It’s possible I’m the most irritable person on earth.
BREAKING NEWS: TSUNAMI CREATED WHEN TENS OF READERS NOD ‘YES’ AT SAME TIME.
But something new irritates me and I want you to hang on to your hat.
Oh my god, we know you’re pregnant. Everyone on planet Earth knows you’re effing pregnant. STOP. Put your HANDS down.
And I’d love to join crabby chatrooms about this but then I’m exposed to the words “baby bump” and “belly,” which also make me want to run screaming from the room.
Perhaps my tombstone might read: June. She was annoyed.
Can anyone recall all the things I’ve insisted be on my tombstone at this point? Maybe we can get one of those fold-out ones we’ve heard so much about. An expandable tombstone.
Speaking of expandable, I picked up Milhous today
to weigh him, because I like to keep abreast. You know, just keep one handy in case one of mine falls off. Anyway, he’s not SCREAMING up the scale the way Steely Dan did when he was a kitten and they kept moving back his birth date. “We know we said he was born in July, but maybe he was born in May.”
Anyway, Milhous weighs 5 pounds, which for a five-month-old is fine. But when I first got on the scale with him this morning, after three days of eating chili and lying about reading, my first thought was that Milhous had gained a ton of weight. That he was turning into such a big boy!
For I placed him down and lumbered back on the scale and madre de dios. It’s not chili up in there, it a whole Chilean miner or something.
It’s not storming here anymore, so we have work starting at 10:00 today, and who wants to place bets on me being late anyway? I have to give myself an hour and 40 minutes just to scrape the car.
You know, I HAVE a garage. Okay, it’s a 1932 garage, but it still works. Why did I not place my car in said garage when the storm was brewing? Think of how convenient that’d be. This is my first garage since I lived in Burbank circa 2006. I never parked my car in that, either.
Have garages just become storage sheds for all our crap? Why do we have so much crap? Why do we buy stuff and 10 months later it’s crap?
Anyway, speaking of Steely Dan, which I did seventeen paragraphs ago, the woman who owns my house, fmr., called me last night. She has the same first name as me.
“This is June who owns the house on [insert street name, fmr.].”
All of a sudden I got teary. Oh my god! Was Steely Dan back? I’d left her my number to call me for just that.
“An Amazon box came here for you,” she said.
I’m going there tonight to get it, and she told me about all the changes she made to the house, and I know you’ll all be “take pictures” and this is one of those occasions where you guys forget I’m a real person who will seem
if I do that.
Anyway, she’s replaced all of the floors, and I loved those floors, although she did also replace the terrible concrete floor with floating wood or Natalie Wood or something. Then she told me the house needs special drains because something was happening underneath, which the inspector didn’t catch, and that when the specialist came, he found
five cat carcasses
under my house.
“Maybe one of them is your cat,” she said, and that is pretty much when I wanted to scream and rip off my skin and fall to my knees and shout, “Not my Richie.”
What the hell?
There were five dead cats under my house?
Then I wondered if the guy was on the SIDES of the house and dug up Francis and Ruby. That didn’t occur to me till after we hung up. But why would you dig there?
Five dead cats? Please don’t let one be SD.
HOW DID THEY GET THERE, and why didn’t I HEAR them, and of all the things in the world why cats? Why couldn’t they have found Gwyneth Paltrow’s bones or something that wouldn’t have upset me? Why couldn’t they have found the bones of words like baby bump and snowpocalypse?
Oh. And while I’m being annoyed by things, here’s another one.
If you’re a good storyteller, you just progress the story. We don’t need you to say, “Fast forward to…”
Or, god forbid, “FLASH forward to.” Oh my god shut up.
Perhaps you wonder how it feels to spend your whole day in a lather.
And you already know my other thing, which is when someone tells a story and they say, “So he asked me, ‘You know what?’ and I said, ‘What?'”
WE DON’T NEED TO HEAR WHAT YOU ANSWERED WHEN YOU’RE ASKED A RHETORICAL QUESTION.
Oh, crap, the guy across the street is 100% stuck in his driveway, spinning his tires. We are three blocks of dead ends followed by train tracks; no one is ever coming to plow this street. I wonder if I’ll be stuck, too?
The guy across the street has a sweet pale yellow El Camino, by the way. It’s really cool. But right now it’s one El stuck motherfucker.
I’d better go. I might could be in for a struggle. I will not say anything about a struggle being real.