Bye Bye, Pie!

Yay, team.

Do you read my comments? Because I honestly think I have the funniest commenters. They are like the Hamburger Helpers of this blog. They add spice and zest and also Coast.

Once my friend was getting married, and she did that thing where she got a bunch of wedding cakes to taste before she made her final order. Now, see, for me? I just like that white wedding cake. But not my friend Paula. I happened to be there when she brought home 98 teeny pieces of cake, and one of them was lavender cake. I was curious about that one, and just as I swallowed it, her fiance said, "Doesn't that one taste just like Zest?"

And I almost choked to death. Because it totally did.

Does anyone use Zest anymore? You're not fully clean until you're ZESTfully clean.

I know you are stunned that I appear to have veered off topic. Which was my comments. They are the funny.

So, yesterday I blogged about how Marvin was a morning person and I am not. So, first Faithful Reader Kelly said SHE was a morning person, so she was on Team Marvin. Then I got delighted at the idea of people being on Team June or Team Marvin, and decided I should make t-shirts, but then Faithful Reader Furry Godmother said SHE wanted to be on Team Tallulah.

And if you already read all the comments yesterday you are SO OVER my recap.

Finally, Faithful Reader Accidental Housewife actually took time out of her accidental day and went on Cafe Press and made t-shirts for our various team members.

Wow. There was a lot of linking that just went on. I am Link Martindale.

See? I thought of a new one.

So, whose team are you on? I guess you don't have to base it on morning person/night person, seeing as our pets are whenever-we're-up people. I guess you can just base it on your whims.

Are you on Team Marvin? Who appears to be wearing the shirt from when my uncle ran for sheriff TEN YEARS AGO? Are you on the 10-year-old t-shirt team? Really?

Or are you on sad Tallulah's team? What's up with Lu? Why so Sylvia Plath? Wow.

How about Team Henry? You should know he spends 47 hours a day suckling the fringe on that pillow. Is that really who you want leading your team? A FRINGE suckler?

 

Or are you on the team that really matters? The team of large hair, schoolmarm arms and a Panama Canal forehead wrinkle? Because if you ask me, Team June is where it's at. It's where the participles dangle.

And yes, I realize we have two more pets. Does anyone want to be on Team Winston

 

or, God forbid, Team Francis?

Francis getting up to cut you, you not on my team.

Dead Ex. That's what Marvin's gonna be.

I have eight seconds to write you today. I overslept, as I was having a dream about Michael Jackson (I am not making that up) and incorporated the clock radio into my dream. Don't you hate it when you do that?

I don't know how Michael Jackson could have wedged himself into my subconscious. You never hear about him lately.

At any rate, I have forgotten to tell you that Marvin got a summer job. While I understand that elementary school teachers make a magnificent sum, and we really should have saved enough to get us through the summer, somehow we didn't. I will not name names, but Marvin is working for a famous delivery company that absolutely, positively makes him come in at 8:30.

I think he had to be at school at 2:45 a.m. or something. Girlfriend got there EARLY, is all I'm telling you. I do not know if he is ambitious or having an affair with a rooster, but either way it was fine with me, because I know I have told you that Marvin is what you'd call irritating in the morning and I was always glad he was out the door.

Marvin is a morning person. Morning is my cranky time. I mean, I understand that all the time is my cranky time, but it is at its peak in the morning.

Marvin BOUNDS out of bed at about 5:00 every day, like he's Amish or a fireman. He begins talking cheerfully right away, fully expecting that everyone around him will gleefully participate. Usually Tallulah and I just continue our REM and have learned to ignore him.

Now that he has three-and-a-half hours before he has to be anywhere other than DIRECTLY WHERE I WANT TO BE ALL MORNING, he is a real pleasure.

First of all, he turns on the TV right away. I know I am weird, but TV in the morning depresses me. Morning should be when you are bustling about, staring your day. Turning on the TV says to me, "I've given up. This day will be about lazing around." Even worse, Marvin watches MOVIES in the morning. You don't watch MOVIES in the MORNING. It's an end-of-the-day kind of thing. Why doesn't he just get a glass of wine and some chips while he's at it?

Plus also, he makes himself a leiiiiiisurely breakfast, which includes waffles and juice. And waffle plates and juice glasses that he leaves on the coffee table while he's watching his music documentary at 7 a.m.

If he's not watching TV? He's here. On the computer. ON MY COMPUTER. I mean, the morning is my blog time. But there he is, with his waffle, looking at guitars on eBay. If I demand the computer, he hovers here. "What are you doing? Is that what you're gonna write? You missed the 'e' in 'murder,' honey."

I am also lucky enough to have Marvin here when I finally leave for work. "Drive carefully. I don't want to hear that you're part of a twisted ball of metal!" he likes to say.

When does school start, again?

June. The month. The blogger.

I read BarryGibb.com today to see what Barry had to say about Michael Jackson. They were friends, you know. In fact, Michael Jackson was the godfather of one of Barry Gibb's kids.  Which Barry Gibb mentioned on his site, and I am afraid he capitalized "godfather." The spelling and grammar on his site make me think that some day I will get over him. Even though I have loved him since 1978.

I really do think his son types the posts, but I do not understand why Barry Gibb doesn't proofread them. Then again, he probably wonders why I don't write fabulously successful songs and become a millionaire with impressive body hair. So there you go.

Barry Gibb aside, I do have something exciting to show you.

Faithful Reader Katie is on the pill. This is not gossip-about-Faithful-Readers time here at Bye Bye, Pie, although I am starting to think that would be a lovely segment to add to this site, don't you? If you have any really good guff on another reader, click my "I have guff" button at right.

See what you did there? You assumed I'd know how to make a button again, didn't you?

Getting back to Katie and her birth control, every month Katie decorates her pills so that she will notice them and remember to take them. I am not saying she takes a tiny pen and decorates each pill, because that would be insane. She would be like that guy who writes your name on a piece of rice down at Santa Monica pier. I always wondered what tourist would shell out for that, because, why? Why is this necessary in life? On your deathbed, do you think, "At least I got my name written on a piece of rice." What if your name WERE Rice? How redundant.

Do I take longer to tell a story than anyone you know?

So, when Katie decorated her pill box for June, she told me every time she looked at it, she thought of me. Which is kind of lovely and inappropriate at the same time. Naturally, I told her to send it right to me, once she was done with her course of pills. I did not want to mess up her cycle just so I could have the box right away. Okay, I kind of did.

Attached, please enjoy the beautifully decorated pill box, celebrating June. The month and the blogger.

She did a nice job, didn't she? So HAPPY. She did point out to me that her clouds in the middle there look like a bunny perhaps violating an alligator. And now that she's said that I can't UNsee it, you know?

I tried to pose with my namesake pills, but to no avail.

Here the flash ruined your viewing of the pills. And I'd like to remind you this room is Marvin's area, and the clutteriness make me tense, but I can do nothing. Also, you get a nice view of my Better Homes and Gardens vintage calendar, which if you have read for awhile you know I am Barry-Gibb-level obsessed with.

Once this girl in the dorm came into my dorm room, and she said, "Omygod, this room is, like, from Better Dorms and Gardens." For some reason I have never forgotten that.

At any rate, like Winston Churchill I never, never, never gave up.

Seriously, every time I look at this picture, I am overcome with the giggles. LOOK at that hangdog expression! It's not a MUG SHOT, June. Lighten up. I also like my little puff of hair next to my glasses.

And that is all I have to say about that. Except if anyone else wants to send me their old birth control, you know I am all over it.

I leave you with Obligatory Henry Shot (OHS), and Faithful Reader Nancy said that since she voted for me in that contest that is NOW OVER, she thinks as a reward she should get TWO OHS.

So, here we go. Henry vacillates between just hangin'...

And actin' the fool. Today I caught him jumping at the curtain thingy. And before you have a fit, (a) there are no loops in it and (2) he can't get in this room during the day.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to capture a cat's jump when Methuselah called and wants her camera back? When molasses called, thinks the camera is too slow?

I took nine million pictures of old Jack Be Nimble, over there.

Till I finally got the shot I was aching for. He did this for a solid half hour. It must be nice to be four months old and full of the beans.

So, hey, thanks for voting for me, you guys! I ended up in the top five, which means they are deciding right now whether I'm funny or not.

Ack! Hi! Take my wife, please! Horse walks into the bar and the bartender says, Why the long face? Hello my baby hello my darlin' hello my ragtime gal!!! Funny! Right here! Hi! Funny!

Okay, whatev.

Optimistic

This morning my Uncle Jim went to the doctor for radiation treatments. The doctor said, "Um, Jim? There's nothing here to radiate. Do you have pain anywhere?" My uncle said he didn't, and in fact he's gained a bunch of weight and he's even gotten out of the house a little. The doctor said, "Well, go see your oncologist, but I've never seen anything like this." Isn't that GREAT NEWS!? I hate to bring up the phrase "grinning like a possum eatin' shit off a hairbrush" again, but come on!

Ring of Fireworks

Sorry I've been light on my posts, and also light in my loafers, but Marvin's parents are in town. We have been gadding about. Which means going places with gads.

I know that made no sense. I am sleepy.

Today we schlepped Marvin's parents to Winston-Salem, so we could get tons of cigarettes and also so we could see some car show. Which, you know me. There's nothing that excites me like a car show.

There's Marvin, in his element. His parents are up there in front of him. No, not the guy with the gut action in blue. Right there, riding on Marvin's shoulders, like his Good Conscience and his Bad Conscience. Except that he is turned to the camera so they are on one shoulder, so they are both either Good or Bad.

Also too, see way up there is someone who looks naked and she has a parasol? She was one of 7 million rockabilly looking people we saw, and Marvin and I thought they all looked great and we have decided to look rockabilly from now on. I think it won't be pathetic at all for two people in their mid-forties to dye their hair jet black and get sleeved out. What do you mean?

And aren't they supposed to be hospitable in the South? Well, I guess they lose their charm when you walk against the light.

That's real rude, honey, as my mother would say.

After looking at every old car ever made in the history of time and going out and buying a cherry bikini and high-heeled Maryjanes for my rockabilly look, we went to Old Salem, which is a really stale cigarette. BAH.

Really it has old houses and stores and stuff.

Who's mature? Is it Rockabilly June, over here? And if you don't get why I am standing under this sign, be glad.

Finally, it got dark and it was time to see the fireworks. Marvin's parents are staying at a hotel that has excellent views of the works, so we brought food to the hotel and ate it outside.

Marvin drinks green tea, so he won't ever die.

Then we went up to their room and the view was excellent, Smithers.

Look at the almost-full moon, too. Probably you want a new moon on a fireworks night, though. But it looks pretty.

So that's where I've been. In case you were worried sick.

And I'm not gonna say a word. I'm just gonna link. Remember, I just have to be in the top 5 to qualify to win.

Now, there's a pie I really would say "bye-bye" to

To the person who Googled "accidental vagina pie," I want to apologize to you for getting this blog. This can't possibly be what you were hoping to find.

I am baffled, pervy Google searcher, at what accidental vagina pie IS. I mean, how do you make that by accident? You'd think you'd notice.

Anyway, best of luck to you on your search.

Hey, what do you know? June's got pictures of her cats on her blog! Hunh.

Hey, do me a favor. Remind me not to pursue that dream I have of becoming a professional pet photographer.

I was so excited that all three cats were up on the window sill that apparently is some sort of cat magnet.

What I like about cats is how much they mean to each other. Seriously, it's like they're all on an elevator together, complete strangers. It's like someone expelled gas and no one wants to cop to it.

This one is like Francis and Winston have become the Pips, and Henry's all, "What a backup singer? Who leavin' on midnight train to Georgia? What a train?"

This one actually encapsulates all their personalities nicely. Winston--in the middle--is happy and carefree; Francis--at right--is pissed and introspective; and Henry is "?" I am sorry to tell you that we are beginning to think that Henry may not be what you'd call brilliant. I know he's just a kitten, but I have had cats all my life. He won't be winning any Rhodes scholarships, is all I'm trying to tell you.

Like, he gets trapped in closets EVERY DAY. You'd think by now it'd dawn on him to maybe not go in the closets when we open them. But no. Every day I hear, "Meeeeeeee!" all tiny and faraway somewhere. And there he'll be. Shaken but not stirred. Intellectually.

At any rate. So, here's what I'm thinking. I'm thinking most of you will be busy with this whole Independence Day thing, unless you're one of my out-of-the-country readers. If you're here, you'll be all running around with dangerous firecrackers and lighting sparklers and losing an eye and all that. Because we're independent! We have a RIGHT to lose the tips of three fingers because we bought some illegal firecrackers in a parking lot!

So, for the last and final time, and not to mention I won't do it anymore, I will ask you to vote in that ding ding ding ding and also ding. Dang contest. It ends Monday, and aren't you glad? Has this been the longest contest in the history of time? Probably not. But it seems like it.

The good news is I've found other blogs I like as a result, and I have gotten more readers. Hello, new readers! Heart you! Heart your many numbers on my sitemeter! I'm all tingly in my sitemeter!

So, for the last time, please vote this weekend for me for Funniest Blogger and also drunkest 43-year-old. Okay, I am not really up for drunkest 43-year-old. I don't even know what that means.

So, see? What a relief. You only have to go one place to vote for me. You can vote once a day per email address.

And I promise you, if I am ever in any other contest, I will mention it at the beginning and at the end. That will be IT. I mean, unless it's the win-a-chance-to-marry-Barry-Gibb contest. I won't shut up about that.

Bunny Mom

Remember the other day when I said I was unnaturally interested in Kendra's--of the Playboy Girls Next Door Kendras--wedding? My close personal friend Daisy sent me this photo:

That's my friend Daisy in the middle. Of course her name isn't really Daisy. How many people do you know named Daisy who aren't ducks or dogs?

At any rate, Daisy is one of my friends in LA, and I'm telling you that when you live in LA, you just never know when you're gonna end up as a sandwich between Bridget and Kendra. With Hef lurking off in the back like some figure in a Goya painting.

Now, listen. Here's what I have to say. If I were a man or a lesbian, I would pick my friend Daisy. She just seems more...you know, real. She is beautiful, but in a much more understated way.

But seeing as I am not a lesbian or a man, I am probably looking at it all wrong. I am thinking about which gal would be more fun to go to coffee with, or talk to on the phone. I already know that Daisy is fun to go to coffee with and to talk to on the phone.

(Daisy is German. Like, from Germany German, as opposed to me, who is from Michigan German. She has never. Ever. Been one second late for any plan we ever made. Once she even tried driving around my block to be a little late, and she got there to the minute on time. Germans. At least we're on time.)

Anyway, someone attracted to women would not think, gee, which one would I want to have coffee with? Right?

So here's what I want to know. From the four men out there who read this blog, are you really, every one of you, attracted to the Playboy bunny type? All of you? Really? I need to know. Okay, I don't NEED to know, but I'm so currrrious, as Margaret Cho's mom would say.

For the ladies in the house, what's your opinion? Do you think this blonde, hooty-hoot look is what men really like? Then why do they always pick Mary Ann and not Ginger? Hmmm?

(Oh. And I named this post Bunny Mom because I often find myself driving home from work behind a woman whose license plate reads "Bunny Mom." I am obsessed. Is she literally a mother to bunnies? Like, she birthed them? Because the world has enough bunnies, doesn't it? Do we really need humans to help out, there? Or, alternatively, is she a former Playboy Bunny who is now a mom? Because that seems a little inappropriate to group together in one thought.)

(And by the way, she tailgates when she drives and goes really fast. So maybe she is like the hare in Tortoise and the Hare. But then why isn't she Hare Mom on her license plate?)

(These and other questions burn in my brain.)

Creepy

When I was at lunch today, I thought about how Saturday's post could be titled, "Saturday (horn) in the park (horn), I think it was the 4th of Julyyy(hornhornhornhorn)." Because it really will be Saturday and the 4th of July. Then I thought about how I have made that stupid Saturday (horn) in the park (horn) joke 79 times in this blog. I gave up the idea and turned on my radio, thinking, "Whatever song comes on will be my theme song for today." (I do that all the time. Do you?) ....Well. Guess what song came on? SATURDAY! (horn) IN THE PARK! (horn). That's just weird.

But look. Here's Topel. The smoker's tooth polish. What I like about my titles is they're starting to make less and less sense.

So I was just in my closet, because who doesn't like to just stand around in their closet? What?

Okay, I was putting away clothes, because with Marvin home for the summer it's like I have a little butler. It's like Mr. French is here. Did Mr. French do laundry? You never saw him lugging hampers, did you? He was always just setting out the favorite drink for whichever bland woman Uncle Bill was gonna bring home that night. Mr. French was a total pimp.

Really, why did Uncle Bill have such terrible taste in women? They all had those dreadful bouffants and little business suits going. Like, this is what you're gonna do to your appearance when a rich guy like Uncle Bill asks you out? Let your freak flag fly, there, sugar! Let 'em hang! Show Uncle Bill what he's missin'! That'd be the kind of stylist I'd have been in the late '60s.

Shockingly, I just digressed.

I was IN THE CLOSET, putting away CLOTHES, when I heard--was that?--who?--is that purring I hear?

I pushed aside the clothes and found this.

Francis can't seem to shed his baggage and come out of the closet.

Seriously. That cat is on his pink chair for six months in a row and then suddenly he'll appear somewhere weird like that. I'll bet it took him two hours to waddle from the pink chair to my closet.

His eyes look a little rheumy, don't they? Do you think he's getting cataracts? That's what he needs. Another issue. And I realize Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman called and wants her satchel back. My Aunt Mary gave me that bag for my 30th birthday, and I will be 44 in two weeks. Need luggage. Stat.

How bad do you hate me for saying "stat" right now? You know what else I wish we'd all stop saying? Veggies. Vegetables only has one more syllable, unless you're Mrs. Bridges from Upstairs/Downstairs, who called them veg-e-ta-bles. But you probably aren't Mrs. Bridges from Upstairs/Downstairs. Seeing as she was a fictional character. So, could I trouble everyone to just use the real term? Are we that close of buds with all vegetables that we need a cute nickname for them?

Okay, I seriously logged on here to tell you something. And that is this. Go look at this video on People.com. It's the many faces of Michael Jackson or something. Look at it several times. Concentrate on one feature per viewing, like look at how his eyes change. Then look at his jawline. It is riveting.

Also, too, Barefoot Foodie is frigging hilarious today. Yes, I got hooked on Barefoot Foodie during this endless Funniest Blogger competition. How many links can I put in this paragraph? I am Art Linkletter. I am Juneaham Lincoln. Someone stop me.

I am Linc from The Mod Squad.

How many TV shows can I mention in this post, really? Waste your youth much, there, June?

I will end this useless post (but, really, if you link to either thing up there, Barefoot Foodie or People.com, your time here was not wasted) with the Obligatory Henry Picture.

Who is cute? Who looks like Daniel from Mr. Roger's? (I just wanted to mention another TV show.)