I don't have much to blog about today, because I am uninteresting. Last night I did my Tracy Chapman workout and watched a documentary at Ned's. And yes, I know it's funny I got a divorce from Mr. Documentary, Mr. All-Documentaries-All-the-Time, and then I meet someone else and what the eff do we do with our Friday night but watch a ding-dang documentary.
It was good, though. Dear Marvin, In case you decide to look at my blog today, this was good. Sort of XO, June. Awkwardly punching you on the arm, June.
Anyway, that summed up our night, as we are on Project Spend Less of Ned's Money, although tonight after some riveting sports event that Ned is beside himself about, we are going to see Argo, because it's the one Best Picture nominee we haven't seen, other than Les Mis, which doesn't count. You know who'd be Les Mis? Is Ned and me at that picture.
So, because I had nothing to blog about, and because I don't have time to load more of your 800 million photos you sent in or do a makeup tutorial, because Ima pay bills and buy groceries today and WOOO! the fun never stops at House of June, I thought what I'd do instead is dig into my photo box titled 1965-1992 and see what hideous photos I can show you.
Dad and me, in what I would estimate was 1987. I am guessing based on the perm, and yes that IS a perm. On me, not dad. We're standing on the roof of his building in Atlanta, where he used to live. Also we heart ourselves. I think this was a photo we specifically took to send to my grandmother, framed, for her birthday. See above reference to we heart ourselves.
This was in 2002, not anywhere close to 1965-1992. You know what I have? A super-organized photo box. This was my stepsister's wedding, and I remember I specifically lost weight for it, but I still have front butt. Goddammit. I look good otherwise, though. Other than the part where I'm clearly keeping Kanga from Winnie the Pooh.
For the love of God, June. Have a drink. This was 1992, and I know the date from the boyfriend in the picture. Some go by moons; I go by men. Sometimes you tell the days by the bottle that you drink. Sometimes when you're alone and all you do is think.
You're welcome.
A bunch of us went dancing at a gay bar in Detroit, and then got what I'm certain was heart-healthy food at this diner. And somehow my bra needed to be taken off and bitten. As you do.
If I went out dancing all night and then ate diner food, I'd be destroyed the whole next day. I'll bet you anything that 26-year-old June got up the next day, picked her bra out of her teeth, and just went on like it was nothing.
Okay, last one.
One year, I was Madonna for Halloween. June. Continuing to love herself since 1965. June. Putting the "pre" in Madonna since 1965. I see my roommate Larry back there, who went as a Larry Krishna, and Sleeping Beauty's boyfriend who came as a TV dinner. We were hilarious. Why aren't there more Halloween parties for 47-year-olds? Of course, by the time Halloween rolls around again I will be 48.
The cones are divining rods at this point.
So I guess that's all. I leave you with these photos from years gone by, with the bras and the pouches and the paternal strangling. I will talk at you tomorrow, when Ooooo! I guess Ned and I will pick our Oscar thingamajigs.
June. Getting into the grove and out of here.
