In case you’re worried sick, I did remember to take the trash cans out last night, just as soon as I got home. But a quick check at my text from the city, starring Sarah Jessica Parker, tells me that it’s not recycle week and my bin is FULL, dammit. Full. Stupid holiday season.
There’s no room at the bin.
In other important updates, last summer I decided to try natural deodorant instead of antiperspirant, for myriad reasons. Fortunately this decision coincided conveniently with my car accident, which was good because that first week or two that you give up the antiperspirant ain’t pretty, and I was mostly home during that time. Lying in the dark being concussed.
Upon my earth-shattering decision last summer, I bought this vanilla lavender hippie deodorant they have at my Ghetto Lion, and I liked it, but you know how I am. Once I ran out of that I had to try a new brand, because it’s always better out there somewhere. This time I got this Tom’s of Minnesota brand, or whatever, and it’s coconut-scented.
What’s with everything being coconut-related nowadays? Coconut is the lemon of the ’10s. Remember in the ’70s when it was Love’s Fresh Lemon this and LemonUp that? Now the whole world is Gilligan’s phone.
Anyway I hate it. I smell like a lime-in-the-coconut hippie, and I do not wish to smell this way nor drink it all up, and now I am stuck with this scent till it runs out and I will be needing your thoughts and prayers during this difficult time.
In another update that is meaningless, every day my phone goes off at 6:35—that’s what I use for an alarm now, is my phone. When did we become these people?
Anyway I’ve somehow set my phone up to say to me, “How come you never take me to the airport anymore?”
That was a line from When Harry Met Sally that .02 people will get, so you’re welcome.
I’ve somehow set up my phone to say, “Good morning. It’s [insert temperature here] and the high will be [insert meat thermometer here] and it will be partly/mostly not at all [insert your opinion here].”
So what I’m saying to you is my phone gives me a little brief on the weather and why do we care so much? It’s not like any of us are walking to school.
My point is that then I get out of bed and draw the living room blinds (I have a giant easel and a puffy artist hat). As I do this, I tell my Google Machine [® my mother], “Hey, Google, good morning” and I’ve already done too much good-morning-ing for my tastes.
I hate the phrase “good morning.” Fuck off.
“Good morning. June.” First of all, my Google Machine literally calls me June. Hello, delusional. And then also it always halts before saying my name. My “name.” Like even my Google Machine thinks I’m an asshole for having it call me June.
Anyway, as I make my way around the room, because I have four fucking blinds to open, Google Machine tells me the weather, and here’s the thing.
It always diverges wildly from what my phone has told me. Like, the phone will say there’s a high of 63 and it’ll be mostly sunny. Google Machine will say it’s going to be 48 and cloudy.
Someone in my house is wrong. I just don’t know who. Does my phone think I’m in San Francisco or something? Does Google Machine think I’m in Minnesota with Tom and his deodorant? If so, how do I find out and how do I fix it?
Computers have made life harder than it used to be. Now you can get work texts at 10:30 p.m., for example.
I’d better get ready. Tonight is the Christmas bash for my team, the “creatives,” and we are having the party downtown at a cool wood-floored old store that sells fancy eyeglass frames. I would get dolled up but everyone at the party will have worked with my Merle Haggard self all day so why bother?
I leave you with two things. One is my rod.
Faithful Reader Kris sent me a message saying I would get a package from her and that I could open it BEFORE Christmas. Look! It’s a Frida! I think I will keep this out all year long and not just at Christmas.
Sometimes I feel bad that I don’t send all y’all gifts who send ME gifts, but if I did that I would be destitute and living in a neighborhood of meth addicts.
The other thing is, as I went to the kitchen to take a picture of Frida, who is hanging from my kitchen light fixture, I saw out the window Edsel and Milhous, and they had their backs to me, looking at the sunrise together like a douche commercial and it was so cute but by the time I took a photo of course they had moved.
But what I enjoy is how Milhous caught on that I was staring at them in Personal Growth (another When Harry Met Sally joke, and who is annoying today?) while Eds remained oblivious.
Anyway, everyone’s inside now and Edsel is accusing Mil of being one of those conspiracy theory people and Mil is insisting 9/11 was an inside job and that sums up my life.
June, writing from where it’s either 48 or 63 degrees out.