Do you know what annoys me?
Everyone gasped just now. She's usually so happy-go-lucky! Actually, that phrase annoys me too. What the fuck does that even mean?
What annoys me is my coffee can be a crapshoot. Heck, I made it too strong today. Or, what the hell, did I just wave the idea of coffee around the coffeemaker today? It's weaker than John Travolta's handshake.
So sometimes I think, hey, I could measure it, and then it'd taste the same every time. Nothing gets past me. Except have you ever read the instructions on your coffee? One scoop for every six ounces of water or something like that. Oh, six ounces! Yes! I'm acutely aware of how many FUCKING OUNCES of coffee I'm putting in.
What the Christ.
They clarify by saying. ""(180 ml)." OH! WELL! AND RIGHT THEN I KNEW! That's clear as a fucking BELL now!
Why can't they just speak English? Why can't they just be clear? Tell me how many scoops to put in for half a pot or a pot, for example. Like I'm supposed to know when I've filled the pot with six ounces of fucking water.
Here's an extremely helpful and cogent tip from a coffee website: To determine the amount of water to be used with fractional amounts of coffee, multiply the weight of the coffee by the following factors: 16 (0.0625 is the inverse factor) to get fluid ounces of water: 16.6945 (0.0599 is the inverse factor) for grams to get CCs of water.
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME. So now my coffee is a story problem.
So that pretty much sums up my whole life right now. My whole life is a story problem.
In other news, work is still INSANE OH MY GOD, and what I enjoy are A. people who don't read my original emails thoroughly so they write back with more questions THAT WERE ALREADY ADDRESSED and B. people in my non-work life thinking I can talk. I believe I've done a clear job, clear like coffee instructions, of letting everyone know WORK IS INSANE till August. And yet?
"Hey, why haven't I heard from you?"
"Did you see my meme I put on your wall?"
"Hey, can you forward me that stuff we talked about in 1972?"
Oh, fuck off.
I just saw an annoying thing ("she's usually so happy-go-lucky!") on Facebook the other day; it was a meme about how Someone Isn't Avoiding You. Maybe They Have…and it was a rolling list of other things that person might be up to rather than avoiding you, like "personal sturggles" or "physical pain" or "a life."
REALLY? Really? As adults we need to be told that, still? People really think, "Oh, she's avoiiiiiiiiding me!"?? How fucking self-centered can you get?
Oh, and finally, I went to the Apple Store yesterday, and yes, "Store" is capped. I got my cracked screen replaced. and if anyone is thinking, "Say, I sure would like to donate to June today," NOW IS A GOOD FUCKING TIME.
("But, happy-go-lucky!") (June Gardens' Happy-Go-Lucky fund)
The point is, I had to make an appointment at the "Genius Bar," a name that is not at all cloying and WHAT mood, June, instead of just, oh, drop it the fuck off and pick it the fuck up. I'd been told on the phone that they'd have to ship it off, so I called another off-brand phone fixing place, who wanted to charge me "about 30 dollars more" and ship it off for three or four business days.
"Apple wants $129 to fix the screen. What do you charge?"
"About 30 dollars more, ma'am. It's 179."
"That's…fifty dollars more, sir."
It's a sad day when I'm the mathematician in a scenario.
Just now I noticed Lottie sitting still next to my chair, her back to me. Any time she alights, I try to praise her for, you know, actually alighting.
"Look at my sweet girl," I said, scratching her chest, which is getting barrel-y. "What a sweet doggie. See? You can be a good girl!"
As soon as I said that, she turned around and bit my arm.
Anyway, the good news is the young guy at the genius bar looked down my shirt, twice, and I got it back in an hour and a half. The phone, not my bosom. I did not, however, take any photos yesterday as a result of that big 90-minute lapse in phone-having, so in order for this important blog post to have a photo in it to draw in illiterate readers, Ima go into my photos and pick out the 129th photo. Hang on.
Why is June always late for work?
I posted last night–I gave some aptitude tests to Lottie that I shared on film. Yes, you really ARE welcome. Scroll down to see.
But I gathered you all here today to hear about my severe eye injury. I was walking with my coworker Austin yesterday, through the park. Usually a big group of us walks but everyone was too busy or they thought it was too hot. Ninety-seven is a lovely temp for a stroll.
Anyway, we were almost done when
a bug flew right into my eye. Right into it!
"Ow!" I said. And then I smelled that smell Stink Bugs emit.
And right then I knew. A fucking STINK BUG had flown into my eye. And emitted its…juice or whatever right into my socket.
"Goddammit," I said.
It seemed like an inconvenient truth, but that it'd be no big deal, no bug deal, but it turns out stupid Stink Bug juice REALLY EFFING HURTS when it's sprayed into your EYE, and all of a sudden I was Juice Newton, over there, with the burning and the watering and the pain, oh the pain.
Naturally I took this opportunity to tell just everyone at work, because when bad things happen to marginally good people, it's cause for sympathy-eliciting.
The point is, I was back at my desk, trying to see out my eye, when my coworker Fewks came over.
"Hey!" he said. "You givin' me the stink-eye?"
And that is right about when I stopped liking Fewks.
Anyway, today it hurts to the touch and it's slightly purple, but I think I will, you know, keep the eye. You know I hate to make a big deal out of things. I'd hate to bug you.
Doin' the stanky leg,
The problem is, I get cockamamie ideas.
I decided to give Lottie a puppy aptitude test tonight (Google fucking "Puppy Aptitude Test"), kind of a personality test, to see if she will grow up to be psycho. In the test, they offer a series of activities to see how your pup–or, oh, spawn of Satan–reacts.
Her usual reaction to everything is "eat the cat." So.
Naturally I videotaped all of it.
Here's the intro veeeeedeo. Someone tell the newcomers why I pronounce it veeeeedeo like an asshole.
I had to call her to see if she comes cheerfully. She'd come if I put an apple in the cats' mouths.
So, she came to me. She can't be all bad. Or can she….? DUN DUN DUNNNNNN.
The next test? See if she'll follow when I leave the room. Warning: My impression of Charles Nelson Riley is so good you'll feel like he's back from the dead. Like I dug him up. Put a jaunty scarf 'round his bonez.
Is CNR actually dead?
I was so pleased, and so annoyed with myself that that video was 36 seconds, that I did it again. Oops I did it again.
Okay, she's been pretty cute, actually. When will she fuck up?! The shadow knows.
The next test involved holding that creature of Satan ON HER BACK for a full 30 SECONDS to see what she'd do. I'll tell you what I thought she'd do, and that was get out her teensy puppy gun and shoot me dead. Is what I thought she'd do.
Here are the chilling results.
So, she fussed a little and then was all, eh. Why bozzer. LOTee no she in chargg.
In the next test, I was to pet her from head to tail, to see how she'd react. I KNEW how she'd react. She'd bite the crap out of me. That's what she does when you try to be NICE and make a NICE DINNER for us to have TOGETHER and instead you decide to WORK LATE with that TRAMP from accounting.
Here's what happened. Watch what happens live.
I explain the next test, in which I must hold Lottie aloft and try to live through it. In the second video, you get quite a trip to June's bosoms. You're most welcome.
I will not show you any more after this, but there were several. My evening involved me throwing a toy and seeing if she reacted to it. I also had to bang pans and throw towels and basically I was useless all night. But here are the riveting results of the toy throw…
Finally, after all Lottie testing was done, here are the results…
And her opinion…
I have to get to work early, and I won't be able to post at all tomorrow. I have to go early to the car place and get my headlight and taillight replaced. Yes, both are out. On two different sides.
In a week or so, it won't be so berserk at work, possibly. My car will stop doing things like breaking, possibly, too. The windshield is still cracked, though. Gotta fix that eventually.
So, while I'm toiling away, let's have another day where we tell our secrets. Eventually, when we get enough comments, I'll go on and tell one of mine as well. We can all sign in as anonymous or NoneYa or whatever, so our secrets remain just that.
It's been several years since our last one of these, and I'm hoping people who didn't have the nerve last time will have it this time, and people who weren't here last time can participate now.
They can be small secrets or large. Doesn't matter.
I am currently drinking coffee–what addiction?–out of my Mr. Tea mug that Marty and Kaye got me some years back, that remains one of my favorites. Do you have favorite mugs? Do you wait till it's that mug's turn in the cupboard, or do you reach for it first if it's clean? I make my mugs wait their turn. Then all the shitty ones are way in the back and I'll have to be all, Crap. Really? It's thin-mug-that-burns-my-hand day?
When we last spoke, I was debating new shoes, because all of mine were peed on or slightly chewed or just old. Lottie really hasn't ruined any shoes yet, as I am careful to at least place them up high, when walking all the way to the closet is just too exhausting to contemplate.
The other day I was walking at work with Austin, and I told him how I woke up in the middle of the night recently with horrific pain in my back teeth. I knew I'd been grinding them and the pain was exquisite. If I owned aspirin, I'd have taken some. What I did instead was get up and put in my night guard.
"You have a night guard? And you didn't have it in already?" asked Austin, who has a full-time job, two kids, a house, a dog, a cat, a wife and does Cross Fit every single day. Plus he prepares 79 individual containers of healthy snacks for himself that he eats all day at work. You walk into the kitchen and he's, like, wolfing raw brussels sprouts out of a container he brought.
"I was too exhausted to walk to the bathroom to put it in that night," I explained.
The look he gave me was priceless.
Anyway, here. Shut up.
Your basic black middle-aged-divorced-woman wedges. I once heard a group of young bitches teasing one of the other young women at the table for wearing wedges like she's a mom. I tucked mine under my chair. I'm not gonna teeter in pumps for no good reason. I put on a pump, there better be the promise of penis.
Every day at work, we take a walk through the park, something The Other Copy Editor invented, daily walks, and we've kept going with it. But my cankles feel stiff in the morning now and I wonder if it's because I'm clomping around the park in divorce wedges. So. Got these. In my color. You'll see they're already soiled, as I walked the curs in them. The Black Mouth cur and the other cur.
And finally. The peace of resistance. How much do you like me right now?
Ta-DAAAAA! I know, right???! Oh my god, so pleased.
I got to wear the basic black wedges to Alex's little party on Saturday. She recently bought a house and she had a get-together.
When I was out…getting my iPhone fixed (which in some parts of the country is code for buying shoes), I stopped at Ulta ("I thought you hated Ulta, June") because my hairdresser is at the beach, and it's only been three or four weeks anyway, and what roots? Oh my god. Snow on the silver mountain. Rootin' for turnips.
Root root rootin' for the home team.
If you catch my drift.
So I got some root cover, is what I did, because, roots? Root you talkin' 'bout, Willis?
The point is, they had hair powder for $4.99. They had bright blue, pink, and …
lavender. So I sported that at the party, and I am not at all just wearing a bra in this picture. "Honey, You're such an exhibitionist." I can so hear my mom. Also, mom, I got your messages. I kept saying I would call you next, in my own head, in my mind, but then I was busy again. Mostly pulling Lottie off things. But also with this…
It all started yesterday morning, on Facebook, because middle-aged divorced woman. Anyway, I'm on two Edsel support group pages: American Dingo and Carolina Dogs. On one of those pages, we were all grousing about our weird dogs, and someone said her dog destroys every toy. And every other Edsel owner nodded sympathetically and we got up from our folding chairs and had a group hug.
That's when I mentioned Blu. To stop the group hug. "West Paw design makes a toy that's nearly indestructible!" I said, adding the link. "We're on Blu number three, and we're only on three because we left Blu Two somewhere."
I did not go into my own heartbreaking history of moving in with Ned and the tragic demise and how I forgot Blu in my fog of disappointment and agony. And that clearly Jesus the lawn guy tossed Blu, as it is just not in that yard any longer.
Jesus will take your Blu away.
The point is, after I posted that on Facebook, I started wondering how many pictures I could drum up of Edsel with Blu, and I started gathering them, then four hours later I'd made a whole stupid video. Do you have any idea how many "blue" songs I considered? Mr. Blue Sky, but it's really long. Tangled Up in Blue. Also a long song. Blue Monday, but come on.
But this song is perfect. It's kind of gay, plus they SAY gay, and it's jaunty like Edsel. Gay and jaunty like Edsel.
Could not get enough of self that Talu gets Blu in the end, and takes a bow. She only ever played with Blu to piss off Edsel. It was totally obvious. She's totally Lucy and poor Eds is Linus with his blanket.
I fucking love the song Blue Monday. Oh my god, I am so dancing at some bar in Saginaw when this comes on. I wonder if all the dancing I did then negated the 394949494 calories from all my white zinfandel? Probably, as I was 23.
Anyway, that's all my news. I gotta put on my prick suit and get to work. I have no idea why I said that, except Andy Sipowicz used to say that and I always loved it. "Guy put on his prick suit this morning."
Andy Sipowicz is an excellent cat name.
That's what woke me up today. Lottie did her usual crying to get out of her crate at 6:30, and I was half-asleep when I took her out, fed her, then slammed my damn bedroom door so I could sleep JUST A LITTLE GODDAMN LONGER, PLEASE GOD.
And I did sleep, knowing full well she could be out there wreaking all kinds of havoc, but there's no bringing her to bed to nap with you, unless you find having your face bitten soothing, and putting her back in the crate would have been repeated renditions of Yappy Days Are Here Again. So.
I got up, wondering if perhaps she was dead, and then I could get the sympathy vote and some sleep. But no. There she was, smiling at me as soon as I opened the bedroom door. Often she sleeps up against the door of the bedroom or bathroom if I close her out, a thing that always charms me before she twirls in the air and bites my face again.
"What did you DO, Lottie?" She pranced down the hall, having completely forgotten whatever she'd done.
Cracked. The screen of my nine hundred million dollar iPhone. Cracked. She knocked it off the couch.
By the way, I was having trouble finding a screen that was blank enough to show you the cracks, so I went into my notes and erased one. This page was me coming up with puppy names for that pitty puppy I almost got. One of the choices was Lottie.
I really thought I'd thought of that on the spot, when I found her in a…lot. You know, I've never looked to see what the name of the business was that she was trespassing on. I wonder if it was Demon, Inc. or D. E. Ville & Miss Jones Advertising or HELLena Rubenstein or something.
I'll go look today.
So I have an appointment at the Apple store today. $129 it's gonna cost me to fix this bullshit. It's coming out of that dog's allowance.
Since I was up, I made spaghetti for breakfast, because I was out of everything else, and I did two loads of laundry, organized my unmentionables, which I just mentioned, so in my case they'd be my mentionables. I put my shoes back in order and came to the conclusion that I really need new shoes. They're all in terrible shape, Lottie hasn't chewed any, yet, but she's peed on two pair. I just got a refund from the state (I overpaid my taxes. It's like I got a good Community Chest card).
But right then I remembered. Fucking $129 for my iPhone. Goddammit.
Anyway. I also swept the floors and Sharked them. El Diablo is napping. The beast builds her strength for the next terror.
My iTunes is workin' it today. First it played…
which I've shared with you before. I love that song.
Then it played…
which just about kills me whenever I hear it. Then it was all,
I feel like my iTunes has a sense of humor. Hey, high school. How's it going? Lemme get on my reversible raincoat with whales on one side and we can go.
I have to get ready to appear at the Apple Store. Appearing now! June Gardens at Apple! Then after I have a little party, a little soiree, and how much do you abhor me for saying soiree? Anyway, I do have one to go to, and I plan to raise the roof and bring my hands together and make some noise.
I can't think of who I was talking to recently (I suspect one of my interminable OK Cupid dates) who hates it when you're somewhere and they say, "Are ya having a good time?" and the crowd is, like, "Woooo!" And they say, "Not good enough. I said, ARE YOU HAVING FUN?"
Whoever it was said he hates that like hell. Don't TELL me how much noise to make. Don't RATE my woooo. And now I will feel the same way.
What's your hobby, June? Oh, I gather things to resent.
I will talk at you later. Who wants to place bets on whether June relents and gets new shoes anyway, while she's in the same shopping center as the Apple store? And…go.
I had a dream that I was helping Jesus build a wall to keep out foreigners. I kept saying, "Really? Cause this doesn't seem like something you'd–okay. Hand me a nail. YOU'RE the carpenter, here, but okay."
Maybe I shouldn't have watched the RNC.
I also dreamed my cousin Katy (yes, I have a Katie and a Katy in my family. We're a wildly original people. There are also two Junes, and fortunately I am Little June) was getting married again, in some big old beautiful building, except the wedding was outside, so kind of like my wedding.
The point is, it was all very Irish-themed (she's Irish on her mom's side. Irish people always celebrate their Irishness, but you never see anyone being all French-Canadians! Yay! Which is what our side is), and she was serving
as the hors d'oeuvre before the wedding. Dear Next Wedding I Go To: Do that. I don't even know if those are a thing, but make it happen. Like Jesus's wall. Get the fuck away from me, be ye Mexican. I only like Americans.
Really, I should have read a book or something.
We should really bring back the "ye." Ye guys in?
In other news, a few of you recommended toys that would keep Lottie out of juvenile detention, so I got them, and they got here yesterday and is there anything better than Amazon? I know they abuse their employees, but hey, fast service.
So, first I played with their new, like, big fishing line that has a toy at the end, and I really need someone to come film Edsel playing with that thing, because I know you all want me to just be RECORDING EVERY MOMENT ("Why didn't you take a picture of the grocery store clerk, June?"), but there is no physical way to play with the dogs with that thing and hold a camera. I'd have to strap on a GoPro (I'm a NoPro) or develop six arms like the goddess I am.
Anyway, he was BESIDE himself. And here's what he said. BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK!
Oh my god. He had a crazed expression, and ALL HE WANTED IN THIS LIFE was to catch that toy, and he did, and poor Lottie barely got to play with it at all. Finally I put him inside and played with just her, and you know what he said?
BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! Goddammit, BARK!
I was totally Buffalo Bill outside, mocking him. Baaark. Baaaark.
I need to stop watching Silence of the Lambs and the RNC, both.
Anyway, then we went inside (my mosquitoes are terrible. Are yours? Even bug spray won't work. I'd call in some kind of service but I don't want them to kill the lightning bugs) and I got that cube, and Lottie loved it, except for the part where Edsel decided she could have no part of it. And then he strapped one on and got all manly about the sitch.
Eventually, he went outside and Lottie got the huge cube of cheese once more, and you know when you were a kid and your dad came home and you were in trouble? Jesus Katie Christ and his toolbelt.
He walked in so slowly and deliberately, and I like how he's trying to be tough while Lily brushes against him. It'd be like if a cowboy sauntered through the bar doors with a balloon bouquet.
But look at him! He's such a dick.
And poor Lottie was just cowering, all Yes, sir. It's just not right. What is this shift lately?
So, basically, so much drama in the GSO.
My hair and I took a selfie after. Yesterday was an exhausting day. Basically I'm working on two huge projects that're coming to fruition on the same day. That day is nigh, which is a day between Monday and Pooh Day.
In fact, Edsel and I were on our walk last night, and we saw Ava's grandmother, who was trying to wave at me and unload groceries at the same time, and a big jug of milk toppled out of the back of the car. "No use crying over it," I said, and no one likes me.
Anyway, she told me Ava had an upset dog stomach but now she's fine, and that her housebreaking isn't going that well (Ava's, not the grandmother's), and while we were talking, their absolutely beautiful calico sauntered down the driveway. "Is she gonna come over here?" I asked.
"Oh, yes, she's used to big dogs." They have three dogs including Ava, one of which is this thick, solid Pit who lets Ava hang off his jowls. He's super cool. Gray pit. Oh, I love him.
Anyway, yep, sure enough, that splotchy-face kitty came right over, and Edsel?
Oh hai! Hai hai hai! How it hang? I do be Edsel, it so good to–may I sniff you a lot? A lot? Heer Edz snowt. May Edsz snurfle your–wear you go?
Which is pretty much how it goes whenever I meet anyone. "Oh, hello! Have you ever tried Ben-Wa balls?"
Okay, then, I'm off to another relaxing day. Remember when all I did was proofread all day, and my biggest stressor was missing a comma? Remember those heady days? Oh, heady days. Heady days of yore.
A time. Morning-ish.
When we last spoke–and why didn't you ever call me last night to say you got in okay?–I said I'd tell about all the places I stopped working at, and how I yelled at someone in a wheelchair, and how I am a magnificent person.
But before I do, let me just tell you I was making coffee this morning.
It's hilarious every time I do that.
And I noted that Lottie had…alighted. She was just lying on the kitchen floor. Let me tell you something: For Lottie to be still and not (a) dead or (b) completely asleep in the puppy pass-out, is weird. I'd go so far as to say it's never happened. So it got my attention. It's like when a hummingbird stops.
"Wow," I thought, a teensy light of encouragement seeping just ever so slightly into the dark corner where my soul died by the time she was 9 weeks old. "Maybe she's calming down!"
She was lying right in front of the room where my computer used to be, the room with the bad concrete floor. Edsel was in that room, finishing his breakfast. He'd ordered the brown sugar waffles and a mimosa, extra light on the champagne, with a flower garnish. Anyway, what I realized is she wasn't lying so much as cowering.
"Lottie!" I said, sort of alarmed, sort of delighted to see her remotely cowed by anything in life. "What's–"
And that is when Edsel stalked out of the room, with a holster on his hips, talking like John Wayne or Clint Eastwood or something. He walked by her without a glance, and she cowered further, simpering, like someone had beaten her or something, and I wondered if all the times I've beaten her in mind had somehow made itself clear to her.
She followed Edsel while they both walked toward me, and her tail was curled under her, and her entire body was brought to you by the letter C.
I have no idea what Edsel did to make her that way. They did not fight, as I've been three feet from their eight feet all morning. But Ima guess some shade was thrown over Edsel's Belgian waffles, and Lottie understood from the deep recesses of her dark soul. Every once in awhile today, Edsel's been showing her his teef. Well, he always shows everyone his teefs, but this time he's also showing the top ones. The fangy ones. Tough. Clint Edselwood.
She really loves to dig a hole, Lottie does, and she has a huge one at the side of the house. My theory is she's trying to get back to hell, from whence she came. So it's exciting to see Edsel trying to take control of the situation.
So, for those of you on Pie on the Face, you know I told you I'd be writing this week's Purple Clover about families, and I asked, "Tell me about your families," and as usual you all had answers–thank god–and what I love is when you all just keep talking way into the night as if I wouldn't be, oh, writing the damn column by then. It's like when people used to stay at my mother's game night parties forever. I'd wake up in what felt like the middle of the night and was probably 10:30, and people would still be talking, and I'd roll over and go back to sleep.
But I'm glad everyone participates in those questions I ask you when I'm trying to write something. I always get one or two gems to use after.
As I write you, my back door is open to the screen door, and I just heard a train go by in the distance. Do you remember how Ned's apartment was literally just feet from the train tracks, and it was a whistle stop, so whenever a train went by they had to blow the whistle? It was SO IN OUR EARS, and sometimes there'd be a guy who'd blow his stupid horn forever, and we'd both say, "THAT guy was a dick."
And now it's off in the distance, that whistle, which is metaphoric, and I am deep.
I can hear birds and cicadas, too. Aren't cicadas only supposed to be at night? What's that buzzing, then? I wish I knew how to record things with my phone, then upload said recording onto my blog so you guys could say, "Oh, no, June, that's a Right-Winged FrooDeGloogen, not a bug."
Right-Winged FrooDeGloogen. That bird totally supports Trump.
Oh my god why do you read me.
SO I WROTE MY PURPLE CLOVER COLUMN, about families, and MY EDITOR said, "Yeah, not so much with this one, June. It's kind of all over the place."
I could see that. It kind of was. But the thing is, I've been writing for them every week and then every other week for three years. That's 874 columns, by my maths. And I notice they never put me on their Facebook page anymore, so I just kind of wonder if maybe I'm columned out. Which is what I wrote him, and he said, Yeah. Maybe. So why don't you just write for us when you have a really good idea. And I said, yeah, okay, that sounds good.
So that's that. Now, watch, I'll be CONSTANTLY INSPIRED. Maybe I'll make a little book for myself of my columns. You know how you can do that? I've always wanted to do that with this blog, except it would literally cost 9 hundred million dollars at this point, because we're coming up on my 10-year anniversary of blogging.
Isn't that weird?
So, on the same day I got an email from the statistics textbook company. They've been boughten. Yes, that is so totally a word, and 9 hundred million dollars is so totally what they got bought for. The point is, since 2003 I've been proofreading those books, and grousing about it, and getting the dollars after and shutting right up, so it's the end of an era.
I'll kind of miss those books. The part where it gets here and I either tear into it right away or I torture myself with the unopened box for three days. The little schedule I make for myself. "I have to read 74 pages a day!"
Then finally, when I was on my trip last weekend, we got to the hotel and parking was an issue. The place we were supposed to park was full, and there was a guy in a booth. We drove up to it and knocked on the window. The guy ignored us. We knocked again. He turned his head toward us, but just continued on with his busywork.
When he finally DID talk to us, he was a total dick. He probably also pulls the whistle at train stops. Oh my god, he was rude. He asked, "Did the sign say 'Full'?" Yes, it did. "Well, there you go," he said, and slammed his window shut.
I called the hotel and they said we had every right to park there, and that there were spots reserved for the likes of us, so that guy was totally in the wrong. I was very old biddy-ish and I said, "That man was very rude" to the hotel clerk. Who'd probably love being called a clerk.
"That guy was in a wheelchair," said my…travel companion. I totally feel like Brenda Starr right now.
"Well, I don't care!" I said, because nice. But I did sort of feel like, well, okay.
Anyway, when we checked out, funk soul brother, we left that parking lot and guess who was back. He never even LOOKED at us, just took our ticket and kept going. It was then, as we drove away, that I yelled, "FUCK YOU" at him.
My…travel companion was, you know, maybe aghast. As we headed back, he said, "I think I'll always remember this as the trip you told a man in a wheelchair to fuck off."
Technically, I didn't tell HIM to fuck off. I just said fuck you. There's a huge difference.
So now you know all my stories, and we are all caught up until next time, when–
I almost forgot to show you Iris's crossy feets of casual.
I love that cat so much I almost can't stand it. Crossy feets.