Bye Bye, Pie!

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.)

The crows seemed to be calling his name, thought Caw.

Last night started out copacetic enough. We took Henry out for his routine viewing-of-the-fireflies part of the evening.

He loves him some fireflies. They fascinate him. Our hair matches, doesn't it?

He snaps his head this way and that, trying not to miss a single one.

I tried to photograph the actual fireflies, but have you ever tried to do that? I am no nature photographer.

I wish anything were this fascinating to me. I mean, other than me. And Barry Gibb.

Anyway, soon after that, I went to bed. Tallulah came with me. I was deeply in REM when the sound of her gagging woke me up. "OFF!" I said to her, before I was even awake.

That poor dog was sick as a pooch, so to speak. She kept gagging, then giving up and jumping back in the bed, then jumping off to gag pitifully some more, then she'd come back and spoon me, with her head on top of mine. I think she was scared. Heaven knows I would be, if I felt pukey. Have I mentioned the last time I barfed was in 1982? And I'd like to keep it that way?

Because I was worried about the dog, I lay there awake for a long time. I had many deep thoughts. For example:

• I really, really like peppermint Tic-Tacs. When I was a kid and played house, I used to pretend to be addicted to pills and the Tic-Tacs were my pill bottle. I would stand in my play kitchen and make my hand shake while I poured out a big batch of Tic-Tacs, and stuff them all in my mouth greedily. I have no idea where I learned to pretend I was addicted to pills. It could have been from the soap operas I was expressly forbidden to see, that my grandmother totally let me watch as soon as my mother was gone. I lay there last night and thought about how good peppermint Tic-Tacs were. Honest. I did.

• I do not know why, but I am curious about Kendra's wedding. Kendra. The really dumb Playboy chick from The Girls Next Door. She is someone who should just never open her mouth, because she is spectacularly stupid, but man, she looks good. I should NOT care what Kendra wore to her wedding, but I do. I almost considered getting up and Googling it.

• Sometimes I think about just giving up and cutting off all my hair. Last night I tried to picture myself in a pixie haircut, which yes, I KNOW would be a disaster. You have to have Halle Berry's features, or Sharon Stone's. I have Dom Deluise's features.

I guess that must have been the point where I drifted off, because I had a dream that I actually went through with the pixie cut and in my dream it looked adorable. Keep dreamin'.

When I got up this morning Tallulah was her usual perky self, and Marvin--who slept through all the drama--said, "Someone threw up a peach pit at some point in the night."

I doubt it was Brandon from 90210. Remember? He worked at the Peach Pit? With Nat. See, I am full of the deep thoughts.

Why would you EAT a peach pit? What would make you say, "Oooo! This looks consumable!" I mean, I understand my dog is not as intelligent and deep as I am.

Do you think Tallulah would like Tic-Tacs?

My dumb weekend--by June

Well, obviously I lived through the state park experience. You know why? BECAUSE WE NEVER FOUND THE STATE PARK. I do not know whether to blame Marvin's navigational skills or MapQuest.

We took our good pal Tallulah Blueberry Gardens along, and I was annoyed enough that she had to lean on the arm rest from the back seat. What's wrong with just BEING in the back seat? You're eight millimeters from us.

And yet, it didn't take long for her to worm her way onto my lap, where, unless you want to shift, be not hot, or be not covered in dog fur, is just fine. Do you enjoy my artful aerial shot?

Since we drove all over yonder, as they say here, we decided we could at least stop at a yard sale, where I bought a china shepherdess for a dollar, only because Laura Ingalls Wilder's mother had a china shepherdess. Which she similarly got at a yard sale for a dollar. They just parked the wagon and browsed.

Who loves himself long time for posing just like the shepherdess? Actually, why do I think she's a shepherdess? She looks kind of like a Southern belle, doesn't she? Do you see one of those hooky sheep-gathering things? I totally duped myself, didn't I?

Someone pulled the wool over my eyes. BAH!

We also too stopped to look at puppies!

PUPPIES! PUPPY SNICKERDOODLES! Hello, good puppies. Who loves you? Does June love you? Who will take you right home? Is it your Aunt June?

Who made me get in the car and leave because he has ice in his veins?

Finally, old arctic arteries stopped at some tiny place that at least had water, but it was NOT A STATE PARK.

Tallulah did not enjoy walking on a floaty dock. She got this low crab walk going, and she was looking sophisticated, is what she was looking.

Lula not sure. Lula hide under daddy drawbridge. Daddy also china shepherdess.

Lula also fear dead fish. Lula tough pit bull mix. Please take Lula home.

After yesterday's nonevent, I had to get back in the car today. One of my oldest friends is moving to North Carolina and I did one of those things where like a year ago I said, "Well, when you're moving here, if you need any help, just let me know."

Don't you hate it when people take you seriously when you say stuff like that? Like, once my friend Renee was having a party, and I similarly gave the phony "If you need any help let me know" speech, and girl, I was hauling furniture and ice bags and schlepping to the flower mart and the grocery store. I mean, by "let me know if you need help" I mean, "I'm trying to sound like I'm a good person." I don't actually MEAN it.

Really, though, I jest. I got in the car with my Sirius radio and headed off to the country where my friend is moving. The house they are thinking of renting is cute cute cute, but I am loathe to show it here, seeing as many of you may be dying to stalk my friend, who I have never mentioned till today, and certainly if I show you his cute 1950s kitchen, you will be able to find him and slice him to bits with a rusty razor.

Because it'd be worse to get sliced to bits with a RUSTY razor. Not only would you be dead, you'd be infected and dead.

The POINT of my story is that the place my friend is moving is really close to the corner where I found Tallulah. In case you are just tuning in, a year and a half ago I was driving out of town to a job interview and I found a little yellow puppy on a busy two-lane road, so I snatched her up and missed the interview. And that is how I got Tallulah, of the Fearful of Fish Tallulahs.

So I drove around and I FOUND HER CORNER! It was so exciting. Here it is.

What if the people who live here stumble on this blog and know I stole their dog? I am so dusted off. FOR THE RECORD, I stole her because she was on the street, she was so skinny I could feel every bone, and she was covered in fleas. My first instinct was to knock on all these doors, but once I held her skinny self and felt her tail flap-flap-flapping on my business interview suit, I said, Oh hell no. This pup is coming with me.

Plus, I don't even know if she lived in any of these houses. She  may have been dumped off.

Here's the road I sat on with her, holding her skinny self and trying to decide what to do. I know it looks quiet, but that is actually a two-lane highway up there, and people go 65 down it.

I like that one angry strand of hair escaping from my head in the rear view mirror, there. "You may have tamed that dog, but you can't tame me, bitch lips!" Yes, my hair does call me bitch lips. What about it?

Now it is evening and it's almost time to take Henry out for firefly watching. Because he deserves to be rewarded for his constantly charming behavior.

Poor Winston has never done anything wrong in his life. Why must he be tortured by children?

Speaking of torture, there are only eight days left in that ding and also dang funniest blogger contest. Since they eliminated the cheaty-pants votes, I am in second place, after Cake Wrecks, which I find very funny. I am two million votes behind Cake Wrecks. But keep in mind they pick from the top five, so I still have a shot at winning. And if I win, I promise I will help each and every one of you move or have a party. Just let me know if there's anything I can do to help!

P.S. Keee-RAP. Longest post ever. Special of the Week goes to Lety. Go click on it and see why.

Saturday (horn) in the park (horn) I think we'd better get to Ask Junnne (horn horn horn horn)

We are mixing it up this week, having Ask June on Saturday instead of Friday. Ask June likes to keep things wild and unpredictable. I know your teeth are vibrating.

Also plus, Ask June, her spouse, and her dog are headed to a state park today, so she has to kind of stampede through the questions. Ask June is not at all thinking about being eaten by a panther or falling off a cliff today or anything. Because Ask June is so able to relax and enjoy herself, ever.

So let's hang over at a potentially posthumous Ask June, shall we?

Bonnie wonders, "Do you have a favorite grammar book? My favorite is 'Woe is I'..."

Ask June knows she seems as though she were the type to sit around reading grammar books, but in fact she is not. Ask June did read the dictionary the summer she was 10, so she understands she was headed that way. Until she discovered boys and wine.

Confused Grizzly queries, "I was very impressed with your affect/effect explanation. Do you have one for which is bear is bare? I'm not sure I can bear or bare to hear the answer."

Ask June knows she seems like she'd have a pithy way to remember bare or bear, but she does not. I guess you could always think, "I can't bear to go bare." How about that? (And as a reminder, if you can use "alter" in the sentence, the word is affect. Remember a with a.)

Tee frets, "How is Francis doing? Poor baby."

Tee asked this question back in January, when poor Fran had a kidney stone. But he is doing well, Tee, for an angry 690-pound, 12-year-old cat. I think he had another one in March, but it too did pass.

Carrie asks, "Don't you think it would be fun to have a luncheon with all your Michigan readers the next time you're in town?"

Let Ask June tell you something about when she goes back to Michigan, Carrie. Ask June lived there for the first 27 years of her life, and therefore formed a lot of close bonds and Gold Bond Medicated Powder. And her family and her husband's family all live there. Whenever Ask June returns to the Mitten State, she is booked like Maria Carey was right before she had that breakdown where she came out with the food cart on MTV. Ask June has gotten to the point where she does not say on her blog that she is returning to Michigan, lest she get 952 "You're coming back for 17 hours for a wedding?! Let's get together at some point!!" messages. (But please don't stop wanting to see me, friends in the Mitten State. Ask June kind of enjoys the chaos when she is back.)

But yeah, that does sound kind of fun, actually. Particularly the idea of a "luncheon." Will Hanna Gruen be serving it to Ned Nickerson and Nancy Drew?

Shannon ponders, "Do word scrambles/searches drive you insane because it's just not right or do you strive to solve the mystery?"

Ask June knows she seems like the kind of person who would do word scrambles and such, but she is not. That said, lately Marvin printed out several word searches for his students because it was the end of the year and apparently he was over teaching, and he got irate because I would often take them and do them, when he was going to use that printout to make copies at work. Ask June say relax. And help her find "poignant" backwards and sideways while you're up.

That wraps up another compelling episode of Ask June. Next time you hear from Ask June, it'll be on the 11 o'clock news: "A yellow dog was found wandering alone at the state park today, and in possibly related news, a panther at the park coughed up a world's record hairball."

Do you wish I'd stop saying things like, "Help a sister out" given that I'm a middle-aged, chubby white woman?

Geez, it's been a depressing 24 hours, hasn't it? Farrah was bad enough, and now Michael Jackson? And you know I was psychic about it? Several of my family members who are faithful readers can verify this. I said, "Ed McMahon and Farrah. You know how these things come in threes. Maybe the next one will be some shocking death we weren't expecting."

Okay, so I wasn't exactly Nostradamus, but still.

Some of you asked how Marvin was doing, and for those of you who don't know, Marvin worked for Michael Jackson for two years. He wrote a guest post about it at least a year ago but I am too lazy to find it to link to it. At any rate, I asked him for a quote.

Marvin said, "He's out of my life. He's out of my life. I'm sad about it, what do you want? Say, say, say, I heard Michael Jackson died."

Wouldn't it be nice if Marvin could express genuine emotion, ever? Anyway, I know he feels really bad about it, for reals, and that he never had one bad thing to say about Michael Jackson. He never ever believed Michael Jackson was a child molester. Ever.

Now I will show you Marvin's big claim to fame--an actual unretouched genuine and apparently I have decided commas are outdated...NOTE FROM MICHAEL JACKSON. Prepare yourself. Gird your loins.

Yes, he wrote "ink pin." What do you want from the guy? He had way more money than you do.

My father called Michael Jackson Marvin's "pin pal." Everyone's a comedian.

So, it's sad. And Farrah is sad, too. But there is a light at the end of this bleak tunnel...

I pooped! Like, ninety-six times! I do not know why it has to be feast or famine over here at bung of June.

I must get ready for work now, but I will leave you with proof that my cats are annoying.

I particularly like how the bag the cats worked together to rip apart, like Joe and I were ripped apart, is juxtaposed against the address book that Tallulah ate. All this photo needed were the hundreds of invoices from various vets and you have a complete "Don't ever get pets" tableau.

I was delighted to grab the food bag today and have tiny pieces fall all over the floor.

Fortunately, Henry was willing to help a sister out.

I'll be back tonight with Ask June. If you have any Ask Junes for me, ask them here. Would someone PLEASE tell me how to make a button? And finally, I am thousands, lo THOUSANDS of points behind the first-place person in the Funniest Blogger contest, so if you are so inclined, go catch me up! Thank you.

P.S. What say you? No, no. I am back because I forgot that the other day I linked to fun blog Annieology and the link did not work. So let's link to Annieology for reals this time. Why must I say "for reals"?

She was so beautiful

   

In which I invent the word "orificles." What say you?

(I swear the floor does not need sweeping, it needs repainting. This floor vexes me.)

I just got home from work and immediately went outside with Tallulah. Now that Marvin is not working all summer, Tallulah no longer spends her days at dog day care. When I get home she is dying dying dying to go outside and play.

(I think Marvin's dog-care skills rank right up there with how I babysat. Which is to say, I called my boyfriend Kevin and talked on the phone while occasionally glancing up to see if poison was being consumed.

I think Marvin is totally talking to Kevin. I do not see that Lula is being intellectually or physically challenged while he is in charge. So, you know, if we got ANOTHER PUPPY, Lula would be amused and Marvin could pay even less attention to her. Don't you think? Like, maybe a nice Great Dane puppy. In a 1950s ranch-style house with three cats and a 50-pound dog already here. I think that'd be roomy and enjoyable. What say you?)

At any rate, whilst playing with the dog I had the back door open, because I'm your back door man, and it didn't take long for Henry to wander out.

An old photo but a good one. This is basically what Tallulah did 24 hours a day when Henry was tiny.

I do not want Henry to be an outdoor cat. I was emailing with Faithful ReaderAnnieology about this today. At least I think I was having that conversation with her. I also emailed with Faithful Readers Hulk, bell, KW, and Erin. Maybe I should try working at work and not emailing with Faithful Readers all day. What say you?

So, as I was saying to someone who I think was Annieology, outdoor cats have reduced life expectancy of 67%, they kill birds even though they're well-fed inside, they poop in other yards. You know. It's just generally not a stellar idea. But Winston goes outside, I am sorry to tell you, and of course Tallulah goes in and out 97 times a day. So Henry's all, "Hey! What doing? Henry like door!"

And plus not to mention I take him out every night to look at fireflies. He sits on my lap and whips his head all over the place. He loves him the fireflies.

So what am I teaching him? I am teaching him it's FUN beyond the door! There are lit bug butts and laps and warm breezes and safety! Good job, self.

Therefore, when I saw him wander outside where Lula and I were playing, I held him up just like he hates and snapped his picture.



Seriously? Looks like he couldn't care less that I picked him up. He looks like he's checkin' for fireflies, if you ask me. "Oh. You lifting Henry? Bug buttz out yet?"

How bad do you hate my cat dialect? How much do you want to drive something large and sharp up my orificles? What say you?

My cat woes aside, I do need your help. My friend Paula, the one I got up with in Asheville, as they say here, is coming here September 3 with some of her gay posse. I offered to make dinner for them, and as you know I have my one dish--lasagna. Which usually works, and it DOES work for Paula, who is the pickiest eater you have ever met in your life. When she was a kid the only things her mom could get her to eat were heads of lettuce and coffee. I am not making that up.

So, the fact that Paula likes lasagna and it's all I know how to make is nothing short of miraculous. But one of her friends is a vegetarian. So, yeah, I'll have salad and bread, but what else can I serve him? Don't go gettin' all souffle-y on me, or suggest tofu anything. This is the person who wasn't sure she owned salt and pepper when she made pea salad the other day, remember? Oh, and he's super healthy, too, so he wouldn't be going for some mayo-laden pea salad, either.

What say you? Are you sick of me saying "What say you?" yet? What say you to that? What say you about voting for me in that contest, which I PROMISE is over in less than two weeks? I am back in fourth place. What say you about that? Are you gonna try to go in and remove your votes because I won't stop asking you what you say?

Okay, bye.

P.S. What say you?

Nectarines, ganja, Hee Haw, one-word answers

Seriously annoyed that my nectarines aren't ripe yet. I did the thing where I bought a bunch of ripe ones and practically ate them all before I got home from the store, and then I bought some unripe ones (that can't be the right word. Unripe. What is it? Did I ever tell you I have a degree in English?) that I put in a paper bag to ripen. And yet? Tonight? Hard. Hard as Chinese algebra.

So we had the work party today and I am pleased to announce my pea salad was a hit! I was so worried no one would take mine, given that the other people on the committee actually, you know, cook, and each one of them made a salad, but at the end of the soiree the pea salad was gone.

You should have seen me trying to cook last night. "Where is the CUTTING BOARD? Is it in the attic? Crap. It is. (clomp clomp clomp). Oh, crap. Do we even own any salt and pepper? Crap!"

Lot of crap going on in the kitchen. BUT NOWHERE ELSE. I know. I said I'd drop the subject. But SERIOUSLY. Can you DIE from this?

At any rate, cooking is not relaxing when you do it twice a year.

I hate peas. I never even tried my own creation. Blech. I like pea soup, though. Can you explain that?

Did you ever notice that "ate" is just "eat" with the "e" moved to the beginning? Fascinating. I wonder if whoever invented that word did that on purpose. And no, I am not high on the maryjane. Shut up.

Have you ever smoked the ganja? Do you like it? I did it in college and I hate hate hate hate hate the feeling. It makes me want to crawl into a dark corner where no one can see me for the rest of my life and eat chocolate-covered Doritos. Everyone I hung out with was, like, Cheech Marin, so I was the oddball, with my lack of doobage liking.

Seriously, if it's not UNRIPE, what IS IT? Bugging me.

I like peaches and nectarines equally, but don't give me any of that white peach stuff. Oh, I'd rather mate with Buck Owens then eat a white peach. My grandmother once told me she wouldn't sleep with Buck Owens for a million dollars. My grandmother made like $6,000 a year or something. I don't know why she told me stuff like that. We spent a lot of time together. I think sometimes she forgot I was 8 or whatever.

Do you even know who Buck Owens is? He was on Hee Haw.

I mean, peach suit aside, he's not THAT bad that Gramma had such an aversion to him. But let me remind you what Gramma's husband looked like.

Okay, hi. She scored the hot husband. (Is it wrong to say your grandfather was hot?) So I guess I can see where she could get all snooty re Buck Owens.

Heavens, I hope he isn't still alive and Googling himself. Buck Owens, I mean. I'll feel terrible if he finds this.

And don't you feel bad about Ed McMahon? I emailed my special work friend about it. (Do you have a special work friend? The person you talk to the most at work? I always seem to develop a special work friend.) Here went our email exchange:

Me: Did you see Ed McMahon died?
Special Work Friend: Yes.
Me:...Okay. Good talk.

I guess SWF had nothing much to say on the topic. But I liked Ed McMahon. I mean, how could you not? With that hearty laugh and those Publisher's Clearinghouse checks.

I hate to tell you this, but I must sign off from this really meaningful, full-of-any-topic-whatsoever blog post. It is 8:10 and I spent an inordinate amount of time in the back yard with Tallulah after work, having a scintillating conversation that went like this:

Me: Give me that ball. YOU GIVE ME THAT BALL. Give me that ball, girl. Drop it. Drop it. Drop it.
Tallulah: Grrr!

Really, no one wants to talk to me today. Or give me that ball, for that matter.

(Oh. Sorry. Almost forgot. Obligatory Henry below.) (He's HUGE all of a sudden.)

Really, I have nothing important to tell you. Go watch Match Game instead.

Who cracks herself up because she thought of Match Game? It was a game show that came on after school in the '70s and maybe the '80s, and it featured such luminaries as Charles Nelson Riley. And also Brett Sommers. Who as far as I know never did anything except be on Match Game.

The theme song went like this: BWAP! Doom do do do do doom BWAP! Doom do do do do doom. You know you are totally hearing it in your head right now. If you're over 35, anyway.

Oh, smack my Fannie Flagg. Look what I found on You Tube. The theme song from Match Game. Good GRAVY, the Internet is a wonderful place.

But now, see how I was going to tell you I had nothing to tell you, and now I give you great material such as the theme song from Match Game? You know what I might do? You know how some people blast music on their blog so that when you're at work you get into trouble because suddenly your computer is playing I've Been to Paradise But I've Never Been to Me when you're supposed to be formatting spreadsheets? I am TOTALLY gonna be one of those blogs that play music, except the only thing I'll play is the theme from Match Game over and over. And maybe I'll Tumble For Ya every fourth song, just to be annoying.

My best friend in high school HATED the song I'll Tumble For Ya, and once we were at a diner and I put $10.00 in the juke box and just played I'll Tumble For Ya over and over again. Oh, the hilarity. It'd end and then it'd go do do do do dodo! I'll tumble for ya, I'll tumble for ya, I'll tumble for ya, I'll tumble for YOU...

Eventually, the manager came and unplugged the juke box. Whatever with his crabby self. Back then 10 bucks got you like 20 songs.

Anyway. The other important info I must impart for you is that I got home early today because I had to go back to the migraine doctor. And even though I have been off my make-me-skinny meds for three weeks, I weighed LESS today than I did last time I went there. Which between you and me is a bit of a surprise, because I don't mean to dwell on my bowels, but they are not exactly what you'd call moving and shaking lately. Mrs. Brown has not been dropped off at the pool. If you catch my drift. So imagine how little I'd weigh if I were, you know, squeezing the Charmin or whatever.

Getting home early meant I had plenty of time to get to the store and buy the ingredients for my pea salad, which I have to take for my work party tomorrow. I am sorry to tell you that I told several coworkers that I planned to get a bunch of lettuce and pee on it, so you can imagine the crowds clamoring for my pea salad tomorrow. Salad going begging! Did your mother ever say that?

Goodness, we've dwelled on several bodily functions here today at Bye Bye Match Game. Let's segue to something more tantalizing, such as the obligatory Henry picture.

Who is a little frog? Look at his legses. And his round tum. Honestly, he is in such a dink phase right now, where he pounces on EVERYTHING, the only thing saving him is his little froggy sweetness.

I must go now, try to get some fiber. And I know you hope I keep you abreast of how THAT'S going. I promise to never bring it up again. I will leave you with yet another reminder to vote, although I hardly think today counts as a funniest blogger day. Still. Try to remember the good times we had together. When I actually had things to tell you that were actually funny. Vote for THAT June, not this stopped-up, game-show-loving shell of a blogger from today. (Did you see what I did, there? I brought it up again.)

Dear Dad,

It being Father's Day, I would like to apologize for the following transgressions over the past 43.11 years:

I am sorry for the time I called you on April Fool's Day and told you I joined the Army.

I apologize for the years I begged to get my ears pierced, and when you finally relented, I further apologize for taking the trainer earrings out early, forcing you to wrench the posts back in while I lay my sweaty head on your lap and screamed.

I heartily regret forcing you to wear the sombrero in Cancun.

I am sorry for calling you, crying hysterically, about every boy I broke up with between 1980 and 1996.

But most of all, I am sorry about the wind incident. Which I will recap for our readers.

I was small for my age. I think that is why when I currently get into my higher weights, I do not really notice it. All my childhood and teen years, I heard about how teeny I was.

I am 17 in this picture.

Really, though, it's hardly fair to compare my size to the giant that is my father. My mother is I think 5'2" and twice she married men well over 6 feet. I do not think this is fair to all the 5'11" women out there, and have told her so many times.

(What was up with our total lack of foliage in the yard? Was this a 1960s thing? Maybe this is why I find my current yard over landscaped. I am used to miniature golf courses for front yards.)

Getting back to my tale, I was three or four, probably, and my best friend--faithful reader and commenter Pal from MA--lived around the corner. I do not know why her parents named her that, particularly given that we lived in MI, not MA.

There was only one house between mine and Pal from MA's, but as I said it was a corner house, so it was quite a trek when you're 2 feet tall.

One wintry Saturday I decided to do as I did every day and head on over there for a captivating day of playing house or whatever you do when you're three. I know nowadays no parent would let their tiny kid just walk over to a friend's, but it was no big deal then. You just played outside randomly throughout the neighborhood and your parents kind of knew where you where, and nothing bad ever happened.

So as I walked over there, I noticed it was pretty windy. My hair was being blown straight back, the trees were bending, my hands were cold. So I headed back home and knocked on our door.

My father came to the door. "What are you doing?" he asked me. He had been in the basement watching a sporting event. "I got lost," I told him.

"What are you TALKING about?  You go to Pal from MA's house every day. You walk around the corner and you're there." He shut the door.

So I headed out again. The wind whistled in my ears. Leaves blew across the yard.

I went home. Knock knock knock.

He answered the door again. I remember he had no shoes on, and his feet were getting red from the cold outside. "I got lost again," I told my father. "June, you can see her house from here," he said, pointing through our back yard. "It's RIGHT THERE. Go!" He shut the door.

I headed out again to the sound of the wind, my lips blowing back like a G-force pilot.

Knock knock knock. I don't know why I kept knocking at my own house instead of just going in.

"June, WHAT is going on?" my father asked.  "I got lost again," I told him, tearing up. This time he wasn't having it.

"I know you're not getting lost. You know where Pal from MA lives. I'm tired of coming upstairs to answer the door. WHAT IS GOING ON?"

I started to cry. "I'm afraid the wind is going to pick me up and carry me away," I wailed.

People used to always say to me, "June, you're so small, if a big gust of wind came up it'd carry you away." Well, there it was. Big gust of wind day. I could see myself whisked up over the city, tumbling past Pal from MA's house like the dead leaves. Oh, it was horrifying. And yet I also knew this was stupid as all get-out, and that it couldn't really happen. Could it?

My father took me inside. We went to my piggy bank. Whenever my father had pennies, he'd give them to me. We dumped that bank upside-down, and he filled my pockets with pennies. "Now you weigh more," he said. "The wind can't get you."

And, full of copper and confidence, I jingled over to Pal from MA's.

So, happy Father's Day, father. Sorry for being such a lightweight over the years. A lightweight who didn't really join the Army.

(And if you want to make my father happy, you'll vote for me in that ding-dang Funniest Blog contest.)