Today at work, we're having a photo sesh, because we're revamping the company website. They've asked me to be one of the people posing for said pictures, and in my mind I had us phonily leaning over the conference room table, looking over a document–something I never, ever do in real life. But it turns out the shots are going to be more casual than that, which has not lessened my obsession over looking flawless, anyway.
I mean, I know I'm in there because I'm the token old chick, but I want to be the "WOW! They hire hot old chicks!" old chick. Last night for Ned's birthday, we went to the baseball game (I begged him to go. BAH!) and when Ned got in line for beer, I said, "I'm getting a bottled water. Photo sesh."
Then he got a brat, and I was all, "Not me. Photo sesh." It's like he's dating fat Kate Moss without the cocaine.
Speaking of Ned's birthday, and what else HAVE I spoken of as of late, he was vehement that I not get him anything for his birthday because we're allegedly moving, and need all the cash we can get. So the only thing I got him was his childhood version of Moby Dick, with which he has been obsessed ever since he couldn't find it at his mom's house over Mother's Day weekend.
I got the brilliant idea to get him this book, and emailed his nice brother to say what I was doing, and could I send him some book covers and he could identify which was the real book. His brother cheerfully complied, until 384838483822 book covers later, and then guess who became over me. Oh, did I look for that book. I even got my friend Dot on the case, as she is good at this sort of thing.
Finally, I told Ned what I'd wanted to get him and couldn't. I sent him five covers just as an example, and he wrote back: "JUNE! That very first cover is it! You found my book!"
Sigh. His brother remembered a photo from INSIDE the book, not the cover.
Anyway, I got him that, and then I felt bad that that's all I got him, so night before last I went to the liquor store and got him some gin. Ned is forever saying he loves a gin and tonic in the summer, and yet I never see him drink gin and tonic. I always feel slightly seedy going to the liquor store, and worry that the salespeople think I hit a different liquor store every night to keep my gin habit going.
I also got him tonic and a lime, and then yesterday at lunch I stampeded to Rite Aid to get a gift bag, and I also picked up some…girl medication. I have a …girl issue right now, that Grace Kelly would not tell you about so I won't, but let's just say if I could sit on one of those bristle aquarium cleaners and spin around for an hour, I'd be happy.
The point is, I got to the counter with my gift bag and my girl meds, and when the woman was ringing them up, I heard myself say, "I'm not giving this away as a gift."
What is wrong with me? "I wasn't even thinking that, ma'am," said the sales clerk, who is as over me as Ned's brother and they ought to form a support group.
At the end of the workday yesterday, Ned emailed me. "I really feel like having some gin tonight. On my way home, I'm going to the liquor store."
Son of a…
For TWO AND A HALF YEARS of knowing Ned, he's NOT ONCE said he was going to the liquor store to buy gin, and the VERY DAY I have it for him, what does he say?
"DON'T GET GIN!" I emailed back.
"Oh! Okay. Well, what if I get lime and tonic, then?"
SON OF A…
"So now you've ruined ALL the surprises I had for you," I told him. "Just don't stop off and get a 16-year-old prostitute on the way home, either."
The only thing Ned did not blow was the fact that I got him an apple crumble pie, and a fine card.
Ned said I absolutely found the right Moby Dick, which by the way is often hyphenated, a thing that annoys me not at all. At the end of the night, I am happy to tell you Ned read the book to me, and wow, is Moby not hyphen Dick ever a fascinating book.
We had a gin and tonic on my deck, and by "we" I mean I watched Ned have a gin and tonic on my deck. Photo sesh.
Then we screamed off to the baseball game, where I think we won, I'm not sure. There was an extremely hot young black woman in front of us, with a really thin, hot young body, and she had on acid wash elastic-waist jeans that believe it or not she looked bangin' in. She was doing a whole ironic mom jean thing. "If I wore those, I'd look mentally disabled," I told Ned.
Anyway, much of my evening was spent watching her, and looking at her thumb ring, and her cute white toeanail polish, and basically wishing I were a hot 19-year-old black girl. Guess what I am not.
So that sums up Ned's birthday, which was a fine event, and for 20 days he is my much-older manfriend. Then next month we'll be the same age again. I am hoping that there is some screwup in the system and I turn 19 instead of 49. And also black. I need to get over the black girl. But you didn't see her. You'd have died, too.
Okay. June Moss, out.