Caterwauling

Some troll I decided to engage with has zoomed in on a photo of my flab and sent it to me.

Jesus Christ.

I am tired of everyone’s over-stylized, AI-generated photos. I made it to 30-ish-ish and I’m damn happy about that.

Besides, I’ve had Cindy Lou Whothefuckdoesshethinksheis picking me apart for years.

All that’s ever resulted in is her luck getting worse and mine better.

The new (very self-proclaimed racist, homophobe and fatist) troll can enjoy the same fate.

Does anyone really think I care what they see?

As ever, I said thanks for letting me live free in the low-rent district between your ears.

Tearing me down
Passing the phone around
Like the queen of the mean girls committee
Keep on telling yourself
I’m not pretty
I’m not cool
I’m just one of those girls
Who peaked in high school
Yeah right.

Never got to post this but somehow I believe it never goes out of style.

I really prefer life when I don’t have to deal with DTOM.

This one always asks for a meeting with me. (I am never the one who says hey we should catch up. Trust me, I can find no reason to.)

If I’m free, I’m free. If I have meetings (I always have meetings), I say I can’t do X time but I can do anything at/after Y.

Then it’s always 10 conflicts.

Then when I finally say all right let’s do Z, the reply is ALWAYS let’s do Z:30.

Like they HAVE to win.

That’s such a Brad thing to do. Which I recognized then as manipulation.

Like, if you say “I know you’re busy, when can you fit me in” and I tell you I am wide open around 1, why do you suggest 1:30 every single time?

Part of me tries to assume that people don’t know they do this. But, I know how Brad had to win things that didn’t need to be battles.

So, Z:30 it is.

I read few articles recently about Gen Z attitudes in the workplace.

One was about how they choose to opt out of stupid systems that waste their time.

Another was about how they’re not lazy — they are just selective in what they want to spend their mental energy on.

In other words, unlike me in my heyday who would work 60-80 hours a week on top of 10 hours of commuting, they are like fuck you if I have to put in over 40 hours just to deal with antiquated software/systems and meetings/people/projects that are an exercise in futility.

Young me looked at the lazy elders as crazy that they weren’t fighting hard for their jobs. When people like me were literally waiting for them to die so we could have a shot at said jobs.

Middle-ish-aged me, having been burned out by all the nonsense, gets it.

Speaking of exercises in futility, I have Don’t Treadmill On Me chasing me for a meeting that’s going to be useless. Because we’ve already had the talk and I already said I have two ideas and you don’t like either of them.

Anytime I agree to help this person with a project they want done, I end up hearing on group calls that they got it done. Sometimes I hear a “Goddess helped” but not always.

So naturally I dodge for as long as I can.

And if you think I’m lazy, fucking go for it.

It’s the opposite, actually.

Actively protecting my peace is worth whatever effort I put into it.

Unlike the effort I am putting in to get my people reimbursed. People who spent money on planes, trains and Ubers, not just two damn cheeseburgers at the hotel bar.

Why do receipts need to be itemized, really? They weren’t buying cocaine at the commissary.

This is the stuff the upper leadership never hears about or sees or needs to know.

But it’s the stuff that stabs people in the soul enough times to let the enthusiasm leak out over time.

And it’s the stuff that, when there’s an extra mile to be gone, makes everyone say nah, I’m good at this mile marker.

Long covid or whatever this is continues to kick my ass.

Also “whatever this is” could easily be “this is the one-year anniversary of losing my mom and I am unwell mentally as much as physically.”

So I identified organizing photos as a couch-friendly activity.

I asked the AI to group all photos it believes is Wobin.

Wobin.

That said, I cannot tell you how many photos of me got into that batch.

And honestly, I look most like her in those photos.

Not Wobin.

A long time ago, I’d called myself fatass (I always called myself that). But it was the first time Mom had heard me do it.

And she’d said if you think you’re fat, what must you think about me.

I am sure I wrote about it. Maybe my no-good researcher who’s memorized my every utterance can point me toward that post.

In any event, I thought about what Mom said. But updated for 2025, how I could never call myself anything less than beautiful.

Because for as much as I look like her, calling myself anything other than stunning would be an insult to her.

And she’s very clearly the most beautiful person, inside and out, who ever graced this planet.

No wonder all her “friends” were so jealous of her. Talk about ugly inside and out.

I don’t want to call DTOM “That Bitch” because that’s me. She ain’t.

But I will happily say That Hoe Over There.

My staff’s expense reports are in limbo.

One was meticulous and put his alcohol and his wife’s meals on a personal credit card.

The other simply does not have his itemized receipts.

I’m told both aren’t itemized enough.

I approve both. If you need more info, you know where to find them.

Seriously. This whole causing friction shit outweighs any good this one might have ever contributed to society.

Also also how many trips does this one take to Florida on our dime? I’d like to see those receipts. Wonder if I’d approve them by her own metrics.

Despite DTOM, the CFO approved my $46 reimbursement.

I wasn’t surprised that the saner head prevailed.

I just need to know why no one sees a problem with employing someone who believes their entire role is to create friction.

This foo is in my DMs right now barking at me to make their next stupid idea happen.

I’m not saying this is a bad idea.

What I am saying is that I am tired of this person declaring to my boss that they will do a thing … and then dumping the thing on me and my team and telling us to do it … and then taking credit when it’s done.

Like, I’ve only just called off the jihad over the receipt. I haven’t quite gotten to the grateful enough to deal with nonsense again phase. Give me a minute here.

I have a photo open on my desktop.

It’s from when we took Cocoa to Gentle Pet Crossing.

Cocoa had passed Friday night. We took her there Saturday afternoon.

I would have kept her forever. But, she was already starting to decompose.

The pic is of Mom holding Cocoa in her baby blankets.

Cocoa died with her eyes open. Funny, since she’d kept them closed during the process of dying.

But then she saw who/what ever was coming from her, and those pretty green eyes opened one last time. And stayed that way.

I won’t publish that photo, obviously.

Here’s one from better days.

But here at the anniversary of Mom’s passing, I remembered her telling Cocoa in that moment, “Grandma’s coming.”

That was Jan. 27. Mom would leave in the earliest hours of June 16.

She wanted Cocoa to know she wouldn’t be alone too long.

This all came my way because I am hiring a new cat sitter for that day.

I am a strong woman, but even I know better than to hang around the house on the worst anniversary of my life.

Cocoa tolerated Grandma. So did Maddie. Belly plays all sides. But the black cats, Kadie and Magic, loved her best.

Happy birthday Kates. Hope you and Grandma spent it at the Rainbow Bridge.

Mom had also said this was about the only way to let her hold Cocoa. She was all about me in life. Grandma was the substitute human, for sure.

Anyway, I hope wherever they are, Cocoa lets Grandma hold her.

When Maddie, Kadie and Cocoa passed, I always said, “They’re too little to be all by themselves.”

I said that when Mom passed, too.

I still can’t believe she did something before/without me. First for everything, I guess.

There’s a saying that women are the only species that mate with our only natural predator.

I think about that every time a woman is harmed or graped or kilt. The ones that even get talked about, anyway.

I have had people talk shit about my singleton status like it’s something to be pitied.

At least I didn’t marry mental fucking illness. Or have to live with financial, psychological and/or physical abuse.

When they tell people to make better choices, that choice is to save yourself from someone else’s harm. Ain’t no moments of joy that can offset that.

And anyone who thinks otherwise IS the source of the abuse.

I finally told someone about this blog.

Not that I encourage anyone to read it. Or memorize the past 25 years’ worth of content and find ways to twist it to suit your sick fantasies, like Cindy does.

More just like hey it offers proof of life when I’m not feeling the socials.

Speaking of the socials, I pulled the Tower before my performance review. I also pulled the Queen of Wands as a clarifier card.

My favorite psychic friend weighed in on the socials.

Rather than imminent career suicide, the combo suggests I’m either keeping the Tower from crumbling or I’m finding a way to make good out of the flaming pile of ashes.

Sounds about right.

And speaking of flaming piles of ashes, I had a particularly spicy dream that I don’t want to forget.

As I’ve been out of the office and interacting with humans, well, I’ve met some interesting people. Ones I want to see again.

The dream indicated that feeling is mutual, in one case.

In said dream, said person and I kissed. I want to say it was inevitable. I was just surprised that we both got brave at the same time. Also that there were witnesses who said my god you two have been gravitating toward this long enough.

I said in the dream are we really doing this and they said yes.

And I said I don’t mind, but this is about to get so messy. You good with that? And he said yes.

Even in the dream, I laughed because I was listening to Alanis Morissette on the flight home from Vegas last week. I have many favorites but “Hands Clean” is my song.

“Oh this could get messy
But you don’t seem to mind
Oh don’t go telling everybody
And overlook this supposed crime.”

I was telling a friend the other day that, the thing with Alanis songs, is the names change but the lyrics continue to apply.

“Hands Clean” has applied to the people older than me that I’ve been involved with … and the younger ones.

“I know you sexualize me like a young thing would, and I think I like ya.”

If I think about it, everyone I’ve either dated or played with was either way older or way younger. I think ol Toad was the only one “my” age, as he was born in 1970.

There is another 1970 floating around in my current orbit. But my company refuses to hire him for some reason and I am not sure when our paths will physically cross. (Though he did invite me to a concert down here in FL — we’ll see!)

Anyway, I’m starting to think since I dress and act younger than my counterparts, I should just stick with younger. I am pretty good at teaching, after all. And I’m NOT talking about that.

Well, if this dream is any indication, 10 years younger may be about to happen. Well, he says 10 but I know it’s like 10 and 11 1/2 months. But who’s counting?

Mom appears in every dream. This time as a warning sign. Like, are you sure you want that name in your life? Run the other way now while you can!

LOL. I knew she’d come through with that message eventually. We all know what destruction that name brings.

Anyway, just something fun to think about.

The moment when you realize they want you, and you want that too, is pretty exhilarating.

Love it when that happens.