I wonder if I could be any more sick of having pets right now. Lily started falling off the cat condo–because she's a stupid drunk, is why–and in a panic because Lily was gonna fall on her, Iris CLIMBED ONTO ME all nervously and JUMPED OFF ME as though I were an inanimate object with no nerve endings. Now I look like someone was flogging my arm with a broom full of barbed wire.
It bugs me when people call it "barb wire." Barb Wire is someone you went to school with. Barb Wire wore the same Gloria Vanderbilt jeans for a week in February 1982. And speaking of Gloria Vanderbilt and releasing the splendor of me
(I totally wore Gloria Vanderbilt, by the way. The splendor of me was released all over my high school), I also hate it when people say "whip cream." Do you like how far I took you down that sentence only to say something that had nothing to do with Gloria Vanderbilt whatsoever? Oh, and "old fashion." Old Fashion Lemonade sold here! Are you fucking allergic to "ed"s? God.
So my arm hurts, and when Iris did the climb.jump.gouge move, I screamed, and Edsel was eating at the time, but he cowered away .004 inches from the floor as though he were in Vietnam, leaving a half-full dish, so then I had to pet him and assure him everything was okay as my arm hung by a tendon, so he finally finished eating and now he's leaning over right next to me, gagging, because everything went down his digestive tract while he had a nervous headache and the vapors.
Have I mentioned how not-at-all sick of having pets I am?
And no, I do NOT see how parts of Lu's face are getting white already. Let's not talk about it and move on.
Oh! I know what we can talk about!
I went to a different place, because they had a sign out saying it was cheap there, and yay. And when I sat down, a youngish white guy started pedicuring me. Which, I can honestly say, in all my years of getting pedicures, has never happened. I got all stereotype-y and decided he owned the place, which turned out to be true. He asked about my tattoos, and we got onto the topic of where I've lived, and then he grabbed my calf to start the doing-all-the-crap-they-do-to-your-legs stuff.
"Oh, wow," he said. "I can always tell who's from the West Coast, because you all really take care of yourselves out there."
Who wants to tell him about my Pop Tart habit first? Which of you wishes to break that news to him? Anyway, he kept flattering me, and telling me his life story (I love it when men think the way to get you interested is to keep talking about themselves. Says June, in her blog about herself. Do you want me yet?), and I JUST KNEW he was gonna make his move. Sure enough, he walked me to my car and gave me his phone number. Let's get Lily drunker and have her dial him up.
So I guess I won't be going back there again. It's getting harder and harder for me to go places where the men aren't desperately in love with me. Geez.
I'd better get ready for work, as there are doubtless a whole slew of men just waiting for me to waltz in, Mary Richards to their Murray Slaughter, but remind me to tell you tomorrow about how everyone in my family cannot control their bowels.
Oh! And my coworker Deb Downer had a good question yesterday and I will ask it of you: How much do you desire me? No, no. I already know the answer to that.
What was the first record you bought? It could be a whole album or a 45. Do tell.
One-armed June, out. Hot, but out.