But at noon Ima show you my BEAUTY ROUTINE!!!
I know, right?
So, how is everyone? Don't answer. I don't actually care. Don't you wish you could say that to the coworker who actually tells you how their weekend was?
Speaking of coworkers, the woman who sits next to me is great. I love sitting next to her. One of the things I like is that she's quiet and another is that she's so not basic. She runs this super-cool local music magazine, and she has perfect winged eyeliner every day, and she's intimidating because she's not all smiley "Hiii!" girl, thank god.
And that is why when she went out of town, we Basic Bitched her desk. I wrote to everyone I could think of to ask if they had pink, girly things we could put on her desk in place of the all black and gray things she had on there. Someone brought a teddy bear in a shadow box. That's how committed we got.
Here's my favorite juxtaposition: her regularly scheduled coffee cup against the pink-and-polka-dotted "Yay!" cup. Oh my god, that there is a "Yay!" cup anywhere in the world makes me crabby.
My boss donated this nice hot pink picture frame--she can have it for keeps!!--and three of us at work have decided to reenact the photo for her, so she can replace this pose with the three of us doing this pose. I even found someone at work who owns magnetic refridge magnets made of--
Magnetic refridge magnets. God I hate myself.
--those magnets all kids have. The letter magnets. I asked one woman who has, like, a three-year-old, and when she told me they don't have those, I told her I was calling Child Protective Services.
No one at work likes me.
Anyway, my goal is to get those letters and spell out Fuck Alex or something with them, for that special touch. And needless to say, I am the woman in this pose, above. And I had a black wig for ages, in the drawer, here, and now that I need it I can't find it.
Yay! That describes those two coffee cups up there, too. Fuck. Yay!
Speaking of my mood swings, do you know what makes me extraordinarily mad? I mean, out of proportion mad. When I start laundry, and it swirls around a couple times, then it makes the door open and the dryer stops. Oh, that makes me so fucking furious. I always stomp over there and slam the door shut. I'll show that dryer.
So you have an out-of-proportion rage about anything? Like, if someone brings 11 items to the 10 items or fewer line. Or what about in the car? Why do people get so berserk in the car?
I have a ridiculous left turn right before I get to work. There's no light, and it's a really busy road and there should be a light. Sometimes you're sitting there for two or three minutes before you can turn. I get rage-y when someone is crawling just enough so that I can't turn, and behind them is a shit-ton of traffic, so I know I have eleventy more minutes to wait thanks to their crawly asses.
I'm getting all kinds of birthday presents, and if you sent one and haven't heard from me, it means there was no little card in the box. Tell me, and I will thank you properly. My mother's friend, Not Gwen, sent me six pair of cute reading glasses. Am beside self.
Ned bought me hanging plants. I put these same kinds of plants in my yard every year, and they never ever ever ever have a tag saying what they are, but they're this blooming succulent that works perfectly right there. I never have to water them--the rain here is enough--and they last May through October, except I never got them in May and I was bemoaning that and now boom. M'plants.
Tonight I have one of my old movies at the movie theater. In fact, there's a movie there every night this week, but I did not go last night because it was Rope and I just saw Rope last year. I have so many suggestions for that theater, like Towering Inferno and also two hours of old Warner Bros. cartoons. Wouldn't you so go to two hours of, like, Barber of Seville and the one where Marc Anthony the big dog finds that tiny kitten and he thinks his human mom made kitten cookies? Remember that one? I love that one.
Oh my god, I FOUND IT! Yay!
7:05 a.m. (Hah! Remembered!)
If you tuned in yesterday, you'll recall, with your sharp precision that knows no bounds, that I said, "I haven't saved the bird yet or seen the muskrat or closed down two more places or gotten to Peg or talked about Boomer the big-headed dog, so I guess I'll write more tomorrow."
Well, here it is. Tomorrow. Let's not adieu any further. Which I think means "goodbye" so that made no sense.
After my near-brush with lawn-guy death on Saturday, Ned and I returned to my abode and did not bid adieu but instead let out aLottie. See what I did, there? We got the leashes and took everyone on a walk, and by "everyone" I don't mean you were the only one not there. I just mean in my dog kingdom.
So we'd rounded the corner toward the park for The Seeing of the Chickens in That One Back Yard That Faces the Park, when I saw a bird just motionless in the middle of the road. "Oh, no," I said to Ned, handing him Lottie's leash without another word. Ned used to walk the dogs with me all the time, although they contained a calm Tallulah and not a berserk Lottie. But he's used to my oh no-ing and handing the leash off thoughtlessly. I'm just glad he didn't lose a hand since our breakup, and my thoughtless leash-handing would have resulted in tragedy.
Why does my brain work that way?
The poor thing was motionless, with his beak open like he was gasping for air, although he didn't seem to be. I used the (unused, calm down) poop bag to try to pick him up, he wriggled away, and so I sat and talked to him for awhile.
And that is when he started following me around.
Oh, it was cute. I'd walk a little and he'd hop after me. Finally I got him, took him to the shade under a person's bush, and I mean, like, foliage, pervy. Then Ned and I screamed the poor dogs home (Edsel was all, wak abort again so mom can save dum burd), got water and a shoe box Ned punched holes in and drove back to the spot.
Ned parked and stayed in the car to search bird rescue places and I got my shoe box, my cup of water, my tiny dish and spoon and was hunching in the bushes talking to a bird when the people who owned the house with the bush drove up.
You know how this hair looks crazy anyway?
"Oh, hai. I was just talking to a bird under your...your...trying to capture and rehabilitate...okay, nice to meet you." Once they arrived, the bird flew off, so then I looked COMPLETELY sane. I was just talking to this imaginary bird in your bush. Hey, you on NextDoor? Me too! Looking forward to the warning about me on there!
Are you guys on that thing? Go see if you have one for your neighborhood. You get all KINDS of good gossip, and all sorts of drama from busybodies. They should've named it Gladys Kravitz, not NextDoor. You also get to see people pictures so you can check if you have any hot neighbors.
News flash: I don't seem to have any hot neighbors. A lot of very involved 42-year-old women, though. "Did anybody hear those sirens? Is everyone okay?" Oh, please. You don't give one fuck. You just want the guff. AS DO I.
After I, you know, got up from under those people's bushes and said my name was Peg so she'd look crazy and not me (and there's a giant chance they'll mistake us at the next block party), Ned and I decided to go ahead and walk in the park anyway, even without my poor dogs, who were probably home ordering giant bones online.
"heyyy. bonez dot com do not haff anytheen edzel wan--well, hai, fyrmenz!"
"Oh my god!" I screeched, and Ned is used to my random screeches as well. But in the creek, there, was a swimming little muskrat! Oh, he was cute. We could see him all sleek and swimmy, and then he got out and showed us his little muskrat head, and I got the water and shoebox and tried to convince him it was great at my house.
I Googled to show you a cute picture of a swimming muskrat and came across this horrific picture instead. Are those, like, his innards up top? What IS that? Somewhere, Muskrat Susie is very sad.
Finally, Ned and I stopped looking at the muskrat, and went to our respective homes and showered, because neither of us had yet that day, and it was 10 p.m. when we finally went out to dinner. I'm sure you recall, from your Big Book of June Events, that in June of 2012, we went to a restaurant and sat clean in the dark. Like, they'd failed to light the damn outside portion of the restaurant, and so we sat in utter darkness and despair. Except we didn't, because we'd been dating six months and it wasn't complicated then and oh, June of 2012. How I miss you.
The point is, we ended up closing that place the other night, although this time it was at least lit. This town goes to bed early. Then after, we wanted to try this new brewery, but first I wanted to come home and check on Lottie, and guess who's a pain in my ass.
So when the doorbell rang and it was quite late, I was glad Ned was there. Because scary.
It was Peg. Of the kneel-in-the-bushes-in-people's-yards Pegs. "My lights are out!" she announced, stomping in defiantly. "I see yours aren't."
Ned called Duke Energy, and it turns out most dukes have a ton of energy, and also it turns out 35 houses in my neighborhood were out of power, as was the blinking light on our corner. Something about a bird coming back to life and wreaking havoc on the power lines.
I told Peg she could stay at my house and watch TV, but she demurred. "I'll just go to bed," she said, so Ned and I headed to the brewery. Which we closed down.
And also, at said brewery, right next to us, in a chair like he was a person, was a big big big, big-headed dog named Boomer and I LOVED HIM SO BAD. I tried to act like I was taking an asshole selfie and get him in the background, but the angles didn't work. OH HE WAS A PUMPKIN.
I kept hearing people ask Boomer's owner, "What kind of dog is that?" and she kept saying, "He's a mix." Yes, we KNOW he's a mix, but get your hundred dollars together to find out he's a Boxer/Pit/Shep/Lab/Golden mix when you know perfectly well he's a Blackmouth Cur and they don't test for that.
Not to be specific. Which of you emailed to tell me Lottie's a Blackmouth Cur? Because I think you're right. Here's a regularly scheduled BMC, below, at three months old.
Here's my "shepherd mix" at three months and 19 days.
Anyway, that sums up my adventure-filled Saturday. Yesterday I found a tick on me, so now I'm Yolanda from Real Housewives. You have THAT to look forward to.
From my cryogenic tank,
P.S. My latest Purple Clover, about the day I called all my exes and discovered I'm crazy.
Yesterday I had many little things happen that were sort of exciting. I mean, not Indiana Jones exciting--you know how I am. I get excited when it's new-bar-of-soap day. So.
I've been migrainous, so I got up when Lottie did yesterday, took her outside with my screaming head, let her back in and fed everyone, then left the back door open so she could go outside to pee. I let her run around while I slept with the bedroom door closed. I was worried but didn't know how else I could sleep. If I'd put that energy-of-a-thousand-suns back in her crate she'd have had a fit.
When I woke up again? She'd been fine. She was lying outside my bedroom door, waiting for me. No accidents anywhere.
Anyway, as I was struggling to wake up and so on, the phone rang. It was Ned.
"I was just calling to see how you were doing." And that is when I asked him to come make the gate we'd bought two years ago into a smaller gate, so that I can keep Lottie in this back room, with access to the back yard. That way every once in awhile I can, oh, gather my sanity for a bit while she runs around like a chilly fool back here.
Twenty minutes later, there was Ned with his tools, and that is not a euphemism.
He shortened the gate so I can keep it right here, and in fact that's just what I did when he and I left to go to Lowe's. He needed new string lights for his backyard, and I'd left that dog bed out, the one in the living room that was half-chewed anyway. I'd been cleaning the floor in there, for a change (no one cleans a floor more often or more fruitlessly than me, old Sisyphus, here.) and it started to storm out and I was not only ridin' the storm out, I was leavin' the bed out. I needed a new one.
So we headed to Lowe's on a Saturday at 2:00, which as you can imagine rendered it completely empty in there. "We could have BROUGHT Lottie," I pointed out, and Ned looked weary. I've already taken her there once, although I really shouldn't because parvo. She gets her final round of shots this week and she can go just everywhere after that. The day I took her to Lowe's it was another "I just got home and I can't possibly put that poor dog back in a crate" sitch.
Single motherhood. It's not for everyone.
The point is, while I exposed her to yards and yards of parvo in every aisle, she was like the Lowe's greeter. Holy shit with that dog and the smiling and the wagging and then when someone stopped to pet her, of course you couldn't actually pet her because of the jumping and wriggling and that is why puppies are the worst.
Turns out, they don't SELL dog beds at Lowe's. I was at HOME DEPOT and saw on-sale dog beds. Why the hell don't those two just merge? It would help my confusion tremendously. The good news is, Ned found his string lights, and I met TWO boxer doggies who were together. To tell you the truth I was never much of a boxer person--and now I dearly wish I had Photoshop skills so I could pop in a photo of me with a boxer face--but anyway, now I'm suddenly all, Look at his boxer Lottie earses. Look at his Lottie chest, all boxer-y.
Their owner told me they calmed down at age 4. God help us, everyone.
So Ned and I went to TJ Maxx, which, really? When did I become the person who spends her Saturdays at chain stores? I used to go to cool coffee shops and restaurants and have sex all day. Now I go to TJ Maxx.
But it turns out, TJ MAXX IS FANTASTIC. Who fucking knew? They have a WHOLE SECTION of pet stuff, and I got a new bed, two bins for pet food, which I've been wanting forever because ants, and also a microfiber towel that allegedly wipes more mud from dog feet.
The stupidest thing I ever did was give to Goodwill that huge, mud-trapping entryway rug my mother got me five years ago. They cost like a hundred dollars and WHY DID I DO THAT?
I moved abroad with Ned. That's why.
"The stupidest thing I ever did was get rid of all that stuff to move in with your ass," I announced to Ned, who was perusing pillows. He just got a new mattress, to bang all those women on because swinging bachelor. "I got rid of all kinds of books I regret," he said, WHICH REALLY ISN'T THE SAME.
Anyway, we were armed with our fabulous TJ Maxx goods, and we got the max for the minimum and I just made that up. We were headed back to my house when we noted our barbecue place was BOARDED UP.
"Stamey's is boarded up!" I said, and right then Ned knew. We pulled in to the parking lot, and there was a little sign announcing they'd had a fire, but won't we go to their food truck? And right in the lot was the food truck, and right then we knew again.
"We totally should," I said, because altruistic. So Ned, of the salad Neds, had a barbecue sandwich with cole slaw on it, fries, and a bottle of Cheerwine in a glass bottle for lunch. Am certain this made him nervous. Am certain he is still thinking about his triglycerides as we speak.
We got back to my house and the gate worked! I know we're teetering on the day Lottie just jumps over the thing, and that is the day I get a big chain and a tire and she lives tethered in my back yard. I'll throw a few scraps out there every day or so.
"We should get ice cream," I said, and that is when Ned, whose soul has left his body, said okay and off we went. The place we like to go to is near his house, and they take only cash, so we pulled up to his house so he could run in and get the many many stacks of dollars he keeps behind that picture over the fireplace, where the code is...
When we pulled up, two men were in the driveway getting out of a pickup truck. "Who's that?" I asked. "I don't know. Stay here," said Ned, because he knows I carry and my trigger finger is ITCHY, man.
He got back in the car after a minute, looking disconcerted. Even more disconcerted than he had when he realized he was following up a bottle of Cheerwine with some ice cream, and that it was likely they weren't going to have lettuce flavor as he was hoping.
"That was really weird," he said. The men said they were there to do yard work, but since the day we moved in this guy Jesus had done the yard work. When Ned asked who'd sent them, they mentioned someone named Mike, so maybe my chair guy sent them. Or my screen door guy. "I told them to not work on my yard," said Ned.
We sat on the stoop of the ice cream shop and he ate thoughtfully. We'd gotten there five minutes before they closed, and Ned noted we'd closed two places down. Last weekend when we went to that bar and ran into my friends, they left and Ned and I stayed and talked, till we noticed it was just us, the bartender and some guy waxing the floor. I'm certain the bartender was not wishing to corkscrew our heads or anything.
We ate our cones (peach for him, butter pecan for me) and discussed the men at his house. There WAS a handyman named Mike who'd do things around the house. Could he have sent the men? "That was really weird," Ned kept saying, till a garbage bag got thrown at us. It missed us by an inch.
"Score!" said the bearded millennial from the doorway. He'd clearly been trying to clean up and wanted to get the bag near the trash can or something. Then he saw us.
"God, I am so sorry, guys. But I saw you there and you just made me so damn mad."
And that is when we loved the millennial ice cream guy.
We decided to swing past Ned's house again, and THERE WERE THE MEN back in his driveway. Ned was really upset, so we pulled around the corner and called 911. He has this, like, fancy thing now where if he's on the phone in his car, it automatically becomes a speakerphone sitch over his radio. "What do I tell her?" Ned asked, once the operator came on.
"Two men, one smelling of alcohol, are in my friend's driveway without authorization," I said authoritatively to 911, who probably knows me from all the other annoying times I've called.
"Yes, how do you clarify butter?"
"I'm leaving the car here," said Ned. "I'm going back there to confront those men, and I want you to stay here in case it gets dangerous."
Naturally, I was delighted by all this, because drama is my friend. But while he stalked off to, I don't know, have a knowledge-of-literature-off with the strange men, a triglyceride-off, it occurred to me, maybe our gaylord would have some info. I still have his number on my phone.
"Well, hey, June!" said my gaylord, former, who told me he had the phone IN HIS HAND to call Ned and tell him that (1) Jesus quit and (4) two men were coming to trim the ivy, clean the gutters and prune the bushes.
And right then I knew.
I ran--RAN!!--to the house, calling 911 in the meantime to stop the presses. "It's okay!" I bellowed, as I saw Ned confronting the poor men in the driveway.
In the end, Ned felt like a jerk, the men think we're crazy, 911 is over me and my former gaylord is all, Why was she at Ned's?
As we pulled away, Ned asked, "I just wonder why Jesus quit."
"He probably doesn't need to work anymore, Ned," I said. "After all, Jesus saves."
And right then I knew. I am my own soulmate.
So, I've already written 1700 damn words, and I haven't saved the bird yet or seen the muskrat or closed down two more places or gotten to Peg or talked about Boomer the big-headed dog, so I guess I'll write more tomorrow.
I'm very delighted with my new "add the time" thing I'm doing. I'm blogging at night because I have to be at work early tomorrow. I thought I'd get the whole blogging thing in so it doesn't trip me up tomorrow, which it often does. I'll get all, "Let me just put in one last picture" and then I'm late. And then you guys will be all, "Why didn't you take a picture of the man who sped behind you on the freeway, Jone?"
"Why didn't you take a PICTURE of the Tooth Fairy?" "I sure would love to have seen a photo of God when you prayed to him to take Lottie away."
"June, I can't believe you didn't snap a photo of your rape trial."
The woman who wrote Eat/Pray/Love is getting divorced, and she put out a statement saying she was sorry she wasn't going to go into detail but to remember this is a story she's living, not a story she's telling. I was all, SING IT, SISTER!
...Oh, hell. Phone call.
TALK TO YOU SOON.
Caption this for me while you're thinking about what an unsatisfying post.
This morning I was peeing, and Lottie ran in, took the toilet paper off the holder, and ran off. You know how all your life you've said, How can anyone beat a puppy? I have your answer.
Numbers sign TeamLottieAbandoners. Did you know if you type a hashtag and write something right next to it now, it immediately turns into some kind of bold link? I could get all types of people coming over here right now with my stupid hashtags.
(I've heard that used to be a popular search term. Marvin told me. Marvin, that social media expert.)
Well, why didn't that last one work? Goddammit. Anyway, hello, sex and mesothelioma lovers. Welcome. This blog discusses neither, seeing as I have neither at the moment. Life could turn on a dime, though. Why, just tonight I could have sex and catch mesothelioma all at the same time. I know you're kind of hoping for the latter, if you have mesothelioma and came looking for answers. Incidentally I'm something of a dick. Welcome, again.
Wouldn't it be funny if I had sex with Taylor Swift tonight? I wonder if she'd leave me any Thunderstruck? Do you like how I subtly linked to my Amazon wish list, right there? I'm learning about this sort of subtle linkage in my writing. Marvin taught me. Bah.
I'm still looking through every damn piece of paper I own to find that damn blueprint for my yard that that garden store made for me in 2008. I've looked through all my papers (see mom being hilarious, above), and then just this morning I woke up and said, "I'll bet I put it with the big buying-my-house folder." And I'll bet I did.
Oh, and I forgot to say, note the time. I put the time at the top of this post, and I like that idea. To note the time I'm writing. Of course, I'll forget tomorrow.
Anyway, speaking of forgetting, I couldn't blog yesterday because I had one guy over named Mike who was looking at my deck, and then we had to dicker and deal and talk on the phone 50 times. Then I had a guy named Mike who came over to look at my grandmother's chair to tell me about recovering it, and he left his Reptile Collection II book here, and who on this earth selects orange reptile Naugahyde? Who? Anyway, I gotta call him but I'm riveted by this book and loath to return it. I've been poring over it when I'm not meeting Mikes.
Because there's a guy named Mike who came over to measure my door to put a new screen door in, a gift from my mother for my birthday.
Do you see what I did, there? I'm linked in. I imagine always talking about it detracts from the subtlety just a titch. It's like how any time Marvin and I ever Did It OVER THE COURSE OF SIXTEEN YEARS, he had to mention the next day that we Did It. "That kind of reminds me of last night. Heh."
Then he invented Facebook, because social media guru. "I should call it sit-on-my-Facebook. Kinda reminds me of last night. Heh."
Dear Mike Zuckerman or whatever your name is: Do not sue me. I was being hilarious and in no way did Marvin invent Facebook. Can I introduce you to my lover, Taylor Swift?
I couldn't help myself. I just perused Mike's Reptile II Electric Boogaloo book one more time.
Yes, I wonder if you could sign me up for the aubergine bi-crock fabric. Thanks.
I wonder what riveting reptiles, what scintillating snake fabrics were featured in Reptile I? Coral Cobra? Bluest Black Snake?
Anyway, it's been a time, getting all kinds of phone calls that start out, "June? Mike." and then I have to wait to see if he's gonna talk about doors or chairs or decks. So that's why I couldn't write, because I got Mikes. Which would be exciting except Taylor Swift is a jealous lover. So much for being bi-crock with Taylor and all the Mikes.
I really abhor when people say "lover." Stop. If you say "lover," do you know what I will never be?
So it turns out I'm getting the deck, which will cost my every last dime but the one I have is literally falling apart, and as a result I can't afford the chair. And I'm gettin' the door because mom.
In the meantime, while I was doing all that, I asked you to tell me what to blog about, which you will see I mostly ignored, but Becky BadHair wrote in and sent us a link to a personality test that is just grand. Almost as grand as Lime Emu fabric, which I hate to tell Reptile II is not a reptile. Here: 16personalities.com.
Go take it! I did, and I am a campaigner. Which makes no sense at all if you think about how often I've linked to my wish list today. This last link, here, really is to my personality profile, though. Oh, it's great. And so detailed!
The ENFP personality is a true free spirit. They are often the life of the party, but unlike Explorers, they are less interested in the sheer excitement and pleasure of the moment than they are in enjoying the social and emotional connections they make with others. Charming, independent, energetic and compassionate, the 7% of the population that they comprise can certainly be felt in any crowd.
Don't I sound magnificent? I know I think so.
Aw, hell, I gotta get in the shower and go. But here are some photos and things I found while looking for that damn blueprint, which better be effing worth it when I do find it.
Paula's Christmas letter where she details her Heart fascination. It never stops amusing me, her look of pure Edsel joy when she's watching Heart for the 93424056th time. Also, both her boobs are featured back then! It's good we captured them on film. We didn't know we'd be missing one. I wouldn't say I've been missing it, Bob.
Article--hard-hitting article--about my Aunt Kathy being in Paul McCartney's DVD. Apparently I know a lot of people featured in concert DVDs. I have said DVD, and Aunt Kathy has signed it, "All my lovin', Aunt Kathy."
Me with a boot on my car in 1992. That goddamn place. They gave you a ticket every four minutes. I remember that dress cost $110, which was unheard of at the time. Except by me, who gladly shelled out $110. To be fair, I wore it for about 10 years, and then I wore the cardigan portion for even longer.
I was adorable. I would say I didn't appreciate it, but I kind of feel like I went around thinking, "I am adorable." So.
Cousin Katie and me, circa 2003. I loved that purse. Not that Katie was a purse. The purse I'm holding. Garment district, LA. Was a regular there.
And here's the piece of resistance. Heh.
The list of my ideal man, created after Marvin left me to pursue his social media passion. Hey, did I want to find a rich man, Daidle deedle daidle daidle daidle deedle daidle dumb, at all?
Dear Bald Steve: Yes, I just quoted a musical. Shut up. Love, June.
I need to make a new list.
Ludicrous morning that can already bite me. Also, I have what sounds like an ancient man coming over at noon to tell me how much to build a deck on my mud yard. Therefore, when can I blog? WHEN?
When I do, tell me what to blog about.
Because of the holiday weekend, I forgot that Sunday was Sunday and therefore I did not exfoliate using my microdermabrasion, but before you panic, I did remember today.
I should probably not scare you like that.
It's from Mary Kay.
I got gift certificates, two of them, awhile back. Long story.
I certainly do love it when you guys make me go back and give you the details. "What KIND of lip gloss, Jooooon?" OH MY GOD WHO CARES.
In unrelated news, today is EDSEL'S BIRTHDAY! Let's take a birthday photo RIGHT NOW of Edsel in his element. He's fighting with Lottie currently. On a new and different note.
Yeah. No. There's no getting him to pose-n-smile currently. He's in it, man. He's in the trenches. Look at his muddy feets. Look at the eternally-out broom. I Shark these floors every day. Every. Day. Lottie brings in sticks. Yesterday I mopped, left the room for one second, and came back in to a big pile of dirt with a branch on top.
Anyway, now he is 6. My big Eds. Remember his puppyhood? I don't recall him being an asshole puppy, actually.
Speaking of mud on my floor, ya got mud on yer face, ya big disgrace, I am obsessed with the lack of grass in my back yard accompanied by dogs running in an out and therefore mud on my everything. Wouldn't the dogs just trample ground cover? I've wanted to extend my deck, get a bigger deck, cause who doesn't like a big deck and oh my GOD, June, but it costs.
What the hell? This is the worst year I've had for lack of grass. The people who used to own this house must have done something to the lawn, or is it just that the trees have grown so much? But I WANT shade in the back, so what's a woman to do? Tell me. REMEMBER DOGS WILL TRAMPLE. And if you tell me to just throw a bunch of wood chips on my entire backyard I will die of depression. Hey, here's my wood chip back yard. I'm part chipmunk. Very proud of heritage.
I cleaned my keyboard while Google was up, and this happened. heeeeeeee.
I should probably look into getting a life.
I was worried about Lottie being scared of the fireworks, so I took her to the cookout I went to and she was perfectly fine. She sat on my lap while fireworks went off around us, but I gave her treats and talked cheerfully--a stretch for me--and made it seem like a positive thing that booms were surrounding us and the Yankees were coming, and she put her chin on her paws and sighed. She was more Melanie than Pittypat.
Also, I went to the attic and got down two old files of my paperwork, because I know years ago, years and years, this company came over and did a blueprint for me of stuff I could plant in my yard that'd do well given where the sun is and the shade and so on. Of course I NEVER FOUND THE DAMN BLUEPRINT, but I did find a bunch of other fun stuff, such as Anderson Cooper's kitten papers and Iris's adoption form where they call her deformed.
This was on the back of one of my endless medical reports: A warm note to Marvin. If only all our notes and conversations with loved ones came with literal interpretations.
"So, you're going to that concert, then." (Literal interpretation: I feel neglected.)
"You getting something from the kitchen?" (LI: I feel empty inside and tried to fill the gaping maw in my soul with a reality show, but that's not working so how 'bout you bring me a Ho-Ho? See if the hole in my soul is shaped like a Ho-Ho.)
"Fine." (LI: This is the furthest thing from fine.)
"I went to the movies. Dogs have not been fed." (LI: This marriage is over.)
I gotta go. I got three meeting notices on my phone last night, at midnight, and I was all, "Oh, no, I have a meeting! I have...zzzzzz." Then the next one would beep in. "MEETING! I HAVE...zzzzzz." I wish I'd never hooked up my work email to my phone.
I thought I'd fill you in on my many activities so far this holiday weekend, and by "many" I mean "June is fairly pathetic."
On Friday, we got out early, so I took advantage of that extra time to come home and sleep like the dead for an hour. Oh my god, I slept hard. Propofol hard. I was listless for awhile, then got up and twirled my hair while starting at nothing, like a toddler. I know I use that line all the time, but it's a good one.
Finally, though, I rallied enough to go to dinner, only to be seated by the World's Worst People. We were outside, and it was a surprisingly quiet night at the restaurant despite it being First Friday downtown. This couple BARGED over, started scraping metal chairs across the concrete, and bellowing to each other for no reason at all. "YOU GETTING A MARTINI?" "YEAH!"
They weren't young. They were like, our age, so it wasn't that. And if that weren't bad enough, one by one their similarly loud family members joined then, until it was like The Chorus of the Loud Family.
The beleaguered waitress came. "MA'AM, WHAT'S YOUR NAME?"
"WHAT DID SHE SAY HER NAME WAS?"
"TWO MARTINIS, EMMA."
"SHE KNOWS THAT, I ALREADY TOLD HER."
The entire family was talking, loudly, at once. Except for one kid, who was playing a video game on his phone. Zoom! Zoom! Zoom! said his video game. ZING! ZING! ZING! It also said.
The poor waitress ("The bartender knows how we want 'em," they told her, which, get over yourselves.) tried to leave the table THREE TIMES and they kept calling her back. "Oh, miss? Emma? Wait."
Everyone at my table was stabby.
The best part of the whole thing was when the WHOLE FAMILY started exchanging stories about times they'd been shushed in public by total strangers.
"I'M A GROWN MAN! A GROWN-ASS MAN! NO ONE SHUSHES ME!"
I'm about to, so...
"People don't like loud," bellowed the daughter. "It's because they're uncomfortable with themselves," she screeched smugly.
IT IS NOT CAUSE WE'RE UNCOMFORTABLE WITH OURSELVES, YOU THOUGHTLESS TWIT. IT'S CAUSE YOU'RE FUCKING ANNOYING.
Lemme tell you something. If your WHOLE FAMILY has similar stories about how the general public has wronged you, perhaps the entire rest of the world is not to blame. Perhaps the problem lies with you, you LOUD FUCKING ASS FUCKING LOUD ASS FUCKERS.
So that was relaxing.
Yesterday, I got up with Ned, and I know shut up. We went to Winston-Salem, for a change, where they have old cars on display every year at this time, and also a giant rockabilly show. We saw bands, a wet tank-top contest with rockabilly chicks, and best of all, two burlesque shows.
"I am so vanilla," Ned said, perusing the crowd full of sleeved-out, greased-haired, rockabilly-clothed men hither and yon. "I'm vanilla No. 6."
One time--ONE TIME--Ned said he thought of himself as a six, and without thinking I said, "Sometimes you're a seven" and he WILL NEVER LET IT DROP. EVERRR.
Okay, I'm sorry. You're a 10. Jude Law? Pfft. Morris Chestnut? Peedaddle.
Oh, also, we had a tintype taken. I call it, Ode to Vanilla No. 6. It did not at all make me think of...
...Laura and Almanzo. Except we took our coats off. What was with the coats? Yes, we're gonna take a total of four pictures of ourselves through 60 years of marriage, but let's leave our coats on for this one.
After we saw many, many titties, what with the burlesque and wet tank top and so on (one of the contestants was a trans person, and I so wanted her to win. But there was a totally pretty girl dressed sort of as Rosie the Riveter, so...), we had to go home and let Lottie out of prison.
Look how big she's gotten. ...Oh. Wait.
Look at my goddamn blinds. Need new ones so bad.
After awhile we realized we were FUCKING RAVENOUS, so I put the dogs in the back room, got the dog gate, put it all across the door with two chairs and weights, and we left for food.
Where we ran into friends of mine who saw far today have not texted to say, "Ned? What?" So. Good for them.
The place isn't far from my house at all, in fact you can walk there, so we were gone not long. But when we got back, Lottie had totally figured out how to get out of the goddamn gate, and was running amok around the house, and thank god pooped on the concrete floor and nowhere good.
Edsel stayed behind the gate, even though it was 100% escapable.
I guess that's all my news. It's rainy and cloudy here, which makes it a perfect day to do zero point zero. I mean, as much as you can do zero with El Diablo the Puppy in your house.
I am my demon dog's mom,
Almost the very minute I pressed "Publish" yesterday on my post, as soon as I'd said to you, "A Charismatic Attractive always forgets your birthday. The Low-Key Reliable never does," I realized my friend Dottie's birthday came and went and I'd NEVER GIVEN IT A THOUGHT.
Not a THOUGHT. Not an "I'm at work, but I gotta remember to call Dot after." Nothing.
For years--DECADES!!--I had a big old pretty wall calendar I hung on the wall, with everyone's birthdays on it. The Purchase of the Wall Calendar was a big thing for me. Remember the year I got the Vintage Better Homes & Gardens calendar and you all had to hear about it constantly?
I even put some of the months into my old coffee table. Look at Iris down there, all, "Eyeriss want to see. Well. See-ish."
The point is, this year I didn't get one. "Oh, it's the digital age," I told myself. "I have a calendar on my phone."
Guess what doesn't work for me? I still want a Hallmark date book and a big pretty wall calendar, one that shows the next month and the previous month. I don't understand calendars that don't. I also like one that shows the phases of the moon, even though all you have to do for that is look up. I'm getting one next year. Writing all the birthdays on it again.
Anyway, I called Dot. She picked up the phone: "Hello?" and I launched into all that. All of the above. She had to sit there and listen to that whole diatribe. Dottie is an LKR. I am a CAwkward-Looking.
"It's okay," she said, because she's low-key. "I appreciate you taking the time to call now," she said.
Dottie is the kind of person who sends you fruit bouquets when you break up with someone. She bought me all the Girl Scout cookie flavors--all of them--this year and last. Sometimes she sees Pop-Tarts, thinks of me, and mails them.
And I forgot her 50th birthday. Clean forgot.
Yeah. Won't you be my friend? It's super-rewarding.
While I was perusing pictures of my old calendar to show you, I found this of me in 1976 at Xmas. Back when I was a stewardess, apparently. And look! A dog! Hunh. That was my grandparents' dog Josh. The Christmas tree was in the dining room that year, for some reason. I'd forgotten the red carpeting. It was 1976. We'd have dyed the dog red, white and blue if we could have.
This photo furthers my mother's cockamamie theory that my hair was normal till I moved out, and now I "do something to it." As if I'd intentionally wish it to be this way. Also, I guess that's my real hair color. Kind of nondescript blondbrownish.
So, what're you all doing for the 4th of July? I'm doing various celebratory things--a concert here, another sort of 4th festival there. I have no real plans to see the fireworks, but they're downtown this year, and that annoys me. Sounds like a nightmare to find parking. Remember when Ned lived right downtown? That was so convenient. I had a little parking pass thing and I could zip right into his lot and walk to whatever event. I think I still have that parking pass, actually. I wonder if I could get away with using it?
Tune in next time for June's Car is Towed.
I also found this picture, of me with Busty Dusty, from a bachelor party in 1991. Those are her breasts, not her knees. Her breasts. We were looking under my CARDIGAN, because hey, sexy, why not wear a cardigan to a strip club?
I was the honorary guy at that particular bachelor party. Also, that is not my natural hair color.
This is not my natural hair texture. Thank all that is holy and merciful.
Also not my natural color.
Why did I keep stampeding for perms?
Anyway, so I guess that's all my news. I am a terrible friend and also I have some plans for the weekend and finally my hair has done a lot of weird things but I don't "do something to it," MOM.
You know, looking at all my hair pictures (which I did by Googling "byebyepie" + "June hair") (Google byebyepie + anything, and a hilarious array of photos show up, mostly of me, which is kind of scary), I realize I've had this same goddamn hairstyle for ages. I mean, shoulder length, curly, whatever. I should change it up. But the only ways to change it are to blow it straight or cut it, and I look like George Washington when I cut it and you know that.
I realize this is all very riveting, but I must go. I have to slip into my denim jumpsuit even though I'm not a prisoner, despite all your filthy fantasies about me being one, tie on a jaunty neckerchief and get to work. Today is BRF Alex's last day. Yesterday was Linda the Sexy Receptionist's last day. It's also the last day of this really cool woman on our Spanish team. I remember back when I actually had a cubical, she'd sit in it and talk about boys, and now she's getting married.
Everything's changing. Except my hair.