Yesterday was a queer day. Did you ever see The Color Purple, when Celie says that about the weather? "It was a queer day." I always liked that line. When I was a kid, the word "queer" was all over the book Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, and so one afternoon I told my babysitter she looked queer and she got furious at me. Furious! I had no idea what was so wrong.
She was this big, solid woman who took me fishing a lot, married to this mere slip of a man, and in retrospect I wonder if they had some sort of it's-the-early-'70s arrangement, and now I feel bad. I had no idea the word meant anything but out of the ordinary. I was trying to expand my vocabulary.
Anyway. I got up early yesterday so I could rush off to the doctor to get my allergy test. As I pulled up, there was this college girl in sweats and a messy ponytail, going in with her dad, and I was so over her beleaguered "Oh my gawd, it's EIGHT" attitude. Once I was at the airport and there was a college girl in the same beleaguered getup AT TEN. Give me a break. It was the Greensboro airport, so it's not like she was on a layover having flown in from London or anything.
Okay, see. I can tell already today I will be hard pressed to stick to the subject at hand.
The point is, they stuck my back with allergens, and I had to lie there for 15 minutes, waiting. "You want your phone or a magazine to look at?" the red-haired chippie asked me after she'd poked me all over yonder.
"No, I'm good," I smugged. "I can be alone with my thoughts."
So then she left and here were my thoughts for the next 15 minutes: Ned, money, Ned, what'm I gonna do about money, Ned, Edsel, Ned, wondering what you all were saying about cereal, Ned, wondering why I can't stop with the Ned bullshit and when'm I gonna get over it already, Ned [Hey, good thoughts, JUNE.] and then it was time for the doctor to come look at my back.
Turns out, I have an allergy to dust mites.
I know. Try to relax. It'll be okay.
"That's it? That's all I'm allergic to?"
"Did you test me for grapefruit?"
Nope. But they could do a blood test for that if I wanted. I demurred. At this point I'm over grapefruit. If only Ned could be grapefruit.
As soon as I got to work, I told every coworker about my severe allergies, and if you ever wanted to meet a group of people who are 100% over me, you should come see my coworkers.
"You know how people are always saying 'I don't want your pity'? I want nothing but your pity," I told everyone. They all seemed to already know this.
As the day wore on, we decided to organize a walk, a June's Dust Mite Allergy Walk, and I'll be getting the pledge forms to you forthwith. Also, I am coming up with a ribbon for you all, an awareness ribbon, so if anyone asks you, you can say, "Oh, do you not know about June's dust mite allergy?"
My idea is, it should be dusty, and dust should fall off of the ribbon, but the "dust" would be glitter! Right? Someone get on making that. We'll be rich. I'll never have to work again, which I shouldn't anyway with this allergy.
Then at lunchtime I took old homo sapien canine to the vet.
I actually really love that photo of Eds. It captures his goof. Anyway, he's been really down, despite that smile above. He was, in fact, shaking up there while he smiled.
Smile tho' your heart is aching
Smile even tho' it's breaking
When there are clouds in the sky
You'll get by
Anyway. He's been so squirrely lately. Like, yesterday when we got up, and were headed down the hall, and he just stopped and hung his head and wouldn't go any further. And he never, ever goes outside unless I go with him. This past weekend I was looking for him, and he was curled up in a C on the couch, like I was storming over there wielding a sledgehammer.
You could have a steam train
if you'd just lay down your tracks.
You could have an aeroplane flying
if you bring your blue sky back.
I want to be your sledgehammer
why don't you call my name.
Welcome to the inside of my head.
Anyway, thank god he acted squirrely at the vet, so I didn't seem crazy, although given my medical condition I'm sure they'd overlook it. "Might Over Mites" is my slogan, by the way. It'll be on all my t-shirts and hats and support bracelets.
But really. He turned into a letter C there, and jumped on the chair and hid behind me, and cowered and so on the whole time, so the vet is giving him Prozac, which will be good because it'll probably be extra stressful for Eds when he learns about my dust mite allergy, so.
I got to tell the vet how Tallulah died, and then we moved twice, and how he misses Ned (Edsel does. The vet doesn't miss Ned. That I know of. Maybe he and the vet just ended a torrid Brokeback Mountain affair. What do I know?) and how he ate the puppy and knows I was mad at him. So that was cheerful.
Anyway now I have to go on Good RX to find the cheapest place in town to get dog Prozac. There's a thing no one ever said in my grandmothers' day.
I took old 19th Nervous Breakdown home, and as we pulled up, I don't know what made me look in the tree, but there it was. "Is that...? Oh, son of a BITCH," I said, getting out of my car with my camera for you all. You can't tell how high up that little bastard was; I zoomed in. He was wayyyy the hell up the tree. And when he saw us, he just clambered on down. "HAI!!"
My handyman (The handyman! The handyman can!) found a vent on my house that's missing its screen, and with all my dollars Ima get a new screen so Houdini, up there, can't escape anymore.
Really, that kitten is magnificent. I mean, I really admire his brains and ingenuity and athleticism and even his dickishness. He's really quite remarkable, and he's burying Lily right now, who mostly sits around and sheds chubbily.
Finally, I talked to a bunch of places about doing freelance, because my money sucks, y'all. I'm dead broke all the time. Further reports as developments warrant.
In the evening, my tenant, former, came over to work out again, a practice that obsesses Edsel. He cannot wrap his head around why we're on the floor and not willing to make out with him the whole time. Also, you can't see, really, but behind Edsel is my coat hanging off a chair, because tidy, and the whole time he was over there Steely Dan kept reaching from under my coat to smack Eds, and he'd jump up, confused, look around and flump down again and it'd start all over.
Dis part of room pointee.
Finally, last night I decided to snack on some nutritious Fritos, and I noted I had some queso dip in the door of my fridge, from god knows when. Perhaps I purchased it during the Spanish-American war, because while I enjoyed me that dip quite a bit, about an hour later, things weren't pretty.
If I'd been a dog, I'd have been a Shih-tzu.
If I were soda, I'd have been Squirt.
If I were mustard, I'd have been Grey Poupon.
Oh, it was bad. So I went to bed early just so I wouldn't have to think about how sick I felt. Today I'm at a 7--not perfect, but I can function. Which is brave of me, considering my dust mite allergy.
That wraps up my queer day. On a queer day, you can see forever.