Here’s a mistake I made.
Do you like Reddit? I like Reddit. This weekend, I started reading a Reddit thread that asked, “If you signed an NDA and it’s expired, what exciting thing can you reveal now?”
There were the usual “This celebrity is a jerk” and “This corporation is ripping you off,” nothing terribly riveting, there. But then I read one from a person whose dad worked for NASA who said the people in the Challenger didn’t die instantly. They lived until they hit the water. And even worse, there’s a script out there telling you all the things they said.
My mistake is I Googled what they said. And now I wish I hadn’t. I’m not linking to it cause it’s ghoulish, but you too have the power of Google should you want to make yourself upset.
The guy in the Reddit thread said his NASA dad just came home that day and stared into the distance and drank and smoked.
In cheerfuller news, here is what I did this weekend.
On Friday, I lamented the bags under my eyes. When the Christa McAuliffe did these get here? They’re awful. Also, I have a UTI that won’t go away. I didn’t get to do any of the fun things that NORMALLY lead to a UTI, and yet I know I have one. One course of antibiotics did not do the trick and I know I have to call the doctor but I am already angry, because I know she’ll say I have to come back there.
During my concussion, I went to the doctor at least 6 times Aug–Sept. Then she made me come back in a month after clearing me to return to work. Then, I swear to god, she said, “Don’t forget, you have your physical next week and also you have to come in early and do labs the day before.”
We couldn’t have, oh, combined my concussion visit with the physical? Seriously?
So then at the physical she said, “Don’t forget, you have to come back in a few weeks so we can see how you’re doing on Wellbutrin.”
SERIOUSLY? She put me on it when I kept being too scared to drive. But when I went back for the damn physical I already told her I was doing fine on it.
So, I’ve been to that doctor at a minimum 8 times since late August and I KNOW IN MY HEART OF HEARTS they’ll say, “She wants you to come in” and I am preannoyed.
Somehow this became not about what I did all weekend.
On Saturday I worked again for that extra project we’re doing at work, for the SPCA. I got to spend my whole day playing with puppies, and then come home to sniff of betrayal, where Edsel pretty much lives with his snout on my legs all evening.
Oh, but speaking of work, a guy I work with is forever forgetting to finish his time log at work, where we put in which accounts we worked on and for how long. You have to have all 40 of your hours (or in my case lately, 47 hours) (hello, Saturdays at work) done before Monday morning. Anyway, to remind said coworker to do his time I did a lovely and refreshing dance to Time Has Come Today or whatever that song is called from the ’60s when acid was groovy and we killed the pigs.
So, even though I like spending my Saturdays with dogs and going to the shelter and so on, on Sunday I saw how much laundry I had to do and heard myself yelling, “HOW CAN THERE ALREADY BE THIS MUCH @%#^ LAUNDRY??” and right then I knew. I was kind of burned out.
I threw a load into the washer and, armed with Wellbutrin strength, got in m’car and headed to the country.
There’s a creamery way out that I like to go to, and I am sorry to report to you that I got both butter pecan and double-dark chocolate, and why the cankles.
They have cows there. You can pick your cow to make your ice cream, like with lobster.
I was enjoying the cows except people brought their children to get ice cream and see cows, and what about my needs? I kept waiting for the children portion of the afternoon to thin out but they weren’t budging, so finally I stomped over there my own self and saw cows anyway.
A small child looked up at me. “This one pooped!” she announced.
Well. You know I enjoy poop things.
“Did it?” I asked. “Where?” I was riveted.
It was only after I got to the car that I saw I had chocolate on both sides of my mouth. Sade called. Asked me to be on the cover of her Smooth Operator 45.
1979 called. Wants its references to “45s” back.
I feel like that’s all I have to cover except–oh! Yes!
Since I was free to be you and me, I watched many episodes of That Girl this weekend. If I were Donald, I’d have broken up with Ann in a heartbeat. All that madcap fast talking and wide-eyed shit. But she was cute, so that’s probably why he stayed. But the whole time you know she knows she’s cute, kind of like I know my doctor is gonna say I have to come in, and you want to tell her to cut it out with the smiling with her tongue in her teeth and messing up her hair to drive home how madcap she is.
I kept skipping over the intro, a lovely feature my new Firestick offers, but eventually I sat through one and had a flashback. I called my mother.
“Hullllllo,” said my mother. You know how she answers in that alluring voice. Wait, maybe you don’t remember it. Here it is.
I think you should be more grateful than you are that I made a video for all 10 of you to see before I’ve showered or anything.
Anyway. “Hullllloooo,” said my mother.
“Did I used to call the show That Girl ‘Batgirl’?” I asked.
“Oh, I think you did! I’d forgotten that!” she said, with a normal voice. It’s just the “hello” where she’s Greta Garbo.
Batgirl. What the hell is wrong with me?
Okay, I have to get to work and then I have the trainer and it’s likely by the time I get home I will yell about laundry again.
BatJune, who reminds you you don’t have to leave a name or email to comment.