Natural Woman

"Out of all the peanuts in the world, Mr. Peanut is the only one who makes an effort, with his jaunty hat and monocle and so forth. The other peanuts just lie around," said Ned, while we ate peanuts that he roasted himself, and I don't know what to tell you about The New Cooking Ned.

Mr_peanut"I know," I said,"and who has he got to impress, if all the other peanuts aren't wearing shoes." I ate another peanut, because, you know, peanuts. "Do you think Mr. Peanut is gay, or not at all gay, just a dapper dresser like Dick Whitman?"

"Well, he does seem to be wearing tights," said Ned. I think he meant Mr. Peanut and not Dick Whitman.

"Maybe he's not trying to pick up a girl OR a boy peanut. Maybe he's trying to attract another nut altogether."

"He's getting a little cashew on the side," Ned said.

I'll bet Simone deBeauvior and Jean Paul Sarte didn't have conversations this deep.

Hey! How are y'all? I have been busy doing stupid things, and I will not recap them all today seeing as many of you are making scalloped potatoes and having your annoying families over and such. I know you're sneaking onto the Internet with your fifth drink of the day, and don't have much time.

But I would like to tell you about my dumb eye makeup.

The other night I was sitting around here reading a beauty magazine, and please see above where I am Simone deBeauvoir, and they had an eyeliner idea. "On the inside of your lower lashes, use silver. Then use a really bright color in the middle, followed by a dark color and WING it out the outside corner of your eye. You.will.look.stunning," the magazine told me.

Sadly, I had all three of those eye pencil shades in my take-it-to-work cosmetic kit, as opposed to my at-home-no-one-needs-this-much-makeup-who-are-you-Baby-Jane vanity. I glopped all those eye pencils on, then screamed to work without taking time to look, so you can imagine my pleasure when I got to the work bathroom and saw it looked like I'd had some kind of mental breakdown.

Photo on 3-28-13 at 5.25 PMHI! I HAVE ALL MY FACULTIES! WHAT COLORS UNDER MY EYE!!?!! DO YOU HEAR THE KETCHUP TALKING IN THE FRIDGE? I LOVE MARMOSETS. THERE IS NO PAIN, YOU ARE RECEDING.

Good gravy. And I had to do pesky things like WORK, plus I had no eye makeup remover there, so I was, you know, like that all day. I had plans to have dinner that night with my friend Not Wes, who inexplicably you all have started calling The Naughty Professor, so I guess that'll be his blog name now. Anyway he came down to my desk to firm up our plans, and I said, "I want you to know, I'll be changing this eye makeup before dinner."

IMG_0422"Okay," he said. He really did. "Okay." Not Oh, what're you talking about? Not Gee, June, it looks fantastic. No. "Okay." Like, thank GOD. Because the Professor, here, has a reputation to uphold and he does not want to be seen with Rainbow Bright eyes.

At lunch, I screamed over to Zoe's Kitchen, which is delicious if you've never been there. I go out to eat at lunch maybe 1% of the time. Usually I drive home and let the dogs out and get interested in an old TCM movie, and I realize I just said "movie movie," but didn't know how else to put that. Maybe "I watch an old movie on TCM," but I still just said movie movie, really. The point is, I get into it then have to return to work. I have seen the front end of a lot of movie movies.

But anyway, on that day, with my Eyes of Many Colors, I headed to Zoe's Kitchen, where of course.

OF COURSE.

I ran into my friend Hibiscus Wilson, who was there with a coworker and who similarly has a reputation to uphold, and there was her friend, old paint swatches eyes running up to her. "HI, HIBISCUS!" I said colorfully.

"Oh. Um. Hi, June. Wow. This is my…friend June," she said reluctantly to her friend.

You have no idea how bad I wanted to say, "Nice to meet you. I don't mean this about my eye makeup." But I abstained. I felt the less said the better.

After work, I had every intention of fixing my makeup, but I got busy, and then I realized I didn't know where the restaurant was, so your pal the NBC peacock just started heading downtown in her full makeup regalia.

Right then, Ned called. "Are you on your way to your dinner?" he asked.

"Yes, but I realize I don't know how to get there, and the GPS says no route."

"That's cause it's right on the railroad tracks," said Ned, who then tried to use funny words like "north" and "left" and "up the hill" to try to get me there. Has he MET me and my fine sense of direction?

"Look," said Ned, who was clearly growing tireder of me by the minute and thank heavens I have these giant bosoms so I can keep him. "Meet me in my parking lot. I'm in the car, too, and I'll just meet you and lead you there."

So that's how EVEN NED got to see my pretty pretty subtle pretty eye makeup. I pulled into his lot, and he got out and came to my window.

"Wow, you look really nice," he said.

And that is why Ned is the person for me.

Naturally,

June

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Bracelet pool

I just came up with a brilliant idea. Behold my stupid wish bracelet, which Ned tied on me in early December. I have to wait for it to break off so my wish’ll come true.

If you’re in, say you’re in in the comments, and give a guess when it’ll break off. It’s not even frayed, FYI. Everyone who says they’re in has to be good for a dollar, which you’ll send to me via Paypal or in the mail when there’s a winner.

Just say “I’m in” and your date that you guess. If you want to say more, leave it in a different comment so my keeping track is easier. Go!

image from https://effjune.files.wordpress.com/2013/03/e237f-6a00e54f9367fb8834017ee9d85375970d-pi.jpg

Sent from my iPhone

June Grooms

Two nights ago, I spent $15.50 on a slate-colored eye pencil from Clinique. I was trying to get the free gifts they have, and I always get my facial soap from Clinique (I get the mini bars so I can use them at home AND travel with them) (I know! Brilliant grooming tips from June) (then I left one at Ned's mom's and realized they're so small you forget them) (stupid grooming tips from June), but I needed to spend a grand total of $25 to get the free gft with purchase.

96489526-260x260-0-0_Clinique+0+01+oz+Quickliner+For+Eyes+04+Slate+Clin
Does anyone else love the free gift with purchase from Clinique? I find their eye shadows ludicrously hard to put on. You scrape scrap scrape the palette and then put absolutely nothing on your eyelid and it bugs. But the lipstick? And the moisturizer? And this time you get a free exfoliator, too!

Yes, I know I have no job and shouldn't have been purchasing any Clinique anything. God, you are so no fun. In fact, I went in there and realized it'd been one whole year since I'd bought any makeup at the department store. I used to love going to buy makeup at the department store. It was kind of my hobby.

My point is, later that evening I saw Ned and was obsessed with my new slate eyeliner. "The jury is out on this eye pencil," I told him, lifting my eyes at him dramatically. "Oh, you look lovely," said Ned, having absolutely no idea what he was supposed to be looking at.

The other day he was making fun of me for not knowing some sports thing–it was a sports person or maybe some event, and he was completely astonished that I would have no idea what he meant. You know how the eye shadow and its scrapeiness irk me? This is 10 times worse. WHY WOULD I BE EXPECTED TO KNOW A SPORTS THING?

"What's the difference between a lip stain and a lip balm?" I asked him. He said that was altogether different. That most people know sports things and many people don't know makeup things. I think that is so Nedcentric I can't even stand it. Do you agree? I say it's even. The same number of people who don't know sports things = the same number of people who don't know makeup things.

Did you know that when every earth-shattering thing happened to our nation in my lifetime, I was grooming?

When it came on the radio that Elvis had died, I was looking in the mirror, trying on different wrap-around sweaters to go to dinner with my father. Yes,  in Michigan sometimes you need a sweater in August.

When John Lennon died, I heard about it while applying mascara in the mirror. I remember specifically the kind: It was a Revlon with a soft-tip applicator, supposedly so you'd look natural. The part where I applied 11 coats and black eye pencil to my inner lids really helped with that natural effect. Perhaps had my parents both been mimes that would have been my natural eye.

 

When the Challenger exploded, I was at an old lady clothing store buying a black ribbed turtleneck. Black turtlenecks were just becoming fashionable but in dumb Saginaw no one knew that yet, so I had to buy one at the old lady store, where they'd never gone out of style. All the old ladies, who were probably my age now, were clutching their pearls and watching a portable TV and I saw the Challenger.

I was applying Jergens lotion to my legs when 9/11 happened. It was a special kind of lotion–supposedly the more you used it, the less you had to shave your legs. I had to stop using it because the smell depressed me after that.

I am just saying to you, I think I groom a lot.

Anyway, yesterday I emailed Ned. "Just caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror," I wrote, as if I don't run over and consult the mirror like it's my swami every 14 minutes. "Was attracted to self. Think eye pencil is working for me."

"I TOLD you you looked lovely," said phony-ass Ned.

Do you have any makeup you've liked recently? Is there anything you think I should try? You know, once I get employed or something? Do you wish black ribbed turtlenecks were still in? Heaven knows I do.

Oh, and I have an idea. If you leave a comment today and you have Siri, try to leave it on Siri. In the comments yesterday, I called Faithful Reader Kira "keratinocyte" thanks to Siri. I thought it'd be amuuuusing to see what else that heifer screws up.

Siri, I mean. Not keratinocyte.

June, off to do her makeup.

The Birds and the Bees

It is unseasonably cold here and I for one am annoyed. On my home page on my computer, as opposed to my home page I just have in life, I have the local temperature, the temperature of my hometown in Michigan, and for no real reason, the temps in Dublin and Paris.

Back when we all wore Swatch watches? Remember that? I wore two, because that was also a cool thing to do, and one of the watches was light blue and smelled like something. I forget what. But it was scented. The other was watch was black, to go with my general demeanor at the time. The point is, one watch was set to Paris time. My boyfriend Cardinal said, "I'll bet a lot of people in Paris have their Swatches set to East Lansing, Michigan time."

Anyway, my home page yesterday said the temp here was the same as it was in Dublin–46 degrees–and this morning? My hometown, my FRIGID NORTHERN HOMETOWN, has the same temp as here. Thirty-two degrees. Which is not pretty. THE GOOD SPRINGS HERE MAKE UP FOR THE CONFEDERATE FLAGS. That was the deal I made with this place when I got here. Am irritated.

And what's more fascinating than hearing someone complain about their weather? How about their bird house?!?!

A few years ago, I spent seven dollars on this little wooden bird house with a hole in the middle. I think it was supposed to attract a certain kind of bird, a bird from our class, a bird of the Philadelphia birds, yet every year different species have come in and nested there.

Can birds be different species? They can't, can they. June. Paying attention in science since 1977.

Last year, hornets or bees or wasps or some stingy thing had a nest in there. And I mean "sting-y," not that the bugs failed to pay for heat or only got meat on sale or whatever.

Probably a bee or a hornet or a wasp is an INSECT and not a BUG, right? Do you know what I enjoy? People who act like that makes any difference, bugs and insects. It's like people who insist you know that a tomato is a fruit.

My point is, I hope the birds don't encounter the sting-y things and all hell breaks loose. I imagine this sort of thing happens in nature all the time, much like what's happened to my ass, and it's a tragedy any way you look at it.

Last night, Ned and I went to that old theater we like and saw The Passion of the Christ. Oh, by the way, I'm changing the subject completely now. My old friend Tammy called me The Queen of the Nonsequitur, and often I'd be telling a story and all of a sudden come up with SOMETHING ALL NEW, and she'd just say, "Are you the QUEEN?"

I imagine I'm an exhausting friend.

So, Ned and I met at the movie theater, where he showed up precisely at 7:30, which is when THE MOVIE WAS SUPPOSED TO BEGIN. "If you're worried about us getting in after it starts, I've read the book," said Ned, who apparently has the passion for the Ned.

Have you ever seen that depressing movie? I mean, I knew getting crucified was no walk in the park, although he did walk quite a bit, but dang. That was awful. I turned to Ned at one point and said, "This hardly seems like a good Friday at all. In fact, it might be the worst Friday anyone's ever had."

I kind of wish Jesus had risen up and kicked some ass after that, but I guess that goes against his grain.

After the movie, Ned and I talked about how my friend Sandy's birthday was last week, and not only did I completely forget even though her bday is on the Ides of March and therefore memorable, and even though I have known her for TWENTY-NINE YEARS and should know, I managed to email her that day and call her a twat.

Oh, I was kidding. Still. Happy birthday from one of your oldest friends!

I imagine I'm an exhausting friend.

Anyway, we talked about if we remembered birthdays, and did Ned recall the birthdays of any old girlfriends (answer: not really) and then somehow we got onto the topic of what the number one song was the week you were born, and sadly for Ned it was Mr. Tambourine Man by the Byrds. Not the birds who are building a nest in my house, but rather the singing ones with the Y in their name.

Had it been Mr. Tambourine Man by Bob Dylan, that would have been a different thing altogether. And by the way, that link up there goes to Wikipedia, and you know I am snobby about Wikipedia, but you click the year you were born and then look up your particular birth week. Good luck.

I have Satisfaction by The Rolling Stones, and you know that's a good one.

And speaking of songs (I'm changing the subject again) (I imagine I'm an exhausting blogger), do you have a friend who absolutely abhors a song, and then when you hear the song you get a kick out of it because you know how much they hate it? That's how I feel every time I hear Lyin' Eyes by The Eagles, because my coworker The Poet abhors that song.

To: ThePoet@fakework.com

From: JuneGardens@fakework.com

Subject: With fiery eyes and dreams no one can steal.

Guess what I heard on the radio just now?

To: June

From: Poet

My oh my, you sure now how to arrange things.

 

Whenever I YouTube for you guys, I try to find the most ludicrous video I can. I guess every form of refuge has its price.

Did that terrible song ever go to number one? Because what if you find out THAT WAS YOUR SONG from when you were born? Oh, that will tickle me.

I have to go. I'm headed for the cheatin' side of town.

Marvin makes an appearance. As does Henry. (Onnnnreiiii!)

Sometimes Tallulah and I like to play "Heavy Cat," where I lift her up and carry her around the house with her legs all askew in an alarmed fashion. "Are you my Heavy Cat?" I ask her, while she patiently waits for me to be over this game. "Who's my Heavy Cat?" Sometimes I even curl her on my lap while I sit with her and scratch her chin.

Photo on 3-26-13 at 7.40 AMEdsel is so rude.

Heavy Cat just got put down and she went outside, relieved that I am over it for now. Some day that dog's gonna eat my neck area out and you really won't be able to blame her.

I can also feel my knees JUST WAITING to give out while I lug her 45 pounds around. One day I will be all crippled up in my knees, I can tell. They're okay for now, but when I lift something heavy, such as Heavy Cat, they're all, "Yeah, what're ya thinking? We're going to feel weak STARTING RIGHT NOW."

I don't know how I got off on that tangent.

What I was GONNA sit down and write about was Marvin's latest YouTube video. Yesterday on Facebook, I saw that his mom linked to something Marvin-related, and I was all, What is Marvin up to NOW? He's trying to re-record the songs he wrote when he was 12. I have listened to all of those songs, repeatedly, and I can certainly see why you'd want to revisit them. God help us everyone.

http://www.indiegogo.com/project/368679/widget 

He says his real name on here, but I asked him and he said that was okay if you all knew it, and I don't mind cause it's not my name anymore. If you click on the thing above you can see the video, which I guess technically is not YouTube, and I'll bet the fine folks at whatever this company is enjoying having their video called "YouTube" when it isn't.

The best part about the video is Henry makes an appearance at 1:46 and 2:03. A magical appearance. He even says, "Mrt."

I miss Henry.

By the time Marvin said, "Twenty-three songs," he was irking me. Oh, and I got him that dog toy behind him, the one where you push the bottom and the dog dances around. I forget why. It was back when we liked each other.

So there's your Marvin visit for, you know, the year. Remember when we talked about Marvin all the time? Now we hardly ever do. It's weird. Who knew I'd be all Marvinless one day? And happy with a whole new boy?

Did y'all see it coming, or was my "Marvin is moving out" announcement two years ago a total shock? Just recently someone commented that she had a baby more than two years ago, and stopped reading me cause she was too busy, then she came back and was all, Whothehell's Ned? How shocking it'd be to come back here after two years.

All right, I had better get ready for you-know-what. But confidential to my deep Real Housewives friends: Fay Resnick is a jerk.

XO, June

The one where June never ever lets you forget you’re a man.

I was extra busy sleeping this morning, so I didn't blog. I only got in eight-and-a-half hours, and I know you're wondering, "God, how does she do it all?" Cause I mean, after that brief rest, after that if-you-wanna-call-that-SLEEP sleep, I had to flurp some kibble into FOUR BOWLS before my six-minute commute to fake work.

I've been making up a lot of words lately. I've been onomatopoeeing all over myself.

At any rate, Ned continued to, you know, recover from his major oral surgery and not get dry sockets, although he DID make the mistake of asking me what they DO when you get dry sockets, and I told him, and then he was all STOP STOP STOP DON'T WANNA HEAR ANY MORE STOP.

The good news is, he was well enough to go with me Saturday to go partayy with Dick Whitman and one of DW's friends, who did not want her picture on my blog and who can figure that kind of thing out? What do you mean, privacy and dignity? Do not get.

Photo-4Anyway, here's Dick Whitman holding some kind of chalice of girly drink, and you may think this is blurry but I'll have you know it was PITCH BLACK in that bar, so the fact that I got ANY picture at ALL is saying something.

Photo-3Ned had scotch on the rocks, and I really think he may be the most manly person I have ever dated. Also, the part where there's a hole in the table, near his manly drink? Led me to tell him yet another plot of a Sex and the City episode: the one where Aiden makes the love seat, and it has a flaw, and Carrie uses the example of the flaw in the wood to get him to not break up with her despite the part where she'd been humping Mr. Big.

Spoiler alert. Thirteen-year-old spoiler alert.

But Aiden would have none of it. Till he came back, that is.

Spoiler al–oh screw it.

893008_10151514740628850_1417677382_oMy point is, someone may be over hearing about every plot of Sex and the City.

But in my defense, I believe I sat through three, or maybe four, basketball games this weekend.

Don't you love that picture? How bored with me is Ned? I have always kind of been like a prize in the Cracker Jack. Novel, kind of cheap, and you're over it before too long. Marvin was the only person who kept for 16 years his 100% plastic magnifying glass that magnifies .008 of an inch of something. His temporary tattoo that doesn't all transfer onto your skin.

His bird whistle that doesn't quite blow. So to speak.

Despite this depressing image of us, things are going very well with Ned, who by the way I like. Yesterday we schlepped BACK TO WINSTON-SALEM, for the THIRD TIME THIS WEEK, to go to my friend Charlie's fundraiser.

And oh, with the rain. To say it was raining would be to say I have a bit of hair. To say there was a downpour would be like saying sometimes Edsel is enthusiastic. To say we had some precipitation would be like saying Hulk is fond of sports.

You get my drift. You see my point.

Photo-2Eyeriss not. She not see poynt. Thank for bringeeng up again.

God. Iris makes everything about her.

So it was raining, if you're picking up what I'm throwing down, and Ned was driving, which means we had no GPS, and we kept SLIDING all over the dang road, and sometimes we couldn't see because the whole windshield was WET WET WET HELLO RAIN WET, and then we got there and couldn't find the place.

I mean we just couldn't.

The exit I wrote down did not exist, and we drove near where we thought it might be, and the rain was raining and the slidey was sliding and after awhile we gave up and went to a restaurant for some soup.

And I do not know what to tell you, but for some reason we stayed there for hours, although the part where there was a TV on with ding-dang sports may have had something to do with it, and waiting for the rain to cease was another part, but we ordered food TWICE, we were there so long, talking and sporting-event-ing and people watching and so on. We saw a shift change of the staff. I mean, we were a part of that restaurant. And it became a part of us.

I emailed Charlie AND his girlfriend today, to see if he has PayPal, and if not, Ima send your donations to his house directly. I am sad I couldn't find it. Part of the day's events included contra dancing, and I wore a swingy skirt for just that reason, and I even YouTubed a how-to-contra-dance video and made Edsel practice with me. He is terrible at dosey do-ing.

Oh! And speaking of sporting events, at fake work we're doing that bracket thing? That apparently people do when it's basketball-y out? And Ned filled mine out for me, and I got to pick who wins the whole thing so naturally I picked Michigan State, because I went to school there, though Ned had to ask me, "Do you want to pick Michigan State?" because of course I had no idea they were participating in this thing and my point is today I got an email and I am in the lead, over everyone here at work.

Dying.

I think I stand to win $800,000 or something. Am so gonna get rich and get all Real Housewife of Greensboro on your asses.

Which, ooooooo! Season finale tonight! And reunion show! BEST NIGHT EVER! I cannot wait. Maybe I'll call Ned after and run it down for him. Do you think I'll get the crossy-arms-stony-look again?

I have to eat something for lunch and get back on the road to commute to the office again. I mean, she commutes, she blogs at lunch, she operates on 8.5 hours of sleep–she's like the Enjoli commercial. What a wonder woman.

 

XO, June. The eight-hour blogger.

Tyrannosaurus Ned

I meant to write sooner today, but apparently MTV feels the need to distract me with retro episodes of The Real World, in particular The Real World Las Vegas from 2002.

"Trishelle's hawt." There's this poor awkward kid from the Midwest on Real World LV, and do you like how I've become so familiar with it that I abbreviate it, kind of like when people call it "Idol," which by the way makes me wretch. "Idol." Shut up. Anyway, the poor awkward kid says that 9,000 times an episode in TRWLV. "Trishelle's hawt."

And she was kinda hawt.

Trishellecannatella

Back when this was a real show, Marvin and I would go around saying, "Trishelle's hawt" in that poor Midwestern kid's voice, and guess who needed lives so bad? Was it Marvin and me?

Also, I love how on this show they fight over use of the phone, because no one had cell phones. That was only 11 years ago. I'm telling you, styles are kind of the same, music is kind of the same, TV IS KIND OF THE SAME, but technology? All over the place. It's the only thing that seems dated from then: the lack of technology.

OHMYGOD none of this is why I GATHERED you here today, though. I GATHERED you here to update you on Ned's condition, and to tell you about Chris and Lilly's baby, and all I can think about is Trishelle and her cell phone.

What kind of bullshit name is Trishelle, anyway?

So Ned, who seems to have no opinion on Trishelle, but maybe that's because I've never asked him about his feelings on Trishelle, went to get his dang wisdom teeth out yesterday, and I took him. When you go to Ned's–and why are you at Ned's? What are you doing with Ned? I could kick your ass, you know, you giant tramp–you have to call him so he can let you in to the Fort Knox Gelatin that is his apartment. You'd think he was storing gold or Trishelle up there, so secure is that building. The point is, I was just gonna call and he was gonna come down and then we were gonna schlep to the dentist to remove his parts. But when I called, his "Hello?" sounded so scared and beleaguered that I just felt terrible for him.

Ned. Looking forward to having his teefs out since never.

When we got there, I planted myself in the lobby, where I'm delighted to tell you a sporting event was taking place on the lobby TV.

IMG_0374The dentist really went in for the "we're in a cabin somewhere" scheme, by the way. To the left, there, is a canoe book shelf. I am not making that up.

IMG_0377Here I am, thoroughly enjoying said game. Note also the canoe lamp behind me. My ex-best-friend Esmerelda (the first person to ask gets impaled with a pine cone. I've told the story 40 times. Google ByeByePie + lost my best friend. You're welcome) used to sell Precious Moments figurines, and they had an anniversary figurine of two Native Americans, "injuns" as Hulk and his offensive Indian tattoo would call them, and the figurine read "Many moons in same canoe. Blessum you."

I am also not making that up.

Fortunately, Ned's appointment went quickly, and I was never so glad to see someone's cute face as I was when he came out of that room. I'd been trying to read but really the whole time I'd just been nauseated for him. Really, I was nervous as a cat, because he was. But he was at the desk paying and I mouthed, "You okay?" and he nodded yes, because of course he was clamping down on 50 yards of gauze. Really, dental procedures are barbaric.

We had to go fill his prescription for pain meds, and even though he was clamping, he managed to chatter like a magpie the whole way. "Aaat rully wonn't so ad," he said.

"You should probably try not to talk," I said.

"O ay." [Eight-second pause.]

"Eally, o. It wonn't at ad."

"Okay, good. But TRY NOT TO TALK. Just clamp."

"Oot ooo you aaant oo oo now?"

"OHMYGOD, CLAMP. We aren't gonna do anything now but get you home. Geez."

Eventually, we got home and Ned changed his disgusting awful gauze and got all woozy about it and asked for a chocolate shake. Ned never wants bad things like chocolate shakes, and I was glad to go get him one. But right when I was leaving, I got a text that Lilly had had her baby! And they wanted me to visit right then!

Ned said he'd watch his riveting sports and sleep and to go ahead, and I was kind of worried he'd expire from tooth removal, but I also really wanted to see Lilly for the FOURTEEN SECONDS they keep you at the hospital anymore, so I said I'd scream over there, stay for 15 minutes so as not to be the rude overstaying visitor, then get Ned his shake.

On my way to see Lilly, I remembered I forgot to sign that contract for the Exciting Thing Ima tell you about eventually, so I stopped at home, let the dogs out who were totally confused by me being home at 4 p.m., signed and scanned and emailed said Exciting Contract, then scream scream screamed over to the hospital that is eight inches from my front door, and also where I left my fibroids last year. And the year before.

Clearly I have boomerang fibroids.

And oh! Lilly's baby is cute! And thank heavens, because Lilly had SAID she had a cute baby, but she's the MOM. If that thing had come out looking like Marty Feldman she'd have thought it was cute.

ZellafamOkay, here's the story. Lilly said I could put the baby's picture on here, and I KNOW Lilly HATES her own picture, yet I ASSURE you she looks REALLY VERY LOVELY in this one, but I cut as much of her out as I could so I wouldn't piss her off and yet still include the baby. Whose name is Zella Grace. It's a family name. Isn't that a cool name?

IMG_0379Also, Lilly got a beautiful diamond necklace from Chris, for, you know, passing a huge baby head out her parts and so on. Which by the way Lilly did not exactly enjoy. Wasn't what you'd call a relaxed evening, her evening of giving birth. Am thinking surrogate motherhood will not be on L's list of hobbies anytime soon.

Childbirth. Apparently it hurts.

Naturally when I got back to Ned's I showed him this photo of me holding a newborn necklace. "You deserve a diamond necklace too," said Ned, who I doubt is out getting me one because he clearly said that while under the influence of morphine or whatever he took for his teeth. "When you have my children, I will get you a diamond necklace."

See. Someone just got away with murder, there.

The point is, after I did all those things like sign contracts and visit babies and covet diamonds, I schlepped to the shake store and got Ned's treat, only to DROP IT LIKE IT WAS HOT when I got to his house.

Best.girlfriend.ever. And yes, I DID go get another one. And yes, I DID swear like a madwoman. I'd like to take this moment to thank my dad for teaching me all the really good swears, because man did they come in handy when I dropped that @&%# shake.

So there it was. Ned survived. Lilly birthed. It was a big day. Other than the part where I didn't get any diamond necklace.

The rest of the evening we spent quietly, because Ned was told he couldn't eat anything but mushy stuff, and he couldn't drink alcohol, and he couldn't have…raucous activity, so that pretty much ruled out anything we WOULD have done on a Friday. Usually Fridays find us eating a whole mess of peanut brittle then slam dancing in a mosh pit.

Generally on Fridays we have a who-can-chew-the-biggest-piece-of-ice contest and then we head to the bumper cars.

Fridays? That's our eat gravel and box each other night.

Okay I'm done. So what we DID end up doing was eating split pea soup and talking.

"If you be named after something, what would it be?" I asked Ned.

"A beer. No, wait. Beers are too transient; they come and they go." Tell that to Mr. Bud Light.

"A comet," he amended. "But not one that hardly ever appears. A comet that shows up every four years, like the Olympics. …Or a dinosaur. I'd like to have a dinosaur named after me. What about you?"

"Lipstick or a sex act. Except with my luck, it'd end up being one of those sex acts involving poop. 'I'm never seeing him again. He wanted to June Gardens me! These are Egyptian cotton sheets!'"

I finally settled on a rose. I want a rose named after me. Wouldn't that be nice? The June Gardens pale pink rose. With sparkles. Maybe you could plant it and add a little glitter to the soil and it'd grow all sparkly. Do you think?

Anyway. He feels sore today and a little tired, but I think Ned will live. And Lilly is home already, of course, because WHAT IS WITH HOSPITALS TODAY? Lilly mentioned that Zella hated her first bath, and I suggested she might be French.

With that, I bid you adieu. June and her rose, out.

I wonder what we'd name after Trishelle? A hot plate. The Trishelle Hawt Plate.

ImageP.S. Chris and Lilly just sent this picture. thurtee-ate hourz of lyfe all it take to be totlee sik of ant joon blog.

MAMFing

Every day, Monday through Friday, my alarm goes off at the same time, and every day that information stuns me. "What the–? Seriously? The alarm is going off? GOD!" Every day it's all, "The nation was rocked when June's alarm went off at 6:54 a.m."

I hate getting up.

I have a dumb day planned, as I am only working till 1:00 in order to take Ned to his wisdom teeth removal. Oh, he'll be fine. They aren't even impacted. He is worried about it, though, as I guess I would be. I've had three out, at three different times. One of the times, I was lying on this table, and the nurse came in. "Okay," she said, pulling out a needle, "we're going to give you something now."

"Okay," I said. Shots don't bother me and generally I end up loving whatever floaty feeling I get during these kinds of procedures.

The nurse was messing with tools and such over at the counter, and I said, "Are we going to go into the room now to get started?"

"We're done, honey."

"No! We aren't done. You just gave me the shot."

"That was an hour and a half ago. You're all done."

IT WAS THE WEIRDEST THING. I completely lost all time from the second that shot went in till that nurse was at the counter. She was probably more of a dental assistant and not a nurse, wasn't she? Hoo care.

Oh, and speaking of Tallulah, the other night I was going to the grocery store for my staples: cat food and coffee, and when I got out my car, right there in the car next to me was Penny, my friend TinaDoris' dog.

6a00e54f9367fb88340167636d382b970b-800wi"Hi, Penny!" I squealed, thrilled to run into dog friends. I mean, had she driven herself over for some kibble, or was she just along for the ride?

"BOW WOW WOW WOW WOW grrrrrr-WOW!" said Penny, showing me her teeth and scowling and getting torches and pitchforks and bombs.

Geez.

I went into the store, and there was TinaDoris and her spouse, buying muzzles or anti-rabies pills or cleanup rags for when your dog foams at the mouth at someone she's MET 80 TIMES or something. "Your dog just yelled at me," I said.

"She hates being confined in the car," said TinaDoris. At least they don't ever have to worry about anyone stealing their car. Or putting a puppy in it. That's the same parking lot that someone put a puppy in MY car, and if it's remotely warm enough I leave the window open, still, just in case.

Best delivery ever.

I know I've told you this story before, but I've been blogging for SIX YEARS. I've told you EVERY story before. But I had the world's most marvelous cat, Mr. Horkheimer, who died seven years ago today in fact, and anyway in Seattle I had a fireplace in my room. Horkie would sleep on my bed all day because cats have it rough.

One day, he was snoozing in there as he is wont to do, when blark, something falls out of the chimney and onto the floor of the fireplace.

It was a nest of baby birds.

Can you imagine?

Hork was not one to be kind to birds when they were grown up and able to flitter about normally, so you can imagine the evil smorgasbord he had with a whole bowl of flightless babies. My roommate Paula came home to find the carnage. She threw Horkie outside, and she said he plastered himself to the window like that Far Side cartoon while she cleaned everything up.

Ri6t95The point is, for the rest of the time we lived there, Hork would wander over to the fireplace every so often and look up. It's like he wondered where the lever was to pull for more baby birds. That's how I feel when I leave my window down at the parking lot where I got a puppy once.

Ohmygod I wonder if I could drift further from my point. Which was that I am taking Ned to get his wisdom teeth out. "If you feel okay, what're we going to do tonight?" I asked, knowing making out was off the table and therefore flummoxed. "There's a sporting event on," said Ned, who probably told me specifically WHICH sporting event it was and did not say "sporting event," although now he is starting to say just that because that's what I say. The point is I'm bringing a book over there.

Also, my boss calls Ned MAMF, because the first time I mentioned him to my boss, I said, "Well, calling him my boyfriend seems weird, because we're 47. He's my middle-aged manfriend," I said. So somehow that got shortened to MAMF. "How was your weekend?" my boss will ask. "Did you and MAMF go anywhere fun?"

So yesterday my boss called me at my desk. "Say, do you think you'll have time to do this before you go off MAMFing at 1:00?"

MAMFing. Now Ned is a verb.

Okay, I'm off. Am totally going to dress Ned up in wee Uggs and wigs while he's asleep. So tune in tomorrow.

Post Secrets. Get it? Do you?

Wow.

So, that was astonishing, wasn't it? Thank you all for telling your secrets. My posts are set up so you can leave comments for the next week or so, so if you get your courage up later, do so then. After reading your comments yesterday, I looked around at the people at work and wondered what they had going on that I didn't know about, and I decided to be less crabby about the door near me.

I sit right by the stairs, see, and you have to push three numbers to get the door open from the stairwell to the office, to protect us from all the inevitable criminals who are just dying to pillage us all day long. And since I'm three inches from that door, ALL DAY LONG I hear, "Click. Click. Click. Blunk." The "blunk" is the sound of the door NOT opening. "Click. Click. Click. Blunk."

"Click. Click. Click. Blunk."

WHY CAN NO ONE GET THE CODE RIGHT? It's been the same since I've started there, and NO ONE GETS IT RIGHT THE FIRST 80 TIMES EVER. Click. Click. Click. Blunk.

OHFORTHELOVEOFALLTHATISHOLY.

So anyway I decided to be more patient about that. Maybe the person clicking and blunk-ing has something big on his or her mind. You can tell I'm already well on my way to adjusting my attitude about that.

Anyway. Thank you again for participating. Not too sound too much like my therapist mom ("What's wrong with sounding like me?" she's gonna call and ask later), but how did that make you feel? Now I'm leaning all over earnestly, looking therapist-y. Was it a relief? Did it feel terrible to re-live it? What?

Am totally wearing a therapist natural-fiber sweater right now, and am putting up some kind of soothing picture in my computer room for you. The orange crates are out of here.

Marvin always used to want me to move those orange crate photos around, to see if any of you noticed. I know you'd notice. Y'all notice everything.

Photo on 3-21-13 at 7.52 AM
It's a computer wire holder that inexplicably looks like Edsel. That's what that red thing is on the wall that you're gonna ask about. The Poet gave it to me a long time ago. Oh, and speaking of The Poet, you had asked who she was, seeing as she is a fancy celebrated author and such. She told me I could tell you. Go Google Sarah Lindsay. She's the one who's NOT a speed skater.

And speaking of being fancy and celebrated, something…happened this week for me that is pretty exciting. I can't talk about it now because I haven't signed a contract, and no, I did not get a full-time job. Still. Click click click blunk. However, I did get an offer to do something cool and further reports as developments warrant. I'm just saying to you. I.am.so.famous. -ish.

I'd better go scream around hysterically now and get ready for work. I've been freelancing every night since Thursday, and I think I'm done with that, but then tomorrow I take half a day off to help Ned get his wisdom teeth removed. Yes, I'm assisting the dentist. Because I'm exactly who you want in a medical situation.

Then on Sunday, there's a dance thing for my friend Charlie. He taught contra dancing every Tuesday, and I went once and it made me dizzy, and on Sunday there is all-day contra dancing (Google it, for heaven's sake) (you know I always get impatient when y'all ask me what something is when GOOGLE IS RIGHT THERE) (click click click–oh forget it) and an auction and Charlie will be there and yay. Excited to go. Will take Dramamine this time. I am not even kidding. IT'S VERY DIZZYING.

Spinning out,

June.

Weveal Wednesday

Last night, Ned and I went to the Post Secret Lecture at Wake Forest, which is a university where you learn all about woods that can't sleep. It's a school where they get you drunk and throw you in the forest, where you wake up lost. It's a school where the trees chatter like magpies, and you're all GO TO BED.

IMG_0359Okay, I'm done. Also, Dear Youth of Today: Sometimes you could go a minute without looking at your goddamn phone. Says the woman taking pictures with her phone.

IMG_0353It turns out WIDE AWAKE! I'm WIDE AWAKE! WIDE AWAKE! I'm not sleeping Forest is a very pretty university. It's small and it's private, just like my lady bits.

Am waiting for some Cliff Claven to write in and tell me what Wake Forest really means. Will be fascinated. I promise.

So, Post Secret, as I've told you before and pay attention, is a website where the founder of the thing (can you be a "founder" of a website? I just totally made that up, didn't I?) shows you post cards he received each week where people reveal their innermost secrets.

Last night he spoke about this phenomenon, and how he got started, and
secrets he's heard and then if you wanted, under the dimmed lights you
could go up and reveal yours.

IMG_0360Ned had a headache, but he went with me anyway. Then the whole time he looked miserable and headachy. Had Ned gotten to the microphone, his secret would have been, "I wish to remove my head and bludgeon June with it."

Poor Ned. I kept giving him the acupressure thing on his hand–have you ever tried it? it works sometimes–oh for God's sake, Google it–but it did not work for Ned, who clearly had one of those three-hour tumors we've heard so much about.

IMG_0362When you walked in, they handed you a post card, where you could write your OWN secret and mail it to the Post Secret guy. "Do you have any deep secrets?" I asked Ned, who claimed he did not. So then I made a bunch up on his post card.

IMG_0363"Yeah, that sure looks like a man wrote it," said Ned, rubbing his head. I tried again.

IMG_0365"What's better? Is that FLEECE? Why?" I mean, how long has Ned known me? Has he not yet caught on that I make no sense?

IMG_0368"Yeah, none of these things are true," said Ned, who probably stopped thinking I was da bomb somewhere between my Wake Forest jokes and fleece.

Anyway, finally the program began and Frank, the founding father of Post Secret, was just great. He said the secret he hears most is that people pee in the shower. I honestly think I have never once peed in the shower. I mean, why would you need to? You're already in the bathroom. I always pee before showering anyway. But if you've done it, no judgement here.

Freak.

When people got up and told their secrets, sometimes you just wanted to cry.

Anyway, after it was over, I said, "I am so doing this on my blog tomorrow. A faithful reader suggested that we have 'Fess Up Friday,' but now I'm too excited about it and I want to have, um, oh hell. It could be Secrets Saturday or Thrilling Thursday, but what the hell can Wednesday be?"

And that is why today is Weveal Wednesday, where if you want, you can tell us a secret. Sign in as anonymous, or as Not June or as Secret Person. Whatever. If you're really super worried, use a fake email address when you sign in. And no matter what the secret is, no one is allowed to say anything negative about it. We just have to let it be.

If you just want to say, "Lovely post, June," or "Did Ned ever recover?" you can do that too. (Answer: As soon as he ate something, he felt fine. He got the salmon. The waiter had to come over eleventy thousand times but finally he got the salmon. I had the pistachio-encrusted flounder, though, and I think I got the superior dish.)

But I'd love to have Weveal Wednesday most of all. We are only as sick as our secrets.

Philosophically, June

The Diary of June Gardens

IMG_0343I just kind of feel like I'm the only one who cares when The Real
Housewives comes on. These animals don't understand that it's the most
important show of our lifetime. And SEASON FINALE AND REUNION SHOW NEXT
WEEK!!!! dyingdyingdying!

You notice how I can't direct any attention to Edsel without him perking right up? she look at me? most excelint gurl look at edz? love edz? kizz edz? oh most excelint girl, pleeeeese love edz.

We
could also accuse Iris of looking at me, but she can't look at
anything, smartie. Just just over there swinging her head and singing
Isn't She Lovely.

IMG_0346Before I start getting concerned emails and comments, she was right above me, Lily was. Far from the maddening crowd. Similarly ignoring The Most Important Show of Our Lifetime.

Speaking of shows, tonight Ned and I are going to see the guy who invented Post Secret. Every Sunday I get excited because it's another week of post secrets, where people mail in post cards with their deepest, you know, secrets. They should also have Post Sucrets, where you mail in about your cold. I'd have sent $12 worth of post cards this winter. And you'd have all known it was my cold, because my cold was The Most Important Cold of Our Lifetime.

At any rate, the guy who came up with the whole idea is going to speak, and we are v.v. excited to go, and we figure if we can't get in because of the crowds, we'll just go to the homes of all the people present and read their diaries.

Have you ever read anyone's diary? Once an old boyfriend read mine then had the nerve to get mad about what was in there. When Marvin came to my house a few months back, after his dentist appointment in my neighborhood, he was here for an hour or so before I came home, and knowing this would be the case I cleared my browsing history on my computer, put away cards from Ned, looked around for anything incriminating, then LEFT MY DIARY RIGHT NEXT TO MY BED. I have no idea if he read it or not, other than the part where he loves to do things like snoop through people's things, often with hilarious results. So.

I must go, as it is late AGAIN and I KNOW. I never start writing my blog until it's one minute before work anymore. Last night I was up late on Facebook, IMing with Miss Doxie AND Ned. I was bi-texting. I went both ways.

Photo(31)I leave you with this, which a faithful reader sent me. Apparently there are people out there with our blog names. Or they really, really like this blog and my romance with Ned. Which would be not at all creepy.

June, not needing to tell secrets to a website because she tells them all here.

P.S. I really like that new housewife, the one who thinks her husband is king. Okay, that part is luducrous but other than that she's sort of real. As real as those women get. I also continue to like Brandi despite her name.

Stupid conversations I’ve had with Ned

Bulls

Ned and I were out the other night on the roof of a pub near his house, and this guy next to us was holding court, telling a whole gaggle of people about his trip to Spain and the bullfights and how cool Spain was and also Spain Spain senoritas Spain. He was STANDING to deliver his story, and we watched his friends' smiles go from amusement to pain to agony as the story never ended.

"You know who that guy's never read? Hemingway," said Ned.

We groused about how Bad Storyteller Guy got to go to Spain and we never have. "I'd like to go to the bullfights, just like Hemingway," Ned said.

"I don't think I could," I said, thinking of the poor bull getting stabbed or whatever they do to bulls there. "I'm always happy when you read about bulls goring those idiots who run with them."

Ned pondered this. "Even though this makes us a couple of pussies, I have to agree with you," he said. "I couldn't watch a bull get hurt. Maybe we could go and be all Team Bull. We could sit with the bull's family in the stands, wear bull horns."

"GO BULL!" I yelled.

In other news, I promise you that guy is still up there, telling his Spain stories to an empty roof.

Geography

Recently, I proofread something that divided the country up by region.
Secession_Map_of_the_United_States,_1861
The thing I was proofreading was all, "Here's info about our company from the west side of the country." And then they'd tell you stuff about what was happening in California, or Nevada or whatever. As I was moseying along with this info, I discovered they'd listed West Virginia in the "western" section of the story.

Oh, nothing gets a proofreader more excited than a mistake like that. So on each page, there'd be a map of the United States with no states listed, just shaded areas referring to each region. I convinced myself I'd found a million geographical errors after that thrilling West Virginia one. Oh, I was smug.

"The map that shades the central portion of the U.S. does not include Louisiana," I wrote in my snooty red pen," yet your story mentions Louisiana right here. PLEASE SHADE LOUISIANA OR MOVE THE MENTION TO THE CORRECT REGION!" I fumed.

Then I turned the job in. "Yeah, June. That was a great catch with the West Virginia thing," they told me, "but the part where you said Louisiana wasn't shaded? It was. Same with Iowa. And Ohio. And Montana. In fact, all the other states you said weren't shaded in fact were."

You know…

Could YOU look at a shaded map and accurately depict which states were marked off? COULD you? For example, name the states up there that are gray. All of them.

I told this story to Ned, who immediately rustled up a blank map of the U.S. and started pointing at everything. "There's Oregon, there's Wyoming, there's Louisiana–I can't believe you can't find Louisiana on a map. It's one of the easier ones because it has a squiggly line," he said.

Guess who I am over? Did you HONESTLY know that about Louisiana? Did you? I told Ned that I'll bet three-fourths of people can't pick out all the lower 48 states on a map and he said he thought MOST people COULD.

Of course, the moral of the story is if one is PROOFREADING something, one might want to, oh, I don't know, MAKE SURE when they say something is wrong that it's really wrong. Whatever.

The '90s

Somehow Ned and I got into a disussion about bad beer, and when was the last time we'd ever sat around drinking beer from an actual pitcher. My guess was sometime in 1989 and then never again. "But I DO have a picture of me and all my '90s friends with, like, 80 bottles of Budweiser around us. It's quite the ratio," I said.

Scan 22
And then I found it. And sent it to him. "I love that choker," he said. "Which of these dudes were you dating?" Sad answer: both of them. And that's my ex-best-friend Esmerelda back there being blonde. We are still friends, we just aren't BEST friends any more. And there's my friend Hometown Horselady, who lives in my home town and owns horses. I know! You'd have never guessed from her commentor name. Anyway, what I'd like to know is why all the beer seems to be right in front of ME like poker chips or something.

I also noted that there are very few pictures of me from the '90s where I am not holding a drink of some kind.
Scan 26Or, oddly, on all fours in front of one. (Q: Which of these dudes did you date? A: Both of them. Yes, again. Shut up.)

I guess that's all I have to tell you, but this was deep and I'm glad we had this time together. I gotta slip on my velvet bodysuit and get to the bar.

With a fine, fresh scent.

IMG_0328Happy St. Patrick's Day! In honor of the Irish, I thought today I might cut soap.

 

Sorry I didn't write yesterday–I was cleaning my gutters. I KNOW! I was totally getting the older, handsome woman who can do it all vibe from myself. But in fact I COULDN'T do it all myself, because there are some spots where one would have to climb the roof to get to the gutter, and I was nervous enough about being up on a ladder and no one on earth knowing I was up there.

Ned was watching sporting events, and when he found out he was irritated with me. "What if you had fallen off and turned out to be dead?" he groused, annoyed because then he'd have to go back on OK Cupid, no doubt. But look. I did it, I lived, and it was kind of fun, to tell you the truth. There was even a little evergreen tree starting to grow right there on the gutter! I'm tempted to plant it somewhere and see if it grows. A Tree Grows in Greensboro. Somehow that's not as dramatic.

IMG_0325The dogs were delighted that I was working outside yesterday, because they spend much of their time being torn between wanting to be .009 inches from me and wanting to be outside barking at dogs who have the nerve to be in the other yards. This way they got to do both. I just painted that fence last summer. Maybe it was two summers ago. Still. Dang.

I dearly appreciate everyone's cheap-yet-sugarless grocery suggestions! I was so busy in the yard yesterday that I never got to the store, so I've had a lot of eggs and broccoli this weekend. Last night Ned and I went to our favorite lesbian taco restaurant where not one but TWO young hot couples were on hot lesbian dates, and I really can't figure out why Ned always wants to go there. The point is, I got the hamburger and took the bun off, and got a side salad and basically am barrel of laughs right now. I have book club today and have to bring a salad, so I'll go to the store then, and I have a little list of your ideas to take. Yay!

I had another migraine last night, though, so I don't know if this lack of sugar is making any difference at all. I do FEEL pretty good, though. I was going to say I feel stable, but I just cried at Ned's yesterday so even writing that makes me laugh.

Ned has a frowny face on the 23rd of every month, because whenever it's my…woman time, the time my Japanese flag is waving (copyright Faithful Reader Lety, who emailed me special to teach me that one), I end up crying in front of him. Once I cried because I decided I was a failure. Everything was going along swimmingly, and we were having dinner, and boom. I start crying at a restaurant. "I'M A FAILURE AT LIFE!" I wailed. And I kind of am. But I usually don't cry about it.

So yesterday Ned came in from making coffee and I was in a weepy heap on the couch. You know who's fun? Anyway, later that day I realized Scarlett had come to Tara and I had to let Ned know he needs to just put a frowny face and a question mark on each day of the month now. The first person to tell me to get my hormones checked gets a weepy dial from me at 3 a.m. I don't know why I say that, since I HAVEN'T had my hormones checked. But doesn't every woman get insane at this time?

IMG_0335Anyway. That about sums up the weekend thus far. Eggs, broccoli, gutters, tears. And here are the trees outside Ned's apartment. I remember going to his place for the first time last year, and him showing me how pretty the trees are when they bloom, and the whole time thinking, "That's great. We gonna make out soon?" I thought that through the dinner he made me, and the part where we had some kind of phony conversation and listened to music and pretended to be regular people. "We making out soon? When's he gonna make his move? Because if we don't make out soon, Ima die."

Maybe it's my hormones.

IMG_0334Maybe it's because I love this man to distraction.

Maybe it's Maybelline.

Anyway, have a good Irish-y day today.  Maybe in honor of the Irish, I'll drink a lot and cry. Ned will be stunned.

Pour some sugar on me

I felt a little headachy when I woke up today, AND THAT ANNOYS ME, since I'm, you know, desugaring and all. In fact, I may have to abort the eat-no-sugar plan for now.

I KNOW. But listen. After paying my delightful COBRA, and if you don't pay him he'll slither up and bite you. BAHAHAHAHAHAHAA. Anyway, after paying my COBRA and then paying H&R Block $391 to tell me I owe money in taxes, it turns out I'm tapped out. And I don't get another freelance check till the 29th. Which means I have to default to my poor-person grocery shopping. Eating the sugarless stuff is kind of expensive.

I don't know. I'll try my best to buy good groceries. I mean, I won't buy a 12-pack of Twinkies and call it poor-person food. But tons of vegetables and bags of pistachios are not going to happen this shopping trip. And bread WILL be included, as will pasta. And brown rice. I think I'm allowed to have small amounts of brown rice anyway.

Look. I've started the first three paragraphs of this with "I." Nice. Anyway, is there anyone cook-y out there who can think of what I can eat, cheap, that is sans sugar or bad-for-you carbohydrates?

The REASON I think I have a headache today is I made chicken breasts last night and I put garlic salt on them and I wonder if that has MSG. I looked at the container before I shook it all night long, but it said nothing, which lead me to tell myself, "Maybe all it has is garlic and salt!" Oh, the lies we tell ourselves. And just try Googling "Does garlic salt have MSG in it." You will find nothing helpful except hysterical people talking about how bad MSG is. I ALREADY KNOW THAT. THANK YOUUUUU, HYSTERICAL PERSONNNNNN.

I think the other reason I am headachy is because I did freelance work all night last night, and sometimes proofreading all day then proofreading at night can, you know, cause a headache. All this to say it's not an INTOLERABLE one, and I am likely to live, it's just irritating.

The other important thing I need to say is the other day, I dropped the lid of my deodorant into the toilet, which lead to me throwing that lid out, which then lead to the deodorant I had drying up and me needing to get new stuff. I was in the deodorant aisle at the store–and I adore it when people spell it "isle"–when this very pretty woman who was not Julia Roberts thank god came up and put some Secret in her cart, and it was one of the fancy scents, and could you please tell me when it was that Secret stopped just having the one scent in the light-blue roll-on bottle that my grandmother used till she took her last breath and started making every scent and color on the planet?

Why do we need 72 scents? "Oh, I need to smell like Ooo-laa-laa Lavender!" "Oh, not me. If I don't smell like a Serene Citrus, I'm toast."

The point is, I totally just copied the pretty girl, thinking if I use her deodorant scent I would magically get pretty too. And now I'm sitting here smelling like a red Life Saver and I want to kill myself. But looking pretty doing it!

Anyway, I have to go. I DO have to say somehow I LOOK better since being sugar-free. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror yesterday (I act like that was a total mistake. Like I'm not constantly in a mirror pecking at my own reflection like a parakeet) and I was all heyyyyy! What'chu doin' later? Like I wasn't just gonna be stuck with myself. "Well, I'll be with YOU, canary idiot."

Okay. So let me know, will ya? About what I can buy. If you're into that sort of healthy cheap groceries thing. If you're like me and the Chinese delivery guy knows your sign, maybe today would be the day to leave a "What a lovely post, June." comment. A "Gee, I wish I were pretty like you, June." comment. A "Nice budgie, June!" comment. You get the idea.

In which June might have had a taste of chocolate

I survived day two without sugar, except for the part where I had something a…trifle sugary. OKAY SUE ME.

I ate everything right until after work, when I went to the H&R Block, there, to get my taxes done. Do you have any idea what a pain in the ass my taxes are, as a freelancer? I had 1099s from four or five places, and also Miscellaneous whatever-they're-calleds for money I make on the ads here, and then I have to DEDUCT the cost of paying for this site (yes, it does cost) and one room in this house where I do all my work and also the $9 million of medical costs from last year and, ack.

It's not simple, is what I'm saying to you. I remember those heady days of having just one job all year, and I was single, and I filled out one page and boom. Done.

Anyway, I owe $2,000 to our fine government, and I knew I would owe. When you freelance you don't get any money taken out. So I wasn't surprised, just depressed. Even though I am not one of those people who thinks I am the exception, that I don't have to pay my fair share of taxes. I'm, you know, grateful to have roads to drive on and 911 to call when I have a cockroach in my sink.

So right when I was gathering up my things, the accountant said, "Would you like some dark-chocolate-covered pomegranates?"

Well, yes. Yes, I would. I mean, who wouldn't? And God, were they delicious.

So I had three dark chocolates yesterday. "I'm not extending my not-drinking by a day, if you're thinking you're gonna start all over," said cranky Ned. And I'm not. I'm not starting all over.

I also, because I was bored and for the most part sugarless, I looked at all my old OK Cupid emails, from before and when I first met Ned. Oh my GOD there were some scary people writing me. And also some 21-year-olds. What's up, 21-year-olds? Why the nice mother complex? If you're looking for a mom, you've come to the wrong place.

Anyway, one thing that that site does is send you emails with kind of a Brady Bunch grid of nine men. "One of these people rated you four or five stars!" the email reads. Because yes, you ARE able to go on there and rate people and

Dear God,

Could you make it so I never ever have to go on OK Cupid again? Thanks.

Love, June

The point is, back on July 15, 2011, THERE WAS A PICTURE OF NED. Right there! Saying he might have been one of the Brady Bunch grid of men who'd rated me four or five stars! He was the only cute boy in the pictures.

Screen Shot 2013-03-14 at 8.15.28 AM"Did you rate me four or five stars?" I asked Ned, forwarding him the email.

"I like how I'm the Alice of everyone, right there in the middle," he noted, evading the Q about my stars. "Also, what the fuck are you doing on OK Cupid?" he asked.

The point is, it irks me that I was ALERTED TO HIS EXISTENCE six months before I noticed he was on that site. I could have been dating him six months earlier. But I guess I met him when I met him. Maybe I was supposed to have a summer dating the wrong people. Which

Dear God,

Cut it out.

Love, June

"Why didn't you notice me?" Ned groused, mad at me for something I didn't do six months before we ever met. "You clicked on Mrs. Brady, up there, didn't you? He looks intense." Mrs. Brady does look like he's having some deep/murdery thoughts.

I purposely cut out everyone else on this grid, because what if one of your husbands is up there and this becomes a Very Special Lawsuit edition of Bye Bye, Pie, but trust me.

And Greg looks 100% like Samuel L. Jackson.

So there it is. Have you ever wondered about that, about why you met your person when you did? Marvin and I lived IN THE SAME DORM and had several of the same friends, yet we never met all year. We met on the first day of the NEXT year, when he lived in a house. My high school boyfriend, Cardinal, had been a family friend for years. And we didn't meet till 10th grade. Mostly because my family kept showing him my junior high school pictures and I looked like Samuel L. Jackson.

Fate, man. It's a funny thing. As are dark-chocolate-covered pomegranates.

June, out. Of $2,000.

One day w/o sugar. Am I perfect yet?

I only have a few minutes to write today, as it is 8:14 already and the part where I got up late could be Fault O' Ned, who might decide midnight is an excellent time to be a chattterbox. Someone is a night person. I am too, but I also have to get up at FOUR A.M. to plow the hearth or whatever.

Seven. I get up at 7:00. Still.

Anyway, in case you were worried sick, the no-sugar thing is going okay. I know! I'm surprised too! In the middle of the day yesterday, I didn't feel HUNGRY, but I did feel like godDAMMIT. WHY can I have nothing SWEET? Apparently being no-sugar-y makes me use all caps a lot.

But I looked on my list and I CAN have almond butter, which I own already, and I had less than a teaspoon of that and I was golden.

Literally. Because it's that time of year that June starts slathering on the fake tanner. Has anyone else noticed Jergens changed their scent? Why? I was fine with the old scent. Am I the only one who was fine with the old one? And can they make a scent-free one for those of us whose throats close up at strong scents?

But back to sugar. Or lack thereof. Ned said he would give up alcohol for the three weeks I am sugarless, because of course you can't have alcohol and he didn't want to be all living it up unsupportively in front of me. Last night, I found myself unable to shake the thought that Ned has an entire unopened box of Samoas in his fridge, but I did not make him produce them.

So the point is, so far it's okay. Ned keeps saying, "Yeah, but it's early yet. It's bound to get WAY WORSE." Who should work at some kind of addiction hotline? Is it Ned?

The other thing I have to tell you, and then I must go because hello, 8:20 now, is I had a scare last night. You might be stunned to hear that sometimes, if I call Tallulah to come in, she completely ignores me and goes about her business, which usually involves vole patrol. There is every kind of rodent in my shed, except, thank god, I've never seen mice or rats. Still. Chipmunks, possoms, squirrels, voles–and I know voles aren't much differnt from a mouse but somehow they scare me less.

Goodness how I digress. EDSEL, on the other hand, comes BARRELING at me the second I call his name. Always. Every time. As Prince would say. And THAT is why I was concerned when I said, "Edsel!" last night, after it was dark, and he did not barrel. Since it was, you know, dark, and see last sentence, I couldn't see where in the yard he was.

Finally I discovered the effing gate was open. Just a little, but it was open. The latch-y thing is getting kind of hard to close; I think the door itself is sort of unbalanced, and sometimes I slide it over but it won't extend all that far. I've never worried about it, though, because if I'm taking garbage out I can leave that thing wide open and Eds just stands there at the opening, smiling underbitedly at me and waggling for my return.

Something must've tempted him last night, though, and with some horror I remembered my driveway motion sensor had gone off half an hour before. Usually that happens because a neighborhood cat/possum/rapist saunters by, but all of a sudden my blood was cold. Well. My blood is always cold. But it got colder.

Had Eds been out half an hour?

The first thing I did was check the busy road that killed Roger and maimed Tallulah. No yellow dog and THANK ALL THAT IS MERCIFUL BECAUSE WHO'D HAVE BEEN RUINED FOR LIFE HAD SHE SEEN THAT?

Oh, I walked around, I spoke to people passing by, I called Ned who has had to scream over here now for 7495854939393 animal emergencies in the 14 months he's known me.

Anyway, I heard something scrambling up my porch while I was on the road and there was that damn Edsel.


IMG_2815dat fun! edzul do nyytlee
?

I pulled the shit out that gate latch today. And all night I dreamt that I was in charge of a developmentally disabled person and I kept losing him. Hmmm. Why, do you think? Dreams are such a mystery.

Okay, totally late. June, trying to kill her pets constantly, and out.

 

Don’t doesn’t.

What're you doing?" asked Ned, when he called last night.

"I'm boiling eggs."

"WOW!"

What's sad is that me boiling eggs is such an exciting and novel occasion. And also that I had to look up how to do it.

(You poke a teensy hole in the top, according to my How to Cook Everything book, then you spoon each egg gently into boiling water for 12-15 minutes, depending on how hard you like your yolk. I already carry a hard yoke of despair, so I like mine soft. When time is up, you PLUNGE the eggs in ice water for two minutes, so they're easier to peel. Refrigerate. You're welcome.)

(I am practically the Pioneer Woman, aren't I? Wait. Let me put up some stunning photography.)

IMG_0231You.are.welcome. 9,432 comments, please.

The REASON I was boiling eggs, and the media HAS been alerted, yes, is because my cousin Katie, of "Aunt Katie, are you a lesbian?" fame, has decided I need to cut sugar out of my diet to eliminate the headaches, nausea and rashes I have and I agree that I am one sexy individual.

I just think it's part of my hard yoke of despair, but my cousin, who is a nurse, says it's my diet. Which is fine. The other day I had a blueberry doughnut for lunch, and blueberries are really good for you. And when I change my hair color, the Chinese-food delivery guy notices. "There's my Edsel! Hey, you changed your hair!" was the exact quote.

You know, Chinese people live forever. Why, then, is Chinese FOOD supposed to be so bad for you? Hmmm? Can you answer me that? It's MY theory that sesame chicken–which I didn't know existed till Hulk told me to order it and now I am obsessed–is a super food.

So, Katie sent me this PDF of what I can and can't eat, and I can't reproduce it for you here because it's a page from a real book and I will be sued. But here are some of the Dos and Don'ts. I love it when people write "Do's" and "Don'ts." Oh, so the DO needs a fake apostrophe before the s, but don't doesn't. That was a lovely sentence.

I CAN have chicken, red meat, avocado, cottage cheese, almonds, pistachios, and one green apple a day, or one green-tipped banana a day.

I CAN'T have corn, peanuts, cashews, bagels, pizza, popcorn, soy sauce or gum. I mean, there go all my food groups.

For three weeks I do this, and then I guess it lightens up after and I can–wooo!–have other fruit. The point is not to lose weight, because you've seen the svelte pole that is June and I love how I act like I am just fine the way I am and someone has been a little too Free to be Me & Me her whole life, but rather to stop being so damn sugary. If you did an Xray of me, itd look like one of those sugar-egg diaramas.

Easter_egg2
God, I love those. It's like it's about to give BIRTH to, you know, more sugar.

So I'll let you know how it goes. If I give up by the end of today. If I'm in a parking  lot eating a mess of Marathon bars in my car. Do they even make Marathon bars anymore? Also, how is it I feel like this is one of those posts where I have asked for no advice, and yet somehow subliminally it reads, "Adviiiiiice! Joooon needs adviiiiice!"

She doesn't. But you can tell me YOUR experience if you want. And ask me how I get my photos just so.

June, out. Of sugar.

The one where June gets all school marm on your arse

For the last few days, I've been either too ill or too busy or, sadly, both to really blog, and I know your life has been poorer for it. Possibly your family members have been after you. "Cheer up, mom. June's blog will be back soon." Also, possibly you are part of the team checking me into a facility for my delusions.

Anyway, I'm back. Hiiiii! I did want to address my post from Saturday, where I put up a bunch of photos and then didn't have time to write about them, so I said,"Here're a bunch of photos. You can just decide what I was going to write about." Then the first person took a look at a picture of Edsel with a new collar and a vase with two carnations and wrote, "Are you ENGAGED??"

Which, ?

Then funny reader Paula wrote that she thought the message was, "Paul is dead" and it turns out people don't know that cultural reference and I got irritated, which I know is not like me. Usually I'm so mellow. Have I never been mellow? No. Especially if you make me think of that song.

Anyway, FOLKS, "Paul is dead" is something that happened in I think the late '60s (otherwise it was the early '70s) where the whole world got this idea that Paul McCartney was dead, and many Beatles' songs and an album cover supposedly supported this theory. Which by the way a couple people explained in the comments and then people would rush over the comments to say, "Which Paul is dead? What? Who?"

Let's discuss the whole not-knowing thing. "I hate the Beatles." "I'm young." Yeah, not really excusable, in my book. And yes I AM tsk-ing at you school marmly. I may even be shaking my head. I know! It's super-appealing.

We need to not be so NOW-CENTRIC, and find out some stuff that happened before our time. I think I said this in the comments. War of the Worlds. I know what THAT'S all about, and I'm not all up in Orson Welles. Tulips getting crazy expensive. Say, that was before my time. Know about it. And I'm not even that well-informed! But it scares the CRAP out of me that people don't, I don't know, value what happened less than 100 years ago. Am I being fussy? Or do you agree?

Oh my god, 400 paragraphs later, have not even started telling you about weekend. God help us.

So the photos from Saturday included Edsel's new dapper collar, which Faithful Reader Deb got him. I was TRYING to take his picture but he kept wrestling with Tallulah, so that was the next photo. And then, sadly, I had to get my teeth cleaned on Thursday, and at my dentist they always give you a carnation after. So the last picture was of my carnations. My you-made-it-through-a-cleaning carnations. I got two flowers because the receptionist and I had a bonding experience while I was there.

Somehow our conversation led to her GETTING OUT FROM BEHIND THE COUNTER and coming over to speak to me right at my lobby chair, where she told me several very personal things.

There is something about me that's very approachable. People telling me all their stuff happens constantly. It REALLY happened when I was a church secretary. I guess they figured I was an extension of the priest, and I certainly am. I am a woman of the cloth. A sparkly cloth that's really impractical, but still.

After Receptionist and I became blood sisters, I went to get "just a cleaning," and why do we tell ourselves that? Getting a cleaning is TERRIBLE. In no world should metal be scraping your teeth. For an hour. "Oh, is that a sensitive spot?" they always ask, while you're clinging to the ceiling with your nails like a cat in the cartoons.

"I am so sweaty in this chair it's gonna leave a Shroud of Turin when I get up," I said, and the other hygienist (who apparently doesn't read my blog, as I've whipped out that line 480 times) heard that and laughed so hard that she brought me a delightful and not-at-all-humiliating Poise wipe for hot flashes. Have you seen these things? Somehow they're ice cold, and they smell nice, and I totally wiped myself like Elvis in concert with that thing. I smelled wonderfully middle-aged after.

So that was my Thursday, and on Friday I mostly went around telling everyone about my cold. Because I'm fun that way. I was invited to go over to Ned's Friday night, as he made soup and really nothing sounds better than soup when you have a cold, which by the way I did. In case you did not know this.

Before I headed to Ned's, where I was bringing pajamas to change right into, and also my own box of Kleenex, because sexy? Anyway, before I went there, I opooed in to Victoria's Secret, because they were having a sale on my delicates, and yes I DO hate that store and agree that all their bras fall apart. However, they're the only store I've found that carries my triple D size and you're right. I DO sound smug about being a triple D, and so would you. I just noticed that I wrote "opooed" instead of "popped" and I swear I have some kind of brain tumor or something. Opooed. Kill me now.

The point is, I heard, "June!" and I turned around and it was my therapist. One I saw briefly after Marvin left. You have never seen anyone NOT LOOK at something harder than I DIDN'T LOOK at what she was buying. Do not want to picture my therapist all trussed up in a bustierre.

6a00e54f9367fb8834017ee92dd00a970d-800wiAfter that humiliation, I had soup in my pajamas at Ned's, and we also played with Funny Putty, which is a knockoff of Silly Putty that Hulk gave me. I forgot he gave it to me, but found it while I was searching for (wait for it) cold medicine. Of which I had none. Because I never buy cold medicine. But then I always get desperate and wonder do I really have any, which leads to me finding Funny Putty and having hours of fun at Ned's with it.

Ned told me Silly Putty is one of the only substances that is both liquid and solid. Ned is full of fun facts. He shaped said putty into a dinosaur, and then we watched it melt into an anteater and finally it decayed right on the Mortality book. Ned read me that whole book. Not in one sitting, but over time. It's a picker-upper, that one. It's Christopher Hitchens' account of dying of esophageal cancer. I'm walkin' on sunshine!

On Saturday, I worked and complained about my cold and also had lunch with Ned's entire family, which, hey! Who brought the smallpox blanket to Family O'Ned? For years they'll talk about Cold Watch 2013, where the whole group fell ill at once. Go June!

Then we had a birthday party to go to, and let me tell you what.

6a00e54f9367fb8834017d41b9fb32970c-800wiA few weeks ago, I got mad at Dick Whitman about something, and I said to him, "I am NEVER BLOGGING ABOUT YOU AGAIN!" I know! Ooooooo! Burn! But then it was his birthday and there's no way I can just NOT blog about his dinner party.

6a00e54f9367fb8834017ee92dd5df970d-800wiWhere everybody had a good time.

6a00e54f9367fb8834017d41b9fcab970c-800wiReally, though, it was lovely. DW usually doesn't cook, but he made a curry chicken and risotto and there was a bowl full of ants that everyone said was dried seaweed, but you can't fool me.

6a00e54f9367fb8834017c378aa1e4970b-800wiI brought a coconut cake, which no I didn't make, but which cost $42 so I told DW that was his gift as well. Then I complained about my cold.

6a00e54f9367fb8834017c378aa74a970b-800wiI turned the camera on myself, which really should be the title of my memoirs, and I noticed Ned was being all weird. "What're you doing?" I asked. "Looking dignified," said Ned, who apparently has no idea what that word means. The point is, we're able to enjoy the Nostrils of Ned, and that is what matters.

When we were eating, I pointed out to Ned that he forgot to put dressing on his salad. "I don't EAT dressing. Salads are perfectly fine without it."

Yeah. I'm doing it too. I, too, am surrounded with an aura of  question marks and exclamation points.

6a00e54f9367fb8834017d41b9f75d970c-800wiOn Sunday, after trying to change my sheets and finding it a challenge, I finished my work and went for a walk with Ned and the curs. Because it was a really nice day yesterday, and I'd like to take this moment to shout out to my friend Jane West, who had to leave our 60-degrees-all-weekend state to get on a plane with a sinus infection to fly to Minnesota. HEYYYY, WEST! SURE IS NICE HERE!

6a00e54f9367fb8834017c378a9c3e970b-800wiGuess who'd be pleased with me that I captured this flattering moment on film? Guess who'd go Pit on my ass if she knew?

6a00e54f9367fb8834017d41b9f5db970c-800wiWhile we were there, we ran into someone Ned went to high school with, and yes it IS amazing that he AND a classmate are still alive, and anyway she had this puppy sweetie pie snickerdoodley-ooo muffinheaded puppy poo pie noodle and I was, oh, you know, sort of interested in him.

I love any kind of Boston terrier or French bulldog. I know I'm usually a big-dog person, but those breeds kill me. If I had a French bulldog I'd never be sad again.

IMG_0316After our walk, Ned and I went back to my swinging pad, where I complained about my cold and my cats remained indifferent. You have never seen a cat so blatantly in love than Lily. Look at poor Iris, just trying to get any crumb of attention she can. eyeriss not see you, but she no she love you unkle neds. eyeriss need little sugar too, you know, unkle neds.

IMG_0313Pfft. Iris. Out of luck since 2012.

Anyway. That about sums it up, except I feel like I didn't get to bring up my cold enough. Just please remember that I had one. Thank you. And gesundheit.