[Floomps into your cubicle with her coffee.] You would not believe what all I’ve done this weekend. [Looks for boss.] Is he in yet?
See, in real life this scenario would not be true, because my actual boss, Thousandman, is always in before me. He’s very no-nonsense and industrious. You can imagine the joy he has supervising me.
I did a lot this weekend, including juggle three men, although not literally, because have you met my upper body strength? “Well, these pickles are apparently just gonna live in this jar, forever unopened.”
Here is not a man, and not anyone I juggled. And yet she informed my weekend. This is Slutty Pancakes, whom you’ve met here before. She’s moving to California, here she comes, right back where she started from (which is on fact not true. She’s from here), and she had a little going-away bash Friday. On my way into the bar, I met a creamsicle-colored cat who was like an orange version of Lily, except she ran to me all friendly and then swatted at me.
“You are the reason people don’t like cats,” I warned her as I stalked off. “keeeep on walkin’, bitz!” I heard her meep at me.
It was the kind of bar dogs come to. And hi, I’m June, I’m not sure we’ve met but I enjoy a bar that allows dogs. Insert disparaging remark about m’looks here.
On Saturday afternoon, I had a first date, and also it appears I only attend places with concrete floors.
Yes, I’ve been dating another person casually, but in my attempts to not be an anxious attacher–a thing I’m still obsessed with reading about and learning and so on, and go ahead and ask me about anxiously attached people; I now have my PhD in it–I’m abstaining from putting my eggs in one basket. So Saturday I put my eggs in the basket of a very tall photographer originally from LA-ish, who it turns out lives two miles from me. We spent several hours extolling the virtues of both our homes, past and present, and he is our people. You guys would like him.
“I get a mention, don’t I?” he asked. Then we got into a discussion on what his blog name would be. “Why not just use my name?” he asked. So if I continue seeing him, we’ll be using his actual name and also his social security number.
Then on Saturday night, I got up with another guy, who is a bass player, and I’d like to tell you this is my first bass player but it isn’t. I have dated so many musicians that at this point they could form a band and even have, like, Pete Best types to back them up should they be unable to perform their duties. Although Pete Best came first. Whatever.
- lead singers,
- Marvin the guitarist,
- another guitarist in college (I mean, he’s not in college now. You know what I mean),
- two bass players,
- three drummers (drummers are big with me)
- and a triangle player.
I made up the triangle player part and — oh! I forgot another guitarist I dated for like half a second. What the hell was the name of his band? It was like Why Ask Why or something. Oh god, now he’ll Google his band one day and be all, THAT bitch. I’d forgotten her.
Oh my god, anyway.
The point is, this guy is a bass player who mentioned his daughter is in college majoring in, like, bass playing (is that a thing?) as well, and at one point he got up to go to the bathroom and she was playing in another room. How hilarious is that? I mean, okay, you’re not reaching for your needle and thread to stitch your sides, but really, it was pretty cool. And that is what that picture is of 11,000 paragraphs ago, is her band playing while we lurked in the doorway.
I got home pretty early, really, and when I did, Steely Dan did his safari impression, where he leaps onto my “jeep” and I play a terrified passenger.
In fact, I asked the bass player what kind of music he liked and he said, “Steely Dan.” You can imagine my delight in announcing who my cat was.
Here’s your old pal June, in pajamas at 9:00 on a Saturday. I just met the bass player for drinks, and by drinks I mean green tea, as he had to, you know, play bass somewhere. You can see I may have popped in to Ulta after, as they were having a sale and Dear Kaye, Oh my GOD I waited till I was out of makeup. And I didn’t even buy all I wanted, such as new mascara or eye shadow. Am still digging out dregs of the old stuff.
I did buy new lipstick, and DON’T EVEN ASK me what kind, because I’d taken my small, sexy purse with me and didn’t have reading glasses, so I couldn’t read a FUCKING THING at Ulta and had no idea the names of anything I got. But I purchased cuticle cream, a pinky nude lipstick that I like, because I don’t know about you but I buy a lot of pinky nudes and come home to discover I’ve once again purchased the corpse lips look for myself, but this time it’s just the right shade. Anyway, I know someone’s gonna bug me about what kind, like we have the same pigment or something so whatever I bought is going to be the answer to your lipstick prayers, but the damn thing is still in my sexy date purse and I don’t wish to get up to OH HANG ON. GOD.
Urban Decay. Sheer Liar.
What an unfriendly name.
I also bought deodorant and razors, because I’m full of fun.
On Sunday, Ned asked me if I wanted to see a movie. Okay, he doesn’t really count as a date. But he paid. So.
And he also bought me ice cream. Back there is a sign saying, You aren’t supposed to have ice cream here. Don’t eat it here. Cut it out, guys. This is for the pretentious coffee shop.
Well, then get some goddamn TABLES for the ICE CREAM place, then. Anyway, rebel rebel, you tore your dress. And you know what a rule-follower I am. Maybe you don’t. But I get very nervous about not following the rules. But Ned said oh, please. I’m president of a company. I’ll sit where I want.
We saw some movie where Kristen Stewart is a medium. I think Ned just wanted to torture me with Kristen Stewart. Also, every movie Ned ever took me to has had a vomit scene, and this one had a barfing ghost. I am not even kidding you.
In summary, I saw men thrice and had sex nonce. Which, go, appealing June.
Okay, I gotta go. It’s time for work and I’m in a robe, and unless they’ve changed my title to Elder, is not gonna work.
Your personal friend,