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.
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?)
June 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.
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.
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.
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!!!!
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.
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.