Caterwauling

The time when you have important information for someone.

But you know the only thing they will do is report it back to their pit bull that you reached out.

And the rabid beast will eviscerate you both and the problem (that they helped create) will never get fixed.

It’s hard to do the right thing when it means everyone is going to need a rabies shot.

So why even bother.

I’d ask when folks have time to cook or clean or work or be a decent human being. But women always know the answer before they ask any question.

They don’t.

I guess all I can do is be grateful that I don’t have some ankle biter in charge of anything related to my financial and general well being.

That and send flowers to the whip-smart, focused, Twitter-less gal who does my taxes.

Jimmy told me to come up for dinner on his birthday in a few Fridays.

I’m bringing Clorox and sage. Because, coronapocalypse. Also since apparently they’ve been letting anyone in.

The devil was a close friend of mine. I’m not afraid of him.

When you’ve been through hell, at least you know the way around.

And out.

I’d sooner have the devil twirl me around again than spend another minute thinking about the answers I’ll never get.

Or the apologies I’ll never give.

Does it ever end?

I gave him back.

I got out of town.

I gave up a life I loved.

And started a new one.

So you could get over

Your insecurities.

What else do you want?

Are you upset that

I’ll grow and thrive

Everywhere I go?

Or are you maybe wishing

I’ll come back for him

So you’ll find reason

To rage all over again?

I just switched jobs and I realize what an economic privilege that is.

I say that because I pulled this card today, the Ace of Pentacles / Coins reversed. And once again, the tarot clearly can read my mind …

Over the years, I’ve been afraid of being let go. For financial reasons or a jerk with a grudge creating problems and employers needing peace too.

But I’ve been even more terrified of applying for something, getting it … and having to live 1-3 weeks without a payday.

Then you have to worry whether the new place even has the money to pay you. Or whether you were just a shiny new trade and it’s First In, First Out when they hit rough waters. Or if you are even a fit in the first place.

In any event, I say this as someone who just collected her last paycheck at her beloved job and gets her first shiny new check at the end of this week.

A trapeze artist, as it were, leaving the swing and tumbling midair — waiting for that next bar to meet my hands.

And it’s fine.

I have savings. I have a brokerage account. I have a 401(k). Plus a mattress stash that’s supposed to be for a couch but I just haven’t felt secure enough to commit to one yet. After a year. But who’s counting, really?

But hey. You know what a scarcity mindset manifests as? Scarcity!

In other words, I’m fine. I’ll be fine. Hopefully for a long, long time.

But damn, that scarcity mindset is a bigger foe than a guy driving around your neighborhood with a Jason Voorhies mask.

In any event, how many people decide NOT to make the leap because they’re afraid to take a financial risk like this?

Money provides such freedom.

I’d like a little more of that freedom.

A lot more.

I bet my life would be a lot different now if they knew how much freedom I plan to secure … and soon.

The shiny new work-from-home job is GREAT … except for the CONSTANT CONSTRUCTION here at the Rock of Fraggles.

I’m temped to lease a second apartment till this shit gets done. At the very least, to secure a co-working space. Although that’s terrible to leave mom here while I go get some damn peace.

Again, it’s nice to have options. And lots of them.

They asked for 65 days why I gave up.

On day 65, they stopped asking.

The reason gave them their answer.

Speaking of someone’s need to be an ass-pain backfiring yet again, she should have just let people find a moment of happiness in this bitter world.

It would have ended on its own.

And probably pleasantly.

You know, in a way that wouldn’t leave us all thinking for the rest of our lives about it.

A friend baked some special brownies for mom, and I didn’t mention just how special they were. She’s been tripping for two days and declared, nope, I am not touching the rest.

Well, I could stand to get out of my head. And I am well aware of how much extra-special she injects into her baked goods.

Let me tell you. I don’t know what Massachusetts is putting into its weed, but I tripped my whole way down memory lane yesterday.

The whole way.

Memories came flooding back that I’d long forgotten. Just from last year!

I couldn’t feel my face. Or my legs. So I went with it.

I never understood what makes one reach out and try to make nice with someone who’s hurt them.

But damn.

When you’re wearing a virtual, virtual-reality helmet, it makes the heart soft in spots.

When I could sit upright, I compared old photos to new ones. Such a difference. In both of us.

How do you #makenewmemories where wonderful ones already existed?

Not long ago, I asked where the butterflies go when we no longer feel them.

Today I wonder where the light in our eyes goes.

Butterflies die and lights go out.

But memories remain. More vivid than the sun I’m staring at right now.

No one can take those away. They are frozen in time, preserved in amber, locked in a time capsule.

I’m taking back the narrative. Inserting myself back in.

Call me Eliza Hamilton.

I always thought Sia would tell my story. But I somehow outlived her.

So I’ll tell hers. Mine. Everyone’s.

Yours.

“Oh, I can’t wait to see you again
It’s only a matter of time
Will they tell your story? (Time)
Who lives, who dies, who tells your story? (Time)
Will they tell your story? (Time)
Who lives, who dies who tells your story?“

I post this every year on Faceypages.

A friend asked yesterday if I’d keep my answer the same.

Guess that depends what my answer was last year.

Just gonna be my spunky solitary witch self for a while more.

She was the only thing I didn’t like about him.

And still.