...friend/Ned · Film · I am berserk · I am high-maintenance · Not Grace Kelly

From underneath Laila Ali

Current situation: My tight-fitting Laila Ali dryer bonnet is atop my head. I’ve got fresh coffee in my favorite mug (for local folk: It’s one of those really thick ones from The Green Bean) and I DID have a dog snout in my lap till just now, when I snapped at my computer.

Does your computer…BOUNCE things at you at the bottom of the screen? First of all, why does everything need updating ALL THE TIME on one’s computer? Surely these aren’t all necessary.

The other day, I finally acquiesced to the CONSTANT bouncing request to update something or other, and after having to shut everything down and wait, then click a bunch of shit to get back on again, once all that was done and I could commence using my computer again, do you know what it did?

It asked if I wanted it to check for updates. Something at the bottom of my screen BOUNCED at me to ask. So you know what I did? I said okay. After being unable to use my computer for 40 minutes so everything could update, I wanted the satisfaction of that damn bouncing thing saying, Sorry. I bounced for no reason. Sorry I’m Tigger.

But you know what happened instead? IT TOLD ME I NEEDED UPDATES.

I HAD JUST UPDATED IT JUST THEN THAT MOMENT.

Goddammit.

So that’s why Edsel took his snout away just now. I just got all set up here at my desk when

BOUNCE

went two, not one but two, things at the bottom of my screen.

“WHAT,” I snapped, and Edsel has left the lap of luxury. He fears my moods.

I guess in general, I hate being interrupted. I assume this has to do with my attention deficit problem, in that I have a deficit of attention. So once you pull me away from something, I get highly irritated because I know it’s going to be difficult for me to get back where I was. It’s, like, all I can do to stay focused in the first place and now you’re pulling me away to say, “How was your weekend?”

The open floor plan at work vexes me. Can you tell?

Anyway, so I’m back in the swing of everything, if you want to call this swinging. I got to work and had exactly what I like, actually. A ton of stuff due in a just-a-bit-scary-but-doable amount of time, no one rushing in to tell me to set that aside to tackle ANOTHER scary thing, and also there was free dessert from some meeting. So.

Then at night, I went to my old movie theater and saw Rear Window.

Isn’t this like the 20th time you’ve seen Rear Window at that theater, June?

Actually, no. The last time I had planned to go, with Ned, and at the last minute I had a crisis du jour and told him I had to cancel. An hour later, my crisis was averted, and I phoned Ned and he wasn’t there.

This was back in like year one or two, when I still liked Ned and I did not know the way of his people, such as he is a

PIT

BULL

about plans. He makes a plan, he sticks with said plan. So what did he do? He went to Rear Window without me.

Oooooo, I was mad. I guess I’d wanted him to stay home worried sick about my crisis. Or dash over and help. But instead he just went to the movie. Like in Family Circus, where the gramma does stuff but with the outline of deceased grandpa.

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That was the day I Jack Ruby’d Ned.

I TORE down to the movie theater, and I WAITED outside till it was over, and oooooo, I was burning mad. I should have known then how Ned would be the whole relationship. June? I can take her or leave her. June is French dressing.

Anyway, once people started milling out of the theater, Ned said I BURST into the crowd like Jack Ruby, out of nowhere and full of rage.

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I didn’t shoot him, though. I just scowled and complained.

I remember Ned calmed me down by saying, “Every time Grace Kelly was on the screen, I thought about you.” That line totally worked on me, and I am with you on the “Bitch, please” you’re uttering right now. What can I tell you? I was smitten.

Anyway, I saw it last night, the movie I mean, not Jack Ruby, and why is Grace Kelly so perfect? Why am I not her? Grace Kelly would never sit in the front seat of her car and eat Long John Silvers.

I have to go to work, and this new 8 a.m. start time is like to kill me. But before I do, I wanted to share with you this.

You’re welcome.

From out of the crowd,
Joon

Family · Food and Drink · Hair · I am high-maintenance · My pets · Not Grace Kelly · Television

Rare. In the bloody way, not the special way.

Do you think of yourself as normal? I have never once, for as long as I can remember, considered myself to be normal. And I'm glad of it, although I haven't always been. I doubt anyone else finds me normal, either.

There was one woman who was married to my friend, a woman who made it a real point to seem different, kind of like that What's Goin' On chick, you know who I mean? 4nb6

Like, the second you meet her, she's got so much "Look how weird I am" happening with her look that you can't help but think, Hey, bundle of insecurity, how's it going?

Four Non Blondes. That was the name of the What's Goin' On band. I can't tell you how delighted I am that they made "non" stand alone like that. Like the cheese. Standing alone.

The point of my story is my friend's wife–the Hey World, Look at Me wife–found me desperately boring. "Oh, a tattoo on your ankle. How original." Yes, if only I'd had the creativity to get that feminine neck tattoo, Grace Kelly doppelganger, over there.

Other than that bitch, no one finds me all that normal. I don't think. Maybe they do and I just think my insides show, like one of those refrigerators with glass doors.

This might be genetic, this thinking I'm a rare flower. My grandmother, the one I'm turning into–and let's just call a spade a spade and call her The One I've Turned Into already–went to a restaurant when she was a kid, and she ordered a steak, rare, because she thought it meant it was this precious piece of steak or something. That there was no other steak like it in the world. When this bloody hunk of meat appeared on her plate she about died.

I don't know how I got on this tangent, other than I met this man from New York on one of my dating sites, a man from New York who's moved here, and my first thought was why did some fancy New Yorker pick a gal from Michigan like me, who likes sparkles and Real Housewives, and then I remembered the whole not-seeming-normal thing, which is probably refreshing for a New York man surrounded by women with french pedicures, Beach Girl bumper stickers and monogrammed commuter mugs. That was a short sentence.

Not that I'm saying there's a romance brewing in a commuter mug, by the way. I have no idea yet. I was just more stuck on the New Yorker thing.

Did y'all have those York Steakhouses in your malls? Those all dark in there places? I think it had burgundy wallpaper. We did for awhile, and I remember it was delicious after a day of shopping for Lip Smackers and Andy Gibb 45s. Also, welcome to how my brain works. As if you didn't know already.

There's nothing like steak served cafeteria style. If there were a York Steakhouse, I'd march right over there at lunch today. Because ravenous. I did that damn high intensity workout again last night, with my tenant, fmr., and listen to this. We decided to go a little longer, like Big Red. "You want to try two minutes more?" I asked. Believe me, two more minutes feels like to kill you when you're at the end of that thing.

Nevertheless, we persisted.

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In other news, not that I've given you even one piece of news so far, I saw this photo on Facebook–I think Faithful Reader Paula put it up–and was stunned to find Midcentury June. Everything about this photo is Midcentury June. I want to know everything there is to know about this woman. I wonder if she's still alive! She could give Late Century June some advice, such as never, ever get a Boxer.

I love that picture so hard. The more you stare at it, the more shit you find to love.

I'd better get ready for work, as I am wont to do. I finished my latest freelance assignment, but another is coming next week. And I still need to write a Purple Clover this weekend. I can't seem to figure out how to start this particular column. It haunts me. I should probably just start writing and I'll be fine.

Also, I wrote an animal behaviorist about making an appointment for Edsel, and got a VERY snooty note back about how my vet needs to recommend said behaviorist, that I can't just make an appointment, who do I think I am with my generic ankle tattoo. But then I read that Prozac takes 4 weeks to kick in, and it's not been 4 weeks, so I decided to see if he seems better in a week or two. Poor sad Edsel. How many times are we gonna say that? In this life.

He doesn't seem sad right this minute. He's over here developing a real crush on m'toast. Edz can see reel fewchur with towst.

I'd better go, but oh! Last night I started streaming The People v OJ Simpson OH MY GOD, riveting. They didn't make Marcia Clark's hair bad enough, though. I know from bad hair.

I'll catch you later. Let's all meet up at York's, near the Sears entrance to the mall.

Friends · June's stupid life · My pets · Not Grace Kelly

Moo. Yakety yakety yakety.

Edsel stuck his paw straight up my nose this morning. Managed to get a claw in each nostril, and now m'nose hurts. So I gotta fit a trip to the pound in along with my regular duties. Maybe I could just do a whole drop-him-in-a-field excursion.

He and Steely Dan are starting to do this play/wrestle thing that I really want to capture better on film. SD bats at Edsel's snout, and Eds does the bow play thing dogs do, but then he gets really excited and SD runs under a table or something. He's acutely aware of the size of his opponent.

But speaking of that dick SD, yesterday evening I heard a thump, and there was Steely Dick on the little shelf on the back of the house.

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So here was my view last night, without Steely Dan being INSIDE, but rather him being outside, on the little shelf.

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Here is the little shelf that's outside. Visual aids, by June. Also, I see the handyman left nails out. Thanks.

So there I was, going about my business, when I heard a FLOOMP, and there was SD outside, having just jumped on that shelf. "How the HELL did that cat get outside?" I was thinking, because HOW IS HE GETTING OUTSIDE, when

FLOOMP

He leaped from that shelf onto the roof. ONE LEAP.

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Shelf, Roof. Seriously?

I ran outside, and there he was, peering down at me with pride. He was all puffed up. "You know what? Fuck you, Buddy," I said, and went back inside, because kitten mom of the year. Twice I've stood outside in the cold like an idiot trying to lure that cat who WON'T STAY INSIDE off the roof. So I went in, fed everyone else dinner, and we had ourselves a fine evening, till

FLOOMP

he jumped down and onto the shelf again. reddy to come in!

Asshole. I shoulda named him James Taylor, if he's always going to be up on the roof.

In other news, Mary Tyler Moore is dead. Goddammit. When I found out, I immediately got the idea to take a photo of me throwing my hat, so naturally I asked my partner in crime, Austin, if he'd take my photo.

One thing I required, back when I was online dating, was that the person not say they are looking for their "partner in crime." Jesus Christ. It was even in MY profile. "If you do not have 'LOL' or 'partner in crime' written anywhere on your profile, write me."

Anyway, then I needed to find a hat, and the yoga girl at work has a knitted cap that reads Namaste, I am not even kidding, so then Austin, my P-i-C, and I headed to the parking lot.

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When I plugged my phone in last night, here was the first photo to load. Asshole. He might as well be Steely Dan.

Once I got Austin off the roof, we took a series of photos of me tossing a hat, such as…

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this and also

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I'm gonna make it (maniacally) after all.

And speaking of my coworkers, I know how you all get all Mrs. Robinson about my young coworker Ryan, who stopped by yesterday–he works on another floor now. He's all growin' his hair long and looks fairly Christlike.

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"WWJD–what's with Jesus's 'do?" I asked, then gazed at self fondly and told my family I'd met The One.

Speaking of which, and do you wish I'd stop saying "speaking of" all the time? Me, too. But speaking of The One, the other night I drove my own self to Winston-Salem and saw Jackie, which is not about Jackie Gleason but rather Jackie Kennedy. Wanted my money back but they wouldn't give it to me.

No, no. I adore Jackie Kennedy, as you know, and wish to be like her and could not be less like her other than we both have vadges, and you know what Jackie Kennedy probably said a lot? "Vadge."

The movie was riveting, and sad, and afterward the whole theater of maybe 15 people just sat in silence for about a minute. It was like in Mad Men, when Don Draper took his kid to see Planet of the Apes, and at the end the kid said, "Jesus." (see Ryan, above)

Am on roll today.

The point is, that's the first time since 2011 that I have gone to that theater without Ned. I told this to Faithful Reader Fay yesterday: You know in the Family Circus, how sometimes they show the grandma, and she's doing things and the perforated outline of grandpa is next to her, cause he's dead and so on? That's how I felt. The walk to the theater, getting the popcorn, driving home, it was all very Ghost of Ned.

I thought about how promising things were in the beginning. An old friend of his telling me, "I've never seen him look at a woman the way he looks at you." His relative telling me, "You're the one, I can feel it."

Of course, I also remember telling him that and him scoffing, so.

I'm still reading obsessively about the Love Addict/Love Avoidant, and I was IMing with a boyfriend from long ago last night, and we determined that we, too, had that dynamic. The woman he married ends up letting him be quite a bit, and it turns out that's exactly what he needed. But it was a nice talk, and he wasn't all, "You were a nutbar and I was delightful." Instead he acknowledged his part in things, and had nice things to say about me, which was lovely to hear.

I gotta go. Wearing my cute dress today, so look out, world. Or, alternatively, ignore me, world.

Photo on 1-26-17 at 8.31 AM #2

...friend/Ned · Busy busy busy busy. Thank heavens for Angie's List. · Chicken · Food and Drink · June's stupid life · Not Grace Kelly

Hand Jumping June

Yesterday was ridik.

I had to take my car into the shop, which I think I've told you now 800 times, and you'd think I was taking it in to get it tricked out. You'd think my car was transitioning.

Do you know what I'd like? Is a little Fiat. I love those. In some zippy color like yellow or a light blue. I love having a yellow car–I can always find it in parking lots. I think I will never not have a yellow car. That was a beautifully constructed sentence. Anyway, I can't afford a new car. Mine is 8 years old but it has only 82,000 miles on it, so.

I have no idea how I got on that dull tangent.

Oh, so I had to take it in. And that young man of color who works at the desk, there, who checks you in and so forth? Hotteldy hot hot with a side of extra hot. Oh my god. And since I had to get up early, scream around here, take Lottie to daycare because I couldn't come back at noon to let her out of prison, I arrived at the car place with wet hair and halfway-done makeup.

Hey, Man of Color. Fly me.

That did not stop me from flirting like I was Blanche Devereaux, of course, clutching my pearls and rolling my eyes and so on. He got me checked in quickly and into a shuttle van with a woman with the world's worst personality. It was only after the WWWWP and I were on our way that I realized my pants had been unzipped the entire time.

Hey, Man of Color. Fly me.

So then I got to work and had to hurry hurry hurry because I had three articles to write yesterday, plus meetings of course, and I got only two of the three done as a result. If I didn't have to go to meetings to talk about work I had to do, and instead could–oh– do the work, I could get my work done.

Since I couldn't go home for lunch, I walked to the Iron Hen, which is a really good restaurant near me. I got this irrational fear that Ned would be there. His doctor's office is in the same parking lot, as is a liquor store, so all his needs are met right in one lot. The point is, as I was walking there, I was all What if he has an appointment today? What if he's right in that restaurant and I have to see him? Will I walk out? I'd already phoned in my order–pear salad with pecans and grilled chicken. Would I eschew my order to avoid Ned?

Food/Ned. Food/Ned.

I decided I'd be stoic. I'd be Scarlett O'Hara in that field, except I wouldn't quietly vomit my radish.

Anyway, all that buildup was for nothing, because really what were the chances.

I'd planned to eat lunch on The New Bench in this park near work, but right as I approached it, some EFFING BITCH got there too and took it, never looking up from her phone call. She had a paperback romance with her and I detested her entire being. So instead I walked back to work and ate at my desk and had to endure the 792 "Oh, that looks good! Where'd you get that?" questions that BORE INTO MY SOUL.

I HATE that. Do you hate that? Just let me eat pecans in peace.

Then the hot MOC from the auto place called to tell me I'd blown a fuse, and who knew, and had I been in any sort of accident with my car.

"No!" I said. Because I, you know, haven't. I tried to say "no" in an inviting way, though, just in case.

"You're sure?" he asked, "Really?"

Jesus Christ. No, I'm lying to you. I got in an accident and forgot.

That did not stop me from hurling myself at him at the end of the day, after the Woman with the World's Worst Personality brought me back to the shop. By the way, her driving made me nervous as shit. The whole ride, I was all, "Woah, woah, woah! That light has been yellow a long–"

–screech! With her brakes.

Christ.

Anyway, you'll be stunned to hear that Man of Color did not pick up what I was throwing down, and on the drive home I realized my pants had been unzipped again.

No, seriously, fly me.

I got Lottie from daycare after, and the good news there is that that was one exhausted animal. I'd checked on her on the webcam, and she was making friends left and right yesterday. She didn't stand stoically like Lu used to, in a field with her radish. She mixed and mingled.

But as soon as I got home I had to shower and change because I was…going out.

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The good news is, I don't have to figure out what to wear today because I already picked out something cute last night and wore it for only two hours, so. Silver lining.

Since I already spilled the beans, I was out with The Older Man last night. The Younger Man is in Rio, and I have not at all sent 792 references to the song Rio in my texts to him or anything. He is doing something with the Olympics, The Younger Man is, and I feel like that won't narrow it down too much seeing as 792,000 people are doing something with the Olympics right now.

"I'm going to be in Rio as well!" I texted him before he left. "I'm the favorite to win the gold for the hand jump."

He told me there wasn't such a THING as the hand jump, and right then I knew.

"What if you screw up your job, and the Olympics are, like, ruined because of you?" I wrote him yesterday first thing.

"Wow, you ARE supportive," he wrote. "You're like Ike Turner."

"I prefer to think of myself as the husband in Rosemary's Baby," I said. "That was a guy who always had your back."

Really, I don't know why just everyone doesn't want to date me. Remember back when I was first dating again, in 2011, and that reader wrote in to tell me how obnoxious I was and that was why I couldn't keep a man? What a dick. And how clearly wrong he was.

Once I was finally settled in at home,

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and relaxing, I got a text from the headache study. "You haven't filled out your online headache diary!" they wrote, and son of a BITCH. But once I got on there and remembered my participant number and password ("GoldHandJumper"), it was pretty easy.

All right, I gotta go. Edsel, who has already been out and back in again THREE TIMES today, has been staring longingly out the door, but I just got up to let him out again–even though I've already said, "That's IT for going out this morning"–and as soon as I opened the door, he sauntered away. So I have to beat the dog and get in the shower.

Yours,

Ike

...friend/Ned · Aging ungracefully · Chicken · Food and Drink · Health · I hate everything · June can't keep a man · June doesn't know any ugly people · June's stupid life · Not Grace Kelly

Downtown Juney Brown

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

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

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

GODDAMMIT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do you know where this surgery center isn't?

DOWNTOWN.

Throatily,

June

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

You know where he lives and works?

DOWNTOWN.

...friend/Ned · June's stupid life · Not Grace Kelly

You know I hate to complain

Last night I finally showered, at 8 p.m., and I didn't bother to wash my hair. It got a little wet, though, and that with the combination of my curls being in bed all day resulted in it drying into sort of dreadlocks. "You look like Perry Farrell," said Ned. Then he had the nerve to add, "What? He's a good-looking guy, right?"

Ned always has to confirm with you that a man is good looking. It's like if he were absolutely certain a man was handsome, he'd be in a bathhouse in the next 20 minutes. Why are straight men so weird about being gay? Even the gay-friendly men I know, which Ned is, are weird about seeming gay. Just this morning, Ned put on his purple shirt. It's a beautiful shirt, and I have never seen him in it before.

"Does this shirt look gay?" he wondered, like he'd just pulled on a tutu.

I mean, I don't really care if I look gay. Granted, I'd rather no one looked at me and thought, Oh, bulldyke, just because I try kind of hard to look girly and I'd hate to be that off base.

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Look I'm going for.

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Look I hope I'm not achieving. Although she looks adorable here.

But in general, you don't find women asking, Is this gay? Do I seem gay? And yet men seem scared to death of that label.

Why? Our society is stupid.

In other news, I got up today and took a shower and intended to go to work, but as I moved around I got hot and dizzy and my head is killing me. It's been killing me for more than 24 hours. I don't know if it's a migraine or a sinus headache or both, but I can't get rid of it.

In the meantime, I suggested to Ned that we change the sheets last night, because I laid in them all yesterday, contaminating them. This whole time we've been living together, we've used Ned's sheets, but last night I got out some of mine, which happen to be pale blue with sheepies on them, and each sheep has a number. Like you're counting sheep. Get it? Do you?

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"You aren't serious," said Ned, as I spread the fitted sheet. "Oh, get over it," I said, throwing a pillow case at him. "Put a pillowcase on."

"Are these flannel? I'll sweat all night in flannel," he groused. "I'll cozy up right next to you if I get sweaty, just so you know."

Ned is so fussy, he might as well be gay.

And in case you were worried sick, he did NOT sweat in the flannel sheets, seeing as its JANUARY and all. Yeesch. What I did not tell him was I used to have matching pajamas, and I'd get into bed and ask Marvin, "Can you see me right now?"

I am a delight.

Okay, so, this has worn me out, sitting up and writing this post. I have an Iris on my lap and a Talu snoring on the bed, and I hate to tell her but she's getting joined by her mom and a blind cat in a minute. Yesterday while I was sleeping–that brief window–Iris and Lily got into the biggest tussle at the end of the bed. Lily was leaping on Iris over and over and biting her neck out and Iris was hissing. Then they'd stop and flump their tails at each other and do the thing where they raise their paws up and swing at nothing.

It was fun to watch other than the part where I lay dying.

Okay, I'm going to bed. For a change.

Oh, I forgot. On Monday, the night of our anniversary, I took a picture of us even though I was ill and looking awful.

FullSizeRender-2

June's stupid life · Not Grace Kelly

Apres Photoshoot

The photographer came. He was a lovely man, who just got an Australian shepherd puppy named Bo who I saw a picture of and I love Bo so bad.

Photo on 1-13-15 at 1.00 PMI sneaked in this shot of said photographer in my room; he's the blue blur in the corner that Edsel is falling for, hard. He's Edsel's new blue.

When I got home this afternoon to meet the photographer, Ned had been here and filled the house with flowers. Here is the part where you tell me Ned's a keeper.IMG_2472

IMG_2474 IMG_2475I love this picture, how you can see Eds in the mirror.

Anyway, he was a nice guy, and got shots of me at the computer and also with the dogs on the couch (don't tell Ned) and it all went well and then he left.

IMG_2476I was just breathing a sigh of relief and being glad it was over when I posed for this shot for all of you, and?

Found the price tag still on my skirt.

 

Books · June's stupid life · My pets · Not Grace Kelly

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.

...friend/Ned · Aging ungracefully · June's stupid life · Not Grace Kelly

June blogs while Ned boils

Ned just told me he'd poach us some eggs, and yes we ARE just getting up at 1:00 in the afternoon, and we are decadent and have I ever mentioned I've never regretted being childless? I did, however, have to get up and feed everybody, and sometimes in the morning I feel like a farmer. Also, sometimes when we touch, the honesty's too much. Which might be the annoyingest song in the history of time.

 

Apparently, flaring one's nostrils makes it more sincere.

I'm just another writer still trapped within my truth.

Anyway, I thought I'd write you about my weekend till Ned says the eggs are ready, because starving, and I think it'll be hilarious if I write and then just break off dramatically. I wanna blog ya till the fear in me subsides.

On Friday, I left work and screamed on home, where Ned had the day off, and carried him over to this new brewery, and that's what they say here when they mean "drove." I carried Vonnie over to the bingo. I am not kidding you.

Ned has always wanted to try that brewery, I mean, not always, seeing as this place opened like two months ago, but he's wanted to go for awhile, so I was glad when my work's happy hour was there. We have happy hour every Friday. It's not a bad workplace.

It's a big, open room, as opposed to a big closed room, and the handles of the door are big pieces of pipe, and right there's a phrase I like. Big pieces of pipe. I have no idea when I turned into Blanche on Golden Girls.

Not only do they have beer made right there, because brewery, they also have games, so we all set up the Jenga, which was fun unless you're the asshole knocking over the thing. I can't play Jenga without thinking of Marcia and her charm bracelet and the house of cards, but just try making a Brady Bunch reference to the Alexes. They'd be all, "?"

There was also a food truck there, and Ned and I got ginger chicken burritos that were the size of your head, unless you're a Macy's float. I get a lot of Macy's float readers. My numbers go down dramatically on Thanksgiving.

We came home and rented Carnal Knowledge, which we'd said we were gonna do before we left the brewery, resulting in a giant "Who's hotter, Ann-Margaret or Candace Bergen back then?" First of all, someone whose whole name is a hyphenated first name is irritating to me. Second, while I see and understand that Hyphen Margaret is hot, she always struck me as just a teensy bit cheap.

Celebrity-Image-Candice-Bergen-237432Candace Bergen, on the other hand, was classically beautiful and sophisticated looking. A thinking man's hottie, which apparently does not exist, because every man at that table was all up in Ann-Margaret, who if you ask me seems like she'd smell of Victoria's Secret perfume. Candace Bergen would be Chanel No. 5 or Shalimar or something.

The point is, the whole room woulda had Ann-Margaret on the pinball machine and I'd get Candace Bergen all to myself.

Oh my god anyway. So that was Friday and I hear Ned taking plates down. By the way, he came up here as I was enjoying that beautiful video above and was entirely unfazed. "Want more coffee?" Ned is completely used to the bullshit I look at online.

On Saturday morning, one of the Alexes insisted I meet her at yoga, and you know how I get right up with gusto, but get up I did, and it was rainy and awful, but me and my yoga pants headed out anyway and can you believe that bitch stood me up? I am just about sure.

But I did the free yoga and I've been to that studio with that teacher before, and I loved it, so I signed up for eight classes and talked Ned into doing it, too, because he lifts weights and rides a bike and hurts constantly, but he never wanted to be the creepy guy at yoga. Now he can be the creepy guy at yoga with a girlfriend.

I told him about the melon-halves butt girl ahead of me in class and that is what sold him, I think.

Well, see, the eggs are ready. So okay bye. I wish I could stay and hold you till the fear in you subsiiiiiiiides.

...friend/Ned · Aging ungracefully · Family · Friends · Hair · June's stupid life · Marvin · My pets · Not Grace Kelly · Travel

I have the feeling Ima be just as annoying in 2015.

It's the end of the year, FYI, and time for my end-of-year veedeo, and you've been around a long time if you know why I say "veedeo."

So long, 2014! You weren't all bad. (Click on the white "2014 Be Done" title at the top of the video, so it'll take you to YouTube, where you can CLICK THE DAMN X to get rid of the ad. THANKS, YOUTUBE.)

 

Aging ungracefully · I am high-maintenance · June's stupid life · Not Grace Kelly

Fashion advice

I overslept, and I have these bags under my eyes that I have NEVER ONCE EVER woken up to. Aging is fantastic.

My point is, I need advice. I know. Didn't I say NEVER AGAIN last time? There's always someone who's just been champing at the bit to tell me how fat I am or whatever. Still. Advice.

If you could put me in something flattering, what would you put me in? If I could score a burka, I would, but I only have the weekend to decide.

Color, style? Jeans, skirt, dress? What?

Okay, tell me. It's nothing fancy, so… (Steal something casual.) (That's only funny if you know from the movie Arthur.)

And I'll tell you WHY I need something flattering as soon as I am able.

Fashionably, June

P.S. Thanks for chiming in yesterday to say how long you've been reading. It was sort of fascinating, mostly because we were talking about me. My favorite part was how many people said, "You yelled at me, once, June, but I stayed around." Nice. I am a gem.

June's stupid life · Not Grace Kelly

June Ruby

I got to get up late today, because I have a doctor's appointment at 9:30. Exciting! And don't get dramatic; I'm not dying of anything. I'm going for my annual RICOLAAAAAAAA! appointment.

 

What a stupid-ass commercial.

Last night, Ned and I went to our old theater we like so much, where everybody knows our name and we really hope Sam and Diane get back together. The guy who always sells us our popcorn told us that they're opening the third (!!!!) level, and they'll be showing Hitchcock movies there in a few weeks. I cannot even stand it.

The first one they're showing is Rear Window, which I missed last summer and Ned saw. "Isn't that the one where you Jack Rubied me?" Ned asked. Last year, I was having some crisis du jour, and I called Ned in a lather. "I can't go!" I wailed. "I have blah de de bloo!" I can't even remember what the crisis was. I think I bounced a check or something. The point is, the whole sitch was fixed an hour later, so I called him.

He wasn't home.

"Did he…? He WENT TO THE MOVIE!?" Oh, I was mad. Shouldn't he be at home, worried sick about my bounced check? Shouldn't he be rushing over to help? I vaguely recalled his, "Is there anything I can do?" but just because I said NO didn't mean there was nothing he could DO. Didn't he understand that?

Oh, my lather was back. So at closing time of the movie, I drove over there, and as he came out of the theater like a normal person I STAMPEDED over to him. "I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU WENT TO THE MOVIE!" I wailed.

Ned took my hand and led me to the median in the street, there, probably hoping he could push me in front of an out-of-control ice truck. "June, I asked if there was anything I could do. When you said no, I figured it was the last I'd hear from you tonight. I missed you through the whole movie. Every time I saw Grace Kelly, I thought of you."

What a dick. Who could stay mad when someone says a phony line like that? So I got over it. Then on the way to his apartment, he said, "Wow, you really came out of the crowd, there. It was like you were Jack Ruby and I was Lee Harvey Oswald."

Would you like to date me soon? I'm a prize.

So night we went to see Airplane, and I had no lathers to get into. I had completely forgotten when the guy called from the Mayo Clinic.

MayoOh my god. I fell over my chair. I was giggling in complete hysterics, like a lunatic or Jack Ruby. The Mayo Clinic! Dying.

After the movie, we had to go to my house to be with the poor dogs, and as we were in Ned's parking lot to get my car, I stopped. "What?" asked Ned, who probably thought my gears were stuck on a mood change. "Did you hear that?" I'm like some kind of wolf, with my hearing of this particular thing. "I hear a cat." It was dark out, so it's not like cats were popping just out of everywhere. We searched for awhile and gave up. We got into my car, and Ned said, "There's your cat."

It was a catten, sitting on the wall of the parking lot. She was, like, bigger than a teeny kitten but still gangly. Dudes, I followed that thing all over yonder, and Ned went in and got food, and we could not get Lottie. I named her Lottie. If it's a boy he's totally Lot. Then Iris can be…Lot's wife. Oh, I am worried sick about Lottie, who I finally got close enough to see is brown and stripy. Someone she was quite fond of was me. She would TOTALLY go to the movies when I was in a lather.

Further reports as developments warrant. Tonight my friend The Poet is having a (wait for it) poetry reading at the local bookstore, so we're gonna go to that in our berets and goatees. I will just not Nair today.

Talk at you.

P.S. The Mayo Clinic. Oh, I am dying.

...friend/Ned · June's stupid life · Not Grace Kelly

Call me Ishmael, M’lady

Today at work, we're having a photo sesh, because we're revamping the company website. They've asked me to be one of the people posing for said pictures, and in my mind I had us phonily leaning over the conference room table, looking over a document–something I never, ever do in real life. But it turns out the shots are going to be more casual than that, which has not lessened my obsession over looking flawless, anyway.

I mean, I know I'm in there because I'm the token old chick, but I want to be the "WOW! They hire hot old chicks!" old chick. Last night for Ned's birthday, we went to the baseball game (I begged him to go. BAH!) and when Ned got in line for beer, I said, "I'm getting a bottled water. Photo sesh."

Then he got a brat, and I was all, "Not me. Photo sesh." It's like he's dating fat Kate Moss without the cocaine.

Speaking of Ned's birthday, and what else HAVE I spoken of as of late, he was vehement that I not get him anything for his birthday because we're allegedly moving, and need all the cash we can get. So the only thing I got him was his childhood version of Moby Dick, with which he has been obsessed ever since he couldn't find it at his mom's house over Mother's Day weekend.

I got the brilliant idea to get him this book, and emailed his nice brother to say what I was doing, and could I send him some book covers and he could identify which was the real book. His brother cheerfully complied, until 384838483822 book covers later, and then guess who became over me. Oh, did I look for that book. I even got my friend Dot on the case, as she is good at this sort of thing.

Finally, I told Ned what I'd wanted to get him and couldn't. I sent him five covers just as an example, and he wrote back: "JUNE! That very first cover is it! You found my book!"

Sigh. His brother remembered a photo from INSIDE the book, not the cover.

Anyway, I got him that, and then I felt bad that that's all I got him, so night before last I went to the liquor store and got him some gin. Ned is forever saying he loves a gin and tonic in the summer, and yet I never see him drink gin and tonic. I always feel slightly seedy going to the liquor store, and worry that the salespeople think I hit a different liquor store every night to keep my gin habit going.

I also got him tonic and a lime, and then yesterday at lunch I stampeded to Rite Aid to get a gift bag, and I also picked up some…girl medication. I have a …girl issue right now, that Grace Kelly would not tell you about so I won't, but let's just say if I could sit on one of those bristle aquarium cleaners and spin around for an hour, I'd be happy.

JunehairEnclosed please find a photo of the woman ahead of me in line, who had total June hair.

The point is, I got to the counter with my gift bag and my girl meds, and when the woman was ringing them up, I heard myself say, "I'm not giving this away as a gift."

What is wrong with me? "I wasn't even thinking that, ma'am," said the sales clerk, who is as over me as Ned's brother and they ought to form a support group.

At the end of the workday yesterday, Ned emailed me. "I really feel like having some gin tonight. On my way home, I'm going to the liquor store."

Son of a…

For TWO AND A HALF YEARS of knowing Ned, he's NOT ONCE said he was going to the liquor store to buy gin, and the VERY DAY I have it for him, what does he say?

"DON'T GET GIN!" I emailed back.

"Oh! Okay. Well, what if I get lime and tonic, then?"

SON OF A…

"So now you've ruined ALL the surprises I had for you," I told him. "Just don't stop off and get a 16-year-old prostitute on the way home, either."

The only thing Ned did not blow was the fact that I got him an apple crumble pie, and a fine card.

NedspecsIt reads: "Your reading glasses are sexy." And here he is, wearing my diamond-y ones. His actual reading glasses ARE sexy, though.

NeddickNed said I absolutely found the right Moby Dick, which by the way is often hyphenated, a thing that annoys me not at all. At the end of the night, I am happy to tell you Ned read the book to me, and wow, is Moby not hyphen Dick ever a fascinating book.

We had a gin and tonic on my deck, and by "we" I mean I watched Ned have a gin and tonic on my deck. Photo sesh.

Neddog
Then we screamed off to the baseball game, where I think we won, I'm not sure. There was an extremely hot young black woman in front of us, with a really thin, hot young body, and she had on acid wash elastic-waist jeans that believe it or not she looked bangin' in. She was doing a whole ironic mom jean thing. "If I wore those, I'd look mentally disabled," I told Ned.

Anyway, much of my evening was spent watching her, and looking at her thumb ring, and her cute white toeanail polish, and basically wishing I were a hot 19-year-old black girl. Guess what I am not.

So that sums up Ned's birthday, which was a fine event, and for 20 days he is my much-older manfriend. Then next month we'll be the same age again. I am hoping that there is some screwup in the system and I turn 19 instead of 49. And also black. I need to get over the black girl. But you didn't see her. You'd have died, too.

Okay. June Moss, out.

Film · June's stupid life · Not Grace Kelly

The one where I meander and don’t get right to the point

It's hard to get used to how FRICKING CLEAN this house is, in anticipation of the people traipsing through to look at everything. I walk into a room and go, "Oh! Crap, it's clean in here." My Uncle Leo used to say about people: "They're so clean" as if that were a bad trait. I had these two old lady great aunts who lived together in a tiny cute house, and in retrospect it was my dream house. They had all the old lady things I like. I even think they had an O'Keefe and Merrit stove.

425-502x600Marvin and I had one in California, and had to leave it behind. It's hard to schlep a stove. I like how they show a 1930s stove with 1960s graphics behind it.

The point is, my Uncle Leo and I were inexplicably at my great aunts' old lady house one day–I can just see us in their kitchen with their cute embroidered hand towels–and my uncle mouthed to me, "Everything's so clean" the way you'd mouth, "They're crazy" or "There's a gun on the table."

Uncle Leo. Never a neatnik.

They had a schedule, my great aunts did, where they'd do laundry on Monday, bake on Tuesday, or whatever. My schedule is Oh dear Lord, someone is coming. I have to get the eight pounds of dog fur out from under the bed.

Anyway. I had said to Ned, "On Monday, I don't have my student, and I get to just go home and do absolutely nothing. I have no engagements or plans. I can just go home and relax for the first time in weeks." Someone at work asked me if I was going to the workouts in the park, and I said, "Nope. For the first time in ages, I'm going home to do nothing."

I'M GOING DOWN TO LIVERPOOL TO DO NOTHING ALL THE DAYS OF MY LIFE! I love that song.

 

I'd like to take this moment to once again do my Susanna Hoffs impression.

Photo on 6-17-14 at 7.33 AM #2 Photo on 6-17-14 at 7.33 AMYou're welcome.

Oh my GOD, my point is, I did not remotely get my nothing evening. Which is a shame, because I can take a nothing day and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile. Two more couples came by to see the place last night, so there went my relaxing. The first people were absolutely delightful and I loved them. They were young but both had gainful employment, and the man in the couple said, "Would you be our landlady?" and when I said yes he said, "Oh, that's great. You're already wonderful." Which of course I am. And so clean.

The other duo told me they couldn't come till after the World Cup was done and would that be okay. They got here at about 8:30, and I had the feeling they'd be foreign, because World Cup, and also they both had wonky names. If they move in, I won't even need to make up names for them. Anyway, the man was a tall man of color with dreads, from Colombia. He has a PhD in mechanical engineering and works at a university, so you can imagine how much we had in common. Oh, did we talk mechanicals and engineering. Wooo! But he was so, so nice and also very cute, which is what matters.

His girlfriend is from Germany and she just got here. I have no idea why every German in Greensboro is coming to my house. They met in college and she finally got a green card. She was very nice, too, but she scared the crap out of me. She looked around and asked intelligent questions, and noted imperfections in the house and asked if they'd be fixed before they moved in (….) and generally was one of those brisk, efficient people who make me sweaty.

While she went from room to room taking pictures and making notes (swear), her boyfriend and I had some water in the kitchen and talked engineering. I gave him some tips. He said, "My girlfriend is so efficient. I'm just already emotionally attached to the house, but she has to be logical about it." I told him about how I walked into my new house with Ned and said, "Okay, I love this house and want to spend 80 years here" and he was all is there central air? How's the water pressure? Does the basement leak? I guess you need a regular person and then the person with 80 emotions going.

The point is, they emailed me later and said they really could see themselves living here and want a few days to think it over. In the meantime, someone else is coming tonight and I will never be able to shed dog hair again. Jesus.

Help me think of good Colombian and German names for them, should they move in. Christopher Columbus and Helga. Good. Glad we had this talk.

After I show the house again tonight, and I just saw myself lifting my house up like they do when they show cats, I am going with Ned to see How to Marry a Millionaire at the old theater we love, and I hope to get some tips on how to do just that. I wish there were a movie called How to Make Ned a Millionaire.

Have you ever seen them show cats and hold them up all terribly? Hang on. I can't find a cat right now, believe it or not, but a Lu is right here. I'll demonstrate.

Photo on 6-17-14 at 7.52 AMThat was a terrible demonstration, because today she seemed to weigh 11 hundred pounds. Plus, her leg looks creepily human right there. Oh, forget it.

June, clean.

June's stupid life · Not Grace Kelly

It was the third of June, another sleepy dusty Delta day

I'd like to thank Faithful Reader BStar for reminding me to mention the Billy Jo McAllister song, with which we all became obsessed a few months back. And before I continue, I'd like to ask you, girl, what's happened to your appetite? I've been not remotely cooking all morning and you haven't touched a single bite.

No one ever asks me what's happened to my appetite. Although the other morning Ned got annoyed with me because I offered him the rest of my orange.

"Why don't you want it?"

"I'm full."

"June, no one gets full eating part of an orange."

But I really WAS full. Or maybe it's less that I get full and more that I just get bored with eating the same thing for that long. Do you think it's possible I have some sort of attention deficit dis

Anyway, yesterday I went to Zumba. It turns out I LOVE ZUMBA! You know how they have the free workouts in the park. I mean, if you read faithfully you'd know, and why not, bitch? Are you out chopping cotton while your brother is baling hay? Well, anyway, they DO have free workouts here three nights a week, and yesterday at work one of the Alexes asked me if I was going.

"I can't do the workouts on Monday nights. I have my student that I tutor." And possibly some shenanigans planned out at Choctaw Ridge after.

But yesterday while I was at lunch, my student called and canceled. So Zumba it was!

And may I just interrupt to tell you about my lunch? Holy cats. I had had had ("had had had." I just read this. Had had had. Who annoys her own self?) to get gas as soon as lunch started, because I'd been on empty all damn weekend. Ned had done most of the driving, but still. It was like a gassy game of Russian Roulette every time I got behind the wheel. And of course yesterday on the way to work there was no time.

So I went to the gas station near my office, which happens to also be a Dunkin Donuts. Convenient! But after seeing that dreadful Sugar is Bad movie (Ned says we should start our own health-conscious rap group, The Sugar Kills Gang), I did not even WANT a doughnut. But what I DID want was coffee.

There was a woman walking in there who I already hated. She had taken four and a half centuries to turn left INTO the gas station, leaving me dangling dangerously in the street, and then she'd CRAWLED to a parking spot and I expected her to be 807 years old but really she was probably in her 30s. Naturally I was behind her in line, where she spoke loudly into her mobile device. "YES, ALL THE KIDS HAVE BRONCHITIS. JUST GOT BACK FROM THE DOCTOR."

Oh, good. Can we make out, there, Typhoid Ground Zero? Thanks.

When it was her turn, she ordered 50 doughnuts. FIFTY. Then she said, "Your peach tea. Is it artifically sweetened?"

Seriously? First of all, you just ordered FIFTY DOUGHNUTS. Also, do you really think they're back there straining real peaches into the tea all day? Girl, what's happened to your appetite?

Anyway, I have no idea what she finally got, teawise, but I do know after her FIFTY doughnuts were ready, she hovered next to me while I was waiting for a black coffee. That's all I wanted. A black goddamn coffee.

"EXCUSE ME," she said, leaning over me to shout at the cashier and I'm super excited for the bronchitis. "This tea is really bitter without sweetener."

And that's when I shot her.

My point is, after work I got on my leg warmers and headband and headed downtown to Zumba with the Bitchy Resting Face Alexes

6a00e54f9367fb883401a73dbaf6c6970d-800wiand Fleeta

6a00e54f9367fb8834019b0409bcc0970d-800wi. Fleeta did not wear a coat to Zumba on the second of June, another sleepy dusty Delta day. This photo is from New Year's Day, when we went to the meditation in the same park.

There was no meditating yesterday, though. There was ZUUUUUUUMBA! Dudes, there must have been 100 people out there, so it was really hard to see the instructor, who was The World's Most Energetic Man®. Holy cats. He told us he was gonna play 18 songs and that he never stopped. We tried to keep track of what number song we were on but our brains died at one point.

Fortunately, I was next to The World's Most Dramatic Dancer®, this man who was into the Zumba, is what he was. Oh, he'd fling his arm back and kick his leg and pirouette, like he was in a Broadway show. Which he has more than likely been to and enjoyed. A lot.

"I feel like we're backup dancers in a big production," panted an Alex. But oh, it was fun. There was one point where you had to swivel your hips about like you're Beyonce, and Fleeta yelled, "HIT IT, JUNE!" I did. I did hit it.

When I was over, I mentioned I'd never Zumbad before, and Fleeta and the Alexes all said, "Wow! You did really well!" Clearly they do not know the way you do that I am a professional dancer.

 

My coworkers do not know that I am the many-faceted June.

Anyway, after that I went to the pretentious hippie co-cop and got a spinach salad and broccoli and baked chicken, then spent the rest of the night fantasising about food.

Pass the biscuits, please.

June

June's stupid life · Not Grace Kelly

Now in fresh, you failed-at-life scent!

Has anyone else noted that the Secret brand has taken over all the deodorants? I am about to run out of my Secret Outlast Completely Clean, which every time I look at that name on my deodorant I think of this song:

.

Okay, that video was really annoying. Just play the damn song.

My POINT is, I'm about to run out of my Outkast deodorant, and I am not brand loyal at all, really, so I will happily look at your Arid Extra Drys or your Sures and you know what? There will be, like, four of those and 49939303 Secret scents. Why?

A few years back, I went a whole year without spending money, and I bought a particular scent of (Secret, of course) deodorant that smelled exactly like a new doll, and every time I used it I was in agony, but I had to live through the whole container because I was Not Spending. For months I was Baby Alive.

I have no idea how I got off on this tangent.

My point is, running low on deodorant. June's blog. Come for the stupid thoughts. Stay for 40 paragraphs on the stupid thought.

I was GETTING on this blog to tell you about how Ned and I had the world's most irritating evening last night, when all we were doing was trying to get to a movie called Tim's Vermeer, which was really good, but it's like God and everyone on God's staff was trying everything possible to not get us there. But now I am running late because I was telling you about deodorant and also IMing with my ex-spouse on Facebook about absolutely nothing (Rush, his college roommate, someone named Daisy and someone else named Taisy) and now I have six seconds to get to work.

So I will leave you with this deep question. The other day I was talking about how as a kid I took ballet for four years. Then one week I missed ballet because I had the chicken pox (which still vexes me to this day. See SHINGLES), and when I got back to ballet the next week, all the students knew the positions in English and French. I kind of already knew this info, but we'd clearly been given a formal lesson, the point being that later that spring we were all to head to Detroit to take this test where you do all the ballet positions in French and English, and if you pass the test you get to go on to toe shoes.

I'd been OBSESSED with getting toe shoes, and all I would have had to do is ask the teacher for five minutes after class to run down the positions with me, sort of give me a refresher, and I assure you I'd have been caught up.

Instead, I panicked because I felt left behind, so after class I told my parents, "I don't want to do ballet anymore," and guess who was sick of recitals and rehearsals and buying me leotards, because they were all, Okay! Great! And that was the end of my stellar ballet career.

I always wish I had continued it, because I loved it, and I could now be a very snooty retired ballerina who lived on coffee and cigarettes and whose feet were all fucked up, and I desperately wish that were my story but it's not. I'm just some schlub who dropped out of ballet before her OBVIOUS talent was realized.

So, my Q to you is, what have you given up that you wish you'd stuck with? Can you take it back up again? How much do you dare me to join some 5th-graders at a ballet class? I wonder if Secret makes a You Failed at Being a Ballerina scent?

June can't keep a man · June's stupid life · Not Grace Kelly

The one where June gets kind of sad without Ned.

I guess I'm up. I slept terribly.

I was kind of afraid this would happen: I was fine all week without Ned, because, I guess, we do have weeknights where we don't see each other. Four weeknights in a row? Okay, not so much, but still, with the workweek and the dog-walking and the back-to-back Long Island Medium-ing and the laundry, I was busy and fine. But I was worried that if I SAW Ned, I'd get sad that he had to leave again.

And guess what? Yesterday I saw Ned, and it was great, and then I had to go back to work and he headed to the beach. "Everyone's already there," he told me during "lunch" yesterday. "I have to get there and start drinking defensively."

"You know, Ned, you're almost 50. You don't have to drink like an idiot anymore when you're with your friends."

Ned had a blank look when I told him that, the kind I'd give someone who'd tell me, "You really can't afford Botox." I'm having the feeling that while I'm up at 8 a.m., Ned might be what you'd call sleeping it off somewhere on his manly trip.

I made plans for last night, thinking that'd cheer me up, but I've been struggling with a ding-dang stupid assy migraine since Thursday, and yesterday we had a bad thunderstorm, which is not helpful to my head. Barometric pressure. Did you know that's a migraine trigger? I am full of the facts.

So I rescheduled my plans till tomorrow, and my friend Jo emailed me funny pictures from her adventures out last night, which was fun. For example, she saw this painting on a bathroom wall. I mean…

LabeI wish I could figure out what this reminds me of. Twat could it be? Let's talk about it later; I have to sit on this for awhile. I'll C U Next Tuesday.

The other day at work I was j0king around with TinaDoris and told her "I'll C U Next Tuesday," and my boss said, "Oh, are you going somewhere?"

June's work jokes. Often the same work jokes Jackie Kennedy made at HER job.

Anyway. So, today yawns before me with no plans other than my dinner/drinks plans tonight with The Tall Boy. Oh, calm down. He has a girlfriend and I have a Ned and it's no big deal. We're friends. But when I told Ned, I got the "realllllly" he always whips out when I do anything with The Tall Boy. He called me from his drive, Ned did, to complain about the traffic and to say how beautiful it was near the beach, and then he asked what I had planned for the weekend. So I told him I was going to see The Tall Boy at some point over the weekend.

"Realllllly."

Whatever with Ned. Y'all know I'm trustworthy. That is what matters.

I have $81 till payday, and I'm going out on the town tonight to get as wild as I can be, I'm gonna FIND out what's it's really like to be loose, high and free, so the things I want to today do seem sort of out of the question. I was tempted to go to estate sales (watch June spend her entire $81) or to the Farmers Market (say, where'd June's $81 go? Oh! I know! To processed food at the Farmers Market!), but since I can't spend at either, I think what I'll do instead is clean my gutters.

Woooo!

Is there any danger my gutters will have snakes in them?  You know how I am. I went through this whole scenario: birds might make a nest in my gutters (in which case I'd let them be nesty, and not clean that particular part) (and maybe I might kiss the eggs just a little), then snakes slither up there to eat bird eggs. Is that a realistic scenario? Please alert me if it is so I can blow off gutter cleaning.

Oh! I forgot! I took pictures yesterday with my barely working camera and my webcam, to encapsulate my non-Ned fun last night.

IMG_0312Here's Edsel's regular pose, gazing at me longingly while I do important things like look at Facebook. Did I mention the flash was broken on my iPhone? and usually it won't let me take any pictures at all? I'd take it in but see above reference to $81. I will take it in after payday, though, because this is bullshit. I'm a professional blogger.

HAH!

LileehaytejoonI also took time out of my busy schedule to torment Lily, who may or may not be ordering bombs from the Acme Company right now.

Photo on 4-25-14 at 8.33 PMOh, and here's I love the nightlife me putting on my pajamas at 8:30. Have become professional sadsack. I do love those pajamas, though. Thanks, mom.

You know what? There's an estate sale that started at 9 and it's six minutes away from me. Fuck it. Don't let me buy anything.

...friend/Ned · June's stupid life · Not Grace Kelly

Hawk Look. Or, Teeth of the Hydra Upon You.

It is Wednesday evening and I am finally trusting Typepad enough to tell you the rest of my Easter weekend, and there I go being insensitive to other religions again. I didn't even CELEBRATE Easter, so I don't know why I keep calling it that, other than I got Good Friday off, which by the way is another reason to move to the South.

So, after Ned and I bought the nails and watched the documentary, we went out to eat on one of those days of the…Easter-ish weekend, and where we went was this restaurant we go to all the time, and we know the whole wait staff, and have opinions about all of them, and the point is, it was finally warm enough to eat outside. The other point is, they have tomato basil blue cheese soup. Yes, it IS goddammit good.

When we were first dating, Ned and I went to that restaurant at night, and sat outside, and I promise you it was black as pitch back there. They really hadn't yet gotten down the whole "light it up at night" concept, and the whole time we kept wondering what, exactly, we were eating.

But on this day, the sun was shining and it was beautiful out. We sat down next to what was clearly a dad, mom and daughter, who was probably in her early 30s. I say they were related because all three of them were perfectly circular people. Really. They were the roundest trio you've ever seen. I think they'd all eaten the dinner candy over at the chocolate factory and had turned violet, Violet.

The daughter? Never stopped talking. Never. Not once. Not ever. Even when other people talked, she talked over them. Do people just have no concept that they're talking nonstop?

Naturally, I glanced over at Ned, and I'm sure I had what my high school best friend always called The Hawk Look, where I am nothing but a giant grimace.

"I know," said Ned, who was of course studying his menu. I don't know why the waiters even try to come over for the first half hour. "I just need a little more time," he always tells them, as my bones become more and more prominent. They probably talk about us every time we walk in there. "Oh, here comes Mr. Memorize the Menu and his girlfriend Hawk Look."

The Circles of Life eventually left, with that daughter yammering all the way to the car, and they were replaced by a woefully attractive couple with two very cute little kids, and?

Their soccer ball.

THEIR SOCCER BALLLLLLL. Which the kids KICKED AT each other between the tables. While we were all eating. The parents drank beer and looked off into the distance. Eventually we could hear they had accents.

"Ohhhh, they're European," said Ned. "That's why they're that way." Ned apparently minored in European People Studies in college. But really, knowing they were European somehow made it less heinous. However, the children, when they weren't kicking a goddamn ball, kept running up to tables and staring at other diners.

"Notice how everyone else is all enthusiastic and friendly to those children?" asked Ned, "And you and I gave them one look and those kids went away? Look at that Hulk-looking guy, being all nice to them. Wow, that guy really does look like Hulk," Ned was looking behind me.

"He does," I said, turning, "except something's off about him, something's not quite Hulk-ish. Oh! I got it! He's with a woman!"

And THAT'S when we were given the official World's Worst People plaque for 2014.

The other thing that happened this weekend that makes me terrible is we were walking my curs, and I was a little ahead of Ned and Edsel (I gave him Edsel to walk. heeeeeee!) (Please see above reference to World's Worst Person), and we came to a neighbor's yard.

"Oh, look at her flowers," I said back to Ned, my voice raised a little so he could hear me. "The old woman who lived here had absolutely gorgeous flowers all season, and they look awful now. I don't even know if she died or what, but if she saw this she'd be pissed. Oooo, her house is for sale!"

I lifted the flap on the sign, to see a flyer on the house. "Damn, no flyers. I'd love to know what they're asking." We walked on, and as we passed the car in front of the old lady's house, there was a person bent behind the raised hatch of the car, working on a piece of lawn equipment. The smile she gave me told me she (a) knew and was likely related to the old lady and (2) had heard every goddamn word I'd said.

You know those moments in life when your blood runs cold and then freezes up and you fall over dead and unfortunately come back to life, found a peanut found a peanut found a peeeeeenut just now? You know those moments?

I had one.

"Oh my GOD!" I wailed once we were out of hearing range. "What?" said Ned. "You think she heard you? Oh, she didn't hear you, no way!"

Dudes. She so heard me.

Yeah. So that was not at all awful.

Oh! And finally, on Sunday morning, while people were in church, Ned and I schlepped off to the Science Center here, because they had baby otters, and also a big giant T. Rex, as opposed to one of those tiny T. Rexes we've heard so much about, and also we wanted to see the tigers they have there. Our theory was everyone was at church and the center would be uncrowded, and we were mostly right, and every time we saw a kid we played "Jewish, Muslim or Atheist?"

Please refer to our plaque, above.

We went into the planetarium and saw a short film all about Sue the T. Rex, and it was really cool because it was projected onto the ceiling of the planetarium and that's always just cool as shit, seeing things on the ceiling like that.

048Photo (c) Ned Nickerson

Then we stampeded off the see the real Sue the T. Rex, and my only complaint is she never performed Bang a Gong. I blame Sue.

 

You got the teeth of the hydra upon you. I've always liked that line. Because it makes sense in so many different ways.

Anyway, everything at the science center was as cool as we hoped it'd be, not that this was our first rodeo, and don't you hate people who say, "This isn't my first rodeo"? The point is, we went to the outdoor part to see the tigers, and on our way out, without knowing there even was such a thing to see, was

A

BABY

GIBBON!!!!!
Tumblr_mpj1jjCVT91s5iqc4o1_1280Here he is, and OH MY GOD HE WAS REDUNKULOUS. Yes, I just said redunkulous, and sue me. It's not my first rodeo. I am sorry to tell you that Ned did an impeccable impression of him when we got home, and I wish my DAMN CAMERA would have worked.

But here's Ned's photo of one of the tigers, with whom I am obsessed and I WANT A TIGER.

064Tygur want yuu too ant joon.

So finally, as our day was winding down, we headed off to one last monkey exhibit. There was a hammock right in front of our little window, and a blonde monkey came right over and splayed all on it. We were charmed. Then her black monkey friend joined her, and gave us this look.

095Photo (c) Ned Nickerson

I know it's hard to see with the glass and all, but he was glaring at us, I think. Then? He turned around to address the blonde monkey, and address her he did, because let's just say what they did next is illegal in some states.

I wish I could tell you the degree of our delight. The whole "What was your favorite part?" conversation on the way home was pretty useless, because you can't beat monkey sodomy during your trip to the science center.

So there it is. My weekend, which I finally got to tell you about. And now Ned's out of town, on a worky kind of a thing, and I won't see him Sunday through Sunday, except he'll be home briefly on Friday, so we're going to have "lunch." See above reference to monkey untowardness. So in short, I am getting through my week Nedless, but so far I've muddled through. I hope he doesn't come back with his consciousness raised and turn all nice.

That would be awful. That would be like having the teeth of the hydra upon you.