I wish more things could hurt on my body today. Stupid Pure Barre. Also? It turns out? When you get up at 5:20 and you’re used to around, oh, 7:00-ish, you feel really tired all day. Just a little news flash for ye.
“Ye.” Because suddenly I’m in biblical times.
Anyway, Bathsheba, before I forget because you know how I am, let’s delve into my boss, fmr.’s, wardrobe.
My boss, fmr., has an office right outside my open, exposed, raw desk in the open, exposed, raw floor plan that stresses me out on the daily.
“Oh, look, you’re here!”
“Going to lunch?”
“What’s that you’re snacking on?”
“Why you taking antibiotics?”
I’ve no idea who thought making us sit in a huge room with no privacy whatsoever eight hours a day was a stellar idea, an idea that would “inspire” us, because man, do copy editors ever seek inspiration. They don’t at all seek quiet and a place to concentrate. Anyway, whoever thought of it has an office, I guarantee you that.
The point is, my boss, fmr., has an office that she’s never in that’s right next to my exposed-innards desk. I know she’s never there because about 97 times a day, someone says, “Do you know where boss, fmr., is?”
She’s a good boss. She’s the kind who actually answers your emails and takes time out for you and so on, so she’s probably out doing just that, or at meetings, because meetings. There are always the meetings.
Once a month, her Stitch Fix–or is it StitchFix–box comes to work, and as she’s pawing through it, I always take the liberty of stampeding in there to veto her choices. I don’t recall her ever asking me to do that, but let’s face it: she’s in an office. I get like 30 seconds where I’m not exposed, I’ll take it.
This is also why I pee 11 times a day.
Anyway, now a committee of women assault her in this manner when her Stitch Fix–or is it StitchFix–box comes, and that is when I was inspired, in an office and not an inspirational open floor plan, mind you, to
BOSS MY BOSS, FMR.
“What if, every month, you try on all your choices and my readers help you pick?” I asked. And she was all, okay yeah.
Here is her box for this month, wherein she has already decided what to keep and what to get rid of. Ready? Brace yourself. Grab onto the person sitting seven inches from you in your open floor plan.
She is KEEPING the spotty dress!
She said YES to the skirt!!
She is RETURNING the ’80s Forenza-looking sweater with gold thread.
Also, she immediately played up to the camera. For a relatively quiet, unassuming person, it was surprising that you get a camera on her and she’s Princess Diana all of a sudden.
See. This is where we can boss the boss, fmr. next month. Because I wanted her to keep the Blondie Bumstead shirt, totally, for sure, and she returned it.
These boots are cute, but $110. My coworker Poochie, who has 8 million pairs of expensive shoes, was encouraging her to keep them, but I burst in and said, DON’T LISTEN TO POOCHIE. SHE SPENDS 8 MILLION DOLLARS ON SHOES EVERY WEEK.
So that’s a little preview, and next month we’ll actually get to vote. Oooo, ooooo! I can do another SURVEY! We can do a survey for each piece! Is that the best way, do you think? If someone has organizational skillz and can think of a better idea, let me know. LMK, as the kids say. The inarticulate kids.
I meant to show you a photo of today’s Clinique Chubby Stick, but instead I uploaded a photo of my coworker’s dog. I took this photo yesterday, as said dog ate A WHOLE BOWL of chocolates, wrapper and all, so my coworker brought him in so she could make sure he didn’t die. If he had, I’d have lead with that.
HERE we are. This is Graped-Up, and first of all, what does that even mean, and second, it looks like I have no lip color on at all. We have one more boring day of nude-ish colors, then we stampede into some exciting pinks. So.
And speaking of exciting, come back here tomorrow afternoon I MEAN IT. There will be photos of something very exciting. No, not my boobs. Perv.
Before I go, I mentioned this in the comments yesterday but perhaps you didn’t see them, as you were busy asking your coworker who she just called, seeing as she was four inches from you and you heard every word and you KNOW that wasn’t her husband.
My point is, at 6 p.m. today, NedKitty is going to be put to sleep. The vet with the pink hair is going to Ned’s to do the deed. She really isn’t eating anymore–NedKitty, not the vet–and she’s had kidney disease for more than a year.
And yes, I’m going over there while it is happening. And would you like to know what I’m not in the mood for? Opinions re this or anything having to do with Ned. It’s a sad time. And even though we were broken up, when Tallulah died, I called him at 11 p.m. crying so hard he couldn’t understand me and was literally here in less than five minutes. So. I’m going over there for this.
This is the very first picture of NedKitty I ever took, in 2012. She gave me that look for about three years before she decided she liked me. Now I’m the only person who’s allowed to pick her up.
Godspeed, NedKitty. May there be paper bags to wear on your head, and much hair to chew in the kitty afterlife.
A good part about how they’ve put me on multiple accounts at work is that I’ve gotten to know more coworkers who aren’t Griff. Also, I’ve gotten to know people I’ve worked with all these years, but rarely talked to because we weren’t on the same account.
It can get (ready?) siloed at work.
One of those corporate terms I love.
What they mean is everyone’s working on their own shit so you don’t talk. But they changed that up now, and I’m on three or four accounts at any given time, and yes, everything DOES come to me all at once and everyone needs everything immediately, but that’s not important right now.
What’s important is I’ve gotten to know people I didn’t know before, including a coworker who I will call
Oh my god.
I just ran her through the Random Name Generator, and they want me to call her Lottie Blanco, which I know is slightly confusing given that I had a dog named Lottie,
but it’s such a marvelous name that I can’t help but use it.
So, my coworker, Lottie Blanco, is married to a woman with the same name. The Lottie Blanco I work with is a very down-to-earth-seeming person, at least compared to me, which does not set the bar high. Miss Piggy is more down-to-earth than me. But really, Lottie Blanco is the type who wanders over calmly and says, “Welp. I got 26 articles for you to read by 5:00” and then stands there emotionlessly, whereas I would deliver this news with a shaking hanky and a paper bag to breathe into.
The point is, she hates snakes. ALERT, FAITHFUL READER TEE. ALERT. SNAKE STORY.
Lottie Blanco and her wife Lottie Blanco live near some woods, and for awhile they had mice, despite having two very cute cats. I mean, really, they are extraordinarily cute–both blonde, one fluffier than the other. The fluffy one was wandering around skinny and homeless and looking like Ren when they got her. The point is, eventually the mice went away, and they were all, hunh. Well, good.
One afternoon my coworker Lottie Blanco was up in the attic, taking a box down for a yard sale they were gonna have, and when she lifted the box
was curled up under it. According to my coworker Lottie Blanco, she actually managed to step on her wife Lottie Blanco’s HEAD while screaming and screeching out of the attic like a screaming screeching person.
And this is why I like working on different accounts.
The point is, and yes there is a point besides that stellar story, is yesterday Lottie Blanco The Snake Hater asked me to join a little team celebration at a downtown bar/arcade called Boxcar.
Everyone raves on about that place, but I never went, because what do I care about an arcade?
Except nobody told me THERE WERE PINBALL MACHINES.
When I was a kid, we HAD a pinball machine. It was called Skipper, and my father bought it somewhere or other. Maybe at sea. Maybe from Gilligan. I just don’t know.
This is a terrible picture of Skipper. Let me Google fucking it some more.
It’s for identification only. It’s NOT part of the kit! I have no idea what that means.
The point is, I spent approximately 11,000 youthful hours in my basement, playing Skipper, and what I wouldn’t give to have that particular game back. Pinball machines were simpler then, as was life, other than that racism and sexism and homophobia stuff that has SO CLEARLY gone away now. Thank god that’s been cleared up.
Despite the fact that today’s pinball machine is now really dark and you can’t see where the goddamn ball is anymore, I took my complimentary tokens and played me some pinball for, oh, an hour and a half. Oh, how I love it.
And it all came back to me. I’d say “like riding a bike” except I don’t know how to ride a bike. But I won two free games, and I got the highest score of the week on one machine, and got to put m’name in!
I also summarily beat Lottie Blanco at air hockey. I did this by slipping into a snake costume when she wasn’t expecting it.
Hey, June, say “Lottie Blanco” one more time.
I left downtown, as all the old men had been reported as 5150s, and on over to The Other Copy Editor’s bed and breakfast, where she was having her regular Wine Wednesday event, this time with a band that was apparently quite popular, seeing as I had to park on the corner of Rape and Mug and walk 200 miles. No one bothered me because I still had on m’snake suit.
It was my coworker Molly’s idea to go there, and of course she’s one of those people like my grandfather who knows every single person in town, which begs the question why can’t she think of one nice man to set me up with? Not that my grandfather was any help in that department, either.
Anyway, the band really was good, but I hadda go, because I needed to get up at 5:20.
You what? Great Lottie Blancos in the morning.
I promised my stupid friend TinaDoris that I’d meet her at stupid Pure Barre at a stupid 6 a.m. stupid class. When the alarm went off, I rolled over and said, “Edsel.”
Oh my god, did that poor dog ever startle awake. gud graby, it 7:00 alreddee?
The cats are always lined up along the hallway when I open the bedroom door, but this morning there was nary a cat in sight.
In case you don’t have one in your town or something, and you know what I hate? Is when people say, “If you’ve been living under a rock…”
In case you don’t know what Pure Barre is, it’s a one-hour exercise program designed to make you wish for your own swift death right there at a ballet barre.
TinaDoris goes six days a week. TinaDoris looks magnificent. TinaDoris can suck it.
I came home at 7:03 (silver lining: Pure Barre is stupidly close to my house) and ate all the toast. There is no toast anywhere in the country.
“Hey, where’s the toast?”
“Pure Junne ate it.”
So that’s been my last 24 hours, and try to cram some activity in, Juan. But despite my run-aroundy life of music and pinball and allegedly burning calories that get replaced immediately by toast, I did NOT forget our lipstick pact. Today we try Whole Lotta Honey.
Also, before I forget, we’re going to have an exciting new feature here at Book of Pies. My boss, fmr., is going to show us her Stitch Fix box every month, and we get to vote on what she should keep and what she should return! She already decided on this month’s shipment, which I will feature for you tomorrow, so you’ve got that to live for.
And listen. If you do anything, check in with me Saturday this week. I have something SO STUPIDLY EXCITING to show you then.
It’s Monday at lunch, and I tried to write you all this morning, but stuff kept happening and I never got around to it. But here I am! The one that you love! Asking for another dayyyyy.
In case you were gone this weekend, or trying heroin or the FedEx delivery man, I wrote about my trip to TinyTown this weekend. It’s the post below this one. I also just linked to it. So you won’t have to be all, What happened in TinyTown, JOOOOOOOOOON??? Why didn’t you write about TinyTown, JOOOOOOONN. In my head, the more I write “JOOOOON,” the harsher you sound saying it.
Other than that, here is what else I’ve been up to…
I headed out yonder to visit my friends Chris and Lilly, who are 100% over me but have to tolerate me because they’re nice people.
They made a nice plate of snacks, which I was indulging in despite my clean diet.
Anyway, there I was, indulging, when we all…smelled something.
“So you smell that?” asked Chris, and they probably worried about the contents of my adult diaper, so old am I compared to them. In the grand scheme of things, I’m Ruth Gordon to their Mia Farrow. Try the mouse.
“It’s just me!” announced their child, Z, from the hallway. She leaned into the room. “I just wanted a little company!”
Turns out Z felt the…call of nature, so she brought her…call of nature chair into the hallway, right outside of the living room, to, you know. Answer nature. It was more a social event than a private event, for her. It was the social event of the season, really.
Also, I got my hair cut. I go to a regular hairdresser who colors and cuts my hair, but she doesn’t do the Deva cuts, which is a specific cut for curly hair that you have to get a certificate in and so on.
I could see my hair wasn’t…bouncing as it can, and the curls were getting heavy, so I Googled the closest place that does Deva cuts, made an appointment, and walked in this week…
…to an African American salon.
I guess I never thought about it before, but once I walked into that place, the only BETTY WHITE in there, the only person who was BEYOND THE PALE, it dawned on me. I saw the light, and it was my skin. Maybe there are salons specifically for women of color, and maybe I just walked into one.
White girl walks into a salon.
But here’s the thing. A, they didn’t kick me out, and 2, they were really nice to me and 12, here’s my new hair:
No, really, HERE is my new hair:
Here it is on another day:Right right? She did a great job! As Faithful Reader Fay says, I have gone black and I will not go back. I’ll still go to my color person, ironically, for color. But I’m sticking with this hairdresser for cuts.
Then finally yesterday, I tried getting back on Facebook after a few-week hiatus, but almost instantly, people started messaging me, which of course is why I got off Facebook.
(Just to catch you up, in case this was your season to try heroin, or the FedEx delivery man, a person kept sending me messages on Facebook, messages to do with Ned, and when I blocked her, she created a new profile and messaged me again. This gave me the PTSD any time my message indicator came on Facebook.
I wrote here, and on Facebook, and on the page Facebook of June, asking for people to not send me personal messages, but it kept happening. So, knowing I can’t change anyone, I just got off there. I was hoping when I got back on that I just wouldn’t get many messages, but I did, and they made me anxious again, so I left. Again.) (And shutting off messenger doesn’t help. It still tells you you have messages.)
So that was a long stint back on there. Hey, 12 hours!
And finally. In summation. To wrap up. You will note on the side of this page (if you’re on your desktop computer) or at the bottom of this page (if you’re on your phone) that there is a new feature here. It’s called From the Beginning, and it will eventually list all my categories in chronological order.
I have all kinds of stupid categories from this blog: Ned, my pets, my health, Tracy Quartermaine. But if you wanted to just sit down and read about a particular topic, you’d have to read from the present day and scroll down. Read backwards, as it were.
This annoyed me, which is saying a lot because we all know what a long fuse I have. But there’s a woman named Elizabeth who works for WordPress, who offered me her services when I came over here, and she has been magnificent, and I asked her, “Is there a way we can show some stuff in order, and not backwards?”
So she made the little From the Beginning section, and we started with the …friend/Ned category, dating back from January of 2012 when I met his ass, and ending with whenever I last wrote about him.
As I learn how the hell to add the other categories, I will add them. She did this one for me, because did I mention magnificent?
So that SORT of sums things up, although I have other things to tell you, but I will save them up. Savor them. Build the anticipation.
Talk to you soon, from the warm supportive bosom of my pet family.
In August of 2007, my then-spouse, Marvin, and I moved from Los Angeles to Wadesboro, North Carolina. We went from a population of 3 million to a population of 3,000. It didn’t occur to me that this might take some adjustment.
But this is what I DO in life. I plow through it, never thinking anything through, then being stunned by the struggle because I didn’t think things through. I wish for you to put this on my tombstone, along with the 40 other things I’ve asked you to put on my tombstone, which at this point is something of a scroll. A stone scroll. That you can somehow pull out to read all the epitaphs I’ve written.
“You wanna visit June’s grave today?”
“Ugh, no. I can’t even deal with unrolling her stone scroll.”
Anyway. So instead of sitting, oh, still, and letting myself be charmed by TinyTown, I immediately commenced to finding ways to leave. This is why, on February 27, 2008, I was driving to Raleigh for a job interview, when I passed a little dog on the side of a busy road.
(I just took this yesterday, and was stunned by just HOW busy that road was. Tallulah was less than 3 months old when I found her, and you guys, she was past that gutter. It gives me chills. She was probably moments from being in that road.)
I never made it to the interview, because as we all know by now, I made the best U-turn of my life and swooped that little puppy up and into my car. My initial plan had been to knock on the trailer doors, there, to say, “Here’s your dog,” but when I saw all the yards weren’t fenced, and that she was so very skinny, and once I saw the sun glint through her gold eyelashes, I instead shut my car door and put her in the passenger seat. And right then I knew, I had myself a Tallulah dog.
I’ve never known something so certainly, and never loved someone so fast. It was her gold eyelashes that did me in. Those gold eyelashes assured her spot as my passenger that day.
She was the best passenger I ever had, for 8 years.
This week would have been her 10th birthday, and I decided it was time to scatter her ashes all the places she loved. That included her first home, where I found her; the house we had in TinyTown; my yard here; the dog park; and any other places I can think of where she was happy, i.e., anywhere Edsel wasn’t.
(She was never a fan. Don’t tell Edsel. He was nothing BUT a fan of that dog.)
So yesterday I took the day off work to drive back to TinyTown and to where I found her, which by the way is precisely nowhere–it’s not even a town. Tallulah was a small-town girl. Livin’ in a LONELY world. She took the midnight train going an-y-where.
Also on June’s scroll: She burst into bad ’70s music when no one wanted her to.
The problem was, yesterday was our first snowstorm of the year. Go, June! Wait, did you just plow through something without thinking it through? Hunh.
Just as soon as I got out to the car, it started to snow. It was so pretty, and I was all, Oh, it won’t stick.
So, once again, my favorite passenger and I got into the car and headed on down the road a piece.
I took the country roads to take me home, because it’s a really pretty drive, and normally I’d have stopped to take photos for you, but as the grandmother I’m turning into would say, it was pouring the rain. It wasn’t far out of Greensboro that the snow turned to rain, but man, we’re talking rain. Much rain. It rained longer than Queen Elizabeth.
Oh, June. You’re not funny.
Whenever I return to TinyTown, I am charmed by the people and the beautiful old houses and I think, Why the hell did I ever leave TinyTown? I wonder if I’d have gotten divorced if I’d left. I wonder if I’d have ever met Ned. I’d never have had a Steely Dan, or known a single Alex.
But left it I did, which means I missed the news that my friend Lucy died earlier this year. She was a woman I met through the Episcopal church, where I was the best church secretary the world has ever known.
My stepbrother-in-law Bill once told me about a guy he knew who chucked it all to become a mushroom farmer. He wanted a simpler life. Turns out, being a mushroom farmer is really hard, and you have to constantly keep up with the heat and the moisture and the soil and your mushrooms and LIFE WAS NOT SIMPLER.
This sums up my experience of going from being a proofreader at an ad agency in Los Angeles to being a church secretary in a town of 3,000. IT WAS THE HARDEST JOB I EVER HAD.
But man, did I love the people there. I saw the church and the steeple, then I opened the door and saw all the people, and they were fabulous.
It’s funny–when we first moved to TinyTown, we had one car, a car Marvin would take to work. So my only entertainment was walking, and right outside our door was the world’s steepest hill, so every day in the August heat, I’d climb that hill. This church, the Episcopal church, was at the very top, and I’d sit on the wall and spit up blood while I caught my breath. I would admire the architecture every day. At night, the steeple would be surrounded by barn swallows, but I didn’t know what they were yet.
I’ve learned a lot of things living in the South: To be, not to seem. What a barn swallow is. To enjoy conversation. A ham biscuit. And that not everyone automatically believes in evolution.
I didn’t know I’d end up working at that church, is my point.
Anyway, when I learned my favorite parishioner Lucy died, I called her husband, Dr. Whit, and we made plans to get together yesterday.
When I pulled up to his house, he ran out for me with an umbrella, and does anyone want to join me in wondering why I left TinyTown? He’d made a cozy fire in the living room, and we had lunch and talked about just everything. That’s the thing about the people there: They all have the gift of gab. They make an afternoon fly by, because they actually know how to have conversations. No one checks a phone, no one dominates the talk. It’s a skill everyone there seems to have.
I was stunned to see they still have their mean cat, Dixie, named because she was found out behind a Winn-Dixie 14 years ago. “Has she gotten any nicer?” I asked hopefully. “Can I pet her yet?”
“Oh, no, don’t do that,” Dr. Whit warned. “Don’t ever do that.”
Of course, we talked about Lucy, and he even gave me some of her ashes, and I got my nerve up and asked, and YES, she got to be buried in her Tiffany box after all. I really almost cried when I found out. I so wanted her to get her Tiffany box.
After our visit, I stopped at the church and scattered a little Lu around the back door. I used to work every day from 8–12, and she’d be in her crate during that time. If I ever had to return for more pressing church secretary duties, I’d take her back to work with me for the afternoon where Dear People of TinyTown: Occasionally she’d poop in the nave maybe a bit. I am sorry. SHE WAS JUST A PUP. It was just a little puppy poop.
I remember her little excited puppy self clamoring to the back door of the church, trying to get up those big stone steps. And I remember Father Mike very tolerantly saying, “Hello, Tallulah” when he’d see us together in the office. He was the kind of guy who kept dogs for hunting, so you have to hand it to him that he didn’t fire me on the spot.
I also drove through the bustling downtown that continues to be adorable, then over to my old rental house, which doesn’t look good. They cut down some greenery, somehow. I want to look at old photos to compare the difference, but it looks barer now.
Nevertheless, since no one was home, I sneaked to the back yard like a common criminal and scattered Lu where I stood with her for countless hours in the cold, holding her leash, saying, Go potty go potty go potty go potty until we’d give up and go inside, where she’d poop on the floor as soon as we got in.
“Lu really prefer to poop in nave.”
Then I popped in on some other friends I made in TinyTown, Jerry and Rachel. They are the very definition of gracious. They served me hot cider and chewy almond cookies on a silver tray. Also on my tombstone: She never had elegant silver trays.
Careful readers will note this is the couple who had me over a few Christmas Eves since I moved to Greensboro. Their house was built in the ’20s, and they are the second people to ever own it. It has built-in cabinets, and one of those fireplaces with the wood columns and the mirror built in over it and OH MY GOD THAT HOUSE Y’ALL.
I forget how happy the people of TinyTown make me. And when I left their house, Jerry walked me to my car with an umbrella over me.
Hey, why’d I leave TinyTown?
Anyway, the weather was not letting up, and I basically hydroplaned my way to Tallulah’s old homestead. I saw a kid playing in the yard of one of the trailers, and I was tempted to ask, “Did anyone steal a puppy from you when you were just a wee child?” but I did not. Instead, I very casually walked around the grass, scattering Lu out in the driving rain, looking, I’m sure, not remotely berserk in my suede fringe boots and fur-collared retro coat.
The closer I got to home, the snowier it got, and while hydroplaning was not relaxing, neither was slipping on the ice. Despite my concrete shoulders, I took time out of sliding on the road to open the gift Jerry and Rachel had given me, a big tin of peanuts, and what better time to delve into a tin of peanuts than when you’re on an icy road, with cars spun out every few miles and ambulances everywhere? It’s a moment that cries out for a peanut break.
Tip for readers: Some tins of peanuts have very sturdy foil tops. These foil tops will SLICE YOUR FINGER TO RIBBONS should you choose to, oh, eat peanuts and drive.
You have no idea how badly I cut my own self. Turns out, bleeding and driving don’t mix. Oh my god, I was Nicole Brown Simpson. I was Sunday Bloody Sunday. I was bloody, Mary.
The peanuts were delicious.
I made it home alive and Dr. Whit even called today to make sure I did.
It didn’t even snow that much–although it’s still snowing as we speak. But it’s that kind with the icy top layer, like a creme brûlée. And today I was supposed to go do something exciting that I was gonna tell you about, but now that’s been put off.
But that is probably good, since I have droned on forever about my day in TinyTown, and talk about your gift for gab.
Not as gabby as my tombstone is gonna be, but you know what I mean.
I meant to get here earlier, but I was on the phone all morning.
Recently, I discovered I had 5.5 days left of vacation time that I did not take this year, and while I can roll three of them over, I also took today and tomorrow off. Ima Christmas shop today, and then tomorrow I planned to scatter Tallulah’s ashes.
Tuesday was what would have been Lu’s 10th birthday, and it dawned on me that I should scatter some of her ashes where I found her, near TinyTown, and then maybe at our old house in TinyTown if I don’t get arrested, and then some in my backyard, and then I found a store on Etsy that sort of bakes in some ashes with metal and then you have a necklace. Also, say “and then” one more time.
So that’s what’s going to become of Talu. She was an outdoor girl; she wouldn’t have wanted to be in that stereo speaker on my shelf forever.
And by the way, I did not find Lu in TinyTown, proper. Hey, I wonder if my haters think I made up finding her, too. Anyway, I FOUND her on a busy two-lane road when I was driving to Raleigh for a job interview. And girl, once I got this idea, you have no CLUE how long it took for me to figure out just exactly where I found her. But I did it!!
Here it is! Here is the busy corner! This shot was taken November of 2007, and since she was just a pup when I found her, the vet estimated she was born December 5, 2007. I COMBED this shot for a pregnant dog, because HOW WONDERFUL would that have been to see in this photo? A Beagle or a Pit, all heavy with Lu child. Maybe Lu’s mom was inside, with her new pups already. What if I get there tomorrow and one of Lu’s siblings is there?? GUESS WHO I WILL BE BRINGING HOME.
So, I guess it was maybe because I was planning this, but today I had a bad feeling, a weird feeling, and I Googled my friend Lucy, from TinyTown.
I found out that she died in her sleep this year. I wish someone from TTown had told me. I’d have stampeded back there for her funeral.
Lucy was one of the women who belonged to the Episcopal church, where I was a stunning and effective church secretary. I really liked all the women there, I really did, but she was special to me. She was beautiful, first of all, which is important to me, because spiritual and deep. Also, she had this low, sexy voice, and was ready to be sarcastic at the turn of a dime. She’s everything I wish I was, had I been born Southern.
I dearly loved her.
So, I called her husband, Dr. Whit. He’d been the TinyTown doctor forever. Pretty much delivered every resident. Lucy agreed to marry him after I think three weeks. She told me she didn’t want anyone else to get him.
“Hello, June,” he said, as he picked up the phone.
“How’d you know it was me?” My number AND my last name have changed since we last spoke.
“My TV told me,” he said.
Dang. Things got fancy in TinyTown. Also, I love how everyone there still has a real phone. Anyway, we had ourselves a nice talk about Lucy, whom it turns out we were both pretty fond of and
OH MY GOD! CRAP! I just remembered! Out of all the hilarious memories I have of her, I remember she said she wanted to be cremated, and then she wanted to be put in a cardboard box, so she could be ashes to ashes ASAP.
But she wanted to be in a TIFFANY box. And I, idiot that I am, CALLED TIFFANY to ask if they’d just send me a box. Then I told them why.
News flash: They did not send me a box.
DAMMIT. I wonder if she got her Tiffany box. Oh, this all makes me want to cry. I WISH I had known she was so ill.
The point is, I’m not only headed to TinyTown tomorrow to scatter Lu, but also Ima have lunch with the good doctor. Then Ima pop over, drive all the way across town, as it were, to see the Johnson-Johnstons, a couple I also liked from the church. Her maiden name was Johnson, and she married a Johnston. Or vice versa. Anyway, I have thought of them often because they, too, moved out of their house, then back in, and hung pictures right back up where they’d been, and when I moved back here after my year abroad I thought of that a lot.
They did it for a job, though. Not a tumultuous relationship. So.
In all, I am v v excited about tomorrow, and I will fill you in on all the deets as soon as I can. I’m so glad I got to live in TinyTown for as long as I did. I heart those people.
And I really hope Lucy got her Tiffany box, after all.
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.
On Friday night, my many wrinkles and I stayed home and copy edited, but NOT before I screwed up at work and felt just awful about it.
Do you remember that project I took home last weekend? The point of taking it home was so that when it came back from the printer and I looked it over one last time, I wouldn’t find that it had ONE MORE ERROR after all, the way I did LAST month.
Of course that thing came back from the printer at seven minutes to 5:00 Friday, and guess what I found.
Spelling error. DAMMIT.
I’ve spent the whole weekend trying to figure out how I could have done the job perfectly. I know people think, “Isn’t that what a copy editor does? Isn’t her whole job to check spelling errors?”
Oh, honey. It so isn’t all I do.
And maybe that’s the problem, I’ve decided. Maybe one person needs to check all the facts; the other all the art; the last one the spelling, grammar, and punctuation. And maybe something that cumbersome should not be looked at by one copy editor, but three or four.
I’ll stop talking about it now so you don’t die of boredom. But everyone was working late Friday, including our president. Not of the country, of the company. And I talked to him about this error, and how upset it made me, and awhile later I was obsessing at my desk and he came over.
“Hey, I know I told you not to sweat it, and that the important thing is you still found it before it went to print. But you know what? Thank you for sweating it. Thank you for caring.”
Then I had to go home and freelance.
The point is, pretty much every morning for the last two years I wake up with dread, because my romance sitch is so precarious. Even when we actually reunited officially last year, I woke up in dread, and had to take a moment to tell myself, “No, it’s okay. You’re back together.”
The point is, every so often lately I do NOT wake up in dread. Saturday I woke up and said, “You know what? You’ve been in this endless terrible relationship, and you made a mistake at work. You could look at it that way, or you could think, Well, it looks like I’m finishing a relationship that wasn’t good for me, and the president of my company knows I care about my work.”
So. That’s what I did. I opted for door number two.
On Saturday morning, I schlepped my arse out to the country to hang with one of the Alexes, who makes funny needlepoint in her spare time, to sell at craft shows. I know you’d think I’d feel competitive, what with all m’crafts, but I don’t. I mean, nothing compares to my decoupage. So.
We sat for awhile behind her display, which sounds dirty but was just barely so, and caught up on each other’s gossip. Then I had to go.
I got up with Marty Martin, who is neither an old man with a walker or a ’50s strip mall, but for some reason all I photographed was my walk INto the coffee shop and not M Martin himself. And Dear M Martin: Could you REMIND me I have a blog and need to photograph everything, next time? GOD.
Wait. Does that old guy have a walker or just stripey pants?
Also also, this dick-ass popular hamburger place moved in there, but did nothing to improve the parking, and now you can’t park there to save your life. There are about 10 other stores besides Dick-Ass Popular Hamburgers, but do they care? No. For that reason alone, I never eat there.
After that, I screamed over to the old mill stream, where I first met you, or alternatively, the old mill where I get my hair done.
Poor Marty Martin was all, Well, if your appointment is at 1:00, we could meet after, at like 2:00 or something.
Oh, honey. Oh hairless honey. 2:00. He probably also thinks all copy editors do is check spelling.
Here we are at the dry-it-straight portion of our evening, and by that time it literally was evening.
When I got back to my car, I was amused by the dregs of my run-aroundy day.
Edsel at confession. Why do I try to have a screen?
On Sunday, Peg-my-neighbor’s daughter called me, as they are painting and fixing Peg’s house to eventually sell it. She wanted me to see it all cleared out.
Aw, man. I just tried to find you photos of Peg’s house, which I know I have, but instead I just keep finding fun pictures of Peg through the years.
Here she is in 2010, at our combo dress-as-your-biggest-fear party.
Here she is at 5:00 in the morning, when we had our royal wedding get-together at her house.
Seeing her house all shiny and bare. Oh, man.
This computer is like to kill me, and now it’s late and I gotta go before I can tell you how cool the building is where I have therapy. Even the ELEVATOR BUTTONS are cool.
Here’s what I like about myself. I mean, other than the obvious “everything.”
I recently got matched with a cool-looking dude on the Bumble, there, and with that particular dating site, they give you 24 hours to write the person after you’ve been matched, and the woman has to write first. This cuts down dramatically on the number of crude hellos one encounters with online dating.
Why are there men who think opening with a line about wanting to stick your previously unseen personal parts into the recipient of your inaugural note would go over well with any non-roofied woman?
So yesterday evening I wrote a man, “I’m just on my way out the door, but I wanted to write before our time expired.” Don’t I sound breezy, and fun, and whirlwind, and like I’m taking a nothing day and suddenly making it all seem worthwhile?
I was leaving a bar to go to a sandwich truck. Will the adventures never end? That guy probably thinks I’m dashing out to accept my Nobel or hauling water for the Peace Corps or something.
And I like how if we call a sandwich something else, like glamorous “panini,” it sounds better. I had a mozzarella, basil and tomato PANINI. So rather than eat it as I walked to my car, I masticated during my evening constitutional, under the waxing gibbous.
I’d been at a bar, on a MONDAY, as you do, because it was someone’s last day. Yes, I DID just go out recently because it was someone’s last day. It was another person’s last day. Hundreds of people work there, dude. They come and go, talking of Michelangelo.
It was the same bar I went to last time, where the sun is screaming in at you for the first hour, and you get a free cataract surgery, so intense is the laser of the sun.
Not only did I see a lot of the sun, I also saw my handyman Alf. Which was convenient for me, as I was able to cut into his drinking time to alert him that my windows need fixing. Truthfully, Alf looked a little paned when he saw me.
Thank you. I’ll quite literally be here all week. Speaking of which, I was at a restaurant the other night next to a table of the millennials, and really we should just be assigned different restaurants. Or they should have millennial/nonmillennial sections. Anyway, the woman behind me said, “This is literally so good” three times.
I wanted to just turn in my booth and school marm the fuck out of her youthful ass. I did. “What do you mean when you say it’s literally so good, you moronic turn-of-the-century asshole?” I wanted to menopause and reflect all over her bullshitty youthspeak. But I did not. Because my chicken parm was literally so good. Chicken parm for the marm.
I can see that I’m on a nonlinear roll today, so let me stop, let me menopause, and tell you three things right now, before I wander off. I wanted to write you before we expire.
Six months ago, I had my daith pierced, because I am street and also because it’s supposed to help migraines. They told me it’d take a long time to actually heal, and they were right about THAT, but finally it seems better, so on my way home from Atlanta Sunday, I passed the tattoo parlor where I got pierced, and had a real earring put in, as opposed to the training bra I’ve been sporting.
As for the success, I still get migraines, but not as often on that side, which leads me to want to get the other side pierced. I thought of doing it Sunday, since I was already there, but Tuna seemed distracted. Tuna is the piercer, and what has become of my life? Also, is “tattoo parlor” aging me, like when my mother calls them “blue jeans”?
Anyway, while I was in Atlanta I clearly had to stick my dog somewhere, and please see above references to online daters sticking their parts, which has nothing to do with where I stuck my dog, so please hang up on PETA before you alarm them. I stuck him at dog daycare, where he’s been going since birth. When he used to go with Tallulah, he’d follow her everywhere, and she’d act like they’d never met.
guy wif unnerbyte? he still behind Lu? yeah, no idea.
When Lu died, his time at daycare looked, well, less fun. When I’d look at Edsel on the webcam, he always seemed to kind of stand alone, waiting for me to come get him. This weekend I was so busy, with my breezy on-the-go life, that I never checked on him via webcam till yesterday at work.
Every time I looked at him, he was hanging out with a beagle. I mean, every time.
They were inseparable, so much so that I was reluctant to get him at lunch, but I knew I had to get my drank on after work, and priorities. When I retrieved him, Dexter the beagle threw his head back and howled at the gate.
I found out his name was Dexter because I asked daycare, who’ve been knowing Edsel since eighteen aught six when I first took him there, “Who’s the beagle he’s actually acknowledging?”
Turns out, Dexter had also been there all weekend, and the two of them were thick as thieves since Saturday.
So you know what I hate? When people add “come to find out” to a story. “He was with that dog, come to find out it was another boy dog. Come to find out, my dog is as gay as the maypole. Come to find out all my suspicions were correct.”
Anyway, I intend to call daycare and get more guff on when Dexter will be there next, as Eds having a friend is just the cutest goddamn thing I can think of. It’s literally so cute.
I think I had more, but I see I’m at 1,059 words, and hello, restless crowd. I close with more photos of my coworkers, and puppies at bars, and I will talk to you tomorrow when there will be a full Kit and June Hand Out Poison Candy Halloween extravaganza throwdown.
Back when I first became a blogging person, in eighteen aught six, someone told me about another funny blogger named Miss Doxie.
What I just did, there, was call myself “funny” again, and that’s twice in a row, now. But I’ve only called myself funny twice since eighteen aught six, so that’s saying something.
The point is, I took to reading the Miss Doxie, and I was what you’d call a big fan. Oh, she was hilarious, and like me, was also incredibly successful and ridiculously pretty.
The day June lost eighteeen aught six readers.
Eventually, Miss Doxie and her long-term boyfriend, who never deserved her, broke up, and she met a new boy, who did. Deserve her, I mean. Whereas the first guy was not as…pretty as she was and also was a commitmentphobe, the new guy was cute cute cute, and proposed in less than two years, I think it was.
Oh, it was exciting when he proposed. So there I was, all caught up in someone else’s life story, and her wedding day was almost as exciting as my own.
She got married in a cemetery, and Dear Miss Doxie: I stole this off the internet please do not arrest me.
The point is, she was someone whose blog I read and occasionally commented on, and then one day in 2011 I was at my lawyer’s office, commencing to get a divorce and I get an email from her.
From her! From Miss Doxie!
I can’t recall what it said, exactly, but I know she told me she read MY stupid blog, and boom, there it was. We became friends. I visited her in Atlanta later that year, and we stayed in touch, and she’d say, You have to come back and visit, and I’d say yeah.
This weekend, she had her annual oh-my-god-this-woman-loves-Halloween Halloween party, and she invited me, and I said, You know what? Hell yes Ima go. So I slapped on some antlers and drove six hours.
I went as Frida Kahlo. I mean, for Halloween. Not as a houseguest. Yes, I’ll come visit, but you must call me Frida all weekend.
If you’re not familiar with Frida, and really?, you may wonder why I had the antlers going. Sometimes she painted herself with antlers, but I did not have time to search for Frida photos for very long, because it turns out I took 168 pictures this weekend, which took 800 years to upload, it took eighteen aught six hours to upload and oh my god now I’m in a hurry.
Miss Doxie had moved since I last visited, but as I pulled onto her street, I pretty much knew I’d found her house.
No scary stone was left unturned, man. Miss Doxie is in the details.
The best part was, you never knew which thing was just gonna START ANIMATING when you walked up to it. A bear rug would start roaring and glowing red-eyed at you. A fucking creepy-ass doll would follow you and whisper.
Or, for that matter…
I got to stay in the guest house, which was pretty cool, man. Miss Doxie is an excellent hostess, on top of all the other, you know, positive qualities and so forth. I eventually retired there to get ready for the shindig, because I’m from eighteen aught six. The jamboree. The gala.
I remember somebody once telling me that getting ready for the prom was the most fun part of prom. I kind of feel that way about getting ready for a party. This part is just so anticipatory.
One hour of makeup, three hours of shopping at basic-girl stores for jewelry, half an hour of Amazon shopping for antlers and flowers, and zero time spent at the waxer this month, and fin. I am Frida. Where is my Diego?
I was pretty pleased with other people’s costumes, and it should be noted that Doxie’s bartender came, which slayed me, and he was downstairs at her bar and said, “Let me make you an old-fashioned.” Who was I to argue? I’ll tell you who I was to argue. How about an adult who should know her limits? Maybe that’s who I coulda been. Later, a friend of Doxie’s said, Let me make you a spiced rum-and-cider drink. Who was I to argue?Oh, June. That’s not actually a person, June.
I was having a high time, till somewhere around midnight, that six-hour drive and oh, possibly the eight gallons of alcohol hit me, and I was bone tired. Tired. In m’bones. I tried to go tell Doxie I was wandering back to my Fonzie guest house, but she was saying goodbye to people at the door.
I got in my pajamas and as I told her the next day, left a Shroud of Turin on her washcloth, washing off that Frida makeup.
I was just drifting off when my phone buzzed. “We’re just girls left, and we’re having girl wine!” Doxie texted me. “I’m already in my pa” I wrote back, then fell into a dead sleep till morning.
Turns out, she stayed up till 4. FOUR! Who is a pussy? Is it me?
Even little girls drank harder than me. Had I had any more alcohol, I’d have been less Oz and more paging Dr. Oz. So.
The point is, I survived, and got to kibitz with her dogs, and her spouse, and her people, and it was so worth driving 12 hours in one weekend.
And the possible alcohol poisoning.
Now tomorrow I gotta, you know, put that outfit on again, as it is actually Halloween.
It was inevitable, I suppose, that during a pertinent conversation with my friend Hamlet, in which we were extolling Patty and Selma from The Simpsons,
that I was struck by HOW MAGNIFICENT it would be to name cats Patty and Selma. It’s these epiphanies that make me say, Well, I could just jaunt off to the pound, there, get a couple orange cats, call ’em Patty and Selma, because that’s just too good to pass up.
I didn’t do it. This is not a Very Special Book of June, where I get new pets.
Well. A Relatively Regular Book of June, where I get new pets.
I did, however, just go ahead and have the scheduled pets, which normally, with my advanced maturity, I’d say isn’t nearly as exciting. But with Steely Dan, it’s always exciting.
You know what I like about him, other than his lust for life? He’s a regular Vincent Cat Gogh. I also like how normally he adores Edsel–I mean, the very first time I let whining, eager Edsel into the room to meet his kitten self, SD was appalled. He puffed all up, all four inches of him, and arched dramatically and so on. But about 47 seconds later he was cool with Edsel, and now he’s forever trying to get Eds to play (after that one claw-in-the-snout incident, that’s been less likely of an event) or standing on his back legs to rub his snout on Edsel’s.
But the times that dog gets, oh, emo, the times the dog emotes, which is often, Steely Dan cannot bear it. If Edsel is ever simpering and whining and acting the fool, SD gets up high somewhere–the sink, a counter–and makes sure to smack old touchy-feely EST feeling-his-feelings Edsel, terrectly on the noggin.
This I like about Steely Dan. It’s how we all feel when Edsel works on that Academy Award.
Oh, one more thing. (GOD, June.) Did you ever notice the iPhone emoji for “dog” looks like Edsel? Go ahead. I’ll wait.
After work, a bunch of us went to happy hour, because it was someone’s last day. We go to this place near work, and the weather was, in fact, perfect for it, but the sun. That sun. Did you ever notice it? Go look outside. I’ll wait. I know I was already supposed to wait for you to type “dog” into your phone, but.
This time of year, that first hour of happy hour, and I like how I miss the concept, is ALL SUN ALL THE TIME. It’s Barhenge.
See. I just invented a Stongehenge-themed bar in my mind, but here one already is. Everything’s already been done.
The point is, as usual, everyone went home or off to, oh, eat, and I was the last person to leave, which is how it always works when I attend a happy “hour.” I had only one drink–I was just busy yammering to people. Also, there was a Great Pyrenees there. Of course I petted it. What are you, new?
Happy hour. It’s an hour on Mercury.
Also, science. I have no idea if time is slower on Mercury. I just kind of assumed. All that science, I don’t understand. Plus, as we know, science isn’t real anyway. Fake news.
Spent way too much time following old Lust for Life around, trying to capture him on film, and by the way, he abhors the camera. Starts whipping his tail as soon as I aim the phone at him. The OTHER pets, the good pets, look right at me, at this point, and then when I’m somewhere trying to photograph someone else’s pet, as I am wont to do, I get so annoyed that they don’t automatically look at me when I point the camera. WHAT IS WRONG WITH THIS EMU?
Finally, I did an hour of Callenetics, because it’s 1986 up in here. I was tired of Tracy Anderson, and I was getting injuries, so I ordered me up that old …tape, even though now it’s a DVD, but come on.
Anyway, I just loved it. I love that lady, who was clearly some rich person who thought she was a huge adventurer, what with spending the family money to gallivant all over yonder, and eventually decided to teach exercise classes, which is another “family money” kind of job.
You should read her Wikipedia page. Oh my god. It’s not even a humble brag. It’s just a brag brag. It’s Fort Bragg. Just Google Callan Pinckney. Which by the way, she made up. That name, I mean. It’s not nearly as good of a name as Patty or Selma.
See. I’m doing the thing where I’m trying to tell you about three days and I’m taking for fucking ever. Let’s proceed.
In the afternoon, I stampeded to the movies to see The Other Side of the Mountain or whatever it’s called, the one that gives you yet another clue that you should never take public transportation with Kate Winslett.
I attended said film with my friend The Poet and her friend The Prose, and hang on a minute while I gaze at myself fondly for calling him The Prose.
The movie was just okay. There was a dog in it and a hot man of color with a British accent, and we get to see him having sex–the man, not the dog–so two cougars up.
Then I screamed to the damn dance store, of which this town has one, to buy ballet slippers for tonight’s dance class, and they close AT FOUR on Saturdays.
At four. On a Saturday. Four. Yeah. Those nutcrackers.
So instead, I shopped for my Halloween costume, then screamed home and got ready for a partayyy, in which I brought helpful cheese and crackers.
One of my coworkers had a little get-together, and the food was delicious, and it was perfect weather for a fire pit, and it turns out, all I really ever want to do is drink around a fire pit. That’s all I ask for in a fall evening.
Also, I like the people I work with. I’m like a chubby Mary Richards.
SUNDAY (Oh thank god. Will she ever stop?)
I wanted to do Callenetics again, that’s how much I liked it, but it says to do it twice a week, so. Everything hurt, so I put on my athletic shoes (hahahahahahaha) and headed to this trail. Lactic acid burnoff. I considered taking the Eds, but that trail is always sick with dogs, and guess whose miracle cure is wearing off. Guess who decided to put the aggression back in leash aggression.
I’m so glad I didn’t take him, because this asshole came up the trail with her two white fluffy dogs OFF LEASH, one in a pink harness and one is a blue harness (okay, that part was cute), and they ran right up to me and climbed up my leg. By the time that woman sauntered to us, Edsel would have digested and passed her flufferkins, her furbabies, her insert whatever annoying thing she inevitably calls them.
“I just can’t bear to put them on leashes,” she laughed, as she approached me petting her dogs. Oh, how I wanted to tell her. You have no idea. You think you can’t bear to leash them? How would you have felt about finally strolling up to a shaggy Civil War scene? To the remains of the fluff? Cause that’s what woulda happened had I been here with my leashed, legal dog. Barely legal, all nude dog.
I walked for an hour and a half, and stopped at the little lake, there, watched turtles, and then it was time for therapy!
Therapy? June? What with your healthy love relationships? Why waste your money?
And yes, she has hours on Sunday, and who am I to argue with a therapist who might be a workaholic? This is, in fact, the second therapist I’ve had who works Sundays; the last was in LA. They probably have to work seven days, like ranchers in Oklahoma or lobstermen in Maine.
The office is downtown, which is convenient, because I hear downtown, all the old men have been driven crazy.
And that was the day I stopped reading June.
I like going downtown, even though I was once again approached by someone who was “out of gas” on his “second day in Greensboro,” and should I just keep five dollars in my wallet? Is that the most humane way to deal with this? What if the broken old man who approaches me is finally Jesus and I blow it by walking by indifferently?
Or what if he’s just a broken man who needs help and I walk by indifferently? The problem is, I’m also a little scared, so I don’t want to stay long. So it’s this push/pull of help a person/save one’s ass from mugging.
So that sums it up. Tonight I dance. Just a Steeltown girl on a Saturday night. Just an aging girl on a Monday night, lookin’ for the fight of her life. Or dancing shoes at her lunch hour.
She has danced into the danger zone when the dancer becomes the dance. Or sciatica.