Bye Bye, Pie!

Tiffany jazz

Thank you all for your Ned questions in yesterday's comments. They were thought-provoking and insightful and often stupid. I did, speaking of the stupid ones, get a kick out of Hulk's questions. Why do I enjoy ludicrous Hulk?

If you have MORE questions for Ned, please do not ask them here. Go to yesterday's post. I refuse to schlep back and forth between here and there when I cut and paste these all for Ned. It's all for you, Ned! That's only funny if you saw The Omen.

I decided that Ned'd do better if I mailed him all the questions and he could mull them over and compose his thoughtful answers to whatever ones he picks. (How much you wanna bet he skims over the "What are your intentions for our June" one?) When we first met, he used to compose his emails to me in Word, then cut and paste them into email, to make sure they were just so. Ned's carefulness is the cutest thing I ever encountered. You will be shocked to hear I'd answer his emails 14 seconds later, slapping down whatever horrid thought I had right then.

Speaking of horrid, which leads us to jazz, we partied down with my pal Jo last night, as we were celebrating the momentous occasion of her birth just 23 years ago. See what I did, there? I shaved some years. Not that she needs that, because bitch looks incredible.

She'd mentioned this album from her youth, where each of the instruments has a name, like Max the Sax. She'd lost hers, and always missed it, so I found it online, because I am the coolest friend ever.

I also got her this card, and let me tell you this fascinating piece of info. I really have a new favorite color, and it's this shade of blue. I KNOW! I've been a pink girl all my life, and I do not know if this is a phase, or if the traumatic events of the past five years have shifted my brain, or what all. I'm just telling you I gravitate to this color now, which I guess we could call Tiffany blue. Let's. Let's call it Tiffany blue, as it may encourage people to give me things in Tiffany boxes.

See. This is why sometimes this blog takes me forever. I had to go around and photograph all the Tiffany blue things I've purchased in the last year or so. But as you can see, there is a theme. Also I should state, for the record, that the first jewelry shot that includes those beautiful blue earrings sitting to the side? Those were given to me by Faithful Reader Hibiscus Wilson for my birthday, and I find EVERY REASON POSSIBLE to wear them.

How the hell did I get on this tangent?

Oh. Jo's party. Right.

So, my pal Kit was there, and I guess I don't need to tell you I loved her glasses. So much so that I took another of my professional shots of it. I TOTALLY NEED a better iPhone. Yes, I know. I can't have one. BUT IT'S FOR MY ART!

In fact, lots of people, including my hair, were present for Jo, because she is da bomb and everyone loves her.

We were all having a great time, except for one thing. The thing that officially makes us old.

"Does it have to be so LOUD in here?" I groused to Ned, who'd had the worst day ever and was starving to death and probably just wanted to be in a dark room opening a vein.

We ALL complained about the noise, because it's a big open room, and the band felt the need to turn it up to 11, and even better, they were jazz. Jazz. Is there anything I hate more than jazz?

Okay, people who say "pin number." But nothing else.

Okay, the place down the street with the name Workout Anytime. You work out during your workout. Why does God see fit to put irksome things in my path?

That's it, though. Just those things, then jazz.

Monty Python.

BUT RIGHT AFTER THAT, JAZZ.

Cilantro.

Okay, anyway. The point is, I tried to veedeotape the band for you, so you could share in my suffering, because what's the point of suffering unless everyone joins you, but all you can hear is me saying I'm in hell and Ned saying no I'm NOT in hell, and I like how he gets to decide this.

 

Am I always that loud? Is it just because the phone/veedeo thing is right next to me, or do I speak in my outdoor, hello-I'm-on-Broadway-and-you're-in-the-last-row voice all the time?

The point is? Good bash. And happy birthday, Jo, which I just mistyped "Ho" and slayed my own self.

June. In hell.

God save the wax queen

Yesterday, I had another of my hard-hitting, inciting-envy giveaways. Y'all had to guess who these very recognizable people were, from what is clearly a quality wax museum:

I think what we all need to do is get together for some kind of Bye Bye Piefest at this wax museum. Because, ridiculous? The problem is, I don't wanna say where it is and get sued or anything.

So, Faithful Reader SBtar correctly ID everyone in their wax, and about an hour later in the comments I wrote that no one had guessed it yet, and then my friend Dot--who had GONE to this stunning wax museum like it was good--wrote me and said, "BStar guessed it." I was all, "She DID?" Am certain it comforts you all that I read your comments so carefully.

The first one, believe it or not, is supposed to be Queen Elizabeth. I KNOW! And then most of you guessed right that for some reason that's Elvis as a waiter in a diner, and Michael J. Fox. I should have blooped out the background.

So, email me, BStar, for your fabulous gift.

I know, dude. You are so welcome.

In other unwaxy news, this week is Faithful Reader and Friend in Real Life Jo's birthday!

We had lunch to celebrate. She had a waffle with an egg in the middle. Hang on. I think I took a photo of it.

I did! God, I am excellent. Please note that Jo hangs out at this particular restaurant so much that she has her own coffee mug. Latte mug. Whatever. The point is, she is totally Norm on Cheers.

Tonight she is having a bash at a restaurant right across the street from Ned's house, so that's convenient for us. And Ned took tomorrow off, so PARTAYYY! We could be out till TEN or something.

Actually, Ned is a late-night person. Sometimes I'll say I'm tired and he'll be all, "It's not even 1:00 yet." Okay, Vampira. Girlfriend is old. Tallulah's been in REM three hours, and I would be too if I weren't hanging around you.

Doesn't a poached egg sound good now, looking at Jo's food up there? I have no eggs. I know this is shocking information for you. I do have fish sticks and some Amy's burritos. I am pathetic.

Anyway, so that's what I'm doing tonight. Celebrating the event of Jo's birth. At a restaurant where Ned and I had our second date. If you think about it, that was a clever move on his part, going somewhere right across the street from his pad. "Sayyy, would you...like to see my cat condo? It's right across the street."

In fact, he didn't do that. He didn't even TRY to invite me in to his swinging bachelor abode. As I recall, we ate and then he drove me home. Now I'm kind of mad. Was I REPULSIVE to him? Why didn't he try to lure me to his place? God!

Do you like this? Now when I talk to him today I'll be that woman. "...Oh. Hi. No, nothing's wrong. {sniff}"

Oh! Oh, oh! And before I forget, some of you in the comments said we should have an Ask Ned day, so go ahead and ask Ned any questions you have. I presented this idea to him last night, and he seemed...cautious. Kind of like how he was cautious about stampeding up to his place when we were right across the street back in January and I'm just getting mad about it now.

My point is, I told him he only had to answer the Qs he wanted to, so keep that in mind.

I will go now, maybe have some fish sticks, but I did want to leave you with this.

I saw the towheaded children in my neighborhood again last night, the ones who used to own Snowflake before Snowflake's tragic demise.

This time they called my dog "Tatoola." They don't even acknowledge Edsel, which I think is because the name throws them too much and also because the whole time I talk to them he is making himself invisible behind my knees. They have never managed to touch that creature even once. Lu stands and patiently gets her head petted, even though you can tell she'd rather not. She feels about children the way I do.

Once they realized I was taking pictures, they made me take 48 more. "TAKE A PICTURE OF ME SWINGING! TAKE A PICTURE OF US RUNNING! TAKE A PICTURE OF OUR MOM OPENING HER SECOND BOTTLE OF WINE INSIDE!"

I do like those kids, though, because they actually play. Outside. You never see that anymore. And yes. I DO want to go back there and tidy everything up.

Anyway, thanks for playing "Identify the wax figures" with me, and I agree that looks absolutely nothing like Queen Elizabeth. Oh, and don't forget to ask Ned whatever.

Spike. In my blood pressure. Also, June waxes on.

My sink's water filter broke, and I know you wonder how I am able to carry on, and let me tell you I almost didn't. Am I just supposed to go around drinking BAD CARCINOGENIC WATER from now on? Because, unacceptable.

I made the fatal error of phonng Marvin to see if he had any idea of how to fix said broken water filter, and does anyone remember that Marvin used to bug me? Because I DO. It just ALL CAME BACK to me.

He let me tell him the whole story of how it broke (the thing won't go back on the thing) and what I tried and my theories about what it could be that broke it, and after all that he said, "Yeah. I have no idea."

Sigh.

I forgot to tell you that he managed to not only bug me during that fruitless phone call (Ned was working. This is why I plundered my past for water filter help. Ned and that pesky need to make a living. Can't his job just be ensuring my comfort and clean water at all times? And what do you MEAN lucky Marvin?), he also managed to bug me from afar the other day with the popcorn salt.

I like things on my popcorn that have nothing to do with butter (blech) or salt. This, in fact, is one of the many reasons I like Ned. He, too, abhors butter on his popcorn. Every week we go to the movies and split a giant tub of ("GodDAMMIT, I like popcorn") popcorn, and nearly every week the kid says, "Butter?" and we both screech, "NO!" like they're taking away our free will or something.

So generally I put Spike or Mrs. Dash--or in my case, Mrs. Kind of Trot--on my popcorn, and I also live large and put Parmesan cheese on there, or if I'm really lucky, nutritional yeast. Poke fun at me all you want. It's good. You just have to remember to get the nutritional yeast at the hippie co-op, is the problem there.

But the other day I made popcorn and I was out of Mrs. Kind of Trot, so I got on a chair and searched the depths of my spice cupboard for something else. And lo and behold, there at the very back was some cheese-flavored popcorn salt from God knows when. From when I was married, at least, as I was about to find out the hard way.

"Yay! Cheesy salt!" I thought, and let me tell you, odder things come out of this brain in the course of a day. I took the lid off and shook. And shook. And shook it like a Polaroid picture. Because 2004 called.

And?

Nothing.

I pounded the side of the exciting cheesy salt.

Nothing.

Finally I looked closely. Marvin. Marvin, who's been gone a year and a half, had done the thing to the salt. My cheesy salt.

You know how you get a food item now, and more often than not you remove the lid--let's use peanut butter as an example--and for who knows what reason they now put a foil-ish kind of SECOND lid underneath? And you have to peel that stupid lid off to get to the real food? (Do they think this really keeps people from tampering? Do you not think if you were diabolical enough to want to tamper with peanut butter you'd be man enough to circumvent the flimsy lid?)

Well. Marvin? Never removed those aluminumy second lids.

It's like he was SUCH a busy executive that he couldn't take time. It was like the house was aflame, but he just needed one dip of peanut butter before saving the pets from the licking inferno. He'd peel a LITTLE of it, then leave it in tact, sort of pat it back down. Because apparently MY job was to take off the whole thing at some later date.

So the salt? My cheesy salt? My big find at the back of the shelf? Marvin had poked the world's tiniest hole in it, so just one grain of salt could get out per pour. It's like he must have used a pin, and poked a hole THROUGH ONE OF THE PLASTIC SALT SHAKER OPENINGS, to get a Lilliputian drop of salt out of that thing.

Guess who is lucky he doesn't live here anymore? Because guess whose next colonoscopy would suggest he's gettin' a little too personal with Lot's Wife? Guess who'd have condiments in each of his nethers? And no, I have no idea what "nethers," plural, means, either. I'm mad. Cut me some slack.

And in case you're worried sick, I bought me some original flavor Mrs. Dash yesterday. And I peeled off the lid completely.

In other pressing news, my old friend Dot sent me this.

Dot knows what a huge Yoko fan I am, and also how much I enjoy hearing about her three-ways with celebrities.

"Okay, where WAS this? Because those are the worst replicas of John and Yoko I've ever seen," I wrote her. "Oh, we went to a wax museum," Dot told me, "and no one there looked remotely like anyone was supposed to. It was hilarious."

And that, friends, is how I decided to have a giveaway (I KNOW! You know how good my giveaways are. And how I hop right on getting your winnings to you.). The first person to actually guess who these inexplicably bad wax figures are wins a brand-new, super-exciting, chosen just for youuuuu....

...box of Abraham Lincoln bandages.

I KNOW! Honest!

Get it? Do you? Be sure to take them to the theater, in case you get wounded.

June. Tasteful and appropriate since 1965.

Okay, here we go. Who the hell are these wax people?

Good luck. I mean, I don't want to put too much pressure on you, but again. Abe Lincoln bandages.

I'll even peel the lid off the package, if it has one.

Sometimes? On Howard Stern? When a guest can't make a decision, Howard says, "You aren't buying a condo. Just decide."

When the vet told me that Iris had an inflamed bladder, and is this burning an eternal flame-y bladder, one thing she suggested was that Iris be allowed to go to high places. Apparently this helps them mellow out, dude.

"So if you're not letting her on counters or shelves, you might want to start letting her."

Has this vet met me? As if anyone here has a single rule. If I had kids I'd be Pippy Longstocking's mom. "Oh, yes, I'm eight, and I live alone."

I toyed with getting her a kitty condo, but see Employment: none. Cash flow: poor. Fortunately for me I have a blog, because apparently when you have a blog people give you things. See June: annoying. Faithful Reader Did Not Say I Could Say Who She Was, and in case you're thinking, "I've never seen anyone named Did Not Say I Could Say Who She Was," see You: Dumb as Stump.

Anyway, Faithful Reader Did Not Say I Could Say Who She Was sent me a brand-new, super-exciting, chosen just for youuuuuu...

...remember when they'd say that on The Newlywed Game? I have no idea if they say it in this clip, as I was not going to sit through a whole episode of this dumb show, above. See YouTube Clip: June has things to do. I did, however, watch the commercial that said it was like having a hairdresser in your home, and would that that were true, considering my silent, nonracist hairdresser. What a treat.

ANYWAY, the faithful reader sent me a cat condo. Is the thing I was trying to tell you that should have taken two sentences at the top of this post and has now morphed into War and Peace, The Blog.

The UPS guy flumped this world's heaviest box on my porch, and he could not see me in here, but he glared at the house as he sweatily left. Look. I can't help it I have a blog and people send me things. I totally should have run after him and said that.

I lost 50 pounds dragging that box of anvils in here, then I excitedly ripped open the box, thinking the entire thing'd pop out whole, somehow. Here is what I found.

Guess who called Ned.

Look, man. When you have All This, men stampede over to put things together for you. It did not hurt that I still had some of his fancy beer left over from his birthday two months ago. I didn't even need to play that card, though, the I-schlepped-all-the-way-to-Winston-Salem-to-get-you-fancy-beer-from-a-brewery card. Because, again. See: All This.

Lily hadn't even been expecting Ned and was furious at me I hadn't warned her so she could put on her face. She still took the opportunity to swish her tail in his beer.

Ned asked if I just had him put this thing together so I'd have something to blog about. I never. As one can plainly see, I could have just posted about The Newlywed Game and amused myself endlessly. Hmpf.

As the minutes ticked by, it became evident this was not your run-of-the-mill condo. Girlfriend had details.

We decided to take the thing into the room where said condo was going to reside, and that room was my back room, where apparently I have glowing gold bars. And if that were the case, why aren't we Seeing: June Buying Things Willy-Nilly?

Eventually, and by "eventually" I mean 16 hours later, the thing was completed, and I placed both cats on there terrecktly.  Yes, I just said "terrecktly." Lily was over it immediately, but guess what. GUESS WHAT? Iris was all up in it.

I knew it was a good sign when she started lounging in parts before they were even put up.

Plus, there are not one but TWO dangling mouses, and she spent, oh, 97 minutes trying to kill said mouses and drag them to her lair. I figure it's a matter of time before she succeeds in tearing one down from its string.

Today, I put their food on their brand-new, super-exciting condo, and I think Edsel is annoyed that he doesn't know how to climb things. Anyway, I hope they continue to use it, because it was exhausting putting it up.

So I hear.

Best Crab Cake in Town

This weekend, I was telling Ned the fascinating story of how once I took Faithful Reader Laurie to the train station, and have I mentioned what riveting date I must be? And, because who could get enough of that story, I found it on my blog to send to him.

Turned out, it's a pretty boring post, but I found one from a few days later, in which I am telling you, the beleaguered reader, about how I was gonna plant a climbing rose. I wrote, "I have been waiting for months, because for the zone I live in, which is the danger zone and I've taken the highway to it, you plant your climbing roses in January."

Well. That line struck me as funny. I sat here, and I guffawed, and I chortled, and I giggled, and had to lie my head on the desk, and I wonder if possibly I could be the least-likable person alive on planet Earth.

And eventually I'll stop blogging about blogging, but I also wanted to mention that Ned and I were at Target yesterday.

The end.

No!

We were at Target, throwing down and partayying and raising the roof because the roof, the roof, the roof was on fire, and we saw a picture of Avril Lavigne while we were backing it up like we just didn't care. "I read your blog the other day," said Ned, "and what's Avril Lavigne done?"

Do you know it took me three hours to realize Ned had read my blog? He doesn't READ my blog. "Wait. Why were you reading my blog?" I asked, three hours later like we'd sat in silence all that time. Ned got a new smartphone this week, see, and he decided the first thing he wanted to look at at on it was my blog.

Now, see. Maybe that doesn't seem romantic to you, but that about killed me.

In other news, I pretty much spent the weekend eating, which combined with how I can't work out, does not at all mean that I am starting to look like Violet in Willie Wonka.

In case you wondered if Ooompa-Loompas disturb me, yes. Yes, they do.

On Saturday, I had tea with my friend The Other June, and we had 72 teensy sandwiches, and cookies, and scones with clotted cream, which is everyone's favorite heart-healthy treat.

We stopped at my favorite store that has a Kitler, and Hitler kitty refused to look at me. I have shown him approx. 79 times on this blog now, and maybe he's sick of all the recognition.

nein! hittlur kittee not look at gurl.

Also, I wore really good shoes, which complement my litter box. That clutch is from Dick Whitman. It's made from recycled candy wrappers, and yes it IS cool.

The first person to mention my tattoo, which I've now shown 45859394 times, gets you know what from my you know where.

If that weren't enough, later that evening, Ned and I went to an Italian restaurant, where we each got, you know, lots of Italian food. "Good Lord, why'd we eat so much?" I wondered.

"You wanna go to the dessert place?" asked Ned.

"Of course!"

Oompa, loompa, doopity doo.

Ned eats dessert to forget that there is an office poking into his head.

The dessert place we went to was decorated (is that the word? I guess "designed" is fancier) by my friend The Nester, and thank goodness I linked to her. Because she doesn't get nine hundred thousand two million and fourteen visitors a minute or anything. That group over there fascinated us. They were so...employable. We decided bible study. That's what they were doing. They certainly weren't gathering to buy drugs.

And because ooohh, can't you see, food is the drug for me, after eating everything possible, we decided to go for a long walk. Off a short pier. We just happened to stroll past the midcentury modern store where the cute owner may or may not dwell, and I am pleased to announce that Ned took this blurry picture, and IT'S MY PHONE, NOT ME.

Then yesterday we got up and ate more food.

Marty Martin and Kay decided we should all watch Grey Gardens, so we did it up like rich people with crustless sandwiches and scones and so forth.

And then also, they got dressed up and we didn't. Because I didn't know were were gonna. Besides, what could I fit into at this juncture?

Turns out? Everyone hated Grey Gardens except me, and they all got mad I didn't warn them, but what's to warn? I LOVE that movie!

After, Ned and I went to the Mellow Mushroom and ate.

So that sums up my weekend. Faithful Reader Carol sent me 900 more books, so I have MY entertainment all planned out. When I'm not reading, I thought I might rustle me up some treats. Little smackerel of something. This and that to nosh on.

Good gravy.

Did someone say "gravy"?

Oh, and today is my Aunt Kathy's birthday. HBD, Aunt K!

Last night, Ned and I got up with Dick Whitman in Winston-Salem. I have no idea what we're discussing here but I guarantee you it was deep.
We went to Single Brothers, which is this small cool place that makes fancy mixed drinks. Last night their special was muddled strawberries with vodka and just a little ginger ale. Ned had beer.
Dick Whitman had something with gin and sugar involved. He likes him a sweet drink, like mint juleps or, you know, gin and sugar.

Again, definitely a deep moment. Probably geography or the state of the nation being discussed. Or the smallness of my hair.

Today Ima get up with (who needs to get over that phrase?) my friend The Other June, as we are having a Queen's Tea at a, you know, tea shop. I do not know what a Queen's Tea involves. Perhaps we have to sing a lot of showtunes. The point is, The Other June came to my birthday party, but other than that, the last time I saw her was the night before my first date with Ned.

Since then I have been annoyingly occupied, I guess. I became one of THOSE women.

After, I'll walk the curs and then see Ned again tonight. Tomorrow afternoon we're going to brunch at my friend Marty Martin's house, where the four of us (not that Marty Martin is two people. His girlfriend will also be there. Smarty pants.) are going to eat brunch and watch Grey Gardens. I have to bring petits fours or scones, and I'd just like you to TRY to find petits fours in this one-fucking-horse town.

Sometimes I miss LA.

So that sums up my weekend. What are you up to? Tell me everything. Every disgusting detail. Make it dirty.

Love,

June

In which June is a 3. 2. 2.

Has there been a day this week I have not been dashing off to somewhere and pulling a fast post out my arse?

June's blog. Come for the photography. Stay for the grace and dignity.

In case you were up all night, tossing and turning, my dental visit went shockingly well. Oh, I still need to replace old fillings and get a bridge because apparently I have a raging river in there or I have to connect San Francisco with Oakland or something, but the last time I was there--in January, same day as my first date with Ned, in fact, and I remember writing to him, "If this date is a bust, at least you can tell everyone 'She had great oral hygiene"--I bought the new Oral B. I already had Oral and his B, but I got the updated version. Oral B 2.0. Because back then I had a job and was not eating Cream of Wheat for dinner.

So I get in there, and to say my hygienist is chatty is like saying Avril Lavigne might not be making the most sensible decisions right now. I realize the whole time I have pointy instruments in my gullet, so chatting back is not possible, but can we just enjoy the silence every once in awhile?

Why do women need to chat so much? Asks the woman who every day writes 1,000 words to the ether. Honestly, though, it drives me berserk. At salons, stores, restaurants, you hear women, "And bloop de bloo doo and I said to her well blee de bleep de blee!" Good GOD women, give it a REST. Must everything be discussed ad nauseum?

I think that's why I have more men friends. I don't often find it necessary to prattle on. Do I? Friends in real life? Do I? Okay, Renee, you can't answer that Q. For some reason Renee and I explode with words when we're together. And who is sad she didn't get to hang with Renee in Hawaii this month?

Anyway. MY POINT IS, and I am totally being a woman now, the hygienist got in my mouth, there, and she was all, "Oh, wow!"

Now, see. That's what they always do. Oh, your root canal didn't take. Your filling now needs a crown. Your whole mouth needs removed and restarted. But this time, she said, "Everything looks great!" She got out her pointy tools, and thank GOD her kitchen remodel is over, so I didn't have to hear about that again, but she interrupted herself midprattle to say, "I don't really even need to polish you. I will, but, Esther? Get in here!"

Poor Esther, who probably has ear bleeds every night from working with my hygienist, came in kind of trepidaciously. "She bought the Oral B last time she was here and look at her!" They peered at me like I was baby Jesus in the manger. "Wow!" Esther admitted. I think it was my swaddling clothes.

Then they did the thing where they stick ANOTHER pointy tool in your gums and say, "Three two three. Three two three." I always like that because 323 is my old area code in LA. When they'd finished poking at every molucule of gum I own, the woman taking the numbers said, "I haven't heard numbers that good in years."

So, June. Passing the dental exam. Won't you admire my teeth with me?

In other news, there was a really good rainbow when I got to Ned's the other night, and of course my iPhone captured it brilliantly. Perhaps I could sell some of these really good teeth buy an iPhone 4.

Also, I decided to do just the muscular structure work of my Traci Lords veeedeo, and the animals made that super easy.

You know, me being on a mat does not mean, EEEEEVERYBODY! ON THE MAT! PARTAYYY ON THE MAT! Really. It doesn't.

After repeatedly kicking both my mentally and physically challenged pets, it turns out my heel hurts. So damn. That isn't good.

Okay, screaming off, because apparently being unemployed means you are super busy.

June, sayin' it loud. I'm plaque-free and I'm proud.

June is brief.

I slept late and I have to go to the dentist, because I know how to throw down on a Thursday. To summarize life lately:

1. Iris is not better, despite giving her Clavamox for two weeks, which she really enjoyed, so I am delighted she didn't need it. The vet is going to test her for one more thing, but really thinks she has bladder inflammation from stress. The dogs chase her. Am getting v.v. depressed about this whole thing.

I told Hulk, which, why. Why did I think, "Oh! Sympathetic ear? How 'bout Hulk?" He said, "I have a production schedule at work that will never be met. Am looking at a $7,000 orthodontist bill, I'm fighting with my ex and I can't get laid. But please tell your cat I hope her stress gets better."

.....yeah.

2. Am probably going to start freelancing heavily for ...a place starting next week. More reports as developments warrant.

3. This is good, because one way to reduce stress in cats other than FIND THEM A QUIET HOME AND KILL ME NOW, is to let them climb up high. Iris, being blind, does not go in for jumping to high places, but she climbs the shit out of Edsel's crate, which is where her food is. So I figure she'd climb a kitty condo, and DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH THOSE COST? Holy cats. So to speak.

4. I have been emailing with Daniel Boone. I know. Shut up. It's not what you think. We are friends. We always were good at being friends. Terrible at being more. Which leads me to:

5. Am unspeakably in love with Ned, and every time I see him I get more twitterpated. I remain gross gross gross.

Talk at you later.

Deep Thought

The more Prince Harry does stupid things, the more I like him. Also, how boring is my life that you can't find any photos of me naked in Vegas?

Life Story

The other day, Ned and I were talking about going to the library when we were kids, and we are a scorchingly fascinating couple.

Ned was, like, a real boy, who played outside all day and participated in sports and liked dinosaurs. I was usually inside (a) reading a book, (c) putting on makeup or (14) tape-recording things. I know I've told  you this already, that some poor unsuspecting grandparent or aunt or someone said, "Ooo, maybe I'll get June a tape-recorder. She might like that." Then for the rest of time I was hauling that thing everywhere, interviewing you ("How much money do you make? Are you happily married?") or creating whole soap operas in which I was every character.

Guess who was the world's most annoying child?

Anyway, we both liked going to the library, Ned and I did, although he did not become obsessed with reading till he was in college. The point is, we were talking about books we checked out over and over again when we were yutes. That is only funny if you saw My Cousin Vinny, which you should probably not admit. As I just did.

For me the book I checked out repeatedly was Sugarplum, which was the story of a wooden doll who wanted to be taken more seriously. And who ended up suspended in a jar of jelly, which by the way was my favorite part, because everything was pink then.

Who even knew there was a doll hierarchy? "Oh, a wooden doll? Let's see if we can't invite someone else to our tea party."

Anyway, for Ned it was this book about how the world was formed, and the whole thing took place on a stage with an audience, and they watched volcanoes form, and dinosaurs, and so on, till it got to the world today. Which by the way, once the Earth had people and houses, Ned was so over it. He'd just flip back to the dinosaurs.

"I got that book out 87 times," said Ned. "And I can't remember the name of it. I've tried to find it online, but..."

Well.

Who took THAT as a challenge? I went home and I wish I could TELL you the number of hours I spent here Googling, "children's earth book" and "how the earth was formed book" and "earth + stage + children's book" to no avail.

Finally it dawned on me to call my stepsister, who's a librarian in LA, and guess what. You'll never guess. She had some good ideas for finding said book, number one being that I should call it "juvenile" instead of "children's."

That's when I remembered she is friends with the juvenile librarian at work, and every time she'd have a get-together I'd make a funny funny joke like, "Is the juvenile librarian coming? Is he gonna shoot milk out his nose again?"

Guess who finds me 100% not funny? Is it my stepsister?

My point is, I went on LA's library system, found several books that MIGHT be it, then went on Amazon to enter the titles and do the "Look inside!" thing. After, you know, 860 titles, I SAW A STAGE!

I.SAW.A.STAAAAAGE.

Ohmygod, I was so excited. The book is called Life Story, and it was written in 1962, so sadly it was pretty new when Ned was reading it and God, we're old, and I ORDERED IT FOR SEVEN DOLLARS OHMYGOD!!!

It was totally the right book!

Oh, that was so exciting, finding it!

What do you wish you could find from your childhood? Tell all.