Mum-y blogger

This will surely make the more nervous of you, you know, nervouser, but I can only write you for a few minutes, as I have the jury duty and need to be downtown by 8:15, which, WHAT THE HELL, judicial system? Annoy.

There is, in fact, a sort of major trial starting today in my town, and I wonder if I will be a part of that. Please note that I did not end that sentence with a question mark, as it was not a question.

This is my latest Thing That Bugs.

“I thought you were going to Tijuana?” See, that’s a statement. You do not need that goddamn question mark. ARE you going to Tiajuana is a question. Didn’t you go to Tiajuana is also a question. But a sentence that starts with “I thought” is a statement.

“Help?” Oh my god THAT BUGS. Not a question.

Anyway, this weekend I painted the trim in the hallway, which was exciting and I got to see my cute paint store guy again. Indifferent. He was indifferent. Why is a 23-year-old black kid indifferent to an old white lady?

IMG_0651.JPGI’ve also been reading this book that one of you told me about. It’s written from the perspective of Caroline Ingalls of Little House fame, and the writer did all sorts of research to figure out what Ma was like on the INSIDE. Answer: Nicer than me.

The book store guy was all, “Oh, I loved that show.” Perhaps you will be on the jury where you don’t convict me of murder seeing as I had to snap his neck.

IMG_0670.JPGWhen I wasn’t painting or sitting around in pajamas reading…

IMG_0683 2.JPGI was at the farmers market. “Farmers,” in this case, does not get an apostrophe. I know it FEELS like it should. But they do not own the market.

IMG_0693 2.JPGI perused and eventually purchased mums, for m’front window area, and once I hung it I realized it was way too big and it looks like I’m hanging the be-fro’d head of Helen Willis from The Jeffersons out front of m’house.

Screen Shot 2017-10-02 at 7.51.49 AM.pngWhich believe it or not was not the autumnal feel I was going for.

You’d think with all their money that the Jeffersons would have sprung for a better oil painting.

Anyway, at the farmers no apostrophe market, I also played with the depth feature on my phone.

IMG_0677.JPGIMG_0681.JPGIMG_0689.JPGIMG_0674.JPGI ran into a fun person I worked with at a job two jobs ago, and the last time I ran into her was the time I went to the grocery store in a pajama top, thinking, Oh, no one will see me, and then I saw seriously 9 people during that trip. The day I have on my prom dress and a professional blowout? No one. Bupkis.

I’d better go get ready to be a part of our judicial system.

Tough but fairly,

Judicial June

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Mygoulash Hexaglass

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Tryin’-a chill

Yesterday, after I wrote you about what happened with Edsel, I gave myself a big headache, and most of my big-list plans went undone. I DID get all my laundry washed and dried, even the hand-washables, which was no small feat. Continue reading “Mygoulash Hexaglass”

Facing June Addiction

Yesterday, I got up early to go to the allergy doctor. I hurried around, and tore over there to be on time, and when I got there, right at 8:00?

They were closed.

I walked up to the door and knocked. No lights on. They'd given me paperwork, so I opened it. "8:00," it read. I left the paperwork in their mailbox in a huff, and went home, annoyed. I could SEE my workplace from the doctor's office, but I'd taken the morning off and goddammit, I was sticking with that. If you don't need half a day off three weeks after Christmas, when do you need half a day off?

At 8:30, I called there, irate. Of course I'd called before then, and got the cloying, "If this is a true medical emergency, please hang up and dial 911."

Why don't you go fuck yourself? I HATE that condescending message. And also, what's with doctor's offices not letting you leave a goddamn message? What is this, 1972?

I also hate, "Please pay close attention, as our prompts have changed." YOUR PROMPTS HAVE NOT FUCKING CHANGED. SHUT UP.

The point is, I finally got someone. "Yes," I said, because I always start these things with"Yes…" I told the woman my woes, and she looked me up on her screen.

Name? I told her.

Date of birth? I told her.

Address? OH MY GOD JUST TELL ME WHAT'S UP.

Turns out my appointment is on the 31st. …yeah. I can remember the appointment lady saying, "How about Monday?" I remember it. I don't know what happened, there. And I even said back, "I'll see you Monday, then!" as I left.

Anyway, the good news is that because I had all that extra time yesterday, I found a freelance gig. They are planning to send me work already, a thing that Faithful Reader LaUral had something to do with, so thanks, LaUral.

This is good, because money? I'm hurtin'. During my year abroad I got all my credit cards and my car paid off, which was great, then I got here and Tallulah got sick and my car broke and hello, country song. Plus all my freelance work dried up, and it kind of saddens me that one has to take extra work beyond work to make ends meet these days.

But there it is, now I have some work, so good. Because my tank is on empty and I have $60 till January 31, which by the way is the day of my doctor visit, GOD. Everyone knows that.

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In the meantime, my tenant, fmr., came over to work out again, a thing my cat, current, thoroughly enjoyed. That's why the Lily is a tramp.

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We had to put old Obssessy McStalkerson, old Fred ASTARE, old Melanie Sniffeth, in the back room, because he is incapable of letting us be while we do Tracy. He down dogs, he rolls around, he sniffs us, he–OH MY GOD EDSEL. So he had a happy new year, in jail. That's only funny if you know It's a Wonderful Life by heart, and who doesn't?

It's nice to have someone hate Tracy with me. "Geez," Tenant, fmr., will say, as Tracy robotically lifts her leg in the same way for the 59th time and looks like she could do 100 more with no problem. Do y'all remember when I made Kaye do Tracy Anderson with me and she almost real-life unfriended me? Anyway, Tenant, fmr., will be here again Wednesday and not the 31st.

I have to go. I had a deal with myself that I'd read 200 books this year, and so far I've read a really dumb Terri McMillan book, a really dumb book I got out of the little take-a-book-leave-a-book library in our park, a book I realized when I was done is a trilogy and now I have to read the rest even though dumb. And now I'm reading a relationship book. I want to keep going on that one this morning before work.

It's really weird. I found the book in my closet–my closet I hardly ever go in. It's a new book, and I'd clearly starting reading it at some point because a page is dog-eared, but I don't remember buying it and I don't remember reading one single word of it.

I even looked in my Amazon emails to see when I got it, and nothing. I showed it to Tenant, fmr., and she didn't leave it here.

Anyway, it's exactly perfect for me. It's exactly the problems I had, and there are ways to fix myself, and I was tempted to contact Ned to say, THIS BOOK IS US. HERE'S HOW WE FIX IT. But (a), we're in a no contact thing for a reason and (2) I don't think he's ready to hear it. Clearly I wasn't when I first got this book. I don't recall one word of it.

It's called Facing Love Addiction, and it talks about the Love Addict/Love Avoidant duo and how they interact with each other, and why they are the way they are and the whole time I was reading it I was all, OH MY GOD! So now I'm at the back of the book where you have to do writing exercises, which I did last night after T,f. left, till my hand hurt.

So, that's exciting. Because between you and me, I was baffled that I could get into something so intense and dramatic and on/off like that. I mean, I did that when I was 22, but I figured well, I'm 22. I had no idea I was capable of something this insane at 51. I thought I'd grown out of acting that way. But clearly I haven't. I have been ashamed, really, of how all-consuming this relationship has been. If I were my friend I'd be so sick of me by now.

So it's good to have hope that I can maybe not do this again.

I'll talk to you tomorrow, or maybe on the 31st.

WHAT?

My friend at work, The Poet, has a birthday on December 31. Which is sort of cool in every way, except for the part where no one cares about you on your birthday.

EXCEPT ME. I DID. But then I got my mysterious throat illness, and I was willing to still take The Poet out, but she did not want to catch my disease, nor did she want to hold me in her armchair so she could feel my disease, so we made plans to go out last night, and last night we did.

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Here's me waiting for The Poet to show up. She worked later than I did, as she is on a fancy account and they work a lot.

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I took her to the hotel I like to go to, the scene of my first date with Ned, but that's not important right now. It's a big building with patients, but that's not important right now. The Poet brought fortune cookies, as she'd had them from a previous festivity, that festivity being, I believe, that she'd ordered Chinese for herself, and let's get this party started.

Hers said a house without books is not a home. She read it, and then we laughed like hyenas. She is not without books. It's very booky at her abode. If the police came by, they'd say, "Book her." She's got books, is what I'm saying to you. In fact, she's got so many books that she somehow found this man from Africa, who has a name we've never heard of, like Ohu or Ohio or Mantooth, and he comes over regularly to take away the books she's gone though and decided to donate. "Omaha came by and took 300 more books with him," she'll say.

So, books. Yeah.

Mine said at the end of the day, think about what I got from a day and what I gave to it. "Well, that's just smug advice," I said, not eating my cookie. "That's not a fortune. That's a school marm."

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We toyed with getting appetizers, but settled instead on the dessert plate, which contained internal organs. Mmmmmm!

Really, that photo was not flattering. It was that thing you get in New Orleans, a Bin Laden or a bidet or a Ben Wa or whatever. Then honey graham creme bruleé that Marvin would have died for, a mint chocolate cheesecake, and dark chocolate mousse.

Anyway, we weren't there long before a live band started, and if you ever want to make me happy, please play live music while I am trying to have a fucking conversation.

"WHAT?" we said, the rest of the night. And The Poet is such a loudmouth as it is. She probably went home and poeted about the whole evening. The poem will be titled, WHAT?

I as really hoping they'd play Lyin' Eyes, as you know that's The Poet's favorite. I can't hear that song without delighting in telling her I heard it, then inevitably throwing in a line from it. Because I found out early, how to open doors with just a smile.

That'd be so helpful when I have groceries.

I came home and, after several disasters, got off OK Cupid. Oh my god, I give up. Everyone I liked didn't like me, and everyone who liked me was either creepy or unemployed. One guy I talked to for days, and I kept asking about his life, and everything was nebulous.

"Why did you move here? For your job?"

"It was sort of a crisis that brought me here."

Okay.

Finally, after DAYS, I was just direct. "What do you do for a living?"

"I'm in a 'transition' right now," he wrote. His air quotes, not mine. "Trying to find the career that will suit me."

He's 45.

And this was not an isolated incident. Look, men of America, none of whom read my blog, do not get on dating sites if you are not equipped to be in a relationship. That means being in the middle of a life crisis, being unemployed, being under-employed, being a nutbar, etc.

So while I fumed over that, I also decided I am probably not ready to be in a relationship, either. I have to get over Ned 100%. I have to get to the point where I can run into him or god forbid hear about him (you have no idea how many people at work feel the need to tell me they saw him out and about) and it would mean nothing. Until I get to that point, I'm not good for anybody, either.

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I decided all that last night while obsessing over my cats. These last two weeks have marked five years since I got Iris and soon after, Lily. The Frost sisters. Did you forget their last names are Frost? And–oh my god! Yesterday was the three-month anniversary of getting Steely Dan Silverman. Idiot savant about dates.

The point is, I'm obsessed with Steely Dan. The Poet remarked about what a beautiful cat he is, (even when he's making that face, above) and he truly is lovely.

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Attitudinal. Catitudinal. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Woooo! Oh, this sure is a humor blog, June.

He's just so sweet, and so adventurous, and he purrs when you pick him up. Look. Iris will always be my f-a-v-o-r-i-t-e of my cats, because Iris is amazing, but oh, he is really da bomb. I lucked out on this Craigslist find.

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I don't know why Edsel never lays his head on the dog bed.

Oh! And speaking of things I can't afford, like a bigger dog bed that he'd still hang his head off of, my Steely Dan ball is coming up this pay period and I seriously have, like, 50 dollars to spend on it. I need cheap decoration ideas (ball themed) and one, like, soup or meatball recipe or something I can make. Everyone is bringing snacks and wine as well, so.

Okay, go! You're like my personal Pinterest.

WHAT?

June

Oh, good. I get to read about someone’s trip.

I hate brunch.

There's the part where you're expected to get up, WITH NO FOOD OR COFFEE IN YOU, and head to some crowded restaurant, then wait in a lobby for a hundred minutes. Then always–ALWAYS!!–some asshole party of 10 is just before you, because hey, what's more fun than a huge GROUP going to brunch where it's already crowded.

Then you have to wait. For more coffee, for your food, for your check, and in the meantime, some asshole is singing Fire and Rain on his acoustic guitar, which is supposed to relax you and make you forget you've waited 45 minutes JUST FOR ONE CUP OF COFFEE SO FAR, when really that song is about a terrible plane crash, so relaxingness, not accomplished.

But I just figured out yesterday, as I waited 250 minutes for an egg, that another reason I hate going to brunch is how awful people look. It's so obvious they've rolled out of bed and just shuffled on in. Dear People At Brunch: Put on some goddamn pants. "Oh, these yoga pants and m'flipflops will suffice."

NO THEY WON'T.

I'm the only person you know who could come back from the beach even crankier than before. I totally need one of those flipflop stickers for my back window, and maybe a "Beach Girl" license plate. If you ever see me with either one of those, you'll know it's time to put me in the home. My ex-mother-in-law used to say that about if we ever saw her out in a sweatsuit.

You know what my ex-MIL would never do? Wear yoga pants to brunch.

Despite that, I did have fun. It was like the perfect vacation. The weather was divine, and I just said "divine." The little place I stayed was perfect, and mercifully empty till this asshole couple arrived on Saturday and decided blaring their music and opening their back doors right next to me was a marvelous idea. They also made out in their bathing suits on the back porch. Our shared back porch. I went outside and pretended they weren't there and read a book. Like the jerk of an old lady that I am.

One of the songs they were blaring was, I'm sad to tell you, I've Had The Time of My Life. You know, from Dirty Dancing? She had some kind of extended dance remix of it, and who knew there was such a thing. When this jerk of a young chippie wasn't carrying a glass–A GLASS–of mimosa to the beach and making out with her boyfriend, whom she continually called, "Baby," she was jamming out to that song. She was singing along. I was reading my book just to irk her back there, and I was all, "Bitch, I was out here in the world hating this song before you were a zygote."

Anyway, they were only there the last full day, as I said, and they left midafternoon and I didn't hear from them again till Sunday morning, which is what drove me to get eggs in public.

Other than that, it really was the perfect vacation.

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Here's my hair on day one.

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Later on day one.

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Day two, then below, days four and five. On day three, I went to town and had civilized hair. If anyone says, "Beach hair don't care," Ima personally drive to your house and make you wait tables at brunch.

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I sat in the giant chair at my rental house and looked at the water and obsessed over the bunnies who could not have hated me more,

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I had a dark-chocolate s'more (not a euphemism), and watched sunsets. I was on a point, so I could see water all around me.

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I saw three shooting stars on various nights, and oh! I saw a dead jellyfish!

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That poor jellyfish. The water was his jam.

I also went to Wilmington, which is right next to the beach I stayed at. Whenever you say you're going to the beach, people here are all, "Oh, what beach?" and then you tell them and I have no idea what they're thinking about you as a result. Do they think that's a tacky beach? That you sound rich cause you picked that beach? I have no idea. So far since I've lived here I've gone to the Outer Banks, and Carolina Beach, and Wrightsville Beach and Virginia Beach and I forget the others and they all look the same to me anyway, water and sand, which also by the way pisses people off. I guess it's like asking what church you go to. It tells a lot about a person.

Anyway, I went to Wilmington for the day, and saw people Halloween-ing, and saw many dogs, and went to a coffee shop and to the book store and bought jewelry I didn't need as opposed to all the people in the world who go without jewelry every single day, and that's the real tragedy we should be addressing in these times.

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Maybe this was a funeral procession for that jellyfish. You can't know, really.

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In a coffee shop window. There are two types of people in the world: People who love to sit in the window of the coffee shop, and people who never would. Guess which type I am.

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Bookstore sitting. I found an '80s Judith Krantz novel I read back when I had a perm, and I didn't buy it but now I wish I had, just to relive the terrible. It was called I'll Take Manhattan. The heroine was rich and beautiful and spirited. It really pisses me off when rich beautiful people think it's daring to be spirited. "Oh, I'm Prince Harry. Look at me rebel! With my bodyguards and my lifelong career as a royal!"

Anyway. You know what my dream is? To own a bookstore and have a bookstore cat. There's just the part where I'd have to know business things like maths and also I hate people. Oooo, I could have a brunch-and-books store. 

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Anyway, it was a good trip, and now I'm home sharing my toast with Edsel, and with each crust, he leaps in the air after it and a squeak of Eds gas comes along with it, which is probably god's way of telling me that Edsel should not be leaping after my toast crust, and what's sad is god speaks to me in dog gas.

This is the word of the Lord. <squeeeeeak>

Thanks be to God.

Oh, and happy Halloween! Boo! My coworkers are all going dressed as Griff this year, which is hilarious, but I was out of town and unable to fashion an ensemble, so I guess I'll just watch from afar this year.

I'll talk to you tomorrow, when I will have far fewer selfies, a thing that I'm sure makes you sad. Talk to you in November. Today's assignment is that we all must rush out and rent Sweet November. The old version with that namby-pamby pale actress. Then we can all get annoyed at how dying just means you nap a lot.

Edsel gas in red font-ly,

June

835 Glorious Words

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This is my favorite time of year, because, for example, this is the view out my kitchen window. Every hour I spend dicing and sauteing, I see this. I also have a view of this:

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I accidentally typed "dicking" instead of "dicing," which is more like it. Although I never do that anymore, either.

Speaking of which, last night I was walking Edsel.

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I took this by accident, but I love it. I was really meaning to film The Watching of the Chickens.

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Although right then it was the Ignoring of the Chickens. You know, once Tallulah got sick and I learned it was terminal, I was getting her Gentle Leader on her that same night and I said, "You know what, Talu? Never again." And I put a leash on her like she was a normal dog, nothin' on her snout, and SHE WALKED JUST FINE. She didn't pull me like I was miming dog-walking. Edsel, however, would not be fine. He pulls even with the Gentle Leader. Remember when I took them both in for harnesses? Good gravy.

Anyway. We were at the park walking in the grassy knoll part, and I always call it a grassy knoll in my mind and I often think of the photo I took of my grandmother, at the part of Dallas where Kennedy was shot, where she's pointing to the grassy knoll dramatically, like the old pictures. Now I want to dig that photo up and this is why I'm always late for work.

ANYWAY. My phone rang, and it was Ned. "Are you walking the dog?" he asked, because he knows my moves. I assured him I was. "I'm near your house, can I stop by?" Ned had a stress test last week, because what stress, and he'd had chest pains because did I mention what stress? He's the fancy president of his company, and do you know what I would never like to be? Is a president of a company.

The point is, he was running on the treadmill and that all went fine, except he pulled a calf muscle really bad and I'm sorry that I think that's hilarious. So now he's STILL GOING TO THE GYM, but not doing anything on his bottom half. This means he was done with the gym spectacularly early, like 7:00!!, and wanted to pop over. HE STILL HADN'T EATEN, of course, and Ned's whole evening schedule has always irritated the crap out of me. I hate to inform you that I freaking love living alone. I really do.

Anyway, we were still in the grassy knoll when I saw his car pull up, and we ended up meeting on the bridge of the park, and when Edsel saw Ned he broke into an ecstatic run, and the whole point is, Ned brought me two bouquets of purple tulips. I hugged him and Edsel wrapped his leash Ned and me twice, like a lasso.

"I'm sorry you had a weepy weekend," he said, handing me the flowers. And no he's NOT trying to get into my size 10 pants and my very big bra. Would that he were. Ned won't just bang people willy-nilly. He has to be all stable and in a relationship with a person, and what a pussy.

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But he did come have a drink at my house. He had a beer. I had water. I was out of points for the day.

I just noticed that I'm typing this whole thing with a cat asleep on my arm. I hadn't even noticed. It's incredibly uncomfortable, and why the carpal tunnel, June?

I guess that's all I have to tell you, other than my job changed a few weeks ago, and I think I told you that, but as a result, I'm now someone who has to go to meetings all the time. I'm forever leaping up to go to meetings. The woman who sits next to me told me at the beginning of the day, she looks in her calendar to see what meetings are ahead of her, rather than just letting the meeting alert thing stun her with the info 15 minutes prior. She says that way she's "prepared" for the meeting.

Hunh.

She's like 27.

Oh, also. I will be intentionally vague about this, because I'd hate for anyone to feel bad. But a coworker found a horrific book that has never been published, and when he opened it in the middle of the book the first thing he read was a love scene, that said, "For five glorious minutes…" Oh, then it was on. We BEGGED him to bring the book in, and every day we have something we call Five Glorious Minutes, where we read the book aloud. It's so fantastically awful that we can't get enough of it. Five glorious minutes are never enough. It's so bad that it really should be published. Maybe I'll sell copies of Five Glorious Minutes. Can I get sued for that? Yeah. Probably.

Crap. It's 8:31.

Gloriously,

June

The one where it snows in North Carolina. EVERYBODY PANIC!

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Dis offend Edzul dellikit sensibilitys.

We had something of a storm. It's not so much how many inches we got, which is the story of MY life, but rather that after it snowed, it then hailed, hailed, the gang was all here, and sleeted, and generally the weather was a dick. We didn't have work yesterday, but I still had to work. They'd told us all to take home our laptops "just in case." Then we got the email that the office was closed, followed by an email from the head of our department, who said, "Stay in your pajamas all day, but keep IM open just in case."

There were a lot of "just in cases" going on in my life yesterday. I got all that info before 8 a.m., and kept the phone with me and decided to rest my eyes just a bit longer. And what woke me up was damn Bitchy Resting Face Alex emailing me some work.

What a jerk.

She'd asked me earlier in the week if I could look at her deck. A deck is a presentation, but we never ever call anything by what it is at work, and you spend the first year there wondering what an MCOW is or a POD. Anyway, all week she was updating me on the condition of her deck, and you can imagine the appropriate responses I sent back.

"Your deck sounds really hard."

"Can't wait to see your deck. Can you send a deck pic?"

But her deck kept not being ready, despite the pills. She was a real deck tease. Finally, of course, when I'm supposed to be drinking spiked hot chocolate (step one: get hot chocolate) (step two: get spikes) IN MY PAJAMAS BECAUSE MY BOSS SAID, instead I spent all afternoon on that damn laptop studying BRF Alex's damn deck.

The BEST part, the VERY BEST PART, is when I was almost done and Iris sat on the laptop and erased everything and I had to start over. I AM NOT KIDDING YOU. Iris is a total deck block.

Anyway, through all that it snowed. Then tinkled icily. All day. Sometimes it was really loud and clanky and disturbing.

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Iris considers.

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Iris decides.

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I went outside in my pajamas, because my boss said, and crunched around in it for awhile, refilled the bird feeder, checked if it was good packing. It isn't.

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I guess a sensible person would have put those chairs up so they wouldn't get snowed on.

Tallulah isn't really eating that much, which worries me, and she's shaking, which similarly worries me, and it dawns on me if she gets really ill, we're stuck here. I tried to leave the house yesterday just to see if I could, with a whole, "Pfft, I'm from Michigan" thing going on, and I got stuck in my own driveway, which is a metaphor for everything in my life.

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She keeps going outside and squatting, often to no avail, and the silver lining is with the snow, at least I can tell when she's successful. The most heartbreaking thing was watching her squat while ice pellets fell on her. I wanted to go out there with an umbrella, like she was P Diddy, and she's Pee Didn't right now, but I knew that would just freak her out and she'd walk away from me.

I guess a sensible person would have brought in that water dish before it became a snow bowl.

Oh my poor Lu. Can't wait for the advice on this. I called the vet, but of course they're closed. So.

So that's the news over here. It's snowing, but I've got a good book (Purity, which I borrowed from Ned and hey, healthy boundaries) and I have a new paint-by-numbers to do because artist, and also my dog to obsess about. I'm all set! You should have heard my mother the night before the storm. "Have you got cat food? Dog food? Litter? Food for you?"

"Pam, I'm 50," I told her.

"That's not seemed to matter so far," she said, and remember when Dorothy used to threaten Sophia with Shady Pines?

Icily,

Joooooooon

Indian June

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The Sun Also Annoys Me. You?"

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

Whatever with Ned.

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

What in the world

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

Anyway, thank you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Imagejpeg_0-2AAACCKKKKKKKKK.

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

Vindicated.

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

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

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

Pound. Drive to the country.

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

June, and Cormac McCarthy, out.

Mince Words with Joooon: Forver by Judy Blume

Judyblume-forever
The last time I read Forever by Judy Blume, I was in 6th grade and owned a shockingly complete collection of Bonne Bell Lip Smackers, the best being–if you ask me–Piece of Cake, which tasted like wedding cake. If I ever get married again, I am handing those out as party favors.

Now that I'm a mother of six and the CEO of a major conglomerate, Forever by Judy Blume has taken on a whole new meaning. Mostly, when did we get so fucking weird about sex?

I was raised the same way as Katherine, the hero of our story. Her family is a little bit hippie-ish, meaning they don't live on a commune, but there's lots of macrame and free thinking and openness about sex. Even Katherine's grandmother was all, "Go on the pill! Have sex if you want!" and my one grandmother was the same way.

(The other grandmother spent a lot of her time worrying about how rapidly that steam train to hell was coming for me. She was what you might call traditional, and my upbringing caused her some consternation.)

(Imagine how worried she'd be if she knew some day I'd know and laugh at Faithful Reader Paula's jokes.)

The point is, it is shocking, when you read this book today, how NOT like that we are anymore. All of a sudden sex is this forbidden topic, and no one is doing it, and it's bad bad bad and everyone's getting shrill about DON'T GO SEE 50 SHADES, and Pee Wee Herman is selling abstinence rings, which okay, he's doing as a joke, but that there are enough abstinence rings out there that Pee Wee has to make fun of them is saying something.

What I like about Forever by Judy Blume–and apparently I have to say it like that in its entirety every time–is that this is a story where two people meet, have sex, and break up. Nothing tragic happens. Our heroine does not get AIDS or pregnant or even a UTI. It's–let's face it–kind of what happened to most of us in high school. We fell in love, we had sex and hey! Nothing bad happened except for maybe a broken heart, that you get over once Theo calls.

Not only did I have a wave of nostalgia for the permissiveness of the '70s, I also loved the references to things we don't do anymore: embroider jeans, talk on the phone, drink legally at age 18. It was all so charming in its '70s-ness. It made me long for Love's Fresh Lemon and an Ayds Candy.

I'd forgotten about the depressed friend, whose half-closeted homosexuality I could see coming a mile away. I have no idea if it's easier to be a gay teenager now, but I hope it is. The worst part about having a closeted boyfriend is you have to go to all his plays.

So, how'd you like revisiting Forever by Judy Blume? Were you scandalized? Thrilled at the once-shocking sex scenes? Wondering why we meet "Ralph" but never "Deloris," ifyouknowhatI'msayin'? And how much do you not miss monkey posters? I have never once enjoyed a monkey poster, or a monkey in clothes, or really a monkey anything other than straight-up monkeys being monkeys. Show me a picture of a monkey acting human and I show you my Easter Island face.* Let me know your thoughts.

Forever,

Juney Blume

*(c) Faithful Reader Paula, with whom I seem particularly obsessed today. Oh, I hope she shows me Ralph soon!!

Meet Ralph

The Sunday New York Times came today with no wedding section, which is my favorite part. "No, I didn't read the piece on China's faceless masses. I was checking out the lingerie ads." That's from the movie Manhattan, and shut up. We have a no-bashing-Woody rule here at this blog.

The point is, disappointed. "Maybe no one got married this week, because it's January and it's cold," said Ned, who I think does not grasp the enormity of New York. Maybe no one gay, rich or attractive got married, since that seems to be the criteria for getting mentioned in that wedding section. You never read about some schlub who works at Highland Appliance marrying his high school sweetheart, unless that high school sweetheart is named Bub. You meet a lot of people named Bub in this world.

Also, 1978 called. Wants its appliance store back.

THE POINT STILL IS, disappointed. "Yeah, January's a stupid month to get married," I said to Ned, as I perused an interview with Anne Hathaway, who I wish would go the way of Highland Appliance.

"January's the stupidest month, ever," agreed Ned. "Nothing good happens in January. It's a pointless month."

I was busy reading Anne Hathaway and didn't answer.

"Oh. Except our anniversary. That's in January," said Ned, who I think thought my stony silence was because I was so deeply hurt that he'd dissed January when really I was all up in Anne Hathaway, who did I mention can go fuck herself?

1978 has joined 1992, wanting the word "dissed" back.

Forever
Anyway, I've gathered you all here today to announce our book for Mince Words With June. Because I am in charge, I get to decide, and I have decided we will all read Forever by Judy Blume. I believe the dirtiest part is on page 78, and I haven't looked at that book since 8th grade when I was enjoying some Highland Appliance commercials, but I will bet you anything I'm probably right.

We will meet here on Sunday, February 15, and yes you CAN read this damn book in a month. And do not come to book club and leave the "I didn't read the book, but…" comment. For some reason those make fire come out my nose, and really what doesn't, but still. Anne Hathaway. She makes fire come out my nose.

I super-duper want a locket with that woman's picture in it, so that like four people will look inside and get the joke for the rest of time, but it'll be worth it.

Ned just said that breakfast is ready, and I can't come to the phone right now. I'm practising the piano.

 

Tallulah Bright and Dark

Is everyone back now? Are you all done ignoring me? Just another reason for me to hate the holidays: Everyone leaves.

I blog on and on: Here's what I got for Christmas! Hey, Dick Clark and me, throwing down!

Me: Christmas, New Year's Eve, blah! Celebrate good times, come on! [insert picture, insert another picture]

You Guys, 14 days later: …heh.

So, good. We're back to normal. I gave you yesterday to catch up, if you wanted to, and now here we are back to it being a regular, boring time of year so I'll show you pictures of my pets.

IMG_2421Edz so sad. will neber be same. neber be same unless you share towst.

20150104_192850_resizedShe was so cute, I let her stay, and man. Relaxing? It's like she was MADE to fit on my lap.

IMG_2398Senior dog. Senior picture.

I guess when I said I'd show pictures of my pets, I meant my dogs. We had all the cats put down. We're moving. I wonder if anything can incite my fury faster than, "We have to get rid of our pet. We're moving." Don't get me started.

Speaking of which, sometimes Purple Clover will run on Facebook old articles I wrote, and they ran the one about when Lily was missing and I looked for her at the fire station. THAT story on Purple Clover links to the OLD story about how she was missing. I looked at that story for the first time in months, and someone had left a long rambling comment about what a terrible person I was for just having the screen door open when I have a cat.

"I have 11 cats, myself," she wrote sanely, "and sometimes my husband will be so selfish and irresponsible, just like you, and leave the door open and I always tell him how awful he is, just like you."

Do you know who probably has a wonderful life? Mr. Catz, over there.

The wonderful part about writing for P Clover has been that comments can't hurt my feelings anymore. Back in the old days, when I was a whippersnapper, if you guys even slightly disapproved, it was like touching a hot stove or something. OH! I'll NEVER say that again!

Now I'm all, fuck it. I guess that's a good attitude to have.

What do you say fuck it about that you didn't used to? Do tell.

I have to go, because hair, wet.

Photo on 1-6-15 at 8.18 AMDog, over me.

Oh! P.S. I had a good idea for our book club, the one Typepad insisted you stay for when they did that little writeup. Let's this year read books from our teen years: Lisa Bright and Dark, Go Ask Alice, Forever. What say you?

P.S.S. Sigh. My latest Purple Clover. Go ahead and say mean things on it. Fuck it.

Love, June

IMG_2378mom hill air yus.

CU Now, Tuesday. That never gets old.

Mondays are always my ridiculous day, as I have an hour-long weekly meeting at work right from 4:00 till 5:00, and then I have my my student–for whom I have to make lesson plans–and finally my Purple Clover articles are always due on Monday.

And I want you to know I did ALL THOSE THINGS, and basically was in pajamas by 8:30. Hooo care? I was exhausted.

I just finished a really large book I re-read from 15 years ago, called Gloria, and now I need a new book to read. With all my spare time, because I'm not moving in three weeks or anything. But you know how I am. If I don't have a book to fall back on I feel like I've forgotten my cigarettes or something. Not that I've ever smoked. But I imagine it's the same. I mentioned this analogy to Ned, who said when he smoked there was never, ever a time he'd forget, or run out of, cigarettes.

My point is, book suggestions? Nothing stupid. I mean, if it's like those impostor perfumes where they say, "If you liked Obsession, you'll LOVE Stalker!" but instead they say, "If you liked Twilight, you'll LOVE Vampires at Dinnertime!"

Not that I didn't read Twilight. All of them. I know. Shut up. That's why I say nothing stupid. Because I'll read something stupid just as easily as I'll read something good.

The other morning I was at Ned's and read a delightful short story he'd been reading, where a guy is on his honeymoon, having sex with  his beautiful wife, and four pages later he kills himself. Ned has darkness in his soul.

Speaking of Ned, the other day he emerged from my kitchen, munching my box of lime Wheat Thins. "THIS is what I'm worried about when I live with you," he munched. I had no idea what he meant.

"UNHEALTHY SNACKS!" he said, and if you ask me, Wheat Thins aren't even that bad. Wait till I pull out the marshmallow fluff. Who do you think will win in this healthy/unhealthy war? Will I get all salady or will he help me with my weekly love letter to Hostess?

Also, you should SEE his closets. Everything's hanging the same way, all straight and tidy and so on, and there aren't 17,000 unmatched shoes on the floor, and no 900 tins of old love letters or sachets or hats or old shrugs I can't get rid of flopping all over the shelf on top. What I'm trying to say to you is Ned is neat.and.tidy. How soon till he kills me dead and uses Twinkies as his reason? "I wasn't used to processed foods! My brain snapped!" Marvin will come get on the stand in his defense.

All right, I have to go. Tonight I'm going to pack for awhile, then Ned and I are getting together. Oh, and I plan to try to mail your crate pictures tonight. PayPal me if you haven't, with your address.

And don't forget, books! Oh, and I forgot to promote yesterday's Purple Clover, which was rude of me. BAH!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seriously. That's what he wrote back.

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

So to speak.

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

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

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

I have a couple books I should never write:

Advanced Trigonometry, by June Gardens

Smooth Hair Tips and Tricks, by June Gardens

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

Keep Your Makeup Natural by June Gardens

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

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

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

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

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

I love it when Talu does her Edsel impression.

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

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

Philosophically,

June

The one where my dogs deceive me. MY OWN DOGS.

This weekend, Ned and I did absolutely nothing to fix my house up, which we had said we would do every weekend, but basically we both suck. We were planning to paint my fence yesterday, as though we were Tom Sawyer, but we did not because it was raining this teensy incessant nagging drizzle, not so bad that you couldn't go out in it, but just enough that you could not, say, paint anything outside.

On Saturday, thinking we had all the time in the world to get to fixing something in my house, which did I mention we had absolutely said we would do every weekend and we suck? Anyway, thinking we had all the time in the world for such things, Ned and I schlepped to the cemetery, as we both like to do.

I photographed tombstone names that cracked me up, because mature.

IMG_0644
IMG_0633I tried to get the side-by-side tombstones of Little and Dick, that really were right next to each other, but could not get my angles right. Mature photography is hard. It takes geography.

IMG_0649A whole roomful of graves, glaring at us.

IMG_0636Anyway. After that, we walked the dogs for a long time and oh! I keep forgetting to tell you about the day Ned walked them by himself. First of all, I saw them out the window as they came home, and they were…they were…I can't even say it. They were WALKING RIGHT NEXT TO NED. They weren't pulling eight feet ahead of him while he flew in the air behind them like a kite. No. They were walking next to him like when you see people walking their good dogs and you say, How the eff does anyone get their dogs to do that? My dogs were doing it.

Then they all burst in. "They were so good!" exclaimed Ned, removing their Gentle Leaders I bought years ago that were supposed to ensure they'd WALK RIGHT NEXT TO ME. "There was a little dog loose in the park, and it came right up under Edsel…"

I braced myself. I looked in Eds' teeth to see if there was any leftover schnauzer in there. How much was I going to owe these people because my dogs ate their Snickers or whomever? My dogs HATE small dogs, and will kick the ass of ANY dog who runs up to them, loose, and dear fucking people. Maybe YOUR dog is fine not on a leash, but guess what. Some of us are FOLLOWING THE RULES and keeping our dogs leashed, possibly FOR A REASON. And if your oh-so-great leashless dog comes up to my LEASHED dog, my leashed dog will kill your dog till it's dead.

"Edsel didn't do a thing!" Ned said, all excited. "Neither of them did!"

What the…?

Goddammit. They see fucking Ned as the fucking pack leader. Six years I've had Tallulah. I've taken her to training classes and taught her tricks and fed her ass and taken her to the vet and had the cancer removed from her damn dog hip, and Ned waltzes in and she's all, "Your wishes, master." And EDSEL! Who's supposed to love me! I can't ethen. I worked with a girl whose boyfriend mispronounced "even" as "ethen" and she was thinking of breaking up with him due to this fact. He also thought the sandwich was called a "Monte Crisco." "I'll ethen have the Monte Crisco!"

Anyway.

On Sunday, we got up with The Poet and Naughty Professor, to have lunch and see Maleficent, which is an actual mainstream movie with previews and stuff. IMG_0650
When we got there, Ned and I did our thing, which was he bought the tickets and I screamed in to get our popcorn. I always do it that way because we're always late to our weird depressing movies that we like. But we were NOT late that day, plus, 75 minutes of previews, so when The Poet and Naughty Pro walked in and I was already be-popcorned, they were all, "?"

One thing Angelina Jolie had in that movie were some cheekbones. And Elle Fanning needs to maybe learn that smiling really, really hard is not the only way to express that you have joy.

Afterward, because it was raining, Ned and I went to the local bookstore in his neighborhood and bought books and sat in there with our drinks. We were having a lovely time, till the owner came up. "Bad news, folks. We're closed now."

Dudes.

We are really, really trying to like that bookstore, but pretty much every time I've gone in there, I've been told why I cannot be in there. Once there was an event that BLOCKED THE BOOKS so buying them was not possible. Once I went in there with about 20 of my coworkers, and we were all drinking and eating, and the owner told us there was an event so we couldn't sit there anymore. (There are WAY too many goddamn events at that place. It's pretty much every day.) And now, two people who have just both bought hardback books and a drink have to drink up and get out? You couldn't give us a few minutes, or, I don't know, be grateful?

That place has precisely one more chance, with me. One. Then I'll stay home and order on Amazon again.

So, Ned and I went back to his place and read our books for free. I got a memoir by the same woman who wrote Under the Tuscan Sun, but does anyone have any good fiction to recommend? I still cannot tell you how much I loved Ex-Boyfriend in Aisle Six by Susan Jackson Rodgers. Go get that and you will die of happy. She's such a good writer.

I have to go get ready for work. Oh, here's my latest Purple Clover. It's about my class reunion.

Now go do the right thing.

The somnolent powers of Ned

I finally slept last night, thank GOD. You have no idea how grateful you can be for the mere act of sleeping, if you haven't slept. Or maybe you do. I note a lot of middle-of-the-night-I'm-not-sleeping posts on Facebook. Is this a getting-old thing?

When I was a kid, I spent every Friday night at my grandmother's, and even though she had four bedrooms and five beds, I slept with her in her bed whenever I was there. I remember barely waking up to see her get out of bed 45 times a night. Or sometimes I'd wake up and see just the light of her cigarette ash in the living room while she sat in the dark. Being, you know, six, I'd drift right back off after.

Anyway, it'd been three nights in a row I've slept badly, and I was wondering how long till it actually kills you to not sleep, and why did my coworkers have horse's heads yesterday, and then to top it all off I had my BookUp yesterday.

IMG_3041Here are my friends Jo and Kit at the BookUp. We were originally going last week but it got postponed due to snow and ice and also snow. And ice. Anyway, a BookUp is a thing invented by Jo, where you all get together and read. We met at the new local bookstore, that also serves wine and coffee and food, and I did not even notice what Jo got last night but in the cold light of day it looks effing delicious.

Jo had a gift for me, because she's the kind of person who has gifts for you sometimes. I am never that kind of person. I am so not a girl.

IMG_3046Say, middle age! How're your eyes treating you? I enjoy having to play the trombone every time I attempt to read something without my reading glasses, which if you notice are right next to me anyway. Hey, middle age, how's your mind treating you? Also, you can see better the pretty ring Ned bought me for Christmas/our anniversary of dating. I like Ned.

IMG_3048Is the anticipation killing you? And when did I get those three bacon-looking lines around my mouth? We could file papers in there.

IMG_3051She got me a new Venus razor! A few weeks ago I blogged about my harrowing experience buying a Rite Aid razor. Anyway, thanks, Jo. You're the fire of my desire.

And note my heels. I decided this week that my ankle was strong enough to get back to heels, because apparently I'm Carrie Bradshaw without the svelte. On my way in to the bookstore, there was a large group of hoodlums at a convenience store right next door, and they all complimented me on my heels. Naturally I took time out to tell each Crip about my sprained ankle and my return to heels, and maybe they were Crips Light or the Light in the Loafers gang, but they listened to the whole diatribe and even seemed interested. I have no idea where my ATM card is.

IMG_3042
My point is, Ned was there, at the BookUp, I mean, not hanging with the hoodlums. Also, 1950 called. Wants its slang for "ruffians" back. Hey, middle age.

Anyway, look how cute. I love Ned. He always looks like he abhors me in every picture I ever take. Maybe he does, and I'm so completely delusional that I have no idea. "Would you please stop following me. I just want to read my book and possibly hit on Jo or Kit." And I'm all, "Ned loves me!!"

Despite hating me, Ned asked if I'd like him to make dinner for me afterward, and even though I'd had a tortilla with cheese, avocado and grape tomatoes before I got there, I said yes. Please see above reference to Carrie Bradshaw. And what I am saying to you, is while he was cooking, I watched him, and just like sometimes when I'm eating something and Tallulah focuses on me and her eyes droop at the same time, because what she'd really like to do is sleep and eat simultaneously, I pretty much passed out before dinner was served.

So I was asleep by 10:30, and do not remember waking up even once. And I could go right back to bed and sleep another eight hours, I promise you, but now I must go to work like a grownup.

Oh, but by the way, my ankle is not happy with me today. I think I may have pushed it with the heels thing. When I got out of bed, my ankle was yelling, and I have no idea why my ankle would sound like Mickey from Rocky–remember? His old grizzled coach?–but that's how it sounded. "Hey what's the idea? Whattaya doin' to me, with the heels? I oughta… WIN, ROCK. WIN!"

June. Limping out.

Who’s this “Karen”?

I am ridiculous.

Hello, everyone. It's Monday. and my blown-out hair is starting to look a little ragged. Photo on 1-27-14 at 7.44 AM
The whole all-straight look is so foreign to my locks, it's like it's fighting to make its wavy self known again. So piece by piece, the straight parts rebel and kink.

It's like how the smart German shepherd part of Edsel every one in awhile wins over the…let's call it rollicking Irish setter part of Edsel. He'll figure something out, or understand what I said, and it's all, "HEIL! GERMAN PART OF EDS IS HEA!" That was my German impression, saying "hea" instead of "here." You're welcome. But then Edsel's Irish setter part comes right back and he continues to cut soap.

Unknown

Yesterday, Ned and I went to a book thingamajig at the fancy hotel here in town. That was the official name for it: Book Thingamajig.

IMG_2831It was at the same fancy hotel my mother and stepfather stayed in at Christmas. I kept expecting my mother to emerge from those doors with a shopping bag. Every time I picked them up, she had another shopping bag. "I brought treats for the dogs and seven dozen cookies." "I brought all new bedding for you, and 12 cans of house paint." "I brought a donkey, so we could have Los Posadas." Honestly, I don't know how she managed to get on the plane with 79,000 shopping bags.

IMG_2841Anyway. It was an event celebrating local authors, and I am pleased to say it had a great turnout. And there was fancy water served, infused with berries and citrus, that I wanted to try but worried had grapefruit in it, because I'm tons of fun.

When I got my hair dyed this weekend, the smells and so on made my throat close up, which I politely did not share with my hairdresser, but I got a serious migraine after, and broke out in a rash everywhere my hair touched on my body. "I wonder if there's some kind of pill I can take for these reactions," I said to Ned.

"Yes, a chill pill," he said.

 

My POINT is, local author event. Up there was my important friend Jo, signing one of her books.

IMG_2842And here's my important friend Sarah, who just won ANOTHER award for her poetry. A Pushcart. I wonder if she gets an actual pushcart? That might be nice. Turn it into a little wet bar.

I guess this is why I never win awards.

IMG_2837Also, am taking damn iPhone to the Apple store TODAY to get them to fix my dang lack of flash on my camera. But look at my important write-y friends.

IMG_2834Ned, hobnobbing with the celebs. Teabagging with the celebs. Does he look all New York now, do you think? I'll have to show you the Empire State Building he got me. I mean, he didn't actually purchase the real building for me, which might have been nice.

Empire State Building Getting Makeover. New Yorkers Appalled at New Pink Sparkly Structure.

I have to go. My jacked-up hair and I must work. Oh, but before I go, I talk about the Super Bowl this week on Purple Clover. Sports talk with June. "June."

"Bye."

Hi! Hi! Bye Bye, Pie!

IMG_2023See what I did, there? My roots and I waited till Saturday, when no one would read this, to write my "Here's everything I said I'd eventually come back and blog about" post.

Have you actually been sitting here for two months, growing cobwebs–making this literally a website–with the Match Game thinking music in your head, waiting for me to come back and wrap everything up? Because, you poor thing.

Who can't get enough of herself for finding the Match Game thinking music? And her website joke? I guess I went off and got.even.funnier. Who knew that was possible?

Anyway, hi. How are all y'all? When I left here two months ago I said I owed you some tying up of the loose ends, and here I am tying them.

First of all, Myssie1963 has won my friend Jo Maeder's book, Opposites Attack, and seeing as I had the ding-dang giveaway IN JUNE (the month, not in myself, which would be sort of gross), I hope Myssie still wants the book and is still alive and so forth. I'll see if I can't find an email address for her, but if anyone knows Myssie, go tell her she won the book. Why do you think she calls herself Myssie1963? Do you think she was a big fan of the Kennedy assassination, or what?

Anyway, that's done. Let's talk about poor BStar next.

Dottie Headshot
So, I knew the other things I had to tie up, here, included TRYING to get everyone's photo on here from back in 1918 when I said, "Oh! Send me your picture and I'll put it up on my blog!" and then seven hundred and forty-nine MILLIONTY of you sent in a picture, and every once in awhile I'd dig through email to find more photos you sent in, and then I'd get confused. "Did I put this one up already? Didn't I?" and the whole thing turned into a NIGHTMARE requiring ALL CAPS to discuss.

I also knew that at some point in 1542, I awarded some highly coveted Abraham Lincoln Band-Aids to a reader, and I never, ever got those band-aids off to the big winner. In fact, some OTHER reader SENT me Abraham Lincoln Band-Aids just so I'd finally effing send them, and guess what's still unopened and unsent on my bathroom shelf?

The other day, I was looking through the nightmare that is these photos you guys sent me, and I wrote to this person, above, B Star. "Dear B Star," I wrote, "Did I ever put your photo on my blog?" "No," she replied.

So I set her picture aside, and then I looked into the whole band-aid debacle, and I promise you Abraham Lincoln's entire presidency and pesky war of the states was less complex than wrapping up this blog. His insurance paperwork for committing that wife was less difficult. Combing his beard was less taxing.

Insert getting-home-from-the-theater joke here.

My point is, after 86 hours of researching seven years of daily blogging, I finally found the post where someone won the DING-DANG Abe Lincoln Band-Aids, and that winner?

Was B Star.

"Were you the most neglected reader EVER?" I wrote her? "Give me your address, and I will mail these forthwith." She wrote back, and she lives, like, .00003 miles away. Seriously. Poor B Star.

And without further ado–seriously, not one more do–here are the rest of the photos, I think, that you all sent me that time I told you to send me your photo. If yours never made it in, you either didn't title it exactly BLOG PHOTO, or I screwed up. You know. Things happen, man.

-2
Here's Gretchen, who when she SENT this in 2 B.C., said she was the person who gave me useless migraine advice. Thanks, Gretchen. In case anyone is worried sick, my head has been PARTICULARLY ludicrous lately, and am currently drugged to the gills with both Prednisone AND Topamax. Would remove own head with cleaver were that possible. I mean, I guess it IS possible, but it'd make for a dull rest of this post.

-3We all know who this is. This is Joann, who is my friend in real life, who ALWAYS participated in "send me your photo" day, and who just got past a RIDICULOUS health scare, but who is fine. I adore Joann very much. You go, Joann. You back that ass up. You raise the roof. You give good love. You, you got what I need. But you say he's just a friend. Yeah, you say he's just a friend. OH BABY YOU.

 

Who misses me? And my linear thoughts. Anyone?

Anyway.

-1Okay, dudes, am I crazy? Here's Deb in Denver, but doesn't it feel like we already SAW Deb in Denver before? Is it just that I've seen these pictures now 48 times in my email, or what? Oh, this project. Did I mention it was a mistake?

Mel_10_25This is Melanie. Back in 2008, Melanie won the lovely turquoise pleated Totie Fields dress I gave away, and when I did the giveaway I posed in said dress:

6a00e54f9367fb88340115709d7423970b-800wiAnd then Melanie got the dress and did this:

6a00e54f9367fb88340115709d74b5970b-800wiand I have loved her ever since.

-4This is Emily, who I remember writing to back in 1698 when I did the "send in your photo" thing, to thank her for titling it correctly, because she was the first person that day to not call it "picture" or "blawg foto" or whatever. I showed my gratitude by making her wait through nine presidential terms before her picture got up here.

MeandheidiCaron is the one in glasses. She tells her friend, there, to read my blog, but that friend only reads when told. YOU KILLED MY BLOG, FRIEND.

Deb in maine-2This teensy little put-it-in-your-wallet picture is of Deb in Maine. It came this way, this small picture. It's not my fault. Anyway, I know Deb read me forever, and I belive she is my Facebook friend, which means we have a deep and meaningful relationship. Deb and June, TLA.

Okay, so that's it. If I MISSED your picture, I sincerely apologize. You have no idea what a pain that was. I should have made a folder on my desktop and plopped everyone's pictures in as they came in, but perhaps you and I have not met. I am not what you would call organized. I know. I hope you were just braced.

So, now, our loose ends are tied up. And in case you are wondering, everyone is fine.

IMG_2166Iris continues to murder everything that remotely has the nerve to live within our back yard. There was a dead possum back there recently, and I am hoping against hope it died of natural causes. Because if that teensy sightless cat got a possum, my neighbor Peg is next.

IMG_1878Lu will be six next month, and I kind of feel like mostly she wonders why I felt the need to add to the pet collection, as I was doing great with just her. Mostly I feel like she kind of has a point.

100_1709Lily. Superior. The end.

IMG_2066Last month was the year anniversary of when someone put that puppy, Violet, in my car, so I drove out to the fire station and visited said puppy, who as you can see is no puppy anymore. She is Tallulah-sized, and she got right on my lap and sniff-sniff-sniffed my head. If you ask me, she knew just who I was. I was so happy to see her.

IMG_2321Edsel has the biggest news of all, because he's decided to become my running pal. Yes. My running pal.

Like an idiot, I signed up for a half-marathon, which I will run in April, and I'm going to train with Edsel, at least for the lower miles. I don't know that you're supposed to make your dog run 13 miles, even a dog like Eds.

IMG_2327Of course some days I'll take Talu, but she has never liked running all that much, and ever since she got hit by that car, her hips are a little stiff. Plus, I don't know if you've gleaned this through the years, but Edsel has a lot of what you might call The Energy. So. Although sometimes, as shown above, he can slow me down. What with his NEEDS and all.

IMG_2325At any rate, we're having a good time, and maybe I will have fewer hips and migraines, so yay. Oh, and does anyone have any headphone recommendations for running? Because could these FALL OUT MORE OFTEN? And could that be MORE IRRITATING? Exercise is so good for your moods.

IMG_2224And yes. I am still with Ned. I just love me some Ned. I pretty much think Ned is my person, and that's all I have to say about that. Tonight we're getting up with Dick Whitman and his woman, and I will tell Ned and DW you all said hello.

IMG_2185Thanks, everyone, for coming back for the tie-up post, which sounds dirtier than it was. I hope you're all Brett Sommers happy, and that your hips and migraines are few.

Love,

June

Took a break from my 488584 hours of proofing to read this in a book Ned gave me

Read this, and you will say, "June isn't funny at all. She stole everything from Nora Ephron." And then you will read everything that woman ever wrote, as I have, and never come back here again.

I deserve that.

http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2010/10/11/101011fa_fact_ephron

(Here it is as a link because OHMYGOD EXHAUSTING to cut and paste. Y'all kill me.)