Let’s talk about people who don’t have full-time jobs, compared to those who do.
“Why aren’t you calling me back?”
“Why didn’t you answer my myriad texts where I sent you a cartoon of myself waiting by the phone?”
“Did you watch that video I sent you?”
When you work full time, you get home to a luxurious “catching up on everything” time, like, oh, eating and feeding/walking the animals and paying bills and mopping the muddy-footed floor. Then you fall into bed.
And I even have an easy commute!
And weekends? Well, that’s when you do the laundry and the groceries and the cleaning, allegedly, and I DON’T EVEN HAVE KIDS. I can’t imagine what the childfull people do, which I would be if I weren’t barren. Or hadn’t gotten my tubes tied in 1996.
So if you’re reading this, with your “retired” or “part time” or “independently wealthy” or “vagabond in a library” self, please know that is what we 40-hour-a-week people are doing when we don’t jump to observe your every move or watch your every cat video.
SO THAT IS WHY UNWORKY PEOPLE SHOULD NOT CALL AT 7:00 PM AND EXPECT A REPLY BY NOON THE NEXT DAY.
I really do hate how people are making themselves into cartoons now, by the way. First of all, you weigh more than your caricature, who are you kidding, and second of all, most cartoonists aren’t even funny, and now you come along and think YOUR cartoon will amuse us? I got two words for you: Marmaduke.
What mood? What angry phase?
I had to leave rather abruptly yesterday, after I slammed my hands down in the desk and stalked out of here, or alternatively as I had to head to work and ignore the 29394931 IMs and texts and calls I received.
Anyway, up there is a photo of a store I’d like to try, a new store downtown, but THEY ARE CLOSED SUNDAYS AND OH MY GOD THAT BUGS ME.
WHY do stores close on the weekend? Close on fucking Monday, when we’re all at work except for the people who have time to send me cat videos and then wonder why I haven’t written back.
Who keeps saying “mood”?
Here’s that time we ran into Steely Dan while he was at another house, and who always pretends to be glad to see us? Is it that phony Steely Dan? I wonder what the other houses call him, what shit-ass names he’s been given that aren’t nearly as cool as the name I gave him. “Oh, here’s Smokey, back around for his dinner.”
I also never had time to tell you the thrilling news that I bought a hat this weekend, at my hair place. This woman came in while I was there, to drop a bunch off that she’d knitted, and guess who made a sale 14 seconds later.
It has a hole on top, in case you have your hair up, so you can stick your hair through. I would, like, break the hat if I tried that. “Hat, you’re dilated to 10.”
I’ve got no reason to show you this other than to say Lily is pretty. Her caricature would be a lithe, sleek gray cat.
So, there. Now I’ve shown you all the photos from my riveting weekend.
I worked like a demon yesterday–you know how they work–and then I came home and did some, oh, work, and I don’t know if I’ve made this clear or not, but every second with my phone last night. PING! with a text and BLOOP! with an email. Finally I just turned the sound off and plugged that thing in in the back room, so I could sit catatonically on the couch for awhile.
When I was at the eye doctor last week, I said, “Do I HAVE to wear dailies?” and the doctor gave me monthlies. He didn’t give me a period, because please see June, old.
So he gave me a pair of monthlies, and stop saying “monthlies,” and I’ve been wearing them, and frankly I hated them. They took forever to put in, which is what she said. They were very uncomfortable, is my point. As monthlies are.
At some point last night, while I was catatonic, I realized I had no contacts in. That the room was, you know, blurry. I must have taken them off and thrown them away at some point without thinking about it.
So, those are gone. Guess I’m back to dailies. And I don’t know if you WEAR dailies, but there’s one brand I abhor and one brand I’d marry, and they both come in blue boxes and they’re named Daily Aqua Moist Daily lenses or something.
What I’m saying to you is half the time I order the wrong brand, and then I have a whole month of dinner plates in my eyes.
…Wait! I just found some of the contacts I HATE, in this desk drawer. PLEASE REMEMBER FOR ME that I hate Dailies Aqua Comfort Plus.
Rolls off the tongue. Also, “comfort.” If by “comfort” you are the Marquis de Sade.
I realize that made little sense.
So that brings us to today, which so far seems pretty typical, except that I feel like I’m getting a cold, which it may have been pointed out to me is something I think about 14 times a week, so. Anyway, behold the Shining twins, waiting for breakfast. Also, bonus: Steely Dan trying to claw his way in through the window.
It’s very leapy at House of June.
And perhaps you’re enjoying THE MUDDY FLOOR, which Edsel just brought in. I have that damn towel by the door, and two mud rugs in the back, but he ran in without me noticing the depth and breadth of his muddiness and now I have to Shark the damn floor again.
He’s off to bark at the gaybors’ greyhound. I hope that bugs the shit out of them.
All right, I gotta go. I got an extension on my freelance work, because they said I could and yay, so naturally once they told me that, tonight I’m going out with Kit. We’re gonna see someone do a reading, and that someone is a person I dated a few times, which, scandal.
Really, hooo care? I think we’ll both be, like, oh hayyy.
This does not mean I won’t be in full makeup, however.
Talk to you soon. I hope it’s during the workday, via text or IM or call or email or tagging me on Facebook or…