The terrible art from my childhood

This morning Henry was restless. He kept pace-pace-pacing from room to room.

“You certainly are pacing this morning, Henry,” I told him. “You are Trova at Pace, Columbus.”


Now, usually Marvin ignores me. We have been married a long time. And you guys know me. Often I make no sense. But today he came right into the room. “What?” he said.


“Trova at Pace, Columbus” was written on this stupid framed poster in my living room throughout my entire childhood. 


Manscapes215-2s



I cannot believe I found this poster just now. Hello, entire childhood. Hello, miracle of Google.  This is just like the poster from my childhood, except across the top it read “Trova.” At the bottom was “at Pace, Columbus.”


Hours I sat there in my living room, hours, thinking, “What in the Sam Hill does ‘Trova at Pace, Columbus’ mean?”


I don’t think I even knew Columbus was a city, so I was really baffled. I guess Trova was an artist, and he appeared at some gallery called Pace, in Columbus. I have only recently figured this out. I wish I could go back in time and tell my eight-year-old self this, because it really detracted from my reading of Strawberry Girl or whatever.


We had this poster until the mid-80s, by the way. My mother kept it like it was good. You can see how I went the other way with my tastes. I went all ’50s and over the top and pink and such.


My mother gets mad at me, but really all the art we had in our house was incredibly depressing to me. We had this collection of crisis-inducing clown stuff, most of which I am sorry to tell you I cannot find online. There was this one sort of sad vampire clown against a gray background who was clutching his throat, and in a terse phone call with my mother just now, she assures me he was not a vampire clown at all but some kind of saint.


Whatever.


There was also a terrible white fluffy clown against a red background that I cannot find on Google, because no one on earth bought this painting other than my masochistic family.


We similarly had a charcoal drawing of an almond-headed maudlin-looking trio of people hanging at the end of the hallway right near my bedroom, and my mother had to rip that one up because I was unable to enter my bedroom due to the terror I had at getting too near the drawing.


My mother says I had an overactive imagination.


But I was able to find the other charming artwork we had around the house. Feast your eyes, won’t you?


Dali-last-supper
Salvador Dali’s The Last Supper. This was in my parents’ bedroom. It’s like they’re having the last supper in the lobby of the Ramada.


I am not into the minimalism. News flash.


Scimmia-picasso

Oh. Oh somebody save me. I cannot even remember where we had this nightmarish thing, but had it we did. That baby with the twisted neck, old Napoleon hat and his leggings, there, everybody’s eating disorder, and that MONKEY. This whole painting plummets me into a lifelong depression.


Swing


This is one of my all-time favorite paintings. I know. I am ridiculous. But isn’t it pretty? No one is sad. No one is a monkey. No one is clutching his throat or having a last meal at the Ramada. Why can’t things be happy and swingy and puffy in art? Why can’t we all look up each other’s skirts?

And you know what’s funny? Art history was far and away my favorite subject in college. It just turns out my parents and I have POLAR OPPOSITE tastes. Give me some rococo and we are all set. A little art nouveau. Something pretty and flowery and curlicue-y. If I didn’t look like my dad in drag you’d think I wasn’t related to my parents at all, given our tastes in the art.


And by the way, when my father, you know, goes to that great art gallery in the sky, I am due to inherit all kinds of not-my-style art. Won’t I have blog fodder then?

At least if this house goes down, they’ll have plenty of black boxes to figure out why

Somebody asked to see a photo of Henry in the comments yesterday, not that someone wanted me to literally wedge a photo of Henry inside the comments.

Samesize

Really, all you have to do is look at any picture of him from October to the present, because he still REFUSES TO GROW. He must have some rare tropical parasite or something.

Or maybe he's just going to be a small cat. But why did he grow at such an alarming rate for the first seven months and then just get tired of growing?

Also, for those of you who pay attention to this sort of thing, you may have noticed that the room behind our little opening, there, suddenly looks like the Starship Enterprise Rent-a-Car. This is because Marvin has to make everything ugly.

I wish Marvin weren't into black boxes and cords. I wish he were into flowers and sparkly things and vases and pianos and I guess I am saying I wish Marvin were Liberace. But as it is, he is forever moving his dusty, heavy black boxes and cords to new parts of the house, and it makes me eternally more depressed. I wish we had a bigger house, one where he had a large area to hide all these depressing, large, dusty black things.

Harps. What if he were into harps? Wouldn't that be pretty? Oh, here is my husband's harp collection. Here is my husband's money collection. Isn't it nice? My husband collects cosmetics. Would you like to see?

So we had a wonderful time at our dinner last night. The place we went was way the damn hell out in the country and oh! with the stars. My husband collects stars. Look up! It was pretty. Also too they had a cat and a dog, and you know how I judge the success of the evening based on whether there were pets and I got to pet said pets. Success!

And the food was good. My best friend always waxes on to me about the food the next day, but I am kind of indifferent to food. However, the food really was notable. Delicious salad with some kind of toasted nut, and a dark chocolate brownie, and of course my lasagna.

Oh! And did you know if your garlic is bendy, you can put it in ice water and it'll be fine? I learned that on Facebook last night. Turns out it's just dehydrated. Your garlic, not Facebook.

At any rate, I must (guess what? wait for it!) proofread for a while, then I have running club, so the day yawns before me at its usual pace. The people we met last night talked about how they're friends with all their neighbors, and get together with them all the time. I hardly know any of my neighbors. I am friends with Peg next door, and vaguely know the other next-door neighbor, and there's the gay guy who walks his two dogs in sweaters who I say hi to.

Okay, have I ever asked the guy, "Say, what is your sexual orientation?" No. Have I ever seen him make out with a man while he's on his walks? I have not. But, come on. His dogs wear sweaters. I am hazarding a guess, here.

Anyway. My house of black boxes and I are off. Comment of the week goes to Carol T. Click on This Week's Special to see. And don't forget, we are getting together here to watch the Academy Awards! And this month's book club is book Water for Elephants! And apparently I like exclamation points!

Fifty flavors of cilantro fest

Girl, I got no time to gab. I have to make that lasagna for tonight. I know that takes, you know, 40 minutes, but still.

And the publishing company for whom I work said, "Everything you're doing! Toss it aside! We are

FEDEX

ing you a new package! Prioritize that! Even over your lasagna!"

So there's that.

And then Henry is obsessed with his mouse today. He needs it tossed every eight seconds. Which if you are memorizing the APA style guide you'd know should be "8 seconds." Because when you are referring to time you use the numeral. Unless you are referring to approximate time, then you say "approximately eight seconds."

Welcome to my world. And of course I don't have to worry about memorizing the APA style guide right now, because I am putting that aside to prioritize whatever the hell they're sending me today.

Wait, Henry needs his mouse tossed.

Do you think maybe I'm a chaos addict? And that's why I have 80 pets and 20 jobs and lasagna?

Oh, and the person hosting this potluck event tonight emailed to ask if we hated any food, so naturally I told the truth about my aversion to cilantro–is that rude? because what if she was planning a huge '50 flavors of cilantro' fest or something?–and anyway I warned her about my roots. I mean I figured I might as well steel her for the horror that is my roots, so she wouldn't accidentally say, "Oh, you have frosting in your hair" or "Is it snowing?" or something equally mortifying.

TUESDAY. My hair appointment is Tuesday. We can't meet new people in four days?

Hang on. Mouse.

Oh, you should see that cat scoot after that mouse.

Anyway, I had better go and begin flapping my hands around uselessly for several hours before I begin accomplishing anything. Attached please find a photo of Faithful Reader and Commenter Furry Godmother in her Bye Bye Pie T shirt. You can see her cute dog…approves.

Furrygettinfelt

You know what those dogs need? Are some fluffier ears and tails.

Okay, bye. Cause, mouse.

June succumbs

Hateme

Crap.

Guess who I got together with yesterday? Was it that same friend who FORCED me to read the first Twilight book? I blame her. Otherwise I could continue to scoff at the rest of you. I already got to the sex pillow-biting part in book four.

Hate me. Hate me so bad.

In other pressing news, apparently we are having some sort of potluck event with the other members of Marvin's band tomorrow night. All the wives are meeting each other. It is like Yoko and Linda and whoever that chick is who liked Eric Clapton and then also Ringo Starr are all getting together.

Naturally Marvin waited until last night to tell me. My roots are 17 inches across the top of my head. I am going to have to act like this skunk look is something I meant to do. Maybe I could go with a whole Pepe LePew thing, and kind of speak in a French accent, and kiss everyone up their arm.

And of course you know what I have to bring as my dish to pass. The other day I called one of my oldest friends (to get the number of someone else, which comes as no surprise if you read this blog every day), and I told her how we'd had people over for dinner recently. She said, "Oh! Gee! What did you serve? Did it start with 'L' and end with 'sagna?' "

When my mother turned 60 she had a huge party and invited many of my friends, and they all ended up congregating in the back yard over by the hammock. I drifted over there, over by the young folk, there, the young 40-year-old folk, and they were having a conversation about whether they'd all gotten a chance to visit me in LA. "Yeah, I've been out to see her! It was nice! She even cooked for me once! Never thought I'd see the day!"

"Yeah, she cooked for us once too!"

(Oh, crap, I thought.)

"What'd you guys have?"

"Lasagna."

"Wow, that's what WE had!"

"Us, too!"

It did not take long for all my friends to figure out I had served exactly the same meal to everyone who came to visit me.

Humiliating.

Anyway, going out to get the pasta today. At least I don't have to buy any oregano.

Oreg

Finally, I spotted Winston and Francis being all curly-cue-y and cute yesterday so naturally I dashed for the camera, and does Francis have to ruin everything?

Cute
As soon as I lifted the camera, he had to glare at me with this rheumy eyes. Why couldn't he have just stayed asleep? He's old. Couldn't he go deaf? Anyway, trust me. Eight seconds before, it was really cozy and cute. Almost as cute as that Edward and Bella. And their unborn vampire child.

Topamax. Making June’s blog absolutely unreadable since 2010.

It is snow snow snowing outside, and I know Marvin is pa-ISSSED that it chose to do so now, as opposed to early this morning, because the whole South throws a hissy when it snows and shuts everything down and he totally wouldn't have had school had so much as one flake fallen from the sky before school started and my whole day would have consisted of Who documentaries, and what run-on sentence?

Poor Tallulah had to do her duty out there just now and she practically turned into Lot's wife, she got so much snow on her (not that salt was falling from the sky), and I could tell she was highly insulted. She hurried back in and stared at me, like, "Get snow off Lu!"

For someone who hung on the corner in front of a trailer park her whole childhood, she has gotten awfully highfalutin'.

My Farmer's Almanac told me it was going to be a hard winter, have I already told you that? I can't remember what I've already told you, because (a) I tell you things every day, and (2) I'm on enough freaking Topamax to choke 50 Budweiser horses, and (5[w]) because I'm generally an idiot. But anyway I love me the Farmer's Almanac, a thing that somehow delights my stepfather, who actually grew up on a farm. He had a copy of it at their place in northern Michigan (which I refuse to call "up North") and I could.not.put.it.down. I feel the same way about Playboy magazine, which believe it or not has really interesting articles.

Anyway, that Farmer's Almanac had been lying around "up North" (ack) for like 80 summers and I had always ignored it until I was desperate one rainy afternoon and WHO KNEW? It had all KINDS of interesting stuff in there, like when to plant your flowers, and weather info, and just cute articles, and I was ALL UP in that thing and now I get one every year. You just never know.

Once I had a party and some yahoo left nonalcoholic beer in my fridge, and it stayed there for maybe six months, and one afternoon it was really hot and I was lying in the sun because I was not yet terrified of melanoma, and there was NOTHING TO DRINK (this was back when I was in my 20s, and I never had the following three items all at once: toilet paper, coffee filters, and paper towels. Ever. I never had all three. One was always replacing the other of the two. Sad.), so I finally opened a nonalcoholic beer, and WHO KNEW? It was delicious!

This is how the Post-it got invented, you know. Mistakes like this. Well, not exactly, but kind of.

I have no idea how I got off on this tangent. I have no idea what I was originally going to post about. Suddenly I was wiping with coffee filters and reading the Farmer's Almanac, and oh, dear. Topamax. I have already lost five pounds, though, have I told you that?

Oh, but I start a new proofreading project today! I am so excited about it I could just flap my hands! Listen to this!

APA (The American Psychological Association) has updated their style guide. An author wants me to go through his entire textbook and make sure the entire thing conforms to the new style guide. Oh! So I get to study! The NEW.STYLE.GUIDE. Then MAKE! SURE! IT! CONFORMS!

Like, it does not get any better than this. Just the words "new style guide" get me a little giddy. Ooooo! A "little" giddy. Who am I kidding? I get to go get the NEW STYLE GUIDE today. And START READING IT. THE WHOLE THING! I just danced in my chair a little.

So. That's my dumb life in a nutshell. I wonder what I was really gonna talk about today? Do you enjoy me on Topamax? I know I do. Stupid is as stupid does.

Oh, but thanks for all your migraine suggestions yesterday. I am so getting my hormones checked out. That was so cool how you all helped a sister out. And every time someone says "hormone" I think of my grandfather saying, "How do you make a hormone? Don't pay her." Everyone's a stand-up.

Okay, really going now. Because am clearly nuts on the 'max today. But before I do, Faithful Reader Kitschinlogic checked in yesterday, and I didn't know she was dealing with stupid-ass breast cancer, which I just misspelled "bread cancer" (thank you, Topamax), and given the choice, Kitschinlogic probably would have preferred bread cancer. Let's all send her our best wishes, shall we?

Head Games

You know I hate to complain, (!!!!!)

(!!!!!!!)

but I've had so many migraines this year it is unbelievable. I have gone back on Topamax, I have given up wine, I have taken that giant ax out of my head, and still, more migraines than ever.

I do not know what is causing them, obviously, because at this point I would do WHATEVER IT TAKES to get rid of them. I do not know how people go around with real things wrong with them. I know I say that whenever I go through one of these bouts of pain, but I always think of it. Those of you with fibromyalgia or cancer or some kind of chronic pain? My hat is off to you. Please ignore the hair under said hat. Seriously, do not know how you do it.

So, last night was a doozy, or a lulu, or a dolu, or whatever. I could not lie down, and I could not sit up, because both were nauseating and painful, so I kind of leaned on Marvin while he pressed on both of my temples, and all I could concentrate on doing was taking deep breaths so that I did not cry, because crying makes migraines worse.

Those of you who have read this blog for awhile do not need to guess at what happened next. Oh, yes, he did.

Marvin made his move.

Marvin is inexorably drawn to me whenever I am ill. When I had an emergency wisdom tooth removal? Made his move. When I got the runs after my stepsister's wedding and spent four hours in our hotel bathroom? He got all amorous. When I cut my head open on a succulent plant and had to go to the ER and had my head bandaged up in a turban? He could not have felt hotter and more bother-erd.

As per usual, I do not know what to tell you about Marvin. All he can say about it is, "Well, you're already lying down."

And speaking of dysfunction, you know how people always talk about their dogs–probably their golden Retrievers–and how said dogs are so sensitive to when they're feeling down, and they come right in and sit with them, and their pain is their dog's pain?

Yeah.

While I hunkered in my dark room last night, fending off old Casanova Marvin, I heard Tallulah in the living room, gleefully humping Winston, then after the lovin', she chewed on my White-Out pen like she likes to do, and it hurt too much for me to yell at her. Finally she tore into the bedroom.

"What everyone doing?!"

JUMP!

"Hey! That ice on mom head?" Licklicklicklicklick. "Refresh! We sleeping now? Let Lu make nest." scrape scrape scrape scrape scrape — "Give me blanket, mom. Why you moan?" — scrape. turn turn turn turn "Sighhhhhh." stretch. dig nails into mom's leg.  "Zzzzzzzz."

I'm thinking of signing her up to be a therapy dog. Because sensitive? Attuned?

So it was a fun night. And now I am dopey and out of it and I would literally trade heads with Dopey from the Seven Dwarfs if it meant no more migraines.

Goofy-with-Diamond-Eyes-snow-white-and-the-seven-dwarfs-6497076-575-360
This did always seem like something I'd do, actually. And who arches his brows?

Anyway. Sorry to be such a complain-y pants. The good news is, I will finish part one of my giant proofreading project today and I get to turn it in. I don't think I have told you I am working for my old workplace. It is for a different department but the person who recommended me was my old boss. So see how smart I was to not divulge everything about why I quit on this here blog?

I had to go there yesterday, to my old workplace, and I checked in with the security guard, and I said, "Hi, I'm June Gardens. I used to work here, and I freelance now with the WhogeldyWhoo Department." And he said, "Well, I know that. You're a good-looking woman. I remember all the good-looking women."

Honestly I could have kissed him flush on the mouth. Once you're 72 you hardly hear that stuff anymore.

Okay, off to finish my task for the WhogeldyWhoo Department. And try try try not to get another dang migraine.

Only dog

When Tallulah and I were checking out at the vet the other day, this little girl was walking past. She was a cute thing, springy black curls, and may I just add she had an enormous dog of her own. But when she walked past Talu, who was minding her own business sniffing the food bags, the little girl raised her hands in the air all dramatically and screeched, "I'm afraid of that doggie!"

I mean, okay, drama queen. That doggie was doing nothing menacing, unless you were a piece of kibble. But I am sorry to tell you Tallulah raised her snout from the bags, took one look at old Academy Award nominee over there, and said, "Bark." Then she went back to the bags of food.

This resulted, of course, in the dramatic child screeching and crying and yelling, "Doggie mean!" and of course I was mortified and yanked Tallulah over near me, and I swear Lula was giggling a little. I mean, she totally did it on purpose. She has never barked at a kid before in her life. Doggie really was being mean.

I don't know why I have to have the weird dog. Aren't dog supposed to love kids, and want to romp with them, and clamor for their attention and such?

Talureturns 

I weird.

You know what the problem is? My dog is just like me.

When I was a kid my parents had to lock me outside 15 minutes a day to make me play outside. And if either one of them deny this I am gonna get really, really mad because it's TOTALLY TRUE. When I was really little, I played with Faithful Reader Pal from MA, who was similarly an only child, so we understood each other and it was cool. We totally snubbed all the other kids in the neighborhood, with their families and their chaotic homes and their Kool-Aid and loudness and roughhousing. We'd go over there, roll our eyes at each other, and go back and play quietly together in our sunny back yards, kind of wordlessly.

When she moved away the summer we were seven, I was totally screwed.

I think it was that summer that I started reading in earnest. It was that summer that she got an ulcer. We were not equipped to be ripped apart. That much was certain.

And you'd think the part where I just wanted to be in the basement all the time, reading Jonathan Livingston Seagull, would make me not very popular with the other kids in the neighborhood. You'd think they'd stay clear. But no. Somehow those idiots CLAMORED to my house. I don't know if my indifference was a novelty or the part where I had good toys was a draw (I had a pinball machine), or maybe all that peace and quiet was kind of nice for a change. But I couldn't go an hour without some kid at my back door.

"Juuu-uuune."

Even at eight, this irked me. "Do they not know how to knock?" I'd think. Seriously, I'd think that.

"What?"

"You wanna come out and play?"

"There is no such word as 'wanna.' However, I will come out for awhile because Pam and John make me go out for 15 minutes daily (I called my parents by their names. Yes, I did.). We can play Little House, if you'd like."

Seriously, why did anyone like me? And how did I ever NOT get assigned the part of Nellie Olsen?

So I guess this is why I got a weird dog. It's poetic justice.

Maybe I need to get her a sister or a brother dog. What do you think Marvin? Hmmm? Hmmmm? Hmmmm? You wanna?

It is SO a word.

In which we think about Ceasar’s nethers way too much

A few weeks ago, a friend called and said she was five minutes away and could she drop in. "Sure!" I said, and then proceeded to cram everything just everywhere, in attempts to make it look like I am not the total Sanford & Son slob that I am.

Well let me tell you what. I cannot. CAN NOT. find my address book, running watch, and favorite reading glasses (the cat-eye ones, with the little rhinestones at the tips), and I assure you all three things are together because I use all three things all the time. I cannot begin to imagine where I crammed those things in my clever cleanup attempts, but I must have shoved them up the arse of great Ceasar's ghost, because I have looked EVERYWHERE. I have even looked in my car. I have even looked in the attic. I would have looked in the oven had I not actually cooked in there last weekend. Oh Lord, what if I cooked my glasses?

WHERE DID I PUT THEM?

And when I say my running watch, I don't mean my watch has little legs and runs around the house like the Gingerbread Man. I mean it has giant numbers that tell me how many seconds have passed so I can tell how long I have run. I didn't even buy it at the running store, it's one of Marvin's 700 million watches (Marvin is obsessed with watches. You'd think he was a centipede. No one needs this many watches. Who is he, Big Ben? The town crier? Greenwich? And then is he on time for anything, ever?). The watch no longer works, but it is digital and for some reason the seconds still work.

Marvin saw me using it, and he said, "That watch doesn't tell the time anymore." 

"I know, but it still tells you the seconds, and that's all I need. I just need to keep track of how many minutes I run at a stretch."

"But it doesn't tell the time."

"But that's okay. I can just look at it every thirty seconds or so, and I can keep track of how many minutes in a row I'm running."

"But it doesn't tell the time."

Anyway, this whole useless conversation was for naught because now I can't find the dang thing at all and I have to use a normal watch and I can't see up close anymore so I have to squint or else run in reading glasses and there is only so much humiliation I can take in one day.

Also, I know the rest of you now keep your phone numbers and such in your cell phones or your dingleberries or wherever, but I still use Martha Washington's address book, like a real hardcover address book, with the alphabetical tabs and so forth, and of course it is up great Ceasar's arse, so now whenever I want to call anyone, here's what I have to do. I have to go to my phone, scroll through the numbers of whomever has called me lately, find a mutual friend, and call them.

"June! Hi! What's up!"

"Um, yeah, hi. I'm not really calling you. See, three weeks ago, this person came over at the last minute? And I crammed everything up the arse of great Ceasar's ghost so my house would seem clean? And I lost my address book. So could you give me Bathsheba's phone number?"

You can imagine how this has made me quite popular among my friends. You can also imagine how many people named Bathsheba I know in real life.

I guess the moral of this story is, when someone drops in unexpectedly, let your slob flag fly. Wouldn't it have been better for my visitor to spend 15 minutes thinking I'm a tad untidy than to have gone these three weeks looking for that ding ding ding and also dang and dang address book and watch and those cute reading glasses? Not to mention how uncomfortable great Ceasar must be feeling by now.

Honestly, WHERE DID I PUT THEM?

Roll me away

Who even knew redunkulous Twilight could garner 11 million comments?

And hey, thanks for that suggestion that I go to the LIBRARY to get book four, because it honestly hadn't occurred to me. Does anyone remember why I started blogging? Wasn't it because I went a year without spending? You can see how that stuck with me.

So it's Saturday morning and in a few minutes I have to head off to the park to join my running group to galumph majestically on my arthritic knee. Then I have to come home and work another 12 hours, which by the way, I actually turned work down yesterday, in a stunning turn of events.

Then Marvin expects me to go out at 10 p.m. to hear a band with the Other June and her fiancee. I am thinking Marvin is berserk. I have worked three 12-hour days in a row and for some reason mental exhaustion is just as tiring as laying bricks. Not that I have ever laid bricks. Or even spoken romantically to them, really.

Oh! But here is some exciting news. I realized I have a credit on Cafe Press, the site where I am selling my wares (Click on Buy Buy Pie Stuff over on the right if you want to see) and I got me one of my brown, long-sleeve t shirts that I have been coveting! Oh, I am excited! Now I can be all cute like Faithful Reader Jill Munroe.

Pie
I think I'll wear it today to proofread. I know. I really know how to throw down.

It's time for me to go run against the wind. I'll be running against the wind. I'm old and weak and still runnin' against the wind. But comment of the week goes to The Chief. Click on This Week's Special to see.

Oh, and since we're clicking all over the place today, our book club selection this month will be Water for Elephants. I won't have time to add that to the Mince Words with June button this morning, so if you click that you will be sorely disappointed and your weekend will be destroyed, but let's say we'll meet at 7 p.m. Eastern time on Sunday, March 21. There are no major sporting events that day, are there?

Okay, off to run. I hope you all have the Chariots of Fire theme in your heads, cause that's exactly what it's like. And by that I mean the slow motion part.

June admits her shameful truth

About three things I was absolutely positive:

First, I was never going to read those stupid books about vampires.

Second, 2006 called, wants its phenomenon back.

And third, if they don't do it by the fourth book, I am unconditionally and irrevocably going to kill myself.

Okay.

Let's get one thing out of the way. I am a giant, giant snob and I know this. And eeeeeeveryone loves these vampire books, and you all have gone on and on about them on your blogs and I have snooted about them over here in my mind.

And I am sorry.

What happened was, a few weeks ago, someone I worked with came over for a visit, and she said, "Oh! You live near the bookstore, don't you! Do you mind if we head over there? The latest installment of the Twilight series is out!"

In my head I thought, Pffft. The Twilight series. But because I am a kind, nonjudgmental friend, what I said was, "Pffft. The Twilight series."

"I know," she said. "It's embarrassing. I was an English major. But they're SO GOOD, June, really!"

We headed to the book store, and I took a right toward the fiction section, but she steered me the other way. "They're, um, in the young adult section," she told me.

The YOUNG ADULT section. Oh, how I poked fun at my pal. The young adult section.

When we got there, the fourth book in the series was only in hard cover, and she was hoping to find it in paperback, because the hard cover was $2,984,23.75. So while she went to the front to ask if they had it in paperback (they don't, and they don't plan to bring it out in paperback, which thanks, Stephenie Meyer. Because you aren't rich enough, and the rest of us aren't poor enough right now), I looked at the first book in the series, which of course is called Twilight. I do not know why I am telling you this, as I seriously think I am the last human being in America to have not read this book.

There is a picture of a person holding an apple on the cover, sort of like Eve, and it cost $7.99. There was going to be a huge snow storm that weekend, so I really was going to be bored. Maybe I should read it, see what all the fuss was about. Was that a snake I heard chuckling somewhere?

Okay so I read it. And you guys. I cannot say it was…good, really. I mean, come on. It wasn't, you know, Hemingway. But I did read it in two days. It was like Cheetos or a Stephen King book. You could not put it down.

And that, my friends, is why I have now finished book ridiculous three of the ding-dang Twilight series. And oh, how I cannot stop. And at this point the plot kind of just annoys me. Oh, look, Bella is in some sort of danger. Oh, look, everyone is rallying to help her. Oh, she is mildly inconvenienced but okay in the end and everyone loves her and she is still not smiling. Seriously, she is the biggest sad sack. Oh, I hate parties. Oh, I hate gifts. Oh, don't pay to get me into Dartmouth. Oh, shut up!

And must she love every monster in town? You know, there ARE normal people in Forks. But no, she has to be torn between Count Chocula and Fruit Brute, over there.

Countchocula

Brute

Who's next, Frankenberry?

And I cannot believe I am even having this conversation with you. I cannot believe I jumped on this bandwagon. And no, I am SO NOT TEAM JACOB. He always seems kind of…unsanitary to me. Team Edward all the way. Give me the cold, hard diamond over the wooden charm.

Ohmygod, will someone stop me. And also, will someone just TELL me if they do it in book four?