Tomorrow, I have to model.
Again, June? We’re so sick of your modeling stories.
You know, when I was very small, I modeled. I was Saginaw, Michigan’s finest. My father, being a photographer and all, worked in a place that sometimes needed child models and I hope you’re holding onto your hat but I was shy then and easy to order around, so they used me. I was in a bank ad, with all my money management skills. I was in a milk ad, with my deep love of milk. Oh, I had to drink a ton of milk that day and I look miserable in all the ads.
Mom, do you still have them?
I’d even get money for it, and as soon as that cash was in my hand I searched frenetically for a place to spend it. I remember buying a baton with my modeling income once, and that is how I got started being a majorette.
Anyway, here we are again, with me and the modeling career. I don’t even understand what the hell I’m doing, I just know it’s a charitable event and work is supporting said charity and I have to show up in a little black dress and have my picture made.
Guess what I do not own.
So I’d like to point out to you that I’ve known about this for weeks, and I realize this entire post so far has been full of shocking information. June blew all her money as soon as it was in her hand? June didn’t prepare weeks beforehand? June has created chaos for no discernable reason?
I got asked out on two dates yesterday, and both were for … yesterday. I draw in people who don’t plan. Anyway, apparently my hot level was on high yesterday, and say “yesterday” one more time, Yesterday’s June. The point is, I had to turn down a lotta man bits because I had to go dress shopping. I could just see me on Friday, crying in a dressing room because I couldn’t find a dress.
I headed to White President, Black President, or whatever that store is called, and they gave me a stylist who was really nice to me except she kept talking about how fat I am in really subtle ways. Like, “That one is unforgiving to hips” and “That one is good for women with really flat stomachs.”
Look here, little stylist. Do you know how many men are waiting for me out there? Two. That’s how many.
I took these dressing-room pictures not only because I’m a narcissist, but also because I informed Lottie Blanco that I’d be sending photos to her and to her wife, Lottie Blanco 2, all night.
Neither of the Lottie Blancos give two shits about dresses. Also, I am so over everyone on earth being “a narcissist.” They can’t possibly all be narcissists.
I can, though, so let’s look at more pictures of me.
I don’t know what I’m doing with my hand, but I also know this dress just kind of hung there. Also, it’s hard to take a full-body picture of yourself.
Cleave! Ho! Also, could I look more tired? It had been a long day at work. One of the other copy editors is on vacation this week and it’s intense, man.
I branched out into jumpsuits but kept the odd hand gesture.
I even tried prints (and the revolution), because clearly the little black dress idea was not m’strong suit. I was keeping my pimp hand strong with that one hand, but not my suit of black.
Finally, I found this one, and it’s more of a big black dress, but I think I like it. I put it on hold, and my stylist grew noticeably cooler when I did. At least she stopped harping on how fucking fat I am. Does she realize I could sumo wrestle that skinny bitch to the ground?
I really did like her, actually. I mean, she was a funny person and she was helpful. But dear lord did I feel unattractive leaving there.
I left White Room, Black Curtains and thought I really should go to another store, see if they have any magic “You’re not 53 and fat” dresses. So I went to the God store.
There’s this clothing shop here that sells sort of peasanty hippy dresses and tops that I sometimes end up liking when I’m in the mood for some flow, and the first time I was there I was jamming out to the music when all of a sudden I realized I had some Jesus jams going on. For some reason, it’s like clothing made by God there. Fortunately, they don’t kick me out for being a heathen.
And look who I ran into!
This is Laura, and she’s a faithful reader, and coincidentally the last time I saw her was in 2011 when she and I went to church together on Easter. Now eight years later here we were at the God store.
“You’re on our computer all the time,” her daughter said.
So that was exciting, and she assured me I was not as fat as the stylist said I was, although let’s face it, I must lose weight. I lost weight moving in here, like 10 pounds, and maybe I should start a new career as a professional mover. I’d be fit as a fiddle and making serious bank, I’ll bet.
Anyway, I’ll likely go back tonight to get the dress because my modeling gig starts at 9:30 Saturday morning, and like Linda Evangelista I won’t get out of bed for less than $15,000 and I hope this charity knows it.