I have a migraine. Yes, again. I stayed home from fake work and everything. And I KNOW WHY I have one.
Here's a big thing you should not do when you are a migraineur. Yes, there is such a word, and it makes me want to barf more than the "Share your passions with the world" thing. Anyway, as a MIGRAINEUR, you should not abstain from eating. Looking at my delightful figure, one can surmise, there, Sherlock, that I am not one to miss a lof of meals. So, go June! I shouldn't be getting ANY migraines if THAT'S the criteria.
You know, I've always eaten bad-for-me stuff, and people used to always say, "Where do you PUT it all? heh." and it occurred to me other day that people never really say that to me anymore.
heh.
My point is this. I got to work yesterday and had my requisite bowl of oatmeal, which I am officially completely 100% sick of, but I bought one of those giant tubs of it and doesn't it lower my cholesterol to eat oatmeal or something? Although I'll tell you what. That one bowl of oatmeal isn't gonna fight off the bacon, egg and cheeseburger Ima have at lunch.
Okay, I never eat anything THAT bad. Mostly because I don't enjoy cheese on my burger.
Anyway I had that, then at lunch I had to scream off to run an errand twenty-five minutes out of town. I'd tell you specifically what that errand is, since I reveal all on this blog and the minute I leave ONE DETAIL OUT you get all up in my chonies, but I cannot tell you. What matters is I only had time to run there, do my thing and scream back with, like, two minutes to spare to get back to work on time.
So, no lunch. I think I might have had a Clif Bar from the healthy vending machine at work, but I was so busy working at work that I don't remember.
Then as soon as work was over, Ned came to my house to get me, because I promised him I'd help him go shopping for his 394945949393 nieces and nephews, which, yeah, bring me. The childless one. That's helpful.
Our plan was we were gonna shop, then Ned was going to buy me dinner, and we already knew we were going to have salmon salads at this one restaurant where the salmon salads are effing delicious. I know it's unusual for Ned to have a salad, and his cholesterol, by the way, is 50 points lower than mine.
So first we went to Target. Ned had a list with, seriously, I think nine kids on it, and their ages and what they might like, courtesy of his mother. Apparently in Ned's family they just buy for the kids and then Ned gets bupkis, which thank God everyone in my family would still consider me one of the kids because this would not fly in House O' June.
"Okay, this kid likes whoo-de-whoo, then this one enjoys blee-de-blee," started Ned, with his cute list. I was really there because one of the older ones is just getting into makeup and so on, and I already had an idea on my mind: One of those Stila packs of lip glosses, which I also just happen to own. They're exiting cause they're all different colors, but they're also mostly sheer, so there's little trollop factor in getting them for a young girl.
But we weren't AT the Stila portion of the evening yet. We were still at Target. In the toy section. And let me tell you what. That section is boring as shit.
"Maybe this---well. I don't know. Maybe not," Ned kept saying, picking things up and putting them down.
"Oh my GOD," I said. "Why did it just occur to me now about your rapid decision-making abilities? This is like rows and rows of menu items. We'll be here all night!"
Ned ignored my epiphany, so I looked at bad toys. Here is a Thomas Kinkade Gone With the Wind puzzle. I realize dude is dead and all, but still. Thomas Kinkade. Get away from my Gone With the Wind. Jesus. It's like Gone With Disney's Wind all of a sudden.
Here's HIV-positive Cinderella. Always a favorite at Christmas.
Ned made this guy give the finger. "What? Everyone who walks by is gonna do that," he said.
Nita was my grandmother's name, and she pronounced it like it must be pronounced here. Night-a, not neat-a, which is how her name was ALWAYS getting mispronounced, and I feel for her with my stupid maiden name back, getting CONSTANTLY misspelled and said wrong. Could people pay THREE SECONDS of attention to me, Misty?
Oh. Missy. Right.
About an hour into our sojourn at Target I started feeling decidedly peckish. Sort of faint and hot. "What's WRONG with me?" I wondered, having not yet recalled my utter lack of food since 9 a.m. I popped a Tic Tac and soldiered on.
We finally bought some stuff, then Ned had prescriptions to pick up, then we went to the grocery store (I am not making this up) and then we went to look at books. "Some of my nieces read. I always get good presents at the book store."
I would love Ned for being the kind of person who buys people books, but at this point my head was floating miserably 20 feet above my body. I went to the Starbucks in the store and got a steamed vanilla milk. Which perked me up considerably, and thank heavens. Because AN HOUR LATER we were still at the bookstore. I did get myself some teensy Moleskine notebooks for my purse. I tear through those. Once you have them in your purse you don't know what the Sam Hill you did without them. And yes, I REALIZE I could tap notes into my phone. Tap this. I like the real thing.
Finally, we went to Ulta to get lip gloss for the almost-grownup niece. At this point it was 8 p.m., which officially makes it ELEVEN HOURS since I'd eaten, and I hope you are all sitting down, but Ned had some debate about WHICH set of lip glosses to buy this child.
"I'm telling you, I'd have KILLED for these at 13," I said, eyeing up a smokey eye shadow set and a liquid liner pack that had GOLD GLITTER LINER in it for myself. "I don't know..." began Ned. At this point the back of my hair was sweating. That is never a good sign. I have nine pounds of hair resting on my neck, and it's always the first to go if I'm working out or about to have a tantrum or getting ill.
"Okay," said Ned finally, grabbing a six-pack of lip glosses, as the heavens opened and gold-pants-ted cherubs sang gloriously.
Pants-ted is a wonderful word.
We got back to my house, to let the dogs out, and can we NOT sing it this time?
Apparently not.
Anyway, the dogs were outside barking at everything, and when I say "the dogs," I mean Edsel. He'll just stand there, in the middle of the yard, and bark. There is absolutely NOTHING to bark at, he just wants to talk. Talu, on the other hand, saves her bark for a real thing, such as a baby or a helpless kitten.
"Here," said Ned. He'd gotten me the eyeliner set! The one with glitter!
"Ooooo!" I screamed off to put some on.
"How do I look?" I paraded into the room, hanging my lids low like I was Norma Desmond.
"Oh, that looks beautiful," he said.
"Ima go put on another one." I screamed back into the room with emerald-colored liner on.
"Does this flatter?" I asked, turning my head this way and that. "Yes," said Ned. "That is some lovely lipstick."
....!
"IT'S NOT LIPSTICK! THIS IS EYELINER! LIQUID EYELINER! You've been looking at my LIPS this whole time?" I had on sexy lip balm. Clear sexy grape-flavored lip balm.
Whatever with Ned.
My POINT is, we finally finally finally left to get food, and it was NINE O'CLOCK, y'all. Nine. O. Clock.
Here's Ned walking into what looks like an elementary school, and we really know how to throw down on a Wednesday. The place is set up weird. You walk in there, the guy looks at your old self and waves you on, then you go into what is a very charming knotty-pine-paneled old restaurant that's very cool.
And packed. Very packed.
"There's nowhere to sit," I said to Ned. "Let's wait for a seat at the bar," he said.
....!
"Let's ALSO tell the hostess we want a table, then we can grab whichever comes first." Did I mention the back of my hair? Sweating? Did I?
"The thing is, I haven't EATEN since 9:00," I said, "and--"
"YOU WHAT?" Ned was appalled. Ned is not the kind of person who'd ever have such a disorganized day that he'd manage to not eat. He just wouldn't. Ned has tidy cupboards, and he cleans his cat's litter box every day, and he makes his bed. "HOW could you go this long without eating? Why did you DO that?"
I reminded him of my lunch rush, and I said, "Maybe we could order food now, and by the time it gets here we'll have a spot at the bar."
"Oh, no, let's not do that," said Ned, for whatever cockamamie reason that I can no longer recall because I was starting to resemble HIV Cinderella, above. The point is we stood there like vultures, and once the World's Slowest Drunk Girls finally got off their stools to stumble home and we screamed over to their chairs, we said to the bartender, "Can we get some menus, please?"
"The kitchen just closed, guys. It's 10:00."
You have never seen anyone look so frightened in your life as Ned did at that moment. Some of his fear stemmed from the part where I'd turned into AN ENTIRE SKELETON right at the bar.
In case you were worried sick, we walked MANY HUNGRY BLOCKS and I got a chicken salad sandwich at this Irish pub near Ned's house. But by then it was too late. Whatever happens in June's Migraine Head had started, and that is why I sit here throbbing today.
Thank you for letting me share my passion with your world.
Hungrily,
June
