Lately, I’ve had to get up fairly early, to shower and do my hair and makeup and put on actual clothes that aren’t my cotton Frida Kahlo robe. I wonder if Frida Kahlo would’ve worn a robe with the drawings of one of her heroes?
The reason I have to do this is because I have been on camera as part of my work. I am not an online sex worker. What are those apps called where men pay money to look at women? All I can think of is MySpace, and welcome to the current hip mind of June Gardens. PayCash? CashApp? No, that’s a legit app, I think. Oh, what IS it?
Dang. If anyone knows what I’m talking about, alert me.
Anyway, I’m not one of those. Obviously. Because I can’t even think of what it’s called. Also, I’m certain there’s a giant call for men looking to pay money to look at 55-year-old women. We don’t need an app for that because Lisa Rinna is providing that service for free.
At work, see, I am interviewing people, see, because I am writing articles about the cool things our client is doing, and putting those stories on their website and also on social media. And that is why I have to look like a decent functioning member of society and not someone who works in her Frida Kahlo robe all day.
We’re gonna look back at this pandemic time as super extra weird.
Speaking of extra super weird, do you remember like 5 or 6 years ago when everyone they hired at my job was named Alex? We had, seriously, 10 people named Alex. Now it’s Jamie, or some iteration of that name, but spelled in a different way. I swear there are 47 Jaymees there now. It’s been kind of fun to watch the ebbs and flows of that place. Imagine the stories The Poet could tell. She’s been there more than 30 years.
My point is, I was showering and putting gel in my hurr when I thought, Oh crap. I guess I have to blog today too. I’d sort of forgotten it’s an everyday thing. So here I am.
Clementine already has a new home, and for that I am sad. I got a message from a woman who is a single mother with one child, no other pets. Not that her child is a pet. Anyway, that’s ideal for Clementine, who I can tell will bond hard with her human and NOT WITH OTHER PETS. Not that she wouldn’t have adjusted. It just never would be her jam, I don’t think.
So the woman and I texted back and forth about the transfer. We work totally different hours. Well. Between 3 p.m. and 5 p.m. we are both actually at work at the same time, but she works 3 to 11 and I work 8:30 to 5.
“5:00.” Since the pandemic, the end of the day is what you might call blurred. Some days, if I have plans, I’ll say, “I am stopping at 5:00.” And then the next day there will be a bunch of “You still there?” messages. Relaxing.
We really need to cut this out. I mean, in our society in general. It’s not good for anyone.
But anyway, in talking to the woman, we figured out the best solution would be for me to drive the kitten to her work, where her boyfriend could take it home. She works way out, at the Amazon distribution center. I’ve never been there.
The sun was just setting as I headed there last night, and there was a light sprinkle. By the time I was driving back home, there was a downpour, and it was pitch black out, and I could not see anything. Oh, and I was at one bar on my gas things. What are those called? They’re probably called the same thing as that app where men pay to look at women.
Why are men so odd? Visuals are so important to them.
Anyway, I got home, but felt much like Tom Hanks did after he reached the island with pieces of the FedEx plane floating with him. I was disoriented and traumatized. And then I got the sads. Oh, I was sad. I think I cannot handle any more kitten fostering for awhile. I’ll just get through the missing Iris parts and then try fostering again. I conflated the whole grieving process, I think.
Clementine’s new owner has already texted me to say she’s doing great, which is good to hear. I was worried she would be scared. That sweet kitten.
I had better go. I have two interviews to do today and in between I have a meeting with a coworker named Jamie. I am not making that up.
Tonight I get my hair cut, she says, not going. I got the color done at the beginning of May, and the COLOR is OK, but my CURLS have disappeared. I think part of it is the dye itself sort of knocked out the curl, which happens, but also the cut was not a curly cut, so I am headed to the Deva Cut place in my neighborhood for a real curly girl cut. I can’t help it that they call it “curly girl.” I don’t like it any better than you do.
Also this week, The Princess Bride is playing at my old theater. Last week I saw Vertigo there. And coming soon? The Big Lebowski.
I’ll alert you to my hair situation tomorrow. I am looking forward to my hair sproinging and not lying there like Garth’s hair.