It’s Sunday night. Does 6:48 p.m. count as Sunday night? In 12 minutes, The Wonderful World of Disney would be coming on if this were real life, because 1973 is real life and I don’t know what the hell this is. Anyway, it would be coming on, and my mother would be preparing a Swanson’s TV dinner for me, and I’d mos def have the “It’s Sunday night” angst, so I say 6:48 p.m. counts as Sunday night.
If this were a Saturday at 6:48 p.m., it’d totally just be early evening.
Anyway, it’s Sunday and not 1973, and I do not have a Swanson’s dinner for myself.
Nor a Libbyland Sundown Supper, which I ate like it was good back then, and which I’m quite certain was devoid of the chemicals.
I did, however, just now prepare another large pot of pumpkin chili to last me this week, and I used Libby brand pumpkin, as it was on display at the Ghetto Lion grocery store I now go to in my new marginal hood. It was up there with the pie crust and whipped cream, and I suppose it’s someone’s whole job to make those little displays at the grocery store. “Here’s everything to make fruit salad.”
“Here’s all you need to make lasagna, in one convenient display.”
“Ass itch? Here are the ointments for you, plus a doughnut to sit on!”
They oughta have the “You’re single and you know it” display, where they sell 40s of malt liquor and Mallowmars. Videotapes of Sleepless in Seattle.
Anyway, last Thursday night, we had our work Christmas party.
“Yes, June, you already told us about that.”
No, I didn’t. That was the work Christmas party for the whole office. THIS was the work Christmas party for my department. The creative department. We’re the creatives. How much do you suppose everyone else hates our Fame, I’m Gonna Live Forever guts? Like, how annoying does accounting think we are, do you think?
We had the party at a gallery downtown. So you could eat and drink, but then also shop for shit. In all, a perfect way to have a party.
And, like, let’s say all of a sudden you’re becoming an introvert when your whole life you were an extrovert and you’re all, Maybe she’s born with it, Maybe it’s clinical depression. You don’t know. All you know is everything is different all of a sudden. Let’s say the idea of going out now repels you when it used to compel you.
But look! Here’s a party where you can leave the crowd and sniff soap!
Also, I got to wander off with Lottie Blanco and Jane West, who every time we came across a gaudy sparkly item, they would say, “This looks like you, June.”
Hmpf. (Secretly wanted every sparkly gaudy item.)
Anyway, eventually, I got into the swing of things. Then went home and crawled into ball for 72 hours.
Actually, I pretty much did. I went to work Friday, but awoke with a migrane that day. I blamed it on the
of wine I had Thursday. I really cannot drink at all anymore. Not even a drop. I get a migraine every time. I took a pill and the headache went away, mostly.
So then I ended up working late, and coming home and wisely having Chinese, which, by the way…
…this can’t be good. Right? I mean, it’s been nice knowin’ ya.
Anyway, I went to bed at a reasonable hour and woke up Saturday with
migraine. Oh my god. It lasted ALL DAY. I stayed in bed all day long. I got up only to let the dog out and slap pet food in bowls.
This gave the animals ample opportunity to observe me. I swear they have to report back to some sort of headquarters.
And because I know that EVEN WITH a 24-hour MIGRAINE I managed to photograph three of the pets, SOMEone will still be all, “Where’s Lily?”
I think she loves Milhous.
Anyway, then today I had to cram in all the errands I meant to run all weekend into ONE DAY, and here it is now 7:08 p.m. and I’m all, Can I just get to the part where I can lie around and enjoy my own self today?
So Ima wrap this up, but before I can lie around and watch Poldark like it’s good, which it’s not but now I have to know what happens–though really I don’t care what happens, I just kind of want Poldark to take off his shirt. Before any of that, Ima make some avocado salad dressing that I read about that sounds good.
What you’re gonna wanna do is not add cilantro to that recipe. Because cilantro can suck it.
I don’t KNOW what’s up with me and the actual cooking lately. I’m like Rachel — no, I can’t even say that about myself. I love self too much to E-V-O-go there.
I leave you with this squirrel standing on St. Francis’s head, a thing St. Francis probably liked, unless he’s on the rag or had to get a lot done or something, in which case he’s probably all, Goddammit.