I tell you what, y'all. Since Friday night, Ned and I have painted my bedroom ceiling, scraped this stupid concrete floor that you know vexes me, washed the curtains--the CURTAINS!!--washed the couch cushions and spot cleaned the whole doggie couch with alcohol (I Googled it), scrubbed absolutely everything, re-vamped the closet space, conducted an orchestra and pulled a train with our teeth. We even exchanged teeth just to make it more challenging.
We are half dead. And today Ned plays golf with his dad, it being Father's Day and all. I, meanwhile, am sitting here waiting for the first few people to come look at my house. The dogs are banished to the back room and back yard, which they're fine with because Ned and I scare them right now.
Last night I looked up and it was 9:16. We'd allegedly had plans with Marty Martin, but I forgot all about him. We were starved, and we were cranky. "Let's stop for today and go eat," I limped into the room where Ned was working and swearing.
"Exclamation point, percent sign, ampersand," yelled Ned, as he spilled paint on my floor. "Yes, let's stop."
So we got in the car, and Ned announced that he was out of coffee at his house and needed to go to the store before we ate. "I also need mime juice," he said, backing out of my driveway.
I waited for Ned to clarify. Mime juice? What the hell is mime juice? What was Ned going to do to it?
We were both so tired and cranky that I didn't dare just say, "Did you say MIME juice?" because I knew he'd be all, "Jesus Christ, June, no. Of course I didn't say mime juice."
He could have meant lime juice, and just said mime juice, but what the hell was Ned going to do with lime juice? Add it to his coffee? The more I thought about mime juice, the more hilarious it seemed to me, and I made up all sorts of untoward things happening to Marcel Marceau. Finally I started to giggle, and then laugh, and by the time we were at the grocery store I was in complete hysterics.
"What the hell is mime juice?" I asked Ned as I peed myself repeatedly.
"You said you were getting mime juice. Why are you getting mime juice? Will, it, like, fortify you to be a better mime? What?"
Ned looked at me for a long time. "Lime juice, June. I'm getting lime juice. I add it to my black beans."
Unrelatedly, guess who's rethinking the whole living-with-me thing?
June, working in a coal mime.