Here was my schedule yesterday (your SCHEDULE? Oh, June, you’re too good to us):
8:15 a.m. Botox. I went to a new place, as my last place disappointed me. Remember this winter when I got my lips done? Yeah, me either. I saved my pennies like a miser last fall so I could have my lips plumped, as I HATE my Sleestack lips,
and $600 later I looked exactly the same. Except I had bruises. When I called my doctor, fmr., (whattaya know, another former doctor) they said I could come back, which is great seeing as how they said if you aren’t happy call back, but that I’d have to pay for more stuff.
And that is when I flounced. I mean, I didn’t give a whole exit speech, I just waited till Botox time rolled back around and found a new gal. And oh, am I happy. I mean, it takes a week or so for the effects of the Botox (technically Dysport) to show up, but there was no waiting, the receptionist was hot, they really took time with me and showed me (horrors!) new wrinkles we need to address, AND
it was cheaper. Way cheaper. Than where I was going before.
Plus, both places are close to work, so clearly god meant for this to be. Because that’s what god is up there mulling over.
Speaking of which, as a not-organized-religion person, may I ask something at the risk of offending? I’m mostly seriously asking this and just slightly sort of put off by it: When you ask for “prayers” on Facebook, whether you’re vague about why you need them or not, is there some sort of belief that if a whole bunch of people pray, somehow god hears it better? I’m really wanting to know this and not just being a jerk. I mean, is that the common belief?
I took a Dahn yoga class for a few years back in LA, and I really loved it and wish they had it here, and after class you were welcome to stay and get a little lesson. One time they allegedly showed us molecules from a drop of water before and after many people had prayed over it, and the molecules changed. Is it sort of like that, that there’s power in numbers? I honestly don’t know and that’s why I’m asking. I know it sounds a little challenging, that I’m even asking.
Oh my god we’re not past 8:15.
9:00 a.m. Work. You’d think this would be where I relaxed, but in fact it wasn’t. My appointment went so smoothly that I was a little early, PAULA, and it’s good that I was, because another team had a bit of a crisis and needed volunteer copy editors.
Mother of god.
There was a ton of work, due really soon, and I wasn’t familiar with that client’s style, so you can imagine how relaxing. I got it all done, though, and then at
12:45 p.m. “Lunch.” I screamed home, because due to some freelance work I’m doing, I had to attend a webinar so I could write this thing I’m writing better. I took the laptop in the back yard and took notes in the sun, praying my mute button would not go off and they’d all hear me yelling at Edsel when he barked at the gaybors or at Tramp, the little white puppy who’s kitty-corner from our yard. Tramp, whom Edsel wishes dead. Tramp, who has some nerve running around in his own yard, being shaggy.
Tramp. Fuck Tramp. If Edsel could get a tattoo, that is precisely what it’d read.
1:45 p.m. Work. I had to catch up on all the work I neglected because I volunteered to help the other team. Mother of god’s gravy.
5:00 p.m. Therapy. Twice in the last few months, I’ve screwed up therapy. It’s every other Thursday at 5:00, and I don’t know, like, once I got the wrong Thursday, and then once the Thursday before Good Friday, Maundy Thursday, they let us out of work early, and to me it felt like a Friday because it was the start of a holiday weekend. I was literally just lounging on my couch doing zero when I got a text from the therapist at 5:25. “You on your way?”
“Oh my GOD, I KNEW I had therapy and I forgot it was Thursday!” I wrote back.
So as a result, she sent me a text yesterday, when I’d been acutely aware all day that I had her. “You coming tonight?” she wrote.
“God, you screw up 40, 50 times and all of a sudden you’re a ne’er do well,” I wrote back.
I’m sure it means something crucial that I “forgot” like that. I’m sure I’m resisting learning that I’m a lesbian or something, but can’t a cigar just be a cigar? Anyway, I really had been thinking, “You have therapy, (hairapy)” all day.
So when 5:00 rolled around, I got in the car to scream there, cause our deal is I get out of work at 5:00 and she knows I’ll be there as soon as I can, after, and we go a little late as I am her last person of the day.
She’s five minutes away.
Naturally, as I got on the road, they’d CLOSED a major portion of a major road here, I mean closed all the way, not one lane, closed. She’s ON that road. I had to zip through neighborhoods only to find another clogged road up ahead because everyone was trying to avoid the closed road, had to give a guy the finger who looked right into my eyes and wouldn’t let me in (white guy with a Confederate flag sticker), cut through iHop’s parking lot and boom I was there.
She must really think I’m avoiding the lesbian issue.
7:00 p.m. Interview. As part of another freelance job I’m doing–and guess who’s stretched herself too thin?–I had to call this woman and interview her for an article I’m writing. This was the part of the day I was in fact looking the most forward to, and it was pretty good. Interesting stuff. Be sure to ask me all about it, because I’m certain the publication I’m writing for would be pleased with me for telling it all here.
In the meantime, I’ve paid more than 10% off of my credit cards, which okay not a ton, but still. And my credit rating went up 18 points. Look, I’m TRYING. Any time I get extra cash, I throw it all at poison for my forehead and also my credit cards.
8:15 p.m. Drink. I don’t drink during the week. It’s part of my weight-loss plan that so far has resulted in zero, absolutely zero, weight loss. I’ve been eating way, way better and not drinking except on weekends and even then not much, and I’ve been walking an hour a day: 20 minutes in the morning, 20 minutes at our 3:00 walk at work, and at least 20 minutes with Edsel, usually more.
Nothing. I’ve shed nothing.
Anyway, right after my interview, I heard from Ned. As you know, we are on one of our speaking moratoriums unless it involves his cat, who is still, you know, here, so. But he called and updated me: the vet gave him a list of things to look for to know if it’s time. I say it’s already time, but the vet said to list three things she has always liked doing, and is she still doing them. She’s doing two of the three. She hadn’t put a bag on her head for awhile, and he was planning to get a new bag for her, to see if she puts it on. She gets bored with her old bags.
The vet also said to get two containers and put a penny in one after a good day or a penny in the other after a bad day and to pay attention to what she’s having more often.
So he’s starting all that, and in the meantime he was having dinner at the fancy hotel near me, the site of our controversial first date, and since he knew I’d have already eaten (I had) did I at least want to come have a drink.
Mother of god, a drink. Yes, I did.
On the way there, it occurred to me our first date had been on a Thursday, so I asked Siri how many weeks ago was January 19, 2012, and she said 275.
“It’s our 275-week anniversary, Ned!” I announced, as I walked in, and he said, “Well, I got you something!”
And he really had! I’d long admired this magnet thing he had on his dashboard, this magnet you use to slap your phone up there, so it’s right where you can see it for directions or whatever. And he got me one!
Actual, unretouched photo of it working its magic in my car.
So that was exciting, and Ned and I sat at the bar with a view of the dining room, playing “Would you?” with everyone who walked by.
“That’s a no and a fuck, no,” said Ned, as two particularly not-lovely people walked by. Go ahead, play it! It’s fun and not at all rude. Also, if you’re playing with a man, you have to deal with his homophobia. It’s more fun to play with a woman, so to speak, who’s willing to say, “Yeah, I’d bang her” every now and again.
While we were there, it started to rain really hard, that kind of rain you can hear hitting the roof. That’s a thing I really love about living here: the dramatic weather. It’s fantastic. None of this namby-pamby drizzle like Seattle had, or barely-there rain like in LA. Here, the rain’s gonna come down on your head.
So that was my damn day. It was a busildy day, is what it was. Now tonight after work, my coworker Molly is playing out at this farm that I’ve been to before. That is if it doesn’t rain on our heads. Allegedly it’s gonna be nice but I can tell you right now it looks a little rainy.
I leave you with my ridiculous cat, who by the way is still being fed kitten food and who is officially bigger than the grownup cats. I mean, he’s not rounder than Lily because no one is, but he’s taller and longer and he’s not even done yet. My theory is he’ll be about Edsel’s size eventually.
I look forward to that.
In his grip,