My boss, fmr., did my annual review yesterday, which I guess kind of makes her my boss, current. Or sort of my boss. Or something.
Anyway, they still like me at work and that is a relief.
But speaking of my boss, fmr.-ish, she received her box o’StitchFix yesterday, and I was muy busy, and yes I just said “muy busy.” I don’t like me, either.
Is there anyone who really likes him or herself? They put all this pressure on us to like ourselves, and then when you don’t, you feel bad about it so you like yourself even less. Let’s stop tryina like ourselves. I feel like that was some ’70s bullshit that never shoulda taken off, like women’s rights.
[I just said that so my mother would have to be revived with paddles.]
Anyway, I took time out of my muy busy afternoon to photograph her ensembles for you, as I know that you like voting on which StitchFix items she should keep and which she should return. This would be an optimal time to mention what a pain in my
making polls is, so I hope you appreciate all I do for you. There are plenty of middle-aged women in Africa who don’t get any blogger making polls for them, and they have to go without. Without polls.
When you get your box of StitchFix, your stylist sends you a little note, and this time they wrote to say they saw my blog! I AM FAMOUS! I like myself! Because of externals! The way god and good clothes intended.
Anyway, here is the first item:
“Can’t you just buy regular Keds and and paint polka-dots on ’em?” I wanted to know. My boss, fmr.-ish, pointed out that the dots are sewn on.
Next we have a cute stripy dress, which according to StitchFix is actually named the same name as m’boss, fmr.-ish. Let’s say the dress is named Claudia. IT’S A SIGN!
Next are some adorable jeans, and I guess I’m not really being a neutral reporter here, am I? I’m the FOX News blog. Or the MSNBC blog. If I want to be fair to all.
She paired the jeans with another top they sent, and what I like about boss, fmr. is that in real life she’s a pretty quiet person, and you get a camera in front of her and she’s Mary Pickford.
Two things I like about myself, because society demands I like myself, are my current references to Mary Pickford and also my ability to decide if my poll titles will be title case or sentence case.
Tune in for another episode of Things No One But a Copy Editor Cares About.
And finally, there’s a little blue top that frankly would look magnificent on me, but that’s irrelevant.
One thing I’ve never mentioned before is that if you order all the items, you get 25% off the order. Once I watched boss, fmr., do the math to see if she kept one thing she wasn’t crazy about, if it’d be worth it.
My brain doesn’t work that way.
Anyway, that sums it up. Vote before I blog again tomorrow and completely forget I asked your opinion on this matter.
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.
I forgot to look in the bathroom mirror this morning and rub my (new) lips like the girl in the commercial, but I did grab a smoothie out of the freezer the way she did. I ordered a bunch of flavors, but here are the ingredients in the one I grabbed:
Organic zucchini squash. Why can’t they just say “zucchini”?
Organic pumpkin seeds. Organic? Was that necessary?
Organic dates. That’s everyone my mom dated in the ’70s.
Avocado. Oh, apparently THAT doesn’t need to be organic.
ORGANIC coconut milk.
ORGANIC cacao powder. Why’re we going around saying “cacao” all of a sudden? It’s like we’re saying it wrong. It’s like we’re from another planet, trying to pass. yes would like hot cacao then take me to leader.
ORRRRRRRRRGANIC pea protein. And yes, I still have no idea what pea protein is. Remember when I made Hulk eat hummus and he had 47 giggles over “chick pea”?
Everyone’s favorite, organic cocoa nibs. Would you like some cocoa? Oh, just a nib. How was your organic date with that dude? Well, he had a cocoa nib. …Oh.
And, finally, Himalayan pink sea salt. How obnoxious. Bitch, I’m from Saginaw. We get our salt from the girl in the raincoat.
I wish I could make it now, but I’m distinctly not hungry, as I ate a lot last night. I had dinner with Ned.
I remember when Ned and I broke up, which doesn’t narrow it down.
The big time. The time I moved out.
Anyway, when we broke up, I told him, “You know what I’ll never be? I’ll never be part of your harem of exes you keep as friends.”
Ned is friends with several people he dated. I mean, when I met him, he was 46 and never married, so you can imagine the posse of wimmin in his past. I’ve met a couple of his exes, and they were way cool. Lovely people. I would be friends with them in real life. But I wasn’t going to join them in being his pal.
Then guess what I did. I joined them. And yes, my lip IS starting to bruise.
Also, I enjoy this shot…
…as I look like some kind of villain.
Anyway, Ned-who-I-said-I’d-never-be-friends-with called me at 5:30 last night.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“I’m at work,” I said. “Where are YOU?”
“I’m leaving work.”
Leaving work! Ned! At 5:30! You have no idea how not like him that is.
“Do you want to have dinner?” he asked. I’ve been trying to get rid of my excess of strawberries, so for lunch I’d made a smoothie of strawberries, spinach, frozen blueberries and a little almond butter.
“Yes,” I said, and what I like about myself is I’m a woman of my word.
So I had a french dip, which I can pretty much assure you no French woman would ever order. I also choked on my cranberry juice, and I choke on liquids constantly and I’m over it. I already did the thing where they went down my throat with a tube and there was nothing there SO WHY DO I KEEP CHOKING?
Anyway, I lived, and after dinner and a choke we strolled through the garden near the restaurant.
Actually, I had trouble watching the puppy play with all those big dogs. Edsel has traumatized me. Thanks, Edsel.
“Ooo, take my picture behind the ‘K,’ I commanded Ned.
“K,” he said, because he’s a dissappointed texter.
All I needed was the one photo, but you know how Ned is.
There are two kinds of people in the world: People who take one photo and people who think it’s funny to take 129239492 photos.
“You’re wasting film,” I tried.
Anyway, that’s why I’m not quite ready for a smoothie.
Now the weekend yawns before me, a holiday weekend at that, and other than preparing my white pants, I have no plans. I’m a bit tempted to do some sort of house project, like paint the bathroom. Or my bedroom. Ooooo. I could paint the spare bedroom like a pale rose color. I’ve been wanting to do that anyway.
If I paint one more thing pale blue or green Ima retch. Is pale rose too obnoxious?
I know I talked about moving, but now I’m not so sure. I like my little house, and it turns out any house out in the country costs MORE. Turns out they charge you for land. Why? It’s just grass you gotta mow.
Why can’t I meet some hot farmer? Some farmer with the delts?
I stole that line from Sex and the City.
Anyway, then I could just move myself and my 40 animals over to his pad. And maybe he’d have goaties. Or piglets. That he’d slaughter for bacon. Oh, a farm! How wonderful.
I had a dream last night that at my front door was a mom cat, a dad cat, and their kittens, which were newborn. They’d come to my house knowing it was a safe haven.
Note: I WOULD LOVE IF THAT REALLY HAPPENED.
Speaking of which, the woman who took Cora has her safely ensconced at home now. Look at her poor shavey tiddies. She had her operation, so no more kids for Cora. Seven is enough to fill our lives with love.
Is everyone waiting for me to mention spending our days like bright and shiny new dimes? What about the plate of homemade wishes on the kitchen windowsill?
I didn’t ask if she’s keeping that name, Cora’s mom, I mean. I think it’s a fitting name, but you’ll be stunned to hear it’s not my decision.
I’ll try to pop in here at some point over the weekend, to see if you’re watching the telethon.
“Leaves no oily residue,” my eye-makeup remover reads. I just read that this morning while I was washing off the oily residue from my eye-makeup remover.
Just tell the truth. Jesus. “Removes your makeup pretty cheaply because it’s the drug store brand.” You know what I really like is that Clinique eye-makeup remover, but it’s too rich for my blood. Even though I got new lips yesterday like I could afford it.
On Tuesday, I had a consultation at the same place that I get m’Botox and m’Juvederm. In case you’re local, I go to Barber Center and I see Robin.
You know I hate my lips, right? And I already have a Gor-Tex implant in the top one, from 1998, and lemme show you my lips, former.
Okay. Here’s me and my blemish and my lips, fmr. I took this Monday. I’ve no idea why. I’m certain there was a reason at the time. …Oh, I remember. Self-obsession.
So I went to the consultation on Tuesday, and this Robin over there, man does she look good. Not fake cat-lady good, either. The point is, she said, “Thin lips are really hard to bring out. We can add bloo-dee-blah and see if that works, and on top of that, add bleee-dee-bleep-bloo if we wanna keep going.”
That all sounded good to me, but she’s so in demand that she wasn’t available to do it till August 29. “That’s fine,” I thought, and don’t you hate people who say, “I thought to myself”? Who the hell else do you think to?
Anyway, my theory was that’d give me time to save my pennies.
Then yesterday at work, the phone rang.
“Robin has had a cancellation. Do you want to come in today?”
I wonder if we’ve met. Hi, I’m June. I’m impulsive. How do you do? LET’S STREAK.
I mean, I could have said, “Oh, I’ll wait till August till I’ve saved my pennies.”
“I’m taking an early lunch!” I announced, and hightailed it right to the office of beauty and naturalness. The building of aging gracefully.
While I was waiting in the lobby, my old workplace called and up and offered me a job. I am not kidding you. It’s the place I worked at circa 2008–2009. I demurred. Then I went in and had my lips done did. Talk about your dramatic day.
This is what she used on me, and look at this bitch. If I had her regular lips, I’d be praising Jesus and all the saints.
“We’ll try Volbella,” Robin-who-looks-great said, (“Volbella.” Good lord.) “and if we want to keep going with other stuff, we can.”
First, I iced my lips, and I don’t mean I murdered them. Then she put this numbing cream on me, and maybe this process was the other way around. It was all a whirl. I woke up yesterday not knowing NEW LIPS were at hand.
Here’s me yesterday with the numbing gel, waiting for my million shots to the lips. SHOT TO THE LIPS, AND YOU’RE TO BLAME. Darlin’ you give aging a bad name.
I mean, I think you have to hand it to me that with all this last-minute-ness, I thought, Oh, shit, I’ll probably blog about this. I should take a fow-toe. So I did. And flattering lights in there? When the lights, shine down, on the biddy.
How much of that lidocaine you been takin’, honey?
Then she gave me the shots.
Mother of pearl.
Look. I get through Botox like it’s nothing. And I had Ultherapy and wanted to die (I think I’m beginning to see the results of that, by the way). This pain was somewhere in between.
Mostly, the fact that my lips were so numb freaked me out. It felt like they were 11 feet wide, and I worried, “Am I able to breathe? I can’t really feel my breathe parts.”
And then also, and I want you to brace your own self, but having needles poked right in your lips really hurts. But each shot included lidocaine (Take your silver spoon, dig your grave), so it got more numb as time went on.
Who here is hoping hard I keep referencing cocaine songs?
We used up the Volbella, and after some discussion, in which my lips did not actually move, we decided I’ll stay with just this for now, give it two weeks to settle in, and see if I want to add this other stuff on top of it.
So here they are now.
“It looks very natural,” my Aunt Kathy said, when of course I immediately texted her the results of my day of needles.
“Yeah, that’s the problem,” I wrote her back. “Natural is never my goal.”
So here’s before, with the flattering numbing cream, and after. I think I will probably go get more shit put in. Because last night Ned stopped by, which by the way, I pulled into my drive just as he did, because I had been out on a very important mission.
Faithful Reader and now Mother of One of My Foster Kittens LaUral sent me info on this: rosé vodka. You know in the cartoons where someone takes off in a hurry and there’s a little puff of smoke behind them?
“Hi. I’m a girl,” my new lips said to the indifferent woman at the liquor store. “I hear there’s a rosé vodka.”
She sighed and took me over there. To the vagina section of the liquor store. The only good thing that happened was this song came on:
and it turns out, we both love it, if you’ll forgive the pun. So we had us a little dance party in the vagina aisle.
Anyway, so Ned popped over, and I was all, “Oooo! I won’t say a thing, and we’ll see if he notices my new giant lips.”
Oh, I was pursing them, and smiling with them even though they hurt. I was turning my head in every direction. That male, straight motherfucker.
Anyway, I can tell, but I will probably add to the lip sitch in a few weeks.
Oh, and yes to the rosé vodka! I tried it straight and it kind of tasted like rosé wine, but then I added it to my PowerAde Zero Fruit Punch flavor, and it was a dream. I hardly ever drink now, because I’m tryina be thin and also wine never fails to make my head hurt, so I think the last time I drank was that party back in early May. The good news is I have one drink and I’m all painting my body gold and singing Wild Irish Rosé.
Some nights, Edsel is just too much. With the flumping dramatically off the bed whenever I move a corpuscle. Then floomping back on a minute later. With the pressing his head on my neck as hard as he can, for pets. At 4 a.m.
So some nights I kick him out. Last night was one of those nights.
But I let Lily stay, which I rarely do, and last night I was reminded why.
Good lord. This cat has some sort of disorder. Some sort of friendliness disorder. You don’t get a cat so it’ll be friendly. You get a cat so it can lie sleekly across the room and glare at you.
“Yes, I’d like to return this cat? Yes, I do have my receipt, hang on. …Well, she’s too friendly. Something’s broken. She needs her bitch meter turned up.”
She constantly–CONSTANTLY!!–pushes her head into your hand. You have no idea how hard a cat can push her head into you till you’ve dealt with this one.
Actual, unretouched photo of Lily right this minute, making an elusive trip to the food bowl.
Meanwhile, in the back of my ranch, Edsel was left to his own devices. When I got up this morning, I saw he’d taken my robe to the couch and slept with it. So now I have to walk through this life knowing Edsel sobbed into my robe all night.
I just noticed that Lily has moved on to Iris’s dish.
And while nothing is more interesting than hearing about someone’s pets, let’s move on to talk about someone’s work. Wooo! Lemme get more coffee, June.
Busy, is what it was. I literally got 11 hours’ worth of work done in 8 yesterday, and also my blog post was published, the one I was kvetching about doing yesterday. So that was active. After work, I got my hair done because I was shooting moonbeams out my head and not in the good way. What roots?
I should just give up and go gray. If I didn’t dye my hair and didn’t get Botox, I’d save approximately 12 million dollars a month. But I’d look like hell and hate myself. But, see, I already look like hell and hate myself, just underneath “blonde” hair. I should just officially give up and embrace my inner old lady. Which is getting more and more to be my outer old lady.
One day I will look back at photos from this time and think, “I was so young!” That’s depressing.
You know, from age 12 on, I was under the misguided impression that beauty was just around the corner. That I’d just have to get through this one awkward stage and there it would be: my peak of looks. Except that never happened and I spent my whole life looking eh. Eh, she’s all right.
And now I’m on the downward spiral of age and it isn’t going to get better. Although do you watch the Real Housewives? How can you read this blog and not watch the Real Housewives, is what I wanna know. Anyway, Kyle looks particularly good this season, and not fake, either. So if I become a millionaire, maybe then I’ll start an upward spiral.
Speaking of which, I won a dollar playing instant lottery this week. Do you recall, in your Big Book of June Events, that on January 1 I won $100? And I was all, “It’s gonna be MY YEAR!”?
Turns out, it was really everyone’s year and not just mine.
Still, I hadn’t bought a lottery ticket since and the other day I had a dollar so I went to town on the machine at the grocery store and boom. Dollar. Clearly I am on some kind of streak. When I return to the grocery store–
and here is the part where my mother is shocked that two days have gone by since I last went. “Make a list, honey.” But really, what else have I got to do?
Anyway, next time I go to the store I will buy another lottery ticket with my last one, and this is how they get you hooked. Next thing you know, I’m Marge Simpson at the casino.Remember when she got hooked on the gambling? What do you mean, you didn’t catch that episode in 29 years of that being a show? Is The Simpsons still on?
To be fair, I’ve never once watched an episode of Gunsmoke, which is the second-longest-running show after The Simpsons. But to be fairer, I was a zygote when that show started, and also, who wants to watch a Western?
There is nothing that will make me change a channel quicker than a Western. My grandmother was forever watching Westerns like they were good. Oh, look. A cactus. And a bar. And someone shooting someone. Say, is that an Indian?
HOW IS THAT INTERESTING?
Plus also, anything having to do with the courts or justice or law or murder mysteries. I just don’t care. I read some Agatha Christie when I was a kid because my Aunt Kathy loved then, and what I liked about them was her Britishness. I wanted to hear how she made a spot of tea. I didn’t care who lay prone in the drawing room.
So what I’m saying is, I have also never watched those Law and Onions or whatever they’re called. And those Murder, SUV or whatever. Of course, now I have no TV, so I watch nothing except binges of the Real Housewives, which is good because it’s reality, everyone. I only watch what’s real.
But truth be told, and pull up a chair cause I’m ’bout to tell you a shameful secret. Truth be told, those housewives shows are getting old. It’s the same thing over and over. Someone gets offended and then 8 episodes are devoted to the one woman saying. “We need to talk about how offended I was” and then they offend each other anew, or a new person gets mad, and really in the grand scheme, hoooo care. I just like to see when they pop into the plastic surgeon for a spot of collagen or when they show us how much they spent when they go shopping together. Whoever thought to always show us the cash register at the end is a brilliant person.
Also, Philip Roth died. Did you hear? I’ll bet he was a real fan of the Real Housewives.
All right, I gotta go. I realize this was a pressing post, but oh! My smoothies come today!
I don’t know how I got to be part of this demographic, but on Instagram I keep getting the same ad, where this hot young girl in her 20s lives in this million-dollar clearly NY apartment and she gets up every day and inexplicably rubs her lips in her bathroom mirror. “Every morning, I do what I gotta do,” she begins, and apparently that involves rubbing her lips. And she looks good doing it. I’d look like I had a nervous tic.
“Then I have one of my smoothies. It feels like I’m doing something naughty.”
See. That’s how hot 20-year-olds think. I’ll show you something naughty, you vanilla whippersnapper.
Anyway, then she gets this delicious-looking smoothie out her freezer, and she makes it in a fancy blender, and then
and manages to look adorable doing it. Then she kisses her teensy shitty little dog and leaves.
June. Losing readers with shitty small dogs, since 2018. Just get a cat if you need such a purse-sized dog. See above about what a pleasure cats are.
The point is, I watched this ad until I became convinced that if I just got these smoothies, my life would be transfigured and I would be cute and hot and living in New York with a nervous dog the size of a button. Hashtag goals.
I hope that model isn’t real and that that’s not her real dog, cause then I would feel bad. I guess that shitty small dog is someone’s dog, right?
MY POINT is that I signed up to get these smoothies, and allegedly here is a referral link that means you get three free cups and I do, too. I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess you have to buy some, too. You’ll be stunned to hear I didn’t take time to read all about it.
I’ll report back to you on if they’re good. You can choose what kind of benefits you want and they adjust the ingredients accordingly. I chose beautifying, because I want to be 20 and a millionaire.
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.
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.
I just sat down to blog at you, and sometimes when I have no pressing news, I look at my recent photos to jar my memory of what’s been going on. Not in a Marvin Gaye way.
We have two new guys at work who hail from Vegas. I mean, they don’t bring icy pellets with them wherever they go. You know what I mean. Anyway, we act like they’ve never lived on the planet before, so…introduce-y are we to The Way of North Carolina’s People.
“Have you guys ever tried honeysuckle?” we asked them the other day, on our 3 o’clock walk.
We showed them how you pull the stamen out and eat the little drip of honey at the bottom.
“I guess that’s why they call it honeysuckle,” said one of the newborn Las Vegas guys, who probably hasn’t seen any of the world or anything in Las Vegas. We also gave them a riveting discourse on humidity.
Here’s the best part: It had never occurred to a single one of us that “honeysuckle” was the same as “you suckle the honey.”
When I got home from work that night, I did the thing where you remain in your car for a moment. I forget why. Something good on the radio (but not NPR, as NPR makes me want to kill own self), something I wanted to answer on my phone. I don’t know. The point is, why do I always forget that this is going to happen?
He can’t wait EIGHT SECONDS for me to emerge from the car.
Then when I did finally go inside, I had all this. LOOKIT THE BABY.
There are also two OTHER new guys at work, and they sit in an office right across from me. That area was originally an “ideation” space, my favorite word, and it was also the space I made doctor’s appointments in, because hello open floor plan. It also served as a milk-pump room for women at work because hello open floor plan.
However, the two guys who moved in there are pretty great, and in fact I KNOW them from another ad agency I worked at.
The agency we came from didn’t just have coffee. It had three different coffee bars, with fresh beans, and from what I hear, there’s a full-time barista there now.
My work doesn’t provide coffee, just a Keurig pot and you bring your own pods, and they were surprised at that.
“I have my own Hello Kitty coffeemaker at my desk,” I said, “but I never bring real coffee.”
One of the guys whipped out a baggie.
“Let’s do this bitch.”
The best part was watching this 8-foot-tall bearded viking carrying my Hello Kitty coffeemaker from the kitchen to my desk.
So we had real coffee at 4 p.m. yesterday, and I slept anyway last night because addict. I just drink coffee now to keep from feeling sick.
When I got home last night, I had a package. About a week ago, my pal in real life, Marty Martin, put an article on Facebook about jewelry called Fordite, or Detroit Agate. For years, people painted cars by hand, at Michigan factories, and the cement underneath it had swirls of the various car paints baked into them. Someone got the idea to make that concrete into jewelry.
When I was growing up, everyone worked at the factory making cars. Everyone. Not my parents, although they both worked at the factories for like a week apiece at some point in their youth.
But my grandparents did. And everyone’s dad did that I went to school with.
When I saw that Detroit agate was a thing, I had to have some. Got this on Etsy–just look it up there and there are plenty of choices. It was hard to photograph up close but all the colors have a little bit of sparkle to them. There are reds, blues, silvers, creams. Ooooo, I loves it. It’s the jewelry of my people.
Also last night, a woman came over to look at Runty and decided she might take the mom cat, Cora, instead. Cora is rather charming, and I’m not worried about people adopting the kittens, because they will.
I take them all in to the shelter tomorrow after my wedding, for their shots and a checkup. I think they will probably take the mom and all the orange boys, who all weigh nearly two pounds now, and give me back the girls for continued fattening–or at least Runty, who weighs only one kitty pound. And if I were gonna keep anyone
WHICH I AM NOT
I would keep Runty, and to give her back to me is a little squealy and I must not love Runty.
I went in to say goodnight to the kittens last night, and three of them were up in the closet. They love that closet in there. They better not ruin my ’60s romance magazines I hid in there when I was thinking of showing my house.
I better go. Tonight is a happy hour for a woman at work who’s leaving, but I really want to be sure to be in good shape for my wedding, so I don’t know if I’ll go. I tend to go to those things saying I’ll just stay for one and being the last person to Uber home at 2 a.m.
Actually, I’ve never done that, but does anyone recall the Whiskey Sour Extravaganza of 2018? ‘Twasn’t pretty.
Or how about the Ned Had to Get Me That One Night Extravaganza of 2016?
I’ll talk to you all soon. My wedding day involves not just my royal wedding, but that trip to the vet, and also m’Botox and then a party and a baseball game. I know. I’m only going to the baseball game because they are giving away free Prince Harry bobbleheads. You know your ass’d go to that sporting event, too.
The point is, you might not hear from me that day, but fret not. We will discuss the wedding, my wedding, ad nauseum.
Despite another busy day at work, I called the animal shelter Wednesday.
“Yes,” I said, because it’s my signature move to begin all my business-y calls with “yes.”
“Yes, I’m fostering seven kittens and their mom, because am self-loathing nincompoop, and I have two people possibly interested in adopting one kitten each. How should they do that?”
I wonder if my mother would pronounce that word “nincom-go-to-the-bathroom.” Do you remember when she said Ned should “Go to the bathroom or get off the pot” re marrying me? Harsh words from a stern taskmaster.
“What are the names of your kittens?” asked the poor recipient of my “Yes…” call.
Their names? They had names?
The last two batches of kittens I received came with paperwork, but these did not. So I had to go home and make up names for them, which is how I came up with Cora Godsey and the seven Walton children, although let’s face it, I always call that one big one Donald Trump and that runt “Runty.”
But all along they had regularly scheduled names?
Using my name and date of birth and social security number and ATM PIN and password to my 401(k), we figured out which kittens I have, and the nice “Yes” recipient gave me the shelter ID number of the mom cat, for future identification. Then she told me how my potential adoptees could get their potential cats, potentially.
The point of my telling you this rather tedious tale is that when we hung up the phone it occurred to me, she’d grown up just like me. My “Yes” recipient was just like me.
AND THE CAT’S IN THE CRADLE AND THE SILVER SPPON.
IT OCCURRED TO ME that I could go on the shelter’s website, where on their homepage, in blue, they’ve written “See adoptable animals” and then in BLACK they’ve written “Click Here,” which is just about the most cockamamie link design I have ever seen.
Or, is my mother would call it, genital-amamie.
Despite this, I realized that with the mom’s ID, I could find all the first-day-at-the-shelter mug shots of the mom and all her teensy babies, ALONG WITH THEIR REAL NAMES, and I am dying and also I feel I must show this to all of you.
The level of thrilled I was with this discovery was not nearly commensurate with reality, but that about sums me up. That and, “I hate everyone except people made of glitter.”
Without further ado, I present you my foster kittens way back four weeks ago when they arrived at the shelter, naked and afraid, and an accompanying photo from this current moment in their lives.
Mom Cat/aka Nikita/aka Cora
Nikita is my coworker Ryan’s girlfriend’s name, so this kills me extra particularly.
Rembrant/aka Donald Trump
I AM DYING. Oh my god, I love that I discovered their mug shots from kitty jail. And they’re all getting so big big big! They got to the shelter April 20, and I got them April 21. So they looked like these jail pics when I picked them up. I can’t even remember them being so bitty!
Claude Monet/aka JimBob (two names you often mention in same breath)
Andy Warhol/aka Ben
Edgar Degas/aka Jason
Caitlyn/aka Elizabeth/aka Runty/ aka Runtis Americanus
Google Photos likes to show me what I’ve been up to in other years. Three years ago today, mom came to visit me in my Year Abroad house. Tallulah was happy to see her gramma.
Someone mentioned in the comments the other day that they wondered if my more curls/less Voltaire hair was a result of doing Curly Girl, and yes.
Chuck Voltaire liked him some layers.
I have been reticent to do a How To Do Curly Girl tutorial because I didn’t want to steal from the person who actually WROTE the book The Curly Girl Method
(here’s a link to it on Amazon) who is trying to sell a book and so on.
But everyone and their curlies has put online how to do this method, so if you want me to, I will, too. It varies by person, which products work and which methods, but for me almost all of the stuff they tell me to do in the book works.
I just won’t plop. I refuse to plop. If you want me to do a tutorial you will learn what plopping is and why plopping can suck it.
Not that every day is a perfect hair day for me, but this above was second-day hair, meaning I didn’t co-wash it and start all over again with products. But it was also a rainy day, and trust me, my hair could look a lot worse than this. It’s like my cleaning lady Alicia’s best comment to me: There are a lot of people who look a lot worse than you.
Also, hey, June, why don’t you try to turn your camera OFF sometimes rather than take 29 accidental selfies a day.
Anyway, please let me know in the comments or through telepathy if you’d like that. A tutorial. I mean.
Anyway, I’m tryina think of what’s new, over here. I’ve been busy at work, but the good kind of busy, where there’s a lot to do but you aren’t OH MY GOD WHO CAN DO ALL THIS. There’s a new-ish but not Jewish copy editor who sits behind me now, and maybe if you asked her she’d say I sit behind her.
The point is, we’ve become a little bit of a team. We work on a whole bunch of accounts–which differs from how I used to work. I used to be dedicated to just one client. Now I’m spreading my talents all over town, like my college roommate.
So, they pretty much assign everything to both of us, and we dive on it like jackals. Or, alternatively, we both shy away from it like my kittens are doing with the dry, less-expensive kitten food. Oh my god they won’t eat that damn Kitten Chow. I leave it there overnight and when I get up, most of it’s gone, but they don’t mean it. It’s just to tide those motherfuckers over till the eleventy cans arrive.
Does anyone else follow Love and Hisses? Did you ever notice her kitten room is pristine? Believe it or not, that floor is swept and I Shark it often, but that floor looks a mess.
When the kittens DO go back to the shelter, I AM GETTING THAT FLOOR REDONE. I’ve got a little freelance work to do this month, and that’s where my big dollahs are going. Toward a real floor. How long have you known me to hate that floor? Six centuries?
Does anyone remember in 2014, when our president didn’t tweet and I was preparing to rent my home out for my Year Abroad? I scraped and prepared and painted that floor with alleged paint that was JUST for concrete, then I sealed it and died of exhaustion?
Does anyone remember that?
Yeah. That lasted. The floor lasted as long as my relationship.
I want old-looking linoleum, which I may have mentioned, but even if I haven’t I can’t imagine you’d be shocked at this info. June likes old stuff? June likes it vintage? She always struck me as sleek and minimal.
Alf my ridiculous handyman says I’m not allowed to measure or purchase tiles without his participation, and I am down with that plan. Because maths. “Alf, the room is 38484 by 31. I need one tile.”
I guess that pretty much sums it up, although technically I’ve told you nothing.
I had a guest over last night, to try to socialize the shy kittens, but they’re really effing shy. Do you recall a month or so ago when I was offered a job by the company I freelance for? I’ve gotten friendly with the person who offered me the job, and she stopped by last night to drop off m’freelance (under/over on how long June stares at her freelance work and doesn’t start till she’s panicked?) and meet the kittens.
She’s allergic to kittens, incidentally. And even though Ben and MaryEllen and Donald Trump barely let her touch them before dashing off hysterically to hide under the chair (I have no patience for shy anything), she still broke out in welts.
“I knew I would. But I don’t care! KITTENS!” she said. For she is my people. There really is something incredibly rewarding about touching their little walnut heads. Even when their walnut heads are shy and you have to drag them out from under a bus to pet them.
Other than that, I finally got a pedicure…
…and tonight I was gonna go to the cat cafe, because I don’t see enough cats, and then maybe the hookah bar with Wedding Alex, where I planned to ask her, “Whooooo are youuuuu?” but now she has to work, so I will come home and look at my freelance and put it off till I’m panicked.
And that’s the way it is, Wednesday, May something, 2018.
You know those annoying posts where I put on my makeup and talk to you, because I’m tryina do everything at once?
So, if you read yesterday’s post about my humiliation, you know I have TV now.
Turns out, TV SUCKS, man. I haven’t watched TV in, what, two years? Is that how long it’s been?
First of all, almost all the channels are just commercials disguised as channels. QVC, old-lady makeup network, a cheerful channel called Dealing With Cancer. What happened to, you know, shows?
Then when you DO get a channel, like, I stopped on E!–E exclamation point–there are all these terrible POP-UPS at the bottom of the screen that distort the real show and distract you annoyingly.
Do TV people realize we can all just stream things now? That they should be getting BETTER, not worse? Why do we PAY for this bullshit?
One good thing I found was a network that showed me old Warner Bros. cartoons. I saw one where a poor homeless hound dog needed shelter, so he found a house in the woods that ended up belonging to a skunk, and the whole thing was the two of them duking it out and being friends in the end.
I guess maybe in retrospect, the skunk was squatting in the house same as the hound dog, because there was a vanity with perfume, and why would the skunk have a vanity?
Also the next one was a dog who got abandoned in a field, and I WAS ALL NO YOU ARE NOT SHOWING ME THIS, who wanders over to Porky Pig’s farm and tries to get P. Pig to adopt him. The dog is all, “I’m 50% Pointer–there it is, there it is. I’m 50% setter (he sits down). 50% boxer (he starts boxing).” Oh my god, it was magnificent.
Also, Porky Pig is not humane. He was mean to that poor dog. I guess to be a pig who owns a farm you gotta be pretty cutthroat.
Finally, last night I watched Mildred Pierce on Turner Classic Movies. What happened to the old guy? There was always an old guy named I think Robert who introduced you to the film and told you the inside guff. Now they’ve got some preppy whippersnapper.
So I’ll probably get ridda TV once the royal wedding is done, because this is bullshit.
Television industry, you have one week to get me hooked again.
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.
You’re extra full of things to do for a few days, and you think okay. I can deal with this. I’m all right. In fact, for me, it’s more fun when work is busy rather than: do this assignment. Wait a bit. Now do THIS assignment. Wait a bit. I like a steady pace that’s just on the edge of being scary but not actually scary.
But, to be specific, I’ve had a very busy time at work, PLUS seven kittens, four adult cats and a touched-in-the-head dog as well. And a strict diet that requires preparing food. Which in case you just got here is not my bailiwick. ‘Tisn’t in m’wheelhouse. Not my forte.
So, I kept thinking yesterday that if I just did this next thing, I could relax for the first time in several days. That’s what was dangling in front of me like a donkey with a carrot. My couch and the TV and a little LaCroix were danglin’.
I created a to-do list by speaking into my phone as I drove home, as my mind was abuzz with the shit I had to do. Once the list was done, I could relax.
Get your food and put it away.
Take care of the animals.
Go to the grocery store.
Then? LaCROIX THROWDOWN.
I’d ordered a buncha keto food delivered, and it was to arrive Wednesday in a box with ice like I’m Elvis ordering banana sandwiches. UPS kept telling me it was on its way, and I wanted to get it into the refridge, which is one of those things someone says wrong and then you start saying it wrong and in this case that someone was Ned.
Go to the grocery store, the list told me, as you are 100% out of dog and adult cat food (it’s cat food that talks dirty) (the each little nibble is man-bit shaped) (when my three cats eat it, instant three-way) (they wash it down with MILF) (okay, I’m done).
I was also 100% out of paper towels, and I wonder why. Is it because ONE of those kittens does not always get to the box? I see most of them going like good cats. But one. One is a rebel. He’s number two. He tries harder. To go on the floor.
So I’d dashed home from work hoping Elvis keto would be on my porch but no.
Since the food wasn’t there, I went inside, let Edsel out, scooped litter boxes–quelle surprise–threw out the bag of cat wastey bits including old Rebel with Orange Paws’s wayward bits, fed everyone, swept the kitten-room floor, tried to get the Donald Trump kitten to be nice, and then boom. UPS finally arrived.
(There’s one big cute orange kitten who used to be called JimBob, but he’s huge and orange-headed and I’ve taken to calling him Donald Trump. He HATES being petted. He shirks down. “No one is going to adopt you if you’re an asshole,” I keep telling him. He doesn’t care. My suspicion is that he’s the pooper but I swear I’ve seen his giant orange head in the box.)
When the keto delivery came, I got the scissors and opened it, then opened the many many many bags inside, put them all away, recycled the original box out at the bin, and finally got to leave for the store.
I got huge bags of cat food and even bigger bags of dog food, giant heavy litter and a case of LaCroix. I’m comin’ down with a case of LaCroix.
And, see, I PLAN to order pet supplies through Chewy again, but I wanted to keep track of how often I run out of everything so I’d know when to renew my order, and now I know. I went from April 18 to May 9, so apparently I need to order cat and dog food and fucking litter (it was in the adult cat food section) every three damn weeks and WHY SO BROKE JUNE OH MY GOD.
Sweatily, I lugged all the enormous shit into my house of enormous shits. The only time I regret being single is grocery-unloading time.
I had to rip open the food bags and dump the food into tins, change the real-cats’ litter boxes using fresh litter, and MY POINT IS…
When you’re this busy, and you keep thinking, one more thing. I just gotta do one more thing. When you do that, and you think you’re done, and it’s ALMOST TEN O’CLOCK, and you realize
you also have to take out the trash,
is that when you lose it?
Or is that just me?
I mean, normally you go about your evening, and you see oh. The trash needs to go out. And it’s like, well, shit.
But not me. Not me last night when I’d not stopped moving for 16 hours and I JUST WANTED COUCH AND LACROIX and there was ONE MORE THING TO DO and SON OF A BITCH.
Is that everyone? Or it that me?
P.S. While I was telling you this story, the lawn guys came and thank god because Shoeless Joe Jackson kept wandering out of my tall grass to tell me to build a baseball diamond. But the noises my lawn guys make scare the
out of Cora, the mom cat. So when they came, she began howling, and I went in there to pet her and talk to her.
And do you know that Donald Trump kitty crawled up on her back to make her feel better? I’ve never seen any of them do that to her at any other time, crawl on top of her.
So see? Everyone has a sweet side. Even poop-on-the-floor-orange-headed-don’t-pet-me Donald Trump kitten.
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.
The good news is I’ve already lost a pound and three ounces. I adore the naysayers who’re all, “It’s water weight!” I don’t care whose weight it is as long as it’s gone.
How I prepared Before I shopped for keto groceries, I went on a quiz site that reported how many grams of fat, protein and carbs I should have in a day based on my current weight and age and so on. I am sad to tell you that I already know by heart that I should have 1,357 calories, with 20 g of carbs, 72 g of protein and 110 g of fats.
I know, right? It seems so counterintuitive.
Then I got on several sites for ideas for my shopping list. Mostly I looked up no-cook ideas, because you know how I am.
I took my list to the store, and it felt weird, even as bad as my regular diet is, to buy bacon and cream cheese and coconut oil. “I’ma die before Friday,” I thought.
How I’m keeping track of my fat intake I’ve been using an app that already tells me at the end of each day the fat, carbs and protein I’ve eaten, and should I be irked at the word “carbs”? Why doesn’t it bug me the way “veggies” does? I guess it’s not as cute. Cute words bug me. Cute words are the emojis of language.
Anyway, I always always eat more carbs than anything else, even on days I think I didn’t. Even on days I’ve cheesed out. Still, it’ll tell me, “65% of calories from carbs!” Dammit.
My app is called MyDietCoach, but there’s also MyFitnessPal. Or in my case, MyFatnessPal.
I’ve been using MyDietCoach to record what I eat in the hopes of losing weight, which I have, if you count three fluctuating pounds in five weeks. You get new clothes for your avatar when you record your food or drink your water! I always fall for dressing up an avatar.
And mother of god they are the trampiest clothes. Maybe I’m just an old copy editor who likes a cardigan and some MaryJanes, but who goes out like this? Am I one of Prince’s protegees?
My point is, armed with m’groceries and m’app, I began keto yesterday.
What my day was like I had my bulletproof coffee in the morning, drinking it while I blogged at you all, then went into the kitten room, took their quilt outside and shook it, brought it back in and laid it down with seven kittens crawling under it, got clean bowls and mixed up their kitten gruel, washed the old bowls, swept the room, cleaned their litter boxes and made sure to pet each one so they wouldn’t grow up neurotic.
At work I did this all-day, really intense project I have to do every month. It requires extra super concentration, and while I wasn’t hungry, I did feel fairly foggy.
I had a stick of cheese, full-fat cheese, at around 11:00.
At lunch, I had this and then I cleaned litter boxes again, including the boxes of my own regularly scheduled adult cats, played with Edsel in the yard, played with the mom cat so she doesn’t die of boredom, and went back to work on my intense thing.
I took the 3:00 walk we always take, a bunch of us, in the park next door to the office. It’s maybe an 18-minute walk, and while once again I was not starved or anything, I was a tad sluggish during it even though I do that walk every day.
Also, I drank 29492492043 glasses of water yesterday, including cans of LaCroix, because you’re allowed to drink those.
I peed 900 times yesterday.
After work, I went to the grocery store because I wanted to buy ingredients for fat bombs, a thing I’d just learned about. There are a lot of links in today’s post. I’m L!nk. I’mmm coming out, so you better get this keto party started.
I suppose P!nk has had other songs since that one in 2001. Right? I’ve been very busy.
For dinner, I had grass-fed beef, because who doesn’t want to eat grass, and broccoli with butter on it, some pecans and one of my fat bombs for dessert.
I did not feel hungry last night.
I walked Edsel for 25 minutes, and that, my friends, is when I hit a wall.
When I was doing marathon training, they’d talk about a wall and I never knew what they meant. But man, I was drained last night. I did one more clean/feed/pet with the kittens, and I think I was in bed by 9:30. They warn you of this, so I wasn’t surprised.
Yesterday, I had 108 grams of fat, 68 grams of protein and 22 grams of carbohydrates.
How I did
I was supposed to have 110 grams of fat, 72 grams of protein and 20 grams of carbohydrates. So not that far off.
I was supposed to have 1,357 calories, and I consumed 1,316. I also burned a big 141 calories with my two walks. Depressing.
And then today I weighed myself and actually weighed less, so I cannot complain. My weight fluctuates, let’s say between 115 and 120 (HAHAHAHAHA) all the time, and yesterday I weighed “114,” which is to say I’m at a number I almost never am, on day one. So, yay.
And that, everyone, is how day one of keto went, and I promise I won’t write this much about keto ever again. Or, you know, very often, anyway.
Because I don’t have enough going on, today I’m starting the keto diet.
You know it’s a good sign when you don’t get to the grocery store to BUY your keto food till 9 p.m. Which is what I did yesterday. Look, I have a lot of kittening and catting and dog-walking to do after work.
I guess now is a good time to throw in the obligatory kitten pictures. Yesterday afternoon, when I got home from work, which haven’t I said that like 14 times now? Okay, June, we understand you came home from work.
So I got home from work, heh, and when I opened the kitten-room door, all seven kittens were using the three litter boxes. They were having a little litter box party. As you do. Tonight we’re gonna potty like it’s 1999.
They’re so much more adept at the box than those last four kittens, and for that? I am grateful.
What cat fur on my black pants? Say, June, here’s an idea… How ’bout you ixnay the black ants-pay?
I had trouble getting a photo of her actually sitting still. I’ve already washed that blanket once, I shook it out 394934043 times, and I’m washing it right now as we speak.
While I was sitting here selecting from the 294839403 kitten photos I took yesterday, I also made my keto coffee, which consists of regularly scheduled coffee (use a french press! they say. fuck off! I say.) with some coconut oil blended in it. It’s kind of delicious but makes my throat hurt. Why does it make my throat hurt?
…I just Google fuckinged it, and it happens to other people, too, though no one can say why. Thanks, world. Helpful.
Hah! I forgot I had this one. Runty is very screechy, and I love her so bad.
That delightfully clean blanket just stopped washing, so I’d better get it in the dryer so they can have it back and soil it as soon as possible, and then I’d better get to work. Then you know what I’ll do?
I’ll come home from work.
I know this was a short and shortie post, but I’m doing a lot. I’m doing it all. I’m every woman, it’s all in me.
And by all, I mean a fat layer.
Talk to you tomorrow, when I will give a full First Day of Keto Report, which I am certain places you at the edge of your seat.
I will leave you with this final, petty annoyance, which should really be the slogan of this non-blog. I was watching Parenthood the other night and got annoyed by how DAMN MANY producers there are on the show. The credits were distracting, there were so many.
Watch and grow annoyed with me, won’t you? Also, why do they think people talking at the same time is fun to sit through?
I’ll wait till you can stop slapping your knee over that headline.
Let’s see. What the hell did I do this weekend while you were here in my computer in suspended animation?
On Friday afternoon, I got an Amazon delivery at work. “I need a blog,” the mailroom guy always says to me, as every delivery I’ve ever gotten is you guys sending me things, usually things that enable my animal habit.
Faithful Reader PJ sent me a most excellent litter scoop (it’s fabulous) (oh, hang on! Entreprenuer June has an idea!).
Oh, look, a link to the scoop! Now YOU can have this excellent scooper, or anything you want on Amazon! All profits go to kitten or lipstick habits.
Also, FR Suburban Correspondent, who really is a faithful reader, sent me some of my kitten food, which I am needing, as they are now eating real food as well as nursing, and they are going through about five cans a day.
And by “they,” I mean my seven foster kittens. And their mom. In case you’ve been out of the country, and not reading me. Being out of the country means there is no internet. Everyone knows internet is American.
They’re doing great, as long as you don’t mind food crumbs everywhere. And they’re ALL getting the hang of the litter box!
The runt is my special friend. She wasn’t eating the real food yet, so I started hand-feeding it to her like she was a bird or something, and now as soon as I walk in, she gets on my lap and screeches, MEEEEEEE.
Oh my god, I love that runt.
I make a gruel, because the internet told me to, of canned kitten food, dry kitten food, kitten milk supplement and water. It looks disgusting but they adore it. And step directly in it. So.
Oh my god, I was talking about Friday.
After work Friday, a very exclusive 187 of us were invited to a happy hour. There’s one guy who’s always funny, and near the end of the day he replied all, “I can’t wait to see all 187 of you tonight. What a reasonable number to invite.”
The good news is, it meant a lot of people were there, and I couldn’t stay long because see 12 animals at my house, above, but I did get to hang a bit.
It was Ryan’s birthday, and he is very depressed that he is a year away from being 30. Now he isn’t, because I bludgeoned him with a pickaxe. Forever 29.
Also, I’d asked Wedding Alex if she was going to go, as she and her spouse have been doing Whole 30 all year and it’s illegal or something to drink on Whole 30. By the way, if they’ve been doing it since January 1, at this point it’s more like Whole 120.
“Yeah, I was thinking of going,” she said. “But I gotta look cute first.” Then she pushed her hair from behind her shoulders to in front of her shoulders.
“…That’s it? That’s how you get cute? You move you hair forward?” asked the woman who spent $3228,920304 on Ultherapy.
The fun thing about Wedding Alex is she’s a terrible drinker. She’s drunk on like five sips. Normally she’s all professional and poised and then you get a mai tai in front of her and she becomes your Irish uncle. It’s one of my more fun hobbies, witnessing Drunk Alex.
There was a fund raiser here for pit bulls–a pitty party, if you will–and Saturday I left my house of animals to attend a fund raiser for animals. Apparently I did not win the raffle or they’re holding out on me to build suspense.
I photographed self before the event, but once I was in there, surrounded by sweet pitty puppies and big-headed pits and so on, I felt like an idiot saying, “Can I photograph these dogs?”
But, oh. There was a teensy all-gray one who I died over. I’m dead right now, next to bludgeoned Ryan.
After I’d ponied up my raffle money and so on, and headed to the country. Every Friday at work from spring through fall, this produce truck comes to work, and guess who never has cash.
“You should always keep $300 cash on you,” my coworker Griff says, from his loft in Fantasyland.
But everyone’s strawberries looked so good that on Saturday I headed all the way to their actual farm–the produce people’s farm, not my coworkers’–and bought strawberries. Since it was a really pretty day and I was already in the country, I drove around a bit, as that is my bailiwick, driving in the country.
Is your bailiwick a thing you like to do or a thing you’re good at?
Anyway, I found a park with a trail (I could not help but appreciate my grand hiking shoes, which were my pink satin ruffly shoes that’re excellent for a fund raiser AND, apparently, hiking! Versatile.) and a dock and it was lovely and I saw fish jumping, which made me think of how Ned gets annoyed at that Doobie Brothers’ song that goes, “catfish all jumping…” because catfish don’t jump.
The thing is, I go around with my regularly scheduled list of things that irk me, like calling them “veggies” and so on, and then someone lists something new for me to abhor and it’s a whole new world.
I hiked the smaller trail, in my pink satin flats, and did not see a snake, which was my entire goal.
Migraine. Goddammit. Why I always gotta have a migraine? In fact, this weekend I’d stupidly formed the thought, “I haven’t had a migraine in awhile,” which is something my mother-in-law, fmr., taught me is a kina hora, which means you think something like that and you curse yourself.
“Oh, traffic’s not bad today” and boom. There’s traffic. Kina hora.
I really shoulda been Jewish. I’m perfect for it.
I got up, fed everyone in agony and unmatched pajamas, went back to bed and slept till almost 5 p.m. and got up and fed everyone again. Ned came over with two bags of kitten food and a ton of canned kitten food, which was nice, and I will have gone through it in a week, probably.
But thanks to your tips, I’ll just get more!
The shelter should really pay for this. They’d be paying for it if the kittens were there. Also, I’ve been volunteering since November, and in that time two volunteer coordinators have quit. I don’t know what is up, there, but everyone who does work there is really very lovely, if overworked.
While I was lying in misery yesterday, I ordered a Freeze Sleeve.
My elbow has been killing me, and I thought, if only they had an ice sleeve, which sounded like something I made up. My doctor told me to ice my elbow twice a day, and I have been, but when I do, I have to sit motionless with an iced eye mask on my arm. It’s stupid. So in my head I invented a sleeve you can just wear, that’s iced.
It’s like this time in, say, 1989, when my roommate Sandy and I were lying out. It was Michigan, so even though it was probably May, it was still a bit cold.
“This would be perfect if we just had a windwall,” she said.
“A windwall, to keep the wind from blowing on us.” She adjusted her reflective blanket.
“You know you just invented that in your mind, right?”
That was me, with my ice sleeve, but it turns out it’s really a thing, so I ordered one.
Hoping you find your windwall, and get past the torment of turning 29.
Yesterday morning, I headed to the break room at work to put hot water in my oatmeal, like a fairly good person. When I got in there, there was a cupcake holder.
They were FUNFETTI cupcakes. I’m fun. I’m fetti.
So, what oatmeal? What flax? There was FUNFETTI to be had.
So I ate one and immediately felt sick. I don’t think there was anything wrong with the cupcakes, per se, I think I was already…not right and just didn’t know it till I started eating. Because I was sick immediately.
But I think we can all agree on how stoic I am. I am long-suffering.
So I soldiered on with sort of a roiling feeling, and lasted through the morning and sort of felt better.
I came home and had a macaroni and cheese Lean Cuisine, because nothing but the best for me, and a container of applesauce, because see the beginning of this sentence. Also, apparently am toddler.
After I mashed all my food onto my tray with my open palm and knocked over my sippy, I got in the car and headed back to work.
Roil and trouble.
I could tell things weren’t going to end well. And I wasn’t so sick that I had to, like, stop working, but I certainly didn’t wanna be, you know, there when Mt. Vesuvius erupted.
“I’m going to work from home,” I announced, taking my laptop and hurrying out of the building.
“Where you going, June? You got cat-scratch fever?” some jokester said to me as I headed out the door.
“Heh. Yeah, I…” I began, but then ROIL.
“I better go,” I said, worrying if I could even MAKE it six minutes to home.
I was on a race against time, is what I was. A race against…two o’clock, if you catch my drift. Mrs. Brown was adamant about getting to the pool.
Fortunately, it was after lunch, so traffic was light, and on a really good day, I can be home in five minutes. On a bad day, it can take 10, and you should see how annoyed I get, like I was never an LA person whose 16-mile commute took more than an hour every day.
But there I was, on the turn that would lead me into my neighborhood. It’s probably less than a minute from that turn to my home.
Past the little park where Edsel and I go unless some asswipe–if you’ll forgive the expression in the middle of this story–has his dog unleashed. “Oh, my dog’s fine!”
Is there anything that irks me more?
Past the house where the people saved Iris.
Past that house where they don’t edge their lawn, and I fell on the uneven part between their grass and their yard, and sprained my ankle in 2013.
Past the people who have Ava.
At least, that was my plan.
But as I rounded the corner to get to my neighborhood, OUT OF NOWHERE?
Old lady in a Thunderbird.
I mean, it was one of those old ladies who was barely tall enough for the steering wheel. And I realize I’m like 18 months from being that old and I should be kind. I realize half the staff at my office thinks I already AM that old.
But girlfriend has lived a bit. In that Thunderbird, which looked like it was from the early ’90s. She bought it new for her 70th birthday.
She shopped for that car with her dear friend King Tut.
Her license plate was hieroglyphics.
She paid for it in clams.
Anyway, I don’t even know how she appeared before me, but there she was. And she was driving four miles an hour. One mile for every millennium she’s lived through.
“Oh, you have GOT to be kidding me,” I said, seconds from liftoff. I mean, we’re talking my innards. Having an unsettling experience. Ready for their photo SHOOT. I had to get something down on paper, if you’re picking up what I’m…throwing down.
Honestly, why do old people drive like that? I know I’m about to find out and all, but I’d like to know before I get there. What makes you say, oh, I’ve lived a bit. Guess I’ll slow down.
I could have WALKED home faster than I was driving behind this Dannon Yogurt ad in front of me. And I would’ve just pulled over and done so, possibly right in front of that woman’s house who always has a fit on NextDoor when someone parks in front of her house. But if I’d gotten out and tried to walk, I’d have been shot right up and over to Winston-Salem. I was already starting to worry about the walk from my driveway to the house.
If I ever fucking GOT THERE.
Finally, FINALLY, like, this MORNING practically, FINALLY we got to my house, and do you know what?
She turned right.
SHE DIDN’T EVEN NEED TO BE IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD.
SHE HAD TO REASON TO BE IN FRONT OF ME OTHER THAN THE UNIVERSE WISHES TO MAKE ME SUFFER.
Anyway. Obviously I made it into the house, and released the hounds, and didn’t feel quite right all night, which was rhyme-y of me and you’re welcome.
So that’s the story, there. I feel like Jackie Kennedy had one similar.