Last night I had a dream that I was signing Edsel up for the FetLife website. FetLife is, well, let me look it up because I don't actually know.
...Okay. FetLife is like a dating site for people with fetishes, and what saddens me is that I don't know what Edsel's fetish is, although I'll bet it involves biting. Anyway, I was filling out his profile for him as he sat next to me telling me what to write, and the best part of the dream is that I was halfway through when I finally formed the thought, "Wait. Edsel can TALK?"
Then I woke up and he was on top of all the blankets and I was freezing to death. Maybe that's his fetish. Making me miserable.
It was good I felt cold, though, because I came home last night to a broken air conditioner. In August. In the South. Sign me up. Sign me up for FetLife. Overheated mother of god. So, I called the AC place, and for a mere 17 million dollars they came over straightaway and fixed it. My hoooo-deee-frooo-deee-hoogen was broken. He said it's pretty typical. Then he charged me eleventy million dollars.
Which is better than the 17 million I'd stated previously, so.
Oh, also, this.
I, you know, meandered over to visit the buff kitty again. In jail.
Orange you glad I visited her? You shouldn't put kittens this close to me. Don't stand so close to me.
So that was my evening. Yesterday at work I had a lot of writing to do, so I sneaked off to my hiding place in the building, and what is sad is that you have to hide in order to get your work done. Dear Whomever Invented Open Floor Plans: Fuck you. Oh, I'm sooooooo productive. Produce this.
Anyway it was lovely. Now all I have is the fear of my hiding place being discovered. And what am I gonna do, say, "Hey, this is my illegal work spot!"?
When I worked in Seattle in the '90s, I'd take my high-heeled loafers and clomp on over to the library for lunch. There was this woman at work, this older woman, who sadly was probably around my age now. Anyway, she was obsessed with whatever anyone else was eating. You'd take your lunch to the breakroom and she'd cover her mouth and still talk with her mouth full.
"Oh! What's that?" she'd ask EVERYONE, hand over her mouth. "Is it spicy?" Spicy was a big thing with her, and now that I'm her age and clearly going to reach for a mock turtleneck with patterns soon, as she did, I can understand the worry about spice. Hello, gerd.
Anyway, it drove my friend Paula berserk, to the point that it eventually drove me berserk out of sympathy, so I'd leave to head to the library, where I'd discovered this restaurant on the roof. They had, among other delicious things, this chicken with cashews stir fry that was to die for. I'd take my book, get out of the way of the incessant nagging drizzle of Seattle, and read all lunch. Then I'd clomp my Christopher Columbus shoes back to work.
What was with those high-heeled loafers we all wore? Stupid Ally McBeal.
I BEEN SEARCHIN' MY SOUL TONIGHT! Oh my god, please get that out of my head.
Anyway, one day I was happily up there, on my rooftop sanctuary, when I heard, "Juuuuune!" And there was the mock turtleneck lady. On my roof. "Oh! That looks good! Is it spicy?!" [mouth cover]
Goddammit. Sanctuary. Ruined.
I have to go to work now, as I am wont to do. I'll probably spend most of the day in my hidey hole. I'll let you know if anyone writes Edsel for a kinky rendezvous.