This morning, I woke up at Ned’s.
Look at me, trying to be all compelling. You won’t BELIEVE what happens next!
Actually, you will. I went home and let Edsel out. That’s it.
On Thursday, I took ridiculous Edsel to the vet, because he’d been chewing on himself and scratching and was driving me insane, and what a great mom I am. Okay, I’ll get you medical help now that your suffering is annoying me. Anyway, he’s got allergies, probably to the environment and I hope not cats, because if so he’s going to the glue factory.
My friend David is one of like 29 kids or something. Catholic. Anyway, one of his 86 sisters–and whenever he tells a story about one of his sisters, he’ll say, “My sister Megan” or whatever, and in my mind it’s just the same short dark Italian girl. They’re all one girl to me. Sort of athletic and preppy and not fussy. Which, truthfully, adequately describes all 86 of his sisters, so I’m not wrong.
ANYWAY, one of his 86 sisters–we’ll say Megan, to be safe. She’s kind of a short, dark, unfussy Italian girl. Megan was allergic to their cat, Gus. So they had a family meeting to decide whether to get rid of Gus or Megan.
That was back in the ’70s, when you just “got rid” of pets and people didn’t gasp and report you to the authorities. I love animals more than anyone, and even I’m sick of the sanctimonious pet people. Ima call you all Megan from now on. You’re all just globbed into one person. Sanctimonious Megan.
SO HE’S ON THE ‘ROIDS, Edsel is, for his allergies, and I’m to give him half a pill morning and night for ages. The schedule is on the fridge. This means that he’s extra-thirsty and extra-pee-y, which for Edsel means he pees twice a day now. No one holds it longer than Edsel. And you’re all, “I’ll go outside with you, Edsel” and he still won’t pee.
Then you get him on a walk, and he dips into his savings. He minds his pees and Qs. He serves the peee-no noir. No one pees as early and as often as Edsel on a walk. I mean, does he have a special reserve just for walks? It would appear so.
Along with giving him ‘roids, they said to give him an oatmeal bath, so on Thursday night I did, and that is when I made myself sick. No, I didn’t look in the mirror, Hilarity Clinton.
The bottom of my tub has this grippy part built in, and it gets grimy, and it used to be I could Magic Erase it or spray bleach water on it and it’d be good as new. But as the years have ticked by, it’s not cleaning so well. So, after Edsel’s bath, I had to clean the tub anyway, so I filled the tub up and added bleach and let it sit there for awhile in the hopes of cleaning the grippy.
All that ended up happening was I got the grippe. Oh my god, did the smell of that bleach make me sick. And be sure, someone, to warn me about ammonia like I’m 7 years old. I KNOW.
I drained the tub, opened the windows, and had a terrible bad-sleep night, because my headache and nausea kept waking me up. Plus, the grippy is still grungy. There was a sentence.
I dragged myself to work, because I’d promised another account I’d fill in for them yesterday while their regularly scheduled person was out, and I found a really good mistake that Griff made, and right there made it all worthwhile. But I felt rotten all day.
At some point, Ned called me. He was in South Carolina, because his company has offices all over yonder and he has to make presidential appearances and wave at people from the back of the convertible and so on. “You want to do something tonight when I get back?” Ned asked, and I really have to stop hanging out with Ned.
“Okay, ” I said, as I had no plans. At the end of the workday yesterday, I wandered into the bathroom and one of the whippersnappers was putting on makeup. “Are you going out tonight?” I asked her.
“Yeah,” she said, looking in the mirror. “A bunch of us women are getting drinks right now.”
“…Oh?” I said.
She snapped her makeup shut. “Have a good night, June!”
So, yeah, no plans.
The thing is, he got stuck in Charlotte traffic, and then you know how Ned is. Here is what always ALWAYS happens when you make plans with Ned. I get home around 5:30 every day. Ned always finds a way to not get home till almost 8:00. He either works late, goes to the gym, works late AND goes to the gym, gets a massage (bad back. It seems to be working, though), stands in a parking lot till 7:45 to annoy me, whatever.
So THEN he’ll CALL me sometime between 7:30 and 8:00, and sigh, “Wooo!”
That wooo. That wooo has come to incite fury in me. Isn’t it funny how a person’s things can annoy THE FUCKING SHIT out of you after some time?
“Wooo! I gotta get something to eat.”
Every time. When we were first dating, when we lived together, now. Same goddamn thing. It’s 8 p.m. and woooo, Ned needs to get something to eat. And he can’t just open a can of ravioli like any normal American. Ned means he wants to go to a fairly fancy sit-down restaurant, order an entire meal with a salad and drinks, and THEN do something.
Every time. It was even addressed in therapy, and there was a great use of our dollars.
So what Ned really means is sure, you’ve been waiting around since 5:30, and here it is almost 8:00, but now you have to come to a restaurant with me and watch me eat, since you of course ate two hours ago. THEN we can “do something.”
Back when I liked Ned, I used to wait, starving, for him to call. Starving and in full I-like-this-guy makeup.
This year, seeing as we aren’t actually dating anymore–or if we are we’re fundamentalist dating, seeing as there’s no sex–THIS year, I’m not doing it. I’ve either been saying, “I’ll just see you another day” or “Call me when you’ve eaten” or whatever. Especially on a Friday, where every sit-down place Ned will deign to go to will have a 45-minute wait.
So when I did that last night, he said, “Let me see if there’s something I can make here.” But of course Ned is one of those people whose cupboards contain bags of dried beans and rice, things you have to actually prepare for an hour. Back when he wasn’t president and couldn’t afford to eat out every single night, just three or four nights a week, he’d come home at 7:30 and cook a sweet potato for dinner.
Do you have any fucking idea how long that takes?
All of this to tell you that I eventually got to Ned’s at 9:45, I am not making that up, and we went to a little corner bar in his neighborhood that I like, as it is a mix of shaggy old professors I’d like to bang and college kids. But when I got to Ned’s, he said, “Will you drive? I’ve already had two drinks with dinner.”
So when we got there, I was concerned about drinking and driving, even though it’s on exactly the same street as Ned’s house, and about half a mile’s drive. The point is, I had half a drink and stopped out of concern. Ned had two more drinks and spent most of the time leering at college girls.
At this point it was 11:30, so we decided to go back to his place and rent Whatever Happened to Baby Jane, and I was really into it for the first 20 minutes, then next thing you know, Ned and I were 100% asleep and I’ll never know what happened after (spoiler alert) Jane served Blanche the parakeet for lunch. I knew nothing good was in that parakeet’s future.
It was nearly 2:00 and I was exhausted, so I slept at Ned’s. Uneventfully. Then I woke up at 8:00 this morning all, WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING HERE?
“Where you going?” asked half-asleep Ned, as I slithered into my clothes. “Edsel’s on prednisone,” I told him, and got out of there.
It turns out, my neighborhood at 8:15 on a Saturday morning is teeming with fucking people. Where’s everybody running to? Apparently, like, running groups go past my house, and who knew? They’re probably called Run Past June’s REM.
Also, Edsel did not give two shits about me not being there. I had to force him to go pee, as usual.
So that was my Friday, and today I have freelance work, and grocery shopping, and laundry. Also, I finally ordered paint for my front door; the store will alert me when it’s in…
The color is called Spontaneous. Which is a polite way of saying, “Impulsive.” Welcome to my door. Welcome to my life.
Just one more thing before I go: Last night on my walk with Edsel, while Ned was harvesting wheat to make bread or whatever, Eds and I were on our usual route when he stopped and seemed very interested in a yard. There was a big dark cat in the dusk, and I saw the cat had something in his cat lips.
“Oh, look, Edsel! What’s the kitty got?” I asked, because I am an asshole who says things like “kitty.”
Answer: A mouse.
More detailed answer: My very own “kitty,” Steely Dan, was eleventy houses away killing mice in someone else’s yard.
He was so happy to see us, Killer SD the Wanderer was. He dropped his poor mouse victim and sauntered over to us and came home when we did, all proud. I should magnet his mouse to the fridge. I’d been wondering if he was going to be a hunter. I mean, God designed that cat for cat-related greatness. He may outhunt poor Iris. Because he’s got the whole two eyeballs thing working in his favor.
I’ll report back if I end up in some other ex’s bed this weekend.