Caterwauling

I accepted a job offer at the end of 2019 under duress.

The what and the who of it all that made me say yes to that mess was inconsequential. (God I love that word.)

The important thing was, I was leaving an annoying person …

But all I really did was exchange them for another crackpot.

Who just showed up in my damn inbox again.

Yesterday, I got this weird email about reiki. Whoever wrote it included some OAN-type of clip about how it rouses the demons out of your body to unleash hell on the world.

Now, I get opted into all kinds of crazy Christian wingnut financial pubs all the time. As ever, I scrolled to the bottom to see who the lucky “unsubscribe” recipient would be today.

UGH, SJ.

OK, so when I joined the new entity, I was introduced to this cool lady who read tarot cards and published guides on manifesting your wildest dreams. Like, she even used tarot and intuition to help her trade stocks!

I thought it was going to be a friendship made in heaven.

Well … she would soon undergo some sort of wacko religious experience.

At first, it was that she embraced tRumpism full stop. She ran for office in her (luckily faraway) state and lost bigly.

Then, George Floyd got murdered on my birthday. And she couldn’t stop bringing it up in meetings. Which, as her superior, I deflected until I’d had enough of her.

She kept talking about the “riots” and I said they are peaceful protests till some brat with a big gun crosses state lines to kill protestors.

She said, well Dawn, you can go riot all you want. But if you go to D.C. and deface the Thomas Jefferson statue, I will drive down there and shoot you myself.

THIS WAS ON A CALL THAT HALF THE COMPANY HEARD.

She later Skyped me to apologize for threatening to kill me.

When I returned my laptop post-shitcanning, I made that screenshot the desktop image.

Anyway, her little tarot/manifestation newsletter started to document this religious awakening she was having.

I stayed on the mailing list, as I got no problem with God. (His followers, OTOH …)

Increasingly, she started repenting about getting mixed up in the “dark arts” and believing in gods and goddesses when there was Only One.

Then she went silent. And honestly I forgot about her.

Then the email filled with “proof” of reiki rousing sleeping demons did me in.

I simply unsubscribed. After all, I can’t imagine she has amassed any traction on the internet. What, one spam complaint is gonna set her straight? Please.

I type all of this to reiterate something I’ve typed about in this space a thousand times before. Trading bad for bad.

Like, you want to escape something at one place … well guess what, you get something equally annoying at the next.

So when I sit here today and dent my forehead after hanging up from (now three) annoying people, I think, hey! None of them THREATENED MY LIFE today.

I mean, they might have made me want to end it all at some point. But every meeting and project eventually concludes. And I get to go back to my cool, awesome team after each one.

And the inconsuhkwential ones never stop being just that.

I got a call from someone you never want to get a call from at 5 p.m. on a Friday: Human Resources.

Getting a call at that hour on that day sends up alarm bells that it’s “firing time.”

But yesterday I swallowed the trauma response. As someone who’s had to DO the firings, I know that you don’t need to panic unless they bring a witness.

I earned a little talking-to because one of my people is taking off four days and wanted to change one of those days. I’d told her I hire adults and I don’t care if you update our system. Enjoy your trip and thanks for ensuring your absence is covered.

WELL. Someone cares.

Anyway since they already had me on the line, they wanted to ask about a conflict I was having with someone.

I said oh? I assumed it was with LVP2 since HR had called one day right after LVP2 screamed at me and I was in tears.

Nope, someone else.

I said we have different communication styles, and we will never have an easy time working together. But I don’t even think about them most days.

I waited for a follow-up question about LVP2, but that was it, Fort Pitt.

A guy I used to work for (not a fond memory) was on one of his coke binges and referred to someone as “inconsequential.”

I’m going to keep that word handy for the next time I get a call.

It’s so weird. I have fans on my staff and all around the company. People WANT to come to my team because it’s so functional.

So for me to have cultivated a reputation for not getting along with people — Breaking Brad, Moldilocks, Covid Boy, LVP1 and 2 (thanks to 1 for calling HR on me because I blocked you on Twitter! Your petty bullshit still hangs over us, but you proved my claim that you’re crazy) — I prefer to think that I’m just clear about not suffering fools anymore.

Like all those times I was forced to listen to those Don Jr.-esque ramblings. It was always so painful. But I remember marveling at how he savored that word.

I like it too. Now I invest my time in those who are consequential to my day, my life, my joy and my survival.

The rest … as I initially replied … “Who?”

One of Taylor Swift’s best songs is about a little boy named Ronan.

I can’t listen to it too often. I mean, I don’t get enough music in my life, and it can’t make me sad when it does. But every now and again, shuffle serves it up. And today, four years to the day that I moved into this condo, I listened to it.

It really makes me think of Cocoa, who I met three years ago around this time. I don’t know how old she is (vets have offered anywhere from 4 to 14 — my new vet thinks she’s closer to 7) or how much time we’ll get together. So I just love on her and tell her that our story has many chapters ahead.

Anyway I’m sure there’s something else I’m supposed to remember about this time.

And I imagine I’ll get reminded about it because someone’s addicted AF to me.

Dress for the meeting you have, not the one you want.

I’d like to say I had a feeling someone would annoy me. But that isn’t being psychic. It’s called experience.

Talk turned to today’s employment news. Which is of course bullshit because it doesn’t include disaffected workers.

Someone asked what that meant. My favorite person (not) said that’s all the lazy assholes who sit around with their hands out, waiting for the government to subsidize their lifestyles.

I said it’s people who are disabled or discriminated against and who get tired of being treated like they are nothing by people who don’t deserve the jobs they have.

Boy was that a fun meeting.

This same person referred to someone I adore as having a “hard RBF.”

I didn’t say, “Says someone with ACTIVE BF, but OK then.”

Meanwhile the second-biggest bitch I know is once again bragging about her screenshot collection.

Enjoy your masturbatory materials, whore. I’m sick of your shit too. You can ALLLLLLL fuck off together.

Took my baby to a vet, finally.

I’ve been researching them forever. Called all my neighbors that I like. (Meaning, not in this compound.)

Literally everyone said their vets sucked.

One is a snowbird and he said he took his baby back to PA for care and, eventually, for her last voyage.

Well. Not going to PA anytime soon, so I needed an alternative.

Finally I found one I had a good feeling about.

Oh my GOD where has this vet been all my life.

Cocoa has been to the Keys multiple times. Miami. Orlando. This child used to live under a Target truck and sleep on a manhole cover and push other kitties out of their food because she wanted it.

Always cool. Always in charge. Always my little backseat boss while Belly enjoys the ride.

Not today. My little toughie freaked the fuck out.

I parked about an eighth of a mile from the place. The traffic made her absolutely insane. By the time I went into the office, she was panting and climbing the walls.

The vet was the nicest I’d ever met. So it wasn’t him.

I said she was in need of meds that she hadn’t been on in a few months. He asked why not, very non-judgmentally.

I said the last vet demanded I make an appearance before being given a refill. And time went by and here we are.

He said that’s ridiculous. You don’t deny a baby her meds. And why they heck aren’t they sent to your house?

He was also horrified at the vet records they sent. There was ONE LINE. The name of the drug, no dosage. No list of surgeries performed, no vitals, no blood test results.

He said I might have an inkling why you didn’t go back.

With Cocoa freaking out, he wouldn’t do blood tests. Refused. Said we could do that another day.

I about passed out. I said everywhere I go, they force vaccinations and other stuff on me. He said I will not give this little lady a heart attack on top of what she’s going through. If you want to do that another day, call me.

Not only that, he called a pharmacy and arranged for my meds to show up on my doorstep. With four refills.

Before we called the pharmacy, he coached me on how I might want to answer their questions. How many vials to order. Why I might not want to opt for auto-refills. Oh and he stepped out of the room when they asked for my credit card.

Meanwhile, I asked the vet tech for some water for Cocoa. She brought that and an ice pack. And Cocoa cozied up to both on the floor and calmed herself down.

They also said hey we have a secret little parking lot behind us. I’m like WHAT I didn’t have to walk on the highway?!

So I ran and got my car, and we settled up and I got to load her with no problems.

They said come back next week and we’ll waive the visit fee.

I think I’m in love.

I pulled the Ace of Cups this morning, when I asked how this visit would go.

Traditionalists see the card as that agape kind of love, which I sure have for Cocoa.

To me, too, the card is a symbol of happy beginnings, positive change and new possibilities. In the health sense,

I see it as telling me there is potential for recovery.

I sure hope that my baby will get her meds, get her tests and be able to have a much better quality of life than she’s had lately.

Not gonna lie, I’m worried about her kidneys. But there’s nothing much I can do now.

So I’ll keep loving her and feeding her and thanking the heavens and All That Is for me finally, finally finding the care all my babies (would have) deserved.

I am the past life of the next me.

I make peace with my past self, and friends with my future self.

We can’t possibly achieve all we are capable of in one lifetime.

You are your path. You are never off-path.

Broken people follow me because misery needs friends, too.

Burn a candle (black/silver) for what returned to the dark and ring a bell for what was birthed.

Rosemary is for remembrance.

Linden blossom keeps the door open between the realms.

They pay me to afford this life, not to enjoy it.

It’s not supposed to be work-life balance. It should be LIFE-WORK.

Pay yourself first doesn’t just apply to money. You must also pay yourself in TIME.

BONUS: Things mom texts me in traffic

Pat that bitch on the back bc I ran out of foiled stars.

Girl, 27, just got a nasty diagnosis. Said she’s got no kids, a job she’s not wild about, no pets and can’t afford anything on her bucket list.

To her, what’s the point of going through aggressive treatments, just to go back to work if they don’t fire her for being sick.

Naturally everyone jumped on her that she’s depressed, she’s stupid, she’s got a wonderful future ahead, that you really don’t get THAT sick, that all these wonderful mental health professionals are here for the accessing.

Then there’s me.

Let me tell you about medical professionals. They don’t return calls and they let your medication run out.

Deciding to “fight” a disease really means fighting for doctors, nurses and other staff to take you seriously. It means begging for appointments and time and pain relief.

Look, you might have luck, and I hope you do.

But even if you get treatments and they don’t wipe you out, fighting for answers, alternatives and dignity might.

Before I get diagnosed with depression by the armchair therapists in the group, of course I know you can seek new doctors. I also know each one has been more disappointing than the next.

It’s a full-time job in and of itself to be sick. You don’t just fight your body — everything is a fight. You just have to figure out the terms of the match.

What I didn’t say is I was thinking about how when I got shit news, and I told my then-employer about the news, I was let go. They were already thinking about it. Go deal with your shit.

I was thinking about FMLA for a second. Like, don’t you have the option to go deal with your shit and them hold your job for you?

Then I realized OMG do you know a single employer other than the government who has to follow laws? I mean, how many pregnant people got “laid off” in my circle under the whole “recession is coming” fear that seems to happen every couple years? You can’t force anyone to keep you employed unless you live in Europe.

I get the feeling with the poster that she was looking for people to beg her to live. Which I think came across in many of the posts. But leave it to me to say, you know what, you do you.

I had to laugh at the guy who wrote that he’s had a genetic issue since birth that’s left him hospitalized, comatose and coughing up lungs till he got a transplant. Now the’s married and hang gliding and saw Italy and shit.

I mean, yeah, he wouldn’t have gotten any of that had he given up. But I’d like to know where that magic pot of money came from. Make-a-Wish don’t cater to the over-30 set.

Anyway. Ain’t nothing wrong with trying to live as soft a life as possible. I never believed that till now.

But there’s something to be said for not being stressed out all the time.

And not, say, putting up the fight of your life, only to return to the existence that saw you neglect yourself in such a way that pushed you to the edge you will spend the rest of your days fighting your way back from.

Just saw the stinkfinger twins. They look like siblings.

One thing they didn’t appear to be was bumping uglies on the pedestrian bridge again, hallelujah.

Imagine what that apartment reeks like.

Speaking of putting the nasty in doing it, I recommend LVP 1 and 2 get a nose job. Because it appears to be hooked in my business.

My collision mechanic could also help with sucking out some of those crags y’all get from scrutinizing moi.

And that’s just the beginning of the help you should seek.

I got into a drawn-out discussion with a healthcare professional at an institution I no longer frequent because of their negligence. And it’s pissing me off that they keep harassing me for the final hundred bucks I owe them.

They are literally leaving me to fucking fall apart over here. You will never get your two dollars, fuckfaces.

I had responded to an event they invited me to, about dealing with end of life fears. I said said if you provided actual care, death wouldn’t be so damned imminent. Good luck saving the world and enjoy your little event.

Mom said, Jesus. I tried all this time to make you softer. And you’re harder than ever.

I didn’t think about it till a few hours later when I went to pick up dinner and nobody would fucking move to let me grab my fucking bag.

I actually said to a woman, “Get the fuck out of my way,” as she was blocking the exit and oblivious to me and my mask trying to get the fuck out of there.

She must have been a New Yorker because she didn’t even look fazed.

Then I came home and went to feed the kitties and duckos. Tried to walk down to this little bridge along the Intracoastal, and a goofy looking coupe with a chubby dude and a woman (I think) with glasses and frizzy hair were making out and blocking the way.

I had seen them leave their apartment; didn’t realize they ended up there. So I said, “Go play stinkfinger in your condo” and went on my way.

I got a few feet away and laughed.

Oh, Rosie Girl. I see why you fucking hated everybody in the end. Thank you for loving me. Perhaps only me.

I get you, Gram. I wish I REALLY did then, but I sure do now.

Three Januaries ago, Mom and I went to Target to grab an item that wasn’t at our regular store.

We saw a little gray tabby sitting under a Target truck like she owned the place.

I ran back in to buy a can of food for her.

Then I did that every day for three months. Even when the pandemic sent us into lockdown. She needed to eat despite what us dumb humans were doing.

Mom called her Cocoa Puff.

Cocoa was soon joined by an orange floof who didn’t care about food. Belly just wanted companionship.

A good two dozen kitties would eventually join our little Turd Herd. (A phrase I only coined yesterday while laughing about some Nerd Herd or another.

Here are their “baby” pictures.

Belly is the same size. Magic is a moose now.

But Cocoa has only gotten tinier. No matter how much she eats. And believe me, she downed half a salmon this morning and a whole chicken breast last night.

My baby is wasting away like Kadie with thyroid issues. I have not stopped crying for two weeks.

I was holding Cocoa yesterday and standing next to Mom as she cut up a rotisserie chicken to feed our six (including three outside) cats.

The outdoor ones were especially grateful for the warm food for that unusually cold night.

Cocoa laid her head on mom’s shoulder. So cute.

Mom said, “Your momma waited her whole life to love you, Cokie. Did you know that?”

I cried more.

It’s true. I’ve loved all my babies. But I will die without her. She’s the sweetest, purriest and most loving of the bunch.

I’ve been feeling so guilty that no matter what I do, I can’t keep her forever.

But then I thought about how I was out buying lobster today so she might eat it. (She rejects most things these days.) How she loves the beach. How I treat her better than most people treat their children.

And it’s not enough to save her. But I hope I’ve given her some joy and ease and safety. God knows I have all the love for her.

Middle child Belly feels it. Magic does too. The all-consuming love for Cokie, that is.

I remember when Maddie died, that’s when I could finally show more love to Kadie.

Magic tried to steal Cokie’s lunch today. It was the seventh thing I’d tried and the first to work. So I sat protecting her and said Magic, your day will come. Let your sister have hers.

I know I shouldn’t sit around pre-grieving. There will be plenty of time for that someday soon enough.

I just know that I have never loved a hoomin like I love this little girl. And I probably never will.

Mom’s right. I was born to be Cocoa’s momma.

I don’t know how old she is. But the three years I’ve gotten aren’t near enough.

“Only God will know the reasons

But I bet He must have had a plan

‘Cause you were born to be my baby

And baby I was made to be your (mom.”

And to all a good night.