I have decided that the flowerbed in my front yard is a lot like me: Sort of neglected, randomly attractive through no effort on my part, and mostly in need of serious work that I’m probably not gonna do.
It has these…hugging-the-ground weeds taking over. My flowerbed, not me. They almost look like a fern but they hug the ground. Does anyone know what that is? Ripping them out is a motherfucker. Those weeds are the Ned of the plant world.
Anyway, here’s what I did all weekend other than get philosophical about my flower bed.
On Friday night, my jaw blemish and I went to see The Lion King with The Poet. I dragged her to it because we were SUPPOSED to go see Gordon Lightfoot but I swear to you he tripped on something and postponed his tour, thereby making him the ironically named Gordon Lightfoot. Did I already tell you this? I’ve been slapping that line all over town. Anyway, because we had an empty evening before us, we saw The Lion King. This selfie is me standing on front of her infernally annoying building where you have to buzz her to let her know you’re there but they don’t give you a system to do so. You’re just supposed to magically know what code to push and it’s stupid.
We had planned to have her lift one of her Pomeranians in a circle of life pose, but see above re not being able to buzz her. Finally I had to text her.
The Poet and I live a mile from each other, so I left my house at 6:43 and got over there at 6:45. It was an exhausting trek. So at least I had time on my side.
We once noticed that right in the middle of our two dwellings is the Air Fun Trampoline Park, and we’ve often spoken of meeting there for some, you know, air fun. But we never do. That plan never gets off the ground. Bah.
Anyway, it was good. The Lion King was. I know I’m supposed to leave there thinking about how everything on earth touches everything else, like my college roommate, but really what I think of is that I want a baby lion so bad. Wouldn’t it be GREAT if I had a baby lion? Oh my god.
But speaking of my baby lions, I had to have Stanley Steemer come over Saturday morning to try to clean the kitten pee from the area rugs and hardwood floor, and my little, “Oh, I’ll volunteer to foster kittens” not only cost me a fortune in formula and kitten food, it also cost me
THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS
in Stanley Steemering.
Broke, I continued my weekend.
I got a pedicure with my last $25, and note the kitten scratches on one toe. The last pedicure I’d had was back in Saginaw and things were rough in the foot department. “Do you…like this color?” asked the pedicure guy when he was through, and I was all, “HELL, yeah,” because it’s very 1960s gramma at the country club with her maxi dress made from chiffon.
That night, I met Jo and Kit over at the arcade, and here’s Jo not knowing I was there yet, with her book. I had leftover coins from the LAST time I was at the arcade, coins that have been annoying my wallet for a year. Like, let’s say I need a quarter for the payphone
or something, and I fish in my wallet and inevitably a damn arcade coin comes out. It’s annoying. When that coin hits your eye like a big pizza pie that’s annoying.
Kit, who is the nicest human on earth, brought me a belated birthday present. At my actual birthday get-together, I told everyone no gifts and they actually didn’t bring gifts.
The good thing about being friends with a vintage store owner is you get cool vintage gifts. She resides in my bathroom now and doesn’t look at me doing unmentionables because her eyes be closed.
On Sunday I played fetch with Edsel three different times, and today he couldn’t stretch with me. When we first get up in the morning, as opposed to when we first get up at 5 p.m., we stretch together. But today he tried but his hips didn’t wanna let him go down that far. Poor Eds.
Anyway. I had my trainer at 10. “Please don’t cash this check till Tuesday,” I told her, and guess who is annoying.
Afterward, since my pal from work, Lottie Blanco, got two puppies this weekend, with my TJ Maxx gift card, I got a few gifts for them: Some puppy-sized colorful tennis balls, some treats, you know the drill.
Then I screamed on over to the Rite Aid, because August 1 is my stepfather’s birthday and I hadn’t yet gotten a card for him.
“When someone gets a card from me, they have no idea the herculean effort it is,” I told my mother. “First, there’s me actually remembering it’s your birthday. Anyone’s whose birthday is at the beginning of a month is especially screwed because the calendar isn’t open to that month yet. Then I have to remember to go to the store to get a card. THEN I have to get your address. THENNNN I have to have a stamp. And finally I have to remember to mail it. No one appreciates how much of a struggle that is for me, to do all that.”
She seemed unimpressed. Awhile back, I came to the conclusion that the reason I may tend toward the dramatic is because most of my statements to my family are met with vague dismissal. The only way I could actually get my point heard is to
what I was saying. Kind of like what I just did there.
But as I was in the Rite Aid parking lot putting stamps I actually own on the envelope, I formed the thought, “I wish I knew where the nearest post office was.” I was sort of in my old neighborhood, where most people have dental insurance. But the post office I used to go to was like 4 The Poet’s house away from where I was right then.
When I looked up, “U.S. Post Office” was the first thing I saw! There’s a little post office in a strip mall right across from the Rite Aid where I was. It’s where I picked up the certified letter those people sent me to when they paid for their dogs eating Iris, if you recall from your Big Book of June Events.
So that was lucky. Of course, I mailed it on a Sunday and it’s already July 29 so his card STILL probably won’t get there on time.
Dear Stepfather Harry: I tried.
I have to go. I have to get ready for work and, you know, work. You know how it is. In the meantime, I will see you all on social media, where the new thing is that people seem to think there are spaces before punctuation.