Dear Hulk: Today there are pictures of my pets! No, really, any time. No trouble at all.

I decided to go see what everyone was up to this morning, and show you it. You're welcome for that fabulously constructed sentence.

IMG_4589
Lily has decided NedKitty's condo also belongs to her now. She and NedKitty do not bother each other, and will sit in the same room and chitter at birds, but it's not like they're best friends, either. They fluffily tolerate each other. Also, Dear Ned. We've lived in this house for NINE MONTHS. Good work on the picture-hanging.

IMG_4574
Edsel is sad that I can't stay home and pet his head all day. Edsel is sad he can't have a gold pedicure, too. Everyone should be sad that they don't have a gold pedicure.

IMG_4585NedKitty is obsessed with the bathroom. She's in there constantly. And when you shower, she gets in there and gets her head wet. It is the highlight of her day. Here she is sporting her I-showered-with-Ned mohawk. She will get her stupid cat head even wetter when I get in the shower today.

Do you think she thinks of Ned as Ned or as dad? I guess dad. At this point, Hulk has shot his own head clean off.

IMG_4576
Lu. Chawing at a flea. She better not be chawing at a flea; I just spent $88483 on flea meds last month. Note I did not even bother to put on a bedspread. Too hot. And sheets are easier to wash after dogs lounge on them, being blog muses.

Oooo, I almost forgot to tell you. Ned and I were walking said curs just last night, and these two stupid young guys get out their car, and a CACOPHONY of dogs came out with them, NONE of them on a leash. I think there were four of five dogs, one in a cone. The rest were in a bowl. BAH.

The point is, of course they charged my dogs, and as usual, Edsel bit one. I don't even feel bad. Put your dogs on a fucking leash AT ALL FUCKING TIMES.

Tallulah jumped on my leg and looked concerned. She didn't even try to be mean to those dogs. It's all Edsel now. Lu seemed kind of (don't tell her) scared, even.

I didn't at all want to walk the dogs so I could get in my 10,000 steps or anything. Ned and I certainly aren't Fitbit friends now, competing for most steps. No, sir. That would be unhealthy. (Yesterday, I beat him!)

IMG_4580
Iris is helping Uncle Ned put on his shoes. Even though she has no shoes. Or eyes.

IMG_4591
I noticed NedKitty moved from the bathroom to Ned's desk. She managed to throw up on all three of those books, books I bought for Ned at Christmas. Thanks, NedKitty, with your old-lady digestive system.

Photo on 6-30-15 at 7.41 AM
Finally, here's me and my blemish, watching the dogs fight. Tallulah's doing that dog noise she makes: Harrrrrrr. HARRRRRR. ARRRroooooooRRRR. I love it when Lu does that. Marvin used to ask her, "Are you Harrr-ing, then?"

I guess that's all I have to tell you, except have you seen that you can now download your entire Google history? Google it, man. It shows you everything you've ever looked up, and I am riveted by it. Everyone go look at this date (June 30) and whatever year and tell me what you Googled that day. (After you've Googled "My Google history" or whatever, go to the top-right of the page and you see a little calendar. Click on that, and click the left back arrow to go back in time. They should make that more efficient.)

I'll look at a year ago today…

  • Why do cats disappear (oh! Lily was missing then!)
  • Google Earth Nathaniel Greene Traffic Circle (I was photographed by the Google Earth photographers, when I was leaving Ned's one day. I guess I wanted to see my own self.)
  • If your pet is missing, Greensboro (Poor Lily)
  • Homes for rent
  • Prince's cameo in Fargo
  • Missouri Central time

I have no idea why I wanted to know if Missouri was on Central time. In all, that was a pretty boring search history It'd have been way intrestinger if I'd looked up How Do I Tell My Readers I Have Octopus Fantasies or something.

Okay, now you do it.

Wishing she had some pets,

Jooooooon

Advertisements

An unblemished record

IMG_4520

We were all on the porch yesterday, being Allison Portchnik. That's only funny if you're obsessed with Annie Hall, and even then it's not that funny. The point is, it was a beautiful day, but I had a blemish, so there was a whole debate about whether the world should have to see this blemish vs. taking advantage of the fact that it wasn't 900 degrees out thing.

IMG_4526Eventually, I chose to take my blemish on the town. We went on a hike. "Molly, my coworker, always goes to Lake Brandt and can't get enough of it," my blemish and I told Ned. "Let's go there."

"Oh, wow, you DO have a blemish," Ned finally said. I mean, how could you MISS it? This thing would frighten the very young and threaten the health of the infirm.

We stopped at a gas station to get water, even though we have 5,000 jugs of filtered water in the refridge, as Ned calls it, plus 39488492 water containers we could have taken. I wonder why we don't have savings? The point is, Ned also bought sunflower seeds while he was there. The package actually said, Eat, Spit, Be Happy on it.

"You aren't going to spit, are you?" my blemish and I wanted to know. Ned assured me that indeed, he would be spitting sunflower seeds all over yonder, just like baseball players do. Since I met Ned 3.5 years ago, I've watched more baseball than I ever have in the entire rest of my life combined, and he actually has the nerve to say, "I don't get to watch enough baseball anymore." I can't imagine how much more baseball one could observe without one's mind simply oozing out one's eyeballs, and melting onto the floor, but perhaps that's just me.

The point is, they all spit, baseball players do, and they all spit sunflower seeds. I have no idea why. Maybe they're planting sunflowers on the field, one seed at a time. Ned hates it when I say they "spitted." "It's not 'spitted,' June," he'll say, and as someone whose brain is seconds from oozing out his nose holes, I don't know that I can give his grammar lessons much credence. Or clear water. Or even a revival.

When we got to the lake, Ned decided to open his sunflower seeds forthwith, and could not open the bag no matter how hard he tried. He eventually got out his steely knife, and he just couldn't kill the beast.

"They must have a notch or something at the top of the bag, to make it easy to open," I said, because my blemish has a degree in packaging.

"They don't," said Ned, stabbing his sunflower seed bag. Attached please find Ned discovering, after he's cut his bag to ribbons, that it had an open-in-front thing.

IMG_4529

IMG_4532

IMG_4535

IMG_4538

IMG_4536

IMG_4533
Once we understood the complexities of the sunflower bag, we headed off and immediately saw Molly.

IMG_4540"I go on this trail to get AWAY from people," she groused. Honestly, it's a smaller town than I think. I almost always run into people I know, even on blemish days.

IMG_4552Speaking of which, my blemish had a lovely time hiking, and even saw a snake thanks to Ned, who can find a snake 800 miles away with his eagle eyes that somehow cannot grasp a bag, but really, can YOUR eyes grasp a bag? Because, creepy.

IMG_4561Because we both had on Fitbits, we know for a fact that we walked 78 minutes, and covered three point something miles. I tripped over tree roots 4843829492 times, and squeaked nervously at a snake once. How come Ned can hike and not have hair like a homeless person when he's done?

"Maybe we should name the blemish," suggested Ned, and then weirdly we both said, "Alice" at the same time. I have no idea how we did that.

IMG_4568Afterward, we went to Stake and Shake, because why be healthy? My blemish had a vanilla Coke and a steakburger that was delicious. I should take up a collection to get my nose done. Can I do a Kickstarter? Will that work?

IMG_4567A rare sighting of Ned in an unhealthy-food restaurant. You can see his moral dilemma. It's enough to make you spit sunflower seeds.

I will keep you posted on Alice, my blemish. Despite dousing it with 75 gallons of salicylic acid, it looks pretty much exactly the same today, and a good person would call in sick to work. I will not, though, because at least I have something to talk about all day.

Imperfectly,

Joooooon

The one where June gay marries some cobbler

IMG_4507
Well, it's official. Ned is now 50. He wasn't able to get that decision reversed or anything.

If you want the abbreviated version of Ned's birthday, because you have to run or something, it was sex, food, thunderstorm, sex, Tracy Anderson workout, food, thunderstorm, sleep, sex.

At some point in the day, I asked Ned, "Is my hair ridiculous?" Please see the events of the last 24 hours, above. Usually, Ned says, "No, your hair is beautiful." Yesterday he looked right at left, at the wide berth that is my hair, and just laughed.

Okay, FINE. You're rolling into your 50s with Biggus Hairus. Live with it.

IMG_4501
Yesterday morning, when there was still hope for my hair, we went to a diner, where I ordered poached eggs from the screechiest-voiced waitress ever invented. "We make them coddled," she screeched, and I don't care what kind of childhood they had, just slide me some eggs, boo.

There was another waitress who had two teensy carrots crossed over each other behind her ear. I don't mean literally, although that would have been hilarious, but rather a TATTOO of crossed carrots. Ned and I obsessed over what it meant, and I had every intention of asking her, but she never walked past our table. We had a shitty table, which was kind of the theme of this weekend, really. Good food, shitty tables. At this particular spot, we were near the lunch counter and the front door, so someone was buzzing past us constantly. Or hovering. Two waitresses would stop to talk, hovering half an inch from us. But with all that buzzing and past-ing, carrot waitress never walked on by.

I really hate, "How's everything tasting?" by the way. When did this become a thing people need to say? How's everything tasting. It just kind of makes me cross. Carrots.

In the afternoon, I headed to the grocery store to get ingredients to make Ned's peach cobbler, and I know an efficient individual, such as my grandmother, would have purchased said ingredients ahead of time, and had them all ready on the counter like on a cooking show. On the other hand, my grandmother was constantly cranky, and…

Oh, shut up.

The point is, on the way there, I got an aura. It's a migraine thing, where one eye is totally filled with zigzag patterns and static and I can't see a fukkin' thing, as Iris would say. I have no idea why I got one yesterday, other than the impending thunderstorms, which can make me all migraine-y. The point is, I had to pull over, because I was totally blind. Well. If you interpret that in NOT dramatic, it means I was mostly not able to see.

I'd pulled over in the parking lot where I get pedicures, and although I had no intention of getting a pedicure, as cash is low at Bank of June, after sitting in the blazing car, blind, for 10 minutes, I stumbled in there. "Pedicure," I said weakly, and grabbed any bottle of polish, because I could not really see the bottles.

I sat in the pedicure chair with my eyes closed, but the pedicure man was suddenly interested in chatting me up. He's done my nails a hundred times and has never wanted to say word one to me, which is what I like about him. Yesterday he could not get enough of my shut eyes and pained expression.

Was I married? Oh, how long have I been divorced (three years today, actually)? Kids? Why no kids? Who will take care of me when I'm older? (I love that question. Like having kids is guaranteed senior care.) How long was I married? How old was I when I GOT married? Am I dating now? Oh, how long? (Have I been DATING him, perv.)

After all that, he was silent a moment.

"You don't LOOK 50," he said, having just done the maths in his intrusive little head. And that right there made it all worth it.

By the time my nails were done, I could see again, and I got hold of Alarmed Ned, who thought I'd be at the store for 10 minutes. He was Even Alarmeder Ned when I told him what had happened, but really, once the aura passed, I felt fine. And it was then that I realized, I'd done the Best Thing Ever.

IMG_4518

I'd picked a color that just exactly matched my shoes. Without realizing it! I could see enough to tell I'd chosen a nail polish that was kind of light and shiny, but that was the best I could do at the time. But behold! Behold my brilliance! The 50th anniversary is gold, so maybe I chose it subconsciously because of Ned. I certainly chose it blindly.

When my gold toes and I got home, Ned kept telling me to make the cobbler tomorrow, to rest my eyes or whatever, but I really was fine then. IMG_4515
And I made the best peach cobbler on planet Earth. Here is the recipe. Because June's blog. Come for the retro-ness of someone still having a blog. Stay for the recipes once every four years.

"GodDAMMIT, that smells good," said Ned, and I convinced him to have dessert before dinner, because now that he's 50, he's livin' large. We ended up each having TWO pieces of cobbler, and then when we got shittily sat right next to the kitchen at the restaurant, we weren't even really hungry. We both got salmon, and I was facing a man of color cooking in the kitchen. It took Ned awhile to look in the kitchen, but once he did, he got quite a kick out of it. "I notice you're not complaining about where we've been sat anymore, June," he said.

Because a handsome 24-year-old man of color is surely looking at All My Hair and my 49-ness and my two pieces of cobbler on m'hips and saying, Break me off a piece of that.

After that, we went to this pretentious but lovely wine bar and ran into some friends, and then to the dive bar in our neighborhood, where I saw a mastiff puppy, so all my needs were met. Plus, I was able to look down at my gold polish and silently squee repeatedly.

"When I look back on my 50th birthday, I'll remember I was in love with a beautiful woman, and that I was happy," said Ned. As soon as I find that woman and kick her ass, I will report it live on this blog.

Blindly,

Joooooon

Food is Ned’s sex. Oh, plus, Ned is 50 now.

Today is Ned's 50th birthday, so we took today off. He is sleeping currently, but earlier this morning, he said, "You want to have breakfast at the diner later?"

"Okay," I said. Then we fell back asleep.

"I was just dreaming of a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich," Ned murmured, as I got out of bed, finally.

George-and-mary
For his birthday, I made Ned a card, with George and Mary Bailey on it, and it reads: "Ned Nickerson, I will love you till the day I die," which is a line from It's a Wonderful Life, and if you have never seen it, please just don't tell me. You know how that aggravates me.

I also gave him one gift last night, and there's another I STILL HAVEN'T WRAPPED over here behind the computer. Do you know what I am? Is organized.

Anyway, later I'm taking him to Liberty Oak, the place where he got the grouper three years ago that he is still talking about. Ned has meals that he holds up against all other meals. "Well, it was good, but it wasn't grouper-at-Liberty-Oak good."

Two years ago, his grouper at Liberty Oak was usurped by some trout in Brooklyn, and let me tell you. A tree grew in Brooklyn, and so did Ned's appreciation for The Trout Night. Now everything's compared to the trout from Brooklyn. "GodDAMMIT," he'll say when he thinks back on that trout.

There's a really nice restaurant here in town called Josephine's that I've been to only a few times, and Ned keeps saying we should really go there together. Finally last night, knowing it was kind of our Friday since we took today off, he made reservations for us, and it turns out they're closing for two months after Saturday. They're renovating or something. Changing the menu and so on.

IMG_4474
I wore a black tank top and a very loose-knit sweater, which I just accidentally typed as "loose snit," which describes my general mood perfectly. Put that on my tombstone: June Gardens. Generally in a loose snit.

We walked into the restaurant, and it was packed, of course, because it's closing. And?

No air conditioning.

In late June. In the South.

"Jesus, is it warm in here?" I asked Ned, who I call Jesus from time to time due to his sandals. "Yeah, it is a little warm," said Ned/Jesus.

A little warm. Let me tell you how intolerant of heat Ned is. If we can't hang meat in this house, he is not happy. We've had an infestation of penguins move out, it's so cold in here. A little warm.

One woman two tables down took off her wig and ate her whole meal bald. There was no way I could take off my sweater, because I had on my black-patterned bra and it would show.

Brasef
And you know I'd never show the whole world my undergarments or anything.

I could not get over how hot I was. My sweater was sweating. I kept lifting my hair, and pressing my ice water to my pulse points. Ned, who can't have it one iota over 70 in our house, was happy as a hot clam. As soon as we sat down, I saw the special was this pot with fancy seafood in it (salmon, mahi and Ned's girlfriend, grouper, plus shrimp), and a carrot/radish slaw, all in a lobster broth. I knew this was right up Ned's alley, but waited hotly and sweated the 29 minutes while he looked over the entire menu sixteen times before he ordered it.

I got a salad with strawberries and goat cheese and candied walnuts, as I am wont to do.

To say that Ned liked the seafood pot thing is akin to saying Dennis Hopper enjoyed him the velvet.

"GodDAMMIT!" said Ned. He had his I'm-having-excellent-sex expression that I am fortunate to see often. "This is the best thing I've ever had."

"GodDAMMIT!" he said, a few minutes later. "I'm furious that this place is closing and I can't ever eat this again," he said. Then he followed it up with (wait for it), "GodDAMMIT!"

When all his food was gone, I asked, "Are you mad that's over?"

"I AM!" he said, amazed, like that's not what he always says in these situations. "This was better than the Brooklyn trout," he said, so now I know the new pinnacle. In the meantime, I'd lost 11 pounds of water weight, and my hair was soaking. My internal organs were beginning to boil. All I could think of was how I could not wait to get outside where it was only 95 out.

"Do you want to go over to the bar before we go, have a drink?" asked Ned.

Hot mother of god.

IMG_4480
me, up at the bar

If this is what it's like to have a hot flash, I am really looking forward to my OWN segue to my 50s in a few weeks.

Okay, I'm going now. Ned is up, so we're headed for that diner, and then Ima make him a peach cobbler, allegedly. Does anyone remember the apple pie incident of 2012? I have the feeling there will be zero goddammits when my cobbler is eaten. So to speak.

Younger womanly,

June

Almost rape-y

Yesterday at work, we had a gelato truck come at 2:00 (I had salted caramel. Griff pointed out that there's no such thing as just caramel anymore. It all has to be salted now), and then we had a department happy hour at 4:00.

IMG_4465_2

I feel like Mike, formerly known as The Editor Who Sits in Our Row, is not a fan of tomatoes. Or maybe those are peppers. Whatever.

IMG_4466

Still going to glean he's not a fan.

IMG_4472

Here's one of the Alexes, trying to look bitchy and fooling no one, and there's Ryan, for your viewing pleasure, you buncha Mrs. Robinsons.

IMG_4464

Griff's deep thoughts are deep. And look, back there in the plaid shirt is Neil, who I talked about yesterday! The circle of life. Boom.

IMG_4463

I did not take a picture of myself at happy hour, as I was too busy being happy, and hourly, but I did take a picture of myself at work yesterday, as I was texting with my cousins and we all sent a picture of what we were doing at that moment. I pointed out to my cousins, who are my "little cousins," that the women behind me are younger than both of them, who I think of as children, but they're both in their 30s.

At the happy hour, I sat with some women down at the end of the table, a bunch of hens, as it were, and I'd like to take this moment to say hello to my feminist mom. So the skirts and I were talking, you know, about the only stuff women talk about. Jewelry, shoes, boys. The rest is just too hard.

But really, we started talking about how many of us had almost-rapey stories. Like, mostly they took place in college, and in our cases they all involved escaping, fortunately. I went to college with a woman who was just walking two blocks between these two houses where groups of of us lived unsanitarily–Division Street. I eventually lived in both houses on Division Street, and all of us who were friends just referred to the houses by their numbers. "There's a party tonight on 358." That sort of thing.

So, this woman I knew was walking from 545 to 358, when a man grabbed her from behind. "Don't scream," he said, gripping her. She didn't scream, but she sure did reach around and twist his man parts, hard, and he let her go. She ran as fast as she could to 358.

I can't believe I can still remember the numbers of the houses on Division.

Screen Shot 2015-06-25 at 7.59.34 AM Screen Shot 2015-06-25 at 7.59.50 AM
I can't believe all I had to do was Google those addresses and I could get screen shots of 545 and 358. Dying. I so have a picture of me leaning on that tree at 358 right before I left for a date with Marvin; I'll have to find it. I was hot then.

My POINT is, do you have an almost-rapey story? Mine was that my roommate in the dorms asked me to leave the door unlocked because she was going to be late coming home. Why she couldn't just take her KEY is beyond me. There were some boys visiting someone or other in the dorms; I'd met them earlier in the night. I was fast asleep when one of them just walked right in and sat on my bed. "Hey, um…" I sat up.

I can't recall all that happened, exactly, just that it quickly became apparent this wasn't a friendly, "Hey, wake up and let's go get nachos at Middle Earth" kind of visit. We had a little walk-up grill in the basement of the dorm, this little connector hallway between my dorm and Marvin's, called Middle Earth.

Yes. Middle Earth. And this was in the '80s, when any Hobbit mentions were distinctly not cool.

"Friendship is offered to all who enter Middle Earth." That's what it said over the archway to Middle Earth, and I'll bet some hippie painted that in 1976, and here it was 8 years later, looking distinctly dated. However, I can still taste the blueberry yogurt I'd get down there at 10 a.m., to avoid having to watch my roommate watch Barnaby Jones reruns. Who in their right mind selects Barnaby Jones?

MY POINT IS, I told the guy to leave, and he got really angry really fast. I remember he said, "I hope you get raped by a black man," as though that would somehow be worse than being raped by HIS stupid ass, which looked imminent. So, a rapey racist. Even better!

"These walls are thin, and I am less than one second from screaming," I told him. I wasn't scared, I was pissed off. He got up and left, and I locked the door after him, and then I started shaking.

WHY do we have stories like that, most of us? How are we raising the men, that so many of them think this is okay? I wonder if that asshole went on to be a lawyer or some other perfectly acceptable-looking member of society, while in the meantime he got drunk and tried to force himself on women all over yonder. Did he grow out of it? Did he grow up to regret it? Or does he still feel entitled to aggressively pursue anyone he feels like having?

Furthermore, why am I straight, again?

If you have an almost-rapey story, tell it to us here, or if you're one of the .00006 men who read this, please pontificate on this phenomenon.

Friendship is offered to all who enter Middle June. Wait…

We’re here for my hair

IMG_4451_2
I noticed Iris on the landing, just hoping to trip and kill one of us. Then she can go in for our arteries while we're still warm. She also knocks any glasses you may have left on any surface down to the floor, where she proceeds to attack the stems and chew them angrily. If she can't see, no one should be able to, is Iris's theory.

Iris is filled with evil. I love that about her.

6a00e54f9367fb8834013480bda5de970c-800wi
I think I have a type.

I went back to that sadist last night, the exercise instructor who comes in after work to try to kill us, leading me to suddenly think this is all a plot and she's in cahoots with Iris. Last night, she had us throw medicine balls at each other as we came up from situps. We also lay across those huge balancing balls and did pushups, and we did squats all the way across the room while we passed a kettle ball under our leg that was doing the squatting.

She was very into balls, is what she was.

I was dearly wishing a madman, or Iris, would come in with a machine gun or something, or that there'd be a tornado out, but a tornado probably would not have stopped that menacing heifer. "Walk IN to the tornado. Bring your kettle ball."

Who the Sam Holy Hill invented kettle balls, anyway? Did you see where Pee Diddly got in trouble for swinging one at a coach or something? You know who probably doesn't feel the least entitled at all? Is Pee Daddle, or whatever he calls himself at this juncture. I mean, I feel entitled, and I'm just famous on cell phone websites. You can imagine how deserving Pee Can feels.

The other exciting news, other than that I lived through that workout (my WRISTS were sweating. my WRISTS!) is that I had a phenomenally calm hair day. I noticed it in the bathroom at work, and when I came out, a bunch of people were sitting around the lunch table.

"I'd just like everyone to take a moment and observe my hair," I said. Have I mentioned no one at work likes me?

"It really is remarkably calm," said Neil. Neil is an artist, and we started our jobs on the same day, except he draws things and I edit things. I once ran into Neil and his wife at one of the First Fridays in Winston-Salem, when I was on a date with Dick Whitman. It was the first time I'd ever been spotted NOT with Marvin in 15 years, and it felt weird. I like Neil. Last year, he got bitten by I think it was a brown recluse and got very, very ill. He was out for, like, two months or something.

But we're not here to talk about Neil. We're here for my hair. Which we always kind of are.

"I feel like I should take this hair out somewhere," I announced.

"Yeah! Don't waste it on us!" said Neil, and here we are talking about Neil again.

So I took my hair to Subway. That's right. Showed my hair a good time.

IMG_4459
It's a sad life when the fact that this is the best your hair can do–so much so that it requires you to take the asshole selfie-in-the-car shot–is the highlight of your day.

Whycalm
Look! It's even pretty calm this morning, and I've worked out like a dog on this hair. And slept. Plus, Ned.

IMG_4455_2

The only other very major activity in my life, and it's hard to get past the whole my-hair-was-calm phenomenon, is that the vending machine at work continues to be out of D2, which is my joint, as my student used to say. D2 is the whole wheat crackers with cheddar "cheese," and it is delicious. I'd like whomever ate the last one to step forward so I can swing a kettle ball at you. It was probably Neil.

I have to go. Sadly, I must wash this calm right out of my hair, because my hair sweated last night. My guess is my hair will dry and go back to its regular manic state.

Darn, that's the end.

Losing something once solid

IMG_4447

Remember high school angst? When nobody understood your incredibly deep thoughts and torrid emotions? I'm still like that. I also, throughout high school, was convinced I was hauntingly beautiful and no one had discovered it yet but me. But that ONE DAY, someone important at school would look at me and announce, "Good heavens, Miss Acromoto! June is beautiful!"

Yeah.

I have come up with the absolutely brilliant idea that we should experience high school together once again. I get to be the popular mean one! I called it!

Send me your most heartfelt poems, diary entries, photos from high school, and I will share them with the rest of the class, like that gum you'd better have brought enough of. Here's how:

Email me (byebyepieblog@gmail.com) with the title HIGH SCHOOL. Nothing else, just that title. So I can search it later, Honor Roll. Attach the photo or the angst-y poem, sad letter or terrible story, and the name you want me to use when I identify you. You can also tell me the year of said high school memory, if you want.

That's it! Do it by the end of this weekend, June 28, and I will present our torrid tales, you know, at some point. Let's begin by once again experiencing Faithful Reader Jan's high school poem, shall we?

H eartbroken
A ll-consuming
T ightly wound
E ager to love
 
L osing something
O nce
S olid
T o
 
L oneliness
O nce
V ivacious, now
E verything is
S oured

Longest day of the year, and I had a migraine through all of it.

And I'd just SAID, "It's been a really long time since I've had a migraine." Why do I say things like that? But really. I usually run through my whole prescription in a month, usually to the day. But I'd gone almost TWO months with one prescription.

Not anymore.

The rest of the weekend was okay, though. On Friday, Ned and I were supposed to go to this outdoor concert, and he came home early, and we decided a delightful nap would be in order before we left, and

BOOM!

there was the biggest thunder, and we went to the porch and it was raining sideways. So we ended up going to a fancy restaurant instead, where I had chicken, and I don't know why I'm so fucking boring. You know what my problem is? I want whatever dish has mashed potatoes on the side. I could get something fascinating and ask for mashed potatoes, but I never do.

Really, if I had my druthers, I'd just like a big plate of mashed potatoes, strawberries and avocado pieces. Those are all the things I'm really looking for in a meal.

IMG_4428

On Saturday, one of the young girls at work asked us to come to this young bar to celebrate her young music magazine that she does. "You know we'll be the oldest people there by decades," said Ned, who usually doesn't care about that sort of thing.

We were, though. The bar was in the middle of one of the colleges, UNCG, which Ned said in high school they called UNCGay, which is mature and not at all like how boys in my high school called Flock of Seagulls Flock of Faggots. I wonder why it's hard for boys to come out in high school?

Is it easier now? I hope it is. Our whole culture sucked ass then. So to speak.

Anyway, the bar was technically a pizza place, and it was dark and rebellious in there and would have been exactly the kind of bar I'd have hung out in dramatically in college, hoping to look dark and rebellious with my blonde shoulder-length hair and tendency toward pink.

"Can we actually get pizza?" asked Ned, while I made eyes at college boys of color. "Do your eyes have to be popped out on coils the WHOLE time we're here?" asked Ned, until he saw a raven-haired girl wearing a cropped shirt.

Turns out we could get pizza, although I assure you pizza was not being marketed what you'd call heavily. Pasbt Blue Ribbon was. The menu had a little logo of a puffy-haired, mustached guy.

"Mr. Kotter left teaching and went into pizza-making," I observed. Ned laughed, because you have to humor me.

"You're the only person in here who'd get that joke," I noted.

IMG_4444

Anyway, it turned out to be more fun than we'd thought, and the band was good, and I found myself wondering if they had songs on iTunes, and of course they don't have songs on iTunes, they're a college band, and when did I turn into everyone's grandma with my iTunes and my pizza?

I have to go to work and abort this mission, but remind me to tell you about the Pit Bull/Yorkie I met at the next bar, whom I fell very much in love with.

IMG_4436

So technically, he was a Porkie. His mom was the Pit in that romantic entanglement, thank God. I wish I could have gotten a better picture but it was dark in there. Anyway there were all kinds of dogs in that bar, and it's not every day I fall for the littlest one, but he was super cool, and now I need a Porkie. This is a bar that's near our house and looked cool and we always said we should go in there, so we finally did. And it's a dog bar! All sorts of dogs sitting at the bar, ordering Salty Dogs and Milk Bones from big jars filled with pickle juice. On Saturdays it's Hot Poodles Half Price Drinks night.

Okay, I will talk at you later.

IMG_4445

Here's me at home after, and Ned playing a record. A record. On his turntable. He does HAVE a turntable, but he wasn't really playing a record. I was just being a grandma again. Hold on. You've got something on your face. Let grandma lick her Kleenex and come at you…

I would walk 10,000 steps and I would walk 10,000 more

I'm gettin' kinda weird about my Fitbit.

For three days now, I've hit my damn 10,000 steps on that thing. You know you walked that many because once you hit 10,000 steps, your wrist starts buzzing you like your secretary did in 1971.

Tuesday was kind of easy, because I left work in the middle of the morning to walk the dog all over yonder for a photo shoot. Maybe I should arrange it so every day I have to leave for an hour and a half and get photos taken of me walking my dog.

Then that same day, I took the world's hardest workout class, and I'd gotten my 10,000 steps in before 7:00.

To get my 10,000 steps in on Wednesday, I had to drag the poor hot dogs around the neighborhood for an age, not that I walked around incessantly with two frankfurters, which would look 100% sane.

It's been about 12.8 million degrees out each day here this week, and we're setting some kind of record, some kind of everyone-lived-even-though-it-hit-12.8-million-degrees record, like we're living on the planet Mercury, which is what I'm sure the average temperature is there.

June's blog. Come to hear stupid details about her Fitbit. Stay for her science facts.

My point is, even though it was ludicrously hot yesterday, I took the three o'clock walk that my coworkers and I take. Only four of us had the nerve to do it. You'd think we'd be, like, the four skinniest ones. Like, remember when those aliens got off the ship in Close Encounters, and some were more spindly than others? That should have been us. The super-spindly ones.

I just worried about something for the first time since 1977. When Richard Dreyfuss goes off in that spaceship at the end of Close Encounters, and I'm not even gonna feel sorry for you if you haven't seen it yet and I ruined it, because where are your priorities? Go see that movie, ya nimrod. Anyway, when he gets on that spaceship, there, what happens to Teri Garr and his uninteresting kids? Like, does the government send them checks? Or is she just stuck having to go bag groceries to support everyone?

Or maybe that's when she marries John Denver and he meets God. Poor Teri Garr. Or maybe that's when she becomes an actress and falls in love with Dustin Hoffman, who doesn't like her because he likes Jessica Lange.

Teri_Garr_-_signed
"I always liked Teri Garr," said Ned. "She was cute, and she was funny. And of course you can never know for sure, but she seemed like a decent person. …Did we ever get to see her naked?"

That seems to be Ned's go-to inquiry. I didn't think we did, but we got to see her looking kind of chesty during roll, roll, roll in the hay in Young Frankenstein.

We just looked her up, and she was married for only three years, and adopted a child late in life, and then she got MS and has had an aneurysm and is in a wheelchair. Is that how you spell "aneurysm"? I never can spell that damn word.

Now we feel sorry for Teri Garr. She was the shizz for awhile, there. And I still don't know if the government took care of her family. I'll bet they didn't. Em Effs.

Anyway, I'm being weird about my Fitbit. Yesterday I came home and did Spencer Tracy workout, and fortunately that counted toward some steps, but after, I took my sweaty, exhausted self and strapped Edsel's leash on him. "You've done enough for today," Ned said. "You don't have to do this."

When Ned tells you you're exercising too much, you know something is up. But Eds and I schlepped to the greenway near us as the sun was setting, and we saw fireflies and a bunny, which did not obsess Edsel at all, and then we came home. I screamed to my phone.

9,027 steps.

GODDAMMIT.

So I slapped a leash on Lu, and we did the same schlep, and THIS time there were even MORE lightning bugs, and it was lovely, and when my wrist buzzed at me, I was like Aunt Esther praising Jesus and carrying on.

Tune in tomorrow, when I tell you how I'm gettin' weird about Orange is the New Black.

What spells fun for you?

"Some golf. A few beers. I mean, that's fun." That's what my ridiculous coworker, Griff, said the other day, and that right there sounds like my nightmare afternoon, but to each his own.

Some cats. A book. Strong coffee. That's fun.

A whole afternoon of sex followed by French dip and mashed potatoes delivered to your door. THAT'S fun.

My point is, what would YOU describe as fun?

Also, my Fitbit hit 10,000 steps again last night. We schlepped the poor dogs around the neighborhood till my wrist beeped at me. That's not fun.

IMG_4415

Pretty yard on our walk. It was so hot I hallucinated bottles on a branch. I think I was on step #7,992 at that point.

IMG_4408

Step #8467. Ned worrying about a broken branch on a Crepe Myrtle. Tallulah worrying about her Gentle Leader on her snout. gentul leeder vex lu. gentul leeder do not spell fun. it be lu bowel of hell.

IMG_4402

heer wat fun for lillee. go way if you not goeeng to pet.

Conversation with zygote from work

Ryan: Where's Susan?

Me: Which one? Anton? Susan Anton?

Ryan: Who's that?

Me: She was a starlet in the '70s. She dated Dudley Moore. Towered over him. Money buys you everything. (Look up at Ryan. He's blank.) Goddammit. You don't know who Dudley Moore is? 10? Arthur?

Ryan: [Shrugs.]

Me: I'm gonna force you to come over and watch all these movies so we don't have to keep having this conversation.

Ryan: That's fine. I like classic film.

Fortunately, I was able to open the door with just a smile

Yesterday, Tallulah and I had our photo session, or "sesh," which I am saying because Faithful Reader Sadie treasures that word like a precious gem. I know I said I was having it Monday, the sesh, a fact that is written down in the big scroll of June facts that you carry around rolled up with a red tassel.

But Monday was so dang busy. Do you remember Monday morning, ya drunk, when I told you someone had been by at 8 a.m. for me to sign some paperwork for a freelance thing, and also I was on the phone with handymen and my tenants and Lowe's before work, to install the DAMN new water heater at my real house?

So you can imagine I was a tad…tense before I even got to work, and then as soon as I walked in, I heard, "EVERYONE'S LOOKING FOR YOU!" and there was a huge meeting going on about an emergency project that was going to take all day. So the SESH got canceled. The photo SESH, Sadie.

Why is it when you know someone hates something you can't help but bring it up? Like, I adore myself when I manage to throw in some lyrics to Lyin' Eyes when I talk to The Poet, because she abhors it. Did I already say "abhors" today somewhere in this post? I gotta get up and pour myself a strong one.

Once I ran into Ned on a street neither one of us are usually on. "Where are YOU going?" asked Ned. "Are you headed for the cheatin' side of town?"

I could not wait to tell that to The Poet.

Anyway. As you know, I'd obsessed about my ensemble for this photo sesh all weekend, and had worn said ensemble to work, and then the sesh got canceled, and maybe we should play the "every time June says 'sesh'" drinking game.

So that was annoying, and yesterday when we decided to try it again, I just went home and put on that outfit again. I'd washed it the night before and had it in the dryer, just in cases, as they say in Love, Actually.

IMG_4138 IMG_4140 IMG_4170
The photographer and I came back to my house yesterday morning, and while she met the dogs, I schlepped down to the dryer to get the outfit, and I heard her say, "Wow. You're needy." Gee. Who could she have been talking to?

I put Lu's leash on her, and Edsel immediately grabbed it in his dog mouth and headed for the door. edz see you have lot on playte. he walk Lu, and you do watever it is you and lady doing.

"Edsel, drop it," I told him. "You have to stay here."

Edz never.

I mean, that's just not how it goes around here. If Lu's going on a walk, Eds is going on a walk. He was appalled. I petted his dejected head. "I'm sorry, Eds."

I picked Lu for the article because she has a Facebook page and that's part of the article. So she's who's in the photos. My first thought, when they assigned me this, was to walk Edsel, because he's so goofy that everyone loves looking at him. He's like Gomer Pyle that way.

Tallulah, the photographer and I headed out, and as I closed the back door, Edsel's sad face was in the window of the door. I waved at his sad underbitey self.

We were about five houses down the block when we heard the thunder of paws. Edsel had somehow OPENED THE DOOR, opened the GATE, run down the long driveway and then found us down the street. Sometimes I think that dog is smarter than he looks, which, okay, long shot. But I mean, sometimes I think he's pretty smart.

Poor Edsel. And I think about all the times he HASN'T opened the back door and the back gate, knowing full well he could whenever he wanted to, if it wasn't bolted shut.

I can't show you pictures from the SESH, because they're for work, and I'd so get fired. But when we got back to work after, the photographer sent me a link to all the pictures, and that is when I saw myself walking away from the camera, and my ass in white pants, walking away from the camera, and WHY DID NO ONE TELL ME ABOUT WHAT'S HAPPENED TO MY ASS?

How many Tracy Chapman workouts do I have to DO before that thing isn't two moons?

"Why did you never tell me my ass is huge?" I asked Ned, who has to sleep with me. "It isn't. Your ass is beautiful, sweetheart," said Ned, who also fears me.

"Why did you never tell me my ass is huge?" I asked The Guy Who Sits Next to Me. "Are you kidding? Because you'd kill me. I'm not gonna tell you that," he said.

It was about 12,000 degrees out yesterday, and Lu and I had walked an hour for the SESH, but when the 3:00 walk came, I went anyway. Because I've seen my ass. The truth is out there.

Then after work, we had a new workout. If you get out your scroll of June facts, you know on Thursdays it's Body Basics by Liz after work, but Liz had to leave and this new sadist came yesterday. I changed into Ned's stripey shirt and the workout pants I bought in 2001–I remember wearing them when I got the news that my friend Lisa had her baby, and that baby is now 14.

A woman came in to the fitness room at work with zero physical flaws. She had Michelle Obama arms. "Are you the new instructor?" I asked her. That is the last thing I remember before that hour of wanting to die. I was climbing chairs, swinging kettle balls, and squatting. I mean, did I squat. Which is good, because ass. Still.

The really good news is, as I was in the middle of that workout, my Fitbit vibrated at me, meaning I'd walked my 10,000 steps yesterday. There's a guy at work who told me 10,000 steps a day is equal to one pound a week. I have no idea if that's true, but if it is, in just 40 weeks my ass will be delightful. There ain't no way to hide my lyin' ass.

I guess that's all I have to tell you, other than I'd planned to take Edsel on a super-private walk, just the two of us, when I got home, but there was no way I could do it. So I let him sit with me on the chair and I petted his neck and kissed his snout, and we watched Orange is the New Black together, and Edsel thinks the new Australian actress who looks sort of manly is way hot.

Her ass is very tiny. June resent.

The “I Thought I Dug You, But You Like Build-A-Bear” Section

"What if I met you, and you were still you with all your traits and everything, except for one thing: You loved you the Build-A-Bear Workshop."

I like to imagine terrible scenarios to see if Ned and I would still like each other through them.

"Oh, that would be bad," Ned agreed. "And here are my bears!" Ned gestured enthusiastically. "I make them for my nieces and nephews, but then I make another one, a replica of each bear I create, to remember them all," said Ned, sounding not exactly straight anymore.

I stared at Ned for awhile. "Yeah, I'd have to not like you for that one." I like to imagine the worst KIND of scenarios to see if I could deal with it. What if Ned wanted to sing show tunes during sex? What if Ned was totally Ned, but he really enjoyed the chew? And spit into a paper cup?

Once I got fixed up with someone, and we talked on the phone first, and he told me how he had Yorkshire terriers. He even called them his "Yorkies." We never did make a date. I am sorry. A man does not have Yorkies that some girl didn't leave there, unless he likes him the gents.

"What if I secretly took a picture of your man parts and posted it on my blog?" I asked Ned. "Would you break up with me for that? Would that be a break-up-able offense?"

"Mmmmm…I'd be pretty mad," Ned said.

"But would you break up with me," I asked.

"Mmmm. Yeah, maybe." The way he sounded so calm, I thought maybe I could get away with it.

I just Googled "horse man parts" and was going to put an image up right here, to be hilarious, but now I am traumatized. Don't ever Google that.

Anyway, none of this is why I've gathered you here today. Today I need your input. Your valuable input. As long as you are not a horse. If you are, keep your input away from me.

The other day, a friend of mine told me about a…milestone that had occurred in her life. A milestone that is personal in nature. So personal that I'm not even gonna blog about it here, where we are discussing the junk of the horse, which just goes to show you just how personal.

The point is, she was excited about said milestone, and I giggled at it because I am an excellent friend, and I said, "I kind of want to send you a card. It's too bad there isn't a section at Hallmark for this occasion."

This got us talking about Sections They Really Oughta Have at Hallmark. The "Yay! Your Husband Finally Came Out. We All Knew For Years" section. The "You Finally Stopped Wearing Sweatpants to Parties. Those Antidepressants Must Be Kicking In!" section.

The "I Don't Really Like You, But I Have to Get You a Card" section. Those cards would just read things like, "It's Your Birthday" with nothing else on it. "It's Valentine's Day."

So what else? What other sections should they have at Hallmark? "Sorry Your Pet is Dead, But That Thing Always Sucked."

The "Happy Sexless Wedding Anniversary!" section.

The "Oh, Good. Another Success For You, While I Live at Home at Age 37" section.

I could go on. But I will not.

Go.

Nnnnnnn!

This was a dumb weekend. I mean, it started out not dumb.

IMG_4361

I emailed Ned near the end of the day Friday. "Are you going to the gym after work?"

"Not if it's important to you that I don't," he wrote back. See, folks? Therapy. IT WORKS.

"Yes," I wrote back. "I have had a day. I want to go have fun immediately." I knew if we worked out, then Ned came home and showered, it would be 8:00 before we went anywhere, and nothing makes me annoyed-er than having to wait 45 minutes to get a table. I would do terribly living in New York.

We walked to the new restaurant that the lesbian taco woman opened. There's a huge brewery on one side, then a restaurant that serves "street food," so I was expecting dishes of tar and gravel and so on. Mmmm!

We schlepped down there and immediately ran into five people we knew. Bitchy Resting Face Alex and her husband, a woman who sits behind me at work who I must drive berserk, the president of our company, this other guy from work who's also a comedian in his spare time (like me), and the head of one of our divisions at work. It was like all of work got a memo.

Remember when we used to get memos? Remember how stupid they always were? Also, do you know what I love? Is when people say, "I didn't get the memo" about something everyone else is doing at work. Oh, that's hilarious. "You all have on blue shirts. Apparently I didn't get the memo." Oh, HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Slappin' my knee.

Anyway, apparently I DID get the memo–and wait. Let me stitch up my sides. Because there I was eatin' street food with everyone else at work. We got there before 6:00 and there was already a half-hour wait.

IMG_4358

It was worth it, though, because everything was delicious. I had water. Mmmm! Every time I say that hilarious "Mmmmm," I think of the Pearl Drops Tooth Polish commercial where she really says, "Nnnnnn!" because she's licking her teeth. Nnnnn, it's a great feeling!

IMG_4352

They served us some spicy popcorn while we waited, and then we got fried okra, and when I say "we," I mean Ned, but he did not slap my hand away as I would have his when I kept taking me the okra. I was like Steadman. Could not keep my hands off the okra. Nnnnnn!

Oh, who are we kidding. Gayle.

So that was fun, and it was a nice walk there, and after we sat on the porch so I could get West Nile.

IMG_4368

Self-portrait of self and self's house. And self's hair.

IMG_4380

Ned let NedKitty out for five minutes, and I know this picture makes it look like we were all, Go! Be free! Play in the yard! But in fact, the whole time she's out there, Ned is seven inches away at all times, following her. Anyway, she's too creaky to get into trouble. I always accuse Ned of helicopter parenting, but I've had zero cats live to be 15, so. Also, this picture makes it look like she's inches from the road, but she's not.

On Saturday, Ned and I went shopping, because Tallulah is going to be famous! -er. Famous-er. I wrote an article for work, and I feel like I shouldn't go into too much detail on that right now, but it involves Tallulah, and walking Talu, and I will for sure make you all go read it when it's up. Last week they told me they wanted to come take photos of us walking.

Well.

Poor Talu's gotten a nice bath, which is her favorite thing on earth, and I considered putting her on the lemon juice and cayenne pepper diet all weekend, but figured I'd come home at some point to all the other pets having been eaten, and Talu lying on the couch with a toothpick.

She also got a new Gentle Leader collar, which is her second-favorite thing on earth.

IMG_4350

Lu get wuts?

Then it dawned on me that I had no idea what I was gonna wear. "Since it's a walking article, I thought I'd get cute athletic gear," I told my mother. "I'll look like someone who works out all the time!"

"Well. No one will ever believe that," said my mother.

….!

I had in my mind a darling ensemble like that woman had on at Fitness at the Fountain last week; remember how I told you about her? I'd link to it, but this whole post I've been texting with the handyman and my tenants, which I will get to in a minute. Did I mention be sure to give me advice on that, when I get to it?

Be sure to. Be sure to tell me how you know my sitch much better than I do. BE SURE TO.

So Ned and I screamed off to the workout-clothing store, where I picked up cute little worky outy tanks and worky outy pants, and gleefully headed to the dressing room, where apparently someone stuffed a sausage into some workout gear and took a 5'6" photo of it to decorate the dressing room.

Oh, holy cats. That's no photo.

You guys. That was the most depressing hour of my life. You should have seen me in those things. There was one point? In a mirror behind me? That I saw the back of my arms. WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO THE BACKS OF MY ARMS? Why am I your grandma all of a sudden?

So. Athletic clothes. Not boughten.

I mean, I did Tracy Chapman twice this weekend. Why the school mArms?

Anyway. So that was bad enough, and then on Sunday I get a call from my tenant at 8:45 a.m., which is always a good sign. The water heater thing just up and broke, and needs replacing, and oh, let me just pull out my wedge of cash I keep in my safe like I'm Elmer Fudd. Didn't Elmer Fudd have a safe? I know he and a mansion und a yacht.

So yesterday I spent all day calling home-improvement places and handymen who were not James Taylor and I am happy to announce I am the proud new owner of a fucking water heater for my house.

I'd like to once again tell you how much I welcome advice re this. Because did not spend 9 hours of day working on it yesterday, SO BE SURE TO TELL ME I DID IT WRONG.

So at my house today, they'll be putting in a water heater, and Ned will be screaming over there to pay the guy, and just now at 8 a.m. I had someone come over here to give me some paperwork to sign because I'm doing a huge freelance project right now, and in the meantime I am getting my makeup all good and COVERING MY ARMS for Talu's photo sesh later today, and oh, it's going to be 96 today. Can already hear the cicadas outside.

Then tonight I have to write Purple Clover and Ned and I have therapy.

Other than that, not much. You?

Oh, and here's my latest Purple Clover article. I like how I've just rambled on and on and now I'm giving you a Purple Clover about never shutting up.

So I will shut it.

P.S. Oh, look! Here I am! Not shutting it! I did not want to forget that at the end of yesterday, we got up with Marty and Kayeeee for a bit, and Marty was telling me about this time Kayeeee dragged him to some bar, and apparently it was a bit, you know, dive-y. "What was it called?" he asked Kayeeee. "Puke and Stab?"

Puke and Stab is my new favorite name. If I have a baby, and maybe I'm about to and that explains the back of my arms, I am so naming it Puke and Stab. Okay, really going now.

I pretended it was an endoscopy, but really I transitioned. Now I’m a leopard.

I don't know if you've GERD, but yesterday I had an endoscopy. Did you like that? Little medical procedure humor.

Ned and I got there at 10:30, which is inhuman. Why do they have to do these things so early in the morning? I am sorry to tell you that we were seated directly under the television, where they were showing Kathy Lee and Hoda, which, as someone with a job all the time, I've never had the good fortune to see.

Holy shit those two were a pain in my ass. They talked over each other constantly, which I guess is supposed to make you feel all, Oh, it's just us girls! Which as you know is my favorite emotion. Those heifers each had a glass of damn wine on their desk, at 10:30 in the morning, or maybe it was 11:00, and I don't know when I became your disapproving aunt with pursed lips, but I was appalled.

IMG_4325
Finally, they called me in, and I put on another sexy blue gown with scratches on it. It's made from scratch. You're welcome.

The guy next to me was having a colonoscopy, and they asked him seven hundred and fourteen questions (who admits to using street drugs? That guy didn't, and neither did I, even though you've heard a hundred times how I like the Ecstacy. The X.)

Is it even spelled X? Or is it ecs or something? Why am I doubting that it's "ecs"? I am so street. Just like my drugs.

Anyway, they came in and asked me all the same questions, and that guy and I both take Imitrex, and this would have been a whole, romantic, "I met my soulmate at the surgery center" story except the guy looked like Big Bird, plus if he doesn't take ecs, he's no friend of mine.

They put in an IV, which was disgusting. I hate vein-related things. They took my blood pressure, which was negative two over 15. Then the nurse or coat check girl or whatever she was said, "Do you want your phone? You might have to wait a bit."

"No, thank you," I said to her. "I can be alone with my thoughts."

She laughed at that, then pulled the curtain and walked away.

All I could think of was my IV, and veins, and how I was so vein, and the procedure they were about to do, and Propofol, and Michael Jackson, and it turns out I cannot be alone with my thoughts for one moment.

Finally, they wheeled me into the room, and I love lying there while someone pushes you into another room. I was born to be a queen or an empress or a roast or something, because I love arriving all splayed out. I met the nice anesthesiologist, and we talked about front porches, and then it was time for my Propo–

Holy cats. Then it was over. I opened my eyes, and there was Ned's cute head right in front of me. Ned told me my eyes had been open when he walked in, but I was a stuffed bear when he walked in, then, because the first thing I recall is seeing Ned.

"I love you so much, Ned!" I burst into tears. Dear Propofol, Cut it out. You're making me lose my edge, man. My hard edge.

I know the doctor came in to say how unremarkable it all was in my throat, and does he not know I'm an empress? He said I probably have a muscle spasm thing making it hard to swallow, and it's POSSIBLE if I keep treating the GERD it will get better.

Does this mean it's possible it WON'T? Because, suck.

The nurse or the doctor gave Ned a list of what I couldn't eat yesterday, and I lolled on the bed like Otis the town drunk, and then it was time to go and it seems like we went home and slept but who can remember, and oh! I forgot to tell you I had some nausea. NAUSEA. You know I enjoy feeling nauseated, along with the rest of the country, but IT'S MY PHOBIA.

We told the nurse and she said, "You probably just need to release a little gas."

Well.

Humph!

I don't HAVE gas. As we all know, I never have gas. But finally, I did feel some, you know, breeze going on, and I frittered to the top of the ceiling in a zigzag pattern, and then I could go home.

My point is, eventually we had to go catsit at my old house. IMG_4333

I love My Tenant's cats. I know this comes as a surprise to you.

"Oh my god, now I'm STARVING," I announced, and it was decided we'd go to the grocery store, since I couldn't have anything fatty or fried or that was a vegetable. A vegetable. Pfft. "What are we getting?" asked Ned, who always needs to know everything. "What do you want to do tonight?" he'll ask, and I'll say something, and then I SWEAR TO GOD he'll ask, "What about after that?"

He asked me 400 times before we got there, and once we got inside, he said, "What are we getting?"

"Oh my GOD, Ned, I don't KNOW. I'm going to look around. Geez."

"Why are you so crabby?" he asked.

I traipsed through produce. "You can't have that. You can't have that, either. She said no tomatoes. That has seeds. I really think you shouldn't have seeds. Too fatty. No, that has dairy."

"SHUT UP, NED." I threw a giant fried chicken soaked in yogurt and seeds, with stewed tomatoes, into my cart. I mean, really, everything I reached for, Ned said I couldn't have. I think he would have approved of me sucking a lime and chewing a stick of gum.

And the point is, I felt fine. I got strawberries (SEEDS!!!), blueberries, some pistachios ("I don't think you're supposed to have nuts.") and some soup ("That soup has vegetables in it, June.")

Does anyone remember a few hours back, when Propofol made me love Ned? Other than that annoying 20 minutes, Ned is an excellent nurse. He brings you things, and checks on you, and he even sat through a really terrible movie with me. It has Ryan Reynolds in it. Enough said.

IMG_4334

So, I lived, and that will be $5748484, please. Finally, I wanted to show you how just now, NedKitty is bird-watching out one window of Ned's room, while Lily was bird-watching out the other, but as soon as I went in there, Lily did this:

IMG_4338Goddammit. And Ned always vacuums that rug on Saturdays. I KNOW IT HAS FUR ON IT, OKAY? Whatdaya expect in this house of hair?

In fact, as I was convalescing yesterday at the surgery center, waiting for gas to pass, I pulled a cat fur off my blue scratch gown.

"How is there cat fur on this gown?" I asked Ned.

"It's inevitable. When we bury you in your final resting place, a big poof of cat fur will burst up."

He's right about that.

Throatily,

Empress June

Downtown Juney Brown

I got to stay home today, seeing as in a smidgeon of time I will be knocked unconscious and any number of instruments will be crammed down my throat, such as a harp. I will literally be a harpy, finally.

Today is the day of my endoscopy; it's at 10:30. I had to go all of yesterday not eating anything red or purple, which turned out to be super-annoying. First there was the Damn, there-are-blueberries-in-my-flaxy-so-you-can-poop oatmeal that I eat every day. Then at lunch I had leftover tomato and spinach pizza, which, nope. Red.

So I went to that hippie, NPR, give peace a chance grocery store near me that never fails to get on my FUCKING nerves, and headed to the salad bar. Turkey chili. Nope. Has tomatoes in it.

GODDAMMIT.

Salad! Oh. Some of these leaves are pretty red and purple, because hippie pretentious lettuce. Just to freak people out one day, that place should just chop up a big batch of iceberg. WE HAVE A HIPPIE DOWN! HIPPIE DOWN AT THE SALAD BAR!

By the way, this time there were two men having an awareness session or something DIRECTLY IN FRONT of the salad bar. At 12:20 on a weekday. Look here, Feather Sky and English Leather Necklace, I understand your whole life you've been a part-time professor over at the community college, but most of us are SCREAMING THROUGH LUNCH HOUR at 12:20 on a Wednesday. You lilly-livered pretentious salad-bar-standing dinks.

So I loaded up on chicken, spinach, carrots and a buttermilk biscuit, all of which are distinctly not red or purple. I had to contort myself like I was in the Blue Man Group to get around the two men hugging it out at the salad bar, but finally I had my beige-family food.

After work, a bunch of us from work went to a really cool new place downtown (Downtown!). When you're alone and life is making you lonely, you can always go downtown!

Ned loves that song. I don't know what to tell you about Ned.

The point is, I just stayed for a bit, but when Ned came home from work, I told him about the place and he said, "Let's have dinner there!" and seeing it was my last night on earth, I said why not.

Unnamed-2

Here's something you never see, and I was pleased to capture it on film.

I spent a lot of time looking for food that wasn't purple or red. Eventually, I had a turkey sandwich (beige) and some mac and cheese (orange).

Unnamed-1

Am I blue? This was Ned's camera, and look how it isn't as good as my new one. Am pleased with my iPhone 6. Dear iPhone people: Send me free shit now.

Unnamed

I wasn't stalking the hostess, THAT YOU KNOW OF, I was just wanting you to see how pretty it was in there.

"This place is so pretty. I can't believe this sat here empty for years," I said, between beige bites.

"It was some kind of bookstore that was never open," said Ned, who lived downtown (DOWNTOWN!) for years.

Have you ever heard the B52's version of Downtown? I like it.

 

That Fred guy from the B52s kills me every time. I want him to narrate my life story, when they make one, which should be fascinating. June. She had cats.

The point is, when we got home, I had an email from someone who'd read my latest Purple Clover and had nice things to say to me. When people email me about Purple Clover, it means they clicked on my name over there, looked at the little writeup about me that's one sentence long, cut and pasted my blog address because PC doesn't link to my blog and I wish they would, then once they're at my blog they have to find the "email me!" button. I mean, they have to really want to talk to me, is what I'm sayin'.

So that was nice, and it occurred to me that that article must be up on PC's Facebook page, because that's usually when I get contacted by people, is once it's up there. I mean, Purple Clover on Facebook at this point has close to 2 million Likes, which if I start to think about that many people potentially reading my crap, I get sort of poopy-feeling.

See? My stomach just rumbled. I had to stop drinking liquids at 8:30, and girl, you know I had that coffee cup in my hand till PRECISELY 8:30, because addict. But now I'm typing you, and I always always have coffee while I'm typing to you, and this is dreadful. I don't know how people do this.

So, I stupidly went on Facebook's Purple Clover, and looked at my article, and they'd in fact run two of mine yesterday, and what do you know. MORE MEAN COMMENTS.

Why do I do that to myself? Why do I look?

Ned was on our front porch, and I galumphed out there like I was Snuffleupagus. "I suck," I said to Ned. "I'm the worst writer in the world. I am useless, and now my looks are gone." I slumped in the chair dramatically.

"Were you looking at Facebook, then?" asked Ned.

I HAVE TO STOP LOOKING AT THOSE. And no one tell me what you saw over there. The last time I had this people-are-mean crisis, you have no idea how many people gleefully reported back to me what was going on, like I wanted to hear that mess.

Sigh.

Anyway. What can you do? People are mean. I have never once, in my life, left a comment that was mean on anything anyone wrote. And I'm a terrible person! But I've never felt the desire to do that. I don't understand the impetus. These must be people who don't write, themselves. They have no idea what it's like to put something in the universe that you slaved over, just to get, "This was dumb."

Okay, slaved over is a bit of a stretch. Usually I just sit down and write and it takes me 30 minutes. STILL. They're a very concentrate-y 30 minutes. And I write stuff in my mind for days before I write it, sometimes.

For some reason, this reminds me of Marvin's mom, who doesn't cook very often, and once when we came to visit, she'd made a key lime pie, Marvin's favorite. I have made that guy a key lime pie, and let me tell you, it isn't easy. Do you have any idea how TINY key limes are? Plus, you have to grate the metal key part.

Anyway, she set it in front of Marvin and he said, "This looks like a quiche."

I mean, it did, but it was delicious, and I think of her slaving away in a kitchen, which was not her forte, just to be told her pie looked like a quiche. Poor Marvin's mom.

Ima go get ready to take Propofol now. I hope Ned doesn't record me coming out of the anesthesia, because have you met my inhibitions? Imagine my inhibitions on drugs.

Do you know where this surgery center isn't?

DOWNTOWN.

Throatily,

June

P.S. OH! Oh guess what. As we were leaving the restaurant last night, up at the bar was midcentury modern furniture guy. We made eye contact and as I was about to say hello, he looked away. ACK! HE KNOWS. HE KNOWWWWWWS.

You know where he lives and works?

DOWNTOWN.

June cobbles some crap together, calls it a blog post

UnnamedMy mother had a friend who recently died, a guy I always liked a lot. He was cool. They found this picture of her in his stuff, from February 1978. Kills me. Mom had the good eyelashes, and they didn't even have Latisse back then.

IMG_4147Tomorrow I have to have an endoscopy, which is where they knock you out with Propofol, the stuff that killed Michael Jackson, and then they're gonna look down my throat to see why I am having trouble swallowing. Be sure to give me plenty of advice re this.

I have to remember to not eat anything red or purple today, and already I was getting ready to have oatmeal with blueberries in it, so you know I will screw that up and they'll think the worst.

When I went to the doctor for this, and took the nice gut shot, above, they asked me to describe my symptoms. I told the nurse, "My throat feels irritated, not sore. And I can swallow solids, it's just liquids that give me trouble."

IMG_4144Me, at the doctor. Do you enjoy my gown? Nothing says cute like a pale blue gown with scratches all over it. Perhaps they'll keep me in this to ship me over to the Home for the Unfortunate, which is what I was forced to call the mental hospital in my home state. "Home for the Unfortunate." Oh, mom.

The nurse asked more questions, then she asked what I did for a living.

"I'm a fire eater," I said, then grabbed myself in a hearty embrace.

I was lucky enough that the doctor also asked me what I did for a living, and that time I said sword swallower.

Anyway, that happens tomorrow, and Ned is taking me there, and when I get home, Edsel will want to stand on the bed and stare at me worriedly. Which is super relaxing.

The doctor doesn't think it's anything nefarious, just GERD. I'm a herdy GERDy girl, apparently.

Oh, speaking of which, we got our health assessments at work yesterday, and you are gonna fall over dead, ironically, because I am in great shape. There is a less than 1% chance I will have a stroke or heart attack in the next 5 years, and among women my age, only 16% are doing better than me. Blood pressure, BMI, cholesterol, all great.

"You should go to Mrs. Winner's to celebrate," said the guy who sits next to me, who marvels at the Mrs. Winner's fried chicken I bring back maybe more often than is necessary. As opposed to those completely necessary fried chicken runs.

IMG_4305 IMG_4304Last night, Ned and I went to the old theater we like to see Blazing Saddles. We sat behind a couple of June Hairs. Can you see the organist down on stage? The tiny organ? That's what she said.

When we sat down, the organist was playing, and Ned said, "I wrote this song. I wrote it for you. It's called June, O June."

"Are there any other words?" I asked.

"Nope. Just June, O June."

As we listed further, I realized the organist was playing Your Cheatin' Heart. Which just about killed me. "This is the most dramatic version of Your Cheatin' Heart ever played," said Ned.

Afterward, we had that disconcerting thing happen, where you leave a theater and it's still light out. We headed over to the Irish pub, because Ned was starving. I'd had to go to my old house right after work to feed My Tenant's cats, and I may or may not have stopped off at Hardee's, just like the old days.

Blood pressure, great! Cholesterol, fantastic! She even said the rating of my good cholesterol–80–was so good it was like a blanket of protection around my heart. Supposing I had one.

IMG_4313The point is, it was just a lovely night. Breezy, in the 70s but not dreadful cold 70s. Like, if it's 71, Ima have a problem with that. 78? I'm solid. Above please find Mr. Greensboro, in the center thing downtown, against last night's pretty sky.

I made Ned do his Mr. Greensboro impression, but he said I can't show you all. Ned has pride. And joy.

Pride & Joy 2[1]

I was at a bar once (once! hah!) and a guy asked me if I wanted to see a picture of his pride and joy, and he pulled out a card with this on it, and I laughed so hard he gave it to me, then scurried away quickly.

IMG_4318Here's a picture Ned took of me on the rooftop of the pub last night, where he got hummus and pita bread. He was starving, and he got hummus.

Ned's blood pressure is always ludicrous. It's always like 394345853493529 over 594583489543.

Can we all chip in to get me a nose job? I abhor my nose. It needs fixing. Maybe I could get someone to punch me clean in the face, and my nose would break and they'd HAVE to fix it. Every time I've written "nose" I've type "bose" and now I'm annoyed.

I have to go. Stop talking to me. Hang up. No, YOU hang up.

All right, really. I have to go. Don't get your bose out of joint.

Herdy GERDily,

Jooon

The one where NedKitty poops in the chair. Allegedly.

Photo on 6-9-15 at 7.42 AMI did not sleep well last night. If I were my dog, I'd describe myself as exhaust. Lu exhaust. I need to stop talking like I'm my dog.

When I sleep badly, I like to use my Bye Bye, Pie coffee mug. See what I did, there? Do you see my clever marketing? Was it amazing how I slipped that in there? That's what she said.

I really just happened to be using that today. I was nice enough to buy Ned one, for work, because when I met him he'd been drinking coffee from an old Christmas mug someone had left behind, and that would not do. Not in my world. Not where I come from. He needed a mug that spelled dignity. That commanded respect. That read Bye Bye, Pie.

Plus it has a spelling lesson!

Do you want to know the most ironic thing on earth that drives me berserk? Is when people say "grammar" when they really mean punctuation or spelling or something.

Ned just slammed out of here. He is in a bad mood. And HE actually slept, as opposed to my Clockwork Orange eyes, staring into the darkness all night while I waited for sleep to come. And I worked out last night, too! Bitchy Resting Face Alex and I went to the park for the free fitness, and this time it was Nia.

 

I didn't know what Nia was, either, nor did BRF Alex, who hates me because she thought Nia was ridiculous. Of course, I had a great time. BRF Alex has more dignity. I wonder if she owns a Bye Bye, Pie coffee mug?

There was a woman who showed up, who had one of those "I look really good even though Ima work out" looks about her. She had really fancy Capri leggings, and one of those lovely long drapey cotton jackets over it, plus a scarf, dude. A scarf. Like, oh, I'll just complete my workout look with a cotton scarf whimsically thrown around my painfully thin neck. She looked fantastic and I abhorred her for it. I had on a tshirt that I usually sleep in, and workout pants I bought in 2002.

She must shop at Athleta. Only Athleta sells things like, "Oh, here happens to be my cute cotton throw to go with my workout ensemble." And those little workout long shirts that almost look like minidresses, you know the kind I mean?

Spandex-Workout-and-Athletic-Clothing-2I tried to Google what I meant but found this nice outfit instead, which I am going to purchase and trot right up in at the next fitness in the park.

That is exactly what Barry Gibb's wife had on in 1979, when I saw her before the start of the Bee Gees' Dallas concert, except hers was burgundy. She had on heels with it. I am not making that up. I desperately wanted the whole outfit, because I figured if I paraded around in that, Barry Gibb would find my 14-year-old self and marry me. That would have caused zero scandal.

Hey, it worked for Jerry Lee Lewis.

I have no idea how I got on this tangent. The point is, some women try hard to look cute in the workout garb, and I wish I had cute workout garb. My cousin Katie told me once that she buys things from Athleta, and once they arrive, she puts them on and says, "Oh, look at the fat girl in the Athleta clothes." I do not want that to happen to me. So I guess I'll stick with my pants from 2002.

Didn't I mention Ned was in a mood, like, 47 paragraphs ago? He's in a mood because a cat shit in his chair. Sometimes one of them will quite pointedly poop right outside the box, which is the cat equivalent of a horse head in your bed.

Today, the offender (I blame NedKitty, because I'm THAT stepmother) not ONLY pooped directly, terrecktly, outside the box, but she also picked up her skirts and let it be known that

KITTY BE IRK

on Ned's chair.

I may be finding this more hilarious than others here in this house. Maybe NedKitty is mad at me, but you'd think she'd gather her belongings and poop over HERE, in THIS chair, if that were the case, but I may be giving them too much credit for knowing geography and the like. The thing is, she TORE out the front door yesterday at lunchtime, like she was in The Shawshank Redemption and had been planning her escape for years, and I ran after her old ass and dragged her up.

"Raaaaa," she creaked at me, angry. So maybe she's mad I thwarted her attempts at running away to be a go-go dancer or something. Or am I projecting?

Or maybe it wasn't NedKitty at all.

IMG_4290it not be us. wee flawliss.

Do you have any idea what a coup it was to get everyone looking at me? That should be on my tombstone. Everyone look at me!!!

Anyway, Ned's mad. "I'm going to have to call a cat meeting or something," said Ned. "Okay, everybody get in here, we're having a meeting."

"Stop pooping," I said. "Meeting adjourned."

Do you have a work mug, by the way, or do you just grab any old cup left over by whomever? I could never do that, grab any cup. Aesthetics are very important to me, as is evidenced by my workout garb.

Fc3633c0e6da3a7e89a168b707675986

Linearly,

June

June Recaps Her Weekend; Nation Riveted

I did a lot this weekend. See, the obvious joke would be to say something about Ned now, under the category of Things I Did. But I will not. Because dignified. I'm dignified like Rip Taylor.

Rip Taylor-1

Anyway, I have a lot of weekend to tell you about, and Ned is right this second complaining about work things, as I am TRYING TO WRITE, and he knows the rule and yet has clearly disregarded said rule. Before we moved in together, I said, If I am at my computer writing, there is no speaking to me unless something or someone has actual flames bursting out. Not Edsel's-acting-a-little-gay flames.

Speaking of which…

IMG_4269New dapper collar for Edsel. "Man, that is one gay collar," said Ned, and by that I think he means happy and whimsical and nothing that smacks of homophobia. Because Ned is NOT homophobic, although he has never kissed a man. I asked. Am I the only one who figures all boys kiss and play swords and so on? And yet hardly anyone I've dated has admitted to such a thing. 

One of the things I did this weekend, obvs, was to think about gay young boys and also go to PetsAren'tSmart and get flea meds, because nothing strikes fear into Ned's heart more than the idea that we get infested with fleas. He's very tidy, Ned is. My point is, I am physically unable to walk into that store without lusting for all the pets. It's like going to a strip club, looking at some strange.

IMG_4248This trip to PetsDescartes did not disappoint. Kitlers!

IMG_4242Stripey kitten who may have resulted in this conversation: "Can I have that kitten?"

"No."

"PLEASE can I have that kitten?"

"NO."

"There is nothing I like more than a knobby kitten head," I announced to Ned.

"Wait," said Ned. "More than a puppy head? More than Violet?" That was the PetSmart where someone put Violet in my car. That was an excellent day, that day was.

"Yes, more than a puppy head. Puppies are a close second. But nothing beats a teensy kitten. Why can't I have a kitten?" I said. I see no reason I can't have one.

IMG_4219_2"You have 11 perfectly good cats at home," he said. I pointed out that they have fully grown heads, and that's boring. Somewhere three miles away, Lily resent.

IMG_4275 IMG_4271
The point of this whole story is my dogs got super-ludicrious collars, and both abhor me today. Nothing says "Tallulah" like a huge pink bow.

"I feel like if it were up to Tallulah, she'd wear a plain brown leather collar," I mused.

"If it were up to Tallulah, she'd ride bareback," said Ned. "She'd be free of any collar." He's right.

I act like that trip to the pet store was the highlight of the weekend, when in fact it was a blip. On Friday night, we went right after work to this brewery to meet up with some of the people from my work, and at midnight, those same people had ended up on our front porch and Ned made jalapeno margaritas. Our porch is perfect for entertaining. I mean, it's small, so "perfect" isn't really a word that's remotely accurate. Our porch is pretty good for entertaining.

IMG_4241On Saturday, Ned and I drove to Raleigh to celebrate his niece's high school graduation. I love how Ned's sister-in-law added teensy graduation caps to everything all over the house. Killing me.

IMG_4234Nothing says "graduation" like a phallic balloon.

I like Ned's people. They are always nice to me, and they aren't all uptight or anything. I once dated someone whose family was really quiet, and I was nervous as a cat around them.

IMG_4232This is one of Ned's nieces; she got a kitten with a knobby head two years ago and now she wants a dog. She is my people. If you're wondering who did the damn ears behind me…

IMG_4225…it was this kid, who is frighteningly one of my people. I mean, you should meet him. He is our people. Trust me on this.

IMG_4228Ned's brother and sister-in-law have a dog with the cutest feet ever invented on a dog. He growled at me, though, because I had the nerve to get too close to his food, like I was dying to reach in there and grab some dog kibble when I had a big dish of macaroni and cheese available to me on the table. Whatever with that dog. Still. Muppet feets.

IMG_4261On Sunday, Ned and I schlepped to Winston-Salem to see a dumb French movie with Catherine Deneuve, that of course had naked people in it, because French, but they had those depressing real bodies, not Hollywood bodies, so eh. Plus, that theater usually had excellent popcorn, and yesterday it was clearly old. Attached please find Ned telling a story about someone dancing, I forget who.

IMG_4266 IMG_4267Attached please find Ned laughing because I showed him how I'd managed to capture on film the elusive Ned dancing moment. Look at that floozy with the legs a few tables back. I admired her shoes throughout.

The restaurant we went to had an Art-o-Mat machine, which I've told you about before, GOD. They took old cigarette machines and put in little boxes of art you can buy for $5. Naturally, I bilked Ned of five dollars and screamed on over to the Art-O-Mat.

IMG_4250I had no idea what this was going to be.

IMG_4251Oh, EARrings! Cool. My hair is incapable of looking not chaotic.

I guess that sums up my weekend, but oh! Marvin went to LA and just knocked on the door of our good friends Robe and Beige, to surprise them, which KILLS ME and I wish I could have been there, except how weird would that have been. Hey, Ned, I'm headed to LA with Marvin like the old days. You don't mind, right?

20150607_193723They all went to Antonio's, which is where the six of us would meet up. Look, there's Marvin in the back, there, with his two man dates. Then in the gray v-neck is my stepsister, Mil, who married Marvin's best friend Bill, the guy who's feeling her up. At the front on the left is my friend Beige, whose songs I use a lot for my end-of-year slide shows, and her husband Robe, who I would get on the phone to call Beige and end up talking to him for six hours then saying, "I have to go. Tell Beige I said hi."

Oh, I can't even stand it. Marvin also went to our old house, where we lived under Rik, and sent me photos of that.

Sigh. I miss LA a little.

Okay, bye. Here's my latest Purple Clover, which I revamped from a blog post I wrote awhile ago. I can't wait for Purple Clover to put it on Facebook and see the comments. "Those inflatable men are funny!" I adore people who just looked at the picture and didn't read the article. ADORE.

Wordily,

Jooooooon

Stay for the loom hunor

When Ned woke me up just now, I had been having a dream. Remember yesterday when I talked about how despicable people were who told you their dreams?

"I was having a terrible dream," I announced to Ned, who puts me to bed at night and wakes me up again the next day. I don't even know if he GOES to bed, half the time. I just know that usually when I fall asleep or wake up, he's looming over me. He's woven some lovely things.

"I had a dream I was dying," I continued to announce. "I had two kinds of cancer." It was awful, and I was so relieved to wake up with Ned looming over me. Probably he'll drop the loom and kill me with it now.

June's blog. Come to hear about her stupid dreams. Stay for the loom jokes.

"Sweetheart, that's terrible," said Ned, hugging me. "You're not really dying. Well. Any more than the rest of us." Honestly, is Ned Swedish?

"In the dream, I didn't want to be dying, and I was crying really hard, and I was worried I was going to hell."

"Oh, I'd be worried about that, if I were you. In fact, I might just be consumed with it," said Ned.

I hate Ned. When I die of my two cancers, Ima haunt him in super-scary ways. I'll be one of those ghosts who lurk in the mirror behind him all the time, or grab him from under the bed.

"Oh! And you were already thinking of taking one of my friends to my funeral!" God, that was an awful dream.

"Which friend?" asked Ned. "Whenever you talk about your death, you always throw in that I'm going to date one particular friend after, and I really don't want to date her."

"It was someone I vaguely know. I can see her. She's pretty. I can't think of who she is in real life, or how I know her. She's very quiet and smug, dark hair. Now I hate her."

"How pretty?" asked Ned.

Also, in my terrible dream that I won't stop talking about, I had to come on here and tell you all I was dying, and half of you thought I was kidding, LIKE I'D KID ABOUT THAT, and now I'm annoyed with everyone. Ned's humping someone on my coffin and you all are all, HAHAHAHAHA! June's dead but she's kidding! HAHAHAHAHA!

I hated that dream.

IMG_4207
In other news, we rented the FILM version of the song Ode to Billy Joe last night, which I thought was spelled "Billie" with an ie because that's how the YouTube song is labeled if you YouTube Ode to Billie Joe, and who doesn't.

 

My point is, maybe I'd be better off dead.

I have no idea how we ended up renting such a monstrosity, but here's what I recall. Here are the bits and pieces I can dredge up after the trauma of spending two hours of my life watching Ode to Billy Joe, the movie. Which, by the way, instead of having real images during the opening credits, they just showed stills from the movie you were about to see, which is always a good sign that you're in for a quality film.

While I'm on the topic of films, you know Ned and I go to the movies every Sunday, and here's what I have to say to the people who create movie trailers.

Dear People Who Create Movie Trailers: Scene. Blackness. Scene. Blackness. Scene. Blackness. OH MY GOD IT'S BEEN DONE. Think of something else. Hey, I have an idea. How about you let us actually SEE SOMETHING FOR A FEW SECONDS rather than toss up an image and immediately show us a black screen? Goddammit.

I've really gotten swearier since I met Ned, haven't I? Maybe if I'm really dying, I could have a win-a-date-with-Ned-to-my-funeral giveaway. "How pretty." Son of a bitch.

Oh. So anyway, we were of course discussing the song Ode to Billy Joe on the 3rd of June, because apparently now I have some sort of disorder where I cannot let that song drop, and Ned insists they weren't throwing a baby off that bridge, which is ridiculous. Of COURSE they were throwing a baby off that bridge, and Ned says if you were trying to get rid of a baby, why would you toss it from somewhere high up where everyone could see.

"Well, what were they throwing off in the movie?" I asked Ned, who admitted he'd seen it before, and you know how sometimes people should just keep things under their hats?

He couldn't remember what they threw off, because he saw the movie on TV when he was 15, and next thing you know old Jed's a millionaire, and we rented that movie with plans to watch it later. Ode to Billy Joe was produced by Jethro Bodine, by the way, so this whole paragraph has come full circle. The circle of life. Boom.

"We could have a whole '70s night!" I enthused to Ned yesterday via email. "Maybe we should wait a week so I can grow out all my…hair, and you can stop shaving and we could look like the '70s version of The Joy of Sex couple!" I wrote him. "We could have Jiffy Pop in every way!"

S-JOY-OF-SEX-large

"Ooo! We could have chop suey out of a can! With the crunchies!" I was getting excited about '70s night. In the end, I came home and did Tracy Spencer and Ned ironically got his hair cut, then rode his bike all over yonder, till finally he made us poached eggs with cheddar jalapeno toast that was delicious, and then we watched that movie and didn't eat any chop suey at all.

The movie starred Robbie Benson as Billy Joe, of course, because 1976. It also starred that girl, Glynnis O'Connor, who was in everything in the '70s including Boy in the Plastic Bubble. I hate to give away the plot, seeing as you've only had 39 years to catch it, but in this version, Billy Joe was a homo.

Is it impolite to say "homo"? He did not like him the ladies, then. Is what I mean. Which I guess we were supposed to glean ahead of time because he wore this dapper suit and shoes. He was metro but not hetro.

IMG_4210"The color of that suit is not a color. It's a decade," I said. It was the perfect mid-70s color: kind of brown, kind of orange, kind of peach. If they were going to draw the mid-70s, that's the crayon they'd pick. My whole childhood was literally sepia-toned.

"Why doesn't he move to San Francisco instead of killing himself in Mississippi?" I asked. "A little tart like Robbie Benson would've gotten tons of ass in San Francisco."

"Not in 1953," said Ned, who was Googling Robbie Benson and it turns out he's still pretty hot. He's got some Barry Gibb hair that even Barry Gibb doesn't have anymore, though.

Robby-benson-600Still. I'd take him as my date to Ned's funeral.

I'm going to go shower now, and be glad I'm not riddled with two kinds of cancer THAT I KNOW OF, but before I go, tell me what food you miss from the '70s. Speaking of food, last time I added up your answers from yesterday afternoon's pressing Q, Cheetos were winning, with Fritos very close behind, and Doritos being almost nonexistent. I'd go for Cheetos last, myself. Especially the puffy kind. Because when I eat junk food, I'm very discriminating.

See you in hell,

Joooon

P.S. I so should have dressed up as Jethrine to watch that movie. Why do all my brilliant ideas come too late, after I've got two kinds of cancer?

Screen Shot 2015-06-05 at 8.09.51 AM