Caterwauling

I used to be so angry at work.

This job and every job before it.

That people weren’t working 14 hours and commuting three like me.

That they had doctor’s appointments and dance recitals and soccer games to get to. That deadlines didn’t change because they had somewhere else to be.

That I felt somehow personally responsible for holding all the shitshows together.

That it never occurred to me to take the time I deserved and, frankly, needed.

I think of how Brad didn’t approve my vacation and feigned shock when I canceled it. He knew I wasn’t going to let anything fail. He knew I couldn’t trust him to do fuck all of anything to cover me. Because he would let it all go to shit and then BLAME me.

I think of all the doctor’s appointments I never made. All the appointments MOM never asked for because god forbid it would get in the way of work.

I think of all this now when the best I can give is a few hours of hard jamming because I cannot fucking focus on anything till 11 or later.

How I turn into a pumpkin at five and honestly it’s really four or 3:30. Though I will struggle till six just to justify the mythical “workday.”

I look back on those people I called lazy in my life. I still think most of them were. But a few, I wish I would have given them the grace I need.

The memory problems from (undiagnosed) long covid.

The aches and pains that come with being a woman of thirtysomething.

The fucking forgetfulness that made me order a pink shirt to go with the pink Christmas earrings I bought two weeks ago. The earrings that I’ve LOST and now I have a pink shirt and no jewelry to match.

The same forgetfulness that made me misplace Christmas ornaments and picture frames. Like seriously where the fuck are they, cavorting with the earrings? I bought a damn photo printer and a tree FFS. Can has one damn completed project? ONE?!!

Ok, one.

And the sadness of losing everyone and the guilt of wishing them away once or twice under some illusion that life would return to being calm and productive and fun again eventually.

I feel sometimes like I’m not entitled to my grief. And other times, I feel rightly sentenced to it.

Randomly I googled my landlady. Been here six years and it never occurred to me.

My god, it’s tragic. No wonder she does not give shit one about this place. Everyone who lives here dies. Everyone.

I better get out before I do, too.

Or maybe this is a good place to go out. Everybody’s doing it.

Good enough for them, good enough for me. Why would I think I deserve any better?

I read that therapy isn’t for learning to deal with sadness, trauma and loss.

It’s for learning to let joy back into your life.

Hunh.

I’ve seen so many people go to therapy and remain as fucked up as they were when they went in.

I attributed that to a lying psychologist I knew (Eve) and a counselor accused of SA (a guy I knew in person and might have had computer sex with when he moved away, when that was a thing). Before the SA allegations OFC.

Like, who were they to tell anyone how to live their best life.

But I have another friend in the industry who’s an upstanding citizen. And my Disney friend’s therapist has her reading about timeline jumping and the Fifth Dimension and shit. She’s lost some weight and gotten her life together. So, bravo.

I got to thinking about grief. It’s particularly bad this Christmas. And I’ve been sad ever since Mom’s diagnosis.

She was never lucky. Ever. I mean, she said she got lucky having me.

But I was always lucky. Shit, even yesterday, I got a flat tire … right across from Tires Plus.

It was mercifully still open on a Sunday night. And it was only $32 to patch.

Like, who has stories like that? Me, that’s who.

ETA the same tire kept me from leaving for Orlando on Christmas Eve. Lucky to be alive but not amused. But I made it for our 8 pm reservation!

I watched “It Ends With Us” three times yesterday. I’m overjoyed that Blake Lively, after suffering a monthslong smear campaign by the director, dropped an 80-page lawsuit with receipts.

It’s like when Taylor won her $1 lawsuit against the guy who groped her.

Like, why aren’t women treated with basic decency by men. Why does everyone side with the men. Why does a woman need photos and witnesses and a spine of steel to be believed.

I am so lucky I never had any big battles like that. May I always be, if not worshiped like I deserve, at least left to enjoy my life in peace.

That’s another saying I love. Stop doing more to hurt people who have little to nothing. Let them enjoy that nothing in peace.

That’s where I am right now. Peace at any cost. The phone stays off. My brain, too.

A friend who lost his mom and her two cats this year hopes to turn his grief into something positive next year. I said I’ve never been so unmotivated in my life, so let me know where you find that energy.

Anyway, what was I saying earlier? Therapy can help you learn to welcome joy back into your life again.

That right there is an interesting intention for the new year.

My Apple Replay says I listened to “Fortnight” most in 2024.

I think it’s just because that’s the first song on TTPD and I have the attention span of a duck.

The rest looks like a bangin’ playlist.

These days, I’m into Chappell Roan. But we are in the gray area where streaming services don’t include your activity in Replay/Wrapped. So I will have to give her some love in January.

Would have loved to have sent this to a few people.

Knee-deep in the passenger seat and you’re eating me out

Is it casual now?

Two weeks and your mom invites me to her house in Long Beach

Is it casual now?

Gotta get my yuks where I can since the tire light went on again and I barely even drive. And I have a dinner date out of town for Christmas Eve, so naturally what is one more annoyance.

Speaking of annoyance, I am blogging because it is the best place to hide online.

Everyone else is upset I have stopped answering texts.

(The passport thing broke me. I mean, everyone dying and the orange fuhrer winning broke me. Being denied a passport based on my appearance was the cherry on top.)

So they follow my likes and shit to make sure I am alive.

I should be more grateful.

My plan was to dodge all the invites and celebrate Mithra’s birthday at Disney Springs.

But I have another orphan friend who said any chance I can crash your party and I said of course.

So many orphan friends. We are too young for this.

I was hiding from that friend too last night. I took myself to “Holidaze,” which apparently is a Cirque du Soleil.

But it was so mid compared to “Drawn to Life.”

And “The Rockettes Christmas Spectacular” made Holidaze look like community theater.

To be fair, I was livid that I arrived over an hour early, waited forever for seats to fill up since I was near the aisle, and then the Kravis let in like 18 people after the show started.

Not only that but one guy picked a fight w me and I about tossed him over the Loge balcony.

Then someone brought in a walker and an usher had to crawl over us to get it back.

At least the girl next to me hated humanity as much as I do, so we bonded over idiots ruining our night.

Same idiots got lost at intermission too. She predicted they would. We got crawled over again by the same 18 people after the show restarted.

I know my Disney friend would have been hurt to not be invited. But they do a lot of shit without me too.

Still I was careful to get my first healthy selfie in an unmarked location.

And I was punch-drunk from my magic hot cocoa with peppermint rumchata.

Anyway I feel like I became such a snob this year. Now that I have gotten back to New York where I was around real Christmas, West Palm Beach just feels sadder and smaller. We only have good weather going for us.

I must have walked into (and out of) 14 bars. I wanted a holiday cocktail and couldn’t find one.

I did eventually twist a bartender’s arm at City Cellar to improvise. It tasted like apple pie with vanilla vodka. Made my night.

So did the Gingerbread House dessert that I brought home and ate at 5 a.m.

Anyway I need to wash the car and apparently I need to check the tires too.

And I guess I have to write people back so they will leave me alone.

Just let me and my couch cushions bond for a while longer. Like a few years longer.

Blessed Solstice.

A sign that these longest nights will come to a merciful, if not temporary, end.

No bored games for me, ever.

I did light a candle. Least I could do to honor the Mother night.

I haven’t left the house since I got back from New York.

Well, I take that back. I did go get groceries, and the elevator was broken. So I struggled with 10 bags and diminished lung capacity to scale the stairs.

The wine survived. But I can’t find my Ross treasures. So, they could still be in the stairwell for all I care.

Oh and I got a new bridge. It doesn’t fit right because I held my mouth wrong during the measurements.

So, leaving the house really isn’t working for me, overall.

Speaking of never wanting to interact with others again…

To retaliate against my dipshit neighbor’s MAGA banner, I put up a big rainbow flag and a “We’re Not Going Back” sticker.

And now suddenly Peppermint Patty, who yelled at Mom and me six years ago and whose death I have prayed for every day since, keeps trying to hit on me when I dash to the trash chute.

The elevator being broken wasn’t the worst of the week’s events, though Peppermint Patty following me around is definitely worse.

I went to get my passport renewed … and got rejected.

I’d had the photos taken after I came back from Key West, so I was tan and happy and blonder than ever.

Waited a month for my appointment at the post office. The lady took one look at my pics and said you need to get your money back. The State Department won’t let you have anything on your head.

A HEADBAND.

I said wouldn’t the State Department want me to look the same way I would on a street camera instead of for some kid at FedEx’s camera?

The lady offered to take a pic, but I was in a Santa hat from London & Martin, a gift from Matt at the gala afterparty.

I wasn’t about to take off that hat — with no makeup and snot coming out of every orifice — oh and hey, can we talk trauma for a minute?

Why the fuck do you think I cover my head at every available opportunity? Fucking think about it. There is a goddamn reason I don’t show my hairline.

I melted down in the post office.

Since I was in Boynton, the absolute trashiest place on earth and you cannot convince me otherwise, I said I wouldn’t even have to leave the country if all you low-class dipshits didn’t vote for trump in the first place.

The lady laughed.

I didn’t think I could hate trump or trumpers more. But now to dig up 40 years of absolute trauma that results in denying me my ticket out of the country that I don’t actually want to leave? Fuck y’all.

I tried to explain all this to my cousin when it happened. She didn’t understand why I was so upset, and I did what I always do. I shut the phone off for a week.

Only Mom would get it. Only Mom would know. Only Mom could say the right thing and have the right solution.

But no, that’s all on me now. To process shit alone and solve it if possible.

Or, more likely, to crawl on the couch with a blanket and Hallmark movies.

Which incidentally I wrote in my most recent newsletter because I am sick of everyone writing “I hope you can spend the holiday with family.”

Fuck you, no, I can’t.

And to top it off, Macro died.

And if you didn’t know Macro, you lost out.

Mom loved Macro. I hope she gets to give him a hug.

Macro and Jack, together again.

The thing they don’t tell you about rock bottom is there always seems to be another layer of parking beneath it.

It is bottomless bottom. It never fucking ends.

Rock Fucking Bottomless.

My bestie is incorrigible.

I am not saying that in a bad way.

They have got to know I’d rather masturbate with a chainsaw than hear from them.

Yet they persist anyway.

So today I decided to say yes to them getting brave enough to ask me for something. Give ’em a win for a change.

They were thrilled that I lost my will.

They gave me “approved” copy to run.

It’s literally what I wrote/published before.

I said can I edit out a couple of grafs that don’t apply?

(Seriously. It promised something that never happened. I mean, maybe it will. But it isn’t my project.)

They said sure. You’re the one who wrote them.

I mean, I’m glad we all agree on that. But it was such a weird moment.

Maybe I make too much of situations and people.

I’ve always said that, though. Most people I tell stories about aren’t as as interesting as the stories I tell about them.

Like Cindy. My god, I remember finding her Twatter funny because of all MY personality she was trying to co-opt.

Like, I would call her beige, and she’d spend 11 tweets owning her beigeness.

So I politely/creatively called her boring. But she had to spend 300 words proving that she was actually just plain old boring.

She threw in a few “old married farts” for good measure to assure us that there was literally nothing to see there.

I just feel bad I wasted so much of Mom’s good years (and mine) on this nonsense.

The best was that one time I said I was setting a boundary. Just like she claimed to be from Pittsburgh, Philly, Key West, the Old Key Lime House and Voodoo Bayou, she co-opted “boundaries” as something her Columbus Day ass discovered.

Surprising she hasn’t claimed “delulu” as her own.

One of these days.

Anyway. Enjoy Blue Sky’ing or whatever about me. Yawn.

I keep avoiding contact with Howler Monkey.

I tried to reach out recently. To share information.

Was met with a bunch of hysterical “why did I not know about this” (um, I just told you) and a bunch of illiterate questions (um, what part of I am telling you what I know about this situation did you miss).

This was sort of in response to this person commanding me that I do something for them.

And to not only do it, but to run it by them before I publish it.

And to not add any details or anything else that would make it sound like me, even though it’s being written in my voice in my newsletter with the whole goal of getting people to take an action.

This happens a few (dozen) times a year. I usually just end up saying well write something I can sign my name to. They tend to go away.

The last time they told me to write something and to run it by them, I said well why don’t YOU write something so I don’t have to speak to you.

Guess what they did? They rounded up the last seven or eight times I wrote something (without their approval) and said I have their approval (!) to use it.

No doubt they told the superiors that they did ALL THIS WORK and I ignored it.

I don’t doubt it because they told ME “I did ALL THIS WORK” and you didn’t use it.

You … copied and pasted? Kewl kewl.

My final straw with this hoe came last week.

We have a meeting where all we do is talk about numbers. On a scale of 1 to 10, what’s the likelihood this will be done by the end of the quarter.

I mean, it also ends up with her presenting her Festivus list to our boss. With 14 bored people who do not understand any of it.

I was giving my numbers — after being in NY for four days and sick for two — and this bitch says I don’t know WHY you give this a NINE. I haven’t seen it or been consulted about it.

A task … that is mine … and has nothing to do with you … say what now?

The meeting moderator asked me if I need another meeting scheduled where it could be discussed. I said I DO NOT. I’m talking to my team later today and that’s who I need to talk to.

I keep waiting to get called out on my behavior. Which is to draw a big fat boundary and not even acknowledge any of this.

I have my comment ready to go, too. Why do I dodge Howler at all costs?

Well, because we’ve not had one single productive interaction. They have not once given me advice — solicited or otherwise — that was of any value to me or that improved anything I was working on.

I watch others, too, when this one talks. They don’t get the same gas face that I do. But some do the same nonresponse and I think that’s great. Some others do the patronizing “oh that’s so great” and then who knows if they do it.

I gotta give an award to someone on my team. I was in the throes of covid last week and a girl I LOVE said she was gonna get one of those treadmills so she can keep up with Howler.

I could feel my face go ugly. Like fuuuckkk not this shit again.

My staffer said something absolutely delightful and got me talking and cracking up.

I thanked said staffer today. I said I know exactly what you did and I cannot thank you enough.

She did one of those “whatever do you mean?” deals, but I could tell she was pleased I saw her.

After all, she witnessed a lot of the bad behavior toward me. She knows exactly the moment I turned. And that there’s no turning back.

I don’t know how “I’ve never had a productive conversation with or suggestion from this person” would go over if/when confronted. It’s a lot nicer than “I’ve lived 50 years without their advice or opinion and I could go another 50.”

I liken this all to when you have some annoying guy grab your ass at a Christmas party or stare at your boobs or otherwise try to enlist the IT guys to spy on you and they’re still your boss. You can’t kill them or have them arrested or even disciplined. But for your own mental health, you can stay far away from them.

If their opinion or input is so valued, then whoever values it can find a way to preserve those wisdomy pearls and let those shine like the crazy I don’t have the capacity for.

To be clear, it would be nice to have an ally. I do not see having or being one here. I do like and try to work with their staff. But it really would be nice to not think of ways to not be noticed, in a world where recognition is everything.

I’d say I forgot that Mom and I used to go to Delmonico on Dec. 9, but I don’t forget much. And I hope I never forget.

I haven’t posted much in the past six (holy hell) months since she passed.

You can either find me on the couch or out of state. There are no in-betweens. I’m either in a pit of depression or else trying to outrun it.

At least my step count gets averaged out. 20 or 20,000, take your pick.

In any event, I spent the days leading up to THIS Dec. 9 on Wall Street.

Long story, but a good one.

I also spent four days walking past Delmonico on Beaver Street. And my tears freezing to my cheeks every damn time.

The whole being located on Beaver Street was hilarious. Mom always called us “Twin Beaves” when we dressed alike — completely unaware of what the other was doing, mind you.

Twin Beaves used to make me cringe so hard. Now I would give anything to hear her say that.

I already got to the Orlando location this year for Mom’s birthday. Still the hardest I’ve cried all year. And that’s saying something.

As it is a time for thinking about the less fortunate, I just took a swing over to Cindy’s twitter, since I know she loves it so much.

Her “last post” (as if she ever goes away, hah) is a repost of her getting to Delmonico’s in 2019. Looking down her nose at it, actually.

What a petty, vile piece of shit you have to be to continually shit on something because it was special to me and my family.

I’m not going to die on the hill that she could have been the victim/hero of the whole five years ago mess. (Instead she chose to be the villain.) But she’s welcome to.

I will, however, Luigi her or anyone on the hill that the absolute best person to ever grace any Delmonico (and this world) will never get to do that again.

I am what a loved, proud daughter looks like. In case anyone was curious.

Minus the Sahara part ofc.

Interesting how, once again, people who don’t show up for our scheduled meetings feel the need to call and message me on vacation.

If you remind me of Brad, seek therapy or Sky Daddy or whatever it takes to get right.

My cousin asked how my day was.

I told her about someone who had ruined it.

Her guess is the title of this tome.

I guess it’s less a psychic vibe than an educated guess.

Also, she’s not wrong.