Why do birds suddenly appear

Where do birds go to die? Do they just fall out of the sky in mid-flight? If so, why aren’t we hit more often by expired fowl? Or smacked by bird carcass once they’ve lost their death grip on a limb? Continue reading “Why do birds suddenly appear”

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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

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Edsel

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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.

Goddammit.

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.

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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.

Marco!

Polo!

June

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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,

June

Animals are terrible people

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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.

NO ONE WARNED ME.

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.

Here is the deal: DO NOT EVER TELL ME TO WATCH A SHOW WHERE SOMETHING HAPPENS TO AN ANIMAL.

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.

JooooooOOOOOOOooooon

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.

Refridge

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.

Overbookedly,

Joon

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 Match.com 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?

Splat.

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?

Splat.

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!

Mayberrily,

June

Know-it-all

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.

"OF COURSE I'M COMPETITIVE, WHAT DO YOU THINK?"

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.

Trivially,

June.

Get Freaky with June: Lob That Ball Edition

Yesterday was my big Ping-Pong match against Alex #4858493 at work, as part of a big Ping-Pong championship we're having for no reason whatsoever. She and I decided to have a practice round at lunch, before our 2:30 game. After, I emailed Ned. "Even though I've practiced with other people at work, Alex #4858493 and I had a good rhythm going. We hit it back and forth a ton of times, rather than once and losing the ball. We knew each other's moves. It was like good sex."

"That's wonderful, June," said Ned, who is over me thinking everything is like sex. "But perhaps what you didn't know is the point of Ping-Pong is to beat your opponent, not hit it back and forth a bunch of times."

"But it's more FUN to hit it back and forth a lot!" I said.

Anyway, at 2:30 I naturally had a work thing I had to finish, and I.am.sure., but at about 2:40 we headed down there. A coworker managed to film some of the riveting events of the afternoon.

Wow, did You Tube just give you EVERY VIDEO I'VE EVER MADE? Because that's annoying. Just watch that first one. You can barely see me, I'm such a blur of athletic prowess. The second one is something I recorded for Marvin's benefit, as the guy singing was being the instruments, and I used to tell Marvin not to do that all the time. We'd be in the car and some song would come on and he'd start going, "Chh-ch-ch-chhh.." and I'd be all, "Don't be the cymbal." Or "boom boom boom boom boom." And I'd be all, "Don't be the bass."

Anyway. My point is, I lost 5-11, 5-11 and 6-11. Which, you know. Shut up. Everyone's bracket was right; EVERYONE had me losing to Alex #4858493. Which is disappointing. Like bad sex.

In other news, and then I will get to Freaky Friday, this is happening.

IMG_3107That? Is not snow. It's all ice pellets. WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON? With the weather already. They canceled work altogether, so I can't weigh in at my Fat Club meeting, but I did weigh myself on the scale at work, which coincidentally is a Weight Watchers scale, and it said I lost another three pounds. I was so excited that I went over to The Poet's cubicle, where she had chocolate coconut cookies, so I ate one.

Yeah.

Anyway, I'll log in to work email, but I feel like today there's gonna be a lot of this.

IMG_3104
and this

IMG_3101.
Okay, are you ready for this week's Freaky Friday story? I've gotten a lot of them. Here we go. from Faithful Reader Tammy…

FREAKY FRIDAY STORY

My grandmother MaMa (pronounced maw maw) and I were very, very close. I was the oldest granddaughter, and she was the first person I would call whenever there was something going on in my life. MaMa was one of the kindest, most loving people I had ever known and would go out of her way to make you feel special.

She was diagnosed with ovarian cancer shortly after my first child was born. Being a nurse (even a 21-year-old, fresh-out-of-nursing-school nurse), I knew it was bad. So did she, although she underwent extensive treatment at the insistence of my mother and her other children. We would have long talks about the things she would miss after she was gone, and one of them was seeing her future great-grandchildren. She died in December of 1990…one of the absolute worst times of my life.

In 1992, I had just given birth to my second child, Holly. While it was obviously a happy time, part of me was sad knowing MaMa wasn't there to see her. She had been on my mind a lot since we had brought Holly home.

We had been home from the hospital for two days. When we got ready for bed, I put the baby in the bassinet at the foot of our bed and covered her with a blanket. Around three in the morning, I was jolted awake–not by the baby crying, but the feeling of a presence in the room. I immediately looked to the bassinet…and there was MaMa, leaning over and looking at my newborn. I watched her pull the blanket off Holly so she could see her from head to toe. MaMa had such a look of love and wonder on her face, and it sounds totally crazy, but I could smell her in the room! I just stared with my mouth hanging open for a moment (although it could have been much longer), then I said "MaMa?" When I spoke, she turned and looked at me and smiled…and faded slowly until she was gone. I got up to check on the baby, and the blanket I had covered her with was in the floor about two feet from the bassinet. MaMa's smell permeated our room. It was magical. Thinking about it now makes me tear up. 

I have never seen her again, except in my dreams. It's funny, every time I dream of being in a house, or being home I dream that I'm in MaMa's house. The people in my dreams may change, but it's always her house.

The thing is, I never even paused and said, “Camp CHEERIO?”

In case you don't read the comments, your old pal June, here, weighed in at Weight Watchers and is 3.8 pounds less of the man she used to be. I guess that week of being

HUNGRY

ALL

THE

TIME

paid off. Today the first thing I did was eat the giant chocolate-chip cookie Ned had at his house. I felt guilty but GODDAMMIT it was good. Maybe it's because I have kwashirkor and have consumed 8 calories all week, but that was the best cookie moment I've ever had.

Does it strike you as sad that I have, you know, cookie moments from which to pull?

In other news, I joined the Ping-Pong tournament at work, and shut up. You know I have as many Ping-Pong moments as I do cookie moments on which to dwell. To make things even more interesting at work–or ridiculous, you decide–they actually created brackets for everyone to fill out, so you can bet on who's going to beat whom. I am initially playing my skinny hot coworker Alex #3475658, the one I went with to that gay musical about being gay, and really, isn't "gay musical" pretty redundant?

My point is, as I gandered at everyone's brackets, a trend started becoming apparent. Everyone was voting for me to lose. Do you "vote" when you fill out brackets? Maybe the part where I don't know this is one of the reasons everyone assumed Ima lose to Alex #3475658, BUT WHATEVER WITH THESE PEOPLE. God!

"Everyone's betting on me to lose at Ping-Pong," I emailed Ned, who is supposed to love me. "Who is your first opponent?" he asked. When I told him, he wrote back promptly. "Oh, you're totally gonna lose to her," he said.

GOD! I stood up yesterday in my open office space. "I just want you all to know I am quite the athlete and you're all gonna be sorry you voted against me," I began. "I am a regular…Olga Korbut."

That was the only athletic woman I could come up with. Olga Korbut. She was a gymnast at the 1742 Olympics. She was not what you'd call attractive. Olga Korbut. Geez, I hope she doesn't Google herself and see that I said that about her. If she does, I invite her to come here and try to match wits with me on the Ping-Pong court. Because I am going to score many goals on that court.

So that's where my life is at the moment. Everyone underestimating my stunning athletic skillz, and 3.8 pounds lighter. Other than that cookie. Which probably piled it all back on.

I'm off to buy a bra, and this time I swear I'm not gonna throw it in the dryer, which is what I always do, and then I break a hook, and then I try to wear the bra anyway and spend my days getting teensy spinal taps, which let me assure you is less fun than it sounds. Sometimes it even detracts from my concentration on my Ping-Pong training. And I gotta stay focused.

"Be the ball, June," Ned told me. I feel like maybe he was less than sincere about his support of my new game. Wait till I show him and everyone.

"I was the Ping-Pong champion at Camp Cheerio in seventh grade," said Ned, who has to rely on his glory days of going to cereal camp, whereas my glory days are still ahead of me. "You can train me, then!" I said, growing enthused.

"Yes," said Ned. "Maybe we could make a video montage of me training you, and set it to Highway to the Danger Zone. There's no way you can lose if you have a video montage set to that."

It saddens me that the commercial before they let you watch this video–with nothing on it other than a still photo of Kenny Loggins' glorious blown-back hair–is for Miller Lite in the can. What does that tell you about Kenny Loggins? It tells you his glory days are back in seventh grade camp, that's what it tells you.

Talk at you tomorrow. We're going to Marty Martin's for an Academy Awards party tomorrow, so I will report on my red carpet outfit, which will likely involve my Ping-Pong Forever tshirt. As usual.

June. Lobbing the ball.

One where June talks about different stuff and all of it’s useful

Because I am covering several topics today, I will divide them into categories. Today's categories will be divided by Things I Know About Football.

A. Footballs are brown. I feel terrible about Philip Seymour Hoffman and his dead self. I always liked him. I read in the New York Times that they found two different bags of heroin, one marked Ace of Spades and the other had a heart on it or something. I didn't know heroin came in names, did you? I guess it's like wine coolers, there's more than one.

Anyway, I liked him in everything he was ever in, including Marissa Tomei. Once Marvin rented a Philip Seymour Hoffman movie for when his parents and my mother and stepfather came for Thanksgiving, and he popped it in and SCENE NUMBER ONE was Philip Seymour Hoffman on top of poor Marissa Tomei, in an endless sex scene. You have no idea how fervently everyone felt the need to get up and check on the turkey. Hello, comfortable.

B. Football players like to take out their teeth guard things and play with them a lot. Speaking of The New York Times, one of the things I got Ned for Christmas is a subscription to the Sunday Times, and it is wonderful to read that thing, and their Fashion & Style section buries the Living section of my hometown newspaper. Although I did miss reading about what they're serving at the senior centers across town in the NYT–those meals always sounded delicious to me. My hometown paper has THAT over it.

My point is, yesterday I read about Sarah Jessica Parker designing her own line of shoes and I saw these and if I don't get them my life will be meaningless.

Screen Shot 2014-02-03 at 7.43.33 AM

MEANINGLESS.

C. They have expensive food at football games. I know this because Artie Lange is my Facebook friend and he took a picture of The Gluten-Free Grill and wrote "The pussies have taken over" and I love him, but I enlarged the picture and a gluten-free hot dog was $14. FOURTEEN DOLLARS. That's 5% of a Sarah Jessica Parker shoe!

D. Ned likes that Russel Stover guy or whoever he was in last night's riveting football event. Ned also likes independent bookstores, and they've just opened one here in Greensboro, and it's really lovely. IMG_2920
You can get coffee or wine or pretentious beer, and sit in the window or, you know, actually shop for books. On Saturday they had the grand opening of it, and we went.

IMG_2916Official the-types-of-people-who-go-to-independent-bookstores photo. We walked in as they were giving speeches and reading the world's most annoying poem and Ned said he could not look at me, because he knew I'd have a look going and that it'd make him laugh and then we'd be the official disrupters of bookstore parties.

IMG_2911We ran into a few people we knew, including Faithful Reader and Fancy Author Jo, who is putting on Pink-A-Boo, before you ask.

They'd told us, during the interminable speech (note to people having parties or throwing weddings or opening a book store: People get bored. Take your riveting speech or performance or "let me just thank a few people" and cut in in half. Then cut that. Get over yourself. Thank you. XO, June), that we could adopt a bookshelf, and it'd have our names on the shelf forever, and you could pick three books to go on that shelf for the rest of time.

"What'd YOU put on your shelf?" I asked Ned. He picked the world's pretentiousest books: White Noise by Don DeLillo, Suttree by Cormac McCarthy, and then I think he said Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, which I am down with. Jo said she'd put her own books up there. I said Charlotte's Web, The Secret Garden and Little Town on the Prairie. You can't beat books that influenced you as a kid.

What would you put on your shelf?

E. Football players throw Gatorade at each other like it's fun. Ned's cat eats my hair approximately 79% of the time that I am there. As soon as she hears me come in, she ties on the old feedbag.

IMG_2930thenk you, dad for breengeng home gurl wif six ton of hurr

F. They have girl reporters now at football games, and they all have long hair and a trifle too much makeup on. I know the rest of you had wings and seven-layer dip and so on last night.

IMG_2940 2Ned served a roasted chicken and four different kinds of vegetables. It was delicious. He made the vegetables himself, and bought a rotisserie chicken, and as he was cooking he kept announcing, "The chicken's done!" Isn't it sad when someone gets a kick out of their own self? I wouldn't know.

I guess those are all the things I have to tell you. I liked the commercial where the woman is a cancer survivor, and the Radio Shack one where the '80s called. What is this a commercial for? Cancer? Anyway I liked it.

 

Have a good day. Try not to OD on the heroin. Love, June

Sweet November

Did you ever see that depressing movie, Sweet November, with Sandy Dennis looking annoyingly perky despite the fact that she is dying? I just ruined the movie for you, and you're welcome. You've had 40 years to see it, so it's not my fault.

I watched it on November 1 in 2012, and the whole movie is about how Sandy Dennis dates one man each month. I'd had my first date with the Tall Boy that day, and ended up dating him just for a month. Fortunately, I was not dying. Nor was I Sandy Dennis, also fortunately. Sandy Dennis grates.

Anyway, as promised, because I'm SUPER RELIABLE, here's what I did in November while I was not blogging and you were sobbing into your giant pillow.

Photo on 1-8-14 at 7.21 PM #4Crap. The wrong photo uploaded, but I WOULD like to introduce you to my new sparkly cell phone case. ISN'T IT LOVELY? Ten dollars! I don't mean that'll be $10 to look at my case, although I should have charged admission, so lovely is it.

IMG_2340GOD. Here. Apparently I must have cleaned the house, because my annoying Martha Stewart book was out. Like that heifer ever holds a cleaning agent herself.

IMG_2329I went to a poetry reading or a meet-the-author or some such thing downtown with my pal Jo in November. I should have just said I went downtown with my friend Jo in order to get the traffic from searches from pervs.

I got there early so what was I to do but pop into my friend Kit's vintage store?

IMG_2331Where I found these, and slapped them on right over my tights. I was in love in the way that makes you shaky. Like the first time I saw Tallulah.

IMG_2330"What am I to do? I love the shoes. I must have the shoes. I should not buy the shoes. I MUST HAVE THE SHOES!!!"

IMG_2333Here's the next night, at Ned's, where I took 9494593939 photos of my shoes.

IMG_2336For reals.

I have failed to mention to you that my health has been poor, I've been feeling poorly, since September. I think the construction at work did not help, with the dust and the glue and the PAINT, but I started to get migraines almost every day for awhile, there. The day after the fair in October? I had the WORST MIGRAINE EVER. I even had to go to the ER and Ned sat there with me, helpless.

I finally got a series of shots and more steroids and a new prescription and finally the daily migraines stopped after six fun weeks. The very day I felt better, I also felt a cold coming on.

Dudes.

IMG_2345That cold was RIDICULOUS. In fact, I think it was the flu. I say this because of the part where all I could do was fall into a dead, sweaty sleep and wake up like a toddler with my hair in damp curls on my forehead. Then Ned caught it and he missed three days of work. Oh, we were pretty.

IMG_2343
To make matters worse, a woman I know had been diagnosed with gall bladder cancer, and I went to the Chinese place to get hot and sour soup and I saw her husband. He told me she was in hospice, and I had no idea things were that bad. I called my friend, and she said DO NOT COME HERE WITH THAT COLD, so I did not, but I promised to make her family macaroni and cheese, NOT KRAFT but a real recipe.

Dudes, that cold or whatever it was TOOK FOREVER, and 10 days later I finally rallied. The day–THE VERY DAY–I started to feel human again, I said, "I'll go for a run, then go to the store and get the macaroni and cheese stuff for my friend."

I know I blogged at you in November, when I came back here and blogged that one time, that I was training for a half-marathon.

IMG_2325

I was excited to get back out and run again, as my training had been going well, and Edsel liked running with me. I'd been taking turns with the dogs, but one day I put the leash on Lu, and she was all smell lu, edzul and Edsel was all fit to be tied, and you think I'm anthropomorphizing these dogs but I'm telling you it was a competition, who got to go with me. Anyway on that day we got out to the driveway and Lu was all, let do dis and she had one foot up like a flamingo. I picked up the dangling foot and she said EEEEEEEEEEEE! and I knew she'd stepped on something dumb in the back yard as she sometimes does.

"Lu, you can't run with me. You hurt your foot." But she was all, yes lu can, and trying to pull for forward with three feets. Poor Lu. So anyway, on the day I was finally getting well again I took Eds.

Forunately, on that day, the Tall Boy was over, too. He was headed to his girlfriend's house, but I left before he did as he was in the middle of something or other. I think he was fixing my window. Hoo care. The point is, it was a beautiful night, and my run was going great, and it started to get dark so I jumped onto the sidewalk.

That was a mistake.

Because it all happened so fast that I actually don't KNOW what happened, but as far as I can tell, I hit the unevenness of pavement and where grass starts. All I know for sure, as Oprah would say, is

BOOM

I hit the ground so hard and so fast it was like I'd been pushed. All of a sudden I was on a lawn, splayed out there like a tipped-over yard sign. If I were a yard sign, what would I be? Maybe one of those warnings not to break in because there's an alarm inside, which you always know is bullshit.

The point is, I was stunned, then OH MY GOD in pain. The pain. THE PAIN!!!

I'd let go of Edsel's leash, but there he was, hovering over me as he is wont to do. "It's okay, Edsel," said to him, although I was way scareder than he was. I tried to use him to help myself up but no.  There was no getting up, and there's just no getting over you.

Thank GOD I knew the Tall Boy was still at my house, because Ned was in bed with the very cold I'd just gotten over, and he would have had to schlep over anyway. But the TB drove the few blocks to where I was, and literally had to lift me into the car.

So, I had a sprained ankle and a bruise the size of my head on the other knee, and my wrists were strained. In general it was a good time. And my ankle is STILL NOT RIGHT. Yes, I've had it xrayed. Anyway, you know those inspirational stories where people get up and run again?

Not me. I am an inspiration to no one. Will never run again. And my friend never got her mac and cheese because I am horrible.

IMG_2354Here was most of my November, and I specifically picked an ungory shot of my foot. I was pretty bad, though, trust me.

This injury ended up meaning that Ned and I weren't able to go to Michigan for Thanksgiving as we'd planned. My foot was supposed to stay elevated, and 13 hours in the car NOT elevating it was bad, PLUS the weather was going to be dreadful the entire drive.

IMG_2375So we made reservations at one of the fancy hotels here, and had dinner and went to that nice lesbian movie I told you about, and had several days off together and really it was one of the best Thanksgivings we've ever had. It was great! The only drawback was, no leftovers. But considering all the exercise I could do at that time was crutch to the car and back, that might have been a good thing. As Martha Stewart would say.

Aaaaand we've come full circle. The circle of life.

Boom.

The one where June never ever lets you forget you’re a man.

I was extra busy sleeping this morning, so I didn't blog. I only got in eight-and-a-half hours, and I know you're wondering, "God, how does she do it all?" Cause I mean, after that brief rest, after that if-you-wanna-call-that-SLEEP sleep, I had to flurp some kibble into FOUR BOWLS before my six-minute commute to fake work.

I've been making up a lot of words lately. I've been onomatopoeeing all over myself.

At any rate, Ned continued to, you know, recover from his major oral surgery and not get dry sockets, although he DID make the mistake of asking me what they DO when you get dry sockets, and I told him, and then he was all STOP STOP STOP DON'T WANNA HEAR ANY MORE STOP.

The good news is, he was well enough to go with me Saturday to go partayy with Dick Whitman and one of DW's friends, who did not want her picture on my blog and who can figure that kind of thing out? What do you mean, privacy and dignity? Do not get.

Photo-4Anyway, here's Dick Whitman holding some kind of chalice of girly drink, and you may think this is blurry but I'll have you know it was PITCH BLACK in that bar, so the fact that I got ANY picture at ALL is saying something.

Photo-3Ned had scotch on the rocks, and I really think he may be the most manly person I have ever dated. Also, the part where there's a hole in the table, near his manly drink? Led me to tell him yet another plot of a Sex and the City episode: the one where Aiden makes the love seat, and it has a flaw, and Carrie uses the example of the flaw in the wood to get him to not break up with her despite the part where she'd been humping Mr. Big.

Spoiler alert. Thirteen-year-old spoiler alert.

But Aiden would have none of it. Till he came back, that is.

Spoiler al–oh screw it.

893008_10151514740628850_1417677382_oMy point is, someone may be over hearing about every plot of Sex and the City.

But in my defense, I believe I sat through three, or maybe four, basketball games this weekend.

Don't you love that picture? How bored with me is Ned? I have always kind of been like a prize in the Cracker Jack. Novel, kind of cheap, and you're over it before too long. Marvin was the only person who kept for 16 years his 100% plastic magnifying glass that magnifies .008 of an inch of something. His temporary tattoo that doesn't all transfer onto your skin.

His bird whistle that doesn't quite blow. So to speak.

Despite this depressing image of us, things are going very well with Ned, who by the way I like. Yesterday we schlepped BACK TO WINSTON-SALEM, for the THIRD TIME THIS WEEK, to go to my friend Charlie's fundraiser.

And oh, with the rain. To say it was raining would be to say I have a bit of hair. To say there was a downpour would be like saying sometimes Edsel is enthusiastic. To say we had some precipitation would be like saying Hulk is fond of sports.

You get my drift. You see my point.

Photo-2Eyeriss not. She not see poynt. Thank for bringeeng up again.

God. Iris makes everything about her.

So it was raining, if you're picking up what I'm throwing down, and Ned was driving, which means we had no GPS, and we kept SLIDING all over the dang road, and sometimes we couldn't see because the whole windshield was WET WET WET HELLO RAIN WET, and then we got there and couldn't find the place.

I mean we just couldn't.

The exit I wrote down did not exist, and we drove near where we thought it might be, and the rain was raining and the slidey was sliding and after awhile we gave up and went to a restaurant for some soup.

And I do not know what to tell you, but for some reason we stayed there for hours, although the part where there was a TV on with ding-dang sports may have had something to do with it, and waiting for the rain to cease was another part, but we ordered food TWICE, we were there so long, talking and sporting-event-ing and people watching and so on. We saw a shift change of the staff. I mean, we were a part of that restaurant. And it became a part of us.

I emailed Charlie AND his girlfriend today, to see if he has PayPal, and if not, Ima send your donations to his house directly. I am sad I couldn't find it. Part of the day's events included contra dancing, and I wore a swingy skirt for just that reason, and I even YouTubed a how-to-contra-dance video and made Edsel practice with me. He is terrible at dosey do-ing.

Oh! And speaking of sporting events, at fake work we're doing that bracket thing? That apparently people do when it's basketball-y out? And Ned filled mine out for me, and I got to pick who wins the whole thing so naturally I picked Michigan State, because I went to school there, though Ned had to ask me, "Do you want to pick Michigan State?" because of course I had no idea they were participating in this thing and my point is today I got an email and I am in the lead, over everyone here at work.

Dying.

I think I stand to win $800,000 or something. Am so gonna get rich and get all Real Housewife of Greensboro on your asses.

Which, ooooooo! Season finale tonight! And reunion show! BEST NIGHT EVER! I cannot wait. Maybe I'll call Ned after and run it down for him. Do you think I'll get the crossy-arms-stony-look again?

I have to eat something for lunch and get back on the road to commute to the office again. I mean, she commutes, she blogs at lunch, she operates on 8.5 hours of sleep–she's like the Enjoli commercial. What a wonder woman.

 

XO, June. The eight-hour blogger.

In which June makes an “Orange you glad” joke.

I was super-busy Ned-ing yesterday and never had a minute to write. So now I gotta cram everything that happened Saturday and yesterday into one post, and who knows how to draw the reader in and beg for more? Nothing's more compelling than "…now I gotta cram everything…"

Speaking of which, Hulk's date was not what you'd call successful. He can tell you about it in the comments if he wishes. He didn't say, "Oh, and put THIS on your blog! And tell them all THAT part, too." Although I do tell all my friends in real life that everything they tell me is blog material unless they warn me otherwise. Then I get all offended when they tell me something King Kamehameha personal and then say, "Don't put this on your blog."

"It turns out I like wearing my child's tutu and lip syncing Carmen like that orange from Sesame Street. DON'T PUT THIS ON YOUR BLOG!"

 

See, I just kind of made it seem like that's something personal Hulk told me, and it isn't, but now am PICTURING Hulk in not-Chloe's tutu singing Carmen and am dying. I can't see Chloe owning a tutu, however, as she is not June Girly.

Oh my god, I said I had to cram and have told you zero so far.

On Saturday, Ned and I had a Gift of the Magi thing going on where we had been really excited to finally have a weekend together without his pesky WORK and WORK TRIPS getting in the way, and he told his brother he couldn't go to a basketball game and I was feeling guilty that my friend Daniel Boone was in town for his kid's concert. Yes, Daniel Boone has kids. Three of them. I don't KNOW why it's never come up. He's actually very involved with his kids and has some custody of them, but I never met them. I did see them the time he was on the freeway and refused to wave at me.

Anyway, I finally said, "You wanna hang out with Daniel Boone Saturday afternoon after his kid's concert?" and Ned was all, "Oh! Is he gonna be here? I was supposed to go to this sporting event…" He calls every sporting event a "sporting event" since he started hanging around me, and I also caught him calling something "King Kamehameha" the other day.

So our deal was he'd call when he got home and all three of us would go to dinner or something, and in the meantime D Boone got to my house at around 5:00.

I answered the door in my sexy workout clothes, all sweaty, my hair 50 different directions, and basically super appealing. King Kamehameha appealing, if you will.

"So, you waited till I GOT here to shower so I could sit here and wait for you?"

"Yes."

Really I'd been a poor manager of my time, having been with Ned for most of the day. The point is, D Boone ended up watching me put on my makeup, and because his ex-wife did not WEAR makeup (Dear Women Who Wear No Makeup: I do not understand you. Love, June), he was riveted.

"What're you doing now?"

"Primer. You have to prime the pump, as it were, before foundation." I do a whole involved kabuki makeup, as you can imagine. Doing my makeup is my favorite part of my day. I know that is sad.

"What are all those TUBES?"

"These are my mascara choices. I have many kinds. For the Many Moods of June."

"Oh, you'll need more tubes than THAT, then."

Finally my mask was on and we headed to the dessert place. There's a lovely dessert place near me that has all kinds of decadent stuff, and big comfy couches and lounge chairs and fireplaces and it's great. Daniel Boone had never been there but he was beside himself because they have about 20 kinds of cake.

IMG_3303Portrait of Sugar Happiness

"We can't–oh my god. Should we–oh my GOD. We can't just– LET'S GET THREE!!"

Daniel Boone ended up getting three slices of cake–we got birthday cake, banana pudding cake and carrot cake which thank all that is holy was sans raisins. There is no reason for a raisin.

After, we had to run to Target because I am a fun nondate, and DB bought all the stupid things I purchased there. Then he insisted we go to the grocery store to replace Ned's red wine he drank while he was at my house, and he also bought me coffee, and basically Daniel Boone was literally my sugar daddy. By the time Ned got back into town, D Boone had to go, as his dog needs antibiotics (allergies) (I knew someone out there would Need to Know).

"So, I got to be here for your getting-ready routine and your errands, and now I'm leaving so you can go have a great night with Ned? Is that how this just worked?"

It totally did. Ned and I went to dinner and talked and had just a lovely night. And Ned got free wine.

On Sunday, we went to see all the short films that have been nominated for an Oscar. We have a $900,000 bet about which one will win, and I guess I don't know what'll happen if neither of us is right, but I already OWE Ned $900,000 from a bet we placed about one of our waitresses somewhere or another, so if he loses we'll be even.

Then I am sorry to tell you I watched the goddamn Super Bowl. I just wanted to see the commercials, which were disappointing, if you ask me. I wanted the purple team to win, because the red team had said something homophobic in the weeks leading to the Super Bowl and that pissed me off. At 9:00, I went home and watched Downton Abby.

In fact, when Hulk called me to tell me his date was a bust, the first thing out of his mouth was, "If you make Ned watch Downtown Abby tonight instead of the Super Bowl, I will never be friends with you again."

Oooo, what a threat.

"DOWNTON. It's DOWNTON," I told him, and I totally shoulda let him hang thinking I would do that to Ned or that Ned would LET me do that to him.

My point is, even though I was back at my house all by myself, when Downton Abby was over I turned the station back to the goddamn Super Bowl. What is happening to me? And the purple team won so yay.

Oh, I did like that Paul Harvey farmer ad. Were there any you liked? I never saw my Budweiser baby horse commercial; must have come on during DOWTOWN Abby. Who's annoying? Is it Hulk?

So there was my cram post. I did not say one funny thing this entire post, did I? Orange you glad there are other blogs out there?

In which you say, “We have to hear about ANOTHER football game June attended? We totally read about this already in her 1982 post.”

So, my friend TinaDoris had tickets to the football game, and she IMd me at work.

(Dear Work,

Usually TinaDoris and I keep our noses to the grindstone. Love, June. Worky June.)

"Would Ned want tickets to the NC State game this Saturday?" she asked, knowing that's where Ned went to school and knowing he likes him the sports things.

"I'll ask," I wrote back, then returned to work because HELLO FAKE WORK. Please hire me back full time. Thanks.

Also, how lazy are TinaDoris and me? We work in the same OFFICE. On the same FLOOR. But God forbid we get up and have a conversation directly. I'd love to make a comment now like, "No wonder TinaDoris has an ass the size of Guam," but in fact she has a cute figure and you kind of want to hate her for being all young and thin. I think she gave us the tickets because she had a metabolism convention or something.

My point is, Saturday dawned here in North Carolina and I did what I so often do–I got ready for a day of footballing. When Ned asked if I wanted to go, I said, "Sure. Now, where do we go to get someone to buy for us?"

"What?"

"Well, the LAST time I went to a football game, I was a senior in high school, and before football games you always go to 7-Eleven or whatever and stand there till someone looks nice, then ask them to buy beer for you. Where do we go here to do that?"

"Just be ready at noon, June."

Even more exciting than being able to buy our own beer was the part where we were meeting one of Ned's oldest friends there. I had heard about this guy 10,934 times and was dying to see him in personal. Did I ever tell you about the time that prisoner wrote me and said he wanted to get to know me in personal? It's a whole other STORY about a whole different DAY, so why don't you leave me alone and let me tell the story at hand?

GOD.

So we get to the restaurant where we're meeting Ned's friend, and before we walked in, this bearded, chaming guy says, "Ned!"

It was another friend of Ned's, who I have also heard about, and he starts to hug Ned but then he sees me and comes over and embraces me like I was his sweet embraceable his.

"I love the stuff you write on Facebook!" he says, still hugging me. I loved that guy. I know I am weird about the hugs, but that's just when it's some old friend who I actually KNOW hugging me. If it's some stranger who might be a trifle drunk I'm fine with it.

What do you mean, "therapy"?

Anyway, loved that guy. He thanked me for making Ned a–I can't remember. He said something like thanks for making an honest man out of Ned or thanks for humping Ned or some such thing. All I know is everyone I have met who knows Ned seems to love the shit out of Ned and really care about his well-being, which to me is a good sign about Ned. Don't you think?

Once the drunk guy left, Ned's regularly scheduled friend showed up, and he was funny and Southern and just delightful. We went in the friend's car, and his 11-year-old son was along with us, and guess who knew a lot more about football than me. Was it that 11-year-old? Was it, in fact, every human within a 10-mile radius?

Let me tell you what about football games. At Arthur Hill High School, you just pulled up in Steve Feit's Chevette, hid your beer under a jacket in the hatch, and walked right in. Not so much with the college football. It took us 11 thousand hours to get to our parking place, and yes, we had a designated parking place.

And the other thing? Seriously, dawgs. Every.human.being.there. had on red. Red. I felt my BLOOD PRESSURE go up. It was like the whole afternoon had been heavily copy edited. Red. Lots of red.

Ned, who did NOT have on red, and I got out the car and went to the back of his friend's SUV, where Doritos and Dr Pepper and Budweiser were served, and I totally watched snobby Ned drink a Budweiser like it was good.

IMG_2822
Did you know cans of Budweiser have a little crown on them now? "Why do you think that's there?" asked Ned, who has never in my presence had beer that wasn't black as night. "The King of BEERS," I said, being from Michigan.

God.

IMG_2823
Ned quickly segued to black as pitch beer and all felt right with the world. Then we went in to our sporting event.

Okay.

First of all, this team Ned likes? They are the wolfpack, one word, and every EIGHT SECONDS they had the fakest wolf cry you've ever heard coming over the speakers, there.

"That is the fakest wolf cry ever invented," I said, over the WOOOOO-HO-HO-HOOO! "Have you HEARD a lot of wolves howling?" asked Ned, who doesn't know from anything because YES, in fact I HAVE. When I still lived in my home town, the zoo had a wolf and when the noon church bells rang, he always threw his head back and howled. I worked right near there so I'd make a point of going to lunch a little before noon, and I'd STAMPEDE over to the zoo parking lot to listen. I freaking loved that wolf.

Guess who was sorry he asked.

At any rate, Ned kind of explained to me how football went.

Restroomkeys
I had seen these things before when I watched the Super Bowl with a bunch of gay guys back in LA. We were all about the food and commercials and no one there knew from football whatsoever. "What're those ORANGE things?" someone asked. We all decided those were the restroom keys, so you wouldn't take the key with you.

I had told this to Ned a long time ago, and when he explained football to me, he kept saying, "So the restroom key is over there, and…"

IMG_2825
Mostly the whole time he was talking I kept thinking, "Ned is so cute. I like Ned. How long do we have to sit here before I can get Ned into a room and make out with him?"

So, football. Learned a lot.

The good news is, there is an intermission thing and you get to go back out to your car and drink.

IMG_2826
They give you this pink card to take with you so you can get back in to your sporting event. It's a Mothers Against Drunk Driving card, and you take this with you while you drink at your car, then stumble back in to your sports and red people.

I saw a LOT of drunk college girls, is what I did. Two were crying, several were doing that "I can barely hold my eyes open and it's 3 p.m." thing while they talked loudly to boys, and ONE was being held by the arm and led to the bathroom. I feel like that wasn't gonna end pretty.

Here's the thing. I was often drunk in college. But I always maintained. Maybe that's not something to be proud of, but I am nonetheless. Drunk as hay on the inside, maintaining on the outside.

It was a really lovely day, by the way, sunny and 70. By the second part, the sun had gone down and it was chilly all of a sudden. "Wow, it's like we just crossed the equator," I said, loving myself.

Ned paused. "You know, it'd still be hot if you were crossing the equator."

"I KNOW that," I said, "I was being, you know, funny. Maybe I should have said it's like we crossed into another hemisphere."

"Or, it's like the sun went down."

Why do I like Ned?

Anyway, they won, Ned's team did, and he thanked me, like, 40 times for going. It was really fine. There were plenty of people to stare at, and I was RIVETED by the cheerleaders. First of all, you better make sure you are UP TO DATE on your waxing if you're gonna be a cheerleader. And secondly, wouldn't you be SCARED to have people TOSSING you about like that? You could break your NECK. Jesus.

I guess that's all I have to say about football, except I think when you pick a team, you should make sure you look good in whatever their colors are. Are there any pink teams? Cause I look good in pink.

Sportingly,

June

You better WORK. (I am so busy I’ve turned into RuPaul.)

I wish I could tell you all the things I wish to today, but I have to work before I go to work, then after work Ima do some work. I haven't even TOUCHED my Polish stuff, which is not a eupemism, in days.

If I had time to blog, I would:

  • Show you those emails between Ned and me, but that's an hour of cutting and pasting right there.
  • Tell you how I've managed to accidentally French kiss two of my four pets–one of them twice.
  • Fill you in on the part where my coworker said, "And I'm on the Rare Fruit Committee!"

I know.

  • Complain in horrific detail about the cold I am getting.
  • Get you up to date on my weekend, which includes old June, here, attending a sporting event. No one is roofie-ing me to attend. I said I'd go. Voluntarily.
  • Oh, and I'd also tell you how Ned and I bought pomegranates, and that is not a euphemism, and have I created a pomegranate MONSTER? "I'm eating more of the pustules. GODAMMIT, this is delicious!"

He keeps calling the seeds "pustules." Which by the way is not right. Or a euphemism.

But I cannot tell you any of these things. Back to statistics. And sore throating. Yay.

P.S. Everyone say happy birthday to my mother! She is 87 years young today. (Guess who just halved her Christmas gifts in one funny funny sentence?)

Texting Hulk during the Super Bowl. Or, poking the tiger.

Yesterday I had a relatively normal Sunday for me. Cry, have coffee, see Dick Whitman. Yes, my life is stupid.

I really should stop hanging around Dick Whitman.

At any rate, my pal Hulk was already on my mind because DW and I had Indian food and I knew how Hulk would be envying us.

IMG_0372
It could have been yours, Hulk, had you been with us!

My point is, by late afternoon, Dick Whitman was gone, and I couldn't decide what to do with myself. Oh, sure, I had plans to cry, but what else? Was there anything on TV?

That's when I remembered the stupid Super Bowl was on, and I decided what would be more fun for Hulk, who is the teensiest bit obsessed with sports, than to get texts from me during the whole thing?

The teensiest bit. If he could have married a basketball, he would have. The only reason he read The Great Gatsby was because the word "Sport" was in it so much. Same reason he watched The Courtship of Eddie's Father.

How annoying was that, that Eddie's father called Eddie "Sport"? Would you want anyone calling you "Sport"? And I just realized that Eddie's father was Bill Bixby, who went on to be…The Hulk.

The CIRCLE of life!

Photo on 2-6-12 at 8.15 AM #2
BOOM!

Who is pleased with me? Also, must EVERY CAT be obsessed with that closet back there? They can all open those doors and they all have. They like to sit on the shelves. Why? They're all wire-y.

My cats and their weird habits are irrelevant right now. Because I had to text Hulk. During the biggest sporting event of the year.

June: Why do they have to shuffle around during the National Anthem? Also, do you hope I text you all night?

Hulk: Nervous energy. And no.

June: Are they tossing a coin to decide whether they're gonna play tonight or just go home? LOVE YOU!!! …When does this stupid thing START??

Really you guys. There was all this CRAP they made you sit through. All these introductions and people talking and JUST START THE BORING THING ALREADY.

Hulk: 6:29. Enjoy the anticipation.

June: 6:29?? What a weird-ass time.

Hulk (at 6:29): Here we go! Gotta shotgun the kickoff.

I have no idea what he meant, either.

Hulk: Oh, and I love you, too. Root for the combined score to be more than 54 total points.

June: Okay, If that happens do they get free coffee or something?

Hulk: I get $50. …free coffee. God.

June: That one guy has a beekeeper mask on. Why does he have a beekeeper masker on?

No, seriously. One guy had this, like, black net over his face like he was a widow at a funeral in 1940 or something. Was he being dramatic?

Hulk: Beekeeper. You need help.

You know. How does Hulk expect me to KNOW things about football if he won't EXPLAIN them to me?

June: That guy is gonna catch his death of a cold if he keeps licking his fingers and touching the football.

It was gross. And he did that CONSTANTLY. And I didn't see a little thing of Purell hanging off his suit. It couldn't have been sanitary. Was it a nervous habit? Why don't his loved ones tell him to stop doing that on national TV?

IMG_0371
By the way, Edsel was way into the sporting event with me.

Hulk: Good Doritos commercial.

June: Really good. And I liked how before the commercial they changed the OPP song to be that one guy's initials.

Hulk: YEAH YOU KNOW ME!

 

Can I just interject to say this song always reminds me of some friends of mine in LA? We were at a wedding reception, all of us middle-aged and stone-cold sober, and I wish you could have seen us dancing to this song. Dignified? Yes. I remember my one friend pretending to have a lasso to rope me in then spin me away.

White? Yes. Yes we are. Also pretty.

Anyway, during the fascinating football game one guy got hurt.

June: That guy is faking. I would. I would fake injury as soon as I could.

Hulk: Football hurts.

Then that commercial with David Beckham came on.

June: Hang on. Touching self.

Hulk: We don't care about guys or soccer. Why is that commercial on? Token to keep wives quiet. …Hold on. Am still picturing you touching self.

June: Good gravy.

Hulk: Annnnnd done.

June: Now I want gravy.

June: Oh, good! Madonna!

As soon as the first, you know, gladiator gay guy came out:

Hulk: WTF!?!?!

June: Okay, but she's like 60.

Hulk: That just makes it worse.

June: Her dancing makes me nervous.

Hulk: She's me. Like a virgin.

June: She's me. A ray of light.

Hulk: She's you. Material girl.

June: Crap.

Hulk: I win.

June: Totally.

Later:

June: WTF does all this 1st and 3rd crap mean?

Hulk: Dude, I can't explain it to you via text. When we are married I'll explain it.

June: THERE'S an exciting wedding night.

Hulk: We won't get married when there's a GAME on.

So there you go. My exciting night of bugging Hulk. And they didn't get free coffee, because they didn't get 54 points. I feel bad for them. They all played so hard.

Mr. Blue Pants

Happy Barry Gibb's birthday! I am taking time out of this day of festivities to write you.

I told Daniel Boone it's Barry Gibb's birthday, and I said, "I gotta get home and put up my tree."

"Really?" he said. "I was thinking more a fur-covered pole."

Everyone's mean to my Barry.

In the meantime, my coworker Vilhelm Oyster tried to kill me last night. You know how a bunch of us at work have been doing this workout DVD? It's called Insanity and it lives up to its effing name. Last night I finally Googled it, and its claim to fame? "The hardest workout DVD you'll ever do." Oh! Sign me up!

And the worst part is Vilhelm, who is extra fit, popped in level effing TWO last night. It was just the two of us. "Did you set it to a hard level?" I trepidated. "No!" he smiled.

Vilhelm is evil.

Then the FREAK who is the instructor–wait. Let me see if there are photos of this drill sargent torturer sadist…

Shaun_t
There he is. And it's like looking in a mirror, seeing those abs.

Also? While I was looking for this ding-dang image? I saw a disclaimer: Remember, the Insanity workout is not for the beginner!

Yeah. Really?

Anyway, there we were. Supposedly doing pushups with one leg in the air, or doing a pushup then leaping right up after, and EVEN VILHELM eventually collapsed on the floor, dead.

So that was a good time. And my hair? Small.

Then after I got home and ATE THE WORLD, Marvin came over for the mortgage check and yes we ARE switching it this month so it comes right out of my account. The first person to give me advice on that has to do the Insanity workout twice. I will come to your house and lord over you with a pick axe and make you do one-legged pushups.

The POINT is, after Edsel lept in the air for 45 minutes, then humped Marvin, then wept and wrote a poem about the whole experience, I said, "Unfortunately I have to walk them now." Because could I have been more dead tired? So Marvin went with me, when what I was really hoping was that he'd say, "I'll walk them. You rest. You want Steak and Shake while I'm up?"

That did not happen.

Anyway, walk the dogs we did and we saw Paul, my 96-year-old neighbor. We chatted awhile and he invited us to sit down, but we demurred. It occurs to me Paul must think I am the biggest slut, as I have walked past there with Dick Whitman and Daniel Boone and now Marvin in the past few weeks. Or maybe he just sees some dark-haired middle-aged man with me and assumes it's the same person. We can hope.

If that weren't enough activity, and trust me, that workout and then that walk with 100 pounds of pulling dog was enough, Marvin said, "Let's go to Target! I need new headphones and blue pants."

So off we went, in his giant pink 1966 car that every time I am in it I think of how we have no airbags. I reassure myself with the thought that the car is the size of Judy Garland's medicine cabinet and persevere.

The first thing that happened was Marvin took an hour and 45 minutes to back out the driveway. I do not know if he was trying not to scrape his ridiculous car, or he was avoiding running over ants, or just trying to drive me berserk with his trademark slowness, but eventually I said, "Take your time backing out."

"You know who I miss? You." said Marvin, as he continued to back out an inch per hour like he was at driver's training.

Then we got there and I am happy to report Marvin bought me some new earbuds as mine only played out one ear and I might as well have lugged a Victrola with me instead of an iPod, with that fine stereo sound. I got Paul Frank earbuds!

Skullcandy_paulfrank
I will let you guess which color I selected. I heart Paul Frank stuff. I remember when it wasn't that famous and I thought I had made a teensy discovery. Am glad it hit the big time.

At any rate, here is what I forgot about Marvin.

He meanders.

I mean, there are no words to explain to you how TIRED my body was from Vilhelm's murder attempt. My COLLARBONE hurt. My HAIR was sleepy. I was exhausted. And the thing is? When I trained for that marathon way before you knew me? My long runs were on Saturday mornings, and Marvin would do this same thing to me later in the day. He'd drag an errand out 47 years.

Oh, he paused at the groceries. "You don't need groceries. You're leaving in two days," I groused. Marvin's niece is being bat mitzvhaed. She was born a month after we were married and we stayed at the hospital all night waiting for her to be born at 5:00 the next day. Why do babies always wait till weird times to be born? Marvin videotaped the entire night, and I should really get him to let me show it here, because it is funny, us stuck in a hospital all night.

Anyway, because I complained? Guess who SLOWED HIS PACE EVEN MORE? Oh, he paused over the milk, like he'd never seen such a newfangled idea as milk in a jug. He ruminated over the cereals. He considered the candy.

"CAN WE GO GET YOUR BLUE PANTS NOW?!" I scowled.

I hear we have a new black president. And that there is some weird woman named Lady Gaga now? I missed all this while we MADE OUR WAY TO THE BLUE PANTS SECTION.

We had a cart, because as bitchy as I'm being Marvin also got me big bags of food for my pets, so I had to stand in the aisle, across from the Kim Kardashian-looking heels, waiting for Mr. Blue Pants. After awhile, I started wondering if I would ever wear those heels. They were kind of sexy. I should really be a person who wears heels more, now that I am out trolling again.

"Girl, I like her. She is straight up. I like a straight-up person. Umm-hmmm! That's what I said! She tell it like it is!"

Either an insane person or a person wearing one of those awful BlueTooth things walked by me while I waited. The last time I had been outside of Target, people were sending smoke signals to communicate.

I could see Marvin thinking about blue pants as though he were deciding on a condo, so I glared at him as hard as I could, hoping he'd feel my annoyance and move faster. This worked so well in 13 years of marriage. He already had blue pants thrown jauntily over his shoulder and was observing khaki.

"You said blue! You HAVE blue! Can we go?"

Finally, FINALLY, we left Target. Women outside were wearing short hair! I never. Did they have the scarlett fever? Where were everyone's togas? And someone must have stolen our team of horses.

"You wanna get frozen custard?" asked Marvin, putting his blue pants in the 39494939-foot-wide trunk of his 1966 car, which was new when the evening began.

"Of course," I said. "We don't have to walk over there, do we?"

You guys. I had to walk, like, six stores down to the frozen yogurt. Will the torment never end? I told Marvin it reminded me of the time after my marathon in Chicago, when he made me walk back to the hotel after.

"It was just a mile," he said.

And that is when I shoved Marvin in the frozen custard twisty machine, and now you can get chocolate/Marvin swirl at your local Ruth's Custard.