Remember two years ago, when Tallulah had that bump on her side that turned out to be cancer?
It's back. We go to the vet Tuesday to get it looked at.
Dudes. I have forgotten to buy hair gel for THREE DAYS IN A ROW. Am officially doing a tree impression.
Jesus. What is WRONG with me? I mean, here is how yesterday went, and the two previous days were just as chaotic-y.
I had this special project I got volunteered for, which is great and I was glad to do it because it was something different to do, but every person I told said, "Oh my god!" Like in a million years they'd never take on something like that.
But take it on I did, and it was intense, and I didn't even go on my walk at work in the morning. Then we had our company meeting, in which my name got mentioned and they flashed a photo of me across the screen and naturally there were autographs after, and a few hysterical fans who grabbed their faces and fainted and so on.
Then back to the intense thing.
I finally got that done at around 3:00, then had to scream over without a minute's break to my REGULARLY scheduled work, only to get an email from the guy who interviewed me. "You'd told me a friend compiled some of your quotes from your blog. Do you have those?"
Of course I don't have those. Has anyone met me? But my friend, The Poet, still did, and she emailed them over. Isn't she supposed to be all disorganized and poetic and gazing at the moon at sunrise and so on? And as a copy editor, shouldn't I be acutely aware of each detail? Anyway, none of that is true, so she sent me the quotes in about 14 seconds.
"What're you laughing at?" my work husband Ryan asked me. He sits on the other side of my computer. Not, like, under the keyboard, but in back of my computer, in our private, cloistered open floor plan.
"Well, myself," I told him. And he seemed unfazed. I was reading this:
So for MONTHS now I've been rolling my stupid foot on a tennis ball like some kind of twisted Labrador retriever or Martina Navratilova. Neither of whom actually rolls their feet on a tennis ball, but I never said I was accurate.
It was when I had the plantar fasciitis.
Also, I adored myself for this:
I've also been sleeping in a sexy splint, which I take off and very neatly place on my nightstand while I am DEAD ASLEEP, and I just kind of wonder what else I'm doing in the night. Making bad investments? REM e-mailing people? Not that I'm emailing "Hey! What up! I'm losing my religion!" "Hey, long time! Stand in the place where you live!"
Then at 5:00, I was supposed to scream to the library to tutor my student, but she canceled, so I got in the car and went to Wendy's. My diet is super clean. I'm going to start an I-get-all-my-meals-out-a-window diet.
I get the strawberry chicken salad there. Have you had it? It.is.delicious. It really is. Any time you combine strawberries with bacon, you have yourself a duo. It's like Peaches and Herb, only it's Strawberries and Hog.
So I went home and devoured that, and then I've made a deal with myself that I will spend a minimum of one hour a day packing and throwing things away and getting things ready for what I call a rummage sale and what Ned and Southern people of his ilk call a yard sale. A yard sale. Whoever heard of such an outlandish term?
I began with the attic, because other than the scary bug-infested shed, it seems like it's gonna be the worst part. I clamored up those steps like I was a beleaguered Anne Frank, tossing empty boxes down, and 39493920 cords that Marvin left, and so on. I threw away what was tossable, labeled with tape and a Sharpie what I was selling, and set aside what stays. So far two things stay.
Then I did my Tracy Chapman workout while trying to avoid Edsel, who becomes even more obsessed with me when I'm lying on a yoga mat. It's his big chance to lick me 900 times, and I swear Tallulah told him I've got a Tootsie Roll inside.
While I was Tracy-ing, Ned called, and it was while I was talking to him, at 9:00 at night while I was exhausted and sweaty, that I remembered the goddamn gel.
So that's why I look like a tree.
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.
When I was at my mother's house a few weeks ago, I found this picture of my Aunt Kathy (left) and mom in polka dots, back in 1975. It was my Uncle Jim's wedding. Look how hot they are! I remember they'd show this to people and ask, "Which of us is prettier?" which made no one have an uncomfortable look or anything.
Now that Ned and I have signed the lease (eeeeek!!), I've been throwing things away (like my USELESS PRINTER, and no one buy an HP, ever. EVER! If your printer breaks, they have an 800 number, and try to charge you $100 to help you), and taking things to Goodwill (there are dresses I've moved from Los Angeles to TinyTown to here, and not worn once) and going through papers, and I found this photo:
This is my ex-best friend and me, back in the '90s when I lived in LA. It was between Christmas and New Year's, I remember that. Also, note how I am creeping around to feel her up. She was too tall to feel up.
And really? Really? There's anyone left who DOESN'T know how we broke up. Okay, here.
I wish I still had those dreadful jeans. And at this point, I must not have been living in LA for long, because Marvin hated black, so my all-black wardrobe became my all-pink wardrobe. Since Marvin has left I've purchased approximately 900 million new black shirts. Or seven. Somewhere between 900 million and seven.
Okay, I gotta go. I guess it's okay to tell you why I have to look nice tonight: I am being interviewed by a magazine, about this blog. It's a local hoity-toity magazine, one of those thick shiny ones that's at hotels or fancy doctor's offices where you may or may not get your Botox, if one did that and didn't embrace natural aging the way I do, with a good diet and clean living.
Hey, that lightning bolt almost hit me right in the head.
Anyway, it's exciting. I have no idea if they're taking my photo, but I got my red boob shirt on just in case. Naturally, today I ran out of hair gel. Yes, I did. So my hair will be 50 feet wide, but why fool anyone into thinking it doesn't usually get wide?
So that's the story. Am famous. Ish. Am almost famous. Am Stillwater.
Why doesn't Billy Cruddup ever call me?
Woke up in the middle of the night with a stomach thing. Seeing as I just got back from vacation a week ago, I'm dragging self into work to spread disease to others. Go, me! Actually, I assume it's something I ate. Says Typhoid June.
Talk amongst yourselves. Go read yesterday's post, if you haven't. I never shut up yesterday, back when my innards will still with me. Oh, and you can read a nice depressing Purple Clover about my friend Charlie, if you wish.
Several important things must be noted before I talk about our house:
1. My goddamn Delete key is not working on this keyboard, so I must forge ahead, typos and all today, and fuck it. I understand that having my wireless keyboard refuse to delete things on my stupid blog is not what you'd call a serious problem, but that doesn't mean it isn't gonna annoy the fuck right outta me.
B. Speaking of which, I have learned today that doing a loving kindness meditation, where your centering thought for the day is supposed to be that you will be loving and, you know, kind, should not be followed up by immediately reading the New York Times wedding section.
I mean, seriously, there's one chick in there who I cannot believe has any sort of family, because no supportive person would allow that poor dear to head off into the pages of the New York Times with those eyebrows. It's like she picked up hot coals, thinking they were binoculars. Was she in some sort of waxing mishap? If so, I hope she sued. And if her people let her pose with those eyebrows, you know they ain't gonna stop her from marching down the aisle with those monstrosities, either.
This is what I mean about loving kindness and the wedding section. Deepak Chopra himself would not be able to combine the two.
4. And the waxing mishap reminds me of something I have been wanting to tell you for weeks. When I was back in Michigan, it was my cousin Katie-the-lesbian's birthday, and because mine had been the month before, and she knows how rich I am, she said, "Why don't we buy each other pedicures when you get here, as our gift to each other?"
So as soon as I got to her house, I was champing (yes, champing, LETHA) at the but
See. Fucking no delete key. Champing at the but. Am dying a little.
CHAMPING AT THE BIT to get my feet done, as I had held out so that we could do them together, and Pan was calling and wanting his hooves back.
"I usually go to W," said Katie, who is, you know, earthy.
"W?" It sounded fancy.
"The salon at Walmart," she said.
Honestly. How is someone this no-nonsense even related to me? So because I am a polite, easygoing houseguest, I said okay and waited for them to suggest they paint sparkly orange lightning bolts on my toes or something, because another thing I am is not at all a snob.
The good news is, they were booked for the rest of the day. The bad news is, people actually go to the nail salon at Walmart like it's a thing.
"I can take you tomorrow," the receptionist said, and there's a job. Oh, I greet guests at W salon. Have I mentioned I am not at all a snob? "If tomorrow won't work, there is a salon across the street," she suggested.
"Oh, good!" said my cousin. "Which direction?"
The receptionist told Katie about the place, and finished with, "Now, they are Vietnamese. But it's clean."
"I can't think of the last time I went to a salon that wasn't Vietnamese. In fact, I practically speak Vietnamese," I told her. I have no idea what I was trying to prove to this horrid person, although it really is true that I may or may not be picking up the Vietnamese words "high-maintenance" and "goat hoofs."
What a jerk.
9. Finally, and then we will talk about m'house, I did want to let you know that I have already had two disgusting bug experiences today. The first one was this morning, as I left Ned's. I got less than a block away when THE BIGGEST BUG YOU HAVE EVER SEEN started flying around in my car. He looked sting-y, and he was yellow. Naturally I did the adult thing and abandoned my car. I left it right in the middle of the road and kept directing people around it.
You have no idea how big that insect was. I called Ned for help, and went back to directing traffic.
"You need help?" a large man asked me. "Naw, my boyfriend's on his way. There's just a huge bug flying in my car and he looks sting-y," I told the man.
He looked at my car. "Well, he got in there because you drive a Bug!"
Ned was remarkably patient for a person who'd just gotten rid of me. He came and moved the car to a normal part of the road. For a while we couldn't find the damn thing, and I had the hatch open, terrifiedly searching for the world's largest sting-y-est yellow bug.
"I think you should commend me for not once going zzzzzzzZZT behind you!" said Ned, who really should study up more on Lorena Bobbit and women of her ilk.
If THAT weren't bad enough, once I got home, I discovered Iris had brought in a cricket, which is bad enough, and maybe she wanted it around to react to my jokes, but in her zeal she managed to quietly dismember several of its disgusting bug legs, while the poor cricket itself was wriggling in agony. I mean, it's not satisfying enough to just catch it and kill it. It's a whole level of accomplishment if you can torment it first.
She and her one eye stared at me coldly while I oookily put old Jiminy out of his misery with a broom, then swept up the 14 parts she'd scattered across the floor.
Anyway, our house. I like how I said yesterday there was one house we've obsessed over for weeks, and we had called about it, then I got back on here and said the house we've obsessed over is ours, and people were still all, "What house?"
I'm using a lotta YouTube today.
This cute house. It was built in 1928, is in the adorablest neighborhood (even CLOSER to work), has a front porch with a porch swing, and upstairs and a downstairs, hardwoods throughout, and it's the least-expensive one we've seen!!
When we got to the open house yesterday, three minutes early, there were already giant assholes waiting on the porch. Hey, how's that loving kindness meditation working, June? Ned and I groused about them till we got to the porch steps, where there was a penny face up. A sign!
Then as I told you, there was a George Lassos the Moon picture in the house, and Ned and I were all, A SIGN!!
Then I told the guy we'd give him fifty bucks more a month and we got the place. I'll give you a sign. It's green and rectangular. I mean, there's no messing with a savvy wheeler dealer like me, man.
Even with the extra 25 big ones apiece, Ned and I are saving more than $600 a month on rent and mortgage. PLUS, the month we move in is the last month I'll have a car payment, and I'd like to thank Marvin for signing up for that six-year plan. Jesus. Anyway, that's another $273 on TOP of the $600! WE'LL BE RICH, I tell ya!
And my renters are still available! They've gone month to month at their current place, so. Yay!
Okay, I gotta go. Ned and I are (sit down) going to a movie, and also Ima do Tracy Chapman again today. Yesterday while nervously awaiting the you-got-the-place call from our new landlord, who seems lovely, I did the next level of Tracy to work off my energy. Holy cats. Today my arse be hurtin', and as one of the Alexes at work (the one with the seven-inch waist) told me, motion is lotion. I hated her when she said it but I think of it whenever my parts hurt and it compels me to exercise. Damn her and her slogans and her waist and her size two-ness.
Ned and I went to an open house today of a house we've been obsessing over for weeks. The guy finally had a time people could come look, and the open house was till 3:00. The guy said if anyone is interested to call when the open house was over, and we called RIGHT AT 3:00 OH MY GOD, and?
No answer from the guy. It's 5:14. WHERE IS HE? Ned is despondent and has given up.
In the meantime, the gay guys house has offered to put the fence up and charge us just $50 more a month till the fence is paid off, which sounds good to me and Ned is mulling that over. I'd go for that, cause that house is gorgeous.
But that is not why I gathered you all here today. I went shopping last night for three torturous hours.
I also tried on a beautiful lace cocktail dress, which they claimed I could "dress down" with a cardigan, and again. Cardigans in August in the South. Right. The fact that I have SKIN on is hard enough in August in the South.
I know y'all were obsessed with me finding a blue v-neck, but they didn't just appear, so.
So, I like it, but then I remembered my red shirt, which is v-necked and sexy but not trampy. I always shop and then remember something I already have.
So, which. Coral or red? And also, why won't anyone rent to us? Oh, and at that place where we went today where the guy refuses to call back? The current renters have a framed photo of George Lassos the Moon. Ned pointed it out. "It's a sign!" I said.
I overslept, and I have these bags under my eyes that I have NEVER ONCE EVER woken up to. Aging is fantastic.
My point is, I need advice. I know. Didn't I say NEVER AGAIN last time? There's always someone who's just been champing at the bit to tell me how fat I am or whatever. Still. Advice.
If you could put me in something flattering, what would you put me in? If I could score a burka, I would, but I only have the weekend to decide.
Color, style? Jeans, skirt, dress? What?
Okay, tell me. It's nothing fancy, so... (Steal something casual.) (That's only funny if you know from the movie Arthur.)
And I'll tell you WHY I need something flattering as soon as I am able.
P.S. Thanks for chiming in yesterday to say how long you've been reading. It was sort of fascinating, mostly because we were talking about me. My favorite part was how many people said, "You yelled at me, once, June, but I stayed around." Nice. I am a gem.