Caterwauling

I called upon my higher self this week. Asked to speak to 45-year-old me. Give or take three years from now. 

I asked her what I can do now to ensure she’s healthy and sane and alive to vote in 2020. What does she need?

I did connect with her. She gave me a dream. In that dream I saw a woman too cha-cha for words. She wore a feather boa and glitter top hat and a cute dress. It almost distracted from the clumps of missing hair and sad lines near her eyes. 

She was interviewing for a job. Even though her personality was massive, she calmly said thank you when they gave it to her. 

I asked her why no big gushing fuss, like we always have to do when someone we don’t like gives us what we need. 

She said darling, they are giving me less money than I’m worth … .

To do work they are too lazy to do or to keep their schedule wide open to screw their mistresses

And they WANT me to kiss their ass for the privilege of working nights and weekends and missing all the joy that life wants to give ME …

So darling, next time you work yourself into a pit of exhaustion every day …

And then lie awake all night with anxiety that you answer to people who can take away your paycheck just because they have and can and might because they won’t take their place under the bus  …

Remember me and how I am struggling to overcome the health problems and broken soul you handed me. 

You can change, darling, yes. But will you?

525,600 minutes between these photos. And 36 pounds’ difference. 

My secret? Veggies. Walking. Hair falling out in clumps from anxiety.  Not that I had it to spare. 

I should be back to birth weight by this time next year. 

Had a bad dream. That mom was gone and I was working around the clock and I stopped to realize that I was too busy to miss her. 

I’m assuming that’s a weird side effect of it being sia’s birthday yesterday, her first not on this earth. But it scared me. 

I thought of mom in heaven, seeing me not thinking about her because I had a phone stuck to my head all morning and then staying late to catch up. 

It killed me because that’s how it is while she’s here. Although I think of her plenty. 

Another day like the one I just outlined ahead. So sad about Sia that I could just die myself. Please God, let folks give me space today. And every day but especially today. 

Today would have been Sia’s 32nd birthday.

She’s been on my mind all day. She’s never far from my mind, really.

Facebook Memories has her thanking me profusely for whatever I did for this birthday many years ago. In a way, it’s like she never really left. But then when you go to call …

I’ve reached out to her mom and sister. They don’t reach back. I figure I was close with her while they weren’t, and vice versa. We could fill in some blanks for each other.

But that’s how it works. Blanks don’t get filled. You don’t get to say goodbye and doors get slammed in your face, if you even get a door in the first place. (Which most don’t.)

I like to think the universe hates a void and works to fill it. A pet dies, you get another. A job ends, someone else who was dying to hire you finally gets the chance. A relationship ends, something better comes along. Right?

Not in my experience. You can be single for 40 years. No one to step in for friends who died or voted for Trump. (Same thing, really.) There’s no replacing a parent or a sibling who’s gone. And judging by how many people are sleeping on the streets because who the fuck can afford two grand for a studio down here, jobs don’t magically appear because you want one.

I tried to think of the best way to honor Sia today, since she’s gone and I’ve never had a friend like that before or since. And perhaps never will again.

Working 24 hours straight sounds about right.

But I went the other direction and left right before 6. Pile of unfinished work be damned.

This after an IM at 4:30:

White-on-white: I can’t finish that today. Almost quitting time.

Me: (I worked all weekend and only had yesterday off and I’m STILL behind and you won’t stay 15 extra minutes?)

Sia would have had a few choice words for the situation. I don’t care either way, honestly. I’ll regret leaving on-time-for-me tomorrow. Maybe. Or maybe I’ll be white-on-white and be perfectly fine feeding my mom at a reasonable hour and watching “This is Us” together like we love to do on Tuesdays.

Miss you, Sia. You were the only one out there just like me. With the disease to please. It took you. And I want to beat its ass for that. 

Love you, girl. So, so much love, today and forever. Knock Trump’s wig off for me, OK? I’ll know it’s you …

When the source of your anxiety is removed and you are STILL anxious AF.

It’s time to crack some skulls. And not my own.

What is, the best part of working on weekends.

I get the irony. But I do savor the fact that I can see daylight and get mom fed at a reasonable hour.

No working next weekend, though. I have a Women’s March to attend.

I know I’m lucky. And that fortune is fragile. But I need that saying on a T-shirt STAT. 

Mom got up to make me breakfast, which she tries to do no matter how bad she is feeling. And that ranges from god-fucking-awful to holy-fuck-make-the-pain-stop. On a good day.

Nevertheless, I get beautiful omelettes every day. Different ones. Usually vegetarian, per my request. And the occasional breakfast sandwich, corned-beef hash, basted egg paired with turkey or Canadian bacon, or “egg in the hole” sprinkled with bacon bits. Which, she says, aren’t real meat so that’s vegetarian.

Today, knowing it’s a working weekend, she got up to make breakfast. But I said nah, I get extra points at Starbucks if I get breakfasts this weekend. Let me grab us something.

I ordered her a tea, which I always do. But today I gave the barista her name instead of mine.

Mom gratefully accepted her tea. And she read the name on the cup and burst into tears.

“It’s my name!” she cried.

We were at Epcot about a year ago and I don’t even know why I got her name on the cup. She had a similar reaction.

She can’t buy me anything, and it kills her.

She hates being dependent on me. She will go without food and say she’s fine and that she doesn’t need anything. Even though, come on, everyone needs food.

We fight about that a lot. “Save your money,” she pleads.

I’d rather save my momma, I tell her.

It’s a moment like this where you know that you did something right in this life. Even if it was as small as telling the barista your name is Princess instead of Goddess. (Her daddy always called her Princess. Or Punkin, although sometimes I got that one too. But she was AWAYS Princess.)

Also, no I didn’t use either of those nicknames, but you get the idea. Names are very important in this little family.

I haven’t gotten much done at work yet. But I did break down and finally sign up for Obamacare. You know, the ones the fuckwits on Capitol Hill are currently eviscerating, decimating and destroying for the poor folks like us.

I finally decided to suck it up and figure out how to pull $700 a month out of my ass. Which, goodbye storage units and lunches and Starbucks. I’d rather save my momma, as I said.

Everyone knows I hate that cocksucking piece of shit and his merry band of deplorables. And now I hate Congress even worse than before, too. I was hoping maybe I didn’t have to become destitute to afford care for my mom.

That was my one hope out of the Orange Oppressor — that he might have, amid all his lies and other assorted bullshit, actually planned to improve the system.

I shouldn’t say it but I’ve been really sick myself lately. I mean, really really not well. And I haven’t been using my own insurance because why should I when mom doesn’t have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of. I’ve been socking cash away and hoping that she’d be ok for a little while if something happened to me. (She wouldn’t. She’d be Debbie Reynolds. Trust me.)

In any event, I digressed way too much. But think about it. A woman who is so grateful to have her name on something, anything in this world — wouldn’t this world want to have her well and IN IT and participating fully in it?

Next time you sit your stupid ass home and not vote, or vote for a stupid ass, think of Robin. Please.