Caterwauling

Momma always made me the best breakfasts.

Like, to the point I preferred hers over eating out.

Since she died five months ago (omg), I mostly order a fuckload of breakfast sides once a week from one of the local diners. Heat the meats and then fry or scramble some eggs in the grease.

I know she’d be proud of my feeble efforts. But I also know that somewhere, she’s so sad that I don’t get anything made with love anymore.

Today I opened a pack of turkey bacon and fried up three pieces.

What she would always do is make three pieces of any sort of meat. She would make a beautiful egg and give me two pieces of the breakfast meat.

And then there would always be one extra piece of meat wrapped in a paper towel on the stove for me when I felt snackish.

I’ve noticed for five months, but never really put it together till today, that I always want some sort of after-breakfast treat.

Always chalked it up to just not feeling satisfied anymore.

And I usually end up killing a bag of popcorn or chips or chocolate that somehow is supposed to have six servings but hahahahah it’s really just one. Fatass.

Today I remembered, Mom always left me that “extra” so I could feel like I had dessert or whatever.

I still can’t believe she’s gone and yet so many people who are so dense that light bends around them refuse to die.

With every trip away from home, I’ve gotten more used to Mom not being here.

I mean when you think about it, I went to NASA and Cocoa Beach, Orlando and Lake Buena Vista, New York and Pittsburgh, New Orleans, and Key West and the Middle Keys. Just in the back half of 2024.

It was the worst year of my life with losing Cocoa and Mom and democracy. But look what I gained.

I’m plotting out one more escape before Project 2025 kicks in and my interstate travel is either banned or, at least, hampered by the tracking of menses in women under age 55.

I am literally here with an invite to my cousin’s for Thanksgiving, Christmas AND to an event at Carnegie Science Center in early December.

I also have plans with K for Thanksgiving. We were thinking Disney.

But then she mentioned Tennessee for Christmas. And that sounded nice too.

Then I got to thinking — what if I took (redacted) up on his offer to join him in (redacted) for a few days next month.

And frankly I kind of want to see Tennessee but in March. Reasons undisclosed.

K will be in (redacted) at the same time I would theoretically be. But with her dope of the month.

Shame she and I couldn’t travel and stay together. Save a few bucks at least.

In any event, when I was leaving Key West, I realized that I hate going home because I am trapped there.

I don’t walk, I don’t shop, I don’t do shit. I work and I die after I snap the laptop closed.

All those things I thought I would do now that I didn’t have to worry about dinner and getting supplies — things like writing, exercising, dreaming, doing — I don’t.

Literally I am either free as a bird on vacation or I am a prisoner to my own inertia at home.

But this trip felt different. I thought, OK, you are going to go home. Keep your tan. Tackle your to-do list. Bloom where you’re planted.

Then Trump had to steal the election again. Or Republican women delivered it to him. Whichever. Both.

Now I am worse than depressed. I am crippled.

I figure with the adjudicated rapist president picking a Fox News host to lead the Pentagon and a sex trafficker to be attorney general, he’s going to kill us all but at least we will die laughing.

And looking at everyone wondering how they let this happen is exhausting. Like you should be fucking branded with your IQ if you voted for him.

In any event, I was kind of thinking “stay local” and “save money to flee the country.”

But I need to chase that high again — anywhere but here — because the inevitability of Trump burning down the country once and for all doesn’t motivate me like it once did.

In the end, I do think we are all either going to be Winona Ryder lighting her cigarette from the explosion in “Heathers” or we’re going to be Christian Slater with the bomb strapped to his chest in the high school’s boiler room.

I think I’ll be Christian Slater because I will never be a Heather. Which, ponder the irony that I would choose to be a Christian. In any sense.

Being a Heather is worse than being a Christian. Huh. Who knew.

I had a moment today.

I used to often start sentences with, “If I were (department) director.”

Knowing full well I was, of course.

But I kind of always hedged it. Maybe I was waiting for my idea or will to be overturned.

I’m a lifelong Democratic voter after all. My will isn’t exactly done.

Anyway it became a joke and then Howler spelled “director” wrong on a badge and honestly the life and humor got sucked out of me.

Today I was brainstorming with my team. And I started to say, “If I were (department) director.”

And I stopped myself and said I am the director. So AS director, I say (what I needed to say).

I told them, if this election has taught me anything, it’s that I want all of us to step into our power.

I made them promise they will own their feelings and beliefs, too. And own reality.

You ARE in charge. Show me. Show the world.

I hope this was a good meeting today. I mean, we covered all the business stuff. But I checked in with them personally.

The kids aren’t alt-right, thank god. But they will be all right. I know it.

I will be too. I have to be. For them. For me, most of all.

Yesterday I wrote an article about Tesla stock. How it was up some 30% after that pile of garbage I’m forced to call an election.

It’s up about 50%.

I knew before this election not to buy pot stocks (but I did because I couldn’t imagine that Florida would defeat Amendment 3) …

And I knew to buy tRump’s shitty shell companies $DJT and whatever the fuck World Liberty Financial is. Not the coin though. That shit got laughed off the planet because it was more obviously fraudulent than the rest of the fraud.

In any event, today I am considering buying Tesla.

Honestly, owning $TSLA or $DJT is the equivalent of telling someone to erase your browser history and destroy your homemade porn when you die.

Do what you want, while you can. But you don’t want evidence of that bad behavior.

I think this might be the topic of my next letter.

Mom always told me the right one would meet me more than halfway.

“If he wanted to, he would.”

I didn’t really see that till I was a lot older.

I mean, men always were the ones to hit on me, sure. But I always ended up giving way more effort.

Most of the effort.

“All day, every day.
Therapist, mother, maid.
Nymph, then a virgin.
Nurse, then a servant
Just an appendage.
Live to attend him
So that he never lifts a finger.
24/7 baby machine.
So he can live out
His picket fence dreams.
It’s not an act of love
If you make her
You make me do
Too much labour.”

I see it now with the whole “I voted against you, now give me a hug” shit.

I see it in my inbox. You gave no effort, drained me, cheated on someone else to be with me, and you wonder why I am near-carefree without you?

(Calm your un-bra’d udders, Cindy. Not your concern or business. I’ve been stupid before.)

I mean, how many studies do I need to cite that single, childless women are happier than married ones?

Anyway, I had an interesting experience with a real man last week.

He comes to the West Siiiiide of Florida every year. And he did while I was on my NOLA/Key West adventure.

Which I still haven’t written about because Jesus FUCK how is tRump president-elect again?!!?!

In any event, I said if we haven’t expatriated by next year’s visit, maybe I’ll drive over and we can indulge in some libations.

He said well yeah but how about I extend my trip so I can drive over to your side of the state.

I said well now that is something to look forward to.

So, if he wants to, he will.

Yet I get “men” who couldn’t even give a quarter-ass worth of effort, sitting around wondering why nobody likes them.

“If we had a daughter
I’d watch and could not save her
The emotional torture
From the head of your high table
She’d do what you taught her
She’d meet the same cruel fate
So now I’ve gotta run
So I can undo this mistake”

Least of all, their wives.

OK so I won’t write about (redacted) messing with me AGAIN …

But I will say the “Mother Maiden Crone” episode of “Agatha After All” was really good.

So I was about to publish one of my signature unhinged blog posts.

Out of nowhere, a photo of mom opened itself on my laptop.

I thought I had lost this photo. And no I cannot explain how it happened.

Momma always used to check me. Used to make me mad, but I always listened.

Obviously, I did not publish that rant. Clearly she slapped the shit out of me spiritually.

I am still pissed off about all the topics and people I covered.

Maybe I will find a better way to channel my energy today.

I had done a lot of Christmas shopping already. Maybe I should send out those things now. Lord knows we could use some joy since it just got taken from us

I’m channeling an old Ron White sketch where he’s getting arrested and he says he has the right to remain silent but just not the ability.

If I don’t end up getting fired that would be the miracle of the year.

But hey, Momma died. Cocoa died. Janna died. Abortion protections failed in Florida by 3%. And fucking Trump stole the goddamned election.

So yeah, I mean, it would suck but it would also poetically become the final bookend on the worst year of my life.

I am out of tears. I am beyond enraged. And I’m saying whatever I want, whatever I CAN, till they cut out my tongue, take my job and my savings, and remove any ability to have property or a credit card.

Fuck all those “oh it didn’t turn out so bad last time.” YES IT DID and he had guardrails! Those are all gone. Now the depraved lunatic is surrounded by billionaire enablers who are going to deport all the workers and make everything 10x more expensive for the rest of us.

“Democracy dies in darkness.” Remember when the WaPo adopted that as their slogan in 2017?

And now this year, Jeff Bozo said the WaPo editorial board couldn’t endorse Kamala Harris.

Democracy dies in broad daylight. Nov. 5, 2024.

One of the Rs in my orbit said empires fall all the time. I get the feeling they all want anarchy.

I just want sick people like my mom to have treatments. Women to stop bleeding to death in hospital emergency rooms because doctors are afraid of getting sued. People who’ve built a life here and paid more taxes than Trump stole from children’s cancer charities to not worry about being deported. For Black Women to stop having to fucking step up and try to save us and THEM never actually winning a damn thing.

I’ve curated my friends list enough that most agree with, or at least ignore, my rantings.

Today some dipshit who I never really liked, who I have not talked to since 2017, said I was a bad friend because I don’t want to affiliate with tRumpers.

I didn’t think well of him in the first place for professional reasons. He never cared if the work was done. He left when HE was done. Left me in a bind many times.

To hear that he supports tRump? I mean, not surprising, given what I just wrote. But disheartening.

I did unfriend him immediately. His wife, daughters and granddaughter can deal with him directly.

I told my expat friend in South Africa it’s time. Set me up for my consultation. I’m done.

I just need to hold my job so I can have proof of income.

But I also want to punch all the Nazis in the world.

How do I turn THAT into an income stream?!

Seriously, fuck Republican women. And someone better figure out why Missouri is missing so many votes. I would bet when the orangutan assured us he has the votes, the fix was already in.

I would also bet that we can find another 15 million to 18 million, if we look.

Dude wasn’t gonna lose the popular vote this time. Hurt his widdle ego to keep losing it, so he somehow found a way to brag about it.

What I really don’t understand — other than how my mom always said there were more good people than bad, but here we are — is how we supposedly had “record turnout among women for Harris” BUT there are like 15 million fewer votes than the record.

Someone explain to me in small enough words that JD Vance would understand.

Jesus Christ, we’re fucked. It is finished. No more elections, no more democracy, no more gay or trans people, no women who aren’t (for lack of a better word) Karens.

Mom would roll over in her grave if I’d buried her.

I am so sad, I could die right along with her.

I mean, if the vote counts are accurate (highly unlikely) that means everyone who told me they voted for Kamala is suspect. They couldn’t have.

So all these people who tell me I’m great and valuable and they can’t live without me … they would replace me the next day if I bled out in the parking lot. Got it. Valuable.

Not accusing anyone. I respect the one who voted for Chase Oliver. He was never going to vote anything but third party and wasn’t like the Rs I’m thinking about who were all, “Oh we can’t hold our nose and vote for tRump this year.” Bish yes you did. All of you who were looking for libs’ permission to vote your conscience. Vote WITH a conscience, preferably not your own.

Well, I guess I can’t say do it next election. There won’t be one.

Right now my only hope is tRump is buffoon enough to have a lovers’ spat with Elon Musk and deport him.

I mean, it’s not out of the realm.

My only other hope is Joe Biden appoints Kamala as 47 so that all the shitty Temu Trump 47 merch becomes even more useless.

Now THAT is something to live for. That’s about it though.

Landlady just contacted me to say she received a nasty cease-and-desist letter from the HOA.

My crime? Neatly broken down and stacked boxes on a hidden corner of my porch.

Though the letter says I am creating a visible disturbance.

I said oh PLEASE tell them I am SO SORRY for my tiny little corner (that you cannot even see from the street) when there’s a lady with a WHOLE ASS MAGA FLAG two doors down who they don’t bother.

You know, I have been away for the better part of a month.

Pittsburgh, where my cousin is BEGGING me to return to so we can be close (and I can watch her kid grow up).

New York (mostly LaGuardia, but still. Better than this fucking place).

New Orleans (people are so so SO nice. Though that could have just been Swifties and not necessarily locals).

Key West. I mean, my god, who WOULDN’T be a happy person there. I remember a guy saying, “This beats working, huh” and I said you have no idea.

Middle Keys. Same thing. I fell in love all over again with Islamorada, which was the first and only place to see us vacation as a family of five (Mom, Cocoa, Magic, Belly and me).

Meanwhile I get back here to dumpster fire Palm Beach and everyone’s been rude and awful in any store I’ve dared to set foot in.

And now this HOA shit?

Shan says that, if we’re being technical, one is recycling (mine) and the other is trash. So tell THEM to get the trash off their balcony.

You know, I like my landlady because she hasn’t raised my rent. Also I don’t take care of the place AT ALL.

But I am sad when I am here. My mom and my baby died here. I want to die here. I hate it here.

And then fucking Howler Monkey Heifer managed to ruin my first day back at least six times.

Why can’t she kill herself and save me the effort?

In any event, I know I can’t get rid of Heifer BUT I can abstain from dealing with her. And from going to her idiotic event that would be so much better if I were in charge of it.

I think I’m going to do that, after today.

Election Day is tomorrow. I’m either moving to (redacted) or I’m hiring my friend (redacted) to get me the fuck out of the country.

Either way, it’s clear I have to get out of Palm Beach. And out of shrieking distance from Howler Heifer. And this shitty fucking HOA.

What a whirlwind October.

There was the Pittsburgh trip to watch my baby cousin turn 1.

Though I might have positioned it on social media as a trip to New York (which, fair, I spent ample time in NYC. Er, LaGuardia).

One of my NYC friends was hoping I was there. Matt, who I met at Epcot and is so much fun.

I think he’s just trying to hook me up with his friend Rachel, though. Which, she is pretty cute but also pretty young.

So is he. I’d asked where he was on 9/11 (as a New Yorker of course) and he said something like third or fifth grade. Oy.

Anyway Matt invited me to a charity ball on Dec. 4 up in the city. But I’ve traveled so much (cough, SPENT so much) that maybe I should give it a damn rest.

I’m talking about my body, not just my wallet. Jesus, I’m exhausted.

I could spend this whole post on airport visits, and I think I will.

First of all, I met Randy Fenoli on my flight out.

He was adorable. I walked past him in First Class. (I was two rows behind him.) He is so TINY! He shared his seat with his tiny white dog.

I only saw one other person fangirl over him. So maybe y’all don’t watch “Say Yes to the Dress.” But Mom and I loved it, so we loved him.

And I’m thrilled to say he’s as nice in person as he is on the show.

I mean, any man who grabs my hand and says, “Hi Beautiful!” before letting me gush about how much I love his dresses and enjoy seeing him on TV is all right by me.

I won’t speak about our connection at Atlanta. (I HATE ATL and Delta for having that shit cyclone as one of its hubs.)

But I will say the flight was exquisite. Total Swiftie plane.

The pilot asked if we are “Ready for It?” and the flight attendant said they were “Enchanted” to serve us.

My row was filled with amazing people, including a man wearing the “22” hat. Though he had a cane, so they made him get out of the exit row. Which made me sad because he was so dapper and cool.

In his place I got a girl whose concert ticket was a birthday gift from the lady on the other side of me in a fabulous Etsy jacket.

The fabulous lady took a pic of my Eras-themed toes.

No orange for Evermore. Then again I am not a Hemingway cat and therefore lack an 11th toe.

Anyway, landing at MSY was such a delight. I put up some videos on Insta of the pilot making one last Swiftie reference. And also of our sad “Love Story” sing-along. We so half-assed it.

Anyway, the AIRPORT. It was all decked out for us Swifties!

So was the whole town, really.

I don’t know of any other city that rolled out the red carpet (and les bons temps) for us even on a low level of magnitude, much less the high holy welcome we got.

Skipping ahead to the taxi ride out of town, I got hit on by the cabbie. He was super sweet and eager to come to Miami … and for me to return to NOLA so he could take me around. He even gave me his card and said let me know when you land safely.

Anyway, I paid cash and tipped well.

Then there was the whole JH of it all. Already covered that.

And we’re just talking about flights in this post.

So, my first flight out — from MSY back to that cesspool ATL — was a dream.

Delta was offering $900 in credits to anyone who was willing to be bumped. I said give me cash so I can see T-Swift in Indy and I’ll take it, but they didn’t.

Also, I told my senior Swiftie seat mates I wasn’t really serious. They were so much fun and I know to appreciate terrific people in my row.

Karen and Ben just turned 65. AND this trip to see Taylor was a gift to each other for a milestone anniversary — I want to say 25 years.

But my head was all sorts of full from everything that preceded that meeting, and I don’t remember exactly.

Oh, I’m fallin’ in love
I thought the plane was goin’ down
How’d you turn it right around?

Karen is a third-grade teacher and Ben is a pastor in California. We talked about Disney, as they are in Anaheim.

They are “rescue fails” — they have eight cats, most of whom have medical issues. And they are the freaking cutest people I ever met.

Karen and Ben and I have texted about a million times since that flight. It would be more, but I drove my happy ass to Key West and murdered my whole data plan in two days.

Swifties are the best. Hands-down.

Also anyone Swiftie-adjacent, like CJ, who appreciates us for all the good we put out into the world.

Which, CJ — I am hoping — is a story for another day, too. I keep pulling Wands cards around this situation.

I see sparks fly whenever you smile.

In any event, my final flight, from shithole ATL to floating island of garbage PBI, was awful.

From the sparkly tRump/Vance jacket to all the MAGA hats and shirts to the bitch in my aisle who was complaining loudly on her cell to someone that she was owed tens of thousands for an election night party but wasn’t paid for it, ugh.

Let me guess — the “Republican Party Election Night” email subject line that I saw over her shoulder on her iPad might be a giveaway here. Trumpy hasn’t paid for his party?! GO FIGURE.

Honest to God, I was willing to take the plane down for the sake of democracy at that point.

Anyway, we didn’t crash and I didn’t kill any MAGAts. Well, I did get into a fight with a bunch in Marathon.

Fuckers, you came up to MY car with your signs. You get what I fucking say/gesture in return. You don’t get to tell me to go to hell when I was having a nice day without you.

I swear, 10 trumpers constitutes a riot.

In any event, I ALSO saw a ton of Harris-Walz signs and supporters all over NOLA and Key West.

Granted, two very amazing towns in two very red states. But still. I think we have a lot to be hopeful about come Tuesday.