I have a first date tonight. I got asked out by someone who said, "Would you like to have a no-pressure drink with me?" I said the only way I'd go is if we had an extremely high-pressure drink--for example, a really, really carbonated beverage, or else coffee and marriage.
After finding ourselves hilarious about this for several email exchanges, we finally decided on whiskey after a building collapses on us. "Bring a straw," he said. "A very long straw."
I've been on a no-contact-at-all-with-Ned thing, and hey, what do you know? That helps. One of my friends broke up with her boyfriend in the summer, yet continued to see him and talk to him and I kept yelling at her about that and doing the same thing. Plus, a guy at work said to me, "Is Ned the person you still wanna tell first when anything really good or really bad happens?"
"Yeah, you gotta rely on your friends more."
I mean, that stuff is so simple, and yet so hard to do. But that's what I've been doing, and I have no idea what'll happen tonight, but all you can do is try, right? Well. I guess you could also not try, and wait till you're 100% sure you're ready, but that sounds so boring. And what if you never DO feel ready and you die on your couch and no one finds you till they realize at work that you aren't at that meeting and where's she been, anyway?
Oh! And in other news, I almost fell to my death yesterday. I came home for lunch, to let out Pee Willy Winky, and I was headed back to work with my high-heeled ankle boots and my wet steps. I had just talked dirty to them. Anyway
next thing you know I was on my walkway.
I don't know if I missed the last step or slid on a leaf or what, but man. That's just how it was when I sprained my ankle in 2013, it happened so fast I don't even know what I did. Maybe I'm passing out for .08 seconds or something. Maybe I'm having teensy strokes every three years. Do you like how I can't just slip, it has to be a rare brain disorder?
The point is I scraped my right knee, and twisted the crap outta my left ankle. Straight outta ankle. I have no idea what that means. I guess I just had another of my mini-strokes.
I hobbled back inside, feeling like once I took off my boot, my ankle would be the size of Guam, and in the meantime, I called my new boss. I got a new boss a few weeks ago, and he is decidedly not my old boss. He is what you'd call no-nonsense, and is he also what you'd call not in my phone yet. So I had to call the office, proper, and ask to be transferred to him. I didn't even kibbutz with the receptionist, and I wonder if she thought, "Was that June?" when she transferred me.
By the time I did all that and he got to the phone, I realized my ankle wasn't all THAT bad, so my conversation with my boss went like this:
"This is Thousandman."
"Hey, Thousandman, it's June. I just fell off my porch steps and I thought I'd really hurt myself but I think I just twisted my ankle so forget it; I'll be right there."
You know what must be fun? Supervising me.
It does really hurt, though, but not I've-really-injured-it hurt. I had to get my alternate to take over my Lord of the Dance performance this weekend. June Flatley.
After work, I had a massage, and this was the little card they left for me on the table. I had to have the guy read it to me because I didn't have reading glasses, and when did I become this person? As in old.
Oh! And the OTHER news is that Edsel and Tallulah had a fight last night. I don't mean their general play fight, or even the occasional Tallulah-wishes-Eds-would-stop-humping-her annoyance. I mean they went at it like a couple of bucks, or jackals, or like they were Ron Goldman's dad and OJ or something. It was really scary, and I kept yelling, "HEY! HEY!" like that was gonna help. I think Talu not feeling great didn't help matters. I don't know. It started over that damn hoof, and THEY EACH HAVE ONE, but hooo care.
Anyway, it was over in a minute, and I was a little shaky, and they seemed really disconcerted. "You two say you're sorry," I commanded, with the iron fist of training. "You know you love each other."
They both had their heads down and wouldn't look at each other, but they were both wagging hysterically, too. Edsel was more than a C this time. He was more than a woman. More than a woman of C.
I went back to my hard-hitting watching of Girlfriend's Guide to Divorce, and I noticed a moment later that they were holding hands. They had their paws on top of each other, and they sat like that for a long time. What the hell is Edsel gonna do without Tallulah?
I've gotta get to work, to my new row. I have given, with my iron fist of organization, two blog names to the woman in back, but the first time I talked about her I called her Eugenia, and that is so absurd I am sticking with it. Eugenia and...and...lemme ask the woman who sits next to me if she has a blog name she wants. She is da bomb. Oh, and see that damn green dot on my "It's not mean if it's hilarious" needlepoint? My old boss keeps putting green dots on all my shit. He hearts himself, and I'll be putting a green dot on a nail bat if he doesn't cut it out.
I have no idea if that's what you call it. You know, one of those clubs with nails in it? What's that called? If no one's come up with a better name for it than "nail bat," Ima call it Eugenia.
I see I've talked forever, and I'm you're one of those people who keeps trying to back away and I keep talking, so goodbye.