Bye Bye, Pie!

eh eh eh eh [convulse]

I know it's Saturday and therefore eight people in total wonder why I haven't written yet, and for those eight people I will tell you that I've been working all day. I have freelance up my butt, which may lead you to wonder how I make my extra dollars.

Anyway, I sat outside all day with the dogs while I worked, and then I pulled 94958383920303 pounds of weeds from my yard, and I have a guy who comes and cuts the grass and weeds everything for $25, which I realize is a steal but he gives me a discount because I let him put freelance up my butt.

See what I did there? I said something ludicrous to see if you were paying attention. The point is, he hasn't shown up and my lawn looks insane and so does my neighbor Peg's, as we have the same currently negligent lawn boy.

Who cuts the grass on Walton's Mountain? Lawn Boy.

Good night. Drive carefully. You've been a great audience.

I was listening to my iPhone outside while I weeded and WHO WANTS CORDLESS HEADPHONES OH MY GOD ANNOYING when my nice Johnny Cash song was interrupted by a train whistle.

When Ned calls me, it makes a train whistle noise, because he lives point zero zero eight millimeters from the train tracks and the whole time you're there you hear the train a-comin'. Comin' round the bend. Anyway, so trains remind me of Ned and his ring tone is a train whistle.

He had been golfing all day, Ned had, and was in my neighborhood and decided to stop by.

Guess who was cranky about his golf?

"It's not even a good course," said Ned, who did I mention was cranky? "But it's cheap and nearby, so..."

"Wow, you could say the same about me," I said, because I am hilarious.

"That's true," said Ned. "Maybe from now on I'll just call that golf course 'June.'" Then we talked about my overgrown lawn and Ned said he'd drink one beer and cut my lawn for me and then when he was done he said, "I'm gonna go. I'm cranky and I have to nap."

And see what I did? I abstained from pointing out he'd said he'd cut my lawn, which really I've CALLED Lawn Boy, and he will be here Monday, and Ned was tired and I didn't WANT him to cut my grass, but I'd like you all to note how low-maintenance I was that I didn't bring it up but instead told all eight of you.

Last night we went to drag queen bingo with my friends Marty Martin and Kayeee.

In case you wondered, Just HOW BIG of a tiara does June need? See above.

We usually have a smashing time at drag queen bingo, but last night was super chaotic, and the sound system was ludicrous, and we couldn't see the acts. One drag queen was dancing to this frenetic song, and the best part was how much Marty M hated it.

"This is the worst song I've ever heard in my life," he said. "It's like someone had an epileptic seizure and set it to music." Then he convulsed and made noises to the beat of the song.

"I want to stick my wallet under the tongue of this song," he said. M. Martin was on a total complainy hate-this-song roll. "I wish I had that app where I could hold the phone up and find out what this is. Cause going on my iPod? You bet."

What I'm throwing down is Marty Martin was not a fan of that song. I wish I could recall one iota of it, as I would so send him the YouTube of it. It kind of went like this: eh eh eh eh eh eh [convulse] eh eh eh.

You can't drink downstairs where actual drag queen bingo is for some reason, and what we finally ended up doing was just going upstairs and drinking all of the alcohol in the entire world.

Kayeeee, M Martin, our friend J Nine and her passed-out companion. Because drunk-o was their name-o.

Ned, squishing a lime into all the beer in the world.

I did not have beer. Mostly I crouched by the stairs and tried to see drag queens. I hope you're sitting down, but one act was set to I Will Survive. I know! You never see drag queens choose that song.

There was one drag queen who had giant hair, and who had kind of stuffed her rather rotund self into a minidress (note my surreptitious photo of her). "That is how I picture myself.  Is that what I look like?" I asked Marty Martin.

"She's much taller," he said, and I think tonight he's volunteering at the esteem-building workshop for womyn.

So that sums up my weekend thus far. Tonight Ned--who I hope revives his cheerful personality after his nap. I hope he slips out of his onesie refreshed and ready to face the world again--and I are going to the lesbian taco place, which by the way was on the walk to drag queen bingo last night and I noticed their slogan was "The Art of the Taco" and I giggled like a 7th-grader about that all the way down the block. Who needs to get over it, the lesbian taco place? Eventually I will be spotted there by a cranky butch type and get my ass kicked.

And my freelance will go flying everywhere.

MAMFing

Every day, Monday through Friday, my alarm goes off at the same time, and every day that information stuns me. "What the--? Seriously? The alarm is going off? GOD!" Every day it's all, "The nation was rocked when June's alarm went off at 6:54 a.m."

I hate getting up.

I have a dumb day planned, as I am only working till 1:00 in order to take Ned to his wisdom teeth removal. Oh, he'll be fine. They aren't even impacted. He is worried about it, though, as I guess I would be. I've had three out, at three different times. One of the times, I was lying on this table, and the nurse came in. "Okay," she said, pulling out a needle, "we're going to give you something now."

"Okay," I said. Shots don't bother me and generally I end up loving whatever floaty feeling I get during these kinds of procedures.

The nurse was messing with tools and such over at the counter, and I said, "Are we going to go into the room now to get started?"

"We're done, honey."

"No! We aren't done. You just gave me the shot."

"That was an hour and a half ago. You're all done."

IT WAS THE WEIRDEST THING. I completely lost all time from the second that shot went in till that nurse was at the counter. She was probably more of a dental assistant and not a nurse, wasn't she? Hoo care.

Oh, and speaking of Tallulah, the other night I was going to the grocery store for my staples: cat food and coffee, and when I got out my car, right there in the car next to me was Penny, my friend TinaDoris' dog.

"Hi, Penny!" I squealed, thrilled to run into dog friends. I mean, had she driven herself over for some kibble, or was she just along for the ride?

"BOW WOW WOW WOW WOW grrrrrr-WOW!" said Penny, showing me her teeth and scowling and getting torches and pitchforks and bombs.

Geez.

I went into the store, and there was TinaDoris and her spouse, buying muzzles or anti-rabies pills or cleanup rags for when your dog foams at the mouth at someone she's MET 80 TIMES or something. "Your dog just yelled at me," I said.

"She hates being confined in the car," said TinaDoris. At least they don't ever have to worry about anyone stealing their car. Or putting a puppy in it. That's the same parking lot that someone put a puppy in MY car, and if it's remotely warm enough I leave the window open, still, just in case.

Best delivery ever.

I know I've told you this story before, but I've been blogging for SIX YEARS. I've told you EVERY story before. But I had the world's most marvelous cat, Mr. Horkheimer, who died seven years ago today in fact, and anyway in Seattle I had a fireplace in my room. Horkie would sleep on my bed all day because cats have it rough.

One day, he was snoozing in there as he is wont to do, when blark, something falls out of the chimney and onto the floor of the fireplace.

It was a nest of baby birds.

Can you imagine?

Hork was not one to be kind to birds when they were grown up and able to flitter about normally, so you can imagine the evil smorgasbord he had with a whole bowl of flightless babies. My roommate Paula came home to find the carnage. She threw Horkie outside, and she said he plastered himself to the window like that Far Side cartoon while she cleaned everything up.

The point is, for the rest of the time we lived there, Hork would wander over to the fireplace every so often and look up. It's like he wondered where the lever was to pull for more baby birds. That's how I feel when I leave my window down at the parking lot where I got a puppy once.

Ohmygod I wonder if I could drift further from my point. Which was that I am taking Ned to get his wisdom teeth out. "If you feel okay, what're we going to do tonight?" I asked, knowing making out was off the table and therefore flummoxed. "There's a sporting event on," said Ned, who probably told me specifically WHICH sporting event it was and did not say "sporting event," although now he is starting to say just that because that's what I say. The point is I'm bringing a book over there.

Also, my boss calls Ned MAMF, because the first time I mentioned him to my boss, I said, "Well, calling him my boyfriend seems weird, because we're 47. He's my middle-aged manfriend," I said. So somehow that got shortened to MAMF. "How was your weekend?" my boss will ask. "Did you and MAMF go anywhere fun?"

So yesterday my boss called me at my desk. "Say, do you think you'll have time to do this before you go off MAMFing at 1:00?"

MAMFing. Now Ned is a verb.

Okay, I'm off. Am totally going to dress Ned up in wee Uggs and wigs while he's asleep. So tune in tomorrow.

Post Secrets. Get it? Do you?

Wow.

So, that was astonishing, wasn't it? Thank you all for telling your secrets. My posts are set up so you can leave comments for the next week or so, so if you get your courage up later, do so then. After reading your comments yesterday, I looked around at the people at work and wondered what they had going on that I didn't know about, and I decided to be less crabby about the door near me.

I sit right by the stairs, see, and you have to push three numbers to get the door open from the stairwell to the office, to protect us from all the inevitable criminals who are just dying to pillage us all day long. And since I'm three inches from that door, ALL DAY LONG I hear, "Click. Click. Click. Blunk." The "blunk" is the sound of the door NOT opening. "Click. Click. Click. Blunk."

"Click. Click. Click. Blunk."

WHY CAN NO ONE GET THE CODE RIGHT? It's been the same since I've started there, and NO ONE GETS IT RIGHT THE FIRST 80 TIMES EVER. Click. Click. Click. Blunk.

OHFORTHELOVEOFALLTHATISHOLY.

So anyway I decided to be more patient about that. Maybe the person clicking and blunk-ing has something big on his or her mind. You can tell I'm already well on my way to adjusting my attitude about that.

Anyway. Thank you again for participating. Not too sound too much like my therapist mom ("What's wrong with sounding like me?" she's gonna call and ask later), but how did that make you feel? Now I'm leaning all over earnestly, looking therapist-y. Was it a relief? Did it feel terrible to re-live it? What?

Am totally wearing a therapist natural-fiber sweater right now, and am putting up some kind of soothing picture in my computer room for you. The orange crates are out of here.

Marvin always used to want me to move those orange crate photos around, to see if any of you noticed. I know you'd notice. Y'all notice everything.

It's a computer wire holder that inexplicably looks like Edsel. That's what that red thing is on the wall that you're gonna ask about. The Poet gave it to me a long time ago. Oh, and speaking of The Poet, you had asked who she was, seeing as she is a fancy celebrated author and such. She told me I could tell you. Go Google Sarah Lindsay. She's the one who's NOT a speed skater.

And speaking of being fancy and celebrated, something...happened this week for me that is pretty exciting. I can't talk about it now because I haven't signed a contract, and no, I did not get a full-time job. Still. Click click click blunk. However, I did get an offer to do something cool and further reports as developments warrant. I'm just saying to you. I.am.so.famous. -ish.

I'd better go scream around hysterically now and get ready for work. I've been freelancing every night since Thursday, and I think I'm done with that, but then tomorrow I take half a day off to help Ned get his wisdom teeth removed. Yes, I'm assisting the dentist. Because I'm exactly who you want in a medical situation.

Then on Sunday, there's a dance thing for my friend Charlie. He taught contra dancing every Tuesday, and I went once and it made me dizzy, and on Sunday there is all-day contra dancing (Google it, for heaven's sake) (you know I always get impatient when y'all ask me what something is when GOOGLE IS RIGHT THERE) (click click click--oh forget it) and an auction and Charlie will be there and yay. Excited to go. Will take Dramamine this time. I am not even kidding. IT'S VERY DIZZYING.

Spinning out,

June.

Stupid conversations I've had with Ned

Bulls

Ned and I were out the other night on the roof of a pub near his house, and this guy next to us was holding court, telling a whole gaggle of people about his trip to Spain and the bullfights and how cool Spain was and also Spain Spain senoritas Spain. He was STANDING to deliver his story, and we watched his friends' smiles go from amusement to pain to agony as the story never ended.

"You know who that guy's never read? Hemingway," said Ned.

We groused about how Bad Storyteller Guy got to go to Spain and we never have. "I'd like to go to the bullfights, just like Hemingway," Ned said.

"I don't think I could," I said, thinking of the poor bull getting stabbed or whatever they do to bulls there. "I'm always happy when you read about bulls goring those idiots who run with them."

Ned pondered this. "Even though this makes us a couple of pussies, I have to agree with you," he said. "I couldn't watch a bull get hurt. Maybe we could go and be all Team Bull. We could sit with the bull's family in the stands, wear bull horns."

"GO BULL!" I yelled.

In other news, I promise you that guy is still up there, telling his Spain stories to an empty roof.

Geography

Recently, I proofread something that divided the country up by region.
The thing I was proofreading was all, "Here's info about our company from the west side of the country." And then they'd tell you stuff about what was happening in California, or Nevada or whatever. As I was moseying along with this info, I discovered they'd listed West Virginia in the "western" section of the story.

Oh, nothing gets a proofreader more excited than a mistake like that. So on each page, there'd be a map of the United States with no states listed, just shaded areas referring to each region. I convinced myself I'd found a million geographical errors after that thrilling West Virginia one. Oh, I was smug.

"The map that shades the central portion of the U.S. does not include Louisiana," I wrote in my snooty red pen," yet your story mentions Louisiana right here. PLEASE SHADE LOUISIANA OR MOVE THE MENTION TO THE CORRECT REGION!" I fumed.

Then I turned the job in. "Yeah, June. That was a great catch with the West Virginia thing," they told me, "but the part where you said Louisiana wasn't shaded? It was. Same with Iowa. And Ohio. And Montana. In fact, all the other states you said weren't shaded in fact were."

You know...

Could YOU look at a shaded map and accurately depict which states were marked off? COULD you? For example, name the states up there that are gray. All of them.

I told this story to Ned, who immediately rustled up a blank map of the U.S. and started pointing at everything. "There's Oregon, there's Wyoming, there's Louisiana--I can't believe you can't find Louisiana on a map. It's one of the easier ones because it has a squiggly line," he said.

Guess who I am over? Did you HONESTLY know that about Louisiana? Did you? I told Ned that I'll bet three-fourths of people can't pick out all the lower 48 states on a map and he said he thought MOST people COULD.

Of course, the moral of the story is if one is PROOFREADING something, one might want to, oh, I don't know, MAKE SURE when they say something is wrong that it's really wrong. Whatever.

The '90s

Somehow Ned and I got into a disussion about bad beer, and when was the last time we'd ever sat around drinking beer from an actual pitcher. My guess was sometime in 1989 and then never again. "But I DO have a picture of me and all my '90s friends with, like, 80 bottles of Budweiser around us. It's quite the ratio," I said.

And then I found it. And sent it to him. "I love that choker," he said. "Which of these dudes were you dating?" Sad answer: both of them. And that's my ex-best-friend Esmerelda back there being blonde. We are still friends, we just aren't BEST friends any more. And there's my friend Hometown Horselady, who lives in my home town and owns horses. I know! You'd have never guessed from her commentor name. Anyway, what I'd like to know is why all the beer seems to be right in front of ME like poker chips or something.

I also noted that there are very few pictures of me from the '90s where I am not holding a drink of some kind.
Or, oddly, on all fours in front of one. (Q: Which of these dudes did you date? A: Both of them. Yes, again. Shut up.)

I guess that's all I have to tell you, but this was deep and I'm glad we had this time together. I gotta slip on my velvet bodysuit and get to the bar.

The one where June gets all school marm on your arse

For the last few days, I've been either too ill or too busy or, sadly, both to really blog, and I know your life has been poorer for it. Possibly your family members have been after you. "Cheer up, mom. June's blog will be back soon." Also, possibly you are part of the team checking me into a facility for my delusions.

Anyway, I'm back. Hiiiii! I did want to address my post from Saturday, where I put up a bunch of photos and then didn't have time to write about them, so I said,"Here're a bunch of photos. You can just decide what I was going to write about." Then the first person took a look at a picture of Edsel with a new collar and a vase with two carnations and wrote, "Are you ENGAGED??"

Which, ?

Then funny reader Paula wrote that she thought the message was, "Paul is dead" and it turns out people don't know that cultural reference and I got irritated, which I know is not like me. Usually I'm so mellow. Have I never been mellow? No. Especially if you make me think of that song.

Anyway, FOLKS, "Paul is dead" is something that happened in I think the late '60s (otherwise it was the early '70s) where the whole world got this idea that Paul McCartney was dead, and many Beatles' songs and an album cover supposedly supported this theory. Which by the way a couple people explained in the comments and then people would rush over the comments to say, "Which Paul is dead? What? Who?"

Let's discuss the whole not-knowing thing. "I hate the Beatles." "I'm young." Yeah, not really excusable, in my book. And yes I AM tsk-ing at you school marmly. I may even be shaking my head. I know! It's super-appealing.

We need to not be so NOW-CENTRIC, and find out some stuff that happened before our time. I think I said this in the comments. War of the Worlds. I know what THAT'S all about, and I'm not all up in Orson Welles. Tulips getting crazy expensive. Say, that was before my time. Know about it. And I'm not even that well-informed! But it scares the CRAP out of me that people don't, I don't know, value what happened less than 100 years ago. Am I being fussy? Or do you agree?

Oh my god, 400 paragraphs later, have not even started telling you about weekend. God help us.

So the photos from Saturday included Edsel's new dapper collar, which Faithful Reader Deb got him. I was TRYING to take his picture but he kept wrestling with Tallulah, so that was the next photo. And then, sadly, I had to get my teeth cleaned on Thursday, and at my dentist they always give you a carnation after. So the last picture was of my carnations. My you-made-it-through-a-cleaning carnations. I got two flowers because the receptionist and I had a bonding experience while I was there.

Somehow our conversation led to her GETTING OUT FROM BEHIND THE COUNTER and coming over to speak to me right at my lobby chair, where she told me several very personal things.

There is something about me that's very approachable. People telling me all their stuff happens constantly. It REALLY happened when I was a church secretary. I guess they figured I was an extension of the priest, and I certainly am. I am a woman of the cloth. A sparkly cloth that's really impractical, but still.

After Receptionist and I became blood sisters, I went to get "just a cleaning," and why do we tell ourselves that? Getting a cleaning is TERRIBLE. In no world should metal be scraping your teeth. For an hour. "Oh, is that a sensitive spot?" they always ask, while you're clinging to the ceiling with your nails like a cat in the cartoons.

"I am so sweaty in this chair it's gonna leave a Shroud of Turin when I get up," I said, and the other hygienist (who apparently doesn't read my blog, as I've whipped out that line 480 times) heard that and laughed so hard that she brought me a delightful and not-at-all-humiliating Poise wipe for hot flashes. Have you seen these things? Somehow they're ice cold, and they smell nice, and I totally wiped myself like Elvis in concert with that thing. I smelled wonderfully middle-aged after.

So that was my Thursday, and on Friday I mostly went around telling everyone about my cold. Because I'm fun that way. I was invited to go over to Ned's Friday night, as he made soup and really nothing sounds better than soup when you have a cold, which by the way I did. In case you did not know this.

Before I headed to Ned's, where I was bringing pajamas to change right into, and also my own box of Kleenex, because sexy? Anyway, before I went there, I opooed in to Victoria's Secret, because they were having a sale on my delicates, and yes I DO hate that store and agree that all their bras fall apart. However, they're the only store I've found that carries my triple D size and you're right. I DO sound smug about being a triple D, and so would you. I just noticed that I wrote "opooed" instead of "popped" and I swear I have some kind of brain tumor or something. Opooed. Kill me now.

The point is, I heard, "June!" and I turned around and it was my therapist. One I saw briefly after Marvin left. You have never seen anyone NOT LOOK at something harder than I DIDN'T LOOK at what she was buying. Do not want to picture my therapist all trussed up in a bustierre.

After that humiliation, I had soup in my pajamas at Ned's, and we also played with Funny Putty, which is a knockoff of Silly Putty that Hulk gave me. I forgot he gave it to me, but found it while I was searching for (wait for it) cold medicine. Of which I had none. Because I never buy cold medicine. But then I always get desperate and wonder do I really have any, which leads to me finding Funny Putty and having hours of fun at Ned's with it.

Ned told me Silly Putty is one of the only substances that is both liquid and solid. Ned is full of fun facts. He shaped said putty into a dinosaur, and then we watched it melt into an anteater and finally it decayed right on the Mortality book. Ned read me that whole book. Not in one sitting, but over time. It's a picker-upper, that one. It's Christopher Hitchens' account of dying of esophageal cancer. I'm walkin' on sunshine!

On Saturday, I worked and complained about my cold and also had lunch with Ned's entire family, which, hey! Who brought the smallpox blanket to Family O'Ned? For years they'll talk about Cold Watch 2013, where the whole group fell ill at once. Go June!

Then we had a birthday party to go to, and let me tell you what.

A few weeks ago, I got mad at Dick Whitman about something, and I said to him, "I am NEVER BLOGGING ABOUT YOU AGAIN!" I know! Ooooooo! Burn! But then it was his birthday and there's no way I can just NOT blog about his dinner party.

Where everybody had a good time.

Really, though, it was lovely. DW usually doesn't cook, but he made a curry chicken and risotto and there was a bowl full of ants that everyone said was dried seaweed, but you can't fool me.

I brought a coconut cake, which no I didn't make, but which cost $42 so I told DW that was his gift as well. Then I complained about my cold.

I turned the camera on myself, which really should be the title of my memoirs, and I noticed Ned was being all weird. "What're you doing?" I asked. "Looking dignified," said Ned, who apparently has no idea what that word means. The point is, we're able to enjoy the Nostrils of Ned, and that is what matters.

When we were eating, I pointed out to Ned that he forgot to put dressing on his salad. "I don't EAT dressing. Salads are perfectly fine without it."

Yeah. I'm doing it too. I, too, am surrounded with an aura of  question marks and exclamation points.

On Sunday, after trying to change my sheets and finding it a challenge, I finished my work and went for a walk with Ned and the curs. Because it was a really nice day yesterday, and I'd like to take this moment to shout out to my friend Jane West, who had to leave our 60-degrees-all-weekend state to get on a plane with a sinus infection to fly to Minnesota. HEYYYY, WEST! SURE IS NICE HERE!

Guess who'd be pleased with me that I captured this flattering moment on film? Guess who'd go Pit on my ass if she knew?

While we were there, we ran into someone Ned went to high school with, and yes it IS amazing that he AND a classmate are still alive, and anyway she had this puppy sweetie pie snickerdoodley-ooo muffinheaded puppy poo pie noodle and I was, oh, you know, sort of interested in him.

I love any kind of Boston terrier or French bulldog. I know I'm usually a big-dog person, but those breeds kill me. If I had a French bulldog I'd never be sad again.

After our walk, Ned and I went back to my swinging pad, where I complained about my cold and my cats remained indifferent. You have never seen a cat so blatantly in love than Lily. Look at poor Iris, just trying to get any crumb of attention she can. eyeriss not see you, but she no she love you unkle neds. eyeriss need little sugar too, you know, unkle neds.

Pfft. Iris. Out of luck since 2012.

Anyway. That about sums it up, except I feel like I didn't get to bring up my cold enough. Just please remember that I had one. Thank you. And gesundheit.

Screw ball

In case you're pacing the floors wondering how I am, my foot feels better. I guess "sprain" was a strong word. "Twisted" might have been more accurate. And it's not like me to exaggerate.

Yesterday, Ned, who is the best boy ever invented on planet Earth in the history of time--and what do you mean please see the paragraph above?--took me to the nice Jeffrey Dahmer movie, and in case you didn't know, Jeffrey Dahmer might've had a screw loose.  Ohmygod, I remember the first time I saw this cartoon, and finally got the "screw" and "ball" reference. It just about slayed me.

Anyway.

So, after our romantic comedy, Jeffrey Dahmer Gets Food To Go, we went back to Ned's house, as he was also whipping up a batch of something, but in his case it was vegetable stock. I sat on the couch and read my comments while he did whatever in the kitchen. Because a help? Wooo! That's me all over.

Here he is adding the thyme, and yes, I totally DID make a "thyme is on your side" joke. Because not only am I helpful in the kitchen, I'm also super original. Keep calm and soup on.

When I was done reading my comments, I started taking pictures of my own self and posting them to Facebook. Because what do my FB friends want to see more than a photo of me? Hey, I have to look at all your damn kids constantly. "Joshua after his first poop!"

Anyway, finally it was time to meet my pals Marty Martin and Kayeeee for dinner. I had scheduled said dinner just exactly at the same time as an important sporting event, yet Ned still likes me. Dudes, how'm I supposed to know when important sporting events occur? It's not like there's some magic SCHEDULE out there for me to look at. God.

Apparently, Marty and Kayeeee have been together so long that now they're starting to dress alike. Although in this shot it looks like Kayeee is wearing more of a cranberry color to MM's red. Trust me, had you been with us, it looked exactly the same shade. Also, it would've been awkwardly tight in that booth.

We've only been together for a year. Hence the gray and...other gray.

Anyway, I asked Kayeeee about her cats, as they are getting up there in years, not thinking about how Ned's cat is no spring chicken (she'll be 13 in May) and he kind of...worries about her. And her demise. And I so feel him on this, because pretty much the last seven years of my beloved cat Mr. Horkheimer's life, I obsessed about his death. He'd come flump next to me, and I'd be all, God, I love this cat. One day he'll be dead.

You know where it's fun? In my brain, that's where. And apparently Ned is as fun as me, because he told me he does the same thing with NedKitty. So it was sensitive of me to ask Kayeee about her old cats knowing Ned was pictuing a hood-and-sickle kitty of doom visiting his apartment any day now. And by the way that cat is as spry as my year-old cats.

"Oh, the one cat's not good. I've been using the come-to-your-house vet that you used," Kayeeee told me. "The vet we were using was terrible."

"What vet is that?" asked Ned, who I know was convinced that out of the 739452402 vets in Greensboro, Kayeee would say the one he goes to.

"Oh, you've probably not heard of them. It's called Meowschwitz," said Marty Martin.

Meowschwitz. And that is why I hang around Marty Martin.

In case you were worried for Ned, said sporting event was on TV where we went, and I am sorry to tell you we may have had to stay and watch the whole thing. Whoever it was we wanted to win, won. Mostly I noticed how some basketball players wear really long socks and some do not. Also, tattoos don't show up as well on black people, and they ought to invent ink for darker pigments. See, I'd be a millionaire if I ever took these thoughts all the way to the action part.

Oh, and I took this picture of my plate to show you how Project Emaciated is going. Okay, it was no "Meowschwitz," but it's relatively amusing. We can't hit ALL of them out of the park.

I guess that's all I have to tell you, except that when I got home, Annie Hall was on TCM, so I watched that for a change. Even though I've seen that movie probably 15 times, I love it all over again when it comes on.

  Most of us need the eggs. Or in Jeffrey Dahmer's case, the legs.

June, failing under the power of the Meowschwitz line since 2013.

June serves lasagna. Story at 11:00.

They delayed work due to inclement weather and

Dear Friends and Family in Michigan,

You would die laughing about this "weather."

This did not stop me, of course, from going right back to bed and spooning Tallulah, who was down with the return to slumber, as well. She never judges when one wants to have a few additional winks.

In the meantime, my pal Marianne came over last night, as was announced in yesterday's riveting post. Note the part where Ned cannot stop eating long enough to pose for the camera. Also, it looks like I made Ned drink salad dressing, when in fact I did not. Well. Much. It was kind of an initiation thing.

I made my one dish--lasagna--and Marianne and I got together first, had a little bonding and some making out, then Ned came over later and wondered if there was any food left. I will tell you one thing about Ned, and this is a news flash. He likes him some food.

Anyway, it was fun to watch them out-Southern each other. "Hi, here's my enthusiasm at meeting you!" "Hi! Here's my polite question to show interest!!" "Hey! That was a great question. Here is my funny Southern story that answers you and amuses you all at once."

Seriously, this is the most social place I've ever lived. Everyone in Michigan was extra super reserved, so I fit in THERE just like a puzzle piece. That one puzzle piece you try to cram cram cram in, cause it LOOKS like it SHOULD fit. Then in Seattle you had to act cool and dark about everything, and sort of earnestly politically correct, and in LA you had to convince everyone you had money.

Here people are just nice. And it's likely fake as all get-out, but I don't care. I'm shallow that way.

When Marianne got here, we hugged, then later she said, "Thanks for the hug when I got here. I know you didn't mean it." I was all, "I SO didn't mean it!" See? Reserved. Michigan. Also just cold fish in general.

Anyway, we had fun. Ned is still having a dreadful time with general being-a-grownup stuff, and when he called to see if I still wanted him to come meet Marianne he sounded so terribly drained and miserable. And you know who is an excellent middle-aged-manfriend? Is Ned. Because he came over anyway, and he was funny and delightful, and mostly had to hear us talk about girl things, although we did manage to not discuss our periods.

Wait. Yeah, we did. Good gravy. Poor Ned.

I guess I'd better go get ready to drive through this INCLEMENT WEATHER and go to fake work. I like how even when work is delayed, I find a way to waste time and show up six minutes late like I always do. Why don't they hire me, again?

Are you going to watch the Oscars this weekend? Ned and I thought about doing a Nedflix where we predict the winners, and don't forget we have a $900,000 bet on who wins Best Short. We are now even on our owing each other money: I owed him $900,000 when he said. "That waitress is going back to get us free dessert" on our anniversary, and I said, "I'll bet you $900,000 she is not" and then boom, she came out with those cream puffs.

But then we saw this French movie about a woman whose legs were bitten off by a whale, and who do you think selected THAT happy film, and Ned was CONVINCED the actress really didn't have legs. I was all, dude, I've SEEN HER IN OTHER THINGS. Do you think she's just that dedicated to her craft and had her legs bitten off for this one movie? So we bet $900,000 that she did or did not have legs. I just want to reiterate that usually Ned is really smart.

Oh, look! It's a miracle! She got her legs back! What's not a miracle is that copper eye shadow. "Let's make me look like I might have allergies." Pretty dress, though.

Anyway, let me know. About the Oscars. I kind of miss getting to call my ex-mother-in-law during the red carpet. She was always good for that crucial part of the night.

Okay, strapping the diamonds around my cankles and getting to work.

Despair face

Do you know what I bet Ned wishes? Is that he could ever come over here and not be assaulted by pets. My grandfather used to say wish in one hand, shit in the other. See which gets filled up first.

Why do grandparents go around saying things that barely make sense like that? Is it just when you become a grandparent? Those phrases just start coming out your mouth?

I've told you this before, but my grandmother, who was in no way related to my grandfather other than they were in-laws, I guess, used to say "Your ass would make him a Sunday face."

Yeah, I know. I had to sit around for 10 years figuring that one out.

Ned--who had had a bad day, hence the look of despair and enormous glass of wine, which technically I bought for my friend Marianne but more on that later--and I went to the movies last night.

Not that I bought a look of despair for my friend Marianne. I bought WINE for her. Wine. But wouldn't it be great if you could go out and buy looks of despair for people? "I knew your day was sucking, so I bought you empathy face."

Don't I still owe Furry Godmother this pennant? Don't ever enter into contests here. You'll be out purchasing despair face in no time.

OH MY GOD ANYWAY. So, we went to see all the animated shorts up for an Academy Award. Circle R. And one of the shorts was by The Simpsons. I mean, the cartoon characters didn't make a movie, but it was by Matt Groening and it was about Maggie being at daycare. Of course it was hilarious, but that's not even a fair fight. We hope that one doesn't win.

 There was another one with a dog in it who looked JUST LIKE EDSEL that we liked, and an art one that'll probably win because people are pretentious.

 

Oh. Even though they showed this last night, this isn't a nominee. WHAT GIVES? So maybe my dog one will win. Edsel's movie will win. Who even knew Edsel was doing this? He's always home when I get home, like a good wife.

But as I was saying, I got wine and MADE LASAGNA last night before our movie, because tonight right after work, my friend Marianne is coming over! Oh, I'm so excited.

I met Marianne a month after I moved to Seattle. We had a mutual, well, "friend" is a strong term. We both knew this really annoying self-centered woman, who literally had a shrine to herself in her own living room. Seriously, she had these giant letters that spelled out her name, and a big glamor shot under that. Once, at a party, my friend Marianne had her Commitments tape stolen, or maybe we were far enough along in civilization that it was a CD. It doesn't matter. What DOES matter is she reported said crime to our self-centered....friend (not that it was Ned), who said, "I saw that movie." THAT'S ALL SHE SAID! She didn't care that Marianne had been ROBBED. The important thing was she had seen the movie. I mean, get your priorities straight, Marianne. God.

So the self-centered woman, who I dearly hope has not somehow found my blog despite the fact I have not spoken to her since 1995, took me to a rugby game a month after I moved to Seattle, because she was banging every rugby player who'd have her, and please see above reference to hoping she doesn't read my blog.

I was desperate enough to make friends that I WENT to a rugby game, and Marianne went too, although I forget her motives. Was she similarly banging a rugby player? I can't recall that, but you never know. We were single and ready to...watch our "friend" out there in the freezing Seattle weather, wearing a crop top and cheering on men giving each other concussions.

Neither Marianne and I were remotely into this sport. And it was cold. And because it was Seattle, a freezing horrid drizzle had just begun. "You wanna go to the car and drink all the beer?" I asked Marianne.

And a friendship was born. After that, we spent EVERY weekend together. We had breakfast at this restaurant across from my apartment EVERY Saturday morning, and even after I met my Official Seattle Boyfriend, we hung out all the time. Marianne and Official Seattle Boyfriend both had the habit where they'd eat all of one thing, then go to the next thing. Like, they'd eat all the corn, then move on and eat all the chicken.

WHICH DIDN'T DRIVE ME BERSERK AT ALL.

Maybe that's why I made lasagna for tonight, since Marianne will be in town for a conference. Since with lasagna everything is mooshed into one dish, I don't have to watch her do The Thing.

How many of you stalky stalkersons went over to Official Seattle Boyfriend's website and looked for a picture of him? How stalky is it that I KNOW about his website? I have always liked his art--I even bought one of his paintings as a wedding present for a friend who'd similarly always liked his art. I had another friend pick it up, though. I was too nervous to see him.

OH MY GOD ANYWAY.

So, Marianne will be here tonight, and what I like about my friendship with her is my house is LUDICROUS, and I know she'll love me anyway. Unless she's changed, like my childhood best friend who now watches FOX News all the time and has no sense of humor anymore. But I don't think so.

There's nothing better than one of those friends you can pick right back up with, is there?

Like no time has passed? Unlike the stylishness of this jacket. Or Marianne's white leggings, for that matter. God, we look young. And you know who took this? Official Seattle Boyfriend. Who as I recall was super sick of us that day. Possibly due to alcohol. Or maybe it was my poor decision to get bangs.

Okay, that's all. Marianne coming. I'm making my official dish. And she's meeting Official Greensboro Boyfriend. That about sums it up. I'll report back tomorrow about how not-fun she's become. I'll report on how Marianne has become Fun Bobby.

XO, June

Oh, yes. I certainly DO see a virgin up there in those stars. Freak.

Last night I had dinner with my friend and coworker The Poet. We've been TRYING to go to tea together, but clearly God is over us and our tea plans. First, we picked Proximity, which is a fancy hotel near me--and how ironic would it be if a place called Proximity were far away from me--but they only serve tea until 5:00, and we, you know, work. Apparently they only cater to ladies who tea.

Then I suggested this place called The Secret Tea Room, where The Other June and I went and had crab cakes, thereby eating our astrological sign. Yes, I realize I say that every time I have crab. It's my big line. Sue me. Crack my shell and put butter on me. I guess that's more lobster, isn't it? Point is, Effing Secret Tea Room. Closed on Monday.

"GodDAMMIT," I said, glaring at my computer. "You want to just go to the fancy dessert place instead?" So we agreed to do that. Then when work was over and we were finally ready, we decided we wanted actual dinner and that's the end of that story.

How come you can be a crab but not a lobster as your astrological sign? I guess there were no constellations that looked like a lobster. Although if you ask me whoever made up what the constellations looked like was totally making shit up, like the dad from Calvin and Hobbes. "See there? That's an archer." Okay, high-on. I see a star here and three little spots over yonder. If that's an archer to you, go on wit' yer bad self.

Anyway, that was pretty much the highlight of yesterday. Having dinner with The Poet. I like The Poet. When they first sat me next to her at work I was worried she'd be all deep and only speak in poems or something. There's nothing worse than putting me next to a deep person. The juxtaposition is so, you know, jarring. But it was fine. She keeps her deep on the downlow when she's around me.

I just went into my photos on my computer to see if I took other photos of The Poet (answer: no) (and she really is a poet. Like, she's all published and stuff. And she tours around reading her poems and so forth) (maybe one day she'll be famous and I'll be a footnote in her biography. "Inexplicably, The Poet hung around shallow blogger June Gardens. Occasionally they tried to get tea.").

At any rate, I found this picture I somehow managed to take of my phone lockscreen, and by the way can anyone tell me how I did this? But I'm glad, because I have as my lock screen that terrible painting from the hotel we stayed at in West Virginia.

Am obsessed with that awful painting. And every once in awhile Ned says, "She kind of looks like you," which just makes me mad.

Now am interested in what's here in my photos that I haven't shown you.

I never did show you a photo of the chocolate-chip cookies I made for Ned for Valentine's Day. I mean, I actually made them. I did not just cut cookies off a tube. In fact, I was AT the store, buying foreign things like "flour" and "baking soda," and I saw the dang tubes in the frozen-food aisle, and I was all, Why didn't I just do that? But I wanted to make an effort, because Ned is nice to me.

You can see I had a lot of duds in this batch, but I took all the bad ones to work and people descended on them like jackals. If I had left a dead antelope out, I mean. I don't know that jackals would descend on cookies. I don't know if my fake coworkers WOULDN'T descend on an antelope, either. I've seen them eat mayonnaise-based sandwiches that have been sitting out all day.

Here's Tallulah trying to stare intently at me while I eat something but falling asleep in the meantime. Girlfriend would never catch her a jackal. She enjoys the nap too much. You should see how she is when I come home at lunch. Edsel is always at the door, striking up the band and dropping the ticker tape, while five minutes after I'm in the door Talu clicks down the hall with pillow marks creasing her face. "o. yu heer? it noons alreddy? talu just...tydee up in bedrum."

Who even knows what pertinent fact Ned is relaying?

Me at work with my Hot Royals calendar. Every month they show a new prince and give you his status. Is he dating someone special? Single? Into 47-year-olds? They tell you everything.

I guess those are all the faintly interesting photos I have in my computer. Currently I have 5,474 photos on said computer, and that's not even counting the 10839294 you've sent me of yourselves that I haven't put up yet. Remember when we just had photo albums and took 12 pictures at a time or whatever? Yeah.

Talk at you tomorrow. Oh! And in case anyone was worried sick and didn't read the comments, and I love it when the answer is in the comments but you ask anyway, the official name for Ned's movie reviews is Nedflix, thanks to witty Faithful Reader Letha. We are going to another movie Wednesday, Ned and me, not Letha and me, so there could be a Nedflix coming your way soon. Wooo!

Here's Where the Story Ends. No, really, who did that song?

Yesterday, after a harrowing day at work--

I mean, it WAS kind of busy, but I also took time out to torture the receptionist who is SO OVER ME. We're having window cleaners come in this weekend, and she has sent out messages about it, and whenever she does, I write back.

"What a pane."

"I like the way you framed that email."

"You're so transparent."

Sadly for her, the date of the window-cleaning got changed, so naturally I wrote to tell her I was shattered, but then I told another editor what I was doing, and we dive-bombed her.

"Is the cleaning SILL going on?"

"I'm blind with rage that we aren't getting the windows cleaned sooner."

"So they're coming this weekend, a-LEDGE-edly."

Oh, you don't even know. And she TOTALLY IGNORES US, probably because she has things to do like answer the phone.

So I was busy with that along with my actual productive work, and then right after, my friend The Other June came over. Do y'all remember The Other June? I took a knitting class--and money well spent--and she was taking the class as well and I picked her up at the knitting store while we were signing up.

We used to go to the Farmers Market a lot when I was married and did things like get up early and go to the Farmers Market.

Anyway the plan was to go out for coffee and catch up on everything (i.e., hear me drone on about Ned. How boring of a friend I must be right now. "I like Ned." "Say, did I mention I like Ned?" I try not to do the thing where every subject can somehow become a Ned subject, like when Samantha finally liked someone and Charlotte mentioned she might adopt a Chinese baby and Samantha said, "Richard's opening a restaurant in China.")

(It is sad how much Sex and the City I know by heart. Did I tell you how we were flipping channels the other day, and an episode of SATC was on, and Ned said, "Okay, I KNOW THIS PLOT because you've told me about this one."

Aaaaaand I made this about Ned.)

Somehow coffee turned into us deciding to get manicures instead. It was only after I got out my wallet to pay that I realized I picked that same color I always pick these days.

The Other June got a more traditional cranberry color. Here's where the story ends. Get it. Do you? Wait, is that song even BY the Cranberries, or is that The Sundays? Stupid '90s bands.

After that we were headed to coffee and...

I mean, coffee shops are doing a LOT these days to bring in the noncoffee-drinker.

We totally went out to eat instead. Obvs. And Ned was IRKED because he called me later and was eating rice and beans while I had feasted at a fancy restaurant.

Oh, look. I mentioned Ned.

So that was my day, other than the part where I got irritated at Dick Whitman and I can't talk about that but trust me. I should have an extra super-secret blog. This can be Blog of Most Things and then I can have Blog of Stuff I Can't Blog About. Anyway, DW and I will be back to being nonirked friends probably in the next hour. So don't get all dramatic about it like the time I got mad at Ned and you had us broken up for life.

Oh look, I mentioned Ned.

Ima go now, but before I do, I just went to get coffee, since The Other June and I eschewed it last night, and poor blind Iris was drinking water from the dog's dish, when all of a sudden a cup came CRASHING down from the shelf, BOUNCED off the counter and CAREENED right into the dog's water bowl.

You have never seen someone leap so high in the air as poor Iris, who of course didn't see it coming till it was splashing onto her. Then she did the leap sideways down the hall thing, which is dignified.

Sadly, I can't find a reason to make this about Ned.

Okay, bye. I'm sure Ned says bye, too.