In which Marilyn Monroe is compared to a nut

Last night, there was an enormous spider on Ned's wall. It was a major spider. You can imagine my manly response.

Ned got rid of it, and agreed it was a giant spider. "I think he was suicidal. He didn't even put up a fight," he said.

"I wonder what got him so depressed. Maybe he found his wife in the eight arms of another man."


Nothing from Ned. Bupkis. "That was good stuff, there," I pointed out. And still, Ned was Easter Island.

Screen Shot 2014-05-30 at 7.55.29 AMNed is a tough crowd. He DID laugh the other day when he asked me if Soupy Sales was Jewish and I said he was, and his real name was Soupy Wholesales.

Try the veal.

But all of this is neither here nor there. What I was really going to tell you was that I got up with my cute friend Wilma last night.

IMG_0533 IMG_0534Do you not pray to all that is merciful that you are this beautiful when, you know, time marches forward?

She also got to meet Ned, which we've all been wanting to arrange for some time, as her daughter-in-law used to date Ned. I mean, before she married Wilma's son. Otherwise, awkward. The point is, small world, wouldn't want to paint it.


I just adore Wilma, and hope I can ever be half as cool. News flash: That will never happen.


In other news, today is my Pal from MA's birthday. She is 82.

Screen Shot 2014-05-30 at 8.04.57 AMheeeeeee! Really, we are the same age, except she is six weeks older than me, a fact she LORDED over me each year from May 30 to July 16.

Screen Shot 2014-05-30 at 8.07.09 AM"You know, now that I'm four, I feel like I have so much firmer of a grasp on life," she'd say, shaking her hair around sophisticatedly, as though she'd seen all the love and hate and lust and horror the world had to offer since she'd turned four. As though she'd seen a million faces and she'd rocked them all.

I'd watch her, filled with envy and rage and wondering what "grasp" meant, seeing as I was three.

Dear Pal, Now that I'm still 48, I feel so spry and lively. Oh, is that a 23-year-old boy looking me over? It's because I'm still nubile at 48. At 49, I know you wouldn't understand. [shake shake shake of hair]

Anyway, happy birthday, Pal. I am sorry I did not get you a real gift, but as of last night I had $23 in checking. My life is fabulous. (And I'd like to take this opportunity to thank Ned for feeding me last night on our date with Wilma. Y'all, we got three plates of appetizers. A tomato flatbread; some ahi tuna; and a plate with various cheeses, duck breast, pate, something that looked like communion wafers and slivered almonds.)

("Slivered almonds" always sound like the sexiest almonds, to me. You got your raw, your salted, even your smoked almonds. But they can't compete with slivered. Slivered almonds are the Marilyn Monroe of almonds.)

(What is wrong with me?) Anyway, it was all delicious. Then after we said goodbye to Wilma we had to go eat again because Ned was still hungry. We did a bang-bang, which is a thing Louis CK and his brother do on Louis CK's show, where they have one full meal and get up and go to another restaurant and have a second meal. Bang-bang. That's totally what Ned did.

Do you watch that show? It is excellent.

Okay, I have to go to work, but I will catch you later, when I will still be 48.



Apparently, the rhythm got June

The directions to my eyelash curler pads are so small I had to use a magnifying glass to read them. Photo on 5-29-14 at 8.13 AM #3No, we're not back to first-world-problem day. Still! How annoying.

I can't read anything anymore, and Ned just last night had on my reading glasses with the leopard print and sparkly sides while he perused a menu. No, I did not take a picture.

What sorts of things are happening with you as you age? I can't remember the last time I stood up and nothing hurt. Lately it's my hips because apparently I went ahead and shook my body baby, did the conga, I couldn't control myself any longer, shook my body baby did the conga, I couldn't control myself any longer.

I must have done that in my sleep, however.

Anyway, before my hips gave out on me, my feet hurt terribly, and of course my sprained ankle, which took six months to heal and is still, frankly, a little wonky.

Marvin can no longer hear anything, from playing in bands and working at concerts all his life.

What about you? What's falling apart? Tell me so I can feel better about myself. Because that's what matters.

Oh, and you're welcome for putting Gloria Estefan in your head like that.

Who goes to a Gloria Estefan concert? I'm kind of thinking the same folks who rock out to Jimmy Buffet, which you could not PAY me to attend.

Okay, I have to go.

Your old pal, literally,


June gets her Zum on

All summer, my city is offering free workouts at parks on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. The schedule is on the refridge® at work and torments me daily. "I really should be doing these," I think, as I head for the pudding inside the refridge.

A few weeks ago, I went to Tai Chi in the park with a coworker who is actually not named Alex. Let's call her Fleeta, which I did not just find in the random name generator or anything. "Hey, Fleeta," I asked her yesterday while she toiled at her desk. "You working out tonight?"

"I'm not sure, June," she said, never looking up from her work. "You asked me last week, and I said yes, and you never showed up."

"I did?"

"Yes. You asked me twice. I went there and you were never there."

Last Tuesday is when Alex 420349393 came over and we did yoga after she couldn't find the workout locale in the park. I must have also asked Fleeta if she was doing that workout in the park, too, then forgot. Honestly, what is wrong with me? "Did I really ask you twice?" I asked Fleeta. She sighed and continued with her work. Fleeta abhors me. Imagine how delighted she'll be when she finds out I'm calling her Fleeta.

"So, you going tonight?"

Stony silence.

At 5:00, another Alex was leaving work. Let's call her Alex 5. "Hey, Alex 5, you wanna go to the workout in the park? Tonight it's Zumba!" I'm afraid I did a little Zumba-ish dance, at least what I ASSUMED would be Zumba, as I'd never gone.

Alex 5 looked at me for a long time. "I was trying to think of some reason why I can't, but I guess I can't think of any," she said.

I am super-popular at work.

She had workout clothes with her, so we just went to my house to change. You know, last week, Alex 420349393 came over to do yoga at the last minute, and she had her own yoga mat at the ready. Is this generation just prepared for anything? Had I asked Alex 5 to go ballroom dancing with me, would she have pulled out her burgundy taffeta?

"Let's hunt for grouse!" "Oh, sure! Let me whip out my orange vest."

Before we left, we did a search online for just where in the hell this particular workout was. Because the thing on the refridge was confusing. "At the trailhead!" it enthuses. Yeah, thanks. That narrows it down. When we went online, they called it The Trailhead and Under the Bridge and kind of on Spring Garden and kind of on this one other street and over yonder by the trail, there.

Finally, we decided we knew where it was and wrote down directions. I didn't want to use the work printer for personal use, as I am a scaredy cat about breaking the rules.

When we got to my house, I realized I'd left the directions at work. Son of a…We went online again, read, "At the trailhead!" Got annoyed anew, figured everything out and wrote it down. Then we got in the car, all Zumba-attired out.

The thing is, Alex 5 and I got to talking about our weekend and we missed the turn. Mostly because our directions said, "Turn left on Spring Garden" but the only thing present on the road was an arrow saying "Spring Garden this way" all the way on the right. So we drove on, looking for a place to turn around, and suddenly we were on the highway headed to Charlotte.

Son of a…

We finally turned around and got back downtown, and drove around till we saw anything familiar again, and finally got back where we were and got in the right lane in order to turn left on Spring Garden, which we did and then?

There it was! You know? It was at the trailhead!

"Where do we park?" we wondered. At this point, class had started three minutes prior, but we were still determined to go. "We're just missing the instructions on how to do Zumba without breaking our necks," Alex 5 assured me. And who needs that?

Finally we parked. And got out of the car. A woman approached us. "Is this where we do Zumba?" she asked us. We said we sure thought so. She walked away, dazed. "She thinks we look like Zumba experts," said Alex 5, proudly. Yes, clearly we were Charo and Shakira, over here.

A large group of people headed toward us.

"Zumba's canceled," they all said.

How fervently do you pray that I find another punchline song some day?

The town criers who told us about class also said they were just gonna walk the trail, instead, so Alex 5 and I joined them. And by "joined" I mean we sort of creepily walked behind them and judged their tattoos. But the trail was really sort of lovely, and it was probably two miles or so. Which completely justifies the fishsticks I had for dinner.

Tonight? It's belly dancing with Faun Finley! I should totally have called Not Alex "Faun Finley."


(c)2014, Ned Nickerson. The term "refridge" and all its ridiculousness property of Ned Nickerson, Greensboro, NC. Any uses, mentions, or likenesses of the word "refridge" are to be credited to Ned, because it is the stupidest word invented.


In my continued attempts at thin-nity, I am trying to eat only half a bagel today. This is criminal. I am also eating reduced-fat cream cheese and an antique tomato, as Ned would call it. Once he was getting food, and said, "I also picked up one of those antique tomatoes and it was delicious."

I pondered this for a second. "Do you mean heirloom tomatoes?"

"Oh, I guess I do."

Antique tomatoes. Anyway, given what I ate yesterday, a half bagel and your grandmother's tomato are in order. Ned bought a grill for my house, as my last one collapsed with exhuastion and dehydration, and yesterday we had hamburgers and I made potato salad (I know! Was cheffy this weekend) and we had corn on the cob and also 3943020202 Ruffles.

IMG_0520Oh. Also? It seems my breakup with Ned is not working out. News flash: I love Ned.

After our cookout action, we went to the movies, and saw Godzilla, and I will let you guess whose idea that was, but seeing as Ned spent 700 hours of his weekend doing manual labor at my house, I said yes, Godzilla sounds magnificent. And you know it was kind of entertaining? I thought Godzilla looked a little like Talu when she's pissed off. I don't know why they keep shooting at poor Godzilla when it clearly never works.

My point is, we had JUST eaten all that stuff, and then we got to the movies and I had nachos with jalapeños. Are you impressed with my accent mark? I learned how to do that at the Apple store.

I also learned how to italicize when I'm texting.

Then I came home and watched Mad Men and ate 44924929393 strawberries. Why the stubborn pounds?

I DID do half an hour of yoga yesterday, so I'm certain I burned all of that off. While I was doing shavasana, which is the part at the end of yoga where you just lie there like a lump (it's the best part), Edsel laid down next to me and put his paw in my hand. For Edsel, every move is LoveJuneshana.

Anyway, here it is the workweek again, and we can all wear white pants now, which is what matters.

Oh! I know what else I wanted to discuss. The other day at work I complained, "My meditation-a-day page is taking forever to download." Since I work in that delightfully serene open floor plan, I put on headphones and listen to meditation music that allegedly increases concentration. But that day it wouldn't open. You know, kind of like half the time you try to open this fucking blog.

"Wow, could that be more of a first-world problem?" I asked myself. The woman who sits on the other side of me (not all the time, like she's the right hand of God. Just at work) heard me, and mentioned the other day her husband said, "This is the slowest Keurig machine I've ever seen."

Yeah. That counts.

So then I told her I once heard a woman at the grocery store say, "This is the worst-maintained olive bar in town."

What're your most ridic first-world problems? Someone listening to our conversation (and who could AVOID listening to our conversation in that private private workspace?) said, "They're still problems, even if they're first world."

No, they aren't.

So tell me. In the meantime, I really need more summer-y pants. And new eyelash-curler pads.



P.S. Forgot to plug my Purple Clover article again. Here. They renewed my contract for another year, so could someone give me some effing topics to write about? It's getting hard to come up with topics each week. First worldly again, June.

Namaste, heifers

A disciplined woman would do yoga BEFORE blogging.

"A real woman could stop you from drinking." "It'd have to be a really big woman."

Name that movie.

Anyway, here I am blogging, not yoga-ing, and why don't you nama my fucking ste, judgy. I wanted to tell you about ALL WE ACCOMPLISHED yesterday, and it was a lot. The first thing we attempted to do was fix my screen door.

IMG_2986It was unseasonably chilly yesterday. Really, this was the only shot of the door I could find. It was all stained from Edsel jumping on it, the doorknob was gone (see prev ref to damn dog), and you can't tell, but the screen was ripped to ribbons as well. So it was like I lived outside, with the mosquitoes and flies and hawks and coyotes that came through that ripped screen.

Because Ned is Ned, we had to go to the store on Saturday, look at screen things (did you know you can select different COLORS of screens? Of COURSE there's not pink. I'd have lead with that if there were) and observe the screen tools and get a screen brochure and screen our calls and change our screen savers and go to bed and dream of screenie and think about the screen and plan. Plan plan plan.

To say I am a little more devil-may-care about projects is putting it mildly. But this is good, because Marvin put the lack in lackadaisical when we did projects. "Good enough," was always his motto, as was, "Directions are for pansies."

Marvin never said "pansies" in his life unless he was helping me plant some. I was just trying to make him sound awful. But really he hated directions.

My point is, we screened BACK to the store yesterday, having studied up on screens, and we had a list and a plan, and also part of my spline, which sounds personal but which is really this thin black round stuff you squish in to make the screen stay put. That is the official explanation, and tune in next time for more Handyman Tips from June®.

We brought with us the OLD spline to ensure the NEW spline would be the right size, which Ned learned all about in his screeny studies. He also made jokes about how I have no spline, because I have no spleen, see, and I really think he should leave the hysterical jokes to me, because let me tell you. Every time Ned looked at me when we were at the store, I was doing another funny funny thing with the spline we brought.

Photo on 5-26-14 at 12.39 PM #2I was a Glamour "Don't."

Photo on 5-26-14 at 12.41 PMSalvador Dali.

Photo on 5-26-14 at 12.41 PM #4Freida Kahlo.

"June, could you cut it out? Which color screen do you want?" asked Ned, who was so over me there isn't even a phrase for how over me he is.

Photo on 5-26-14 at 12.45 PM #3"I don't care what color, I just really don't want to look at the mousetraps," I said, then fell to the ground in hysterics.

"Look, here's pet-resistant screen. We should probably get that," said Ned, pretending I wasn't me.

Photo on 5-26-14 at 12.48 PM"Would you like a peanut?" I asked him, spitting up.

"That one was pretty good," said Ned.

We DID get the pet-resistant screen, and we took the door down, cleaned it, sanded it, painted it, chanted over it, and finally put in the new screen, with our new spline. "Luuuucyyy, you have some spline-ing to do!" I said. Honestly, if there were a drive-thru wedding chapel in Greensboro, yesterday would've been the day I finally took myself there.

While the paint was drying on the door, Ned and I whacked weeds in my back yard, which he did very manfully for awhile before I said, "I want to do it!" And it was really extra fun for about five minutes, when I very distinctly started feeling like Careen and Suellen in Gone With the Wind when they had to pick cotton for the first time in their pampered lives. Oh, my arms were aching and I was sweating and geez, was that my BACK yelling at me? But I persevered, as I had insisted Ned give me the whacker because it looked so fun, and after a good 15 minutes Ned offered to continue, and I acted like I had something important to do, so I gave him the whacky thing and sat gingerly on the deck, wondering if you could die of sweat.

We also painted my metal chair.

6a00e54f9367fb883401157016f863970b-800wiHere's how it was a few years ago, and Marvin painted it pink in 2009. I looked back at my blog to see if I showed it after, painted all pink, but what I DID find was a kitten picture of Henry, my cat that Marvin got in the divorce.

6a00e54f9367fb883401156f50d220970c-800wiSQUEEEEEEEEEE!!!!! That was the very first photo I ever took of him, and let me tell you. That cat never took a bad picture from then on. He was a model kitty.

Anyway, yesterday I cleaned and sanded and painted and chanted over my chair, and right now it looks like this:

IMG_0513I'm hoping to find some kind of finish-y thing to make it more glossy, but I like the color.

Here, also, are my dogs celebrating the new door and chair and weedlessness.

IMG_0508if edz do not get off lu, she report to HR.

Oh, and here!

TA DAAAAAAA! Some of the dumb wooden decorative parts are gone forever (see above re stupid Edsel), but what're you gonna do? We looked for replacements in the store, to no avail. Still, isn't it so much better?

In all, we worked on stuff for seven hours, and we went out for pizza after, and you have never seen two people pounce on a pizza the way Ned and I did that evening. "Is it just me, or is this the best pizza you've ever eaten in your life?" asked Ned, who did not get an answer because I was chawing. I even ate the crust, which never happens. Crust is for pansies.

I have to go, and allegedly do yoga now, to work off the HORRIBLE LACTIC ACID that has taken residence in my arms and also hips, which do not lie. Gyms should offer weed whacking classes. No one would be fat again.

I'll let you know when Edsel breaks the new screen.



Old flame

I spilled a bag of peanuts into the dogs' bag of food, so now every meal is packed with peanuts. Kibble really satisfies. And if you think my dogs are persnickety about peanuts in the shell being in their kibble, you must be new.

Anyway, I had been wanting to tell you about going to pet therapy with Faithful Reader Happy, below. IMG_0489
IMG_0480(I like how pet therapy is supposed to be for the elderly, and there I was up in some dog's grille. Step aside, old lady. You think you got problems?)

We went on Thursday. I did not bring my dogs, as I did not want to have to explain to any family why gramma turned into Tallulah's afternoon tea.

100_0534Scone gramma do be delishus.

Anyway, we had ourselves a time, and one old guy turned out to be a sort-of-famous musician, and I took a movie of him off in the corner playing piano, and when I get time, I will You Tube it and put it up for you.

On Friday, I had dinner with Ned. I know. We talk talk talked, and it must have gone well, because at 3:00 in the morning we found ourselves at the park, sitting on chairs watching the meteor shower. As soon as we sat down, a really dramatic one shot across the sky. "WOW!" we both said, excited for our meteor shower.

Half an hour later, Ned said, "Well, we saw one."

Ten minutes after that, Ned said, "Well, we saw that one. It was a good one."

Finally another meteor shot across.

"Well, that's two."

"Are you going to be the town crier about each star?" I asked him.

A few minutes later, Ned said, "Well, we saw two."

What I am saying to you is, it was not so much a shower as kind of a sprinkle. And nothing makes you feel better than going to sleep at 4:00.

Yesterday, Ned and I scraped my goddamn ceiling, which lemme tell you is a pain in my ass.

IMG_0493 IMG_0492Ned was there when the chips were down.

If that weren't lighthearted enough, we went to Lowe's, where no one else was on a holiday weekend, and selected a weed whacker, replacement screening for my door, and bug spray. Because, bugs. Neither of us knows the first thing about replacing a screen, at least we didn't yesterday. Now we're screen experts.

"Today we're going to find out the diameter of your spline, and get some of that," said Ned, just a while ago, and then he said, "You know what I never thought I'd hear myself say? 'The diameter of your spline.' But there it is."

So, obviously Ned and I are spending some time together, and he said if we don't reunite, at least my house will be fixed and my weeds will be gone.

Would you like to know what I am not asking for, here? Advice. That is what I am not asking for. Just keeping you abreast, as it were.

Oh! But I AM asking for advice on this.

How, in the name of all that is fucking sacred, do you change the goddamn light bulbs on this light fixture?

IMG_0498I don't even LIKE this light fixture. Who am I, an old plantation owner, calling in the slaves? Why do I even HAVE this light fixture? Oh, welcome to my carriage house, y'all. Let me get you a julep. What the fuck. And to add insult to injury, I CAN'T EVEN USE IT because the light bulbs are burnt out.

Neither the top or bottom things unscrew in any helpful way, by the by. I have tugged and screwed and pulled and sweated, but enough about reuniting with Ned.


Really. Do you own this light fixture? If so, nice taste. Secondly, what the fuck do you do when you have to change bulbs? Also, I can't get enough of that shape bulb. Oooo, it's a real flame! Your lamp, your Civil War carriage house lamp, is on FI-YA! I'm burning up!

Okay, I'm going. Ned keeps saying we need to "seize the day" and get all this shit done at my house. Seventy times he's said it. Oh, and when he came over to scrape my ceiling yesterday, he said, "So, have you made a plan for how we're going to go about this?"

I blinked at him for awhile. A plan. I shook his hand. "Hi, I'm June. It's so nice to meet you." A plan. So last night, Ned made a list of all the things we have to do today, and I am assuming he is also creating a, you know, plan. I did ask if we had a plan on where we were going to eat lunch when we broke from all the seizing of the day. I thought it was a legitimate question but whatever.

Okay. Here I go.

June, seizing.

I know this is stupid

but I live near a busy street, and just now a squirrel got hit by a car. It happens all the time on that dumb road. My cat Roger was killed on that road, and Tallulah was hit there, too. She's just too tough of a no-nonsense Pit to let a minor thing like a car bother her. Much.

Pay no mind to how she trembles if a car comes too near us on our walks.

Anyway, I saw the squirrel on the road, and then I saw it move its tail. Oh, no. Was that just the wind from cars passing it? Another car went by and his tail did blow in the wind.

But then he lifted his head.

"Oh NO," I said, and ran to the road.

He was alive, and trying to get up. "No problem here. Squirrel feel absolutely well. Just few scratches."

I considered getting a shovel and getting him out of the road that way, but I was worried I'd hurt him. I called Animal Control, and they weren't going to be open till 8:00. It was 7:44. I squatted down near the squirrel. "I'm going to stay here with you till Animal Control can get here. It'll be okay, little squirrel."

He lifted his head and looked at me, dazed. "Don't be scared," I told him, but he probably was.

I stood there like a crazy woman (I mean. "Like" a crazy woman might be a bit of a stretch.) Every time a car whizzed by, I'd cringe. Maybe I really should get that shovel.

Just then, a white SUV careened down the road and hit my little squirrel. I screamed, and dropped my phone, and hid my eyes.

Oh, how I've cried for that squirrel today. He'd just been minding his own business, doing ridiculous squirrel things, and this happened. And the last thing he saw was my crazy-eyed self, talking to him in squirrel baby talk.

I called Ned, crying hysterically. Shut up. I told Ned the story and he got weepy, too. He offered to come over, but I have to go to work and act like a normal person who doesn't get hysterical about a rodent in the street.

Rest in peace, little squirrel. I hope you did not suffer much, that you were in shock and barely noticed the woman with all the hair. I hope if you did notice her, you felt comforted in some way. I hope you're in a teensy squirrel heaven filled with bird feeders you can raid to your heart's content.

Love, your insane human friend, June.

Coffee soup is good food

The good news is, I keep forgetting to buy detergent for the dishwasher, so am currently drinking coffee out of soup bowl. My life just gets fabulouser.

I have a friend who is extra-super-annoyingly fit, and she and her man have recently damned indecision and cursed it right, as well. Yesterday she said to me, "I'm gonna go work out. I mean, it'll rid me of this anxiety, and besides, I have to get all hot again."

News flash: She is already 10 times hotter than all of us combined.

Last night I was taking a bath in epsom salts, soaking and thinking of opening a nice wrist, when she texted me. She text me.

"I just ate an entire carrot cake," she wrote. You know, I've never heard of the carrot cake workout. I feel like I could STICK to that one. I should ask my doc what's up with that diet. I could have my cake workout and…eat it, too. Orange you glad Ima try this workout?

It is no wonder I can't keep a man.

The only other thing I have to tell you is that

Oh my god. I've completely forgotten what the other thing was. Oh, geez Louise. This is not good. I guess, then, I'll explain why I bathed in epsom salts. Yesterday at work I was working very intently on one project all day, and I was hunched over trying to read fine print, and guess what, I think my 2.0 reading glasses prescription has officially crapped out on me. Now I have to go get 5.9s or something.

Anyway, I had a headache when I got home, and I never get headaches, I just get migraines, and this was seeming like it was careening over to migraine territory. My cousin Katie, who is a natural-fibers-loving hippie, said when SHE gets a migraine she bathes in epsom salts with a little lavender essential oil, which, oddly, I also had on hand.

I got out the epsom salts Ned gave me when I sprained my ankle last November. I added the oil. And while I was lying there, I noticed the carton of salts read "Good until 12/99."

TWELVE NINETY-NINE! The epsom salts expired FIFTEEN YEARS AGO. So now I probably have epsom salt poisoning and this will be the last you'll hear from me. I just recovered from that yogurt poisoning of yesterday.

In summary, I need to stop dealing with expired things.

June, who was good until 5/14.