Well, my first and second full days back at work were without incident. I still wake up with a slight headache every day, which annoys me and is probably a tumor.
The other news is I’m vv worried about Iris. She’s so sick. I’ve taken her to the vet three times. Not only does she have her irritable bowel disorder, allegedly (I’d only know for sure that’s what it was if I did a biop$y. How much do you like me for spelling it like that?), but she’s got a really bad upper respiratory thing going on, like, really bad. Again, I’ve gone to the vet 3x.
They gave me this lysine to sprinkle on her food and that helped for awhile but now it seems to make no difference. Like, how many times do I take her back only to have her seem to get worse?
She sounds like Regan in The Exorcist. Currently she’s Darth Vadar-ing in the backyard, where she wanted to go. I figure at this point she can have anything she wants. She lay in the $4 million cat condo literally all night. (I got it whilst I was convalescing and could only shop for entertainment.)
(No one will go in that cost-of-a-trip-to-Paris thing unless I put them in there, although finally Milhous will scratch the post occasionally now) (note that Milhous immediately jumped in that $4 box I got at Target to replace that basket.) (That basket was part of my wedding shower gift from my Aunt Mary in 1998. In it were bath/pampering things, including this giant powder puff my cat at the time, Ruby, immediately took from the basket and carried in her lips, looking like a fluffy all-black cat with a giant white powder-puff face.) (I let her keep it. She carried it around till it was small, gray and scroungy.) (Anyway, now the basket is 21 years old and raggedy, with one of the arms being just wire, so I replaced it with this fine $4 box/cat bed.) (Say, June, parentheses can go too far.)
I was sort of afraid to check on Iris this morning, is my point, lest she be dead. That’s how bad she sounds. When I get up in the morning, Edsel and I open the bedroom door and usually there is a cacophony of cats greeting me, and when she wasn’t among them today, I felt ill. But there she was, hunched on her million-dollar condo.
Poor Iris. She’s had so many lives. I hope she survives this cold, too.
The only thing I have to tell you other than that is that last night, after dinner, I had a hankering for a place I’ll call Minnie C’s. It’s this local dessert place that’s huge with the Christians. I’ve no idea why. The lack of alcohol, maybe? But, like, it’s clearly where the youth group goes to party after whatever it is youth groups do. Do they exchange God trading cards? “I’ll give you my Pontius Pilate for your Lot’s Wife.”
The place is filled with very presentable, employable-looking people, is my point.
It’s also delightful in there. They keep expanding, (but never doing anything about their crappy counter system, so there is always–always–a line out the door. I think maybe they think it’s charming or speaks to their popularity, but what it does for me is make me never want to go in there more than once every three years) and there are couches and fireplaces and comfy chairs and the decorations are charming AF (The Nester decorated it) and any time anyone around here says, “We went to Minnie C’s” everyone else replies with, “Oooo!”
But get it together, Minnie C’s. Starbucks and your similarly Christian Chick-fil-A can handle crowds. There is no earthly (or heavenly) reason cake-buying should take that long or be that complex. Have multiple places to order. Make your counter horizontal to the door. Have the cakes displayed so we see them all while we’re waiting, not one apiece as we walk the line, so we don’t have to decide last minute. Make your checkout system faster. Be snappy, FFS. Or whatever the religious say in place of “FFS.” Great horn spoon, be snappy!
Anyway, there I was, in a LINE at 7 p.m. on a Tuesday, for heaven’s sake, and as per usual there was a gaggle of groomed women in front of me. They probably all posed under their Blessed kitchen sign beforehand and put a hashtag “cake with my ladies” under their Instagram post.
The point is, they were all attractive and nicely dressed and so on, but the woman right in front of me had her tag out.
I don’t mean she’d put on her shirt hastily and the little tag at the back was up, a thing that drives me berserk. Can’t you take that half-second and check that?
This woman had a COLLECTION of tags, hanging from that thin string of plastic new clothes are on. There was the brand name tag (Ralph Lauren! Nice!), the store tag, the toe tag, the tag you’re it. She had a tag team up in there.
I was riveted.
How was she not noticing she was hosting a tag party, over there? How was it not weighing her down? I was sad to see the price was ripped off. Maybe the shirt had been a gift. Also I couldn’t see the size. Another disappointment.
The point is, this started to tickle me.
Then I got the bad giggs. You know the kind of giggling like you get at a funeral, where you know you can’t be giggling so it gets worse? Oh, I tried to look behind me, and up at the sky where God was pursing his lips at me as per usual. But I couldn’t stop giggling about the tag lady.
Finally, I had to leave because I looked insane, and also waiting 45 minutes for 7-Up cake wasn’t worth it to me. Seven-up yours, Minnie C’s.
I hope I lost weight from not eating cake and from giggling.