Yesterday at lunch, I ordered Panera (grain bowl) and right now I’ve just turned on the oven to warm up that ridiculous loaf of bread they give you. It’s not good unless you warm it. Otherwise it’s a sad hard cold chunk of white bread you can’t chew unless you’re a mastodon.
I guess mastodons would be better at shish kabob than Panera bread.
I also ordered a goddamn salad from Panera, to eat after my trainer last night, the trainer who, mother of god, was tryina kill me. When I first get there, I get on the elliptical for 10 minutes, a thing that used to exhaust me and now I don’t even notice I’m doing it. We’re usually catching up on our lives during those 10 minutes.
“Today we’re going to be doing some couple work,” she said, pursing her lips at me as I made the scissoring gesture. She probably takes a nice Xanax before I arrive.
Hang on. Lemme go see if my bread is good…
It’s still a little like breakfast for prisoners, but whatever. Am famished. Am certain the other side of my scissor would be delighted I’m having bread and also butter this morning.
Anyway, we did things like she’d step up on that box and do a bicep curl while I did a squat. Then I’d do a bicep curl on that box while she squatted.
There was one time where I sat at that one machine where the weight is on your feet and you lift it up till your thighs are screaming that they want a divorce
while she did jumping jacks. Then it was my turn to jumping fucking jack while she lifted and then we did it all over again, trying to beat the number of reps we did the time before. Then I killed myself.
No one has eaten a salad with more gusto than your pal June, over here, afterward. The soundtrack was just me crunching vigorously.
And that about sums up yesterday, other than pesky work, which required me to work all day. The nerve.
Oh! Also, after my delicious and oh-so-satisfying salad (did not at all want a giant roasted chicken and some mashed potatoes) I watched my show. Do you watch The Durrells in Corfu? It’s on Masterpiece Theater, which a circa 1994 boyfriend of mine used to call Masturbator Theater. We aren’t together any longer.
Let me digress for a moment. Once we were headed to a party. “I think you’ll really like my friend’s tattoo he just got,” he told me in the car. “It’s a Monet. I know you like Monet.”
All the way there, I’m thinking, how on earth do you make a tattoo of a Monet? How do you make it all slurry with the lines and so on? It fascinated me. I could not wait to get there and see the Monet tattoo.
“Show June your new tat,” said old Masturbator Theater.
The guy exposed his shoulder.
There? Was a Nagel. Not just a Nagel. It was a Nagel of a woman bent over grabbing her shins.
Nagel. Monet. I’ll bet they were friends.
Anyway. Not long ago I discovered The Durrells in Corfu, a fairly true account of an actual family who moved from England to Greece in the ’30s. Everyone in the family is delightfully quirky. It’s like Eight is Enough with likeable characters and not that irksome Joanie with her side ponytail.
MY POINT IS, my Firestick told me another episode was ready and I gleefully turned it on and
IT WAS THE SERIES FINALE. I had no idea it was going to end! Oh my god that was devastating, and I realize I have to get a life and grab life by the shins and so on but that pretty much finished me for the day.
Every time I like a show it ends. I really liked this one show back in the early 2000s about this family who lived in Philadelphia in the 1960s. They were Catholic and the girl danced on American Bandstand. I loved it.
I adored this show called I Love Dick. One season. Canceled.
I like to think it’s my refined tastes. I’m too lofty for the common man, what with my scissor jokes and couch from the secondhand store. Not to mention my raspberry beret.
I have to go. My throat is still fixing to hurt and that adds insult to Corfu injury, frankly.