Last night, I had a dream that Steely Dan was wandering the hallways at my work, which isn’t out of the realm. It’s only three miles from here. But anyway, when the alarm went off in real life, I opened my eyes to discover him standing on my headboard, peering down at me.
I managed to discuss my dreams and my cat all in one sentence, thereby becoming the most boring person on earth®, officially. Maybe next I’ll tell my stories with, “Wait, was that Tuesday or…?” And my giant favorite, “Let me back up.”
NO ONE EVER WANTS YOU TO BACK UP. FOR THE LOVE OF LEROY, CAN YOU NOT BACK UP.
Other than work, cats and REM, I’ve got nothing more to tell you. Tonight I celebrate my love for you, and I need you all to go out today and light a candle and pray to our merciful god that I stop thinking of that damn song.
Tonight, I meant to say, a bunch of us from work are going to happy hour at someplace called the Crowded Goat or the Bleating Goat or the Got Your Goat. I don’t know. I’ve been there before. It’s got goat in the title. Other than that, the weekend yawns before me. Bleats before me.
Tomorrow morning, I take the kittens into the shelter for their booster shots, and I suppose there’s a chance people will tell me I’m the lucky one. And we’ve just begun. Think I’m gonna have a son.
They’ll tell me my little kitten heads are ready for adoption. Could they not? Could we just not yet? Please note they’re still pretending to eat titty dinner, even though Nancy is not bringing any milkshakes to their yard at present. But isn’t that reason enough that they should stay with her? Shouldn’t they stay with her until they’re not doing that? (June glues each kitten to mom.)
While I stared at my kittens, I also spent a long time on the phone last night, with the spouse of a friend. With the wife of a close friend, wife of a close friend.
I’m being intentionally vague not because I am having an affair with my friend’s spouse, but because I don’t want people to inundate him the way I inundated him. But to be fair, my friend called me after I wrote a post about how I worry about retirement, and she said, “Do you, you know, know what my husband does?”
“He works at a bank, right?” Turns out he’s a retirement guru.
She totally picked him up at work, by the way. She was in his line every Friday, depositing her check, and when she was ready to make her move, he asked her out. A truly GOOD boyfriend would have added a zero to her check before depositing it, but whatever.
Why is it I never get jobs at the bank?
So anyway, he and I made a plan to talk on the phone, old school, and when my phone actually rang, all four kittens and their mom startled.
For, you know, like a second.
Anyway. We discussed ad nauseum my income, my four oh wonk (Oh, look. Another reason to scream out and light a stop-doing-that candle for June) and my expenses.
He added things, and estimated things, and he did it like he enjoyed it. In the end, he said I wasn’t in that bad a shape, but he said what would really help is if I’d pay off more of my mortgage each month. With all my extra cash.
So, I’ve canceled Stitch Fix. I KNOW! I loved Stitch Fix! But–and here’s where you probably won’t feel sorry for me if you live in, say, California or New York. But my house payment is $870 a month, and I’m tryina pay at least $1,000 a month for now.
“Then, if you can manage that, in a while, just add $20 more, see if that’s okay. It’s just twenty dollars, right?” said my friend’s spouse.
So that’s the plan. I already plop 15% of my check into my four oh wonk each paycheck, and I AM DYING OF LACK OF FUN, but I also don’t want to be babbling to myself with a shopping cart at 80, which let’s face it is (a) Nine minutes away and (b) probably gonna happen anyway.
I’ll just be blogging out loud, to myself, under a bridge. “Oh my god, how did I get on this tangent?” I’ll croak.
Note that I don’t have to sit on the floor anymore, because everyone has learned how to get up on just everything. It was literally one day they couldn’t, next day they could. Oh my god, having kittens is the most funnest thing you could ever imagine.
All my chins and I agree.
Okay, I gotta go. I’ve got to get to work so I can get everything done in order to free up my schedule to get drunk like I’m 27 or something. Back when I was 27, we had a bar in our building at work, which was convenient AF, and then we had free bus passes, so getting home was a breeze. Man, those were the days. The says of busses and chablis.
Oh! Crap! Before I go, here’s an Amazon link. That extra mortgage payment isn’t gonna pay itself.