Caterwauling

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.

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!