Remember when my posting schedule used to be reliable and steady? …Yeah.
I’m writing to you on a Sunday because I know I will not have time for you tomorrow morning. Also I am writing to you from outside, because, (a), I am a great outdoorswoman, and (2), I need to dry m’pants. It’s a long story. It’s actually NOT a long story; it’s a stupid story. I was watering my dogwoods and the outside faucet is very dramatic. So. Pants. Wet.
Anyway, let’s see. On Friday afternoon, I left my house (!!) and drove to the restaurant I used to go to every Friday before there was a pan in our demic. Remember when I used to have dinner with all my neighbors on Fridays? This time, we didn’t meet in the restaurant, but rather across the street at this brewery, that has walls that open and also you can sit outside. The plan was to get food from our regular spot and then eat at the brewery, but there was a food truck available with lobster rolls so you can imagine how that went down.
Right before I was due to arrive, I felt a nagging migraine coming on. Honestly, that migraine complained about my hair, my income, the cut of my jib. But I DID NOT CARE, as I was finally GOING somewhere, so I took and pill and headed out, like I was in the Pink Floyd movie or something.
Oh, it was good to see my neighbors, which is dumb because of course they live right here, and I traveled to see them someplace else. I ordered a Prosecco, which when the bartender opened it, the cap SHOT across the room and hit someone, so basically someone got killed and it was my fault and I was all, “Could you pour the Prosecco, please? She’ll stop bleeding in a moment anyway. JUST POUR.”
Then I was immediately drunk.
The next morning, I had to get up early with my one-Prosecco hangover, and get to the hairdresser. I made the appointment to finally address my roots AGES ago, and the appointment was finally here. We got a pen and wrote an address on them forthwith.
FOUR HOURS AND 15 MINUTES I was at that salon. I really didn’t know what I was going to do with m’roots. But we decided to leave the roots there, highlight the shit out of my apricot hair, then I go back in 8 weeks and we pretty much do it again because that brown will come creeping round my back stairs again, and THAT time should do it. Then I’ll just be white-haired.
I was pretty pleased with it, and it cost me a mortgage payment but whatever.
I’d already made plans with Ned to get strawberries after. “I have to get my hair done in the morning,” I told him. “It’s at 10. I’ll call you at about 1.”
“One?!?!” he asked, incredulous.
“Yeah, Ned, it takes about three hours to do my hair.” Little did I know. I was so young and naive then, back when I had apricot hair.
“That’s an entire football game,” said Ned, who has also been blown straight.
On our way to get strawberries, we talked about cats. He recently rehomed the stray he brought in in January, after having spent about $4,000 on her, as she and his regularly scheduled cats just could not make it work. He found an old couple, through his vet (“Older than US!” he said) who really wanted a cat, as theirs died in 2017 and they were finally ready.
“I don’t know if I want another cat or not,” I said to Ned. “I’ve decided to say to the universe, If you want me to have a cat, send me one.”
“Hunh,” said Ned, who doesn’t believe in the universe.
After we got strawberries and heirloom tomatoes at a garden center, and by the way Ned once called then antique tomatoes and I will never get over this. After that, we went to Five Guys as Ned had his once-a-year craving for something beyond kale. We took the food to the park in my old neighborhood, and I don’t even know why I did this, but as I was finishing, I got my phone out of my purse. There was a voicemail.
“Hello, June, this is the animal shelter. Are you interested in fostering two orphaned kitt–“
I dialed back before she was even done.
“Oh, here we go,” said Ned. “Hello, universe.”
We had less than half an hour to get to the shelter before it closed, and I picked me up a couple-a these:
Naturally, I got up 49 times last night to feed them, and they were so not eating. I mean, they were eating a LITTLE, but not enough.
And that is how I found myself on a Sunday morning, driving to another city, with kittens next to me, having a rescue (“rescue”) place help me. This very kind woman, who had like 409 premie kittens at her place and it totally didn’t smell cat and I meant to ask her HOW she pulled that off, this nice woman gave me tips and different formula and I am sorry to tell you something called a miracle nipple.
I did not say to her, “Hey! I was just talking shit about rescues on my last hard-hitting blog post!” I kept that to myself. But she DID tell me they only adopt kitten duos. They don’t let anyone adopt a solo kitten.
That said, she really was marvelous and so helpful and I am now waiting for the kittens to wake up and want to eat again and here’s hoping they want to eat for real. Cause that panicked me.
Edsel is as usual delighted. When I brought them home yesterday, he was just excited to see me, but then the carrier I had
and you shoulda seen his head swing around.
OK, he looks murder/suicide-y here, but you’re gonna have to trust me.
So in sum, it’s been a big weekend, and it’s Sunday afternoon and I am exhaust and I did not wash my floors or do laundry yet and why the hell don’t I have a maid? I could so use a Florence from The Jeffersons right about now. Was she a LIVE-IN maid? Seems absurd. Did she ever get a day off? Did Florence have any kind of life outside of the Jeffersons and their revolving Lionels?
Anyway, that’s what’s new.