I’m almost too busy to even HAVE a blog anymore, which I know is ridiculous. What with my nine kids and all the hog-slopping and brick-laying. I like how hog-slopping is always my go-to, and I don’t really even know what that means.
I’m working a lot. Is the thing. Nights, weekends. The part where I’m working a lot is temporary till things get settled. Meanwhile, expect me to be unreliable about blogging.
Today I left the house to see my trainer in person, making it the third day in a row I’ve left the house. As I shut the door, I saw Edsel give me a look like, “seeeryuslee?” He’s not used to me being a gadabout and leaving him solo.
Anyway, in sum, doing a lot and not blogging a lot. Since 4 of you read me anymore, I don’t feel that bad about it.
As I was saying, before I interrupted me, I left the house at 7 a.m. today to head to trainer, and it was weird to be out at all, much less at that hour.
I last saw my trainer in person in February 2020, before my
when I said to her, “See you in two weeks!”
I guess that was, like, two weeks on Pluto or something. And speaking of Pluto, when I got there, her yellow Lab, Hank, whined at the gate. “He never does that,” she said, and then ridiculously asked if I wanted to see Hank. Give me a break. Hank was like 78% of why I was there.
Since I was last at my trainer, she got another Lab mix, because one 100-pound creature wasn’t enough. So 160 pounds of dog came barreling at me, beside themselves at seeing my ass, and I have to tell you I found it delightful. Then I got home and Eds was playing Your Cheatin’ Heart on his dog harmonica. His snout was glued to me for about 47 minutes, a thing that didn’t annoy me in the slightest.
Anyway, as soon as I got home from the trainer and had Edsel’s snout surgically removed, I had to stampede to the vet, because Iris has to get B12 shots every week. Doesn’t “B12 shot” sound phony? Any time I ever heard of anyone getting one, I secretly figured they were getting a shot of LSD or something. B12 shot. Pfft. It’s like Shirley Maclaine’s “health drink” in Postcards From the Edge. This is Iris’s second shot, and I think she seemed a little perkier last week, so whatever it is in that shot, let her have it.
By the time I got home from having my cat shot up with the dragon on her back or whatever, I was five minutes late for work. So you see what I mean? Now it’s lunch and I’m writing as fast as I can before the siren song of work beckons with its fin.
Oh, but you know what? Back when I used to leave the house and drive to work, before COVID punched, I often saw this young girl on the next block, waiting for her bus. I would wave at her, and she’d wave back unless other kids were there. If other kids were there, she’d nod. It was ridic. I’d 100% forgotten about her, because human and not housepet, till today when I was driving Iris to the vet and there she was, masked and waiting for her bus. She looked older. So did I. We waved fairly enthusiastically, for old time’s sake. Also because no other kids were anywhere.
…Hell. Iris just projectile vomited. I mean, it was Exorcist level. I phoned the vet, who is sick of me, and they don’t think it’s related to her shot of crystal meth. If it’s not, then it’s related to her irritable bowel disorder and this is depressing.
Poor Mrs. Iris head.
In other news, this weekend I was fully vaccinated so I drove out to the country and went to my friends’ general store.
I purchased many needed items at said store, such as birdseed and plastic pink flamingos for my yard. I did not attempt to feed the flamingos the birdseed.
These flamingos were modeled after the same pair that Jackie Kennedy sent to Kate Middleton for her yard.
On Sunday, I actually walked into a restaurant—coincidentally the last restaurant I ate in before “everything happened.” Everyone says that. I also refuse to say “COVID hit,” because I am sick to death of that phrase. My point is, I stood in line, ordered my food and left. I did not linger. Then, finally, my super-social weekend ended in a trip to the pedicure place: my regular spot, Elegant Nail & Tan, where they offer no tanning.
I should really stop going there. Not because they put up plastic shields only between you and the pedicurist, but none between you and the next patron, who is six inches away germing in the next chair. No! I should stop going there because it’s in my old neighborhood and I should really try to frequent places in this hood. Be more June-ny from the block. I once went to VIP Nails nearby and, eh. Very Important Person Nails. I mean, I can’t even get behind that name.
I see there’s another nail place, Nails & More, nearby, and I will stop there just because I want to know what’s “More.”
Nails & Strippers? Is it politically incorrect to say strippers? Is strippers the “transvestite” of 2021?
Nails & Fortune-Telling? I’d be all over that.
Nails & Tongue Sandwiches?
Nails & Snodgrass?
Further reports as developments warrant.
Oooo, Nails & Tails, where they have cats and dogs each time you go in.
Anyway, that is what I did all weekend, and now I likely have all the variants, which I think is also a math term, but do I know for sure? Nails & Math.
I’d better go back to working. I’ll go check on poor Iris, as well. I hate that she’s ill.
Vaxxed and faxed yet never relaxed,