I need you to understand how much I hate eHarmony.
I had a friend who joined it, and it would never be a site I'd have considered had he not joined and met an actually cool woman. I see it as sort of a site where I'd never meet anyone I had anything in common with. I see a lot of basic types, not that there's anything wrong with that. Just isn't me. I don't love a new-construction home. Never liked Dave Matthews.
But in a fit of ennui earlier this year, I joined, and hey, I was right. No one I had anything in common with. Lots of 62-year-old men in polo shirts.
So I unsubscribed, and yet? I still get emails EVERY DAY. EVERY DAY.
"Hey, June! Signed, Sealed, Delivered! Here are your matches for today!" Okay, that alone makes me hate them, not to mention how they technically are NOT signed or sealed. And here's what. You can't unsubscribe. YOU CAN'T!
There's a place to "log in" and unsubscribe, allegedly, but you can't log in if you don't have an account. I've hit Reply to that stupid homophobic organization's emails, and I like how that bothers me now that I haven't met anyone on there, but much like Chik-Fil-A, I'm all, This is wonderful! Screw rights for everyone! Anyway, I emailed them and of course nothing. I went on their Facebook page and complained and--nothing.
What makes companies think this is a way to do business? Oh, let's be all scammy and horrific. That'll SURELY encourage people to recommend us! Not to mention, today's specimens are from Tennessee, Pittsburgh and some town called Somerset. Well, THANKS. Those are convenient. In the meantime, my ex is a four-minute drive and WHICH DO YOU THINK I WILL CHOOSE WHEN THE NEXT ENNUI HITS, E FUCKING HARMONY?!!?
If you try to "log back on" and unsubscribe, they make you START ALL OVER, begin a profile and answer questions and redo just everything, which takes an hour, and there's nowhere to scroll down and say, Oh my GOD, just stop sending me EMAIL.
There's no section that reads Help, and the Contact Us is just a set of links you can click to read frequently asked questions, and of course none of those questions are HOW IN THE NAME OF FUCK do you get OFF THE EMAIL LIST.
Finally, I called. You know who I feel bad for in this world? People who have to answer these calls. People in India, who're just working for the weekend, or whatever people in India do for yucks.
First, they couldn't find me on there. Then they did and said, "No, it's fine. You're unsubscribed."
Okay, you're not listening to me. Yes, I am unsubscribed from being on eHarmony, but YOU KEEP SENDING ME EMAIL. Look, hoo care, right? It's not the end of the world. But now it's the PRINCIPAL of the thing. You can just harass me because you want to, and I can't stop it.
Finally, I got her to understand what I meant, and she said, "Oh, those emails, with your matches every day? Yeah, there's no way to stop those unless you go into your settings and--"
I don't HAVE settings. Because I'M NOT ON EHARMONY OH MY GOD SHOOT ME.
"Oh, right, well, then you just have to get them. You can't not get those emails till your subscription expires."
Next time you see that little imp of a man on TV touting eHarmony, I beg you to scream at him to chew a bag of dicks.
My mood is sparkling. Did I mention that?
My computer has been a DICK all weekend, and I hate everything right now. This is my third attempt at writing something, and we'll see if it even sticks. Did I mention I hate fucking everything? Did I mention how much I was on the phone with Apple Care this weekend? I don't even LIKE apples.
So, I'm writing this Sunday night and setting it to publish on Monday morning, and I know that THROWS some of you off, so I'm just gonna warn you right now that for the next three weeks I'm doing an Oprah/Deepak meditation, so all my posts for the next 21 days will be written the night before and set to post the next morning.
If this gives you the angina, my suggestion is that you probably need the Oprah/Deepak meditation.
On Friday night, I went to a surprise party for one of my friends, who was turning 40, and there was a child there with shoes that (a) look like pink cats and (2) smell like strawberries, and if I could find such a shoe for me, I would never be sad again not even when my computer's a DICK that SPOOLS all day fuck computers.
On Saturday afternoon I had a lunch date with A Younger Man, and coo coo kachoo, Mrs. Robinson. Clearly I was asked out because my personality is lovely, and my mood is sparkling all the time. I had lamb stew, Clarice. He got fish and chips. It was kind of nice to be out with someone who eats fried food, but then again he's 14, so.
Here's me on the way to the date; this was not my date. If I went on a date with someone who looked like me it'd be weird and also I'd be a lesbian. I wonder if I went out with myself if I'd get annoyed. I wonder if the date version of me also had fucking fucking computer fucking problems all weekend.
After lunch, I took him to the local bookstore, and also to my friend Kit's vintage store where we perused old Playboys and saw Uma Thurman's breasts, which right there made it a good time. How many men can say they went on a date and saw Uma Thurman's breasts? Ethan Hawke and this guy. That's who. Then it got late and his mom was totally gonna ground him if he missed curfew, so my date went home. He already asked me out for next weekend, because Still Got It.
Also, because Sparkling Personality.
I decided to stop at the coffee shop after, and ran into one of the Alexes from work.
This is also not a picture of my date, see above ref to not generally a lesbian. This is the Alex from work. She doesn't work at my work anymore, so we had a lot to discuss about our lives and so on. She reads my blog, so really everything I told her was old news and there's really no point in me talking to anyone about anything anymore.
Mostly, the rest of the weekend I hung out here and felt hungry. I've been on Weight Watchers for a week now, and lost two measly pounds even though all I am is HUNGRY ALL THE TIME and MOOD IS SPARKLING. I made popcorn and shared it with the dogs, as I am wont to do.
The dogs probably burned off more points catching the popcorn than they did eating the popcorn. See what happens? You get on Weight Watchers and your whole world becomes points. Points of sparkling mood. Those spots on the floor are permanent. The ones by the sink are a burn of some sort and the ones by the other room are from when I tried to coat that room with the damn concrete floor that's peeled again.
Well, evening is upon me, and I think I'll retire to the couch and open a wrist. But I'll talk to you tomorrow, which for you means Tuesday and for me means Monday. Which skeeves you out and now you have hives. How do you think I feel? That brownie I had at the coffee shop was 15 points.
Less of June
Enclosed please find a video of Tallulah, the most stubborn cute dog in the world. Minutes before, she'd been moaning at me to go out, and when I lugged my day-at-work, half-hour-of-Tracy-Chapman, 10,000-steps-on-top-of-that self off the couch, she didn't want to GO out. And yet here she is, asking to go out again minutes later. Cancer schmancer. She's still a dick.
A good friend would not notice how I'd thrown my sweater on the chair or left my mirror on the side table like I'm my grandma, whose side table always contained a red mirror I'd given her, tweezers, nail clippers, her cigarette case, Kleenex, a coffee cup and the TV Guide. I used to do the crossword puzzle in her TV Guide, with no regard for whether she wanted to do it or not, and I'd always get all the answers and think, God, I really am smart. Look at me, knowing the answer is Donna Mills.
I guess it was good I had high self-esteem. It may have been misguided. Which is my epitaph. Her high self-regard was a tad misguided.
So what's new with all of you? I'm working on a project with one of the Alexes at work, and yesterday I asked her about how she records interviews with QuickTime, and I immediately became my mother, who once said, "I don't know how to paste and cut." "How to you do QuickTime to record interviews?" I asked her, and she came over to my desk because clearly I'm too old to take my cane and bone-colored Velcro sneakers over to hers.
"Don't you have an iPhone?" she asked me. "There's a voice recorder on your iPhone."
She showed me where the recorder was. "Oh, look! I have a voicemail recorded for no reason," I told her. "Wow, what is it?" she asked. We played it.
"Hi, sweetheart, this thing is running late like I knew it would, but I wanted to call and tell you how much I love you, and I miss you," the recorded voice of Ned said to me from sometime in 2014.
Why does life do that to you? When I was packing to move to California to live with Marvin, I came across a piece of cardboard that had written on it, "I really do love you" from my '80s boyfriend Giovanni Leftwich. I'd moved that piece of cardboard, which quite possibly was from a package of nylons, from Michigan to Seattle, and thanks, world. Sometimes Giovanni would sneak down to my '80s room and put notes under my pillow and I'll bet that's what that was from. I'll bet I had that weird rounded-cornered piece of cardboard in my trash and he used that to write me a note.
I kept it. It's still here, in a Giovanni box somewhere. I have a Marvin box and a Giovanni box. So to speak. I only have one written note from Ned and a few cards. The rest is email and text. And apparently one voicemail recorded on my damn phone's recorder. Isn't that sad? We don't have physical evidence of our relationships anymore. No real photos, no real letters.
I was talking with someone who had kids, maybe it was one of my interminable dates that haven't worked out. He said he barely has any real photos of his kid, they're all electronic. Good for the earth, but what about our memories? What if some terrorist comes and erases the cloud or something?
Of course, people went millions of years with no photos and managed to remember their relationships. They had letters, though. I mean, Cleopatra didn't. "I saved all the rocks Anthony chiseled for me."
Maybe it was a bad idea to go off my antidepressant. Maybe I get too deep.
Dwelling on the Deep, with occasional forays into Donna Mills, by June and Edsel. Point/counterpoint, by June and Edsel. All of Eds's counterpoints would be, "Eds luff mom so bad." If Edsel could leave me a voicemail, he'd leave one like the one Ned left. Only maybe a little more enthusiastically. Like, call-the-authorities enthusiastic.
Do you know who doesn't need an antidepressant? Edsel.
I got my glasses yesterday. I have the best spectacles, ever, black ones with teensy diamonds at the edges, which is also something my grandmother had, and recently Iris knocked them to the ground as she does all glasses and I stepped on them and got them all wonky. I'd like to take this moment to wonder why I have all these goddamn pets.
Anyway, I haven't worn them in months because they're wonky, and finally the other day I went to my regular glasses guy to get him to unwonky them, except the worst woman in the world was in there.
The guy who owns the store where I get my glasses is a one-man operation. He's a helpful guy and always friendly. When I walked in there, a woman was seated at one of the tables, trying on frames, acting like she was buying a condo. There were two men waiting to be addressed, and then there I was. So now in this small store were three people waiting, and did this woman care?
She did not.
I am sorry to be insulting, but she had a New York accent, and I've become one of those people who live here who assume New Yorkers are going to be awful because they almost always are.
"Now, how do I look in these?" she asked him, peering at herself in the mirror. The red mirror next to her Lazy Boy and her TV Guide.
The glasses guy gave her a detailed answer, because that's how he is.
"Now, I know we already discussed these, but didn't you say we could take the bridge from this one and put it on these?"
Yes, he had told her that already.
"I only get new glasses every 20 years, so price is no object," she said New Yorkly. "Now, what did we say about these?"
Oh for the love of GOD, lady.
"Well, ma'am, as we've said, those are the ones most similar to what you've already got," my glasses guy told her. I knew she was gonna be the type to buy exactly the same glasses she already had, even after 20 years.
And here's the thing. Go on wit cher bad self, take your time buying your goddamn glasses. Be the person who takes forever to decide. BUT BE A LITTLE CONSIDERATE. She couldn't have said to him, "Go ahead and help these THREE OTHER PEOPLE while I mull some more"? She couldn't have said that?
Finally my glasses guy told her he had to get up and help these other people, and when I called to see if my glasses were ready I said, "You.are.welcome that I am not an asshole like that lady." I been going to that guy for 8 years, and he knows I'm a gem.
I'd better go to work, and do work things, and in case you're bothered, I did take that sweater off the chair, eventually, and throw it in the laundry basket. You are welcome.
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 was just cleaning up my desktop--and this is riveting, June! I can't wait to read on! And I saw a screen shot I took for you, because I wanted to complain about something.
This is so unusual, June! I can't wait to read on! Usually you're so chipper!
I pay most of my bills online, as does I think most of the community at large who does not still have dial-up and a rotary phone and a unicycle and a barbershop quartet and 23 skidoo.
As a result, I have some observations about companies. Actually, I now have TWO observations about companies.
This continues to be riveting, June! Ima read on!
My first observation is about unsubscribing. As you know, from your Big Book of June Events, I have a hater who daily subscribes me to ludicrous things, things that generally make me giggle. Today I had TWENTY-SEVEN new emails from the same religious site, because they have a newsletter for each occasion. How to be a Christian married person. How to be a Christian at work. How to be a depressed Christian. How to be a Christian hater of a blog.
Yesterday I had to unsubscribe from a Russian bride dating service. Not before sending some love to Valeriya for a moment.
The point is, I've gotten adroit at unsubscribing. Companies vary wildly on their ability to let you unsubscribe. Dear FOX Sports: Go fuck yourself. If ONE company makes it easy, why don't all of them?
I mean, really. Is there some yahoo in marketing who thinks if you make it nearly impossible to get out of that company's emails, that one day we will melt over something you sent and eventually buy your shit? BECAUSE NO. What we will DO is FORVER HATE, say, FOX Sports and even if we turn lesbian and start getting way up in the latest volleyball stats, we will NEVER EVER GET SAID STATS FROM FUCKING impossible-to-get-out-of FOX Sports emails.
Some companies have the unsubscribe link right at the top. I love these companies. Not enough to want their emails, but still.
Some companies make you search like Nancy Drew, all over yonder, for how to unsubscribe. And they say annoying things like, "Manage Your Subscriptions." Just call a spade a spade, you dicks. There's not one person in all the world who wants to opt out of one of your riveting emails but, oh, yes, DO send me the Paleo diet updates, still, thanks. Just not the grapefruit-and-vomit diet ones.
THEN there are the assholes who, even though THEY EMAILED YOU, need you to RE-ENTER your email address once you're on their page trying to unsubscribe. Oh, eat a bag of dicks. You KNOW my address. YOU WROTE ME. It's like when a business calls you and you call them back and whomever answers the phone acts like they have no idea why you called. YOU CALLED ME OH MY GOD.
Oh, and the FOLLOW-UP email. Just writing to let you know you won't be receiving any more emails from us.
I JUST DID! I JUST DID NOW JUST NOW I HATE YOU FOX SPORTS.
So that's bad enough, but then there are the places that make it impossible to pay your bill. My mortgage company never sends me a confirmation email, so each month I have to remember their address, and they don't use their company name, Cenlar, as the web address to pay your mortgage. It's something really generic like paymymortgage or billpay or some shit. And then of course the site never remembers my name and password for me, like the whole world is clamoring to get online and pay my mortgage for me, so it has to remain super secret.
It's like, we're going to get REALLY MAD if you miss your mortgage payment, but we're also going to make it REALLY HARD to pay it! Go forth! Be zen!
And it's the same with effing AT&T. My cell phone is on AT&T. My Internet and cable are AT&T. But do you think I can get one bill for all three things? Then you must be high. It feels like every week I'm getting an email from AT&T. "Friendly reminder! Your bill is now due!"
Friendly reminder. No one who's ever said that in the history of time has meant "friendly." It means pay up, ho. You stanky ho.
This month I got a reminder, but when I went to AT&T, it said my bill was paid. I went to my bank statement online, and it said a week before I'd paid $132 to AT&T. Was that the cable bill? Or the phone bill? I have no idea. Was there a follow-up email? No.
THREE PHONE CALLS AND TWO HOURS LATER, after talking to countless people at AT&T and being disconnected and put on hold for eight centuries and getting to know Marie Antoinette but the whole time I had a phone to my ear, they determined the site was screwed up JUST ESPECIALLY FOR ME, and that it was only showing that I paid my cable bill but wasn't allowing me to get to my cell phone bill.
"You can pay over the phone to me, but it's a five-dollar convenience fee," the woman at AT&T said.
A convenience fee.
A CONVENIENCE FEE.
I'd been on the phone for NINE YEARS trying to just fucking pay online, and their site wouldn't LET me, and now they're saying well, hey, pay on the phone, but convenience fee.
Oh my GOD.
When that woman started paying her bill online, she was 12. That's a cup of arsenic in her hand. Her hair was straight when the day began, and it curled in anger as the day progressed.
The reason everything's white is because she went to heaven, waiting to pay her bill online.
Anyway, that's June's business column for today. Ima go take my Lexapro. You think?
Click here to manage your subscription,
This fuckin' day, man.
(c) Miss Doxie, who apparently spent all day yesterday making old Valentines hilarious.
This is my first man-free Valentine's Day since 1996, and in 1996 I ended up getting secret admirer flowers. It's 3:28 p.m. It looks like I'm getting shit. No one secretly admires my ass, or even blatantly does.
My family and friends, knowing this was always my favorite holiday, sent me cards and textses--yes, I just said textses--because they're probably all worried Ima off myself. Dear F&F: I'm not gonna off myself. Because Lexapro.
My Aunt Mary has sent me Valentines stuff since I was a kid, because she enjoyed the part where I had a weird favorite holiday. I have always liked the colors and the romance and the relatively gaudy parts of this day. Anyway, she got me that pretty pink necklace, above.
And a little block thing that has pretty flowers on it no matter which way you place it. Plus, a romantic remote.
And a pretty box. So to speak. I can only hope someone will come over soon and say, "What a lovely box, June." Hi, mom. There's mom in the picture, under my pretty box.
Dear Googlers who are disappointed this is just a blog about a nice box: Sorry.
Love. Lovelovelovelovelove the sparkly heart. I feel like I'm so easy to buy for. Is it pink? Does it sparkle? Does it match her pretty box? Okay, I'll get over it. I want you to know that robe on the bed is not my fault. Edsel pulls that robe off the hook and takes it to the bed where he can ecstatically rub his head in it, over and over.
Anyway. The last time I had no man on Valentine's Day, in 1996 when I got secret admirer flowers, I ended up meeting Marvin later that year. So. Dear Marvin: I do not want to meet you again. But maybe someone Marvin-esque. Well. In that he's willing to make a commitment. Not stuff each drawer with black inexplicable cords.
Tonight my friend is having a small dinner party, to celebrate this shit day. That's how she presented it to me when she invited me. So Ima go. We're having pork tacos, or maybe we're all gonna pork a taco, and I'm fine with it either way.
I have to proofread statistics now so Ima go. While the rest of you get your stupid breakfasts in bed and so on. A bunch of women got flowers on Friday, and a guy I work with pulled these fake ones out of the trash for me, so I wouldn't feel bad. And that sums up my love life.
Throughout this whole Tallulah-being-sick ordeal, she's been licking her girl parts like a champ. Everyone in my family has had hilarious jokes about this, and I'd like to take this moment to thank my family for being a big pack of dicks.
I called the vet's office this weekend, knowing they were closed, and what's sad is I know their phone number, their hours, and my vet's day off. "Hey, it's June," I intoned. "Is there a cream or something we can give Tallulah? She's been licking her little dog vagina constantly, and today I finally looked at it and it's really raw. Thanks."
One thing that doesn't come up all the time is the phrase "little dog vagina." And I'm sure Lu is pleased I'm bringing hers up to all 10 of you. CUNextTuesday, indeed.
My close personal friend and now blood sister, the vet, called yesterday. "Hey, can you just drop her off? We'll take a look." And that is how I spent my lunch hour chauffeuring my dog and her vagina to the vet, as you do. They said it might be a yeast infection, and I've told that dog a hundred times to not wear her pantyhose with no underwear.
I was getting ready to go into a meeting when my phone rang. I love it when people say "go into a meeting" like it's a trance or a fit.
And right then, I knew. The vet's voice was unlike any other of our 114 conversations and 114 million dollars in the last month.
She told me that they very quickly found an "abnormality" on Tallulah's urethra, in an unusual place, and it was, indeed, cancer. Inoperable cancer. All those blood tests and ultrasounds and consulting with the devil and all we needed to do was check her undercarriage.
"I am so sorry, honey," the vet said, and that is when I cried. Right at my desk. In the open floor plan. I covered my stupid face and cried for my girl. Goddammit, Tallulah. Why'd you have to be so sweet, and so aloof, and so stoic, and so interesting? Why'd you have to be the coolest dog you could ever pluck off the side of a road?
"I'm ordering her some drugs from the compounding pharmacy," the vet/my wife at this point told me. "They'll reduce her pain and her inflammation."
She also told me that catheterizing a female dog is one of their biggest challenges, and catheterizing a dog with a big angry tumor on her urethra is even harder. And they could tell it made my Lu uncomfortable, but she wagged her tail bravely through the whole thing. She had to get a tech to hold Lu's tail still, so she could finish. "We were so proud of her," the vet told me. "She's such a sweet girl."
I remember one time, when I was running, I'd take one dog a day to run with me, because taking both would have tripped me 60 times apiece. It was always a very big deal to my dogs who got picked, and the other would protest and flop onto the floor and stomp their paws. Singin' songs and carryin' signs. Mostly say hooray for our times.
One day, it was Tallulah's turn, and I'd run less than a block before I noticed she was running on three legs. She'd hurt her paw somehow, and was all, "nope. lu gud. she perfictlee fine. let go!" She was just gonna muddle through.
And that's what she does. She muddles through, uncomplaining, when it hurts. But I know it hurts. I asked the vet if it were her dog, would she put her dog to sleep right now, and she said no. I also asked if it felt like a UTI or a kidney stone, did she think. She said probably more like a UTI, but who wants a UTI for a month and a half?
I couldn't wait to get out of work, pay the nine hundred million dollars, and get my girl. I just wanted to hug her big neck, which of course she kind of hates because she's my dog. I took her straight to a Happy Meal, which worked for Lu just fine. None of that girly "I'm watching my figure" bullshit from that pit. That regal Beagle.
On the drive home, I told her once again how finding her on the side of that road was the best thing that ever happened. She is so over that story.
I apologized for any asshole things I ever did to her. I remember losing patience with her puppy self, and how upset she'd get when Ned and I fought. I told her she'd always be my Lu and I thanked her for all she's done for me. I always feel safe in this house with Lu at the helm. And remember that time she kicked that attacky dog's ass for us?
She listened, sitting side saddle on the car seat because her little dog vagina hurts. I gave her some pain pills when we got home, and she slept in front of me while I sat on the couch last night, talking to Marvin on the phone.
"Part of having a dog is knowing when it's time to let them go," he said, and when did Marvin get so mature? He asked how everything else was going, and I told him how I tried dating, but I'm still in love and having trouble moving on.
"You gotta get over me," Marvin said. "I've moved on."
So, okay, he's not so mature. Thank god. I don't need everything changing at once.
Oh, Lu. Houndy-smelling Lu. I'm going to be lost without her.
Edsel loves himself because he purchased a black hood and sickle off Amazon. He keeps putting it on and standing behind Tallulah till she sees him and startles.
As a result, Edsel totally cockblocked my own knee-slapping hired-a-vulture-to-stand-at-Tallulah's-bowl joke.
We're a tough crowd at my house. And look, maybe it's a false positive. There is nothing in me that thinks it's a false positive. And I know people are asking what's next, and here's the part where I really really really don't want advice. There's a place in Raleigh I could take her, for aggressive treatment, or I could keep her as comfortable as possible and once I see one iota of suffering that's anything more than not being able to pee, which is awful enough, I can let her go.
And I think Ima opt for the latter. I don't know if you've Googled transitional cell carcinoma in dogs much, but look at my computer history, man. Once you get past all the shocking porn, you'll see a shit ton of research into TCC. The outlook is not good.
What is a shit ton? Like, do they just mean a ton of shit? Cause, oh. Yuck. Okay.
Because yesterday needed to get funner, I got a crown put on, and MAN did I get high off the gas they gave me. That was the highest I ever was, and I loped out of there like I was Courtney Love, and it occurred to me later that I probably should not have been driving. I think you're supposed to be just fine once they get you off that stuff, and usually I am, but I wasn't at all. Nice.
Today my tooth kind of aches, and I'm under strict intrux to not eat almonds, which probably means my all-peanut-brittle-all-the-time diet is out, as well. Oh! And get this. Yesterday after my tooth extravaganza, I fell into a drugged sleep for two hours, holding Talu, and when I got up I was hungry and feeling very sad for myself that no one was taking care of me. All the diet food I bought seemed chewy, so I said fuck it and ordered chicken fried rice from the Chinese place where they know me.
The delivery boy was new; some white kid who was probably 22? 25? 32? God, they all look alike to me now that they're young. Anyway, my dogs ran to the porch to greet him, and he said, "This is such a stress reliever. I'm having a horrible day." He told me about his Golden Retriever and I told him about Tallulah, and Edsel ran and got his hood and sickle to show off for company, and he must have stayed 20 minutes, talking to me. We totally bonded, this 23-to-32-year-old person. I shoulda just tapped that, right? Like in a dirty movie? Like in my computer history?
Lemme go look in my computer history, see if I actually find anything dirty. You ready? Here's what I looked up yesterday.
I am distinctly unfascinating. Let's do a day where you tell me what's in your history RIGHT NOW. Last five things, don't lie.
I think either Lexapro makes it so I don't care that I'm not having sex, or not having sex makes me not care that I'm not having sex. And I know you're all, Weren't you, like, dating the world? And I was, for a week or two, but I decided it was premature. I am not over Ned, and I know you want to punch me right in the cock for that, but it's true.
And you know who's been most helpful about my dog? Two of Ned's ex-girlfriends. I was thinking we should start a private Facebook page. NedEx Facebook page. Anyway, one of them worked at a vet's office for ages, and one had a dog with cancer, so.
A Corgi. She had a Corgi. I knew you were going to ask. I know how you are. Did you ever run into someone you used to work with or whatever and find yourself asking about their dog even though they have kids? Is that just me? "And how is Shadow?"
So that's all my news here. I'd say that's enough. I get another statistics textbook today, which is good, because bills. Dog bills. Whatever happened to the dog is sick, take her out back and shoot her?