Bye Bye, Pie!

Ask June, if You Nair

Well, my bags are packed, I'm ready to go. Okay, that isn't at all true. I just wanted to quote the song Leavin' on a Jet Plane. But my hair is blown and my Nair is on. I really have no pride, do I?

I do not understand people, such as dcrmom, who pack way in advance. I prefer the run-around-panickedly method. As I do with most things in my life. But I usually remember everything. Now watch, I'll forget the dress, or I'll have to wear mukluks with it.

I kind of just wanted to say "mukluks."

At any rate, it's Friday, time to shake the snow off and get warm with Ask June. And may I remind you to Ask June here? Someone asked me some very interesting Ask Junes this week, but they were somewhere in my comments and I just can't go through all the ding-dang comments to find all the queries. Gets my mustache in a twist.

Hyphen Mama dashed over to ask: "Is it peculiar to read books and get sidetracked by how the proofreader of that book must have been drunk that day because there are so many errors? Do I need to just get over it? (as if!)"

Mom of hyphens, I know you have to get back to rearing your little punctuations. But as a professional proofreader (well, if by "professional" you mean someone who has TMZ.com on their desktop computer at work) I feel I must defend the proofreader who worked on the book you're reading.

See the 47,000 other words that aren't spelled wrong? See how the leading and the kerning are fine? See how the title of the book is correct at the top of each page, the page numbers are all in order? When you look at the table of contents, do the page numbers match up, so that when it says Chapter 3 is on page 47, it really is?

Do you know how many TIMES that proofreader probably read that book? Do you know how many DIFFERENT PAGES Chapter 3 was probably on, and the proofreader had to catch that it moved to page 47? 

You know how the hero of your story is named Sean? Notice that nowhere is his name suddenly Shawn, even though it magically was the first time the proofreader read it. And how about the part where the heroine died of electrocution, even though electricity wasn't invented yet? You don't see that part? THAT'S BECAUSE THE PROOFREADER CAUGHT IT and they made her die of fever and ague!

So the part where you see the wrong "there" or "to" and you think, How could the proofreader not have caught this? Maybe the proofreader was looking at that "to" at 4 o'clock in the morning, having caught the 97th "Shawn" and having corrected 850 other things, and maybe the book was due by 7 a.m., and MAYBE PROOFREADING IS HARDER THAN IT LOOKS, HYPHEN MAMA!

No, I haven't had an unbelievably stressful week at work. Why do you ask?

And while I am being an arse, M asks, "Who is the most anal retentive person you know?"

Well, not me, M. I am anal about proofreading, but I am an idiot savant about it. In every other walk of life, I am what you call devil-may-care, or more accurately, a giant, disorganized slob.

The first person who came to mind when you asked me that was Esmeralda, my ex-best friend. I seem to make friends with a lot of thin, tidy, rather nervous women. I do not know what it is in me that subconsciously seeks out this type, and I should just get a Whippet.

Esmeralda worried about things it never occurred to me to worry about, mostly in the personal hygiene department. Her house was immaculate, as were her clothes and possessions. I remember getting a leather portfolio for college graduation and right away I made a small gouge in it and she gasped, "You RUINED it!" and I was at the very same time thinking, "Oh good, now it has some character."

I was a bridesmaid in her wedding, as were 48 million other women, and I thought she was gonna stroke out over our hemlines. Now, see, bridesmaids' hemlines just never would've occurred to me. She was my only bridesmaid, though, and I told her, "Go pick out whatever dress you like in pale pink."

I often look back and wonder why we were friends for 10 minutes, we were so opposite. Maybe that was why it worked for so long. Anal people fascinate me, as I am so not like them unless it comes to proofreading something. 

Before I go finally pack for my trip this weekend, I would like to say happy anniversary to my dog. It was a year ago today that I found Tallulah on the side of the road. She looked like this:

 

My hair looked like this:

And who was not in the mood to celebrate our anniversary today? She did not wish to pose for the camera, which I'm sure had nothing to do with the humiliating shots I put up of her on here yesterday.

Happy anniversary, crabby Tallulah who was in no mood for me! You're my favorite book-eating doggie in the world.

A Series of Unfortunate Portraits

I came home tonight and put on my new party shoes, then hoisted my legs up the wall, because who doesn't? Then I took a picture of said shoes so you could see them in all their glory.

It's an eBay phone. I don't mean that it dials directly to eBay, which would be nice, I mean that our old kitchen in Burbank was all knotty pine and retro, so we got a yellow dial phone on eBay just because we thought it'd look cool in that kitchen.

I just tried to find you photos of that kitchen, and next time I need pictures of something else I will find them, but in the meantime I found photographs of me being inappropriate during dinners. Just a little something to make Sandy quiver when she considers me attending her wedding this weekend. In the not-at-all-noticeable red dress.

Waiter, there is too much pepper on my paprikash.

Really, if you can't call attention to yourself at a family dinner, when can you? I don't even like red and green peppers. But they make fine tusks.

We were at a wedding where chocolate coins were given out, which made sense given the groom's last name. And now you are sitting there thinking, "His last name is Pesos? Moneypenny? Coin?" Oh, give up. Anyway, could my mother and I leave it alone? Could we bring any dignity to our table? Of course not.

But that is not why I have gathered you all here today. What I was really going to talk about was how I was lying on the floor of the kitchen, my legs hoisted in the air, and I realized I could get some really unflattering shots of Tallulah at that angle. Who's the worst dog mom ever?

Oh sure, I'll pay to have MY double chin fixed, but I let old jowly flap in the breeze.

Lula not look like possum, mom. Head not look like walnut.
...What this mean, "Botox"?

I just like this one because Tallulah is in front of the trash closet where food might also be kept, and I can see Winston's little foot in there. He likes to sneak into the closet and try to break into the food. You know what that square is on the floor? A piece of the cat food bag. What a jerk.

Mom of Hair, I find these photographs demeaning. And tomorrow is our one-year anniversary of when you found me. Do you think you might show me a little more respect?

You're right, Tallulah. My deepest apologies. Now go to bed. Goodnight, honey. No, really, I'm hitting "Post" right now. No more unflattering photos of you. Goodnight.

(heeeee)

Is this really true?

I just saw that I can compose posts from email if I enter this super-secret-squirrel email address. I am testing it out now. If it is true, I will never be sad again. I really have nothing to say, I just want to check out this technological advancement. OH! I DO have something to say. I still really think that many of my replies to your comments are going in your spam, either that or NONE of you have anything to say back to me, ever. Please check your spam for emails from "byebyepieblog." Also too, I am getting hundreds of emails a day now, so please do not be offended if it takes me 108 years to reply to yours. I really should be proofreading an index right now and not typing this. I am a terrible person.

The dress.

I was toppled, toppled I tell you, by a migraine last night, which means I went to bed at 6:11. Because it's important to get your 12 hours in.

YES. I take Topamax so I don't get migraines. But it doesn't remove them 100%. What do you want me to do?

Anyway, fortunately Marvin got the dog from day care, so as soon as I got home I PUT ON THE RED DRESS I AM WEARING THIS WEEKEND SO JAN STOPS HAVING FITS, had Marvin take a photo, then went straight to bed. Well, I took the dress off first.

Really, I don't know why Marvin isn't a photo stylist. What could be more festive than wedging your subject between the Victrola and the TV? Plus, I LOVE the stripy tights with the dress. Mmm! That's JUST how I'm gonna wear it the day of the wedding.

If you can get past my tights, those are the shoes I am wearing with the dress. They are a kind of metallic silvery gray and I am wearing silver dangly earrings the day of. And I'm getting my hair straightened. Oh! And I found the Vera Wang cropped faux fur jacket to wear over this to and from the wedding, or if I get a chill during. It too is a silvery gray.

I can tell I have a migraine in this photo.

That is all. I have eaten nothing since lunch yesterday and I have no personality.

Anyway, you'll see 9,000 photos of me and Dottie actually dressed up at the wedding, plus photos of the bride if we can get them in.

Connect the Dotties

This is the weekend that I will be going to Michigan to attend the wedding of my friend Sandy. I went to college with Sandy. Sandy was always perfect. The end.

My date for the wedding is my other college friend, Dottie. Most of the people I mention on my blog have made-up names, but Dottie's name is actually Dottie. I am thinking that before I spend the weekend with both Sandy and Dottie, it would be fun to dig out college pictures of both of them, although I have to get their permission first.

It occurs to me that I lived with both of them at different points. When I lived with Dottie, we had a deal: every third day, it was that person's turn to buy the 30-pack of Stroh's. The THIRTY-PACK! Nice. Dottie worked at a popular sandwich restaurant that perhaps Jerrod might frequent, and I would visit her there often, and certainly not so that I could receive free sandwiches or anything. That would have been wrong and she never would have abused the popular sandwich restaurant that Jerrod might frequent in that fashion.

Anyway, seeing as Dottie and I are about to spend the entire weekend together, it was important that we spend an hour on the phone this past weekend. I do not have any idea what pressing topics we discussed, although I think we touched on our 8,957 pets.

While I was talking to Dot, I did this:

I color-coordinated all the books on my bookshelf. Have I lost my mind?

I told Dottie I was doing this while we talked, and she was slightly taken aback that I was not giving her my full attention. Really, it didn't take a lot of concentration to put reds with reds and blues with blues. But in her defense, I do have to say that although she has two young children, Dottie has never interrupted me in mid-sentence to talk to her kids. Which is a thing I think people should never do UNLESS YOUR CHILD HAS FLAMES COMING OUT OF ITS MOUTH or something.

So, really, given how polite she is to me on the phone, I should have been more polite to her. But I like how monochromatic my books are now!

I am flipping my lid, aren't I?

Oh, there are so many stories I wish to tell you about Dottie, but each of them involves mind-altering substances, and I feel I must get her permission for simply ALL of them. Man, this bugs me. Let me just summarize it by saying you cannot think the phrase "Dottie in college" without giggling a little.

Oh! I've got one! Dottie used to say "Hola!" instead of hello, which I don't know why. She is from Vermont. Anyway, one night my friend Mark was in my dorm room, having been kicked out so that his roommate could entertain. So we're all lying there, my roommate, Mark, and me, trying to sleep in the cacophony that is the dorm on a Saturday night, when we hear in the hall a giant,

"HOLA!"

Mark said, "I can name that drunk in one note."

Oh, I can't wait for this weekend.

Oh, and don't get me started on whatever Lisa Rinna has done to herself

Before I begin complaining about Jennifer Aniston's hair, I would like to thank Pal from MA, or should I say Aunt Pal from MA, who not only loaned me some earrings, but also sent a nice bone for Tallulah. Sadly, by the time I got my camera to photograph  Tallulah enjoying said bone, that thing was already in her past.

Were you worried the earrings were in her gullet, as well?

Okay, so what I have to say is, this was Jennifer Aniston's big moment. It was her opportunity to be all golden and glowy and sunny like she can be, and really show up old Morticia, glowering in the front row, as she in wont to do ALL THE FRICKEN TIME.

Why can't that Angelina  Jolie CHEER UP, ever? I mean, you've stolen every man you've ever wanted, you've got all the ink you've ever dreamed of having, you have the 9 million kids you crave. SMILE!

And I really wanted Jennifer Aniston to do it. To be as stunning as I know she can be. And then she didn't brush her hair.

Why do stylists think the rest of us are going to understand their avant-garde things? I mean, maybe Jennifer Aniston's stylist was making some sort of statement I am too shallow to understand, but you know what? Once Jennifer Aniston got to the Vanity Fair party, she brushed her hair. So my feeling is once she had the opportunity to get over the ABJECT TERROR she must have felt at having to go on stage in front of ghoulish Angelina Jolie and her ex-husband--and who wouldn't be nervous about doing that, with all of us watching knowing full well what's going on?--she finally retreated to the bathroom and said, "GREAT GOOGLY MOOGLY, WHAT IS GOING ON WITH MY HAIR?"

And that is when she took a brush to it.

And here's the other part. If I were Jennifer Aniston, I do not care if I were at the Oscars, and the whole world was watching and my career were at stake. If I got out on stage, and old crypt-keeper Angelina Jolie were RIGHT THERE in the front row, RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME, what I would do is LEAP off the stage, land with my feet on each of Angelina Jolie's armrests, and pull off her snide, too-cool-for-all-this monkey face. I would scream like a banshee and pull that monkey face clean off.

And steal those emerald earrings, is what I'd do. Because those were really pretty.

Then I'd high-tail it out the front door.

Perhaps this is why I'm not a movie star, as I appear to lack any sort of decorum. And I know in reality it is Brad Pitt we should all be mad at, but for some reason--and I am unsure if I have made this evident--I am not fond of Angelina Jolie.

The only person who bugs me more than Angelina Jolie is that Gwyneth Paltrow. I'd like to see those two fight to the death, perhaps on top of the screaming form of that I Kissed a Girl person, Katie Perry or whoever, the one who always has to wear a banana and roll her eyes. Oh, give it up already. Kiss a speeding locomotive.

Someone took her bitter pill today, didn't she?

The always elegant June

It is late Saturday night, but I figured I'd better post tonight because I'll never get the chance tomorrow. As you know, it is the Super Bowl day for all women and gay men.

I plan to be answering my phone 11 million times tomorrow, as various people call me to exclaim over particularly bad outfits.

Do you know that when I lived in Los Angeles, even though I was inevitably invited to an Oscar party, or I knew someone who was working at the Oscars, I would for some reason forget and drive past there at some point in the day, and I'd always end up going,"Gee, why is it so crowded on Hollywood Boulevard? Seems really busy for a Sunday."

I never said I was a mental giant.

And no, I never saw anyone walking into the Oscars. They rope that part of the street off, girl, and you have to have some kind of tag on your car to even go down that part of the road. But you can imagine how the already-charming traffic is even more so on Oscar day.

All this talking about multiple phone calls reminded me of a particular humiliation I have hitherto forgotten to tell you about, however, and why not pick a glamorous day like Oscar day to share it?

One time I had, let's just say, an upset tum. Things were not going well in my innards. Naturally, I felt the need to call my mother and regale for her EVERY DETAIL of my misery. She wasn't home, so I left it on her answering machine. And yes, she still has an answering machine, not voice mail, which belts out my message as I'm leaving it.

"Well, there is something wrong with me," I said. "I don't know if I ate something, or I caught a bug, but everything that has ever been in me has come flyin' out of the back of me today, in droves.

"I saw the Barbie shoe I ate in preschool. I saw that turquoise crayon. I saw part of a lung. I think wild monkeys are gonna fly outta there next."

 And just in case I hadn't driven the point home, I finished up with "Oh, I'm sick. Seriously, who stepped on that tuba?"

And again. Grace Kelly called. Wants me to play her in the story of her life. Because, refined?

My mother called a few hours later. "Did you get my message?" I asked, wanting sympathy.

"Yes," my mother said. "And the contractors in my kitchen were thrilled to hear all about your bowels, honey."

You can imagine my mother's delight as she turned on her answering machine when they were all there, heard the start of my lovely message, and one of them said, "Oh, we already heard about all that."

Now, why she had to tell them it was her daughter calling was beyond me. Couldn't she have said I was the insane neighbor? Oh, how I hope none of them recognized my senior picture or anything. "Hey! That's June from high school!"

Anyway, on that charming note, I hope you all enjoy the Oscars, if you watch them. It is at times like these that I miss living on West Coast time, as I could actually watch the entire thing. As it is, I will have to stop at about 10:30, because that is as late as I can stay up. Otherwise, I will not feel well the next day, and then I will have to call my mother to tell her about it.

This week's special? You just need to fart.

Good gravy. They're lights.

For those of you who don't read my comments, yesterday I posted a perfectly nice photo of my cat Ruby, and at the end of my workday I checked my comments, and did anyone write in and say, "My! What a lovely cat!" No. Probably because nobody uses the interjection "My" unless they're 98 years old.

What every single human being said in the comments was, "What are those ball-looking things in the background?" It was like you were all from some planet where round shapes didn't exist or something, so great was your thirst for the answer to the ball query. So here it is. They are little polka-dotted lights. Wait. I'll go take a picture with them lit up. This should REALLY be exciting...

Note that in the first photo, there was no Marvin but there was a coffee cup on the table, but in the second, the coffee cup was gone and Marvin appeared. Leading one to believe that perhaps Marvin turns into a coffee cup at certain times of the day. That'd be great. That'd be like the female version of that joke where the woman turns into a sandwich and a beer.

Anyway. This week's comment of the week liked to kill me. I did not even give J an honorable mention, so great was my love for Gladys, who made this week's comment. And really? It was not Gladys who killed me, but her husband, who apparently thinks every ailment can be cured by the expelling of gas. You have no idea how many times I have thought of that and gotten hysterical. Slays me.

So Gladys, please share your trophy with your spouse.

Oh man, I should totally make a trophy to mail to the comment of the week person. Some sort of June trophy. It should be really awful. I have no visual skills. Suggestions, please.

Prod June

It's nearly impossible to take a good picture of Ruby, because she is all black. And it's a shame, because she's so pretty. At least here you can see her lovely profile. And she's not actually peeing on anything at the moment.

The Ask June questions have trickled in, and one was in the wrong place, much like Ruby's deposits. I should not REWARD such behavior (I won't be IGNORED, Dan) but I decided to answer it now, otherwise I will never remember that it exists. For the record, Ask June here.

Linda in CO asks, "When you proofread about something like electrowhateveritwas, do you get and retain any knowledge about your subjects, or is it kind of in one eye and out the other as you pay attention to the proofreading stuff and not the subject?
Will you eventually end up like Rosie in White Men Can't Jump, a f*ing font of useless knowledge?"

Oh, and by the way? I am finding out that when I respond to you guys? And occasionally I do, when you leave a comment, my pithy responses are going in your spam. So check for "byebyepieblog" in your spam. There could be a pithy, pithy gem in there. Apparently "pithy" is a big word for me today.

To answer your question, Linda in CO--and by "CO" I assume you are in Colorado and not some company somewhere or hopelessly codependent--usually not. When I first started I thought oh, aren't I going to get smart, learning about statistics and math and the law and such. Yeah, no. The only thing I ever retained was the time I proofed the sex book. Did you know there is a group somewhere that bites each other's eyebrows off as a form of foreplay? Now, how could you cheat? You'd come home looking like that Pink Floyd guy when he goes crazy at the end of the movie and your spouse would be, "Where've YOU been?"

Have I mentioned lately how much I heart my Topamax? Everyone needs to fake migraines and rush to their doctor NOW.

Frankie, who can't relax, asks, "Am I allowed to be annoyed by grammatical mistakes if they're in another language?"

Frankie asked this question because everybody goes around saying "panini" wrong. I didn't know this, but once she pointed it out to me, I was perfectly willing to be snobby about it. "Panini" is Italian for sandwiches. So saying, "I'd like a panini" is wrong, as you are saying "I'd like a sandwiches." I used to lose my mind when people said "The La Brea Tar Pits," as what people were saying was "The the tar pits tar pits."

Also too? In college? My best friend majored in French, and at the cafeteria they were serving french dip au jus, and the person serving it kept asking each person in line, "Would you like that with au jus?" which is saying "with with juice" and I thought my best friend was going to stroke out.

So yes. I say you absolutely can be annoyed in every language.

I must go be annoyed in English now, as it is my job to do just that. All y'all have a fine day!

I hate you, you hate me, we're a crappy family. (I let Marvin name this one)

Marvin and I are in a big fight.

I usually don't exploit our big fights for blog material, but then again we don't fight a lot.

Don't you just get annoyed when people say about their other person, "Oh, we never fight!" I do not believe that to be true, first of all, and why do people feel the need to appear perfect to the world? And if  it IS true, you are repressing a lot of crap, there, honey. That's all I gotta say about that.

Anyway, we are getting 3 trillion seven hundred ninety eight billion dollars back from our taxes this year, which is refreshing, as we usually owe tons of money. This is the only good part about being poor now and also owning a home for the first time.

Since we left LA and Marvin became a teacher, we make a lot less. Ironically, since we left LA and Marvin became a teacher, we were finally able to afford a house. I know that makes no sense, unless you have ever looked at housing prices in LA. Our modest little house would go for about $800,000 in LA. At least it would have when we left. According to my friends back there, everyone is now basically standing in bread lines and it is dramatically different in the past year and a half, so maybe my modest little house would be worth a mere $600,000 now.

What we're fighting not-at-all-fairly about is what to do with the money. Neither of us want to buy anything fun, but I will stop there with the details. Both of us want to do something practical with and dull with it. I'll just say that.

And Tee, he won't take the Dave Ramsey class, I already suggested it!

Why is money such an emotional issue? Geez, Louise.

And in other news, I have not finished my 49 pages of electrophoresis, but I am proud of Frankie who Can't Relax for knowing what it is. Look at the big brain on Brad. Doesn't Frankie who Can't Relax have a PhD in science or something? Can anyone tell me how it is that someone could slog through an entire doctorate program in SCIENCE?

Anyway, I did about 30 pages and I stayed late and I just couldn't get it all done. And this had nothing to do with Paula from New York Dammit and me trying to find out the exact words Bugs Bunny used when he told off that cannibal that time. Do you remember that? He just kind of pretended he knew the cannibal's language and it made him really angry? But it's not the cartoon where the men turn into hot dogs.

Yeah. My inability to get my pages done had nothing to do with trying to look that up or anything.

Do you think this is why I only have a bachelor's degree? My fine attention span?

Hey, maybe Marvin will let me put all the details of our argument on this blog, and we can have a vote on what to spend the money on. Do you think that'd be productive and healthy? I could put one of those little polls on here where you click yes or no and it shows you the results, like they have on People.com, where you vote whether someone's outfit rocked it or not. "Does Marvin's spending plan rock it or suck it?"