When we last spoke, I left you in suspenders. But all is well. Ish.
I was writing to you two days ago when, at 8 a.m., my phone rang. The phone rings in this laptop, too, which is convenient most of the time (because god forbid I get up offa this chair) but at that hour it was jarring. Especially when I saw it wasn’t my lawn guy, who thinks nothing of calling at 7:15 a.m. “Hello, Miss June!”
It wasn’t my lawn guy. It was a relative. It wasn’t a rock. Was a rock lobster.
Anyway, it was 6 a.m. her time, so right away I knew. Right then I knew.
One of my relatives had taken ill, quite suddenly and quite awfully, and that relative went to the hospital for a night or two but has been released and it is a treatable illness so I can stop feeling like a bus is about to hit me all the time.
I had no idea you could be so drained from mental stuff. As I told one of my friends, I trotted a marathon once and I was less tired. Of course, I’m also an old woman now. [taps cane for emphasis] Things make me tired easier. Like, if I go to the bank I’m all in after. I haven’t been to a bank since 2019, but whatever. I’m old, is the point.
You know who’s NOT old is Forest, who I threw a mouse at this morning. A toy mouse. I didn’t forage for a live rodent in a field somewhere and bring it in and throw it at my cat, although that would certainly be interesting.
Anyway, I threw it at him and he’s been puffing about the house with his puff fur, dashing hither and yon over that fake mouse. My point is, he’s just managed to open the closet door himself, all in Mouse Quest. That’s a charming feature. He can open doors. Great. That’s just what you want.
I made a “how it started/how it’s going” meme out of him for his Instagram page (@forestmeep). His vest is ridiculous. Does anyone know from cats? I mean, I do. But I don’t know this. Is it possible he’s just a domestic cat with a vest, or does this mean for sure he’s some sort of breed? All my cats have come from shelters or gutters or cemeteries or dive bars or rehab, no, no, no.
Well, that’s not true. I just remembered that in 1985, I bought a Persian at the pet store because I didn’t know any better. He was the best kitty ever, though. He was cream-colored and I named him Confetti because I got him on New Year’s Eve. Oh, I loved that cat.
What perm? That was my natural—OK, look, it was 1988. What do you want from me? Even Confetti is appalled.
Anyway, I feel like I’m making shit up when I say, “I think he’s a Norwegian Forest Cat,” but given that Forest looks like that, is there any way it might be true that he’s just a cat cat? Or am I not wrong when I say Norwegian Forest Cat? Please advise.
I feel the same about Edsel, who one of you told me was a Carolina Dog and of course I don’t really know. His DNA didn’t reveal Carolina Dog, but DNA tests don’t know to LOOK for Carolina Dog. But when you GOOGLE “Carolina Dog,” here’s what you get:
No; somebody did NOT steal a photo of Eds from my blog. That’s a whole nother Eds being a Carolina Dog model, a gig he could clearly have also gotten. We could have put in a flipper on those bottom teeth. No problem.
You know who’d do well at a photo studio is Eds. “The Carolina Dog is not always shaped like a letter C.”
Anyway, I’d better go shower. I made a decision the other day to wear makeup every day, because I was rarely doing so and feeling like hell about myself so I said, “You might as well use it. It’s going to expire anyway, whether you use it or not.”
Do you know your makeup expires and gets bacteria-y? It does. You should replace liquid foundation every six months but mine is Chanel and I will use every drop till my face falls off in chunks.
You can keep lipstick for two years.
You’re supposed to replace mascara every three months, which is absurd.
Eye shadows and pencils? A year.
All of this makes you want to tell the cosmetics companies to fuck right off, doesn’t it? I mean, if you’re like me and expensive makeup is where you get your strength. I’ve ordered new eye shadow this year—actually, I think one of you sent it to me. But I’m being dangerous with the mascara. I’m cheating death each and every day. That mascara is all, Remember when you used to put me on and leave the house?
Even more tragic, I ran out of Latisse months ago and didn’t see the point of getting more, but my lashes have gone back to the sad teensy stumps of yore and it depresses me. My mascara is also, Remember when you’d put me on and then you’d actually see eyelashes after?
So when my tax return comes I think I’ll order Latisse. I gotta get ready to come out of hibernation. It’s not gonna be pretty. You’ll all have to see my face in its natural state and not shot up with filler or Botox.
Didn’t I say I was leaving? Yes.
OK, talk at you.