Last night, I unpacked my batteries! Clock, back where it was. Well. I haven't unpacked any nails. So "back where it was" is an approximation. Do you know what Ned would do (WWND)? He was the kind of guy who would have set that clock there during a move, and said, "I'll hang this once I get nails," and nine years later that clock would be right there.
We were tidy in exactly opposite ways. He had this candleholder thing that was cool; it hung on a wall. "We'll hang this in the dining room," he said in 2012, when I met him. When he moved out of that apartment, it was still on the floor of the dining area wall. Now it's on his turntable at our old house, ready to go on THAT wall.
See? Just writing that, I got up and scooped the cats' litterboxes. Ned was pristine about litterboxes, had a routine, and I'm more of a "Oh, wow, I should probably go scoop that box" kind of a gal. Despite the fact that I have involved, labyrinthine boxes that're supposed to be dogproof, either my cats are on a poop strike or Edsel and Tallulah are having almond rocha on the regular. I wonder who outsmarted the litterbox labyrinth? I can give you a hint by telling you Eds is STILL running to his old spot for food twice a day.
I know you wish I'd keep discussing that, but instead let's talk about food. My desk at work is in the worst possible place, not that we're all going to eat my desk. It's right next to the stairway to the other floors at work. You know what a friendly person I am. So this means every person who walks in treats me like I'm the receptionist ("Where does Joe Feldenstein sit?" "Do you have any idea when Rory Scrapenwalker will be returning from lunch?") or they know me and have to catch right up.
No one needs to catch right up with me. You know why? I HAVE A BLOG. ALL MY UPS ARE CATCHABLE RIGHT FUCKING HERE. I have a blog so I don't have to speak to people.
Here's Alex on her way out yesterday, and Ryan on his way to work out (we have a little fitness room at work), BOTH STOPPING AT MY DESK before they do. "Boy, it's impossible to visit with you without 100 people stopping here," Alex said, as we were interrupted nine times, and paying no attention to the fact that she'd done the same thing.
So. I find myself hiding in my car a lot. Working in my car. I'm not even kidding.
The point is, my coworker Niles stopped by the other day, and we got onto the topic of food. I forget why. My whole desk is a fence where housewives lean over and discuss their day.
Have I mentioned how friendly I am? Most "Hey, June!"s are met with my, "WHAT." No one cares.
Anyway, Niles likes plain. He likes vanilla ice cream, no nuts or anything. Plain doughnut. Marvin was the same way; he liked him the unembellished food. Now, I get angry at garlic mashed potatoes, because a mashed potato is God's perfect work, and must we MUCK it with stuff beyond the perfection of milk, salt and butter? Must we? We needn't. Get your goddamn garlic out my potato.
But when it comes to ice cream or doughnuts or pretty much anything else, I want it as loaded with shit as possible. I'll always pick the ice cream with nuts; otherwise I get bored. This is a metaphor for my entire life. Don't give me some sort of sincere, earnest, uncomplicated man. I'll slit his throat just so something exciting happens. Give me the brooding man. The tormented genius. The man full of the roadblocks and scars of life.
Or, like, my two dogs. I have the always-happy, always-affectionate simple soul, and then I have Tallulah. Aloof, super sensitive, moody. I love both my dogs, I do, but guess which dog I love more? There're a few times a week, at night, when Talu climbs slowly and indifferently onto my lap, rests her head on me and sighs and you know she's loved me all along. Those are my favorite times. I can get Edsel any time I want. At Alice's restaurant.
When I was a kid, my Aunt Mary would come get me and we'd head on over to Dawn Doughnuts. Our plan was always that we'd get a doughnut and head to the park to eat it. I always, ALWAYS wanted the over-the-top holiday doughnut. If it was near St. Patrick's Day, I wanted the one decorated in green icing with shamrocks all over it. Or the Easter-themed one, with jellybeans. And I don't even LIKE jellybeans.
Keep in mind I weighed four pounds until I was 25. I was the teensiest thing, ever. I realize that phenomenon has gone by the wayside, Bitchy, so no need to mention it. But the point is, there was no way I was finishing one round powdered-sugar doughnut, much less that long, filled-with-cream, covered-in-chocolate-cupids Valentine's special doughnut.
But that's what I wanted.
I want the dark, complicated song. I want the deep, weird movie. And I want nontraditional friends who kind of have a mysterious side.
What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can't I just be happy with vanilla ice cream? Why I gotta make everything so complicated? Do you think it's some fatal flaw of mine? Oh my god, am I dark and complicated? Exciting.
I told Ned, before I moved out, that if four years ago you'd have said to me, "You're going to fall stupidly in love with a man, and it'll be the happiest and unhappiest times of your life. You're going to become smitten almost to the point of obsession, and you'll have to rip yourself away and it will feel like ripping off a limb."
If you'd have told me that four years ago, I'd have said, "Cool!" Kind of like in Love, Actually. "Apparently, he is going to kill Aurelia." "Cool!"
And if you came to me today and said, "Your next relationship will be smooth sailing all along. No complications, nothing to obsess about," I'll be all, "...oh. hunh."
I guess like my ice cream, I'm nutty inside.