I don't think you can ask for much more, on the morning of your 49th birthday, than to step on the scale and realize you've lost a couple pounds. Given my advanced age, it probably means I have some kind of inoperable tumor, but till I find that out, yay! Weight loss!
So far today I have opened my gifts (my mother got me what looks like a good book and a pink Frutchie Bean Bunny t-shirt) (my Aunt Mary got me some really pretty pajama bottoms, a crisp white shirt that I look good in, a pink tank with shiny stuff around the top which I am wearing today, a purse, a makeup bag WITH MAKEUP IN IT and really pretty vintage cocktail napkins).
(My Aunt Mary likes to shop. I've told you this 20 times, so I don't know why you're so surprised. And no, you can't have my Aunt Mary.)
(When I got to the part where I opened the makeup pouch and THERE WAS MAKEUP INSIDE, I said, "Yayes," the way Morris Day says "yes." Now--now Jerome.)
(Oh wee oh wee oh.)
(Apparently this whole post is gonna be in parens today.)
The Frutchie Bean Bunny is this thing in my hometown. I don't even technically know if I'm spelling "Frutchie" right. But in my hometown, everything is divided by a bridge, with the Saginaw River in the middle. Right at the bridge is this tall sort of grain tower, except it holds beans, and a big pink neon bunny is jumping across the front of the building. It's cool as shit.
When I Googled this to get you an image, I did not see the word "Frutchie" anywhere, and it's like I invented it all by myself, like the time I told you all to say "sparklefraffle" and you did for awhile. Now I've made up the word Frutchie, and I need you to incorporate it in your comments today. Make it mean whatever you want.
Go Frutchie yourself, June.
THE POINT IS, cool shirt. I think they're trying hard to save the building, and I hope they do, because did I mention cool as shit?
Frutchie.
Anyway, tonight Ned and I are going to dinner and I hope he got me a gift. (Can you imagine being my manfriend and trying to get away with not getting me a gift? Your Frutchie'd be achin'.)
(Oh, look, more parens.)
I'd better go, because now I hafta see how many people said happy frutchie birthday to me on Facebook. When I woke up today, I looked at my phone and told Ned, "Oh, wow, 32 people have said HBD so far!"
"You realize you're the digital version of your mother, right?" My mother is forever updating you re the number of cards and calls she's received on her birthday. I forgot to mention I have gotten lovely cards from
- my friend Dot who printed out a picture of my head and glued it to one of the heads on the card;
- my old boyfriend from 1986, Steve;
- my ex-mother-in-law;
- my sweet step-grandmother, who always paper clips 20 bucks into the card and signs it "grandma";
- my mother and stepfather;
- my Aunt Mary
- and I think that's it. My friend Paula claims a card is on the way but she was barf sick so it's late. Whatever.
My beleaguered Aunt Kathy wrote me that my card is in the mail, too, and I wrote her back to point out that Aunt Mary's card was already here, so.
Just Frutchie-in'.
I told that story to my boss, who honest to god said to me, "Have you ever seen When Harry Met Sally?"
Have I ever seen When Harry Met Sally. I could sit here in this chair and recite pretty much the whole movie to you. It starts out, "I was sitting with my friend Otto Kornblum..."
You know you're in for an excellent movie when someone has thought up the name Otto Kornblum. It's much better than Frutchie.
Anyway, my boss said, "There's this scene where Harry and Sally are watching Casablanca," (oh, IS there?) "and he points out that Ingrid Bergman is low maintenance. You are no Ingrid Bergman," said my boss.
Well, thank heavens for that. There was always something about her teeth that bothered me. They looked all Frutchie.
Okay, I have to go. I have to embrace 49, and get mature, and be dignified, and also say hello to the hot buttered monkeys carrying Frutchies that are going to fly out my arse all afternoon.
Love, June
