I have a problem. Every morning I go to the sink,
That’s not my problem, by the way. It’s not like I will myself not to go to the sink and yet there I am, back at the sink. No.
Every morning I go to the sink and run water for quite awhile. First I empty out and fill the many many many animals’ water bowl. It’s more the size of a trough. Then while that’s filling, I go outside for my watering can and fill THAT and water the hanging plant they insisted would be good in afternoon sun except every day it gets the vapors and faints. I keep it, though, because it’s beautiful as long as I water it, and it attracts hummingbirds. Hummingbirds are forever sliding into my plant’s DMs.
THEN I fill my coffee pot. And here’s my problem, other than taking too long to get to the point. The water is tepid. It doesn’t get cold anymore. I don’t know if it gets better as the day goes on because I don’t run a lot of water after that.
So today, after I ran I ran the water awaayyyy like a Flock of Seagulls, I got annoyed. And instead of just filling my coffee pot with tepid water, I pushed the lever thingie® to the back, meaning, “Hot water, please”
and cold water came out. Cold as a mountain stream.
I know this means I have to call Alf, my ridiculous handyman, but just the thought of that gives me angina. It makes my blood run cold like my water when it’s on “hot.”
Anyway, hi. When we last saw each other, as we were tearing out paper from our notebooks and writing down our numbers, I had taken Edsel to his cardiologist appointment, where he got a clean bill of health, and I was headed to the other side of North Carolina to take Iris to HER appointment.
I hated to put her in her carrier and take her on the road. She’s really sweet about getting in her carrier. Her little marshmallow toes go right in. Then we got in the car and here’s what I heard for an hour:
So that was relaxing. Also, I was getting my migraine back, which is a charming thing that happens. They leave and come back for days. This particular batch never quite went away. It was always kind of there. And on the drive to the radiation place, where I was zapping my cat, my head was going
So that was relaxing.
Also Marianne called. Marianne of the “I’ll take one of those kittens as long as it’s a boy” Mariannes.
“My kitten is a girl!” she said, from the vet’s office where she had stampeded with her nonbinary kitten. Fortunately Marianne is what you might call someone who goes with the old flow, there.
“It’s OK! It was meant to be!” she said.
Marianne is the type of person who thinks things were meant to be.
But then I panicked. I panicked while my head throbbed and my cat sobbed. “Call Lilly,” I told my car. My car called Lily.
No. My car called Lilly, the person. Not my cat. But now I have a visual of Lily holding a phone with her teensy paw and I am sort of dying in a good way.
Because, see, Chris and Lilly have 8 kittens. One was that Siamese-looking one who was a boy. The rest were all solid black, who all looked the same. One person wanted two girls, and as far as I knew, there were only two girls in the bunch. Did I just screw up their giveaway?
See, a BAD friend would have just stayed silent. But I didn’t want a whole fiasco with whomever they were giving the two girls to. I thought it was better to be honest so they could tell that person and let the chips fall where they may.
“We still somehow have two girls,” Lilly reported to me, to my great relief.
Sexing kittens is hard. I watched a YouTube by the Kitten Lady last night so I’ll be better at it in the future. In sum: Girls will have a vertical line back there and boys have a circle. Don’t try to feel for teensy testes, as I did. You will be wrong.
“Chicken sexers get paid a lot of money and they’re only 92% accurate,” said Lilly, who knows things like that.
Anyway the drop-off for Iris was uneventful other than that 45-minute story I just told. Her actual procedure is today and then she’ll be there for 14 days from today. Can you imagine?
It’s just awful here without her. First of all, the house is empty. There’s only a 45-pound dog and two other huge cats in this 999 square feet. The place practically echos.
When I get up in the morning, before I go to my sink, I dash to the bathroom, and every day all the animals run in there to say hello. On Sunday when it was just Milhous and Lily and the inevitable Edsel, it was SO WRONG. No Iris there with her sunny little smile! Oh, god, it’s terrible. That was one sad pee.
I spent much of Saturday with ice on my head trying to get rid of my DING-DANG migraine.
On Sunday, I moved all the books from my kitchen cupboard over to the closet space in my bedroom. I also took out ALL the sheets, and any sheets that weren’t a full set I got rid of. Do you have any idea how many half sets of sheets I had in there? I saved one huge fitted sheet just in case I needed an old sheet for something: painting, the inevitable kitten birth, whatever. I think my mother gave me that sheet from when Edsel and I were on a road trip, to help cover my car seats. It’s clearly a king-size, like my dick.
I also ordered a set of those skinny velvet underground hangers that someone mentioned on “Organize June” day. It turns out the prices vary wildly. You can spend $19 or $60. Why? I also discovered you can spend a lot more if you wanted, say, pink hangers, just to toss a shade out there.
In the end, I ordered a set of 100 hangers (in beautiful blush) from H2O or HIV or HMO or whatever that shopping channel is. They had a set that had regular AND pant hangers, along with those little clips you can add AND an under-the-bed slidey thingie® all for $29.
Next on my agenda is a set of those bags where you put your jackets in and suck all the air out, but that’s next pay period.
So that sums up my weekend, except oh! I did find a cookbook that my Aunt Mary sent me ages ago. It’s a cookbook my grandmother sent her. It belonged to HER, Grammy’s, mother, and has the bonus of having EXTRA recipes in there that Grammy typed up for her mother when she was in typing school. My goal this week is to make one of the recipes. Further reports as developments warrant. FRaDW.
I like how I’ve been using that acronym for almost 14 years now and yet every time I use it someone says, “What does FRaDW mean, JOOOOBB?” Are people just on that (Face)Book of June page who don’t read me? Why would you join that page for any other earthly reason? I don’t know. I can’t figure people out. Or maybe someone DOES read me but just not any of the days I wrote “FRaDW,” which it feels like I write 76 times a day but maybe not.
I want you to gird your loins because tomorrow is StitchFix day! I begged them to send me “sitting around” clothes but apparently that is not what SF specializes in because they ignored me.
Wearing a dress for no reason-ly,
P.S. These are the two kittens left at Chris and Lilly’s, in case you were out of kittens.