Mince Words with June: A Three Dog Life

Mostly what I got out of reading A Three Dog Life by Abigail Thomas is that beagles suck.

As the owner of a part beagle, I am allowed to say that.

If you didn't read the book, and you know how I enjoy it when you come to book club and leave the comment "I didn't read the book, but…" A Three Dog Life is the true story of what happens when Abigail Thomas' husband goes out to walk their beagle and the husband gets hit by a car and suffers hideous brain damage. He gets hit by a car because (a) the ding-dang beagle gets loose and I so know how THAT goes and (2) they live in Manhattan, so when the husband dashed out to save the beagle he was pretty doomed.

The title A Three Dog Life is good. When it's really cold, people used to say. "Oh, it's a three-dog night tonight!" meaning you'd let all the dogs sleep with you to ward off the chill. Abigail Thomas really does have three dogs now, and they have helped her through the part where she lost her husband but he was still there.

His brain damage was so horrible that he had to be institutionalized for the rest of his life, and although some days he'd recognize his wife when she came to visit, after that he pretty much said nonsensical things that were occasionally really beautiful. "Transparent windowlike words" or "add memory on memory deep in the forest, layers of dirt and leaves and branches…the past is underfoot." I was so impressed with the words he said even as damaged as he was.

Wasn't it weird when things would happen in her life and she would go to visit him and he would allude to those things? As though he were somehow aware of them even though he couldn't be? Like when she went to a friend's for beef stew and he mentioned beef stew that night? How was that possible? What did you think of that?

I admired Abigail Thomas for her attitude about this whole tragedy. She just accepted that this is her fate and has carried on. There was no denial or gnashing her teeth or wishing it weren't so. She isn't even dating anyone. She just left Manhattan and moved closer to his hospital and saw him when she could and kept going. I don't know if I could have been as stoic. Have you met me? There is little sto in my ic.

And of course I totally identified with getting pets to help yourself feel better. I don't know why everyone doesn't have a pet. Or seven. I have never understood those "Oh, no, I don't want a pet" people. When I go to their houses there is nothing to scratch or talk about or admire. If you ask me.

Oh, and the other thing that stuck with me is how quickly she and her husband fell in love. When you know you know. I thought of it a lot these past few months with all the semi-indifferent men I have met who claimed they just needed time to get to like me. No you don't. It's there or it isn't. Is my theory. Do you agree?

Did you like the book? Would you have brought your husband home and cared for him or left him in the hospital, as she did? Did you think that was a selfish or a brave, smart gesture? Did you like her? I did. I would like to be a grownup in the way she is.

Okay, tell me what you think.

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Bouncing back

Heart
Yesterday I was pretty sad and I had to cut it out because I was annoying myself. So I went shopping at some vintage stores.

I didn't BUY anything, but I looked around and showed myself a good time.

Prettydressiwantitnowwwwwww

I coveted this dress. Which would come in handy for all the galas and balls you are sick of hearing about me attenting. And those debuts? How many posts about yet another coming-out party do you have to read?

Prettystarfishiwantthemnowwwwwww Okay. I really might have to go back and get me one of these gaudy starfish. I cannot help it. I love these pink sparkly ludicrous starfish. Yes, I am a drag queen going to a Bette Midler concert. You got an issue with that?

Prettymeiwantmenowwwww
Here is me and my biggest fan. BAH!

Anyway. So I was going about my day when I heard from this guy I met on Match about a week ago.

I KNOW! How bad you wanna slap me right now?

Before our hideous breakup, Dick Whitman and I had agreed we would not see just each other, because we weren't ready for that sort of thing. I knew, once I stopped seeing Daniel Boone, that if I didn't hurry up and meet someone else, I would get all weird about Dick Whitman and surprise!

Too late.

Anyway, I had begrudgingly gotten back on stupid Match and right away I started talking to this great person, who was cute (he used to be–are you sitting down? Are you?–A FIREMAN. I KNOWWWWW!) and so funny and nice to me and really smart and has a master's in English and I was all, wow. He seems pretty good. I wonder how THIS will go terribly wrong?

Then we figured out? One of his best friends is Tank. The Miracle Angel Baby.

I KNOW!!!!!

For those of you who weren't here in 2008–not that you weren't born then. June's blog. Attracting three-year-olds since 2011. But if you weren't READING me then, Tank was my coworker and my carpoolmate and generally the nicest guy you'd ever want to meet. Tank rocks the house. Oh, and he weighed like a pound when he was born. Seriously, go read the link. For heaven's sake. Would it KILL you?

Anyway, so this new guy tells me, "I've been friends with Tank since 8th grade."

You can imagine how slowly I stampeded to Tank's email.

"I cannot BELIEVE you know the person I've been trying to pick up on Match!" I enthused.

"What is this, Freak Out Tank Day?" he wrote back. "The Fireman just sent me pretty much the same email! This is unbelievable! When are we gonna double date?"

I asked if Tank would give me a letter of recommendation, and honestly, there is not much more a person could do than tell me they are a good friend of Tank's. He is that great.

The point is, Fireman and I talked on the phone Friday night, which was a great distraction from my sad Marly & Me fest. He is new to Match, so I was giving him some tips and asked if he'd gone on an official Match date yet.

"Not yet," he said. "Tomorrow at noon I'm meeting someone for lunch. Then if it works out we'll go to the museum."

"Oooo!" I said, the Gladys Kravitz of everyone, "Let me know how it goes!"

And at noon I did think of him, all going on his first date from this dumb site and all. At 12:37? Dude, I am not even kidding you. TWELVE THIRY-SEVEN. He emails me: "God, this is awful."

Okay, I know I only got his perspective? But that woman sounds like a drip. Needless to say they did not go to the museum. So we joked about his hideous date for awhile (okay, for example? She said, right away, "Um. Is that SWEET TEA? That's the WORST THING you could put in your body!!" Okay. Seriously, sister. He did not order a glass of hemlock. Lighten up.) and he said he had nothing to do all day and I said, "Why not have TWO awful dates in one day?!"

And that is how I ended up on an impromptu date with the Fireman.

We talked for almost five hours. We walked around downtown and sat on a wall and watched people. We ate nachos that were bigger than our heads. We discussed Tank, of course, and death and the cognitive function that makes one catastrophize (hello. How did he recognize THAT in me so soon?) and dogs (he has a Lab) and marriages and Vicodin and Wyoming and movies and Pink Floyd and my uncle Leo and my uncle Jim and my grandmother sticking the address book up my arse and politics and religion and heaven and Vicks Vapo-Rub.

We never shut the hell up.

Finally we decided to take a picture with the phone and email it to Tank.

Menfireman
Trust me. For one photo taken with my iPhone in which I did not even know if the thing went OFF, it was so loud where we were, we took one adorable photo. ADORABLE!

So you know what? That was helpful. I feel less awful. I guess I will live through another heartbreak after all. Every time I think of DW I want to burst into tears and rage, rage against the dying of the light and so forth, but I don't know if you have noticed this but I tend towards drama.

Oh, and yes. He HAS slid down a pole. Of course I asked.

P.S. Every time I write an annoying P.S. I picture you all leaving the room and me pulling you back in by your shirts. Don't forget to come back tonight at 7:00 Eastern for book club. Click Mince Words with June for details. Also, Joann is comment of the week and Hulk had to get an honorable mention because he was hilarious. See This Week's Special. Letting go of your shirt now.

What Would Tootie Do?

Dick Whitman and I broke up.

Could someone just come bash me over the head now and put me out of my misery?

And before you go hating on the Dick Whitman, as you are all wont to do and I heart you for always being on my side, it was my fault. Totally my fault. And I would love to give you every last detail because have you met me? But I don't want to invade his privacy.

As opposed to the part where I told you all about our dates, and his house, and that he was a good kisser, and his errant apostrophes. Yes. Privacy is number one when you are dating me. Which he isn't.

So to be VAGUE, I had convinced myself he didn't like me that much. But when we talked, it turns out he liked me more than I knew. Because here is a shock, but I am kind of all emotions all the time and he was more careful and measured and because he wasn't acting the way I would act, I thought it meant he was all, Eh, about me.

Yeah. But after we talked, now he does not want to see me anymore. I was supposed to meet a bunch of friends last night and instead I hugged Tallulah and watched Marley & Me in the dark. Again.

Tallulah gets so sick of me when I watch that movie. I am an albatross on that dog.

I feel like a big giant cloud is hanging over me. I am a Ziggy cartoon again.

So if that weren't ridiculous enough,  I checked my email last night and TWO DAYS AGO my old workplace boss had emailed me on my freelance email, which I obviously rarely check.

Remember my old workplace? With the Donkey Kong machine and the pictures of all of us as kids in the lobby? Remember how I loved it? And they broke up with me and with 39 other people last year?

"So! How do you like your new job? Call me!" said the email. Yes, I am so unhappy I am hallucinating that my email is speaking to me.

Oh, crap. So naturally I DID call him, even though it was after hours on a WEEKEND, and it turns out Jane West? Who sat next to me at that job? Is coming to MY company.

It's like 10,000 spoons when all you need is a giant atom bomb to go off right near you so you don't have to feel this bad. As opposed to those teensy atom bombs. Mini Atom Bombs! Only during Easter!

And because life is ridiculous, I could find NO ONE to talk to. NO.ONE. Finally my phone rang and it was of all people Giovanni Leftwich, my old high school boyfriend. I told him the story, and as I did I reached my own conclusion.

I love my new place, too. It's six minutes away. My coworkers are fabulous (even the guy who teases me with the brown recluse) and my bosses are even fabulouser. What the hell am I even thinking? Plus, they didn't DUMP me.

"This is like when a terrible old boyfriend finally calls you when you're happily married," I told Giovanni. "No offense."

So yeah. Ima stay where I am. But it was exciting to be asked back. You take the good, you take the bad, you take 'em both and there you have? The facts of life.

The facts of life. Sans Dick Whitman.

Crap.

 

 

Edsel is in love. Story at 11. Or right now, if you just read my blog.

The hideousness of my day yesterday was not to be believed. I mean, no one DIED or anything. But I had one of those work days where I was overwhelmingly, gonna-cry-any-second busy. And you know what's a delightful idea? Come on over to your coworker's cubicle and ask her how it's going when she's on a deadline. Because 955939503p940f*(@400 people before you didn't just do that.

I was late getting home, and I had a date with the Dick Whitman, there, and as soon as I saw his ludicrous self I cheered up. There is something about Dick Whitman that just makes me giggle as soon as I see him. He is kind of a fussbudget. I think that is why he cracks me up. Other than avoiding vomiting in every way possible, I do not fuss. Or budget. It's interesting to me when someone else fusses.

Also, could Edsel be more obsessed with him? Edsel is passionately in love with Dick Whitman. If you rated the two of us, Edsel would win in the who-is-smitten category.

I made him look at my Norma and Vern pictures. Dick Whitman, I mean. Not Edsel. Who would just eat the pictures. And he liked them! No one can resist my my Norma and Vern shots. Nor my Schwetty balls.

I noticed in the comments people were asking for pictures of my kittens. Here.

Scary
Is this not the most terrifying photo ever? Why has Anderson's soul been stolen by Old Pitch? Look at those soulless eyes. He was a nice cat before Beelzebub took him.

Tude
Here is a picture of Roger, who happens to be sitting next to me right now. I do not know why he is assuming this bizarre let-me-hike-up-my-arm pose.

Babyraj2
Here is a picture that is clear and see-able, which lets you know it was taken by my friend Laurie. A mere two months ago. Who has had an attitude change in those two months? Is it our Roger Dodger?

She also sent me a picture of Roger pooping on her pea gravel in her yard. Does anyone want to see that? I would be more than willing to share it.

Anders
Anderson Cooper is sitting under my chair, on the floor that always looks dirty because SOMEONE, whose name might be JUNE, decided painting the floor LIGHT GREEN was a great idea and now all it does is chip and look awful. June. Won't you hire her to decorate your house? She has some practical and good ideas.

So now you've seen the kittens and you can all shut up. June. The blogger who tells her commentors to shut up. Nice.

I've got nothing else to tell you. Maybe I do but whatever it might be has left the building that used to house my medulla. Because did I mention I had a busy day? Also? If you don't keep up with the comments on this blog, it is a LOT to read in one sitting.  Holy cats. Holy possessed-by-demons cats.

Okay. June out.

P.S. Of course.

I just realized I missed Charlotte's birthday yesterday. Charlotte is the too-cool kid of my friends Renee and Dan. I KNEW the 28th was SOMETHING, but was too busy panicking and crying. Anyway, she is six now, and last time I mentioned her on here, she made Renee call to see how many readers I had because she wanted to determine if she was officially famous.

Charlotte Happy birthday, Charlotte! My tens of readers are thinking of YOU.

From the Queen of England to the recluse of hell.

The other day at work a brown recluse crawled into my coworker Vilhelm Oyster's cubicle. We work on the ground floor of a very old warehouse building. I shudder to think of what else is lurking down there.

Vilhelm murdered said spider, because he is manly that way, and then put it under a jeweler's loop he just happened to have, because apparently Vilhelm is busy splitting diamonds on his down time or something. At any rate, then he Googled the spider and convinced us all it was a brown recluse.

Marvin used to always insist that any spider that wasn't black was a brown recluse, causing me to point out that they certainly weren't very reclusive considering how often they showed up in our lives.

Anyway, Vilhelm kept talking about the recluses who are brown, and talking about them, and how if they bite you your skin falls clean off, until someone said:

"LOOK AT JUNE!"

I was totally curled up in my chair, editing something in a fetal position. No way was I touching that spider-ridden floor.

Anyway, the fumigator came yesterday and told us we were all berserk and it was just a regular spider.

This has not stopped Vilhelm from sneaking up behind me like a JERK and TICKLING me just a little so I think there are spiders all over me. And guess what. Guess who reacts EXACTLY as he wants me to, which is to SCREECH and JUMP UP and BRUSH OFF MY SKIN, which is about to fall clean off.

Stupid Vilhelm. I'll tell you who'll be reclusive. Vilhelm Oyster after I pound the pee out of him.

I really have no other news except that my iPod played good songs while I was walking the dogs today and Ima share them all with you. So you can jam out at work and get fired.

WalkyThe dogs, our field, my iPod cord and their poop bag holder.

That picture caption made me think of The Cook The Thief His Wife and Her Lover. If you haven't seen that movie, don't. Trust me.

Okay, here's what I got to hear today.

 

My song!!! Hi, mom. Hi, Gloria Steinem. Can't help it. Love this song. Also? This video is kind of upsetting. FYI.

If that weren't enough, I got to hear Chaka. Love her. Love Prince, who wrote this.

 

Then The Cure came on, and I love this song. I feel all emo and meaningful when I listen to the Cure. And no, I could NOT find a video to go with this. It made me emo.

 

Ever since I read Keith Richards' autobiography I have put more Rolling Stones on my iPod:

 

As if my iPod day could get better. And yet it did! IT DID!

 

Coolest song ever. Coolest band ever. And I adore this video. It's like having a fever.

Everyone knows about it. From the Queen of England to the hounds of hell. I LOVE HIM. Why doesn't he call me? Because I need to date another person who's in a band. Do you think he'd keep guitars under the bed?

So that was pretty much the highlight of my day. Good iPod songs. I mean, it could have been worse. The highlight could have been "I finally stopped barfing" or "The train only ran over part of my leg."  Or I could have been Sting.

Don't forget to finish A Three Dog Life, as we are meeting for book club on Sunday night. The first person who leaves a comment saying, "I'm here but I didn't read the book" gets a brown recluse from me.

Here’s the scoop

As I was SAYING yesterday before my stupid computer crashed (I hate computers. So bad.), I bought a new litter box.

I KNOW! Can you believe you were kept from this news for 48 hours?

I bought it with part of the Amazon gift certificate my father sent me. And I realize I am the only person on planet Earth who would use a gift certificate to buy a litter box.

But LOOK at it!

Litterz
It has a dome, which will make Marvin jealous because he always wanted to live in a stupid dome house, and it has curvy stairs kind of like they had in the Beverly Hillbillies.

Other than the advantage that my cats can parade down the stairs as Ellie Mae Clampett did whenever she'd finally put on a way-too-frilly dress, the steps mean Edsel can't stick his ludicrous SNOUT in there and get him some cat bits. Some Almond Roca, if you will.

So it's all delightful. Except I got the thing, and it came with directions, including 75 steps for how to put the top on the bottom, which believe it or not I was able to discern without their help.

However. HOWEVER. It also comes with a filter, which is wonderful and I need all the get-the-cat-poop-smell-out-my-house help I can get, and the filter also had this plastic…disk action that looked like it'd snap shut, except it didn't, and you were supposed to place this contraption to the top of the dome. And the filter part? Came with no directions. Because placing up there is so OBVIOUS, I guess.

Well.

I snapped and I twisted and I turned and I TRIED TO GET THAT #$@**#$ thing in for FORTY minutes, and you KNOW how I have the spatial relations skills, and I kept yelling "#@@&!" and scaring the dogs. Finally I BURST out of the house, carrying that dome, and STORMED across the magnolia leaves to Peg's, who is an interior designer who draws her own blueprints and such.

POUNDPOUNDPOUNDPOUND!

I knocked irritatedly on Peg's door, like this whole thing was her fault.

"You startled me!" she said, looking at me in my work clothes, with no shoes, and a litter box lid. I looked like a homeless business casual person.

"I CAN'T GET THIS F****NG FILTER ON THE FU****G CAT BOX!" I screeched.

Peg put her purse down, as clearly she was getting ready to attend her I-have-an-insane-neighbor support group, and placed the dome top on her table.

"Let's see, you just…no. Well, then you…hmm. How–F**K!" yelled Peg.

Nevertheless, in five minutes she had figured it out.

Really, have you noticed I am not good at ANYTHING? Nothing. Except garnering pets. I guess that's good.

As long as they don't poop, because there will be no filter.

Crap.

 

 

I’ve been looking so long at these picture’s of you

I forgot to tell you that when I was on my date with Dick Whitman the other night, I read his tarot cards. He is going to meet a Libra in October and I already hate that wench.

Anyway, he said, "I had my tarot cards read before, in 1989. My sister read them for me and we videotaped it."

You know how I am. "Ooo! I want to see that!"

"You do?"

So Dick Whitman opened the tidiest closet you have ever seen and got out a covered box neatly inscribed with the word…

…are you ready?

Seriously, are you?

Video's.

With the apostrophe.

He took the lid off that box, and inside were the tidiest collection of videos ('s) since Felix Unger organized his videos. If I have any videos left they are strewn in one drawer, then another, and maybe in the car, or in my hair, and in Edsel's jaws.

"You, um, certainly are tidy," I said, trying to ignore the apostrophe.

"Yes, I am," he said, piling a perfect pile of tapes as he looked. "And I'm NOT GAY."

See. It wasn't the gay thing I was worried about. Finally, I asked. "So, who labeled that box?"

Dick Whitman finally stopped alphabetizing the pile of videos to look at his errant " ' ". "Oh. I'm afraid I did that," he said, and WENT BACK TO SEARCHING like nothing was wrong.

I started to feel a little woozy. "Do you, um, have any White-Out or anything?"

"June, there's a Sharpie in the other room. Why don't you go get it and cross out the apostrophe."

"No, no. That would be weird," I said, desperately wanting to get the Sharpie.

Anyway. We finally watched the video ('s) and in 1989 Dick Whitman was all hot with long hair and Malcolm X glasses, and I told him I had Malcolm X glasses back then too, and this whole entire stupid story was to tell you that. Well. And to tell you about the apostrophe. I hope that Libra is ready for a lifetime of 's.

So I told Dick Whitman I'd send him a picture of me in the Malcolm X glasses:

Largeglassesfamily Mom and me rockin' out with our glasses out.

And in the meantime I found a bunch of other photos to show you. But now I have taken 60 hours to tell you that story so I can only show a few.

Hello80s Dad and me on New Year's Eve when it was about to be 1984. I loved that dress. And those earrings. We thought we were cool. And we kind of were.

Twit Even before I had a blog I had to stop and photograph ludicrous things. Like that sweater.

70s Why was everything brown in the 70s? Why do Coke cans never change?

Okay. Must shower. Or, as Dick Whitman would write, s'hower.

Okay ONE MORE.

Bear

My friend Lisa, pretending to be my bearskin rug.

June. Loving herself since 1991. Loving her rose pants since…why did I like those rose pants?

Okay, really going.

 

Blogger with Benefits

I am sorry to tell you that I will not be addressing the topic of glasses frames today, and I know you are sad. But I heard you and LEOPARD IT IS!

Okay. Kidding. I just heard 4027838492 people go, "NOOOOOOO!"

Last night I went with my friend Laura and Mary-Tyler-Moore date Dick Whitman to see Friends with Benefits.

Remember on Mary Tyler Moore? How she'd go on dates with good-looking men and they'd drop her off at the door and you never really got to know them? That is kind of all y'all and Dick Whitman. I just throw his name out there and show you an elusive picture and that's all you get.

Dw Lest you think D. Whitman is whipping something up at the stove, you should know he is as into cooking as I am. I was basically forcing him to make hummingbird food because his feeder was empty.

Dick Whitman has a really cool house and I have informed him I am moving in. I think when you have known someone seven weeks, and you are married to someone else, and when that someone you are moving in with is deathly allergic to pets, that there is no other next right step than to gather your things and your 60 pets and move right in. But if you saw that cool house you would make no sense, either.

Porch
Here is a blurry shot of Dick Whitman's porch. Note the spilled hummingbird food.

Anyway, Friends with Benefits was funny, of course, and for those of you who have seen it, my friend Dave says "Strictly dickly" all the time, so I know for sure that is his line. Also, is there any way I could get Mila Kunis' body yet continue my torrid affair with Chik-Fil-A? Please advise.

That is all I have to tell you, except that Tallulah has not had a bath since January because Marvin used to lift her into the tub, and I know I could probably do it if I had to, but I have had this fear I would drop her and break all of her legs. However, she is sitting next to me right now:

Luis
And decaying bodies in rainforests smell better. I really need to address this issue today. Look at her giant ET back foot. I love Talu. {News flash.}

Don't forget that a week from today we will be meeting here for book clurb. Clurb. What the hell is wrong with me. We will be discussing Three Dog Life. Click Mince Words with June for the deets. Who is annoying? Deets.

Clurb.

Carp.

 

 

So the red glasses, then?

Okay, I guess generally you liked the blue frames. I say this based on the 9394539 comments that said, "The BLUE! THE BLUUUUUUUUE!"

So I just have one more query. How much do you hate me right now? The blue?

Blueones
IMG000521
Or the frames I currently own? I have no idea why I was so crabby on this day. Perhaps I was cranky that Marvin had all that hideous music crap in my house. Guess who do not miss the hideous music crap? Guess who doesn't miss drawer after drawer of black cords? Hi, Marvin.

At any rate. Thoughts on frames again, please.

Oh! And speaking of your thoughts, guess what I actually remembered to do? I assigned a comment of the week! When I went there to paste in the current comment, I realized the last time I did it was late June. Story of my life. Late June.

Well. I don't mean I'm PREGNANT. Just late with things like comment of the week. Don't get your knickers in a twist.

Comment of the week goes to Lisa, which does not narrow it down because I have 69394193&$3 million commenters named Lisa. And someone figured out they all seem to hail from Texas. So comment of the week goes to Lisa from probably Texas, who made mature comments about ballcocks at the hardware store. Click This Week's Special if you want to be mature with us.

Speaking of mature, have you joined Pie on the Face at Facebook? Again, I am BANNED, but I can see what everyone is talking about and if you think the comments get ludicrous here, you should see them there. Go join. Prepare to get absolutely nothing done.

And while we are talking about getting nothing done, Laurie and I are not putting up my screen door today after all. We need a circular saw. I KNOW, right? Hear us roar. And not only do we need a circular saw, it needs a fine blade. Yes. A blade that is super good-looking. The Halle Berry of blades. I asked two people if they had one I could borrow and they both said yes then last night they both said oh, you know what? I thought I had a fine good-looking blade but I don't.

Sigh.

So the part where I was gonna have to go BUY one and also paint the door and also HANG the door and it is seriously almost 100 degrees out just sounded miserable so I said Laurie? Let's blow this off for another time. What say you? And she said heavens, yes.

Therefore, the only real plan I have today is that at 5:00 my friend Laura and I are joining Dick Whitman at the movies to go see FRIENDS WITH BENEFITS, written by my friend DAVE NEWMAN, who I am obviously v.v. proud of because I cannot stop plugging this movie and if I go there and find out he used any of my funny jokes in this movie I am suing the crap out of him.

Am looking forward to watching Dick Whitman buy a bag of M&Ms and eat 1/3 of said bag. Who IS this guy? Why would anyone with that much impulse control find me remotely attractive? Maybe I am fascinating to him, like an anthropological study. I am a gorilla in his mist. An M&M-eating gorilla.

Finally, before I go do nothing but clean cat fur and eat nectarines till 5:00, I wanted to share with you an image that has amused me all week. My stepsister got me a desk calendar for Christmas that I have been loving. It features advertising from days of yore, and your what I'll never know. This week's ad is below: Outfitforhulk
How much do I wish I had purchased this outfit for Hulk and his pool party last week? It is stunning. And he would have rocked it. Look at abdomen woman admiring the hell out of him. Or maybe she's just admiring that stream falling right onto her hoo-hah.

That pattern reminds me of the beginning of Rocky and Bullwinkle, remember? Really everything about the ensemble says yes to me.

You always get the good ideas after the fact.

 

If I had a soul, we’d be seeing the window to them

I need your help, faithful and not-so-faithful readers.

Recently I had my eyes examined and shockingly my eyes did not get worse this year. You have no idea what a miracle that is. They get worse EVERY year. In fact, my doctor always does this kind of morbid sigh. "Mmmm. Wow. Worse again, June."

But no! This year apparently my eyes have given up. They have gotten as bad as it is possible for eyes to get before one become Helen Keller, and they have remained dormant.

However, last year I got stupid bifocals put in my glasses and I hate them. Whenever I am working I take my glasses off to read. Which is convenient. Because then someone comes up to my desk, "June?" "Yes?" I say cheerfully, having no idea Charles Manson is standing there with a hatchet.

So that's not good. Now, a thrifty person would just keep the frames she has and change the lenses. But I did that LAST year, and I want a little excitement. Yes. New frames count as excitement in this life.

So without further ado, here are the frames I am considering. And please note I totally should have dragged Laurie along with her giant fancy camera, because I took these myself with my iPhone and of course all the photos suck. Do your best, okay?

Blueones Here are some blue ones, and I'd like you all to note the lotus necklace Faitful Reader Tammy V.V. sent me. Love it! Now ignore that and go back to the lenses. And yes, I will totally keep the sticker on at all times.

Brown Dude. It's like 1100 degrees out. Hence the part where I have a 'fro. Please to disregard, please, the 'fro. Back to the frames. Here are the red ones.

Leopardagain

I understand that this picture is ludicrous and my father is turning over in his grave even though he is alive. What do you think of the leopard frames?

Leopard
Here the leopards are again, with the world's fakest smile because IT WAS ELEVEN HUNDRED DEGREES OUT and my hair was frizzing more each second.

Dadhasbeenkilled
Dear Dad: Thanks for the big hair, the bulbous nose and the bad temper. Why couldn't you have thrown me a photography-skillz bone? These frame are much like the ones before the leopard, but brown and not red.

After I took millions of bad pictures of myself, I went down the street to the crystal, tarot, psychic, nutty, crunchy, hippie, devil-worship, wicca store because I always have fun looking around in there. And guess what. GUESS WHAT WAS THERE?

Kittyfoots Hippie wicca devil kittens!! Who attracts kittens? Who attracts kittens in her web of a hairdo?

Naturally they wanted to hide on me (see above) but no. I would not have it.

Kittenzez They refused to acknowledge me. "hippie crystal new age kittenz not see hair lady."

I know you may be surprised by this revelation, but I loved them. They had ludicrous names, like Destiny and Karma or something. I am not even kidding you. They so need to be living with me so I can name them Snaphappy Fishsuit and Bruce.

If that weren't enough excitement for an evening, when I got home, my DiorShow Mascara had arrived! Naturally I stampeded to the bathroom to take more bad pictures of myself.

  Beforeye
Here is my non-DiorShow eye after work, in the 900-degree heat, and I want blepharoplasty so bad I could scream.

And no, I did not take off my old mascara and apply the DiorShow. I just applied DiorShow over what I had left over. IT WAS HOT.

After
Aaaaand. Big deal. It doesn't look that different. Crap.

Okay, so don't forget to vote on which glasses I should get. You have till Saturday morning. Then I will be over it and thinking about something else.

Blue? Brown? Leopard? Red? Poke my eyes out and accept my fate? Input please. I mean, other than the "You need to learn how to take pictures" input. Thanks.

DeJune Show

I think the most important news of the day is that I just got an email telling me my DiorShow Mascara is on its way.

Aaannnd there go the straight male readers. And some of the lesbians.

Look, you don't understand. For someone who is cursed with too much hair, I have these teensy short eyelashes that make no sense. And when I FINALLY found a mascara that worked (Illegal Lengths by Maybelline), they discontinued it.

Because God ABHORS me.

So I've been reading about the supposedly miraculous DiorShow for over a year and it's not like I don't indulge myself regularly so I have no idea why I haven't gotten it until now. But my father gave me a gift certificate for my birthday and I stampeded for the DiorShow. Soon you will be unable to read my posts, so eyelashy will I be. They will be all in your way and you'll be all dang, June, move those lengthy eyelashes.

Speaking of birthdays, and I know I haven't mentioned my own quite enough, it was my neighbor Paul's birthday yesterday. He turned 96. I know we all thought he was turning 97, because he TOLD me he was 96 when I met him, but he must have been rounding up.

In front of his house yesterday was a sign that read "Dads 96! Honk!" without the apostrophe, and it was everything I could do to not go over there with a Sharpie. Nevertheless, I bought some cupcakes because I'm lame and did not want to make any in the 100-degree heat, and took them over there.

"We were just having cake! You come on in and have some!" His daughter ushered me in. Was it rude that I stayed and had cake with his entire family? I tried to not go over there until after a reasonable dinner hour, but can I help it there was cake?

Anyway Paul thanked me for the "cookies" about 467 times, and if you were 96 I'd like to see YOU keep track of cookies and/or cupcakes.

I also found out from his daughter, Lu (but not my dog Lu), that Paul's wife lived to be 91 and she was just fine until three months before she died when she got malignant melanoma. Now, that would suck. You go all that time and THEN you get punished for a little tanning? Still. I guess you gotta die of something by the time you're 91.

Oh! And as the daughter Lu-but-not-my-dog were talking, she said, "I know you. You have two dogs, right?" Turns out? She lives right next door to Snowflake! That's how she said it! "I live right next door to Snowflake. I see you talking to him all the time."

Like Snowflake owns the house. Which is kind of how I feel.

So that was weird. Small neighborhood. But I wouldn't want to paint it.

I guess I'd better go, but oh! Look!

Joy
My margarita-hating coworker from yesterday changed her name plate at work. heeeeee.

Y wate. why dat funnee?

My dogs have zero sense of humor.

Partyin’ Around Our Pie Parts

As you know, I went to Michigan this weekend to go to a party thrown by Faithful Reader and Friend in Real Life and Thorn in My Side Hulk. It was Hulk's birthday yesterday, but I don't think he was really throwing himself a birthday party, because unlike me that is not something he would do.

Please see references to not one but TWO surprise parties I have thrown for my own self in this lifetime.

Not only did I haul myself all the way from North Carolina to attend Hulk's bash, but readers of this blog Mary, Duffylou and Kathy all came, too, along with Duffylou's 21-year-old daughter, which you have to hand it to her. Can you think of anything more dreadful than having to attend the party of a bunch of old people when you are cool and 21?

I would not know, because I have never been cool. But I imagine it'd suck.

At any rate, they have been posting pictures from the party on the new Facebook page that readers started–did you know about this page? It's called Pie on the Face: Friends of Bye Bye Pie and if you want to go on there and complain about how boring I am, get on there, girl! Because I am not a member of Pie on the Face. I am BANNED.

Ohlookmymouthisopen Despite my banishment, photos of me abound on this site. Including this one from Hulk's party, where I am receiving a Hello Kitty necklace and WHO WOULDN'T SHOW THEIR UVULA over that!?!?

Kitty Photographic evidence also exists of the kitty who walked right into Hulk's party like he owned the place and got on my lap. Like he owned it. Which he does. Hulk, is he still hanging around? Because you had better sit down for this news: I love that kitty. That Francis lookalike kitty.

Boob
Here is Duffylou and her cute daughter serving Hulk the boob cake they made him. Hulk. Appropriate never.

In the meantime, while we were raising the roof over there in Saginaw, Michigan, three Atlanta readers got together for their own Piefest.

Uvula
How fun does this look? Here are Faithful Readers Sadie, Beverly and Letha, showin' their uvulas for June. Yay! Uvulas! June. Forcing readers to show their tonsils since 2007.

I like how everyone's glasses and tiaras actually coordinate.

So I guess fun was had by all this weekend. I mean, unless your personal weekend sucked. In which case I'm SORRY, okay? You're like the woman at work who, when we all got asked out for margaritas today, sent an email to all of us detailing how the body processes alcohol and how bad margaritas are for you.

Margarita-joy-killer.

Speaking of work, my next-cubiclemate was desperately trying not to think of the song Lyin' Eyes by the Eagles today, and you know what's a good idea? Telling me something like that.

"Can't wait till 5:00!" I emailed her. "Headed for the cheatin' side of town!"

When it was time to leave, I said, "I have all this stuff in my hands. Wish I knew how to open doors with just a smile."

Who was not opening any doors with her smile? Was it Lyin' Eyes coworker?

June. Making friends at work since she met The Girl Who Doesn't Get Me in 2008. Remember her? Oh, how she did not get me.

Anyway, that is all. My uvula and I will be back at you tomorrow.

P.S. Because I can never shut up. Miss Doxie was mortified that she never got Matze's emails asking if she wanted to send me a birthday message. If anyone thinks they can email her on her blog, apparently your email there shrivels and dies. Anyway, she just sent me these:

CardFrumKitteh
CardFrumBO
OHYAYGIMMME
Dying.

 

In which June has a drink with an old boyfriend with whom she was completely obsessed and lives. Could someone go back and tell my 1988 self that this was possible? Thanks.

I met him in seventh grade. We had English class together.

In seventh grade, one would be hard-pressed to guess whether I was male or female. I was androgynous before it was cool. So to say I began a torrid romance with Giovanni Leftwich in seventh grade would be very far from the truth.

By the way, this guy's name is not remotely Giovanni Leftwich. I asked him what fake blog name he wanted and the choices he came up with were so ludicrous that I cannot even believe I spent years loving this man with every fiber of my being. So I went on a random name generator and it came up with Giovanni Leftwich and I laughed for 750 years.

So Giovanni and I (still dying over the name) were in junior high together, and by 9th grade we had become friends. I have mentioned before that most of my friends were boys, and what tended to happen is I'd have one best girl friend and then 89 friends who were boys. That is how it went with Giovanni and me; he was part of one of the 89 male friends, and in fact he had a huge crush on my best female friend.

As 9th-grade relationships usually work, his thing with my friend did not last, and eventually he got a crush on me, but I had a boyfriend by 10th grade. This did not deter him, and many afternoons he'd come over after school and try to charm me. Giovanni was ridiculously smart, and really funny, and kind of a giant goof.

I remember exactly the moment I realized I liked him back. I was at the grocery store with my mother, looking at the meat section. This is not a phallic thing and it is kind of ironic that that is where I was, because Giovanni is a vegetarian.

Anyway, do you remember back when they divided the meat into sections, and inexplicably they decorated the dividers with that plastic green frilly stuff that may have been meant to look like parsley? Do you? Do you remember that? Because that is what I was staring at when the realization came over me that I totally liked Giovanni and that my current boyfriend was so.gone.

I went to a pay phone right there at the grocery store, and I really don't remember how it happened after that, but soon we were dating.

And I fell in love for the first time. Oh! I had no idea you could feel so happy. So walking-on-air happy. I was so berserk about him.

And, much like 9th-grade relationships, our 10th-grade one didn't exactly stand the test of time. We broke up, and soon I was dating Cardinal, who was my high school boyfriend for most of high school.

But I still held a torch for Giovanni. Not literally. Because why would he need me to hold a torch? I understand that I am old now, but we weren't cave people.

So throughout high school, I would break up with Cardinal and date Giovanni. But we had this thing where we had all this…fire. We would be crazy about each other but then we couldn't stop fighting. We'd get into awful fights. We were that couple who fought at parties. At dances. By the candy machine at school. And I would reunite with Cardinal, who was easy and happy and fun.

I didn't talk to Giovanni Leftwich (heee) for many years after high school. But in 1987 when we were 22, he had graduated college and I was home, having dropped out of college for the 29492040th time. I called him, and within an hour we were kissing in a bowling alley parking lot. Because it was my home town. And you did things like meet in bowling alley parking lots.

Lovedloveloved
Anyway, that was it. From that evening in October 1987, I was completely hooked. I cannot even tell you how crazily in love I was with Giovanni Leftwich, who really needs to have his name legally changed because it is the best name ever. Also? Can we jam out to my acid-wash jeans for a moment? And my perm? Have you ever met anyone who needs a perm less than me?

I found him physically beautiful. BEAUTIFUL. But it was his mind I was in love with most. He had gotten an art degree, and his mind worked constantly. He was always creating something or thinking of a new idea or reinventing something to make it work a different way. I could have sat inside his brain for the rest of time and been perfectly happy.

But that fire thing was happening again. We could not go a week without some kind of intense, screaming, throwing objects, dramatic fight.  There was nothing not intense about that relationship. Usually our fights were about one of us being worried the other was leaving. And I didn't want to go anywhere. I knew I'd never feel the way I felt about him with anyone else.

And I was right. Because not only was I desperately in love with him? There was also this sense of longing. He would say wonderful things to me, and do these grand romantic gestures, and pay so much attention to me. Yet I felt like I couldn't quite capture him. I felt like there was a part of him that didn't quite approve of me. If I were a little smarter, or a little prettier, or trendier or more interesting, I could finally get him to love me like I loved him.

I have no idea if he really felt that way or if he gave me that impression intentionally. But obsession mixed with longing is a hideous combination.

(When I met Marvin, I was berserk about him, but I felt safe. And being with him made me calmer, not nuttier. I was able to remember people's birthdays, to focus on something besides myself. There was no longing because I knew he was crazy about every part of me. Therefore I was less obsessed.)

I hope to never have a Giovanni obsession again. Kind of. Because even though it was miserable, it was also wonderful.

I was the one who finally ended things. I remember the exact date: January 16, 1989. We'd had another ridiculous throwing-things fight, and I knew this was no good for either of us. Giving up Giovanni Leftwich and his fine name was one of the hardest things I ever did. But I knew a relationship where you only feel the ends of the spectrum–totally as good as humanly possible or totally bad–was not healthy.

After I ended things, he'd call in the middle of the night, or knock on my door, and I'd lie there in my bed willing myself to not answer. "Don't get up, don't get up, DON'T GET UP!" I'd tell myself. And I didn't.

So there it is. I didn't talk to him until 2009, when he Facebook friended me. When I saw his request I kind of jumped out of my skin. But I couldn't resist saying yes.

And then? We became friends again. Just like in 9th grade. He is married, and has kids, and is happy. And for the last few years, he has been saying I should drop by when I go to Michigan. He doesn't live in our home town anymore, but he is close enough that I could visit. So this past weekend? I finally visited him.

"Is your wife okay with this?" I wanted to know. I didn't want her to think I was some Jezebel coming to try to steal her man.

And you know what? I wasn't. I saw him, and for maybe the first four seconds I lit up like when you touch the metal sides in the game Operation. there he is there he is there he is! I was a little like that. And did you notice when I think things to myself I think them in threes? Why am I so berserk?

But after the Operation part? It was like seeing an old friend. Which he is. We talked about gardens and cats and people we knew, and it was completely pleasant and free of, you know, fire.

"I thought this might be awful, but it really wasn't," he said. And I agree. It was just so good to see him, this person who had meant so much to me.

We chatted for a few hours and then he walked me to my car. We hugged goodbye, and when I got in my car? My radio was playing the top 10 songs of 1988.

And I smiled and remembered 1988 the whole way home.

 

Birthday. (Hey, did you know I recently had a birthday?)

I know I already posted today, and me posting a second time makes me officially annoying, but I have a bunch of mystery gifts from all y'all and I want to know who sent them so I can thank you.

Cardz
You know I don't like a fuss. The redwoods called. Want me to stop destroying them for cardmaking. (Twelvedays, I got your card today. I am out making good choices; otherwise I'd write you a thank-you.)

I know it was you guys who sent me these gifts because they were addressed to June Gardens, which FYI, is not my real name.

So who sent me Abide With Me by Elizabeth Strout? (Cannot wait to read it and ignore the pets tonight.)

Who sent me my Muget des Bois perfume (squeal! Wearing it now.)

And where did I get the MadMen CD? (Cool! I didn't even know there WAS such a thing!)

Who sent the Hello Kitty car decal? (squeal! again! Putting it on my back window tonight. Who is 46? Who cares?)

You should have seen the dirty look the mail lady gave me today, by the way. What lugging of 8934920 packages for the last week? In the Southern heat?

Okay, so everyone confess. And THANK YOU!

Notcare
rodgder not to care about birfdaa. get off arse and feed rodgder. not big enuf.

Thirteen years of…something

Dadd 
Today is my 13th wedding anniversary. So there's that.

By the way, Marvin did not have a bunch of plastic surgery after our wedding. This is me with dad. In case you were slow.

So because today could potentially suck, I have decided to accentuate the positive and list many reasons why I am glad I married Marvin even though it didn't work out.

1. Mt. Everest. Before I met Marvin, I did not know one thing about Mt. ridiculous Everest. Now I can tell you all about sherpas, and base camps, and Tenzing Norgay, and I have no idea why this information would ever be useful in my life, because you know what an adventure-seeker I am and how I cannot wait to clip on my crampons and head up that hill, but I am still glad I learned a new thing. Including the word "crampons." And that I saw many many many documentaries that showed us dead frozen climbers.

2.iPods. If I had never married Marvin, I never would have been interested in owning an iPod, and Marvin was, like, the first iPod owner in the country, practically. He was Adam of the iPod. I would have thought an iPod was some kind of computer pea or something. Which makes tons of sense. But I don't know what I'd DO without my pod of i now. Love it! Can listen to Slap My Bitch Up any time I want!

3. Books of stamps. I remember thinking Marvin was such a grownup, having books of stamps. It was a thing that would never occur to me, to plan ahead and have a whole gaggle o'stamps. In the past I had always had a letter and went around saying, "Does anyone have a stamp?" and more than half the time whatever I was mailing never got sent. Due to the stamp thing. And speaking of not mailing stuff:

4. Paying bills. You know, on time. I remember I once got one of my 349483 department store credit card bills and the minimum payment due was so exorbitant due to the part where I never paid my bills, that I circled the amount due and wrote "Yeah, right!" next to it. They canceled my card after that, on a shocking note. But Marvin always said paying bills on time is a matter of pride, and do you know I have remained fiscally responsible? Ish? Since he's been gone?

5. Ruined songs. Thanks to Marvin, I will always sing the wrong words to songs because he always sang the wrong words thinking he was high-larious. Elton John's Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me will always be "Don't let your son go down on me." And Shower the People You Love with Love is permanently, "Showerlee people." Because Marvin is mature. He has also instilled in me a deep hatred for any singer who takes one syllable and makes it go on for 87 minutes. "Iiiiiiiifffffff Iiii-ye-ye-ye should stayyyyy-ay-ay-ay…."

6. Rush. Okay, that isn't remotely true. I will never embrace stupid Rush and their stupid songs and stupid stupid stupid shenanigans.

So I guess things could be worse. I could wish the last 13 years had never happened. But I am glad they did. My wedding day was still the best day of my life and I'm glad I married Marvin even if we weren't meant to last until our golden years.

Litter happens, you know?

Olde June checks in

You know, I don't like to fuss, but it WAS my birthday yesterday. Don't you think y'all could have acknowledged it just a little?

How cool was that veeedeo Matze and Laurie made and put on here?! Thanks to them, and to Mary V. for telling them how to hack my blog, and for everyone who sent a picture in to wish me a happy birthday. I particularly enjoyed the person who superimposed my face over Barbra Streisand's so I am being embraced by Barry Gibb. {swoon}

Really we should do society a favor and ALWAYS superimpose my face over Barbra Streisand's. And I apologize to the gay men of America for saying that, but please.

Anyway, thank you again, all birthday wishers. It was a lovely day.

Photo (2) 
I was so busy worrying my stepfather would not get this shot that I forgot to make a ding-dang wish. Whose blog about her life stops her from living life?

I did, however, remember to Kiss the Coo. 

I took many pictures from yesterday but because I aged another CENTURY uploading that one on this stone computer that my mother bought at King Tut's Tomb Sale, everything musteth goeth–and I like how King Tut speaks some kind of Olde English–I am loathe to put more up.

 At any rate, I went to Hulkapalooza. I met Hulk's mom/wife! She is a hoot! My mother, who similarly came with me to Hulk's party yesterday because I need a chaperon like they had on The Dating Game, pulled Hulk's mom aside and told her the whole Hulk-on-my-blog-the-womenses-they-love-him-and-incidentally-three-thousand-people-think-you're-married-to-your-son story. She loved this whole thing and had no idea Hulk was so famous.

I said to Hulk, "Your mom is hilarious!" and he said, "Of course! Where do you think I got it?" And I was all, "Got what?"

Photo 
Here is Hulk, in jail. Do you know WHY he's in jail? Because he is wearing one of the FORBIDDEN shirts from when we all made over his wardrobe! Remember? Hulk. hulkhulkhulk.

Faithful Reader Duffylou and her gorgeous daughter came from Ohio, as did Faithful Reader and Computer Hacker Mary V. and her friend Kathy, who similarly reads this blog but lurks. So then all night when I'd introduce them to my friends, I'd say, "And here is a lurker who never comments on my blog." I am certain Kathy was delighted she came all the way from Ohio to meet my polite self.

It was fun meeting my faithful readers and their offspring! Plus, everybody got me Hello Kitty gifts! I KNOW!

Photo 
There were two black Lab puppies on the other side of the fence in Hulk's yard, and you can image how he didn't get impatient with me at all that I was over there making out with puppies 2/3 of the night.

Then the best part? We were standing around and Hulk said, "Oh for God's sake. HOW does this happen when you're around?" A LITTLE KITTEN just WALKED into Hulk's party! And he got up on my lap! Oh, he was the sweetest thing. Clearly he belonged to somebody, which is good, because who was prepared to drive 13 hours with a kitten otherwise?

Me: Hello sweet kitten! I love you!

Hulk: Get that thing out of here. Seriously. Get it–OH GET IT OFF YOUR LAP! JESUS CHRIST!

Who wants to place bets that sweet kitten lives with Hulk within the week? Am so calling his daughter to kitty alert her.

At any rate, it was a fine day. I have many other things to tell you, such as the part where I had a drink with the former love of my life, with whom I was unhealthily obsessed for many years, and I have to tell you about all the funny things I thought about while driving 13 hours. Sometimes I just THINK funny things. That was a line from Arthur. I really have to require certain movies for this blog.

However, I must get on the road again. With my braids and my red bandana. And facial scruff. Sadly that last part is not so far from the truth now that I am 46.

I will talk at you when I return home. The life I love is making music with my pets. So I can't wait to get on the road again.

Wherein there is no mason jar, but there are pickles

Last night, Laurie and I went out to celebrate (are you ready?) MY BIRTHDAY.

Have you ever known anyone, other than, say, the Queen of England, who can stretch her birthday into a longer period?

Laurie said she'd take me anywhere I wanted to go for dinner, and it took me eight seconds to say, "The Mason Jar!"

"…Okay," she said, putting away her American Express black card. I have no idea if there is really an American Express black card. Isn't there some color card for rich people where you can spend a lot?

The Mason Jar has Southern Food, and they serve their drinks in Mason jars, and it's cute cute cute! I was so excited to go to The Mason Jar.

So off we went, and we pulled up?

Nomason
Crap.

Why does there have to be a stupid economy?

Whyyyyyy
I'm peering into the empty Mason Jar, not trying to break in.

So we went to the restaurant next door and I had fried green tomatoes and Laurie had friend pickles and no we DON'T know why our cholesterol continues to skyrocket.

Laurie Here is Laurie, in a post-pickle moment of joy.

So we soldiered on. Because we're tough that way. And Laurie says I can't have my birthday gift till I get back home, which made me think, Oh! She got me a bulldog puppy! But I don't think anyone thinks I really need another pet. Chaos? As I write this, Edsel is eating the throw rug in the back room.

I am leaving tonight to head for my hometown, so I decided to open the presents that were here last night, because otherwise I'd open them AFTER my birthday and that is not acceptable.

006
Faithful Reader Mrs. Oh sent me dinner. Who loves herself? So bad?

Foodfoodfoodfud
My best pal, Pal From MA, always includes dog treats when she sends me something, and Tallulah was HIGHLY aware of this from the moment that package got in the house and alerted her half-Beagle nose.

I would show you pictures of what happened after I opened the box, but all the photos are blurs of dog maws.

Crack
For some reason they went for these sticks of cow like they were…sticks of cow.

Anyway, Pal from MA got me one exciting thing after another, as did my friend Dottie, and my Aunt Mary, and my mother, but I am late late late and must wrap this post up. Here are a few shots of my loot thus far:

Adorable
Pal got me an ADORABLE purse, and I have already put all my stuff in it. All my baggage. We need a  bigger purse, stat!

Who wants to bitch slap me for saying stat? Raise your hands, stat.

Necklace
Mom got me this beautiful blurry necklace, and yes I AM one of the founding fathers with that collar. Where's my quill pen?

Napkins
Both Pal and my Aunt Mary sent me napkins, in the hopes I would eat at the table like a civilized person, and not in my car driving home from Chik-Fil-A.

Aaaccccksopretty
I screamed. AAAAACCCCKKK! I said. When I opened these beautiful earrings, which Ima wear today if I ever stop talking and actually get ready for work.

Almond
Aunt Mary got me lotion that I am not allergic to, which is a find. I love almond-scented things. I also wear vanilla perfume. I must smell like dessert.

Todaysyourto
Remember when Tallulah was a puppy and she ate my beloved childhood book, Sugarplum? My friend Dottie got it for me AGAIN (Edsel's excited) and she managed to find a card with a huge mistake in it. How does she manage these things?

I really must get in the shower, as today's my to get to work late.

Next time I talk to you, I'll be on the road to Saginaw! I know. The glamor never stops over here in world of June.

 

May/December

On Monday night, I was on the horn with an old friend; we've known each other since seventh grade. So you know how that is. By the time we hung up, it was 20 after 11:00.

I hate to tell you this because you already think I am boring for wanting white towels and stripey bathmats for my birthday. But I like to go to bed between 10:00 and 10:30.

Livin' it up. Is what I do. Hey, I need my rest. I have a very concentrate-y job.

So I was a little worried that I'd be all tired Tuesday morning but actually I woke up before the alarm went off. And I was fine all day. But when I got home? I thought, gee, I feel a little sleepy. Maybe I'll just lie–

Two hours. TWO HOURS went by and I was dead as a doornail. I slept like…I don't know. What's something that sleeps hard? I slept like my kittens, those slugs.

Resent Roger resent. Will further shed on cowch.

Andersonresenttoo Anderson also reszzzzzzzzzzz….

You guys. I vacuum that couch every day. It is a fur couch. Dick Whitman, who is allergic to pet dander and should never have said one word of introduction to me because he is doomed to die at my house, looked at that couch and said, "I will never sit on that thing."

The point is, I woke up and was all, Oh! I guess I fell asleep! Where am I? What day is this? And the dogs were lording over me wag-wag-wagging their annoying tails because they KNEW walk time had come and gone and why was mom Rip Van Winkle, back there, in the bedroom, with her unmoving body and closed eyelids?

So I slapped on their complex harnesses and out the door we went.

I should mention that I had glanced at myself before we left, and I had mascara streaming down one side of my face where I had slept, and also the side of my hair where I had not slept was smooth and lovely, for once, and the side where I had slept looked like Bozo.

The half-Bozo look is very in for fall. If you were remotely sophisticated you would know this.

So my lovely self and my calm, well-behaved dogs headed down the road, and two blocks later, there was my cute cute cute neighbor Paul.

Paul is 96 and in way better shape than me. He has one of those four-pronged canes, but it hardly even seems like he needs it. If it is remotely a nice day out, he'll be on his glider on the side of his house.

We have always exchanged pleasantries, "Those dogs sure are special" or "Hot day, innn't it?" but lately we talk for longer and longer amounts. The other day he leaned on that cane, got right up and came over to us.

"I been meaning to tell you something," said Paul, from under his straw hat. "I remember the first day I been seeing you walk your dog past here. You been reminding me of a girl I loved in 1936."

Nineteen thirty-SIX? Good lord. Who was it, Shirley Temple?

Her name was Anna Mae, and she lived in Detroit, and she almost got him to marry her. "I'm from Michigan!" I told him.

"That so? You from Deee-troit? You know any of Anna Mae Dobson's people?"

I love it when people think you're gonna know somebody from somewhere that big. "I lived in LA." "My cousin lived in LA. Did you know Andhoodle Henrickson?"

The name Andhoodle is very big for fall. Plebeian.

My point is, my neighbor Paul had invited me to sit on the glider and talk one day, and you know I was dying to because you know I love me the old people, and yesterday when I had the Bozo asymmetric look? And the Alice Cooper mascara going on?

"Say! There she is! Why don't you sit a spell today?"

So I did. Screw it. He was sitting on my good side, anyway, so I was careful not to expose Bozo Cooper to him much while we talked.

Oh, did we have the fun. Turns out his 97th birthday is next Wednesday, and I told him my birthday was right near his. "Quite a few years apart, though, darling," he said, eyeing my hair quizzically.

We talked about where we grew up and he said, "You probably never heard of where I'm from. I grew up in TinyTown County." He lived right outside of TinyTown! MY TinyTown! Can you imagine?

If you are just getting to this blog–and go read the archives, will you?–when we first left LA we moved to a town of 3,000 people at the bottom of North Carolina. I was miserable the whole time we were there, like Ava Gabor on Green Acres, but now I miss it.

We talked about my neighborhood and what it was like FIFTY YEARS AGO when he moved in, his career as a sheriff, his take on Pit Bulls (doesn't like 'em, he told me, while he petted Talu's big wrinkly head, oblivious), guns (doesn't like those either), telephones, longevity, girls who got away, people in TinyTown, old buildings, and oh! We had a high time.

Of course the whole time I was gliding and talking, Edsel kept trying to put the leash in his mouth and walk himself. "Whine! Whinewhinewhinewhinewhine!" said Edsel, who by the way is annoying.

"Why's he carryin' on like that?" Paul wanted to know. So eventually I had to get up and take the dogs on a better walk than two blocks to a glider.

"Don't go!" he implored.

"I don't even want to," I said. "I could sit here all night talking to you." And I totally could have. The jeww-lie flies were chirping (he taught me to call them that), the moon was pink, a little breeze was blowing. You couldn't have asked for a better thing to do than sit on a glider with an almost 97-year-old-man who was as sharp as anything.

He waved to us as we lurched down the street, the dogs eager to get going. And I was so delighted to have spent time with my neighbor that you could have slapped my face and called me Andhoodle.