I guess after writing about my brush with appendicitis last time, it’s kind of dramatic that I didn’t write yesterday. Like, maybe it CAME BACK!
It did not. Here was why I did not write you:
The alarm went off at 5:45 and I got up, pulled on some flattering things, and headed to my trainer’s, or as I like to call it now, Otis’s house. I am in love with her dog so bad I am. He doesn’t even bark when I walk in. He just lopes over peanut-butter-cuply.
Anyway, at 6:15 in the morning, I boxed. I mean, we did other horrendous things too, like step up on crap while also hurling weights in the air, and pushups, and situps, and similar things that make you want to kill yourself. But then we boxed. She got out this punching bag, and by that I don’t mean everyone I was ever involved with romantically. She said, “I have pink gloves or I have black gloves. Which would you…?”
“Really?” I asked.
“Well, not everyone’s into pink,” she said, handing me the CUTEST PINK GLOVES OH MY GOD.
Here’s the thing. It was tiring as hell but I love boxing. I LOVE IT. Now I want to be Layla Ali. Not my hair dryer. The person. I can be LieAround Ali. I even looked up local boxing classes. Oh my god boxing is my new thing.
Just recently it occurred to me that I should find a new thing to like. I mean, kittens and dick can’t be my WHOLE life.
I wish my mother would just send me a selfie of her pursed lips, seeing as that is my whole goal in saying things like that, to achieve the pursed lips of mom. Maybe if I had a permanent record of that look I could stop saying things like kittens ‘n’ dick.
Back when I was married to punching bag du jour, we talked about getting a boxer dog and just naming it The.
Anyway, then I had to go to work, as I am wont to do. I had new work popping up in my inbox every 14 seconds, LOTTIE BLANCO, and it reminded me of a story about my high school best friend, Donna. Or rather her mother.
My high school best friend Donna was like me except…well, she was exactly like me. We’re still friends, but she grew up and has an important job and a spouse and happy children in college. But in high school, there was no evidence either of us were headed for greatness, as we were both ridiculous people with June hair.
Anyway, Donna’s mother was an Extremely Sensible type. She was also older than most moms, as Donna was what you might call a surprise. All her siblings were way older and out of the house, and her parents had been in WWII and so on.
I loved being at their house.
Anyway, her sensible, stable, no-nonsense mom was canning tomatoes in the basement while she was pregnant for Donna. She must have been in her late 30s or early 40s and pregnant. Donna’s dad kept bringing down case after case of tomatoes, and she’d commence to canning.
Finally, after hour 97 or whatever of bringing down a case of tomatoes, Donna’s very sensible mom turned around and threw a tomato at her husband’s head.
If you knew Donna’s mom that story would kill you.
Once, in high school, Donna and I put on all of her mom’s old lady clothes with the knee highs and babushkas and so on and went to visit her mom at work, thinking we were THE FUNNIEST PEOPLE ON EARTH, and her mom acted like nothing was amiss. Oh, here’s my 16-year-old daughter in a housedress and knee-highs. Hello, dear.
Somehow I’ve gotten off topic and I know you are stunned.
So, work was worky, and then also in the middle of working, I had my annual review, as opposed to my perennial review in which I receive pansies. Anyway, I knew it was going to be an okay review but it’s still nerve-wracking to get Siskal and Eberted at work.
Then after work I had another in my current series of internet dates from the internet.
First I ordered this pink-like-my-boxing-gloves drink and it was the Sourest Drink on Earth, and I am getting this huge aversion to anything sour or bitter other than my personality. So then I ordered Prosecco, and I’m certain my poor date must have been, “Well, there’s another $8,” but what can you do. The point is, my Prosecco matched my nails.
Before the date, I was so tired. I mean, I was drained. I didn’t know how I was going to sparkle with All This on a date, so drained was I. It occurred to me to acquire one of those sleeping masks that have eyes on them, so I could sleep but look like I was listening.
But then I thought maybe tired me is more likable me. Maybe it’s less The June Show, starring June.
I had a cat, Mr. Horkheimer, who was friendlier when he didn’t feel well. Oh, he’d cuddle and he’d want you to pick him up. He was the best. “I like him when he’s sick,” Marvin once said, and I just made it sound like ordinarily Marvin did not like Hork, which was not at all true. There’s no way anyone could dislike Mr. Horkheimer unless one is an “I don’t like cats” asshole.
The only time I ever saw Marvin cry was when we had to put that cat to sleep.
I have to go. I must get ready for work, as I am wont to do, and finish the 6,000 things Lottie Blanco sent me. “Don’t forget about my party this weekend,” she said to me yesterday, as she brought me the case of tomatoes called work.
My whole day is that now. People saying, don’t forget and me saying, What the hell are you talking about. I saw my neighbor R at lunchtime yesterday, taking a walk around my hood as I was driving home to eat. “Did you remember to pick up my stool?” she asked. R does massages for us at work, on Fridays. It’s how I met her.
You’ll be pleased to know I did remember it when I returned to work, but forgot to tell her it’s in my car. So now I’m driving around with a stool, Junior Sample.
Anyway. That’s all I have to tell you. Talk to you in June.
June in June,