new things to talk about. Not like rude friends I’ve had over the years who let their kids scream into the phone. (Fucking Tina and that brat Ingrid.)

As we were hanging up, he said I feel like you had more to ponder and we didn’t get to it.

I said, no, I’m OK. I have a lot of thinking still to do.

And honestly, it was just nice to have someone to talk out loud with.

I said I used to have my Momma here. She’d tell me (redacted) sucks and (redacted) has no business doing (redacted) and you’re a goddess and you’re so much more magical than anyone will ever know. So go shine like you always do.

And in the absolute absence of that for the past six months and, now, the rest of my life, it’s nice to have a friend.

(INTHAF is also an adorable Tay song from “Lover.”)

In any event, he said tell you what, do your thinking. Text me your top three questions you come up with over the weekend. And I’ll try to give you some of that direction it sounds like you still need.

I mean, maybe this is how men are supposed to be. Shit, maybe this is how friends in general are supposed to be.

Anyway. I said to my boss on Thursday that I have no one looking out for me anymore without my Momma. And with CJ, I articulated how I also don’t have anyone to listen to and love me like her.

It’s not that it feels good to say it out loud or type it for posterity. But it feels helpful to put it into words just how great my loss — and how big my sadness — really is.

I mean, it still sucks that there is nothing or no one that can even begin to be all — or any — of that for me.

But, hey. A moment of connection when I needed it will go a long way.

I still have an impossible task ahead of me, and it’s ruining my sleep and now my weekend.

And even though he wouldn’t say this or that sucks, he did say you’ve got this.

I don’t know if I got this. But it was nice to hear that again.

“We walk down the block to my car
And I almost brought him up
But you start to talk about the movies
That your family watches every single Christmas
And I wanna talk about that
For the first time, what’s past is past.”

Boss was asking how my 2024 was.

Obviously I lost Mom and Cocoa. And I went from worrying all the time to eating to fill the void.

I said I was stressed out and he said over what. I realized I should probably stop talking. I also realized I really wasn’t stressed. Just empty.

I did say I got to meet a Kennedy. I pointed out “Not the whale juice one. A good one.”

For a moment, I teleported back in time. To being in New York in my best dress, fearless. To everyone thinking I was funny and sweet and treating me like an esteemed guest.

I did say it was so fun to be up there, talking to important people and them thinking I’m not the riff-raff.

I said I know I haven’t been the riff-raff for some time. But still. To be in the presence of a KENNEDY — a good one, Kerry — WOW.

Hindsight being what it is, I hope that registers as I am cool and funny and appreciated and employable.

Like, I know I could volunteer for the charity any old day. But if I wanted or needed a job, is that door open too?

I won’t answer that. I just wish they’d wonder. More importantly, not tell me to pursue it.

I did say that’s what I love most. Being OUT. Being social. Dressing up. Going to jury duty and cornering the energy analyst to ask how he values stocks. Learning and sharing information. Communicating. Being out of the house and with cool people.

Makes me wonder what I’m fighting for, if not that.

I don’t have bad days at work. But I have the occasional weird hour.

I got an email from my pal, chastising me for daring to edit.

Let me be clear. Edit is in my title.

I wrote about this before, of this one giving me something to run that I wrote before. And then some other entity made a bad edit to it.

Well, I made what I thought was a good edit to it (saying where they are based, which was incidentally useful to the next part of the story).

Anyway, today I got a big fat tsk tsk for adding where they are based as they are not actually based there.

OK.

And a big “stop editing their shit.” My words of course.

I said well ok fine but remember that creative/incorrect edit they made that YOU caught?

And I said I’ll remove it on the website.

Email comes back an hour later, “I don’t see it on the website.”

*blink*

I hopefully won’t think about this ever again after I hit publish. But at a time when I’m getting my own performance evaluated, it’s really really hard to keep these hard discussions focused on me when there’s that.

Well, the first New Year’s.

Honestly the first anything, really, without Momma.

I mean, I’ve had six and a half months of firsts. First day without her, first night without her, first week/month/season, etc.

Her first birthday not on the planet was pretty awful. That’s why I spent it in Orlando. And the day was still sucky AF, though I met Matt the next day and that ended up in me seeing New York for Christmas.

First Halloween sucked because she used to decorate the house so spectacularly. But even that kind of fizzled out bit by bit over the past couple years.

First Thanksgiving sucked but honestly I forget most of it. I know I went to DaDa, my happy place. But that time of year was always the anniversary of losing Grampy. And before that, it was celebrating, then mourning, his wedding anniversary. So, never my favorite time.

Christmas was HARD. I was kind of thinking I was OK but, nope.

At least I got back to Orlando, and much better weather, for Christmas.

Once again, I cried my way around the world, as I’d done in September, but this time without the rain to mask it.

So here I am at New Year’s. And honestly feeling a bit less worse than I expected.

There’s still the whole, “How on earth is there a year Mom and Cocoa weren’t alive in?! HOW??!!!”

But I did end up getting some pork and kraut. She’d normally want hot dogs, but I went with chicken sausage. And she’d normally prepare 10 sides to provide color and variety. I went with blackeyed peas and tossed the pork in to flavor them.

And none of Momma’s mashed potatoes, which were magical. So was her kraut. Mine was just OK. Just “arright,” as her mom would have said.

I didn’t take a pic of my plate. She would have been proud of me for trying, but she’d definitely say that monochromatic mess looks like a Cindy or a Kelly (not MY Kelly) special. Boring/bland/beige for the first and just plain weird for the second.

I wonder if Kelly (again not mine) is still making goofy cakes and shit. I miss peeking in on that social media. We definitely did the Statler & Waldorf thing, mom and me.

That’s what I’m missing most. Not the good food, though mine was definitely “arright” to her “holy shit, yum.” It’s the having some wine and cackling like two bitches.

She always called us two bitches. I think that might have originated with my grandmother over something arright. But I don’t really remember.

Anyway, I wouldn’t say it was my favorite holiday. But it wasn’t my worst, either. For that, I am grateful.

I saw on the bulletin board downstairs that Cheryl’s husband died at Christmas.

I looked at his photo — with a big old invite to his services on whatever day — and said sorry your wife is such a bitch.

She’s the one who screamed at me off the balcony for feeding ducks and threatened to fine me.

Still waiting. Have some balls, bitch.

Cheryl’s also the one who plays stink finger in the pool with Peppermint Patty, who has started trying to talk to me now that I put up a rainbow flag to counter the MAGA flag on the other side of me.

Anyway, I thought about all this stupid fanfare for Ron. Who I didn’t know and never cared to. Who I am sure is no loss, if he’s related to that wretch.

Made me think it’s high time to write an obituary for Momma. Someone who ACTUALLLY deserves to be celebrated.

I got to thinking about my Aunt Marion, who my cousin Elaine loved. I looked up Marion’s obituary and read it with new eyes.

“Survived by her loving husband Harry.” “Loved being a homemaker.” “Loved her nickname Penny.”

Where to start?

Penny … a short version of our shared maiden name? Nobody called any of us that. Lie.

Loved being a homemaker … you mean how Harry demanded she be a slave to him? Also she had some injuries I ALWAYS questioned. LIE.

Loving husband Harry … who sexually harassed Mom and Elaine? One of the uncles my Mom and Gram told me never hug and feel free to sit in your room while he visits?! HAHAHA FUCK THAT SHIT, NO LOVNG HUSBAND HERE.

That’s how I imagine writing Harry’s obit. It’s how I imagine writing Ron’s.

(Ironically, Ron is another name of another uncle of mine, though his obit would be more like FAKE FUCKING CHRISTIAN WHO JUDGES EVERYONE BUT HIMSELF who also somehow married well.)

In any event, since I have nothing nice to say about Cheryl’s husband, all I can really say is stay dead and take that bitch with you at your earliest possible convenience.

I never said new year/new me. I love me. In fact, I’m taking me up to a damn 11 or 12 in 2025.

Dawn: More extreme and unhinged than 2024. Fucking deal with it.

I’d say eat me, Cheryl, but she probably would.