I am berserk · June's stupid life

Saint of Saint Nightmare. Plus, prom.

VampireI found a picture of the scary vampire clown!!!

Awhile back, I wrote an article for Purple Clover about all the depressing art that hung in my childhood home, including a depressing red clown

Clown(shiver) and a vampire clown, who my mother assures me was a saint, and I say Saint of Saint Nightmare.

VampireAnyway, there it is. I'm showing it to you twice because I need you to appreciate its horridness. And no, I wasn't really drinking when I was in 7th grade and a man. I was being hilarious. You'd never guess what era this picture was taken given the couch or the plant or the latch-hook owl. I made that owl pillow. I know. Crafty. And she's just my type.

Oh my god, this is not remotely why I gathered you here today. I gathered you to ask about your prom, and I did a Google search for my prom dress by doing "byebyepie + prom" and somehow the vampire clown picture came up. Which, wow, does that mean I've shown it to you before? Almost every day since 2007, folks. I forget what I say.

I don't see a picture of me at prom, but there WAS a picture of cute Ned at his prom.

6a00e54f9367fb8834017c35f689eb970b-800wiOh my god, he's a Muppet. So fucking cute.

There was also me in the dress I wore to my friend Sandy's wedding in 2009.

6a00e54f9367fb883401116899959c970c-800wiAlso, inexplicably, this:

Images

Which is hilarious.

Also,

6a00e54f9367fb883401676337fa30970b-piJesus loved a chili cheese dog. It's in the book of Ezekiel. He also mentions, in that book, the Saint of Saint Nightmares.

6a00e54f9367fb8834017eeb269ba3970d-800wiWhatever happened to that "T" necklace I bought to celebrate Tallulah many years ago? I used to wear it every day. I'm staring at Daniel Boone in this picture.

I have no idea how these pictures fell under the purview of "byebyepie + prom" but there it is.

6a00e54f9367fb883401a73dffa60f970d-800wiOHMYGOD YAY! Finally! Here are my white shoes and me and my best friend Donna, at prom, in 1983. The theme was Brick House. The theme was Comedy Club Backdrop. The theme was Chimney Sweep. It's hard to tell it's 1983 with the hair and the dresses and the pearls. Wow.

And by the way, the actual theme of my prom was In the Air Tonight, like the Phil Collins song. It's hard to tell what era my prom was in, what with the Phil Collins.

Donna and I were one person in high school. We met the first day, the first hour, and it was over from that moment on. So although we had dates, like actual boy dates, we made a big deal out of wearing matching dresses and walking under the trellis together, because jerks. Neither of us were romantically involved with our dates, but we were romantically involved with ourselves.

So, what was your prom like? Did you get lucky? Did your date barf on you? Tell all. Be sure to add 46 pictures that have nothing to do with prom first.

...friend/Ned · Friends · Hulk's sex life · June's stupid life

You wrote it, you watch it

This morning I told you I'd blog at lunch and then I said, "What should I write about?" and WOW with the responses. Whatever with you guys. Oh, we'll just sit here and wait, June, in silence, June, while you do all the work, June. And be funny, June!

Fortunately, Faithful Reader Slutty Pancakes spoke up with an idea: Why not catch us up on all the people I've blogged about in the past, let you know what they're up to? Which is not a bad idea, Pancakes of Slut. Not a bad idea at all. So since I came home and warmed up my leftover taquitos from the other night, then started enjoying me an episode of Gilmore Girls for several fantastic minutes before I was all OH FUCK! I SAID I'D BLOG! I guess I should get started. Because lunchtime's a-wastin'.

Following are some folks I used to blog about with some regularity, who I haven't mentioned in awhile:

The Girl Who Doesn't Get Me: Remember her? I worked with her three jobs ago, and she was efficient, she was smart, she was talented. And she did not find me even remotely funny. Like, she had laryngitis once and as the weekend approached, I said, "Are you still planning to join the yodeling contest this weekend, then?"

Silence.

"What yodeling contest?" she whispered.

Somehow, her lack of finding me amusing brought out the W.O.R.S.T. in me and made me type letters with periods in them like an asshole.

How's she doing? No idea.

Marvin: I used to be married to Marvin. Four years ago tomorrow marks the anniversary of the part where now I'm not. But for the first five years of this blog, it was all Marvin all the time.

How's he doing? Well, he's in Atlanta now, working as a sound mixer, which is what he used to do in LA before he became a teacher, and I never wanted him to stop sound mixing, as he loved it. Fortunately there's enough going on in Atlanta that he can do it for a living, although you know his cheery attitude. He'd tell us all he's barely eeking out enough to survive and no woman will ever like him because he's too broke and dear women of Atlanta: Get over needing a rich guy and try out Marvin. I could write him a letter of recommendation if you want, and if you don't mind guitars under the bed. I did. But you may not have a problem with chins.

That was only funny if you're into When Harry Met Sally the way I am, which you are not, because you are a regular person.

Dick Whitman: DW was the first person I dated after I got myself all single again, and while it turns out when it comes to romance, we hate each other, we did become good friends. We hung out pretty much every weekend that first year we were both single.

How's he doing? Great. He broke his dang foot recently, but I'm pretty sure that's better. We hardly talk and I was keeping up with him on Facebook but now I have eschewed FB so you probably know more than I do, Stalky. He's been with the same woman for two years now, and she is great.

And his mom still reads me, so check in and let us know how YOU are, DW's mom.

Hulk: My old pal from back home. We made over his wardrobe, we encouraged him, and still no wommins in his life. Dear stupid women in Saginaw, Oh my god give Hulk a chance.

How's he doing? You know. Good other than the lack of the women.

Peg: Next-door neighbor, fmr. Ground zero for the norovirus.

How's she doing? You know, not good. She's had all kinds of health trouble these past few years, and seems to be not improving. The doctors can't figure out what's wrong with her. I ran into some of her friends recently, and they said she's too weak to move her trash can every week. I wish they'd figure it out and we'd get vibrant, puke-causing Peg back to kick around.

Daniel Boone: Second person I dated after I got myself all single. That was a mistake.

I mean, I had so much fun with D Boone, and I adored being friends with him, but twice–twice!–he just ghosted out on me. Was my friend one day and disappeared the next. The first time it happened, we'd dated, then broke up, then dated, then broke up, and after all that, tried to be friends and he disappeared. So I kind of understood his leaving after all the on/off switch stuff. But 10 months of silence, then he came back and wanted to be friends. So I was friends with DB once again, and came to rely on his wisdom and funnyness on a daily basis, and a year later? Boom. Ghost. Four months ago he wrote me trying to rekindle the friendship and I did not reply.

How's he doing? I sincerely hope he's doing well.

Ned & Me: I know. You hear about Ned every day. But a few months back we had a terrible falling out and we broke up. Then we got back together with the caveat we'd do certain hard work to get things better between us.

How're we doing? God, really well. It turns out? A lot of this crap between us was my doing, and a lot of it was also his, and we're both working like demons to fix our stuff and who knew that would actually make a huge difference? The other day we were kibbitzing, and I came back up here to do something or other on the computer, and after awhile he came upstairs, too.

"I'm sorry about that thing I said downstairs," he said. "I'm really trying to be more sensitive about that stuff."

"What thing?" I really had no idea.

Turns out he brought up something I used to be really touchy about, but now that things are better between us, I hadn't even noticed. And now that things are better between us he totally been aware he'd brought it up. It's like Gift of the Magi or something. So, encouraged.

I have to go back to work now, and am really looking forward to someone complaining that I didn't fill them in on someone I'd have no idea about, like my neighbors in the neighborhood where I don't live anymore, or readers who've disappeared. "Why didn't you tell us how your dead cat is doing, June?"

I have precrank. It's like preheating an oven or something. Precrank.

Precrankily,
Joooooon

Drag Queen envy · June's stupid life

June’s Lesbian Adventure

"I'm boyfriend-free this weekend," one of the Alexes at work wrote me. "We should do something fun."

What does it say about me that as soon as you say "something fun," dancing at the gay bar is the first thing that comes to mind? It says I'm a big fat homo, is what it says. Although, to be fair, I did ask my heterosexual partner if he wanted to join us, and I guess going to a gay bar during the basketball high holy days–or whatever the HELL is going on right now that basketball is CONSTANTLY on my TV ALL the time ALWAYS–would be super gay.

"Get here at 9:30," I told Alex, who at age 28 balked at doing something so late, and honestly, what is WRONG with this nanby-pamby generation? Do a bump like girls in their 20s should. God. It worked for Stevie Nicks.

When she got here, I had on no pants, like a lesbo Donald Duck or something. Donald Dyke. "I had no idea what to wear," she said, plunking a huge bag on my bed. "I brought a wardrobe change just in case."

Jesus Christ. She is SUCH a lipstick lesbian.

The point is, we were both finally ready and I put on pants and everything and beleaguered Ned took a picture of us when really all he wanted to be doing is screaming at the TV, which is apparently part of High Holy Month.

SapphosI have no idea why it looks so red under my nose. It's like I was doing bumps and I was not. Actually, I look sort of pale and glassy, and now I'm convinced I am dying. I will miss you all. It's probably that ovarian cyst.

Oh, and before we head off to the gay bar, speaking of Ned screeching like a fishwife at the TV, I took this series of photos the other night of Lily trying to fall asleep and having her serenity disturbed by a yell from Ned.

IMG_3181lilee schleepeeng.

IMG_3176unkle ned yell. lillee disturb.

IMG_3180schleeepeeng.

IMG_3170DISTURB.

Anyway. We got there and decided the whole room was abuzz about us, which let me assure you. No room was abuzz about our white, straight selves remotely. That did not stop us from deciding that everyone must have thought we were on our first date, had not remotely done it yet, and I'd scored myself a young one. I'm a regular Meridith Baxter Birney.

"They probably think you're after my money," I said. "Boy, are YOU gonna be disappointed."

It was free body paint night, and there were two drag queens painting people, neither of which was the drag queen who saw my vagina, but that's a different story. The important part is that one of them was clearly more skilled than the other, the skilled one doing this whole tribal look on everyone, whereas the unskilled one made people look like Rio from the Duran Duran video.

HeynowWOOlookiethere
"Oh, I hope I get the good one," said Alex, who until 10 minutes before had not even anticipated getting herself painted, and now it was the most crucial thing she had going on in her life, other than bagging old Meredith, over here, her Sugar Momma. I would literally be a sugar momma, because did I mention my alarming glucose levels?

When it was our turn, I was BEING POLITE and told Alex to go first, but that meant she got the Rio painter, and I got the talented one, and she could not WAIT to call me a bitch as soon as we were done.

"Yours looks great, and mine looks like some kind of money shot with this one white streak!" she said. I am so not asking her out again.

Women.

IMG_3198I mean, define "looks great." Although it's true you can't even tell she had ANY paint put on her, bitch still looks cute and I look like I've had some kind of psychotic break.

Speaking of psychotic, then it was time to dance. It took forever for your gays to get out on the dance floor, but as soon as anyone even remotely looked a little sway-y, we cut a rug ourselves. Then we danced. BAHAHAHAHA.

They played one song the whole crowd knew except me, because old. But now I love it. Have added to iTunes. It's 100% totally safe for work. Be sure to turn it on loud so your boss can hear.

Do you feel like maybe the breakup wasn't amicable? The whole room was singing this, and there was twerking, although not from me, thank god.

IMG_3196What did come from me? Dancing the pole. I know. You can't take me anywhere.

Oh, but where you CAN take me is to the bathroom. I'd had 47 cranberry and sodas and also waters with lemon to attempt to get rid of the rock that still lives inside me, and the bathroom was occupied forever. Finally, a drag queen opened the door, her girdle halfway up. "Oh, come on in, honey, I'm getting ready in here. Just pee in front of me."

So there in that tiny room, I peed in front of a drag queen pulling on her Spanx. God, I love the gay bar.

We stayed till close and I crawled into bed with fast-asleep Ned after 2:00.

You can imagine his delight when he woke up to my painted face today.

...friend/Ned · June's stupid life · Music

Tipsy Gypsy Nipsey

Ned and I were out late last night; we went to see Lucinda Williams.

 

Please remind me to tell you about the Excitable Roy who sat in front of us. He looked like my friend Roy–at first I thought it WAS my friend Roy, with his ginger hair and long beard–and you could be certain he'd seen the opening band before. Let me assure you.

Every song they started, he'd pump his fist and do this, "YEAHHHHHH!" growl/screech thing, then say to his wife, "WELCOME TO ALABAMA!" or "THE SONG ABOUT HIS GRANDMA!" Then he'd pump his fist, and repeat the lyrics back to his wife, who never did anything but nod exhaustedly.

"That wife? Beleaguered." I announced to Ned. "I know!" said Ned, who'd clearly been thinking the same thing. The good thing about Ned is when we're out, we're both spending the whole time staring at people, and thinking judgy things. If you can't be your worst self with your person, who CAN you be your worst self with?

By the way, I guess you don't need to remind me to tell you about Excitable Roy, because I think I just did.

Ned was not a fan, at least he wasn't as big a fan as Excitable Roy, but I didn't mind that band so much, because I'm from Saginaw. I liked the song they had about the grandmother, and they were all sort of hot, in a bearded country way. The lead singer's shirt came open at some point, and Ned said, "Can you read the tattoo on his stomach?"

"Just some letters, but I was assuming it reads 'Gypsy.'"

"Maybe it says Tipsy," Ned suggested.

"Or Nipsey," I said. "He could be a huge Nipsey Russell fan," I said.

I mean, who isn't?

I like men who wear big, chunky jewelry. Not that Nipsey Russell does, but rather old Tipsy Gypsy Nipsey, up there. He had a big coral ring, and necklaces, and I like that look. (Now Ned is accusing me of liking other men because he would in a million years not wear chunky jewelry, and a good idea is letting your person see what you're blogging.)

Oh my GOD I just came on here to say I can't blog and look what's happened.

IMG_3151I was just going to show you this rainy picture I took of the tree outside my window, finally getting leaves ("finally." It's March) and from yesterday to today it went from hint of green to hi, here are my leaves. So. Also, my robe totally tried to photobomb.

I had my ultrasound yesterday but so far no call re it. I think they're going to say, Hey, you have an ovarian cyst. Nothing we can do about it. That'll be $900, please.

Okay, really going.

IMG_3147Oh, look, here I still am. I forgot I took this picture of my pretty rainy yard yesterday morning as I left for work. It doesn't nearly do justice to all the purple and yellow back there, but it sure celebrates that tag hanging off the chair.

Your fave gypsy blogger,

Jooooon

Health · I hate everything · June's stupid life

Is it, like, the best sound you could ever hope for? Or what?

Today at 12:45 I have to have an ultrasound to look at the ovarian cyst they found while they were looking for my kidney stone and FUCK EVERYTHING FUCK FUCK FUCK.

Ima ask them to take a gander while they're up there, see if they still see a kidney stone. I mean, they're ALREADY THERE, right? Why not move that wand a tad and see? Anyway, the good news is, I have to drink 32 ounces of water and hold it till they take the goddamn ultrasound. You know perfectly well I will get there and the middle-aged black lady at the front desk who is over me will be all, "Someone will be with you" or "We'll call you" and I will SIT there having to PEE for more than an hour.

I'm already annoyed and I haven't even gotten dressed yet.

IMG_3139In the meantime, can you spot the Tallulah? I get all those pillows right, then she comes in and screws them up for her nest. Every day. I let Talu sit in here while I blog, but then Ned insists she go back downstairs for the rest of the day, so she won't eat his cat. Which she wouldn't even want to do. Talu does not like white meat.

Remember when Tallulah used to be nice to cats? Somehow through the years she got over cats. Tallulah is the black lady at the front desk of the cat lobby. She mostly ignores our cats, but every once in awhile she'll stare at one of them, like, God, I forgot how much you piss me right the eff off and then she lunges at whichever cat annoyed her by living, and they run off. I mean, she doesn't try to BITE a cat, she just runs at them the way my Uncle Jim used to to make me scream from the room.

Tallulah is a dick. And you can see Iris cares deeply about Lu's bullying. And you can see Edsel is a barnacle. As always. No wonder Lu is in a cranky mood. She's had a growth since 2010.

Which brings me back to my ovary.

Goddammit.

I'd better go. I just noticed at the bottom of this post, Typepad has suggested I create related links for the following:

Screen Shot 2015-03-26 at 8.20.12 AM
Fuck. Edsel. God. Nice.

The big tree outside my window up here just got little leaves on it for the first time this season, I'm just noticing it. If I had my damn phone up here I'd take a picture, as it is truly lovely. This is a great tree. Perhaps eventually I can carry my cyst and my stone over to the window to look at it.

God. Ovarian cyst. Cat.

June

Aging ungracefully · Health · June's stupid life

Highway to the transitional zone

IMG_3142Yesterday I went to the dick doctor. I snapped this picture and texted it to Ned right away. Because mature.

"I had no idea there'd be so many posters of penises in here," I told the beleaguered nurse who took my vitals. "This is like my bedroom in junior high!"

Probably nurses don't know what "junior high" means anymore. My whole routine is going the way of sassafras.

Anyway, they really don't know if I passed that goddamn pesky kidney stone or not yet, but they gave me a little pee-onto-it screen just like everyone else has in the entire universe but me, apparently, and in two weeks they'll give me an ultrasound if I don't show up with a rock. They're like a girl giving her boyfriend an ultimatum.

I can't even BEGIN to imagine what all this is costing. I'm having another ultrasound on Thursday to look at the ovarian cyst, or RAGING CANCER, they also found during my not-at-all-costly CT scan I had Friday. The dick doctor said it "looks benign." So.

It's been a medical week.

I was in the waiting room for 16 hours, and the rest of the room was mostly men. I tried to figure out what was wrong with each one. Oooo, maybe that one's penis is just too big! Making lemons.

The point is, one guy who was maybe my age brought in his ancient dad. "How come you never take me to dinner?" asked Dad.

"Dad, we discussed this. I'll take you to dinner later this week. I'll come by and get you later this week, and we'll have dinner and then we can even stop by the house."

"The house? Who lives there?"

"No one, Dad."

"Who's taking care of the lawn?"

"I am, Dad."

"How come you never take me to dinner?"

They had this conversation maybe four times, and twice I made eye contact with the son, who deserves a medal. Plus, that guy knows he has a future of getting old and addled and having something wrong with his dick, just like dad.

IMG_3140I also took a selfie while I was there, because Kim Kardashian of dick doctor. Sadly, I went to Subway at noon, and the woman at the drive-thru window said, "Did you change your hair? I like it that way!" Maybe someone's relying on a 6-inch turkey with avocado a little too often. No wonder m'dick's falling off.

In other news, Ned and I went to see Margaret Atwood last night, not that she invited us to hang out or anything. She was giving a lecture. I kind of thought she'd be completely full of herself, but she was lovely and funny. She's one of those smart people who are lovely and funny. I mean, that must be what it's like to read my posts on this blog. Margaret Atwood made a ton of dick jokes.

Also too, I got a very good performance review at work. I got four dicks up.

So that's what's new there. Ooo, I did want to ask you something and OH YEAH, I have to plug Purple Clover. Please share on Facebook if you can or want to, because I can't go on Facebook due to God. Here is my latest article.

The other day, stupid Faithful Reader Fay sent me a link. "Your hoots look good in this picture." I mean, I clicked right on that thing like a mug, because who wouldn't want to see a photo where their hoots look good?

It was a picture on Facebook.

"DOOD! YOU SENT ME TO FACEBOOK! WHAT ABOUT GOD??"

Faithful Reader Fay. Sending me to hell since 2015.

And here's what I wanted to ask you. What was the thing in your childhood that made you just think you were stylin'? We discussed this the other day, and for me, it was this pair of jeans I had when I was 9 or 10. They had a rainbow stripe up one leg, across the hip and back down the other leg on the back. Hell, yes.

JeansOh my GOD, I love the Internet. Do you know what I like? Is when people say Interweb. Sometimes Ned will email me an entire thing, but if he says "Interweb" the only thing I'll write back is "Don't say Interweb." At any rate, these were my VERY JEANS and–

–goddammit. I just heard a noise and there's fucking Iris, eating my toast.

Anyway, I loved these jeans and cannot believe they're right here on the Interwebs for me to show you. I slipped those on, and I also had some gingham clogs, and if I could wear both to work right now I so would. God I adored myself in that ensemble.

What about you? Was it your cool bike or your Mrs. Beasley doll or your dick or what? Tell me.

Health · June's stupid life

Babbling brook

I've decided we should have a bet of some sort. When will I pass this damn stone? It could be anytime between now and six weeks from now, or even longer.

We could also have a guess for, "It will come out and June will have no clue that it did."

What say you? And how do we award the winner?

Ooooo! How about the winner gets a choice of:

Hurtin hipA box of Hurtin' Hipsters. Because my hip hurts, see? Get it? Do you?

BodyOr a nice Indian parts-of-the-body poster?

Okay, so when will I give birth to Stony Curtis? Guess now.

...friend/Ned · Aging ungracefully · June's stupid life

The monkey’s off my back, but the circus is still in town

I have no idea if I've shed this boulder that's residing in my woo. If I see Indiana Jones running outta there, I can be assured the stone's coming next.

When they told me I had a kidney stone, they didn't say, Oh, save the thing so we can analyze it, or Here's a nice screen to catch that rolling stone like you're an archeologist, a vadge archeologist, which a bunch of you told me happened to you. And you know what I enjoy? All the, "Ohhhhh, it was the WORST pain I've EVER felt, Joooooon!" Why would you tell someone that who might still have to go through it again?

Not that I'm saying a bunch of you said being a vadge archeologist happened to you. Although that'd be interesting. June's blog. Enjoyed by vadge archeologists everywhere. I meant the getting a screen part. A lot of you said you got a screen to keep the moths out and also to catch the thing so they could study it and include it on SATs in the future.

So, in summary, I was in hideous pain from 5:51 Friday morning till about 12:30 that day, then I felt better and could actually pee again, but all weekend had the ohmygod-I've-got-to-go feeling but now that's abating, too. So did I shag the thing at 12:30 Friday, and the rest of this was just my UTI? Do you wish I'd talk about my pee and pee parts more often?

Pee early and often.

In the meantime, life happened.

IMG_3092Poor NedKitty had to go to the vet, for her annual old-lady checkup. Not that they checked her vadge. They weren't vadge archeologists, and I like how that's become a thing in the last 15 seconds. She lost two pounds, most of it from her vadge. As soon as she cuts out the gluten, the pounds just MELT off her vadge.

Do you know what I'm looking forward to? Ned reading this.

The vet theorizes her change in eating has caused the weight loss, and hey, Sherlock. But before, when she was an only kitty, the bowl was out all the time. Now she has prescribed times she's shut in her old-lady room with her old-lady food. Eating corned beef hash and canned peaches.

IMG_3090I just wonder if constant and abiding stress has anything to do with her shedding the inches. Because one thing Iris doesn't do is stalk the crap outta that ancient cat constantly or anything. The Iris abides. She likes this rug. Really ties the room together.

IMG_3097Here Ned is, with the tail o'Iris, after we'd successfully gotten that hellcat into her carrier. She is not what you'd call mellow about getting in that thing. Has she never been mellow? They do not call her Mellow Yellow.

IMG_3104After Ned got the vet bill, he took his cat home and chopped her up with an ax.

Really, we had a huge limb, and that's what SHE said, that fell during a storm. Edsel thought we were back there for a blue job, but he was mistaken.

IMG_3126After that, some of Ned's family came over, and Ned's 15-year-old nephew challenged him to–what on earth do you call it? A round of basketball? A scrimmage of basketball? He wanted to play basketball, and Ned was all, Okay, and I was all WHAT? Are you forgetting you're EIGHTY? But wild horses and a stone up m'parts would not stop me from stampeding to the park near our house to watch this fiasco.

All weekend I had to hear–WITH A STONE IN M'PARTS–that Ned was SORE, and that stuff HURT, and I was all, oh really? Because all I did was indulge in a lifetime of poor eating to earn this pebble pal in my pee parts, but YOU went out and SOUGHT this pain, so.

IMG_3117While I was at the park waiting for Ned to snap an ankle or an aorta, I noticed this cute old couple holding hands. Ned once told me that the only people you want to see holding hands in public are old people and lesbians.

IMG_3134I also took time out from waiting to explode in a cacophony of cobblestones to get a pedicure and a manicure. The woman next to me complained that she'd worked all weekend, so naturally I had to lean over and say, "I'm waiting for a kidney stone to pass."

Kidney stones. The way to one-up anyone, except pesky cancer people.

Photo on 3-22-15 at 1.37 PM #2I went with a Tiffany blue, on a shocking note. Wait. That picture is terrible.

Photo on 3-22-15 at 12.59 PM #2Wow, so much better.

Anyway, nails be blue. And in the immortal words of Charlie Brown, I got a rock.

Health · June's stupid life

June’s blog: Flintstones edition

Yesterday, I asked a nurse if she had something I could throw up in. And that was the least of my worries. Finding a barf container was low on my list, me, the barf-phobic person.

If you're thinking, "You know what I've never done? Is have a kidney stone. Maybe I should look into one," I am here to tell you to rethink your plan. Although really, so far it hasn't been THAT bad. I have not screamed. I mean, I set the bar high. Have you literally screamed in pain? Okay, then. Calm down.

The day started yesterday at 5:51. When your day starts at 5:51, nothing good can come of it unless you're the person who gets up to deliver milk, in which case, you woke up in the future, Bub, and you're out of a job. But 5:51 is when I woke up thinking, Man, I have to pee like a mug, which makes no sense but my cousin Brigid used to say she had to do things "like a mug" so I stole it from her in about 1976 and have said it ever since.

So I did pee, and welcome to my bathroom blog (it just occurred to me that my Aunt Kathy should totally do a what-came-out-of-me-today blog. That way she could tell people without actually telling all of us. But then she'd be all, "Did you read my blog today, about the size of my poop?" and there goes that idea.), but as soon as I was done I felt like I had to pee all over again. I was practically buying my pee a diamond eternity ring.

I totally wanted Marvin to buy me a diamond eternity ring for our 10th anniversary, to show me he'd marry me all over again, and nothing is more hated by men than the advertising staff that works on DeBeers' stuff, and anyway he didn't because clearly he would NOT marry me all over again.

But back to my pee.

So as soon as I felt like I still had to go, right then I knew I had a urinary tract infection, which I get all the time, and I was all son of a–OW!

OW!

Ohmygod–OWW! Because all of a sudden my lower back, just on the right side, was hurting like a mug. I mean, it was no twinge. It came from nowhere and it was kind of scary. I tried to lie down, and stand, and bend over, and hey, guess what? Pain still here! How YOU doin'?

And lemme tell you something. Ned is perfect in these situations. He's accommodating, he's calm, he tries to make you laugh. He's exactly who you want in these emergencies, of which I have about 20 a month, so maybe he's just learned.

I knew my doctor's office opened at 8:00, and I say this like I have their schedule taped to my refridge, but I knew because I called right away. Is there anything I hate more than that patronizing, "If this is a medical emergency, please hang up and dial 911" bullshit on the doctor's office answering machine? Oh, fuck you. I know that, asshole.

Actually, yes. There is something I hate more. People who make their hands form a heart shape. That I hate more.

Hang up and dial 911, you heart-shaped ass fuck.

Am cranky today.

The point is, Ned and I drove over there before 8:00 and waited for them to open. He called his office on the way. "Hey, it's Ned. I'm carrying June over to her doctor; she's not feeling well."

The receptionist at Ned's work is from the East Coast.

"No, not literally," I heard Ned say. "To carry someone must be a Southern colloquialism. It means to drive someone."

If I hadn't literally been writhing in pain, unable to get comfortable even remotely, I would have found that conversation hilarious. She thought Ned had me thrown over his shoulder, carrying me to a physician. We'd be like that annoying Footprints in the Sand plaque. God was carrying you to the doctor the whole time!

We got to the doctor, and it wasn't just the pain, it was feeling like I'd had a whole six-pack of Natural Light, which in a million years I never would but you know what I mean, and that I had to pee like a mug but absolutely could not. I mean, nothing came out. That was the worst part, and that god-do-I-have-to-pee feeling is still there.

Can I interject right now to say I REALLY look forward to the medical advice? And the "Did your doctor…?"  and the "Why didn't she…?" I'm gonna get today?

Anyway.

While I waited for the doctor to come, I was really almost in a panic. I could NOT get comfortable, and I was starting to feel some nausea and asked for something to barf in (I didn't. Would have lead with it if I had), and I felt bad for Ned, who was worried and who was missing work, and through our whole day of running to this doctor and that, his phone kept buzzing. "Ned Nickerson," he'd say, in his work voice. Then he'd say work things for awhile and be all worky, and hang up. Twelve seconds later, his phone would buzz. "Ned Nickerson."

He sounds more Southern when he's on work calls. He gets all Southern charm on their asses. It's cute.

ANYWAY MY PEE.

So, the doctor determined that I don't just have a UTI, it's a HUGE RAGING ANGRY UTI. A UTI that needs its own URL so it can write about how angry it is IRT, KWIM? She also suspected a kidney stone. She prescribed me an antibiotic, so Ned drove to get that, and I drove myself to the CT scan place, and man did I feel fantastic. Ready to take on the world, is how I felt. Oh my god I was so miserable.

Ned showed up with the drugs while I was still writhing and waiting to be seen, and I was so unhappy that I went into the onsite pharmacy at the CT place and stole a bottle of water. There was no one around and I could not wait another fucking second to take this pill in the hopes it'd make me feel better. It was 10:30 at this point, and I had not peed since 5:51.

And you know what yesterday consisted of? A whole lotta middle-aged black women who were completely over me. Every doctor's place we went, the person working at the desk turned out to be a middle-aged black woman, and for all I know it was the same person just racing across town to greet me over and over, so oblivious was I, but they were all kind of like, "Yes, honey, I know it hurts. You just hang on and someone will be with you shortly."

Define "shortly."

See, this is why I need my own full-time doctor at my house. Because it was barbaric, having to go to the doctor, then to the CT scan, then BACK to the pharmacy, then BACK to my doctor's office, then DOWN to the urgent care because HELLO IT'S AFTERNOON STILL HAVEN'T PEED.

But as Ned and I waited at urgent care, where they were going to catheterize me, and no human has ever looked forward to a tube jabbed up her parts than I was at that point, it was like, click.

"Oh," I said to Ned, who was texting worky things to work people about work. "I feel better."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Ima go pee."

I have set a record for number of times someone has gone to the bathroom yesterday, but when I went to what I'm sure is not a horrifyingly germ-filled bathroom at urgent care, I was finally able to go. Not a ton, but enough.

"Give me my 30 dollars back! I peed!" I yelled exuberantly to the middle-aged black lady who was over me at the front desk.

I won't even go INTO the obnoxious girl who had a cold who was also waiting at urgent care. She came in with a MASK, and talked about her COLD at the top of her LUNGS to everyone who would listen, and even people who didn't want to. Every time I looked at her, she had another beleaguered soul on the hook. "And THEN I coughed up…"

Like everyone else in there wasn't there because they were sick. We were all just there hangin' out on a Friday afternoon, because urgent care is relaxing. At least I can be assured the middle-aged black lady at THAT front desk was more over White Cold Girl than she was over me.

IMG_3072The point is, the CT scan, which by the way was kind of fun cause it was ride-y, did show a kidney stone, and they also saw some kind of cyst up in there, so I probably have those damn fibroids again, which yay. I don't have the terrible pain or nausea anymore, but I still feel like I have to pee all the time, so I have no idea if I've passed it or not. I'm taking all these goddamn drugs and I go to the urologist like I have a dick next week, and they'll see if it went away.

So basically I'm getting stoned all weekend. When it finally comes out my urethra, if it hasn't yet, Ima name it Franklin. Urethra Franklin.

Here I am. Rock you like a hurricane.

June

...friend/Ned · June's stupid life · Times I Amused My Own Self

The June Gardens rose. Now with glitter!

Oh my self-love, you guys are KILLING me with the posts you're sending me for this book that will make me exactly as famous as Beyonce. June-on-say. Incidentally, I found an age spot on my eyelid this morning, which is also something Beyonce finds often. Is she even that much younger than me? How old is that heifer, who, incidentally I find to be one of the most beautiful women on EARTH, and when we see each other at a party soon I hope she remembers I said that and not "heifer."

One reader sent me the post I wrote about the night Ned went on and on about how wonderful and low-maintenance Ingrid Bergman was, and I wondered why Ned didn't just go dig up Ingrid Bergman and date her bones.

That was about the time I laughed so hard I had to lay my head down on my desk, and the beleaguered Guy Who Sits Next to Me (BGWSNTM) was all, "Are you laughing at yourself again?"

Imagine having to work right next to me. All day.

Last night I had therapy with my therapist who lives in Los Angeles, and I know you are picturing us in a drum circle or something, but really it's just your straight-up therapy where she has to hear about how funny I am. I Skype her, and she has the same watercolor of a few flowers in a see-through vase that she had in 2006 when Marvin and I went there. It's funny to see it, like I'm still there.

Her office was near UCLA, and parking was a bitch, so Marvin and I would meet there early and he'd always bring a picnic and we'd sit somewhere on campus and have dinner, then go to her office and talk about how funny I am.

It was, in fact, right before a $279 session with her (oh get over it. Am exaggerating for comic effect, because I'm so funny) that we had dinner at an actual restaurant on her street, not that she owns a street. Shrink Street. It starts out really big and gets super narrow. ANYWAY it was there that I was reading a $679 yoga magazine (it starts out tight and gets really flexible at the end) where there was an article about a woman who went a year without spending, and I said to Marvin, "We should try this" and then we did and then he said, "You should blog about this" and I said, "What the fuck's a blog?" and here we are today.

Talking about how funny I am.

Oh! Another good post I got sent was one where Ned had his wisdom teeth out–I think the same reader sent me both of these and she totally gets finger hands if she wants them, which suddenly sounds desperately dirty–and Ned had to sit quietly the night of his surgery, so we ate pea soup and talked about what we'd want named after us, if we could have anything named after us.

"What would you want named after you if you could have anything named after you?" I asked BGWSNTM.

He pondered for a moment. "A dinosour." The BGWSNTM is a boy. Originally, in the post I read, I said a sex act, but with my luck it'd end up being one of those sex acts that involves poop. So to be safe for work, I went with pale pink rose that also grows with a little glitter on it. Hey, it's my rose. It's a June Gardens Rose.

I asked the girl who sits across from me who's always mad that I never mention her on my blog. TODAY'S YOUR DAY!

"I'd want some kind of act. Like, you've been Alexed," she said. We decided her act would be right when you've finished telling people a story, and someone comes up and says, "Wait. What?" Because THAT's WHAT SHE DOES OH MY GOD ALL THE TIME.

You've been Alexed.

Poochie would be a new species of animal, another coworker would be a bottle of medium-priced red wine, and my boss's boss said, "I was thinking a relatively large country."

Oh, it was a fun game. When our poor coworker Kelly, the one who's desperately allergic to nuts, which is neither here nor there but once I opened almonds when we were in the same room and she turned into one hive, said a clothing line.

But the woman who'd be a bottle of wine said, "But it's a clothing line that's only available at Kmart."

Then we started being hilarious about everyone's choices. The fairly large country was impoverished. The species was a kind of slug. My rose was plastic.

I have no idea how to mark this time on my time sheet.

Okay, I have to go. Iris is splayed across my arm like a stole, or I guess it'd be a muff, which sounds desperately dirty all of a sudden.

Wait. What?

...friend/Ned · Books · Hair · June's stupid life

What in the world

Your suggestions are rolling in, not literally because how could a suggestion literally roll in, of which posts I should put in a book. They've ranged from you sending 20 from one month (Slutty Pancakes) to just one or two. This is great! Now I have to go read them and be all judge-y about my own self. Which, who can't do that?

Anyway, thank you.

I just heard Ned in there saying, "What in the world?" which is a response he usually reserves for when he looks over and I'm all of a sudden crying. You know how that is. You're going along with your day and you read about Jack the dog dying in By the Shores of Silver Lake. Or all of a sudden something reminds you of your dead cat Roger. To use very loose, unspecific examples. Any time he says it, I always laugh a little on my insides, even though I'm crying on the outside.

I guess Ned isn't one to just spontaneously burst into tears 50 times a day like my Aunt Kathy or, you know, me, so he always expresses surprise when I do it. "What in the world?" like he's 87 years old.

This time it was because his phone screen was all of a sudden dim. I guess his phone dimming and me bursting into racking sobs are on the same par, in the world of Ned.

Speaking of par, here are some boys at work, most of whom golf, see, and that's what reminded me of this moment I captured on film. So beautifully.

IMG_3056Here they all are, discussing Cormac McCarthy. Ned is obsessed with Cormac McCarthy, so I texted him (text him) this picture. "Look. People discussing Cormac McCarthy. All boys," I noted. Cormac McCarthy writes boy books. I have no interest in his boy books. None of these boys or Cormac McCarthy would be interested in my stupid girl blog, either. The men above only read my blog if they're in it. Hello, Guy Who Sits Next to Me, Griff, my boss, and the beleaguered editor who had to sit on copy editor's row for awhile.

Hello, Cormac McCarthy. He's all, "I'm in June's BLOG today!?!" Calling his friends.

"Ooo, which book were they talking about?" asked Ned, to which I replied, "?" and also, "hooo care?"

Probably they were discussing that one boy time where boy things happened in that one Cormac McCarthy book about boy things.

"Oh, shoot," I just heard Ned say now. "God, that's…"

Turns out a cat pooped right outside the litterbox this time. What in the world? He and I both blame NedKitty, who will do that very occasionally to express her displeasure at things. She abhors all talk of Cormac McCarthy. So, we've mulled it over, and we're getting rid of her.

Pound. Or maybe just a nice drive to the country.

IMG_3061Also, one of the Alexes at work did yoga yesterday, you know, right behind my desk. Say, open floor plan. Thanks for the increased productivity.

Oh! And I have forgotten to tell you this eight thousand days in a row. Did you read my Purple Clover article not this week but last week? About the bad art from my childhood? One thing I mentioned was that we had a painting of a red clown who'd stare dolefully at me while I waited for dinner to be ready. I really remember that, too, just sitting in the living room like some sort of queen, with All Things Considered on the radio–a show that still makes me want to kill myself–starting at the horrid red clown and waiting a trifle impatiently for dinner to be brought out. I couldn't have sliced a carrot or anything?

The point is, my mother got rid of that red clown long ago, or maybe she was even lucky enough to have ditched that thing during the divorce, but of all the coincidences, just last weekend she was at an estate sale and…

Imagejpeg_0-2AAACCKKKKKKKKK.

My mother said that even while my stepfather got out his phone to photograph this, people walking by said, "Oooo, that's creepy."

Vindicated.

Believe it or not, someone bought it. I tried to find more horrifying pictures by this artist who made me the insane person I am today, but is his name Richier or Richter? Can you tell? And why does he haunt my dreams so? Why the twitch? What in the world?

Oh my land (what in the WORLD?) I gotta go. I got a Curly Girl haircut last night and I think Ima try to not wash it today, so that will save time. Just a little lavender water and gel. What say you, can I get away with that?

Photo on 3-18-15 at 8.09 AMI feel like I have to tell everyone, and I do, "This is not a blemish on my chin. It's a cat scratch from a dick cat."

Pound. Drive to the country.

Iris will get there and be all, wat the world?"

June, and Cormac McCarthy, out.

...friend/Ned · Food and Drink · June's stupid life

A fantastic and more fun in the great taste

IMG_3051It's finally nice enough that we can eat outside, and here you can behold Ned's depleted salad. Note he did not really eat the dressing.

Good god. Did I go out LOOKING for someone who could make me feel bad about my fine eating habits? Not that I'll change them. I'll just feel bad about them. At that particular meal, I had a Cuban sandwich and fries. Had there been salad dressing, I've have had it. I guess I could have borrowed Ned's.

IMG_3053Last night was also nice enough to eat outside, but we didn't. We went to the Thai place, where I like to get the healthy wraps, that are "a fantastic and more fun in the great taste."

I know. Their English is better than my Thai. Is Thai a language? It always bugs me that people speak Mandarin, like that's a place. Yes, I'm Chinese and I speak Mandarin. I live in a really good section of Mandarin. Orange you glad you live there, too?

Okay, I'm done. It's a seedy section of Mandarin.

Oh! But by the way, in case you missed it, yesterday afternoon I got on here, all asking if anyone would help me read my damn blog and pick out funny posts I wrote for inclusion into a book I want to make. Would it be "want to make" or "want to write"? I've already written it, really. Maybe compile. A book I want to compile. I should just give up now.

Anyway, go to that post if you're interested in reading a month of this blog and emailing me with posts that were funny from that period, not that I'm guaranteeing any of them were. Oh, or touching. If any of them touch you inappropriately, email me that, too. People are leaving comments ON THAT POST NOT THIS ONE NOT THIS ONNNNNE signing up for a month or more, chronologically. Last time I looked, we were on the middle of 2012. So go SIGN UP THERE NOT HERE if you wish to help me. I will mention your name at the beginning of the book, so, famous!!

-ish.

I guess that sums up my life, except oh! I was up here doing my Oprah meditation, because I'm currently doing an Oprah and Chopra meditation, and the first person to act like Google hasn't been invented and say, "What Oprah and Deepak Chopra meditation, Joooon?" gets a special Liver-Slapping page dedicated to them in above-mentioned book. Oh, I should totally do that. Have a Liver-Slapping page.

ANYWAY, I was up here and Ned wandered into my room to touch me inappropriately or maybe just make fun of Oprah. He sat here at my computer, which he rarely does, and he noted my large, lighted magnifying mirror. "I'm upside-down in this mirror," said Ned, who apparently flunked science.

"Pull it closer." Which is what SHE said. I work with several men in their 20s and they are forever saying, "That's what SHE said" to things that sound vaguely dirty, and I am suddenly finding all references to "that's what she said" incredibly hilarious, which just goes to show you I am a 22-year-old boy, hence the Cuban sandwiches and fries. Someone ought to tell my metabolism so it will speed up.

O! Metabby not realize she a young boy! Metabby speed up!

June's blog. Come to do free work for her. Stay for the metabolism-speak.

Oh my god, anyway. So Ned pulled the mirror closer. "Turn on the light and flip it to the magnifying part," I instructed him. I cannot get enough of staring at my every flaw in my lighted magnifying mirror. It's riveting and terrible at the same time.

"Oh my God," said Ned, peering into the mirror like Narcissus. "Oh my GOD!"

That's what SHE said.

I leave you with (a) my genuine encouragement that you, too, should get a magnifying mirror that lights up your flaws and report them back to me and (7) the following question.

What would your villain name be? Ned and I discussed this at the outdoor dinner we had, above, and I decided mine would be The Kvetcher. I can't remember what Ned's would be. Ned is in the other bedroom right now, putting things in his new gym bag, because the one he's had since 1992 just broke and you'd think his best friend from the war just died. He finally, FINALLY, after trying to resuscitate it for days, went out and got a new bag last night and now he's in there extolling said bag's lack of virtues ("It doesn't have a small pocket dedicated to holding your keys," he's kvetching. Maybe that's his villain name, too. Maybe we can be a duo: The Middlge-Aged Kvetchers).

"What did I say your villain name was the other night?" I shouted to him.

"I don't know. The Fucking Asshole?"

That's a terrible villain name. How'm I gonna write a book if that's the kind of crap I come up with? The Fucking Asshole and Metabby? That's all I can whip out?

That's what SHE said.

P.S. Oh, goddammit. I keep forgetting to plug Purple Clover. That's what HE said.

Faithful Readers · June's stupid life

A brilliant idea that I will take full credit for

I was just in the break room discussing how I want to turn this blog into a book, and how this weekend I started reading posts from 2011 and planned to set aside any that were funny. But I must have lost my funny in 2011, because yawn.

"Why don't you see if your readers will help?" asked Downer Debb, but let's ignore the part where she thought of it and credit me. "You're your own worst critic (pfft. How bad do I adore myself?), but maybe readers can volunteer to read a chunk and email you funny posts for you to consider including in your book."

So, who's in? Should we do it by the month? Like, "I'll read January 2008, June." "I'll read November 2010, June." Yes, let's start small and anyone who wants to take more amounts of time can just tell me. If you help me, I'll add your name to the dedication to the book.

What say you? Can you help a sister out?

P.S. Please go to the comments and volunteer for a specific month or months! Check out the last few comments to know where we are chronologically. If there are more than 100 comments, click "See more comments" at the bottom left of the comments. I wish I could say "comments" more often. Gonna go make some Constant Comment.

...friend/Ned · Friends · June's stupid life

Givin’ Off Sparks

I did not get to blog last night, as we did not go to a movie till 7:00 yesterday. This was my fault, as I wanted to nap. Sue me.

Anyway, we saw Turner:

 

I was really disappointed when it wasn't about Tina Turner. I was so hoping it'd be every nuance of Ted Turner. Was wishing there'd be at least one stanza of Turner Around, Bright Eyes.

So, every now and then I'd fall apart during the movie. God, I'm hilarious.

The important news is, as a result of this weekend, I have an injury. I am the injured party. And there is a claw to blame. A blind, dick-cat, claw.

IMG_3045I know! I should not display this kind of gore, or even Al Gore, on my page. What you can't see is there is another such gash on my lip. I took off my necklace, see, while I was still lounging in bed, and I was dangling it for Iris to play with, and what the hell was I thinking, seeing as she is, oh, half blind. So she went for the necklace and instead grabbed me. God, that jerk has needle-y little pointy-ass claws. So she punctured my chin and my lip, which has affected my ventriloquist dummy act quite a bit.

My father is very large–as in tall, not fat–and he had a small Asian friend. For Halloween once they went as a ventriloquist and a dummy.

Anyway, so most of Saturday was spent trying to stem the bleeding and getting paramedics over and gathering my family for last goodbyes and so on. Also, it was Take Your Girlfriend to Work Day.

IMG_3041Ned had to work for awhile on Saturday, so I went with him and read my book. Did I tell you I finally got the Laura Ingalls autobiography? Ned got it for me in NOVEMBER, and it finally came. Good work, publishers, on estimating the demand. Anyway, I sat in Ned's office and read while he did boring work. Do you want to know what's full of decor and personal touches? Is Ned's riveting office. Wow. You sure know exactly who he is in that thing. All they've given me at work is about three feet of surface space they it SCREAM June, is what those three feet do. I have an Eiffel Tower lamp, pink doo-dads, my pink-and-purple ostrich feather alarm clock.

Ned's office has not even one ostrich-feather anything.

He DOES have a Bye Bye, Pie coffee mug, so. At least there's that. And he said no one at work has ever said, "What's Bye Bye, Pie?"

So, good marketing on my part. Do you remember when my friend Paula with the one boob had to have the chemo, and she took a tablet in there to read while she chemo'd, and she refused to hold her tablet up to everyone else and say, "When I'm getting the chemo, I love to read Bye, Bye Pie!"

She is a terrible friend.

IMG_3046I sent this perm-tastic photo to my high-school boyfriend, Cardinal, the other night, because I noted he was enjoying him some delicious White Zinfandel with me here in this photo when we're both 23, and I wondered did he grow a vagina at 22, or when? Because he was my boyfriend when he was 20, so it had to have happened sometime after that.

He insists the basket is making white wine look pink, but even if it's white, he'd better stock up on douche. The point is, (a) I still own that sweater and (2) he is coming here in a few weeks and he and Ned and I are going to some sort of beer festival, which, go beer. Too bad they aren't having a White Zinfandel fest. Cardinal'd be all up in that.

I must go, as it is time for work and while we've been talking, that fucking murder-ass Iris knocked the goddamn mouse to the floor. Someone needs to go outside and kill, tout suite.

Permanently,

June

...friend/Ned · June's stupid life

Smooth

I just went to get the mail, and among the old-lady catalogs (Soft Surroundings, the catalog for night sweats) and a bill was a small, white package. Usually I get packages, but this time it was addressed to Ned.

"Ned, you have a small package!" I yelled up to him.

"Thanks, sweetheart," he yelled back.

Yeah.

June's stupid life

Say, did you borrow my yellow shirt and burgundy slacks?

After what can only be described as a harrowing–harrowing!!–day, I am now upstairs in the safety of my room, where I wish never to emerge from again, blogging at you while Ned watches a sporting event downstairs.

I was so stressed out and traumatized by the end of work that I got to yoga immediately so that I would not just go home and hang myself from a rafter, which, step one, learn to tie a noose. The class I was on time for was called Slowing Down, which I thought would be delightful and relaxing, but instead involved doing the poses and holding them for an interminable amount of time. At the end, we had to do nine downward dogs interspersed with nine upward dogs, and all that dogging was turning me into a bitch.

So, after what can only be described as a harrowing–harrowing!!–yoga class, I finally got home TWO HOURS LATER because the class was not only a hold-the-pose-till-you-puke-long-time class, it was also EXTRA LONG, like the gum. So kiss a little longer, hold poses a little longer, stab your yoga instructor a little longer with Big Red.

Was it? Was it Big Red where they did things a little longer in the commercial? You never hear about Big Red anymore. It's funny how gum goes in and out of style. For a long time, there, we were all chawing on the Dentyne, and then I guess Big Red replaced that, and then we stopped wanting cinnamon in our gum and all stampeded to Freshen Up. Yes, I DO know what you called it in 6th grade.

You know what was good for 11 seconds? Fruit Stripe gum. It was positively delicious, and then it was your grandma's dead hand. I guess I'm still thinking about my manicure color.

C6d2c93b3929f9407772d87f7c1ab84c

Oh my god, LOVED THESE. I swear there was also vanilla flavor. Am I making that up? Eight sticks for 10 cents. God, I'm old.

How on earth did I get on this tangent? Oh, Big Red. Kissing a little longer. Right.

 

So, after yoga-ing a little longer without Big Ned, I came home and there he was. Ned. Regular-Size Ned, because he eats less and exercises more, watching a basketball game.

"I must eat NOW," I told him. "Weren't we going to order pizza?" A few days ago, some pizza delivery guy came to our door, and by the way, our front door is original to the house, and has a huge be-windowed, you know, window in the front door, and what people do is walk right up and stare inside our house, which by the way, rude.

I was not expecting a pizza delivery man that day, nor was he expecting to get a view of Hooterville, but he did, because I had taken my clothes out the basement where they were drying, and was carrying them upstairs to put on and anyway, pizza guy. Saw the Sister Wives.

Because of that, or because he'd made an error in delivering to us, he gave us a coupon and we'd planned to use it tonight because Ned knew he'd be all up in his sporting event. What I did not know is I'd be doing yoga till the sticky left my mat. I didn't know I'd be doing yoga till I over-Namaste'd my welcome.

I didn't know I'd be that kind of hungry when I got home.

And here's what I have to say about Ned, god love him. Ned is a putterer. Ned is the kind of person who you say, "You ready?" to and he assures you he's ready, so you put on your coat and he says, "I just have to change clothes." Or he'll say, "Let's have breakfast here really quick. I just have to clean and chop and boil potatoes, then fry them, then make eggs, and oh yeah toast. Let's do that instead of running to the place on the corner where all those things are prepared already and waiting to be put on a dish."

Putterer. And when I saw him pick up our coupon and start to ruminate on what this pizza place could possibly serve, I yanked it out his hand and hungrily went to my computer, where magic things happen like local restaurant menus show up, so you don't have to ruminate and putter.

"How about Greek pizza, with black olives, feta, and Faithful Reader Fay on it?" FR Fay is Greek. See. Funny.

"What?" said Ned from downstairs. Let me tell you something about Ned. Ned is a putterer who also asks "What?" ALL THE TIME. ALL THE TIME, NED, I'm sorry. But you do.

"I'm ordering it, okay?" I shouted down, weak from hunger.

I heard Ned putter up the stairs putterfully. "It has white sauce," he said. "I don't like white sauce."

"Fine," I said, crabbily, because hunger. Because harrowing. Namaste.

"Oh, get whatever you want. I don't care," said Ned, leaving the room in an over-me way. I got a thin crust with jalapeno to please Ned because I'm a pleasure of life, plus spinach and tomato.

Once the order was placed, Ned came back in the room. "Did you get large?"

"No, you didn't TELL me you wanted large," I said.

Harrowing. Hungry.

"Did you order a Coke?"

"NED. YOU CAN'T TELL ME YOU WANT STUFF AFTER YOU ORDERED," I tersed.

Thank god the food came and I was less cranky after, like, bite one. I really did kind of hanker for a Coke once Ned said it, but it was too late. TOO LATE!!

The point is, and believe it or not I have not even gotten to the point, I sat next to Ned while he watched his sports, and I found this app already on my phone, an app called Aviary. I must have put it on there at some point, but you know I have frequent blackouts.

Unnamed-1
"Oooo, look!" I said, showing Ned my additions to this photo, where I look desperate and hungry.

"Heh," said Ned, returning to his riveting event.

Disguise"Heeeee!" I handed my phone to Ned again.

Unnamed

Look! I even gave Ryan a new tie even though he had on a tie already! Am genius!

Unnamed-2Sometimes Ned's cigar is just me being an idiot.

Unnamed-3Olé! Lu not goeeng to pit bullfites. not funny, mom.

I guess that's all I have to tell you about my harrowing day. Going to bed now, unless I learn to tie a noose. Or remember I have that app.

P.S. Would you like to know what annoys me? People who stretch before a yoga class.

Faithful Readers · Film · Giveaway

Sandra Dee O A

Yesterday we had a contest to name the disgusting nail polish color I got during this past unfortunate manicure.

IMG_2982Maybe I could have named it Focus.

Anyway, the winner is…

Silly Putty Fuddy Duddy, thought up by Deb, Who is Back to Being Deb. I have no idea who she used to be, but there it is.

Honorable mention goes to the suggestions…

  • Cockblocker
  • Marvin Made His Mauve
  • Talk to the Bland
  • Unexcited Labia
  • Sandra Dee O A
  • Cadaver Grabber
  • Oh My Liverwurtz

Really, so many of them killed me that Ned and I had to come up here and read them all and take a little vote.

Look at June, making lemons out of lemonade. Getting three blog posts and a contest out of one bad nail color. Anyway, Deb who has returned to being Deb from god knows what, send me your address and you will get your prize of Finger Hands.

You know. One day.

In the meantime, last night Ned had some kind of conference or meeting or job thing he had to go to, and I had my student. I left work, screamed home, fed everyone and let the dogs out, only to discover that flowers had bloomed in our yard. That was exciting.

IMG_2998Crocusesses! Is that the correct way to pluralize it?

IMG_3003These…purple-y flowers behind the bird house!

IMG_3002Daffodils with St. Francis!

I also talked with the neighbor behind me, who has a dog named Fewoosoqwqz. I can never remember that dog's name. Name your dog something people will fucking remember, folks. And if you're too stupid to know what an Edsel is in the course of history, that's your problem.

Anyway, their dog, Fzwzzywg, and the other dog in the other yard back there, Ozzy (see? Easy to remember) and MY dogs are all friends, or maybe enemies. I can't tell. They bark bark bark and run up and down the fence line together, so it SEEMS like they're friends, and it's not at all annoying when all four are talking at once. Jesus.

Anyway, the neighbor's name is Brandy, she's a fine girl, and I'm sure she's not sick of that song. I have a coworker, Molly, who by the way I've been going to lunch with a lot lately, and could she be more popular? Dudes, I am not kidding, everywhere we go, EVERYWHERE WE GO, more than one person will be all, "MOLLY!" like it's made their whole day that they've run into her. She knows everyone.

The point is, when the product Molly McButter came out, she said her life was miserable for awhile. My coworker Austin said his life was similarly hellish when those Austin Powers movies came out, and he wished he could have had, "Yeah, baby!" yelled at him just a little more often.

So, after all that, I screamed to meet my student, and she's usually there before me, but yesterday she wasn't. I got me another Shamrock Shake (shut up) and got my laptop going, not my literal lap, because weird, but my computer. At 6:08, I thought, wow, she's really late, then I decided to check my phone, and there were four messages from her.

And right then I knew, she wasn't going to make it. It must be something to behold my genius.

IMG_3016Fortunately for me, they were showing Top Hat, starring Ginger Rogers and similarly Fred Astaire, at the old theater I like. Ned had really wanted to go, but of course he had his work thing. I texted him to let him know I was headed there.

Son of a bitch, he texted back.

Just like Molly, I ran into people I know, but they didn't act like seeing me was the second coming. They didn't even breathe hard.

IMG_3018I like to sit in the balcony there, so I did, but this time they had an organ player, so I sneaked in a shot of him playing Your Cheatin' Heart. I am not even kidding. It's the South.

I sent this shot to Ned.

Son of a BITCH, he texted back.

IMG_3021I also sneaked in a shot of my own self, about to have popcorn for dinner. I guess my Shamrock Shake was an appetizer.

You'll never guess the plot. At first, Ginger Rogers hates Fred Astaire. Then there's a case of (wait for it) mistaken identity. Then it gets all farcical and they fall in love.

Spoiler alert.

Also, there is dancing and singing. Ginger Rogers wore this dress that was to die for.

Top_Hat5It had, like, this sparkly thing in the front, too, and I just feel like it was a pale pink. Oh, the depression was a lovely time for dresses no one could afford.

After the movie, I went home and got to sit on my porch swing, till Ned got home and got on there with me and made it swing and made me feel barfy. The end.

Why can't boys just sway gently on the porch swing? Why they gotta make it fly around like they're 12? All men are still 12.

Okay, I must go put on my top hat and brush some tails or something.

Theatrically,

June