Caterwauling

2021 just couldn’t leave quietly.

Losing Betty White today, for me, is just like when we lost Ruth Bader Ginsburg.

As long as RBG was alive, the world was going to be OK. But when RBG died too soon, TFG found a piece of human excrement with which to spackle the Supreme Court. And we will be paying for that mistake for the rest of our lives.

As long as Betty was alive and well, it felt like the universe was still on course. Things couldn’t be all bad when there was a world with this sweet, wonderful soul.

Back in St. Olaf, we are mourning the loss of Betty White, who brought joy to so many. May her memory be a blessing to all who loved her.

Learn more about her 1992 visit to campus: https://t.co/RhjIZMXTQf pic.twitter.com/MNT01RTO3M

— St. Olaf College (@StOlaf) December 31, 2021

Well, shit.

I told Mom I would write off this year as a waste, but I can’t. Mom is still here, my sickest kitty is doing better, I got my old job back, and I even got a Disney Wedding out of the deal.

Hashtag Life Is Good.

In any event, what I really wanted to write about today, before Betty had to go and leave us, was about one of my sisters. (Both have the same name. Both share varying degrees of blood with me.)

I looked up the half-sister today.

Mom kept saying that she felt like our biodad died. But it’s her MOM who passed.

And my sister, who has normally seemed cold as her ice-blue eyes, posted wonderful photos and tributes. My heart goes out to her.

Also, this normally private girl has since posted dozens of photos. All of which I flipped through with curiosity. I wanted to see ol what’s his name.

There was not one photo of our father. It’s like she only had a mom and brother. Even her mother’s obituary showed that she went back to her maiden name.

The obituary was wonderful, too. And all the comments. She sounded a lot like my momma and grandma and great-grandma. Eager to feed anyone. Always room at the table for friends and strangers.

[The women in my family would pull the “plenty of food” line while not actually eating so that there would be enough for everyone else. I didn’t learn that till a lot later in life. I just always thought they were on diets. Nope, they just ate enough to get by. God bless them.]

In any event, this woman who passed — she HAD to have known about me. Did her kids?

I wondered if she ever encouraged dipshit to reach out to me. (He didn’t.) I assumed she was probably grateful that she didn’t have to deal with the previous mess he made.

Perhaps both things can be true.

I’ve noticed that our father’s mother tries to comment on my sister’s wall. She barely likes any of the posts. And she doesn’t touch the grandmother’s wall, where g’ma seems to be all about her own daughter, and her daughter’s kids.

Never a mention of her son. It’s like he doesn’t exist to any of them.

Anyway, it has to be hard for my half-blood siblings, having their first Christmas without their momma. And clearly no father worth speaking of.

Lucky for them, they’ve gone on to have families of their own. They don’t have extended family, but they don’t really seem to need it, either.

Isn’t it funny, though, how we’re all going through stuff … and we could all go through it together, if we so chose.

But we don’t.

Sure, life is good. But isn’t it really funny how we all know how to make it better … and who could make it better … but we simply choose not to, and choose not to engage with those people who could make the sucky stuff suck less.

I had a New Year’s intention in mind before today. But I think I will resolve to live like Betty.

I mean, if you live to 99 and leave everyone wanting more … you did something right. Tonight the world is toasting her for all the smiles she gave us. Not one person (in their right mind, anyway) is happy she’s gone.

Perhaps everyone lurking here — folx gone from my life, so who knows why they want to attach to me like a poltergeist — should consider adopting the same resolution.

After all, resolving to be “as awesome as last year” is a low bar.

Be like Betty White, not like Betty Broderick. Ya cunt.

Thinking about writing a kids’ book about Stinkerton McPooPoo Biscuits.

About a sourpuss who goes to the beach but can’t get off the pot. There, he chomps on string cheese and digestive biscuits.

He also doomscrolls Twitter and thinks everyone is jealous of his bowel movement regularity.

Maddie will donate her “Doo wah dooh wah Poo Poo Kitty” theme song for the soundtrack. Since Shit Bizkit is still reading her Twitter account that hasn’t been updated since 2009.

After I typed that, I realized I would need to specify which one.

In any event, I’ll look forward to seeing their reply to MY reply at about 11 p.m. Pacific.

ETA: Right time, wrong time zone.

My mother reminds me every year that it’s biodad’s birthday.

No reason, really. No one wants to commemorate the occasion of us meeting the first in a string of losers in our lives. It’s more like oh yeah is he still alive.

I got a “you are a very good researcher” from Mom this week as I confirmed he is indeed alive, had moved to Ohio for a while and is renting a sad little house in a premier neighborhood.

Seriously, his landlord must be more lax than mine. You’d think MY landlady would think I’d want a working oven, microwave and dishwasher for the holidays. Heck, I’d be happy if more than half the electrical outlets worked so I could use the ones that I bought to replace them.

In any event, his stupid new wife who only posts photos of herself from the 1970s has two terrible children … who live with them.

The boy doesn’t look like he amounted to a hill of beans. Or will.

The girl just had her fourth (!) baby by as many fathers. And oh is she nasty in all her posts and other communications.

Mom had accidentally sent this twat a friend request while she was trolling. (Ergo why I get to be the troll.) And this chick RIPPED her to shreds, like who the fuck are you and why do you feel the need to be friends with me.

Her profile says she’s in pre-law at Liberty University. I literally JUST defriended a classmate who sent all three of her kids to Liberty. I don’t need that kind of stupidity in my life.

Isn’t it wonderful that the man who rejected me TWICE because he didn’t want a kid has spent his life with kids and now THEIR kids?

I try to be humble about the good things that have happened in my life. But I am going to try to forgive myself for saying you dumbass, you coulda had your whole retirement paid for. But you opted to share a 3/1 with seven people, none of which are blood-related. Or employed.

It galls me that he shares a name with my favorite boss. But it’s wonderfully ironic though — my boss is more of a dad to me than that sack of sad could ever have been.

The name Chris recurs throughout my life, with various spellings and incarnations. Same with Sean/Shawn/Shaun.

Lots of other S names, too. Which I was reminded of after a series of good deeds done after I set my intention to help someone every day. (My tribute to Bob Dole, or at least the Bob Dole before he endorsed TFG.)

Someone was making a fuss online recently about how excited they are to donate their gaudy shit to the homeless. As if they haven’t suffered enough. They still have taste, you know.

It reminded me of someone else who would do something for the homeless on the regular. Which I know about because it was broadcast over Twitter, Facebook, blogs, podcasts and probably tattooed to carrier pigeons. To the point where the broadcasting it seemed to take more time than the doing it.

In any event, my rule has always been “Do good and tell no one.”

But what I will do is talk about one of the gentlemen I met this week.

He said his name is Christopher St. John.

There was another name after it. He really wanted me to know that he was somebody. That he IS somebody.

His blue eyes sparkled in the too-hot Florida sun. He said he prayed for an angel to come to him, and there I was.

He told me his vision was failing him, but he said he liked my blonde hair and multicolor sequin mask.

I could tell he was a charmer, even lying on the ground on a makeshift bed behind my gas station.

Christopher said he’s 51. Which I would never have guessed from his broken hip and long beard.

I felt the lump in my throat. I’m 47, healthy and a success by any measure.

How could our lives go do differently? What choices did I make … or did I have … that set me on a course that put me in the position of benevolent goddess?

He asked me for nothing but a little time, but I tried to do more.

And I realized something about myself, which is that I am good at throwing money at problems. Giving time and effort, I can and should work on.

I found myself in a similar position today, because God loves to give us do-overs on things we cannot stop screwing up.

I’m always on my way somewhere. Always rushing to get back to something frankly I don’t really want to do. But today I tried to give some thought and care.

It didn’t feel like enough. It’s never enough. And I’m not going to sit here and bleat into the universe how awesome I am that I even tried.

It’s not enough. It’s the holidays … it’s the human thing to do … OF COURSE we should take care of each other. But holidays end and humanity is unfortunately finite. And our social systems suck ass so you HAVE to look out for your community. No one else will.

Then there’s the skeptic in me who is worried that someone is going to come up from behind me while I’m distracted.

I always have a hand on my phone. It’s five generations old but it’s still a sign of wealth. It’s also the only way I can call for help from emergency response systems I don’t even believe in.

It’s hard to give someone your full attention, even for 10 minutes. And then I think well, fuck, if I’m worried about MY safety, what the fuck are THEY going through 24/7 out in the elements with all the animals on four and two feet?

Christopher’s face still haunts me. He’s 51. He should be an eligible bachelor with a degree and a sports car and a junior penthouse and a couple girlfriends who swoon over his piercing gaze.

Not getting in fights and not being able to reach his walker because his hip is broken and his friend had to leave him in a heap for a while.

I don’t think our heroine returns to the scene. Or maybe she does. We don’t know yet. One-off help and companionship is one thing. Investing time and effort is much harder. Stuff means nothing when basic needs aren’t being met.

I’m sure someone could write a wonderful story about cleaning up our friends and transforming them into some “She’s All That” protagonist.

My boss and I had a long talk yesterday where he said I know you’d rather be writing than directing.

I was equally impressed that he knew that as I was nervous. Like, oh shit, do I really suck at the directing as much as I think I suck at the writing, so much so that I hide from it?

Or does he know, as I do, that this is the time to DO … so the writing is better later?

I wonder if I didn’t just give myself some answer or at least some permission to do something I have been subconsciously seeking.

Whatever happens next, I’ll tell you this: You won’t hear about it from me.

So she unloaded the couch and bed I barely breathed on.

New fridge coming next?

Maybe they’ll paint the walls that absorbed my voice too.

So she unloaded the couch and bed I barely breathed on.

New fridge coming next?

Maybe they’ll paint the walls that absorbed my voice too.

So she unloaded the couch and bed I barely breathed on.

New fridge coming next?

Maybe they’ll paint the walls that absorbed my voice too.

So she unloaded the couch and bed I barely breathed on.

New fridge coming next?

Maybe they’ll paint the walls that absorbed my voice too.