Now that Edsel's dog brain has snapped and I have to literally go outside with him (as opposed to figuratively going outside with him, the way I used to. "I'm outside with you in spirit, Eds!"), I realize it's really one of my favorite parts of my day.
It's so pretty back there, with the sun coming in, and so warm at lunchtime. Edsel watches me while he pees now, to make sure I don't slip inside and deceive him. It's like when my father would make me dunk my head under water. "WATCH ME," I'd command. "WATCH ME AND SHOW ME THE DOLLAR."
He always, always had to bribe me to put my head underwater. And you may scoff at the dollar, but that was 3x my weekly salary, so.
Four times? If I made a quarter a week, and it was a dollar, it'd be four times, right?
All this bribery and head-dunking did a lot for my stellar career in finance and math professoring.
"What do you do?"
"Oh, I'm in finance and math professoring." I suppose somewhere out there is someone with that career going on, right? We'd have a lot to say to one another.
SPEAKING of finance, I got another freelance check in the mail yesterday and every penny of it went toward my
GODDAMN
credit card bill, so hey, financeteen. Yeah, we can't dance together. Yeah, we can't talk at all.
I heard another Steely Dan song in the car the other day, not just in my head or coming quietly from the basement to frighten me, and that song was FM, and it dawns on me that for someone who named her cat after a band, she's really not all that up on Steely Dan songs.
steelee resent. from bowel of hell, he resent.
Oh, hey, I should've warned you, but Steely Dan has been up to shenanigans. I know. Brace.
I came home last night to goings-on, for a change, and this time they're digging holes all over my neighborhood and doing things with big trucks, and that was probably the name of the project when they budgeted it. "We got the go-ahead to start in with Doing Things With Big Trucks, so let's commence digging the holes."
This goddamn...HOSE was in my driveway, and I drove right over it rebelliously. You put your hose in m'driveway, my car is running it over. Also, "put your hose in m'driveway" sounds vaguely dirty, and is sadly the most action I've had in a spell.
Dirty Work! That's a Steely Dan song? I LOVE that song! (Guess who got distracted and Googled?) (Which will also serve as my epitaph. June. She got distracted and Googled.)
The point is, I was marveling at the holes in the hood and the hose in m'drive, when I saw old SD leap straight into the underworld, from whence he came. This is probably how he gets outside, too: He just leaps back into hell and moseys about then leaps back out from hell once he's outside. It'd be just my luck that my house was built straight over hell, although really, is hell supposed to be underneath all of us or just, you know, straight outta Compton or Madrid or what? They've never given us the parameters. There's not a Google Under Earth to look it up, either.
There's a suburb near here, not that this place needs a suburb at all, and it's ironically called High Point. It's the most depressing place on earth for me. All that new construction, new strip malls, that kind of place. It is so not a high point. It is character-free point. If that's where hell is, it would not surprise me.
Oh my god, anyway. So the cat jumped in the hole, I called him to come out, I snapped his photo, made everyone come home for dinner after their long workday of manual labor, and that sums up that story.
You hunt 16 doves, whattaya get, another day older and deeper in det.
...wat be det?
I guess that's all my news, except the whole office is abuzz with how everyone's moving. Everyone. Is moving. So my place is being usurped by a new person, and I'm usurping a person, and it's very Faberge Organics with the "and so on." I have no idea what this is going to do for all of us, but we had another terrifying creature sighting yesterday in our "garden level," so I'm just excited to go up where fewer vermin are.
They told us yesterday to bring our chairs to the new spot--it's a BYOC situation. "How're we gonna get them upstairs?" I wondered aloud to my boss's boss, fmr. "I guess we could take the freight elevator. Did you ever see that old movie, or maybe it was just a TV show, where the woman--maybe a couple--murder a man, and the frieght elevator goes right past her living room, so they cover him with a sheet, I think, to get rid of him, but then his ghost keeps riding the freight elevator and sometimes you can see the sheet and hear the guy whistling?"
My boss's boss, fmr., waited for me to finish.
"This has something to do with our move, right?"
What is WRONG with him? Has me met my head? God.
I'd better go, so I can begin my linear, math-y day.
I am not kidding you, as I was preparing to get up from here, I just got this message from OK Cupid:
Maybe he needs help with his calculus.
Numerically,
June
