Caterwauling

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?

Mom’s friend texted me happy thanksgiving yesterday.

I was doing a “Once Around” at the funeral home where I’d taken Momma at the time.

They probably still talk about me there. How I insisted on knowing where Mom was. Where all the real end-of-life stuff happens.

I stopped at that back corner where I wasn’t allowed to be. And cried the whole way out.

Mom’s friend got the “Once Around” reference. I told her to enjoy her meal and try not to be sad today.

She said of course I’m sad. “Nothing’s the same anymore.”

Girl, don’t I know it.

I had wanted to try out the Thanksgiving buffet at the Aloft for the past couple years.

But it’s indoor, so Mom would have never agreed.

Also, she used a walker, not really out of necessity but more for balance if needed. Also it made for a fine cage if rowdy Proud Boys or bastard children were underfoot.

Which they surprisingly are, which you’d think they’d give someone with an aid some berth.

But she didn’t want to be seen with said walker, not outside of Holla Dolla Tree or Ross.

Come to think of it, she quit going to those after a while, too.

Anyway. I checked out the buffet and it was SO GOOD.

Most Alofts are cheap because they don’t serve food. That’s why I stay at them. But this one has two ghost kitchens. And the only way to order from them is via Uber Eats.

Anyway I stopped at the W XYZ bar for a cocktail.

Got my fill of green bean casserole and all the other side dishes.

There is literally a toothful of turkey on there. That’s all I needed.

Then I took my happy ass next door to the iPic for “Wicked for Good.”

Where I cried of course.

For our democracy mostly.

I have read the book, saw the first movie and even saw the play …

Twice at the Kravis.

AND once on Broadway.

The cocktails have typically been … typical high-priced-venue bad.

But iPic … rather, my server Alexandria? Made a kickass cocktail.

She was great company too.

Also she gave me extra everything for my final drink of the night.

Including lots and lots of glitter.

We talked all about Taylor Swift and that stupid cat plushie that no one who’s a true fan can procure.

Good times. Truly.

I wandered around Delray afterward, as I did last year when I picked DaDa for my Thanksgiving dinner.

It was much busier than last year. I was bored out of my tree last year, but there was a lot more open this year.

I did not photograph my ice cream from Kilwin’s. But if three strong cocktails AND ice cream doesn’t give me diabeetus, hopefully nothing will.

Nothing’s the same, indeed.

I loved my Thanksgiving.

But I’d have traded it all for just one of Mom’s stuffing balls.

Because that would mean she was here to fry it up in butter and serve it to me.

Well well well.

The 15 pounds I lost since New Year’s are back, as the leather skirt I wore last Christmas Eve fits the same as it did back then.

I got an invitation yesterday to Thanksgiving that made me cry.

My cousin always issues me an invitation. So do T&T.

I am grateful and not even deterred that both dinners involve a plane ride.

But not only did I get an invite to feast literally up the street, but it was a good invitation, too.

I had already made/paid for a reservation in Delray. So I’ll head there as soon as I get my act together.

But I could cry that anyone knows I’m alone and even cares.

I know it doesn’t HAVE to be this way. I make friends SO easily.

The lady next to me on the plane probably would have had me over.

If I would have texted/called back.

She looked like Cindy though was absolutely the opposite personality. So I didn’t hold that against her.

But … she has a heart condition, seven kids and 14 grandkids.

Not that that holds her back … she hopped on a plane to DC because, like me, she just felt like it.

But … I feel like I need to make a conscious effort to hang out with people who keep me young.

That’s not age-limited. Two of my best friends are 65. Young at heart and as in love as teenagers.

They just happen to live in California, so the friendship is as high- or low-stakes as we want it.

I do feel bad about the local lady. But I remember talking to her on the plane — well, her talking over the announcements that were particularly LOUD as the plane was EMPTY — and I thought, why am I paying such rapt attention? I won’t see her again.

I do try to be fully present for these surprise friendships of the moment that I develop.

So I should have known that, when I gave myself permission to Krispy Kreme, it wouldn’t end at the taxi stand.

In any event, I am not even hungry because I’ve been up since 4 a.m. and have eaten everything but myself at this point.

I did see people commenting on this dining place’s Facebook page. How they wouldn’t pay that price without alcohol.

Listen.

The buffet wasn’t wildly expensive. They were probably salty because we were required to pay that AND gratuity upfront.

Which … not cheap when you see the final total.

But if you live in Palm Beach, as I do, you get accustomed to gratuity being automagically added.

Also.

Name me one restaurant that offers open bar at any time. (This is a hotel.)

Also, it being a hotel, do you honestly think that open bar would be anything but well drinks and sparkling piss water I mean Aldi prosecco? GTFOH.

I’d rather buy a glass of wine with a label I’ve heard of … from a bottle that hasn’t been open for a week.

Whether that’s at the hotel or at ANY of the available bars within a six block radius, I don’t care.

Shit, I might take myself to see “Wicked” if I’m sober. Can always get a crappy cocktail at Cinemark.

In any event, another Thanksgiving without Mom and Cocoa. And 21 years to the day that Grampy died.

Y’all are lucky my purse is too small to smuggle in my own 750mL dessert.

It’s 6 a.m. and I just made my to do list.

I am already fully depleted. Emotionally bankrupt. Spiritually overdrawn. Tired in every chakra.

If Teams pings one more GODDAMNED time, I fear I may actually ascend to a higher plane of exhaustion.

I need a snack, a nap and possibly a wellness check.

And more coffee.

And no goddamn more Teams.

I was toying with that idea overnight for a children’s book.

I’m sure it would sell well.

Last week, I asked Kelly how she’s doing now that Buddy the Cat died. Was she as sad as I still am over Cocoa? Does he visit her?

K said oh she’s OK. Buddy was too much of a pain in the ass to wait at the Rainbow Bridge. He’s probably already back on earth, annoying someone else now.

That’s where the idea for a book came from. But all it did was lead to more questions.

I feel like I get nightly visits from Mom, now that she seems to have learned how.

Some are detailed. Some seem fast.

The other night, she checked in to make sure I’m good.

As for her, she was still stunned that she’s been off the mortal coil for a year and a half.

But she’s not the same Momma who relied on me to take her places.

Now she’s thinking about What all can she do where she is.

But she still wants to hang out with me. Does that mean waiting behind the veil for my time … or incarnating back onto Earth to hang out with me some more?

And maybe it’s all Buddy-inspired rather than a visitation. But let me have my Momma however I can, thanks.

That got me to thinking over coffee — how DO we all become a family again, if everyone reincarnates? Does my great-grandmother have my Gram? Gram marries Grampy and has a baby late in life? Mom becomes a teen mom again? People don’t have kids anymore. Do we all just hang out behind the veil and plot to find someone using IVF and we all manifest as triplets or quints or whatever?

Anyway. Food for thought for never.

I had dinner with Janna in last night’s dream. And Ian Wyatt. Not two people I would put in a room together, but I did drink a lot of spiced wine before bed.

Anyway it’s good to get to see people young and vibrant. Weird to be the only one in the dream who aged, though.

Had an interesting dream conversation with Momma last night.

I want to say we were at Ross.

She ran up to me and said there I was — she couldn’t find me.

She told me that was the longest 10 minutes ever.

I was like, Mom, that was a little longer than 10 minutes. You left a year and five months ago.

She looked stunned. But … it doesn’t feel like it was that long, was what she said.

I said oh believe me, it feels 10x longer.

We had a good little chat, how time is so different. How it must be moving fast but she hardly even notices it now.

That was the extent of the dream.

But I do hope she makes a habit of showing up.

She always promised that once she learned how to communicate with me, she would.

Gotta say I’m pretty impressed she nailed it within a year and a half.

Hope I am aware enough to hear from her tonight.

This is feeling very Christopher Reeve and Jane Seymour, in the very best way.

A friend lost his mom three weeks after I did.

I’d told him then that I expected the firsts (holidays, birthdays) without Momma to suck.

But the seconds would REALLY suck.

Because they’d make it real that the firsts weren’t just a one-off.

I went to see Kamala Harris in Miami, on the final stop of her book tour.

It was … exquisite.

Especially after having to see Cocaine Don Jr. not once but TWICE this year, on my own dime and my own time.

Seeing Kamala … host Ana Navarro … and Ana’s dog Cha Cha loving on Kamala was so HEALING.

I sat with a lovely lady named Lynne. I told her about Don Jr.’s political aspirations that he’d outlined at the October event.

She was stunned. She hadn’t seen that written about anywhere.

I said yeah because I don’t want to lose my job. But it’s real and I want to warn all Democrats to STOP THAT SHIT.

In any event, Lynne asked me after Kamala’s event if it was worth coming down to Miami from Palm Beach.

I said oh, absolutely. And we wished each other luck.

What I didn’t say was my heart cracked in half twice.

First, when Kamala said the grief after the 2024 election could only be compared with how devastated she was after her mother died.

And second, when Kamala was sharing her Thanksgiving plans, particularly how she makes her cornbread stuffing recipe …

I thought, Momma will never make me her famous stuffing balls again.

I mean, I already knew Mom’s second birthday beyond the veil would be hell. So my ass was as far out of town as I could get it.

The second Thanksgiving … sandwiched between Momma’s Nov. 10 wedding anniversary, Gram & Grampy’s Nov. 25 wedding anniversary … and Grampy’s Nov. 26/27 (overnight) death date … is fucking me up pretty good.

Then to grieve the LEGITIMATE 47th president having the election taken from her by Elon Musk and dipshit redhats …

And to know there will never be another stuffing ball …

I’m rekt.

And yes I’m using crypto speak. Since that shit is pretty fucked up too.

The only silver lining to crypto being in the toilet is that Dem tRumps have lost billions.

They need to lose much more than that for me to ever give a shit about them.

Though I did watch Mr. “Quiet Piggy” swoon at Mamdani in his presence.

Like, the man was a registered Democrat till he realized the Rethuglicans were gullible assholes who would follow his diapered ass off a cliff.

But fat fuck seemed enthralled.

He doesn’t deserve joy. But I almost felt empathy.

Like, he’s had every opportunity to do the right thing, but now he has to let others fight the good fight. While he continues to be dead and dementia-addled and hated.

I do take some small amount of relief that Mom isn’t here to worry EVEN MORE about her hospital and doctor bills, which are going up for everyone thanks to Piggy President.

But that’s the only relief.

I miss her so much lately, I feel like I’m going to lie down and die myself.

Trump first, please. Oh god, if you’re out there, please please please let me outlive that whole fucked up family. Also let democracy outlive them all.

In Dancing with the Dead updates …

I dreamed I was talking to Momma about someone who has been a problem moving to the West Coast (of Florida).

She knew. I didn’t have to give her any details.

Saw this poem at the NoMa/Gallaudet station. Maybe an ancestor led me then, too.

She also knows someone else is finally ready (forced by a property sale, no doubt. I can’t measure how happy they’ve probably been to live in peace) to go with them.

Momma had always encouraged me to keep up with the meanie’s hijinx online. But I finally did a hard stop. And I asked her if I was missing anything.

She said same shit but you didn’t have to ask.

BUT … Momma said, once all the Clampetts have gone West … “She’s no longer your problem.”

I said for real? She’ll shut up about me.

She laughed. Oh how I missed that laugh!

She said no but don’t think about her again. She got her man away from you for good, and she finally feels that.

I love these conversations with Momma. Wish they could be in person for real.

But so much better than the silence that usually greets me when I could use a chat with her.

Hear that, Goonhilda? You won. Now, shoo.

When I was new to finance, I tripped over so many phrases that are now part of my everyday vernacular.

Like, I see proofers trying to correct this stuff. Sometimes at the expense of not seeing/fixing actual mistakes.

OK so maybe that’s why I have to do 100 rounds of reviews a year.

In any event, they always trip up over “the back half” (of the year). Or 2H, for short.

(Please don’t change 2H to Q2. Ever. Please.)

A lot of times, I try to avoid this stuff. Like, at some point someone (Ready Treaddy) insisted we capitalize the word Members if it comes after a publication name.

I HATE that.

So I rewrite sentences to say “members of.”

I hate THAT too but it’s my little win.

In any event, usually the back half/2H refers to a calendar year.

But I also think about it in terms of life.

With Republicans destroying the climate, ripping families apart and fucking the economy like it’s a 10-year-old girl, as they do … we’re all aging fast.

Then there’s the Mar-a-Lago Face set, where you get plastic surgery to make you look older and uglier.

So really, the “back half” of our lives probably starts at, what, 30? 35?

In which case, I’m probably in the back yard of my life. With one foot in a sinkhole.

Well now I forget what I wanted to write, as I have depressed myself.

Something something at least I’m traveling and doing fun shit while I can. Or maybe something something too set in my ways to change now.

Probably something something it’s the holidays and damn I miss my Momma. The person I spent the front two-thirds of my life (and the back two-thirds of HER life) with.

Or maybe it’s the fact that i do have to slow my spending but I’d rather slow my aging.

Or maybe it’s a friend is between jobs and I’m proud of him for renting a house in Anna Maria Island between gigs. I said what’s it like without a single Slack or Teams ping and he said that’s what heaven is.

Sad but that’s so true — a day without a Teams ping is … well, other than FARCICAL … what passes for a real vacation.

No wonder I’m out chasing highs between the pings. Clocking out and not wanting to clock someone, for X number of boundary-protected minutes or hours.

That’s my Christmas wish. That and not having to worry about money if you do read someone to filth for their 83rd “bumping this up.” Bump this, foo.

There’s a gal I like very much who keeps asking me for stuff.

Two of them, actually.

It’s funny how I don’t get that screaming rage every time I hear from them.

Which is a lot.

Especially this week.

I think about the Ready Treaddy of it all. Like how I have a physical reaction every time they ping me. Why the difference?

Other than the verbal abuse of 2022-’23? And the “O” face from the Treaddy? And the …

OK I get it.

I often wish I were the goddess of yesteryear who was fine with staying at the office till 8 or 9 or even 10.

I could get my shit AND their shit done AND drive home after.

I wonder if I hadn’t burned myself out from that, could I do it again.

I’ve often said I wouldn’t trade working from home for anything. But having these people in my house, even the nice ones, I feel a way about that.

Like it is imperative to close the laptop so there is a line of demarcation between that and whatever it is I do. (Or, more to the point, don’t do.)

Anyway it’s 6 am and I owe all three of them something.

And while I should prioritize the Treaddy project as it involves multiple people … I promised the nicest of all that I will bump her to the top of the list.

(To be fair, this is an instant revenue producer once I achieve it.)

So even if no one understands my logic, well, I do. And there is, in fact, logic.

I wonder if insulting people works on other people. Truly. Or has everyone in their orbit similarly put a force field where a boundary would normally be.

I always say narcissists pick the strongest people to be their victims.

But I truly think this one landed on earth today. Seems totally oblivious to the fact that there wouldn’t be a problem if they weren’t the original problem.