I’m trying to think of what happened this weekend, but it’s such a haze, what with the heroin and all. Or, alternatively, 18 bottles of fizzy strawberry water.
Let’s see. On Friday, I took myself for a pedicure, and I know. I’m living pretty high on the hog these days. I was supposed to have a date this weekend, and I ended up not having it. The pedicure was a precursor to said date, and do you think it’s acceptable to send a bill?
I also had big plans to do my freelance work this weekend, seeing as I am in the midst of a huge project. Naturally, I found eleventy things to do instead of freelance on Saturday, one of which was to deposit yet another check from a different job I’d finished. Look at Miss Saddlebags, over here.
Money. Moneybags. That’s what I meant to say.
On Saturday I admired my pedicure from Friday, went to the used bookstore because I need books to read during my romantic vacation with Kit–did I tell you we have a romantic trip planned? We do. Kit, some other women friends of hers, and I are going to a lake house for a few days next week, which means you probably won’t hear from me unless I (a) figure out how to blog from m’phone and (2) remember.
Also, I know you’re all, Oh, that June. Just doesn’t know how she gets by without her ladies. Me and all my women pals. The girls. It used to annoy me when Carrie Bradshaw referred to her women friends as “the girls.” It was the only unsophisticated thing she ever did. Were they bowling in 1950? The girls.
I also deep-conditioned my hair, which was also in preparation for said date, and do you think I can bill for my time in which that took to dry? Because it was seriously around six hours.
Behold also my band-aid for my mole removal, and you may wonder why I’d go on a date when I was so disfigured, but I’d been eager to go anyway. I figured that one girl with no arm from the shark bite goes on dates. Never mind her otherwise smokin’ body. I wonder how much less you weigh if you don’t have one of your arms?
Anyway, what with all that hard prep and then the being stood up part, I spent the evening with that strawberry fizzy water and Jane the Virgin, which is going to be my name soon if I don’t actually go on dates.
Oh! Oh! Also, on Saturday, I went to the liquor store, a thing I never do, and got some hard-hitting liquor.
Even the liquor store guy was all, “Wow. It’s…fluffed.” Oh, shut up.
Wine is 5 WW points a glass, see, and vodka is 4, and also it would seem I always get a migraine from wine. I think I told you that last time, and perhaps this is a good moment to remind you that the grandmother I’m turning into would remind you that she grew up in a gas station pretty much every time you spoke with her.
She grew up in a small town, see, and her father owned the town gas station. All the men would wander over and play checkers and, according to Grammy, would gossip “worse than women.” To me, it sounds ideal. My father and Aunt Mary would spend their summers in that town, and my father got to get up ungodly early and head with my great-grandfather down to the gas station, where he ate candy and napped in the tires and learned swear words from the checker-playing men. He’d also wander the downtown, where everyone knew him. He was particularly enamored of the old cranky guy who ran the town newspaper.
Meanwhile, back at home, my poor Aunt Mary had to hang around my great-grandmother, who had some sort of housecleaning condition where she’d scrub the sidewalks and so on, and I know you’re thinking, “That’s where June gets it.” Aunt Mary would have to wear a pinafore, not eat snacks (“No piecing between meals, Mary”) and basically have a suck-ass time compared to dad’s utopia down the street.
I have no idea how I got off on this tangent.
The point is, freelance work eluded me all day, and when I got up Sunday, I said, Well, you’re gonna be spending most of Sunday freelancing now, Missy, and it’s no one’s fault but your own. My inner voice is an irritating dad in 1960. My female inner voice is out with the girls.
This blurry photo is appropos of nothing, other than I wanted to show it to you and was afraid I’d forget. When it rains, the succulents on my steps have one purple plant that gathers the drops to form this little temporary diamond. It’s just so pretty.
I wonder if my succulents are annoyed that it’s raining again today. o for fotosinthesis’ sake. it rane again?
Plant talk. By June.
So I made coffee Sunday and mentally prepared for my grueling day, …and?
I’d left my freelance at work. HAH! I like how I act like I couldn’t possibly have driven there and gotten it. So now I’ve made all of you nervous because I’m so far behind on it.
Oh, wow, I just realized we get paid tonight at work. Y’all. This freelance is like to kill me, despite the fact that I didn’t do it at all this weekend. Still. In general, it’s taxing. But man! I’ve paid everyone I owed money to: The lawn guy, the doctor, three of four credit cards, etc. My credit is going up, up, up, and once it gets really excellent, Ima refinance my car.
So soon I will have to pay for my house, car, internet, phone, utilities. That’s it. I mean, sure, that’s, you know, about $1,200 every month, but it’s a hell of a lot better than all of my money, which it’s been for years now.
I have the bank automatically take savings out twice a month now, and the only way I can access my savings is to go into the bank. No card, no joined accounts online. I also have aggressively increased my contribution to my 401(k), my four oh wonk.
Look at June!
But so that I won’t collapse in resentment, I also decided that as of now, I can spend 10% of each freelance check on something fun. So on Sunday, when I realized that, darn, my freelance work isn’t here to work on, I went in search of a purse.
I adore my winter purse, and the day I finally found a winter bag I liked, I wasn’t even LOOKING for a bag. It was when I lived with Ned and had spending money, and I was just out shopping for fun when I came upon it at the Banana Republic, there.
I haven’t been happy with my summer purse, well, ever.
Here are my requirements:
- Outside pocket to put my phone.
- Separate compartments inside so it’s not just a jumble.
- Not huge.
- Not full of crap on the outside. I don’t understand why people want doo-dads and gee-gaws and zip-a-dee-doos all over the outside of their bags. Who are you, Diana Ross?
- Also, it needed to be pink, pale blue or silver. You know how I am.
So I went to this basic-girl store I never go to, mostly just because I’d never been there and I figured you never know. I’d been to Belt, as my mother calls Belk, and all they had were Coach bags and other similar $700 purses. Yeah, no.
Turns out, I had a great time at the basic-girl store. June. More basic than she cares to admit. Oh, I was in there forever, and ended up getting…
TAAA-DAAAA! It was the Steely Dan scrotum attached to it that really got me. And yes, it DOES have an outside pocket. Also, I had a coupon so I got it for $29. Wheeling, dealing June.
“I realize I’m too old for a fur ball on my purse,” I said, as I handed it and m’cash to the woman at the register.
“You’re NEVER too old for a furball,” the woman said, and I noted her giant false eyelashes, and it was right then that I fell deeply in love with her.
I think you’re probably too old for a furball when you’re 30, but fuck it. I’m bucking the system. With my marshmallow alcohol. No one better screw with me.
I’d better go to work, try to look sophisticated with my pink bag and so on.see yuu laytur. heeee.