Just got laid off.
I swear I am not a bad employee.
Just got laid off.
I swear I am not a bad employee.
Yesterday at work I had to fast till my blood test at 10:10. No human has had to endure more torment. How is it a clock can move so slowly? Oh, I was hungry. Seriously. Kwashiorkor was setting in. Sally Struthers was next to me, doing a commercial about me.
The whole workplace was doing the test. I mean, you didn't HAVE to do it, it was voluntary, but you get cheaper health insurance if you do it, so most of us were. And the other smart people scheduled their tests for, you know, 8:30 or 9:00. Why did I wait till 10:10? Why? Why do I not think?
By the time 10:00 rolled around and I had to go to the testing place next door to work, I crawled over like one of those people in the desert looking for water. And was there a LINE by that time? A LINE. Like we were waiting to go on a ride at Cedar Point. And I like how my example is always Cedar Point as opposed to Disneyland or some other amusement park. Hey. I grew up in the Midwest.
There were orange juice and Nutri-Grain bars for the people–the lucky, lucky people–who were finishing their test, and words cannot describe the lust and envy I had when I watched those people emerge and have some juice. If I could've crawled into their gullets, I would've. Others in line were chatting. One person was talking at the top of her lungs about her medical issues, and how she hates blood tests, and frankly making everyone else a little nervous.
I was speaking to no one. Because at this point I was so food-deprived that I had zero personality left. I was like one of those Macy's floats that had all the air taken from it. I just stood and stared at the ground like I had some kind of disorder.
Finally, FINALLY, it was my turn, and the very nice nurse weighed me (oy), took my measurements (they had to get an extender), and then drained the blood from my body. When I left, I ate a blueberry Nutri-Grain bar the same way Tallulah would have. As in, one bite without tasting it.
I would make a terrible anorexic person, apparently. I have a friend who used to be anorexic, and she told me all about how she ate precisely the same number of calories each day (if I recall, 250) and how she'd go to bed and listen to her stomach rumble. On night one of that I'd be all, "I'm getting up and toasting a bagel."
This is not to say that I have been stable and normal my whole life. See: hypochondria. See: barf phobia. See: panic attacks. I just never got the anorexia gene, apparently.
In other news, now that I've eaten and can think beyond the Nutri-Grain, my lip gloss is here. I got this on Amazon when I was ordering Gentle Leaders for the dogs. As I was checking out, Amazon said, "People who order Gentle Leaders also get this:
Please also note my gel manicure. On week two and going strong.
I guess that's all I have to tell you. Other than the part where the Real Housewives reunion was so worth my wait. Waiting till 9:00 last night was almost as hard as waiting for 10:10 yesterday morning. And now I have to wait for NEXT week for part two. I could watch the Real Housewives every day and never grow bored. Yes, I am deeply intellectual.
Okay. Going to shower and then be late for work because I am playing with Bobbi Brown. BOBBAYY!
I can't remember where I left off. Where was I? Oh! I was busy because I had to go hiking with Tall Boy. Yes.
So, he comes over and somehow the dogs already know something good is going to happen. They're prancing and leaping and Edsel is whining and they're throwing streamers and Tall Boy is trying to help me get their harnesses on, and I speak in Tallulah voice: "Thank youuu, Uncle Tall Boy."
"Uncle Tall Boy," he said. "I sound like a beer."
Do you know I never really thought about how his blog name is a beer name? And I even have a tall boy story, so you'd think I would have made the association. Once in high school, my friend Donna and I were at a burn-out party, somehow. We hadn't started OUT the evening planning to go to a burn-out party, but there we were, and I remember I had on an Izod shirt and she had alligator EARRINGS on, for God's sake. Oh, we were so not fitting in amongst the black Foreigner tshirts and bongs.
"Man, am I ever messed up!" stone-cold sober Donna announced, trying to seem cool. "I just took a Tall Boy!" She totally thought that was some kind of pill, like a Black Beauty or a Blue-speckled Dexie. We had heard of those when the burn-outs spoke, and of course had no idea what they were. A tall boy. Poor Donna.
At any rate, Tall Boy the pill and the beer and I went to the Indian market near me, the one where Pal from MA was annoyed they had no tonic. We got water, and I paid with my ATM and the guy said, "Four dollar minimum."
I hate places that have a minimum for taking your ATM card. Just take my damn money, you yahoo. But I really like the guy who is ALWAYS working the counter at the Indian convenience store, and I should learn his name, because somehow we always get into philosophical talks about life or candy bars or something.
So Tall Boy grabs this bag of something called Veggie Thins, and you know how I feel about the word "veggie." Or nonword. But did I ever mention his vegetarian status? So grabbing a beef jerky wasn't going to happen.
In the car, he opens the bag and offers me one, and I am sorry to tell you they were PIZZA-FLAVORED vegetable sticks. "God, these are disgusting," I said. "I know," crunched Tall Boy. "You want another one?" "Of course."
"Aspire to inspire before you expire," said Tall Boy.
Anyway, we finally got there, but not before we somehow got into a conversation about Colonel Sanders, in which Tall Boy referred to him as "Sanders," like they go way back. We were maybe five miles from the site of the ludicrous mountain and the dogs were already hysterical. I think they remembered going there months ago. Do you think that's possible? Because they were berserk, and Edsel was barking his 3949394-decibel bark, and basically I was delighted I had come up with this whole idea.
We get out there, in the woods with the mountains and the trees and the deer, which we saw (pretty!) and it was sunny and lovely and immediately Tallulah pooped.
"Geez," I said, getting a bag.
"Do you really have to use a bag when you're out in the woods?" Tall Boy wondered. "YES!" I said. "I don't want others to deal with it. There's a trash can up here, I think."
So there we were, and did I mention the whole place is called Hanging Rock, so this whole walk is upeffinghill, and we were going up up up, and minutes were passing, and I was huffing like I was 98, and oh! No trash can?
Seriously. It's a public park. Or something. NO TRASH CAN? ANYWHERE? Tall Boy had the dogs, and I was retaining the water (love self), and now I had this awful grocery bag of poop. And minute after minute passed with NO TRASH CAN.
"Woodsy Owl would be annoyed," said Tall Boy, who is 86 feet tall and who was having no problem schlepping up that mountain in three steps. "Give a shit. Don't pollit."
Okay. I don't know why that struck me as so effing funny, but then I was retaining water and holding a poop bag and schlepping up a mountain AND giggling, and how we ever got to the this-is-good-enough place near the top is beyond me.
Oh! And one more thing and then we'll get off this hill. On the way down, a group of boys passed us, and one kid (maybe early 20s) held out his hand to pet Edsel? And Edsel SNARLED at him! You guys! Edsel!
"I'm so sorry," I said to the guy. "He's never done anything like that before."
"Maybe it's your hood," offered TB. So the guy pulled off his hood, held out his hand again, and "Rrrrr ROW ROW ROW!"
Oh my GOD! What was with Edsel? You know how simpering and lovey he is! What happened, there? Does anyone have a clue? Humiliating.
You should have seen his "Edzul bad ass" stomp when he walked away, too. Holy cats!
At any rate, once we got home, to base camp, as it were, we dropped off the dogs and ate 4949302 pounds of Thai food. They gave us this plate that had squares of leaves, maybe a cabbage leaf? And around the leaves were teensy plates of different spices, and you put those on the leaf and at it. I cannot begin to tell you how delicious that was. Perhaps it was the 949 calories a minute I had burned rappelling.
Anyway. Then last night Faithful Reader Laura came over.
Today I have my blood test at work to see my cholesterol and lipids (prediction: I am all lipids) and so forth, and my particular test is not till 10:10, which means I have to fast till then and I am already irritated. However, in five to seven days I get a full report on my health, including a rating from 1-100 on how close I am to death. (Prediction: How can anyone be alive with this diet? You are a one.)
Okay, so I will shower now. Did I mention I am hungry? And wishing I could have some of my half/caf coffee? Or maybe some nice chicken from my close pal Sanders. Okay, going now.
I didn't get to bed till around 2:00–I know! June the partayyer. And now Tall Boy is on his way over to take the dogs on a hike with me. So I'll catch you tomorrow.
And will you remind me to get real wine glasses? Humiliating.
We had our usual routine this morning, where the dogs immediately burst outside like the house is on fire, and then when they hear me feeding the cats, through the wood and the brick and the five rooms from the back yard and the insulation, they want right back in. Then after they eat, the house is apparently aflame again.
So they were on their second trip out while I checked email–and can I just say, if you have emailed me and I have not answered? I am sorry. I am getting several hundred emails a day and I was trying to be all good and answer them (I mean, they're not all related to this blog, my email. I just mean in general) (although most are from this blog, actually. I KNOW! Who's hoity-toity all of a sudden?), but sometimes I just cannot. I know I sound like a tool.
Anyway, my point is, I was in here doing stuff when, "WOOF." It was Tallulah. It's always Tallulah. Edsel would run around like a demon in that yard for six hours, except Talu gets bored. And God forbid he let her out of his sight.
"I HEAR you!" I said, while I put dishes away and threw in some laundry.
Oh for the love of all that is holy. Except for that one NOTABLE time, I ALWAYS let her in, so do we need more than one bark? I mean, okay, if an HOUR or something has gone by, freaking remind me. But this every-19-seconds thing is obnoxious.
I go to the door and JUST when I get there, the Schnauzer and Lab behind us got let out.
"Smell Lu!" And off she went to go play with them. Oh, I was irritated.
(Once I let her out at lunchtime and went to work. I forgot about her. And she was in the back yard, in the 65-degree weather, for four hours. You'd have thought I'd thrown acid on her family. I got the silent treatment for a week.)
In other news, guess what.
Anyway. Hello, the 16% who read me on Saturday! What are y'all doing with your bad selves today? I am recovering from my big night out of partayying till 1:00. Woo! Twenty years ago, 1:00 would've been an early night. Sad.
Right after work, the new girl, Poochie, came over. She lives kind of outside town and has hens and goats and cats and dogs and yes, she does have EVERYTHING I WANT. Except she doesn't have a teacup pig, which I still desperately want. At any rate, like me, she was interested in meeting my pets, because it's fun to leave your 50 animals and meet new ones. I don't KNOW why. It just is.
So anyway, Poochie stayed a couple hours and we talked and played with the animals and I offered her no food, as I had a can of tuna and a box of flax, and yes I do understand I suck. I did have wine for her, which Lily drank.
After Poochie left I put on my iTunes, which do not contain a bunch of hits from the last time I went out, during the Clinton administration, or anything, and got all ready. Poochie told me to wear something swingy, and what I discovered is I own nothing swingy. Why? Why is that? So I wore black and pink sparkly jewelry. Because I am annoying.
Here is me guiding my coworker, The Spanish Editor, to my home. She had on lots of sparkly brown, which at least wasn't as making-June-look-boring as sparkly turquoise.
We get downtown to this club, and about 15 of her friends are set to meet us there. There's a huge line outside, and everyone in said line was about seven years old. "I donnn understannn!" she said. She is from Colombia. Do you enjoy my accent? If you were here, I'd sound Finnish. All my accents sound Finnish. "When we come here udder time it fill with people our age. Thirty, forty, not 15 like tonight!"
"Maybe they have different music on different nights," I offered.
"Jesss, that could be." At this point I'm making her sound like Speedy Gonzales. "But ebery udder time, it Saturday night, like tonight."
We both stood there in the street for a second, looking at each other in horror. "OH MY GOD! Eeets Friday night! OH MY GOD!" We giggled among the youngsters. Then we talked about how be BOTH fasted on Thursday this week, thinking they were having these insurance (INsurance) blood tests, but it turns out there was a MEETING about the INsurance and the test is Monday. I was so glad somebody else was all starving and peaked all morning and it wasn't just me.
So we ended up going to this bar right near my house. Dudes. It's RIGHT NEAR MY HOUSE, and it has multiple levels, and dancing, and a band, and outdoor seating with couches and WHO KNEW? I could walk there. Who needs to get out more?
After, she came over and I read her tarot cards, because that's apparently my trademark for getting babes back to my place.
The Spanish Editor is an interesting person. She used to be a journalist, and has been all over the world. She's one of those people who, if she has extra money, will spend it on having fun. I demonstrated for her my Botoxed forehead. Enough said.
All this socializing has exhausted the Eds. I like how a puff of fur has fallen off of him. Honestly, things don't look this filthy here till the camera flashes on them. Look at that bookshelf! Guess I'll, you know, dust today.
I have a date tonight, but in the 39495589020 emails I have exchanged with said…date, we talked about my blog and I said I didn't want him to read it, and he said (a) it feels like my private business and he won't intrude on it and (2) he doesn't want to read about how much I detest him, should I do so. I believe his exact quote was he was worried he'd see, "I've been spending time with this total rube. GOD." Which would be impossible for him to read because have you ever heard me say, "rube"?
So I will not say much about my date. Going on a date. The end. (Ohmygod he is really cool. Okay. Done.)
When I started this thing five years ago, I had no idea this dilemma would come up. I didn't ever think I'd be divorced and dating again and having to worry about my blog. I mean, obviously. How could I know all that? But it is kind of a thing, because it takes up a lot of my day, at this point, and I'll be all, "One of my commentors said…" like that's just a thing people say. But how scary to be someone walking IN to all that.
I should get up now but Iris is asleep on my arm. I will post and you 16% better say amusing things, because it looks like I'm stuck for a whole purry catnap.
I overslept today, although I didn't JUST wake up or anything, which would be pathetic. A few weeks ago, my good alarm clock stopped, you know, alarming me. It still tells the time, but the alarm stopped going off, which is an issue. And you know who doesn't care if I get up? My dogs. They just burrow in and keep with the sleeping, is what they do.
So I went to Target, as I am wont to do, and got me a Hello Kitty alarm clock for $9, which is delightful, except it has no snooze. So every morning at 7:00 Hello Kitty wakes me up and Hello Dogs burrow in and we sleep another half hour till I go OHMYGOD and bound out of bed.
Today I turned off the kitty who greets me and woke up at 7:54. I am supposed to be at work at 8:30. Nice. Looking groomed and put together today. And not at all haphazard.
Therefore I just ordered this:
It's a Pink Moonbeam clock, which is just like the clock I already had whose alarm stopped alarming, except that one was blue.
I think "pink moonbeam" might be my favorite pair of words in the English language. Along with "free kittens."
While I'm writing this, my $20 kitten (they were having a special at the shelter when I got her, did I tell you that? I didn't get a discount because she's blind of anything) is BUGGING ME. First she was biting my necklace, and now she's biting the camera cord.
Bugging. Lucky that she is a muffin muffin muffin wif white feets.
Note I still have a wrinkle in my forehead. Am waiting for Botox to kick in, and because it hasn't, have convinced self that botulism is spreading my throat as we speak and all day I keep asking myself, "Am I breathing?!" It's fun to be me.
Tonight, if the botulism doesn't kill me, I'm going dancing with some of the Spanish editors. At work we have regular English-language editors, and then we have these editors who come from all over, who speak Spanish and can edit Spanish.
Guess who's more fun, in the grand scheme of things? Sometimes a bunch of the Spanish editors will be talking, because in general they're more sociable than the English editors, (and perhaps you picture me as someone who flits from desk to desk all day, just visiting. I am not that person, in fact. My job requires QUIET and NOT BEING BUGGED, VILHELM OYSTER, MY ANNOYING COWORKER WHO IS NOT AN EDITOR!!!) and I'll walk by them in my inevitable outfit of gray. Or black. Or black and gray. And I swear to you all of them, the men and the women, are wearing
and they all smell really good. Good cologne must be a thing when you're, you know, not a boring editor of the English.
Anyway, we're going dancing someplace I've never heard of and I am excited.
Oh, and in other news, I might be a lesbian. I may have been watching that show where Tabitha takes over ("ova") salons, and now inexplicably she is taking over other businesses, and the other day she took over a gay bar in Long Beach. There was a woman bartender, and she was kind of manly, but not Chaz manly. But dudes, she was so hot! And like 25. So not only am I suddenly a lesbian, I am a letch.
Does that make me, you know, bi? Should I go back and change my status to bisexual on that dating site again? Seriously, every time they showed her, I was all WOW! That woman is appealing.
The first person to say, "Not that there's anything wrong with that" gets sold for $20.
I guess I had better go to work again and monitor my breathing for the effects of botulism. Because I'm delightful and fun. Oh, and if I live, the new girl from work is coming over tonight. That's before the Spanish dancing portion of my evening. I know! June. Packing her schedule and liking the ladies since 2012.
Naturally there'll be photos, and y'all missed her SO COOL turquoise high-heeled Mary Janes yesterday. No, she is not a Spanish editor.
DID MY THROAT JUST CLAMP SHUT? I guess not. …This was so worth the money.
P.S. If you did not read the comments yesterday, you missed about 959954 people discussing whether Mary Tyler Moore throws meat or danish into her cart in the opening sequence. See what earth-shattering news of the day you're missing?
Marvin suggested I paint black spots on Edsel and give HIM to the firemen for saving my life the other day. Now, see? That's why Marvin makes the big dollars. Allllways thinking.
What a valuable asset to a fire Edsel would be. "Oh! Oh Edzul God! Oh no! Edzul flap paws uselisslee! Maybe we play wif Edzul blue toy now?"
No one has Dalmatians anymore. Why is that? My grandfather had them. Somewhere there's a picture of one of their Dalmatians lying on the couch, and me using it as a pillow so I can read. The dog looks all, "Okay, I DO this because I know you kick my spotted ass to curb otherwise, but NOT HAPPY ABOUT IT."
Do you like how my story has progressed to the firemen saved my life? Who can take a nothing story and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile? Well, it's me girl and you should know it.
Speaking of old TV shows, AND I JUST WAS, stop being so young, I was next to a woman at work who had one of those commuter mugs, and it had a giant cursive L on it. "Oh, are you Laverne DeFazio?" I asked her, loving my own self as per usual. Loving me is easy cause I'm beautiful.
"?" said the poor girl sitting next to me, who just wanted to learn about our sign-up process for health insurance this year.
"Laverne. Laverne on Laverne and Shirley. How she always had the L– Oh my God. Oh Edsel God. You're too young to know who that is."
It had not occurred to me until that moment that anyone would NOT know the ins and outs of Laverne and Shirley's lives. I mean, I refer to them so often. Basement apartments, obnoxious neighbors, boyfriends who go from rags to riches, milk and Pepsi. There are so many reasons to think about Laverne and Shirley. And now there are legions of actual adults with actual jobs NOT KNOWING WHO THEY ARE. It's like I'm Ethel Mertz talking about my days in vaudeville.
Actually, I mention them at work a lot, because remember my last job, where I got laid off with 40 other people? I see SO MANY of those people at my new workplace, and I often say, "This is like when Laverne and Shirley moved to LA, and then so did everyone else from the show, so even though they were in a whole new place, hey! There's Squiggy!"
In fact, just the other day I ran into the artist (copy editor) formerly known as my next-cubicle neighbor, Jane West. She now sits two floors up from me. "Oh, hey! Your hair looks good!" she said. "Is it darker? It was…" she struggled to describe it for some reason. "It was more…blonder before."
"What exactly do you do for a living?" I asked her. More blonder.
Anyway, I have to go. We get this thorough health check thing at work today for our insurance–INsurance, as they pronounce it here, and the other day I heard myself say it that way and got annoyed with me–but before that I may or may not be getting Botox. So we are supposed to be fasting and yet I will have botulism coursing through my veins.
Cannot wait for my results. "Everything looks good. Except you have a mild case of botulism."
And in case you wondered if Lily is still pretty, she is. Also she adores the webcam, still. NO ONE LIKES THE WEB CAM. She's just like Laverne's stepmother.
Here is the photo I meant to put in. I could see, like, literally the size of a thumbnail when they showed me photos to plunk, and all I could see was blue and white.
Anyway. Last night Iris and I watched a rerun (and I will not show the opening song of What's Happening again, and for that I am sorry) of The Real Housewives, so we could catch up on the season finale. Who sobbed like an idiot during Pandora's wedding, as though she has known Pandora all her life and has been just waiting for this day? Geez, Iris. You're a cat. Get some dignity.
The reason I couldn't watch my regularly scheduled Real Housewives, or houzewives, as Kyle pronounces it when they show next week's episode ("Coming up, on the Real Houzewives…") (which is better than Vickie, who says, "Prevusly on the Real Housewives." Do I ever get resentful that they have millions of dollars and I don't?) is because I was bowling. You never see the real houzewives bowling.
And by the way, the first "I never watch the real housewives of anywhere" comment gets a piece of teensy Iris poo mailed directly to their door.
Could someone PLEASE make me a list of all the things I'm supposed to send to everyone? I know I am supposed to send a yodeling pickle to Funny in My Mind, for some reason. And Joann said I promised her an inflatable swan or something. Who else?
Anyway, yes. I was bowling. We had a fun night at work, because now we have a fun committee at work, which I volunteered to be on but they wouldn't let me be on it. I resent that. What did they think I was gonna DO?
Botox night at June's work! Hey everyone! It's partner swap night! Be here with your keys at 10 p.m.! (For the record, I'm the EDITOR of the company NEWSLETTER, so pfft! to the fun committee. Pfft! Not resentful and bitter. No. NO!)
New girl came, and guess what she had? GUESS WHAT SHE HAD?????
Has she been put on this earth to torture me with good things? I have been coveting the Hello Kitty bowling ball since 2005, when Marvin and I lived right near a bowling alley in LA. And she just SHOWS UP with it.
Anyway. I just want you to know I bowled 105!!! For me, that is excellent. I emailed this photo to my father, who asked, "Now, was that all three games added up?"
Oh evvvveryone's a comedian. That was the best score I got, though. I got tired of lugging those seven pounds after while. Working out is hard.
While we're on the subject of highfalutin' things like bowling, let's not forget my finances. I paid off the credit card with the highest balance on it, so thanks for your advice yesterday. It currently doesn't have interest, but in a few months it will have terrible interest unless I pay part of it. It's the kind of credit card that is interest-free, per purchase, for 12 months. It's the vet credit card.
do it cover cost of edzul senior piktur?
Who has to stop playing with her new app? Also, I had a DREAM about Pinterest last night. I am pathetic.
pintrist far outs, mom.
Seriously. I need to get out more. But even if I get out I can bring my phone and continue playing with this app.
dis piktur not disterbeeng at all, mom. where iris milareea pill?
Are we absolutely certain I should not have taken that windfall and used it for therapy? Or a few weeks at an asylum? Do they say "asylum" anymore or is a nicer euphemism used? "Place for people who put their pets' heads on old pictures." Is there a politically correct term for that?
Okay. Going. And by the way, next time I get married I want every single thing Pandora had at her wedding, down to the last pink sparkle. Someone show my mother what Lisa had on, because my hippie mom is gonna have to sport that. It involves a tiara, mom. Just to warn you. Oh, and the wedding cost a million dollars. You're paying for my next wedding, too, right?
Okay, really going. Before hippie mom pops a cap in my ass.
It has old photos and then you put your own face in there.
Apps. The new way to find yourself looking up seven hours later, going, wait, I'm supposed to be just be HOME FOR LUNCH! Crap!
I always kind of wanted my hair to do that wavy '40s thing. It's almost a mullet.
Anyway. Today I am actually asking for you advice, but JUST ABOUT THIS, so for those of you who cannot wait to get back on and tell me about how repugnant my personality is, forget it.
Remember a few weeks back, when I killed myself to edit a statistics textbook? I got paid for it, and now I can:
What would you do? Or maybe the better Q would be, what would a sensible person do?
I must go to work now and pray that there is nothing to do all day, because not only do I want to play with my hair app, somehow I said, Oh, maybe I'll sign up for Pinterest, and WHO WANTS TO DO NOTHING BUT PIN INTERESTINGLY ALL DAY NOW? Holy cats.
Okay, so advice, please. Someone tell me to blow it all on shopping, because my wardrobe kind of looks like Door Number Three up there.
So, last night I was here, minding my own business, and I love it when people start stories that way. I mean, how many times are you minding someone else's business? Granted, right now you are sitting there minding my business, but whatever.
So, last night I was here, with my binoculars pressed to the window so I could see Peg undress or what have you, when my smoke alarm went off.
I mean, it was awful. You know how it is. Surely yours has gone off before too. Why do we have to have smoke alarms? Can't we just set on fire like the old days?
God. It was obNOXious. So I climbed onto the coffee table and tugged it this way and that till finally I pulled the thing off (official term) and got the battery out.
Dude. It KEPT MAKING THE SOUND. And did I ever tell you that Tallulah is deathly afraid of the smoke alarm? Back when I had a microwave (aaaaand here come the "You don't have a microwave?" comments), it used to set off the smoke alarm on a regular basis for some reason, and Talu was just a pup and it resulted in her developing a phobia of the MICROWAVE, for heaven's sake. You'd go to pop in a potato and she'd shiver her timbers.
I had no idea why the damn thing would keep going if the battery was out, so I got the scisssors, ripped the WHOLE THING down, and cut the wires. I mean, if you'd had an ear-splitting E going on for 15 minutes in your house, you'd risk shock at this point too.
When Francis was a kitten, his mew sounded exactly like he was saying, "eee." Perhaps Fran was back to haunt me. Really loudly. Which would be like him.
OH DEAR GOD. So finally I called nonemergency 911, which I think is 311, I forget now. I had to Google while 850 decibles of E were going off in my medulla.
"mdmfke gmfme eirngns," said the operator.
"WHAT?" I screamed. "There's an alarm going off and I can't hear you!" Because by the way?
I was ready to kill everybody. The alarm inventor, whoever invented fire, the people who brought me the letter E, everyone. Or vryon.
The nonemergency woman at 311 finally bellowed that the fire department had to come over because you never knew why a smoke alarm would be going off. Maybe it was one of those invisible, not-hot, smoke-free fires we've heard so much about.
Wait. Firemen? Who stampeded to her makeup table and primped to the tune of EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE?
I am happy to report that should I ever have an actual fire that needs putting out (hooo-hah), the fire department is over in a jiffy. I would also like to state for the record that not ONE NEIGHBOR has called to check on why the damn fire department was here, although perhaps it was impossible to miss The E! Network, over here.
Why are all firemen cute? Honestly. And they were all huge. Four of them, and they took up the entire living room. And you know how Edsel is. He loves people coming over, and he really loves men, and he REALLY REALLY loves manly men. In fact, when I was briefly dating a fireman (yes, I did think of calling him, but it seemed like a rude thing to do. "Hi! We haven't talked in months. Will you come fix my E?"), Edsel crawled up on the guy's lap, curled into a ball and fell asleep. He has never never done that with me.
"SO I GUESS YOU GOT A SMOKE ALARM GOING OFF!" Cute #1 said.
"OH, DO I? YOU'RE THE EXPERT!" I said, loving my own self. I was at this point in full makeup and had lifted and separated myself in my bra. I'd also thrown all my laundry and magazines and dishes that had been strewn about into the spare room, and prayed to God the fire was not in there.
In the meantime, Edsel had tied on my hottest hostess apron and was serving drinks. Oh, you should have seen him waggle and simper and smile at everyone, and to my dog trainer's credit, neither cur jumped on a single fireman.
The cats had dug to CHINA, so traumatized were they.
Anyway, they, too (the firemen, not the cats) couldn't figure out why the alarm continued to EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE, and they asked if I had any other alarms in the house.
Had they not met Marvin? I have carbon monoxide alarms, weather alarms, burglar alarms, alarmists–you name it. Sadly, they asked if I had a CO2 alarm and I said, "No, but I have a carbon monoxide alarm." Later, mortified, I Googled it.
Dudes, they went in the attic, they moved furniture, they COULD NOT GET IT TO STOP. Then Cute #3, who was wearing a wedding ring as ALL OF THEM WERE, and COULD YOU THROW ME A BONE, GOD? said, "Oh! Look!"
Do y'all remember that stupid stupid stupid pad I bought a few months back? It was supposed to remain on the couch and beep when dogs jumped on it? That dumb thing never worked on the dogs, as they would just contort themselves to avoid it, so I put it on a shelf. Well, somehow it'd fallen over onto itself, AND THAT IS WHAT WAS BEEPING!
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," I said, humiliated. The firemen laughed. All four of them. With their white teeth. I told them what it was, and said, "It doesn't work."
"Well, technically it WORKS," said Cute #4.
Then they noticed my smoke alarm on the table, and the fine collection of wires hanging from my ceiling, and after yelling at me for potentially shocking myself (I look at myself naked every day. Nothing's shocking after that), they commenced fixing it. Cute #1 turned off my breakers, then they all shone flashlights on the smoke alarm while Cute #2 wired it back up. I noticed Cute #3 holding Edsel's toy behind his back and playing tug-of-war with Eds while he flashlighted, and I decided that's the one I'd marry if he WEREN'T ALREADY MARRIED.
AGAIN, God. BONE!
Finally, my smoke alarm got finished, and I thanked them all and Edsel handed them the poem he had written them–Too Fyremin: I LOFF YU! and they were ready to go.
"Is this the dumbest call you've ever had to make?" I asked. I remember The Fireman who I dated complaining that you never see a cat skeleton in a tree.
"Mmmm. Second-dumbest," smiled Cute #3, as he manfully swung out my door.
Now I am obsessed with what could have been dumber. Do you think he was just being nice? Or blowing smoke up my–oh, never mind.
I set the damn alarm for 8:00 and not 7:00 and I woke up at 7:45 with a start because it was light out and I knew that was not right. This means I have to wait till tomorrow to tell you why there were four firemen in my house last night.
I hate everything.
Ooo! Maybe I can tell you at lunch. I will try to tell you at lunch.
Before I tell you about the worst date of all time, which in fact is not even true because once in 1988 a guy picked me up already drunk then told me I was white trash before appetizers, and really THAT one was worse, I have two important details to tell you, even though last night's date said, "Why does anyone want to read your minutiae?"
So hang on while I fill you in on the minutiae, will you?
Minuatiae #1: I really haven't been talking to Marvin a lot, but yesterday I was driving to Raleigh and America's Top 40 with Casey Kasem was on. Is it Kasey Kasem? I'd look it up but I don't feel like it because I am in a bad mood. On my satellite radio, every Saturday they'll play America's Top 40 from the current week, but from a year from 1970-1979. This week they were playing 1979.
Well. You know that's a good year. So I am afraid I called Marvin and got his voicemail. And perhaps I may have sung Don't Cry Out Loud by Melissa Manchester.
You know, I never insist you watch the embedded video. Dude. Today I insist. I don't care if you're driving. I don't care if you're gonna get fired. It is seriously the most disturbing thing you have ever seen.
Anyway, you know how I am. Oh, how I bellowed into Marv's voicemail, because you know how he always enjoyed my singing voice. And how I was not banned from singing in the house at all.
What I did not know was that Marvin was at a conference, right next to his boss, and that he tried to surreptitiously listen to his voicemail during some lecture, and apparently the DON'T CRYYYYY OUT LOUUUUUD! Just keep it inSIIIDE! was so loud, people starting turning around to look at him.
Do you know who misses me?
Minutiae #2: Once I got to my hairdresser, she came around to the side of my face to paint on some color, and she said, "If your eyelashes get any longer they're gonna look FAKE! Holy crap!"
I adore my Latisse. So bad.
Anyway, finally it was time to paint on a smile and take up with some clown, so I headed over to the restaurant to meet my date. And just to recap, I went out with this guy once, in October, literally two days after Daniel Boone and I broke up. I sobbed the whole way to the restaurant, dried my eyes because I am not one of those people who get all blotchy after crying, had THE BEST TIME, then got in the car and cried the whole way home.
So I didn't see the guy after that because I was too caught up in the Daniel Boone thing, but at Christmas this guy'd emailed me and I said, "You were so great. Whatever happened, there?" and he was all, "I'll tell you what happened. You broke my heart a little because I thought we had a great time." So we decided to go on another date.
I walked in and there he was and he is still really cute. He is. Even though he may as well slapped me repeatedly with a bag of marbles and the evening would've been more rewarding, I do have to say he is cute.
"You look really good!" he said. So, yay. We think the other is attractive. That pretty much ended the positive portion of the evening.
I thought things were going well, as the conversation was flowing, but the thing is, if you're with me there's never gonna be a lull, you know? So maybe I should stop using that as a gauge. "So, in these three months, all you've had are casual dates? Nothing has stuck?" I asked him.
"No, that's not exactly true. There is one person who's asking for exclusivity and I said I'd think it over."
"When did that happen?"
"So, am I the deciding factor? I feel awful."
"No, no. I went out with someone last night, too. You're not the deciding factor."
So that was disconcerting. And then he said, "I don't think I'd want to keep up with you. It's too exhausting. All the witty banter back and forth. I don't know if I'd want to work that hard."
Wow. I mean. Wow. Where is it written that if I say something funny you have to say something hilarious back? Is that what people think? Am I that scary? I don't WORK to say funny things back. And every single thing I say isn't hilarious. I'm no Shecky Green.
THEN…yes, then, there's more, he said, "I don't know. I think you're too intimidating. With the being smart and quick and famous."
Famous? And smart and quick are bad things?
And that's when he started trashing my blog. "What IS your blog address, anyway? I know you're gonna write about me, and I stopped reading it last time after I wasn't mentioned anymore. I really don't get your blog."
There have been times in my life when in retrospect I've thought, why didn't I just get up and leave? And last night was one of those times. Honestly I was so stunned that it took me till I got halfway home to even feel anything.
And that thing was rage.
But at the moment, I handed him my fancy new blog card. "Oh, the woman I'm seeing would hate this. She'd get all suspicious about what this was."
"So, are you going to decide to see her exclusively?" I asked. I caught on because I'm quick. And famous.
"Yeah, I'm gonna do it." And then he got out his phone and showed me pictures of her and began reading her texts.
So I went on a date with someone and they decided they wanted to be exclusive. With someone other than me. Honestly, am I covered in Repulsivity Shield? I know that isn't a thing but I swear I have it. Kind of like gingivitis. Didn't advertisers just kind of make that up?
I called Tall Boy on the way home, who I am seeing a movie with today and who by the way is also seeing someone exclusively, and did I ever tell you we broke up because he wasn't ready to date exclusively?
"I GIVE UP!" I screeched at Tall Boy. I told him the whole story, and he insisted my blog is hilarious, which believe it or not was the worst part of all that, and somehow TB knew that and I'm glad that's what he dwelled on. "I mean, your minutiae is funny. If you can make that crap funny, people read it."
Then he had to go email the woman he's dating exclusively.
Oh my god, I hate everything. Oh! But my hair is good! Here:
FYI, am never getting out of Christmas flannel pajamas, so enjoy them. It is my version of Miss Havisham. I will be Miss Havingalife.
I am sad about Heidi Klum and Seal, which is not at all pathetic of me, because I know them really well and Heidi Klum and I are like this. But they always seemed so happy, and like such a hot couple, and once again I'd like to remind you of the many times they came over and the marathon phone sesh Heidi and I had that time.
To add patheticness to delusion, I checked America's Top News Source, TMZ, to get the full story, and of course there WAS none, other than they have irreconcilable differences. Gee, do they? That tells us a lot. But in the comments someone said, "Seal looks like my ass with teeth."
And I am sorry but I fell out my chair in hysterics. Because you know that's awful. And yet hilarious. Ass with teeth. Poor Seal.
While I'm on the topic of stalking people, you know how I love the new girl at work?
LOVE.HER. Do you think she'd think it was weird if I followed her around with my bottom teeth out like Edsel?
Here are the shoes she wore to work yesterday.
No, seriously. Like, if I rested my chin on her desk while she worked, that's no big deal, right? And did the Edsel sigh? Hmmmmmmmmm.
you no, edzul resent. do not spend ALL day followeeng m–oh who edz kiddeeng. where you go now, mom?
I must go now, because Iris has her follow-up vet appointment.
There is a chance they may have to remove her wonky eye altogether.
I will inform you as developments warrant. Oh, did I tell you I have a second date with the guy from the other night? Whose blog name is going to be Ranger Johnson, and we did not get that from doing the porn name thing at all. His dad had, like, four dogs as a kid through the years and named them all Ranger. Then when this guy was a kid, they got a dog and guess what they named it?
I mean, take EIGHT SECONDS and think of something else. How could you refer to the dogs of the past? "Remember when Ranger got that skunk?" You'd be all, wait. Which EFFING RANGER?
iris see gud! playing! playing gud! not to take out eye, pleez.
*You know, I heer it just awful, Iris. Terrible surguree. Lily haf many storee she can tell you.*
Okay. Going. Not berserk today at all.
A few days ago, in the labyrinth of my comments, Faithful Reader Jan made the fateful mistake of telling us all that she used to write poetry about her boyfriends when she was sad in high school.
I told Jan she was banned from my blog until she came up with said poetry. You should know that a few years back, I had to have a stupid MRI for my migraines and it was no big deal but of course I MADE it a big deal, but Jan really DID have a big medical deal and as soon as she woke up from HER thing, she asked her sister, "Did June get her MRI results yet?"
So what I'm saying is I'm a super, super good person.
Without further ado, let's all laugh at Jan's pain and angst.
Poor Jan. She lost something once solid. So did I, when I had that stomach bug the other day. Also, Jan, I work right next to a poet, and not only is she a poet, she TRAVELS THE COUNTRY because she is asked to READ said poems in major cities all the time. Also, she just won a national award.
I forwarded her your poems. Oh, you are welcome. It was nothing.
I always like a comma after 70 question marks. Poor Jan. Her feelings ceased. Or someone's did. I guess hers didn't. Her heart died and her eyes cried. I mean, I glean she was the heart-dier and eye crier from this scenario. Also, Nancy Kerrigan called. Wants her line back.
Was there ANYONE who had just a smooth time in high school? "High school? Oh, I was a cheerleader and had one boyfriend and we never broke up. My skin was clear and I had great friends and nothing bad happened. Ever. I never went around singing Open Arms like it was good."
If there is anyone who had that experience, please leave a comment and your address, so the rest of us can come toilet paper your house.
In other news, when I wasn't receiving dog flowers (see post below), I went on a date last night and could not find my skirt. I hate everything. I mean, I didn't lose my skirt DURING the date, which would have rendered it way more PG-rated than it was. But I'd planned the outfir days ago, and was going to wear my gray skirt and lacy black top, and I even HAD THE SKIRT IN MY HANDS and said, Oh, good. Skirt's clean.
Then when it was time to get ready, do you think that #$%$&#&# thing was anywhere? ANYWHERE? And have you ever tried to frantically search your house with 100 pounds of dog and two cats DIRECTLY UNDER YOU at all times? Why do I have the clingiest animals ever created?
So I wore jeans. I mean, I wore a shirt too, but the whole thing was not what I had planned and here. I took a picture right before I left.
And here I am, back home, at 10:12. No worse for the wear, really. Wouldn't it be sad if I did not go on a date at all last night and I just sat here for three hours and 15 minutes and took these photos?
Anyway, further reports on that as developments warrant. And this was not the guy who I owe a date to because I got sick. I am getting my roots done Saturday in Raleigh and am seeing him after. Although he does not live in Raleigh. I realize that made little sense.
I guess that's all I had to tell you, except I have no cavities and spent $95 on a new Oral B. I already HAVE an Oral B and if you do not have one I highly recommend it. First of all, my checkups are way better and no, I'm not getting paid to say this. Plus I'm certain its better for the environment to throw away a small toothbrush head rather than a whole toothbrush. But I've had my Oral B, and how many times can I say "Oral B," for a few years now, and the handle itself was not really clean and I couldn't GET it clean and it was bugging me. So I got another one. And my hygienist told me to stop putting so much toothpaste on the teensy brush head.
I know that was riveting.
And I do have one more thing I almost forgot. I would never vote for Newt Ginrich. You know how I feel about political things. I HATE the attitude that people who don't agree with us politically must be idiots, or the enemy, or pure evil. But I do not agree with him and would never vote for him based on that. However? I am 100% in support of him on this.
I do! What someone says to his WIFE, while they are struggling to keep their MARRIAGE afloat, is (a) none of our business no matter what and (3) does not make him lacking in character. It just doesn't. It's ridiculous. And petty. And I similarly didn't care what Bill Clinton was doing over there with a dress from The Gap, either. Could we move on from people's personal lives?
If we looked at ANY of our personal lives, we'd find something that looked not-so-great. Geez.
That's all I have to say about that. Jan, could you write a poem about it?
I just got back from having dinner with The Other June, and I am writing this before I go to bed. I have a dentist appointment early Thursday morning, so I am writing my post at night, and let me tell you. Things are fascinating over here at House of June.
I hate getting my teeth cleaned. It makes me nervous. And my dentist always comes in after and says, "Mmm. MMMMM! Oh, mmmm. Yeah, how long have you had that old filling?" He's always trying to get ye olde filling replaced that Benjamin Franklin put in for me in 1742, and hadn't Benjamin Franklin been long dead by 1742? June. Knowing her history.
Anyway, my blacksmithed filling is still working FINE, and I don't see why it can't stay in there. It makes a great weather vane, too!
In other news, The Other June and I had a delicious dinner at a pretentious restaurant that serves Southern food, which is kind of redundant. I mean, we're in the South. It's kind of funny to me that they have a fancy restaurant where you can go get…Southern food. Nevertheless, everything was just effing delicious and I highly recommend it. It's called the Southern something-or-other. Get there tout suite.
After dinner, The O.J. came to my house so she could meet Iris and Lily. In the time she has known me, she has met baby Henry,
Baby Anderson Cooper:
and now baby Iris.
Could I stop PLOWING THROUGH CATS, PLEASE?
Also, she came to visit not-baby Lily.
Lily gets her own font, with asterisks, she is so pretty.
And in case you wonder what the hell happened to all those cats because you just got here last Tuesday or something, Marvin took Henry when he left, then delicate, gay Anderson hated living with dogs so I said to Marvin, "Maybe you'd better take Anderson too." So now Anderson and Henry live in connubial bliss, even though I don't really know what connubial means. Then Roger got killed last month and let's talk about that a lot because that doesn't still make me miserable to think about our anything, so I got Iris and Lily at the pound just now.
Anyway. Oh! And before I got up with The Other June and we had our redundant Southern food and she once again met some cats I got, I got me a manicure over at the Elegant Nails & Tan. To which I say, "Define elegant."
My point is, my manicurist talked me into getting this gel manicure, which supposedly will stay on for the rest of my life.
We had a big talk, the manicurist and I, about how she studied French in high school and then in college studied accounting and forgot all her French, then got here and knew very little English. I always wonder how bad it must be to have to move here, give up all that schooling, thrust yourself into a country where you don't know the language, and have to work six days a week as a manicurist.
She works way more than 40 hours a week. She works the whole time the salon is open. How dreadful. Oh! And the woman next to me works for the place that invented those faces on trees. You know how you can buy those woody-looking faces for your tree? Yeah. Also, before she left for her manicure, she told her husband, "I put dinner in the oven, but you have to check it once in awhile." He said, "Well, what am I looking for?"
She was irritated. Also there were two women there getting pedicures and drinking wine. The woman who invented the tree faces told me those women come in all the time. Bring their own cooler. I noticed it took them an hour and a half to drink one glass of wine. What is the point of schlepping a whole cooler of alcohol to the pedicure place if you're not going to drink alcoholically?
I guess that's all I have to tell you. Except that we have a new woman at work and I love her. Today she wore a leopard skirt, a pink shirt with a big flowery frilly thing, and pink sparkly shoes. And she has this framed print in her office that is a picture of Cinderella, and the picture is from the book I had as a kid.
I actually have never done hallucinogens. Unless you count Benadryl, which makes me see funny colors and jump off high-rises because suddenly I have peacock wings that fly.
I should totally frame these, shouldn't I? Aren't they beautiful? When I really couldn't read I used to make up stories that went with them, kind of like now with the swan allergy story. Not much has changed through the years, except now I apparently have Lincoln Park on my nails for life.
Hold still, darling, and we'll just jooge your flower a little and–voila! FABULOUUUUS! Ernesto, bring that mirror, you lazy antelope. You'd let the lion eat you if it meant moving off the plain while Real Serengeti Wives was on. Oh, sweetheart, you're GORGEOUS! I could EAT YOU UP if I weren't a grass-eating queen!
Maybe I need to get out more.
Talk to you tomorrow, when I have sparkly new teeth. I mean, except for ye olde fyllyng from Geoffrey Chaucer.
I hate it when I'm dreaming about work and then the alarm goes off. I really should be getting paid for that time. Also? I cannot begin to tell you how annoying it is that the moment I wake up, Edsel straddles me and licks me on the lips. It's disgusting. I feel all Lucy Van Pelt. DOG GERMS! GET THE IODINE!
Must he do it right on the LIPS? No wonder I got sick. Blech. Why must that dog be so passionately in LOVE with me? It's irritating.
Last night the Tall Boy came over, as planned, to watch Say Anything. It goes without saying that he liked it, and I do not want anymore annoying discussion in the comments about "Oh, was that the movie where John Cusak travels to LA to bang a chick?" If you haven't seen it, just do not TELL me. Cause you're gonna make me mad. Did I not say it was required viewing for this blog? I did. Don't MAKE me come there and smack you with Joan Cusak's liver.
I don't know why I had to pick Joan.
The point is, we made these elaborate plans and I don't even own the movie. I guess the other 494954 times I've watched it we Netflixed it or it was just on or something. So I had to go on Amazon and buy it. I did not TRAVEL TO the Amazon, which would've been dramatic.
How would Lloyd Dobbler have wooed Diane Court in 2012? Sent her a YouTube video of In Your Eyes? Because it's not the same. Texted her? "standg in yr yrd. n yr eyz. th lgt th heet. yr eyz. lol."
Anyway, Tall Boy said that Edsel was night and day different, with his new fancy raining. Raining. TRAINING. His new fancy training. He also rains. Am hoping to make million dollars from this new trick. Edsel did not jump on Tall Boy, which would have required a javelin anyway, and he did not get all up in TB's grille when we were eating. During the movie, Eds curled up in his dog bed and went to sleep. Tallulah ambled to actual bed and flumped into her regularly scheduled slumber.
Iris, however, slept purring on Tall Boy the entire movie. I do not know if I've mentioned to you that Iris is a blind tramp. She will sleep on anybody. Mostly because she has no idea if this is the same or a whole new person. But she purrs like a grinder and charms everyone with her teensy while paws.
I would have taken pictures of this but I was too busy watching Say Anything. And I am sorry to tell you that every scene where Cory is obsessed with Joe tickles me anew, even though I've seen it 200 times. "Her family is being ripped apart. Like Joe and I were ripped apart."
Who got obsessed like that in her high school years? Was it June? Had June been able to play the guitar, would she have written 65 songs about Cardinal, her high school boyfriend who now reads this blog? Hello, Cardinal. You invade my soul. Okay, you don't, but sometimes you invade the comments.
Oh, and speaking of my many nonboyfriends, yesterday on this very blog, there was an ad at the side for dog flowers.
I found the link for the flowers, which wasn't tough because the ad was on my own blog and all, and sent it to, oh, 80 of my friends. I also included my work address and said anyone who wanted to send me dog flowers could feel free.
I got a lot of "don't hold your breath" replies, WHICH I AM. I AM HOLDING MY BREATH TILL I GET THE FLOWERS, and WON'T YOU FEEL BAD WHEN I DIE, and I also got this from a different ex-boyfriend:
Okay, I must shower before getting into my street attire. I feel bad about Dooce. She and her husband separated. Did y'all see that? I feel like I know her. It bothered me all night.
Maybe Dooce needs a nice dog flower bouquet. I could have them send it with something on the dog's head, like Chuck always has.
Okay, really going now. Because like dog flowers, this post was necessary and unridiculous.
My life has been redackulous since before Christmas. Have you noticed that? Have you gone around thinking of little else other than my life since Christmastime? Why not?
First I had the incident with the money, where I accidentally sent $1,600 to a credit card, when I meant to send $200 (I clicked the wrong CALENDAR on their website. That's all I did! I clicked the right DOT to pay $200, but then they asked, "Wait! What day did you want to pay?" and they directed me back to the page, and I clicked the calendar–the CALENDAR!!–next to the "pay my whole bill" thing, and it paid my stupid credit card $1,600. Yes, I do owe that much on my credit card. It's my vet credit card. What did you THINK was on that thing? Have you met my life?).
So I went all of Christmas with negative $600 in my checking account before I got THAT straightened out, and I still owe my stepgrandmother a Christmas gift. My stepgrandmother, who has 97378 real grandchildren, yet never forgets to send me a birthday and a Christmas card, each with $20 in them.
I am a jerk.
Then I had 58 visitors from Christmas till after the new year, and it doesn't bug me at all when people capitalize "new year" incorrectly.
As soon as everyone left, I had an ENORMOUS book due for the statistics textbook company for whom I freelance, an even bigger one than usual. It had line numbers and articles that I had to compare word-for-word, and references at the end of each article that I had to compare letter by letter, and an answer key that also referenced the dang line numbers, and I wonder if you could just club me about the head.
And if that weren't pressure enough, then I had to get all SICK, and be unable to even SIT UP without waves of hideous nausea crashing over me, rendering me unable to look at the book for days at a time, so even though the book was supposed to be mailed out yesterday for Tuesday delivery, I didn't get it in the
box until after 11:00 p.m. Because it was not imperative that I watch the extra-long Real Housewives last night while I worked. Or anything. They added an extra 15 minutes last night, because there was too much drama to pack in to just an hour.
If you ever catch me dating a man who looks or acts like Ken, I want you to club me about the head more than you just did. Ken the hideous one, not Ken the endearing Brit with the mullet. Did he really need to stand outside the bathroom UNENDINGLY like that? Irritating.
If you do not watch Real Housewives, there is just no reason to read this blog. In fact, I don't see how you can read this blog if you haven't seen It's a Wonderful Life, Say Anything or Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.
Which leads me to my point. The Tall Boy, who I dated for precisely one month of my life (Tall Boy. November-November 2011), has never seen Say Anything, and this bugs the CRAP out of me. It does. What in hell has he been doing since 1989 that could be remotely better than watching Say Anything? Huh? What? WHAT? Bagging women? Writing a book, which he did? Having a cool job and living in New York, which he also did? Oh, so what. SEE SAY ANYTHING.
So tonight, he is coming over and we are watching it. We have been trying to arrange this night for 48 nights, but I kept working or barfing or working and barfing. The house is a wreck, and you know how tidy he is, but tough shitsky, said the sailor. My grandmother used to say that and I have no idea what it means.
Do you think I should give up on trying to get Fed Ex dollars? How long have I been trying to suck up to them with that
thing? Like, four years now? Have I gotten one thin dime from those em effs?
we luff momma. too maaach.
WHEN HARRY MET SALLY! I don't see how you can read this blog without having watched that, either. "You mean Joe is available?"
I had a dream. I had a dream that I was vehemently arguing with someone that "e.g." was really a thing. No, seriously, I had a dream about that. "It's LATIN!" I was yelling.
And this is why there isn't a June Gardens Day.
Anyway. In honor of dreams, and Martin Luther King, I bring you the following:
It's a little-known fact that at the very end of that, he says, "I similarly have a dream that everyone shall know that e.g. is a thing."
Do y'all remember that hot hot hot hottie hot man who owns the midcentury modern furniture store here? And how I love him and wish to bear his–okay, let's not go crazy. I would bear his grudges.
In case you never read about it because you were busy with your FAMILY at Christmas, to which I say hmph, there is a man in my town who owns this furniture store, and he's from London, and he is the most spectacular-looking man on planet Earth, and in years past I always always bought something for Marvin in that store, because I was unfaithful in my mind (and before you judge me, you should see the 3949499393 photos of this red-haired band girl Marvin has from LA from when we were married), and then THIS year I shamelessly went into that store and bought something for my stepsister.
"HELLO!" I said, wearing only tassels, 9-inch lucite heels and a neon sign pointing at my fallopian tubes. "I'm SINGLE this year! What can I get for my stepsister? NOT FOR MY HUSBAND!! Would you like me to shake my tassels?"
What I'm saying is I was subtle. Not at all obvious about my single status. Did not at all cut off my ring finger with the wedding ring on it and hand the bloody stump over to him or anything. Did not bring my wedding album and burn it in front of him and do a ritual dance in the lucite heels. Nosir.
And did he care? He did not. "How about a nice midcentury modern clock for your stepsister?" he asked politely.
So yesterday I was toiling away here at home, proof proof proofreading my statistics book, when my pal Dick Whitman FORCED me out of the house to go see a movie. And by forced I mean he said, "Let's go see a movie" and I said, "All right." We saw Sleeping Beauty, which was a pretentious independent film involving a lovely woman being naked a lot.
Afterward, I said, "Let's go to the pretentious hotel near here and get a drink" because God forbid I go back home and get to work. Naturally Dick Whitman was down with that because he is a bad influence. And even worse, he ordered some kind of cheese lobster sausage hello abdomen appetizer.
We were over there enjoying our own selves when I tell you I was RIVETED to the man walking past me. I mean, for me to look up from a cheese lobster sausage appetizer, with toast points, there has to be something major going on.
It was the midcentury modern man!
"GASP!" I said. Although I didn't technically SAY the word gasp. Even though I am thinking that would be funny if I started just saying "gasp." And not at all obnoxious. "Gasp! It's the midcentury modern guy!"
Sadly, Dick Whitman knew who I meant, because everyone knows my every detail at all times. "Oh, is that him? Geez, he is handsome."
"I KNOWWWW!" I hissed, my eyes popping out on coils, a-oooga sounds coming from the steam rising out my head.
"Go say hi," said Dick Whitman, shoveling cheese appetizer into his gullet without a care in the world.
See. I can't do stuff like that. Go say hi. Who does he think I am? Snookie? I'm not brimming with confidence and joie de vivre.
Midcentury guy was right at the NEXT TABLE, and can I tell you I was not that impressed with his date? Okay, she had a better body than me. She was one of those thin, tight, works-out-daily-in-a-million-years-would-not-be-eating-this-appetizer people. But she did not have the lofty elegance of the June, here. See above reference to fallopian tubes.
What I finally did was walk past their table on the way out, and he looked right at me so I said, "Hey!" He seemed to kind of recognize me, but I was RUNNING OUT OF THERE so quickly I have no idea if he said hi back.
"That was IT?" said the apparently bold Dick Whitman, who would have sat right down and gotten to second with the guy, had it been him. "Yes, that was it!" I said nervously. "And why did we leave this way? Now we have to traipse the long way through the cold parking lot."
So that was my excitement last night. Do you think he ditched old tight body, desperately searched his December receipts and is holding my phone number in his hot British hand right now? Do you? DO YOU!?!