Hloy CATS.
"Hloy," Goddammit. I haven't even HAD any wine yet. HOLY cats. Jesus.
In case anyone's thinking of checking me into Promises Malibu or whatever, it's 9:53 at night as I write this. I realize you're likely all in your morning-y routine and all that, all showered and parfumed and sportin' your three-piece woman of power suit with the floppy '80s tie and so on, but I'm writing this on Sunday night. The Wonderful World of Disney is on and my mother is spritzing Hair So New into my tangles and I just had a Hungry Man pot pie.
Because apparently it's Sunday night in 1974.
That's how I remember the Sundays of my youth. Disney, pot pies, Hair So New.
But back to why I was saying Hloy cats.
I took on this freelance assignment, a thing I TOLD you all about last week, a thing I WARNED you would mean I was not going to be reachable for a reacharound,
a thing you all blatantly ignored anyway.
HEY JUNE! I'M TEXTING YOU JUNE! I'M IMing YOU JUNE! JOOON! JUUUUUUUUUN! Hey June what you up to JUUUUUNE? Hunh? Answer me I'm calling you JOOO--
Oh for fucks sake that is when I shot everyone.
So what I'm saying to you is I began this work Friday, and I feel as though I've done little else since and in case anyone is wondering, so far I've made about $580, and I'm on track to get it done on time but it's gonna KILL me, is what it is.
My eyes are literally bleary as I write this. I never should have agreed to this short of a deadline. What happened to self-CARE, June? What happened to BOUNDARIES, June? JUNE? JUNE! I'M TEXTING YOU JUNE HELLO JUUUUUUUUUN.
So, I told myself I had to stop working at 9:30 tonight, so at 9:35 I quit, even though I was telling myself, Oh just go a little LONGER, June. You can keep GOING, June. If you can't drive with a broken back, at least you can polish the fenders, JUNE.
But I stopped. And after, I was strolling into the kitchen-al area, where all the magic happens, and I happened upon the magic johnson of red wine on the counter, red wine that has been sitting there unopened and closed off and emotionally unavailable to me for weeks that I hadn't even really noticed was there. I don't drink red wine, usually. It's from my dinner party I had awhile back.
FUGIT.
So then I came up with this brilliant idea that with all my makeupless, stressy-haired self, I would come over here and chat with you while I drank, just like we decided to get together and grab us a brew, other than the part where I will not be asking you anything about YOUR day, so in other words, exactly like we're getting together in real life to grab us a brew.
So, really, other than WORKING and walking poor Edsel,
[Enclosed please find before and after of Edsel once he's been asked, "You wanna go for a walk?" I don't know why I ask. The answer is always GOD YES MOTHER OF GOD YES THANK YOU YES SWEET LORD YES.]
the only other interesting thing I did this weekend was have a date. Not, like, I ate a fig, which would be sad and hilarious at the same time.
[Pours more wine. Because wine!]
I met a boy on OK Cupid, as I am wont to do, and in case anyone's keeping track, I believe at this point I have gone out with a dozen men from that damn site since that week between Christmas and New Year's of 2015. I'd been back from my year abroad since fall, and I said, Okay. I'll try fucking again.
Here's the thing. That first guy? THERE WAS NOTHING WRONG WITH HIM. He was a delight. But I was so not ready.
Then 2016 was a bad-date fest. I went out with Mr. Write, and Mr. French, remember them? And the younger Olympics man and the older man, and men who were off their meds and told me so, men who never once asked me one Q abut myself the whole date, men who were way too young and TWO men who were half into dudes, and it turns out? As much as I'm all teach tolerance and give peace a chance and yay with your rainbow flag and all? I really can't date the bi dude. I'm sorry. Bye, dude.
So you can IMAGINE my lowed expectations, and lowed is a wonderful word, when I went out with this latest person, a person who will not come up with a good blog name for himself (so far he's presented me with the lovely choices of Skippy McDougal and Joel), but with whom I had the rapport online.
The rapport. We were rapporting all over yonder.
So finally we agreed to meet at this dive bar in my old Year Abroad neighborhood, and he said, "So I should just look for the hair, then?"
Hurr.
And here's my problem. Hurr's my problem. [glugls more wine in glass. glugls. goddammit.]
HERE'S MY PROBLEM.
I look my worst. My very worst. I'm not doing Latisse, because money. No Botox, because money. No fillers, and LOOK AT MY MARIONETTE CHIN RIGHT NOW. Also, phat. Phat phat. But I gathered my unattractive self and I headed out to the date, thinking, well, this will be like the others, in that there will be something HORRIBLY IRREPARABLE about him,
and then I ended up having a great time.
Remember on New Year's Eve, how I went to my friends' huge party in their bed and breakfast mansion-y place that they own that is so beautiful and so on? Remember that? I sat at the top of the steps that night with a friend of theirs, a married friend who hovered around my age, and he told me a disturbing thing that has haunted me ever since. He told me that men my age who were single were always broken. And that so many of the women were just lovely, and he always felt bad about that.
Well. Son of a BOTCH.
Botch. Son of a botch. Why do you let me drink and compose?
That's tainted my view of men, and it really shouldn't, because that's just one man's opinion. That's, just, like, your opinion, man.
Me on my golden date.
So, look. I have no idea if this man is broken. Like I'm not? But what I do know is he was cute cute cute, and hilarious, and I loved everything he had on, and we never shut the fuck up, not at the dive bar, not when we went to eat after, and not at the 24-hour diner where we got coffee till the wee hours after. He was smart, he was kind, and he paid for my lamb stew. I don't know what that lamb is so worried about, but she keeps wringing her hoofs.
Am I your favorite drunk blogger, or do you have another one? And I know it's terrible to eat the lambs, Clarice.
So, who knows what's gonna happen. But I can tell you one thing. I realized I hadn't thought about Ned all day today. Not once all day.
And that's nothing to wine about.
Your makeupless friend and mine,
June
