Bye Bye, Pie!

Dumb things I've been doing instead of blogging.

It's sad when you have to justify living your life instead of blogging about your life. Nevertheless, here's what I've been up to:

Ned-ing. Not only did we have a fabulous time watching Gone With the Wind, and when I say "we," I mean me and the other women in the theater. Anyway, not only did we do that, but Ned and I also went out for the salmon salad he likes to get on Wednesdays. Ned is what you'd call a creature of habit, and also Ned is what you'd call good at finding salads. The waiter said, "You know this menu by heart, but here." Sadly for the waiter, who probably had other things to do, we already knew what we wanted. Two salmon salads, please.

Also, I can't remember what it was Ned was feeding me, but he said, "When we get to my house, I want you to try [insert some new thing here] and see how you like it." "I wish I had the ability to just projectile vomit on command," I said, continuing my deep love affair with my own self. "You'd be all, 'How do you like this?' and I could just, blarghhhh, barf across the room."

"Yeah. Vomiting voluntarily for any reason," said Ned, "is just a thing you will never be able to do."

"Well. That or math," I said.

Being exercise-y. As I've told you, I joined this ludicrous challenge at work, where I've committed to 45 minutes of activity five times a week. NO ONE MENTIONED THAT THIS WOULD BE TIME-CONSUMING. Geez. Nevertheless, I started Sunday and so far have done 45 minutes of stupid stupid exercise three times this week. I will do it again tonight, and I hate everything and had better look like I have RICKETS when this challenge is done. Which by the way, I have no idea how long of a challenge I have committed to. I just signed up like when Marcia joins every club in school.

Having pertinent conversations. My mother and I were on the phone and got into a discussion about people who we knew were good-looking, but who just weren't our type. Like Ryan Reynolds. I know the world finds him handsome, but to me he kind of looks like some guy from my hometown who'd say "should've went." Anyway, who do you think is inarguably good-looking but not your type?

Getting Rick-Rolled. I was at the grocery store last night, buying all the things I forgot LAST time I went there, and I noticed they were playing Never Gonna Give You Up, which is what you play when you get Rick-Rolled.

Never Gonna Give You Up, in case you do not know, is a terrible '80s song by Rick Astley. For some reason, it became the thing to send someone a link ("Here's a wonderful picture of Kim Kardashian!" "Click here for how to lose weight without trying!" Or, if one is looking in my comments, "Here's a link to a blog that's funnier than June's!") And then when a person stupidly CLICKS on a link, they instead get a video of Never Gonna Give You Up.

 

So yeah. My grocery store was Rick-Rolling us. As we shopped. Which is real rude.

That about sums it up, what I've been up to, other than on the way home from daycare yesterday, Edsel got caught between the car seat and the door and got all panicky and even more wedged as he panicked, and I was driving and it was awful. By the time I pulled over he'd wedged himself out. Tallulah pretty much spent the whole time snickering at him unsympathetically.

Tallulah is a terrible person. Who would totally Rick-Roll you if she had half a chance.

To cheer us. Josie and her lack of pussycats.

I've been meaning to post this for awhile but I keep forgetting. Some of you have asked in the comments to see pictures of my friend Sleeping Beauty's kid, Josie, who is almost two now, and I'm certain my pal Sleeping would tell you the exact number of months she is, as all moms do and please see yesterday's list of things that bug me, says 573-month-old June Gardens, who enjoys a run-on sentence not at all.

Wow. I am exactly 573 months old TODAY. Where the eff are my happy bday wishes? Bunch of dinks.

Anyway, Sleeping B saw those comments and of course stampeded to send me a photo of her child:

Who looks precisely like--I want to say like Sleeping B in drag, but that makes no sense. She looks like if my friend Sleeping Beauty had been left in the dryer too long. It is amazing how one has a kid and that kid ends up looking like the person who had her. That Mendel, man.

Anyway, she also sent along a video, and I thought maybe on this gloomy day we would all enjoy watching it, as not only is it ridiculous, it is also ridiculous. I especially like Josie's big finish.

So here you go. Sister's got moves. Just like her Aunt June.

I hope I don't get sued by whoever wrote The Alphabet Song.

 

The Birds and the Bees

It is unseasonably cold here and I for one am annoyed. On my home page on my computer, as opposed to my home page I just have in life, I have the local temperature, the temperature of my hometown in Michigan, and for no real reason, the temps in Dublin and Paris.

Back when we all wore Swatch watches? Remember that? I wore two, because that was also a cool thing to do, and one of the watches was light blue and smelled like something. I forget what. But it was scented. The other was watch was black, to go with my general demeanor at the time. The point is, one watch was set to Paris time. My boyfriend Cardinal said, "I'll bet a lot of people in Paris have their Swatches set to East Lansing, Michigan time."

Anyway, my home page yesterday said the temp here was the same as it was in Dublin--46 degrees--and this morning? My hometown, my FRIGID NORTHERN HOMETOWN, has the same temp as here. Thirty-two degrees. Which is not pretty. THE GOOD SPRINGS HERE MAKE UP FOR THE CONFEDERATE FLAGS. That was the deal I made with this place when I got here. Am irritated.

And what's more fascinating than hearing someone complain about their weather? How about their bird house?!?!

A few years ago, I spent seven dollars on this little wooden bird house with a hole in the middle. I think it was supposed to attract a certain kind of bird, a bird from our class, a bird of the Philadelphia birds, yet every year different species have come in and nested there.

Can birds be different species? They can't, can they. June. Paying attention in science since 1977.

Last year, hornets or bees or wasps or some stingy thing had a nest in there. And I mean "sting-y," not that the bugs failed to pay for heat or only got meat on sale or whatever.

Probably a bee or a hornet or a wasp is an INSECT and not a BUG, right? Do you know what I enjoy? People who act like that makes any difference, bugs and insects. It's like people who insist you know that a tomato is a fruit.

My point is, I hope the birds don't encounter the sting-y things and all hell breaks loose. I imagine this sort of thing happens in nature all the time, much like what's happened to my ass, and it's a tragedy any way you look at it.

Last night, Ned and I went to that old theater we like and saw The Passion of the Christ. Oh, by the way, I'm changing the subject completely now. My old friend Tammy called me The Queen of the Nonsequitur, and often I'd be telling a story and all of a sudden come up with SOMETHING ALL NEW, and she'd just say, "Are you the QUEEN?"

I imagine I'm an exhausting friend.

So, Ned and I met at the movie theater, where he showed up precisely at 7:30, which is when THE MOVIE WAS SUPPOSED TO BEGIN. "If you're worried about us getting in after it starts, I've read the book," said Ned, who apparently has the passion for the Ned.

Have you ever seen that depressing movie? I mean, I knew getting crucified was no walk in the park, although he did walk quite a bit, but dang. That was awful. I turned to Ned at one point and said, "This hardly seems like a good Friday at all. In fact, it might be the worst Friday anyone's ever had."

I kind of wish Jesus had risen up and kicked some ass after that, but I guess that goes against his grain.

After the movie, Ned and I talked about how my friend Sandy's birthday was last week, and not only did I completely forget even though her bday is on the Ides of March and therefore memorable, and even though I have known her for TWENTY-NINE YEARS and should know, I managed to email her that day and call her a twat.

Oh, I was kidding. Still. Happy birthday from one of your oldest friends!

I imagine I'm an exhausting friend.

Anyway, we talked about if we remembered birthdays, and did Ned recall the birthdays of any old girlfriends (answer: not really) and then somehow we got onto the topic of what the number one song was the week you were born, and sadly for Ned it was Mr. Tambourine Man by the Byrds. Not the birds who are building a nest in my house, but rather the singing ones with the Y in their name.

Had it been Mr. Tambourine Man by Bob Dylan, that would have been a different thing altogether. And by the way, that link up there goes to Wikipedia, and you know I am snobby about Wikipedia, but you click the year you were born and then look up your particular birth week. Good luck.

I have Satisfaction by The Rolling Stones, and you know that's a good one.

And speaking of songs (I'm changing the subject again) (I imagine I'm an exhausting blogger), do you have a friend who absolutely abhors a song, and then when you hear the song you get a kick out of it because you know how much they hate it? That's how I feel every time I hear Lyin' Eyes by The Eagles, because my coworker The Poet abhors that song.

To: ThePoet@fakework.com

From: JuneGardens@fakework.com

Subject: With fiery eyes and dreams no one can steal.

Guess what I heard on the radio just now?

To: June

From: Poet

My oh my, you sure now how to arrange things.

 

Whenever I YouTube for you guys, I try to find the most ludicrous video I can. I guess every form of refuge has its price.

Did that terrible song ever go to number one? Because what if you find out THAT WAS YOUR SONG from when you were born? Oh, that will tickle me.

I have to go. I'm headed for the cheatin' side of town.

Baby hair. With a woman's eyes.

I was writing one of my friends whose real-life name might be Sarah. Or not. I mean, I like to keep everyone anonymous-ish on my blog. So it could be that her name is NOT REMOTELY SARAH. Anyway, in the email I wrote, "Sarah, smile" and found myself hilarious and THAT DOESN'T MEAN HER NAME IS SARAH. It could be that--that--

Oh, forget it.

The point is, I wrote "Sarah, smile" and then I got all in the mood to hear the song Sara Smile by the illustrious Hall & Oates. And I KNEW I already had that song on my iPod, because who doesn't? It's the Chanel of iPod songs.

 

But when I got home last night, and clicked on the song Sara Smile on my iPod?

Nothing.

Nothing!

It'd skip right over the song. Like it wasn't there! But it WAS there! And when I went to my iTunes store it said, "Yeah, June, you already purchased Sara Smile, because who hasn't?"

So that flummoxed me.

This morning, instead of writing a blog post as I always do, I got on the horn with AppleCare. Because you can't just NOT have Hall & Oates in your life.

The AppleCare guy heard my tale of woe and had me get on my iTunes. "Now, what song was it?" he asked.

Mustering all the dignity I could, I told him.

"...And who's the artist?"

WHO'S THE ARTIST? WHOOOOOOOOOO'S THE ARTIST? Once in college I was looking for a copy of King Lear and my college librarian asked me who wrote it. I was just as appalled then.

"How OLD are you?" I asked AppleCare guy. He kind of laughed, but I'll bet you anything he wasn't even born when Sara Smile was a song. "Just because a song happens before your time doesn't make it a bad song," I chastised him. "I mean, I have a song by The Ink Spots on my iTunes." I like how I was all smug while he was the one probably making twice what I do leading addled old people like me through their iTunes drama.

Anyway, he had me click on some cloud image and then unclick it and then wave a butter knife in the air and chant, and then lo and behold, guess who had her some Sara Smile on her computer?

"Thank you," I said to the guy. "Go home and download this song. You won't be sorry." He did the nervous laugh thing again. I should totally send him the 45.

Anyway, that's where I was this morning. In case you were worried sick.

It's you and me forever. Love, June.

"They know not if it's dark outside or light."

Can you please tell me what I forgot to pack? Because you know I forgot some such nonsense, as I always do. Usually I get to my destination and I'm all, "Oh, I forgot pants!" Then I walk around like Donald Duck for the rest of my trip.

Or I'll bring the contacts that are in my EYES, which are disposable, but no OTHER contacts or any glasses, and the rest of the vacation is like an impressionist painting.

Anyway. Leaving for Michigan in an hour and a half. Things are UNDER CONTROL. Yessir. When I talked to Ned last he hadn't even CONSIDERED packing, so I feel like things are just as unchaotic at his house.

We saw the best movie the other day, she says incongruously, called Chicken with Plums, or Poulet aux Prunes, and who knew "plums" and "prunes" were interchangeable in France--those nutty French--and the point is at one point the actress takes off her glasses and when she does everything gets blurry. It was so much like real life. She must have the same prescription as me. Which is a sad, sick prescription. I have like 20/39394939493 vision.

But that is not my point. My point is I'm a disorganized packer. Am certain this shocks you.

By the way, the title of my post is exactly what Elton John was singing on my iTunes when I opened this page to start decomposing or whatever. Now Lou Reed is singing "I. Don't Know. Just where I'm going."

And you know, I don't. Glad Lou said something, because I have to print out directions in case my GPS up and dies like Mr. Bojangles. Which incidentally is not on my iTunes.

Okay, good. Here is a map of today's route. If you're in the area, stand on the freeway and wave like I'm OJ Simpson on the 405, will ya?

Here's day two. Basically here to Michigan is a long damn-ass way.

I've printed out those directions. How much would you like to bet that I forget them here at home?

"I HAVE NO PANTS!"

In case you're worried sick, Eddie Vedder is now singing, "All five horizons revolved around her sun. As the earth to the sun."

I LOVE this song. Love.

So I guess I should go do a sweep of the house to see if I'm forgetting bras or meds or oxygen, and also I should get the dogs to daycare, and y'all always ask me every time I go to mom's if the dogs are coming and why do you always forget my mother's dog is a cold-blooded murderer? I tell you this EVERY TIME and you never listen.

Remember when that jerky dog LEAPED out the back of the hatch and RIGHT ONTO puppy Tallulah's back? Now, I assure you, ASSURE YOU, Talu would kick that speckled dog's old fat ass at this point. All that'd be left are a few Gus bones and Talu with a toothpick in.004 seconds. But who wants to start a dog fight like we're the Michael Vick family?

"The day I stop's the day you change and fly away from me." The Cure. I swear I have songs from this decade on here somewhere.

Oh, but before I go, and I know you're sad disjointed June and her song call-outs is going. Are going. Whatev. Dick Whitman and I went to the movies last night, and yes I DO see a lot of movies. We saw The Sessions, which I guess is a true-ish story of a man who was paralyzed by polio and the sex surrogate he hires, who is played by Helen Hunt.

I mean, 1995 called. Remember when Helen Hunt was in everything including your bathroom? You'd walk in and she'd be checking out her enormous forehead. Her fivehead. Oh, hey, Helen.

Anyway, there she was last night, NAKED A LOT, and you can't help but like her. She looks like she'd done a lot of situps for that role, and who wouldn't? Well. I wouldn't. I'd just let you see the front butt.

You know when I didn't like Helen Hunt? Well. I didn't like her CHARACTER. Was in Castaway. What a BITCH. She's all in love with Tom Hanks, then FOUR YEARS LATER she has met someone, married, AND had a toddler. I mean, did she hump someone on the drive home from dropping Tom Hanks at the airport?

And when poor I-can-spear-fish Tom Hanks (and have I mentioned how useless I'd be on an island? Who'd panic and die on day one, over here? And I'd totally forget pants.) comes to Helen Hunt's house, he's all "Beautiful house" and she says, "Has a nice mortgage, too." Then he compliments her I'm-a-tramp-here's-my-toddler daughter, and Helen Hunt says just, "She's a handful."

OH SHUT UP. You have EVERYTHING, you big-foreheaded ho, and all you can do is complain. Irritating.

  

Oh, I love this song. In February, I went on I think it was my third date with Ned. We went to this tiny dark bar, and it was so cozy and outside was so blustery, and this song came on, and I was with a boy who had potential, and we were laughing and talking and I was so happy. I mean, as opposed to now. So totally over Ned. Which is why I'm schlepping him 299494949339 miles to meet my family.

I really want to see that HBO special on The Rolling Stones. Will one of you invite me over? I might be driving right past you today or tomorrow. Thanks.

OHMYGOD I still haven't told you what I wanted to tell you, about DW and me at the movies. Jesus. So, Dick W and I meet at the theater:

Here's me approaching DW in front of the theater, and who needs help? Is it me?

We were early, so we got treats and sat in the theater and talked. DW was telling a story and gingerly tugging this way and that to open his bag of Reece's Pieces, which you and I both know he was gonna have three of anyway, as he does. But seriously, he kept trying to rip the top, then pull, and HE WAS BUGGING ME.

"Give me that," I snapped. I pulled the bag as hard as I could and

BOOM!

every Reece's Piece IN THE UNIVERSE BURST up like a geyser, then landed down my shirt. It was amazing. It was like Old Faithful. You have never seen so many Reece's Pieces fly through the air in your life.

I gave DW the pieces that HADN'T landed in my bosoms, and I totally ate the ones that did. Hoo care, as Tallulah would say. Then throughout the movie, any time either of us shifted in our chair, you'd hear another candy roll down the aisle. We were totally the candy-coated clowns you call the sandman. Which is also not on my iTunes.

Okay, am going now. Will let you know if Ned and I detest each other by the end of today, or if that will happen AFTER he meets all my people and Gus tries to eat him.

XO,

June.

P.S. "I know a girl who reminds me of Cher. She's always changing the color of her hair." Oh this is SUCH a good song. LOVE. The Flaming Lips. In case you don't have this one on your iTunes. Which, why?

Ho. Hey. You'll be singing that all day.

I love this song.

 

I have to run to the doctor to see how my plantar fasciitis is doing, or Plantation Fascist, as my coworker The Poet would call it. I guess I cannot literally run there, seeing as I do have the Plantation Fascist. Ned assures me they can't give me another shot in my foot today, that they have to spread those shots out. Ned is the expert on things falling apart--he works out every day and as a result has a bad back and a knee thing. If I were him I'd just sit around.

Remember when we used to be 17 and just got up in the morning and walked around like it was normal? Nothing was achy or needed tweaking?

Yeah.

Some day I'll say, "Remember being 47 and you could just walk around being normal? Oh, things ached a little, but at least you didn't need this walker with the tennis balls on the bottom."

Can't they invent something a little more sophisticated than those tennis balls? It seems like everyone just defaulted to them. "Oh those walkers suck. Cut you a tennis ball and stick it on there." Seems like we should rage against the faultiness of the walker a little more than that.

Maybe I'll wait for that particular battle.

In the meantime, Ned and I saw 12 Angry Men last night [insert political joke here] [insert joke about all the men who don't get to have them the June here] [insert joke about the 12 readers who wish I'd move along here], and when it was over, we turned to each other and at the same time said, "That guy was totally guilty."

I guess we're over Henry Fonda. I'd really like to LIKE Henry Fonda, because he's cute and earnest and stands up for the little guy, but now I know he was a rotten father to Jane Fonda, who I kind of like, and whose veeedeos I totally worked out to in the '80s. My friends and I would do Jane Fonda and order pizza after. I was a size two.

We also used to listen to this hypnosis tape that would supposedly make us not hungry anymore, which, hello, again, hello. Size TWO. Of ourse, the whole time I listened to that tape I thought about ordering Chinese.

Oh, and I forgot to tell you, I choked to death at the movie. Got a popcorn kernel right in my throat and could NOT breathe. Finally I was able to wheeze a little and Ned said to himself, "Why is June singing during the movie?" Remind me not to die in front of Ned in the future.

I had to lift my arms over my head and stay calm and breathe through my nose. Finally I was able to sputter and cough. "Were you CHOKING?" asked Ned, who should probably be an EMT.

"Yes," I gasped.

"I could've Hemliched you," he said, heading for me like he was going to do it in retrospect.

"I'm FINE," I said, moving away.

"Of course, it would have made me nervous as hell to Heimlich you. What if I broke your ribs or something?"

Could you re-remind me not to die in front of Ned anymore?

Anyway, that was my chilling evening. I lived. Which I guess at this point is all I can ask for.

Tune in tomorrow to hear all about my foot!

....Where did those crickets come from?

Tiffany jazz

Thank you all for your Ned questions in yesterday's comments. They were thought-provoking and insightful and often stupid. I did, speaking of the stupid ones, get a kick out of Hulk's questions. Why do I enjoy ludicrous Hulk?

If you have MORE questions for Ned, please do not ask them here. Go to yesterday's post. I refuse to schlep back and forth between here and there when I cut and paste these all for Ned. It's all for you, Ned! That's only funny if you saw The Omen.

I decided that Ned'd do better if I mailed him all the questions and he could mull them over and compose his thoughtful answers to whatever ones he picks. (How much you wanna bet he skims over the "What are your intentions for our June" one?) When we first met, he used to compose his emails to me in Word, then cut and paste them into email, to make sure they were just so. Ned's carefulness is the cutest thing I ever encountered. You will be shocked to hear I'd answer his emails 14 seconds later, slapping down whatever horrid thought I had right then.

Speaking of horrid, which leads us to jazz, we partied down with my pal Jo last night, as we were celebrating the momentous occasion of her birth just 23 years ago. See what I did, there? I shaved some years. Not that she needs that, because bitch looks incredible.

She'd mentioned this album from her youth, where each of the instruments has a name, like Max the Sax. She'd lost hers, and always missed it, so I found it online, because I am the coolest friend ever.

I also got her this card, and let me tell you this fascinating piece of info. I really have a new favorite color, and it's this shade of blue. I KNOW! I've been a pink girl all my life, and I do not know if this is a phase, or if the traumatic events of the past five years have shifted my brain, or what all. I'm just telling you I gravitate to this color now, which I guess we could call Tiffany blue. Let's. Let's call it Tiffany blue, as it may encourage people to give me things in Tiffany boxes.

See. This is why sometimes this blog takes me forever. I had to go around and photograph all the Tiffany blue things I've purchased in the last year or so. But as you can see, there is a theme. Also I should state, for the record, that the first jewelry shot that includes those beautiful blue earrings sitting to the side? Those were given to me by Faithful Reader Hibiscus Wilson for my birthday, and I find EVERY REASON POSSIBLE to wear them.

How the hell did I get on this tangent?

Oh. Jo's party. Right.

So, my pal Kit was there, and I guess I don't need to tell you I loved her glasses. So much so that I took another of my professional shots of it. I TOTALLY NEED a better iPhone. Yes, I know. I can't have one. BUT IT'S FOR MY ART!

In fact, lots of people, including my hair, were present for Jo, because she is da bomb and everyone loves her.

We were all having a great time, except for one thing. The thing that officially makes us old.

"Does it have to be so LOUD in here?" I groused to Ned, who'd had the worst day ever and was starving to death and probably just wanted to be in a dark room opening a vein.

We ALL complained about the noise, because it's a big open room, and the band felt the need to turn it up to 11, and even better, they were jazz. Jazz. Is there anything I hate more than jazz?

Okay, people who say "pin number." But nothing else.

Okay, the place down the street with the name Workout Anytime. You work out during your workout. Why does God see fit to put irksome things in my path?

That's it, though. Just those things, then jazz.

Monty Python.

BUT RIGHT AFTER THAT, JAZZ.

Cilantro.

Okay, anyway. The point is, I tried to veedeotape the band for you, so you could share in my suffering, because what's the point of suffering unless everyone joins you, but all you can hear is me saying I'm in hell and Ned saying no I'm NOT in hell, and I like how he gets to decide this.

 

Am I always that loud? Is it just because the phone/veedeo thing is right next to me, or do I speak in my outdoor, hello-I'm-on-Broadway-and-you're-in-the-last-row voice all the time?

The point is? Good bash. And happy birthday, Jo, which I just mistyped "Ho" and slayed my own self.

June. In hell.

There's a Bad June on the Rise

Before I begin, I want you to know my father said, "I can't believe a person who writes Bye Bye Pie went out to Buy Buy Pie."

Who is his own biggest fan?

Anyway, last night ...friend and I schlepped to Winston-Salem, as we are WONT TO DO CONSTANTLY, and saw Marvin sing with a band. Each year this band apparently plays at the bar we went to, WHICH HAD NO AIR CONDITIONING, and each year they have a theme. This year it was Come to the Bowels of Hell at this Bar with No Air Conditioning When it's Literally 105 Out.

Also, it was Creedence Clearwater Revival. That was the theme. Freaking Creedence effing Clearwater effing Reeffingvival.

 

"You're gonna hear 30 songs by Creedence Clearwater Revival tonight, and you're gonna know them all," said Marvin, when we ran into him on the street before we entered THE WORLD'S HOTTEST BAR.

Who wished she'd have worn a strip of cotton over her nethers and nothing else? Who wished she could sit in a tub of ice? Because, hot? Oh, and let's all enjoy Marvin's shirt, shall we? He said he went through his closet and felt each shirt, picking out the lightest one.

So, the band played 49459505440 CCR songs and different people got up and sang. Some were really really good. Some were not. Marvin sang Bad Moon Rising, and before he got up there, he told me, "You know, there's a bathroom on the right."

Marvin and my dad. Adoring themselves since whenever they started adoring themselves.

So, dude. You have no idea how many effing CCR songs you know.

...friend held my hair up for me while we watched, because I don't know if you were aware that I have a lot of hair. And, hey, did I tell you it was kind of hot in there, with the no air-conditioning thing? I wanna know, have you ever felt the heat?

 

When Marvin was up there, I was too interested in watching Marvin to remember to take a picture, and I'm SORRY I don't think about this blog ALL THE TIME, but anyway, eventually I took a picture of this guy, whoever he is, singing some CCR song, on a shocking note. Those are lights around him, those are literally heat waves.

 

Are you watching these? Because you're gonna say, Oh right, THAT song! I know that song! I did that every time some new person got up on that (hot) stage. It was a little warm in there. Who was perspire-y? A tad melty? A touch warm? Was it me?

So there it was. Despite the lack of air-conditioning, and perhaps I failed to mention that till now, it was actually really fun. And ...friend and Marvin did not beat each other up. Nor did they compare notes on me. We would have made you proud, Mary.

 

(Honest to God, HOW MANY CCR songs ARE there??)

There's a light. Certain kind of light.

Although the rest of you may still be staring at that Bee Gees video (veeedeo) from yesterday's comments, I have moved on to my stupid Monday.

Okay, here. Here is the veedeo we're all obsessed with in the comments.

 

Dudes. I can't get past Robin's fine dancing abilities. Well. And Barry's shirt.

Dear Barry Gibb, You know I love you. But that shirt was effed up. The Wolfman Jack hair was fine, though. You're Barry Gibb. Poof it out, man. It's who you are.

No, really. Every time Robin starts with the dancing I get hysterical. It's like when I was little and heard the word "hips." For some reason I couldn't hang with that word. And everyone tried not to say "hips" in front of me because the 88 minutes of giggling weren't worth it. Oh, and Spiro Agnew. The name slayed me.

I was an odd child.

Oh. And f you just got here, my grandmother always pronounced it "veeedeo." Which, you know how in your family someone says something wrong, and then you are doomed to say it wrong your whole life after that? Like, once my cousin said, "Big bone-ded." I mean, she's in her 30s now and married. And yet we all say "big bone-ded."

I have to go. Please note the time, which is godawful early, and here I am up and showered and so forth. They asked me to come in early. To the place where I don't even really work. Where I was just supposed to work for a few days in April. Where I've been working late and on weekends. Now they need me to come in early.

What I'm saying to you is it's busy there. However, when the alarm went off at 6:00 instead of the usual 7:00, Edsel bounded out of bed as usual and Tallulah was all, "rully. you rully think lu get up dis hour?" and she rolled over and went back to sleep.

She hates me so much right now anyway. I just added to my annoyingness. Her incision continues to be disgusting, and the keep-her-quiet part is, you know, dumb. Although she doesn't do much when that cone is on. Mostly she stands eight inches from me looking forlorn. See above.

Okay, really going. Really. ...Oh! Just one more thing. Who's more annoyed with me now? You guys or Tallulah?

 

I keep hearing Hot Child in the City every time I get in the car. I mean, it's getting creepy. And no, I don't own a Nick Gilder CD or anything. I think it's some kind of message from the universe, but all I can figure is I'm so young to be loose and all alone. But let's face it. In whose world am I so young?

Going downtown now, to walk like I just don't care.

Yeah.

Beast.

For the first time, in the 16 workdays I have had here, I have down time.

Swear. It's the first time.

I wonder if this means we will be getting 94949393 tons of work right when it's time to go?

Anyway, it's been awhile since I assaulted you with YouTube. Have I made you watch my very favoritest video?

 

The first time I saw this, I laughed so much I fell off the couch.

And also, while I'm up,

 

I can't believe the Beastie Boys guy died. It's so awful.

In the late '80s, my father and I were on a road trip from Michigan to Atlanta. There were still cassette tapes then, and we had a deal where I'd put in a tape and then it'd be his turn. My father said, "Every time it's my turn, just put in that Beastie Boys tape." So I did.

By the time we were in Kentucky, I was just flipping that Beastie Boys tape over. We listened to it the whole way there, me with my new "I don't wake up grumpy. I let her sleep in" drink cozy I'd picked up at a rest stop.

 

Here's one of the songs from that tape.

Sigh. God, I'm old. God, death sucks. God, I'm deep.