Bye Bye, Pie!

Technicolor Dream...lips

Faithful Reader Paula sent me some lipstick to play with, because she knows me too well even though in fact she does not know me at all.

There is no quicker way to my loins than to send me makeup. And we all know that was her goal: to get to my loins. I of course TORE the box open and realized some of these colors may not be working for me.

I'm brown, and I'm kind of sad. Won't you be sad, too? Won't you also be sad about my acne blemish? Brown. The lipstick of 47-year-olds with blemishes. Brown. The lipstick of despair.

WHY, HEY THERE! MY LIPS ARE BERSERK!

Orange you glad I switched to this shade?

Look, here, copper, you get off my lips or I'll MAKE you get off, see.

How do you do? I'm the mom from The Wonder Years. Do my frosty lips make you tingle? Do they? DO THEY?

...Oh! Okay, this one's good. Excellent. Will ignore desperate need for Botox.

And thanks, Paula!!

Bye Bye, Pie: Extreme Makeover Edition.

Because who doesn't want to look like a hagged-out 47-year-old, I finally acquiesced and decided to do a makeup tutorial today. I act like millions of you have been absolutely clamoring, and spearheading an email campaign, and painting "Do a Makeover, Joon!" over your "Save Ferris" water towers.

Water towers are a big thing with me lately. What do you think that means? Is it because I'm retaining my own water, so a water tower is kind of my symbol? My spirit animal? Water tower. Representin'.

At any rate, this water-saver has been playing with her makeup since she was approximately three and her grandmother was officially over her and said, "Go play with Gramma's makeup, honey." I actually have no idea if she said that or not. But I assure you girlfriend wanted me out of her hair. And most of the makeup on her vanity belonged not remotely to her, but to daughters and daughters-in-law and girlfriends of her sons and so on. None of this mattered to me as long as I got to glop on all the ginger-colored lip gloss and pan mascara that was on that vanity for the picking.

Nothing was better than that cake mascara in the pan.

And so sanitary, too! Seeing as you had to lick the brush to get the cake going. Which just sounded kind of dirty, and I really didn't mean to get all Bye Bye, Pie: XXXtreme Makeover. See what I did, there? Anyway, unsanitary. Maybe she's born with cholera. Maybe it's Maybelline.

And how come nothing is just a makeover anymore? Why is it an extreme one? It's just like how everyone's a supermodel now. You know what? Everyone isn't. Some people are just models, and that's a fine thing to be. Present company excepted, because wait'll you see me in all my made-up glory. And maybe I could shut up now and commence paintin'.

Here's me in my before picture, and I see my robe has fallen open in a most tempting way. Because who doesn't want to see a hagged-out 47-year-old naked? Anyway, I always wash my face before I begin, and I also clarify with a toner that contains salicylic acid, which exfoliates and removes all the grime, dead cells, resentments against your crappy family and Hostess Cupcake bits from your pores.

I am finally old enough that my once-oily skin is now dry in parts, so I use an oil-free moisturizing gel from Clinique that may or may not have come free from one of those buy-something-get-a-bunch-of-makeup-you-won't-use kits from Clinique. What I'm saying is prepare your skin however you see fit. You might want to marinate it overnight in a large bowl filled with garlic and lemon. I don't know.

Let's say I have a dreadful migraine, and am also stuffed up and maybe nauseated thanks to cholera caught from that mascara cake in 1972. Let's say I've had the worst day ever, and yet another of my cats have died and I've been left by a whole new husband. Let's say I'm in debt because I can't stay away from the Joan Rivers collection of armbands or whatever Joan Rivers sells. No matter what. NO MATTER WHAT, I will not leave the house without brushing my eyebrows. It's really the only way I'm neat and tidy. Eyebrows. I brush them straight up, then smooth them over.

I use a concealer that is one shade lighter than my foundation, and by "one shade" I mean, gee, this looks a tad lighter. They always tell you to put concealer UNDER your dark-circles area, and to that I have always said, "?" That makes no sense to me. And although I love my Latisse, one of the side effects is darkness around your eye, and suddenly I look like a hollow-eyed heroin addict, which let's face it, heroin is relaxing. Who can resist a little pinch between your cheek and gum after a hard day?

I read that using foundation around your nose to remove any redness takes 20 years off your face. Which would render me a zygote. Anyway, sometimes you hear something profound that shapes your whole life, and this was one of those times for me. To find the right shade and texture of foundation for you, buy 7294923949232 goddamn bottles of foundation and leave them all basically unused on your makeup counter till the day you die and your cousin Katie has to find a way to ecologically dump them all, cause she's some kind of filthy hippie who cares about the earth and so on.

Don't put foundation everywhere, like don't put it on your doctor's walls or your coworker's girl bits. Just on places that need a little even-ing out, such as ruddy areas or Mike Tyson.

I use a powder blush because of the previously mentioned oily skin, which makes creams and gels fall right off me like dignity on Farrah the teen mom. I use a shade with pinky undertones, because coppers and peaches make me look like I'm doing my squaw impression, which really brings all the braves to your yard. Since my face shape is not round, square or even oval but more peach pit and I really wish Nat would get off my face (June. Making vague 90210 jokes since 1992), I apply blush sort of in a round motion just on the apples of my cheeks. I'd say "where I smile" but come on. I got a little black book with my poems in.

You don't even WANNA know how much ding-dang eye shadow I put on. With a larger brush (and I do go all out on brushes. Go ahead and buy the Wet-n-Wild eye shadow, cheapie, but get Chanel brushes. You will thank me the rest of your days) I put a very light, neutral color such as Switzerland all over my lid. Then with the teeniest tinyest small teensy Lilliputian brush you have ever SEEN, I use a very dark color in the crease of my eyes. I don't make it big, I'm just trying to give you the illusion that I still have eyelids and not huge old lady Micky Rourke puffs for eyes.

I put a thin thin thin line of either gray, brown, gray brown or gray and brown eye pencil on my upper lids only because I'm old and if I get too makeuppy around my eyes I start to remember what happened to Baby Jane. If I'm feeling extra wild I'll go over it using dark eye shadow with that Lilliputian brush again. And no, I don't WING IT OUT for cat eyes. Am not dating Captain Kirk is why.

Get a Shu Umura or a Shesido eyelash cirler. If you say you cannot afford one, skip rent this month. And hey, food isn't a MUST or anything. If you have some drug store eyelash curler, your whole life is stupid. Trust me on this.

To find the right mascara for you, see the foundation discussion above, and worry about what your cousin Katie will do with all that landfill. Here I am using Great Lash only because it's OKAY, but it doesn't thrill me. I feel like I've kissed a lot of mascara frogs and have not found the right one for me yet. The one to which I will commit forever. It's more like misscara at this point.

BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Oh! My mascara just ran.

And that's another point. I don't use waterproof cause it's a bitch to get off and I figure it can't be good for you. Because I'm all about health. And for me, I apply 70-89 coats. Seriously. I don't stop till I get enough, or resemble the guy from A Clockwork Orange. This might not be a good beauty tip, but look how famous that guy from A Clockwork Orange is. He's a legend. You know why? Good lashes.

My big trick is to take ANOTHER teensy brush and add white or silver shadow to the inside corners of my eyes. I do not know why this works, and maybe it doesn't and everyone's like, Why did June store her cocaine in her EYE? But it seems to make my eyes bigger and so on. My goal is to have eyes like a Persian cat.

Because I have teensy school marm lips, I line them in a neutral color and add a very light shade of lipstick, usually a pinky nude. If I wear dark colors I look like I have never enjoyed sex a minute of my life. I look like Miss Grundy from the Archie comics. Not sexy, is what I look, with a dark color. Is what I'm throwing down.

Do you think I'm officially older than Miss Grundy? That poor thing was probably in her early 30s, wasn't she? If anyone had just asked her to the Chocolate Shoppe even ONCE, maybe things would have turned out better for her. Maybe if she'd worn a pinky nude lipstick.

I don't know. I can't get hung up on Miss Grundy or I'll start to feel bad.

Anyway, that's it. Natural beauty in 79 easy steps! Finish it off with a you're-too-old-for-that cherry barrette and you're good to go to the chocolate shoppe! Although in this instance I think this was the night Ned and I went to that terrible restaurant where the waiter actually pointed both index fingers at us and went, "tch tch" with his mouth. So my effort was for naught.

Let me know if you have any questions, like Why so shallow, June or Why's your cousin such a hippie, Joooon. I will gladly answer all of them.

Okay, MOVE! THAT! BUS!

Natural Woman

"Out of all the peanuts in the world, Mr. Peanut is the only one who makes an effort, with his jaunty hat and monocle and so forth. The other peanuts just lie around," said Ned, while we ate peanuts that he roasted himself, and I don't know what to tell you about The New Cooking Ned.

"I know," I said,"and who has he got to impress, if all the other peanuts aren't wearing shoes." I ate another peanut, because, you know, peanuts. "Do you think Mr. Peanut is gay, or not at all gay, just a dapper dresser like Dick Whitman?"

"Well, he does seem to be wearing tights," said Ned. I think he meant Mr. Peanut and not Dick Whitman.

"Maybe he's not trying to pick up a girl OR a boy peanut. Maybe he's trying to attract another nut altogether."

"He's getting a little cashew on the side," Ned said.

I'll bet Simone deBeauvior and Jean Paul Sarte didn't have conversations this deep.

Hey! How are y'all? I have been busy doing stupid things, and I will not recap them all today seeing as many of you are making scalloped potatoes and having your annoying families over and such. I know you're sneaking onto the Internet with your fifth drink of the day, and don't have much time.

But I would like to tell you about my dumb eye makeup.

The other night I was sitting around here reading a beauty magazine, and please see above where I am Simone deBeauvoir, and they had an eyeliner idea. "On the inside of your lower lashes, use silver. Then use a really bright color in the middle, followed by a dark color and WING it out the outside corner of your eye. You.will.look.stunning," the magazine told me.

Sadly, I had all three of those eye pencil shades in my take-it-to-work cosmetic kit, as opposed to my at-home-no-one-needs-this-much-makeup-who-are-you-Baby-Jane vanity. I glopped all those eye pencils on, then screamed to work without taking time to look, so you can imagine my pleasure when I got to the work bathroom and saw it looked like I'd had some kind of mental breakdown.

HI! I HAVE ALL MY FACULTIES! WHAT COLORS UNDER MY EYE!!?!! DO YOU HEAR THE KETCHUP TALKING IN THE FRIDGE? I LOVE MARMOSETS. THERE IS NO PAIN, YOU ARE RECEDING.

Good gravy. And I had to do pesky things like WORK, plus I had no eye makeup remover there, so I was, you know, like that all day. I had plans to have dinner that night with my friend Not Wes, who inexplicably you all have started calling The Naughty Professor, so I guess that'll be his blog name now. Anyway he came down to my desk to firm up our plans, and I said, "I want you to know, I'll be changing this eye makeup before dinner."

"Okay," he said. He really did. "Okay." Not Oh, what're you talking about? Not Gee, June, it looks fantastic. No. "Okay." Like, thank GOD. Because the Professor, here, has a reputation to uphold and he does not want to be seen with Rainbow Bright eyes.

At lunch, I screamed over to Zoe's Kitchen, which is delicious if you've never been there. I go out to eat at lunch maybe 1% of the time. Usually I drive home and let the dogs out and get interested in an old TCM movie, and I realize I just said "movie movie," but didn't know how else to put that. Maybe "I watch an old movie on TCM," but I still just said movie movie, really. The point is, I get into it then have to return to work. I have seen the front end of a lot of movie movies.

But anyway, on that day, with my Eyes of Many Colors, I headed to Zoe's Kitchen, where of course.

OF COURSE.

I ran into my friend Hibiscus Wilson, who was there with a coworker and who similarly has a reputation to uphold, and there was her friend, old paint swatches eyes running up to her. "HI, HIBISCUS!" I said colorfully.

"Oh. Um. Hi, June. Wow. This is my...friend June," she said reluctantly to her friend.

You have no idea how bad I wanted to say, "Nice to meet you. I don't mean this about my eye makeup." But I abstained. I felt the less said the better.

After work, I had every intention of fixing my makeup, but I got busy, and then I realized I didn't know where the restaurant was, so your pal the NBC peacock just started heading downtown in her full makeup regalia.

Right then, Ned called. "Are you on your way to your dinner?" he asked.

"Yes, but I realize I don't know how to get there, and the GPS says no route."

"That's cause it's right on the railroad tracks," said Ned, who then tried to use funny words like "north" and "left" and "up the hill" to try to get me there. Has he MET me and my fine sense of direction?

"Look," said Ned, who was clearly growing tireder of me by the minute and thank heavens I have these giant bosoms so I can keep him. "Meet me in my parking lot. I'm in the car, too, and I'll just meet you and lead you there."

So that's how EVEN NED got to see my pretty pretty subtle pretty eye makeup. I pulled into his lot, and he got out and came to my window.

"Wow, you look really nice," he said.

And that is why Ned is the person for me.

Naturally,

June

June Grooms

Two nights ago, I spent $15.50 on a slate-colored eye pencil from Clinique. I was trying to get the free gifts they have, and I always get my facial soap from Clinique (I get the mini bars so I can use them at home AND travel with them) (I know! Brilliant grooming tips from June) (then I left one at Ned's mom's and realized they're so small you forget them) (stupid grooming tips from June), but I needed to spend a grand total of $25 to get the free gft with purchase.

Does anyone else love the free gift with purchase from Clinique? I find their eye shadows ludicrously hard to put on. You scrape scrap scrape the palette and then put absolutely nothing on your eyelid and it bugs. But the lipstick? And the moisturizer? And this time you get a free exfoliator, too!

Yes, I know I have no job and shouldn't have been purchasing any Clinique anything. God, you are so no fun. In fact, I went in there and realized it'd been one whole year since I'd bought any makeup at the department store. I used to love going to buy makeup at the department store. It was kind of my hobby.

My point is, later that evening I saw Ned and was obsessed with my new slate eyeliner. "The jury is out on this eye pencil," I told him, lifting my eyes at him dramatically. "Oh, you look lovely," said Ned, having absolutely no idea what he was supposed to be looking at.

The other day he was making fun of me for not knowing some sports thing--it was a sports person or maybe some event, and he was completely astonished that I would have no idea what he meant. You know how the eye shadow and its scrapeiness irk me? This is 10 times worse. WHY WOULD I BE EXPECTED TO KNOW A SPORTS THING?

"What's the difference between a lip stain and a lip balm?" I asked him. He said that was altogether different. That most people know sports things and many people don't know makeup things. I think that is so Nedcentric I can't even stand it. Do you agree? I say it's even. The same number of people who don't know sports things = the same number of people who don't know makeup things.

Did you know that when every earth-shattering thing happened to our nation in my lifetime, I was grooming?

When it came on the radio that Elvis had died, I was looking in the mirror, trying on different wrap-around sweaters to go to dinner with my father. Yes,  in Michigan sometimes you need a sweater in August.

When John Lennon died, I heard about it while applying mascara in the mirror. I remember specifically the kind: It was a Revlon with a soft-tip applicator, supposedly so you'd look natural. The part where I applied 11 coats and black eye pencil to my inner lids really helped with that natural effect. Perhaps had my parents both been mimes that would have been my natural eye.

 

When the Challenger exploded, I was at an old lady clothing store buying a black ribbed turtleneck. Black turtlenecks were just becoming fashionable but in dumb Saginaw no one knew that yet, so I had to buy one at the old lady store, where they'd never gone out of style. All the old ladies, who were probably my age now, were clutching their pearls and watching a portable TV and I saw the Challenger.

I was applying Jergens lotion to my legs when 9/11 happened. It was a special kind of lotion--supposedly the more you used it, the less you had to shave your legs. I had to stop using it because the smell depressed me after that.

I am just saying to you, I think I groom a lot.

Anyway, yesterday I emailed Ned. "Just caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror," I wrote, as if I don't run over and consult the mirror like it's my swami every 14 minutes. "Was attracted to self. Think eye pencil is working for me."

"I TOLD you you looked lovely," said phony-ass Ned.

Do you have any makeup you've liked recently? Is there anything you think I should try? You know, once I get employed or something? Do you wish black ribbed turtlenecks were still in? Heaven knows I do.

Oh, and I have an idea. If you leave a comment today and you have Siri, try to leave it on Siri. In the comments yesterday, I called Faithful Reader Kira "keratinocyte" thanks to Siri. I thought it'd be amuuuusing to see what else that heifer screws up.

Siri, I mean. Not keratinocyte.

June, off to do her makeup.

In which June decides there is a table and it is round

Today I have many stupid things to talk about, and you will be stunned at how pressing they are. "Thank heavens June covered this topic," you'll say, at your daily round tables with your friends to discuss my blog.

What do you mean, "What round table?"

First of all, I got some new mascara. I know! You know you're stampeding over to the Algonquin or wherever right now to discuss prematurely. You're having premature elocution on this.

I got my mascara from the grocery store, and what's sad is I'm impoverished June. Regularly employed June would NEVER get her mascara at the grocery store. But seeing as I now apply 50 coats a day, I run out more quickly and needed a replacement. I would like to continue to thank everyone else for being allergic to their Latisse and sending me practically full bottles. I haven't had to buy Latisse in ages.

Yay, readers! Yay, allergies! June. Being glad you have itchy, red eyes since 2013. Oh, you are SO discussing my bitchiness at the round table.

I bought Maybelline Rocket, which sounds like some kind of marital aid, and let's discuss how I used to buy Chanel mascara. Which cost eleven thousand dollars a tube. Oh, I miss having dollars. You know how they say money can't buy you happiness? That's a bunch of bullshit. Of course it can. Mascara makes me infinitely happy.

Anyway, at least I had the seven bucks to get this, and I should be grateful, and note how I was already gleefully ripping it open before it occurred to me to photograph this for posterity.

I only use a Shu Umura eyelash curler. I worked with this super-annoying woman who had seven kids (7!), none of whom she paid any attention to because she was newly divorced, and no one mention how I go out with Ned and leave the dogs here. In fact, she had kids five and six to KEEP the husband--she told me that--and kid seven with the new boyfriend to keep him. Then she told me I was selfish for not wanting children. That is when I murdered her and stole her Shu Umura eyelash curler.

No. But what DID happen is this woman owned ALL the MAC eye shadow colors. All. And she'd do her makeup at her desk, which I'd scoff at if I didn't do that too sometimes. One day she asked if I had a curler, and when I whipped out the Maybelline one I bought in eighth grade, she said, "Oh. Forget it. Thanks." Then she told me about Shu Umura, and if you think I didn't STAMPEDE OUT and buy one right then. That was in 2000 and I still have it. I replace the pads, obvs.

Round table discussion: How often do you change your eyelash curler pads. Hulk?

But look! Look how pleased I am with that mascara! Go marital Rocket!

In other news, today is Miss Doxie's birthday. She really doesn't blog anymore, which is a shame, because when I FOUND her blog, in 2007, I read it and read it and died laughing. She is also absolutely gorgeous, and has a fancy job, and a really cute husband, and two 9,000-year-old daschunds.

One day, I as sitting in my lawyer's office, preparing to divorce Marvin, when I got an email from Miss Doxie. I didn't even know she knew I existed. And a ludicrous friendship was born. And no. I SHOULDN'T hang around anyone this pretty.

Anyway, happy birthday, Doxie! Many ridiculous returns of the day.

When I was searching for a photo of Doxie, I also found this.

If I believed in frowny-face emoticons, I'd put one here. I miss Roger. I wonder why I had 78 blankets all over the couch? Perhaps I was feeling under the weather, for a change.

The other crucial bit of news I had for you is that the other day I was at Ned's, who asked, "Would you like  a Thin Mint?"

...? Has anyone ever said no to that query in the history of time? Why even ask? Why not just GET OUT the Thin Mints and hand them over? Which he did, and I noticed the box was unopened even though I know he's had those cookies at least two weeks already. So I opened the box and got out one cookie, and he did too. And then he left the room. Naturally, I had another cookie and wondered when he'd be back for his second one, when minutes passed. And many more minutes. This was the day he was making that vegetable stock, so I thought maybe he was distracted.

"You want me to bring you another cookie?" I asked.

"No."

.....!!!!!!

Also, !!!!!!

"You aren't gonna have any more?" I mean, I've never even considered such a thing. ONE Thin Mint? Seriously? Is he some weird religion or something?

"You don't, just, eat a whole sleeve of cookies," said Ned. Who has no idea how things work. He also gives his poor cat ONE hypoallergenic treat at a time. Per day. If that. One. "It's not good to have a whole bunch," he said, and I'm wondering if he has some kind of self-hatred that is super deep-seated or something.

So my Q to you is, what the hell's wrong with Ned?

And finally, I leave you with this video, which means a lot and answers all the questions of our time. Other than the one about Ned and his cookie.

 

Round table discussion: Flapping lips. Why does Talu eschew?

Mica! Broadway Bronze! This is what it sounds like when doves cry. No, I HAVEN'T had a stroke...

Remember in December, when I gave everyone in my book club a nice moustache? What do you mean, "no"? What do you mean "sometimes I live my life and don't remember your every detail, June"? Whatever with you. At any rate, it's nice to see they're still being used to the fullest.

I had book club again last night, and what I like about book club is how intensely and passionately we dissect the book. Last night it was, "Did you read the book?" "Yeah, wasn't it great?" Then we discussed lipstick.

I went to the bathroom of our hostess, Hibiscus, and she had 2,047 lipsticks from Ulta in there. When I came out I said, "Hibiscus, I'm headed over to Ulta. You need me to pick you up a lipstick?" I'm fun that way.

"I know," said Hibiscus, "Isn't it awful?" But really, I'm one to talk. Every purse in my closet has at least one lipstick, so if I change purses I won't be lipstickless, god forbid. I also have two at my desk at fake work and several on my vanity.

Faithful Reader and Fellow Book Club Member LauUral whipped out her lipsticks at that point, and one wonders if she's some kind of Picasso painting with seven pairs of lips or something.

But then two book club members said they only have one lipstick and buy it over and over again. This shade is L'Oreal's Broadway Bronze, and if I ever mention her again, guess what this chick's new blog name will be?

The other person at book club who only wears one shade ALSO wears L'Oreal in Mica, which in case you were worried sick I've worn before and it's a nice color.

That doesn't mean Ima STICK with that color! Don't be silly.

I wonder what it means about us psychologically that some one us just find one lipstick and stick to it, while the rest of us are like Prince's mother: She's never satisfied. Also, why do we scream at each other?

Two people who did not scream at each other this weekend were Ned and me. Enclosed please find a photo from us at dinner with some friends, wherein Ned feigns interest in whatever I'm saying. I'm probably running down my lipstick shades for him.

Was it "wear your hair like a Cocker spaniel and get half off dessert" night? What gives with Ned's hair? BAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Oh, funny. ...MY hair. What gives with MY hair? I leave the house thinking it's okay, then I see a picture of it and it's always saying, "BLAAARRGGGHHH!!!!" It's always having some kind of fit, my hair. It's always over-the-top HEY LADYYYY! Jerry Lewis hair and never dignified Sir Ian McKellan hair.

Anyway. The other thing we did this weekend was go to a movie. I know that is shocking information, as Ned and I never GO to a movie. I think since I met him we have not gone two weeks without seeing some (incredibly depressing) movie together.

Someone mentioned in the comments that we should have some sort of movie corner with Ned, not that we all stand on some corner like common prostitutes. On the other hand, how else we gonna keep ourselves in lipstick? Anyway, I mentioned to Ned that you'd seemed interested in talking movies with him, so when I got home last night he'd written a little review of what we saw yesterday, which was the horrifically sad movie Amour:

 

And if you watched this preview just now and thought, "GodDAMMIT. This day was going fine and now I want to KILL MYSELF," welcome to my world. Welcome to every movie Ned wants to see.

So without further ado or lipstick, here is Ned's review of Amour. We need a little name for Ned's reviews if we continue with these. What can we call it?

June has asked me to write reviews for some of the movies we see together. While I cannot promise to be as dedicated as June, nor to bring the same quality that she does, I thought I'd go ahead and give this a shot. So without any further ado, the movie we saw today was Amour, an Austrian film starring Jean-Louis Trintignant and Emmanuelle Riva as husband and wife Georges and Anne.

If you've never heard of either of these actors, you'll be relieved to know that they are French, and nobody else has heard of them either. I took two years of French in high school, but I cannot remember why the French have to make George plural. And as French actors, they speak a lot of French in the film, so if reading subtitles isn't your thing, you might consider giving this one a miss.

Nominated for five Academy Awards, including Best Picture, Best Foreign Picture, Best Original Screenplay, Best Director and Best Actress in a Leading Role (she'll win), Amour tells the story of Georges and Anne, retired music instructors who live a quiet, sophisticated life somewhere very Frenchy. Anne suffers a stroke early in the movie, and the rest of the film concerns her declining health, his attempt to care for her, and the resulting changes and challenges in their relationship.

This is not at all a sentimental view of aging and dying, but rather an open-eyed, brutally honest depiction of end-of-life issues faced by absolutely everyone eventually. There isn't really any relief in the film either. No hint of recovery, no light moments to lift the mood, just a slow, inexorable march towards the inevitable. Spoiler alert: She dies.

This unblinking look at the increasing indignities and humiliation suffered at the end of a life lived well make this a film not fit for everyone. Me, for example. But if you have a good mood you need to get rid of, think you have this whole life thing figured out, or are just too goddamn smug for your own good, this might be a movie for you.

Lips be poppin'.

I have many plans today, including going to the grocery store for toothpaste because currently I need the strength of 10 men to attempt to squeeze out the dregs of my current tube, but so far all I've done is some laundry and I watched An American in Paris. Oh, and I ate pretty much half the box of Whitman's Samplers Ned gave me for Valentine's Day.

Today. A day that matters in the grand scheme of things so far.

Ned not only got me a large box of candy, because life is like a box of chocolates, and HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAA! no one ever makes that joke, but he also sent me flowers at work AND he got me a Nora Ephron book I had not yet read. The first person to call him a "keeper" gets chocolate cordials thrown up on them.

"They called you a keeper again," I always tell him, whenever any of you guys do, which is all the time. He always seems kind of pleased, but I also think he KNOWS he falls under the category of Good Boyfriend. Good Middle-Aged Manfriend. You can't be as good to your woman as Ned and, you know, not know. Anyway, I have no plans to not keep him for quite a stretch, if I can help it.

"Hi. I'd like to return this boyfriend? He didn't fuss enough over me for Valentine's Day."

We got up with my friend Jo on V-Day, because what's more romantic than that? And no, Ned did not get any girl-on-girl action out the deal. Sorry, Ned. I am so not a keeper. Anyway. Jo was having her monthly BookUp, and I love going to BookUp, so we did despite the Very Important Holiday.

And it's a good thing we did, because she had a whole V-Day gift bag extravaganza for me, and who loves being fussed over? Is it me, over here?

SHE GOT ME PINK BEACH!! I had completely used up my tube, and in case you're just tuning in to this riveting blog, last spring I put a picture of Jo up here, and 9939848372 of you wrote, "What's that lipstick Jo has on?" and then we all screamed out and had a run on Pink Beach.

Here I am wearing it, and God, can you ever tell. Just trust me. Lips be poppin'.

The BookUp was at a coffee shop, and here were our tip jar options. I mean, make it a little TOUGHER, dudes. I was torn. Eventually I picked Led Zeppelin, because I'm from Saginaw and you can't take the Saginaw out of me. However, I did end up conceding that I'd rather hang out with Freddy Mercury than Jimmy Page. I want to hang out with Jimmy Page I just gotta look in the mirror at that hair.

After the BookUp, we went to dinner and did not bring Jo. Sorry, Jo. I managed to capture on film the lightning-fast mercurial slip of a moment when Ned decided to browse the menu.

Following that, Valentine's Day was none yo' bidness. Oh, but as Jo mentioned my unmentionables to all y'all all in the comments, I did have on a rhinestone bra, which I got special for the holiday, and I like how I keep calling it "the holiday" so as not to offend Jews or pagans. Anyway, you go all out and get a pink rhinestone bra, you need to unbutton your sweater in the coffee shop and show it to your friend. And your ...friend. See what I did, there?

Yesterday I visited my old pal Charlie, who in case you are just tuning in AGAIN, and will you stop tuning in and out? COMING INNNNN AND OUT OF YOUR LIFE ISN'T EASYYYYYY...

That is a horrific song. In fact, it is SO horrific that I refuse to YouTube it on here. I think I officially have a No Barbra Stresisand rule on this blog, as of now.

OHMYGOD ANYWAY. If you just got here, my friend Charlie is in his 20s and the funnest person EVER, and this past summer he slipped on a goddamn LOG and is now paralyzed. It sucks. Is what it does. And this week he was back in the hospital with some infections and stuff, so yesterday I drove to see him in Winston-Salem. His door was shut and a nurse person came out. I mean, I guess she was a nurse. No one wears white hats and nylons anymore like Jesse did on General Hospital.

"I'm here to see Charlie," I told her. "Is it okay if I come in?" "We're in the middle of something but hang on. Whom shall I say is here?" "June," I said.

A minute later she came back. "June Gardens?" "Yes." "Oh, he really wants to see you. Hang on."

"Tell him I have on a sparkly bra," I told her. Yes, I wore it to work the next day. You can't TELL it's sparkly. And it lifts the girls. Support can be beautiful.

"NOW I REALLY REALLY WANT TO SEE YOU!" I heard him shout.

Eventually I got in there and we had a nice visit, and I may or may not have shown him a rhinestone or two. I never said I wasn't a giant tramp. With an understanding Middle-Aged Manfriend.

So that sums everything up. I seriously have 700 things to do now. I have to sweep the pet-covered floors, get the toothpaste before I  start becoming an extra from Deliverance, do some work I brought home, finish the laundry and do my Tracy Quartermaine workout, because hello, Whitman Sampler hips.

Hope all is well with all y'all all, and since you're up, can you tell me why they even MAKE chocolate-covered cherries? Blech. Dear Whitman and your sampler: More cashew crunches. Fewer cherries. I'll show you my bra if you listen. Love, June.

The new June Brady!

Honestly, I think my alarm is going off AFTER 7:00, because it seems like after I hit snooze 7949599 times and get up, it's always some shocking time like 7:49. My point is, it's late and Ima scream out this post in a hurry and it'll have errors and make no sense and READ ON and also those of you who thrive on telling me when I make a typo will have a field day today.

I have another statistics textbook to proofread, which is good because yay, money, so I started it last night after fake work. My pets like it when I'm just sitting there motionless on the couch. Since I no longer have a damn TV I am not doing that a lot anymore. Am I missing the Real Housewives? I am, aren't I? 

Edsel played it cool from across the room. Because that's the way of his people, as you know. Cool, calm, distant.

Here's assistant editor Talu snuggled next to my work. If I miss anything, she paws at me like Lassie. "Is something the matter, girl? Did Timmy forget a semi-colon?" Actually, the owner of the statistics textbook company abhors semi-colons. When I'm done reading the whole book, I have to go back and do an electronic search; every time I come across two full sentences separated by a semi-colon the way I just did, I have to PLUCK IT OUT. PLUCK!

Yes, my job IS fascinating. And never tedious. But again, cash money! Word.

In other news, y'all have been sending in your BLOG PHOTOs like banshees. I mean, you've literally come over here all wailing. It's kind of eerie. I cannot imagine how long it's gonna take me to put them all up, but I have enjoyed seeing what you all look like, and sometimes you'e written nice little notes. 

Speaking of pictures, my friend at work The Poet sent me a makeover site, and guess who made an error, there? Who has been innundated with the many, many looks of June, do you think? Beyonce-hair June. Pixie-cut June.

What say you to strawberry June? No matter WHOSE hair I put on, no one's was as fat as mine. My real hair is always splooking out on the sides.

Platinum June. I also plumped my lips and whitened my teeth. I love makeover sites. Oh, and the natural mascara, do you like that? I practically HAVE those lashes now, with my Latisse. Speaking of which, a faithful reader emailed me that she bought Latisse and had a terrible reaction and did I want hers, which, YAY! Someone's suffering is GREAT NEWS FOR ME!!!!

Before you FREAK OUT, you put Latisse on these disposable brushes, so it's not like I'm having eyelash sex with a stranger. "Latisse is POISON to dogs, June!"

Ima go now, as it's late and I will come to work as Bedraggled June, but let me know which hair color I should pick. Keep in mind my hair will never do either of those smoove looks.

XO, The Late June 

How many of them hormones you been takin', honey?

I just thought of that line from Fried Green Tomatoes and I like it. In reality I am taking zero hormones. In the immortal words of my grandfather, "How do you make a hormone? Don't pay her."

Hello! I plan to make no sense today whatsoever. It's the hormones.

My grandfather also used to say, "Wish in one hand, shit in the other. See which gets filled up first." Basically he said a lot of things that I completely did not understand until I got older and sat there and parsed them.

My GRANDMOTHER, who was the QUEEN of stuff that made no sense, said, "You tell him your ass would make him a Sunday face," which I have told you all before and I believe it flummoxed you as well. See. My ass, which let's all sit around and think about that disaster for a minute. Okay. My ass, which apparently is not great, would make someone else a Sunday face. A Sunday face being as good as you can look. So the best you can look is to look like my ass.

Do you get it now? Good. Go take a hormone.

I got my hair colored last night. Ned paid for it. He didn't inTENtionally pay for it. For my birthday he got me a certificate to a spa, and since then I have gone there for a manicure and then for a massage, but I just found out from TinaDoris they do good hair there, so I got my color done and used his certificate. My colorist looks exactly like Maria Shriver only not devoid of fat in her face. I mean, my colorist looks like a young, fresh Maria Shriver.

Don't get me wrong. We all age and become less than fresh, I know. But those Kennedy women seem to do it so dramatically. BOOM! I'm an apple doll! They're kind of like Asian women. I look great! I look great! I'm 60 and I still look great! I'm--BOOM! Apple doll.

At least we white women fall apart spectacularly obviously with each year. I should do a photo essay of me each year from 20 to the present so we can see the decline. That sounds cheerful.

Anyway, here's my hair.

Here's old Puff Daddy in the bathroom at work, before I left for my hair appointment. I don't know why I'm even bothering to show you this, because you can't really even see the color.

And yay! Here are my NEW HIGHLIGHTS and base color. I am the one who is kind of dark blonde. The gray and white one is my cat. The gray and white one would be me if I didn't use Ned's gift cards to color my hair.

I like to, you know, NOT TALK at the hairdresser. I enjoy looking at an Elle (God, I love E. Jean, the advice columnist), drinking the water they give you like it's luxurious, and just all-around mellowing out. You know? But hairdressers, and I think particularly SOUTHERN hairdressers, think it's crucial to CHAT YOU UP while they're working.

What I was kind of hoping is she'd, you know, surmise that I wanted quiet time while I was there. I mean, I know some women will chat your ear off while you're working on them, but I am not that person. Shouldn't a hairdresser be able to glean, once your client grabs her an Elle, that she's not a chatter?

"So, you go anywhere for the holiday?"

"Yes." {flip, flip, flip pages.}

"...You going anywhere for Christmas?"

"Nope. {smile at E. Jean's brilliance}

I don't know. Maybe I should just say, "You are free to spend the next two hours thinking your thoughts while I read about why clashing eye shadow and lipstick are in."

Have you seen this? Have you seen the weird middle-of-your-eyelid eyeliner crap they're doing and so on? I am not choosing to embrace. When I was 20 I would have. I embraced everything. Thank heavens for penicillin.

See. I am kidding there. Am allergic to penicillin.

Tonight, even though I have another statistics book to proofread and I started it last night, I am going to make chicken soup for Ned. I already announced it to him heroically so now I can't back out. Am hoping it goes better than the pie I made for Ned. Oh, that was a disaster. Soup's not that hard, right? And stop throwing the word "stock" at me.

I guess that's all I have to tell you, other than Ned sounds like Harvey Fierstein, and I use that example EVERY time someone has a cold and I need new lines desperately. He keeps saying his cold is not that bad, and I had to talk him into not going for a bike ride in the cold rain last night. The cold November rain.

 

You are completely welcome.

June's Most Excellent Day

Yesterday was kind of the perfect day, in that I got to go to the makeup counter and the doctor. You know how I enjoy doctor visits. I find them reassuring. For like a minute. Then I go back to thinking I'm dying.

I had a new doctor because (sit down) my last one quit, and if you have been here more than seven minutes, you're saying, "AGAIN?" Yes.

This time it was the gynecologist who removed my charming fibroids last year, and I liked him. Although remember when I woke up from surgery, and that poor orderly or whoever was wheeling me down the hall, and because I was drugged I kept pretending to be Mr. Potter in his wheelchair?

"ConFOUND it man, hurry up!" and I hit him with my discharge papers. I even said to him, "Youuuu once called me a warped, frustrated old man."

Do you remember that? I am just saying to you, if I was that obnoxious an hour after I woke up, imagine what I said to poor Dr. D.

June. Repulsing doctors since 1965. I wonder if the doctor who delivered me became a gardner or anything?

So yesterday I had Dr. L., and he came highly recommended. The person who recommended him was high. No.

I get in there, and the office is right behind where I had my MRI. Well, THAT was a good time. So this was bound to be just as much of a laugh riot. There was no one in the waiting room, which is what you want to see. I hate walking into a crowded waiting room, although in this case it was just the OB-GYN, so what was I gonna catch? Well. I guess I could have caught syphilis.

My point is, even though the room was nice and so was the staff and so forth, the piped-in music was atrocious. I heard I Can't Fight This Feeling Anymore, and I really could NOT fight the feeling that I wanted that song to be over. I heard Have You Never Been Mellow (A: No.) and then I heard ...friend's least-favorite song.

 

(Yes, I DID pick the video that had Andy Gibb in it on purpose. What are you, new?)

Anyway, naturally I stampeded for my iPhone to bug ...friend at work about this. Oh! And I totally heard I Won't Hold You Back by Toto. WHICH I HAD COMPLETELY FORGOTTEN ABOUT.

 

(Yes, I did pick the ludicrous-ist video of this song possible.)

When was that a song? Do you remember? It is one of those songs I have classified in my head as a Saginaw song. As in, I can kind of see myself driving around Saginaw hearing this song, and then never hearing it again till I was in the doctor's waiting room yesterday.

Anyway. Bad music. Is what I am throwing down, if you will just pick it up.

Finally, the nurse called me in, and you have never been asked so many questions in your life. Do you drink? Do you exercise? Do you eat meat? I said, "Are you planning to feed me later? Because, medium-rare."

She even gave me a colon cancer kit to take home, which, SWAG! I am supposed to mail her some poop. I am not making that up. She can't say I never gave her anything. "What'd you get in the mail?" "Oh, bunch of crap."

Eventually she weighed me, and I took off my sweater first, which, why do I do that? Who on God's green earth cares if I weigh 118 or 117 after removing the sweater? Do you like how I tried to get away with weighing 118 right now? The last time I weighed 118 our cell phones were the size of a boot.

And then? Just like on TV, or more specifically Lifetime Television for Women, the nurse said, "The doctor will see you in his office first."

HIS OFFICE!

When do you ever in real life get to go to the doctor's office? You know you're always perched there on the table like a moron. But no, we sat there and talked all about my vadge like it was interesting. It was kind of like a first date. Although I don't usually have a poop test in my bag on a first date.

Then we got down to business. The part where he felt me up and even said, "Uterus feels nice." See above re first date.

He wants to give me a test to see if I'm entering menopause, so when girl time comes (and who knows when THAT will be, see above re menopause) I have to call him and say, "My period's here!"

Now there's a phone call you make every day.

When that was over, I stampeded to Belk to get me the Pink Beach lipstick that Jo was wearing the other night.

Doesn't Jo look so much like a tube of lipstick? It's amazing.

So the saleswoman, who kind of had a Kate-Plus-8 hairdo back when Kate had that short hair, was convincing me I also needed lip liner (A: Yes. Yes of course I do.) (I'm June, and I'm a makeupholic. Hiiii, June.) when I noticed the biggest magnifying glass you have ever seen in your life. It was on a stand, like a mirror, only, you know, it was see-through and magnified you 88383848484 times.

"Are you super farsighted or something?" I asked Kate Plus 8 million of my dollars, as she triumphantly got a lip liner.

"Oh, that's so I can look at your skin," she said, as if to the naked eye I was just a skeleton. "I can see your pores and lines and imperfections."

I'd like to point out for the record that you can see none of these normally.

And that, friends, is how I also ended up purchasing pore-reducing serum, because I am totally employed right now. And if I do not see PORCELAIN CHINA-DOLL SKIN in like three days, Ima be pissed.

You know you can't hold me back now.