Caterwauling

Figures.

Meet a hot guy. Who likes me.

With money. Nice car. Harley.

From New York City.

And … comes clean eventually that he’s seeing someone else.

Like … I mean, an upgrade in every way from every other situationship.

“We were supposed to be just friends
You don’t live in my part of town, but maybe I’ll see you out some weekend
Depending on what kind of mood and situation-ship I’m in
And what’s in my system.”

And honestly, even the honesty is refreshing.

But if the ball’s in MY court?

Hard pass, Grimace.

It’s funny.

I’ve been walking around thinking how I always meet someone when I’m leaving.

And wondering if it was a sign to stay … or a sign to not get involved so I don’t give up on my plans.

And I’ve had all that anxiety, too. Like. his car is IMMACULATE. He’s HANDSOME. Not a cat hair on his high-priced Emirates and other couture.

Literally — I asked the universe for a Disney daddy — and I got a Disney Hong Kong daddy.

For a minute, I was walking around thinking the universe finally sent me a good one.

And maybe I wouldn’t have to sweat can I get a 2BR vs. a 1 BR because someday, it might not all be on me financially.

Amazing.

And while I know I am a catch, my mind was still racing. Thinking about my shitty apartment and my shitty cats (seriously, woke up to poo-poo on the rugs I washed YESTERDAY) and my holy terror at giving up my alone time.

Well, that resolved rather quickly.

I should probably say call me if anything changes.

But would that make my next Manhattan excursion better or worse, to have company next time that isn’t Kelly?

Ciao, bello.

I yelled at someone yesterday.

They deserved it. But I imagine this won’t go unpunished.

We all know someone who is committed to misunderstanding you so they can gaslight you.

I mean, if I were still reading a certain person’s social media, that’s a textbook example.

I say I like a sandwich. They say they were born in the restaurant and that I don’t understand sandwiches. I attempt to explain that Miss D. Point, well, Miss D. Point. Shitposting war ensues.

There’s this person IRL who literally jumps down my throat if I say something in a way that doesn’t make sense to them.

Christ, I ask my TAROT CARDS clarifying questions.

Guess what? That works on humans too.

But I don’t get those.

Usually I laugh, apologize, rephrase.

Other times, I figure I died six hills ago. Too dead to die on this one.

So, when I found someone inside my throat yesterday after I answered their question, I didn’t smile and laugh like I usually do.

I emitted a guttural uttering that, I assure you, my ancestors felt.

And I said my god, this is why I don’t tell you anything. This shit is getting old.

Yeah I’m bout ta get my ass handed to me.

Right after, I texted a friend who used to interact with this person.

She said OMG they are KNOWN for that, and it’s NOT COOL.

It was comforting to not be the only one who’s perpetually misunderstood.

I don’t think it’s purposeful.

OTOH, it’s weekly.

And while I know to measure my words to avoid it, sometimes I just don’t.

I was trying to show that a person is wildly valuable in all the best ways and in an extra detail oriented way.

But what they thought they heard was said person is sacrificing all else to focus on this detail. Who said that? Not me.

I did spit out exactly that — I am trying to praise someone for ALL they do.

And typing it out now, it’s just so absurd. Like, there was no fuckup anywhere that I was trying to explain away. It was just conversation. You know, with performance reviews looming.

Not only is this my main complaint, it’s my only complaint. So I know I am LUCKY AF.

But thinking about my friend’s ex-roommate who is STILL posting shit about her … when my friend is off living her best life … really made it clear to me that some people will just see what they can do to set you off. Then cry victim, in this ex-roommate’s case.

So I am particularly sensitive to it.

And that’s what my point really is. Trying to figure out where people are coming from. So you can see a problem from THEIR side before you come in hot to address it.

That’s why I’m beloved. I never had the Machiavelli chip; like me ANY day over that.

But being over 50, I am not losing sleep over being unloved by people who do seem committed to NOT loving me.

Well, I knew that living in FL-87 would pay off at some point.

We elected Emily Gregory to a FL House seat over some dumb ass Republican dopey man who doesn’t even live here.

I got to thinking briefly about some ignoramus who talked shit about me for saying I live in Palm Beach.

After years (17 years TODAY!) of me living here.

And of me not even TALKING about it all that much because I don’t want people to think I have money.

I asked that heifer’s cellmate I mean life mate if they voted in the election today.

But alas, THEY don’t live here and — gasp — NEVER DID.

“You lil’ stupid ass bitch, I ain’t fuckin’ with you
You lil’, you lil’ dumb ass bitch, I ain’t fuckin’ with you
I got a million trillion things I’d rather fuckin’ do
Than to be fuckin’ with you, lil’ stupid ass.”

I’ll let the forthcoming “I was born here and ate a sandwich here before you were born” remain far out of my sight.

As I’ve done for … what, is it a year now? More?

“Bitch, I don’t give a fuck about you, or anything that you do.”

Omg that felt FANTASTIC.

The winning. And quoting BIG SEAN.

The other one.

Hah.

“I mean for real, fuck how you feel
Fuck your two cents if it ain’t goin’ towards the bill, yeah”

When Mom was about to leave, I got a performance review that I was too exhausted to be affected by.

I was given a list of books to read on improving my productivity.

Mom died three weeks later.

I never heard about those books again.

It was two years ago tomorrow that she last left the house.

A very stressful drive to Deerfield Beach. Where I got a lousy parking spot and she was in pain and couldn’t walk and couldn’t really see the beach either.

I knew we wouldn’t be back.

That’s why, the day she did pass, the first thing I did was drive to Deerfield Beach.

To show her the way, since she never drove there herself.

I got to thinking how the guy at Poppie’s called me bubbly.

I think that my attitude has spared me from a lot. May not be productive at times, but I make it a good environment for everyone. I coach and encourage and, if you’re not showing me your O face from your treadmill, I can make you feel like you matter.

But I really am sad.

So if you catch me smiling, don’t think I’m healed or over it or moving on.

If you catch me smiling, I assure you, I am five seconds away from remembering that my mother is dead.

So, let me have those moments before I remember the most important thing in my life has left me forever.

Trust me, if I had the chance to get my mom back …

If I would give up this nonsense life where tRump kills and SAs children … women are getting shot in the streets …

Where I refuse to have sex with a man till my period stops (whenever that may be) bc I am tired of birth control and oh I have no rights to my own body anymore …

And where I have to hide my social media from people who think Charlie Kirk was the tits …

I would do it in a fucking HEARTBEAT.

My Farewell to Delray adventures took me to Sal’s for some pasta e fagioli.

Which I haven’t had since Mom was here.

Now I know where the phrase “Crying in my soup” comes from.

Stopped at Poppie’s, a place I always felt Grampy would love, for some takeout matzoh ball soup.

Saw chocolate-covered macaroons.

I am a macaron fan (and Macron). But he was allll about the macaroons.

Bought two. Offered him his when I got home.

At Poppie’s, the guy at the deli counter asked if I have a husband.

I figured be truthful. I said no.

He said oh I was going to say your husband is so lucky to have someone as bubbly as you.

I laughed. “That’s probably why I’m bubbly!” I said.

He did not laugh.

Handed me my shit without another word.

My guess is he’s over here thinking he’s got a mean-ass wife at home. And here I am saying that your ass makes her unhappy.

Don’t get me wrong — she could be a Goonhilda for all we know. But from his reaction, something tells me she was a free spirit once.

I hopped over to Ross and just about got killed by an old lady who AIMED AT ME and another pedestrian.

I thought surely she’s not going to turn left into the crosswalk without at least stopping.

Yes the fuck she did.

My next stop on the journey was to Saltwater brewery.

That was totally unplanned but I saw the Cousins Maine Lobster truck there.

I only went to Saltwater with Mom … to park, get “wobster” for Wobin … and GTFO.

Well yesterday I got beers … and I was happy.

And I got wobster rolls … and I was VERY happy.

Also got a clam chowder for the road, to go with my pasta e fagioli, matzoh ball soup and now chowda “soupie” trio.

Soupie is what mom called Lil Soups for the cats.

Grampy used to always summon us for dinner with, “SOUP!”

Which I assume came from the military. You know, back when we fought fascists and didn’t reward them with our tax dollars.

In any event, I like to think my relatives appreciate being included.

Or maybe they are busy with their new afterlives or reincarnated lives and are like WHAT.

I try to think back to being a kid and there were some times I definitely went out-of-body. I wonder if I were being called back to a former life for some reason.

My psychic said Mom and I have traveled many lifetimes together. Maybe someone called ME back for a question or to give an offering.

I sure hope I’m right about all this. I’ll definitely come back and watch over my nieces Alex and Riley.

I just hope I don’t get blown up in this stupid religious war before I can leave them a lil something to make them miss me a bit.

I fell into a content creator’s feed that resonated.

She must have lost her mom two years ago as well.

She said how when your mom dies, there’s the “before” you and the “after” you. And there’s no going back.

Truth.

She also said that, two years in, you’re mostly settled into the person you are now.

More truth.

The big truth, which I could have also told you, is that once you’ve watched your person die, you don’t give a singular shit about anything.

This girl phrased it well. That she used to cry over work or boys. That she just felt everything SO BIG when her mom was alive.

And now, who cares. No one to talk about it with anyway.

Had to double-check and make sure her username wasn’t mine.

I have a couple friends who ask a lot of questions. It’s not that it bugs me, but it’s that I personally do not care about the details of my own life that much to give them oxygen.

So to ask about an event and then follow up with how did I feel about it or what prompts in ChatGPT did I use to find that event, no.

I would have told mom because we had 24 hours to fill.

It’s weird how happy I am in silence now.

That is absolutely not who I was two years ago.

I think back to when my Old Gram, Gram and Grampy died.

Don’t get me wrong, I was devastated. More devastated with each death, really. Like, I went from “They won’t be sick anymore” to “They won’t be mine anymore.”

But it wasn’t permanently debilitating, you know?

Losing your person, your mom, is that emotional car crash that alters your personality for life.

Like I assume I’ll see ol Goonhilda this year after mercifully not having to look at that deconstructed dump cake last year.

Two years ago, I was just disgusted and honestly ready to punch back if wackadoodle wackadoodled. Like why you insist on being in my space, hoe.

This year, I could stand five inches from that thing and look straight through it. Shit I don’t even dread seeing Don’t Treadmill on Me because that’s how I deal with that, too.

Well, the latter I did laugh at on a call yesterday. Loudly. And it wasn’t at a joke.

I mean, I guess I DID laugh at a joke. Ahem.

Two years ago me used to just hang up. Now to sit there with my wish a bitch would face was my entertainment for the day.

I didn’t say you change for the worse when your mom dies. You just change.

And you realize the less time you spend tolerating losers is time well not wasted.

I know I need to post a job opening.

Put out some feelers first, as I know what hell a posting will unleash.

Sure enough, I heard from a bunch of people I never wanted to think of again.

The first didn’t read my plea carefully. He bragged that he’s writing for Newsmax. Not the flex you think it is, Sparky. And he ended with, “I’m crushing it!”

So, Pete Kegsbreath’s spirit animal, back from the dead-to-me.

Does he forget WHEN HIS BOSS FUCKING SUED US.

When I had to turn over my PERSONAL DEVICES to a FORENSIC INVESTIGATOR to prove that I wasn’t doing anything fucking nefarious.

GOD.

I was telling my HR person about this. I said what next, the lady who I hired to write finpubs but all she wanted to write about was pickleball?

Well, fuck me, guess who wrote to me six hours later.

When I fired her, it was after six months of her complaining to everyone about me. That I edited her stuff too much. That I don’t value her wonderfulness.

The phrase you’re going for was “I rewrote your stuff too much,” Cupcake.

Pickleball. Fuck you for wasting my time.

Look, in hindsight, I asked her to write some very hard things.

I write them now.

It’s driving me absolutely bugshit nuts.

But for Christ’s sake, it is not hard to write about the stock market without mentioning PICKLEBALL.

Getting back to when I fired her, it wasn’t an “I understand” or “I would like another chance.”

It was “I’m OLD and no one else will hire me — can’t you hold on to me till I retire in xx years?”

You know, the last time I got shitcanned, I asked if there was anything I could do … or could have done … to change their minds. They said no and I said thanks for the opportunity.

I didn’t say “But my mom was diagnosed with cancer three weeks ago and I crashed my car four times because I was preoccupied and now I have repairs and have to rent a car to drive to Miami Cancer Center.”

Now this person emails me, right?

Not “Hi Dawn would love to work with you again.”

But …

“No one else will hire me and I know you have a heart, please hire meeeeeeeee.”

You know, I don’t know where she got that I have a heart.

From what she said behind my back (and never to my face) was that I was satan incarnate.

Cindy! You two could be friends!

So no, I don’t have a heart.

I used to think that if you appealed to someone’s emotions, it would soften them.

Turns out, it has the opposite effect.

I asked HR is there a fun way to say ineligible for rehire.

She said if you figure it out, let me know.

Here’s what I came up with.

I am feeling more horrible than I’m letting on, believe it or not.

Not that I feel sorry for either.

But that I don’t want bad karma for NOT paying people a minute longer who weren’t worth what I did pay them.

Both were dicks to me, yes.

But I do hope there is grace if they need it.

I just don’t have any more to give. Believe me, I begged for my people to get a raise before I bring in anyone else. Failing that, I gotta bring in someone who can alleviate everyone’s stress.

And neither of them has “Your Photo Here” next to the cavalry we so desperately need to rescue us.

When I told the psychic I am looking to move, she said oh you want a career change.

Not a question. A statement.

I was like no no, I like what I do. And my job is portable.

And the reading went on.

Since then, I cannot shake the feeling that my guides or my mom said something.

Mom had told me to stick with this job till I didn’t have to anymore.

That was her last piece of advice to me.

Milk it then go do something else, now that I won’t have a family to support anymore.

For fun, I did a tarot reading about work yesterday.

It was a frickin doozy.

Literally all signs point to completion. Just like with the apartment. I get the World (completion) card for both. No matter how many tarot readings I do.

I already know I failed when I left before. So I am absolutely bound by holy terror that I will suck at everything else.

But … I feel like I suck at this, too.

At least, from what I read from other GenX posters on the interwebz. That if you just can’t get it up, it’s time to do something more spiritually aligned.

That’s what ChatGPT told me too. You’re ready for spiritual alignment. Whatever that looks like.

I mean, it looks like social justice and writing novels. But I didn’t take Mom’s advice to milk it and save money. I have blown it on trips and experiences.

I mean, gonna die whether or not I ordered a burger or a filet. Get the filet and a bottle of wine, then.

And the way this world is going, I have no desire to reincarnate. Better experience Disney as much as I can while I still want to be on this side of the veil.

I find it interesting about seeing the World card so much. It really is a peaceful bye Felicia card.

What’s interesting too is at least career-wise I pulled the Wheel of Fortune card when I said what if I stay.

That’s exactly what happens. It gets better, it gets lower and the cycle continues.

I think my next vacation will be the real tell. I will never forget spending five grand on my Disneyland trip, only to stare at the park from my hotel room most of the time.

At least I enjoyed my trip to WeHo and Vegas for another ten grand, woo. I checked OUT.

Of course, half of that was over a weekend.

We’ll see what happens when I’m more than three time zones away.

I know it’s my own fault. Boredom then cranking out stuff like my life depends on it. Because it does.

Maybe it’s burnout? Maybe it’s Maybelline?

Clearly I need another reading.

Paddy’s Day. Again.

Momma and I always ordered the corned beef special from Flanigan’s.

I always wanted to order two. But she always insisted we “split a sandwich” everywhere. In other words, why spend the money on two?

Well I’m a fat girl. And she’d always wake up the next day and fry up the potatoes and corned beef and make me a lovely hash with the leftovers.

ETA: My feeble 3/18 attempt.

Today I bought my one.

I also bought a kids’ ribs order.

When she was here, she would take almost all the meat off the ribs and divide it among the cats.

Cocoa would devour hers first. Then she’d “Trick or Treat” up to Grandma, who would have a pile of meat waiting for her.

So, Mom would basically get bones. Willingly, I might add.

So today I did the same.

I kept the burnt meat for myself, and gave these two jabronis the good stuff.

It’s been a good two years since they had ribs.

Mom was alive two years ago and it was Magic to “Trick or Treat” now that Cocoa was gone.

I went to DaDa for Paddy’s last year.

Anyway, Mom always called them “ribbies” — the food, not the children who devoured them.

These two were confused. I don’t share food like Mom did. Cocoa was the reason they got robbie’s, cheeseburgers, chickie-chickie, porky, sammin, whatever.

They get all the Sprouts chickie-chickie they can eat, mind you. And Pollo Tropical. They don’t care for Costco or all the other places Cocoa favored. So I don’t buy it.

I was supposed to go to DaDa tonight but I figured the odyssey to Southern Boulevard (aka Pedo President Blvd) was enough for one day.

I had key lime pie in the parking lot.

Momma and I used to do that. I’d run in for foodz, and we’d crack open the pie.

We’d break open the silverware — she’d take the fork, me the spoon — we’d click-click them, and go to town.

It was sad to have pie without Momma. But my fat ass ate for two. “Won’t be good later,” she always said.

It was better then. But still pretty good now.

Thank you for this ritual, Wobin.

Your “lil Irish gil” misses you bunches.

I only follow a couple influencers.

A lady near Seattle who raises kittens and gets them ready for adoption.

A fellow big girl with a bubbly personality from outside NYC who tries on clothes at places where I shop.

The cat lady has four cats of her own, two of which are the real foster parents. Poppy and Deckster absolutely love on those kittens. And that’s who I want to read about.

The fashionista gives me a realistic look at clothes and sizes. But I’ve fallen in love with her daughter and now her brand new baby girl.

The funny thing is the new baby has the name I planned to use when I had a daughter, Savannah Rose.

Well, glad someone’s got the name. My baby factory is far from closed. But it’s starting to show signs of disrepair.

I don’t feel any sort of way about it. If anything, it’s a “how cool is it that I found this lady to follow” thing.

But I can’t help but think back to Mike.

Look, sure I said I wanted to marry him. But whatever, here we are.

I was clear back then that I was ready for marriage. That I wanted to buy a car that would fit a carseat.

He twisted that somehow into me wanting him for his money (that he didn’t have) and that I wanted him to take care of my mom (say what).

I connected immediately with Taylor Swift’s “Eldest Daughter” when it came out last fall.

“We lie back
A beautiful, beautiful time-lapse
Ferris wheels, kisses, and lilacs
And things I said were dumb
‘Cause I thought that I’d never find that
Beautiful, beautiful life that
Shimmers that innocent light back
Like when we were young.”

It’s admitting you want the fairy tale, the one you spent your life saying you didn’t.

Now I don’t blame him for not having my daughter. Not a bit. Maybe at 30-ish I was already past my prime pregnancy years anyway.

But I do feel A Way about letting myself openly want something and knowing now that he was my last chance to have it.

I was going through some old shit this weekend. Found a baby bib I’d bought back then.

It’s shamrock-shaped. Mike is Irish AF.

So I am sure that stupid piece of fabric is what even got me to thinking today on this holiest of drinking holidays.

And to connect with him again last week … and know he never got married or had any kids either … yeah.

I mean, I’m still convinced Whorothy’s eldest is his. But not my business.

I don’t stay in that past. My little brain fast forwards to the someone else, one who took me on Ferris wheels.

I remember how absolutely standoffish I was most of the time.

I watned nothing to do with him at first. This is why.

This is allll why.

And then he left too.

“Pretty soon, I learned cautious discretion
When your first crush crushes something kind
When I said I don’t believe in marriage
That was a lie”

I mean, all’s well that ends well. And even that ends not so well.

“My heart’s been borrowed and yours has been blue
All’s well that ends well to end up with you”

I mean I could be here with a 10 or 14-year-old child and the same job and same husband (maybe) but never saw as much of the world as I have. So there’s that.

Anyway, have a good little life, Savannah Rose. May you meet more men like your dad and not ones who weren’t man enough to have given me you instead.