Bye Bye, Pie!

In which June gets a message from a Rennie and resents cake pops

Whenever I go to Starbucks, I am annoyed at my own demographic. With the retro jazz music, and the long-sleeve t-shirts under the short-sleeve tshirts--I mean, just wear an appropriate piece of CLOTHING. Don't wear two t-shirts. And with the ironic nerdy glasses and the cake pops.

CAKE POPS. What are we, 10 years old? We're eating cake on lollipops now.

Our generation. I annoy me.

Nevertheless, I had to get me some caffeine yesterday, because although this antiviral medication for my dumb shingles does not make me feel as bad as the doctor warned ("prepare for seven days of the flu") (thanks), it does make me tired, and I had to go to work.

I didn't HAVE to go to work, but a bunch of us divided up this project, and I am splitting it with the new girl, who is kicking ARSE and I felt bad about her doing more than her share, so I went in to get some stuff done so she would not end up a heap of overachieving dust by Thanksgiving.

Then of course I got to work and got online and started fooling around.

First I looked at the comments y'all made on my post from yesterday. Then I checked Facebook. Thank heavens I spent my Sunday at work to get some stuff accomplished. Finally I careened on over to OK Cupid.

OK Cupid is this free dating site that Daniel Boone told me about back when I was still speaking to him. "You should try it," he told me. "It's for smart people." They ask you questions like "Which is larger, the earth or the sun" and then you can say whether you only want people who know the answer (I do only want people who know the answer).

My point is, I had been cruising people for awhile at that site, but yesterday, since I was at work on a Sunday and all and sort of bored, I decided to go on the site and change my status to bisexual.

In case you are scrolling back through my archives for info on all the dates I have had with chicks, I am not remotely bisexual. I don't even like women that much. Most of my friends are men. What does that mean about me, anyway, that most of my friends are men? Am I maladjusted in some way? asks the woman who deceivingly changed her status to bisexual on a dating site.

It took about an hour for The New Bi June to hit the airwaves, but oh! Did I ever explode onto that site. I got a lovely and oh-so-appropriate message from WantsTantric. Some man dressed entirely in Renaissance garb, including a jaunty feather in his hat, sent me a message. Hold my goblet! I even got a message from a married man who is "ready to leave" his wife. Are you? Are you ready? You seem like a nice guy.

I got about 100 views yesterday, whereas normally I get around six. Which leads me to the conclusion I already had--men are ludicrous. I mean, I changed NOTHING ELSE about my profile--same photos, same words to describe me. Just one tweak about me and BAM. I seem more interesting.

I told the Tall Boy I had done this and he said, "That is hot."

Sigh.

The best part is when I got up this morning and had a new message--AND IT WAS FROM DICK WHITMAN.

"You're bisexual?"

I didn't even know he was ON that stupid site. He must have answered the earth/sun question wrong so they never sent him to me as a match.

Is it illegal to date cats? Because I give up.

Meowmeowmeowmeowmeow....

I'm up. Not only am I up, I have been out already, and looking pretty, because I didn't roll out of bed and leave the house in flattering sweatpants or anything.

I had to take Roger to the vet to get his hernia stitches out. The vet is open on Sunday during the convenient hour (hour!) of 7-8 on Sunday mornings.

If only Roger hadn't lifted all those heavy things, we wouldn't be IN this predicament.

why you bozzer my bruther, mom?

I tried to take him yesterday, as the vet had said I could bring him in "any time" on the weekend. Roger is one of those cats who easily goes in the cat carrier, and for those of you familiar with cats, you know this is somewhat of a blessing. Because putting a cat who does not want to go in one of those things? Good luck to you, there. Godspeed. May the wind be at your back. And so forth.

Oh, they will scratch you and flail and grab the sides and make themselves weigh 78 pounds and howl and become possessed by demons and you had no idea some 12-pound creature, who seemed so cute when it was in the "Free Kittens" box at the jazz festival, could turn into the Tasmanian Devil so rapidly.

But no. Roger does not do any of these things. He just goes right in there. Roger's issue? Is when we get in the car. First his normally pale-pink nose turns magenta, and then here is a brief rundown of what Roger has to say to me once the car is moving.

MEOWMEOWMEOWMEOWMEOWMEOWMEOWMEOWMOOOOOOOWWWWWWMEOW!

I mean, it is constant. CONSTANT. And loud. And cloying. And for the first 10 minutes you are all, "It's okay, kitty. It won't be long. We're almost there" and by the time you're pulling into the vet's parking lot you're all "SHUT THE %$#%*%@ UP, YOU STUPID CAT."

And yesterday? After that pleasant, unmeowy trip to the vet to get Roger's stitches removed "any time"? It turns out they close at noon. NOON. What sort of cockamamie place has weekend hours of closing at noon and 7-8 in the morning? Those are LUDICROUS weekend hours. Do they understand the rest of America works Monday through Friday? I mean, 89% of us do, who aren't unemployed. Thanks, economy. Still!

So after all that, I had to drive back home with Roger's stitches still in tact, and in case you didn't think it happened, on the way back Roger said, "MEOWMEOWMEOWMEOWMEOWMEOWMEOW."

Also, since I was out and had such a pleasant companion, I decided to stop at the bank and deposit a check. Because why not run errands while I was up? And for some reason, this branch of my bank that is down by my vet has the most physically impossible driveway known to man. First of all, it's on the busiest street ever invented in the history of time.

Isn't that amazing? Did you know the busiest street ever invented in the history of time was in Greensboro, North Carolina? It's a big tourist attraction, which then just makes it busier.

So you can't just, say, turn in from the busy street. Oh, no, that's exit only, as homophobic men would say. And if you finagle around and get on the side street? You can't turn left to get to it, either. You have to get down the side street, go PAST it, turn into a person's driveway, scream "GET OUT THE BEER AND PRETZELS!" in your mind, back up, and go back to the bank.

I mean, accessing the Underground Railroad was easier.

So Roger (MEOWMEOWMEOW!) and I did all that, we waved at Harriet Tubman, and finally we were in the bank parking lot.

And you know what? DO YOU? IT WAS CLOSED. WHY IS EVERYTHING CLOSED ON A SATURDAY? DOES EVERYONE NOT REALIZE THAT IS EVERYONE'S DAY OFF?

Except for 11% of the population. Sorry, again.

So I screamed around the building and went to the ATM. And you know what I enjoy? Is when people say "ATM machine."

At any rate, I got up there, and the machine said, "We're sorry, we cannot read your card. Please reinsert." And they showed me a little graphic of how to reinsert my card.

You know how they show those graphics, and it's supposed to help you know which way the stripe on your card should be facing? Those graphics help me not remotely at all. Not even a little bit. My mind does not work that way. Spatial relations. Not June's strong suit.

And girl, I twisted my card this way and that, and I mean, this is not my first time at an ATM. I knew I'd inserted it right the first time, and this would be an excellent moment for a Hulk joke but I am in a hurry. Which would be another excellent time for a Hulk joke.

Finally the machine said to me, "We're sorry. The ATM is not working at this time."

"$##@%!" I said. And I may have punched the ATM a little.

The entire outing, from start to finish, had been for naught. "MEOWMEOWMEOW!" said Roger, all the way home.

I considered setting my alarm for 7:00 today to take Roger in for his stitch removal, but I had done freelance work on a statistics book all night and I was all, You know what? No. Life has been stupid enough without having to get up early on a Sunday on top of everything else.

But then really early this morning I woke up to see Edsel licking Roger, and I thought, Oh how cute. He is such a good cat mom. And then an hour later, I woke up again because Edsel was coughing a hairball onto the bed. My dog had a cat hairball.

Sometimes it feels like my particular life is extra-super-ridiculous compared to everyone else's. Is that true?

Lu feel like dat tru.

So anyway, I was up, and it was 7:00, so Roger and I went.

"MEOWMEOWMEOWMEOWMEOOOOOOWWW!"

The whole procedure took about eight seconds and they were playing Christmas music at the vet and I really feel like any and all acknowledgements of Christmas before December should just be against the law.

Today? I am spending the whole day at a spa and later Jude Law is whisking me to France where he is going to buy me a new wardrobe consisting of zero sweatpants while here at home they are lobotomizing Edsel for me. Alternatively, I am going to proofread a statistics textbook some more. And maybe get more cat litter.

Also, Harriet Tubman is coming over for coffee.

Breaking June

Last night, I dragged the Tall Boy to see the Twilight movie.

You drag a man to see a Twilight movie, it is clearly the beginning of the relationship. If we had been dating, say, even two months, I'll bet he would have said, "Yeah. Maybe call me after." But I said to him, "I'm going to see the Twilight movie. I'm certain you're not interested." and he was all, "I have very little knowledge of these movies. Yeah, I'll go."

When you are as incredibly hot as me, things like this happen all the time.

I had delivered to him the delightful news that I could fill him in on the plots of the three other movies he'd missed up till now, and in fact had offered to do interpretive dances of the films if he wanted, but somehow we just ended up making out on my couch till it was time for the movie to start. I cannot imagine why anyone would not want to see my interpretive dance skillz but there you go.

I also offered to recap the plots in beat poetry form and no I DON'T know why I haven't managed to maintain any relationships since Marvin left. What do you mean?

We got to the theater, all mussed, minutes before it was to begin and let me tell you what. First of all, every screen was showing this movie and every seat was taken by an overwrought 16-year-old girl. The two middle-aged people, who had just been making out on the couch, had to sit in the SECOND EFFING ROW, which is not at all ridiculous or anything.

Why do they even MAKE the second row? It's awful.

At least I got to see Edward close up. And could Jacob flounce out of rooms dramatically a little more often? Really, Jacob, try to be more of a puss. Jacob. World's most dramatic werewolf.

Anyway, it was good. I mean, "good" in terms of I-am-watching-a-Twilight-movie good. The 16-year-olds behind us never stopped talking once and the 16-year-old next to me checked her cell phone during the movie. Of course, mostly I just resented her for having a cell phone. I wonder if her parents would buy me one?

When we left, Tall Boy asked, "So werewolves imprint?" and I told him all about that important fact. Then he wondered why Edward lived with all those pale people so I told him that, and why there were all those graduation caps in the hallway at Edward's house and why didn't the animals Edward eats turn into vampires (good question), till finally he said, "Why am I asking about this like I care?"

I suggested he rent the other three films this weekend to get caught up. That maybe he could be America's first straight man to enjoy the Twilight series and he'd get on the Today Show or something. That show is SO for us women and gay men. They spend like an hour and a half giving us close-ups of Bella's wedding dress.

WHICH IS DIVINE, by the way.  Oh, it's long-sleeved, and fitted, and dips really low in the back but is covered in lace...

...Straight male readers? Hello?

It is a river, that drowns the tender reed

So, I like this tall boy. IKNOWSHUTUP.

The first person to say, "Nice man break" gets a slap from my shingles. Which hurt, by the way. I guess the hurty part was on its way when I wrote, "Oh, it doesn't hurt that much." It's like God is sitting there annoyed with me all the time. Reading my blog. "Oh really? You don't think shingles are so bad? Try this, heifer."

Why am I on God's last nerve all the time? Am I that bad? Aren't there other people who are more irritating, like--okay, I was going to say Saddam Hussein or Osama bin Laden, but I guess I can't say them anymore. What about Huey Lewis? Can't God be concentrating on him?

My POINT is, even though I was on a man break I met Tall Boy and I said, "Ooo! Look at him!" and then I was all, "No. Man break" and then I was all "No, but look at him!" and then I was all, "NO! Man break!" and then I was all, "But LOOK!" and this is probably why God takes time out of his busy schedule to find me jarring.

I've been seeing him for a few weeks now and believe it or not he lives IN THE SAME CITY, which is a first. Everyone I have dated since I have become old and single and not-so-swinging has lived in Winston or Charlotte or Tibet.

And I keep waiting to find out what's wrong with him. I mean, tall. I like tall. Has two kittens. Marry me now. Vegetarian. Okay, I'll never need to ask, Did you eat all the ribs? Does animal rescue in his spare time. Hi, are you Barry Gibb?

I know that made no sense. But you know how I am about Barry Gibb. And for the record, Barry Gibb has about five rescue dogs. So it kind of made sense.

Yesterday, Tall Boy sent me an email with a picture from his kittens. "Cora and Carmen say hi," he wrote. He even has good cat names.

But there. There was the flaw I was looking for. Dudes.

I know. Those kittens are adorable. Look at the one with half a face. And the carmely one sat on me.

But I wrote back: "What is with that blanket? Holy crap."

"I knew you were going to mention the blanket. I like that blanket. It's soft. I am secure in my masculinity."

"Maybe you shouldn't be," I wrote.

I mean, that thing is dreadful. It's not just that it is flower-covered. They are awful flowers. I don't know how the kittens aren't having seizures.

Several hours later I wrote back. "You know what I'm going to do? I'm going to whip out all my charms at this point, so you're gonna get all 'Oh my God, June is THE BOMB.' And then you're gonna say 'I will do ANYTHING for June.' And you're going to say, 'June. What can I do for you? Name it!' And I will say, Get rid of that blanket."

"I'm not getting rid of the blanket," he said, oblivious to my charms, which I thought I had already whipped out. "It's cozy. Am I supposed to sleep on a slap of concrete under chainmail? Is that more manly?"

"Yes."

Then I came up with an even more brilliant plan.

"Did you ever see Sweet November?" I wrote him, thinking this was the best idea ever.

I explained the plot of Sweet November, which many of you may recall I just saw. Sandy Dennis, who I find irritating much like God finds me irritating, is dying of something (they are never specific) (but she is all pink and healthy and glowing throughout the film) (sometimes she naps, to let us know she is dying), and each month she lets a new man move in with her. Throughout the month, she fixes whatever is wrong with each man. Naturally they each fall madly in love with old buck-toothed, nervous Sandy Dennis, but she unceremoniously kicks them out on the 31st, or in poor Anthony Newly's case, the 30th, because he got her in sweet November.

"She took men who seemed normal, but who had terrible problems, like hideous blankets, and fixed them," I wrote. "And OH MY GOD! Our first date was November first! I WAS MEANT TO CURE YOU OF THE BLANKET!"

"This is the most I have ever thought about Sandy Dennis," was all Tall Boy wrote back.

That was, in fact, the last we talked last night.

My feeling is that is because he went to the all-night blanket store to get something manlier.

Hanging out my shingle

In case you did not take seven hours out of your day to read my comments yesterday, I have effing shingles.

Shingles!

When aluminum siding is so much less work.

The doctor gave me an antiviral medication, each of which is the size of a thigh-high boot, for heaven's sake, and I know Ima choke on it and I live here alone in case you forgot and eventually they will notice I didn't show up for work and someone will break in and I will be half eaten by dogs with an antiviral boot in my throat and shingles up my left side.

This is not how I wish to be remembered.

So that's what's going on with me. You get shingles from stress and/or being immunocompromised, so now I am apparently riddled with AIDS on top of everything else. I am the only person who never gets any sex yet gets riddled with AIDS. I guess I should stop going downtown and ripping the needles away from people and jabbing them into my neck.

Remember how I said I wanted a new hobby? Puppet shellacking was taken. Did you ever see that Brady Bunch episode when Marcia signed up for all the extracurricular activities that were remotely available at school? Is there actually anyone out there who did NOT see an episode of The Brady Bunch? Are you from America? Are you younger than 35 or older than 60?

My point is, what the hell was wrong with Marcia? Was she bipolar? Who gets that ambitious? And then how was it that she ended up with lava all over her? Didn't Peter have something to do with that? Was he in an extracurricular activity with her? Did he drag her back to Hawaii? Was he going to get revenge on that effing tarantua once and for all? You can't blame him.

I have to go. I know this was a meaningful post. I stayed up too late, as I was possibly kissing a tall boy in the windy rainy night last night. Because nothing says, "Come hither" like shingles.

Shingles, by Avon. Nothing says Come Hither like Shingles. Scratch the scent spot here to experience Shingles!

Okay. Obviously the virus has gone to my brain. Goodbye.

Don't be rash

Dear Faithful Reader Target Steve,

Seriously? Christmas decorations already at Target? What gives? How obnoxious.

And yes. I do blame some guy who reads my blog, who happens to work at Target, for all the decorations in all the Target stores across the land. I hold him personally responsible.

I had to go to Target last night, as I must do pretty much 11 nights a week. This time it was to pick up my prescription Vitamin D. Who has to get prescription Vitamin D? I do. Loserly eats-a-salad-in-New-Orleans June, over here.

Prescription Vitamin D. They better not find out that Vitamin D doesn't matter, or even worse, that it'll kill you or something. You know that always happens. Oooooo! Stay away from eggs! Oh! We were wrong! Eggs are fine!

Ohh! Chocolate makes you break out! Psych! It doesn't!

Make up your MINDS.

I look forward to the day they find out a diet consisting entirely of black coffee, Tang, Pixie Stix and White Cheddar Cheese Rice Cakes is the best thing for you, because other than the fact that I have 0% D vitamins in my body I am the picture of health.

Other than this mysterious rash I have covering my body. Did I tell you this part? Since I got back from New Orleans I have these weird flying-saucer shaped welts on my rib cageal area. Okay, "covering my body" is a bit of an exaggeration, and I know that shocks you, that I may have exaggerated when it comes to a health concern.

Naturally I got on the phone to the doctor immediately.

"Beleaguered doctor of June's office. May I help you?"

"Hi, April. It's June. I think I'm dying."

"[sighhh.] Hello, June. What's going on?"

"Well, I've Web MD'd it..."

"[Sighhh.]"

"Stop SIGHING. And it looks like either shingles or smallpox or this rare tropical thing that should render me having visions in the next 15 minutes."

"Can you come in tomorrow at 8:30? Dr. Van is back from her...leave of absence."

"Oh good! She'll be glad to see me! If I actually live through the night I'll be there at 8:30. ...Did you just sigh again? ...Hello?"

April is really rude.

If it's shingles I think I should be in extreme pain, but you know how tough I am. It's hard for me to gauge what the rest of you consider "extreme." And a pilgrim did just give me a blanket recently; it'd be perfect for Thanksgiving if I had smallpox. The ultimate Thanksgiving disease! Do you lose weight when you have smallpox?

My boss, who has been my boss for a mere six months and is already over me, said they'll probably diagnose me with dermatitis, which means "You have some kind of rash. Here is a cream." Ima be SO PISSED if I have dermatitis. I want a real name. A real.Latin.name. I want hoodacunilatus or something. Okay, that looked kind of dirty. Maybe I don't want hoodacunilatus. I want e pluriblatia solo mio. I got all Italian there in the end, didn't I? Why can't I make up a good Latin disease?

As long as I don't have vomitorium, Ima be okay.

In other news, and I know it's going to be hard for you to do anything but worry about my severe life-threatening rash, my coworker Deb, the one who hates us drinking margaritas, is revamping her kitchen. This means she is throwing out 94930404 cookbooks from the 1970s, so she left them all on the communal table at work, where I not only spread my rash but picked up a lovely all-Jello-recipes-all-the-time cookbook.

My next-cubicle-neighbor, The Poet, picked up a delightful all-tuna-recipes cookbook, and we have decided that should I live, we are going to have Caucasian Heritage Day at work, wherein we bring both a lovely tuna casserole from her cookbook and a Jello mold from mine. Popular!

Really, that Jello cookbook is a sight. If I knew how to scan things with my new computer I would show it to you but I have no idea. Besides, I am covered in welts and can barely move. I look like a Sleestak. People from the blind school just tried to read my skin. Someone just asked me if I was Eudora Welty.

I wonder if the voodoo priestess put a spell on me! I'm turning into a reptile as we speak! Oh, crap.

It's a long, bumpy road ahead.

Who dat?

Hey, did you hear I went to New Orleans?

On the first night, on my way there, I stayed with Faithful Reader Sadie, who coincidentally has a dog named Sadie. You'd think she'd name her dog something different from her own name, but who am I to tell people what to do? Anyway, I had never met Faithful Reader Sadie nor her dog Sadie nor her cute husband Mr. Sadie, but she has been commenting forever, so when she said I could stay with her on my way to New Orleans, I trusted that she would not kill me and indeed she did not.

Look at her! This is Sadie the dog, not the person. Anyway, I got a charge out of them both, because Sadie the person was all, "I got you Pop-Tarts, and I know you take your coffee half caf and half decaf, so I got that, and here's a tiara in your room if you want to play with it."

June's blog. Making her an annoying fussy guest who you have to get special things for since 2006.

Friday morning dawned early, as opposed to it dawning late, and Sadie the person and the dog made me a ltitle bag of treats to go and why does anyone like me, is what I want to know? I just come over, eat all the food, take some to go and shed everywhere. I am a delight.

I stopped off at a truck stop in Alabama, or maybe Mississippi, for some boiled peanuts and coffee, as you do, and met this nice kitty there. The owner of the truck stop told me the kitty lived there and everyone fed him, otherwise who'd be owning Alabama kitty? The whole time I was petting him, I could hear Hulk's stupid voice, which sadly appears in my head way more than I wish it to: "%#@@&. Only you could find a #@$$&# cat at a truck stop."

I stay friends with Hulk out of pity, because no one else really wants to hang around him that much, owing to the fact that he says things like, "Percent pound sign at at ampersand." I'm really one of the only people who'll tolerate it.

(Hulk's three food groups)

At any rate, I got to New Orleans and had to drive through the city awhile before I got to the hotel, and I am telling you, I saw the phrase, "Who Dat?" 94933939495595595593837374755753 times in the first 10 minutes.

When I got to our room, Donna answered the door and I said, "Am I already sick of the phrase 'Who dat?'"

You know what you don't want to do? Is tell Donna you are sick of something. Every 20 seconds, for the rest of the trip, Donna said, "Who dat!?" We'd be looking at a menu: "Who dat! What you gonna get?" We'd be wandering the streets: "Who dat! Did you see what she had on?" She'd walk in from the shower: "Who dat?"

No one on the planet is having a greater love affair than the one Donna was having with herself each time she irked me anew with "Who dat?" She is currently out purchasing a diamond eternity ring for herself, to show herself she'd marry her all over again.

Who dat?

And really, she is lucky she lived through the whole trip, not just because I was going to stab her through her who dat head, but also because everywhere we went, someone was trying to shove shellfish down her allergic gullet.

We decided to eat at the bar (no, I DIDN'T have a drink. Calm down.) at this restaurant because it faced outside and we wanted to people-watch. You could sit there for the rest of your life and stare at people in New Orleans and never grow bored. Trust me. There are men in sparkly bras, women practically naked, people dressed as trees. One person was dressed as a piece of poop and I am not making that up.

Anyway, first Donna had to try to find something on the menu that would not kill her. "Oh! There's shrimp and clams! Or I could have scallops with lobster! How about the crayfish!" We were in hysterics. Even her old favorite, potatoes (you have never known a person to be more fond of potatoes. She would MARRY potatoes had she not already married herself over the Who Dat thing) (She would be Mrs. Potato Head) (She would be Mr. Potato Head's other woman. Mrs. Potato Head would come make hash browns out her ass. Girlfriend likes her a potato, is the point I am trying to get across to you) were cooked IN SHELLFISH.

Finally she got the catch of the day, which believe it or not did not come in a shell, and we were enjoying our dinner when WHOOOMP! The bartender slapped a gigantic thing of oysters on the bar and started, I don't know, shucking them? Whatever you do to oysters. And we thought it was maybe a one-time deal, but girl. It was like he was Sisyphus or something with the boulder and the hill. WHOOMP. Another tray of oysters. He was never-ending with his oysters.

"You know, I don't have an Epi-Pen," Donna said nervously.

Anyway, she lived, obviously, or else I might have led with that.

Other than nearly killing Donna, New Orleans is a festive town. In case you didn't know. There seemed to be a tradition of people getting married and inexplicably parading down the street with their guests as a band played jazz, and every time one of those bands went by us, I'd say "I could go for some Zatarain's."

Donna usually answered me "Who dat?" Really, it is never good to have two people who get such a charge out of their own selves together like that.

One of the wedding guests threw his beads at me, probably because I was standing there with my hoots just out and proud. Anyway it gives us all ample opportunity to enjoy my metal crown.

Speaking of New Orleans traditions, am I the only person who goes there and heads to the book store?

And finds a kitty to love? Hi, Hulk. "Ampersand pound pound."

I also wanted to go to the voodoo shops, and at some point Donna actually had to work, which is why she was there (whatEVER), so while she did pesky work, I asked the concierge to send me to a real voodoo place, outside of the touristy area.

I took a cab to a real neighborhood, and went to this shopping center that seemed to cater to liberal white people. It had a yoga studio, a food co-op, a healing arts center. You know the drill. Then right in the middle of all that was a voodoo priestess's store.

And also? That day?

Yay!

Hello, pitty pit pit! I love you and your big big head! I hope a white liberal person gives you a home very soon.

Anyway, I went to the voodoo shop and oh, I looked in there for probably an hour. There were powders you could bathe in to, like, put a spell on your own self. There were candles you could buy shaped like a person, and then you buy oils and anoint the candles. So, if I wanted Hulk to love me, which I do not, I'd buy a boy candle and then I guess love-me-Hulk oil and put it on the candle or something.

Oh that store was packed with voodooy thingamabobs. Finally I was drawn to a pink envelope. "What's in here?" I asked the priestess, who looked like a liberal white person. "There's an amulet in there. It draws love to you."

"How much?"

"Three dollars."

"Sold.

So I bought my three-dollar amulet, and sat in the food co-op and read the directions. You had to read the little chant that went with it, so I did, and I put the amulet in my wallet and went outside to hail a cab. A truck with two men riding in back went by, and one whistled while the other screamed out, "I LOVE YOU!"

So there you go. I got my three dollars' worth.

Here's a place where I stopped off for a decaf after my dabble with the dark underworld...

...and here's the kitty I met at the coffee shop. "Pound pound pound sign! Percent!"

On my last night there, we were pretty tired, and we went down to the hotel restaurant to get a late-night salad. Partayy! We ate up at the bar, where AGAIN I did not have a drink and I really wish you'd relax, and some drunk guy next to Donna said, "So what are YOU two planning on tonight?"

Donna didn't tell me this till we were back up in the room. Not wanting to let on that we were the most boring duo in New Orleans, she said, "We're going up to the room to discuss our game plan" knowing full well that without a word between us, we were headed upstairs to put on our pajamas and sit on our beds and talk, which was precisely what we were in the midst of doing when she relayed the story.

"After careful consideration," she said hysterically, as we fluffed our pillows to lean up on them, "I think we're staying in."

Donna had to go back to work the morning I left, so I penned a note and left it on her bed.

"Hey Donna," I wrote. " I can't believe I forgot to ask you this, but,

WHO DAT?"

 

Big easy June. Wait.

I am leaving later today for New Orleans! Wooo!

I picked a fine week to stop sniffing glue.

And guess who has not packed one iota yet? I hear you need plenty of iotas for New Orleans. I mean, I kind of packed in my MIND already. Does that help you organized people who are itchy at the prospect of my unpacked pink bag?

I am going to New Orleans because my high school best friend, Donna, is there on business. Why anyone needs to go to New Orleans on business is beyond me. She is a professional crawdad-head sucker. That sounded disgusting. Actually I think she is allergic to shellfish, and are crawdads shellfish? Because am I going to spend the entire trip jamming Epi-Pens into her leg while they make us eat crawdads? Isn't that what you do in New Orleans other than expose your hooty-hoots for beads?

Do you like my detailed knowledge of where I'm going? Do you like all the research I've done? Hell, I'm just putting it in the GPS and asking for the good voodoo shops once I get there.

Anyway am excited. And this blog will go quiet for a few days. I still do not have a ding and dang cell phone, so I can't keep up with you, and I haven't had time to look around for old posts to post.

SORRY. Geez. You know, some people go MONTHS without posting, Miss Doxie. Ima go four days and y'all are gonna have 88 fits, aren't you?

I am bringing my camera, and I will not even DIGNIFY your hysterical, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH THE PETS?!?!?" questions. I am putting them in the bedroom and closing the door. Survival of the fittest. Roger will be fine when I return.

My best friend from high school, Donna, and I met the very first day of school. They put us both in the deaf homeroom. Is it okay to say "deaf"? They change what's sensitive and what isn't, but I think you're still allowed to say that without someone sending me a scathing email. Anyway, I swear to you it was all deaf kids and the two of us. I was sitting there, in the first five minutes of high school, thinking, This is awful. Everyone in high school is so QUIET. Is this what it's gonna be like?

I saw a girl near me who had hair EXACTLY LIKE MINE who seemed to be thinking the same thing. Hours later we were in gym class together, and we had EXACTLY THE SAME fine physical prowess, meaning the gym teacher would just shake his head and let us play badminton in the corner all year, and anyway we came to the theory that they took the loudest girl from North Junior High and the loudest one from South and put them with all the deaf kids so they couldn't disturb anyone.

We still managed to bug everyone else at school.

And now we can irk everyone in New Orleans, and I assure you there will be a minimum of 15 times that Donna and I will be giggling until we have no breath. Because we may be middle-aged now, and she has a fancy job and two kids and so on, but we both still HAVE THIS HAIR and neither of us has matured an iota.

Even though I am packing iotas, I will not get them out.

So have a good weekend, y'all, and I will tell you about my trip when I return. Unless it makes it on the national news before then.

Where everybody knows your name

Before I begin, I would just like to thank Tallulah for becoming a 6,000-pound LUMP once she gets into bed. A 6,000-pound lump that cannot be budged no matter what you do. Old Ton-ya Harding, over there, was on all the blankets last night and I slept under one-eighth of an inch of sheet in the freezing cold. Thanks, Talu. I enjoy your every fiber right now.

Lu sleeped gud. {stretssh.}

Look at that damn floor. How that floor vexes me. I must fix it.

Oh, and also, it's my mother's birthday today.

Go, June's mom. It's your birthday. Gonna party like it's your birthday. Drink Bacardi like it's your birthday. Reference songs from 2000 like it's your birthday.

Later today, mom will be telling me precisely how many phone calls and cards and lunches and well-wishes she got. Yes, she counts. Yes, her best friend and I tell her this is annoying. She tells us annually anyway.

And speaking of Bacardi, I got something to tell you.

Some of you know I don't drink. I mean, you know this because I have said so on this blog. Or you know this because you know me in real life. I have been a not-drinker for a long time now, probably about as long as that stupid birthday song above has been in existence. Before that, I was, you know, quite the drinker. It was my area of expertise.

I do not talk about it a lot because the way I went about not drinking anymore is

ANONYMOUS

and you aren't supposed to go blabbing about it in public. Of course, I'd be more than willing to talk with anyone about it privately via email or whatever.

At any rate, things were going along nicely and I'd be all, "Oh cranberry juice for me, please!" it so on.

Then I don't know if you noticed this, but Marvin moved out and a few months later I started dating. Did you notice that? Did you pick up on that subtle change in my life?

Well. The very first date I went on, which was with Dick Whitman--he is the George Washington of my foray into dating. The Adam. The Kelly Clarkson--I was as nervous as a cat. I hadn't been on a date since Clinton was president. And he hadn't even dated Monica Lewinski yet. I mean, I was tense. So I ordered a Pinot Grigio. I'd never had a Pinot Grigio--that had been invented while I was sober. But Ramona on Real Housewives drinks them like water, so I wanted to try one.

And we were off and running. By the way, Dick Whitman feels personally responsible for me drinking again and that is ludicrous. It's no one's responsibility but mine, obviously. Oh, okay. Dick Whitman, you DROVE ME TO DRINK! It was the orange polka-dot shirt!

And for me, I'm not that dramatic of a drunk. I mean, when my friends got together with me and I--gasp!--ordered a drink, a few said, "Are you okay?" but most said, "I never really thought you were an alcoholic anyway."

Which by the way? If you have a friend who is in a recovery program? Do not say that. Please.

My point is, five months I've been drinking now, and the other night I was on a date. Shut up. I know I'm on a man break. I met a really nice boy, and no, I didn't meet him on Match.com, and I do not want to jinx it yet with details but so far it's like Central Casting has said, "Let's plop down a really excellent boy for June." Okay, he likes Rush. But in his spare time he works with an animal rescue organization. I think the latter cancels out the former.

MY POINT IS, which I know I already said, he and I went out Saturday night and I had one drink with him, and after he dropped me off I drove out in the middle of the night and bought wine at the grocery store. I had negative 16 dollars in checking so I used a credit card.

And it occurred to me. This is not normal behavior. A person does not need to go out late at night to get wine for herself and a person does not need to CHARGE WINE if she is a, you know, normal drinker.

So I called a friend and last night we might have gone somewhere

ANONYMOUS

and what I like about myself is how subtle I am.

Hey! Maybe I should do a corkscrew giveaway! I have a really good one.

So that is all my news that is fit to print.

And by the way, the kittens are recovering just fine. Delighted to be able to be picked up and posing for the webcam again. "dis fun, mom. andersun having a ball."

Junethropologie

Six hundred and seventy dollars later, poor Roger and Anderson are back home.

SIX HUNDRED AND SEVENTY DOLLARS!

Thank all that is holy and credit-giving I have a CareCard. It's like a credit card for the vet. Roger not only had to get fixed, he had a hernia. Plus they had to get their final round of vaccines, and when all was said and done--yeah.

That's three Botoxes I could have had.

When I went to pick my gender-neutral cats up, the vet said, as she ALWAYS does, "Are you sure about Roger's age?"

"Yes. I got him when he was a teensy thing. He used to be able to crawl under a closed door."

Remember when I first got him and he did that? Awww.

"Well, he's the biggest non-Maine Coon I have ever seen," said the vet. "And he's not overweight. Promise me you'll not change vets. I have to see how big this monster ends up getting."

"What's he weigh now?" I asked her. She looked at her chart. "Twelve point two, and he's barely seven months old. Anderson weighs seven pounds and he's two weeks older. Roger outweighs him by 40%."

We looked at each other with big eyes and laughed for a long time. Roger is going to end up being the size of a Macy's Parade float.

Anyway, they seem to be doing fine, although I felt bad because I picked up Roger and he said, "MOW!" and I think I hurt his little hernia incision. I am an outstanding cat mom.

In other news, I never got to tell you about my most excellent discovery about Dick Whitman. This weekend he and I went shopping for iPhones, because if I don't get another iPhone soon Ima die, and if I get the old 3G one it'll be really cheap, and he wants the new fancy kind because he currently has a giant shoe phone like they spoke into on 90210. 

So we were at the Apple store at the mall near me, and neither of us got an iPhone for reasons that would bore you and you would all end up looking like the cats in the photo above, and when we were leaving the store Dick Whitman--WHO I AM NOT DATING--said, "You wanna go to Anthropologie?"

Anthropologie is only my favorite store. They might as well name it Junethropologie, because that makes a ton of sense. "Yeah, if YOU do!" I mean, they only sell housewares and girl clothes there.

It turns out? Dick Whitman? Even though he is straight, loves--LOVES--shopping for girl clothes, and picking out girl clothes, and accessories, and ohmygod he is like someone you can play Barbies with! He is so good at picking out clothes! Five months I been knowing Dick Whitman and I never knew this riveting fact about him. We must have been in Anthropologie for over an hour, looking at hats and dresses and sweaters and necklaces and he is more fun than any gay boyfriend I ever had. Are you listening, Dave Newman who was never gay that way and who always wanted to go hiking instead?

I'm just saying. Dick Whitman. There is a reason everyone comes into your life. This is why he is here. He is my one-millimeter-from-being-gay friend. Am delighted at this discovery.

I guess that's all I have to tell you, except I turned on the TV last night, to warm it up in anticipation of my show (Real Housewives) (totally want to hire last night's psychic), and I ended up watching an old movie called Sweet November. Has anyone ever seen it? It was good, even though the actress Sandy Denis has always made me nervous. 

Also, why don't you guys ever invite me to your plastic-surgery parties? Okay, that is really all.