Nov. 1981. Dear diary: You know, I've got a lot more going for me than many other people. I'm very smart, I'm NOT ugly, I'm not shy, I'm not a social outcast, I'm not fat, I've got nice hands, a pretty class ring, a nice house, expensive stereo, leniant rules, straight teeth, thick hair, and a good voice.
Were you worried I’d slip and forget the banana story? Did you think I’d peel out of work Friday and forget you? That I’d split and forget about the banana?
What a fruity idea.
June’s readers. Finding June unapPEELing since 2018.
As you know, from your Enormous Banana of June Events, my ridik coworker Camilo–whom I’m certain I’ve blog-named in the past but who can remember what I called him. I must be low on potassium.
Anyway, Camilo, my coworker, mashed in from New York all flambé about some shit he learned about bananas. “You guys wouldn’t BELIEVE it,” he said. Look, he’s still green. Banana things excite him.
I don’t know where this news stemmed, but he had something thrilling he learned that was banana-related, and he needed an ACTUAL banana to show us.
No matter how you sliced it, he was making this a huge deal. So after he’d plantain-ed the seed, we were all into learning what the news was. I set up an actual meeting on everyone’s calendar, in an actual meeting room, and every chichita in the place gathered to see what was up.
You could say we were a banana republic.
Love, All readers everywhere.
So without so much as a yellow, he showed the BUNCH of us the banana.
“Is it the thing where you peel it from the bottom,” an unenthused coworker, who had a deadline, asked. Clearly she had not been on the banana boat earlier, when he’d already assured us it was WAY BEYOND the old opening-it-from-the-bottom trick.
“You know how sometimes you have a banana, and you want to share it with others?” he asked.
No. No I don’t. But I’m an only child.
“Watch this,” he said, about to serve us a banana shakeup. Camilo stuck his thumb in the top of the banana, and pressed down.
Voila. Or, waa-laa, if you want to be …rotten.
Turns out, if you press the top of a peeled banana, it automatically divides into three sections. “It’s like it’s MADE to be shared,” he said. He wasn’t monkeying around. He handed banana sections to the whole bunch of us.
I know I already used “bunch.” Why don’t you try to think up this many melon-farming banana puns?
So. There it is. I don’t know what kind of bread you can make from this info, but now you have a party trick that’s…bananas.
Daylight come and me wanna go home,
P.S. Tuuuuuune in Sunday for “the grid.” I have a migraine. Too many banana daiquiris last night.
I’ve been thinking about the shit I ate when I was a kid. Not at home, since if one is at my mother’s, the conversation goes like this:
Me: I’m hungry. Mom: Eat an apple.
Has there ever been a more depressing answer in the history of time beyond, “Eat an apple”?
Me: I’m hungry. Mom: Eat an apple. Also, an anvil is about to crash onto your head.
But I can’t be sure. The latter might be preferable.
I detest apples. Which, by the way, every time I say this to my mother, she says, “No, you don’t” as if I have no concept of what I do or don’t like. Or she expresses surprise, as if I used to be Johnny Appleseed.
I have always hated apples.
The only apple I can stomach is a Granny Smith, and by the way, whoever came up with that name really went to town. Are the green apples in the Witness Protection Program? Granny Smith. Why not Granny Schwinkendorf? Granny Rose Blossom? Granny Horkheimer?
Mild cheddar was the only other readily available snack at my mother’s house, the only other thing that you didn’t have to heat up the oven and get the mixer out to have. It was your only choice beyond the mealy-mouthed red apple.
Mild cheddar. The Melanie Hamilton of cheese.
It’s no wonder I was so thin in my youth. Sally Struthers should have been standing tearfully in front of our house, begging someone to send me some sharp white cheddar.
So, no. I’m talking about the sugar mecca that was gramma’s. If she saw a commercial for something bad for you, you didn’t even have to ask. She’d stampede for it. I remember when I was older, and my cousin Katie the Lesbian was a child, gramma said, “We’re going out to eat. Katie says she’s Wendy’s kind of people.”
That was all it took. Katie knew how she wanted it: hot off the grill.
But that’s ’80s food. I’m talking ’70s food. Back when food was fantastic.
For example, Snack Packs didn’t have any namby-pamby foil lid. It was a real can, and you could cut your lips off with the lid. But oh, it was worth it.
That’s the problem with kids today. Everything’s too safe. We’re raising a generation of mild cheddars. They don’t have to worry about getting shards of their Click-Clack in their eye,
or or doing a unicorn impression with a jart.
My gramma had her Snack Packs in the bottom of a narrow cupboard between the stove and the sink. There was also a mousetrap down there, so you had the possibility of dinner and a show. And it was a real, cartoon, SNAP mousetrap. It didn’t really dawn on me to be appalled by it. I’d just shout, “GRAMMA!” when a mouse was in there.
“Oh, shit. Okay. I’m coming,” she’d say.
This orange juice came in individual-servings cans, as well, and I believe you had to actually puncture the top of the can with the pointy part of a can opener. I mean, it took some work. You were practically a cave woman, hunting a mastodon.
I always admired the orange women; I thought they were pretty. They seem sort of in on a secret, don’t they? They’re wrong. YOU’RE ALL GETTING JUICED TO DEATH, BITCHES.
Also, in All in the Family, which was on around the time my gramma diet consisted of pudding and orange juice, Archie Bunker was often holding a can, and I thought, man, he drinks a lotta orange juice.
I never said I was a gifted child.
This was a cereal I insisted gramma get, and then I hated. I don’t know how to tell you this, but it was too sweet. But it had 100% of my minimum requirements of vitamins and iron.
That can’t possibly be true. What, did it have kale in it? How is that possible? Also, this cereal was emoji cereal. No wonder I hated it.
I was just looking at all the other Google images of cereal from the ’70s, and came across this. Oh, FUCK YEAH. Why is this not available right now?
I know a lot of why I loved this stuff was because it was at gramma’s. Her overly warm house, the cuckoo clock, people coming in and out the front door, bringing the Michigan cold in with them. Her mostly empty upstairs, because all the kids had moved out, that housed her Real Romance magazines and my Uncle Jim’s drums that I never, ever touched for fear he would actually break my bones.
You can’t help but enjoy something served to you by a person who thinks you hung the moon, when really all you are is a riby midwestern 8-year-old. You can’t help but enjoy something when you know your arthritic grandmother saw that brightly colored box in the store aisle and bought it, knowing she’d never be eating it and saw no reason for it other than it delighted her granddaughter.
So, bad food equals love. I know that.
But if you served me some Snack Pack Butterscotch at Tarantula Fest, over at the tent where everyone is vomiting cilantro, I’d still stop everything and say, “Goddammit, this is marvelous.”
Here’s what I like about myself. I mean, other than the obvious “everything.”
I recently got matched with a cool-looking dude on the Bumble, there, and with that particular dating site, they give you 24 hours to write the person after you’ve been matched, and the woman has to write first. This cuts down dramatically on the number of crude hellos one encounters with online dating.
Why are there men who think opening with a line about wanting to stick your previously unseen personal parts into the recipient of your inaugural note would go over well with any non-roofied woman?
So yesterday evening I wrote a man, “I’m just on my way out the door, but I wanted to write before our time expired.” Don’t I sound breezy, and fun, and whirlwind, and like I’m taking a nothing day and suddenly making it all seem worthwhile?
I was leaving a bar to go to a sandwich truck. Will the adventures never end? That guy probably thinks I’m dashing out to accept my Nobel or hauling water for the Peace Corps or something.
And I like how if we call a sandwich something else, like glamorous “panini,” it sounds better. I had a mozzarella, basil and tomato PANINI. So rather than eat it as I walked to my car, I masticated during my evening constitutional, under the waxing gibbous.
I’d been at a bar, on a MONDAY, as you do, because it was someone’s last day. Yes, I DID just go out recently because it was someone’s last day. It was another person’s last day. Hundreds of people work there, dude. They come and go, talking of Michelangelo.
It was the same bar I went to last time, where the sun is screaming in at you for the first hour, and you get a free cataract surgery, so intense is the laser of the sun.
Not only did I see a lot of the sun, I also saw my handyman Alf. Which was convenient for me, as I was able to cut into his drinking time to alert him that my windows need fixing. Truthfully, Alf looked a little paned when he saw me.
Thank you. I’ll quite literally be here all week. Speaking of which, I was at a restaurant the other night next to a table of the millennials, and really we should just be assigned different restaurants. Or they should have millennial/nonmillennial sections. Anyway, the woman behind me said, “This is literally so good” three times.
I wanted to just turn in my booth and school marm the fuck out of her youthful ass. I did. “What do you mean when you say it’s literally so good, you moronic turn-of-the-century asshole?” I wanted to menopause and reflect all over her bullshitty youthspeak. But I did not. Because my chicken parm was literally so good. Chicken parm for the marm.
I can see that I’m on a nonlinear roll today, so let me stop, let me menopause, and tell you three things right now, before I wander off. I wanted to write you before we expire.
Six months ago, I had my daith pierced, because I am street and also because it’s supposed to help migraines. They told me it’d take a long time to actually heal, and they were right about THAT, but finally it seems better, so on my way home from Atlanta Sunday, I passed the tattoo parlor where I got pierced, and had a real earring put in, as opposed to the training bra I’ve been sporting.
As for the success, I still get migraines, but not as often on that side, which leads me to want to get the other side pierced. I thought of doing it Sunday, since I was already there, but Tuna seemed distracted. Tuna is the piercer, and what has become of my life? Also, is “tattoo parlor” aging me, like when my mother calls them “blue jeans”?
Anyway, while I was in Atlanta I clearly had to stick my dog somewhere, and please see above references to online daters sticking their parts, which has nothing to do with where I stuck my dog, so please hang up on PETA before you alarm them. I stuck him at dog daycare, where he’s been going since birth. When he used to go with Tallulah, he’d follow her everywhere, and she’d act like they’d never met.
guy wif unnerbyte? he still behind Lu? yeah, no idea.
When Lu died, his time at daycare looked, well, less fun. When I’d look at Edsel on the webcam, he always seemed to kind of stand alone, waiting for me to come get him. This weekend I was so busy, with my breezy on-the-go life, that I never checked on him via webcam till yesterday at work.
Every time I looked at him, he was hanging out with a beagle. I mean, every time.
They were inseparable, so much so that I was reluctant to get him at lunch, but I knew I had to get my drank on after work, and priorities. When I retrieved him, Dexter the beagle threw his head back and howled at the gate.
I found out his name was Dexter because I asked daycare, who’ve been knowing Edsel since eighteen aught six when I first took him there, “Who’s the beagle he’s actually acknowledging?”
Turns out, Dexter had also been there all weekend, and the two of them were thick as thieves since Saturday.
So you know what I hate? When people add “come to find out” to a story. “He was with that dog, come to find out it was another boy dog. Come to find out, my dog is as gay as the maypole. Come to find out all my suspicions were correct.”
Anyway, I intend to call daycare and get more guff on when Dexter will be there next, as Eds having a friend is just the cutest goddamn thing I can think of. It’s literally so cute.
I think I had more, but I see I’m at 1,059 words, and hello, restless crowd. I close with more photos of my coworkers, and puppies at bars, and I will talk to you tomorrow when there will be a full Kit and June Hand Out Poison Candy Halloween extravaganza throwdown.
Yes, June. In fact, I have a comprehensive list. It’s really more of a scroll at this point.
No, there’s a new one.
Sigh. [turns scroll sideways to write in the margin]
Packet oatmeal that makes you work for it. You’re buying DRY OATMEAL in a foil PACKET. Clearly you are not up for whipping up a gourmet breakfast if you’re choosing dry oatmeal in a foil packet.
Add 150-degree purified water, let stand for 48 seconds, put in microwave for 192 seconds, on low, then remove and cover with Sanskrit tomes for 18 seconds under a full moon, 22 seconds if it’s a waxing gibbous. If it’s waning or new, do not eat this product.
My joie de vivre coworker Griff, of Thus Saith Griff fame, hates it when gas pumps tell you to pull the card out quickly, or when you’re microwaving something, to leave it in there sitting for a minute after.
“Don’t tell me what to fuckin’ do,” he says. And see, he’s right. June says, as she crunches her refusing-to-soften-for-some-reason fancy oatmeal.
It has MADAGASCAR vanilla. Oh, fuck off. Isn’t all vanilla from Madagascar? I don’t know what possessed me to purchase such lofty foil breakfast food; I must have been feeling vulnerable. “This oatmeal will solve everything. If I spent 11 dollars on four packs of oatmeal, surely my life will gel marvelously.”
In other news, my father sent me these:
What are they, June?
Fuck off, June.
They’re socks with Frida Kahlo on them. And did she really own a monkey? Because goddammit. I want a monkey.
I came home from work last night to all three cats clamoring to come in. I had worked late, and they were all looking at their kitty watches, annoyed. Iris limped in. “Why you limpin’ little Irises?” I asked, and once again, I’m certain the neighbors do not abhor me and my cat speak at all.
There is some fur off her little Iris head, and one has to surmise she was in a tuffle during the day, and “tuffle” is a fine word, and while, yes, it may have been her enemy, Orange Cat, it may also have been her very own brother, Gray Asshole.
All night, she just wanted to be on me. I was trying to work out, and she kept stretching over to lie on my lap while I, you know, lifted my leg 800 times.
In the meantime, last night, Steely Dan came home with everyone, had dinner, then immediately stood on the secretary and howled. The piece of furniture, not Henry Kissinger.
Won’t you enjoy my current references?
I let him out, and of course even though it was 2 degrees out, he wouldn’t come home, and since we all know he was very extremely undoubtedly likely to have SLEPT IN ANOTHER HOUSE, he was fine.
He came home today, ravenous. Well, “ravenous.” He was probably fed Madagascar vanilla cat food before he wandered back here. But what he does if he deigns to stay home during the day is get on the spare bed and do this:
He likes to get between the pillows. And he looks so sweet, and like such a nice kitty, that one can’t help but pet his velvety earses and kiss his sweet walnut head and
I’d better go. I woke up at 5:00 today and couldn’t fall back asleep until I DID, and then when the alarm went off at 6:30 I reset it for 7:30 and now I’m late and this is all you get today. Oh!
But my flowers and antlers came yesterday, for m’Frida costume, and now my head matches my socks. We will not speak of my curtains or drapes or however that crude saying goes.
It’s carpet, right? Carpet and drapes? What a stupid thing to ask. Whose carpet ever matches their drapes? I guess mine do–I have neither.
Hoooooo-aaaaa. But really, I don’t. I have blinds and hardwoods.
“I have to blog,” I just told my mother. Not that I have a blog.
When I’m visiting her, I always emphasize how, if I’m writing, I don’t like to be interrupted. Ruins m’flow.
“I know you have you write, you’ve told me and told me,” she said from her perch in the living room. I have. I’ve tried to write all the other days she’s been here and as soon as I sit down, she’ll be all, “Where are your spoons?”
So, I said, “Okay, here I go. Really writing now.” I sat down. Stretched my claws. Poised over the keyboard.
Yesterday was a harrowing workday, which resulted in my shoulders up right on my ears pretty much for 8 hours. When I was done with my GODDAMN DAY, I dearly wanted a drink. I never drink during the week now, part of my weight loss plan that’s resulted in precisely no weight loss. Continue reading “Mr. Greensboro”→