Do you ever wish everyone would just stop talking to you? I don’t mean blog comments–I can honestly say that there hasn’t been one time I’ve gotten a blog comment and gone, UGH. A COMMENT. Goddammit. Not once. I’m always glad to get those.
But here are the following ways people can talk to me:
- My phone
- Text on my phone
- At my fucking open-floor-plan desk
- Work email
- This damn instant message feature they make us have at work, because we need more distractions
- Personal email
- Freelance-related email
- Blog email, which includes messages from you AND blog comments
- Regular Facebook
- (Face)Book of June
- And, my personal fucking favorite, IM on Facebook
Sometimes all of these are going off at once, with notices. Am overwhelmed. Does anyone else feel overwhelmed? Is it just me? If I go, say, an hour without checking these things during the day, I’ll easily have 60 notices to return to.
When did we become these people? Damn internet invention. Fuck you, Al Gore. YOU’RE an inconvenient truth.
Anyway, speaking of overwhelmed, as you know, since I never shut up about it, since I’m one of your 60 notices an hour, I never have enough money. A faithful reader, Darla, whom I’ve known and worked with on stuff outside of not-blogging, said to me, “Give me all your money stuff. I’m great with budgets.”
When she returned, with all my vitals, she said, “Yeah, no, it’s not you. You just don’t have enough cash to go around.” I knew that. I mean, I’ve even given up most of my grooming. Hate self currently. Can frown, for example. Have sagging in face when normally some delightful chemical is floating around in there to make me look fresh.
You should see my hooves. What pedicure? I’m like Shirley Maclaine at the end of Debra Winger’s life.
So, I know we’ve discussed this before, and the first person to say Dave Ramsey in the comments has to look at pictures of my feet. But what a lot of people suggest is that I, I don’t know, exploit you in some way. Make you pay to read, for example. And, you know, I’m lucky you even read this bullshit in the first place! Now I want you to pay for it?
I considered having a subscription-only where I tell you the really personal stuff, stuff where you’d likely stand on a chair with your hair on end. But instead, Faithful Reader Darla suggested I become an Amazon associate.
Once I looked into it, it seemed painless for both of us. Every day, I put in an image that, if you click on it, takes you to Amazon. If you buy anything, anything at all, on Amazon that day, after clicking over there from my not-blog, I get something like nine hundred thousand dollars.
I can also put it on the side of my not-blog, and I might do that, but so far I can’t figure out how. And yes, I can do it so people in Canada and England can shop, but I tried to do that yesterday and it ended in tragedy.
So, please be patient with me. You know these things aren’t my strong suit. Like, I probably won’t know the answer to your question yet. I have to learn all the ins and outs.
But look! Here’s a picture of Blu! Heer be Blu! If you click on this picture, it takes you to Amazon. Oh, hey, you wanted to buy something on Amazon today anyway? Well, go ‘head. Get it, girl. Once you do, I get a cut of it.
And if you’re already hooked up with a charity through Amazon, so the cut goes to them, for heaven’s sake don’t yell at me like I’m ripping food out of the mouths of homeless children. Just don’t click through me. I’ll be fine. I’m not forcing you to do this. It just seemed like an easy way to get cash without haranguing you to buy my MaryKay or making you register to read my crappy blog.
Speaking of Blu, Edsel did the thing he sometimes does, where he begins eating the food as I’m pouring it out, like he’s been on the desert with no water or whatever. That dog eats every day at 7 a.m. and 5:30 p.m. Yet some days he acts starved. I think he’s an emotional eater. He’s an emotional everything else.
And besides, he got several Milk Bones yesterday. We played our game:
Ooo, also, my mattress came yesterday. My mother is moving to a smaller place, and as a result is sending me furniture we’ve had forever, including my gramma’s bed. My grandmother had five children, and by the time I was born they were pretty much out of the house, except for my Uncle Jim who was only nine and a half years older and therefore tormented me.
The point is, she had a lotta bedrooms and a lotta beds. And where did I always sleep? With gramma, of course. Till I was about 13 and it dawned on me, I could sleep in one of these other beds.
But for the first 13 years, she’d tell me fairy tales that she’d fall asleep in the middle of (“And lo and behold, the princess…ZZZZZZZZZ”), and she’d recite poems she liked, and I’d tell her about school and we’d giggle at things. Now I get that bed in my very own house.
I just needed a mattress. So with all my extra dollars I got one on sale and lo and behold, it got here yesterday. I decided to move into that bedroom. It’s the bedroom Marvin and I slept in when we first moved here; it has the walk-in closet some sainted person added before we got here. I moved out of it the day Marvin left.
I’m hoping that moving bedrooms brings me some kind of sex luck. Like feng shui. Fuck shui.
Here is the view from my new bed–I’m still deciding where everything should go and I’m happy to report I scratched the floor last night, moving things. Also, dear mom. You’re gonna have to help me rearrange all the rooms when you get here. Fun!
Oh, say, can you see (heee) my full-length mirror? It’s a jewelry holder inside. I happen to have a link on Amazon so you can get one!
Last night when I got home, I lay prone on the couch. I lay prone on the couch from 6 p.m. till 9 p.m. I didn’t work out, I didn’t walk Edsel, I just splayed out. “What is wrong with me?” I thought. “I have no energy.”
Then I got a migraine. Why can’t I ever figure myself out? I know I get exhausted before a migraine. It’s like back when I used to have me the monthlies. Every month there’d be one day where I wept and carried on and wondered why life was so useless, and I’d wake up the next day and
Here’s the final view from my bed. Further bed re-do reports as developments warrant.
All right, I gotta go. I have to–
MOTHER OF GOD. Edsel just let himself inside and he smells HORRIFIC. I shudder to think of what just went down out there. Oh my GOD. I’m no psychic, but I predict a bath in that motherfucker’s future.