Caterwauling

I didn’t intend to be awake to listen to “TTPD” when it was released.

But alas, as Thursday ebbed into Friday, I logged into Apple Music and was delighted to see it was ready for me at 11:50-ish.

Imagine my sleep-deprived delight when another 15 songs, the TTPD anthology edition, appeared in my account two hours later.

My plan was to take PTO Friday to drive to Tampa to see Kenny Chesney. But, as life happens, I didn’t see the possibility of being away for two to three days. So I sold my $260 ticket for $80 and worked.

I won’t claw back that time. It was rollover, anyway. And life has been so chaotic that I am sure I lost eight hours elsewhere throughout the week. At least.

I’ve done myself a disservice reading reviews and memes about TTPD/Anthology.

Now, I haven’t seen what the E-Gatsby of Greenacres has to say about it. I’m sure it’s a meh and a pooh-pooh and a Beyonce is better mashup, along with some missing apostrophes and extra commas.

In any event, I am not listening to anyone who isn’t a lifelong TS fan. The album was not meant for anyone but us. There are so many invisible strings and I am getting tired of drawing them for people who don’t get it.

I do owe myself a back-pat because I told my fellow Swiftie cousin that there was no way this was going to be a Joe diss album. We don’t hurt the ones we actually loved.

“It’s the worst men that I write best.”

We do relive those torrid (illicit) affairs. Whether we’re with them for one night or one fortnight (heh), they can produce even more searing pain than having your pretty and your youth wasted (for free).

I’m still processing that someone DID get taken to the cleaners and it was Ratty.

Which, I am having some issues now affiliating my beloved “Maroon” from “Midnights” (“The mark you saw on my collarbone, the rust that grew between telephones / The lips I used to call home, so scarlet, it was maroon”) with Matty (“So if I sell my apartment / And you have some kids with an internet starlet / Will that make your memory fade from this scarlet maroon?”).

For example.

Taylor makes it clear that we’re all vipers who stole her fun. We put her on a pedestal she didn’t ask to be on and tell her how to be.

Actually, I figure the dating pool where I am is so shallow, and she’s got her pick of everyone in the world, why go for a greaseball. But, I also GET it. The one they’d never put you with, can make so much sense at the time.

Also I have decided to stop clowning the release of Reputation (Taylor’s Version). It’s exhausting. And she seems to think we don’t appreciate all she gives us. Like a whole ass surprise double album, for starters.

I will just sit here in my custom Big Rep mouse ears, and knowing that there will (again) be no explanation before RepTV.

I got these on TTPD day. I won the Great War! (Uh huh)

The gold bow I chose is a big IYKYK.

Not to be confused with YOYOK.

Anyway.

I worry that Travis is the rebound, rather than Rat Mat. That big, goofy golden doodle who knows he hit the situationship jackpot. Like, how does he feel when he listens to 2 hours and 2 minutes (Good job, Blondie) and only two songs and mayyyybe one minute of another are for him?

Anyway. I wish I could reach out to Tay-Tay and say thank you for baring your soul and your teeth (yes, the ones we took away. I get the metaphor).

And that’s really what it’s all about. She is all about the allusions and metaphors and stories and myths and legends. She loves a good Easter egg and she loves an invisible string even better.

I see you, Taylor.

I just wish I could have stuck with my writing and become a better storyteller. Having friends like Jack and Aaron wouldn’t hurt, either. I only dated one writer but we never got around to writing.

Anyway, I love the album(s) and I envy anyone who gets to hear select songs live during the “surprise” section of her Eras Tour sets.

And don’t think I won’t be using some of my favorite lines as post titles and themes. Like this one. Which I plan to use again when I can talk about WHY I am not in Tampa this weekend. Or why we haven’t slept in months.

A friend who’s had every strain of Covid but the first said she’s convinced I currently have the second strain.

Great. Four years since the pandemic from hell started, and Miss Rona finally got me.

I gave it to Mom, too. So it’s been a fun couple weeks in this house.

We think she had the earliest version, as someone in the office had it and we used the same Bloomberg terminal, and I think I was a carrier.

Anyway, the pandemic might have been good for some people. Some of their businesses thrived. Some of them started new businesses.

I don’t know that all pandemic-related businesses can or will survive, though. The things we needed then (like self-checkout) are being limited, removed entirely and/or we’re being charged for the convenience of not having bleach thrown on top of our bread.

But I do know that the effects of long Covid are real (and devastating). And I do know that I never thought of myself as someone who would be mentally unhealthy and wildly unproductive. And yet, here we are.

To be fair, a lot of that unproductiveness comes from taking a job with an utter lack of leadership. And then returning to my beloved job with new layers of leadership shoved between me and my best boss.

Also, during this whole pandemic, I’ve been dealing with stuff no one could understand or would even want to. Operating on very little sleep. Having every single small joy ruined by other humans and other unexpected limitations.

I am good at forgiving myself for being wildly distracted, tired and otherwise disgusted with everything.

Here’s hoping my employer continues to show me grace, since I did prove a long time ago that I could work 14-hour days every day for a decade without much complaint.

I think about my mom a lot. She really was the reason I could work so hard and so long. Like, add some long commutes to either end of those days. And plenty of “oh just let me log in for a minute”s that turned into hours.

She literally has been a wife. Made meals. Kept the house immaculate and tastefully decorated. Cared for my kiddos and helped me “love them out” from adoption to the Rainbow Bridge.

These days, I do most of the work. And work I will never speak of that’s unpaid. And I am so so so grateful that I am still gainfully employed.

Many days, like the past 14 with Covid, I’ve been ready to hear from one of the new layers of management to GTFOH. Yet, the fear is not the motivator I thought it would be.

Like, I think about some of those idiotic management layers that have been mercifully stripped away over the years. I always thought, Jeez, you get all this money, fucking act like it matters and show some goddamned leadership.

But maybe, just maybe, I really am lucky and I’m receiving grace and that I am DESERVING of that grace.

I don’t know. I just know that everything is so hard right now. And if I had to start over financially, Christ, how would I even do it. I learned from my short stint elsewhere that I am too groomed for my current environment to survive in any other.

Though, I wonder what a year off, a bona fide year off to take care of things and people and cats, would be like. Albeit without money, yes.

BUT … would it be the pause that refreshes this time (god willing) or would it, like the last several times, just be another fucking stress that kills me further?

There are some people who will celebrate the countdown to, and the month after, a birthday or anniversary. Adorbs.

Personally I save my sentimentality. And maybe, too, it’s that all the dates I remember are associated with sadness.

I forgot about Toad till he showed up in my memories.

I mean, the relationship ran its course. Nothing more that could have been done. On my part, anyway.

But seeing this in my memories threw me back to April 8 when T told me about L being diagnosed with pancreatic cancer over Bloody Marys at Benny’s.

Like, Toad-boy was trying to be so matter-of-fact about it. But I asked if it was a first diagnosis, and he cried. Like, I never saw emotion in him like that before or since.

Larry was gone by midsummer. With a one-line obituary in some local paper. About as much effort as I’d expect from his family, TBH.

By then, Toad and I were toast and he didn’t even tell me. But I followed one of Larry’s beloved neighbors. His whole community loved each other, and they downright exalted him. His absence left a hole in their little G’acres HOA.

Last year took a lot of people from me. This year seems to be following suit. My own health can’t seem to recover long enough before the next hit takes me right back down. It’s like why even get back up when you’re just going to be in the fetal position again soon enough.

From my ball-shaped position on the floor, I think about how Larry listened to his docs. Oh you have cancer? Better get surgery.

Hell that’s how Toad found out. Larry called Toad on the way to JFK to say I’m going into surgery because I have cancer.

Also, nothing explains that family’s communication style better than that sentence right there.

Over the coming weeks, I would hear about how L went to chemo and how his gorgeous gray curls were being left behind in the chemo chair.

How they had to delay scheduled treatments because the first few were so awful on his once-athletic body.

How he started falling all the time and, in true L fashion, acting like sure, I totally wanted to lie down in front of the fireplace that isn’t even on.

I thought about T this week. I never reached out when I knew L died. He obviously didn’t think I needed to hear it from him. And I didn’t want to reopen that line of communication.

I guess what I really wonder is, does Toadster even think about his dad. How this time last year was really the last time he was “good.” How we all hoped he’d pull through this. How we never dreamed this big, strong man would go downhill so fast.

And, maybe just maybe, how I gave him some comfort and support in the worst time of his life.

Larry never wanted me to see him sick. But he said I could come over anyway as long as I gave him time to pull himself together.

I never did see him. I wanted him to have the chance to get stronger.

Something tells me I think about him more than his son does. I hope not. I hope they speak his name and rent boats and go fishing and be good to their neighbors, just as he did.

And wherever L is, I hope his curls have returned and the water is as blue as the men’s eyes in that family.

That’s whiny little bitch, to be clear.

I know this dude who was all about how he’s a nice guy and nobody wants nice guys.

Now he’s on the “I’m an asshole” kick. And let me tell you, I have done nothing to refute that statement.

Case in point, mom asked him an innocent question about an alligator in our pond and he told us to move back to Pennsylvania. Then he asked me what I pay in rent so he can rent his place out at a competitive rate. (I didn’t answer either insult. Or the million others I don’t feel like remembering.)

Then today he sends me some Taylor thing I might want to attend. I look at the cost (hello, maybe offer to TAKE a girl?) and then the venue. And I said, that’s TFG’s church, right?

He unloads on me like WTF is wrong with me for even bringing him into it. (Oh I don’t know, it was JUST all over the news last week that the crooked Bible salesman didn’t go to “his” church on Easter last Sunday?)

I said none of this. All I said was I was trying to place the venue. Sorry.

He said I don’t care if you do or don’t go.

Like, next time you meet one of those “I’m a nice guy and I don’t know why I am still single” types, by ALL means, give me five minutes and I will tell you EVERYTHING that is WRONG with him.

In D.C., we always called it National Airport, after some dolt decided to name it after the Gipper.

Now someone wants to name Dulles after the Real Dullards of Mar-a-Lago, so I guess we’ll be calling this one International Airport, going forward.

Anyway I was just about to post about some other dullard who pissed me right off today. But I talked to my boss about them and I’m actually pleased with how it went.

I still hope karma gets their ass. But, ain’t my hill to die on. I do have life-or-death things to deal with, and maybe more people need those so they don’t pick a fucking fight about every goddamned thing else.

My mom’s friend from high school is on a mission to find me online.

I am not hard to find online. I mean, my three superfans seem to find me even when I try to hide. So I don’t try to hide anymore.

Anyway my mom said that’s just weird and she has enough freak-ass stalkers.

And I said, she HAS MY PHONE NUMBER. Like why does she need to find me online when she can drop a fuckin dime and SEE HOW I AM DOING?

Hilariously, the person actually screenshotted a real page/bio of mine and sent it to my mom. She said this is fake and tell Goddess she needs to get this wiped off the internet.

Um. It’s my LinkedIn page.

Anyway it got me to thinking about how I can never say nobody checks in to see how I am doing. People I don’t WANT to know how I am doing, sure do seem to think they know all about me.

Anyway I normally don’t flounce offline like some of you do. (By some, I mean the resident of Camp JeLoon due west.)

Nor do I generally make declarations that I am not going to do an activity that I am most definitely going to do from a fake account. (Oh hey, you again!)

But fuck it. I don’t want to move into my 40-ish era and still be morbidly curious about what this cherub is writing to try to get a rise out of me.

I don’t care. I say I don’t care. So … don’t care. Period.

Anyway I am declaring it now. I deleted my one fake account. The last thing I saw when I was in it was this cherub claiming I am in their instagram.

Which, I can’t even remember their username and I am glad for that. But hey, after five years if you’re still admonishing me for doing exactly what you do, guess what. It’s ALL yours.

Seriously. Goddamn nonsense. Non. Fucking. Sense. It is never going to change. Ever.

Look.

Feel FREE to troll my socials. My blog. My every breathless move. Enjoy it! And by all means, continue to sew mentions of me into every corner of the frayed fabric of your hat.

When I look in my memories, I don’t see you. But I bet you think about me. A lot.

And I am so happy that you do.

In fact, knowing that I live on (and on. and onnnnn) brings me untold amounts of joy.

And knowing that I now have it in writing that I don’t care to know what insults you publish about me anymore, well.

Gone was any trace of you; I think I am finally clean.

I oft want to post something, because bleeding the wound, no matter how shallow, always seems to make it heal faster.

Like, do I talk about the fact that every week in the 3:30 time slot, I receive at least one comment that makes me want to toss up a finger or two and hang up. And that today, even after that moment arrived, I can finally say I felt nothing and it didn’t even bother me. Like, oh that’s all you have? It’s like you didn’t even try!

But then I think about the years-at-a-time I’ve shut down this blog. I wouldn’t say my mental health was much improved. But not having to worry about what I wrote to self-soothe was, well, soothing.

Like when the Toon of Goon sent some unhinged email that a post I made (long before the era this email arrived in) was somehow related to that era. And I was like, nope, bitch, try again. That felt GOOD. I didn’t write a public post about the era in question. Shit, I didn’t even write that many PRIVATE ones that could have gone live/viral.

Anyway. I was just reading an essay about how care and support are luxuries that you are only entitled to TEMPORARILY … and that’s only if you’ve earned them under capitalism. That you’re unworthy of care if you are in some way unwell. (And/or, I infer, under-capitalized.)

And before that, I was reading an essay about how writing for oneself is the ultimate act of self-soothing. Like when people thank us for writing a piece, no thanks are needed. Writing it likely kept us from committing some form of self-harm (e.g., smoking, overeating, indulging in some sort of ridiculous behavior we enjoy as a coping mechanism from some trauma).

I think about that a lot. I deprive myself of writing. Let’s face it, I really only have a handful of losers who sit around rooting for my demise and a separate-but-equal number who actively trample on me because they are pure evil. There are plenty MORE people who want to see me shine. If only I’d let myself.

Anyway, the point of the first essay is that, though these are all private things that make us unwell or downright break us, they are actually communal. They were not caused in a vacuum and they should not be shouldered that way. I’m not talking about those who create their drama and exaggerate their mental/health problems to make them everyone else’s problem. I’m talking about all of us carrying around public and private wounds who didn’t self-inflict them. And even if we did, it was something in the collective that caused it and therefore it’s really all of our problems until it is assuaged somewhat.

Like, I miss my Cocoa so much, I can’t stand myself. Yes, it is my grief. It is my pain for … what? Having loved a furry little girl so much that my heart burst with joy when she was mine? How about look around at all the assholes who mistreat animals and, I’ll say it, me. How about everyone who let me the fuck down so much that my best friend on earth was a tiny 6-pound cat who brought me nothing but love and acceptance and loyalty I’ve never enjoyed before because every human I’ve encountered is fully incapable of it? I don’t expect anyone to fix it. Let me just be sad without making it worse. As it’s been said, so many people have nothing yet can’t even enjoy the nothing they have in peace. If you can’t help, just don’t plunge the knife in any further. And if you can’t in fact help, why the fuck not?

A week late, yes, but I was on time on the day.

A friend of mine left the world on that date last year. I didn’t find out till a little later.

This year I sent all the condolences early in the day. And I had a gift that arrived on the 11th to the youngest person with a broken heart. So she could have something to smile about.

The one who broke the news to me wanted me to tell old friends. One in particular. He keeps asking me if I did.

Look. This friend was so into abusive boyfriends and complaining to me about them and not, say, changing her situation that I quit returning her calls.

I heard from my recently passed friend that the friend had gotten married. To a guy with the first name of her first boyfriend. A guy who happened to smile at me after they broke up in a way that made her lose her religion. You know, the whole if I can’t have him, neither can you thing.

In any event, I do know she changed her name and had a couple kids with the second guy by that name. Maybe she did that full circle from good guy to abusive fuckers to good guy. Let’s hope.

I did fuck up a bit and let the cat out of the bag with a friend of yesteryear. Whom I told hey, she was private and I haven’t told anyone, but she’s gone and that’s why she isn’t answering your message.

Well.

I got texts from two friends like whaaaat we just heard.

I was terrified for a minute. But they were so nice. They loved her and knew I had to be hurting.

Like, I forget that people in this world are good. And that they loved someone I loved, even better.

It sucks that my friend is gone. But I kind of got this interesting little extended network that I didn’t really have before.

The gift I gave involved a ladybug. The gift I wanted to give involved a camera.

But we both knew this person at different phases of their life and made different associations. So much as I wanted to buy MY preferred present, I gifted the other.

That’s the part that’s hardest to swallow. That this person wanted so badly to know more about my friend’s past. And she truly thought she’d never get it.

But then one day I messaged out of the blue, and she said I was just telling my husband that I didn’t know any of her friends to even ask questions of. And here you come, telling me all these great stories and keeping her memory alive for me.

Seems like we needed each other and would have never known it. So, gotta say I am SO glad for social media and remembering this then-2-year-old’s name all this time so I could look her up and strike up this beautiful little relationship.

I would never say things happen for a reason. But I will say that you can create good. And, if you’re lucky, you can find enough motivation to get you to the next day, and the next, and so on.

No secret that we get harassed for feeding community cats here. Which … plenty of county statues support our efforts.

They are fixed. They were taken from/released to this land. There is precedent for feeding them.

YET.

A batch of trumpers have been harassing the feeders. So we go in the dark.

And now, these trumpers have collectively formed a thought and dumped cat food out in giant piles, photographed it, and submitted complaints that WE are doing it.

Like, yeah I might leave some extra, but I am not putting piles into guest parking spots, you dolts. Jesus. Stupid as your fucking leader. (HOA or twice-impeached, 91-time-criminally-indicted turd. Both apply.)

Also when we put out food and then these human animals stomp out and scare the kiddos away … of course the food gets left. That’s when they take photos, to “prove” we are leaving excess food. Bitch, you stomped on my kids’ dinners. You can eat ME.

And we get hell to pay if we dare leave a tiny dish of water out overnight after letting these kids swelter all day.

Seriously, I leave a dish out at 8 p.m. and pick it up at 6 a.m. HELL TO PAY, I tell you.

Well. It’s gotten worse.

Carl Z. and his loser daughter Lauren (the one who choked an elderly lady and tried to punch me) were seen in the bushes the other night. I had left water at 5 as I was on my way to the Kravis.

After it got dark, a cage appeared and these two nuts were either the ones who put it there, or were putting food in it. On parchment paper. Quaint.

Well. Our gray boy has been gone ever since. I last saw him the morning before I went to the Kravis.

And all I will say is the cage is now gone too.

And the nasty bitch MJ whose twin is the fuckface Frank who harassed me for two years about wearing a mask is now asking where HER cage went to.

Try the intracoastal, is all I will say about that.

I have been in absolute anxiety-ridden meltdown mode ever since that cage, well, disappeared. Like, what did those fuckers manage to do while I wasn’t around for a few hours? Where is my boy?

I have been on the phone with Animal Control ever since Lauren tried to punch me out.

I have talked to every TNR group I can find. Fuckin Danika keeps rejecting my membership in one of them because I didn’t enjoy having her barfy poodles in my house, what, 15 years ago? I told one of the local rescues about her petty ass.

Anyway, my co-feeder and the one who really manages the community and gets flea and worm meds onto these babies has gone to the police and another local rescue group. Between the two of us, we have all the paperwork and legalities on our side.

But then this fuckin place is still threatening to put liens against our units. And in my Overnight Legal Scholar Era, I’ve learned they CAN do it because the property manager (who is new and a fucking idiot) has the final say.

Anyway, it’s war down here on the Intracoastal.

I was telling my friend, I go out in my jammies. Hair undone. No phone. And I get cameras in my face.

So now I get dressed. Go to the bathroom. Bring my phone. Bring a knife. Bring water and a bowl and treats and whatever fucking else I feel like bringing.

My friend said the same thing. Including some chewing gum in case she gets yelled at again and needs a moment to think. (She’s so nice — I will eviscerate them verbally, but she’s the peacemaker.)

Basically like I say, I have to dress for prison. In something I will enjoy wearing for a few days. Though my ex used to tell me that I can’t afford the bail. (And he knew about my bail money fund that I keep around for feeding times and work events.)

Not only am I sick over what they will do to the rest of my tiny, docile cats. But I also fret about did I leave too much food? Like, if my boy does come back I always have extra for him. He’s such a hungry boy. He would always finish any leftovers.

This is all literally killing me. I need for those assholes to be the one to get their “Carl-ma.” Including the bitch with the Genesis and her little Spanish bitch-boy with her old Genesis she gave him.

Can’t wait for MJ to go back to Connecticut or hell or wherever she’s from. But I can’t get rid of these other assholes for the summer. And they all only moved here in like 2022.

God I miss the days before they existed. Our BFF kiddos Fancy and Whiskers (they greet/love on each other before they will eat) were here since at least 2015 when the units next door were built. Amelia’s been here at least 11 years since she was pregnant and my friend adopted out her litter and got her fixed. Poppins, at least 8 years. Smalls and Meatball have been here at least a year. Again, most got here before Lurch and Left-Hook Lurch and those Genesis goons.

I want to move, but I know there will be assholes wherever I go too. But, I am so ready for a different set of assholes.

We were set to see “Jagged Little Pill” last week. But my fancy friend got invited to speak at a Vegas conference, so we punted the tickets to Sunday.

And thank goodness. My stalker posted that they went to the Thursday show. And posted a photo from what appeared to be a couple seats over from our regular spot.

I’d say weirdo, but the fact that their tasteless ass didn’t enjoy the show was weirder still. And if the Loge isn’t high-falutin’ enough for you, well. Enjoy paying $10 more to be the exact same distance from the stage. Freak.

Well the really weird part was them insulting me down for going. But THEY went. And sat in OUR section. So, ooooookkay then.

Then this dipshit decided to announce that they got tickets to the next show and made it a point to say it wasn’t on the same day someone else goes.

I would assume that’s me. But she called them stalker.

My theater-going friend read that shit and texted me, um, the one who got OUR (unknowingly to them, forfeited) tickets on OUR night does not know what the word stalker means.

“I don’t want to be the glue that holds your pieces together
I don’t want to be your idol
See this pedestal is high and I’m afraid of heights
I don’t want to be lived through
A vicarious occasion
Please open the window.”
— Alanis Morrissette, “Not the Doctor”

Alanis has a song, “Not the Doctor.” I’m going to go ahead and say thank you for proving that I’m not the stalker, no matter how you try to convince #taxtwitter that you are a saint.