Caterwauling

A dear friend of mine from Washington, D.C., posted something on Facebook that moved me so much, I can’t get it out of my head.

Borrowing without permission, but as a tribute:

“The premise of a ‘five year plan’ is complete bullshit. If you’d have told me five years ago that I’d be at another high school back-to-school night for my kid, I would have argued with the impossibility of that statement. Life overrides even the best-planned plans and humbles me by continually redefining what is possible.”

I knew her when she was in her mid-20s and I was 30. Both of us working around the clock. Both of us trying to lose a few pounds. And both enjoying a good craft beer and deep conversations about the world.

A couple years ago, we were a decade older and a thousand miles apart geographically. She’d unfairly lost a job or two and so had I. And she’d written another phrase that haunts me still:

“Things don’t always happen for a reason. Sometimes, they just happen.”

God I miss that girl sometimes. Thank the heavens for Faceypages and connections that predate social media.

In any event, who knew two years ago that this single-in-the-city girl would meet a great guy with a couple of kids? And that she’d transition into being a wife and mom and all that comes with it?

At 42, I still figured that I could/would have a kid. Preferably a daughter. I always wanted a son but that was mostly to ensure the father would stick around. But men don’t stick around for sons any more than daughters. And I like pink and all things girly and shopping for them. So, there you have it.

At 43 — wait, musical interlude …

“I learned the truth at seventeen
That love was meant for beauty queens
And high school girls with clear skinned smiles
Who married young and then retired.”

— Janis Ian, “At Seventeen”

Where was I? Oh yeah, at 43, I apologized to mom for not giving her a granddaughter. She would have been the best grandma. She deserves another little girl. Her efforts have been wonderful, yet wildly wasted, on a girl CAT.

All things pink.

It’s not really that I don’t feel like it will never happen. I just know I have a finite amount of energy and money and TIME GLORIOUS TIME.

The evidence of Hurricane Irma are still ever-present. I have some friends with PTSD from it. And (still!) seeing all the uprooted traffic signs and all the fall leaves on the ground WITH TREES STILL ATTACHED TO THEM makes them relive the sick, sad, helpless feeling every day.

You know, the same feeling normal people have had since the night of Nov. 8.

That’s MY fear. I really think Kim Jong-un of the West is gonna get us all kilt. You cannot convince me that the original North Korean nutcake doesn’t have a map of all the Orange Shitgibbon’s properties and isn’t going to use them for nuclear target practice. Oh and I happen to live within spitting distance of like four of them.

Not pictured: three golf clubs and a pair of buildings that bear his name even though he unloaded them.

So seeing Steph’s post gave me an odd sense of peace. I mean, if and only if I really wanted a kid, I could adopt. Foster. Get drunk and see how fertile these vintage eggs still are. Who cares about anyone leaving. I can do this myself.

Catgirl!

Or — I could do the thing I swore I’d never do — I could date a guy with kids. I do know a hot dad and it’s killing me to NOT open my mouth and see about giving it a whirl.

Anywho, maybe I need to just not underestimate the universe. I’ve been pretty lucky. Maybe I don’t have a finite amount of luck that’s set to run out after all.

Case in point: I’m like 90 pounds lighter than I was a decade ago. MIRACLES HAPPEN.

New official pic with the last of my Delray tan.

Maybe I’ll get whatever it is that I never thought I could have, if only I would let myself think about whatever that is.

Or maybe I always thought I could have it all. But the older I get, the less I feel that way.

There’s a person on my team who always uses age as an excuse. Made a mistake, it’s because they are “an old person.” Does something I asked them not to do (again), “Well I’m old and I don’t learn as fast as I used to.” Argues with me that something should be a certain way after they battled me just a week earlier that we should do it the other way, “I forgot. My memory isn’t what it was.”

My reply is curt and firm. “Don’t give me an excuse. Give me your best.”

I don’t want to be that way. Not just a walking lawsuit, but I give thanks to my body for doing what it can do physically.

I thank the heavens that I can afford vegetables and nutritious food to nourish that body with.

When I get overloaded with tasks at home and work, and worry that I can’t give 100% everywhere,

I exude gratitude that my brain works better than most and I’ll do what I can, where I can … when I can.

And damn, I’m happy to have what I have, while I have it.

And there’s always that part of me that thanks the universe for the good things coming my way that are beyond my control or wildest dreams.

It think that might be what Steph was talking about. That the universe has surprises in store for you that are beyond your mortal comprehension. Forget the bounds of reality — those are about to be redefined for you.

OK fine. I never thought I’d get married. I ran off all my roommates because I hate people being near me. Honestly I want dual master bedrooms when I do meet a mate. I need a Gemini so I know the sex will be great. I want to live on the Intracoastal and have access to a first-class ticket to anywhere, at any time. I want enough of a fortune to want to leave it to someone. Maybe an adopted niece or nephew. I’ve lived alone in the metaphorical sense my whole life. Don’t make me die alone too.

Your move, universe. Don’t let me die alone and/or soon because Russia installed the king of my idiot neighbors as our Pumpkinfuhrer. I know you’ve got a lot of goodness to give, and I am a willing and grateful recipient if you have some more to send my way.

Got the old band back together yesterday.

No, not the one that was eviscerated because the LVP of the team left earlier this year.

The one BEFORE that. The one I left to join the one that I miss every day. The one where I missed the team BEFORE for quite some time, too.

Let’s just say yesterday’s waterfront lunch was the most grammatically correct meeting of the minds in history.

I feel terrible though because the two of us at the lunch who are on the current team could not help but telling stories (so many stories) to the escapee at the table about their replacement.

And it’s funny to hear nice people vent. Everything is bookended with, “I feel so bad for thinking this.”

It’s not fair to compare people. But damn. If only this one had stayed, things would be as perfect as they could get.

This guy ran screaming from the lunch. Here’s to a next time, and having anything else to talk about …

That someone in my recent past may want to come back.

They didn’t call me, of course.

In fact, I didn’t even hear their voice for a long, long time. Till today.

My immediate response was terror. I don’t know why. They can’t hurt me anymore.

But they can’t help or comfort or amuse or reassure me anymore, either. That feeling washed over me too.

I was also hoping they were happy. Or, at least, done coming off as somewhat gleeful at the havoc they wreaked, and actually happy with their decision.

So if they really want to come back, at least I’ve already gone through my stages of grief and can have a normal, human reaction in person.

A girl I knew in school died yesterday.

She only started talking about the cancer a few months ago.

Went into chemo a couple months ago.

A few weeks ago, she wrote that she had finished her course of treatment and her doctor was very optimistic.

Two weeks ago, she posted requests for prayers.

A week ago, more prayer requests. This time, from the hospital.

Finally her page went quiet except from posts from friends, calling for prayers.

Then yesterday, the condolences started.

More prayers. So many prayers. For her soul. For her brand-new baby. For her three slightly, but only slightly, older children.

I do pray. Usually to say thanks. I’ve spent years asking for “things” that rarely came to pass. So, I just say thank you.

Today, I will say thank-you for my very brief but very vivid memory of Pam at age 16.

I somehow did not get put into an A.P. History class my sophomore year. No idea how or why. I got stuck in Nick Kapottas’ last-period class. It was filled with the high-school equivalent of “deplorables.”

I could tick off some of their names. And what they did to me. It was horrible. I sat in the first seat in the first row. On a good day, they talked loudly about how fat I was. On most other days, I got gum thrown in my hair.

That was the last time I took a non-A.P. class.

“K.P.” was the wrestling coach. History was not his thing. Hell, teaching was not his thing. He pretty much just tried to sell us hoagies to support the team, and left us to have study halls most days.

The nice thing was, K.P. took a shine to my mom on Parent-Teacher Day. I think they went to dinner a few times.

The nicer thing was, I never had to go to class after that. Not sure what grade I got. Or on what merit any of us could possibly have been judged.

I showed up on occasion. Not sure if K.P. ever gave us tests. I think he had to. And that’s me, all right — happy to show up for the damn test. Probably because I read the textbook in the library instead of going to class.

In any event, Pam was always nice. Never tortured me. Maybe said hello a few times. But she was watching me.

One day she came to me with a bunch of thoughts written down on paper. Said she knew I was a writer. Wondered if maybe I could write a poem for her to give someone.

I did it. She seemed pleased.

I don’t remember much about it. But one line, something about “the pavement shines like silver in the rain,” has always stuck with me. Those were her words. I remember wanting to preserve them as they were.

It was our secret, that we had worked together on that poem. I never knew who she gave it to. Or whether he liked it. Or what made her break away from those stupid people in that class to approach me.

We never really talked after that. But that was OK. I liked it that way. Having a secret ally mixed into that overflowing basket of deplorables was more comforting than I could ever convey.

I was shocked when Pam sent me a friend request on Facebook several years ago. Didn’t know that she remembered me. My heart was happy about that, in a way I can’t explain.

What I loved about her was every post was positive. She went through some shit in her life. But you’d never know it. Lots of pretty selfies with her newest ‘dos. Even when the treatments took her pretty hair, she had the cutest wigs and bandannas. A collection I covet, to be honest.

You could tell she was a loving mom, the “aunt” who helped to raise all the young people in her life, the girl with the mad hair-cutting skills who looked so pretty all the time and donated a whole lot of hair-styling genius to anyone who needed it — at no cost.

I don’t know why God takes the good ones. Pondered that all day, as I do every time someone truly kind is taken from us. Why did she have to suffer so much?

How will that baby boy know that she was my only friend in that stupid history class? Will he be kind like that to someone someday who needs it?

You sure fought hard, Pam. A warrior if I ever saw one. I didn’t know you, but I will always remember you.

Rest in peace, pretty lady. And also, fuck cancer. Seriously.

That day when someone for no reason tells someone else you weren’t even working with (yet) today that you are somehow mad at her (when you were pretty specific that you were frustratedy with interruptions in general) and she asks what she did wrong and you’re like WTF because she’s fine and meanwhile she’s like while I have you, that person is all about the interruptions and my boss will be talking to you about that.

And that five minutes of your day is a good representation of the other 9.5 hours.

Dear Friday night: Thank you for arriving when you did.

A friend stopped in last night. It was close to 6 p.m. and it was my only quiet moment in a very, very stressful two weeks. I wanted to be home, but I just can’t with people hunting me down (and, sometimes, it feels like hunting me for sport) all day.

He said it’s the first time I have a big team reporting to me. I said not really. Everyone (the high-dollar talent, not the marketers) reported to me in the sense of checking in/getting assignments/pitching ideas/seeking green lights on projects, even if I wasn’t always the direct paycheck-signer. Because, they knew where the seat of power was.

He said well you have support staff again. Which is true. He said both have reams of experience. I said yes. One is a great utility player. I couldn’t do this without that person.

He said, and the other has tons of experience in a related industry. He said it as a fact, not as a question.

I said well. That’s what this person keeps telling me. I have yet to benefit from all these reams of experience.

That’s when he laughed and said I’ve officially become a boss.

That stuck with me for a while. I guess he was nicely saying that I used to be nicer.

What I wasn’t saying is that every day brings an argument. I think this person has talent. And incredibly good insights. But is so focused on being a pain in everyone’s butt that it’s very easy to forget what contributions they could bring.

I mean, just this morning I got an email saying I made their work great but I should really thank them for all they did to make it readable for me in the first place.

Well, that’s one way to go about it.

I don’t have a boss anymore to shield me from what happens above. My inbox is loaded with long back-and-forth conversations on 12 million topics. Aside from that, I’m teaching basic stuff to people who have been in the biz twice as long as I have. And trying to get people who have had no direction (from above or within) to accept MY direction. Oh and these people and their goddamned special reports. My kryptonite. Sheesh. The stress never ends.

I’m not ready to give up by any means. But this past month has felt about a year long. And I don’t feel like much of a boss in any sense of the word right now.

But at least I’m nothing like all my absentee bosses. They’ve all moved on and whether they have done better is a mystery. I’m super-grateful that the company (most companies I’ve been at, really) recognizes that I was a hidden gem all along and can shine without that layer above me. But damn, every once in a while I miss the one purpose they always served for me — an umbrella — so at least I could focus on the mud on my shoes. Now I’m up to my ass in muck AND soaked to the bone.

As I keep reminding myself, I have authoritah now. If anyone can fix it, I can. And if I can’t, then no one can.

I got to talking with one of my fellow “Survivors” from the old team. I mentioned how my most-recent (short-lived) boss de-friended me on social media. We laughed for a moment. And he said,

“Doesn’t he realize how happy you were in (previous town/building) with your original, handpicked team? Does he seriously think you had anything to do with what’s happened since? You could be sitting comfy in your chair, with a Starbucks in your backyard, your hair in pigtails and wearing shorts. You didn’t ask for any of this. And you handled it pretty darn well. And guess what, you deserve your promotion!”

I thought that was interesting. Especially given that I have access to some salary information and I have a good guess how much he was making. Hint: A LOT. Meanwhile I was doing the job … for about 40% less … if my estimates are right. And 70% better, IMHO.

In any event, we’ve made more changes and I kind of am back to a smaller version of my handpicked team. So, there’s that.

I’ve also been grousing that one of those people (not one of my picks, though) is getting some special favor for some bizarre reason.

But you know what? That’s fine.

So what if I had to earn all my breaks? So what if I had to get broken in the process? So what if no one, say, threw $30 at me to replace my brand-new groceries they threw out for no reason?

Fuck ’em. I’m still here. My rent is still getting paid at the end of the month. I lived through a damn hurricane and have another Cat-5 storm heading up the same path right as I type this. There are bigger things to worry about than someone else getting a damn perk in this world.

I still miss my old life. But now I can say, I miss the GOOD parts of it. I don’t miss the bad ones anymore. Not as much as I did these past few months, anyway.

But damn I miss my fridge. Which I guess I have to pay to replace. Because again, why should I expect a perk? And that’s probably why I have been so pissed off in the first place.

I hate people who brag about their good deeds.

But since I’ve been ranting about my most-recent ex-boss de–friending me for no reason, arguably at the worst time to piss off someone so connected in the field he wants to work in, I have an update.

Through the power of the same social network, I learned he’s applying someplace else. And not getting much in the way of positive references. Other than, “Nice guy but not sure what, if anything, he did there.”

So I actually did have something nice to say. Beyond the, “Nice guy, but not real sure what he did here.”

He’s a good writer. Specifically, he was very able to channel the voice of the company owner. I knew the services weren’t being written by the owner, because he’s already working 100 hours a week on other things.

But even my trained eye would often wonder, “Wait, that HAS to be the owner! No? Wow, that ghost is good.”

And I said as much, to the person asking.

In any event, if this guy gets this gig, I won’t expect a thank-you. My contribution is unconditionally anonymous.

But seriously. This is a lesson in don’t piss off someone who can really help you.

I didn’t *have* to be nice. But it does my heart good to know that I did the right thing.

Every once in a while, life throws you a do-over.

I went to a Brad Paisley concert a couple years ago. Facebook Memories likes to remind me of it every year around this time. And thanks to the power of a free ticket and a friend who knew I needed a do-over, I got one this weekend.

I was everything I dreamed it would be. So happy I got to go again and enjoy every single moment.

Southern Boulevard selfie.

Rewinding a couple years … I started out doing well the last time Brad came to town. Ate healthfully, had one (admittedly big-ass) beer, and that was that.

Then it rained. And we took cover under the tent of another group of tailgaters. Who had Fireball. Lots and lots of Fireball.

Yeah, the next several hours are a blur. I remember upgrading our tickets and getting super-close to the stage. I also remember going to the bathroom before the main performer’s set … and losing my ticket.

Kept this one!

I vaguely recall arguing with the people checking my ticket. Like, you just let me in there before. I dropped my ticket. YOU KNOW ME. Let me in. I even have a brand-new spiced-rum-and-diet-Coke sitting under my chair … waiting to be reunited with me.

No luck. So I sat on the sidelines and watched the concert on the Jumbotrons. And did some texting I shouldn’t have, that finally gave permission to someone who was trying to start a relationship with me to do so.

In any event, fast-forward to today …

This time I had a small beer in the parking lot. That’s it. Sat on my little square on our little blanket the whole time. Didn’t have to run to pee because I wasn’t drinking.

What was really cool is that we went to the very back of the lawn, high atop a hill that overlooks two lakes. I didn’t get any photos because my phone sucks.

Well except this one.

But that’s OK. We were far from the cigarettes and pot and, even better, other people.

The ground was soaked from Hurricane Irma. It quickly permeated the blanket and my jeans.

It was OK. We lived through the storm — now the skies were clear, a million stars were out and we were seeing a fantastic show for free, thanks to Brad donating a bunch of tickets to local first responders … many of whom were working the show so their families could go and invite their friends. (I.E., how I got there.)

In any event, I’ve said before that if I could do-over the part about the text conversation that started so many summers ago, I wouldn’t do it at all. I always wondered what I missed while it was going on.

But I see now that life happened as it needed to. And it all turned out OK.

And at a time when my outside world is littered with dead, uprooted trees and debris and fallen electrical lines, it’s good to have my inside world tidied up again.

On last night’s “Real Time,” Salman Rushdie reminded Bill Maher of his quote about how liberal purists need to learn “the difference between an imperfect friend and a deadly enemy.”

It was in reference to the dumbfuck Bernie voters who couldn’t stomach Hillary, or the indifferent who didn’t bother voting at all, for sticking us with that shit for brains who’s in the White House now. His comment was specific to the first 100 days of hell, and I can extend it to the embarrassing three visits the slob-in-chief and the First Slutty made to my state. Go the fuck away, to hell from which you were sent.

In any event, why yes, when recently asked what I’m looking for in a significant other, my first and only response was: “VOTED FOR HILLARY.”

Not “would have voted” or “considered voting” for her. Actually pulled the fucking lever to save our nation from impending doom, war with North Korea, trade war with our very good neighbor Mexico, and cultural wars that would make 1940s segregated America proud.

Speaking of which, Hillary’s new book is in my mailbox. Must run downstairs when I hit “publish” …

So much good loot! Postcards from Dave, stickers from Etsy and healing words from the popular vote winner.

Where was I? Oh yeah. Wars on my own front.

I was lamenting to a friend that the same person who ratted me out for wearing shorts (that got me kicked out of work) was eye-rolling at me ABOUT the person who kicked me out … and they were eye-rolling ABOUT my deportation.

Honey, if you think I am going to say something bad about THAT person (although, yes, I do have many feelings on that front), you’re dumber than you think I am. In fact, I said it’s OK and it taught me to figure out what DOES work, and to stick to it religiously.

Same with someone who is withholding the one thing from me that I want in this stupid world. Begging doesn’t work. Shaming doesn’t work. Ignoring the issue doesn’t work. Offering cash doesn’t work. But again, I’m sure folks are going for the reaction from me.

But to Salman’s, and originally Bill’s, point, these aren’t deadly enemies. That’s Trump. It’s not Hillary (to the Bernie bots and dumb fuck Trump voters). Hillary and the people I talked about today are imperfect friends.

Hillary would have been a survivable event to the Bernie bots and Trump voters. Trump is NOT a survivable event. My “friends” are a survivable event.

And so, as with the absolute disgrace this country has become, in my life too I am just grateful it isn’t scorched earth. Funny how you come to accept in life that a low bar is still a bar.

And for someone who barely drinks anymore, it’s not that hard to just ignore the bars for the most part because they really don’t affect your life either way, anyway.