Bye Bye, Pie!

Mulch Ado About Nothing

In case anyone was worried sick and pacing the floors and writing his or her congressman demanding answers, I did not get the glasses. This is not to say I won't go BACK there, because they give you the whole shebang--frames, the glass, protective coating, an eyelid lift, a jar of olives, now I'm just making stuff up, for $125!

$125! Perhaps you don't buy eyeglasses, but I do, and that's cheap. Of course, there's the part where I don't actually NEED new glasses--I got my last pair two years ago and my prescription hasn't changed. So yeah.

Other than that, I went around living my life all weekend. How about you? Did you live your life or were you in suspended animation? Sometimes that's relaxing, too.

On Friday night, Ned and I went to the First Friday festivities, and I will try to cram as many "f" words into this sentence as fossible. Other than the exciting eyeglass store, we went to some girl stores where I'm sure Ned was riveted, and we popped in to my friend Kit's store, too. In fact, when I GOT to Ned's I had forgotten my DING-DANG PHONE, and there is no way into the Fort Knox nor the gelatin that is Ned's place. There was a man on his balcony, which is at ground level so unless you're some underworld spy or the wife of a close friend I guess in no way would you describe that thing as a "balcony." Say, what did I major in, again? Was it the English? Cause, good job, June. Articulate.

DECK. He was on his DECK, though it was surrounded by a brick wall which made me think "balcony" and oh, who cares. I THOUGHT of asking if he'd call Ned for me to come let me in, but Ned's home number has a different area code and don't even ask, so I didn't want to be all, "Hey, stranger on a balcony on the ground. Can you call long distance for me? Also, I have money frozen in Tibet and if you just give me $50,000..."

Ned has a BUTTON at the front of his BUILDING that you can push, and guess what? That goes to his cell which he's never ever got the ringer on for and he never uses, so what I'm saying to you is my mood was sparkling. I STOMPED in my HEELS over to Kit's store and in front of 39494020203 customers I bellowed CANIUSEYOURPHONEOHMYGODNED.

So she let me, and that sums that story up. I know you're sad it's over.

Oh, and we also popped into the midcentury modern store and saw the guy. That's all Ima say about that.

At some point in the evening, I guess when we were eating and Ned got lamb and I felt like I had to mention that due to its oddness, we got onto the subject of insults. We talked about what would be the worst thing someone could say about us, and I said if someone said I'm not funny (as a commenter did the other day), it wouldn't really bother me that much, because I feel like most people DO think I'm funny. If someone said that I wasn't smart, I would also feel pretty confident they were wrong.

"Now, hideous," I said. I might get upset at "hideous." There's a small part of me that'd think, 'Oh, that's true.'"

Ned thought this over as he speared and chewed innocent lambs. Clarice. "I think the worst thing anyone could say about me is that I'm pretentious," he said.

And see. Here is where I have no filter. Here is where the whole room's gonna go, JUNE! You did NOT! Because before I could stop myself, I said, "Well, you are a little hoity-toity."

See. I just meant he likes fancy movies and listens to the NPR instead of doing the normal thing and enjoying Howard Stern and stuff like that. But guess who was annoyed with me all weekend? And I didn't even SAY pretentious because to me, pretentious means you're putting on airs, you're being someone you aren't. I am pretentious. Ned is just hoity-toity.

Anyway, I had to deal with THAT all weekend. "Oh, I'm so HOITY-TOITY. Maybe if you weren't dating someone so HOITY-TOITY...." Good gravy. Even God was over Ned. I didn't say he was Niles Crane, for goodness sake.

The rest of the weekend involved going to the farmers market for processed food (oh, I got some DELICIOUS cheese), me doing work I brought home (I'm like Don Draper without the nice apartment), Ned signing a bill with a flower pen:

Okay, you can't even TELL there's a flower there, because he's you know, writing and it's moving around. Just trust me. And yes, that's a salad Ned finished, I think it had beets in it. It's not lamb entrails. And then that empty thing contained fries that we split. God, they were delicious.

Yesterday instead of a movie, I made Ned do errands with me and I am certain he was delighted. Like, he had to lug five huge bags of mulch into his car, and mulch got everywhere, and who doesn't want to date me? Am serious delight. Anyway, he had been planning to Nedflix whatever we saw yesterday and I do not know if he will Nedflix those empty hours of doing things for me but I told him that would be funny. He could review the whole miserable afteroon! He could name it Mulch Ado About Nothing. The thing writes itself.

Am showering now. I mean, not as I type but in a minute. Don't forget to tell me what you say about the worst insult that could be hurled at you. It must mean something, right?, whatever it is that would insult us the most.

Hoity and toityingly,

June

In which June might have had a taste of chocolate

I survived day two without sugar, except for the part where I had something a...trifle sugary. OKAY SUE ME.

I ate everything right until after work, when I went to the H&R Block, there, to get my taxes done. Do you have any idea what a pain in the ass my taxes are, as a freelancer? I had 1099s from four or five places, and also Miscellaneous whatever-they're-calleds for money I make on the ads here, and then I have to DEDUCT the cost of paying for this site (yes, it does cost) and one room in this house where I do all my work and also the $9 million of medical costs from last year and, ack.

It's not simple, is what I'm saying to you. I remember those heady days of having just one job all year, and I was single, and I filled out one page and boom. Done.

Anyway, I owe $2,000 to our fine government, and I knew I would owe. When you freelance you don't get any money taken out. So I wasn't surprised, just depressed. Even though I am not one of those people who thinks I am the exception, that I don't have to pay my fair share of taxes. I'm, you know, grateful to have roads to drive on and 911 to call when I have a cockroach in my sink.

So right when I was gathering up my things, the accountant said, "Would you like some dark-chocolate-covered pomegranates?"

Well, yes. Yes, I would. I mean, who wouldn't? And God, were they delicious.

So I had three dark chocolates yesterday. "I'm not extending my not-drinking by a day, if you're thinking you're gonna start all over," said cranky Ned. And I'm not. I'm not starting all over.

I also, because I was bored and for the most part sugarless, I looked at all my old OK Cupid emails, from before and when I first met Ned. Oh my GOD there were some scary people writing me. And also some 21-year-olds. What's up, 21-year-olds? Why the nice mother complex? If you're looking for a mom, you've come to the wrong place.

Anyway, one thing that that site does is send you emails with kind of a Brady Bunch grid of nine men. "One of these people rated you four or five stars!" the email reads. Because yes, you ARE able to go on there and rate people and

Dear God,

Could you make it so I never ever have to go on OK Cupid again? Thanks.

Love, June

The point is, back on July 15, 2011, THERE WAS A PICTURE OF NED. Right there! Saying he might have been one of the Brady Bunch grid of men who'd rated me four or five stars! He was the only cute boy in the pictures.

"Did you rate me four or five stars?" I asked Ned, forwarding him the email.

"I like how I'm the Alice of everyone, right there in the middle," he noted, evading the Q about my stars. "Also, what the fuck are you doing on OK Cupid?" he asked.

The point is, it irks me that I was ALERTED TO HIS EXISTENCE six months before I noticed he was on that site. I could have been dating him six months earlier. But I guess I met him when I met him. Maybe I was supposed to have a summer dating the wrong people. Which

Dear God,

Cut it out.

Love, June

"Why didn't you notice me?" Ned groused, mad at me for something I didn't do six months before we ever met. "You clicked on Mrs. Brady, up there, didn't you? He looks intense." Mrs. Brady does look like he's having some deep/murdery thoughts.

I purposely cut out everyone else on this grid, because what if one of your husbands is up there and this becomes a Very Special Lawsuit edition of Bye Bye, Pie, but trust me.

And Greg looks 100% like Samuel L. Jackson.

So there it is. Have you ever wondered about that, about why you met your person when you did? Marvin and I lived IN THE SAME DORM and had several of the same friends, yet we never met all year. We met on the first day of the NEXT year, when he lived in a house. My high school boyfriend, Cardinal, had been a family friend for years. And we didn't meet till 10th grade. Mostly because my family kept showing him my junior high school pictures and I looked like Samuel L. Jackson.

Fate, man. It's a funny thing. As are dark-chocolate-covered pomegranates.

June, out. Of $2,000.

I HATE YOU JOOOOOON!--Anonymous

I talked to another old friend recently who is disillusioned with her marriage. She and I were friends in our young single days, and our whole goal was to find some man who'd love us forever. We both got married, and now I'm divorced and she's unhappy.

She told me about another of our good friends who isn't that thrilled with her marriage, either.

So here's what I wonder today: Are you happily married? Maybe you're just in a really long-term relationship--and by that I mean five years or more. Are YOU happy? Obviously, if you want to sign in anonymously today that is fine.

I mean, it's always fine if you want to sign in anonymously. Although whenever I see "Anonymous" usually I brace myself for a terrible comment.

"I HATE YOU, JOOOONE!" --Anonymous

Anyway, I know I recently asked for the secret to keeping a marriage happy, but today's different. I just want to know the truth. Because GUESS WHO IS GETTING DISCOURAGED ABOUT THE IDEA OF MARIAGE?

Okay, go.

My ridiculous weekend, by June Crippled Gardens

The part where I sprained my ankle then had to hobble in front of Area Guy is 100% my fault, and I'd dearly like to be able to blame someone else. Because if you're GONNA hurt yourself, the only positive is that you can at least elicit sympathy from people, but once I tell you how I did it you'll be all, "Oh. Yeah, that was so her fault."

On Friday night, I went to Ned's, as I am wont to do.

The thing about Ned is, after work he almost always comes home and works out. There's a gym in his building, and he also rides his bike, and you'd think some of his healthy living would rub off on me but basically I sat around after work eating blue corn chips and watching The Golden Girls till he called me. So what usually happens is, it'll be 8:30 at night and I get over there just as Ned is finally eating. Up there are eggs and potatoes, and bread he baked. I am not making that up.

He told me the other night that it's been a year since he's eaten anything packaged. I thought wistfully of my nacho chips. Which by the way were not created by me using a mortar and pestle to grind up the blue corn. In case that's what you were picturing.

While he ate his unpackaged food, I looked through Vermont Country Store catalog. Ned bought me something from there for Christmas, so now he gets the catalog, and saved it for me to puruse.

Dudes. I SO WANT this obnoxious chenille bedspread. I'd get the blue, believe it or not, and no one thinks I'm really leaving pink and embracing Tiffany Blue, but I am. It's my new color. Anyway my gramma had this kind of bedspread and basically anything she had is something I want now. I also want a screen door with my initial in the middle, which I have wanted for quite some time and didn't even realize she had till I saw a photo of her door not long ago. I was all, "So THAT'S why I want a screen door with my initial in it!"

Also? A cuckoo clock. What can I tell you?

Anyway, it was all well and good and I was having a fine time at Ned the unpackaged eater's house, till someone interesting walked by his window. He lives downtown, Ned does, and even though he's high up we can often hear people talking as they walk by, and often they.are.riveting. My favorite quote so far is the guy who said, "You show them bitches the love, them bitches take advantage." "He's right," Ned told me. Then I made him pay all my bills.

So this particular guy was shouting across the street to someone. "I just need six dollars, buddy. That's all I need. Six dollars and I can get the train to Charlotte." Naturally I stampeded to the window to see this exchange. "ABNER!"

The hapless man he was talking to actually gave the Charlotte guy the six dollars. "Thank you, buddy," said the Charlotte guy, and here's the thing. I wanted to watch him to see if he really headed off to the train station, which I did for awhile till he was out of my sight, and that?

Is when I climbed up on Ned's ottoman, which is not a euphemism, nor was it particularly bright. Because it did no good (too many trees to see the guy), and when I stepped DOWN, I stepped on Ned's boot, which he had HAPLESSLY AND THOUGHTLESSLY left next to said ottoman (see how I'm working up to a Blame Ned situation?) and my ankle twisted.

Oh, son of a bitch Carl Rove god DAMMIT son of a--did I already say son of a bitch? Cause THAT HURT.

I don't even remember much after that, just searing pain and Ned helping me to the couch and giving me an ice pack. It's not so bad today. I mean, I can walk on it, as long as I remember it's THERE, because if I step down wrong SON OF A BITCH CARL ROVE GODDAMMIT it hurts.

Despite my serious injury, I managed to make dinner for Ned last night before we went to an upbeat Tennessee Williams play. I made overcooked salmon and undercooked potatoes. Mmmm!

After, we went to this bar that, oh, guess what, was showing a basketball game that--well, I'll let you guess. Out of the two of us, who do you think suggested we catch the end of that game? Cause I had bets on that game, man.

We got there, and it was packed. I know! Ten o'clock on a Saturday night? What's WITH these people? And as I'm limping like Quasimodo to a spot, who do I see but Area Guy? In case you just got here or have amnesia or something, Area Guy is this British man who owns a midcentury modern furniture store in town and to say he's handsome is like saying Nancy Grace leans toward the dramatic.

"Hey, how you doing?" he asked me, all Britishly. And see. Here's the problem. Ned caught me feeling all squealy about it. "You know, he predates you," I told him, but he was having none of it. I mean, if the fish and chips came down, and British Area Guy came up to me and said how 'bout a wank, I would say no because I love Ned.

Is a "wank" British for sex or is it British for sex for one? I really don't know. If he asked me for sex for one it'd be sort of awkward.

Anyway, it didn't come up because I was lurching around like I had a bloody headband and a fife. Sexy!

So that was pretty much my highlight. I'm hobbled. I'm half the man I used to be. We're on our way now to see a Jeffrey Dahmer documentary, I am not making that up, and I hope the popcorn is not literally made out of our fathers. After that, we're having dinner with my friend Marty Martin and his girlfriend Kayeeee, and what I did NOT know is I scheduled that dinner during a Very Important Sporting Event, and HOW MANY GODDAMN EFFING CARL ROVE BASKETBALL GAMES ARE THERE IN THE WORLD? God.

Nevertheless, Ned is attending, because if it weren't for him I would not be crippled today.

I hope your weekend was equally as stunning, and less sprainy.

Love, June

Wild, wild night

Yesterday was the first Friday of the month, and if you pay any attention to the habits of The June, and what's more appealing than someone who refers to herself in the third person AND adds a "The," on the first Friday of every month I tend to schlep over to Winston-Salem to enjoy First Friday. There is also a First Friday in my OWN town, and it's directly outside Ned's door, but that'd be convenient.

Since my close personal pal Dick Whitman lives in Winston-Salem, I called him to see if he wanted to join us. "I'm with my friend," he said. "We'll meet you there."

Dick Whitman has a friend who I've met a few times, and who Ima advertise on this here blog. In other words, Ima pimp him out. He is single after a rather long relationship, and look! He's cute!

hellooooo, ladies.

Okay, I think possibly a cocktail or two had passed his lips at this point in the evening, but try to picture him sober.

He's looking for someone in her late 30s/early 40s, he is a Quaker minister, and as you can see, this does not mean he has to dress in a frilly collar and large hat.

helloooo, ladies.

I'm just saying. If anyone is interested in Dick Whitman's friend, let me know. Cause he seems like a good guy. More on him later, when he's dancing with a lesbian.

What I forGOT to tell you is before all this First Friday festivity feteing began, and I really wish "began" started with an f, I got home from fake work last night and discovered I had really good mail. The statistics place paid me, which, yay, and also? There was a package.

From my more-successful-than-me-in-every-way pal Miss Doxie.

Which, yay.

It was one of her works of art! She gave me one of her works of art! Because it's not enough that she has the best blog ever and a fancy career and a hot husband and adorable house and that she is THE PRETTIEST EVER, she also has to be good at the drawing and painting and creating and yes I hate her too.

It reads, "Her Royal Highness Madge, queen of all the crap she surveyed."

LOVE IT SO BAD OH I DO!!!!!!

So I was already giddy and chatty and annoying by the time Ned came to get me, and I sound precisely like Tom Waits with this leftover cold, and what's sexier?

(This excellent Tom Waits song may not be safe for, you know, work. Why are you reading this at work? Slacker.) (Actually, the song I picked is not that bad. I wanted to put in the burlesque song but changed mind.)

I was kind of talking as frenetically as Tom Waits is in this song, too, so the person who had a relaxing trip to Winston was Ned. Then when we got to the restaurant, the only place available to sit was on this couch that sort of faced out into the room.

"I've kind of always wanted to sit on the couch," I growled in my I-heart-cigarettes voice. There was this cute couple also sharing the couch with us--he was a black guy with dreads and she was a little screechy but funny white thing in her 20s. She was drinking Maker's Mark on the rocks. I wish I could drink something that manly and no-nonsense. Dick Whitman, perusing the menu, asked us if mojitos were girly.

"Yes," everybody said.

We had the dreads kid take our picture, because it's important we capture on film every moment. I saw something on Facebook recently with a picture of Neil Armstrong on the moon. "Went to moon. Took five pictures" the caption read. Then it showed a girl in the bathroom doing duck face. "Went to bathroom. Took 39 pictures," it read.

Good gravy, The June, can you keep your dang mitts off your man for eight seconds?

Answer: No.

It wasn't long before a DJ started setting up not far from us. "Oh, no," said Ned. "Why do they DO this? This place is wonderful, and they have to ruin it by adding loud music and we'll never be able to talk." In other news, Ned is going to start wearing feathered fedoras while driving .005 miles an hour down the middle of the highway. On his way to his WWII reunion with his buds.

Get off Ned's lawn.

How'sat? Speak up.

As soon as the first song came on, this couple started dancing and I.loved.them. They weren't a particularly lovely couple, and they were probably our age, although they were people of color and they had the whole black-don't-crack thing, so seriously, they could have been Davis and McCoo. At any rate, not young. They were not young.

But oh! How they clearly loved to dance. They danced to every song. They were having a great time. "I love them," said Ned.

"I DO TOO! Look how much fun they're having." I started sort of wishing Ned liked to dance, but he doesn't, and who wants to be seen dancing with old What Inhibitions, over here, anyway?

Then this hot Latin gigolo guy got up and danced dirtily with about 14 different women. He was a SPECTACULAR dancer, and every woman swooned who danced with him. There was one guy on the sidelines, who looked like my friend from Seattle, Rosenberg, and his wife got STOLEN AWAY by the gigolo guy. "Where's Rosenberg?" asked Ned, who's never met my friend Rosenberg in real life even remotely. "Is he aware of how much fun his wife is having right now?"

"Rosenberg totally ordered another appetizer," I noted gravelly-ly, seeing him standing near the dance floor, gobbling a chicken wrap like it was the last meal he'd ever have.

Oh but then. THEN! If that weren't enough, a young cute lesbian girl got up and danced, and motioned to our whole couch to dance with her. "COME ON!" she yelled, and I adored her and her sociable self, and before you know it, our Quaker minister got up and joined her!

The June. Perfecting her dance-floor photography since--oh, screw it. It wasn't long, though, before this hot young blonde girl in a spangly top came up and started making out with the cute dancy lesbian.

"We have the best seats in the whole place," said Ned, who seemed kind of happy.

And it must have been Ned-and-June fantasy night, because seconds later a huge muscular bald man of color got up there with his date, MY NEW BEST FRIEND.

You guys. I LOVED this girl. She was ALL OVER that dance floor, shaking her thang, and she went to the June School of Inhibitions and I WANT HER TO BE MY NEW FRIEND SO BAD I DO.

She danced for so long that eventually hot bald black date sat down--ON OUR COUCH. Remember in Animal House when the girl gets shot through the air into that kid's bedroom and the kid says, "Thank you, God"? Yeah.

"I just want you to know that I am doing my best to not look over there at bald man of color, " I told Ned, who knows I have the thing for bald men of color, and if he didn't know before last night he'd know then, seeing as I was primping and smiling and bending over and presenting like a baboon, so subtle was I.

"Now, see, I'd be in trouble for telling you something like that," said Ned, who was 100% right.

"But, see, I'm telling you that I'm TRYING NOT TO LOOK. Doesn't that count for something?"

Eventually I got a little...verklempt and had to retire to the rest room to put cold water on my pulse points, and when I returned?

Ned. Dancing with the cute lesbian girl!

I have never been so amused in my life. "How'd she get you to do it?" I wondered. "She came over and said, 'Your girlfriend? Is so. lucky.'"

And I am.

June at 16

Awhile back, Ned showed me a picture of him at junior prom in high school. He had the same girlfriend throughout high school and even into college some, and she is still a good friend, so he basically has the same sitch with her I got going with my ex-boyfriend Cardinal.

Cardinal and I dated in 10th grade and broke up. In 11th grade I had a new boyfriend, which didn't sit well, so Cardinal swooped back in with his red feathers. Then for heaven only knows what reason, we decided hey! Let's try that again cause it was so much fun the first two times, and we dated from, say, age 19 to maybe 21 or so.

We've been friends ever since then other than when he got a wife and she decided I was the enemy so we didn't talk for years. (She's gone now. Sure do miss her.) There have been multiple times when we've both been single at the same time, including now, technically, but the Cardinal-and-me ship sailed in about 1986.

Which, by the way. If you have a problem with your current man being friends with his ex, ask yourself, Were there multiple opportunities for them to bang before I came along? And did they TAKE those opportunities? If not, WHAT IS THE PROBLEM??

At any rate, this is precisely what Ned has going on with his friend Harriet, whose real name I didn't just throw into the Random Name Generator or anything.

My POINT is, and do I ever ever ever just get to the point without eventually having to say, "My POINT is"? Ned showed me this photo of him with his old girlfriend, and oh they were so young and cute and so on, and then I looked at the back and it was dated May 14, 1982.

"I know exactly where I was on May 14, 1982!" I said, because I am a freak. "I even have PICTURES of me from that day!" That was my Aunt Mary's wedding day, and Cardinal was my date. I had this grand idea that I would put up here on this godforsaken blog the photos of Ned and Harriet and Cardinal and me all from the same day in 1982.

Brilliant!

So I get my Aunt Mary on the horn and ask her to scan me the photo I was imagining, but of course she was flummoxed about how to scan and email a picture and what's with the generational stuff re computers? She did, however, mail me the damn picture sooner than it will take for you to read this stupid post and I only just opened her letter last night. It's probably been sitting on my table for a week.

Good gravy I am sick of working all day and freelancing all night. Tonight I get my hair cut, then after I'm having coffee with one of my friends, and even though that COMPLETELY screws up my work schedule I don't even care.

Aunt Mary sent TWO pictures from that fateful day, and I was so excited to scan them and scream them off to Cardinal that I coulda spit. I also called Ned. "Send me that photo of you and Harriet. I finally got the one of Cardinal and me."

"My scanner's broken," said Ned.

Sighhhhhhhh.

It was all I could do not to drive the hell over there through the rain, in my pajamas, and bring the dang thing back home so I could SHOW YOU THESE DAMN PICTURES ALREADY. Sometimes my blog about my life turns INTO my life, and that is never good.

So, supposedly, Ned is scanning his fine prom picture at work, and TOMORROW I will have for you the famous shots of Ned/Harriet and June/Cardinal. But seeing as I have two pictures from that day, I will show you this one:

Oh. Kills me.

In case you were thinking, Wow, people in high school looked so much older then, those are my grandparents. You know, attending the wedding. As you do. My grandfather was the absolute bomb and you could not do better in the grandfather department. And there is Grammy, the woman I am turning into. Next time you see me I promise I will have a rose-colored dress on.

Does anyone remember the photos of these same grandparents on my 6th birthday? Cause Grammy had the purse-on-her-lap look then, too. She must've been horrified of snatchers. And this was before my city was even that dangerous.

Anyway.

The picture of Cardinal and me slays me, is what it does. Here it is again:

Look how unjaded by time and bad relationships I was. Grammy's over there thinking, "LOVE FADES!" but I had no clue. I just figured Cardinal and I would be happy for the rest of time. And that I'd always be that thin. And that stripy Izod belts would remain cool.

So there's your preview. Stay tuned for Ned Goes to Prom and June Continues to Look Naive photos.

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.

Attitude June

Hellooooooo!

In my mind, I just said that like Mrs. Doubtfire.

 

Oh my GOD, you can find ANYTHING onYouTube.

First of all, I want to say THANK YOU to the person who...did the nice thing for me Friday afternoon. I don't wanna ruin the surprise for the rest of you, but you know who you are, nice person. When I got the email saying you'd done the...nice thing, I almost burst into tears! Yay!

So what'd y'all do all weekend?

I went to First Friday in Winston Salem and saw this puppy snickerpoo at a gallery. She is a French bulldoggy. She is six cute months old. Oh! How I loved her. I know that is shocking information. And look! She's even my dog color scheme!

We were supposed to hang with D Whitman at First Friday--in fact, going there was his idea entirely. And when I say "we" were supposed to hang with D Whitman, I mean Ned and me, not Fronchie, up there. Yes, I just named her Fronchie. I am so getting a French bulldog and naming it Fronchie, just to be obnoxious.

My POINT is, Ned came to get me and right before we got in the car, I took my vitamins. I've been trying to take my One-a-Day for wimmins, which by the way I have to get in the teensy size, because ever since I started living alone I've had this fear Ima choke on something and die here with no Hemlicher. So I get the tiny One-a-Days, which means you have to take TWO of them, which renders the name of the product useless.

So I take my two One-a-Days and get in the car, and the last time I'd eaten had been right at noon and here it was almost 7:00 and I've taken two One-a-Days and let me tell you what. We got to about Kernersville and I was all, "I feel a little barfy."

I know the part where I just said we got to Kernersville means something to approximately 7 of you. Good catering to your audience, June. Let's just say we were maybe 20 minutes out of town, okay? Persnickety?

"Can you, um, turn down the heat?" I asked, feeling decidedly peckish.

Dudes. By the time we got to Woodstock and Winston-Salem, I FELT AWFUL. I got out the car and I was all, Oh, Ima barf. Ima barf right here at First Friday.

We'd been gonna meet Dick Whitman and some of his friends at the bar we go to, the one that serves old-fashioned drinks that are 400% alcohol. Whitman had said, "You wanna meet there first, or dinner first?" and I'd been all, Oh the drink place first! But when reality hit, I tried calling Whitman.

Why does one pay $850 a month for a mobile phone if one is not gonna answer it? And I noticed he'd done the thing, the thing where if I am THIRTY SECONDS LATE, he texts me. I have told him before this IRRITATES me, and if I'm, you know, TWENTY minutes late, okay. Ask where I am. But texting me at 7:07? Ima bust a cap in your ass.

Ima bust a '90s phrase out too. See how you like THAT, Whitman.

"Wherefore art thou, June?" he'd texted.

"We have to go RIGHT to a restaurant," I said to Ned, who thought this would be the PERFECT time to suggest we try someplace new, three blocks away.

"I GOT THE WATER JETS IN MY MOUTH. WE'RE EATING RIGHT HERE, AT THIS RESTAURANT IN FRONT OF US. HERE."

But of course, before we did that, we had to schlep over to where Whit was waiting for us. I had tried calling him NINETY-TWO TIMES and he wasn't picking up. Nor had he answered my text.

"There you are!" he said, with a brand-new mint julep in his un-phoneded hand.

"WHY DON'T YOU ANSWER YOUR PHONE," I screeched. "Ima BARF, AND I HAVE TO EAT NOW, and 'Wherefore art thou' doesn't mean 'Where are you,' it means 'Why are you' READ YOUR FUCKING SHAKESPEARE!" I said, storming out with my water jets.

Ten minutes later I was eating, THANK GOD, and I have no idea how we got such fast service on First Friday, other than God did not wanna see me barf in front of gallery hoppers.

"I feel so much better," I said to Ned.

"I just feel relieved to see the end of Attitude June," he said.

Hmph!

"So it's not important to you that I feel better, just that I'm more cheerful," I said, returning Attitude June to her rightful place.

Here is vaguely terrified-looking Ned right after that exchange.

What?

The point is, once we went back to the bar where Whit and friends were mint juleping, they were gone. I texted him. "We're at the restaurant!" he said.

Oh for the love of God.

So we never really saw each other that night. Which is just as well. Because I think Ned wanted all-June-all-the-time right then. I was a DELIGHT.

The end.

In which Ned meets Belle Watling

I can tell you now, because he's pretty much headed out of there, but Ned was in Las Vegas for work. He is a professional Celine Dion impersonator.

He was supposed to leave Tuesday afternoon (TUESSSSDAYYY AAAAAFTERNOON! Who sings that depressing old song?), and I was gonna be all CUNextTuesday and so forth (my favorite hairdresser in LA taught me that. "She was a total CUNextTuesday," he said, and I spit up, is what I did) and then he had to stay another day.

Ned is a professional Blue Man. The show was held over.

His being gone another day to fill in as a minister at the drive-thru wedding chapel dampens my spirits considerably, because even though Ned and I could easily go Monday through Wednesday not seeing each other, just the THOUGHT that I CAN'T zip over and see him makes me sad.

Damn Vegas's need for more go-go dancers in gay nightclubs.

The point of this story is that the first night he got there, he won $125 gambling and as much as he wanted to stampede over and try to buy first-row Cher tickets, he decided to have a drink at the bar and people watch. I have been to Vegas three or four times and I effing LOVE people-watching there. So feeling him on this desire.

But apparently I was not the only one feeling him, because it wasn't long before a woman he described as "actually young and pretty" approached him. "Where you from?" she wondered. He told her. "You want to go up to your room?"

See. My whole postadolescent life I been picking up mens and it never occurred to me to cut to the chase this quickly. I mean, does that work, generally?

Ned had a brief moment of panic. How was he going to diffuse the situation? He thought about saying, "I'm married" and don't fret, he isn't. This isn't a Very Special Episode of Bye Bye, Pie or anything. But he realized saying he was married would not dissuade this person, who probably wasn't all up in the morals. At any rate, he turned her down, but couldn't help but ask, "Just out of curiosity, how much is it, anyway?"

Okay.

How much do you THINK a Las Vegas prostitute runs? How much? Because I was appalled.

"Three hundred," she said. "THREE HUNDRED AN HOUR?" asked Ned, whose stint as a lion tamer for Sigfried and what's left of Roy started to seem lame.

"No, for a half-hour. It's 500 for the hour," she said.

DUDES! FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS AN HOUR!

I am sorry to tell you that Vilhelm and I figured this out at work; if you prostituted a 40-hour week, you'd be almost a millionaire. And that city never sleeps, so you could put in the overtime if you felt like it.

FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS AN HOUR!

Holy cats. I mean, what's she got that I don't? Does she have secret squirrel techniques we don't know about? Or is it like when you have to spend $12 for a sandwich at the airport because that's all that's available?

Anyway, that was exciting. I mentioned to Ned that if he won more money he might want to check out the half hour deal, just for research purposes. For my blog. You know. He seemed not so amenable to that plan, but then again he's working a LOT of hours as a pit boss, so.

I mean, there's a teensy part of me that's all GET OFF MY MAN and gouging out her eyes and pulling her hair and so on, but mostly I'm all, girlfriend has to make a living. It wasn't personal.

AND WHAT A LIVING. GEEZ.

That's about all I have to tell you, except that I got my roots done last night and as I sat in the chair it occurred to me that I really like that old Bangles song Going Down to Liverpool and why didn't I have it on my iPod.

 

So I came home and PUT it on my iPod, and by the way I desperately wish I had some opportunity to just drive around and annoy Leonard Nemoy like that. I really do.

MY POINT IS, I wanted to do my Susanna Hoffs impression for you.

You're welcome. That'll be $500, please.

Step Work

If there's anything I learned from the media--or maybe I could be hilarious and call it the lamestream media--coming to my house, it's that my porch steps need to be painted. And I love the people who pointed it out to me, like I didn't notice that and the trashy fan on my deck. My attic won't open (long story) (who needs a handyman? Is it me?), so I can't store the fan in there and--oh, forget it.

Anyway, here's where I need your help. Can you send your husband over to fix my attic and paint my steps? No. No. Although that'd be great, actually.

What I need your help with is for you to tell me what color I should paint the stairs and door.

Here. Here's a whole picture of my house, and it would have been quicker for me to just go outside and take a photo but instead I googled my blog and then "+ yard" "+ ivy" "+ house" until I was ready to impale myself with a plus sign and also screech. I was ready to impale myself with Screech.

The point is, I finally found this photo of my whole house, and in this particular blog post, I'd left an Oprah magazine out thats cover read, "Oprah's battle with food is over!" Marvin looked at that and said, "Food won."

Sometimes Marvin kills me, in retrospect. He posthumously slays me. Does anyone else miss Marvin from time to time? Not like that. You know I'm all Team Ned at this point.

In fact, Ned and I were talking about how some people have a huge impact on your life, and they might not even be anyone you were close to or even liked. And here's where I desperately hope this person hasn't somehow found my blog, because you would not believe the people from my past who have found this. So far they have all been happy discoveries from people I enjoy, but if this poor sap is reading Ima feel terrible.

My point is, and I know I already said that two paragraphs ago and who rambles? Is it June? My POINT is, I worked with this woman in Seattle who I did not much care for. She was the most self-centered person you've ever met. At meetings we'd play the "I" drinking game. Every time she brought the conversation--the WORK conversation--back around to herself, we'd drink our coffee. We all had to pee like demons at the end of meetings.

You know how those demons are famous for just having pee fests.

However, we were all losing our jobs at that place because it was closing, and this woman was already scoring a new job because we actually had an economy back then, and she ended up getting me a job there too. Because of this, I met a bunch of people who are my friends to this day, and she also introduced me to a man I dated and lived with for over a year.

Meeting her lead to my marrying Marvin, which is a whole long story but trust me. (Okay, see, like I said I met a lot of friends at the job she got for me. One of those friends and I went to a strawberry festival. I know! Yayyy, seeds! At the festival was a psychic who naturally I stampeded to talk to. She said I had a curse on my love life and for $10 she'd lift it. I borrowed $10 from my friend and THAT NIGHT met Jonah, the film-student boyfriend I had who said, "I'd like to meet your old boyfriend who works on movies in Los Angeles." So I invited Marvin to visit me and boom we were married.)

If I hadn't married Marvin, I'd never have moved to Greensboro and never met Ned.

All because of that stupid woman who literally had a shrine to herself on her wall at home. She even had letters up there that spelled her name. Honest to God.

Which is my very brief way of saying some people impact your life and you never know who that's gonna be. Do you have anyone like that?

You'd all impact my life if you told me what color to paint my steps and door. Ned, of the met-him-due-to-a-strawberry-festival-in-1996 Neds, said he'd help. When you have All This, men help you paint your steps. I think the attic problem would flummox him, though. It seems like a major undertaking.

Ima go now so you can contemplate paint samples, but I managed to take pictures of my pets while I was headed out to photograph the steps.

I love Lily's little tippy toes.

why mom gots to bug lu.

Apparently someone needed discipline last night, seeing as the purple squirter is on the couch. Sadly I cannot even recall what transgression occurred.

I traded in Edsel for a paper towel roll. Seemed reasonable. Actually this is a harsh reminder of what it's like to have a puppy. You scream through a LOT of paper towels. There is much to clean.

This photo is a sad portrait of my life, actually. The brochure is from an art exhibit, which makes me seem super intellectual and you know how true that is. There's Ned's wine, back there. He likes red wine so I try to keep some on hand. Then of course there are pill pockets for dogs, which Ned likes to munch on. Behind those is a job candle. And on the window sill are two (2) kinds of dog meds. Pill pockets, wine and job candles. Now I'm sort of depressed.

Okay, I'm going now, to stick my head in the oven. Be sure to tell me about step colors. Or send paper towels. Whichev.