Friends · June's stupid life · Television

There she is…

Yup. It snowed.

LulahappyLula happy. Third of Lula from Tibet, you know. Mt. Everest in Tibet. Also, third of Lula Beagle. Beagle from England where it snow, too. Lula wish mom had not spent $150 on DNA test for Lu and would just let Lu enjoy snow. Stop analyzing Lu, mom.

And no, girl. I have no idea what that little house is in our back yard. It was there when we got here. Is it supposed to be some sort of dog house? Because the dog summarily ignores it. Is it a planting shed? Because you can't even change your mind in there, it's so small. No idea what that thing is for. Will tear it down someday. When I redo the whole back yard. The back yard overwhelms me. So much I wish to do to it. No idea where to start.

Stevieinsnow
Let's go to the front yard, where apparently Stevie Nicks is hanging out. Perhaps she thought by "snow" we meant "cocaine."

Do you know for years I thought it was Just like a one-wing dove, sings a song...

Which, really, why do you need to say WHITE-wing dove? Aren't all doves white? Isn't that redundant?

So yeah. Anyway. We had us some weather. We are snowed in. Because unlike Michigan, where the roads would be completely clear and dry and our cars rusted to an inch of their lives, the streets here look exactly like the yards, see above for a reference. And it sleeted and froze overnight, so now it's crunchy and icy, too. Yay!

Fortunately for me, Miss America was on last night, and Marvin watched it with me, as he can be a perfect bitchy queen friend when he needs to be, and I want you to know I picked Miss Virginia from MINUTE ONE, and I love it when I do that and also when I have run-on sentences. I was a little disturbed by her yellow evening gown, but hey, she won anyway and did I mention I picked her from minute one and her answer about childhood obesity was excellent and so are my run-on sentences? And how sick of Mario was I? Wasn't that the host's name? Mario? With his "Miss Hav-eye-eee"-saying self? Miss Hav-eye-eee. Cut it out.

And by the way. How hard is it to do a hula? I mean, can anyone here do one for real? Because I will take it back if you really know how to do it and it is hard as hell. But it looks like all you have to do is sway around and swoop your arms. Really, the hardest part for me would be to have that tropical flower behind my ear like that and not go into anaphylactic shock. Because I am sensitive to the smells, as you know.

I have watched the Miss America pageant every year of my life, because I am deep and meaningful, and since 1981 I have tried to get my Official Gay Friend David to watch it with me. Every year since 1981 my Official Gay Friend David (who went to high school with me and who lived in LA when I did, too) NEVER ONCE watched it with me, because, in his words, he was "not gay that way." Which, hi. Then what is the POINT of being his friend? Isn't your Official Gay Friend supposed to redecorate everything and do your hair and be dramatic and all the other stereotypes? My Official Gay Friend rides his bike 600 miles like it's fun and runs a sub-five-minute mile.

Am racking brain to remember why we are friends.

Anyway, Marvin was fun to watch it with, and made dog-howling sounds when the contestants sang opera. Which, why do they try to sing opera? Good Lord a-livin'. It absolutely always makes me think of Sesame Street, where the orange is singing opera and somehow rolling across the counter, getting eyelashes and lips and things. Does anyone else remember that or am I berserk?

Okay I must go. Because despite the part where we cannot leave our house, I still have 9 million pages to proofread. And my floors aren't going to Shark themselves. {tiny thrill that I get to Shark my floors} {okay, who are we kidding? Huge thrill that I get to Shark my floors}

My one-wing dove and Miss Hav-eye-eee and I will catch you later.

Faithful Readers · June's stupid life · Proofreading/Copy editing

Clair de Talune

It is Friday night and we are having a big old giant snowstorm here with maybe even a foot of snow, so I am composing Saturday’s post in case we get snowed to death and at least you can hear from me one last time. From the grave. Because I’m sure it matters to you to hear from me one last time.

I am absolutely exhausted. Is what I am. I think I am drained from my job interview. Although it was not a bad, stressy interview, actually. I immediately felt comfortable there. They will do second interviews next week, so I guess if I am sitting there, you know, NEXT WEEK, I will know I am still in the running.


When I got home, other than the 239457532759594 messages from people saying, “How was your interview?” there was also my newest statistics textbook awaiting me, which it turns out needs a whole different style guide with which to proof it. Which means I had to go to Barnes & $%#&%%@ Noble and did I mention we are having a snowstorm?


Fortunately I got reimbursed for said style guide, which is delightful and which hadn’t occurred to me would happen. But when the publishing company left me a note saying, “Oh by the way, this particular book uses the MLA Handbook” and I called them and said, “Hey! Here’s a thought! Should I maybe, I don’t know, OWN the MLA Handbook, then?” they said, “Oh, wow, yeah, you probably should. Go buy it at Barnes & &$#%@#& Noble and we’ll reimburse you.”


So there you go. And here’s a question. Can you answer it for me? Why is Barnes & @$#%@# Noble always so ding-dang crowded? I mean, it is ALWAYS packed. Are people that into reading? What?


My point is, after dashing home through the 75 million rapidly accumulating snowflakes, I started proofreading, only to discover there were two page 73s, which is, you know, NOT GOOD, and which will, you know, NOT BODE WELL for proofreading the index, I was suddenly so overcome with a stunning exhaustion, it was like the Wicked Witch had put a poppy field right there in my living room. So I only proofed for an hour and a half today. After die die dying for work for three weeks.


Hate me.


In other news, Tallulah loves Clair de Lune. Do I have any idea why? No. We were playing it tonight, and she sat right down on the floor, like the Sphinx, and moved her ears around, listening. I’ve never seen her act like that. Clair de Talune.


Finally, thank you all for participating in my project the other day, where I asked you to take pictures of what you were doing at 7:57 p.m. So many people who DO NOT have blogs sent me photos of what they were up to at 7:57! It was fun to see everyone’s inner workings. And pets. You know I am all up in your pets.


Also too, I have new pictures of faithful readers and their Bye Bye, Pie wares.


Hulk'spic

Faithful Reader and Constant Commentor and Republican Hulk sent me this lovely photo. Note he had to include his politically incorrect tattoo. By the way, I was watching a Barry Gibb video recently, as I am wont to do, and I noticed he was wearing a hat with this same politically incorrect Indian on it, which made me phone Hulk, which resulted in Hulk saying, “I LOVE Barry Gibb!” So there you go.


Hulk was one of the unbloggers who sent photos of what he was doing at 7:57 the other night and those of you familiar with Hulk will be stunned to hear he was at a sporting event.


Jill Faithful Reader and always-funny-when-she-comments Jill Munroe sent this artistic shot, and when I say “artistic” I am of course referring to her fine Bye Bye, Pie t shirt. I am hankering for the brown-long-sleeve-with-the-old-design one, myself, and have not bought it because have I mentioned I have had no work for three weeks? Have I mentioned I finally got work today and then became a delicate flower after an hour and a half?


Joannpic Faithful Drunk Joann put this picture on her blog when she participated in the take-photos-at-7:57 thingamajig, and I like how she manages to be a total raging alcoholic while wearing pearls.


You too can be an addict. How about you buy way too many of June’s products, you shopaholic, you? Because have I mentioned apparently June can only put in an hour and a half of work a day now?


Lazy living-off-the-system June and her classical-music-loving dog will catch you later. Unless they die from snow. Oh! And I awarded Sugar Mommy comment of the week earlier this week, and she retains the honor because she is still funny and I am tired. Click on This Week’s Special to see it.


Oh my God, I will never shut the hell up. One LAST thing. For some bizarre reason, I had a ton of readers this month. More than I have ever had. So thank you, readers! I do not know why you all hate yourselves so, reading this drivel, but keep up the good masochism! And speaking of masochism, really going to stop now.

I am berserk · June's stupid life

What a difference a day makes

As you may or may not know, and I hate it when I say that because effectively that phrase means absolutely nothing, I have had no work to do since January 5, when I dropped my last statistics book off in the

FEDEX

box.

This, to put it mildly, has disturbed me. I kept picturing us all on the street, wearing barrels. And really, why would a cat need to wear a barrel? But there they were. In my mind.

Barrelcat

And I know what y0u're thinking. You're thinking, June. With your talent at the Paint program, how could you be without work for even one day? Because that barrel doesn't at all look like a football with a hole in it. Or anything.

So I was gettin' a tad antsy about the no-work thing, and was totally ready to sell my body to the night. Roxanne. Except for the part where who is out there getting their debit card ready for a chubby 44-year-old?

But the good news is, this morning I got a call and tomorrow I have an interview for a part-time job, and oh! how I wish I could tell you what it is, because you would say, June. Other than creating photos using Paint, this job is redunkulously perfect for you. And it's a funny kind of a job, too, and I hate this part where I have to kind of be anonymous.

Crap.

So then I was all running around the house trying to fashion together something to wear to said interview–

and oh, let's talk.

I own one suit, because I had an interview somewhere fancy once in 2002 and I ended up getting that job and working there a day and three hours but let's not talk about that because Marvin STILL hates me for that one. But anyway, I put on said suit today and oh, my. The pants.

The pants. They splooted and sploomed across my hiptual area, and I realize I have just completely ceased making sense, but oh, dear God. They were so tight.

I looked like Tom Jones. Seriously. It's not unusual to be interviewing someone's ovaries. I mean, hello. They were not looking roomy, is what I'm saying.

What's new Pussycat, indeed.

Ooohh, woah, woah.

Anyway, I cobbled together an interview ensemble which will be fine as long as I can convince my new boss that it's 1999, and in the meantime I got an email from the publishing company, and they are sending me a new book to proofread. Tomorrow.

Then I got another email from another person saying, "I'm sending you some work."

So okay. I guess I'm good now, workwise.

I'll let you know if I bowl them over tomorrow. In my fashionable ensemble. At least if I get this job, I will be too busy to keep eating all the time, and maybe I'll fit back into those interview pants. Which will be useless because I will have already gotten the job.

I hope I can convince them I'm a lady. Oh-oh-oh, I'm a lady. 

June's stupid life · Marvin · My pets

My family, at 7:57 p.m. on January 27

Perhaps you were thinking, "I wonder what June and her household are doing?" sometime around 7:57 p.m. last night. Or, you know, not.

Sevenfiftyseven
Nevertheless, I decided to photograph everyone in their element to see if we could find anything interesting.

We didn't.

Meandthathair

First of all, here is me. And my, you know, HAIR. I took a photo of Google telling me it was 7:57 and then I turned the camera on myself! Surprise! I like the red line where I took off my glasses first. Because I had NO IDEA the camera was gonna be on me!

Oh, that hair.

Gooddogtalu

As per usual, Tallulah was .06 centimeters from me, and you know what would be great? Is if I knew how far that actually was. But anyway, she was right behind my chair. That's my coat hanging off the chair on the right, there. Because I'm tidy.

Winstonisin

Winston is in the in box. Of course. And he seems pretty smug about it. "I'm in. Winston is the new black."

Henryinchair Henry was looking regal in his chair, and studiously ignoring his scratching post. Because why use that if you have a perfectly good green chair to claw?

Marvinmessinupthebed
Ground control to Major Tom. I have no idea what all Marvin is up to, other than scrinching up the guest bed blankets. Again.

Attackdog
Because I started moving around, so did Tallulah, and apparently something was in dire need of attacking under the bed.

Dognotadustbunny
You watch that, girl. Good job. Those dust motes. They need constant supervision.

Lapcat
Of course, the minute I went to the back room, where Francis can be found 86 hours a day, he got immediately on my lap. I know no one believes that that cat is capable of love, but oh, how he loves me. What can I tell you? I'm a charmer. I am the moth to that creature's flame.

So tonight I want everybody to get their camera at 7:57 p.m. and take a picture of everyone in their element at your household. Report back to me with a link to your blog. And don't make everything all nice. Just get up and commence to photographin'.

Have no idea why I just turned into Granny Clampett.

Wellllll, doggie. See you at 7:57.

Health · June's stupid life · Marvin

Well I shot a man in Greensboro, just to watch him die…

I had a terrible migraine last night, as opposed to those really good ones. But really, it kept waking me up, it was so bad, which is rare for me.

After waking up for the 49th time, in horrid agony, I realized one of my problems was I was tensing up because it was so cold. Marvin turns the heat down to below 60 at night, and it was particularly brisk.

It is all you can do to move when you have a migraine. Moving one centimeter makes you so nauseated you can barely stand it.

So after getting as much gumption together as you can while your head is pound pound pounding and your stomach is roil roil roiling, I minced down to the thermostat and cranked it to a luxurious 65.

As soon as the thermostat went, "Slooom" to indicate it was on, Marvin woke up and yelled, "You think we're MADE of money!?"

Am writing you from the Greensboro Women's Prison. Am hoping for a jury of thin-blooded gals and migraine sufferers.

June's stupid life · Weblogs

Manly yes, but I like it too.

I was perusing other blogs tonight, trying to find new ones to read. I found some nice ones, and I also came to the conclusion that every blogger on earth who has a child whose real name she does not want used refers to said child as "the Bean." Could we come up with a different vegetable, parents?

At any rate, I came across this blog and it was exactly what I was looking for. The kind of blog where you sit there for 42 hours till your neck gets sore, yet you do not want to pull yourself away. The kind of blog where you keep reading even though your dog may or may not be harfing at the back door and the neighbors are picturing themselves plonking said dog nethers-first onto a fence pole.

The kind of blog that makes you happy. Barry-Gibb-just-bought-you-a-Hello-Kitty-rhinestone-necklace-and-incidentally-it's-okay-with-both-of-our-spouses-if-we-have-a-teensy-tete-a-tete kind of happy.

It's called The Blue Hour, and it's written by a man, believe it or not. Other than my beloved Comics Curmudgeon, I think this is my first man blogger that I like. Man blogger. It sounds so, you know, fierce. How do you handle a hungry reader? The Man Blogger!

Anyway. Most of the blog is photographs, oh! Beautiful, beautiful photographs. This guy lives in London now, and before that he lived in Brooklyn.

Yeah, me too. When I wasn't living in Saginaw or what-is-there-to-photograph-but-a-few-anemic-palm-trees LA.

I am into the dashes today. I am Mrs. Dash. Maybe Mrs. Dash and the Man Blogger should meet. Or maybe the Man Blogger would hate me and be Mrs. Dash bored.

I think Mr. Man Blogger–whose name on his blog is Brian and I have no idea if "Brian" is his "June" and really his name is Omornutoph Nesferatu, because that's MY real name–could have made beautiful pictures from TinyTown and/or Los Angeles and/or good old Saginaw. 

And thanks, DAD, for not passing along that photographer gene so I can be like Brian Omornutoph Nesferatu. Again, appreciate the hair gene. And oh, wow, have I said merci for the nose ball gene? Yeah. You couldn't have thrown a photography bone my way? Really?

Maybe he saved that for his next child, the Bean.

Are there any other kind of visual-y blogs out there that I might like? Do tell.

I am berserk · June's stupid life

Five people I will not meet in heaven because hi. You really think I’m gettin’ in?

I was paging through my intellectually stimulating Allure magazine today, or maybe it was In Style, whichever–and why do I read those anymore? I used to be young and thin and have money. Now I have none of those things and all my clothes either come from Old Navy or my mother's closet when she has one of her, "I'm too fat to wear this" purges.

Anyway, in said magazine it said that Sarah Jessica Parker likes to watch The Real Housewives of Orange County, and it improved my life exponentially. Because you know I like me some RHOC, and it pains me to admit it. And now that my hero, Sarah Jessica, likes it–and for the same reasons I do, that she can't believe people like this exist on the planet–I feel so vindicated.

Sjp
Sarah Jessica Parker is one of those women who, if I see an article or show on her, I will drop everything to learn more. I am fascinated by Sarah Jessica Parker.

I think I like her because we are exactly the same age, first of all, and also she appears to have my hair. I mean, if she didn't have a team of people working on it all the time, I fear her hair would look like mine. Also too, of course her character, Carrie Bradshaw, is exactly who I want to be. Except I'd have stuck with Berger. Or Petrovsky.

I like that she is not technically beautiful, yet sometimes you look at her and think, "Wow, she is absolutely striking." She's interesting. The French have a phrase that means "pretty/ugly," meaning someone is pretty and ugly at the same time, and of course I can't recall the phrase, but it's kind of Sarah Jessica Parker, in a way.

Finally, she seems really polite and fairly normal. She doesn't seem like a diva. Although recently on Howard Stern, Sandra Bernhard intimated that my gal SJP was in fact a total diva. But you know what? I refuse to believe her.

There are a few other women I am equally fascinated with, although not many. You all know the women who make my nethers pucker up and twitch:

  • Gwyneth Paltrow (even writing her name makes me annoyed),
  • Eva Mendes (no idea why. She just irritates me. She thinks she's so cool. I guess that's it. I mean, all celebrities think they're cool, but she seems extra taken with herself.) (She probably had an unbelievable class ring.),
  • and finally, the grande dame of all, my personal favorite, Angelina Jolie. Oh, how she bugs. She's such a sourpuss.

But here are the other women who make me drop everything when I see their names:

Jackie

If I can't be Carrie Bradshaw, can I be Jackie Kennedy? Oh, the elegance, the beauty, the perfection. She is everything I am not. I'll bet you never once saw her bra strap. I'll bet she never once put the cork in her mouth and shot it across the dinner table.

And you know appropriate people make me nervous. I never know what to DO around polite, appropriate people. It always makes me want to lift my leg and clean myself like I'm one of my cats; I just get a terrible urge to be INappropriate. But I still want to be Jackie.

Jackie rocked. Admit it.

Courtney
I know, right? Speaking of Jackie's polar opposite. Yet I am fascinated, fascinated, by Courtney Love. She lived in Seattle when I did, and I saw her once. She lived in LA when I did, and I saw her once. I think in reality she is obsessed with me. Because I'm sure my life wouldn't bore her to tears or anything.

Courtney Love and I are also the same age, which is part of why she's interesting to me. Plus she's really smart despite being bat-shit crazy. I don't know. I am just drawn to her. I wonder if I could get Jackie and Courtney to come over one night? Watch some Real Housewives with me?

You know what it is? I want to be totally rebellious and out of hand like Courtney Love, all the while looking graceful and elegant like Jackie. Is that possible? And I want to be really high fashion like Sarah Jessica Parker.

Laura

And speaking of rebellious and high fashion, my list could not be complete without my gal Laura Ingalls Wilder. I have seen every picture of Laura that has been made public, and have studied them all for about 800 hours apiece. I like this one because I dig her collar, and also I like how Almanzo kind of looks like every guy from Saginaw, Michigan in 1981. Put him in a Foghat T shirt and he could be in my yearbook. He's totally on his way out the door to get some Mickey's Big Mouths from some guy who will buy for him down to the 7-Eleven, there.

At any rate. Adore Laura because she is an optimist, a hard worker, practical, uncomplaining and once again all the things I am not.

Anais

Oh, and Anais Nin. You don't even know how bad I want to be Anais Nin in the '20s, with my black bob and my French accent, smoking my Gauloises and sipping my Mickey's Big Mouth.

If you don't know who she is, she was French and had a big affair with Henry Miller and also his wife and she wrote dirty books yet was married to a rich guy the whole time and she was kind of a drama queen and oh! I like me some Anais Nin. Am riveted by her.

She also said my favorite thing: We don't see things as they are. We see things as we are.

And apparently I am secretly a French drama queen from the prairie who wears cutting-edge fashions and shoots up while being married to the president.

Books · June's stupid life

I need The Help for my addictive personality, is what I need

Started reading The Help, our book club book, yesterday at about 4 p.m., and I am almost done with it. Read last night till I got a headache, and then stampeded for it the second I woke up today.

Oh! It's good. I mean, in an uncomfortable way where you feel ashamed of so many people in the book and want to slap them upside the head.

I am off to finish reading. Perhaps eventually I will shower and/or eat or something.

Click on Mince Words with June if you want details on our book club. Then go get the book and prepare to call in sick tomorrow.

Faithful Readers · Health · June's stupid life

I think the dinosaurs laughed at that one. And by “that one” I mean DB’s mug.

I ran two miles this morning with my running group and then I stupidly agreed to meet a friend at the health-food grocery store. There was a clever move.

Did every date nut bar and tub of bulk granola look absolutely delicious? Or what?

I ended up buying yogurt with cream on top, because I enjoy cardiac arrest as much as the next person, and also a big bag of nutritional yeast. I know, right? Party on, June.

Nutritional yeast is absolutely delicious on popcorn. Marvin worked on a movie in San Francisco for a few weeks, and he came home raving about how the movie theaters put nutritional yeast on their popcorn. I had the same reaction you are having, which is, "Ew," but trust me, it's good. You just can't find nutritional yeast anywhere, is the thing.

Moving beyond my yeast affection, two faithful readers have sent in photos of their Bye Bye, Pie mugs from June's fabulous designer collection of Bye Bye, Pie paraphernalia. Oh, and before I forget, my Aunt Mary said she ordered the dark t shirt with the new design? And the image came out really light. So I recommend not getting dark Ts with the new banner. I will remove them from the store. That's what they call your page on CafePress. Your store. Bugs me. I'm Mr. Hooper, over here, sweeping my stoop. What you want, Big Bird?

Here is Faithful Reader Laura's cute dog, Trixie, and her new mug. Trixie loves her some Red Zinger in a Bye Bye, Pie cup. Okay, totally making that up…

Trixie
I like how Trixie is trying to hypnotize the mug. "Turn into chicken! Mug be chicken now!"

Oh! Also too? If anyone else is gonna send me their photo with their Bye Bye, Pie purchases, will you include the address to your blog in the email? That way I don't have to try to find you in the comments to see if you even HAVE a link. Merci.

Faithful Reader DB in MD also sent in her mug shot (bah!) next to her old mug. "Old." Not really doing that mug justice…

Byebyepyramid
The reason you can't really read what is on her old mug is because the message is in hieroglyphics. I asked her if she got this mug from Cleopatra's blog, Bye Bye, Pyramid.

It was really convenient when DB was commuting on the Ark, tho.

My friend and former coworker, Hammy, is married to a guy who made her stop using those plastic commuter mugs, by the way. Apparently that particular type of plastic is really bad for you or something. Plus, in the case of DB in MD's mug, it's all scratched up from when T-Rexes drank from it first, which constantly used to cut her mouth.

Okay, am over the "DB's mug was old" jokes.

She got this when it was Free Mug Night at the chariot races.

Okay. Done. Really.

I guess that's all I have to tell you, anyway. The weekend yawns before me with nary a plan. I squeezed in all my activities before noon Saturday. I do have a copy of The Help, now, though, which is our book club selection this month. Click on Mince Words with June if you'd like the scuttlebutt. Although I mostly blame my scuttlebutt on my love of the McDonald's fries.

Speaking of fries, have you seen that commercial for Ore-Ida? It's basically saying there's a recession and we're cutting back in so many ways, but dammit if I don't stick to my Ore-Ida fries no matter what. Because when we're poor, nothing's better for my family than frozen fried processed food.

Oh, dear. Am seriously hoping Ore-Ida isn't one of my BlogHer sponsors. Things get so complicated when you sell out.

Okay, bye.

P.S. I almost forgot. Faithful Reader Lee wanted me to tell all of you her Haitian kids are on their way! She adopted two Haitian children before the earthquake and they are fine and they are coming home.

June's stupid life · Times I Amused My Own Self

How we write this blog? We has no thumb.

Wherebighairgo

Henry: Where Big Hair go?

Winston: She go out to find adventure. She stay one more day in house not working, she jump off roof. It ranch house. She jump off roof, she only break ankle. That not adventure.

Henry: …So Big Hair gone all day?

Winston: Think so.

Raiseyourgoathigh

Henry: Par-tayyyyyy!

Friends · June's stupid life

Jane Austen, Laura Ingalls, and annoying twits from LA

I don't know how many of you read Chatting at the Sky, although I would guess all of you, because like her sister The Nester, she seems to get 94 million readers a day. Anyway, Chatting, and yes I actually DO call her that in real life because I am professionally annoying, has gotten a two-book deal!

I don't mean that someone made a deal to give her two books. They want her to WRITE two books!

Oh, isn't that exciting? How cool is Chatting?

Chatting and her sister The Nester are part of my triumvirate of religious friends, along with dcrmom. If I have a theological question, I always go to them. Because most of my friends aren't religious. But they are so kind and so giving, my triumvirate, and never give me any "you are a terrible person because you don't belong to my church" kind of attitude, so it's always nice to ask them stuff I don't understand.

And now Chatting is going to be famous! I told Chatting she can be the next Laura Ingalls Wilder, without having to bat that pig bladder back and forth.

That's only funny if you've read Little House in the Big Woods, as I have 830 times and am doing currently. The Ingalls never ate any processed food, did you ever think of that? Poor Ma sat there for 850 hours at the butter churn, then she dyed the butter yellow using carrot scrapings (with a carrot from her own yard), then she fed the kids the carrot and drank the buttermilk left over from the butter. I get my carrots in a bag. Shaved down to look babyish. And I dip them in some concoction containing hydrogenated oils and high fructose corn syrup. And I Can't Believe It's Not Butter.

And all but Mary lived to be really old. Mary died in her 60s, I think from complications of the scarlet fever that blinded her.

Did I ever tell you about dragging my poor father on a Little House road trip, and he kept hoping to find Little Bar on the Prairie? We got to Laura's surveyor's house, and the tour guide finally said, "Okay, YOU tell ME stuff, cause you know more than I do."

Professionally annoying. Professionally obsessed with Laura.

Do you think there are two camps? Obsessed with Laura and obsessed with Jane Austen? Because I have read all of Jane Austen's books, and you know, yeah. I liked them. But I don't need to return to them again and again as I do Laura. What is that about, do you think? Part of the Laura fascination for me is her stories are [mostly] real. She does fudge a little. Mary's college for the blind was paid for by the government, for example, but in the books, the family paid for Mary's schooling.

Anyway, Chatting being a fancy author and all makes her my third friend with a published book. My friend from high school who is still one of my closest friends, David, is a screenwriter who has been published in many gay anthologies. And when I die and you throw away my books, please note that I am not a gay man despite the 72 gay-man anthologies I own.

My friend Rita has published a riveting book about her childhood, and it was covered in Oprah Magazine not once but twice.

I was at work back in LA, and a coworker asked what I was doing that weekend. "My friend Rita is giving a reading of her book in Beverly Hills," I told him. "Oh, your friend wrote a book?" this guy said, who may I add was fired soon after and I am glad, "Self-published?" he asked.

Why do people ask insulting questions like that? I mean, I have several friends with self-published books, too, but why do you assume I wouldn't know anyone with a book published by HARCOURT, you arrogant twit?

Now I'm angry at that guy all over again. It's like when someone asks you if you made what you're wearing.

Okay. Am all over the place today, which I know is shocking. I have to be somewhere in 28 minutes so I must go and leave you with those 80 thoughts. Self-published thoughts?

June's stupid life

What is Cardinal doing on this notebook?

Are all of you on Facebook? I don't see why not. It is a marvelous time waster and apparently it's like rejoining high school. I am the only person on earth who loved high school–all the drama, the pep rallies, the Jordache, the tater tots in the cafeteria. So I'm fine with Facebook.

If you are thinking of going on Facebook, Tallulah Gardens has her own page, you know. And she will totally friend you if you ask. Because don't you want to hear about what she ate and when it came back out? Why not?

Come on. Join Facebook. What are ya, chicken? Chicken! Bock, bockbockBOCK! Afraid your mom will find out?

And no, Facebook is not paying me. They are ignoring me, just like FedEx.

Anyway, here's what happened to me on Facebook.

I used to be a really jealous person when I was younger. And I used to get really annoyed with myself about it and yell at myself not to be so dang insecure, and then you know what? When I met Marvin? After the first initial month or two? I stopped being ridiculously jealous.

And it occurred to me that all those years maybe there wasn't something wrong with ME, maybe I was being intuitive. Maybe everyone I didn't trust was, oh I don't know, UNTRUSTWORTHY.

So anyway, I'm on Facebook, as I am wont to do, and one of my Facebook friends was tagged in an album.

If you are SO not cool and NOT on Facebook right now–and whatEVER, come on, let's leave her here with her MySpace or whatever–I will explain what tagging in an album is.

You slap a bunch of pictures up on Facebook. If your friends are in said pictures, you can put their names on the picture, then all of the pictures you put on Facebook will also show up on your friends' pages, too.

This ends up being a marvelous way to look at the photos of complete strangers. Which is what I did the other day when I was being on Facebook as I am again wont to do.

My friend from high school, who I will call Babs Cleansefire–which is my way of cleverly disguising her name, and now I am dying because people from high school read this, and now I know they are over there breaking my code (she was a year younger than us) (she was really cute) (she went to BlueJean with Dave Newman)–was tagged in an album.

"Babs Cleansefire was tagged in an album!" my Facebook page said. The photo album was titled, "High school memories."

Well. You know I was all over that.

So there was one photograph of my friend Babs at a party, the kind of party where it looks like no one is drinking alcohol, so naturally I was not in attendance. Then the rest of the photos were of people who looked vaguely familiar, but I could not tell you their names if you stuck flamethrowers in my nethers.

I really have no idea what a flamethrower is. I imagine it's some kind of flame. Perhaps my pal Babs Cleansefire could help me get it out.

So I'm perusing these photographs which are none of my business with all the glee and delight one could possibly dredge out of pictures from 1982, when all of a sudden I was looking at a picture of some sort of notebook or something. It was covered in inside jokes, and words to stupid songs (as opposed to all those smart songs from 1982), when all of a sudden in the middle of the page it read, "Cardinal Hunter is here!"

Cardinal Hunter was my high school boyfriend.

Cardinalnme

Cardinal and me and my filling and my paisley earring. I ruined every picture of us after we broke up, but even 25 years later I kind of heart myself for turning him into Raymond Burr, here.

I was immediately in my maroon monogrammed sweater and my nice class ring. I cannot tell you how infuriated I was. Over a notebook from 1982.

"Why was Cardinal Hunter there? WHAT IS CARDINAL DOING ON THIS NOTEBOOK!?!?"

Which is a question women have asked themselves through the ages.

It didn't take me long to get over it, but there were a good three minutes there where I was livid. And storming down the halls of my high school to find Cardinal, tears streaming down my face. Because someone noted his appearance on a notebook.

If that doesn't encourage you to join Facebook…

Health · June's stupid life · Uncle Jim

Romper

I sat here for three solid hours last night, as opposed to liquid hours, adding categories to all of my posts. I still haven't finished; I think I have February through May of 2009 to get done.

And here's what I have to say after skimming, if not downright reading, almost all of my posts. OMG, I am so ANNOYING! How do any of you even like me? Ugh!

Anyway, if you are a masochist and still here, thanks.

The part where I had time to sit here for three gaseous hours and add categories to my posts may tell you that hey! I still have no work to do. Have been sending my resume just everywhere. So sick of writing about what a stellar copy editor I am. If I were so stellar, wouldn't I be inundated with work? Hmmm?

Everyone please think jobby thoughts for me. And if you are looking for work, too, post a comment here so we can all think jobby thoughts for you, as well.

Even more important, could everyone also send some good thoughts out to my Uncle Jim, whose cancer has returned? Stupid effing horrid cancer. Hate you, stupid cancer. Hate. He had his first chemo yesterday. I mean, his first chemo this time around. It really did the trick last time, so let's hope it gets rid of it this time, too. And FOR GOOD. If I met cancer I would slap its mamma. That's how much I hate it.

As opposed to all those people who just adore it.

The good news is I get to run today. And yes, oddly I am already back at that point, where I think of it as I "get" to run. Yes, I still feel like I'm gonna die or barf or die barfing when I run, but oh, I feel glorious when it's over.

When I was busy going through all my old annoying posts last night, I read the part where I was training for that half marathon last year. Did anyone notice I was like a hummingbird, with the energy and vim and oomph and such? I made my lunches for the ENTIRE WEEK and I also ironed that week's clothes and set them all out. Does anyone remember that Rain-Man-okay-calm-down -sister moment?

Of course, that might have been the period where I was way into the meth. I can't be sure.

Oh! And by the way, my running instructor told me she really didn't think I should run with the dog anymore. Because of the part where she pulls and lags and then pulls. The dog, not the running instructor. Liz, the running instructor, the one with the perfect body who probably did not have waffles for breakfast like yours truly over here, said I need to get into my flow. So far it's less of a flow and more of a jolt/stop/jolt/fall over.

I will go now, so I can put on my flattering running clothes and delight the neighborhood with my flow. I leave you with my dream last night: I had a dream that Marvin, his sister, and I all went to a restaurant where you had the option of dressing like a drag queen during dinner. They had tons of wigs and shoes and clothes. Marvin's sister stampeded for the dressing room, which I really don't see her doing in real life, and when I woke up I was eyeing a gold lame romper and am really angry I didn't get to see myself in it.

Someone has been bitten by the drag queen bug. I got the sweetest hangover. I don't want to get over.

Okay, bye.

Current Affairs · Faithful Readers · I am berserk · June's stupid life · My pets

Three topics. All briefly touched on. Because you know June is nothing if not brief.

There are three pressing topics I wish to cover today, and if I were remotely disciplined I’d cover one today and then have blog topics for Tuesday and Wednesday. But have you met me? Disciplined. Oh, that’s a hoot.

Also, you know by tomorrow I will be on some other idea and will forget, because I tend to be a little scattered. Not Drew-Barrymore-at-the-Golden-Globes scattered, but still. 

Perhaps I should giggle at myself nervously every other sentence throughout this (he he!) post. (HEE!)

Or perhaps that’s annoying and once Drew watches herself on TIVO she will be as mortified as the rest of us. (giggle!) [hold mouth open really wide] (giggle!)

Who got on my nerves at the Golden Globes? Can you hazard a guess?

Okay. So first. Other than my obsession with becoming a drag queen, I am similarly obsessed with acquiring this particular animal, although I never will really do so, because it is one of those designer animals and I do not really cotton to that sort of thing. But oh! I wish I did cotton to this sort of a thing.

Piggylipton Have you heard about these teacup pigs? Some farmer in England bred them, and again DO NOT COTTON to this kind of thing, but LOOK HOW CUTE! Oh, I wish I could have me a teacup pig. They grow to the size of a spaniel, are hypoallergenic, and can be litter trained.

I have named my imaginary designer pet Piggy Lipton, but Marvin wants to name it Constant Gruntment or Camosqueal. And right there is reason enough why we do not deserve these UNBELIEVABLY CUTE teacup pigs.

You know, if some rich reader out there were to send me a teacup pig, what could I do but keep it? That’s all I’m saying.

Weee weee weee-ing all the way to our next topic, which involves the very not-designer Henry, does anyone else think he has stopped growing? I know you do not live here, and if you did could you empty the dishwasher? But here is photographic evidence of our Hen, and tell me if you think he didn’t stop growing months ago:

Henryisnew APRIL. Let’s discuss how much I miss Topamax.

Maywlu MAY. Okay, he has grown. And the pajamas are Nick and Nora.

Juneinwindow JUNE. Henry lords over the Lazy Susan. “Henry say get to work, Susan!”

AugusttwistycatAUGUST. I jumped to when he kind of gets a cat face and not a kitten face. Also, he begins to defy gravity at this point.

September SEPTEMBER. Pretty dramatic growth in September. Probably because September is Barry Gibb’s birthday month, which means important things must happen.

OctoberkittyhatesmomOCTOBER. A) Henry wish mom would eff off. B) Henry little bigger but not much.

Novemberfeastcat

NOVEMBER. Hi, Henry look the same as October.

DecembercenterfoldDECEMBER. It Christmas. Henry too busy to grow.

JANUARY

TODAY. Henry have a dream. Henry dream he ever grow past October.

Is it just me? Is he stuck in teen mode forever? By the way, two seconds later, Henry got his nongrowing arse kicked by Winston, which anyone who has cats can probably tell is about to happen based on the flicky tails and Henry’s “please beat me” ears.

Winstonrules
Because Winston actually grew into an adult, the results of this match were obvious.

Should I inject Henry with a growth hormone? Because I just happen to have one lying around. Which explains why I no longer look like I did in April. Oh, April. Oh, Topamax. Oh, food, which has become not only interesting again, but the most fascinating person of 2010.

And look! I managed to get us to topic number three without droning on for 150 hours.

Faithful readers have been sending in photos of themselves with their new Bye Bye, Pie cups! I heart everyone. You know. Other than Drew Barrymore.

Lauranhermug

Faithful Reader Laura not only likes RENT, apparently, but also her large-ass BBP mug.

DawnwcupDawn in Austin does not understand why her mug hasn’t protected her from the elements.

And finally, Faithful Reader and this week’s commentor of the week Paula H&B took her mug out for an adventure.

Ride to work mug
She drove it…

Interview mug
…to an interview. She wasn’t gonna just let it sit in the cupboard, not earning its keep. No sir.

You, too, can purchase Bye Bye, Pie stuff and make it work for you! Or work it. Either way.

June's stupid life · My pets

The one where June gets no rest

As you can imagine, I was up late enjoying the drag queen bingo on Friday night.

Well. You know. Late for me. Meaning I got home at, like, 11:00, which wooo! What happened to 1988 June? Coming home late then meant 7:00 in the morning.

But unlike 1988 June, I had to get up and go running with my running group, and once I had run my two miles obscenely early yesterday morning, the running instructor said, “How you feeling, June?” and I stupidly said, “Fine!” because then she said, “Okay, then, I’m going to challenge you.”

Can I interject? I hate challenges. You know how everyone’s resume says they want a challenging position? I don’t. Couldn’t everything just be easy? I’d like a position where I already know everything and I breeze through my day. I mean really.

So she challenges me to run up a hill. A HILL. And of course I did it, because I clearly hate myself, and who was terribly sorry she ate 394783920 fried pickles at drag queen bingo?

After having seven heart attacks and coming home and telling Marvin my jaw hurt and I was certain it was my heart about to explode, I had to get my roots done, which maybe that doesn’t sound taxing to you, but I had to be there for over three hours because, hello, I have hair.

My point is, I was ready to go to sleep last night, I’ll tell you what.

I settled all in, and I was happiness personified. I was so drifty…

Then Marvin started moving his feet.

Marvin has this thing where after he’s fallen asleep, he moves his feet around. It’s not Restless Leg Syndrome, because that is where you move your legs before you fall asleep. Once Marvin starts with the feet thing, he often progresses to jerking his entire body, every couple minutes, for the rest of the night.

I lay there, and every time I’d drift off, JERK! Marvin would move. Also, the dog was on my legs, which were cramping, and after an hour of JOLT! and being pinned under a dog, I got up and went to the other bed.

I was just nicely getting to sleep when I heard, “Where’d you GO?”

Sighhhh.

It was Marvin and his modern-dance-moves-in-his-sleep self, lording over the bed. “You were doing the jerking thing, and I could not fall asleep.”

“But it’ll be lonely in there,” said Marvin, who I knew would be back in REM in .06 seconds once he went back to bed. Which he did.

So finally, FINALLY, I fell asleep, only to hear, “Click!” …..”CLICK!”…..”Click!” I tried, OH I TRIED, to ignore it, and I could hear old Marv and Tallulah sawing logs in their “lonely” room. THEY were capable of ignoring it.

“CLICK!”

“CRAP!” I said, throwing back the covers violently.

Winston and Henry were on the built-in shelf in the hallway, taking turns playing with my iPod earbuds. One would pat at it–“CLICK!”–then the other would. I have never left my iPod out before, so this must have been a thrilling novelty.

Here is an artist’s rendering of Winston and Henry on the shelf, to give you a bit of a highly accurate visual.

Catsonshelf
Yes, I am available for hire. If you need extraordinarily lifelike renderings of cats, with really really concise proportions, call June! I like how Henry is smaller than the Ugly Doll. And the iPod.

I put the iPod in my jewelry box, there, which is really an old box that had powder and soap in it in 1952, and I love love love it, and could you remind me that’s where I put said iPod, because you know I will forget and not see it for the next six months.

I returned to the bed and immediately fell asleep again. Because did I mention I was tired? And had run two miles then up Mt. McKinley?

“CRASH!”

This was the loudest sound you have ever heard. It was awesome and terrible.

Franpossessed
Guess who was at fault. And I have better pictures of Win and Hen, but I so enjoy how Francis looks like one of the scary owls from the bad forest in Wizard of Oz, here.
And speaking of proportion, I have somehow made it look like you have to lose weight before you can open our refrigerator. It looks like the narrowest space on earth. Which it isn’t. Our bathroom is.

So not only was there a great and terrible crash, then there was some odd, repetitive noise I could not even describe to you. Mostly because I was too busy picturing myself gleefully beheading everyone else who lives in this dwelling. This dwelling of REMus Interruptus.

Did I mention I could still hear lonely Marvin sawing logs?

This time those dreadful churls had done something that defied all logic and reason.

They had somehow UNSCREWED the vent-y, screen-y thing underneath the shelf, torn down the filter-y thing behind that (have I mentioned I am an architect and also a heating expert? When I’m not using the Paint program, I mean), and had CRAWLED INTO IT and under the house. I am not even making this up. In fact, I am not so sure they crawled under the house so much as back into the bowels of hell from whence they came.

I had to TALK THEM INTO coming back up, put everything back together, then try not to slice them both into teensy pieces, dry them into jerky, and chew them merrily for breakfast.

Honestly. Winston was a really good cat until he met Henry. It’s like he’s joined a gang or something.

Wherecatzrbad

Also? My 44-year-old white self is available to tag things for YOUR gang. Give me a call, won’t you? Gang person?

I’m going to take a nap.

Drag Queen envy · June's stupid life

B-I-N-G-Oh, wow, drag queens!

I have one word for you:

DRAG.

QUEEN.

BINGO.

Dragqueenbingo
And I am really sorry that I continue to think it's funny to say "I have one word for you" and then I have lots of words. Clearly, I'd be a bad drag queen, cause I lack the funny.

But really, girl.

Largedrag
Who doesn't love bingo? Who doesn't love drag queens? What's better than combining the two for a fabulous, sold-out fundraiser right here in Greensboro?

Martymartin 
My friend and somewhat-Faithful-Reader-except-he-hasn't-read-my-blog-since-he-started-his-new-job-and-I-don't-see-where-that's-an-excuse-because-Terraplane-reads-and-comments-from-HIS-new-job-and-OMG-I-am-so-using-this-entire-intro-every-time-I-say-his-name-which-is-Marty-Martin, and his nice girlfriend who we'll call Marty Martin's Woman–

I mean somewhat-Faithful-Reader-except-he-hasn't-read-my-blog-since-he-started-his-new-job-and-I-don't-see-where-that's-an-excuse-because-Terraplane-reads-and-comments-from-HIS-new-job-and-OMG-I-am-so-using-this-entire-intro-every-time-I-say-his-name-which-is-Marty-Martin's Woman–

invited some of us to join them at drag queen bingo last night, and event which apparently happens a couple times a year and how on EARTH did I not know about it before this?

Prettyqueen
Because you'll be stunned to hear I love me a drag queen.

And this is why I am writing to you today. You know, other than the part where I wanted to be a princess and a movie star when I was little, I have really never had any sort of career goals I am passionate about. I mean, I do love me some proofreading, sadly I really do, but I have never said, Oh, everything inside me churns to be a proofreader.

There was a period where I wanted to be a go-go dancer, but it's not up there with IT person for job demand.

But last night? Last night, I had an epiphany.

I really, really want to be a drag queen. You get to dress up, put on tons of makeup, then go out there and flail your arms dramatically to an ABBA song.

Wannabeher
Glitter LIPSTICK, you guys. Have you ever met anyone who should be wearing glitter lipstick like it's okay more than me?

And I do not think it's fair that you have to be a man to be a drag queen. It's discrimination. I think it'd be kind of a novelty to let me do it.

So here's where I need you. First of all, I need a name. A good one. Last night there was a Fuchsia Red, and a Crystal Snow, and I've heard of a Lotta Slots, which is good. The only drag queen name I can come up with is Amanda Not. See, cause I'm…not…a…man…

Okay, it sucks. I know it sucks. You have to help me! Hey, June Gardens wouldn't be bad, actually.

Marvisstraight

Marvin, leaving drag queen bingo, trying desperately to look hetero. "Man! Do I ever love women! No luck here, guys! Cause women! Love 'em!"

Doesn't Marvin look cute in his spectacles? He needs them now to drive at night. Because we are 73.

Help a 73-year-old female drag queen! Get a sister a name!

Thank you.

Oh, and of COURSE Paula H&B is commenter of the week. You must click on This Week's Special at right to see her beautiful what-we-thought-was-Mennonite-but-really-is-Amish dirty talk. Because something is deeply wrong with all of us at Bye Bye, Pie.

June's stupid life · Marvin · My pets

Playing possum. Which you’ll want to do by the time I get to the end of this story.

Now that I "work from home," and I use air quotes because I haven't had ANY work in almost two weeks, and there's this one part of my duties at the textbook place I used to like: the coordinator would send me everyone's corrections–all the other proofreaders, the owner of the company's notes, and so on. I would make sure all the approved corrections were made on the final copy. I liked doing this because I could gloat when I caught things others didn't, and completely crap all over myself when I missed something.

I figured since I have been gone from the textbook company for awhile, that the coordinator had reassigned said task. But yesterday I emailed her and told her how I liked doing it and guess what? She said NO ONE had been assigned the task and she had been doing it her own busy overwhelmed self, and my point is because I didn't SPEAK UP, I have just cost myself about a thousand bucks in the two months since I started freelancing.

Do you like how I interrupted the VERY FIRST SENTENCE of this post to ramble on about some different topic? Seriously, am I the most annoying blog you read? Not that I am a blog. Well, I kind of am.

As I was saying before the shiny object of money I'm NOT earning distracted me, now that I "work from home," the following seems to happen almost every night.

Me: [on Facebook. Somebody get me a 12-step program for Facebook. We couldn't call it Facebook Anonymous, because hi, there's my face]

Marvin: Well, I'm going to bed.

Me: [distracted by the part where I'm taking a quiz to see what color I am, and being annoyed when it says I am orange] What? You're going to bed?

Marvin: [sigh] Yes.

Me: It's so early!

I continue to be astonished that Marvin needs to retire at 9:30 or 10:00, because he gets up at effing 5 effing a. effing m., which is ludicrous and no one but the sun itself needs to be up at that hour. Actually, even the SUN isn't up at that hour. But Marvin is AT work by 7. At least that's what he tells me. He's probably having a torrid affair with a Mennonite. Do Mennonites get up early? Maybe just Amish people do. If anyone is a Mennonite and wishes to yell at me about my ignorance of the Mennonite culture, feel free.

What if I have a huge Mennonite following and I have no idea? What if they all leave in droves today? June's blog. Offending Mennonites since 2010.

So, the point of what was supposed to be a short story since I have to be somewhere at 10:00 and it's 8:41 and I haven't showered yet, is that the other night Marvin went to bed at his usual Presbyterian time of 9:30. See what I did there? I tried to stereotype another group, just to be offensive to everyone. My next-door neighbor is a Presbyterian, and while I have no idea when she goes to bed, I do know that several of her friends from church drink 7 and 7s, and they told me it's also called "The Pres," because it is the drink of choice of Presbyterians. Which is funny, because it was also my drink of choice at weddings when I was a teen, because my mother just thought I was drinking ginger ale.

Hi, mom!

SO MARVIN GOES TO BED. Could I just get to the story? And of course Tallulah stays up with me, because that dog is obsessed with me and follows me everywhere, including the bathroom. It's like I'm a flimsy gum wrapper with the phone number of a very cute guy on it, and she is forever rechecking her coat pocket to make sure I'm still there.

Around 11:00, I decided to retire, as well. Not from my "work at home" position, because whoo! With the work lately. I mean from the day. Retire from the day. I let Talu out for her last constitutional, and I commenced cleaning my sexy night guard and getting the kabuki skin treatment on my face, which yes, I already showed you at some point, maybe try looking in November 2008. I think it was Faithful Reader Lee who became obsessed with seeing me in the kabuki night cream.

Now I have offended the kabuki theater people. I am going to say you all get up at midday. And you drink Jack and Cokes.

So I'm getting ready when I hear, "BARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" It didn't even SOUND like Tallulah. It was too high-pitched and insistent of a bark; hers is more, "You piss me off!" not "HATEYOUHATEYOUHATEYOU!" which is what THIS bark sounded like.

I opened the back door, and sure enough, it was Lu, and in what's always a good sign, she was barking into the bushes.

"Tallulah, come!" I said in my commanding voice that the trainer taught me. Yeah. She turned right back and came in.

HAH!

I got the flashlight and stepped into the freezing night in my socks. I don't mean I only had on socks, like I was in the Red Hot Chili Peppers, but I had no other footwear and I was not comfy. But have I mentioned it was 11:00, the time all Reform Jews like to go to bed?

Honestly. I will have no readers by the end of this post.

My flashlight shone on a possum, who looked horrified and also like it was thinking perhaps it would sink its rather sizable claw parts into Tallulah's neckeldy region at any moment. I wanted to just reach over and pull Tallulah by her collar, but I was scared that she'd bite me because she was so keyed up, and I also had the very rational fear that the possum would jump onto my face and wrap its prehensile around my neck.

I actually don't think possums have prehensile tails, do they? I kind of just wanted to say prehensile. But WORMY. Its WORMY tail.

I turned to go back into the house to get Talu's food, hoping if I shook the bag she'd be interested. Poor Henry was standing in the doorway, looking exactly like a Halloween kitty, his back arched, his tail enormous, and the most terrified expression on his orange face. It was like, "I know some shizzle is going down right now, and that I need to have this posture, but oh dear God, don't let it come toward me." Which is how I felt when I had to play softball in elementary school.

You'll be stunned to hear that a bunch of dried kibble rolling around was not nearly as fascinating as a live wormy-tailed possum. And have I mentioned this entire time Tallulah was reiterating, "BARKBARKBARKBARKBARK!" and that it was 11:00 and also that Marvin slept through all of this?

Finally, though, I had to go bursting into the bedroom, my hands flapping hysterically. Marvin got up, half-asleep, calmly filled a pitcher with water, went outside, poured it on the dog, and the dog ran inside.

Then he went back to bed.

Marvin. Calmly breaking up possum fights and sleeping with Mennonites since 2010.

June's stupid life · Marvin

I’m a-pickin’ and I’m a-grinnin’

I wish I could express how much I love myself for thinking up that title. Although if you read my high school diary you may agree that my love for myself extends beyond just this morning and the title-thinking-up-ness. Have I told you about my lenient rules? And straight teeth?

Anyway.

I got a letter from my TinyTown friend, Lucy. You may recall that last month, Marvin and I journeyed to TinyTown to help celebrate the 80th birthday of our friend, the good Dr. Whit. Lucy was kind enough to send us a photo of said celebration.

Justwhit

Okay, so this is a scan of a printout of an email. I understand I am no Francisco Scavullo, and yes, I do realize this is the 40th time I've used Francisco Scavullo as an example of a good photographer, and that I need to expand my repertoire. Shut up.

So, Lucy said Dr. Whit's 80 candles, up there, look like some sort of terrorist's bomb about to go off. And have I mentioned that our fine government often looks at this blog? I have no idea if they think I am a threat to national security or someone there is just goofing off at work. Anyway, I just said, "terrorist bomb," so we can be assured they will visit today. Hi, government! Go on over to Cafe Press and get you a Bye Bye, Pie mug! All good Americans are doing it!

But back to Whit. We should all be so lucky to have 80 candles on our birthday cakes one day, and I was thinking this and generally getting a kick out of Lucy's letter and this cute photo. Then I noticed I was in the background.

Me

Oh, look, I thought, there's me, grinning manically. I guess I was excited to eat cake. Then I saw who was standing next to me, and of course it was Marvin, but…

Pick
Oh, for pity's sake. What is Marvin doing? In her letter, Lucy asked if Marvin was perhaps gagging himself. 

Oh, Marvin. Aren't the two of us supposed to be the sophisticated big-city slickers? I can't take you anywhere.

Health · June's stupid life · My pets

But that June keeps a-movin’, and that’s what tortures Lu

My new Bye Bye, Pie mug is here! Merry Christmas, you wonderful old Building & Loan!

My father has never seen It’s a Wonderful Life, and never gets my references. I do not understand his kind.

Byebye!
Don’t THINK CafePress gives these mugs to me free. I have to buy them like all y’all all. Okay, I really have to stop saying “all y’all all,” because it’s one of those things I say thinking I’m amuuuuusing, and then I’ll say it in a job interview or something.

I discovered my mug on the porch after I came home from my pressing lunch at the Mellow Mushroom, where I met with my book club, only to discover that not ONE of us had read the book this time. And by the way, the bruschetta at The Mellow Mushroom is delish. Get it.

But you know what? Our selection for next month is The Help, which is what we’re reading over here for OUR book club. Honestly. Will the surprises and suspense ever end on Bye Bye, Pie? (Click on Mince Words with June if you want to know about my book club.)

EverydaynoseeverydayAs you can see, me and my nose tore into my CafePress box as soon as I got in the door. I did not even remove my coat. And let’s discuss my gray roots, can we? Geez Louise, I just had my roots done the week before Christmas. Isn’t your hair supposed to slow its growth during the winter months?

The other thing I did today was my run, which NO, I did not do at 6 a.m., because are ya high? Are ya Whitney Houston, over there? Crack is whack. So is getting up to run at 6 a.m. in the dead of winter. So is making a Whitney Houston joke from 1999.

No, I decided to run in the afternoon, that bruschetta weighing heavy on my innards, and I said, hey! Why not take crone’s best friend, my faithful dog?

Once I finally got my coat off and my running ensemble on, I noted our efficient watchdog had not shown herself to me at all that afternoon. So I went in search…

Ganjadog …of old high-on Lu, over there. Who was baked? And feel free to just lounge on the inside of my robe. I don’t mind. No we DON’T have any chocolate-covered Doritos, geez.

ZzzwhaShe really didn’t seem enthused about the idea of our whip-fast run. In fact, she kept suggesting we watch Wizard of Oz with the sound down, while we also play Dark Side of the Moon.

But I just.said.no., and off we went.

And okay.

You know how you see people running with their dogs? And the dog runs right at their side, usually some simpering breed that actually MINDS, such as a yellow Lab or a golden Retriever?

Have I ever told you how much it bugs me when people say, “golden Lab”? THERE IS NO SUCH THING. It’s either a golden RETRIEVER or a yellow LAB. DANG.

Anyway. Noble man and beast, running as one, like the wind. It’s almost like poetry.

Yeah. Tallulah and me? Not so much. First of all, she would PULL, as hard as she could, to get to the next inch of grass. Because apparently that next inch is gonna be where the action is. She’s like a New Yorker or something. Always looking for the next new thing. And when she stopped doing that, she’d put on her brakes, because something needed a LOT more sniffing. It was not a blow and go, no, sir. It needed careful investigation.

At any rate, we ran through four songs on my iPod, which I was using to time us (I kept adding up the length of each song. Johnny Cash has really short songs), until my stupid iPod ran out of power. Why does everything run out of power after eight seconds?

So then I had to run and count minutes in my head and pull and catch up to the dog and basically it was a really good time. Remind me to take old Bong Hit Lula out with me next run.

Hatemomhair Here we are after. I punish the dog by sticking her in the eye with my hair. The Dog Whisperer recommends it.

There are two pictures of Mr. Horkheimer in the background of this photo.

Anyway. I am selling the dog and also my wares on CafePress, and for those of you who already got your shirts and such, email me a photo and I will expose you on my blog! You could even put on your new t-shirt and come sleep inside my robe! That makes for an excellent photo.

P.S. Just as I wrapped up this fine post, Faithful Reader Paula Hookers & Blow (see what you miss when you don’t check the comments?) sent in a photo of her caffeine-addicted cat, Simon, and his Bye Bye, Pie! mug.

Simon & BBPSimon hate. Coffee cup empty. Simon whine endlessly and look at you cross-eyed. Simon Siamese. If you pleeze.

Current Affairs · Hair · Health · June's stupid life

Diary of Anne–Frankly, don’t you think it’s creepy to read someone’s diary?

Did you see Miep Gies died? She was the woman who sneaked food to Anne Frank and her family, and she was the one who found Anne Frank's diary after poor Anne was captured by those crabby Nazis.

I recently saw an Onion article called, Ghost of Anne Frank: Quit Reading my Diary. Have I mentioned The Onion slays me on a regular basis? But really. Remember when I published some of my diary entries from my younger days? Here:

Thursday, November 12, 1981: 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,
lenient rules, straight teeth, thick hair, and a good voice.

Mortifying. I mean, not as mortifying as having a bad class ring, but still.

And I didn't even show you the example where I said, "If they cancel General Hospital to show the hostages' return, I will kill someone."

So, really, poor Anne Frank is probably eternally embarrassed in the afterlife, wishing we'd all stop reading about her crush on Peter, who let's face it, she would have been over in two seconds had she not been stuck with him in an attic.

Because you know what? Adolescent girls are apparently sort of fickle.

Monday, September 1, 1980: Happy Barry Gibb's birthday! Kevin hasn't called
all day. [His]
mood is pretty weird. He keeps mentioning breaking up, and always hangs up from
conversations so quickly. I'll die if he drops me.

Tuesday, September 2, 1980: Kevin and I talked till late tonite. I may break up with him
because of Jeff and all the other available guys.

I don't know why I am making you look at these horrid diary entries again. Except for the part where they KILL me. If you go to that link above, please keep in mind there are also diary entries from 5th grade and from college. I wouldn't want you to miss out on any of the depth and kindness that was June.

Anyway, girlfriend was 100, Miep Gies was. Who I realize was 72 subjects ago. She fell down sometime around Christmas and that's what did her in. I hope I go in some calm way like slowly deteriorating after a fall. Hey, I know it doesn't sound all that fun, but it's better than the cancer/Alzheimer's deaths I got going in my family so far.

In other news that does not involve Nazis or death or vomiting or my expensive stereo (I like that I was trying to convince myself my "thick" hair was an asset. Had I seen that Sun-In Einstein fright wig up there?), I am writing this at 10 o'clock Monday night, to publish Tuesday morning, because my running group meets at SIX A.M. Tuesday.

Now, you don't HAVE to go to these informal group runs during the week. So there's the TEENIEST chance I will actually go, but have you met me? I do not embrace the morning.

I know I totally sound like Garfield right now. Let me dive into a pan of lasagna. Oh! Funny.

Speaking of not-remotely-funny cats, Marvin purchased a 1982 Morris the Cat calendar on eBay, which arrived today. He bought it because 1982 has the same day/dates as 2010. I mean, I know that makes no logical sense, really; oh, 1982 starts on the same day as 2010, so naturally you should get a Morris calendar from then. I do not know what to tell you about Marvin. Or Morris.

And who SAVED their 1982 Morris calendar? Why? I can assure you it is not a classic, with quotes from that misanthropic cat. Morris needed an antidepressant.

I will write to you tomorrow and let you know if I went running, in case you wanted to place bets or anything. I have book club Tuesday, as well, so if I actually run with my group, I will look like a lunatic at the book club lunch. Do you remember that scene in Flashdance where Jennifer Beals and her best friend are eating after a big workout, and for five minutes all you watch them do is shove food in their pie holes and crunch? That is so gonna be me over there at the Mellow Mushroom, where only the finest book clubs meet.

So, go out and do something Miep Giels good today. I know I've been a big inspiration. You should really listen to me. I've got a lot more going for me than many other people.