Bye Bye, Pie!

"Hey! How you doin'? That's me in the corner."

Yesterday was a dumb day.

Oh, and boo. In case I forget later. Did I just scare you to death? Oh, oh, and good voting yesterday! Obama won, and I'm certain my poll was completely scientific. But back to my stupid day.

I had to get up early yesterday, and by "early" I mean 8:15. Look. Being unemployed has its advantages. I had to get going to the podiatrist, because my stupid plantar fasciitis was not getting any better. My regular doctor said, "If it doesn't improve, we're gonna have to give you a shot of steroids in your heel. And that hurts, I can tell you that."

See.

If you ever want me to AVOID something, just tell me a horrible fact like that. Doctors NEVER admit something hurts. They say, "You might have some discomfort" when they put a speculum in your nostrils or whatever. So for MONTHS now I've been rolling my stupid foot on a tennis ball like some kind of twisted Labrador retriever or Martina Navratilova. Neither of whom actually rolls their feet on a tennis ball, but I never said I was accurate.

I've also been sleeping in a sexy splint, which I take off and very neatly place on my nightstand while I am DEAD ASLEEP, and I just kind of wonder what else I'm doing in the night. Making bad investments? REM e-mailing people? Not that I'm emailing "Hey! What up! I'm losing my religion!" "Hey, long time! Stand in the place where you live!"

When Ned and I went to the fair earlier this month and I liked to've DIED from the foot pain, he said, "You gotta go in and get that shot."

"Easy for YOU to say," I said. "YOU don't have to have a GIANT NEEDLE in your parts."

"June, I've had the same kind of shot in my knee. I was scared, too, but it didn't hurt at ALL. This is ridiculous. Go get the shot."

Guess who I ignored? But finally I Googled "Greensboro Podiatrists" because I'm fascinating, and I found one that had a website and they talked all about plantar fasciitis and NOWHERE in their treatment plan did they mention shots. This worked for me.

So I minced in there yesterday morning and they have a little bed/chair thing you sit on, and you place your feet on a very lovely doily and they ask you questions and before long the PA said, "Sounds like a classic case. Let's get an ultrasound and see what's up." She splooged the ultrasound gel on me.

Is "splooged" a dirty word? Because you know what I mean. She splatted it on my arch. I wonder if that one foot fetish person still reads me, the one who kept asking for more pics of me in my Dr. Scholl's? Because, RED-LETTER DAY for that person.

Soon she was looking at her little screen. "Is my plantar fasciitis a boy or a girl?" I asked, gazing fondly at myself in my mind.

"Heh," said the PA.

"Does...everybody make that joke?" I asked. "yyyyyep," she said, seeming beleaguered.

At any rate, the good news is I have pretty bad swelling and so on, which is exciting for me because I like my illnesses to be dramatic. No "slight case" crap for yours truly, over here. Give me the full-on Lassa Fever or whatev.

The PA starts telling me about what "plantar" means and what "fasciitis" means and if Tallulah had been there she would've said, "Hooo care," which is what I was thinking until I started to get...concerned about why I was tipping backward in the chair bed.

"What am I doing?" I asked, as the doctor snapped on gloves. Was she gonna do a strip tease? Get my mind off the pain?

"Have you had a steroid shot before?" she asked, spraying some COLD-ASS SHIT on my heel.

"No, and I--"

"All done," she said. Honest to god. All DONE? Dawgs, I didn't feel a THING. But just knowing she'd DONE it made me all queasy.

"I feel lightheaded. Is that normal?" I asked, the entire back of me all sweaty and Shroud of Turin-y on the chair bed. By the way, I totally want a chair bed. Gee, this show is good. But I'm getting logy. Maybe I'll just--bzzrrrrrp--HEY! I'm lying down!

I guess I could get a La-Z-Boy, right? Brooke Shields likes them, and she did NOT steer me wrong on Latisse.

The point is, in the end I was fine, and they gave me three sheets to the wind of paperwork so I can remember what time I do exercises, and what time I roll some OTHER thing on me, and they gave me an insert thing to wear and another night splint and also? ALSO? A list of the unsexiest shoes from all time, that I have to wear CONSTANTLY, even at HOME, until they say so.

Seriously, you guys, these SHOES. They're from the Granny on Beverly Hillbillies Collection. Holy god. They're Manohnoyoudidn't Blahhhniks.

So I left, and had to scream to work, and once I got there I told everyone who'd listen the whole story I just told you, and finally I decided to review my paperwork, because good being an employee!, and it was then I realized I'd left the DING-DANG papers back at the doctor.

I had to get BACK in the car, drive BACK to the doctor, disturb the PA's lunch (she had a big thing of cottage cheese. She was pretty heavy, so I wonder if she's trying to diet. If I ate a big thing of cottage cheese at lunch I would be so starved I'd STAMPEDE to Chick-Fil-A on the drive home) and get the dang papers.

I got back to work and did my, you know, work. Finally it was time to go, and I had my new foot brace and my box of numbing gel and the stretchy thing they gave me and my purse and also two avocados that Jane West had given me. They'd been on sale and she got really excited about them and "I got avocado goggles and bought too many," she told me. So I was excited to get those home.

When I got here? I realized?

I'D LEFT THE DING-DANG EFFING SHITPICKLED PAPERS AT WORK.

Goddammit.

So I'm doing what I can remember to do, which is wear the effing night brace and not walk around without shoes and pop Aleve like I'm starring in Valley of the Dolls. Also, I am completely forbidden to do Tracy Ullman for the time being, so Ima get fat fat fat and have to eat big things of cottage cheese for lunch. In two weeks we'll see how I'm progressing.

...Should I totally use my ultrasound picture for my Christmas card?

Pick Flick

Ask me how that statistics textbook is going.

NOT WELL. NOT WELL AT ALL. Have you SEEN the index on this thing? They'll list one word and give you 84929492949395 pages where that word appears. And because this is a reprint, it's not on the page they say. Which means I have to FIND it in all that riveting statistics text.

This means I have to go now and look at that stupid thing till it's time to go to fake work. So I will be brief.

Here is what I want to know today. I asked this four years ago, too.

Who are you voting for? For president. Not for America Idol.

And BE NICE. If there is a not-nice comment, I will DELETE your ass. DELETE. I know you're scared now.

Okay. Tell.

Don't ask

I got up early because I have several chapters left to proofread of that Polish document (don't ask), and I now also have a 350-page statistics textbook to proofread, so I was gonna try to get ahead of either of those tasks before I went to fake work, and instead I stampeded in here and started blerging.

June's blog. June's blerg. Come for the short, concise sentences. Stay to get your name made fun of in the comments.

(Don't ask.)

We're doing a lot of don't-ask-don't-tell today so far.

At any rate, despite the fact that I am in here wasting time talking to YO AZZ, I am glad to have the freelance work to supplement my 25 hours at fake work. Because broke? Broke? Does not begin to describe it. I'm gonna pay my house payment late this month, and I need three new tires and can't afford to get new ones, so now whenever I drive I MINCE down the road, convinced this will be the moment I blow up and careen to my death.

It's relaxing. Is what it is.

So, yeah. Glad to have the work. The Polish thing I'm working on and I SAID DON'T ASK. GOD. is actually coming to me from Poland, and the person who is emailing me with said documents talks just like Natasha, who I realize is Russian.

Thank you for to do the document so quickly, June. Moose and squirrel. Love, Polish Place Who Is Sending You Work.

But that is not why I gathered you all here today. I was gonna tell you about my weekend. Spent with Ned. Funded by Ned. Starting with that $175 towing fee. Oh, and I'll tell you what. I drove over to his place on Friday night and there was a security guy walking around the lot. Ned's parking area being all Fort Knox n' shit is a new development, and I am unsure why it's become a thing. There's ALWAYS parking in that lot. The whole arrangement seems unnecessary.

The point is, I got out my car and the guy said, "Ma'am."

You wanna bug me? Stop me when I'm in the middle of something, in this case going up to Ned's. I was in my flow.

"I HAVE ONE," I groused at him, pointing at the parking pass hanging from my rear-view mirror. "No, ma'am..." he started. Oh, give me a hard time, Bub. GIVE ME A HARD TIME. DO ITTTTTT!

I was so ready to go off on that MF. I really was. I KNEW he was the one who towed my car in the first place. And now I have a PASS and he's gonna SLOW ME UP with his BULLSHIT?

I think I got more sweary since I met Ned.

"I just wondered what happened last time," he said. Clearly he recognized the yellow Bug, who he'd so heartlessly towed, driving in with a pass. I guess he wanted to make sure he didn't do anything wrong. His face was all kind.

Then I felt like a dick.

So I told him the story, and at that point Ned was down there to get me, and we all had a nice exchange and that was the end of it. I had been so ready to rumbllllllle.

Anyway. I like how the first five minutes of my weekend have taken 49 paragraphs. So I will stampede to the story of how Ned lives downtown, conveniently located right near crack addicts and several delightful restaurants. We had debated where to go eat, and I wanted to try the new taco place, so we traipsed down there. Closed.

It was EIGHT O'CLOCK AT NIGHT. This damn one-horse town.

So we tried the hamburger place, which would have been adventuresome for Ned because there is positively nothing healthy there.

Closed. They had a special event and closed at 8:00.

"THIS STUPID ONE-HORSE TOWN!" I screeched.

So finally we went to the Greek place, which is what we'd originally thought we'd do, but got waylaid by tacos and hamburgers.

Well.

All the wait staff were dressed up in Halloween costumes, I saw Death serving wine, and, you know, I don't want to speculate about anyone's sexual preference. It makes no difference to me other than the part where I might like you slightly better if you're a gay man, and since I just went ahead and said "gay man," this one waiter? A young cute boy? Had a mime kind of face painted on, with a teensy hat with a net and a feather. He literally pranced up and down the aisles.

I loved him. Oh, you have no idea. He mugged for everyone's iPhone (no, I didn't, other than June-has-no-flash pic, above), he ran about giggling this way and that. I mean, someone is into Halloween.

Then there was a table. Of women. And I'm just gonna go ahead and tell you the truth. Big groups of women bug the shit out of me. And I realize my entire reading audience of 14 is women, with .09 men tagging along (hello, Peter.) (hello, Steve.) (hello, Dick Whitman when I write about him.). But you are all not HERE in the ROOM with me, and if you WERE, you'd bug the SHIT out of me.

Why do women all have to talk at once? And so vociferously? And they just get louder and louder, big groups of women. Why? I am so not into all that.

The point is, this big group were all dressed as...well. First we said pirates. Then I said, "Are they psychics?" Then Ned suggested they might be gypsies. So yeah, psychic gypsies ("Or maybe they're tramps and thieves," said Ned, who loves his own self), about 15 of them, at a table. Getting louder each minute.

As luck would have it, there was also live music. Note Ned studying the menu in the foreground. Unusual.

My point is, it wasn't long before that ENTIRE TABLE of psychic pirates got up and started dancing. Oh, it was fun to watch.

At this point they'd dimmed all the lights sweet darlin', so my phone was even more uselessly taking pictures, but trust me. Dancing through the restaurant was happening.

So all in all we were glad we picked the Greek place.

Oh! And y'all! We saw David Sedaris this weekend! DAVID SEDARIS! We didn't, you know, hang out or anything. We just watched him read and be funny and such. Why can't I be David Sedaris? I mean, other than the part where I am not a funny gay man? Crap.

I guess that's all I have to tell you, except that Ned's cat continues to fascinate me with her weirdness. I think she is part vulture.

Oh! Wait! There's more! (Who is getting out her free Ginsu knife to stab me repeatedly at this point? Is it you, geez-June-finish-already-I-have-to-pee reader?) Ned and I went to the movies yesterday (Fred Won't Move Out, with Elliott Gould. The previews looked better than the movie actually was.)

After the movie, we went to eat and then Ned took me home. I am always kind of sad on Sunday night, because I always have a fun weekend with Ned and then it's over. I totally get that Wonderful-World-of-Disney-is-on-and-tomorrow's-Monday feeling. But as we drove home, we passed a sort of childcare facility and I said, "HOLY CRAP!"

"WHAT?" said Ned, assuming there was some kind of animal on the road and we'd have to turn around, as has happned 14 times already since I've known him.

"That SIGN!" Did you see it??" I was all atwitter. "I was DRIVING," old News Flash Ned said.

So we turned around, because, is it just me? Or is this logo kind of inappropriate?

Whiskey. Tango. And also Foxtrot.

Okay, that's all. Try not to tow my car away while you're out, would you? You big gaggle of women.

Guess where I am

And guess who just wants to watch a little goddamn QVC, if I'd just leave her the hell alone.

Sent from my cracked, haggard iPhone

And what you say about his company is WHAT YOU SAY--oh shoot me now.

Good gravy, this day has been ridiculous already and now I have to rush through this post, but I will not be playing Rush in this post.

heeeeee....

Last night I got up with Dick Whitman, as I said I was gonna do, and we sat up at the bar, because all we did was split appetizers. Why this means "naturally we sat up at the bar for that" is beyond me.

I look like I have something in my teeth, but I didn't.

You know, I'm playing that stupid Rush song while I'm typing this and it makes me want to kill myself.

Anyway, I really liked our bartender. She was a delight. At the end of the night, the check came, and I did my thing I always do, which is sort of toss the bill in the air like the price has shocked me. Wait. Lemme do it for you now.

 

I enjoy how that was accompanied by Rush. And how I have on exactly what I had on last night. IT'S BEEN A DUMB MORNING!

The point is, I DO that stupid "the check is here" gesture because my dad does it at restaurants. Which is what I explained to the bartender and she said, "It's amazing, the things we get from our parents. And who knows if your dad got that from HIS dad? What are you, Irish?" she asked, which I am, among other things. I guess the angry Irish hair tipped her off.

"Maybe in the 15th century, some Irish lord was doing that with HIS bill," she said. Which led to me having to explain to her I am CERTAIN I am not descended from lords. Maybe some drunk guy at a shabby pub, Gawaine Gardens or whomever, did that, but he was no lord.

Anyway.

So we had a good time, and I complained about my woes and Whitman complained about his, but then it was time for me to go home and see Ned. By "home" I mean Greensboro, because Whit and I were in Winston-Salem. Does it seem like I'm always traipsing out there instead of him traipsing over here?

At any rate, it was good to see Ned, although some really important baseball event was on, which means we had to watch that, and eventually I got bored and went to bed. "Oh don't go yet!" said Ned, but it was late and, you know, sports. So I went to his room and laid down.

Next thing you know it was morning and Ned had to get to work, and as he ALWAYS does, he says, "Why don't you stay and sleep in? You can leave whenever you want." And as usual I say no, because I have to go home and let out the dogs. You can't do anything decadent when you have dogs. 

Oh, but that reminds me, yesterday after work they were playing in the yard and they were being adorable. They were running all over there like banshees, as fast as they could, so I got the camera, knowing full well as soon as they sensed me looking at them they'd stop playing and come bug me instead. Which is not nearly as photo-worthy.

This was the only one I got before they were all:

we see yuuu, mom! we seeeeeeee yuuuuuu! hullo mom! to stop playeeng and see mom!

Won't you enjoy my sisal rug, which I had to scrub the bejeezus out of after Violet left, which I then draped out there to dry and forgot about and now it's covered in leaves?

Organized.

I like how I said I had to rush through this

 

heeeeee

and I keep talking. I haven't even gotten to the POINT.

So it was early ludicrous morning and Ned was walking me to my car in his parking lot. Not that he owns a parking lot. Would that he DID, because then this wouldn't have happened.

We were chattering like magpies about something, and we could see the lot as we approached it. "Where the hell's your car?" asked Ned. "Oh, probably stolen. You know how popular 2008 Bugs are."

We got all the way INTO the parking lot before we realized my car? It was not there.

"Did you...no. You didn't park in the other thing, did you?" No, I hadn't parked in the other thing.

"MY POOR CAR!" I said. "I didn't even get to say goodbye to it!" Oh, I was sad. WHY WOULD SOMEONE STEAL A BUG?

"You know, remember I told you a few weeks ago they were gonna hand out guest passes pretty soon? I wonder if I didn't read that announcement carefully enough." But Ned isn't the kind of person who'd read something uncarefully. Have you met his menus?

We had to traipse back up to his house, and he had to call in late to work. "This is Ned. I'm a tramp. Now I'm a tramp having to deal with a woman's stolen car." I had to call MARVIN, because he pays for my car insurance, and thank god I got his voice mail. Because there was someone I wanted to deal with. I could hear his flared nostrils all the way over at Ned's.

Finally he got ahold of the company that runs his building. Turns out? They'd put guest passes on everyone's door while Ned was, yes, out of town. And some idiot STOLE his.

Yeah.

What we had, then, was a lovely drive to a beautiful part of Greensboro, and it turns out there must be a new trend in window treatments: boards. We got to the world's warmest, most cheerful car-towing place, and Ned had to pay $175.

"I didn't even put out!" I exclaimed, which probably delighted the guy at the towing place, who looked like he found his job totally rewarding. He was no bartender from last night, lemme tell you.

Here is Ned ponying up. So when I say MY ludicrous morning I guess I sorta mean NED'S ludicrous morning. Ned pointed out, "What if for once you HAD stayed late at my house? You'd go down there and there'd be no car. And you wouldn't be able to get back into my place," which has gates and key codes and you'd think everyone who lived there collected gold bullion. I mean, Ned does, but everyone? Come on.

I had totally bought a Nissan Cube in my mind, with that insurance money. Crap.

Pie Society

Ohmyho, your comments yesterday were DA BOMB. And "ohmyho" is only funny if you READ the comments. Which, really? Really? You don't read the COMMENTS? You have no idea what you are missing. That's like not squeezing the white frostingy stuff on your Danish-Go-Round.

Was it Danish-Go-Rounds that came with the kind of vanilla-orangey super-good-for-you frosting, or was it some kind of Pillsbury product? Also, if your dough came to life and started giggling at you manically, would you not phone your physician rather than gleefully continue making crescent rolls?

At any rate, thanks for the comments, and I DID end up feeling not as tragic before the day was through. So, that worked.

Today Ned is home, although before I see him I am having dinner with Dick Whitman, as he is having some kind of crisis du jour. I mean, I am too, so we can be verklempt together. What a fun duo we'll be. Hope we get one of those long-booth situations so the people next to us can listen in on our hilarity.

But then, THEN, I get to see Ned, who seems to ALWAYS BE OUT OF TOWN lately, and I am likely going to have 11 million dollars in text costs this month. And no, we did not sext. I have never sexted and do not plan to. How can that even be fun? Oh, look, my phone wants to hump me!

Hot.

At any rate, Ned was not anywhere nearly as fun as Las Vegas this time, which means instead of interviewing prostitutes he was just in his boring hotel room. So I scanned a bunch of pictures of myself that are ridiculous and sent them to him. I mean, what's more fun than looking at pictures of me? Now I will share them with you. Congratulations. After this, maybe we can sext.

Here is my 22nd birthday, with my best friend Donna. I remember four women chipped in to buy me those earrings and that six-pack of Moosehead. The earrings had turquoise polka-dots on them and I wore them constantly. Also, I look super extra sober.

My mom jeans and my stepsister Mil at Griffith Park Observatory. I lived right near that observatory, because I'm a huge fan of James Dean. You know how often I mention him. I remember liking that haircut at the time, and now I'm all: Really, June?

I put this on Facebook, so if you're my Facebook friend you're all smug right now. SEEN IT! BEEN THERE! Be sure to say, Been there, done that, bought the tshirt, cause that's hilarious.

Anyway, my friend Renee and I were training for a marathon, hence the part where we are both so effing hot here. If she didn't live in Hawaii, I'd totally make her re-pose for this in these same clothes, with our 12-years-and-two-kids-later selves. Note all I have to blame it on is the years. At least she created human life.

Do you have any idea how fun it was to live in the same town as Renee? Because it was.

Totally went to my regular bar on my wedding night after the reception. Classy. This is one of my 394994 old boyfriends and my friend Gertrude, who, yes, IS hot. Note there isn't even a band playing. What were we dancing to? The music in our minds? Also, I once again look super extra sober.

This was also already on Facebook, Smuggy. Have you bought the tshirt? Anyway, it was 1985, which means I was 20, and it was 1985, which means I had a perm. A mullet perm. Let's all go get mullet perms like we're our own little society. The Pie Society. You guys go first. I'll catch up with you.

At any rate, I love this picture. I continue to find myself amusing after all these years. Also, I like to look at this and wonder just how many inches larger my thighs are now. Ten? Eighty? Really, that sculpture and me are sort of the before and after of my actual body. Sad.

At least I don't look drunk in that one.

So that sums it up. My pictures of me. I have to get in the shower and get all pretty for seeing Ned. After work. And after Whitman. Hell. I'll get in the shower, look regular, then reshower for the Ned sighting, seeing as it'll be a good 10 hours from now.

And now you know my every detail. Koodles to you.

Ugh. And no, I have not turned into a Native American. Don't throw your litter, though. That would bring a tear.

Had a dreadful day yesterday, which unfortunately I cannot tell you about. Not every tidbit makes its way onto my blog.

And dear person who thinks, Oh! I'm June's Special Reader! I'll email her and ask!

Yeah, no. Thanks. Thanks so much. (No, Ned and I did not remotely break up. No, seeing Daniel Boone did not result in tragedy. None of the above.)

Everything's going to be okay, probably, but I really feel not at all like blogging today. So could you do me a solid? Could you not kill me for saying "a solid" and could you also send me some kind of cheer-me-up comment?

Suggestions:

You so pretty, June.

Here is a million dollars, June.

Attached please find a link to something funny.

Here is an Eleanor Roosevelt quote, June. (I do like me some Eleanor Roosevelt. With her lesbianical sensible shoes and her plain-but-good face.)

Thank you in advance for your prompt attention to this matter. I'll try to pull it together and post tomorrow. I also have a guest post from Jo that I should publish at some point. It's about her adventures in Internet dating. Which I know something about.

Okay, talk at you.

(Oh, god. I just remembered the last time I felt sad and not bloggy was when Carin picked on me. Remember that? Dear Carin or Carinesque person: Please not today. Do me a solid, Carinesque person. Thanks.)

Corinthian leather. Wait. That wasn't the Volare, was it? I don't care. I like to say, "Corinthian leather." Cause it's a thing. Is what it is.

Lately, there has been a bird outside my window in the morning who whistles Volare. I am not making that up.

 

I wonder if the bird has a perm?

Apparently it's autumn here in North Carolina, finally, which is good, because the summer here is like the winter where I grew up, in Michigan. Let me be sure to tell you all about what Great Lakes were near me when I lived there. The point is, in the summer in the South and in the winter in Michigan you just stay inside and wait for it to be over.

Oh, you get the occasional "I love winter" asshole in the Mitten State, but I never associated with those people. "Oh, I love to SKI! And I love to SKATE! And I love to ICE FISH! And I can't get ENOUGH of fornicating with icicles!!"

Shaddup. You do NOT love winter in Michigan. NO ONE could love the winter there.

Not so long ago, Ned was at the train station and apparently there was a huge map of the U.S. "I looked at Michigan. Wow. It's really...north, isn't it?" Why, yes. It is.

I don't know how I got off on this tangent when what I MEANT to say is my tree is all changey right now. All hopey changey.

I have this huge tree in my backyard, right when you walk out the door. I mean, not RIGHT there. You don't have to CRASH into it every time you open the screen door or anything. But I love that tree, and this week it is its prettiest.

Also, the leaves are all over the deck, which I like, and which I don't have to worry about, because this really nice guy who works for Peg and now for me comes over and cuts the lawn and weeds and rakes the leaves for TWENTY-FIVE DOLLARS. I know! Someone should tell him he undercharges. But that person is not gonna be me.

Notice how Talu actually kind of sits still for the camera, although both dogs have blur tails. What slays me is I have almost exactly the same photo I took I think four years ago.

Tallulah, circa 2008.

Really, she hasn't aged a bit. Bitch totally Botoxes.

I also decided to take Lily, who is 100% an indoor cat except that time she ran out the door for no reason and I couldn't find her for a horrifying hour, outside to frolic in the leaves. And by "frolic" I mean stand terrifiedly on the shelf on my deck.

pleese to take lillee back in pleese. also, pleese chaynge lillee font to fall colur. aftur you put lillee BACK IN PLEESE TO DO NOWWWW.

I propped the deck chairs against that shelf to protect them from the elements, sort of. I guess I should go to town and get those chair covers, shouldn't I?

eyeriss totlee come outside! to take eyeriss outside! no, she rully see gud! i see you! eyeriss see you totlee for sure.

Iris is DYING to be outdoor cat. Maybe it's cause when she was a kitten I'd take her out and hold her on my lap, so it's my own fault.

dis more lyke it. never to do again, mom.

In other news, because at this point Hulk has hung himself from a giant noose, I had dinner with Daniel Boone last night.

Shut up.

In case you just got here or you're from Poland or Ethiopia, I dated Daniel Boone for a brief and tragic time last year. Then we didn't talk at all, then a few months ago I heard from him, and now we are friends. FRIENDS.

I am impervious to any man but Ned. Seriously. WE ARE FRIENDS.

That photo above was me actually trying to capture that guy's Cosby sweater in the background, but DB's expression is just so DB that I love it.

Daniel Boone lives in Raleigh, and I, you know, don't, so we met in Hillsborough, which is where we had our infamous first date under the Daniel Boone statue a year and a half ago.

And you know what? Dear Hillsborough, You might want to have A FEW RESTAURANTS OPEN on Monday night. Because the glamorous bar where we met, The Wooden Nickel, was effing PACKED.

It was good to see DB again. We talked about just everything, and at some point, he said he was going to hell for something or other. "I'm IN hell," he clarified.

"Hell is the Wooden Nickel in Hillsborough," I said. And you know? It might be.

When I drove home, I called Ned on his work trip to let him know I was returning from my dinner. Ned is exceedingly not insecure, so he didn't care who I was having dinner with. Still. I wanted to do a whole, check-in-to-let-you-know-I'm-driving-home-at-9-p.m.-and-not-fornicating-with-D-Boone thing. It was good to talk to Ned, who I may or may not be berserk about.

It just goes to show you. No matter how bad you feel about something, it always gets better eventually. Do you know what'd be really hilarious right now? Is if I said: This too shall pass.

Life's a beach.

Do you know what'd be hilarious? Is if I said, "Life's a beach." HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAA!

That guy is screwed.

This weekend, Ned and I went to Wilmington, which in case you live in Poland or Ethiopia (I am HUGE in Ethiopia) (well, I probably would be huge in Ethiopia) or are just really stupid or something, Wilmington is a town in North Carolina that happens to be right next to the ocean.

And I like how I'm judging you for not knowing where Wilmington is, seeing as this weekend Ned, who is coming to Michigan with me for Thanksgiving--or THANKSgiving, as they pronounce it here--said, "Now, which Great Lake is closest to your home town? Is it Lake Huron, or..."

????

"Because Lake Michigan is to the west--right?--and..."

??????

I mean, what was this, the SATs? Am I really supposed to know which GREAT EFFING LAKE is nearest to my home? Apparently, according to aghast Ned, I was. God. Everyone's so persnickety.

It's Huron. I Googled it when I got home.

At any rate, Wilmington is a cool town, and there were a lot of shops and restaurants and so forth.

I don't know what this was, but I liked it. I guess it was some kind of turnkey project. BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAA! With that and my hilarious Life's a Beach title. I am on FIRE today. El Fuego.

Oh, and you know what? The apartment building from Blue Velvet was there! We drove past it a couple times and finally got out to take a picture of it, and every time we passed it, I'd say, "Hit me, Jeffrey." Sadly for me, Ned did not chip my tooth at any point this weekend. Dull.

Look! Even the creepy back steps are really there! If you did not see this movie, you will be as lost as I was about the Great Lakes.

Which Great Lake is closest to my house. How many atoms are floating about in this CAR right now? Ned? God.

Fortunately, Ned is fun to walk around and look at shops with, although I did not become that woman who left him holding my purse while I went in and tried things on. I will NEVER be the woman who makes her man hold her purse while she tries things on. If you want to seriously shop, why would you drag a straight man along?

"But I would hold your purse if you asked me to," said Ned, who is officially a Nice Boy. A Nice Boy who I refuse to emasculate in that fashion.

By the way, I WANT ALL THESE. Ned kept encouraging me to buy the lovely quilted dress behind this one. But then I'd be too sexy for my dress.

BAHAHAHAHAAH! Ohhh! Woo! The "I'm too sexy for my..." joke! Somebody STOP me!

I'm telling you. I'm funnier when I'm not this happy.

The good news for all of us is I discovered that Ned--and WHY did this not occur to me?--is the kind of person who walks up to 29,0015,3949 restaurants and looks at the menu on the window and says, "Let's keep looking." Never mind that the person you are with has turned into a skeleton with kwashiorkor clanking behind you.

"Oh, here's another one! {stroll stroll stroll} {peruse peruse peruse}. Okay, let's look at this one across the street!" {stroll stroll stroll} {clank clank clank} (those were my skeleton bones).

So we did that during dinnertime and ended up at the LAST POSSIBLE RESTAURANT. I mean, in front of us was water, to the side of us was a bridge out of town. I am not even making that up. Happily, whatever Ned got was "godDAMMIT!" good, and he mentioned it a lot the next day, as he does.

But in the morning, and by "morning" I mean 2 p.m. because neither Ned nor I bound out of bed, and thank god he's that person, we were looking for a place to have brunch. We went back to the cool part of town we'd been in the night before, got out of the car, and when Ned said, "That looks like a cool diner" I said, "LET'S GO TO IT" and started to cross the street.

Oh, he was flummoxed. "But we..." "Are we just gonna..." "How about we..."

"NO!" I screeched, because I am a fun date. "This looks good. Let's just PICK it!"

And you know what? Do you?

"GodDAMMIT, that vegetable omelet was good!"

See?

In fact, yesterday was kind of the perfect day. You're on the beach with someone you like, the weather was perfect, you find an old boo store.

Ned reads as much as I do, so we were in the Old Boo store for quite a long time.

Do you know what my dream job would be? Trophy wife. But other than that, my dream job would be to own a used bookstore, in an old building with wood floors and lots of light and a bookstore cat. Come see Iris, the blind bookstore cat! It'd be great. That's all I need.

After a long time, Ned found me nestled in the shelves, reading. "What'd you find?" he asked, his arms full of smart-people books.

".....The unauthorized biography of Tom Cruise," I said.

"Out of all the books in this store, that's what you're reading?"

I guess he thought I'd be consulting a Geography of Michigan book or something.

Anyway, I got a very intellectual book about Wallace Simpson, and then it was time to head back home. Ned had to pack for ANOTHER WORK TRIP, and I had to do some freelance. Unfortunately for us, we drove back STRAIGHT INTO THE SUN, like we were Icarus or something. It was ridiculous. You have no idea.

"God, this is like Freewayhenge or something," said Ned, adjusting his visor fruitlessly.

Freewayhenge.

On the way home, we used the facilities at the Sartre Rest Stop.

Have I mentioned how funny I am today? Hey, did I say Life's a Beach yet?

Oh! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAAAHHAHAAAAA! God, that never gets old.

At the beach

with Ned. Is this picture sideways?

***Sent from my iPhone. Which by the way is less of a tool-y way to sign off than people who sign off with poetry.***