I know I haven’t written in three days, like Jesus’s blog that one Easter weekend, and all your water towers read Save June and so forth, but I’m back now. I awoke with a dang migraine Friday morning, and I kept thinking, Oh, surely I can drag self to work, but the harder I tried the more I could not do so.
Fortunately my boss’s wife, who has the same name as me, as does my boss’s mother, and guess who is surrounded by Junes? Is it my no-nonsense, beleaguered boss? Anyway, his wife has migraines, too, so he knows I’m not just being a malingerer.
Anyway, so there was that, and then there was my door-painting project that consumed me all weekend, consumed me like Spanish flu, or consumption, and what really WAS consumption, anyway? People in the olden days had such stupid names for regular diseases. Next time I get a migraine, I’m calling my boss to say I have fever and ague.
Before I was felled by said grippe or whatever, I walked Edsel Thursday night, and admired the neighbor’s mimosa tree. There’s a huge line for the mimosa tree on weekend mornings, along with a jazzy guitarist strumming Fire and Rain.
Oh, but speaking of my neighbors, oh my god. I got an urgent alert on my Next Door app, which you can clearly see I have become obsessed with. A neighbor titled her post The Affair Continues, and who’s not gonna click on that, right? Good marketing. Naturally, I could not click on that thing fast enough. I moved so fast I actually went back in time, with Sherman and Mr. Peabody.
The point is, she had three (3!) photos of a man getting out of his white car. She kvetched that he ALWAYS parks in front of her house, a thing that fascinates me. Is your life so empty that people parking in front of your house is cause for, well, anything? Who gives a fuck? Good lord.
Anyway, then she told us that he’s having an affair with someone on the next street, which happens to be my street, and then I had a moment where I worried, Does everyone think he’s banging me? Then I remembered I’m 51 and invisible. I’ve often wondered, if I’m killed or something, would neighbors even remember me, despite the fact that I’ve walked through this neighborhood almost every day, with yellow dogs in tow, for nine years?
“Oh, was someone walking those dogs? I thought they had an invisible walker, kind of like those invisible-dog leashes from the ’70s.”
Anyway, it didn’t take long for people to comment on this INSANE WOMAN’S Next Door post.
“So, urgent because…?”
“How is this any of your business?”
I really wanted to write, “I see Gladys Kravitz is on Next Door. ABNER!” But I didn’t.
So then she pulled out the excuse anyone who has no excuse pulls out. Her kids. “Well, I just don’t want MY KIDS involved in any drama.”
Lady. A guy is parking his reasonable, boring white-ass car in front of your house to maybe or maybe not have an affair in the neighborhood. Your kids give precisely zero shits about this information.
People who use their kids to manipulate are the very worst kind of people. I was once justifiably angry with someone and she used her kid missing me as a reason why I should come over and make up. I felt icky about it then, and I still do.
Oh my god, we’re still on Thursday. This is why I should not go away for so long. Next time, roll back the stone on my sepulcher earlier.
I also got to enjoy Steely Dan this weekend. Despite Anne Frank-ing my clothes, despite closing the door to the room that leads to the closet, and hiding the laundry, and sneaking my clothes around like I’m at an orthodox nudist colony, that cat still finds a way to eat my clothes. This was a shirt I liked. Which I have now said 96 times since I got Steely Dan.
On Saturday, post-migraine-Saturday, I got up and painted the door. I say it like it was easy. Like it took 20 minutes.
Alf the Ridiculous Handyman is going to paint the porch and steps gray. I have to wait till he can do that, because money. But as soon as it happens, I will alert you. I like my purple door, though.
At some point Saturday–because trust me, this took all damn day, with drying between coats and so on–Marty Martin came over. I took no pictures of this, so you’re going to have to trust me that I’m not inventing it.
I also got this…
“Whose electricity usage is being compared to mine?” This is why everyone needs a copy editor. “Oh, I’LL just do it. I love to read!” Yeah, no.
Oh. You know what? I finally got what that sentence means. Did you not TRIP over it 800 times? Anyway, I’m one of the most efficient homes in my area. Also, am the envy of my neighbors. If they saw me. “Does someone live at that purple-door house? I thought it was vacant.”
Poor Edsel was banished to the back room and yard all of Saturday, and a great deal of Sunday when I painted the threshold and made sure the damn door hardware was on right. This allowed for as much barking in the yard as humanly–doggedly–possible. My only hope is that this annoyed the gaybors immensely.
Last night, when I finally put the paint supplies away, Steely Dan stampeded up the attic steps, as he is wont to do. What even could be so riveting up there? Winston was the same way, but the other cats have zero interest in the attic. Maybe they’re looking for flowers in the attic.
I’m here all week.
Oh! And I bought a mattress. With all m’cash money. I charged it. Now I’m Wilma and Betty. Remember that one episode where they kept screaming, “CHARGE it!”? Maybe that was Judy and Jane Jetson. Same idea.
My mother is moving, a thing I’ve already told you but people don’t READ carefully. I had my grandmother’s bed, a chair and a desk shipped to me–they’ll be here in a week or so–but I had no mattress for the bed. I’d put it off, but my mother is coming here in July and she’d have to sleep on the floor, in the bed frame, which let’s admit it would be hilarious and not-blog gold. But I got a mattress anyway.
The man who sold it to me was a young, tall man of color, who was very smooth, and at the end gave me his card and said, “I’m Randy” and I was all, funny, so am I after this transaction, what with Randy leaning over mattresses while I lay prone.
“I sold a mattress to an invisible person today.”
Okay, I gotta go. That sums up my weekend, and I’m sorry it wasn’t full of more scintillating details, and I really shoulda just made something up. Then the neighbor on Next Door could have posted about me.