First of all, I have half a migraine, so the part where I make 20 errors and am dull as dishwater today is not my fault.
And let's talk about that anyway. I am a readist, not a typist. Sometimes I will make a typo even though I am a copy editor. OH CALL THE AUTHORITIES! JUNE MISSPELLED A WORD! Do I go on YOUR blog and tell you you made an error? Do I look at your COMMENT and tell you you made an error? I do not. If you said, "Here, June. Here's $100. Please look at my comment for spelling, punctuation or grammatical errors" I would then do so. Otherwise I don't. BECAUSE IT ISN'T NICE.
My head hurts. Did I mention that?
Today I had a phone interview for a place. Do you like how specific I am? A place. Anyway the job sounds IDEAL, and you can work from home a few days a week and oh! I want that job. But I am a long way from getting it. Plus my head hurt the whole time and I was kind of quiet. Maybe the interviewer thinks I'm the quiet nerdy type.
Which I totally am.
The other day ...friend mentioned Hemingway in an email, and the fact that he spelled "Hemingway" correctly made me like him more. God, I am boring. Some women are like, "What car does he drive?" and I'm all, "Give him a spelling test." And see if he says things like "I'm all." Because I never would.
Oh and speaking of me, and when aren't we, somehow my mother and I got into a discussion about snooping. If I asked you to come house-sit for me, or if any friend asked you to house-sit for them, would you snoop? My mother says most people wouldn't and I say most people would. Tell the truth.
Ima go put ice on my effing temple now, not that I have an altar to myself, although that's not a bad idea. Before I go, I have pictures from last night. Oh calm down. They aren't dirty.
Took dogs for their requisite walk last night, and here is an action shot of Edsel tormenting Kipper's Dick. You know what? Kipper's Dick is SO NOT SCARED of my dogs. She sidles up to me whenever I walk by without them, and when they ARE with me, she walks right up and arches her back at them. If Edsel would just BE COOL, she'd let me pet her with them right there. But guess who can't keep it in his pants? Guess.
At any rate, there we were, minding our own business (!!) when we saw my 97-year-old neighbor Paul. Whenever we see him, we go sit on his glider and talk. Well. I do. The dogs would be delighted to jump on the glider and pant pant pant with their hot stupid breath on Paul and me, but instead they sit on his deck. Paul's daughter always gives them water. They like her.
I tried to take a picture of Paul and me with my iPhone, and you can see I practically stole his soul, with the vast amount of Paul coverage I got there. How symbolic is this? ALL ME! IT'S ALL ME!!
Eventually his daughter took a photo of us, and how afraid of me must he be? HI! MY HAIR AND I ARE HERE! HI HI HIHI HIIII! HI SAYS MY HAIR! HAVE YOU MET MY HURR?
After I showed Paul my hair, and let's face it--I showed POPE JOHN Paul my hair, over in Rome. Who MISSED my hair, is more the question--I took a picture of the pretty sky.
Right after I did that, I saw one of the "HI LALOOLA, HI ETHEL!" kids, and for once she wasn't behind her cage in her yard, but rather out playing with another little girl, just like when we were kids and actually went outside and just randomly played and did not have our moms schedule an effing play date with Blackberries.
"Why did you take my picture?" she asked, as Ethel wound his leash around me 50 times to avoid her child-y hands. Oh Edsel finds children horrifying. He gets it from his mother.
And you know what? She flummoxed me. Why DID I take her picture, other than I take pictures of everything in order to report it on my blog. And could I tell her that? No. "I, um, just took a picture of the sky and..."
Really I had no answer. No answer for Awesome, up there.
You have no idea, once children figure out that Ethel is scared (and who wants to just legally change his name to Ethel? It's perfect for him.), how MUCH they want to pet him. I always tell them to leave him alone, because what if he fear bites? I mean, Ethel biting. I know. But do I want that on my hands if it happens? I do not. Why can't they be content to pet the dog who's fine with it?
Finally, I came home and moved the computer. Isn't this exciting? It's on the other side of the room now, and you can once again see the lemon labels. I like to mix it up here at House O'June. Marvin used to always tell me to move the lemon labels around to see if y'all'd notice. Maybe someday I will. See how I build the suspense?
Okay, gonna go lie down now for reals. Stupid head. Oh and answer the snooping Q. I know how you forget my Qs when they're buried in 90 feet of text. Or hurr.
