Bye Bye, Pie!

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.

Madre de Dios

I gots no time to gab today. I just woke up (don't ask) (okay, I was out late with ...friend.) and now I have to scream off to Raleigh to get my hairs done at 12:30.

The only way I knew there were storms was because I just read the comments from last night. Everyone check in and let the rest of us know how you are doing, in the comments. You know how Faithful Reader Sadie worries.

Here. I found this picture in my archives of Edsel and TinaDoris' dog. We can have a caption contest. I have a brand-new, still-in-the-package tube of Cover Girl Lash Blast mascara that I hate. WHAT A PRIZE! Anyway, you know I'll never send it to you so CAPTION AWAY. Oh, and if a boy wins the contest, I will [not] send you inflatable toast.

I'll do comment of the week tomorrow. By the way, Hulk has been comment of the week all week. I sent him some mascara.

You only have one nondoughnut hand. Use it wisely.

That title comes from my Krispy Kreme cup which is currently on my desk. Let's discuss the part where I just got an effing doughnut and yet also just spent $104 on The Tracy Anderson Method after watching an infomercial at 1:00 in the morning. Okay, technically I just spent three easy payments of $29.99 plus shipping, which was $470.

Yes, this is totally a photo of me and not Tracy Anderson. I was just parading around here in my heels and enormous bikini top. And fringe.

And I KNOW I'm unemployed. That part crossed my MIND, okay? I was sitting there last night, thinking about how I should really go to bed, having watched Signs on one of those stupid movie channels that still has commercials every six minutes and why do we bother with those horrid channels when (a) there are movie channels that DON'T break for commercial every six minutes and (12) we could RENT movies such as, oh, Signs for five cents through Netflix?

I had forgotten that that was a really scary movie, by the way. Holy cats. Sometimes that M. Night Shamalamadingdong gets it right. I learned to call him Shamalamadingdong from Howard Stern.

Oh by the way, hi. I am all over the place today.

But I wasn't TIRED yet, because I have been unemployed for three weeks now and the wild boar has taken over the domesticated pig and my night-owl self has totally returned, so there I was, looking through channels, and things were a LOT EASIER back when we had to stand up and physically turn the dial and all we got were channels 12, 5 and 25.

Maybe at your house you got three different channels. But you know what I mean. Once we started to have all this crap to look at is when this whole country fell apart and we all became porn addicts and got all our exercise off the TV.

So there was Tracy Anderson, whoever that is, and they'd corrected the SHIT out her face with makeup and lighting, which was irrelevant because they kept showing real women saying, "Three months ago I looked like June." Then they'd show a lumpy person. "Now I look like this!" And they'd show a person who looks like Tracy Anderson.

And that was all it took for me to spend $104 that I do not have, but at least I have all the time in the world to do the 79 workout DVDs that are coming, right? I'd ask you all to order the Tracy Morgan DVDs and do it with me, but remember when we all got on board with Jillian Michaels and her nostrils and I gave up after day three and you poor people who actually meant it were all, "Twenty-seven days! I feel great! ...anyone?"

So that was LAST night, when I was determined to not be fat anymore and to look like Hans Christian Andersen or whomever, and then today I had to take Edsel to the vet.

Even  though, as you can see, we were BURIED under a SEVERE STORM yesterday.

"#@@&$#."

That's my daffodil, there, swearing like a chilly sailor. I had 20 or 30 daffodils, and am getting mixed reports about whether they'll live.

Also swearing was Edsel, who was getting his rabies shot and his distemper because his temper had been dissed.

The vet said he looks good, and he's filled out this year, and "He's cute because he's so goofy-looking."

"#$@$@*&."

So on the way home, I was starving half to death, because it was 11:00 and I hadn't eaten yet and God forbid. I stopped at Krispy Kreme, and I realize I am the only person who likes or even GETS the bagels at Krispy Kreme, but I was all excited and guess what.

GUESS WHAT.

They don't serve bagels anymore. So I was FORCED to get a blueberry doughnut, which is an antioxidant, and I realize Tracy Chapman has her work cut out for her, with these DVDs, and she.better.work and yes, the onus is on her, not me.

Anyway, when said DVDs get here I will be sure to let you know how it goes. And by "it" I mean the part where said DVDs sit darkly under my TV in the cabinet.

Lip gloss. It's my prerogative.

Yesterday at work I had to fast till my blood test at 10:10.  No human has had to endure more torment. How is it a clock can move so slowly? Oh, I was hungry. Seriously. Kwashiorkor was setting in. Sally Struthers was next to me, doing a commercial about me.

The whole workplace was doing the test. I mean, you didn't HAVE to do it, it was voluntary, but you get cheaper health insurance if you do it, so most of us were. And the other smart people scheduled their tests for, you know, 8:30 or 9:00. Why did I wait till 10:10? Why? Why do I not think?

By the time 10:00 rolled around and I had to go to the testing place next door to work, I crawled over like one of those people in the desert looking for water. And was there a LINE by that time? A LINE. Like we were waiting to go on a ride at Cedar Point. And I like how my example is always Cedar Point as opposed to Disneyland or some other amusement park. Hey. I grew up in the Midwest.

There were orange juice and Nutri-Grain bars for the people--the lucky, lucky people--who were finishing their test, and words cannot describe the lust and envy I had when I watched those people emerge and have some juice. If I could've crawled into their gullets, I would've. Others in line were chatting. One person was talking at the top of her lungs about her medical issues, and how she hates blood tests, and frankly making everyone else a little nervous.

I was speaking to no one. Because at this point I was so food-deprived that I had zero personality left. I was like one of those Macy's floats that had all the air taken from it. I just stood and stared at the ground like I had some kind of disorder.

Finally, FINALLY, it was my turn, and the very nice nurse weighed me (oy), took my measurements (they had to get an extender), and then drained the blood from my body. When I left, I ate a blueberry Nutri-Grain bar the same way Tallulah would have. As in, one bite without tasting it.

I would make a terrible anorexic person, apparently. I have a friend who used to be anorexic, and she told me all about how she ate precisely the same number of calories each day (if I recall, 250) and how she'd go to bed and listen to her stomach rumble. On night one of that I'd be all, "I'm getting up and toasting a bagel."

This is not to say that I have been stable and normal my whole life. See: hypochondria. See: barf phobia. See: panic attacks. I just never got the anorexia gene, apparently.

In other news, now that I've eaten and can think beyond the Nutri-Grain, my lip gloss is here. I got this on Amazon when I was ordering Gentle Leaders for the dogs. As I was checking out, Amazon said, "People who order Gentle Leaders also get this:

Okay, really? For your dog? Because these don't even look like Tallulah's colors. Nevertheless I fell for it, because have you met me? And yesterday Edsel's ice blue Gentle Leader came, as did my lip gloss.

Here I was on the phone with either my father or my Aunt Kathy last night, with the second-from-right color on. Dear dad or Aunt Kathy: Sorry I was playing with lip gloss and taking my own photo while we were talking.

 Please also note my gel manicure. On week two and going strong.

I guess that's all I have to tell you. Other than the part where the Real Housewives reunion was so worth my wait. Waiting till 9:00 last night was almost as hard as waiting for 10:10 yesterday morning. And now I have to wait for NEXT week for part two. I could watch the Real Housewives every day and never grow bored. Yes, I am deeply intellectual.

Some of my girlz watched it with me, when they weren't reading my beauty mags. Like either of them needs those. Tallulah effing hates Dana. We all do.

Okay. Going to shower and then be late for work because I am playing with Bobbi Brown. BOBBAYY!

Hey, 16%!

We had our usual routine this morning, where the dogs immediately burst outside like the house is on fire, and then when they hear me feeding the cats, through the wood and the brick and the five rooms from the back yard and the insulation, they want right back in. Then after they eat, the house is apparently aflame again.

So they were on their second trip out while I checked email--and can I just say, if you have emailed me and I have not answered? I am sorry. I am getting several hundred emails a day and I was trying to be all good and answer them (I mean, they're not all related to this blog, my email. I just mean in general) (although most are from this blog, actually. I KNOW! Who's hoity-toity all of a sudden?), but sometimes I just cannot. I know I sound like a tool.

Anyway, my point is, I was in here doing stuff when, "WOOF." It was Tallulah. It's always Tallulah. Edsel would run around like a demon in that yard for six hours, except Talu gets bored. And God forbid he let her out of his sight.

"WOOF!"

"I HEAR you!" I said, while I put dishes away and threw in some laundry.

"WOOF!"

Oh for the love of all that is holy. Except for that one NOTABLE time, I ALWAYS let her in, so do we need more than one bark? I mean, okay, if an HOUR or something has gone by, freaking remind me. But this every-19-seconds thing is obnoxious.

"WOOF!"

I go to the door and JUST when I get there, the Schnauzer and Lab behind us got let out.

"Smell Lu!" And off she went to go play with them. Oh, I was irritated.

(Once I let her out at lunchtime and went to work. I forgot about her. And she was in the back yard, in the 65-degree weather, for four hours. You'd have thought I'd thrown acid on her family. I got the silent treatment for a week.)

In other news, guess what.

Dude, I effing love Latisse. I am unsure if I have touched on this topic enough.

Anyway. Hello, the 16% who read me on Saturday! What are y'all doing with your bad selves today? I am recovering from my big night out of partayying till 1:00. Woo! Twenty years ago, 1:00 would've been an early night. Sad.

Right after work, the new girl, Poochie, came over. She lives kind of outside town and has hens and goats and cats and dogs and yes, she does have EVERYTHING I WANT. Except she doesn't have a teacup pig, which I still desperately want. At any rate, like me, she was interested in meeting my pets, because it's fun to leave your 50 animals and meet new ones. I don't KNOW why. It just is.

Everyone liked her, including "WOOF!" over here. And do you know Lily just came out of her room and greeted Poochie? So far, Lily pretty much hangs out in the spare room. Sleeping on top of Iris' kitten bed and smooshing it, day afer day. But last night she was all, heyyy! I think Poochie has a way with the pets.

I'm pretty sure this is the first family shot I managed to get, and man, do I ever have bookend pets now.

So anyway, Poochie stayed a couple hours and we talked and played with the animals and I offered her no food, as I had a can of tuna and a box of flax, and yes I do understand I suck. I did have wine for her, which Lily drank.

After Poochie left I put on my iTunes, which do not contain a bunch of hits from the last time I went out, during the Clinton administration, or anything, and got all ready. Poochie told me to wear something swingy, and what I discovered is I own nothing swingy. Why? Why is that? So I wore black and pink sparkly jewelry. Because I am annoying.

Here is me guiding my coworker, The Spanish Editor, to my home. She had on lots of sparkly brown, which at least wasn't as making-June-look-boring as sparkly turquoise.

We get downtown to this club, and about 15 of her friends are set to meet us there. There's a huge line outside, and everyone in said line was about seven years old. "I donnn understannn!" she said. She is from Colombia. Do you enjoy my accent? If you were here, I'd sound Finnish. All my accents sound Finnish. "When we come here udder time it fill with people our age. Thirty, forty, not 15 like tonight!"

"Maybe they have different music on different nights," I offered.

"Jesss, that could be." At this point I'm making her sound like Speedy Gonzales. "But ebery udder time, it Saturday night, like tonight."

We both stood there in the street for a second, looking at each other in horror. "OH MY GOD! Eeets Friday night! OH MY GOD!" We giggled among the youngsters. Then we talked about how be BOTH fasted on Thursday this week, thinking they were having these insurance (INsurance) blood tests, but it turns out there was a MEETING about the INsurance and the test is Monday. I was so glad somebody else was all starving and peaked all morning and it wasn't just me.

So we ended up going to this bar right near my house. Dudes. It's RIGHT NEAR MY HOUSE, and it has multiple levels, and dancing, and a band, and outdoor seating with couches and WHO KNEW? I could walk there. Who needs to get out more?

After, she came over and I read her tarot cards, because that's apparently my trademark for getting babes back to my place.

The Spanish Editor is an interesting person. She used to be a journalist, and has been all over the world. She's one of those people who, if she has extra money, will spend it on having fun. I demonstrated for her my Botoxed forehead. Enough said.

All this socializing has exhausted the Eds. I like how a puff of fur has fallen off of him. Honestly, things don't look this filthy here till the camera flashes on them. Look at that bookshelf! Guess I'll, you know, dust today.

I have a date tonight, but in the 39495589020 emails I have exchanged with said...date, we talked about my blog and I said I didn't want him to read it, and he said (a) it feels like my private business and he won't intrude on it and (2) he doesn't want to read about how much I detest him, should I do so. I believe his exact quote was he was worried he'd see, "I've been spending time with this total rube. GOD." Which would be impossible for him to read because have you ever heard me say, "rube"?

So I will not say much about my date. Going on a date. The end. (Ohmygod he is really cool. Okay. Done.)

When I started this thing five years ago, I had no idea this dilemma would come up. I didn't ever think I'd be divorced and dating again and having to worry about my blog. I mean, obviously. How could I know all that? But it is kind of a thing, because it takes up a lot of my day, at this point, and I'll be all, "One of my commentors said..." like that's just a thing people say. But how scary to be someone walking IN to all that.

I should get up now but Iris is asleep on my arm. I will post and you 16% better say amusing things, because it looks like I'm stuck for a whole purry catnap.

A post about everything and nothing. Aka what else is new.

I just got back from having dinner with The Other June, and I am writing this before I go to bed. I have a dentist appointment early Thursday morning, so I am writing my post at night, and let me tell you. Things are fascinating over here at House of June.

I hate getting my teeth cleaned. It makes me nervous. And my dentist always comes in after and says, "Mmm. MMMMM! Oh, mmmm. Yeah, how long have you had that old filling?" He's always trying to get ye olde filling replaced that Benjamin Franklin put in for me in 1742, and hadn't Benjamin Franklin been long dead by 1742? June. Knowing her history.

Anyway, my blacksmithed filling is still working FINE, and I don't see why it can't stay in there. It makes a great weather vane, too!

In other news, The Other June and I had a delicious dinner at a pretentious restaurant that serves Southern food, which is kind of redundant. I mean, we're in the South. It's kind of funny to me that they have a fancy restaurant where you can go get...Southern food. Nevertheless, everything was just effing delicious and I highly recommend it. It's called the Southern something-or-other. Get there tout suite.

After dinner, The O.J. came to my house so she could meet Iris and Lily. In the time she has known me, she has met baby Henry,

Baby Roger:

Baby Anderson Cooper:

and now baby Iris.

(I didn't just take that while she's right here on me or anything.) (purring and clutching the pearls.)

Could I stop PLOWING THROUGH CATS, PLEASE?

Also, she came to visit not-baby Lily.

*You understand Lily pretty-est cat ever. That go wifout saying.*

Lily gets her own font, with asterisks, she is so pretty.

And in case you wonder what the hell happened to all those cats because you just got here last Tuesday or something, Marvin took Henry when he left, then delicate, gay Anderson hated living with dogs so I said to Marvin, "Maybe you'd better take Anderson too." So now Anderson and Henry live in connubial bliss, even though I don't really know what connubial means. Then Roger got killed last month and let's talk about that a lot because that doesn't still make me miserable to think about our anything, so I got Iris and Lily at the pound just now.

Anyway. Oh! And before I got up with The Other June and we had our redundant Southern food and she once again met some cats I got, I got me a manicure over at the Elegant Nails & Tan. To which I say, "Define elegant."

My point is, my manicurist talked me into getting this gel manicure, which supposedly will stay on for the rest of my life.

The color is Lincoln Park After Dark, and I had better like it, because apparently I'm being buried in it.

We had a big talk, the manicurist and I, about how she studied French in high school and then in college studied accounting and forgot all her French, then got here and knew very little English. I always wonder how bad it must be to have to move here, give up all that schooling, thrust yourself into a country where you don't know the language, and have to work six days a week as a manicurist.

She works way more than 40 hours a week. She works the whole time the salon is open. How dreadful. Oh! And the woman next to me works for the place that invented those faces on trees. You know how you can buy those woody-looking faces for your tree? Yeah. Also, before she left for her manicure, she told her husband, "I put dinner in the oven, but you have to check it once in awhile." He said, "Well, what am I looking for?"

She was irritated. Also there were two women there getting pedicures and drinking wine. The woman who invented the tree faces told me those women come in all the time. Bring their own cooler. I noticed it took them an hour and a half to drink one glass of wine. What is the point of schlepping a whole cooler of alcohol to the pedicure place if you're not going to drink alcoholically?

I guess that's all I have to tell you. Except that we have a new woman at work and I love her. Today she wore a leopard skirt, a pink shirt with a big flowery frilly thing, and pink sparkly shoes. And she has this framed print in her office that is a picture of Cinderella, and the picture is from the book I had as a kid.

I had TOTALLY FORGOTTEN about this picture but then it all came back to me. This lead me to bring in my fairy tale book from my childhood, which had the most beautiful pictures:

Oh, I used to sit for hours and stare at these pictures. Here is lofty Edsel-looking wolf putting his paw on Little Red June.

I always wanted to find elf and bird tea parties. And did I? Not till I did hallucinogens in college.

I actually have never done hallucinogens. Unless you count Benadryl, which makes me see funny colors and jump off high-rises because suddenly I have peacock wings that fly.

Dude, my swan allergies are killing me. Dude, my princess allergies are killing ME!

I should totally frame these, shouldn't I? Aren't they beautiful? When I really couldn't read I used to make up stories that went with them, kind of like now with the swan allergy story. Not much has changed through the years, except now I apparently have Lincoln Park on my nails for life.

Hold still, darling, and we'll just jooge your flower a little and--voila! FABULOUUUUS! Ernesto, bring that mirror, you lazy antelope. You'd let the lion eat you if it meant moving off the plain while Real Serengeti Wives was on. Oh, sweetheart, you're GORGEOUS! I could EAT YOU UP if I weren't a grass-eating queen!

Maybe I need to get out more.

Talk to you tomorrow, when I have sparkly new teeth. I mean, except for ye olde fyllyng from Geoffrey Chaucer.

Margaret Thatcher stalks June

So as I was SAYING, before my stupid stupid stupid post went MISSING yesterday, I have a statistics textbook that I have to copy edit due on Monday, and man. Am I ever on top of that. Because I haven't spent all week being desperately ill or anything.

The place that I freelance for is always really nice to me, and I have yet to miss a deadline for them, and in fact now that it's been 10 years--which I just mistyped 120 years and it feels like that--with them, we don't even set up deadlines for me anymore. They send me a delightful statistics manuscript--exciting!--and I get it back to them in 10 days to two weeks.

But this time they sent it to me before Christmas, knowing I wouldn't get to it till after all the holidays were over, so I emailed Monica, the beleaguered person I deal with at the publishing company.

"So, um, when do you need this, drop-dead date? We never really said."

"Monday."

"Hmmm. Yeah. See, I got really sick last weekend and didn't get to look at this at all. And you know, I never missed a deadline with you, not even that time I had a death in the family, remember? So, when can I get this to you?"

"Monday."

Crap.

This being sick thing. It's gotten me nothing this week. Ooo, except svelty-svelte svelte! This woman at work said, "You look so...what is it? You're so cute today!"

"I barfed and got skinny."

June. Always the pleasant coworker.

Anyway, so I have to, yes, proofread statistics all day, and the first person who asks, "Don't you have to know statistics?" gets slapped with Monica's liver. There is a statistician who reads for that stuff. I just check that the sentences are complete, the chapter titles are the same size, that the parentheses have a beginning and an ending, that the references are set up right, that sort of riveting thing.

Except for me that stuff really is riveting.

And you know what bugs me? Is when people use the word "grammar" to cover any error in a sentence." oh hai june luv her blawg bet my grammer is buggin ya!"

The word "grammar." Please look it up.

You know what I am? Not fun when I am in the middle of working my regular full-time job and then also freelancing.

Ooo, but you know what? After this charming project is over, the beleaguered Monica has another project for me, and I'd be the consulting editor! Doesn't that sound fancy? And she said they are gonna pay me $900 an hour. Okay, she did not say that much but it IS double what I usually make. I am fancy.

In other news, on the way home last night, the woman in the car behind me looked exactly like Margaret Thatcher. Oh, it was irking me. I kept thinking, She doesn't look THAT much like her, then I'd look in my rearview mirror and there she'd be again, totally Thatchering out. It was uncanny. It had no cans. She was driving a Lexus. Do you think Margaret Thatcher would drive a Lexus? Would she even know to stay on the right side of the road? Is Margaret Thatcher still alive?

More important, why is she following me?

Finally, I leave you with very important images which FAILED to make their way to this riveting blog yesterday, after I typed the whole effing thing and it disappeared.

I was thinking about my blush. I have this powder blush that Pal from MA talked me into getting, and I like it except it doesn't spread very well over my very opaque spackle foundation that Shields and Yarnell want to borrow. I was wishing I had me some of that liquid 8-Hour Blush from Cover Girl they made in the '70s, and does anyone remember that stuff? It came in a long round tall container with a white top.

Whenever Barry Gibb walks by a barber shop he finds himself wondering if they sell Brylcream, and now here I am wondering if I can get my hands on blush from the '70s. Or for that matter Brylcream, because I don't think I've ever seen Brylcream close up.

Anyway, I tried to Google this blush because it became an obsession, and gee, why am I gonna miss my statistics deadline? And I cannot for the life of me find that DING DANG blush, but I did find these important ads.

I think she'd need less makeup if she stopped rubbing up against stucco. And maybe more Prozac, less foundation, there, sister. Cheer up. Remember how Love's had everything? Makeup, perfume, I think even bath stuff. Where did they go? Where did our love go?

Hey, will you get my jean culottes out the dryer? Ima get on my bike and go to a field with my Ten O Six Lotion. This ad makes a ton of sense. But Bonne Bell was always schlepping us out to the middle of nowhere to tout her chemicals.

I have two things to say about this ad. Other than the 14 things I already said. A man came at me with those flowers, my throat would close up and I'd die before we could get to the ER. Romantic. And if I used Ten O Six at this juncture, my skin would shrivel up like one of those apple dolls.

It turns out I could look at old makeup ads ALL DAY. Again. Why the missed deadline. Sorry. I was in Lip-Smacker Land. I had ALL of these flavors. All of them. I didn't even LIKE some of the flavors, like root beer and Good and Plenty. Irrelevant. I had to have all of them. Bonne Bell Lip Smackers. The Beanie Babies of the '70s.

Note they had "orange pop" flavor and also Orange Crush flavor. Nice. Nice way to scam us, there, Bell.

Okay. I am going back to my statistics book, which is exactly as exciting as thinking about Margaret Thatcher and makeup in the '70s. Carry on.

Eff ogg. I like spelling it "herre."

So, my Wen came. And in case you do not sit around watching infomercials with Melissa Gilbert in them--to which I say, why? Are you NEW?--Wen is a shampoo that is supposed to transform your life. It makes thin hair full, frizzy hair (hello) calm, and so on.

I worked with a guy who used to say that. "What are you, new?" I always liked it.

Anyway, for years I thought, Oh I should just try Wen already and never did. I was trying to be fiscally responsible. Now that I am single and poorer than ever, I caved.

It got here Friday and then I had to sit around and wish it were shower time. Because guess who is pathetic.

Okay, so here is my hair before:

Puff Daddy called. As did Benjamin Franklin.

That front part has apparently had enough of my head and is trying to make its escape. And let's discuss all the clutter back there. The green thing is a mantle, ledge thing that Marvin took down and I should put up somewhere.

The pink thing is my girl tools that Daniel Boone was stuck using to fix my house. The box is my cell phone that is GOING BACK.

Anyway, Saturday dawned and you would've thought I had some kind of OCD where I liked to shower, so eager was I to get in there. Yeah, yeah, cat food in a bowl--plop. Dog food for you guys--plinkle plinkle. Eff off. Which I just typed "eff ogg" and am going to say that from now on.

Then WHOOSH! I was showering. And then I waited for my hair to dry.

You know what I say?

Well, crap. I totally tried to put Hot in Herre up from YouTube, and it was restricted. I hate everything. Does this mean my ass in, in fact, not bodacious?

By the way, I am also going to constantly spell it "herre" from now on, along with constantly saying eff ogg.

ANYWAY, I used the dang Wen and herre is how my hair looked.

Hello! My hair is smaller! Also, I opened the tool box because I am trying to put up new curtains and yeah. It's like an episode of I Love Lucy, over herre, with me trying to put up curtains. Let's just say I not only had to go to my black-person Bed, Bath, & Beyond, but I also had to find the white-person one. And guess what? Both do not stint on the potpourri and scented candles, so I had new curtains AND a completely closed throat.

Yay.

Oh.

Herre is the side view. I got off on that BB&B tangent and almost forgot.

The other thing I keep forgetting? Is to say our book for book club is Only Time Will Tell by Jeffery Archer. We are supposed to meet herre to discuss it on October 29, but do we need more time? Let me know.

Also, Whitni (with her "i") and Duffylou share comment of the week honors. I know! Two for one! Two {click}, two {click} two mints in one! Whitni and Duffylou have retsin.

Honestly what is wrong with me. I guess it's because I'm so hot (in herre) with my new hair.

How much do you like me for getting obsessed with that song NOW, 10 years later?

And by the way, don't be fooled by the Wen that I got. I'm still Junie from the block.

June has first-world problems

In case you were fretting and wringing your hands, I seem to be on the mend.

I realized, being home all these days in a row, that I don't get to see a lot of pretty-things-the-light-does in my house, because I am off toiling all day. At least my iron gets to appreciate it.

I also had much time to enjoy Roger and his tail. Seriously, that tail is frightening. You know how sometimes cats are born with two faces? I think he got the tail of some sibling in the womb. Just added it to his own. He can leap from the counter all the way across the room to the top of the fridge with no effort whatsoever. He is a chimp. A kittemp.

"Kittemp" makes a ton of sense.

I did drag myself up off the couch yesterday to go to the movies. I saw 50/50, that movie with Seth Rogen where his friend has cancer. You know how I am--a cancer movie is just my style. Anyway, it was really good and I highly recommend it. One barf scene.

Maybe this should be my new calling in life, alerting you to barf scenes in films. Except then I'd have to sit through barf scenes, which is why I have never seen Stand By Me or Bridesmaids.

Oh, and also? My new phone came, and I desperately miss my iPhone. Am unsure if I can go on with this barbaric phone. I mean, there's starvation and war and pestilence, but come ON. Those things are bad, but living without an iPhone once you have tasted the sweet plastic or whatever? There is nothing worse.

Oh! And in other pressing news, I got my check from Google ads (thank y'all), and I stampeded to the bank to deposit it last night (my mail now comes after 5 p.m. It used to come at 10 a.m. and then they laid everyone off or something and now it's practically dark out by the time I get my mail. First I have to tolerate no iPhone and then THIS? I am practically The Little Match Girl at this point.) and as luck would have it, you can SEE an Ulta store from my bank. Now, you know I detest the Ulta since they screwed me over last year.

However. I got my annual Allure Best of Beauty edition this month, and let me tell you, there is no porn in all the world as exciting as Allure's Best of Beauty edition. This year they featured 193 beauty products that they think are the best right now.

Each year I pore through Allure's Best of Beauty like it holds the secrets to the universe. Because it does. And what Allure told me was that Ulta had the best nude lipstick, and that it was less than three dollars.

So as much as I detest Ulta, I went in. I have been battling with myself for weeks now--should I go in or not? There were my principals, but there is also the part where if I just found the right nude lipstick my life would be complete.

So last night I did it. I went to effing Ulta. And do you know they have all kinds of things that are new in there? Oh, I had fun. I forgot I felt ill. I forgot I hated Ulta. I forgot I am broke, despite my giant Google ads check.

I fell in love with this perfume even though it is called So Hooked on Carmella and I really have no wish to smell like Tony Soprano's wife.

I had trouble finding the Ulta lipsticks, because they differented everything up in that store since I last stormed out, but finally I did, and guess what. GUESS WHAT.

That lipstick and that less-than-three-dollar-price did not exist. And THIS is why I hate Ulta. And also Allure's weird tie to Ulta.

However.

I found an Ulta lipstick for $8 called Pink Chocolate or Chocolate Pink--whatever--and oh, did I like it. And this is JUST WHAT ALLURE WANTED ME TO DO, was to go into that satanic Ulta and end up spending more than three dollars on something else.

Dammit!

But oh, that Pink Chocolate or Chocolate Pink is an excellent color.

I am very linky today. I am Linky Tuscardero.

Have I already done that one? I know in the past I have been Abraspam Lincoln and Link Martindale. It's hard to keep track of all my hilarity.

So I guess that is all I have to tell you about my purchases and lusts and willingness to forget my principals.

Oh! And comment of the week goes to Amy in MD. I do not know if Amy is literally inside a doctor or what. But for some reason her little quip cracked me up.

Carry on.

Almonds and mint

I still feel dreadful. Should I go to work today, or not? I feel bad because The Poet who sits next to me is coming in today, and she usually has Fridays off because she is a fancy poet and has some kind of fellowship or something. On Fridays she is supposed to be home being deep and poetic and so forth. Instead she is coming in in case my arse dies, which it might.

Rose are red

Violets are blue

June sucks

My throat is still killing me. Has it been 72 hours? I know you are supposed to go to the doctor if your throat hurts for more than 72 hours. I learned that when--guess what--I did NOT go to the doctor and it turns out I had strep and then the dang strep wouldn't go away. That was a good time.

Obviously it eventually went away. I am not over here blind from scarlett fever or anything. Like Mary Ingalls.

Did you ever see a real picture of Mary Ingalls? She was so pretty on that dumb show, and yet in real life? Not so adorable.

Hi. I'm Mary Ingalls. What I have is some body in my hair.

Poor Mary. She needed Wen.

WHICH, by the way, I purchased yesterday and I hate my own self. But I was sitting there aching and throating and sleeping off and on, and when I wasn't sleeping I ached and throated watching the Michael Jackson trial. Which is riveting.

At any rate, at some point the infomercial for Wen came on, and I have watched it 848393 times. I watched it when Melissa Gilbert touted it (so why she didn't tell Mary about it is beyond me) (and you know how I enjoy it when people confuse that idiotic show with the good books) ("There was no Albert!?") and I am watching it now when they show the woman with fine blonde hair and the black woman whose hair looks like mine.

Maybe I am black and no one has told me.

 

Anyway, in the commercial everyone has fabulous hair and y'all know I rarely have fabulous hair. So I got the dang stuff. Did I mention I am poor now that I live alone? I DID email the statistics textbook company to ask when another book needs proofing and--yay!--I get another one in two weeks.

So get ready for me to complain about THAT every second until that sizeable check rolls in.

Anyway, that is how I am justifying my big $30 purchase of Wen. And of course if I like it, I have to find a way to continue to justify my use of Wen.

We'll wait for the day wen that happens. BAH!

Do I get the almonds with my order? What about the mint leaf? Ima SUE if I don't get the almonds and the mint leaf.

And by the way? If you were thinking of just lying around at home ingesting Propofol? Not such a good idea. Poor Michael Jackson. Did you hear that terrible audio of him slurring his words?

 

It just occurred to me that I'll bet I'm allergic to Wen. You know I am allergic to everything with a scent. Why can't I remember these things until it's too late? Earlier this year my mother brought over Cindy Crawford's Meaningful Beauty, the stuff where Cindy Crawford is out in a French field rubbing melons all over her face, and I could not have been more allergic.

Well. I guess it could have KILLED me. That would have counted as "more allergic." But my throat got all closey and my eyes watered and basically it was Meaningful Anaphylactic Shock, is what it was. That brings all the boys to your melons. Is what it does.

I guess I had better shower and see if I can drag myself to the workplace. At least it's Friday. It is Friday, right? I'll show up in jeans and it'll be Thursday.

Throatily,

June