Caterwauling

After I typed that, I realized I would need to specify which one.

In any event, I’ll look forward to seeing their reply to MY reply at about 11 p.m. Pacific.

ETA: Right time, wrong time zone.

My mother reminds me every year that it’s biodad’s birthday.

No reason, really. No one wants to commemorate the occasion of us meeting the first in a string of losers in our lives. It’s more like oh yeah is he still alive.

I got a “you are a very good researcher” from Mom this week as I confirmed he is indeed alive, had moved to Ohio for a while and is renting a sad little house in a premier neighborhood.

Seriously, his landlord must be more lax than mine. You’d think MY landlady would think I’d want a working oven, microwave and dishwasher for the holidays. Heck, I’d be happy if more than half the electrical outlets worked so I could use the ones that I bought to replace them.

In any event, his stupid new wife who only posts photos of herself from the 1970s has two terrible children … who live with them.

The boy doesn’t look like he amounted to a hill of beans. Or will.

The girl just had her fourth (!) baby by as many fathers. And oh is she nasty in all her posts and other communications.

Mom had accidentally sent this twat a friend request while she was trolling. (Ergo why I get to be the troll.) And this chick RIPPED her to shreds, like who the fuck are you and why do you feel the need to be friends with me.

Her profile says she’s in pre-law at Liberty University. I literally JUST defriended a classmate who sent all three of her kids to Liberty. I don’t need that kind of stupidity in my life.

Isn’t it wonderful that the man who rejected me TWICE because he didn’t want a kid has spent his life with kids and now THEIR kids?

I try to be humble about the good things that have happened in my life. But I am going to try to forgive myself for saying you dumbass, you coulda had your whole retirement paid for. But you opted to share a 3/1 with seven people, none of which are blood-related. Or employed.

It galls me that he shares a name with my favorite boss. But it’s wonderfully ironic though — my boss is more of a dad to me than that sack of sad could ever have been.

The name Chris recurs throughout my life, with various spellings and incarnations. Same with Sean/Shawn/Shaun.

Lots of other S names, too. Which I was reminded of after a series of good deeds done after I set my intention to help someone every day. (My tribute to Bob Dole, or at least the Bob Dole before he endorsed TFG.)

Someone was making a fuss online recently about how excited they are to donate their gaudy shit to the homeless. As if they haven’t suffered enough. They still have taste, you know.

It reminded me of someone else who would do something for the homeless on the regular. Which I know about because it was broadcast over Twitter, Facebook, blogs, podcasts and probably tattooed to carrier pigeons. To the point where the broadcasting it seemed to take more time than the doing it.

In any event, my rule has always been “Do good and tell no one.”

But what I will do is talk about one of the gentlemen I met this week.

He said his name is Christopher St. John.

There was another name after it. He really wanted me to know that he was somebody. That he IS somebody.

His blue eyes sparkled in the too-hot Florida sun. He said he prayed for an angel to come to him, and there I was.

He told me his vision was failing him, but he said he liked my blonde hair and multicolor sequin mask.

I could tell he was a charmer, even lying on the ground on a makeshift bed behind my gas station.

Christopher said he’s 51. Which I would never have guessed from his broken hip and long beard.

I felt the lump in my throat. I’m 47, healthy and a success by any measure.

How could our lives go do differently? What choices did I make … or did I have … that set me on a course that put me in the position of benevolent goddess?

He asked me for nothing but a little time, but I tried to do more.

And I realized something about myself, which is that I am good at throwing money at problems. Giving time and effort, I can and should work on.

I found myself in a similar position today, because God loves to give us do-overs on things we cannot stop screwing up.

I’m always on my way somewhere. Always rushing to get back to something frankly I don’t really want to do. But today I tried to give some thought and care.

It didn’t feel like enough. It’s never enough. And I’m not going to sit here and bleat into the universe how awesome I am that I even tried.

It’s not enough. It’s the holidays … it’s the human thing to do … OF COURSE we should take care of each other. But holidays end and humanity is unfortunately finite. And our social systems suck ass so you HAVE to look out for your community. No one else will.

Then there’s the skeptic in me who is worried that someone is going to come up from behind me while I’m distracted.

I always have a hand on my phone. It’s five generations old but it’s still a sign of wealth. It’s also the only way I can call for help from emergency response systems I don’t even believe in.

It’s hard to give someone your full attention, even for 10 minutes. And then I think well, fuck, if I’m worried about MY safety, what the fuck are THEY going through 24/7 out in the elements with all the animals on four and two feet?

Christopher’s face still haunts me. He’s 51. He should be an eligible bachelor with a degree and a sports car and a junior penthouse and a couple girlfriends who swoon over his piercing gaze.

Not getting in fights and not being able to reach his walker because his hip is broken and his friend had to leave him in a heap for a while.

I don’t think our heroine returns to the scene. Or maybe she does. We don’t know yet. One-off help and companionship is one thing. Investing time and effort is much harder. Stuff means nothing when basic needs aren’t being met.

I’m sure someone could write a wonderful story about cleaning up our friends and transforming them into some “She’s All That” protagonist.

My boss and I had a long talk yesterday where he said I know you’d rather be writing than directing.

I was equally impressed that he knew that as I was nervous. Like, oh shit, do I really suck at the directing as much as I think I suck at the writing, so much so that I hide from it?

Or does he know, as I do, that this is the time to DO … so the writing is better later?

I wonder if I didn’t just give myself some answer or at least some permission to do something I have been subconsciously seeking.

Whatever happens next, I’ll tell you this: You won’t hear about it from me.

So she unloaded the couch and bed I barely breathed on.

New fridge coming next?

Maybe they’ll paint the walls that absorbed my voice too.

So she unloaded the couch and bed I barely breathed on.

New fridge coming next?

Maybe they’ll paint the walls that absorbed my voice too.

So she unloaded the couch and bed I barely breathed on.

New fridge coming next?

Maybe they’ll paint the walls that absorbed my voice too.

So she unloaded the couch and bed I barely breathed on.

New fridge coming next?

Maybe they’ll paint the walls that absorbed my voice too.

So she unloaded the couch and bed I barely breathed on.

New fridge coming next?

Maybe they’ll paint the walls that absorbed my voice too.

The last time I went to the animal shelter, it was when Kadie crossed the Rainbow Bridge in 2018.

Yesterday, in true circle-of-life fashion, I took Magic there to get fixed.

After I saw the door marked Rainbow Bridge and walked past it to the clinic entrance, I was done for.

Another lady was crying too. Beans, her brand-new kitten, was also going into surgery.

A lady rolled out a library book cart and took our babies, along with one other lady’s named Cocoa, to see if they were cleared for surgery.

I breathed a little sigh of relief. Magic would be with another Cocoa. It was a sign.

Beans’ mom looked at me. “Magic? Is that your baby?” I said yes.

She finally smiled. “I have a Magic at home! He’s a black cat like yours. Every good witch needs a black cat,” she said, looking at the triquetra around my neck.

I asked if she was a foster mom, since she had that loving air about her that most the cat colony keepers do. She said no, Beans was a surprise from her husband. He had been at a friend’s house and Beans ran right over to him and head butted him and wouldn’t leave him. So, she chose him.

Magic and Beans are tributes to Jack & the Beanstalk.

I said Magic found me too. I used to feed a colony at Target (where I met Cocoa) till someone reported us and we were forced out. They told me who reported me. So, hey, thanks for starving some sweet kitties!

In any event, I was on the phone with that same person’s spouse on July 28 (yes, the one who got me in trouble) and I could not find my car in the Ross parking lot.

Magic appeared at my feet and played and danced while we talked.

I hung up and said, “You wanna go home with me, kid?” He galloped on his tiny little legs behind me to my car that was miraculously behind me.

After the nice lady and I swapped stories, the kitties were all given the all-clear. She started crying again, and I said, “It’s a sign that Beans will be with my Magic.”

She said yes, such a good sign. I can’t wait to tell my husband.

We exchanged the “wonderful to meet yous” and we were off.

I picked up Magic at the designated time and asked how Beans did. She was already on her way home, as her mom arrived a half-hour early because she couldn’t wait to get her baby back.

(Meanwhile I’m like should I go to Ross beforehand; I’m such a delight. I didn’t, though!)

Anyway, it was a quiet day without Magic. And quieter still with thoughts of Kadie in my head all day.

We called Kadie Beanie. Beanie Cottontrini.

In a lot of ways, I wish I hadn’t asked permission to have pandemic pets. (Oh there’s an end date? Haha don’t think so.)

But I would have always wondered about these babies if I hadn’t.

I wonder if meeting Beans was Kadie saying it’s ok, Momma. You can love other kitties too.

Thank you, Kadie.

Now if they would only love each other, that’d be perfect!