Caterwauling

I was loath to read another article about loneliness.

But this one was like opening the Diagnostic & Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders and seeing this girl’s photo.

Ahem.

Remote workers may also show signs of backing off from other staffers and their own assignments.

“You’ll see fewer proactive conversations, cameras off, minimal contribution, and a shift from collaboration to task survival,” said Morag Barrett, an executive coach and human connection workplace specialist at SkyeTeam in Broomfiel, Col.

“We also see decision fatigue, lower trust, and emotional flatness. People still ‘perform,’ but discretionary effort and creativity quietly drop off.”

CAN I GET AN AMEN.

I’ve been beating myself up since the pandemic.

I know that my absolute ennui with everything started then.

I got some purpose when Mom was diagnosed with S4 cancer on May 16, 2021. But even that proved futile, as she lost interest in fighting it with all the incompetence.

Something in me died way before her.

Like if CANCER DOCTORS can suck at their job, who really gives a shit how I write newsletters?

Sidenote: A nurse at Boca Regional (home to Lynn Cancer Institute, which I sincerely hope BURNS TO THE GROUND) got fired for giving back to KKKaroline Leavitt almost as bad as she gives to us.

Everyone is clutching their pearls that a nurse would say that.

Listen, I can hate the nurses at Lynn Cancer Institute (and do) … and I can side with a nurse at the parent hospital for hating fascists.

The difference is LCI treats the patients like shit (and KKKaroline lies to the public) and the fired nurse is mad at “authority” that none of us want.

In any event, I thought my disengagement was the spinning of my wheels 24/7 trying to be a good human, caregiver, employee and community cat mom.

But as my commitments fell away one by one, and now I’m only left with worker …

I still have NOTHING.

I used to say my quarter-ass effort is better than most people’s whole-ass effort.

But my newish boss recently enlightened me that it’s not.

And he’s not wrong.

I still don’t agree that it’s my loneliness that’s killing me, Britney Spears.

Ask anyone how often I pick up a phone call that isn’t work or repair related, after all.

And I most definitely don’t want to have more goofy team building events. I have successfully avoided them all, and I want to keep that perfect record.

But I can accept the “L” word in this context:

“You start feeling invisible, avoiding outreach because it feels like effort, defaulting to ‘I’ll just handle it myself,”’or mistaking independence for resilience. When work becomes purely transactional and energy drops, even if results look fine on paper, that’s often loneliness, not burnout, at the root.”

Transactional interactions.

Exactly.

I am absolutely the person who says hi for no reason.

I do not get that back.

So a lot of times I just think better of it when I want to know how someone’s house purchase went or if their dog is feeling better.

There are a lot of times I do have a question that could be easily answered.

Or a need that could be met, probably not easily but with some amount of effort.

At the point I try to give the monkey away and the message doesn’t get answered, I just get mad and say fuck the project.

But I am also the bottleneck.

I wonder if that signals a need to be needed.

I doubt it. I always wrote that off as being bored and finding challenge in beating the clock.

But the fact that literally all my stress is in owing someone something — all my transactional relationships — is exactly what the title says.

Task survival.

Get task. Avoid task. Maybe seek/get help with task, maybe not. Complete task. Or forget task as another task takes its place. Maybe get some crits, maybe not. Survive task. Repeat with 10 more tasks.

Anyway, I do always feel seen. But I REALLY feel seen today. Almost feel attacked really. But definitely seen.

Funny how you listen to songs and hear them differently, with additional life experience.

Like “Florida!!!” in the SL.

As I’ve been doing a “Scandal” rewatch now that JD “Couch Fucker” Vance is building his Ottoman Empire (hah) by either having a fourth brown baby (and he hates brown people) …

Or Usha is wearing the pregnancy belly because EriKKKa is pregnant since she did hint at HOPING to be pregnant since the white supremacist got offed (by the government, I presume) …

And it’s all straight out of Mellie’s playbook on “Scandal,” to fake a pregnancy with “America’s Baby” to get the spotlight off Fitz’s philandering and other scandals.

A fake pregnancy that, eventually, resulted in a real one.

Not that it forced them to love each other. If anything, it made Mellie resent Fitz more and drove him closer to Liv.

There was a quote from Season 1 that hit me hard. Something along the lines of, “He isn’t meant to be happy. He’s meant to be great.

I felt that in my soul.

I haven’t figured out how to be great.

So I’m learning to be happy.

Most days I do OK.

Today, not so much.

Indeed, I had my own Fitz. Or two. Or three.

We all have.

But “Love left me like this and I don’t want to exist” doesn’t apply.

Not to them.

Tomorrow marks two years since I lost Cocoa.

And really, 2026 is now the second calendar year that she and Mom didn’t set paw in.

So that means two years without Mom is around the corner.

Speaking of years, Shan mentioned that she turned 58 last month.

Other people born that year look 104. So either she looks fantastic or else evil ages a person.

In any event, I am so down in the dumps.

My neighbor speculates that we’ll be without an elevator for two more months. “Software issues” now.

Like this thing was installed in 1984 and we went with the cheapest bidder to “modernize” it. Do any of them know what software even is?

So even when I find my dream apartment, what am I gonna do … toss shit over the balcony? Rent extra months?

Worse … lose my momentum?!

Also the Proud Boys aka ICE keep killing white protestors in the streets.

I struggle daily with wanting to even be here anymore.

Like do I make my grand purpose to go protesting with abandon … and if it’s my time, it’s my time?

The only thing keeping me alive is trump is going to die soon and I HAVE to be here for it.

HAVE TO.

I am afraid I will be on the phone with my boss when the news breaks.

The one who asked if I celebrated when Charlie was Kirked.

Listen — I am going to slam down the phone and get drunk. If I don’t laugh and shriek so fucking hard that I get fired on the spot.

What a way to live.

I had someone try to mansplain to me what a subpoena is.

I often just ignore said person. Probably way more than I should.

Like, I don’t want to SAY my dick is bigger. But every now and again, I like to pull out the measuring tape.

I’m like yeah I know what one is because someone YOU KNOW subpoena’d me.

That was kind of glorious.

I mean, not the legal shit. That was awful.

But … imagine WHAT ELSE I know that you may be underestimating.

And actually … that was the SECOND time, come to think of it.

The first time was in college. Ol’ hockey hoe Tracy Sember tried to sue a professor for harassment. When I overheard her telling someone she was going to sue him because she was pissed about her grade in his class.

So yeah, I got stories.

You can assume I am an idiot. Or you can ask/listen.

Your choice.

BECAUSE SHE’S DEAD.

I died in my dreams last night.

Just goes to show that the old wives’ tale is not true that when you dream you’re dead, you actually die.

I was driving along the ocean with the sunroof open. The waves were massive. And one came over the causeway and filled my car with water and sand.

Somehow I kept the car in control as it got thrown toward the shore.

But it stalled out from the salt water. And once I got the engine to turn over, it would only go in reverse … and the brakes didn’t work.

Finally I must have run out of gas. Breathed a big sigh of relief that I lived through it.

Then a truck turned left out of a driveway and plowed into me.

I threw open the door and rolled to safety.

But it was just my spirit.

My physical body was in the car, bloodied like Renee Good after that ICE agent shot her three times.

I met some crazy gay guy and a precocious little girl at the scene. Along with her (living) mom who could see us all.

Wasn’t the afterlife greeting I expected. But, it was weird to not even know how to get back to my old life, my STUFF, my loose ends.

I wonder if that were all church-related, as I spent the entire day yesterday in one.

My homie was the emcee of the show.

One of the speakers scoffed at “all you atheists who are that way because your mother died.”

Well, I sure didn’t see god in my dream afterlife. But I didn’t see my mother, either.

My cousin Jean had gotten hit by a tractor trailer. Interesting how that came back to me.

I often have the fear while driving, or at least the thought, that I’ll get hit and go sinking into the Straits of Florida.

Fred the Tree!

I wish I could take away some meaning.

But maybe the meaning is the whole “you leave your achievements, your insecurities and your potential when you go.”

What I really took away, other than a backache from sitting on a metal chair for nine hours, is exactly what the Devil tarot card showed me the other day.

Which is there’s money on the table that is MINE and I have not GONE AFTER IT because I DON’T KNOW HOW.

Now that the STOVE has gone and stopped working after Friday’s power outage, all my money apparently is going to go into moving.

But what if I manifested it? Like I always seem to?

Anyway.

Maybe my snark at everyone claiming to be saved by Jesus via a QR code yesterday is biting me on my ample ass.

But maybe this was me dying and being resurrected, as it were, to do whatever the fuck it is I’m meant to do.

If only said death had come with the clarity on where to start this new life.

Literally every text in my phone right now.

Friends. Family. Candidates.

Listen, as my Nicole starts off all her texts to me. 😀

I came to the conclusion that the least depressing thing about my apartment was Cocoa and Momma dying in it.

As I shop-vac the A/C closet … as I drag litter up the steps … as I kill ants and can’t use half the kitchen sink and there isn’t enough electricity to power the vacuum cleaner AND my workstation …

I realize I’ve been mentally checked out for a long time.

It’s not just the house. Though Gram always said “it’s the house’s fault” to everything.

Maybe she’s right.

I was telling my boss, who believes we were put on this earth to CREATE …

I don’t create here. I manage.

I wrote 16 books by the time I was 30 in shittier apartments than this.

I haven’t so much as written a grocery note here.

And really, how can I be inspiring at work when I am not inspired in general?

I mean, probably grounds for a layoff for even saying that. But he knows I am not one to claim my way is the best way.

I always say that, despite myself, I appear to be in love with my qualities that frustrate you the most.

And frankly we are all in love with ourselves, for better or worse.

Can’t argue with that.

It would just be nice to wake up and be in love with life.

And it hit me in a big way that ain’t gonna happen here.

Like no I do not want to Teams/Facetime from this shithole.

No I do not want to do an ounce more than what’s expected of me if it means it’s going to cut into my free time.

I mean, the last part isn’t really true. I’m going to some all day religious shindig tomorrow (kill me) to support one of my employees.

And I met Don Jr. twice and Eric once, so no one will ever say I don’t do ANYTHING to support my job.

But I did a tarot reading and it said I have been leaving big money on the table.

And man did that resonate.

I don’t want to leave money on the table.

It’s mine and goddamn it I’m going to figure out how to get it.

So if you don’t hear from me for more months, expect to hear from me again from a completely different place in life.

Maya Thompson “Mama Maya” posted about a new movie called “A Sacred Pause.”

All I had to read was one quote, and I’m in.

“Sometimes, there’s not a ‘happy ending.’ Sometimes, there’s just a meaningful ending.”

Mama Maya’s story was what inspired Taylor Swift’s song “Ronan.”

Which is MY song for MY baby who I also only had for four years.

It’s two years since Cocoa passed, on the 26th.

We should be celebrating six years together. Instead, we’re in the second year that she hasn’t set paw in.

Same with Mom. I just managed to get through a whole 2025 without her. What do you mean, I have to do it again in 2026?

I got to talking with my old friend Drew yesterday. We met in college. He was roommates with someone I wish would lose my fucking number already.

Drew just moved here from Orlando via Chicago.

I’m ready to move from here to Orlando.

So, we have things to talk about.

I was telling him I love love love Delray, where he’s at.

But I need a bigger change than to just move back there.

A meaningful change, as it were.

Just to sum up yesterday, for example:

1. The HOA said the electric would be off all morning. So I went to my favorite coffee shop in Boca Raton.

My laptop died and my portable laptop charger, for which I paid like $50 in the Atlanta airport and it works with my MacBook, just wouldn’t charge it.

2. I tell you this to say that I wasted 20 minutes of that laptop battery on the phone, being FIRED by my A/C guy as a client.

They love me. They just say I need a new A/C unit. And they do not want my landlady’s business.

3. I do think the owner is an asshole and I do think he’s fucking with me when he says they don’t want to keep doing repair jobs into perpetuity when I need a new unit.

3.a. But I also think it’s awful that they won’t give me the name of the plumber and handyman they promised to pass along.

3.b. And that they won’t do the follow-up visit they promised to do this week. So I will continue to Shop-Vac my unit, I guess.

3.c. The Shop-Vac is very good with the pervasive ant problem I’ve had for six years, so there’s that.

3.d. And they will only talk to me if the landlady orders a new unit and pre-pays for it.

3.e. Kelly said if I order and pay for the unit, she and Genevieve will uninstall it and sell it on Facebook Marketplace when I move.

4. I came home from Boca to find that the electric was never shut off.

4.a. The electric was supposed to be off to power up the refurbished elevator. But lo, no flashing appliances. Alexa was playing music. And yes, the A/C was running/dripping.

4.b. The electric is supposed to go off today if the job didn’t get completed yesterday. It didn’t even get started, apparently.

4.c. I don’t complain about free cable because it’s free. But it goes off at 6 am every day. And I can’t get it back on till after 7 or 8 as it “updates.”

4.d. For some reason, the updates happened at 3:30 am. I know because I watched “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” after. As I contemplate, do I go back to Carmela Coffee again today or just stay home and work.

4.e. A lack of a plumber does not mean both toilets, both tubs and anything in the kitchen actually drain/flush correctly. No matter how much of that Green Gobbler shit I buy, which is the most effective thing I’ve bought for these purposes.

4.f. Hindsight being what it was, I think the repair guy saw the state of disrepair that the house is in and figured why fucking bother. Even though I’ve paid them a thousand dollars for two visits. That’s why you fucking bother. But they don’t want to keep fucking bothering.

4.g. So, if the unit goes fully out of warranty in July, do I have no AC after July? Or after it breaks next?

5. In the midst of all this, Mike texts to whine that I must not want to see him again. BITCH. You’ve spoken 11 words to me this week, and they have all been about you. I am BUSY. If you want a goddamn valentine, fucking act like it. GOD do all men have to be LOSERS.

Basically if I am paying (redacted) to live in a place that frustrates me (See: no elevator, not even leaving the house when we DO have one because of bully neighbors) …

Why not pay that (and, apparently, then some) at a place where maybe I can find some joy and … gasp … meaning?!

That’s what the point of this post was supposed to be.

There is no happy ending. Not right now. Maybe not ever.

But maybe, just maybe, if I can find some meaning in the pain of losing everyone …

Some meaning in getting the freedom I never dreamed I’d have …

I could treat this for what it is: a sacred pause on the way to who/where I’m supposed to be next.

I dragged a brand-new WetVac up five floors yesterday.

Since my AC went kaput for the second time in six months.

And while the lovely maintenance guy at least brought it back from the dead on Friday afternoon …

There was more standing water in my house than in the panties of six Kardashian women at the Essence awards.

Anyway … it WORKED and I am not doing a Slip ‘n Slide down my hallway today.

Leaving the temps at 79 also helped. Lowering it to 78 right now.

The good news is, I am getting the name of a plumber and a handyman tomorrow. And my AC guy is coming back to see that I didn’t break anything.

Just in time for the entire building’s electricity to be disconnected Tuesday and possibly Wednesday.

Supposedly to send power to the new elevator switch.

I haven’t been in that elevator since September.

Because it’s been OFF.

So, I need that plumber because my sink is leaking like a Kardashian at a Soul Train reunion. No wonder the bitch sells underwear.

Anyway.

With all these repairs put off as long as I could (Because, elevator) …

Even the AC, which hasn’t run since before my last two Disney trips …

As I was fighting with my toilet for the umpteenth time to JUST FLUSH ALREADY this morning …

I thought, enough.

I mean, it’s possible that one week from today, I could have an elevator, functional AC and maybe even a non-flooded kitchen.

Which, whoa.

And I will have it at the low (redacted) monthly rental rate I signed on for in 2019.

But one of my employees just moved to a really cute place in State College.

He said his cat freaked out because they have visitors. “They actually repair things here,” he said.

And I was jealous.

I who live at the beach and can see the sun rise over the Intracoastal Waterway each day …

Would KILL to call someone and they actually fix something.

Now, I recall my last two apartments, where they sent their brothers-in-law or other dudes they picked up at Home Depot.

Who quarter-assed the repairs on their best days.

So, I’m not bullish at all.

But me and my Bobby McGhee … er ChatGPT got to talking to day.

And it found me the perfect place to live.

In Downtown Orlando.

And I can find exactly no reason not to tour this place and hand over my credit card.

None. What. So. Ever.

I mean, yes, pet fees. Pet Rent. Trash fees. Pest control fees.

Whatever, man.

Look, I had originally said one more year. Suck it up for ONE MORE YEAR.

But … it’s going to keep sucking in the meantime.

Where I live now is a weekend visit, not a lifetime.

When I went to DC, I did more in five nights/six days than I did in eight years.

I can come back to DaDa. I can come back for our company events.

And I don’t have to deal with this shit for the other 300-ish days.

Even the Hard Rock, which I love, I’ve had enough of. And Orlando keeps me on the Brightline so I can go to Miami anytime I want.

I mean, talk me out of this, but other than the increased cost (sigh), net-net, I don’t see a reason not to.

I mean, other than having to put off Europe for another 10 years.

Well, fuck.

I was talking to a guy recently who’s divorced.

He said he knew on the honeymoon that it was doomed.

But he lasted until she filed for divorce. Because he doesn’t believe in giving up on something you committed to.

RED FLAG.

I said you stayed with someone you have been disappointed with since THE HONEYMOON.

And you waited six years for HER to file for divorce.

He’s like well yeah I don’t give up.

I said you gave up on the HONEYMOON, it sounds like.

And you waited for her to fix and, ultimately, to end the relationship.

Bye, Felicia.

This is white men in a nutshell, isn’t it? Just hang around and/or torture her …

Then say OH THE DIVORCE CAME OUT OF THE BLUE.

When you KNEW it was a bad fit in the first place.

GOD.

I mean, this wasn’t the only red flag from the conversation.

But assuming I could get past the hairline, the posture, the teeth, the BREATH, the lack of ambition and the general boorishness …

He was also emotionally not a catch.

I’m watching “Materialists” on HBO Max and normally I wouldn’t comment on someone’s appearance.

As not only do I have an entire wall of mirrors in this ’80s aerobics studio-inspired condo …

But I also own a 10x magnifier mirror. Because, one witchy chin hair otherwise eludes my over-50 eyes.

And the first 10 minutes of the movie is about a nice woman who is willing to “settle” for someone who makes $150k and stands at 5’11”.

Like, younger me would have said that was awful. 50 me? I think that’s a nice baseline.

I mean, at least this boor I’m talking about was a good 6’2″. But can’t make a stitch of conversation unless it’s about himself.

And he’s not that interesting.

Reminds me of someone I just blocked for the 72nd time. Likes to complain about his wife and everyone, really.

Like, I wonder if the wife ever tried to leave him, but he bullied her for it like he bullies me for not being legally required to withstand it.

All those times he complained to me about her … maybe she was telling her family what a loser she thinks this guy is. How she has to make the money and manage the household.

I mean, I don’t know any of this.

But it has definitely made me pick this red flag out of the sea of them as the most prominent.

Also, at least have some money and looks if you’re going to be a douchebag.

Like the line in the movie said. No one’s ugly if they have enough money.

Though I like the quote I just paused the movie on better.

Dakota Fanning: “I’m going to die alone or get a rich husband.”

Her friend: “Same thing.”

Doesn’t sound so bad, does it.

I mean if I were to have a type, that’s easy.

I love me some PE.

Trump needs to just fucking die already.

I don’t care, FBI and CIA. Fucking put me down as wanting him and the whole Heritage Foundation and all the other criminals in that orbit dead.

I have a dress I bought a million years ago.

I called it my Kennedy Center dress.

I probably even blogged about it at some point.

My intent was to make enough money to buy a ticket to the Kennedy Center and to wear it there.

The dress wasn’t cheap by my low-paid standards back then.

ETA: Holy cats! I made a post in 2004 about saving up for this dress!

Shit, it was STILL more than I’d pay for my usual Ross Dress for Less and Shein wear.

JCP FTW!

I did have occasion to wear my Kennedy Center dress to other shindigs over the years.

But I also bought it at my highest weight, so really it has never actually fit right.

That said, a lil nip-tuck would fix it up perfectly.

But … I never dreamed the Kennedy Center would be RUINED.

The flatulent fascist put his name in front of it.

Which is actually illegal, as I understand it. You can’t rename a historic landmark.

Like, we’ll never rename the Donald Jennifer Trump Memorial Port-a-Potty and Roadside Prison.

That’s ALL his for eternity.

But the Kennedy Center is still one of my bucket list items.

Or, it WAS, I guess.

I did get there in November when I visited my fair city for opening night of the Sarah McLachlan U.S. tour.

But I stayed outside.

Yes Cindy i do go inside museums and cultural institutions. If you are still using me for Twatter fodder.

I mean it was a Sunday morning and all. Since you need to know.

And the board had already been overrun with orange ass lickers.

Though I do appreciate knowing the name change/transition was NOT unanimous. The losers muted the one lady who did try to vote against it.

Still … that orange piece of fuck took away Mom’s life, Jane’s life, Ginny’s life, literally everyone I know who died of covid and/or covid hampering their healthcare when they were dealing with fucking cancer.

I think it’s time HIS life got taken away. Whoever REALLY got Charlie Kirk and left us with his awful wife. Because it wasn’t who that idiot Kash Patel arrested.

Yeah I said it, Spooks. Come at me.

How about he dies just like that nice lady that ICE murdered in cold blood in Minnesota today?

That would put the ice in nice!

And now he’s taken away my Kennedy Center dress dream too.

I hope he dies agonizingly. Long, painful, no one helping. No cameras watching, just like whatever he did to kill Jeffrey Epstein and Virginia Giuffre.

I PROMISE you, I will never commit suicide. I am of sound mind, good health and great spirits.

But I will be in better spirits if that motherfucker just fucking dies already. Die. Please die. Die now. Dieeeeeeeeeeeeeee already.

I changed my real name on the socials.

It’s something telemarketers call me.

Though I’ve been known to use variants of my name on mailing lists, to see which fuckers sold my name. Looking at you, the entirety of the financial publishing world.

Anyway, since I “transitioned” online, almost all interactions with me have ceased.

Couple people even wrote and said they were about to defriend me because they are wary of strangers/potential tRumpers.

It’s just funny. I went from Mom knowing my whereabouts and thoughts 24/7 … to the interwebs having a good idea about both, a few times a week … to now literally living in a bubble.

Sometimes I think, well at least I have my cats.

Other times, like when I drove my ass to and from Lake Buena Vista a couple times between Christmas and New Year’s, I think, even that’s too damn much of a commitment.

Especially after the last trip when I bought litter on the way home and had to drag that and my suitcase up five floors.

I loved my last sitter but I have a sneaking suspicion she didn’t come each of the 10 days I hired her for.

I mean, who would want to run up these steps 10x in a row?

Lord, on top of that, the fire alarm went off for three hours yesterday. Even the fire department was here and couldn’t figure out how to shut it off.

Life without a chaperone isn’t what I thought it would be, Dawes.

Sometimes it’s better; sometimes it’s not.

The only thing I can say is at least I don’t have to worry about someone else being inconvenienced, at best, or trapped at worst.