Here we all are again, in the kitten room, me sitting here like Jane Goodall, observing my wild creatures from the depths of my vintage leather chair. And by vintage I mean it was scratched when I got it.
I will take a photo of whatever is happening right now. Hang on.
Hissy, examining the drawer, and Fitz, running in terror because I raised my arm. SEE, people who keep insisting that your entertainment is more important than their adjustment? Stop asking for photos. They leap at sudden movement.
I took that drawer out of the desk because Fitz kept hiding behind it. He’d climb up in the desk and I could hear him clanking behind the drawer. So now he hides behind that hope chest you can see at the back of the picture, but fortunately he’s getting too big to wedge back there.
The goal is to get him used to me, and if he can hide in the bowels of things he won’t. We did have a playpen and the zipper on it broke so he was able to escape and bowel again.
Hissy is doing well and even Fitz is actually progressing, maddeningly slowly. Now he runs to his hiding place but half the time doesn’t go all the way back there. He just stands NEAR the hope chest and peers at me. I’ve not gotten to pet him again since my last very scientific report.
And that’s the wild report by June Goodall.
Meanwhile, life continues on while I hunker here and avoid The Virus. Remember my neighbor a few weeks back coming by and then complaining of coughs and body aches and a fever? Remember how I inwardly Munch The Screamed when she said that?
I’ve felt fine but have had this nagging cough for the last four or five or seven who knows they’re all the same days. Not, like, it affects my life kind of cough but maybe four times a day I stand here and cough. What is that? I’m I be-virused? Nothing else seems wrong. No fever or aches or anything.
Work is kicking my ass, and I know I say that every day, but it is. Afterward, I now have all these mouths to feed and arses to clean up after, and then I cook my FreshPot or FreshMouth or BabyFishMouth–what the hell are those groceries called that I’m getting in boxes each week?
HelloFresh! That’s it, thank god. Anyway, I cook that and clean everything up and then there’s just enough time each night to go out and admire fireflies before the sun sets. Here’s last night’s fireflies, complemented by cicadas.
Then I make sure everyone is situated and go to bed. That sums it up.
What do you miss most, assuming you aren’t an ASSHOLE who’s gone back to everything while the rest of us get sick and die. I mean, I know I am more stay-at-home than most people. Right? But assuming you’re on some sort of abbreviated life schedule, what do you wish you could do?
I long for my old movie theater. You know how often I went there, and it’s coming up on what would have been the summer festival. Remember those, how I’d go to, like, 13 movies in 15 days? I’d spend the peak of summer in a dark movie theater watching old movies. Oh, hell, yeah.
I just thought about something. When I was an adolescent, and let’s talk about what a pretty, not-at-all-bushy-haired-or-manly adolescent I was. Anyway, when I was one, we lived in an old house that had been turned into apartments, and from our second-floor place I could see down the street to—wait for it—and old movie theater.
My mother had to work, so during summer vacation she’d leave me a couple dollars each day to do what I wanted. Some days I’d head across the street to the convenience store and get a Tiger Beat, a burrito and a Vernor’s. They had a microwave right there on site and microwaving my burrito seemed like the ultimate luxury. It was my version of fine Corinthian leather.
Is there anything better than catching up on what Barry Gibb was up to while eating a microwave burrito? I’m here to tell you there is not.
Other days I’d walk way down to the soda fountain at a drug store, sit at the counter, there, and have THEM microwave me, like, a cheeseburger or something. They had one of those round wire displays that had paperback books on it, and I recall buying books off that thing, including the very dirty book Wifey, which I did not know was gonna be dirty because it was written by Judy Blume who up till that point had given me God and Margaret and scoliosis.
Other days—in my memory, most days—I’d head to the old movie theater. They had dollar movies during the day, and they’d show the same film for weeks at a time. This bothered me not at all, and as a result I saw the Sting I don’t know how many times, and I saw the original Rocky even more. Both more than 20 times apiece, I think.
Truth be told, you really need to see The Sting 109 times because everyone’s scamming everyone and it takes awhile to catch on to the finer points.
Who do you think is cuter: Paul Newman or Robert Redford?
My mother also signed me up for drama classes over at the local theater, and as you can see the drama classes really stuck. Most days we’d all go down to the green room, which was in the basement of the theater and was nice and cool. We learned how to balance by looking at one spot. We also learned to relax by lying on the floor and tensing each part of ourselves. That’s all I remember learning.
I don’t know how I’ve segued into the memories of summers ’77 through ’79, but there you have them. Oh! I know! My old movie theater. I guess that’s why I love going to it, is because it reminds me of the lime Kissing Potion, ELO, Ban De Soliel summers of my youth.
You know what? That poor Valley Girl actress up there was totally trying to Farrah Fawcett some June hair. It takes one to sausage-curl one.
Give your lips a taste of something delicious,
P.S. I was able to sneak this 4-second Jane Goodall video just now…