I just got my labs back. I'm officially menopausal.
I am buried in work, both at work and at home with my freelance stuff. Ima take a few days off from blogging just to keep on schedule.
The puppy will be here late Sunday (long story), and as soon as she's here I will certainly get back on here, if I haven't done so yet. But in the meantime, I can't do any texting, IMing on Facebook or gmail, calling, emailing, etc., so don't get mad if I don't answer you.
I've turned off my phone for the rest of today, and when I'm at work Ima keep it off, too. If I go on Facebook, it's cause I'm trying to do stuff for work, so if you see me on there, just for the next few days, I really can't kibbitz. I am stressed, is what I am, and I just got a ping on my phone and I was all MOTHER OF GOD, so right then I knew. Hey, I could turn the fucking thing off.
Talk to you soon! When I'm out from under all this crap and I have NEW PUPPY OH MY GOD! Everyone have a delightful few days off from this blog. Talk to you when I have a PUPPY!
By the way, here are Flossie/Lizzie/Poppy's parents.
So, really, they BOTH have spotty spots, and I know you hope I keep on sayin' spotty spots. They look sort of similar, and given that this is out in the country and that mom had been a stray, do you think they might could be related? I have a royal family situation on my hands. A real Camilla Barker Bowles sitch.
So, I'll bet those spots (aka spotty spots) will spread out over time and she'll mostly be white. Which expands my palette of pets, slightly. She'll be white and gray as opposed to my cats, who are gray and white. Woah, June! That's the crazy talk! Slow down!
In the meantime, that statistics book I'm working on? All got repaginated, so five pages of index material all have to be redone. I have to look up each word and each page number associated with the word, FIND it in its new spot, and in teensy tiny writing, cross out the old page number and add in the new one. Here is two hours of work yesterday...
Yesterday it gave me a migraine. For a change.
I went to the doctor yesterday because with the migraines, already. Really, I wouldn't have even bothered to go, but the doctor wouldn't renew me unless I saw her. At any rate, she wants me back on a low dose of Topamax, which is the stuff that makes me stupid. And at one point, it made me skinny, but it only worked that one time and I never should have gotten off of it.
Also, she gave me a blood test to see if I'm officially, um, in menopause, which oh god I'm old. I started my period in January of 1979, when I was 13, and I stopped with no warning in January of this year, when I was 50. Hello, stereotypical. I hate to be typical about anything. But there it is.
So the test tells me if my estrogen is slowing down or if I'm turning into a man or what. I'd make a fantastic and not at all milksoppish man.
And while we're on the topic of my riveting medical woes, there I was yesterday at the doctor and did not even think to mention my trapped ulnar nerve. (A brain. A home. The nerve.) My ulnar nerve is trapped in a pit at Buffalo Bill's house. It hurts real bad, mister.
Anyway. A trapped ulnar nerve (the nerve.) (see. now me going back to saying "spotty spot" seems like a vacation in Europe, doesn't it?) is this thing where, when you put your elbow on the table because you forgot you have a trapped ulnar nerve, your elbow goes ZZZZT! and you want to die. I'm like that guy in Benjamin Button who gets hit by lightning all the time.
I did the responsible thing and Googled some exercises for it, which I have been doing, but it still hurts. Actually, dry needling is one way to get rid of it but oh my god, I can't even imagine. I don't know if I have (the nerve).
Last night on our W, which I don't have to say because Edsel can't read, we were in the big field after The Seeing of the Chickens, and I said, "Eds, can I talk to you?" Eds rubbed his snout on the grass. He hates his Gentle Leader so bad.
"Eds, you know Tallulah is gone." When I said, "Tallulah," he looked around. Poor Edsel. "And you remember how we had a puppy for one day? Well, I'm getting another one. You're getting a sister." Edsel lunged at a rabbit. "She'll be here in awhile, so we have to get her crate out and get some puppy food and a leash." (I already have a puppy collar that I got for Stanley and don't get me started. Oh my god, I miss Stanley. Am a nutbag.)
He seemed unfazed, Edsel did, and that could be because he can look at shit and Shineola and be all, "?" Really, he'd eat the shit, and he might eat the Shineola, so we're back to square one. At least I told him.
Let's just look at one more picture of Zuzu/Blanche/Lolita and her world-weary face.
What I did yesterday was schlep all the damn-ass way out to the country to look at puppies. As you do.
Like, seriously, a long damn-ass drive into the country. But when I finally got there, it was like, Did I die on the way here? Because the woman I met up with has four big puppies she brought home after they were gonna be out in freezing temperatures at her neighbor's house, and then eight TEENSY puppies who she's fostering for the pit bull foundation, and they all greeted me when I walked up.
I did not at all fall deeply in love with that brown one, who's only 6 months old and LOOK at him already.
Just telling you, he's available. He's so soft! And he's never even SEEN a cat, which is why I don't dare.
Here is a not-at-all creepy picture of the puppy I ended up choosing. I didn't notice she had this trouble when I met her, but there's nothing wrong with being Picasso puppy.
So, unfortunately I had to sit there with puppies all afternoon, deciding which one was for me. Three of the eight were spoken for already, technically, although one was being kept by the foster and she said if I really wanted him that'd be fine, too. So six. I had only six to choose from.
For awhile, I was considering this guy, and then I asked, What's he like? "Oh that one? He's an ornery one, all right. Always the first to climb up and discover things."
You know what I don't need?
The whole time, this one was super calm. She just watched everyone, and slept, and strolled to the water bowl. "That's the calmest one, there," the foster woman told me. "Oh, she'll play. But she's just as happy to go back to sleep."
See. That is what I need. I mean, what I need is to not get any puppies at all, but why don't you do me a favor and shut up?
I dragged her out from her sleeping position and held her up.
She gave me the most sidelong, indifferent stare, kind of like every look Tallulah ever gave me.
And right then I knew.
"Why are you always attracted to things that don't want anything to do with you?" my mother asked.
I abstained from mentioning my childhood. Look, I'm a cat person. I like cat dogs. Okay? Lu was a cat dog.
Anyway, she kills me. This dog does.
So, on Thursday she gets "spaded," as the foster woman kept saying, and then SHE thinks the puppy needs another week to recover, but the foundation says I can get her the next day. So I'll let them duke it out, but you know what I hope. YOU KNOW.
So now, what to name her. I put a survey on Facebook, because I COULD NOT, for the LIFE of me, figure out how to put one here. Survey Monkey says "Copy and paste into your HTML." Oh, my HTML. Thanks. And there's a tab here while I compose CALLED HTML, and I pasted into that, and when I came back here it didn't show up at all. So.
The point is this...I got 188 votes on Facebook, with Lola being the overwhelming choice. I may go with Lolita instead of Lola, or I may go another route altogether.
Blanche was the second-place choice, followed by Zelda, Petunia, Rosa Barks, Zinnia and Jezebel, respectively.
I don't know what you people have against "Zezebel" being a name.
What about Hattie? I also like Hattie. Or Flossie, which means flowers, so I'd be in my flower theme.
I'd better go to work. I have a doctor's appointment today because migraines still coming. Coming round the bend. And I ain't seen the sunshine since I don't know when.
This has been one of those weekends where I'm screaming from one thing to the next, and I didn't even mention to you I have another statistics textbook to proofread, and how much time on it do you think I spent? Hmmm? How much?
Remember the other day when I said I invite chaos into my life? Yes.
On Friday, I dashed home and let the dog out, who who who. That's funny every time. Then I screamed to this restaurant downtown and met with my friend Jo. Yes, I DO wish I could have lavender hair. I feel like my workplace would frown at me, though. Jo gets to be a fancy writer type whose hair can do whatever it wants.
The place we went to is super pretentious. I was in there with Ned once, and I ordered the bruschetta. "Brooosketta?" The waiter pronounced it back to me, like I was saying it wrong.
I looked it up. Turns out I was.
STILL. You shouldn't CORRECT someone you're waiting on. Guy who's a waiter.
You know from now on, any time someone pronounces it "brushetta" I'll be all snobby about it.
The point is, as per usual Friday, they had pretentious appetizers, which we ordered because hungry, and they also had all kinds of fancy cocktails. Like, they had descriptions you could choose from and they'd make you a drink based on them: frothy, bubbly and so on.
We both got Schlitz from the tap. Because that was so wonderfully awful. I don't think I've had a Schlitz since I sneaked my great-uncle Hermie's beer off the TV tray in 1972.
Edsel is DYING to go outside. He already went out there and barked at Jackie, and I TOLD him if he went out there and barked at Jackie, I was gonna be pissed. I went out there and said in my low, terrible voice, "Edsel" and he slunk in, all Letter C about it. I know the gaybors heard me say, "See what you've done? It's a beautiful day and you ruined it by barking." So now he thinks he ruined the whole day. Oh, how he wants to burst through the screen door, which he could do and does do, but he fears the reaper.
And yes, that screen door IS broken. It's the only thing the tenants did that was bad--they left the screen this way. Just one of 9393494394 things on my damn list.
As is this. The medicine cabinet fell CLEAN OFF the wall the other day. Just clean off. And who knew there was a big hole back there? It broke, the medicine cabinet did, but believe it or not I have another one just lying around.
Ned and I bought it when we lived together; we were planning to put it up in our upstairs bathroom, but Ned always felt guilty about drilling into the wall, and the point is, of all the things I happen to have, I happen to have a medicine cabinet. A cute retro one, too. But it doesn't fit in the hole. Story of my life. So now I gotta call a handyman.
Yesterday as soon as I woke up, the guy who cuts my grass texted to see if my yard needed tending and oh, god, it did. I expected that guy from Laugh-In to be back there, saying, "Very interesting."
Why was that funny? At the time some guy saying, "Very interesting" was riveting. It was...very interesting.
Anyway, note the puppy above. I STILL REGRET not keeping Stanley the puppy, and I've been talking with a pit rescue who has three litters of pups available soon. It's a whole thing: You had to fill out an application, then do a phone interview, and then yesterday someone did a home visit. A HOME visit. Naturally I put my puppy meat hangers in the attic.
So while the guy was cutting my grass, this cute woman with curly red hair was also here, and what's cool about this organization is not only do they save pit bulls, who need saving because no one wants them, but they also sort of do a dating service thing, where they match you up with the kind of dog who'd work best for you.
"I want a really chill pup, as chill as puppies can be," I told them countless times, "because my other dog is what you'd call an excitable boy." The whole time, through the paperwork, the phone interview, texts with the redhead, I told them this. He's high strung. He's a Carolina Dog, they can be nervous. And so on.
The woman got here and Edsel's never been so calm in his goddamn life. He SAUNTERED to the door, sniffed her, then flopped in his bed with a hmph. He slept the WHOLE TIME she was here, which by the way was more than two hours because we ended up having coffee and gabbing about our entire lives. You know how with some people it's effortless? I'm sorry to tell you that at one point I sobbed like an idiot about Tallulah, but she's a dog person. She knows.
Anyway, still mulling the whole idea but godDAMMIT I regret not having that puppy.
Hey, did I mention I invite chaos into my life?
When the home inspector Dogseau left, I had 45 minutes to shower and get over to the coffee shop, where a guy from work has offered to help me revamp my blog. Exciting! He's just doing it cause that sort of thing is "fun" for him. Can you imagine?
Finally, I went home and tried working on my statistics textbook, and I got maybe an hour of work done before Ned called. As you know, since Tallulah died I have been seeing Ned from time to time.
But I don't know, man. We've solved nothing since we broke up; our problems are still there. Finally yesterday I told him maybe he should try out some other relationships, make sure I'm really the person for him. And I said that if we do try to see each other again, I had some bottom-line requirements, and that my compromise would be he'd never, ever have to marry me. But I needed some stuff from him. We didn't yell or get mad. I mean, I wasn't mad. I don't know if he is.
"Should I call you?" he asked me.
"Call me if you're willing to do the things I require and if you're absolutely certain it's worth it to work things out with me," I said, and I left.
I've a feeling I won't hear from him. And if I don't, that's fine. I've spent a lot of time talking myself down through this whole relationship. "Okay, so he isn't calling--that's fine, that's how he is." "Okay, so he's not ready to be exclusive yet. Okay, I can deal with this." "Okay, he doesn't want to get married. I can live with that, right?"
I mean, the whole time, there's been something I have to tell myself to calm down about. Should you really have to tell yourself to calm down about things on the regular, or should you be, I don't know, happy most of the time?
Marvin and I had different problems, eventually, but most of the time I was married to Marvin it was pretty effortless. I felt secure; I knew he loved the crap out of me. Isn't that how a good relationship is?
And it should be effortless for Ned, too. I mean, he should be able to be himself without someone fretting about it. He was set in his ways, but he wasn't disloyal and he always showed up when you really needed him. Maybe he needs someone a little more chill. Like my next puppy.
I just sprayed root cover-up on my legs instead of tanning stuff. Hashtag being a natural woman is hard.
Edsel doing his guillotine impresh. One day this needy animal is gonna snap his head clean off.
I realized it'd been two entire years that I'd taken the cats to the vet, other than the time I rushed Iris there because I was trying to kill her with flea meds, so I made an appointment. Because I haven't given that place enough money lately.
Since the beginning of the year--and did you know it was January 1 that Talu first peed in the house? I had felt guilty because I thought maybe I'd been up too late and slept too long and there she was waiting for me to wake up and she had to pee on the floor. Anyway, since the first of the year, I've gotten to know that staff pretty well. So I was kind of excited to see everyone.
My cats are not as nightmarish to put in a crate as others, and I am not at all thinking of Francis. Who required that you put on a HAZ-MAT suit and hawk gloves and get your affairs in order.
It's funny, that picture is right where I'm sitting now. With a different desk and a whole nother set of cats. The hatred still exists, though. I've never noticed his OTHER angry foot before this. And look how just, like, chunks of things have flown off him. Chunks of hate. He was swinging at poor Lu, who Marvin was holding.
Anyway. I got Lily in there first, no problem, and then I was Leonard Nimoy: In Search of...Iris. Was she sleeping in the linens? Welcome to my home! Here're some hairy sheets and a fuzzy towel. Was she in my bed? Welcome to June's House of Discipline.
She was in the back yard, sleeping on the outdoor furniture, as she is wont to do.
She also went in there without incident, but as soon as Lily had someone to complain to, here is what she said for the next 1o minutes while we drove to the vet:
"MEOW! MEOW! MEOW! MEOOOOW!! MEOW!"
She also added, "MEOW!"
Lugging these two cats to the car was relaxing, but I got them in there, and you won't believe this but Lily said MEOW, and when I was at a red light and could look in the carrier, not only was Lily caterwauling (get it?), but Iris's nose had turned bright pink and she was panting like a dog. It looked like fun in there.
We were maybe a block away when Lily decided, Hey, now might be a great time to pee all up in the crate, and while I'm up, why not drop a couple of logs off, as well?
I brought my meow box into the lobby, where Marilyn, who always wears a snake necklace, greeted us. I like her. "Ooohhhh, Iris looks a lot better than last time she was here." At this point, Iris's tongue was magenta and she looked like a husky, with the panting.
"MEOW!" added Lily.
We got to a room and let them out, and the vet tech and vet exclaimed over how pretty they were, and you know how I am. I act like I knitted them personally. Iris wasn't too keen on leaving said crate, so we had to tip it up, and that is when Mrs. Brown and her friends rolled out the barrel.
"I'll clean that up," said the tech, whose job I do not envy other than the getting-to-kiss-kittens portion.
"I'll put the blind one on the floor. I don't want her to fall off the table," said the vet, handling Iris like she was the Magna Carta.
"You don't have to be all gentle with her, she's good," I said, to deaf ears, as the vet sat her on the floor like, "Iris, this is the floor. It's under you. CAN YOU HEAR ME IRIS" oh my god.
Turns out, everyone's fine, and you won't believe this but there's only a pound of difference between sleek Iris and Lily, who Ned calls the Round Mound of Meow. It's some sports joke. I don't know.
$280 later, we were all set. They got their rabies tags, and I really should have remembered to spray shaving cream around their mouths for the visit. Next time.
Look at Lily, all daring on the dog bed. Lillee been threw the chit. she do not feer dawg.
yay, I...you know, guess. Talu's ashes are here. "You turned our dog into a speaker?" Marvin texted when I sent him this picture. The whole package was nice, though. They had a card and in it were some additional materials, including a thing on grieving I totally identified with. They said it's normal to hear the click of nails on the floor or to think you see the pet out of the corner of your eye, which I totally have.
They also had another card in there with a dog-shaped paper on it. "Plant this and wildflowers will grow in memory of your beloved pet" the card read. I so want to do that. How do you plant wildflowers? I mean, where? And should I buy dirt? Tell me.
And finally. In summation. To conclude. I feel terrible about Prince. We're all wearing purple today at work. I fucking loved Prince; I loved him when I was 15 and Dirty Mind was a record, and I never stopped. I saw him in concert twice, and oh my god, the charisma he had. I think I still have my Prince concert t-shirt somewhere.
I'm so glad my old movie theater showed Purple Rain a few summers back. The place was packed, and we all knew what he was talkin' about so we went on and raised our hands during Purple Rain. They turned on purple lights during the finale of the movie. It was great.
I wish he could have seen it.
P.S. Just when I put on my purple clothes, it started to rain.
Killing season is taxing.
Speaking of which, Eds and I were in the park last night, after Chicken Watch 2016, wherein this time Eds put his paw up like he was some sort of pointer, a thing he almost never does, and I wonder if he's finally realizing chikkens be reel.
Oh my god with me. SO WE WERE IN THE PARK, and we were way back by all the foliage, when this bunny LEAPED away from us with a crash, and we'd had no idea she'd been there. I know it was a girl bunny because she had a Real Housewives carrot koozie. Anyway, it scared the shit outta both of us. I wish I had a video of us leaping out our skins and back into them again.
Speaking of koozies, and I don't know why we call them that, I was poking around on the Facebook yesterday and I noted the Scottish Inn has a traveling-drink-koozie page.
The Scottish Inn is a RIDICULOUS/fabulous bar in my hometown; it has plaid wallpaper, and it's dark and small and that's where all my friends and I met up the day after Thanksgiving 2012, when I took Ned with me home. It was the only bar that was open at 2 p.m. on a Friday. And people were already drunk. We soon joined them.
I remember actual families, decent people, filing in at dinnertime and there was the whole room, drunk. That's when we left--I was too ashamed of myself.
In my lifetime, I've been to the Scottish Inn only a handful of times, but each time has been pivotal. And now they have a Facebook page where you take your drink koozie, and for the love of god I MUST HAVE A SCOTTISH INN DRINK KOOZIE, and take a photo of it on your trips. Am obsessed. I'd take that bitch everywhere, load up that Facebook page. You know, with all my travels.
I don't travel much, do I? I guess I'm a homebody. Who goes out a lot.
In other news, here's a photo of me. And my cleave. Jeez. Anyway, we had to take selfies for work, for this project, and "had to" is a stretch--we were asked to. I was the first responder.
Bitchy-resting-face Alex used my phone to take hers, and Dear BRF Alex: You use my phone, you get put in my blog. If only we could capture BRF Alex sleeping like Iris.
Oh, and speaking of pets, listen.
I really regret not keeping that puppy. I mean, I think about it when I wake up every morning. I think about how he's not here when I get home. I fucking loved that puppy. I think I made a mistake. I even looked on my phone to see if I still had the texts with the woman who'd raised him from being under her porch, just to see if the puppy is okay. Fortunately I deleted those texts, so I don't bug her and assure her of my craziness. But really. I want a puppy. Is that insane?
These past five years have been stupid, man. First Marvin left, which I really didn't think he'd do, but there it was. Then I had no job and I was poor and that was stressful, and I met Ned and fell stupidly in love and we got that beautiful house and that failed--which was devastating--and then my sweet Talu has to up and get fatal cancer when she's just barely 8 years old. Barely legal.
I'm not saying I haven't had one happy minute since five years ago or anything, but I just feel like maybe I broke a mirror and don't remember it or something. I want a reason to wake up and go, Ooooo! I wanna wake up and say, I have a puppy! I want to get to know a new dog personality. AND THAT DOG HAD A GOOD ONE I COULD TELL. Dammit.
Anyway. Regrets. I have a few. This is one of them. Wish I hadn't done it. Which is what, you know, regret is.
Meanwhile, I'm scheduled to get dry needling. The new hygienist also has migraines, and she said it made a huge difference for her. Apparently, she gets migraines and, like, sees an actual migraine doctor and so on. She was all, Who do you see and I was all, I just get migraines and take pills when I get them.
I figure going to the doctor about migraines is like going to the doctor about a cold. There's not a hell of a lot you can do, medically. I avoid weird sleep patterns, I avoid MSG, I stay away from rational thought. That's what works for me.
But after a month or two of really good luck, lately I've been plagued again. In fact, as I write this, I have a headache. I've had nine med-necessary migraines in 18 days. So I'll try the dry needling. It's like acupuncture, but in places where your muscles are knotted. It somehow loosens them up, and it's not what you'd call fun, but apparently it really helps. So that's next week. Add it to the list of things I've tried.
When you start to send me the "Have you tried..." email, here's the list: Cupping, acupuncture, Chinese herbs, Botox, biofeedback, Topamax, Chinese tea, food/sleep/exercise tweaks, trying to wean myself from all headache meds, yoga positions, drinking 100 ounces of water a day, magnesium/vitamin B/some other supplement in one pill, experimental drugs, Maxalt, Imitrex, sticking my head in the oven.
So when you send me the "Have you tried/Maybe you should" email, please peruse that list. And if you email me anything about Excedrin I will personally drive to your house and twist your testes.
I'd better go. My hair is wet and I'm makeupless. Looking hot.
Exhibit #28283a of why June should not be let out the house.
If you have your Big Book of June Events before you, you may recall that about a year ago, I worked up ALL MY COURAGE and called the dentist and asked if they might hook me up with a different hygienist. The one I had was a nice woman, but she talked to the point of it being some kind of disorder, and plus also it always hurt. I always left there all sweaty, a Shroud of Turin on the chair when I got up.
They agreed, and gave me a new person, who was great.
Then six months ago, I get to the dentist and the door's locked. Who comes to the door but Chatty Cathy, my old hygienist. "Oh, hey!" she said, unlocking the door. "The receptionist had a death in the family, and we all went to the funeral, so no one's here but me. I came back early to do your teeth."
Careful readers will remember this. The poor hygienist had had a bad day, because earlier she'd hygiened a woman and that woman went straight to Facebook and complained about how fucking chatty her hygienist had been. Sadly, my hygienist SAW said Facebook post and felt terrible. And proceeded to chatter to me like a magpie about it.
"Hey, why haven't you been seeing me, anyway?" she asked, 47 monologues later, while I lay with tools in my mouth, forming my Shroud of Turin. "They must have booked you on my day off or something."
Yeah. That was it.
So I had an appointment this Wednesday, and the receptionist called to remind me. "Oh, yeah, thanks," I said to her. "But can you confirm for me I'm not scheduled with Cathy? I think I might be, but I really like the other hygienist."
The receptionist confirmed that, indeed, I was back to seeing the talky cleaner.
"Oh, crap," I told her, "see, I worked up all my courage to ask you guys to switch me, then last time I came in there was some funeral and it screwed up the schedule, and I got back with the wrong hygienist. Can I rebook with the other one?" The receptionist checked the books, and there was a cancellation, and I could come in Tuesday.
It was only after I hung up that my veins turned to ice. I realized I'd referred to "some funeral" that had "screwed up the schedule" and that the receptionist was the person who'd had the death in her family. I don't recall who had died, but I do recall the hygienist telling me it was something of a tragedy, and here I'd just been all casual about it, and complained about how it inconvenienced me.
All morning, I felt terrible. How could I be so insensitive? Why of all things did I have to bring up that funeral to the very person who'd feel worst about it at that dentist's office? Why was I always saying the wrong thing?
When I got there yesterday, I was determined to make things right. Sure enough, there was the receptionist when I walked in.
"Billy Jo," I said to her, "we talked earlier today about switching hygienists, and I referred to how a funeral had messed up who I was getting to see to clean my teeth, and I realized later that the funeral I'd been referring to was someone in your family. I really feel awful about that. I am so sorry, Billy Jo."
She looked at me with a kind smile. "It's Bobby Jo," she said.
Son of a...
Am certain that I was somehow thinking of Billy Jo McAllister, who threw himself off the Tallahatchee Bridge, which is something I now dearly wish to also do.
Anybody got a good dentist? I need a foot removed.
P.S. Me having Billy Jo McAllister on the brain is ALL YOU GUYSES' FAULT. GUYSES IS TOO A WORD.
I've been thinking a lot about why I got that puppy, who I STILL MISS and think about ALL THE TIME. Why'd I do that to myself?
Ned used to accuse me of creating drama in my life, and it annoyed me, but now I'm starting to wonder--am I some sort of chaos addict? It seems like there's always a crisis du jour. Is everyone like that? It seems like my life has more ups and downs than others. Some of it was not my doing, like getting laid off twice, but some of it was. I got divorced--I had half the blame in that. Ned and I broke up and got back together 400 times. And he never broke up with me; I always did the breaking.
I was considering this all yesterday, and then last night I had a dream that I was in my ex-best-friend's wedding, and I had months to get the dress for it, but then it was the day of the wedding and it was almost 7:00 and I hadn't even GOTTEN the dress yet, and I looked at the invitation and the wedding started at 7:00. I had to tearfully call the store to see if they were still open and did they have my size.
WHICH IS ALL SOMETHING I WOULD DO. I leave things till the last minute, I spend all my money once I get it and then panic that I have no money, I double-book social engagements all the time. Doesn't that sound a little chaos-y?
I'm still thinking it over. But if you think about your more unsightly traits, what conclusions do you come to? What's going on in your life that seems to be a pattern that you want to stop?
Tell me. Then maybe I can yell at you for it and cause some chaos.
Hang on. I'm trying my refrigerator oats for the first time. ...Mmmmm. Okay, this is good.
Refridge oats: old-fashioned rolled oats, so, like, oats that think you shouldn't have sex till marriage. You know what I hate? When people write, "old-fashion" and don't add the "ed." Old-fashion lemonade! Oh, fuck off.
Anyway, you take a Mason jar, because everything we do these days involves taking a Mason jar, and add the oats, Greek yogurt (the yogurt of FR Fay's people) skim milk, and then it devolves based on what else you put in there. Did I just use devolve correctly?
Anyway, in my case, I put in cocoa and bananas. Seven points.
This week I lost no weight. And in fact, this would NOT be the time to mention the Hardee's nachos. I just heard 43,000 people saying, "You had Hardee's nachos?" Because 43,000 people are reading me RIGHT NOW.
So, I've been hanging around Ned some, and I KNOW. Shut up. No, really, shut up. We have no idea what we're doing. We started doing stuff once Tallulah died, and it went from, like, every few days to now every day. Did I mention we have no idea what we're doing? Anyway, I went to his house to help him paint his dining room table, and maybe this was all a ruse to get me to do that. Let's see. If I act nice about her dead dog, maybe three weekends from now I can get her painting that table.
Above please find the pretty tree from Ned's also my, fmr., yard. I forgot how pretty it is there in the spring. I mean, I only lived there one spring so whaddaya want from me. But our gaylord really set the flowers up beautifully so something's always blooming.
God, I'm full already and I'm not out of refridge oats yet. Is it okay to give the rest to Karl? I've been calling Edsel Karl just to bug him today. I just woke up and said to him, "Today, I shall call you Karl." And every time I look at him and talk to him while calling him Karl, he's all,
Although just now he was looking out the back door and I said, Hey, Karl, and he turned around and came back to me. So. Adjustment. Made.
Dear FR Paula: Yes, I see that clump of cat hair in front of Edsel.
Anyway, you're all, all 43,000 of you, screaming at me not to give Karl the cocoa oats.
I feel like there's this general consensus that I don't fucking know anything. Why is that? Is it how I live alone and pay my bills, do fairly well at work and have actual readers and friends and so on? Is that what makes me seem incompetent? Or does everyone on earth get treated that way? Like, do people say to you, You should really remember to breathe, or, You should remember to give birth to that baby or other obvious things?
Maybe people think that if I joke around about stuff, like the other day when I said 14 kids, one went to camp, 12 kids left, that that's legit and I really don't know whether to scratch my watch or wind my ass.
OH MY GOD ANYWAY SO I WAS AT NED'S, which I hope means you'll give me tons and tons of advice and also your opinion on, and by the way we sort of ruined that table.
Here is how it was, and we painted it but it looks all brushy now and so on. We have to redo. And by "we" I mean Ned. Anyway, I was looking for gravel from the driveway, to hold down the newspapers under the table, and I walked past Ned's camellia bush that
NO NO NO, the BUSH with FLOWERS on it.
Last year, there was string in that bush. A bird had started making a nest then said forget it. Which if you ask me, makes sense, because camellia bushes aren't that tall. So I looked at that bush again
I looked at it again this year to see if maybe a nest had been built and I LOOKED A MOTHER ROBIN RIGHT IN THE EYE! OH MY GOD!!!!
Naturally I screamed back to the porch to get my phone, although I did sort of a mince scream till I was far from the robin, and the newspapers were blowing all hither and yon, hoo care, and when I got back, she was gone, and I hope I didn't make her abandon her nest. I wish I could have captured her look when we were RIGHT AT EACH OTHER'S FACE LEVEL. If you've never seen an annoyed robin before, you can't know. Oh, she was irked. It was a lot like this.
Now, imagine me with a beak, in a nest. There you go.
Also, I was walking in the park here this weekend, the park that's all up in the Revolutionary War, where they celebrate Mr. Greensboro and so on, and I saw FIVE DEER walking together in a gang. I heard a rustle and there was one, and then slowly there were one two three four more who appeared. They paused and flicked their ears at me, then one by one walked across the path I was on, like, fuck ya, old lady. deer not afrayed.
Incidentally I am now mom to five deer. They live in the yard, with Karl.
All right, I have to go. I also went to see an '80s band with the Alexes, and it was fun, but I have to head to the salt mines. My boss, Lot's Wife, hates it when I'm late.
Does anyone have time today to count how many Lot's Wife jokes I've made though the years? The winner gets this offensive t-shirt.
Talk to you soon. On a granular level.