You know how I hate for anyone to make a fuss, but my throat hurts. All I ask is that you stampede to your local Catholic church and light a candle. Or put one of those vague posts on social media about how you "need prayers" for some undisclosed or unknown-to-us person.
Dear God: For some reason, this person on Facebook needs prayers. Catch ya.
God's all, That was helpful. Like I don't have enough to do.
Anyway, none of this matters because what does is my throat hurts. My hairapist texted me Thursday that she needed prayers. No. She didn't. She texted me that she had a cold, and if I wanted to cancel that would be okay, but given how tough and no nonsense I am, I went anyway.
And now look at me. LOOK AT ME. There goes my tombstone. No name or anything. Just Look At Me. Or, Needs Prayers. At that point I guess it'd be too late.
So. My weekend.
I was determined to Stay Busy, as people tell you to do, but then I became obsessed with this other series on OJ, this many-parted documentary that Hulk told me about, and I always listen to Hulk. Oh my god it's riveting. And I was, like, into the third hour of it, the whole time going, Who is that WOMAN they keep talking to? What did she have to do with anything?
It was Marcia Clark. Hello, plastic surgery. She looks great. I mean, compared to the poodle/boxer mix look she had in the '90s. She def got the eye bags taken care of and for this I applaud her. Really, the longer I watch this documentary and the other one I saw, the more I'm like. Oh. I so get it, black people. I'd be pissed, too. I'd root for him too.
He still did it, of course. But I get what they're saying.
On Friday night, I decided I could not have one more fish stick, so I went to the store and got salmon, and little red potatoes, and salad things, and made an elaborate dinner for myself. I mean, elaborate for me, in that it did not involve slapping something frozen on a plate and microwaving it.
I asked the--what's he called? Chef? Barber? BUTCHER, god, the butcher to cut the skin off the back of the salmon, a thing my mother said I should do, but every time I ask for that, they act the way Steely Dan does around a coffee cup. In other words, appalled. They probably scratch around where I was standing, when I leave.
Speaking of SD, this morning I was putting one of my cowgirl band-aids on a blister, and one band-aid fell in the toilet.
This fascinated Steely ridiculous Dan. He spent the next 10 minutes trying to fish it out of there, sticking his head way in and sneezing when he hit water. When I finally had to leave the bathroom, I shut the lid lest he drown himself like Narcissus.
The reason I have a blister is that both days of this weekend I took Edsel on enormously long walks, longer than my dick, even. Here he is with his usual lack of cool, trying to befriend one of the neighborhood cats. Every day we encounter then, and every day he whines and wags his tail and wants to shake paws with them and drop off an Avon catalog, and every day all the cats say fuck off. Actually, there's one exceedingly mellow cat at Ava's house who is willing to walk right up to Eds, but then he gets too excited and the cat huffs off.
Edsel. Be cool.
On Saturday night I had a date, which you'll be surprised to hear I was "eh" about. HOW MANY DATES before I'm not "eh"? HOW MANY? What if I go the rest of my life not liking anyone but Ned, who will be married to a 26-year-old with zero hips? That's whom he's banging in my mind. She never has any hips at all. And he doesn't even like really skinny women.
We went to an Arthur Miller play, because cheerful, and then out for a drink, which turned into Let's order appetizers, which turned into me eating bacon cheese tater tots at 11 p.m., and why so chubby?
It also turned into me taking the leftovers home, and why so chubby again?
Sunday was a really pretty day, so Edsel and I got in the car to go to Country Park, which is where I used to take Tallulah every single evening back when I was a new dog owner and totally into it. I'd take her to day care all day, then for a long walk in the park followed by the dog park part where she'd run around for like an hour or two, and now it's all Edsel's lucky if I even feed him.
The point is, as soon as we got there I got sweaty. The place was teeming--teeming!!--with dogs, which, what did I expect with the beautiful day and all? We walked the loop all the way around the park, which was probably a 45-minute walk, and every few seconds there'd be another goddamn dog.
And?
He was fine. Oh, sure, there was one idiot I passed twice who had her Beagle on a retractable leash that was 400 feet out and that thing got right in our lane. Edsel knitted a very, very tall-eared pussy hat and took to the street shouting over that one, but other than that? He'd maybe whine a little if another dog made eye contact, but he never once barked and snarled and carried on as he usually does. I couldn't believe it. And he walked right next to me, even a little behind me, like a well-trained dog.
It wasn't till we were driving home that it hit me. Prozac. I think his Prozac kicked in!
The other thing to happen at that park was that I was down by the little lake when I heard my name. This woman way up on another trail was all, "JUNE! JUNE!" Waving frantically with both arms and all. "Hi, June!"
"Well, hi!" I said, waving frantically back.
I have no idea who it was. The woman used my real name, and I feel like a reader would say June even knowing my name is not June.
Unsolved Mysteries. Remember that show?
And the first person to say Hey, June, why didn't you also take your phone with you when you had Edsel on a leash and a bottle of water and no pockets? Why? Why didn't you take pictures? Why, June? Why? No pictures, June?
The first person to say that gets snarled at.
I did take my phone and go all the way next door, to Peg's because her tulip tree is blooming. Which doesn't always happen. And then half the time when it does bloom, there's a freeze and they all die. Tulip tree. A brilliant idea for this region, on someone's part.
Also, why?
I leave you now so I can go watch more of the OJ documentary, and I'm going to be sad when it's over and I can't think about Broncos and DNA and Ron Goldman's stoicism. Good lord. Go back to your barber shop quartet, dude. Sing about Daisy, Daisy giving you her answer, do.
I'll talk to you tomorrow if I'm still alive, what with dealing with this sore throat and all. Dear Mom: I already did. Warm salt water. Did it.
Throatily,
Juan
