Why does every cat here have to be gray? I see one running across the yard and my heart leaps, and then it’s just Lily or Iris.
Is everyone waiting for me to recover that chair/footstool already? I know. I’ve got the fabric, but it’ll be about $750 to actually have it recovered and I don’t have that kinda scratch.
But when I DO get that kind of scratch, I plan to lug this chair into the living room, and move the big scratched comfortable leather one into here. This does me no good till the scratch.
This all reminded me to put up an Amazon link, above. Go to the image. Click. Get to Amazon. Shop. I get scratch.
June, stop saying that.
My luggage came! Only 6 nights without it! Probably any progress I made on my skin with my Retin-A has gone back to the beginning. Now I’m even OLDER than when I started using it.
Speaking of which, it’s pretty much been three months since I spent…scratch on Ultherapy and guess what. I look the same.
I’d been scraping the damn concrete floor, so I was shinier than I was in March. Also, what the hell with that screen. How many times have I replaced that screen since you’ve known me? Why do I have a dog? Look how it’s all brown where he puts his horrific paws up to let himself in.
I give up.
You know what I did? I didn’t give up. I just got annoyed and went outside and scrubbed that door, but it’s forever stained by dog paws. The screen looks nice, though. I guess I’ll have Alf replace the screen in there AGAIN.
It’s sort of meta that you can look in my door and see this blog post, isn’t it?
I guess the only other thing that’s new is we had some restructuring at work, and now my boss, fmr., is my boss, current. We need to think of a new name for her. Boss, fmr./crrnt. is too taxing to write. It’s like how I got sick of writing “…friend” so I thought of “Ned.”
Speaking of Ned, I’m dragging him to see Mean Girls tonight at the old theater. I’ve never seen it, and you’ll be stunned to hear neither has he, but I’ve always kind of wanted to see it.
I remember when this was a real movie at the theater, there was a billboard for it on my way to my LA therapist’s office. In Los Angeles, you had to have a therapist or you couldn’t get your driver’s license.
Why does the Department of Motor Vehicles keep insisting it’s “driver license”? No one says that but them. And yet they keep trying it. “Any second now, ‘driver’ license will be sweeping the nation.”
Speaking of sweeping the nation, I feel I must officially announce
Thank you. There is no further need to put it on my wall, or text it to me, or email it. I’ve seen it.
It’s this year’s cat/dog diary.
Hey, I do the same thing. I see a dachshund thing, and I think of sending it to Miss Doxie, and then I think, probably 86 people are having this same thought right now.
Why does “dachshund” have to be the hardest word in the world to spell? What word can’t you spell? I never do well with words where you leave the “e” off, like “truly.” I mean, I know that one, but words of that ilk.
I leave you with the following evidence that I finally in this life found a four-leaf clover. I’ve always wanted to.
That I found it while my cat is missing and so were all my haircare products cause they were with my luggage and I looked like dung is beside the point. Maybe things are looking up!
God, my hair really does look bad. Which looks worse: my hair or my screen door?
I’d better get to work. The other part of our restructuring is that I helped some people out who needed work done, and now between you and me I’ve got too much work. But if I just forgo peeing, I can get it done today. Is it forego or forgo? See what I mean?
I realize everyone else does, and that my not liking to travel is part of the list of things I hate that everyone else treasures: Christmas, brunch, live music, romantic evenings, granite countertops.
If you want me to have sex with you–and I realize I’m 52 and no one wants to have sex with me. But if we traveled–which I hate–through time–which I also hate–and you wanted to have sex with young, actually appealing me, you’d be a lot more likely to find me randy at some inopportune time, like lunch hour or after a funeral. But give me flowers and a dinner out and I will have all the sex drive of a slab of baloney.
I had a harrowing travel experience. I’d tell you about it verbally, via my podcast, but I also hate those.
11 a.m. Yesterday morning I packed a bag, grabbed my purse, and headed to my local airport. “I’m so lucky that travel here is so easy,” I remember thinking, back yesterday when my soul still had light in it.
It’s true, though. It’s a 10-minute drive to the Greensboro airport, and parking is pretty decent. It buries flying in and out of LAX, which sucked worse than Christmas brunch.
My plane took off to Chicago. An easy hour-and-a-half flight. I had a three-hour layover, then I’d get on a plane for my hometown, in Michigan, and land at 8:00. “My nails look awful,” I thought, as I flew. The night before the trip, I did some last-minute grueling work that took me till 10 p.m., and I hadn’t had time to groom properly. “I wonder if I can get my nails done in Chicago.”
Turns out, you can! You CAN have your nails done in Chicago, and if you get the basic manicure, it’s cheap. Hell, I’ll be basic. Paint my basic nails and take my basic money.
Truth be told, money was an object, because I get paid the last day of the month and this was the 30th. My money was not in some vault in stacks, like I was Duck McScrotum or whoever that rich duck was.
How did he make his money, one wonders.
But all I hadda do was fly into Saginaw ( I was going for my cousin’s graduation), and by the next morning, I’d have cash. Yay, paydays! Yay, Payday Candy Bars! Did I also have time to get one of those?
Turns out, I did. Because when I finished my manicure, and popped into the MAC store as well, I looked at the board, and?
Flight was canceled.
5:30 p.m. Canceled? Why? I went to the ride-at-Disneyland-long line at United Customer Service. Apparently, thunderstorms were dotting the area. Bad thunderstorms. There were no flights going to Saginaw till the next day. Maybe. “These small planes are always the first to get canceled,” the beleaguered guy at the counter told me.
BOOM! said the sky.
“Just stay overnight in the airport,” my mother said, when I called her. I looked around. Everyone was stranded due to the weather. There was nowhere to sit, much less lie down. And what if I did find a place to sleep? How would I know my purse would be there when I woke up?
I looked in my bank account. Forty dollars. Stupid manicure. All I’d eaten that day was a bowl of soup before I left. I’d purposely not gone grocery shopping because I knew I’d be gone, and that was the last can of anything in my cupboard.
The plane had offered pretzels. My feelings on pretzels rank up there with live music and cilantro.
8 p.m. “We’ve got you scheduled to fly into Raleigh tonight, leaving at 9 p.m.,” said another beleaguered United worker. With no hope of getting to Michigan or even to Greensboro, the Raleigh flight was a big enough plane that the guy said he was “sure” it would take off.
I just wanted to leave that airport. I’d walked all of whatever they call it, section? Area? Hall? Vein? Whatever. I’d walked all of B and all of C and all of F, just for something to do. And also hoping for a place to sit.
At this point I was so hungry that I knew a migraine was imminent.
“You’re certain,” I said, to the man who said I could at least go near home. I’d have no car and no money in Raleigh, but at least I wouldn’t be in a goddamn airport with 9493582 other stranded passengers all night.
“Yes ma’am,” he told me.
I got the least-expensive thing at McDonald’s (Disclaimer: At an airport, that’s a Happy Meal that costs $207) and stood next to a nice Southern man on the phone with, you guessed it, United.
“I have to be at work tomorrow morning at 8 o’clock no matter what time you people get me home tonight,” he was saying. He sounded authoritative. “And I need my tools. You did this to me a couple months ago, you never did get my tools to me for a week, and you ended up costing me $2,000 in lost work.”
“This poor man,” I thought, munching a fry.
“You’re certain,” he said, sounding like me. “Okay.” He hung up the phone.
“Airline people are the lying-est motherfuckers,” he told me. “Don’t let anyone tell you any different.”
Sure enough, my 9 p.m. flight? Didn’t happen.
I’d arranged with Ned to get me in Raleigh, and I called to tell him that flight wasn’t occurring either.
“Airline people are the lying-est motherfuckers,” he said.
My Uncle Bill flies all the damn time. I’m certain I’ve told you before how he’ll fly to China, get home for a night and leave in the morning for Germany. I don’t know what the hell he does. Maybe he makes Minute Rice, and has to make sure the timing is precise.
What do you want from me right now. Am exhausted.
Anyway, he scored me a room near the airport, with his miles or points or pointy miles or miles of points or Miles Davis and the Pointer Sisters or what have you. The point is, I finally relented and went to it.
Turns out, the hotel had a bar! Everyone in there was also stranded. I was the only loser who had zero carry-on, but not the only loser who was gonna sleep in her contacts. (Those are reading glasses, before you get all UP MY ASS.)
I called beleaguered United again, was on hold for
and two vodka cranberries,
and one flight they thought I’d be able to get on was a Greensboro flight the next morning.
“GIVE IT TO ME,” I said. I just wanted to go home. Then I fell into a dead sleep at midnight.
[BOOM] Why was someone closing a door in my house? I live alone.
I opened my eyes, saw I was in a hotel room, and right then I knew: I was in a hotel room.
I knew who was closing the door at 3:30. One of the nice women at the bar was tryina get to Atlantic City to be with her friend, and her only choice was to stay up, leave at 3:30, and then her friend was 100% gonna expect her to be “on” all day in Atlantic City.
See. That’s why I hate to travel. I hate to be on. The whole thing just makes me nervous and cranky and migrainous.
Also? I never fell asleep again. I should have just gone to Atlantic City, as well.
I finally got out of bed, only to discover my only coffee choice was decaf. Yes, I did call down to the front desk, thanks for asking. No, thanks, really.
Silver lining: Picking out my clothes for the day was a breeze.
I didn’t shower, because I had no hair products and no razor. I brushed my teeth with the toothbrush they give you for free, which was not unlike a prison-issue toothbrush.
Washed face with grapefruit soap, even though I’m allergic.
6:45 a.m. Got on the crammed shuttle to the airport. No one on shuttle was cheerful.
Got through security and to my gate. No one working at the airport was cheerful. In fact, they were downright brusque. There were Disneyland lines at every Starbucks, and when did fucking Starbucks become the only coffee in town? We can’t have a nice Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf? What the hell? It’s not StarBUCKS, it’s StarMONOPOLY MONEY.
What do you want from me? Am exhausted.
Anyway, I decided to have coffee on the plane.
Get on plane. The stewardess informs us the coffee machine isn’t working.
You know how sometimes they show people having fits on planes? It no longer seems so outlandish.
12:30 p.m. It’s official: At this point I could have driven all the way to Saginaw, and back to Greensboro again. I’m not sure why, but whole body hurts. Perhaps the walking for 8 hours at the airport, the standing in lines, the weird bed, the tension. The teensy lack-of-legroom flights. Or maybe I’m dying. At this point it’d be a relief. Take me, Lord, I’m ready. Oh, look, he’s delayed.
Airline has lost my luggage. I am supposed to get it back tomorrow, but see above re lying-est motherfuckers. The luggage claim lady was nice. “Oh, honey, I am so sorry about all this. You call them and get your money back.”
Allegedly, I already have. It’s my mother’s money, but supposedly she will get a “partial” refund for the three canceled flights.
Meanwhile, I have no hair products at all, no razor, no deodorant, no toothbrush and see above re no one wants to have sex with me. Why, though.
I DO have my migraine meds, which is good because you’ll be stunned to hear I got one.
Now I am home and writing you, and I really can’t wait till my next adventure. I love the open road.
Let’s meet for live music at brunch and talk about it soon.
On Friday at work, they let us leave at 3:00, a delightful habit they’ve gotten into before any holiday weekends. I suppose it’s for normal people with families who want to get on the road to the beach, or whatever normal people do.
What do the normal folk do? …I think craft. Seems like they craft a lot. They also seem to traipse to restaurants in big groups, if Facebook is any indication.
Having never been normal for even 14 seconds, I eschewed the creative team’s early happy hour and went home to do my freelance work. Technically, it’s due today, but I’d been moving along on it and thought, “Well, I’ll just see how far I get Friday.”
And I finished it.
I finished it!
“Well, NOW what do I do?” I thought. It was too late to go to the happy hour. So I streamed Goodbye Christopher Robin, which I thought would maybe be a delightful film re Pooh and so forth, but really was incredibly dark and I kind of liked it better for it.
Saturday dawned and I continued to have nothing to do, and I assumed I had no money to do it with. Payday is tomorrow night, and they picked a fine time to have a holiday weekend.
I took Lily to the vet for her rabies shot, and now the only thing she’s rabid about is food. Speaking of which…
“Do you want to go to Lexington and get barbecue?” Ned asked me on Saturday afternoon, and yes. Hell, yes, I did. We will not pick this moment to talk about what an effing heifer I am, because Lexington is a town famous for its barbecue, and for good reason. And here it was being presented to me by my rich ex.
So we got in the car.
I’m starving to death reviewing these images anew. Mother of god, that was delish.
Say, June, can you store my equipment in those saddlebags?
Anyway, on the way back, I was telling Ned I was considering painting my spare bedroom. Bitchy Resting Face Alex and I had painted it back in 2015, when I moved back after my unfortunate year abroad with Ned, and we’d painted it white and it never really looked fully covered. It was half nude.
“I just don’t think I have enough for paint,” I kvetched, checking my account.
Turns out, I had a few hundred dollars! Because Amazon!
So basically this next part is all you guys’s fault.
I’d toyed with some colors prior, but when I got to the paint store (and does anyone remember the hot man of color who sold me my Labor Day paint last year? I went there about 40 times that weekend, sort of because I’ma bad planner and sort of because he is so hot. “Could you have more obviously had a crush on that man?” asked Ned after we left the paint store, but WHO CAN BLAME ME.)…
…what the hell was I talking about? Oh, paint. Right.
So somehow I convinced self that
would be the right color. I wonder what inspired me.
I did not elicit Ned’s help in this scenario, as I have found when we do projects together I mostly want to snap his neck. There’s a whole lot of “Why aren’t you doing it my way” and “Why are you doing this” and “You know what I’D do…” and snap. Neck. Look at the bent neck on Ned.
Pretty much the rest of the weekend was me moving furniture and taping trim and pulling out nails and spreading drop cloths and OH MY GOD CAN WE PAINT YET?
Someone we all know, someone in the asshole family, was deeeeeeLIGHTed that shit was being moved around and things were differented up. I thought cats were supposed to be made nervous by change. Not this one. He was pretty much in there every second I was painting, and likely has brain damage from the fumes, but that’s just the kind of mother I am.
Finally, after threedays, I’d scraped and moved and sanded and trimmed and painted, finally, and then I stepped back to admire my work and was all,
I hate it.
But now I’m stuck with it.
My rule is I have to wait a year before I can paint again.
This might be a nice time to gently remind that I hate advice.
Anyway, then I had to move everything BACK in there, to the room, and I texted my mother to get her advice on where I should put things.
“I don’t like this arrangement,” my mother announced, and who made HER…oh. I guess me, cause I asked. Also, I see I let one damn doorknob stay brassy, and gets what’s next on my agenda.
“I don’t like it either,” I agreed. “It looks like a ship is tilting and everything went to one side.”
“This looks like Abraham Lincoln slept here and he had to share the bed with another boarder,” said my mother, who has an active imagination.
“Why does Steely Dan have to get in every picture?” she asked. “He’s like you.”
In the end, this was the arrangement I went with, and I ordered an area rug…
…that’ll really tie the room together, harrr.
I also at some point decided I should shop for, oh, lamps and comforters that maybe would butch the room up a bit. Maybe charcoal accents, or black or caramel.
Then everywhere I looked, I was all, Oooooo, look at the pale pink ostrich-feather ottoman! Look at the sparkly chandelier! Oh my god, magenta fluffy carpet!
So. Butching it up did not go well. I don’t know if you’ve noticed this about me, but I’m not good at being butch.
So that’s the news on my cervix guest room. Guest womb. Maybe I’ll invite P!nk over to stay.
Tune in tomorrow, when I will have done something else absurd.
Have you ever noticed that? If you’re bored stiff, your social world is a desert. But if you’ve got shit to do, people are crawling out from every damn crack in the wall. Waving their antennae.
I had a busy week at work last week, but when I got back from lunch on Friday, there wasn’t anything to do. So I emailed a few people. “Do you have any work for me?”
At work, we publish blog posts, but they’re not fun blog posts like mine are. Aren’t you having the time of your life right now, for example? Aren’t I a carnival ride? Anyway, the person who’s in charge of all that said, “Well, I was tryina write a blog post for next week and it isn’t gelling. Do you want to try?”
Do I want to try? Hmph! I am the blog-post master! I’ve written 5,000 posts in 11 years! Gimme dat.
Except the thing is, they aren’t fun blog posts, did I mention that? Did I mention that every time I’ve written “post” today I’ve typed it “pist” and I’m getting pist?
So I had to think of a deep, work-related topic. Then I hadda do research to back it up. The next thing you know, old Jed’s a millionaire, and also I’m knee-deep in this blog post.
When I got to work Monday, I was still working on it. “Hey, you gonna have that today?” the Person in Charge of Blogs (PiCoB) wanted to know.
Am I gonna HAVE that TODAY? Good lord! Maybe I could have asked more questions before I undertook this endeavor, and I know that shocks you. I know you’re aware of how carefully I think things out before I plunge into them. Oh, sure, I’ll be the astronaut who flies to Pluto. What I gotta do? Is it just wear this dome hat? Cause okay.
Because of course Monday I actually got work to do. For clients. So I had to “prioritize” that, and you know what annoys me? Prioritizing when I’m into something else.
So not only was I tryina “prioritize,” like that’s a real thing, but also there was the part where there are people in the world.
“Hey, how was your weekend?” 394,330,930400,003 coworkers wanted to know.
HOOOO CARE how my weekend was? And do people not recognize body language? If someone is bent half an inch from their screen, not looking at you when you walk by HORRIFIC OPEN FLOOR PLAN WHERE PEOPLE WALK BY EVERY SECOND, why do you think that someone looks amenable to coming up and chatting?
And it was particularly bad yesterday, because royal wedding. Although I do have to say, the straight married guy who got into the wedding thanks to my enthusiasm was cute to see. Did I tell you about him? Through the months, me being into it made HIM into it. He read way more about the intricacies of the wedding than I did, as he has always been a thorough person, and would probably not volunteer to write a work blog post in one working day. He wanted to know why they’re the duke and duchess of Sussex, and how the hell should I know?
“I thought you know all about this wedding,” he said, and then I felt guilty that I don’t know the ins and outs of why Sussex.
But aside from The Straight Guy Who Now Likes Royal Weddings, I pretty much wanted to kill everyone else.
And my phone. Y’all.
I’m sorry. But do you have a full-time job, and also friends who do NOT work a full-time job? Because holy cats yesterday. Ten-foot-long texts. Follow-up texts wondering why I wasn’t texting.
800-minute-long voice mails. About nothing.
Four-hundred emails. Ned–NED!!!–emailed 26 times. That is not an exaggeration. Twenty-six times. And he called me at lunch. Except I wasn’t at lunch. Because working.
People tagging me on things. People messaging me things. I mean, it was endless. And I feel like if you don’t respond IMMEDIATELY, people get insulted. So I’d just like to say to everyone in my life:
I am there Monday through Friday. All day. That’s what I’m doing when you email me the song lyrics from Magnet and Steel and wonder why I don’t reply with the next line.
You’re a woman who’s lost to your song. OoooOOOooo…
That really is an excellent song. I hate to be your grandma, but why does Stevie Nicks always have her hair in her face?
“What art and charts are you including with your blog post?” PiCoB wanted to know.
You know what I ought to do? Is ask more questions before I plunge into things. Things like, When is this due? How much effort will it require? Will you be needing charts and images? If you’re 46, why have you never married?
Things like that.
Anyway, I got the damn blog post done, and I got my work for clients done, AND…AND!! I got some last-minute freelance work done that came yesterday and that they wanted back yesterday, for my old workplace in LA. I did that after work, because I felt so fresh.
Then I went home and no one called, texted or emailed me all night.
Ned has been out of town a lot lately, with work and family things. “I thought of asking if Nancy could stay with you, but I realize you’re at cat capacity,” he said, and why he thinks 11 cats counts as “capacity” is beyond me.
Vagabond Ned was going to grace his own town with his presence for a one-night-only special appearance Friday, and he wondered if I’d like to have dinner.
“Can we go to the Thai place?” I asked, because ket-no. Keto schmeto. If I see one more piece of food that doesn’t have carbs in it, I’m gonna drive myself to the nearest wheat field and just commence chewing.
Ned agreed, which means he must have been desperate because he hates the Thai place, as apparently they don’t serve good beer. This is a thing I’d never notice, but I’m not old Hoppy Ned. Old barley boyfriend, fmr.
So off we went, and I am delighted to tell you that Ned got pinot noir and I ordered the Kung Pao chicken, which isn’t even Taiwanese (heeeee) but Chinese, and HOOOO CARE because the point is it comes with rice.
I was Condoleezza Rice, is who I was. I was Carbra Streisand. I had it all over me, like I was a toddler. I was mashing it on my hands, it was in my hair. I felt magnificent. Reuniting with rice. That’s nice.
While I was carb loading, I managed to bring up the royal wedding, with which I am obsessed. “It’s only a week away!” I said, wondering if the Thai place also had a bread basket and maybe an oatmeal cart or tortilla tray.
Ned has always insisted that Kate Middleton is the most beautiful woman in the world, but that is where his interest in the royals begins and ends.
“What I want to see is the Kate Middleton sex tape. When’s THAT thing gonna come out?” he asked, over his plate of Thai vegetables and a side salad of vegetables. “Could I get one grain of whole-wheat brown rice?” he’d requested.
“I imagine, Ned, that there are all kinds of Kate Middleton lookalike pornographic films available,” I said from under my I Heart Rice sash I’d fashioned from the pages of my now-useless keto book. “I mean, surely you’ve looked for them.”
Ned put down his forkful of kale.
“I’m disappointed in myself that I’ve never thought to look for that,” he said.
I got out my phone. In general, I don’t look at pornography, because I figure that’s a job for the men of America, but in keeping with my general fascination with the absurd, I do occasionally look up ridiculous themes like Star Wars and My Little Pony porn. Am I the only person here who knows you can find anything–ANYTHING–made dirty by some poor soul? And again, I am looking at you, Broken Men of America.
For example, sometimes I look up the search terms people use to find this blog. Behold the last one:
I feel like the fact that that’s even a thing is the work of men. I do.
Anyway, naturally, I got out my phone right there at the restaurant and Googled “Kate Middleton porn.” And lo and behold, the world and Photoshop and MEN had already addressed the world’s deep need to see Kate Middleton in the altogether.
“Here’s one!” I said brightly, showing Kate’s lovely face surrounded by man bits that had quite recently…lightened their loads, as it were.
“Oh my god–PUT THAT AWAY!” commanded Ned, who can be quite the fussy hen sometimes.
Do you think I put it away? Do you? When I was already on a rice high and thrilled to appall Ned?
There was Kate Middleton, pantsless, leaning on a desk. “In a million years, she’d never wear shoes like that,” I announced, thinking of her vast collection of tasteful nude pumps.
Also captured on film was Kate’s apparent visit to the United Nations, so diverse were the men she was…offering felicitations. Also, for as well-dressed as she normally is, you’d think she’d remember to at least wear, you know, something when greeting these fine gentleman, but she often limited herself to a few lacy bits of lingerie.
I held up for Ned images of Kate Middleton greeting dignitaries at her back door.
Kate Middleton the…orator.
And who knew Kate was such a fan of the ladies in waiting?
“Put that phone away this instant,” commanded Ned, his salad growing cold.
After dinner, we both had to go to Rite Aid for various reasons, and it become one of those Rite Aid visits where you begin browsing, and Ned found himself enamored of a hand-shaped retractable flyswatter, which he kept rapping me with from various distances.
There was also a retractable duster, which the more I think about it, the more likely I am to return and purchase. It’s actually a brilliant invention.
“Attention Rite Aid shoppers,” said the ceiling. “The store will close in three minutes.”
“Oh my god! We’ve shut down Rite Aid!” I said, thrilled. I can’t recall the last time I got a last call announcement. Ned and I high-fived our flyswatters.
“You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here at Rite Aid,” Ned said.
After all that excitement, I barely got up in time to greet the cable guy, who came over Saturday to give me TV. “I haven’t had TV in years,” I told him, “but I’m getting it to watch the royal wedding next Saturday.”
Being a straight man with a blue-collar job, you can imagine the intensity of his interest in the royal wedding. This didn’t stop me from telling him all about my fascination with the royals, and how early I got up at age 15 to watch Diana’s wedding, and how I stayed up for her funeral, as well.
“You’re also getting faster internet as part of the package,” the indifferent cable guy told me. “In fact, why don’t you see if your internet is back up. It should be available now.”
And that is when I got my phone and clicked on Safari, the cable guy looking over my shoulder…
…where a photo of Kate Middleton, her wedding dress hiked up, enjoying adult moments with William and an enormous man of color, flashed on my phone.
I just timed how long it takes for me to take care of all the current animals: 15 minutes. I didn’t get any time to just sit with and pet all the kittens, so without, you know, being kind to kittens, just basic feeding and scooping and changing water, it’s 15 minutes.
I guess that’s not so bad, except the whole getting-ready-for-work thing is always something of a rush, especially if you’re someone who also says, Hey, I guess I’ll sit down and write about my life to a couple-thousand people before I dash off to work.
Anyway, here’s what I did this dang weekend. What about you?
My coworker had a partay, and do you wish I’d stop saying “partay” already? Anyway, she did, and careful readers will note I go to this party (partayy) every year at this time, as it is this coworker’s birthday but she never says that.
I’d planned to stay maybe an hour or two, then get back to my 97 kittens, but careful readers will see that day turned into night, night divides the day. Try to run, try to hide, break on through to the other side.
And yes. That is a coworker with a light balanced on her head. It seemed to be the thing to do.
I left that to the younger crowd.
I got home to my kittens and their kitten crumbs pretty late, and the mom was waiting for me with a rolling pin.
When my high school swain, Cardinal, was here a few weeks ago, he told me about this really cool cemetery in Milton, NC, and you know what sounds good are pastries from Milton the toaster. Hey, June, how’s keto going?
Still on it. But I’d slap your grandpappy’s half uncle for a Pop-Tart.
So I drove there. To Milton. Hoping to meet Mr. Toaster. Tell me I’m not the only person who remembers Milton the Toaster.
He always seemed to have a touch of the rosacea.
I remember this one just bitch of a reader, who couldn’t wait to say mean things to me whenever she could, and what is that? What makes your life so empty that you take time to find a blog, then hate what the person wrote, and stick around so you can be angry?
Anyway, I had some makeupless picture up and she commented, “Is that rosacea?”
I’m tryina think of the other bitch-ass things she wrote over the years till I blocked her. But that’s the only one I can recall now.
I also recall in my first year of being separated, dating someone for, like, a week, and it didn’t work out, but that same weekend of deciding that torrid one-week affair wasn’t going to work, going on another date and kissing that second date goodnight, and coming back here to tell you all that it went well, and someone said they’d never read again because “all the drama” was “dangerous.”
Good lord with people. Good lord with my short sentences like the one above.
But back to my cemetery.
Before I got to get in the car and head to the dead, I had to take Cora Godsey and her seven Walton children to the shelter, for their checkups and shots. Steely Dan didn’t join us. But I like this photo of him. When he’s indoors, he’s just longing to go out.
So he can do this. He caught some sort of rodent Saturday morning, and what berserk eyes of murder? Good lord. More delightful updates on that in a moment. Stay tuned!
Anyway, I took the 2,000 kittens to the shelter, and they’re all doing well. I go back in two weeks with them for another checkup, and I would not be surprised if by then they will be adoptable. That’s also the day of the royal wedding, and also the baseball thing here (Official Name®) is giving away Prince Harry bobbleheads to the first 1,000 visitors and of COURSE I’m going, so two Saturdays from now will be big with me.
After I got 101 Kittmations back home and situated, I got on the road to see the dead people.
June, knowing how to throw down. June, toasted like Milton the toaster, since 1964.
The drive there was all country roads, which I love.
And the town of Milton was cute!
I even met goaties!
Anyway, finally I found the cemetery.
If you ever want to be horrible to me, like if that “Is that rosacea” woman is in charge of me after I depart the earth, put me in a treeless cemetery with fake flowers on the graves. THAT would be horrible, to me.
On Sunday, I acknowledged the 900 animals here.
Faithful Readers Happy and LaUral both came by to see kittens, and you know, I CALL them faithful readers, but I have no idea if they actually read my blog/not blog or just saw kittens on Instagram or whatever. Hoooo care.
Anyway, LaUral was somewhat in the market for another cat, because you can never have enough cats, just ask me. And she landed on MaryEllen.
Once I take the kittens back to the shelter, I’ll tell them I have a person who wants to adopt one, and they’ll set it up. Just six to go, plus a mom!
The rest of the afternoon was quiet, and as evening approached, I headed to the grocery store to buy more damn keto food. Steely Dan was hunkering over by the trash cans, which isn’t like him. I petted his velvety head and left.
I ran into my doctor at the store, of all things, and he was glad I was going keto. “It really burns fat if you stick with it,” he said, as he reached for skim milk and I reached for heavy whipping cream.
When I got home, SD was still by the trash cans. Was he injured or something? I had to take the trash cans out of there, anyway, so I went over to talk to him and he seemed fine.
Then I rolled the first totally full recycle bin. I rolled it
That’s why that jerk was stationed at the trash cans! For at least 45 minutes! That’s why! And I FINISHED IT OFF FOR HIM with my trash can!
Oh my god, I was devastated.
You shoulda seen that evil cat, poking at the poor thing. he really ded?
That cat practically high pawed me. Gave me the high four.
We’re like Bonnie and Clyde now.
Goddammit. I will never get over that. I feel horrible. Also, this is three dead rodents in a weekend, and they may all have been chipmunks, and is there some kind of chipmunk colony in my yard? If so, they picked the wrong yard.
I gotta go, but I guess I’ve filled you in on all the happs over here. Also, Dear June: Don’t say “happs.”
Oooo, man, I did NOT feel well yesterday. They warn you of this when you do the damn keto diet, that you might get what they call the keto flu. It’s when your body is switching over. For some reason your body gets annoyed.
I had a bad headache, I was exhausted, and most important: nauseated as hell. Not barf naus; the other kind. But I had read about this so I drank stupid bone broth and took some Advil and, most important,
Saying “most important” is big with me today.
I drank something I’d never in a million years have dranken: Powerade Zero. I’d never have dranken it, and June please keep saying that, because I abhor diet sodas. I think there is nothing I hate more than the taste of diet soda. Diet sodas make me shiver like a kitten when its formula is too cold.
Perhaps I should use a more universal simile.
But Powerade Zero I purchased, as it has no sugar or carbohydrates in it, but it replaces your electrons or your electoral college or something, and
I couldn’t believe how delicious. And most of the agony went away, although I could barely lift self off couch most of day.
But it did give me time to enjoy the following:
Now that the kittens are nearing six weeks, they can not only walk, which is better than I was doing yesterday and I’ve been alive 52 years, they can also run. I have toys in there for them, but most of the kittens also want to explore.
So when Steely Dan is out (Lily and Iris don’t care), I let one or a few out to explore. And since I was lying on the couch motionless yesterday (or dashing to the bathroom. That was my cardio), I got to observe Edsel the Kitten Prodigy.
If it’s a playful, curious kitten, he walks right up and sniffs it and lets it bat at him and so on. One of the kittens kept playing with his pointy old lady–looking feets, and Eds HATES his feet, his pointy old lady–looking feets, touched.
So every time the kitten would touch him, he’d do the gentlest jerk back with his foot, but he’d never leave. He’d just sit beleaguredly and jerk gently. So to speak.
But if it’s one of the more timid kittens, and I love how quickly they have teensy personalities, oh my god you should see him. He lies in the bed, unmoving, and follows the kitten with his eyes. His dog eyebrows move to and fro, and he stays as still as he can to not scare the kitten. Eventually, they all sniffed Eds and said, “o, dis dog totul wuss. thank bastet wee not puppees.”
Thank Bastet. Just when I thought love for self could not grow deeper, I pull self back in.
Anyway, clearly this dog has found his calling. I can’t believe how good he is with them. And he’s so proud of his dog self.
The other thing that happened yesterday, while I was here feeling horrific, was I went outside and sat listlessly on Peg’s Adirondack chair that she gave me. I was like what’s-her-name, in Beaches, when she’s near the end.
Anyway, there I was, nearing the end in my yard, when Lily, LILY, of all people, came running
I’ll give you a moment to gather yourself.
Lily came running across the yard, which is like watching Totie Fields do the 100-yard dash, and the reason she was running was not because I’d left potatoes au gratin on the other side but because she was chasing a mouse.
I will give you another moment to gather yourself. You’re all over the place. Clean it up.
The poor mouse, who can’t have been high on the survival instinct spectrum, given that he decided, oh, this house with
is the yard I’m going to summer in. Anyway, this mouse ran across the yard, with old John Tuxedo Tabby Belushi chasing after him, and he dove into a clump of foliage.
This was about the time I got my Barbara Seagull Hershey ass off the Adirondack chair and got the camera. For some reason Ned can never remember the name of those chairs, and he calls them hurricane chairs and now I almost do, too. He also recently insisted Edward R. Murrow’s sign-off line was, “Be careful.” “He wasn’t on Hill Street Blues, Ned,” I told him.
But I digress. Because here:
You’re gonna have to trust me that Lily was in that bush, and also so was a mouse. She was leaping and hopping on a moon shadow, and I don’t know what was taking her so long to just murder the damn thing.
But then Edsel caught on that there was drama in the bush, which ought to be my epitaph, so he wandered over to help.
Eventually, I heard rustling in there that lead me to believe Lily got it. I didn’t dare go OVER there for fear it’d leap on me or something.
But, given that SD quickly lost interest, I can only surmise mouse was taken care of already. By Lily. That or it escaped and is telling all its mouse friends about its dreadful afternoon.
So I got to see that unfold, like I’m a photographer in the wild. Like I work on Wild Kingdom or something.
Tonight, a coworker is having a party and I’ll be there with my delicious flavored water, and parTAY. The roof, the roof, the roof is, well, it’s just fine. Thank heavens, because who can afford a new one?
Then tomorrow I take Josie and the Pussycats, here, to the shelter for a checkup and their shots. It is just now dawning on me that I have to wrangle eight cats into a carrier. Hey, relaxing.
Maybe Edsel can help me wrangle. Maybe he’s like a kitten Border Collie. With his borderline personality.
Yesterday I heard from the animal shelter. I was wondering what was taking them so long, because I know kitten season is upon us.
“We have, well, we have 7 kittens and their mom,” they said apologetically, like they were sorry for even asking.
“I’ll be there right after work,” I said. Maybe I’m the only person who thinks she struck gold when she hears, “Seven kittens and a mom cat need to stay with you for a few weeks,” but MOTHER OF GOD.
So I schlepped through the driving rain, like Dwayne in Annie Hall, which is probably funny to like four of you. It was funny to fewer of you than there are kittens. Anyway, I drove, on the stupidest street we have in Greensboro, at 5 o’clock at night, and Dear Shelter: Why you gotta be somewhere annoying?
Anyway I got there 20 minutes before close and they were packed. There were two guys picking up a cute-headed pit, and they had 494939530204042 questions. “Well, let’s say we’re in Appalachia, and the humidity was 24. What would we do if…?” I mean, with the QUESTIONS already.
So since I had time to, oh, do whatever, what do you think I did?
Did I take that moment to fall in love with a gray grownupeldy minty-eyed kitty named Max? Perhaps I did. I’d have scooped him up if I didn’t currently have
animals in my house at the moment.
Twelve. I have apostles.
Eventually, they were able to hand me over the cat carrier, and I glanced inside, because they’d told me nothing about what COLOR kittens I was getting, so it was like when you pick one door on Let’s Make a Deal or some other similar current reference.
Okay, well, some of us are tortoiseshell-ish. Which is also orange, just all mixed up like butterscotch. Which makes no sense.
And I want to assure you that floor is not filthy. It’s that damn concrete floor I used to blog in, before my Year Abroad, and while I’ve scraped and painted and carried on with that floor, it peels all the time, rendering it terrible-looking. But I swept in there and put a quilt down, and what you’re seeing is the paint effing peeling, and you know what I need to do? I need to get Alf to put down some tile.
What I want is retro-looking linoleum. Who’s going to be annoyed with me, do you think, when I ask him to lay retro-looking linoleum and not floating clicky easy tiles?
Anyway back to our kittens. Who cares how Alf my ridik handyman feels?
What is not easy is photographing teensy kittens. I think they’re probably three or four weeks old.
Out of 497 photos, here are the only halfway decent ones I got.
Anyway, as they get older, it’ll be easier to take photos of them.
Meanwhile, the regularly scheduled dog and cat bowls have been moved from the kitchen, and the litterboxes are back here with me. None of my cats care that there are kittens back there. They hear them, but they’re all, eh. Dis agan.
I read my tarot cards every month, and one of the categories is “You in the Environment of the Future.”
Here’s me, in the environment of the present, with KITTENS.
And hurr. It’s been raining.
While we’re on the topic of cats, you know, just a bit, yesterday was the last day of SD’s confinement, as he is now done with his antibiotics. And today? It’s raining cats and cats. I held the door open for him, and as SO BORED OH SO BORED as he is, he wouldn’t go out in it.
Instead, he is opting to wreak havoc throughout the land. I also caught him coming from the laundry area, so I shudder to think of what he ate.
So that’s all my news. There are 108 lives in this house currently.
You don’t even wanna know how long it took me to figure out the maths of that.
Not fast or anything. I kind of plod. But I took a running class once in college. I probably need some precise amount of credits to get my student loans that term, or something, and I know gym classes were always one credit.
I remember the very first day of class, trying to find my way around the physical education building and somehow opening the door to the men’s locker room.
And right then I knew, I was going to like running.
And I did. Even though I’ve never been fast, or graceful. I’ve never been one of those women you see gliding down the sidewalk in cute athletic garb. But I remember leaving that running class in bike shorts and a purple tie-dyed shirt–because 1989–and going to my work study job at the museum (our offices were in the museum’s warehouse), knowing I looked sort of good. My legs got nice right away.
“How far did you run today?” people at work would ask me. I’d always feel accomplished when I told them. “RIGHTEOUS!” I remember my museum boss saying once, when I told her how long I’d run.
I ended up living in London that summer. I had this English professor I was obsessed with because I admired him so much. He was brilliant and caustic and original, and he returned one of my papers with “See me about a small scholarship to London” across the top. It was one of the best moments of my life.
I saw him about that scholarship. Then I called the bar I’d snootily quit months before, proud of not needing it because of my fancy $7.45 an hour work study bike shorts job at the museum, to ask for some shifts back. They gave them to me, and in a month or two I’d raised enough to get to London to live all summer.
When I think of that summer, I think of reading The Bell Jar in a pub while church bells rang nearby, and I think of my morning runs.
My dorm was in the same park as the London Zoo. I’d run all the way down to that zoo. Once the wolves ran with me, all the way to the end of their cage. And I heard pink flamingoes chattering. I didn’t even know they made any noise. I guess it was because it was just me and them that they felt okay to squawk.
I think it was when I got back that I stopped running that time. If I recall, my new apartment complex had free aerobics or something very early ’90s.
Ten years later, I was in Los Angeles, getting a pedicure at one of my two pedicure hotspots. I went to either RedNailMayIHelpYou near work (that’s how they always answered the phone, with the enthusiasm of warm lettuce) or Nail Station near my house.
I was at Nail Station that time, waiting for my feet to dry, when I saw a pamphlet for AIDS Project Los Angeles’s marathon fundraiser. They’d take six months to train you, and you raised a few thousand dollars for them, and then you’d be flown to Chicago for the marathon in October.
“That seems like pretty much the last thing I’d ever do,” I thought. So I did it.
What I remember about running for that stretch of time was how I’d eat breakfast and then by 10 a.m. get the receptionist at work to get us grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches from the restaurant across the street. Then two hours later I’d have lunch. I looked magnificent.
I remember waking up early and driving down to the park for our training, and seeing nothing but hundreds of those light necklaces people wear around their necks when they run in the dark.
I remember running 23 miles along the beach. I remember how close my group got, and times we’d have to stop running because we were bent over laughing so hard.
After we’d run the marathon, one big tough guy emailed us all to say we kept him off heroin, that group did. He said he missed us so much it made him cry just typing us.
I wonder how that guy is now. He had gang tattoos, I remember.
On Friday, I pulled on a sports bra and my old running shoes and I got a leash and Edsel and I headed out for a run.
I thought it would be awful, but my old plodding body knew what to do. I knew the first 10 minutes are always the worst. Your lungs hurt, and you feel everything jiggling at you in protest, and you feel like there’s no way you can keep going.
But then you can. Then you do.
I could hear my breath coming in a rhythm I’d forgotten, and my feet pounding on the sidewalk. And as we reached the first mile, I realized why I was running.
I was running because I’m furious. I’m furious that I’m not married at 52. I’m furious that Ned didn’t turn out to be who I wanted him to be, and that Marvin disappointed me too. I feel marginalized at work, and a lot of my friends have moved away, or got married and don’t talk to me (note to self: Stop being friends with people you used to sleep with).
I don’t look the way I did when I was 25, and meeting new people isn’t as easy as a result.
I thought I’d be more financially settled than this by now.
I thought I’d be important, somehow.
Instead, I seem to be shrinking in every way but physically.
So I ran. I ran because I didn’t know what else to do.
And as I did, I thought, Well, maybe you really do have no interest in men now. Maybe it’s not just something you’re saying to get through this lean time. Maybe it’s true. So, have no interest in men.
And maybe you do feel bad about work. It’s still six minutes away, you know how to do it and there are a lot of people there you feel very affectionate about. Still, if you feel bad about it, feel bad about it.
Maybe there aren’t so many friends right now. And maybe you have no interest in making new ones. So, just don’t have so many friends right now.
I could hear my feet. Pound, pound, pound.
I started to notice how pink the trails of planes were as they flew overhead. I smelled the magnolias and smiled at the puppy behind a neighbor’s fence.
I made it the whole way, stopping just once after a hill. Edsel ran next to me like a police dog or something. If you just give that creature something to do, he’s pretty obedient. He smiled the whole time.
Back when I used to run in London, I didn’t have any way to listen to music, so I’d THINK songs. For some reason the song that ran through my head the most was River by Joni Mitchell.
Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on, it goes.
If you lived here, on Friday evening, you may have seen a slightly chubby middle-aged woman running with a goofy smiling dog. Maybe you were wondering why she bothered.
She did it because she found a river she could skate away on.
Years ago, I was on the phone with my oldest friend, Pal From MA. She was on her porch, and who knows what ridik topic we were on, but it compelled her to yell, “HELLO, CLITORIS!” at one point.
And when she did that? A woman walking across the street waved.
This obsessed me. I was so tickled, so to speak. It really pushed my buttons.
I mean, was that her NAME? Did her parents hate her? Did she just think that’s what the cool people were doing now, like it was the new Whatup, Homie?
Was she thinking my Pal From MA was offering up some sort of girl-power hello, like the woman bits in me salute the woman bits in you?
The reason I’m telling you this is because I woke up at 1:48 a.m. today and thought of this and could not stop giggling.
I giggled so hard, and for so long, that Iris, who is usually delightful to sleep with, flumped to the end of the bed, where everything was normal and no one was all “If this bed is a-rockin’ it’s because June is chortling uncontrollably about something that happened in 2009.”
Iris is my favorite cat to sleep with. Needy Lily, on the other hand, is all HELLO CLITORIS, so clingy is she and so hard does she want to sleep inside my soul. Fortunately she wasn’t there last night, because she’s the kind of person who ruins your giggling with, “What? What’s so funny?”
Why do people do that? It’s never as funny when you describe it. It’s the same as, “What’re you reading?” Oh, let me put down my book I’m enjoying and give you a verbal summation. Here’s a summation: You’re an asshole.
Anyway, hi. I know I’ve not been here in a few days.
I didn’t blog at you Friday or Monday because I got yet ANOTHER notice from WordPress that I owed them money and I was irked. I just renewed my ($100!!) yearly subscription with them a few weeks ago, but apparently I also upgraded my account last year at this time, because I needed to transfer over 11 years of blog photos and so on, so I owed on that.
I was giving careful consideration to just stopping this blogging deal altogether, so annoyed was I with this SECOND bill, but then I mentioned that on Facebook, and a bunch of you sent tips, even though I no longer have a tip jar on this blog.
That was so nice, and I was all, oh, I’ll blog Tuesday, and then today Steely Dan got injured.
dun dun DUNNNN
He came home last night, which right there was odd enough. He usually eschews me all evening for god knows what. He’s probably out saying, MEOW, CLITORIS, except he’s fixed. But so am I and I carouse, so.
Anyway, he came in last night during Edsel’s final pee of the night, and he was clearly upset. He was whipping his cat tail, his cat eyes were big and he clearly wanted me to stop fekking cat Yoko-ing him.
Then this morning he was Limp Bizkit. He wouldn’t put any weight on his back leg. I rushed him dramatically to the vet, who tells me SD’s been in a cat fight, and I’d just like to mention that Oscar the fluffy Orange Julius of a kitty next door is also an outdoor cat, and I feel like orange you glad you have a new cat to beat up was occurring last night, and I somehow missed it. How did I miss a catfight? Maybe it was one of those new Silent Bob(cat) fights.
He’s at the vet now, and they called me a while ago using his full Christian name. “Steely Dan Silverman is ready for you to get him at 1:00.” So I’m ready to leave in a second to go retrieve Jack Dempsy, over there, with his antibiotics that I feel like he’ll be quite mellow about taking. Like, Dennis Hopper in Blue Velvet mellow.
By the way, there’s a gray parrot at my vet, a gray parrot who meows. As worried as I was this morning, I could not help but be charmed by that parrot. “Meow!” he’d say, lifting his bird foot.
“Mew!” he did a whole ’nother cat voice while he poked at his budgie. This voice was almost kitten-y.
Then he whistled the Andy Griffith theme song to the room at large, and at this point I’m ready to be Mrs. June Gray Gardens Parrot, so enamored am I of this creature.
Meanwhile, my cat died like that little girl in Airplane, where everyone’s singing and not noticing her IV had fallen out.
Oh, he was FINE. He was in his carrier. IT WAS A MEOWING BIRD. Who can resist?
So, that’s all for now. I have much to tell you, including that I was in a tornado, and afterward Marvin couldn’t find me because apparently my phone was out for a bit so I did not recieve his call or follow-up oh my god are you dead text, and then I didn’t blog, so all of a sudden Marvin pictured me under a house with stripy socks.
The house began to pitch, and I’m a bitch.
Anyway, it was nice of Marvin to care if I lived or died. The tornado didn’t touch down at my house, but it sure as hell touched down elsewhere in my city. Tornadoes blow.
Tune in for more of this kind of hilarity and a full Steely Dan Silverman update tomorrow.
P.S. I forgot to ask you: Yesterday on (Face)Book of June, we got into a discussion about what our school mascot had been. Faithful Reader Paula’s kids used to be The Warriors, but that became politically incorrect, and since it was a Christian school, they changed it to The Warriors of the Lord, and I AM SORRY THAT IS EVEN BETTER THAN HELLO CLITORIS.
Warriors of the Lord. Oh, that KILLS me.
I was the Lumberjacks (of the Lord). Those of us who identified as female at my school were called—are you ready? Lumberjills.
I’m thinking of moving. My neighborhood is hot hot hot right now, for some reason, and I could get a lot of money for it. And I could move into a smaller, less-expensive place, without these rollocking two bedrooms and one bathroom and kitchen the size of a thimble.
Okay, but really. There are smaller houses out there.
Anyway, that part isn’t up for debate, really. But I’ve been thinking about this since right around I guess it was St. Patrick’s Day, because my pal Marianne and I looked at houses that day we were together. And what I want to know is, when did the market get hot?
My house stayed valued at less than I paid for it for years. YEARS. Like, way less than I paid for it. I bought it in April of 2008, which is pretty much the very worst time you could buy a house.
But then just this year–swear!–just this year, it’s gone way up.
And people wanna live in my ‘hood, man. It’s in a good school district or something. And the houses are cute, although not a one is fancy by any stretch. All the houses in my neighborhood were built between 1950 and 1954. I was the second house in this area. Peg’s was first.
Anyway, I’m looking at some cute places in up-and-coming neighborhoods, and a little bit out of town for Steely Dan’s sake. I can’t tell you how much of this is for Steely Dan’s ridiculous sake.
Just this morning I was in the bathroom getting ready and I heard all this pounding in the hall outside, and I thought, oh, Edsel has Blu. But when I opened the door, it was that damn gray cat. I think he was busying himself kicking the corner of the rug with his back evil cat feets. He was all, “wut.” when I opened the door.
Cat needs stimulation. And I’d prefer he’d have it away from, you know, cars and such.
So, Realtors® have been here (you’re welcome for the official way to write Realtor®) and they told me what I could get for my house, possibly, and after I pushed all my hair back down because STANDING ON END, I got really into the idea.
Last night I came home and decluttered a bit, so the real estate photographer can come photograph m’house.
I also decluttered the kitchen.
Oh my god, I just had a great idea. I should take all the pink dishes off that exposed shelf. Hang on…
What if I don’t move and just become a minimalist?
Anyway, so that’s what I’m up to, and it’s sort of obsessing.
Maybe I could just take some of those shelves out altogether.
See? You get obsessed.
Anyway, I’ve got to go. While we’ve been talking, Edsel has been out and in and wants to go out again. Steely Dan also went out, asked to come in, and is now meowing by the door to go out again. I hate everyone.
I ended up getting invited to two things last night, because apparently Tuesday is the hot night now or something, and the point is that over the course of the evening, I had a glass of Prosecco and then two glasses of chardonnay, because I’m a girl. Then at my now-usual wakeup time of 4 a.m., I had a splitting headache and slept in this morning.
There was a time I could have three drinks in preparation for my workday. When did I get so wimpy?
So write fast I must, but I hated to leave you without the stunning results of our StitchFix polls yesterday. It would appear that about 355 of you voted, which is a pretty good turnout when I had (lemme go see) 1,430 readers yesterday. According to my maths, 407% of people participated.
A stunning 88% of you voted that my boss, fmr., keep that bird shirt. I hope she perches on that decision and spends some bills on this shirt.
The distressed jeans caused some distress, and oh, lort, June, are you gonna do this throughout? Only 55% said to keep them, which distresses me out. June stop.
We were double-breasted on the coat, too. It was pretty much half and half (49% yes, 45% no) on whether it should stay or should it go, now. If it goes it will be double (breasted) and if it stays it will be double (breasted, still).
That’s it, June. I’m leaving.
At least we were all in agreement that we hated a wrinkle in time, over here. A weird 1.36% voted she should keep this. I’d like to hear from this elusive 1.36%. Do you also hate chocolate and Tom Hanks?
And, finally, we didn’t link to this cuff much. 58% said to unhand the cuff.
Oh, June. You shoulda stuck to waitressing. For you were a stellar and unharried waitress with the patience of Job and the focus to remember what your tables wanted.
Did I ever tell you about the time I cried because the soup changed? Remind me.
Sometimes I have nightmares that I’m waitressing again. I’m at some soda gun going, How did I get back here?
Anyway. Thanks for participating, you 355 or so who did. Why didn’t you others? What a bunch of cranks. Perhaps the rest of you are men.
Yesterday, my boss, fmr., and I were discussing her photos on my blog, and the reactions we were getting to the clothes, and my boss’s boss, also fmr., happened upon us.
“I’d rather…go to the dentist, yes, go to the dentist, than have a bunch of people tell me what clothes to buy,” he said. Keep in mind this was the guy who gave me the eagle calendar. All of a sudden we gotta listen to THIS guy.
Boss, fmr. and I stared at him blankly.
“Well, then how do you shop?” we asked him. Pretty much at the same time, like those twins in The Shining.
“How you shop is, you decide you need something, and you go out and get it.”
We stared at him blankly some more. Kind of like those twins in The Shining. Still. Occasionally, after that stunning announcement, I’d kind of see my Eagles-Loving Former Boss’s Boss and then an elevator with blood pouring out of it would cross my vision.
“Now, what now?” I asked.
“If I’m shopping alone, I at least take a selfie in the dressing room and send it to someone for their opinion,” I told him.
“Yeah, of course,” agreed my boss, fmr.
“You’re kidding,” said my boss’s boss, former, lover of eagles. And their calendars.
Later, I asked Ned about this.
“How you shop is, you say, wow I’m out of blue jeans (Ned always calls them “blue jeans” like he’s Grampa Joe or whatever) and then you go out and get the same kind of blue jeans you’ve been buying since 9th grade,” said Ned.
Blood. Elevator. Somewhere in Florida an old man is having a vision under a painting of a naked woman.
“How is it that we even exist on the same planet?” asked Former Boss of All Eagles.
Anyway, I gotta go. If I’m going to have a wine headache, I’m going to have it at work, where I can complain about it to the world at large.
I’ve been up since 4:53 a.m. I didn’t even have to slop any hogs or anything; I just woke up. I’d been sleeping with Steely Dan, because he came in last night at a weird time (as in, at all. He usually leaves at sundown and never returns till dawn), and I wasn’t thinking, and when I went in to bed, there he was splayed across my new peacock chenille bedspread that my coworker Poochie gave me. Hang on, I’ll show it to you.
Okay, the bed’s not, like, display-floor made. I didn’t know I was gonna bring you all in here this morning.
Anyway, there he was. Splayed. And of course my first thought was, Oh, no. Because you know he eats m’clothes. But it appears he only slept on the peacock, as he was tired after his many roof adventures.
The point is, he was so cute and sleepy, so I let him stay all night.
Here’s the thing. There are two kinds of cats in this world: head-butters and nonhead-butters. Sadly for me, 66% of my cats butt heads.
That’s two-thirds, right? 66%? Don’t ask me to do maths like this.
Solid, huge Steely Dan enjoys cramming his solid, huge head into my face, over and over, with his stupid always-wet nose, and this may be why I awoke at 4:53. Then, when I tried to go back to sleep, birds started chirping because STUPID SPRING and SD draped his tail across my face and then whipped it, because birds because STUPID SPRING.
Whip. Whip. Whip. Big huge solid tail.
The other head-butter, in case you were curious, is giant fat Lily.
The only cat who’s feather-light, who when you pick her up it’s like air and fur, is Iris, who never head butts, probably because she can’t see my head.
But speaking of Iris, I took her to the vet this weekend for her shots, as it was a year ago at this time that she was mauled by old Pitty and Chewie, over here, the neighbor dogs who got out. The vet said she looks really great, and then he said, “Wow, her teeth are wonderful. Have you had them cleaned?”
Pfft. Have I had them cleaned. I used to do that to poor Mr. Horkheimer, till I walked in one day when they were in the middle of cleaning him and it looked like torture. So no.
The vet said that in his experience, when cats have really good teeth, they seem to have good genes in general and live a long time. Yay. Don’t tell anyone, but I like this info because Iris is my f-a-v-o-r-i-t-e.
Anyway, I hope everyone had a lovely, you know, whatever holiday you celebrate.
I’m tryina think of anything else I did.
My mother sent me a dress that really goes for the JUGular.
Also, I went to the antique store near me, looking for lamps in all the wrong places. I say this because I didn’t FIND one. Also I can’t afford one, because do you remember when we had the $99 membership for another year of WordPress? They sent me ANOTHER bill for the upgrade I apparently also did last year.
I also once again left my house that had cats and coffee in it to go to a cafe with cats and coffee in it.
And finally, after several months, I got a pedicure. I was scared to death it would pain my broken toe, but it mostly didn’t. Because powering through a pedicure with a broken toe is how I tomboy.
For those of you who actually groom rather than proudly announcing you don’t, have you ever noticed that after you get a pedicure you are obsessed with your feet for a few days?
I guess the same as there are head-butting cats and…not, there are women who love to groom and women who think it’s frivolous. I find wind surfing frivolous, but you never hear me saying that. Well. Except just now.
I guess I’d better shower and go to work. I have not one but two huge things due today, and they will both take all day, and yet somehow I must do both today. I do not know how I will pull this off, but no matter how I do it, I will do it complainingly.
It was laundry. That was the smell [see yesterday’s post, ya boob].
Apparently I washed a load of clothes back when I was on the phone with Martha Washington, and I’d forgotten to put those clothes in the dryer, so for 8 centuries they were festering there in the damp, and it’s been warm out.
Guess what’s going now. Is it the washer?
The other news is that for the past three weeks or more, I’ve had a dilemma that I couldn’t tell you about.
Another company wanted me. They desired me. I was IN DEMAND!
It’s a publishing company I’ve freelanced for since 2012. I’m certain you recall March of 2012, when I had a giant project due for them.
Ah, yes, June. That giant–GET OUT’CHER OWN ASS AND CARRY ON, JUAN.
Anyway, I’ve worked for them on and off ever since, and several weeks ago the executive editor wanted to meet in real life, finally, so we got up one night and I thought, “I wonder if she wants a job at my company.”
People are always trying to work at my company. People were always crossing rooms to talk to Maxine (When Harry Met Sally™).
But she wasn’t. She was trying to get me over to her. She wanted me to be a senior editor, and be all fancy, and so on.
So for three weeks, I’ve had that opportunity in front of me, and I had to think about where I work now, and what it’d be like there. So these past few weeks, when I’ve been being hilarious
Let me try that sentence anew.
So these past few weeks, when you’ve smiled wanly at me every once in awhile, I’ve been consumed with the idea that I might switch jobs. I even considered moving to Winston-Salem, where I’d be closer to said publishing house.
But in the end, I stayed at my company. For I like it there, and I’ve been there seven years, and it’s six minutes away. I fit in. Kind of.
Then once I made my final decision, I had to take work home this weekend. Taaa-daaaaa!
For it IS the weekend, for me. We have Good Friday off, and THANK YOU, WEIRD BIBLE BELT. We even got to leave at 3:00 yesterday, although I stayed till about 3:45 to try to get more work done, and THANK YOU, WEIRD JUNE BELT.
As he was leaving, my boss’s boss, fmr., tried to out-Easter-pun me. He’s known as the pun MASTER at work, but walked away, defeated, when I came back at him with,
“Why are you so cross? You’d think it was Maunday, not Thursday.”
So because I’d had a stressy, thinky several weeks, and because it was warm out, and because we were out at 3:00, I headed downtown. To drive all the old men crazy.
Dear June: GET.OVER.THAT.LINE.
I like to go downtown, so to speak. First of all, the mental status of old men is important to me, and also because it keeps growing and changing, so to speak. I can make anything dirty. What is wrong with me? Perhaps the old men have driven me crazy.
On the drive to find parking, I saw two coworkers and then also two young girls kissing against their car, a thing that likely did drive all the old men crazy.
I admired the sites beyond young-girl love, and I also shopped and didn’t buy anything. You’re welcome, fledgling downtown Greensboro!
They have all these cool new stores now over in the once-dodgy end of downtown, a place I never went unless I was desperate to get to the bakery that was way down at the dodgy tip. But now none of it’s dodgy anymore!
I stopped at store (not the store above. That place above is super cool) and had The World’s Worst Tarot Reading®, where I was told my Workers Comp claim will come out in my favor (??) and that I feel trapped in my marriage (??) and won’t move from Greensboro due to my four kids (!!?!).
Do you feel it’s possible that tarot cards are bullshit?
Oh, she also told me three people are very critical of me right now and FUCK YOU, THREE PEOPLE.
Eventually I joined my coworkers for a drink, and I really had a good time, and then when I went home I saw other coworkers on Instagram, drinking at another downtown bar, and I was all, Was there a cooler, subversive happy hour that I was not privy to?
FUCK YOU, OTHER SUBVERSIVE COOLER DRINKERS.
Anyway, now that it’s my day off, I have to go to the grocer, as apparently I need to shop in 1930s London. Maybe I’ll even go to the greengrocer.
My alarm went off today, because I have it set to go off M–F and this is F, but I shut it off and said to Edsel, “You know what we get to do today, Eds? We get to sleep in.” And I swear to you he did his dog sigh/moan and put his snout on my neck and we slept like that for another hour.
Anyway, I hafta go to the grocer because am seriously out of ERR’THANG. I have no beverages. Well, coffee. But that’s not a bev so much as an addic. But last night I had no bottles of water, no soda, no V-8. The only thing in my fridge was a disgusting black beer that Ned left here when he came to get his cat, which is NOT A EUPHEMISM.
The point is, I tried to drink it. So desperate was I. I realize I have a, you know, TAP, but blech.
That was not a successful jaunt. June’s Legend of Blackbeer.
I like how I have my earrings on with my pajamas. I’m Aladdin, over here.
I am sitting on my couch, speaking into my phone today, because I am icing my arm. I have a very serious medical condition. You know how this delights me.
Yesterday afternoon, I went to my doctor. Fortunately for me, he’s right across the street from work, so I can just pop in there any old time. At this point, they have a special room for me, and I go in early so I can chat up all the receptionists about their love lives.
I had gone for a followup on my broken toe, and because some of my medication was giving me headaches.
My beleaguered doctor looked at all that stuff, asked me questions from his giant scroll of June medical events, and then at the very last minute, I said, “Oh, by the way, my elbow hurts all the time. Just constantly. I believe it’s elbow cancer.”
My doctor, who is hilarious, has told me that I have two choices: He can be hilarious and I can not ever ever quote him on this blog ever, or he can be all professional and medical with me and I will have nothing to report to you anyway. I have opted for door number one. But just know he has several ridik things to say to me whenever I am there, including my diagnosis of elbow cancer.
My doctor is as over me as any doctor ever is. I have not told him about the streak of doctor suicides I have been responsible for. Or about the two doctors who have quit the medical profession altogether.
Anyway, he was basically not believing there was anything wrong with me, until he touched my elbow. “Wow, it’s swollen!”
After many invasive medical tests and procedures, after a team of experts were flown in from across the globe, it has been determined that I have tennis elbow.
I realize that I have never played tennis in my life, except for when they forced me to in gym class in the 10th grade. Nevertheless, I have a sports injury.
I’ve been trying to think of what repetitive motion I have done to my stupid arm to warrant this major medical condition. As far as I can remember, it just hangs limply on my motionless side. It’s not like I’m out there athletic-ing the world.
I got planter fasciitis when I don’t run. I broke a toe by walking into the dog’s bone. And now I have tennis elbow and I couldn’t even tell you where there’s a tennis court in this town.
Maybe I sleepwalk, and at night I’m a tennis pro somewhere around here. I am Greensboro’s Yvonne Goolagong. My doctor did, in fact, once tell me I had iron-poor blood.
When we were just wrapping up college circa 1989, my roommate Sandy filled out an application for a job, and made the mistake of letting it lie around so I could see it. She listed her hobbies as racquetball and watercolor painting.
When she got home, I chastised her for leaving her racquet all around the house. “And I suppose you’re going to whip up that easel again.”
Anyway, that’s me. Having hobbies that I don’t actually do. That my body is paying for. By the way, she got that job. Worked at that place for 18 years. I always threatened to call and tell them that she had never watercolor-painted one thing in her goddamn life.
Her hobbies included putting on her pajamas and watching “A Current Affair.” And drinking and makeup shopping with me.
Anyway, that sums up my current medical condition. Someone on Facebook last night already determined that our ribbon should be tennis-ball yellow. You guys are wearing a lot of Rubens lately. Ribbons. Jesus. I’ve been wearing a lot of Reubens. What hips?
I leave you with pictures of my animals being aggressive to each other. Last night, Lily was licking the spot on Edsel’s leg that he won’t stop licking. Anyway, it offended Edsel and all of his people through time. All of the ancient Edsels through history rose up from the grave to glare at Lily over this.
Here’s Steely Dan chomping the butt parts of poor Iris.
Were you worried I’d slip and forget the banana story? Did you think I’d peel out of work Friday and forget you? That I’d split and forget about the banana?
What a fruity idea.
June’s readers. Finding June unapPEELing since 2018.
As you know, from your Enormous Banana of June Events, my ridik coworker Camilo–whom I’m certain I’ve blog-named in the past but who can remember what I called him. I must be low on potassium.
Anyway, Camilo, my coworker, mashed in from New York all flambé about some shit he learned about bananas. “You guys wouldn’t BELIEVE it,” he said. Look, he’s still green. Banana things excite him.
I don’t know where this news stemmed, but he had something thrilling he learned that was banana-related, and he needed an ACTUAL banana to show us.
No matter how you sliced it, he was making this a huge deal. So after he’d plantain-ed the seed, we were all into learning what the news was. I set up an actual meeting on everyone’s calendar, in an actual meeting room, and every chichita in the place gathered to see what was up.
You could say we were a banana republic.
Love, All readers everywhere.
So without so much as a yellow, he showed the BUNCH of us the banana.
“Is it the thing where you peel it from the bottom,” an unenthused coworker, who had a deadline, asked. Clearly she had not been on the banana boat earlier, when he’d already assured us it was WAY BEYOND the old opening-it-from-the-bottom trick.
“You know how sometimes you have a banana, and you want to share it with others?” he asked.
No. No I don’t. But I’m an only child.
“Watch this,” he said, about to serve us a banana shakeup. Camilo stuck his thumb in the top of the banana, and pressed down.
Voila. Or, waa-laa, if you want to be …rotten.
Turns out, if you press the top of a peeled banana, it automatically divides into three sections. “It’s like it’s MADE to be shared,” he said. He wasn’t monkeying around. He handed banana sections to the whole bunch of us.
I know I already used “bunch.” Why don’t you try to think up this many melon-farming banana puns?
So. There it is. I don’t know what kind of bread you can make from this info, but now you have a party trick that’s…bananas.
Daylight come and me wanna go home,
P.S. Tuuuuuune in Sunday for “the grid.” I have a migraine. Too many banana daiquiris last night.
Today, I got up, took my stupid Prilosec and started my half-hour countdown, fed everyone (I let Iris be a bad girl today, because Steely Dan hadn’t deigned to come home yet after a night out, so Iris got to eat up at SD’s dish like a rebel.
Then, of course, SD let himself in and looked up at his dining establishment, astonished, but he did not kick her ass as I’d feared. I can never figure this cat out. Instead, I fed him over by Lily, and they both took that in stride), showered (she says, after the world’s longest parenthetical), made sure my stupid half-hour had passed and got my coffee all set, sat down here and was like,
Wow. I have nothing to say today.
Oh, I know!
I got my hairs cut!
I think it might dry while we talk, it’s so short and shortie now, but let’s see what happens. You won’t BELIEVE what happens next. Click here.
My coworker did that to me yesterday. He didn’t cut my hair–I might have led with that. He works in our New York office now, but he’s back this week to do stuff in our studio, and he was all, “Oh my god, you guys, who has a banana? I learned the COOLEST thing about bananas.” No one had one.
We were all, Do you mean the thing where you hold it by the stem. We all said that with the enthusiasm of a tree sloth. Because Oooooo, Mr. New Yorker’s gonna burst in, thinking he’s all big city. With his banana stem thing we all learned years ago. We’re not in Papua New Guinea, dude.
“No, it’s something different! My brain literally exploded!”
“Your brain did not literally explode,” I pointed out, and quest for world’s popular-ist coworker rages on.
Anyway, he built it up in such a “click here” way that I swear 200 people are gonna stop working so we can watch Camilo and the Banana today. I mean, he built this shit up, so it better be good.
“Maybe he finally realizes you eat the inside,” my boss’s boss, fmr., said to me, as we strolled away.
…I’ve been scrolling through my photos, because I know I have a nice one of a bunch of coworkers holding up their bananas at some point, when it was Banana O’Clock at work one day. I can’t find it, of course, but I found a buncha racy ones of me in a pink bra, and who was I trying to impress, I wonder.
Anyway, I also found the following…
My grandfather and me, petting a dog. That dog was Sam. I believe he set the template for me liking a medium-size, yellow mutt.
My grandfather would have been my age in that photo. I mean, he wasn’t three. I was three, and he was around 52. My age now. Just eat your banana and stop being clever.
Me, househunting for a place in Greensboro in 2008. We hadda take Talu on the search, because she was just a baby. She would’ve been four months old then. Lu.
The two-year anniversary of her death is tomorrow. Yay.
Lu and me at this house. I remember walking in and going, “Ooooo!” like it was covered in diamonds or something.
We’re seeing a lotta Lu anus today.
There’s the front of our Lu! Even back then she stood the same way. That Pitty way.
Why’d Lu have to up and die? Like Mr. Bojangles’ dog? I hate everything.
When I was trying to find that banana shot, which really, I need to get over, I looked in the category of “people” and this interesting Brady Bunch board came up.
Here’s an interesting June quiz. Well. “Interesting.” How many of June’s people can you identify? We’ll label them 1–25, going from top-left across. So, the mystery figure in blue, with the buildings behind him, is number one. The mystery figure in the lavender sweater, looking down, is number 25. The winner gets…
a cat bonnet! And by “gets,” I mean I’ll say you’ll get it and I will never send it. Start playing now!
Don’t you love days when I have nothing to tell you?
Sadly, I’ve discovered my computer allows me to muck with my photos, a thing I hadn’t discovered previously, and now every photo you see will be all mucked. You’re welcome. Also, I took this in the romantic light of the screen. I do not have a skin condition. But there’s my nearly dry hair.
I’m writing you on Sunday night because I have to call the IRS in the morning to figure out if I owe money or I’m getting money back, a thing TurboTax can’t seem to tell me, which makes my ass ache mightily.
Yes, June, that’s a shame. So, what’d you do this weekend?
In 1992, I moved to Seattle. I knew I wanted to leave Michigan after college, and they read more books there per capita, so I figured I’d fit in.
I got a job a few days into my move there, by talking up the guy who helped me open a checking account. “I know they need a receptionist on 12. You want me to make some calls?” And a stellar career answering phones on the 12th floor was born.
One of the people who worked with me on that 12th rung of the ladder to success invited me to go to a rugby game with her on a Saturday morning. Anyone who’s read me awhile (See: All of you) knows how often I get up on Saturday and seek out rugby. But I was new in town
and completely desperate for friends. So I got up at some ungodly hour, maybe even 10:00, and went to a damn rugby game.
“We’re going to stop and pick up my friend Marianne,” the woman from the 12th floor said to me. I hate it when you have plans with someone and they throw someone else in like that. In my MIND I’d psychologically PREPARED for it to be just us. But I pretended to be a normal member of society and said okay.
Turns out, Marianne was fairly new to Seattle, as well. And as we stood on that cold rugby…field? Is it a field? Hoooo care. Marianne looked at our other friend getting all into rugby, and said to me, “You wanna go back to the car and drink all the beer?”
And we did. The end.
From then on, we spent every ding-dang weekend together, no matter what. There was a restaurant across from my apartment, and inexplicably it had a mechanical bellhop in front of it, with an arm that moved up and down, sort of guiding you into the diner. We had breakfast there every Saturday. I mean every Saturday.
I’ve no idea what the name of that place was, since all we did on Friday night was sort of drunkenly say, “What time?” and do the bellhop’s arm gesture.
Or even, “Oh, god, like, 1:00?”
She left Seattle a year before I did, to go back to North Carolina. At her goodbye party at Lai Lani Lanes, a Tiki-themed bowling alley we adored, I told Marianne that at my wedding someday (Step One: Get boyfriend), we’d find a way to drink a beer in a car during the reception.
She drove all the way from North Carolina to Michigan to come to my wedding, three years later. At the very end of the night, the band packing up, I sneaked into the kitchen of the B&B and grabbed two beers.
We drank them in the rental car, me in my wedding dress and ridik veil.
Anyway, now here I am, in North Carolina as well, and she’s an hour and a half away and we see each other like once or twice a year and it’s stupid.
On Saturday, I was running my usual errands: taking the kids to soccer, meeting with the prime minister, knitting socks, I texted Marianne. “Wanna meet in Winston-Salem right now?”
Anyway, since Marianne was able to drop everything and drive to Winston, off I went.
We’d sort of forgotten it was St. Patrick’s Day, and by “we” I mean clearly not old Kermit, up there, dressed head-to-toe in green. Marianne has always been more excited about life than I am.
My point is, we went to a restaurant, and they were shamrocking out, man. They even had hootchie-gootchie girls (TM, Ned’s mom) handing out Irish whiskey for free and everything, along with hats, shirts and sunglasses.
“We probably shouldn’t drink all of this whiskey, because we have to drive,” I old lady-ed.
“Oh, I wasn’t planning to,” doddered Marianne.
“I wonder how many St. Patrick’s Days we’ve spent together,” I said. For some reason, Marianne had, like, this houseful of friends who’d all come over from Ireland together. Their house was magically delicious. And not at all devoid of, you know, parties. Especially on St. Patrick’s Day.
Oddly, we can’t remember any of them. Hmmmm. What could it be? What.could.it.beeeeee that made us forget?
Anyway, our three sips of whiskey in us, we headed to our cars. On the way out, I saw a good-looking man I completely recognized, and we both stopped in our tracks because we clearly knew who each other was, but could not place. He was with a woman, so if he was one of my 39583030402 internet dates I’ve had over the past two and a half years, I didn’t want to stir up any trouble.
“Who was that hot woman in the bowler hat?” I mean. It was inevitable, right?
On the drive home, I was all,
Which means nothing to you, and anyone who actually remembers who Ron is gets a plastic green bowler hat.
He was Marvin’s bandmate. From, like, 2008. Marvin put an ad on Craigslist or something and this really nice guy, Ron, answered the ad, and every Sunday for years they would have band practice here at this house.
Every Sunday for years, I would therefore go to the movies and see some weird independent thing, and Ned and I used to say we MUST have been in the same theater at the same time, as a result, which is weird to think about.
I tried to find a photo of Marvin practicing with Ron, a thing I know existed, but instead I found the photo of the time I insisted you all call Henry, my cat, fmr., “Henri.”
Am delighted with self anew.
Ah. Here’s a crystal-clear shot of Ron and Marvin practicing. Pre-bookshelves. Pre-not-beige walls. Weird.
Anyway, the next day I talked to Marvin. “Ron thought that was you, but he wasn’t sure.”
“Is it because I’m so hot now?”
Marvin didn’t answer that. You’d think Ron woulda said, “Man, she’s clearly had Ultherapy.”
Anyway, I’m glad I had the brilliant idea to get together with Marianne, and that we had a good time even though we were done by, like, 7:00 rather than just going out at 7:00. It’s good to have people you can grow old with. Even though I’m getting hotter by the minute.
“I have an all-day meeting and I’m getting out of work early,” said Ned, and “early” for Ned means “a normal time to leave work” in my world. Remind me to never be the president of anything. Except this nonblog.
“Would you like to have dinner? I’ll be early, so you can eat like the elderly, as you like to do.”
Back when we were dating, Ned would call me at, like, 8:00. I am not exaggerating for dramatic effect. He’d work till 6:00 or 6:30, go to the gym, drive home and then call and say, “I am starving.” That noon salad just wasn’t sticking with him eight hours later.
How did I not bludgeon Ned to death every day for four years?
So, him calling me at 8:00 meant he (a) was going to go to a restaurant at that point or (2) make something. From scratch. “I’m going to start the water to boil beans.”
Really, how DIDN’T I bludgeon him to death?
What this meant, when we were dating, was I had to starve till 9:00 in order to eat with him, or I’d eat like regular people, at around 6:00, and then have to hear the appalled speech when I’d announce AT 8:00 ON A WEDNESDAY that I’d already had dinner.
Later, I researched love avoidance and said, Ohhhhh. Okay. (It’s one of the things they do. They busy themselves. Oh, I’m so consumed. I can’t possibly actually sit and give you my undivided attention.)
My point is, here was Ned, willing to feed me on a Wednesday at 5:30.
I know you’ve all been lighting candles and keeping charts, so you know that I’ve had an ATM card saga. While I was out volunteering to make smocks for the homeless a few Friday nights ago, I accidentally lost my ATM card when a giant vat of whiskey sours landed in my throat. It was such a phenomenon. It was like the Northern Lights, with sour mix.
It wasn’t even GOOD sour mix. The whiskey sours I get at the fancy hotel near me? They make their sour mix right there. The whiskey sours I got on Lost ATM Night was shot from one of those soft-drink guns. I blame the pinball. I was so up in it that I didn’t notice I was having 49 drinks.
Oh my god, anyway. So I finally got an ATM card from my bank, and when I called to activate the card, they said, “For your safety, a separate letter with your PIN will be arriving.”
You have got to be fekking kidding me.
So now I have this limp ATM card, which at least allows me to go back to my Jimmy John’s delivery habit, but little else. It’s quite confining–and this is Shamrock Shake season! I realize I could drive to the bank and get out cash like I used to with my mom in 1972, but if I drive to the bank at lunch, pretty much that’s my lunch hour, and I keep saying, Oh, I can scrounge up something at home.
Hang on. Ima show you my exciting June’s-ATM-is-useless food supply at the moment.
I said yes to dinner. “After, can you help me give Edsel some tests?!” I asked. Because that’s the kind of standup person I am. You’ve offered to buy me dinner, and my reply is, “Only if you do something else for me.”
“Of course,” said Ned, as he likes Edsel.
Truth be told, I don’t really like going to restaurants. It’s never been fun to me. I have on-and-off years of panic attacks, and restaurants are a trigger for my panic attacks, because you’re stuck there. You can’t dash out 10 minutes later without making a scene.
I’m not in a panic attack cycle right now, I’m just in my regular low-grade anxiety mode that I’ve been in since I’m 8. I had a giant swath of panic attacks starting when I was 19 and ending when I was around 21.
Then on New Year’s Eve 1999, I had another one on a ferry and was tortured with them for a few years, and I’ve been fine since. Knock all of the wood, please.
The point is, because when I’m having panic attacks, restaurants are among my least-favorite things, I kind of hate them all the time. I dislike a lot of things many other people seem to love: Christmas, travel, live music, babies, football, hugging.
But you saw my cupboards. I went to the restaurant last night. Got spaghetti bolognese. Because I’m watching my figure (turn into Queen Victoria’s).
When we got home, we commenced to giving Edsel another of the Dognition personality tests with which I am so obsessed. This time, we tested his memory.
The first two or three tests I gave him the other night insisted I have a partner, with the caveat “if you don’t have a partner, go to our blog.” Well, I’m already HERE and I already watched the introductory video and NO. I’m not going over to your damn blog. Which is what you all say every day, and yet here you are.
So, despite the world saying I needed a partner, sister did it for herself, and it was fine. But since I HAD a faux partner in Ned (you’ve said a mouthful there, sister), I decided to see if it was easier.
The way Dognition works is they tell you what aspect they’re going to test that time, using a brief intro video from the guy who most likely invented this whole idea. “Do you want me to wear my hair like that?” interrupted Ned, while the shaggy millennial spoke.
“Shhh,” I said, then inwardly giggled at the idea of Ned with longish bearded millennial Williamsburg unicycle shaggy hair.
After the intro, they guide you to a page all about this particular test. You can either read the steps, or watch another video where they show you the steps. I kind of do both at once.
“Are those guys gay?” asked Ned, as we watched two millennial men play memory games with their trendy large dog who I promise you they refer to as a “rescue,” a dog inexplicably named Kai.
“Kai? Are they saying Kai? Oh, those two are a couple,” surmised Ned, who really isn’t as homophobic as I’m making him sound.
“SHHH. Ned, I’m watching how to do this,” I said.
And, see, there was our problem. Because while I, superior I, was busy learning how to test Edsel’s memory, Ned was too busy mocking the video, and when I got started, he had the
to tell me I was doing it wrong.
“What–why are you–you can’t LIFT the cup. That’s cheating,” Ned would say, having not paid attention to one of Kai’s gay owners LIFTING THE CUP during the video.
Meanwhile, here was Edsel.
Eds was SO not into our testing last night. Some of it had to do with Ned and me bickering, and some was the part where you’d show him a treat, put said treat under a cup, then wait as long as two and a half minutes before he could retrieve the treat.
Lemme tell you who 100% forgot treats were ever invented in 2.5 minutes. That would be old steel-trap Edsel, up there.
In summary, Edsel’s memory sucks. They tried to be polite about it, but later in the description they talked about how wolves and feral dogs have to hunt prey for hours, and while sometimes the prey isn’t in site, these wild animals remember the prey’s general vicinity and keep hunting.
“Edsel doesn’t have this instinct,” they euphemized, pretending it was because he was so well fed at home that he didn’t need it. They can’t come out and say, Your dog is sort of a dunce.
“There is no need to worry! It is just one more piece of evidence that Edsel has his own cognitive style,” they said.
Yes. His own cognitive style. That’s it.
I gotta go. I have to get in the shower and get my own style going. I’ve started Retin-A and remember that scene in Sex and the City where Samantha shows up to Carrie’s book party with the raw face?
It’s a cold, rainy, miserable Monday following stupid daylight saving, which is the perfect punctuation to a cold, rainy miserable weekend. Later today, it’s going to snow! In March! So then it’ll be a cold, snowy, miserable March Monday. In 11 years of living in NC, I have yet to encounter snow in March.
Right now, the rain is so cold that I took trash out to the bin, with the intention of rolling said bin to the curb, saw there was only one other bag in the bin, and said, “Fuck it.” That’s how cold and miserable it is. I’ll-live-with-trash-in-the-bin-for-another-week miserable.
I’m unsure if I’ve precisely expressed to you the not-pretty that is my weather.
And why’s it gotta be so goddamn early? What the Sam Philistine Fuck?
June’s blog. Come for the inspiration.
Anyway, when last we spoke, I’d had an unnecessary medical procedure guaranteed to make me look younger, which so far hasn’t kicked in. It hurts less, but mostly I have the agony of discomfort and none of the recaptured youth. In fact, with my broken toe–that is now on week 5 but is definitely getting better–I’ve done very little exercise and am starting to abhor self. I look even older and larger than when the weekend began.
Also, Edsel went to the vet Friday, and I say that like he said, “Taakking carr. Bee back soonz” but really I drove him. He had his bordetella, which is a shot dogs get so they can hobnob at daycare and in dog parks and at dog bars and dog sex clubs. It’s the condom of dog shots.
My point is, they weighed him at the vet and he weighs 50, which is an all-time high for the Edz. He weighs this much because we’ve gone on zero walks since The Toe Incident. I think I hobbled to the corner and back with him once or twice, but that’s it. I feel terrible about it, but what can you do? I can’t fekking walk.
So, today is out, because perhaps I didn’t mention the weather, but it’s poorly, the weather is. But tomorrow I’ll put on my folk fest shoes
and try to walk him at least two blocks. See if m’toe can deal.
…Just now, ridiculous Steely Dan asked to go out, and I say “ridiculous” because he IS ridiculous, and also because I asked him if he wanted to go out when I let Eds out in the yard for his morning constitutional, and I asked him again 20 minutes later when I let Eds back in, and both times he glowered at me from a foot away.
Then as soon as I got under Laila Ali
he started mowing and sounding pitiful and carrying on, so I got OUT from under Laila Ali
and opened the door.
He sniffed. Put a delicate paw on the cold metal threshold.
Anyway, I understood his emotion, there, because in case I hadn’t driven it on home, it’s cold and rainy out. And miserable.
I got under Laila again
and seconds later,
For a big, hulking imposition of a cat, he has the girliest delicate meow. You’d think he’d be one of those Patty-and-Selma-meowing cats, all, MEOW. But he isn’t.
When I was a kid, we’d go to Rose Auto Supply to get gas. I liked going there because I liked the name Rose, and also, this ENORMOUS–I mean HUGE–guy would come to the window.
“Fill it up with regular,” my father would always say, and I never knew what that meant, but I also thought maybe he was saying, “Fill it up with irregular,” and that was even MORE compelling, but my point is, the gas-filler at Rose Auto Supply had
you ever heard on a man. He made Snow White sound butch. I was riveted by this anomaly, and in retrospect am certain I was not subtle in my fascination. Probably all kids were riveted by him, and I wonder if the advances in medical science could help that poor guy today, or if even now he’d be Squeaky Fromme.
I was similarly riveted by the waitress at Johnny’s Chick-Inn who had an arm tattoo. And the saleslady at Weichmann’s who had purple hair. No child would bat at eye at either of those today. But in 1968 in Saginaw, those were things to see, man. And why was my local downtown where circus characters all got work, I wonder.
My point is, I got up again and that gray bastard did the same thing all over, and now he’s wailing pitifully again in that squeaky Rose Auto Supply meow,
and he can go fuck his own sleek self, is what he can do.
In case you wondered about my weekend, and who doesn’t. “I’d LIKE to begin work, but I just wonder what June did this weekend.” In case you wondered, I had a little personal challenge this weekend.
As you know, from having your finger on the pulse of June and all her events, I lost my ATM card last Friday due to whiskey sours that were FORCED down my throat, and I had to order a new one. ATM card, not throat.
At some point last week, I drove to the bank and wrote a check to Cash like it was 1969. I took out a hundred dollars, bought exactly $80 worth of groceries (I did that thing where I added up groceries as I threw them in the cart, and then knowing my maths worried that I’d get up there and be told, “That will be $467.48, please”) and then spent another 14 on god knows what, and the point is, I got busy Friday and forgot to go back to the bank.
So with $6, no ATM card and not even the ability to order movies and shows (because debit card locked), I couldn’t go anywhere or watch anything, you know what I did?
I watched Hot & Flashy videos. Do you know this woman? She’s our age, and she looks fekking amazing, and she tells you in great detail how she does it. For example, she has 11 cleansing/anti-aging steps each day.
She is my hero. And I’m champing at the bit to buy all her products, but see card, frozen. This is probably good, cause I mighta binged otherwise.
I see it’s already NINE FUCKING O’CLOCK and who set the TIMES forward, so I’d better go to work.