Yesterday, my friend Paula came to town, because of course Heart was playing somewhere in North Carolina, and you know how she follows around the band Heart.
Big Book of June Events. Page 167.
You also know (BBoJE page 796) I had a breakup anniversary dinner with Ned that I was going to tell you about and never got to, so let's discuss that henceforth. What does henceforth mean? Is it "from now on"? In that case, let me tell you about it forthwith. With Sally Forth.
"Let's eat where we had our controversial first date," said Ned, when I came up with the brilliant idea to celebrate our breakup. Tonight, I celebrate my unlove for youuuu.
(Our first date was not remotely controversial. We began talking online on January 5, 2012. I barfed in the early morning hours of January 8, 2012. Twice. Then we officially met at a hotel bar near me on January 19, 2012. The barfing had nothing to do with the relationship. I just wanted to mention it, as it had broken my 30-year streak, so.
The reason we refer to it as our controversial first date is that's a line from Say Anything, a movie I adore, and I always referred to our first date as such and eventually I rub off on people.)
We went to the fancy hotel bar, and we sat up at the bar, which incidentally is a thing I hate doing but have always done because Ned likes sitting up at the bar. To me it's...undignified, and I don't like the bartender hearing everything I say, because do you have any idea how much I say inappropriate things?
So there we were, up at the bar. I had the citrus-glazed salmon and I had to make the server ask if the citrus involved grapefruit, which is annoying of me but so is anaphylactic shock. Ned had Cornish game hen under a brick, which I never got over.
"Did they, like, beat the poor thing with a brick and then just cook him that way?"
All in all you're just another brick in a hen.
And why are they always Cornish? Can't they ever be from anywhere else? Portugese game hen.
Anyway, we were eating our food and having a fine time arguing about things, such as, do you think it's normal that by 6:30, someone would have eaten already? Ned finds it appalling that he calls me and I've already eaten then. "Everyone's eaten by 6:30," I tell him.
"No one has," he tells me, and this may be our problem. We're two people of extremes.
What say you? Not about what our problem is. About what time people eat. Please let me know so I can win. Thank you.
The POINT is, next to us at the bar was a man, there alone, probably staying at the hotel because there's a tool convention. Because this man? Was a tool.
"Hey, hey Joe, Joe!" he was the kind of man who learns the bartender's name so he can bug said bartender all night.
"Joe! Yeah. I can't quite believe you paired this aggressive red with this dish, but somehow it works. Lemme try the Hoo De Bloogen Pretention."
Our beleaguered bartender gave him more wine.
"Now THIS reminds me of my dad, who lived in Portugal, and..."
Ned and I had already exchanged looks. We may fight all the time and be a rotten couple, but there's something lovely about a person who hates all the same things you do. And we hated this guy.
He was arrogant about the wines. He changed the menu, pairing this with that till it was just so. He was condescending to our bartender, who let me tell you is really, really good at his job. He makes everyone feel like they're his friend, he's smooth, he's worked there for years, and he knows his shit. He did not need this ass munch coming in from god knows where thinking he's gonna teach this Southern bartender a thing or two.
"I'm actually kind of glad he's here," said Ned.
"Oh, me too. We'll always remember this night," I said. "I'll bet you anything he thinks of himself as a 'foodie.'"
When I was on dating sites (I'm not anymore. I give up), anyone who used the word "foodie" got swept left. Also, on their list of things they can't do without, anyone who said, "My kids" or "God." I'm just not gonna have anything in common with someone who likes their kids.
I hate to Gladys Kravitz, but several sirens are going by and stopping just close enough that I can hear them stop, but just far enough that I can't see what's going on. I already went to my porch like a prairie dog and saw the ZZ Top serial killer guy across the street looking for drama, as well. I always figured that guy was off because he kept so much to himself, plus ZZ Top beard, but when I had a yard sale once, he came over and was just a delight. I mean, sure, the only time he gets out of the house is for his daily walk to the convenience store for a 40, but everyone needs refreshments.
The other day I went to that convenience store for some wine, and I made some sort of joke like "Dinner is served" or whatever, and the man who runs the store looked deep into my eyes. He's a handsome older man from India. I say this so you can hear his accent when I tell you that he said, "Sometimes we need to drink. Not everyone understands."
I left there feeling quite worried about my convenience store guy.
Well hell, I droned on and never got to My Day With Paula, and now I will forever be one day behind on telling you everything. As for My Dinner With Ned, we got dessert, which was a dark chocolate mousse, and then we went home to our separate abodes, and that was that. I mean, dinner was delicious, and I had four good years with Ned. Well. Probably three and a half good years with Ned. The other six months involved fighting with Ned. So.
I'll tell you about my day with Paula tomorrow, but I will mention just one thing. We all--Paula, her now-husband, and I--used to work together back in the '90s, and when we did, I was the receptionist, he was the accountant and Paula was the administrative something. Bitch, I think. Admin Bitch.
Anyway, when I took breaks, this old lady who was probably my age now would take over the controls. The phone controls. She inevitably would screw it up. To be fair, there were like 400 lines to handle or something.
The point is, she'd often get on the speaker by accident when all she wanted to do was answer the phone. So you'd hear the overhead beep and then her saying, "Smith Accounting Fir--oh..." and then the speaker would go off.
Also, when she'd page Paula's husband, she'd page him in this long, sort of whiny old lady voice that likely sounds like my voice now. The point is, though the years, I've done the impression of her paging him whenever I see him.
Well. Paula and her husband have this newfangled thing, where whenever there's movement at her front or back door, her phone jangles. Then she can hit a button and not only SEE her door, she can speak and the person at the door will hear her.
We heard her husband leave for work yesterday, and then hours later her phone jangled again.
"Did Rosenberg just get home?!" I asked. She showed me her phone, and there he was, returning from his big day of whatever it is he does. Something number-y.
I hit "Talk."
"JOHN ROSENBERG! PLEASE DIAL EXTENTION 99!" I warbled, loving myself.
He never looked up from putting his key in the door.
"Hello, June," he said, with the enthusiasm of a thousand suns. You know how enthusiastic a thousand suns are.
Anyway, that's all. I will keep droning at you tomorrow.
Your favorite foodie,