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?

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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?

Laura Ingalls and Raising Arizona in the same post

Once there was a pancake breakfast at Laura Ingalls Wilder's church, and Laura offered to do the dishes, because clearly she was an idiot, and also because she was friends with Ida Brown, who was the reverend's daughter. She and Ida kept washing dishes and washing dishes and washing dishes, and every time they turned around, more dishes were being brought in.

It is kind of like that with me and the amount of proofreading I got going right now. One of the people who just gave me a ton of last-minute work said, "I hate me so you don't have to!" I don't really mind, though. Sure, I've broken out in a panicky rash all over, but I'll get it done, and I need the cash.

In the meantime, won't you enjoy a photo of Tallulah in her jaunty Valentine's scarf that Marvin got her?

Heartypup

He keeps buying her things and yet she keeps liking me better. Just this morning I said, "Don't you love it when you wake up and Tallulah's head is on you?" And Marvin said, "I wouldn't know."

He has never woken up with Lu's head on him! Ever! I just figured the mornings her head wasn't on ME it was on HIM. But no.

Isn't it funny how pets choose their people? And it can't really be because she remembers I snatched her off the street, can it? They can't really be that logical. She could not possibly recall two years ago when I made that U-turn and swooped her puppy self up like I was Nicholas Cage and she was the Huggies.

Okay, Ida Brown is calling from the sink.

Hulk rounds the bases

I have some work to do today. The makers of Shrinky-Dinks called. Want me on all their packaging.

See. First of all I need to get over it. But I'm too short to get over it. And second, that was only funny if you read yesterday's post. And perhaps not even funny if you did.

But I really do have work to do today, as a short-order cook, so I will stampede to my story, which is about the love life of my friend the Hulk. People always seem interested in stories about my friend the Hulk, but perhaps that's because in my last story he married his mom, and really who wouldn't be interested in that?

For awhile now, Hulk has liked this woman, who I will call Bjork. That is not remotely her name, and I just pulled it out of my hat, which I'd call a top hat, but when it covers such a low region, can you really call it that? At any rate, sort of love myself for thinking up such a ludicrous name, and am on my own short list of people I heart.

Okay, need to get over the short thing. Maybe I should see a shrink.

So Hulk has had a crush on Bjork for a few weeks, and we really didn't know if she was returning the favor or not, until this past Saturday when he instant messaged me late in the afternoon:

Hulk: Bjork is coming over tonight!

June: Wait, what? How did you pull this scam? What are you two doing?

Hulk: We are renting a movie. I bought drinks.

June: Wooooooooo! Oh, she so likes you. What kind of drinks?

Hulk: She likes vodka cranberry. I got Absolut. Was that good?

June: That was excellent. Is it in the freezer?

Hulk: The freezer?

June: Yes! Go put it in there now. Trust me on this. And a glass too. You want the glass chilled.

Hulk: Really?

June: Do you want to get laid ever again or not? You are lucky I'm not making you go to Target for heart ice-cube trays.

Hulk: Okay, hang on. Okay, I'm back.

June: What movie did you get?

Hulk: Valkyrie.

You guys. VALKYRIE. VALLLLKYRIE. You know the part where Hulk seems like a great guy and we all wonder why he's divorced? Valkyrie.

June: VALKYRIE!?!?!?!

Hulk: She said she likes drama! Or…comedy.

June: Hulk, no one will sleep with you during Valkyrie except Tom Cruise himself. VALKYRIE!?!?!

Hulk: I'm a history major!

June: Hulk, when a woman says she likes drama, she means The Notebook. She means Twilight. She means Room with a View. She does not mean Valkyrie. No one means Valkyrie. Go back to the store and call me when you get there.

Hulk: Okay. [Hulk is offline]

I stomped into the bedroom, where Marvin was watching a Kinks documentary on his laptop. "That girl Bjork is finally coming to Hulk's tonight, and he didn't chill the vodka, and he got VALKYRIE. I sent him back to the video store, so he's gonna call in a minute and we're gonna go down the aisle together." I sighed. "Why do I have to do EVERYTHING?"

Marvin looked at me, hard, for a long time. "You DON'T," he said.

Sometimes I think Marvin thinks I am controlling.

It wasn't long before the phone rang. "I'm not getting any art house movie, if that's what you're thinking," said Hulk.

"I would never dream of it," I said.

"How about The Hangover?" he asked brightly.

We decided on I Love You, Man, which I know has a projectile vomiting scene in it, but otherwise is kind of romantic and touching, and here is what I have to tell you about my controlling self. I got an email from Hulk the next morning.

"Good call on the movie," he wrote. "Fifteen minutes in we were making out like the plane was going down."

Maybe I'm shrinking because I'm turning into Cupid.

Follow the yellow brick road

I went to the doctor today. For my regular — you know.

…Hello, in there!

…Riiiicolaaaa!

Checkup.

And I have shrunk an inch and I have arthritis.

How bad do you want me right now? Because, sexy?

An INCH. I shrank an INCH. When did I become the woman in the Momma comic strip?

My doctor, my beleaguered doctor, because imagine for a moment being my doctor, said, "Did they measure you with our new measurer?" She seemed to think it wasn't quite reliable, but I wasn't really listening because she was also busy giving me a boost up onto the examining table.

My height is one of the only things I LIKE about myself. I'm 5'6". Or rather I USED to be. I don't mean to be SHORT with you. Five-six was such a nice height. I wasn't too tall to fit into regular pants and having to worry about my boyfriends' height, and I wasn't so short that people didn't take me seriously. Okay, nobody ever takes me seriously, but it isn't because I'm so cute and tiny.

Since my doctor seemed to doubt the veracity of her measuring device, I went home and tried to measure myself. I got our 36-inch yardstick, which I guess was just redundant. As opposed to those foot-long yardsticks. Anyway, there is no way I could measure the first 36 inches and then try to put my finger there and measure the remaining spot accurately and then do the adding and subtracting or whatever you're supposed to do next to figure out how tall I actually am.

Because according to my calculations, I am 8'11".

I called my Aunt Kathy, because calling my mother about medical woes is just not what you do. She always just says something practical and no-nonsense, whereas my Aunt Kathy will help assure you it's the worst thing on earth.

"Hello?" said my Aunt Kathy, when I called.

"I shrank an inch," I said.

"Where?"

It took her a moment to realize the ridiculousness of what she'd just asked, and then we spent five minutes laughing and snorting into the phone, and then we hung up.

It was a short call. Because those are the only kinds I have now.

My doctor said it is normal to shrink even when you're 44. Cause, really? I had never heard of this. I had heard of it happening to people who are EIGHTY, not 44.

This is just going to make my hair look that much taller.

Later, I went to the movies with my friend The Other June. I do not know how she was able to see me over the crowd, but I was able to get in on a kid's ticket. When I was buying popcorn I found in my purse the price tag from last week when I bought that $110 top for $19. I showed it to The Other June.

"It's because I'm at eye height with the price tags now. I can see all the deals."

My friend The Other June is 5' exactly. You can imagine how not-sick of me she was when I suggested I get a booster seat before we sat down.

Oh, and the arthritis. My knee has been hurting after my runs, and yes, the doctor said I have a bit of it in the knee. She showed me where, and it is EXACTLY where my Gramma used to rub her knee absentmindedly when she watched her stories. I was delighted!

I know I am the only person in the history of time to be delighted to have arthritis. But really, a little ice, a little Motrin, it's really not that big a deal. And I have a Gramma thing! I don't mind.

Gramma was also kind of short.

George Glass

FunnyWho hearts himself on Valentine's Day?

You can imagine how much I enjoy it when people mispronounce it "Valentimes," so Marvin is always sure to write that in my card each year. Have I mentioned how easy I am to irk?

Also too, one of my old boyfriends taught him how if you just hover your finger over my arm, like you're about to tap me, OH JUST WRITING IT IRRITATES THE CRAP OUT OF ME! UGH.

I HAAAAAATTTTTTTEEEEE being tapped on the arm. Do I know why? No. And why is it if you tell someone you hate something they are compelled to then do it as often as possible?

"Please don't call me 'Mike.' I really prefer 'Michael.'"

"Okay, Mike."

You know you do it. Everyone does it. Why are we all like that? I don't know.

Anyway, my dinner partayyy was fun. I dropped one of the three layers of my key lime cake, because what I am is excellent in the kitchen.

Oops
Carp.

And I know it totally looks like a broccoli casserole or something. Girlfriend was green. It was a tangy ding-dang cake. But it was good. As we were eating it, Marty Martin said, "You know what would have made this even better? That third layer."

Have I brought up the part where everyone is a comedian?

So we had a good time, and Winston and Henry jumped on our guests' laps right there at the dinner table, but fortunately they are cat people so it was okay. I do not mean that they are half cat/half people.

I told my mother today that Marty Marin and Kaye stayed till midnight, talking around the dinner table, and my mother said, "You made them sit around the uncomfortable table all night?"

See.

This is why I'm a nervous person. We were drinking our wine and having seconds and the cats were on their laps and no one SEEMED uncomfortable, and now I am over here TORMENTING myself, thinking, oh GOD, they were in HELL, looking into the living room longingly all those hours, just wishing I would say, "Let's move into the living room for brandy and cigars, shall we?"

Oh! I forgot! I took a blurry picture of said table. Then after that I forgot to take a picture of anything, because I was too busy making everyone miserable with my Spanish Inquisition furniture and obnoxious pets.

Prettytable

There was no real food served. We just played house. Didn't I mention that part?

You probably think the part where I "forgot" to take a photo of the actual guests means we didn't really have anyone over, and we have no friends, and Marty Martin and Kaye are our George Glass. Don't you?

George Glass was Jan Brady's made-up boyfriend on Brady Bunch. In case you didn't know. Which, how could you not. But sometimes my cousin Katie, who is 12 years younger than me, does not know my Brady Bunch references and it irks. Not as much as anyone TAPPING ME ON THE ARM, but close.

I could not remotely tell you who was Secretary of State between the years 1969-1974, but by God, I can tell you who Jan Brady's imaginary boyfriend was.

Okay, then. Happy ValenTIME's Day!

June ponders including a recipe

Tonight my friend Marty Martin and his cute girlfriend Kaye, who I am starting to like better than Marty Martin because she reads this blog, are coming over for dinner.

Not that we are going to eat them, as we are not cannibals. But maybe to be funny we should put one of those giant pots in the living room, like they'd have on Bugs Bunny whenever someone wanted to cook him.

Marty Martin and Faithful Reader Kaye took us to Drag Queen Bingo a few weeks ago, so you can imagine how we are forever indebted to them. I was thinking I should invite them over, but then I ran into them at the art show last weekend where they very pointedly did not buy me that $400 painting I so liked. Perhaps they'll bring it as a hostess gift.

Anyway, I asked them over but said they had to like lasagna, since as you all know it is all I can cook. I know you are all gonna write in and tell me to expand my repertoire and even send me nice links or easy recipes, and hey, is that a shiny object?

Oh, and a long time ago someone sent me a recipe for dog bones for Tallulah. Is that person still out there? I haven't tried the recipe yet, because have you met me? But I really do plan to. You know, some day.

The kitchen bores me, you guys. And I know some of you just love it. I watch my friend Renee get physically aroused talking about recipes and planning menus and I'm all …? I mean, the couch is just, like, 20 feet away.

The point of this story is that on Monday I emailed Marty Martin to firm up our plans, and I wrote, "Does anyone have any food allergies?" and he wrote back, "I am allergic to pasta and tomatoes, but otherwise we're fine."

Everyone's a comedian.

Not only am I serving lasagna, and a salad, and already I am bored and exhausted, but I am making a cake. Because I knew you were coming. Marvin asked for a key lime cake for Valentine's Day.

He already made me make him a key lime pie for his birthday once, a thing I did with my former cleaning lady Alicia, back in Los Angeles. I remember standing in Alicia's kitchen for 850 hours while we grated teeny key limes that are named that because they are the size of those keys you get with a diary. Seriously. They are like Barbie limes. We grate-grate-grated those teensy limes into a food processor, which is why we were at Alicia's, because she actually owned a food processor, and then we had to add I think it was cream cheese, except Alicia failed to peel all the wrap off the cream cheese, and once we, you know, processed it all, there were teensy pieces of foil in the mix.

So we had to go back to the store and buy 70,000 more tiny key limes.

It is just occurring to me that if Alicia had a food processor, we did not even have to grate the limes, did we?

Crap.

The key lime cake is much easier and involves lime jello, a thing I have never bought in my life because I am not 74. It looks like it'll be sort of good.

Oh my God. You want I should put the recipe in here? I could get all Pioneer Woman on your arse. Perhaps Marvin could wrangle a cat and I could photograph it. You know how they say no one should sing a Barbra Streisand song because you'll just look bad? Perhaps I should leave the wrangling photography and food to the PW.

Also, it's Saturday, the day where maybe 25% of the time I remember to award comment of the week. I am sorry to tell you that once again it goes to Paula H&B. I know it seems like Paula H&B must pay me, or that she's my pet or something, but honestly, she just kills me and I can't help it.

This week she talks about her hysterectomy. Which, you guys. My comments get so odd. My post can be about, you know, the state of the nation and the gross national product–you know how earnest and intellectual my posts are–and a few hours later I mosey to the comments and they will all be entirely about butt paste. I mean, they just take on a life of their own. Someone recently said, "Come on, June, I asked you a question here in these comments hours ago. Answer!" and I honestly was startled. I was all, "Oh! I didn't realize you were talking to ME!"

Anyway. Click on Special of the Week to see Paula H&B's lovely comment. I believe she paraphrased Grace Kelly's discussion of her own hysterectomy.

Where June is about as amusing as whoever writes those Bazooka Joe comics

I've got no funny in me today. I am sorry. I just can't get up my funny bone. So to speak.

Several people around me have had just crappy crappy and also carpy things happen to them lately and ugh. And no, I will not tell you what those things are, because again, I remind you I am a real person and not clown shoes. I can't just reel off everything for the sake of this blog. And also too everyone else's business is not my business.

Sometimes I do not feel funny.

"You don't have to be funny all the time, June."

Oh, of course I do. In this blog and in life.

Here is everyone else's job:

Profresources

Here is mine:

Me

Oy. That's nightmarish, isn't it?

And when I say bad things are happening to the people around me, I do not mean to Marvin. Marvin is fine. Marvin is absolutely Marvin, in his quintessential Marvin-ness. In fact, he just got two turtles for his classroom this week. I keep wanting to say their names are Cuff and Link, but those are the names of Rocky's turtles in, you know, Rocky, and I do not know why I can't seem to grasp that it isn't 1976.

Marvin's turtles are named Flo and Eddie, and I have yet to meet them, but I do know they live somehow under what used to be the grill in our fire pit out back, because Marvin dragged said grill in the other night and I didn't even ask. All I know is he told me one of his students said, "Mr. Gardens made a ghetto tank for Flo and Eddie."

So there you go.

Anyway. I tried to get my funny up. I really did. It's like I took whatever kind of Cialis you take to get funny, and I sat in that clawfoot tub in the middle of a field, and all of you are my attractive aging wife similarly situated in the other tub, smiling at me expectantly, and…nothing.

I guess we will have to cuddle.

In which June will soon be banned from Harris Teeter

I know I have told you that it's been wintry here; I know I've told you 700 times, which once again means I am stampeding toward becoming my grandparents, as they were obsessed with noting the weather, a thing that always bothered me. They lived in MICHIGAN, a place where weather is always happening, so it seemed to me like after a while you'd get over the part where, hey! Now it's snowing a lot! And would you look here! It's hot as blazes now. And sorta muggy.

But they never did get over it and it always kind of grated and now here I am telling all of you about my weather and it won't be too long before I start keeping my potato chips in air-tight containers instead of just their original bags. And then serving said chips in a bowl with a napkin.

Since it has been snowy here–did I mention it?–apparently this has had a negative impact on the condition of my dog's paw, which it took me a while to notice, actually, and I feel kind of bad. My dog is usually .0005 millimeters from me all of the time, and I've been so busy that I failed to take note of her lack of hovering as she usually does, like an aura or Gazoo from the Flintstones.

But notice I finally did, and I found her sort of dolefully splayed on the couch, lick lick licking her left-front paw. We had the following exchange.

Me [because I am quick]: Talu, is something wrong with your piddy?

Tallulah: Licklicklicklicklicklicklicklicklicklicklicklicklick.

Me: Let me see, baby.

Why do I always want to see? My whole life I have had pets and never once have I ever seen ANYTHING when I try to see. What is it I expect to find? Half a stake sticking out of them? A fang? I never find anything till the dang thing abscesses or I spend $11,000 at the vet and lo and behold the vet points it right out.

Returning to our dramatic scene:

Me: Let me see, baby.

Tallulah: Yank. Licklicklicklicklicklicklicklicklicklick.

They never trust you to look at it. Even though you feed them and shelter them and they sleep in your ding-dang BED, all of a sudden you are gonna dip their injured area in a vat of bubbling alcohol or something.

I wrote about poor Tallulah's sad paw on her Facebook status, because yes, my dog has a Facebook page, and I am as annoyed by myself as you are with me. Tallulah Gardens' Facebook friend Rita emailed me with a remedy.

"Have you tried meat tenderizer?" she asked. I don't know why I didn't think of this obvious solution myself. "Meat tenderizer and Campho-Phenique," she told me. Who is she, Granny on the Beverly Hillbillies? With her medicines? She told me to make a paste out of the meat tenderizer, and that the Campho-Phenique would make Lu not licklicklicklicklick any more.

Naturally I listened to this advice, because clearly I believe anything anyone tells me. Did you know Bill Gates really wants to give you his money? So Tallulah and I got in the car and headed to the grocery store, because yes, I am also one of those people who takes her dog on all her errands. I also change the lyrics of all the songs on the radio to be about her.

We are family! I got my Tallulah with me!

Wherever you go, whatever you do, I will be right here waiting for Lu.

Perhaps you wonder what horrific radio station I listen to.

And here is my problem. I chat up the grocery store workers. And guess who I got this from? My grandfather. When I was a kid I'd be mortified. He'd chat up the grocery store workers, but it was charming and lovely. Somehow when I do it, I just seem insane. Mostly it's the Peter Frampton hair, and also I am kind of nervous and hand-gesture-y, and also I never know when to shut up.

So I go to the pharmacy section first. "Hi. I'm looking for Campho-Phenique. I don't really know what that is."

"You'll find it over by the lip balms, ma'am."

"Oh, over here? …Here it is. Thanks, and by the way, I don't have a cold sore. This is for my dog. She doesn't have a cold sore either. I mean, she's not been making out with anyone. It's for her foot, so she doesn't make out with her foot…"

Peter_frampton1

I want youuuuu, to show me the Campho-Phenique.

Did I mention we were having a giant wind storm yesterday, so not only did I have Peter Frampton hair, I had HUGE Peter Frampton hair? The pharmacy tech kind of nervously looked at her bottles.

I went over to the meat tenderizer section but soon realized I had no idea what a "meat tenderizer section" would really be, or really what a meat tenderizer even was. Wasn't that some sort of mallet? Did Rita want me to beat my dog's foot with a mallet? Then spread Campho-Phenique on it? What sort of sick f*** was Rita? I went to the meat counter.

I recognized the woman back there, as we had had a deep talk on Christmas Eve when I bought salmon. I had asked if she had to work Christmas day and she didn't, which she had been grateful for because she had a son. She seemed glad to see my hair and then several minutes later, me. "Where would I find meat tenderizer?" 

She came right out to show me. "It's for my dog," I told her.

"I'm not going to eat my dog," I explained. "It's for her foot. I'm not going to eat that, either. I'm making a paste. See, I have this blog…"

By the time I explained about Rita and Tallulah's Facebook page and the Campho-Phenique and the cold sore and the making out, that poor meat lady could not get back to her salmon steaks fast enough.

And Tallulah wasn't much happier with me when I put that paste on her, by the way. Although she has abstained from the licklicklicklicklicking.

And we frenched a few times so she seems a bit happier.

I hate computers

My hatred of trying to make buttons is exceeded only by my hatred of Typepad, which is exceeded only by my HATRED OF $#@%%&&*#$  $$#&$&#$@@&# Feedburner.

If anyone really knows how to get stupid stupid stupid Feedburner to work, please email me and with your phone number and then I will call you. And do not say things like "PC" when we are talking or God forbid "code," because I will not know what that means.

Thank you.

Things I’d have done differently in this life, by June Gardens

Hiiiiiiijune
Regrets, I have a few.

I am not one of those people who say, "I wish I would have worked less and had more fun." That's for effing sure. Can't look back on high school and say that. Or college, all seven years of it. Or during my "career." Nope.

Oh, but my second-biggest regret in life does have to do with college, and the one time I was responsible. See what that will do to you? (And just so I don't get 7,000 comments asking, my biggest regret in life is that I lost my senior yearbook. Because I know the signatures in there are hilarious. I know my friend David filled out a whole page, and I remember peeing my leg at the time, and I'm pretty sure I left it in this punk rock apartment in which I lived circa 1984 and heaven knows where it is now. If anyone sees an Arthur Hill High School 1983 yearbook with one whole really funny page written by someone named Dave, please leave me a comment. Thanks.)

My second-biggest regret was one night in college, right around this time of year. I lived in a big beautiful house with several women, a house we did not appreciate or clean or remotely even notice except for its ability to store lots of beer, and it had a fireplace both in the living room AND the den, a formal dining room and a breakfast nook, a balcony and a really cool bedroom (that was mine) that had a sitting room along with the bedroom. Again, hey, where should we put the extra 30-pack of Stroh's? No appreciation.

Anyway, we're sitting around, enjoying our cans of Stroh's, when Edie, my roommate who had a plastic nose (I will tell you on a different day, I promise) said, "Hey! Let's all get in D's 20-year-old rickety car and drive to Mardi Gras! If we leave now we can totally get there on time!"

"I'll do it!" said D, who was up for anything, at any time, and that is why I heart D to this day, because she is STILL exactly the same way despite being a grownup now.

"I have a quiz on Tuesday," I said.

A quiz.

A QUIZ.

That's what I said.

So everyone else piled into the car for an unforgettable (Well. I mean, there are big chunks they kind of CAN'T remember, but they have beads so they know it happened) week at Mardi Gras, and I know I must have told you guys this before, because now I am remembering people commenting saying, "Oh, you don't want to go there, it's loud and people barf" and yeah, I don't want to go there as a 44-year-old woman who no longer drinks, which I don't. I WANT TO GO THERE AS A 22-YEAR-OLD WHO DOES!

Crap.

35

Here's the next thing I'd have done differently. I'd have found a way to maintain my marathon-training body. Would it have been so hard to go run 15 or 20 miles each weekend? Okay, perhaps. But I looked so cute all the time. Believe it or not I was going to a funeral in this photo, which strikes me as a tad cheeky. Hi! Mary Englebright is sorry for your loss!

Goodjob And I would have kept this job. This was in Los Angeles. I proofread depositions. "But I thought depositions had to be verbatim" you may be saying, which is what everybody said to me every time I said that's what I did for a living. Yes, that's true. But if the court reporter writes the wrong "there," which is easy to do because she's typing like 600 words a minute, that ain't good.

This place paid me a crapload of money, including paying me for my commute, because I lived on the opposite side of town. I set my own hours, and got to leave when there was no work, and also too there was often cocktail hour at the end of the day, which included really good wines, and until that time I had no idea where was a difference between $2 wine from Trader Joe's and, you know, good wine.

The getting-to-leave-if-there-was-no-work thing but working-till-the-work-was-done rocked. One time I left at 10:30 a.m. and shopped all day. See those shoes? I know you can barely see them. Prada. Or maybe Kate Spade. I know there's a big difference. But for me right now there is no difference because all my shoes now are Target.

I quit that job in a huff over something relatively minor. Sound familiar? I guess not, because I didn't tell you why I quit THIS last job. Anyway, this job up here was a cool job, and the part where I got to work as much or as little as I wanted often resulted in me staying until 8 or 9 at night. Turns out when it's up to me I get kind of responsible. Hmph.

Whatbra

I would have worn a better support garment when I was bridesmaid at Paula's wedding. When I was bridesmaid and I HAD TO GIVE THE SPEECH, not divine water. And that's Paula's bridey head at the bottom of the photo, not an ovarian cyst.

Finally, I'd halve all the time I spent mourning over the loss of my 39495830305.5 relationships. I wasted way too many hours being sad that I broke up with people. Way too much time calling their houses and hanging up when they answered. (How do you people break up now that there's caller ID?) Way too much time listening to Sinead O'Connor. Way too much time lying in bed with tears falling in my ears. Because eventually I got over everyone, so why couldn't I have gotten over everyone, I don't know, sooner?

Do you have any regrets? I mean, other than reading this blog?

The one where June is impractical

You know I have nothing to say about the Super Bowl because I did not WATCH the Super Bowl. I was in here in the room of orange-crate pictures, working on proofreading and monitoring my book club. Thanks to everyone who participated! In my book club, not my proofreading. I like it when people show up for book club.

People always write in and say, "Now I wish I had read the book."

Yeah.

Here's what I have to say. READ THE DANG BOOK. We pick good books. Your pal June has been reading books since she's five, here, when she sat down and tore through Robert the Rose Horse. She knows from books. That's why she can't see anything and her entire living room has bookshelves instead of those big thin TVs everyone is so enamored of, which results in all the words being cut off from any TV she DOES watch, because apparently her TV is now the rotary phone of televisions.

Oh, but what the Sam Hill does "Who Dat" mean? Cause you're all irking me.

And Marvin said they never showed Kim Kardashian once, which, what was the point of not doing that? Doesn't everyone want to look at Kim Kardashian? I know I do. I think instead of the fleur de lis thing that team has, they should switch it over to an outline of Kim Kardashian's butt. I am riveted by her butt. I seriously wish I had a butt like that. I also wish I had something fleur de lis-y, and I do not.

Speaking of visuals, I went to an art show yesterday. Remember last spring when I went to an art show, and that Irish artist TOTALLY tried to pick me up, and it was exciting because even though I am married and everything, having someone show interest in me was flattering because I am so winning a SAG award, over here, and no one has shown any interest in me other than the people who manufacture Spanx Shapewear?

Okay, wow. When did I become so stereotypical? When did I become Joy Behar? Hey, I'm getting old and things are sagging! Taa-daaa!

Original.

Anyway, the point of my story is, my friend Sherry was showing her new paintings at the same place, and said Irish artiste was there again. There he was back by the cheese table, which lo and behold there's where you found ME again, and guess what?

Nothing.

Old Irish Spring did not even throw a clover my way. NADA this time. Have I lost my mojo in eight short months? Sad.

So I looked at the paintings, and here's the story. I found the prettiest painting. Oh, I loved it. It was a painting of a girl in a forest. I think it reminded me of pictures from books I had when I was a kid.

And guess what? Irish artist painted it. No, I will not sleep with him to get the painting.

I love love love love loved that painting, and it was $400, which really is not that bad, and I have spent $400 on paintings before, but hi. Have you noticed that part where I QUIT MY JOB LIKE AN IDIOT?

Crap. And have I mentioned how much people enjoy pointing out to me that I quit my job like an idiot? Why are people so smug? Why do people like to be right all the time? "Well, you did quit your job in this economy…"

Yeah, are you TRYING to tell me the riveting news that I made a mistake? Because I have abstained from pointing out YOUR mistakes, like your haircut, you got goin'. Because is that a fortune cookie on your head, or are you wearing Napoleon's hat, there? Nice 'do.

Oh, I want that painting. I cannot get that painting out of my head. And I owe the dentist. And we'd be better off just sitting on the floor at this point rather than sitting on the disgusting couch. And the dishwasher is broken although I like how it doesn't occur to us we could just, I don't know, wash the dishes rather than put them in the dishwasher.

And yet that PAINTING. Have I mentioned I love it?

Sigh. So that's what I got going on. Maybe when the mail comes, there'll be a check for $400 that I forgot was coming. Or maybe Kim Kardashian's butt is sitting in my garden next to the fleur de lis.