With rudeness, all things are possible

Well, I got paid last night. Checked this morning to make sure the money was in there, then I opened all my bills and added them up.

Out of money again.

Am I the only one living this way? Because by the way, I hate it. And it's not like I can say, Oh, I have to eliminate this spending. My bills were for Duke Energy, my car, my mortgage, a medical bill I'm paying off, and my phone/cable/Internet. Wooo! Fun. Fun purchases.

Anyway. At least I have a roof over my head. A roof with new paint on the ceilings. I don't know if I told you that for Ned's birthday, his dad gave him a gift certificate to Lowe's, which really was a gift for me, and I'm enjoying this trend quite a bit. Next year Ned's dad will give him a Hello Kitty sparkly necklace, I just know it!

Oh, I keep meaning to tell you that the other day, someone forwarded me a "Cat Found" announcement in the Charlotte Craigslist, and the cat was gray and white. How Lily would have scooted those short legs all the way to Charlotte is beyond me, but I'm figuring she took a cab. Or maybe she flew. United Felines. No, I really DON'T know how I've maintained a blog that people actually read.

Still. Even though it was a long shot, I emailed the ad. "I have a missing cat," I wrote, and explained my story. A few hours later, the person wrote back.

We took it to the pound.

With God, all things are possible.

I swear. That's what it said. That cold note, then a signature about God. With God, all things are possible, including the opportunity to write the least-empathetic email, ever.

I wrote back. "Well, if it's my cat, I'd be willing to drive to the pound in Charlotte. I know it's highly unlikely it isn't her, but your description really sounds like her. Here is a picture. Did the cat you found look like this? Thanks for your time."

Not your cat.

I heart God.

She attached pictures of a cat who looked not like Lily but like Roger, and in case you're thinking I'm going out to get another cat soon, you are sadly mistaken. From 1994 to 2011, I had Mr. Horkheimer, Ruby DeLuna and Francis Carport. Those were my three regularly scheduled cats, nothing happened to them, they all remained here with me until they got old and sick and died. Then ever since then I've been like Larry on Three's Company. Not that he dated cats but you know what I mean.

When you adopt cats, June, they're toast.

God is my homie.

So that was that, and what're you gonna do?

I am off. With no money in my pocket and no fluffy cat on my condo.

I may be poor. Black. I may even by ugly. But dear God I'm here.


Don we now our gay apparel

I'm running very late today. I was Ned-ing. Twice.

But I did not want to leave you wondering if you were in the running to possibly win BIG PRIZES today. Yesterday I asked you to guess if my hot young coworker Ryan lifted weights on Tuesday night, or drank a milkshake–the two riveting choices he presented his own self for the evening.

And? He did neither. WILDCARD! He went to a trivia night with his friends and ate food truck food. Which makes me feel a little relieved. It's less dull than what he was planning to do.

I also loved your comments when I asked you what books you should never write. Among my favorites were:

Other People's Kids, They're My Favorite!

How to Keep a Man (alive) (That was written by poor Cheech, whose loved one died. It killed me, so to speak.)

I Forgot to Eat Today

The Somber Woman: A Guide to Being Stoic and Serious at Funerals

I Welcome You to Walk Through My Yard and F*UCK With My Flowers

Sports Made Me Who I am Today

How to Snag a Guy Like Ryan When Your Body Looks Like Jabba the Hutt

Red Wine is Bad for You: A Cautionary Tale

Who Needs Caffeine? Not ME!

Learn To Turn That Frown Upside Down! The End Of Bitchy Resting Face

Brush Up Against Me — I Love Crowds!

A fine job, everyone. I giggled at all of you.

Oh my GOD, I have to go to work, it's late late late. Before I go, you guys drifted off onto the topic of erotica, and Amish erotica, and wow what is wrong with all of you. But you did mention some girl-on-girl book, which you said was hot, and as you know I just finished Ned's dirty girl-on-girl book and it was hot, so here's my question for today:

How big of a les are you, do you think? I've never even kissed a girl, although once I told Marvin I slept with my friend Gertrude, just to get him riled up, and then later I said, "I was just making that up to get you riled up" and he absolutely refused to believe me. To this day, he thinks my friend Gertrude and I were scissoring or whatever, and we really never have.

But if Megan Fox wanted to make out with me, I'd be down with that. So I put myself at 15% gay. You?

Took a break from sculpting this David thing to say hi on m’blog

Before I begin to complain about painting my ceilings–and it's just like you're reading Michelangelo's blog–I want to talk about my poor work husband, Ryan.

6a00e54f9367fb883401a73dd442bf970d-800wiI've shown you his picture before and you all turned into Mrs. Robinson. Ryan (and I have no idea why I didn't just call him Alex like I do everyone else I work with, but his name actually isn't Alex, so it makes him an anomaly) sits across from me, and everyone accuses us of being work married, just because we share our almonds and IM each other all the time and go on walks and have secret jokes.

I guess he'd be my trophy husband, as he is half my age.

The point is, he is what you'd call a good kid. He plays basketball approximately 78 nights a week, and he rides a bike, and he thinks clean thoughts and does right by society. He even has a Little Brother.

I wish to change all that and make him into the same terrible person I was at 25. "So, what're your plans for tonight?" I IM'd him yesterday, hoping he'd say, "Oh, I plan to snort some heroin, maybe pick up a hooker."

"I can't decide whether to lift weights or get a milkshake," he wrote back.

Seriously. That's what he wrote back.

"Well, if you get a milkshake, it'll bring all the boys to your yard," I wrote, then sculpted a bust of myself.

So to speak.

Anyway, I told Ryan I was on pins and needles, waiting to see if he got the milkshake or lifted the weights. ("I could pull a wild card and do neither!" he announced.)

What I'd like you to do is guess. Which sad, not-taking-advantage-of-his-youth-and-looks thing did he do last night? I will enter the winners in a drawing, and will "award" you a prize. Seasoned readers, please warn any new people about my prizes.

Oh, and the other thing I wanted to mention before I complain about painting my ceilings is that Faithful Reader Fay and I got into a discussion about books we should never write. Sort of a What I Don't Know For Sure, which I always thought would be the title of my book, anyway, should I ever write one.

I have a couple books I should never write:

Advanced Trigonometry, by June Gardens

Smooth Hair Tips and Tricks, by June Gardens

Keeping Your Cool: How to Stay Not Irked by Life. Written by June Gardens

Keep Your Makeup Natural by June Gardens

Injectables are Wrong. Age Naturally. A seres of essays by June Gardens

You? What would your book you should never write be called?

See? Goddammit. I went on so long about those other things that now I can't complain like I wanted to. In summary, we are scraping, sanding, priming and fucking painting my dining room and bedroom and guest bedroom ceilings. "Guest bedroom" is quite a euphemism, seeing as the room has an ironing board and zero bed. Guest bedroom for all the vampires and astronauts who stay over.

IMG_0995Here are my dogs, trying to kill Ned while he scrapes. I've run out of drop cloths and am now using curtains I hate instead. What made me ever say, "Ohhhh, sheer lavender curtains! Yayes!" Am I Liberace, with those things? And thank god I schlepped those all the way from California.

IMG_0997 2we not shur about dis. wy eberytheeng in disray?

I love it when Talu does her Edsel impression.

Okay, I'm off. Be sure to guess about Ryan, and tell me your book you should never write. Tonight Ned and I are off to our old movie theater, where they are showing that classic The Hangover. I just love those old actors like Bradley Cooper.

Now THERE'S someone who doesn't waste his youth and looks on milkshakes and weightlifting.



The one where June links to recipies, as she does

Other than the part where I own less of my finger than I might have liked, dinner went fine.

And by the way, it hurts like hell to type, and I don't want you to feel bad for me, or think about what a hero I am, how I'm the wind beneath your wings, typing with this major injury. Don't go on and on about how grateful you are that I blogged anyway. No, sir. I hate that kind of attention. Really, I hate any kind of attention.

I am totally one of those "negative attention is worse than none at all" people, aren't I? Why do you even like me?

The point is, after my brief, not-at-all-ludicrous workout Saturday,

Photo on 7-26-14 at 1.26 PMI got my menu prepared and headed to the store. Remember all the things I SAID I was gonna make last time I wrote? I didn't make any of them. Two of the items called for chicken broth, which has MSG, which gives me the migraines, and basically I'm a barrel of laughs.

So I made honey jalapeno salmon, broccoli tomato salad, new potatoes just made the regular way by boiling them and buttering the shit out of them, and finally? My pieces of resistance? (Am hilarious.)

Avocado pops.

In total, my groceries were $28, and the salmon was about half of that cost. I thought I had honey but it turns out something bad happened with the honey, which I will not tell you about because it's SO SO AWFUL, and I thought I had oregano, and please look at that link. HOW DO I NO LONGER HAVE OREGANO?

So these things had to be borrowed from Ned.

I debated whether I could wear that teal tank in the photo above as my dinner garb, but decided to wear something not absolutely disgusting. The point is, the avocado pops were made first because they had to freeze,

IMG_0986and then the salad was next, because it could sit in the refridge, as Ned would say. One time. And I won't let it drop.

So there I was, cutting the grape tomatoes when MOTHER OF GOD did I cut the crap out my finger. It was like that Julia Child scene from Saturday Night Live. I pressed a cloth to it, praying to all that is heavenly that it would stop before Ned got there, because one thing Ned is good at is the blood, and I was really looking forward to bleeding all over the smelling salts I was wafting under Ned.

It did stop, sort of, thanks to my Dora the Explorer Band-Aids one of you sent me. Since I began this blog I have not had to buy Band-Aids once. I don't know why I seem like the type who likes colorful kid Band-Aids except for the part where I'm TOTALLY that type, and you guys have sent me every kind out there.

So with anemia, I finished everything. I was like a cheffy Evonne Goolagong.


I guess I had iron, I just didn't have any blood.


IMG_0988The salad I almost died making. You. I would. Die for. You.

IMG_0987Salmon. Delicious salmon. Made with Ned's not-disgusting honey, as opposed to mine. (YOU DON'T WANNA KNOW.)

IMG_0990New potatoes with ears.

You can see the drop cloth over my corner cabinet, as we are still scraping, sanding, priming and painting my damn ceilings, which I will complain about tomorrow. The point is? Ned gave the meal five goddammits.

"This is the best salmon I've ever eaten," said Ned. "GODAMMIT!" said Ned.

For the rest of the night, Ned kept talking about dinner. He talked about it here, he talked about it at his house where we watched the world's most disturbing movie (I don't know what it's called. But if you run across a movie where Scarlett Johanssen is an alien, DO NOT WATCH IT. DO NOT. Even though she is naked in it throughout, DO NOT), he talked about it today.

I have never known a human to get more enjoyment out of food, except for possibly my Uncle Leo, who feels sick after every meal, so indulgent is he. We all wait for it. "Oh," he'll say, grabbing his stomach. "I'm sick." A meal isn't done till Uncle Leo feels purge-y.

Oh. But one thing.

IMG_0991Ned thought the avocado pops were weird. He doesn't know from good.

From my kitchen to yours,


P.S. My new Purple Clover is about how I couldn't stay the hell out of this one bar. A proud moment.

Pink and blue and mango

I just woke up, having slept nine hours. I had to recover from that one-day workweek. I put in seven and a half hours this week. I know. It's insane. I gotta knock it off, get some balance in my life.

The good news is, you may remember I said I took on an extra task at work, a big project, if you will, and I found out it was very well received. I told my boss's boss's boss, just when you thought I couldn't get more pleased with myself, boom.

Oh! And the project was something I wrote, not copyedited, and please see previous post about what the psychic said. oooooWEEEEEoooooo!

Last night I got up with Dick Whitman, and remember when that was an all-the-time occurence? Now we have mates and ignore the shit out each other. We're the kind of friends who dump each other as soon as a boyfriend comes along. Or girlfriend, seeing as DW does not have a boyfriend, not that you'd guess that based on his drink orders.

IMG_0984Enclosed please find Dick Whitman's mango champagne cocktail. No, I am not making that up. Yes, he digs women.

IMG_0982Whitman took this picture of me because my feet matched the chairs. When I got to his house last night, he said, "Oh, look at you, with your pink toes!"


"Whitman, aren't you, like, an artist?"

"I am. I guess you'd never know it from my color knowledge." Pink toes. Good gravy. Maybe he's just used to assigning the color pink to anything having to do with me.

IMG_0983Here's Whit in his pink t-shirt.

At any rate, we had a good time. We went to Reynola, which is this old mansion owned by the Reynolds tobacco people, because yay, cigarettes. Part of the mansion and grounds are all these tiny white outbuildings, where the workers lived so they could slave away picking tobacco or whatever you do with tobacco. They've turned each little building into shops and restaurants, and we ate at one of them.

Yay, tobacco! Yay, underpaid field hands!

Tonight Ned comes home, and I have announced I am making dinner. "What would you like?" I asked him. "Well, I imagine my choices run the gamut from salmon to lasagna," he said tiredly. "No! I'm going to make something new!" I said, all this water making me insane.

I gave him the choice of honey jalapeno salmon or grilled chicken with jalapeno caramelized onions. Ned's big into jalapenos. Then his side choices are a broccoli cherry tomato salad, a berry salad with gorgonzola, spinach mashed potatoes or balsamic glazed new potatoes.

Last night while I was headed to Dick Manly Drink Whitman's, Ned called from the beach. "I want all those things. Can we have them all?" So I guess I get to choose without his ass, and why did I think he'd make a snappy decision anyway? All of YOU could have told me, "Ned will never decide on these, June." And you would be right.

I think I'll go for the chicken, the berry salad and the goddamned mashed potatoes because I freaking love mashed potatoes.

Before I go begin cooking, because yes, it WILL take me all day to handle this, my aunt sent me a photo from her yearbook.

20140726_084422Okay, I know it's not that sharp, and where do you think I pick up my fine skillz? But on the right, near the top? The old people watching the game? THOSE ARE MY GRANDPARENTS! That's the grandmother I'm turning into, other than the part where she attends basketball games. And there's my grandfather looking intent right next to her. He played basketball in college for the brief time he was in college, before he had to go be all up in World War II. Cool, right?

And yes. I know. My grandfather DOES look like Ned. I've seen that before, but I really see it here. They are younger than I am now, in this photo. Oy.

Oh, wow! Do you see the black guy in front of them, the guy kind of looking at the camera? Longtime family friend. Holy cats! He's the dentist for several members of my family. How cool. I'll bet my grandparents saw him in the crowd and sat next to him to chat. I wonder where I was. Probably rehab.

Okay, I'm out. Gotta go cook. You are so sick of hearing me say that.

Ban de Soliel, for the Saginaw tan

Well, it's back to work today. My water and I are back to work. By the way, I still look completely the same. It's day five! Shouldn't I be miraculously young-looking and incredibly hydrated by now?

Instant gratification takes too long. (c) Carrie Fisher, my favorite person on earth now that Nora Ephron is dead.

Yesterday, I schlepped over to Winston-Salem, for a change, and got my free facial. Well. It wasn't free. I bid on it at Charlie's fundraiser in January, but whatever. Anyway, this woman with sophisticated glasses and cool hair came out. "Joooon Giirdins?" She had the strongest Southern accent humanly possible. It was hilarious. She was all sophisticated on the outside and sounded like Junior Sample from the inside.

"Let's tauk about yer fayce," she began, so I told her my woes. She looked at my skin under a magnifying glass that can pick out each atom. Yeesch, that thing was huge. Turns out I have sun damage. Hunh. That's not possible. Pay no attention to the reflective mat and 0 SPF Ban de Soliel I slathered on myself all summer between ages 12 and 25.

Sun damage. Pfft.

Then she had me close my eyes while she wafted "thrieeeee sceynts" over my nose. I picked the first scent, which turned out to be lavender, and I am nothing if not sort of consistent sometimes.

Anyway the whole thing was lovely, and I bought some sensitive-skin facial wash that I just completely forgot to use in the shower.

Since I was in W-S, I emailed Dick Whitman ahead of time to ask if he wanted to meet at the coffee shop after. When I got no answer after several hours, I called him. After my facial, I checked my phone. No response. So I called one more time and decided to, oh, kill some time at the shoe store. Zero shoes and zero calls from DW, I called again.

"Hey, Whitman, I guess you never saw my messages, so I'm headed in to Trader Joe's. I won't be able to meet now because I've gotta get these groceries home." (We don't have a TJ's in Greensboro, and there was one a block from me in LA. I was sort of indifferent to it in LA and now I miss it all the time.)

I got 250 frozen items for $38 and was headed home when my phone rang. "Are you still here?"


Don't you hate it when people don't listen to your messages and just call back instead? Why do people DO that?

"No, Whitman, I TOLD you that in my last message."

"Oh, I didn't listen to it. I just called."


I like my angry new ellipses effect.

The point is, we're allegedly getting together tonight since we're both dateless. His woman is at some kind of How To Deal With Dick Whitman conference and Ned is at the beach. He texted me last night from the front porch of the beach house and we had a pretty scintillating conversation that mostly went, "I miss you," "I miss you, too." "I wish you were here." "I wish I were there, too." I did, however, fill him in on last night's Andy Griffith.

Oh, it was a good one. This man drove by and told Aunt Bee he could see aphids on her roses, and while he spread cancer-causing chemicals all over them, he charmed the housedress off Aunt Bee. Is it Aunt Bea or Bee? Anyway, Andy was suspicious at first and what I liked is he surprised Aunt Bee by coming home midday, saying, "I decided to come home for a hot lunch" and she scurried on into the kitchen and came out with a plate of food.

If anyone came to my house thinking I just had a meat loaf going for lunch at all times, they'd turn into a skeleton tout suite.

The point is, he hung around for days, that handyman did, and both got charmed by him (I have no idea where Opie was. Maybe rehab) until someone mentioned that for a handyman, that drifter sure had soft hands.  This hadn't occurred to Andy, the detective, till then, so he got Sarah to call over to Mount Pilot and talked to the sheriff there, who confirmed that guy was a scammer of the worst sort.

Ned has as much fun hearing about this as you are.

Anyway, poor Aunt Bee. She should totally have gotten on Mayberry Match.com or something. Mayberry Grinder. Aunt Bee on Tinder.

Name: Bee Taylor

Turn-Ons: Pie, pearls and a hot lunch.

Turn-Offs: Clara's prize-winning pickles.

Looking For: No Barney Fifes. And no mama's boys. Looking at you, Howard.

I know too much about the Andy Griffith show.

I have to go, and I know it's a tad sick, but I'm glad to get back to work and see all the Alexes. But before I go, I do have to tell you I had a my-dad-and-the-pot-pie thing happen. I know I've told you this before, about how in the '70s, my dad was downstairs watching sports, as he did, and now that I know Ned I understand that apparently you must sign some kind of contract promising to scream the swears every five minutes when you watch sports, seeing as this is what they both do. It keeps the show on, somehow, like how in the Flintstones there's some animal turning a crank somewhere.

The point is, dad turned on the oven to preheat it. Then after that finally was ready, he put in a frozen pot pie, and you had to let it cook, like 45 minutes or something. No microwaves. He got hungrier and hungrier while he shouted his turn-the-crank swears at the screen, waiting for his pot pie. I have no idea where I was. Maybe rehab.

Finally, it was time. He ran upstairs to the kitchen, opened the oven to pull out the pie, and?


The whole thing fell upside-down onto the kitchen floor.

Oh, I am glad I missed the dad tantrum that ensued, and have I mentioned Ned has the same charming temper?

Yesterday at Trader Joe's I saw the green chile tamales, which I had TOTALLY FORGOTTEN about. Marvin and I got them every week. Oh, they're good. I preheated the oven as I have no microwave (really? Is there really anyone who doesn't know this already?), finally put the tamale in, wait wait waited till it was ready, and?


And instead of falling onto the floor, it fell in the crack between the bottom of the stove and the door.

Have I mentioned I have my dad's and Ned's temper?

An hour later I saw Tallulah's snout pressed into the crack of the stove like she was an anteater, chawing with her flea teeth to get each green chile.

So. Yeah. At least I had water.

Talk at you. Tune in tomorrow for another Andy Griffith recap!



Sans pépins

Yesterday evening, my phone rang. It was Ned.

"What are you doing?" he asked me. He'd been over here two hours earlier and we'd made out until he had to go. "I'm watching Andy Griffith," I told him. "Aunt Bee has just laid down the law; no more Opie going to the police station."

"Well, why not? His dad's there," said Ned.

"Yeah, but Barney gave Opie some handcuffs, which Opie took to school and used on some kid, and Aunt Bee feels like the police station is a bad influence."

"You know who's a bad influence is that Barney. He was good for nothing," said Ned.

"In a way, it was good he moved to Raleigh even though it made the show jump the shark. Did you ever see Barney when you lived in Raleigh? Did he ever arrest you?"

"Barney moved to Raleigh?" Ned was incredulous.

I don't know how anyone doesn't know that Barney eventually moved to Raleigh, but the point is after this pertinent discussion was through, Ned asked me what I had for dinner, as my food consumption and his own food consumption are the focus of his days. There has been more than one occasion when we're still eating and he begins to wonder what our next meal will be.

"I had a bagel with tomato on it and a peach," I told him. "You?" Turned out he'd had a tomato sandwich and corn, and we were both still hungry. The first person to mention neither of us had any protein gets shot with Barney's single bullet.

"You wanna go out somewhere and get a snack and maybe some water?" I forgot to tell you guys that I'm on this water thing. Faithful Reader LaUral told me about this woman in England who drank three liters of water a day, and I am so with you on the whole how much is three liters and can't we speak English for God's sake, not to mention the water-drinking woman probably spells it "litres."

It turns out three liters is 101 ounces. Which, wow. But this woman made only this change and look at her after four weeks.

Screen Shot 2014-07-24 at 12.40.04 PM

Right? How much does that make you want to drink litres of water all day long? Guess who went out and literally purchased three-liter jugs of water immediately? I've been doing it since Monday and here is my progress so far.

Photo on 7-21-14 at 2.56 PM #2Here's Monday. I look not at all insane. It's because I'm so dehydrated.

Photo on 7-24-14 at 12.44 PMHere's today. So far I look exactly the same. And a tad psychopathic. Well, I guess in one my hair is actually dry.

Still. Ima keep going. God, I'm sick of water. I brought a bottle of water to the Prince movie the other night and halfway through I went to the concession stand and got another bottle. I peed three times during that movie. I waited till the Morris Day scenes.

Anyway. So Ned and I walked down to this place near him, and it was such a pretty night and we could have eaten outside, but there was the 44848392949459394th baseball game of the summer on, so we had to go inside. I got a pint glass of water and what I meant to order was just maybe something like chips and salsa, but they didn't have that. "All we have like that are nachos," the waitress said. So I ordered them, and Ned and I said, "We'll just eat some of them and take them home."

IMG_0978Twenty minutes later.

"God. Do you realize we just did a bang-bang?" asked Ned. A bang-bang is from the Louis C.K. show, the best show on earth. Louis C.K. and his brother sometimes go out for bang-bangs, which is where you go to one restaurant and order a full meal, and when you're done you get up and go somewhere else and order a whole other full meal.

The good news is I got in two pints of water. Then I went to Ned's and had a little water.

Today Ned left for the damn beach. I know. He asked me to go anyway, but I have to get back to work tomorrow. Today I'm getting the facial I won at my friend Charlie's fundraiser back in January. What kind of world is this where I take six months to get to a beauty treatment?

Before he could go, Ned had to make some more work calls. "I have to wait to call Kansas; they're an hour behind," he told me. "When you call them, are you going to tell them to carry on, my wayward son?" I asked him, holding my own hand tenderly.

"No, but I will remind them that all we are is dust in the wind," said Ned. "Oh, but I guess I could call Boston right now."

"You do NOT also have to call Boston!" I said, delighted. "When you call them, don't look back!"

I can't imagine leaving me behind while you scurry to the beach.

Anyway, he'll be back on Saturday, and in the meantime he left me his grapes to remember him by.


His raisins verts sans pépins. If this bag needs to have a giant American flag on it, why the French translation? And if the French call grapes raisins, what do they call raisins? You have to differentiate. Oh, I put raisins in the salad! Did you put grapes in there, or raisins? Because in one case, yay! In the other, get your disgusting salad away from me.

Okay, I have to go. I have to get my facial. I'll bet the facialist will notice I drink a lot of water.



I still don’t really know what it sounds like when doves cry

Nobody freak out, but I deactivated my Facebook account again. It was just so peaceful without it. I got back on there to wish Ned a happy birthday back in June, then I thought, well, I'd be a fool to not leave it up for my birthday, because I am a giant ass.

Anyway, am off of there. Again.

Obviously, we're never gonna make it to the beach, but I've been enjoying my time off this week. The first person to say "staycation" gets pummeled with my liver.

Enclosed please find daisies Ned brought me.

IMG_0973Really, my daisies and not going to the beach and staycations and my liver have nothing to do with each other; I just saw the photo on my desktop and remembered I wanted to put it up. Here is another picture I wanted to put up.

IMG_0965There's a beautiful Crepe Myrtle across the street from me, as opposed to those ugly Crepe Myrtles we've heard so much about, and right now it's exploding all over the place and I love it.

IMG_0970Here are old Crepe and Myrtle enjoying it. Talu's Gentle Leader matches. Now I wish I'd have picked up that piece of newspaper, seen what it said.

When I lived in LA, I walked every weekday morning with my friend Kista. We lived in a really hilly neighborhood and we'd walk for 40 minutes. Our big finale was this set of redunkulous steps, and I'd hate me too for saying "redunkulous," that went straight up a hill. Every day we'd climb that thing and deposit our lungs at the top. Good gravy. The point is, we'd often find notes and photos and all sorts of things on the ground. We thought about making a book out of them.

Ooo, and speaking of which, some of my readers were nice enough to send me gifts for my birthday, and those are the very best kind of readers. Yesterday I cashed in my psychic reading at the hippie crystal store in town, (to thwart the 23949493 local emails I'm about to get, it's the one on State Street and the person who read me is whomever reads tarot cards every Tuesday).

So, she sets down my cards and says, "Hunh. Are you a writer?"


"Well, sort of, I mean, yeah." I can never just say yes, I'm a writer. I'm more of a spew whatever comes out-er. I'm like a Crepe Myrtle, only not as pretty.

"Well, you need to concentrate on that," she said. "Big things are happening there. Are you thinking of writing a book?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, yeah, I guess." She must have been blown away by my forceful nature.

"You should work on that now. I can see big things with that. A real change of pace."


Then she said, "Hunh. Are you an animal lover? Do you take on special cases?" Edsel immediately popped into my head, but then I remembered that Iris is allegedly sight-challenged. "Sight-challenged." Jesus. Maybe I'll start referring to my animals as feline-Americans and canine-Americans, too, while I'm up being an asshole. And I'll be sure to let everyone know they're RESCUES every time I possibly can.

The point is, interesting reading. Today I am cashing in the spa gift certificate another reader sent me. Did I mention gifty readers are the best KIND of readers?

Oh! And when I got home, I had an email from MY EDITOR at Purple Clover. It was full of compliments, telling me how great he thought my writing was, and I was all, "ooooWEEEEEooooooo!"

IMG_0975After my reading and compliments, I went to the movies. Last night they showed Purple Rain at the old movie theater. Ohmyhod, best time there, ever.

OhmyHOD. I don't even know who Hod is. But I'll bet I rescued him.

Anyway, everyone in there was a Prince freak like me, and as soon as he appeared in the movie we all started screaming and cheering. When Appolonia took off her clothes, we all hooted. So to speak. And when he got to Purple Rain, they lit up the arch that frames the movie screen; the screen has this elaborate, 1920s gold arch thing that's lovely. Anyway, it was hilarious. And of course, when he sang, "If you know what I'm singing about up here come on raise your hand" we ALL DID. The whole place.

And of course we all broke into, "Oooo, hooo, hoooo hooo" at the end. We were a group of idiots, is what we were. In unrelated news, I need a peplum leather coat like Appolonia's, stat.

http://en.musicplayon.com/embed-v2?v=603996 If you can get past the first minute of horrid buzzing, you get to the song and oh, how I only wanted to see you laughing in the purple rain.

I love me the Prince.

Anyway, I'm off to the spa, as you do on Wednesdays all the time when you're luxurious like me.

If you know what I'm blogging about up here come on raise your hand.

Dan Fogelberg asks a pertinent question

I was looking for a specific photo today and ran across this:

ScanHow do you stay in love with someone forever? What's the secret? And why didn't I button my bustle correctly? Wasn't there, like, a whole room full of loved ones who could have told me it was hung wrong?

If you have the answer to either pressing query, let me know. I gotta go refresh my french nail tips.

Never, ever get a New York Times subscription.

I am home; Ned and I were supposed to go to the beach this week, but now he's bogged down with work and I don't know if we're going or not. In the meantime, since I took these days off, what kind of nutbar would I be to not take advantage? So far I spent three angry hours between 6:00 and 9:00 willing myself back to sleep (didn't happen), I cleaned up a dead bird brought in by you-know-who and she is NOT allowed in the yard again till fall and now I'm doing laundry and blogging. Multitasker!

IMG_0959Here's my super-manicured back yard and Iris trying to problem-solve yesterday. No, she did not get one of the babies, but that is why she is grounded. I will feel awful if she does. She is the murdery-est cat I've ever met.

So while Iris has her mind on her murder and her murder on her mind, in the meantime, I got a letter from The New York Times the other day. For our dating anniversary back in January, I got Ned a NYT Sunday-only subscription for some specific number of weeks. I think it was 16 weeks. Whatever. The point is, now I've got this note saying you'd better pay up, Sister, or we're coming to your house to cut a bitch. We're The New York Times. I'd paid them up front for the gift. A subscription of 12 or maybe 16 weeks, I can't remember anymore. A bunch of times the paper didn't arrive, so they said they'd tack on extra weeks for each week it was missing. So what was up? Why the bill? They're trying to buffalo me with this bill. Heavens, I wish Ida slept more.

Of course the office was closed when I got this letter, so I went online and furiously tried to find out why I was being billed. Of course, they wanted me to create an online account first, because God forbid they just help me out and not try to sell me more stuff. I started creating an online account and said forget it. I'll call tomorrow.

Yesterday I get an email from The New York Times, trying to–yes!–sell me something. I must have told them enough that they knew where to pester me. What kills me is the greeting at the top. I wasn't about to give them my real name when I signed up for that stupid account.

IMG_0956Dear fuck you. Oh, I am dying. Also? When I called yesterday, it turns out they give you the gift subscription and then KEEP SENDING the paper unless you call to say cancel it. No one told me that when I signed up, but they said it was in the terms and conditions I signed.

Of course it was. And nothing makes you say, Hey, you're an honest company like sneaking some trickery into the terms and conditions. Assholes. Dear fuck you. Deer-fuck you. Is what I have to say.

IMG_0964In the meantime, while I pen this diatribe, old Killer Queen, over here, has decided to have her a nap on June. Her big murdery paws are starfishing in happiness. eyeriss luff to kill. so sur een after.

I have to go, but before I do, let me tell you just one more thing. My Aunt Kathy and her husband, mu Uncle Bill, were at a busy restaurant this weekend. Another couple walked in when they did, a young couple, and what my aunt MEANT to say was, "Maybe we'll have to sit at a fourtop." What came OUT was, "Maybe we'll have to have a foursome."

She said that young couple couldn't get away from her fast enough, and she had to sit in the restaurant in humiliation for the whole meal. Oh, look, the pervy lady just got a refill on her Pepsi. Hey, pervy lady just went to the pervy ladies room.

Poor Aunt Kathy.

Okay, that is all. Dear fuck you: I'm outta here.

P.S. For Purple Clover this week, I just retold my fireman story. Look, that story needs to be told.