Caterwauling

Went to a new doc in a new health system today.

I expected to be underwhelmed and overly emotional.

Turned out the opposite.

Loved the doc. She started right off with, “Not to be political BUT” she explained some options I have that the current administration is going to fuck with.

I said great, let’s do it before he disbands the AMA and deports me.

She said you’re a white woman with a white sounding name. You’ll be OK. The AMA, you may be on to something there.

Oh I like her.

She liked my dress and I said, “Thanks! I got it pre-Temu tariffs.”

It was a great appointment overall.

I was alone in that room for a bit while I waited for bloodwork to get drawn.

And honest to dog, I felt like my entire family was in that room with me.

A girl will always need and want her momma. When she had a great one, anyway. And I had the best.

I tried to be in the room as much as possible for mom. But she had to go through so much alone.

I could fight for her with staff, but I couldn’t fight for her to get better.

Now it’s my turn to go through it alone.

But it didn’t FEEL that way.

While I waited, my grandmother’s birthday came up TWICE. First the month and day, then the month and year. THEN Mom’s day and year.

I felt like my cousin made an appearance too.

And my grandfather.

Honestly I wish I could draw what my mind’s eye saw.

It felt good.

I mean, it feels great to have a whole army of amazing people who came before me. The blood of every one of these warriors runs through my veins.

And it’s because of them that I’ll face whatever, if anything, comes next.

The only thing that brought me down today was hearing that Cheetolini wants to make men our conservators again. Like, I don’t even have an emergency contact, and that assclown motherfucker thinks I need a male to supervise my money? Oh hell no.

Anyway a friend of mine (female) offered to be my emergency contact.

What’s funny is she got that message from the spirit realm this morning. Before I went nuclear on Faceypages about the orange fucker’s desire to end my financial sovereignty even though there’s no one I’d give it to.

I also said this is what radicalizes me. I am not just wishing “someone do it already.” Though I absolutely wish they would.

But if he thinks I am incapable of it, oh think again fatass. Think the fuck again.

I am doing life alone just fine.

And I am willing to go out a hero of the free world so no one else has to sit in a doctor’s office and plan tests and potential treatments around when he plans to end them.

I always made fun of my neighbor Tommy for never leaving his house.

We’re the same-ish age.

Like, take a walk, go to Delray for drinks, drive to Orlando or Key West for a weekend. Something. You wonder why you’re single? You’re boring.

I got dangerously close to becoming Tommy.

And now I see why.

It’s been a year since I fed cats, yes, we’ve been over that storyline before.

But I decided to go to the last cookout of the season this past Wednesday.

I had just fired someone and I needed a goddamned minute.

Pedro stopped me to talk as he always does.

He’s nice enough but creepy. Has always followed me around any chance he gets. He does it to every woman here. Most of them are lucky enough to only live here during the winter.

I tried to disentangle myself by reminding him that the HOA gets nasty if you put in an order after 1:45, and it was 1:40, so let me go get my hot dog now.]

He asked if I’m ordering a hot dog. Um, yes. He said what will you do after the cookouts are over. I said I don’t really come down here because I don’t like interacting with these people, so I’ll be fine, thanks.

He said maybe you can fire up the grill sometime and cook up some hotdogs, and I can come sit here and talk to you.

I said interesting plan. Gotta run, have a good afternoon.

Like, why on EARTH would I use the grill (which risks me having to speak to people here) … and why on EARTH would I invite him to hang out with me?

I mean, this interaction was totally innocuous. But still.

I would take more walks. I would go to more cookouts. I would feed cats. But other than one or two annoying women who need to die here, it’s the MEN who have made me hate it here.

Look, I have come to love my apartment and balcony. I hated it because I wanted better for Mom, and I was always looking for a better place.

But this is fine for me.

Especially now that I have the furniture where I want it.

Now that I use the “good” stuff she was saving for a nicer home.

Now that I make my weird meals that include salads with caramel popcorn as a side dish.

Anyway, not the point. But the point is I stopped walking because of this asshole. Back when the pandemic started and I was still in shape but couldn’t get to the gym, this dipshit was driving his golf cart up my ass and I was walking in the grass to get away from him.

Like, this isn’t just being nice and making conversation. It’s trying to get in my space when I am trying not to have my good time ruined.

We had a guy here, Kevin, who they fired and they gave his work to Pedro.

Kevin annoyed me. He spied on all of us. But never seemed to say a word unless the cops were called.

He was harmless. Loud and annoying, and not the least bit funny with his jokes, but very nice.

Kept his (physical) distance. Which I hated since he’d yell up/down five floors sometimes. But I never felt unsafe around him.

Anyway, with the cookouts over (there’s the annual “Fly Away” party today to say goodbye to the asshole snowbirds. Don’t let the door hit yin), I at least won’t run into Pedro again for another year.

And no I won’t be inviting him to watch me cook hot dogs. I’ll get mine for $1.61 from Costco, thanks, instead of $5 here.

Someone loves to sit in judgment of me for sitting in judgment of them for sitting in judgment of me.

Trust me, it makes sense if you’ve lived this.

By now this person might have been deported, so who knows.

But one thing they judged me for judging them for was their relentless posting of someone’s health problems.

Well, now that Brainworm is calling for a registry of said health problems, I see MY fears were founded.

I wonder if Twatistic is still posting about other people’s stuff now that eugenics is back in style.

We all remember what they did with people with health issues during the Nazi regime. Well, maybe not all of us, apparently.

Anyway, here’s hoping they’re spending less time sitting in judgment of me and also less time shouting HIPPA-protected shit from the rooftops.

I saw my first Mother’s Day commercial of the season. Hallmark. A girl going though many phases of life, calling for her mom.

The only thing that will break me more is whatever Publix cooks up for their next ad.

I usually run away for holidays and anniversaries of times spent with my momma.

But Mother’s Day is squarely between a week-long work hootenanny and a conference I’ll be claiming on my own taxes rather than the company’s.

So it makes sense to make like my No. 1 fan and languish in bed for this most dreaded of holidays.

I thought about taking my happy ass to Disney now that I’m an “AP.” But I figured I need to go 17 days to get my money’s worth, and I’ve already gone six. In Month One. So, I’m good.

That leaves two more post-Mom firsts.

My birthday, which she hung on for last year so she wouldn’t ruin it by leaving.

And the day she left, just two weeks after.

I don’t believe the second “heavenly birthday,” Thanksgiving, Christmas, etc. will be any easier than the first. My theory has always been that you can write off one missed year, but two years without her will make it real.

Even now, I still can’t believe she isn’t in her room or out at Ross or something. Especially when I’m traveling, which I did alone sometimes when she was here, I always go to tell her I arrived or I just saw something that reminded me of her.

I text it anyway sometimes. Why not. Still a more productive activity than seeing what certain living people are up to.

Anyway, I haven’t decided what to do on all the other firsts. But I do think Mother’s Day is the right day to just sit and be “in it” instead of “as far away from it as possible,” as is my usual choice.

When Mom passed, I went through her room to take inventory of it.

I found some moolah. Nice.

Her best friend/frenemy had said oh I remember she was the queen of “ducking” money. Did you find any.

I said yep, she kept that up to the end.

I still have her purse with a few bucks in it. I am saving it for my birthday or some other sort of moment where I can let her “treat” me one last time.

Pretty sure I found everything in the first month.

Then I got my taxes done yesterday, and got a tiny windfall for being able to put her on my taxes. Which I hadn’t done in years.

It was very weird going in there. I had taken Mom there to enroll in Obamacare a decade ago. Gabe (the manager) and Heather (my accountant and insurance rep) remember us fondly.

Every year, they ask me how mom is.

This year, I was like well she passed last June, but I love you for taking such good care of her while she was here.

Heather and I cried. It was so surreal, remembering Mom at that very desk with me, having to trust that we were going to get her healthcare.

I told Heather, it’s because of her that Mom got to start treatments. And that she had a little Social Security in the end too.

Not much, but we wouldn’t have had it otherwise.

God, we only had that for a year. My colleagues had railed about why we should delay her collecting and I listened to them. Man we could have had four years of payments instead of one.

Anyway.

I’ll have to look at how much of my final return was thanks to momma, but it was substantial. Heather even said, that total is going to be half that next year.

Thank you, Momma. For doing so much to take care of me for my whole life and, now, your afterlife.

Doing all these “first” holidays without mom is less fun than my photo posts make it look.

What my three readers see on the socials:

Goofy selfies, and lots of them.

Cool places.

Good foods.

Fun things I forced myself to experience.

Last trip in September for Mom’s birthday, I did a mix of “our” things and new things.

This time, it was all me. Even though Delmonico’s was open early for Easter, I decided to go to the parks. Because we didn’t and then we couldn’t.

And now I can. Just like I’ve updated all my Sirius XM presets.

I love her Coffeehouse and Kenny Chesney but Miss Gen X here needs her Lithium and ’90s on 9 and Ozzy’s Boneyard.

Not that I leave the house much to enjoy any of it.

I think that was the main driver behind me upgrading my Disney pass. My friend who inspired me to get the pass will literally get her ass on a plane to go to Disney.

Why can’t I take a road trip once a month for one night to escape my own mental Eight of Swords moments?

I don’t get many “likes” but I don’t care.

Momma always said do you notice how nobody likes your posts when you’re traveling or doing something they can’t do.

A-yup.

I am always good for liking and commenting on people’s posts when they put up a selfie or a trip photo.

My family always taught me to be happy for others. Begruding them won’t make it come to you, they’d say.

Plus, the bravery of putting up a selfie is nothing to sniff at. For others, I presume.

I love seeing me happy-ish, even if I have a bonus chin or a dopey expression.

I mean, I’m fuckin sad sometimes. If my eyes are puffy, taking extra pics isn’t usually going to yield a better one.

Gotta celebrate the moment while I’m still in it.

I always celebrate a great outfit.

Also, as for celebrating others, I can wish I were in the Maldives while also liking your photos from them.

You know, the booming metropolis of the Maldives that Cheetolini is picking a tariff fight with because they export sooo much here (not).

Where was I? Oh, how glad I am that I post what I do.

After all, the Memories features slap me in the fucking face every day to remind me of what Momma and I were doing two, five, six, 10, 18 years ago, I’m glad I did.

And now, as random memories come to me, I want to capture those too.

Like how she loved cherries and whipped cream. I told her I didn’t like either so she wouldn’t give them to me even though they were the best part for her.

Interestingly, those get more likes than the happy photos. Misery loves company, apparently.

Got some nice feedback from my trip to the Hollywood Brown Derby for Easter lunch.

This after seeing so many signs from my family over the weekend that I didn’t share.

I was eating an amazing piece of cake from Cake Bake — Neapolitan, which the servers said they were so jealous of me getting to eat because it’s their favorite — outside when I thought, damn, I wish Mom had gotten to try this.

A baby robin bopped by me and dived into the topiary next to me after I thought it.

I was still on Disney’s Board Walk when I saw someone wearing a Cocoa Beach shirt. MY BABY!!!!

I decided to look to the sky. To my joyful surprise, I saw skywriting just starting.

That’s always how we remembered my Gram.

After she had her stroke, she lost her ability to hold a pen. Which was terrible because she was a beautiful calligrapher.

So she wrote in the sky.

Anytime we would see skywriting, we’d say, “Rosie Girl!”

I looked at my watch. 6:19. Grampy’s favorite number.

Don’t tell me I didn’t have my whole family with me on the Board Walk.

My Easter miracle.

When I go out to eat, I always click two forks together and say “click click!” like Momma did to toast us.

(I do it at home too, if I bother using silverware. I remember when the Kathy Bates of Greenacres, speaking of “Misery,” used to slam me for taking food pics on Dixie plates. Bitch, I had a mom with stage 4 cancer and I have no daughter to run the household and be the party hostess while you languish. I would have paper pots and pans if I could. I throw away silverware — yes actual silver — so I don’t have one more damned thing to clean.)

And I always raise my glass and say “Cheers to my Momma.”

Today I did a click click with a blood orange margarita to the pomegranate one in my flight.

I felt like she was saying “Cheers to my baby” back.

She would have loved these, even though they used Cuervo. The blood orange margarita was amazeballs.

Jimmy always used to say “No Jose!”

Speaking of Jimmy, I drove by his house on the way home from Orlando.

He had a houseful. I texted a pic of that shit-brown abode with the five cars to mom’s bestie/frenemy. Who wants so badly for me to drive him to his door.

Which, I will someday. I promise.

I also almost slammed into one of those cars. They had to have heard me lose some tire rubber from that hard brake. Instant karma for being evil.

I texted the friend (which, I’ve concluded she may not have been a great friend to mom, but she is good to me. So that is something to cherish) that he doesn’t even need an Easter ham. Jimmy is the whole damn pig.

Anyway it was interesting to have Momma in the car (in her travel urn, in the cupholder and a Baby’s Coffee cardboard sleeve to keep her in place) while I looked at that shitbox. The house, not the owner, to be clear.

I almost wished he’d come out. I am 100% sure he contributed to her poor health.

But that’s a post for never, because he isn’t worth celebrating or even remembering. Unlike her.

I’m no Miranda Lambert fan but that song gets me.

Just rolled in from a much-needed Disney weekend that turned into a Disney week.

I decided to upgrade my FL resident pass to an annual pass. Look out, (Disney) world.

I figure 17 visits will make it pay for itself. Six down!

Anyway I just turned on the History Channel (though I do try to watch a lot of PBS because it’s apparently an act of resistance). They have “The Foods That Built America” on and I got the “A Box of Chocolates” episode.

It reminded me that my Grampy would buy a box of Russell Stover chocolates for each of us, every Valentine’s Day.

Gram would get a huge heart. Mom would get a medium one and I’d get a small one.

I loved that. I looked forward to that every year.

When he left us, I always bought Mom a Dove truffles heart. We got bougie, clearly.

What’s funny now is how I’m watching the Whitman’s, Hershey’s and Russell Stover of it all on this show and going meh.

That shit is SO mid.

Once you’ve had Max Brenner, ain’t nothing going to impress you.

Since my one reader loves to try things I love and pooh pooh them, I’m sure she’ll follow me to Brooklyn this summer and ride over to Union Station to try it and then whine about how meh it is because it isn’t Ferrero Rocher or some shit.

Anyway, I just had that powerful memory of my grandfather with those hearts. It’s been 19 Valentine’s Days since he could give me one.

But I will never forget how happy it made him to give us his heart.

I bought Momma a Dove heart this past Valentine’s Day.

It’s been on her bed for two months. Proud that I haven’t yet raided it.

I guess I hope there’s some way she could come back for it.

I am a Real Housewives stan.

OG New York was the best. I do like the new cast, though.

Beverly Hills is my next favorite. Though I preferred the Vanderpump Rules spin-off, I like seeing actual famous housewives with interesting resumes and families rather than these janky hoes they put on Salt Lake and Orange County.

Everyone’s talking about Garcelle walking away from the RHOBH reunion before the final moment where they take a cast photo.

That was effectively her resignation.

The rest of the cast was outraged. But I get it.

Many prefer not to “break bread” with enemies.

Some of us don’t want evidence we were ever with them.

I was dating this guy Mike for a while. He pursued me. He took me nice places and treated me OK. I say OK because we had great conversation but that was it.

“He said that if the sex was
Half as good as the conversation was
Soon, they’d be pushin’ strollers
But, soon, it was over”

Oh Taylor how do you always KNOW?!

Mike and I had gone somewhere, I forget where. I took a photo of him.

He asked if I wanted a picture of both of us.

I surprised my mother, myself and the entire universe when I said, “Nope.”

I have exactly zero photos with Mike. I mean, this was all I wanted was a pic with him. And when the moment came, I was like why.

Pretty sure that was the last time we saw each other. We’ve spoken since. Awkwardly. I don’t hate him. I just do not want to remember that era when I really really wanted to love him.

Anyway, everyone is shitting on Garcelle. But I get her. When people have hurt you so deeply … when people didn’t back you up … when her friends that she defended to the death didn’t fight the battle with her … she was done.

Garcelle, unlike Poorit, is someone I’ve watched in TV and movies for decades. She doesn’t need this paycheck. She doesn’t need to continue being the sane and sage one. You could see the moment when she mentally said, “Let it burn.”

Anyway, I type all this to say the moment I decided I didn’t want Mike to be just another picture to burn (again, hattip to Taylor) might have happened a decade ago. But I remember it now as clearly as I experienced it.

Mike accidentally texted me last week, ironically. He was asking someone if they needed an errand run. I ignored it. Let him sit there and be mortified that I came to his mind and not whoever he was trying to reach.

I don’t think I’ve ever named a post by the same name as the blog in 24 years.

But I was up late working (as I avoided a task for five days and the clock had more than run out) last night and I heard a cacophony of cats.

Faceypages had told me yesterday, via Memories, that it was the last day I fed the street cats.

Meatball knew I was done. He followed me all over the complex, which he never did. Almost begging me to reconsider.

I didn’t even know I was done at that time. But he knew.

Anyway I was already feeling like shit about it all when I heard cries at midnight.

I was hoping it was one of the annoying kids who come here for the winter/spring. But when I went to my balcony, I could see a bunch of cats. And hear them.

Don’t know if they were howling at the full moon. Honestly I have lived here six years and never heard that before.

Given the time, my guess is Rita hadn’t gone to feed them.

Given the time, I was very tempted to break into my new delivery of cat food and go take care of them.

But I didn’t, as I am an asshole.

I finished my project and went to bed.

But I can’t get their screams out of my head.

I remember Butterface on a Bike threatening to round them up and take them to the kill shelter. As if they’d ever go near her.

You know, those cries were so loud, you’d think people would band together and say hey let’s help these little guys. Let them eat. From a bowl, not the pavement. In peace.

I’d decided not to get involved again because of that. I don’t want to be put in situations where I want to punch people (or punch them back). I don’t want to drop expensive food on the only pavement they are allowed to be on, which is covered in dog pee and bird shit.

My guess is the new cats aren’t fixed. But I forfeited my right to know anything.

Anyway if there is a hell, this is why I’ll be going. For being able to help and actively choosing not to.