Caterwauling

Maybe it’s Maybelline. But maybe it’s Mercury Retrograde.

My stroll down (er, across the highway from) Memory Lane … where I looked back at some guys I could have ended up with (but am not altogether unhappy I didn’t) … took a turn.

I just heard from the one I thought I would marry.

Every once in a while, I get an accidental message from him.

No big deal; Siri mixes up two of my Chrises all the time. So they know of each other now.

I gotta say, I am pleased to know I’m still in Mike’s phone.

We were shoved into an uncomfortable exchange a couple Fourth of Julys ago.

I ran into our mutual friend Kim, and she stuck us in a group chat.

I was annoyed, as Mike had walked away from me and I had done a LOT of healing to get over him.

And he did his level best to talk to HER in the group chat and not even say hello to me.

I deleted the chat without having typed a word into it.

Last year he sent me an accidental message.

I deleted that too.

Silent all these years, Tori Amos.

Today I decided to be an adult. He was texting someone about funeral arrangements.

So I said “You got the wrong girl, but I am very sorry for your profound loss.”

We ended up having a lovely chat.

That’s what happens when you grow up.

Proud of us both.

Was driving around, thinking about something I wrote the other day.

“I got Thoughts about two of them making the decision for me.”

I also meant what I wrote before it, that I am fine with not having to spend a life committed to (insert their activities).

But, you know. I was open to it at whatever time.

Hanging out in West Virginia (can you imagine?) … flying to Chicago (and seeing the outside of a hotel eventually) … shit, helping to care for their kid(s)?

All seems so useless now.

Maybe they knew me better than I wanted them to.

Or maybe whoever they COULD afford to marry was just pieces of me they didn’t take the time to see.

Look, nothing will pass me by that is meant for me.

And nothing that ISN’T meant for me will stay.

I got room in my bed (it is a nice bed) but not for any sort of could’ve beens.

This girl only sleeps with butterflies.

So go on and fly, boy.

I should really put Tori Amos’ show on my calendar so I don’t book a trip to Tokyo or something that day.

I was asleep for two hours before someone’s car alarm went off.

For 40 minutes.

Been walking the house for the last 2.5 hours since.

I wish them the same necrotizing fasciitis that seems to be taking over trump’s hands and behind his ear.

I mean, I hope HIS are fatal. This car asshole, I’d be fine if they just itched until they were driven slowly insane by it.

Something told me to post these.

Maybe because Shan just bought a house in Central Florida.

She’s ready to interrupt this bitch’s breakfast.

Then there’s this ass clown.

Drew says hi.

Just kidding. No he doesn’t. Ha!

I watched “Famous Last Words” with Eric Dane on Netflix yesterday.

It was so good.

Just him and an interviewer. No camera crew, nothing.

Just, tell your daughters everything you want them to know about their dad.

And when this airs, you will no longer be alive.

I’m such a fan of “McSteamy,” though I loved him on “Charmed” long before that.

His words really weren’t for me, as they were for Billie and Georgia.

But I was struck when the interviewer asked what’s next and Eric said, “When it’s lights out, I think that’s it.”

They talked lightly about signs and the idea of a spirit world. But he said he believes we take comfort in coincidences and call them signs.

I have been wondering the same lately.

I get SO many signs … and I believe in calling on the universe for help because I seem to GET it … that I can’t deny there are greater forces at work.

But I can’t define them.

And let’s face it, if there’s any justice in the universe, people named trump would be publicly executed by Jeffrey Epstein’s rape/sex trafficking victims.

But if this really is all there is, why are we not living and loving and traveling and being creative 24/7 if all we get is a few precious years while they lights are on?

Why do we live with the lights on “dim” knowing that we’re likelier to burn out than shine during this one and only life?

Rachel Zoe said something wise recently.

That men don’t marry the love of their lives.

They marry whoever’s around when they’re ready to get married.

Whoever makes things convenient for them.

The men were REAL quiet in the comments, for a change. And the married women were on the absolute attack, for the most part.

“He wuvvvvs me” comments. That everyone else was just a fling and he couldn’t POSSIBLY have picked anyone else.

The most prescient comment, though, was from a woman who said, “They usually can’t afford the love of his life.”

Several of us put a heart on that comment.

They can’t afford us. Mostly financial, if they lack the proverbial pot to piss in or window to throw it out of.

Whether in the first place or because they have to make big decisions about handing 50% of their assets to someone else.

I mean, sure, I never would have wanted to go to college football games … or ride scooters and play bored games … or pretend not to notice daily “alone time” whack off sessions … or go to Q-anon or Al-Anon meetings or whatever those are called.

So I am not going to break my neck looking back. Since not a ONE was able to say fuck it, you’re worth any price.

In which Spaceship Earth looked like an engagement ring.

And yet, people clasp their pearls when I am the same damn way.

No, I will not promise half my assets and all my well-being to anyone.

So I’m not putting down men for choosing what’s convenient, when I am over here doing the same.

But I got Thoughts about one or two of them making the decision for me.

Kelly texted yesterday to say she didn’t know I am a baseball fan.

I said the Pirates were my grandfather’s team.

In fact, as I sat in literally the BEST seat in the ballpark …

I said let me know if you’re able to see your team, Grampy.

Not a moment later, they played “Movin’ on Up” on the loudspeaker.

Not the techno one we used to dance to at Pegasus.

But “The Jeffersons” theme.

Grampy always called Gram “Weezie.” When they moved out of the ghetto and to our beloved house on Castle Drive, he loved to sing that they were movin on up to the East Side.

So, that was nice to hear. God is a DJ, indeed.

Alas, to answer Kelly, it’s more that Pirates baseball was a Grampy thing. And Nats baseball was a Mom thing.

Still, K said she was jealous. Not of the baseball, but that I seem to be finding myself better than she is right now.

As I said, it seems we take turns. And we keep each other going when the other isn’t.

I like having her as a friend.

I mean, really, I don’t have many people on my Board of Directors. But boy did I get lucky when that one wandered into my life.

She’s applying to grad school right now. She got a couple rejections already, but one just called her and said your work history makes no damn sense but we had to talk to you because your references were ridiculously good.

I’ll take some credit for that. I gave her a shot and never regretted it. I just wanted them to do the same.

Maybe she won’t be so lost after all, soon enough.

Now, if I can just find my dee-luxe apartment in the sky, I won’t be either.

Yesterday, I forgot my phone cord for the car for the umpteenth time.

Managed to get to the ballpark, via Pedophile Beach International Airport.

What the hell is even happening there?

Had a lot of fun at the Pirates game.

Had literally the best seat at the stadium.

We were up 5-1 over the Astros before the skies opened up.

As they covered the field, they played “Purple Rain” and “November Rain.”

The rain delay turned into a rainout.

They said they’d make good on the tickets.

But I bought on StubHub and paid for parking on my own. So I doubt I’ll get anything.

But that’s fine. I had a half-smoke and a lot of vodka seltzer at Cacti Park.

Never heard of Cacti … but apparently it’s the preferred drink of the stadium.

Which will always be The Ballpark of the Palm Beaches to me.

Till the fat orange fuck who just BOMBED SCHOOLGIRLS IN IRAN buys the naming rights and forces the county to name it after him so he can collect royalties, as he’s done with Pedophile International.

In any event, drove my happy ass up to Jupiter to see if I could spot a Swift or a Kelce.

No luck but I did spot a peanut butter martini or two at The Woods.

It was happy hour, and I enjoyed the goat cheese and the tuna.

But my beef tenderloin was not delivered to me.

The nerve.

Hope they enjoyed it. No I didn’t pay for it. That tip went dowwwnnn tho.

So I cashed out while I was sober enough to not have to rent a room at the Wyndham.

And my dessert of Subculture Coffee and a blueberry thyme scone was better than that delicious looking tenderloin.

I’m sure there’s more to say but I would take this kind of “imperfect” day over any other kind.

Going to see the Pirates today. Which I haven’t done since the ’90s.

I’m going to the (local) Nats stadium to see them.

No Nats today — Astros.

I used to take Mom to games at Nats Stadium over by Navy Yard. And I took her to what’s now Cacti Park but I’ll always think of it as The Ballpark of the Palm Beaches.

So I’m not sure what’s weirder — not seeing the Nats or not seeing Momma.

This is all part of my proper goodbye to Palm Beach.

Though as Taylor Swift shows us, you can always come back.

The local rag says she’ll be in town for a golf event with the Brothers Kelce.

Knowing what I know as a local, I’ve clocked the area where I expect she’ll stay.

Because, I know where the REAL money goes and it ain’t where the orange shitstain lives. That’s where people who WANT to be thought of as rich live.

Anyway, I would be real damn surprised if she didn’t show up at The Woods at some point.

Kimberley took me to The Woods when she was passing through town. It was SUCH a fun night with her. I don’t even remember what we ate or drank, it was just a blast to be together after having met in DC a million years earlier.

Wait, i do remember.

I ordered chicken piccata.

One, it wasn’t the most expensive thing and I already knew Kimberley was going to grab the check.

Two, but probably one, Mom LOVED chicken piccata. So that way, I could eat half and take the rest to her.

Which I did. And she loved it.

I miss being able to eat half a portion and be happy. Oh, skinny days. Now I’d eat that whole portion and order an appetizer for later.

Anyway, I got to talking to my friend Bryan yesterday. We hadn’t seen each other since DC but we ran into each other in Palm Beach late last year.

He had given us the keys to his river house near Colonial Beach a long time ago. Which I told him was mom’s favorite vacation ever, no matter where I took her after.

Bryan asked how mom is and I said she passed recently. He was so bummed. “You guys were so tight, what an impossible loss for you.”

It was such a verbal hug. And boy did I cry.

This week would have been Grammy’s 100th birthday. I put his photo on my ottoman and kind of forgot about moving it.

And I have caught Bella sitting with him more than once.

I still think Grampy came here to take Mom home. And that he gave me a hug when he realize he was in my house.

It’s weird how getting older is just being sad and happy in alternating doses.

I guess it was always like that. But we go from missing the living (friends, exes) to missing the ones who ACTUALLY loved us.

The wrong ones die, clearly.

Anyway, I’m debating whether to stalk The Woods tonight or tomorrow.

Which means they probably went last night. Hah.

And I’ll no doubt be singing, “The monsters turned out to be just trees / when the sun came up you were looking at me” the whole ride.

Was telling a friend about this gourmet lunch I threw together yesterday while my internet was down for two hours.

He replied that I’m #wifematerial.

Boy … did that make me want to throw up my lunch.

Not that it was him who said it. Just in general.

Like, once upon a time, I made a lot of decisions — all with the idea of having a future family.

Now, those days are behind me.

WAY behind me.

I’m looking to downsize by a lot. So I can gravitate to having a life more outside my house than in.

And do I want someone in my big space? No. Would I want someone in my future, smaller space? Also no.

I saw a meme about guys who say I love you after never having asked a single question about you. Reminded me of the latest Mike. Who thankfully has fucked off and stayed fucked off. Here’s hoping Scott learns that lesson after … 20 years?

And no this friend from yesterday is the opposite. Asks every question.

Like, I am the lazy one who doesn’t ask questions because I don’t think that hard about anything. Or, for that matter, have answers to questions. Because, again, lazy.

Unless someone is gonna pay for half my space, I don’t want them in it. Or even then, given my physical reaction to a compliment.

My grandmother once said, after my shirt got wet after I washed dishes, that was a sign I’d be a good wife someday.

I said it’s a sign that I’m fat that it’s my belly that’s wet.

She laughed. And I could tell she was proud.

Still fat. Still not a wife. Still happy.

I think she’d still be proud.