Bye Bye, Pie!

The good news? Not one person has sent me the Rainbow Bridge poem.

Ugh. I don't know whether to take Roger's stocking down, or leave it up and give the treats inside to the dogs, or crawl under the Christmas tree and sob till January 1.

In other news, my underwear is missing.

Faithful Reader Paula, who reads every day, even on Saturday when there is plenty of room to find a seat even in the front row, read about how most of my underthings are in Edsel's innards, like when you gut a shark, and in the spirit of the holiday she went on Amazon and got me amazon-sized chonies.

Except they keep not arriving. "I sent you something. Open it right away," she said, as everyone has said this season.

"Did my package arrive?" she asked, and at this point I can't keep track of WHOSE packages have arrived. "I don't...think so," I told her. "What'd you get me?" I'm like my Uncle Jim in reverse. He used to ask, "What'd we get you?" when you opened his gift, which clearly Aunt Sue had shopped for, wrapped and brought over in the car.

Anyway, the delicates, unmentionables, underthings, what-have-you keep not arriving, and I keep going commando, over here, and the world spins on, except Paula is going to have a stroke, so annoyed is she with Amazon, who I imagine is not at all busy this time of year.

"Only you would have The Mystery of the Missing Chonies," she wrote me, like this was all my fault.

"Where was Sunday? Where had I left Sunday?" I asked her, because everything has to be about When Harry Met Sally eventually. Or It's a Wonderful Life. Maybe I should leave the house more and stop watching movies.

Oh! Also? On a completely unrelated note? On the day I found out about Roger being, you know, dead, which in case you wondered how that was going is still completely awful, I came home from work, and opened my pantry to throw something away. Because there is no other reason to open that thing.

It was full of food. I was so startled. Pop-Tarts, two kinds of potato chips, all my staples. I was scared to death. I opened the fridge. Strawberries, lemonade, yogurt. What the...?

Then I figured it out. Marvin, feeling bad for me, had come over and loaded me up with my favorites. And just last night I figured out he'd loaded the freezer too.

Marvin. He is not bad.

People at work were nice to me, too. Yesterday morning I got there and someone had brought me a coffee, and a thing of cookies, and there was a bag of gifts from The Poet, and a nice sympathy note from another coworker. And the most cynical, sarcastic guy I work with sent me an eCard of two paws holding a rainbow. "I'm not sure how gay your cat was, but if he was gay, I'm sure he'd have appreciated this card," the guy wrote.

And you guys. Thank you so much for all the great things you wrote me yesterday. Roger was loved by so many of us.

Best of all? Today my father is going to the shelter and getting a cat! He and I perused the Albuquerque shelter site, and picked out a black-and-orange mottled kitty with half a black face for him. He just looks damn cool. We think he is gonna name that cat Picasso because of how is face is all "Hey! I have an orange face! Hey! I have a black face!" Plus, the cat has plans to have a blue period soon.

I guess I had better go to work. We have tomorrow off, so you think I can get away with wearing jeans today? What if I do and I get fired right before Christmas? And I have no chonies? And a dead cat? And no husband? Maybe I'll wear real pants.

Okay. Talk at you.

Goodbye, my puma

Most of you already read on Facebook or in the comments yesterday that Roger has died. He was only eight months old. And 640 pounds.

Roger could open the screen door to the back yard by himself, and he stomped out Thursday night, angry at me because I put his Christmas collar on him. "Oh, Roger, don't go out in your Christmas collar!" I called after him. Dick Whitman was over and I was distracted. But Roger had gone out a hundred times and always came right back in. On his own. Opening the door. Sometimes he even let the dogs in and out for me.

But I shouldn't blame Roger. I always stood by my belief that cats should be allowed to play outside, even if it was dangerous, and my whole life I've had cats live to a ripe old age, with no problem. Roger did not have that kind of luck.

As soon as I woke up Friday morning and Roger wasn't in the bed with Edsel and Tallulah and me, I knew something was wrong. I went to the door and called him, and when he wasn't there, I just knew he was dead. I don't know how I knew.

My tarot cards, which I read every month, had said I may need to put a pet to sleep this month. I tried not to think of that. But what I didn't know is that at about 1 a.m., Roger had been hit by a car. My neighbor saw it happen, and it looked bad. He grabbed a shovel to get Roger out of the road, but when he went over there, Roger was still breathing, in a labored way.

He took Roger to the all-night emergency vet. Because Rog had on that Christmas collar, he had no tags on so he didn't know who the cat belonged to. My neighbor was really upset about the whole thing and called the vet the next morning. They told him that Roger had made it though the night and was probably going to be transported to the county animal shelter as a stray. Then yesterday, the neighbor's girlfriend finally saw the signs I put up. That's when he called me.

Can you imagine having to be that guy calling my dramatic ass?

"Hi, this is PJ. I found your cat."

OH MY GOD! REALLY!?!?!"

"Now, it ain't good, ma'am. He got hit."

"OH MY GOD! Booo hooo hooo hooo!"

"He didn't die. At least not right away, ma'am."

"OH MY GOD! WHERE IS HE!?"

I mean, who wishes he had never driven up on that scene, do you think? Anyway, as soon as I hung up I stampeded to the animal shelter FOR THE THIRD TIME THIS YEAR to try to find Roger Dodger.

There are five damn rooms at the shelter of cats who just came in. Then there are three more of cats who are ready for adoption. This is why when someone tells me they just bought a cat I want to smack them with my adenoids. I looked and looked and looked for Roger, and even sneaked a glance for Winston while I was up, but nothing.

Finally, I took his picture over to one of the workers and told her Roger's story. "He sure looks familiar," she said. Then she paused. "Ma'am. Did he have on a Christmas collar?"

"Yes," I said, my voice getting wavery. I knew it was gonna be bad when one of the other workers ripped off a paper towel and handed it to me.

"Come over here," she said, pulling me aside.

"I'm the one who euthanized your kitty," she said. "Once I remembered the Christmas collar it all came back. It was Friday morning, real early. They brought him in from the emergency vet. They can't put cats down at the vet--we have to do it. His head trauma was real bad, ma'am. It was the humane thing to do. But I felt bad because I knew he was someone's Christmas kitty."

"He was my Christmas kitty," I said pathetically. Roger effing hated that collar. And he had to die in it. If you think he isn't gonna haunt me for the rest of my days, looking crabby in his jingles...

I thanked her and she seemed very sorry for me. I started walking to my car, but halfway there I grabbed Roger's picture and just bent over and started sobbing in front of 394939292949393 people visiting the shelter, and all the workers, and all the dogs in the dog run, and God who apparently hates me, and the rooster who inexplicably is up for adoption in case anyone needs one. I cried and sobbed and wept and carried on and did not care that I looked the fool.

Because I am gonna miss the crap out of that cat. I have had cats my whole life. I have known mean ones, sweet ones, shy ones, smart ones. I never met a cat like big old Roger. He was spectacular, with his squirrel-killing, refrigerator-jumping, dog-attacking, unflappable self. In many ways he reminded me of my all-time favorite cat, Mr. Horkheimer.

I wonder if somehow he was Mr. Horkheimer, and he could only visit me for a short while.

Whatever the story is, I am glad I had Roger for as long as I did. I will never forget that giant puma of a kitten.

Thank you, Roger, for putting up with me. And the Christmas collar. And Edsel. And the 900 million pictures. Rest in peace, sweet boy.

Gift of the Junegi. I realize I make less and less sense as time goes on.

In case you were thinking I was going to stampede to the topic of gifts I have received from people and am just forgetting to tell you that Roger came home, that is in fact not the case. As there is still no Roger. But thanks for bringing up that painful topic.

In fact, last night, Tallulah, Edsel and I were on the couch, catching up on another stunning episode of Real Housewives, and I had my cat trap set up on the porch with my dirty laundry on top of it.

Kick 'em when they're up, kick 'em when they're down.

You're welcome. I hate that song.

Anyway, I thought I heard a meow. I sat up. Then I thought I heard a second, insistent,"MEOW!" I TOSSED the ludicrous Christmas throw off of me--and really how could a Christmas throw be anything but ludicrous--sent my bowl of nutritious Tostitos flying, because when I watch Real Housewives I like to feed my body and soul, and flew to the door.

No cat. I'm telling you, I HEARD it. There was no cat howling at Kyle's white party on the show. It was not coming from my TV. So now I'm hallucinating on top of everything else.

Where is that cat? Why won't he come home? I just want him to come home. I mean, yes. I will beat him mercilessly, but after that I will be so glad to see him.

ANYWAY, today's topic is gifts. And how it is better to receive. Because friends and faithful readers alike have been sending me things for Christmas and then telling me, "You have to open it now. You can't wait till Christmas," which means on Christmas day Ima be sitting under an empty tree with crickets chirping. Because someone got me a cricket farm. Bah!

Mrs. Oh, who could not love herself more if she tried, made me a Barry Gibb ornament crafted from a starfish. I totally put it right in front on my tree, and when Barry Gibb comes over to propose to me he will be so happy to see it. Did I mention I am hallucinating?

My friend Melinda? Of the I-adopted-Ladybird Melindas? Made chocolates. And did I mention she's a chemistry professor, as I am? So there's a little image of the formula or whatever for serotonin on the package. Her Christmas card also had a chemical formula on it. Who sleighs me? See what I did, there?

And she has a little list of each of the delicious flavors she made. I am trying to be good and not eat all of these and keep some for when my guests arrive for Christmas.

Dear Guests, I have already eaten 47 pieces of Melinda's candy. Don't get your hopes up. But it was really good and you should be happy that I was happy. Merry Christmas. Love, June.

My best friend Pal from MA and I were on the phone last night. "Open two of your gifts," she commanded. "Open the two narrow boxes." "The ones that look like shoe boxes?" "They ARE shoe boxes." Look at those shoes. Are they screaming, "JUNE! JOOOOOOOON!" in giant silver letters? Who knows me? Who knows me too well?

Okay, you cannot tell, but these have GLITTER all over them! It's like Laura Petrie went all slutty all of a sudden! I am TOTALLY WEARING THEM to work today and I don't even care. Stripper Laura Petrie is STEPPING OUT. So excited about my new shoes.

edsul simlurlee excited. could mom get fork for edsul?

Roger

I was trying not to mention this, in the hopes he'd come home.

Honestly, I am crushed under the weight of the three thousand things that have gone wrong in my life. I cannot take one more damn thing.

I left my heart in Lexington at a TGIFriday's. Somehow that's not as catchy of a tune.

Yesterday I took a brief and convenient drive to Kentucky to take Ladybird the dog to go live with her new family.

In case this is the very first day you have ever tuned in to this blog--and God help you, my child--Ladybird is a dog who was hanging out at MY dogs' day care center. Yes. My ridiculous dogs go to day care. And as someone who is currently $660 overdrawn in her checking account, that fact is even more ludicrous than ever, but I will tell you all about that another time.

Ladybird, who thank all that is holy and merciful is officially named Lucy now, is only 13 months old and has already had a sad life. Whoever the horrid horrid terrible person is who mistreated her is going to have a LOVELY TIME in hell compared to what IIIIIIIIII will do to him should I ever meet him. Because I cannot TELL you what a sweet driving companion that dog was.

I went to get her yesterday at the day care, and my dogs passed right by her without so much as a how-do-you-do, so unthreatening is she. I didn't want to tell Edsel and Talu that they'd breezed right past a dog who was almost their sister.

All the day care workers fussed over Lucy, and hugged her goodbye, and gave her Christmas presents that they had been planning to give her later, and she wagged politely and looked confused. When I took her out to my car and opened the door, she was all, "Oh, HELL, no. I am not going in the car with your big-haired self. What do I know about you?  How do I know where we're going?"

I put her blanket on the seat, the one she had laid on at day care, and finally she got in there, but she kept eyeing me sideways, like, I don't KNOW about you, missy.

I drove along quietly, and spoke to her in soothing tones, because you know what a soothing person I am, and yes I did take a photo of my own self while we careened down the highway. I'm sure that did a lot to ease her troubled mind.

After an hour of her getting up and sitting down, getting up and sitting down, she finally sniff sniff sniffed me, and I petted her, and Lucy said, "SIGHHHHHHHHHH" and curled up and fell asleep while I scritched her ears.

I think it was pretty much at that point that I fell desperately in love with her, and was ready to run to Vegas and marry her and start a whole new life, just me and Lucy.

Eventually, we stopped off at the Long John Silver's, there, in West Virginia, and you can be a snob all you want, but Long John Silver's is effing DELICIOUS. I don't care what you say.

It didn't even occur to Lucy to ask for any of my food, which I was safely eating as I drove. My dogs would be all up in my ovaries if I had food in the car. I offered her skinny self a fry, and she took it, but without much enthusiasm. So I broke off a piece of fish and she was all, "OKAY, then! Now you're speaking my language, there, sister!"

June. Teaching her friend Melinda's dog bad habits before Melinda even gets the creature home.

Eleventy hours and 29 rounds of the "I went to the store" game later, we were finally in Lexington. Melinda, my friend who is taking the dog, lives in Illinois. We decided to meet in the middle and we picked a restaurant.

What we did not know? Is we were picking a restaurant? IN A GIANT SHOPPING CENTER.

THE WEEK BEFORE CHRISTMAS.

Guess what was chaotic?

Nevertheless, we got to the uncrowded, unridiculous parking lot, and after several instances of road rage where I managed to shoot 18 people and Lucy bit four infants, we found Melinda.

Who by the way? Just needed a Fair Isle sweater and a mock turtleneck and she would have looked like she did in high school.

Okay, now, here's the part that kills me. Lucy? Saw Melinda talking to her through the window? And got rattled and climbed on my lap! She was already bonded with me! And she knew she was getting handed off!

I DIED EIGHTY-SEVEN DEATHS!

But I did what a, you know, kind of grownup would do. I got out of the car, came around, and lured her out. Here she is with her new leash on, looking just a tad reticent. I figured if she'd bonded with me that quickly, she would snuggle up to Melinda and her family in no time.

Here she is in the back of Melinda's SUV. She has a nice new blanket, and two collars, and her fancy new leash, and her old blanket for comfort, and treats, and her Christmas chewy from dog day care, and a bowl of water. And that's just to get her to Illinois. I think she'll be okay.

Melinda emailed me this morning to say Lucy seemed quite taken with her new cat relatives, and she slept with Melinda's daughter last night. I wonder if that's the first night she ever slept with a human.

I think she'll be a happy, smiley dog in no time. Particularly if someone sees fit to go out for some Long John Silver's every so often. Just saying.

No, go ahead. Say "blogaversary." SAY IT! I dare you.

I just realized that my five-year anniversary of blogging came and went and I did not even notice. It just goes to show you that I suck. Also that I am v.v. busy currently. If you want to know the truth, I have been sans chonies for the last week (yes, Dick Whitman, even when I was with you at the Christmas party the other night) and have been drying off after showers with hand towels. Who needs to catch up on her laundry? Who has mailed zero Xmas packages?

WHO IS BUSY???

Anyway, since I am spending this fine Saturday driving a dog to Kentucky and NOT laundering or mailing Christmas packages or wearing chonies, I thought I would do a little retrospective post.

Here is an excerpt from my first blog post, ever. I started blogging because Marvin and I, when we used to make a healthy living in Los Angeles, decided to go a year without spending any extra money. Which is ironic, because soon he became a school teacher and our fun game became reality.

 

friday, december 15, 2006
Preparing for a year of not spending
Starting January 1, 2007, my husband and I are not going to spend any extra money for the entire year.

This means no clothes shopping, no movies, no restaurants (including getting stuff to go), no trips and no gifts (this one will kill me).

Six years ago I ran a marathon. I am the least athletic person you have ever met. Trust me. I cannot ride a bike, I cannot go under water without plugging my nose, I do not ski or golf or watch any sporting events whatsoever. The only famous athletes I can think of are Joe Namath and OJ Simpson. So, I decided to run a marathon because it was just about the last thing you'd ever expect me to do. And it was by far the most rewarding activity I have ever done.

That is why I wanted to try going a year without spending.

************

Wow. Do you know what that was? Kind of boring. Let's see if I got better in 2007:

 

saturday, december 15, 2007
Well Annie, why don't you draw up a chair?
Today we decorated for Christmas. I took 8 million photos, then the battery died, and you can only see about three actual pictures. I hate digital. I hate the future.

We purchased our tree from a man who looked exactly like Ronald Reagan. It was uncanny. It was without cans. He had a cowboy hat on and everything.

Ronnie charged us $36 for a seven-foot tree, which if you ask me isn't bad. We went into his store, and apparently it is the kind of place where men sit around together and play checkers or whatever. I have always thought that was a cool idea, but haven't seen a place like that till now. He also had dead animals mounted on the wall and paneling. I could have stayed all afternoon and gossiped and spit tobacco, but no one invited me to stay.

This whole story is neither here nor there. It is mostly to tell you we spent $36.

(If you read yesterday's post, you will see I am living up to "Butter-Butt.")

**********

Okay! I was getting funnier. Also, my butt looks small to me now. It's all a matter of perspective. Also also, this was before I realized I was allergic to North Carolina trees. Oh, June, honey. Run from Ronald Regan and his trees. The allergies, they will trickle down.

Oh. And the title was from It's a Wonderful Life. That whole month of 2007 I used lines from It's a Wonderful Life as my blog titles. Sometimes I love myself so much it hurts.

 

15 December 2008
In honor of my cotton blogiversary (or, do I have more time on my hands than anyone else you know?)

I say! Is it my two-year anniversary of blogging? Good show!

Some of your snobbier people say beard equals weird, but I have never believed that.

*************

Apparently I noticed it was my blog anniversary back in 2008. And I guess the two-year anniversary gift is cotton. Or I was batshit crazy in 2008. Whichever.

 

15 December 2009
June posts your good deeds. A task that took her three hours. But this is not about June...

********

In 2009, I was busy getting ahead on posting many of your good deeds. That was nice of me. But I'm not going to show those here, cause, zzzzz. Anyway, how giving was I? I wonder how that all changed?

 

15 December 2010
Pieces of Wisdom re the cat we will probably never see

There are two men blowing leaves, so to speak, next door, and you can imagine how this delights my dogs. What cacophony? They are blowing the leaves into the dead neighbor's lawn across the street, which is rude. Perhaps she told them once they could blow those leaves there over her dead body.

Oh, and speaking of my poor neighbor, who apparently I cannot leave to rest in peace, in case you didn't read my comments yesterday, I found out she got diagnosed with can-sa, as they pronounce it here, on Halloween, had surgery November 2, and died December 1. Isn't that just awful?

Oh! And some man in a truck just pulled up over there! ABNER!

**********

Wow. So my poor dead neighbor has been my dead neighbor for over a year now. And that blog title was about Kipper's Dick, the orange and white cat who kept coming to my door and who now lives a block or so down, and who boldly approaches us on our walks, dogs be damned. I love Kipper's Dick. So to speak.

You know what's nice about having a blog? I mean other than having strangers send you cookies and jingle collars for your pets? Is you can look back at what you were doing in the past like this. It's like having a little history of your stupid life. Well. It's not LIKE having it, it IS having a little history of your stupid life.

And I thank you all for sharing it with me.

I'll be back in two and two

Ladybird has a home!!

No, not with me. Geez, you all really do think I have a screw loose, don't you?

Since I've been obsessively posting about her here and on Facebook, my friend since junior high, Melinda, happened to see her. Melinda reads my blog, and her absolutely beautiful dog died on Thanksgiving. Melinda was devastated by it, and in fact had been going to partake in my take-a-photo-on-Thanksgiving project but was too sad to do so.

Anyway, a few days ago she was foolish enough to email me. "You know I want to take her," she said. Melinda lives in Illinois. You think that was gonna stop me? Who got all the paperwork arranged and phone calls done and who can get mighty unscattered when need be? Ladybird, who Melinda and I decided will be Lucy, thank God (Ladybird. Pfft.), will be getting in the car with me on Saturday and meeting her new mom halfway to Illinois, then getting in Melinda's car to go to her new, wonderful home. I'm sorry about the long drive, Lucy, but it's all uphill from here.

Yay! Plus, I get to see Melinda, who I have not seen since 1983. Yay again!

I liked the suggestion someone made in the comments, when we weren't discussing the sex lives of George and Mary Bailey and Sam Wainwright and horse masturbation and crock pots, that I be an animal rescue matchmaker. I can be the Chuck Wollery of pets.

In other news, I dragged my unboyfriend Dick Whitman to my work Christmas party last night.

It's like we're going to homecoming, isn't it? I do not know why the light of God is shining on me, except Jane West, my pal and coworker at every job I have, insisted we move into the harsh light and this is what happened.

They let us out of work at 3:30, so Jane West came over to my house and I made her do manual labor. I actually have no idea what she's doing, here. Probably something that I said I didn't know how to do, like wrap a gift or solder a ring.

If these pictures seem small it's because my computer is being weird. Anyway, right when we got in the car, my camera battery died, but here we are, and let's take a moment to thank the fine people of Latisse for my eyelashes. Seriously, you guys.

After the party, we came back to my house and exchanged Christmas gifts. Dick Whitman got me a book by Merrill Markoe. I love her! She was David Letterman's girlfriend, and his head writer. And? He got me a shirt FROM ANTHROPOLOGIE!!!!

Who loves her nonboyfriend Dick Whitman? And how did he ever know what color to select? I will totally model it for you. Ima see if I can fashion an outfit around it today.

I found an old cool tin in my friend Kit's store, and inside the tin is this ludicrous respirator, which I told Dick he could wear at my house because he is desperately allergic to my pets. Nice Blue Velvet impression on his part.

And? I got him a ukelele. Marvin helped me pick it out. Dick Whitman plays guitar, because I can't not pick unboyfriends who don't play some ding-dang musical instrument, and anyway, Marvin said, "Anyone would love a ukelele!"

Really? Okay.

Oh, dear. My ridiculous Thomas Kinkade Christmas clock just played Deck the Halls, which I just typed Dick the Halls, which means it's 8:00 and Ima be late for work. And which ding-dong in my life got me a Thomas Kinkade clock anyway, thinking they were funny? It is conveneint, though, having a little song let me know what time it is. Maybe I need a big grandfather clock or something.

June, out.

 

Party on, June

June might have stayed up way too late partayyin' in TinyTown last night and cannot blog at you today because it is 7:42 and she is in her robe and has cotton in her head even though all she imbibed was Coke and coffee. Also, in the photo above, her whippoorwill of hair may or may not be capturing Father Mike, the Episcopal priest she worked for in TinyTown. He may or may not be the coolest guy on earth. Is it okay for Episcopal priests to swear?

June wonders one thing. Why the hell did she ever leave TinyTown?

Also, while June is wondering one thing, why is June referring to herself in the third person?

June, who really must go, needs to tell you that the other women all brought a dish to pass and June once again wonders why she left TinyTown, although at this point she would def. weigh 394848548 pounds if she still lived there. June, who screamed over right after work, stopped into TinyTown's bustling Food Lion, where 86 people said hi to her, and brought a bottle of wine.

FYI: They do not sell La Crema at Food Lion in TinyTown.

June really wants to stay and tell you how apparently she was the scandal of the evening, because the people of TinyTown believed her Facebook status that she is in a relationship with her friend Paula in Seattle. June thinks it's nice that everyone was being cool about it. "So, you're seeing a woman now?"

June totally loves her TinyTown peeps. More than she ever really knew she did when she lived there.

Miracle of Christmas

I am still sad. A few days back, maybe even a week ago, I said I was gonna take a blog break, because I was sad, and then apparently because I can never shut up, I continued blogging. But sad I still am.

I am like Sam, I am. But I am sad, I am. If I had ham and any colored eggs I might feel better.

It is probably the stupid time of the year, when we're supposed to be remembering what we have and all I can do is think of what I have not, and appreciating our families, and all I can concentrate on is how mine has been torn asunder. Because I don't like to be dramatic and use phrases like "torn asunder" when I'm sad or anything.

And yes, I DO consider my cats my "family." Shut up. In the past year, I lost Francis, Winston, Henry and now Anderson. June can't keep a cat.

I did cheer up a little yesterday when Faithful Reader Letha sent jingle bell collars for the pets I did manage to keep, though.

wut we get?

dis not pleese lu, ant leetha.

wyyy dis hapeneeng?

&###%@.

#@@!@&@##*&&%!!!

So that helped. They are all jinglng around like a band of the unmerriest men imaginable.

Anyway, I had to go to PetSmart, which they might as well name JuneSmart. Or perhaps June-is-not-so-smart. With The Pets, Already, June. They should just name it that and let the rest of America be all, "...?"

I had to buy who-even-knows-what, and they were playing annoying Christmas music, which depresses me on a good year, but this year it is even worse. So I'm over there looking at the Martha Stewart collection because it hypnotizes me whenever I go in there, and the music is making me kind of get weepy, and I really don't want to cry in PetSmart because what kind of freak cries in PetSmart?

This one. This kind of freak.

Martha Stewart's signature blue bowls and collars are getting wavery behind my tears when I hear, "Well, isssssn't that the cutest thing."

That's what my gramma used to say about stuff. Issssssn't that the cutest thing. I tended to not agree with her about whatever it was she found cute, because she was more a human baby person and less an animal person.

I turned around, and there was an old lady who looked like my grandmother. I am not kidding. I mean, they weren't TWINS, but she had big brown eyes and curly brown hair like she'd had it set possibly with a Toni home perm, and sort of a welcoming look about her.

"These cards are so cute," she said to me. I don't know if I've mentioned I'm the world's most approachable person. I have no idea why this is, but I do have to say I never mind being approached. Of course, at this particular moment I was .0004 seconds from bursting into tears and saying things like "torn asunder," so it wasn't my best moment.

I went over to gramma-looking lady. There was an assortment of cards that I would never in a million years buy, because I consider myself too sophisticated for them.

They were actual photographs of dogs and cats, and they had cute sayings inside. But the old lady, who looked like my gramma? She could not get enough of these cards. I decided as one of my good deeds, I'd stay and let her show them all to me.

"Ohhhhh, would you look at this one," she said. It was a dog and a cat looking at a star.

"May the miracle of Christmas fill your heart with joy," said the woman, looking straight at me.

"That's nice," I said, humoring her. Did I mention my extreme sophistication?

"May the miracle of Christmas fill your heart with joy," she said again, still looking at me. "Issssn't that sweet?" She sounded so much like my grandmother.

"It is," I said. "Are you, um, gonna get the cards?"

"May the miracle of Christmas fill your heart with joy." She held my wrist a little. And looked at me. I looked at her. She had brown eyes exactly like Gramma.

After a moment she looked down. "They're $14.95. I shouldn't get them."

"Oh, get 'em," I said. I am also a financial adviser and life coach. I started to walk away to get whatever I was gonna get, but after a moment I turned back to her.

"Merry--" I started to say.

She was gone.

 

You've got the teeth of a hydra upon you. You're dirty sweet and you're my girl. (Have you ever paid attention to the lyrics to Bang a Gong? It has nothing whatsoever to do with this post. Still.)

First of all, Dick Whitman finally emailed me pictures from when he really was over on Sunday.

He was pretty taken by my adult, not-at-all-excessively-pink ornaments.

What if I meet some sort of really manly man, and I fall deeply in love with him, and he's all plaid wallpaper and mounted fish and dark leather and no-nonsense? How is my pink frilly stuff gonna blend in? Or what if I fall for some goth character, with spikes and skulls and Goya paintings? How is that gonna work? I guess I will cross that bridge when I get to it.

Anyway, Laurie took a picture of Dick the Whitman and me and you can see it did not turn out so, you know, focusedly. IT'S NOT SO EASY, IS IT, LAURIE?

Maybe it's my house. My house encourages fuzzy photography.

Dick Whitman also took this picture of my many many many chins and Edsel. I'd like to point out my shoes, which were given to me by my Pal from MA, because she knows me. They are pink and tulle and girly. There just went my epitaph.

Edsel is over there thinking about how much he loves me. Even when I am noticing him he pines for me. He is pathetic, really.

I guess that's all I have to tell you about my holiday decorating, which has now stretched into a Very Special two-part extravaganza, except that I failed to mention the depressing part where I had to set aside Marvin's nod-to-Hanukkah stuff, and his stocking, and his guitar ornament and so forth for him to come get. Christmas. That very special time of year when regularly depressing stuff seems extra super depressing.

In other news, I had a salad.

Righteous. Actually it looks disgusting in this picture. It's like I had lettuce and glistening tongues and eyeballs and coils and bloody stumps and veins. Mmmm!

Technically, I had very few of those things. It was spinach and eggs and carrots and cantaloupe. Did you ever see that funny cartoon where the couple is playing Scrabble and the woman has all the letters and she has them lined up and they spell carrost?

 

Marvin and I have pronounced it "carrost" ever since we first watched this.

Let's saw! That was only funny if you just sat there and watched that stupid cartoon.

What the hell was I talking about? Oh! Right. I ate a salad (see above). Then?

A pecan chocolate-covered apple. Because apples are good for you.

I wouldn't say I have a pecan chocolate OBSESSION. I mean, have I mentioned that combo before? How long have you known me? There are plenty of things I've been way obsessier about than pecans and chocolate. Still. This was delicious. Not as good as tongues and veins and coils.

But what is?

Tomorrow night I am driving out to TinyTown, as I have been invited to attend the choir party for the church where I used to secretary. And if you think that sounds like a sinless, dull, reading-from-the-Old-Testament time, clearly you have never partayyyed with Episcopalians and their brown-liquor selves. Am beside self with excitement. Can't wait to see everyone.

Okay. Am off. Now you can all get back to talking about crock pots in the comments.