Bye Bye, Pie!

Dark, brooding, intense--sign me up!

It is, oddly, rather slow here today at my temporary workplace and as a result I was able to go to lunch and everything, like a normal person. Oh, and I know what I said yesterday about this place being an Everlasting Gobstopper, but guess what.

Guess.

Today they have asked me to stay another week. At this point I am slated to be here till 2015.

Anyway, I got to have lunch with a friend of mine, and we ended up on a fascinating topic. The intense, brooding, damaged man. Why do we love him?

In high school, I went back and forth between two boys: Cardinal--who I have talked about before--and Giovanni Leftwich, who I have also talked about before, and really what haven't I talked about, seeing as I have had this blog since God wore a onesie.

Oh, and before I drone on about men, can I ask for everyone to just take a moment and wish me well, whether that be through prayer, kind thoughts, good vibes or what have you? Because (you may want to sit down) I got a gel manicure yesterday and one of the nails did not cure correctly and it dried--

--seriously, brace yourself--

to a dull finish. Do you want pictures? I can provide them. Or is that too graphic? Okay, hang on.

I just had to take a picture with my cell phone, email it to myself, access the email on my work computer, open it in Photoshop and then upload it here. The things I DO for you people. But see the one nail, there? How dreadfully dull?

I know.

This means I will be forced to return to the manicurist and have her fix it. Oh, the tribulations I endure.

Anyway, back to men. Speaking of tribulations. So in high school, I vacillated between these men, and Cardinal was all fun-loving and a laugh a minute and so on, but guess who I loved. LOVED. Giovanni, who was intense and damaged and brooding. And I went on to love him for many of my so-called adult years, too.

The friend I had lunch with has a similar story. She isn't much younger than me, and yes, we DID use our senior citizens' discounts, Shecky Greene. But way back in high school she loved a (yes) brooding intense damaged man, and although years have passed and they have supposedly moved on, she still carries a torch, and when she hears from him it's all, oooh! I.B.D. man!

Why. Why do we love them? Because the more she described this man, the more I was all, oh! Yes! I would have loved him, too. With his dark hair and his glasses and his moods and his brilliance and his romantic gestures and his despondency.

How many of you are reading that and similarly saying, Oh, he sounds good.

WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH US?

Why are we not drawn to fun-loving secure healthy men? I mean, doesn't that sound more, I don't know, rewarding? And I know some of you are. When I lived in Seattle, my friend Pam and I would walk around Greenlake, and she would be drawn to the healthy athletic men running past or or rollerblading or some other stupid activity that's good for you, whereas I would be staring at the men wearing all black, sitting under a tree torturedly writing poetry.

And by the way, ...friend is not tortured and damaged. In fact I tried to tell him about this lunch and he wrote back with, "Should I be brooding now?" Then he tried to complain heartily about his life and I was all, yeah. Bob Geldoff in the Pink Floyd movie you are not.

So I must be getting better about it. But still. You show me Harold from Harold & Maude, or Andrew McCarthy's character in St. Elmo's Fire, or Vincent Van Gogh or Sid Vicious or Kurt Cobain and oh! I am all about them.

You feeling me?

In which ...friend is woefully straight

I forgot to tell you something about my weekend. I KNOW. How many more ding-dang things are there to TELL about a 48-hour span?

On Friday night (and I know you're worried Ima say "Friday" 600 times like I did on my last post), when ...friend and I went to First Friday (I said it again) festivities, we were wandering around downtown, and he said, "You wanna go in the midcentury modern furniture store and look at your good-looking man?"

See.

Why I gotta tell everybody everything? Like, I don't even KNOW when I spilled the beans to ...friend about the spectacular man at that store, but it was probably at some point when I first met him, and he said, "I live downtown" and I probably said, "Oh, do you know the spectacular-looking man who owns the midcentury modern furniture store?"

Because I have no STOP button, is why. Do Undo. No Escape key. And other stupid computery examples of how I never shut up.

My POINT is, I said, "Oh, no. Let's not."

"Oh, come on," said ...friend, who does not appear to be threatened by anything. As we headed there, I said, "You know, I've blogged about the Midcentury Modern Furniture Man a couple times, and I always worry that somehow he KNOWS that, and when he sees me he's scared to death."

"I think he'll see me and feel sorry for me," said ...friend. "Midcentury Guy is looking at me and thinking, 'Look at that poor sap. Little does he know I could just snap my fingers and that woman would come away with me.'"

...friend doesn't read my blog, so Ima just tell you something in confidence. At this point, if Barry effing Gibb called me, I'd say, "You know? I'm kinda into this ...friend guy at the moment. Maybe some other time, Barry Gibb."

I KNOW.

Anyway, we were about half a block away when I noticed Midcentury Guy leaning against his store. "THEREHEISTHEREHEIS!" I screeched in a whisper, grabbing ...friend's arm in what I'm sure was a not-annoying way.

"Really?" said ...friend, after I gave the most fake-casual hello and walked into the furniture store. "THAT'S Spectacular-Looking Midcentury Furniture Store Guy? He just looks like a normal person to me."

....!

This is why I need to be dating gay men. There is NO WAY Midcentury Guy is anywhere NEAR average. In any universe. Ever.

A normal person. For heaven's sake. I never heard anything so wrong in my life. And anyway, my fun was ruined, because every time Midcentury Guy was near us at the store, I knew ...friend was watching me with mockingness, and mockingness is in fact one of the first words ever created in our Mother Tongue and it is a lovely word, and anyway it took all the wonderful clandestine pervyness out of the whole thing.

So that's all I have to tell you about that.

June. Getting her stalking ruined since 2012.

...friend. Being straight and not knowing from hot men since, well, since probably forever. But at least since Friday, which please note I just got to say again.

My riveting weekend. Written by June Gardens. Spent with June Gardens. Because I'm stuck here inside my own self. Which is often mortifying.

I had a busy weekend.

The end.

Wouldn't that be irritating? If I just said that and hit "post"? I think of all kinds of ways to irritate y'all and then I just go ahead and be my regular self and irritate you anyway.

On Friday, I had to tell my temporary workplace "I need to leave on time today," which is sort of sad, that one has to do that, but that place is SO BUSY. Unsure if I've emphasized that enough. They are way busier than when I was a real employee. Which, you know, good for them. Good for the economy. Yay.

But I had stuff to do.

I was getting up with Dick Whitman, and the woman he has been seeing, and ...friend. We went to an opening of an exhibit, because Dick and his Whit is a fancy artist type, man.

And yes. He DID wear his orange polka-dotted shirt again. I know y'all missed it.

Oddly, we all met at the very restaurant where DW and I had our first date way back a year ago when I had no idea we would end up repulsed by each other and just be friends instead.

I got there first, so I ordered a cranberry and soda (June. Hittin' it hard since 2012.) and took a picture of the area where DW and I had that nervous date.

See right there? Where no one is sitting? That's where we were. They don't allow anyone to sit there in honor of that auspicious occasion. Why is everyone sitting alone and looking down? What is this, the Pink Floyd Bar and Depressing Grille?

Finally, everyone in my party showed up and I took a blurry photo of ...friend's salad. I wish I could make you understand how many effing salads ...friend eats. "I just got back from lunch." "Oh, let me guess! What'd you have?" Seriously. I don't know how he isn't sick and tired of greens.

That said? ...Friend looks really good. So I guess there are rewards to this kind of thing. I had an ahi tuna wrap. The wrap said, "Taaaaake on meeee (take on me!), taaaake me onnnn!"

I guess that'd be an a-ha tuna wrap. Anyway, I chose red and blue tortilla chips over fruit. See above re ...friend's eating habits and how he looks good. Betty Draper called. Wonders if she can borrow my muumuus.

Anyway, the exhibit was cool and everything ...friend and I liked, DW and his date hated. Did you ever see Manhattan?

On Saturday, I went to a Murder Mystery Party at Marty Martin's girlfriend Kaye's house.

All my pictures turned out (wait for it) blurry, and I emailed Kaye to thank her for the fun time and said, "Send me your photos for my blog" and she never did, so now you get blurry pictures and THANKS, KAYE. Thanks for RUINING MY BLOG.

Here is blurry Kaye making duck face, which I just accidentally typed "dick face" and cracked myself up cause I am in 7th grade. Anyway, she was kind of the femme fatale character.

Oh and please note I got this invite a month ago, kind of noted the date of the party, then FAILED to read the detailed invite till three hours before the bash. I had to go scrounge up a fortune-teller costume (I used my sari and my Hello Kitty 8-Ball).

So here we are, reading clues which lead us to the murder, and GUESS WHAT?

I was the one murdered.

I.AM.SO.SURE.

Blurry Marty Martin, who was a mummy, had to use my pink reading glasses to read his clues. He and another friend who was there, J-9, both said, "Oh we have to read? We can't see a THING with our contacts!" I was all, "Do you have reading glasses?" And it was like a miracle. Neither one had even thought of trying reading glasses before this and they were both, "I CAN SEE!"

And crap. Now it's 8:34 and I didn't even get to Sunday but trust me. Movie and brunch with ...friend. Book club with Faithful Reader LaUral.

Look how cute we are, other than my acne blemish. Hello, 46. Really? Wrinkles AND acne blemish? Thanks. And I got those earrings when I was out Friday night. Pretty, aren't they? They set off the blemish to perfection.

Anyway, I had much to say about Sunday but I will be fired if I don't get off the computer and get to work but OH! Mad Men! Poor Sally! Peggy is shacking up! Dr. Laura'd be PISSED. Joan got her figure back! I kind of like Megan.

Discuss.

TBG

I debated telling this story because I didn't want to offend, but at this point I am so obsessed with knowing the answer that Ima tell you.

Back in the '90s, when I weighed 20 pounds less--oh, wait. Let me go weigh myself. I keep losing weight on my Tracy Gold DVD. ...No, crap. Not today.

So back in the '90s when I weighed 20 pounds less and I wore clunky-heeled black boots like they were cute and not all Israeli-looking soldier-ish, not to mention that brown matte lipstick that made me look like I was constantly just finishing a Fudgcicle--

Wait. Why Israeli soldier? All soldiers wear big black boots. Right?

--and baby-doll dresses even though I was pushing 30, oh! And MaryJanes. Which I still like and would try to get away with wearing if they didn't make me look like I was playing hooky from my job at the pottery studio and stampeding for Lillith Fair,

back then. Back then, I had a boyfriend. Which does not narrow it down because I always had a boyfriend. In fact, this year may be the first boyfriendless year I have had since I was 16. No, it IS the first boyfriendless year I have had since I was 16. I will grant you I have dated 2,000 people this year, but I have yet to have the actual this-is-the-person-I-am-dating-and-no-one-else thing.

Okay, Daniel Boone and I said that for, what? Four days? Till it went terribly wrong. So that doesn't count.

Oh my God, I could not be taking longer to get to my story.

It was the '90s. I was living in Seattle. Because that's what you did in the '90s. And I was dating this tattooed, dyed-black-hair Republican who drank and smoked and had guns. I know. Trust me, though, he was kind of cool and we are still friends. The way we met was I saw him at this club that had a sign out front: "We are not responsible for any injuries incurred in the mosh pit."

Anyway I thought he was hot so I ripped the label off my Heineken, wrote my phone number on the back, handed it to him and left. Of course he called the next day. What boy wouldn't after a trampy move like that?

We dated for a couple years, and he lived in a really fancy apartment complex in the middle of a racially mixed neighborhood. Once on the way to the bus stop I complained that he had zero Starbucks nearby and how was this Seattle without a Starbucks?

"Black people don't drink coffee," he said.

Honestly I think that was the dumbest thing I ever heard in my life. What the hell?

So here it is, 20 years and pounds later, and I was in a Starbucks the other day. I was buying coffee beans, because they give you a free coffee when you buy their beans. I know! Score! "You can get whatever you want," the barista said conspiratorially to me, when all I wanted was a black drip coffee. "No, that's...what I get here. Black drip. Thanks."

I never know how to milk the system. Latte the system.

Anyway, while I waited for my complex order, a man of color walked in. An African American. How many other politically correct ways can I say this? Naturally I thought immediately of D., my ex-boyfriend, because someone says something that asinine to you you recall it for the rest of time.

I was just thinking of Facebooking my ex when the patron of color said, "Yeah. Get me a Tall Black Guy."

A what?

I swear to you he ordered a Tall Black Guy. And I know that can't be a drink. Right? I mean, it's not on the menu. I actually looked. My order was ready, but I hung around, because I needed to hear the barista say it again. And she did.

"Tall Black Guy, your order is ready."

Okay, he actually was kind of tall. Did he come in all the time and have a signature drink? Did I hear it wrong from both of them? If I did, WHAT COULD IT BE? What did he order? My Aunt Mary and I sat on the phone and discussed this like it was interesting for many minutes last night.

"Maybe he said Tall Black Ice?" I said. "Or Tall Black Chai," Aunt Mary offered.

She paused.

"Then of course he really wouldn't be drinking coffee," she pointed out.

Oh, dear.

So honestly. Have you ever had a Tall Black Guy in your life? So to speak. Is there such a thing? Am I having audial hallucinations now? Oh, help.

My Little Pony

Last year about this time, this woman emailed me and said, "My husband and I read your blog. We are not crazy. (People are forever telling me they aren't crazy, as if crazy would somehow bother me.) We live on a farm near you and have baby geese. If you'd ever like to see them, you are most welcome."

I was pretty much there by the end of the day, and I told them I didn't care if they were murderers, as long as I got to see the baby geese before they killed me up.

Those nonmurderers are now my friends Chris and Lily, of Ant Chris and Unkle Lilly fame. And sadly for them, their horse had a baby this spring.

You think I haunted them LAST year.

For months they have been torturing me. "Soon Rose will have her baby." "When the baby horse is born..." "After we get our baby horse..."

WILL YA CUT IT OUT AND JUST PRESENT ME WITH TEENY BABY ITSY SMALL PUMPKIN-HEADED HORSIE, ALREADY?

So yesterday they FINALLY let me come see him.

And as usual, I obsessed over all the other cute things they have there.

This was literally a hot chick. It was under some lights.

But oh.

BABY HORSIE!

It's just so ridiculous.

A few times he just TOOK OFF, running with his long legses and scaring the guinea hens half to death. Guinea hens are cranky.

Anyway, in case it was a mystery to you, I did end up loving baby horse. I know! It's not like me.

horsie scare of girl and her hurr.

I really thought my hair was cuter than that yesterday. Then Ant Chris sent me photos and I was all, ACCKCKK!

Who needs to stop calling him Ant Chris, do you think?

Anyway. So that is the story on baby horse. He is cute. The end. And I totally April Fooled my Aunt Kathy today and for a second even fooled my mother. I called her at home and my stepfather said, "She's not here, and you know, I didn't even warn her about you this year."

To the warners in my life. COULD YOU CUT IT OUT? Let me have my ONE DAY. This is my holiday. Geez.

Ooo, who can I call to say I adopted a baby horse??

BIRTH ANNOUNCEMENT!

Tiny baby horsie is here!!!!!!

Guess who is being dignified about the whole thing? Is it me?

June likes cats. Story at 11.

I had photos to show you today, of ...friend's cat, who is cute and who hates me. Which of course has nothing to do with the way I stampeded in and said, "HI KITTY! I LOOOOOVE YOU, KITTY! COME SEE ME!" Which by the way is the ultimate technique to win over a cat. I am like Edsel. I cannot even pretend to be cool.

However, when I plugged my trusty iPhone into my trusty iComputer, my photos would not sync. Or sink. Instead they psyched. This resulted in me calling Apple Care, and there's a job I'd be good at. "How the hell should I know what's wrong with your dumb computer? Just punch it."

The point is, as we speak I am downloading or uploading or totin' the weary load and in an hour Apple Care is going to call me to see if we fixed my load. I know! Fancy. I wonder if Apple Care is in any way related to Gwynneth Paltrow's child? Apple Paltrow or whoever.

Oh, but I forgot I had this! Here is a lovely photo of ...friend's cat that he sent me ages ago. His cat likes to put bags on her head, I am not making that up, then walk around for awhile, take off the bag and see where she ended up. You can see how I was unable to be cool around such a creature. I LOVE YOU, KITTYYYYY!

Speaking of my lack of, you know, indifference to the animal kingdom, baby horsie is still unborn. Whiskey Tango Foxtrox? Does this horse not understand my needs? I need to see new baby horsie pony baby.

Anyway, I must go because I have 495959494 pages to edit. Oh! But guess what? In case you are keeping a record, my doctor quit again! AGAIN! This makes at least five I could name off the top of my head, plus the one who killed himself, plus the one who just up and died from being old--Dr. Sherwood B. Fyne.

I give up. Clearly next time I get ill Ima have to go to Granny on The Beverly Hillbillies and have her make me up a poultice.

Okay, really going now. Seriously. I have to read the world now. THE WORLD! If you own something with words on it, I have to correct it. Just hand it over to me now. Gotta get my fly eyes on so I can read eight things at once. I would say more dramatic things re this but I cannot think of any.

Will chat at you tomorrow. Ooo, should we do Pieces of Wisdom tomorrow? What shall we discuss?

Melons. Cans. Pointer Sisters. Globes. Hi, Hulk.

In case you were worried sick, I got my work done about .009 seconds ago and now I can blog at my leisure.

Yesterday I said I had a lot to cover, so to speak, and I wondered if I had forgotten anything. I had. I totally forgot to tell you about my bosoms. I know!

Recently I read an article in a magazine about finding the right bra, because I am only interested in the hard-hitting news of our time. One thing it said is if you see a woman with back fat, it means her bra is too LOOSE, not too tight. This was completely shocking information for me. You could have knocked me over with a girdle. Perhaps that's been Victoria's Secret all along.

And of course, the article said most women wear the wrong bra size, which I have heard eleventy million times before. But then I became vaguely obsessed. Was I wearing the right size? WAS I?

???!

You know how I get. I was concerned. So I found a site that would keep me abreast of my sitch in the bra department. They hooked me up. Their support can be beautiful.

And according to the site (and the first person to ask "What's the site, June?" when I JUST LINKED TO IT gets slapped with my howitzers), instead of the 36C I always thought I was, I am a

(wait for it)

(get ready)

(get ready to rumbllllllle!)

32DDD.

I don't know if I've ever been so happy in all my days. A 32DDD?! That's FABULOUS! I was uplifted by the news.

Naturally I got right on the phone to text Hulk, who is my most concerned friend re this matter. My twin towers have always been a subject of interest to him.

"How does sizing work?" asked Hulk, who wanted to be supportive. "Is 32 smaller than 36? Is DDD wider than C?"

Wider. He got mad at me for texting back, "Oh, honey."

Anyway, I am just saying. It's exciting to me. Although technically I am this gargantuan size because I am phat phat phat. One "D" for every phat, as Marvin pointed out when I similarly texted him this info. I also told Tall Boy. And ...friend. I may even have told Dick Whitman. It's all a blur of me tooting my own hoots.

So that's my good news! Now I have to go find a DDD bra. And guess who is going to use a megaphone to ask the saleslady from across the room?

Talu surveys, Lily hates and June goes to the bar

I put the cats' food on top of Edsel's crate, which obviously Edsel doesn't use anymore and which reader is it who is obsessed with me putting Edsel in a crate? I can't remember. But one of you is always all, "If you crate him, June, he'd be so much better."

That is neither here nor there. The point is, I just watched Iris jump at it, in order to climb to the top to eat her breakfast, and she hovered like a hummingbird in front of it because she missed. 

Poor Iris. Her blind thing, which I just mistyped "bling thing," is not that noticeable other than that whole pesky depth perception issue.

Speaking of bling, guess who got a new collar and is irritated.

I took this photo last night and it was kind of dark. I was having a romantic evening with myself. Let me go take another photo in the light of day. GOD. The things y'all make me do.

mom, i heer what you type about iris. iris NOT BLIND. just...resting eye for ...12 to 15 year.

Lily abhor mom.

LOOK HOW CUTE! Lily haves a flowerrrrrr!

Oh, she is so completely over me. But I saw it at PetSmart, where I was, shockingly, purchasing pet supplies. You'd think by now I'd know everyone's schedule there and so on.

There was one woman there with her kid, and all three of us came upon a Basset hound at the same time. "What kind of dog is that?" the mom asked. Really? Because it's not like Bassets look a lot like anyone else. It's not like you could say is that an Australian shepherd or a Border collie. Seriously? Then the guy who owned said Basset said, "This is Bud." Okay, everyone's a moron. "But what KIND of dog?" she wanted to know. About the one foot tall and eight feet long dog with ears drooping to the ground. I mean, SERIOUSLY?

Later, I was headed to the cash register where they so eagerly take all my meager savings (like I have savings) and there was that same think tank over at the aquariums. "Mom! What is this? What is it?" The kid was crouched down, staring into the glass, right next to a sign that read CHINCHILLAS.

"I don't know. I don't rightly know what that is, Markus."

You know, that woman probably has a job, and I don't.

But speaking of that, if you didn't read my comments yesterday, I did get a call from the agency who set up my Valentine's Day interview. He wanted me to know they interviewed a ton of people for the job and have narrowed it to four finalists and I am one of the four. The fab four.

Oh you just KNOW they'll give it to some chippy who knows how to spell "embarrassed."

Remember how my friend TinaDoris gave me an employment candle? I lit it, and the next day they called me for this interview. Then I forgot about it till day before yesterday, when I lit the candle again (when I say "I forgot about it" I do not mean it was burning like Kennedy's eternal flame all this time. Because, safe) (and you know the firemen won't come back here after that last debacle) and I heard from them again. Am so lighting it right now.

After I got that call yesterday, I was so keyed up that I stampeded for the bar.

Okay, the yogurt bar. But still. I got Tahitian vanilla (because it sounds more exciting than normal vanilla) and dark chocolate. Then I topped it with strawberries and blueberries. It was effing delish.

Is frozen yogurt bad for you? It is, right? Crap.

Note the sun screaming in on my yogurt like I was on Mercury or something. It was beautiful out yesterday. Sunny and 73. You know what I say. For every Confederate flag you see here, you gotta remember the weather. It almost balances it out.

I took my proofreading outside yesterday and tried to think about Vitamin D and not skin cancer. Because I am a delightful, fun person. I love it when Talu sits on the deck and surveys her domain.

It was nice enough that I got to wear my new flipflops that Pal From MA got me at Christmas. It was the first time I got to sport them and show off for the hyacinth. I looked so fancy I turned that flower into a greetingsynth.

I am berserk. Why is it I have no employer?

Okay, am off. If I hear from that employer I will make a super special A Very Special Bye Bye Pie announcement. Maybe I will send them this foot photo. Will that make me memorable?

XO,

June

Hold on loosely

I just woke up. I know. What am I, 14?

I went out last night and partayyed with my ...friend. And who is getting tired of having to call him my dot dot dot friend?

Here is my dot dot dot friend pouring honey in his tea last night. I know! Raise the roof!

 

Do you know who needs to get over YouTube?

Anyway, somehow last night I was telling the story of someone I know who has issues with possessiveness. Dot dot dot friend said, "Wasn't it Alabama who told us, 'Hold on loosely? But don't let go'?"

Wise.

Then today he emailed me to say that was .38 Special, and it's important we get that deep message right.

So I had fun, and did not get to bed till after 2:00, which means neither did the dogs, because they wait up with rolling pins, and does anyone actually wait up with rolling pins anymore? Because if they did, wouldn't you be all, Why do you have a ROLLING PIN? You will be shocked to hear I do not own a rolling pin. Do you? If you do, everyone be sure to get all up in what you use it for in the comments, and then share rolling pin recipes with each other, and then check back and talk about how delicious your rolling pins made everything.

Because I will not come to your houses with a .38 Special or anything.

What IS a .38 Special? I mean, what makes it so special? Is it like when our parents tell us we're all special and it's just a regular gun like all the other guns, really? It's just a kind of chubby, homely gun watching Brady Bunch like everyone else?

Anyway. I have to go now because it is noon and time for Whitney's funeral live on TMZ. Later I will pick a comment of the week, so look on This Week's Special when I get back from the funeral.

When I "get back" from the funeral. I am .38 special.