On Sunday, I technically had three dates. Here I am at the end of the day. I look worn out.
I know, man. When you've got All This. I think what really lures them is when they find out how many pets I have. Wait. You have a blind murder cat, AND a sick dog? Plus also a homo dog, too? Oh my god, where do I sign? AND A FAT NEEDY CAT? Dream girl!
Okay, so the first date was Ned, which I know does not technically count as a date, but he's leaving town for awhile and wanted to say so long. Do you remember last year, when he went out of town on business and I got really mad at him and we broke up and I was going to move out and then I relented at the last minute? Same trip. He's on the same trip.
I'd like to say for the record that that fight and breakup was 90% my fault. He did an assy thing, but I blew it way out of proportion. Wayyyy. I know this stuns you.
The point is, he came over Sunday morning-ish and we had brunch, even though technically I think brunch should go fuck itself. Brunch. Even the word irks. With the mimosas and the guitar-playing asshole in the corner and the fucking LINE OUT THE DOOR when you just want some goddamn eggs on a plate, already.
Fortunately, everyone here was still horrified of the snow, so we got in right away. They had this French toast thing with bourbon butter and pecans that I was eyeing up, and I'd done Tracy Chapman workout so starved, but instead I got this potato casserole thing. The waitress, who let me assure you is no fan of the gents, told me about it. "It's like hash browns, but really it's more of a potato casserole," she said, fingering her I Heart Fingering button.
"That's the most beautiful thing you've ever said to me," I said, flirting with our feminine waitress. Lesbians never seem into me. Perhaps it's my wanton hetero-ness, especially yesterday, my Personal Penis Sunday.
Anyway, it turn out, potato casseroles do be delicious, and afterward, Ned and I went to Belt, as my mother calls it. Or Belk, as everyone else calls it. I bought a sweater and Ned got nothing, which is the story of his life, because after he dropped me at my house and went on his trip and that was that. I understand that I should stop hanging around Ned. Why don't you shut up and scissor a lesbian waitress, if you have so much time on your hands?
After that, I heard from Mr. French, from a few weekends ago. Remember how I went out with that suave French guy, and it seemed like we had fun and then at the end it seemed le nebulous and le keep in le touch? I finally heard from him, and he's asked me to le join him on outings a few times now and I've always been busy. Because All Le This.
So we'd talked about doing something healthy or something with le debauchery, and have you met me? Guess what won out?
Before I get to my stint with Mr. French, I have to tell you that on Friday morning I woke to a message from a guy on OK Cupid, and he was hilarious, and we wrote back and forth ALL DAY Friday. On into the night. And all of Saturday. He's a writer, a fancy one who's written books, and he teaches at a college here. Also, hottie hot hot hot. When I saw his funny email, I thought, This guy is great. I'll bet you anything he's a fattie.
Incidentally, June's Depth Seminar is coming up soon. Sign up to learn how to really dig below the surface and get all peaceful like June.
I answered him before I clicked on his profile pics (let's call him Mr. Write), and when I did I was all, MOTHER OF GOD. Mr. Write's hot.
The point is, I don't know if I've told you we had snow and so on, and we talked about meeting Saturday and I got stuck in my own driveway and Mr. Write got stuck right near his house and had to get strangers to push him. So that sucked. We texted on, all damn weekend, and decided to meet Sunday evening, should the fucking weather allow.
The weather did allow. So although snow is every effing where, it was in the 40s yesterday and Mr. French and I met at a dive bar and decided to drink outside, so nice was it. Behold our scene of debauch, with his Harry Potter hot chocolate and whiskey shot and my beer in the snow and his cigarettes, all at 3:00 in the afternoon. There was something so tawdry about it; it was wonderful. We were having a great time, and I was holding forth with some story, when I felt...stared at. There on the street a man was stock still, staring at me.
It was Mr. Write. We'd never met, and he had on a winter hat and sunglasses, but I knew. It was Mr. Write.
He'd walked to the healthy pretentious grocery store and was headed home, and saw a yellow Bug in front of the dive bar in his neighborhood, and felt like that was me. He looked, saw hair, and there I was. With another man.
MOTHER OF GOD. I stared at him till he walked away.
Mr. French and I had a great time, and we played pool, which as you can see from my fine form, I am quite adroit at. Can you be "quite adroit"? Anyway, my new goal in life is to get good at pool, which requires, like, geometry and so on. Ned loves pool and always wanted to play pool, and here I am four months too late, deciding to love pool.
When I got home, I texted Mr. Write. "Was that YOU?" "It was! I wondered if you were on a date, so I didn't say anything. But yellow Bug. Hair. I knew it was you, so I said fuck it, and I stopped."
Weird.
So your friend June the Tramp met Mr. Write at a bar where we could see if Carolina was going to end up participating in the Super Bowl, a thing that as you can imagine worried me greatly. Almost as much as third person and first person in the same sentence. And guess what. Mr. Write is pretty fucking cool. And he knows Kit, and The Poet, and Molly, and why did none of these people who're allegedly my friends NOT TELL ME ABOUT HIM BEFORE THIS?
Anyway, go...Panthers? Was it the Panthers? Do you know what I wish I had? A baby panther. That's what I need. Ima go look into baby panther adoptions right now.
Your fave slutty cougar,
June
