Caterwauling

I keep blowing through my data plan.

Was trying to get around D.C. on foot when AT&T said sorry, babe. Slowing your data. Have a nice life.

It wasn’t so bad because I was home. But still, annoying since I hadn’t been home in FIFTEEN YEARS.

I looked up some data plans from the safety and comfort of a Wi-Fi signal.

Honestly my plan — with two lines and no overage charges — is the best one.

But.

I could pay less per month if I dropped down to one line. And get better coverage, albeit piecemeal, like the old days of cell phone coverage.

As Kody Brown phrased it, that felt LIKE A KNIFE TO THE KIDNEY.

I have always intended to keep Mom’s phone number and line open.

My cousin canceled her mom’s service when she passed. (Us eldest daughters always pay for our moms’ cell phones and their service.)

And then she got a message from that line and it freaked her right the hell out.

Anyway that was the first time I thought about changing something big because she isn’t here to use it anymore.

Seeing memories pop up on the socials is weird too. OneDrive always sends me an OTD email, for example.

It’s fucked up as all hell to realize she’s been gone for two of these (insert dates).

Like, two birthdays. Gone.

I always knew the second year would be harder. The one that cemented the first wasn’t a blip.

I’ve started putting things on her bed. Most of it is stuff she cherished or wore. But now I have a couple overnight bags of my own there too. To keep Belly out of them.

And I thought, man I had bought her an excellent egg crate. A cooling one. She loved it. Got so mad at what I spent on it, but it cradled her.

I got to thinking, man everything hurts in my body after these Disney trips.

She would love it if I took advantage of it.

I guess it’s time to start using “her” stuff now that it’s mine.

But as for the phone, I don’t know. She wouldn’t want me LOST without data. But … if there’s a shot in a million that she’d call me from that phone, I don’t want to miss it.

I sat through a four-hour timeshare presentation Monday.

They put me up at a very fancy Delta. I mean fancy. It had a pool just like the Vistana’s.

Not that I had time to use it, as I was park-hopping all day.

And not that the people who gave me the stay provided the correct address.

I went to the wrong place.

Got a different address after some confusion.

Then then Siri took me to Twistee Treat, as that was the second address I was given.

Got to have Mom’s and my favorite order, as we had been to that location before together.

And of course I click-clicked the spoons.

Doesn’t everyone take photos of their mom and cat to dinner?

In any event, I saw a tall building in the distance and stumbled my way to it in the car. It was very nice.

Woke up early the next day. Didn’t know where I was supposed to go or what time. What an operation.

Checked out at 7:30 since there was ONLY decaf in my room. I knew the fancy lobby had a fancy coffee bar.

At 7:35, I got a text with where to go for this nonsense presentation. So I just headed straight there, thinking surely they will want to impress a potential buyer.

Hah.

Well there was no first floor entrance, just a giant stairway to the second floor.

I was also wildly early. I asked about coffee and they said they had none.

Should have left right then.

Waited forever and then some weird lady came and complimented my shoes.

I mean my Crocs are sparkly and all. But … they’re Crocs.

Well. Weird lady was my salesperson.

She took me in an elevator to the first floor … and there she waved me to the “continental breakfast.”

Six bagels in baggies. And a coffee urn.

I tried the coffee. It was FOUL.

She asked me to be open minded. And I was.

I mean, I knew this was a big potential expense at a hotel chain I’d never stayed at. But for as much as I go to Orlando, it’s not out of the realm.

The TL;DR, as if there is such a thing, was that I spent three hours hearing about her travels to Morocco, Paris, Qatar, Dubai and where the fuck ever else.

Every time she asked me a question about me, she Krispy Kremed.

I mean, they are selling the dream here.

She made me feel like I don’t dream big enough. Like just Paris? That’s your dream, really?

I said well, Greece, because I was supposed to go with a friend but she died young. And I want to see why she loved it there.

So I got to hear all about her trips to Greece. And her friend’s son who died young. Made me guess how many cars came to the funeral. Five hundred. With all the local emergency personnel.

She took me on a tour and there were a million people in one of the eight pools.

She said isn’t this WONDERFUL. Don’t you just LOVE meeting people.

I said no, I really don’t. I am very much a loner.

How about less about barbecues and more about how this membership translates to a available properties in Key West.

She said you’ll get to meet SO MANY other owners, isn’t that great!

I was telling K that I could get past her personality.

But when I asked about Key West, she threw her book at me and told me to look it up myself.

I said it’s not really in any sort of geographical order, can you help?

She said no, it’s not my book. I don’t use it.

I was done with her right then.

But no, she wouldn’t let me leave.

Would. Not. Let. Me. Leave.

The first offer was for $40k over 10 years. Plus $1,400 a year for maintenance fees.

Second offer, $30k.

I said yeah I’m definitely intrigued but no.

She fought me on that. I said well no is a full sentence. And she was NOT playing with me.

I said you keep selling me on all these two-bedroom condos in Idaho and haven’t told me anything about Italy. She said look at the book; it’s all in there.

I said I know my favorite hotel in Vegas isn’t there. You don’t have anything on the Strip.

So if I am paying this mortgage, paying for my favorite hotels, paying rent and cat sitters and food and whatnot … I truly thank you for helping me learn about my options but it’s a no for me, dawg.

She kept bringing it back to money.

And I said lady I can hand you cash for the whole thing today and you will never have to speak to me again for 10 years. It is not about the cash.

Ohhhhhh boy. Now she was ready to negotiate.

We got that $30k slashed to $23k.

We slashed that maintenance fee to every OTHER year … if I promised to refer people.

I said how many times do I have to tell you I am a loner. I am not sending people to sit in a meeting with you.

She goes on about how I can host family reunions! And get up to four units for the price of one!

And I can give my employees the gifts of a hotel stay if they just sit through a presentation!

I’m like nah we cool. I am hungry. Let me stop wasting your time.

She brought over a manager (lol) for a better offer.

The price dropped to $19k, $17k. Then $13k. Then $10k.

I finally put on my backpack and said thank you for a lovely four hours. What do I have to do so I can leave?

She melted down and basically asked what’s wrong with me. Is it that I don’t have the money?

“We don’t do credit checks. Everyone gets approved. You can use up to three payment methods. Give me three credit cards and it’s yours!”

I said you seem very responsible with money and I am too.

I am going to take that CASH downpayment, invest it and maybe come back to you in five years.

She and stomped and got the “manager’s manager.”

The big boss said I have one final offer for you … $6,300.

So I managed to go from $40k to $6,300.

Alas, I said I am super open to this idea. But I am just not in the headspace today.

Between you and me, Caterwauling fandom (so, three of you) …

I was ready to buy at $19k.

Do you know what I spent on The Eras Tour? On Vegas? On New York? On Washington, D.C.? On 17 Disney trips? On souvenirs for friends and family and myself?

Pretty fucking close. In a year. One year. Twenty grand.

A timeshare would have SAVED me money. I promise you.

Maybe if ya girl wasn’t tryna call me poor in a nice way …

And maybe if she helped me see me where I can stay in Key West, where a proper week costs $5k yet she could get me there for $299 TOTAL for 8 days …

We’d have had a deal.

I didn’t say any of this to the big boss.

In fact, the big boss said great — you saved me $500 that I’d have to pay her in commission.

So, here’s a $300 gift card AND a weekend stay at any of our resorts.

Thanks for coming in; we’d love for you to fill out a survey and we’ll take your name out of our system.

I do feel bad wasting the first lady’s time. But it wasn’t a waste to me.

I ate a very good lunch with my shiny new gift card.

With very good cocktails.

And I got some chocolate-dipped bacon and potato chips.

The chocolate wasn’t so great but it was fun to try.

Plus, now I know how to negotiate if I find a property I do want to have a long-term relationship with.

Parting thought — I literally told the lady how to sell me. I said quit harping on the legacy benefit. I don’t have kids.

And I was working while she was “talking to my manager.” I was like lady, I am on ROLLOVER PTO to be here. ROLLOVER from 2024.

How the fuck can I take 8 days anywhere?

Sell me on “you can work from your hotel since it’s only $299 a week and not a night.

But did she sell me on that?

No. She didn’t listen.

And so, I didn’t reward her.

Like Taylor Swift says about when she tries something that doesn’t work.

“And now we know.”

Indeed.

I’ve been traveling so much … eating so many cool things … seeing so many amazing things … and talking to so many awesome people …

And yet, anytime I want to write about it, I think about how nice it is that no one knows.

I miss sharing every detail with Momma.

But she knows. And that’s good by me.

I got to have dinner with some old friends on what would have been Mom’s 68th birthday.

“I’ll wear my badge
A vinyl sticker with big block letters
Adherent to my chest
Tells your new friends
I am a visitor here
I am not permanent.”

They took us to brunch on the day Mom and I left D.C. with Maddie and Kadie in tow.

So it was quite heart-warming to spend time with them on what could have been a much harder day for me.

I mentioned that it’s probably silly but I still keep up the blog.

They cheered me on. They knew how much I loved to write.

How I would have wanted to be a diarist if the world didn’t already have an Anais Nin. How it helps me organize my thoughts and improve my writing.

They also remember the events that led to me leaving D.C.

“The district sleeps alone tonight
After the bars turn out their lights
And leave the autos swerving
Into the loneliest evening.”

They recalled how I was finally starting to make a tiny bit of money.

That I’d gotten a good little group of girlfriends that I did things with.

How much time I spent in museums because those were free and, let’s face it, me doing better financially meant being able to afford a cocktail with my friends … not exactly to fill up the tank and take trips.

Incidentally, I had spent the morning at the Hirshhorn on Mom’s bday.

My favorite place on earth.

Like, I have some goober who thinks it’s cute to shitpost that I don’t go into museums.

Like I just stand outside.

I don’t need to counter because I don’t care.

Stood outside of this museum too !

In fact, I usually just laugh that I’m a topic of conversation.

My friends are also aware of this person. We agree she isn’t even the most interesting of my problem children.

That’s the cool thing for me.

They KNOW all my problem children.

Like, how fun is it to have friends who pre-date all the crazy?

Even better, that they’e outlasted all of them … and they are still here for me?

The only pic I took there, sadly.

They cooked me a delicious dinner after a day of protesting (for them) and sightseeing (I hopped over to Alexandria — my true hometown; Pittsburgh was just my birthplace).

I got wings (all flats) in Mom’s honor for her birthday at Hard Times Cafe.

And a Frito pie with Cincinnati chili.

In my honor.

But I ate just a few bites at Hard Times with my (Alexandria) Port City porter.

That way, I could enjoy every bite of the bolognese sauce and every sip of the very nice Sangiovese they had for me.

Can’t believe it’s been 15 years since I’d been home. Since I’d seen my friends.

Felt like no time had passed at all.

Nothing really changed.

Minus a whole Wharf, Harbor and water taxi popping up in the last decade.

Anyway they remembered how I felt “a way” about taking on Mom.

Which was icky to revisit.

But it was accurate. And validating, TBH.

They remembered how I wanted her to be independent. How she took care of herself and my grandfather just fine. But then came to me and wasn’t so independent anymore.

I did say I wanted to correct the record. She was sicker than I knew. Sicker than SHE knew. So she could finally quit pretending otherwise.

What I perceived as a lack of motivation was, in hindsight, the start of a whole lot of stupid shit in her body starting to take over.

I tend to get defensive when people start to say that I was absolutely valid in my feelings that her coming along might have changed my trajectory.

“I am finally seeing why
I was the one worth leaving.”

Like I might have stayed in DC. I might have met someone good.

Or I might not have.

But I might have had the money to enjoy DC properly.

And it blew my damn mind to buy and eat whatever I wanted now.

Like when I accidentally ordered two meals at Colada.

What I do know is I’m now the age Mom was when we moved to Florida.

And I’m glad I could give her a good life and peaceful exit from it. I just wish I’d been nicer about it.

Her last advice to me was eat good, be good and do good. Found this woman-made card at Shop Made in DC on the Wharf:

I had a revelation that day as I was in L’Enfant Plaza for the 14th time because it was the station that got me everywhere I needed to go …

“I’m staring at the asphalt wondering

What’s buried underneath.”

I thought Mom’s final gift to me was being here for my 50th birthday.

But here I was at 51, back in my adopted homeland, and I realized THAT was her final gift.

My freedom, while I’m still healthy enough to enjoy it.

Otherwise I’d be sitting in the house, watching the Rethuglicans attack Democrats over our lack of fucks over their Pumpkin King’s (my opinion) public execution of Charlie Twerp on live TV.

Like, it’s starting a whole attack on Democrats for how we vote.

They are costing people their jobs.

And why employers are so ready to reward these fake Jesus followers and not employee loyalty/skills is beyond me.

And it seems to be happening to more women than men.

It’s a solid preview of what’s set to happen when the demons from the “Ghost” movie come for Habanero Hitler next.

Unfortunately, it probably only gets worse. Much worse.

Anyway.

Cheers to an amazing trip to D.C.

I got to see Ethel Cain.

I got to eat Mom’s favorite meal.

I got to enjoy a martini with ham in it.

I got to enjoy Bloody Marys with bacon and shrimp.

And extra bacon, as the server was out of celery so that’s how she made up for it.

I got to go to the Hirshhorn and lose myself in an amazing room painted by Laurie Anderson.

Whose song “World Without End” was one of my favorites, years ago.

I got to spend a few hours at the International Spy Museum.

Which my dumb ass walked to from the Wharf, not realizing it was sitting atop … you guessed it … the L’Enfant Plaza Metro stop.

Goddamn it.

I got to hang out at DCA, my favorite airport …

… despite its awful formal name.

And I stayed at the freakin Intercontinental Hotel.

Quite baller of me, if I say so myself.

But the waterfront was what was really spectacular.

I could live there. I really could.

I mean, if a studio didn’t cost the same as my 2/2 in Palm Beach.

There were so many highlights from that short trip. But I think “old friends are the best friends” is the highlight.

I thank them … and my city … for welcoming me back.

When the pilot said, “Let me be the first to welcome you home” as we flew over the Pentagon, I sobbed.

Welcome home, Goddess.

Just a “Gossip Girl” quote but feel free to clutch your fake pearls if you feel it applies.

Imagine posting shit about me and I’m just over here on a self-guided Gossip Girl tour through Central Park and the Upper East Side.

Started at Chuck Bass’ Hotel Empire on the Upper West Side. Gorgeous!

Went to the Empire Rooftop for the Gossip Girl brunch.

Made my way to the Lotte New York Palace Hotel. The van der Woodsen family home and plenty of courtyard scenes with the characters.

I have so more Gossip Girl inspired pics but I want to get this one posted before I post another vacation montage.

There’s a new coffee shop in town.

I went to the one in Delray once. (Which, if you’re following the drama, Ron DeSantis’ goons dumped dollar store paint over our rainbow crosswalk and now it’s a weird mix of colors. And there’s a whole lawsuit that’s cost him and us a quarter-million each.) But they were so rude to me, I walked out.

There’s another location of this shop across from the funeral home where I took Mom. I always blow a kiss toward the building where she was last on this earth. But I never dared to stop.

Today I did the kiss and blew past the shop. But I decided to do a U-ie and try something I’d seen pop up on Faceypages.

OK first of all, the PSL was the best I’ve had maybe ever.

The logo is a dead ringer for the Palm Tree Beach Club at the MGM Hotel in Vegas. So, that made me happy.

What else made me happy was the key lime bagel bomb. The thing on Faceypages.

There was no bagel. This was really like a boston creme donut but with key lime custard throughout and not just a squirt.

It was strange sitting across from the funeral home.

Nice. But weird.

Mom picked that place.

There’s another one closer to our apartment. They seem to have six snazzy hearses but not too many funerals.

They get high-profile ones, though. Ben Crump took on a high-profile death — when police killed a little Black boy on a bicycle in our roadway — and I forgot and drove past. That place was PACKED. As was the roadway. As it should have been.

In any event, Mom always said please don’t take me there. She had a better feeling about the one by the coffee shop.

Sitting there in the lot today with my bagel bomb, I thought about that day momma left.

One of my employees had a psychic flash about mom. She had texted me to say we were on her heart. She asked if I was ok.

I was like I’m good, thanks for asking.

That was a Sunday. The next Monday when Mom’s ashes were ready, I texted my managers that I needed to run out and pick up Mom’s ashes and that I’d be back in an hour.

They about fell over.

I just hadn’t wanted to tell anyone. That manager had just lost her dad. Another manager had just lost HIS dad. Like, we were a sad fuckin bunch. I kind of wanted to give them more time to mourn their parents before I smacked them with my own great big loss.

I also got to thinking about the funeral director. I was probably the only customer who ever asked for a tour.

I don’t mean a tour of the pink and blue viewing rooms in that old-fashioned place.

I’m like show me the office. The crematory.

TELL ME WHERE MY MOM IS. I can handle it.

And they showed me. I mean, they didn’t take me to her body. But they took me as far as they could.

I drove around the building to where she was being kept cold till her idiot doctor could come and sign the death certificate. It took forever because it was a holiday but also because he couldn’t find his ass with both hands.

Like I told her when I got her ashes, naturally the medical profession had to let you down one more time.

I was horrified to see the funeral home flag at half-staff today.

Mom would have been rolling over in her grave if I’d buried her.

She was the kindest person I ever knew, after my grandfather. She would have been absolutely outraged that a fascist, xenophobic, sexist, anti-intellectual twit with a podcast got that honor.

I often think about how she and my grandmother loved current events.

They were quite informed enough to be outraged about them. I get that from them.

My grandfather believed that too — you can be outraged as long as you are informed about it first.

Anyway, while I think Momma would have been outraged about that twerp on earth, I have no doubt she won’t run into him in the afterlife.

I follow some witches who said Twerpy (which is what Momma called Magic the cat; it’s they nicest thing I can type here) was quite confused on the other side.

It isn’t like he thought it would be.

He was still sitting on that stage wondering what the hell happened.

And when he realized he wasn’t exactly being welcomed into the almighty’s loving arms, he panicked.

The witches said a day or so later that his life review wasn’t going as well as he expected it would.

Ts and Ps.

Or Chants and Spells, as I say.

Anyway, I wish Mom could have tried that key lime bomb.

That would have meant she was in the car with me and that we were having a nice day together.

But my hope is she licked some of that icing and got to enjoy it vicariously.

And while I’m wildly sad that she won’t get to enjoy good foods again, knowing Twerpy will be reunited with his king — the Pumpkin King — soon enough gives me some joy to offset that.

Was listening to some vintage Zero 7, Sia’s band before she became Sia.

Do you believe
In what you see?
Motionless wheel
Nothing is real
Wasting my time
In the waiting line
Do you believe
In what you see?

And it hit me in a big way that my house isn’t a home anymore.

It’s a waiting room.

I think my big adult child revelation that Momma gave me my freedom awakened my spirit.

I was glad to return to my home that’s midway between Lake Buena Vista and Key West. (Well, Delmonico’s and Baby’s Coffee if we’re being pedantic.)

But.

It’s not a home without Momma.

And while I love living where her and Cocoa’s spirits can easily find me waiting, that’s what it is.

A waiting room.

Waiting for my real life to begin.

Another fine song, this one from Colin Hay.

When I awoke today, suddenly nothing happened.
But in my dreams, I slew the dragon
And down this beaten path, up this cobbled lane.
I’m walking in my old footsteps, once again.

I haven’t wanted to move since the price is right.

Or is it?

In the name of cheap rent, I have lousy electricity, few functional light sources, unreliable internet, no dishwasher, no microwave, no cooking fan, popcorn ceilings, toilets and drains that require constant maintenance by me …

But I also have a top-floor apartment (no thundercunts above me, woo), free internet/cable, free use of two pools, a carport, Intracoastal property, a view, a gated community, an elevator, a trash chute next to that elevator, a mailman who brings packages to my door, and a lanai with cute furniture.

Net-net, I win.

So anyone who sees fit to flap their yapper about me being a renter (as if they have credibility on any topic about me) can just go pay their second mortgage in silence.

(I think someone’s just jealous that I live on the water with all the freedom in the world.)

Look, I don’t know where to move to in what’s about to become Peter Thiel’s America after hell gets his boy back (any day now!).

But I have the freedom to go anywhere I want (anywhere I want, just not home).

So why not make the lurkers jealous and go somewhere really good?

I don’t want to say anything would beat this waiting room.

I used to say that about South Ocean Boulevard.

Yet I miss that place most of all.

I always think of Momma when I hear “A House in Nebraska.”

A House on South Ocean.

You and me against the world.
You were my (mom) and I your girl.
We had nothing except each other.
You were my whole world.
Then the day came and you were up and gone.

I am going to be a hot fucking mess when I hear this live.

I still call home that house in Nebraska.
Where we found each other on a dirty mattress on the second floor.
Where the world was empty, save you and I.
Where you came and I laughed.
And you left, and I cried.
Where you told me even if we died tonight,
That I’d die yours.

They died mine. All of them. Momma, Cokie, Kadie, Maddie.

And I’ll die theirs.

Just not here. But where?

I wasn’t going to go to Disney this past weekend.

But I had a bad week. So did Special K.

And I had seen something for sale at the Lake Buena Vista Costco that I wanted to get for her that my store doesn’t have.

So … why not.

I found a cute pumpkin Minnie shirt at Old Navy.

They were sold out of everything above an XS in ladies sizes.

So I got a kids’ shirt for like $8. And I freakin loved it.

I’d also bought a pumpkin Minnie light-up necklace at Family Dollar for $3.

Shallow shopaholic?

Or Gourd-geous Goddess?

You know you love me. XOXO, Gossip Girl.

Strolled into Magic Kingdom right at 8 … just in time for the new Starlight parade.

Didn’t plan to catch the fireworks. But I did.

And it was the first time I got to see Tinkerbell during the display.

I thought that was only some 1960s Disneyland magic. Who knew!

I was marveling at how lucky I was to see all this.

And then I caught the second showing of the Starlight parade!

The Coco float was my favorite.

Anything Day of the Dead is my favorite. But Miguel and his alebrije Dante are my favorite-favorite.

I hear there’s a Coco Land in Disneyland for Spooky Szn. Hmm …

But it’s Daisy Duck who has my heart.

Not as a child. But as present-day Goddess.

The next day, I ran over to Epcot.

In honor of Taylor Swift’s “The Life of a Showgirl,” I had a shiny new tank top but with “The Life of a Park Girl” to wear.

I was walking to France and looked down at the International Gateway, where Daisy Duck was in her usual spot.

And since I have Daisy on my shirt, I HAD to stop, right?

Glad I packed this as my one outfit change!

Also I realize I am built like a duck. Momma called it duckbutt.

Daisy and I had a very good (albeit silent) conversation.

I thanked Daisy for being so sweet.

Who knew the exact moment my inner child got healed would get captured on my iPhone?

Look at my face.

Truly, she treated me like a VIP. Give that cast member all the raises.

I barely got back up to the bridge before I cried.

Hot, streaming tears. Silent ones, as I’ve gotten used to having in hospitals and tiny apartments.

But healing ones, for a change.

I closed my eyes and, as I always do when I’m doing something cool, I thanked the universe for my good fortune.

And, as I also always do, I said why for the love of God did my mom not have this same good fortune.

I mean I did bring her to Epcot once. But then the pandemic hit and then the cancer hit and it was over.

Then I had the realization that healed my inner adult child.

I thanked Momma for giving me my freedom while I’m still young and healthy enough to enjoy it.

It felt like shit to say it.

But there, after a big hug from Daisy Duck in my Daisy Duck shirt, I could not deny it.

I always thought Momma’s last gift was to be here for my 50th birthday.

But her letting me be free is definitely my 51st birthday gift.

I miss her terribly. I still put her cremains in the car when I travel. And I have pictures of her everywhere.

But those pictures are from long, long ago.

She hadn’t been that young, vibrant thing in a long time.

Not saying she should be gone. But she was not long for this world. I see that now.

My tarot cards when I asked about my longevity today gave me Queen of Wands.

So I’ll be a fat hot pain in the ass for a long, long time.

Emphasis fat.

I feed my inner child well.

It’s hard being an adult child without her adult. And Momma would want me to have Peeps ghosts and mummy fingers!

Hers would have been better of course. Punkin made everything better.

Everything.

I spoke of dipshits two posts ago.

Well yesterday I was in full-bore writing mode from 5 a.m. to 3:30 p.m. when my brain activity ceased.

One of the things I wrote was something to head off a complaint from DTOM who gets mad when I don’t write about her pet project.

Well, I got the date of The Thing wrong.

Which, one of my beloveds recognized before we hit the “send” button on it to our best customers.

Would have been a shame to have the document I busted my ass on have a grave error.

I said wait a minute. I had copied and pasted the date, along with some language I don’t love, FROM A CHAT WITH THAT PERSON.

Sure enough, I found the chat in my receipt box. The chat was specifically DTOM hating my well-written idea and then changing it to sound more ridiculous.

So, joy, happy to hear that someone with one job blessed a bad date.

But also … that message was from 8/8.

Which means I ran the same incorrect info on that date to our best customers.

I shouldn’t admit to making a goof here.

But my struggle with this person is they are always calling me out and shaming me and trying to make me look stupid in front of multitudes of people.

And yet.

I have a box of receipts (screenshots) filled with “Look what this fool said or did now” — and, other than the 8/8 exception, I have how I/my team saved us from looking like boneheads.

The hilarious thing of it all was that when I sent my tome to production, I said if we get a “love note” about this, it won’t be because of a typo. (As I took a lot of poetic license with the copy.)

Well. This would absolutely have been our mistake (as DTOM takes no responsibility whatsoever). So kudos to my staffer who saved my ass.

Also kudos to my other staffer who caught a data error as well.

Every time I get data from someone (not DTOM), I check it but I don’t always catch everything.

And I DID know something was hinky with this data, but the way I fixed it made a bad situation less bad but STILL bad.

Anyway. I have more work to do today.

But I just want to express my joy at my hiring skills. These “saves” sounds little and maybe they are …

But as one of them said, “The More You Know … the fewer love notes you get.”

I got spendy and bought tickets to some concerts. Then changed my mind.

My Melissa Etheridge/Indigo Girls one just sold. For below face value.

Also I had forgotten I had it for sale. And I had booked flights/hotel.

Anyway, now I have a flight credit and a room credit.

The Def Leppard one didn’t sell. I listed that one at face value, too.

So I drove my happy ass to the venue last night.

Only to have no fewer than four people ask me if I had any tickets for sale.

It sold out after I pulled my ticket off TicketMaster.

Like … I had a ticket for you before I braved the rainy drive to Fort Lauderdale.

Anyway. I hadn’t seen the band as a kid because I had to be $elective. I got Bon Jovi and Motley Crue and was quite elated with that.

So now I’m on a bit of a mission for not just do-overs — like with Kenny Chesney and Alanis, who I saw at the absolute height of my sadness and grief — but also knowing my favorite artists won’t live or otherwise rock forever.

So, my first time seeing Def Leppard was pure joy for me.

Joe Elliott’s voice is still powerful.

The guitars (VIVIAN CAMPBELL OMG and of course Phil Collen) and drums, choice.

And old pics of the band came up during “Photograph.”

Damn Joe looked good!

I tried to get pics of Steve Clark, who left us too soon at age 30. But I loved being reminded of him.

Anyway Rick Allen’s art was on exhibit.

As for my favorite bandmate, I was always in love with Rick Savage. Still am.

Love me a cute bassist.

Took way too many photos. Obvs.

Way too many videos.

But I reveled in the Gen X of it all — everyone acted well in the audience.

I have another concert coming up — speaking of tickets, StubHub can send me that purchase ANY FUCKING DAY NOW — and I almost wish I hadn’t done that one.

Not just because the city is occupied. Though that’s a big fat fucking deterrent to sightseeing in my old stomping grounds.

But because everyone on Reddit bitches that people are loud, aggressive and stinky at every show so far.

This artist does a ton of instrumental music. I’m talking glam metal guitars. And everyone says people scream-talk over it. And then get drunker and scream over the other songs.

Also, not for nothing but this artist is trans. And I’ve heard from way too many credible sources that online trolls are threatening to shoot them and us up.

Shame to have the National Fucking Guard outside and these bored little bobbleheads probably wouldn’t even try to save us because of who we are there to see — and what that means about us.

Which is that we like a really fucking good artist — no more/no less.

I am also bitter because DeSatan ordered that all of our rainbow crosswalks be painted over. Which he did at 3 a.m.

And when people started filling those dark spots in with rainbow chalk, he put police on 24/7 surveillance to keep do-gooders away.

This was supposed to not even be a Def Leppard appreciation post but, rather, a setup for signs from Momma that I had at the show last night.

But as always, I digressed.

Oh well. Imagine being mentally ill and continuing to read this page in hopes that I am having a bad life.

And I’m over here living my best — albeit cautious — one.

As usual.

I got to talking with my Facey friends about dipshits.

Like, I recently worked with an old friend. And god, to have someone who can write and take direction and make it fun and not annoy the shit out of me, priceless.

And like, I always hated some dipshit I was bullied into a relationship with. Men really do find you at your best and leave you at your worst. And again, how I hated his “let me call you up to tell you about ME” shit. Now you see Travis Kelce measuring up beyond any measure of a man. And Travis makes these dipshits look even dip-shittier than they already did.

And do I even need to talk about the biggest dipshit of them all. The treadmill dipshit who insists on making me look stupid in 17-person chats. You know how I look? Just fine to the other 15 people. One messaged me to say god that one lacks emotional intelligence doesn’t she. Like, yup. That’s one way of putting it. I stopped responding in that group chat after I got insulted by 8 a.m. today. I messaged people on the side, as I will always help them. Just don’t need her shit anymore.

Oh, the queen of the dipshits is probably here looking for something about herself. Nah. Not worth it. Never was or will be worth it.