I forgot my DING-DANG phone at work. My chargers are stupidly packed away, so I have stolen this one guy at work's fine Arab charger while he's in Japan or Tokyo or something. Are those the same place?
Anyway, it's not very long, the power cord, so my phone is often under my desk because that's as far as the cord will stretch. And unless some cleaning person is running around town with an iPhone 6+ wrapped in a bunny case right now, my phone is under my desk at work. Yes, I have a bunny phone case. Why don't you shut up?
This should not affect you in any way other than the part where once again, there will be no pictures in my blog FOR THE THIRD DAY IN A ROW. I do, however, have my laptop and it's not dead for once, so I thought I'd just Google "Bye Bye Pie" and then dumb words, such as xerophthalmia, to see what photos come up, and I'll throw those in so at least you have a visual aid.
See. I have no idea why if you Google "ByeByePie" and "xerophthalmia" you get this photo of youthful me being crabby in heels. But there it is.
Here's what I got when I Googled my blog name plus "single lady," because I am Beyoncé. I am bed, bath and Beyoncé. Cute picture. Was having good hair day.
Yesterday I began my day with the dentist. I gotta tell you, a year or so ago I screwed up ALL MY COURAGE and phoned the dentist's office and said, "I hate to be any trouble. But, um, could we maybe give me a new hygienist?" Dudes, you've heard me complain about that hygienist before. She talks INCESSANTLY. INfuckingCESSfuckingANTLY. From the second you see her in the lobby till she walks you out. Plus also she HURTS me every time.
So six months ago, I had a delightful person work on me, who didn't talk too much, and I barely screamed during the procedure. (It always hurts me to get my teeth cleaned.) Now yesterday, I'm in the lobby, and WHO comes out to retrieve me? "Oh, June! Hey! Haven't seen YOU in awhile! You musta been coming in on Mondays! I don't work Mondays! Today I'm subbing for the Monday gal; she's moving. She had a house out blooo de blooo way? She and her husband flip houses. But they decided this will be their LAST flip. He's got a whole other job, see, but..."
MOTHER OF GOD.
The good news is I need two crowns, and please insert Imperial Margarine joke here.
Here's what comes up when I Google my blog name and "Imperial Margarine." Henry was all adolescent and gangly. Hen. HenHenHen. And if you look in the dark background, there's Franny, too. I have no idea what I'm doing in this photo.
After that charming dental appointment and then work, I had a 90-minute massage that one of my friends gave me. My friend Beige, who I knew from LA.
Here's what comes up when you Google my blog name and "Beige." Anderson and Roger fighting in the angry chair. If you are new to my blog, you're all, "Eh?" "Howzzat?"
Catch up.
Anyway. I have this friend in LA, Beige, and she sent me a massage at a place right near my work. She is being nice to me because my heart is broken, in case you didn't know and I hadn't mentioned it. It's rarely on my mind, so you might be just tuning into this piece of news.
My blog name + "broken heart." For some reason, you get my cat salt-and-pepper shakers in bubble wrap. Dude, what the hell was I even talking about this day that this image needed to be shown? What the hell with me?
OH MY GOD ANYWAY. So Beige sent me a massage, and why don't I say "Beige sent me a massage" one more time. There's Samuel L. Jackson with a gun and a Big Kahuna Burger. The point is, I was lying on the massage table, and I noted they were playing, like, that kind of spa music that's all Native American-y. With the flutes and so on.
From OUT OF THE RECESSES OF MY BRAIN, which had been playing on the monkey bars, I remembered the mid-90s, and this one time when my Seattle boyfriend waltzed in while I was watching some documentary on wolves or something. "What's with this music?" he asked. The wolf documentary I was watching in 1994 was the same kind of pipe-y, flute-y Runaround Sioux song that they were playing at the spa.
"Paaaa-cooooo," sang my 1994 Seattle boyfriend in a ludicrously high voice, to the tune of the music. "Boodle-y-boodley boo. Paaaaa-coooooooo..."
"Oh, shut up," I said, trying to learn about wolves or dream catchers or whatever the hell Indian thing I was watching. But from then on, any time we came across anything remotely southwestern, he'd sing, "Paaaaa-cooooo..."
"Paaaaa-coooooo..." I could hear him trilling, while I lay on a massage table in 2015. I'm telling you, he'd be delighted to know his stupid song was giving me the giggles 21 years later. I kept trying not to think of it while she massaged me. But it was killing me. It's like every funeral I've ever been to, where I know I canNOT get the giggles, and that makes it all the worse.
Here's what comes up when you Google my blog name plus "giggle." My mother and me in 2003, putting giant candy coins on our eyes at a wedding reception. I wonder if people thought we were dead?
I have no idea what gives with my dress. My mother and I sort of match, like we were lesbian dates to Homecoming or something.
I knew it! If you Google my blog name plus "lesbian," you get this picture of me with my cousin Katie the lesbian. Say, have you seen my nude hose? I need to slip them on before I slide into my open-toed Candies.
Okay, I have to go. I hope you enjoyed every moment of this important post, and I leave you with the following announcement:
PAAAA-COOOOOOO. Boodle-y boodle boo.
