“Hello, petty.” That was a message I got from a tuxedo’d man on Tinder last night. Yes, now I’m on Tinder. It’s not as hook-uppy as you’d think. I’m sure he meant to write, “You’re so pretty, June” but instead he wrote “Hello, petty,” and that sums me up so much better. Which is what I wrote him.
I don’t expect to hear back.
Last night I had dinner with happy Ned. I know he looks all defensive and Tony Soprano, but really he was holding his breath cause he had hiccups. He had to go on this, like, four-day golf thing that sounded like a giant pack of hell, where they played golf (do you “play” golf? They did golf? They competed in golf?) like 36 times a day or for 36 games or something with 36 in it every day. Then he got on a plane yesterday morning, ate almonds all day because planes, came to get me, wolfed down his fish and got hiccups.
Here’s a more regularly scheduled Ned, telling a story, probably about doing golf.
That woman behind him was really thin. I hate how enormous I currently am. It’s depressing. The thin woman got a salad. I had Parmesan-encrusted chicken. So there you go.
The reason he wanted to have dinner is because (a) he hadn’t seen Iris since The Incident, and seeing as he loaned me the smack to pay for it, I let him come see her. Is smack money or heroin? I’ve paid him back more than half already, thanks to you guys. And your heroin donations.
I did, by the way, get a note that I had certified mail from those neighbors. I signed for it and left the sign-for-it note on my mailbox, which the mailperson, the personperson, took and I’m supposed to get said piece of mail this week. I am not sure if it’s a cashier’s check or a nasty letter sent certified mail. FRaDW.
Anyway, (b) he also, Ned did, wanted to tell me that he had a dream that he was with a young, hot girl and she had the smokin’ hoots, I hope not literally, and he was out somewhere with her and saw me and he missed me so much and was sad.
“How did I do, in the dream, with seeing you with a young hot woman?” I asked.
“Oh, you were fine. You seemed fine,” he said.
Yeah, that’s a dream.
“So, in your mind, I’m the antithesis of a young hot thing,” I pointed out, because I can never see the good in anything. Hello, petty. “When you were with me, did you feel like Jack Nicholson in The Shining, where you start out kissing a hot woman in a bathtub and then you look up and she’s an old, scary crone?”
That crone is thinner than me.
“No,” Ned said thoughtfully, “but she did spend a lot of that scene laughing at herself for what seemed like no reason. That’s kind of like you,” Ned said. “Do you think they cut out a scene where she told Jack Nicholson a pun or something?”
After dinner, Ned came back to my house for a drink and to see Iris and NOTHING HAPPENED so calm down. But I did note that SD and Edsel seem to sleep in the same positions a lot. Steely Dan thinks Edsel is da bomb, probably because it’s the only animal in the house his size, and he’s forever rubbing his face on Edsel, and trying to get Edsel to play, and imitating Edsel in his sleep and so on.
Dying. Blu is never far from Eds. Shoes are never put away.
I had to scrape a rocking chair across the room the other day, put it in front of my closet door, because SD keeps getting in there and eating my clothes. I’ve had to throw away more things. The point is. I went in my room yesterday and the rocking chair was moved.
IT WAS MOVED.
How did he get the strength to move it? Is he an ant? God.
Oh, and I forgot to tell you that outside the restaurant last night was a little cart with local fruit and vegetables you could buy, and I got some strawberries, which are early this year, and thus begins our season of June Eats Nothing But Strawberries.
There was a very cute chef type with an accent there, serving the stuff. They also had a jar there for an honor system, but of course I’d taken that jar of money at the beginning of the evening. Hello, petty thief.
Anyway, I shouldn’t hang around Ned. It made him angry that I’ve been going out on dates–apparently I should be sitting with a no-wedding cake like an even more pathetic Miss Havisham or something. And you know I wanted to marry Ned, but even if he became a new person somehow and was dying to comm–see. He’s never going to become a new person who’s dying to commit.
You know what I am? I’m the grouper from that one restaurant, the grouper he loved so much and has never gotten over. But as much as he loved that grouper, I’ve never seen him get it again. He enjoys it as a memory. It’s easier than, say, proposing to the grouper and putting a lovely let’s say ruby ring on its fin and eating nothing but grouper till the end of time.
That was a really good analogy, June. Why aren’t you a rich writer? Hey, petty cash.
Okay, I gotta go.
Here’s a blurry picture of yore, with my two blonde-wood pets from the olden days. Which was already implied when I said “yore.” The point is, they were so in love, those two. And whatever happened to that pillow? I loved that pillow.
Okay, Jan Juan Joon Jen out. I love how one of you was all, da fuk? Who’s Jan?