At the urging of Sars, I'm going to tell you about the Jones family.
In my new neighborhood, there are a lot of outdoor cats. Outdoor cats, in my experience, don't tend to stick to their own yards. They run around and go wherever they want. Property lines mean nothing to cats.
As a result, we often have strange cats in our back yard, or even sometimes in our front yard, hanging out by the bird feeders or skulking around in the deep grass next door. I don't know what their actual names are, and in some cases I'm not entirely sure which house they belong to. So I just assumed that they are all related. Because they're all cats, and they all have the same type of longish fur and the same general body type. I don't think they are siblings. They must be cousins. And they all have the last name Jones.
The first Jones I met was Marmalade Jones. He is orange. He has turned out to be a rare visitor to these parts. Marmalade likes to sit out in the back yard and say, "My name is Mar-ma-lade. Mar-ma-lade Jones!" Marmalade talks like a seventy-five-year old man from Alabama. And he likes to say his own name a lot. He's a little hard of hearing, so he talks kind of loudly. Sometimes right when you are in the middle of a sentence, he will just shout out, "I'm Mar-ma-LADE! Mar-ma-LADE JONES!" He doesn't care. He's Marmalade Jones.
The next Jones I met was Gorilla Jones. He is all black and very muscular, somewhat like a gorilla. It helps if you know that I tend to refer to my own cats as monkeys, so it wasn't a big leap to Gorilla. Anyway. Gorilla Jones loves my cats. Loves them. He likes to sit under the bay window in the front of our house and wait for one of my girls to come to the window, and then he sings to them. And then they run away. Gorilla doesn't know why the girls keep running away from him when he sings so pretty. Gorilla also likes to hang out under my car, but if I walk out of the house, he runs home. He lives across the street, but he always looks both ways before crossing. He wishes he could come and live with me and my girls, because his family has dogs, and he doesn't like dogs.
The next Jones I met is an elusive Jones. I think I've only seen him twice. His name is Smokey Jones, and as you might have guessed, he is gray. I don't know much about Smokey's lifestyle or personality since, as mentioned, I haven't had much exposure to him. But Gorilla Jones gave me some information. Smokey likes to lie in the cool grass when it's hot. Smokey doesn't like other cats. Smokey is the youngest Jones. That's about all I know about the mysterious Smokey.
I thought that was all the Joneses that existed until a few weeks ago, when I was introduced to the final Jones family member -- Cracker-Ass Jones. He is all white. Cracker-Ass has a large sense of entitlement. He likes to hop over our privacy fence and hang out in the tree in our yard, next to the bird feeder. Cracker-Ass is a graceful leaper. He can jump up on top of our six-foot high fence without breaking stride. Cracker-Ass is very proud of his long white fur, and always looks clean, even though he spends a lot of time outside. Cracker-Ass Jones doesn't really like people, but he might like you if you helped him catch a bird. He likes to watch the birds and some day he might catch one. Just you wait and see. Just because he hasn't yet doesn't mean that he won't.
So that's the Jones family. Jim thinks I'm insane because I talk about them all the time. Well, not all the time. Just when I see one of them. And then I make up backstories about them and their personalities. I've tried to get pictures of the various Jones family members to no avail. But I will let you know if I find out any more information about them. Maybe I could write a children's book about the Jones family. Except I would probably want to rethink Cracker-Ass.
So I don't know if I've mentioned this lately, but my best friend Molly is due to have her first baby any day now. She's actually due on Saturday, but you know how notoriously unreliable due dates are. (If you don't know, well, due dates are notoriously unreliable, especially for first-time moms). I'll just answer all the usual questions here first. No, they don't know the gender. Yes, they have picked out some names, but no, they're not telling anyone. No, not even family. No, not even me. And no, she's not in labor yet. I spent a couple of hours with Molly today and I get sick of hearing those questions. I can't imagine how sick of them she is. This is going to be the first grandchild on both sides of the family, and her mother-in-law calls her every day to check in. It's very sweet, because obviously she's very excited about the whole thing and just wants to be in the loop. But it cracks me up because it's as if she thinks Molly's going to go into labor, go to the hospital, and have the baby without ever informing her husband's parents.
Anyway, Mary went and got a pedicure with our friend Jen the other day. It was supposed to be a spa pedicure, where you get the foot massage and the whole nine. Mary ended up being kind of unhappy with the place, but I'm not going to go into too much detail because I already rubbed it in (you'll understand that in a minute) and I don't want to annoy Mary any more than I already have.
So that gave Molly and I the idea to also go get pedicures. Given that she's nine months pregnant, you can imagine that Molly has just been feeling big lately, and there's not a lot she can do about it. She doesn't complain, but with the crazy heat we've been having lately, I can't imagine it's been very comfortable for her. And she's been off work for the past week, since her maternity leave already started. So Molly and I decided to book pedicures together, at a different place than the one Mary went to. And our appointment was today. Now, I've had pedicures before -- longtime readers will remember that Jim has bought me a spa package twice in our relationship, and the first time it included a pedicure.
We got to the place and they immediately welcomed us in by name. Well, they asked first which one of us was Molly and which was Kim. We were immediately whisked back to the pedicure area, where there were two big cushiony chairs waiting, with a soaking whirlpool bath at the foot. And the best part? There were tiaras sitting on each chair. So Molly and I donned our tiaras. I really wished I had my camera, because I don't know if I've ever seen anything funnier than Molly, with her big pregnant belly, sitting in this chair soaking her feet and wearing a tiara. The tiara was seriously the best part. Well, almost.
We got situated and the attendant showed us how to operate the massage chairs. They were massage chairs! Like not only did we get a foot massage, and wear a tiara, but we also got a full body massage that we could control! We experimented with the different settings while the attendant left us to soak our feet in the whirlpool bath. I turned to Molly and said, "I would seriously pay just to sit in this chair and soak my feet for an hour." There was also a wall fountain in between us that added to the relaxing mood.
The attendants returned shortly and started in on the pedicure. It was really the deluxe version and featured lots of scrubbing and rubbing. And not just feet -- they did our calves and ankles too. Dead skins was sloughed off. Cuticles were pushed back. There were rough scrubs and cooling scrubs. It was heaven. After about half an hour of that, we picked out our polish color, and that was applied. The whole time we sat there, we got to chitchat about this and that. I think we ended up talking about bad prom tuxedos for a while. Then we got to sit in the chairs a little longer while our polish dried. Overall, we were there for about an hour and fifteen minutes. Heaven. Finally, we relinquished our tiaras, paid for our treatments and left.
Like an idiot, I insisted on wearing my own slides out instead of just wearing the disposable flip-flops they give you so that you don't smudge your polish. And I smudged my polish. But I don't even care, because I can polish my own toenails. It was the rest of the experience that was worth it. As soon as we got in the car, we scanned the brochure looking for some other treatment we could get as soon as possible. I was like, "If you don't have that baby by next week, we are totally coming back here for the spa manicure." Molly said that Jim wouldn't let me hang out with her anymore because she was aiding and abetting me spending all my money at the spa. Of course, as soon as we got in the car, we called Mary and told her how great it was. Mary was like, "Are you trying to make me feel bad?" And I said, "Um, kind of?" It's a good thing Mary is a good sport. And Mary, you know that I will go there with you any time you want. Or you can go with another friend and call me while you are being pampered and rub it in. I deserve that.
So I was queen for a day! It was awesome. I think every person (male or female) deserves to be pampered once in a while.
So last night, I decided that I have turned into an old lady. I'm turning 30 in September, so it was only a matter of time. There have been the small signs along the way, like when I noticed that I had enough gray hair that I couldn't just pluck each one out. Or when I turned on TRL and realized that I had never heard of 90% of the artists featured in the videos. Nor had I heard the songs they were singing. Ever. But I think last night I crossed a line.
It's hot here, just like it's hot everywhere. I was sitting on the couch in the living room, which faces the street, with the windows open. I was half watching Everybody Loves Raymond and half writing my Mole recap. I kept turning the TV up and turning the TV up until I realized that the reason I couldn't hear it was because the people across the street had their radio up so loud. And they were setting off fireworks (which are illegal in NYS but whatever). And they were screaming and yelling and laughing.
As an aside, our neighborhood is decent. It's rural, so the people are kind of hicks, so I fit right in, because I'm kind of a hick too. Next door we have Sanford and Son, who never mow their lawn and keep junk cars in the back yard. Other than their penchant for trying to turn the engine over on one of the junk cars at 9 AM on a Sunday morning, I can't really complain. Across the street, we have what we call "Frank's House". If you've ever watched Trading Spaces, you'll know what I mean. It's very country crappy. There are heart shapes cut out of the window shutters. Their mailbox is a birdhouse. You get the drift. But they seem like nice people, and are also fairly quiet. Next door to them is an apartment house. The only complaint I have about them is that someone is trying to sell some old junky rusty piece of crap car, so every once in a while someone comes to drive it around and it has no muffler. But whatever. They were the ones being loud. Back to my story.
I sat there and stewed for a while as I plotted possible courses of action. I could shut the windows, but the breeze coming in was the only relief from the heat. I could go over and ask them to turn down the radio, but they looked like bunch of 18 and 19 year olds, and I figured they would just laugh at me or tell me to fuck off. Plus, I'm a coward. So I waited a while and when they were still being loud at 9:30, I called the cops and registered a noise complaint.
I feel like an asshole for doing it. It was just so annoying! So like twenty minutes later, two cop cars pulled up. I don't know why they had to send two. That made it look more like a drug bust. I was expecting some Andy Taylor-looking mofo to pull up and shamble over to the porch and say, "Hey, y'all. Some of the folks in the area are getting a little upset by your loud music, and it is after dark now. Do you think you could turn it down a little bit?" Of course, I don't live in Mayberry, so I don't know why I thought that's what would happen. Of course, if a cop walked up to me and told me to turn my music down, I would probably turn it off, run inside, and hide under the bed while saying a rosary so I wouldn't get arrested. But I have a problem with authority in that I am terrified of it. Anyway. So the cops came and said something and I tried to listen in but of course that was the one moment when they were talking quietly, so I couldn't. Then the cops left and the people turned their music back up and started speculating loudly about which neighbor called the cops and how stupid it was. And I sat there and felt like an asshole because now not only was I an old lady, but I was an ineffective old lady, because it didn't work. I just hope none of them read this journal entry and figure out my identity and egg my house or something.
In other old lady news, with the recent heat and humidity, my hands and feet have been swelling up. I've been trying to chug water and cut back on salt and all that stuff, but it's still unpleasant. And another sign of my aging.
In better news, I ordered our wedding invitations today. Nothing too exciting there. Except the place where I ordered them from has a resident cat who hangs out in the print shop. So when I went in to place the order, I asked how the cat was, and told the guy that one of the reasons why I came to their shop was because of the cat. So the guy got all excited because apparently his brother (co-owner of the business) wants to get rid of the cat. So I wrote a letter to his brother that went like this: "To Whom It May Concern: One of the reasons why I came back to Abell Press to order my wedding invitations, is because of Smokey the cat. Many printing presses offer wedding invitations, but only Abell Press has a cat! Sincerely, Kim Reed, big fan of Smokey the cat."
So now I'm not only old, but I'm a dork as well. I'm going on a little vacation over the Fourth, so I should have lots of pictures when I come back