I just got my labs back. I'm officially menopausal.
By the way, here are Flossie/Lizzie/Poppy's parents.
So, really, they BOTH have spotty spots, and I know you hope I keep on sayin' spotty spots. They look sort of similar, and given that this is out in the country and that mom had been a stray, do you think they might could be related? I have a royal family situation on my hands. A real Camilla Barker Bowles sitch.
So, I'll bet those spots (aka spotty spots) will spread out over time and she'll mostly be white. Which expands my palette of pets, slightly. She'll be white and gray as opposed to my cats, who are gray and white. Woah, June! That's the crazy talk! Slow down!
In the meantime, that statistics book I'm working on? All got repaginated, so five pages of index material all have to be redone. I have to look up each word and each page number associated with the word, FIND it in its new spot, and in teensy tiny writing, cross out the old page number and add in the new one. Here is two hours of work yesterday...
Yesterday it gave me a migraine. For a change.
I went to the doctor yesterday because with the migraines, already. Really, I wouldn't have even bothered to go, but the doctor wouldn't renew me unless I saw her. At any rate, she wants me back on a low dose of Topamax, which is the stuff that makes me stupid. And at one point, it made me skinny, but it only worked that one time and I never should have gotten off of it.
Also, she gave me a blood test to see if I'm officially, um, in menopause, which oh god I'm old. I started my period in January of 1979, when I was 13, and I stopped with no warning in January of this year, when I was 50. Hello, stereotypical. I hate to be typical about anything. But there it is.
So the test tells me if my estrogen is slowing down or if I'm turning into a man or what. I'd make a fantastic and not at all milksoppish man.
And while we're on the topic of my riveting medical woes, there I was yesterday at the doctor and did not even think to mention my trapped ulnar nerve. (A brain. A home. The nerve.) My ulnar nerve is trapped in a pit at Buffalo Bill's house. It hurts real bad, mister.
Anyway. A trapped ulnar nerve (the nerve.) (see. now me going back to saying "spotty spot" seems like a vacation in Europe, doesn't it?) is this thing where, when you put your elbow on the table because you forgot you have a trapped ulnar nerve, your elbow goes ZZZZT! and you want to die. I'm like that guy in Benjamin Button who gets hit by lightning all the time.
I did the responsible thing and Googled some exercises for it, which I have been doing, but it still hurts. Actually, dry needling is one way to get rid of it but oh my god, I can't even imagine. I don't know if I have (the nerve).
Last night on our W, which I don't have to say because Edsel can't read, we were in the big field after The Seeing of the Chickens, and I said, "Eds, can I talk to you?" Eds rubbed his snout on the grass. He hates his Gentle Leader so bad.
"Eds, you know Tallulah is gone." When I said, "Tallulah," he looked around. Poor Edsel. "And you remember how we had a puppy for one day? Well, I'm getting another one. You're getting a sister." Edsel lunged at a rabbit. "She'll be here in awhile, so we have to get her crate out and get some puppy food and a leash." (I already have a puppy collar that I got for Stanley and don't get me started. Oh my god, I miss Stanley. Am a nutbag.)
He seemed unfazed, Edsel did, and that could be because he can look at shit and Shineola and be all, "?" Really, he'd eat the shit, and he might eat the Shineola, so we're back to square one. At least I told him.
Let's just look at one more picture of Zuzu/Blanche/Lolita and her world-weary face.
This came up on my Facebook feed the other day...
Thanks. That's comforting. It doesn't bug me at all that there's an extra space before "handles." I really believe the man of color in the chef's hat is a real photo and not stock. And what about the little twink at the bottom of the page? Yeah. Break him off a piece of some curvy woman. And can he borrow her blush while she's up?
Anyway, that's not why I'm here. I'm here to complain. I KNOW! Let me lift m'girth and settle in.
You may not know this, but I get migraines. I hate to complain about them. Anyway, the other night one was creepin' 'round my back stairs, so I took an Imitrex and discovered I was taking my last one. They give you nine in a pack, and why? Any NORMAL person would scream through nine in a few weeks.
Marvin used to say that to me all the time. "Any NORMAL person would want to have sex by now." Oh, wow. Now I'm hot. Lemme lift m'girth.
So I did what I always do and I called Target pharmacy. We're back to my migraines now. Keep up.
"Oooo, looks like you're out of refills," Anais said. I swear to god there's a tech there named Anais, and when I asked her if she'd read any Anais Nin, she hadn't. I really hate things like that. How can you be named after someone and not check out who you're named after?
The way they give me Imitrx is in a baggie, I have no idea why, and all the pertinent info is on the baggie. So you can carry an annoying baggie in your purse all month, and even if you do that all the pertinent info wears off, or you can toss the baggie and just carry the box in your purse and find out when you're out of refills the way I just had.
"Okay," I said. I know the drill. They call my doctor, he refills me for another year, and in the meantime, if I'm totally out, they'll give me a pill--one pill--to tide me over just in case. They aren't addictive, they don't make you high. They just get rid of a migraine, which lemme tell you, is a good idea.
"Oh, we can't give you a pill without a prescription."
"What? You've given me a pill for years." I've been going there for 8 years now. But they used to have a pharmacist with a cool name, and if he was doing something wrong I don't want to give his name because what he did was merciful, and anyway they have this new blonde young jerk of a woman in there now.
"Could I speak to the pharmacist, please?" I asked intellectually uncurious Anais.
The blonde chippy got to the phone. "Oh, no, we don't loan out pills unless they're everyday pills like blood pressure medication," she said.
"Look, I had a migraine yesterday, and it's going to storm today. I know that there's a huge likelihood I'll get a migraine. If you don't give me this pill, I'll have to sit in the emergency room tonight."
Bitch would not budge. I sincerely wish the world's largest, most awful migraine on her, a migraine where there is not one pill to be found.
"The only thing I can recommend is you call your doctor," she breezed indifferently.
And this is why I hate my doctor's office. "You have reached the nurse assistant for June's doctor. The doctor is not in on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday afternoons." I am not making that up. I AM NOT MAKING THAT UP. You'll be stunned to hear I have a backup doctor there, since mine is never fucking in. I pressed 4 to get her.
"You have reached the nurse assistant for June's backup doctor, the one who should really do something about her hair. The doctor is not in on Wednesday afternoons."
It was Wednesday afternoon.
I was gonna GET a migraine just trying to get migraine meds.
Anyway, I ended up not getting a migraine, and the next day I got my prescription filled at a new pharmacy. This was a good idea anyway, because Ned goes to the Target pharmacy and now there's one less place I have to worry about a Ned sighting®.
Anyway, that's the latest thing to IRK ME oh my god IRK MEEEEE, and I guess that's all I have to say about that.
I keep forgetting to put in this picture of Ryan, at my old desk, for all you cougars. I wonder how he feels about curvy women?
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.
I just used the new shampoo and conditioner that my aunt sent me--it's fancy stuff--and then when I emerged from the shower, I said. "What's that red dot on my arm? ...Hey, what's that other red dot on my arm?" Then I looked in the medicine cabinet mirror, and fortunately Glen Close wasn't behind me (hashtag Ruined Since Fatal Attraction in 1987), but I was covered--covered!!--in a rash on my back, shoulders, arms and face.
I guess I'm allergic to the shampoo/conditioner. I even checked that it didn't have grapefruit in it! And no, I can't take a Benedryl. Thanks for the advice. Benedryl gives me migraines, so I don't own any.
So while I wait to die of anapyhlactic shock, I'll blog at you.
One of the Alexes at work is in the midst of a long breakup, so I made her do what I always do to mend a broken heart: see a psychic and sign up for OK Cupid. You can see how well that's worked for me. The very day Ned and I broke up, I stampeded to a psychic, and she told me Ned would get a new girlfriend right away. Thanks. Feel better. Glad I came here.
But anyway, I made an appointment for Alex at the psychic place, and you know it's genuine because they use purple. And prayer flags.
Plus, the receptionist/cashier is a Kitler. Do you guys remember four years ago when I went to this place and he was a kitten? A Kittenler? If you kept up with your Big Book of June Events, you'd remember. I'll bet faithful reader Steve's Wife Beth remembers.
Oh my god, my throat feels all irritated. This is probably it, when the allergic reaction has hit my innards. Elizabeth, I'm comin' to join you, honey.
If I died while blogging, I'd get so, so famous.
I went to the tea shop to wait for her to be done, Alex, I mean, not Steve's Wife Beth or Eva Braun, and I don't know why I can't just stick to the topic at hand. I had to pee when I got there, so instead of ordering a peppermint tea before I did that, I stampeded through the empty shop and to the restroom. Then when I emerged, I had to wait for a guy who was practically buying a condo.
"How much caffeine is in the bark mousse tea? Oh, yeah, I don't want that much caffeine. The eggnog existential crisis tea, is that spicy? Can I make that into a latte? What sizes do you have? Do you have one the size of my man bits, which are clearly lacking and the only solace I have is this tea?"
He's lucky I'm on Lexapro, man, or there would have been a TON of passive-aggressive sighing while I waited.
Anyway, the psychic told Alex she's got to get over the last guy and make a decision to move forward, which, wow, psychic. And that once she does, she's going to meet a chiseled doctor. I'm not even kidding you. A chiseled doctor. When I went to that psychic in September, she was all, yeah, I don't see anyone. Nope. No man.
The only time I'll see a chiseled doctor is when I see him for this rash.
A chiseled doctor. Why am I friends with that dick, Alex?
So then right there at the tea shop, Mrs. Doctor Alex and I got on her new OK Cupid page and watched the hellos parade in.
If you're on a dating site currently, and you hover near my age, here's the part where you go ahead and kill yourself with allergic shampoo. She got 120 messages right away. Like, not even day one, hour or two one.
So I feel like she'll be okay.
I gotta go. If my airways stay clear, I'll head to work. Oh my god, I just remembered that Dooce had an allergic reaction not long ago. Even my diseases are derivative. No wonder I can't score a chiseled doctor. Or anyone.
Actually, though, last night after I left Alex so she could get ready to meet Noah Drake, I came home and fed the pets, then got online to peruse vintage plant stands (I want to make this back room into a plant-y room, I mean if I live through being Rash Bridges right now), and then I lost all track of time till it was time for Girlfriend's Guide to Divorce, and as I headed to my TV I thought, God, this is marvelous. I forgot how much I like living alone. I really do.
Although it'd be super convenient to have a doctor in the house right now.
I woke up at 4:30 with a migraine, which was super relaxing. Dragged self out of bed, which I just wrote as "Dragged self out of Ned" FOUR TIMES, hello Freud, and took my meds. So now I'm groggily up, and headed to work because hero, but I have all the funny of a Bazooka Joe comic.
I will check in with you tomorrow. Why don't we have best/worst Christmas memory day? My worst was the year I was 10 or 11 and had a stomach bug and barfed. I got a good diary, my first one, and some Chanel No. 5-scented pens, so it wasn't a total wash. Which reminds me, here's my latest Purple Clover.
Best Christmas memory? Maybe the year Marvin and I were about to get engaged and we met each other's families. I was so excited and all giddy and so forth.
Tallulah has gas.
Ima guess it's because of her antibiotics, unless she's ordering takeout while I'm at work, which I would not put past her. Last night, I was trying to read before bed and she was in there, turning my room into her toot suite.
My gassy girl turns 8 tomorrow. EIGHT. How can that be, already? She gots a little just teensy bit of white on her muzzle, but she's doing that as sort of a reverse ombre look. She's doing it on purpose. It's like when the Captain & Tennille said they intentionally backed away from the public eye. Okay, Toni. It wasn't that we were all sick of looking at your mushroom cut. Do that to me one more time.
I forgot that The Captain is available now. What'm I here wasting my time talking to YOU for?
Also, tomorrow is my party, my I'm Gonna Die Alone party. My coworker Fewks came to my desk in a lather yesterday. "I just looked at your evite. FORTY people are coming? How's there gonna be room?"
He was all worried.
"Fewks, I don't live in some one-room Unibomber hut. In fact, I have three pretty empty rooms. If you get crowded, you're welcome to go chill in one of those."
Fewks also told me that the other day he wandered into the kitchen and said to his wife, "Wow, you smell good. Is that a new perfume?"
"I bought new kitchen cleanser," she said.
That Casanova. "Sayyyyyy, you dab a little Soft Scrub behind your ears? Get over here."
"You know the scent of Comet drives me mad. Call in sick today."
Anyway, I have my food and drinks all boughten. I have decorations. Now I just need the people.
You might show me your steeple, too, if it's worth a look.
See? Here I am, asking for steeple pics. Sad. I gotta call The Captain pronto. Toot suite. Ned, with whom I speak occasionally and--oh LET me tell you about my humiliation with Ned.
Yes, the humiliation with Ned. Our landlord is setting Ned up with a new lease on life, a new Juneless lease, and Ned and I were discussing it and the fact that my brick is in his yard (don't ask). (Okay, see, years ago, my grandmother's house burned down. She was long dead, but it was still sad that the house was gone. When I was next in town, I went to the lot where her house had been, hoping to find any memento. "Everyone's been there already," my mother said. "They took anything they could find of hers."
I stood in what was now a field, thinking of the times Gramma had sent me to the back yard to look under leaves of plants in her garden, because fairies would be there. Which is an excellent way to get rid of a kid for awhile. Anyway, a butterfly flew right in front of me and landed on a brick, a Saginaw brick, that used to line her garden. THAT brick is in Ned's back yard.)
Anyway, since we were on the line, there, the internet line, and I love it when people say interweb. Since we were on the interweb, I said to Ned, "Oh, and I'm having a fundraiser, this Dresscember thing." I sent him the link. Except really? What I sent him by mistake? Was this Etsy page of vintage engagement rings I'd been perusing listlessly.
He did not reply.
While I was telling you this story, I spotted this...
Ever since I been living here, I've put cat food up on this window, and it never occurred to Tallulah to try to get to it. Edsel's taller, though, and it's just dawned on him to try. I feel like there's trouble in my hills.
Id better get to work. One of the women I work with, but who works in another department and who I don't know that well, but hovers around my age, emailed me to see if I wanted to go to another pop-up dance tonight, and if this COLD isn't worse, I just might. Yes, I have caught ANOTHER COLD, which I'm sure I won't mention ever again.
Also, if we know about it in advance, how is it a pop-up?
08:27 AM in Busy busy busy busy. Thank heavens for Angie's List., Family, Health | Permalink | Comments (41)
I should really get on trying to grow grass under the enormous tree in my back yard. My new lawn guy says if it snows this year, you put seed down then. He said birds won't get to it and it soaks into the ground. Who knew? Did you know? Is this one of those things everyone knows but me and I'm just berserk?
But then once the tree gets his leaves back (he feels male to me), won't grass just refuse to grow anyway?
When I first moved here in 2008, I vowed I would go out and enjoy that tree every day. I did a lot, and hated it when I forgot to go out and appreciate my tree. Hang on. Even though he's bare and so on, Ima go take a picture of him for you.
We'll check back in with Leafee in, say, March. Or if he has snow on his branches, much like his mom, June.
Speaking of being a mom, I spent $250 at PetSmart yesterday. Am now adding up if it'd been cheaper to have all four pets put to sleep. I got a new litter box, because I took the one from the basement at my old house, and once it was here on my own floor, it was evident that box had had its day. Madre di dios.
I also got flea meds for everyone. Like, apparently everyone in the universe, at this cost, and then a bed for the old dog.
Have I told you guys about the old dog, or not? Probably not, because I don't want the pressure. I CANNOT HAVE A THIRD DOG, but I stupidly went to the pound when I was staying at Kaye's, and fell in love with a dignified older gentleman who was there.
The ironically named Puppy. His owners surrendered him because he was "too old." Say, would anyone like to join me with some baseball bats so we can beat those owners senseless? And his age is listed as 7, but if he's 7, I'm 35. He's definitely got cataracts. When other dogs would walk by for their constitutional, all the dogs in the pound would jump up and bark and carry on. But not Puppy. He just sat on his splayed feets and was all, Oh, well. Look at his eyebrowns!
Anyway, I've put him on Facebook before till all the "TAKE HIM, JUNE!" remarks got on my nerves and I took the post down. Because thanks for screeching at me to "just go" adopt a dog that I already dearly love and know I cannot have. I can't afford the animals I OWN already. Please see above reference to PetSmart.
But one faithful reader told me to go get him a comfier bed, and yesterday I did at the PetSmart. I will take it over there today if I can. The shelter is about 20 minutes away and they close at 6:00, so, annoying. I'd take a picture of the bed but it's in my car. Dear FR: It's red. I thought it'd look nice with his black fur. He'll be all handsome when potential suitors come to his cage.
I have to get to work. My throat is KILLING me, and everything aches. You know I hate to complain. I'd stay home, but there's no point in having a cold if you can't tell your coworkers every detail.
Speaking of my coworkers, one of them, Fewks, sits near a wall, and when you're walking into the kitchen, there's just this one little spot where no one can see you except Fewks, from his desk. I was inspired by this, lucky for him, and this means every time I think of it, I do a little dance performance for him, my sole audience. Yesterday I "thought of it" three times. I did the frug for a bit on my way to get coffee, then I returned for water and did a little shimmy. The third time, my boss went over there with me and we did some Solid Gold moves. All while Fewks was just trying to freaking work.
No one at work likes me. They'll be glad when this cold finally does me in.
I know once I announce this, you'll all be gathered around your radios for further developments for the rest of today:
I'm getting a cold.
Try to carry on as best you can.
It's so irritating. I eat right. Why the cold? And tonight's The Princess Bride at the old movie theater I like so much. I've been looking forward to this for weeks. I'm still going; nothing but death can keep me from it. But there's, like, a 50/50 chance of death happening now.
How much do you enjoy my colds? How much do you wish I'd be dramatic about it? You know me. I try to be low key.
I read something on Facebook yesterday, one of those articles someone puts up. Now, keep in mind, had it been one of those articles that kept insisting you click on an arrow for more, after they said half a sentence, I WOULD NOT HAVE READ.
Have I told you about my new grassroots effort? Any of those effing click-bait stories you come across, where they constantly want you to hit an arrow for more after you've read only ONE SENTENCE? I get off the story. I leave. I leave in a huff, which an old boyfriend described as my "favorite mode of transportation." Whatever with that guy.
But I do! Those companies can see how far along you read, you know, and if they keep seeing, Oh, she got on our page, saw it was a "one-sentence-then-click-the-arrow-for-another-sentence" story and left, they'll STOP MAKING STUPID CLICKY-ARROW ARTICLES LIKE THAT. We all must do it. We all must join in this important fight. I am the Sally Struthers of click-bait protest.
Anyway, the story I read was what traits make you likable. Naturally I wanted to know, because everyone abhors me, generally. In fact, just today I see that someone unfriended me on Facebook. Rooooood. Why the unfriend? I eat right. What'd I do? Really, probably any number of things.
One of the top traits that make you likable is the ability to listen. Man, is that ever true. I notice this especially with my young coworkers (I'm sorry, y'all, I do). I'll listen to a whole diatribe about their lives, and as soon as I start to talk, their eyes wander, they look at their phones, whatever. Bad listening skills. Or maybe I'm boring. Sometimes I even stop and say, "Should I just stop talking now, or what?"
This must be generational, because I know for a fact I've done that to Ryan, who is 26, and he gets all offended. "GEEZ, no, I'm listening. God, June." I think they just assume it's okay to scroll your phone while talking.
Actually, that's another trait on the likable list. People who don't look at a phone while conversing with you.
But the one that really got me is, likable people don't call attention to themselves.
Yeah. So. I'm abhorrent. What're you gonna do?
God, I feel awful, says June, trying to get attention for her cold. I'm, all achy, and my nose and throat and ears feel all rotten. Cold suck ass. Epiphanies, by June.
Edsel has an underbite. Epiphanies, by June.
My cold will last about a week. Epiphanies by--oh, you get my drift.
If I can muddle through today without heading to the light, I will talk at you tomorrow.
Since moving up to The Guest Room at Kaye's Bed and Breakfast [Note to Kaye: Where the fuck has breakfast been?], I've discovered this treasure trove of "books for guests" that Kaye has left here on the bedside table. I'm supposed to be reading this book my therapist gave me, so I can be less crazy and not so bonkers in the next relationship, but really what I've done for the past hour is read Mindy Kahling's book.
I suppose it already goes without saying that she is my people. I don't know why the sides of this image are cut off, and fixing it would require effort. The point is, funny book.
I mean, who wants to read about why they're bonkers? Can't I just take a pill or something and cure that shit? Can't I just stampede to the next relationship and that'll fix that? What do you mean same thing over and over expecting different results? Say, why don't you fuck me right in the ass.
Which you won't want to do when I tell you the following story. I mean, as opposed to now, when you're working on your How To Get Over My Obsession With Fucking June in the Ass Support Group exercises.
When we last left each other, it was Monday night, and we kept saying, "YOU hang up." "No, YOU hang up" and I really wish I'd have said CUNextTuesday, but I forgot. The rest of my evening went without incident, and I went to bed about 10:30.
Mark that on your June's Calendar of Events.
I don't even know when I woke up. All I know is it was dark, and my hair was sweaty. Oh, I felt bad. Nauseated? It was like the power of Christ compelled me. Fortunately, I did not barf, because as we all know, I do NOT barf unless Peg my neighbor poisons me. But I visited the oval office. I sure did.
And I felt bad, because while Kaye has an upstairs and I was in it, it's not a huge house and I didn't want to wake her with my gastrointestinal distress. After my 71st trip to the bathroom?
The toilet overflowed.
I don't mean I wasn't flushing each time, I was. It was so awful to see that water rising at me, like Noah before the flood. I'd certainly loaded the boat number two by two. "Oh, god," I said, filled with terror and panic and nausea. I knew Kaye had a plunger in her bathroom downstairs, which meant I was gonna have to walk into her room to get to it.
Her door was open, so I sneaked in there like a murderer or an intruder, a turd burglar, if you will. I was just sneaking out with the plunger when she rolled over. "I'm sick, and I've overflowed the toilet," I whispered to her.
Can you imagine a charminger house guest?
"Oh, honey," she said, throwing back the covers. Now, see, this is why everyone is nicer than me. I'd have said, "Are you barf sick?" and headed for my luggage. Instead she WENT UP THERE WITH ME and helped me plunge the bathroom.
So it's been a pleasant 24 hours, and I feel lighter in my loafers, at least, and I'm trying to think of it as a cleanse.
June's Post-Poop Coworkers' Senior Picture
Now I've made it sound like my coworker did all the pooping, and I'm certain she's happy I picked this day to show her photo.
You know, sometimes people read my blog and I have no idea they're reading me. This woman works on a different floor, and is similarly friends with The Poet, and oh, once she was on Jeopardy. The point is, she sent me an email saying she'd looked up ridiculous senior picture poses and found this.
Then she became obsessed with emulating it. "I hope I get a good blog name," she told me, and yes, Alex, you do.
I will talk to you tomorrow, and I am sincerely hoping for a more copacetic evening, in which most of my innards stay in me, with the exception of the crazy and bonkers part, which as everyone knows can be cured by reading Mindy Kaling.