Yesterday morning, I headed to the break room at work to put hot water in my oatmeal, like a fairly good person. When I got in there, there was a cupcake holder.
They were FUNFETTI cupcakes. I’m fun. I’m fetti.
So, what oatmeal? What flax? There was FUNFETTI to be had.
So I ate one and immediately felt sick. I don’t think there was anything wrong with the cupcakes, per se, I think I was already…not right and just didn’t know it till I started eating. Because I was sick immediately.
But I think we can all agree on how stoic I am. I am long-suffering.
So I soldiered on with sort of a roiling feeling, and lasted through the morning and sort of felt better.
I came home and had a macaroni and cheese Lean Cuisine, because nothing but the best for me, and a container of applesauce, because see the beginning of this sentence. Also, apparently am toddler.
After I mashed all my food onto my tray with my open palm and knocked over my sippy, I got in the car and headed back to work.
Roil and trouble.
I could tell things weren’t going to end well. And I wasn’t so sick that I had to, like, stop working, but I certainly didn’t wanna be, you know, there when Mt. Vesuvius erupted.
“I’m going to work from home,” I announced, taking my laptop and hurrying out of the building.
“Where you going, June? You got cat-scratch fever?” some jokester said to me as I headed out the door.
“Heh. Yeah, I…” I began, but then ROIL.
“I better go,” I said, worrying if I could even MAKE it six minutes to home.
I was on a race against time, is what I was. A race against…two o’clock, if you catch my drift. Mrs. Brown was adamant about getting to the pool.
Fortunately, it was after lunch, so traffic was light, and on a really good day, I can be home in five minutes. On a bad day, it can take 10, and you should see how annoyed I get, like I was never an LA person whose 16-mile commute took more than an hour every day.
But there I was, on the turn that would lead me into my neighborhood. It’s probably less than a minute from that turn to my home.
Past the little park where Edsel and I go unless some asswipe–if you’ll forgive the expression in the middle of this story–has his dog unleashed. “Oh, my dog’s fine!”
Is there anything that irks me more?
Past the house where the people saved Iris.
Past that house where they don’t edge their lawn, and I fell on the uneven part between their grass and their yard, and sprained my ankle in 2013.
Past the people who have Ava.
At least, that was my plan.
But as I rounded the corner to get to my neighborhood, OUT OF NOWHERE?
Old lady in a Thunderbird.
I mean, it was one of those old ladies who was barely tall enough for the steering wheel. And I realize I’m like 18 months from being that old and I should be kind. I realize half the staff at my office thinks I already AM that old.
But girlfriend has lived a bit. In that Thunderbird, which looked like it was from the early ’90s. She bought it new for her 70th birthday.
She shopped for that car with her dear friend King Tut.
Her license plate was hieroglyphics.
She paid for it in clams.
Anyway, I don’t even know how she appeared before me, but there she was. And she was driving four miles an hour. One mile for every millennium she’s lived through.
“Oh, you have GOT to be kidding me,” I said, seconds from liftoff. I mean, we’re talking my innards. Having an unsettling experience. Ready for their photo SHOOT. I had to get something down on paper, if you’re picking up what I’m…throwing down.
Honestly, why do old people drive like that? I know I’m about to find out and all, but I’d like to know before I get there. What makes you say, oh, I’ve lived a bit. Guess I’ll slow down.
I could have WALKED home faster than I was driving behind this Dannon Yogurt ad in front of me. And I would’ve just pulled over and done so, possibly right in front of that woman’s house who always has a fit on NextDoor when someone parks in front of her house. But if I’d gotten out and tried to walk, I’d have been shot right up and over to Winston-Salem. I was already starting to worry about the walk from my driveway to the house.
If I ever fucking GOT THERE.
Finally, FINALLY, like, this MORNING practically, FINALLY we got to my house, and do you know what?
She turned right.
SHE DIDN’T EVEN NEED TO BE IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD.
SHE HAD TO REASON TO BE IN FRONT OF ME OTHER THAN THE UNIVERSE WISHES TO MAKE ME SUFFER.
Anyway. Obviously I made it into the house, and released the hounds, and didn’t feel quite right all night, which was rhyme-y of me and you’re welcome.
So that’s the story, there. I feel like Jackie Kennedy had one similar.
P.S. Obligatory kitten picture: