Some of you suggested yesterday in the comments that if I start putting videos on here of Ned flossing, you were so gone. Who was wildly tempted to do just that, because she is asshole of the week?
Speaking of asshole of the week, Cancer Victim Edsel P. Underbite hosted a dog play afternoon at his gracious abode yesterday. I put Tumors One and Two behind the baby gate, so that when TinaDoris' dog Penny and oh my god I just realized the other dog is named Cash and we totally had Penny and Cash over and how denominational of us. Anyway, I put them behind the gate so they could freak out accordingly about strange dogs being over before I let them loose, and here you see them being polite and welcoming and not-at-all cacophonying with the barks. Look at Talu all midbark. Kills me. With her puffed-out barky lips.
Yes, Edsel does look like a gremlin with his edz-play-in-raayn wet self. Faithful Reader Shannon pointed this out on Facebook.
Anyway.
So TinaDoris brought over Penny, and Cash's Mom, who Ima call Mamma Cash and I love myself, brought over Cash, who is a Goldendoodle. Cash is really cool and can't help it that his breed name is ridiculous. Because let me tell you what. CASH IS SO COOL! Ohmygod. He's only five months old and he's totally calm and dignified and SO CUTE and I will get to Cash in a minute.
Here is a picture of my bathroom, which I cleaned, and I wanted to show it to you in its clean state. Normally that sink and etagere have 39405584930304 pieces of jewelry and cosmetics on them. Because this is such a spacious house. It'd take, you know, maybe 38 seconds to put jewelry or makeup away where I keep them. I'm a very busy executive.
I note I didn't turn the drag queen starfish around, and no one got to appreciate its glittery glory.
Anyway, it was 3:00 and no one had gotten here, and I'd timed the mini quiches for everyone getting here on time, and you know I made those from scratch so it was important to me.
Fortunately they showed up a few minutes later, both at the same time, like on a sitcom when someone has a party and everyone barrels through the door together in big clumps.
And let me tell you what. I loved that Cash. LOVED HIM. From the minute he fluffily got out of his car. Oh, he gots big big fluffy feets. And soft fluffy fur. And he's big big big already even though he's still a puppy snickerdoodle.
And he got along just fine with my dogs. Talu raised her hackles and did her scary low growl, but she didn't mean it.
Then poor beleaguered Penny came in, and I'd like to point out she's been here SEVERAL TIMES BEFORE, and also that they play with Penny at dog daycare. Did this matter to Edsel, though, when he ran over and sunk his jaws into her and started snarling?
WHAT A DICK. I realize he's dealing with cancer and all, but does cancer have to make you so dang cranky? They did this whole getting into an angry ball yelling thing and I had to jump in and pull them apart like a bouncer or something. Then I went back to charging everyone at the door.
Above, by the way, is Penny discovering poor Iris, who I'd kind of forgotten about, and who was terrifiedly puffing at the top of her kitty condo. Oh, she did not like Penny, and Penny could not have been more interested in her. And possibly not in a good way. Finally I peeled Iris-now-with-puffs off the condo, and took her in the bedroom, but sadly Penny followed us and was DEEEELIGHTED to discover Lily smartly hiding in there.
So both cats got to meet Penny, is what I'm saying to you. Am certain they're going to engrave another invite for her soon.
Here was Penny pretty much for the rest of the day, trying to hypnotize the door into opening. Just to scare each other, the cats keep saying, "A Penny for your thoughts" to each other now. "Cut out, man. It not funnee."
Did I mention that in the meantime, Cash went around being perfect?
Did I mention my dogs went around being not perfect? Apparently the moon had hit their eyes like a big pizza...pies.
Did I mention Mamma Cash is as cute a human as one can be? TinaDoris, who as you know from other times is similarly adorable--and I really need uglier women friends for my benefit--did not want her picture taken yesterday because she thought she looked awful. Her awful is, like, my prom night.
You know what makes you a good friend? Is when you put your friend's photo on your blog anyway, after they said not to. That makes you the very best kind of friend.
Anyway, we had a good time, and no one got eaten despite several attempts, and I'm just throwing it out there. Since all my pets seem to be falling over dead of cancer, someone could send me a Goldendoodle puppy. Is all I'm saying to you. Is all. Just. Okay.
I will talk at you tomorrow. Ned and I saw that happy movie Arbitrage last night, and Ned said today's movie will make that one look like the feel-good movie of the century, so yay. Later this week we're going to the old theater to see (wait for it) Sophie's Choice. If I make it this week without hurling myself off a bridge, I should get some kind of reward.
lillee wish to point out she not cawse any troubel this year. lille wish to point out she smug about dis. also she pretty. lillee soupeereer pet.
She really is the only pet not causing me trouble this year and now I've cursed myself for saying that out loud. Edsel will have surgery on Tuesday to remove his stupid mast cell tumor, and they'll send it off to pathology to see if he will be okay (very likely) or if he'll be Jenny on Love Story.
love meen neber habing to say edsul sorry. but edsul sorry anyway, if he do sometheeng wrong. edsul love yuu so bad.
He seems clueless (surprise!) that anything is happening, and for some reason they want me to give him Benadryl till the day of surgery, and they said if he shows signs of being sedated to reduce the amount. Pfft. Like that dog is sedate anywhere but at the vet.
Anyway, I can't stay and talk long, girl, because my dogs, Cancer 1 and Cancer 2, have a playdate today with their old friend Penny and also their soon-to-be-NEW-friend Cash. Both dogs belong to women I work with at my fake work, where I continue to freelance. We are having hors d'oeuvres and drinks and general talk about our periods and whatever it is girls talk about. I have to go clean the bathroom so no one knows I live like one of those people on Hoarders in real life.
Last night I had dinner with Ned's brother and sister-in-law. I mean, Ned was there. He didn't just say, "Oh, you should meet them. Text me and tell me all about it!" Anyway we had a good time. I knew I'd like them, just from stories Ned has told me. We were sitting in the restaurant part, but could see the bar, and Ned's sister-in-law and I peered at floozies at the bar. Seriously, one woman was probably my age, and she had on a strapless leather dress and five-inch suede red heels. I've been looking for a red suede pump. That, as usual, was only funny if you've memorized When Harry Met Sally.
My point is, she was no Tina Turner. I mean, middle-aged girlfriend was not pulling off the look. Oh, and the hair! She kind of had Sammy Hagar hair. I wish there had been a way to surreptitiously take a picture so we could all be catty together.
When we got back to Ned's place, his bachelor pad, with all the black lights and lava lamps and beer mirrors, (oh, and the poster that reads "Choices" with the car, girl and drink) (if Ned had even one of these things I would not have returned for a follow-up date) (Okay, maybe I could've lived with a lava lamp, if he was being ironic), he opened up a new roll of paper towels, because Ned knows how to set a mood, and his cat immediately put her head in the empty bag.
Dude. Do you have any idea how fast this 12-year-old cat prances around once she has a beloved bag on her head? I took probably 10 photos of her and this was the best I could get. Then, once I gave up, I heard Ned in there droning about how he was going to take that bag away because it's plastic and what he doesn't know is I captured his riveting diatribe on film for all of you.
I just think every mundane thing Ned says is cute. I am at my very worst right now, smitten-wise. And you have to be along with me. Congratulations.
Anyway, I should go. Tune in tomorrow for playdate photos of Cash, Penny and the Tumor Twosome, coming to a blog near you.
Yesterday morning I got a text from my boss, who used to be my real boss and now is my kind-of boss since I'm just freelancing. I don't know why I just said all that and I'm becoming one of those terrible storytellers. Maybe I'll start saying, "Wait, let me back up" somewhere in the story, too.
So there I was, MINDING MY OWN BUSINESS (I have to get over hating that phrase), when the text came.
BOSS: Hey, June, why don't you take today off? Then you can work five hours each Thursday and Friday, using up all the hours we've budgeted for you in September.
JUNE: PARRRRRTAYYYY! BACK THAT ASS UP! RAISE THE ROOF! THE ROOF! THE ROOF! THE ROOF IS ON FIRE!
Apparently I was going to party like it was 1984. And 1990. And whenever Back that Ass Up was a song.
Oh, I just looked. It was 1999. Yay! I was gonna party like it's 1999. Yeah yeah yeah.
By the way, I want Back That Ass Up played at my funeral. I want you to give no explanation for it whatsoever.
How many songs have I commanded you play at my funeral? You're all gonna be there six hours, just listening to New Order and Juvenile and 76 Trombones. No, it was Marvin who wants 76 Trombones, isn't it? He wants 76 Trombones and Whoot, There It Is. Geez, should someone tell his current girlfriend? I feel like my wishes won't be so listened to anymore, once Marvin's feeling the silk.
Honestly, do you know anyone who gets off on tangents faster than me? My friend used to call me the Queen of the Nonsequiter. Eventually I'd go off on one of those tangents and she'd just say, "Are you the QUEEN?"
She'd be queening out right now.
So, whenever I have an unexpected day off, I always start out with such hope. Oh, I can go to the farmers market, get a bunch of crackers and desserts and other processed food like I always do there, then I can take my dry cleaning in, because my prom dress and wedding gown are practically in that pile for the dry cleaner. And hey, my oil needs changing and I could stock up on migraine meds. I mean, there's so much I can accomplish on a day off.
But before I left, I noticed the house was kind of a wreck.
There was just stuff hither and yon. Like, why did ABBA need a pick? Are they digging out from something? Why do we always have to see ABBA in those one tshirts, the ones they had made with the animals of their country on them? Obviously these were the go-to tshirts, and I'm not really certain I get it.
There was just kind of crap everywhere, and a big hairball on the couch. BAH! I enjoy that not-at-all precarious coffee cup in the corner of the couch. Nice.
Attractive. Don't you feel welcome, with my bunched-up tablecloth and clothes rack table?
So I straightened everything up, because it was bugging me. Then I did laundry, which resulted in this:
MORE clothes on the dining-room table! Go, June! Back that ass up!
Iris has been totally judgy about the whole thing, and she can barely SEE this mess.
So somehow, once I started putting things away and separating ABBA from their pick and such, I realized I had these two boxes of meds in the closet. So I got those out and began disposing of any expired stuff, which was pretty much everything.
"You threw out expired meds?" asked Ned, who clearly leads a whole dark thug life I know nothing about, because he said, "You could SELL those on the street and make a fortune. You're an unemPLOYed person. You should've considered that!"
He was all vehement, like I was telling him I didn't have a 401(k). Expired Mucinex is going for top dollar in the streets, I hear.
And also what streets? Do I just go outside right here and shake my meds? Shake my moneymaker, as it were?
I noticed I had a can of Solarcaine that had expired in August of 2007. We MOVED here in August of 2007, which means we schlepped an entire can of expired Solarcaine across the country. "You use AEROSOL CANS for sunburn? What's wrong with aloe vera?" judged Ned, who had become thug Al Gore all of a sudden.
Remind me not to tell things to Ned about my day.
I felt proud of my accomplishments, with the throwing out of the meds and the straightening up, and just as I was getting ready to leave and have fun at the farmers-of-processed-foods market, the mail came.
My cell phone bill was in there. It was hideous. I've never had a large cell phone bill before, and it turns out I'd gone over my minutes TALKING TO STREET-DRUGS NED, over there. From now on we're using my, you know, actual phone to talk. Last night was the first time he'd ever called me on my real phone. What is this world coming to?
My point is, I called AT and their T to see if we could reduce the damn bill (we could. You never know about these things, but they did it. I'm not saying Mrs. AT&T Customer Service Woman was what you'd call cuddly, but she did it because I'd never yakked on my cell phone like a teenager before), and somehow she got on the topic of me using The Cloud.
The Cloud. What the hell.
"Oh, The Cloud blooos your bleedely bloos and you can blah de blah blah! It's great!"
Does everyone else feel like computer talk makes no sense? And when she showed me how to put The Cloud on my phone, she said, "Go to your phone face" and I was all, now what now? And she said, "You know, your phone face."
If you ever want to get on my nerves, be sure, when I ask for clarification, to say EXACTLY THE SAME THING ALL OVER AGAIN, because I'm SURE to get it that way. What the Sam Holy Hill is my PHONE FACE? Is it like an O face? I've never heard of such a thing.
Nevertheless, eventually my phone got cloudy or whatever and yay, and then I headed out to take back that Ulta bag you saw above on my table/laundry hamper, there.
Yes, I still hate Ulta. But sometimes you have to go, like you have to go to the doctor or Applebees. And about a year ago, they discontinued my favorite foundation, which by the way I've been searching for PRETTY MUCH MY WHOLE LIFE, and once I found it I had it for five years or so and boom. The geniuses at Smashbox decided, "Let's bug June. No more foundation for her! Let her blotch for the world to see!"
So, seriously, probably nine months ago I went to Ulta and told one of the helpful sales zygotes the tale of my foundation, and she said, "I recommend this one, as a replacement" and she got me a teensy bottle, a Thumbelina botttle, of foundation and gave it to me to try.
Girl, I'd have this foundation's children if there were an app for that. I would MATE with this foundation, which I guess is kind of the same thing as saying I'd have its children. No one ever promised I'd be articulate. I would change my last name to This Foundation. June This Foundation.
And do you think I can recall what kind I tried? And do you think the helpful fetuses at Ulta wrote it down? THREE TIMES now I've been back there, told my story to some blank-faced salesgirl, she suggests another foundation and I come home and put it on and do kabuki theater. NO ONE has found for me the foundation I was given in the Thumbelina bottle. Oh, that stuff is lovely. And I've managed to DRAG OUT that sample all year. I meter it out like it's gold or really good heroin, which Ned is probably selling expired on the street while we talk.
So yesterday, since I had all the time in the world, I returned the last Marcel Marceau foundation they'd tried on me and decided this time I was gonna look at EACH KIND IN THERE till I found the stuff they'd given me in that sample.
Girl, I was over there fingering so many foundations you'd have thought I had a bottom-of-your-house fetish. And I never said I was a person who made a lot of sense. I tried Smashbox's new stuff. I tried Benefit. I tried Elizabeth Arden, even. Finally? FINALLY? I went over to Urban Decay.
And there? Like Jesus in the manger? Is what I am pretty certain was the foundation in my Thumbelina sample. It had the consistency, the color, the oh-doesn't-June This Foundation-look-flawless thing. Oh! I'd FOUND it! I just had to spend a little TIME, is all. So I cleaned my foundation-filled hand and went back to the Urban Decay section?
They don't have it. THEY DON'T HAVE IT. All they had was the sample.
........{insert frowny-face emoticon if I believed in them}.
I called over a sales girl, who was drinking from her sippy cup and spilling it on her onesie. "Oh. Yeah. We're out of that? They have? Like, a really big demand for these?"
Yes. And god forbid a store like Ulta, such a SMALL LOCAL STORE, would participate in the concept of supply and demand. GOD FORBID. And I can TELL you why there's a demand for it. It's the only makeup they sell that doesn't make you look like you're Shields and Yarnell.
"DO THEY SELL THIS AT SEPHORA?" I asked, as loudly as I could in the hopes everyone would stampede out with me. "Yes, they do," said the salesgirl, looking for her Diaper Genie.
I huffed out of there, but to tell you the truth, the only way I was gonna be able to afford the foundation at Ulta was because I was exchanging it for the one I'd already bought. So I didn't go to any Sephora. But I hope they THOUGHT that's what I was doing, and I hope they all cried into their crib bedding all night.
So, when I got home, I plugged my phone into my computer, as I am wont to do, and it did the thing it always does--"bleek!" It makes a little beep sound at me, which means if I took any pictures it's gonna load them and so forth.
But then? THEN? Do you know what happened?
It made all my pictures go away. ALL OF THEM. Well, that's not true. ONE picture popped up, of some flowers I photographed on March 3, and I have NO IDEA WHY it saved that particular photo. But for the last year and a half? All my pictures? Gone.
Oh, I clicked and I searched and I went into the Finder and dude. No photos.
TWO HOURS WITH APPLE CARE LATER ("It CAN'T be that you joined The Cloud, ma'am. That just makes no sense." Oh REALLY? Because when I woke up this morning I had 2,063 photos. Now I have one. Of flowers. From March 3. I get on this stupid cloud and miraculously that same day, ALL MY PHOTOS ARE GONE. But it can't be The Cloud.) (Hey, you, get off of my cloud.) I finally got ALL TWO THOUSAND SIXTY-THREE photos on my DESKTOP, where I had to PLUNK EACH ONE INDIVIDUALLY back in the iPhoto thing.
Perhaps you're wondering, Hmmm. June's mood. Was it sparkling when she had to do this?
THE ANSWER IS NO.
I did find this photo, since I looked at OVER TWO THOUSAND OF THEM last night, and it bugs me. What was I doing? Why so glum-ish? Was I drunk? When did I get such obvious labial-nasal folds? Is it time for whatever that injectable is called? Abreva? No, that's for cold sores. Whatever it is, I probably had some, expired, in my cupboard.
Anyway that was my stupid day off. If anyone desires some expired Mucinex, I could dig it out the trash.
If I fell over dead today, on the way down, I'd say, "Well, I may not have walked through any lavender fields in France, and I may not have ever gotten to hang out with Carrie Fisher and Nora Ephron, and it looks like there will be no kissing any leopards on the head. But I did get to thoroughly and fiercely love someone, with every fiber of my soon-to-be-dead being."
It's 8:30 in the morning, it's kind of cold in here, and Tallulah is sitting next to me, annoyed, that I'm blogging and not participating in feed-Tallulah time.
Photographic evidence. The evidence is clear. Sort of.
So that about sums up this morning, except that as I was typing this I got an email from my friend Dot. Which by the way, whenever I want to link you to something from an old post, and I've got almost six years of old posts at this point, I just Google myself. I know that's personal and should be done in our private time. But I Googled "Bye Bye Pie + Dot" and I got 9,00,000 "dot dot dot friend" references. Now am annoyed with self and self's blog names for everyone.
My point is, Dot has this dog, Diesel. I love him. He is a big big big mutty dog and he is wonderful.
This morning Dot and Diesel were at the bus stop with her kids, and some idiot on her cell phone was paying no attention. She hit and killed Diesel. I just felt nauseated when I got this news. Get off your damn CELL PHONES when you're driving, folks. God. Infuriates me.
In other news, I guess I haven't talked to you since the weekend. I mean, I reiterated my deep texts with Hulk, but other than that. Let's see.
After recovering from my migraine on Saturday morning, I set off with Ned to buy a litter box. I KNOW! For months, Ned has been saying September was the month he was going to buy his cat a new litterbox. Yes. He budgeted a litterbox. Dudes, I don't know what to tell you except that someone may be a more careful spender than me.
So we schlep to the Target, and see, if it were me buying a new litterbox? Well, first, I wouldn't wait till any September to do it. If I decided a new litterbox was needed, I'd probably just go out and spend that $17 willy-nilly. I'd break the budget. And then? I'd look at the litterboxes before me and pick up the one that looked nicest. All in all this task would take me eight seconds.
But--and why did I not think about this before we went?--Ned, who waited till a specific month to buy a litterbox, looked at each one. He got them OUT, flipped them this way and that, read about the features, asked me 454959594 times, "Which one would you get?" I kept saying, "I'd get the blue one. It's swoopy." And it was. And trust me. I've heard old Kicky Johnson in there in her litterbox. Ned has one of those cats who kick kick kick the litter, and who knows why some cats do that. Then after 87 minutes of Rockette-ing the litter, she leaves and TA-DAAAA! there her poop still is, completely uncovered, for the world to see.
"Kicky Johnson" is totally a thing.
Anyway, after--seriously--15 minutes, Ned decided on (!!) the blue one (!!) because it's swoopy. "Maybe she won't kick as much litter out when she's being Kicky Johnson," he said. Okay, he didn't remotely say "Kicky Johnson," because I just totally made that up right here, but he DID pick the blue one for the same reason I said to pick it, and I didn't point out, "That's what I've been SAYING for the last 80 minutes." I did not say that. Because I am a good person who does not complain about her boyfriend on a blog or anything.
Then, and yes there is a THEN, he started perusing the steppy-outty-things, and in case you don't have a cat, there are these sort of cat throw rugs you can place in front of the litter box, which catch some of the litter on your cat's littery feetses when Kicky emerges from the box. The blue box. Which you got becauese it's swoopy and you have Kicky Johnson cat.
"Do you like this one, with the nubs, or the one that's netted?" he asked, as though he were selecting his second home in the country.
"ARE YOU SERIOUSLY GOING TO DEBATE THE STEPPY-OUTY THING, TOO?" I asked, perhaps a trifle impatiently.
"Did you really think this was going to go fast? You've been to restaurants with me."
You know, I have. YOU all have, in a way, since I have perhaps touched on Ned's, you know, CAREFULNESS with a menu.
Good gravy. And he never orders gravy.
After the apparently earth-shatteringly important selection of items for cats to poop on,
we headed to the Halloween section to look at redundantly named
costumes.
Then we looked at costumes I would have picked as a kid, because I was always finding a way to be some kind of princess. Which by the way has not quite changed. And I KNOW these photos are their usual blurry selves, and you know why that is? Because I am using an iPhone 3, and if you loved me at ALL you'd get me an iPhone 5. And, see, it'd BEHOOVE you to do it, because then my pictures would be LOVELY, because iPhone 5s have much better cameras.
Says Princess June. Whose fancy iPhone is not enough for her. BUT REALLY! It'd be a favor to YOU. Go get June an iPhone 5. The princess commands you.
Also, do costumes really cost $25 and $30 now? What if you have a whole passel of kids? You'd spend a hundred bucks on costumes. Money you COULD be using to get me an iPhone. That's highway robbery. I had no idea costumes were that much. Stick a bag on the kid's head and make him be the Unknown Comic.
Parenting tips, by June.
After, we went to PetSmart because I wanted to look at adoptable dogs and Ned wanted to look at lizards.
Then we went to lunch. Here is what Ned got. It has whole grains and sweet potatoes and some kind of greens.
I got fried things. But note healthy Ned cannot resist the siren song of my fries.
Oh, look. I forgot I took a photo of Kicky Johnson in the window. And yes, that IS some kind of sporting-event sculpture. This is only the third boy I have ever liked who liked sports. Cardinal, my high school boyfriend, enjoys the sports, as did that Seattle boyfriend who got married eight minutes after we broke up. It was so awkward, breaking up in the limo with him in a tux.
Actually, I think he got married in Vegas. He told me, but at the time I was too busy trying to act like this was delightful information while I was throwing up on the inside and hurling knives into my gullet, which would have been less painful than receiving that information. Honest engine, it was like two months after I'd moved out, I'm not even kidding. Just telling you about it now makes me a trifle naus.
Here's my OWN cat in my window, clearly thinking murderous thoughts about something outside. I am not sure if I've mentioned that Lily is the most beautiful cat possible. Isn't she? She is the pretty.
On Sunday, Ned golfed, and please see above reference to boy-who-likes-sports, so I took Edsel to the Bog Garden and then the Bi-Something Garden. The Bisexual Garden? The Bipolar Garden? I forget. It's right across from the Bog Garden, and Talu did not go with us due to her hurt foot, but then after I'd walked an hour I remembered my OWN stupid foot is hurt and that walk did not help.
It did manage to wear out the Eds for, oh, seventeen seconds before he was back up being an asshole again. heer my toy! heer is! heer toy! edz drop on you foot! throw toy! edz toy! toy! toy! toy!
Hell's hinges, that dog is annoying. And tireless. You know how Bill Clinton only sleeps four hours a night? I have the dog unsuccessful version of Bill Clinton. Which explains his humping of Tallulah, I guess.
Anyway, that's pretty much all I have to say about my weekend. And about Edsel.
Tallulah and I are like Elliott and E.T. She has hurt her foot.
Okay, and really? You're going to say, "How're you two like Elliott and E.T.?" Are you really gonna do that and be all young and not know? Because that is the last straw.
At my old workplace, where I am freelancing, there is this very young girl (VYG) and I remember LAST time I worked there, she didn't know what Men at Work was. I mean, at all. "Is it a song? How does it go?" Then yesterday I referenced The Courtship of Eddie's Father, as you do, and she was all, "?"
"You never saw it in reruns?" I asked, not even daring to make a Rerun and Raj reference.
If people keep getting younger Ima run out of material.
Anyway, any VYG reading this, Elliott was at school and E.T. got drunk and Elliott felt the effects and let all the frogs go. Also when E.T. was dying (spoiler alert!) (who said in the comments they hate that? I do too.), Elliott was, as well. Which was fine with me. I did not bond with that movie as others did.
For no apparent reason, Ned and I downloaded an episode of That Girl the other day, and in my opinion, it has held up, unlike Welcome Back, Kotter, which so didn't. Marlo Thomas was so completely 100% hot. I really never understood what she saw in Donald. But there you go.
I have no idea how I got off on this tangent. My POINT is that Talu has been licking her foot, and licking it, and also giving it the occasional lick. So I took her to the vet.
Here is Lu sitting on my lap at the vet, trembling. Because she is a big tough Pit Bull. I guess her wimpy Beagle side comes out when we're at the vet.
Anyway, of course they found her paw all red and raw and infected, and now she's on antibiotics and pain pills, and I don't see nobody giving ME no delightful pain pills for MY hurt foot. How is that fair?
I am also pleased to tell you that Luis has lost FIVE POUNDS since Marvin moved out. He overfed all our pets. I can only imagine the Lulu on Hee-Haw impression Henry and Anderson Cooper are doing at this juncture.
You know what VYG would not get? Are Lulu on Hee-Haw references.
Afterward, I emailed Ned, who feigns concern about my pets, or perhaps it's real because he is obsessed with that cat of his, who he didn't want in the first place. Some girl left that cat there. Did I ever tell you that? A friend of mine* (*Daniel Boone) (shut up) said the only way for straight men to have cats and not seem gay is when the cat is left over from a relationship. Fortunately, Ned passes this test.
Anyway, I told him about Lu's weight loss, and how proud I was of her, and how taking her out for her traditional I-survived-the-vet Happy Meal probably impeded her progress.
"You didn't really give her a Happy Meal," said Ned, who probably last went to McDonald's in 1982. "Of COURSE I did," I wrote back. "I ALWAYS do. She gets such a happy I'm-eating-fries expression."
"Oh. Brother." is all Ned wrote back. Then later he yelled at me for not keeping the prize.
And speaking of not McDonald's, Ned cooked for me last night, and yes he DOES need a butter dish. However, he cooked and I didn't, as usual, so who am I to complain? And yes, this was effing delish. Then right after I got a migraine and had to go home.
Yay! June is fun!
Oh, I was sick. I've had a ton of migrianes lately and it's probably one of those tumors going around and not a migraine at all.
Ned, being cook-y.
We did manage, before my migraine set in, to watch When Harry Met Sally, which I had never seen before other than the 3949494994 times I've seen it and how I know it by heart. Ned, however, really HAD never seen it, because it's a girl movie and he only likes dark depressing brooding sad downer deep foreign films where everybody stands around and sighs, but he liked WHMS anyway. Because it's a good movie.
You want to know what, though? We downloaded it on Amazon, and some of the music was different! I think it was all the Harry Conick, Jr. songs that were gone. But having watched it 86 times I am acutely aware of any changes, and let me tell you, IT WAS NOT THE SAME with generic music. And I don't even LIKE Harry Conick and his junior that much. Still.
And by the way, I'm Ben Small, of the Coney Island Smalls.
Oh, and also, "willage."
Who loves that movie? Is it me?
So basically, Ned had to feed me, sit through that movie, then watch me leave in agony. You know what I am? A fun date.
I guess that's all I have to tell you. I have to go to Target for more migraine meds and am kind of sick of self. I would love to throw a Courtship of Eddie's Father joke in here now but too brain-dead to think of one. Stupid migraines. Stupid Mrs. Lee.
My friend Steve (who is not to be confused with Faithful Reader CVSteve nor my old boyfriend Steve who I saw this summer, but ANOTHER friend Steve who we decided in the comments should ID himself as Huge Member Steve) sent me this image yesterday.
Last night I was trying to sleep, and kept thinking of the box--"Cats Love It!" and this cat's face and I kept shaking the bed, I was giggling so hard. Cats love it! Dying.
See. In hysterics again. Ohmygod, that poor cat. He loves it! Clearly.
Also, we all need to go out and get a unicorn horn for our cats. If anyone does so, send me the picture.
Didn't you all send me pictures of your messy coffee tables and didn't I 100% fail to put any on my blog? Also, didn't I just have a giveaway? Who won? I know I never sent anyone anything. What the Sam Hill did I say I was sending you? Was it Abraham Lincoln floss or something?
In other news, I am very tempted to put on here a photo Dick Whitman put of himself on Facebook, in which he's wearing a hospital gown and we see it open in the back, but I am abstaining. Because that is the good kind of friend I am. I just MENTION it to everyone without showing it.
Lean on me. When you're not strong. And I'll be your friend. I'll help you carry on.
Anyway, his clavicle hurts. He was having it looked at. That's why he had on the gown. And you know, he DID put it on Facebook, for all the world to see, so I don't see how it would hurt for me to show it here. But I will not. I do not want Dick Whitman getting all pit on my azz.
None of this is why I gathered you all here today, however. What I WANTED to discuss was this:
Somehow Ned and I got into a discussion wherein I called him motivated. "I am the least-motivated person on earth," he said. That's what he said. Ned. The person who said, "Ima quit smoking after doing it for 25 years" and just did it, two years ago. The person who said, "Ima start working out again" and does so every night. The person who said, "I'm going to eat better" and now eats the Green Giant's weight in salads every week. I mean, he's the most motivated person I know. I say I'm gonna have a giveaway and can't manage the three clicks it'd take to get you your cat unicorn horn.
Cats love it!
Clearly you have no idea how much that slays me.
"In a million years I'd never imagine anyone would describe me as motivated," said salady Ned.
This made me think of the time my best friend from elementary school said her husband finally had to realize she was not a tower of strength. I forget what the scenario was, and no, my best friend was not married in elementary school. She told me this story recently. We were best friends in elementary school. Smarty.
Anyway, as I said, I forget the particulars, I just remember thinking, "No one has ever had to realize I'm not a tower of strength. No one's ever said, 'Oh that June. She's tough on the outside...'"
In fact, one time Marvin was talking to a woman who'd been home showering, and someone broke in and raped her right there. In her shower! Can you imagine? Cats love it. Anyway, Marvin said, "My wife would never recover from that. She's not strong."
I was kind of offended, but god, that is totally the truth. I would NEVER.RECOVER. from that.
So my point is, what is one way no one would ever describe you? And are you sure?
