June is my favourite month. It has its laundry list of problems though and here are some:
Mystery air fluff that makes you sneeze, mystery tree goo that turns your car into a caramelized apple, glaring white cellulite splattered with teeny weeny blue spider veins on your upper thighs, the compulsive need to go and sit on a patio and drink $80 cocktails, maggots in the kitchen compost, the conundrum of what to wear underneath a skirt if it isn’t long johns, having to go buy new Birkenstocks because you stepped in dog shit last October and your old ones are still underneath the rotting wicker love seat on your front porch, buying your first watermelon because ’tis the season and it is heartbreakingly and disappointingly flavourless (probably because it came from a truck along with those gross white GMO strawberries), sweaty bra smegma, that plantar wart you got in the winter from not wearing flip flops in the steam room is no longer a cute little friend and needs to be lanced otherwise you can’t get a pedicure OR YOU WILL BE TREATED LIKE A LEPER AT 5 STAR NAILS and you absolutely one hundred percent need one if you insist upon wearing those fug-ass Birkenstocks all summer… AND the list goes on.
I’ve been having some health issues recently which I will not burden you with except for the fact that I am quite possibly DYING OF BOREDOM on top of it all.
“Only boring people get bored,” says Dr. Phil when he is yelling at an insolent teenager on one of his shows.
It’s fucking true. I am so boring, it’s like a disease. I am a human Birkenstock. Today, Freddy, my parents, and I went to a mall to actually buy “Baby’s First Birkenstocks” as is our Spring tradition. Baby is 18 now and going off to be a counsellor at camp for the summer as is his destiny and needs to wear giant ass cork paddles on his feet because that is what they all the kids wear. I realize I am in my glory in sensible shoe shops. Yo, I picked up a Croc in “Soft Mocs” and said out loud to no one in particular, “I need this shoe in a size 10.” IT HAPPENED TO ME. I didn’t get them as a sense of shame took over but! These Crocs had a jute wedge, a leather strap upper body with a faux-Burberry underlining. They were genius.
Don’t put my on the ice floe just yet as I am still enjoying my food.
Used to be that June brought on the promise of summer flings, that patio promise of becoming social again, wearing a summer dress and upskirting accidentally on purpose a pair of neon pink lacy underwear underneath (that is what you wear in the summer FYI) especially after a winter of eating melted parmesan cheese biscuits with your boyfriend, Netflix. But then of course, “Orange is the New Black” came out in the beginning of June, stalling us all.
Anatomy of a Binge Watch, an ode to #OITNB, no spoilers ahead:
Day One: Watch the first episode…huh…what happened to Lori Petty and why does she look 100 years old? IMDB her and she is the same age as me, holy shit. Watch 4 more episodes that day. Order pizza, drink wine, fall asleep during episode 5.
Day Two: Wake up early to move car because tenants are having a yard sale and maybe I can put out some stuff, too, make a few bucks. BUT! First rewatch episode 4 (too drunk to remember) and definitely episode 5, watch also 6, 7, and 8, drinking coffee. Holy shit, it’s noon…too late to yard sale. Feeling a bit of ants in the pants, like no wonder I am suffering from Boredom-itis, I have just watched 4 straight hours of TV. I watch two more episodes. Eat a crumpet with jam and smear it all over the laptop keyboard and sneeze a bit of it all over the screen, it’s a sign. I decide to go to Shoppers Drug Mart and get BB cream because a) I can’t get Lori Petty’s wretched face off my mind b) I need a raison d’être to get out of the house. The tenants are still having their yard sale. They made much money and sold a giant ass tv to the local crazy and I missed the whole transaction. I buy a pair of red converse because they are in my size and I feel like Cinderella whenever I find random shoes that fit, is that just me? I wear the Converse and go the Shoppers, buy a BB cream and yet another liquid eyeliner because I still hold on to hope. Have we talked about winged eyeliner yet or have I just been thinking about it obsessively all this time?
It’s still Day Two: Go home, I HAVE 3 EPISODES OF “ORANGE IS THE NEW BLACK” LEFT. Evangeline is 4 episodes behind me and she is watching it on the main tv. I hunker down with her, re-running half heartedly, and practise my liquid eyeliner skills. Why is it so goddamn hard? I am an artist-type and I cannot master this. Do you notice Red from OITNB wears her eyeliner kind of in the crease in a strange way? I look this up on “reddit r/makeupaddiction” and there is an entire forum discussing the entire cast’s hair and makeup. It’s all Dolce & Gabbana and not actual windowsill soot and Kool-Aid which goes to show you. I hope they made Lori Petty look haggard on purpose because help me, I really hope my BB cream works. Also I need to wear lipstick, my mother keeps telling me. I WATCH THE LAST 3 EPISODES ON MY LAPTOP CLUTCHING MY EYELINER.
I need to watch the whole thing again but more slowly this time.
A scrolling of scrotum. What?
One of my closest friends is newly single and has been looking on dating websites to see what it’s about and is laughing her head off so at least there’s someone who is amused. Every morning I wake up to a daily email of match dot com eligible bachelors for me, Smiles Pattycake (don’t ask) to choose from. I am not actually registered on this site because they want money and just kill me if I start paying for this, they just send me a scroll full of teasers so that I will join because these dudes are so hot. The other day, my ex-neighbour showed up, the Lillipution divorced sad sack who hired hookers on Friday nights and then moved to a condo with his dog that he was truly in love with, so much so that he fucking wrote about him in his profile. He also had his list of criteria for the perfect woman, including her height and hair colour and AGE. He and all the other middle-aged lumpen moobacious (self-described as “athletic and toned”) men in his age range are looking for women 10 years younger or more, ie. BREEDERS. I have been monitoring my match dot com dick list for over a year and the same inventory of losers show up in different formations so they don’t think I won’t notice I am getting the dregs of mankind. Here’s a tip, DingleDouche69, YOU WILL NEVER FIND LOVE WITH YOUR LIST OF CRITERIA, GO GET SOME SUSHI AND STIFF YOUR FINGERS AND CALL IT A DAY.
I thought I would die of boredom but instead I think I am going to die of despair. I need to unsubscribe from such things.
It’s World Cup Fever. There are lots of men to be found and yet no men who are interested even if you are wearing no underwear, never mind neon pink ones.
Seriously, if you want to find a bunch of dumb men, go to any sports bar right this moment. They are all huddled around talking about World Cup Soccer like they know what the fuck is happening. The other day I heard two men talking for what seemed to be the entire season 2 of OITNB about how the ball rolled off one guy’s shoulder and landed in the net like it was some strategic-inspired miracle of the holy Gods instead of dumb luck based on the wind and the goal tender having fluff in his eyes. Ugh. So. Boring.
Although fun fact I learned today: The team from Netherlands wears orange jerseys because it’s the royal colour. That is all. Okay, I’m going to practise my winged eye liner now, and wait for this boredom to blow over and maybe see what else is on Netflix.