Yes, I'm posting on Saturday. Hello! {hello hello hello hello} Echo! {echo echo echo echo}
I don't know why I bother. But hello, one and a half people who are homebound for whatever reason.
I guess now that it's half an hour away, I can tell you that I am supposed to be in New York right now, for a friend's surprise 50th, and I'm so sad I'm not there. His wife invited me, and I wanted to bring our mutual friend Sandy to doubly surprise him, but I just couldn't afford boarding Edsel, flying there, staying in a NEW YORK HOTEL HELLO EXPENSIVE, and so on. I tried. It makes me sad. I'd love to see his face when he gets surprised today. It'd probably be the same face he got back in college when he learned everyone didn't have a maid.
So, crap.
Yesterday at work, we got surprised as well, except I knew about it cause I planned it. But an account we work on at work has a dog model, a 176-pound dog model named Moose, and I wrote a story about Moose for said account, and got to know Moose's owner, who is local. He offered to bring Moose to the office, and I knew that would be a big hit, but I had no idea how big of a hit.
Fucking EVERYONE got up to meet Moose. And there's really no way to show, to scale, how dang big that dog is. On his hind legs, he's 5'10". And he's just so docile. It was like Snufalupagus came in to work. "hullo. moowse heer. sigh." He is the very definition of laid back.
I listened to people ask his owner the same questions over and over again. How much does he eat? How old is he, again? Where does he sleep? (Not that much, actually, 7 and a half, and on the bed, natch.)
Oh my god, we all loved us the Moose.
Petite. That's what he was. A mere slip of a thing.
My mere slip of a thing seems to be doing better since his shots took everything out of him. And Iris seems to be more resigned to her little-brother fate, although she's still giving one last hiss before she walks out the door. If she were in a band, she'd paint her face black and white and join Hiss.
If she were a holiday, she'd be Hissmass.
She's thinking of running for off-hiss.
You get my drift.
She puts on a blue conservative hissmass suit and a floppy tie, because she's a hissmass woman.
I need to get over it.
If she drank beer, she'd drink it out of a growler.
Dear June: We hate you. Love, Readers.
When I got home last night, it was an exciting mail day. I got my new phone cover, which makes me officially Single White Female-ing Faithful Reader Beverly. She got one first. Is my point. If she were Iris, she'd say, "Firsssssst."
Don't you just loves it, though? Oh my god, how bad do you want to be me right now?
Don't answer that.
I also got my first Stitch Fix box. It's this place? Where nobody dares to go? You needed the world to know. They are in Xanadu.
Oooo.
Oh my god.
So, at work, I edit the company newsletter, because powerful, and when I was planning September's issue, I emailed the newsletter staff with "September newsletter: Fashion Edition" just to be funny.
See, most fashion and beauty magazines have an extra-thick edition in September, ya lesbian, full of the latest styles and trends and so on. This came in real handy during my coming-up years in Saginaw. "Oooo, I'd better tear this open, read it cover to cover, then head to the mall for more Sasson jeans and Candies."
Anyway, I wrote that as a joke, but then decided it'd be fun to have a fashion edition of the company newsletter, so I went around randomly interviewing and photographing my coworkers. Two very cute women said they got their outfits that day from Stitch Fix.
So, you go on the site, and the first person to not just Google fucking it gets stitches after I visit your abode, and tell them a bit about yourself (Dear Stitch Fix: I am old and fat) and they send you clothes you can keep or return.
Right? I know!
Oh, you're welcome.
I got this pretty gold necklace, and BRF Alex always wears gold necklaces, and she's fashionable, and now I wonder if I should be like her, except old and fat. It's like how my cousin Katie orders things from Athleta and once she puts them on, she's all, "Oh, look at the fat girl in athletic garb."
Anyway. I took pictures, and none of these look flattering in the pictures but they really are cute in real life. As real as this life is, what with my denial that I'm a homosexual man and all.
I love this little top, and I think maybe if I didn't wear it with blue cargo pants and a black bra...
Polka-dotted shirt, also cute if I had anything form-fitting on with it and didn't look like one of those clowns they're finding in the woods.
I like the idea of this dress, but it looks like someone threw up flowers on it.
steelee dan waring his gray sweater again.
That placemat never looks filthy till I photograph it, and then it always looks like I'm feeding animals in a Third World country or something. Note that SD is generally eating all the time. Also, what do you think of canned food for kittens? I hear it's healthier. I've never done it but I keep reading it's preferable.
After I tried on all my ensembles, Ned wanted to go to the goddamn folk festival. "We can walk from my house," said Ned, like that'd be fun.
Last year, we went to the folk festival, had a terrible time, and broke up the next morning. Not because we had a terrible time, but because, well, you know sort of all the reasons we broke up. Anyway, it's exactly a year later and Ned was hoping we could redo it or something.
One way to put me in a sparkling mood was to make me walk in the 90-degree heat to TIBET and back, only so we could stand in a crowd and then walk home again.
But I fucking did it. Oh my god, I was cranky. My feet were scraping in my shoes, even though Ned insisted I wear tennis shoes, and it was hot, and THAT WALK WAS INTERMINABLE. Also, I am a good sport. Is the thing. I go along to get along. That's me.
When we finally got downtown, a hundred and ninety seven years after we took off from Ned's house of torment and bad ideas, we stopped in to see Kit at her store.
"Remember last week, when I was cheerful and drunk?" I asked her. My hair had gotten sweaty and it was 75 feet wide. When I told her we'd walked from Ned's (she lives in Ned's neighborhood), she was appalled for me, and that made everything worthwhile.
"You should get drunk again," she advised.
Ned made me go to THREE FUCKING STAGES to see THREE FUCKING BANDS ("If we weren't already broken up, I'd have broken up with him over this," I groused to Kit.), and at the third stage, we noted that's where we'd been last year when we were having a rotten time. In our 2016 version of Going to the Folk Festival, Ned had found us drinks, and we were sitting on the grass playing "Would You" with all the people walking by. News flash: Ned and I mostly "would" with anyone under 30. Also, I totally "Would You'd" both men AND woman, but Ned stayed steadfastly pervy about women.
"Last year we hated each other, and this year we're picking out people to fuck," mused Ned.
"It's like we're growing," I said, looking for a first aid tent so they could amputate my legs after that walk, kind of like that poor guy in Gone With the Wind.
We noted we were right near the ironically named Goodyear sign, having just had a shit-ass year. Neither of us have met anyone else, and apparently Ned is still trying to kill me for it.
On the equally interminable walk back, we stopped at the neighborhood bar that still counts for Ned as a neighborhood bar, and for me as a "bar from my old neighborhood."
Ned paid. Damn straight he did.
So that's my weekend. Ned wants to walk back to the fucking festival today, and let me tell you who's Hans Solo today. Let me tell you who will never walk alone, except he's walking alone today. Let me tell you who said "folk you" to Ned.
Talk to you later.
Athletically,
June
