My weekday mornings do not vary much: The alarm goes off and I resent it, Edsel and I open the door to 800 cats lining the halls expectantly. I trip over at least one of those solid assholes every single day. Hey. Cats are more solid than you’d think, when you’re kicking one down the hall accidentally.
I slop the hogs, make coffee/heroin for myself, then sit down to blog. Usually I open my photos from the day before in order to show you it, whatever “it” may be that day.
(Do you have to “make” heroin? I know in the movies they show someone roasting a spoon over an open flame. So maybe you do. Or maybe when you’re high on the heroin you enjoy a spoon over an open flame. I just have no idea.)
M’point is, today when I opened photos, I enjoyed the fact that almost all of them were selfies. Nice. Proud.
There’s one sad photo of Kit, there, at the end. You can see I never did get happy with my at-the-bookstore selfie, as I took 70 of them.
What’cha doin’, June?
I went to work yesterday like a normal person, which you know isn’t true because I can’t do anything “like a normal person.”
(Do you consider yourself normal? Any time a man writes that he’s “normal” on a dating profile, I’m all NEXT. First of all, hey, judge-y. Also, hey, boring-y.)
Anyway, I went to work like the person I am, only to realize I had scheduled my Botox at 12:45 and my car repair for my accident at 1:00.
So the car repair got rescheduled for today. Not that I know it even NEEDS repair. Today is when they look at it. Give it the male gaze. They check it out now, funk soul brother. Right about noon, funk soul brother.
So above, there, is me going to the OTHER appointment yesterday, applying the ice to my head, there, before the needle and the damage done.
I need to stop thinking in song lyrics.
In summation, I got went to work yesterday and had Botox at noon. That would be a man’s blog entry thus far. Those two sentences.
At work yesterday, I had some of my delicious high-fiber oatmeal, because Mmmmmm, or Nnnnnnnn, as they say in the Pearl Drops Tooth Polish commercial when they lick their teeth.
Sadly, while I was searching for a Pearl Drops commercial, as you do, there were 97 clips from General Hospital available to me, including one with a Leslie and Monica showdown that I really wanted to take time out of my executive schedule to review, but look at June. Staying with the task at hand. If the “task at hand” is to get distracted by “Nnnnnnnnn.”)
So I had the oatmeal, June says, and you’ve already forgotten. “Jesus, WHAT oatmeal?” Then I had my important Botox at noon, so that left me no choice but to get a luncheon Dorito Taco at Taco Bell, and why everyone isn’t just knocking down the doors to get them MORE Dorito tacos is beyond me. Cause, nnnnnnnn.
Then, Kit and I had plans to go to a reading together at the local bookstore after work. We were gonna hear Mr. Write’s new book.
We were meeting at 6:45, so it was easiest to just leave from work, where there were, sadly, no snacks. What kind of workplace doesn’t have snacks?
I got to the bookstore a little early, ordered a glass of chardonnay, and meandered to the back of the store, where readers read when there’s a reading, and that was the day you stopped reading June.
I found a book. I know! At the bookstore. And I sipped my wine and read my book, which in retrospect I shoulda bought cause now I’m over here wondering what happens next. I want to click here on that book.
The point is, by the time Kit arrived, I was drunk.
Seriously. I guess oatmeal at 9:00 and a taco at noon were not enough to take on The Wine. Holy cats.
So I slumped drunkenly in my chair as Mr. Write wandered in, followed by an entourage of admirers. I’ve been to several readings read by writers where they read at the bookstore readingly, and, like, when The Poet was there, she had standing room only.
But Mr. Write, who happens to be good-looking, had throngs. Seriously.
And, you know, careful readers will note that we dated. Not you and me, homophobic housewife in Haverford, Mr. Write and me. We dated briefly last year. He was the most “with potential” suitor I’ve had since my 404 Error, but it didn’t work out.
And now he was seeing me for the first time in more than a year, and I’m drunk.
He saw me through the crowd and was very gracious. “Good to see you,” he said to me, while people gazed at him. He really is a Mr. Handsome.
And his reading was great. I’d link to his book or something, but he is, in fact, really private and I feel like he’d be annoyed with me for being all, HERE IS SOMEONE I DATED HERE. HERE. On m’blog.
Anyway, the good news is, he read a lot of stuff, so I had time to sober up. And I thought, What the hell was wrong with me? I could have had Mr. Write to date for awhile, and I was all oh no. Break me off some more of that guy who’s hurt my feelings 400 times instead.
After, I got his book, Mr. Write’s, I mean, and stood in the endless line for him to sign it. I caught up with Kit’s life, which has taken an exciting turn lately, and I similarly feel like she would kick my ass if I splayed that all over yonder, so let’s just say her life is going well now.
Mr. Write and I exchanged pleasantries once I got up to him, but the woman behind me cockblocked our conversation by including herself in our talk, and I wish you all could have been there to see the daggers coming right out my half-drunk eyes.
Kit and I then sat in the window of the store, as that’s the place where you can sit at tables in the window and have yourself a time. “I’ve never sat up here before,” said Kit, who works 11 feet from that store, and how she hasn’t taken advantage of that table window table is beyond me.
The point is, Kit knows everyone in town, and it was like she was on a float. We’d get one sentence out and there she was again, waving gleefully out the window and throwing butterscotch candies.
I guess homecoming queens don’t do that, do they? That’s more clowns at the Knights of Columbus parade.
Whatever. Girlfriend was waving. A lot.
So, in summation, I went to work, got Botox at lunch, then to a reading with Kit after work.