Bye Bye, Pie!

The one where June tells you about her rash. Read on!

Because I know you're going to want every detail--who wouldn't?--I have a rash. It has been there for some time, and naturally I figured "leukemia," and I really have no idea if leukemia presents with a rash, and I did not look it up because even though Marvin left over two years ago, I still try to stick with his rule that I was not allowed to Google symptoms.

It's just better all the way around. In fact, it's better for all of us. We should all just not Google symptoms, any of us. Stop it. We should also not Google pictures of the Boston Marathon bombing, which I keep doing and then getting upset.

What did we DO before we could Google our stuff, like "Why do I have a rash" and "Why won't June get to the point"?

It was nestled, my rash was, in between my rather ample bosoms, and I at first thought what you're thinking: heat rash. I work out all the time (okay, "all the time" might be a strong phrase) and wear the world's strongest sports bra and yeah, that makes sense. That or leukemia. But when normal stuff wouldn't clear it up, I asked my doctor, and NO, I DIDN'T just stampede to the doctor for a rash, judgy, I think I was there for migraines or plantar or the disease of going on and on in a story. One of those.

She prescribed a cream, and? Nothing. Did not clear it up in the slightest. So I called and they referred me to a leukemia specialist. Or a dermatologist. Whichever. I went to said dermatologist on Tuesday, and yes I DID look around to see if she did Botox, but there were no brochures out so dang. I was also tempted to ask for Retin A, but the last time I was on that stuff I got my eyebrows waxed and my entire upper face fell off.

You aren't supposed to get waxes when you use Retin A. News flash.

So all I got was a new prescription. I Went To The Dermatologist and All I Got Was This Lousy Prescription. Whatever is wrong with me is SO ODD and RARE and WEIRD that I had to get it filled at a confoundned pharmacy or something like that, where they mix things up for you. "Have you been to Place That Time Forgot Pharmacy, over by the jewelry store?" the dermatologist asked.

I had not. But I went there after work, and holy gatos. Seriously, you haven't been to a pharmacy like that since 1978. It was so effing cool.

It was just a pharmacy, you know what I mean? It wasn't nestled in your Target or your grocery store. And they sold crutches and Pedialyte and medicated powders and all kinds of sexy things that I could have spent forever looking at. Do I need an enema? I'd think, fondling it. How about stuff for a sitz bath? What IS a sitz bath? Is that where you sitz instead of stand?

I have no idea when I turned into my grandfather.

Finally my stuff was ready. It was $38, which was so much better than the TWO HUNDRED SIXTY-EIGHT DOLLARS I pay for six of my migraine meds. Yes, I have insurance. Remember when insurance actually covered stuff?

But right before I left, I saw they had Tussy. Oh!

My grandmother used Tussy. It's this cream deodorant, and why you'd want to scoop up your deodorant and apply it with your hand like you're eating daal and naan or something is beyond me. But she had it, and right there in that pharmacy that time forgot, I opened the jar and sniffed that stuff.

I might as well have been back at her vanity in 1970, digging through all gramma's lipsticks and Prell and Dippity-Do and Rapture, which I once put on and paraded out to her, saying, "How do I smell? I  put on your Rupture" and she fell over in hysterics.

Oh! The smell of that Tussy took me back. It too me back to Rupture days. And that is why I've gathered you all here today. What smell reminds you of the past?

Oh, and the cream seems to be working. I'd have taken before and after shots but I didn't know you'd be this into my rash. Freak.

Rashly, June

The fundamental things apply. As Long Island Medium goes by.

lu go pit on mom azz, she put dis on blowg

I love it when her lips do stupid things. I also enjoy how she has cat fur on her snout. This might be her own fault, seeing as she enjoys chasing those poor cats and sticking her nose in their fluff when she catches them. Talu is a dick.

Anyway, hi. All I did yesterday was work, so this should be a riveting post.

srsly, mom. get lyffe.

I caught her lounging on the back of the couch last night like she's a cat, while ironically the actual cat (Iris) was on the couch with me like a normal person. When I had Tallulah's DNA done, they said the part where she has Tibetan spaniel in her makes her like to lounge in high places. I wonder if she needs a dog condo.

So I got back to work yesterday, where someone brought Oreo doughnuts and also someone made a Bailey's cake, and why won't these stubborn pounds come off. There was 600,000 tons of work to do, and I didn't even get to email with Ned as I enjoy doing, and then it was time to go home and do some freelance.

And here is the thing: Monday is a good TV night cause you got your Real Housewives of Orange County. I suppose I don't have to tell you that. So my goal was to get my work done before that crucial hour. When I first got home and got nutritious homemade food that was made in the home of the Chinese restaurant from which I ordered it, I turned on the TV to amuse myself and WHO KNEW Long Island Medium was on Mondays at 5:30? Hmmm? WHO KNEW?

It was all I could do to turn that thing off after the first one, because they had back-to-back episodes just to torment me.

I was pretty much done with my work when the packed-with-life-lessons Real Housewives came on, but I did want to look at everything one more time after the show, but then WHO KNEW they'd have a special called Secrets of the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills on right after Orange County?

WHY MUST YOU DANGLE THIS TEMPTATION AND FASCINATING TV VIEWING BEFORE ME, GOD?

And that is why your old pal June, here, ended up finishing her work at 4 a.m. Or 10:00. Whichever.

So that was my day. Oh! And I forgot to show you this yesterday:

I was trying to take senior picture poses while we were hiking. However, when one has one's senior picture taken, one does not often have to get her green sunglasses out the way. Or one's giant chunks o'hair.

The point is, if you want to print this out at Kinko's and get it wallet-size, feel free.

To a great girl I met in second hour. This class sucks! ha! ha! Good luck with the guys this summer and stay sweet. FF. June.

Usually I got "To a crazy girl," or my favorite, "To a weird girl." Yes, I realize the fact that I have an actual personality makes me weird. Go on wit' cher fascinating self.

Also, since we were going hiking this weekend, everyone insisted I get real shoes to walk in, seeing as I have the plantar fasciitis and it's getting worse. This cute old lady owned the shoe store downtown where we were, and she had on elastic-waist jeans with a permanent seam in them, and man did she know her shoe bidness.

I told her about the plantar fasciitis, because I have to tell everyone everything and welcome to my blog, and I was picking out some other shoes and she said, "NO!" I jumped like Edsel does.

"I will NOT let you get those, not with your plantar fasciitis." Then she got me the pair above, where I am transitioning from being a person in cute shoes to being a plantar fasciitis victim. "You put your foot right up here on my britches. I don't care." And I did. She tied them extra tight, and I've been wearing these shoes ever since.

The podiatrist told me I had to get athletic lesbian shoes and wear them constantly for awhile so my foot could heal; she told me that five months ago and I haven't done it because HI I LIKE CUTE SHOES AND MEN.

However, the other day, Ned said, "Yeah, but limping is not sexy." And I knew he had a point. I can't walk without limping anymore. So I wore these stupid shoes to work and I will again today. All those many mens I had on a string at work will lose interest.

In other news, pfft.

I guess I had better go pull on my elastic-waist jeans and head to fake work. I have more freelance tonight, but Ned and I are going to the old theater we like to see Casablanca at 7:30, so I have to NOT WATCH LONG ISLAND MEDIUM--which comes on Tuesdays at 6:00, just in case anyone cared or wanted to TiVO it for me or anything--and work instead.

Of all the elastic-waist jeans in all the world, you had to come into mine.

So to speak.

June, crudely out.

Pour some sugar on me

I felt a little headachy when I woke up today, AND THAT ANNOYS ME, since I'm, you know, desugaring and all. In fact, I may have to abort the eat-no-sugar plan for now.

I KNOW. But listen. After paying my delightful COBRA, and if you don't pay him he'll slither up and bite you. BAHAHAHAHAHAHAA. Anyway, after paying my COBRA and then paying H&R Block $391 to tell me I owe money in taxes, it turns out I'm tapped out. And I don't get another freelance check till the 29th. Which means I have to default to my poor-person grocery shopping. Eating the sugarless stuff is kind of expensive.

I don't know. I'll try my best to buy good groceries. I mean, I won't buy a 12-pack of Twinkies and call it poor-person food. But tons of vegetables and bags of pistachios are not going to happen this shopping trip. And bread WILL be included, as will pasta. And brown rice. I think I'm allowed to have small amounts of brown rice anyway.

Look. I've started the first three paragraphs of this with "I." Nice. Anyway, is there anyone cook-y out there who can think of what I can eat, cheap, that is sans sugar or bad-for-you carbohydrates?

The REASON I think I have a headache today is I made chicken breasts last night and I put garlic salt on them and I wonder if that has MSG. I looked at the container before I shook it all night long, but it said nothing, which lead me to tell myself, "Maybe all it has is garlic and salt!" Oh, the lies we tell ourselves. And just try Googling "Does garlic salt have MSG in it." You will find nothing helpful except hysterical people talking about how bad MSG is. I ALREADY KNOW THAT. THANK YOUUUUU, HYSTERICAL PERSONNNNNN.

I think the other reason I am headachy is because I did freelance work all night last night, and sometimes proofreading all day then proofreading at night can, you know, cause a headache. All this to say it's not an INTOLERABLE one, and I am likely to live, it's just irritating.

The other important thing I need to say is the other day, I dropped the lid of my deodorant into the toilet, which lead to me throwing that lid out, which then lead to the deodorant I had drying up and me needing to get new stuff. I was in the deodorant aisle at the store--and I adore it when people spell it "isle"--when this very pretty woman who was not Julia Roberts thank god came up and put some Secret in her cart, and it was one of the fancy scents, and could you please tell me when it was that Secret stopped just having the one scent in the light-blue roll-on bottle that my grandmother used till she took her last breath and started making every scent and color on the planet?

Why do we need 72 scents? "Oh, I need to smell like Ooo-laa-laa Lavender!" "Oh, not me. If I don't smell like a Serene Citrus, I'm toast."

The point is, I totally just copied the pretty girl, thinking if I use her deodorant scent I would magically get pretty too. And now I'm sitting here smelling like a red Life Saver and I want to kill myself. But looking pretty doing it!

Anyway, I have to go. I DO have to say somehow I LOOK better since being sugar-free. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror yesterday (I act like that was a total mistake. Like I'm not constantly in a mirror pecking at my own reflection like a parakeet) and I was all heyyyyy! What'chu doin' later? Like I wasn't just gonna be stuck with myself. "Well, I'll be with YOU, canary idiot."

Okay. So let me know, will ya? About what I can buy. If you're into that sort of healthy cheap groceries thing. If you're like me and the Chinese delivery guy knows your sign, maybe today would be the day to leave a "What a lovely post, June." comment. A "Gee, I wish I were pretty like you, June." comment. A "Nice budgie, June!" comment. You get the idea.

Don't doesn't.

What're you doing?" asked Ned, when he called last night.

"I'm boiling eggs."

"WOW!"

What's sad is that me boiling eggs is such an exciting and novel occasion. And also that I had to look up how to do it.

(You poke a teensy hole in the top, according to my How to Cook Everything book, then you spoon each egg gently into boiling water for 12-15 minutes, depending on how hard you like your yolk. I already carry a hard yoke of despair, so I like mine soft. When time is up, you PLUNGE the eggs in ice water for two minutes, so they're easier to peel. Refrigerate. You're welcome.)

(I am practically the Pioneer Woman, aren't I? Wait. Let me put up some stunning photography.)

You.are.welcome. 9,432 comments, please.

The REASON I was boiling eggs, and the media HAS been alerted, yes, is because my cousin Katie, of "Aunt Katie, are you a lesbian?" fame, has decided I need to cut sugar out of my diet to eliminate the headaches, nausea and rashes I have and I agree that I am one sexy individual.

I just think it's part of my hard yoke of despair, but my cousin, who is a nurse, says it's my diet. Which is fine. The other day I had a blueberry doughnut for lunch, and blueberries are really good for you. And when I change my hair color, the Chinese-food delivery guy notices. "There's my Edsel! Hey, you changed your hair!" was the exact quote.

You know, Chinese people live forever. Why, then, is Chinese FOOD supposed to be so bad for you? Hmmm? Can you answer me that? It's MY theory that sesame chicken--which I didn't know existed till Hulk told me to order it and now I am obsessed--is a super food.

So, Katie sent me this PDF of what I can and can't eat, and I can't reproduce it for you here because it's a page from a real book and I will be sued. But here are some of the Dos and Don'ts. I love it when people write "Do's" and "Don'ts." Oh, so the DO needs a fake apostrophe before the s, but don't doesn't. That was a lovely sentence.

I CAN have chicken, red meat, avocado, cottage cheese, almonds, pistachios, and one green apple a day, or one green-tipped banana a day.

I CAN'T have corn, peanuts, cashews, bagels, pizza, popcorn, soy sauce or gum. I mean, there go all my food groups.

For three weeks I do this, and then I guess it lightens up after and I can--wooo!--have other fruit. The point is not to lose weight, because you've seen the svelte pole that is June and I love how I act like I am just fine the way I am and someone has been a little too Free to be Me & Me her whole life, but rather to stop being so damn sugary. If you did an Xray of me, itd look like one of those sugar-egg diaramas.

God, I love those. It's like it's about to give BIRTH to, you know, more sugar.

So I'll let you know how it goes. If I give up by the end of today. If I'm in a parking  lot eating a mess of Marathon bars in my car. Do they even make Marathon bars anymore? Also, how is it I feel like this is one of those posts where I have asked for no advice, and yet somehow subliminally it reads, "Adviiiiiice! Joooon needs adviiiiice!"

She doesn't. But you can tell me YOUR experience if you want. And ask me how I get my photos just so.

June, out. Of sugar.

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.

I been throught the walkway with a cat with no name.

My throat hurts. Honestly, is there EVER a day where there isn't something wrong with me? What gives? If I'm not bleeding out my ears and seeing funny colors with a migraine, I break my ankle in 15 places and have to have pins in it and possibly a new fake Heather McCartney leg put in. If THAT'S not happening, I get swords in my throat and will never sing opera again.

I will also never sing Oprah again. Sometimes I just like to go around bellowing, "OPRAHHHHHHH!" in a warbly soprano voice.

No, I DIDN'T take hallucinogens today. What do you mean?

At any rate, I'm bugged. And Ned's throat doesn't hurt, which makes me think I have allergies, because if I'M getting a cold, you'd think Ned would be too, since we spent every second together all weekend, most of it making out.

I forgot to show you this. Sometimes, when we get back from somewhere, Ned's cat, NedKitty, likes to escape and run daringly along the catwalk in front of Ned's apartment.

She goes all the way over to the gay guy's place, and she can't go any further because there's a door there. God help that cat if anyone ever came through that door while she's being Adventure Kitty. She'd jump out her fur. Also, note how the gay guy has plants and birds and rocks and things outside his door, making it all welcome-y and pretty. Ned has precisely nothing outside his door. Except a big "Welcome, Ladieeeeees!" sign with that naked woman silhouette that truckers have on their mud flaps.

She's finally returning from her daring exploration, here, and Ned is three seconds from having to explain why there's no fatted calf. I resented the part where NedKitty looked at me a little hungrily.

I like how inexplicably Ned's cat has to have a blog name instead of just her real name. Have no idea how I started doing that, but now it's a thing.

I can't remember what I really came on here to blog about. Whatever it was, I'm sure it mattered in the grand scheme of things. I guess I'm delirious from this horrific sore throat. Didn't I just get OVER a cold? Maybe I never mentioned it, last time I had a cold. It wouldn't be like me to mention it when I'm under the weather. I generally suffer in silence.

That pretty much sums up my life as it stands currently, although I am spending an inordinate amount of time wondering if I have any sinkholes, because ugh. I mean, that's just not fair. All you're doing is lying in your BED and you get sucked into the earth. Which is what's going to happen to me anyway if my throat doesn't recover. You'll all be, Gee, we just thought she was being annoying on her blog. Who knew this sore throat would actually kill her? Who'll be sorry then? You. You will.

June, out. And P.S., as it stands currently, I'm still going to be performing at my concert/yodel marathon this weekend. So don't look for a refund on your tickets yet.

The first person to leave a "What concert?!" comment gets stuck in a kissing booth with me for the next 10 minutes.

In which a reader discovers TinaDoris is a made-up name

I spent most of yesterday in bed, and not in a good way. The pain of my migraine was gone by 11:00-ish, but dear god in heaven I could not keep my eyes open after that. A migraine makes you exhausted after. I don't know why. I know this may be a news flash but I do not have an MD. At any rate, spent several hours in that dead, oblivious, toddler kind of sleep, where I twitched in my onesie and had a sweaty head after while I listlessly grabbed my sippy cup.

At one point, I dragged myself up and went to the post office to mail a certified letter to Poland, so I can FINALLY get paid by that place I freelanced for IN OCTOBER. So far that job I did has cost me $100 and I've made nothing. I had to send $85 to our government to request this certificate proving I'm from here, and have they seen my fashion sense and loud personality? Of course I'm from here.

And could that have been more of a nightmarish experience? They kept requesting MORE info, like I was lying, and every time I tried to fax them the info, because apparently our government is partying like it's 1989, the faxes wouldn't work, and just try CALLING A GOVERNMENT OFFICE and actually getting anyone.

Anyway, they finally believed I am American, thanks to passing an ethnocentric quiz where I proved I have no knowledge of any geography that isn't United States' geography, and sent me the damn certificaate, which I had to mail, certified, to Poland. Because the LAST thing I mailed to Poland never got there.

Aren't you glad I launched into this story? Fascinating, is what it is.

I also slothed over to Target, where I tiredly refilled my migraine meds, and I'm still paying my deductible, so $331 later I left the store and killed myself. I just got that medication 20 days ago and had to refill it again.

So my mood was sparkling when I got home and fell into another toddler nap. Maybe I was just cranky because I needed a nap. And a few Cheerios spread on my high chair tray.

By the way, that'll be the end of the toddler jokes, since I know no more toddler behavior. We've tapped the bulk of my toddler experience, right there. I think you should be impressed that I was able to observe a person and label them "toddler" and not a human between the ages of 18 months to 11 years.

Once the evening rolled around, I got out of bed again and went to pet therapy. Edsel's having father issues.

In fact, I did not take any pet to any therapy, although god knows we could all use it here in this house of hair and pain. What happened was, a few months ago I was shopping, and the person next to me in line said, "June?" and as always, since the first time that happened to me, I said, "Yes?" as though that were my real name, and what's creepy about that other than everything.

At any rate, we got to talking and the "June?" person invited me to accompany her to pet therapy, where she takes a few dogs to an old folks' home, and "old folks' home" is probably politically incorrect. Once we were there we had eskimo pies and played the jew's harp.

She invited Tallulah and Edsel, which would have been delightful. Only four hips broken this time when my dogs jumped on the elderly! Not a bad month!

So, armed with coffee at 6:00 in the afternoon, I went to pet therapy, where I met Rosie and Riley, and you will be stunned to hear I took to them. I had to elbow so many old people out of my way to pet them. GOD. Pushy.

I also met a man who'd grown up in Michigan and lived in Seattle. We were the same person, other than the part where he was 91 and male. And I met an old black guy who'd worked at the Plaza in New York and met King Hussein and Eartha Kitt. I don't think they were checking in together, but let's start a rumor that they were.

So I liked it. I liked pet therapy. The woman who invited me, who is a faithful reader, stopped short when I said something about Marvin. "Who?" she asked. "My ex-husband. Marvin." I said. "Oh, it sounded like you said another name." "I did," I told her. "I used his real name."

"Marvin's real name isn't Marvin? Don't tell me Ned isn't really Ned," she said. "He LOOKS like such a Ned!" She was stunned to hear Ned isn't Ned, and then I asked her, "Did you really think I had a friend named TinaDoris? I mean, did her parent hate her?"

"I always thought that was an unfortunate name," she said. Then she worried that my pets had fake names, too, which they do not. So anyway, in case there's anyone out there thinking my friends' names are real, they are not. They are changed to protect heaven knows what.

I guess that sums up my day, except at the very end of it, Ned, whose name is not really Ned, came over after a fancy work dinner to check on the state of my migraine and visit me in general. I like Ned. Whose name isn't really Ned.

God, doesn't a nap sound wonderful?

Say, did I mention I feel under the weather?

Officially calling in sick to own blog today. Feel dreadful.

Since I can't work up the energy to write, I say we make today Unsolicited Advice Day. You know how I write stuff? About my life? And don't ask for any advice? Yet I GET it all the time? And sometimes I'll reply to your comment with something sort of snide like, "Oh, look. Unsolicited advice. Yay!"

Today, since I am sick and weak and vulnerable, go ahead. What help do you want to give me? Have you held back up till now? Is there a way you want to fix my life and just haven't told me?

Hair assistance? Cold advice? Career (or lack thereof) guidance? Dog tips? Hey-June-have-you-tried-Excedrin-for-Migraine advice?

Go ahead. Lay it on me.

Say! You know what'll screw you up? Prednisone.

I slept for three hours last night. BUT I'M 20 PAGES AHEAD ON MY FREELANCE WORK!!!!

Oy.

Saw Ned last night, to try to make up for lost time over this past weekend. I brought him some of my chili, which he said was good and then he did the thing he always does which is eat too much then spend the rest of the night saying he ate too much.

The point is, when I got there he had a riveting sporting event on, which is new and different for Ned. The good news is it ended quickly, and Ned said, "What channel is Bravo?" And then? For the first time all season? I got to watch an episode of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills!!

They were all fighting in a Moroccan restaurant. And Ned emphasized to me that he will never build me a pink swing. To which I say hmph.

The first person to tell me they don't watch the real housewives of anything gets hit with Ned's giant TV.

After that, we flipped around, and over in his high-number channels we saw that Lesbian Vag Eat Out was coming on soon. "Oh, I LOVE that movie!" I said. I mean, could they even TRY to come up with a more clever title than that? Do you think it's about some lesbian named Vag who tries different restaurants?

Lesbian Vag Eat Out. Good gravy.

I should go. Cause have personality of sloth and need to curl up in a tree or alternatively go to work. Just took my next dose so JUNE'S PERSONALITY ON PREDNISONE will probably rear its head soon. Also, when I was at Ned's last night, he got out HIS Prednisone, because we are nothing but fun, and we were discussing how we take it.

"I take all six at once," said Ned. "Five," I said.

"No. Doesn't yours come in a whole strip with six tablets per strip?"

"Yeah. I didn't understand why that was."

Ned read the back of the strip of pills. "Take two at breakfast, one at lunch and supper, and two at bedtime."

"NO!" I said. I thought you just took one at lunch and then two at bedtime. I've been taking five pills all these days. So what's scary? Is I'm not even on the prescribed dose and I am this berserk.

"Aren't you some kind of editor or something?" asked snooty Ned who I never liked in the first place. "Isn't, you know, READING CAREFULLY what you do?"

He's lucky I was on a post-Real-Housewives high. But I could fly into 'roid rage at any second. Ned should watch.his.step.

Anyway I decided to just keep taking five today instead of ramping up to six. Tomorrow I start to taper off, anyway.

Did I say oy? Did I say how yesterday at work I got stuff done that wasn't due till tonight? And how at lunch I did freelance work the whole hour then did two more hours of it after work? Did I mention when Ned called to say he'd finished his workout and let's get together I was already showered and dressed and in full makeup with his chili ready in a Tupperware container with a little side dish of sour cream sitting there, too, and approximately four seconds after we hung up I was at his door? I feel like Prednisone June might be annoying intense June.

Lord, I love this stuff.

Ima go, but why don't you entertain me today. Tell me the first five songs that pop up on your iTunes when you go look right now. I love hearing what everyone else is listening to, and sometimes when you do that I steal your songs.

Right now when I click on iTunes, the first five songs are:

Fake Plastic Trees by Radiohead (oh, I LOVE that song)

Got to be Real by Cheryl Lynn (hello, '70s. Who am I, Bianca Jagger?)

Here Comes the Sun by Richie Havens (left over from the end-of-year video I did)

The Blower's Daughter by Damien Rice (joke from Hulk coming soon)

Talkin' Like an Angel by my friend Beth Thornley

Okay, go.

In which June burns up and hits the 'roids. Chatty description to follow. HI, EVERYONE! I'M ON 'ROIDS!!!

I just took my first dose of Prednisone and I'm sitting here waiting to bloat up like a tick. I expect I'll have big moon Jerry Lewis face by next week, right?

On Friday--

That reminds me of a story. Who is your most annoying friend? Is it old June, here? But it does. When Marvin and I lived in TinyTown, every Sunday his principal would call with this recorded message for him and for the students and parents and so on. Since pretty much everyone in the world has kids, I guess you are familiar with this.

Anyway, the principal was a wonderful woman, with advanced degrees, but she'd say, "On Tuesday, it's class picture day. And don't forget, on tomorrow, show your school spirit with..."

She'd always say that. "On tomorrow." I think it's a Southern thing.

Now you're wondering how you can show your school spirit, aren't you? I just FAILED to finish that thought. When I ran my marathon, they had a big party for all of us that evening. Stupidly, they had it at this place where you had to walk up all these steps to get there, and Marvin heartily enjoyed watching people go up sideways like crabs. I have no idea why I keep bringing up Marvin today. The point is, this guy had run the race, and he said, "Oh! It was so wonderful to get back to my hotel room after. I took the second-most relaxing shower of my life."

You guys. That was THIRTEEN YEARS AGO, and I am STILL haunted by that. Why didn't I ask him what the MOST refreshing shower was? Because WHAT COULD BE MORE refreshing than a shower after you've run 26.2 miles?

You know what I also enjoyed? I'd tell people "I'm training for a marathon" and they'd say, "How far you gonna run?"

Sigh.

I really wish I knew you all back then, cause that was some good blogging, there, the marathon training.

OH MY GOD, AS I WAS SAYING. On Friday, I schlepped over to Raleigh to see Ned, who is stuck all weekend at a class. The class was in a hotel, so I joined him there after the first day WHICH ENDED AT NINE P.M. Still incensed about how long they make him sit there. Incensed. Put me in a gold dome you bought at the drug store and light me. I am incensed.

Is the Prednisone making me chatty, you think?

OH, it was good to see Ned. You should have seen us. Total Ashley comes back from the war moment, and every single one of you is all, "Is she .EVER. going to get another example of a passionate homecoming? Ever? Are we stuck with Melanie and Ashley for the rest of TIME?"

Answer: Yes.

After we deloused his clothes and sang Dixie, we went out to eat and the moment we walked in, someone knew Ned. He was a bartender in Raleigh for 5595930303 years in college and after, so not only did he bang everyone female, he also got to know many drunk men. Who as far as I know he abstained from banging. But I just recently put the kibosh on "people we've banged" stories cause they were starting to bother me, and maybe we hadn't yet alighted on Ned's experimental years.

Do you do that with your person? Do you tell all your stories or do you leave 'em out? At first I wanted to know just everything about Ned, then I got attached. And now I'd like to think I was his first kiss. At 47. Which would not at all be sad.

Okay, if this is what I'm like on DOSE ONE, you're in for a rocky 12 days. Adrian.

So we had a good time, Ned and I did, and he even got a burrito instead of a salad, given that HIS LAST FOOD BREAK HAD BEEN AT NOON that day.

Incensed. Changing name to Nag Champa.

So everything was wonderful, and oh I adore me the Ned, till I woke up the next day.

Migraine.

Son of a BITCH. And I'll tell you what. This is not the first time he's done this: Ned has some kind of sixth sense about when things are wrong, because my head had not hurt for DAYS, but he was getting ready for his class and he said, "How's your head?" Maybe I had a big flashing red arrow pointing at my temple or something. It FEELS like that, I can assure you.

"Not good," I told him. The plan had been I'd get up and get out of there. I had to come here, get the dogs, clean the damn house for book club, make chili and get my roots done at 2:45, then come home and do my freelance work. Instead? I lay in that bed with ice in a towel until 1:00.

Ned would return to the room on his breaks and there I'd still be. You KNOW he was wondering when that ball of hair and ice was gonna be gone. MAID SERVICE!

I literally rolled out of bed, put on the clothes I'd worn the night before, and minced to Greensboro for my hair appointment. Nothing but death could keep me from covering these roots. Because did I mention my first batch of meds didn't work? And all I had on me was a DIFFERENT kind of migraine med, and they warn you you will DIE a million DEATHS if you combine prescriptions?

I mean, the incense would be snuffed.

So I get downtown to my appointment, and I'm parallel parking, holding up traffic and so on, and when I get a spot I get out of my car to make sure I'm in the lines of my spot. As soon as I open my car door, there is a CACOPHONY of noise.

"Thou art on the lines!" "Behold, maiden! You will get a ticket!" "Movest thou car!"

Up on the second floor of a building, on the balcony, were these IDOTS, dressed in RENAISSANCE garb, directing my parking.

See.

I hate the theater more than life itself, and the REASON I hate the theater is because I FUCKING HATE THEATER PEOPLE. Now, I go to plays and I even have FRIENDS who participate in the theater, but you know what? They are not the "BEHOLD, MAIDEN!" type.

Behold, maiden. Hold this.

Whenever I complain about how much I abhor dramatic theater people, Ned kind of smirks like there's something he WANTS to say but isn't GOING to say. I cannot imagine what.

They were still up there after my hair appointment. What I wouldn't have given for a power hose filled with lava.

So now I have to go do the cleaning I didn't get to yesterday. I already made the chili using one of the recipes you guys sent, so thank you for that. And I got Fritos like you told me to! I may have...sampled them to ensure they were good. Did you know Fritos have no MSG? I already knew that. Am caught up on safe junk food.

Okay, so maybe talk to you 57 more times today, as the JUNE! ON! PREDNISONE! seems to have turned on my box o'chatter. And Hulk makes a box joke in 3....2....1...