A. Marvin bought Mint Milanos and did not tell me. What sort of demon does not reveal this information? He put them in the refrigerator, because he cannot remember we no longer live in LA and will not be invaded by 2939439202884292929482 sugar ants if we put them in the cupboard like normal people.
K. We no longer have Mint Milanos, to speak of.
C. Marvin also does not hang any pictures over the beds, even though I continue to remind him that we NO LONGER LIVE IN LOS ANGELES and have not done so for nearly three years now. An earthquake will not smack said picture on top of us in the night. It’s okay now. Really. But no. We continue to live with depressing blank walls above the bed, like Bartleby the Scrivener.
12. Why do people Facebook friend you and then never comment on your updates, never email you and never post anything themselves? Why bother joining Facebook, then?
Q. My father, the photographer, has been reading my blog suddenly, after years of not reading my blog, and he is seriously disturbed by the quality of my photographs. I do not know if anyone noticed in my post about my neighbor Pollyanna that after a few hours the photo of her azaleas got noticeably cropped. This is because my father broke out in 20 hissys and sent me said photo all cropped up with a terse note about how when you are showing a picture, it is generally a good idea to try to show people, oh, the thing you want to show them and not a bunch of other crap in the background.
He was also up in arms about the red eyes my pets have, so today I wanted to show you a cute picture of Henry:
which, really, is there anything else? He’s just so cute. Although stunted. The other day Marvin caught me giving him instructions on growing. “Just shut your eyes, Henry, and really think about it. Then push push push.”
“Are you trying to get him to grow?” Marvin asked me, disgusted. He thinks I should accept Henry as he is. I would have been one of those parents whose kid had a nervous breakdown when he didn’t get into Harvard.
Anyway, I am acutely aware of Henry’s red eyes now, and father, there is NOT some magic button you push to get rid of red eye, rather you have to SELECT something and kind of color it in, I think, and oh, it’s a whole thing and I can’t do it. You know me. It’s like when you tried to get me to go under water. Where’s my dollar?
But what I did discover was I have all these special effects on my computer. Look!
Henry is smushy! Because he needs to be any smushier. What I like about this is now you’re even MORE aware of his red eye issue.
14.9(a)[b]. My Uncle Jim is still hanging in there. Every time the phone rings I about jump out my skin. Someone called at 8:30 this morning and I wanted to skin her and splay her in front of my fireplace like a rug. Except I have no fireplace. Honestly, if you know someone is waiting for a phone call like this, why would you call them at an odd time like that? Geez.
A-E. Marvin lost a bet last night (our waitress was from Michigan, which we knew because she kept announcing it at the top of her lungs to everyone in the restaurant, and he guessed Kalamazoo and I said Mt. Clemens, and it was Flint and I was closer), so he had to sweep all the floors when we got home, and it turns out we have dramatically different ideas of what it means to “sweep a floor,” I think. For me, it means get all the stuff that was on the floor off of the floor. I do not know what Marvin’s modern dance artistic interpretation is.
Should I make Smushy Henry coffee mugs?