In which Animal Protective Services should be called. Also, Nedflix.

Because it's been awhile since I've done it, and because I love myself so bad, I made all the pets do Circle of Life last night.

 

Photo on 4-29-13 at 10.30 PM #3The circllllle of life! Boom!

Photo on 4-29-13 at 10.42 PMSay, guess who was in no mood for me and my circle?

…Boom!

Photo on 4-29-13 at 10.31 PM #2In other news? The cirrrrrclllllle! The circle of Edz's man bits!

Boom.

And finally? Finally?

The circllllle! The circle of Lu!


Photo on 4-29-13 at 10.32 PM
boom. you effing bitz.

I absolutely cannot stop giggling hysterically at poor Talu and her circle of hate mom now. Oh my god, everyone here is gonna EAT MY THROAT the second I sit down.

It totally looks like Talu is wearing my hair, which she probably will once she kills me and scalps me with her flea teef.

Anyway. In other news, Ned was kind enough to share with all of us his review of the ridiculous depressing Romanian nun movie we saw Sunday, so won't you join me for another edition of Nedflix?

Beyond the Hills, directed by Cristian Mungiu and starring a cast
of Romanians you’ve never before heard of, is – well, let’s just say it’s a
little slow.

It is not well-paced, is what I’m
saying.

This movie would have difficulty
finishing ahead of a three-toed sloth in a 50-yard dash.

It is the molasses of movies.

Mungiu was the director of 2007’s
4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days, a well-received
if pretty doggone intense film about an illegal abortion in 1980s Romania. So
there was reason to have moderate hopes for his latest effort. Beyond the Hills is the story of two
orphans, now young adults, trying to find their way in the world. Voichita has
signed on with a convent outside of a rural Romanian village, while Alina has
moved to Germany to work as a barmaid. There is clearly a romantic history
between the two, and Alina CANNOT LET
THIS GO
! She returns to Romania to try and convince Voichita to move to
Germany with her, but Voichita has found a home at the monastery.

Thing is, nobody likes it when
half a lesbian couple finds the Lord. It spoils everybody’s fun. But hey, it
happens, and the proper thing to do is to move on and find yourself another
lesbian. There are other fishes in the sea, I believe the saying goes. But this
is beyond Alina, and she proceeds to drive everyone–movie characters and
viewers alike–batshit crazy. One can’t help but feel sorry for the nuns and
priest who have to put up with this crap, and they do their best, if
misguidedly so, to help her. But no good deed goes unpunished, and this film
certainly drives that point home.

So yeah, slow. And a little
crazy. Maybe if the popcorn hadn’t been so salty. But we’ll never get that time
back, me and June. Keep that in mind if you’re considering this movie.

I guess that's all I have to say to you, and all Ned has to say to you, but oh! One more thing?

Boom.

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The one where June seems kind of crabby

First of all, I want to say to the 12 to 15 people who know me in real life who contacted me to either express their concern or to just blatantly try to find out what was wrong with me the other day, thank you very much. I know that I could have called any one of you to discuss my plight if I had wanted to.

If I had wannnnnnnnnted toooooooooooooooo.

But again, thank you.

Speaking of plights, when I went to see my friend Charlie the other day, I was on the phone with my mother on the drive over. So yes, I was that asshole on her cell phone in the car. Up next, texting while I'm just as high as a kite. "I'm on my way to see Charlie," I told her. "Remember? My friend who got paralyzed?"

"Oh, I do remember him. Be sure to ask him how he's doing while you're there."

See. I don't guess it's easy to get out of the my-child-is-a-helpless-kitten mode, because she says stuff like that all the time. "Well, mom, I'd better hang up. I have to go to work."

"Did you remember to put on pants?"

So I got to Chas's apartment and knocked on the door. There he was, in his fancy chair, and he seemed a little tired. "How are you doing?" I asked, having remembered to wear pants. "Are you in pain?" Turns out, not only do you get to be paralyzed when you're paralyzed, you also get to feel pain.

"Yeah, I am," he said.

"Are you taking stuff for it?" Don't you hate people who do that? Oh, thanks, June! Wow! Maybe I could TAKE STUFF for this pain! Hadn't thought about it in the eight months I've had to sit here! Say, June, have you tried Excedrin Migraine?

"Yes, but I won't bore you with the details of my meds," said Charlie.

"Are you in a cranky mood?" I asked, because he seemed like he might be.

"No," he said, "but I COULD get cranky, because you just walked in and started asking all about my pain and misery and I'd rather have fun," he said.

"Oh, good gravy. Does everyone come in here and stampede to the topic of your ailments?" I asked.

Apparently they do. MOM.

Somehow it already got late and I have to go shower and then walk into work naked from the waist down like a Centaur.
IMG_0727Ned might possibly Nedflix for us that horrific movie we saw yesterday, about the nuns and the devil and the Romania and even a moment of nun-on-girl action. So be sure to tune in for that, should it happen, because good? Good movie? Wow.

This picture of Ned with the wagon wheel naturally reminds me of When Harry Met Sally, and what doesn't? You're gonna go six rounds over this stupid wagon wheel Roy Rogers' garage sale boyfriend. Is that a wagon wheel or more a ship thingie?

Wheel. That's the technical phrase I was looking for. The wheel of a ship. I guess it is, because the spoke-y things go outside, and what kind of ludicrous wagon are you DRIVING? Crap. So forget it about my funny wagon wheel joke.

I guess technically centaurs are all-the-way naked, aren't they? Whatever.

June. Hoofing it.

June and the Water Tower. Also, “fur.”

How is everybody doing? It's rainy here, and I have a migraine for the FIFTH DANG DAY IN A DANG ROW, and forgive my rough language. A few weeks ago I was at my doctor and he gave me some samples of some new migraine stuff–new to me, and that's who matters, here–called Treximet, so today in my desperation, I got out the sample box.

IMG_0737I guess I could have read the, you know, box to see it only contained one tablet, but when I got a box this big I just assumed there'd be several pills in there.

IMG_0738
Once I opened the box, I had to get the special protective wrapping off,
which took an hour and 45 minutes. And hey! Did I mention my head
hurts?

IMG_0740After that, apparently I had to fly to Michigan and go to my friend Dot's house and squeeze her. Because you know what a hugger I am. And then? After I've squeezed the Dot and so on?

IMG_0742Taa-daaaa! Say, here's your one pill. Also, one is the loneliest number that you'll ever do.

I mean, it just seems like a lot of hooo haa for one lousy pill. Is my point. Anyway, I finally took it and we'll see if it even works.

In the meantime, hi! I feel less awful than I did the other day, but just between you and me, I decided I should go back to my therapist. I saw her for awhile after my, you know, marriage ended, and finally I am once again so miserable that I decided to get back together with her. I called said therapist, and you know what must be a fun job? Therapy-ing the fun that is June. Am I sounding like Dooce, over here, with my sadness and my being mental and you know what's politically correct? Is the phrase "being mental."

My point is, she called me right back. Apparently she's just been by the phone, thinking of nothing else but when I'd call her or climb up on a water tower. Why is it when someone has a breakdown you always describe them climbing a water tower, when in fact you can be nutty right there on the ground? It's the same with how if you can't read something, you always say it's in Sanskrit. I mean, German would be just as hard for me to read, you know? Why Sanskrit?

Anyway, she said she had availability Saturday, and please see above re June and the water tower. Who has SATURDAY appointments? But the thing is, Edsel had a vet appointment as well on Saturday.
IMG_0733
But the therapist said, "Oh, just bring him along. I love dogs!"

IMG_0734sighhhh

And that is how Edsel and I ended up in couple's therapy yesterday.
IMG_0735To tell you the truth, Edsel and I have been having issues for quite a while, and he really needs to learn to talk more. I mean, I'm getting a little sick of getting home and not ONE WORD from him before he humps my leg.

Oh, and when Eds and I were checking out at the vet, this really pretty woman came in who was maybe my age, except attractive. If that weren't bad enough, she had a lovely perfect gorgeous Golden retriever named–

…wait for it. No one names their dog this, so.

–Bella. She was boarding Bella for the weekend.

So she stood there, all perfect with her perfect dog, while goofy Eds and my pretty self paid, and while she waited she kept hugging Bella.

"I sowwy," she said to the dog, kissing her. "I sowwy I leeeeveeng, Bellas. I sowwy."

Guess who was over her. Was it me, and also possibly Bella? Guess who was probably de-effing-lighted to be going to the kennel for two days in order not to hear the word "sowwy."

Good gravy.

After my Est session with Edsel, I dropped him off so he could think about his part in this relationship and I headed over to Winston-Salem, for a change, and dropped in on my friend Charlie. If you're just getting here or you skim like Faithful Reader Laura L, Charlie is a guy I am inexplicably friends with, seeing as he is in his 20s and single and all cool and artist-y and when we met I was married and still middle-aged and dowdy as I am now.

The point is, last August, Charlie was kayaking and slipped on a damn rock and is now paralyzed. Which guess what, sucks. I had visited him in the hospital awhile back but went to his apartment yesterday, where he lives with his most excellent girlfriend who is similarly in her 20s and more mature than me by about 10 million thousand eleventy billion times.

I gave him the money you all donated to him, as there was a fundraiser for him recently and some of you hit my tip jar. All told, I had a hundred dollars to take over there, and he was thankful to all y'all all.

I feel like going into detail about what his mood was like or what he had to say about his condition is, you know, kind of an invasion of his privacy, but suffice it to say, the whole thing 100% totally sucks ass, and I have every faith that he will eventually thrive and make the best of this stupid sitch. He's just that guy. He's determined guy.

I have to go, as Ned and I are going to a–wait for it, again–depressing movie about nuns and demonic possession and something, and say, who do you think picked THAT one? I wanted to see the happy wedding movie with Diane Keaton.

While I've been writing this, my head feels a bit better, so that's good. That was worth the Fort Knox packaging, I guess. Yeesh.

Talk at you tomorrow, dudettes. What if I just called you "dudettes" all the time? How soon till you stopped reading me? Don't go, dudette. Don't go.

Okay, June and her package, out.

Dark

Sometimes things happen in real life that I cannot blog about for whatever reason. This is one of those times. Usually, when something has happened and I cannot blog about it, I try to just write about something else, and it's always one of those terrible phony-ass <crickets> posts:

June: Blahhhh de blooo bloo blooo! Bloo de bleee! …heh!

Readers:

.

So I will not do that today, and instead say I feel sad and scared and terrible and insecure, although I know in my heart of hearts, my heart-of-skipping-a-beat hearts, that this too shall pass and I will not be this miserable soon.

Did I tell you that? That the other day my doctor said my heart was skipping beats? I had to reel from the fact that I still HAVE a heart and it's not some dried withered stomped-on Grinch-heart thing. Anyway he said it was from coffee but I say it's cause I was being felt up by a 71-year-old doctor. Oooo!

I do have SOME good news, though, even though in general I feel as though I am walking under a dark dark cloud of doom of darkness in the dark.

Photo on 4-26-13 at 7.29 AM #2First and foremost, I gots a Lily. And look how happy. lilee too preteee to be pik up, mom. now lilee under dark cloud of darks.

Yes, my hair IS straight. In my fit of feeling rotten yesterday I went out and got a blowout. Some people throw things when they feel bad, some beat their wives. I beat Edsel and headed to the beauty salon, which as usual I have pronounced "salouuuu" in my head like the guy in the Tres Semme commercial.

Ooo la la.

What a horrific tag line. "Ooo la la." Oh, shut up.

Anyway, the good news is I got the money from effing Poland, FINALLY, seven months later, and that is helpful, plus I got paid for some freelance work, which is good because I have done freelance work every night in April. So it's good to get the, you know, rewards.

Photo on 4-26-13 at 7.36 AM #2Oh look! Now I gots a Iris. Similarly happy. She got her one-half a good eye out to glare. All cats love me.

Anyway. The other good news is, remember a few months ago when I went to my friend TinaDoris' house to sage it because she has a ghost? In case you just got here, my friend TinaDoris is, like, 12 and she and her husband bought a fabulous old house with secret rooms and window seats and they piss me off because how are 12-year-olds having this stuff? The part where they scrimped and did this thing called "save your money" and could someone Google that? is beside the point.

However, with the excellent old house with crystal doorknobs came a ghost. So TDoris and I went to the hippie store and got sage and set it on fire and waved the smoke all over her house while her husband rolled his eyes at us.

The GOOD news is, TD and I had lunch yesterday and I asked if she'd had any ghost run-ins since then. "Didn't I TELL you this?" she asked. Apparently the night we did the sage, after I left, she was at the sink and saw out of the corner of her eye a tall man walk through the kitchen. She felt him brush past her and he went out the back door.

She assumed it was her money-saving husband, natch.

But her husband was upstairs in the shower.

ooooooWEEEEEEEEooooooooooo!

IMG_0722Here's TinaDoris on her way into our lunch yesterday. Where we ordered the same thing. And where with her youthful metabolism, it has flown off to wherever her ghost went and on me that same lunch has lingered around my hiptual area, where it will linger like a drunk guest on Thanksgiving.

Anyway after that she has had no hauntings. Now, however, she is on vaca and guess who has to go to her empty house today and has just scared the crap out herself?

Is it June, over here? Sad scared June, over here?

Carp.

June, dark and out.

June complains. I know! It’s like a unicorn sighting.

See? I knew hearing about everyone's sex life would be riveting.

How many of you felt bad because of it? Several people emailed me to say hearing about how often others are having sex made them feel bad. Some wondered if their significant other was happy, now, or is there something wrong with them and what a can of worms that opened.

Why do you think that is? Why did so many of us stampede to comparing and contrasting like that? Why do we make this particular topic so important?

June's blog, man. Where you come for the deep thoughts.

In the meantime, I just found out that they are moving where I sit at work and thank all that is holy. I've already told you I sit right near the door that no one can seem to manage. There's a three-digit code you have to push, and it's NOT LIKE THE CODE GETS CHANGED A LOT, yet all day long I have to hear: click, click, click FLOOMP. Click, click, click FLOOMP. NO ONE EVER GETS THE GODDAMN CODE RIGHT. EVVVVVERRRRRRRR.

Plus, I am not in a cubicle. It's bad enough to BE in a cubicle rather than an office, particularly when your WHOLE JOB is to READ SOMETHING extra super carefully and you have to hear the person in the next cube. "SO THEN WE WENT TO THE MALL? YOU KNOW? AND I TRIED ON THOSE NEW JEANS AND OHMYGOD I GOT BA-DONK-A-DONK BUTT NOW! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH! I NEED A VACATION FROM MY VACATION! HAHAHAHAHAH!"

If there is anything I detest, it's people who say, "You back? How was it? Looks like you need a vacation from your vacation! HAHAHAH!"

Actually, the guy who sits next to me currently is very quiet and hard-working, and I enjoy sitting next to him quite a bit. Also, I cannot imagine him saying "ba-donk-a-donk" if you paid him. But you get my point. And I don't even have CUBICLE WALLS. I'm just OUT there, in the ROOM, exposed to EVERYONE, and even worse I'm near the copy machine.

No, I have never once said, "Makin' copieeeees."

And here is the thing. I don't know if it's cause I'm ME or if this would happen to anyone, but NO ONE, NOOOO ONNNNNNE can pass my desk without saying something to me. "Hey, June." "How's it going, June?" "ploink!" (some people, VILHELM OYSTER, knock stuff over on my desk to be hilarious) "knock knock" (SOME people just fucking knock on my desk as they pass).

YES, I KNOW YOU CAN SEE ME. THIS DOES NOT MEAN YOU HAVE TO ACKNOWLEDGE ME EVERY TIME.

Did I mention my job involves READING REALLY CAREFULLY all day? And you need, oh, CONCENTRATION? Oh, and also I have no overhead light and I am in a windowless room. I failed to mention that part. Did I mention the, you know, reading thing? And that a lot of it is legal-sized font?

So yeah. Been hating my desk for quite a while now. Am rejoicing at actual walls and a light. And distance from click, click, click FLUMP.

OH MY GOD IT'S THREE DIGITS. PUSH THEM IN! PUSSSSHHHH THEMMM INNNNNNN.

Sometimes I get cranky at work.

So I guess that's my biggest news. Oh, and my dishwasher is broken. It washes the dishes and they all smell like dead fish when they come out, which is just the scent I was hoping for. So I have to come back here at 10:00 and meet the repairman. Am looking forward to that whole rigmarole. Won't I be embarrassed if he actually pulls out a dead fish like cats find in alleys in the cartoons. Oooo, I kind of wish I HAD some kind of hilarious fish skeleton now, so I could put it in there and confuse the hell out of the repairman.

I always think of these things too late, just like how I always wish for a cobweb suit to put on when one friend of mine finishes her never-ending stories. "Oh, is that over already?" I could say, covered in cobwebs. Never remember till she's in the midst.

Okay, that's all. Take off your cobweb suit, there, Miss Funny. I'm done.

S Word. Or, “I’ll take Swords for 100, Alex.”

Did you ever see that Celebrity Jeopardy on Saturday Night Live when Sean Connery sees the category "S Words" and says, "I'll take Swords for 100, Alex"?

I effing love Celebrity Jeopardy on Saturday Night Live.

But that is not why I've gathered you all here today. I have GATHERED you here to ask you another question. A few weeks ago, I asked you to tell your secret, if you had one, and wow, you all participated in droves. Some of them were heartbreaking and some were fascinating and I was so pleased you all did it. Thank you again.

In those comments, one reader said, "You should ask people how often they REALLY have sex. Now, THAT would be interesting."

And you know what? I think it would. I don't know if ANYONE will comment today, but if you have the nerve, of course sign in anonymously if you want, and tell us how often you, you know, Do It.

Tell me your age range (in your 30s, in your 80s, whatever) and marital status. And tell the TRUTH, for heaven's sake.

Okay, go.

(Dear Mom, Please do not participate. Okay, thanks. XO, June.)

Shoot shoot shoot

IMG_0717
How many pictures like this do you think I will take of Ned?

Last night there was a meteor shower. Did you see it? Neither did I. First of all, I have no meteor shower luck. If there's some kind of shooting-star event, I traipse out to some field somewhere, and lie there looking up, then as soon as I get distracted (read: .0000000002 seconds later) and look at my cuticles or at my inevitable bowl of chips,

shoot! shoot! shoot!

there go the stars shooting the crap out themselves. And everyone else says, "There was one!" and I'm all, "WHERE? GodDAMMIT." and then we all commence lying there again and oh, is something wrong with my cuticle?

shoot! shoot! shoot!

Son of a BITCH.

So I never see stars. This did not stop me from schlepping out at EIGHT O'CLOCK AT NIGHT, and I know you're all "That Joob is such a NIGHT OWL" and me calling myself "Joob" is only funny if you read yesterday and why DIDN'T you? Dick.

But really. It was a Monday night. There's no going out starting at 8:00 on a Monday. What am I, 24? But Ned said, "Let's go way out to the country, and we can eat at that Thai place that's so good out there, and I'll bring chairs" and it was seeming like a whole thing so we went.

I was the driver, because I have the GPS, and neither of us can ever remember how to get out to that really good Thai place that's out in the country in a strip mall and it makes no sense that a restaurant that good is slapped between a Jimmy Buffet theme bar and a Salvation Army store, but there it is.

The problem was, when I tried to be all brilliant and put the address in my fucking fucking fucking GPS that NEVER WORKS anymore and I SO NEED a new GPS I think, or do you somehow update the one you have? Someone tell me. Anyway, the GPS said this street did not exist and I wanted to snap it in two and shove the pointy parts up Mr. GPS Inventor's nethers.

So we set the GPS for "center of town" and headed out there.

"You know, maybe they'll be closed on a Monday, or maybe they close at 8:00," said Ned, who always has the comforting words. "Maybe we won't make it."

Did I mention I usually eat BEFORE 8 p.m.? Like, three HOURS before 8 p.m.? And that I was the cranky hungry? "If we get there and it's closed, we're going to Sonic,"  I said. Ned would rather starve to death and get kwashiorkor and be in a Sally Struthers commercial before he ate at Sonic. Ned does not know from good.

Somehow, though, we managed to get to the center of town, FIND the restaurant, and discover it was open till 10:00. The Jimmy Buffet theme bar was dark and quiet, though. Thank god.

"The weather report says it's going to be mostly cloudy," said Ned, in the first half hour of studying his menu.

"THEN WHY DID WE COME ALL THE WAY OUT HERE?" I cranked. I already knew what I was having. The ginger chicken. I considered the drunken noodles but if I wanted a drunken noodle I could have just stayed home and looked at Edsel. Again, only funny if you read yesterday and I'm getting a little sick of your shit.

Somehow while we were eating, we got on the topic of the theme song for Chico and the Man. Which in retrospect was a fine song.

 

Marvin, if you read this, is that not your car after they show the Boyle Heights sign? I really think that is Marvin's car. Wait. Maybe Marvin's headlights are stacked on top of each other. Oh, I can't remember. Everyone read yesterday. I was funnier.

My POINT is, when we were done with our ginger chicken and large plate of vegetables–and why does Ned even get out of bed every day? If I had to go around being that healthy I'd die of boredom–we headed outside to a perfectly cloudy night.

"I also read that the moon was going to obliterate the stars, anyway," said Ned.

And that is when we went home and YouTubed the Chico and the Man theme song and saw not one meteor even THINKING of taking a shower.

Shoot.

100% Natural

I'm trying to eat my delicious Ines Rosales tortas and Tallulah is on her hind legs, being two legs bad, trying to get it.
IMG_0707Talu's beggy look. I'm certainly falling for it, too, you manipulative ass. Yes, it's perfectly fine to call your dog an ass. It's in all the best training manuals. Cesar has one just called: Your Dog is a King Kamehameha Ass. Haven't you read it?

Have you had the Ines Rosales torta? Is "torta" the plural of "tortas"? Cannot wait for first know-it-all to tell me smugly, "No, Jooob, the singular of tortas is xyepphrelt. God."

"Jooob." Dying. Nice typing. My keyboard is an ass.

Anyway, I know it sounds like Ines Rosales paid me to mention them today in between things that make little sense, but sadly they did not remotely do any such thing.

Screen Shot 2013-04-22 at 7.50.34 AM
Basically Ines Roasalas tortas are a crispy cinnamon tortilla and they bring me much happiness.

"How's the no-sugar diet going, June?" Oh, shut up.

The reason I own any Ines Rosales tortas–and man, at this point I'd have earned $11,000 or something if they'd offered me cash per mention–is because Ned and I went to the newest pretentious co-op vegan-ish look-what-the-white-people-have-built-now grocery store in his neighborhood, and luckily for me, near my work.

I know we really know how to live it up, going to a grocery store and all, but I had work to do this weekend and welcomed any diversion. Oooo, buying vegan Tide and organic cat litter? Sign me up!

IMG_0704
Speaking of cat litter, I love this photo of Ned throwing blossoms on me, holding a bag of NedKitty poo. We were on our way to his Dumpster. Did you know "Dumpster" is a proper noun? Welcome to my pool of knowledge.

At Ned's apartment, they inexplicably have special trash cans that read "Dispose of Kitty Litter Here," which I took a photo of before but do you really think I have time to find it in the 9 million pictures I have so organizedly arranged on my computer? Anyway the good news is that is the photo that pops up whenever my pal Hulk calls. I always forget I put it there to represent Hulk, then the phone rings and I giggle. Hulk adores him the cats.

I really don't understand people who don't like cats. And I always like them a little less than I would otherwise. If you don't like cats I kind of write you off as kind of needy and simple. I am sorry. But I do. Obviously I can work up a like of you otherwise. See: Hulk. Who I don't think of as needy and simple, just kind of a dick.

At any rate, the healthy, pretentious, overpriced ($21 for almond butter!) new co-op was pretty interesting. "Every white liberal in Greensboro is gonna be here," I said when we pulled in and two black people were walking out, making me look like an idiot and THANKS, BLACK PEOPLE. Am certain they were still pot-smoking, loom-owning, NPR-listening hippies.

We got out of Ned's car, where he had been listening to NPR on the radio, and sauntered in. And it's a good thing we did, because people who go to the vegan pretentious hoity-toity patchouli-wearing new food co-cop? Were not what you'd call in a rush. Holy cats. You have never seen so much milling and standing stock still to enjoy the organic vitamins in your fucking life. Seriously, it was like they installed dye-free statues in the aisles here and there for decoration.

Now, I hope you're sitting down, but Ned is a little more tolerant of, you know, everybody than I am. "Is it bugging you how people seem to be standing around, here?" I asked him, as I wedged my way past a 100% cotton couple. "Oh my god, YES. It's so fucking annoying!" he said, and I was delighted. Maybe my intolerance is rubbing off on him. Teach Intolerance.

Anyway, he bought one tiny bag of nutritional yeast and I got 16 vegan power bars, the cinnamon tortas, some tamales and fake potato chips. Only June could find ways to buy unhealthy in a fancy left-wing Joni Mitchell health-food parents-from-Valley-Girl-own-it grocery store.

So that's how I'm eating the tortas that Talu wants. Aren't you glad you stuck around for that?

I leave you with photos from a fancy vegan gluten-free hippie white Bye Bye, Pie get-together that occurred this weekend.

DSC05856I guess other than the cigarettes and wine and whatever Fay is imbibing, back there. From left to right, here is Sadie, PJ, Tee, Fay and Beverly. If you read the comments, you have seen their names 12,000 times.

I don't want ANY MORE OF YOU making fun of my photos, as this one has a BIG LINE in the middle. Do I give you big lines? I do not.

526418_589470157739300_1573733452_nThey all got together in Atlanta this weekend, and I feel like mature times were had by all.

I fricking love candy cigarettes.
921020_240007449471674_16675797_oPJ even flew in for the thing! As you can see, Tee picked her up and fortunately for everyone, no one was a stabby type of person, as far as I know. They sent me all these photos and then I never heard from anyone again. Maybe it ended in a tragic bloodbath, which frankly would really pump my reader numbers, so yay!

IMG_0709wyy edz not invite to antlant bash?

Because you are such a drunk, Eds. No one wants to deal with it.

Anyway, that sums up the weekend, except for this:

IMG_0685Someone and his tongue got to go to the dog park this weekend. Run off that hangover. This tongue picture kills me. As does the stick going up his nose.

Okay, that is all. June, organic.

Blinded by the light

IMG_0683Dude. We totally see you.

I have a busy day of freelance to catch up on, and guess who is a barrel of laughs? Is it devil-may-care June, over here? After next weekend I'll be done with all this freelance work, and then I officially become a full-time employee at my job on May 1, two years to the day I was hired there in the first place.

I kind of feel like two years ago was the beginning of the story: I was jobless, newly separated, that sort of thing. And now it's been two years and I'm all happy and in love in that gross way that makes you want to slap me, and working so I won't be destitute and having to ask y'all how to buy poor-person groceries, and it's kind of like, yay. I got through all that and came out the other side.

So it's a worky no-fun day, but that's okay. I have a fun life.

I hope you do, too.

The one where June tells you about her rash. Read on!

Because I know you're going to want every detail–who wouldn't?–I have a rash. It has been there for some time, and naturally I figured "leukemia," and I really have no idea if leukemia presents with a rash, and I did not look it up because even though Marvin left over two years ago, I still try to stick with his rule that I was not allowed to Google symptoms.

It's just better all the way around. In fact, it's better for all of us. We should all just not Google symptoms, any of us. Stop it. We should also not Google pictures of the Boston Marathon bombing, which I keep doing and then getting upset.

What did we DO before we could Google our stuff, like "Why do I have a rash" and "Why won't June get to the point"?

It was nestled, my rash was, in between my rather ample bosoms, and I at first thought what you're thinking: heat rash. I work out all the time (okay, "all the time" might be a strong phrase) and wear the world's strongest sports bra and yeah, that makes sense. That or leukemia. But when normal stuff wouldn't clear it up, I asked my doctor, and NO, I DIDN'T just stampede to the doctor for a rash, judgy, I think I was there for migraines or plantar or the disease of going on and on in a story. One of those.

She prescribed a cream, and? Nothing. Did not clear it up in the slightest. So I called and they referred me to a leukemia specialist. Or a dermatologist. Whichever. I went to said dermatologist on Tuesday, and yes I DID look around to see if she did Botox, but there were no brochures out so dang. I was also tempted to ask for Retin A, but the last time I was on that stuff I got my eyebrows waxed and my entire upper face fell off.

You aren't supposed to get waxes when you use Retin A. News flash.

So all I got was a new prescription. I Went To The Dermatologist and All I Got Was This Lousy Prescription. Whatever is wrong with me is SO ODD and RARE and WEIRD that I had to get it filled at a confoundned pharmacy or something like that, where they mix things up for you. "Have you been to Place That Time Forgot Pharmacy, over by the jewelry store?" the dermatologist asked.

I had not. But I went there after work, and holy gatos. Seriously, you haven't been to a pharmacy like that since 1978. It was so effing cool.

It was just a pharmacy, you know what I mean? It wasn't nestled in your Target or your grocery store. And they sold crutches and Pedialyte and medicated powders and all kinds of sexy things that I could have spent forever looking at. Do I need an enema? I'd think, fondling it. How about stuff for a sitz bath? What IS a sitz bath? Is that where you sitz instead of stand?

I have no idea when I turned into my grandfather.

Finally my stuff was ready. It was $38, which was so much better than the TWO HUNDRED SIXTY-EIGHT DOLLARS I pay for six of my migraine meds. Yes, I have insurance. Remember when insurance actually covered stuff?

But right before I left, I saw they had Tussy. Oh!

42758-280x280-Tussy
My grandmother used Tussy. It's this cream deodorant, and why you'd want to scoop up your deodorant and apply it with your hand like you're eating daal and naan or something is beyond me. But she had it, and right there in that pharmacy that time forgot, I opened the jar and sniffed that stuff.

I might as well have been back at her vanity in 1970, digging through all gramma's lipsticks and Prell and Dippity-Do and Rapture, which I once put on and paraded out to her, saying, "How do I smell? I  put on your Rupture" and she fell over in hysterics.

Oh! The smell of that Tussy took me back. It too me back to Rupture days. And that is why I've gathered you all here today. What smell reminds you of the past?

Oh, and the cream seems to be working. I'd have taken before and after shots but I didn't know you'd be this into my rash. Freak.

Rashly, June

Upstream

I have to be at work–work work, not fake work, and yay!–in 20 minutes, so I must hurry.

IMG_0681
I went out with Ned last night, to the salmon salad place we like. I usually eat half of that giant salad with an enormous piece of salmon on it, but I did Tracy Chapman workout first so I ate the whole damn thing. That piece of salmon must have been terribly popular in school. He was all big and substantial. He was probably big man on fish campus, like a fishy Doug Simpson. And then I ate him.

Dear Mom, Doug Simpson was the big man on campus on a Brady Bunch episode. He asked Marcia out. Hilarity ensued. No, I WON'T ever get over The Brady Bunch, mom.

Anyway, since I have to go, I bring you this.

IMG_0679
Wait. First I bring you my nose and my new hair, as I was rushing out to meet Ned. Please note that although I have on a light sweater, it's managed to slip off to reveal that SAME DAMN PINK BRA I showed the other day. I cannot win. Am strap exhibitionist.

Anyway, one of you told me to watch this the other day and now I am obsessed.

 

Also, I love this.

 

Okay, bye.

If I got yelled at, I’d be upbraided.

IMG_0668Sometimes it's like they're just begging to get on my blog. we not bee on blawg for millyun days, mom. dis kewt enuf? Do you like the nice sheet I have over the couch? I emulated Jackie Kennedy's sheet, from when she had four pets at the White House.

How is it other people have pets and manage to not have June's Furry House of Fur Now With Fur? Can you tell me that?

Do you really think my pets'd misspell "cute" that bad? It's really not that hard of a word.

Anyway, hi. Here I am again. I guess Ima tell you about my hair today. I know that's not like me. But recently Ned, who is kind of one of those no-nonsense boys, said, "You should go to my hair person. You'd like it there. It's girly and shit."

Ned goes to a girly hair person? This shocked me as much as it does you. I remember we had to schedule our first date around his hair, as he was getting it cut that week. I didn't know Ned was so into hair. You'd think he'd pick a woman with a less troublesome 'do, then. Because as we know, I got me some hair.

If I were a musical, I'd be Hair.

If I were a cult, I'd be a Hari Krishna.

If I were a body of water, I'd be a lock.

I told all of that to my pal Daniel Boone the other day, and he said, "If you were German, they'd call you Herr even though you're a girl."

Oh, I got a million of them. If I were on an island I'd be STRANDed.

So yeah. Hair. Which apparently Ned is sick of looking at, as he recommended his hair woman to get rid of mine. So I scheduled an appointment for cut AND color, because did I mention I am also gray?

If I were a TV show, I'd be Grey's Anatomy. If I were a book, it'd be 50 Shades of–oh you get my drift.

If I were a speaker, I'd be Spaulding Grey. Could not help self.

By the way, if you ever wonder do you spell it "grey" or "gray," if you're in America, it's "gray," and in England or one of those British-spelly places, it's "grey." You are welcome. I used to work at a place that put out two catalogs–one in the U.S. and one in Canada, and I'd have to proofread all the same things, but remember if it was the Canadian book or not, so it'd be colour/color, program/programme, gray/grey, and this is why I will never get Alzheimer's.

Anyway. It turns out Ned's hairdresser (do boys have hairdressers?) has a salon .0003 miles from my house, but naturally I got in my car and drove precisely the opposite way to get there, only to drive and drive and wonder why the numbers were getting lower and wondering when they'd pick back up again until finally I was on the EAST part of the street and not west anymore. Did I mention I hate everything and particularly directions? That if I were another TV show I'd be Lost? Did I mention that time Ned snapped at me in the car and I cried, it was because of directions? And hair?

Okay, we weren't remotely fighting about hair. But he said, "No, no, June, go this way" and I said, "No!" and we ended up in Tibet and he snapped.

If Ned were a restaurant, he'd be Snappy Lunch. Which is only funny to people who live in North Carolina and know what the Sam Hill Snappy Lunch is.

I finally got there, nine minutes late, and good gravy, she was BEAUTIFUL, Ned's hairdresser was. I linked to her again so you can look at her website and see a photo. It turns out she is Russian, and did not once say "Moose and Squirrel," and for that I am sad, but she was a model and lived in Paris and did I mention her beautifullness?

Dang.

Anyway, she took one look at my hair, which has gotten so large I am not pulling it back half the time. Here.

IMG_0671
Here I am being lost on the way there, and I know it's extra safe to take your photo in the car. I was at a red light, though, judgy.

At any rate, we had a good time, Ned's hairdresser and me. She used to live in New York, and cut hair there on Madison Avenue, and we talked about New York and Los Angeles and Paris and men and relationships and oh, we had us a time. We did not talk about Ned a lot, which is good, because I'm more than willing to gossip about Ned with all of YOU, who don't know him, but it's different when you're with someone who knows your man and his hair.

Anyway, here is my hair now.

IMG_0678
What do you think? Cute? I think it's cute. And the color is excellent. God, I hate my nose. If I were a predictor of the future, I'd be Nostradamus.

So in all, am glad I went to Ned's hair woman, and will see her again, and will try very hard to get her to say "Moose and Squirrel."

To cheer us. Josie and her lack of pussycats.

I've been meaning to post this for awhile but I keep forgetting. Some of you have asked in the comments to see pictures of my friend Sleeping Beauty's kid, Josie, who is almost two now, and I'm certain my pal Sleeping would tell you the exact number of months she is, as all moms do and please see yesterday's list of things that bug me, says 573-month-old June Gardens, who enjoys a run-on sentence not at all.

Wow. I am exactly 573 months old TODAY. Where the eff are my happy bday wishes? Bunch of dinks.

Anyway, Sleeping B saw those comments and of course stampeded to send me a photo of her child:

Photo-6Who looks precisely like–I want to say like Sleeping B in drag, but that makes no sense. She looks like if my friend Sleeping Beauty had been left in the dryer too long. It is amazing how one has a kid and that kid ends up looking like the person who had her. That Mendel, man.

Anyway, she also sent along a video, and I thought maybe on this gloomy day we would all enjoy watching it, as not only is it ridiculous, it is also ridiculous. I especially like Josie's big finish.

So here you go. Sister's got moves. Just like her Aunt June.

I hope I don't get sued by whoever wrote The Alphabet Song.

 

In which June is thoroughly annoyed at whoever ruined the marathon.

How come whenever my blog post is extra petty, something like this happens? Last time I was depressed and complaining about some stupid-ass thing, and that day there was a school shooting. Talk about putting things into perspective.

I said this to Ned last night on the phone. "I blogged about duckface today, and two hours later those awful bombs went off at the Boston marathon. I mean, how frivilous am I?"

"Well, to be fair, duckface is a huge problem facing our nation," Ned said. And there really is no denying that.

I just feel so terrible for everyone who was there yesterday. I keep thinking it wasn't an international act of terror, but rather some moron from here who is a giant nutbar. But today I see they are saying the bombs were sophisticated, whereas last night they said they weren't. So maybe it was some fancy we-hate-America person from a foreign land. I hate to name names till we know (Camilla Parker Bowles).

(Charo.)

(Yakof Smirnoff.)

At any rate, that's all I have to say today. Am sad and hate violence. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'll still gladly slap you with my liver. But that's as far as I enjoy the violence.

Oy.

Ten things that bug me. I know! Sometimes I get bugged!

I got up late today because there is no earthly reason Mad Men needs to end at 11:00 p.m., but it does, and all Mad Men season I am screwed up on Mondays. Last year when it was on I was laid off, which was super convenient.

So what I am saying to you is I did not blog this morning, in case you didn't notice, and I like how "blog" has become a verb, and pretty soon I'll be one of those people who says things like "impactful."

My point is, today I left a comment in my own comments in my own blog about myself, and asked, "What should I blog about when I go home for lunch today?" And while some of you had spectacularly unimpactful suggestions, I appreciate you reaching out to me and let's touch base on this later. I'd like to piggyback your ideas and really think outside of the box.

Okay, Ima kill myself if I do that one more minute.

Anyway, Faithful Reader Deb–I think it was Deb. I'd go look but I'd really like to hit the ground running on this–suggested I list the top 10 things that annoy me, and not only did I think that was actionable, I worried that I'd never be able to winnow it down to 10, and I'd really like to value-add this list.

Seriously. Slapping own self with own liver now.

So without further corporate speak or adieu, here are 10 Things That Bug Me in the Order I Think of Them.

  1. Duckface. Stop it. It isn't pretty, and why did you think it was in the first place? In case you do not know what duckface is, go on Facebook right now and look at photos of any girl you are friends with who is under 30. I guarantee you she is posing at least once with her lips pursed in duckface. Leave a comment telling her to come here. So I can say to her YOU ARE NOT WATER FOWL. Are you TRYING to bed Daffy Duck? Cause otherwise, I am lost.
    Duck-face
  2. LOL, emoticons, ROTFLMFAO, IMO, DH–ohmygod, STOP. What happened to using words to express ourselves? STFU. See what I did, there?
  3. I thought you were going to use correct punctuation? Please, please, for the love of all that is holy, TAKE FOUR SECONDS to think about whether what you just wrote is a question or a statement, then use THE CORRECT PUNCTUATION at the end. If your sentence starts with, "I thought you…" guess what. GUESS WHAT. It's a statement. It's not a question. The phrase "guess what" is a statement, as well, although half the time I catch myself putting a "?" at the end of sentences that begin "Guess what…" and then I hate myself and make duck face in the mirror and LOL.
  4. "Call me!" It's bad enough if you call my cell phone then immediately call my home phone, seeing as half the time I was ignoring you in the first place and now you've disturbed me twice. But when you can't get me, be sure to leave a voicemail that just says, "Call me!" and doesn't leave an actual message about what you want. Oh, I love that. LOVE.IT. You can be assured I'll be returning that message promptly.
  5. Who are you? Who who who who. I understand that you have kids and you like them. I guess you're supposed to like them, so, you know, good for you. But when your Facebook profile picture AND your Facebook cover AND your Christmas cards are just pictures of your kids? When did you cease becoming a person? It makes me think of that Saturday Night Live when Gilda Radner played Sybil, and they asked her to grab a doll that would represent her, and she grabbed a piece of Scotch tape. Don't be Scotch tape. You still exist. Really.
  6. We! Which leads me to my next favorite: We're pregnant! No, you're not. One of you is. Probably the one who has a uterus. Even if both of you have a uterus, only one of you is likely pregnant.
  7. Advise columnist. You give adviCe. You adviSE someone. Please see the difference. You wear your everyday clothes every day. You don't see him everyday. Ugh, just writing that made me shiver. You CHOOSE your friends, and you CHOSE to pay zero attention in school when they taught you the difference between these words. And there is where they're paying no attention to their lessons.
  8. That's what I'M talking about. Yes, it is. Apparently it's what everyone is talking about, as I hear that annoying-ass phrase eleven thousand times a day. And while you're up, please stop saying "large" when referring to thousands of dollars. "I won 50 large. That's what I'M talking about." I'm going to rip my own face off, like in the Peter Gabriel video.
  9. My last name. Last year, seeing as I got divorced and all, I went back to my stupid irritating annoying duckface that's what I'm talking about ding-dang maiden name, and guess what. ("?") It's still constantly mispronounced. People didn't learn how to say it in the 14 years I didn't have it. It ends in "feld," my real last name does, and it ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS gets pronounced "field." The other day I watched Easter Parade, where Judy Garland and Fred Astaire auditioned for Zigfeld Follies, and I noticed they kept pronouncing it "Zigfield." I felt Zigfeld right then so bad.
  10. And I said, "No, what?" I have told this to Ned and I can tell he finds me persnickety. Which after this list is clearly not true. When you are telling a story, you do not need to add in your useless reaction. For example, "So he said to me, 'You know how much I brought home?' and I said, 'No, how much?' and he said, "Eleven pounds." See. We didn't need to hear that you asked, "No, how much?" It was not germane to the story. Just stampede to his answer. Oh, how I hate that.

So that was it. The first 10 things that irk me off the top of my not-at-all-cranky head. I didn't even MENTION Dick Whitman texting me, "Where are you?" when he knows perfectly well if I'm not there I'm IN THE CAR DRIVING ON THE FREEWAY to his city. Didn't even mention that. I said, "You know what irks me?" and you said, "No, what?"

Sigh.

Impactfully, June

 

eh eh eh eh [convulse]

I know it's Saturday and therefore eight people in total wonder why I haven't written yet, and for those eight people I will tell you that I've been working all day. I have freelance up my butt, which may lead you to wonder how I make my extra dollars.

Anyway, I sat outside all day with the dogs while I worked, and then I pulled 94958383920303 pounds of weeds from my yard, and I have a guy who comes and cuts the grass and weeds everything for $25, which I realize is a steal but he gives me a discount because I let him put freelance up my butt.

See what I did there? I said something ludicrous to see if you were paying attention. The point is, he hasn't shown up and my lawn looks insane and so does my neighbor Peg's, as we have the same currently negligent lawn boy.

Who cuts the grass on Walton's Mountain? Lawn Boy.

Good night. Drive carefully. You've been a great audience.

I was listening to my iPhone outside while I weeded and WHO WANTS CORDLESS HEADPHONES OH MY GOD ANNOYING when my nice Johnny Cash song was interrupted by a train whistle.

When Ned calls me, it makes a train whistle noise, because he lives point zero zero eight millimeters from the train tracks and the whole time you're there you hear the train a-comin'. Comin' round the bend. Anyway, so trains remind me of Ned and his ring tone is a train whistle.

He had been golfing all day, Ned had, and was in my neighborhood and decided to stop by.

Guess who was cranky about his golf?

"It's not even a good course," said Ned, who did I mention was cranky? "But it's cheap and nearby, so…"

"Wow, you could say the same about me," I said, because I am hilarious.

"That's true," said Ned. "Maybe from now on I'll just call that golf course 'June.'" Then we talked about my overgrown lawn and Ned said he'd drink one beer and cut my lawn for me and then when he was done he said, "I'm gonna go. I'm cranky and I have to nap."

And see what I did? I abstained from pointing out he'd said he'd cut my lawn, which really I've CALLED Lawn Boy, and he will be here Monday, and Ned was tired and I didn't WANT him to cut my grass, but I'd like you all to note how low-maintenance I was that I didn't bring it up but instead told all eight of you.

Last night we went to drag queen bingo with my friends Marty Martin and Kayeee.

IMG_0654In case you wondered, Just HOW BIG of a tiara does June need? See above.

We usually have a smashing time at drag queen bingo, but last night was super chaotic, and the sound system was ludicrous, and we couldn't see the acts. One drag queen was dancing to this frenetic song, and the best part was how much Marty M hated it.

"This is the worst song I've ever heard in my life," he said. "It's like someone had an epileptic seizure and set it to music." Then he convulsed and made noises to the beat of the song.

"I want to stick my wallet under the tongue of this song," he said. M. Martin was on a total complainy hate-this-song roll. "I wish I had that app where I could hold the phone up and find out what this is. Cause going on my iPod? You bet."

What I'm throwing down is Marty Martin was not a fan of that song. I wish I could recall one iota of it, as I would so send him the YouTube of it. It kind of went like this: eh eh eh eh eh eh [convulse] eh eh eh.

You can't drink downstairs where actual drag queen bingo is for some reason, and what we finally ended up doing was just going upstairs and drinking all of the alcohol in the entire world.

IMG_0650Kayeeee, M Martin, our friend J Nine and her passed-out companion. Because drunk-o was their name-o.

IMG_0651Ned, squishing a lime into all the beer in the world.

I did not have beer. Mostly I crouched by the stairs and tried to see drag queens. I hope you're sitting down, but one act was set to I Will Survive. I know! You never see drag queens choose that song.

IMG_0652
There was one drag queen who had giant hair, and who had kind of stuffed her rather rotund self into a minidress (note my surreptitious photo of her). "That is how I picture myself.  Is that what I look like?" I asked Marty Martin.

"She's much taller," he said, and I think tonight he's volunteering at the esteem-building workshop for womyn.

So that sums up my weekend thus far. Tonight Ned–who I hope revives his cheerful personality after his nap. I hope he slips out of his onesie refreshed and ready to face the world again–and I are going to the lesbian taco place, which by the way was on the walk to drag queen bingo last night and I noticed their slogan was "The Art of the Taco" and I giggled like a 7th-grader about that all the way down the block. Who needs to get over it, the lesbian taco place? Eventually I will be spotted there by a cranky butch type and get my ass kicked.

And my freelance will go flying everywhere.

June joins the workforce. And comes up with words like “inhibitionslessness.”

Oh thank all that is holy and merciful, I have a job again. My fake workplace, the place that'd laid me off in the first place and for whom I've been freelancing since September, asked me to come back for reals, y'all.

YAY!!!!!!! And also "word." I am so street, with my use of "for reals."

Edsel, my brastrap and I would like you to join us in 39 seconds of happy dancing.

 

I know. I don't have my usual reckless June dancing abandon. I have the plantar, you know. It hampers the inhibitionslessness that is June.

Last night, Ned took me out to celebrate.

IMG_0648Look here, Ned and your portrait of "Wooo! Celebrating!" You are JUST GONNA HAVE TO GET OVER IT, with the hating-your-picture-taken thing. You're dating a blogger, yo.

Apparently I got a job as a gang member.

IMG_0649Here's me, celebrating, and can anyone tell me why the iPhone takes crappy pictures once you swirl it around to look at you? There are two phones in there, the rear-facing and the forward-facing, and whatever face of Eve I'm using when I make it look at me and take a picture is absurd compared to the look-at-Ned camera. Why? Why can't they make 'em BOTH good? Why can't they make the WHOLE PLANE a black box?

Anyway, yay. Am employed again. After 15 months. I would not have even LIVED or been able to KEEP MY PETS without Bank of Family, so thank you Bank of Family. And thank you to the people who put money in my tip jar. Somehow I managed to not ruin my credit and stay fat, so go me!

I had better get to…work. SQUEEE!

Wife of a close friend

I am sitting here waiting for Poland to pay me. Do y'all remember when I did freelance work for Poland? If you don't have your Big Calendar of What June Does, which I guess could also be known as this blog, I did work for them

IN SEPTEMBER

and I am still waiting to be paid. First I had to send $85 to our government to ask for a certificate that says "June is an American" so I won't be charged $29393393 in Polish taxes. It turns out our government totally thought I was an underworld spy and the wife of a close friend.

Wife of a close friend.

And I had to send 27 damn letters and blood samples and take an Are You American? test before they sent that certificate.

Q: What are some geographical facts about other countries?

American Person: ?

Q: What are some historical facts about other countries?

American Person: ?

Q: What are the politics like in other countries?

American Person: ?

Q: Which country is the best?

American Person: AMERICA IS!

Q: Why?

American Person: Because it's so awful everywhere else.

Q: And you know this….how?

American Person: ?

So, I passed that test, and finally in FEBRUARY I sent a certified letter and that fancy documentation to Poland FOR THE SECOND TIME. It all got lost in the mail the first time. Then after 87 back-and-forth emails about my account number and my Switch or Swoosh or Swift or Swiffer or some fancy thing to do international transfers, they told me they sent the money on Monday.

I still don't see it in my account.

And I know this is a legitimate business–they were referred to me by a place I worked before. One of the 78 places I worked before. But I was expecting MANY DOLLARS this week so I did crazy things like buy groceries and WHERE IS IT? WHERE IS THE POLISH MONEYYYYYY?

Insert Polish joke here.

Maybe it'll be here today. Maybe all this complaining has made the universe work in my favor. That's usually how it goes, right?

In other news, I may find out this week whether my fake job is hiring me for reals or not. My boss is meeting with bigwigs to discuss. Further reports as developments warrant. It's been a year and three months since I got laid off, in case you weren't perusing your Big Calendar of What June Does.

I AM TIRED OF THIS.

At least I might possibly HAVE a job, though, right? Some people have been out of work for so long that they've given up. Which is awful.

In the deep show LA Shrinks that I have watched a few times, one of the therapists said to be happy you have to have

  • Something to do
  • Something to love
  • Something to look forward to.

No, you're welcome. I will embroider that on a Bye Bye Pie tuffet if you'd like. Yes, I totally make Bye Bye Pie tuffets. Anyway, if you've just GIVEN UP on finding work, what's there to look forward to? I guess your days of leisure. You can look forward to that.

What the hell is a tuffet? Is it like a footstool?

Okay, I must go. I have to shower and get to work and log onto my bank's website and stare at it, annoyed, till that money gets here. Then I'll SPEND IT LIKE IT'S HOT!

That made no sense. I'll SPEND IT LIKE IT'S A TUFFET!

Here’s looking at you, reader.

Last night, Ned and I went to the old movie theater we like so much and we saw Casablanca. Humphrey Bogart needs to get a new line. He says, "Here's looking at you, kid" FOUR TIMES in that movie. If I were Ingrid Bergman I'd be all, "Yeah yeah, I heard you the first 80 times, Echo Park."

This may be where Ingrid Bergman's character and I have our Great Divide.

In fact, Ingrid Bergman was the first woman to be labeled low-maintenance. In my favorite movie, which you may or may not know is When Harry Met Sally–I know that's hard to tell since I never ever quote that movie or anything.

Mr. Zero knew?

Anyway, in that movie, Billy Crystal calls Ingrid Bergman low-maintenance, and he says there are two kinds of women: high-maintenance and low-maintenance.

I desperately tried to find this scene on goddamn YouTube, and I could only find it in Spanish. But I DID find THIS scene!

 

Oh, wait! This is the best one! Carrie Fisher's line is my absolute favorite thing in this life.

 

Okay, if I had my way we'd all just watch the whole damn movie, so I'll stop.

Anyway, Ned has…implied that I am high-maintenance. I would worry that Ned has some kind of disorder, like body dysmorphic disorder, only it's like a June dysmorphia, and he sees only bad traits in me that don't exist, but in fact pretty much everyone I've ever dated since "high-maintenance" has become a phrase has screamed over to use it to describe me.

I really don't see it, but whatever.

We left the movie theater last night and walked to a nearby restaurant. It's already warm here, so it was a wonderful night. "So, you agree, then, that Ingrid Bergman is low-maintenance?" I asked Ned. "Oh, absolutely. She was great."

I started to kind of hate Ingrid Bergman with her stupid stupid deep looks and weepy eyes and quiet suffering.

"If Ingrid Bergman had been in the car with you the other day during that stupid mountain snow storm, would she have not freaked out over the icy roads?"

"Of course not," Ned said, and I don't know why he doesn't just go find Ingrid Bergman and dig her up and date her bones if he's so crazy about her. Go ahead. See if I care.

"You know, I got in an ACCIDENT on icy roads. I broke my PELVIS. You'd be scared after that too," I said.

"If Ingrid Bergman got in an accident on icy roads, her pelvis wouldn't even break. She'd just shrug it off. That's how low-maintenance she is," said Ned, who's clearly getting together his Ingrid Bergman drag outfit to wear in his private time.

Hmpf.

So, my question to you today is, do you see yourself as high-maintenance or low-maintenance? Then, after you've decided, go ask your partner. See if it's the same answer. I know Marvin would have said, "Oh, no. You're low-maintenance" but I think in general Jewish men have a higher tolerance for…fussiness, and also I scared the shit out of Marvin.

Okay, let me know. I wonder if stupid ass-face Ingrid Bergman will comment today. She's probably too busy being not a bother. Giant stoic bitch.