You know what I don’t like?
Yes, June. In fact, I have a comprehensive list. It’s really more of a scroll at this point.
No, there’s a new one.
Sigh. [turns scroll sideways to write in the margin]
Packet oatmeal that makes you work for it. You’re buying DRY OATMEAL in a foil PACKET. Clearly you are not up for whipping up a gourmet breakfast if you’re choosing dry oatmeal in a foil packet.
Add 150-degree purified water, let stand for 48 seconds, put in microwave for 192 seconds, on low, then remove and cover with Sanskrit tomes for 18 seconds under a full moon, 22 seconds if it’s a waxing gibbous. If it’s waning or new, do not eat this product.
My joie de vivre coworker Griff, of Thus Saith Griff fame, hates it when gas pumps tell you to pull the card out quickly, or when you’re microwaving something, to leave it in there sitting for a minute after.
“Don’t tell me what to fuckin’ do,” he says. And see, he’s right. June says, as she crunches her refusing-to-soften-for-some-reason fancy oatmeal.
It has MADAGASCAR vanilla. Oh, fuck off. Isn’t all vanilla from Madagascar? I don’t know what possessed me to purchase such lofty foil breakfast food; I must have been feeling vulnerable. “This oatmeal will solve everything. If I spent 11 dollars on four packs of oatmeal, surely my life will gel marvelously.”
In other news, my father sent me these:
What are they, June?
Fuck off, June.
They’re socks with Frida Kahlo on them. And did she really own a monkey? Because goddammit. I want a monkey.
I came home from work last night to all three cats clamoring to come in. I had worked late, and they were all looking at their kitty watches, annoyed. Iris limped in. “Why you limpin’ little Irises?” I asked, and once again, I’m certain the neighbors do not abhor me and my cat speak at all.
There is some fur off her little Iris head, and one has to surmise she was in a tuffle during the day, and “tuffle” is a fine word, and while, yes, it may have been her enemy, Orange Cat, it may also have been her very own brother, Gray Asshole.
All night, she just wanted to be on me. I was trying to work out, and she kept stretching over to lie on my lap while I, you know, lifted my leg 800 times.
In the meantime, last night, Steely Dan came home with everyone, had dinner, then immediately stood on the secretary and howled. The piece of furniture, not Henry Kissinger.
Won’t you enjoy my current references?
I let him out, and of course even though it was 2 degrees out, he wouldn’t come home, and since we all know he was very extremely undoubtedly likely to have SLEPT IN ANOTHER HOUSE, he was fine.
He came home today, ravenous. Well, “ravenous.” He was probably fed Madagascar vanilla cat food before he wandered back here. But what he does if he deigns to stay home during the day is get on the spare bed and do this:
He likes to get between the pillows. And he looks so sweet, and like such a nice kitty, that one can’t help but pet his velvety earses and kiss his sweet walnut head and
I’d better go. I woke up at 5:00 today and couldn’t fall back asleep until I DID, and then when the alarm went off at 6:30 I reset it for 7:30 and now I’m late and this is all you get today. Oh!
But my flowers and antlers came yesterday, for m’Frida costume, and now my head matches my socks. We will not speak of my curtains or drapes or however that crude saying goes.
It’s carpet, right? Carpet and drapes? What a stupid thing to ask. Whose carpet ever matches their drapes? I guess mine do–I have neither.
Hoooooo-aaaaa. But really, I don’t. I have blinds and hardwoods.
Oh my god.