Book of June

As you know, because you wrote it on your calendars and alerted your families and took the day off, I went to see Young Frankenstein with The Poet last night.

She had me drive, because she was worried about parking, but I scoff in the face of parking, which makes no sense because parking has no face. Nevertheless, I persisted. We got there with no problem–there was even parking in the lot attached to the theater, which is a crapshoot, and what even IS a crapshoot?

Before The Poet got to my house last night, I came home and did my usual things, which involve eating something, and then obsessively inputting the info into my Weight Watchers app, and also paying attention to pets. I always feel sorry for Edsel when I get home from work and go to one of my movies.

I mean, look. I leave here at 8:45 each morning, I’m home at 1:00-ish for an hour-ish, I’m back home at 5:30. It’s not that bad. But I feel he moons over me when I’m gone, and writes sonnets, and then when I finally come home at night and leave again?

Poor Edsel.

Anyway, my point is, while I was doing pet things, I made a brilliant film, an art film, if you will, of Lily coming back inside. The rapidity with which she moves. It’s amazing.

Anyway, 6:45 was upon us, and there was The Poet, and it’s so nice when people show up on time after five and a half years [DISCLAIMER: on and off] of Ned showing up 45 minutes after he says he will. I remember when we were first dating, he was so late that I just finally left my own house. In a huff. So I wouldn’t be there when he arrived.

Then I realized that was exactly what the grandmother I’m turning [DISCLAIMER: turned] into would do, so I drove back and he never even knew I’d done that, because of course HE WASN’T EFFING THERE YET.

Anyway.

When we got to our fine parking spot in the lot attached to the theater–and you can see this was a big deal with me–some people were pulling in right next to us. “Excuse me, do you already have tickets?” a woman asked.

We did not.

“I have an extra. My work sponsors this event,” she said. “Do y’all want it? I hate it to go to waste.”

Oh my god!!!

So after several minutes of, “No, YOU should have it,” I finally talked The Poet into taking the free ticket, and I bought mine. Although I have to tell you. When I was in my 20s, you’re going to be stunned to hear there was a bar I went to, oh, every night, and sometimes instead of saying, “Two dollars,” the bouncer would just wave me in. Because loyal. Is what I was. And does my theater ever do that? Do they ever wave me in and say, “Never mind that $7.50, Loyal June”? Do they?

They do not.

“Do you want concessions?” “Of course I do,” said The Poet, who as you can see is a tub, and why did I even wonder. We got in separate lines, as sort of a race (I won!) (I got chardonnay. Five WW points), and while she was ordering The World’s Largest Container of Popcorn–now with every speck of salt! I meandered over to the raffle.

Is it a raffle if you don’t have to pay anything? The drawing.

Some nights, Wrangler Jeans, which is local, sponsors these nights at the movies, and you put your name on a slip of paper and win free jeans. I’ve never once signed up, I think mostly because Ned and I used to get there so very last minute that there was never time.

I wrote my own name on the paper, as opposed to my pseudonym, which I guess I actually do have, don’t I? And then I wrote The Poet’s name [DISCLAIMER: Her name is not actually “The Poet”] and put both in the jar. The Poet wandered over with her backhoe of popcorn and I explained the procedure.

“Well, that was nice, getting a free ticket. Maybe now we’ll win free jeans and the evening will be complete,” she said.

My lack of jawline and I talked her into sitting in the balcony, and we were just getting situated when the drawing began. There was a guy on stage drawing names.

“The Poet!” said the guy, and SQUEAL! We both squeeed like little bitches.

Turns out, you get free jeans AND four passes to the movies! GEEZ! From now on I’m entering that drawing.

You’ll be stunned to hear that Young Frankenstein was funny, and that only Cloris Leachman can make the word “Ovaltine” funny.

Also, holy cats, did Teri Garr have a bangin’ body.

Afterward, The Poet came over. You can see her water tower of popcorn was not finished, and she asked if Edsel could have it, and I was all, No, he eats too much junk, and then I proceeded to throw eleventeen kernels at him because I love to watch popcorn bounce off his bottom teeth. Anyway, TP got to meet that gregarious Steely Dan, who you can see would like to stab TP with his steely knife but he just can’t kill the beast.

I had to throw in some Eagles lyrics, since The Poet is such a fan.

Tonight I’m having dinner with three women I used to work with, and careful readers will note that’s three outings with women I’ve had in one week. If I’m not careful, pretty soon I’ll be tweeting about how I wouldn’t be anywhere today without my ladies.

And that is when I wish for you to punch me clean in the face.

Warmly,

Juan