Would you like to know what irritates me? (Everyone heads to the storage facility, where they store their tome of “Things That Irk June.”)
I know that makes me sound unintelligent and I’m fine with that. I also find it irritating the things we consider signs of intelligence.
But really. Just tell me a good story. I don’t need to find out after that I was supposed to be noticing that the color blue represented your ennui. Shut up, blue man.
Oh, but I do have good news! You’ll be stunned to hear it’s pet-related, seeing as I hang around no one else unless you count getting ice for my neighbors “hanging around.” There’s no ice at their house. I think they have, like, a mini fridge and that’s it? I think? They told me but I forget.
So, I mean, it doesn’t kill me to provide ice, although some days I put a sign on the door: Don’t knock till after 6. I mean, nothing’s more irritating (except for everything) than being interrupted in your workday to get ice for someone who is not family.
I want to ask them, would you leave our neighborhood and head to my work and walk to my desk to ask for ice? Because that’s what you’re doing right now when you interrupt my workday. But I never say that. Instead I just low-grade-irk-edly get ice. But I have to stop giving away my really good freezer bags. They’re the kind with that slide-y thing at the top. I guess all freezer bags have the slide-y thing at the top. Not to mention mine are just Food Lion brand. Maybe I need to get off my freezer bag high horse.
Oh my god, my good news. OK. So, as you know from your Big Book of June Events, Edsel is now on TWO medications for his arthritis. When they determined it’s not his heart making him fall over when we play but his bad hips, which don’t lie—and I really need to get over that song—they signed him up for a second medication on top of his Galliprant.
That sounds like some sort of name a cowboy would use affectionately for his saloon prossie. Hey, there, m’little galliprant. What say you dribble off those Bobbie Brooks pantaloons so I can do what I please.
I had to go to CVS, which thankfully has a drive-thru so I can wear my HAZMAT suit and stay in the car. “Yes,” I said, when I got to the window. “Prescription for Gardens? 7/16/65?”
God, I’m old.
“Hmmmm. We don’t seem to have anything for you.”
“…Oh! Edsel! Edsel Gardens!”
“…Date of birth: 7/18/10?”
“I mean, that’s not his actual birthday. His birthday is July 1. But you still have him as a Cancer so I can live with that.”
No one thinks I’m normal.
Why did my vet pick 7/18? First of all, that’s my wedding anniversary. Secondly, I very clearly, on Eds’s chart, put July 1. Also too, I have no idea what his birthday is. I mean, when I got him
he was very clearly three months old, and that was October 2, 2010. So I just assumed his birthday was around July 1th. I just said July 1th because my hilarity knows no bounds. I just wouldn’t put him at July 18rd.
Oh my god, the good news.
So he’s been taking both medicines now and this morning he headed out to use the facilities, and by “the facilities” I mean “the grass,” which by the way, Milhous now pees in the grass. I think he just watched Edsel and said, “Dat look conveeen yint” and squatted. I cannot complain about this turn of events.
Oh my god, the good news.
“What do you like to do in the morning?”
“I read this one blog where a woman with ADD tries to tell one single thing. It’s usually around 1,000 words.”
WHEN HE SQUATTED he could, you know, squat! For agess now, he does this tentative sort of half squat. I’ve never mentioned it, but sometimes I hold his hips for him a bit so he can concentrate on going and not squatting. Ask his hips: They don’t lie. But today it was full-on copping a squat. What does that phrase mean?
So that’s my good news.
Also, the following happens.
I’ll do something, like, let’s say I’ll paint my porch ceiling haint blue. Then I’ll go on (Face)Book of June and show it. Or I’ll show it here. Or I’ll show it on Instagram. Whatever. The thing is, not everyone is on all my channels, The June Channel, so inevitably someone will say, just to throw a scenario out there, “Didn’t you paint your porch, JOOOOOON? We want to see it, JOOOOOOON.” and I’ll be all, Didn’t I show that 60-hundred times already?
So let me get up, in my sexy robe, and take a photo of my porch ceiling once and for all. Hang on.
…Oh my gaaaad, when I just got up you know what was truthful with me? My hips. They didn’t lie. I had my trainer last night. She made me do this godawful thing where you’re on your knees, m’little galliprant, and you put one leg forward like you’re about to propose, and why is that the official proposal position? If anyone proposes to me ever again I want them to squat like Edsel and propose from there.
Anyway I was in the proposal position and then I had to STAND UP. Without using my hands. Like, 10 times she made me propose and stand and then 10 times on the other leg, so maybe it’s m’thighs that hurt and not my hips, but they seem to be involved in the whole protest.
I still wish to get a new ceiling fan to replace that “Nod to the ’90s” one I have now. Someone said it looks like the Golden Girls’ ceiling fan and that’s totally it. Plus I see the paint tape is still at the top of it. Goddammit.
Also, because SOMEONE will ask, that is a wasp detractor. That thing hanging from the porch. You hang it and wasps think you already HAVE wasps so they don’t drop in. Ask for ice.
I gotta go. I have to go to work and also I could really go for some toast. I’d like toast with peanut butter and banana but the person who did my grocery shopping for me got the greenest bananas this side of Mr. Yuck. “Here are some groceries. You can’t eat any of them yet. Thanks. Bye.”
So I’m over here willing them to ripen. Which is not a symbol for anything except a want a banana. Also not symbolic.