Caterwauling

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.

Going to see the Pirates today. Which I haven’t done since the ’90s.

I’m going to the (local) Nats stadium to see them.

No Nats today — Astros.

I used to take Mom to games at Nats Stadium over by Navy Yard. And I took her to what’s now Cacti Park but I’ll always think of it as The Ballpark of the Palm Beaches.

So I’m not sure what’s weirder — not seeing the Nats or not seeing Momma.

This is all part of my proper goodbye to Palm Beach.

Though as Taylor Swift shows us, you can always come back.

The local rag says she’ll be in town for a golf event with the Brothers Kelce.

Knowing what I know as a local, I’ve clocked the area where I expect she’ll stay.

Because, I know where the REAL money goes and it ain’t where the orange shitstain lives. That’s where people who WANT to be thought of as rich live.

Anyway, I would be real damn surprised if she didn’t show up at The Woods at some point.

Kimberley took me to The Woods when she was passing through town. It was SUCH a fun night with her. I don’t even remember what we ate or drank, it was just a blast to be together after having met in DC a million years earlier.

Wait, i do remember.

I ordered chicken piccata.

One, it wasn’t the most expensive thing and I already knew Kimberley was going to grab the check.

Two, but probably one, Mom LOVED chicken piccata. So that way, I could eat half and take the rest to her.

Which I did. And she loved it.

I miss being able to eat half a portion and be happy. Oh, skinny days. Now I’d eat that whole portion and order an appetizer for later.

Anyway, I got to talking to my friend Bryan yesterday. We hadn’t seen each other since DC but we ran into each other in Palm Beach late last year.

He had given us the keys to his river house near Colonial Beach a long time ago. Which I told him was mom’s favorite vacation ever, no matter where I took her after.

Bryan asked how mom is and I said she passed recently. He was so bummed. “You guys were so tight, what an impossible loss for you.”

It was such a verbal hug. And boy did I cry.

This week would have been Grammy’s 100th birthday. I put his photo on my ottoman and kind of forgot about moving it.

And I have caught Bella sitting with him more than once.

I still think Grampy came here to take Mom home. And that he gave me a hug when he realize he was in my house.

It’s weird how getting older is just being sad and happy in alternating doses.

I guess it was always like that. But we go from missing the living (friends, exes) to missing the ones who ACTUALLY loved us.

The wrong ones die, clearly.

Anyway, I’m debating whether to stalk The Woods tonight or tomorrow.

Which means they probably went last night. Hah.

And I’ll no doubt be singing, “The monsters turned out to be just trees / when the sun came up you were looking at me” the whole ride.

Was telling a friend about this gourmet lunch I threw together yesterday while my internet was down for two hours.

He replied that I’m #wifematerial.

Boy … did that make me want to throw up my lunch.

Not that it was him who said it. Just in general.

Like, once upon a time, I made a lot of decisions — all with the idea of having a future family.

Now, those days are behind me.

WAY behind me.

I’m looking to downsize by a lot. So I can gravitate to having a life more outside my house than in.

And do I want someone in my big space? No. Would I want someone in my future, smaller space? Also no.

I saw a meme about guys who say I love you after never having asked a single question about you. Reminded me of the latest Mike. Who thankfully has fucked off and stayed fucked off. Here’s hoping Scott learns that lesson after … 20 years?

And no this friend from yesterday is the opposite. Asks every question.

Like, I am the lazy one who doesn’t ask questions because I don’t think that hard about anything. Or, for that matter, have answers to questions. Because, again, lazy.

Unless someone is gonna pay for half my space, I don’t want them in it. Or even then, given my physical reaction to a compliment.

My grandmother once said, after my shirt got wet after I washed dishes, that was a sign I’d be a good wife someday.

I said it’s a sign that I’m fat that it’s my belly that’s wet.

She laughed. And I could tell she was proud.

Still fat. Still not a wife. Still happy.

I think she’d still be proud.

For a while I was convinced Howler had been visited by a trio of ghosts.

Like, they went from excoriating me in every possible forum … to complimenting me.

I figured they realized I am much more useful when I am not doing my level best to pretend you’re as dead as I can’t wait for tRump to be.

Anyway, all good things come to an end. And they have been on my last muh-fukkin NERVE lately.

Like, they were mad my people weren’t replying to a mass message to all of them.

To be specific, they posted word salad in a public forum. But it wasn’t a question. And it didn’t give them any information, either.

So my people saw it and ignored it. Because, nothing was asked of them.

So I hear from Howlah how unresponsive my boys are. I’m like well what did you want and I can get it for you.

Which, that is the tradition across my department.

Howler tags other people because I tend to not prioritize answering word salad … until I see one of my people pulled into that Bermuda Triangle. Then I answer for all of us.

It’s something they’ve said they are grateful for. They are in the know, without having to ask me what that was all about.

Anyway. So a day later, after I called a meeting with all my people, I sent back a list of five people’s responses to what was apparently a question …

Only to be told that those answers have to be approved by our boss.

OK, and? Is that on me now?

You asked me for the info. Go fly it up a flagpole. I’m out.

In talking with my team this week, we had even MORE ideas for how to make (redacted) sensational.

I very nicely howled (hah) that there are two things we want to do. That’s cool, right?

I got back basically wow those are two stupid ideas. “But I’m open to ideas!”

Head. Face. Palm. Desk.

I mean … I have two other ideas and they are both a size 8.5.

Ready to deliver both of them them UP yo S.

Finally I got smart today and didn’t ask. I just said here are THREE things we are GOING to do. Just FYI. Love, Dawn.

Hoo boy, I got two meetings requests out of it to discuss because, “You can’t do that!”

Um, just did.

I’m like yo you told US to figure shit out.

We figured it out.

And if there is something we cannot figure out, we will figure it out. So, again, the agenda for these three items is xyz.

Well.

Half a day went by with glorious silence.

Finally I got an, “OK I can help you do that. I just need a guest list.”

Look, homie.

You’ve asked for that guest list for a month.

For a month, I’ve said I cannot release the names until the 12th. Then I can tell you everything.

I am not being a twat here. I’m no Cindy or Karen or Pam or whatever.

I am barred by the company’s own SOP — that the owner and I wrote together — on confidentiality about xx project.

The moment I am able to reveal things, I reveal them. On a designated date that my person says I can.

Which is March 12.

Oh it’s funny. I called our head of sales to chat out some stuff yesterday.

Not wildly specific. But as much as I could give.

She asked if we should invite Howler’s mini me to this chat.

I said I consider YOU a friend. And you’ll accept how much I can reveal and let me slide on what I can’t.

Unsaid: Howlah and Lil Howlah will push the nuclear button until something erupts.

In other words, I am tired as shit of trying to help people out, only to get kicked like an ICE agent when it sees a cute dog. (True story, have seen videos.)

Yesterday was a good example. Something BIG dropped, and now I can open my mouth about it.

As it was dropping, I told Howler’s Mini Me I am about to send you as much data as I can. But there are questions I haven’t gotten the answers to yet, so expect customers to ask more.

Sure as fucking shit, annoying little one pokes me with all kinds of dumb smiley emojis to try to get more info out of me “for customers.”

I ignored it. I’m used to this. People hate not being in the know. And they don’t appreciate how I do try to make everyone’s life easier.

Honestly even if they weren’t WILDLY inappropriate with me at our last in-person meeting, I still wouldn’t have acknowledged it, either.

Ick, I have to see this person at (redacted). FUCK.

In any event, my takeaway from all this shit is, one, this.

And two, asking Howler for help repeatedly gets me nowhere. But “I’ll do it myself like I always do” yielded me, “Oh, OK, I shall help so I may take credit.”

Not in so many words. But that’s how it went in the old days.

Before the Hitchhiking Ghosts of Christmas Past descended upon the socialist state of Maryland.

And clearly the cracks are showing again.

Was just catching up on “Grey’s Anatomy.”

Dr. Beltran died after guiding Millen through a surgery.

I was thinking, that’s how I’ll go out. Working. Coaching. Suffering in the corner and slipping out unnoticed.

What really struck me was how, when she told Dr. Ngudu what happened, he hugged her.

She could collapse, cry, find support in that awful moment.

I … never got that.

When my Momma died, I had a nurse and a mortician in my house shortly afterward.

Then, silence.

I’m not a hugger. That guy I wrote about yesterday will tell you I am not a hugger. Though he made me into a bit of one.

I don’t ever feel sorry for myself.

But in this random Sunday moment after I cooked my own breakfast (Mom’s were better) …

Where I watched my show (she hated it but watched it with me) …

With the doors open (she hated that, as people could see in the front or the cats could go out the back door, and I do not care about such things) …

I realized, not a soul hugged me or gave me any sort of physical comfort when my Mom died.

And that’s not anyone’s fault. I didn’t even tell anyone but my boss and my cousin for a good two months.

Though one of my beloved staffers drove her ass up here from two counties south to take me out for Greek food.

And another of my staffers sent me a gorgeous bouquet. (“Thank you for the lovely bouquet.”)

And Liz sent me a bouquet bigger than my doorway from the company.

My immediate boss asked me over a week later about sending me flowers.

I said Liz sent some from the company.

I mean, that’s really all anyone can expect, right? Other than her beloved staff showering her with gifts and food.

Liz retired soon after, with health problems only the big boss knew about. (The big boss called me to tell me about that.)

I sent Liz a massive bouquet too. From me personally.

Anyway this isn’t about men. (It’s a shame the thought has to count since no one else male even HAD that thought.) But isn’t everything, really.

But it is about how I think Nicole was my first hug after Mom died.

My second hug was probably Jaclyn in New Orleans, as I put her on her plane (With the big boss on the phone).

And Ben and Karen were on MY flight to ATL, and we took pictures and hugged just outside the plane door.

These days, “Touch Me Not,” as Momma called me, now hugs random strangers. I’ve hugged a thousand people since then. Not for me, but when I see them in need.

I think the last hug JUST for me was when I saw Ben and Karen in Santa Ana. In October.

Anyway I’m over here processing not just Dr. Beltran’s death.

But now Eric “McSteamy” Dane’s actual death is making me relive his “Grey’s” death … and Lexie’s and Derek’s and O’Malley’s and of course Denny’s.

I wonder if Mom hated that show because they showed what we experienced — incompetent, distracted doctors who kill good people.

That’s why I like it. We don’t get happy endings. And none of them do, either.