Geez Louise, I hate days like this, where I have to scream from one thing to another with no time to do my important activities such as blog to y'all. I don't even know what parts of the weekend I've told you about and what I haven't, so I will just BLOG FORTH and if I repeat myself, sue me.
Would you like to know what I'm officially sick of? "Keep calm and [insert hilarious thing here]." Oh, shut up. Keep calm about my FIST slamming into your skull. Tell me you've seen this bullshit. It started with the phrase "Keep calm and carry on," which was a WWII phrase, and okay. I get that you needed to hear that during WWII. But now it's become a whole thing.
So that's my new thing. Not that I needed new things to get irked at. People are still writing "everyday" when they mean "every day." I got a lot to stay irked about. Keep calm and stay irked.
Anyway, my weekend. Hi! It's over. Here's what you missed. On Friday, Ned and I got up with Dick Whitman and I remember now that I already told you about that. Saw a movie, had dinner, blah blah blah. Then on Saturday I was supposed to freelance all afternoon before Ned and I went to a party at 5:00. But my neighbor Peg called and needed me to get her from the hospital. She has been in and out of the damn hospital for the last year with this recurring thing, and had sort of a relapse, and didn't know she was gonna be discharged that day, so in desperation she called me to come get her.
She doesn't have anything life-threatening, just annoying and sort of painful and all-around a pain in the ass. Anyway, who better to care for you than old nurturing June, here, but I got her home and so on and as I went to my house I had a profound and kind of depressing thought.
One day, not really that long from now, I will be old and possibly infirm and maybe even not very attractive to the opposite sex. I'm being all polite because I'm talking to you and god knows who you are reading this, but what I really said to myself is, "One day I will no longer be fuckable." And I gotta tell you. The thought of that is horrifying to me.
I guess the worst part of that is if no one wants to, you know, tap the June keg, will anyone love me? And what if no one does? What if I am 67 and unmarried and no man loves me? I mean, it could be exactly what happens. I have no IDEA what's going to happen. And what I decided is, I have to find a way to make that possibility less horrifying. I mean, maybe I'll be one of those handsome interesting Bea Arthur women with many friends and flowy clothes and lots of hobbies and no sex at all. That can't be the worst thing in the world, right?
I told all this to Ned, and he said, "I will always love you. No matter what." Which is a wonderful thing to say, and maybe he will, but what if we break up and his new super-hot silky-haired girlfriend says, "You can't talk to June"? I mean, my point is, anything could happen.
Who IS that silky-haired insecure bitch? How DARE she tell Ned he can't talk to me? Ima kick her ASS. In my flowing Soft Surroundings pantsuit.
So how do you do that? How do you gird yourself for the possibility that there will be no partner to love you? Advice, please.
Anyway, Ned and I went to his friend's birthday party, but not before Ned watched an entire sporting event, making us over an hour late to said bash, but thank heavens we didn't miss out on the food.
On Sunday, Ned and I screamed over to Raleigh to see a still-life exhibit, which I am again remembering I told you about already. Lots of flowers and dead fish on plates and slightly rotting fruit. There was a Cezanne and a Renoir, and I know it's not cool to like Renior, and you're supposed to think his stuff is too pretty and stampede over to some dark angular depressing painting, but I am sorry. Every Renior I look at just makes me so happy. I'm serious. If that makes me the white zinfandel of art appreciators, so be it. My handsome sexless self cares not.
After, we got up with Daniel Boone and I know 78 of you are gonna have 10 fits about that. If you just got here, DB and I dated briefly and tragically last year. I am over it, he is over it, but many of you are not. The point is, Ned just loved Daniel Boone because he is funny and a delight to hang with, and we all had a great time, so there.
And no, Ned did not care that I dated DB for eight minutes in 2011. Ned knows how I feel about him. I wonder if I could be more obvious. If I got those weird contacts that they wear in Japan with heart-shaped pupils, I would be less obvious than I am now.
At any rate, I got yet ANOTHER MIGRAINE last night, and today I finally went to the doctor even though I didn't think there was anything they could do for me. This is the fifth doctor I've had in the five years of living here, because as you know all my doctors die or quit. I've seen this guy just one other time and I like him. He's probably giving his two weeks as we speak.
I explained the headaches to him, and anticipated all his Qs. Yes, I toughed it out, twice, without meds to see if it was a rebound. No, it's not a different kind of pain. Yes, I can stick my tongue straight out. I know if it was crooked it'd mean tumor. I watched ER like everybody else.
He told me when he was a resident, this guy came to the emergency room with a terrible headache. Turns out he had six bullets in his head. He'd been mugged but wasn't aware he'd been shot. I told the doctor I was pretty sure I hadn't been shot in the head.
SHOT THROUGH THE HEAD! AND YOU'RE TO BLAME!
So he prescribed me Prednisone for the next 12 days, and I asked about side effects. He said, "My wolf hybrid, Wolf, just got on my counter and ate 2 lbs of Moravian cookies and 16 lbs of cat food, so he is on Prednisone too. It's making him a little psychotic, and that could happen to you, too."
I was all, "You named your wolf hybrid Wolf? You went to town with that clever name."
In unrelated news, I want a wolf hybrid.
I warned Ned I might be psychotic and he's on the lookout for REALLY DIFFERENT BEHAVIOR, and it occurs to me that if one adopted a wolf hybrid puppy snickerdoodle while one was psychotic from meds, one could not be blamed. And even if I were nutty as a fruitcake I would still think of a better name than Wolf.
I guess that's all I have to tell you. I have to go try to do Tracy Morgan now, although if Ima just get all bloated and fat from Prednisone what's the point?
Keep calm and Prednis on. God, I love me.