I’ve gotten up, fed all the animals like I’m Fern in Charlotte’s Web. Not that she really fed that many animals other than Wilbur. With a bottle.
Now I want a baby pig.
Anyway, then I showered and ventured in here, to put on my Laila Ali dryer cap and write to you. But I looked outside and everyone was out there being autumnal.
Lily’s eye is all scrinchy right now, a thing I’m assuming is the fault of Steely Dan, who always wants to roughhouse. Horse around. With his shenanigans.
I am 109.
See? As soon as I took this, Steely Dick ran over and bopped poor Lily in the empty head, Lily who never wants to do anything but fluff. And butt her empty head under your hand so you pet her, which is not incredibly annoying in the slightest.
I want to thank Edsel for how pristine that doorknob is. Why do I have to have all these pets?
Anyway, so there was my distraction for today, before my Ritalin kicks in, and WHAT A DELIGHT Ritalin is. Someone ask me where Iris is. I love that. I love taking 394834924002 photos of the animals and someone has to ask where ONE OF THE NINETY is who wasn’t around.
I also love, “I was carrying groceries and juggling oranges and had Edsel on a leash and was dangling the Magna Carta in my fingers when a hummingbird flitted by for .08 seconds.”
“No picture, June?”
Last night, after a full day of working on something intense at work, and I know I like to complain and kvetch and carry on about the intense work, but truthfully I kind of love it. Anyway, I was doing intense work all day, then also I’d promised a guy I’d stay and help him with his stuff, after 5:00. He’s starting a side business and wanted me to zip up his promotional hooo haa words of hoo haa. So I stayed after and helped him, and then I figured, well, I’m already here, I might as well do my freelance work at my desk.
I finished that particular freelance project last night, and another one comes October 16. That gives me
Philadelphia freedom. Philadelphia freedom took me knee-high to a man. What the hell are the lyrics, really?
…Oh, dang, I just looked it up. Those really ARE the lyrics.
I owned that 45. And the reason I owned it is my friend Vicki had an older sister, Ann, and what’s beautiful about all our first names is we don’t have to say a thing. You just look at our names and say, Midcentury. America. Girls.
[Disclaimer: My real name is not June.] [America gasps.]
So, my friend Vicki had a sister, Ann, or maybe it was Anne, but either way, she was older than us and therefore cooler, and as my 10th birthday approached, she said, “You want to ask for the 45 of Philadelphia Freedom, and you want Blue Jeans perfume by Avon.”
Why, I hadn’t known I’d wanted EITHER, so I was glad she cleared it up. If memory serves, I got not the cologne but a powder, which came all in a puff that was self-contained.
…Searching for that did not turn up what I remember getting, and it could be that I kaleidoscoped the memory with another one of another perfumed puff, but what the internet DID do for me was present me with an array of Avon products I had clean forgotten about.
Why was Avon the shit back then? Everyone’s mom and grandma and aunt and sister and transitioning brother had them the Avon. I guess this is before snooty cosmetics counters, aka my Shangri-La, became a thing in every town.
My grandmother had this on her vanity, and I had no idea it was an Avon product. What I DO recall is spraying some on, and by “some” I mean I emerged from the bedroom and my grandmother said, “WHAT ON EARTH DID YOU DO?”
“I sprayed on some of your Rupture,” I said.
And then I watched my grandmother commence with the attempts to breathe again, as she was hysterical for 29 hours. Rupture. Oh, she loved that.
Any time I did something ridiculous, she’d scream to the phone to dial one of her sisters and report it. Gramma would have been great at Facebook updates.
And she never said Hello. “Oh, what’cha doing?” was her opening line. I guess it was a folksy way of saying, “Have you got time to talk?”
Her sisters and aunt always had time to talk. Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk I’m a woman’s man, no time to talk.
Dear Every Single Person I Am Related To: Why the FUCK did you never get me this? How happy would I have been to have received not only a cosmetic, but a CAT cosmetic. A cat cosmetic WITH SPARKLY SHINY EYES? Goddammit. Plus? Box with cat picture.
Dear Family: I mean. DID YOU PURPOSELY HIDE FROM ME THAT THESE ITEMS EXISTED??
I had one of these. My friend, Pal From MA, had a mom who sold Avon, which is yet another reason there was no excuse to get me the sparkly cat or the poodle shown above. Anyway, you lifted this poor blond girl’s head, and inside was some solid Nicole Brown Simpson perfume.
I didn’t have the blond girl, I got the dark-haired Asian girl, maybe because they were trying to encourage me to embrace diversity, or maybe that’s what my friend’s mom had left over. I don’t know the ins and outs, y’all, the solid-perfume-for-brains ins and outs.
I FORGOT ABOUT THIS. Had some iteration of it. Oh my god. I feel like eventually, that puff didn’t puff so well, and you were hitting yourself with a ring of plastic, hoping to get the last bits of powder.
My mother totally had this, and I want to say it was, like, white lipstick once you opened it. Which is quite a look. Hey, I went the entire last decade of the century with brown lips, so.
How did I get off on this tangent? It feels like so long ago. But before I leave you, what I meant to tell you a hundred vintage Avons ago was that when I finally got home last night, there was a box on my porch from my friend Dot. And?
LOOK WHAT SHE FOUND US! She found us another gay porn Santa, for all our Christmas gay-porn needs!
I had this years ago, and it’s supposed to hang over your porch light, and the first year I showed it to y’all someone was all, That looks like a blowup doll Santa, and much like the day we all got into writing Amish erotica (“Plow my fields, Jebediah”), we also had a big time with this in the comments.
Then eventually, because this thing is made of plastic, it fell apart and there was no more gay porn Santa in the land. Amish erotica will always be with us, though. Pull my bonnet, hard.
I gotta go. Look at the time, Brother Yost. You really churn thou butter.
This has been another useful edition of Book of June.