I know I haven’t written in a few days, and it’s because I’m very busy feeling nervous. I’ve got a health thing I won’t know the answer to until MID-DECEMBER, so meanwhile I have to carry on, which BTW is my very worst trait, carrying on is, but I thought I might as well try.
So let’s catch up on the non-health-obsessing news of the day, shall we?
Oh, ding dang it. My phone’s in the other room. Let me take Laila Ali off me and go get it.
Ah. Here we are.
On Tuesday I got to hang with another d-o-g, for that work project. I had to go get her, take her to a local pet shop, have her picture made with outfits on
as you do. Then I had to take her back to the shelter, which is always the awfulest part. But the good news is the next day I went on the shelter’s Facebook page to get the back story on this particular dog, and that same day that she tried on outfits? She got adopted! There was a very flattering photograph of her looking quite pleased with her new person. Oh my god, I was so happy for her.
Then that night one of my old movies was on at my old theater, so my old self went there, of old. I thought I’d seen It Happened One Night before, but it turns out I’d only viewed that one scene, where Claudette Colbert lifts her dress and shows her leg to get a car to stop.
Also, I’d seen stills from it when I got a Clark Gable book out at the library when I was 10. I saw a picture of them on either side of that blanket.
It turns out, it was a pretty good movie. Claudette Colbert had stupid hair, but she was pretty and managed to keep full makeup on despite several days of being on the road with no bag.
What was the story with Big Boy and Dolly? Were they dating? Because aren’t they, like, children? Also, what was the name of Big Boy’s dog? Now I hafta go look THAT up, geez.
…Okay, my very scientific research has given me no answer to that, and maybe Big Boy’s been through the desert with a dog with no name.
Everybody here HAD Big Boy restaurants, right? Where I lived, it was Elias Big Boy, but then when I moved to California it was, like, Fleicks or Fletches or Frutchees Big Boy or something. Marvin and I frequented the one in Burbank, which still had car service, a thing Marvin never let me have and which I always wanted. He always made me go in. Basically my marriage was 14 years of never getting to do what I wanted.
It was at that Big Boy that we figured out I was 444 months old, which means I was there in July 2002 that time.
Once, after a fine meal at the Bob’s Burbank Big Boy bonanza, Marvin drove me past what he knew was Bob Hope’s house (hey, maybe HE owned that Big Boy) (say Big Boy one more time) and on the way there was a yard sale. We stopped, and it was the best yard sale in the history of time. The person’s yard it was was this sort of D-list actor, whose name escapes me but mostly he was a Mr. Handsome who did commercials and game shows. I think he was dead. I mean, at the yard sale. Well, not AT the yard sale, although that would have livened up this story considerably.
Anyway, they had stills of him, 8x10s, standing at various places in a grocery store, in a suit, pointing out the meat and what have you from what must have been a hard-hitting ad at one point. Naturally we snatched those right up. Framed them and put them in the kitchen.
Even better was a 1970s marital aid book, showing a very depressed-looking couple having depressing-looking marital relations on a very shiny 1970s bedspread.
I’m sorry to tell you we got that book out at all gatherings at our abode, and even sorrier to tell you Marvin took it in the divorce without asking me. I should drag him back to court. Demand it back.
This was no hairy Joy of Sex couple, who despite their hygiene challenges at least looked like they were having a good time. This couple in our yard sale book was either on drugs or hated each other. My opinion is the woman in the scenario was depressed about that slippery bedspread.
Remember how those bedspreads had, like, 700 threads going on? And one was always pulling up. Those silky bedspreads are how the devil got in Miss Jones.
Anyway, I guess that’s all I have to tell you, except that last night, a faithful reader who I don’t even know if she reads anymore but she’s my Facebook friend, put a thing up saying, “It’s almost that time. Show a picture of you from the beginning of this decade and one from now, at the end.”
My first thought was, Oooo, I gotta go find a picture of me from 1999.
So there we are.
Okay, I’m off. Talk to you soon, Dolly. And remember! You don’t have to write a name or email address to comment.