I got paid this weekend, which, wooooo! So I went to the Target, over yonder, and bought me a scale. Yes, there's one at work, but I wanted my own. You know what I like? Is when someone says "own personal." Is it? Is it your own personal thing? Thanks, redundant person who is also repeaty.
The point is, I was tempted buy the $39.99 one that gives your water and fat and BMI and TMI and how pretty you look today on a scale from 1-10, but I went for the $7.99 scale instead, because if you all have said it once: Stop being so frugal, June.
Ned got on it right away, as soon as we got home. So to speak. But seeing as I'm a girl and all, I waited till this morning when I could not possibly weigh less.
And? The numbers are too small. Honest to god. I can't see the goddamn numbers. If I COULD see the scale, it'd say, "Dear June. Hoooo care what you weigh, seeing as you're clearly 109."
So, scale giveaway! It's been stepped on twice, and by two major celebrities such as June and Ned. Leave a comment and you know I'll get right on sending it out to you.
After we bought the scale, which sounds like a euphemism but isn't, Ned said, "Would you mind going to the shoe store with me? I need new shoes."
Would I mind going to the shoe store. Pfft. The problem is, and I hope you are all sitting down, Ned had trouble deciding on which shoes, and actually wanted my help. He takes me to a shoe store, with sparkly pretty wedge heels and silver sandals with dangles and doos, and wants me to be over there at boring boy-shoe part? Seriously?
As he was trying on the first pair, I clomped over in a four-inch wedge with a sort of denim stripey strap. "Cute, or slutty?" I asked twisting my foot around for him. Ned was trying on a boring boy shoe.
"Sort of both," he said, "and isn't that the point?"
"It IS the point, but I'll keep looking."
"June. JUNE!" Ned called after me.
"Do you like this boring boy shoe?"
"Sure," I said, trying to make my escape.
"Here are 72 more boy shoes. Will you let me try them all on and you give me your input?"
There is a girl at work who yells out, "SON OF A BISCUIT" when work things bug her. I assure you that's not what I was yelling out in my head.
Every time Ned would tie on a new shoe, I'd slink off to look at more girl shoes, and what makes me a terrible person is that when I'd come back, he'd always actually have an opinion. "The first ones were bettter" or "Do you really think those are a color that goes with anything you have?" (I have PLENTY of things that go with sequin. Sequin is totally a color.)
The good news is, we both got shoes. The ones Ned is wearing were NOT the ones I picked for him, so all that JUNE-ing me was for naught. At one point I said, "I told you the ones I like. Why are we still discussing the other pair?" and he said, "Just let me try to talk you into these."
I had no idea shopping for boring boy shoes could be such a chore.
I took that picture at a restaurant, where I ordered this:
So there you go. Ned got this:
Doesn't that all look fucking delicious? There's sugar in the bread and in the ketchup and probably in the fries because the movie also said processed potatoes were bad and sometimes you wanted to tell Katie Coric to shutthefuckup.
In other news, on Saturday Ned was coming over to sand my ceilings, which sounds like another euphemism but isn't, and while I was awaiting his arrival my phone rang. It was my friend Charlie, the one who is paralyzed. "I invited you to my birthday party, which is today, on Facebook. I kept thinking, 'Why isn't that bitch RSVPing?' when I finally saw you don't have Facebook anymore."
I have never seen such a hulabaloo over anything in my life. It's SOCIAL MEDIA. I temporarily took a break from something that's supposed to be entertaining, and people act like I gave up having an arm. The point is, if Charlie calls me special to attend his party, I'm attending his party.
So Ned sanded my celinings (hooo haaaa) while I got ready, and he went to the thing looking like a building had collapsed on him, with the dust and so on, but it was also very manly and who doesn't like that? There was a couple at the party who'd gotten married that day, early in the woods or something, and had already had their reception and had some downtime before joining their friends. I don't think I've ever just hung out with people who'd been married that day when I wasn't part of their wedding day. It was cool. They looked great, and also 12.
One guy came in, a handsome gay guy, and when he did, Charlie and his girlfriend both said, "Oh my god. June and Rich are in the same room together." Rich, the handsome G.G., looked at me. "I'm going to guess you're inappropriate." It was all I could do not to turn around and present, like a monkey.
Dudes, his name--and I am not kidding--is Rich Jew. "My parents hated me," he said. And I am in love love love love!!!! Oh, Rich Jew is hilarious and so cute and so hilarious. I said to Ned, "You know who I am infatuated with, right?"
Charlie had us all introduce ourselves and then he decided (thanks to me, because I am wonderful) that instead of saying one thing about ourselves that we should say something wonderful about Charlie. I introduced myself as Rich Jew's wife. I couldn't help it.
"I LOVE HIM! HOW AM I GOING TO BE HIS BEST BEST BEST FRIEND FOREVER?" I asked Ned. "Try not to scare him to death, step one," said Ned, who is too cool for his own good. My point is, I may have to get back on Facebook so I can oh-so-casually friend Rich Jew, then become his fag hag for life. Do the young folk say "fag hag"?
Charlie's party was held in the early evening, so we had time to go eat, as well, Ned and me (and sadly not my new best friend the wealthy Yid). Our waiter was super cool and drew pictures on our to-go boxes.
I guess those are all the things I have to tell you, other than IT IS JUNE, which is an ancient joke between my friend Dot and me. One night we were leaving our organized, tidy college house to go to a party at what was likely another organized college house, when Dottie decided to turn back and get a sweater.
I was impatient with this, because as you can tell from Ned's boy shoe story, everyone else's needs come first for me. So when Dottie turned back to the house, I sighed. "You don't need a sweater. IT IS JUNE."
Except it wasn't. It was still May. So my grouse was sort of, oh, stupid then. Once I got Dottie a Christmas tree ornament that I had IT IS JUNE painted on. When I got to my computer last night, she'd sent me an email that just read IT IS JUNE.
I was totally pissed because I was getting on to email her the same thing. Anyway, it's my month. June in June.
Which sounds like a euphemism but isn't.
P.S. Don't let me forget to tell you about how Ned walked my dogs and they were good even when a little dog ran RIGHT UNDER Edsel. And I mean it about the scale. Sign up now. Act now.
P.P.S. Goddammit. Here's my latest Purple Clover, about if I had a year to live.