WHAT?

My friend at work, The Poet, has a birthday on December 31. Which is sort of cool in every way, except for the part where no one cares about you on your birthday.

EXCEPT ME. I DID. But then I got my mysterious throat illness, and I was willing to still take The Poet out, but she did not want to catch my disease, nor did she want to hold me in her armchair so she could feel my disease, so we made plans to go out last night, and last night we did.

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Here's me waiting for The Poet to show up. She worked later than I did, as she is on a fancy account and they work a lot.

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I took her to the hotel I like to go to, the scene of my first date with Ned, but that's not important right now. It's a big building with patients, but that's not important right now. The Poet brought fortune cookies, as she'd had them from a previous festivity, that festivity being, I believe, that she'd ordered Chinese for herself, and let's get this party started.

Hers said a house without books is not a home. She read it, and then we laughed like hyenas. She is not without books. It's very booky at her abode. If the police came by, they'd say, "Book her." She's got books, is what I'm saying to you. In fact, she's got so many books that she somehow found this man from Africa, who has a name we've never heard of, like Ohu or Ohio or Mantooth, and he comes over regularly to take away the books she's gone though and decided to donate. "Omaha came by and took 300 more books with him," she'll say.

So, books. Yeah.

Mine said at the end of the day, think about what I got from a day and what I gave to it. "Well, that's just smug advice," I said, not eating my cookie. "That's not a fortune. That's a school marm."

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We toyed with getting appetizers, but settled instead on the dessert plate, which contained internal organs. Mmmmmm!

Really, that photo was not flattering. It was that thing you get in New Orleans, a Bin Laden or a bidet or a Ben Wa or whatever. Then honey graham creme bruleé that Marvin would have died for, a mint chocolate cheesecake, and dark chocolate mousse.

Anyway, we weren't there long before a live band started, and if you ever want to make me happy, please play live music while I am trying to have a fucking conversation.

"WHAT?" we said, the rest of the night. And The Poet is such a loudmouth as it is. She probably went home and poeted about the whole evening. The poem will be titled, WHAT?

I as really hoping they'd play Lyin' Eyes, as you know that's The Poet's favorite. I can't hear that song without delighting in telling her I heard it, then inevitably throwing in a line from it. Because I found out early, how to open doors with just a smile.

That'd be so helpful when I have groceries.

I came home and, after several disasters, got off OK Cupid. Oh my god, I give up. Everyone I liked didn't like me, and everyone who liked me was either creepy or unemployed. One guy I talked to for days, and I kept asking about his life, and everything was nebulous.

"Why did you move here? For your job?"

"It was sort of a crisis that brought me here."

Okay.

Finally, after DAYS, I was just direct. "What do you do for a living?"

"I'm in a 'transition' right now," he wrote. His air quotes, not mine. "Trying to find the career that will suit me."

He's 45.

And this was not an isolated incident. Look, men of America, none of whom read my blog, do not get on dating sites if you are not equipped to be in a relationship. That means being in the middle of a life crisis, being unemployed, being under-employed, being a nutbar, etc.

So while I fumed over that, I also decided I am probably not ready to be in a relationship, either. I have to get over Ned 100%. I have to get to the point where I can run into him or god forbid hear about him (you have no idea how many people at work feel the need to tell me they saw him out and about) and it would mean nothing. Until I get to that point, I'm not good for anybody, either.

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I decided all that last night while obsessing over my cats. These last two weeks have marked five years since I got Iris and soon after, Lily. The Frost sisters. Did you forget their last names are Frost? And–oh my god! Yesterday was the three-month anniversary of getting Steely Dan Silverman. Idiot savant about dates.

The point is, I'm obsessed with Steely Dan. The Poet remarked about what a beautiful cat he is, (even when he's making that face, above) and he truly is lovely.

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Attitudinal. Catitudinal. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Woooo! Oh, this sure is a humor blog, June.

He's just so sweet, and so adventurous, and he purrs when you pick him up. Look. Iris will always be my f-a-v-o-r-i-t-e of my cats, because Iris is amazing, but oh, he is really da bomb. I lucked out on this Craigslist find.

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I don't know why Edsel never lays his head on the dog bed.

Oh! And speaking of things I can't afford, like a bigger dog bed that he'd still hang his head off of, my Steely Dan ball is coming up this pay period and I seriously have, like, 50 dollars to spend on it. I need cheap decoration ideas (ball themed) and one, like, soup or meatball recipe or something I can make. Everyone is bringing snacks and wine as well, so.

Okay, go! You're like my personal Pinterest.

WHAT?

June