When Naughty Pro came to get me to go to my Christmas party, I was completely unready. "I'M SO ALMOST READY!" I lied. Back when I lived in Seattle, my friend Marianne used to come over every Saturday morning to go to breakfast with me, and seeing as we were in our 20s, "morning" might be stretching the truth a tad.
The point is, she'd ring my buzzer from the front door. "Are you in the pink robe?" she'd ask. I always was. "I'M SO ALMOST READY!" I'd screech at her. Thank heavens I've matured.
The PROBLEM was, last night the black dress I'd intended to wear, the one I wore to a Valentine's Day party just 10 months ago--10 short months!--did not zip. Clearly some ghoul went into my closet and sewed it tight. And then that same ghoul washed it and dried it on high. DRYERS WE HAVE USED ON HIGH! SWEETLY SHRINKING O'ER THE PLAINS.
So a lather, I was in. I also tried to wedge into the red dress I wore to Sandy's wedding in 2009, when I was on Topamax and as a result got down to a size toddler.
Eventually I settled on what every woman settles on when she's phat phat phat. Relaxing black. With a silver cardigan. Mr. Rogers in drag. Look how dapper Naughty Pro is, with his Christmas bow tie. He worked at our office for 109 years, which coincidentally is how many pounds I've gained since February. The point is, the entire world rushed over to say hello to him, and hear what was new, and exclaim excitedly over him, and when they were done they'd be all, "Hullo, June." [walk away]
Lucky for everyone in the universe, Naughty Pro took shots of me doing the Wobble, so you can see more of my Mama-Cass-hide-everything outfit. I mean, I took doing the wobble seriously. Everything wobbled. Yes, it's been a month since I did Tracy Anderson. SUE ME. There's more of me to sue.
I made one of the Alexes take a photo of me dancing alone, just to drive home my single status and be as pathetic as possible. I love how that much-younger woman in the red poufy dress behind me dances alone with no qualms. SHE'S not posing pathetically for her blog.
It was sweet to see some of my coworkers being parents.
Speaking of which, TinaDoris and I took a dramatic selfie. Well, I'm being dramatic, anyway.
But then we decided to be all Drama Selfie with Baby. Look how TD's kid is 100% over us. wut in hell wrong wif mom? mom braane snap? and why mom frend have voltaire hair?
June. Keeping the Voltaire hair joke alive, since 2006.
Hey, speaking of which, my NINE FUCKING YEAR anniversary of blogging is coming up, on the 15th. Can you even believe it's been that long? Remember when I started, and I lived in LA and had a husband and could fit into clothes? Remember all that?
Me either.
I danced with several of the Alexes, to all kinds of songs I didn't know because old. Of course, I had an IV on standby in case I needed nutrients, what with my restrictive diet and all. I know these photos look like no one was at the party, but in fact 500 people were. I was mixing and mingling and watching Naughty Pro get all the attention ("Hullo, June." [walk away.]) all night, and once we were the last few people left, I remembered by telephone. My cordless telephone with camera. Remember when we didn't bring our telephones to parties, and they rang emptily into our homes? That was back when I could fit into dresses.
So it was a fine time. I had a roomy time. At work yesterday, Bitchy Resting Face Alex, who helped me paint, was at my desk. "Are we gonna do that dreadful thing this year where after the party someone wants to go out after?" I asked.
"No," she said. "I'm getting a cold. And it's a Tuesday night." Can you imagine droning on about your cold that way? God. Keep it to yourself. No one wants to hear OVER and OVER again that you have a cold. Alex.
"Good," I said, "because if you guys do that, I'll feel obligated to go out of fear of missing out, but I don't want to be out till all hours on a worknight."
Right around 10:00, I was just getting home and into my snow leopard pajamas. Text from BRF Alex. "We're going to Lucky 32! You in?"
Goddammit.
Anyway, while you're all gathered here to chew the fat with me, while you're all gettin' a chubby hearing about my night and my dress woes, I thought I'd mention the good deeds. Every year on this blog--or really most years. Whatever. We do good deeds at Christmastime, even though Christmas makes me want to sip arsenic.
This year, instead of pairing up and having a good deeds partner, why don't I pin our good deeds to the top of my blog? Like, tomorrow I'll do a post telling you that this is pinned to the top, and after tomorrow you'll have to scroll to see that day's post, but on THAT POST, that good deeds post, you'll leave a comment with your good deed that you did. What say you?
One LOVELY good deed you could do is donate to my Dresscember fundraiser that ends human trafficking. I have to wear a FREAKING dress every day in December, but 85 cents of every dollar that I raise will help rescue, defend, and restore victims of slavery and violent oppression. I did not at all just cut and paste that. So far, I have four donations totaling 90 bucks, and my goal is to raise 300. One dollar for every pound I weigh.
Today I'm wearing a sundress with tights and a black sweater. There's gonna be a lot of converting sundresses into winter dresses this month. Also, pretty much everything I'm wearing these days count as "tights."
Roundly,
June. Hullo, June.
P.S. Confidential to my similarly lofty Real Housewives pals. David Foster is a dick. You don't divorce your wife while she's practically dying of Lyme disease. Asshole.
