Caterwauling

“And some things you just can’t speak about.”

Some fireman gave me these beads in Delray today

I have had the smell of the cancer center in my nose all day.

It just hit me that he might have gotten his box of Paddy’s day beads from a hospital.

“The smell of hospitals in winter
And the feeling that it’s all a lot of oysters
But no pearls
All at once you look across a crowded room
To see the way that light attaches to a girl.”

Man no wonder why I am in tears.

I thought it was because my espresso martini was sucky.

Or because… on my way to Rose’s Daughter (my Gram was Rose so Rose’s Daughter was Wobin), the restaurant…

I heard “Grandpa Tell Me Bout the Good Old Days.”

A song Grampy loved.

Good old days, indeed.

Back before Mama Judd shot herself and Harvey Weinstein sexually assaulted Ashley Judd and exiled her from Hollywood. Before my Judd was a dud.

Before everyone I love died.

I just had a bad couple days at work, the one thing I lived for.

I put this job before all of them.

And now it’s like that’s what I gave my all to, and not my family? Really?

No wonder I drink.

I’ve been watching Teams, waiting for the big fat obituary … or even a tiny one at this rate, just take SOMEONE out of my misery …

When I decided to reach out to a psychic medium I’ve long followed.

It was just a one-question reading that I bought.

First time caller, longtime listener sort of thing.

I was nervous because I’ve been a fan of hers since the turn of the century. (hah, god we’re old)

Plus I remember how sad I was after I was in the room with a psychic medium who channeled everyone but Momma.

(That one ended up being very pro Charlie Kirk. So fuck her twice.)

I got my email reading yesterday.

Took me till about midnight to open it.

I cried.

She said your mom is a hoot and a half!

That Mom and I had traveled several lifetimes together.

That Mom can’t wait to show me around.

That she’s very busy. But she’s also very protective of me.

That she wishes she could have stayed, but in a body that wasn’t so broken.

All of this resonated with me.

“I’m very busy!” was one of her lines. And her “broken body” was something that frustrated her.

I gave this medium nothing other than can you channel my mom and can either or both of you tell me where I should move to.

Now that’s where the surprise came in.

She said my spirit guides told her I hate snow.

Check.

Orlando is cool but have you thought about the U.S. Southwest?

Not especially, no.

Well that’s where you’ll find your tribe.

What about Paris?

If you think Palm Beach is lonely, you won’t like living where you don’t speak the language.

Would I be happy if I stayed in FL?

Yes but don’t go further north than the apartment you have in mind now.

Other advice?

We see you wanting to get healthy and to write. Just move. It will happen.

Honestly? I didn’t tell her ANY of that.

I was very careful to not convey anything.

Just sent one photo of myself, at her request.

She looked at it and said is that your mom?

I laughed and cried. No, I said. But psychics always used to mix up our fortunes. I’d forgotten about that. How perfectly fitting that you’d look at me and see her.

Anyway.

“I can feel the thunder
Underneath my feet
I sold my soul for freedom
It’s lonely but it’s sweet”

She told me a couple other personality traits about me.

I told her everything resonated, and I thanked her.

I will definitely reach out for a real reading.

Mostly I am just glad that Mom isn’t hanging around me, waiting for me to die.

But that was interesting — she can’t wait to show you around.

I am proud that she’s out running her widdle weggins off again.

On the same day I talked to Mike, too. I think that text mixup happened right while the girl was doing my reading.

And Mike was so sad to hear she’s gone. She really liked him. I imagine she was the reason we have peace again now.

Well done, Wobin. Well done.

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.