We have many items to cover today, so let’s get right to business [straightenss her papers the way Walter Cronkite did].
Just so I don’t go all over the place, as I’m wont to do, Ima tell you right now I wish to address the asshole on a dating site, my cool new manicurist, and the answers to our grid yesterday.
Oh, and before I begin (OH MY GOD, JUNE), I do want to tell you that when I woke up today, Edsel was pressed along the length of me, as he does, and at the top, Iris was similarly pressed against me, and Eds was using her as a pillow.
Had I not been pinned in a dog/cat sandwich, and had it not been black as pitch, I’d have captured it on film for you. He loves his cats, Edsel does.
Iris didn’t mind, by the way. She was purring and starfishing her paws.
And also (SERIOUSLY JUNE, TAKE A RITALIN), Camilo my coworker never addressed The Banana yesterday, after ALL THAT BUILDUP the day before. I even sent a very pressing work email about it, and nothing.
I saw on our work Instagram account that he was, like, literally lying on the floor of the studio, setting up an image for a work thing, but I truly feel that bananas should take precedence, when one has PROMOTED the idea that you’ve learned something so new about them that your brain “literally” exploded.
But, as with the majority of the emails I send at work, it went unnoticed. So.
Yes, we have no banana stories.
So, the asshole on the dating site.
A few months ago, I noted that I was done trying to date. I gave up. At least for the time being. But I was procrastinating the other day, and I technically HAD Tinder, I just had it deactivated. So all I hadda do was fire it back up, and that is when I immediately saw Ned, got pissed and decided to stay on it with a vengeance.
Won’t you buy my book, “Mature Reactions, by June Gardens”?
One of the profile photos I have up is from my Frida Kahlo costume, although I think I used one where I’m outside, not this one. It doesn’t matter. Why can’t I just tell a fucking story?
Another photo I have on there is my photo from that app that makes you look about 10 times better than you do. I have written under it, “The photo where I look hot is an app, unfortunately.”
Today I get a message from a new potential swain. “Who’s Frida Kahlo?”
Like, if you’re the kind of guy who doesn’t know who she is, you’re not going to be the kind of guy I like. You’re just not. You probably love watching professional football while at the bar at Applebee’s. You probably love Pixar films, and justify it by saying, “They write them so adults can enjoy them, too.”
You probably claim you were “in all the groups” in high school and you “got along with everybody.”
I don’t have time for the middle of the spectrum. I need an edge.
But look where that’s gotten me thus far. So I responded, with all the patience of a SAINT, “She was an artist. Mostly during the ’40s and ’50s. Was married to Diego Rivera.”
I mean, allow me to Google that for you.
As I was writing that, he wrote, “The one where you’re hot is an app?”
So, after he read the info on Frida, he responded, “Oh, the one with the unibrow.”
Do you get wings and a Bud Lite at Applebee’s, or…?
“And the one where you’re hot,” he repeated. “An app?”
“That’s an app?”
He did that twice. He wrote “an app,” and then followed it up with the extremely necessary “That’s an app?”
“I believe I noted that, verbatim, yes,” I wrote back. Annoyed. Then I couldn’t stand it.
“I also believe repeatedly peppering a woman about the genesis of ‘the one’ photo where she’s hot might not be the smoothest method for meeting someone, particularly when ‘the one’ hot photo was addressed in my profile.”
Then I unmatched his ass. I whip out the sexy school marm vocab when I’m pissed.
I mean, hide your true colors till you’ve got me hooked, like the other men I’ve dated. Geez.
At least I’ve found love in a hand job.
I haven’t had a pedicure since fall, and what with the broken toe and all, I will continue to not have one. I decided, however, to have a manicure last night, because it’s been a hard week of fending off Appleasses. Asslebees.
I usually go, which you know from your Big Book of June Events, to Elegant Nail & Tan (Slogan, “We actually have no way for you to tan”), but there is another nail place closer (Slogan, “We’re two minutes from your door, as opposed to three”) and I’ve never given them a try, so last night I did.
“So, what’s your story?” asked the manicure guy, and we told each other our life stories.
Oh my god, he was da bomb. He’s hilarious, and he loves Italian food, and he made two of my nails reflective metallic!
Anyway, he was hilarious and smart, and also oddly psychic. He mentioned saying something on my blog before I told him I had one. He asked if I needed a phone charge before I realized I did need one. We discussed his blog name and he said, “Señor Kittens.”
“You don’t even HAVE kittens,” said the woman next to him.
Weird. The Oddly Psychic Señor Kittens.
I see that I have droned on and have not addressed our grid from yesterday, wherein you listed all the people from my photos.
I do not have time now to break them all down for you, but tune in tomorrow for a Very Special Saturday June where I reveal all. Maybe I’ll even finally have that banana story. Sounds appealing, June!
The one-hot-photo gal,