I charged my Fitbit last night, so now I don't know how I slept and HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO LIVE LIKE THAT? Also, I only remembered to put it on once I got here, to the computer, where it was charging, so I missed out on all those valuable let Edsel out and back in/feed the cats/feed the dog/make coffee/shower/put away pajamas steps. That means I just stood here running in place so my Fitbit could "catch up."
In unrelated news, woman's brain snaps, blames Fitbit. Story at 11:00.
I only do things like put away pajamas because it's what Ned would have done. I started feeling guilty about my slobbildy-ness when I lived there. All his shirts hung the same direction in the closet. He made his bed no matter what. That night he barfed 11 times, he probably made his bed before he ran to the bathroom each time. I don't know, due to the HAZMAT suit/grabbing suitcase situation I had going.
Slashes are a big thing with me today.
I noticed, during the brief period that my puppy was here, MY puppy, that as mellow and cool as he was, he watched Edsel a lot. I wanted to go in there and speak puppy to him, tell him, @whsoetr ^3edselwwmwbg rrrrgrrrr, which if you don't speak puppy translates to "Do not let Edsel be your guide."
!rwwrtyssfh edz38323. [edz resent]
Look at my tiny family. It seems like too few pets, right? I know there's one reader here who has, like, 14 kids, and after some cat or another died here, I bemoaned how few pets I had and she said she feels like that when a kid is at camp or whatever. "That's all we've got for KIDS around here?" And there are still 12 kids running amok at her house.
Maths.
Edsel's totally got backup singers. He's Edsel and the Pussycats.
I asked him to come up on the couch last night. The secret to proper training is consistency. I felt lonesome, because my house is so empty what with the almost no pets, and I patted the couch and he was like stop-motion photography. reelly? edz---no. reelly? you want--ookay. no. you--reelly?
After I got all my money back for that couch (I just checked my account. IT'S NOT IN THERE YET.), Marty Martin says maybe we might could fix it. We just have to flip the couch upside-down and then do something manly to it with tools.
Just sent fairly terse email to Joss & Main. Not that terse. Because still. It was nice of them to refund me, if they ever do. You should hear that couch when you sit on it. It's like you're sitting on seven tubas. As you do.
In the meantime, it's worky at my work. Yesterday I got in the car for lunch and started heading for home, when TING-A-LING-DING! My phone went off. "Meeting at 1:00," it read. Son of a fucking BITCH. So I turned around and headed back to work.
Dear anyone who schedules meetings from 12:00 to 1:30: Stop it. We get ONE DAMN HOUR a day, ONE HOUR, that's all we're asking, ONE HOUR to pick up paint or get gas or go to therapy or watch a recorded episode of Long Island Medium. ONE HOUR. Let us have it.
Iris is back sleeping on my arm again while I type this.
Restful. Well, it is for her.
When I got my phone out to photograph Convenient Iris, I noted there was a text from my mother. I sent her that group shot of the pets last night, and she wrote back, That's EVERYBODY?
See.
Remember when our phones were just our phones? They didn't take pictures or remind you of meetings or show you girl-on-girl videos, remember that? They just hung there on your kitchen wall, with a cord that if you were lucky stretched out to the den where you could half shut the door.
My mother just texted back...
Marketing marketing marketing copy. Well okay, then.
I'd better go do that.
June June June, copy that.
