You don’t have to put in an email address to leave me a comment. I wanted to say that first thing, before I got to all the scintillating news of my day.
I set it up that way from the beginning. Just because the line reads “email” doesn’t mean you have to obey it. And if you have other leaving-a-comment trouble, let me know and I can ask our resident guru how to fix your shit.
Someone who reads my WEBSITE works at WordPress. So try the no-email thing if you want to leave a comment. Or if you can’t remember your user name, try your email address instead, as she said:
I’d suggest is signing in with their email address rather than the username (because those are equivalent in our system and [you] have the username wrong).
So that’s Tech Talk With June for today.
You know what sucks, though? Is we used to make our user names so fun. Remember that? We’d expand and contract our user names. Now I guess they have to stay static. WHAT ABOUT OUR CREATIVITY?
For those of you who’ve been around awhile, what was your favorite day in the comments? I liked the day we changed the lyrics to I Got You Babe, which in retrospect wasn’t that nice of us because it was as a result of Chaz transitioning.
I got you to wear my ring
I also got a brand new thing
Mature. That’s us.
I also liked the day I asked you if you could recall all the things that’ve annoyed me through the years and you thought of all sorts of stuff I’d forgotten, since my annoyance is my hobby. The sugar packet. When a coworker was manically shaking her sugar packet and I got annoyed because, okay, you shake it once or twice to get it down there, but IT’S ALL SUGAR. YOU’RE NOT MIXING IT.
Also, “knock, knock!” when someone approaches your non-door workspace. Oh, knock this.
Speaking of commentors, Faithful Reader Kris made me this afghan! Isn’t it lovely? Isn’t it won-der-ful? And of COURSE I put it away so SD won’t eat it. I get my blankets out and put them back now, like Ned used to.
That used to irk me, as well. I’d be at his apartment back when I liked him, and we’d be watching a movie or something, and I remember the first time I was all, “Do you have a throw or something?”
It was like I asked if he had a box of butterfly-scented douche. “A WHAT?” But then he remembered that he did, in fact, have one that he got at Christmas. He went up into the hall closet, way on a shelf, and got it down for me.
Next time we were watching a movie or whatever, I asked for the throw again. There he went, back to the high reaches of his closet. His sherpa went with him. He had oxygen just in case.
The third time I asked for the throw, I finally snapped. You know how I am.
“Why not just keep it on the couch?”
He was aghast. “Cat fur!” he said.
Oh my god, ONE MEASLY CAT. Who, by the way, never sat on the couch. She’d go up there and nap with him on the rare weekend afternoon that Ned would nap. That was her one foray onto the couch, unless she lounged there all day while he was at work, ordering Chinese and watching Judge Judy.
My point is, it just seemed so inconvenient to have to clamor on up to the highest reaches of the hall closet each time I needed a throw, and let’s face it: women need throws. Men never say, Oh, I’m chilly. Guess I’ll get out a nice throw.
Why is that? When Ned took his rare afternoon naps (they only came after he’d swept the whole house, gone to the gym, ridden his bike, wrestled a salad and ripped apart a deck with his teeth) he just….slept there with no throw or anything. No way could I get to sleep all naked and exposed like that.
I’ve no idea why I started talking about stupid Ned so much today. I’ve begun to slowly transition into the “What the hell was I thinking” phase, so that’s a plus.
Fay just threw one of those astronaut parades, with all the ticker tape.
Did I have a point re that throw story?
…YES! I did! I wanted to say that now my throws are in the spare-bedroom closet, the closet that actually has a real door as opposed to my annoying swingy-door saloon lookin’ for the man who shot my pa closet door in my real bedroom. So when fall comes, Ima have to get up and take m’trail mix all the way back to the spare-bedroom closet and open that door and send a letter home saying Wait for me, darlin’ and come back in with a throw, just like Ned.
But because cat teeth, not cat fur.
Speaking of ridic Steely Dan, I took a break from this riveting post and got up to put gel in my hair. There’s something about Junie. As I was in the bathroom, I saw a dark figure flying through the air, and instead of worrying about dark spirits, I knew it was my dark, spirited cat.
Did you ever see the large black and white photo before, in my hallway? That’s this house, back in the ’50s, with the original kid who lived here. Cool, right?
I’d better dry my damn hair and get to work. I had ANOTHER headache last night, and this is bullshit, man. It’s interfering with my sex life.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Oh! …heh. Yeah.