I am outside in my pajamas and a raincoat. You would not believe this day already. Continue reading And I think to myself, what a wonderful world
I am outside in my pajamas and a raincoat. You would not believe this day already. Continue reading And I think to myself, what a wonderful world
I hadn't had my eyebrows waxed since Wilford Brimley was a child, so I went to Elegant Nail & Tan, which I realize suggests all kinds of featured services that do not seem to include waxing, but you must trust me on this. While I was waiting, I got to know a woman sitting next to me. We talk talk talked and we're the same age and both single and finally we exchanged numbers and picking up women is super easy.
Why can't I get my eyebrowns, as they say, to look at good as they get them to look? It's completely worth the six dollars.
Other than that, I went to the grocery store and loaded myself up with frozen yogurt bars for the next two weeks, and because I try to get in plant-based foods, one of the boxes was strawberry flavor. The other bars were vanilla, and isn't the vanilla bean a plant? I think it is. So. Diet. Complete.
I have never seen a tanning bed at Elegant Nail & Tan. I'm not saying there isn't maybe one back there, but I've never seen it, and I've never heard anyone come in there and say, Yes, I'm here to tan? Maybe they need to rethink their moniker. Elegant-ish Nail & Old Magazines.
At my old seat at work, I looked at an Impressionist-ish painting of fall trees against a blue sky, and now I look at multiple Os. That picture of me on my bulletin board is from this time we had to take selfies for a client presentation, and one day the janitorial staff left a note that read, "Is this trash" on a box, and some jokester put that note on my selfie and an eternal joke was born.
I meant to Google why companies move you around a lot, like, what's the benefit to them, but I forgot. If anyone knows, I'd be curious. Some people at work are really traumatized over it, if they've been at their desks forever and so on.
Name that movie.
Anyway, other than that, I have a gigantic freelance job coming up starting tomorrow and going until next Friday. So if I up and disappear, it means I'm behind and I'm frantically working to get it all done. So be sure to pepper me with IMs and emails. WHERE ARE YOU, JOOOOOOOOOOOOOON? Are you dead, JOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON?
I have already gotten my delightful credi card debt down to the next number. So, like, if I were 11,000 thousand dollars in debt, which I'm not thank god, I'd be down to 10,oooo now. Yay. So I keep plugging away. Which doesn't help pay the bills at all. "June keeps unplugging and plugging her appliances, yet she still has debt."
Shouldn't Tallulah have to pay this? Someone wake her up.
Also, I've noticed that there are always cars now at my next-door neighbor Peg's. Sometimes just one extra, sometimes two. Someone's been rolling her trash can to the curb, as well. This worried me, so I called her, and she's never called me back. It's been, like, a week. I don't want to be all Gladys Kravitz and go over there, but I feel like something is definitely up. There has never been a time Peg hasn't called me back.
Maybe she has Noro virus. Hey, June, you ever gonna get over Peg giving you Noro virus?
What do you think?
All right, I have to go to work, try to find my new desk.
Your friend and mine,
I am still sick. I know, man. This it it. Elizabeth, I'm coming to join you, honey. I'm going to the doctor at 4:00. IF I MAKE IT THAT LONG.
In the meantime, a Realtor, and yes that really is a proper noun, is coming at noon to see what my house is worth. I'm hoping $800,000. Dream big. Last night, feeling precisely poopy, I came home and flopped exhaustedly on the couch when I realized this place looked like hell.
So I tidied. Yes, despite being very seriously ill.
You can see Edsel was a big help.
That box on the table is cause a faithful reader sent me retro makeup and candy–thanks, FR! I don't want to say her real name, cause I don't know if she uses that as her screen name, and that's always a thing. I don't want to ruin anyone's life, so we'll just call her a faithful reader in case she's an underworld spy or the wife of a close friend.
Wife of a close friend.
It's not a table unless a cat is on it. I have four people coming for dinner this weekend who are all like, "Yeah, great" right now.
I don't know if I told you my dishwasher broke, and guess what else I should have had Alf the handyman fix? Dang.
I see I still have to wash the cupboard doors, there. Honey and lemon juice from a goddamn piece of salmon the size of a Munchkin's dick. That's what spilled there.
Pile of crap, now with with cat tail!
Son of a–you guys. I just heard a ruckus outside. I know what that ruckus is. Guess who was on the roof?
As soon as I went out there, he jumped down, and yet refuses to come inside. He just stares at me rebelliously, proudly stomping about, and runs away when I approach him. Asshole. HOW DID HE GET OUT??
I know this LOOKS like a request to go in, but really he just wants to balance on the screen like he does. Show off his skillz.
See? That's all he wanted. He won't come in. This cat is a bigger asshole than Lottie was. Why does God abhor me so? I'm a good per–okay, that's why God abhors me so.
It was Lottie who tore this screen on, like, day one. See above ref to God's abhorrence.
Anyway, so now the place is tidy-ish and I will alert you forthwith re if I am going to sell my cute house, which I really don't want to do.
Oh, also, they're moving my workspace. "Seems like June has told us that before," readers are thinking, sipping their espresso and vodka. Yes, it's true. I haven't worked there six years yet and this will be my 10th move. The exciting news is I'm movin' on up. I've spent lo these many years in what they call the Garden Level, which is a delightful euphemism for The Basement. We have been visited by black widows, and I don't mean Coretta Scott King, snakes, mice and also a lack of windows.
I strolled up to my new spot yesterday and…windows!!! I have a window now! Now I gotta obsess about where Ima park. It'll be a whole new world. Also? Closer to the vending machines. Score!
All right, I'd better go. I look forward to conversing with you later, and for the more hysterical of you to worry about Steely Dick Dan, who is clearly magic and we all just need to accept it.
I thought of writing you during actual Christmas, but I figured you had enough to do without checking in on my ass. So here's how Christmas went, and I'm sure you're pulling the chair in closer so you don't miss a word.
We got off work early on Christmas Eve eve, so I went to the store (what crowd?) and got stuff to make Christmas lasagna for myself, then I schlepped to the wine store (what white crowd?) and got wine to take to the parties I'd been invited to. June, popular since never, cause frankly she's a pain in the ass, but people felt sorry for me.
I hustled home and Lily gave many shits about my arrival. This bed was for Steely Dan, who I thought was a girl and he couldn't be more of a boy, and therefore gave up this bed after about one try. He sleeps on beds of nails and the talons of dead eagles he's slaughtered and so on. So Lily was happy to take over his girly bed. His Helen Gurly Brown bed.
Anyway, the next 24 hours were something of a blur, and to tell you the truth I was looking forward to the weekend being exactly what I had planned: parties and then me getting to be alone. But I hardly DID get to be alone, with the "Can I drop something off" people and the dropping-in people and the calling-me people and I REALLY AM OKAY ALONE IN FACT I RELISH IT.
My mother sent me money to buy a new back door, so on Christmas Eve I got my eyebrows waxed, then I went to Lowe's, and every time I thought about asking about my back door I got the giggles. I was also just drawn to the mirrors, like a crow.
When I finally peeled myself from the mirrors and stopped giggling over "back door," I sauntered to a cute 17-year-old salesboy, asked about back doors, giggled, then coquettishly let him show me his back doors. [snurfle!]
We talked about back doors [heeeee] for quite awhile, and after I'd convinced myself he was dying to come home and see my back door for himself, I paraded hotly through the store, got to my car, and once I saw myself up close, I gasped. The aloe on my eyes from the waxing had moved all the eye makeup directly onto the center of my eyelid, making me look precisely insane.
I'D HAD A MIRROR AT MY DISPOSAL! WHY DID I NOT SEE IT? Anyway you can't tell up there but trust me. I looked ridik.
I cleaned myself up and put on a dress and headed to my friend Ian's party. I work with him, and I've been knowing him and his wife for awhile now. Back before they moved into the (ADORABLE) house they live in now, they had the apartment next to Ned. Remember Ned? That guy I went out with for awhile?
Here's Ian's wife, who you would love. You would. You would love her. They are both from Puerto Rico, and they know how to host, man. I was the only non-family member there, and I quickly realized I was the only one without an Ivy-League degree, so I was sort of the village idiot. But when am I not?
They have the kind of house you never want to leave, and EVERYTHING.WAS.DELICIOUS. Everything. "Have you ever tried hooo de blodoo-oo?" they'd ask, handing me some Puerto Rican dish. "No!" I'd say, then die at whatever new good thing I was eating. Mother of God.
Edsel and I went to bed so Santa could come. And he did! Mom sent strawberries.
Peg sent flowers.
This was the first year I got more gifts from readers than from people I know in my actual life. Just proving that in real life, I am not likable.
You guys know me too well.
I think I'm easy to shop for. Is it vintage? Well, then does it sparkle? You're golden!
Someone was a Christmas dick.
So, it was a good Christmas, and my lasagna was delicious, even though I realized too late that my whole recipe box is apparently at Ned's. Remember that guy Ned I dated briefly? I did not call for it, but soldiered on with no recipe, and it turns out I know how to make lasagna in my head. Not that I cooked it in my head, cause weird.
Also, I'd like to point out that I moved out of that place 14 months ago and just now noticed my recipes are gone.
Oh, god, loading all these pictures has taken forever and I gotta go. Tomorrow I will show you The Great Dismantling of Christmas and also how I rearranged the furniture. Helen Keller is coming and I want to drive her crazy.
Hope your holiday was snazzy, and that you all got ponies.
Would you like to know what annoys me?
"Wait. June. Something annoys you?"
When people use trite phrases. For example, remember in The Wizard of Oz, when they said, "Lions and tigers and bears–oh, my!" It bugs me when people paraphrase that. Linens and teacups and bags–oh, my! Hail and winds and rain–oh, my!
And this is why I particularly hated myself more than usual when I realized I was out of gel today and said to my own self, "Houston, we have a problem." You've no idea how much I loathed my own self right then, but we really do have a problem, Houston.
I'd turned it upside-down, the gel bottle, and it all ran out onto the sink's surface and dried like There's Something About Mary.
I wish I'd mention more movies today. I get paid thousands of dollars each time I throw one in.
I saw Carrie last night ($$$$!!!!) at my old movie theater I like to go to. I've never seen it in its entirety, and one of the bitchy girls in the movie is actually the woman who was eventually in Ferris Bueller ($$$$$!!!), the principal's assistant who says, "They all say he's a rightous dude."
Anyway, it's a good movie, Carrie is, and the insane mom of Carrie has June Hair. She's also probably younger than me now, which is sad. Everyone's younger than me. My doctor is still older, thank god. But he's, like, half-retired.
Did I mention sad?
Also, I need to work in the phrase "dirty pillows" when referring to women's breasts more often. That's what the mom with June Hair called them. That Carrie mom seemed to have some sort of disorder.
Other than that, yesterday yawned before me with screaming emergencies and then nothing and then another screaming emergency and then nothing again. It's like working in an emergency room, except with words. In between EMERGENCY! NOTHING! I talked to The Poet, and I was telling her that I knew I had to go to the store after work, because I was 100% out of something, and now the end of the day was drawing nigh and I could no longer recall what I was 100% out of.
"Pudding?" she asked.
Pudding. Because once you're out of pudding, you're out of groceries.
It turned out to be Prilosec, which I consume by the gallon, and I should probably really return to the throat guy. He's really tall and long. Wears a lot of turtlenecks. Anyway I never did get any, because I couldn't remember and then I had to scream to Carrie ($$$$!!!!), and now today I will GERD all day. I'll be the hurdy GERDy girl. So.
I wish I could stay and talk about the important issues of our time, but I must be off. We had a yard sale fundraiser thing at work yesterday and I got measuring cups and a bowl and a dish towel, all from my competition, The Pioneer Woman. My own workplace selling the competition.
That clock back there I got for five years of service. It's very heavy, like an Academy Award.
My coworker Slutty Pancakes won the bike. There was a pretty bike, and I wanted it even though I can't ride a bike. "You can put your dog in the basket!" I told her resentfully when she went to retrieve it yesterday. I'd already pictured Edsel in that basket.
"The only dog that'd fit is the cremated one," she told me, and when she got home she texted me this:
Dying. So to speak.
Okay, I said I was going 72,000 words ago.
That's what woke me up today. Lottie did her usual crying to get out of her crate at 6:30, and I was half-asleep when I took her out, fed her, then slammed my damn bedroom door so I could sleep JUST A LITTLE GODDAMN LONGER, PLEASE GOD.
And I did sleep, knowing full well she could be out there wreaking all kinds of havoc, but there's no bringing her to bed to nap with you, unless you find having your face bitten soothing, and putting her back in the crate would have been repeated renditions of Yappy Days Are Here Again. So.
I got up, wondering if perhaps she was dead, and then I could get the sympathy vote and some sleep. But no. There she was, smiling at me as soon as I opened the bedroom door. Often she sleeps up against the door of the bedroom or bathroom if I close her out, a thing that always charms me before she twirls in the air and bites my face again.
"What did you DO, Lottie?" She pranced down the hall, having completely forgotten whatever she'd done.
Cracked. The screen of my nine hundred million dollar iPhone. Cracked. She knocked it off the couch.
By the way, I was having trouble finding a screen that was blank enough to show you the cracks, so I went into my notes and erased one. This page was me coming up with puppy names for that pitty puppy I almost got. One of the choices was Lottie.
I really thought I'd thought of that on the spot, when I found her in a…lot. You know, I've never looked to see what the name of the business was that she was trespassing on. I wonder if it was Demon, Inc. or D. E. Ville & Miss Jones Advertising or HELLena Rubenstein or something.
I'll go look today.
So I have an appointment at the Apple store today. $129 it's gonna cost me to fix this bullshit. It's coming out of that dog's allowance.
Since I was up, I made spaghetti for breakfast, because I was out of everything else, and I did two loads of laundry, organized my unmentionables, which I just mentioned, so in my case they'd be my mentionables. I put my shoes back in order and came to the conclusion that I really need new shoes. They're all in terrible shape, Lottie hasn't chewed any, yet, but she's peed on two pair. I just got a refund from the state (I overpaid my taxes. It's like I got a good Community Chest card).
But right then I remembered. Fucking $129 for my iPhone. Goddammit.
Anyway. I also swept the floors and Sharked them. El Diablo is napping. The beast builds her strength for the next terror.
My iTunes is workin' it today. First it played…
which I've shared with you before. I love that song.
Then it played…
which just about kills me whenever I hear it. Then it was all,
I feel like my iTunes has a sense of humor. Hey, high school. How's it going? Lemme get on my reversible raincoat with whales on one side and we can go.
I have to get ready to appear at the Apple Store. Appearing now! June Gardens at Apple! Then after I have a little party, a little soiree, and how much do you abhor me for saying soiree? Anyway, I do have one to go to, and I plan to raise the roof and bring my hands together and make some noise.
I can't think of who I was talking to recently (I suspect one of my interminable OK Cupid dates) who hates it when you're somewhere and they say, "Are ya having a good time?" and the crowd is, like, "Woooo!" And they say, "Not good enough. I said, ARE YOU HAVING FUN?"
Whoever it was said he hates that like hell. Don't TELL me how much noise to make. Don't RATE my woooo. And now I will feel the same way.
What's your hobby, June? Oh, I gather things to resent.
I will talk at you later. Who wants to place bets on whether June relents and gets new shoes anyway, while she's in the same shopping center as the Apple store? And…go.
I went out last night. Slept in m'pearls. I also took Lottie with me, because I'm living like a HERMIT not going places because I feel bad about putting her in a crate too much. And unlike my mother, who has a dog-sitter come all the time when she goes out, I can't do that because not rich.
So she went with me. I was like Paris Hilton or some similar asshole. We had a good time, and she was fairly well-behaved, actually, but we got home after midnight–we'd let it all hang out–and she went straight to her crate and passed out. Drunk. She had on a little party hat, streamers all over her ruff. Dog phone numbers written on her paw.
Probably no one does that anymore, look desperately for a pen and then write your number on someone's hand. I remember having a phone number on my knee once, and getting up and heading straight to the pool the next morning, then finally looking down and going, Whose fucking number is that?
Nice. I hope my Lot doesn't have a number on her knee.
Speaking of Lottie, slutty Lottie who may have a drinking problem (she's in there gulping water like a banshee as we speak), I took another laundry basket shot of her.
Oh my GOD, my life is complete. Remember when I had that idea to feature June's Junk each week, where I review junk food so you don't have to? I wanted to start with the Frito Burrito, which was the greatest thing ever invented and why so chubby. But NOW. NOW we have something to live for. I will report back to you forthwith. Oddly, they're coming out with it on a Monday, which, why?
But now I live for Monday. And the deliciousness that awaits me. There was a Burger King at the end of my street till a few months ago. It closed after more than 30 years. Ned told me that in high school, he and his friends went there for lunch every day. All the other kids went to McDonald's, but they were the alternative kids who went to BK.
Anyway, now it's gone and it's the only time I've needed Burger King. Will do Google search forthwith. Forthwith is a very big word with me today.
In other news that's not nearly as exciting as deep-fried mac and cheese dusted with FUCKING CHEETOS TEENSY ORGASM COULD NOT HELP, I have a friend who's going through the shit right now, the shit that life throws at you sometimes, so yesterday we had lunch and went to the cemetery. Because what's more fun than that?
As usual, I took photos to keep on hand for potential cat names. Behethland T is a perfect cat name.
These are m'cats, Bill Friddle and Myrtle Cheek. You totally pictured orange tabbys when I said that, didn't you? Those are orange tabby names. (June makes new plan. New cat import plan. June notes there is no one to stop her.)
Another excellent cat name. I see a tuxedo tabby. You could even say, "Wherefore art thou, Romeo?" even though that doesn't actually mean "Where are you, Romeo."
Anyway, my friend came up with his own tombstone idea, which will be the Google Map red pointy thing, all shiny and red, with "He has reached his destination" on his tombstone. Which, really, is an excellent idea. "What do you want on your tombstone?" he asked.
"I told you I was sick," I said. Too quickly. Have given too much thought.
We strolled around and decided any time someone had an image on their stone, it was a clue to how they died. One person had a sand dollar on her tombstone. "Someone in her family threw one at her and accidentally sliced her head open," said my friend.
"Bad frog legs," I said, then planned my own commitment ceremony.
"Her dog ate her."
"Died from clapping," said my friend, and I honestly don't know why he and I are having stretches of bad luck right now. When bad things happen to good people.
Anyway, I'm just saying, I don't know why more people don't hang at the cemetery, because I just loves it. I invite everyone to come make fun of my stone once it gets here, which will be sooner rather than later once I get addicted to deep-fried mac and cheese.
Dusted in Cheetos. Maybe that should be my epitaph. Dusted in Cheetos.
Anyway, I gotta go. I'm teaching that sensitivity seminar, and then I have my healthy cooking class I lead on weekends.
Some mornings, I feed the cats while Iris is still out for her morning constitutional. My theory is she makes her rounds of all the baby nests in the area, patrols for new life and squelches it. Anyway, that was the case today, and when she finally hopped up into The Window That All Cats Sit In at my house,
But this morning, she sat there uneating. Her food right below her. "Iris, your food is already there. Are you blin–oh."
Sometimes I forget.
Note I have zero pictures of Iris and Lily in that window.
They only ever go up to that window to eat, these particular cats do, not hang like all the other cats did. And before you ask, in order from top to bottom, those cats are
This house is bad luck for cats. No one tell that to my flower cats, who, really, have managed to survive longer than everyone else here, despite my throwing Lily onto the streets for 52 days and poisoning Iris with dog flea meds just recently, here.
Anyway, if you're wondering how June's Big Life of Budgeting is going (scroll down to yesterday's post, Annoying Pants), yesterday I went to a poetry reading, to see my friend The Poet read, and in case you thought they sold tickets to poetry readings, they don't. "Hey, man, you get tickets to that poetry reading? I gotta get scalpers or something. They were sold out."
Clearly right then she wasn't, you know, reading her poetry. Maybe someone else was, and I was politely taking photos with my cell phone, which I would never do, because appalling and awful. I think we were on a break. A poetry break. Anyway, that was free. And after, she came over, also free. I made her pay admission to enter my esteemed home, actually. So, profit.
Oh, and Faithful Reader Deb is sending me two (2!!!!) nail polishes to do my own pedicures. She wrote me and we picked out colors together. We gathered together to ask the Lord's blessing and also select nail colors. Here they are…
This is Fancy.
And this is Broody, and those pretty much sum me up. If only they carried "Bitchy."
I wonder if, when I wear Butter nail polish, I'll talk like Butters from Southpark. I can only hope.
I gotta go. I spent more time looking up cat-in-the-window shots than I did writing today, and that is somehow your fault. I forget why. But I'll never forget it, and how it affects our whole family.
I'll talk to you tomorrow, when I guess I'll finally get around to telling you about the following…
I never even ATE a brownie last night, but this morning I was pleased to see there were some left over and my guests left me an edge. Oh, HELL yeah. Brownie edge.
I had a few people over for sports night, because sports, and I made a couple plates of vomit.
Actually, this was seven-layer dip, which was seven layers of disappointment. I adore seven-layer dip, you might even say it's my super food, and this was my first sojourn into creating it myself rather than scarfing it compulsively at someone else's party, and eh. I don't know what I did wrong. Too heavy on the beans or something. I don't even think I LIKE refried beans. And refried anything might be my super food, so.
I was gonna have a lot of people over–14, to be exact. But once Tallulah got diagnosed, I felt sad, and could not imagine getting it up to clean intensively and cook a million things when all I want to do is kiss her ears. So I canceled the party, but some of my close friends such as Marty Martin said fuck you, we're coming over anyway, and Kaye said if she saw ONE THING look clean, she'd be mad at me.
So I made chili, and brownies, and bad seven-layer dip, all of which took maybe an hour to prepare, the worst part being I HATE EVERYONE AND EVERYTHING AT THE STORE OH MY GOD. That fucking store on Super Bowl Sunday, when it was our city or county or something that was in said Super Bowl. It was worse than Thanksgiving. Or THANKSgiving, as they say here. Jesus. It was full of the hot sports men, though, and there I was in my Smitten With My Kitten SPCA LA shirt on. Tempting. Come break you off a piece of this.
So it ended up just being Jo, of course, and Marty and Kayeee, and also my coworker Austin, whose family just moved into my neighborhood this weekend and he just needed a break from moving, already. Please note how when you're at my house, you have no choice but to be Uncle Billy from It's a Wonderful Life at all times, with the animals upon you.
Why does anyone want to be my friend? Note how the animals migrate from one guest to the next. You may be wondering where the hell Iris is. I ground her up, made her one of the seven layers.
I don't know why they thought begging would come to fruition. You know what a well-oiled machine these dogs are, with the discipline. "Anyone who wonders if Talu gets treats is high," I announced. "Tallulah gets whatever the hell she wants." Ahead of time I told her to pull out her cancer card as often as she wanted. She asked me to get her a bald wig but there wasn't time.
She did, sadly, pee twice on the floor while people were here. I felt so bad for her, because usually she has dignity. My poor sick Lu.
Here I am, with my chin. Good lord. Underneath the looming cooter. I hate to sound like The Dude (no, I don't) but that painting really ties the room together. I love my living room now. It's 100% me. Meaning blue and sort of vaginal.
I have no idea who won or lost that sporting event. My favorite commercial was the Sheets one with the asses. Because ass jokes.
Kayeeeeee and I had cup exchange last night. I had managed to both steal a cup and leave a cup when I stayed with her in the fall. What we did NOT know is this mystical thing would happen with her cup matching her shirt when I returned it to her. Blue and gray stripes are a big thing with Kaye. They are her super foods.
After everyone left, I found Tallulah drunk in a nest she'd made. Nests of pillows are Talu's super food.
Okay, I'll stop.
I had a talk with Edsel this morning. We sat on the floor and had an awareness session, like my hippie parents used to do with me. I totally need to look into getting some zigzag carpeting. Anyway, I told him that while I know he knows Tallulah is sick, I need him to be strong right now, and be okay with less attention sometimes.
By the way, I Googled "byebyepie + zigzag carpeting" and came across a photo of Ned, and thanks, God. Have I ever asked you this before, if you've ever Googled "byebyepie" + any other word and hit "Images" to see what you get? I think we did do that before. Anyway, for me it's fun, except for when I land on the Ned pics. Which reminds me that this weekend, Edsel was sleeping splayed on his back, and I was racking my brain trying to think of which friend I could text a dick pic to, except it'd be Edsel's dick.
I couldn't think of anyone, but now it occurs to me I totally coulda sent that to Faithful Reader Fay. You gotta pick and choose who you share your tasteless jokes with, man. Pick and choose.
I feel like I have 109 things to tell you, which probably strikes fear into your heart. If you had one. You cold wench.
First of all, Edsel barfed last night, I heard it while I was sleeping, which is always relaxing, and now I can't find where. Which is similarly relaxing.
You can see Tallulah is on the edge of her seat about it. Talu seems perkier, and on Saturday morning she peed an actual amount, like normal dogs! I hope that's a sign that she's fine. It's almost cruel to see signs she's fine, because then I get on the, "See? She's FINE!" train, and get all hopeful, and what if my signs are wrong?
Also, Iris is back to her old, pre-mom-poisoning-her self, which is a relief.
Here she is bogarting my yoga mat yesterday.
Which leads me to my next topic, and that is that I am trying to lose weight. All of a sudden I'm Mama Cass, over here, and you all know how I eat right. So I went to the grocery store and got all healthy things, and whenever I get on one of my "go to the store and get all healthy things" obsessions, I am always astonished at how much cheaper my groceries are. Whole-wheat mini pitas and grapes are so much cheaper than fish sticks and pizza rolls.
So mostly this weekend I did a lot of that hose beast Tracy Anderson, with her blank expressions, and wished I could eat again. Oh, and I started binge-watching Transparent. Are you watching this show? Am obsessed. Between that and Girlfriend's Guide to Divorce, which I also watch, I'm seeing a lot of people flitting around Los Angeles like it's possible. Oh, I live in the Palisades and you live in Silverlake. Let's meet for coffee before we go to work. Yeah. Okay. If we meet at 4 a.m. and still have an hour to spend driving. Gimme a break.
We don't spend enough time thinking about Nell Carter. That's some dress. It's from the Hollie Eating is My Hobby collection.
I'm going to hell. And I'm one to talk, what with my latest high weight. And I ate a lot of flax fucking cereal this weekend, and burgers made from vegetables–you know what word I'm trying not to say–but then my friend Charlie had a party yesterday and hello, pizza and Pepsi. Because apparently I'm 10.
Here's me and m'girth with Charlie's girlfriend Vanessa, whom I love. Lovelovelove. We had a discussion with a straight guy and a gay guy at that party, about which movie star we'd switch over for. The gay guy said Emma Stone. Then I said Emma Stone. Vanessa said Cate Blanchett. She's too classy for me. She'd want high-thread-count sheets and brunch after.
The straight guy said Daniel Day Lewis, I think. Or maybe he just liked DDL. I can't recall now. It was someone I'd never sleep with as a straight woman.
I also had a discussion with a woman there who pointed out how fucked up it is that Lucy is the one who holds the football for Charlie Brown and screws him up by pulling it away, and then she's the one who charges him 5¢ for psychiatric advice. She's the one who screws him up, and then she tries to make him well? I'd never considered that before.
Oh, and I fell in love at that party.
His name is Dewey, like the decimal system. I want to be Mrs. Dewey, like the berserk system. He's so calm, and has the expressive eyebrows.
After the party, I got up with my friend Vogue June. She was a model in the '70s and '80s, and has been on the cover of Vogue and so on. Naturally, we had a lot to talk about re that. Like the time we were both up for the cover of Heifer Magazine and I won out. Anyway, I told her I'd like to try a new restaurant in Winston, as I am forever eating at the same four places, and the place she picked was right next door to Charlie's, which she did not know, but which was pretty convenient for me, anyway. Which is what matters. "Yes, this house is lovely, but is it convenient for June?" "We probably should consider having children, but how will it affect June?"
And finally, for once, I am remembering to direct you to Purple Clover this week. Ima start writing for them every other week now, rather than killing myself every week to think of an idea, so I won't write one tonight and you don't have to be all snippy with me next week when I don't link you to anything.
I see that today's Needy Committee meeting has commenced, so I better clear the room.
The rhythm is gonna get you.