Before I begin to complain about painting my ceilings--and it's just like you're reading Michelangelo's blog--I want to talk about my poor work husband, Ryan.
I've shown you his picture before and you all turned into Mrs. Robinson. Ryan (and I have no idea why I didn't just call him Alex like I do everyone else I work with, but his name actually isn't Alex, so it makes him an anomaly) sits across from me, and everyone accuses us of being work married, just because we share our almonds and IM each other all the time and go on walks and have secret jokes.
I guess he'd be my trophy husband, as he is half my age.
The point is, he is what you'd call a good kid. He plays basketball approximately 78 nights a week, and he rides a bike, and he thinks clean thoughts and does right by society. He even has a Little Brother.
I wish to change all that and make him into the same terrible person I was at 25. "So, what're your plans for tonight?" I IM'd him yesterday, hoping he'd say, "Oh, I plan to snort some heroin, maybe pick up a hooker."
"I can't decide whether to lift weights or get a milkshake," he wrote back.
Seriously. That's what he wrote back.
"Well, if you get a milkshake, it'll bring all the boys to your yard," I wrote, then sculpted a bust of myself.
So to speak.
Anyway, I told Ryan I was on pins and needles, waiting to see if he got the milkshake or lifted the weights. ("I could pull a wild card and do neither!" he announced.)
What I'd like you to do is guess. Which sad, not-taking-advantage-of-his-youth-and-looks thing did he do last night? I will enter the winners in a drawing, and will "award" you a prize. Seasoned readers, please warn any new people about my prizes.
Oh, and the other thing I wanted to mention before I complain about painting my ceilings is that Faithful Reader Fay and I got into a discussion about books we should never write. Sort of a What I Don't Know For Sure, which I always thought would be the title of my book, anyway, should I ever write one.
I have a couple books I should never write:
Advanced Trigonometry, by June Gardens
Smooth Hair Tips and Tricks, by June Gardens
Keeping Your Cool: How to Stay Not Irked by Life. Written by June Gardens
Keep Your Makeup Natural by June Gardens
Injectables are Wrong. Age Naturally. A seres of essays by June Gardens
You? What would your book you should never write be called?
See? Goddammit. I went on so long about those other things that now I can't complain like I wanted to. In summary, we are scraping, sanding, priming and fucking painting my dining room and bedroom and guest bedroom ceilings. "Guest bedroom" is quite a euphemism, seeing as the room has an ironing board and zero bed. Guest bedroom for all the vampires and astronauts who stay over.
Here are my dogs, trying to kill Ned while he scrapes. I've run out of drop cloths and am now using curtains I hate instead. What made me ever say, "Ohhhh, sheer lavender curtains! Yayes!" Am I Liberace, with those things? And thank god I schlepped those all the way from California.
we not shur about dis. wy eberytheeng in disray?
I love it when Talu does her Edsel impression.
Okay, I'm off. Be sure to guess about Ryan, and tell me your book you should never write. Tonight Ned and I are off to our old movie theater, where they are showing that classic The Hangover. I just love those old actors like Bradley Cooper.
Now THERE'S someone who doesn't waste his youth and looks on milkshakes and weightlifting.
Philosophically,
June
