Bye Bye, Pie!

My head

"Oh, I can have some smoked gouda! I can get away with this migraine food!" I told myself last night.

Yeah.

My head is effing killing me. Please see picture above of me lying on desk in misery.

I will talk at you tomorrow. I must get better so I can go kill myself on a motorcycle.

A lift of the puny

In case you were worried sick and barfing on your dining room rug, everyone here seems to be on the mend.

Tallulah was still feeling puny yesterday. And it doesn't bug me when they throw that pillow on the floor or anything.

But today she and Edsel seem to be back to their ludicrous selves. Eating the kittens, getting in my way with EVERY STEP I TAKE like they're members of the Police, fighting each other over toys and food and, you know, kitten necks.

It's good to have them back.

not shur anderson agree with assessmint, mom.

Because everyone looked like they would live, I was able to join my most excellent friend Chatting at the Sky for frozen custard.

No. I have no idea why I can't shed the weight. And by the way, anyone asks you for frozen custard, you go. You go, girl. Because apparently it's 1996. Talk to the hand.

Frozen custard is way better than frozen yogurt. Puleeze. It is Coco Chanel to Old Navy. It is Anais Nin to Erica Jong. It is -- okay, I can't think of any more but you feel me. I ordered Vanilla Wafer topping and Chatting said, "Okay, healthy."

Healthy. Because that entire meal (and yes, it was dinner for me) was balanced and uplifting. "Well, MY topping's gonna be Heath Bar, so compared to me it's healthy."

And that is why friends are good. Their decadence makes you seem saintly.

Speaking of saintly, Chatting has a new book out. I know! How cool is she? It's all about how she grew up being good and all Christian and so forth and how it made her different.

Do you know what I like about Chatting? I mean other than the fact that she puts up with me calling her Chatting? Is that we talk like madwomen and she's all Christian and faithful and I'm such a heathen. And never once does she judge me and I never judge her and we never try to change each other because I think there's nothing we would change. I think she's the bomb.

I am Christian you are not. doo-dah. doo-dah. I am Christian you are not, all the livelong day. I am Christian, yay! You are Christian, nay.

I think oftentimes, those of us not in an organized religion get this attitude that everyone who's IN an organized religion is gonna convert us. Kind of like how some people get the mistaken attitude that gay people will try to convert them. But in my experience, neither group has tried to lure me in.

Maybe I am completely undesirable to everyone.

I don't know. I'm just saying. Chatting's faith is a huge part of her life, and my higher power is mascara, and yet there we sat for an hour and a half, never running out of stuff to say and never running out of stuff we agree on.

Oh, and speaking of which, that Diorshow was a total disappointment to me. It wears off by the end of the day. Am questioning my faith in Dior cosmetics.

Oh, oh! And for those of you who are praying people, I am getting on a motorcycle this weekend and your good thoughts thrown my way are appreciated. Yes, I am. Yes, it is The Fireman's doing. Yes, I am pretending to be daring and whimsical so I can reel him in and go back to my fearful bitchy self. I mean, if I live through this.

Actually, I have always wanted to ride on a motorcycle, for some reason. So now's my chance. My mother said, "Are you wearing a helmet?"

"Yes, of course. He is bringing one for me."

"Is he bringing one that'll fit your hair?"

Now, won't she feel bad when I am smashed to smithereens and that's the last thing she ever said to me?

At least my last meal was frozen custard.

 

Sick as a dog

I went to get my dogs from daycare yesterday, as I had planted them there since the weekend so I could jaunt off to the beach like a carefree single mom.

Actually, some of my friends are single moms of, you know, actual humans, and they are rarely carefree. So I went to the beach like a carefree owner of dogs, thinking they'd be happy and entertained at daycare.

They emerged from the playroom as they always do, hysterical and overwrought, and we got in the car as we always do, Edsel in the back seat because he's beta dog, Tallulah in the front because she is in charge of all of us. As soon as daycare is out of sight, Talu always sighs and puts her head on my lap. Which makes it easy to shift.

But then? A couple hours after we were home? The Edsel, there? He took to barfin'.

I mean, it wasn't just a one-time-only deal. He was bringing up the past. He was showing me stuff he ate in Ancient Rome. It was ludicrous. I had to take the sisal rug outside and hose it off. I used up all the paper towels. I Sharked my floor. Which turned out to be useless, as you will soon see.

He was clearly miserable.

I was chatting with The Fireman, telling him Edsel had been sick. The Fireman has a Lab, because he is manly that way. "Poor dog," he said, not seeming too concerned.

Right then poor Edsel hurled again. "He's foaming at the mouth," I wrote.

"Get that dog some medical attention," said The Fireman. I figured he'd dashed to plenty a dog-foaming-after-barfing rescue and knew what he was talking about.

So poor Edsel and I went to the emergency vet, and I knew he was really sick because he (a) didn't care when I got his leash and (b) didn't care when we saw a bunny in the field next to the emergency vet.

Naturally, I knew the receptionist. "I know you!" she chirped, all redheaded and 22. (Yes, Marvin, she's at the emergency vet on Battleground. I think she always works nights.) (Marvin likes him a redhead.) Turns out she used to work at my regular vet, plus she had been the receptionist on duty when Henry was hurt after the Rally to Restore Sanity last fall. Remember that? When I took the train home and Marvin had waited till I got home to worry about the part where Henry's arm was swollen 80 times its normal size? (You could have met the redhead THEN, Marvin.)

Edsel crammed his head behind my knee while the vet took our info. "I'm gonna take Edsel back and run tests," she said, reaching for his leash. Edsel licked her. "It's okay if you kiss me after you puked. Part of my job."

Edsel looked longingly at me while they led him back, and I went to the lobby and chatted with a delightful gay man who had a Jack Russel/Chihuahua mix that I am sort of shocked to tell you was actually adorable once she emerged.

The point is, they decided Edsel had stress colitis from being at dog daycare. Who is the worst worst worst mom ever? The vet said, "We can see he's clearly a mama's boy" (Edsel was back with me and standing behind my knee again). "Some dogs just get stressed out even if they're playing with other dogs all day. They just wanna be with their people."

They gave him fluids and an antinausea shot and told me I could either cook chicken and rice for him for three days or buy bland food from them (which do you think I did?) and $8583829400 later we left. I made a vow to NEVER go anywhere without Edsel ever again. Ever. I don't care if my mother's evil dog EATS Edsel, he's coming with me from now on.

So we were back home, and he had his new jaunty scarf from the vet, and I thought things were okay.

(I emailed Daniel Boone about the whole evening, because it's important I keep up the 93949230 emails to Daniel Boone at all times, and he wrote back and then wrote a P.S. "And Edsel, you don't look at all gay in your scarf.")

By the way, I was reviewing the instructions on how to give him his probiotic and bland food and so forth and in his medical stuff it read, "Teeth: Adult white clean teeth. Underbite." Hello, understatement. It'd be like Kim Kardashian's chart: Adult olive clean butt. Pronounced.

So we went to bed and Edsel got all up on me to cuddle, when

BLARGHHHH.

In the middle of the night? TALLULAH started barfing. Oh, she barfed everywhere. She barfed in the dining room. In the back room--twice. In the hall--also twice. On the bedspread. It was a relaxing evening.

So I gave them both the bland food today and I have no clue what is up with them. Could they BOTH have stress colitis from dog daycare? Who feels unbelievably guilty for going to the beach and abandoning her dogs?

Fortunately I have help while I'm at work. "rodgder heer. take care of scarf gay dog."

Love my home-y but where's my beaches?

You know who I feel sorry for? Is my friend Sandy's husband. Who just wanted a nice week on the Carolina coast, getting away from his demandy-pants job (he took like 87 conference calls while I was there. Do you know where I am rarely needed? Is on a conference call.

In fact recently at work I walked PAST a conference call on my way to make tea, and a Very Important Person said, "June? What are your thoughts?" and I stood there and peed right through my work pants and onto the floor. My THOUGHTS? My thoughts were I might make green tea or perhaps peppermint.

"Oh, we were talking to June on the phone, not you, June," said Very Important Person at work, as he observed me peeing like Edsel and growing an underbite and putting back my tall ears.)

Anyway, Sandy's husband, who Ima call Trojan Horse, is just the nicest person you could ever hope to meet, and let's discuss how Sandy ALWAYS has men who treat her like gold. I mean, this is the first person she actually married, but throughout college and afterwards and so forth, all of her boyfriends were cute, successful and totally, "What can I do for you NOW, Sandy?"

In college, Sandy and I lived in an apartment with her pre-med Rob Lowe-looking boyfriend, who used to get up before she did to make her coffee and scrape the ice off her windshield and warm up her car.

Thirteen years of marriage Marvin never even scraped the ice off my personality. How does she manage to score these men?

Anyway. My POINT is, Trojan Horse, Sandy's husband, was trying to relax and be on the beach and enjoy himself, and he had to be with old Lucy and Ethel, here, giggling and doing EVERYTHING POSSIBLE to stress him out.

When I first got there, I told him he was gonna need a blog name and he said, "Oh, no. Blog names should not be chosen. I should earn it while you're here." So finally at some point during my stay, he was actually getting a word in and telling some story, and he was struggling to find a phrase. "Oh, you know," he said. "It's that thing where something is inside something else."

"A parasite?" Sandy and I both said helpfully. At this point we were just saying the same thing at the same time, having reverted back to being the same person, as we had been in college, except for the part where she is impossibly hot. Yes, STILL.

"No, no," he said, dismissing us and continuing with the story. Then a few minutes later he interrupted himself.

"A TROJAN HORSE! That's the phrase I was looking for earlier."

Sandy and I stared at each other for about .008 seconds before we fell over in hysterics. "In a million years, I'd have never come up with Trojan Horse," I said. "Something that's inside something else. Yes, that says 'Trojan Horse to me," said Sandy, and poor Trojan Horse didn't even get to finish his story.

In other we-are-annoying news, we had been lying on the beach for 79 hours in a row, which was smart of me and my Irish.French.German self and who forgets that she is out there sunning with Armenian Sandy? Is it me? Have I forgotten this since we first laid out together in 1984? Is she always brown as a little toasty tidbit and am I always a bloated red Western European person at the end of every tanning session? Who learns, ever?

So I decided to go inside for a spell and my Pal from MA called me, because it's important that Pal from MA keep me abreast of her every move even when I'm on vacation. Sandy had come up, too, but was going back out, and said to me while I was on the phone, "Bloodey bloo bloo dee bloo key."

"Okay," I said, concentrating on Pal from MA.

When I was going to go back to the water, I thought, gee. I wonder what Sandy said about the key. I looked on the table by the door but only saw the rental car key. I called her on her cell, but she didn't answer. I locked the door and went to the beach.

"I locked the door," I announced proudly.

"And you brought the key, right?"

We stared at each other, horrified, each hoping the other was joking.

Who had to get a WAGON, with WHEELS on it, and scale the balcony of our condo like he was Spiderman? Was it beleaguered Trojan Horse? Who wanted to stick my face in the ocean till I stopped squirming, do you think?

And then do you know what happened? DO you? DO YOU? Poor Trojan went back to the water, probably to swim out his annoyance, and he got STUNG BY A JELLYFISH!

STUNG!

It was probably a jellyfish named June.

He came inside and showed his injury to us. "Can't you die from those?" I asked helpfully. "No, those are man-o-wars," said Sandy. "Or maybe it's Trojan Horses," I said, loving myself. Sandy and I giggled and carried on while Trojan went inside to Google "What to do with a jellyfish sting."

"I'll pee on you!" I called to him.

It was maybe 20 minutes later Sandy and I were talking, on a shocking note, and I said, "Poor Trojan Horse."

"Why?" she said, having already completely forgotten his injury.

Do you know what I should do? Set up a tip jar for Trojan Horse. Not that he needs it. Just because at this point I know you feel as bad for him as I do.

Plus, he had to look at my beach hair the whole time.

One thing we did NOT do to poor Trojan Horse was involve him in the wine shenanigan. Now, let me add the caveat that Sandy is the least alcoholic person on the planet, even though this story is gonna sound like we should get our Ouija Boards and call up Betty Ford.

It was 4:00 p.m. and Sandy said, "I think it's late enough for wine, don't you?"

"Oh, absolutely," I said, ever the enabler. "Let me get you some out the fridge, here."

So I got a bottle of white out, and we worried for a minute there wouldn't be a corckscrew at the condo. There was, but it was one of those very rudimentary ones that had no leverage to it, you just screw and pull. Screw and pull.

Story of my life.

I don't even know what Sandy was doing, although I suspect she was playing with my makeup, as Sandy and I have always been obsessed with each other's makeup and will some day give each other pinkeye and die. Or perhaps Trojan Horse. So there was me, screwing and pulling, screwing and pulling, screwing and pulling, and that DANG CORK would not come out.

"What is going ON over there?" she asked eventually.

Girl. I cannot begin to tell you how bad that cork did not want to come out that bottle. That cork and that bottle were in love. They had made a lifetime commitment. There weren't NUTHIN' gettin' that cork out that DING and also DANG bottle.

Here is an action shot of Sandy, hacking at it with a knife. This was seconds before she said, "You'd better not be photographing this for your blog."

Oh we did everything. We Googled it. We called my mother (not home) (I.am.sure). We called my old boyfriend who owns a brew pub. "The cork is dry," he said. "You know, many good wines these days come with a screw cap; it no longer means it's cheap."

Because that was helpful.

Girl, we were IN it then. We were getting that DANG cork out if it was the last thing we did. And I am happy to report we never once forced Trojan Horse to come in off the beach.

Finally? We managed to shove that in-love cork into the bottle and we strained the wine using the coffee filter. I told Sandy she had better enjoy every.drop. of that wine.

And she did.

Over the course of three nights, because who is a lightweight? "Oh! I've had communion! I have to lie down in the snow! I'm so dizzy!" Who must have been a delightfully cheap date in high school?

So it was a fun trip. It was good to get away from it all. With our cells, our iPhones, our iPads, the TV, my blog comments, and free wi-fi.

It's the simple things that make you happy.

 

 

Coming home today

There is sand in my teeth. Despite my valiant efforts with the sunscreen, I have burned the crap out of my back. I am hoarse from giggling with my old friend Sandy and her husband. June. Happy.

My Date with June

In my absence, two men I have dated recently--Dick Whitman and Daniel Boone--have agreed to guest post about what it was like to date the old June, here. I have the feeling the real answer is: taxing. Here is Dick Whitman's take, with my comments thrown in in pink. Because I can never shut up.

Hello Junophiles, it is me again, Dick Whitman © 2007 Lion's Gate Television. Today’s topic is June and what kind of date she is. June loves participles that dangle and spurs that jingle jangle. I was tempted to do an off-color joke about June and certain other dangling appendages, but I took the high road because that’s how I roll.

My marriage came crashing down around my feet at roughly the same time that June gave Marvin his walking papers [Technically, Marvin gave himself his own walking papers, but who am I to quibble?]. I didn’t know her then and it’s a good thing too because all my sobbing and blubbering wouldn’t fit with my world-class hunk m.o. All I can say is how happy I was to find such a stable, always appropriate person to help me rebuild my shattered ego. [Is he calling me unstable and inappropriate? hmph!]

Contact was initiated thru various channels, photographs were exchanged, and interests were piqued. Our email correspondence was rich with June's charming, vivacious, and self-deprecating wit. A date was set and I nervously awaited her arrival at a downtown tavern. She walked in, preceded by her aura of curly blonde wonderfulness. I stood and extended my hand in greeting, only to have it shoved aside as she embraced me saying “I'm from California, we're huggers out there!” [Yes. I DO hate hugging. Y’all. He was hot. He’s lucky I didn’t just lure him into my back seat right then and there.] [Hi, Dick Whitman’s mom.] What a relief that the potentially awkward greeting wasn’t and that I could relax, safe in the assurance that our “Goodnight” would at least be more fun than a handshake. [Who thought he was gettin’ some? Was it smug Dick Whiman? Who did not? Was it smug, disappointed Dick Whitman?]

First impression, after seeing several photos of June, was that none of them did her justice. In some of her photos there is a slight hardness around her nose [what?!] and under her eyes [1-800-plastic-surgeon-stat.]. This isn’t her at all but a result of harsh and raking light in these photos. I speak with some authority here because I am, believe it or not, a professional photographer. She has lovely, dancing eyes, a slender young face, and—surprise surprise—a lively, active mouth. All this set under a halo of golden curls.

I believe it was on this first outing that she informed me that I was in the presence of an internet celebrity [tens of readers!]. I was impressed and, as someone who doesn't read blogs, intrigued. I offered her something to drink, then caught myself because of her previously expressed disinterest in spirits. “No alcohol needed. I have no inhibitions,” she said, and I felt like a guy who just might get to second base. [He didn’t.]

We drank and laughed and poked at some forgotten appetizer… Food held no interest due for me due to my initial anxiety and the fact that I was having such a great time. As the evening progressed, all anxiety melted away and I felt happy and comfortable with my new friend. Just before we said goodbye, June pulled out her trusty camera and photographed that neglected appetizer, saying, “My readers will want to see this.” I walked her to her car and as I hugged her goodnight, I felt a hand greedily grabbing my ass and the heard the words “Good meat” whispered in my ear. [He completely made that part up.]

So, without a doubt, the answer to what kind of date she is (sorry June, I couldn't resist!) is: Pretty great. [I'd say more but I'm getting the harshness under my nose fixed.]

My Cousin Katie (or, June keeps saying she won't be here and yet here she is again)

So, I was getting all ready to leave for the beach, and by the way there is a thunderstorm right now and this is so the story of my life, when I realized it's my cousin Katie's birthday.

IT'S MY COUSIN KATIE'S BIRTHDAY.

I have done NOTHING for her birthday. Nothing.

Dudes. When did I get so scattered? I am not this person. I am good about birthdays. I've had a lot on my mind this week, and those of you who are members of Pie on the Face on Facebook have the inside guff on THAT, but still.

I DID NOTHING FOR KATIE'S BIRTHDAY.

So I thought I'd get on here and write a little something for my cousin Katie. Who has never done anything mean to me in her life. Like, for example, forget all about my birthday. Which I did not technically FORGET, but look at this week on my calendar:

See the 9th through the 14th? See how there is someone every day? See how there are people having birthdays TWELVE DAYS in August? August is my Christmas. So I KNEW it was her birthday and I kept thinking, "Oh, yeah, I gotta get Katie something" and then I'd look at a dust moat or something.

So Katie, here is your gift. I am blogging about you. Just as good as new earrings, right?

My cousin Katie was born 12 years after me at a time when everything was dark and we had no facial features (and yes that IS my large adolescent feathered hair), and personally I was annoyed. I was an only grandchild on one side of the family, and on the other side, I had been the only LOCAL grandchild for 11 years. My cousin Jimmy had been born the year before, and although it's true you have never seen a cuter baby in your life, going to gramma's was clearly not the same after he was born. There was CRYING and COOING and some little toy that played Three Blind Mice over and over again until I wanted to stick blind mice in my head to chew out my eardrums.

People suggested I was jealous of the lack of attention, but I have never wanted for attention. I was still ONLY GRANDCHILD on the other side, and I could always drum up the spotlight if need be. Really, it was just the whole having-a-baby-around thing that grated.

So when Katie was born, I was all, Oh, man. Is this ever gonna end, with my aunts popping out the babies?

And by the way no it didn't. Between 1975 and 1981, my two aunts had five babies between them. Someone was always knocked up.

But once Katie, you know, wasn't a blobby baby, there was something about her I took to. Maybe it was the blonde curls. Maybe it was the part where she worshipped me. Maybe my nude Candies accented by the nude hose warped my perception.

Everything I did, Katie thought was cool. She was forever sneaking my makeup (and at the time I was only buying myself Chanel makeup. Because I was worth it. How did I afford Chanel makeup as a 19-year-old? I believe the power of the Hudson's credit card is how I afforded it) and slipping on my neon bracelets and trying to capture the hep that was June in the '80s. And really, who could get a grip on that mercury?

Here we are wearing matching snoods at Christmas. I know we're at my mother's because of the peace sign on the tree. Also, that ridiculous star is left over from my first apartment. I had Katie and her sister Maria come help me decorate the tree, and they made me that star. My mother is the kind of person who puts hideous homemade things on her tree. In fact, can you see the terrible peach-and-pearl ornament nestled down there between Katie and me and our snug-fitting sweaters? I made that in Girl Scouts in 1973 and she STILL puts it on the tree every year. The peach? Is VELVET.

A peach velvet ornament with pearl accents. See. This is why I did not have kids. I'd have been all, "Yeah. Not on MY tree, Minnie Pearl."

Anyway. Katie followed me around like she was Edsel for many years, until one day we were at the same family gathering and I realized, "Wow. Katie's hot." She was in high school then, and had a boyfriend, and was all pretty, and I realized she didn't worship me any longer. She didn't need to. She had way outcooled me.

Which is why I'm showing you this shot of Katie in her pale mom jeans at my college graduation. Hey, I have on POLKA DOTS. I wasn't much better. But trust me. She was hot.

After I moved away to Seattle and then LA, I would come back for visits and always make sure to see Katie. Once we drove to Ann Arbor for the day, which is where the University of Michigan is and it's a cool town. We had lunch at this outdoor cafe, and it really looked like rain.

"Let's stay out here no matter what the weather does," said Katie. So the poor waiter had to dash out there in the thunder and lightening while we ate under a lightening-rod umbrella, our napkins flying down the street dramatically.

Katie came to visit me in Seattle and one of the rickshaw drivers downtown gave us a free ride through the streets because she was so cute. Four years I lived there and didn't no one offer ME a free ride anywhere. For weeks after she left she was getting calls from boys. She must have given my number out like mints.

I took her to the top of the Space Needle on that visit, and some guy somewhere has a home movie of two curly blondes desperately trying to push their long skirts down as the wind whipped up that needle. Our skirts blew up so high that we both just sat on the ground, finally, in hysterics.

We were up on that needle when we noticed little arrows with letters like E, W, N. "Why on earth did they think they had to point out the mountain?" I groused, noticing the letters MN pointing toward Mt. Rainer. "I mean, we can SEE it. It's a mountain."

It took us about 15 minutes to figure out the letters were NW, and we were looking at them upside-down, and they meant "northwest" and not "mountain." Maybe we have bonded because we're complete idiots.

Katie also visited me in Los Angeles once she was a grownup and married and such.

At one point, we were on the Ferris wheel at the Santa Monica Pier. I forget why we even wondered this, but there we were, up on the Ferris wheel, and we wondered what direction we were facing.

"If we just had some kind of landmark to help us," Katie said.

You guys. We were hovering over the Pacific Ocean.

So now Katie is 34, and the difference in our ages doesn't seem so dramatic. It's like we're old friends and not cousins. She is frugal while I am spendy. She is earthy while I am ethereal. She is handy while I am a mess. She hovers over the Pacific Ocean and has no idea what direction we are facing and I think "NW" means mountain. Together we are quite a pair.

So happy birthday, Katie. I am glad you were born. You are a cousin, you are a confidante, you are a good friend.

And I forgive you for the 9394 smushed Chanel lipsticks.

It happened one night

I am at the beach, being a 10, so here is a post from before for you to enjoy. Do not get confused. Marvin and I did not reunite. Henry did not move back. Oh, dear. Why'd I have to pick such a confusing post to post? Could I say "post" more often? Oh, and Target Steve is comment of the week. Raise your glass of Postum and poast to him.

Oh! (How annoying am I?) Don't forget to come back tomorrow, as Dick Whitman has written an "I Dated June" post and then on Monday, Daniel Boone has written an "I Also Dated June" post. I asked Marvin to write an "I Married June" post but he would not. hmph.

*************************************************************************************

Had I slept on a grate inside Grand Central Station, I'd have gotten more sleep last night.

It started with, "BEEP!" .... "BEEP!" .... "BEEP!"

I had been dreaming that I was on a road trip with my gramma and all her sisters, and how fun would that have been except for the part where I'd have been Bensen & Hedges'd out of the car, when that "BEEP!" woke me up.

I knew it was one of our 3048533aswoer#@0420 alarms. I like how that number just became a link. Do you think it really links to anything? Aren't the people over at 3048533aswoer#@0420 gonna be surprised when we all pop over this morning.

Anyway. We have smoke alarms. And bad weather alarms. There-is-a-bad-person-breaking-in alarms. Carbon monoxide alarms. Someone-is-staring-at-you-in-Personal-Growth alarms. I mean, you name a situation, we have an alarm for it. We even have an alarm should The Situation show up.

"BEEP!"

I knew this meant something was alarming us, but did I know which one or how to turn it off? And did I have two dogs and a cat on me?

And guess who was sawing logs contentedly, because he cannot hear anything high-pitched thanks to the 87,000 concerts he attended and was a part of in his lifetime? I swear he did it on purpose so he never has to let the dog in (can't hear him whining) or notice alarms. Which begs the question, WHY HAVE THEM?

"Muffin," I said. Tallulah shifted and sighed.

"MUFFIN," I tried again.

"BEEP!"

"Saw," said Marvin, contentedly.

"MUFFINMUFFINMUFFINMUFFIN!" I yelled, as Tallulah leapt off me, startled.

Eventually Marvin woke up and said it was the carbon monoxide alarm, leaving me to wonder why we all hadn't woken up dead. Turns out it was low on batteries. Really? It couldn't have waited to tell us when it wasn't 3:00 a.m.?

I finally fell back asleep, only to notice Tallulah burrowing closer and closer to me, and smacking her lips, and groaning a little, which only meant one thing.

"Do you have to barf, Lu?" I asked, half asleep. Marvin was back to his saw and his log.

I let her out and she stayed out quite a while, then I let her back in and was just drifting off when I heard,

"BLURRRRGH"

and she barfed on the floor.

Which led Edsel to wake up and investigate the one blade of grass Tallulah had managed to chuck.

We all slumped back to bed and I was just back on my roadtrip with gramma when

"BLAAARGGHHH! BLARRRRRRRRRRRGHHHHH! MEW! BAAAACCGGGG! ARRRGH!"

Henry was barfing. And it was not your usual heave-a-few-times-and-hork cat barfing. It was like he had an alien up inside there. He was being turned inside out.

He is on antibiotics, and I am thinking perhaps they did not agree with him. Either that or he and Talu have some kind of virus that KEEPS HUMANS AWAKE till all hours.

I hate everything.

I thought about pushing my three dog nights (two dogs and a cat night) off me and going to him, but do YOU want someone bugging you when you are barfing? No. Poor Henry. I knew it was he because he'd do this horrible meow between barfs.

And then? Are you sitting down? Are you?

Marvin made his move.

It's like he says to himself, "Wow. She could not be more repulsed and irritated right now. Time to try my move!"

Fortunately my screams of anger were too high-pitched for him to hear.

 

These Friends of Mine, or June

 
And yet? I can never find my reading glasses when I need them. I need to have 600 more pair, because there are NEVER ANY IN MY PURSE when I'm out somewhere.

And speaking of my glasses, the other day my Pal from MA called me, and by the way this story has absolutely nothing to do with glasses. I was just trying to segue into a new topic.

So I was driving in my car, and no I am not The Pointer Sisters, and Pal from MA was telling me a story. "Turn left," my GPS would say as she talked, or "Take the motorway." 

"What IS that?" Pal from MA groused, annoyed at being interrupted.

"It's my GPS. I have it tuned to be a British voice so it's like Barry Gibb is in the car with me, giving me driving directions," I said.

"Oh, as he's wont to do," said Pal. "You always find Barry Gibb in a VW Bug, telling someone where to go."

"Grab my medallion and keep left!" I said Britishly.

"Keep left," parroted my GPS.

"I HATE THAT THING!" screeched Pal from MA, who has always had the ability to get screechy from out of nowhere.

After about the 86th British instruction from Auto Barry, Pal said we were gonna take a road trip together to the Grand Canyon, get out of the car, throw that GPS over the edge, and drive back home.

"Except we won't know how to GET home," I pointed out.

Anyway, we decided to invent GPSes that only speak in super-annoying voices. Like Fran Drescher's or Rosie Perez's.

"OH MY GAWD, TURN LEFT! WHAT ARE YOU, STOOOPID?" it would say.

Or it could talk like Alicia, my old cleaning lady. "Mija! What kind of geeeeenius doesn't turn left in 800 yards? I call the police on your ASS, mija, you don't turn left."

Every story from Alicia involved her calling the police on some ass somewhere. Also, she was forever yelling at me about things she had to clean in my house. "What kind of GENIUS leaves a coffee cup of the wooden table, mija!?"

So that is my invention with Pal, and if you steal it it is now OFFICIALLY LISTED ON MY BLOG and I will sue you. And call the police on your ASS.

Mija.

In other news, last night I was all excited because I had a date with Chatting at the Sky. We were going out for frozen custard together. But then she texted me and stood me up, and I thought about getting frozen custard by myself but it seemed pathetic somehow. We are going next week. I have custard anticipation. I have general custard anticipation.

Sometimes I love myself so much it hurts.

And tonight, as if my life could get any more exciting than a potential frozen custard date, I am going to partayyy with my friends Marty Martin and his girlfriend Kaye. With an "e."

A few days ago he emailed me. "Kaye and I found a great lounge kind of place that is totally cheesy and plays disco music. We're going back on Friday. It's awful there. You in?"

"Of COURSE I'm in!" I said, already anticipating how I Will Survive at the YMCA with my Groove Thing. Yeah yeah.

Then Marty looked it up yesterday and saw it's closed for "renovations." "Which means they probably will fix it up and it won't be a cheesy disco anymore," said Marty.

Why do people have to ruin EVERYTHING?

So they have invited me over to eat bad food and watch a movie instead. Then I suggested we all wear our pajamas and they were down with that. Marty, Kaye and me? Cool. Cool on a Friday night, is what we are.

Then after that, I am sorry to tell you you will be Juneless for a few days, as I am GOING TO THE BEACH. I know! My college roommate Sandy invited me, and going with her will be like bringing Sandy to the beach.

BAHAHAhahahaha.

June's blog. Where you come for...why the hell DO you come here?

Anyway, we are thinking of replacing all the furniture in the condo she rented with wooden milk crates, so we feel more at home with each other. Also we are totally making microwave cake like we used to.

So the point is, I do have some exciting posts coming up for you. Believe it or not I have convinced Dick Whitman and Daniel Boone to each write an "I Dated June" post. And here is so how they are:

Daniel Boone was all, "Oh absolutely! I would love to!" and he hasn't written his yet.

Dick Whitman said, "Hmmm. I don't know" then eight seconds later he had written his and has contacted me 16 times to go over his typos.

So that's something to look forward to, the I Dated June from the Goofus and Gallant perspectives, and perhaps I'll dredge out some old post that I think is funny, but I promise this time it won't be my 10-grade-diary post which clearly I cannot get over.

Okay, come on. That 10-grade-diary post was the BOMB.

Talk at you. Talk at you after I get the sand out my nethers.

June loves a dog. Oh. Hope you were sitting down just then.

Before I forget, 939493 of you emailed me yesterday: "Dear June, I want to make money on blog ads, too! How do you do it?"

It's very sophisticated. I went on BlogHer's website and I went on Google Ads. I filled out the forms to ask if they'd advertise on my site. The end.

I think BlogHer might be full up but maybe that's changed since I last talked to anyone about it.

And I don't have any other recommendations for other ad sites; if I did they'd be up on here. There is another site whose name escapes me that said, "Advertise with us!" but Marvin always put my ads up and I have had neither the time nor patience to put those up myself.

June. Ambitious since she smoked a big fattie for the first time  in 9th grade.

Hey, mom.

For the record, I do not smoke fatties. If there is ever a feeling I detest, it's the "I just smoked a fattie" feeling. I wonder if I could say "fattie" more often?

I just realized the coffee pot must have beeped and I didn't even notice! Yay! I'm a brave fattie!

In other news, and I'm certain you are sad I've moved on from that fascinating topic, I went to my friend Hibiscus Flower's last night. And she oughta be grateful I made THAT huge trek! She must live HALF A MILE from me. I know!

It was kind of a last-minute thing, as in we decided yesterday to get together, yet look at the snacks she just has on hand. Why is everyone a grownup except me? That is a bowl of mozzarella cheese and tomatoes and basil. I KNOW!

You'd think we'd smoked a big fattie, what with all the food.

So, Hibiscus Flower is a dog rescuer. And I know me hanging around a dog rescuer is like Charles Nelson Riley hanging around a neckerchief rescuer, but can I help who I like?

And I am sorry to tell you she is fostering this muffin tin, WHO NEEDS A HOME.

Look at her! Could she be scruffier and adopt-me-ier? Her name is Tessa and she was SO SWEET. She is less than a year old, they think, but she was calm and lovely and so friendly. She was found as a stray.

"tessa not need your simpathees. i be okay."

OHMYGOD SOMEBODY ADOPT THIS DOG BEFORE I DO.

Leave a comment if you want to know the deets, like the forms you have to fill out and her adoption fee and why if I took her I'd be smokin' a big fattie.

Hibiscus Flower has two big beautiful dogs who I took pictures of, and I hope you are sitting down, but those came out blurry. I know! Unusual.

I guess that's all I have to tell you, except I am getting a new statistics book to proofread on Friday, so you have two weeks of me whining about THAT to look forward to. Gird your loins.

I suggest you stock up on some fatties.