I wrote a post this morning but mentioned a work thing, which I have to take down!
But suffice it to say June=sad. June=despondent. That sums me up.
When I was 11, we moved into an old, pretty house with a fireplace and an upstairs, which we didn't have in our old house, and after one month exactly, my parents got divorced and we moved out. I wonder if that's why I'm so incredibly traumatized about moving out of this house. It's a lot the same, other than the managed-to-stay-a-year part. Still.
During that time, when my parents were calling it quits, our house was filled with my mom's friends, helping her pack or just visiting. That's kind of what my house has felt like this weekend. I've had people in and out of here, bringing boxes or whatever, and it's been sort of nice. And fortunately no one has seen fit to sit barefoot on the floor and strum a mandolin while singing a tune from Godspell. (Hi, mom's friends! Heart all your hippie asses!)
(I guess now's the time to say if you didn't read Saturday's post, you are lost. That is my REWARD to the 16%. They get the guff on Saturday.)
I got a ton of boxes by going on Craigslist, which is where I'm also gonna get my anonymous sex now that I'm single. I like how when you're moving, boxes become the most important thing in your life, and then a week later, you're like, How the hell can I get rid of all these damn boxes?
I drove over to the front yard of this couple, who've just moved here from Sweden. They're in an ABBA tribute band. No, no. He works for Volvo. The wife and I flattened boxes and talked about socialism, crime, breakups, philosophy. In 20 minutes, we'd pretty much told our life stories to each other. After I left it occurred to me to text her and say, Hey, we should do something sometime, but she's already texted me, so.
As I unloaded the all-Swedish boxes from the car (they can really make a box, those Swedes. Sturdy, with handles. They're great), I started talking to myself like I was the Swedish chef, just to cheer myself up.
Yorn desh box, engersh de move de floopen floo. Box box box.
Honestly, by the time I was done doing that, I'd put myself in complete giggle hysterics, and am once again reminded of my grandmother saying, "Look at that child. She don't need anyone. Just sits by herself and laughs."
Anyway, eventually Ned came in, and watched me pack, and basically hated my guts. I mean, he doesn't. He's sad. And he doesn't enjoy watching me pack. "Are you still, um, going to Ira Glass?" I asked him. Ira Glass was appearing at that old movie theater we like. We've had tickets for months.
"Yeah. I thought I'd go out to dinner first. You want to go?"
I mean, I'd been dying to see Ira Glass. And it was that or lie on my bed listening to Adele all night. So I showered and started getting ready. Ironically, I was looking through my closet and found the gray skirt I tried to wear on my first date with Ned and couldn't find. I wore it last night.
As I was getting ready, the doorbell rang, which always pleases the dogs, and Semi-Faithful Reader Peter sent me dog flowers! He sent me dog flowers on January 19, 2012, which was the day of my first date with Ned. He sent them again this time to cheer me. He didn't know he was sending me flowers on the day of my last date with Ned.
We went to a fancy restaurant, the one where Ned had the goddammit-good grouper that one time. "Here's to four years, sweetheart," said Ned, toasting me.
"Almost four years," I said, and we laughed at the old joke between us.
While we ate, we talked about what the most depressing movie is that we could rent while I still live in the house. I suggested Blue Valentine, which is a good one, but Ned said, "No. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind."
We looked at each other and got teary. A lot of the evening was looking at each other and getting teary. The other part was tasteless jokes about who we were gonna sleep with next. We both admitted that the idea of the other sleeping with a new person was utterly nauseating.
After, we walked over to the old theater, and when we saw its old marquee, we looked at each other and got teary again. "How can I ever come here again?" I asked Ned. "I've thought about that, too. You can have our old seat in the balcony," he said. So we agreed. That'd be my spot and he'd pick a new one so maybe we wouldn't see each other there. "You'll get there at one minute to the movie, anyway, so I bet I really can avoid you," I said.
Ira Glass was great. He was funny, he was Jewish, he was a delight. At some point without noticing it, Ned and I held hands, like we always do at that theater.
I've always hated people who say, "Today I'm marrying my best friend." Oh, shut up. Get friends outside the relationship, weirdo. But Ned really has become my best friend. It's gonna be so awful when something good happens, like I make up hilarious Swedish chef moving dialogue, and he's not the one I'm going to tell. And I knew we joked about sleeping with other people, but I can't imagine ever wanting to be near any other man again. I mean, Barry Gibb, sure, but that's a given.
Maybe it was torture to go on one last date with Ned. But I'm tortured anyway. In the immortal words from Eternal Sunshine:
Clementine: This is it, Joel. It's going to be gone soon.
Joel: I know.
Clementine: What do we do?
Joel: Enjoy it.
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've been back from Michigan for nine days. About nine MINUTES into our return, Ned had unpacked and put his suitcase away nicely. I don't even know where his suitcase lives. In his closet? Unsure.
Hey. I'm unpacked, at least. I think. Lemme open that thing and check.
...Okay, there was one pair of leopard underwear that I just threw in the laundry. I like leopard underwear. I feel very Mrs. Robinson. The point is, I'm not a suitcase put away-er. It's WEDGED in my TEENSY closet, because 1926 house. So it's a real pain to get in there and out of there. Sometimes I miss my 1950 house that I actually own, with its giant walk-in closet someone must have created at some point that wasn't 1950.
The point is, are you neat or tidy? I am decidedly not tidy, although I like my workspace clean. I cannot do the whole, "Oh, it's a mess but I know where everything is" routine.
Anyway, I gotta get to work. I stayed till 7:00 last night, and 6:30 the night before. If you know me in real life and you try to contact me, I may not answer you till midmonth, so DON'T PRESSURE ME OH MY GOD. Last night I was a lifeless lump on the couch when I finally got home, and Ned knows how busy I am right now, but he was still all, "Hey, tomorrow do you wanna do this?" I don't know, Ned, because work. I told you there'd be work.
"What about next week. Can you do this?"
OH MY GOD I DON'T KNOW WITH THE PRESSURE ALREADY.
Do you know what it is? For me, having a full calendar of activities ahead of me is my idea of hell. I feel like having a calendar devoid of activities is Ned's idea of hell. Also, eating dinner at 6:00 is Ned's idea of hell, and just beginning to think about where to go to dinner at 8:00 is mine. Honest to god, it'll be 8:00, and Ned will say, "Have you eaten?"
Have I eaten. What am I, from Madrid? Of COURSE I've eaten. But Ned works till the middle of the night and then always always ALWAYS goes to the FUCKING gym, so he doesn't get home till then. I guess he thinks I'm just hanging out, not eating, till he finally shows up in the dark of night.
It's these stupid differences that can drive you to distraction in a relationship.
Oh hell, I have to go. Everyone tell me not only if you are neat and tidy, but also what you do when you're stressed to the gills. My gills are stressed.
Edsel's pretty stressed, too.
While Ned swept the house, I Windexed the mirrors so I can see myself, and also Soft Scrubbed the sinks. I got the ends of my robe sleeve wet, and I read once that getting the tips of your robe sleeves wet is like receiving tiny, terrible kisses from the devil, and I have never read anything so true.
So I came in here to blog, and I RIPPED off my robe and sat down.
"Are you getting ready to look at porn? What're you doing?" asked Ned, broom in hand.
"My sleeves got wet," I said, and commenced to blogging.
So here I am, in the altogether, about to tell you about how annoyed I am altogether with my bank and my mortgage company. Really, the only interesting thing about this post is my nekkidness, and given that I'm 50, even that's not very compelling.
Some damn company bought my mortgage company, which was bought by the original company I had in the first place. And Dear People Who Buy Companies For a Living: Maybe YOU are getting rich, but you're fucking it up for the rest of us, and I know you don't care. You don't even care that I'm naked right now.
So my mortgage is due on the 1st, but they give you a grace period of the 16th, which is stupid, and why not just say it's due on the 16th, then? The point is, this new company has not sent me a hello or an account number or payment coupons or ANYTHING. The only way I know I have a different company is my old company told me.
On the 1st, I called the old company, waited on hold. "How do I pay my mortgage?" "Call the new place," they said.
So I did. And I held. PLEASE ENTER YOUR ACCOUNT NUMBER.Well, I can't. I don't have one.
PLEASE ENTER YOUR ACCOUNT NUMBER.
Oh my god, I CAN'T. Give me a person!
Finally, I got a person, who said indeed, my mortgage would not be late till the 17th, and to call back in a week and they'd have an account number for me by then.
Yesterday I called the place, and after waiting on hold I finally got a person and I asked if I could pay by phone. Of course not. Of course I couldn't pay by phone. God forbid it be easy for them to get my money. They gave me a website to go to, and all sorts of info to fill in, and WITH ALL MY TIME SEEING AS I HAVE A JOB, I filled it all in, and hit Make Payment.
We're sorry. We cannot process this information.
Oh, son of a BITCH. So I put it all in again, and this time it said okay, you have made a payment.
Ten seconds later I got two emails. Your payment was received.
Two emails. Two conformation numbers.
Oh, son of a BITCH. So I called the mortgage place again, waited on hold, again. Had to hear this delightful suggestion that I go online for my convenience, which, yeah. Also, every 10 seconds, they'd interrupt the hold music to tell me to do something or other, "using your PIN number. Your PIN number is..."
PIN number. Why not just TRY to give me a stroke while I already hate you? I kept making a mental note to tell whomever answered the phone, "You know, the N in PIN stands for number." But I did not. Because of course by the time I got someone, I was delirious and my lips were dry like when they finally picked up Tom Hanks from that island.
"Oh, there's no way we can cancel one of those payments, ma'am," said the beleaguered operator. "Just no way."
"I find it impossible to believe there's no way you can reverse one of these payments. You guys were the ones who told me to enter all the info again. This wasn't my fault."
"You could just make two payments!" she suggested brightly, like everyone just has a spare $870 to throw at their mortgage. Wow, what an idea! Thanks, Idea Woman!
After talking to three people there and hearing that hold message about PIN numbers, I gave up and called my bank. "Yes," I said, because you know when you make these calls you always start with, "Yes..."
"Yes, I paid my mortgage today, and the company thinks I wanted to make two payments three minutes apart, because that makes so much sense, but in fact I do NOT wish to make two payments, so can I cancel one of the payments through you?"
"You want to make a payment, ma'am?"
If there's one way to make me come screaming through the phone cord to bang your head repeatedly on your desk, it's to sit there while I tell THE WHOLE STORY and then show you did not listen to one word.
"No, I DON'T want to make a payment. I want to CANCEL a payment. How do I do that?"
Also, "phone cord." Modern.
Because both payments were for the same amount, and OF COURSE THEY WERE, the bank told me they couldn't make a stop on just ONE of them. There was NO WAY they could do that.
You know what everyone was? Helpful.
I called the mortgage company again, and hey, while you're on hold, did you know for faster service you should go to their website at WWW we're inefficient dot com? Also, PIN number.
This time I spoke to a "specialist" and by "specialist" I mean someone in a different room in India, and I hope you're sitting down but they said there was no way--NO WAY!!!--to reverse one of my payments. I had now heard this from 49439492 people there.
"Well, then please note I'm stopping BOTH payments and you aren't getting one till this is cleared up," I said. I got the guy's full name and employee number, and he said he'd make a note on my account.
Then, because my ear didn't hurt enough, I called the bank. Did you know you should pay attention to the prompts because their options have recently changed?
WHY HAVE PROMPTS ALWAYS RECENTLY BEEN CHANGED? WHY? IT NEVER MATTERS ANYWAY, because all you do is push buttons till you can talk to a person who doesn't help, either.
"Yes, I'd like to cancel two payments," I finally told someone.
"Ma'am I'm required to tell you that each transaction will be $35," said the operator.
"Look, YOU'RE the people who told me you can't stop just one payment. YOU'RE the ones who insisted that that is TOO arduous of a task to undertake, so don't charge ME twice because you can't function." Oh, I was Daffy Duck at that point, so pissed was I. I was spittin' from my bill.
There was a pause.
"Ma'am, I see you've never canceled a payment before, so we can give you a courtesy waive this time and you won't be charged."
It's amazing how things are so set in stone at the bank. Fuckers.
So I got both payments canceled, at no charge, and all I had to do was wait for the payments to not go through, then I'd stampede to that convenient website of my mortgage company, the one I now trust so much, and make another goddamn payment.
This morning I got a message on my phone.
"Ma'am, this is the mortgage company. The IT department was able to cancel one of your payments, so just one will go though."
Is there any phrase more useless than "As you may or may not know"? Really, what is the point of saying that?
So, as you may or may not know, on Facebook there is a fan page of this blog THAT I DID NOT CREATE because how obnoxious, creating your own fan page. It's called Pie on the Face. And it's not really even a fan page. I mean, it's never cooled ME down. It's just more all y'all all who read this blog chatting amongst yourselves and throwing memes in there that you know everyone would get, and whatever. Do yourself a favor: If you join Pie on the Face, go to the settings and make sure you don't get notified of EVERY dang thing that happens there, or else you'll hurl yourself onto a knife.
Is there another secret page where you all go talk shit about me? Oh, I'd dearly love to see that page. What'd you name it? "I Got Yer Pie, Right Here."
The point is, yesterday one of you said, "Let's all talk about how we found June's blog" and about 7 million of you said, "I found June when The Nester wrote about her."
The Nester is a woman who has a decorating blog, and she's self-deprecating and talented and so likeable, and when I was in the middle of redoing my house and moving last year, she sent me her new book. I meant to plug it for her, I really did, and then I got caught up in my own dramas and forgot. Now I feel like a DICK, and you know who would never use the word dick that way? Is The Nester.
So without further ado, please go get The Nester's book. In fact, I somehow have two, and I will give one away. Say you're in in the comments. I WILL REALLY SEND IT.
She is a wonderful decorator, and she's had all kinds of money woes and real-life stuff happen, so she can decorate on the cheap and everything looks wonderful and she has the kind of house where you go home and say, My whole life is shit.
You know who'd never use the word shit? Is The Nester. I'll bet the words dick and shit have never even been in her BRAIN. Well, they are now, if she's reading this. HEYYY, NEST! Did I link to you enough to make up for my egregious ignoring you last year? I suck.
But beyond everyone all over yonder finding me there, I also heard that you read my first dumb blog, Bye Bye, Buy, and also that a lot of you read all my archives and that you read every day, and all that niceness and encouragement came at exactly the right time.
One of Ned's people doesn't like me because of this blog. I was just writing my life, as I do, and writing about Ned's life, as I sort of do (I don't put in his every detail as I would my own), and I said something she took personally.
When things like that happen, I feel terrible afterward. I feel like a rotten person.
A relative got offended recently, too, about something I wrote in Purple Clover. After that was when I shut down my Facebook account, because at least it'd be harder to TELL me I suck if you can't stampede to Facebook to do so.
I look back at old posts, from, say, 2008, and I'm bored stiff with myself. I'm over there saying things like, "Oh, my stars" when in reality what I would have said in that situation is "fucking fuck."
I spent years writing this thing trying very hard not to offend anyone, till one day I said, "fucking fuck" and wrote the way I really am. And that's when, I think, I got interesting.
When Marvin and I had marriage trouble, I wrote about it (with his permission). When Marvin met someone else and got engaged, I told you. When I feel depressed, I mention it. When I met Ned, I tried to NOT write about him because one of the .06 male readers told me not to, but I was so excited about him that that lasted maybe two months.
So, my problem is, how do I stay an interesting writer and stay out of trouble? "You can't," said a smart male friend of mine. "If hyperbole is part of what you write, people are going to get angry," said Ned.
Easy for THEM to say. I guess I have to pick between being a remotely interesting writer and being well-liked. I kind of want to be both.
What am I doing this for, anyway? I could just live my life and not write about it, except every time I've tried to do that, it's failed miserably. That's why I have eleven thousand diaries, and my friends have 97 million letters from me, and so on.
I guess I could just stick to "my hair is large" and "I hit 10,000 steps on the Fitbit" all the time, but how long till you hurl yourself on that knife you got out for Pie on the Face?
If I stay with being interesting, I have to risk people not liking me, which, as often as I say, "What people think of you is none of your business," still feels terrible when it happens. But I have to tell the truth as it happened to me, while doing my best to protect the innocent around me, and not invade their privacy as I would my own.
But when it comes to telling the truth about my life, I must remember what my favorite person on earth, Anne Lamott, says:
I got to stay home today, seeing as in a smidgeon of time I will be knocked unconscious and any number of instruments will be crammed down my throat, such as a harp. I will literally be a harpy, finally.
Today is the day of my endoscopy; it's at 10:30. I had to go all of yesterday not eating anything red or purple, which turned out to be super-annoying. First there was the Damn, there-are-blueberries-in-my-flaxy-so-you-can-poop oatmeal that I eat every day. Then at lunch I had leftover tomato and spinach pizza, which, nope. Red.
So I went to that hippie, NPR, give peace a chance grocery store near me that never fails to get on my FUCKING nerves, and headed to the salad bar. Turkey chili. Nope. Has tomatoes in it.
Salad! Oh. Some of these leaves are pretty red and purple, because hippie pretentious lettuce. Just to freak people out one day, that place should just chop up a big batch of iceberg. WE HAVE A HIPPIE DOWN! HIPPIE DOWN AT THE SALAD BAR!
By the way, this time there were two men having an awareness session or something DIRECTLY IN FRONT of the salad bar. At 12:20 on a weekday. Look here, Feather Sky and English Leather Necklace, I understand your whole life you've been a part-time professor over at the community college, but most of us are SCREAMING THROUGH LUNCH HOUR at 12:20 on a Wednesday. You lilly-livered pretentious salad-bar-standing dinks.
So I loaded up on chicken, spinach, carrots and a buttermilk biscuit, all of which are distinctly not red or purple. I had to contort myself like I was in the Blue Man Group to get around the two men hugging it out at the salad bar, but finally I had my beige-family food.
After work, a bunch of us from work went to a really cool new place downtown (Downtown!). When you're alone and life is making you lonely, you can always go downtown!
Ned loves that song. I don't know what to tell you about Ned.
The point is, I just stayed for a bit, but when Ned came home from work, I told him about the place and he said, "Let's have dinner there!" and seeing it was my last night on earth, I said why not.
Here's something you never see, and I was pleased to capture it on film.
I spent a lot of time looking for food that wasn't purple or red. Eventually, I had a turkey sandwich (beige) and some mac and cheese (orange).
Am I blue? This was Ned's camera, and look how it isn't as good as my new one. Am pleased with my iPhone 6. Dear iPhone people: Send me free shit now.
I wasn't stalking the hostess, THAT YOU KNOW OF, I was just wanting you to see how pretty it was in there.
"This place is so pretty. I can't believe this sat here empty for years," I said, between beige bites.
"It was some kind of bookstore that was never open," said Ned, who lived downtown (DOWNTOWN!) for years.
Have you ever heard the B52's version of Downtown? I like it.
That Fred guy from the B52s kills me every time. I want him to narrate my life story, when they make one, which should be fascinating. June. She had cats.
The point is, when we got home, I had an email from someone who'd read my latest Purple Clover and had nice things to say to me. When people email me about Purple Clover, it means they clicked on my name over there, looked at the little writeup about me that's one sentence long, cut and pasted my blog address because PC doesn't link to my blog and I wish they would, then once they're at my blog they have to find the "email me!" button. I mean, they have to really want to talk to me, is what I'm sayin'.
So that was nice, and it occurred to me that that article must be up on PC's Facebook page, because that's usually when I get contacted by people, is once it's up there. I mean, Purple Clover on Facebook at this point has close to 2 million Likes, which if I start to think about that many people potentially reading my crap, I get sort of poopy-feeling.
See? My stomach just rumbled. I had to stop drinking liquids at 8:30, and girl, you know I had that coffee cup in my hand till PRECISELY 8:30, because addict. But now I'm typing you, and I always always have coffee while I'm typing to you, and this is dreadful. I don't know how people do this.
So, I stupidly went on Facebook's Purple Clover, and looked at my article, and they'd in fact run two of mine yesterday, and what do you know. MORE MEAN COMMENTS.
Why do I do that to myself? Why do I look?
Ned was on our front porch, and I galumphed out there like I was Snuffleupagus. "I suck," I said to Ned. "I'm the worst writer in the world. I am useless, and now my looks are gone." I slumped in the chair dramatically.
"Were you looking at Facebook, then?" asked Ned.
I HAVE TO STOP LOOKING AT THOSE. And no one tell me what you saw over there. The last time I had this people-are-mean crisis, you have no idea how many people gleefully reported back to me what was going on, like I wanted to hear that mess.
Anyway. What can you do? People are mean. I have never once, in my life, left a comment that was mean on anything anyone wrote. And I'm a terrible person! But I've never felt the desire to do that. I don't understand the impetus. These must be people who don't write, themselves. They have no idea what it's like to put something in the universe that you slaved over, just to get, "This was dumb."
Okay, slaved over is a bit of a stretch. Usually I just sit down and write and it takes me 30 minutes. STILL. They're a very concentrate-y 30 minutes. And I write stuff in my mind for days before I write it, sometimes.
For some reason, this reminds me of Marvin's mom, who doesn't cook very often, and once when we came to visit, she'd made a key lime pie, Marvin's favorite. I have made that guy a key lime pie, and let me tell you, it isn't easy. Do you have any idea how TINY key limes are? Plus, you have to grate the metal key part.
Anyway, she set it in front of Marvin and he said, "This looks like a quiche."
I mean, it did, but it was delicious, and I think of her slaving away in a kitchen, which was not her forte, just to be told her pie looked like a quiche. Poor Marvin's mom.
Ima go get ready to take Propofol now. I hope Ned doesn't record me coming out of the anesthesia, because have you met my inhibitions? Imagine my inhibitions on drugs.
Do you know where this surgery center isn't?
P.S. OH! Oh guess what. As we were leaving the restaurant last night, up at the bar was midcentury modern furniture guy. We made eye contact and as I was about to say hello, he looked away. ACK! HE KNOWS. HE KNOWWWWWWS.
You know where he lives and works?
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.
Hi, everyone!!! How's everyone's day going!!?? Sure have missed you all since yesterday!! : )
God, wouldn't it be awful if I were cheerful like that?
I do know some cheerful people who I like. The guy who works in our mailroom is always happy, but not in a Hey, what'd'yaknow, whatd'yasay point-his-finger-at-you kind of way. He's just kind of always quietly happy. We were talking at work the other day about how if you don't like that guy, there's gotta be something wrong with you.
But I am not happy that way. I wonder if people don't like me because I'm Oscar the Crab, or if it's somehow endearing? I must be endearing, right?
Okay, maybe not.
In other news, I feel bad for Joni Mitchell. She's in a coma. The summer I lived in England, I'd get up in the morning really early and run, and who WAS I? I know I was inevitably hung over each day. But I lived in the same park that held the London Zoo, not that they put me up in the zoo for the summer, which I'd have been totally down with. But I'd run from my dorm to the zoo, look at all the animals who were already out. The wolves would run from one end of their cage to the other, looking at me the whole time.
Those wolves were not subtle. They'd have literally eaten my shorts.
MY POINT IS, I had no device, no Walkman or iPod or any headphones whatsoever, and for some reason this song was often in my head while I ran:
I lived there in July and August of 1990. I have no idea why I was singing that. You know what I did? I made a lot of money, and I quit this crazy scene.
Anyway, the point is, I like Joni Mitchell. I'm like Emma Thompson's character in Love, Actually. Except for the likable, stoic part.
Stoic. There's another thing I'm not. Let's have a day where we say all the things we're not.
At a loss for words. I never understand it when someone says, "I didn't know what to say." HOW CAN YOU NOT KNOW WHAT TO SAY? Say the first thing that pops into your head, that's what you say.
On time. It's already 8:31. GodDAMMIT.