Today is a very assess-y day. We have our health assessments at work, and as I type you, I have to fast, which is fine because usually at this time I haven't eaten yet, but I have to
GO
WITHOUT
COFFEE
till I get my bloodwork done, and this just isn't natural. You know, I remember when coffee used to make me sort of high, and now I just chase it to feel normal, man. To get through the day without feeling sick. Like, I'm kind of joking but not really. The point is, I'm typing to you right now with a stupid-ass bottle of stupid water, and this day is stupid.
My personal blood test and so on is at 8:45, and who is going to STAMPEDE to the Krups machine right after, do you think? Which is good, because right after THAT is my annual review, in which I find out if I suck. And I'm going to be all, Supervisor, Ima let you finish, but I gotta get more coffee, dawg, hang the fuck on.
So that should be revealing. And if that weren't enough, did I tell you I joined a gym? I did. Do you recall, if you're a longtime reader, when Marvin used to walk over to the gym in this neighborhood at, like, 9 o'clock at night and I used to complain about it? I joined that gym. And also, Dear Kit: I mentioned your name and you get $400 a minute off your membership or something.
Anyway, tonight I meet with a trainer, and she measures me ("We're gonna need more tape") and takes me through the machines and so on. I was tired of doing Tracy Anderson, whom I have been doing for more than four years. I bought different I want to call them tapes of hers. Because apparently it's 1989. DVDs. I bought other DVDs of hers, but in general I wanted to do more than just look at her dour expressions all day.
At this gym, they have yoga and spinning, which I will never ever go to because spinning looks like something that might could make you barf. They have swimming classes, too, like where you do exercise classes in the water. And be sure to ask me where, if you're local. I'm dying to have a big audience as I galumph on a treadmill. Oh, there's June. No, that one. Galumphing. With the hair.
Oh my god, why is there no coffee?
The Other People's Pets Section
I just looked at my desktop, because I have to stare blankly at things now that there's no caffeine in my body, and I realized I have all kinds of photos of OPP on my desk, which I will share with you now.
When I went to that brewery this weekend for that birthday party, this doggie doo was there, and she was such a sweetheart. She was still puppy-ish. Her owner said she's been coming there since she was teensy and had to sit on his lap. He said he's taken her to other local breweries but she likes the beer at this place better.
[Here is where the Humorless Animal People are twisting their shorts. BEER IS POIIIIIIIISON FOR DOGS, JUNE!] [Oh my god he was kidding.]
Anyway, she was sweet as pie, and waggled her tail at just everyone, and this place is always inexplicably filled with the small children of hipsters who want to raise children while drunk, and every child with bearded parents was all over this baby and she didn't mind a bit. Edsel would've had a mini-stroke and required a triage nurse.
The owner guy did her DNA: she is an American Staffordshire terrier and a Dalmation. Dying. 101 Pit Mations. That makes no sense. Hey, is there any coffee?
At the OTHER party I was at, I heard someone say, "There's a cat outsi--" and that's all it took for me to stampede out the side door. Sure enough, there was a friendly little buff kitty saying meow meow meow meow, as, you know, kitties do. Hey, you know what would be great right now? Is a spot of coffee. Anyway, she was one of those super-friendly cats, and her tag read Miss BrowBrow. Dying. What would make a person say, "Hey, I know. We could call her Miss BrowBrow"? Maybe that person hadn't had any coffee.
Do you think it's possible I have an addiction? My hair is kind of the same color as Miss BrowBrow's.
Also, yesterday after work I was driving home, and who did I see playing with one of her people but Ava? Naturally I pulled over like a crazy person and got out my car, squealing. She waggled her tail at me, Ava did, and the little girl who owns her was all, "Well, hi!!" She told me about how her grandparents' dog (who knew?) has been acting like a puppy since they got Ava, and how much fun Ava's been, and how she's "totally ADD."
Ava was a different dog. She was so, you know, not scared. And she seemed bigger. The little girl, whose name I swear I've never learned, said, "Maybe sometimes my grandma and my mom and I can come down and bring Ava." Oh, I hope they do. Look at her sweet face. I can't even stand it.
And of course, I had that pit bull puppy on my mind last night, the one who's far away that I assumed would be adopted at the adoption fair. It finally dawned on me who she looks like: Elvis's mother.
You know I'm right. It's that beleaguered thing. puppee sik of wurld.
Hey, you know what'd be great right now? Is some coffee.
Decaffeinatedly,
June
