Alrighty, then, dear reader…let’s get to it.  Today’s Word of the Day is caterwaul.

(verb) To make a shrill, wailing noise, like a cat in heat or your pathetic ex at 2 a.m. after three tequila shots too many.
(noun) A loud, unpleasant screeching sound, often associated with drama, chaos, or the unholy union of both.
This gem of a word slinks into English from the Middle Dutch cater (meaning “tomcat”) and waul (meaning “to yowl”).  Basically, it’s the linguistic lovechild of a feral alley cat and a banshee.

It was a Sunday morning in Brooklyn, the kind of morning where the air smells like burnt espresso and retribution.  I was nursing a hangover that felt like a symphony of jackhammers in my skull but MGMT had insisted I attend this “brunch for progressive thought leaders.”  Translation: a mimosa-fueled circle jerk of liberal white women in wide-brimmed hats and ethically sourced linen jumpsuits.
The café was called something insufferable like “Thyme & Privilege,” and the menu featured items like “deconstructed avocado toast” and “locally foraged mushroom foam.”  I was halfway through a Bloody Mary that tasted like spicy motor oil when the conversation turned to the topic of “allyship,” which, as per our usual arrangement, isn’t even a word, but I kept my mouth shut, because I knew it was only going to get worse, and I should keep my powder dry as long as I can.  That’s when it happened – The Caterwaul.
It started as a low hum, a kind of collective throat-clearing, and then crescendoed into a full-blown cacophony of performative wailing.  One woman, who introduced herself as “Moonbeam,” began sobbing about the emotional labor of explaining intersectionality to her yoga instructor.  Another, clutching a turmeric latte like it was a life raft, lamented the “violence” of being unfollowed on Instagram by her Reiki healer.
The shrieking reached its peak when a woman named Karen (yes, really) stood up and declared, “I just feel so seen right now,” before collapsing into a heap of organic cotton and crocodile tears.  It was like watching a Greek tragedy, but with more gluten-free pastries.  I left before the kombucha shots came out, but not before stealing a mason jar of artisanal honey labeled “Bee Kind.”  Because irony. 

N.P.: “White Rabbit” – Collide