Caterwauling

I was in a meeting, staring at twin treadmill stompers …

(Did the memo to not stomp publicly become voided when the person who issued it gave her resignation?)

… when a friend texted the news.

TAYVIS ENGAGED!

I texted all my NOLA people and my cousin.

They were all like, wait, what? We hadn’t heard. Is this for-real for real?

After all, Swift Alert hadn’t posted it yet. And they are on top of EVERYTHING.

So of course you can understand our concern that it was just another headline.

Alas, confirmation came.

Then just about every colleague I’ve ever had texted to say they were celebrating with me.

What an amazing day for all of us.

Someone dug up a prophetic tweet between Taylor Swift and Selena Gomez from 2009.

Taylor was reassuring her that true love has to be out there; that it can’t just be something we all make up when we’re 9 years old.

And that’s something to celebrate … two best friends with several very painful breakups behind them … now being engaged together.

She once believed love could be burning red … but it’s golden.

Like Daylight.

I got to thinking about the Sex and the City episode where Charlotte and Trey were invited to do a big magazine shoot of their perfect home, perfect life, perfect marriage.

In reality, it was all in shambles. But Charlotte smiled bravely in their UES penthouse that she’d decorated so tastefully. Even though he wasn’t there because they’d had a terrible fight and he’d left.

Well, Trey did show up. And they portrayed the perfect couple.

Carrie narrated over that, “Little girls in their mother’s pearls” all over the country saw the magazine and wanted to grow up and have that.

Of course Trey had moved out by the time the magazine cam out. But Charlotte got the apartment and married her divorce lawyer.

Today, girls of all ages felt like our younger selves who believed in love or, at least, we remembered who we were before we lived in holy terror of fascism.

We are thrilled that “Mother” is having the best year of her life.

She got her masters back.

She is releasing a new album.

She’s engaged.

She’s in her bright orange showgirl era.

And we’re all so happy for her.

In that, we are allowing ourselves to be happy for our future selves.

If the girl who wrote about true love till she manifested it can get her happy ending …

Then maybe, just maybe, us girls in our mother’s (or our own, damn it) pearls have a chance, too.

I saw that phrase on Reddit today.

I couldn’t think of an immediate use for it. But feels relevant after I saw something far more inane:

“Love my paper journal and my hidden blog with purposely zero readers.”

Really, Cindy?

On every platform, you have multiple accounts where you shitpost about me multiple times a day … for not zero readers.

What do you do on your blog? Have naked pictures of me and masturbate to them?

This same nobody posted 74 times in the last five days that “someone” is mad about tweets from six years ago.

That someone is her.

Her foul ignorant ass has nothing else to talk about that isn’t a HIPAA violation for her kids.

So I’m honestly good with her talking about me. Let the kids have their privacy for a change.

Besides, I have more than enough personality to go around for both of us.

Clearly, as I am the star of multiple blogs and social accounts that aren’t even my own.

And just like that, Patti Lupone sums her up in one sentence.

My favorite part is when she bitches that I read her nonsense sometimes. It’s like watching a Brightline crash. It’s right outside my house so of course I rubberneck.

But here she is saying SHE has a private place to post.

Which, good for you.

God knows I am in favor of anything that improves her mental health.

But she caterwauls constantly that I dare use the internet when her entire personality is built around whining about me.

So why can’t I have a private place to post? By her own mentally ill logic?

Hey twit …

No one cares that you ate at a restaurant that you think is mid.

You have no taste in anything but men, and I’m even questioning that six years on.

No one gives an actual fuck that you don’t like the foods or the clothes I like. Or the music!

In fact, that reaffirms my good taste.

And to post literally every day about this restaurant … for six years …

When I think I’ve made like six posts about it in the same time frame (during actual visits) …

My filet sandwich from six days ago. Yum!

Again, this unbothered goddess over here ain’t the one triggered.

The only thing I’m mad at is my mother is dead and this nasty piece of fuck still can’t get my name out of that mouth.

Maybe I’m spilling some flour over here with no prospect for cake.

And while I have no desire to read even more bullshit from this loser, I’m sure she will do what she always does and tag me from the account so that I know where it is.

Make your next cake with raw milk instead of reaching out again.

I know this will inspire more “she blogs about me!” tantrums even though we have proof that she does that and more.

I’ll end with the thought I’ve had every day for seven years:

No wonder. No fucking wonder.

I signed up for another timeshare presentation.

This one promised me a free night in Orlando plus a $200 visa card. Plus a full weekend anytime I want after I sit through their schpiel.

I told K she should come with me to enjoy the free night. But same deal — I would have to drag my spouse or friend or whatever to the presentation, if they know about said person.

K loves the fine print. She was chuckling that this one says “no single men may apply” for timeshare ownership. It says single women are fine as long as they make $xx.

No single men. Love to see it.

Anyway I’m just excited to have a bonus Orlando trip. I was already going up for (xx event) but I only booked one night. So they will pay for the second night and I can drive home after the timeshare thing.

I’m curious to see how high-pressure the tactics are. Honestly they only got my number because I entered a raffle a year ago for a Publix gift card.

They asked if I remembered signing up and I’m like … wait that event from January? Did everyone else who attended say no?

Anyway, we’ll see how I do with high-pressure sales tactics. I guess if I don’t call everyone a whore like I do with someone who cannot stop insulting me publicly, I’ll win that day.

Besides, everything is just a means to an end to be a park princess.

And yes I did consider Disney Vacation Club ownership. But my shallow shopaholic self gets great (and free) hotel deals. Like the $xx I paid for a week at (redacted) or the $xx I paid for (luxury hotel plus flight).

I can’t believe my life and my luck, either. Now if my damn StubHub ticket would just be delivered — and if I can just keep from throwing a sandwich at someone — at the latter, it’ll be worth every dime.

My fascination with Disney Parks surprises even me.

Mom and I went to Orlando regularly. Two to three times a year, easy.

We loved Disney Springs since it was Downtown Disney. But I never really went to a park other than if a friend invited me.

And even then, I’d leave Katie and Mom in the hotel and I’d go hang out at Epcot.

A few months ago, I had a dream about Day of the Dead ears. I awoke with a start and remembered — I have brand new mouse ears that I’ve never worn!

I have a Betsey Johnson suitcase I’ve never used for travel — well, I have three, really. A hard shell, a duffel and a hot pink hard shell one.

In any event, I use the duffel for Orlando trips now.

But I haven’t been in the multicolor skulls hard shell in a hot minute.

Went straight to that. Found not only two dozen sugar skull shirts and tanks with tags on them … but the ears I literally dreamed of. PLUS two sugar skull tops from Epcot, with tags.

JACKPOT.

I ran straight to Postmark and eBay to see what I could sell them for.

But from the luck I’ve (not) been having with my other NWT items (and goddamn people, I have SETS. Like bras and pantaloons. You should appreciate my shallow shopaholic-ness!), I thought fuck it — wear them all.

And I have been.

I was a lot skinnier then. But Disney is generous with its sizing. Literally everything I have is a medium; only my medium France Pavilion tank is still sitting in that suitcase and that’s because I am pretty sure it’s for kids, oof.

Anyway I got to thinking about how I left Mom and Kates in the car when I bought the Day of the Dead ears.

How annoying that must have been for them … while I was the one annoyed that I had to shop at lightning speed because the car was running.

I think a lot about that stuff now. I don’t mean or want to. Mom was always just so glad that I ran errands for us and I had no problem buying everything we wanted (more or less).

Now that I have an over 30ish body (ahem), I get her being quite happy to hang out with the cat.

Currently.

I also feel bad that she never felt she could do the parks. Believe me, she couldn’t. I’ve been tossed around on enough safaris and boat rides and kiddie coasters to know she wouldn’t have been able to walk for a month afterward.

A friend was trying to hint without pissing me off that isn’t it cool that you get to do all this stuff now.

Like well yeah what else am I going to do with my time and money. Buy property or expand my mouse ears collection?

I know what I pick.

Anyway I was just on eBay pricing some merch I can’t find in the parks anymore. And I wonder if I was always preparing to become a Disney Adult.

A friend said she loves my new “Disney era,” and you know what? I do too.

Anyway I ended up ordering a Disney Swiftie shirt off Etsy to satisfy my (budgetary) need to stay home but still be a Disney princess.

Oh speaking of staying home , Disney+ has some amazing tours of Disneyland to satisfy a park craving.

I would pay so much extra to be in these parks without patrons. Seriously the Rise of the Resistance has dialogue. I never heard it so clearly before!

Lol

Twit.

ETA: Oh man. Someone is triggered by six year old posts and it ain’t me.

Though the rage tweets about this post were fun at the time.

Look, no fingerprints!

I keep forgetting to blog about my adventures.

Just happy to be out having all those adventures.

I finally got a do-over on last year’s rained-out Mickey’s Not So Scary Halloween Party. This year, the weather was perfect and I got to see the fireworks and all the shows and try all the foods without being a drowned rat.

I also got to run into Kelly for a day. Had to call off work (oh darn) because she has a Pixie pass (weekdays only) whereas I do my park days on weekends with my Disney Vacation Club pass.

Oh speaking of vacation clubs, my new habit is collecting money from timeshare companies.

I keep agreeing to sit through their pitches, and they hand me cash and hotel stays.

I missed one of the presentations though. One I would actually take. Because I know me — I love that resort so much that they would absolutely sucker me into it.

It’s so funny — they make me sign papers that if I acquire a spouse, I have to bring the spouse to the timeshare.

Like how do people have affairs? Are you really checking that if I come to the timeshare, I am bringing the person I said I would?

What in the 1974 is this shit?!

I mean right there, I would never buy into this nonsense.

I was reading a thread on Reddit about “Conversations With Friends.” People get judgy about Nick and Frances getting back together at the end (with her still having a girlfriend and him still having a wife).

I loved this summary from a smart person:

“Cheating must be punished.” That is morality-play TV. Here you get humans who stumble, compromise and sometimes contradict themselves.

“Frances the homewrecker.” Adults make choices and acknowledged costs. Nobody here is a prop in someone else’s arc.

Nobody here is a prop in someone else’s arc.

That statement has been in my brain all weekend.

Especially after being told it’s mandatory that I bring a spouse to the timeshare if I happen to get one (the spouse, not just the timeshare).

Especially after being told what the minimum income is to buy a timeshare and not batting an eye. Like OK you realize I don’t actually need a spouse for anything, right?!

Anyway, just grateful for this phase of my life where I get to have fun on my own terms and on my own dime.

Nobody is a prop in my arc.

Nobody.

Here’s manifesting more good times, more money and more balls to tell people their stupid rules are the reason I don’t need to play their game.

OH! Speaking of people’s rules, fucking DTOM is back on her treadmill and back on her bullshit. And she’s about to pay for it.

If anyone is intelligent enough to figure out that there would NOT have been mutiny if she didn’t deny the wrong person their money back, that is.

Mutiny, ahoy! Love to see it.

I have a friend who has wanted to join my company forever.

Introduced him to all the right people last year. Nothing came of it.

We did hire someone pretty good. But he just quit.

I won’t get into why I think he quit.

The same reason had me so goddamn irritated that I kind of envied him for a hot minute this week.

When I was sick Sunday, it was honestly just anxiety built up in my chest.

The only thing that alleviated that heart attack feeling was to force myself to throw up.

Five pounds lighter, I ran out of stuff to get rid of.

And I didn’t have that devastating anxiety again till Thursday morning.

I was healthier this time and could shake it off like I usually do.

Anyway, I brought up the friend again. Since, you know, brand new opening.

Two junior-ish openings, actually.

I said just combine them and let me pay someone decent money to do this supersized big-boy job.

I … think they are listening. Though one did tell me we aren’t sure this will be challenging enough for him.

Anyway. I got to reading tarot cards today.

All signs point to an offer coming. And him accepting and thriving.

I also asked how this affects me.

Outlook not so good.

Which is weird since I was his boss 15 years ago.

And I’ve been championing this for over a year.

I asked further … like am I about to hire my replacement.

The cards seemed to ask ME a question right back …

They are so worried about HIS intellectual stimulation …

BUT WHO TF IS WORRIED ABOUT YOURS?!

God damn.

I kept throwing cards down.

Basically I could be fine if I stay where I am.

But if I want passion … go West, young lass.

I got that anxiety lump in my throat for about 30 seconds.

But then I got excited.

Like wait … places to go, clothes to wear, horizons to conquer?

TELL ME MORE.

I stopped harassing the cards after I got the Eight of Cups, though.

Like, OK, enough thought food.

For now.

Not saying I’d have less anxiety in another situation. And I really only have one anxiety source anyway.

But I do actually have a new passion within what I do. And I’ve been quietly pleading with the universe to let me do more with it.

What if I gift the stuff I don’t want to this or some other person …

And get to spend MORE time on the part that I have come to love?

Is this an Eight of Cups moment … leaving but not going very far?

“Who do I have to speak to, to change the prophecy” to this?

Mercury finally turned direct today.

This retrograde season has been just like going through a car wash with the sunroof open. Oh wait, did that.

I’m at the tail end of some 24-hour bug. So that’s a fitting end to all the cosmic nonsense.

I find I get sick a lot more than I used to. Probably because when I go out, I go OUT.

My friend Tony had asked in Vegas if Mom passed at home. I said yes and he said omg you have got to move.

I said no I like my place. And if you’ve seen the median South Florida rent prices, mine is well below that.

But … now that I think more about it, I am fine when I leave the house.

Like I felt yucky Friday, totally went out and partied it up Saturday, then couldn’t even keep Pepto Bismol down yesterday.

And in true retrograde form, my toilet stopped flushing after I barfed up Friday’s breakfast yesterday. On Sunday.

Anyway, how did I go throw back margaritas with no problem 48 hours ago?

Gram used to always say, “It’s the house’s fault.” She blamed the house for everything.

I wonder if that’s actually true here.

I really do like it here. I didn’t always. But it’s easy to get to Orlando or the Keys. And the airport is a seven-minute drive away.

OK, so what I like about it, is it’s easy to leave.

My second cat sitter just quit on me. She too is leaving the state. So the kids are going to be on their own for me to go to Orlando for Mickey’s Halloween Party.

In any event, if everyone is buying property out of state, is it a sign I should, too?

Though one of my people just told me she’s moving to Greece. It was supposed to be Paris but she changed her mind at the last minute.

Sounds better than Alabama, right?

I wonder if it IS the house’s fault that I only feel good when I’m out of it.

Forget retrograde. This Mercury cycle is radioactive.

Saturday started with a car wash where I forgot I’d had a passenger. So I didn’t check the passenger side window FOR A WEEK.

Anyway, I finally did it — I drove through a car wash with a window open.

Then I went to put a $10 in the bill changer, so I could buy some towels.

And it ate my $10.

I mean, that beat the week before where I climbed seven floors to my car in a garage. Only to fall over the concrete slab at the head of an accessible parking spot that they put right in front of the stairs.

And when I was backing out of my spot, I looked to ensure I had gotten all the shit that had spilled from my purse.

Well, guess who forgot to BRAKE first.

The car is mostly fine. I haven’t had skinned knees since I was 10. At least my ego isn’t bruised.

Then just now, I got a message from an airline that my flight got rebooked.

Um … what? Which one? Why?

It was one of my multi-city trips.

(Airline) changed the third flight … to the same day as the first two.

So, depart (home) at xx time. Get to layover two hours later. Arrive at third city FOR A SECOND, FIVE-HOUR LAYOVER.

Fut the wack?!

I had to go find my email and argue with the chatbot.

When I blew up the chatbot, I got a nice agent who restored order and gave me a flight credit for my trouble.

I mean, that flight credit will get me a Bloody Mary. But still.

Also I’ve spoken to DTOM a good 14 times this week. But I got a fun comment in with their boss about, “Hey they told me this but let me run that by you real quick.”

The reply was ok go push back. Like, GLADLY.

I got another fun comment in. This person keeps trying to sell us on hiring all their old colleagues from another company.

I said, “There is only one person from that company who ever impressed me. His name is (Redacted). Otherwise, that place is not exactly a talent factory.”

Then I let that sink in for a minute.

I know someone who is not invited to read this page or comment on anything about me will sit there and blow their bangs when I say this, but fuck you — I WON TODAY.

Gonna need a new nickname for DTOM.

Since the memo went out, they’ve been seated for every single call.

I feel through the screen that they are unhappy.

This is pure speculation on my part.

But when you can’t necessarily rein in unappealing but otherwise ungovernable behavior — like, me delivering good prose an hour after deadline, every damn time — you rein in what you can.

This explains so much about my past.

I was talking with Shan the other day (interesting how Wildebeest jumped straight to K — silly beast) about how we can come up with our assassin names.

I say best pet and worst boss.

For her, Jazzypants Yep. For me, I was going to go with Cocoa H.

But Shan said god that Carol was so awful to you. Maybe she’s retired or dead.

And for the life of me, I couldn’t remember Carol’s last name. I just remember she had hairspray-coated glasses and looked like Janet Reno.

Anyway, apparently Cocoa Reno is my assassin name.

In any event, Carol absolutely couldn’t rein in my friend. So she had this insane meeting with me to tell me I dressed “too Pittsburgh” and my hair was terrible and my suits/dresses were too short for how fat I was.

Or maybe she had my friend have it with me. To break his spirit a different way.

Either way, and this is a rare moment when I will pay him a compliment, but we had more talent in our pinkys than that 60,000-member organization had combined.

Ungovernable. I want that as a tattoo.

She was happy when I rolled in with flat hair and sweatshirts and a broken spirit.

The empath in me almost feels bad for DTOM. Like if you’re not the T person, who are you?

For me, Carol might have taken away the way I chose to express myself.

And that “friend” turned on me anyway. He made sure they saw this blog, where I documented all that shit, because I had to express myself in some OTHER way.

Though I do have to say, having the HR person sit there humbled at not having any clue how to deal with the “look what you made me do” — long before Taylor Swift sang that lyric — was quite a moment in my young life.

The one thing I always maintained — and have since proven true — was that I always held value that Carol et al didn’t deserve to have access to anyway.

They sure fucking didn’t pay for that talent. Most of what I gave them was “on me.”

Anyway, part of me almost wants to restore the T to the DTOM of it all. But I can find plenty of other things to head scratch about that aren’t motion-sickness-induced.