I so don't feel like blogging today.
I watched it happen. It was like slow motion, if slow motion happened really fast.
Tallulah was all cuddling up with me this morning, and I was hugging her big neckeldy. Edsel was at the foot of the bed, because he's, you know, beta dog or whatever. I watched him get up and I SAW the thoughts form in his pea brain.
"heer Talu butt. it rite in front of me. hay! i could hump talu! i could get rite on her and–"
Oh. Was that a mistake. You have never seen a…husky girl move so fast in your life. She went from being all happy and cuddly with me to WHIPPING around and showing Edsel her Pit Bull teef. There was no Beagle left. There was no spiritual Tibetan spaniel in her right then. No.
She was all Pit Bull, all the time.
And she said, "ROWR ROWR ROWR ROWR RRRRRRRRR!" in this toofy fishwife voice that I am sure translated to terrible dog swear words.
Edsel was all, "yes, ma'am. edsel sorry, ma'am. never hump again, miss lu."
This transgression seems to have been overlooked and they are back to their important task of shedding on the couch and barking at everyone who has the gall to walk by. Note, however, that Edsel is in his proper place on the lower level.
So other than that Ozarks moment brought to you by my pets, NOTHING HAS HAPPENED over here. WHY HAS NO ONE CALLED ME TO GIVE ME A JOB?
The only thing that has happened is my surgeon called to say he was supposed to do a C-section at 7:30 a.m. the day of my conveniently scheduled 10:30 surgery, but the idiot who was having a C-section had her BABY EARLY, so now I have to have MY surgery at 7:30, which means I have to get there at like 1 a.m. or something. So they can "prep" me. I shudder to think.
So THANKS, person who had her baby early. Nice popping out of your kid. What about MY needs? GOD.
Other than selfish selfish women who have babies when I am trying to sleep in and have 10:30 surgeries, I need your Pieces of Wisdom help.
I have no idea what to eat.
I don't mean the day of my surgery, on which I can eat nothing. I mean for the rest of my life. Marvin was the only cook in this house, and when I was single, I did not realize that processed food has MSG in it, which gave me migraines.
So now that Marvin is leaving and I realize I cannot eat soup, most cereal, certain yogurt, and not even rice cakes, (which I happen to love) because they all have MSG (check the label. They say creative things other than monosodium glutamate, usually, because most people know that means MSG. But if the label says modified food starch? That's MSG. Also? maltodextrin? It's a preservative and it also gives people migraines), I am stumped for what to consume. Other than gardening catalogs, which is my new porn. But that's a whole 'nother post.
So I do not know how to cook, I can't eat processed food, and Marvin my cook is leaving. I can starve to death or I can take your suggestions.
What can I eat?? Yes, that required two question marks.
I am in this ridiculous state of limbo–not that I am bending under a stick anywhere. But I'm waiting for EITHER of those companies to call me and say, "June, you are so hired." Also, I am waiting for Marvin to move out, which at this point I just wish would happen already. Get the terribleness over, for heaven's sake. Same with my surgery.
So in the meantime, since I am stuck here in purgatory waiting for the next thing to happen, I thought we could have a day in review.
Sometimes people find this blog and decide to go back and read the whole thing from the start. Why anyone would want to torment themselves in this fashion is beyond me, but people do triathlons, as well, you know? Of course, they get rewarded with good bodies for doing those. I do not know what reward you get for sitting here on your arse reading my drivel.
Recently, a reader from Austria wrote me, because he has read a large portion of my blog, and he made a list of all the times I wrote, "Remind me to tell you about the time…" and then never told you guys about any of those times.
This was bothersome to my Austrian reader, Marzipan. His name is not actually Marzipan. It is something like Mzark!krakkapantq#&*an, which I'm sure is Austrian for Joe, but I immediately and probably offensively started calling him Marzipan and he was fine with that.
At any rate, I have culled his large "remind me to tell you about" list that he sent me, and will indeed tell you about some of these stupid stories today. So that you loose-ends people can rest easier.
Edie's plastic nose (mentioned 09 February 2010). In college, I lived with a bunch of chicks/skirts/birds (hi, mom. How was your NOW meeting with Bella Abzug?) in a really nice house, which of course we did not appreciate because we were in college. But it had a fireplace and a breakfast nook and a formal dining room and all we cared about was whose turn it was to buy the 30-pack of Stroh's.
One of my roommates was named Edie, and she was really pretty and very intense. One term she took, like, twice the amount of credits you were supposed to take and all she did was study study study. She'd be gone all day and night at the library. Then the next term she took maybe six credits and partayyyed all term. She'd bring boys to her room and they would literally have sex all night. I kind of admired her all-or-nothing attitude.
The point is, she had a plastic nose. She had been surfing in California and had broken it really badly, because she was all-or-nothing. I saw pictures of her preplastic nose and it had, in fact, really improved her appearance. However, she had no sense of smell. She used to say, "Is this milk bad?" and we'd have to smell it for her.
Past-life reading (mentioned 25 October 2008). I used to sit next to this woman at work who just did nutty things and I loved her. She hatched a turkey–or maybe it was a peacock–in her breasts at work one day. She had all these animals at home (goats, a Great Dane, chickens, kittens, parrots) and because of her they had made a rule at work: no bringing your animals in. Her turkey or peacock had hatched a bunch of eggs that morning but she was worried because the last one didn't hatch, so she put the egg in her ample bosom and came to work.
Right in the middle of a meeting, she said, "Oh, I have to leave! I'm breaking a work rule!" because her egg was hatching. I loved her.
Anyway, she used to regularly go to Malibu to get past-life readings and of course I fell for this idea and hauled myself out there one Saturday, too, to this woman's mansion, which means many people must have fallen for this charlatan.
The woman told me I had known Marvin in many lives. Once I was a silversmith, and Marvin was a little Indian girl who used to come listen to me tell stories, and Marvin would pee her pants listening to my fine silversmithy tales.
Marvin said, "I'll give you a past-life reading. An hour ago you had a hundred more dollars than you have now."
The ketchup packet (no idea when I mentioned this). My father and I were at one of those drive-in restaurants, like an A&W but it wasn't an A&W. In my mind, the wait staff had on roller skates but I doubt this was really true.
I was a teenager and I distinctly remember I was wearing a white polo shirt, which was very stylish back in my day. Now I'd look like I was just getting off my shift at the In-and-Out Burger, there, but at the time I was the height of fashion.
So there we were, in my father's convertible, eating our fries and onion rings and fried mushrooms and other heart-healthy items and I have no idea why my father and I both have sky-high cholesterol, when the person next to us backed out.
He backed out over a ketchup packet.
And I'm telling you what. His aim or the position of the packet or God's wrath or something was absolutely perfect, because that packet shot at my father and me and we were covered. Covered. In ketchup. It was like we'd been shot. By Mr. Heinz. We looked ridiculous. My white polo was ruined. We were in hysterics over it, and I remember we had to go home–there was no saving our look for the night.
So there are just some of the stories I was planning to tell you, and by "planning" I mean I had completely forgotten I'd ever mentioned them and thank heavens for efficient Austrians. Weren't the Sound of Music kids Austrian? Didn't they have to do everything when their dad blew a whistle?
I'll bet they never got ketchup packets shot on them.
Now that I have seen Prince in concert twice, I know this for sure: Prince has a certain…charisma that Barry Gibb does not.
Sorry. I should have warned you to sit down before I said that.
It's TRUE, though! He told us all to wave our cell phones? And we did. All of us. That entire coliseum. Even Marvin waved his cell phone. Okay, he waved it backwards to be a dink, but still.
Later, he told us to jump up and down? That whole room. Jumping up and down. That man could rule the world if he wanted to. We would all be led by a three-foot man wearing purple.
In fact, Prince did not wear purple. He wore gold. And I came to the conclusion last night that I really need to wear more large statement jewelry. It works for Prince. He wore a suit with a gold shirt and big gold jeweled necklace first, and looked fabulous, and then he sank into the floor, as you do, and came back out wearing a gold sparkly sort of tunic and pants with matching sparkly high heels.
I do not know why, in the comments yesterday, Faithful Reader Target Steve mistakenly thought Prince was gay.
HOW does Prince get away with being two feet tall, wearing sparkly gold high heels, and being the sexiest man alive? HOW? How does he do that?
Oh! Oh oh oh! And I did not TELL you the excitingest part! Chaka Khan opened for him, and I cannot begin to explain to you the ridiculousness that was her outfit, so I will abstain. Once she was done, they turned the lights back on so we could wipe that outfit out our minds, and we were waiting for Prince, when everyone in one part started screaming.
Prince was just WALKING THROUGH THE CROWD.
He had ONE GUY guarding him. He shook hands, hugged, posed for pictures. Can you believe that? He must have mingled for half an hour! And people did not mob him! He went to different sections and people were respectful and it was so exciting!
I said to Marvin, "If he comes over here, will I be calm?" Then we both thought of the time I saw Nicholas Cage in real life, when I grabbed my face and screamed. Fortunately, Prince never made his way to our section. Perhaps Nicholas Cage had warned him.
Also, once he was, you know, in concert, he had people come dance onstage, and I am happy to report he often dragged big old fat women up there. I was certain it would always be hot young things. I love Prince.
In fact, there was this guy down there on the floor, in the good seats, and he kind of had a body like Rerun–remember Rerun? He had on purple pants, and a lavender shirt, and a white blazer, and a lavender scarf and oh! Was he dancing to the Prince. Right in the middle of everything, when Prince was not asking people to come up and dance, Prince picked that guy to come up.
Now, people were supposed to just dance on this one part of the stage.
Not this guy. He strutted all around Prince, and flapped his scarf, and everyone screamed for him, and Prince just stopped and let the guy, and pretended to be all concerned that this man would get all the attention. He even said, "You better wear your purple!" In the end? He let the guy hold his guitar and the backup singers mopped the guy off with that lavender scarf.
Marvin said, "Do you know how much that guitar is worth?" I said, "A hundred dollars?" I like to be irritating to Marvin.
Anyway. I am just saying. I like me the Prince.
Other than that, it was a shit-ass walk to and from that dang concert. It was cold and it was rainy, and it was not any nice purple rain, either. It was a cold relentless driving icy rain. And we had to park seven hundred five thousand and fifteen miles from the concert.
And let me tell you what. There were old people there, and young people, and black people and white people. That is what I like about a Prince concert. And one thing I notice about black women? Is they will pull out their livers before they get ONE DROP of water on their hair.
Is anyone out there a black woman? Can you explain this to me? Do you have to start all over again if you get it remotely wet? What's the story on that?
You should have seen these women. They were all cute with their purple tights or sparkly skirts or whatever, and then they'd have their coats up over their heads like they were doing a headless horseman impression, or they'd have grocery bags up on their heads, or they'd be carrying their boyfriends over their bodies. I mean, they would do ANY.THING. to not have wet hair.
Anyway. Rush is coming to the same venue next week and Marvin is going. It seems a shame to ruin all that, you know, Prince energy with stupid Rush. Fortunately I will be recovering from surgery and also Marvin will have left me in his dust by then. So next week when I am sad, someone remind me I am not at Rush.
I have to go. I want to learn how to effortlessly jump on top of my piano. With my gold sparkly boots on.
Tonight Marvin and I are going to see Prince. I know! But he's in town and we both like Prince and what can I tell you. I am doubting at any point in the night Marvin is going to look over at me and realize he only wants to see me bathing in the purple rain. But maybe he'll buy me a t-shirt.
In the meantime, we have to fill out a separation agreement this weekend, where we agree to divide everything up. I plan to take him for all his millions.
I totally deserve the house in the Hamptons.
Anyway, so far we are doing well on not arguing about who gets what. There is nothing that either of us is overly attached to, or that we aren't willing to part with if the other wants it. I was searching for an earring under the bed yesterday (don't ask) and I realized I would no longer have guitars under my bed and it was sort of exciting. Also, there will no longer be mysterious black cords in every.single.drawer, which I will enjoy mightily.
Why do men need so many black cords? Why aren't said cords ATTACHED to things? Are they backup emergency cords?
I did not fight Marvin on all of his Matchbox cars that he had lined up around the little ledge between the wall and the ceiling in the back room. He did not ask for the dogs playing poker picture. He's letting me keep a framed picture of his grandmother–she was the bomb.
So, I hope we stay civil. I hope I don't turn into Loni Anderson. I mean, in every way.
And be sure to give me a TON of unsolicited advice on this. Thanks.
In the meantime, you can't be depressed when this song is playing. By the way, have you seen my light-blue suit with the clouds?
Spring in the South is lovely. My feeling is for every time you have to see a Confederate flag, you also get to see this:
Also, my next-door neighbor, Peg, has a white dogwood mixed together with a pink dogwood and my purple-y tree is hanging right next to it like this:
Look at that rogue dandelion trying to be all casual back there. "Me? No! I'm not a bad influence on the other flowers! I won't SPREAD everywhere and be a menace! I won't invite the wild onion into your yard! What you mean?"
Also too, the City offered free wood chips to anyone who wanted them, and our whole neighborhood looks like an ant farm. We all have these mounds of chips that no one can use up, and everyone is getting terribly generous with their wood chips all of a sudden.
Don't you hate it when people say "all the sudden"? I also hate it when people say "regiment" when they mean "regimen." "I've been using my skin regiment for years, and I still break out."
Anyway, I am having a wood chip giveaway, if anyone wants any.
Also too too, I am having my delightful fibroids removed next Thursday in an outpatient procedure. They are kind of shaving them off. I'm certain you want to hear every detail. The day I get my fibroids removed coincides with the day Marvin leaves, so I lose fibroids, cats and a husband all on the same day.
My mother is coming to town that day, anyway, and we were planning on getting the HELL out of here so I don't have to watch Marvin go. So after my procedure, we are staying at a fancy hotel nearby where I can recover.
The bright side of all this is that I will no longer wake up to this every day:
WHY CAN'T MARVIN'S DISHES MAKE THEIR WAY IN THERE? They are AN INCH from the dishwasher! And yet every morning I get up and put his dishes in the dishwasher, as they are in the sink. So I know there is one week left of doing that. Perhaps every time I get sad, I could refer to these pictures.
Kind of like the Confederate flag/spring blossoms thing.
The home vet came today, to check on Francis.
I have to have a vet come to the house to see Francis, because he is insane, and you simply cannot work on him at a regular vet's office. He gets all puffy, and growly, and fangy, and then he JUMPS at your throat in the most alarming manner and you just want to throw him out onto Ventura Boulevard on the drive home.
I use this example because that is pretty much the last place I lived when I took Fran to the regular vet, was Los Angeles in the Valley, which tells you it was not even the year 2000 yet. It was last century. That last time, they screamed at me, "LEAVE THE ROOM!" as he was headed for my jugular like I was in a Twilight movie, and I stood in the lobby and shook while I heard crashing and shouting and a cat speaking in tongues.
After that they told me I could never bring him there again.
Now a vet comes over in this enormous van filled with instruments, including these hawk gloves that she makes me put on so I can stroke my murdersome beast while she shoots a tranquilizer into his evil behind part.
Seriously, you should see these gloves. They go up to my shoulders, and they are 40 inches thick. I could stand outside and call vultures over and they could talon me all they wanted and I'd feel nothing. Except the part where they'd try to idly pick out my eyeballs.
The vet came to make sure he's getting better, as he has irritable bowel syndrome, which is a surprise because he is so unirritable about everything else. She will have his bloodwork back tomorrow, but in the meantime I'm afraid I took advantage of the fact that he is passed out on my bathroom floor.
Even worse? Faithful Reader Paula H&B sent me PROPS for just this occasion. Where she found these ridiculous items, I will never know. And yes, I do understand that Francis will idly peck at my eyeballs like a vulture someday.
And I will deserve it.
I'm sorry, Francis. It's terrible of me to take advantage of your passed-out self. You can't help it you're a tad…high-strung and it costs me an extra HUNDRED BUCKS whenever you get sick. But mom's not resentful. She won't take it out on you any more.
In what is sure to be the absolute worst collection of photos ever shown in this already shoddily photographed blog, below are some pics symbolizing your suggestions from yesterday's Pieces of Wisdom query: "How can my pal Hulk meet women?"
How much do you abhor me for saying "pics"?
When I read your almost-200 ideas, I thought, Why do I have this stupid Pieces of Wisdom feature on my blog? I just have to think of a way to present your answers every Wednesday, and it is an incredible amount of work. All this just to get my high school pal some action. I mean, really?
It did not seem like my faithful dry-erase board would capture your creative suggestions effectively. I mean, you can't just encapsulate the beauty of "Put on a cast, get a van and pretend you need help moving a couch" on a board.
My first idea was to pose my Cabbage Patch doll, Jesse Everard, doing the activities y'all proposed. Yes, I do have a Cabbage Patch doll. No, I have never had children. Why don't you shut up now?
I was gonna have Jesse at the computer on Match.com. I was gonna have him joining a three-day breast cancer walk. I was so taking Jesse to a coffee shop and have him idly sketch and watch the women come running.
And do you know I cannot find effing Jesse Everard anywhere? WHERE DID I PUT HIM? Where is my Cabbage Patch? And no, I do not think it is pathetic that it is a beautiful spring day and I'm 45 years old, in the house searching for my doll. Whatever happened to Baby June?
So I did the next-best thing. And by "next-best" I mean what other choice did I have? I got the cats involved. Because what pleases Hulk more than pictures of my pets?
Some people suggested Hulk get a dog, because everyone approaches someone when they have a dog. Here is Francis with a dog. Would you approach him? And yes. That is a dog from my dog nativity scene. I do not know what to tell you about the fact that I have a dog nativity. It is right next to my Cabbage Patch.
Readers also said Hulk could try to meet someone at work (Hulk said his work is 75% men and 99% ugly), through members of his church, through his 8 million sport things, through his daughter (surely she must have friends with divorced moms), and the old standby:
So, let us know if any of our brilliant ideas work, Hulk. I want you to try them ALL. Like how Marcia Brady signed up for all the activities in high school, and ended up with lava all over herself. Then chose ceramics. How did I get off on this tangent?
Good luck, Hulk. And knit me something, will you?
Today's Pieces of Wisdom topic is a deep and important one, as per usual, but before I begin, I must tell you some things, of course, because I never shut up.
I was walking the dogs (and who has had to learn to walk both dogs by herself? Is it awful? Is it almost 90 pounds of misbehavior on two strands of leather?) the other day, and of course I passed the Three Loud Blonde Children down the street.
"HI, LALULLAH!" they shouted, as they always do. Then, "HI, ETHEL!"
Poor Edsel. How humiliatin'.
You can see it even disturbs his rest, considering that he might be a woman now. And Lucy's sidekick, to boot. Oh, and what's that on the pillow between them? COULD IT BE WHITE PAINT? Is there paint EVERYWHERE?
I blame Ethel. He kept WALKING past me and getting bits on his transitioning costar claws.
The other thing I have to tell you is I have another job interview today. I know! For a whole 'nother job. I had a phone interview with this place about two weeks ago and was certain I blew it. First of all, I was still completely anemic and fell asleep waiting for their call time. So I had the personality of a slug when the phone rang.
Then they asked, "What would be the biggest challenge for you in this position?" and I said, truthfully, "Probably the writing" because I have done writing the least in my jobs. People think copy editing has something to do with actual writing but it usually doesn't.
Anyway after I hung up, I looked at the job description again, and the first two bullet points about the job were writing things.
I have no idea why they are interviewing me today, unless the other 16 people they called were all Heidi Montag or Snooki or something. And yes, I did ask. They called 16 people. Maybe they had me confused with someone else.
But enough about me. I'd say 13 introductory paragraphs ought to do it. Yeesch. Today we are discussing my pal Hulk, who is single. Single single single.
His hair does not really do that. He is wearing a June wig. I am wearing a "my mom" wig. It was Halloween.
Hulk and I went to high school together, and met on the newspaper staff. I do not mean we were both sitting on a large rod made of newspaper, but maybe no one else got that visual and there is something deeply wrong with me.
At any rate, he lives in my hometown, God help him, and has a good job, which about seven people in my hometown can still say. Hulk has been divorced for two years, and he is 44.
He has one daughter, Hulkette, and I do not know what to tell you about his taste in child names.
So here is the deal. He is not meeting the womenses.
Hulk goes to work extra super early so he can get home early in order to spend time with his daughter, which makes him a good person right there, and kind of helps negate the part where he is a Republican. After he takes his daughter back to his ex-wife's house, he told me he usually watches TV and goes to bed.
Wooooo! Hulk loves the nightlife! He's got to boogie! But keep in mind he gets up super extra early for work.
On big exciting nights, when there is a SPORTING EVENT (sigh), he and his friends go to some sports tavern and watch sports together there, until maybe 10:30. He has not met any quality women in this environment.
Here's where my valued Pieces of Wisdom pals (i.e., yentas) come in. How can we fix Hulk's life so he can meet a woman? Girlfriend is 44. He's not gonna put on his medallion and go dancing at night. What sorts of things can we tell him to do to meet women who are, you know, intelligent and well-rounded and healthy? And not hanging at sports bars in their middle age in order to meet men?
(In six months I will totally be blogging about my new hang, Sports R Us, and how I met John Rambo there, won't I?)
(And I realize some women like sports and would be at sports bars to WATCH sports, as Hulk is, so no one take offense, please.) (Trust me, if there were Royal Wedding bars, I'd be in one every night.)
Okay, I'm going now and await your wisdom. I have to get into that interview suit again and hope there isn't white paint on it. And by the way, since I took everything out of that hutch, I am finding all sorts of things. Some of you have sent me photos of relatives you don't know, since you know I like to collect old photos of people I don't know, and this photo just fell out of a pile today, I swear:
Okay, help Hulk. If he gets married as a result of us we are all invited to his wedding. I forgot to tell you that part, Hulk.
The Nester says you shouldn't have refrigerator magnets because they're tacky. So I mostly listened to her and have had a nearly blank (for me) fridge. But yesterday Marvin was packing and he said, "Look what's in this tin!"
There were all sorts of magnets I had packed away. I dumped out that tin and culled through everything. Yes, I am still using the word "culled" today.
Not only was I trying to be untacky per The Nester, but I also had to remove some of my fridge stuff to make room for Marvin's. Since the day I moved in with him in 1997, I have had the logo of some long-defunct FM radio station in LA on my fridge. It was a black-and-yellow magnet.
Today I threw it on his pile of stuff to go. "You want this?" I said. "Oh, YES!" he exclaimed, as if he'd almost forgotten his spleen.
Here's some stuff I put back up today, on my fridge. You know, after the culling.
I put up the photo of my Aunt Mary and me at the garlic festival, wearing, yes, garlic hats. We are held up by the ludicrous leiderhosen boy from Frankenmuth, Michigan, who is similarly holding up my aura picture. It's a shame how leiderhosen boy has a big piece of white poop on his head. Or maybe he, too, has on a garlic hat.
He looks a little like a leiderhosen blow-up doll, now that I'm concentrating on him.
When I moved to Seattle, I was obsessed with how much I hearted it. Here is one of many tacky Seattle magnets I had put away until now. It is holding up a photo of Uncle Jim, mom, Aunt Kathy and my tall Uncle John.
Am cracking self up that when I wrote "Aunt Kathy" I linked to her Betty Fart story.
Some day I wish to win an award for Best Photography Blog. Anyway, this is my favorite photo of my grandfather and me, shucking corn. It is held up by a Susan magnet. Susan was Laura Ingalls' cat. I understand that I am a freak and it is no wonder I could not keep a man.
Above the corn photo is a cute one of Talu and me. I am the one wearing shoes.
Okay, I GOT UP and took a new one of us shucking corn. I mean, I did not go back in time, put on that Ruth Buzzy sundress and have this photo taken all over again. I went back to the fridge and took another shot. Got me a nice bottle of water, too.
These were the first three magnets I ever bought, for my first apartment when I got my first job. My roommate worked for some bath store: Bath & Body Works or Oh! I remember! He worked at Linens Ampersand Things. I just remembered that because that's what I'd call it. I would say the word "ampersand" and think I was hilarious. He said things like "kitchen linens" instead of towels because apparently that was the lingo.
Anyway, I think we got a discount on these; I thought the beehive was a hoot. I have been lugging these magnets around with me from Saginaw, Michigan to Seattle, then to LA, then to TinyTown, then to here.
I act like magnets are so hard to move around. "Lugging."
Here's some photo booth picture of me from God knows when. Note that it, too, is filthy. And held up by a cat magnet. A cat magnet is a person who makes a lot of money from cats. BAHAHAHAA. If there were such a thing I would be a millionaire by now.
And finally, here is a picture of me from high school, with our senior class president trying to lift my dress, and our vice president licking me. Nice. Proud. I never appreciated that that vice president was really cute until after high school, and now he lives in some other country and has a fabulous life.
And I'm sorry. I really tried to get a better image for you, but on my ring finger, there, is my nice class ring, which is probably why I was bringing all the student government to the yard.
So, Nester, my old pal, I apologize. My magnets are back up. I am not perfect and shiny and lacking in the tacky. I am messy and the opposite of minimal and sort of obnoxious. I know you love me anyway.
And oh, it made me happy to get my magnets out of their cold dark tin and rock out with my leiderhosen out.
Okay, here it is with stuff. Marvin has packed a lot of his doo-dads, and it turns out a lot of them resided on this here hutch, so it's emptier than it used to be. Knowing me and my old lady knicknack self, it will fill up again in no time.
I do not have an official "before" picture, because believe it or not I do not live every moment with thoughts of my blog in mind, but I culled my photos and found one of our hutch, when it resided with us in Burbank back in aught six or so:
In other news, and I know you're sad to move away from the topic of the hutch, The Other June and I went to the farmers market yesterday and I bought a bird house that will supposedly get bluebirds in it. It was seven dollars. I thought I took a picture of it but apparently I did not. I culled my iPhone shots and it was not there.
"Culled" is a big word with me today.
At any rate, it basically looks like this:
I KNOW! I'm OBSESSED. When did I become Junebrandt?
Also, while I was there, I got something I have always wanted to get. I have always always always wanted a St. Francis statue for my yard. I never got one because (a) in LA I never HAD a yard, (4) Marvin never seemed keen on having a saint in his yard once we DID have one and (12) they were always $9,000 when I saw them. But yesterday I found one for a good price and yes I do know that I am unemployed.
I was so excited to take old St. Francis home and plop him in my garden.
And guess what.
Edsel is terrified of him.
He's the patron saint of ANIMALS, for goodness sake. Why is Edsel scared of him? Is Edsel the devil? Does everything named Francis horrify Edsel? Does Edsel think I have actually put a miniature person under the azalea, back there?
Anyway, here is a better photo of St. Francis, who is still wishing he were back at the garden store and not being constantly sniffed and barked at by a dog. He is so rethinking this patron-saint-of-animals thing.
And after the farmers market, Other June and I went to a bookstore that inexplicably also sold kitchen supplies, and I bought a tea kettle. We don't have a microwave anymore, and I needed one for my Cream of Wheat and tea and general water-heating needs.
Yes, I am aware, once again, that I am unemployed. SHUT UP.
Okay, off to chase Edsel around with a statue.
Last night my neighbor Peg had a St. Patrick's Day party. I guess really it was a day-after-St.-Patrick's-Day party. Anyway, she made corned beef and cabbage, and had 33 million green and/or Irish drinks (she even had ginger ale with green tea in it), and St. Patrick's doo-dads for us to wear.
At one point, I passed these men having a deep conversation and one had a sparkly green bow tie on and the other was wearing a "St. Patrick's Princess" crown. Killed me.
Anyway, it was a good time. I met a woman whose real name is the same as mine, so now I have a new friend who will have to be The Other Other June. Which won't be annoying at all. We had met at Peg's many parties before, but we were on the same couch last night and had a big bonding moment and made out and exchanged green blood and so forth.
Oh! And some man came up to me and said, "I just have to tell you. You have such beautiful eyes."
June's still got it. Of course, it could have been the Irish whiskey talking. Still. And mom, if you say my eyes looked good because my bangs were straight, Ima cut my bangs clean off and just have a blank area up there. I will. I swear it.
My mother is OBSESSED with my bangs.
"What are your hobbies, June's mom?"
"Oh, I think about my daughter's bangs seven days a week. I have written 12 books on it, and have hiked to Afghanastan to find caves, so I can crawl inside and sketch ideas for her bangs on the walls."
I am on my way to the farmers market to meet my friend The Other June now, as opposed to The Other Other June who I met last night, and how bad do you hate me right now?
You know I like to go to the farmers market and buy me some processed food. They have good cookies there. Wish me luck!
Oh, and comment of the week goes to John Rambo. Click on This Week's Special to see. I will be seeing. With my beautiful beautiful eyes.
She Loved Her Pets Too Much, starring June Mint.
Her Hair Was Stupid, featuring June NotGardens.
Not With MY Red Pen, You Don't! Guest Starring June NoName, based on the novel Push by Sapphire.
(Hello, Faithful Reader TwelveDays.)
What should my new last name be?
Anyway, I think my interview went well. I think this because two of the three people I met with said, "You have all of the qualifications we're looking for." The other one said, "You totally suck but you're a hottie."
What if that had happened for real? Sadly, I would have been excited to be called a hottie, I think.
Anyway, they said they'd let me know next week, possibly, so I am thinking maybe I'll just hang around the office till I get an answer. What say you? Sane? Maybe I could just start putting up my Barry Gibb posters in an empty cube.
Also, because I know you want me to mention it more, I thought I had finally finished that hutch. I went out and bought new handles for it, I painted it AGAIN (I KNOW!) (nothing in the history of time has as many coats as that hutch. Burlington Coat Factory called, asked if they could buy me out, I have so many coats on this hutch. Joseph called. Wants to trade his technicolor dreamcoat).
(We're talking a lot of coats.)
And those new handles? People have spent less time buying condos in Manhattan than I did selecting the handles for this thing. You'd have thought it was the King of Prussia's drawers I was getting handles for. I have no idea if there is such a thing as a King of Prussia or if that is just a city somewhere.
Also? Last night? After I thought I was done painting? I took all the paint and rollers and trays and brushes and stirrers and cans and can openers and drop cloths and easels and paint chips and tape and berets and French music and nude models and poodles and existentialism and decided to carry it all into the shed at once.
Guess who dropped the paint ALL OVER HER FOOT once she got to the shed? The night before her interview? I look like I have vitiligo.
Then this morning, I DRAGGED that hutch into the dining room BY MYSELF, BEFORE MY INTERVIEW, just because I was so dying to see it finished and in the room it was supposed to be, and I stepped back to admire my work?
I forgot to paint the feet.
I painted MY OWN FOOT, but after the first coat of primer and paint, I FORGOT TO PAINT THE $##@#$$%&#&# FEET. So now I have to go to the $(#(#$*$_@ shed, get what's left of that can I spilled, get the brushes and drop cloth and poodles and French mustache and cheese and PAINT AGAIN TODAY and COULD SOMEONE KILL ME PLEASE?
Will someone remind me not to take on projects in the future? This is why God invented hiring people to do things. This is why God invented crafty folk. This is why God invented my friend Laurie.
Okay, I am going to paint in my interview suit, and I am just saying that to make the humorless among you have 80 fits. Really I am going to walk around my house with my arms crossed, looking out windows like they do on Lifetime, until Ted McGinley shows up.
Have you guys seen this video? This is a dog in Japan who wouldn't leave his injured friend. THEY BOTH GET RESCUED. So it's okay.
Oh, and top o' the mornin' to ye! How ye be? I can't talk Irish very long because I start getting pirate-y very quickly. I am horrible at accents. I had this friend in college who was from Finland. I mean, he still IS from Finland, and anyway, I can do his accent really well. Call me and I will do an impression of him for you. You'll start feeling cold and wanting to drink vodka and like it's getting dark at 3:00 and also like you want to use Nokia products.
But let's say you and I have a friend from Thailand. If I'm trying to do an impression of that guy, in seven seconds he's gonna sound Finnish. It's like I learned that accent and that's as far as my impression skills will take me.
Whatever happened to that woman, Gra, who used to read this blog? Remember her? She lived in Ireland. I think she disappeared when she invited all of us to visit and it seemed like we were really gonna take her up on it.
Perhaps she died of hunger because there were no potatoes. Isn't that always happening in Ireland? World events. There's a thing your faithful blogger June is always up on.
Speaking of world events, I must go, because I do indeed have a JOB INTERVIEW tomorrow. And (wait for it) I have to work on that hutch. Instead of samples of my proofreading work, I'm just gonna lug in that hutch to the interview. It is my statue of David.
Oh, I almost forgot. Last night I went out LIKE A LUNATIC and took pictures of Goldilocks. I was terrified that family would come out and be all, "What is the hell are you doin', lady?" I figured it was the least I could do, with all your nice tips you have left me, and your kind notes, and the gifts some of you have sent, was to potentially make myself look BERSERK to my neighbors.
Thank heavens the neighbors did not catch me and get the mistaken impression that there is something wrong with me. Because a very sane person makes up conversations with her neighbor's dogs. Did I mention the hutch and I had a nice talk yesterday? He's from Finland.
P.S. I just remembered that Edsel is half Irish setter. So I did this to him:
There's this company that I have wanted to call me for weeks, and just a few minutes ago I had a giant piece of chicken in my mouth and the phone rang. I thought, "Oh, this'll be the time that company will be calling." Sure enough. Guess who it was. I had to spit the half-chewed piece into a bowl and be all "Hellooo?" like I was Grace Kelly.
Anyway, I think I have an interview; they have to discuss my exorbinant salary requirements first.
In other news, Tallulah is annoying.
One thing you cannot say about this beast is she is not a flibbertyjibbet. She has laser focus when she wants to have it, and it makes you want to set yourself on fire.
Yesterday she went to dog day care all day, because my friend Laurie came over to help me paint that hutch, which has now taken more time than was given to the Sistine Chapel. Both dogs have paint on their ears now from my many projects, and I was thinking the fumes can't be helping their already questionable brain cells, plus I didn't want them underfoot.
So after a full day playing with many many dogs, including a Boxer who was literally leaping several feet above the crowd all day, Tallulah came home and had a lovely dinner that included a drizzle of extra-virgin olive oil and I wish I were making that up. I read somewhere it helps with one's coat if one is a dog.
Then she and Edsel went out 817 times as they had requested and at about 8 p.m. I got me some grape juice and set about taking that RIDICULOUS copyediting test that I have been working on for two days now, and it is the hardest thing you have ever seen, even harder than painting the Sistine Chapel, or that hutch.
Here is what Edsel did.
Here is what Tallulah did.
"What's the matter, honey?" I asked, knowing NOTHING COULD BE THE MATTER WITH THIS IRKSOME IRKSOME CREATURE. I thought maybe her mind was unstimulated, so I shook paws with her, and we did a down, and we did a turn around, and I commenced my test.
Three minutes later, here is her annoying self. With her focus, Tallulah would have made an excellent proofreader, really, had, say, squirrel's butts needed proofing.
(Now I am reminded of a story, which has nothing at all to do with Tallulah staring at me. I know I am extra extra super crunchy and irritating.
My grandmother had a squirrel in her basement, and every other man in my family must have been out at a spitting contest or some similar manly activity, because she called my Uncle Leo to come get the squirrel. Uncle Leo married into the family, and we all immediately took to my Uncle Leo, as he rocks the house, but he rocks the House of Pancakes more than he does the House of Manliness. Now I just made him sound fat, when in fact he is quite lanky.
At any rate, all of my grandmother's sons and brothers and her husband were the kind of men who were really athletic and sort of no-nonsense and who would have gone downstairs and come up with the squirrel head in their teeth, spit it onto a plaque and made a mount for Gramma in under five minutes. Uncle Leo was not that kind of guy. He likes history and Mark Twain and other boring things.
It would've never occurred to Gramma to call a woman, but really Aunt Sue would have grabbed that squirrel by the scruff and had it out of there quicker than any of the men.
So Uncle Leo gets over there and Gramma hands him a broom, because I guess he was supposed to sweep it into submission, and we hear him in the basement crashing around for awhile. He came back up looking sheepish.
"Did you get it?" Gramma asked doubtfully.
Uncle Leo shook his head. "Aw, nuts," he said.
You could tell he thought he was hilarious with this line, and because I was 11 and thought everything was hilarious, I started to giggle, which made him throw back his head and laugh like a hyeana, and soon we were falling all over ourselves laughing at the stupid "Aw, nuts" line like it was the best thing anyone ever said.
Gramma, who just wanted to stop doing her laundry accompanied by a squirrel as though she were Cinderella, and who did not see the humor in EITHER of us, grabbed the broom.
"Son of a BITCH," she said delicately, stomping down the stairs. "I have to do EVERYTHING myself."
Which just made us pee ourselves more, which Gramma probably also had to clean up. Poor Gramma.
If I look back on my life, I can think of at least 10 times Uncle Leo and I have gone into hysterics and the other people in the room just wished we'd shut the hell up. Remind me of the time we broke my mother's vacuum cleaner.)
Imagine how long she stared at me before I got my camera phone out.
"Who's there, Lu?"
Honestly, it's like she's trying to get me to begin screaming, then put on a Mr. Peanut outfit and run through my neighborhood singing Up Where We Belong in Latin, then come home and pop out her staring staring eyes with melon ballers and place tiny votive candles in the empty sockets and put her head outside as a cheerful St. Patrick's Day dog-o-lantern.
As you do.
That is her plan. I know it.
So I decided to mess with her.
"'is not 'unny."
"DIS HUMILIATE! BUTTAL REEGEN FINE!"
"Not reel howsewife! STOP!"
"Lu look at time. When it get so late?… Aw, nuts."
Beleaguered April, the nurse who assists my doctor, called me at 3:18 yesterday. "Miss June? You got a fibroid."
I'm glad I spent $900 to learn WHAT I ALREADY KNEW. Okay, you spent $900 so I could learn what I already knew. Still. At least it wasn't, you know, a bomb or anything residing in there. My doctor referred me to a gynecologist and we go from there. I'll either have outpatient surgery or a giant hysterectomy, but either way it will be fine.
Maybe I am eating too much fiber. You think? Hence the FIBroid?
So that problem is solved. I mean, sort of.
Also, I know it's Pieces of Wisdom day but I'm not in the mood. Is everyone okay with that? I do not wish to be wise this week. Next week we're going to work on Faithful Reader Hulk's dating life, a thing that needs fixing in the worst way. It needs the loving hands of all the yentas who are up in this here blog.
In the meantime, even though I got 99 problems, my garden ain't one.
Yes, my flowers do talk like Tallulah. I know it's a coincidence.
Good Lord, I need to leave the house.
Talu and Edsel still have free dog day care visits left, and seeing as Edsel has already chewed (a) a pillow, (b) a shoe (c) Winston and (d) my favorite sock and (e) yes it IS sad that I have a favorite sock, I am taking their houndy selves to day care. Then Ima paint this DANG HUTCH, which WILL NOT LOOK GOOD and I am going to have to call Starsky for advice soon, and there, folks, is my day. Oh, crap. And I have to take a copyediting test for a freelance company.
I just learned copyediting as a verb is one word. It used to annoy me when people made it one word then I looked it up. Oops. Looking things up. A thing copy editors should probably do. FYI: "copy editor" is two words, still.
Isn't this an informative place? Remember when I used to feature Ask June, and you would ask me grammar questions? Then the other readers would complain that that was boring? Whatever with them. Grammar and spelling are fascinating.
As is having a favorite sock.
As if painting the dining room and the hutch and waiting to hear about my MRI weren't fun enough, this morning I've been shopping for car insurance. I know!
Marvin is taking me off his car insurance, and fortunately I am on Mint.com, which one of you mentioned in Pieces of Wisdom as being a good way to manage your finances. I've been using it ever since and I would marry it if it were legal to marry a website. June Mint. Or maybe I'd be June .com.
Anyway, there was just one button I had to click and it led me to all the car insurance sites, and they are sending me quotes. They are SUPPOSED to be emailing me a dollar figure, and all the ones who are (a) calling and saying, "Call us back!" or (2) emailing and not giving me a quote but wanting to me contact them are getting ignored by June Mint, over here.
So far Geico is winning, which is good because I like their commercials best.
June Mint. Savvy consumer.
Also too, Marvin and I took the dogs for a walk, and every time we do something together and I can't help but think it might be the last time we do such a thing together. Everything has a last-episode-of-the-Mary-Tyler-Moore-Show feel to it and what I like about myself are my current references.
We came up to the Snowflake house and you'll never guess what. They got a puppy.
I didn't have to say a thing. I just handed Talu's leash to Marvin and headed over there. "YOU'RE BACK!" the oldest one screamed at me, as though my walking past weren't something that happened 12 times a day.
"WE GOT A PUPPY!" bellowed the middle one. "I GOT LIP GLOSS!" She ran over to show me. "IT'S MINT!" Maybe she was talking about my new last name. That just occurred to me.
Anyway, that teensy gold puppy was the cutest most ridiculous ball of cute cuteyness you have ever seen in your entire life. She is clearly from the Snowflake family, which makes me wonder what kind of orgy situation Snowflake's relatives have going on over where Snowflake was reared.
"WE'RE PRETENDING SNOWFLAKE IS THE MOM AND THE PUPPY IS THE BABY!"
"Come here, sweetheart!" I said, and that ludicrously cute ball of fluff stumbled over to me like a shot.
"YOU WANNA HOLD HER? WE NAMED HER GOLDILOCKS!"
Furthering my theory that this family takes half a blink to think of pet names.
You can imagine how I turned down the offer to hold her. "Oh, no. I'm pressed for time." Please. Oh, I held that puppy, and kissed her, and she kissed me, and she sniffed in my ear like they do, and she was so fluffy, and I hugged her and cooed at her, and I said to the girls, "Look how this puppy is just the same color as my two dogs over there!"
There was a pause.
For the first time, the oldest girl spoke quietly to me.
"Can I have my dog back now?"
Geez! I wasn't gonna STEAL it! You know, much. Maybe I was just gonna offer to take it for a DAY.
And then it got worse. She said, "Do you remember when you used to come over? When your hair didn't…do that?" She looked at my short Meridith Baxter 'do searchingly.
Oh those silky-haired flaxen brats. I am stealing that puppy the minute I get the opportunity. I am so Cruella DeVilling them. When my hair didn't DO that. I am so sure.
All right. I am off. I have to buy insurance, find out if I'm gonna live or die, give the hutch a second coat, steal a puppy, shave three children bald–I'm swamped.
I'm sure my neighbor Peg is delighted that she offered to help. "A whole nother day with June? Painting? What a treat. Is there any have-your-liver-removed-while-you're-awake clinic in town I could go to, alternatively?"
I had my MRI.
When I got there, I was greeted by a chirpy 20-year-old, who said, "That'll be $900, please!" and thanks to y'all and my tip jar, I said, "Okay." Then another chirpy 20-year-old took me to a dressing room, where I put on some flattering and fashionable white drawstring pants. I went around the corner to a waiting room where an old man was similarly wearing white drawstring pants.
"NICE PANTS!" I shouted at him, and he looked at me and laughed. "I like yours, too! Where'd you get 'em?" "Oh, there's a little closet on the corner," I said, and we had a chuckle.
The MRI waiting room. Where all good times happen.
Eventually, a chirpy 20-year-old came for the old guy, and I was riveted by a timely article in Women's Day about Meryl Streep and Amy Adams when I heard:
The oldest woman you have ever seen in your life was creaking down the hall at me.
After 45 minutes, she finally made her way in front of me. "I'm your MRI technician," she said, dust falling out her mouth.
Honest engine, all I could do for a moment was sit there and blink. I couldn't believe this feeble person was my MRI technician. I mean, I'd rather have an older, experienced person manning my machine, don't get me wrong, but she was so WEAK. I was concerned about her ability to get to the ROOM, much less turn the dang machine on.
Finally I got the wherewithal to gather my questionnaire (Do you work with metal? Have you had rods put in your body? Do you have a magnetic personality? Do you enjoy heavy metal? Are you a member of Metallica? Are you the Tin Man?) and mince down the hall with her.
We made our way to the MRI room at. 0000000006 miles per hour, which gave me ample time to find out her qualifications. "So, how long you been working with MRIs?" I asked.
"I've been doing this since nineteen aught two," she said. "Worked with the first MRI ever invented."
Okay, she didn't really say nineteen aught two. But she did work with the first MRI ever invented. This gave me hope.
"So, you must know what you're looking at when people go in there," I suggested.
"Ohhh, yes," she croaked, gesturing with her cane. "I can see brain tumors, herniated disks, fibroids…"
FIBROIDS! She'd be able to tell right away if I had a fibroid up in there or something more sinister.
So I get on the machine and she tells me it's going to be loud, which I knew. "I can give you the headphones for the radio; 99.5 comes in real good."
I didn't want to seem like a snob by telling her I have satellite radio and have no clue what kind of music 99.5 is, so I said, "Sounds good" and prayed to God it wouldn't be modern jazz or perhaps Camptown Races over and over again, given that she had given it her stamp of approval.
I know I sound totally ageist in this post. You know I prefer older people to the rest of the population and that in my list of things I like it goes:
Anyway, I got slid into that narrow narrow narrow tube, and I am telling you, the best thing to do during an MRI is just close your eyes and keep your arms right next to you so you are not aware of HOW EFFING NARROW AND TINY of a space you are really in.
After an hour and 45 minutes, Methuselah made her way into her booth and the music began. The first song in my headphones was an Eddie Money song, which made me giggle because Faithful Reader Hulk once got really mad at the rest of us, here, in the comments because we did not all share his feelings that Eddie Money is the greatest artist in the history of music. So while Eddie Money sang and the machine went ACK ACK ACK ACK ACK endlessly the next thing you know…
I was drifting off. That's the nice thing about anemia. You never have to worry, Will I be able to sleep? Even though you're in a cigar holder in Eddie Money's pocket while he's being attacked by a jackhammer, you can still get your rest. Oh, I was so comfy, until…
Old Woman River was sliding me out of the tube. "Now I'm going to give you a shot of contrast dye and just take a few more pictures," she wheezed.
I do have to say, she was one of those medical professionals who give you a shot where you feel nothing. Nothing. And I say, if it's possible to get a shot where it absolutely does not hurt, why can't EVERY nurse learn how to give a shot like that?
While she was injecting me with dye, she said, "You're doing great."
"Thanks," I said. "I'm trying to stay calm."
"Well, you should know at your age (!!!!!) (she was 86 when I was born) that there's no point in worrying. And you're on your way to fixing whatever's wrong with you."
That was where I started to panic. Because did you hear that? She said WHATEVER'S wrong with you. WHATEVER. Even though she can spot a fibroid with her 800 years of experience. She did not say, now we can fix your fibroids.
She slid me back into the tube and all I did was worry. At my age. I was thinking how she must be in that booth, thinking, "Man, I thought Mary Todd Lincoln had some nasty growths in HER uterus, but this is the weirdest MRI I've ever seen!"
Finally the whole thing was over and Bathsheba helped me to the dressing room. I got into normal pants and when I whipped open the curtain?
She was staring out the window.
You know on Oprah, when they give you the guest's back story, and they often show them at home, looking sadly out their window? That's what she looked like. I told this story to my mother, and I said old B.C. MRI was thinking, "That poor girl. She's so young." and my mother said, "Well, she wouldn't have been thinking THAT."
It's good to have the support of my family. Does anyone know any good abusive old folk's homes I can look into for my mother?
Anyway. They said I'd get my results by TUESDAY, which means they probably want to call the Guinness Book of Records because they have never seen something so odd in a person's uterus and want to get my images into the book before they alert me. In the meantime, if something pops out of there, you'll be the first to know.
Some man just jogged by who looked exactly like Dr. Drew. Could Dr. Drew have a spring home in Greensboro? And could his spring home be a one-story 1950s ranch, since that's all this neighborhood has? This all seems very likely. Perhaps I'm now hallucinating on top of everything else.
"She seemed fine until she started hallucinating Dr. Drew jogging everywhere."
Anyway, it turns out Jazzercise is kind of fun. I know! There was this old lady there who was like a Jazzercise groupie. She goes every day, staying for two sessions in a row. She knows all the songs, and was belting out Beyonce with the instructor. Anyway, she was killing me while I tried not to die. I realize that sentence made no sense. Why is Dr. Drew handing me my coffee?
My charming and not-at-all clautrophobic MRI is at 4:30, and I'm sure I won't hear anything about what they found till at least Monday. My next-door neighbor Peg is helping me paint the dining room tomorrow, as I have had the paint sitting in its can for 47 years. So at least that will distract me, and it is nice of her to come over and help, seeing as Edsel bit her yesterday.
How are those manners classes going, Edsel?
Oh, he didn't BITE her bite her. He was jumping up and down like a mad man, because Peg coming over is akin to the Second Coming, as is the mailman coming over, or my friend The Other June, or the ant exterminator, or the meter man. Really Edsel is pretty ecstatic to see anyone. He is kind of sociable other than the vicious biting.
Really, though, he was on the way down from a "glory be!" jump and his mouth just happened to land on poor Peg's hand. Still.
For the first two years of coming over, Peg had to deal with Tallulah acting the fool, and now Talu galumphs to the door and wags politely. As soon as she gets normal I get another idiot puppy.
You know how Tallulah has never been what you'd call empathy dog? Edsel is the opposite. He is all feelings, all the time. This week, if I go into the bathroom, he clicks after me. The closet? There's Edsel, bein' all Tim Gunn. In the meantime, Tallulah has had a lot of humping Winston to catch up on.
I guess I had better go start removing the metal from my body for the MRI. You know how I have the multiple piercings. If Dr. Drew is my technician, I will be blogging at you from some institution tomorrow.