Oh my gawd, this day is a WASH.
Is a wash a bad thing? or is it just an even-ing out? What I mean is this day can suck it.
First of all, note I’m here 12 hours late. When we last spoke, swearing we’d stay together forever and exchanging class rings (isn’t mine nice?), I was on the horns of a dilemma re what my new hours at work would be.
I decided on 8 to 5. I get a lot of “Can you do this today?!” requests at, like, 4:00, which is relaxing, so planning on an earlier departure would be for naught.
So, the new schedule started November 1, and in case you aren’t being kept abreast of the dates because you’re in a tower somewhere, like let’s say you’re Rapunzel, or a prisoner of war, or a sex slave or something, this is November 2, so I had to start my new hours forthwith. (Also, you may have bigger fish to fry beyond, “What day is this” and “Which hours did June select for work?”)
The point is, that alarm went off this morning at what felt like 2 a.m. and I wanted to die. Oh, I felt out of it. I was foggy, I was without personality, I had no will to live.
It was 30 minutes earlier than my usual wakeup. Thank god for daylight savings this weekend.
Anyway, I did not blog. Because personality, where is it. Searching for Bloggy Fisher.
I worked from home today, as I was expecting a delivery and also my handyman who is not Alf came over.
Once, a few weeks ago, Alf couldn’t help me out, so I cheated on him, and I found a distinctly NOT ridiculous handyman who is straightforward and dependable, and I am sorry he is not as fun to hear about as Alf, but he put up two light fixtures for me today, to replace a brown-and-brass ceiling fan
and also a fluorescent light, because nothing says Home Sweet Home like an office light.
We didn’t know what we’d find when we removed the old lights, but now he has to come back and
and paint over the discolored rectangle up on m’ceiling. He comes back Monday. See, that would have taken 49 nonsensical texts with Alf to arrange.
Anyway, while all that was going on today I had WORK OUT MY ASS, and I was work work working as hard as I could, I was ROCK-HARD working, I was RAM-STRAIGHT HARD working, and then I hope you’re sitting down but I got a “Can you do this today?!?” email at 4:00 and I ended up working 8:00 TO 5:30, and Lu totally resent.
Mostly I resent because for MONTHS, YEARS, even, ALL MY LIFE, pretty much, I’ve been so, so, so looking forward to today, which is November 2, Rapunzel the Sex Slave, because as you know it’s the day the Freddie Mercury movie premieres and ALL I WANTED was to type in all caps a lot but then also GO TO THAT MOVIE and it started at 5:50 and please see above re working till 5:30, and I still had to slop all the hogs and I looked like shit so I thought, oh, I’ll just go to the 7:00 showing and guess who fell asleep and missed it by five minutes.
This day is a wash.
Tomorrow I take Milhous to the vet, although he is now eating, but he still needs shot boosters. He’ll deign to eat some adult cat food in a can. That’s it. Not that he personally sits in a can, but speaking of which, he FELL into the toilet today and I am so glad I was home. I was all, What sounds barf and it was a kitten plunking into the toilet, and if you ever need a barf sound effect, turns out that’ll do, pig.
Also, speaking of barfing, tomorrow I head off to Peg’s funeral. Cel-e-brate good times, come on!
Did I tell you Peg, my neighbor, fmr., died? Peg was the best. She really was. It’s sad. Everything is sad, honey.
My grandmother said that to me once, when I was in high school. Why so atypically depressed, June?
And after the vet and the funeral, Ima paint. See? I’m finally getting to the paint portion of our blog.
Careful readers will note that most of this house is painted kind of a coffee with cream color. My problem is, this house is way too tasteful. Fortunately for me, I still have a can of Sleepy Blue like I had in my old bedroom, which will go in my …new bedroom. And I have a can of Quietude, which goes in the den. Ned once said I speak of Quietude the way other people speak of the home run they hit in 1979.
But this weekend, I’m painting the living room a color called Alabaster, and I am doing so because a woman whose house I admire said to paint it that color and I’m all, okay. I will do whatever you say. Because your house. I admire.
Also, I am painting my dresser a pinky rose.
Shut up. I don’t care.
I’ve wanted to paint the dresser for awhile. Last weekend, I was at the never-busy Lowe’s paint department, waiting while every woman on god’s earth ordered a light green, a Quietude, if you will, for her walls. They sell furniture paint there that you get a can of and have them make it into a color from their brochure. That’s how my nightstand became seafoam. Don’t it make my nightstand, don’t it make my nightstand, don’t it make my brown nightstand bluuuuee (-green.)
I was planning to have them mix up for me the white-ish color of furniture paint, Kid Glove, but I’ve been walking around with a fabric sample from my new chair in my purse, like that’s just what you do, and since I was there
I matched the fabric of my chair to the paint colors available in their furniture paint,
and by the time it was finally my fucking turn at bat, I said, “Mix me up soma that Morning Coat, and be lively with ya, m’lad.”
Then the guy at Lowe’s cockpunched me.
Don’t you like me better at the end of the day, after a nap and maybe a snort of the hootch? I know I do.
And look here, Miss Beige-y Basic Bitch of the Beige. I don’t CARE that a pink dresser isn’t your taste, and you want me to be tasteful, and do a taste-y freeze on my choices. I just don’t care. This is the joy of being single. You get to paint your dresser Morning Coat, whatever that is.
So that sums me up, I think, and I’ll report back to you post vet/funeral/tape/patch/paint/ooo, pink!
Going into the weekend like: