Whenever my mother and stepfather have an anniversary, my stepfather, who is enormously sappy, says, "Twenty-eight wonderful years" or "Twelve wonderful years" or however long it's been. Marvin and I then started doing the same thing, except when it was our ninth anniversary, for instance, we'd say, "We've had five wonderful years."
Troubled marriages. They're hilarious!
Today, however, marks the five-year anniversary of the day I found Tallulah, and they really have been five wonderful years. In case you weren't here five years ago--and where were you? What could possibly have been more important than this? Where are your priorities? I was living with Marvin in TinyTown, population 3,000, and five years ago on this day, I was on my way to Raleigh to--please, God--find a job in a bigger town.
Let me interrupt this story to tell you a somewhat freakish story. I knew I had this interview in Raleigh, so the weekend before, Marvin and I drove there to check out the town. See the sights. See if we'd like living there. Of course, what I did not know is Ned was living there too, as he lived in Raleigh for 27 years.
Marvin and I were downtown, liking Raleigh quite a bit, as it turned out, when I got this overwhelming feeling. I've never felt anything like it before or since. But I thought, "The next man I fall in love with lives here. I'm going to meet another man, and fall in love with him. And he's in this town."
I remember being really disturbed by that thought, and calling my friend Renee after and telling her, and she said, "Oh, June, you HAVE to move back to LA." I guess she thought that'd save my marriage or something. Who knows? Maybe it would have. But no matter where you go, there you are, so it probably wouldn't've.
When I told that story to Ned eventually (I should have told him on the first date. That would've been unscary), he told me how he lived right near where Marvin and I were when I had that thought. Maybe he was walking right past me when I was thinking it.
Isn't that weird?
Anyway. Five years ago today I was having zero thoughts except man, do I have to get to this stupid interview. I didn't particularly WANT the job, because it was a proofreader/receptionist position, and I do not see how you can effectively proofread anything with the damn phone ringing all the time. But I was determined to get out of TinyTown, which of course now I kind of miss.
About an hour into the drive, I was on a busy two-lane country road, and there on the right was not only a bathroom (bah) (you know, how people always think the song is There's a bathroom on the r--oh, forget it), but there was also a little yellow dog. Just STANDING there right near the traffic.
"Oh, NO," I said, doing a U-turn because I'm a good driver that way. When I pulled up, I saw the dog was in fact a skinny yellow puppy, and when I opened the car door she waggled up to me. I think of how she'd bark her fool head off now if some stranger came up to her. I guess I ruined her.
Anyway, as I've told you a million times before, when I picked her up, because of COURSE I picked her up, the sun shone through her gold eyelashes and I knew right then and there I owned a dog. And I wasn't going to any interview.
Here's the first picture I ever took of her. Note how in one day I managed to steal a dog, take her home and get obnoxious bowls for her. I'm a machine. I'd also screamed her over to the vet where she was diagnosed with malnutrition, worms, and fleas. I can pick 'em.
Anyway, I'm just saying to you. The day I found Talu was one of the best days of my whole stupid life. She's been nothing but wonderful ever since. Except for the time she ate that first edition, signed book that wasn't mine.
A few years ago, back when I just had Tallulah and she was my first dog ever, I went online and found a dog IQ test. Since I'd never had a dog before, I had no idea if she was smart or dumb, so I tested her. And it turns out I was a tad more invested in her being THE SMARTEST DOG EVER than I had realized.
I was so sweaty and disappointed when she failed one of the tests that I stopped right there. Decided to get my priorities straight. I didn't want her killing herself because she got a B. I didn't want to end up trading her in for a Border collie. She'd passed most of the tests with flying dog colors, so I decided to get over wanting her to be the first dog MD.
When I got Edsel, it was obvious that in comparison to Tallulah, he was no genius. He does do smart-ish things occasionally, like he learned how to open the screen door...then he forgot he knew. He also knows a lot of words and phrases, and then gets incredibly excited by them and starts wiggling around here and snorting like Camilla Parker Bowles when Prince Charles comes at her with a flat handful of carrots. Sometimes I wondered if he was smart but so goofy that you couldn't tell.
The other day it occurred to me to give the old Eds the same IQ test I gave Talu some years back. There are six tests total, and I filmed four of them so as not to bore you half to death. Let's take a gander, shall we?
I know you're compelled now. Below is test numero one. And one thing that certainly proves MY intelligence is how I put my finger over the microphone for half this video. Go, June!
I threw a towel over Edsel, and according to the test, the quicker he gets out of the towel, the smarter he is. If you are at work or something and you could not see the video, let's just say that towel was not elusive. It's not like you said, "What towel? Edsel was under a towel? I barely saw that! Did that really happen?"
Let's move on to test two.
This riveting test of smarts and skills is the one Tallulah may have...not excelled at. You put a treat under a can and see if the dog can get to it. In Talu's case, she was all, "Lu no der treet under can. Lu screw. Der no way to get treet, mom. Treet gone." Edsel, however, solved it after I may or may not have cheated a little. Again, the quicker he figures it out, the smarter he is, and he did it in 15-30 seconds. Which, truthfully? You could have knocked me over with a dog's paw.
I'd again like to point out that this was an intelligence test for Edsel, yet I could not think of the word "cup."
I was supposed to SMILE at the dog, and the dog was supposed to react in some way that let me know he appreciated the smile. I guess he was supposed to waggle and hang his tongue out and invite me for coffee.
I hesitate to point out that in THIS intelligence test, I admit I don't know how far a meter is.
We wrap it up with the refrigerator test.
I was supposed to call Edsel using the same tone I'd use to call his name, only replacing his name with the word "Refrigerator." If he comes to it, he's dumb. He didn't. I, however, cannot manage to hold the camera upright, or else we were filming in Australia all of a sudden or something.
When all was said and done, he ended up testing as average, which, !!.
I encourage you all to let me know how YOUR dogs tested. Here's the link again. Or, try these on your cats. I'll bet that'll go over well.
And how far is a damn meter, anyway?
I just tried to pet my silver purse, thinking it was one of the cats. What do you mean, I am not allowed to drive without my glasses? Good gravy. I used to have a black fuzzy cat named Ruby and I was constantly petting my black Uggs in the closet, too. Why do I admit these things to you people?
So, the Academy Awards (will not say Circle R) were on last night. Did you know that? Are you tired today? My theory is they should cancel work for everyone today, and Ned said he always thinks that the day after the Super Bowl. Me too.
I have a friend who said he wouldn't be attracted to his ex-wife even if she were naked, covered in onion rings and wearing a Charlize Theron mask. I always think of that when I see her now. And now, so will you! I thought she looked absolutely stunning. Only someone that lovely could pull off the dyke hair like this. And did you see Halle Berry looking all irked in the audience? She was so irritated that someone looked just as good in the dyke hair as she does.
Is it offensive to say "dyke hair"? Come on. Who're we kidding?
Do you know what I'd make? Is a terrible dyke. I do like lipstick so much that am practically a lipstick lesbian, if lipstick is female.
No, I HAVEN'T slept enough. Why?
Ned abhors Anne Hathaway. I never had a problem with her, till I watched her phony baloney interview on E!--because nothing's more sincere than E!--and she was going on about "being connected to gratitude" and "marrying my soulmate." All of a sudden I went from, "Oh, Anne Hathaway. She's pretty." To "Fuck you, Anne Hathaway." However, I loved this dress and her makeup and the jewelry, and the part where we saw EVERY NUANCE of her girls, up there. Kept thinking of my grandmother when she saw the pictures from JFK Jr,'s wedding. "They have all that money and she couldn't afford a bra?"
I HATE HER SO EFFING MUCH OH MY GOD WANT TO SLAP HER HARD.
Captain's Kirk's interstellar girlfriend called. Wants her uniform back.
Recently, I bought these awful brown paper towels because they're supposed to somehow be better for the environment. They absorb absolutely nothing. They're the worst paper towels in the history of time. They're the slower picker-uppers. Am glad to see Jessica Chastain made use of her brown paper towels and a Bedazzler.
Helena Bonham Carter irritates me not as much as Kristen Stewart, because it's not possible for someone to irk me more than she does, but I promise you she's right up there. STOP BEING SO WEIRD. We get it. You don't want to be all pegged as a Merchant Ivory actress. Okay. Cut it out.
Reese Witherspoon's wearing a graduation gown.
I can't even. I mean, Halle Berry usually stuns all of us with her gowns. This year she looks like Cher's mom.
I can't decide whether I like Nicole Kidman's Klimt dress or not. Doesn't it look like a Klimt?
And finally. I like Jennifer Garner. She seems like a normal person. And I love her dress. I like the bustle. I like the color. And as usual she is pretty as a picture. Not a Klimt, but a normal picture. Am down with her dress.
I guess that's all the--oh! Ned and I went to see Argo just this weekend, and we were glad we did because we liked it more than we thought we would. And then it won best picture and all. He wrote a review of it for Nedflix, and I might as well toss it on here today:
By now everybody is familiar with the story behind Argo, the movie directed by Ben Affleck: American diplomats go into hiding during the Iranian Revolution of 1979 and are freed by an unlikely plot involving Hollywood and Canada. My question coming into this movie was, why would the Iranian students who took over the American embassy be any more sympathetic to movie people than they might be to any other ordinary American who happened to be there at the time? The obvious answer is that they posed as Canadian citizens. The United States, as everybody knows, is The Great Satan. After this little stunt, Canada might have become known as The Little Satan, or Le Petit Satan, depending on, you know, where you might happen to be in Canada.
I enjoyed the grainy 70ish cinematography the movie sometimes featured, I liked the overhead zoom-in effect it occasionally utilized. The soundtrack was fun, and Alan Arkin is hard to beat. And of course the true events it is based on are so compelling. I heard an interview with one of the real-life escapees recently, and he mentioned the low-key acknowledgment they all made to one another once they'd left Iranian airspace, as opposed to the busting out the champagne celebration featured in the film. And I suspect the high-speed chase on the runway as they raced to liftoff was also artistic license. But that's what movies do, and this one was good enough to get away with it.
A fun bit as the credits rolled was the comparison the movie made with its actors and the real-life people they portrayed. The filmmakers obviously went to great length to match their appearances. The exception to this was Affleck, who portrayed Hispanic CIA agent Tony Menedez. One might think the amount of time Affleck spent inside a Hispanic early in his career might have helped him relate to the role, but such an association does not a Hispanic Affleck make.
My Hollywood inside sources tell me that this movie's portrayal of Hollywood coming to the rescue of an America in crisis might help give it a nudge towards Best Picture, so don't be surprised if that happens. And if you don't believe me, you can Argo fuck yourselves.
Ima try to scream out this post before we go to a, yes, movie and then go home and watch four hours of a show about...movies.
Some of you had wondered what Ned's picks for the Oscars Circle R are, and who cracks herself up every time she writes "Circle R"? The award for most amused by nothing goes to...
So, here was a smart idea. Me deciding YOUR stupid idea to ask Ned to DECIDE something would be fun and brief. "Say, Ned, my readers want to know who you're picking for the Oscars tonight." "Oh, sure, I'll do that. Let's go to my computer room FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE so I can look online and see who's nominated." Two hundred minutes later, I was thinking of being interred in said room, or at least marrying it, so familiar was I with its every nuance. The couch I was sitting on actually proposed to me, since we'd been spending so much time together.
I mean, you guys. HAVE I NOT SEEN THE MAN LOOK AT A MENU? Fast decisions are not Ned's strong suit. You have no idea how rabidly I was hating everyone who came up with this suggestion.
Finally, after cobwebs grew on my skeleton over there, Ned came up with this list:
Best Picture: Lincoln
Actor: Daniel Day Lewis
Actress: Emmanuelle Riva (she was the woman in that sad Amour movie. Good gravy, she deserves the Oscar) (Circle R) (just peed self)
Supporting Actor: Alan Arkin
Supporting Actress: Sally Field (if she talks about how we really like her, Ima go on stage and cock punch her. Stay tuned!)
Director: Steven Spielberg
Cartoon or whatever it' called: Wreck-It Ralph (Cause we enjoyed the SHIT out of Wreck-It Ralph. We did not see any of these. Because we're grownups. And I know very little irritates me, but one of the rare things that does is people who have kids trying to convince me to see kids' movies. "They make it so it's entertaining for adults, too." Yeah. You know what entertains this adult? Adult movies. So to speak.) Cinematography: Anna Karenina
Costume: Les Mis (see above re how we so enjoyed Les Mis)
Documentary: Searching for Sugarman (which is the only one we saw)
Documentary Short: Mondays at Racine
Foreign Language Film: Amour (happy! happy movie)
Makeup: Les Mis
Original Score: Lincoln
Original Song: Les Mis
Production Design: Anna Karenina (can you imagine how long I sat there while Ned compiled this list? I mean, can you? Picture it? I sat down in that room when I was 17. Just got up.)
Animated Short: Adam & Dog (but Paperman might win. We just WANT Adam & Dog to win)
Short film (okay, this is the one where we bet $900,000.) Death of a Shadow (says Ned) Asad (says me)
Sound Editing: Zero Dark Thirty
Sound Mixing: Lincoln (we walked out of there and said, Wow, the SOUND MIXING was INCREDIBLE)
Visual Effects: Life of Pi
Adapted Screenplay: Lincoln
Original Screenplay: Zero Dark Thirty
So there you have it. What if Ned gets them all correct? Maybe he'll win some kind of cash prize or something. And be sure to come back here tonight if you want to say anything snotty about the stars. Or how well I cock punched Sally Field.
I don't have much to blog about today, because I am uninteresting. Last night I did my Tracy Chapman workout and watched a documentary at Ned's. And yes, I know it's funny I got a divorce from Mr. Documentary, Mr. All-Documentaries-All-the-Time, and then I meet someone else and what the eff do we do with our Friday night but watch a ding-dang documentary.
It was good, though. Dear Marvin, In case you decide to look at my blog today, this was good. Sort of XO, June. Awkwardly punching you on the arm, June.
Anyway, that summed up our night, as we are on Project Spend Less of Ned's Money, although tonight after some riveting sports event that Ned is beside himself about, we are going to see Argo, because it's the one Best Picture nominee we haven't seen, other than Les Mis, which doesn't count. You know who'd be Les Mis? Is Ned and me at that picture.
So, because I had nothing to blog about, and because I don't have time to load more of your 800 million photos you sent in or do a makeup tutorial, because Ima pay bills and buy groceries today and WOOO! the fun never stops at House of June, I thought what I'd do instead is dig into my photo box titled 1965-1992 and see what hideous photos I can show you.
Dad and me, in what I would estimate was 1987. I am guessing based on the perm, and yes that IS a perm. On me, not dad. We're standing on the roof of his building in Atlanta, where he used to live. Also we heart ourselves. I think this was a photo we specifically took to send to my grandmother, framed, for her birthday. See above reference to we heart ourselves.
This was in 2002, not anywhere close to 1965-1992. You know what I have? A super-organized photo box. This was my stepsister's wedding, and I remember I specifically lost weight for it, but I still have front butt. Goddammit. I look good otherwise, though. Other than the part where I'm clearly keeping Kanga from Winnie the Pooh.
For the love of God, June. Have a drink. This was 1992, and I know the date from the boyfriend in the picture. Some go by moons; I go by men. Sometimes you tell the days by the bottle that you drink. Sometimes when you're alone and all you do is think.
A bunch of us went dancing at a gay bar in Detroit, and then got what I'm certain was heart-healthy food at this diner. And somehow my bra needed to be taken off and bitten. As you do.
If I went out dancing all night and then ate diner food, I'd be destroyed the whole next day. I'll bet you anything that 26-year-old June got up the next day, picked her bra out of her teeth, and just went on like it was nothing.
Okay, last one.
One year, I was Madonna for Halloween. June. Continuing to love herself since 1965. June. Putting the "pre" in Madonna since 1965. I see my roommate Larry back there, who went as a Larry Krishna, and Sleeping Beauty's boyfriend who came as a TV dinner. We were hilarious. Why aren't there more Halloween parties for 47-year-olds? Of course, by the time Halloween rolls around again I will be 48.
The cones are divining rods at this point.
So I guess that's all. I leave you with these photos from years gone by, with the bras and the pouches and the paternal strangling. I will talk at you tomorrow, when Ooooo! I guess Ned and I will pick our Oscar thingamajigs.
June. Getting into the grove and out of here.
They delayed work due to inclement weather and
Dear Friends and Family in Michigan,
You would die laughing about this "weather."
This did not stop me, of course, from going right back to bed and spooning Tallulah, who was down with the return to slumber, as well. She never judges when one wants to have a few additional winks.
In the meantime, my pal Marianne came over last night, as was announced in yesterday's riveting post. Note the part where Ned cannot stop eating long enough to pose for the camera. Also, it looks like I made Ned drink salad dressing, when in fact I did not. Well. Much. It was kind of an initiation thing.
I made my one dish--lasagna--and Marianne and I got together first, had a little bonding and some making out, then Ned came over later and wondered if there was any food left. I will tell you one thing about Ned, and this is a news flash. He likes him some food.
Anyway, it was fun to watch them out-Southern each other. "Hi, here's my enthusiasm at meeting you!" "Hi! Here's my polite question to show interest!!" "Hey! That was a great question. Here is my funny Southern story that answers you and amuses you all at once."
Seriously, this is the most social place I've ever lived. Everyone in Michigan was extra super reserved, so I fit in THERE just like a puzzle piece. That one puzzle piece you try to cram cram cram in, cause it LOOKS like it SHOULD fit. Then in Seattle you had to act cool and dark about everything, and sort of earnestly politically correct, and in LA you had to convince everyone you had money.
Here people are just nice. And it's likely fake as all get-out, but I don't care. I'm shallow that way.
When Marianne got here, we hugged, then later she said, "Thanks for the hug when I got here. I know you didn't mean it." I was all, "I SO didn't mean it!" See? Reserved. Michigan. Also just cold fish in general.
Anyway, we had fun. Ned is still having a dreadful time with general being-a-grownup stuff, and when he called to see if I still wanted him to come meet Marianne he sounded so terribly drained and miserable. And you know who is an excellent middle-aged-manfriend? Is Ned. Because he came over anyway, and he was funny and delightful, and mostly had to hear us talk about girl things, although we did manage to not discuss our periods.
Wait. Yeah, we did. Good gravy. Poor Ned.
I guess I'd better go get ready to drive through this INCLEMENT WEATHER and go to fake work. I like how even when work is delayed, I find a way to waste time and show up six minutes late like I always do. Why don't they hire me, again?
Are you going to watch the Oscars this weekend? Ned and I thought about doing a Nedflix where we predict the winners, and don't forget we have a $900,000 bet on who wins Best Short. We are now even on our owing each other money: I owed him $900,000 when he said. "That waitress is going back to get us free dessert" on our anniversary, and I said, "I'll bet you $900,000 she is not" and then boom, she came out with those cream puffs.
But then we saw this French movie about a woman whose legs were bitten off by a whale, and who do you think selected THAT happy film, and Ned was CONVINCED the actress really didn't have legs. I was all, dude, I've SEEN HER IN OTHER THINGS. Do you think she's just that dedicated to her craft and had her legs bitten off for this one movie? So we bet $900,000 that she did or did not have legs. I just want to reiterate that usually Ned is really smart.
Anyway, let me know. About the Oscars. I kind of miss getting to call my ex-mother-in-law during the red carpet. She was always good for that crucial part of the night.
Okay, strapping the diamonds around my cankles and getting to work.
Why do grandparents go around saying things that barely make sense like that? Is it just when you become a grandparent? Those phrases just start coming out your mouth?
I've told you this before, but my grandmother, who was in no way related to my grandfather other than they were in-laws, I guess, used to say "Your ass would make him a Sunday face."
Yeah, I know. I had to sit around for 10 years figuring that one out.
Ned--who had had a bad day, hence the look of despair and enormous glass of wine, which technically I bought for my friend Marianne but more on that later--and I went to the movies last night.
Not that I bought a look of despair for my friend Marianne. I bought WINE for her. Wine. But wouldn't it be great if you could go out and buy looks of despair for people? "I knew your day was sucking, so I bought you empathy face."
OH MY GOD ANYWAY. So, we went to see all the animated shorts up for an Academy Award. Circle R. And one of the shorts was by The Simpsons. I mean, the cartoon characters didn't make a movie, but it was by Matt Groening and it was about Maggie being at daycare. Of course it was hilarious, but that's not even a fair fight. We hope that one doesn't win.
There was another one with a dog in it who looked JUST LIKE EDSEL that we liked, and an art one that'll probably win because people are pretentious.
Oh. Even though they showed this last night, this isn't a nominee. WHAT GIVES? So maybe my dog one will win. Edsel's movie will win. Who even knew Edsel was doing this? He's always home when I get home, like a good wife.
But as I was saying, I got wine and MADE LASAGNA last night before our movie, because tonight right after work, my friend Marianne is coming over! Oh, I'm so excited.
I met Marianne a month after I moved to Seattle. We had a mutual, well, "friend" is a strong term. We both knew this really annoying self-centered woman, who literally had a shrine to herself in her own living room. Seriously, she had these giant letters that spelled out her name, and a big glamor shot under that. Once, at a party, my friend Marianne had her Commitments tape stolen, or maybe we were far enough along in civilization that it was a CD. It doesn't matter. What DOES matter is she reported said crime to our self-centered....friend (not that it was Ned), who said, "I saw that movie." THAT'S ALL SHE SAID! She didn't care that Marianne had been ROBBED. The important thing was she had seen the movie. I mean, get your priorities straight, Marianne. God.
So the self-centered woman, who I dearly hope has not somehow found my blog despite the fact I have not spoken to her since 1995, took me to a rugby game a month after I moved to Seattle, because she was banging every rugby player who'd have her, and please see above reference to hoping she doesn't read my blog.
I was desperate enough to make friends that I WENT to a rugby game, and Marianne went too, although I forget her motives. Was she similarly banging a rugby player? I can't recall that, but you never know. We were single and ready to...watch our "friend" out there in the freezing Seattle weather, wearing a crop top and cheering on men giving each other concussions.
Neither Marianne and I were remotely into this sport. And it was cold. And because it was Seattle, a freezing horrid drizzle had just begun. "You wanna go to the car and drink all the beer?" I asked Marianne.
And a friendship was born. After that, we spent EVERY weekend together. We had breakfast at this restaurant across from my apartment EVERY Saturday morning, and even after I met my Official Seattle Boyfriend, we hung out all the time. Marianne and Official Seattle Boyfriend both had the habit where they'd eat all of one thing, then go to the next thing. Like, they'd eat all the corn, then move on and eat all the chicken.
WHICH DIDN'T DRIVE ME BERSERK AT ALL.
How many of you stalky stalkersons went over to Official Seattle Boyfriend's website and looked for a picture of him? How stalky is it that I KNOW about his website? I have always liked his art--I even bought one of his paintings as a wedding present for a friend who'd similarly always liked his art. I had another friend pick it up, though. I was too nervous to see him.
OH MY GOD ANYWAY.
So, Marianne will be here tonight, and what I like about my friendship with her is my house is LUDICROUS, and I know she'll love me anyway. Unless she's changed, like my childhood best friend who now watches FOX News all the time and has no sense of humor anymore. But I don't think so.
There's nothing better than one of those friends you can pick right back up with, is there?
Like no time has passed? Unlike the stylishness of this jacket. Or Marianne's white leggings, for that matter. God, we look young. And you know who took this? Official Seattle Boyfriend. Who as I recall was super sick of us that day. Possibly due to alcohol. Or maybe it was my poor decision to get bangs.
Okay, that's all. Marianne coming. I'm making my official dish. And she's meeting Official Greensboro Boyfriend. That about sums it up. I'll report back tomorrow about how not-fun she's become. I'll report on how Marianne has become Fun Bobby.
Have you noticed we never get to hear about Dooce's divorce or whether she's dating anyone? I mean, I splayed out all my personal bidness straightaway as soon as there was anything interesting to tell, but she seems to spend all her time around her gay and 12-year-old friends. Come on, Dooce. We know you must be dating by now. Spill it.
I was just thinking today how weird it is to have a blog, and I know some of you also have blogs and can identify. I mean, for example, how I feel perfectly entitled to know all of Dooce's bidness. Am I remotely entitled to know all of Dooce's bidness? Of course I'm not. But since she tells us about her workout routine, her dogs, the things her kids say and her Avon-selling mom, we feel like we should be able to hear every detail. I mean, she's our close, personal friend. Right?
So that's what's weird about blogging. You tell all your stuff and people feel like they know you, when in reality they really don't. For all you know, I beat my cats and speak Portuguese. Exclusively. I could be The Portuguese Proofreader, and these posts are translated into English. There could be all sorts of things I've never told you.
I don't know. It's just a weird dynamic, all sorts of people kind of knowing you and you not knowing them at all. Basically, this whole blog has changed my life.
Maybe once a week, I'll get a long email from some reader where they tell me about a problem they're having, and I never mind getting these. I figure they're sitting there thinking, "God, who can I tell about this. Oh, how about June? We talk every day."
It's not a bad thing, this having a blog. It's just nothing I ever thought would happen to me: having people say, "June!?!" when I go out in public (that's happened, like, three times. I'm not Elvis, for heaven's sake), getting presents from people I've never met, unsolicited advice from readers who've invested themselves in my story.
Oh, and the Marvin hating! That cracks me up! Poor Marvin. But I guess you got invested in him, too. Then he left all of us.
In other news, I got a massage last night. I KNOW! My neck is constantly in pain. CONSTANTLY. I am the tensest person alive, I think. And oh, it's been hurting a LOT lately. And ever since Ned got me that gift certificate to the spa, I've been getting emails from the place. Yesterday they sent one out saying the woman who massaged me had an opening at 5:30 and I said THAT IS IT. IT'S A SIGN. Because war, famine, June's need for massage. These are the things God troubles himself with.
So I grabbed that gift card and screamed over there.
"Oh. WOW," she said as she tried to, you know, do her work. "You're one of the worst people I've ever seen." They always say that. And can you tell me why? It's not like I'm laying bricks and coming home to my eight screaming thankless kids each night.
After my massage, they took me to this huge window seat filled with pillows, and pulled a gauzy curtain so I could sit in there and drink peppermint tea. I was on the second story, looking out the window to downtown Greensboro. After a few minutes I realized I was starting RIGHT INTO my friend Hibiscus's office space. They were having some kind of meeting in a conference room. So creepily, I got to to sit up there and spy on Hibiscus.
When I was in my 20s, I was obsessed with this boy I was dating. Oh, it was ludicrous. He lived on the second floor, above a movie theater. Sometimes I'd park in the theater parking lot and just watch him up there living his life. I KNOW! HOW WEIRD WAS I?? Oh, he'd be up there feeding his fish or changing a record, and I'd just sit in my car and stare up there and sigh. Until the day his mom pulled into the same parking lot and I had to scream out of there so she wouldn't know I was berserk.
Dear Old Boyfriend Who Sometimes Reads This Blog: That wasn't you. I don't mean you. It was some OTHER guy who lived above a movie theater. I didn't just totally give myself away just now with that detail. Go find something else to do, old boyfriend. Go read Dooce.
See? Having a blog is weird.
Last night I had dinner with my friend and coworker The Poet. We've been TRYING to go to tea together, but clearly God is over us and our tea plans. First, we picked Proximity, which is a fancy hotel near me--and how ironic would it be if a place called Proximity were far away from me--but they only serve tea until 5:00, and we, you know, work. Apparently they only cater to ladies who tea.
Then I suggested this place called The Secret Tea Room, where The Other June and I went and had crab cakes, thereby eating our astrological sign. Yes, I realize I say that every time I have crab. It's my big line. Sue me. Crack my shell and put butter on me. I guess that's more lobster, isn't it? Point is, Effing Secret Tea Room. Closed on Monday.
"GodDAMMIT," I said, glaring at my computer. "You want to just go to the fancy dessert place instead?" So we agreed to do that. Then when work was over and we were finally ready, we decided we wanted actual dinner and that's the end of that story.
How come you can be a crab but not a lobster as your astrological sign? I guess there were no constellations that looked like a lobster. Although if you ask me whoever made up what the constellations looked like was totally making shit up, like the dad from Calvin and Hobbes. "See there? That's an archer." Okay, high-on. I see a star here and three little spots over yonder. If that's an archer to you, go on wit' yer bad self.
Anyway, that was pretty much the highlight of yesterday. Having dinner with The Poet. I like The Poet. When they first sat me next to her at work I was worried she'd be all deep and only speak in poems or something. There's nothing worse than putting me next to a deep person. The juxtaposition is so, you know, jarring. But it was fine. She keeps her deep on the downlow when she's around me.
I just went into my photos on my computer to see if I took other photos of The Poet (answer: no) (and she really is a poet. Like, she's all published and stuff. And she tours around reading her poems and so forth) (maybe one day she'll be famous and I'll be a footnote in her biography. "Inexplicably, The Poet hung around shallow blogger June Gardens. Occasionally they tried to get tea.").
At any rate, I found this picture I somehow managed to take of my phone lockscreen, and by the way can anyone tell me how I did this? But I'm glad, because I have as my lock screen that terrible painting from the hotel we stayed at in West Virginia.
Am obsessed with that awful painting. And every once in awhile Ned says, "She kind of looks like you," which just makes me mad.
Now am interested in what's here in my photos that I haven't shown you.
I never did show you a photo of the chocolate-chip cookies I made for Ned for Valentine's Day. I mean, I actually made them. I did not just cut cookies off a tube. In fact, I was AT the store, buying foreign things like "flour" and "baking soda," and I saw the dang tubes in the frozen-food aisle, and I was all, Why didn't I just do that? But I wanted to make an effort, because Ned is nice to me.
You can see I had a lot of duds in this batch, but I took all the bad ones to work and people descended on them like jackals. If I had left a dead antelope out, I mean. I don't know that jackals would descend on cookies. I don't know if my fake coworkers WOULDN'T descend on an antelope, either. I've seen them eat mayonnaise-based sandwiches that have been sitting out all day.
Here's Tallulah trying to stare intently at me while I eat something but falling asleep in the meantime. Girlfriend would never catch her a jackal. She enjoys the nap too much. You should see how she is when I come home at lunch. Edsel is always at the door, striking up the band and dropping the ticker tape, while five minutes after I'm in the door Talu clicks down the hall with pillow marks creasing her face. "o. yu heer? it noons alreddy? talu just...tydee up in bedrum."
I guess those are all the faintly interesting photos I have in my computer. Currently I have 5,474 photos on said computer, and that's not even counting the 10839294 you've sent me of yourselves that I haven't put up yet. Remember when we just had photo albums and took 12 pictures at a time or whatever? Yeah.
Talk at you tomorrow. Oh! And in case anyone was worried sick and didn't read the comments, and I love it when the answer is in the comments but you ask anyway, the official name for Ned's movie reviews is Nedflix, thanks to witty Faithful Reader Letha. We are going to another movie Wednesday, Ned and me, not Letha and me, so there could be a Nedflix coming your way soon. Wooo!