Late last week, I finished a freelance project, and now tonight I’m going to get another big one, which is what she said.
So, last night, after a long day in seventh grade, apparently, I celebrated my last night of freedom by going to the movies. I really know how to throw down.
I saw To Catch a Thief, with my lookalike Grace Kelly, because apparently I not only went to the movies, I got there in my time machine. I went to my old movie theater, comedian–
I have the barricade up between this room and the rest of the house, a thing I just took a picture of and SEVENTY-NINE TIMES I tried to drag the photo of it to my desktop and the picture WILL NOT DRAG OVER WHY GOD WHY, but it did allow me to drag over this image I just took of old Mug Shot Edsel, here, who is the reason the barricade is up.
He’s stuck back here with me because he keeps eating the cats’ food and it’s cat breakfast time. It was also Edsel breakfast time, but that time’s gone in 30 seconds. The cats take a more leisurely approach. They’re French. They’re over there at the table smoking cigarettes and drinking strong black coffee and discussing Proust.
I need a good idea for where to put the cats’ food. The window between the kitchen and this room gets ants. So does the top of the refrigerator. I currently have their dishes on the dining room table, and someone was over the other night and I realized we were eating with three cat dishes at the end of our table and it hadn’t really registered with me, and right there is when you know you’ve glided into insane cat lady.
The grandmother I’ve turned into really liked cats. Did I ever tell you that? She also went through about 87 dogs. Did I ever tell you that? …yeah.
Also, those were sneaky links to Amazon. If you, you know, wanted to shop on Amazon today. See how convenient I made it for you to get over there? Cause it’s so tough otherwise.
THE POINT IS, Edsel is stuck back here with me, but just a moment ago, when I was telling you the riveting news that I was at the movies watching old movies as I do eleven thousand times a week, Steely Dan meowed at me.
“What’s wrong, honey?” I asked, and picked him up and kissed his glossy lavender head and scritched his little fuzzy cheeks, which as you an imagine he adores. He stalked off as soon as he could, opened the door as he does, and let himself out in the back yard.
It was only after I turned back here to write you some more that I thought, “Wait. How did he get back here? There’s a barricade up.”
You’d think if he leaped over it, I’d have seen it. But he just…appeared.
So I saw Grace Kelly at the movies, and she stopped acting and looked into the audience and said, “June, how do you pull off that effortless elegance?” but I couldn’t answer her because I had two straws in my mouth, doing m’walrus impresh.
Then I came home and had a migraine because it’s storming out, and I don’t know why there’s no sun up in the sky, stormy weather.
Did I ever tell you that story? (Gee, June, a story?) (Also, I just read a hate thing someone wrote about me that I was too disjointed. Say, why don’t you dis THIS joint, assy?)
When I was 15, I was at my grandmother’s house, and do you remember being at your grandparents’, and they’d always choose the shittiest of the three TV channels there were to choose from?
“Oh, Hee-Haw. Let’s leave it on that.” [But, the Hudson Brothers are on channel…crap.]
“Say, it’s time for Lawrence Welk. Turn it up, honey.”
“Oh, great, a shitty boring western. Where’s the Jiffy Pop?”
So my grandmother had some shit-ass show on, Andy Williams or Dinah Shore or who knows what, and a singer came on and performed Stormy Weather.
Oh, that song spoke to my angst over my tragic breakup with Cardinal, my high school boyfriend. It truly WAS stormy weather since my 15-year-old man and I ain’t together.
A few weeks later, that song was still haunting me. I called my grandmother.
“Gramma, do you remember when we watched that show and that woman was singing about a storm or whatever it was? Do you know how that song goes?”
“Well, sure I do!” said my grandmother, who was, you know, 10 years older than my age now, pretty much. So she started singing, in her gramma way.
“Don’t know why, there’s no sun up in the sky, am I blue–shit.”
“What?” I asked. I had a pen poised over a paper. I was writing down the lyrics. It was a lot harder to moon over a song before Google.
“I started singing Am I Blue instead of Stormy Weather,” Gramma said, annoyed with her own self.
“Don’t know whyyyyyy,” she started again, “there’s no sun up in the skyyyy, stormy weather. There was a time, I was his only one. But now I’m, the sad and–SON OF A BITCH.”
I dearly wish I had a recording of that phone call. She never did get the lyrics straight. Kept segueing over to Am I Blue.
Poor Gramma. She was the same way with fairy tales. I heard a lot of stories about Little Red Riding Hood ending up at the ball with a glass slipper after she’d slept for a hundred years. You always knew Gramma was getting off track when she’d pause and “lo and behold” you.
“And loooo and beholllllld,” [pause] [clearly has forgotten the plot] “And loooo and behollllld, Snow White ate the porridge…”
So. Yeah. You wonder why I’m disjointed? Hatey-ass asshole of Asstown.
Now I’ve wasted your time and I didn’t even get to tell you what I gathered you all here for, which was to tell you I’ve lost five pounds, and while I still weigh more than I’ve ever weighed, in my HEAD my five-pounds-lighter self is HOT. I’m parading all over town thinking, Y’all look over here. You ever SEEN a hotter 52-year-old in your life? You shoulda seen me five POUNDS ago. I’m unrecognizable.
I figure once I hit my goal weight (8 pounds, 5 oz. Twas m’birth weight so I know I’ve been there at least once), I will be insufferable.
As opposed to now.
I leave you with this charming photo of my coworkers. I took it on one of our walks, which explains how I’ve achieved my dramatic weight loss.
Talk to you later. Don’t wanna hear it again tonight. I’ll talk to ya later. Am I blue.