I just now got up and fed the regularly scheduled animals, and man, that was easy.
PLOOP. Throw Edsel’s food in a dish. I’ve moved his bowls and food tin back to the kitchen.
I’d had them in this room, my computer room, at the back of the house,
so his crunching wouldn’t scare the mom cat inches away in the room off the kitchen.
Say “room” one more time, June.
Krrrrplap. Iris and Lily’s food, served in the window of the kitchen.
FLAARP. Steely Dan’s canned food, atop the refridge.
Aaaaand, scene. I mean, that all took less than a minute. Everything was in one…room. I changed their water, too. Seriously. Under a minute.
But here is where I will not say my favorite thing when someone is telling a story, and the thing I will not say is, “Let me back up.”
After work, there was a happy hour, but I opted for a June hour instead. Like all my hours aren’t June hours.
I headed to the grocers, the greengrocers, Hulk Teeter’s, because I’d decided to have baked beans on toast during my wedding Saturday morning. When I lived in London the summer of 1990, every morning in the dorm one of the choices was baked beans on toast, and I always had it after my run through the park, and it was delicious.
I had a friend from London, when I lived in LA, and she was pretty much the Forrest Gump of our time. I mean, you name a cultural event in my generation, she was there, somehow. She’s had this charmed life. Anyway, SHE told me the reason it’s delicious is the type of baked bean they have in England.
I went over to the foreign bean section at my grocer’s Friday evening, and do you know every motherfucker in this town bought all the good beans, leaving just this dented can of botulism that I did not buy?
I also went to Target and got new watching-the-royals pajamas, as the royal family is famous for getting pajamas at Target. Meghan’s wedding dress was totally from Target.
I’d gone to bed early Friday, in order to be fresh for my wedding. I’d set the alarm, but oh my god I BOUNDED out of bed before it, got m’Diana QVC engagement ring on
and screamed over to the telly. I’m British now, as I have married Prince Harry, so I can say “telly.” I can also say “Savalas.”
Oh, I squealed, I cried, I clapped, I cried more, I screeched, I carried on. THAT WEDDING!!!!
I loved her tiara, and her lace on her veil. I thought her dress was perfect, and why people want it to be a skin-tight David’s bridal mermaid gown is beyond me. I loved everything, even Camilla’s hat.
I wanted to pinch the queen’s cheeks, which I’m certain would have gone over big.
And Meghan’s mom! She is magnificent. She was lit from within.
And okay. That preacher was a little much. But he meant well, and it makes me want to be Episcopalian.
I was a wreck by the end of that thing. I’d cried, I’d clapped, I’d changed religions.
I texted with my friends Lilly and Sandy throughout, and both L and S were annoyed that Meghan had hair out of place. “I realize it’s her thing, but still,” texted Sandy, who has always joined me in judgyness.
“It’s bothering me, too,” said Lilly, who likes Camilla, by the way, because “one day I’ll be an old horsey woman just like her, you know.”
I hate to say it, but I have softened re Camilla as well. They had unfortunate circumstances, but they were in love, Camilla and Charles were. Is it Camila or Camilla? I don’t have time to look it up.
Anyway, I pointed out to Lilly and Sandy that there we were, judging Meghan’s one hair out of place, when we were all three sitting around looking like hell in our pajamas.
Anyway, the whole thing was quite taxing on me, but totally worth it.
I had to stop off for a restorative cream soda after, she says keto-ly, at my favorite sandwich shop, which happened to be next to my Botox place, where I had a 10 a.m. appointment. Normally on a Saturday that hour would kill me, but hell, I’d had a whole day and every emotion and a religious conversion by then.
Fortunately for all of us, my Botoxer is my age. She had been almost late for work, so involved was she in our wedding.
“Yes, they were in love, but he’d made marriage vows,” said my Botoxer, as she came at me with with a needle. She herself is a victim of infidelity, but has meet a lovely new man, who she’s marrying in July.
My Botoxer and I throw down when we’re together.
“You really don’t ever want to get married again?” she asked me, as she jabbed the botox I rejected in my beans into my forehead.
“I really don’t. I did for a long time, when I was desperately in love, but now I enjoy my alone time. I mean, look at me this morning! I didn’t have to take any shit from anyone about my wedding.”
After my Botox, I had a 1 p.m. appointment to take my kittens and their mom to the shelter for shots. While they came to me in a shelter-appointed carrier (see above), I had to return them in two, because they’d gotten too big for eight cats in one carrier.
I’d been weighing them all along, and I knew all the orange boys were close to two pounds (that’s how much they have to weigh to be spayed or neutered) but all the girls were a pound and a half. Runty was a little less than a pound and a half. So what I figured was they’d return my carrier with three tortoiseshell kittens in it.
They came back with an empty carrier.
I lifted the thing to be sure.
“All of them?”
“Yes, ma’am. They all made weight.”
Dammit. I need to get something better than that old kitchen scale.
So, this week LaUral will get her little tortoiseshell and another faithful reader will get the mom. The good news is, when I first got to the shelter, I had two carriers with me, and there were two chairs available in the whole room.
One woman was sitting down filling out an adoption form, and her
of a daughter, who was young, like, maybe 15, maybe 20, they all look the same to me now, looked up, squealed over my
of kittens, and kept sitting her stupid young arse down in that chair. I wanted to bludgeon her with a cat carrier. So will I stood there holding eight cats so that
could sit next to her mom for no good reason, other people approached to look in my carriers. One young couple got quite enamored of my kittens, and as I was leaving they were filling out a form, too.
“Oh, are you really going to take one?” I asked, running down for them each personality trait of each kitten even though they hadn’t asked.
“We’re thinking of taking as many as three of them, ma’am,” they said.
Oh my god! Three!
“Take two orange boys, then, for sure.” I told him. “They all play together and would love to stay with each other.”
And then I returned to my empty house, with barely any pets in it.
I gotta go. I didn’t do much Sunday except grocery shop and drive out to the country for strawberries, which is my new favorite thing to do.
Where, by the way, I saw this. Apparently there are water buffalo now in North Carolina. Or just hot cows. She’s the Pamela Anderson of cows.
I’d like you to take a moment to drink in my current references.
After I bought healthy strawberries, I also drove further out in the country and got some restorative ice cream, she continues keto-ly. There’s a dairy here where they make the ice cream on site, and I am pleased to tell you they have a very friendly guinea hen there named George who I am mos def in love with. (See above re current.)
Okay, now I’ve talked forever and I really have to go.
June, dutchess of keto