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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
And about Kicky Johnson.