The holiday weekend yawned before us with nary a plan, which was delightful news because we'd both had harrowing weeks at work. "I can't TELL you how happy I am to be home with nothing to do," Ned kept telling me all of Friday evening, thereby rendering him a big liar, or at least inaccurate. "I can't BEGIN to tell you."
I'd gotten home several hours before Ned had, as they usually let us out a little early before a holiday, and I love my job. That meant by the time Ned got home, I was well into watching various versions of A Star is Born. "Well, I watched an old one, and now I'm watching the new one," I explained to Ned, who wondered why Barbra Streisand was in his living room. And what's sad is that to me, a movie from 1976 is "new."
"An old version; you mean with Judy Garland?" asked Ned, who is clearly a closet homosexual.
"No, with that other actress."
"There's another version of A Star is Born that doesn't have Judy Garland or Barbra Streisand?" asked Ned, who, okay, maybe is straight after all.
You know how Ned couldn't TELL me how glad he was to be home? I can't TELL you how much Ned hated A Star is Born starring Barbra Streisand. Just this morning, he said, "I hated that movie so much that it's stuck with me. I can't stop thinking about it." Ned, who's dragged me to movies where cats get killed and an entire room full of people--AN ENTIRE ROOM--vomits apples onto a tarp. Oh, and once he took me to a movie where someone cut a prostitute clean across the face.
But Barbara Streisand singing Evergreen. That he can't shake.
That is why I said yes to Ned's suggestion that we look for a headboard yesterday. I felt I owed it to him after he had to watch Barbra jam out to Watch Closely Now. His bed has no headboard, and he's been wanting one for some time, so we headed to The World's Busiest Antique Store with The World's Fucked-Upidiest Parking Lot. On a Saturday. On a holiday weekend.
We had to cut several people clean across the face in order to get a parking spot, and then we had to wedge our way past every embroidered-sweatshirted old lady who's ever been born just to get into the place. It's this big warehouse of "consignment" items, which is supposed to convince you that you got a deal, except everything in there is just as expensive as brand-new stuff. But you know how Ned and I are. We like old.
We vomited apples on the heads of several shoppers so they'd get out of our way and we could get to the headboards, which were conveniently piled on top of each other so that you'd die in a headboard avalanche, which is a heroic way to go.
I can't believe I captured Ned alone in that room. I swear to you every other second we were there was like we were in Disneyland. Our favorite thing we found was this:
What do you think happened? Did he or she marry person number 8, or just get a new bed, or what? Am dying to know.
After defying death like we were Evil-Antique-Shopper Knevil or something, we finally found a headboard we liked. It was a huge four-poster bed, though, and not just a headboard. We debated it for awhile, but it was so pretty, and there was a Labor Day sale, so what the heck. We took the tag to the front counter.
"It'll be $60 for delivery," said the saleswoman, which pretty much negated the sale price. "We can deliver Wednesday at 10:30."
Oh! Wednesday at 10:30! How conveeeeenient! Because everyone's home then!
"Why don't we get one of the trucks from your work and bring it home ourselves?" I asked Ned, because I hate myself. And that is how we ended up going to his job, getting a huge old truck, schlepping the huge truck back to The World's Fucked-Upidest parking lot WHICH WAS SO FUCKING ANNOYING OH MY GOD I HATED THAT FUCKING NEVER-ENDING LOT WITH PEOPLE BACKING OUT AND ENTIRE FAMILIES STANDING UNMOVING WHILE PEOPLE TRIED TO BACK OUT AROUND THEM parking lot.
We schlepped the huge, old, heavy pieces into the truck, drove it home, parked horrifyingly on the narrow street in front of our house and I was CONVINCED someone was gonna smash into us as we were moving the furniture.
We then schlepped it all up the stairs to our porch, then up the stairs to our room, which took forever because TALL OH MY GOD TALL FOUR POSTERS TALL, and also HEAVY HOLY SHIT.
I was covered in sweat by the time we got all the pieces to the bedroom, where I tried to clean it all. "Why have you made it all slippery?" groused Ned, right around the time I discovered the tallest part of the posts came off.
"Goddammit," I said, holding about three feet of the bed in my hands.
"GodDAMMIT," agreed Ned, screwing the slippery heavy pieces of the bed together.
What had started out as a delightful afternoon of antique shopping like we were a couple of old queens ended up with us doing manual labor and swearing a lot. Finally, FINALLY, after a trip to Lowe's and a swearfest when Ned broke off one of the ornamental metal parts that's gonna require a soldering tool, FINALLY, we lifted the box springs up, and sweated and grunted and carried on till we got the mattress up there, too.
And that is when we discovered we had the tallest bed ever invented. The Princess and the Pea's bed was shorter. It's the Mount Everest of beds. Holy shit, that bed is tall.
Tall. Not short, is what we've got in the bed department.
"What the fuck are we gonna do?" asked Ned, whose temper was much shorter than the bed. "I guess we can hire sherpas to get us into bed at night," I said, because let me tell you who was in hysterics. YOU'VE NEVER SEEN A BED SO TALL. In fact, if it's cloudy right now, you might not see us up there at all. Remember in the dorms, when some people made lofts? We totally have a four-poster loft.
"Have you tried addressing your nightstand?" I asked Ned, from my new perch high atop Greensboro. When I reach down to get anything, all the blood rushes to my face.
"How are we gonna have sex?" I worried. We're four inches from the ceiling fan now. One false move and we're decapitated. Talk about giving head.
Did you ever see Love, Actually? Remember that one couple who were stand-ins for dirty movies, and their whole part in the movie is scene after scene of them, fully dressed, pantomiming various sex acts? That was Ned and me last night. Can we do THIS without being decapitated? How about this? For some activities, Ned's gonna need Pinball Wizard shoes.
So that's my tall tale about our new bed, and I hate to be short with you. Hey, if you want to stay over, we have a tent you can pitch right under our bed.
At least I have somewhere new to store my suitcase.
From on high,
We were all on the porch yesterday, being Allison Portchnik. That's only funny if you're obsessed with Annie Hall, and even then it's not that funny. The point is, it was a beautiful day, but I had a blemish, so there was a whole debate about whether the world should have to see this blemish vs. taking advantage of the fact that it wasn't 900 degrees out thing.
"Oh, wow, you DO have a blemish," Ned finally said. I mean, how could you MISS it? This thing would frighten the very young and threaten the health of the infirm.
We stopped at a gas station to get water, even though we have 5,000 jugs of filtered water in the refridge, as Ned calls it, plus 39488492 water containers we could have taken. I wonder why we don't have savings? The point is, Ned also bought sunflower seeds while he was there. The package actually said, Eat, Spit, Be Happy on it.
"You aren't going to spit, are you?" my blemish and I wanted to know. Ned assured me that indeed, he would be spitting sunflower seeds all over yonder, just like baseball players do. Since I met Ned 3.5 years ago, I've watched more baseball than I ever have in the entire rest of my life combined, and he actually has the nerve to say, "I don't get to watch enough baseball anymore." I can't imagine how much more baseball one could observe without one's mind simply oozing out one's eyeballs, and melting onto the floor, but perhaps that's just me.
The point is, they all spit, baseball players do, and they all spit sunflower seeds. I have no idea why. Maybe they're planting sunflowers on the field, one seed at a time. Ned hates it when I say they "spitted." "It's not 'spitted,' June," he'll say, and as someone whose brain is seconds from oozing out his nose holes, I don't know that I can give his grammar lessons much credence. Or clear water. Or even a revival.
When we got to the lake, Ned decided to open his sunflower seeds forthwith, and could not open the bag no matter how hard he tried. He eventually got out his steely knife, and he just couldn't kill the beast.
"They must have a notch or something at the top of the bag, to make it easy to open," I said, because my blemish has a degree in packaging.
"They don't," said Ned, stabbing his sunflower seed bag. Attached please find Ned discovering, after he's cut his bag to ribbons, that it had an open-in-front thing.
Speaking of which, my blemish had a lovely time hiking, and even saw a snake thanks to Ned, who can find a snake 800 miles away with his eagle eyes that somehow cannot grasp a bag, but really, can YOUR eyes grasp a bag? Because, creepy.
Because we both had on Fitbits, we know for a fact that we walked 78 minutes, and covered three point something miles. I tripped over tree roots 4843829492 times, and squeaked nervously at a snake once. How come Ned can hike and not have hair like a homeless person when he's done?
"Maybe we should name the blemish," suggested Ned, and then weirdly we both said, "Alice" at the same time. I have no idea how we did that.
Afterward, we went to Stake and Shake, because why be healthy? My blemish had a vanilla Coke and a steakburger that was delicious. I should take up a collection to get my nose done. Can I do a Kickstarter? Will that work?
I will keep you posted on Alice, my blemish. Despite dousing it with 75 gallons of salicylic acid, it looks pretty much exactly the same today, and a good person would call in sick to work. I will not, though, because at least I have something to talk about all day.
I don't know if you've GERD, but yesterday I had an endoscopy. Did you like that? Little medical procedure humor.
Ned and I got there at 10:30, which is inhuman. Why do they have to do these things so early in the morning? I am sorry to tell you that we were seated directly under the television, where they were showing Kathy Lee and Hoda, which, as someone with a job all the time, I've never had the good fortune to see.
Holy shit those two were a pain in my ass. They talked over each other constantly, which I guess is supposed to make you feel all, Oh, it's just us girls! Which as you know is my favorite emotion. Those heifers each had a glass of damn wine on their desk, at 10:30 in the morning, or maybe it was 11:00, and I don't know when I became your disapproving aunt with pursed lips, but I was appalled.
The guy next to me was having a colonoscopy, and they asked him seven hundred and fourteen questions (who admits to using street drugs? That guy didn't, and neither did I, even though you've heard a hundred times how I like the Ecstacy. The X.)
Is it even spelled X? Or is it ecs or something? Why am I doubting that it's "ecs"? I am so street. Just like my drugs.
Anyway, they came in and asked me all the same questions, and that guy and I both take Imitrex, and this would have been a whole, romantic, "I met my soulmate at the surgery center" story except the guy looked like Big Bird, plus if he doesn't take ecs, he's no friend of mine.
They put in an IV, which was disgusting. I hate vein-related things. They took my blood pressure, which was negative two over 15. Then the nurse or coat check girl or whatever she was said, "Do you want your phone? You might have to wait a bit."
"No, thank you," I said to her. "I can be alone with my thoughts."
She laughed at that, then pulled the curtain and walked away.
All I could think of was my IV, and veins, and how I was so vein, and the procedure they were about to do, and Propofol, and Michael Jackson, and it turns out I cannot be alone with my thoughts for one moment.
Finally, they wheeled me into the room, and I love lying there while someone pushes you into another room. I was born to be a queen or an empress or a roast or something, because I love arriving all splayed out. I met the nice anesthesiologist, and we talked about front porches, and then it was time for my Propo--
Holy cats. Then it was over. I opened my eyes, and there was Ned's cute head right in front of me. Ned told me my eyes had been open when he walked in, but I was a stuffed bear when he walked in, then, because the first thing I recall is seeing Ned.
"I love you so much, Ned!" I burst into tears. Dear Propofol, Cut it out. You're making me lose my edge, man. My hard edge.
I know the doctor came in to say how unremarkable it all was in my throat, and does he not know I'm an empress? He said I probably have a muscle spasm thing making it hard to swallow, and it's POSSIBLE if I keep treating the GERD it will get better.
Does this mean it's possible it WON'T? Because, suck.
The nurse or the doctor gave Ned a list of what I couldn't eat yesterday, and I lolled on the bed like Otis the town drunk, and then it was time to go and it seems like we went home and slept but who can remember, and oh! I forgot to tell you I had some nausea. NAUSEA. You know I enjoy feeling nauseated, along with the rest of the country, but IT'S MY PHOBIA.
We told the nurse and she said, "You probably just need to release a little gas."
I don't HAVE gas. As we all know, I never have gas. But finally, I did feel some, you know, breeze going on, and I frittered to the top of the ceiling in a zigzag pattern, and then I could go home.
I love My Tenant's cats. I know this comes as a surprise to you.
"Oh my god, now I'm STARVING," I announced, and it was decided we'd go to the grocery store, since I couldn't have anything fatty or fried or that was a vegetable. A vegetable. Pfft. "What are we getting?" asked Ned, who always needs to know everything. "What do you want to do tonight?" he'll ask, and I'll say something, and then I SWEAR TO GOD he'll ask, "What about after that?"
He asked me 400 times before we got there, and once we got inside, he said, "What are we getting?"
"Oh my GOD, Ned, I don't KNOW. I'm going to look around. Geez."
"Why are you so crabby?" he asked.
I traipsed through produce. "You can't have that. You can't have that, either. She said no tomatoes. That has seeds. I really think you shouldn't have seeds. Too fatty. No, that has dairy."
"SHUT UP, NED." I threw a giant fried chicken soaked in yogurt and seeds, with stewed tomatoes, into my cart. I mean, really, everything I reached for, Ned said I couldn't have. I think he would have approved of me sucking a lime and chewing a stick of gum.
And the point is, I felt fine. I got strawberries (SEEDS!!!), blueberries, some pistachios ("I don't think you're supposed to have nuts.") and some soup ("That soup has vegetables in it, June.")
Does anyone remember a few hours back, when Propofol made me love Ned? Other than that annoying 20 minutes, Ned is an excellent nurse. He brings you things, and checks on you, and he even sat through a really terrible movie with me. It has Ryan Reynolds in it. Enough said.
So, I lived, and that will be $5748484, please. Finally, I wanted to show you how just now, NedKitty is bird-watching out one window of Ned's room, while Lily was bird-watching out the other, but as soon as I went in there, Lily did this:
In fact, as I was convalescing yesterday at the surgery center, waiting for gas to pass, I pulled a cat fur off my blue scratch gown.
"How is there cat fur on this gown?" I asked Ned.
"It's inevitable. When we bury you in your final resting place, a big poof of cat fur will burst up."
He's right about that.
My mother had a friend who recently died, a guy I always liked a lot. He was cool. They found this picture of her in his stuff, from February 1978. Kills me. Mom had the good eyelashes, and they didn't even have Latisse back then.
Tomorrow I have to have an endoscopy, which is where they knock you out with Propofol, the stuff that killed Michael Jackson, and then they're gonna look down my throat to see why I am having trouble swallowing. Be sure to give me plenty of advice re this.
I have to remember to not eat anything red or purple today, and already I was getting ready to have oatmeal with blueberries in it, so you know I will screw that up and they'll think the worst.
When I went to the doctor for this, and took the nice gut shot, above, they asked me to describe my symptoms. I told the nurse, "My throat feels irritated, not sore. And I can swallow solids, it's just liquids that give me trouble."
Me, at the doctor. Do you enjoy my gown? Nothing says cute like a pale blue gown with scratches all over it. Perhaps they'll keep me in this to ship me over to the Home for the Unfortunate, which is what I was forced to call the mental hospital in my home state. "Home for the Unfortunate." Oh, mom.
The nurse asked more questions, then she asked what I did for a living.
"I'm a fire eater," I said, then grabbed myself in a hearty embrace.
I was lucky enough that the doctor also asked me what I did for a living, and that time I said sword swallower.
Anyway, that happens tomorrow, and Ned is taking me there, and when I get home, Edsel will want to stand on the bed and stare at me worriedly. Which is super relaxing.
The doctor doesn't think it's anything nefarious, just GERD. I'm a herdy GERDy girl, apparently.
Oh, speaking of which, we got our health assessments at work yesterday, and you are gonna fall over dead, ironically, because I am in great shape. There is a less than 1% chance I will have a stroke or heart attack in the next 5 years, and among women my age, only 16% are doing better than me. Blood pressure, BMI, cholesterol, all great.
"You should go to Mrs. Winner's to celebrate," said the guy who sits next to me, who marvels at the Mrs. Winner's fried chicken I bring back maybe more often than is necessary. As opposed to those completely necessary fried chicken runs.
When we sat down, the organist was playing, and Ned said, "I wrote this song. I wrote it for you. It's called June, O June."
"Are there any other words?" I asked.
"Nope. Just June, O June."
As we listed further, I realized the organist was playing Your Cheatin' Heart. Which just about killed me. "This is the most dramatic version of Your Cheatin' Heart ever played," said Ned.
Afterward, we had that disconcerting thing happen, where you leave a theater and it's still light out. We headed over to the Irish pub, because Ned was starving. I'd had to go to my old house right after work to feed My Tenant's cats, and I may or may not have stopped off at Hardee's, just like the old days.
Blood pressure, great! Cholesterol, fantastic! She even said the rating of my good cholesterol--80--was so good it was like a blanket of protection around my heart. Supposing I had one.
The point is, it was just a lovely night. Breezy, in the 70s but not dreadful cold 70s. Like, if it's 71, Ima have a problem with that. 78? I'm solid. Above please find Mr. Greensboro, in the center thing downtown, against last night's pretty sky.
I made Ned do his Mr. Greensboro impression, but he said I can't show you all. Ned has pride. And joy.
I was at a bar once (once! hah!) and a guy asked me if I wanted to see a picture of his pride and joy, and he pulled out a card with this on it, and I laughed so hard he gave it to me, then scurried away quickly.
Ned's blood pressure is always ludicrous. It's always like 394345853493529 over 594583489543.
Can we all chip in to get me a nose job? I abhor my nose. It needs fixing. Maybe I could get someone to punch me clean in the face, and my nose would break and they'd HAVE to fix it. Every time I've written "nose" I've type "bose" and now I'm annoyed.
I have to go. Stop talking to me. Hang up. No, YOU hang up.
All right, really. I have to go. Don't get your bose out of joint.
For a couple years now, I've been writing every week for this website called Purple Clover, which is aimed at women who are long in the tooth, shall we say. Not in the bloom anymore. Rounding the bend. I am one of those women, as I know all too well.
The writing has been going well--at first it was hard to sound funny, because I can't drone on as I do here, in case you hadn't picked up my drone, but now I feel more like my real voice is coming out, although I'm still not as funny there as I am here.
I mean, look how much you're laughing so far, here. It's like Jerry Lewis has entered my soul or something. I DON'T FEEL FUNNY RIGHT NOW, okay? My clown shoes are put up.
Last week, I wrote an article on being grateful for what one has, and I included a photo of my legs crossed on my porch railing. I enjoyed writing this particular article, and was glad when they not only ran it on Purple Clover's site on Monday, but then they also posted it on Facebook last night. I just happened to see it as soon as it went up, and it had 59 Likes immediately. I refreshed the page, and it had 70 Likes. "Oooo!" I thought, because sometimes those stories sit there for 24 hours and get a measly 200 Likes. There are 1.5 million people who follow Purple Clover on Facebook, so 200 Likes is sort of similar to when you post a photo of your breakfast and get, you know, 4 Likes out of your 500 friends.
Shut up about my maths. Also, why do people post pictures of their breakfast? I have never really understood. Mostly because my breakfast is sad flax oatmeal every day.
My point is this. When I woke up today, I checked Facebook and remembered to check my article. It had 3,600 Likes, which, yay!
Then I read the comments.
"Oh my god, cankles," wrote one commentor. It got a few Likes.
"Be grateful for what you have? How can you when you have those cankles?" wrote another.
See. A healthy person would have gotten off that site right away. Maybe meditated or gotten the whittling knife, started carving away on m'legs. That's what a healthy person would have done. Me? I kept reading.
One person even spelled it "Kankles."
By the time Ned emerged from the shower, my chin was quivering. "Am I fat?" I asked Ned. "Of course not," lied Ned, who fears the reaper.
"No, you can tell me," I said.
"Sweetheart, you're beautiful," he said. "What's going on?"
"THE INTERNET SAYS I'M FAT!" I wailed, and threw myself on the bed, causing it to crash through to the dining room with my considerable girth.
Oh, I sobbed. Then I cried. Then I turned my cankles this way and that. I really DO look cankle-y in the photo I submitted to Purple Clover. Truthfully, even when I weighed 30 pounds less than this, I never had a tapered ankle.
Once we had drinks with one of Ned's exes, and I noted how delicate her ankles were. She was like a little fawn.
I sobbed harder. I wanted to never write another thing that would be read by the public again. Certainly I wanted to never submit another photo to the Internet again. Would it be weird to wear boots year-round? Maybe I could bring back leg warmers.
Ned sat on the bed. "Should I take a personal day?" he asked me and my deformed legs. My mother is coming here today and I have cleaning to do, plus that is insane, so I told him no.
"Look," he said, warming to the subject. "If you really feel bad about yourself, go to the gym. You have that free membership that you won. But you really need to do cardio. You can do Tracy Chapman and yoga--
[I'd like to interrupt here to say I did an HOUR of Tracy Chapman last night, an hour of her the night before, and an hour of yoga on Monday. Thank you.]
"--but to really lose weight you have to do cardio. And you can't eat the horrible things you eat, either," he said, not noticing the look of horror growing on my face. "There's no avoiding it. Cardio. And eat better."
I swear to god if he'd said his signature line about eating less and exercising more I'd be blogging at you from the county jail right now.
So here is my dating tip for all you men out there. The many, many men who read my blog: The Canklebury Tales. If your woman is sobbing because the entire Internet has told her she's fat? What she wants to hear is that she's charming. She's sexy. She has curves for miles. A sobbing woman asking you if she's fat DOES NOT WANT TO HEAR THAT SHE'S FAT.
Maybe offer to go walking with her later that day. Then the next day. Maybe mention that gym in a few days.
Because if you piss her off enough, she might throw her weight around. And in my case, that's a considerable threat.
It is Sunday evening, and I am on my computer while Ned is at his, doing his taxes. He just said, "Son of a bitch," and I feel like Ned is going to be a bit of a swearwolf tonight. I am having strawberries and cutting cheese, which always makes me snicker like a 7th grader, but really it's a sharp white cheddar.
So, busy weekend and I will plunge right into it. That's what SHE said.
Saturday morning I had to bound out of bed like a fireman or someone who actually ISN'T clinically depressed, and scream on over to the hair salon. I got roots and highlights and a blowout, which means I was at the salon for three and a half fucking hours. They weren't just hours, they were fucking hours. Plus, my hairdresser was in a hurry at the end, and he didn't smooth me out as much as I needed, so I look a little like Garth of Wayne and Garth. Party on. Then I got a manicure, which I had tried to do Friday night, but I was waiting on this IDIOT girl who wanted a design on one finger. You'd have thought her one finger was going into the annals of history, so to speak. That this finger was being photographed to be displayed in Times Square. You'd have thought her one designed finger was going to serve as the muse for artists and poets and songwriters everywhere, so inspired would they be by her ONE FUCKING FLOWER on her ONE FUCKING FINGER that I was ready to chop off and stick down her stupid annoying throat.
"No, no, not that color. Can you take it off and try again?"
"I'm getting hungry," her beleaguered friend said, and how this yahoo has one single friend is beyond me. "Try the blue paint," she told the manicure guy, who was clearly growing uncomfortable with her endless retries of this stupid design, knowing I was SITTING THERE waiting my turn.
Forty minutes I waited for this dipstick to be happy with her ONE FUCKING FINGER before I gave up and left. You have no idea how hard it was for me to not say, "You, dear, are a pain in EVERYONE'S ASS" as I snapped off her unhappy finger like a chicken bone.
So Saturday. Got a manicure Saturday.
This means it was after 1 p.m. by the time I got home. "The wedding starts at 4:30, so let's leave at 3:30," I told Ned when I arrived with my new Princesses Rule nail color, and they really do. I mean, unless there's a king or a queen around, then they don't rule at all. But often, princesses rule.
"You're KIDDING," said Ned, and let me tell you something. Ned? Cannot imagine arriving for anything on time, or in a timely manner, or punctually. He was early for our first date, and I should have thanked all that was holy in the sky, because I never saw that behavior again. The thought of giving yourself extra time to get somewhere is not a concept Ned embraces. Sometimes his mother tells him things begin earlier than they do, so he's only 15 minutes late and not an hour late.
"Yes," I said. "It takes 40 minutes to get there, so let's give ourselves time."
"I'll just go on a bike ride, then," he said, and on my insides I was all MOTHER OF GOD.
(Ned just god dammited. I wonder how the tax-paying is going?)
Because if Ned gets on that bike, he'll be on it for an hour, and then he'll sit listlessly in the back yard with water and look all flushed, and then he'll stretch after, and it was already 1:30 when he said this and we had to be in the car IN TWO HOURS.
And indeed, all of that happened, and when Ned got in the shower at 3:17, I was beside myself. Beside. My own self.
Anyway. Once Ned gets out of the shower, he doesn't bound out of the room like a fireman or someone who isn't clinically depressed. Oh, he flosses, he trims his beard, he admires himself in the mirror and says, Al Pacino. I don't know WHAT all he does, but I DO know that I nervously announced that it was 3:27 when he finally emerged from the bathroom.
"What am I gonna wear?" Ned said, and this is when my insides began screaming like an injured wolverine. He tried on one thing and hated it, and I selected ties for him and silently wished I could turn back tiiioome, like I was Cher. As a technique to not be late for anything, a technique that has worked on Ned precisely NOT ONCE EVER, his clock is set 417 minutes early, so I could not tell what time it really was, but I clammily knew it was past when I wanted to leave. I knew if I nagged, he'd get testy, but I'm telling you my teeth were sweaty at this point, so tense was I.
Ned finally got his clothes on and headed to the mirror. "He is NOT headed to the MIRROR," I thought, panic having welled up over my brain and out my nostrils, like a dragon. Ned took the towel and dried his hair vigorously. "Ugh," he said, and dried his hair again. Then he examined his nails.
"Can we please go?" I asked, purse in hand.
"Okay, hang on," he said, as if I were some sort of impossible shrew, what with the wanting to actually see the bride go down the aisle and all. God. Demanding.
Finally, I lured him down the stairs, and had a steak on a big stick or tassels on my hoots gotten him down there faster, I'd have worked it. We got all the way to the kitchen when..
I have no idea what he had to do, because at this point here was my mood:
Finally, FINALLY!!!, we headed to the car. "What time is it?" asked Ned, as if I weren't acutely aware of each passing moment that lessened our chances of even seeing the cake before it was digested at passed, much less the bride.
"It's 10 minutes to 4:00," I said nervously. Winston-Salem is 35 miles away. The wedding started at 4:30.
"Geez, we have plenty of time," said Ned, as we headed to the highway.
Where two lanes were shut down.
Tune in tomorrow for June's Weekend, part two of 3934928239 parts.
You know I don't believe in soulmates, but that is because I had yet to meet J. We work together, and she is on the newsletter staff, and I am the proud editor of said staff, so that is how we met and fell in love. Somehow one day we got to talking about makeup, which probably started out with me saying something like, "I like your concealer. Where did you get that?
My high school best friend, Donna, can do an impeccable impression of me admiring someone's makeup and asking where they got that. She sounds ludicrous and I am certain that is exactly how I sound. "I like your eye shadow. Where did you get that?"
Anyway, turns out J and I are equally obsessed with all things cosmetic, and yesterday we went shopping at lunch, and discussed makeup from the moment we laid eye-shadowed eyes on each other till we came back to work tarted up like we were entering a toddler beauty pageant. I know I use that line all the time but shut up, it's a good one.
All right, I've gotta go. I took my antibiotic on an empty stomach and feel decidedly bad. Must eat quickly.
I HATE the new bathroom rug, in case you've been mulling it over during your tea time. "I wonder how June's liking that new bathroom rug?" Answer: I do not. It's too fluffy and it never gets dry, which someone here told me was the problem with that rug. It's like you're stepping onto the back of a wet bear whenever you get out the tub.
The day I was looking for throw rugs, there was also an Oprah's-close-friend-Nate Berkus rug that I considered, and it was even on sale. It was the Nate Berkus Tsunami Sale or something. You'll be swept away by these deals. And I said, nah, this fluffy one's cheaper and so fluffy and I really can't wait to step on a wet bear each day in a fluffy manner.
So there's that update, and you're welcome.
In the meantime, listen to this stupidity. Remember how I had three floor-to-ceiling bookshelves at my old house? I really didn't feel like moving them, and they're so large and cumbersome and the 1926 rooms here are smaller than my old 1950 rooms, so I left the bookshelves with the tenants, wrote it into the lease and everything. Then we got here and said, "God, we really don't have enough bookshelves."
Ned and I took EIGHT boxes of books to the used bookstore place, where they'll buy your books, and I took countless more to the charity box, and we still must have 500 books here.
Yesterday at work they sent out an announcement. They're selling six-foot-tall bookshelves, white, for $10. So guess who owns two MORE bookshelves now? The other thing is that we want to put a dog gate between the dining room and living room, but the entryway is six feet wide. Who did they build this house for, the wide lady at the 1926 circus?
In fact, I can see where there used to be doors there, between the living and dining rooms, and I'll bet you anything they were French doors, doors that smoked Gauloises and wore berets and ate scrambled ouefs and stalked black and white cats thinking they were skunks and so on. How pretty would it have been to have those French doors? Plus, any time we wanted to keep the dogs out, click! We could shut our pretty French doors. Loosen up that pretty French door. Let me pour you a good long drink. Oooo baby don't you hesitate.
Rod Stewart and Pepe LePeu had a lot in common, with the lasciviousness.
Tonight's the night, baybeee, mmmm, mmm, mmm! Oh, mon cheri! Gonna bee all right! Mmmm, mmmm, mmm!
I have never found French men to be hot. They kind of creep me out. Too obvious or something.
Oh my god, my tangents are ridiculous at this point. What I was saying was, when the Tall Boy was here the other day, he pointed out that we could put a bookshelf IN that huge entryway, so then we wouldn't have to get such a long ridiculous pet gate. I love it when someone comes over and solves your problem like that.
But who has suggestions for what else we can do? We don't have enough closet space, particularly coat closet space, of which we have none. What should we get to house our coats and scarves and so on? I'm repurposing all my drawers, so to speak, and using one dresser for linens, and I'm no longer able to have one drawer for underthings and one for socks. It's all going together. I wear socks about twice a year, so why do they get their own drawer anyway?
So, that's where I am today. That's where my brain is. I know it's fascinating, but it's what's on my mind.
I only have 10 minutes while my root dye sets in--I'm trying to do things like my own roots to save money since this move. Although we'll be RICH soon, because we're saving so much living here together, at first I have laid out what the official money people call a shitload of cash.
I also waited three weeks to order contacts to save the $127 it costs to get them. For weeks I've worn glasses every day, and I look not unlike Margaret from Dennis the Menace. Appealing.
My last pair of contacts I'd saved for a special occasion, and that special occasion was this past Saturday, when I danced at the gay bar with some friends and some complete-stranger lesbians once my friends got all tired and middle-aged and sick-of-Cher on me. Margaret from Dennis the Menace has no place in a gay bar, so I went glassesless.
Anyway, I ordered contacts, finally, Tuesday, and my contacts guy called Wednesday. He and I get along like peas and carrots.
"How we doin'?" he asked when he called.
"Well, I'm doing fine, and I don't care how you're doing," I told him. He'd ordered my contacts to come in fast, as a surprise to me, and I cannot wait to be a normal member of society today and not Daria.
Only five minutes to go on the hair, then I have to rinse it out. So far I've covered a lot of crucial info.
Here is another important story: My landlord, who is gay but he's really more pleated khakis gay, and I will call him Gaylord from now on, is obsessed with complex light fixtures. Almost nowhere in this house can you just, oh, switch on a light. Oh-ho-hoooo, don't be silly. Whoever heard of doing something so plebeian as being able to flick a switch up? That is so 2011.
When I'm not cooking my hair, I will show you the chandelier in the second bathroom, and the world's fanciest light in the bedroom that you need a remote for and a four-digit code to operate. "I just want to turn on a goddamn light," said Ned as he punched various keys on the control panel to our back porch light.
So, my office, here, has a--wait for it--fancy light fixture, and Gaylord said, "Oh, the bulbs on that are really hard to find, so I don't use the overhead, I just always used it as a ceiling fan."
....! I mean, HOW much did you pay for this thing? Because it LOOKS like it cost a million dollars. And there is one--one!!!!--outlet in here, at the back of the room, so I could plug two lamps in way over yonder and have the rest of the room be dark. Perhaps I could bring people in for questioning.
So I insisted we find bulbs for this effing light. And Ned, because I am charming and persuasive, agreed. He had to get on a ladder and unscrew the elaborate top to this light in here. Each light bulb has its own little home in this wrought-iron cage, like a go-go dancer from 1912. Ned lifted an old teensy bulb from the fixture.
Then he went to Lowe's and got a similar one, got back up on the ladder, and realized it was the wrong size.
"Son of a BITCH," said Ned. "Where's the receipt?" Ned asked me while I was crouched in front of the litter box with a Lowe's bag. "um..." I began.
"Oh GODDAMMIT," said Ned. "Well. Okay. These bulbs weren't that expensive. It's okay that you covered the receipt in cat poop, because you are so generally charming most of the time. But let's go back and try to find some bulbs that fit."
So Ned handed me the teensy bulb, and as we drove, I did an Uncle Fester impression, and I also said I had an idea and held the light bulb over my head, and of course there was the inevitable guy-with-testicular-cancer impresh, and finally we were back at Lowe's.
And that is when I got out of the car and dropped the bulb onto the pavement.