The first thing I did this morning was punch Edsel in the face, as I reached to shut off the alarm. Merrrrry Christmas!
Oh, he’s fine. If you can’t take a punch, you have no reason to be my dog. Plus, must he BE .07 INCHES from me at all times? It results in tragedy like this.
This was a busildy weekend, starting with me getting the wrong glasses.
I waited 16 days for my new glasses to come in, and I’d ordered a rosy tortoiseshell, and the mirror was behind the desk at the glasses place, and it wasn’t till I got to a restaurant after that I was all, heyyyyy. These aren’t tortoiseshell.
Nothing gets past me.
So then I had to take them back, and I could tell they didn’t believe me that I didn’t pick out these worm-colored frames, but I didn’t. But then I couldn’t find the rose-colored tortoiseshells, and I was cursing my whole “Don’t print a receipt” from 16 days ago, because every time I have something printed I picture the polar bear on a tiny piece of ice and I can’t even stand it.
So instead of ruining our ecosystem or whatever, I ruined my appearance.
Anyway, I ended up getting these, which look like every pair of glasses I ever pick out.
And now I’m my grandmother even more than I was.
Back in her day, polar bears had plenty of ice. As did her veins. Also, in the photo of her, there’s my small-person head at the bottom. Good lord, I had every color of those beads for your hair that you can think of. I believe I secretly thought every day should be pink-bead day.
Saturday was one of those days where you run from one thing to the next. On Saturday mornings, I like to dump out the disgusting litterbox altogether and scrub it and hose it out and dry it and sweep the litter that’s all over yonder and wash the floor in there, and for some reason that takes a damn hour.
Then I had to scream Lily to the vet, as she and Milhous managed to trap themselves in the bathroom one night last week, and the following morning, a morning I’d overslept, I tore into the bathroom to shower as quickly has humanly possible and not only were two cats in there, but poor Lily, because she’s a good girl and did not know what else to do, pooped in the shower.
This led me to the discovery that there is a tapeworm up in Lily, which means there’s a tapeworm in everyone and why do I have pets.
If you’re not familiar, all you have to do is give them all a pill and it’s over with. But the vet had not yet met Lily, as I quit my last vet in a huff about six months ago (they seriously sent me “It’s time for [insert pet’s name here]’s appointment!” emails at least once a week, and when there are four pets that gets old, and also it was never actually really time for an appointment. It was always the sort of thing where okay, we could go in now, if I wanted to spend every weekend at the vet. I called twice to say, I only want to take in each pet once a year, barring emergencies, so can you knock it off with those false alarms and they always said, No, we can’t. We have NO CONTROL over how often we send you these. I even gathered them all up on one screenshot to show how often they were–)
I know. I’m being a let-me-speak-to-your-manager Karen.
So the new vet, who does not bug me with emails, insisted she see Lily before she just gave her a pill. She’s seen everyone else. The point is, she insists Lily is overweight.
I’m TELLING you, she doesn’t eat that much. But she’s a round mound of meow, as Ned would say. Apparently that’s a sports joke.
So she got cans of special diet food that she refuses to eat, and that the other cats also similarly too refuse to eat, so now I have cans of rejected diet food, which is what I’ve been hoping and praying for all along.
As soon as I got Round Lily keeps on turnin’ back home, I had to scream to the hair place, as it was time for my roots. Last time I was there, I was going to move into a whole different house, and I’d link to that post where I tell you about the 17 houses I considered, but I’m pressed for the time because I was occupied with punching the dog this morning.
The point is that I hadn’t gotten my roots done in four months, and was living on $7 root cover, and it was dire. It was dire, wolf.
We decided to go a little darker, like my moods, and voila.
I not only have darker hair, I have on 16 pounds of makeup. I was invited to my coworker Lottie Blanco’s Christmas party, that she and her wife, also named Lottie Blanco, throw every year. Before the party and after my hair dye, I ran to the candy store to get them a hostess gift and when I whipped open the candy-store door, there was The Poet, buying boxes of candy that reached up over her head.
“Are you getting everyone candy for Christmas?” I asked.
“No, this is just for me,” said The Poet from behind her boxes. The Poet weighs at most 17 pounds.
Anyway, I drove to Lottie Blanco’s and once I got to her neighborhood, I pretty much guessed which house was hers.
It was the house with the subtle nod to Christmas.
“You’re certainly going to have the most festive shoes,” Lottie B told me she thought, when she saw my black velvet shoes with sparkly ties. Those shoes ROCK. Those shoes hurt like fuck.
“Hey, everyone, this is Lottie’s straight friend!” Lottie Blanco’s wife, Lottie Blanco, said.
Who is never going to get over the part where I’ve blog-named them both Lottie Blanco? Is it me?
Anyway, we had a great time. The food was to die for, and there was nothing un-Christmassed in that house. When they begin a theme, they follow it through, the Lottie Blancos do.
At one point, the back door just up and broke. It leads to a screened-in porch, where a lot of people had stored their drinks, and that damn thing would neither open or close. It was just stuck. Poor Lottie Blanco my coworker was stuck behind it, on the porch, with all the drinks.
“Is this going in your blog?” she asked, from behind the door.
Eventually, about 450 of her friends came to help her and they eventually had to take the whole damn thing off. “How many lesbians does it take to open a door?” someone joked, and that is when I thought maybe I should help and bust that stereotype, but I want you to brace yourself: I had no idea what was wrong with that fucking door.
The rest of the night was spent watching Lottie B’s corgis try to figure out why the door was weird, and leap over it with their tiny stump legs. They’re corgis, so they have to stump over everything.
In unrelated news, I would like a corgi.
I have to get to work, which is a shame because I wanted to tell you what a
Iris is about taking a pill, but suffice it to say everyone here is medicated, and some of us are foaming at the jerky mouth.
I’ll talk at you later. Try not to poop in the bathtub today. Or punch your dog.