Caterwauling

‘Tis the season for all the sad memes that remind you you’re not the only orphan in the world.

I saw one written “by” someone who had passed. Don’t be sad, yada yada.

As the line in Ethel Cain’s “Strangers” goes, “I’ll see you when you get here.”

I got to thinking about my hard-working celestial army.

How they are always watching and arranging things and moving the odds ever in my favor.

How they had neither a pot to piss in, nor a window to throw it out of, on this earth. But how happy I know they are for me and all the cool stuff I get to do now.

Then I got to thinking about who I’d haunt.

No offense to anyone, but I don’t see myself doing much more than a check-in with the earthlings I know.

Like, I don’t even know who I’d leave my money to.

My thought is to donate it to cover unpaid vet bills. Bail money for punching Nazis. Gender affirming care for trans kids. Abortions for everybody.

I don’t have THAT much to give, so I better pick one cause.

But just as I hope Momma et al finally get to see the world, I too hope I get to (re)visit all the places that fascinated me.

And I hope I get to do it with my celestial army of hoomins and kitties.

The guy I was interested in for the past year just became a grandfather.

A grandfather.

JFC.

I’m over here like wait I haven’t even become a mother yet.

I mean … I still could, I imagine. Not that I’d want to. But what a mindfuck.

In any event, he was on my New Year’s resolutions list for 2025.

So was setting a toe in Europe. (Nope.)

Shedding some pounds. (Does it count when I regained them plus some extra?)

And a couple other things. (Oh well.)

I would get into the “not denied, just delayed” of it all.

But … if I’m at the age of seeing guys with GRANDCHILDREN, maybe I need some new goals?

Might as well resolve to stay fat and hang out with my cats more.

The kid is cute, though. Fighting my natural urge to send ALL THE PRESENTS is taking every bit of strength I’ve got.

On one of Kylie Kelce’s recent podcasts, she said how much she hates opening gifts in front of others. But she loves gifting to others.

She also said she’s not one of those “It’s my birthday month!” people. She’d rather no one knows.

I … am shocked how much I relate.

I love when people send gifts to my house. I can open them if or when I want.

Sometimes it’s right away. Sometimes it takes a few days. Sometimes I’ll open one thing within the box and come back later.

Now, the few people I have in my life happen to be pretty good gift givers. So it’s not a problem to open in front of them.

Oh but the giving.

I can’t even count how many gifts I send out in a year. All year. I don’t wait. I could throw myself in front of a Brightline literally any day of the week, eight times a day if I wanted to.

I have the mother of all gifts landing in Los Angeles any day now.

The recipients have NO idea.

When I was a kid, I remember (with all the cringe in the world now) telling my Gram that she could just show me love instead of buying me stuff.

OK how much do I hate myself for that? A lot. SO much.

But really, gifting was her love language.

She grew up with nothing.

She had nothing.

But when she had something?

She gave it to me.

(And she regifted it when I was done with it, as I took very good care of everything.)

I should have used the things more.

Taken less good care out of them.

Loved the shit out of them.

Rather than saving them for … what? A daughter I would never have?

Anyway I really try not to send people too much shit.

But I also can’t help myself.

I just hope they use the stuff I send them … more than the stuff I “keep nice” in case someone else can use it someday.

Just completed my 11th of 12 Disney trips this year.

I often think, oh just rent a place up in Celebration or something already.

But I do love Palm Beach, despite the Diapered Dictator and his shitty family being up the street.

Not sure if I wrote about it, but I met the coke-addled son twice this year.

First in Vegas but the second time right here.

He was the invited speaker at an energy conference. A subject he knew nothing about. In fact, the only subject he was well-versed on was radical left scum and his idiot father.

He yammered about how we supposedly let 3-year-olds choose gender reassignment surgery.

He told a bunch of stories about his fuckhead fascist of a father.

He completely lied and said his daughter was supposed to be golfing with grandpa the day he was supposedly targeted by a supposed assassin at his golf course.

But the girl (who hasn’t won any awards but the Palm Beach Post breathlessly reports on her golf game like a state-run media outlet) went fishing somehow on that day that — let’s face it — they planted the story so they could try to swing the election in his favor.

In any event, I was telling a friend about when Don Jr. entered the room I was in at The Breakers.

We were all seated for dinner. He arrived just a the first course was coming.

I got a photo of him as he walked in. I was at the table right next to his, so I wasn’t close to the door but I had visibility.

The look of terror on his face gave me life.

It gave me a glimmer of hope that these awful people have some sort of situational awareness that people fucking hate their awful treasonous stealing-from-kids’-cancer-charities and dad diddles little kids world.

But when we didn’t get up and treat him like his dad’s evil administration treats people it thinks are here illegally (stomping on pregnant women’s bellies) … which we fucking SHOULD have done to prove a goddamn point … he relaxed.

He wasn’t among friends. But he was among very classy people. The moment he visibly relaxed was not one I missed.

I don’t want them to relax. But I had already been encouraged to represent my employer, not myself.

Most of us ignored his dumb ass — and really only two people (the CEO who hosted the event, and some guy from Agora) — sat and gargled his balls through the meal.

The only thing I have said and will say is he’s affable and laughable.

I’m not denying Dem Trumps can tell a story and command a room.

They’re not as intelligent or funny as they think they are.

And no one can forget all the awful shit they did and do every minute of every day.

But … I mean it’s not like they made us sit through Kid Rock. So there’s that.

I understand why he was invited. I don’t know if it was a paycheck or partnership situation. But, bully for them if so.

I did about fall over when I saw that the Chumps partnered with a similar company. Not that one.

But hey Jimmy Carter had to give up his peanut farm amirite? Rules are only for Democrats.

Look, I hate my party. But at least I am not aligned with a grifter pedophile who committed infanticide in Lake Michigan.

No wonder I leave town so much. Gotta cleanse my soul from my awful neighbors.

The HOA called and descended on my doorstep yesterday.

There was an injured pelican. And they said you’re the only person who might know what to do.

I racked my brain. FWC is useless. Duck Haven didn’t even thank me for a big donation. Audubon is south of Miami. Animal Control will gas it.

Out of my mouth comes, “If my mother were still alive, she’d know exactly who to call.”

I never told any of them she was gone. And they seemed unfazed, as they probably never even saw her while she was here.

It’s Christmas Eve. Which I know because of my Seven Fishes dinner reservation.

But … there is no magic here anymore.

Sure, there’s a tree. And the cats got presents.

But I’ll always long for the Christmas I dragged the whole fam damily to Islamorada. Mom and three cats.

I still think about the Christmas when I was like 5 and got a life-sized stuffed elephant who I named Happy. Grampy built a circus tent for him. We would conduct transactions through the window, Grampy and me. I charged admission.

I still think about how Gram had flocked trees and velvety reindeer she cherished. And gorgeous crafts she made for holidays in classes with her friend Arnetta. How she loved the color red. And cardinals.

I think about all the appetizers Gram and then mom made. So many appetizers.

Rosemarino salad.

Cherry-pineapple cream cheese on celery.

Tiny pigs in a blanket.

Bacon/cheddar/cream cheese dip in a Cool Whip tub.

Kickass deviled eggs.

Sticky wings.

Mom would always ask what was the one thing I wanted. I’d tell her. But I knew she’d make them all anyway between Christmas and New Year’s.

Never sure where the money came from, other than Grampy’s clothing allowance he got as a veteran. Mom was SO good at budgeting.

We always had a spiral ham for Christmas. That was fancy. Gram made the mashed potatoes and then Mom did.

Mom’s favorite food was her own mashed potatoes. Mine was her stuffing balls.

Of Gram’s food, pot roast was her signature. Shit on the shingles. Pasta, as she was Italian.

A friend said to me that he loves my commitment to Christmas Eve fishes. I guess I’ve talked about that before but I don’t even remember. Nice that he does.

The Feast of the Indeterminate Number of Fishes was something I grew up with.

Seven was expensive. I got up to five one year through the magic of cheap Krab.

Mom and I settled on steak and scallops with cocktail shrimp. Crab claws the final year she cooked.

This year I’ll have seven fishes.

But I’d trade it all to have Mom frying up some scallops.

To see Cocoa saunter into the kitchen, ready for her share.

Mom would cut everything “so nice” for the cats.

Three perfect napkins of diced-up turkey or ham or bacon.

Three little plates with dollops of Grandma’s mashed potatoes.

Three little bowls with a generous swirl of whipped cream or vanilla custard.

And she’d cut up her own food for when at least one of those little “Halloweeners” went up to her for seconds.

They don’t do that with me. I wouldn’t share anyway because I’m a piggy. But that was their thing with Grammy.

I wonder if the two I have left miss Mom and Cocoa as much as I do.

I always wonder, too, whether they get to meet the relatives before them who I always talk about.

Mom. Cokie. Maddie. Kadie. Gram. Grampy. Old Gram. Janna. Sia. Lenna B. Elaine.

Merry Christmas, wherever you are, family.

A little down in the dumps today.

Yesterday was the last day Sorcerer/DVC pass holders could go to Disney till the New Year.

But I have a project hanging over my head.

And I am sick to death of taking my work woes to Disney.

So, I am going to cheer myself up before I start my last joyous project of the year.

My promise to myself in 2025 was to find places to wear all my cute clothes. And to go!

Result: It may have been the saddest year of my life. But it was also the most well-traveled.

2025 Concerts and Shows:

Alanis Morrissette at Caesars Palace Coliseum
Chelsea Handler at the Cosmopolitan (Chelsea at the Chelsea theater)
Def Leppard at the Hard Rock Holly
Ethel Cain at Anthem, Washington D.C.
Hard Rock for the Holidays
Kamala Harris at the Adrienne Arscht Center (I saw Joe Biden there a few years ago)
Kenny Chesney at The Sphere
Kesha at iThink West Palm Beach
“John Proctor Is the Villain” on Broadway (when Sadie Sink was in it)
“Life of a Showgirl” theater release at the Delray Beach iPic
Macy’s Fourth of July fireworks in NYC
Nikki Glaser at the Kravis Center
Sarah McLachlan at Anthem, Washington D.C.
Stevie Nicks at the Hard Rock Holly

“Sunset Blvd.” on Broadway (when Nicole Scherzinger was in it)
“The Notebook” on Broadway
“Wicked” on Broadway
“Wicked for Good”
“Wizard of Oz” at The Sphere

Cities Visited:

Orlando/Lake Buena Vista — MONTHLY visits
NYC — THREE times in a year
Vegas — TWICE in a year
DC — TWICE
New Orleans — honorary as it was late 2024
Key West — twice and that counts an honorary late 2024 trip
Miami — twice and it counts bc it’s a pain to get to lol

Anaheim

West Hollywood
Beverly Hills
ACTUAL Sunset Boulevard (not just the play, above)
Other parts of Los Angeles

Lots of cool places visited within them.

Notably Musso & Frank’s, Elizabeth Taylor’s favorite restaurant on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

And of course Oogie Boogie’s Bash at Disney California Adventure, Mickey’s Not So Scary Halloween Party, Jollywood Nights and Mickey’s Very Merry Christmas Party.

What a year. I am so grateful.

Cried the whole time at each but man, what wonderful places to cry at.

Like Wall Street.

Like Joy to the World, but biblically accurate.

My friend did a wellness check on me by contacting one of my employees. He said I’m sure it’s the same year-end nonsense that all publishers inflict on their directors.

I thanked him and said I only have capacity for people I am paying, or those who are paying me.

I’ve never been so tired in my life.

Not in a bad way. Not a complaint in sight. Just … tired. So, so tired.

One thing I am happy about is going dead on social media.

I can’t way I missed Cindy’s 17x annual complaints about being the grand host of the holidays and acting like she wasn’t in bed half the time and up/complaining the rest.

That’s the beauty of a 9/Hermit year ending. I shed that snake’s skin and there is zero interest in seeing what Lizard Lady is saying to insult me now.

I was watching a Kody Brown Cameo (ugh) and that’s what it was. Hello (insert name), these are the contents of my head.

And it made me think of the Annie Lennox song “Why.” Particularly the lyric in the headline.

I hate Kody but I related to him. I open up meetings with my unhinged thoughts and babble till I run out of them.

At least I try to be funny.

In any event, I’m stressed.

Like, I work up until my vacations. Worry about work during my vacations. Do a little work during vacations. Come home exhausted. And even more behind. And then they need more stuff.

Which, I don’t mind any of it. What I mind is not having any energy EVER.

I blew a big deadline and continue to blow it.

I took on a project I didn’t want to take on. (This was the one Ready Treaddy ran after me about while I was in Disneyland.)

I didn’t want to take it on because I didn’t have the bandwidth then.

I took it on and guess what? It requires exactly as much bonus bandwidth I thought it would. And even more if I’m honest.

And this MF called me four times Monday, But I was handling expenses for other people and I don’t pick up the phone when I’m mathing.

So he called Ready Treaddy, who called me yesterday.

Like … I admit this is my own fault.

But also my staff is burning out from the outside in, so I am trying to help them where I can.

So no I don’t have the mental bandwidth for ONE MORE THING.

And yes new HR lady, thank you for the 88th reminder that reviews are due Friday.

I love love love my job and would psychologically die without it. And financially of course. But I was without this job for a year and a half and I went crazy.

But I also see why I left. The moment you catch your breath, you get a roundhouse kick to the head from three directions.

I’ve been loath to hire because I don’t need another damn review to do.

But I’m guessing it’s time to cry uncle.

Because otherwise, MY review is just going to be a list of everything I didn’t do on time or at all.

At least the stuff I DO do, I do well.

Which is why I don’t like to agree to projects I know I’m going to half-ass.

I gotta at least three-quarters-ass it.

Also deleted without reading.

The final message appears to be a Thanksgiving promise to keep messaging.

The prior “final” message, sent on Halloween when I was dancing at the corner of Santa Monica Boulevard and Robertson, promises to never contact me again.

An ex who I CAN stand is ready to punch this freak for me.

He also has a loser to contend with.

I told him you will in fact feel no greater joy than when you tell them to die.

The problem is, they don’t.

And then they gaslight you for being a meanie rather than address their own abominable behavior.

So, whatever this fucker said, my reply is “Noted.”

I don’t want to know. I don’t let myself get pulled back in.

And if anything happens to me, my friends know exactly who this asshole is and where to find him and his wife.

Note that.

Confession.

I cannot for the life of me concentrate on work.

The only time I can is A) when a staffer is off or B) when I have pushed a deadline harder than Kody Brown’s skin headband clings to suicidal follicles.

My boss had recommended a book to me on getting organized. That was about a month before Mom died.

I didn’t tell him then that reading a book is literally the last thing I am going to do amid what the hell is happening in my house right now.

And I never read that book. Or any others for that matter.

Still, don’t think that doesn’t concern me. That I can’t read anymore. My eyes are just tired and achy and blurry. All the time. It never gets better.

Then tonight (Friday after Thanksgiving) … after avoiding my long ass to-do list all fucking day … I finally sat down to read a report on a company that’s trying to solve sleep problems.

Jesus Tap Dancing CHRIST … that is what’s wrong with me.

I would say I haven’t slept one full night since Mom died. And that’s true.

But let’s be real, I didn’t sleep during the height of her sickness either.

In fact, the night she died … I stayed in her room till 11 or 11:30. Then I took Bella to bed for a half hour.

Around midnight, Mom started calling for me. I was SO angry. I had only slept a good 20 minutes and I NEEDED MORE.

Well. by 2:47 a.m. she was gone. Violent, awful throwing up. Then the nurse getting stuck at the gate. What a fucking mind fuck.

And before ol’ Psycho tries to get a message through to me that I’m a loser, guess what? Who is calling YOU in their time of need? Absolutely no one. You selfish shit, you only take — not give. Unless it’s blowjobs, I’m sure.

Anyway, someone who’s known me since I was 18 reminded me that sleep and I have never been friends. We shared a pillow a time or two, so he’d know.

I even forgot, but he remembered, that I told him it wasn’t him. I cannot force myself to stay asleep. No sounds, humans or animals bother me the way I bother me.

And I think that is why I cannot work.

I show up — I direct, I coach, I attend to the Teams pings … but I cannot read.

And now, I have a growing list of to-dos that I cannot get to-done.

The cats hear me say, “Oh I’ll do it when my eyes aren’t burning” or “God I’m just so tired today; tomorrow I’ll feel better.”

Narrator: She never feels rested/better.

Anyway reading this whole sleep report was the biggest A-FUCKING-HA moment of my life.

Lack of sleep leads to dry eye disease. Leads to thyroid problems. Leads to fatness. Leads to diabeetus. Leads to colds/inflammation. Leads to early death.

Who has two thumbs and gets sick every time she leaves the house? The only time I don’t is when I freebase zinc and echinacea.

I mean, now that I say it aloud, it is definitely no earth-shattering revelation.

Bon Jovi sang, “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

But he was out touring the world and partying. I’m just sitting here eating gingerbread men, Black Friday shopping and drinking coffee like my life depends on it.

I really don’t know how to sleep. I mean, it’s not like I have any practice.

Mom was the youngest in the family to die of natural-ish causes. But what if I beat that record since living on two hours of mostly REM sleep is the only life I know?