Two showers, still filthy. Or, add vodka!

Yesterday, I attended two baby showers. One for Spalex, the Alex on our Spanish team…

IMG_4078And one for TinaDoris.

IMG_4107TinaDoris's was Bring Your Own Bra Strap.

What I need to do is stop putting my ravaged face next to smooth, unlined women in their 20s. Let's just assume they look so good because they have the glow of pregnancy about them, whereas the only thing I was pregnant with was a pause before I ate 47 cupcakes at both events.

IMG_4068 IMG_4111

IMG_4027Spalex is having a boy, and she had a come-decorate-a-bib thing at her everything-was-so-charming event. I made this one, above. After everyone had created and hung a bib, she and her husband decided on which one they liked best, and gave out a prize.

IMG_4060I watched them select mine and Competitive Alex's, my coworker who is the world's most competitive human. She had brothers. I'm assuming that explains everything.

IMG_4064Here's Alex, waiting maturely and calmly to see which of us would win. She's who I was set to play Ping-Pong with last year when we had a tournament at work, remember? And every single person I asked had filled out their bracket with her winning. I hate my coworkers. What a bunch of bitches. Especially the men.

IMG_4066The good news is, we both won the intense bib-decorating contest, probably because Spalex didn't want to hear it from either of us on Monday. I won this container so I can take vodka to work, and Alex won a Starbucks gift card so she can be even more hepped up and competitive.

IMG_4049Lots of people from work were there, all named Alex, and please note on the left that Bitchy Resting Face Alex is not looking bitchy.

IMG_4030Ah. There we go. Although she kind of looks more like Indigestion Resting Face Alex, here.

IMG_4057Speaking of which, the menu for the shower had several springtime salads and other healthy fare, and I am the only heifer who was all, "Get me the meat loaf." And in the spirit of my pal Hulk, I got double mashed potatoes as my two sides. I have no idea why I can't keep a man. Lemme tell you something. I may be a girl version of Hulk, but that.was.delicious. It was goddammit good.

IMG_4073I kind of figured a ton of people at Spalex's shower would have to scream on over to TinaDoris's, but it turns out I'm the only crossover friend. The only other person invited to TinaDoris's was Spalex, who of course was, you know, attending her own shower. She gave me a really beautifully wrapped gift to take over to TinaDoris's, as opposed to the gifts I wrapped for each person, which looked like maybe I had my gifts wrapped by some charity that gives work to handless mentally disabled people.

IMG_4039"It's actually hurting me to watch you wrap these," said Ned, who is a straight guy and still could have done better. "Do you want me to redo these?" I have my pride, and clearly my dignity, so I took my Help For The Handless gifts to the showers with resolve. I needed Resolve to clean all the barf when people saw my wrapping skillz.

Spalex also gave me a rose corsage to take over to TinaDoris's shower along with her pretty gift. "I got corsages for all the moms," she told me, because she is the type of person who'd think of such a thing.

IMG_4085"Here's a rose corsage I got you, and a really prettily wrapped gift," I handed TinaDoris her things when I arrived at her shindig. "Oh, and a really shitty-looking present that Spalex wrapped for you. I am sure," I said. "Doesn't Spalex have any pride?"

"Oh, Spalex is so sweet," said TD, sniffing her rose and not for a minute falling for my charade.

IMG_4102TinaDoris's shower was in a coworker's back yard, and there was no stone left unturned. Everything was adorable.

IMG_4087Including her doggie, who I am going to marry.

IMG_4103IMG_4105
She had nonalcoholic drinks, and then alcohol sitting next to those, so you could add it if you wished.

IMG_4100My table wished.

I was with women from work who, A., all had the curls and B., had no kids. We decided to play the Awwwww drinking game, which I invented. Any time TD opened a gift and there was an "Awwwww!" we'd take a drink.

"I'm never having fucking kids," said Alex, slamming down her tequila-laden drink.

"I fucking love our table," I said.

IMG_4117I convinced TinaDoris that it would be HILARIOUS if she pretended to drink this beer. Had she not been so in demand at this thing, I'd have made her pick up the vodka and tequila bottles and photographed that, too. Let's all say it, "Awwwww!"

If you're dying to know what I got everyone, beyond the tempting wrapping, I got Spalex this whole play area thing, where the baby just sits there and lazily pecks at various bells and shiny things. Oh, god. I think I got her a parakeet toy. Crap.

IMG_4092
I got TinaDoris a giraffe that is actually a sound machine, and of course someone else got it for her, too, because I didn't buy it off her registry and Babies Be Us said there was no way for them to remove it for me, which, Dear Babies Be Us: Seriously? Anyway, I also got her Charlotte's Web, a book about the first interesting website.

By the way, that pretty gift bag up there was not my gift. Mine were in depressing plain brown paper that looked like I'd gotten her a blowup doll or something.

Ned, in the meantime, had a lovely day doing whatever it is Ned does when I'm not around. I have the feeling sports things and salads were in his day. When I got home, I was supposed to go to the gay bar with friends, but there was no way. I was exhausted.

"Come take a picture with me, Ned." I waited on the porch.

IMG_4118 IMG_4122 IMG_4124I should have tried to find a third shower. Is what I should have tried to do.

IMG_4125Add vodka.

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Judge Whopper

Your "What I would title my memoir" comments yesterday were priceless. PRICELESS. That'll be $17, please.

Yesterday was another harrowing day at work, and it left me drained. Normally, I love it there, and I know I'm lucky to say that. Ned comes home from work looking alabaster all the time. He'll flop down and be listless for awhile, like someone has died. Then he'll look at his phone and do work things again.

I'm hardly ever like that. Usually I leave there giggling about something someone has said or written. It's a good place. But yesterday I left and promptly went to Burger King.

Say one word about it going to my cankles and I'll cut a bitch.

Then I went home and did Tracy Chapman, and Ned came home and rode his bike. Then he flopped listlessly in our back yard looking sweaty, like someone had died after he'd wrestled them for half an hour. Finally, he came inside.

"Want to take the dogs for a walk?"

I was screaming at Tracy Chapman like I always do.

"Oh, come ON, you fucking bitch. How many of these can we possibly DO?"

"Fuck off, you skinny little smug blonde heifer."

"Oh, keep that I-could-do-this-all-night look on your face, fire-eating hag."

That sort of thing.

"Okay," I said. So I finished my workout, changed clothes and took the dogs on a long walk, the kind of walk where Tallulah floomps herself on the cooling grate when we get home. "Have you eaten?" asked Ned, who thinks normal people come home from work, sit listlessly, work out, sit listlessly again, walk dogs all over yonder and THEN think about dinner.

"Yes, of course I have," I told him, knowing he'd ask but hoping he wouldn't.

"What did you have?" What I've eaten and how I enjoyed it is a big thing with Ned. I have always said food is his sex.

"I went to Burger King. I got a Whopper."

Ned paused to digest this. Literally.

"A Whopper JUNIOR?" he asked.

"No, Ned, the whole thing. A whole, entire Whopper, and it was delicious, and I had a bad day, so stop."

A Whopper Junior. Geez.

IMG_4014Enclosed please find an actual, unretouched picture of my dogs in their current state. They are wore out from the floor out. I realize that made no sense.

Ned right this minute wants you to know he didn't ask, "A Whopper JUNIOR?" like that. That he was just asking. He wants you all to know he thinks I'm a dick for telling that story that way. "I was just laughing WITH you," said Ned. "Whoppers are delicious," said Ned.

Who had probably not had a Whopper in two decades.

Any second now, Ima hear, "I got your Whopper, right here."

I had a point to this whole story, but not I've forgotten it. Aren't you glad you came here? At any rate, Louis C.K. was on last night so at least the night ended with a bang. So to speak. I love that show and it's ALREADY OVER for the season. What the hell? I feel like it just came on again.

I'm not sure if I'll have time to write you tomorrow, and after today's riveting post I know that leaves a big hole in your heart, but I have TWO baby showers to attend. I've known about them for months and of course waited till this week to clammily order things at the last minute. Now I have to pray to the god of baby showers that these gifts actually arrive today, otherwise Ima show up to both with a bag of weed and a copy of Led Zeppelin's Physical Graffiti.*

I also have some panicked wrapping paper to purchase. And of course one is having a girl and the other is having a boy, so Dear TinaDoris and Spalex: You're both getting coal black wrapping paper. Happy shower!

IMG_4008Before I go, I wanted to hip you to Lily's new hobby, which is sitting in Ned's room chittering at birds. NedKitty will sit there, too, and do the same thing, but we both noted Iris never does. eyeriss do not see poynt of sitting in chayr. it overrate.

IMG_4012not to bozzer lily. she in elemint.

Last night, after our walk, we sat on the front porch and saw bats. I love a good bat. There was one in particular that kept flying past. I mean, I guess it was the same one. It wasn't wearing a medallion or a fright wig or anything that distinguished it from the other bats. The point is I named him Bat Lauer. Is there a way to attract bats? I want more bats. Do I put on a sexy bat girl outfit or something, like Bugs Bunny? Not that he ever put on a sexy bat costume. You know what I mean.

Oh my god, I have to go. Talk at you.

*(Joke copyright 2012, Faithful Reader Karla. All rights reserved.)

Indian June

Yesterday was very international. We had a lunch made for us by the Spanish team that was delicious. Then last night, Fleeta and I went to the free fitness thing downtown, where they had Masala Bhangra. I'd never heard of it, either, and dearly wished for Indian food once they said it, as well. We're on the same page.

Anyway, they played music like this, and it was all Indian Bollywood-style stuff, and oh my god, that was fun.

 

You know I've been doing Tracy Chapman like a manwoman ever since the universe said I had cankles, but this made me sore anyway.

Speaking of which, I totally caught two of my coworkers making fun of my cankle debaucle behind my back. I saw it completely by accident, but you never know who isn't your real friend, man. I didn't say a word, but I tucked it away. It's been duly noted.

Fleeta, who I heart, was an excellent person to go to anything like a bizarre Indian-dancing class, by the way. She was totally into it, as she is most things. The real classes are in Winston-Salem, where all the fun is.

IMG_4004Oh, I didn't mean to put in this picture of Ned seeing God, or perhaps the baseball game behind us at dinner the other night. I have to shrink the photos down to nothing before I can put them on here, because Typepad. So now I can't see then at all when I select them to upload.

IMG_4005Here we go. My cankles and I headed to the Chinese restaurant after, because what complements a good workout better than Chinese? I called Ned from there. "I'm getting Chinese food. I'm calling to see if you want any."

Ned paused. I knew he'd be appalled. "Chinese food is very bad for you, June," he said. "Get me some Szechuan chicken and an egg roll." I love it when Ned is bad.

We ate outside, where I'd been reading Candace Bergen's memoir. "What would you title your memoir?" Ned asked me.

"The Sun Also Annoys Me. You?"

"I don't know. Maybe just Fuck You." Which would be a hilarious title. But I mentioned it should REALLY be I Got Your Memoir, Right Here, because Ned has always got my whatever right there on a constant basis. "I got your banana, right here."

Whatever with Ned.

I have to go, but what would your memoir be? Tell all.

Guess Who

"It bothers you that I'm not this guy, doesn't it?" Ned held his arms up and waved them around. "It bothers you that I'm not this demonstrative guy with grand gestures, like this." Sadly, I knew what he was doing when he held his arms up like that.

Yellow_Air_Dancer__2_1024x1024

He was totally being one of those air dancer things in front of stores. How I knew this is beyond me. We're like Elliott and E.T. An undemonstrative Elliott and E.T.

Because it DOES kind of bother me. Ned is steady, and has a routine, and folds his clothes just so. He would never dream of forgoing said routine to, oh, stay in bed with me all day.

But he also tells me I'm beautiful all the time which we all know is a big lie, and he pays attention to my stories and brings me flowers for no reason. So he's no cold fish. But then again, he never flies me to Paris or bursts through the door and throws me against the wall to make out with me. He's never written me a love letter filled with passion or tagged me on Facebook saying, "THIS IS THE WOMAN I LOVE." Which would now be impossible, because I got off Facebook and he's officially in a relationship with Tallulah Gardens.

Isn't that stupid? He couldn't be more attentive, really, with his making me coffee and feeding my pets in the morning and taking me to dinner and getting my migraine meds for me at the pharmacist. If I wake up in the night and sigh, he wakes up. "What's wrong?" he'll ask me. And I'm all Price is Right Losing Horn because he's never been an air dancer.

Why are we like that? Am I the only one like that? The point is, Ned's measured ways really freaked me out at first. I thought the way he was meant he wasn't that crazy about me, when that is not remotely true. I just had this expectation that a man in love with me would act one way, and not any other.

Marvin was an air dancer. Once I came home and there were balloons and those little Valentines, the one you buy for the whole classroom, hidden all over the house. For months I'd find those ridiculous Valentines. A dinosaur saying, "You're Dino-Mite!" or an owl with "I'll Owl-Ways Be Yours."

Marvin wrote songs about me, and once when we went to the movies, he watched me the whole two hours, not the screen. He wanted to marry me pretty much after our first weekend together, and gave a big speech at our wedding about how he couldn't wait to spend his life with me.

And look how THAT turned out.

So, I don't know. Ned will never be an air dancer, and I think that's okay. I don't need a 10-piece orchestra to know he loves me. Is there such a thing as a 10-piece orchestra? I have a friend who is a composer, and I don't think he reads my blog, but if he does, he is officially killing himself right now.

Do you know what song that guy hated, the composer guy? He hated American Woman, because he couldn't stand how at the end the guy sings, "You know I'm gonna leeeeeave. You know I'm gonna goooo" in that low voice. It irked him.

(I beg you to look at the lead singer's June hair.)

One night I was getting ready to end my workday, so I called the composer friend. "Hey, I just wanted you to know that it's 5:00. So you know I'm gonna leeeeave. You know I'm gonna gooooo."

God, I adore myself. I am my own airdancer. Maybe that's the secret. Maybe we should be our OWN airdancers. But who wants to do that? That sounds depressing. Hey, self! Here's a love letter I wrote you. me. Whatever. No, this isn't at all depressing!

Maybe the secret is we need to accept people the way they are, and appreciate the ways they show us love, rather than expecting Ned to start screaming "Stella!" all over the place.

Nobody's named Stella anymore.

I don't know, man. I can't solve everything here on this blog in one morning. The point is, I love Ned, and I know he loves me, and I don't need an air dancer to tell me that. Because air dancers are flashy and exciting and they certainly work as a marketing device. When I'm looking for a mattress store, I always pick the one with a tubular dancing man out front.

But as exciting as air dancers are, really they're just full of air.

Jehosephat Phosphate

Remember when we used to throw our heads back and forth and breathe funny to try to faint? What was wrong with us? I was just shaking my hair around, trying to dry it, and remembered doing that. My babysitter taught me, and Dear Mom: Maybe hiring 16-year-olds wasn't the best plan.

I loved that babysitter, though. She wore faded jeans, and silver rings, and she loved watching The Hudson Brothers. Who didn't?

How depressed would you be about your career if they told you, yeah, your cool band is gonna be on Saturday morning TV? Hey, there, Menudo.

Okay, I really can't stay and talk. I came to show you pictures of the little gathering we had on our porch with The Other Copy Editor, fmr., and her husband. They live on the same street as us, so we had a little partayy.

IMG_3974 IMG_3973 IMG_3978Did I mention there were no people at my party? Just me? That I really have no people, and I even made Ned up? Wouldn't that be a scandal.

Enjoying the age spots on m'arm, by the way. They call these age spots. I call them ugly, but what's a woman to do? Does anyone remember that commercial or are you worried I had a stroke?

Also, do you like my pearl necklace, so to speak? I bought it at Jo's yard sale two weekends ago. Am proper.

IMG_3981NedKitty made her escape, so we let her walk about WHILE NED WATCHED HER LIKE A HAWK for about five minutes. That poor cat is helicopter parented.

But also, while we were out there, I looked across the street. "IS THAT A LOOSE DOG?!" I screamed up and was out there in a millisecond. You know I have no idea how long that is, right?

When The Other Copy Editor, fmr., and her husband and Ned came over, the dog headed TOWARD THEM into the STREET and a car was coming and I covered my eyes, because useful. When I uncovered them, TOCE,F's husband had the dog in his arms. We noted a house across the street with its door wide open.

"Is this your dog?" we called in. Someone came into the kitchen and saw us. "Oh my word!"

The whole family rushed out. "Jehoshaphat Phosphate! What are you DOING out here? How did he get out?" They all marveled amongst themselves, while the four of us noted the open door, screen and gate. Yes, however did he get out?

Anyway, they are nice people, the neighbors are, and they'd just come in from a trip so all was chaos, and it can happen to anyone. Also, you will be relieved to know I completely made that name up.

IMG_3990The Other Copy Editor, fmr.

IMG_3988Male bonding. Over strawberries.

Ned also played golf with The Tall Boy this weekend. He said they did not take notes on what I look like naked, which was a relief. Actually, you know I would have adored that, if they'd taken notes. I mean, you can imagine how much good there is to say. "And those age spots! Hot!"

Okay, I have to go. I cannot wait to see what criticism I'll get today on what I've written. After 8 days in a row of someone taking issue with what I've written, now I'm writing holding up a shoe, just waiting to drop it. Oh, speaking of which, here is my latest Purple Clover for your critical eye, as well. I've already been criticized for it, but go ahead. What have I got to lose?

Phosphate-ly,

June

Novelety store dog doo

The good thing about having a friend who's paralyzed is there's no fake crap when you go see him. All the crap is genuine. None of that novelty store dog doo.

I went to see my friend Charlie yesterday, as it is his birthday. "How you doing?" I asked him, hugging him. Yes, I hate hugging, but he likes it and his desires win. That motherfucker has played the wheelchair card to death.

"You really wanna know or do you want some fake answer?" he asked me, already knowing.

"You tell me everything that's wrong with you, and I'll tell you everything that's wrong with me," I told him. So he told me his woes, and he did not say, hey! Expose my woes to the world, June! So I won't. "Now come sit on my lap and tell me yours," he said.

"I'm not sitting on your fucking lap."

"Yes, you are. It won't hurt," he said, motioning me over. I mean, you've seen my cankles. I'm hefty, hefty, hefty. Actually, I've lost five pounds lately. Which I've written off as cancer. Still. I didn't want to re-paralyze him or something. Like, what if he was on the verge of a cure, then I sat on him and now he's doomed?

I sat on him. He hugged me. Which I continue to hate. "I don't know," I began. "I don't know about anything. I feel rotten. I've had seven dramatic days in a row on Facebook, starting with the cankle debacle, and I finally just deleted my profile. I feel so exposed sometimes. Why the hell did I ever start writing about my life? I just kind of want to live my life, not hear everyone's opinion on it. I've just had so much negative reinforcement lately. I feel both completely exposed and completely alone."

This is when I started to cry like an idiot.

Charlie hugged me more. I tried not to hate it, and wriggle away like one of the cats.

"I understand," he said, "I really do. I have crippling insecurities a lot of the time."

We sat there for awhile.

"Did you get it? Crippling?"

"I did," I said. "You're paralyzed with indecision."

"The good news is," said Charlie, "my problems are still worse than yours!"

He's right. No matter what my woe du jour, he always beats me. He won't take this sitting down.

The point is, Charlie, a couple of his other friends and I walked to a nearby restaurant and ate outside. Charlie got a Bloody Mary with a giant stick of bacon in it, which looked delicious. One of his friends is 30 and was bemoaning his ancient fate, and when I mentioned my age, the 30-year-old sputtered.

"No! Really? I never would have thought you were 49. Ever," he said, and that is when I married him.

We all had things in this life that we felt kind of bad about, and we all talked about them, and by the time we were done with lunch and dessert and coffee, we were giggling like idiots. Charlie totally picked up our waitress, too. Got her digits. See, there's a hilarious paralyzed joke here but I am dignified and will not make it.

As we headed back to Charlie's pad, and yes I just said pad, we passed a wedding. The bride and all her attendants were outside in the sun. The sun was shining on the bride and she was absolutely stunning: thin, blonde, young.

Bitch.

We all stopped for a minute and watched her as she knelt down to talk to a flower girl wearing a giant puffy white dress.

"That is really beautiful," said Charlie. We were quiet a second.

"Let's all go down and see the giant vagina and ball sack sculpture," he said.

IMG_3933
And that was my Saturday.

Van, damn!

It's my friend Charlie's birthday, and he finally got his screw-paralysis-I'm-driving van, so he wrote me to ask if I'd hit the town with him this afternoon. He wants to get terrifically drunk, so maybe your old pal June will be driving a van. I don't know.

The point is, I'm off! To do ridiculous things with my old pal Chas. And that is a fine way to spend an afternoon. Unless we get arrested.

Dangerously,

Joon

Yes, I DID say butterscotch pudding pie.

Photo on 5-22-15 at 8.00 AMI purchased another vintage slip from my friend Kit's store. Vintage slips are very big with me lately, as is the color coral. I don't know what to tell you about this development. Neither does Edsel.

I gathered you here not to admire my slip, which you should anyway. I now have a black one, a white one with little lacy touches, a white one with blue embroidery and now this coral number. I am Coral Roberts. I'm at the OK Coral.

Oh my god, anyway. I GATHERED you here to tell you I have been tired. I know! Riveting.

Monday was a normal day, in that Ned and I had the therapy and went to dinner after and then I went to bed like a normal person. I go to bed around 10:30. Before I lived with Ned, it was sometimes even earlier. But Ned is what you'd call a night person. He was a bartender for about 700 years, before he got a real job, and stayed up till god knows when doing god knows what with whom.

My point is, even now that he has a grownup job, if he could, he'd stay up till 3:00 and sleep till noon. I would too, but I also need about 9 hours of sleep a night. He finds this absolutely insane. HOW can anyone need that much sleep? HOW can I fall asleep so EARLY, he always wonders.

On Tuesday, I screamed home from work and did Tracy Chapman for an hour, sponge bathed and went to Gone With the Wind with a gaggle of chicks. My hair looked ludicrous during that movie. I did not get home till 11:00–already past my bedtime. When I pulled up to our house, Ned was on our porch with the candles lit, and you could smell the roses, and it was too tempting out there. I sat and talked with Ned till after midnight, when I let it all hang out. I mean, my hair was already hanging out.

Needless to say, I was what you might call logy the next day at work. As soon as the workday was through, I came home and slopped all the hogs, then planned to nap, but what I did instead was do effing Tracy Chapman again, because there's nothing like the whole Internet saying you have cankles to really inspire you to stick with your workout plan.

Then Ned came home, and we took a really long walk with the dogs. It was getting dark, and we could smell the honeysuckle, and the moon was a sliver in the sky. And for the first time this year, we saw fireflies. Afterward, we went back to the front porch and the next thing you know, I was getting to bed after 11:30 again.

GodDAMMIT.

Last night, Ned had told me he was going to forgo the gym (!) and come take me to dinner right after work. I left work and thought I'd just rest my eyes till he got there.

"What are you DOING?" bellowed Ned, and I shot straight up and clung to the bedroom ceiling. I have never understood people who just come in and talk to you like normal while you're asleep. What's wrong with a whispery approach?

Ned got on the bed with me. I was so hoping he'd want to nap for just a minute, when he said, "Should I have just gone to the gym?"

Sigh.

So I dragged myself out the bed, pulled my shirt around, because that completely eliminates wrinkles, and said, "Okay, let's go eat."

"Now?"

WHY DID HE WAKE ME UP IF HE DIDN'T WANT TO GO RIGHT THEN? Which is what I said to Ned, and he was all, okay, we can go now. But he said it like I was an insane person. It was 6 o'clock.

"You know this means we're old," said Ned, as we arrived at the restaurant at 6:08.

"No, it doesn't," I said, fixing my hair where I'd napped on it. "Everybody eats at 6:00."

And right then is when we got stuck behind a 479-year-old woman making her way into the restaurant. Oh, she had a walker, and a hump, and she would not have beaten an amoeba had it been trying to get into that place for a little amoeba casserole.

The whole time we were stuck behind her, I could feel Ned's triumph. "Don't say it," I told him, as we were finally seated.

"She went to school with the Wright Brothers," said Ned, smiling adoringly at himself in his knife's reflection.

It was a pretty fancy restaurant, and I have no idea if Ned was setting a mood or what. IMG_3927Ned had fish. I had chicken. Between the two of us, we were a regular wedding reception. I also made him split the butterscotch pudding pie with me. God, I love the South.

IMG_3920The lighting was just so at this place that it was impossible to take a good photo. Here was the picture we had at our table. I stared at it for awhile. "Is he eating her?" I wondered.

"No, June. If he were eating her, he'd be performing cunnilingus," bellowed Ned in that fancy restaurant. Had Orville Wright's classmate who'd walked in there with us still had the power of hearing, she'd have fainted dead away.

"You did not just say 'cunnilingus' in a fancy restaurant," I said, reaching for the spoon to balance it on my nose.

My point is, when we got home, we once again sat on the porch, and our plan was to watch Louis C.K. at 10:30. At about 9:00, I said I was taking a nap.

"You can't take a nap at NINE," said Ned. "I'll never see you again."

"That isn't true. I'll just lie down for a minute. You have to have a little FAITH in people," I told him, because I love the movie Manhattan.

And that is how I ended up sleeping for 10 hours last night, and missing the Louie show.

Refreshingly,
Joon

Deep Thoughts

I was just joking around with someone at work. This poor guy, Austin, the handsome one, keeps hitting Reply All to companywide emails. The first one was when we were going to have a lunch and learn, and they asked us to please reply if we were going and to place our lunch order. We were all delighted to hear about Austin's wish for the hummus power bowl.

Then yesterday he replied to a company email about how he's a proponent of the Paleo diet.

"You just can't not do that, can you?" I emailed him, because I'm nothing if not one who's completely willing to further humiliate you.

My point is, somehow we got onto the subject of the crippling desire to be liked. Then I wondered, does everyone have a crippling desire to be liked? Or do some people really not care?

"I think funny people, comedians, are more empty than others," said a guy at work, who is funny and clearly an empty, empty husk of a man. And who was probably trying to say something about me. Talu resent.

But what about old people, who say terrible things and clearly do not give one shit? When do you just switch over to honestly not caring if people like you or not? I have not made that switch, but honest to god, I like fewer and fewer people. I still want everyone to like me, though.

Your thoughts, Hobson?

Fiddle-dee-dee

Remember yesterday, when I said a bunch of women getting together gave me hives? Last night I got together with some women and we went to the movies. The best part about me is my consistency. I'm am very chalky.

Gone With the Wind was playing at the old movie theater I like, and if you've read this blog for awhile you know that me going to see GWTW is a rarity. As is my going to see GWTW and being annoyed with Ashley.

IMG_2995I went with one of the Alexes and one of the Amys from work. This was Amy's camera, and you can see it's a fine one. It's the Brandy of cameras. I say camera, you're a fine camera. What a good wife you would be. But my life, my love and my lady is hating Ashley.

Do do DO do…

We decided to play a GWTW drinking game, and how irritated are you that I keep calling it GWTW? I'm like people who call American Idol "Idol." Like they're good friends with the show. The point is, here.

Gone+with+the+WindAmy decided to drink her water, yes, whenever Scarlett burst into tears and also any time Scarlett slapped someone, including the horse. Alex went with Mammy's disapproving glare. "I say we have a group drink every time Ashley looks like a fop!" I announced.

I decided to go for any time Scarlett fake swore, like saying, "fiddle-dee-dee" when what she really meant is go fuck your mother.

In case you wanted to throw your own GWTW bash, I highly suggest you take a group drink any time Scarlett is over in a corner lusting inappropriately for Ashley. That happens every 14 seconds. You will be julep tanked.

"You know what you would hate?" asked NedRhett, when I got home. He was sitting on our porch with the candles lit. "You'd hate a mint julep, is what you'd hate. Do you know what's in it?"

I kind of figured a mint julep had mint, exaggerated politeness, humidity and pollen. Am I wrong? I thought it was the drink of the South.

Apparently it's just a big glass of fancy whiskey with some sugar. Give me some sugar.

Anyway, it was good to see my old movie. The fiddle-dee-dee film broke THREE TIMES, and Dear Carolina Theater: You better fix that shit. This is the third movie in a row this has happened. The point is, I missed my favorite part, where Mammy says Scarlett will be in Atlanta waiting for Mr. Ashley just like a spider. Oh, the way she says is tickles me so. Mammy is great. I so need a Mammy. I need someone to tell me to eat more. And bring me trays with pancakes.

It occurs to me I am the age of Aunt Pittypat now. God's nightgown. I may faint.

Talk to you tomorrow. After all, tomorrow is another day.

Wal-itin

I feel like I haven't talked to you since I wore short pants, which was yesterday when I had on cropped trousers. I've heard men don't like cropped pants, that they want us to just pick a length already. To which I say, Dear Men: Fuck off.

IMG_3774Everything's back to normal here, as mom has left the building. Talu is eating Ned's leftover salads, Iris is killing all life, I'm blogging, and I still have a set of cankles.

IMG_3829Among the 6,000 things mom and I did was go to the Farmers Market. Did you know that term gets no apostrophe? It's because the farmers don't OWN the market. Much like Childrens Hospital. I used to think that was wrong but it turns out it isn't. The point is, flowers. We got flowers. At the Farmers no apostrophe Market.

IMG_3835Here are flowers that made it to my house. I know you are stunned that I own a pink vase. And pink salt shakers. And a tablecloth with pink in it. Poor Ned.

IMG_3797We also rearranged the furniture and blurred NedKitty. We moved the couch out from the wall and set it at an angle.

IMG_3807Then we also moved the chair from the corner it was in and moved it near the TV. Okay, sure, anyone sitting there can't WATCH TV, but how many times do you have people over and watch TV? …Really? That's sad. The whole idea was to have  a "conversation area." Conversation areas are very big with my mother. She also said, "Do you think maybe you have too many pets?" I have no idea what she means.

Too many pets lead to cankles.

IMG_3817I'd just like to mention my mother is married to a doctor. She could afford to spring for the luxurious Claritin. Wal-itin. Does this kill me? I pointed out to her that her own mother used to get Oil of Allure rather than that similarly luxurious Oil of Olay that we all know costs a fortune, and that the apple does not fall far.

My mother pointed out that I never have any money.

WHATEVER.

IMG_3839Last week, Ned went to the antique store and got a rocker and a straight-back chair for our front porch. They were both adorable, and uncomfortable as shit. Whatever that means. The point is, my mother and I got cushions for them this weekend. Behold.

IMG_3842 IMG_3871We got the pillows/cushions at Target. We'd have gone for a more high-dollar store, but I'd blown all my cash on Claritin and Oil of Olay.

IMG_3847On Sunday morning, my mother was enamored with the New York Times, so I went shopping for awhile. I loved this dress, but it's too short for someone pushing 50. Are you still "pushing" 50 if you will in fact BE 50 in less than two months?

I ran into my coworker Molly when I was shopping, so we shopped together for awhile, just like real girls. You know what you don't hear a lot of me talking about? Is shopping with "the girls." Or drinking wine with "the girls." Having dinner with my girls! Can't beat it! Love my ladies!

Blech. Do you know what annoys me more than just about anything in the universe other than when people don't know when it's "everyday" or "every day"? Girls. Grown women referring to their friends as "girls," the whole giggling girly mentality, the every chick talking at once thing. It gives me hives. My grandmother, the one I'm turning into, did not like women. She had one or two friends who were women and she didn't really hang out with them. Have I mentioned I'm turning into her?

Still. I like Molly, and we had fun. Molly isn't the kind of woman who'd let you call her a girl, and she certainly wouldn't buy you a stuffed animal to tell you what a "so fun time" she had with you afterward. Why am I such a giant bitch?

As I said in my last post, I ran into people everywhere my mother and I went this weekend, which was nice. I saw my coworker Ian's wife, who is another non-girl type I really like. She's from a foreign country, and has charisma and she told me I was beautiful when I saw her. We did not hug.

No, I DON'T know what foreign country. You know how I am with geography. Somewhere below us.

IMG_3821My friend Jo, who is not from a foreign country but is from New York, so same thing, told me about her brother's yard sale, so mom put on her red crown and off we went to it.

Jo had copies of her book for sale, as well. "Yes, I'm STILL trying to sell my book," she said. I made everyone pose with a copy. Won't you purchase your own copy of When I Married My Mother, by Jo Maeder?

See what a good friend, linking to her website and all? I sure hope we hug soon, or she sends a balloon-o-gram.

IMG_3862I guess that wraps up all you missed, except that mom cooked and it was delicious.

Of course, it all went straight to my cankles.

Piano leg-ly,

Jooon

I’d like to buy the world a Coke…

I have to take my mother to the airport, so I will blop at you later. Yes, I just said blop.

IMG_3860We had a fine time with mom. She cooked. And apparently taught Ned some Vogue moves, which he's been clamoring for. 1992 called. Wanted its dance move back.

IMG_3851Do I have lip gloss on m'teeth? Because sexy. At least it detracts from my cankles. Of COURSE I haven't let that drop yet.

When I write tomorrow, remind me to tell you about all the people I ran into this weekend. Kaye, my coworker Ian's wife, Molly, Kit, Jo… Small town, wouldn't want to paint it.

Okay, mom's having 20 aneurysms re plane and getting to it on time. She has not said it out loud but I can feel it. It's 7:48, her flight leaves at 10:30, the airport is 15 minutes from here. OH MY GOD SHE'S GONNA MISS IT. So, going.

June, growing apple trees and honey bees.

P.S. Mom is going to have to wait till I link to my latest Purple Clover. It's the real thing. (If you don't like Mad Men and did not watch the series finale last night, at this point you think I have flipped my lid.)

Hey, Lady

For a couple years now, I've been writing every week for this website called Purple Clover, which is aimed at women who are long in the tooth, shall we say. Not in the bloom anymore. Rounding the bend. I am one of those women, as I know all too well.

The writing has been going well–at first it was hard to sound funny, because I can't drone on as I do here, in case you hadn't picked up my drone, but now I feel more like my real voice is coming out, although I'm still not as funny there as I am here.

I mean, look how much you're laughing so far, here. It's like Jerry Lewis has entered my soul or something. I DON'T FEEL FUNNY RIGHT NOW, okay? My clown shoes are put up.

Last week, I wrote an article on being grateful for what one has, and I included a photo of my legs crossed on my porch railing. I enjoyed writing this particular article, and was glad when they not only ran it on Purple Clover's site on Monday, but then they also posted it on Facebook last night. I just happened to see it as soon as it went up, and it had 59 Likes immediately. I refreshed the page, and it had 70 Likes. "Oooo!" I thought, because sometimes those stories sit there for 24 hours and get a measly 200 Likes. There are 1.5 million people who follow Purple Clover on Facebook, so 200 Likes is sort of similar to when you post a photo of your breakfast and get, you know, 4 Likes out of your 500 friends.

Shut up about my maths. Also, why do people post pictures of their breakfast? I have never really understood. Mostly because my breakfast is sad flax oatmeal every day.

My point is this. When I woke up today, I checked Facebook and remembered to check my article. It had 3,600 Likes, which, yay!

Then I read the comments.

"Oh my god, cankles," wrote one commentor. It got a few Likes.

"Be grateful for what you have? How can you when you have those cankles?" wrote another.

See. A healthy person would have gotten off that site right away. Maybe meditated or gotten the whittling knife, started carving away on m'legs. That's what a healthy person would have done. Me? I kept reading.

Cankles.

Cankles.

One person even spelled it "Kankles."

By the time Ned emerged from the shower, my chin was quivering. "Am I fat?" I asked Ned. "Of course not," lied Ned, who fears the reaper.

"No, you can tell me," I said.

"Sweetheart, you're beautiful," he said. "What's going on?"

"THE INTERNET SAYS I'M FAT!" I wailed, and threw myself on the bed, causing it to crash through to the dining room with my considerable girth.

Oh, I sobbed. Then I cried. Then I turned my cankles this way and that. I really DO look cankle-y in the photo I submitted to Purple Clover. Truthfully, even when I weighed 30 pounds less than this, I never had a tapered ankle.

Once we had drinks with one of Ned's exes, and I noted how delicate her ankles were. She was like a little fawn.

I sobbed harder. I wanted to never write another thing that would be read by the public again. Certainly I wanted to never submit another photo to the Internet again. Would it be weird to wear boots year-round? Maybe I could bring back leg warmers.

Ned sat on the bed. "Should I take a personal day?" he asked me and my deformed legs. My mother is coming here today and I have cleaning to do, plus that is insane, so I told him no.

"Look," he said, warming to the subject. "If you really feel bad about yourself, go to the gym. You have that free membership that you won. But you really need to do cardio. You can do Tracy Chapman and yoga–

[I'd like to interrupt here to say I did an HOUR of Tracy Chapman last night, an hour of her the night before, and an hour of yoga on Monday. Thank you.]

"–but to really lose weight you have to do cardio. And you can't eat the horrible things you eat, either," he said, not noticing the look of horror growing on my face. "There's no avoiding it. Cardio. And eat better."

I swear to god if he'd said his signature line about eating less and exercising more I'd be blogging at you from the county jail right now.

So here is my dating tip for all you men out there. The many, many men who read my blog: The Canklebury Tales. If your woman is sobbing because the entire Internet has told her she's fat? What she wants to hear is that she's charming. She's sexy. She has curves for miles. A sobbing woman asking you if she's fat DOES NOT WANT TO HEAR THAT SHE'S FAT.

Maybe offer to go walking with her later that day. Then the next day. Maybe mention that gym in a few days.

Because if you piss her off enough, she might throw her weight around. And in my case, that's a considerable threat.

Don’t say a word. Also, Hulk’s sex life.

Yesterday I had one of those horrendous workdays where you spend hours writing something, then lose the whole document forever, no matter what IT does. I wanted Superman to fly around the world and reverse time.

Then today the exterminator came, not to kill me, which would have been nice, but to kill our ants. Which means Ned and I didn't have to go in till later, which meant Ned-ding.

The point is, busy, but here I am at work, unblogged, so I thought if you didn't read the comments yesterday, I'd show you the list of words and phrases I do not allow at my desk. This friendly list hangs in my area. I can't say "cubicle" because they abolished our cubicles. Somebody else here made the list after hearing me say, "Don't say that" for about the 87th time. Then I added to it as necessary.

Switcheroo

Lifestyle

Preplan         

Plan ahead

Man cave

Listicle

Interwebs

Veggie

Dealio

“My happy place”

Kiddos

Staycation

Guilty pleasure

[20, 30, 40]-something

Fun fact

Referring to your fetus as “the bean”

Saying that anything “lives” on a website

Calling Cincinnati ’Cinci

Calling San Francisco ’Frisco

Foodie

Gifting

Turkey Day

Calling a BMW a "Beamer" (that one is new today!)

Again, I am with you. No idea why anyone here even speaks to me, except to say, "Did you lose another Word doc?"

Also, since I'm showing you this and it was in the comments yesterday, it begs the questions–BEGS!–how many of you read the comments? I am curious.

Okay, leaving. Oh. Also. I had a dream last night that I had sex with Hulk. I know, man. I know. I should add "Sex with Hulk" to my no-dream list.

June. Natural yoga bitch.

IMG_3727I have used every last drop of this eyelid primer, and now it's gone. It's rare that you find something good enough to use it to death. What makeup have YOU used to death?

I do not wish to hear that you do not wear makeup. I am highly against the lack of makeup wearing. Natural is not beautiful. Everything in life looks better with a little enhancement, is what I say. Did you ever see one of those roses with sparkles put on their edges? My point is made.

I just went to one of those annoying sites where first of all you have to click an arrow to see the next image. I know they do that to add to their page counts, but since everyone knows that's what they do, why does their page count even, you know, COUNT? It's annoying and I usually click off, and OH! It was also one of those site where any time you move your mouse, an ad pops up. God, I hate sites like that. The point is, here:

Screen Shot 2015-05-12 at 7.41.26 AMUma Thurman, without makeup.

Screen Shot 2015-05-12 at 7.42.55 AMHilary Duff.

Screen Shot 2015-05-12 at 7.43.34 AMMila Kunis.

So, yeah. Mostly, though, I just love playing with makeup.

We have our health assessments today at work. I hope I pass. I have to fast till 8:45, which is a travesty and I really want a bacon, egg and cheese biscuit just because I can't have one right now.

Then also, the air conditioning in this house is not working, so we have all the fans on and the cats are splayed out like badgers. I have no idea if badgers splay. Plus also, ants. We have ants. Ned came in here today having 90 fits because he got out his cereal, and ants. I wonder if we should invest in an anteater?

Where do you GET an anteater? Are they indigenous to America? I have no idea. The one in the cartoons sounded like he was from New York. Were they being racist–religiousest–having an anteater with a big snout sound like he might be a New York Jew, or am I racist for thinking that?

I had better get in the shower. Last night after work, one of the Alexes and Molly and I went to the park and did yoga. I mean, not just randomly like a group of hippies. I mean that whole fitness in the park thing is back, that I did last year, remember? I think tonight it's Zumba.

Come on and zum zum zumba zoom. I think I made that joke last year. I am nothing if not predictable. Come on, give it a try! We're gonna teach you to fly HIGH! Come on and zum! Come on and zum zum!

Anyway, it was pretty crowded in the park, because once you tell people, hey, free anything, they come out in droves. We were pretty much in the back row, and when the instructor said, "Are you ready to do yoga?" the three of us were all, "Fuck yeah!"

Nice.

Then Molly yelled, "Namaste, bitches!"

So I feel like fitness in the park should be interesting this year.

Naturally,

June

Would You

On Friday, one of the Alexes had her last day, and it was a different Alex's birthday. She was twenty-six!

IMG_0041I'm 26 now! I'm still half June's age!

I know! Old geez. The point is, everyone said, "Let's gather together to ask the Lord's blessing and also to get tanked at the new brewery in town."

They opened this {pretentious} brewery that everyone has been abuzz about. You know how Ned and I go to that {pretentious} taco place owned by the lesbian woman, which features many lesbian waitresses, and I can never bring myself to order the fish taco without bursting into giggles? Well, she's opened another restaurant, this one being all street food. The brewery is attached. I have no idea what street food is, but I hope among the menu choices isn't glazed doughnuts or anything from the Y or a dish of scissors, because I'll never have the nerve to order any of that.

So I told Ned to come home terrecktly after work, and when he got here I was in a mood. I'd worn a dress to work because I had my picture made for the newsletter, but we were walking to the brewery which was "right nearby" and I didn't want to schlep there in my new Persian mom shoes I bought. They're a wedge heel, and gold metallic, and you're just gonna have to trust me on this till I make a picture of them for you. They look like a Persian mom's first choice in shoewear.

I have no idea why I keep saying, "Have a picture made."

So I was trying on jeans and everything was tight as a drum and unless it was Tom Jones night at the brewery, I was not gonna look good. After 600 outfits and many camel toes plus also I couldn't find my shoe, a regular boring Midwestern girl flat and not any metallic wedge heels, I was finally ready.

"You look nice," said Ned, who always knows when I'm near crisis mode.

So we schlepped. And we schlepped. And also walked and then schlepped, and what I'm saying is, that short walk was one hot, long motherfucker. That's what SHE said.

Finally we were there, and I was rewarded by a large black man of color at the doorway, who asked for my ID, probably because he wanted to give me the senior discount. Naturally the place was packed, and I looked for my group of Alexes, and?

They weren't there.

And right then I knew, to check my phone. "It was packed there. We all went to Gibb's!"

Now, had they meant BARRY Gibb's, I might have cheered up, but as it was I slumped pitifully on the one inch of space left in that packed brewery. And I don't even DRINK craft beer. We decided to stay so I could sweat and Ned could get a delicious craft beer. Craft beer tastes like a glass of despair, if you ask me.

IMG_3755Delicious despair.

While I waited through six eras for Ned to get his glass of bitter regret, I stood along this walkway next to a guy. "What do you think of the place?" he asked me. We talked for awhile and eventually found ourselves playing "Would You" along with Ned. "Would You" is where people walk by, and you take a drink if you'd sleep with them. We play it all the time, with any beverage, really. Highly recommend, unless it's gonna piss you off that your person is all, Hell yeah to the 16-year-old chippie walking by.

Ooo! And while Ned went to get ANOTHER glass of gloom, a man tried to pick me up! Okay, he was cheesy and awful, but still!

I miss being cute.

On the interminable walk home, we passed two young pretty women, and their Greyhound. "Yes, yes and YES," said Ned, continuing to play Would You and loving his own self.

IMG_3758My mother will be here Thursday, so I cleaned all weekend, even though originally Ned and I had planned to go to the beach and see his mother. Attached please find Tallulah Gardens, completely unconcerned that the bed had been stripped. Ned will see his mother next weekend, while my mother is here, thereby covering two moms in one fell swoop, and we are like a dream team. So, we cleaned 7,000 pounds of animal fur Saturday and Sunday. "Do you think your mother will like our house?" Ned kept asking me, nervously. I think she will. This is a charming house.

I also had both dogs professionally steam cleaned and pressed. At dog daycare. Where a large black Pit of color came to the window of the playroom and BOOF!ed at me when I dropped off my dogs. I loved him. After his BOOF! he looked beyond me and whined a little. He missed his person.

20150509_184835_resizedBecause nothing's more fun than a whole day of sweaty, frenetic cleaning than getting dressed and going somewhere after, Ned and I went to that hotel I like and hired a hooker. Here she is.

I don't know why everything is slanted. But we sat outside and got appetizers, which ended up filling us up, and then we needed zero for dinner, which is good. We got a broccoli flatbread–which is a way of pretentiously saying "pizza"–and some cheddar, chive and bacon potato cakes. I'll let you guess who picked what. Then I am sorry to tell you we had us some creme brulee, which Ned said we should not finish and guess what happened.

While we sat there, a huge vibrant rainbow appeared, and I made our waitress look at it, but I watched all kinds of people schlep into the hotel who never look up from their phones to see the rainbow. That, friends, is sad.

The clouds looked more and more ominous as we sat there. They rolled in darkly like glasses of craft beer, and we left right on time. When we got home, there was a storm, so we sat on the front porch and watched it.

IMG_3756Why can't Iris ever be normal?

On Sunday, we saw a fairly dumb movie called 5 to 7, about a young boy who has an affair with a French woman, and wow, that's original. It wasn't even dirty, so what was the point? Ned kept pointing out that she had lovely bosoms, and wouldn't most French women be happy to show them at least once in a movie, but no. Ned was definitely playing Would You with that actress.

So that sums up my weekend, and oh! Mad Men! Betty! I am upset.

Finally, in summary, here is my latest Purple Clover. Thank you, India. Thank you, terror. Thank you, disILLUsionment!

Thank you, June. For putting that song RIGHT IN our heads.

You're welcome.

Dog bookends

IMG_3746
Did you ever have one of those really good dreams, where you're told you can take a bunch of stuff for free, then you spend the rest of your dream deciding which stuff to take? I had one of those dreams last night. Some person I knew worked for a large university, and there was this huge warehouse that had party glasses of different colors and styles that they'd used once for events and never again, and I was told I could take a few.

Oh, I was having fun. I had a little cart full of pink and gold cocktail glasses, and a pretty old ice holder thing–what are those called?–that was magenta and sled-shaped that read "Merry Christmas" in a '50s font.

And dear university in my dreams: How wasteful. Be like Kate Middleton. Reuse. Recycle.

But then I woke up and I got nuthin'. No party glasses. Still. It was fun while it lasted.

By the way, I am officially sick of the phrase "I can't unsee that." I have no idea why I just thought of it to tell you that, but it's true. It's all over the place. It's the cat/dog diary of now. It's the elaborate house made up of all Hello Kitty things on it of now. Maybe I'm the only one who gets sent that photo of the Hello Kitty house all the time.

Do you know what's hard to do? Is scroll through someone's Facebook page to see if they already have something funny on their page that you want to put up but you don't want to be annoying if someone else has already put that on their wall. It's also hard to stalk someone's every post on Facebook. They do that damn thing where they only show you the highlights.

Dear Facebook: Make it easier to stalk. Thank you, June

One of the Alexes is leaving today, for a fancy government job that she did not say I could talk about, but it looks exciting. They had a lunch for her yesterday that I did not attend, because I am a magnificent person. Today is also my work friend Slutty Pancake's birthday, and I did not rush out and get streamers and a tiara, as most women would do for me.

I'm just not that woman. I'm not the rush-out-and-get-a-card type. I'm not the make-a-casserole type. Basically I am awful. I emailed with my old friend Sandy yesterday, I forget why, and she mentioned my birthday is coming up. She is one year younger than me, and has always been way prettier than me, and sometimes she likes to point this out by mentioning things like, Oh, look. You're almost 50.

"What are you getting me?" I wrote her, and please see above where I do not get balloons or cards or really do anything for anyone else. There are people who've been friends with me for decades–lots of decades–and they must have some kind of support group or something. The One-Sided June-Friendship Support Group.

"Well, remember that Christmas I got you the leather gloves with fringe on them?" she wrote me. "You lost one of them the first week. I am loath to get you something nice."

People are forever insisting I don't deserve nice things just because I don't take care of them. I say, get me the nice thing, and let me enjoy it for the 10 minutes before I ruin it. What's wrong with that?

Anyway, I have to go. I'm getting my photo made for the company newsletter, to celebrate my being awarded King of the Employees, and since I edit the company newsletter, I am thinking both cover and maybe fold-out poster in every issue. What say you?

What would my turn-ons and turn-offs be? I guess my new turn-off would be the sentence, "I can't unsee that." Since I'm newly annoyed by it. A phrase will be fine with me until one day I hear it too much ("I need a VACATION from my VACATION! hahahahahah!") and there it sticks. In my craw.

IMG_3753we luff you just way you are, mom. at leest one of us do.

Nurturingly,

Jooooon

Bag of the enemy

Last night after work, Ned and I met for dinner at the restaurant I really like that he isn't that crazy about. I have no idea how you could not be crazy about this place, but its big draw, really, is that it has outdoor seating. It's that place we went to one night when we were first dating that sat us in pitch blackness.

When I just went to find that post, I thought, "I wonder what the hell I would have called that post. I shoulda called it In the Dark." So I Googled "byebyepie" + "restaurant that sat us in darkness" and guess what I found. A post called In the Dark. Clearly my brain never changes. Not since birth.

"The reason I never really am crazy about that place is there's not one goddamn thing to eat there that's healthy," said Ned just now, like that's a feature that matters. One reader in particular gets all excited when Ned's getting out of the shower and getting ready while I type. Today he has on a white shirt and sort of charcoal-looking pants. I don't mean he has pants on made of little squares that make your hands dirty when you pick 'em up. After work, Ima set Ned in the sun and make s'mores right off his pants.

(I just heard him zip that gym bag. The bag of enemy. The bitch that takes him from me for hours each day, that gym.)

Here's another thing. Ned always says about things, "I don't DISLIKE it, I'm just not crazy about it." He says that about everything. He just said that about this restaurant just now. Why can't he just come out and admit he dislikes something? The other day he said, "I don't DISLIKE that guy, it's just he thinks he's better than us." I mean, how could you not dislike someone who thinks he's better than you? Unless of course it's true. Like, if Sarah Jessica Parker thought she was better than me, I'm down with that.

That's why I hate that People of Walmart site. It's like we're laughing because we think we're better than poor people. That site has never made me laugh, not once. Makes me sad, really. How awful are we? Oh, here we are, with our cute clothes and our privilege, laughing at people who aren't as cool as us.

Oh my god, SERIOUSLY, with the digressing.

SO WE WENT TO THAT RESTAURANT. Geez. And the reason I fought for it was because of the outdoor seating. I got there first.

"Oh, all the outdoor seats are taken," said the little chippie of a waitress who was not that little. I mean, if you're 23, BE THIN NOW. This is the only time it's easy. Don't be chubby. You'll never have a time you can look back and say, "God, I looked great."

When Ned got there, I was crankily sitting inside. "Why are you inside?" he asked, as if I'd just FORGOTTEN I wanted to be outside. I told him the sitch–that it was a 20-minute wait to eat outside. "You want to wait?" he asked. Of course I didn't want to wait.

"You wanna go to–"

"NO. I don't want to go anywhere else," I cranked. "I don't wanna drive around town and find four other restaurants that also can't seat us outside."

I swear to you this town has gotten busier. Have more people moved here? Is the economy better? I liked it when no one could afford restaurants. You know when you could probably always get a seat? The Depression, that's when. The Depression was probably great.

So we sat inside. A Nirvana song came on. "You know, this is really a David Bowie song," said Ned, who knows I hate David Bowie. Why does David Bowie have to be so dramatic, with his face glitter and his spiders from Mars? Who gives a shit where your spider came from? Any time you end something "from Mars," you aren't being very imaginative. Same with "from hell." "It's a job from hell." Oh, ho ho ho ho hoooo! Wow! How'd you think of THAT?

And his teeth. Hello, Big Book of British Smiles.

"Yes, I know," said, knowing full well Ned was gonna launch in his how-can-anyone-hate-David-Bowie diatribe.

"How can anyone hate David Bowie?" Ned asked, as the food came.

Every song that came on after that, Ned would say, "This is a David Bowie song." They were playing Old People Music for patrons like us: The B-52s, that song Funky Cold Medina, some REM. Every song. "This is actually by David Bowie."

Ned's love for himself grew with each bite. In the meantime, I had to methodically wipe each of my fries with my napkin, because they'd put way too much salt on them. By the end of the meal, I had 27 napkins at my chair, like I was a toddler. Ned ate every bite of his unhealthy sandwich and fries. "I don't DISLIKE fries…" he began.

On the way home, the radio played a David Bowie song.