Your suggestions are rolling in, not literally because how could a suggestion literally roll in, of which posts I should put in a book. They've ranged from you sending 20 from one month (Slutty Pancakes) to just one or two. This is great! Now I have to go read them and be all judge-y about my own self. Which, who can't do that?
Anyway, thank you.
I just heard Ned in there saying, "What in the world?" which is a response he usually reserves for when he looks over and I'm all of a sudden crying. You know how that is. You're going along with your day and you read about Jack the dog dying in By the Shores of Silver Lake. Or all of a sudden something reminds you of your dead cat Roger. To use very loose, unspecific examples. Any time he says it, I always laugh a little on my insides, even though I'm crying on the outside.
I guess Ned isn't one to just spontaneously burst into tears 50 times a day like my Aunt Kathy or, you know, me, so he always expresses surprise when I do it. "What in the world?" like he's 87 years old.
This time it was because his phone screen was all of a sudden dim. I guess his phone dimming and me bursting into racking sobs are on the same par, in the world of Ned.
Speaking of par, here are some boys at work, most of whom golf, see, and that's what reminded me of this moment I captured on film. So beautifully.
Here they all are, discussing Cormac McCarthy. Ned is obsessed with Cormac McCarthy, so I texted him (text him) this picture. "Look. People discussing Cormac McCarthy. All boys," I noted. Cormac McCarthy writes boy books. I have no interest in his boy books. None of these boys or Cormac McCarthy would be interested in my stupid girl blog, either. The men above only read my blog if they're in it. Hello, Guy Who Sits Next to Me, Griff, my boss, and the beleaguered editor who had to sit on copy editor's row for awhile.
Hello, Cormac McCarthy. He's all, "I'm in June's BLOG today!?!" Calling his friends.
"Ooo, which book were they talking about?" asked Ned, to which I replied, "?" and also, "hooo care?"
Probably they were discussing that one boy time where boy things happened in that one Cormac McCarthy book about boy things.
"Oh, shoot," I just heard Ned say now. "God, that's..."
Turns out a cat pooped right outside the litterbox this time. What in the world? He and I both blame NedKitty, who will do that very occasionally to express her displeasure at things. She abhors all talk of Cormac McCarthy. So, we've mulled it over, and we're getting rid of her.
Pound. Or maybe just a nice drive to the country.
Oh! And I have forgotten to tell you this eight thousand days in a row. Did you read my Purple Clover article not this week but last week? About the bad art from my childhood? One thing I mentioned was that we had a painting of a red clown who'd stare dolefully at me while I waited for dinner to be ready. I really remember that, too, just sitting in the living room like some sort of queen, with All Things Considered on the radio--a show that still makes me want to kill myself--starting at the horrid red clown and waiting a trifle impatiently for dinner to be brought out. I couldn't have sliced a carrot or anything?
The point is, my mother got rid of that red clown long ago, or maybe she was even lucky enough to have ditched that thing during the divorce, but of all the coincidences, just last weekend she was at an estate sale and...
My mother said that even while my stepfather got out his phone to photograph this, people walking by said, "Oooo, that's creepy."
Believe it or not, someone bought it. I tried to find more horrifying pictures by this artist who made me the insane person I am today, but is his name Richier or Richter? Can you tell? And why does he haunt my dreams so? Why the twitch? What in the world?
Oh my land (what in the WORLD?) I gotta go. I got a Curly Girl haircut last night and I think Ima try to not wash it today, so that will save time. Just a little lavender water and gel. What say you, can I get away with that?
Pound. Drive to the country.
Iris will get there and be all, wat the world?"
June, and Cormac McCarthy, out.
My roots just shot clean out my head in the past couple days. "That's cause you're mad," said my student yesterday. She said it with utter confidence, like she was an anger/follicle expert. "When you get mad, your hair comes out."
Well, it did come out, with a vengeance, so now I'm writing you while I have root dye on and I have five more minutes before I gotta rinse it off.
In the meantime, I've been trying to find a mover, and I did get boxes, and I can't believe I am moving again, four months later. There are snowdrop flowers in the back yard here, and I was so looking forward to seeing what this pretty yard did in the spring. I was excited about the porch swing, too. I always wanted to be proposed to on a porch swing.
Guess that's not going to happen.
I just love this house, and these rooms, and how the original floor has worn spots on it.
But we're going to be way out in the country at our new house, and I haven't even told Iris she can be outdoor kitty again. If I tell her that she'll get send away for a giant whetstone to sharpen everything. I'll come home and she'll be puttin' her fangs on that thing. She'll be doing her Edward from Twilight impression. Her claws will literally have points of light gleaming off them and she'll be all, "Proceed."
So I'll tell her later.
The dogs are going to be able to run for centuries, and there will be deer and bunnies and I will be like Snow White without the short men. I don't like apples, so I'm not worried about being Snow White in any way.
I always identified with Grumpy, obvs, but I really liked it when Dopey put that diamond up to his eyeball. That was hilarious.
I had a friend whose dad worked for one of the cereal companies, and he always got the prizes. Didn't even have to dig his hand in the box. Bitch got seven men working in a diamond mine while she cooks for their short asses all day and not even a diamond chip.
Oh, hell, it's time to rinse the roots, which is a shame because this post was full of useful. The roots will be dark, like my mood. Oh, and speaking of my mood, I appreciate that everyone is concerned, but I use my phone for my alarm clock, so please knock it off with the middle-of-the-night texts, okay? Thank you.
It's the end of the year, FYI, and time for my end-of-year veedeo, and you've been around a long time if you know why I say "veedeo."
So long, 2014! You weren't all bad. (Click on the white "2014 Be Done" title at the top of the video, so it'll take you to YouTube, where you can CLICK THE DAMN X to get rid of the ad. THANKS, YOUTUBE.)
All if ever does is rain here. I mean, Christmas day was sunny, but that was like 49 days ago, right? I don't even know what day it is, other than we're at that weird purgatory between Christmas and Dick Clark.
What do you mean?
The point is, it feels like it's rained for 140 days and 19 nights, and my hair is not pleased. Or rather it is pleased; it's puffed up and bloated like Templeton at the fair. Last night, I stood up to roll my yoga mat after a particularly ardent session with Tracy Chapass (as Dancer called her in the comments the other night and am totally stealing that line), and I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
I mean, was I preheating the oven to place Hansel and Gretel in there? Was I getting ready to hang weird configurations of sticks about the forest? What I'm saying to you is, my hair said, "I'll get you, my pretty." And by "my pretty," it certainly didn't mean me.
By the time Ned came home, I'd showered, slathered 14 pounds of conditioner on my hair, and had it in two pigtails for sleeping in. "Hey, Pippy," said Ned, unfazed by Whatever She's Doing Now.
So here it is this morning, and I know I look rather like one of those old paintings of the Virgin Mary or maybe Jesus of Nazareth, yeah, Jesus of Nazareth, and I hope this gives me the ability to turn our water cooler into a big tank of wine, because someone's workday just got way interestinger.
Do you like that nail polish? It looks black in this light, but really it's dark gray. When I came home with it and screamed my fingers out in front of Ned for that hour's Whatever She's Doing Now, Ned said, "Midnight Caller?"
Pfft. Midnight Caller. Who does Ned think he is, being so off on my latest color? I recently had Midnight Caller on, which I think is a polite way of saying bootie call. Anyway, here's that shade.
Here's what I have on currently:
Really, you have to hand it to him for knowing my nail names. Ned is good at assimilating.
I have to go, as it is 8:27 and I am in my robe, which is a good sign re my 8:30 arrival at work. Before I go, I wanted to ask you what your dog would drink. Since they moved my desk, I now sit next to the nicest guy, who Ima call Zechariah, and that's not gonna get old at all, me having to Google Books of the Bible and look up how the hell to spell Zechariah each time.
The point is, he has three dogs, and in case you didn't know, I have two. We discussed what our dogs would order should they belly up to the bar. Haunch up to the bar.
"Well, one of my dogs appears to be gay, and that's okay," said Zechariah tolerantly. "So, mojito."
"OH MY GOD EDSEL WOULD SO ORDER A MOJITO!" I said a trifle enthusiastically. Then I may have done my Edsell impression, with the bottom teeth and the Edsel voice, which may or may not sound vaguely not so bright. "yes. moheeto if you pleese thank you."
Tallulah would get whiskey, neat. And none of that pretentious single-malt anything. She'd be fine with a well drink.
Normal people's hair grows a quarter of an inch per month. Knowing that I had my color done just last month and now there's a considerable white line striping down the center of me like I'm some sort of Dolly Madison dessert, I decided to measure. How long was that white strip that was not here a month ago?
Half an inch. My hair grows twice as fast as regular people's. If my hair would grow out a lovely color, such as pink, this would be fantastic news. But it comes out white, like a vanilla frogurt dispenser, and it comes out faster than anyone else's.
If anyone wonders what to get me for Christmas, standing appointments at my colorist would be lovely. Apparently I need to go twice a week or something.
Ned said he had to stop at the grocery store yesterday to get "food," and by "food" Ned means "fruit," and I don't know about you, but that's never what I mean when I say "food." Mashed potatoes are food. Meat loaf is food. Fruit is not food.
But "food" he needed, so as Ned gathered up his Carmen Miranda hat, I schlepped over to the hair dye section to cover this strip. I was whiter than the line for free Moleskine notebooks at Lilith Fair.
I read that once in that Stuff White People Like blog, that white people love them the Moleskine notebooks, and it made me giggle because guess who owns four of those?
The PROBLEM is, and I know you're riveted by this whole dilemma, but the PROBLEM is they were sold out of my root dye color, which is light ash brown and features a woman on the box with questionable sexuality. She might be going through her college phase, if you're picking up what I'm throwing down.
I joined Ned back over at the the fruit, because it took Ned longer to select fruit than it did for me to figure out what I was gonna do about my roots. "They were out of my color. I picked this." I thrust a light golden brown box at Ned. The girl on that box was all men, all the time. She might even enjoy a good train pulled on her, this one.
"So, you're going for a darker look?" asked Ned, who I just taught about ombre hair, and how women are going about it terribly badly. Ombre roots are the dark lipliner of the 2010s.
"I'm not intentionally," I told him, "but they were out of my stuff."
So that's where we are right now, folks. The light golden brown is on, I'm in my 10-minute waiting period, and I'm writing to you. Soon I'll rinse it out and we'll see the tragedy that has befallen my rootage.
Wish me luck.
Ned is back--yay!!--from his work trip, and I like how I went from being someone who lived alone for three and a half years to being scared at night without him in only three weeks. When I got home, he was already there, and he had flowers for me and he is a nice boy.
We watched The Shining last night, as we have this three-month deal where they give you 50 HBO channels so you get hooked, and then in three months they'll say, "You have to pay for this now" and we'll be all, "YES! Yes of course we'll pay for it now! Don't ever take HBO from us!" and we'll go from being people who went their whole lives without HBO to HeroinBO addicts in three months. All our HBO teeth will be rotting.
My point is that Ned said I am exactly like this when he interrupts me in here writing.
It's a shame how Ned invents things. And I dearly hope Marvin doesn't read this today, because he watched this and so nodded knowingly.
You think you can handle that, Wendy? Then why don't you start right now and get the fuck out of here.
Why did she even stay with him in the first place? He was a Crabby Appleton on the drive up. Oh, good, my husband's a DICK and we'll be snowed in together for god knows how long with our weird talking-finger son. But no, she packed 6,000 corduroy jumpers and headed off with him.
I have to stop talking about it now or there will be twins behind me. Oh, fuck, are there twins behind me?
If Iris and Lily had any sense of humor, they'd be back there holding hands.
Also, are you already tired of this new background on my webcam? No one sent me a photo of their new life with my lemon crate pictures. Before I moved, I auctioned those things off and wrote hilarious things on the back of each one, such as, "Orange you glad I sent you a lemon crate picture?" and everyone said "I'll send a photo, Joon, of my new picture at my house!" and bupkis. Imagine saying you'll send something and not doing it. I would never.
It seems like I had other things to tell you and I'll be damned if I can remember them. I didn't sleep very well, and I had a migraine all day yesterday after that aura. What I am is a barrel of laughs.
I guess I'll go on with my life and fill you in on whatever I was gonna tell you when I think of it. We're going to see David Sedaris tonight, which is exciting, as David Sedaris is the wind beneath my wongs.
I did not just accidentally type "wongs." Oh my god.
Okay, then, talk at you. I will leave you with a disc of photos I found from 2004 when I was still in LA. Some are from my father's birthday dinner at El Coyote, which he wanted to go to because Sharon Tate had her last meal there, and some are from the surprise birthday party I threw for myself. I guess Ida been 39 that year. Jack Benny's age.I think Marvin was drunk in this one. Everyone had 39394393 margaritas that night except me, who had Coke. Partayyy on, June.
I miss Renee. Just walk away, Renee. Walk to fucking Hawaii, you traitor. I act like I didn't move away, too. That cake does not read, "Karen." Oh my god they got the wrong person's cake! Somewhere Karen is having June's cake. And look what I'm holding. I think ancient man called that a cam..a camma...I can't recall. Where's my cell phone, is what I wanna know.
That's my natural hair color.
This was the front porch of my apartment. I mean, you can't see any of the front porch, but the point is this was my view. I lived in Silverlake, which was a trendy part of town, and every day I saw something interesting in my neighborhood. Plus? Pink.
I wonder what I did with that wig. I'd so wear it to work right now.
Okay, I have to go.
Ned and I have been dating for two years, eight months and four days, but who's counting. At some point, we've developed a little routine. This is mostly because Ned is a very routine-y person, whereas we all consider ourselves lucky if I remember to wake up and go to work each day. The point is, we see each other on Tuesdays and Thursdays during the week, and then all weekend--Friday night through Sunday night. I guess it'd have been easier to say we generally don't see each other Mondays and Wednesdays.
"Next Wednesday you're going to have to see me, because that's the day we'll be moving in together," I pointed out to him.
I guess we'll have to change our routine. I've lived alone again, naturally, for three and a half years exactly, and I've liked living alone quite a bit. But I like Ned better.
In the meantime, back at this blog, on Sunday I was discussing many important things with Ned, including how when we were adolescents, we each got ahold of a copy of The Joy of Sex. "Oh my god, that was great," said Ned, who has been a perv since day one, thank god.
"Oh, I looked at the whole thing thoroughly," I told him, "don't get me wrong. But even back then I was all, These people could stand a little grooming." Did you ever peruse that book? There were line drawings, and they were very early-70s-looking. No one in that book was anyone you'd want to have the joy of sex with.
God, I miss the '70s, when the answer to everything was a shag hairdo.
I have no idea how I got off on this tangent. So to speak. Oh! I remember. So, we segued from The Joy of Sex line drawings to penis size, and don't even ask me how Ned and I converse. You have two people who talk a lot, and it gets ugly sometimes.
The point is, THAT is when I got on my phone and emailed this blog asking if penis size really matters, and several hours later, I looked at my phone, and no comments. "Hunh," I said, and went to my blog, and no post. Sometimes when I email a post, it doesn't show up, which is extra-efficient.
Then yesterday, more than 24 hours later, the damn post appears on my blog. I was at work, and started getting, "Yes, it DOES matter!" comments, which made no sense, so I looked at my blog and there it was. "Oh, dammit," I said, and took it down, because I'd written that 47-foot-long post about my weekend and didn't want a whole NEW post to detract from ALL THE FREAKING WORK I'd done on the large one. So to speak.
And here's what I like: When this blog takes on a life of its own. Last night I saw on Pie on the Face (a Facebook group for this blog, if you did not know), and you guys were all, "June took the penis post down, but it'll be back up tomorrow." So to speak.
I NEVER SAID I was going to put that post back up. And then there were more comments on my blog. "Where's the penis post? Oh, well, I guess I'll read it tomorrow."
It seems like I had other things to tell you, naturally, but now I've of course forgotten them. I have to remember to tell the post office to forward my mail to my new place, and I have to tell the garbage people that next week will be extra garbage-y. I hate being busy with things.
Talk at you tomorrow, when I'm sure I'll remember everything I was gonna talk about and this will be very linear and organized.
When I was at my mother's house a few weeks ago, I found this picture of my Aunt Kathy (left) and mom in polka dots, back in 1975. It was my Uncle Jim's wedding. Look how hot they are! I remember they'd show this to people and ask, "Which of us is prettier?" which made no one have an uncomfortable look or anything.
Now that Ned and I have signed the lease (eeeeek!!), I've been throwing things away (like my USELESS PRINTER, and no one buy an HP, ever. EVER! If your printer breaks, they have an 800 number, and try to charge you $100 to help you), and taking things to Goodwill (there are dresses I've moved from Los Angeles to TinyTown to here, and not worn once) and going through papers, and I found this photo:
This is my ex-best friend and me, back in the '90s when I lived in LA. It was between Christmas and New Year's, I remember that. Also, note how I am creeping around to feel her up. She was too tall to feel up.
And really? Really? There's anyone left who DOESN'T know how we broke up. Okay, here.
I wish I still had those dreadful jeans. And at this point, I must not have been living in LA for long, because Marvin hated black, so my all-black wardrobe became my all-pink wardrobe. Since Marvin has left I've purchased approximately 900 million new black shirts. Or seven. Somewhere between 900 million and seven.
Okay, I gotta go. I guess it's okay to tell you why I have to look nice tonight: I am being interviewed by a magazine, about this blog. It's a local hoity-toity magazine, one of those thick shiny ones that's at hotels or fancy doctor's offices where you may or may not get your Botox, if one did that and didn't embrace natural aging the way I do, with a good diet and clean living.
Hey, that lightning bolt almost hit me right in the head.
Anyway, it's exciting. I have no idea if they're taking my photo, but I got my red boob shirt on just in case. Naturally, today I ran out of hair gel. Yes, I did. So my hair will be 50 feet wide, but why fool anyone into thinking it doesn't usually get wide?
So that's the story. Am famous. Ish. Am almost famous. Am Stillwater.
Why doesn't Billy Cruddup ever call me?
I'm gonna tell you what I did this weekend, and it'll be just like when you're at the coffeemaker at work, and you ask someone how their weekend was, and they drone on about it for 78 minutes. So get that fake, pained smile on your face and prepare to say, "Uh-huh!" a lot as if you're interested.
On Saturday, as I announced earlier, I schlepped out to Chris and Lilly's feed store to get my feed on. I had to drive way out in the country, and it was the kind of spring day that makes spring the best season ever, which it is, if you ask me. Y'all can shove stupid fall up your asses. All the dogwoods were in bloom, and those redbuds that I don't know why they call them redbuds because they're purple, and oh! Everything was lovely.
Chris was in front of his store right when I got there, and I had no idea it'd be so huge! Insert hilarious "That's what Lilly said" joke here. It was teeming with people, and there was, you know, feed, which hadn't ocurred to me. There was llama feed, horse feed, and tons of stuff to feed your dog.
I got pig ears for my dogs, which is probably like getting junk food but I'm not gonna hear it from you. Don't swine to me about junk food for dogs. Tell it to the hoof. And by the way, when I brought them home, Edsel would not drop Bluuu, his best most favorite better-than-mom-even toy, to eat his pig ear, so I threw his in his bed and Tallulah had two pig ears on Saturday, is the moral of that story.
I also bought four hanging plants for my front area, not that I'm hanging plants off my ample bosoms, and I have no idea why all my jokes are from 7th grade today. But the BEST part of the whole thing was there were (sit down) (are you ready?)
The only people obsessing over the baby chicks were four years old, and me. After I knocked all those pesky kids out my way, I kept trying to grab one up, and guess who's elusive? Guess who slips away like trying to pick up mercury off the floor? Geez.
No, you're welcome. My gift is my song and this one's for you.
"I don't even see cute chicks. I see dollar signs," said Lilly, who's turned into a hard-core entrepreneur. She's this generation's Mr. Potter, only way cuter. Oh, and who got her prebaby body back already because she's 12? Who's as thin as a rail and hot, still? Really, though, she was a pretty fit pregnant person to begin with. Why do I have friends who are perfect? I should meet more screwed-up people so I look better.
Oh! And I'm droning on about this so much that I didn't get to the next part yet, which is where I got in the car and headed to Moshi Moshi, where I will NEVER GO AGAIN, to get my hair cut. Once I got out of Chapel Hill, where the feed store is, and into Durham, where stupid Moshi Moshi is, the traffic was ridic.
Yes, I just said "ridic."
I called them. I know that my car phone is impressive to you, and I try not to brag. I got a recording, so I left a message that it was about 20 till 3:00 and I thought I might be late. After TEN MINUTES OF NOT MOVING IN STUPID STUPID TRAFFIC AND WHERE WAS I, LA? Cause if I'm gonna have LA traffic again, get me a celebrity in the next car and not this yahoo with the Confederate flag bumper sticker.
"Moshi Moshi!" someone chirped.
"Yes, my name is June, and I called awhile ago to say I'm coming from Greensboro and stuck in traffic."
There was a pause. "Yes, we got your message. We have a 15-minute window, ma'am."
A 15-minute window? Like, then your store sits in darkness? Where does it go? How do you get a breeze in?
"Well, as I said, I drove in from Greensboro and I'm doing the best I can."
"Well, where are you?" This person might want to consider a career in torturing spies, with the barking of the questions and the lack of any empathy whatsoever. "I don't know where I am," I told her. "I'm not FROM here, as I've said now twice, and my GPS is in my phone and all that's on my phone screen when I look at it now is this call..."
I called back at 3:14 to say I was two miles away and traffic was moving and my arrival time was going to be 20 after.
"You'll have to reschedule, ma'am."
You know, I understand they have a policy, and I'd be annoyed but I'd understand if they said nope, we can't give you a five-minute pass on our policy even though you just drove 50 miles to get your hair cut. I understand. I have no desire to make someone else wait on my account. But if this heifer had shown even a MODICUM of kindness, A MODICUM, I'd not have said what I said next, which is that I will never even CONSIDER going back to Moshi Moshi for the rest of my days.
Why would you take a job in customer service if you have no desire to, oh, serve a customer?
That night, I took my live and uncut hair to dinner with Ned
and his mom.
They both insisted my hair was cute despite no scissors touching it. After dinner (I got a pear and Gorgonzola salad with walnuts. 448583838 points.) we all meandered to the local bookstore, where Ned gave me this look:
and I got this book, which I AM LOVING.
Good gravy, y'all, now it's really late and I have no time to tell you about the REST of my weekend, which included an inch worm and also Cheerwine slushies. I will have to tell you the rest tomorrow and I will not say TUNNNNNNE in next time. But tune in next time.