John Wayne, Marco Polo and boredom

Yesterday, I was texting The Younger Man, who first of all needs a blog name.

"What do you want your blog name to be?" I asked him, because he's not at all busy being in the Olympics or whatever.

"Steve," he wrote back, and when your Olympics don't happen, you'll know this is why. "Head of Olympics Kibitzes with June. Olympics Ruined."

I like how now he's the head of the Olympics. Say Olympics one more time.

"I feel like I could do better than that," he wrote, and we came up with other brilliant names like Hortense, but in the end he's Steve, which has nothing to do with his real name and there you go.

Anyway, the good news is, yesterday I kept texting him all the ways that he could die at the Olympics.

"Olympics Canceled This Year. World Blames June." Would you like to hear my list?

Impaled by javelin

Allergic to sequins

Tripped over gymnast

Told male figure skater that Lady Gaga sucks

(The first person to get all humorless with me about it being the summer games gets impaled with Bruce Jenner's dick)

Dorthy Hamill's psychotic break

Burned by torch

Oh, I had a million of them. You know who you never, ever want to text with while you're inventing all the Olympics? Is me.

While I've been typing you this impressive tome, both Edsel and Lottie



have gone to the water dish, which is currently right next to me. Here's how Edsel drinks water:

Lap. Lap lap lap lap lap lap lap. Lap.

Here's how Lottie drinks water:

GULPGULPGULPgulpgulpgulpgulp yeeeeeee-hahhhh!!!! GULP GULP {spill water everywhere} WOOOOT! FUCK YEAH! GULP gulpgulpgulp. {walk away trailing water}

It's a sad day when Edsel is the dignified one. It's been a sad day since May 11. I guess we're coming up on my three-month Lottieversary. It's been three months since my soul died.

Isn't that a cute picture of puppy Eds? Faithful Reader Laurie took that back when, you know, Edsel was a puppy. What a skinny little thing he was. He's never been a beefy dog. He's, you know, delicate. He's a figure skater.

You know what I need? Another chair for this computer. This one I got at the vintage store is not cutting it. The damn caster never stays on, plus it leans back too far and I always feel like Ima topple over. Lemme go look at m'cash and see if I can get another chair…

I have $456 to my name. Payday is 10 days away.


I see my last charge was to dog daycare. When I took Lottie there the other day, I still had visits on my pass, so her stay was free except for her nail trim, her pawdicure, which was ten dollars. Her nails look great. Good lord that animal needed her claws of death done.

Eff you, mom. still gotz fangz.

Last night I went to the old theater I like to go to. I think I already told you that when Tallulah died, some faithful readers donated to that theater in Talu's name, so I have a pass to go to the movies. I feel very fancy whipping out my card. Anyway, it was a John Wayne movie, which I wasn't even that interested in going to but I like going there, so I went. It turned out to be interesting.

John Wayne was in it, which is what made it a John Wayne movie, see, and I hope you've braced yourself but it took place in the Old West. There was a stagecoach headed through the, you know, Old West and so on, and in the stagecoach was a prostitute who was pretty, a fussy woman who was zero fun and who kept dabbing at her face with a hanky. Hey, Whitney Houston.

Then there was a Snidely Whiplash character who the boring hanky woman so wanted to bone, you could tell, but she was married.

Oh, and Scarlett O'Hara's dad was on there. He was a drunk doctor.

There were other boring people on the stagecoach as well, but the point is they were all worried sick about Geronimo. Allegedly Geronimo was passing through and just couldn't wait to scalp all the white people, which I'm sure was not hyperbole at all. Can you imagine if they'd had Facebook then? SHARE if you think Geronimo should show his birth certificate and email!

Did you see that pantsuit Geronimo's wife had on? John Wayne's woman is hotter.

So, eventually the fussy woman gave birth (don't ask), Scarlett O'Hara's dad barfed, Snidely Whiplash almost killed the fussy woman to spare her from Geronimo, and John Wayne married the prostitute, who apparently owned one outfit. I was all, change your CLOTHES already. I'll bet I know what she got married in.

I was not at all bitter that John Wayne knew ol' Prossie for three days before he proposed. I was all, SHE DOESN'T EVEN HAVE CLOTHES. Yet she scores a husband. SHE'S A HOOKER! And yet? Betrothed.

Every time they said "Geronimo" I waited for someone to jump out a plane. I wish my name would become something people screech, like Geronimo or Marco Polo, or that they sing about like Lizzie Borden. I guess I have to kill someone. I'm already coming up with death at the Olympics plans.

It occurred to me I actually had no idea what Marco Polo ever did. Did he lead a country to war or something? Turns out he just enjoyed travel. And while I generally hate Wikipedia (or I did when I was a proofreader. "But Wikipedia says…" Oh my GOD. Schlubs such as you or I can write a Wikipedia page. I need a Wikipedia page. I should totally make a June Gardens Wikipedia), I looked up Marco Polo and I beg you, I beg you, to click on that page and listen to the guy pronounce his name. First of all, like the pronunciation is any mystery. Second, could he be more bored with life?

Oh my god, I've listened a hundred times. It's like his mom made him record it or something. "Marco Polo." He is so over life. His soul died. Maybe he used to own Lottie.

I wish I had more brilliant insights for you, but I don't and I must go. I've made avocado toast and it needs my full attention.




P.S. I just looked at the date. I moved to North Carolina nine years ago today. Holy cats. It's funny. I breezed in here all married, but now the way I see it, I picture Ned poised here on a coil, waiting just like a spider, to ruin my life. You know how spiders enjoy coils.

Super Bowel

I never even ATE a brownie last night, but this morning I was pleased to see there were some left over and my guests left me an edge. Oh, HELL yeah. Brownie edge.


I had a few people over for sports night, because sports, and I made a couple plates of vomit.

Actually, this was seven-layer dip, which was seven layers of disappointment. I adore seven-layer dip, you might even say it's my super food, and this was my first sojourn into creating it myself rather than scarfing it compulsively at someone else's party, and eh. I don't know what I did wrong. Too heavy on the beans or something. I don't even think I LIKE refried beans. And refried anything might be my super food, so.

I was gonna have a lot of people over–14, to be exact. But once Tallulah got diagnosed, I felt sad, and could not imagine getting it up to clean intensively and cook a million things when all I want to do is kiss her ears. So I canceled the party, but some of my close friends such as Marty Martin said fuck you, we're coming over anyway, and Kaye said if she saw ONE THING look clean, she'd be mad at me.

So I made chili, and brownies, and bad seven-layer dip, all of which took maybe an hour to prepare, the worst part being I HATE EVERYONE AND EVERYTHING AT THE STORE OH MY GOD. That fucking store on Super Bowl Sunday, when it was our city or county or something that was in said Super Bowl. It was worse than Thanksgiving. Or THANKSgiving, as they say here. Jesus. It was full of the hot sports men, though, and there I was in my Smitten With My Kitten SPCA LA shirt on. Tempting. Come break you off a piece of this.


So it ended up just being Jo, of course, and Marty and Kayeee, and also my coworker Austin, whose family just moved into my neighborhood this weekend and he just needed a break from moving, already. Please note how when you're at my house, you have no choice but to be Uncle Billy from It's a Wonderful Life at all times, with the animals upon you.


Why does anyone want to be my friend? Note how the animals migrate from one guest to the next. You may be wondering where the hell Iris is. I ground her up, made her one of the seven layers.


I don't know why they thought begging would come to fruition. You know what a well-oiled machine these dogs are, with the discipline. "Anyone who wonders if Talu gets treats is high," I announced. "Tallulah gets whatever the hell she wants." Ahead of time I told her to pull out her cancer card as often as she wanted. She asked me to get her a bald wig but there wasn't time.

She did, sadly, pee twice on the floor while people were here. I felt so bad for her, because usually she has dignity. My poor sick Lu.


Here I am, with my chin. Good lord. Underneath the looming cooter. I hate to sound like The Dude (no, I don't) but that painting really ties the room together. I love my living room now. It's 100% me. Meaning blue and sort of vaginal.

I have no idea who won or lost that sporting event. My favorite commercial was the Sheets one with the asses. Because ass jokes.


Kayeeeeee and I had cup exchange last night. I had managed to both steal a cup and leave a cup when I stayed with her in the fall. What we did NOT know is this mystical thing would happen with her cup matching her shirt when I returned it to her. Blue and gray stripes are a big thing with Kaye. They are her super foods.


After everyone left, I found Tallulah drunk in a nest she'd made. Nests of pillows are Talu's super food.

Okay, I'll stop.


I had a talk with Edsel this morning. We sat on the floor and had an awareness session, like my hippie parents used to do with me. I totally need to look into getting some zigzag carpeting. Anyway, I told him that while I know he knows Tallulah is sick, I need him to be strong right now, and be okay with less attention sometimes.

fuk dat

By the way, I Googled "byebyepie + zigzag carpeting" and came across a photo of Ned, and thanks, God. Have I ever asked you this before, if you've ever Googled "byebyepie" + any other word and hit "Images" to see what you get? I think we did do that before. Anyway, for me it's fun, except for when I land on the Ned pics. Which reminds me that this weekend, Edsel was sleeping splayed on his back, and I was racking my brain trying to think of which friend I could text a dick pic to, except it'd be Edsel's dick.

I couldn't think of anyone, but now it occurs to me I totally coulda sent that to Faithful Reader Fay. You gotta pick and choose who you share your tasteless jokes with, man. Pick and choose.

In sports,


Animals are terrible people


I spread this afghan on the new couch, so Miss Sickly could get up and sleep on me. ("Specially handmade for you, by Grandma" a tag inside reads. Aw. Gramma. Knittin' me an afghan in the '70s colors. I am so glad I have this.) The vet called yesterday to tell me that as a result of a test they did last week, we should get Lu an ultrasound to make sure she doesn't have The Cancer.

Lemme tell you something. My Lu does not have The Cancer. It is a horrific-ness up with I will not put. The vet called the radiologist, who has to let the vet know when he can come to the office and do said ultrasound, which by the way is $330, tipping Talu's sickness well over the thousand-dollar mark at this point. Jesus.

She's outside right now, squatting in the snow. She seems to just rest her inflamed parts right on the snow, like it gives her some relief. I don't know how any of you can stand having a sick child, if this is how awful it feels to have a sick dog. I mean, I assume if you have a child that you like it a lot and stuff.

Sometimes I consider just running her over with my car, to put her out of her agony. I'm not even kidding you. She just seems so miserable. She goes to her dish and wags politely, then doesn't eat any of it and looks up at me pleadingly. All dogs love food, but food was Tallulah's joint. That chick would eat my strawberry tops. She used to ask to eat my paper towels when I was done. She was like a goat.

Today I added some Mrs. Dash to her food, and she actually ate it. I want you to know those scavengers called Edsel and Iris just wait for her to walk away so they can eat what she didn't. Zero concern for her well-being. Animals are terrible people. In the meantime, Lu looks skinnier every day. All she's usually eating is the almond butter I put her pills in.

Why do colors go in and out of style? Who decides, "Sayyyy, burnt orange and olive are where it's at," and then everything becomes gold and amber and olive and brown for a decade along with giant mounds of pubic hair. Who decides that?

I guess people had '70s bush in the 1870s as well. I suppose eventually they'll look back and be all, "What was with the 2000s, when every woman went around bald as a billiard in her girl bits?"

June's blog. Come for the sad dog news. Stay for the '70s colors and bushes.

Also, it would appear I'm having a Super Bowl party. Because sports. Fewks at work decided it was necessary that I do this, so I got out an evite and started thinking of who at work might be interested, then some of my regularly scheduled friends such as Marty Martin and Tall Boy, and next thing you know I've invited 20 goddamn people over and have you met my living room? Where we gonna sit at? Am I the most disorganized person you know? Does life seem to just constantly hit me in the face like a '70s bush?

I hate to ask for Super Bowl recipes, but if you have any easy ones, tell me. Do not say stupid things like, "You take your food processor" or "Make a reduction."

How do you MAKE a reduction anyway? Why don't they just say "reduce"? Speaking of reduce, I feel like Super Bowl food is not what you'd call heart healthy. Is it? Is seven-layer dip heart healthy? Seven-layer dip is sort of amber and olive, did you ever notice that? 70s-layer dip.

Okay, I gotta go. I got shit to do.

Photo on 1-24-16 at 3.29 PM #2

My webcam is making me look red-faced, and I think in real life I'm actually not, but what do I know. I could ask Edsel, but he always just tells me I'm the most beautiful mom anyone has ever had. Bullshit specially handmade for you, by Edsel.

I'll talk at you. Further reports on Tallulah as developments warrant. Let's talk about colors in the comments today. What was the quintessential color of each decade? I see the '80s as a jewel tone, but then again you got your Don Johnson pink in the '80s. All my decades are pink, though. Which is reflected in my face. Thanks, webcam.

Okay, bye.

Crying with Wolves

I just woke up, which is dreadful. You know what's dreadful-ler? People who BOUND out of bed. There is no reason for those people, other than that we need firemen.

My point is, I got coffee, and brought the wolves up here to be blog muses to me, which is not working because Edsel has left the room and now I worry that he's either (a) eating cat litter or (2) rubbing his face raptly and repeatedly on one of Ned's shirts, as he is wont to do.

OH MY GOD MY POINT IS–no, hang on. I gotta find Edsel. What if he's doing both at once? Ned will not be happy.

…Although it's true that one of Ned's old shirts was lying in the hallway, which means either Ned had a dramatic makeout scene with himself and threw his own clothes off, orrrrr Edsel dragged said shirt into the hall to roll his face in it over and over again, with big hearts with "Ned" written on them dancing around his fool dog head. However, after the rapture, after the lovin', Edsel went downstairs and is resting nicely on his dog bed. He seems uncomfortable up here, like he knows I'm allowing it but technically it's against the rules, all of which is true.

Tallulah is absolutely fine with it. Is lying proud and tall on the bed in here.

She's done the shaking thing a couple times, and as my vet told me to, I call her excitedly over to get a treat. She'll DO that, but still shake while she eats the treat. So. That helps not at all.

OH MY GOD MY POINT. My point is that Ned got into the shower not till 20 to 8:00, and now it's quarter to 8:00 and he's done showering, but that is late for him and it negates any chance of a little Ned action before he goes to work, plus also it makes me late, as well. To top it off I'm late for work. Lemme tell ya what I say when I'm dealing with the funky sidewalk. Lemme tell ya how to walk when I gotta do my funky walk.

I say shhhhhhhhh sugar.

Have I ever mentioned all the things I could have in my head other than song lyrics? Things such as maths or geography?

Speaking of wolves, I have to watch that show Game of Thrones for work. It's a long story, and anyway I don't like to go into detail about work. But, really, I have to watch that show. So last night I saw the first three episodes, and NO ONE WARNED ME ABOUT THE WOLVES AND WHAT HAPPENS WITH WOLVES.


Oh my god, you can't expect me to watch something like that. Ned was downstairs watching his sporting event, and all of a sudden I was screaming and crying, watching this damn show on my computer, and by the time he got up here I was hysterical.


Jesus Christ.

So after that, I brought the dogs up here and held them both on my lap and watched the rest of the show.

Before that trauma, Ned and I went to yoga last night, and there was just ONE OTHER COUPLE in the whole class, which I attribute to the fact that it MIGHT snow TONIGHT. This is how much people panic about weather here. Oh, there may be weather in 24 hours. We'd better stay in. Get prepared.

And I don't mean we're taking some kind of dippy yoga class for couples, like people who get couples massages or anything. That's always bothered me. Get a massage by yourself, codependent. I just mean that the other two people who happened to attend class happen to be married, a fact I know because I work with one of them. I work for a big place. But I'm the only person there who had to go home and get sad about wolves last night.

Oh my god.

Okay, I have to go to work.

Howl at you later.


P.S. Oh! I almost forgot! Last night Ned went to the store, and I requested more lemonade, and it wasn't till I gorged myself on TWO GLASSES of it that I noted it contained grapefruit! Ned is trying to kill me.


Last weekend, when Ned and I were at that on-the-streets Christmas celebration, we went to a store that sells vintage, and right here I'd like to apologize to my friend Kit, because I bought a vintage coat for $45. It's dark blue wool with big cool buttons and a cream fur collar.

Yesterday, at my 3:00 walk with my coworkers, I also had to wear a hat because it's effing cold, but the only hat I had was my leopard one that you all admired. Well. Some of you admired. Everyone who reads me didn't write me personally to say they loved my hat. The point is, dark blue and fur and then also leopard do not add up to an uncrazy look.

"I feel like we're taking my grandma to the Piggly Wiggly," said The Other Copy Editor, who can tell it to my hand. I am dragging him and about 40 other people to the gay bar Saturday night for an evening of dancing. Included in this group is Ned, because you know high up dancing and smoking dick are on Ned's list of interests. He put those on his dating profile.

Anyway, I can't wait, although after tonight, when I have Nothing to Do™, I have something scheduled for EVERY SINGLE DAY through Christmas. Some I am excited about: Chris and Lilly are having an open house, and Ned's family is having their annual bowling event, and you all know how well I bowl. I lob those pins. Bowling is the only sport I enjoy.

Well. I also love miniature golf. Really when you think about it I'm quite an outdoorswoman. I also like badminton. I'm practically one of those natural, down-to-earth types who wears Patagonia pullovers and Burt's Bees chap stick as her only cosmetic.

Seeing as we have all these important outings, Ned and I are embarking on a project: We are whitening our teeth. I know! It's a big undertaking, and I don't quite know how I'll fit it in with all my outdoor sports and Patagonia wearing, plus bowling. Actually, I just remembered, my workplace is also having a bowling event on the 18th, so I'll be bowling twice this month. I'm a regular Refrigerater Perry.

(I don't know any bowlers, and he's the first athlete I thought of. I don't even know for certain what sport that Refrigerator person played, although it must have been an outdoor sport because why else would he be named Refrigerator?)

(Was he an ice fisherman?)

Oh my god, anyway. So, while I was waiting for my antibiotics prescription to be filled at Target the other day, I saw a whitening kit so I got it. I announced this crucial purchase to Ned, who said he'd bought the same kit before his class reunion so that the whole school wouldn't be abuzz about Ned's dental enamel, then he never used the kit.

Last night, after I came home from my student–who asked me to ask all of you why people wear Uggs–Ned and I strapped on the ol' tooth strips and spent half an hour wishing we didn't have on tooth strips. I'll keep you apprised of our progress and you will be on the edge of your refrigerator, I'm certain.

I guess that's the most important news, although I have been wanting to alert you that last weekend, my coworker Bitchy Resting Face Alex had a terrible scare. Her dogs, one of which is a puppy, found some poison that the old owners of her house had put under the boiler, because apparently they hate boilers. BRF Alex spent a weepy weekend at the vet, and her dogs are fine. The POINT is, she reads my blog and comments, so I was able to say, "Poison is POISON to dogs, Alex."

And THAT is what matters.

Oh! (You abhor me at this point.) I thought I'd throw in a couple photos of my Christmas decorations. I told Ned I was going to do just light decorating, and our versions of that might differ. "It's very silver in here," said Ned, who can tell it to my hand along with The Other Copy Editor.

IMG_2142 IMG_2143 IMG_0272 IMG_0273 IMG_0271Nothing says Christmas like a table full of newspapers. Ned reads the paper every day, like it's 1969. I recycle papers every day, like it's 2014.

IMG_0275I got these brownish yellow Christmas decorations, too. What do you think?

I guess that's all I have to tell you, believe it or not. Today I'm having lunch with–CRAP. I just realized I booked two different people for lunch. The Poet and I were supposed to eat at the bookstore, but I also made plans to go shopping for eyebrow pencil with another woman at work, who has good eyebrows. Well, hell.

Stay tuned to see how I solve THAT.



Listening to Ned watch sports. Not for the faint of heart.

I'm upstairs, listening to Ned watch football. When Ned has sports on TV on Saturday afternoons, it totally reminds me of the TV room where my father would be all weekend. Although I have never heard my father refer to the other team as "a bunch of sugarbritches," as Ned just did. In truth, it's kind of an excellent nonswear, other than the homophobia. I feel like men watching sports do not check themselves for homophobia.

Anyway, when my dad watched sports, people's mothers were often being called into question. One would often be romantically entwined with one's mother, or perhaps one would be the son of a not-very-nice woman. There was also a swear about the football players engaging in an activity that was first mentioned in Sodom and Gomorrah, so here we are back to homophobia.

Well, now Ned has offered to fornicate with the players; I just heard him. Now he's suggesting they go fornicate with themselves.

Goodness. Who knew football was such a sex-filled game?

Anyway, I just popped in to say hi. I'm off to buy root dye and more over-the-counter UTI meds. Don't ask. I mean, I imagine you already have the answer. One would think I'm a football player.

Now Ned has sent an entire football team to hell. I don't think that's very nice. However, none of his swears comes near the "sugarbritches" line, and I wish it'd make a comeback.

What the hell is a "first down"? Is that sexual? I kind of hope so.

Okay, I'm off. I think I'll talk about our good deeds project for this blog on Monday, when people are actually back and reading this. Right now there are four of you who know Ned just called someone not just an idiot, but a fornicating idiot. Seriously, do they bring condoms, these football players? It seems like they'd need to. Do their condoms have their team, you know, pictures on them? What's that called, when you're on the Indian team and you have a picture of an Indian all over the place? Other than racist. Is it called a logo?

Now Ned is up here talking to his cat. "Hello, sweet cat," he just said to her. he kisses his CAT with that mouth.

"This has been a very fun game so far!" said Ned. Sounds like it.

I'll pick up some UTI meds for the football team, too.

Ban de Soliel, for the Saginaw tan

Well, it's back to work today. My water and I are back to work. By the way, I still look completely the same. It's day five! Shouldn't I be miraculously young-looking and incredibly hydrated by now?

Instant gratification takes too long. (c) Carrie Fisher, my favorite person on earth now that Nora Ephron is dead.

Yesterday, I schlepped over to Winston-Salem, for a change, and got my free facial. Well. It wasn't free. I bid on it at Charlie's fundraiser in January, but whatever. Anyway, this woman with sophisticated glasses and cool hair came out. "Joooon Giirdins?" She had the strongest Southern accent humanly possible. It was hilarious. She was all sophisticated on the outside and sounded like Junior Sample from the inside.

"Let's tauk about yer fayce," she began, so I told her my woes. She looked at my skin under a magnifying glass that can pick out each atom. Yeesch, that thing was huge. Turns out I have sun damage. Hunh. That's not possible. Pay no attention to the reflective mat and 0 SPF Ban de Soliel I slathered on myself all summer between ages 12 and 25.

Sun damage. Pfft.

Then she had me close my eyes while she wafted "thrieeeee sceynts" over my nose. I picked the first scent, which turned out to be lavender, and I am nothing if not sort of consistent sometimes.

Anyway the whole thing was lovely, and I bought some sensitive-skin facial wash that I just completely forgot to use in the shower.

Since I was in W-S, I emailed Dick Whitman ahead of time to ask if he wanted to meet at the coffee shop after. When I got no answer after several hours, I called him. After my facial, I checked my phone. No response. So I called one more time and decided to, oh, kill some time at the shoe store. Zero shoes and zero calls from DW, I called again.

"Hey, Whitman, I guess you never saw my messages, so I'm headed in to Trader Joe's. I won't be able to meet now because I've gotta get these groceries home." (We don't have a TJ's in Greensboro, and there was one a block from me in LA. I was sort of indifferent to it in LA and now I miss it all the time.)

I got 250 frozen items for $38 and was headed home when my phone rang. "Are you still here?"


Don't you hate it when people don't listen to your messages and just call back instead? Why do people DO that?

"No, Whitman, I TOLD you that in my last message."

"Oh, I didn't listen to it. I just called."


I like my angry new ellipses effect.

The point is, we're allegedly getting together tonight since we're both dateless. His woman is at some kind of How To Deal With Dick Whitman conference and Ned is at the beach. He texted me last night from the front porch of the beach house and we had a pretty scintillating conversation that mostly went, "I miss you," "I miss you, too." "I wish you were here." "I wish I were there, too." I did, however, fill him in on last night's Andy Griffith.

Oh, it was a good one. This man drove by and told Aunt Bee he could see aphids on her roses, and while he spread cancer-causing chemicals all over them, he charmed the housedress off Aunt Bee. Is it Aunt Bea or Bee? Anyway, Andy was suspicious at first and what I liked is he surprised Aunt Bee by coming home midday, saying, "I decided to come home for a hot lunch" and she scurried on into the kitchen and came out with a plate of food.

If anyone came to my house thinking I just had a meat loaf going for lunch at all times, they'd turn into a skeleton tout suite.

The point is, he hung around for days, that handyman did, and both got charmed by him (I have no idea where Opie was. Maybe rehab) until someone mentioned that for a handyman, that drifter sure had soft hands.  This hadn't occurred to Andy, the detective, till then, so he got Sarah to call over to Mount Pilot and talked to the sheriff there, who confirmed that guy was a scammer of the worst sort.

Ned has as much fun hearing about this as you are.

Anyway, poor Aunt Bee. She should totally have gotten on Mayberry or something. Mayberry Grinder. Aunt Bee on Tinder.

Name: Bee Taylor

Turn-Ons: Pie, pearls and a hot lunch.

Turn-Offs: Clara's prize-winning pickles.

Looking For: No Barney Fifes. And no mama's boys. Looking at you, Howard.

I know too much about the Andy Griffith show.

I have to go, and I know it's a tad sick, but I'm glad to get back to work and see all the Alexes. But before I go, I do have to tell you I had a my-dad-and-the-pot-pie thing happen. I know I've told you this before, about how in the '70s, my dad was downstairs watching sports, as he did, and now that I know Ned I understand that apparently you must sign some kind of contract promising to scream the swears every five minutes when you watch sports, seeing as this is what they both do. It keeps the show on, somehow, like how in the Flintstones there's some animal turning a crank somewhere.

The point is, dad turned on the oven to preheat it. Then after that finally was ready, he put in a frozen pot pie, and you had to let it cook, like 45 minutes or something. No microwaves. He got hungrier and hungrier while he shouted his turn-the-crank swears at the screen, waiting for his pot pie. I have no idea where I was. Maybe rehab.

Finally, it was time. He ran upstairs to the kitchen, opened the oven to pull out the pie, and?


The whole thing fell upside-down onto the kitchen floor.

Oh, I am glad I missed the dad tantrum that ensued, and have I mentioned Ned has the same charming temper?

Yesterday at Trader Joe's I saw the green chile tamales, which I had TOTALLY FORGOTTEN about. Marvin and I got them every week. Oh, they're good. I preheated the oven as I have no microwave (really? Is there really anyone who doesn't know this already?), finally put the tamale in, wait wait waited till it was ready, and?


And instead of falling onto the floor, it fell in the crack between the bottom of the stove and the door.

Have I mentioned I have my dad's and Ned's temper?

An hour later I saw Tallulah's snout pressed into the crack of the stove like she was an anteater, chawing with her flea teeth to get each green chile.

So. Yeah. At least I had water.

Talk at you. Tune in tomorrow for another Andy Griffith recap!




My iPhone, which I purchased last summer, has done nothing but give me trouble. Sometimes I wonder if they sold me a repurposed one and didn't tell me. They probably giggled when I walked out. The latest issue is that (a) it wouldn't charge back up and (2) it kept telling me I had no storage left. I didn't even put my EASTER decorations in there, much less Christmas. I was thinking of storing all my not-needed-now black work slacks in my iPhone, but I guess not.

The point is, I spent a good hour on the horn, my quickly dying horn, with Apple Care last night, and they determined (a) the power cord I have is no longer good, which is hilarious because I used to have dangerous wirey-hanging cords constantly when I had Roger, as he enjoyed chomping him some cable, and yet the cords continued to work. Now these cats care not a whit about this plug and it died, unchomped, anyway and (2) my whole phone needed resetting or something. Again. I've done 256 hard resets on that damn phone in less than a year. That phone has done some hard time.

After Apple Care and I yakked endlessly on my losing-power mobile, while we laid on the floor with our feet up and bottles of Pepsi with straws in then, I had NO phone, and no way to get ahold of Ned to tell him I was on my way to his place and please let me up in the labyrinth that is his gated apartment complex which apparently houses Prince, so tough is it to get into. I won't bore you with the details (as opposed to all the details I've left out so far) but eventually we got it worked out and I used Ned's cable, so to speak, to recharge my phone.

And after all that I left my phone at his house.

No. I never WILL get over using the Price is Right losing horn for dramatic effect. And I like how the most fancy, protected, needs-a-gate person I could think of is Prince.

Anyway, I did eventually get up with Ned last night, and we decided to pop over to this tavern near his house, which was my suggestion that had nothing to do with said tavern's spicy jalapeno hushpuppies, and hello WW points. When we walked in, some guy was setting up a speaker.

"Oh, this isn't good," we both said, being old and detesting bands when we're just trying to consume fried balls of bread.

But it wasn't some stupid local Captain Dick and the Portholes or anything like it. It was a trivia contest, and one of my young hot Alex coworkers was there with her husband. "Would you like to play trivia?" asked the guy with the speaker. "Oh, no–" "It's free!"

And that is how Ned and I ended up with a pen and trivia form, even though neither one of us remembered reading glasses, and please see above reference to being old.

"Pablo Picasso was questioned when WHAT was stolen in Paris in 1911?" said the guy with the speaker.

"The Mona Lisa?" Ned looked at me, the person who wishes she'd majored in art history but instead got that super-practical English degree and look at me now.

I looked at Ned in a way that a…certain female relative of mine, I won't say who because I don't wanna HEAR it from her, looks at me. The…certain relative can sometimes act as though she knows absolutely everything, and gets a very superior tone, even if she's saying, "Liberace loved him the ladies."

"The Mona Lisa was never stolen," I said, sounding distinctly like my…relative. "Put down that a Monet was stolen. That's my best guess."

"The Statue of Liberty has how many prongs in her crown. Five? Seven? No prongs?"

Ned looked at me once again. He'd answered all kinds of basketball and political Qs without even glancing my way, which, pfft. Has he not met my vast array of knowledge?

"Five," I said. Getting The Tone again.

The trivia guy took our ballet, which we'd named Team Henry & June. We loved ourselves.

Ned got all of the basketball Qs right, and it turns out the Mona Lisa was stolen in 1911. And? The Statue of Liberty has seven damn prongs.

"GOD, JUNE!" said Ned, getting his flared-nostril look.

"In first place is Team Lentil!" said the trivia guy. "In second place is Team People Making Out at the Bar! …And in 397th place, Team Henry & June!"

"WHY DIDN'T YOU LET ME PUT DOWN THE MONA LISA? GOD." Ned pushed our form away disgustedly.

"I knew about Madeleine Albright!" I said. The reason I knew Madeleine Albright was the first female Secretary of State was because once, my ex-best friend and I were paging through Victoria's Secret catalog at my mother's kitchen table, discussing the subtle nuances of Stephanie Seymour and Linda Evangelista.

"You two, who is the Secretary of State?" asked my mother, in what may or may not have been kind of a superior tone. So my ex-friend and I looked it up and went back to discussing Stephanie Seymour, who by the way still looks good. Does Madeleine Albright? So there you go.

"Wow. I've never played a game with you before. Turns out I hate it. Are you always this competitive?" I asked Ned, who was eyeing up the Lentil team to see if he could date one of those brainiacs.


And that's when I remembered Ned is sportsy and probably enjoys winning, even if all we're winning is the glory of a Wednesday-night trivia contest at a place that sells Jäger on tap.