Bye Bye, Pie!

Could it be because it's the last day I'll live with Marvin? And the cats? Or because I'm having general anesthesia tomorrow? Or because no one will hire me?

I so don't feel like blogging today.

Pieces of Wisdom: What's to Eat?

I watched it happen. It was like slow motion, if slow motion happened really fast.

Tallulah was all cuddling up with me this morning, and I was hugging her big neckeldy. Edsel was at the foot of the bed, because he's, you know, beta dog or whatever. I watched him get up and I SAW the thoughts form in his pea brain.

"heer Talu butt. it rite in front of me. hay! i could hump talu! i could get rite on her and--"

Oh. Was that a mistake. You have never seen a...husky girl move so fast in your life. She went from being all happy and cuddly with me to WHIPPING around and showing Edsel her Pit Bull teef. There was no Beagle left. There was no spiritual Tibetan spaniel in her right then. No.

She was all Pit Bull, all the time.

And she said, "ROWR ROWR ROWR ROWR RRRRRRRRR!" in this toofy fishwife voice that I am sure translated to terrible dog swear words.

Edsel was all, "yes, ma'am. edsel sorry, ma'am. never hump again, miss lu."

Goodness.

This transgression seems to have been overlooked and they are back to their important task of shedding on the couch and barking at everyone who has the gall to walk by. Note, however, that Edsel is in his proper place on the lower level.

So other than that Ozarks moment brought to you by my pets, NOTHING HAS HAPPENED over here. WHY HAS NO ONE CALLED ME TO GIVE ME A JOB?

Irritated.

The only thing that has happened is my surgeon called to say he was supposed to do a C-section at 7:30 a.m. the day of my conveniently scheduled 10:30 surgery, but the idiot who was having a C-section had her BABY EARLY, so now I have to have MY surgery at 7:30, which means I have to get there at like 1 a.m. or something. So they can "prep" me. I shudder to think.

So THANKS, person who had her baby early. Nice popping out of your kid. What about MY needs? GOD.

Other than selfish selfish women who have babies when I am trying to sleep in and have 10:30 surgeries, I need your Pieces of Wisdom help.

I have no idea what to eat.

I don't mean the day of my surgery, on which I can eat nothing. I mean for the rest of my life. Marvin was the only cook in this house, and when I was single, I did not realize that processed food has MSG in it, which gave me migraines.

So now that Marvin is leaving and I realize I cannot eat soup, most cereal, certain yogurt, and not even rice cakes, (which I happen to love) because they all have MSG (check the label. They say creative things other than monosodium glutamate, usually, because most people know that means MSG. But if the label says modified food starch? That's MSG. Also? maltodextrin? It's a preservative and it also gives people migraines), I am stumped for what to consume. Other than gardening catalogs, which is my new porn. But that's a whole 'nother post.

So I do not know how to cook, I can't eat processed food, and Marvin my cook is leaving. I can starve to death or I can take your suggestions.

What can I eat?? Yes, that required two question marks.

Limbo

I am in this ridiculous state of limbo--not that I am bending under a stick anywhere. But I'm waiting for EITHER of those companies to call me and say, "June, you are so hired." Also, I am waiting for Marvin to move out, which at this point I just wish would happen already. Get the terribleness over, for heaven's sake. Same with my surgery.

So in the meantime, since I am stuck here in purgatory waiting for the next thing to happen, I thought we could have a day in review.

Sometimes people find this blog and decide to go back and read the whole thing from the start. Why anyone would want to torment themselves in this fashion is beyond me, but people do triathlons, as well, you know? Of course, they get rewarded with good bodies for doing those. I do not know what reward you get for sitting here on your arse reading my drivel.

Recently, a reader from Austria wrote me, because he has read a large portion of my blog, and he made a list of all the times I wrote, "Remind me to tell you about the time..." and then never told you guys about any of those times.

This was bothersome to my Austrian reader, Marzipan. His name is not actually Marzipan. It is something like Mzark!krakkapantq#&*an, which I'm sure is Austrian for Joe, but I immediately and probably offensively started calling him Marzipan and he was fine with that.

At any rate, I have culled his large "remind me to tell you about" list that he sent me, and will indeed tell you about some of these stupid stories today. So that you loose-ends people can rest easier.

Edie's plastic nose (mentioned 09 February 2010). In college, I lived with a bunch of chicks/skirts/birds (hi, mom. How was your NOW meeting with Bella Abzug?) in a really nice house, which of course we did not appreciate because we were in college. But it had a fireplace and a breakfast nook and a formal dining room and all we cared about was whose turn it was to buy the 30-pack of Stroh's.

One of my roommates was named Edie, and she was really pretty and very intense. One term she took, like, twice the amount of credits you were supposed to take and all she did was study study study. She'd be gone all day and night at the library. Then the next term she took maybe six credits and partayyyed all term. She'd bring boys to her room and they would literally have sex all night. I kind of admired her all-or-nothing attitude.

The point is, she had a plastic nose. She had been surfing in California and had broken it really badly, because she was all-or-nothing. I saw pictures of her preplastic nose and it had, in fact, really improved her appearance. However, she had no sense of smell. She used to say, "Is this milk bad?" and we'd have to smell it for her.

Past-life reading (mentioned 25 October 2008). I used to sit next to this woman at work who just did nutty things and I loved her. She hatched a turkey--or maybe it was a peacock--in her breasts at work one day. She had all these animals at home (goats, a Great Dane, chickens, kittens, parrots) and because of her they had made a rule at work: no bringing your animals in. Her turkey or peacock had hatched a bunch of eggs that morning but she was worried because the last one didn't hatch, so she put the egg in her ample bosom and came to work.

Right in the middle of a meeting, she said, "Oh, I have to leave! I'm breaking a work rule!" because her egg was hatching. I loved her.

Anyway, she used to regularly go to Malibu to get past-life readings and of course I fell for this idea and hauled myself out there one Saturday, too, to this woman's mansion, which means many people must have fallen for this charlatan.

The woman told me I had known Marvin in many lives. Once I was a silversmith, and Marvin was a little Indian girl who used to come listen to me tell stories, and Marvin would pee her pants listening to my fine silversmithy tales.

Marvin said, "I'll give you a past-life reading. An hour ago you had a hundred more dollars than you have now."

The ketchup packet (no idea when I mentioned this). My father and I were at one of those drive-in restaurants, like an A&W but it wasn't an A&W. In my mind, the wait staff had on roller skates but I doubt this was really true.

I was a teenager and I distinctly remember I was wearing a white polo shirt, which was very stylish back in my day. Now I'd look like I was just getting off my shift at the In-and-Out Burger, there, but at the time I was the height of fashion.

So there we were, in my father's convertible, eating our fries and onion rings and fried mushrooms and other heart-healthy items and I have no idea why my father and I both have sky-high cholesterol, when the person next to us backed out.

He backed out over a ketchup packet.

And I'm telling you what. His aim or the position of the packet or God's wrath or something was absolutely perfect, because that packet shot at my father and me and we were covered. Covered. In ketchup. It was like we'd been shot. By Mr. Heinz. We looked ridiculous. My white polo was ruined. We were in hysterics over it, and I remember we had to go home--there was no saving our look for the night.

So there are just some of the stories I was planning to tell you, and by "planning" I mean I had completely forgotten I'd ever mentioned them and thank heavens for efficient Austrians. Weren't the Sound of Music kids Austrian? Didn't they have to do everything when their dad blew a whistle?

I'll bet they never got ketchup packets shot on them.

 

I was dreaming when I wrote this, forgive me if it goes astray

Now that I have seen Prince in concert twice, I know this for sure: Prince has a certain...charisma that Barry Gibb does not.

Sorry. I should have warned you to sit down before I said that.

It's TRUE, though! He told us all to wave our cell phones? And we did. All of us. That entire coliseum. Even Marvin waved his cell phone. Okay, he waved it backwards to be a dink, but still.

Later, he told us to jump up and down? That whole room. Jumping up and down. That man could rule the world if he wanted to. We would all be led by a three-foot man wearing purple.

In fact, Prince did not wear purple. He wore gold. And I came to the conclusion last night that I really need to wear more large statement jewelry. It works for Prince. He wore a suit with a gold shirt and big gold jeweled necklace first, and looked fabulous, and then he sank into the floor, as you do, and came back out wearing a gold sparkly sort of tunic and pants with matching sparkly high heels.

I do not know why, in the comments yesterday, Faithful Reader Target Steve mistakenly thought Prince was gay.

HOW does Prince get away with being two feet tall, wearing sparkly gold high heels, and being the sexiest man alive? HOW? How does he do that?

Oh! Oh oh oh! And I did not TELL you the excitingest part! Chaka Khan opened for him, and I cannot begin to explain to you the ridiculousness that was her outfit, so I will abstain. Once she was done, they turned the lights back on so we could wipe that outfit out our minds, and we were waiting for Prince, when everyone in one part started screaming.

Prince was just WALKING THROUGH THE CROWD.

Walking.through.the.crowd.

He had ONE GUY guarding him. He shook hands, hugged, posed for pictures. Can you believe that? He must have mingled for half an hour! And people did not mob him! He went to different sections and people were respectful and it was so exciting!

I said to Marvin, "If he comes over here, will I be calm?" Then we both thought of the time I saw Nicholas Cage in real life, when I grabbed my face and screamed. Fortunately, Prince never made his way to our section. Perhaps Nicholas Cage had warned him.

Also, once he was, you know, in concert, he had people come dance onstage, and I am happy to report he often dragged big old fat women up there. I was certain it would always be hot young things. I love Prince.

In fact, there was this guy down there on the floor, in the good seats, and he kind of had a body like Rerun--remember Rerun? He had on purple pants, and a lavender shirt, and a white blazer, and a lavender scarf and oh! Was he dancing to the Prince. Right in the middle of everything, when Prince was not asking people to come up and dance, Prince picked that guy to come up.

Now, people were supposed to just dance on this one part of the stage.

Not this guy. He strutted all around Prince, and flapped his scarf, and everyone screamed for him, and Prince just stopped and let the guy, and pretended to be all concerned that this man would get all the attention. He even said, "You better wear your purple!" In the end? He let the guy hold his guitar and the backup singers mopped the guy off with that lavender scarf.

Marvin said, "Do you know how much that guitar is worth?" I said, "A hundred dollars?" I like to be irritating to Marvin.

Anyway. I am just saying. I like me the Prince.

Other than that, it was a shit-ass walk to and from that dang concert. It was cold and it was rainy, and it was not any nice purple rain, either. It was a cold relentless driving icy rain. And we had to park seven hundred five thousand and fifteen miles from the concert.

And let me tell you what. There were old people there, and young people, and black people and white people. That is what I like about a Prince concert. And one thing I notice about black women? Is they will pull out their livers before they get ONE DROP of water on their hair.

Is anyone out there a black woman? Can you explain this to me? Do you have to start all over again if you get it remotely wet? What's the story on that?

You should have seen these women. They were all cute with their purple tights or sparkly skirts or whatever, and then they'd have their coats up over their heads like they were doing a headless horseman impression, or they'd have grocery bags up on their heads, or they'd be carrying their boyfriends over their bodies. I mean, they would do ANY.THING. to not have wet hair.

Anyway. Rush is coming to the same venue next week and Marvin is going. It seems a shame to ruin all that, you know, Prince energy with stupid Rush. Fortunately I will be recovering from surgery and also Marvin will have left me in his dust by then. So next week when I am sad, someone remind me I am not at Rush.

I have to go. I want to learn how to effortlessly jump on top of my piano. With my gold sparkly boots on.

If you know what I'm singing about up here, come on raise your hand

Tonight Marvin and I are going to see Prince. I know! But he's in town and we both like Prince and what can I tell you. I am doubting at any point in the night Marvin is going to look over at me and realize he only wants to see me bathing in the purple rain. But maybe he'll buy me a t-shirt.

In the meantime, we have to fill out a separation agreement this weekend, where we agree to divide everything up. I plan to take him for all his millions.

I totally deserve the house in the Hamptons.

Anyway, so far we are doing well on not arguing about who gets what. There is nothing that either of us is overly attached to, or that we aren't willing to part with if the other wants it. I was searching for an earring under the bed yesterday (don't ask) and I realized I would no longer have guitars under my bed and it was sort of exciting. Also, there will no longer be mysterious black cords in every.single.drawer, which I will enjoy mightily.

Why do men need so many black cords? Why aren't said cords ATTACHED to things? Are they backup emergency cords?

I did not fight Marvin on all of his Matchbox cars that he had lined up around the little ledge between the wall and the ceiling in the back room. He did not ask for the dogs playing poker picture. He's letting me keep a framed picture of his grandmother--she was the bomb.

So, I hope we stay civil. I hope I don't turn into Loni Anderson. I mean, in every way.

And be sure to give me a TON of unsolicited advice on this. Thanks.

In the meantime, you can't be depressed when this song is playing. By the way, have you seen my light-blue suit with the clouds?

P.S. Twelvedays, Siren, Kelly, and regular Joann are all comments of the week. Click This Week's Special on the right column to see.

 

Spring. A lovely time to deal with your fibroids.

Spring in the South is lovely. My feeling is for every time you have to see a Confederate flag, you also get to see this:

That's one of the trees in my front yard. Isn't it pretty? And pink?

Also, my next-door neighbor, Peg, has a white dogwood mixed together with a pink dogwood and my purple-y tree is hanging right next to it like this:

Okay. Trust me. It's more exciting and blossom-y in real life.

Look at that rogue dandelion trying to be all casual back there. "Me? No! I'm not a bad influence on the other flowers! I won't SPREAD everywhere and be a menace! I won't invite the wild onion into your yard! What you mean?"

Also too, the City offered free wood chips to anyone who wanted them, and our whole neighborhood looks like an ant farm. We all have these mounds of chips that no one can use up, and everyone is getting terribly generous with their wood chips all of a sudden.

Don't you hate it when people say "all the sudden"? I also hate it when people say "regiment" when they mean "regimen." "I've been using my skin regiment for years, and I still break out."

Sigh.

Anyway, I am having a wood chip giveaway, if anyone wants any.

Also too too, I am having my delightful fibroids removed next Thursday in an outpatient procedure. They are kind of shaving them off. I'm certain you want to hear every detail. The day I get my fibroids removed coincides with the day Marvin leaves, so I lose fibroids, cats and a husband all on the same day.

My mother is coming to town that day, anyway, and we were planning on getting the HELL out of here so I don't have to watch Marvin go. So after my procedure, we are staying at a fancy hotel nearby where I can recover.

The bright side of all this is that I will no longer wake up to this every day:

See the sink? See the dishwasher? See how close they are?

Let's review. Sink.

Dishwasher.

WHY CAN'T MARVIN'S DISHES MAKE THEIR WAY IN THERE? They are AN INCH from the dishwasher! And yet every morning I get up and put his dishes in the dishwasher, as they are in the sink. So I know there is one week left of doing that. Perhaps every time I get sad, I could refer to these pictures.

Kind of like the Confederate flag/spring blossoms thing.

 

In which faithful readers encourage me to be a terrible cat mom

The home vet came today, to check on Francis.

I have to have a vet come to the house to see Francis, because he is insane, and you simply cannot work on him at a regular vet's office. He gets all puffy, and growly, and fangy, and then he JUMPS at your throat in the most alarming manner and you just want to throw him out onto Ventura Boulevard on the drive home.

I use this example because that is pretty much the last place I lived when I took Fran to the regular vet, was Los Angeles in the Valley, which tells you it was not even the year 2000 yet. It was last century. That last time, they screamed at me, "LEAVE THE ROOM!" as he was headed for my jugular like I was in a Twilight movie, and I stood in the lobby and shook while I heard crashing and shouting and a cat speaking in tongues.

After that they told me I could never bring him there again.

Now a vet comes over in this enormous van filled with instruments, including these hawk gloves that she makes me put on so I can stroke my murdersome beast while she shoots a tranquilizer into his evil behind part.

Seriously, you should see these gloves. They go up to my shoulders, and they are 40 inches thick. I could stand outside and call vultures over and they could talon me all they wanted and I'd feel nothing. Except the part where they'd try to idly pick out my eyeballs.

The vet came to make sure he's getting better, as he has irritable bowel syndrome, which is a surprise because he is so unirritable about everything else. She will have his bloodwork back tomorrow, but in the meantime I'm afraid I took advantage of the fact that he is passed out on my bathroom floor.

Even worse? Faithful Reader Paula H&B sent me PROPS for just this occasion. Where she found these ridiculous items, I will never know. And yes, I do understand that Francis will idly peck at my eyeballs like a vulture someday.

And I will deserve it.

Because not only is he passed out, this time he's passed out with his tongue hanging. Which somehow makes it even meaner that I put Ben Franklin spectacles on him.

But this fedora restored his dignity, no?

What if I gave him Harpo Marx hair? Laugh and the world laughs with you, Fran.

"leeve fran alone, bad mom. having seeesta."

I'm sorry, Francis. It's terrible of me to take advantage of your passed-out self. You can't help it you're a tad...high-strung and it costs me an extra HUNDRED BUCKS whenever you get sick. But mom's not resentful. She won't take it out on you any more.

...Uncle Charlie. (heeeeeeeeeeee)

 

Pieces of Wisdom Wednesday--Hulk Knits for Love

In what is sure to be the absolute worst collection of photos ever shown in this already shoddily photographed blog, below are some pics symbolizing your suggestions from yesterday's Pieces of Wisdom query: "How can my pal Hulk meet women?"

How much do you abhor me for saying "pics"?

When I read your almost-200 ideas, I thought, Why do I have this stupid Pieces of Wisdom feature on my blog? I just have to think of a way to present your answers every Wednesday, and it is an incredible amount of work. All this just to get my high school pal some action. I mean, really?

It did not seem like my faithful dry-erase board would capture your creative suggestions effectively. I mean, you can't just encapsulate the beauty of "Put on a cast, get a van and pretend you need help moving a couch" on a board.

My first idea was to pose my Cabbage Patch doll, Jesse Everard, doing the activities y'all proposed. Yes, I do have a Cabbage Patch doll. No, I have never had children. Why don't you shut up now?

I was gonna have Jesse at the computer on Match.com. I was gonna have him joining a three-day breast cancer walk. I was so taking Jesse to a coffee shop and have him idly sketch and watch the women come running.

And do you know I cannot find effing Jesse Everard anywhere? WHERE DID I PUT HIM? Where is my Cabbage Patch? And no, I do not think it is pathetic that it is a beautiful spring day and I'm 45 years old, in the house searching for my doll. Whatever happened to Baby June?

So I did the next-best thing. And by "next-best" I mean what other choice did I have? I got the cats involved. Because what pleases Hulk more than pictures of my pets?

Many of you said Hulk should commence the activities women like, like yoga or scrapbooking or wine tasting. Clearly none of you have met Hulk. Henry is down with the yoga, though. Namastrrow.

You even suggested salsa dancing, and Winston was as happy to do that as Hulk would be.

The try-knitting idea went down equally as well with both cat and man.

Some people suggested Hulk get a dog, because everyone approaches someone when they have a dog. Here is Francis with a dog. Would you approach him? And yes. That is a dog from my dog nativity scene. I do not know what to tell you about the fact that I have a dog nativity. It is right next to my Cabbage Patch.

Readers also said Hulk could try to meet someone at work (Hulk said his work is 75% men and 99% ugly), through members of his church, through his 8 million sport things, through his daughter (surely she must have friends with divorced moms), and the old standby:

through friends of friends.

So, let us know if any of our brilliant ideas work, Hulk. I want you to try them ALL. Like how Marcia Brady signed up for all the activities in high school, and ended up with lava all over herself. Then chose ceramics. How did I get off on this tangent?

Good luck, Hulk. And knit me something, will you?

Pieces of Wisdom--Get Hulk a Woman

Today's Pieces of Wisdom topic is a deep and important one, as per usual, but before I begin, I must tell you some things, of course, because I never shut up.

I was walking the dogs (and who has had to learn to walk both dogs by herself? Is it awful? Is it almost 90 pounds of misbehavior on two strands of leather?) the other day, and of course I passed the Three Loud Blonde Children down the street.

"HI, LALULLAH!" they shouted, as they always do. Then, "HI, ETHEL!"

Ethel.

Poor Edsel. How humiliatin'.

You can see it even disturbs his rest, considering that he might be a woman now. And Lucy's sidekick, to boot. Oh, and what's that on the pillow between them? COULD IT BE WHITE PAINT? Is there paint EVERYWHERE?

I blame Ethel. He kept WALKING past me and getting bits on his transitioning costar claws.

The other thing I have to tell you is I have another job interview today. I know! For a whole 'nother job. I had a phone interview with this place about two weeks ago and was certain I blew it. First of all, I was still completely anemic and fell asleep waiting for their call time. So I had the personality of a slug when the phone rang.

Then they asked, "What would be the biggest challenge for you in this position?" and I said, truthfully, "Probably the writing" because I have done writing the least in my jobs. People think copy editing has something to do with actual writing but it usually doesn't.

Anyway after I hung up, I looked at the job description again, and the first two bullet points about the job were writing things.

Nice.

Savvy.

I have no idea why they are interviewing me today, unless the other 16 people they called were all Heidi Montag or Snooki or something. And yes, I did ask. They called 16 people. Maybe they had me confused with someone else.

But enough about me. I'd say 13 introductory paragraphs ought to do it. Yeesch. Today we are discussing my pal Hulk, who is single. Single single single.

I cannot imagine why.

His hair does not really do that. He is wearing a June wig. I am wearing a "my mom" wig. It was Halloween.

Hulk and I went to high school together, and met on the newspaper staff. I do not mean we were both sitting on a large rod made of newspaper, but maybe no one else got that visual and there is something deeply wrong with me.

At any rate, he lives in my hometown, God help him, and has a good job, which about seven people in my hometown can still say. Hulk has been divorced for two years, and he is 44.

He has one daughter, Hulkette, and I do not know what to tell you about his taste in child names.

So here is the deal. He is not meeting the womenses.

Hulk goes to work extra super early so he can get home early in order to spend time with his daughter, which makes him a good person right there, and kind of helps negate the part where he is a Republican. After he takes his daughter back to his ex-wife's house, he told me he usually watches TV and goes to bed.

Wooooo! Hulk loves the nightlife! He's got to boogie! But keep in mind he gets up super extra early for work.

On big exciting nights, when there is a SPORTING EVENT (sigh), he and his friends go to some sports tavern and watch sports together there, until maybe 10:30. He has not met any quality women in this environment.

Hunh.

Here's where my valued Pieces of Wisdom pals (i.e., yentas) come in. How can we fix Hulk's life so he can meet a woman? Girlfriend is 44. He's not gonna put on his medallion and go dancing at night. What sorts of things can we tell him to do to meet women who are, you know, intelligent and well-rounded and healthy? And not hanging at sports bars in their middle age in order to meet men?

(In six months I will totally be blogging about my new hang, Sports R Us, and how I met John Rambo there, won't I?)

(And I realize some women like sports and would be at sports bars to WATCH sports, as Hulk is, so no one take offense, please.) (Trust me, if there were Royal Wedding bars, I'd be in one every night.)

Okay, I'm going now and await your wisdom. I have to get into that interview suit again and hope there isn't white paint on it. And by the way, since I took everything out of that hutch, I am finding all sorts of things. Some of you have sent me photos of relatives you don't know, since you know I like to collect old photos of people I don't know, and this photo just fell out of a pile today, I swear:

Oh, look. People painting. In 1939. Hope you're using white paint!

Okay, help Hulk. If he gets married as a result of us we are all invited to his wedding. I forgot to tell you that part, Hulk.

My magnetic personality

The Nester says you shouldn't have refrigerator magnets because they're tacky. So I mostly listened to her and have had a nearly blank (for me) fridge. But yesterday Marvin was packing and he said, "Look what's in this tin!"

There were all sorts of magnets I had packed away. I dumped out that tin and culled through everything. Yes, I am still using the word "culled" today.

Not only was I trying to be untacky per The Nester, but I also had to remove some of my fridge stuff to make room for Marvin's. Since the day I moved in with him in 1997, I have had the logo of some long-defunct FM radio station in LA on my fridge. It was a black-and-yellow magnet.

Today I threw it on his pile of stuff to go. "You want this?" I said. "Oh, YES!" he exclaimed, as if he'd almost forgotten his spleen.

Here's some stuff I put back up today, on my fridge. You know, after the culling.

I put up the photo of my Aunt Mary and me at the garlic festival, wearing, yes, garlic hats. We are held up by the ludicrous leiderhosen boy from Frankenmuth, Michigan, who is similarly holding up my aura picture. It's a shame how leiderhosen boy has a big piece of white poop on his head. Or maybe he, too, has on a garlic hat.

He looks a little like a leiderhosen blow-up doll, now that I'm concentrating on him.

When I moved to Seattle, I was obsessed with how much I hearted it. Here is one of many tacky Seattle magnets I had put away until now. It is holding up a photo of Uncle Jim, mom, Aunt Kathy and my tall Uncle John.

Am cracking self up that when I wrote "Aunt Kathy" I linked to her Betty Fart story.

See? Another magnet from Seattle. And that one is FILTHY. Must go wash it.

Some day I wish to win an award for Best Photography Blog. Anyway, this is my favorite photo of my grandfather and me, shucking corn. It is held up by a Susan magnet. Susan was Laura Ingalls' cat. I understand that I am a freak and it is no wonder I could not keep a man.

Above the corn photo is a cute one of Talu and me. I am the one wearing shoes.

Okay, I GOT UP and took a new one of us shucking corn. I mean, I did not go back in time, put on that Ruth Buzzy sundress and have this photo taken all over again. I went back to the fridge and took another shot. Got me a nice bottle of water, too.

These were the first three magnets I ever bought, for my first apartment when I got my first job. My roommate worked for some bath store: Bath & Body Works or Oh! I remember! He worked at Linens Ampersand Things. I just remembered that because that's what I'd call it. I would say the word "ampersand" and think I was hilarious. He said things like "kitchen linens" instead of towels because apparently that was the lingo.

Anyway, I think we got a discount on these; I thought the beehive was a hoot. I have been lugging these magnets around with me from Saginaw, Michigan to Seattle, then to LA, then to TinyTown, then to here.

I act like magnets are so hard to move around. "Lugging."

Here's some photo booth picture of me from God knows when. Note that it, too, is filthy. And held up by a cat magnet. A cat magnet is a person who makes a lot of money from cats. BAHAHAHAA. If there were such a thing I would be a millionaire by now.

And finally, here is a picture of me from high school, with our senior class president trying to lift my dress, and our vice president licking me. Nice. Proud. I never appreciated that that vice president was really cute until after high school, and now he lives in some other country and has a fabulous life.

And I'm sorry. I really tried to get a better image for you, but on my ring finger, there, is my nice class ring, which is probably why I was bringing all the student government to the yard.

So, Nester, my old pal, I apologize. My magnets are back up. I am not perfect and shiny and lacking in the tacky. I am messy and the opposite of minimal and sort of obnoxious. I know you love me anyway.

And oh, it made me happy to get my magnets out of their cold dark tin and rock out with my leiderhosen out.