Girls, Tramps, Butterfaces

Last night, Ned and I went to see Girls, Girls, Girls at the old theater we like. Mostly it was about how a slutty woman with dumb hair and a butterface both liked Elvis.

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You know what a butterface is, right? Where someone has a lovely figure, but her face!

Dear Feminist Mom: Yeah, I know.

In nearly every scene with the slutty woman in the movie, she had this ridiculous hairdo that was swept all to one side. Every time she appeared onscreen, Ned was lucky enough to enjoy my hilarity, where I'd push all my hair to the side, too. Of course, several people on that side of the theater had to keep leaving their seats every time to make room, so, inconvenient.

Also, the slutty one was a nightclub performer, and every time Elvis showed up, he'd be all, "Ima get onstage and perform, too. Surely the band knows all the songs I wanna sing, and we all intuitively know how to choreograph our moves."

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The best part about the nightclub act is there's this stripey-shirted bass player who wanted Elvis so bad he couldn't contain himself. Ned pointed it out. "Look how bad the bass player wants to fuck Elvis."

Oooo! YouTube! You can also see the slutty woman's hairdo!

 

There's another, slower number where you really see the bass player's lust, but I have to get to work. I like how I call it a "number" like I'm a vaudeville agent.

But really, the most annoying person in the whole movie was the butterface. Geez, I hope she's not still alive. Hang on. Oh, god, she is still alive. Dear butterface actress: I am sorry. You were no looker, though.

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Naturally, Elvis picked the butterface, because it was an Elvis movie, and every pretty tramp with a swept-to-one-side hairdo gets the shaft. Note the symbolic butterface-gets-the-oar message, here.

I won't even get into the racist Chinese stuff. Elvis is inexplicably also tight with the Chinese community in town, who pretty much go around eating chop suey and saying things with no articles. "Ohhhh, you must come to house!" It's like everyone is doing a Confucius impression.

Okay, I'll show it to you, but you're gonna wanna kill yourself like you're a possum in our yard.

 

I warned you. If you just want to kill yourself a little, skip to 1:05.

Anyway, that was that. Then somehow when we got home last night, we had a crucial discussion about what is Led Zeppelin's best song. I say The Rain Song. Some survey we looked up said Kashmir.

 

What say you?

Looking at you disapprovingly with my cigarette and pointy nails,

June

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“I HAVE SPOKEN!”

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I'd been taking pictures of Ned last night, after dinner, and he hated them all and said not to use them here, so while he was out of the room I snapped this one of myself, then commenced to abhorring my own self, and maybe my camera was set to Unflattering or something last night.

My nose is the bane of my existence. Dear Ned: Don't forget you promised me a new nose. I do remember that you never promised me a rose garden, though.

Still meeting the not-funny goal I set for myself! Let me say hashtag goals again! While I'm up, why don't I also say preplan and just locate a noose. Speaking of a noose, yesterday I found a deceased possum in our yard again, which I photographed and texted to Ned. Some women sext their men; I send possum snuff shots. Ned blamed my pets, such as Tallulah and Iris, for the demise of the possum, which I heartily resented. "Maybe that possum died of its own volition," I texted Ned. I text Ned. "Maybe it was a suicide."

"Did you find the possum with a little noose and its pants around its ankles?" asked Ned.

My point is, all this self-loathing and wishing my nose would cut it out already with the roaming on the range and so on does not mean that I haven't been just full of my own self as of late.

At work, I was talking with a male coworker about how I know a few really stunning, fascinating, talented, accomplished women who cannot seem to get any play from the mens. And they WANT to meet men, it's not like they aren't trying.

My male coworker shook his head. "That happens. Some women are so great that men can't deal with it. It's like they think, 'She'll always be the cooler one in this relationship,' and they can't handle that."

That night at therapy, I said to Ned, "I was appreciating you today." I told him all about that conversation, and I said, "Thank you for being with me, Ned."

"Wait," said Ned. "Are you including yourself with the fascinating, beautiful, cool women? And you're thanking me for not being intimidated by that?" Ned seemed…amused.

Because OH MY GOD I SO WAS. I didn't even think about how obnoxious that was; I was just immediately all, Wow, go Ned, taking on All This and not being threatened by it. The therapist, who had JUST ASSURED ME that I was not a narcissist, said, "Do I need to take that back?"

Everyone's a comedian. Hashtag funny.

Oh, also on my list of things I hate, like hashtag anything, preplan and using the word "juicy" to describe anything that cannot literally be juicy, I have come to abhor the phrase eye candy. Cut it out. We don't even need to mention how I feel when someone is described as "having the chops" to do anything. Chop this.

The other obnoxious thing I have done lately is I work with a guy who has the word "gross" in his last name. Let's say his last name is Smithgross, which makes a heap of sense. Hashtag sense. I was emailing my boss and him yesterday. When Smithgross, who by the way knows effing EVERYTHING and is like human Google, answered my query, I wrote, "Thanks, SmithThousand!"

My boss wrote me. "Why'd you'd just call Smithgross 'SmithThousand'?"

"Because gross? A thousand? Yeesch," I wrote. Yes, I did. I wrote "yeesch" to my boss.

"Well, now I feel foolish," he wrote back.

"I guess I'm gonna have to tamp down my lofty humor when I write you," I said TO MY BOSS.

"Yeah," he wrote back, "except, June? A gross is 144. It isn't a thousand."

 

Do you know what you've missed? You've missed my Price is Right losing horn. You know what else you've missed? My fine grasp of the maths. I have the chops to be a mathlete.

Why do I try to make numbers jokes? Why do I try to make numbers jokes and then be all smug about numbers? I should always know number jokes will not add up for me.

 

Still not funny. Hashtag goals.

Lufff,

Edsel's mom

Yo quiero Ned, and kiss Angie

Yesterday was a momentous day, and you might want to mark your calendars: I got Ned to eat dinner at Taco Bell. I have brought Ned over to my dark side.

You know how I told you I had scream therapy and a movie on Monday? That afternoon, I was killing my own self to get all my work done so I could stampede to therapy at 5:30 and emote or whatever. At 5:20, I was just getting in my car when Ned's train whistle whistled at me. His ring tone is a train. He used to live eight inches from the train tracks, like he was Nell on Fractured Fairy Tales.
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A huge chunk of fur just flew into my coffee.

Anyway, Ned was calling to say, "Oh hey! Guess what? Therapy is on Tuesday this week. Who knew?" So at that point we just went home and had eggs, and saw The Lady Vanishes in a leisurely fashion afterward.

Then yesterday, we really DID have the therapy, and we had Planet of the Apes at 7:00. This meant we had 30 minutes between events. "I'll go get Taco Bell, and you go feed the dogs and I will meet you at home," I told him.

"I want two Cool Ranch Dorito tacos," said Ned, just like he was an expert at attending Taco Bell. Also, I like how if he's going bad, he goes all the way. Cool Ranch tacos. Good lord.

I went classic and got two Taco Supremes. The Chanel of Taco Bell food. Remember back when Taco Bell first opened, and they showed you how to pronounce each word on the menu? "Ta-cooo." "Bur-eee-toe." It was all so international.

When we were in our 20s, my friends Esmerelda and Cardinal may or may not have been under the influence of yellow beer when they popped into a Taco Bell late at night. Esmerelda consumed approximately seven calories a day, so I cannot imagine what she ordered. Cardinal asked for pinto beans with "sour cheese."

"Do you HAVE sour cheese?" asked Esmerelda, loving herself. Anyway, that's been one of those jokes that will never die, like when my uncle called a funeral a "death party." Some things you have to keep bringing up.

Like when Hulk married his mother.

Like the "and right then, I knew" joke.

Also in my family, whenever anyone tells you anything for the 200th time, you say, "Did you hear Bob and Lana got a pool?" I wasn't even THERE for the original "Bob and Lana got a pool" repeated conversation, but everyone says it now anyway, including me.

Do you HAVE sour cheese?

I have no idea how I got off on this tangent. But tonight we don't have a movie. They're showing one at our old theater, but whatever it is, it's stupid. We will be back, though, on Thursday, for Girls Girls Girls. I think I should totally bring a lesbian date. Two of them. Then Ned will be with girls girls girls, which I can't imagine he'd turn down.

Is there anyone out there whose husband or boyfriend would NOT want the girl-on-girl action? Is there any man who's not trying to wrangle that at all times? Once after I was married for a year or two, I went out salsa dancing with my coworker and her husband. I guess it goes without saying that Marvin did not go with me. I know back when I was married you got sick of all my Marvin's-out-salsa-dancing-again stories. You were all, seriously? Again? Did Bob and Lana get a pool?

The point is, the husband kept trying to buy me tequila shots, and he kept saying, "Kiss Angie. Go ahead, June, kiss Angie." I mean, nothing's sexier than some drunk husband trying to orchestrate a little girly action for the evening. I'd been doing step aerobics and getting French-nail-tip manicures with Angie for the better part of two years at that point, and never once had it dawned on me to kiss her.

I know it's been awhile since my public service announcement that if you are still getting French tips, the '90s called and would like their manicure look back. Ditto for French pedicures. In fact, if you are still getting French pedicures, you might as well hang it up and get elastic-waist jeans. You have given up on being fashionable.

Very little infuriates me more than a French pedicure.

Oh, I know what infuriates me more. Those haircuts where it's a longer in front short bob, like your hair is a horseshoe. Stop it. Nothing says hausfrau like that 'do. I know I am not one to talk about hair, but I'm hair disabled.

I guess I will go now, and I really wish I had covered more topics and said less than I did today. I will leave you with the following thoughts. Oh, good, more June thoughts.

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Thought #1. I am really one to judge pedicures given my 50 shades of pastel pedicure that I have currently. I took this the other day to juxtapose what Ned and I did with our Saturday afternoons.

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Thought #2. I just announced, as I was typing this post, "I am sick of pets." No one was here to hear it but the pets. When I showered, NedKitty stood on the tub and licked my legs the whole time. Then as I blogged this riveting post, Edsel did this.

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That is, until Iris clawed her way to the top. This was the only shot I got of her before she jumped off in a huff because photographs steal her soul.

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She huffed on over to the bed, where apparently Angie's husband is, shouting, "Kiss Tallulah!" to Edsel. Eds will always say yes to tequila shots. I've given up having a bedspread until a real guest comes over.

Oh, and before he left, Ned managed to trip over Lily and almost die today. So really. Sick of pets. Who ACQUIRED all these pets? Okay. I know I am the 4 out of 5 dentists surveyed in this scenario. Shup ip.

Shup ip. Goddammit.

Shupping ip,

Joon

We go together like a drink and a smile

I'm related to people who have an addiction to alcohol. I will not name names, although I suppose one of my grandfathers wouldn't have minded me telling you that he did, seeing as he was in AA for most of his life, really. I never saw him drunk; he was the best grandfather you could ever hope for. It's like he went to grandpa school. Graduated with honors.

But it doesn't end with him. A lot of the people I'm related to are alcoholic, although not my Uncle Jim, who drank coffee like he WAS in AA but certainly wasn't, and my Aunt Kathy, who takes one sip of beer and has to lie out in the snow.

Oh, and my Aunt Mary, who downs tea all the time like she's Miss Marple.

That is not the point. The point is, addiction is genetic, and as soon as alcohol was around when I was a teenager, I had some forthwith. I was not Noel Coward about it, either; I did not sip sherry thoughtfully while I looked into the fire. I was proud of being able to down a bottle of Reunite Lambrusco during the drive to school from the 7-Eleven, where they sold to minors.

Ima hazard a guess that there is no 7-Eleven alive now that sells to minors. Things aren't as fun as they were in the '80s. Also, some years back, there was a bottle of Reunite Lambrusco lying around at a party, so I poured some, and it turns out my love of Lambrusco was a mistake on the same level as my feelings for Rick Springfield.

That isn't really true. I will still jam the fuck out to Rick Springfield. And so will you.

In college, I bartended, which means I pretty much drank every day at the bar across the street. For some reason, all their people would come to our bar, and we all went to theirs. We all slept with the people at the other bar, too. There were very few in-house romances, although in retrospect, if the in-house romances were as good as our in-house salad dressing, maybe we all missed out.

The point is, I was there every day, at that bar across the street. There was one girl I judged. "She's been in here SIXTY-TWO DAYS IN A ROW," I'd think loftily, as I sipped my White Zinfandel on night 62.

This is like a retrospective of the bad pink drinks I've had through the decades. Yes, I AM delighted that Rosé is a thing again. Yes, I DID drink Cosmopolitans like I was a chunky Carrie Bradshaw. Carrie Broadshaw.

Let's just say I had an intimate relationship with bars and bartenders and drink specials and who'd let us drink after closing time, all the way up till I married Marvin, who does not drink. I mean, he'll pour a drink and forget it's there. He'll go without a drink at all for six months and not even notice. Marvin is not what you'd call a lush. Marvin is a guitaraholic. Hiiii, Marvin.

Suddenly, my own drinking looked ridiculous. I remember at one point, he said he was going to take up drinking, so we'd have more in common. That lasted one night over two margaritas. Marvin still drinks sweet drinks the way we did in 9th grade. He will literally buy wine coolers.

The point is, I gave up drinking for a long, long time while I was married to Marvin. Gave it up completely. Yes, I went to meetings, and I loved them. You want to meet interesting people, go to AA meetings in Los Angeles. I've heard some people even fake alcoholism to go to LA AA meetings to make fancy entertainment connections, and Dear People Who Do This: You suck, and I hope you are never ever famous. You are the Anne Heches of the world, and I wish you zero good luck. I wish you true anonymity.

I didn't drink after we moved to North Carolina for a long time, either. When Marvin left, I'd not had a drink in more than a year.

But now I drink again. And it's not like I'm getting arrested or drinking in the morning or anything. But I do drink almost every day. And I worry. Is that too much? Should I be at meetings again? Is just the fact that I'm worried about it worrisome?

A lot of people I knew who go to meetings had real, screaming evidence that they needed to give up drinking. Their health was shot, or their careers were. One woman was on her back porch with a hangover, and the word "Surrender" appeared in skywriting over her head.

I've always envied her.

I wish I had a clear sign, but not a horrible one, like all of a sudden I'm coughing up blood or something. I just wish I knew if I shouldn't be doing this. The years I did not drink, I didn't really feel any different from the years I did. That should tell me something, right?

So that's what's on my mind at present, but now it's time for work, so I'd better go. I'd better put a cork in it.

BAH!

Love,

Jooon

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edsul not need drink to haff good time. edsul not haff to take clothes off to haff good time. …wate…

The Burrito Vanishes

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I am going to have a ridiculous day, in which I will be running from one thing to the next till 9:00 p.m., and then? I have to come home and write a Purple Clover article. So I thought maybe I'd try to start that article this morning before I get to work. Go read the 6,000-word blog post I wrote yesterday, for goodness sake. I only have 27 comments on that one, and most of those were from Ned, adoring himself.

One of the things I will be running to today is therapy and a movie tonight. I guess those are two things. Math. Not my strong suit.

I will once again have half an hour to eat between said events, and I sincerely hope Ned stands over me in our back yard while I eat, as he did last time. Maybe we can discuss it in therapy!

We talked about how on Tuesdays, we should totally have a "What we learned during therapy and a movie" on my blog after these T-and-an-M Mondays. Tonight the movie is The Lady Vanishes, so it'd be hilarious if I was kidnapped at the restaurant before the film. That'd be just my luck, to be snatched from a Taco Bell. Before my Frito burrito is gotten. I'd be famous for it. I'd be the next Taco Bell chihuahua mascot.

Okay, I'm really going so I can work on my article. You can't stop me. Everyone tell me what they've been up to all week.

Busily,

Jooooon

Beaches. But not in a Barbara Hershey’s dead kinda way.

Did you miss me? Have you been holding a vigil? Did I ever tell you about when my friend Dot and I went to see Snow White? This was in college, when we were not at all full of ourselves or anything. This woman behind us had the nerve to bring her kids there, god, and she'd read to them the times they'd put up a little narrative screen that moved the plot along.

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The point is, when Snow White has that bad acid trip or whatever and she's dead dead dead, they put up one of those screens about how the dwarfs kind of freakily could not face putting Snow White in the ground, so they set up a glass coffin and held "an eternal vigil."

"And the dwarfs held an eternal vyyyyy-gul," the poor mom behind us read to her kids.

Well. You've never seen two snotty college girls get over something less rapidly. To this day, Dottie and I still pronounce it vyyyyy-gul.

Anyway. I'm back from the beach, like I'm Annette Junecello or something,

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On the day we were headed to said beach, Ned got in the shower, and when he emerged, I was talking to him for quite awhile before I looked at him, and

ACCCCCK!

he'd shaved off his facial hair. "I wanted the sun on my whole face," he said, while I had seven strokes. Ned looks like he's 17 or something now. I wonder how he got it all off? Did he use my Nair for Faces? Because, pissed.

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All in all it was a pretty mellow week. Just, you know, 20 of Ned's family members. Really, though, it was fun. I like Ned's people. They're always nice to me. If they hate my guts, I have no idea, which is how it should be.

Speaking of people who don't hate my guts and I'm glad, Marvin's parents sent me a birthday card, did I tell you that? They signed it XMIL and XFIL, as whenever I see my ex-mother-in-law on Facebook I always call her XMIL. There are still times when only my XMIL will do to talk to, like when there's particularly good celebrity gossip, or a new lipstick or something.

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The thing about Ned's family is they have no fear. Ned's six-year-old niece, who is officially the world's most charming child®, was in the water and being fearless all week. At one point, we sat on the edge of the water and let the waves come at us. Of course, I was scared. "These are pretty big waves," I told her. "I think we can handle them, Uncle June," she said. She called me Uncle June. AND STOP BEING MORE BRAVE THAN ME YOU'RE SIX.

At some point, my mother called me. "This family is free of fear," I told her. "That's a good way to be," said mom.

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"You're not in the sun, are you?" she asked. "You'll get cancer. And don't go in the water! You'll be eaten by a shark!"

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There were many activities all week. I brought metallic tattoos, and made everyone put them on.

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Ned's stepmother put one on her collarbone, because she's street. She is da bomb–she's the one who gave me that huge, pink and gold jingle corsage at Christmas, do you remember that thing? I have it all ready for this year.

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Speaking of Christmas, I went with Ned's sister to the nearby Christmas store. Ned did not accompany us. There were a ton of sparkly reindeer that I desperately wanted to buy but did not. I am all up in the sparkly reindeer, man. Ned's sister is more like my mother, in that she is into traditional red and green. She does not decorate for Christmas like she is a gay man from 1978. Which, why?

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My hair and I DID buy this sparkly little disk necklace, that goes under my T-for-Tallulah necklace that I wear all the time. Dudes, my hair was all over the place this week. Some days it was huge, some days it was angry. Some days it was huge and angry.

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Never, ever take my hair to the beach.

On the last night there, we had a spectacular thunderstorm, with huge bolts of lightning, and a rainbow, and several times the lightning would strike the middle of the rainbow. I'm sure that's symbolic somehow, but what do I know? I can't even pronounce "vigil" right anymore.

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I managed to read one and a half trashy books, start and lose 14 cans of soda, see two shooting stars and sleep like the dead every night.

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When I got home yesterday, I immediately went out and got a Sweet-Tart pedicure.

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Ned unpacked and exercised and did practical things. Oh! And in the mail was a gift from Faithful Reader Paula H&B. She sent me TWO MORE Real Romance magazines, one from 1971 and one from 1980. I read them BOTH from COVER TO COVER and may or may not have made Ned listen to a few, and I'd even do different voices for the characters. You should hear my sexy, husky voice. Turned on? You don't even KNOW from turned on till you've heard my husky, sexy voice.

Ned may have also opened a beer during my dramatic readings. A beer or two. "Oh, let me read you this one, Ned!"

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The whole point of this picture was to show you the animals survived, or at least two of them did, but what I noticed is my Real Romance magazines, one of which is open, and Ned's careful placing of the remotes on them, perhaps to discourage further reading. All I want to do now is read more of those magazines. Dear Paula H&B: Ned wonders why you didn't send us any vintage Penthouse Forums to read. Love, June.

So that sums up my week, and now I am a fat-ass with a tan, which is all you can hope for in a week at the beach.

Sandily,

Uncle June

Life’s a beach. HAHAHAHAHA Wooo! Hah! …heh.

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We are headed to the beach for the week, and it's been my experience that Typepad no longer lets me email in a post, and THANKS, Typepad. So you'll have to be Juneless this week. Try to carry on. My wayward son.

Have I mentioned Ima stop being funny? Hashtag goals.

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we see you in a week. …wate. crap.

P.S. Because SOMEBODY'S gonna ask: house-sitter. Staying with the pets. Are you happy now?

Elvis Jesus. And party every day.

"You can't just turn FIFTY and not CELEBRATE it!" screeched one of the Alexes a few weeks ago. I was really kind of depressed about turning old, and for once did not wanna do much of anything. "We're going for drinks that Friday after your birthday," she said, because bossy.

"Well, let's just have it at my house, then, so we can hear ourselves think," I said, because crotchety.

And that is how t549493-2394942-repf049i5t-340404 people ended up at my house from right after work until midnight last night.

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I like how Alex, whose idea this whole thing was, can't even be bothered to listen to what I'm sure is a riveting story on my part. A story of cheeks. My famous cheek story. And look how Ned has turned to booze to dull the pain.

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Really, I didn't take any good photos yesterday, because I was having fun and kept forgetting.

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Thank heavens I was able to capture this super-casual one where Alex and Boy Alex had no idea I was photographing them.

We all brought snacks and everyone brought their own drinks, which means I now have 740 cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon in my refridge, and 950 salty bags of salt snacks with salt. By the end of this weekend, I will be Elvis.

Which reminds me, at one point we were telling our beleaguered guests how Jesus does our lawn, and I'm sure he pronounces his name "Hay Seuss," but of course we just call him Jesus. When he's been over, we say hilarious things like, "Jesus is just all right with me" or "Jesus saves…the lawn clippings" and so on. It's comedy gold, is what it is.

The point is, one of the Alexes said HER friend ALSO has a guy named Jesus who does HER lawn, and it's probably the same guy and just as we were about to describe Jesus our lawn guy (how he doesn't get his robes caught in the lawn mower is beyond us), she said, "Oh, wait. No. That guy's name is Elvis."

So.

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I gave this Alex one of my chocolate-covered strawberries, to soothe the manic episode she is clearly having. Yes, I admire Alex's shoulders, as well. Alex goes to the gym 940 times a week. If we went to the gym 940 times a week, and if incidentally we were 28, we'd look like Alex, too. But we don't look like Alex. Some of us drink because we're NOT poets.

Name that fine film.

Eventually, someone decided we all needed pizza, so pizza was gotten, and next thing you know it's midnight and I'm sure the neighbors adored us. When the last guests left, we looked at our kitchen.

"Fuck it," said Ned, and we cleaned it this morning.

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Mr. and Mrs. Fuck It.

I am sorry to tell you that my old ass may or may not be draggin' today, but we did manage to clean the damn kitchen.

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Dear Less-Than-30-Year-Old-Person: You left your Miller 64 cooler thing here. Do not worry. I will not steal it.

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The party's over. But my exhaustion lives on.

Am I still 50? I was kind of hoping it was a one-day thing. Like a virus.

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Just to catch you up, it was my 50th birthday yesterday. I KNOW. I hardly mentioned it. Please note the earrings my Aunt Mary gave me, and the necklace Ned gave me. I was shiny yesterday.

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Cankle alert. I also wore my shiny shoes to work, because screw it. I like how I have 72 mosquito bites on my legs like I'm 10. Sitting on our porch has its drawbacks. It really bites.

Oh, by the way, I've decided to stop being funny.  How'm I doing so far?

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One of the Alexes brought me flowers, and on July 3, I spilled blueberries on my desk calendar. I am a mess. My coworker Griff gave me that clock with the ostrich feathers and kitty on it, and I guess it doesn't take long to know the way of my people, does it?

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My tenant, who in case you forgot also works with me and how weird is everything, told me she would get me anything I wanted from the vending machine. Have I mentioned it doesn't take long to know the way of my people?

Poochie gave me a card, and in it she said, "Name your flavor of cupcake. I will make you a dozen." So I said pink flavor. With just a whisper of frosting. I don't know why cupcakes have become these towers of frosting anymore. Remember the old days, when our moms would just swipe a small coating on top? Now it's the Leaning Tower of Frosting. The Princess and the Pea of frosting.

Anyway, I told her it was the most exciting conversation I ever had, getting to order my own custom cupcakes like that. And it's good I got to get cupcakes, because Ned didn't get my peach pie.

"I have bad news," he said, blustering in all flabbergasted. There are TWO stores here called The Pie Pit, or The Cherry Pit, or Lu Go Pit, I forget. And apparently he ordered from the wrong one, and went to a closed store to get my pie. Bye bye, pie. Poor Ned.

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and lu not even in MOOD to go all Pit. God, mom.

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Despite Ned running around all flabbergasted (he also was running low on lime juice, and insisted he needed exactly the right kind so he had to leave for the store), Marty and Kayeeeee came over to celebrate with me. Marty was also running late, and then as soon as he got here I had to stir the potatoes because Ned was at the store, and I wondered if the four of us would ever be in the same room, ever, all night.

While the three of us sat on the porch waiting for old Walk the Lime to return, a good-looking UPS man jumped onto the porch with one of those shipments of chocolate-covered strawberries for me, from my friend Dot.

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"I kind of thought you were the stripper," Marty told the UPS guy, who said, "I haven't ALWAYS been a UPS guy!"

Dear Marty: Here is a picture of you eating a huge strawberry. And you are welcome.

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Eventually, Ned cured his lime disease, and we all ate, and I realize I have zero photos of that because I was so fucking delighted to finally eat. We had steak, mashed potatoes, salad and no peach pie. Poor Ned; have I mentioned? But we all had giant chocolate-covered strawberries, and talked about how whatever genetic modification they did to make those strawberries so huge was probably killing us, and we were basically a good time.

We also talked about the 69 position and how no one really likes it. Marty said he really preferred 71.

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Ned not only gave me a pretty necklace and cooked everything and made margaritas with low amounts of lime juice, and he got me pretty flowers and a blind cat.

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Ooo, and the box set of Upstairs Downstairs! I only told him I liked it once, that I can recall, but you know how I am. I probably told him 82 times. Anyway, cannot wait.

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He also got me a good card. And a few books, which I will take to the beach with me next week.

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So that sums up my 50th, and I am enjoying the age spots on my arm, there, in this photo. Good gravy.

Tonight I've invited some coworkers to come over and have a drink on my porch right after work. It's a bring-your-own situation. 

Nevertheless, Ned is getting more lime juice today.

Scurvily,

Joooon

June, 5.0. Give or take a decimal.

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Say, does anyone have the time? Oh, wait. I do. IT'S TIME FOR ME TO BE 50.

Shit.

Last night, Ned said we could go anywhere we wanted for dinner, as it was my birthday eve. "Stameys!" I said. It's a dive-y kind of barbecue place that is delicious. "…Really?" said Ned, and I knew he'd be all "really" about it, because if you recall, for HIS birthday eve, we went to the world's fanciest place with no air conditioning.

But I got my way, because birthday eve, and Ned not only got barbecue, he also got cobbler, and then I waited for it. I waited for the "I may have eaten too much" line. Which came maybe an hour later. When Ned was a kid, his mom would take him and his brothers and sister to Stameys, because it's not that expensive. But they could get ice cream for dessert, or they could get cobbler, but not both. Too pricey.

So, the first time Ned came home from college, they all went there for dinner, and Ned got to get BOTH, and the rest of his family was all, "WHAT?" They were appalled that Ned got the special treatment. I guess that's why he treats himself now.

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I also treated myself, which you know is not like me. I took some time out for me. Yesterday at lunch, my coworker Molly had said we would go for pedicures for my birthday, but then she got called into a meeting, so I took myself for a manicure, in the hopes that today we would still get pedicures. I got silver. Once I painted my nails silver when I was dating this one guy, in 1996, and he said, "I feel like I'm dating the bass player from the Smashing Pumpkins or something." I always think of that when I opt for silver.

Anyway, after Ned and I both treated ourselves yesterday, we retired to the bosom of our home. Not everyone's home has a bosom, but ours does. "I should open my presents tonight," I announced. I knew it'd be a 45-minute process, given that my Aunt Mary had sent three boxes alone. I didn't want to rush through them this morning AND try to blog. And right after work tonight, we have Marty and Kaye.

I mean, we don't HAVE them. Marty and Kaye. Getting ready for the key clubbin' that ain't gonna happen.

So we went to the front porch and I sat on the rocker, which means I was not off my rocker, so there you go.

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Ned photojournaled the Opening of the Gifts.

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My favorite thing to get is a sentimental gift, and along with 394949293 other presents (beautiful necklace! pretty picture frame! really cool stationery!), my Aunt Mary sent me this. There was a note on it that my grandmother, the one I'm turning into, typed.

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Grammy, who also always seemed unhappy, ALSO had this picture up wherever she lived, my Aunt Mary's note told me. Mary pointed out that I am the 4th woman in the family to have it, now. It's already up in my room. Where I can be generally unhappy and look at my woods picture.

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My aunt also got me two really beautiful magnolia pictures, and I wonder if she knows I already have two cool old magnolia pictures, and these go with them perfectly? Ned and I already figured out where to hang them with the other two. So cool! I am so easy to buy for. Is it old? Is it pink? Done.

I told my mother I wanted something sentimental this year, and I opened this.

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And burst into the sobs. The kind where there's no even talking. This is my other grandmother's robe, or housecoat, as she'd have called it. Let me tell you something. When the shit goes down, when things are really rotten, I think of myself on Gramma's lap, and we're in her rocking chair. There was no safer place to be, all squished up on Gramma, with the creak of that rocker.

She used to sing all kinds of songs to me, and I totally believed she knew every song there was. "Gramma, sing a song about, ummm, blue," I'd say, and she'd burst into "Ohhhhh, bluuuueee, is…a color. Ohhhhh, blue."

And I'd be all, Man. That woman has a repertoire on her. There is NOTHING she doesn't have a song about. I was probably 27 before it dawned on me she was pulling those lyrics out her ass.

The point is, there I was again, in a rocking chair, with Gramma's housecoat. I hugged it to me, and we rocked a little.

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I'd been kind of sad this year, because I was missing my grandmothers, but they were here on my birthday after all.

(From L to R: My grandfather, who totally got me a freak book that year that I was obsessed with for years, Grammy, Uncle Jim, Gramma, then in the front dad, mom, Aunt Kathy, Aunt Mary, me and my friend Caroline Jeeter. I wish I could find Caroline Jeeter.)

Run, Forties, Run!

I woke up early today, on my last day of being 40. This was because I pretty much went to bed at 7:30. I'd have gone earlier had that not looked pathetic.

On Tuesday nights, this sadist comes to my workplace and teaches a class where we lift weights and squat and eventually have visions and sob. I had to, with one leg, get up on a chair 10 times and lift the other knee, then do it all over again, really fast.

I had to do this thing where you get on all fours, jump your legs back, then jump back and jump in the air. Like, 450 times. I was a Van Halen song. I mean, my sweatpants were sweating.

That's what I need. Workout clothes. A few of you asked me to update my Amazon wishlist, which is very nice of you to even think of looking at, but I don't have time to update it.

I tried to figure out how to delete that wishlist altogether and had, like, 14 seconds at work to do so, but I never did figure it out, so. If you really want to send me a gift, send me an Amazon gift card and I will buy myself undepressing workout clothes. Last night I had on sweatpants with bleach stains on them and a tshirt from Ned's workplace. I looked exactly like an exercise video. If they made the Workouts for the Clinically Depressed video. The Jane Fonda Lying Around video. The Insanity Workout. I just fell in love with myself all over again with that last one.

But no one has to send me a damn gift. I mean, my mother does, because it's her fault I am on the earth. Other than that.

Mom, you should leave a comment telling everyone what you were doing 50 years ago today. I'm so glad I got to just decide to come out on my own volition and not be induced. I'd be irritated if I didn't get to make my own decisions from day one.

All I've ever heard about my birth is that it was "easy." My mother has all of the pain tolerance ever invented. "Oh, they cut my tongue off and Super Glued it back on, but it was no big deal. It was easy." She's forever saying that.

Anyway. So after my workout, and after I marveled at my hair, which had frizzed up so I had a halo, I got in the car and the dang "you're out of gas" ding dinged. Again. It's been dinging at me for three days, and I live so close to work that I always think I can do it later, because I am always rushing off to the next thing. But I knew I was pushing my luck, so my sweatpants and halo and I went to the gas station, where you will be stunned to hear no man said, "I must have you."

Right next to the gas station is this restaurant Ned loves, so I got us a couple of black bean burgers to go, and nothing has ever been so delicious in the history of time. I ate before Ned got home, as Ned came home from the gym at 2:00 in the morning, as he does, and you'll never guess what happens next! Click here! Number 6 will make you cry!

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Tallulah begrudged Ned every bite, is what happened next. Talu haff always love blak been burger and a side of okkra.

Note the box, there, on the table, one of many lying around waiting for me to open them tomorrow. GODDAMMIT. Why does it have to take so long for my birthday to get here? I mean, the opening-presents part. Not the damn being-50 part.

After that workout last night, I did some laundry and swept and Sharked the floors, but then I was done. I was cashed. That was it for me. I was the lead singer of REM. And that is why Ned got ALL JUNE ALL THE TIME this morning, instead of an hour to himself as he usually gets.

When I bounded out of bed, I flumped down the stairs to see Ned having his disgusting fiber cereal. "I'm up!" I announced, flinging my arms open. "Isn't it exciting!?"

"It is," said Ned, looking slightly beleaguered. Then I may have made things even more exciting by doing an I'm-up dance. My hair had now been SLEPT in after having been sweated in and made into a halo. Wait, let me show you it.

Photo on 7-15-15 at 7.25 AM

"That IS even more exciting," said Ned, who please note did not say, "I must have you."

Am feeling a real shortage of men who must have me. What the fuck? I am a delight.

So, anyway. Tonight we have to get food for my birthday dinner, which I swear to you Ned has called my "breakfast dinner" 420 times. It's like he's had a stroke. We are grilling steaks. Does anyone have any grilling-steaks tips for us? We've done it before, and we've also grilled steaks (BAH! June. Bringing 7th-grade humor all the way into her 50s. Gonna keep on keepin' on with the poop jokes, too), but any tips would be welcome. So to speak.

Okay, Ima shower. I feel like this would not be the day to begin the whole not-showering-before-work experiment. I really should have showered last night but I was too tuckered. So far today, I am not sore, but I feel like that's just a matter of time. Soon the pain will set in. Which is the title of my memoir. How many titles have there been for my memoir? Do you know anyone who needs to write a memoir less than I do?

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do needy pets get menshun in mem waar? who play lillee and edzul in movie of mom lyffe?

Countdown to @#%$& 50

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My gifts are piling up, and apparently someone gave me an ancient, weird white cat. Look at her, all perched up there like a mountain goat. That cat kills me.

Also, Dear Ned: With the newspapers, already. Ned is a newspaper hoarder, or whore, depending on how well you listen. On my birthday, I really didn't want to do much, because it's a Thursday, and also because who wants to embrace being 50, so I just asked Marty and Kaye to come over for dinner. I'll bet I just made them feel super special. I wanted a dull evening so I invited Marty and Kaye.

No! That is not what I meant. In fact, they should feel like wow, we're June's real friends, who she can be depressed with on her depressing birthday. It's true. They're the first people I thought of when I considered a relaxed but fun night.

The point is, one of the Alexes at work would not hear of me letting what is likely my very last, crone-ish, Dannon Yogurt-eating-so-I-survived-this-long self to go gentle into that good night. I love people who think it's "go gently."

"We all have to get together and celebrate!" Alex said youthfully. And eventually it ended up with me saying, Well, why doesn't everyone just come over here after work, so we won't have to fight a crowd and not be able to hear ourselves think. I say this because crone.

This is why Ned and I have to start cleaning shit like all the newspapers tout suite.

Another Alex at work yesterday told me that she thinks everyone should just die at 60, because after that you're just a bag of bones and wrinkles and you aren't worth anything. She said her greatest fear is that she'd be an ancient age like 60 and someone would look at an old picture of her and not recognize her in all her glory that is now.

She is not invited to my shindig.

Because the thing is, I have two choices now. I can keep on with my bad self, or I can think of myself as a useless member of society because wrinkles are gonna creep in no matter how much Botox or Perricone products I slap on. Or I can keep learning, and laughing at things like the callousness of youth, and I can have myself a good time. Like it's 1999. When I was also sorta old.

Actually, "we can have a good time" is more a line from the Prince song Kiss, isn't it?

You got to not talk dirty, baby
If you want to impress me
You can't be too flirty, mama
I know how to undress me, yeah
I want to be your fantasy
Maybe you could be mine
You just leave it all up to me
We could have a good time

I miss dirty Prince. Now he's all, you can't be too spiritual mama, I know how to spiritual me. I've seen Prince twice, and at one of those concerts, instead of the line "I'm physically attracted to you" he sang, "I'm spiritually attracted to you." And that is when I got sad. I'm never gonna hear Darling Nikki or Sister or Head again.

Everyone throw in a Prince lyric in your comments today, if you know from Prince songs. The day we all said {cheek to cheek} I thought I was gonna die. Which I am, because I'm a useless bag of bones. Actually, I'm not, as that would insinuate I am thin.

I have to go, as usual, after this useful post, but I did want to tell you that last night we had Therapy and a Movie again, and this time it was Hitchcock's Spellbound, which is a whole movie about psychiatrists and a looney bin, which Dear Mom, I know I'm supposed to call Home For the Unfortunate.

What I'm saying is, last night had kind of a theme.

While we were in the old theater, we were in the balcony as we always are, and we could hear thunder outside, then finally the rain was so hard we could hear that, too. When we went outside, it was ridiculous. All sorts of women stood under the marquee, including me, while the men got the car. The best part was one guy was next to me, and waited while his wife got the car. I'd like to know how he worked out that dynamic.

Anyway, we sat on the porch and watched the storm, which was like one of those fake ones they have on TV where the sky keeps lighting up constantly. It made you want to yell, "FRANKENSTEIN!" Or eat a bowl of Frankenberry, but what doesn't?

Talk at you tomrrow, on my birthday eve. My last day of being 49.

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Fuck. Also, wrinkles AND a blemish! Fuck part deux.

Scruuu Ball

Tallulah's doing her harrr-ing, where she rolls around on the bed and goes, "Harrrrrr. Harrrrrmmmph. Harrrr…"

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eds not even no wat to think when Lu do dis.

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I mean, do eds go for help, or…?

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Eds hate to haff to call you in like dis, mom, but Lu has flipped lid. Lu a scruu ball.

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But le luff her so. maybe too mutch.

I don't know why I bother to try to make that bed. I should just leave a blank mattress on there, which is the official term for a mattress with no sheets.

Ned came home Friday, after having talked to this guy he doesn't know that well. "You know that guy from blahh de bloo bloo?" asked Ned. "His sister died."

"That's awful," I said, because I can feign empathy just like normal people. You'd never know I'm a sociopath.

"Yeah, I said that too, and I asked the guy how he was doing, and he said to me, 'It's been awful. We've been cleaning out her place, which was a mess. She was a whore." Ned paused dramatically. "I really didn't know how to respond to that, so I just said, 'Wow, that's too bad. I'm, uh, sorry to hear that."

I thought about it for a second. "Ned, might he have said her place was a mess and that she was a hoarder?"

And right then, Ned knew.

"God, I've already TOLD that story," said Ned, who now has to go back and clear some poor hoarding dead woman's name.

When I was 12, I broke my wrists, yes plural, and my bone doctor was kind of hot. He was a black-eyed Indian man, with a mustache if I'm not mistaken, but I could be remembering wrong because every man my mother dated back then had the facial hair. It was like they made a Mom's-Boyfriend template somewhere, and they'd send it to our house to sit on the floor beardedly and ask sensitive, enlightened questions. Sometimes they came with the guitar accessory.

My mother was single at the time, obviously, and whenever we had to go see him–the bone doctor, I mean–my mother would touch up her makeup in the parking lot. Somehow, we finally jokingly asked him to join us somewhere. Lunch? A play? To support our asses with his doctor money? Whatever it was, he said, "Oh, I wish I could do that, but I have a cat in Hawaii."

On the drove home, we were silent. I picked at my cast thoughtfully. "What does having a cat in Hawaii have to do with why he couldn't come with us?" I asked. "Was he flying there to feed it?"

My mother wondered what in the Sam Holy Hill I was talking about, and when she finally caught on, she said he'd told us he had "a wife and a cutie at home." To this day, I swear he said he had a cat in Hawaii. Which seems inconvenient.

I have got to get in the shower–for some reason I slept like I was on a coma or something, for 8 hours and 32 minutes, with 5x being restless, according to Fitbit. But I don't remember being restless. Anyway, now I'm late, of course.

Speaking of Fitbit, here's my latest Purple Clover article. I wrote it with my cat, in Hawaii.

June rambles about nothing. Well. Martinis. That’s something.

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I feel like Belle Watling may have been driving her point home a little too hard with the bell earrings. I mean, we get it. Why don't you just date Quasimoto while you're at it? Why don't you move to Philadelphia? Why don't you work for the phone company? Why don't you write a JINGLE?

Incidentally, who borrowed my tiara with the amber knobs on it? I've been looking everywhere. I feel like Belle was not into the less-is-more philosophy when it came to accessorizing.

One of the Alexes at work is fascinated by how often I can work a Gone With the Wind reference into these posts. She is at once impressed and disgusted by me. Which kind of sums me up. I once had a boy say I was like a No-Pest Strip, managing to attract and repel men all at once.

Anyway, it's Sunday, and I just sat down with the New York Times for an hour, where I was reading how all kinds of hip NY folk are moving to Detroit, and buying 6,000-square-foot lofts for $3,000 and so on. I had this artist boyfriend once, in the '80s, and one Sunday he had to draw something as part of his job. He lay on his living room floor and drew something on a very see-through piece of paper for awhile while I watched him and more than likely drank White Zinfandel.

It was 1988. Sue me.

"When I was growing up, my mother used to say to me, 'You like drawing, I know, but you can't make a career out of lying on the floor making pictures,'" he told me. I swear to god it was 20 minutes later and he said, "I'm done. Let's go."

And we drove off to Detroit to take whatever the hell that drawing was to the guy in Detroit. I like how I paid close attention to the details, as per usual. And how funny that you'd have to literally drive something 90 miles to someone. He couldn't just email an image.

My point is, the guy lived downtown, and I had never known anyone to actually live in downtown Detroit. I remember the place was huge, and we all stood on this–it wasn't even a balcony, it was so giant. Remember how Uncle Bill's place had a balcony, and you could probably fit 20 Mr. Frenches up here? It was like that. We looked out over the whole city, and I tried to drink a martini like it was good and not bug spray-tasting.

I also remember the guy being beside himself over whatever the hell it was my then-boyfriend spent 20 minutes drawing. That guy was too smart for his own good. He made a whole lot of cool art back then, including this one piece where you looked through a really beautiful window frame, and behind it was a video of people having sex. If I ever get famous and you see my sex video, please disregard my perm. AGAIN, it was 1988.

Anyway, I wonder if he has that place, still, that guy in Detroit, because if people really move to Detroit and it gets all hep, that apartment will be worth millions. Plus the whole June-drank-here panache that apartment now has. That rare and unusual find: Places June Had Her a White Zin or a Gross Martini in the '80s.

Or the 1990s tour: Places in Seattle Where June Pretended to Like Black Beer Because Everyone Else Did When All She Really Wanted Was an Amstel Light Up In Here; Sue June.

In the 2000s, there was a teensy bar in my LA neighborhood, and it was family owned so you could smoke in there. It was called the Tiki Ti, and it served only tropical drinks that would knock you on your coconuts, so powerful were they. I hate to bring up this delicate subject, but Marvin and I once stumbled home from there and may or may not have Done It in our garage because it was like 4959549303 steps up to our duplex and that was too far.

Marvin was not what you'd call a drinker. If he was late, you'd never say, "I wonder if Marv is back at the bar, knocking back shots?"

Wow, I wonder if this would be a good Purple Clover article? Places I drank. Am now inspired.

I have to go. I have to do Tracy Chapass, even though this whole house is asleep, and the dogs are splayed out behind me sounding so sigh-y and peaceful, and the only other noise other than those two is the buzz of a cicada outside. What I'm saying is this is a perfect time to go back to sleep, but if I do that my Fitbit will never hit 10,000 today, and at this point I need a Fitbit intervention or something. I spend my whole day trying to impress a strip of plastic.

Okay, so I'm off. With bells on.

P.S. Oh! I have one more thing to say. We need to organize our efforts and protest two things. One, we all need to start REFUSING to purchase these damn sheer shirts if they don't come with a free camisole. Am really getting annoyed. And two? We need to demand that movie theaters show no more than two previews before a show. I went to see poor Amy Winehouse's documentary yesterday, which may be why this was such a boozy post, and they showed previews for TWENTY MINUTES. We need to start walking out and demanding a refund or something. We need to get very huffy. The way Edsel gets huffy if you move during the night. We need to flump off and sigh dramatically. Who's in?

Celebrity Gossip with June

I just read an article yesterday, in my hard-hitting Entertainment Weekly, because I think it's important to stay abreast of the news. In it, a gay actor (that guy from Girls, you know the one? I love him) said young gay people don't go to gay bars anymore. They make fun of gay bars.

I mean, this is good. I like it that gay and straight people are living in harmony and teaching the world to sing and gay people don't need their own bars anymore. But man, do I love a good gay bar. Plus, gay bars have those great names: Woody's (there was a Woody's in my old neighborhood in LA), The Empty Closet, The Bangkok. Fudge.

I guess nothing stays the same. I should have lived in New York in the late '70s, when all the gay men were the most fabulous and still alive. How a 14-year-old could have afforded her own New York apartment is beyond me. Brooke Shields did, though.

I just started the last four paragraphs with "I."

Oh, speaking of The News, a reader, and I forget who, emailed me awhile back and said, "Joooooon. Have you looked at that gossip site, Crazy Days and Nights?" She said it was written by an entertainment lawyer or something, and they have a section called Blind Items Revealed that is to die for. Navigating the site is a NIGHTMARE, but it's full of the gossip.

I knew about poor Jennifer Garner and Ben Affliction or whatever months ago. I also knew about Jon Hamm.

Because Jon Hamm is available, did you see that? Okay, he's 90 days out of rehab. Hooo care? Actually, I'd be interested to know when exactly they broke up, because your first year of sobriety you aren't supposed to break up with or meet anyone. So I'd love to judge if he's doing it wrong. Poor Jon Hamm.

Actually, what I read was, he told his girlfriend of SIXTEEN YEARS that he doesn't want kids after all, and girlfriend is 42, so what's she supposed to do now? I mean, ship has sailed. You know what the very worst thing would be? Is if he meets someone else, marries her right away, and they have kids. I've heard of that happening. I don't know how, if a man does that to you, you can stop yourself from driving over to his house and killing him right in the head.

Fortunately, the siren song of having children never called to me, so this was never an issue. But did I ever tell you about how I got pregnant when I was married? Oh, I was so annoyed.

I've never wanted kids. Not once. Not for an iota of a second. Someone in my family did a family tree, and it's amazing how many of my women, back in the 1800s and early 1900s, didn't have kids, either. My Aunt Mary also doesn't have kids. We have no maternal gene.

Anyway, when I was 31 and already dating Marvin and it looked marriage-y, I got my tubes tied. The pill and Depo shots gave me migraines, and insurance covered it. This was back when insurance covered stuff. Remember those heady days? The whole operation cost me $40.

That was in 1996, and in the year 2000, I ran a marathon in Chicago. I got back November 1, I remember this, and hadn't seen Marvin in a week, so boom.

It was less than two weeks later that I started to feel what you might call logy. I'd get out the car to go to work and it seemed like the whole parking lot was tilted. Dizzy? You don't know the half of it. I'd get off the elevator and even though I wasn't in the door of the office yet, I'd think, "God, who brought doughnuts? Yuck." I could smell

EVERYTHING

and everything made me sick. "I think I'm pregnant," I said to Marvin, who didn't want kids either, and that's why I married him. Well, that and Annie Hall was his favorite movie. "You're not pregnant." Marvin stampeded to the computer to Ask Jeeves or whatever we did in 2000. "There's a .05 percent chance you could ever get pregnant after a tubal litigation." Marvin was forever screwing up words and finding himself hilarious.

I called my doctor, who has now quit the profession, and she said the same thing, but to come in and they'd do a blood test because it was too soon to tell with a urine test back then. I'd had my period during the marathon, which by the way was a lot of fun and super convenient.

I continued to smell each cleaning product, individually, in the grocery aisle, and in fact, I was AT the grocery store when I saw a homeless man holding and rocking an invisible baby. "That is IT," I said, and bought a pregnancy test.

I got home and peed on a stick, and I'll bet you're glad you tuned in today. June's blog. Come for the body fluids. So to speak.

When that damn test showed a plus sign, I screamed. Screamed. Then I ran into the dining room, where I remember Mr. Horkheimer sizing my screamy self up. "God. Get hold of self, Hair."

Right then the phone rang, and I sobbily answered. It was my doctor. "Honey?" she said, and I KNEW BY HER DAMN HONEY that she had what was for me bad news. Goddammit.

And here's the worst part. The part I will never forgive. NEVER FORGIVE. When I called Marvin with my news, he was all, "Really!?"

HE WAS HAPPY. HE WAS GODDAMN HAPPY.

Oh, I was mad at him. The whole POINT of Marvin was that he didn't want kids, either. Next thing you know he'd be telling me his favorite movie was really Cocktail.

So, I decided I was going to have a baby. Oh, I didn't want to. I was bracing myself. I figured I was financially okay, I was happily married, I was an adult. Ish. And right when I accepted the idea, I had a miscarriage.

Dear God: What the hell?

So that's that story. I will not go into what happens next, but it involved Marvin sitting on a bag of frozen peas for a weekend.

Heck, it's 8:32 already. I was gonna tell you how I went to the movies last night and saw Pretty Woman, and guess what? Early '90s fashion. Not good. Not good at all.

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Love, Joooooon

Watch June apply her makeup. You won’t BELIEVE what happens next. Yeah, you will. She puts on clothes and goes to work.

Today, Ima talk to you while I do my makeup. Here I am, looking like one of those women who doesn't shave her parts, whose one iota of makeup is some tinted Burt's Bees balm.

Photo on 7-9-15 at 7.55 AM #2

Mmmm. Vision. You know, I am in no way a natural beauty. Never have been. Thank god I'm a drag queen with the makeup.

Photo on 7-9-15 at 7.58 AM

Combed my eyebrows, darkened them a little, and put on some undereye concealer. I never had a problem with dark circles till I started to use Latisse. It's one of the side effects. However, I've been out of Latisse for maybe a month now, and things keep coming up that I have to spend money on like glamorous water heaters. But, Dear Mom: My birthday is a week away. Nothing says Happy 50th! like a bottle of Latisse.

I assure you mom has already purchased and likely mailed my gifts, and there ain't no Latisse in there. Darn, that's the end.

Photo on 7-9-15 at 8.07 AM #4

A little foundation, some eye shadow. You'll note our regularly scheduled cat has been replaced by a dog. You won't BELIEVE what happens next! Click here!

And by the way, I totally forgot poor Edsel's birthday, on the 7th. Was too busy at King Kong. I thought of it last night, and went running into the room Edsel was in, and he immediately began beating his tail against the wall and had no idea why I was kissing him and giving him treats, but he didn't care.

I asked him if he wanted to come sleep with me, just us two, and he didn't have to be asked twice. IMG_4685
well, eds haff the time of ed's life. and he never felt dis way beefore.

Somehow eventually Tallulah got up there, too, and I have no idea how I ever slept with two dogs and two cats in a double bed like it was normal.

Anyway, now Edsel is 5. Man, has he calmed down.

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Oh, also? I always forget how much he and Lily seem to like each other. They were totally making out last night, but by the time I got my photojournalism camera out, all I got was this and they broke it up.

Photo on 7-9-15 at 8.21 AM #2

Eye pencil mascara and expired lipstick. My lipstick has an expiration date on it, I am not kidding. I should have stopped using it back in March. Am living on edge.

So now I have to get dressed, but before I go, help me with a deep thought I was having the other day. What is the worst song of the '80s? I mean, there's the obvious We Built This City, and I do heartily detest that song, but what about Huey Lewis? The heart of rock and roll is still–oh, go fuck yourself.

Do share your thoughts.

Overture, curtain, lights. Or, Fay Wray has June hair.

Last night, we went to see King Kong, and not any stupid King Kong with Naomi Watts or even Jessica Lange. The original one, with that subtle actress Fay Wray.

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Please note the part where she's practically nekkid in that dress. This is one of Ned's all-time favorite movies. For weeks, Ned has been counting the days till King Kong. When he woke me up yesterday, the first thing he said was, "TODAY IS KING KONG." I think it had more to do with a huge monkey than poor June-haired Fay Wray.

They played an overture before the movie began. Why did they have overtures in old movies? It's just a still screen, with the word OVERTURE across it, in case you didn't know what was going on.

"Overture, curtain, lights," I said to Ned.

 

And because I really hate driving my point home, I added, "This is it, the night of nights. And oh what heights we'll hit." This developed into a whole discussion on Was Bugs Bunny gay, because that was one gay number he did with his cane, there, and we don't even have to CONSIDER Daffy's sexuality. Sure, sometimes Bugs Bunny would like a sexy girl bunny, but have you never heard of a beard? It'd explain my lifelong love of Bugs Bunny. I have been a fruit fly since day one.

 

The overture (curtain, lights) involved extremely dramatic music. "Alex should play this in the background when she tells her story," I said, falling in love with myself all over again, as if I hadn't already with my overture, curtains, lights line.

One of the Alexes at work had something really dramatic happen to her, which I cannot tell you about because she is writing about it for an article and I can't ruin the whole thing that way. "Oh, that story. Yeah. June already told us that story." But the point is, by the time I got to her after her Dramatic Events, she had that story honed, man. She even had dramatic pauses and flare-y nostrils at certain important points. I am not saying I wouldn't have done the same thing.

The thought of Alex telling her already-harrowing story with the above music sent me into giggles, and then the damn movie started. Ned could hardly contain himself. He's seen it a hundred times, but never on a real movie screen.

Culturally sensitive? Wow. Those idiot white men just stampeded onto poor King Kong's island, shot everything that moved, including, oh, dinosaurs, and captured King Kong. There was this beleaguered young woman of color that the whole island was about to marry ("marry." pfft) off to King Kong, but once they got a load of old Fay Wray and her June hair, they tossed that poor teenaged girl aside and slapped her on some poles for Kong. "That young girl is off somewhere saying, 'Man did I dodge a bullet,'" I said to Ned.

When the natives told the stupid white men that they were fixing to "marry" that poor teenager off to King Kong, the main idiot white guy said, "Great!" Not "This is appalling!" But "Great!"

I mean, poor King Kong was just living his life, maybe date raping the occasional village girl here and there, but other that that. He had a swinging bachelor pad with a balcony ("That's probably the best apartment in the whole island," said Ned) and possibly a snake infestation he might want to look into. I felt bad for poor Kong.

I mean, those white men were dicks. "We'll capture him and make a million bucks!" They deserve everything that happened to them. Entitled assholes.

My favorite part was back in New York, when poor PTSD Fay Wray watches King Kong escape, so she screams up to her apartment, where she tells her emotionally stunted boyfriend she worries that somehow King Kong will still get her, and this happens.

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I mean, that is so something that would happen to me. That's a pretty nice place for someone who a few months back had been stealing apples to survive. Sure, it's just a studio, but this is New York, man. Is that a piano over there? Dang. Work it, Fay.

Wait. Is that a hotel room? HOW THE SAM HILL DID KING KONG FIND HER HOTEL? Come on. I can see looking her up in the phone book and getting to her apartment, but did he have a Find Fay app or something?

And I think maybe King Kong could dial it down a tad with the wide eyes and Edsel underbite every second of the day.

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I mean, could he ever look contemplative? Happy? Even distracted? No. All day, every day, it's old Here's-My-Intensity Kong.

Afterward, Ned and I went to a French restaurant and had bruschetta. Tonight, we have A Hard Day's Night. The movie, you perv.

'Twas beauty that killed the blog.

The impatient torso

I haven't really talked to you since the 4th of July, before that kid out there put a firecracker and his head and killed his own self. Did you read about that? Anyway, since it's been that long, I will go backward, like Benjamin Button is blogging at you.

Right now I just woke up. That sums up the present. NedKitty is standing behind me in this chair, and has her wet Kitty-Love-the-Shower hands on my shoulders so she can eat my hair, as she does. We look like we're posing for an Olan Mills shot. Because you know how often you've had the cat pose behind you with her wet shower cat weird head at Olan Mills.

Speaking of weird, last night, Ned and I had therapy and a movie–the traditional date. That old theater we like is essentially showing four old movies a week, all of July. Last night it was The Man Who Knew Too Much.

I had to scream right from work to therapy, which started at 5:30. The therapist knows the way of her people, so she wondered where we were going to eat after. "Nowhere. We have a movie," said Ned, handing her a check for six thousand dollars.

"I have to eat before the movie, though," I said to Ned, who wondered why I couldn't just wait till after the movie. And right there is what we should have spent that session discussing.

Ned regularly eats dinner at 9 o'clock at night, like he's Spanish. I do not understand how a human can have a salad for lunch, WORK OUT LIKE A DEMON, and not eat till 9:00. I really don't. And he really does not see how that is not acceptable behavior to me.

Do you remember the first year we were dating, back when I pretended to be nice, and he made me go Christmas shopping with him after work, and I didn't know how he was yet with the decision-making, and we didn't get to a restaurant till almost 10:00, and then inexplicably Ned insisted we eat at the bar, so we had to wait, and when we sat down the kitchen was closed?

DO YOU REMEMBER THAT?

I do.

The point is, we had half an hour between therapy and the movie. "Ill just drive through somewhere, and you go feed the pets," I said to Ned, and the therapist said, "Cook Out."

See. That's why she's good at her job. Cook Out sells delicious barbecue, and they also happen to have the worst drive-through speaker in the history of time. Ned was nervous about this whole setup. "How will there be TIME?" he kept asking.

I got to the drive-through at 6:32. "I'll have a barbecue sandwich, cole slaw, and some hush puppies," I told the speaker.

"Ma'am?"

"BARBECUE SANDWICH, COLE SLAW–"

"Ma'am?"

Sometimes I think they do it on purpose because they're mad I'm not Southern. After 52 tries of me screeching into that speaker like a fishwife ("A COKE," "A milkshake? What flavor, ma'am?") I drove up and got precisely not at all what I'd asked for. I got fries, and a barbecue PLATE. Not a sandwich. A plate.

I was home by 6:38. Ned had already gotten home and fed the animals. I took my wrong food to the back yard to eat al fresco with el dogs-o, and I am not kidding you. I AM NOT KIDDING YOU. Ned stood behind me while I ate. Looking at his watch. So that was relaxing.

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Tallulah while I ate barbecue. Note the paw of insistence.

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Edsel, having rolled in the dirt merrily, till he realized I was eating barbecue. Yes, Ned has sat down at this point. But doesn't he just LOOK impatient? Ned and the impatient torso.

We got to the movies on time, after that relaxing precisely-what-I-wanted meal. After, I had a deadline for Purple Clover (here's my latest one), which I banged out because it was lightning-ning out and thundering and I wanted to see it.

At about 10:00, I finally got to my own front porch. Ned was eating. Ned was eating tomatoes on toast. He'd not eaten for more than nine hours, and then he was content with tomatoes on toast. I was ready to eat AGAIN, after all that Alfred Hitchcocking.

As soon as I got outside, I saw them, the lightning making them visible. Two bats, who I named Bat Lauer and Batty Rubble, were swooping right outside our porch.

"NED! BATS!" I yelled to him, and he got up from his toast points or whatever. Ned and I love a bat. And these were maybe five feet away. "Geez!" said Ned, as they swooped ever closer. "I hope I have the camera ready when one gets in your hair. This is like Muskbat Love."

"I'm not afraid," I said, because I don't believe that stupid bats-get-in-your-hair myth. I like bats. I know they could be rabid, but do you know how many things I live with that could be rabid?

Woosh, they'd swoop in front of the porch. Woosh, they'd swoop back. "Good. I hope they get every one of those mosquitoes," said Ned, who never gets bitten. In the meantime, I am no longer a human, I'm just a collection of welts.

It was all cool till Bat Lauer swooped right onto the porch. You know how I say I'm not afraid of bats? Turns out I kind of am.

"Eeeeek!" I said, like I was a cartoon character, and screeched inside.

Ned sat out there with the bats for the rest of the night, like he was Count Chocula or something.

Tonight we have the original King Kong at the theater. Ned is beside himself over this development, as he loves that movie. Nothing but death could keep him from it. The people I work with think the original King Kong has Naomi Watts in it.

I see that I've rambled on forever about just one day, and this is why I cannot get behind on my blogging. Suffice it to say we went to a festival on the 4th, and I saw this tattoo of a Death Party Hello Kitty and have A NEW GOAL WANT THIS SO BAD OH MY GOD.

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And I know you can't wait to smugly get on here and say, "It's Day of the Dead, Joooooon, not Death Party," but once my Uncle Bill was held up by a funeral, and when he got home he was all flustered, and he said, "I had to wait for those cars, for the, oh, what do you call it. A party, a death party," and that is something we have not let drop.

DEATH PARTY HELLO KITTY TATTOO! So fucking cool.

So I will go, with many more stupid stories to tell you left untold. It's kind of like we're at that speaker at Cook Out.

Ma'am?

P.S. I got back on Facebook, after my huffy hiatus. Go friend Karen Sommerfeld. I have no idea who that is, but go friend her.

Hugging broccoli

Although it's a national holiday, a day where we all try to blow off body parts and scare the country's dogs half to death, I thought I'd check in. Don't you hate people who say "check in"?

Because I'm not trying to scream this out before work, which I'm always late for anyway, because I have the luxury of time, except for the part where Ned and I have plans and eventually he'll say something indirect (aka Southern) like, "Were we still gonna go to that thing, or…?"

I forgot where I was going with that sentence.

…Oh! Right!! Because I have time, I thought I'd show you all the pictures I have saved up, to blog about "later," and you know how I am about thinking about something tomorrow.

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I am often taking photos by accident on my phone, because I forget to turn off the taking-pictures part. I enjoy this one, the Journey Up My Nostril photo. There's a woman whose website I enjoy very much, and she's really very beautiful, but every picture she takes of herself, she's looking off to the side like this. It makes one wonder if she lives in the Land of Periphery or something. It must be her best angle or something. I don't know that this is my best angle. You know what my best angle is? 1989.

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I have no idea what's happened here, but this kills me. Ned looks high as a kite. This is probably what it's like to date Matthew McConaughay.
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Speaking of drugs, I bought new glasses while I was under the influence. Remember a few weeks ago, when I had that procedure and they gave me Propofol? They said, you may FEEL just fine. But don't go making any life-altering decisions or drive a car or anything for 24 hours. So Ned drove me over to pick up my contacts, and I waltzed in there, tried these on an ordered them, like I'm just MADE of $230, which is what these cost with the lenses and so on.

When they called to tell me my glasses were in, I was all, OHMYGOD, I ordered glasses! and I said to Ned, "Why didn't you STOP me?" and he was all, "Dude, I was in a chair reading Elle. I had no idea what you were up to." Since Ned was an adolescent, he's perused the women's magazines hoping for the occasional exposed breast.

Could you care less about looking at naked men? It does nothing for me, naked men. I would not once consider perusing a magazine to see a naked man. Okay, a naked black man. That I would seek out. But then I'd say, Oooo! and go on with my day. I wouldn't move mountains for it or anything.

Anyway, I had to wait to get them, my new glasses, till the next pay period, and it turns out I kind of like them! So yay. The last new glasses I bought were in 2011, when you all helped me.

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Me, in 2011.

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The other day, Ned sent me an email telling me to relax, and boy, that's guaranteed to relax me. Anyway, I sent him this photo as a result. HERE I AM SO SO RELAXED, MOTHERFUCKER.

Which I just typed as "otherfucker," and that is hilarious to me.

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I was not at all walking Edsel at 9 o'clock at night in order to get my 10,000 steps in or anything. Guess who hates me? Here's Eds with the moon on the water, because MOON IS UP, MAYBE GO HOME JUNE.

My wrist buzzed me as I walked home that night. SUCCESS. What do you mean, meds?

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I have one sports bra left, and it has hair dye all over it. I have no idea why. Probably one weekend I worked out and then did my roots before I took a shower. The point is, I went out in public like this the other night to do that free Fitness by the Fountain that I go to. Anytime I go to it, I think of that dog meme: Fitness whole pizza in my mouth.

The point is, need new sports brassiere. I look insane.

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We had the day off yesterday, and on Thursday, we got out of work at 3:30. The Other Copy Editor, fmr., invited a few of us over AT THREE-THIRTY IN THE AFTERNOON. By the time Ned arrived at 5:30, things were definitely out of hand.   IMG_4632_2 IMG_4637 IMG_4639
Might could be in love with TOCE fmr.'s pugs.

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Yesterday, one of the Alexes from work and I drove all the damn-ass way to Charlotte to buy cards. I mean, there is a super-really-cool card store there that also has things like necklaces and coffee mugs and purses and bottle openers and girl things, and I bought some metallic tattoos and 2484393294 greeting cards and Dear Aunt Mary, Maybe your birthday gift.

And then we had lunch. As girls do.

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And THEN we went to Ikea. I know, man!

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Alex had a whole list of what she needed. The Frudenhugen table. The AbbaBlondeHottenTotten picture frames. Some baby gifts. And the SwedishChefengruasen floating shelves.

"Wait, why do we need baby gifts?" I asked. Her best friend is having a baby. So we checked out the stuffed animals, and there was a stuffed carrot and a stuffed broccoli. As you do.

Alex held both to her. "Which is better?" she asked, hugging Broccoli. I suggested both, because sensible, but in the end, she got the broccoli. It had big puffy broccoli floret hair, really June hair if you think about it, and a smiley broccoli face.

We zoomed through that store and got each thing on Alex's list, and headed for the checkout. "I kind of feel like we just made Ikea our bitch," she said, loading everything on the conveyor belt.

"Wait. Is Broccoli a GIRL?" she asked. Her friend is having a boy. I guess she was concerned about bringing a woman home to him this soon. Alex stuck her hand under Broccoli's skirt.

"Did you just finger Broccoli?" I asked, scandalized.

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I guess I'd better wrap it up with these pictures, as I hear Ned walking around downstairs, and I can FEEL his "Are we still going, or…?" welling up inside him. Have a lovely day of independence from your digits, and I will talk to you tomorrow. -ish.