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

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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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.

 

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.