I did something bad, and I feel bad about it. Say “bad” one more time. Who am I, Michael Jackson?
In 2011, I briefly dated a guy. Let me think: We met in late May, first date in June, and by July it was all over. We gave it about a month of no contact, and then commenced being friends after that. He, too, was newly separated, in that first year North Carolina makes you sit through till you can get a divorce. We’d go to dinner, to movies, get drinks, shop. He was fun to shop with. We got each other Christmas presents and celebrated each other’s birthdays.
That guy was someone I called Dick Whitman. (He was a huge fan of Mad Men, as was I.)
Anyway, we got pretty close. Then life moved on and I met someone I got serious with, and he did, too, but occasionally we’d still hang, usually with the people we were dating.
In 2015, I ended my serious relationship, AS WE ALL KNOW ALL TOO WELL, and I didn’t hear from Dick Whitman. I wasn’t particularly miffed about that: I hadn’t personally told him, I don’t think, and I assumed he’d figure it out soon enough via social media or something. Eventually, his mom told him.
Because here’s the thing: His mom was fabulous. Also, use of colons with an introductory clause is big with me today.
Dick Whitman talked about his mom all the time, and when we’d been dating, he showed me old pictures of her (he knew I was into that, plus also he’s a photographer, so he had what you might call a few photos here and there), and he and I even made a little video for her, so he could “introduce” me.
Anyway, I finally met her two years after I met Dick Whitman. She was marvelous. We shared a birthday, and a tendency to be outspoken and perhaps unfiltered. I met her two times total, both at Winston-Salem restaurants, as that’s where they both live. And I adored her.
Dick Whitman’s mom became a reader of my blog, and she’d comment here, and on (Face)Book of June. And it was probably one of those places that she learned my relationship was over, and she told her son.
He left me a message then. I was staying at Kaye’s, so it must have been those first six weeks after the breakup. I called him back, but he never returned the call.
During those first six weeks, I also arranged an “I’m Going to Die Alone” party, to be held in December at my house after I’d moved in. I sent out invitations early, probably two months before the party was to commence. Dick Whitman did not reply, but his girlfriend did, saying they’d be there.
But then weeks before the party, she wrote again, saying they’d double-booked and could not come. I never did speak to Dick Whitman, and that is when I got angry at him, for not being there when I really needed a friend.
Look, it was a total chick thing to do, okay? I know that. I was vulnerable. We still have not spoken, except I emailed him last week to say I was sorry that his mother died.
Because she did die. Dick Whitman’s mom’s health declined, and in August I emailed DW’s sister to ask if I could visit. I knew Dick Whitman’s mom was in the hospital, and I wanted to see her. She said yes, please do, she reads your blog, still.
But driving the 40 minutes each way after work wasn’t really feasible, because of my freelance stuff I do at night, and each weekend would just slip by without me getting to Winston. Every weekend I’d say, “I gotta get to Winston” and then I never did.
And then she died.
And now I see Dick Whitman’s sister has unfriended me on Facebook, and I feel terrible. I try to always be the person who comes to the funeral, or who shows up when someone is ill, and I was not that person this time. I know DW’s mom was surrounded by people who loved her, and that she probably didn’t even notice that I wasn’t there, but I wish I’d have been there anyway, as clearly it meant something to DW’s sister that I show up.
So, I was that asshole. And I feel terrible about it, and you don’t have to make me feel better, because I did a bad thing, and it’s okay to feel terrible when you did a bad thing.
Tell us about your weekend. We await, riveted. Signed, No one.
We had our work picnic Thursday afternoon, which I realize is not Friday, and I just gave this section a “Friday” subhead and WHAT THE HELL with this blog. The point is, I’m this weird combination of an extroverted introvert, where I sort of dread having to be around people, then I get there and it’s OHMYGOD PEOPLE YAY! and I sort of dash about frenetically visiting this person and that, and then it’s time to go home and I’m drained.
All this to say that Thursday was a lot of socializing, and then Friday I had A Thing. My work sponsors this foundation, and said foundation was having a dinner and a speaker at the country club, and I had to get dressed up and dine at the country club and so forth, and if there’s anything you’re sick of, it’s my “June’s Tales of the Country Club” stories.
The man who spoke at our event had been Harvey Milk’s right-hand man, and he was there when Harvey Milk was killed. Then he watched all his friends die of AIDS. I can’t even imagine what it must have been like to be a gay man in San Francisco in the ’80s. I mean, it’s close, given all the action I get. Still.
So that was kind of a sosh two days, and now that I’ve said “sosh” you will wash your hands of me and I understand. I do. I hope one day we can be friends. M’point is, I was all social activites-d out.
It was bitty boopy blindy-boo Iris’s 6th birthday Saturday, and if you didn’t wash your hands of me before…
Somebody at work put cans of cat food on the “anyone can take it” table, and they were fancy expensive cans of things like buffalo and pheasant. I thought I’d give one to Iris, seeing as most of the time she gets cans of “whatever dregs were in the meat murder room” flavor.
She didn’t even used to EAT cans. I read somewhere that canned food was good for kittens, and I guess that’s true because look how big Steely Dan got, and once she started sniffing cans, and who doesn’t like to do that, she got a hankering. So now I give adult cans to both of them, and I don’t mean that they are somehow dirty.
Lily doesn’t like a can. You’d think she wouldn’t be picky, but she is. She’s like one of those 250-pound women who run marathons and the world judges and it’s like, But you don’t know her.
Anyway, I gave a can of, like, wild boar and sweet potato to Iris, and she was all, “Ware delish dreg fud?” So.
My point is, after I took Iris to Chucky Cheese and she ate the mouse, I spent my Saturday shopping for fabric.
As you may already know, because your hand is up in June’s life, I have this old chair that belonged to my grandmother, the one I’ve turned into. It used to be this burgundy Naugahyde, and then my mother owned it and gave it these baby-blue flowers, which Lottie, my dog, fmr, quickly turned into mud flowers, and I act like “mud flowers” is a thing.
The spring and summer I had Lottie was a rainy one, and my yard is aching for grass the way I am for a martini at 8 a.m., so she brought a lot of mud to the chair situation. And one might think one could tell her puppy to just NOT leap onto the chair, but clearly you have not attended June’s Iron Fist of Dog Discipline yet.
I’ve wanted to recover this poor chair for awhile, but it costs, and funds were tight, but then this year I pretty much took on a second job doing freelance work, and you guys are shopping on Amazon by clicking through my not-blog, and boom. All of a sudden, and it really did seem all of a sudden, I got caught up. I’m not a millionaire, but I’m out of credit card debt and I don’t have to live on four dollars till payday anymore.
So, in a sense, when I recover this chair, it will be the recovery that you built. And I thank you. Most heartily, I do. My point is, I’d never gone to the fabric store before, and hey, overwhelming.
The good news is they’re moving, so every single piece of fabric was on sale, at least 50% off and some as much as 80% off. I tried to like any of the 80%, but it was all “Brady Bunch Plaid Orange” or “Smells Like Grandma” or “Gay Man in the ’80s” patterns, and I just could not.
The man who owns the store helped me, and was very kind, even though he was having a huge sale on a Saturday and was the only person working there. “If you have a dog, don’t get any silk fabrics,” he advised.
Naturally all I wanted after that were the silk fabrics. It’s like dating. I’m trying hard not to be drawn to another love avoidant, and I start chatting men up and after date number two, they’ll be all, “I really want to live alone for the rest of my life” or “I like to be in touch once every nine days” or “I was married once, for 8 months” and WHY DO I KEEP BEING DRAWN TO IT.
I liked this silk love avoidant flowered pattern in the middle, but who am I, Diana Ross? What do I need with a black flowered chair?
Green one’s pretty, and oh, look, silk. This fabric just wants to hang out, nothing serious.
Ultimately, I did get a green pattern, not silk, that wants to take things slow and maybe see other people. I love love love this pattern, and my whole goal while I was shopping was I’d pick a pattern that made me gasp because it was so pretty. This one did. It’ll probably keep texting its ex-girlfriend after we move in together.
The rest of the day was pretty quiet, and I binged Leah Reminy’s series exposing the Scientologists. When I lived in LA, I lived near one of the big Scientology buildings, and they bought up pretty much all the apartment buildings on the blocks around their big building, and I’d see people walking to work, from their Scientology apartments to their jobs at the Scientology building, and now I wish I’d have dragged them into my Bug and saved them all.
They didn’t make Sunday. Because of God. (When Harry Met Sally)
I had to work Sunday, because my work has changed recently and I’m not just on one team anymore; I copy edit for whoever needs it. It’s kind of exciting, but also, each account has different styles and needs and so on, so it’s more intense. I didn’t have to take my work home, but I wanted to so I’d do a good job.
I hope I did a good job. Next thing you’ll hear is me saying, Remember that thing I took home and fucked up?
My hallway was always beige, part of the Beige World Fan Club that the previous owner founded and lovingly ran. It was a labor of beige love. A couple weeks ago, I noted that one wall had annoying beige WALLPAPER, not just paint, so I peeled it off and this happened.
My casual peel cost me eleven million dollars in Alf repair (Alf is my ridiculous handyman), and then yesterday I painted that bitch. Goodbye, Beige Earl.
Sometimes I make zero sense.
So now it’s Sherwin Williams Quietude, the same color I’m painting my spare bedroom, you know, eventually. I still have to paint the trim in here, and that door that is not at all scuffed up from me throwing shoes down there at the end of the day because God forbid I walk all the way in there and put them in the closet I’m pressed for time, you see.
Also, I did not screw up and get paint on the ceiling. That’s where it’s peeling. Nother effing project.
I leave you with two things: My coworker Ryan’s dog, whom he brought to the company picnic. Look at his boopy half a face!
And this. When Ned and I broke up, I tried to unfriend all of his friends on Facebook, because I didn’t want any jarring reminders of him. I forgot about one of his friends, though, but that guy put up this old photo of Ned, and here’s the thing.
Usually I’m okay. You know. Ish. Usually I understand that it didn’t work with Ned, and that it’s sad but it’s okay. But then this photo just hit me, hit my stupid newsfeed, and it knocked me over.
I loved him so fiercely. I forget that sometimes. I’d like to forget it permanently. But oh god, did I love him. And it’s not at all sad that I downloaded this photo and kept it.
I guess that’s all my news that’s fit to not print. The chair guy comes next week to take my chair away and recover it, and I need you to know that when I left that store with my big roll of fabric, I said, “Well, I’m gonna bolt.”
This morning, I spilled coffee grounds all over yonder, WHICH DELIGHTED ME, and I was late getting Edsel’s food. I messed up his skedge. This discombobulated him, as did me saying thing like “skedge,” so he wandered around the cats’ dishes, a little lost, while he waited. Continue reading “Skedge”→
No one is in the house right now except for Steely Dan, and I admit to the tiniest thrill of fear. There is no other animal to come to my aid, should he decide this is the moment to reveal he’s a tiny perturbed man in a cat suit. Continue reading “You just want it cause it’s gaudy.”→
Aw, heck. I showered, fed everyone with fur, sat down here to not blog and noticed I had a call from a 1-800 number. Remember last month when some ass stole my identity, because everyone’s dying to be me? I have an automatic withdrawal from my gym, and let’s all giggle for a moment about “my gym.” Wow, June, you and that gym. It’s like you’re one. Continue reading “June’s outta touch, she’s outta time”→
Even though I have allegedly set it up so that when I plug my phone into my computer–and there’s something anyone said, ever, in 1947–my photos should pop right up, they never do. They USED to. I’ve no idea what’s gone wrong. Continue reading “In real life, vowels are free”→
Because the first thing they teach you in kitten school is How to be a Pain in the Ass, my cats all want to go out in the morning, but they all want to go out at different times. Each one saunters to the door, and even if the back door is open and it’s just the screen door, the girl cats mew piteously till I open it. Continue reading “She ran callin’ fireflies”→