Caterwauling

I’m a compulsive note-taker. So my house is littered with notepads and scraps of paper with stuff I figure I’ll need eventually.

I’m also a compulsive digital note-taker.

I finally got around to deleting notes I’d taken from my old job and from Cocoa’s doctors.

Found it interesting that, shortly after I got her in 2020, they said she had thyroid issues and kidney disease.

The docs hopped on the thyroid stuff. Though the same docs denied me a refill unless I brought her in (when corona was resurgent). And I said fuck you and your company.

The next vet I called gave me a prescription just for asking. They said bring the baby in when you can; we aren’t going to deny her something she needs.

But I forgot about all the kidney disease stuff till I saw it in black and white.

So my baby had that untreated the whole time.

I mean, the fact that I got four years with her is just crazy. If it was as bad as they said, the prognosis is really only about 35 days.

I remember telling Mom that I gave Cocoa an extra year thanks to the new vet. And Mom had said, you gave her four years. The entire four years she was yours.

Now, I get it. She was right. Maybe I loved that little girl back to life for as long as she could hold on to it.

I still regret taking on Bella and Magic, though. I figured if Cocoa was a baby and I’d have her forever, why not have three.

Now I look at these loafs — and I love them — but damn I was going to go away this weekend but I figured in the end, nah don’t leave these dopes.

I love them and will miss them when they are gone. But they are 5 and 4. And as I feel the quicksands of time are reeling me in faster than I’d like, I don’t want to miss another minute of living than I have to.

I’ve been obsessed with Ethel Cain’s “Preacher’s Daughter.” Obsessed.

She did a whole “Freezer Bride” tour that I never even heard of.

And I would never have heard of her if not for “Strangers” being in “It Ends With Us.”

I’ve been particularly haunted by “Televangelism.” It’s an instrumental track that ends very off key. I assume that’s Ethel dying and her soul going wherever it’s supposed to be.

“Televangelism” ends and “Sun-Bleached Flies” begins. And it’s such a good song on its own. It has some zingers like the line I picked for today’s subject line.

In context:

“God loves you, but not enough to save you
So, baby girl, good luck taking care of yourself.”

She’s obviously already dead at this point and reflecting on her life.

All the religion beaten into her by all the sun-bleached flies who prayed for miracles that never came.

They and their babies just sit on the windowsill “breathing in the poison of the paint” rather than escaping small-town life that revolves around church and angry men like her daddy and every man she ever dated.

She goes back in her head to a time when she was longing to leave Alabama with her first love Willoughby. How Nebraska was all they ever wanted.

“I’m still praying for that house in Nebraska
By the highway, out on the edge of town
Dancing with the windows open
I can’t let go when something’s broken
It’s all I know and it’s all I want now.”

Ethel’s life review, as I interpret it to be, feels a lot like I interpret mine will be.

“It’s all I know and it’s all I want now.”

She went on to meet more exciting (abusive) men. She met Logan and they stole and killed until he was captured. She met Isaiah, finally “a man who wasn’t angry,” yet he sold her into sex work (“Gibson Girl,” where he hurts her) and plied her with drugs and raped, beat, killed and ate her. (And potentially filmed it all.)

Willoughby doesn’t seem so boring now, eh.

I don’t think I wished away my life with Mom but maybe I did. Like I know “love’s out there, and I can’t leave it be” (from “Thoroughfare”) but I already had it.

Who’s going to keep me safe from an Isaiah? And will I be left wishing for my own version of Willoughby?

Ethel knows she’s been reduced to “a polaroid in evidence.” Which is one of the most haunting lyrics.

The most devastating lyric, I think, is from “Ptolemea”:

“There’s nothing you can do.
It’s already been done.”

That’s Isaiah or the god of the underworld or who the fuck knows, telling her not to fight. She’s been promised to him. Basically just die already and stop hiding.

I hope my mom’s passage was better than that. If there’s anyone who deserves to have a good afterlife, it’s her. Only FOTUS and his associates should go to Ptolemy.

This is clearly art. If it invokes a visceral, long-term impact, that’s art. I love the album, love the way it’s made me think, love that it can exist in FOTUS’ world where Ted Nugent counts as culture.

Consume it while thought is still legal.

One thing that’s changed since Mom left is that I don’t go to places she loved.

This is intentional. Nary a Hobby Lobby nor a Chick Fil A in my recent past or future.

I kind of forgot about Lent though.

We weren’t religious. But she really believed in having fish on Ash Wednesday and all the Fridays through Good Friday.

I had some delicious gumbo from Penelope on Ash Wednesday. Stuffed with andouille sausage. The red beans and rice had sausage too.

So meaty, Joel McHale.

It felt so strange, thinking about all that.

Last year, she wasn’t really eating around this time. Maybe she’d take two bites but then throw it up. But she definitely wanted me to run to Bud’s and get a seafood platter for us to split.

That was weird too. We always gave fish to the cats. Cocoa would eat three bowls and the others are like WTF is this shit. So basically it was me and a platter of fries and fried fish.

If you go to the right Bud’s, the fries are great.

In any event, I remember asking her why it was important to observe the no-meat rule.

She said she knew she was getting closer to the end. She didn’t feel like she had a lot of points in her favor if there were such a thing. So the least she could do is observe a basic tradition.

I didn’t have any meat today (Friday) but that was more of an “I only have salad left in the fridge” than a conscious choice. As I pick anything BUT salad all week.

By anything but salad, I also consumed an entire king cake in two days. Details. I mean, isn’t that like not eating meat?

Anyway, I hope I remember all these little things about Mom. And I hope I stop remembering all the times I questioned her about them.

There are times when I think all the grief of the last 14 months has run its course.

Like maybe the well of tears is finite. Or if I just refuse to drink liquids, my tear ducts will cease their productivity.

Then I think of what my doctor cousin warns me about perimenopause. How there will be a time when I go a whole year without a period. And that year will turn into forever.

Well, I am still on my regular 28-ish-day cycle, so nope, no peri here.

But I do read about people who go the full year without a period. And then BAM, they get one and the clock starts anew.

I think that’s what my grief is going to be like. Somewhere between this 14-ish months without Cocoa and the 3-ish months before it’s a year without Momma, I’ll be OK-ish.

Then Father’s Day is going to hit and the tear duct levy will break.

I was just sitting here thinking how I can do anything this weekend.

I mean, I probably won’t do any of it. But indulge me right now when I’m ambitious enough to have options.

I thought about grabbing a flight to (reacted) to see (redacted) Saturday. Then maybe hitting a pop-up club at (redacted) and then flying home at the crack o’ me without missing but two hours of work on Monday.

Not budget-appropriate, by any means. But, I could do it.

I talked myself out of it because I wouldn’t take a laptop and I need to do some reading this weekend.

Also I could delay the flight till Monday night and instead go to (redacted). But I’d want to stay longer than two short nights. And the price there is higher.

And if I stay longer, I need a cat sitter. And I promised myself I wouldn’t have her back till my house was in order.

Which … yeah good luck with that.

I have other options for the weekend. I could wake up at Dawn-crack and go take my friend’s final (redacted) class before she leaves for Memphis.

That’s likely my option, but here I am whining to myself that I need to locate (redacted) in my house — one stupid item — before I go. How am I more motivated to pack a whole ass duffel and matching purse than find basically a piece of pink elastic?

Last weekend, I tooled around in Boca for two days. I loved it. Ate something good each day. Window shopped. Grabbed bougie groceries. Had my Fatbit buzz at 10k steps for the first time in months.

I remember during Mom’s last couple years, we sat on the couch, ate and watched reality TV and scrolled our phones.

She often said she wished I talked to her more. Usually I was in my phone or working on my laptop. But, too, if I said something at the wrong time, she’d be afraid of losing her place and the socials refreshing on her.

I didn’t want to remain that person. But I do feel daunted by the house projects. The only time I’m alive is when I’m planning phantom trips. Then I watch from my balcony as those same flights take off.

Not complaining. Not like I’m on a Fulbright Scholarship in another country and my funds got cut off today so I’m also unable to pay for rent or to fly home or to continue my education. Thanks fuckface tRump. Not like I’m the mother of a child receiving cancer treatments but I was dragged away in handcuffs because I never got my green card but I otherwise paid taxes for 23 years. Thanks tRump. I’m also not the president of Ukraine being told I didn’t smile or say thank you or wear an ill-fitting suit by a demented Cabbage Patch Kid who wanted to fuck the couch he sat on. Thanks tRump.

Anyway. I just wanted to process how I feel like the precious lives lost — Mom and Cocoa, but everyone who’s gone too soon — deserve so much more reverence than we can ever give them.

Also, what’s so wrong about running away. Momentum begets momentum. Hard to go from 0 (couch) to 60 when there’s no gas in the tank and nary a gas station around for five miles. How do you fuel up when you’re so down?

The title is a nice way of calling someone a twat to their face.

I would rather skip the niceties since most are too dumb to pick up on subtleties.

Emily and I got drinks at Louie Bossi on Tuesday.

Today I woke up and said I need another of those spicy margs.

Hibiscus Spiced this time.

The Spiced Passion Fruit marg was better. But maybe that’s because it was to celebrate Em’s birthday with her.

But the Cinque Terre I upgraded to was better than both combined.

I picked the last open seat at the outside bar, as the inside bar reeked too much of cleaning products.

Also it’s 80 degrees in Boca Raton. I don’t sit inside.

I sat next to a guy by himself, drinking red wine and lost in thought.

Won’t lie, I was surprised when he started talking to me.

But I was really surprised that two hours went by and we were still talking.

We’re both in finance. He’s from New York. We traded stories about clients and Laguardia.

His mom is dying. And we all know that’s a topic I know intimately. So we talked about that.

The surprise date closed with him asking for my name so he could look me up on LinkedIn. And maybe we can connect on his next trip down here.

Now, for the Goonhilda at home, yes he had a ring on. Yes, he’s happily married. No, she’s not a disaster of a human being. She sounds quite amazing and he’s quite enamored.

We were just two random strangers who had a handshake and a heart-to-heart.

Why are all my best conversations with people I will probably never see again?

I had a whole post written in my head with this subject line.

But then it me’d (dawned) that my beloved song “Thoroughfare” by Ethel Cain, about Isaiah, is part of a concept album.

One that ends with Isaiah fucking CANNIBALIZING her.

And that my beloved song “Strangers” is her talking about being dead and Isaiah’s freezer bride.

And that she’s talking to her mom from the afterlife.

Gives a whole new perspective to her singing, “If I’m turning in your stomach and I’m making you feel sick” and “Mama, I’ll see you when you get here.”

I don’t know what the fuck I even had in my brain before this moment.

“Don’t talk to strangers, or you might fall in love,” indeed.

Got to spend a few days with my fambly this week.

I always say my Phillips crew is the closest thing I have to blood relatives. That continues to be true.

They come to Boca every year to host a conference. I didn’t go last year because Mom went into rapid decline. She liked me being home. And so, I was.

This year, I paid for a ticket and got the full day trading experience. Made some money. Hung with my peeps. Got to talk to their customers.

I have got to be the only person who uses PTO and my own money to go get education that will benefit me in my day job.

In any event, I was starting to think about my future. Love the job I’m in, I promise. But I got to thinking, these guys could use my help. I even offered it, unpaid, since they deal in options and I no longer do.

And I was only the damn Optionz Goddezz for 20-odd years!

In any event, I know I romanticize my past with them. I mean, our friendships and relationships are all real. But I have a tendency to make all my jobs seem less maddening than they can be.

Dulcie asked me if I still talk to Greg. I laughed. I said you know, the guy was a phenomenal editor and a fun person to talk to. And he wasn’t the worst boss I had. But I don’t really care to remember those years before Dave promoted me out from under him.

(Also, Dave is so proud of how far I’ve come. I am, too. I was telling Dulcie it’s so mind-blowing that we are PEERS now.)

They all treat me like a goddess. Which, obviously. I don’t think any of them ever had a sharp word or a crit for me, for as long as I’ve known them.

I did see Dave get a little cranky when the internet refused to cooperate with all of us chasing option prices at the same time. He said something in a bit of a tone that I hadn’t heard before.

One of my friends called it a tic. I thought that was an interesting way to put it.

I got to thinking about a more recent supervisor. Who I got along with just fine but we never managed to get through a conversation without me saying something that somehow triggered them and their automatic response was to knock me down a peg.

I’m talking about such awful things as “I think we need a (redacted) promo” and “cats are children.” Like it was a tic to disagree with me over something innocuous.

Now, this is not to minimize actual tics. I knew of Baylen Dupree long before her TLC show because my friend’s child has Tourette’s and the other condition, Coprolalia, where they swear and say random racist shit. I don’t even want to act like I relate to that actual medical stuff.

But there are some dudes out there who have to get in the next/last word, who have to be the “rightest” in the room, who just physically cannot help but bristle and respond when some badass goddess type is simply doing what she’s put on this earth to do.

I found a good manifestation the other day.

“I get paid to be myself. The more I show my true self, the more abundance I create.”

I will be filthy damn rich with how myself I am at all times.

Anyway, not knocking anyone for having a moment. But certainly learning some grace here by categorizing any weird instant reactions as what they are — physiological responses.

Maybe that’s all that I got from Greg, too. His tics, as they were, were to keep me at work late after being bored out of my fucking mind all day. And never give me the approval I craved so much from him.

At least I used that time to take courses and teach myself how to trade. So, I can’t be too “tic’d” off. I guess.

In S3 of “White Lotus,” there are three childhood friends who vacation at the resort around age 50.

The two with the most money and clout lament all the inconveniences being rich and beautiful brings. Then they do this half-assed “We’re so grateful!”

On the Official White Lotus podcast, Michelle Moynihan (who I LOVE) pointed out how pretentious that is to do the “we’re so grateful” thing in mixed company.

Granted, the third friend seems very successful herself. But you can tell she’s insecure and mentally comparing herself to them.

I got to thinking about that last night at Swampgrass Willy’s.

I wanted to go to the “Pink Pony Club” show. And I told Kelly I’d be in the area if she wanted to go.

She’s literally the only friend I have who’s up for any damn thing. Thank god because everything is so much more fun with her.

My favorite pics of us are usually photobombs. This was no exception.

The original photobomb was when my wino ass got into her selfie when I dragged her to Eataly near Wall Street.

At Swampgrass, there was this guy next to me who started up a conversation and asked about all our tattoos.

Which, who have I become lol.

But you could tell he was interested in HERS.

We got to talking about how I gave her her dream job twice. (Her words, and I love that she loves me for that.)

And she mentioned that she knows the DJs there that night (which was what convinced me to go, really) and she’s in a band.

Lil dude says he’s in a band. But when she said which one, he couldn’t name it.

He came and went a bunch of times. Always with a new question for her. Like hi third wheel, go away.

When he left us for the SIXTh time, she said what I wrote in the headline. “You are too young and too poor for me.”

Kelly got herself a guy who whisks her out of state at least once a month.

He works in Florida a couple days a month and lives elsewhere, so this is literally the relationship I would want too.

Not with him, though he is my age and she’s actually a bit younger.

Anyway, I got to thinking about those friends in White Lotus. And how it’s not pretentious to say we are accustomed to men of a certain age, career level and income.

I confessed that I was with one of the most well known figures in our field, years ago. And he chased me. I was her age at the time.

He still sends me messages and memes, so he must remember me fondly. I just wish I’d gotten trips and more perks, but I had decided to leave D.C. and things ended there.

Anyway. When lil dude bothered us for the seventh time, that’s what she told him. You are too young to support the lifestyle I have become accustomed to.

I love her so damn much.

I told her, too, she took me out for Valentine’s Day and bought me dinner and was the best date I’ve had in a long time.

Hard for me to settle for some dude who isn’t so adorably considerate and so much fun to hang out with.

So, we need men who can take good care of us in general.

And like she said, we need to find guys who take us to Europe.

She’s holding out for that. Maybe I will, too.

I know I have to do a lot more work on myself first. I am not ready to be with anyone in a serious way right now.

For fun times, yes. But there still ain’t room in my house or maybe even my heart for much more.

There is definitely room for friends and fun drinks. The Pink Pony Paloma was pretty terrible, but I had at least three of those Brat shots.

I love that we can buy our own damn drinks.

Weirdly it feels like Kelly is showing me what to expect from others. To demand it if I’m not getting it. And to know that I have a friend out there who wants to see me have it.

Got to talking to my best friend about all the things.

Including all the stuff I would never dare post.

For her, after a nightmare year, it looks like a dream is about to come true.

I mean, it’s not going to look quite like she planned. But still, it’s more than she expected at this point.

I said to her, since hell has frozen over, I’m speaking it into existence now. We will meet stable men this year.

I also told her about getting a call to give a reference for the seven-foot ballerina. And my reply being he’s really good at two-hour lunches.

She loved it and said what I have as this post’s headline.

Speaking of meeting stand-up men …

I dreamed one of my boys showed up at the conference I’m attending next week. He invited me to (tropical island nation) and someplace else. But I couldn’t make it to the someplace else because I’ll be in (redacted). But please tell me about (tropical island nation).

I texted him when I woke up. Didn’t mention that we were making out in the dream. But I did tell him the rest.

He surprised me by saying no, no plans for (tropical island nation), but sounds intriguing.

But he really surprised me when he said maybe the message from your dream is that I’m supposed to stow away on your trip to (redacted).

I almost typed back that he’d be a sexy stowaway. But I did say he’d be a sweet one. He said he sure hopes I’d think so.

We talked back and forth for a bit between all of Friday’s awfulness. A very welcome distraction.

I thought about what I’d said to my BFF, that this is the year we meet sane men and that I was speaking it into existence.

Literally spoke it into existence on the same day I talk to a sane man. Whoa.

I wish he were coming to this event. I know the company sponsoring it and, actually, they are the ones who introduced me to him.

I asked my tarot cards two questions — what do I think about him (Three of Cups, photo above) and what does he think of me (Four of Wands).

Well damn.

3C can go a few ways.

Friends you have a blast with, which applies.

Reunion with someone you are fond of that leads to something more. Intriguing.

Or multiple suitors.

I mean, honestly, I win any which way.

Four of Wands, what he thinks of me. Well. That’s the marriage card.

Hah.

4W can also foretell of a romantic reunion.

Anyway. What an interesting pair to pull.

The follow up spread was pretty good too.

Will i see this person at (redacted) and how will it go? Am emotionally enlightened man, soulmate card, generational wealth.

Insane.

I’m not saying it’s my year. Dreaming doesn’t come easily or at all here anymore

But I’m also not saying it isn’t going to be, either.