I am home; Ned and I were supposed to go to the beach this week, but now he's bogged down with work and I don't know if we're going or not. In the meantime, since I took these days off, what kind of nutbar would I be to not take advantage? So far I spent three angry hours between 6:00 and 9:00 willing myself back to sleep (didn't happen), I cleaned up a dead bird brought in by you-know-who and she is NOT allowed in the yard again till fall and now I'm doing laundry and blogging. Multitasker!
Here's my super-manicured back yard and Iris trying to problem-solve yesterday. No, she did not get one of the babies, but that is why she is grounded. I will feel awful if she does. She is the murdery-est cat I've ever met.
So while Iris has her mind on her murder and her murder on her mind, in the meantime, I got a letter from The New York Times the other day. For our dating anniversary back in January, I got Ned a NYT Sunday-only subscription for some specific number of weeks. I think it was 16 weeks. Whatever. The point is, now I've got this note saying you'd better pay up, Sister, or we're coming to your house to cut a bitch. We're The New York Times. I'd paid them up front for the gift. A subscription of 12 or maybe 16 weeks, I can't remember anymore. A bunch of times the paper didn't arrive, so they said they'd tack on extra weeks for each week it was missing. So what was up? Why the bill? They're trying to buffalo me with this bill. Heavens, I wish Ida slept more.
Of course the office was closed when I got this letter, so I went online and furiously tried to find out why I was being billed. Of course, they wanted me to create an online account first, because God forbid they just help me out and not try to sell me more stuff. I started creating an online account and said forget it. I'll call tomorrow.
Yesterday I get an email from The New York Times, trying to--yes!--sell me something. I must have told them enough that they knew where to pester me. What kills me is the greeting at the top. I wasn't about to give them my real name when I signed up for that stupid account.
Dear fuck you. Oh, I am dying. Also? When I called yesterday, it turns out they give you the gift subscription and then KEEP SENDING the paper unless you call to say cancel it. No one told me that when I signed up, but they said it was in the terms and conditions I signed.
Of course it was. And nothing makes you say, Hey, you're an honest company like sneaking some trickery into the terms and conditions. Assholes. Dear fuck you. Deer-fuck you. Is what I have to say.
In the meantime, while I pen this diatribe, old Killer Queen, over here, has decided to have her a nap on June. Her big murdery paws are starfishing in happiness. eyeriss luff to kill. so sur een after.
I have to go, but before I do, let me tell you just one more thing. My Aunt Kathy and her husband, mu Uncle Bill, were at a busy restaurant this weekend. Another couple walked in when they did, a young couple, and what my aunt MEANT to say was, "Maybe we'll have to sit at a fourtop." What came OUT was, "Maybe we'll have to have a foursome."
She said that young couple couldn't get away from her fast enough, and she had to sit in the restaurant in humiliation for the whole meal. Oh, look, the pervy lady just got a refill on her Pepsi. Hey, pervy lady just went to the pervy ladies room.
Poor Aunt Kathy.
Okay, that is all. Dear fuck you: I'm outta here.
P.S. For Purple Clover this week, I just retold my fireman story. Look, that story needs to be told.
