Several times now, like two, Ned has called me out of the blue.
“Oh, hi, Ned. What’re you up to?”
“Just standing here panicking,” he’ll say.
Ned’s got some (wait for it) decisions coming up, and if you’ve read this not-blog before, you’ll know decision-making is not his bailiwick.
(Can you imagine? If this was your first time reading this bullshit, ever? Oh, hey, what’d I stumble across, here? Oh, Lort. Lort hep ya.)
Anyway. So he’s been panicking, because he has giant decisions to make at work, which I won’t go into, and also about our house. My house, fmr. His house, crnt.
See what I did, there? “crnt.” Oh my god, I love myself.
Our gaylord is selling the house. The gaylord and his husband are moving to Washington, D.C., a place, my mother was nice enough to inform me recently, where the White House is. “Honey, the White House is in Washington, D.C.”
My mother thinks I’m an absolute idiot, despite getting all Ss in elementary school. Did y’all have Ss and Us? Satisfactory and unsatisfactory. Next time I have sex, if I ever, ever remotely have sex again, Ima rate it with an S or a U. Or maybe F for finally.
Oh my god, we were not discussing the state of things in my girl parts (answer: see desert) (see: tumbleweeds) (see: closed for repair) (see: the way I get off topic is why no one wants to have sex with me).
So, the gaylord offered Ned the house. Not like, here, here’s a free house, but rather that he wouldn’t put it on the market if Ned wanted to buy it. I love that phrase. “On the market.” All I can think of is one of the toe/pigs headed to market. And the other, agoraphobic toe/pig, who stays home.
Wee wee wee.
Naturally this has sent Ned into a tailspin, and he’s been obsessing about his house and his work for months now. Which leads to a panic, and do you think he’ll learn anything about making decisions from this process? I don’t, either.
Anyway, he was in one of his panics, and I said, “You want to take a walk or something?” I’m trying to offer him better coping skills than the ones he’s using, which I will also not go into, but which may involve hops and barley.
Unfortunately for everyone with an eardrum, you cannot say the sentence, “You want to take a walk” without Edsel leaping up like a colt and piercing the air with the highest-pitched dog barks anyone has ever uttered. He’s like the Adele of dog barks.
That is when it was decided that I’d drive over to Ned’s, as he has the beginnings of a park trail four houses from his front door and he should really just buy that house, and that I would be bringing Edsel, who at this point had a serious jones for a walk.
I got his bucking bronco self in the car, and occasionally I’m reminded of the asshole people who used to say, “I knew a dog like Edsel. He was excitable his whole life. That dog may not ever calm down” and dear people like that: fuck you. You’re probably the same people who see a pregnant woman and tell her horror stories.
The point is, Edsel is pretty good in the car. He’s very good in the car, actually. I think the car makes him a little nervous, as opposed to everything else in this life. He sits in back quietly, usually, until this time, when we rounded the curve to Ned’s house.
Edsel lost.his.mind. It’s important I emphasize that with periods. Because not annoying.
But he did. Oh my god. He LEAPED to the front seat, a thing he never does, and scrambled across the dashboard, and did his piercing, awful, painful bark, and not only was it clear he knew where the fuck we were going,
unkkle nedz! we go to unkkle nedz o edzul god unkkle nedz!!
It also dawned on me,
maybe he thinks Tallulah still lives there.
I mean, he’s seen Unkkle Ned a million times since we moved out of there. Granted, this is the first time I took him back there, I think, but his excitement transcended Unkkle Ned.
That just about killed me, is what it did.
He was so excited to go in there, and he sniffed around, and whined happily when he saw NedKitty, who did not return the glee, but two times I said, “Tallulah” when we were there and both times he whipped his head around. He doesn’t do that when I say her name at home.
Bob never vomits at home. (Did you see Airplane?) (If not, then I just sounded insane.)
Anyway, we joined Manic Panic, over there, on a long walk, although I have to say it wasn’t a Ned walk like when we lived together. That motherfucker with the motherfucking endless energy and his motherfucking fast walks for hours at a time, and you’d be all blistered and sweaty and exhausted and he’s be all, “What?”
It wasn’t one of those.
He told me, on our walk, about going to the vet to get NedKitty her million-dollar old lady cat food, and how they had a sign on a door: kittens for adoption in here! And how he went in because he knew it’d be MY ACTUAL HEAVEN, and “They only had one kitten left. He was so great. All black, just chasing his tail.”
I stopped completely.
“What?” said Ned.
“You had a kitten. THE KITTEN WHO WAS LEFT BEHIND. A black kitten, the last to ever be chosen. You’re ALMOST OUT OF CATS and you had in front of you AN ABANDONED KITTEN, who NOBODY WANTED, and you just shut the door and LEFT him in there?!
I was appalled.
Ned got his Reasonable Voice, and if you ever wanna piss me off, be sure to use your mature, reasonable, you’re-so-silly,-June voice with me. “June, the last thing I want to do is bring some asshole kitten into NedKitty’s final days, so she goes out thinking, ‘i hate that asshole.'”
Ned want back to his walk. Whatever with Ned. He has two stories! What’s wrong with, you know, keeping one upstairs and Anne Franking the other one downstairs? I see nothing wrong with that plan.
His birthday is in 23 days. Fifty-two is the kitten year.
I asked Ned to take a picture–one picture–of Eds and me, and he took 49, so here are some for your viewing pleasure. Really mostly the whole walk, Ned ignored the magnolias and the cicadas, which I heard for the first time last night. He ignored the fireflies and the pink sky. He ignored all that to worry about work and his house.
We went back to Ned’s house, where I had leftover lemonade from his cookout this weekend, lemonade I’d have consumed within 24 hours, and whatever with Ned. There weren’t any Ruffles left, which irked.
Why the stubborn pounds?
Anyway, I guess it’s possible Ned’s gonna buy our house, fmr., and he’ll probably propose to someone on that porch swing and it won’t be me. He’ll probably live with some other bitch there, and there’s nothing I can do about that except buy that house out from under him, and does anyone have hundreds of thousands of dollars I can have? Thanks.
After awhile it got late and I had to go. I took Edsel with me.
What should we name Ned’s new black birthday kitten surprise?