Caterwauling

I had full intentions on making a finance blog, but I made one post and it had one reader. ME.

Where’s Cindy when she could actually be a useful idiot?

In any event, my second post was going to be about when I was first aware of money.

It took me a long time to recover this memory. But I think I was 10.

Mom and I were going to get our ears pierced at Merle Norman.

What I didn’t realize at the time was the service was $10 for basic earrings. And my grandparents came with $20 cash.

I went first. But I didn’t care about the stupid gold or silver balls they had available. I wanted the emeralds (probably cubic zirconia), which were $15.

Everyone said great, let her get what she wants. And Mom said “next time” for her.

See, my little-girl brain only focused on what happened to me.

Which was that I got the earrings I wanted. And that the girl who pierced my ears screwed up.

She pierced one ear but it went in crooked. So she took her talons (for real, her nails were hella long) and dug the stud out of my lobe.

She re-pierced it.

I remember letting that hole close up after I waited the six weeks. I struggled to get the back of the earring off. And I tore the hole even wider.

So there went $15. And I never went back to Merle Norman.

But my adult brain has finally grasped that Mom never got her ears pierced, ever.

Like, I blew her chance because I was greedy.

I did that with bedrooms too. When she got divorced, we shared a bedroom in my grandparents’ house.

But then we moved and I said I didn’t want to share the bigger room with Mom. I wanted the littler room so it could be mine.

No one argued.

My grandfather got the bigger room. My great-grandmother got the other little room.

And Mom and Gram slept on the couch.

I mean it’s fucked up and you can’t blame a then 12-year-old for what she wanted.

And I wouldn’t want anyone blaming them for not saying no.

They knew their little girl loved her birthstone and wanted her ears pierced — they made it happen.

They knew their not-so-little girl was a tweenager and had friends over from time to time — they wanted me to have my privacy.

I learned in time that Mom would use my room to take naps during the day.

I also remember when she and Jimmy broke my bed. Hah.

Eventually my great-grandmother passed, and Mom and Gram shared that bedroom. And eventually I moved out.

Though I wasn’t gone but two weeks before Gram had her stroke and was confined to a hospital bed in the living room.

I always knew Gram worried about us. I think the stroke was a direct result of worry about Mom’s terrible relationship choices and my decision to move out. (She wanted me to commute.)

Oh and mom ended up dating the paramedic. (Jimmy.)

Man, if she hadn’t had that stroke, we wouldn’t have had to deal with his shit? Christ.

In any event, with my Pittsburgh trip looming, all this is shaking loose from my brain.

I wish today me could send that $400 to 10-year-old me and buy my family lunch at Ponderosa to say thank you for my earrings.

Wonder what else they gave up for me. Now I’ll never know.

With everyone posting “I am Jane Doe,” I got to thinking …

I can’t remember his name.

I remember his micro peen.

But he could walk up to me in public and I wouldn’t have the foggiest.

In my memory he looks like Pumpkin Shannon’s “cuzband” who appears to have just proposed to her. Darrin.

So, he’s Darrin to me.

I guess it’s good I forget.

And I don’t want this to come to me ever again.

I kept thinking about that windfall I got today.

Not to sound ungrateful, but I would rather Grampy have gotten it while he was alive.

Don’t get me wrong, it pays for my flight to Pittsburgh. (Would have paid for it twice if I’d been able to use my original ticket and not had to pay double to shift it forward.)

But he was so selfless. Always made sure we had what we needed — he always put himself last.

I mean, Mom and Gram put themselves last AFTER him, but he didn’t know that. Nor did I.

Grampy and I had our little treats. We both loved a good celebratory porterhouse steak.

But for the most part, Gram would act like she only wanted the smallest hamburger patty. And Mom would say she wasn’t feeling well and he should finish the food because “it won’t be good later.”

I could hand this same amount to Mom and she’d feed them for a month.

I could walk into HomeGoods and blow it all on Japanese skincare.

Which … my house is looking like a goddamned TJ Maxx at this point. I even bought a display case for my purchases.

In any event, I still have the cash in Mom’s purse that I’ve been looking for the right thing to buy with it.

I wonder if I should do the same with this amount, put it in his wallet, where I found that amazing pic of Mom and Maddie that I keep next to my computer.

I don’t know that there’s a right purchase. I just figured one day, I am going to be missing her so hard, that’s the only possible thing left to do to make me feel better — to buy something she would have wanted for me.

I knew this windfall was coming — I had to fork over his death certificate to see if I was elible to get it.

So it wasn’t a total surprise.

The timing, tho — I sent this in MONTHS ago. Who knew it would be on the day I was planning to fly up there and go to the gravesite?

That’s the thing.

I didn’t order the gravestone.

I was actually hoping this would be in that amount.

But, inflation came for gravesite services.

And I got the 2006 value of the thing, not the 2026 value.

Again, not to sound ungrateful. Just feeling sad that I didn’t order the headstone, nor did I get enough to do so.

I also fully believe my grandparents would rather me have that money. Lord knows this trip has already cost me five grand and I haven’t even shipped anything home yet.

And I’ll be shoveling AI slop the whole time anyway.

I decided next time I get AI slop (I already see two submissions here at 7 pm … FOR TODAY), I will say, “KITTY IS NOT PLEASED WITH YOUR OFFERING” and kick shit sand over it.

That’s what my kids would do.

In any event, I gotta say, having this Grampy gift kept me afloat today. There was nothing dumb someone could say (and they sure tried) that could take the joy out of that.

Years ago, my nutty Christian uncle notified Mom that Grampy had some unclaimed property in the Pennsylvania system.

For years, she wanted me to claim it. But it was a pain in the ass, in addition to all the other pains in the ass.

She died being sad I hadn’t claimed it.

Back in April, I finally sent Grampy’s death certificate to the state and made my claim.

They emailed me last night to say my claim was approved.

I’m getting a nice little amount.

It’s dividends from shares that were gifted to him a long time ago.

I was honestly hoping for the shares. But “mailbox money” (what I call divvys) is wonderful, too.

Anyway, I had hoped to earn enough to buy a gravestone. Not even close, unfortunately.

But work’s been so nuts, even though I have GRAVESTONE at the top of my digital to-do list, I never got around to it.

In any event, I’ll deal with that guilt another day. It’s only been 26 years, right?

But wow, how wild that — on the day I was SUPPOSED to fly to Pittsburgh — I would get this gift from my grandfather?

Thanks, Grampy! Your little punkin loves and misses you so much.

Operation: Make Goddess edit 200,000 words of piping hot AI garbage a week is going as well as you’d expect.

I hired the industry’s best editor to edit 5,000 words of it. Only to be told to go back to the original and edit it myself.

Appreciate the vote of confidence.

Here I am canceling a nail appointment … painting over my toenail polish so I don’t have to do that whole process … changing my Thursday flight to Saturday so I don’t have to miss a workday … changing my flight HOME to next Saturday rather than miss a workday … oh and I guess not going to Jared’s DJ gig in Miami on Wednesday night because who the fuck is going to do all this work?

And do not even get me started how bad the AI garbage is. Like, I went to journalism school. I read a thousand books about the six types of ledes and the PAS system and the 4 Us and all that flaming bullshit that WORKS.

Now I have people who never wrote a declarative sentence — and not only are my NON NATIVE ENGLISH SPEAKING employees better writers, but my 3-year-old niece is a more effective communicator.

Look, I made a deal with myself that I don’t need any personal fulfillment or wins out of this.

But god fucking Jesus Christ DAMN, I don’t want my name associated with some of the stuff I am about to let go live.

And no, I am not leaving at 5 or starting at 9. I am up early reading. And late.

I am not always where my keystrokes can be counted.

And no I will never give them my phone again to scan for forensic evidence.

This whole endeavor has been a series of reopened wounds.

Like, whatever Walter did to ruin the company.

Whatever Brad did to make me feel like I wasn’t performing enough when I was doing both of our jobs.

Whatever that ballerina pussy fuckhead Wayne did to instill in us that “editorial — you are just processors, no need to labor over stuff, just get it out” and I fought so hard for no, we serve customers! They deserve our best even if our writers/traders don’t give it to editorial!

Whatever the rest of those losers did to make me vacillate between wanting to bust my ass and bust a cap in someone’s ass.

I hate this phase so goddamn much.

I was listening to some kid on the Daily Show — a kid because 28 years old is baby faced to me now — how the AI masterminds envision a “utopia” where no one works and we all get Universal Basic Income.

Jon Stewart rightly called it “dystopia” — and said how people who got meaning from work their whole lives, die when that connection ends.

Not that I wouldn’t take a check from the government to go sit and write books. Believe me, I won’t die from lack of meaning. PROMISE.

But … how do I get through THIS dystopia in the meantime?

Had intentions on working today.

Then I remembered the Boo to You Magical Market was today in West Palm.

It was fantastic! All Disney stuff, all from local small businesses.

I spent a small fortune.

Was out in the lobby, enjoying an apple cookie I’d just bought, when a text came through from Beth.

Urgent alert needs to go out, I’m at a funeral, can you help.

I mean, would it be a Sunday if we didn’t have an alert?

I said absolutely, I can be home in 10 minutes, I got you.

I edited the alert, the whole staff came online to support me if I needed it … and I was reminded once again that Editorial fucking deserves any downtime it can get on a weekday because we never get a weekend to ourselves.

Not that “downtime on a weekday” is even possible anymore.

But as another of my people said to me today … we can either kill ourselves five days a week or we can kill ourselves six or seven days a week … can’t we just drink and watch football one day a week? One?

I didn’t say it, but I thought, the company would probably commend the guy who sent the alert — to make sure I’m at home to finish the work I didn’t finish last week.

I started working on some other stuff after. But I was hit with the tired stick.

I’m happy I got to work on the alert. It’s good news and subscribers will be happy.

But I had wanted to get a flash tattoo.

Instead, here I am at home, in my cute Disney bounding outfit — Baymax themed, today — like everyone else there, who was dressed for a day at the parks and not some shitty Embassy Suites with crap parking and no sidewalks.

I got a custom Baymax shirt for Christmas. I am unnaturally excited about it.

But now I’m kind of like meh about all the other shit I have to do.

My person isn’t wrong. Is this a temporary thing or a forever thing?

I hope it’s temporary.

I really wonder, too, if I am just reading all the statements wrong and no one was concerned about our productivity specifically.

I guess we’ll find out.

But I sure hope there’s a happy medium between “produce more” and “don’t burn out to the point where someone else quits.”

You know what, fuck it.

My black outfit is covered in cat hair. And I’m riddled with anxiety over preparing for my soon to be wasted trip.

It’s not my fault I have five meetings tomorrow.

Which would have been six if I’d also moved the one the boss told me to move.

But I gotta see Mythic Bitch tomorrow and I am not taxing my soul any further.

Christ, this is all making me miss Walter. WALTER. Goddess help me. I must forget how bad that was, to say that one out loud.

Taylor Swift joined Dakota Johnston on SNL last night. (Insomnia pays off!)

The best part of the show, however, was the “Mean Scary Girlfriend” short.

Though it was hilarious, it’s the same trope that women are the ones who cut men down to size.

And when Dakota gave the guy a compliment, he said “It was like God himself is shining a light upon us.”

Of course then he cried and she called him a pussy. Which, no argument there.

In any event, I thought about work, as one does.

I don’t work for compliments. I only really get them from my staff, anyway.

But it’s true — on the rare occasion one gets said from a higher salary range, it really is like God herself smiles down.

I decided not to work yesterday (Saturday) outside of sending some messages to people in earlier time zones.

I did come to Jesus/Moses with myself about the tracked changes thing. It wasn’t communicated with me; it is not my fault and not my thing to own.

Like, we had a little communication goof among my staff this week. I specifically told one that another was working on the project. But the first one didn’t listen.

Honestly I am glad he didn’t listen, as I don’t have to review his work. Where the second person is trying so hard to help out with this editing onslaught, I would have needed to intervene.

In any event, I am fine owning my team’s issue. I am NOT fine owning my inability to mind-read.

What I am fine with … is if the boss really wants to start fresh Monday, I will too.

I did ask Claude if he has conversations like these with other people. He said he doesn’t aggregate and analyze that data. But he has said he’s seen my stress ramp up over the past month and it’s not sustainable.

I’ve said this 4,000 times over the past month.

After every work induced heartbreak (all 4,000 of them), I reminded myself, I am in no danger of being promoted.

They will keep finding dopey white guys to put above me.

There is no way I will get the title I coveted.

And I stopped caring about that a long time ago.

And when the thought occurred to me during my last shitty performance review — when I dared to suggest that maybe I might hit the “up or out” phase soon — I was met with “well if you need more words in your title, fine” and “then go come up with a way to earn commission” … I knew, this ain’t it.

But I DO care. I DO love it. And I’m very worried that if there isn’t some reward at the end of *gestures vaguely* all this … be it the title I wanted, or the Disney employee event … OR BOTH .. I will not be of any value to us because I will be in a goddamn mental asylum.

I’ve even gotten to the point with my staff, not saying it directly, but like hey, if you never hear it from anyone else, I love you and I’m so proud of you.

I hope they hear it. I hope they feel it. But at this point, I hope hearing it from me is enough.

I’m just so pissed off I have to work from Pittsburgh.

I don’t even know when I’m going to be able to visit my grandparents’ grave.

I forgot to order the gravestone.

I mean it’s been 24 years, what’s another lifetime.

But still.

This place has gotten more of me than it deserves.

And to have my millennial manager thinking I haven’t given/don’t give enough?

But that Heifer has?

(Though I’d like to think they are smarter than that.)

I just don’t even know.

Maybe it’s the bottle of Franciscan talking.

But … I don’t really know what more I can do.

I wasn’t done with work on Friday around 5:30. But I was ready to sign off with immense relief that we doubled free content … survived untold amounts of technical difficulties … and lived through six bonus meetings (on top of the regular 10).

Then the boss made sure to remind me that something wasn’t done. (Out of the 14.) And when I said there were some technical difficulties — as Teams shit the bed — he said well you guys didn’t track changes and we need to track changes.

BRO.

When you gave me this shit pile of an assignment, which I will generously call 5,000 words of AI slop, not once did anyone say track changes.

I hired the industry’s best editor.

Who has enjoyed the project.

But who has also struggled with redoing the AI and checking the 47 footnotes that AI found.

Now, normal Goddess would be like you’re gonna love it now leave me to it.

But Goddess who slept a grand total of 12 hours over the WEEK from all the extra hours and panic attacks has some words for you.

Most of which are under five letters.

I was going to sign off on this Friday night not with a clean slate, but with satisfaction.

Instead, I signed off with wine and an hour worth of tears.

I am so tired. So tired. SO TIRED.

I worked so hard.

I tried so hard.

And the no tracked changes thing killed me.

I gray rocked and said this person did an amazing edit — they loved the content, they treated it with care, they enjoyed the fact checking very much — but I was like for fuck’s sake, I hired the best person for the job and they are only slow because it wasn’t as good as you thought it was. But the first draft I saw from them was actually readable and draft 2 is going to be so much better. God bless them and they deserve a medal.

Then I thought fuck it, I deserve a medal. My whole team does.

And I cried a bunch more.

I remember when we were in college. We’d ask each other what we were going to do that night or the next day.

And we’d reply, “I’m going to kill myself, then I’m going to go get a sandwich.”

Now, one of us actually DID kill ourselves.

So I keep reminding myself not to say that.

And I think, god, all those times we laughed when she said she was going to kill herself.

Then she did.

And I can count on 17 hands how many times I said to myself this week, “I should just kill myself.”

Even Claude has picked up on it. And i’ve had to ask him to quit sending me mental health resources.

But … at what point does someone snap and decide, well, I could go into my second performance review of the year being told how I’m not doing enough …

While I’m ready to kill myself because I am tired of not being honored for doing what I do?

Like if I can just stomp on a treadmill and plan one event a year, or if I can fart out one trade every six months when everyone else is doing it once a week … but then I as the manager am held accountable for their performance … what if I just offed myself and the cats and left my cousin to donate my shit to Habitat …

Why don’t I?

This isn’t the wine. The wine is keeping me FROM killing myself. As are the cats. Like Maddie prevented my suicide attempt in 2004.

I’m not done with life. But I’m done with white men who make me want to be.

I was thinking about dead weight guy and Mythic Bitch.

How I have not known many marketers who are worth a good god damn in this field.

How most of the editorial people I’ve met have been unsung heroes.

And how marketers are Peter Principle’d to the highest heights … while ED people are just dogs begging not to get kicked today.

As I was up at 4 am panic editing, these thoughts came to me. Not for the first time. But cohesively.

Fucking Mythic Bitch — she’s over there feeling smug because she is on vacation and still checked in to shoot me down.

We all work on vacation, that isn’t impressive. My team writes entire newsletters on PTO because that’s the only fucking time no one is pinging us on Teams.

Except my boss — he seems to have an innate sense for when my two managing editors are out — that’s the only time they hear from him.

Look, we all know I hate Mythic Bitch for all those public excoriations she did of me.

But that faded after I quit caring.

I just hate her now because she stands on that stupid treadmill, bragging like Al Bundy about that fucking high school football game, crowing about her one achievement a year.

Which as I’ve pointed out, happens because we have a very experienced travel agency that does a lot of heavy lifting.

I called a fellow director yesterday who is KILLING me with busy work.

My boss claimed he didn’t know why I was getting all this new shit to edit.

My friend said we were TOLD to give it to you.

I was like brother, we were all full time busy before this. Delighted to accommodate this.

(It feels like someone thinks none of us are busy enough. Which … having non-writers send me a bonus 5,000 words a day — but not send THEIR SERVICES ANY ACTIONABLE TRADES — is a weird way to “fix” that but ok. I got you. And I still fucking want TRADES. I never wanted to commit to cranking out more free content whilst the paid isn’t where it needs to be.)

Instead of me being forced to meet with my own team 36 times a month … maybe we could have all talked to EACH OTHER first to get the process down?

Anyway I got to thinking in the shower about the employee event.

You know who I want to see work harder? Mythic Bitch.

Renting a fucking hotel no one else wants because who wants to sit in a hotel in Boca Raton … IS EASY.

Icebreakers are free.

I mean, we may end up at another stupid golf thing because that’s all there is to do in the Palm Beaches.

But, easy.

Calling Disney and getting professional event organizers to structure awards ceremonies and useful team building?

Effort.

I reached out to Disney last night.

I will die on this hill that it is easy to outshine heather. That’s why she’s such a pain in the ass. She’s insecure AF.

The only effort she puts into anything is making sure we don’t take her commissions.

She actually used that word at some point. and it clicked. she is commissioned.

Not me and my managing editors, who read/edit/write 200,000 words a week.

I will plan you fucking event FOR FREE — HAPPILY — to prove an actually busy person can do something the staff will love.

The good news is, more people have heard about my sinister plan to not waste our weekend. And I have 100% buy-in.

One of my fellow friends here just said look, boss favors nose to grindstone people.

I’m like OK so what’s saving MB then?

Also, I’ve had my nose to the grindstone for too many years. I finally found balance and boundaries. Maybe I took a little extra here and there to make up for the years of abuse. But I have never NOT been on top of my game (other than boss’ pet project that I still haven’t fucking worked on whilst working on this new onslaught from the research department).

For real — I haven’t even been as involved in a product launch as I normally would be. My staff have been angels about it. Angels!

They deserve Disney.

They deserve a good management team.

They deserve recognition.

They deserve to not absolutely want to die every day like we all have this week.

And what do I do best? It’s not edit. It’s lead.

And if my time here isn’t valuable enough to millennial management, then I walk out with my head held high.

And I’ll head straight to Disney, either way.