That people stop using "journal" and "orgasm" as verbs.
HAPPY THANKSGIVING, EVERYONE!
I'm hoping for a light day oval pad at work, seeing as it's the day before a holiday. Now that I've said that, of course I will do nothing but run around like I work in an ER without the doctor salary.
Perhaps you're wondering what old June is gonna do for Thanksgiving, seeing as she spent the last three with Ned and now she's not. Perhaps you're wondering why June is speaking as though she is the queen all of a sudden, in third person and all. June wants you to know she is reciting all this in her head with the queen's voice, or maybe that's Julia Child.
Perhaps you didn't even give it a thought, what Ima do for THANKSgiving, as they say it here, to which I say, hunh. How you gonna keep your June's big book of events up to date?
I'm flying home. Tomorrow. I wasn't gonna do anything, thought I might stay home and open a nice wrist, but my mother insisted and footed the bill, so I found a flight out of here tomorrow morning and I get in at, like, 2:00. So that's good. It's not the busiest travel time of the year or anything so I'm sure that'll all go smoothly.
And no. No, person back in Michigan reading this, I DON'T have time to see you. I get there Thursday, leave Sunday. I don't have any days off left this year, so. The exciting news is, Ima see my Aunt Mary.
On my father's side, all that's left is my father--with whom I no longer speak--and his sister, my Aunt Mary, who has always been a perfect aunt to me. Seriously. She's only 15 years older than me, and ever since I can remember, we've hung out. I mean, she was the person in yesterday's story who'd take me to get doughnuts and then to the park. She also took me to the zoo approximately 484582043 times during my formative years, plus also to the head shop, which was a place I got my penny candy and I have no idea what she was doing there. I know she didn't smoke the pot. Maybe she just went there to see and be seen.
I'd visit her at college, and I remember going to class with her. She gave me a notebook and a pen, and I doodled and wrote stuff and minded my own business. I was never a very kid-like kid.
Anyway, the last time I saw my Aunt Mary was five years ago in Colorado. We'd gone there for her 60th birthday, my father and I did. That's the LAST TIME I saw her!
And it was just by chance we figured out we'd both be in Michigan. We were on the phone the other day and she said how her cat's gonna be mad because they're leaving soon to spend Thanksgiving with her husband's family.
"Wait. You're going to MICHIGAN for ThanksGIVING?" I said in the way normal people pronounce the word. Her husband, my nice Uncle Stuart, is from somewhere over on the left. Grand Rapids? Muskegon? One of those, over there.
So on Saturday, we're gonna get together. My whole family on my mother's side likes her, too. So I hope she gets to see everyone.
Once, when my Aunt Mary was in college, my Uncle Leo happened to be going to the same school. They'd been studying at the library all day and went to Big Boy on the way home. You know from Big Boy, right?
I feel like every place calls it something different. I can't even recall what it was called in LA; Marvin and I just continued to call it Big Boy. Maybe in California they called it Bob's Big Boy, is that right? Here, where they say THANKSgiving, they call it Shoney's. But anyway, Aunt Mary and her brother-in-law-ish by marriage, sort of, my Uncle Leo (Uncle Leo was married to my mother's sister, Aunt Kathy. Aunt Mary is the sister of my dad. What relationship does that give Uncle Leo and Aunt Mary? Pick up your pencils and begin) popped into the Big Boy.
This would have been the late '60s/early '70s.
Their food came, but it was all tiny. Teensy little hamburgers, the slippiest of fries. Like a regular meal, but doll-size. My Aunt Mary and Uncle Leo looked at each other, confused, when they heard laughing. All the guys in the kitchen were hippies, and they must have decided my aunt and uncle looked cool enough to play a trick on.
So that's my plan. Go to Michigan. See Aunt Mary and so on. Today at lunch I have to get pill pockets for Lu, not that she's going in a pocket, then schlep her, her pills, her pill pockets and her brother Edsel and take them to dog daycare. Oooo, why don't I link to the webcam so you can check in on them? The first person to say, "June, I can't see them!" before my lunch hour has to pay for daycare.
The cats will stay here and watch videos and get drunk, the way cats do when their mom is gone. They'll probably have boy cats over. Although last I checked, Iris told her boyfriend she doesn't want to see him anymore.
God, it's hilarious here at The Pie.
Oh, and speaking of pictures, I wanted to show you this.
IT'S MY VAGINA!
No. It isn't.
It's Alex and Ryan, stopping by my desk last night before they left. Note night before last they both had on white, and now they both have on black.
That's Griff's sports page, there. Alex has pie crust. She put it in our freezer even though she doesn't work on our floor anymore. "Don't you have your own freezer upstairs?" I asked her. She ignored me. She also comes down to our floor for water, which is funny because Ryan goes UPSTAIRS for HIS water.
That damn millennial generation.
Bitchy Resting Face Alex, the Other! She came back to town for THANKSgiving and visited us at work. She moved to DC for a job months ago. "Do we have to hug?" I asked her. She said we did. "I have to take your photo; my blog readers will be delighted!" I said. "Do I have to have a bitchy resting face?" she asked. I said she did.
So there you go! BRF Alex, back and better than ever. I don't know if I've ever mentioned to you all that her dad is, you know, MY AGE and he's super hot. If you think I was tasteful and abstained from asking how her dad was, you would be wrong. (He's fine. He's still with his girlfriend.)
Have a good THANKSgiving, or ThanksGIVING. If you have to go around the table saying what you're grateful for, I double-dog-dare you to say, "June's blog." No further explanation.
Last night, I unpacked my batteries! Clock, back where it was. Well. I haven't unpacked any nails. So "back where it was" is an approximation. Do you know what Ned would do (WWND)? He was the kind of guy who would have set that clock there during a move, and said, "I'll hang this once I get nails," and nine years later that clock would be right there.
We were tidy in exactly opposite ways. He had this candleholder thing that was cool; it hung on a wall. "We'll hang this in the dining room," he said in 2012, when I met him. When he moved out of that apartment, it was still on the floor of the dining area wall. Now it's on his turntable at our old house, ready to go on THAT wall.
See? Just writing that, I got up and scooped the cats' litterboxes. Ned was pristine about litterboxes, had a routine, and I'm more of a "Oh, wow, I should probably go scoop that box" kind of a gal. Despite the fact that I have involved, labyrinthine boxes that're supposed to be dogproof, either my cats are on a poop strike or Edsel and Tallulah are having almond rocha on the regular. I wonder who outsmarted the litterbox labyrinth? I can give you a hint by telling you Eds is STILL running to his old spot for food twice a day.
I know you wish I'd keep discussing that, but instead let's talk about food. My desk at work is in the worst possible place, not that we're all going to eat my desk. It's right next to the stairway to the other floors at work. You know what a friendly person I am. So this means every person who walks in treats me like I'm the receptionist ("Where does Joe Feldenstein sit?" "Do you have any idea when Rory Scrapenwalker will be returning from lunch?") or they know me and have to catch right up.
No one needs to catch right up with me. You know why? I HAVE A BLOG. ALL MY UPS ARE CATCHABLE RIGHT FUCKING HERE. I have a blog so I don't have to speak to people.
Here's Alex on her way out yesterday, and Ryan on his way to work out (we have a little fitness room at work), BOTH STOPPING AT MY DESK before they do. "Boy, it's impossible to visit with you without 100 people stopping here," Alex said, as we were interrupted nine times, and paying no attention to the fact that she'd done the same thing.
So. I find myself hiding in my car a lot. Working in my car. I'm not even kidding.
The point is, my coworker Niles stopped by the other day, and we got onto the topic of food. I forget why. My whole desk is a fence where housewives lean over and discuss their day.
Have I mentioned how friendly I am? Most "Hey, June!"s are met with my, "WHAT." No one cares.
Anyway, Niles likes plain. He likes vanilla ice cream, no nuts or anything. Plain doughnut. Marvin was the same way; he liked him the unembellished food. Now, I get angry at garlic mashed potatoes, because a mashed potato is God's perfect work, and must we MUCK it with stuff beyond the perfection of milk, salt and butter? Must we? We needn't. Get your goddamn garlic out my potato.
But when it comes to ice cream or doughnuts or pretty much anything else, I want it as loaded with shit as possible. I'll always pick the ice cream with nuts; otherwise I get bored. This is a metaphor for my entire life. Don't give me some sort of sincere, earnest, uncomplicated man. I'll slit his throat just so something exciting happens. Give me the brooding man. The tormented genius. The man full of the roadblocks and scars of life.
Or, like, my two dogs. I have the always-happy, always-affectionate simple soul, and then I have Tallulah. Aloof, super sensitive, moody. I love both my dogs, I do, but guess which dog I love more? There're a few times a week, at night, when Talu climbs slowly and indifferently onto my lap, rests her head on me and sighs and you know she's loved me all along. Those are my favorite times. I can get Edsel any time I want. At Alice's restaurant.
When I was a kid, my Aunt Mary would come get me and we'd head on over to Dawn Doughnuts. Our plan was always that we'd get a doughnut and head to the park to eat it. I always, ALWAYS wanted the over-the-top holiday doughnut. If it was near St. Patrick's Day, I wanted the one decorated in green icing with shamrocks all over it. Or the Easter-themed one, with jellybeans. And I don't even LIKE jellybeans.
Keep in mind I weighed four pounds until I was 25. I was the teensiest thing, ever. I realize that phenomenon has gone by the wayside, Bitchy, so no need to mention it. But the point is, there was no way I was finishing one round powdered-sugar doughnut, much less that long, filled-with-cream, covered-in-chocolate-cupids Valentine's special doughnut.
But that's what I wanted.
I want the dark, complicated song. I want the deep, weird movie. And I want nontraditional friends who kind of have a mysterious side.
What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can't I just be happy with vanilla ice cream? Why I gotta make everything so complicated? Do you think it's some fatal flaw of mine? Oh my god, am I dark and complicated? Exciting.
I told Ned, before I moved out, that if four years ago you'd have said to me, "You're going to fall stupidly in love with a man, and it'll be the happiest and unhappiest times of your life. You're going to become smitten almost to the point of obsession, and you'll have to rip yourself away and it will feel like ripping off a limb."
If you'd have told me that four years ago, I'd have said, "Cool!" Kind of like in Love, Actually. "Apparently, he is going to kill Aurelia." "Cool!"
And if you came to me today and said, "Your next relationship will be smooth sailing all along. No complications, nothing to obsess about," I'll be all, "...oh. hunh."
I guess like my ice cream, I'm nutty inside.
Squeeee! I mean, I still have stuff to do to those shelves, seeing as I got rid of 14,000 books when I moved, took my year abroad. I think I'll move the top shelves down and put old-'50s-lady knicknacks up. Sure hope I can find some. BAH.
Those two books standing up are some of my favorite childhood books. Let's ruminate on June as a child. You know how I am now? That's basically it. It was this personality with a tad less bitterness.
I'll tell you about Bitchy Resting Face Alex coming over, but then I have to stampede to the moving man calling me a fucking whore. You won't BELIEVE what happens next. Click here!
Poor BRF Alex wasted another entire weekend day, over here, assisting me with the paint and the brushes and the Jello Pudding. We painted my beige room white, kept the blue ceiling. So now I have a four blue-and-white rooms in my house. Say, June. I enjoy your mental disorder.
We could NOT get the white to work. In fact, right here you can see a little streak action in the middle. We painted THREE FULL COATS and it was still streaky. This resulted in BRF Alex hating Sherwin Williams, and my back hating me.
Since we had to wait between coats, I figured what better way to thank BRF Alex than to make her look at my Norma and Vern photos!
SHE LIKED THEM, okay? Because my Norma and Vern albums are riveting. The first person to ignore the link above and ask me who Norma and Vern are has to come paint walls at my house.
So anyway, that's done, albeit a tad streakily. "I just want you to know, that's it. I'm done painting for you now," BRF Alex said, and what a jerk. God. You spend a mere 12 hours of your Sunday with a person and all of a sudden you get testy.
But the OTHER thing that happened, well, other than TALLULAH MIGHT HAVE CANCER NO SHE DOESN'T THAT CAN'T BE TRUE, is the moving company drama. I'm actually afraid of this guy now, but they have three sevens in their company name. We used them when I moved into my last house, my house abroad (it kills me when I say that, because it's five minutes between my old house and my current one) (maybe that's what it's like to live in Europe. Five minutes and you're in another country), and they were great last year. Courteous, efficient. So I called them again this year.
Again, they got there early, which annoyed me, actually, and since I don't LIVE at the house, they called to see where I was. "Well, on my way, Because IT ISN'T NINE YET," I said. But still, they were friendly to me and did a lot for me, which I appreciated and tipped them.
But the thing is, the last load? The cable guy was here, and "an adult must be here at all times," he said, and has he MET me? An adult. "Well, maybe you should come back tomorrow," I told him. "Ma'am, we can just go back to the house. We know what all needs to go." The moving guy listed everything. So that's what they did. But when I returned to my old house to get the pets, they'd left behind a secretary (Mrs. Wiggins), a bookshelf, a rocking chair, SEVERAL BOXES, and they hadn't moved Ned's wardrobe downstairs as I'd asked. I'd even called over there to remind them of that.
I had to haul all that shit myself, IN A VW BUG, so that annoyed.
Then, they broke my hutch and didn't reduce the price of the move. PLUS, they took apart the dog gate and didn't put it back together. Same with my shoe rack.
The final blow was Saturday afternoon, when I realized they'd taken apart my vanity (and what a chore THAT is, taking apart all THIS vanity), and put it back together wrong. I was going to have to take it all apart myself and it weighs a ton. So I texted the owner, finally. Told him all I told you. "I just want someone to come help me put this vanity together right," I wrote.
He called soon after. "What happened?" That's how he started the call. "Is this...the moving guy?" I asked. "You know it is," he said.
I'm serious. That's what he said. "My guys are telling me a different story," he said, obviously a great proponent of The Customer is Always Right. "Why didn't you call me sooner? It's been 10 days."
"Because I was gonna let it go till I discovered the glass missing from the vanity," I said. "...Are you trying to make this my fault?"
"Bitch, fuck you. Don't ever call me again," he said. I was still gasping when he hung up on me.
He hung up on me!
I texted him to tell him his unprofessionalism was staggering and that I was reporting him to the BBB, which I did.
"Fuck you, whore," he texted back. (!!!!!) "You're a fucking liar. You should get your ass beaten."
He texted me a few more times, telling me to suck his dick (no, thanks) and calling me a fucking bitch and a whore again. I mean, maybe he knew me in college, I don't know.
I didn't answer this nutbar, but what I did do is call the police. Can you believe this guy? All his reviews online are positive. I wonder how many other women he's harassed this way. I wasn't even asking for money! Of course I saved all his texts, which I thought maybe I'd read off at the Thanksgiving table, when I'm saying what I'm grateful for.
And finally, about my Lu. We all went to the vet for our regular shots, hello 9 million hundred dollars, and while we were there I asked them to take a look at Talu's foot, which had a bump on it. They took both dogs back into the torture chamber or whatever they do back there. The vet returned, with bounding Edsel and sloping Talu.
"Edsel's great!" she said brightly. Yes, Ima have Edsel for a long, long time. Perfect health! No problems there!
God hates me. Mostly he hates me because I'm a fucking whore.
And by the way, right then I knew. I knew when she went on and on about Edsel's tip-tip shape that something was up with Talu. Turns out, the bump on her foot? Will either clear up with antibiotics, or it's some kind of inoperable sarcoma that'll kill her. So that's relaxing. I just have to wait TWO WEEKS to see what's gonna happen. But to tell you the truth, that bump is already smaller from where they aspirated it, so I hope that's a good sign. Because you listen here, God. I'm grabbing you by the robe. YOU LISTEN HERE. I may be a fucking bitch who's a liar, but I NEED MY DOG. You got this? I NEED MY LU.
P.S. So you don't have a fit, here's my Purple Clover for the week.
Last night, after I left the Tall Boy and the Naughty Professor, I came home and unpacked. I have these pretty yellow and blue glass dishes from the '40s, and I wanted to place them in the kitchen windowsill. Next to the plate of homemade wishes. I remember Marvin not allowing me to place those teensy cute plates in the windowsill, "because they'll fall." Everything was a potential TRAGEDY with Marvin. Something dreadful was going to happen at every moment.
"You know what? Fuck it," I said, and that should be my epitaph. So far you guys have about 11,000 things to write as my epitaph. I set the pretty yellow dish up first, and was reaching for the blue, when
It came down. Fell right into the sink. And ONTO MY NEW COFFEE POT. MY NEW COFFEE POT THAT I LOVE!
That damn Marvin.
When I moved here, you guys told me to make a wish list and you'd get me stuff off it and I'll be damned if you didn't. I think my favorite thing was my new Bunn coffeemaker. Oh, I just loved it. Now the pot. In pieces. Hence today's french press, followed by a trip to Amazon's site to see if I can get a replacement pot. Goddammt.
I freakin' put 'em up anyway, the little plates. I won't be kowtowed. Gonna get some earthquake putty today. And thank god I had a french press at hand. I also have an old-timey metal coffeepot, but could not find the plug. Keep in mind how MANY DAMN BOXES I had to dig through last night to find either thing. 'twasn't attractive. What coffee addiction?
So before all pot hell broke loose, I got up with the Tall Boy and Naughty Pro last night. One of them had a crisis that would make excellent blog talk, but said person did not SAY I could reveal his innermosts, and I am such a magnificent person that I will not. But suffice it to say we'd all be gathered 'round offering our opinions for a change.
Tall Boy looks like Disapproving Jesus, which I assure you is the look Jesus gets every time he thinks of me. "Oh, June? June Gardens? Yeah. [See look above]."
I know you may be wondering, "How did June DO all this with that cold?" and I was wondering the same thing about myself the whole time. I actually left work at 4:00, with the promise that I'd get something done this weekend, so I could nap and get my strength back for a night on the town with NP and TB. MY name should be TB, what with the hacking.
We had a good time, though, and I know they'll both enjoy the cold they caught from me. I'd invited Ryan to go with us, but he is sick with the same cold, and why don't you go ahead and be like everyone at work and assume Ryan and I made out at some point, like, say, when I time traveled to his age?
The point is, I wasn't feeling stellar and wasn't looking stellar, either. I mean, it's hard to quash this natural beauty but I think I managed to last night with my sniffing and so on. Also, I'd thrown on just anything once I emerged from my sick bed.
So naturally, that is why Area guy showed up right then. In he walked, alone and handsome, being all square-jawed and slightly unshaven.
"OH HOLY FUCK, IT'S AREA GUY!" I whisper screamed to TB and NP.
"?" said TB and NP, who are terrible blog readers. So I had to explain to them how for SEVEN YEARS I've had a crush on Area guy, even back when I was married, and how every so often I see him and turn into an idiot. I don't know if y'all remember, in your big book of June events, that I also saw Area guy back in October, at a bar, but I so did not care, because Ned heartbreak.
I mean, I still don't care, but I cared, you know, a smidge more. Every time I was ever with Ned and we saw Area guy, he'd say, "He just looks like a dude to me."
"He just looks like a dude to me," said Tall Boy, but Naughty Pro, Team Gay Naughty Pro, was on my side of things. He can see the appeal of Area guy, as can any person with any remote amount of taste, says June, insinuating that two men who have picked her at one point or another have, in fact, no taste.
Anyway, Wes grabbed my phone.
Here, in a historic moment never before seen on Bye Bye, Pie, is June's first picture with Area guy. Don't we make a lovely couple? Good lord, is that an AGE SPOT on my hand?
"Just looks like a melanoma to me."
I love how all cats gravitate toward the window from the kitchen to the back room. The fact that their food's there probably helps. Once ALL THESE BOXES get unpacked--what the Christ--I'll have to put something under there so they can still jump up and down without eyeball-less incident.
In this house, I've had Ruby, Francis, Winston, Henry, Roger, Anderson, Lily and Iris. I've lived here seven years, minus my year abroad. So, six years, then. See what a math whiz? Just the other day, my mother--from whom I get my genes--and I were discussing our old next-door neighbor, Mrs. Bertram. She was a lovely person, and we were just crazy about her. Her birthday's November 1. "She would have been 115 this year," I said.
"Oh, really? What year was she born, then?" asked my mother, Stephen Hawking.
For about 14 seconds, here, I was on OK Cupid. I joined it once I got here at this house, saw what a pack of--well, let's be kind. I'm sure BoobManForever is a lovely person on the inside. As is ILoveSexWithYou.
Dear Men of America: Subtlety. It can be a virtue!
Dear Men of America: No woman wants to have a future with JizzSlave. We don't.
I did hear from LovesWhiteWomen, which you think'd be right up my alley, but no.
The point of my three-day stint back on OK Cupid, after which I moved a stone and left the sepulcher of online dating, is that one man wrote me who was in Israel on sabbatical all year, and who'd be spending spring in Paris (me, too), but then he'd be back to his regular career near here...as a math and physics professor.
A math and physics professor. Wrote ME. Oh, how disappointed he'd have been. STRING theory? I mean, I can go get you a string right now from my junk drawer. It's not a theory. God.
I feel like in the four years since I was on that site, it's gotten decidedly sleazier. It's like every unshirted man in the world realized he could go on there with his sexy bathroom mirror selfies.
Dear Men of America: No one wants to meet the guy who takes selfies in the front seat of his car. Have you no FRIENDS?
Maybe it's so sleazy now because it's free, unless you pay nine entire dollars, and then you can creep on people's pages without them knowing, and you can also set your search to only show you hot people. I'm not kidding. You can ask for above-average looks and you can ask for HOT! I only considered for a minute which I'd show up under when the $9 men changed their settings looking for wimmins. I hope I at least got above average.
Why did it not occur to me to go on there as a man seeking a woman and set the thing to HOT ONLY and see if I showed up? It just now, that it's too late, dawned on me to do. This is why it wouldn't have worked out with String Theory.
Anyway, I know it'd make good blog fodder to do online dating, but why don't you go take a selfie in the bathroom? I'm not subjecting myself to that humiliation just for your entertainment. Although I did slap on a Bump-It just to amuse you, so I understand it's hard to know where to draw the line.
The weekend yawns before me with nary a plan, and I know you wish I'd say "yawns before me" more often. Oh, I guess Bitchy Resting Face Alex and I need to paint the other bedroom, right? So, plans. Before me. Not yawning anymore. Plus, I have to recover from my COLD, which in case you've been worried sick is, you know, still here being a cold.
I should really get on trying to grow grass under the enormous tree in my back yard. My new lawn guy says if it snows this year, you put seed down then. He said birds won't get to it and it soaks into the ground. Who knew? Did you know? Is this one of those things everyone knows but me and I'm just berserk?
But then once the tree gets his leaves back (he feels male to me), won't grass just refuse to grow anyway?
When I first moved here in 2008, I vowed I would go out and enjoy that tree every day. I did a lot, and hated it when I forgot to go out and appreciate my tree. Hang on. Even though he's bare and so on, Ima go take a picture of him for you.
We'll check back in with Leafee in, say, March. Or if he has snow on his branches, much like his mom, June.
Speaking of being a mom, I spent $250 at PetSmart yesterday. Am now adding up if it'd been cheaper to have all four pets put to sleep. I got a new litter box, because I took the one from the basement at my old house, and once it was here on my own floor, it was evident that box had had its day. Madre di dios.
I also got flea meds for everyone. Like, apparently everyone in the universe, at this cost, and then a bed for the old dog.
Have I told you guys about the old dog, or not? Probably not, because I don't want the pressure. I CANNOT HAVE A THIRD DOG, but I stupidly went to the pound when I was staying at Kaye's, and fell in love with a dignified older gentleman who was there.
The ironically named Puppy. His owners surrendered him because he was "too old." Say, would anyone like to join me with some baseball bats so we can beat those owners senseless? And his age is listed as 7, but if he's 7, I'm 35. He's definitely got cataracts. When other dogs would walk by for their constitutional, all the dogs in the pound would jump up and bark and carry on. But not Puppy. He just sat on his splayed feets and was all, Oh, well. Look at his eyebrowns!
Anyway, I've put him on Facebook before till all the "TAKE HIM, JUNE!" remarks got on my nerves and I took the post down. Because thanks for screeching at me to "just go" adopt a dog that I already dearly love and know I cannot have. I can't afford the animals I OWN already. Please see above reference to PetSmart.
But one faithful reader told me to go get him a comfier bed, and yesterday I did at the PetSmart. I will take it over there today if I can. The shelter is about 20 minutes away and they close at 6:00, so, annoying. I'd take a picture of the bed but it's in my car. Dear FR: It's red. I thought it'd look nice with his black fur. He'll be all handsome when potential suitors come to his cage.
I have to get to work. My throat is KILLING me, and everything aches. You know I hate to complain. I'd stay home, but there's no point in having a cold if you can't tell your coworkers every detail.
Speaking of my coworkers, one of them, Fewks, sits near a wall, and when you're walking into the kitchen, there's just this one little spot where no one can see you except Fewks, from his desk. I was inspired by this, lucky for him, and this means every time I think of it, I do a little dance performance for him, my sole audience. Yesterday I "thought of it" three times. I did the frug for a bit on my way to get coffee, then I returned for water and did a little shimmy. The third time, my boss went over there with me and we did some Solid Gold moves. All while Fewks was just trying to freaking work.
No one at work likes me. They'll be glad when this cold finally does me in.
Twelve. That is how many meals Edsel had in this house before he stopped automatically running to the spot where I USED to put his dish. Twelve. Times. I should do a little experiment now, move Lu's dish and see how soon till she figures it out. I feel like me just thinking of doing that, and she's alert to it even in another room. do mom be theenking of mooving lu dish!?! Food is a very big thing with Tallulah.
No, you're not. Actually, that photo above was taken the morning I left my old house and moved into Kaye's for six weeks without him. Look at his face. He knows what's up. Edsel has EQ.
So, last night I went to my old movie theater--not that I own it, and if I did, I'd sure run it more efficiently. Because they showed The Princess Bride and as usual I got there at 6:57, which is usually plenty of time to go to the ticket booth, get my snacks, my ever-important snacks, and get up to the balcony while the organist is still playing or at least the guy is talking on stage about all the other movies coming up, a thing everyone in there knows already because we have the Internet.
This time I pulled into the parking lot and it was pretty full, and when I rounded the corner
there was a line for tickets that went all the way down the block, like we were all going to see Jaws or something. Actually, I've seen Jaws at that old movie theater. The point is, I was annoyed, for a change. And the woman behind me was on the phone with her cousin, a cousin who broke up with her boyfriend this weekend. I got to hear all about it not just by having her scream her half of the conversation into my ear, but by her recap to her homosexual boyfriend after. I mean, she thinks that guy is her boyfriend, and Ima tell you what. He's not just being a gentleman about sex, honey. He's not. As an example, lest you think I'm judge-y, after her recap, her "boyfriend" said, "Dramaaaaaaa!"
Don't you wish you could just turn around in line, and tell people what you're thinking when you're eavesdropping on them?
We finally got to the front of the line, and it turns out one of their computers is down, and let me tell you what. That old theater needs to update their ticket software, anyway. You know how you go to the airport, and you check in your bag, and that poor soul is up there click click clicking her machine, which nowadays we call a computer, and you have no idea why she has to type FOR FORTY-SEVEN MINUTES just to check your goddamn bag? It's just like that at this movie theater.
Seriously, WHAT IS SHE DOING? The poor ticket woman takes your card, asks if you're "a regular adult," and there is no more untrue answer than when I say yes to that each time, then she types. Looks at the screen. Types. Screen. Click click click, screen.
Then finally she hands you THREE TICKETS. One to sign, one's a receipt and one's your real ticket. It couldn't be less efficient unless they chiseled your ticket in stone like you're on The Flintstones.
When I finally got through the lobby and to the important snack bar, ANOTHER FUCKING HUGE LINE. It's like the line they have during It's a Wonderful Life, which is shown three times at that place each year, because they sell out. They had three volunteers up there selling you popcorn (of COURSE I wasn't willing to just go without. What are you, new?) and I heard one volunteer popcorn seller shout to his neighbor in line. "Hey, Kathy! Well, how you doin,' girl? How's every little thing? Did you hear the Browns are...?"
See, this is when being in the South pisses me off. You got six million people waiting in a line and you have to kibbitz with your neighbor, who YOU'LL SEE WHEN YOU GET HOME. And because it's the South, everyone just smiles serenely and lets it happen. I should move to New York, where we'd be allowed to stab someone over that and still get to see the movie.
By the time I got in there to my seat in the balcony, Colombo was already reading to Wonder Years, but I didn't miss much. At least I got to hear Andre the Giant rhyming with Inigo Montoya.
Inigo Montoya: That Vizzini, he can fuss.
Fezzik: I think he likes to scream at us.
Inigo Montoya: Probably he means no harm.
Fezzik: He’s really very short on charm.
Inigo Montoya: You have a great gift for rhyme.
Fezzik: Yes, yes, some of the time.
Vizzini: Enough of that.
Inigo Montoya: Fezzik, are there rocks ahead?
Fezzik: If there are, we all be dead.
Vizzini: No more rhymes now, I mean it.
Fezzik: Anybody want a peanut?
Oh, it was fun, once I was in there and established with my popcorn and so on. We all said, "Inconceivable!" every time Vizzini said it. And of course we all said, "My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die." The whole theater said it! Except for Kathy, who was still at the concession stand with the popcorn seller. Oh, it was great. I'm glad I soldiered on and went to the movie despite this cold.
I put this picture on Facebook last night, because this was my reality when I got home. I can't imagine why my back hurts all the time. I keep saying, "This is the LAST NIGHT these animals sleep with me" and then I feel bad for them all over again. I wish I could just take one a night. But then you have three miffed pets on the other side of the door.
I will talk at you tomorrow. Oh, do you want to see how I'm doing on boxes so far? Hang on.
Oh my GOD.
I know once I announce this, you'll all be gathered around your radios for further developments for the rest of today:
I'm getting a cold.
Try to carry on as best you can.
It's so irritating. I eat right. Why the cold? And tonight's The Princess Bride at the old movie theater I like so much. I've been looking forward to this for weeks. I'm still going; nothing but death can keep me from it. But there's, like, a 50/50 chance of death happening now.
How much do you enjoy my colds? How much do you wish I'd be dramatic about it? You know me. I try to be low key.
I read something on Facebook yesterday, one of those articles someone puts up. Now, keep in mind, had it been one of those articles that kept insisting you click on an arrow for more, after they said half a sentence, I WOULD NOT HAVE READ.
Have I told you about my new grassroots effort? Any of those effing click-bait stories you come across, where they constantly want you to hit an arrow for more after you've read only ONE SENTENCE? I get off the story. I leave. I leave in a huff, which an old boyfriend described as my "favorite mode of transportation." Whatever with that guy.
But I do! Those companies can see how far along you read, you know, and if they keep seeing, Oh, she got on our page, saw it was a "one-sentence-then-click-the-arrow-for-another-sentence" story and left, they'll STOP MAKING STUPID CLICKY-ARROW ARTICLES LIKE THAT. We all must do it. We all must join in this important fight. I am the Sally Struthers of click-bait protest.
Anyway, the story I read was what traits make you likable. Naturally I wanted to know, because everyone abhors me, generally. In fact, just today I see that someone unfriended me on Facebook. Rooooood. Why the unfriend? I eat right. What'd I do? Really, probably any number of things.
One of the top traits that make you likable is the ability to listen. Man, is that ever true. I notice this especially with my young coworkers (I'm sorry, y'all, I do). I'll listen to a whole diatribe about their lives, and as soon as I start to talk, their eyes wander, they look at their phones, whatever. Bad listening skills. Or maybe I'm boring. Sometimes I even stop and say, "Should I just stop talking now, or what?"
This must be generational, because I know for a fact I've done that to Ryan, who is 26, and he gets all offended. "GEEZ, no, I'm listening. God, June." I think they just assume it's okay to scroll your phone while talking.
Actually, that's another trait on the likable list. People who don't look at a phone while conversing with you.
But the one that really got me is, likable people don't call attention to themselves.
Yeah. So. I'm abhorrent. What're you gonna do?
God, I feel awful, says June, trying to get attention for her cold. I'm, all achy, and my nose and throat and ears feel all rotten. Cold suck ass. Epiphanies, by June.
Edsel has an underbite. Epiphanies, by June.
My cold will last about a week. Epiphanies by--oh, you get my drift.
If I can muddle through today without heading to the light, I will talk at you tomorrow.
On yesterday*, Bitchy Resting Face Alex came over and helped me paint. "Helped" is a curious term. I was totally Tom Sawyer in this scenario.
*When Marvin was a teacher, every Sunday night at 6:00 the phone would ring, back when people had phones in their house that would ring for all to hear, and it would be a recording from his principal. She had a PhD, yet she would say, "On Wednesday we'll have pizza day. On tomorrow, don't forget..."
On tomorrow. I like how my footnote is right at the top of this story.
Good gravy. I guess it's a Southern thing, saying "on tomorrow." But I digress. Hunh.
The room had formerly been a terrible beige that made me want to kill myself. Also, BRF Alex took this photo with HER phone, and I took the first one with MY phone. Enough said about our phones. The person who decorated this house before me--as in the last owner, the bitchy one from New York--had exactly my opposite taste. She was way into brass fixtures, and brownish everything. And faux marble countertops. You know me. I want everything to look like grandma's house in 1950.
Bitchy Resting Face Alex, who's half my age, had to tell me how to paint a room. Like, she said, "Get a flathead screwdriver and remove the faceplates."
So I did all that, although I had to use a knife and not a screwdriver and probably almost electrocuted my own self, and she taped everything off like it was a crime scene, like when they taped off Prince's dad's attempted suicide in Purple Rain. As you do.
Anyway, we brushed and we rolled and when she told me to use the roller slowly so as not to drip, I made a hilarious "slow your roll" joke. I also whipped out a "That's how I roll" room-stopper. I may even have said, "Let's roll." Basically I was Henny Youngman workin' that room. With a roller.
The hours rolled by, and although I still have to paint the whatever it's called, there, on the bottom, this room is mainly done. Poor BRF has to come back next weekend for Room Number 2. So to speak. What a shitty weekend. Bah.
The point is, after all was said and done and we stood in the doorway admiring our handywork, I realized.
It's exactly the same goddamn color as my living room.
So. Yeah. Hell. It's a pretty blue, though. It's called Sleepy Blue. You know what I need now? Is, like, a guest bed and so on. So this isn't just a big empty room, like my soul.
Oh! And I almost forgot!
June's Coworkers' Senior Pictures
Nope. Not over it yet.