ADD is--oooo, shiny!

Funeral glitter

Summer’s here, but I don’t think the time is ever right for dancin’ in the streets. Seems obnoxious. And possibly risky.

Dancing in the streets. Fekking hippies. Get out of the road. Get a job. Unless one gets a job in a parade, and then one’s job would literally be dancin’ in the streets.

…I realize that summer is not technically here yet, which was always something Ned had to point out.

Me: [sample kvetch] It’s spring. Why is it so cold?

Ned: [sample mansplain] ACTUALLY, spring is in 12 days.

Ned: It’s not autumn until the 21st.

Ned: No, it isn’t. It’s still technically not the vernal equinox.

And that is why Ned is in a shallow grave.

Also, he always had to correct me saying, “rug” when I apparently meant “carpet,” or maybe it’s vice versa. Whatever. Apparently one covers the whole floor and the other is for an area. You’d think as a copy editor I’d care about this, but the depth of my caring about this is as deep as Ned’s shallow grave.

But ALSO, Ned insists on calling the living room “the den.” I think this came from having grown up richer than me, and having one of those fancy living rooms no one ever goes in–and what is the point of those?–and then the room everyone gathers in to watch TV–which probably no one does anymore but that was the plaid-walled idea in 1967–is called “the den.”

You’d think as a copy editor I’d care about the structure of that alarming sentence, but the depth of my caring is about this is as deep as Ned’s shallow grave.

Anyway, it always bugged me when he lived in an apartment and referred to his living room as “the den,” particularly because he had a two-bedroom apt., and there was the bedroom he slept in, and then another bedroom that just had a couch and a desk and his computer, and THAT, to me, would be a den.

But he never called that room a den.

I harangued him about this for a long time, till one day I was around his brother, who referred to his mother’s living room as the den.

And right then I knew.

It was a family thing.

Marvin used to always leave the foil top on things. You know how when you open peanut butter or new aspirin or what have you, and it has the annoying foil lid on top of it for no reason other than the Tylenol scare of 1812? Marvin would peel it back, but not remove it entirely. Then for the rest of time, you had to wrestle that foil lid, like a teensy obstacle course. I think he thought it kept the aspirin fresher or something.

Once I was at his mother’s, and got something out of the cupboard, and sure enough.

The half-on foil lid.

It was a family thing.

Years after he left, I got some spice out of the cupboard, and you can imagine how much spices get used in this House of Lean Cuisine. But I got down Chaucer’s Choice Ye Olde Spice Blennde, purchased with bones because money hadn’t been invented yet, and there?

Was a half-on foil lid, left over from Marvin days.

I ripped it off. It was so satisfying.

But I was talking about summer being here.

June, I’ve been meaning to ask, are you still taking Ritalin?

No. It gave me migraines. What doesn’t? Hey, is that something glittery?

That reminds me. I have a stone I got from someone’s funeral. The person collected stones and rocks, and at his funeral they had a basket of them, and you could take one as a memento of this person. I have it at my desk at work–it’s sort of pink with gray lacing through it.

At my funeral, I want everyone to get a little bag of glitter, and you can all toss glitter at my casket as I pass by. Or keep it forever.

“What’s that?”

“Funeral glitter.”

Anyway, summer. Edsel and I heard our first cicada the other night, and what’s really cool is I think we heard its first-ever song or buzz or whatever it is, as it gave this sort of introductory throat-clearing and did this weird instruments-tuning-up hum, then

ZZZZ!!ZZZ!!ZZZZ!!zzzzzzzzzzz…. of the cicada.

We also have been seeing lightning bugs this week, and the magnolias are bloomed, plus also the mimosa trees, a tree I would dearly like in my own yard. I have never understood the joyless people who don’t like a flowering tree because it leaves a “mess.” Good gravy. Rip off the foil lid and enjoy yourself. Flowers are never a mess.

flat,800x800,070,f.u1.jpgIn case you don’t get mimosa trees in your region, here is what they look like. And apparently it is very important to James Brotherton, sisterton, that we know he took this shot, as he has BRANDED it into the corner.

Anyway, they also smell really good, mimosas do, and if I had scratch and my chair would get recovered, then I’d have Alf plant a mimosa in place of the poor tree that’s on its last limbs out in the front of my yard. I’d make him plant one that big.

Don’t you wish you could do that? Plant giant trees? And also get your hair cut long?

Waiting for things to happen is the worst.

Just ask my Chaucer spice.

Summer. Felt.

June's stupid life

The one where June’s chair, screen and hair look awful

Why does every cat here have to be gray? I see one running across the yard and my heart leaps, and then it’s just Lily or Iris.


Is everyone waiting for me to recover that chair/footstool already? I know. I’ve got the fabric, but it’ll be about $750 to actually have it recovered and I don’t have that kinda scratch.

But when I DO get that kind of scratch, I plan to lug this chair into the living room, and move the big scratched comfortable leather one into here. This does me no good till the scratch.

This all reminded me to put up an Amazon link, above. Go to the image. Click. Get to Amazon. Shop. I get scratch.

June, stop saying that.

My luggage came! Only 6 nights without it! Probably any progress I made on my skin with my Retin-A has gone back to the beginning. Now I’m even OLDER than when I started using it.

Speaking of which, it’s pretty much been three months since I spent…scratch on Ultherapy and guess what. I look the same.

March 8, 2018
June 3, 2018

I’d been scraping the damn concrete floor, so I was shinier than I was in March. Also, what the hell with that screen. How many times have I replaced that screen since you’ve known me? Why do I have a dog? Look how it’s all brown where he puts his horrific paws up to let himself in.

I give up.

IMG_6828.jpgYou know what I did? I didn’t give up. I just got annoyed and went outside and scrubbed that door, but it’s forever stained by dog paws. The screen looks nice, though. I guess I’ll have Alf replace the screen in there AGAIN.

It’s sort of meta that you can look in my door and see this blog post, isn’t it?

I guess the only other thing that’s new is we had some restructuring at work, and now my boss, fmr., is my boss, current. We need to think of a new name for her. Boss, fmr./crrnt. is too taxing to write. It’s like how I got sick of writing “…friend” so I thought of “Ned.”

Speaking of Ned, I’m dragging him to see Mean Girls tonight at the old theater. I’ve never seen it, and you’ll be stunned to hear neither has he, but I’ve always kind of wanted to see it.

I remember when this was a real movie at the theater, there was a billboard for it on my way to my LA therapist’s office. In Los Angeles, you had to have a therapist or you couldn’t get your driver’s license.

Why does the Department of Motor Vehicles keep insisting it’s “driver license”? No one says that but them. And yet they keep trying it. “Any second now, ‘driver’ license will be sweeping the nation.”

Speaking of sweeping the nation, I feel I must officially announce










There’s a video of some music competition where kids sang Too Much Heaven. It’s cute. Or it was, the first 18 times it got sent to me. Then suddenly I wanted to commit Bee Geescide.

Thank you. There is no further need to put it on my wall, or text it to me, or email it. I’ve seen it.

It’s this year’s cat/dog diary.

Hey, I do the same thing. I see a dachshund thing, and I think of sending it to Miss Doxie, and then I think, probably 86 people are having this same thought right now.

Why does “dachshund” have to be the hardest word in the world to spell? What word can’t you spell? I never do well with words where you leave the “e” off, like “truly.” I mean, I know that one, but words of that ilk.

IMG_6830.jpgI leave you with the following evidence that I finally in this life found a four-leaf clover. I’ve always wanted to.

That I found it while my cat is missing and so were all my haircare products cause they were with my luggage and I looked like dung is beside the point. Maybe things are looking up!

God, my hair really does look bad. Which looks worse: my hair or my screen door?

I’d better get to work. The other part of our restructuring is that I helped some people out who needed work done, and now between you and me I’ve got too much work. But if I just forgo peeing, I can get it done today. Is it forego or forgo? See what I mean?


I like cats

Cat out of the bag

I knew this would happen.

When Steely Dan was a tiny kitten who should’ve still been with his mother, he wobbled up to two college boys who could not leave a tiny kitten on a sidewalk in the rain. So they brought him home, marveled at how brave and playful he was, and realized that with school and job–and I’m going to go out on a limb and say beer–they really didn’t have time or funds to give to a kitten.

So they gave him to me. They gave me his a-boy-bought-this blue bowl and too-big litter box and yellow polka-dot scratching pad that he actually used constantly.

IMG_6791.pngAs soon as I held him, I said, “Oh, this is a good one.”

For I don’t know if you know this about me, but I have cats. I’ve always had cats. I know from cats. And I could tell, in my bones, that he was my type.

I like a no-nonsense cat, I guess to offset my own nonsense. I like a solid, stoic, unflappable, brave cat. I guess to offset my flappyness.

Mr. Horkheimer was that way, and so was Winston. So was Roger. Solid cats.

IMG_6792.jpgI believe in letting cats out, a thing that would have caused nary a raised eyebrow in, say, 1975, and that now causes people to gasp in horror. Since 9/11, we’ve become an incredibly overprotective society, if you ask me. Kids don’t play. They get shuttled to school in cars rather than walking. And animals are put in sweaters and kept indoors. Everything we love has become a dollhouse creature that we keep shuttered away for safety.

My way of thinking doesn’t jibe with this. Nevertheless, my goal was to leave SD in till he was year old, till he knew where he lived and so on. After that, I wanted him to feel the grass under his paws, to lift his head and sniff at birds, and to get his fur warm in the sun.

Oh, how I didn’t know him yet. Because within months, that cat started escaping the house. I’d look outside and there he’d be. And then I’d look again and he’d be IN the house.

Were there two gray cattens in the neighborhood? Was I seeing things? Was I finally just hallucinating cats?

Turns out, he can not only open doors, that cat found an open something-or-other in the roof that led to the attic, then (I saw him do this. Stood in the hall horrified) he’d …bounce on the closed attic steps till they gave way enough that he could squeeze out of the ceiling and leap into my hallway. Boom. Home.

He figured this all out when he was maybe five months old.

And right then I knew: Steely Dan was no ordinary cat.

IMG_6779.jpgHe didn’t feel the grass under his paws; he soared above it. He didn’t lift his nose to the birds; he joined them.

IMG_0379.jpgIMG_5184.jpgIMG_8163.jpgSteely Dan was the kind of cat who rarely came home. When it’s warm, some mornings he’ll stare at me through the back window, come in and gobble breakfast, then jump through the hole in the screen and go back out all day.

He’s like kids back in the ’70s. He was free.

I’ve had this cat for two years, and since then he’s gotten famous in the neighborhood. He’s very friendly, and sometimes tries to come right in. On NextDoor, there were at first a lot of hysterical, WHO IS THIS HOMELESS (MUSCLED, SHINY) KITTY? notices, but people started saying, “Oh, that’s just Steely Dan.”

But I knew that with this spirit of adventure, there might be trouble.

IMG_3871.jpgIMG_1174.jpgI knew that with a cat who lived hard, there could come a morning I’d look for his face at the back window, and if it wasn’t there, expect him to leap from the roof once I opened the door, and he wouldn’t be up there.

Friday was that day.

After my harrowing travel experience Thursday, I came home and opened the back door to let all the cats out. Lily and Iris are content with my yard. They just want to cross their paws in the shade somewhere, maybe murder a bee or something.

Not Steely Dan. And while I had been gone Wednesday and Thursday, Ned had come over to feed the cats, and said he literally caught Steely Dan in midair as he tried to leap out the door. To say SD was nonplussed about being indoors in an understatement.

So I knew when I got home Thursday afternoon that he’d be champing at the bit to leave.

Because I know letting him roam is dangerous, usually when he leaves, I say something to him. I tell him what a magnificent kitty he is, or that I can’t wait till he comes back. Just something so that if he didn’t return, I wouldn’t feel as bad.

On Thursday, I said nothing. I don’t even really remember letting him out. I was so tired, and angry about my missing luggage, which is still not here, by the way. But if I have a choice between my favorite clothes and my $150 Retin-A that’s in that bag, and seeing my cat again, my Retin-A can suck it.

IMG_8253.jpgAnd yes, I’ve done all the things you’re supposed to do when your cat is missing. I notified NextDoor, I’ve driven to the shelter (where I saw two of my orange fosters languishing there, a thing that haunts me), I’ve called the emergency vet, and I’ve gone to ask my neighbors if I can call into their sheds and crawl spaces. “Oh, that cat? I see that cat all the time,” they all tell me. “Walked right into my house once.”

I know there’s a chance he’ll still come back, just like my wayward bag. I know someone will leave an asshole comment about this, too. Something smug and shrill and probably containing the term “furbabies.”

But what I mostly know is I adore that cat. And I wanted him to have a happy life, even if it wasn’t the safest, most coddled life.

IMG_9142.jpgIMG_0021.jpgIMG_9089.jpgIMG_0072.jpgSo if I never get a chance to tell him, I’ll tell you. Steely Dan is a magnificent cat, and I can’t wait to see him again. I’ll keep his polka-dot scratching pad waiting, just in case.