Caterwauling

Paddy’s Day. Again.

Momma and I always ordered the corned beef special from Flanigan’s.

I always wanted to order two. But she always insisted we “split a sandwich” everywhere. In other words, why spend the money on two?

Well I’m a fat girl. And she’d always wake up the next day and fry up the potatoes and corned beef and make me a lovely hash with the leftovers.

ETA: My feeble 3/18 attempt.

Today I bought my one.

I also bought a kids’ ribs order.

When she was here, she would take almost all the meat off the ribs and divide it among the cats.

Cocoa would devour hers first. Then she’d “Trick or Treat” up to Grandma, who would have a pile of meat waiting for her.

So, Mom would basically get bones. Willingly, I might add.

So today I did the same.

I kept the burnt meat for myself, and gave these two jabronis the good stuff.

It’s been a good two years since they had ribs.

Mom was alive two years ago and it was Magic to “Trick or Treat” now that Cocoa was gone.

I went to DaDa for Paddy’s last year.

Anyway, Mom always called them “ribbies” — the food, not the children who devoured them.

These two were confused. I don’t share food like Mom did. Cocoa was the reason they got robbie’s, cheeseburgers, chickie-chickie, porky, sammin, whatever.

They get all the Sprouts chickie-chickie they can eat, mind you. And Pollo Tropical. They don’t care for Costco or all the other places Cocoa favored. So I don’t buy it.

I was supposed to go to DaDa tonight but I figured the odyssey to Southern Boulevard (aka Pedo President Blvd) was enough for one day.

I had key lime pie in the parking lot.

Momma and I used to do that. I’d run in for foodz, and we’d crack open the pie.

We’d break open the silverware — she’d take the fork, me the spoon — we’d click-click them, and go to town.

It was sad to have pie without Momma. But my fat ass ate for two. “Won’t be good later,” she always said.

It was better then. But still pretty good now.

Thank you for this ritual, Wobin.

Your “lil Irish gil” misses you bunches.

I only follow a couple influencers.

A lady near Seattle who raises kittens and gets them ready for adoption.

A fellow big girl with a bubbly personality from outside NYC who tries on clothes at places where I shop.

The cat lady has four cats of her own, two of which are the real foster parents. Poppy and Deckster absolutely love on those kittens. And that’s who I want to read about.

The fashionista gives me a realistic look at clothes and sizes. But I’ve fallen in love with her daughter and now her brand new baby girl.

The funny thing is the new baby has the name I planned to use when I had a daughter, Savannah Rose.

Well, glad someone’s got the name. My baby factory is far from closed. But it’s starting to show signs of disrepair.

I don’t feel any sort of way about it. If anything, it’s a “how cool is it that I found this lady to follow” thing.

But I can’t help but think back to Mike.

Look, sure I said I wanted to marry him. But whatever, here we are.

I was clear back then that I was ready for marriage. That I wanted to buy a car that would fit a carseat.

He twisted that somehow into me wanting him for his money (that he didn’t have) and that I wanted him to take care of my mom (say what).

I connected immediately with Taylor Swift’s “Eldest Daughter” when it came out last fall.

“We lie back
A beautiful, beautiful time-lapse
Ferris wheels, kisses, and lilacs
And things I said were dumb
‘Cause I thought that I’d never find that
Beautiful, beautiful life that
Shimmers that innocent light back
Like when we were young.”

It’s admitting you want the fairy tale, the one you spent your life saying you didn’t.

Now I don’t blame him for not having my daughter. Not a bit. Maybe at 30-ish I was already past my prime pregnancy years anyway.

But I do feel A Way about letting myself openly want something and knowing now that he was my last chance to have it.

I was going through some old shit this weekend. Found a baby bib I’d bought back then.

It’s shamrock-shaped. Mike is Irish AF.

So I am sure that stupid piece of fabric is what even got me to thinking today on this holiest of drinking holidays.

And to connect with him again last week … and know he never got married or had any kids either … yeah.

I mean, I’m still convinced Whorothy’s eldest is his. But not my business.

I don’t stay in that past. My little brain fast forwards to the someone else, one who took me on Ferris wheels.

I remember how absolutely standoffish I was most of the time.

I watned nothing to do with him at first. This is why.

This is allll why.

And then he left too.

“Pretty soon, I learned cautious discretion
When your first crush crushes something kind
When I said I don’t believe in marriage
That was a lie”

I mean, all’s well that ends well. And even that ends not so well.

“My heart’s been borrowed and yours has been blue
All’s well that ends well to end up with you”

I mean I could be here with a 10 or 14-year-old child and the same job and same husband (maybe) but never saw as much of the world as I have. So there’s that.

Anyway, have a good little life, Savannah Rose. May you meet more men like your dad and not ones who weren’t man enough to have given me you instead.