A few days ago, Iris started showing signs that she wanted to go back outside. I really wanted her to rally, and be spirited old Iris, but between you and me I wanted her to be spirited homebody Iris.
Yeah, not so much.
So the first day, I went on the deck with her. She sniffed the air, her fur blowing in the spring breeze. “Eye-riss absolootly well!” she said, and pranced around the back yard while I stared at her like I was Yoko and she was a one-eyed John Lennon.
The point of my story is, all three cats were outside yesterday morning, and when I came home for lunch, Lily and Iris squished under the gate to get from the back yard to the driveway, so they could run down it to greet me and we could all go in for lunch.
They always do this, and it leads me to want to build a larger, more imposing gate back there as opposed to that effete little picket fence I have currently.
The woman who owned this house before me had some kind of teensy white shaggy ineffective excuse for a dog. The Stevia of dogs. A small gate would be enough for that dog lite.
Anyway, I was forming that thought when I saw a panther soar toward me. Steely Dan wasn’t having any of shimmying under a fence. No. He
over the top of the whole thing, clearing it by several feet.
I’m gonna need a bigger fence.
It occurs to me the sweet gay boys who found Steely Dan do not know my new phone number, but I have old texts from them and should really alert them to SD’s ridiculous demeanor.
Look at that. Roger used to do the same thing. Now I feel obligated to take the magazines out of there so he can be more comfy.
Anyway, other than that,
I don’t have too much to tell you. I have two dates Saturday: one at 1:00 and one at 6:00. Go, June. Go, studly June. Aren’t you sick and tired of me dating the world? Does it not seem like I’m dating the world? Is it only that way when you’re me?
I also have a going-away party Friday for my coworker Slutty Pancakes, as she is moving to California. Plus also I’ve agreed to do more freelance work, Your tips, Ned’s loan and my freelance work so far paid for Iris’s injury–and no, I did not get the certified letter yet, GOD. I’ll TELL you when it gets here. I still don’t hold out much hope.
Anyway, I have to pay Ned back and also I still have to pay off my credit cards, which was technically the point of doing all that extra work, so freelance I will. Murder, I wrote.
I’m just so tickled to have every damn picture from, you know, ever right at my disposal. Which is weird, cause I don’t even have a disposal. You know what else I don’t have right now? A dishwasher. It washes the bottom dishes, but not the top. My tenant, fmr., came over last night to do our godforsaken workout, and I had to tell her why dishes were in the sink like I’m a heroin addict or something. If you guys would just stop tipping me in heroin.
Ohhhh. Lu. This is when we were moving out of my house, fmr., and we sat down and talked about our feelings. She always splayed her back legs. With all apologies to Edsel, will I ever meet a dog I love as much as Lu? Will I ever meet a man I loved as much as Ned? What if everything stays exactly this way forever, where I’m struggling to pay the bills and there’s no men in sight and I just get hideous-er?
I’d better go. Tomorrow, we’ll talk about our sex bucket list. Every once in awhile I think of a good blog topic, and write it on a piece of paper that floats in my purse for 11 centuries. A piece of paper reading “sex bucket list” has been riding in there forever. You know what’s not on my sex bucket list? Anal.
On that note, I’ll catch you later.
Your pal and mine,