June wraps up her trip; bored nation rejoices

If you’re just getting back from your Thanksgiving holiday, and I say “holiday” like we’re all British, there are several days of my posts for you to catch up on and I wish you luck. I wish you luck mucking through all my ins and outs.

For the rest of you, who kept up with me like good readers, here’s the rest of my trip back to Michigan…

IMG_E2204.JPGWhen we left each other yesterday, saying, “No, YOU hang up,” Gus had been doing tricks in my mother’s yard, fmr., and then I might have kissed him with my red lipstick. I remember back in the ’90s, kissing my mother’s fluffy white Samoyed with my then-fushia lipstick, and my poor beleaguered stepfather in the kitchen, patiently washing it off that dog’s head.

Oooo, speaking of lipstick…

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Both on the way to Michigan and on the way back, I may have looked with rapt interest in the Mac store at Chicago airport, noting these lipsticks were all for sale as one unit, a unit someone might like, if someone were trying to determine what June Would Like For Christmas, a query that’s burning in the brains of just er’one.

I’d look like an asshole in the second-from-the-left one. That burnt orange look does not appeal. But speaking of needless purchases, isn’t it Cyber Monday? Wouldn’t this be an excellent time to link to Amazon, so you can purchase like a mo?

Oh, look! A book about how we shouldn’t consume, that if we click on it takes us to Amazon so we can consume. Oh, June, you’re so ironic. Don’tcha think. A little too ironic. Yeah, I really do think.

But I digress.

On Friday night of my trip to Michigan, my Aunt Kathy had us over for tacos, and by “my Aunt Kathy,” I mean my Uncle Bill made tacos.

IMG_2211 2.jpgSome families form a conga line. We form a taco line. [Insert taco/Katie-the-lesbian joke here]

IMG_2212.jpgMy Aunt Kathy, who is a Virgo, had already decorated for Christmas. Like, that day. She started the day with no Christmas, and by the end of the day she was swinging on her North Pole.

Do you remember that guy Ward who I went out with like three times or something, and then it didn’t work out? He texted me over the holiday (British), and I answered him, telling him how all the women in my family prattle endlessly and all the men are sort of quiet and introspective. Okay, not my Uncle Leo. But the other men. Anyway, below is yet another piano-playing video, this time not horrific like the last one, where one of the men is being deep and yet you can hear women prattling in the background. I recorded this for his listening pleasure. I think it was around then that he stopped texting.

In summation.

IMG_2217.jpgAfter dinner, my cousin Big June and her husband Hill came to surprise me, and it was so cute to see them. She gets migraines, too. Is plagued by them, actually.

Maybe had I not been named after her I wouldn’t have migraines. Maybe they could have named me after a tennis star or something instead. Step one: Get tennis star in family.

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fukking schtopz

Also, here is my aunt’s cat, Tom Thumbs. Did not at all follow Tom Thumbs around like an idiot, scooting across floor with phone out like a moron. That would not be fittin’. Did not at all call him kitty head or sweet kitten or kitty hitchhiker kitten face wif thumbses.

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Finally, it was Saturday and time for me to go, but not before Hulk rejected me for sports. Also, Dear June: *of.

IMG_2239.jpgI returned home without incident, late Saturday night. It was too late to get Edsel from daycare, so I slept with Lily, who was beside herself that I’d returned, and if you look carefully, you can see an extremely indifferent Steely Dan down the hall.

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hooo gif shit

IMG_E2246.JPGThe other, more normal, cats were happy to see me, in their cat way. “wee not say hi, but we sleep on you a lots.”

The cat-sitter told me that every day, SD and Lily would come blinking down the hall, like, O, do someone bee heer? And every time, Iris was asleep in the dog bed.

Speaking of my cats, I was writing you in my regular fashion, not that I’m pooping, when I saw this shadow…

IMG_2264.jpgHere’s the annoying part: I’ve already let him in today. But there he is, mysteriously on the other side of the door, as he is wont to be. And yet, he still wishes for me to get up and let him in the traditional way right now. Sneak out whatever way he’s figured out? Sure. But inconveniencing me to come back in? Oh, HELL, sure. So many sures.

IMG_E2274.JPGIMG_E2275.JPGAnd he wasn’t hungry; he’d already eaten. He wasn’t sleepy. Evil rarely sleeps. He just wanted to be sure to remind me that my coffee repels him. My coffee should be stopped. As soon as he can gather funds, he’s going to bribe a lobbyist to get coffee outlawed.

IMG_2278.jpgAsshole. Why do I love him so? This sums up all my relationships.

I’d better get to work, which I am actually looking forward to doing. Tomorrow is my mammogram, which has not haunted and terrified me since I made the appointment or anything. Do you all know from EMDR? It’s a kind of therapy they do for trauma. I really think I should get EMDR so I’m not so

EFFING

INSANE

during mammogram week. Am considering.

Meanwhile, here’s an Amazon link again, in case it inconveniences you to scroll up. I want to make it was easy as I can for you, so that I will become a millionaire. Also, I got my new credit score today, and it’s in the high 700s.

You know, at the beginning of the year, I made the New Year’s resolution to fix my finances, and I actually did it. I worked freelance jobs ALL YEAR LONG. And I got my debt cleared. And I upped my contribution to my four oh wonk.

I still don’t make a lot of money, but at least I don’t have debt haunting me. Just mammograms.

Anyway, here’s your second Amazon link.

Resent. Also, wish Crazy Cat Lady ornament did not look so much like self.

Sanely,

Juuun

P.S. Someone will ask, so I will assure you I got the Eds from daycare Sunday, and he was…enthused about seeing me.

IMG_2249.jpgI had a migraine (thanks, world), so he spent the entire day with his snout up on my berobed self. No, seriously. THE ENTIRE DAY.

IMG_2254.jpgSteely Dan made barf sounds from across the room and rolled his orange cat eyes.

1136 words, dear god,

Jooon

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In real life, vowels are free

Even though I have allegedly set it up so that when I plug my phone into my computer–and there’s something anyone said, ever, in 1947–my photos should pop right up, they never do. They USED to. I’ve no idea what’s gone wrong. Continue reading “In real life, vowels are free”

It’s like I saw only 7 movies and they influenced my whole life

At the top of my new fancy blogging template is a button I click when I want to compose a new post. That button reads, “Write.” It has an icon of a huge pencil looming over a very square piece of paper.Screen Shot 2017-04-07 at 7.48.59 AM

Whenever I click on it, I think of Celie in The Color Purple screaming, “WRIIIIITE!!!” and Nettie screeching, “Nothing but DEATH could keep me from it!”

Which is how I feel about kissing kittens on the noggin. Continue reading “It’s like I saw only 7 movies and they influenced my whole life”

Be cool, Edsel

You know how I hate for anyone to make a fuss, but my throat hurts. All I ask is that you stampede to your local Catholic church and light a candle. Or put one of those vague posts on social media about how you "need prayers" for some undisclosed or unknown-to-us person.

Dear God: For some reason, this person on Facebook needs prayers. Catch ya.

God's all, That was helpful. Like I don't have enough to do.

Anyway, none of this matters because what does is my throat hurts. My hairapist texted me Thursday that she needed prayers. No. She didn't. She texted me that she had a cold, and if I wanted to cancel that would be okay, but given how tough and no nonsense I am, I went anyway.

And now look at me. LOOK AT ME. There goes my tombstone. No name or anything. Just Look At Me. Or, Needs Prayers. At that point I guess it'd be too late.

So. My weekend.

I was determined to Stay Busy, as people tell you to do, but then I became obsessed with this other series on OJ, this many-parted documentary that Hulk told me about, and I always listen to Hulk. Oh my god it's riveting. And I was, like, into the third hour of it, the whole time going, Who is that WOMAN they keep talking to? What did she have to do with anything?

It was Marcia Clark. Hello, plastic surgery. She looks great. I mean, compared to the poodle/boxer mix look she had in the '90s. She def got the eye bags taken care of and for this I applaud her. Really, the longer I watch this documentary and the other one I saw, the more I'm like. Oh. I so get it, black people. I'd be pissed, too. I'd root for him too.

He still did it, of course. But I get what they're saying.

On Friday night, I decided I could not have one more fish stick, so I went to the store and got salmon, and little red potatoes, and salad things, and made an elaborate dinner for myself. I mean, elaborate for me, in that it did not involve slapping something frozen on a plate and microwaving it.

I asked the–what's he called? Chef? Barber? BUTCHER, god, the butcher to cut the skin off the back of the salmon, a thing my mother said I should do, but every time I ask for that, they act the way Steely Dan does around a coffee cup. In other words, appalled. They probably scratch around where I was standing, when I leave.

Speaking of SD, this morning I was putting one of my cowgirl band-aids on a blister, and one band-aid fell in the toilet.

This fascinated Steely ridiculous Dan. He spent the next 10 minutes trying to fish it out of there, sticking his head way in and sneezing when he hit water. When I finally had to leave the bathroom, I shut the lid lest he drown himself like Narcissus.

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The reason I have a blister is that both days of this weekend I took Edsel on enormously long walks, longer than my dick, even. Here he is with his usual lack of cool, trying to befriend one of the neighborhood cats. Every day we encounter then, and every day he whines and wags his tail and wants to shake paws with them and drop off an Avon catalog, and every day all the cats say fuck off. Actually, there's one exceedingly mellow cat at Ava's house who is willing to walk right up to Eds, but then he gets too excited and the cat huffs off.

Edsel. Be cool.

On Saturday night I had a date, which you'll be surprised to hear I was "eh" about. HOW MANY DATES before I'm not "eh"? HOW MANY? What if I go the rest of my life not liking anyone but Ned, who will be married to a 26-year-old with zero hips? That's whom he's banging in my mind. She never has any hips at all. And he doesn't even like really skinny women.

We went to an Arthur Miller play, because cheerful, and then out for a drink, which turned into Let's order appetizers, which turned into me eating bacon cheese tater tots at 11 p.m., and why so chubby?

It also turned into me taking the leftovers home, and why so chubby again?

Sunday was a really pretty day, so Edsel and I got in the car to go to Country Park, which is where I used to take Tallulah every single evening back when I was a new dog owner and totally into it. I'd take her to day care all day, then for a long walk in the park followed by the dog park part where she'd run around for like an hour or two, and now it's all Edsel's lucky if I even feed him.

The point is, as soon as we got there I got sweaty. The place was teeming–teeming!!–with dogs, which, what did I expect with the beautiful day and all? We walked the loop all the way around the park, which was probably a 45-minute walk, and every few seconds there'd be another goddamn dog.

And?

He was fine. Oh, sure, there was one idiot I passed twice who had her Beagle on a retractable leash that was 400 feet out and that thing got right in our lane. Edsel knitted a very, very tall-eared pussy hat and took to the street shouting over that one, but other than that? He'd maybe whine a little if another dog made eye contact, but he never once barked and snarled and carried on as he usually does. I couldn't believe it. And he walked right next to me, even a little behind me, like a well-trained dog.

It wasn't till we were driving home that it hit me. Prozac. I think his Prozac kicked in!

The other thing to happen at that park was that I was down by the little lake when I heard my name. This woman way up on another trail was all, "JUNE! JUNE!" Waving frantically with both arms and all. "Hi, June!"

"Well, hi!" I said, waving frantically back.

I have no idea who it was. The woman used my real name, and I feel like a reader would say June even knowing my name is not June.

Unsolved Mysteries. Remember that show?

And the first person to say Hey, June, why didn't you also take your phone with you when you had Edsel on a leash and a bottle of water and no pockets? Why? Why didn't you take pictures? Why, June? Why? No pictures, June?

The first person to say that gets snarled at.

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I did take my phone and go all the way next door, to Peg's because her tulip tree is blooming. Which doesn't always happen. And then half the time when it does bloom, there's a freeze and they all die. Tulip tree. A brilliant idea for this region, on someone's part.

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Also, why?

I leave you now so I can go watch more of the OJ documentary, and I'm going to be sad when it's over and I can't think about Broncos and DNA and Ron Goldman's stoicism. Good lord. Go back to your barber shop quartet, dude. Sing about Daisy, Daisy giving you her answer, do.

I'll talk to you tomorrow if I'm still alive, what with dealing with this sore throat and all. Dear Mom: I already did. Warm salt water. Did it.

Throatily,

Juan

June’s privates

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So how is everyone?

I know most of you saw this already on Facebook, but here. Here is a snapshot of my life, below, except it's a five-second veeeedeo of my life, but still.

 

So that's how I'm doing. In case you wondered.

There seems to be a lot of speculation about my love life, and frankly it's getting on my nerves. So here's everything that's up lately, okay?

I am not back together with Ned. Ned is not in my bed. That is why I TOLD you that story, because it was poignant that Ned was not in my bed. Ned will not magically change and become all the things I need my person to be, so there is no Ned.

In fact, the last time I spoke to Ned, I told him the most loving thing he could do for me was to let me be. Let me pursue the things I need, like, oh, someone who wants to marry me. And he can pursue whatever the fuck it is he wants. (Still angry, June? Oh, perhaps.)

And I don't even know that I want marriage. I really love living alone. But I guess I want to know my person would marry me if he had the chance. I told Ned I wanted to marry him, and asked him how that made him feel, and he said, "It makes me feel like (gasp) 'Oh GOD!'" in the kind of voice you'd have if someone handed you a bouquet of snakes.

I want someone to be devoted to me, and me to him, and not be spending my time wondering if he's off doing things that would make me feel bad if I knew about them. When I was with Marvin, I never worried. I never caught Marvin in a single lie. I knew he was good. But it annoyed me to live with him. Too many black cords in perfectly good kitchen drawers.

So, I guess at this point, my ideal would be a relationship where I get to live here, he gets to live nearby, we see each other most nights, we know we're in it till we're dead, and maybe one day we get married, but that's not as important as the feeling that yep, here's my person. And I can trust him. I can set it and forget it. I don't have to feel sick and scared about what Ima find out about next.

That's what I want right now.

And yes, I am dating people. I've met one person who is older than me, one person who is younger than me. Please refer to my psychic reading in January. Her timing was off. She said I'd be through with Ned in February, I'd be glad he was gone, and I'm still not there yet.

She said in the spring I'd be seeing someone older than me, and someone younger.

So, heh. Yeah.

But see, I didn't really want to go into that, because I didn't want anyone to feel bad. Which is why I was trying to keep it private-ish. It's hard to have a blog, where you talk about your life, and keep some parts not so public. But I was trying, Lord, I was trying.

And no to your other question. I have not slept with anyone since Ned.

So now you know everything.

Oh, also? We have had just one accident in three–or four??–days in this house, and that was cause I had to go really bad. Bah.

The reason there was one accident was because there was a Busy Bone incident where Edsel attacked poor sweet Lottie, and the only time I ever think of her that way is when she's under the tooth of Edsel. God, he's awful sometimes. When Lu was alive, all she'd do is just take good things like Busy Bones. She'd take them both, put them in her mouth at the same time like that one picture with all the cigarettes in that guy's mouth.

Do you know what picture I'm talking about? It's an old photo. Can't find it. Crap.

The point is, she never attacked Edsel, not once. She just took things brattily.

Anyway, he was biting Lottie, Edsel was, and she cut her poor puppy eye, and she peed because she was scared. IMG_1323
Here she is right now, sniffing Lily, and you can see her little cuts. Well, you can see one of them. Poor sweet puppy. IMG_1322
Scritches on her nose. Edsel is terrible. I'm actually not sure those scritches aren't from cats, actually. But I know the eye came from Edsel. Lottie is everyone's punching bag. Lottie often deserves it. But not over a Busy Bone.

Anyway, that's when she peed. I'd have peed, too, if something twice my size were attacking me. Well. If something…

Oh my god, maths. She weighs 34 pounds. Edsel weighs 48 pounds. How much bigger is Edsel? Show your work.

I have to go. I have to get to work. Try not to bite anyone's eye today.

Luffff,

Joan

The devil in Miss Lottie

Yesterday was a stupid day that resulted in Ned breaking into my house and me working till 8:30.

I had a meeting at noon, except I'd gotten the invitation to the meeting one night after midnight and it woke me up with the trill of a meeting to accept or decline. I got three notices that night, and there's a meeting also today with almost the same name, so I thought the one yesterday had been rescheduled, which happens all the time. So I declined yesterday's and accepted today's.

Both were at lunchtime. I have my time blocked from noon till one so I can come let out Lottie, but apparently that is irrelevant. So yesterday, because I didn't KNOW I had that meeting till 15 minutes before said meeting, I panicked. I'd had to go in early as it was, so poor Lottie would have already been in that crate for four hours by 12:20. I wasn't gonna get home till after 1:00.

Oh, just the thought of her poor self in there, feeling uncomfortable, it made me want to cry. I texted Ned.

"Do you still have a key to my house?" He wasn't sure. But he said he'd leave work and go break in if he had to. He's the president of his company, so with all this SPARE TIME, he went over there.

"Turns out I did have a key!" He sent me a photo of Lottie in the yard.

But then at the end of the day, I got a whole bunch of work that had to be done before noon today, and someone else has to LOOK at all of the work first and inevitably make changes, so I really had to get it done last night. It was Bitchy Resting Face Alex's going away party yesterday, and I so wanted to go. She was my favorite person at work, and now she's gone.

I took my laptop home and worked while bored, hadn't-been-walked, devil-in-Miss-Jones Lottie attempted to eat:

  • The vintage Real Romance magazines Faithful Reader Paula just sent me
  • My Laura Ingalls Wilder autobiography, Pioneer Girl
  • My gold wedge heel
  • Iris
  • My reading glasses
  • A pair of scissors. This she ran off with and I had to chase her. She literally ran with scissors.

Finally I got to walk her, just as the sun was setting. When we went outside, my neighborhood was berserk. Everyone in the world was out there with their phones, playing that damn Pokemon computer game. Could I sound more like your Grandma Millie right now?

"BUWF!" said Lottie, at the Snowflake children, who I am sorry to tell you are all teenagers and pre-teens now. No, I did NOT have my phone, Miss Why Isn't Every One of Your Moments a Photograph, June?

"Hi!" I said, excited to see them.

"BOOF!" Lottie said again. She really didn't sound friendly. They looked at this teensy devil of a puppy, appalled. They went back to their phones and Peek-a-Choo or whatever he's called. Pink Atchu. Pee Catch You.

I hate modern culture.

Ima have to train that out of her, though, the angry boof at children. Iron fish of discipline. I did it again. Iron fish. Goddammit.

Let's look at pictures. I have a ton on my desktop and need to get them off, so to speak. I'M NOT IN THE MOOD TO GET THEM OFF.

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It turns out, Blu is dishwasher safe. It turns out, when you want your phone to focus on Blu, it instead focuses on your yellow towel. Turns out, my phone is a dick.

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I really like the lavender-haired girl at work. She's young but composed. I am neither.

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The cat condo came. Alliterative. It's from the Mrs. Robinson collection.

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Someone just asked me on here the other day where Lily was, and whenever you guys ask where one of the pets is, I always assume that you think I just drove him or her to a field and dropped him or her off and have failed to mention it. Say "him or her" one more time. Anyway, one thing that's easy to capture is a cat in that window. They both kept moving around. This was the best I could do, but here's proof I haven't offed her yet.

She'd hardly be at the top of my Field List, anyway. I think you know what I mean.

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wut??

I just looked over and there she was in that pose. Perfect.

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Here they were last night, sitting side by side chewing their toys in unison. You'll never guess what Edsel had. Hint: It's dishwasher-safe.

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My birthday presents are rolling in. This perfect towel is from The Poet. I want to have it framed. Also, Faithful Reader LisaPie, did you send me the gramma print bath mat I asked for on my wish list? I think you did, and thank you!!!

If someone else sent me that, write in and bitch me out.

Oh, and PJ, I got your tip as well! Not your actual penis. You know what I mean. THANK YOU TO YOU TOO!!!

Speaking of which, tonight is my online birthday party and you are invited. It wasn't my idea. Not that I'm above celebrating the splendor of me. But you have to be a member of Pie on the Face on Facebook. So go join. Then apparently all day, there will be a big party, and I am joining at 8 p.m. eastern time.

At work yesterday, I was all, "I can't work late tomorrow because I have an online birthday party."

June. Making sense since 1965.

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I opened my gifts from my Aunt Mary already, because Ima be gone on my real birthday, and she sent me a bunch of photos and correspondence from my grandmother, I saw photos of me I've never seen before. Here I am in the '90s, getting a toilet bowl cleaner for Christmas. I can just hear me saying, "You know what I really need…?"

Look how cute I was. Time is cruel.

Oh my god! Faithful Reader LaUral! I just got the Sephora gift card!!!! SQUEEEEEE! Thank you!

I heart my birthday.

I'll talk at you later. Tomorrow morning early I have to take Edsel and Lottie in for their shots. If Edsel and Lottie ordered shots, what would they each get?

The point is, I may have to blog at noon or something. Also, after their shots, they both go to dog daycare for the day, so I'll at least check in with the web address so you can see them. Here it is in advance. Go to webcams and look in the front room. I'll link to it directly tomorrow–I wanted you to see Tallulah on the home page, though.

THE FIRST PERSON TO THINK YOU CAN SEE THEM TODAY GETS A TOILET SCRUBBER UP HER ASS.

I is kind, I is important, I is a bitch.

Patience is a virtue. Seersucker is a fabric.

I woke up at 4:30 with a migraine, which was super relaxing. Dragged self out of bed, which I just wrote as "Dragged self out of Ned" FOUR TIMES, hello Freud, and took my meds. So now I'm groggily up, and headed to work because hero, but I have all the funny of a Bazooka Joe comic.

I will check in with you tomorrow. Why don't we have best/worst Christmas memory day? My worst was the year I was 10 or 11 and had a stomach bug and barfed. I got a good diary, my first one, and some Chanel No. 5-scented pens, so it wasn't a total wash. Which reminds me, here's my latest Purple Clover.

Best Christmas memory? Maybe the year Marvin and I were about to get engaged and we met each other's families. I was so excited and all giddy and so forth.

Go.

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eyeriss do donald trump impresh. eyeriss hilaree-is.

Death and sex and Walmart

I got this envelope in the mail yesterday: "Death benefit AND Walmart gift certificate enclosed!" it read on the outside.

Well! Thanks!

I abhor the march of time. And the March of Dimes. Dimes don't even have legs. Also, I saw this last night…

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Edsel is such a homo. I know Tallulah's a girl, but it doesn't negate the fact that Edsel is a homo. If Lu woke up and saw that she was snuggling that hard with gay blade Edsel, she'd eat his neck out. Fortunately she does not waken easily. Sometimes when I kick her off the bed, and she pours her molasses self off the mattress at the speed of slug, I think she's still asleep. Flumps herself on to her dog bed and wakes up the next day all, "how lu get heer?" Drunk again.

You know who'd make a poor fireman? Is Tallulah. "oh, der be fyre? yawwwwww{squeak!}wwwn."

I love her yawn squeak.

This entire time I've been blogging at you, Edsel has been insisting I scratch his gay ass. He so needs one of those gay guy bandannas. I guess gay guys don't wear those anymore, so they? Anyway, his jaunty bow tie does the trick.

Remember the gay guy bandannas? I was told that each color and placement meant different things, like so you could signal your sexual preferences to other gay guys. I wish hetero people would make it that simple. I could see some attractive, age-appropriate man somewhere, and he'd be sportin' his yellow bandanna tied on his noggin and I could be all, "Oh. He likes being peed on. Next."

Why can't we be as straightforward? So to speak. Instead we have to be all romantic, and I have to hear that I have lovely eyes, when really my eyes are sort of beady, and the whole time I'm all, Can we get to the sex part already? Good gravy.

Is that just me? Am I a man? Maybe I'm a man. Maybe I'm amazed at the way I love me all the time.

I remember when I'd been dating Ned for, like, six weeks, and we'd spent several dates just kissing goodnight, and had fooled around once, and then he emailed me on a Sunday. "I've made soup. Would you like to come over and have some?" and I was all HELL, YEAH. I'M ON TOP OF ALL THAT!

Hi, mom.

And then we actually had to have the soup, because I hadn't yet realized how important food was to Ned, and the whole time I was thinking, Are we going to get to the sex part? Are we getting to the sex part yet? Sex part? Sex part? I was like my dogs when I dangle a treat over them.

I have no idea how I got off on this tangent. So to speak.

Anyway, let's jump from death and sex and Walmart to Christmas. What are you doing for Christmas, if you celebrate Christmas? I, as you know, am doing precisely nothing, and I told some of my coworkers how I'm making lasagna and watching movies all day. "You need a theme," one of them said. I think it was my metrosexual coworker who said it.

"I DO need a theme," I agreed. So now Ima watch all the Rocky movies between Christmas Eve and Christmas night, then Ima go see Creed. Is Creed still on? If not, I'll go see Joy, because it's also my perfume. Plus, it's a movie Ned would never, ever see. Particularly if there was soup to eat somewhere.

Anyway, what are you doing for Christmas, and what do you WISH you were doing? Are they one in the same? Tell all.

Inquisitively,

June

P.S. Edsel just charged after Iris, thereby negating his sweet homo dog status just a little.

The one where June had to get to work early

I didn't have time to blog today, but Faithful Reader LaUral sent me this list of funny things you can ask Siri. Well, first she sent me a whole email talking about a bunch of things, but it started off, "Here's that Siri list I was talking about" and then didn't include it.

Anyway, if you have Siri, please ask it these and report back to me forthwith. Here is the link.

And here's my latest Purple Clover. At this point, if I mention that party again, Ima die alone TODAY.

Typed while my mother and stepfather watch some sort of network news. You know what I never do?

"June, will you come stand at the basement door while I go down there?" Mom asked.

"?"

"Because at night I get scared down there. Harry usually does it but since you're here…" Why are children the indentured servant for life?

"Like, you're afraid Regan from The Exorcist will grab your ankle from under one of the tables down there, or what?" I asked.

"STOP."

As mom descended the stairs and was out of my sight, I creaked, "It's an excellent day for an exorcism."

"STOP!" yelled Mom.

I suppose, then, it wasn't nice of me to have turned my pajamas backward for when she came back, and be turning my head slowly, with a grin. BUT WHO COULD RESIST? Who? Gandhi would have run with that joke. 

Oh, also? My mother has had this thing installed, this chair that she can ride up and down the stairs like Whatever Happened to Baby Jane. I am riveted by that thing. Mom laughed at my backward head all the way up on her ride. Her side-saddle ride. One day Ima put on as much makeup as possible, with pigtails, and take a photo of me riding that thing.

I've done so many things on this visit, and taken so many photos, that I think I should break this up into two parts so you don't lose your mind and start being scared of the basement. So let's make a rule that I'll stop talking after I've shown you four photos. Or so. You know how linear I am.

IMG_4462

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I stampeded to my friend Ann, Nan and Amy's house to see her new kittenses. (She began dating my friend Greg in, Ima say, 1989. Shockingly, we met her at a bar. Greg introduced her, and after she left, my friend Esmerelda heard her name as Nan, I heard Ann and my friend Gertrude heard Amy. I actually have no recollection of who heard which name, but I like how in this story I made myself the correct one. The point is, we've called her Ann, Nan and Amy ever since. Even the calligrapher for my wedding had to send an  envelope addressed to Greg and Ann, Nan and Amy.)

KITTENSES!!!! Oh, they are so cute. They were deciding on names and so far have come up with nothing. Suggestions?

I think any kitten-related photos count as all one photo and not four. Don't you? This is how my diets work, as well.

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This is Greg and Ann, N and A's child, who did not wish to be photographed, as she is from one of those "photos steal your soul" tribes. Alternatively, she is somewhere in the teen or preteen age group. She is somewhere between 18 months and 20 years old.

Also, Greg and A/N/and A have an ancient house that they are forever refurbishing. They are like Eldon on Murphy Brown.

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In summary, I love kittens.

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we bee a hart shape

Nope. Doesn't count. Plus, you can't have too many kitten pictures.

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After that, I went to Hulk's. When I pulled up, I could see him watching sports on the world's most enormous TV. This is pretty much what I picture Hulk doing 87 hours a day.

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Yup. I'm at Hulk's.

"I'll turn this down. I suppose we have to TALK," he groused, when I walked in. And talk we did. We discussed the pressing issues of our time, or alternatively, our sex lives. They were short conversations.

I'd better go. I leave today, and have to shower and pack the 2394853204 things my mother has left on my bed. Does your mother do this when you visit? Dish towels, magazines, my gramma's old ashtray. Then she complained that I pack my suitcase too full. How DARE I bring three changes of clothes for three days when I KNOW I have to also pack the Christmas-themed potholders that she's gonna give me?

Tune in tomorrow for photos from my childhood, coverage of my visit with Aunt Mary, and whatever complaining I have to do about my flight. I really know how to get the reader begging for more.

The sow is mine.

June

You know what I had today? Turkey leftovers. Read on for more fascinating facts.

In case you were thinking it was a nightmare to travel on Thanksgiving day, you would be wrong. WRONG! I hope this causes you to hang your head in shame, and perhaps the village will stone you just a little. Really, there was nothing to it. My planes weren’t even full. The only thing that occurred was we sat on the runway for 30 minutes, causing me to get to Detroit at 11:28, when my next plane took off at 11:41. I was dashing through the airport like OJ, not that I stabbed Ron Goldman on the way, and I’m sorry to tell you on my fun run, my turkey trot, I saw they have a Hello Kitty store at that airport.

“Goddammiiiiiiiiit,” I called past it as I screeched to my next gate. Still. Got here on time. And they’ve FANCIED UP the local airport here for the first time, like, ever, and I had this moment of panic when I got off the plane. Where the hell did I land? Did I accidentally go to Saugatuk and not Saginaw?

But there was my Aunt Kathy, apparently living in Saugatuk, or perhaps just at the new Saginaw airport. Aunt Kathy is moving to a new house right near my mother’s house, so she took me there first. It’s 2394394943934 square feet, and by “new” I mean “55 years old.” MAN, it’s impressive. The kitchen has, like, three stoves AND a bun warmer. Because your buns. It has a built-in place to put your blender. There’s a lighted linen closet with glass doors. IMG_4385
Gone With the Wind was on Wednesday night on AMC, and I watched that bitch TWICE while I was unpacking boxes and packing my suitcase, so Aunt Kathy’s house made me think of Prissy saying, “We shore is rich now.”

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After a sherpa got us through that house and back to regular people again, we headed to my mother’s normally-square-footed house, and there was my stepfather. And the pope.

Fakesmileclub

My Aunt Kathy and lesbian cousin Katie have been really busy this year with their Fake Smile Club activities. Aunt Kathy is too rich to smile at the likes of me.

Mom
“I’m sorry you’re poor, honey.”

For diner, we had turkey. I KNOW! Plus also, as I was getting dressing, my mother said, “Other people want dressing, too, June.” Like I was taking Jethro Bodeen-sized portions or something. Which I kind of was. BUT THAT’S THE POINT OF THANKSGIVING.

My mother also made us go around the table and say what we’re thankful for, and I said, “I’m thankful for Texas Kari,” and then after a pause I explained she was a reader who’d dared me to say that. No one responded. You know how no one at work likes me? No one at home likes me even worser.

Kathy

Really, the best part of the dinner was when we all discovered my Aunt Kathy had forgotten to add sugar to the pie. This is not a euphemism. Would that it were. “You know, Laura Ingalls Wilder forgot to sugar the pie on her first real day as a married woman,” I told everyone. “She had to get up and feed the threshers. Can you imagine? She was, like, 18, just lost her virginity the night before, and now she’s gotta get up and feed 20 hungry threshers. No wonder she forgot the sugar.”

Say, did I mention my family? And how they’re over me?

Today I’ve been helping my mother put up Christmas decorations, which makes me want to kill my own personal self, and which bothers my mother not one iota.

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“What the hell is this silver thing, Elton John’s dildo?” I asked. My whole purpose in life is to make my mother purse her lips disappointedly. It’s like she doesn’t even know how I turned out this way. You know how I turned out this way? Being forced to celebrate Christmas when it is obvious I have Jew in my bones. And have been boned by plenty a Jew.

[lip purse]

My friend Ann, Nan, and Amy (long story and I have to go) emailed me awhile ago to say she KNOWS I have no time to visit but today she got TWO NEW BABY KITTENS of kittenheadness from kitten town and just thought I’d like to know. I phoned her immediately.

“When can I be there?”

After that, as if I’ll be able to peel self from kittens with kitten heads, I am seeing Hulk. I texted him, text him, to ask if he was available later, then I sent him a bunch of photos of a train going in a tunnel, a beaver with a log, and a woman in a bikini holding a huge sausage.

You know how my coworkers and my family already hate me several amounts? Hulk is in first place. If there were Olympic steps, he’d be on the Mark Spitz step. 

Who got impressed with herself that she knows an Olympic athlete?

Oh, and speaking of current, I forgot (sit down) HAIR GEL, which is as bad as it gets, and had to borrow my mother’s, and who knew she’d have hair gel? “My hairdresser gave it to me,” she said. “Technically, it’s for black people’s hair, but it works for me. I think it’s to keep your Jheri curl looking nice or something, but I just use it for my hairdo.”

Apparently mom got out her Hot Black ‘Dos of ’87 handbook for that line.

I have to go. I have to get pretty for the kittens, so they’ll ask to come home with me. I am a total home wrecker when it comes to someone’s kittens. Hey, I’M not dating anyone. I have no conscience whatsoever about stealing them. I understand that made zero sense, but neither does my mom having a Jheri curl, so.

Talk at you.

Losing something once solid

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

Yeah.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mmmmm…I'd be pretty mad," Ned said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The "Happy Sexless Wedding Anniversary!" section.

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

I could go on. But I will not.

Go.

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

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

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

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

Switcheroo

Lifestyle

Preplan         

Plan ahead

Man cave

Listicle

Interwebs

Veggie

Dealio

“My happy place”

Kiddos

Staycation

Guilty pleasure

[20, 30, 40]-something

Fun fact

Referring to your fetus as “the bean”

Saying that anything “lives” on a website

Calling Cincinnati ’Cinci

Calling San Francisco ’Frisco

Foodie

Gifting

Turkey Day

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

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

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

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

You wrote it, you watch it

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

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

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

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

Silence.

"What yodeling contest?" she whispered.

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

How's she doing? No idea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What thing?" I really had no idea.

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

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

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

Precrankily,
Joooooon

Sort of SFW

IMG_2852 Poor Lu. Just wait till Lent is over and Tallulah can put bad pictures of ME on her Facebook page.

Oh, and one more thing before I tell you this story Ima tell you. Yesterday, my young coworker Ryan, whom you all so inappropriately lust for, came to my desk. "I made deviled eggs!" he said, and lately he's been just cooking up a storm. I cooked 100% nothing the entire decade I was in my 20s, other than schemes to get men to buy me drinks. He offered me some, and I adore me a deviled egg. We went to the kitchen, and as I was eating the first one, I said, "So, how was your weekend, anyway?"

"Terrible!" he said. "I had that stomach bug everyone's been having."

 

Am vomit time bomb.

So, last night I had my student. We've been working together for a year now, through a literacy program I volunteer with. She is not even remotely illiterate, in fact she can read as well as me. In fact she is smarter than me. But she didn't graduate high school because she had her daughter, her daughter who is now about to graduate high school herself, with honors. My student's goal is to graduate at the same time.

So, on Tuesdays, we prepare her for the GED, at least the Language Arts section. I tried to help her with the math and it was a travesty. It's also often a travesty when I help her with the Language Arts part, because they'll give you a longish essay to read, then ask you questions about it, and sometimes she and I will disagree on the correct answer and then when we check the answer, she's almost always right. One wonders what I am good for.

June. Unh. What is she good for? Absolutely nothing.

Say it again.

So, there we were, just two women struggling to get ahead in this world, and last night we sat down, opened our books,

and talked about sex. Turns out we're both big fans of it.

"I've heard it's different to sleep with a white guy," said my student, who by the way is black, and has been with the father of her children for 20 years, and he, too, is black. "I've always wanted to try a white guy."

"I always wanted to try a black guy!" I screeched across the McDonald's. We meet at McDonald's because it's near her house and has the free WiFi. Yesterday I had a Shamrock Shake! IMG_2955
But back to sex.

"What have you heard?" I asked, shoving aside that boring GEP prep book. "About white men being different?"

Now, here's the part where I could quote my student in all her hilarity, because she will say sex things that will have you on the FLOOR, you will be laughing so hard, but because you are more than likely reading this at work, and your IT department is reading it with you (hey, virgin IT guys!), I will now use extremely clinical and/or euphemistic language to recap our discussion for you.

"Well, I heard that white men will [participate in nontraditional forms of adult time, things that involve the oral cavity. They'll go to the land down under. They'll order the Egg McMuff]," she said.

"Oh, absolutely, they will," I said, all proud of My Shrimping People.

"But then I heard they [are not as endowed as, say, men of color]," she told me.

"I've heard that, too! That black men, are, you know…Are they?" I asked.

"I can't say, because I've only been with black men."

"Well," I said, holding out my hand. "I mean, here's about the size of a regular white guy," I showed her.

She sat back. "Well, that would just piss me off," she said. Then she told me details about men of color and their, you know, parts, their liver turners, that was astonishing, and that I am sorry to tell you I rushed home to tell Ned about, which was probably a mistake.

She said that due to their, you know, largesse, that men of color have no problem with, um…Today's Sesame Street is brought to you by the letter G. They have no problem bringing you a spot of the letter G.

So here is my point. Have you, faithful, slutty reader, ever been with a person outside of your race? Was it actually different, or are we being all, "Oh my god, New Zealand is heaven" when really they have strip malls and Adam & Eve stores off the highway just like they do here?

If it was different, HOW was it different? You can sign in under an assumed name, such as Faithful Slutty Reader, if you want. Because all I've ever done is sleep with college-educated white guys, for the most part. I mean, some of them went to community college.

Tell all.

Rainbow Connection-ly,

June

Undressed By Kings

IMG_2655To us, it's funny and cute, and to them it's this all-consuming battle for hierarchy, where each is determined to be the victor, TO THE DEATH.

IMG_2705Even NedKitty's BAG wants eternal dominance. NedKitty fights on.

Perhaps I have too much time on my hands. Too much time on my {alarm noises}. Sadly, that Styx album was playing when I lost my virginity. The song that was playing was, ironically, The Best of Times. Hello, high school boyfriend Cardinal, who sometimes reads this blog and with my luck he'll pop in today, not to be redundant. I am SORRY, but it was NOT the best of times, man. Nothing personal.

Speaking of stupid songs we'd rather not think of, just this morning, Ned said, "Every time I turn around, there's more laundry to do."

"Oh, well, you know what helps with that," I said, as if I had some seriously helpful information to give.

"What?" Ned seemed eager to hear Household Tips From June.

"DON'T TURN AROUND, UH-OH!" I said. "DER KOMMISSAR'S IN TOWN UH-OH!"

I feel like sometimes Ned wishes I'd return to the hotel.

I don't even technically know what a der kommissar is. Is it like someone who's in charge? In another country? Does my unknowledgeability continue to shock you, even now, when I come shining through?

I swear I think of you.

Okay, I'll stop.

Tonight, because god forbid he rest, Ned is getting his hair cut by the Russian model and then he's headed to Raleigh to watch basketball like it's fun. At least he can be all, HELLO, RALEIGH! BEHOLD MY NEW 'DO!

I am going to get a manicure after work, and then come home and read my book. I can just HEAR my mother wondering why I don't go to dinner with a friend or something, and she also wondered why I didn't invite a friend to my hotel.

See, both of those ideas sound dreadful to me. I mean, first of all, I was Officially Freaking Out® at the hotel and no one needed to see all that. And I will work a full day with my new work duties, I have to be somewhere during lunch, then of course my pressing manicure–and if you get gel manicures, you know it takes a lot of concentration to stick your hand in that light box without screwing everything up.

So the last thing I want to do is see anyone after all that noise. I have plans with my pal Jo this week, and I owe the Tall Boy a plan, and I have a party this weekend and TWO next weekend and that is social enough for me.

My mother has people running in and out of her house all day long, and plans with people all the time. Like, every day. That would just about wear my soul down. I'm in that open floor plan all day long as it is. I don't know, man. Do I seem antisocial to you?

I just thought of how Hulk has the song All By Myself on his iPod and I giggled a little. Remember in Bridget Jones' Diary, when she drank alone in her apartment (flat) and sang All By Myself? Totally had Hulk doing that with his beer. Poor Hulk. Maybe if we all put it into the universe today: HULK WILL MEET THE LOVE OF HIS LIFE NOW, maybe it will happen. Hulk's not all bad. I mean, I wouldn't fuck him. But someone really ought to. Let's all think it at 2 p.m. Eastern Time. Or if you missed that time, think it now.

I have to go dry my hair. I have a bit of a dilemma. The hair dryer is on the back of the toilet. The Ned toilet. I KNOW it's SWARMING in germs. I have my rubber gloves and my bleach in there, so I could spray down my hair dryer, I guess, right? I mean, I'm afraid to touch it. I had my roots done this weekend, therefore my hair blown straight, so I didn't need to dry my hair till today.

It's a phobia, folks.

Nervously,

Joooon