I hate June.
It always makes me cry.
I hate it so much, it took me four tries to type the word, my mind won't allow my fingers to say it properly.
I've birthdays and anniversaries and deaths of one sort or another in June...enough to make me...well... hate it.
I'm hot and sticky and grumpy and even the prospect of a film with a director I respect looming on the horizon helps.
I had a package at the post office... but, no little pink piece of paper... we know what that means... no package. Even in my little town among the Utes, no piece of paper, no package.
"Quin! Hi, how are you? How are the kids? Festival going well?"
"Yes, thanks. Say, I had notice I've a package, but, I left the darn pink piece of paper at home. May I pick it up anyway?"
"No. You must have the approved US Government Pink Piece of Paper along with Two Forms Of ID and Your Photo Must Be On These Pieces of ID To Prove You Are The Collecting Party."
I had the tracking number from Amazon... and hope.
And an Angel from Queens.
She has curly dyed red hair and a lisp. I explained how the pink piece of paper was in The Boss' mail box, she works all the time, I get my mail out of there on occasion, and I really needed this package. She said, "Let me look for you, honey."
She found my package, hiding it behind her back...
"Is this yours? Baby, why don't you get yourself a post office box?"
"I sublease... no utility bills."
"Well, have a certified letter sent."
"No access to the mail, that's the problem here... remember?"
"Baby, fill out this letter...now, give it to me and come back on Wednesday to get your post office box."
"What do I owe you? It's certified mail."
She smiled. "It's a gift from the US Post Office. Welcome to New York City."
June always makes me cry.
Just the way I am now.