Caterwauling

Well, the first New Year’s.

Honestly the first anything, really, without Momma.

I mean, I’ve had six and a half months of firsts. First day without her, first night without her, first week/month/season, etc.

Her first birthday not on the planet was pretty awful. That’s why I spent it in Orlando. And the day was still sucky AF, though I met Matt the next day and that ended up in me seeing New York for Christmas.

First Halloween sucked because she used to decorate the house so spectacularly. But even that kind of fizzled out bit by bit over the past couple years.

First Thanksgiving sucked but honestly I forget most of it. I know I went to DaDa, my happy place. But that time of year was always the anniversary of losing Grampy. And before that, it was celebrating, then mourning, his wedding anniversary. So, never my favorite time.

Christmas was HARD. I was kind of thinking I was OK but, nope.

At least I got back to Orlando, and much better weather, for Christmas.

Once again, I cried my way around the world, as I’d done in September, but this time without the rain to mask it.

So here I am at New Year’s. And honestly feeling a bit less worse than I expected.

There’s still the whole, “How on earth is there a year Mom and Cocoa weren’t alive in?! HOW??!!!”

But I did end up getting some pork and kraut. She’d normally want hot dogs, but I went with chicken sausage. And she’d normally prepare 10 sides to provide color and variety. I went with blackeyed peas and tossed the pork in to flavor them.

And none of Momma’s mashed potatoes, which were magical. So was her kraut. Mine was just OK. Just “arright,” as her mom would have said.

I didn’t take a pic of my plate. She would have been proud of me for trying, but she’d definitely say that monochromatic mess looks like a Cindy or a Kelly (not MY Kelly) special. Boring/bland/beige for the first and just plain weird for the second.

I wonder if Kelly (again not mine) is still making goofy cakes and shit. I miss peeking in on that social media. We definitely did the Statler & Waldorf thing, mom and me.

That’s what I’m missing most. Not the good food, though mine was definitely “arright” to her “holy shit, yum.” It’s the having some wine and cackling like two bitches.

She always called us two bitches. I think that might have originated with my grandmother over something arright. But I don’t really remember.

Anyway, I wouldn’t say it was my favorite holiday. But it wasn’t my worst, either. For that, I am grateful.

I saw on the bulletin board downstairs that Cheryl’s husband died at Christmas.

I looked at his photo — with a big old invite to his services on whatever day — and said sorry your wife is such a bitch.

She’s the one who screamed at me off the balcony for feeding ducks and threatened to fine me.

Still waiting. Have some balls, bitch.

Cheryl’s also the one who plays stink finger in the pool with Peppermint Patty, who has started trying to talk to me now that I put up a rainbow flag to counter the MAGA flag on the other side of me.

Anyway, I thought about all this stupid fanfare for Ron. Who I didn’t know and never cared to. Who I am sure is no loss, if he’s related to that wretch.

Made me think it’s high time to write an obituary for Momma. Someone who ACTUALLLY deserves to be celebrated.

I got to thinking about my Aunt Marion, who my cousin Elaine loved. I looked up Marion’s obituary and read it with new eyes.

“Survived by her loving husband Harry.” “Loved being a homemaker.” “Loved her nickname Penny.”

Where to start?

Penny … a short version of our shared maiden name? Nobody called any of us that. Lie.

Loved being a homemaker … you mean how Harry demanded she be a slave to him? Also she had some injuries I ALWAYS questioned. LIE.

Loving husband Harry … who sexually harassed Mom and Elaine? One of the uncles my Mom and Gram told me never hug and feel free to sit in your room while he visits?! HAHAHA FUCK THAT SHIT, NO LOVNG HUSBAND HERE.

That’s how I imagine writing Harry’s obit. It’s how I imagine writing Ron’s.

(Ironically, Ron is another name of another uncle of mine, though his obit would be more like FAKE FUCKING CHRISTIAN WHO JUDGES EVERYONE BUT HIMSELF who also somehow married well.)

In any event, since I have nothing nice to say about Cheryl’s husband, all I can really say is stay dead and take that bitch with you at your earliest possible convenience.

I never said new year/new me. I love me. In fact, I’m taking me up to a damn 11 or 12 in 2025.

Dawn: More extreme and unhinged than 2024. Fucking deal with it.

I’d say eat me, Cheryl, but she probably would.

“Please don’t
Ever become a stranger
Whose laugh I
Would recognize anywhere.”

Happy New Year’s Day to everyone who didn’t vote away my right to credit cards, bank accounts, property ownership and the Social Security that I have already paid FAR MORE into than most of the voters ever will.

The rest can fuck alllllllll the way off. Go into your fucking holes and die in pain like my mother had to.

Speaking of going into a hole, it’s a Hermit year for the collective. 2025 adds up to 9.

If I add in my month and day of birth, I get 12, the Hanged Man as my personal card of the year.

I could reduce that further to 3. But that would make 2026 my Emperor year. Unfortunately President Musk ascends this year, so I don’t need to extend that shit.

My friend CJ got the Hanged Man card and it spooked him. I said it’s a good card unless your reader used the Thoth deck.

He sent a pic … of the Hanged Man in the Thoth deck. Yeesh. No wonder he won’t look at it otherwise.

I mainly use decks from Tarot Collectibles, and he’s reimagined Rider-Waite very lovingly and positively. Like, one of the Hanged Man cards has butterfly wings. Another has bat wings. And the colors are psychedelic and/or, depending on the deck, sparkly.

And we know how I love pink and sparkly anything!

It’s Italian tradition to wear red underwear on New Year’s Eve if you want to attract love.

Fuck that shit. I wore green to attract money.

When I sat down to write my vision for this year, I focused more on manifesting discipline than companionship. So, the Emperor’s main quality.

I didn’t even bother with my usual list of things I want in a place to live. In true Hanged Man style, I just want to chill and see what comes to me.

I also decided to do a No-Buy 2025. I have a page full of things I can/can’t buy.

Even right now, I’m twitchy because I didn’t buy pork and sauerkraut for New Year’s Day for good luck.

But, I had both last year and my baby died 25 days later. Will not eating the lobster sushi I bought for today make me luckier? Keep that 15 bucks, girlie and enjoy that $19 sushi as intended.

And that bottle of Mom’s favorite champagne, too, obviously.

I did promise myself that. All traditions are out the fucking window without Momma.

But I promised myself to always toast her with “Bug Juice,” the original name of the sparkling wine she loved most.

Hold on to the memories
They will hold on to you
I will hold on to you.

I really hit the jackpot living with her. Which I didn’t really realize for most of the 17 years I had her.

I know two people who are pursuing legal action against people they lived with. My one friend bought a house with a deadbeat who won’t help her sell it. She’s paying half the mortgage, rent, all the utilities at her new place, PLUS Florida just ordered her to pay half HIS utilities. Even though he’s trashed their house to the point no one will buy it.

Man did I get lucky “just” having my mom instead of someone to suffer through boring ass sex but a proper financial fucking from.

Yeah, definitely not in a rush to put myself out there for that kind of shit outcome.

As for me, Taylor Swift said something profound during one of her rain shows.

As she prepared to play her first surprise song of the night, she said, “My life finally makes sense.”

That’s what I want more than anything. For my life to make sense.

I know that’s a big “resolution” for New Year’s Day. But I picked a couple areas where sense needs to return. And I think it’s quite manageable and even possible.

Though I still think I need some kraut anyway. Don’t wanna forget how Momma used to make it. Which was goooooood.

Happy 2025, Momma and Cocoa, wherever you are. You’re coming with me, wherever it takes me. And I hope it’s quite far.