I am high-maintenance · June's stupid life · My pets

Releasing the splendor of June

I wonder if I could be any more sick of having pets right now. Lily started falling off the cat condo–because she's a stupid drunk, is why–and in a panic because Lily was gonna fall on her, Iris CLIMBED ONTO ME all nervously and JUMPED OFF ME as though I were an inanimate object with no nerve endings. Now I look like someone was flogging my arm with a broom full of barbed wire.

It bugs me when people call it "barb wire." Barb Wire is someone you went to school with. Barb Wire wore the same Gloria Vanderbilt jeans for a week in February 1982. And speaking of Gloria Vanderbilt and releasing the splendor of me

 

(I totally wore Gloria Vanderbilt, by the way. The splendor of me was released all over my high school), I also hate it when people say "whip cream." Do you like how far I took you down that sentence only to say something that had nothing to do with Gloria Vanderbilt whatsoever? Oh, and "old fashion." Old Fashion Lemonade sold here! Are you fucking allergic to "ed"s? God.

So my arm hurts, and when Iris did the climb.jump.gouge move, I screamed, and Edsel was eating at the time, but he cowered away .004 inches from the floor as though he were in Vietnam, leaving a half-full dish, so then I had to pet him and assure him everything was okay as my arm hung by a tendon, so he finally finished eating and now he's leaning over right next to me, gagging, because everything went down his digestive tract while he had a nervous headache and the vapors.

Have I mentioned how not-at-all sick of having pets I am?

IMG_1775do ebryone be noteeng who NOT get menshun in story? do ebryone be noteeng who best pet eber?

And no, I do NOT see how parts of Lu's face are getting white already. Let's not talk about it and move on.

Oh! I know what we can talk about!

IMG_1770
Last night I got a pedicure, and I went with coral and turquoise. And also, the pedicure guy hit on me. I know, dudes. It's a burden when you have All This.

I went to a different place, because they had a sign out saying it was cheap there, and yay. And when I sat down, a youngish white guy started pedicuring me. Which, I can honestly say, in all my years of getting pedicures, has never happened. I got all stereotype-y and decided he owned the place, which turned out to be true. He asked about my tattoos, and we got onto the topic of where I've lived, and then he grabbed my calf to start the doing-all-the-crap-they-do-to-your-legs stuff.

"Oh, wow," he said. "I can always tell who's from the West Coast, because you all really take care of yourselves out there."

Who wants to tell him about my Pop Tart habit first? Which of you wishes to break that news to him? Anyway, he kept flattering me, and telling me his life story (I love it when men think the way to get you interested is to keep talking about themselves. Says June, in her blog about herself. Do you want me yet?), and I JUST KNEW he was gonna make his move. Sure enough, he walked me to my car and gave me his phone number. Let's get Lily drunker and have her dial him up.

So I guess I won't be going back there again. It's getting harder and harder for me to go places where the men aren't desperately in love with me. Geez.

I'd better get ready for work, as there are doubtless a whole slew of men just waiting for me to waltz in, Mary Richards to their Murray Slaughter, but remind me to tell you tomorrow about how everyone in my family cannot control their bowels.

Oh! And my coworker Deb Downer had a good question yesterday and I will ask it of you: How much do you desire me? No, no. I already know the answer to that.

What was the first record you bought? It could be a whole album or a 45. Do tell.

One-armed June, out. Hot, but out.

Beauty products · June's stupid life · Music

In which most of you fail to appreciate the healing powers of the Big Mac, a superfood in its own category.

Trying to get you people to answer a simple question is like herding cats. Green or blue? "Well, June, in 1987 I decided to stop believing in colors, so I surgically had that part of my brain removed and now I see only black and white."

GREEN OR BLUE?

"Are we talking about penises, June?"

Anyway, I did not count because I'd have had to slog through your "I don't believe in color" answers, but I think it's pretty obvious that Whopper won. Which is WRONG, by the way. WRONG. If Fonzie were here, he'd be able to pronounce the word this time. WRONG.

In other news, I hate my mascara. Not that long ago, Marvin sent me a picture of me sitting on the toilet in our old apartment in LA, and behind me is the etigerre that goes around the toilet. Rather than being appalled that Marvin even HAS such a picture, I took a gander at the cosmetics and other grooming items on said etigerre. Not one thing on there was from a drug or grocery store. They were all fancy boutique or salon-bought items. God, I miss having money.

The point is, now I have to buy my mascara at the grocery store, and I don't wanna hear that this is a First World problem because it SO ISN'T, and the other day I went for that gold L'Oreal tube of mascara that looks like a telescope. Maybe it's mascara for people who're going to stalk someone. Maybe it's mascara for Dudly Moore in 10. Maybe it's Maybelline.

What matters is I knew I'd owned this kind before, but what I could NOT remember is if I loved it or hated it. Perhaps the part where I NO LONGER OWNED ANY OF IT coulda tipped me off, but no. Into my shopping cart it went.

It won't come off. Dudes, I'm serious. I use that Clinique eye makeup remover? And then I get in the shower and wash my face? When I dry off, I leave a Shroud of Turin of my mascara on the towel every day. I use MORE eye makeup remover. It doesn't matter. It's the Everlasting Gobstopper of mascara. It's the mascara that won't quit. If it were Lionel Ritchie, it'd go all night long.

(c) Ned, who made a Lionel Ritchie "all night long" joke last night, which I am clearly being influenced by.

Oh, and you're welcome, for putting that song in your head. No, really. Any time. Because the time has come. To raise the roof and have some fun.

 

Good gravy.

I guess I'd better go tuck my burnt-orange shirt into my leather pants, and also mush down my afro mullet and head to work. Talk at you later.

Oh, and you're still wrong about the Whopper.

...friend/Ned · June's stupid life · Not Grace Kelly

Beach Bitch

I just wrote something for work, then stampeded over here to blog, and I hope I don't sound corporate due to my work-writing hangover. Thank you for your prompt attention to this matter. Let me see if this is actionable; I'll give you a heads up and we'll run it up the flagpole.

In other news, just slapped self clean across own face.

So hey! How are you? How was your week? I went to the beach. Did you hear? Apparently you didn't if you are related to me, as I came home and fielded several, "God, where ARE you?" calls from my own blood who clearly do not read the fucking blog.

Mel and his nomaIf you SAW me you'd know I went to the beach, because hello, too much sun.

Have I ever told you what Ned–who I happen to love sickening amounts despite this rather despicable trait–does when you do anything stupid? Have I? Have I told you this? Whenever you do something stupid, like let's say you left your shoes out and your dog, who may or may not have an underbite, has taken to eating them. Let's just draw that out of thin air as an example.

If that were to happen, Ned, there, would say, "You know what I'D do, is I'd put my shoes away when I take them off."

"You know what I'D do, is I wouldn't eat anything that may trigger a migraine."

"You know what I'D do? I'd make sure my blind murdery cat wouldn't get outside, so she couldn't blindly murder something. That's what I'd do." (Did I mention the mouse corpse she brought in before I left for my trip?)
IMG_1645June tempts the melanoma gods once again. Story at 11:00.

And that, my friends, is why I had to hear, "What I'D do is put on sunscreen before you even get to the beach. You know what I did? Is I put on SPF 30. That's what I'D do" 789 times this week.

IMG_1683Mr. SPF. The Gallant of the beach. Under an umbrella AND wearing a hat AND wearing sunscreen. Whatever with Mr. Cautious, who by the way got tan anyway.

You know what I'D do if it were legal? I'm not even gonna say it, but it involves places where the sun don't shine. And I don't mean Seattle.

Anyway, despite my…scantiness with the sunscreen, I had a most excellent time with Ned and his family. They were all very nice to me, but that's because I'm the novelty guest, and if I go back next year I am certain all bets will be off. There were 97 children present, and they kept trying to get me to do things that involved action and adventure, and have they not met me? I felt like Jackie Kennedy when she was still a Bouvier and the whole clan wanted her to play football.

"Come on, June! Get on the tube so we can tip you over!"

Okay, see, if you've have LIED as all children SHOULD, and just said, "Come get on the tube and float gently in the ocean," I'd have fallen for it, and THEN you could have tipped me into that jellyfish-filled ocean (yes, we SAW some) (and Ned's niece got stung by one) (and she went, "Oh, ow." then carried on with her day. If that had happened to me, the paramedics would have been called.) (Did I mention I'm Jackie Bouvier without the money?) and traumatized me.

IMG_1676
Ned's family also has a tradition of going to this go-cart place, and slamming the crap out of each other, and breaking each other's spinal cords and oh! It's fun to bruise your family! Fortunately, Ned's sister-in-law is also Jackie Kennedy as a Bouvier, so we stood on the sidelines and watched trepidatiously. And then when I actually saw them do it, it looked kind of fun. So. Okay. Maybe next year I'll go. Or not.

That's Ned's extra-hot sister, up there, who does the exercising and the eating right and the calorie-burning and the walking around being hot thing. She is also the sister who I have copied on doing Curly Girl, and she said my curls are better than hers. Which was nice of her to say and she probably burned calories saying it, but she has the really silky pretty curls, rather than my HI I'M A CURL DAMMIT coarse rastafarian fattening curls.

IMG_1698
I'd say the highlight of the trip was when Ned watched teenage boys do this skim board thing, which is like a surfboard but you go on it right at the water's edge, and he decided he MUST DO IT TOO, and what I'D do, is I'd stay on the beach reading a book and maybe mosey on into the house for a tomato sandwich later, is what I'd do, but naturally Ned got on there and we all walked down to make fun of him and he fell off and broke a toe.

Is what HE did.

Oh! And the ghost child! THE GHOST CHILD!!!!

IMG_1678
This is not the ghost child. This is Ned's impossibly pretty and also poised 13-year-old niece. Have I mentioned the part where when I was 13 I was androgynous? And it wasn't even COOL yet, to be androgynous, so I didn't even have that going for me. There was no "I'm going for an Annie Lennox" thing for me to fall back on. I just looked like a man, sort of, and that was that.

Anyway.

Ned and I took a walk on the beach late at night, and the moon was red and almost full and it was super extra pretty and the whole thing would have been romantic except we kept running into people Ned is related to while THEY walked on the beach. It was like an episode of This is Ned's Life, really.

"Oh, wow, look how the sand is. It looks like cliffs," said Ned, who was right. This somehow led to us sculpting Mount Rushmore into the sand, except Ned kept just making smiley faces and making me guess which president it was. The only one I got was Barack Obama, because he made a smiley face and big ears.

So we were having ourselves a fine time, because who doesn't enjoy presidential sand humor, and as we walked back Ned said, "Do you suppose that little kid thought she was with us till she got right up behind us?"

"What little kid?"

"The little girl. The little blonde girl. She was following us for the longest time while we carved in the sand. How could you have not seen her?"

Dudes. I looked and looked. There was no child that I could see anywhere.

"I think she went off with the ghost crabbing people," said Ned, but I decided it was All Very Dramatic and she was the Child We Never Had. Is what I decided. You know what I'D do, is I'd decide we were followed by a ghost child. Is what I'd do.

I mean, dudes. She was blonde. Ned was a towhead as a kid, and as you know, I am "blonde." I am so "blonde." SHE WAS OUR CHILD! THE CHILD WE WERE MEANT TO HAVE! LITTLE SANDY MICHELLE!

"We've known each other a year and a half. We're almost 50. How is she the child we never had?" asked Ned, who is annoying. I mean, dude, I can't answer everything. I have no ghost logic. It's just how it is.

I see I've rambled on about my trip for 47 years now, and you wish I were a ghost at this point, so I will stop talking. I didn't even get to tell you how our cats were bad or any of that. But what I'D do is stop talking. See. Is the thing. That's what I'D do.

June and Sandy Michelle, out.

June's stupid life

Last day at the beach

I’ve burned the CRAP out my back, every time I eat I chew sand, and last night I fell asleep before the four-year-old here. (She was at the arcade; she’s totes hung over today, plus she won a seal.) Ned hurt his foot trying to use this surfboard-y thing all the 17-year-olds were using.

So we’re hurt, we’re tired, we’re sandy. Happy.

image from https://effjune.files.wordpress.com/2013/07/bcf87-6a00e54f9367fb88340191046ea85f970c-pi.jpg

Sent from my iPhone

June's stupid life · Times I Amused My Own Self

Beaches

Remember in Beaches, when you kept waiting for Barbara Hershey to die, and there she'd be in the next scene?

Here I still am! I'm like that Monty Python skit: I'm not dead yet! Oh, HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! God, that's funny.

Anyway, I know you're all, Why is she still posting? Why isn't she at the beach, where she SAID she'd be, for the love of all that is holy? Must we STILL HEAR HER EVERY MINUTIAE?

We leave for the beach later today. Ned wanted to work, which, what's with Ned and his maturity and industriousness? Those are horrible traits in a person. We also put off going because dog daycare, which we're splitting the cost of, is so horrifically expensive. So the fewer days we're gone the less that costs. Why can't you just set a bunch of food out for dogs and teach them to use the toilet like civilized people?

In the meantime, I have the whole week off, and believe it or not since I was gonna be here anyway, I texted my boss to ask if he wanted me to come in. He was all, Nah. I.am.indispensible.

So today, Ima pack the way I always do: hurriedly and stupidly, and I will get there and say, "I have 15 pair of chonies and no contacts." Or, "I packed seven toothbrushes and I have no migraine meds or phone." I always remember the stupid stuff and nothing major. Chonies are underwear. God, hang around more Hispanic people, will you?

Speaking of Hispanic people, I am SO disappointed that baby is a boy. I understand Kate and William's baby is not remotely Hispanic. Allegedly. Let's see if I can get a whole rumor going from this blog alone. It'll be the next James Hewitt controversy. Which let's face it. Harry is so the son of James Hewitt.

Charlesharry
Hello. Fooling no one.

So, yeah. The royal disappointing baby. Potential fathers:

Ricky+Ricardo+rickyricardo
Ricardo-montalban-herve-villechaize-fantasy-island
Orlandof

I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'. Kate has dark hair, so she can totally get away with it. And while we're on the subject, why doesn't Javier Bardim ever call me?

And why do I own nothing with yellow ostrich feathers on it?

Oh, so what I was going to say, before I got off on my stupid "The royal baby is Hispanic" tangent, is remind me what I should pack. Sunscreen, bug spray, beach towel–

Hey! Did I tell you about my new bathing suit? See, this is why I can't pack. I do this IN MY OWN HEAD and get distracted. But the thing is, the last time I'd bought a bathing suit was in 1998, when I went on my honeymoon (Dear Ex-In-Laws: Money well spent!) (Love, June). Despite the fact that I lived in Los Angeles, I never went to the beach. It was too big of a pain to drive there, and an even bigger pain to park, and then the water would kill you with all the pollutants in it, so really, the only time I went to the beach was when I was taking an out-of-town visitor there, and then I always wore pants. I mean, maybe I'd wear a skirt, or my yellow ostrich feathers. But you get my drift.

The POINT is, I set out several weeks ago for what I assumed would be Bathing Suit Shopping Humiliation Extravaganza Number One, the first of many sad parts. I went to Belt, as my mother calls it, picked two suits off the rack, put the first one on and said, "Oh! Hunh!" took it out and bought it.

So that was undramatic. And I'd like to thank that beast of a whore, Tracy Anderson, for giving me that moment.

Okay, Ima go. I'm sleepy cause I was up Ned-ing. We were supposed to go to one of our old movies last night, and I headed out the door all happy, and 30 seconds later I had my purse dumped out on my driveway, because there were NO KEYS IN IT. I had to call Ned to come over and let me in with his key, and then we missed the movie, and he tortured me about it and kept saying things like, "Do you hate Laurence Olivier, is that it? Do you never want to see anything with him in it ever again?"

Ned is lucky he is cute. What we did instead was watch episodes of The Sopranos, as I have the box set, and I have dragged Ned into my world (up next? Getting him to watch Sex and the City. What say you? You think he'll love it? Do you think we can get some of those at-home highlights kits and do each other's hair, too?). We were on his couch, with his 93949493939493 remotes between us, and why do men have to have so many goddamn remote controls? Is it a phallic thing?

"I feel like something's come between us," I shouted to him over the divide. "You seem so remote." And that is when I carved JG + JG on the nearest tree.

Okay, am off. Look for upside-down and sideways beach pictures soon! Really! I mean it!

XO, Sandy

I am berserk · June's stupid life

ROYAL BABY! ROYAL BABYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!

THE ROYAL BABY IS ALMOST HERE! SQUEEEEEEEEE!!!!!

IMG_1620hooo care.

Oh, this is so exciting. I gotta get everything ready in case she brings it over right away. …What?

Do you think Kate Middleton reads my blog? I mean, I'm the only person talking about her online, right? What if Paula H&B is really Kate Middleton and she's been fooling me all these years with a fake commenter name? Yeah, I work! At a bank! Sure! That's the ticket! That would mean, of course, that Kate has come up with some hilARious Camilla jokes over the years, which would be fabulous.

Oh, who can even concentrate? This is so exciting. WE'RE IN LABOR! LABOUR! As my Google alerts spelled it, because of course the English papers had it first.

I just have to remember to breathe. And push!push!push!push!push! I used to watch A Baby Story on the ironically named Learning Channel, and there was always some idiot saying "push!push!push!push!push!push!" at the poor woman giving birth, and you just wanted to smack her in the head.

Is that still on? A Baby Story? Because what an annoying show. I choose to be annoyed by The Real Housewives now, thank you.

In other news, it rained here yesterday. This is like saying there was some wind in Dorothy's neighborhood that one day in Kansas. Holy cats.

Ned and I were going to the movies, and I was doing my stupid Spencer Tracy workout first when BLOOP! It got dark. I mean, it was that fast. I was on all fours, lookin' sexayy, and I thought, Am I having an aneurysm? Because I'm fun that way. I looked up and

BLAM!

Five thousand pounds of water was hitting my living room windows. It was like my house was going through the car wash. POOOOOOSSHHH! There was water screaming everywhere. Then bloop! My power went out.

And here is the worst thing. I FINISHED the workout anyway, because I know it in my head now.

BOOM! It went, outside. BOOM BOOM! CRACK! That was about the time Tallulah started in with the gas. She wouldn't tremble, she has too much pride for that, she just casually sidled up next to me and expelled the wind all afternoon.

BOOM! {gas} BOOM! {flurrp}

I had to get into the shower, which was redundant, really, and I could HEAR THE THUNDER while I showered! Oh, it was dramatic. Finally, Ned showed up, and when I opened the door, there he was, completely soaked and absolutely delighted with this dramatic weather. I guess it goes without saying that he likes things dramatic sometimes.

Also, no matter what happens, for as long as I live, I will never forget how earth-shatteringly hot Ned looked on my porch right at that moment.

But hot we weren't when we got to the FREEZING COLD air-stupid-conditioned theater and had to sit through that whole movie soaking wet. We never did dry off. Why can't places adjust the temp for the actual weather outside? It's like they say, "Okay, it's June! Set the thermostat to 20! Turn it back down in October! Go!"

Anyway, the documentary on backup singers was good. And when we got outside, every tree in America was down, and all the creeks and things were TOTALLY FLOODED. We should NOT have been out driving in all that, but Ned was completely thrilled with it, and wanting to go to every body of water ever invented, to see if it, too, was flooded. (Answer: Yes.) I don't know how we didn't end up like Jessica Savitch and her date.

Finally, we met my pal The Naughty Professor at the restaurant we like to go to on Sundays, where I get this turkey sandwich on a croissant with sliced green apple and honey walnut cream cheese. Almost every week we go there, and every week Ned says, "Is it even open?" Seriously, he says it every week.

IMG_1616It's the kind of restaurant you can't see into, is the thing, but you'd think the giant rainbow-color OPEN sign might tip him off. He never trusts it. Note how he is still completely wet, even though we'd sat through a 90-minute movie. We're both gonna catch our deaths, I just know it.

IMG_1618
Anyway, we got up with Naughty, and it was a fine time. I think this is the first photo of him I've put up that doesn't have him be-hatted. Am I right?

Today, other than OBSESSING OVER THE ROYAL BABY who better be a girl, I'm getting ready for the beach (we go tomorrow) and going to the headache clinic. Remember when I did a drug trial for them awhile back, and would that stuff GET ON THE MARKET ALREADY? It was great. Anyway, Ima do another drug trial, and I will alert you should I turn into a rat or something. Suddenly I feel like dragging scraps of paper to a spiderweb.

All right, I'm off. HAS SHE HAD IT YET?

HOW ABOUT NOW?

I am high-maintenance · June's stupid life

June’s life turns on a dime. Read on!

Lemme ask you something.

Photo on 11-1-11 at 6.55 PM
Photo on 10-3-11 at 5.26 PMWhy'd I LOOK so bad two years ago? Seriously, was it the hair? That color is an abomination, and why did my loved ones not say anything? Was it my newly divorced status?

Photo on 7-16-13 at 6.38 PM #2 2I'm not trying to say, Oh, what a raving beauty I am now, but godDAMMIT. I looked awful! I am sorry to tell you that I was sitting here looking at pictures of myself from my webcam and made this discovery yesterday. Could I be more all up in myself?

Let's all talk about me in my blog about me. Whatever with myself.

So how was everyone's weekend? I didn't feel well Friday so I didn't do anything, but on Saturday I got my eyes examined and went around all afternoon looking like I was on amphetamines, if people's pupils dilate when they're on amphetamines. I don't actually know. In case you're worried sick, my prescription is the same, which means I don't need new glasses. I've had the same glasses since 2011, when I looked bad, and I tried on a bunch of frames and made all y'all all decide which ones.

After I found out yep, still blind, Ned and I went to the bookstore, both saying we weren't gonna buy anything and both buying something. We have 9495949393 books between us to take to the beach this week. Then we went to the shoe store because Ned said he wanted to get shoes, and he didn't get any shoes and I did.

IMG_1613Dude, who can resist these snappy shoes? Who? And they were 40% off!

The first person to mention my plantar fasciitis gets slapped with my inflamed tissue.

Ned was over looking at boy shoes, so I limped over to him with one of these on. "Are these cute, or are they 'Gramma called and wants her shoes back'?" I asked him. He assured me they were good, but when I limped back to the other shoe, there was a cool-looking woman of color there. Maybe this is oddly racist, but I always assume black women are cooler than me. "Do you like these shoes, or do they look like gramma called and wants her shoes back?" I asked her, clearly in love with my example.

She studied them a minute. She was wearing a bright orange top with sparkles on it that I just made sound like circus crazy, but was really very becoming. "I like the funky '70s vibe," she said.

"Right?" We nodded at each other for awhile in shoe solidarity. And today I have to come up with a whole ensemble so I can wear them.

Ned later told me the reason he didn't get any shoes was because he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror at the shoe store. "I look great," he thought, "I don't need any shoes."

And that there is the difference between men and women.

We went to dinner at the salmon salad place, and today we're going to see a movie about backup singers. It's a documentary. Yes, Marvin WOULD have dragged me to a movie like that, and I kind of feel like when Woody Allen catches Diane Keaton at The Sorrow and the Pity after they've broken up.

I would have made a terrible backup singer. I would have been constantly trying to get everyone to notice me, back there. I do, however, still wish I had Pips to repeat everything I say

(everything she says)

as though it's important

(it's important what she says. Woo-woo!).

I must go, as I am either going to get a pedicure or do my workout. I can't decide which. Wait. There's a dime here. Heads, work out. Tails? Pedicure. Here we go.

Photo on 7-21-13 at 1.36 PM
Heads. Damn. Damn you to heck, Tracy Morgan.

June, out. Of breath soon.

June's stupid life · My pets

Ebony Eyes

I have to hurry, which I know makes Faithful Reader Paula nervous, and she is going to start reading quickly now, as though I might have to hurry off any second now with my post under my arm.

The REASON I have to hurry is I have an eye appointment, because like my cat I am blind-ish. And I won't be able to post after because my pupils will be dilated like I'm Dondi and I can't see a dang thing for hours.

Dondi
In LA, they had drops to get your eyes back to normal, but for some
reason my doctor here refuses to have such a thing. Maybe she's one of
those people who thinks LA is all full of fruits and nuts. I love that.
Maybe she calls it "Hollyweird." I similarly love that.

Also, I have been sick, and poor Ned has had to bring me Perrier and Alka-Seltzer, and guess who is his sexy American girlfriend. So what I'm saying to you was it was slow going this morning, with me still feeling not so fresh, and so forth.

Then I realized that Edsel had taken my shoe, and it's my FAVORITE shoe, and what was even more annoying was while I nauseatedly tried to search for said shoe, ALL I COULD HEAR was Ned saying, "You know what I would do. What I would do is put my shoes away each time, so Edsel couldn't get them." Guess where I want to put my shoe every time Ned says that.

Anyway I was searching and yelling at poor Edsel at the same time, who of course had no idea what he'd done wrong because he was probably eating my shoe at 2 a.m. and that's just a faded memory now. It's in his scrapbook, along with strands of my hair and threads from my underthings.

By the time I found the FUCKING SHOE, which was BY THE FRONT DOOR and yeah he BETTER think about leaving out that front door, that damn dog, poor Eds was under the dining room table, with his tail down and his head divining water, so dipped was it. I felt terrible then.

Photo on 7-20-13 at 11.48 AM #3Here I am. Portrait of irked, nauseated June. With mop. And found shoe.

Oh, speaking of mops, the reason that mop is in here is because I was Silkwood Showering everything from when that poor bird was in here a few weeks back, and I know you enjoy my prompt attention to the matter of putting said mop away. My POINT is, Iris now has a bell collar, but I've yet to put a lock on the screen door, and yesterday I saw her trying to get back in from the back yard, and her mouth looked…not right. She had it hanging open in a way that based on my 87 years of owning cats, made me slam the big door shut right away.

She stared up at me with her sightless eyes, and there in her mouth was a big ol' cicada. I of course don't know which kind, but what if it was one of the 17-year ones, that took a generation to get here, only to be crunched by a blind belled cat? I say if you're that stupid you deserve it, man. Don't take that long to arrive if your defenses are that low.

Okay, I really gotta go. When I finally got out of bed yesterday, I washed the new sheets my mother got me, and put them on the bed, and then when I went back into the room, someone had barfed all over them. I thought I was the sick one. Do I have an Elliott/ET thing with someone here, or is my house the most annoying Home O' Pets ever invented?

Don't answer that.

Queasily,

June

I am high-maintenance · June's stupid life

Birthday wrapup. Oh, and I hate Typepad.

IMG_1555The best thing about my birthday is that Ned got "Ned!"ed while he was buying my birthday cards. Yes, cards, plural, because he is the best boy ever invented. The woman at the store said, "I'm not gonna pretend that I don't know you're Ned." She said she's been reading me since Bye Bye, Buy, which is a long damn-ass time.

Ned was okay with being spotted, although this is going to make cheating on me harder to do, if he's gonna go ahead and get RECOGNIZED all over yonder, but I have faith that with perseverance, he can do that, too. By the way, that cupcake not only had a chocolate-covered strawberry on it, but it had a strawberry cream filling that would make you hit Ouiser.

 

I got up on July 16 and 94 hours later, I'd opened all my presents.

IMG_1536You were all obsessed by the Orvis box, so that mystery can now be resolved. Sheets. My mother got me sheets. I always need sheets because dogs sleep in my bed and I have to change the sheets, like, three times a week.

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IMG_1543I got gifts from faithful readers.

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IMG_1540I got lovely stationery from mom, and some beautiful earrings from Aunt Mary, who also got me a Coach purse and some cups from London's flower show, which she attended because bitch gets to do everything.

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IMG_1549My friend Dottie sent me cake pops and chocolate-covered strawberries. I took some in to work, so I wouldn't sit here like a giant glutton and eat every single thing myself, and someone on the Spanish team said, "This is like sin!" It really is.

After work, I had the choice of going to a fancy dinner or seeing Fargo at the old movie theater that we like, and I picked old movie theater. Because you know how I am. Before we went, Ned gave me the cupcake at the top of this post, and these:

IMG_1557We'd been somewhere and I'd said, "Aren't those sunflowers pretty?" Ned is a good listener.

I've been trying to write this post for over 30 minutes, and fucking fucking fucking Typepad is taking MORE THAN FIVE MINUTES EACH to upload my damn pictures and you can imagine my sparkling mood at this point.

Here.

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Photo on 7-16-13 at 6.38 PM #2I slapped all the pictures up at once, and I HATE TYPEPAD, and now you can comment and all your comments can go to spam because I HATE TYPEPAD and I pay $150 a year to have my photos take years to upload and to spam your comments and did I mention TYPEPAD CAN GO SHIT IN A HAT.

Anyway, Ned got me a book about Gary Dell'Abate (if you don't listen to Howard Stern, your life is lacking as a result. Trust me.) and a pretty necklace which you can see did a lot for the outfit I was wearing, and some beautiful earrings which I can't upload and I HATE TYPEPAD and my official birthday picture, wherein I am smiling and hating Typepad.

Now I am late for work and I hate everything, mostly Typepad. The end.

P.S. Typepad's spell check goes on the blink constantly, too. Like, it'll check one paragraph then go out and you have to click the spell check box again. GUESS WHAT I HATE. The end. Again.

I am high-maintenance · June's stupid life

Today I’m 48. And I didn’t immediately stampede over to Facebook to see who said HBD or anything. Nosir.

IMG_1534I have to go tear open my 4539399393 presents now. (Only child.) (You should have seen my obscene haul when I was also the only grandchild.)

I will report on my festivities tomorrow. I know! Lucky.You.

In the meantime, what was your very best birthday? What was your dumbest? Do tell.

June's stupid life

A Boar-ing Evening

First of all, my Uncle Leo is okay. -ish. He has a bump on his head, and they did a CT scan, but he's home, staying at my cousin's for a few days.

What happened was, my uncle was cleaning the freeway, not because he's a prisoner, but because he is involved in one of those adopt-a-highway things. For as long as I've known my uncle, he embraces his interests 100%, and because he is gay, he has to be extra-super involved in every gay organization, like the PTGay, and now that he's getting older, the Gay ARP and so on.

So apparently he and some friends adopted a highgay, and that stretch of I-75 is really quite charming. Really nice flowers in complementary colors, and the signs read "55 Fabulous MPH!" and "Do Not Pass (if you're going to be wearing that outfit)."

Guess who is completely over me right now? Is it my Uncle Leo?

But really, it's kind of scary, because he was cleaning up, and he got really hot and had to quit. In theory, wearing the Village People cowboy outfit seemed like a great idea. But when it's summer…

So he got in his car, and then he can't remember how it happened, but he crossed the center line and went into a ditch. And that's, you know, not good. He's had three brain operations in his life, too, so really, it was all sort of scary. But his tests look good and maybe it was just heat exhaustion or something. And they called Triple Gay and got his car towed, so everything is fine now.

Anyway, that is the story and I'm glad he is all right, because I like my Uncle Leo quite a bit.

In other news, last night my friend Jo had a French party. Oui, she did. She's written another book, and who has to cut it out with the prolific already, and it takes place in France, so she thought that'd be a tres bonne theme. We have pretty much run through my French phrases, and am certain you are sad to hear it. Merde.

She told us all she was serving wild boar, and who even knew that was a French thing. I was kind of nervous about trying it, but Ned and I talked about it and realized it's just a rebellious pig. It's a pig who lifts his shirt and gets filmed by Joe Frances.

IMG_1512My pals Marty Martin and Kayeeee were there, and I have no idea where M. Martin is looking. Maybe the French don't make eye contact.
 IMG_1513Jo left no stone unturned, with lavender and rosemary bouquets all over, and French wines, and Kayeee brought her attitude.
IMG_1510Sacre bleu.

Okay, officially really out of French phrases. If Marvin were here I could ask him the one he has about cheese in your hat or whatever, but if Marvin were here that'd be weird. And I might have led with that story.

My point is, Jo had one of her friends sing a song that she had written just for me, because she is a terrible, terrible person. It was set to How Deep is Your Love, which despite the fact that it's kind of a cliche, is my favorite Bee Gees song. Anyway, at first I just photographed the moment

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but after a few bars I realized I could film it, so here's what I got on film. I know. Lucky. And please enjoy my annoying-ass laugh.

Yes, thank you, Jo. And answer: pretty deep.

IMG_1520Finally, my public humiliation was over and dinner was served, and the first course was this beef stew, and it was delicious. It has carrots and potatoes, and oh, I ate the hell out of that thing. Then when I was done, I realized in kind of a panic that I had ZERO ROOM for the wild boar. Oh, I was irritated with myself. Why had I been such a glutton with the stew when I'd psyched myself up to try wild boar?

"What wild boar stew was delicious," someone said, as we were served our salads.

Wait. What?

THE STEW WAS THE WILD BOAR. You can't take me anywhere. I had no idea. Dang, it was good. So. Wild boar. I recommend.

After dinner, we were allowed to go look at Jo's 3949592303 dolls, which even though I've done it before, I did again. I tried to emulate their expressions, and who needs a hobby such as gayrobics or something?

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There was even a bartender doll, which I'd not seen before, but it made me think of Ned because he was a bartender for 96 years.

IMG_1531It looks so much like Ned that it's uncanny.

IMG_1533At any rate, it was a fine evening, and I'm doing a giveaway of Jo's book. Let me know in the comments if you want to be in the drawing. Here's the description of it from Amazon:

Alyce flew 4,000 miles to learn French, sophistication and win back her boyfriend. Enter the très different, exasperating Jean-Luc. Will opposites attract or attack? Set in a total-immersion language school in the South of France, OPPOSITES ATTACK is a lyrical tale of clashing cultures and the heartwarming changes that can grow out of a mismatched pair in the battle of the sexes. Comical fish-out-of-water moments collide with quick tempers, seducers and plenty of foodilicious fun.

I, too, wish to never read the word "foodilicious" again. However, I read Jo's last short story, which takes place in Paris, and I could not put it down. Seriously, I never wanted it to end.

As opposed to this post.

June's stupid life

June, interrupted

I am doing 400 things, but wanted to show you this, which Faithful Reader Paula put on Pie on the Face. In case you did not know, Pie on the Face is a group on Facebook that gets together and does dumb things like put up dog diaries. Anyway, this made me spit up.

 

Also too, I have a new column up at Purple Clover. I did not write the headline, so no one give me shit about dangling participles or ending a sentence with a preposition or whatever the hell it is going wrong with that headline.

I am off; Ned and I are going to Raleigh. Remember on Andy Griffith, when they'd go to Raleigh and it was super exciting because it was the big city? It's just exactly like that with us today.

And crap. I just got news that my Uncle Leo got in a car accident. Shit. More later.

Film · I hate everything · June's stupid life

Morning Glory

My father has been going through all sorts of old papers, and among other crucial documents he found my bowling scores from when I was on a hard-hitting league in fifth grade. Our team name was The Morning Glories, but it really should have been June is the Only Hetero Girl. Lots of sturdy no-nonsense German girls on my team, us being from Michigan and all.

My average screamed up from 28 to 52. My lowest game was a 4, but my highest was 110!

I remember getting that 110. It was astonishing. It still WOULD be astonishing for me. At Christmas, I went bowling with Ned's family, and I got something impressive like 114, and I emailed a photo of that scorecard to my dad, right from the bowling alley.

"Is that all three games combined?" he asked. Oh, harrrrrrr-de-har.

He also found the bill from my birth, 48 years ago this Tuesday, sadly. The whole bill, including my mother's stay and all that, was $280. Can you imagine? That's less than Botox. In one area!

Despite that low bill, my father said 280 is still more than all my bowling scores put together from fifth grade.

Did I mention harrrrrr-de-har?

Last night, Ned and I went to see Pee-Wee's Big Adventure, and the big adventure for me was using every ounce of my willpower to not throttle old "Lemme check my phone every .004 seconds" in front of me. WHY DO PEOPLE DO THAT? First of all, are you expecting a text from the Secretary of Defense? And why do you NOT CARE how disturbing that is to everyone else? Who raised you?

Still. Pee-Wee is an excellent film.

 

"Break dance!"

So that ends our arduous week of watching movies at the old theater, and our big plan to not get popcorn each night has failed miserably. We will not be pee-wee after this month is over. Next week, we have Fargo and Jaws and I forget what else.

The 39 Steps. I think we have The 39 Steps. I guess I could look at the calendar I put right on this blog.

Oh, and here is my Curly Girl hair and me rubbing my eyes, on the beginning of day three. And no, it's not crunchy, as someone asked. GET THE BOOK.

Photo on 7-12-13 at 7.48 AMI have rolled out of bed, driven home (hi, mom) and not showered yet. So you're getting it in all its glory. And it rained again last night, so. I won't get it wet, again, today when I shower, and then I'll do this thing to sort of refresh it, with a spray I made from lavender essential oil.

It's a whole thing. GET THE BOOK.

Did I just make it seem like I spent the night with my mom? It IS the South.

I had to go to the damn hippie grocery store yesterday at lunch to get said essential oil.

(The goddamn bank has STILL not put the money back in my account, AND they're charging me for checks that come through, and I've been on the phone with them countless times and they keep saying don't worry, we'll fix it, but now they're saying, "Oh, we didn't mean in three to five business days from when we called you. We meant three to five days after the whooo-de-whooo posts to your bloop de blee." When I explained to them I've been having popcorn at the movies for dinner and NOW I'M OUT OF PET FOOD, they said I could write checks, that my local branch was alterted. However, I'm too afraid of trying for fear I'll be humiliated at the grocery store.)

(Anyway, that's why I charged essential oil yesterday.)

My point is, since I was there and all, I said, Oh, I'll go through their free love, organic, no dye, Woodstock, patchouli salad bar. Nothing like charging your lunch on a credit card. I believe Suzi Orman encourages it.

And as ALWAYS HAPPENS at that store, there was some gray, long-haired woman who really could have used the Curly Girl method standing in front of me, and dudes.

DUDES.

She picked up a fork. Of course they only have stainless steel forks there, and these hemp boxes that are too baked to fold properly but that's another story. Anyway, she picks up a fork, looks at it, puts it back and gets another fork. Looks at it. Puts it back. I'm standing right behind her. I can't get any quinoa and grass-fed grass till she gets the eff out my way. Fork. Back. Fork. Back.

WHAT THE FORK.

Finally I sighed as loudly and beleagueredly as humanly possible and went around her. There has not been ONE TIME I have been there that I haven't beleagueredly had to move past some mesmerized hippie. Look, I understand pot is the answer and we need to visualize world pot and so on. But DO YOUR STONY SHOPPING IN THE OFF HOURS. Get there right before All Things Considered, when those of us who aren't necessarily wearing natural fibers are still at work.

Jesus.

Half the people shopping there look like Jesus.

I must go, and get into some unnatural fibers, and head off to my capitalist pig job. I'm The Man. Maybe that makes me a terrible person, but at least I GET THE HELL OUT THE WAY at the grocery store. And my hair smells like lavendar.

Oh, and one more thing?

Tequila.

Hair · June's stupid life · My pets

My assets froze while yours have dropped

I have, as usual, many things to tell you and all of them are dumb. …I guess technically I have just two things to tell you, but, still, dumb.

As you know, my air conditioner has been not what you'd call, you know, cooling the place down a lot, which is its one job, and it's kind of how I feel when I miss a comma that needed comma-ing. Yesterday it was 402 degrees out–look it up if you don't believe me–and when I got out of the shower, nothing would dry on me because it was heaty hot heat heat warm in here.

I cursed myself for awhile for being so first world. I mean, aren't there people who live in much hotter climes, which I just accidentally typed "much hooter climes," and yes, there are people who practically live at Hooters, I would imagine, but guess what. They have air conditioning. Anyway, after hating own self for being such a fussy American, I called John's Cooling and Air Conditioning, or some name like that. I know it had "John" in the title, and I was kind of hoping it was run by a lot of prostitute customers. Just because that'd be interesting.

They were able to get here right away, which, who knew? Those johns are eager to go. So I told my boss I'd work from home for an hour or so, which involved me having to call in to a meeting like I'm important or something.

But first, I had to get money. My assets (assets! bah!) are still frozen thanks to my being a CRIME VICTIM and all last weekend, and yes I AM getting irritated that it's taking so long. For heaven's sake, you know it was fraud. YOU called ME. So give me my money back. I want my two dollars. That was only funny if you saw Better Off Dead, which you really should.

So I had to go to the bank and talk to an actual person and ask could I please have some of my savings, which the thieves hadn't managed to steal with their stealy-pants selves. They'd stabbed my savings with their stealy knives but they just couldn't kill the beast.

By the time STD Air Conditioning got here, I was on that conference call, while looking in on it through a webinar, and also surreptitiously trying to edit something, as well. My three heads and I went to the door to let in the guy, and as usual Tallulah growled and "hrrrrr"d and acted generally terrifying, while Edsel saw that it was a man and melted directly onto the floor, and then his puddle evaporated in little heart-shaped waves.

"Oh, this one likes me," said John, whose name was not, in fact, John and I don't know why they advertise falsely like that. Faux John had no idea how much Edsel loved him. Swiftly and deftly, did he love that man. He's had more love affairs with more maintenance men than all the women in all the stupidly plotted dirty movies combined.

It didn't take long for Faux John, Edsel's new man, to say, "I found the problem, ma'am." He had one of those accents that when I first moved here rendered him unintelligible. I'm good with it now. I speak North Carolina blue collar.

IMG_1478Yeah. I hope you were sitting down. It would appear my filter is what you'd call clogged with hair. Tallulah decided to hate Faux John less so she could check her handiwork. And I know. Faux John was kind of hot.

"But I CHANGE the thing every, you know, so often!" I said. He looked at my dogs, my cats who were winding around his legs, and finally, at my hair. "You should check it every month," he said.

I was also out of coolant or freezant or frigidaire or something, and $224 later my house was cool again. I mean, it's always cool because I'm here. Daddy-O.

But SPEAKING of my hair, and when aren't we, the New Girl at work loaned me her Curly Girl book because did I mention my frozen assets and hot house? In which I, the hothouse flower, reside? So not only did I get to READ parts of the book yesterday, I also got the Curly Girl-approved conditioner in the mail, which I purchased before my assets fell off.

THIS WAS GOOD NEWS. So after my grueling Tracy Morgan workout, which was done in air-conditioned comfort, I started doing the Curly Girl methods. And have I MENTIONED I'm not gonna bilk this poor author out of her funds by reiterating them here, not to mention I could be sued if I did that? Go get the book. It's $11. Or make the New Girl loan it to you. You must have a New Girl. Go.

Anyway, here I am on the way to meet Ned at the movies. We saw Willy Wonka. You know who needs the Curly Girl method? Is Willie Wonka.
IMG_1479It's good, right? I mean, okay, I took this at a red light and half my hair is cut off. But you can SEE it's less frizzy and all already, right? It's supposed to get better with time, too.

IMG_1486When Ned got to the theater, he said, "Did you do something different with your hair?"

….!

I know you are already sick to death of me mentioning my new Curly Girl method. And you don't even KNOW me. Imagine if you were sleeping with me how often and irritatingly I'd be talking about it. Did I do something different with my hair.

During the movie, we could hear it thunder outside, and there was a giant thunderstorm when we walked out. Despite walking through it, here is my hair after at the restaurant.

IMG_1488Okay, YES, there is still frizz, BUT IT'S BETTER THAN IT COULD BE. Oh, and celery sticks. My tusks are celery sticks. You can't take me anywhere.

June and her tusks, out.