You don’t have to put in an email address to leave me a comment. I wanted to say that first thing, before I got to all the scintillating news of my day.Continue reading “Tech Talk with June”
I'm just now forming the thought that all this time I've been feeding Steely Dan too much. I thought he was much younger, and those oh-so-easy-to-read instructions on his canned food said to feed him three times a day. But now he's seven months old, and I'll bet I don't have to feed him at lunch anymore.
I wanted to capture him looking incredulously at the camera, but instead he's editorializing again, covering my offensive coffee with his judgey kitten foot. Once he learns to talk, he'll probably be all, dat bad for yuu, yuu no. make yuu jittree.
I don't know why petspeak needs to be misspelled. They're not writing it.
Anyway, as you know from your Big Book of June Events, tomorrow is my 10-year anniversary of blogging, and I spent 87 hours worrying about which photos to put in my 10-year video, cause I'd be all, yeah, it's good, but is it TEN YEARS good. And then I realized there were about 15 pets to cover and who should I leave out and basically the whole thing was hard. Life is hard. The point is, I finally finished it and got it on YouTube only to break up with Ned and have all the photos of him piss me off now, but even still, the damn thing is a retrospective of my past 10 years and he's in my last five years, so.
THE POINT IS, you guys started LOOKING for it. A coworker, who's read me for like four weeks and doesn't know any of the players, was even all, "I went on YouTube to try to see that video early and I can't find it."
So yesterday I put it on Facebook, but here it is for the rest of us. Videovus, for the rest of us. You know I have no idea what that's from? I know everyone goes on about it and laughs and high fives, but I am clueless. It must be a show I never cared about, like that one show about radio with Maura Tierney or the one about people working in cubicles where Roy and Jim or Roy and Pam or someone were always about to get married or something.
Oh my god anyway, here, without further ado, a day early because you guys are terrible, is my video in celebration of 10 years of blogging!
Taa-daaaa! I love that the shot they used, here, is Dick Whitman's mom. Cutest thing, ever. Plus I look good. That's what matters. I remember this is before I met Ned, and I was dating a different boy, and that was the first day we ever Did It.
What's with my eyebrows in that photo?
Oh! And speaking of eyebrows, I think Ima make it till payday!! On Monday, I had $21 to last till Thursday, and then I went to see It's a Wonderful Life at my old theater because it's what I do, so with the ticket and parking I had $10 left, but here it is Wednesday and that $10 is in tact and I have fish and spaghetti and you know what this is like? Remember in It's a Wonderful Life when they had the two single dollars left at 6 p.m.? That's what it's like.
A few of you sent me donations to celebrate my anniversary of bothering you for 10 years, and that's exciting and very kind! It will be here in a few days and then I will be high on the hog, man! And I know you guys talked in the comments about everyone sending me 10 dollars for 10 years, but I know it's most expensive-ist time of the damn year, and I do not expect that at all. Just that you're reading me is nice. I mean, who wants to read my crap every day? You do.
I didn't want to go off on this tangent. Want to save it for tomorrow. So I will.
Paula H&B, faithful reader, found the most ridiculously wonderful collection of middle-aged women in mid-century standing next to ridiculous Christmas trees, and I am in love. I am obsessed. I cannot get enough of these photos. They're my favorite things ever.
You know how I get about old photos.
I finished my cards last night, no thanks to my roommates.
The entire time was me moving cat bodies. Oh! And here's Austere Deer card. Chris and Lilly, don't look.
Do you really believe the "joyful" new year part? Cause those cards are staring at you in Personal Growth. (It's a When Harry Met Sally line. Sue me.) Those cards are the cards that insist you put on sunscreen before you can run out to the water. Those cards are first in line for flu shots. Those cards would never be 51 and living on $10 all week.
Also, I take issue with those cards capitalizing "New Year" the way it's used.
I'd better get in the shower, and I want you to–
He's up there eatin' the big cats' food. That jerk. Look at his little back footie, though.
Talk at you tomorrow. As I have done almost every day for the last 10 damn years.
P.S. Look up there at my goddamn nose. Son of a BITCH I hate my nose.
I make the same kind of joke every time I get a new design, don't I? And actually, this one isn't done yet; we're still gonna update a few things here and there. Pretty, though, right?
Remember when it was time to renew my yearly fee for stupid Typepad, and I asked if anyone could afford to chip in, please do? Well, not only did you chip in for that, but there was some left over (!!!) and I knew technically I shouldn't really just spend it willy-nilly, because your donations were for this site to remain up. So I thought, well, they've been looking at this same damn design nonstop for two years, so I got hold of Sadie Olive who always does my stuff (see her tag on the lower left) and I worked with her to get a new look going.
Also I paid my lawn guy. I figured readers would love to know my lawn work was paid for. Anyway, thanks for helping a sister out with keeping this site going, the last blog on earth. I still like writing it, and as long as 50 of you still like reading it, we'll keep going.
Sadly, though, you have to keep looking at more photos that didn't make the 10-year video cut. Last night Ned came over and I made him watch what I have so far and I kept saying, "That's not staying. That's getting switched around" till finally he shot a woman in Greensboro, just to watch her die.
Also on cutting-room floor. Look at poor beleaguered Edsel just waiting for his mom to stop gazing at self and love him. It must be like having Diana Ross as a mom. An impoverished Diana Ross.
Oh, god, speaking of impoverished, today is payday thank GOD. In my fridge are condiments, because safe flavoring, and expired tortillas. You may be wondering Why doesn't June just toss the tortillas but I felt bad for the lonely condiments.
So now I have dough and can toss the tortillas, which is good because tonight two of the Alexes are coming over to help me decorate for Christmas. Wedding Alex's new husband is putting the kibosh on some of her girlier Xmas decorations (she's the one who had the pink sparkly reindeer that I went so berserk over that she finally just gave them to me, along with a restraining order), so she's letting me have them, because single, single, single.
With a man friend. But still.
The other Alex and I were on the phone and she was kvetching about how busy she is with social engagements and feels obligated to attend just everything and as a result she can't give of herself fully anywhere because she's stretched so thin, so I said, "You wanna come help us decorate?" and she was all, "Yeah!"
So. I'm looking forward to her thin personality.
Yer OUTTA here, picture. Really, I was so busy putting in pictures of you guys and friends and THE ENDLESS PETS that I thought finally at the end, hunh. I should probably put up pictures of my own self, and then I got obsessed with putting in one each from each year, which in the end did not happen because there were zero 2006 photos of me from my blog. So. But I got close to representin' each year. This one above is clearly before my time abroad, because I still had fruit crate images that you all now have, and there is a guitar so it's pre-2011, and this hair tells me most likely 2008.
I have a giant collection of these, the at-a-restaurant-with-Ned shots. I don't even like going to restaurants that much. Ned does. So there you have it.
Oh, I meant to tell you that Lottie's people texted me yesterday to tell me she now officially weighs 50 pounds, which is more than Eds or Lu ever weighed. She's 8 months old. He said she's pretty tall, too. Oh, my Lottie. I wonder if he'd like to give her back now that she outweighs Edsel? We could have a fight to the finish.
'''''''''''''''''''' '' '
Steely Dan just walked across the keyboard so he could leap across the desk and onto the big cat's food dishes, and it looks like Woodstock just said something.
I'd better go, but before I do I have one other important piece of news to impart to you. You know how I am forever bemoaning my mascara, and how my neeeeeeeeeds aren't being met by said mascara? If my mascara had a love language, I'd need it to be the lengthening language. For all the goddamn hair I have, of course I also have to have sparse lashes.
Anyway, the other day I dashed to work late as always and didn't put on mascara. I had a meeting with the president of the company–oh, no big deal, that, JUST THE PRESIDENT IS ALL–and I felt incomplete.
"Does anyone have any mascara?" I screeched to the room at large, and I know pinkeye and all that, but the president of the company, dude. And there I was, his hollow-eyed minion.
"I have a sample," said this woman WHOM I'VE NEVER EVEN SPOKEN TO. We have a lot of new people. "Really?!" I asked, delighted. What're the chances someone would have a whole pinkeye-free sample of exactly what you needed right then? It's like the day in 2003 I said to Marvin, "What I wouldn't give for some salt and vinegar Pringles," a thing I never even craved, and he marched into the kitchen and brought out a new canister of them. He'd gotten some that day.
Best moment ever.
The point is, I loves it. I LOVES IT. It's called Arbonne It's a Long Stoey Mascara Mascara It's a Long Story, which, yeah, I didn't make up that name. But it's perfect for me.
Although I sort of pride myself on telling a brief story. Okay, yes, I never stick to the topic, but once the story is out there I don't do that goddamn, "Was it Tuesday, or was it…hunh. It musta been Thursday because I…" crap.
Anyway, mascara needs, met. Till the sample runs out.
I will catch you on von flipeth sideth.
I had to get to work early today, because my car. I had to take it to the shop, and Ned had to drop me off, which means I got here at, like, 5 a.m.
So because I'm here I cannot blog, but can you help a sister out?
Since 2007, I have used this thing called Sitemeter that told me how many people came to my blog in a day. Then, a few months back, Sitemeter got all wonky and started directing you to other pages. I was advised to get the hell off Sitemeter.
So then, to see who was looking at my blog, I tried Google Analytics, and you have never been to a site that is harder to figure out. It's like they're trying to make you mad. So I quit them in a huff, as I do.
This means I have no way of knowing how many people are reading this dumb blog. So here's what I wanna do today: Let's have a real-life count. If you read me, just leave a comment (JUST ONE!) saying, I read. Or hey. Or whatever.
If you come back to this page today, leave another comment. I'm back. This tells me how many new visitors I get in a day and how many repeats.
I know you don't owe me a damn thing, but it'd be a cool experiment and won't cost you anything, so help a sister out, even if she says things like Help a sister out. Let's try it and see! I think it should be somewhere around 1,000 to 1,200 people. But I have no idea if that's accurate.
LET'S SHOW THE WORLD WE DON'T NEED THEIR SITE COUNTERS! WE CAN DO IT OURSELVES!
P.S. Remember not to comment twice unless you left this page and came back later. Trying to keep it really clean, this count. Plus also you've said interesting things that I want to reply to and cannot and it's killing me.
P.P.S. If you want to be sure your comment posted, first of all know that I'm checking spam from time to time so it may post later. Also, if you do a search for your name, open ALL the comments. You have to keep hitting See More Comments at the bottom of this post, over and over again. If you STILL don't see your comment, email me rather than posting multiple comments. MERCI!
Is there any phrase more useless than "As you may or may not know"? Really, what is the point of saying that?
So, as you may or may not know, on Facebook there is a fan page of this blog THAT I DID NOT CREATE because how obnoxious, creating your own fan page. It's called Pie on the Face. And it's not really even a fan page. I mean, it's never cooled ME down. It's just more all y'all all who read this blog chatting amongst yourselves and throwing memes in there that you know everyone would get, and whatever. Do yourself a favor: If you join Pie on the Face, go to the settings and make sure you don't get notified of EVERY dang thing that happens there, or else you'll hurl yourself onto a knife.
Is there another secret page where you all go talk shit about me? Oh, I'd dearly love to see that page. What'd you name it? "I Got Yer Pie, Right Here."
The point is, yesterday one of you said, "Let's all talk about how we found June's blog" and about 7 million of you said, "I found June when The Nester wrote about her."
The Nester is a woman who has a decorating blog, and she's self-deprecating and talented and so likeable, and when I was in the middle of redoing my house and moving last year, she sent me her new book. I meant to plug it for her, I really did, and then I got caught up in my own dramas and forgot. Now I feel like a DICK, and you know who would never use the word dick that way? Is The Nester.
So without further ado, please go get The Nester's book. In fact, I somehow have two, and I will give one away. Say you're in in the comments. I WILL REALLY SEND IT.
She is a wonderful decorator, and she's had all kinds of money woes and real-life stuff happen, so she can decorate on the cheap and everything looks wonderful and she has the kind of house where you go home and say, My whole life is shit.
You know who'd never use the word shit? Is The Nester. I'll bet the words dick and shit have never even been in her BRAIN. Well, they are now, if she's reading this. HEYYY, NEST! Did I link to you enough to make up for my egregious ignoring you last year? I suck.
But beyond everyone all over yonder finding me there, I also heard that you read my first dumb blog, Bye Bye, Buy, and also that a lot of you read all my archives and that you read every day, and all that niceness and encouragement came at exactly the right time.
One of Ned's people doesn't like me because of this blog. I was just writing my life, as I do, and writing about Ned's life, as I sort of do (I don't put in his every detail as I would my own), and I said something she took personally.
When things like that happen, I feel terrible afterward. I feel like a rotten person.
A relative got offended recently, too, about something I wrote in Purple Clover. After that was when I shut down my Facebook account, because at least it'd be harder to TELL me I suck if you can't stampede to Facebook to do so.
I look back at old posts, from, say, 2008, and I'm bored stiff with myself. I'm over there saying things like, "Oh, my stars" when in reality what I would have said in that situation is "fucking fuck."
I spent years writing this thing trying very hard not to offend anyone, till one day I said, "fucking fuck" and wrote the way I really am. And that's when, I think, I got interesting.
When Marvin and I had marriage trouble, I wrote about it (with his permission). When Marvin met someone else and got engaged, I told you. When I feel depressed, I mention it. When I met Ned, I tried to NOT write about him because one of the .06 male readers told me not to, but I was so excited about him that that lasted maybe two months.
So, my problem is, how do I stay an interesting writer and stay out of trouble? "You can't," said a smart male friend of mine. "If hyperbole is part of what you write, people are going to get angry," said Ned.
Easy for THEM to say. I guess I have to pick between being a remotely interesting writer and being well-liked. I kind of want to be both.
What am I doing this for, anyway? I could just live my life and not write about it, except every time I've tried to do that, it's failed miserably. That's why I have eleven thousand diaries, and my friends have 97 million letters from me, and so on.
I guess I could just stick to "my hair is large" and "I hit 10,000 steps on the Fitbit" all the time, but how long till you hurl yourself on that knife you got out for Pie on the Face?
If I stay with being interesting, I have to risk people not liking me, which, as often as I say, "What people think of you is none of your business," still feels terrible when it happens. But I have to tell the truth as it happened to me, while doing my best to protect the innocent around me, and not invade their privacy as I would my own.
But when it comes to telling the truth about my life, I must remember what my favorite person on earth, Anne Lamott, says:
“You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.”
I was driving home from Ned's when I saw one of those horrid stick-figure families on the back of a car. I cannot tell you how I abhor those narcissistic things, says the woman who blogs about herself every day. This particular stick figure family was a woman with "I'm a teacher!" written under it ("I'm a narcissist!") and then two dogs. Okay, I can be down with dogs being your family, as you know.
When I got behind her at a red light, I saw just faintly a man stick figure had been ripped off. Oooo. Been there, sister.
But speaking of narcissism, particularly mine, I had my interview yesterday, and I now wish to be interviewed each and every day. Oh, that was fun. I don't want to ruin the writer's article by telling you what we talked about, although what was interesting was he said meeting me was different from meeting June. In other words, our personalities differ.
The magazine article will be out in a few months. And they didn't take my picture, after all that. He said they'd come over later, maybe even when I'm in our new house. He asked when I blogged, and I said in the a.m., generally, before work, and he said maybe they'd take a picture of me doing that, in my natural element.
Unretouched picture of me right now, in my element, and I cannot wait to see all this prettiness in a fancy magazine. I can just see the headline now: The repugnant blogger who needs Botox AGAIN. The t-shirt-headed blogger. Hey, it's a Curly Girl thing. Shut up.
Won't it be exciting when I move to a whole new room and you don't have to look at this same background anymore? And I will not be bringing the orange crate images. Marvin, come get 'em if you want 'em.
After the fun, fun, oh-so-fun interview (about two years ago, the interviewer saw me at the local Christmas tree lighting ceremony downtown, and he was about to reach over and tell me then that he wanted to interview me, and apparently I gave him a bitchy look. The Blows-Her-Chances-For-Fame-Because-She's-a-Dick Blogger), I called Ned, who was two doors down from said interview. "I wish to be interviewed every day!" I told him. "I was worried about this," he said.
Ned and I went to dinner, and I had him take my photo, since I'd gone to all the trouble of putting on my red shirt and everything.
Maybe I just need to grow it longer. The hair, not the relationship. Remember when I scraped together $300 and had it chemically straightened and I hated it? Calm hair is not me. You know what I really super-duper need? A nose job. THAT would make all the difference. My nose is horrific.
I guess I'll go to work now, but remind me to tell you about the guy at work who is funny without really intentionally being funny. He lumbers around being generally crabby, and saying outlandish things, and finally one of us made a Twitter page with his ridiculous quotes. Maybe it's only funny if you know him. But that page kills all of us at work, who know him. I DO know that he's annoyed about the quote where he says he likes the IDEA of Chinese food, because what he really said was he likes the idea of fruit. I know he's right about that, because I heard him say he likes the idea of fruit.
The idea of fruit. Good gravy.
I guess you don't have to remind me to tell you about the guy at work, because I just did.
Okay, Famous June is out of here. I should totally make cookies.
The fun thing about having a blog is the part where I get to take a lot of pictures of myself and pretend it's "for my blog" when you know perfectly well most times I just blow those photos up and stroke them lovingly. The other interesting thing is that I can see what I was doing every day since 2007. Sometimes I wonder when something happened–but not often because I have one of those freakish memories and it bugs the people who really know me.
"No, you DIDN'T say that in May of 2011. You said it in March of 2009, I remember because I had on the blue boa."
You know it's perfectly possible I was wearing a blue boa at some point. The POINT is, sometimes I wonder when something happened, and I can go here and LOOK IT UP!
Anyway, today I thought I'd see what I was up to on January 28 of years past. Exciting!
January 28, 2013
June reports from her cold. She never drones on when she has a cold. Fortunately.
Hey, how're y'all? I have a cold. I know that when I have a cold, I do not carry on dramatically or anything. Are the lights going out? Is that a tunnel?
Yesterday I slept and splayed histrionically on the couch and blew my nose. It is amazing how many Kleenexes I plowed through, but I have them in droves because my Aunt Mary sent me a bunch, thinking she was hilarious. I have always had the theory that only rich people have Kleenex. I mean, you need a tissue? Why can't you just use toilet paper? You don't need a whole FANCY DIFFERENT form. I said this once when Aunt Mary was visiting, or maybe it was my father and he reported it to her, but anyway neither of them have stopped making fun of me since and for Christmas Aunt Mary sent me, like, six boxes of Kleenex.
I feel so rich. And, truthfully, glad to have all this goddamn Kleenex.
January 28, 2012
We had our usual routine this morning, where the dogs immediately burst outside like the house is on fire, and then when they hear me feeding the cats, through the wood and the brick and the five rooms from the back yard and the insulation, they want right back in. Then after they eat, the house is apparently aflame again.
In other news, guess what.
January 28, 2011
Rockwellin out with my smock out
Wouldn't it have been awful if I'd have driven all the way to Raleigh for that Rockwell exhibit and instead of Norman Rockwell it was that idiot Rockwell, who sang Somebody's Watchin' Me?
Luckily everyone continued to not watch THAT Rockwell and we all looked at Norman Rockwell instead.
January 28, 2010
Perhaps you were thinking, "I wonder what June and her household are doing?" sometime around 7:57 p.m. last night. Or, you know, not. Nevertheless, I decided to photograph everyone in their element to see if we could find anything interesting.
As per usual, Tallulah was .06 centimeters from me, and you know what would be great? Is if I knew how far that actually was.
January 28, 2009
I just finished watching What Not to Wear
Can we please do away with the following phrases?
Outside of the box.
Push the envelope.
Thank you. I do not mean that we can do away with the phrase "thank you." I'd like to keep that one.
January 28, 2008
Running and Raleigh
Yesterday, Marvin Gardensalad and I went to Raleigh, because I have never been to Raleigh, and guess what? Turns out I like Raleigh.
It is a real city, with cool shops and Manolo Blahniks and gay men and all the things I require. There was also a man with gray hair and a mohawk, which I think is great. Maybe I'll grow my hair gray, as I have been threatening to do, and then finish off the look with the hawk of the mo.
So, there we were, shopping somewhere cool in Raleigh, when the back of my leg itched because I probably have rickets, which I don't even think is an itchy disease, I just wanted to say rickets.
There's no blog post for January 28, 2007, but there IS one from January 27. This was back when I had a no-spending blog.
January 27, 2007
The questions on everyone's lips seem to be (a) can I borrow the $2,300 you have already saved (Answer: No) and (b) what on earth did you once spend $2,300 a month on? Funny you should ask.
I added up those old receipts just to see what I spent on back in the day. And guess what? It wasn't food I spent so much on! Which may explain why I haven't lost ONE. SINGLE. POUND. since starting this endeavor.
Here's what it came down to: in November of 2006, I spent
$354.47 on gifts for other people (Marvin Gardens and my mother have November birthdays);
I spent $349.34 on groceries;
I spent a shockingly low $73.06 on eating out (I was trying eDiets, so that sort of explains it);
$106.63 on gas and parking;
$6.48 on the cats (Francis needed a new collar); and
$592.59 on personal stuff for me! $592.59! I sent flowers to myself, I had my eyebrows done at Damone (really the best eyebrow guy — he is on all the makeover shows), I bought clothes, shoes…GEEZ!
God, I miss living in LA and getting my eyebrows done by Damone. So, anyway, there it is, everything I've been up to on this day for the last seven years. I wish I hadn't had to see pictures of Henry and Winston. Killing me. And why did I look so awful back in 2010? Man! No WONDER Marvin left me.
I guess that's all I had to tell you. I hope you enjoyed this trip down memory lane. I went to Raleigh on two different January 28ths. That was weird. And remember I told you this story: The time Marvin and I went in 2008, I had this really strong premonition while I was there. I've never had anything like it. But I thought, "The next man I fall in love with lives in this city." And I showed Ned where I HAD that premonition, and he said, "I didn't live far from there." He may have been WALKING BY ME while I thought it!
I hope I didn't look the way I did in 2010.
June and her hair and her premonitions, out.
Have you noticed we never get to hear about Dooce's divorce or whether she's dating anyone? I mean, I splayed out all my personal bidness straightaway as soon as there was anything interesting to tell, but she seems to spend all her time around her gay and 12-year-old friends. Come on, Dooce. We know you must be dating by now. Spill it.
I was just thinking today how weird it is to have a blog, and I know some of you also have blogs and can identify. I mean, for example, how I feel perfectly entitled to know all of Dooce's bidness. Am I remotely entitled to know all of Dooce's bidness? Of course I'm not. But since she tells us about her workout routine, her dogs, the things her kids say and her Avon-selling mom, we feel like we should be able to hear every detail. I mean, she's our close, personal friend. Right?
So that's what's weird about blogging. You tell all your stuff and people feel like they know you, when in reality they really don't. For all you know, I beat my cats and speak Portuguese. Exclusively. I could be The Portuguese Proofreader, and these posts are translated into English. There could be all sorts of things I've never told you.
I don't know. It's just a weird dynamic, all sorts of people kind of knowing you and you not knowing them at all. Basically, this whole blog has changed my life.
Maybe once a week, I'll get a long email from some reader where they tell me about a problem they're having, and I never mind getting these. I figure they're sitting there thinking, "God, who can I tell about this. Oh, how about June? We talk every day."
It's not a bad thing, this having a blog. It's just nothing I ever thought would happen to me: having people say, "June!?!" when I go out in public (that's happened, like, three times. I'm not Elvis, for heaven's sake), getting presents from people I've never met, unsolicited advice from readers who've invested themselves in my story.
Oh, and the Marvin hating! That cracks me up! Poor Marvin. But I guess you got invested in him, too. Then he left all of us.
In other news, I got a massage last night. I KNOW! My neck is constantly in pain. CONSTANTLY. I am the tensest person alive, I think. And oh, it's been hurting a LOT lately. And ever since Ned got me that gift certificate to the spa, I've been getting emails from the place. Yesterday they sent one out saying the woman who massaged me had an opening at 5:30 and I said THAT IS IT. IT'S A SIGN. Because war, famine, June's need for massage. These are the things God troubles himself with.
So I grabbed that gift card and screamed over there.
"Oh. WOW," she said as she tried to, you know, do her work. "You're one of the worst people I've ever seen." They always say that. And can you tell me why? It's not like I'm laying bricks and coming home to my eight screaming thankless kids each night.
After my massage, they took me to this huge window seat filled with pillows, and pulled a gauzy curtain so I could sit in there and drink peppermint tea. I was on the second story, looking out the window to downtown Greensboro. After a few minutes I realized I was starting RIGHT INTO my friend Hibiscus's office space. They were having some kind of meeting in a conference room. So creepily, I got to to sit up there and spy on Hibiscus.
When I was in my 20s, I was obsessed with this boy I was dating. Oh, it was ludicrous. He lived on the second floor, above a movie theater. Sometimes I'd park in the theater parking lot and just watch him up there living his life. I KNOW! HOW WEIRD WAS I?? Oh, he'd be up there feeding his fish or changing a record, and I'd just sit in my car and stare up there and sigh. Until the day his mom pulled into the same parking lot and I had to scream out of there so she wouldn't know I was berserk.
Dear Old Boyfriend Who Sometimes Reads This Blog: That wasn't you. I don't mean you. It was some OTHER guy who lived above a movie theater. I didn't just totally give myself away just now with that detail. Go find something else to do, old boyfriend. Go read Dooce.
See? Having a blog is weird.
I totally used that line LAST time I redesigned my blog. Anyway, you like it? I'm still playing with the wallpaper, but I love the banner. The other day in the comments I mentioned how my last design had been up there for a year and a half, which is the longest I've ever gone with one look, and how I wished I could afford a new design.
Eight seconds later, Sadie Olive my designer wrote me. "A Faithful Reader bought you a redesign!"
How nice are people? THANK YOU, MYSTERIOUS FAITHFUL READER!
I am late late late so I have to not blog, so I will talk at you tomorrow. Sorry about the people who are sad about Obama, and congratulations to the people who are happy about Obama.
This is not Obama. This is Not Wes, with whom I partayyed and watch early returns last night. We had us some heart-healthy hush puppies and just had us a time. I like Not Wes. He's worked at my office for 17 years. I have done nothing for 17 years in a row but breathe. And sometimes a peanut paper goes down the wrong way, so even that's a lie.
Okay, must shower. Talk at you soon. I'm so effing BUSY lately.
June. Four more years of June.