I knew I was going to a party yesterday afternoon, so I planned my ensemble in my mind so that I could do my freelance work in peace. I showered, did my hair, put on my kabuki makeup
and went to my room to put on my NEW FAVORITE black shirt and pink capris pants, The Official Pants of Middle Aged Women™ (although technically white capris are where it’s at for the MAW here in the South), and I took one look at myself in the full-length mirror…
chewed. Fucking Steely Fucking Dan of Fucktown chewed MY FAVORITE SHIRT that I JUST GOT FROM STITCHFIX SO HOW’M I EVER GONNA FIND IT AGAIN right in the middle.
He must have dug through my laundry basket, because I’ve been hiding it on him like that shirt is Anne Frank and I’m Miep. So after the damn party, I came back here and put all my dirty clothes in my spare room, a room with a DOOR, and moved SD’s damn food dish and he’s never going to darken that room again.
I feel bad, though, because Lily loved to go in there during the day when it’s sunny and sleep in what was originally SD’s kitten bed, back when he shaved his legs and then he was a she.
He somehow knew that was a girly bed and has as a result never slept there. Lily knew it was girly also and cannot get enough of wedging her girth into that thing.
Speaking of wedging girth, I wedged self into requisite polka-dot dress that has NOT been chewed, so far, and went to the partay.
But let me back up. You know I abhor people who’re telling you a story and say, “Let me back up.” But I haven’t written you since Thursday and I feel like I might leave out crucial details. Crucial deets. I also heart people who say “deets.”
I took Thursday afternoon off because I had a million appointments, among them to drive out to my old old workplace to find out more about a freelance project I’m going to do. The person who thought of calling me for it was Tank, the Miracle Angel Baby. Oh, it was good to see him. We occasionally run into each other IRL, but it’s usually all Heyyyy, you’re at this festival, too! Okay, bye! Or whatever.
And the place? Completely unchanged. I called my friend Dan, of the good-looking friend Dans, on the way home, as he worked there for like 30 years or something.
“Well, to be fair, time hadn’t touched it by the time you and I got there, so why should time touch it now?” he asked. That place usually keeps employees for decades. Naturally I left after two years. And where I work now has giant turnover and of course I’ve been there more than six years, making me something of a legend. Oh, there are a few been-here-20-years folks, such as The Poet, but it’s a turn-y over-y industry, my current one.
So I’ve got pretty much a long-term project going, and that’s good, and I worked on it maybe 8 hours this weekend, so.
I also went back to m’Botoxer, as it was our first time Botoxing together and she wanted to see how I did. “I didn’t get as much eyebrow lift as I usually do,” I told her, so she BOOP! BOOP! gave me two little shots and when I left they said, “That will be $27.”
TWENTY-SEVEN DOLLARS. This is a board-certified plastic surgeon. Hashtag So Blessed.
On Saturday morning I got up ungodly early to get the cats to the vet by 9:30. Look, that is ungodly early for me. It was time for our regular shots, and also I wanted the vet to tell me why Iris clicks when she walks now, other than that she’s cool. Ever since DogBiteGate she’s been clicking.
He manipulated her little cat hips and she had 49 fits. He looked at her x-rays and thinks it’s just her still mending, but let me tell you, her hips hurt her a lot all day after that. I gave her some leftover pain medicine from her initial injury, and poor Mrs. Iris.
After I dropped off the be-shotted cats and so on, I schlepped back out to the country and got me some strawberries, which Marvin used to inexplicably call stroms, and now in my head I can’t help but call them stroms. It’s like when a little kid mispronounces something and that kid is in college and you’re still calling Cabbage Patch Premies “Creamies.”
Iris just walked across the screen and typed that. It’s like Woodstock’s language or something.
I feel like after I went to the country and saw real broccoli and so on, that I was all in. I really can’t remember what I did for the rest of the night, and that is sort of sad.
The Thing® has just happened again. Ned called me and my friend Mark is texting me and WHY DO THEY BOTH WANT TO TALK AT 8 a.m.?? It’s my writing time.
Ned’s gaylord is selling our old place, and Ned’s choices are to buy it, buy another place, or move to an apartment or something. He has to decide rather quickly, as the gaylord’s husband got a job out of town and they are selling before they go, they hope. And you know how snap decisions are Ned’s strong suit.
So he called with new ideas. “What if I move to that really great place downtown that doesn’t allow cats, but just not tell them I have a cat?” was his latest thought.
There’s a really nice brick….howse not far from Ned’s current place that has a screened-in porch and was built in 1938. If he buys it Ima bludgeon him and move into it myself. No one say anything. It’ll be our secret.
On Sunday, after I selected a new, non-holed thing to wear, I went to a party where my pal Jo was in attendance. Look how goddamn huge m’boobs are compared to Jo’s petite self. Truth is, I am enormous. I didn’t do anything different except apparently stampede into menopause and boom, Sixteen extra pounds. You can see this did not deter me from slugging a glass o’wine. It goes straight to m’boobs.
Also, for two relatively attractive people, Jo and I were unable to take a photo where we are both looking sane at the same time.
I gotta go get ready, and then after work I have to schlep to my headache study again, where I’m telling you I’m in the control group. Goddammit. And yet I’ve gone faithfully every Monday, knowing full well it’s just to be the control group, the placebo, the inert ingredient. But in case anyone wondered, it’s now been 8 days since I had my daith pierced, and first of all the horrific pain of the piercing itself has faded, and furthermore, no migraine.
Oh, and I forgot to mention, my headache doctor, fmr., was at the party! He hasn’t died or quit or kicked me out. I stopped going there the time he gave me those nerve block shots and I got so nauseated, do you remember that? Anyway, he was there, and there I was, with my big glass of wine. He was also the one who said I have a delicate brain and should not have ANY coffee, not even decaf.
Oh my god, Iris just walked on the fucking computer again.
Also, this just happened.