Caterwauling

I am the past life of the next me.

I make peace with my past self, and friends with my future self.

We can’t possibly achieve all we are capable of in one lifetime.

You are your path. You are never off-path.

Broken people follow me because misery needs friends, too.

Burn a candle (black/silver) for what returned to the dark and ring a bell for what was birthed.

Rosemary is for remembrance.

Linden blossom keeps the door open between the realms.

They pay me to afford this life, not to enjoy it.

It’s not supposed to be work-life balance. It should be LIFE-WORK.

Pay yourself first doesn’t just apply to money. You must also pay yourself in TIME.

BONUS: Things mom texts me in traffic

Pat that bitch on the back bc I ran out of foiled stars.

Girl, 27, just got a nasty diagnosis. Said she’s got no kids, a job she’s not wild about, no pets and can’t afford anything on her bucket list.

To her, what’s the point of going through aggressive treatments, just to go back to work if they don’t fire her for being sick.

Naturally everyone jumped on her that she’s depressed, she’s stupid, she’s got a wonderful future ahead, that you really don’t get THAT sick, that all these wonderful mental health professionals are here for the accessing.

Then there’s me.

Let me tell you about medical professionals. They don’t return calls and they let your medication run out.

Deciding to “fight” a disease really means fighting for doctors, nurses and other staff to take you seriously. It means begging for appointments and time and pain relief.

Look, you might have luck, and I hope you do.

But even if you get treatments and they don’t wipe you out, fighting for answers, alternatives and dignity might.

Before I get diagnosed with depression by the armchair therapists in the group, of course I know you can seek new doctors. I also know each one has been more disappointing than the next.

It’s a full-time job in and of itself to be sick. You don’t just fight your body — everything is a fight. You just have to figure out the terms of the match.

What I didn’t say is I was thinking about how when I got shit news, and I told my then-employer about the news, I was let go. They were already thinking about it. Go deal with your shit.

I was thinking about FMLA for a second. Like, don’t you have the option to go deal with your shit and them hold your job for you?

Then I realized OMG do you know a single employer other than the government who has to follow laws? I mean, how many pregnant people got “laid off” in my circle under the whole “recession is coming” fear that seems to happen every couple years? You can’t force anyone to keep you employed unless you live in Europe.

I get the feeling with the poster that she was looking for people to beg her to live. Which I think came across in many of the posts. But leave it to me to say, you know what, you do you.

I had to laugh at the guy who wrote that he’s had a genetic issue since birth that’s left him hospitalized, comatose and coughing up lungs till he got a transplant. Now the’s married and hang gliding and saw Italy and shit.

I mean, yeah, he wouldn’t have gotten any of that had he given up. But I’d like to know where that magic pot of money came from. Make-a-Wish don’t cater to the over-30 set.

Anyway. Ain’t nothing wrong with trying to live as soft a life as possible. I never believed that till now.

But there’s something to be said for not being stressed out all the time.

And not, say, putting up the fight of your life, only to return to the existence that saw you neglect yourself in such a way that pushed you to the edge you will spend the rest of your days fighting your way back from.

Just saw the stinkfinger twins. They look like siblings.

One thing they didn’t appear to be was bumping uglies on the pedestrian bridge again, hallelujah.

Imagine what that apartment reeks like.

Speaking of putting the nasty in doing it, I recommend LVP 1 and 2 get a nose job. Because it appears to be hooked in my business.

My collision mechanic could also help with sucking out some of those crags y’all get from scrutinizing moi.

And that’s just the beginning of the help you should seek.

I got into a drawn-out discussion with a healthcare professional at an institution I no longer frequent because of their negligence. And it’s pissing me off that they keep harassing me for the final hundred bucks I owe them.

They are literally leaving me to fucking fall apart over here. You will never get your two dollars, fuckfaces.

I had responded to an event they invited me to, about dealing with end of life fears. I said said if you provided actual care, death wouldn’t be so damned imminent. Good luck saving the world and enjoy your little event.

Mom said, Jesus. I tried all this time to make you softer. And you’re harder than ever.

I didn’t think about it till a few hours later when I went to pick up dinner and nobody would fucking move to let me grab my fucking bag.

I actually said to a woman, “Get the fuck out of my way,” as she was blocking the exit and oblivious to me and my mask trying to get the fuck out of there.

She must have been a New Yorker because she didn’t even look fazed.

Then I came home and went to feed the kitties and duckos. Tried to walk down to this little bridge along the Intracoastal, and a goofy looking coupe with a chubby dude and a woman (I think) with glasses and frizzy hair were making out and blocking the way.

I had seen them leave their apartment; didn’t realize they ended up there. So I said, “Go play stinkfinger in your condo” and went on my way.

I got a few feet away and laughed.

Oh, Rosie Girl. I see why you fucking hated everybody in the end. Thank you for loving me. Perhaps only me.

I get you, Gram. I wish I REALLY did then, but I sure do now.

Three Januaries ago, Mom and I went to Target to grab an item that wasn’t at our regular store.

We saw a little gray tabby sitting under a Target truck like she owned the place.

I ran back in to buy a can of food for her.

Then I did that every day for three months. Even when the pandemic sent us into lockdown. She needed to eat despite what us dumb humans were doing.

Mom called her Cocoa Puff.

Cocoa was soon joined by an orange floof who didn’t care about food. Belly just wanted companionship.

A good two dozen kitties would eventually join our little Turd Herd. (A phrase I only coined yesterday while laughing about some Nerd Herd or another.

Here are their “baby” pictures.

Belly is the same size. Magic is a moose now.

But Cocoa has only gotten tinier. No matter how much she eats. And believe me, she downed half a salmon this morning and a whole chicken breast last night.

My baby is wasting away like Kadie with thyroid issues. I have not stopped crying for two weeks.

I was holding Cocoa yesterday and standing next to Mom as she cut up a rotisserie chicken to feed our six (including three outside) cats.

The outdoor ones were especially grateful for the warm food for that unusually cold night.

Cocoa laid her head on mom’s shoulder. So cute.

Mom said, “Your momma waited her whole life to love you, Cokie. Did you know that?”

I cried more.

It’s true. I’ve loved all my babies. But I will die without her. She’s the sweetest, purriest and most loving of the bunch.

I’ve been feeling so guilty that no matter what I do, I can’t keep her forever.

But then I thought about how I was out buying lobster today so she might eat it. (She rejects most things these days.) How she loves the beach. How I treat her better than most people treat their children.

And it’s not enough to save her. But I hope I’ve given her some joy and ease and safety. God knows I have all the love for her.

Middle child Belly feels it. Magic does too. The all-consuming love for Cokie, that is.

I remember when Maddie died, that’s when I could finally show more love to Kadie.

Magic tried to steal Cokie’s lunch today. It was the seventh thing I’d tried and the first to work. So I sat protecting her and said Magic, your day will come. Let your sister have hers.

I know I shouldn’t sit around pre-grieving. There will be plenty of time for that someday soon enough.

I just know that I have never loved a hoomin like I love this little girl. And I probably never will.

Mom’s right. I was born to be Cocoa’s momma.

I don’t know how old she is. But the three years I’ve gotten aren’t near enough.

“Only God will know the reasons

But I bet He must have had a plan

‘Cause you were born to be my baby

And baby I was made to be your (mom.”

And to all a good night.

Here on Sia’s actual 38th birthday, I was just listening to the Acoustic Storm on Pirate Radio.

The first song after the show ended at noon was Natalie Merchant. Not my cuppa tea but I was too distracted to close out the app.

The second song, of course it was “Runaways” by The Killers.

For a moment I was back in Miami with her, rocking out at the concert.

How do I manage to hear this every year on her birthday?

I know. Of course I know.

Love you, girl.

*sending kisses heaven-ward, which is all around me*

I hope I am not sending Cocoa your way soon. But I fear I might.

Keep an eye on my little girl with the big purr, would you?

I’ll just be here painfully aware that everyone I love is dead or on their way there.

I’m tempted to look up what I called my idiot editorial assistant from years ago.

Anyway I was thinking about him today.

He was so not fit for the job. Like, his redeeming quality was that he was willing to drive to BFE without complaint.

Rather than fire him for performance, we did the kindest thing we could.

We eliminated the position.

I did so knowing that I couldn’t advertise or fill the position for a year.

I never did. At least, not till 2021. I think that was a good five years.

I don’t know if that was company policy or some broader best practice. But we said the position is being taken out of the budget. Here’s some severance. Feel free to have future employers call HR for your reference.

I thought that was beyond fair.

I think about when I was shitcanned last. They listed my failures. Nine of them.

TBH, I agreed with a few. But they compensated me generously. So, I got no beef. I can be paid to go away. Especially since I knew I stood a good chance of getting my old job back. Where I am much happier anyway.

In any event, I treated dipshit better than he deserved. Never heard a peep from him as a result.

Good.

It amazes me what I learned young that people damn near twice my age should know.

My friends and I used to marvel at “When did we become NOT the riff-raff?”

These days, I wonder, “Does anyone KNOW what value we bring? Or could, if you truly let us?”

I still wish I had been able to adjust salaries, titles and benefits for some. Exit packages for others. And parting words for one.

Live and learn. And teach, or at least try.

One of my earliest memories was learning Elvis Presley died.

I was at my great-aunt’s trailer in North Huntingdon. Not sure who all was there. Definitely my mom. Maybe my Gram. Probably my cousin, who was an Elvis stan.

It came across the TV and all the women were paralyzed by what they heard.

I was playing on the floor and was alarmed at their expressions. Aunt Lenna said Elvis died, honey.

I had no idea what she meant. But I knew this was big.

It’s what, 45 years later? And hearing that his daughter died … near my age … caused that same shock in me.

I thought Lisa Marie was a better singer. I was into her first album. Listening to it now as I type. I’d forgotten how good it was.

The thing w Lisa Marie is the thing w all of us who get sick. These hospitals and docs pick and choose who they help.

Look at the footballer who just had a heart attack. The heroics to save him.

Look at me who can’t even get a call returned unless it’s from the billing department.

I think they looked at Lisa Marie and saw a druggie. A woman who speaks slowly and has sleepy, dreamy “hangdog” eyes.

A mom whose heart was broken from losing her adult baby.

A nepo baby.

No one worth saving.

You cannot tell me anyone did anything heroic for her.

My friend lost her adult son almost a year ago. She was off-kilter before that w a rotten husband.

Then her dad, her north star, died. She was never the same after that.

All I know is her faraway eyes are filled with even more sadness.

She never touched a drug because her boy’s dad did enough for everyone. But you don’t look at her and know that.

I doubt a medical professional would bother to find out.

She moved back to the state they were all born in. To his neighborhood. To where her beloved dad’s memory is strongest.

I think about that a lot. I already know that I will crumble when my Cocoa goes. And I didn’t expect to have my mom for 15-ish years so far. I forget what life was like on my own. How do I go back to it?

Anyway, I’m thinking of bright-eyed and beautiful Priscilla.

Not the nutty nurse practitioner who can’t get the doc to call me back. Fuck that Penelope Pitstop and that whole institution.

No, my heart is with Priscilla Presley. She’s lost everyone. She is the legacy. The last piece.

One of my staffers lives in Memphis. I always wanted to go. Hoping to get there one day. Even more so now.

I wonder if my superfans are still populating their myriad accounts … now across myriad platforms … and hoping I see their odes.

I read nonsense for a living. Don’t need to do it on breaks, too.

I presume they haven’t gotten anything new to say anyway.

Good luck w all those new accounts, TuhNahKyss my pudgy pork roast ass.

Like so many travelers in the Instagram age, (White Lotus) characters drift through their adventures without any real purpose other than to reproduce the pretty scenes and special moments they’ve seen elsewhere, trying to locate themselves in endless reflections.

— NYT

Was just reading this to distract from overdue work and existential angst. Both of which have been inexorably linked throughout my existence.

I asked mom yesterday how I could get rich.

I mean, this is probably the peak of my career. I always hoped for more.

But this isn’t a world where loyalty equals longevity.

It doesn’t end in a pension. If you’re lucky, it ends in a week’s pay. If you’re really lucky, maybe two weeks’.

Someone asked recently what, if any, regrets I’d go back in time to fix. Financially, anyway.

I wish I’d bought real estate after the crash. The same shitty condos I scoffed at for $125k now go for for $525k … with the same pink tile, serpentine glass and cracked Formica. HOA fees have soared to $1k/mo. And interest rates are near 6%.

Why didn’t I? Job insecurity, as ever.

I look back and think damn, if I’d bought, I’d be set for life by now. Sure I’ve hit financial rock bottom a few times between jobs. But overall I’m doing OK.

So why don’t I buy now? I mean, other than elevated prices/rates and low inventory?

Same story — this could all end any minute. I have even less confidence than before. I’m older, way more tired, everything hurts a lot more. And I hate to admit, I’m slower than I was at everything.

So, how do I make a bunch of money … and what will I do with it?

I would be Jennifer Coolidge in White Lotus.

I want to drift from one exotic locale to another.

I want to meet fascinating people and enjoy frozen rum cocktails by every sea.

I want to see All the Sunrises and All the Sunsets.

I want some other sap to take the Advil.

At the very least, I just want fewer projects to focus on so I can make them really fucking great instead of treating everything as just another spinning plate.

And I want to own my little piece of paradise and not worry about how to pay for it when my energy or at least my ability to crank out a fuck gives out.

That is my truth, and I find beauty in it.