What should I talk about?
Oh, and here's my latest Purple Clover.
What should I talk about?
Oh, and here's my latest Purple Clover.
"I'm boyfriend-free this weekend," one of the Alexes at work wrote me. "We should do something fun."
What does it say about me that as soon as you say "something fun," dancing at the gay bar is the first thing that comes to mind? It says I'm a big fat homo, is what it says. Although, to be fair, I did ask my heterosexual partner if he wanted to join us, and I guess going to a gay bar during the basketball high holy days--or whatever the HELL is going on right now that basketball is CONSTANTLY on my TV ALL the time ALWAYS--would be super gay.
"Get here at 9:30," I told Alex, who at age 28 balked at doing something so late, and honestly, what is WRONG with this nanby-pamby generation? Do a bump like girls in their 20s should. God. It worked for Stevie Nicks.
When she got here, I had on no pants, like a lesbo Donald Duck or something. Donald Dyke. "I had no idea what to wear," she said, plunking a huge bag on my bed. "I brought a wardrobe change just in case."
Jesus Christ. She is SUCH a lipstick lesbian.
The point is, we were both finally ready and I put on pants and everything and beleaguered Ned took a picture of us when really all he wanted to be doing is screaming at the TV, which is apparently part of High Holy Month.
I have no idea why it looks so red under my nose. It's like I was doing bumps and I was not. Actually, I look sort of pale and glassy, and now I'm convinced I am dying. I will miss you all. It's probably that ovarian cyst.
Oh, and before we head off to the gay bar, speaking of Ned screeching like a fishwife at the TV, I took this series of photos the other night of Lily trying to fall asleep and having her serenity disturbed by a yell from Ned.
Anyway. We got there and decided the whole room was abuzz about us, which let me assure you. No room was abuzz about our white, straight selves remotely. That did not stop us from deciding that everyone must have thought we were on our first date, had not remotely done it yet, and I'd scored myself a young one. I'm a regular Meridith Baxter Birney.
"They probably think you're after my money," I said. "Boy, are YOU gonna be disappointed."
It was free body paint night, and there were two drag queens painting people, neither of which was the drag queen who saw my vagina, but that's a different story. The important part is that one of them was clearly more skilled than the other, the skilled one doing this whole tribal look on everyone, whereas the unskilled one made people look like Rio from the Duran Duran video.
"Oh, I hope I get the good one," said Alex, who until 10 minutes before had not even anticipated getting herself painted, and now it was the most crucial thing she had going on in her life, other than bagging old Meredith, over here, her Sugar Momma. I would literally be a sugar momma, because did I mention my alarming glucose levels?
When it was our turn, I was BEING POLITE and told Alex to go first, but that meant she got the Rio painter, and I got the talented one, and she could not WAIT to call me a bitch as soon as we were done.
"Yours looks great, and mine looks like some kind of money shot with this one white streak!" she said. I am so not asking her out again.
Speaking of psychotic, then it was time to dance. It took forever for your gays to get out on the dance floor, but as soon as anyone even remotely looked a little sway-y, we cut a rug ourselves. Then we danced. BAHAHAHAHA.
They played one song the whole crowd knew except me, because old. But now I love it. Have added to iTunes. It's 100% totally safe for work. Be sure to turn it on loud so your boss can hear.
Do you feel like maybe the breakup wasn't amicable? The whole room was singing this, and there was twerking, although not from me, thank god.
Oh, but where you CAN take me is to the bathroom. I'd had 47 cranberry and sodas and also waters with lemon to attempt to get rid of the rock that still lives inside me, and the bathroom was occupied forever. Finally, a drag queen opened the door, her girdle halfway up. "Oh, come on in, honey, I'm getting ready in here. Just pee in front of me."
So there in that tiny room, I peed in front of a drag queen pulling on her Spanx. God, I love the gay bar.
We stayed till close and I crawled into bed with fast-asleep Ned after 2:00.
You can imagine his delight when he woke up to my painted face today.
Ned and I were out late last night; we went to see Lucinda Williams.
Please remind me to tell you about the Excitable Roy who sat in front of us. He looked like my friend Roy--at first I thought it WAS my friend Roy, with his ginger hair and long beard--and you could be certain he'd seen the opening band before. Let me assure you.
Every song they started, he'd pump his fist and do this, "YEAHHHHHH!" growl/screech thing, then say to his wife, "WELCOME TO ALABAMA!" or "THE SONG ABOUT HIS GRANDMA!" Then he'd pump his fist, and repeat the lyrics back to his wife, who never did anything but nod exhaustedly.
"That wife? Beleaguered." I announced to Ned. "I know!" said Ned, who'd clearly been thinking the same thing. The good thing about Ned is when we're out, we're both spending the whole time staring at people, and thinking judgy things. If you can't be your worst self with your person, who CAN you be your worst self with?
By the way, I guess you don't need to remind me to tell you about Excitable Roy, because I think I just did.
Ned was not a fan, at least he wasn't as big a fan as Excitable Roy, but I didn't mind that band so much, because I'm from Saginaw. I liked the song they had about the grandmother, and they were all sort of hot, in a bearded country way. The lead singer's shirt came open at some point, and Ned said, "Can you read the tattoo on his stomach?"
"Just some letters, but I was assuming it reads 'Gypsy.'"
"Maybe it says Tipsy," Ned suggested.
"Or Nipsey," I said. "He could be a huge Nipsey Russell fan," I said.
I mean, who isn't?
I like men who wear big, chunky jewelry. Not that Nipsey Russell does, but rather old Tipsy Gypsy Nipsey, up there. He had a big coral ring, and necklaces, and I like that look. (Now Ned is accusing me of liking other men because he would in a million years not wear chunky jewelry, and a good idea is letting your person see what you're blogging.)
Oh my GOD I just came on here to say I can't blog and look what's happened.
I was just going to show you this rainy picture I took of the tree outside my window, finally getting leaves ("finally." It's March) and from yesterday to today it went from hint of green to hi, here are my leaves. So. Also, my robe totally tried to photobomb.
I had my ultrasound yesterday but so far no call re it. I think they're going to say, Hey, you have an ovarian cyst. Nothing we can do about it. That'll be $900, please.
Okay, really going.
Oh, look, here I still am. I forgot I took this picture of my pretty rainy yard yesterday morning as I left for work. It doesn't nearly do justice to all the purple and yellow back there, but it sure celebrates that tag hanging off the chair.
Your fave gypsy blogger,
Today at 12:45 I have to have an ultrasound to look at the ovarian cyst they found while they were looking for my kidney stone and FUCK EVERYTHING FUCK FUCK FUCK.
Ima ask them to take a gander while they're up there, see if they still see a kidney stone. I mean, they're ALREADY THERE, right? Why not move that wand a tad and see? Anyway, the good news is, I have to drink 32 ounces of water and hold it till they take the goddamn ultrasound. You know perfectly well I will get there and the middle-aged black lady at the front desk who is over me will be all, "Someone will be with you" or "We'll call you" and I will SIT there having to PEE for more than an hour.
I'm already annoyed and I haven't even gotten dressed yet.
In the meantime, can you spot the Tallulah? I get all those pillows right, then she comes in and screws them up for her nest. Every day. I let Talu sit in here while I blog, but then Ned insists she go back downstairs for the rest of the day, so she won't eat his cat. Which she wouldn't even want to do. Talu does not like white meat.
Remember when Tallulah used to be nice to cats? Somehow through the years she got over cats. Tallulah is the black lady at the front desk of the cat lobby. She mostly ignores our cats, but every once in awhile she'll stare at one of them, like, God, I forgot how much you piss me right the eff off and then she lunges at whichever cat annoyed her by living, and they run off. I mean, she doesn't try to BITE a cat, she just runs at them the way my Uncle Jim used to to make me scream from the room.
Tallulah is a dick. And you can see Iris cares deeply about Lu's bullying. And you can see Edsel is a barnacle. As always. No wonder Lu is in a cranky mood. She's had a growth since 2010.
Which brings me back to my ovary.
I'd better go. I just noticed at the bottom of this post, Typepad has suggested I create related links for the following:
The big tree outside my window up here just got little leaves on it for the first time this season, I'm just noticing it. If I had my damn phone up here I'd take a picture, as it is truly lovely. This is a great tree. Perhaps eventually I can carry my cyst and my stone over to the window to look at it.
God. Ovarian cyst. Cat.
"I had no idea there'd be so many posters of penises in here," I told the beleaguered nurse who took my vitals. "This is like my bedroom in junior high!"
Probably nurses don't know what "junior high" means anymore. My whole routine is going the way of sassafras.
Anyway, they really don't know if I passed that goddamn pesky kidney stone or not yet, but they gave me a little pee-onto-it screen just like everyone else has in the entire universe but me, apparently, and in two weeks they'll give me an ultrasound if I don't show up with a rock. They're like a girl giving her boyfriend an ultimatum.
I can't even BEGIN to imagine what all this is costing. I'm having another ultrasound on Thursday to look at the ovarian cyst, or RAGING CANCER, they also found during my not-at-all-costly CT scan I had Friday. The dick doctor said it "looks benign." So.
It's been a medical week.
I was in the waiting room for 16 hours, and the rest of the room was mostly men. I tried to figure out what was wrong with each one. Oooo, maybe that one's penis is just too big! Making lemons.
The point is, one guy who was maybe my age brought in his ancient dad. "How come you never take me to dinner?" asked Dad.
"Dad, we discussed this. I'll take you to dinner later this week. I'll come by and get you later this week, and we'll have dinner and then we can even stop by the house."
"The house? Who lives there?"
"No one, Dad."
"Who's taking care of the lawn?"
"I am, Dad."
"How come you never take me to dinner?"
They had this conversation maybe four times, and twice I made eye contact with the son, who deserves a medal. Plus, that guy knows he has a future of getting old and addled and having something wrong with his dick, just like dad.
I also took a selfie while I was there, because Kim Kardashian of dick doctor. Sadly, I went to Subway at noon, and the woman at the drive-thru window said, "Did you change your hair? I like it that way!" Maybe someone's relying on a 6-inch turkey with avocado a little too often. No wonder m'dick's falling off.
In other news, Ned and I went to see Margaret Atwood last night, not that she invited us to hang out or anything. She was giving a lecture. I kind of thought she'd be completely full of herself, but she was lovely and funny. She's one of those smart people who are lovely and funny. I mean, that must be what it's like to read my posts on this blog. Margaret Atwood made a ton of dick jokes.
Also too, I got a very good performance review at work. I got four dicks up.
So that's what's new there. Ooo, I did want to ask you something and OH YEAH, I have to plug Purple Clover. Please share on Facebook if you can or want to, because I can't go on Facebook due to God. Here is my latest article.
The other day, stupid Faithful Reader Fay sent me a link. "Your hoots look good in this picture." I mean, I clicked right on that thing like a mug, because who wouldn't want to see a photo where their hoots look good?
It was a picture on Facebook.
"DOOD! YOU SENT ME TO FACEBOOK! WHAT ABOUT GOD??"
Faithful Reader Fay. Sending me to hell since 2015.
And here's what I wanted to ask you. What was the thing in your childhood that made you just think you were stylin'? We discussed this the other day, and for me, it was this pair of jeans I had when I was 9 or 10. They had a rainbow stripe up one leg, across the hip and back down the other leg on the back. Hell, yes.
Oh my GOD, I love the Internet. Do you know what I like? Is when people say Interweb. Sometimes Ned will email me an entire thing, but if he says "Interweb" the only thing I'll write back is "Don't say Interweb." At any rate, these were my VERY JEANS and--
--goddammit. I just heard a noise and there's fucking Iris, eating my toast.
Anyway, I loved these jeans and cannot believe they're right here on the Interwebs for me to show you. I slipped those on, and I also had some gingham clogs, and if I could wear both to work right now I so would. God I adored myself in that ensemble.
What about you? Was it your cool bike or your Mrs. Beasley doll or your dick or what? Tell me.
I've decided we should have a bet of some sort. When will I pass this damn stone? It could be anytime between now and six weeks from now, or even longer.
We could also have a guess for, "It will come out and June will have no clue that it did."
What say you? And how do we award the winner?
Ooooo! How about the winner gets a choice of:
Okay, so when will I give birth to Stony Curtis? Guess now.
I have no idea if I've shed this boulder that's residing in my woo. If I see Indiana Jones running outta there, I can be assured the stone's coming next.
When they told me I had a kidney stone, they didn't say, Oh, save the thing so we can analyze it, or Here's a nice screen to catch that rolling stone like you're an archeologist, a vadge archeologist, which a bunch of you told me happened to you. And you know what I enjoy? All the, "Ohhhhh, it was the WORST pain I've EVER felt, Joooooon!" Why would you tell someone that who might still have to go through it again?
Not that I'm saying a bunch of you said being a vadge archeologist happened to you. Although that'd be interesting. June's blog. Enjoyed by vadge archeologists everywhere. I meant the getting a screen part. A lot of you said you got a screen to keep the moths out and also to catch the thing so they could study it and include it on SATs in the future.
So, in summary, I was in hideous pain from 5:51 Friday morning till about 12:30 that day, then I felt better and could actually pee again, but all weekend had the ohmygod-I've-got-to-go feeling but now that's abating, too. So did I shag the thing at 12:30 Friday, and the rest of this was just my UTI? Do you wish I'd talk about my pee and pee parts more often?
Pee early and often.
In the meantime, life happened.
Poor NedKitty had to go to the vet, for her annual old-lady checkup. Not that they checked her vadge. They weren't vadge archeologists, and I like how that's become a thing in the last 15 seconds. She lost two pounds, most of it from her vadge. As soon as she cuts out the gluten, the pounds just MELT off her vadge.
Do you know what I'm looking forward to? Ned reading this.
The vet theorizes her change in eating has caused the weight loss, and hey, Sherlock. But before, when she was an only kitty, the bowl was out all the time. Now she has prescribed times she's shut in her old-lady room with her old-lady food. Eating corned beef hash and canned peaches.
I just wonder if constant and abiding stress has anything to do with her shedding the inches. Because one thing Iris doesn't do is stalk the crap outta that ancient cat constantly or anything. The Iris abides. She likes this rug. Really ties the room together.
Here Ned is, with the tail o'Iris, after we'd successfully gotten that hellcat into her carrier. She is not what you'd call mellow about getting in that thing. Has she never been mellow? They do not call her Mellow Yellow.
Really, we had a huge limb, and that's what SHE said, that fell during a storm. Edsel thought we were back there for a blue job, but he was mistaken.
After that, some of Ned's family came over, and Ned's 15-year-old nephew challenged him to--what on earth do you call it? A round of basketball? A scrimmage of basketball? He wanted to play basketball, and Ned was all, Okay, and I was all WHAT? Are you forgetting you're EIGHTY? But wild horses and a stone up m'parts would not stop me from stampeding to the park near our house to watch this fiasco.
All weekend I had to hear--WITH A STONE IN M'PARTS--that Ned was SORE, and that stuff HURT, and I was all, oh really? Because all I did was indulge in a lifetime of poor eating to earn this pebble pal in my pee parts, but YOU went out and SOUGHT this pain, so.
While I was at the park waiting for Ned to snap an ankle or an aorta, I noticed this cute old couple holding hands. Ned once told me that the only people you want to see holding hands in public are old people and lesbians.
I also took time out from waiting to explode in a cacophony of cobblestones to get a pedicure and a manicure. The woman next to me complained that she'd worked all weekend, so naturally I had to lean over and say, "I'm waiting for a kidney stone to pass."
Kidney stones. The way to one-up anyone, except pesky cancer people.
Anyway, nails be blue. And in the immortal words of Charlie Brown, I got a rock.
Yesterday, I asked a nurse if she had something I could throw up in. And that was the least of my worries. Finding a barf container was low on my list, me, the barf-phobic person.
If you're thinking, "You know what I've never done? Is have a kidney stone. Maybe I should look into one," I am here to tell you to rethink your plan. Although really, so far it hasn't been THAT bad. I have not screamed. I mean, I set the bar high. Have you literally screamed in pain? Okay, then. Calm down.
The day started yesterday at 5:51. When your day starts at 5:51, nothing good can come of it unless you're the person who gets up to deliver milk, in which case, you woke up in the future, Bub, and you're out of a job. But 5:51 is when I woke up thinking, Man, I have to pee like a mug, which makes no sense but my cousin Brigid used to say she had to do things "like a mug" so I stole it from her in about 1976 and have said it ever since.
So I did pee, and welcome to my bathroom blog (it just occurred to me that my Aunt Kathy should totally do a what-came-out-of-me-today blog. That way she could tell people without actually telling all of us. But then she'd be all, "Did you read my blog today, about the size of my poop?" and there goes that idea.), but as soon as I was done I felt like I had to pee all over again. I was practically buying my pee a diamond eternity ring.
I totally wanted Marvin to buy me a diamond eternity ring for our 10th anniversary, to show me he'd marry me all over again, and nothing is more hated by men than the advertising staff that works on DeBeers' stuff, and anyway he didn't because clearly he would NOT marry me all over again.
But back to my pee.
So as soon as I felt like I still had to go, right then I knew I had a urinary tract infection, which I get all the time, and I was all son of a--OW!
Ohmygod--OWW! Because all of a sudden my lower back, just on the right side, was hurting like a mug. I mean, it was no twinge. It came from nowhere and it was kind of scary. I tried to lie down, and stand, and bend over, and hey, guess what? Pain still here! How YOU doin'?
And lemme tell you something. Ned is perfect in these situations. He's accommodating, he's calm, he tries to make you laugh. He's exactly who you want in these emergencies, of which I have about 20 a month, so maybe he's just learned.
I knew my doctor's office opened at 8:00, and I say this like I have their schedule taped to my refridge, but I knew because I called right away. Is there anything I hate more than that patronizing, "If this is a medical emergency, please hang up and dial 911" bullshit on the doctor's office answering machine? Oh, fuck you. I know that, asshole.
Actually, yes. There is something I hate more. People who make their hands form a heart shape. That I hate more.
Hang up and dial 911, you heart-shaped ass fuck.
Am cranky today.
The point is, Ned and I drove over there before 8:00 and waited for them to open. He called his office on the way. "Hey, it's Ned. I'm carrying June over to her doctor; she's not feeling well."
The receptionist at Ned's work is from the East Coast.
"No, not literally," I heard Ned say. "To carry someone must be a Southern colloquialism. It means to drive someone."
If I hadn't literally been writhing in pain, unable to get comfortable even remotely, I would have found that conversation hilarious. She thought Ned had me thrown over his shoulder, carrying me to a physician. We'd be like that annoying Footprints in the Sand plaque. God was carrying you to the doctor the whole time!
We got to the doctor, and it wasn't just the pain, it was feeling like I'd had a whole six-pack of Natural Light, which in a million years I never would but you know what I mean, and that I had to pee like a mug but absolutely could not. I mean, nothing came out. That was the worst part, and that god-do-I-have-to-pee feeling is still there.
Can I interject right now to say I REALLY look forward to the medical advice? And the "Did your doctor...?" and the "Why didn't she...?" I'm gonna get today?
While I waited for the doctor to come, I was really almost in a panic. I could NOT get comfortable, and I was starting to feel some nausea and asked for something to barf in (I didn't. Would have lead with it if I had), and I felt bad for Ned, who was worried and who was missing work, and through our whole day of running to this doctor and that, his phone kept buzzing. "Ned Nickerson," he'd say, in his work voice. Then he'd say work things for awhile and be all worky, and hang up. Twelve seconds later, his phone would buzz. "Ned Nickerson."
He sounds more Southern when he's on work calls. He gets all Southern charm on their asses. It's cute.
ANYWAY MY PEE.
So, the doctor determined that I don't just have a UTI, it's a HUGE RAGING ANGRY UTI. A UTI that needs its own URL so it can write about how angry it is IRT, KWIM? She also suspected a kidney stone. She prescribed me an antibiotic, so Ned drove to get that, and I drove myself to the CT scan place, and man did I feel fantastic. Ready to take on the world, is how I felt. Oh my god I was so miserable.
Ned showed up with the drugs while I was still writhing and waiting to be seen, and I was so unhappy that I went into the onsite pharmacy at the CT place and stole a bottle of water. There was no one around and I could not wait another fucking second to take this pill in the hopes it'd make me feel better. It was 10:30 at this point, and I had not peed since 5:51.
And you know what yesterday consisted of? A whole lotta middle-aged black women who were completely over me. Every doctor's place we went, the person working at the desk turned out to be a middle-aged black woman, and for all I know it was the same person just racing across town to greet me over and over, so oblivious was I, but they were all kind of like, "Yes, honey, I know it hurts. You just hang on and someone will be with you shortly."
See, this is why I need my own full-time doctor at my house. Because it was barbaric, having to go to the doctor, then to the CT scan, then BACK to the pharmacy, then BACK to my doctor's office, then DOWN to the urgent care because HELLO IT'S AFTERNOON STILL HAVEN'T PEED.
But as Ned and I waited at urgent care, where they were going to catheterize me, and no human has ever looked forward to a tube jabbed up her parts than I was at that point, it was like, click.
"Oh," I said to Ned, who was texting worky things to work people about work. "I feel better."
"Yeah. Ima go pee."
I have set a record for number of times someone has gone to the bathroom yesterday, but when I went to what I'm sure is not a horrifyingly germ-filled bathroom at urgent care, I was finally able to go. Not a ton, but enough.
"Give me my 30 dollars back! I peed!" I yelled exuberantly to the middle-aged black lady who was over me at the front desk.
I won't even go INTO the obnoxious girl who had a cold who was also waiting at urgent care. She came in with a MASK, and talked about her COLD at the top of her LUNGS to everyone who would listen, and even people who didn't want to. Every time I looked at her, she had another beleaguered soul on the hook. "And THEN I coughed up..."
Like everyone else in there wasn't there because they were sick. We were all just there hangin' out on a Friday afternoon, because urgent care is relaxing. At least I can be assured the middle-aged black lady at THAT front desk was more over White Cold Girl than she was over me.
The point is, the CT scan, which by the way was kind of fun cause it was ride-y, did show a kidney stone, and they also saw some kind of cyst up in there, so I probably have those damn fibroids again, which yay. I don't have the terrible pain or nausea anymore, but I still feel like I have to pee all the time, so I have no idea if I've passed it or not. I'm taking all these goddamn drugs and I go to the urologist like I have a dick next week, and they'll see if it went away.
So basically I'm getting stoned all weekend. When it finally comes out my urethra, if it hasn't yet, Ima name it Franklin. Urethra Franklin.
Here I am. Rock you like a hurricane.
Oh my self-love, you guys are KILLING me with the posts you're sending me for this book that will make me exactly as famous as Beyonce. June-on-say. Incidentally, I found an age spot on my eyelid this morning, which is also something Beyonce finds often. Is she even that much younger than me? How old is that heifer, who, incidentally I find to be one of the most beautiful women on EARTH, and when we see each other at a party soon I hope she remembers I said that and not "heifer."
One reader sent me the post I wrote about the night Ned went on and on about how wonderful and low-maintenance Ingrid Bergman was, and I wondered why Ned didn't just go dig up Ingrid Bergman and date her bones.
That was about the time I laughed so hard I had to lay my head down on my desk, and the beleaguered Guy Who Sits Next to Me (BGWSNTM) was all, "Are you laughing at yourself again?"
Imagine having to work right next to me. All day.
Last night I had therapy with my therapist who lives in Los Angeles, and I know you are picturing us in a drum circle or something, but really it's just your straight-up therapy where she has to hear about how funny I am. I Skype her, and she has the same watercolor of a few flowers in a see-through vase that she had in 2006 when Marvin and I went there. It's funny to see it, like I'm still there.
Her office was near UCLA, and parking was a bitch, so Marvin and I would meet there early and he'd always bring a picnic and we'd sit somewhere on campus and have dinner, then go to her office and talk about how funny I am.
It was, in fact, right before a $279 session with her (oh get over it. Am exaggerating for comic effect, because I'm so funny) that we had dinner at an actual restaurant on her street, not that she owns a street. Shrink Street. It starts out really big and gets super narrow. ANYWAY it was there that I was reading a $679 yoga magazine (it starts out tight and gets really flexible at the end) where there was an article about a woman who went a year without spending, and I said to Marvin, "We should try this" and then we did and then he said, "You should blog about this" and I said, "What the fuck's a blog?" and here we are today.
Talking about how funny I am.
Oh! Another good post I got sent was one where Ned had his wisdom teeth out--I think the same reader sent me both of these and she totally gets finger hands if she wants them, which suddenly sounds desperately dirty--and Ned had to sit quietly the night of his surgery, so we ate pea soup and talked about what we'd want named after us, if we could have anything named after us.
"What would you want named after you if you could have anything named after you?" I asked BGWSNTM.
He pondered for a moment. "A dinosour." The BGWSNTM is a boy. Originally, in the post I read, I said a sex act, but with my luck it'd end up being one of those sex acts that involves poop. So to be safe for work, I went with pale pink rose that also grows with a little glitter on it. Hey, it's my rose. It's a June Gardens Rose.
I asked the girl who sits across from me who's always mad that I never mention her on my blog. TODAY'S YOUR DAY!
"I'd want some kind of act. Like, you've been Alexed," she said. We decided her act would be right when you've finished telling people a story, and someone comes up and says, "Wait. What?" Because THAT's WHAT SHE DOES OH MY GOD ALL THE TIME.
You've been Alexed.
Poochie would be a new species of animal, another coworker would be a bottle of medium-priced red wine, and my boss's boss said, "I was thinking a relatively large country."
Oh, it was a fun game. When our poor coworker Kelly, the one who's desperately allergic to nuts, which is neither here nor there but once I opened almonds when we were in the same room and she turned into one hive, said a clothing line.
But the woman who'd be a bottle of wine said, "But it's a clothing line that's only available at Kmart."
Then we started being hilarious about everyone's choices. The fairly large country was impoverished. The species was a kind of slug. My rose was plastic.
I have no idea how to mark this time on my time sheet.
Okay, I have to go. Iris is splayed across my arm like a stole, or I guess it'd be a muff, which sounds desperately dirty all of a sudden.