For the last few days, I've been either too ill or too busy or, sadly, both to really blog, and I know your life has been poorer for it. Possibly your family members have been after you. "Cheer up, mom. June's blog will be back soon." Also, possibly you are part of the team checking me into a facility for my delusions.
Anyway, I'm back. Hiiiii! I did want to address my post from Saturday, where I put up a bunch of photos and then didn't have time to write about them, so I said,"Here're a bunch of photos. You can just decide what I was going to write about." Then the first person took a look at a picture of Edsel with a new collar and a vase with two carnations and wrote, "Are you ENGAGED??"
Which, ?
Then funny reader Paula wrote that she thought the message was, "Paul is dead" and it turns out people don't know that cultural reference and I got irritated, which I know is not like me. Usually I'm so mellow. Have I never been mellow? No. Especially if you make me think of that song.
Anyway, FOLKS, "Paul is dead" is something that happened in I think the late '60s (otherwise it was the early '70s) where the whole world got this idea that Paul McCartney was dead, and many Beatles' songs and an album cover supposedly supported this theory. Which by the way a couple people explained in the comments and then people would rush over the comments to say, "Which Paul is dead? What? Who?"
Let's discuss the whole not-knowing thing. "I hate the Beatles." "I'm young." Yeah, not really excusable, in my book. And yes I AM tsk-ing at you school marmly. I may even be shaking my head. I know! It's super-appealing.
We need to not be so NOW-CENTRIC, and find out some stuff that happened before our time. I think I said this in the comments. War of the Worlds. I know what THAT'S all about, and I'm not all up in Orson Welles. Tulips getting crazy expensive. Say, that was before my time. Know about it. And I'm not even that well-informed! But it scares the CRAP out of me that people don't, I don't know, value what happened less than 100 years ago. Am I being fussy? Or do you agree?
Oh my god, 400 paragraphs later, have not even started telling you about weekend. God help us.
So the photos from Saturday included Edsel's new dapper collar, which Faithful Reader Deb got him. I was TRYING to take his picture but he kept wrestling with Tallulah, so that was the next photo. And then, sadly, I had to get my teeth cleaned on Thursday, and at my dentist they always give you a carnation after. So the last picture was of my carnations. My you-made-it-through-a-cleaning carnations. I got two flowers because the receptionist and I had a bonding experience while I was there.
Somehow our conversation led to her GETTING OUT FROM BEHIND THE COUNTER and coming over to speak to me right at my lobby chair, where she told me several very personal things.
There is something about me that's very approachable. People telling me all their stuff happens constantly. It REALLY happened when I was a church secretary. I guess they figured I was an extension of the priest, and I certainly am. I am a woman of the cloth. A sparkly cloth that's really impractical, but still.
After Receptionist and I became blood sisters, I went to get "just a cleaning," and why do we tell ourselves that? Getting a cleaning is TERRIBLE. In no world should metal be scraping your teeth. For an hour. "Oh, is that a sensitive spot?" they always ask, while you're clinging to the ceiling with your nails like a cat in the cartoons.
"I am so sweaty in this chair it's gonna leave a Shroud of Turin when I get up," I said, and the other hygienist (who apparently doesn't read my blog, as I've whipped out that line 480 times) heard that and laughed so hard that she brought me a delightful and not-at-all-humiliating Poise wipe for hot flashes. Have you seen these things? Somehow they're ice cold, and they smell nice, and I totally wiped myself like Elvis in concert with that thing. I smelled wonderfully middle-aged after.
So that was my Thursday, and on Friday I mostly went around telling everyone about my cold. Because I'm fun that way. I was invited to go over to Ned's Friday night, as he made soup and really nothing sounds better than soup when you have a cold, which by the way I did. In case you did not know this.
Before I headed to Ned's, where I was bringing pajamas to change right into, and also my own box of Kleenex, because sexy? Anyway, before I went there, I opooed in to Victoria's Secret, because they were having a sale on my delicates, and yes I DO hate that store and agree that all their bras fall apart. However, they're the only store I've found that carries my triple D size and you're right. I DO sound smug about being a triple D, and so would you. I just noticed that I wrote "opooed" instead of "popped" and I swear I have some kind of brain tumor or something. Opooed. Kill me now.
The point is, I heard, "June!" and I turned around and it was my therapist. One I saw briefly after Marvin left. You have never seen anyone NOT LOOK at something harder than I DIDN'T LOOK at what she was buying. Do not want to picture my therapist all trussed up in a bustierre.
After that humiliation, I had soup in my pajamas at Ned's, and we also played with Funny Putty, which is a knockoff of Silly Putty that Hulk gave me. I forgot he gave it to me, but found it while I was searching for (wait for it) cold medicine. Of which I had none. Because I never buy cold medicine. But then I always get desperate and wonder do I really have any, which leads to me finding Funny Putty and having hours of fun at Ned's with it.
Ned told me Silly Putty is one of the only substances that is both liquid and solid. Ned is full of fun facts. He shaped said putty into a dinosaur, and then we watched it melt into an anteater and finally it decayed right on the Mortality book. Ned read me that whole book. Not in one sitting, but over time. It's a picker-upper, that one. It's Christopher Hitchens' account of dying of esophageal cancer. I'm walkin' on sunshine!
On Saturday, I worked and complained about my cold and also had lunch with Ned's entire family, which, hey! Who brought the smallpox blanket to Family O'Ned? For years they'll talk about Cold Watch 2013, where the whole group fell ill at once. Go June!
Then we had a birthday party to go to, and let me tell you what.
A few weeks ago, I got mad at Dick Whitman about something, and I said to him, "I am NEVER BLOGGING ABOUT YOU AGAIN!" I know! Ooooooo! Burn! But then it was his birthday and there's no way I can just NOT blog about his dinner party.
Where everybody had a good time.
Really, though, it was lovely. DW usually doesn't cook, but he made a curry chicken and risotto and there was a bowl full of ants that everyone said was dried seaweed, but you can't fool me.
I brought a coconut cake, which no I didn't make, but which cost $42 so I told DW that was his gift as well. Then I complained about my cold.
I turned the camera on myself, which really should be the title of my memoirs, and I noticed Ned was being all weird. "What're you doing?" I asked. "Looking dignified," said Ned, who apparently has no idea what that word means. The point is, we're able to enjoy the Nostrils of Ned, and that is what matters.
When we were eating, I pointed out to Ned that he forgot to put dressing on his salad. "I don't EAT dressing. Salads are perfectly fine without it."
Yeah. I'm doing it too. I, too, am surrounded with an aura of question marks and exclamation points.
On Sunday, after trying to change my sheets and finding it a challenge, I finished my work and went for a walk with Ned and the curs. Because it was a really nice day yesterday, and I'd like to take this moment to shout out to my friend Jane West, who had to leave our 60-degrees-all-weekend state to get on a plane with a sinus infection to fly to Minnesota. HEYYYY, WEST! SURE IS NICE HERE!
Guess who'd be pleased with me that I captured this flattering moment on film? Guess who'd go Pit on my ass if she knew?
While we were there, we ran into someone Ned went to high school with, and yes it IS amazing that he AND a classmate are still alive, and anyway she had this puppy sweetie pie snickerdoodley-ooo muffinheaded puppy poo pie noodle and I was, oh, you know, sort of interested in him.
I love any kind of Boston terrier or French bulldog. I know I'm usually a big-dog person, but those breeds kill me. If I had a French bulldog I'd never be sad again.
After our walk, Ned and I went back to my swinging pad, where I complained about my cold and my cats remained indifferent. You have never seen a cat so blatantly in love than Lily. Look at poor Iris, just trying to get any crumb of attention she can. eyeriss not see you, but she no she love you unkle neds. eyeriss need little sugar too, you know, unkle neds.
Pfft. Iris. Out of luck since 2012.
Anyway. That about sums it up, except I feel like I didn't get to bring up my cold enough. Just please remember that I had one. Thank you. And gesundheit.
