Francis thanks you all for yesterday's birthday wishes and says now you can all go away again.

Usually I get Fran a bag of Baked Lay's for his birthday, but he has gotten so fat I could not bring myself to enable him. If he were a person, he'd be one of those crane-to-get-him-out-of-his-home people. Okay, perhaps that's an exaggeration, but he'd at least be Junior Samples.

Junior Franples. "549" is Francis' weight.

Hey, what's with Google Images changing how they do pictures now, and when you look something up it's a whole messy jumble of photos and it's really really hard to illegally get images like the one I stole above? How dare they make it hard for me to break the law. Bastards.

Speaking of weight, last night I was out with some friends, and I was wearing a t-shirt and desperately holding in my stomach the entire time. We were with a woman I did not know that well, and I noticed for the first time how good her body was. She is probably my age, although I no longer have any basis in reality for that sort of thing, because I'll see some hagged-out old withered woman and she'll say, "Eeeeyuuup. Just turned 45 last week." I mean, women with the face of one of those apple dolls are 45, and I think, do I look like that? I keep forgetting I'm not 24.

The point is, this woman from last night had flat abs in her tshirt, as opposed to my rollicking ocean of abs going on, over here, she had really good lats, and those pretty Michelle Obama arms, you know what I mean? With the lean muscles.

We were all getting ready to leave and I pulled her aside. "I just have to ask you," I said, "How is it you look so dang good?"

After the usual Southern "Aren't you sweet"s and "Bless your heart"s and "You look good, too, honey"s that Southern people have to do for the first hour and 15 minutes after you compliment them (California people would not even thank you. They would just stampede to their workout plan), she said, "You know what really matters? Your diet. You can do all the exercising in the world, but your diet has to be right for it to show up."


Have you met my diet?

Here is what I ate yesterday. And Faithful Reader Furry Godmother, you may want to lay a pillow on the floor, so when you fall over dead you don't crack your head.

Two Pop-Tarts. Blueberry flavor, because blueberries are antioxidants.

Spaghetti and eggplant parm, spinach salad and TWO pieces of garlic bread, courtesy of my workplace that brings in fattening food every day for us. Thanks.

A brownie, also from my workplace, left over from a meeting. Thanks again.

And for dinner? Blueberry Frosted Mini-Wheats (see above re antioxidants), and because I was still hungry, some fettuccine alfredo.

This was in no way an atypical day for me.

So, today's question for Wedges of Wisdom Wednesday or whatever we call it is, What do you eat in a typical day?

I am curious if I am the worst eater out there. There has to be someone worse than me. Are any of you heroin addicts? You must have worse diets than me. Is anyone a binger and purger? Surely you ate more than me. Please tell me you ate more than me. Even if you did not, you know, retain it.

Okay. I was honest. Now you be.

If you thought he was angry before, now he’s a teen

Today Francis is 13. I have never had a cat live to be 13. Naturally, it has to be my cat with attitude who keeps a-going.

I know I have told this story before, but people come and go from this blog.

The year was 1997. If you owned a cell phone, it was the size of a Subway tuna melt. We all wore those stupid high-heeled Ally McBeal loafers that looked like pilgrim shoes. Marvin and I lived in an apartment that faced…a bunch of other apartments. It was picturesque.

"MEEEEEEE!" we heard one evening.

What was that?" I asked, cupping my fake French nail tips around my ear.

"I didn't hear anything," said Marvin, who was already stampeding toward deafness at the age of 30. It was early September, Princess Diana had just died, and Marvin and I had just flown back from Michigan, where we'd had our engagement party.

"MEEEEEEEEEEP!" we heard again. Well. I heard again. "How can you not hear that?" I asked, stepping onto our balcony in my clever overall dress. "MEEEEEEEE!"

I am sorry to tell you that Marvin and I went to eat at Art's Delicatessen, came back, and once again heard the "MEEEEE!" It breaks my heart, in retrospect, that I had to have a chopped liver sandwich while poor Fran was MEEEEEing all that time.

"Do you hear that?" asked the gayest man in the world, who lived in the apartment across from us with a matching balcony. He, too, was sporting a clever overall dress. Okay, he wasn't, but I swear to you he had a daiquiri in his hand. A daiquiri. It was like he went to the Charles Nelson Riley School of Gaydom. He may have had a scarf tied jauntily around his neck, too. Usually I heart me the gay man, but this guy was annoying. He used to call me if I left my balcony light on too long. "You must be very rich. You've had that light on all night."

Oh, shut up. Isn't there a Liza marathon on TNT or something?


Marvin, who finally heard it, said, "It's a bird."

The sound was coming from the carport and the cultural divide between the gay neighbor, Gaybor, and me. "That has to be a kitten, not a bird," said Gaybor. "I'll get Gerald to climb that carport."

Gerald was Gaybor's unbelievably hot young boyfriend. Marvin and I left our apartment and ran over to Gaybor's driveway, mostly so I could watch the hot boyfriend climb the carport. "You're gonna find a bird," Marvin insisted.

Yet there was teensy Francis, decidedly not a bird, two weeks old, no teeth yet, hanging upside-down from some ivy. He was black and white, and there was a black and white feral cat in the neighborhood, and we figured she was the mom. Why would she abandon her kitten like that?

Well. Now we know.

Naturally, I wrapped Francis up IN A WASHCLOTH, that's how small he was, and took him home.

Originally we named him Diana, not knowing if he was a boy or a girl.

We had to call the vet and ask what to do with such a little sprite, and we had to buy $7-a-can cat milk and feed it to him. At night he slept in a cat carrier with a hot-water bottle, and he'd cry just like a human baby, and we'd take turns feeding him. You were supposed to warm up his bottle slightly, and once Fran was grown up, Marvin admitted that one time he was tired and fed Francis the bottle cold, and that poor teensy kitten just shivered.

Sometimes I want to feed Marvin to sharks.

I had to teach him how to poop (Francis, not Marvin) by rubbing a wet cloth on his parts. I am not making this up. Our cat Ruby instinctively took over some mothering duties, but mostly Francis followed my beloved Mr. Horkheimer around, knowing Horkie was the coolest cat on earth. Francis wanted to be exactly like Hork.


Some of my friends told me they were steeling themselves for my hysterical "the kitten didn't make it!!" call, but Frannie grew up big and strong.

And sittin' like a man.

Despite the part where he will always be kind of feral, and always kind of nuts because I didn't know how to raise him to be anything but, (have you met me?) he really is an affectionate cat…with us.

It broke his cat heart as bad as it did ours when Horkie died. They were peas and carrots.

Today, Francis is a teenager. He has arthritis in his cat hips, and a giant disgusting cyst on his side, he hates the dog and he weighs 750 pounds. I guess his salad days are behind him. But I am glad he came into our lives with his "MEEEEE!" cry.

Happy birthday, Francis.


Fran despise all you. Stop look at Fran. And I not a bird.

This is bull shi tzu

Remember when Henry was just a little bitty bite of a kitten and he and Tallulah were the best of friends?

They still are.

Henry also seems to feel it's his job to ensure Tallulah's cleanliness, and some day Talu is gonna snap that cat's head clean off.

I mean, he really gets in there and cleans. He isn't gentle.

But Tallulah has never once complained. Apparently she has no idea she doesn't have to take this.

Despite all this cuteness and supposed gentleness of this dog, she was far from polite to the Shi Tzu who came over last night. Because you know how Talu enjoys her a small dog.

We have a neighbor who is 88, and she lives about five houses away. Every day she walks her cute Shi Tzu, and it is the nicest doggie. He never ever yaps or even gets excited in the slightest, actually. In fact, do you know I've never met a Shi Tzu I didn't like? You'd think Shi Tzus would be nervous bitey shiver-and-pee kinds of dogs, but in fact every one I have ever met is alarmingly calm.

And so it is with this dog, Maxie. When my neighbor and Maxie walk by, and I am gardening or passed out on the front lawn or whatever, I always pet the dog and chat with my neighbor a bit.

Last night our doorbell rang, which always sends Tallulah into a frenzy as it is.

"WOOF! WOOFWOOFwoofwooofwoof! Grrrrrrrwooof!" said Talu, as I went to the door.

There was my poor neighbor and her Shi Tzu. I thought Tallulah's eyeballs were gonna spring out on coils.

"I've locked myself out of my house," said my neighbor, who is one of those old people who are in great shape. She walks fast and ramrod straight, always dressed neat as a pin, and is very smart. She was a teacher for 49 years. Last night, though, she looked addled.

"I can't believe I've done this. I have never done this," she said.

"WOOF! WOOFWOOFWOOFWOOF%$#$@&WOOF!" said Tallulah, her skeleton jumping out of her fur and back in again.

"Well, come in," I said, "we'll figure out what to do."

"GRRRRRR! WOWWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWYour momma's fat!RRRrrrrrrr!" said Tallulah, grabbing her hand gun and one of those round black bombs like they have on cartoons.

That was when I figured out poor Maxie the Shi Tzu could not just merrily stroll into my house. Tallulah had a knife in her teeth, all her fur was up her back like a mohawk, she had a Swastika arm band on all of a sudden and her fangs were actually glinting. I think she must have purchased some Acme Extra-Scary fangs that she had attached for just such a purpose. In case some dastardly LITTLE dog ever tried to darken her doorstep.

Marvin grabbed Tallulah by the collar and hauled her mohawky self outside. "WOOOWOOOWOOOWOOORRRRRRGetout!Getout!The sow is mine!!" she growled, standing on her hind stupid legs and pawing at the door.

Maxie the Shi Tzu sniffed our rug for a second, then sat down with a sigh. He could not have been more indifferent to the giant Pit mix plotting his demise on the other side of the door.

We decided to walk down and try to break into our neighbor's house. All the way down there, five houses away, we could hear that redunkulous dog barking her fool head off. Sure, the Shi Tzu had left her house, but now WE had left WITH IT! Were we adopting the Shi Tzu? Were we leaving to sign all the paperwork? Were we going to get more Shi Tzus? No matter what was happening, it was necessary to bark about it nonstop.

Anyway, eventually we ended up calling the neighbor's daughter, who had a key, thank God. Did I mention we never heard a peep out of Maxie the entire time? Did I mention he was good and sweet and unmoved by the entire experience?

By the time we got home Tallulah had constructed a dart board with Maxie's picture on it, and some sort of Maxie voodoo doll.

Maybe a new puppy is not such a stellar idea.

Comment of the week does not go to Tallulah, who had a lot of comments, but to Siren, for enjoying my fetal position. Take a look at This Week's Special to see.

Wasabi afraid. Wasabi very afraid.

There is a reason this nonaward-winning blog is so valuable. You can learn from my mistakes.

For example. If you were thinking, "Hey! Maybe a bag of wasabi peanuts for dinner would be good!" I can tell you from the adventures in my bathroom last night that it in fact is not a stellar plan.

I went to the movies after work last night. There is this cute, pretentious movie theater in my work neighborhood that shows cute, pretentious art films. It is where I saw that Coco Chanel/Igor Stravinsky movie a few weeks back and wanted to cut my hair like Coco Chanel, remember?

Coco is the one in the white suit. I do not wish to cut my hair into a combover.

Last night they were showing a documentary on Joan Rivers, which I know sounds redunkulous, but it was all about how she wants to stay relevant, and how she keeps working even though she's 75, and it was sort of fascinating.

When I walked in, the ticket girl totally had a black curly bob. "Did you cut your hair like that after the Coco movie?" I asked her. "Yes," she said. Then she told me where she got it cut and they style they used to cut it, and she looked at my hair and said, "But my hair is really thick."


Does my hair not LOOK thick? How could you think this hair is anything other than thick? I spent half of the Joan Rivers movie worrying that my hair isn't thick enough, which trust me, is a first.

The point is, I opted for Wahhabi peanuts and a bottle of water instead of popcorn or wine or giant bags of M&Ms. I thought I was being sort of healthy.

Man, that wasabi was hot. I had to keep pausing while it cleared out my whole face parts. My tongue hurts today like it's burned.

It wasn't till I got home that I started feeling not so fresh. I continued that not-so-fresh feeling until 5 o'clock this morning. Not pretty.

So that's my sexy story.

Oh, and hey! Speaking of stories, what book are we gonna read for book club? I was thinking maybe we could read something from our childhood, like Charlotte's Web or James and the Giant Peach or something. What say you?

Before I go walk around gingerly, cursing the inventor of wasabi, Hulk wanted me to get everyone's opinion even though I have given him him mine and I know I'm right.

The other day he told me his cat, who he doesn't even want but his old girlfriend gave it to him and his daughter got attached so what are you gonna do, started getting bumps on its chin. I know when cats eat and drink out of plastic bowls, they can get a bacteria buildup that results in these bumps.

Hulk poo-pooed my theory. I told him to get ceramic bowls. Or stainless steel. Again, "poo-poo," said Hulk.

So yesterday he calls me to say, speaking of poo-poo, that now the cat is POO-POOing on his throw rug. My theory is the cat doesn't feel well because of his chin and he's trying to say, "GET ME NEW BOWLS, DAD!"

Quoth Hulk, "Poo-poo."

He wants me to ask all of you so that you give him an answer he likes better. Let us know. Thank you.

Maybe his cat ate wasabi peanuts for dinner.

Celebrities who bug

I was pleased that so many of you felt the same way I do about Julia Roberts. I figured everyone else thought she was just lovely and I was the only Crabby Appleton.

Here are other celebrities who make my nethers pucker up and twitch.


First of all, how many TEETH does she have? It's like she's wearing wax teeth to be funny or something. Plus also, I get annoyed at tomboys. Have never been a tomboy. Can never understand tomboys, with their naturally good bodies and their scratchy voices and their disdain for pink, sparkly things. And I didn't like how she got famous and dumped her weepy husband.


For the love of God, stop sucking a lemon.

Why must she always have this look on her face? Why did she have to play Yosemite Sam in Cold Mountain and take the camera off my personal boyfriend Jude Law for even a second? Why must she be skinny then not, then skinny, then not?



I know. Blaspheme. Everybody fricking loves her, and I have never gotten it. She looks like a gerbil to me, first of all, and she always seemed so affected. I mean, look at that ridiculous cigarette holder. She was no Jackie Kennedy, whose elegance was natural. You didn't see Jackie Kennedy with Frost 'n' Tip in her hair.

The moment that tipped me over the edge is when she's singing Moon River in Breakfast at Tiffany's, and she has that stupid bandanna. Oh, I just happen to have my hair in a bohemian bandanna right now while I sing this song.  


Go back to Tiffany's. Get a job. And be nicer to your cat.


Ehhhhhh. I'm in the most popular series of vampire movies, ever. I am dating Robert Pattinson. Everything is awful. Ehhhhhhhhhh. Uhhhhhhhh. I can never ever smile. Have I mentioned ehhhhhhhh? Life is hard.


Nobody. In the world. Bugs me more than Gwyneth Paltrow. BUGS.ME. She looks like an egg. And she thinks she is so, so cool. And she isn't cool, because she is an egg. She never wears anything that flatters herself, mostly because how do you flatter an egg, and she ALWAYS HAS THAT SIMPERING LOOK ON HER FACE. She and Kirsten Stewart should get together and have an "ehhhh" off.

Of course, you know who I like. Grace Kelly, Jackie Kennedy, Sarah Jessica, Elizabeth Taylor. They all have an elegance. Well, Elizabeth Taylor isn't elegant so much as she is just inhumanly beautiful. And none of them get that egg, affected, lemon-sucking, tomboyish, ehhhh thing.

I'm glad we could all have this deep talk today.

Treat?!? Treat!? Pieces of Wisdom Wednesday

Goodness, you all certainly like to indulge yourselves. And I am glad of it. Nothing's worse than some I-have-no-time-for-myself martyrdom. Cut it out. Is what I say. Maybe I could take over Dr. Laura's soon-to-be-vacant position with my fine advice.

"Hello, Dr. June? I find myself increasingly sad. I can't sleep, can't eat, I enjoy nothing any more."

"Cut it out."

Yes. I have found my true calling.

Anyway, thank you all for participating in Pieces of Wisdom Wednesdays. You know, "Wednesday" is a hard word to type. Every time I type it, in my head I am going "wed-nes-day." What a stupid word, Wednesday.

In case you are just tuning in, and if you stuck around after that last paragraph I really have to hand it to you, Pieces of Wisdom Wednesday (wed-nes-day) is where I ask my faithful readers a question on Tuesday, and then on Wednesday I share some of the wisdom y'all all offered me. This week's question was, How do you treat yourself?

Fortunately for us all, I was able once again to capture some of your answers on film, with my magic erase board.

Wasn't there some magic picture thing on Captain Kangaroo? Am I hallucinating again? Remember the Toothbrush Family?


Brush your teeth.

Round and round.

Circles small.

Gums and all.

'Cause brushing your teeth the round and round way will keep your gums healthy and stop tooth decay. So brush very carefully three times a day.

Go round and round.

Do you think I remember the preamble to the Constitution? I mean, past the Schoolhouse Rock part? Do you think I can tell you anything from that big table of elements we were supposed to know about? What was that thing called?

But the Toothbrush Family song? That stayed right in there. Why?

Despite this, I still feel I deserve treats occasionally and apparently so do you. Here are some of the answers you gave me yesterday to my query:

Many of you went the spa route, including manicures, pedicures, massages and so forth. And I am sorry, but Marvin's disgusted expression and having to touch his least-favorite thing, feet, is so hilarious to me that I have to include both photos that I took. Because torturing Marvin is a hoot.


Another big favorite? Reading. You buy yourself books, or you go read somewhere. Obviously, you can't all be expected to read the highbrow stuff I read. I mean, we're not all brilliant like me. And the princess. And whenever I refer to Princess Diana, I call her "The PrinCESS" in my head, with an emphasis on the last syllable, like the British say it. At least I think that's how they say it. Whatever. Obsessed with the prinCESS. Could not have been more traumatized by her untimely demise. I wish Harry would hurry up and marry Kate Middleton, so I can obsess over someone new.

For some of you? Just getting alone time is good enough. I do not know why Marvin had to get six centimeters from me, so that you'd have to struggle to understand that I am in a closet. Perhaps you're wondering what that silver thing is above my head. It is left over from when I didn't get to dress up as a drag queen.


Speaking of treats, I told Tallulah she could have a cat treat (because she is on a diet and we don't even HAVE dog treats currently) if she'd go to her bed and pretend to sleep. And do you know she went right over and did it? Who grew up starring in my blog? Who knows what's expected of her? Who loves her a salmon-and-other-cat-flavors Pounce even though she's a dog?

Anyway, some of you said you nap, and at least one person said they nap with their dog as a special treat. I enjoy napping with Tallulah. She's a good little sleeper, and if you are readjusting and accidentally kick her, she doesn't hop off the bed in a huff like the cats do. The cats are such effing divas.

So that wraps up Wedges of Wisdom Wednesdays or give yourself a wedgie Wednesday or whatever we call it. Thank you again for participating. And if no one remembers the Toothbrush Family I am gonna feel like a total freak.

P.S. Happy Laura Ingalls Wilder's wedding anniversary! The fact that I know that makes me much less of a freak.

Wedges of Pieces of Wisdom

I have had three–three!–female friends get divorced and then become obsessed with horses. What gives? One of my friends says her paychecks should just be automatically deposited to the kennel or whatever it's called. STABLE. It's called a stable, isn't it.

I wonder if Marvin and I got divorced if I would get way into horses. I was never a horse girl as a kid. I never had the horse-pictures Trapper Keeper. Mostly horse girls were kind of dreamy and quiet, with straight brown hair. Have you met me?

I do like horses, though. My one friend used to ride her horse at the stable right near my house back in Los Angeles. Sometimes I'd walk down to the stables, knowing for sure she'd always be there. I remember watching her ride sort of late one night, the moon was full, and the mountains were in the background. It was beautiful.

Plus, she got a fabulous body from all that having to balance and the grooming of the horse and so forth.

I do not know why you would be into horses when you have a Tallulah. And who is obsessed with her Old Instamatic app on her iPhone?

I'll bet you think I am all up in the horse talk and forgot about Fabulous Wednesday or whatever we've named it. What did we name it? Pieces of Wisdom Wednesday? Although a lot of people said we could have named it Wedges of Wisdom Wednesday, but I already made a category called Pieces of Wisdom and I don't know how to switch it over.

Last week we talked about money, and how to be frugal and so forth. Let's do the opposite this week.

How do you treat yourself?

For me? Whenever I have money and/or time? I groom. Pedicures, eyebrow waxes, some ludicrously expensive makeup item.

Currently? I am lusting after this set of eye shadows from Urban Decay:


It costs $44. BUT LOOK AT ALL THOSE COLORS! And apparently, if you wear them, someone will want to see you naked. Who? Who wants to see me naked, other than Marvin, who has built up an immunity?

I have always been this way. When I was 12 and got five bucks from my grandmother, I'd head to the JC Penney's, there, and get two Lip Smackers. I mean, grooming is my number one treat to myself.

What about you? Do you buy a horse? One of my friends, who is unbelievably disciplined about her diet, gets a smoothie when she is going to town on the treating herself. Wooo!

Do tell. Then you will see some of your answers on my fancy erase board on Wednesday. The erase board Marvin thought he was funny using:


See. He's writing that we need a message board.

Oh, the hilarity. Let me stitch my sides.

Okay, be sure to tell me.

June bats her lashes at you. Not that you could tell.

Why do I always think it's gonna be okay to stay up late and watch MadMen? I understand that it is totally worth it, but you should see my bloated self. I look like I slept on a subway grid. Or maybe like I ate 15 Subway sandwiches. Stupid Jerrod.

Anyway I have no time, as I must head off to my job, feeling like Job, but you know what would be good? Is if someone did a Make June Do It re: Latisse.

In case you are just reading me now and did not read me last winter–and wasn't it a cold, lonely winter without me?–I had this thing called Make June Do It, where you wrote in and suggested I do the stuff you were too scared to do: dye your hair black, get a Brazilian wax, scream "FIRE!" at the movie theater, whatever. Then we would all see if I would do it.

I tried the BumpIt. At the end of this post, you will see the category "Make June Do It," and if you click on that you can see evidence of said BumpIt. It was pretty. Is what it was.

We stopped Make June Do It when I was bringing in less dough, but now I am employed full time again so let's bring it back. Plus also, I want to try Latisse and it would be a lot less embarrassing if someone were making me do it.

Oh, and in case you were worried sick, Eat/Pray/Get on my last nerve with your smug horsey self was pretty good! And Julia Roberts (a) looked pretty and (7) was likable, two shocking pieces of information. I really really like the movie Notting Hill? But I can never figure out why Hugh Grant remotely likes Julia Roberts in that movie, as her personality is wanting. If you ask me.

Also, can someone tell me why Javier Bardem never calls me? Is there a Make Javier Do It on his blog?

Okay, bye. And don't forget the Latisse. If you make me get Latisse? And I talk my doctor into prescribing it? I will do a video of me doing the Brooke Shields jerky dance from the commercial. Plus I will come to all of your birthdays with a small shitty gift even though I am rich and famous.

I’m free! To do what I want! Any old tiiiime. So I’ll do drudgery.

I finished my freelance work!!! Yesterday, I worked from 9:15 a.m. till 7:00. P RIDICULOUS P.M.! Happy Saturday!

Then I had to stampede to Target because I am out of my meds–can you tell?–and guess what closes at 6:00 on weekends? Is it the stupid stupid stupid Target pharmacy? Don't I have an in, what with Target Steve reading this blog and all? Target Steve! Fix the hours at Target! And clear up that whole gay controversy, because I really don't want to have to not go to Target.


I have picked on Target Steve a lot this weekend. Oh, but you all need to go over to his blog, because he has a clip of LUKE AND LUDICROUS LAURA over there. Oh, I got nostalgic. I thought Laura was the bomb, although if I were her I'd have been doing that Robert Scorpio, which is what Luke's next woman, Holly, did. Does anyone remember this or am I being weird elephant memory girl again?

But none of this deep talk is why I dragged you over here today. The REASON you are here is we are going to have an exciting blog today. Which is a first.

I have been at my full-time job since June, and I have been working pretty much 30 hours a week on top of that at my freelance assignments. You can imagine, therefore, how tidy and pretty and not at all Laura-Ingalls-when-she-lived-in-the-house-with-the-literal-dirt-floor my house is.

So I thought I'd take a picture of each room as I clean it today. Because with my new freedom, my first goal is getting a clean house. Not spending time with Marvin (who is going to school today anyway) or going to a movie or romping in the woods with the dog. No. I is gonna clean.

So I'll take a before picture of each room right before I clean it, then come back and show you the after picture. Won't this be exciting? Are you a-tingle? So I'll be updating all day.

Let's clean this stupid computer room first. Shall we? Oh, how I wish you were all here helping. We'd have more fun and I could pretend to be supervising while you all actually did the work.


Hello, espadrilles that I wore five days ago. Hello, bathroom rug that Marvin inexplicably put in here. And hi, clean sanitary floor! And oh, can of cashews. You certainly belong in here. Love lifts us up where we belong.

See you in a while!

Hoorah. I know that floor NEVER LOOKS CLEAN. It is because it is concrete, because this used to be a screened-in porch, and when we moved in it had a 1990s beige carpet that the former-dweller-who-never-paid-her-bills-and-is-still-getting-collection-letters-and-phone-calls-and-repo-men-here-two-and-a-half-years-later-and-if-I-ever-meet her-I have-a-few-choice-words-for-her's little dog peed on.

Was that sentence hard to understand?

At any rate, we RIPPED up the pee carpet and I had the brilliant idea that we'd paint it Willow, which is a fancy word for green, and it is also a fancy word for "scrapes all the time and never looks clean."

But here is the dirt my beloved Shark got up off this floor. Sometimes I understand those people with white couches who make you take your shoes off when you come in, who would never have a pet in a million years.

Oh. And for the people who already commented, yes, that wood chair in the computer room is way uncomfy and I really want kind of a 1940s rolly office wooden chair with arms, that I can put a cushion in. Also too, yes, it does occur to me I am going to get a lot of unsolicited comments/suggestions today.

On to the kitchen! I know it doesn't look that bad, because (a) when you don't cook and just live on peaches and coffee (shut up), how dirty can your kitchen get, and (4) I kind of clean the kitchen as I go, since I am obsessed with food poisoning.

But Marvin cooks, and here is what I have to tell you. Often I hear women talk about their husbands, and I think, geez. I am pretty lucky. Marvin does not do any of the jerky things many of my friends' husbands do. But would it KILL him to be a little tidier?

Okay, be back after the kitchen.

You know what I am getting? Tired. Also? Sweaty. Are you turned on?

You will be when you see my sparkling kitchen.

I even washed Tallulah's little bowls, which happens like once a quarter. Hey, she eats cat barf. You really think she's clamoring for a pristine bowl?

You know what would have gotten this stove even cleaner? The Magic Eraser. Am obsessed with the cleansing power of whatever carcinogenic chemicals are in the Magic Eraser. Love love love it! However, we don't have one. This was the result of Soft Scrub. Go ahead, yell at me about using Soft Scrub here.

Now on to the dining room.

Oh, dining room table. Where little dining is done because we are forever throwing things there, such as that honking box that contains the freelance work I have to mail back. No, I did not copy edit a small child. But I am mailing one back. What?

Oh, and I just noticed this post keeps reposting instead of just getting longer, so I had to delete the last two, thereby deleting the last seven or so comments, but when I'm done EFFING CLEANING I have a way I can put your comments back on. Fret not.

TAA-DAAA! And careful viewers will see a hint of Francis, with his svelte self.

There was a brief, disproportionately exciting moment when I thought I might be out of Pledge and not have to dust, but I found it. Lurking under a rag by the sink pipes.

I took a break to eat a peach, which looks here like some odd shiny other-planet fruit, doesn't it? Like one of those bouffant eyeliner women from another planet has given it to Captain Kirk. Why couldn't they have ever thought, "Gee, it's another planet. Maybe the women here won't dress in their '60s Planet Earth finery" when they were doing the costumes and makeup for those women?

On to the living room! Not that it needs it. You can see it's straight as a pin. Note the orange feather in the bowl. Did we have a burlesque dancer over that I did not know about? Plus also, won't you enjoy my purse, which gets a place of honor between the smushy pillows?

Some nights I like to kick off my heels and do some picking and a-grinning.

Careful viewers will note I have left not one but TWO pairs of silver shoes in the living room, as opposed to the espadrilles I left in the computer room. Am I a centipede?

Have I mentioned I am getting tired? And sweaty?

Clean. I do not even want to DISCUSS the amount of animal fur found in this room. All of our pets are short-haired. Imagine if we had a yak.

Also, no one tell Marvin the part where I dropped his guitar while I was putting it away.

I know I have the bathroom and bedrooms left to do, but you know what? I am tired. And hot. And I kind of want to take a shower and go see Eat/Act a Lot More Smug than You Should Cause You Ain't All That, Horse Face/Love this afternoon. Marvin is still at school and when I suggested it he vomited. So I guess I'll go alone. And enjoy the love-myselfness that is Julia Roberts. Who bugs. In case you hadn't figured it out.

There is just one more thing I'm gonna clean today, and I will spare you the after shot, because you really need scratch and sniff to appreciate it.


Why you look at Lu? This not funny.

Just put your lips together and blow

This is one of my favorite scenes from a movie. It's Almost Famous.

Marvin worked on this movie. I got to go to the wrap party. He told me people got all dressed up for wrap parties, so I wore a taffeta skirt and patent-leather wedges.

Everyone had on jeans and tank tops. I looked like an idiot.

But Peter Frampton was there! He kind of stared at my taffeta skirt.

The good news for you is, this is the last weekend you have to hear me bitching about having to work on freelance stuff. I mean, other than when the statistics textbook company gives me work. I can't quit ALL my freelance work. It's like prostitution or stripping. It's hard to give up all that extra cash. I know each and every one of you know what I mean about the prostitution and stripping. You bunch of minxes. Particularly that stripper Target Steve.

Oh, was that a secret?

CouchDo you like this couch? Or does it look like Fred Flintstone's couch? Because we are thinking of getting it with the $$ I make from this job I am currently doing that is killing me.

I worked until 9:30 last night when I realized I was not paying any attention to what I was reading anymore. I told Marvin I was going to bed and he had his usual reaction to when I announce I am going to bed, which is to act like I just said I was auditioning for the NFL.

You probably don't "audition" for the NFL, do you? See. This is why they never call me back.

"You're going to BED?" He says this every time, as though normally I am a vampire or have been an insomniac for 18 years or an astronaut who sleeps upright or something.

Today I plan to work for eight hours, then we are supposed to go to a party, but I may be decidedly cranky by then. Plus? And I know I never really talk about this a lot, but I do not drink, and last night I had a dream that I was talking on the phone and I looked down, and I was sitting there slugging down a giant glass of wine without realizing it. So instead of going to a party I may have to pop in to a certain meeting I like to attend from time to time.

But before I go, I wanted to tell you about the woman who irked me.

I went to lunch the other day, and I was joyfully eating my french dip, because I'm healthy, and also reading the paper, when I noticed someone was speaking at the top of their lungs.


She was wearing a suit, and in my building at work, my company (yes, I own it now. I climbed up that ladder fast, didn't I?) takes up two floors, and the rest of the floors are bank corporate offices. This is hilarious because our building therefore consists of people in (a) really formal suits (no business casual for the banking business, apparently) and then (ix) my company, in our shorts and sparkly shrugs and ironic Tshirts and so forth. There is really never any question whether someone at that restaurant or on the elevator works for my company or the bank.

So this loud woman in her business suit was chatting maniacally at these similarly suited men, who looked peaked at the idea of being caught by her. I tried to ignore her and go back to my hard-hitting article about Laura Linney, but she kept TALKING. Loudly. And clearly thinking she was funny, with her dramatic gesturing. OH, she was bugging.

Then they saw a truck that didn't know where to pull in, and I'm lyin' I'm dyin', this woman steps into the alley, puts her stupid fingers in her lips, and lets out the loudest, piercingest whistle you have ever.heard.

That is when it hit me.

She was me.

She was DYING for attention. She thought she was the funniest person alive, and was doing all she could to prove it to the world. You know, they always say the people who bug us most are the people who remind us of ourselves.

Oh, the humanity. Am I really that obnoxious?

You should have seen me that afternoon when I returned from lunch. I was as silent as the tomb. I was as meek as Melanie Hamilton. Oh, I tried not to be that woman. I do not want to be that horrid woman.

At least I don't know how to WHISTLE like that. God, she was dreadful.

So that's my story. I am Carole Lombard without the looks. Or Clark Gable.

Comment of the week goes to my friend Sleeping Beauty, which is really gonna irk my friend Pal from MA, who was funny in the comments recently but I refused to give her the award, the coveted award, of comment of the week, because it would look like nepotism or something because I know her in real life. And now here I am awarding Sleeping Beauty, who I know in real life.

There goes 43 years of friendship down the tubes. I mean, we were on the edge of losing it when we were five and I insisted there was no "G" in the alphabet, but we got through that rough patch. Now it has come to this.