God, moving is awful.
Talk amongst yourselves.
In the meantime, I was perusing all the stupid photos I've taken with this computer through the years. Self-involved much?
But on to the next thing!
God, moving is awful.
Talk amongst yourselves.
In the meantime, I was perusing all the stupid photos I've taken with this computer through the years. Self-involved much?
But on to the next thing!
My nails are a mess and all the emery boards have been packed away, I have a bruise on my shin now, and my left calf is not working. Yesterday was the hardest of all the damn moving days, so far.
I painted the front door–it's green on the outside and white inside. Then I touched up chips on door frames and so on. Then? I weeded.
Oh dear god.
I weeded for hours. Who knew I had this many damn weeds? And everything still looks weedy, if you ask me. But I give up at this point.
NedKitty is similarly enjoying her boxes, having no idea she will be sharing boxes with The Enemy in a few days. Ned, who is obsessed with that cat, went to the vet and got her some composure pills and a pheromone collar, both of which she's been taking for a week now and she seems much more outgoing as a result. "NedKitty feel great! Not no wy. We got any Doreetoes?"
"You know how my cats are going to handle this move?" I asked him. "They're gonna suck it up and take it like men." Composure pills. Jesus. Ned pointed out she is literally taking a chill pill.
I had to go to Target yesterday, because you can't move anywhere without going to Target 49 times a day, and next door is a PetSmart, where they were having dog adoption day, and who with the eleventy things she had to do took time out to look at dogs, do you think? There was a yellow puppy there, aka my type, and he was just little and his PAWSES WERE GIANT! Oh, it was cute. Every step he took, flop flop flop with those big feets. Naturally I adopted him and he's here now. You don't think Ned will notice, do yo?
Back when I was married to Marvin, I'd often head to that shopping center on weekends, and they were pretty much always having pet adoptions on weekends. Inevitably, I'd call him from the PetSmart. He'd pick up the phone with, "No," before I even got started. Whatever with Marvin.
I notice that Ned keeps saying, "I even love Edsel." He always says it that way. "I love ALL your pets. Even Edsel." As if Edsel needs an "even." Geez. I saw my next-door neighbor Paul (not to be confused with my ancient neighbor Paul, who I have not seen yet to say goodbye) and he said, "I thought you might be moving, with all the stuff going on over here lately. I'll miss you, but I won't miss Edsel."
Edsel tends to bark. All the time. I hope our new neighbors don't abhor us.
I had better get ready for work. It hurts to type. Did I also mention I burned my thumb? I have these stupid tiny square lights in the hall, and they're encased in metal, and of course the two middle lights burned out for the first time in six and a half years. Of course. I'd been in the attic, and when I shut the attic door, I noticed the two middle lights not working, and grabbed one.
It was like that scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark, where that guy gets the medallion burned into his hand. I hate everything.
Oh, and here's my Purple Clover for the week. It's about how I'm sick and tired of introverts. Aaaaand hateful comments start now.
We were a lot cuter when the day began. I brought the dogs on the porch for a last portrait in front of the house. Ever since Talu had her incident, you have to bribe her with treats or cat intestines or the head of Peg to get her to come out anymore.
It's amazing how frazzled my hair can get when I am frazzled. My boss has been out of the office for two weeks, and I've had to do a lot more work, and even though all I'm doing is staring intensely at papers and screens all day, by the end of a busy day my hair stands all on end, like I've seen a mouse.
The reason my hair looks like that one heroin-addicted chick from Orange is the New Black today is because I've been working like a demon. I really thought I had the packing thing under control, because certainly you haven't heard me talk about packing for the last 9,000 days or anything. But once you start really trying to eliminate every last thing, it turns out you aren't remotely in control. Of anything. Ever.
And is there much worse than opening a drawer or cupboard and SON OF A BITCH, you haven't cleaned that out yet? God DAMMIT.
Speaking of Peg, today I called her to ask if I could use her recycle bin, because you can imagine how not-at-all-full mine is. "Oh, sure, but mine's pretty full," she told me. She told me she's been feeling poorly again, and the doctors can't figure it out, and she's not been well enough to take the trash cans to the curb.
"Why don't I come roll those out for you, Peg," I said, because I am a magnificent person. You guys. Her trash and recycle bin were so completely full that I could barely move them. And they're on wheels! She hasn't been able to roll those things for weeks. I feel terrible for her. Poor Peg. Now I feel bad that I'm leaving her.
Also, because God frowns upon me, the wheel to my picket fence leading to the back yard fell off, so with all my spare time, Ned and I had to schlep to not one but two home repair stores, which by the way always make me feel sick. I honestly cannot tell you what it is. Maybe it's seeing people preparing to work hard. I don't know. But whenever I go into one of those places I feel dizzy and nauseated.
They gave us this, like, cone of free popcorn when we walked in, and once we'd wolfed that down I did a Madonna-with-a-mastectomy impression, and then a unicorn, and then pretended I had a cone-shaped penis because we were in such a manly store. I held it in front of me and talked in a low, manly voice. You'd never have known I wasn't a dude.
Ned seemed to walk several paces in front of me.
Then I wanted to look at drawer pulls, because there were so many pretty ones, but Ned dragged me over to the nails and that's when I got all giggly about the dirty things.
Anyway, we fixed the damn thing, and then I spent all day hauling and packing and cleaning and hauling and shoving and grunting and hating the world. Oh, and I bought weed killer, and look, I'd judge me, too. I have never bought weed killer, because I'm a green screw, but I am desperate because renters coming.
Having never bought any, I asked the sales boy at Target who just this morning became a fertilized cell. When I spoke to him he'd just developed ear buds, so that was a plus.
"Do you know where I can find weed killer?" I asked, feeling like someone who burns styrofoam. Oh, the guilt.
"Is that a video game?"
I swear to you. That's what he said. Is that a video game. Jesus.
Anyway, now I am headed to Ned's, who if you can believe this wants to go out tonight, because it's his last weekend living downtown. Driving all the old men crazy. So it'd behoove me to shower, because am currently disgusting.
Pretty soon I'll have to pack this computer, so when I go dark don't freak out like you do. Joooon! Are you dead JOOOOOON?!
I have gotten a few Freaky Friday submissions since Peter's chilling tale. Here's one from Jeanne.
My mother used to tell a story about me: When I about four, I found my mother weeping and asked her why. She told me it was my late grandmother’s birthday and that she missed her mother. I left the room and came back about ten minutes later holding my hand in the air. When my mother asked what I was doing, I said that I had brought my grandmother to visit. I don’t remember having my hand in the air— I do remember walking from my mother’s bedroom to mine, and stopping in the doorway because even though the room was empty, I felt like there was someone there. And then I remember being picked up.
Twenty years later, I was at a friend’s house and told her the story. She asked if I’d ever had that sensation again, as if there was someone in what seemed to be an empty room. When I said that I occasionally had that feeling, she asked if I’d felt it in her house. Without thinking, I pointed to the next room and said, “Well, there’s something by the dining room window.”
The next day she told her neighbor what I’d said and the neighbor got a weird look on her face. She told my friend that the previous occupant of the house had been a sickly old man who sat for hours looking out that window every day for the last ten years of his life.
OooooWEEEEEOoooooo! Jeanne freaks me out.
I leave you now with something I found while I was (WAIT FOR IT!) (WAAAAAAIT!) packing. When my mother turned 60, she asked Marvin to write a song for her. So he did. You'll never guess what my mom's name is after you hear it.
I hope you can click on it and play. Kills me. Marvin was funny. Okay, I'm out. Have a fine weekend and please give me words of cheer because all I will be doing is schlepping and cleaning, cleaning and schlepping.
Well, I'm ALMOST packed. I know it's taking forever, but I'm going through a whole house and shed and attic and Marvin's stuff and besides, I usually get bored after an hour.
That bag is one final (maybe final?) bag of clothes to go to Goodwill, who I actually have not donated to that much, because what happened to all their drop boxes? I keep donating to this yellow drop box, and I have no idea what charity I'm helping. The Charity to Help Kill Baby Gorillas. Hey! Here are more clothes! Good luck with that!
The Ashley Wilkes is Hot Foundation
Friends of Gwynneth Paltrow
The Barfing, Yay! Group
Okay, I'm done.
Shelves in hallway.
Shelf above stove. When I was packing, I grabbed this old tin of hot chocolate from up there to throw it away, and it rattled. In 1812, Marvin put spare keys in there, and the cats' ID tags. This would have been good to know, say, four years ago.
You can tell what's important to me: salt, pepper and coffee. I like to add both to my coffee. Mmm-mmmm! I can describe this chicken in two words: mmm-mmmmm!
Faithful Reader and Friend in Real Life Lilly came by yesterday and left me "some boxes" on my porch. When I came home for lunch, there were 39449393 boxes, neatly lying there. I wrote to thank her, and asked her, "If my dogs are home all day, why can't they pack? They're pack animals."
I loved myself so much for that line, I repeated it to the editor who sits next to me. "They'll only pack for you if they're Boxers," he said.
Really, we'll be here all week.
Ned is pretty much recovered from his illness, and we went out last night and got more newspapers so he and I could pack dishes. Somehow we got on the subject of that horrible song, The Boys Are Back in Town by Thin Lizzy. I hate that song.
"What boys?" I groused.
"The boys," said Ned. "They're back in town."
"Remember that time over at Janet's place?" I asked Ned, who said if his two moods are starving and I-may-have-eaten-too-much, my mood is I love myself. "Well, this chick got up and she slapped Janet's face."
"It's Johnny's place. Not Janet. …Janet." Ned was all disgusted with me.
"It's Johnny? Seriously? My whole life I pictured a cat fight between two kind of trashy women." I Googled the lyrics with my phone. What the hell did we ever do before we could whip out our phones and Google everything? Did we all just keep arguing?
"Hunh. It's Johnny."
You go your whole life thinking something…
I'd better go to work.
He emailed me midmorning yesterday. "I am home from work. I have aches, chills, I feel awful." I asked if he needed anything. "Yes. A chicken sandwich from the Iron Hen, and some sauteed okra. I.am.starving."
I got him his sick-boy food and schlepped over there at lunchtime. Ned hobbled to the gate to let me in. "Ohhhhhh," he said, looking peaked. "Do you have a fever?" I asked. Once I asked a doctor if I had a temperature, and he rather shortly said, "Everyone has a temperature, June." That was probably just before he quit. So now I'm careful to say "fever" so no doctor pops out of the earth and yells at me.
"I don't think so." It turns out Ned has never, ever owned a thermometer. "What kind of hypochondriac are you?" I asked him.
I sat with Ned while he splayed on the couch and moaned and tried to eat. He ate only half his sandwich, which is not like him. Ned has two moods: starving and I-may-have-eaten-too-much.
"Ohhhhhh," said Ned. "I think you have a flu of some kind," I told him as I handed him my medical degree. "This came on so suddenly."
"I think it's Ebola. No, it can't be, it feels worse than Ebola," said Ned, and that is when I left to go to work with normal people.
After work, I tended to my dogs and (wait for it) packed and threw out some things, then I headed to Ned's. He was supposed to be catsitting for his aunt and uncle, and I said I'd do it. I had to go get the key, and instructions. Ned hobbled to the gate, and when he wasn't "ohhhhh"ing, he told me how much to feed each cat ("feed each cat half of the one bag, and each cat half of the other bag…" Why is it never easy to animal-sit for anyone?) and I listened to everything and got in the car.
That is when I realized I didn't know how to get there. I called Ned. "Just tell me the street name, and I will Siri it. I'll know their house when I see it." I've been over there probably 11 times, but you know how I am with directions.
Sadly, every time I tried to Siri the street name, effing Siri would say, "There is nobody in your contacts with that name." "IT'S A STREET," I kept yelling at her. "A STREET." Some day, someone is going to snap and kill Siri.
I finally found the place, and to tell you the truth it was nice to get a little strange. Ned's aunt and uncle have three cats, two of whom might need to go to Lily's fat camp for a week or two, and they were lonely so they let me pet them endlessly. Oh, they were all three so cute.
Then Ned asked me to get him some chicken and wild rice soup, and I spent the next fourteen hours crouched in front of the soup aisle. Why does soup come in every kind of chicken? There was chicken with regular rice. Chicken with noodles. Chicken with its head cut off. There was what are ya chicken, you afraid your mom will find out. There was chicken with barley. There was barely legal chicken.
You get my drift.
Anyway, I found it, and brought it to Ned, and cooked it and everything, because domestic. Ned sat next to me on the couch and with the heat emanating from him, I could have made s'mores.
I suggested Ned take aspirin, because he was achy, in case he hadn't mentioned it. Ned went to his cupboard. "Does aspirin expire?" he wondered. Recently he found gum in a coat pocket that had expired in 2005.
"I'm sure it does. Let me look." I turned the aspirin bottle this way and that. It had expired in 2012. "I have Advil, too," he said. Then he added an "ohhhhhh," in case you were missing it. "How many do I take?"
I put down my medical degree to look at the bottle. "It says adults and children, one tablet every four to six hours."
"Then why don't they just say 'people'? What's left after adults and children?" Ned grumpily opened the bottle.
I don't want you to worry yourself into a lather, so I will tell you he feels less achy today, and what I'm looking forward to is getting this flu. At least you know I'll be stoic about it.
Ned and I have been dating for two years, eight months and four days, but who's counting. At some point, we've developed a little routine. This is mostly because Ned is a very routine-y person, whereas we all consider ourselves lucky if I remember to wake up and go to work each day. The point is, we see each other on Tuesdays and Thursdays during the week, and then all weekend–Friday night through Sunday night. I guess it'd have been easier to say we generally don't see each other Mondays and Wednesdays.
"Next Wednesday you're going to have to see me, because that's the day we'll be moving in together," I pointed out to him.
I guess we'll have to change our routine. I've lived alone again, naturally, for three and a half years exactly, and I've liked living alone quite a bit. But I like Ned better.
In the meantime, back at this blog, on Sunday I was discussing many important things with Ned, including how when we were adolescents, we each got ahold of a copy of The Joy of Sex. "Oh my god, that was great," said Ned, who has been a perv since day one, thank god.
"Oh, I looked at the whole thing thoroughly," I told him, "don't get me wrong. But even back then I was all, These people could stand a little grooming." Did you ever peruse that book? There were line drawings, and they were very early-70s-looking. No one in that book was anyone you'd want to have the joy of sex with.
God, I miss the '70s, when the answer to everything was a shag hairdo.
I have no idea how I got off on this tangent. So to speak. Oh! I remember. So, we segued from The Joy of Sex line drawings to penis size, and don't even ask me how Ned and I converse. You have two people who talk a lot, and it gets ugly sometimes.
The point is, THAT is when I got on my phone and emailed this blog asking if penis size really matters, and several hours later, I looked at my phone, and no comments. "Hunh," I said, and went to my blog, and no post. Sometimes when I email a post, it doesn't show up, which is extra-efficient.
Then yesterday, more than 24 hours later, the damn post appears on my blog. I was at work, and started getting, "Yes, it DOES matter!" comments, which made no sense, so I looked at my blog and there it was. "Oh, dammit," I said, and took it down, because I'd written that 47-foot-long post about my weekend and didn't want a whole NEW post to detract from ALL THE FREAKING WORK I'd done on the large one. So to speak.
And here's what I like: When this blog takes on a life of its own. Last night I saw on Pie on the Face (a Facebook group for this blog, if you did not know), and you guys were all, "June took the penis post down, but it'll be back up tomorrow." So to speak.
I NEVER SAID I was going to put that post back up. And then there were more comments on my blog. "Where's the penis post? Oh, well, I guess I'll read it tomorrow."
It seems like I had other things to tell you, naturally, but now I've of course forgotten them. I have to remember to tell the post office to forward my mail to my new place, and I have to tell the garbage people that next week will be extra garbage-y. I hate being busy with things.
Talk at you tomorrow, when I'm sure I'll remember everything I was gonna talk about and this will be very linear and organized.
It's Sunday night and it's raining, which I knew would happen anyway because my hair predicted it. I inevitably get a small but unmistakable curl right in the middle of my forehead–yes, when she was bad she was horrid–before it rains. It is a reliable barometer.
Anyway, this is the second-to-last weekend that I will ever have my sad goodbye-to-Ned Sunday night feeling. I hate that feeling; it's second only to that school-is-tomorrow-Wonderful-World-of-Disney-is-on feeling. Fortunately, in two weeks, we'll be in the same damn house. In preparation for this move, this weekend was busildy, so I will try to recap it for you without driving you berserk.
On Friday, Ned and I packed at our respective houses for quite a while, then I went over to his house and we watched that PBS series they're having right now on the Roosevelts. Are you watching it?
You know what I'm not? Rich as a Roosevelt. And who knew Teddy Roosevelt was hot in his youth?
Like, what made him go from being all intense-eyed Mr. Smokin' to a walrus? Because that didn't take long.
Anyway, the point is, here I am at Ned's the night we watched this show, looking slightly berserk and like someone who might try to seduce your teenage almost-walrus son.
On Saturday, Ned and I schlepped 47 million hundred cans of paint and other hazardous waste right on over to this drive-thru Haz-Mat place, and I was super disappointed you couldn't go through the drive-thru to drop off your stuff AND get McDonald's. I mean, it's all hazardous. Did I hear right, that McDonald's is serving breakfast anytime now? I'd like pancakes in the Renaissance.
(c) Steven Wright.
After that, you'll be stunned to hear Ned and I went to our respective homes and threw shit out and put crap in boxes and oh my GOD why'd I have to go and fall in love with Ned? I coulda lived without romance and stayed home.
The good news is, I found a home for my gutted, makes-no-noise piano. I put an ad on Craigslist for anonymous gay sex and also for my piano, and I really did use the line, "If you're a mime, this is the piano for you."
Don't you know with me, I'm born again.
The good news is my piano is going to be part of the theater! Or theatre, if you want to be insufferable. A barber shop quartet is using it to play the fake piano when they're on stage. Three of the four, or 75% if you want to be mathy, came over to GET said Silent Bob piano, and were they hilarious. Oh my god I loved them. Not as much as I love me, but still.
"Just shove it onto the truck!" one of them said. "Pretend it's a job. Take this job and shove it!" There was also an "if this truck is a-rockin' don't come a-knockin'" joke. They stayed after and had bottles of water. We made it into a whole party. And, I'm going to their next performance, in which my piano will be featured.
I loved that piano. I bought it for Marvin, whole and playable, back when we were first married. Eventually, Marvin gutted the thing and made it into a CD holder. Remind me to tell you the story of the guy who delivered that piano to me. It was his last piano delivery, ever, and he hated me. I told the story to Ned and he was in the stitches, Ned was. Or maybe he kind of smiled. Whichever.
Fortunately, we DID get to have fun on Saturday night. Just like the Bay City Rollers. Ned and I went to a goodbye party for a bladder, and I am not making that up. Someone Ned knows, someone just wonderful, has bladder cancer, and his surgery is coming right up, so his friends had a party way out yonder to say goodbye to that pesky, troublesome thing.
Look how cute Ned is. Hey, nice ass.
The party was in the country, and there were dogs and cats and chickens and roosters and guinea hens and ponies and basically it was my dream life, out there. Plus, there was barbecue and banana pudding. God, I love the South. Why haven't I always lived here?
There was also jalapeno macaroni and cheese, and Ned gasped. "It's like you and I had a child!" he said, knowing how deeply I feel about macaroni and cheese, and how he is about freaking jalapenos. And in case you wondered? YES. It.was.delicious.
There were two dogs there, and one of them walked right up to Ned, started staring at him, and never ever left his side after that. If I tried to pet that dog–and of course I did, 400 times–it would ignore me. Then she'd go back to mooning over Ned.
Anyway, once it got dark and we watched bats fly overhead (I freaking love bats), we headed back, because we'd both KILLED ourselves moving and packing all day. "You mind if we go to one of the bars near my house?" Ned asked, because there was this whole party thing going on downtown last night, and in fact for days they've been projecting animated cool images on the side of his building for some reason or another and it's cool as shit. Which if you think about it is a dumb swear, because shit is not that cool.
"Are you serious?" I asked, because frankly it was all I could do to shower, dress and look decent for the party we DID go to. But Ned took that personality test I made you all take awhile ago, and he's a Generalist, and his big fear is that he'll miss out on something. Ned would never be the guy to travel for work, check into a hotel and get room service. He'd absolutely HAVE to go explore the town. Explore-the-town people make my ass hurt.
But because I am an EXCELLENT not-at-all-fussy girlfriend, I hauled myself out for even MORE socializing, and five minutes in I was so busy looking at people that I forgot I hated Ned.
Fortunately we got to go home soon after, where we watched another Roosevelt episode and fell asleep on the couch. At least in this episode we finally got to Eleanor, who you know I love. I wonder if she'd have liked me? I feel like Eleanor Roosevelt would be so over me in the first 15 minutes of knowing me. At least I love me, as does Billy Preston and of course Syreeta.
I want you to call me Syreeta from now on. Remember when I made you call me Dimebag Wasabi for awhile?
Anyway, that wraps up my weekend, except for today when I pulled weeds and saw a movie with Ned. Then we packed. Son of a bitch. Have I mentioned all I can think about is where to get more boxes? I have boxes on the brain more than Michael Douglas.
I'm going, but oh! Don't let me forget to talk about The Joy of Sex and those ridiculous, so-needing-to-scream-to-the-waxer '70s line drawings, and also the nudist colony magazine I found when I was packing.
I leave you with my latest Purple Clover, which at least does not mention packing.
Just broke the news of my move to my neighbor Peg, of the norovirus Pegs. Despite breaking my 30-year no-barf streak, she's been a good neighbor. She made dinner for me and brought it over the day Marvin left. She had a Kate and William wedding party at 5:00 in the morning. She painted my dining room.
Wait. Let me get more dramatic.
P.S. Wait'll I tell the Nipplering children. GOODBYE LALUULAH! GOODBYE ETHEL!