Caterwauling

Now and then, she rereads the manuscript
Of the entire torrid affair.

I really don’t.

Not only do I not go through old text messages, I will admit to deleting most of them.

But I do have a million journals. And even those are collecting dust right now.

If I did read them, I’d either remember why I loved them … or why I didn’t.

And neither of those is good for me.

In the age of him, she wished she was thirty
And made coffee every morning in a French press.

30-ish. Right, Wildebeest?

Afterward, she only ate kids’ cereal
And couldn’t sleep unless it was in her mother’s bed

Literally everything makes me miss my mother.

Like, Nov. 25 is my grandparents’ wedding anniversary. 1950. 74 years ago.

And my grandfather died in the wee hours of Nov. 26. Killed by the Veterans Administration hospital in Aspinwall (Pittsburgh). I hope Dr. Trang killed herself because she was so incompetent.

Anyway. I would normally be sad with mom right now. Now I’m sad without her.

The years passed like scenes of a show
The professor said to write what you know.

I spend my life worried I’m not good enough for/at my job. Then I spend five seconds with Howler.

But then I get out and about — on vacation, with other Wall Street types, in jury duty — and I realize I’M FUNNY AS HELL. First of all. And second, that people LISTEN to me. And LOOK TO ME for leadership.

And I think about Taylor Swift. (Shut up if you have a problem.) Like, if there was never an Eras Tour, she never would have broken up with Joe … dated Ratty … and met Travis.

Also, I remember the Tampa show. She was so serious. So sad. I mean, hell of a show. But seeing her a year and a half later in Miami, she’s all giddy and giggles and just GLOWING and shit.

And Travis — he was already a phenomenal player. But he’s gotten even BETTER. His track record, already near impeccable, has gotten even closer to perfect.

Travis’ signature arrow in Miami, a year and a half after the Tampa show.

Iron sharpens iron, the bible thumper types say.

What if my iron struck someone else’s iron? Would there be alchemy there, too?

Meanwhile I am sitting around all dull and shit. I don’t want to end up like (redacted).

Forget the unexamined life. I’ve examined it plenty.

I don’t want an UNLIVED life.

Lately I alternate between living hard for a few days and then sitting on my uncomfortable couch for weeks at a time.

Like, even last week I felt alive. Hell even today I did about 10 loads of laundry of unused shit I can’t wait to donate. But it’s all done in procrastination of shit I find so tedious. Nothing like a painful work project to ensure I have a clean house.

And at last, she knew what the agony had been for.

Nothing happens to/for you while you’re sitting in your apartment.

And I’m not going to find what the agony has been for inside these walls.

Maybe I’ll never have my own Eras Tour level of success. Or my own Travis.

Or maybe I would, if I just set out to find both.

Now and then, I reread the manuscript
But the story isn’t mine anymore

Time to write a whole new story. Let (redacted) stay right where I left them.

So, after I penned my eponymous “Fuck VITAS Hospice in Boynton Beach, Florida” tome, I didn’t expect it to go anywhere.

I mean, other than Cindy, Scott and two Chrises, and maaaaybe Psychofag on occasion, who the hell reads this thing, right?

Anyway, VITAS sent me a survey. Which I thought was hilarious. So I created a Bit.ly link and said you can read the blog.

So, a month goes by. Finally someone calls me and says so what do you want us to do with this.

I said are you people for real. You swoop in every four to six weeks to reopen my very raw wounds.

I reminded them YOU asked ME to fill out the survey.

What do I want you to do? Provide better service to the terminally ill.

What do you want me to say — to please keep providing substandard care? STOP CALLING ME is what I want you to do.

I hung up after that.

Jesus Fuck All CHRIST what is WRONG with people.

I can’t leave well enough alone.

The legal case, I haven’t stopped Googling.

The incident happened right at the same time Mom took a turn for the worst.

I remember her telling me about it from the news. And it went right out of my head as fast as it entered.

Even though I knew the location very well at the time of the trial, I drove around the area yesterday.

There is no possible way the defendant wouldn’t have known (redacted). NO WAY.

It’s also unforgivable that the defendant (redacted). Like, we got tripped up on “willfully” in the jury room. Fuck that shit. Everything had to be willful, including ignorance. You know, like tRump voters.

(He and his ex-wife are independent non-voters. Yes I looked up that shit, too.)

What really fries my chitlins is the legal charge that was either thrown out or given to another jury. What the fuck else did they keep from us?

Like, I feel like my time was wasted. WASTED.

I am very glad we the jury arrived at our collective conclusion.

For a while I felt like ass that the lone holdout thanked ME of all people in the end. For explaining the law to her. For her to see why we all said guilty.

Like, what if she was one of the “Twelve Angry Men” who saw something we didn’t?

I had even asked my fellow jurors, OK, this is it. Before we turn in the paperwork, what are we missing? What if we can end up being “Twelve Angry Men?”

We didn’t. We were just six humans who knew that our job was simply to listen and to give the judge the piece of information she couldn’t legally determine on her own.

Anyway. I just have to bleed out the wound here so I don’t carry it with me.

I still can’t figure out what the victim was thinking when he (redacted). But in no way, shape or form did he deserve what happened to him. And if (redacted) didn’t happen, he’d still be living his life.

One last thing and I’ll shut up about it forever (or until tomorrow) …

I am truly shocked at how many prospective jurors also said they are single. Just like the defendant and the decedent.

Like, how many of us are alone (or lonely, or both) while more than half the room is also unattached?

And this shit was said under oath. It’s not like all these married guys I meet who either have a hope or a plan for getting out of their relationship/marriage.

In any event, maybe that’s my takeaway. Have prospective partners say under oath whether they are single or have some attachment that could complicate matters.

I don’t mean to make light out of any of this. I just need to figure out what I need to take away from this other than yanking the Very Good Researcher(TM) crown out of Will D. Beest’s matted mop.

Before the trial began, the judge asked us not to Google the case.

I was fine with that. My laziness will win out over my curiosity any day of the week.

After my sleepless post-verdict night, Howler Monkey immediately started screeching in my direction.

Jesus FUCK, babe. I cannot stand you on my best day, and today is not my best day.

To buy myself some time to come up with an answer that contained no “F” bombs, I finally Googled the case.

Holy FUCK.

There were a few times I had felt bad for the guy, like, his lawyers were trying to lose him this case.

But it looks like they did well by him. They got a very serious charge thrown out before it came to the jury. Or, at least, it was not THIS jury’s responsibility to decide on it.

Knowing it now explains a lot. A LOT.

I found the PBSO report too. Not that I am in the business of trusting cops. But the ones I saw on the stand were credible, thorough and, honestly, they made our jobs easier.

Anyway, with good investigators and attorneys, we arrived at the right verdict.

Getting the extra information reinforced it.

I hope the other jurors who wrestled so hard with it made the same discoveries.

What the smart guy on the jury, along with the third-grade teacher and I, wondered was why would Lil Dude request a jury trial.

I get it now. We could have gone with not guilty. Or we could have picked one of three other verdicts.

So, a 25% chance of going free.

Once again, luck was not on his side. Not on the day of the accident. Not on the day of the verdict. Maybe, even when he finishes serving his time, not ever.

I think about luck a lot.

I violated no fewer than four traffic laws on Thursday alone.

But I slept in my own bed with large purring loafs.

And, unlike him, I didn’t have an ex lurking in the audience to see to it that I was put away for a good, long while.

(I have enough exes lurking, but from a safer distance.)

Also I am grateful that everyone ex-Howler been gracious about my blown deadlines and messed-up mind.

Here’s hoping my charmed life (as it were, as I am aware I’m the dog in the fire saying “This is Fine”) never runs out of charm.

And that Lil Dude can turn his luck around somehow. Or at least get back to a base level of unlucky from current levels.

There’s a saying in Swiftie-land, “Screaming, crying, throwing up.”

It’s a takeoff on Taylor Swift’s lyric, “Screaming, crying, perfect storms” in “Blank Space.”

We usually use it when Taylor performs a surprise song on The Eras Tour that we consider “ours.”

For me now, up at 2:15 a.m. after finding a defendant guilty of the worst charge put in front of me, it feels appropriate.

The judge — who I remember voting for, and I am glad I did — said we enjoy a special privilege as jurors. That is, to never speak of this again. Not to reporters or people who just want to know.

What I will say is I was very happy with the juror pool. Super smart people. Really great discussions.

I was pretty happy that the smartest one in the room and I wrote down the same exact questions. And wanted to see the exact same exhibits again.

The law is written so obtusely. We both took issue with “willfully” and “involved.”

And even though we asked the judge for some clarification, all she could do is read the charging documents to us again.

Like, those lawyers KNEW we’d get tripped up on those words. I gotta hand it to them, they did their jobs well.

Still. We sent a nice man to jail for what I assume will be a very long time. Over a stupid thing that could have happened to any of us. Because the law apparently mandates how you are supposed to react in this sort of moment.

I will miss the court deputy most of all. He was so kind to us. I of course kept cracking jokes, and he couldn’t keep his serious facade for more than 30 seconds.

I asked him why we got picked. There were 63 other people who got quizzed during jury selection. I said beyond voir dire, you guys only talked to two other people in this room.

The deputy said you listened the hardest, answered the most directly, and basically just had the right body language.

He said you can just tell who will absolutely upend the process, and those are the people we send home.

Anyway, when we all parted — after days of sitting stone-silent in a room together, and then debating fiercely and eventually laughing together because JESUS CHRIST THIS SHIT IS STRESSFUL — I wished everyone well, thanked them for being so cool and adding, “It was a pleasure NOT speaking to you for the last four days.”

They all went to the garage. I walked my happy ass back to Elisabetta’s for the third and final time of the week. Because, drinks. So many drinks. All the drinks.

(At this point I imagine old Cindy is either going to rush her happy ass there or post for no one to read that she built the building it’s in and therefore lays claim to it.)

Anyway. I could write all night. But I feel like absolute dog shit. Even though it was a unanimous vote, the smart guy and I said a lot to get the whole group to that outcome.

Honestly I was praying the defense said or did something to make me go the other way.

I think we all were. So, it’s not on me by any stretch.

But that won’t stop me from thinking we just helped the “justice” system to make a tragic situation even fucking worse.

I am not speaking of jury duty.

While we do get a lot of breaks, most of them are actually whilst sitting in the courtroom. With white noise blasting over the speakers so the million microphones don’t pick up what the judge and lawyers are whispering about.

I am proud of me for controlling my facial expressions for a whole three days.

Tomorrow is the final day of testimony. Then deliberations begin. They expect we’ll be done late Friday.

I’ve had performance reviews hanging over my head since before my vacation. That was a crazy week, with writing extra stuff and my bestie not fucking comprehending simple goddamned information about what I was trying to do. Not that any of it was their business.

Then I was off. Then the catch-up week was hell.

Then I had a normal week. Yes I should have done reviews but I feel A Certain Way about those in general.

Now Jury Duty week. Which I did not expect but honestly I’m appreciative of the new experience.

I know this isn’t supposed to be emotional. But sitting expressionless for three days — observing what I am observing — is freaking emotional.

I just ask Momma (who I swear is sitting behind me at the trial — she LOVED watching trials on TV and always told me she was “going to court” on those days) to help me be fair and just when the time comes.

Imma have to ask her to keep me off the court docket, though, because I was told today there’s a MANDATORY FUN event coming up next year at la oficina, planned by my bestie.

So, planned by a hired group that I happen to love. But still. Lucy Van Pelt the Christmas Queen and all. Clap for T-Shirts.

Anyway, here’s hoping that I can remember how to remain expressionless during the day.

Which, I am sure has been aided by the fact that I scream in my car before and afterward.

I just have to remember to keep the windows up next time.

Maybe I better schedule myself on that court docket while I’m in the building after all. I hope defendants get free parking.

I’ve been asked not to Google the case. Or to blog about it. Or to use any sort of social media.

Check, check and check.

So I’ll do what I do best. Obfuscate the issue.

Monday was juror selection day.

How the hell I ended up as one out of 70 is beyond me.

Actually, no, I take that back. I knew from the moment I saw the other 69 that I was doomed.

For starters, dress code said professional.

The only reason I was in Ralph Lauren was because it’s the only thing in my closet that fits my fat ass.

But still. Lots of beach wear. Yoga wear. Wrinkled wear.

Look. I know I’ve had professional jobs and I have a whole ass wardrobe for this shit. This is NOT me judging quality. I saw a few people really tried.

I also smelled a few people. Who clearly, shall we say, gave their clothes a wearing before. And I am speaking of the attorney to my right. I know day-old funk when I smell it.

Appearance, again, I can give a pass to. But I knew when I walked into the courtroom and the prosecution’s AND the defense’s eyes brightened up — and they made some quick notes — my fate was sealed.

Meet Juror No. 6.

Six out of 70. Also, I totally agree with their choices of one out of five. If indeed it’s a rank.

How did I get selected, indeed.

Let me answer that with a statement.

Which is …

After eight hours with all walks of society, I can understand how Trump got votes.

I’m not saying everyone is dumb or mean. Necessarily, anyway. But what I will say is their logic is as circular as some of their family trees.

Like, everyone got to ask questions. Or to say why they feel they might not be objective.

How my face — and my voice — refrained from screaming, “Sir, this is a Wendy’s!” about 40 times is BEYOND ME.

I thought, Jesus, this is who didn’t understand Amendment 4 and voted against it. This is where the 3% we needed to get it to 60% live.

Like, don’t think so hard. Just listen, read, and quiet that weird little brain of yours. You are not that deep.

In any event, when my name got called, I was not surprised at all.

If you think about it — we just put voters in charge of the election. And we collectively fucked up that assignment.

And then they put voters in charge of people’s fates. Jesus H. Tap-Dancing Christ.

Hanging out in the jury room with this group, I really feel like the attorneys put the best people from this jury pool in charge of the outcome.

So, to answer Kelly, it’s my mad English-speaking and -comprehending skillz that got me to round 2.

It’s my mad “answering questions succinctly and directly” that got me to round 3.

And frankly, I think hearing I live five minutes from the courthouse and have no spouse or kids to accommodate that sealed that deal.

Actually to answer very seriously, they were SUPER clear that they need people who can make decisions.

So when I said my job title, I got more notes made about me. I decide shit all day long. So, I hope I can help them get a verdict when this wraps up.

Also I don’t know if I’m decisive. But I am opinionated AF.

For example, I wonder whether all the people who said they don’t comprehend English well were truthful. Maybe they saw that as a way out. That was a third of the group right there.

Same with the dumb question gang. This guy next to me disqualified himself with his first dumb statement. (That people who don’t testify are cowards.)

But then he said something else really ridiculous. (That cops are second only to God in terms of truth-telling.)

Like dude, they know you’re either an idiot or trying hard to appear as one.

That all said, I realize how judgmental I’ve gotten in my advanced age. I have seen a lot of the world. I have spent time with all kinds of different people, creeds, races, cultures, etc. I’ve taken care of someone till the end of her life.

I get that no one’s had my experiences. I also get that I haven’t had theirs. But still.

I may or may not be the adultiest adult in the room. But the weight of making good decisions on my own is a heavy one. Making a good one WITH West Palm’s finest is even more daunting.

Dreamed about my grandmother.

She passed 25 years ago.

I got to hug her. And she smelled so good.

I got my love of designer perfumes from her.

We had a pier cabinet inside the front door. One shelf was for her perfumes. So I could always sneak a dab on the way out the door.

The last perfume I remember her wearing was an Elizabeth Taylor one. I want to say it was Passion. Whatever the purple one was.

She bought me White Diamonds. Haven’t worn it in forever but it makes me think of her when I see it.

In the dream, everything was perfect. I had a beach house. We were watching Taylor Swift videos because my grandfather had said in the dream that he loved “Fearless.”

Mom was there too. She was feeding Cocoa in the kitchen.

Hugging Gram felt so real. I squeezed her so tight. She kept saying I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

I said don’t ever be sorry. You didn’t want to leave.

If anyone is sorry, it’s me for telling you it was OK to leave. I didn’t think you would.

I think this all stemmed from being in Ross Dress for Less yesterday. I got invited to a gala and I was looking for some shoes.

Since it’s Christmas, they have perfume gift sets by the register.

They had Mugler Elixir for $34.99. Pretty sure I spent $300 on my bottle of Mugler’s Angel. The girl in line behind me and I smelled the Elixir and agreed it was awful. So that was a no-go.

They also had a Calvin Klein Euphoria gift set for $34.99. JACKPOT. I haven’t had Euphoria in years.

Anyway I remember saying, “Thanks, Gram,” when I picked that up.

This all makes me realize what a charmed life I’ve lived.

My family didn’t get a good life. Lots of bad things happened to all of them.

Meanwhile I have them all on my altar, and I call upon the power of the universe to give me all the good fortune they were denied.

If I know all of them, they are conspiring to give it to me.

Thank you, Gram, for that hug. This little orphan child really needed to see and touch you.

My friend Jared writes that all the time.

Go out and create things and do things. Take risk in the stock market. Build your dream home. Go see the world.

Easy for him to say, as an ex-investment banker type.

But he’s written a bunch of books, runs a newsletter, has a publishing deal with my ex-employer, etc.

And like nine cats.

So basically, we are birthday twins but I wouldn’t mind being him when I grow up.

In any event, I was thinking about standing in line for beignets at Cafe du Monde. Which, honestly, Baby’s Coffee makes such better ones. I got a key lime one that changed my life there.

In any event, I had a Swiftie in front of me at the Cafe, and two tourists behind me.

The Swiftie, age 25 from Maryland, was just going on and on and ON about not having anyone to come with her to the concert. So she did all the hotel and StubHub stuff all by herself.

Welcome to adulthood, friend.

People behind me asked how many times she’s seen Taylor. She said this was her first.

Meanwhile I’m there with friendship bracelets up to my elbow, so they said how many times have you seen her.

Four, I said.

The Maryland one stopped bragging.

I read her loud and clear that she wasn’t the one who paid for that big fat ticket. Sure, she can use the platform, but that was daddy’s hunk of cash.

Which … I wouldn’t have known about but the people behind us asked.

There is a rule in Swiftie-dom, that you don’t ask a woman her weight, her salary or what she paid for Taylor Swift.

I usually honor it.

But not this day.

The 25yo and I gave our numbers — which, I’ll add to the previous list, I will give you my sex number AND my weight any day before I ever tell you what I spent on my tickets (let alone the inflated hotel prices) in four cities.

Let’s all say our sex numbers! And … go!

In any event, after I said my “what I paid for Miami and NOLA seats” … I felt absolutely like shit.

That was because the couple behind us scoffed, “Oh, I would NEVER pay that.”

I said well my mother and my favorite cat just died. I get my kicks where I can.

The line diverged at that point, into dining room and takeout. I took the takeout line and left the other three, happily.

I was telling JH about it later. She, too, had a “telling her number” story.

Like the 25yo, she didn’t have tickets or anyone to go with. But she said life’s too short and bought herself a spur-of-the-moment weekend vacation.

When someone asked what she paid, she answered.

She, too, said she felt awful and won’t do that again.

I said you know what it is? It’s not that we are bragging. We assigned a value to a life experience and we got our money’s worth.

The ick, I think, comes from feeling like speaking it into the universe makes us a target for misfortune. Like, will the universe take it as bragging. Will the paychecks and good luck still keep coming.

She said oh my god yes that’s it.

I said my rule was if someone is rude enough to ask, I’m rude enough to reply. But now I don’t want any sort of weird karma chasing me.

I never did get her Taylor number. Nor she, mine.

Like with all my numbers, I can’t count that high.

I said, so what did you say to the person who asked what you paid?

She said oh after they did the whole, “I would NEVER pay that,” she said, “Good. More tickets for the rest of us.”

Brilliant girl.

I got to thinking about this today because I have one more trip on the horizon before year-end.

Talk about an impulse trip.

I am calling it self-care.

I’m all about funding NPR and PBS in the new year.

For now … I am trying to reclaim my fucking joy.

Look. Orange Fuhrer rigged the part of the election he didn’t win.

My friend T., who is an expat and helps other people get out, says he is getting most of his calls from REPUBLICANS.

People who voted for the shitstain and tell him, “I don’t like where the country is going.”

You fuckers dealt it so you best fucking be around to smelt it, or whatever the fucking metaphor is.

Christ.

I mean, yes, I voted for a sales tax increase in FL. And I sure love that it passed. It’s supposed to benefit the unhoused. But having these trump-votin’ dipshits here to pay it if/when I leave feels kind of nice.

Where was I?

Oh, one more odyssey.

People who’ve got shit to say about anything I’ve done in 2H can eat my entire ass. And it’s a big badonkadonk.

Look what I had to lose to get it.

My joy, not my bulbous bottom.

But like J-rad says, nothing’s going to happen for you while you’re sitting in your apartment.

That said, she happens TO you. The HOA fee is going up 42%. That’s … $1,500 a month.

Big yikes.

Maybe I should start looking for real estate where I’m going.

At least it’s Blue AF in the city.

Last year when we heard Taylor Swift was going to play in Miami, NOLA and Indy, one of my colleagues said let’s try to get Miami tix.

If one gets in, we agree to take the other one.

Man, my ass signed up for the presale for two of the three Miami nights. I fortunately got a presale code; many didn’t.

Was about 6,000th in line at the presale. Competed like HELL once I got in to buy tix.

Didn’t get shit for either of my nights.

Crushed, I told the colleague of my failures. Asked how she fared.

Answer: “You had to sign up as a Verified Fan?”

I was SO MAD. It was an indicator of performance to come. Like, THINK, woman.

If I’d had my way about it, I would have chased tickets in NOLA during the pre-sale. I felt like that was the easier path. Especially since Caesars Superdome is a lot fucking bigger than Hard Rock Stadium.

In any event, I was on Facebook and got to talking to a fellow Swiftie named Maddison.

She knew of a girl, Emily, who bought four tickets and wanted to sell one of them.

Emily and I made a deal and nervously executed our first (for each of us) transaction like this.

I held my breath and sent her a big fucking sum of money. And she held her breath and parted with her spare ticket.

We didn’t talk for about a year. Before the show, I messaged her to say hey are you still using all your tickets, because my cousin is very interested in buying one.

Emily was very sweet and said everyone was still coming. She wondered if I was going to sell my seat to try to get two seats together with my cousin.

I said, no. You were so great to do business with. I am not giving up this seat for anything,

She said awesome and can’t wait to meet you there.

Fast-forward to the concert. I trip over a bunch of people with my water and booze to get to Seat 15.

There are three seats to my right that remain empty well into Gracie Abrams’ set.

There’s one seat to my left that’s empty.

I was SIMMERING.

Like, I figured the three empty seats were for Emily & Co. And if these bitches weren’t coming, I would have bought all the seats.

Two of five.

Meanwhile the empty seat to my left gets an occupant. She’s stinky, is the nicest thing I can say.

Finally the three seats get filled. A very pretty girl with her mom and aunt.

I kept trying to catch her eye, but no luck.

Then they all decide to go pee before Taylor gets on. They walk past me and the girl says, “Oh my gosh, I LOVE your dress.”

I said thank you and are you Emily? She smiles, says no, and promises this will be their only trip out of their seats.

So. Hmm.

So that means the girls I stumbled over were Emily and one of her people.

Now, she knew she sold Seat 15.

I did not know whether she owned 12-14 or 16-18.

Clearly I eliminated 16-18.

Would you believe none of these heifers to my left said boo to me before, during or after the show?

Stinky, woof. I mean, she kept to herself. But she must have had some of that gator sausage that the vendors were selling. But the dry-roasted ass smell was enough to make me vomit up my Lavender Haze.

All three of them.

Seriously, Caesars Superdome. Everyone loves nachos and brisket and sausage. But not when we are breathing each other’s air.

I ended up at Nina’s Creole Cottage after goddamn midnight to get some grub.

I still dream of her boudin balls.

In any event, I saw the girl on the other side of dry-roasted ass in the bathroom. I struck up a conversation and she was perfectly nice.

But she wasn’t Emily.

Ironically enough, I was standing in line at Cafe du Monde when I not only saw JH there with a tour group … but EMILY and the nice friend were three tables away.

I debated introducing myself then.

Stinky was nowhere to be seen. Table for two, in fact.

I was now steaming.

Obviously I COULD have bought that seat, as they were clearly not even talking to her at the show (and she kept leaving) and definitely not with her the next day.

So, I mean, I get that our relationship was transactional.

But Christ, you are there with 1-2 friends. Say fucking hello.

My cousin, who didn’t get to come even though I said grab a flight and enjoy my overpriced hotel with me, is an introvert. So she said maybe Emily is an introvert too.

I said sure but for the fact that her pretty friend was halfway social, you think she’d say oh hey we are glad you made it or some shit.

Anyway. I bought an actual fuckload of souvenirs for my cousin and her kid. They were supposed to be a Christmas gift. But with the election and American women in general sucking, I sent everything over the weekend.

I got us both a hand-painted tumbler with a Swiftie theme. Limited edition, Not available after the concert.

Hilariously she saw me comment in a forum about mine and she said she was kind of jealous. She even told her husband she was bummed she didn’t get one.

Then, boom, it arrived in the mail the next day.

I am magical.

I do wish she could have come. Honestly I didn’t have as much fun AT the NOLA show as I did at the Miami one.

(Thank you, resale.)

Miami show was fun AF.

But I had way more fun toddling around The Big Easy and shopping and eating and enjoying all the Swiftie love.

Anyway, I wish Emily and her pretty friend well. And I don’t have any thoughts about the other one. Shame she traveled all that way to not enjoy herself … when there’s someone who really would have loved to take her place.