Bye Bye, Pie!

Not that I'm writing an Agatha Christie novel or anything...

But I feel like maybe the mulberries have arrived in my yard.

We're on our way to Durham, so talk to you tomorrow. I LOVED everyone's delurkness yesterday! Yay! Delurkers!

June and her blue dog, out.

The Resistance

Two German shepherds have moved in to the house around the corner, and their back yard faces ours. There used to be other dogs who lived back there, and Edsel and Tallulah would run the length of the fence with them in utter delight. Now that there are two new neighbors, and German ones at that, old Goofus and Gallant, here, need to determine who's boss, so now every time they go out they're all

WOO WOOO WOOO WOO WOOO! WOO! ASH HOLESES! WOO WOO! AND NOTHER TING: WOOO WOO WOOO!

So that's relaxing. And I love how tough they are when there's a fence separating them. If these medium-sized mutts met those giant German shepherds in REAL life, it'd be all, oh, haiii. you, um, sertenlee pretty, mr. and miss german shephurd! yes, dunka shane! dunka shane for showing nice teefs! we has to, um, oh, look at time! yes, teef pretty. okay, gooden tags or whatev!

In other news, I got an exercise bike off Craigslist.

Do you like my extremely realistic action shot, where I did not at all just get up right now in my robe and take a photo?

It's an Airdyne, so the harder I push on it, the more air blows back and it creates resistance. Sometimes I kiss the bike with my tongue so I have the French resistance. In other news, brain has officially snapped.

Ned and I sat here like idiots the other night, waiting for the woman who sold me the bike to show up. We were so officially annoyed with her, because she'd said she'd get it to me two weeks ago, and then she didn't and then she went to the beach, and in the meantime my plantar fasciitis wasn't going anywhere so THANKS, and then she was an hour late Monday night. But when she got here, she was super hot, so we had that as a reward.

And thin? I hope it was the bike that made her thin, but in fact she said she used it maybe seven times. I've used it once so far, I mean other than that official genuine workout I am doing in the photo above, and I do not look like her yet.

I guess that's all I have to tell you about my dumb life, other than we went to see an EVEN DUMBER movie last night, and in the past three days we have seen two extra-dumb movies. Last night's was a documentary on the making of The Shining, which seemed like it'd be interesting, but really it was made by someone who clearly smokes too much pot and has too much time on his hands.

"The number 42 shows up many times in the movie. It's uncanny." Then they show one time the number 42 shows up in the movie. Oh, and he counted.  There were 42 cars in the parking lot at the beginning of the movie.

OooooWEEEEEEEEEEoooooo!

But somehow in the course of the evening, Ned and I got to talking about aspirations. Not like when you get too much fluid in your lung, but I mentioned the Very Important Lesson I learned while watching LA Shrinks, and shut up it's a good show. The hot shrink with the lip implants said in order to be happy, you have to 

1. Have something to do (other than watch The Shining 3239320 times)
2. Have something to love
3. Have something to look forward to

"So, what're you looking forward to?" I asked Ned, knowing that what I was looking forward to was when we could leave wherever we were and go make out for 87 hours. Did I mention am still in ridiculous phase?

But I think it has to be bigger than that, the thing you're looking forward to. It has to be loftier than yay, in a few minutes I get to make out with this boy I adore. I should be planning a trip to Spain, or entering Edsel in a Best in Show competition, or  making a line of June wigs or something.

Do you have any aspirations? Any big ones? Anything to look forward to? What are they? And what should mine be, do you think? And if you HAVE aspirations, what's stopping you from achieving them?

Crap. My extremely tough dog just let himself out the screen door to continue yelling at the Germans. I'd better go give this my undivided achtung.

XO, June

Just Bee

I'll tell you what. Yesterday I told you Tallulah wasn't feeling well, but I did not know I'd be BURYING HER IN MY MIND by noon.

Tallulah had been kind of shaking her head in this weird way over the weekend, and on Saturday it was subtle, probably something only I would notice. On Sunday, after Ned and I went to the worst movie of all time, the plan was that I was going to run home and spend some dog time, then go back to his house. But when I got home, Talu's head shake had become really pronounced.

"I have to stay home with this dog," I told Ned, who offered to come over for moral support, and perhaps I have not mentioned he is the nicest boy, ever. But Talu and I forged ahead on our own, and then she did the thing where she wanted me to hold her head all night.

When I came home from work yesterday morning to take her to her vet appointment? Her whole face was swollen. She didn't even LOOK like herself.

That is when I started to panic.

The head shake thing had scared me over the weekend. Does she have meningitis? I wondered, having no idea if dog meningitis was even a thing. But I worried there was something wrong with her brain, because god forbid I ever be calm and try to think positive thoughts. And THEN, when her FACE was distorted? I figured this was it. This was the end of my beautiful doggie girl.

I cried the whole way to the vet, and every time I looked at her face, all puffed and weird, I got upset again. When we got to the vet, she calmly got out of the car and walked right next to me, not pulling on her leash. There was a small schnauzer in the lobby, and Talu was perfectly fine with it.

That made me even more upset.

The tech saw us when we walked in, and said, "We're going to take her right to the back." Usually, you go to a room, talk to the vet, and THEN they take her back to another room to do god knows what to her. But this time they ushered her right into the back room.

At this point, I was in full-on panic. They hadn't even waited for the vet to talk to me. Talu hadn't tried to eat the schnauzer. Her face was so swollen she looked like a different dog.

There was no way my dog was going to make it through the day. I just knew it. I just knew the vet would come in all solemn and say, "You have a very sick dog." Oh, how I cried in that damn vet's office. I curled into a little ball and just sobbed.

I can't live without Tallulah. What, I'm gonna go home and use EDSEL as my primary dog? Seriously? Edsel's gonna have to pull all the dog weight? He'd crumble in a week.

Would I bury Talu in the yard, or have them cremate her? I decided I'd cremate her, and plant a dogwood that I'd scatter her ashes on. I would go to her tree every year on this day and remember how I lost her so soon. I had no Kleenex in my purse, so I got one of the unforgiving brown towels from the dispenser, there.

I couldn't sit still anymore, and I thought maybe if I went to the hallway and paced near the back room where they were working on my expiring dog, she could maybe smell me, and that would be a comfort. So I went to the area and paced. Pace pace paced. Would I go back to work that afternoon, or just lie on my living room floor and scream? Would I ever get over losing this dog? Would the awfulness of this ever cease?

"Are you okay, ma'am?" an 11-year-old tech walked by in Disney-themed scrubs. She's the one who answers the phone there, and she has the worst, most screechy, cloying, loud voice possible, and I always wonder why her workplace or loved ones don't tell her. Her voice is really just awful. It's like a whine and a screech and a wail, all at once, and at top volume. She makes Rosie Perez seem like she could make a hypnosis tape.

"Tape." 1982 called, wants its audio device back.

"No, I'm not okay," I said to the town cryer. "My dog is in there, and it seems bad, and I'm standing here so maybe she can smell me."

Screech touched me on the arm. "I'll go back and check on her," she said.

While I waited, I heard another ridiculously young tech on the phone. "This is Whooo-De-Whoo Animal Clinic. We need an antigen, it's the blahhh dee bleee blahhh antigen. Do y'all have it?"

An antigen? AN ANTIGEN? Was that for TALU? I don't even really know what an antigen is, but if Lu had gens and they needed to get anti, I was worried even sicker. An ANTIGEN? Did she get bitten by a copperhead? Had she eaten poison? Oh, wouldn't you all make fun of me if my DOG got POISONED, JOOONNN!

Bob Marley's Wailer came out of the back room.

"Your dog is fine," Screamora said. "She got stung by a bee. We're giving her a shot and she'll be good as new."

I have always liked that tech. That needle-across-a-record, cat-in-heat-voiced tech. I was so relieved.

Even as soon as she came from that back room, where I had doomed her to live out her last moments, Tallulah looked better than she had. And she was wagging and looking like she actually had a personality, like maybe now she'd eat the schnuazer, if there was any left. I took this picture when we got home, and I don't even know if you can see any swelling at all. I can, but I'm her mother.

"Usually dogs don't take two days to swell up like that," said my vet. "But this steroid shot should do the trick. She'll be fine."

I mean, honestly? I had already anticipated a halved dog food bill. I was already planning to walk just one cur each day, and have that much less fur on my couch. Really? She was going to be fine?

Well, okay. I mean, I figured she would be, but.

So that's the story of my dog's brush with...you know, a bee sting, and the part where I killed her in my mind. Because I'm not one to get hysterical or anything.

Dramatically, June

Killer Queen

I have to run to my work picnic this afternoon, but I wanted to scream over here and tell you that when I got home yesterday, Edsel ran to the door like my arrival was a miracle, as he always does. Tallulah wagged stoically. Lily splayed herself gorgeously on the dining room table and looked fluffy.

And Iris walked up with a huge dead bird in her lips.

Dudes.

Y'all.

Iris CAN'T SEE. I had left the back door open to the screen door, and even though the only time she goes out is when I take her back there and she sits with me on the glider and never moves, apparently she decided yesterday was the day to venture out and murder something.

It's the only scenario I can think of, unless the dogs killed a bird, brought it in, and delivered it to Iris. Which I cannot see them having that kind of generosity. Lily would not go out that door if you paid her.

eyeriss prowd. not to eff wif eyeriss. she kill you up wif blynd power. ...wate. anyone there? eyeriss talking to anyone?

I had to call Ned, who was driving home from work and just wanted to live his regularly scheduled life. "Can you come over?" I asked him. "Iris has a dead bird in her lips."

Ned laughed the whole way over here. Then he very manfully swept the bird up for me and kept shoving the dustpan in my face. "Look at it! What kind of poor bird is this? Here! Here it is! In your face! Please to analyze bird, please."

God.

Anyway, that was exciting. And Iris has been prancing around here like she's something, I can tell you that.

That poor bird.

In which Animal Protective Services should be called. Also, Nedflix.

Because it's been awhile since I've done it, and because I love myself so bad, I made all the pets do Circle of Life last night.

 

The circllllle of life! Boom!

Say, guess who was in no mood for me and my circle?

...Boom!

In other news? The cirrrrrclllllle! The circle of Edz's man bits!

Boom.

And finally? Finally?

The circllllle! The circle of Lu!

boom. you effing bitz.

I absolutely cannot stop giggling hysterically at poor Talu and her circle of hate mom now. Oh my god, everyone here is gonna EAT MY THROAT the second I sit down.

It totally looks like Talu is wearing my hair, which she probably will once she kills me and scalps me with her flea teef.

Anyway. In other news, Ned was kind enough to share with all of us his review of the ridiculous depressing Romanian nun movie we saw Sunday, so won't you join me for another edition of Nedflix?

Beyond the Hills, directed by Cristian Mungiu and starring a cast of Romanians you’ve never before heard of, is – well, let’s just say it’s a little slow.

It is not well-paced, is what I’m saying.

This movie would have difficulty finishing ahead of a three-toed sloth in a 50-yard dash.

It is the molasses of movies.

Mungiu was the director of 2007’s 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days, a well-received if pretty doggone intense film about an illegal abortion in 1980s Romania. So there was reason to have moderate hopes for his latest effort. Beyond the Hills is the story of two orphans, now young adults, trying to find their way in the world. Voichita has signed on with a convent outside of a rural Romanian village, while Alina has moved to Germany to work as a barmaid. There is clearly a romantic history between the two, and Alina CANNOT LET THIS GO! She returns to Romania to try and convince Voichita to move to Germany with her, but Voichita has found a home at the monastery.

Thing is, nobody likes it when half a lesbian couple finds the Lord. It spoils everybody’s fun. But hey, it happens, and the proper thing to do is to move on and find yourself another lesbian. There are other fishes in the sea, I believe the saying goes. But this is beyond Alina, and she proceeds to drive everyone--movie characters and viewers alike--batshit crazy. One can’t help but feel sorry for the nuns and priest who have to put up with this crap, and they do their best, if misguidedly so, to help her. But no good deed goes unpunished, and this film certainly drives that point home.

So yeah, slow. And a little crazy. Maybe if the popcorn hadn’t been so salty. But we’ll never get that time back, me and June. Keep that in mind if you’re considering this movie.

I guess that's all I have to say to you, and all Ned has to say to you, but oh! One more thing?

Boom.

June and the Water Tower. Also, "fur."

How is everybody doing? It's rainy here, and I have a migraine for the FIFTH DANG DAY IN A DANG ROW, and forgive my rough language. A few weeks ago I was at my doctor and he gave me some samples of some new migraine stuff--new to me, and that's who matters, here--called Treximet, so today in my desperation, I got out the sample box.

I guess I could have read the, you know, box to see it only contained one tablet, but when I got a box this big I just assumed there'd be several pills in there.

Once I opened the box, I had to get the special protective wrapping off, which took an hour and 45 minutes. And hey! Did I mention my head hurts?

After that, apparently I had to fly to Michigan and go to my friend Dot's house and squeeze her. Because you know what a hugger I am. And then? After I've squeezed the Dot and so on?

Taa-daaaa! Say, here's your one pill. Also, one is the loneliest number that you'll ever do.

I mean, it just seems like a lot of hooo haa for one lousy pill. Is my point. Anyway, I finally took it and we'll see if it even works.

In the meantime, hi! I feel less awful than I did the other day, but just between you and me, I decided I should go back to my therapist. I saw her for awhile after my, you know, marriage ended, and finally I am once again so miserable that I decided to get back together with her. I called said therapist, and you know what must be a fun job? Therapy-ing the fun that is June. Am I sounding like Dooce, over here, with my sadness and my being mental and you know what's politically correct? Is the phrase "being mental."

My point is, she called me right back. Apparently she's just been by the phone, thinking of nothing else but when I'd call her or climb up on a water tower. Why is it when someone has a breakdown you always describe them climbing a water tower, when in fact you can be nutty right there on the ground? It's the same with how if you can't read something, you always say it's in Sanskrit. I mean, German would be just as hard for me to read, you know? Why Sanskrit?

Anyway, she said she had availability Saturday, and please see above re June and the water tower. Who has SATURDAY appointments? But the thing is, Edsel had a vet appointment as well on Saturday.
But the therapist said, "Oh, just bring him along. I love dogs!"

sighhhh

And that is how Edsel and I ended up in couple's therapy yesterday. To tell you the truth, Edsel and I have been having issues for quite a while, and he really needs to learn to talk more. I mean, I'm getting a little sick of getting home and not ONE WORD from him before he humps my leg.

Oh, and when Eds and I were checking out at the vet, this really pretty woman came in who was maybe my age, except attractive. If that weren't bad enough, she had a lovely perfect gorgeous Golden retriever named--

...wait for it. No one names their dog this, so.

--Bella. She was boarding Bella for the weekend.

So she stood there, all perfect with her perfect dog, while goofy Eds and my pretty self paid, and while she waited she kept hugging Bella.

"I sowwy," she said to the dog, kissing her. "I sowwy I leeeeveeng, Bellas. I sowwy."

Guess who was over her. Was it me, and also possibly Bella? Guess who was probably de-effing-lighted to be going to the kennel for two days in order not to hear the word "sowwy."

Good gravy.

After my Est session with Edsel, I dropped him off so he could think about his part in this relationship and I headed over to Winston-Salem, for a change, and dropped in on my friend Charlie. If you're just getting here or you skim like Faithful Reader Laura L, Charlie is a guy I am inexplicably friends with, seeing as he is in his 20s and single and all cool and artist-y and when we met I was married and still middle-aged and dowdy as I am now.

The point is, last August, Charlie was kayaking and slipped on a damn rock and is now paralyzed. Which guess what, sucks. I had visited him in the hospital awhile back but went to his apartment yesterday, where he lives with his most excellent girlfriend who is similarly in her 20s and more mature than me by about 10 million thousand eleventy billion times.

I gave him the money you all donated to him, as there was a fundraiser for him recently and some of you hit my tip jar. All told, I had a hundred dollars to take over there, and he was thankful to all y'all all.

I feel like going into detail about what his mood was like or what he had to say about his condition is, you know, kind of an invasion of his privacy, but suffice it to say, the whole thing 100% totally sucks ass, and I have every faith that he will eventually thrive and make the best of this stupid sitch. He's just that guy. He's determined guy.

I have to go, as Ned and I are going to a--wait for it, again--depressing movie about nuns and demonic possession and something, and say, who do you think picked THAT one? I wanted to see the happy wedding movie with Diane Keaton.

While I've been writing this, my head feels a bit better, so that's good. That was worth the Fort Knox packaging, I guess. Yeesh.

Talk at you tomorrow, dudettes. What if I just called you "dudettes" all the time? How soon till you stopped reading me? Don't go, dudette. Don't go.

Okay, June and her package, out.

100% Natural

I'm trying to eat my delicious Ines Rosales tortas and Tallulah is on her hind legs, being two legs bad, trying to get it. Talu's beggy look. I'm certainly falling for it, too, you manipulative ass. Yes, it's perfectly fine to call your dog an ass. It's in all the best training manuals. Cesar has one just called: Your Dog is a King Kamehameha Ass. Haven't you read it?

Have you had the Ines Rosales torta? Is "torta" the plural of "tortas"? Cannot wait for first know-it-all to tell me smugly, "No, Jooob, the singular of tortas is xyepphrelt. God."

"Jooob." Dying. Nice typing. My keyboard is an ass.

Anyway, I know it sounds like Ines Rosales paid me to mention them today in between things that make little sense, but sadly they did not remotely do any such thing.

Basically Ines Roasalas tortas are a crispy cinnamon tortilla and they bring me much happiness.

"How's the no-sugar diet going, June?" Oh, shut up.

The reason I own any Ines Rosales tortas--and man, at this point I'd have earned $11,000 or something if they'd offered me cash per mention--is because Ned and I went to the newest pretentious co-op vegan-ish look-what-the-white-people-have-built-now grocery store in his neighborhood, and luckily for me, near my work.

I know we really know how to live it up, going to a grocery store and all, but I had work to do this weekend and welcomed any diversion. Oooo, buying vegan Tide and organic cat litter? Sign me up!

Speaking of cat litter, I love this photo of Ned throwing blossoms on me, holding a bag of NedKitty poo. We were on our way to his Dumpster. Did you know "Dumpster" is a proper noun? Welcome to my pool of knowledge.

At Ned's apartment, they inexplicably have special trash cans that read "Dispose of Kitty Litter Here," which I took a photo of before but do you really think I have time to find it in the 9 million pictures I have so organizedly arranged on my computer? Anyway the good news is that is the photo that pops up whenever my pal Hulk calls. I always forget I put it there to represent Hulk, then the phone rings and I giggle. Hulk adores him the cats.

I really don't understand people who don't like cats. And I always like them a little less than I would otherwise. If you don't like cats I kind of write you off as kind of needy and simple. I am sorry. But I do. Obviously I can work up a like of you otherwise. See: Hulk. Who I don't think of as needy and simple, just kind of a dick.

At any rate, the healthy, pretentious, overpriced ($21 for almond butter!) new co-op was pretty interesting. "Every white liberal in Greensboro is gonna be here," I said when we pulled in and two black people were walking out, making me look like an idiot and THANKS, BLACK PEOPLE. Am certain they were still pot-smoking, loom-owning, NPR-listening hippies.

We got out of Ned's car, where he had been listening to NPR on the radio, and sauntered in. And it's a good thing we did, because people who go to the vegan pretentious hoity-toity patchouli-wearing new food co-cop? Were not what you'd call in a rush. Holy cats. You have never seen so much milling and standing stock still to enjoy the organic vitamins in your fucking life. Seriously, it was like they installed dye-free statues in the aisles here and there for decoration.

Now, I hope you're sitting down, but Ned is a little more tolerant of, you know, everybody than I am. "Is it bugging you how people seem to be standing around, here?" I asked him, as I wedged my way past a 100% cotton couple. "Oh my god, YES. It's so fucking annoying!" he said, and I was delighted. Maybe my intolerance is rubbing off on him. Teach Intolerance.

Anyway, he bought one tiny bag of nutritional yeast and I got 16 vegan power bars, the cinnamon tortas, some tamales and fake potato chips. Only June could find ways to buy unhealthy in a fancy left-wing Joni Mitchell health-food parents-from-Valley-Girl-own-it grocery store.

So that's how I'm eating the tortas that Talu wants. Aren't you glad you stuck around for that?

I leave you with photos from a fancy vegan gluten-free hippie white Bye Bye, Pie get-together that occurred this weekend.

I guess other than the cigarettes and wine and whatever Fay is imbibing, back there. From left to right, here is Sadie, PJ, Tee, Fay and Beverly. If you read the comments, you have seen their names 12,000 times.

I don't want ANY MORE OF YOU making fun of my photos, as this one has a BIG LINE in the middle. Do I give you big lines? I do not.

They all got together in Atlanta this weekend, and I feel like mature times were had by all.

I fricking love candy cigarettes. PJ even flew in for the thing! As you can see, Tee picked her up and fortunately for everyone, no one was a stabby type of person, as far as I know. They sent me all these photos and then I never heard from anyone again. Maybe it ended in a tragic bloodbath, which frankly would really pump my reader numbers, so yay!

wyy edz not invite to antlant bash?

Because you are such a drunk, Eds. No one wants to deal with it.

Anyway, that sums up the weekend, except for this:

Someone and his tongue got to go to the dog park this weekend. Run off that hangover. This tongue picture kills me. As does the stick going up his nose.

Okay, that is all. June, organic.

Mr. Edsel Goes to Winston

I was sitting here in the computer room like a normal person, when this cardinal sat on my bush. So to speak. Do you think it's some kind of message from my high school boyfriend Cardinal?

Did anyone click on that link and look at that video again, where Cardinal's daughter wants her sister out of her grille? It kills me every time.

In other pressing news, this past weekend, Ned and I headed over to (wait for it) Winston-Salem to see a movie and go to brunch. It was about 2:00 in the afternoon, but for us that counts as brunch. I am so glad to have met another late riser. Marvin would be out of bed by 5:00 like he was Amish or a milkman. In all the years of being married to Marvin, I don't recall ever waking up and having him still in the bed.

The point is, Ned pays for everything, and when the check came for our eggs benedict with hollandaise on the side (me) and some glop of brown stuff with grits (him) ("GodDAMMIT that was good! Did I mention that was good? Do you remember our brunch from 45 minutes ago? GodDAMMIT mine was good."), I said, "Oh, let me pay. You pay for everything."

Then I proceeded to leave my ding-DANG ATM card at the restaurant, which I discovered seven hours later at the grocery store. I had to write a check like it was 1982. I called the restaurant and they said I had to come in and show ID, which, really? If anyone really needs my ATM card with the $71 in my account, they are pretty much welcome to it.

So last night after work I schlepped BACK to Winston-Salem to get my card. Since I was gonna be in Dick Whitman country, I asked if he wanted to have dinner. Of course he did. Dick Whitman is never the kind of person who says, "Oh, you know, I just don't feel like doing anything tonight. Think I'll hang out at home." He often goes to a coffee shop at night after he's worked out, and I can tell you that's the LAST thing I'd want to do. If I had already gotten home and worked out, the rest of the evening would be a book or the fine shows on Bravo.

Really, they should just charge me for Turner Classic Movies and Bravo, my cable should. Oh, and whatever channel shows Long Island Medium, which is the best show ever and SHE IS REAL.

Oh, and also PBS, where I just started watching that midwife show; are you watching that?

Anyway, I went home after work and fed the dogs, but when I was getting ready to leave, Edsel seemed very upset that I was going. Someone needs to tell him he's one of the only dogs on the planet who gets their person for an hour in the middle of every day. But that didn't matter to the Eds last night. Oh, he was HANGDOGGING and lowering his head and putting his leash in his teeth and JESUS CHRIST ALL RIGHT.

So that's how Edsel got to come with me to Winston-Salem. It was his first trip. He really wants to come back and check out the museums.

Whitman and I ended up eating outside, although it wasn't technically warm enough to do so. I think it was 62 degrees out or so. I suppose I could have brought Edsel out with me, but I know how he'd be. Remember in Marley and Me, when Marley pulled over all the tables and caused chaos at a restaurant? That would've been Edsel. And there was an impressive-looking brindled Boxer-ish dog also at the restaurant, which Edsel would have busied himself saying

BARKBARKEFFYOUYOUEFFERBARKBARKBARKHOSEBEAST

at.

I totally stole "hose beast" from The Oatmeal, which I love.

So he stayed in the car with the windows down where I could see him. And here's the thing about Edsel.

He totally gets all shy and earsless when he's out in public. He doesn't want you to PET him or TALK to him or think THOUGHTS about him. He's the biggest puss imaginable.

So I think he mostly regretted insisting we go to W-S together.

On the way home, he slept with his head on my lap, and sometimes would look up at me worshipfully, as everyone should. At least he got alone time with Most Excellent Girl on World Planet, so that's a plus.

I guess that's all I have to tell you. The rest of my evening was spent in the very intellectual pursuit of watching Real Housewives of Orange County, followed by the reunion show of the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.

Words can't express how much Alexis and her husband bug me. They are such idiots. As opposed to the Rhodes Scholar watching Bravo all night, over here.

I will go now, but please join me in the game Ned and I played yesterday: If Edsel were to order a cocktail, what would it be? We settled on strawberry daiquiri. Something with an umbrella. And then he'd eat the umbrella.

June and her weird dog, out.

Marvin makes an appearance. As does Henry. (Onnnnreiiii!)

Sometimes Tallulah and I like to play "Heavy Cat," where I lift her up and carry her around the house with her legs all askew in an alarmed fashion. "Are you my Heavy Cat?" I ask her, while she patiently waits for me to be over this game. "Who's my Heavy Cat?" Sometimes I even curl her on my lap while I sit with her and scratch her chin.

Edsel is so rude.

Heavy Cat just got put down and she went outside, relieved that I am over it for now. Some day that dog's gonna eat my neck area out and you really won't be able to blame her.

I can also feel my knees JUST WAITING to give out while I lug her 45 pounds around. One day I will be all crippled up in my knees, I can tell. They're okay for now, but when I lift something heavy, such as Heavy Cat, they're all, "Yeah, what're ya thinking? We're going to feel weak STARTING RIGHT NOW."

I don't know how I got off on that tangent.

What I was GONNA sit down and write about was Marvin's latest YouTube video. Yesterday on Facebook, I saw that his mom linked to something Marvin-related, and I was all, What is Marvin up to NOW? He's trying to re-record the songs he wrote when he was 12. I have listened to all of those songs, repeatedly, and I can certainly see why you'd want to revisit them. God help us everyone.

 

He says his real name on here, but I asked him and he said that was okay if you all knew it, and I don't mind cause it's not my name anymore. If you click on the thing above you can see the video, which I guess technically is not YouTube, and I'll bet the fine folks at whatever this company is enjoying having their video called "YouTube" when it isn't.

The best part about the video is Henry makes an appearance at 1:46 and 2:03. A magical appearance. He even says, "Mrt."

I miss Henry.

By the time Marvin said, "Twenty-three songs," he was irking me. Oh, and I got him that dog toy behind him, the one where you push the bottom and the dog dances around. I forget why. It was back when we liked each other.

So there's your Marvin visit for, you know, the year. Remember when we talked about Marvin all the time? Now we hardly ever do. It's weird. Who knew I'd be all Marvinless one day? And happy with a whole new boy?

Did y'all see it coming, or was my "Marvin is moving out" announcement two years ago a total shock? Just recently someone commented that she had a baby more than two years ago, and stopped reading me cause she was too busy, then she came back and was all, Whothehell's Ned? How shocking it'd be to come back here after two years.

All right, I had better get ready for you-know-what. But confidential to my deep Real Housewives friends: Fay Resnick is a jerk.

XO, June

MAMFing

Every day, Monday through Friday, my alarm goes off at the same time, and every day that information stuns me. "What the--? Seriously? The alarm is going off? GOD!" Every day it's all, "The nation was rocked when June's alarm went off at 6:54 a.m."

I hate getting up.

I have a dumb day planned, as I am only working till 1:00 in order to take Ned to his wisdom teeth removal. Oh, he'll be fine. They aren't even impacted. He is worried about it, though, as I guess I would be. I've had three out, at three different times. One of the times, I was lying on this table, and the nurse came in. "Okay," she said, pulling out a needle, "we're going to give you something now."

"Okay," I said. Shots don't bother me and generally I end up loving whatever floaty feeling I get during these kinds of procedures.

The nurse was messing with tools and such over at the counter, and I said, "Are we going to go into the room now to get started?"

"We're done, honey."

"No! We aren't done. You just gave me the shot."

"That was an hour and a half ago. You're all done."

IT WAS THE WEIRDEST THING. I completely lost all time from the second that shot went in till that nurse was at the counter. She was probably more of a dental assistant and not a nurse, wasn't she? Hoo care.

Oh, and speaking of Tallulah, the other night I was going to the grocery store for my staples: cat food and coffee, and when I got out my car, right there in the car next to me was Penny, my friend TinaDoris' dog.

"Hi, Penny!" I squealed, thrilled to run into dog friends. I mean, had she driven herself over for some kibble, or was she just along for the ride?

"BOW WOW WOW WOW WOW grrrrrr-WOW!" said Penny, showing me her teeth and scowling and getting torches and pitchforks and bombs.

Geez.

I went into the store, and there was TinaDoris and her spouse, buying muzzles or anti-rabies pills or cleanup rags for when your dog foams at the mouth at someone she's MET 80 TIMES or something. "Your dog just yelled at me," I said.

"She hates being confined in the car," said TinaDoris. At least they don't ever have to worry about anyone stealing their car. Or putting a puppy in it. That's the same parking lot that someone put a puppy in MY car, and if it's remotely warm enough I leave the window open, still, just in case.

Best delivery ever.

I know I've told you this story before, but I've been blogging for SIX YEARS. I've told you EVERY story before. But I had the world's most marvelous cat, Mr. Horkheimer, who died seven years ago today in fact, and anyway in Seattle I had a fireplace in my room. Horkie would sleep on my bed all day because cats have it rough.

One day, he was snoozing in there as he is wont to do, when blark, something falls out of the chimney and onto the floor of the fireplace.

It was a nest of baby birds.

Can you imagine?

Hork was not one to be kind to birds when they were grown up and able to flitter about normally, so you can imagine the evil smorgasbord he had with a whole bowl of flightless babies. My roommate Paula came home to find the carnage. She threw Horkie outside, and she said he plastered himself to the window like that Far Side cartoon while she cleaned everything up.

The point is, for the rest of the time we lived there, Hork would wander over to the fireplace every so often and look up. It's like he wondered where the lever was to pull for more baby birds. That's how I feel when I leave my window down at the parking lot where I got a puppy once.

Ohmygod I wonder if I could drift further from my point. Which was that I am taking Ned to get his wisdom teeth out. "If you feel okay, what're we going to do tonight?" I asked, knowing making out was off the table and therefore flummoxed. "There's a sporting event on," said Ned, who probably told me specifically WHICH sporting event it was and did not say "sporting event," although now he is starting to say just that because that's what I say. The point is I'm bringing a book over there.

Also, my boss calls Ned MAMF, because the first time I mentioned him to my boss, I said, "Well, calling him my boyfriend seems weird, because we're 47. He's my middle-aged manfriend," I said. So somehow that got shortened to MAMF. "How was your weekend?" my boss will ask. "Did you and MAMF go anywhere fun?"

So yesterday my boss called me at my desk. "Say, do you think you'll have time to do this before you go off MAMFing at 1:00?"

MAMFing. Now Ned is a verb.

Okay, I'm off. Am totally going to dress Ned up in wee Uggs and wigs while he's asleep. So tune in tomorrow.