Because you know how linear I am, I'll describe my weekend for you, Friday through Sunday, and how long do you give me to screw that up?
Does it bug you, you Tidy Tess types, when I'm all over the place the way I am, or does it fascinate you, the way happy, well-adjusted people fascinate me?
I checked my photos, and this was taken Friday. It's the only photo I took Friday, and I clearly took it by accident. I think that's the ceiling at work. So, I must have accidentally taken it at work. Nothing gets past me. I saw my work ceiling, and right then I knew.
At least I think it's work ceiling. Oh my god, who cares. Let's discuss instead how my skin is sagging around my mouth and how we all need to hit my tip jar to fix that shit. I'm thinking only of all of you. Having to look at that sag award.
At lunchtime on Friday, I came home and did the thing I do to myself occasionally, which is get obsessed with an old movie in the middle of it, watch an hour of it, then have to return to work. This one starred Gregory Peck and Deborah Kerr, who always annoys me a little bit. She's always so convinced that she's smart and cute in every movie. She's always a little smug. With that goddamn smirk.
Anyway, he was F Scott Fitzgerald, and she was some woman named Sheila, which Gregory Peck kept annoyingly pronouncing as "Shilo," and I was all, "Where's Zelda?"
Zelda Fitzgerald has always fascinated me.
With her whole It Girl of the '20s thing, which is cool enough, to ending up drunk and crazy, and I wonder what was wrong with her, really. I mean, is it something she could be taking a pill for now? Did she have something half our over-posting-on-Facebook-friends have today?
It turns out in the movie, she was already sanitariumed and in Asheville, a thing I didn't even know about her till I went home and rented the whole damn movie because I wanted to know what happened next. Poor F Scott Fitzgerald was on a downward spiral, and no one cared about his writing anymore, and young people thought he was dead, and he was the victim of ageism.
I FEEL YOU, F SCOTT FITZGERALD.
This entire time I've been writing you, Edsel has rested his head on my lap, so I let him out, then he wanted back in and when he did Steely Dan wanted desperately to go out, which of course no. So now Edsel's back with his head on my lap, wriggling the rest of himself, and S Dan is crying pitifully and trying to climb my robe to let me know just what an outrage he finds this.
Rare Steely-Dan-sleeping pose.
On Saturday, I dragged some of my friends to the Greek Festival, which is more a food festival, but whatever. We got there just as the dancing was ending for two hours, which reminds me of this woman I worked with at a restaurant in my college town. She didn't go to MSU, and there was a Tommy James and the Shondells concert at MSU. She walked EIGHTY-SEVEN HOURS trying to find the venue on campus, and when she finally got there, she heard, "Mony, mony! Thank you! Goodnight!"
Thank you. Goodnight. That has always killed me.
So I missed the dancing, but I did not miss getting all the food the Greek gods had to offer. I had some Zeus-y roasted chicken, and it was well-cooked so I don't think I'll get food Poseidon-ing. I took my Nikes right over to the rice and stewed green beans, and had a little Hera the dog with a glass of Greek wine.
There was this whole NOTHER line for pastries, and it moved one Demeter per hour. I'm sorry to tell you I got five different desserts, and Eros must have made the almond crescent cookies. Mother of Zeus it was delicious.
Naturally, yesterday morning was when that headache study called to ask what I'd eaten the day before, and I was so pleased to say, "Nine hundred Greek pastries."
Dammit, it got late, and I have to go, but yesterday I saw that new Jeff Bridges movie called Hell or High Water, and I know it looks like a boy movie but it's really very good. Highly recommend.
Talk to you later,
F June Fitzgardens
