Well, I'm ALMOST packed. I know it's taking forever, but I'm going through a whole house and shed and attic and Marvin's stuff and besides, I usually get bored after an hour.
That bag is one final (maybe final?) bag of clothes to go to Goodwill, who I actually have not donated to that much, because what happened to all their drop boxes? I keep donating to this yellow drop box, and I have no idea what charity I'm helping. The Charity to Help Kill Baby Gorillas. Hey! Here are more clothes! Good luck with that!
The Ashley Wilkes is Hot Foundation
Friends of Gwynneth Paltrow
The Barfing, Yay! Group
Okay, I'm done.
Shelves in hallway.
Shelf above stove. When I was packing, I grabbed this old tin of hot chocolate from up there to throw it away, and it rattled. In 1812, Marvin put spare keys in there, and the cats' ID tags. This would have been good to know, say, four years ago.
You can tell what's important to me: salt, pepper and coffee. I like to add both to my coffee. Mmm-mmmm! I can describe this chicken in two words: mmm-mmmmm!
This is the second day in a row I've mentioned chicken. What is wrong with me?
Faithful Reader and Friend in Real Life Lilly came by yesterday and left me "some boxes" on my porch. When I came home for lunch, there were 39449393 boxes, neatly lying there. I wrote to thank her, and asked her, "If my dogs are home all day, why can't they pack? They're pack animals."
I loved myself so much for that line, I repeated it to the editor who sits next to me. "They'll only pack for you if they're Boxers," he said.
Really, we'll be here all week.
Ned is pretty much recovered from his illness, and we went out last night and got more newspapers so he and I could pack dishes. Somehow we got on the subject of that horrible song, The Boys Are Back in Town by Thin Lizzy. I hate that song.
"What boys?" I groused.
"The boys," said Ned. "They're back in town."
"Remember that time over at Janet's place?" I asked Ned, who said if his two moods are starving and I-may-have-eaten-too-much, my mood is I love myself. "Well, this chick got up and she slapped Janet's face."
"It's Johnny's place. Not Janet. ...Janet." Ned was all disgusted with me.
"It's Johnny? Seriously? My whole life I pictured a cat fight between two kind of trashy women." I Googled the lyrics with my phone. What the hell did we ever do before we could whip out our phones and Google everything? Did we all just keep arguing?
"Hunh. It's Johnny."
You go your whole life thinking something...
I'd better go to work.
I just heard that stupid Jewel song, from the '90s, where she wishes she could tell the whole world, "We're all okay." She also wishes to tell the world not to worry, because worrying's wasteful and something not good something.
Is there anything more annoying than some 21-year-old twit thinking she can tell the rest of us she's figured it out and here's what you do? Alanis Morrisette did it, too. She had the nerve to give us all advice to bite off more than we could chew and get your heart broken and to add insult to stupidity, had as the chorus, "You live, you learn."
YOU'VE LIVED FOR 28 MINUTES, YOU ASS.
My point is, this Jewel song not only made me cranky, but reminded me that the other day, TinaDoris asked me what I thought the best song of the '90s was. "Good blog topic!" I told her, because I am annoying.
So, what do you think the best song of the '90s was? What about the '80s? The '70s?
For some reason that I'm certain had a lot to do with work, my boss and I got into a discussion about the song Every Rose Has Its Thorn. That's not entirely accurate. I was complaining about something that is mostly good, and being me, I have to concentrate on the one bad part.
"Every rose has its thorn," my boss said. On Mondays and Wednesdays he leads the Professional Philosophers club.
"Yeah," I agreed, because who can disagree with that wisdom?
"Every day has its dawn," he continued, obviously in love with his analogy.
So, he's my boss. I waited a long time, but I couldn't stand it. You know how I am.
"I think it's...every night has its dawn," I said.
"No, it isn't."
We hired a new copy editor to replace The Other Copy Editor. Let's call him Alex. "That makes no sense," Alex said, sucking up to his new boss. "Every night DOESN'T have its dawn. If it's dawn, it's already day."
"Look, I never said Brett Michaels was a Rhodes Scholar," I said, "but I am betting you FIVE HUNDRED MILLION DOLLARS it's 'night.'"
I once dated someone who, when he wanted to make fun of your intelligence, would call you a brain scientist. "Well, you're a real brain scientist, aren't you?" I always found that ironic.
Anyway, being a brain scientist, I Googled the lyrics.
Every rose has its thorn
Just like every night has its dawn
Just like every cowboy sings his sad, sad song
Every rose has its thorn
Yeah, it does
The best part of that song is the "yeah, it does" at the end, there.
I told this story to Ned, who came over for dinner last night, because you are sick of hearing Chef Tales From June. I made spaghetti. And a salad. I was exhausted.
"I used to think the song Venus was 'I'm your fetus, I'm the fire of your desire,'" he told me. "I didn't know what it meant, but I thought it was pretty racy for a fetus."
Sometimes there're things you needn't know about your significant other. Speaking of which, we stupidly took this enneagram test and then we got ahold of a book that tells you what you're like as a couple based on your enneagram results.
I was a 4 (The Individualist) and Ned was a 7 (The Enthusiast). Basically we each think the other one is an asshole. I like to dwell in melancholy (what's wrong with that?) and he likes to avoid all pain at all times, so if I'm ever melancholy, his reaction is, "Let's go do 800 things! We shouldn't have any melancholy! Let's avoid that!" and that makes me more melancholy, baby.
Also, if you read about the 4, I sound like a total dick. I sound like Phyllis from the Mary Tyler Moore Show.
Yeah, it does. I know that made no sense but I just wanted to say it again.
I have to go dry my hair, as per usual, and what I like about summer in the South is how rapidly anything gets dry. I could have hair made of rocks and it still wouldn't dry.
Anyway, before I go, I wanted to tell you that next week old Enthusiast Ned and I are going to the beach where I plan to look out over the water melancholically. One of the Alexes from work is going to dogsit. And to a much, much lesser extent, catsit. I feel like Iris could fend for herself for the rest of time.
Yeah, it does. Let's all say that today when it makes no real sense. What say you?
So, Alex, the Bitchy Resting Face Alex who was cockblocking my birthday picture, came over last night to meet the dogs. I wondered how long it would take her, after she met them, to come up with some pressing reason she couldn't watch them. However, she loves dogs and wants one of her own as soon as she's not living in an apartment with a roommate, and I tell you what. I think I already have a dog for her.
She walked in and Tallulah did the thing where she's pretty much a cat. Lu goeeng to stand over here and bark at you, and puff her Lu lips, and finelee she let you pet her. Wonce. Won pet onleee then go fuk self.
She's what you might call an aloof dog. I've always liked that about her. I wonder what her enneagram number would be?
In the meantime, Edsel needed a compact, because man. Was the lipstick ever out. Naturally I pointed this out to Alex, who was mortified because she is a normal person. I'm just sort of excited that Edsel likes a girl, for a change, because maybe that means I won't have to listen to quite so much Barbra Streisand anymore.
Yeah it does.
Every night has its June.
You know, I think I'm out of Freaky Friday stories. Is there one you sent that I haven't put up?
Anyway, I have to get to work early again, but yesterday at work we were all talking about the first concert we ever saw. I saw Elvis. Everyone I work with saw Kellie Pickler or someone else equally depressing and from four years ago. Where is everyone my age? Are they all retired and resting on their laurels? I want to rest on some laurels.
Okay, so tell me. Oh, and thank you to everyone who wrote me yesterday or who wrote nice comments. I wasn't able to answer everyone personally but please know I read each email, often twice while nodding knowingly.
For some reason, I feel dance-y today, and started thinking about my favorite dance scenes in movies.
I saw Flashdance when I was 18, and Alex, Jennifer Beals' character in the movie, was 18. Oh, how I wanted to live in a loft and dance and have a butt like this. Please refer to my life, where none of that ever happened.
Sometimes I get water on me, so. What a feeling!
Tell me you don't do the V over your eyes thing whenever you dance now. "I do believe Marsellus Wallace, my husband, your boss, told you to take ME out and do WHATEVER I WANTED. Now I wanna dance, I wanna win. I want that trophy, so dance good."
PEE WEE'S BIG ADVENTURE
The white shoes. As soon as I see the white shoes I know I will never be sad again. Also? Tequila.
Because this is the kind of Prime Minister I'd be.
IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE
"They're cheering! We must be good!" Story of my life.
Not a movie at all. But this is still my favorite thing anyone ever did.
I carried a watermelon.
I saw that movie with my grandparents. After my initial mortification, I loved this scene.
PRETTY IN PINK
I never understood why she didn't like Duckie and stuck with Blaine.
PRISCILLA, QUEEN OF THE DESERT
I actually think of this scene often when I write write write a post, and crack myself up, and get all sweaty with the effort, and...four comments. Okay, I haven't gotten just four comments since 2007. Still. You know what I mean.
This isn't even much of a dance scene, but I love it. That whole movie haunts me, really. I know I've shown you this scene before:
I guess I just like that movie.
Anyway, those are my favorite dance scenes from movies. Are there any you like?
The open floor plan they've implemented at work has indeed fostered important conversations. "What exactly DID Billie Joe and his girlfriend throw off the Tallahatchie Bridge?" my boss asked.
"I always figured it was a baby," I said.
"A BABY? Why? I figured it was flowers," said my boss, as he unceremoniously ripped a whole sentence out of the document he was editing.
"No, no, NO. Flowers are what she threw off afterward, as kind of an offering to Billie Joe and her river baby," I said.
"Why does it have to be something as dramatic as a baby?" he asked, thinking I was being a girl.
"Well, why else did she lose her appetite? Her mom cooked all morning and she hadn't touched a single bite."
"Because her BOYfriend is DEAD," said my boss, rising to look at the lyrics I'd Googled.
Ned emailed me right then. "How's your day going, sweetie?" he wrote.
"Well, we're having a pertinent discussion about what Billie Joe threw off the Tallahatchie Bridge," I wrote back. "What do YOU think?"
"I dunno. Rocks?" Ned offered.
I don't understand why everyone doesn't understand this song. If they were throwing ROCKS or FLOWERS off the bridge, they wouldn't have added the haunting part about how somebody saw a girl who looked like our narrator and Billie Joe McAllister, who never had a lick of sense, throwing something off the Tallahatchie Bridge. It had to have been something IMPORTANT.
"Hey, did you guys know they made a movie of this?" asked my coworker, showing us his phone.
"What the song didn't tell you, the movie will," he said.
"I know what WE'RE doing Friday night!" I wrote to Ned. "And it stars Robby Benson!"
"Seriously? You honestly believe I haven't seen that movie a hundred million times, along with the rest of America? Robbie Benson's Billie Jo McAllister jumps off the Tallahatchie Bridge due to the guilt he feels for some drunken homosexual encounter," Ned told me.
Hunh. Really? I've never HEARD of this movie, and now it turns out Ned knows it by heart like he does The Big Lebowski. Who knew?
So, ignoring the stupid plot of the 1978 movie, what do YOU think they threw off that bridge? Also, can you try to work the line, "And now Billie Joe McAllister's jumped off the Tallahatchie Briiiiidge" into a conversation today? And try to say "Tallahatchie Bridge" as low as you can. Report back to me.
And before I go, I'm happy to report that if you Google "Ode to," "Joy" still beats "Billie Joe."
Yesterday was reDONKulous and I never got a chance to write anything bloggy.
(And Dear Ned, you are very welcome for "reDONKulous." I know how you love it.)
I overslept, and what woke me up was my ludicrous Christmas clock that plays a different carol every hour. It was playing the 8:00 song, which is not a good sign as I have to be at work at 8:30. I do not recall which sadistic relative got said Xmas clock for me, but
Dear Sadistic Relative, Thanks.
Also, did you know that the first Noel the angels did sing? Did you? WELL I DO!
At any rate, I screamed over to work looking very put together and not at all hysterical. The other copy editor has been in Amsterdam and Paris with her husband for over a week now, and I currently wish to fly to Amsterdam, snap her neck like a pencil, shit down her throat and fly back. Because, busy without her?
Also? Did you know that there were angels we have heard on high? Sweetly singing o'er the plains? WELL I DO!
Then at lunch I had to answer interview questions because a friend is writing an article on Christmas clocks and by the way, oh holy night. The stars? Did you know they're brightly shining?
WELL I DO!
After I did the interview questions at lunch, I wrote next week's Purple Clover column, which will get edited till good King Wenceslas looks out on the feast of Stephen. Because in case you didn't know, that's what good King Wenceslas did. ...Did you know that?
WELL I DO.
Then I returned to work and stayed OVER AN HOUR LATE, IN CASE YOU SEE THIS, OTHER COPY EDITOR OVER THERE IN AMSTERDAM YOU.
And do you think as the day closed I returned to a silent night, holy night, over here? WELL I DIDN'T. I had freelance work to do, which means there went my evening, it went away in a manger, which by the way, had no crib for a bed. I might know a bit about this. Anyway, without taking down my Christmas decorations OR MY CLOCK, I went to bed, where my thoughts went bong-de-bong-bong-boop-doodle-ooo-boop-bop-boo-bop-jazz. Do you think I could relax or sleep? Do you?
Did you also know we wish you a merry Christmas? We wish you a merry Christmas? We wish you a merry Christmas? And also a happy new year?
WELL I DO.
So that is where I was on Monday, and I know I've now said six THOUSAND times that I will catch you up on what I did September through December when I was gone but now that I've droned on and you are over me and how I still I see thee lie, I will at this point only cover September.
My September, by June Gardens.
See You in September--NOT! by June Gardens.
Fortunately, my computer divides my photos up my month, so I just went back to see what I did in September, because do YOU remember the 21st night of September? Me, either.
No idea what Ned and I are up to, here, but at least we know it was in September. Why does Ned always look like he's sitting on hot pointy coals when I take his photo? Ned hates his picture being taken, is the thing. Looks like he picked the wrong girlfriend. In, you know, every way. In the grand scheme of things, Ned picked a Christmas clock.
Ah! This I remember. It was the beginning of the month, so right around Barry Gibb's birthday but that goes without saying, and it was time to plonk the flea meds on all 200,000 pets. I squished the tube on Iris, and as soon as I was done I thought, man, that seemed like a damn-ass ton of flea stuff.
And right then is when it occurred to me to check the tube, and sure enough: LARGE-DOG FLEA MEDICINE, the tube read. DO NOT SQUISH ON TEENSY BLIND CATS. Oh, I was fit to be tied. Ned was over, and he is OBSESSED with Iris, and he was worried sick. "Call poison control!" he said, snatching up Iris and trying to suck the flea meds off with his lips. Okay, he did not remotely do that, but I wanted to be dramatic. We did, you know, BLOT as much off as we could, and finally we got hold of the Bayer Corporation, makers of fine cat-killing flea medicine. They told us to bathe her right away and stay with her to make sure she didn't foam at the mouth or turn green or vote Republican.
There is nothing more relaxing than bathing a cat. It's right up there with clipping the wires on bombs, which I do often. Anyway, Iris lived, and man did she ever fight fleas that month.
They moved a bunch of us into a large open room at work so they could revamp our office space. As someone moved out of her office, she gave me this mask because she thought it looked like me. Is this what I look like? Anyway, we were in there for three months (the big room, not this mask), all spread out on long tables, and our work area looked like a huge PBS fundraiser. We ended up all having the best time being together, and I got to know people at work I usually don't work with a lot, so it's all good.
Dear Ned, You are welcome for "It's all good."
While Ned slaved, I lounged by the pool and listened to the towels tell me I'm super hot and have more talent in my eyeteeth than anyone else at school and that boys aren't asking me out because they're intimidated by my beauty. Wait, they were complimentary towels, not towels that sound like your mom.
Even the towels were fed up with me at that point. We took a balloon ride, though, and that's what I'm doing, above. Ned did not just have me caged.
So that wraps up September, and that only took 11 hours to tell. Just think, there's THREE MORE MONTHS to cover! Won't you come back tomorrow? Oh, come, Emmanuel.
June, joyful and triumphant,
Trying to get you people to answer a simple question is like herding cats. Green or blue? "Well, June, in 1987 I decided to stop believing in colors, so I surgically had that part of my brain removed and now I see only black and white."
GREEN OR BLUE?
"Are we talking about penises, June?"
Anyway, I did not count because I'd have had to slog through your "I don't believe in color" answers, but I think it's pretty obvious that Whopper won. Which is WRONG, by the way. WRONG. If Fonzie were here, he'd be able to pronounce the word this time. WRONG.
In other news, I hate my mascara. Not that long ago, Marvin sent me a picture of me sitting on the toilet in our old apartment in LA, and behind me is the etigerre that goes around the toilet. Rather than being appalled that Marvin even HAS such a picture, I took a gander at the cosmetics and other grooming items on said etigerre. Not one thing on there was from a drug or grocery store. They were all fancy boutique or salon-bought items. God, I miss having money.
The point is, now I have to buy my mascara at the grocery store, and I don't wanna hear that this is a First World problem because it SO ISN'T, and the other day I went for that gold L'Oreal tube of mascara that looks like a telescope. Maybe it's mascara for people who're going to stalk someone. Maybe it's mascara for Dudly Moore in 10. Maybe it's Maybelline.
What matters is I knew I'd owned this kind before, but what I could NOT remember is if I loved it or hated it. Perhaps the part where I NO LONGER OWNED ANY OF IT coulda tipped me off, but no. Into my shopping cart it went.
It won't come off. Dudes, I'm serious. I use that Clinique eye makeup remover? And then I get in the shower and wash my face? When I dry off, I leave a Shroud of Turin of my mascara on the towel every day. I use MORE eye makeup remover. It doesn't matter. It's the Everlasting Gobstopper of mascara. It's the mascara that won't quit. If it were Lionel Ritchie, it'd go all night long.
(c) Ned, who made a Lionel Ritchie "all night long" joke last night, which I am clearly being influenced by.
Oh, and you're welcome, for putting that song in your head. No, really. Any time. Because the time has come. To raise the roof and have some fun.
I guess I'd better go tuck my burnt-orange shirt into my leather pants, and also mush down my afro mullet and head to work. Talk at you later.
Oh, and you're still wrong about the Whopper.