The Snowflake children down the street got a new puppy.
I know. And it's a chihuahua, so you know it will bite someone just like Snowflake did.
It's kind of cute, though, in an I'm-a-chihuahua kind of way.
June. Repulsing everyone who loves their stupid chihuahua since 2012.
And in case you just got here, about three blocks away from me live these extremely loud children, who I am pleased to say you see playing--actually playing--outside all the time like it's 1969, and I always stop and talk to them. Mostly because as we walk by they scream, "HI LALUUULAH! HI ETHEL!" and they always want to pet my dogs. They had an absolutely beautiful big dog named Snowflake but it bit someone (allegedly) and the dog got taken away to the pound.
The end.
And yes, person who just got here and asks the obvious questions, I DID go looking for Snowflake to snatch her up myself. Because in a million years I can't see her biting anyone. She was a sweetheart.
I have no idea what that child's t-shirt says. Something at the beach. I left my dog at the beach. I stay inside with a Wii like the other kids in America only when I'm at the beach. I will finally learn your dogs' names at the beach.
In the meantime, I been talking to them four years and know NONE of their names. They have told me, but (a) they aren't pets so it's irrelevant to me and (4) you really can't understand them half the time because they all scream at once.
In other news, ...friend sent me this:
Wait. What?
Recently, ...friend, who is a tasteful as me, was trying to make a Helen Keller joke and accidentally said "Anne Frank" instead of Helen Keller. Which (a) makes no sense and (b) is horrible. I mean, I act like making jokes about Helen Keller is so much more wonderful. But anyway, the terribleness of that sent me into hysterics, because you know how I am, and this is probably why he thought of me when he saw this article.
"Oh, June is a bad person! She'll appreciate this!"
Will somebody please get me some Helen Keller sunglasses? Please? I need them. As badly as I need w-a-t-e-r.
I guess that's all I have to tell you, but really, that should be enough.
It's my friend Lucy's birthday today. She is one of my TinyTown people, and I keep meaning to get her this one specific gift but it requires driving to Charlotte and I have not had the wherewithal to do that.
Here she is on her wedding day back in whenever. And I am telling you she is just as gorgeous today. And has less gray hair than me, which irritates.
Anyway, I called her, and said, "What are you doing on your birthday?!" "Not much," she said, "but this coming weekend my kids and grandkids are all having a party for me. They won't let me do a thing and I don't even know the guest list. ...But I guess you aren't on it."
I'M TOTALLY NOT ON IT! I AM NOT ON THE GUEST LIST!
Who is irritated? What you gotta do to get invited to all the hot parties in TinyTown? Everyone hates me. The fact that I met Lucy's kids precisely once is beside the point. I WOULD HAVE DRIVEN IN for this shindig.
June. Ostracized by TinyTown since 2012.
Other than being blatantly excluded from everything fun, I have not much going on, over here, and for that I am grateful. I finally invoiced everyone for the work I did all month and you'd think I were a rich man, daidle deedle daidle daidle daidle deedle daidle dum, with the me not invoicing. Oh, money. That pesky stuff. Who needs it?
Today Ima weed the yard, even though my lawn guy said he would do so next time he comes. I cannot wait for him to show, though, because I have Addams Family yard with all the rain we've been getting. My dead neighbor has fewer weeds than me, and that is never a good sign. For a dead person, she gets a lot of lawn care done. And no, no one has bought her house, STILL.
Geez. I just emailed with another TinyTown friend. "Oh, yeah, I got invited," he said. "I just assumed I'd see you there."
I hate everything.
P.S. Oh crap. I just looked on the calendar and realized it's also Roger's birthday today. The woman who gave him to me knew the day he was born. Happy birthday, my sweet giant kitty. Tell dead neighbor I appreciate her lawn if you see her.
I didn't get to bed till around 2:00--I know! June the partayyer. And now Tall Boy is on his way over to take the dogs on a hike with me. So I'll catch you tomorrow.
And will you remind me to get real wine glasses? Humiliating.
I like how I said yesterday that I WASN'T getting a dog. I believe my quote was, "...and getting a dog is not on my roster," yet somehow the comments morphed into should she or shouldn't she, and then they got into OH MY GOD, SHE CAN'T RETURN EDSEL! and then they became "I'm on pins and needles! Did she get the dog?!"
In the meantime, I was obliviously Christmas shopping and lusting for British men who weren't Barry Gibb, for once, and driving to our nation's capital. Or is it capitol? I can never remember. Anyway, I drove to Raleigh, which by the way is not our nation's anything. It's the capital/ol of North Carolina, which you should remember if you're ever playing a car game, and if that's the kind of game your family plays in the car, you need a new family, stat.
I began the day in Greensboro's bustling downtown, shopping for the world, which is dumb because why would old Saul Weisenberg over there in Israel need a Christmas gift, or for that matter--
--see. I wanted to come up with a Kwanzaa-celebrator name, and all I could think of was one of those places where people only speak in clicks and I could not think of a good click-people name. Is there only one place in the world where they only speak in clicks? Do those click people even celebrate Kwanzaa? I am so getting irritated comments from one of the click people today.
Dear June,
!! * !!! ** !
Or maybe Woodstock is really pissed at me. Whichever.
On my way to Greensboro's bustling downtown, I got stopped by a train and saw this:
i is drivin.
Look how CUTE! He looked at me when I took his picture and I waved at him and he was all, okay. Freak. Even dogs judge me. But I like how we can see my Bug in his dogmobile.
I eventually ended up at the midcentury modern store I like, which I have mentioned in years previous, although I am certain I was more subtle about this in the past. This year I can kind of shout it from the rooftops. The owner of that store? IS THE BEST-LOOKING MAN ON PLANET EARTH. No, seriously.
He's British, first of all, so right there you get all weak. And he has perfect white teeth, before you go getting all stereotypical on my ass. He has a powerful jaw, and piercing blue eyes, and usually some stubble, and I am getting a little sweaty just typing about him.
The first time Marvin and I wandered in there, when we first moved here, I was certain Marvin would see the guy and figure it out and be all, "Put it back in your pants, June." But he was so smitten by all the stuff in the store that he never noticed my hot flashes and parted lips and heaving bosom and so forth. He also never noticed he got a gift from there EVERY FREAKING CHRISTMAS.
Anyway, I went in there yesterday, in full makeup and a bouffant and an evening gown with falsies and 12-inch pumps. And do you know that guy talked my EAR off? If only he had talked my garments off. Seriously, though, we talked soccer (yes, I DID feign interest. Shut UP. You haven't seen him.), and working with the public, and bottle chandeliers and really, we must have talked for 30 minutes.
"Can you help me find something for my stepsister?" I cooed. "You were so helpful in years past with my FORMER husband's gifts."
I mean, you guys. I might as well have hung a VACANCY sign on my pelvis.
Anyway. The part where I am not blogging at you from his no doubt fabulous loft apartment tells you the end of that story.
Oh, but I was thinking? I really really really am gonna try not to mention my many dates on here until I get serious with someone. Because let's look at my dating history so far: June dates. June blogs about it. June has no dates.
I mean, no one has said, I hate you because of your blog. But I'm just gonna see if it helps.
After I got gifts I screamed over to Raleigh for my 4,000-times-a-year hairdresser appointment, because hello hurr. Every six weeks my hairdresser gets as amazed by my hair growth as I do Roger's growth. "WOW, your hair grows a lot."
On the way there, I got inspired. I decided to sit down, and with absolute sincerity, ask for a perm. Oh, I could not WAIT to see her try to act all polite, and think of a way to tell me this kinky coarse head needs a perm like Alec Baldwin needs assertiveness training.
So I sat down, and she put the cape on me, and I said, "I'm thinking--"
Did I ever tell you about when I went to London, and got inspired to stand under Big Ben and wait till it was bonging, then ask someone if they had the time? Only I got such a charge out of myself that I couldn't do it? Same thing happened with the perm request. Oh, I giggled and cavorted and cried real tears, until my hairdresser started wishing she had done a few shots before I got there. Of heroin.
Remember at the beginning of Happy Days when it looked like Ralph Malph is making out with someone but really he's just making out with himself? That's me.
Anyway, we went darker. With my outlook and my hurr. And yes, I am going to continue to call it my hurr. She blew it straight, which will last till I even THINK about humidity. BOINGG! See. It just exploded because I thought of it.
So there you go. That sums up my I-didn't-get-a-dog day afternoon. On the drive home I heard this song, and I can never enjoy songs anymore, I just spend the whole time thinking, "I have to remember I like this so I can put it on my iTunes."
That's me. Livin' in the moment.
I have to go. Dick Whitman and Laurie are coming over to help me put up Christmas decorations. Note I dragged two artists over to help me. Who's gonna sit around and eat Milanos while they do all the work, do you think? Is it old Ralph Malph and her hurr, do you think?
I really like this song, because I'm 12, and also because Justin Timberlake calls me regularly and begs me to love him, and also because I am not at all a delusional freak. My name is Lola. I am a showgirl.
My point is, what irks me is the guy in the background of this song who keeps saying all the obvious stuff in his kind of falsetto voice. "Take it to the chorus!" "Take it to the bridge!" Was this just some friend of Justin Timberlake's who needed a job?
I have decided I want someone to stand around, and in a high, nervous voice command me to do really obvious stuff. "Breathe so you live!" "Make coffee now!" "Blooooog!"
Go ahead, be gone with it.
Perhaps nervous, high-pitched person could have helped me yesterday when I humiliated my own self in front of Vilhelm Oyster, and I realize I have now brought up my coworker Vilhelm two days in a row, which is not going to help his rather sizable ego but this sad tale needs mentioning.
I borrowed 50 cents from Vilhlem, because he is the kind of responsible person who always has cash on him and my wallet always has old receipts from Burger King and movie ticket stubs. Yesterday afternoon I went to his desk to return his 50 cents, feeling very adult that I had actually remembered to pay him back. I probably owe him about $79 in quarters by now.
I held my palm out flat, with the change on it. "They say you should hold your hand flat for horses and Vilhelm," I said, loving my own self, as usual. I'm bringing self-love back. Except apparently I really had been.
"What's going on, there?" asked Vilhelm, gesturing toward my nethers.
You guys. My pants were completely undone. I mean, they weren't just unzipped. The little snap thingie was unflapped, too. It was like, HELLO, WORLD! Say, what day is it? I don't know, let's gander at June. She has her chonies out with the days of the week on them.
Fortunately I had on a longish shirt, so Vilhelm was not seeing London and France, but that was the only thing that was saving me.
You can imagine how Vilhlem let this drop.
"Hey! Shouldn't I be paying YOU?" he guffawed, taking my change.
Awhile later, he dashed past my cubicle on his way to do some work. He had just passed me when he backed up. "Oh, is there still a show?"
Who adores himself? Who is going to let my humiliation drop, ever, in the next 70 years, do you think?
What I want to know is, HOW DID MY PANTS COME COMPLETELY UNDONE WITHOUT MY KNOWLEDGE? Did I have a blackout? Did I go into the bathroom and get so distracted I forgot the fasten-your-pants part? Am I bringing sexy back? Whiskey tango foxtrot.
I guess that is all I have to tell you, except that Tall Boy asked to see the pictures of Norma and Vern, and in case you just got here, I have three photo albums of this couple I don't know, and the albums date from the '40s and '50s, and supposedly someone is making a documentary about me and other odd people like me who have the hobby of collecting pictures of people we don't know.
Here is the trailer for said documentary. I look insane. Enjoy my bra strap! When I stand up my pants are undone. Anyway, you have to hand it to Tall Boy, who by the way pointed out about 80 things in those photos that I'd never noticed before, which is saying something because I've stared at those pictures 93949394 times.
Tall Boy kind of rocks.
Okay, I have to go get dressed, and you know, FASTEN MY PANTS. Hey, since this is the last day of the week that we are working, does it count as jeans day? What if I get there and no one else has on jeans? Crap. Maybe I will go with cords, which are pretty casual yet not jeans. I don't know why I'm even bothering to wear pants at this point, now that everyone has seen my ovaries.
Before I begin, I would just like to thank Tallulah for becoming a 6,000-pound LUMP once she gets into bed. A 6,000-pound lump that cannot be budged no matter what you do. Old Ton-ya Harding, over there, was on all the blankets last night and I slept under one-eighth of an inch of sheet in the freezing cold. Thanks, Talu. I enjoy your every fiber right now.
Lu sleeped gud. {stretssh.}
Look at that damn floor. How that floor vexes me. I must fix it.
Oh, and also, it's my mother's birthday today.
Go, June's mom. It's your birthday. Gonna party like it's your birthday. Drink Bacardi like it's your birthday. Reference songs from 2000 like it's your birthday.
Later today, mom will be telling me precisely how many phone calls and cards and lunches and well-wishes she got. Yes, she counts. Yes, her best friend and I tell her this is annoying. She tells us annually anyway.
And speaking of Bacardi, I got something to tell you.
Some of you know I don't drink. I mean, you know this because I have said so on this blog. Or you know this because you know me in real life. I have been a not-drinker for a long time now, probably about as long as that stupid birthday song above has been in existence. Before that, I was, you know, quite the drinker. It was my area of expertise.
I do not talk about it a lot because the way I went about not drinking anymore is
ANONYMOUS
and you aren't supposed to go blabbing about it in public. Of course, I'd be more than willing to talk with anyone about it privately via email or whatever.
At any rate, things were going along nicely and I'd be all, "Oh cranberry juice for me, please!" it so on.
Then I don't know if you noticed this, but Marvin moved out and a few months later I started dating. Did you notice that? Did you pick up on that subtle change in my life?
Well. The very first date I went on, which was with Dick Whitman--he is the George Washington of my foray into dating. The Adam. The Kelly Clarkson--I was as nervous as a cat. I hadn't been on a date since Clinton was president. And he hadn't even dated Monica Lewinski yet. I mean, I was tense. So I ordered a Pinot Grigio. I'd never had a Pinot Grigio--that had been invented while I was sober. But Ramona on Real Housewives drinks them like water, so I wanted to try one.
And we were off and running. By the way, Dick Whitman feels personally responsible for me drinking again and that is ludicrous. It's no one's responsibility but mine, obviously. Oh, okay. Dick Whitman, you DROVE ME TO DRINK! It was the orange polka-dot shirt!
And for me, I'm not that dramatic of a drunk. I mean, when my friends got together with me and I--gasp!--ordered a drink, a few said, "Are you okay?" but most said, "I never really thought you were an alcoholic anyway."
Which by the way? If you have a friend who is in a recovery program? Do not say that. Please.
My point is, five months I've been drinking now, and the other night I was on a date. Shut up. I know I'm on a man break. I met a really nice boy, and no, I didn't meet him on Match.com, and I do not want to jinx it yet with details but so far it's like Central Casting has said, "Let's plop down a really excellent boy for June." Okay, he likes Rush. But in his spare time he works with an animal rescue organization. I think the latter cancels out the former.
MY POINT IS, which I know I already said, he and I went out Saturday night and I had one drink with him, and after he dropped me off I drove out in the middle of the night and bought wine at the grocery store. I had negative 16 dollars in checking so I used a credit card.
And it occurred to me. This is not normal behavior. A person does not need to go out late at night to get wine for herself and a person does not need to CHARGE WINE if she is a, you know, normal drinker.
So I called a friend and last night we might have gone somewhere
ANONYMOUS
and what I like about myself is how subtle I am.
Hey! Maybe I should do a corkscrew giveaway! I have a really good one.
So that is all my news that is fit to print.
And by the way, the kittens are recovering just fine. Delighted to be able to be picked up and posing for the webcam again. "dis fun, mom. andersun having a ball."
Yesterday I was cleaning the house, because you may be shocked to learn some animal fur builds up here rather rapidly. My iTunes was on in the computer room, and I came in here, in my delightful outfit of pajamas, sweatshirt and hair, to dance.
Some poor man was looking at the dead lady's house across the street and saw the whole thing. My whole dance of love. My smooth moves.
I even went outside, after he left, to reassure myself that it was too sunny and glarey and there was no way he could really see me. I saw my computer room clear as could be.
So because he already saw me in all my glory, I decided to reenact it for you minutes later. Congratulations.
I was walking the dogs, on a new and unusual note, when this little girl came out of a house. She pointed all enthusiastically. "Mommy! GOLDEN DOGS!"
Now, there's someone who has a future in advertising.
"we not sort of yellow. we GOLDEN. not to forget it, mom."
Note the untouched piece of Harris Teeter kitten food on the floor. Oh, everyone hates me for the Harris Teeter kitten food. I keep saying, the sooner you eat it, the sooner I'll buy the real stuff again. Just suck it up, literally. Gooz.
"Gooz." Why can't I type?
And by the way, something about Tallulah's proud barrely chest kills me every time. Maybe because it's golden.
In other news, yesterday at work, I continued to earn the respect of my coworkers with my brilliance. It's hard to hide this light under a bushel.
I work with a very affable man named Jo. With no "e." Coincidentally, he is an editor, and maybe he picked a job that started with "e" so he'd have an e, you know, somewhere.
We were working on something together and when he came over to my desk, I asked, "Why is your name 'Jo' with no 'e'?"
"Well, my parents are Norwegian..." he started, and you know how I can never let anyone finish a thought.
"Oh, and they don't end your name in 'e' in Norwegia?"
Norwegia.
Seriously.
What the Sam Hill is wrong with me? Norwegia. Gooz, I hate me.
I guess that's all the stupid news I have to tell you, except that my neighbor Peg and I are going to the same party Friday, and it's costumes-optional, and we are considering going as Kardashian sisters. I mean, get a black wig, stick a pillow in your butt and you're golden like my dogs.
If you were up all night worried sick that Talu and Edsel didn't survive their PetSmart grooming, you can now finally toddle off to bed.
As soon as we got there, poor Tallulah started trembling like a banshee. My poor girl. She leaped up on me and wanted me to hold her head. That's what she does when she's scared.
Edsel was happily oblivious.
"Hello, I'm June Gardens," I said, old Shake-a-Puddin' on one leash and smiling Edsel on the other. "We have a 12:30 appointment."
The girl behind the counter started scanning her appointments like a bouncer. Was I on the list? She looked twice, then turned the page.
I had already had an unbelievably frustrating conversation that morning with Citibank, because I had sent them a payment of $150 and it only cashed for $50. I have carbon copies of my checks, so I KNOW it was $150. The person I spoke to, who I think understood 32% of what I was telling her, kept putting me on hold then saying, "Yes, mum. Your checking account will not be charged $150."
"But I WANT to be charged $150!" I kept telling her.
So you can imagine my sparkling mood when the girl at PetSmart acted like she'd never heard of Edsel and Tallulah Gardens.
"They're on the list," I snapped. "I just CALLED here a few hours ago. We discussed what kind of breeds they are, and whether I wanted their fur cut. This is ridiculous." Oh, I was in a lather.
In the meantime, poor Talu got shakier and shakier while she eyed the Yorkies getting trimmed on tables.
Edsel was happily oblivious.
"One moment, ma'am," said the girl, looking horrified of my foot-tapping self. She conferred with the groomers and said, "We can take them."
"Well I should HOPE SO," I ranted, handing over practically convulsing Talu and smiling oblivious Edsel. "Come on, girls," said the receptionist to my dog, which further annoyed me.
Then when I got home I looked at the blog post I'd written yesterday and realized I got there at 12:30 and their appointment, according to what I had written here, was at noon. I had been so bitchy that poor girl was afraid to tell me.
June. Turning into the grandmother who used to make salesladies cry since 2007.
The other good thing, as if anything good has been reported thus far, is that of course it was SATURDAY at PETSMART, so there were kittens to hold and doggies who needed homes. Oh, I fell in love with a giant white Pit who had a blue eye and a brown eye. He was a sweet baboo. With his big big head. There is nothing that charms me more than a big square Pitty head.
I tried lifting him out of there and replacing him with Edsel, but I totally got caught.
I should go, as I am lunching with The Other June today and surprise! am still in my robe, but I did want to tell you I watched a royal family/Windsor Castle documentary last night that was loaned to me by Faithful Readers Chris and Lilly, who have become my friends in real life.
You know, I've made so many friends in real life from this blog. Aren't there any single straight men reading this thing who think I am da bomb?
Why a single straight man would read this blog is beyond me. Still. Why a single straight man would think I am da bomb is beyond me. Still. Why a single straight man would think "da bomb" to himself is beyond me.
Still.
Anyway, when you are a guest at Windsor Castle? And pay attention because that is probably gonna happen, ever. They unpack for you. And pack your bags back up exactly they way you packed your bag. They make a list of what went where. Which for me would be funny. "Wad up that shirt in the left corner. Shove a bunch of underwear into that shoe."
And some idiot has to measure, with a ruler, that all the glasses and plates and stuff are sitting exactly the same. It is very important for me that my cereal I am having for dinner be exactly where I want it on the couch while I watch TMZ.
Okay. I had better start getting cute for my lunch. Going in a time machine to 1989. BAH! Also? I might unpack today from when I went to see Miss Doxie last weekend. Who annoys her own self? I'll bet I even annoy the pets.
This computer has crashed already this morning, and I hadn't even officially STARTED blogging yet.
I hate hate hate this computer. I wonder if I have mentioned that?
The good news is, I'm getting another one. There is this fabulous thing called credit? And I applied for some? And I'm getting this:
Oh, forget it. Trying to show you made the computer crash AGAIN.
I HATE THIS EFFING EFFING ASSY EFFING STUPID COMPUTER.
Trust me. Am getting another computer. Enough said.
I went with Marvin to computer shop, as you do. It's traditional to shop for computers with the man who left you. On the day you had surgery. While you were unemployed. And did I mention he went on a DATE the day he left me? While I was having surgery? Go, Marvin.
Nevertheless, this weekend when I went to see the Doxie, he had told me he was going to a (stupid) car show and could not dogsit, so I got my friend Hibiscus Wilson to do it. You can imagine Hibiscus' surprise, then, when she got to my house and there was Marvin.
"Marvin is here," she emailed me.
"What gives?" I asked Marv, because it's 1959 in my head. "I felt bad about the dogs, so I decided to dogsit." I have no idea how Marvin's mind works.
The POINT is, he was stuck here all weekend with this effing effing assy effing computer that is effing, and he felt my pain. This thing is officially ludicrous.
"Let's go to Office Depot first," he said, even though I wanted to go to the Apple store. But you know how I am. The OFFICE DEPOT KITTIES are there.
Look! There's Inkjet, and Mousepad, and Sharpie! There were many others around, too, because as you can kind of see, a woman was there feeding them. Naturally she and I got into a 20-minute talk about the kitties, who I recently called "cattens" when I was telling their story to Daniel Boone, and he said, "I'm going to pretend you didn't just say 'cattens.' "
Whatever. Anyway, you can imagine Marvin's patience while we droned on about the kitties. Who by the way have already been captured, neutered, and released. By other insane people such as myself.
The computer part of Office Depot was boring.
Then finally we went to the Apple store where absolutely no apples were sold, not even a green one. Not even Gwynneth Paltrow's daughter. And anyway Ima try again and you know Ima get mad.
Yay, look what I did! I was able to go to another page, click on an image, save it to my desktop and put it here WITHOUT CRASHING THIS #$#&#&@&@# computer. This computer of many ampersands.
Anyway yes. This is what I'm getting. I wanted fast and I wanted big. Because I am old and blind. I just wrote "old and bling" and I love my own self.
After Marvin played at the Apple store for 43889492020234 minutes and I looked at covers for my iPhone because that is the only interesting thing to do at an Apple store other than go to each computer and call up my blog and leave it there in order to drive business to this fascinating tome, we went to dinner.
Behold the artist formerly known as Muffin, eating a muffin. And also bread. Have a carb, Marv. They're very slimming, carbs.
So that was my evening. I wait impatiently for my new credit card so that I may purchase my new computer and have a new experience with writing an entire post without having to scream the F word.
Oh! I almost forgot. When I went up to the first computer at the Apple store and started playing with it, Marvin said, "Let me help you feel more at home. Rrrriowchhhhh chhhhhh! Ooooooo, rowrrrrrrrsccchhhhh!"
That is totally the sound this computer now makes when you type ONE LETTER. It PAINS this computer so that I want it to, you know, work.
Remember that scene in Office Space where they take the fax machine out to a field and just beat the crap out of it?
Get ready, stupid assy effing old computer. We're going for a drive to the country.
P.S. Oh my solid pudding, will I ever leave? I was thinking of revamping Pieces of Wisdom but I am out of questions to ask y'all. What kinds of things should I ask? Your thoughts, please.
