Caterwauling

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.

Momma always made me the best breakfasts.

Like, to the point I preferred hers over eating out.

Since she died five months ago (omg), I mostly order a fuckload of breakfast sides once a week from one of the local diners. Heat the meats and then fry or scramble some eggs in the grease.

I know she’d be proud of my feeble efforts. But I also know that somewhere, she’s so sad that I don’t get anything made with love anymore.

Today I opened a pack of turkey bacon and fried up three pieces.

What she would always do is make three pieces of any sort of meat. She would make a beautiful egg and give me two pieces of the breakfast meat.

And then there would always be one extra piece of meat wrapped in a paper towel on the stove for me when I felt snackish.

I’ve noticed for five months, but never really put it together till today, that I always want some sort of after-breakfast treat.

Always chalked it up to just not feeling satisfied anymore.

And I usually end up killing a bag of popcorn or chips or chocolate that somehow is supposed to have six servings but hahahahah it’s really just one. Fatass.

Today I remembered, Mom always left me that “extra” so I could feel like I had dessert or whatever.

I still can’t believe she’s gone and yet so many people who are so dense that light bends around them refuse to die.

With every trip away from home, I’ve gotten more used to Mom not being here.

I mean when you think about it, I went to NASA and Cocoa Beach, Orlando and Lake Buena Vista, New York and Pittsburgh, New Orleans, and Key West and the Middle Keys. Just in the back half of 2024.

It was the worst year of my life with losing Cocoa and Mom and democracy. But look what I gained.

I’m plotting out one more escape before Project 2025 kicks in and my interstate travel is either banned or, at least, hampered by the tracking of menses in women under age 55.

I am literally here with an invite to my cousin’s for Thanksgiving, Christmas AND to an event at Carnegie Science Center in early December.

I also have plans with K for Thanksgiving. We were thinking Disney.

But then she mentioned Tennessee for Christmas. And that sounded nice too.

Then I got to thinking — what if I took (redacted) up on his offer to join him in (redacted) for a few days next month.

And frankly I kind of want to see Tennessee but in March. Reasons undisclosed.

K will be in (redacted) at the same time I would theoretically be. But with her dope of the month.

Shame she and I couldn’t travel and stay together. Save a few bucks at least.

In any event, when I was leaving Key West, I realized that I hate going home because I am trapped there.

I don’t walk, I don’t shop, I don’t do shit. I work and I die after I snap the laptop closed.

All those things I thought I would do now that I didn’t have to worry about dinner and getting supplies — things like writing, exercising, dreaming, doing — I don’t.

Literally I am either free as a bird on vacation or I am a prisoner to my own inertia at home.

But this trip felt different. I thought, OK, you are going to go home. Keep your tan. Tackle your to-do list. Bloom where you’re planted.

Then Trump had to steal the election again. Or Republican women delivered it to him. Whichever. Both.

Now I am worse than depressed. I am crippled.

I figure with the adjudicated rapist president picking a Fox News host to lead the Pentagon and a sex trafficker to be attorney general, he’s going to kill us all but at least we will die laughing.

And looking at everyone wondering how they let this happen is exhausting. Like you should be fucking branded with your IQ if you voted for him.

In any event, I was kind of thinking “stay local” and “save money to flee the country.”

But I need to chase that high again — anywhere but here — because the inevitability of Trump burning down the country once and for all doesn’t motivate me like it once did.

In the end, I do think we are all either going to be Winona Ryder lighting her cigarette from the explosion in “Heathers” or we’re going to be Christian Slater with the bomb strapped to his chest in the high school’s boiler room.

I think I’ll be Christian Slater because I will never be a Heather. Which, ponder the irony that I would choose to be a Christian. In any sense.

Being a Heather is worse than being a Christian. Huh. Who knew.

I had a moment today.

I used to often start sentences with, “If I were (department) director.”

Knowing full well I was, of course.

But I kind of always hedged it. Maybe I was waiting for my idea or will to be overturned.

I’m a lifelong Democratic voter after all. My will isn’t exactly done.

Anyway it became a joke and then Howler spelled “director” wrong on a badge and honestly the life and humor got sucked out of me.

Today I was brainstorming with my team. And I started to say, “If I were (department) director.”

And I stopped myself and said I am the director. So AS director, I say (what I needed to say).

I told them, if this election has taught me anything, it’s that I want all of us to step into our power.

I made them promise they will own their feelings and beliefs, too. And own reality.

You ARE in charge. Show me. Show the world.

I hope this was a good meeting today. I mean, we covered all the business stuff. But I checked in with them personally.

The kids aren’t alt-right, thank god. But they will be all right. I know it.

I will be too. I have to be. For them. For me, most of all.

Yesterday I wrote an article about Tesla stock. How it was up some 30% after that pile of garbage I’m forced to call an election.

It’s up about 50%.

I knew before this election not to buy pot stocks (but I did because I couldn’t imagine that Florida would defeat Amendment 3) …

And I knew to buy tRump’s shitty shell companies $DJT and whatever the fuck World Liberty Financial is. Not the coin though. That shit got laughed off the planet because it was more obviously fraudulent than the rest of the fraud.

In any event, today I am considering buying Tesla.

Honestly, owning $TSLA or $DJT is the equivalent of telling someone to erase your browser history and destroy your homemade porn when you die.

Do what you want, while you can. But you don’t want evidence of that bad behavior.

I think this might be the topic of my next letter.

Mom always told me the right one would meet me more than halfway.

“If he wanted to, he would.”

I didn’t really see that till I was a lot older.

I mean, men always were the ones to hit on me, sure. But I always ended up giving way more effort.

Most of the effort.

“All day, every day.
Therapist, mother, maid.
Nymph, then a virgin.
Nurse, then a servant
Just an appendage.
Live to attend him
So that he never lifts a finger.
24/7 baby machine.
So he can live out
His picket fence dreams.
It’s not an act of love
If you make her
You make me do
Too much labour.”

I see it now with the whole “I voted against you, now give me a hug” shit.

I see it in my inbox. You gave no effort, drained me, cheated on someone else to be with me, and you wonder why I am near-carefree without you?

(Calm your un-bra’d udders, Cindy. Not your concern or business. I’ve been stupid before.)

I mean, how many studies do I need to cite that single, childless women are happier than married ones?

Anyway, I had an interesting experience with a real man last week.

He comes to the West Siiiiide of Florida every year. And he did while I was on my NOLA/Key West adventure.

Which I still haven’t written about because Jesus FUCK how is tRump president-elect again?!!?!

In any event, I said if we haven’t expatriated by next year’s visit, maybe I’ll drive over and we can indulge in some libations.

He said well yeah but how about I extend my trip so I can drive over to your side of the state.

I said well now that is something to look forward to.

So, if he wants to, he will.

Yet I get “men” who couldn’t even give a quarter-ass worth of effort, sitting around wondering why nobody likes them.

“If we had a daughter
I’d watch and could not save her
The emotional torture
From the head of your high table
She’d do what you taught her
She’d meet the same cruel fate
So now I’ve gotta run
So I can undo this mistake”

Least of all, their wives.

OK so I won’t write about (redacted) messing with me AGAIN …

But I will say the “Mother Maiden Crone” episode of “Agatha After All” was really good.

So I was about to publish one of my signature unhinged blog posts.

Out of nowhere, a photo of mom opened itself on my laptop.

I thought I had lost this photo. And no I cannot explain how it happened.

Momma always used to check me. Used to make me mad, but I always listened.

Obviously, I did not publish that rant. Clearly she slapped the shit out of me spiritually.

I am still pissed off about all the topics and people I covered.

Maybe I will find a better way to channel my energy today.

I had done a lot of Christmas shopping already. Maybe I should send out those things now. Lord knows we could use some joy since it just got taken from us

I’m channeling an old Ron White sketch where he’s getting arrested and he says he has the right to remain silent but just not the ability.

If I don’t end up getting fired that would be the miracle of the year.

But hey, Momma died. Cocoa died. Janna died. Abortion protections failed in Florida by 3%. And fucking Trump stole the goddamned election.

So yeah, I mean, it would suck but it would also poetically become the final bookend on the worst year of my life.

I am out of tears. I am beyond enraged. And I’m saying whatever I want, whatever I CAN, till they cut out my tongue, take my job and my savings, and remove any ability to have property or a credit card.

Fuck all those “oh it didn’t turn out so bad last time.” YES IT DID and he had guardrails! Those are all gone. Now the depraved lunatic is surrounded by billionaire enablers who are going to deport all the workers and make everything 10x more expensive for the rest of us.

“Democracy dies in darkness.” Remember when the WaPo adopted that as their slogan in 2017?

And now this year, Jeff Bozo said the WaPo editorial board couldn’t endorse Kamala Harris.

Democracy dies in broad daylight. Nov. 5, 2024.

One of the Rs in my orbit said empires fall all the time. I get the feeling they all want anarchy.

I just want sick people like my mom to have treatments. Women to stop bleeding to death in hospital emergency rooms because doctors are afraid of getting sued. People who’ve built a life here and paid more taxes than Trump stole from children’s cancer charities to not worry about being deported. For Black Women to stop having to fucking step up and try to save us and THEM never actually winning a damn thing.

I’ve curated my friends list enough that most agree with, or at least ignore, my rantings.

Today some dipshit who I never really liked, who I have not talked to since 2017, said I was a bad friend because I don’t want to affiliate with tRumpers.

I didn’t think well of him in the first place for professional reasons. He never cared if the work was done. He left when HE was done. Left me in a bind many times.

To hear that he supports tRump? I mean, not surprising, given what I just wrote. But disheartening.

I did unfriend him immediately. His wife, daughters and granddaughter can deal with him directly.

I told my expat friend in South Africa it’s time. Set me up for my consultation. I’m done.

I just need to hold my job so I can have proof of income.

But I also want to punch all the Nazis in the world.

How do I turn THAT into an income stream?!

Seriously, fuck Republican women. And someone better figure out why Missouri is missing so many votes. I would bet when the orangutan assured us he has the votes, the fix was already in.

I would also bet that we can find another 15 million to 18 million, if we look.

Dude wasn’t gonna lose the popular vote this time. Hurt his widdle ego to keep losing it, so he somehow found a way to brag about it.

What I really don’t understand — other than how my mom always said there were more good people than bad, but here we are — is how we supposedly had “record turnout among women for Harris” BUT there are like 15 million fewer votes than the record.

Someone explain to me in small enough words that JD Vance would understand.

Jesus Christ, we’re fucked. It is finished. No more elections, no more democracy, no more gay or trans people, no women who aren’t (for lack of a better word) Karens.

Mom would roll over in her grave if I’d buried her.

I am so sad, I could die right along with her.

I mean, if the vote counts are accurate (highly unlikely) that means everyone who told me they voted for Kamala is suspect. They couldn’t have.

So all these people who tell me I’m great and valuable and they can’t live without me … they would replace me the next day if I bled out in the parking lot. Got it. Valuable.

Not accusing anyone. I respect the one who voted for Chase Oliver. He was never going to vote anything but third party and wasn’t like the Rs I’m thinking about who were all, “Oh we can’t hold our nose and vote for tRump this year.” Bish yes you did. All of you who were looking for libs’ permission to vote your conscience. Vote WITH a conscience, preferably not your own.

Well, I guess I can’t say do it next election. There won’t be one.

Right now my only hope is tRump is buffoon enough to have a lovers’ spat with Elon Musk and deport him.

I mean, it’s not out of the realm.

My only other hope is Joe Biden appoints Kamala as 47 so that all the shitty Temu Trump 47 merch becomes even more useless.

Now THAT is something to live for. That’s about it though.

Landlady just contacted me to say she received a nasty cease-and-desist letter from the HOA.

My crime? Neatly broken down and stacked boxes on a hidden corner of my porch.

Though the letter says I am creating a visible disturbance.

I said oh PLEASE tell them I am SO SORRY for my tiny little corner (that you cannot even see from the street) when there’s a lady with a WHOLE ASS MAGA FLAG two doors down who they don’t bother.

You know, I have been away for the better part of a month.

Pittsburgh, where my cousin is BEGGING me to return to so we can be close (and I can watch her kid grow up).

New York (mostly LaGuardia, but still. Better than this fucking place).

New Orleans (people are so so SO nice. Though that could have just been Swifties and not necessarily locals).

Key West. I mean, my god, who WOULDN’T be a happy person there. I remember a guy saying, “This beats working, huh” and I said you have no idea.

Middle Keys. Same thing. I fell in love all over again with Islamorada, which was the first and only place to see us vacation as a family of five (Mom, Cocoa, Magic, Belly and me).

Meanwhile I get back here to dumpster fire Palm Beach and everyone’s been rude and awful in any store I’ve dared to set foot in.

And now this HOA shit?

Shan says that, if we’re being technical, one is recycling (mine) and the other is trash. So tell THEM to get the trash off their balcony.

You know, I like my landlady because she hasn’t raised my rent. Also I don’t take care of the place AT ALL.

But I am sad when I am here. My mom and my baby died here. I want to die here. I hate it here.

And then fucking Howler Monkey Heifer managed to ruin my first day back at least six times.

Why can’t she kill herself and save me the effort?

In any event, I know I can’t get rid of Heifer BUT I can abstain from dealing with her. And from going to her idiotic event that would be so much better if I were in charge of it.

I think I’m going to do that, after today.

Election Day is tomorrow. I’m either moving to (redacted) or I’m hiring my friend (redacted) to get me the fuck out of the country.

Either way, it’s clear I have to get out of Palm Beach. And out of shrieking distance from Howler Heifer. And this shitty fucking HOA.