Your suggestions are rolling in, not literally because how could a suggestion literally roll in, of which posts I should put in a book. They've ranged from you sending 20 from one month (Slutty Pancakes) to just one or two. This is great! Now I have to go read them and be all judge-y about my own self. Which, who can't do that?
Anyway, thank you.
I just heard Ned in there saying, "What in the world?" which is a response he usually reserves for when he looks over and I'm all of a sudden crying. You know how that is. You're going along with your day and you read about Jack the dog dying in By the Shores of Silver Lake. Or all of a sudden something reminds you of your dead cat Roger. To use very loose, unspecific examples. Any time he says it, I always laugh a little on my insides, even though I'm crying on the outside.
I guess Ned isn't one to just spontaneously burst into tears 50 times a day like my Aunt Kathy or, you know, me, so he always expresses surprise when I do it. "What in the world?" like he's 87 years old.
This time it was because his phone screen was all of a sudden dim. I guess his phone dimming and me bursting into racking sobs are on the same par, in the world of Ned.
Speaking of par, here are some boys at work, most of whom golf, see, and that's what reminded me of this moment I captured on film. So beautifully.
Here they all are, discussing Cormac McCarthy. Ned is obsessed with Cormac McCarthy, so I texted him (text him) this picture. "Look. People discussing Cormac McCarthy. All boys," I noted. Cormac McCarthy writes boy books. I have no interest in his boy books. None of these boys or Cormac McCarthy would be interested in my stupid girl blog, either. The men above only read my blog if they're in it. Hello, Guy Who Sits Next to Me, Griff, my boss, and the beleaguered editor who had to sit on copy editor's row for awhile.
Hello, Cormac McCarthy. He's all, "I'm in June's BLOG today!?!" Calling his friends.
"Ooo, which book were they talking about?" asked Ned, to which I replied, "?" and also, "hooo care?"
Probably they were discussing that one boy time where boy things happened in that one Cormac McCarthy book about boy things.
"Oh, shoot," I just heard Ned say now. "God, that's..."
Turns out a cat pooped right outside the litterbox this time. What in the world? He and I both blame NedKitty, who will do that very occasionally to express her displeasure at things. She abhors all talk of Cormac McCarthy. So, we've mulled it over, and we're getting rid of her.
Pound. Or maybe just a nice drive to the country.
Also, one of the Alexes at work did yoga yesterday, you know, right behind my desk. Say, open floor plan. Thanks for the increased productivity.
Oh! And I have forgotten to tell you this eight thousand days in a row. Did you read my Purple Clover article not this week but last week? About the bad art from my childhood? One thing I mentioned was that we had a painting of a red clown who'd stare dolefully at me while I waited for dinner to be ready. I really remember that, too, just sitting in the living room like some sort of queen, with All Things Considered on the radio--a show that still makes me want to kill myself--starting at the horrid red clown and waiting a trifle impatiently for dinner to be brought out. I couldn't have sliced a carrot or anything?
The point is, my mother got rid of that red clown long ago, or maybe she was even lucky enough to have ditched that thing during the divorce, but of all the coincidences, just last weekend she was at an estate sale and...
AAACCKKKKKKKKK.
My mother said that even while my stepfather got out his phone to photograph this, people walking by said, "Oooo, that's creepy."
Vindicated.
Believe it or not, someone bought it. I tried to find more horrifying pictures by this artist who made me the insane person I am today, but is his name Richier or Richter? Can you tell? And why does he haunt my dreams so? Why the twitch? What in the world?
Oh my land (what in the WORLD?) I gotta go. I got a Curly Girl haircut last night and I think Ima try to not wash it today, so that will save time. Just a little lavender water and gel. What say you, can I get away with that?
I feel like I have to tell everyone, and I do, "This is not a blemish on my chin. It's a cat scratch from a dick cat."
Pound. Drive to the country.
Iris will get there and be all, wat the world?"
June, and Cormac McCarthy, out.
