I had a weird Ned weekend.
As you know, from your Big Book of June Events that’s been on the counter gathering dust for months, I dated a person named Ned for several years (2012-2015). And then we broke up (9/13/15). But then we kept hanging around each other for several more years (2015-2018). At the beginning of this year (1/19/19), I told him we couldn’t do this anymore. It was too confusing. Unlike this paragraph (^).
And since then, mostly, I’ve been fine. I keep trying to avoid running into him, which means I don’t get to do a lot of the fun things I like to do, but I’m really trying not to fall back into the see-Ned all-the-time thing.
This past week it was his birthday (6/26). I was bound and determined not to call, text, send a card, drive over there and pop out of a cake, or anything similar. And I didn’t. I abstained from getting ahold of Ned on his birthday. But this may be why I lost my mind this weekend (6/29-6/30). (June. Stop. Stop on 7/1/19.)
Saturday began like any other day, which is a stupid thing to say and why do people say that? Of course the day began like any other day. How else can days begin? “The day began in the middle of the night and somehow I had a rhino head.”
I was a normal person Saturday until about 4 PM. And then I started getting really sad, and really weird, and really anxious, and I ended up calling Ned. And here’s the worst part: He didn’t answer.
I became convinced that he had his entire arm up the gal parts of some woman. I don’t know why that would be a bothersome thing, really. It’s not like anything I wish he was doing with me. I don’t think any woman would enjoy having an entire arm up her parts. But the point is, in my mind, not only did he have his entire arm up inside a woman, but he was taking her like a puppet over to the chapel of love and they were definitely getting married.
You do not ever want to be inside my brain.
So with all this anxiety and panic and sadness and weird arm visual, I panicked. I don’t know why I got so weird five months after I called it quits with Ned, but it was bad.
I decided I should try to go do something to get my mind off my sadness, so I headed to the makeup counter.
I realize more enviable women go out to the woods to commune with nature when they’re blue, or they stand up on a paddleboard with their beautiful abs and look thoughtful and deep on the water, smokin’ hot on the water, but me? I buy some makeup. Shut up. It works for me.
But then? Just as I was over near the makeup store? (In case anyone is burning with curiosity, I was headed to Belk.) My phone rang. My new car sends me calls through the radio, and it’s very newfangled, and also sort of annoying if one is enjoying, say, Ballroom Blitz and the phone interrupts. Blitzus interruptus.
I didn’t recognize the number but I answered it anyway because I was in a panicked state, I was armed and dangerous, and guess what.
It was the animal shelter.
Would I be able to take three 4-week-old kittens for a couple weeks?
Of course I could. Even though I said I wasn’t going to foster kittens at this house. Of course I can take them. It was my hour of need. I turned right around in the makeup store parking lot and headed instead to the animal shelter.
So now I have three of the messiest little kittens you’ve ever seen in your life, three kittens I’ve named Claude, Frida and Jackson.
They climb all the way into the food dish, no matter how small of a dish I present them. They get the food all up in their lips and in their ears and on their backs and in their feetses and even on their teensy tails. (There is a bottle in this picture because I thought maybe they still needed to drink from a bottle and that’s why they were so messy, but they were completely indifferent to that thing.)
I even bathed them, but in about two hours they were just as dirty as before.
My theory is they will eventually learn how to eat without rolling their entire bodies in the food, as will I, but I also think that as soon as I run out of the canned kitten food that the shelter gave me, I will buy dry and make their gruel that way.
(With tiny kittens like this, you take kitten food, powdered formula, and lukewarm water and mush it all up in a bowl together and make a sort of soupy gruel.)
Anyway, they’re very sweet and they saved me from my inexplicable Ned panic.
He eventually called, by the way. “Are you OK?” He asked. I told him yes, and apologized for calling, and admitted that for some reason I had gotten really sad and upset that day. “I was at a movie,” he claimed. I did not mention to him about the part where I thought he was elbow-deep in some woman he was minutes from marrying. It’s best to retain one’s dignity as much as one can.
That is all I have to tell you, except that speaking of dignity, today is Edsel’s ninth birthday. I realize I have put this particular picture in my blog about 17 times now, but it’s just so him.
I considered buying him a toy, which I have done other birthdays, but the only toy he really likes is Blu, and he has two of those already.
I decided I’m going to spend all day just paying attention to him, and we might possibly go out for a romantic dinner to McDonald’s tonight.
I think that’s about as good as it gets for the Eds.
Then after, maybe he can meet the mess kittens. He has yet to do so.
Your sane pal June