Bye Bye, Pie!

Because you hate yourself.

Yesterday was a dumb day, in which the phrase "emergency dental visit" was used, and I will tell you about all that and also force you to read about my weekend right here, right now. June's blog. Come for the mundane details. Stay for the mundane details. Because you hate yourself.

That is so my official blog slogan from now on: Because you hate yourself.

So as I had mentioned, as I had alluded to previously prior to this before, Ned and I went to the beach for the weekend, because it was Mother's Day and his mom lives at the beach so that's convenient. Yes, my own actual originally scheduled mother was annoyed that I did not go 9354943943 miles with all my riches to see her, but please see the part where she lives 9354943943 miles away and I have all my riches. Also, Dear Mom: Move to the beach.

We were scheduled to go right after work, so I got home and schlepped the dogs to daycare, and with my extremely organizedly packed bag ready, I decided to floss while I waited for Ned. Because I floss a lot. I have little containers of floss all over the house, and do it when I'm watching TV, sitting at the computer, exercising, sleeping, cleaning the gutters and so on. My POINT is, it was a floss day, day like any other day when

POP!

one of my back teeth just came clean off. CLEAN OFF. POP! it went, and it flew across the floor.

Fortunately, it was a crown, not an actual tooth, but unfortunately, my real teeth just grew in for free and I'd paid nine million dollars for that crown at some point in this lifetime.

"Son of a..." I picked my stupid tooth up off the floor. It was 5:45 p.m. on a Friday.

Look. I was so upset that I revereted to my Impressionist photography. But if you really look you'll see my tooth in a cup, which is similar to the Justin Timberlake song about his parts in a box but I will not delve into that at this juncture.

My point is, the beleaguered dentist, who called me from his home where he was just trying to live his dentist life, said (a) these things ALWAYS happen on a Friday when you're headed for the beach and (2) it could wait till Monday and I could try to stick it back on, just don't swallow it.

I left it out. And let me tell you what. A good diet plan? Is eating on one side of your head. It's hard to scarf when you're doing that.

So it was a lovely weekend of beaching and eating one-sidedly and hanging out with Ned's mom, who is an easy person to hang out with and never tells untoward stories as members of my family may or may not do, and please note above is the time she said, "I have 55 SPF. You all should put it on" and Ned and I scoffed and asked if she had anything with a LARGER number and then we spent the rest of the weekend complaining about how burned we were and she remained out of pain and non-red.

Also, the town of Wilmington is just a fun town to be in. We shopped, and Ned bought books, and I saw this:

SQUEEEEE! I LOVE YOU BOTH SO BAD GIVE ME THAT KITTEN!

I love me a toasty-colored kitten. I mean, as opposed to how indifferent I feel about all other kittens.

On Sunday, Ned's mom wanted to go to a particular restaurant, and we worried about the busyness level, so we called and they said, "There's a 25-minute wait." Oh, that's not bad, we thought, not realizing that 25 minutes was on Mercury. Would time go faster or slower on Mercury? See. This is precisely the kind of thing I could sit here forever and never figure out.

We got to the restaurant, which was really pretty before we grew to abhor it and everything associated with it and all people and things. It was a big old house, and you could eat on screened porches and in different pretty rooms. I mean "you could eat" being a loose term.

We put our name in with the hostess, who looked  a little pale, and sat inside at the bar, because when we'd pulled up? Where there was only valet parking due to the chaos? There were people milling about outside. And by "people," I mean it was like that scene in Gone with the Wind where Scarlett goes to get the doctor to deliver Melanie's baby, and she goes to the train station and as far as the eye can see are soldiers lying about moaning. Which is what we eventually did waiting for our food.

I don't know why no photos turned out well this weekend. I could have been faint from hunger. But here we are waiting at the bar. Note Ned's empty water glass. We sat there. And waited. And watched the wait staff, which we had officially become because we WAITED so long. Did I mention we waited?

After more than an hour, which can I just say "25 minutes, my patoot," we got a table, and guess what?

We waited.

Here I am being sunburned and annoyed, and Ned was telling us how they should have handled this crowd because he worked in a restaurant for eleventy years and it was kind of funny till it wasn't. Because all of a sudden it was TWO HOURS that we had waited for food, and I had not eaten all day, and at this point it was literally the afternoon, and all of a sudden I felt cold and shaky.

"I'm cold and shaky," I announced, and shook coldly. The whole room seemed like it was receding. Somehow, they scored me some oyster crackers and I literally ate a packet of sugar and I rallied.

We made a vow right then, we would never ever go out to eat on Mother's Day ever again.

Ned's mom took this prom picture of us after our quick brunch, and we headed home, but passed Raleigh on the way, so we got up with one of Ned's friends and my pal Daniel Boone.

Ned likes Daniel Boone, and I'm glad of it, because once Daniel Boone and I start talking, we are the two loudest, talkiest people ever invented, and I personally would hate us. It was Ned's friend's birthday, and we can't think of a good blog name for her, and I am jamming out to Ned's timely gift bag. Who is a boy? Is it Ned?

Here is a photo D Boone took in the .00003 second I was not speaking. Or laughing at something D Boone was saying. Ned and his friend sat and talked amongst themselves. In fact, at first we were seated with me across from Ned's friend and Ned across from D Boone, and eventually Ned shoved all my stuff in front of D Boone and switched places with me, and to tell you the truth it kind of made me feel bad, but that is because I was inside myself not not experiencing the obnoxiousness that is trying to talk across me and equally talky Daniel and his Boone.

And yes, I DO realize I will get melanoma at any moment.

Anyway, that sums it up. I went to the dentist yesterday for my emergency Dr. Bombay visit, and they glued that thing right back on me, and MAN did that hurt. And the hygienist poked at my tooth that had been under the crown and then the DENTIST came and poked at the tooth, till finally I was all, MUST EVERYONE POKE AT IT? We know it's there. Hi, I'm June's tooth! I may be old, I may be ugly, but dear God, I'm here.

GOD.

So, yeah. Trip to the dentist. Not relaxing. Sunburn. Not unpainful. Not eating. Makes you quessy. These are the lessons I want you to take from this particular blog post.

lessin mom need is not to leef dog again, mom.

June. Out.

I can't even

The rest of the weekend was inexplicable, but don't worry. I will go into excruciating detail tomorrow. In the meantime, what's with my 3-D bosoms? Oh, also? Always use sunscreen.

(c) Daniel Boone Photography

So natural

Look how horrified Chris and Lilly's baby is. to get away from beeg hairs pleese. she not maturnil.

I might have to work late, but if I don't, I will come home and blog about makeup. I know! I really know how to build the anticipation and leave you begging for more.

Lady Madonna June, out.

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

Here's looking at you, reader.

Last night, Ned and I went to the old movie theater we like so much and we saw Casablanca. Humphrey Bogart needs to get a new line. He says, "Here's looking at you, kid" FOUR TIMES in that movie. If I were Ingrid Bergman I'd be all, "Yeah yeah, I heard you the first 80 times, Echo Park."

This may be where Ingrid Bergman's character and I have our Great Divide.

In fact, Ingrid Bergman was the first woman to be labeled low-maintenance. In my favorite movie, which you may or may not know is When Harry Met Sally--I know that's hard to tell since I never ever quote that movie or anything.

Mr. Zero knew?

Anyway, in that movie, Billy Crystal calls Ingrid Bergman low-maintenance, and he says there are two kinds of women: high-maintenance and low-maintenance.

I desperately tried to find this scene on goddamn YouTube, and I could only find it in Spanish. But I DID find THIS scene!

 

Oh, wait! This is the best one! Carrie Fisher's line is my absolute favorite thing in this life.

 

Okay, if I had my way we'd all just watch the whole damn movie, so I'll stop.

Anyway, Ned has...implied that I am high-maintenance. I would worry that Ned has some kind of disorder, like body dysmorphic disorder, only it's like a June dysmorphia, and he sees only bad traits in me that don't exist, but in fact pretty much everyone I've ever dated since "high-maintenance" has become a phrase has screamed over to use it to describe me.

I really don't see it, but whatever.

We left the movie theater last night and walked to a nearby restaurant. It's already warm here, so it was a wonderful night. "So, you agree, then, that Ingrid Bergman is low-maintenance?" I asked Ned. "Oh, absolutely. She was great."

I started to kind of hate Ingrid Bergman with her stupid stupid deep looks and weepy eyes and quiet suffering.

"If Ingrid Bergman had been in the car with you the other day during that stupid mountain snow storm, would she have not freaked out over the icy roads?"

"Of course not," Ned said, and I don't know why he doesn't just go find Ingrid Bergman and dig her up and date her bones if he's so crazy about her. Go ahead. See if I care.

"You know, I got in an ACCIDENT on icy roads. I broke my PELVIS. You'd be scared after that too," I said.

"If Ingrid Bergman got in an accident on icy roads, her pelvis wouldn't even break. She'd just shrug it off. That's how low-maintenance she is," said Ned, who's clearly getting together his Ingrid Bergman drag outfit to wear in his private time.

Hmpf.

So, my question to you today is, do you see yourself as high-maintenance or low-maintenance? Then, after you've decided, go ask your partner. See if it's the same answer. I know Marvin would have said, "Oh, no. You're low-maintenance" but I think in general Jewish men have a higher tolerance for...fussiness, and also I scared the shit out of Marvin.

Okay, let me know. I wonder if stupid ass-face Ingrid Bergman will comment today. She's probably too busy being not a bother. Giant stoic bitch.

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.

In which June humps Edsel and needs relationship advice

You know what I did last night? I humped Edsel. He's always JUMPING on poor Talu and humping her, and she shows her mean teef and then he gets scared and 17 seconds later he does it again. Because Edsel is brilliant.

So last night I was lying on the floor doing Tracy Anderson, and there went Ned's fantasy night, when Talu came over and rubbed her cute dog head on me to say hello. She's such a pleasant dog. She doesn't drool all over me and leap around like she hasn't seen me in 29 years, she just rubs her head on me. hi moomz.

But Edsel saw our exchange, so he stormed over and knocked his head into my arm, then humped Tallulah to show her she has SOME NERVE acknowledging me.

Well, that was it. I PAUSED Tracy Chapman, got right up and pulled Edsel's slim doggie hips right to me. "You wanna hump so bad? How do you like THIS?" hump hump hump. He was appalled. He put his ears down and looked back at me in awe. I think he had no idea anyone here could hump but him. He slunk away, stunned.

"How long before he's humping Tallulah again?" Ned asked me later that night. "Oh, he's violating her as we speak, I'm certain," I said. In the meantime, I hope no one reports me to animal welfare.

Ned and I went to the old movie theater we like so much and saw Easy Rider, which mostly consists of Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper going around being high on the gange. Also, who knew Jack Nicholson used to be cute?

Afterward, we went to get something to eat because I had worked out and hadn't had dinner and I was the cranky hungry. I got tuna, and Ned ONCE AGAIN mentioned how the bread wasn't really a good part of Project Emaciation, and if I could have humped Ned into submission I would have. Who told him he had a voice in Project Emaciation? "You know what I'm doing," he said his mantra smugly, "is eating less and exercising more." If he says that ONE MORE TIME, he's gonna be breathing less and bruising more.

In case anyone cares, though, I've lost a pound. Take THAT, manorexic Ned.

But let's talk about Ned for a minute. Or rather, let's talk about my hangups for a minute, and apparently it's 1967. What're your HANGUPS, man?

I adore Ned. I don't know if I've ever mentioned that to you. Oh, I just love him to death, except for when he tells me to eat less and exercise more. But here's my thing. I used to just love Marvin to death. Remember that? Well, you probably don't, because by the time I was blogging we were circling the drain.

But that's what scares me to pieces. How do you know that the person you adore today isn't going to be the person who drives you berserk five years later? How do you keep yourself feeling the way you do when you first met the person?

When I married Marvin, we had the ceremony out behind a cool old bed and breakfast, down by the water.

Before everything got started, people were seated and I was hiding behind a building so I could make my grand entrance. Why can't every day be my wedding day? Because what was more fun than hundreds of people awaiting my arrival and me looking great in a big dress? See. I really should be a drag queen.

Anyway, while I hid behind the building, I peeked around to see the crowd, and there was Marvin, just splayed out on a chair, like he was in the lobby of the car repair place or something. He was so, you know, casual. And it was so Marvin, and I had this feeling: "I am absolutely doing the right thing."

And here I am divorced. So, what's the secret? Do you know? If you say "communication" Ima kill myself, cause we did nothing but communicate. So what KIND of communication? What does that even mean? It's kind of like when someone majors in Communications. I never knew what that meant, either.

Do tell. Cause I was lucky enough to find somone wonderful and I'd like to not ruin it by being me.

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

Yesterday, after a harrowing day at work--

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

"What a pane."

"I like the way you framed that email."

"You're so transparent."

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

"Is the cleaning SILL going on?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aaaaaand I made this about Ned.)

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

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

After that we were headed to coffee and...

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

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

Oh, look. I mentioned Ned.

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

Oh look, I mentioned Ned.

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

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

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

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

June Hearts Her 4 4ever

So, this occurred.

Y'all. I should not be given nice things. In high school there were these two sisters, and their dad was a dentist, and they told me their mom always said they could have more clothes if they just took care of the clothes they already HAD. Seeing as I had bupkis, it drove me crazy that they clearly did not take care of the clothes they had, because they wore the same things all the time.

"Like, they could get taken to Jacobson's if they'd just HANG UP THEIR CLOTHES," I'd obsess. Jacobson's was a fancy department store in my town. My grandmother used to buy me my clothes there, then when I was a freshwoman or sophomore she got depressed and stopped doing that or anything, really, but sitting around her house listening to Pink Floyd. I am not making that part up.

She also used to watch MTV and liked her some Bon Jovi as the years ticked by, and I could never get her off Bon Jovi and into The Cure. But that's a whole 'nother story. And yes, that IS the grandmother I'm turning into, and am really looking forward to the debilitating depression, and I hope I sigh a lot and act like a jerk who expects everyone to get depressed with me.

But I digress. Let me put on some Pink Floyd and continue.

Sighhh.

See what I did there?

So, I broke my goddamn phone, and careful readers will recall it was A YEAR AND A HALF AGO that I dropped my originally scheduled iPhone into the toilet, because I was cleaning said toilet and emailing Daniel Boone simultaneously, which

Phone Tips From June: is not a good idea.

(I totally would have never hung my clothes up even with the reward of fancy new ones from Jacobson's. I mean, you already knew that, right?)

So then yesterday I smashed my phone to bits, and was all, Ooops, and then was all, Shit. Which

Phone Tips From June: does not help.

I tried to just, you know, MAKE A GO of it the way it was, cracked and shattered JUST LIKE MY SOUL--sighhhhh.

(I got a little black book, with my poems in....God, I do love the Pink Floyd song. GOT A BAG, TOOTHBRUSH AND A COMB IN.)

But whenever I used my finger to scroll across the iPhone screen, I'd get tiny shards of glass embedded in my flesh, which

Anatomy Tips From June: hurts.

"I smashed my phone up by accident," I wrote Ned. "I couldn't remember the password for my home network, and I slammed the phone down in frustration and boom. It just shattered." I said that like all of this happened to me and none of it was my own fault.

"If I had never smashed an inanimate object into breakery before I might use this as a learning moment to caution you re your temper. But oh how I have done the smashing! So I understand," said Ned, who probably never hung up his clothes as a youth.

So after work I went to the Apple store, with my many dollars. My hope was that they could fix the screen, somehow, at least till June when my contract was up.

Have you ever BEEN to the Apple store? This was a Tuesday at 6:00 and you'd think it was Studio 54, and I dearly wish I could think of a hot club from this century ever. I mean, girlfriend was PACKED. Nerdy people, old people, Bianca Jagger on a white horse, you could barely MOVE.

They took my name and told me to wait, and I would have used that time to check my phone but, ow. Checking my phone, turning into a cutter. Suddenly it was all the same.

So I watched people. There was a pudgy guy about my age who kept giving me the old eye. Oh, yes, come on over and get to know June and her Financial Wizardry, over here. June and her Fine Temper. June, Keeper of Nice Things. You won't be sorry.

There were also two low tables filled with kids playing on tablets, and I do not mean, like, Moses' tablets, but rather fancy iPads or whatever. None of these kids were over the age of eight, and yet they were scrolling and pinching and moving objects and I'll bet those tablets are riddled with kid germs. The best part about that is right behind them was a class going on, where about 20 people ALL OVER THE AGE OF 55 were learning HOW to use computers. If I'd...had a phone I'd have taken a picture.

Photography Tips From June: Taking pictures with your phone cuts your finger.

Eventually this kid came over. "Hi, I'm August, your Apple Genius." That's what the sales staff are called, and I do not think that they know everything about Granny Smiths or how to work your core.

Bah.

"Wow, August? That's cool, because my name is June."

"Is it really?"

"No. But I have a blog." I ended up telling him about my blog, and about my tens of readers, and he called the whole damn site up on his tablet, there, and he said, "Wow, so you don't use your real name, even? That's great. That's so stripperesque."

Okay, that's my new favorite thing. I am stripperesque. How soon till I break the pole, do you think?

The GOOD NEWS is that I'm almost done with this story and also that I HAD INSURANCE. Apparently when I bought the SECOND posttoilet iPhone back in 2011, I got the good insurance in case I, oh, you know, broke another phone, by chance. I mean, so not like me. But just in case.

So I did a mature, careful thing, which

Financial Tips From June: Sometimes, surprise yourself by doing mature, careful things.

And so, my friends, I now own an iPHONE FOUR!!!! Because I have the good insurance!!!

Okay, it's not an iPhone 5--who am I, June Rockefeller? But the iPhone 4!!!! Have wanted for so long. Have had the 3 for ages now, and Marie Antoinette called. Literally. The iPhone 3 was super inconvenient, because it texted in Middle English.

TEXT FROM HULK: What's up?

TEXT FROM JUNE:  Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote, the droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote...

June's blog. Come for the many many laughs, someday. Stay for the part where June majored in English and whips out The Canterbury Tales.

My POINT is, now I own this:

And yes, my hair IS lovely when I work out at night and sleep on it and get up and blog at you. PAY ATTENTION. Do you like my manly phone cover? I DID have to buy that. But still! I have a 4!  I HAVE A FOURRRRR!

Blog Tips From June: End your post before everyone gets sick of you.

Reality Tips From June: Too late.

Keep calm and eat my shorts.

Geez Louise, I hate days like this, where I have to scream from one thing to another with no time to do my important activities such as blog to y'all. I don't even know what parts of the weekend I've told you about and what I haven't, so I will just BLOG FORTH and if I repeat myself, sue me.

Would you like to know what I'm officially sick of? "Keep calm and [insert hilarious thing here]." Oh, shut up. Keep calm about my FIST slamming into your skull. Tell me you've seen this bullshit. It started with the phrase "Keep calm and carry on," which was a WWII phrase, and okay. I get that you needed to hear that during WWII. But now it's become a whole thing.

Oh, go shit on a pretzel.

Oh, brother.

Exactly.

So that's my new thing. Not that I needed new things to get irked at. People are still writing "everyday" when they mean "every day." I got a lot to stay irked about. Keep calm and stay irked.

Anyway, my weekend. Hi! It's over. Here's what you missed. On Friday, Ned and I got up with Dick Whitman and I remember now that I already told you about that. Saw a movie, had dinner, blah blah blah. Then on Saturday I was supposed to freelance all afternoon before Ned and I went to a party at 5:00. But my neighbor Peg called and needed me to get her from the hospital. She has been in and out of the damn hospital for the last year with this recurring thing, and had sort of a relapse, and didn't know she was gonna be discharged that day, so in desperation she called me to come get her.

She doesn't have anything life-threatening, just annoying and sort of painful and all-around a pain in the ass. Anyway, who better to care for you than old nurturing June, here, but I got her home and so on and as I went to my house I had a profound and kind of depressing thought.

One day, not really that long from now, I will be old and possibly infirm and maybe even not very attractive to the opposite sex. I'm being all polite because I'm talking to you and god knows who you are reading this, but what I really said to myself is, "One day I will no longer be fuckable." And I gotta tell you. The thought of that is horrifying to me.

I guess the worst part of that is if no one wants to, you know, tap the June keg, will anyone love me? And what if no one does? What if I am 67 and unmarried and no man loves me? I mean, it could be exactly what happens. I have no IDEA what's going to happen. And what I decided is, I have to find a way to make that possibility less horrifying. I mean, maybe I'll be one of those handsome interesting Bea Arthur women with many friends and flowy clothes and lots of hobbies and no sex at all. That can't be the worst thing in the world, right?

I told all this to Ned, and he said, "I will always love you. No matter what." Which is a wonderful thing to say, and maybe he will, but what if we break up and his new super-hot silky-haired girlfriend says, "You can't talk to June"? I mean, my point is, anything could happen.

Who IS that silky-haired insecure bitch? How DARE she tell Ned he can't talk to me? Ima kick her ASS. In my flowing Soft Surroundings pantsuit.

So how do you do that? How do you gird yourself for the possibility that there will be no partner to love you? Advice, please.

Anyway, Ned and I went to his friend's birthday party, but not before Ned watched an entire sporting event, making us over an hour late to said bash, but thank heavens we didn't miss out on the food.

Apparently I was photographing this using the girl-on-Star-Trek fuzzy lens. In case you were worried sick, whoever Ned wanted to win won. So. Yeah.

On Sunday, Ned and I screamed over to Raleigh to see a still-life exhibit, which I am again remembering I told you about already. Lots of flowers and dead fish on plates and slightly rotting fruit. There was a Cezanne and a Renoir, and I know it's not cool to like Renior, and you're supposed to think his stuff is too pretty and stampede over to some dark angular depressing painting, but I am sorry. Every Renior I look at just makes me so happy. I'm serious. If that makes me the white zinfandel of art appreciators, so be it. My handsome sexless self cares not.

Ned at the museum cafe. Believe it or not, I got a salad.

After, we got up with Daniel Boone and I know 78 of you are gonna have 10 fits about that. If you just got here, DB and I dated briefly and tragically last year. I am over it, he is over it, but many of you are not. The point is, Ned just loved Daniel Boone because he is funny and a delight to hang with, and we all had a great time, so there.

And no, Ned did not care that I dated DB for eight minutes in 2011. Ned knows how I feel about him. I wonder if I could be more obvious. If I got those weird contacts that they wear in Japan with heart-shaped pupils, I would be less obvious than I am now.

Actually, I kind of want those.

At any rate, I got yet ANOTHER MIGRAINE last night, and today I finally went to the doctor even though I didn't think there was anything they could do for me. This is the fifth doctor I've had in the five years of living here, because as you know all my doctors die or quit. I've seen this guy just one other time and I like him. He's probably giving his two weeks as we speak.

I explained the headaches to him, and anticipated all his Qs. Yes, I toughed it out, twice, without meds to see if it was a rebound. No, it's not a different kind of pain. Yes, I can stick my tongue straight out. I know if it was crooked it'd mean tumor. I watched ER like everybody else.

He told me when he was a resident, this guy came to the emergency room with a terrible headache. Turns out he had six bullets in his head. He'd been mugged but wasn't aware he'd been shot. I told the doctor I was pretty sure I hadn't been shot in the head.

SHOT THROUGH THE HEAD! AND YOU'RE TO BLAME!

You're welcome.

So he prescribed me Prednisone for the next 12 days, and I asked about side effects. He said, "My wolf hybrid, Wolf, just got on my counter and ate 2 lbs of Moravian cookies and 16 lbs of cat food, so he is on Prednisone too. It's making him a little psychotic, and that could happen to you, too."

I was all, "You named your wolf hybrid Wolf? You went to town with that clever name."

In unrelated news, I want a wolf hybrid.

I warned Ned I might be psychotic and he's on the lookout for REALLY DIFFERENT BEHAVIOR, and it occurs to me that if one adopted a wolf hybrid puppy snickerdoodle while one was psychotic from meds, one could not be blamed. And even if I were nutty as a fruitcake I would still think of a better name than Wolf.

I guess that's all I have to tell you. I have to go try to do Tracy Morgan now, although if Ima just get all bloated and fat from Prednisone what's the point?

Keep calm and Prednis on. God, I love me.