Bye Bye, Pie!

Took a break from my 488584 hours of proofing to read this in a book Ned gave me

Read this, and you will say, "June isn't funny at all. She stole everything from Nora Ephron." And then you will read everything that woman ever wrote, as I have, and never come back here again.

I deserve that.

http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2010/10/11/101011fa_fact_ephron

(Here it is as a link because OHMYGOD EXHAUSTING to cut and paste. Y'all kill me.)

Has anyone seen where I put my hair glitter?

Wow. That blonde chick wearing the dress I wore to prom in 1983? Digging the mom hair. I guess this was before they insisted that actually hot girls be in videos. And what I like about Rick James is his subtle use of analogy and poetic imagery in his songs. He's so indirect.

By the way, next time we meet, I'd really like to taste you.

HEY! Guess what? I AM STILL ON PREDNISONE!

I'm sorry. I am still looking at this absurd video. Is the long-haired Asian chick the same woman who was always on Soul Train as a dancer? I realize I'm being super all-Asian-women-look-alike offensive right now. But she really looks like her.

So, I'm up!!! You up? Barbara, you up? I'm up now. I'll get the aspirin and Sucrets. Do you remember that commercial? I do! Would you like me to literally run back in time and find it for you? Cause I could!!!! OR I COULD ACT OUT ALL THE PARTS AND FILM IT AND PUT IT ON YOUTUBE!  RIGHT NOW!

Last night I was lying there WIDE AWAKE! I'm WIDE AWAKE! WIDE AWAKE! I'm not sleeping, being Bono, when I heard the "chooo!" of a text from Ned. Ned lives .09 inches from the train tracks, so it's an appropriate noise for him. Anyway, I think it was after midnight, and he was gonna let it all hang out, and also let me know he had JUST GOTTEN HOME. Now after his 39-hour work-related weekend class, he has to get up and have his regular 40-hour week.

See, this is why I have never been ambitious. That is ridiculous. What is the POINT of working that hard? If you can't drive with a broken back, at least you can polish the fenders.

There is really something wrong with my brain. Or maybe I should have turned off the radio AT SOME POINT between 1976 and 1983. Or maybe I should put down the Prednisone.

So, his text read, "Just got home." and what's a woman to do but pick up the phone and ring him, because suddenly I've turned British.

Twenty minutes later, Ned finally got to speak. "Maybe you should try taking the whole dose in the morning, so it can, you know, wear off as the day goes by." Ned has a knee thing and is the Prednisone expert. And in fact my doctor told me I could do that. You know what's gonna be fun for my coworkers? Me this morning.

In the meantime, I got so much accomplished yesterday! I cleaned everything and cooked and GOT AHEAD on my freelance and yay! Here's the table before book club got here. Those colorful bowls have the cheese and Fritos and sour cream y'all told me to put out.

Here's my chili! People said it was good and actually ate it, so, go me! Of the maybe 12 people in book club, half had to bow out due to the flu. Say, did you know there's a flu going around? And at the last minute, Hibiscus Wilson showed up WITH her flu and if I get it there is gonna be Hibiscus ass kicked all over yonder. My Prednisone says I'm more likely to catch things right now, so I'm probably doomed. Although it was good to see her even WITH her germs. She likes dogs.

My dogs, however, were confined to the back room. Those creatures and food everywhere? Yeah. And I KNOW there are people with, you know TRAINED dogs who can have them just out and mellowly wandering around, not bothering anyone. Those people are what we call freaks. Super freaks.

Everyone brought a dish to pass, although technically we didn't PASS them. We just plunked them on my table.

And lemme tell you what, dawgs. Lily found her a new person. She was all UP in fellow book clubber FancyJob. I just came up with that name. Clever.

Hope y'all all are cat people!!

Eventually, I did let Talu out, after most of the food had been consumed. Apparently I'd assigned her sniff duty, where she had to go up to everyone and snort them like she's Courtney Love or something. Talu isn't as likely to jump on her hind legs and pull things off the table as Edsel is, but she kept LOOKING at that table and saying, "I'd really like to taste you. Every time we meet."

Who needs to get over that song, do you think?

We discussed the book we read (The Language of Flowers. Good book. I picked it. One of you SENT it to me. THANKS, person who sent it to me!!) for .00002 seconds, and we picked the book for next time: Girl in Translation. I felt like running--literally--out last night to get it, cause god knew I'd be UP.

Oh! And in my mania yesterday, I came up with a brilliant idea. Faithful readers will remember my asbolute OBSESSION with my 2009 vintage Better Homes & Gardens calendar. I've saved it all this time because one day I wanted to frame the pictures. Yesterday it occured to me to put the pictures under the glass of my Nester coffee table! (This table is from The Nester. I know! Celebrity coffee table!)

Okay, I better go be frenetic at work. I am like one of those terrible modern jazz songs today. Maybe I'll scat while I proofread.

June! OWT!

At the Gate, by Myla Jo Closser

I'm in this weekly book club thing; this guy emails short stories to me along with 9494934 other people. I didn't have anything to do today so I read this one, which came weeks ago. Oh, read it! You will just die.

A shaggy Airedale scented his way along the highroad. He had not been there before, but he was guided by the trail of his brethren who had preceded him. He had gone unwillingly upon this journey, yet with the perfect training of dogs he had accepted it without complaint. The path had been lonely, and his heart would have failed him, traveling as he must without his people, had not these traces of countless dogs before him promised companionship of a sort at the end of the road.

The landscape had appeared arid at first, for the translation from recent agony into freedom from pain had been so numbing in its swiftness that it was some time before he could fully appreciate the pleasant dog-country through which he was passing. There were woods with leaves upon the ground through which to scurry, long grassy slopes for extended runs, and lakes into which he might plunge for sticks and bring them back to—-But he did not complete his thought, for the boy was not with him. A little wave of homesickness possessed him.

It made his mind easier to see far ahead a great gate as high as the heavens, wide enough for all. He understood that only man built such barriers and by straining his eyes he fancied he could discern humans passing through to whatever lay beyond. He broke into a run that he might the more quickly gain this inclosure made beautiful by men and women; but his thoughts outran his pace, and he remembered that he had left the family behind, and again this lovely new compound became not perfect, since it would lack the family.

The scent of the dogs grew very strong now, and coming nearer, he discovered, to his astonishment that of the myriads of those who had arrived ahead of him thousands were still gathered on the outside of the portal. They sat in a wide circle spreading out on each side of the entrance, big, little, curly, handsome, mongrel, thoroughbred dogs of every age, complexion, and personality. All were apparently waiting for something, someone, and at the pad of the Airedale's feet on the hard road they arose and looked in his direction.

That the interest passed as soon as they discovered the new-comer to be a dog puzzled him. In his former dwelling-place a four-footed brother was greeted with enthusiasm when he was a friend, with suspicious diplomacy when a stranger, and with sharp reproof when an enemy; but never had he been utterly ignored.

He remembered something that he had read many times on great buildings with lofty entrances. "Dogs not admitted," the signs had said, and he feared this might be the reason for the waiting circle outside the gate. It might be that this noble portal stood as the dividing-line between mere dogs and humans. But he had been a member of the family, romping with them in the living-room, sitting at meals with them in the dining-room, going upstairs at night with them, and the thought that he was to be "kept out" would be unendurable.

He despised the passive dogs. They should be treating a barrier after the fashion of their old country, leaping against it, barking, and scratching the nicely painted door. He bounded up the last little hill to set them an example, for he was still full of the rebellion of the world; but he found no door to leap against. He could see beyond the entrance dear masses of people, yet no dog crossed the threshold. They continued in their patient ring, their gaze upon the winding road.

He now advanced cautiously to examine the gate. It occurred to him that it must be fly-time in this region, and he did not wish to make himself ridiculous before all these strangers by trying to bolt through an invisible mesh like the one that had baffled him when he was a little chap. Yet there were no screens, and despair entered his soul. What bitter punishment these poor beasts must have suffered before they learned to stay on this side the arch that led to human beings! What had they done on earth to merit this? Stolen bones troubled his conscience, runaway days, sleeping in the best chair until the key clicked in the lock. These were sins.

At that moment an English bull-terrier, white, with liver-colored spots and a jaunty manner, approached him, snuffling in a friendly way. No sooner had the bull-terrier smelt his collar than he fell to expressing his joy at meeting him. The Airedale's reserve was quite thawed by this welcome, though he did not know just what to make of it.

"I know you! I know you!" exclaimed the bull-terrier, adding inconsequently, "What's your name?"

"Tam o'Shanter. They call me Tammy," was the answer, with a pardonable break in the voice.

"I know them," said the bull-terrier. "Nice folks."

"Best ever," said the Airedale, trying to be nonchalant, and scratching a flea which was not there. "I don't remember you. When did you know them?"

"About fourteen tags ago, when they were first married. We keep track of time here by the license-tags. I had four."

"This is my first and only one. You were before my time, I guess." He felt young and shy.

"Come for a walk, and tell me all about them," was his new friend's invitation.

"Aren't we allowed in there?" asked Tam, looking toward the gate.

"Sure. You can go in whenever you want to. Some of us do at first, but we don't stay."

"Like it better outside?"

"No, no; it isn't that."

"Then why are all you fellows hanging around here? Any old dog can see it's better beyond the arch."

"You see, we're waiting for our folks to come."

The Airedale grasped it at once, and nodded understandingly.

"I felt that way when I came along the road. It wouldn't be what it's supposed to be without them. It wouldn't be the perfect place."

"Not to us," said the bull-terrier.

"Fine! I've stolen bones, but it must be that I have been forgiven, if I'm to see them here again. It's the great good place all right. But look here," he added as a new thought struck him, "do they wait for us?"

The older inhabitant coughed in slight embarrassment.

"The humans couldn't do that very well. It wouldn't be the thing to have them hang around outside for just a dog—not dignified."

"Quite right," agreed Tam. "I'm glad they go straight to their mansions. I'd—I'd hate to have them missing me as I am missing them." He sighed. "But, then, they wouldn't have to wait so long."

"Oh, well, they're getting on. Don't be discouraged," comforted the terrier. "And in the meantime it's like a big hotel in summer—watching the new arrivals. See, there is something doing now."

All the dogs were aroused to excitement by a little figure making its way uncertainly up the last slope. Half of them started to meet it, crowding about in a loving, eager pack.

"Look out; don't scare it," cautioned the older animals, while word was passed to those farthest from the gate: "Quick! Quick! A baby's come!"

Before they had entirely assembled, however, a gaunt yellow hound pushed through the crowd, gave one sniff at the small child, and with a yelp of joy crouched at its feet.

The baby embraced the hound in recognition, and the two moved toward the gate. Just outside the hound stopped to speak to an aristocratic St. Bernard who had been friendly:

"Sorry to leave you, old fellow," he said, "but I'm going in to watch over the kid. You see, I'm all she has up here."

The bull-terrier looked at the Airedale for appreciation.

"That's the way we do it," he said proudly.

"Yes, but—" the Airedale put his head on one side in perplexity.

"Yes, but what?" asked the guide.

"The dogs that don't have any people—the nobodies' dogs?"

"That's the best of all. Oh, everything is thought out here. Crouch down,—you must be tired,—and watch," said the bull-terrier.

Soon they spied another small form making the turn in the road. He wore a Boy
Scout's uniform, but he was a little fearful, for all that, so new was this adventure. The dogs rose again and snuffled, but the better groomed of the circle held back, and in their place a pack of odds and ends of the company ran down to meet him. The Boy Scout was reassured by their friendly attitude, and after petting them impartially, he chose an old-fashioned black and tan, and the two passed in.

Tam looked questioningly.

"They didn't know each other!" he exclaimed.

"But they've always wanted to. That's one of the boys who used to beg for a dog, but his father wouldn't let him have one. So all our strays wait for just such little fellows to come along. Every boy gets a dog, and every dog gets a master."

"I expect the boy's father would like to know that now," commented the Airedale. "No doubt he thinks quite often, 'I wish I'd let him have a dog.'"

The bull-terrier laughed.

"You're pretty near the earth yet, aren't you?"

Tam admitted it.

"I've a lot of sympathy with fathers and with boys, having them both in the family, and a mother as well."

The bull-terrier leaped up in astonishment.

"You don't mean to say they keep a boy?"

"Sure; greatest boy on earth. Ten this year."

"Well, well, this is news! I wish they'd kept a boy when I was there."

The Airedale looked at his new friend intently.

"See here, who are you?" he demanded.

But the other hurried on: "I used to run away from them just to play with a boy. They'd punish me, and I always wanted to tell them it was their fault for not getting one."

"Who are you, anyway?" repeated Tam. "Talking all this interest in me, too. Whose dog were you?"

"You've already guessed. I see it in your quivering snout. I'm the old dog that had to leave them about ten years ago."

"Their old dog Bully?"

"Yes, I'm Bully." They nosed each other with deeper affection, then strolled about the glades shoulder to shoulder. Bully the more eagerly pressed for news. "Tell me, how are they getting along?"

"Very well indeed; they've paid for the house."

"I—I suppose you occupy the kennel?"

"No. They said they couldn't stand it to see another dog in your old place."

Bully stopped to howl gently.

"That touches me. It's generous in you to tell it. To think they missed me!"

For a little while they went on in silence, but as evening fell, and the light from the golden streets inside of the city gave the only glow to the scene, Bully grew nervous and suggested that they go back.

"We can't see so well at night, and I like to be pretty close to the path, especially toward morning."

Tam assented.

"And I will point them out. You might not know them just at first."

"Oh, we know them. Sometimes the babies have so grown up they're rather hazy in their recollection of how we look. They think we're bigger than we are; but you can't fool us dogs."

"It's understood," Tam cunningly arranged, "that when he or she arrives you'll sort of make them feel at home while I wait for the boy?"

"That's the best plan," assented Bully, kindly. "And if by any chance the little fellow should come first,—there's been a lot of them this summer—of course you'll introduce me?"

"I shall be proud to do it."

And so with muzzles sunk between their paws, and with their eyes straining down the pilgrims' road, they wait outside the gate.

Mince Words with June: The Thorn Birds. A book in which we're all supposed to get excited about a priest named Ralph.

Like everybody else in tarnation, I read The Thorn Birds by Colleen What's-Her-Name (I can't find the damn book. Why the hell do I put my books on the shelf by color? What the SHIT is wrong with me? It's the only anal retentive thing I've ever done in my life and all it does is confuse me. I should have them on there alphabetically or something, so then at times like this, when I'm trying to write a review and Ned is in the other room reading Oprah Magazine, waiting for me to be done, I could quickly access whatever effing book I'm looking for and get on with my life.) (But I digress.) in 10th grade, because I was hoping it'd have sex parts in it.

And it did.

Tenth grade was, like, five years ago for me, and perhaps you're wondering why I am the world's most hideous 20-year-old, but that is neither here nor there. My point is, it's been a long time since I read The stupid Thorn Birds, and I wasn't really expecting to like it at all.

But then I did! Who knew? Who knew it'd really have a plot and you'd be all, Wow, what's gonna happen next and so on.

I totally forgot the son died, and you are NOT ALLOWED to get all "spoiler alert" on me, because for the 107th time I'd like to point out YOU HAD ALL SUMMER and also YOU HAD ALL OF TENTH GRADE to read this book so boo! Surprise! Hey! The son dies.

The thing that bugged me most about this book is that Father Ralph deBricksassualt or whatever the eff his name was--and WHO HATES HER OWN SELF for color-coding those books, seriously--is supposed to be so breathtakingly beautiful. Over and over again they mention his beauty, and every time we were talking about Father Ralph I saw stupid skinny gay as shit Richard Chamberlain going to the bathhouse or whatever. Glory hole hallelujah!

I mean, Rock Hudson was gay and I can still be down with his hotess and picturing him taking a fancy to me. But there is absolutely 100% nothing appealing to me about Richard Chamberlain. Blech. He's like your fussy queenie old coworker who gets the heebie-jeebies over too many carbs in the vending machine.

So what I'm saying to you is the TV movie ruined the book for me. Video killed the book-io star.

Book-io. June's blog. Where you come for deep literary discussions and important words like book-io.

Also, I noted the old crabby rich lady, the aunt, was supposed to be so withered up and ancient, and she was in her 60s, for heaven's sake. When I read this five years ago in 10th grade, that seemed super extra old, but Rachel Welch is older than that. Helen Mirren in in her 60s. Jane Fonda is older than that. I mean, why did they have someone so young-ish seeming so dried up and practically the hag in the bathtub in The Shining? Why not make her 90?

They also mentioned Meggie's body getting old and creaky in her 40s, and I'd take issue with that if I weren't mincing around here like I'm hunting wabbits.

Oh, and another thing. Could the brothers have had any personalities whatsoever? Why have 8o of them if they're all the same celibate hard-working salt-of-the-earth character? I also got annoyed when we had to hear about the kids' lives so much and all of a sudden Meggie hardly existed.

I know all I've done is complain, but that's what I do. It's my hobby. I nevertheless thoroughly enjoyed The stupid Thorn Birds and was surprised at myself.

What did you think? Poor Ned is now reading Restoration Hardware catalogs so I gotta go. Tell all. or I'll get thorny. Didn't I already make that joke? God, I suck. You don't see any cardinals eschewing their vows for MY repeat-y ass, over here.

Life Story

The other day, Ned and I were talking about going to the library when we were kids, and we are a scorchingly fascinating couple.

Ned was, like, a real boy, who played outside all day and participated in sports and liked dinosaurs. I was usually inside (a) reading a book, (c) putting on makeup or (14) tape-recording things. I know I've told  you this already, that some poor unsuspecting grandparent or aunt or someone said, "Ooo, maybe I'll get June a tape-recorder. She might like that." Then for the rest of time I was hauling that thing everywhere, interviewing you ("How much money do you make? Are you happily married?") or creating whole soap operas in which I was every character.

Guess who was the world's most annoying child?

Anyway, we both liked going to the library, Ned and I did, although he did not become obsessed with reading till he was in college. The point is, we were talking about books we checked out over and over again when we were yutes. That is only funny if you saw My Cousin Vinny, which you should probably not admit. As I just did.

For me the book I checked out repeatedly was Sugarplum, which was the story of a wooden doll who wanted to be taken more seriously. And who ended up suspended in a jar of jelly, which by the way was my favorite part, because everything was pink then.

Who even knew there was a doll hierarchy? "Oh, a wooden doll? Let's see if we can't invite someone else to our tea party."

Anyway, for Ned it was this book about how the world was formed, and the whole thing took place on a stage with an audience, and they watched volcanoes form, and dinosaurs, and so on, till it got to the world today. Which by the way, once the Earth had people and houses, Ned was so over it. He'd just flip back to the dinosaurs.

"I got that book out 87 times," said Ned. "And I can't remember the name of it. I've tried to find it online, but..."

Well.

Who took THAT as a challenge? I went home and I wish I could TELL you the number of hours I spent here Googling, "children's earth book" and "how the earth was formed book" and "earth + stage + children's book" to no avail.

Finally it dawned on me to call my stepsister, who's a librarian in LA, and guess what. You'll never guess. She had some good ideas for finding said book, number one being that I should call it "juvenile" instead of "children's."

That's when I remembered she is friends with the juvenile librarian at work, and every time she'd have a get-together I'd make a funny funny joke like, "Is the juvenile librarian coming? Is he gonna shoot milk out his nose again?"

Guess who finds me 100% not funny? Is it my stepsister?

My point is, I went on LA's library system, found several books that MIGHT be it, then went on Amazon to enter the titles and do the "Look inside!" thing. After, you know, 860 titles, I SAW A STAGE!

I.SAW.A.STAAAAAGE.

Ohmygod, I was so excited. The book is called Life Story, and it was written in 1962, so sadly it was pretty new when Ned was reading it and God, we're old, and I ORDERED IT FOR SEVEN DOLLARS OHMYGOD!!!

It was totally the right book!

Oh, that was so exciting, finding it!

What do you wish you could find from your childhood? Tell all.

Ned, Dick Whitman, Hulk, and some gay man

I didn't blog yesterday because I wasn't in the mood. Oh, but here are two family pictures I didn't include in my last impressive post. The reason I missed them in my email is because they didn't include the words "photo" "picture" or "family" when they were sent to me.

Dudes, I wasn't gonna literally go through hundreds of emails all afternoon. I'm a busy executive.

Here is some full-skirted member of Faithful Reader and Sender of Books Deb's family (I can hear both Ned and Marvin going berserk about the cars). I have read all the books Deb mailed me less than a month ago and started in on the tome she sent next (The Outlanders or The Outliers or something. What is it called, Deb?).

And PJ wants us to know she's "the skinny bitch" on the left, in back. I told her I liked the rebel girl who wore blue instead of pink that day.

So that sums up my family portrait special here on Bye Bye Pie. And for those in the comments who said, "I missed it! Let's do this again!"? Am sending you my shorts. Here, eat them.

Anyway, last night I got up with Ned to see Blue Velvet at the old movie theater here.

This was the last film they're showing for their summer series at the old theater. Now we have to wait till September for anything new. We saw a ton of things there, though. Summer. An excellent time to sit in a dark theater.

Ned and I always meet in front of the theater, because he is screaming home from work right then (yesterday he ate a raw portobello mushroom and ran over to the movie. Mmm!), then after we go to a pub followed by making out in my car in the theater parking lot.

Since I was sitting on the wall waiting for him last night, I naturally took photos of myself. June + June. TLA.

In case you were worried sick (but what did June do with her bad self on WEDNESDAY night!?!?!), I got up with Dick Whitman for dinner night before last. I know! My life is riveting.

Oh. Before I go stampeding to My Dinner With Whit, Ned hates having his picture taken, and I have taken 394994 photos of him with my phone because he is cute as a button. Sadly, and don't tell him I said this, I have a folder on my desktop with all the pictures I have ever taken of him, and sometimes I click through them and sigh.

I know.

Anyway, last night he refused to smile and/or look happy, so I am putting his cranky blurry photo up AS WARNING to him. If he's going to make a face, then a face is going on my blog.

Ned doesn't read this blog. But some of his relatives and his best friend do. Dear Ned's Relatives and Best Friend: Please alert him to my evil re this matter. Thank you for your prompt attention to this issue.

Oh, and when we were at that pub last night? Ned said, "Is that Area man?" Of couse I turned to look, and it was SO NOT Area man. "You know that's not him," I said. "I know. I just wanted to see how fast you'd turn around. That was kind of amazing, actually."

Ned is annoying.

Dick Whitman had angst the other night, and I would tell you why but he didn't tell me I could tell you, and also, am I just gonna put up nice pictures of me and bad pictures of my men today? Yes. I think I am.

I had done my Dick Tracy workout that day, then got in the car (well. I SHOWERED) and headed to Whitman's. By the time we got to the restaurant I could easily have roasted up DW himself and eaten him with a little gravy. Good lord, I was hungry. Above please find my lamb, Clarice, on top of creamed corn and spinach or something. I do not recall as it was gone in 60 seconds.

Then I proceded to eat Dick W's oysters. So to speak.

Dick Whitman suggested we "go get coffee" after, and when he said, "coffee" apparently I heard "vanilla pudding."

Really, June. Eat something. I mean, I didn't work out for eight hours. I promise you the calories exceeded the burn-off by like 6,000.

We walked back to the car, though, so I was back even on calories again.

Finally, I leave you with a most disturbing story.

The other day I went alone to that new Meryl Streep movie, the one where she's trying to save her marriage and I have no idea why that movie would appeal to me. What do you mean? At one point, she gets a book called Sex Tips for Straight Women from a Gay Man.

"Does that book really exist?" I wondered.

Then today I remembered it, and I am sorry to tell you I was texting with everyone's favorite gay man, Hulk, while I ordered the book online. I got an email. "You Amazon order is confirmed!" it read. "Your book, Sex Tips from a Gay Man, will shop to: June's Mom. 4909 Shame Street. Regret, Michigan."

I SENT THE BOOK TO MY MOTHER!

You can imagine my, you know, panic. Heyyy! Happy....late Mother's Day! You're welcome, Stepdad! This is all NOT CREEPY AT ALL!

Fortunately I was able to, you know, STAMPEDE TO AMAZON and get the shipping rerouted.

My dad will really enjoy the book.

Blame Carol

Faithful Reader Carol in Bama sent me a box of books to read on the plane that I'm not on. I opened the box yesterday, and after unpacking my went-nowhere bag, I sat down and started one of the books.

Then I woke up this morning and went back to it.

And that, folks, is pretty much going to be my day. I have nothing to do because I was supposed to be on a plane, and how often do you get that?

A day with nothing to do but read. There is nothing better.

Shaft. Can you dig it?

In the once-again completely linear and never remotely ludicrous comments, we have decided to either call ...friend Ned Nickerson or Shaft. Dudes, just read the comments. No way am I going through an archaeological dig to tell you the genesis of that whole thing.

Anyway guess what. We're going with Ned Nickerson. I haven't even TOLD ...friend that his new name is Ned Nickerson, but I assure you he'll be all, "Who?"

Anyway, how are you all?* Things are good, over here. My job interview seemed to go well, as they alluded to me having a second interview with a hiring manager or something, but that was yesterday and they have yet to set that up, so maybe they completely changed their minds. Maybe they said, "We should either call her for another interview or name her Shaft."

If that weren't enough--and isn't it? Isn't it enough for you people?--I have anOTHer editing test on Thursday (did I already tell you that?) for a different company, and a job interview for a WHOLE OTHER place next week. Now, for goodness sake. Wouldn't a job have to appear from at least ONE of these? Hmmm? Don't you think?

*(The "How are you all" thing reminded me of something Ned Nickerson/...friend said. Am I gonna have to go around saying, "The Artist Formerly Known as ...friend and Now Ned Nickerson" for the next month? Because that's gonna get annoying. And no matter WHEN I just start saying "Ned," someone somewhere will comment: "What happened to ...friend?" Look at me. Already irritated.

ANYWAY, the "How are you all" thing. Ned/...friend lives in an apartment complex and across the way from him is a delightful snarky old gay guy who has many beautiful plants around his front door, as opposed to Ned/...friend, who has precisely nothing around his front door. The point is, we were walking in the other day and the gay guy and some other man were clearly coming from the pool back to gay guy's apartment, and ...friend/Ned said, "How are you?"

Hours later, HOURS, Ned/...friend said, "I should've said how're y'all instead of how are you. Now my neighbor's friend thinks I wasn't acknowledging him."

...! Is this a Southern thing? Well, first of all, yes it is, because "you" is certainly a sometimes-plural word in MY book. My Northern book. Apparently here, "you" means, you know, you and y'all means your gay self and your probably-also-gay friend. Also, really? REALLY? This is something you sit around worrying about? Southerners. Continuing to slay me since I got here.)

 I have to go because I got a big giant ridiculous box of things to edit from the statistics place, and try not to envy me, but before I do, can anyone recommend some books for me? I finished The Thorn Birds, which is our book club book. Click Mince Words with June to see, although I have really no idea if I even updated Mince Words with June, so you may go over there and find bupkis. However, I am just days away from flying to Hawaii (squeeeeeeeee) and need something to read on the plane. Have you read anything good? If you're gonna recommend a sci-fi book save your breath.

Thank you in advance for your prompt attention to this matter. We are all just sitting around waiting for your reply.

Brief. Because June gots work to do and you know how she organizes her time wisely.

Thank you all for your insightful questions for Dick Whitman's mom. I mean, thank you to everyone but Hulk and Furry Godmother, who were on the same page, for once, and that page was ludicrous.

Yesterday I showed you old photos of Whitman's parents, and here is a family portrait. Yes, that is our DW, there, as a child. His beautiful sister, who reads this blog and is a nice person and has dogs, large dogs, is up at the top. And there, finally, you can see DW's dad. AND LOOK AT MOM! Love the dress, love her gorgeous face, love that whole, This is my family. Don't eff with me look she has going.

Here's another FABULOUS one--and yes I DID just turn into a gay man--of DW's hep parents. ISN'T THIS GREAT? You know I get slightly excited by old pictures.

DW and I just don't have that same panache as a duo, do we? Dick Whitman and June. America's favorite noncouple.

Anyway, Dick Whitman's mother will peruse your questions and send me her answers when she sees fit. Then I will publish them here in this hard-hitting blog. Honestly, how much rat poison to I have to INJECT in my head before that forehead wrinkle goes away? Irritating.

Are y'all reading your Thorn Birds for our book club like you're supposed to? Because I am, and right now Meggie is nearly 50, and they keep talking about how she's slowing down, and feeling it in her bones, and I'm all, HEY! I'M NEARLY 50! Shut UP! And then I get up and limp to the bathroom, because I have an ache in my heel.

I got this pain in my heel since doing Tracy Gold and her workouts, but on the other hand I have lost 14 pounds and gone down two dress sizes.

I took this fine photo for you from my computer to show you I actually kind of have flat abs, sort of! For me this is exciting, because no matter how thin I am I am usually a marsupial. I realize turning the OTHER way may have been more dramatic but I am in a hurry.

The POINT is, I went on Tracy Morgan's website yesterday and read the chats to see if any of the stuff she does in her veeedeos bugs anyone ELSE (Answer: No.) (Answer: June is particularly cranky, apparently.) (Answer: Really? It bugs you, June, when she does 30 reps on one side and 45 on the other? That bugs you? The rest of us LOVE it. We LOVE that we're gonna be all Popeye-arm on one side and Olive Oyl arm on the other. WE.LOVE.IT.), and many people were saying things like, "Level 6 is kicking my arse!" "Can't believe I made it through Level 7!"

I was all, Level what, now? All this time I've been using the two DVDs I pulled out the day I got my set of veedeos. Turns out? There are TWO MORE DVDs and I should have been moving on to those because they're EVEN HARDER.

COME ON.

You canNOT be serious.

Sigh. So that was my delightful discovery yesterday, and soon I expect concave abs.

I must go. And work. And not Butterfly McQueen/Prissy said work till the last minute, as is my wont.

 

Prissy was a jerk.

Okay, SERIOUSLY no time today

Went to the BookUp again last night. May or may not have gone with ...friend. May or may not have stayed out too late. May or may not have LOOMING DEADLINE.

This may or may not be my pal Jo at said BookUp. Who needs to stop saying "may or may not" about everything? May it or may it not be me?

So I will go. But someone in the coments yesterday came up with an interesting Pieces of Wisdom question and I am SORRY, dude, that I do not have time to go CULL the comments and see who said it. I may or may not have time.

Do you have any superstitions about money? For example, I never put my purse on the floor if I can help it because I heard you will never have money in your purse if you do that. And actually I never have money in my purse because I use my ATM card for everything. But when I DO have cash, I always face it in my wallet in the same direction, in number order. Suze Orman said to do that so I listened. I may or may not be relatively not flush. Still.

So what are yours? Do tell.