Caterwauling

When the source of your anxiety is removed and you are STILL anxious AF.

It’s time to crack some skulls. And not my own.

What is, the best part of working on weekends.

I get the irony. But I do savor the fact that I can see daylight and get mom fed at a reasonable hour.

No working next weekend, though. I have a Women’s March to attend.

I know I’m lucky. And that fortune is fragile. But I need that saying on a T-shirt STAT. 

Mom got up to make me breakfast, which she tries to do no matter how bad she is feeling. And that ranges from god-fucking-awful to holy-fuck-make-the-pain-stop. On a good day.

Nevertheless, I get beautiful omelettes every day. Different ones. Usually vegetarian, per my request. And the occasional breakfast sandwich, corned-beef hash, basted egg paired with turkey or Canadian bacon, or “egg in the hole” sprinkled with bacon bits. Which, she says, aren’t real meat so that’s vegetarian.

Today, knowing it’s a working weekend, she got up to make breakfast. But I said nah, I get extra points at Starbucks if I get breakfasts this weekend. Let me grab us something.

I ordered her a tea, which I always do. But today I gave the barista her name instead of mine.

Mom gratefully accepted her tea. And she read the name on the cup and burst into tears.

“It’s my name!” she cried.

We were at Epcot about a year ago and I don’t even know why I got her name on the cup. She had a similar reaction.

She can’t buy me anything, and it kills her.

She hates being dependent on me. She will go without food and say she’s fine and that she doesn’t need anything. Even though, come on, everyone needs food.

We fight about that a lot. “Save your money,” she pleads.

I’d rather save my momma, I tell her.

It’s a moment like this where you know that you did something right in this life. Even if it was as small as telling the barista your name is Princess instead of Goddess. (Her daddy always called her Princess. Or Punkin, although sometimes I got that one too. But she was AWAYS Princess.)

Also, no I didn’t use either of those nicknames, but you get the idea. Names are very important in this little family.

I haven’t gotten much done at work yet. But I did break down and finally sign up for Obamacare. You know, the ones the fuckwits on Capitol Hill are currently eviscerating, decimating and destroying for the poor folks like us.

I finally decided to suck it up and figure out how to pull $700 a month out of my ass. Which, goodbye storage units and lunches and Starbucks. I’d rather save my momma, as I said.

Everyone knows I hate that cocksucking piece of shit and his merry band of deplorables. And now I hate Congress even worse than before, too. I was hoping maybe I didn’t have to become destitute to afford care for my mom.

That was my one hope out of the Orange Oppressor — that he might have, amid all his lies and other assorted bullshit, actually planned to improve the system.

I shouldn’t say it but I’ve been really sick myself lately. I mean, really really not well. And I haven’t been using my own insurance because why should I when mom doesn’t have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of. I’ve been socking cash away and hoping that she’d be ok for a little while if something happened to me. (She wouldn’t. She’d be Debbie Reynolds. Trust me.)

In any event, I digressed way too much. But think about it. A woman who is so grateful to have her name on something, anything in this world — wouldn’t this world want to have her well and IN IT and participating fully in it?

Next time you sit your stupid ass home and not vote, or vote for a stupid ass, think of Robin. Please.

A lot of people bitched about Meryl Streep’s commentary at the Golden Globes, where she tried to drive the point home about empathy.

I thought it was wonderful. But then again, I voted for humanity. Back when I believed in it.

On the night President Obama said farewell from Chicago, Mom and I stayed tuned in to the news. And first story up, we saw the mug shot of our maintenance guy at the Palm Beach Projects we left two years ago.

We knew him as Mitchell, the Americanized version of his name. Nice guy, was very handsome and had a light in his eyes when I met him in 2009.

In those early days, he was decent at his job. It was clear they didn’t pay him well, treat him right or give him the resources to do his job. But he, like me, was the only one doing the job, lack of resources notwithstanding. So we could relate on a lot of levels.

He and mom were close at first. But then we started hearing of cars being broken into, and stories of people who let him in their units when they weren’t home, and things going missing. And everyone said it was Evil Landlady 1 and him in on the con. Either way, we retreated from both because of it.

I remember a day a few years ago when he went missing for four days. Lord knows I could never get anything fixed after a while. He got into a habit of telling folks he had fixed something, and he’d never so much as knocked on the door while Mom waited beside it all day. I saw him and asked where he’d been. He said his son had gotten into some legal trouble, and he was there to bail him out.

But when I read the police reports I never looked up before this week, HE was the one picked up on a misdemeanor back then. Not his son.

And it saddened me that it was his son who turned him in this time.

It’s a nutty story. I saw his mug on TV because he was picked up for Grand Theft Auto … and then walked out of the interview room, grabbed a bicycle and disappeared. So our Mayberry PD — er, Palm Beach PD — went on a massive manhunt.

I’m not kidding. Ground search, air search, K-9s crawling Chilean Avenue. Our shitty local paper that kisses Trump’s ass with both sets of its lips put out all kinds of sensational headlines about an escaped prisoner! Wanted! For a SLEW of Felonies!

The truth as I can tell is that an old neighbor of ours was out of town. “Mitchell” is being listed as homeless in every report I have read. Which means he is no longer with his beautiful wife and boys. Which breaks my heart.

What really breaks my heart is that shitball of an apartment building not paying him enough to live anywhere. And not maybe throwing him a studio for a little while because of his loyalty.

As the story goes, an old neighbor of ours was traveling and told “Mitchell” that he could crash there till he returned. Nice guy, truly. One of my favorite neighbors. I love that he’d do that for him.

But … “Mitchell” took his new Mercedes … and never returned it.

My neighbor was like me, always with old-ass cars. That he treated himself, I was happy to hear. He deserved it.

Mom said it didn’t seem like him to call the cops on “Mitchell” since they were friends. But I would imagine going a week without your car after traveling would probably suck.

And if “Mitchell” was in fact homeless, my guess is he’d not have a phone where you could call him and get your car back.

In any event, he was seen panhandling at Hypoluxo and 95. His kid turned him in. I’m unclear on the series of events because the Palm Beach Post is a propaganda machine these days, but it sounded like he had the car parked at Popeye’s. (Worst Popeye’s ever. I love their food but Jesus, horrible area.)

Now this part of the report I can see happening. When he was picked up the second time, he offered to get the car from Popeye’s and drive it to the precinct. Mayberry PD said no. I mean, I get that because, obviously. But I wondered if “Mitchell” somehow didn’t want R. to incur the expense of getting his car out of the pound, where it was towed.

Homeless.

Please bear with me on this.

“Mitchell” and I are the same age. Less than a year apart. I was a resident of the fucking Town of Palm Beach (less than a mile south of Mar-a-Lago). 

Think about that. Pretty privileged. Yes supporting mom and drowning in debt and working my ass off. But damn lucky. 

I’ve always had good jobs and even when I was “destitute,” I had friends who threw me projects so I could afford to feed my mom.

This guy has nobody. And judging from the whopping bond they set, ain’t nobody going to see him for a long, long time.

Homeless.

On one of the Post’s many breathless Facebook posts about “Mitchell,” the comments ranged from, “Green card?” to “Good” and everything in between. Fucking Trump voters. Mom looked each of them up and every goddamned one of them had Twitler as a profile pic. I knew that without looking.

I commented too, that it was sad it was such a witch hunt for a guy down on his luck.

That’s the thing.

Homeless.

43.

Had a family.

Had a job.

Couldn’t afford a home.

Had nothing.

Look, I get that he did some shit lately. Got it. Heard ya. Loud and clear. We all fuck up. We all usually get second, third and eighty-fifth chances.

I have no doubt this is a guy who just was trying to get by who made a really dumb decision to screw over his friend.

I actually logged in to the system to donate to his commissary account. I haven’t funded it yet — seriously, the terms and conditions are CRAZY, not to mention the service fee.

I put the old address as my current address. I got a nasty-pop up, that if this isn’t your address we will FIND YOU because we investigate EVERYONE who wants to donate to a prisoner.

Jesus Christ.

The system is rigged. Orange Hitler got that shit right. But it’s rigged against giving anyone a leg up who isn’t a billionaire. That I can’t even throw $20 at an old friend so he can eat a fucking candy bar while he rots in jail and nobody looks for him, without signing MY privacy away? Christ, like these Mayberry PD assholes don’t pull ME over every five fucking minutes and ticket me because I’m a girl who won’t fight them.

That was something interesting. The cops PULLED HIM OVER in the Mercedes before R. reported it missing. And they let him go. Didn’t ask for a license or anything.

Was probably the same shithead who said he smelled pot coming from my car. REALLY NOW??!?

I voted against pot, asshole. Fuck you.

Anyway. Empathy.

I can’t stop thinking about this guy. That could be me. One wrong turn … one comment that has been held in too long being aimed like a missile at a target that would erupt upon impact … one fucking wrong decision and I could be him. Alone. Forgotten. If you ain’t deplorable, then you’re deportable. (Also, he’s a citizen, YOU FUCK.)

I’m including him in my prayers now. Every night I thank God for another day. I thank God for another day with my mom. I thank God for another day with my kitty. I thank God for another day with a paycheck. I thank God that there is only one thing I don’t like about my work, and I ask for the strength to not let it get me down.

And now, I pray for “Mitchell” and ask that he get his eighty-fifth chance … and that he makes something of it.

I just don’t see that light in his eyes anymore. And that may mean he’s beyond hope. So I have to have it for him. And I do.

I’ll make that donation. Nobody should be forgotten. I don’t know if it will help to know he has a friend on the outside. But it’s completely out of my own empathetic character to not try.

Watching that Salmon Stalin attack the press today, after President Obama’s lyrical farewell last night — amid reports that the PEEOTUS (heh) paid Russian prostitutes to piss on his orange oppressor ass — killed me. KILLED ME. 

He’s like facing your captor or rapist or shitty ex boss after you’ve escaped and started NOT twitching and bursting into tears every time you see a shadow that isn’t yours. 

Pathetic Pumpkin Patriarch. Guava Gorbachev piece of shit. Yellow Yeltsin. Peach Plutarch. Apricot Autarch. Twitler son of a bitch. 

Where was I? 

I remember being appalled at my dumbass friends who hated Obama who posted terrible shit about him. I thought, who could have that much hatred in their heart to risk professional ruin with what they said?

I get it now. As I wear my snake pin with the “don’t touch my pussy” admonishment. Like I did today. God I get it. 

Among other things. 

Found this DailyWorth.com snippet fascinating. They say set money goals if that works for you.  And if that gives you anxiety, then don’t. 

I feel the same way about career, family and relationships. Hi, here’s my goal. Oh hey look, a decade has passed and, well, fuck. Look at the time!

I don’t know that it’s right. But it’s good to know I am not the only one who gets demoralized easily. 

Kind of interesting how people will tell others when they are feeling demoralized. (Unrelated and cryptic mention here.)  Not saying anything either way. Just wondering how they handle it. Either they, really. This is one of those moments that shape you. Does iron sharpen iron, or poison you? 

Momma told me never to settle.

Even at 42, “No settling, girlie.”

We watch Facebook way too closely. We see people who waited their whole lives for love … and what loves they end up finding makes us so sad.

Beautiful people we have loved for a long time, inside and out … taking the first thing that comes along.

Basically, when you are finally ready to introduce the world to your significant other, you want, “Dayum, girl!” to be the response. In a good way.

Mom even left this on my FB wall one year ago today, which is what inspired this …

But a couple of weeks ago, as I was sort of going with a random flirtation in my world that I wasn’t ever planning to tell her about …

She says to me, “It’s OK if you settle, Goddess.”

Me: “WHAT?!”

Mom: “I don’t think I can live with this pain anymore. I need to know you’re not alone. Maybe you shouldn’t hold out anymore. I need to know you’re happy.”

Me: Lots of tears. Lots and lots of tears. Same kind of ugly tears I had today when she told me she packed up our New Year’s decorations and said she changed the 2017s to 2018 “just in case.”

But to rewind from today a bit …

She’s since backpedaled on the settling.

Mostly after seeing my one beautiful friend with her dopey-ass boyfriend and even-dopier gaggle of kids. She went from single and free to fucking Brady Bunch just to say she has a man.

She’s definitely back to, “Don’t ever fucking settle because I will thwap you upside the head from the great beyond.”

I told her she just can’t leave then.

Also, I am so sick and tired of her being sick and me being tired.

God is a last-minute god. A beyond-the-last-minute god. But could we possibly get him to rouse Lazarus BEFORE he’s in the grave, please please please?!?!

Carrie Fisher said she has two personalities, Roy and Pam. They represent the extremes of mental illness. One is the dinner, she says, and the other is a check. 

I think she died worrying about her mom. I fear I will do the same. 

I’m not kidding. I need to get my affairs in order. Not that mom wouldn’t pull a Debbie Reynolds and die the next day. She totally would. 

Watching them in “Bright Lights” reminded me of us. We sing and laugh all the time too. I just wish, when I was working so hard when I was young, I had amassed wealth like Carrie did. This whole turning the whole paycheck over to the landlord thing is killing me. 

Was telling a friend I know I’ll have to work till I die. But as I age, I want to go see the beach on a weekday. Binge-watch whatever is on my DVR. Ease my aching joints or soul and not have to suck it up and put on makeup and be at a too-early meeting and have to work late to compensate. 

I don’t know that 23-year-old me could have done anything different. Life worked out the way it did. It’s been good. I’ll grant it that. 

But with the Mango Mussolini’s reign about to begin, I think we will see a lot of people losing their will to live or at least to fight. 

I joke that I might as well spend my money now because the world will end. I wonder what would happen if I paid zero taxes like him. 

And I wonder what I could be achieving without getting sucked into stories about how much that dumb fuck sucks. 

And that brings me to this:

http://www.upworthy.com/how-changing-what-i-did-every-day-changed-my-life

Just leaving that here. For whenever I’m not busy being the rock or crying a river. Or both at the same time. 

When I heard about the shooting at FLL yesterday, a song I used to love came to mind, “What if it All Means Something?”

Then I read a witness account from a gal who met a lovely lady and her husband on the plane. They became instant friends. They walked to baggage claim together, got their stuff and hugged goodbye. 

A second later, the husband got hit by gunfire and his wife was dead of a bullet to the head. 

The lady was inconsolable. This was her new friend who was about to start her vacation. 

Which is my big fear, you know. Next to unemployment and dying as alone as I’ve lived. Being wiped out before my vacation and not at least after it. 

The lady who lived said she believes in a higher power and someone was certainly looking out for her that day. 

I say things like that too when I’m fortunate like her. I do like to think God dispatched an army of angels with my well-being in mind. 

But then I think about that wounded widower, and I just can’t breathe properly. 

What the hell are we here for, is that I want to know. What the hell am I here for? For the experience? To annoy Trump voters with logic? To keep taking care of stray animals and fellow loners the world has forsaken? To be an example or a really good warning? What?

Or do you just live, pay taxes, elect a dictator and die?

And without having a legacy to leave, just return to the ether like I was never even here?