I woke Ned up in the middle of the night. According to my Fitbit, it was somewhere between 2:47 and 3:08. "I'm sick," I announced, not at all dramatically. "My stomach is sick."
"Oh, no!" Ned jolted up. "Come here! What can I do?"
Now, see, there's the difference between Ned and me. I'd have been all OHMYGOD STOMACH SICKNESS! I'M GOING TO A HOTEL!
"There's nothing you can do," I said to him, not at all dramatically. "I'm going to sleep on the couch." And I did. Lily slept on my stomach, which I thought was going to be awful but was in fact not so bad. The 49 times I had to get up and run to the bathroom last night, Edsel accompanied me, and now I have an image of me on the pot and Edsel playing accordion.
The point is, now I feel better, and I'm going to work because stoic, and I weighed myself and lost like a pound, which is completely unfair. I promise you I dropped Mrs. Brown off at the pool 90 times, and Mrs. Brown's been retaining water.
Does that ever happen to you, where you wake up horrifically nauseated and you feel awful and you finally fall asleep and your body's all, eh. Better now, mostly. What is that?
In other news, don't forget that we've got a new book club book, and that book is Forever by Judy Blume because it's 1976 right now. Red, white and blue everything and the bicentennial minute.
Also, Ned and I went to that Chris Rock movie, Top Five, which I did not even want to see but he showed me the preview and I said, Oh, now I want to see that. So we did, and it was great. I didn't even expect to like it, and I don't know why because I like Chris Rock. Anyway, I recommend. And look at us, going to a mainstream movie! We're so basic. We totally shoulda gone to Applebee's after.
I have to go, which I always say and then I talk 72 more minutes. Here's my latest Purple Clover and here are photos I've taken recently that're on my desktop that I keep meaning to add here and never do. June Gardens' School of Organized Thought. Instructor: June--oh, wow, look at that!
She's 109, and she can still jump to the top of the wardrobe. She'd be one of those old ladies who still cuts her own grass.
Hey, how's that the-dogs-aren't-allowed-in-the-living-room thing going?
When my coworker, Griff, left for Christmas, we decided to all chip in and girl up his workspace. Sadly, you can't see the MILF someone put on his wall in glitter letters.
And finally, in summation, Faithful Reader Paula sent me TWO Real Romance magazines and I have read them thoroughly. I read them thoroughly the minute I got them. Ohmygod, they were FABULOUS, and I forgot that each narrator is a cute girl with a pert figure. "I was 26 years old, with honey-blonde hair and a pert figure." They're never a dog.
Okay, it's late. I gotta dress like a sexpot and get to work.
For breakfast, I'm having Ned's pumpkin flax granola with plain yogurt. Who the hell have I become?
We each got a big one, and two cute small ones for ambience. There was a beautiful well-behaved Golden Retriever there, and I wondered aloud if that was the very Golden they called me about when I was out the door to get Edsel. Do you remember? Some rescue place had a Golden Retreiver puppy and I'd filled out an app, but by the time I got a call back I'd already been "approved" for Edsel. Approved. They couldn't GET me there fast enough. Poor Eds. Poor maligned Eds.
We went to Target for candy, where I saw glitter pumpkins and realized we didn't need to go get real ones. Glitter pumpkins would have made my life complete.
Tallulah. The face of determination. You've never SEEN someone so determined to eat all the pumpkin guts. She'd grab a big string and have it hanging out her ridic mouth like she was a bear who'd just landed a salmon. Edsel joined her, but you could tell he wasn't into it. Kind of like later, when I sat with Ned while he watched the World Series.
Later, as we watched the fascinating World Series, I might have come in with some Halloween candy. "What are you doing?" asked Ned, appalled. Y'all, I don't know if I can live with this kind of weird discipline. Who doesn't immediately eat the Halloween candy? "Do I need to get more? Will I need more before Friday?" asked Ned, who wears me out to my very bones. You eat one, maybe two, okay three pieces of Halloween candy and all of a sudden there's a world shortage.
This frustrates me so much that I might need a break. Give me a break. Give me a break. Break me off a piece of that--
...I'll be right back.
I found two CDs with my initials on them, and seeing as I haven't released a CD in ages, and should really get on that live album, I was intrigued.
It was a whole mess of pictures from five or six years ago, that were on my old computer, the one I punched. Marvin must have somehow saved the pictures and I never looked at them.
Travel with me through time, won't you?
I adore Marvin, to this day I do. And dear god, I wish for him some woman who can't keep her mitts off him. We look like we're posing at Olan Mills.
I like his hair that way, though. He looks like a little spider monkey.
I'll give you a moment to stitch up your sides.
I laughed at this for 700 minutes. This is quintessentially my life. My life plus a blue whiteboard. I took it with me in this move and put it on the fridge, and just the other night, Ned was all, "Is this yours? Where'd it come from?"
There's a whole section of my life Ned is oblivious to.
Okay, one more.
Oh my GOD, I just spent hours--hours!!--with Apple, but my PHONE IS FIXED-DED! I am so happy. I have to go get ready, because Ned and I are headed to (wait for it) Winston-Salem to see Marvin's band play. I know, man. We are all the height of sophistication. It's like we're French.
But to celebrate the Return of June's Phone, I went around the house and made everyone pose with me, even though I just did yoga with Gurpmaloni Fonda or whatever his name is and I look like hell.
Anyway, I will let you know how it goes with Marvin and his band. Do you think he and Ned will get in a fist fight or anything? Who would win, if it came to blows? Maybe the fight will be, "Ohmygod, you take her." "No, YOU take her!" poundpoundpound.
Won't you enjoy my fight onomatopoeia?
This site's gonna be the death of me. Typepad is STILL having problems and this thing comes and goes constantly. When I went to log in today, I got the big warning you get sometimes about how I was logging in to an unsafe site. I've been logging in to this site since 2006! Now it's unsafe. At any speed.
So I'll wait till all seems actually stable to really post anything. Go read yesterday's if you didn't get. I'd hate for you to miss my impressive art.
P.S. I had a stupid idea but Ima do it anyway. Let's have selfie day. I just copyedited an article on selfies and I got inspired. Send me a photo you took yourself, of yourself. Email it to the email address on the right side of this blog (beneath the ad) and title it SELFIE.
Only title it that. I will not reply to you, because part of what makes finding these emails from you all so hard is that I've replied, so then when I do a search for "SELFIE" I also come up with 75 emails of us talking. So don't find me roooood.
Oh, and tell me your name (the name you want me to use for you when I mention you on my blog, anyway) where you were (Kansas, not "my kitchen") and any other fascinating tidbit. You have till this Friday at noon Eastern time. Go!
P.P.S. Y'all. REMEMBER TO ATTACH THE PIC. If you don't attach, your photo won't be shown. Because there, you know, IS no photo. Is the thing.
P.P.P.S. Oh my god, you all keep saying funny things and I want to reply BUT I CAN'T.
I am on hold with the IRS. It is Wednesday evening and I have been on the phone with them for 40 minutes. Usually I blog in the morning, but as I am hostage, what the heck.
I was just about to leave work today when I got to talking to Deb Downer, the woman at work who sent us all the link about the dreadful things a margarita does to your body, on the afternoon everyone was going out for margaritas. Despite this, she is in fact a likable person. Yes, her license plate reads Run4Fun or something equally awful, and yes she only gets gum out the vending machine and YES, she brings water to birthday celebrations so she doesn't eat cake, BUT BELIEVE IT OR NOT SHE IS STILL LIKABLE.
Anyway, please remind me to show you the thing she and I were talking about today, which kept me late, which got the attention of my boss, who gave me work to take home.
Crap. However, I got the work done, then said as long as I'm already tense and nervous and can't relax, I might as well call the IRS. Because apparently I owe money to them, and did everyone forget the part where I DID NOT WORK LAST YEAR? But when I DID work, it was freelance and none of that was taxed, so yeah. Working out a payment plan and/or offering my nubile self up to whoever will take me over there at the IRS.
So since I'm just sitting here listening to the same piano piece, which I have invented words for:
I wish you were on hold with me. It fits perfectly.
SO SINCE I'M SITTING HERE, I decided to look up your BLOG PHOTOS. A few months back, like 80, I asked you to send in your picture to me, and if you actually titled it BLOG PHOTO, I'd be able to find it in my 70,000 emails and show your face to the Bye Bye, Pie world. Such as it is.
What is sad is 10349492030424242443 people did this, along with some annoying folk who wrote BLAWG FOTO, and guess what, your picture's not getting in, and anyway I still have a large number of you to show off. Why not do a search now? Since I'm jamming out to
So let's begin. Shall we?
This person DID NOT give me her blog name, but I know this is everyone's favorite reader, The Zadge. I only now that cause I've read her blog, but if you didn't tell me your commenter name or blog name in your photo, I'm using the real thing, along with your home address, phobias and bank PIN. Anyway, cute shot!
Cheesekate says she lurks from Canada. She looks like that one actress. You know the one. That one. She was in The Green Mile. That one. Not Bonnie Hunt. The one who had the brain tumor and the guy saved her. SPOILER ALERT!
Did I already put this one of Tammy VV up? I know it's her Facebook photo and that's what might be throwing me off. I spend hours a day looking at this picture of Facebook. Am in love with Tammy VV. Wish to wear Tammy VV skin suit.
Pendy looks like that one actress. You know the one. In Gremlins. That one. No, she doesn't look like one of the bad Gremlins. That's not what I'm saying. God. Way to stir up trouble.
Cuckoobirdlane has been framed.
Wait. Let me reflect on that comment.
BAHAHAHAHAHAAAA! I am still on hold with the IRS, by the way. Good gravy.
Behold Lisajay99 and her giant drinks. She is from (sit down) Texas. Hey, everything's bigger in Texas.
Who is over me? Is it all of you?
I owe $2,100 to the IRS. I just hung up with Kevin, who was very nice but refused the offer of my body and wants the $2,100. This is when it sucks to be 47.
DeDe wants you to know she is on the left and her attention whore sister is over yonder on the right.
Okay, three more and then I MUST go do something fun. My day started out great and has gone steadily downhill. I am so nudging Ned right now with that last sentence. Hi, Ned. Nudge.
Megsie says this was taken a few years ago, before she let herself go. Which made me giggle. Megsie always leaves NICE comments. She is the Gallant of comments. Megsie never corrects June's typos when she comments. Megsie doesn't complain that June didn't talk about what SHE wanted her to talk about that day. Megsie never says, "Your photos suck, June."
Megsie is perfection. She is the chili cheese dog from Sonic of commenters.
Anyway, the good news is I have TWENTY THOUSAND MORE to show you, and dudes, I'm trying, man. I really am. Oh, and who wrote me after and said, "I changed my mind! Don't put my picture up!" because hey, try to find THAT email in my thousands of them! That's happening! Anyway, tell me who you are so I can delete your image.
I hope you enjoyed this trip through our readers' livers. I just made that up. It kind of made me think of those old Reader's Digest articles: "I am Bob's liver." "I am June's skull. On the outside, am so weighed down. Yet my insides are so light and devoid of depth."
XO, June. Of the owing the IRS Junes.
I don't have much to blog about today, because I am uninteresting. Last night I did my Tracy Chapman workout and watched a documentary at Ned's. And yes, I know it's funny I got a divorce from Mr. Documentary, Mr. All-Documentaries-All-the-Time, and then I meet someone else and what the eff do we do with our Friday night but watch a ding-dang documentary.
It was good, though. Dear Marvin, In case you decide to look at my blog today, this was good. Sort of XO, June. Awkwardly punching you on the arm, June.
Anyway, that summed up our night, as we are on Project Spend Less of Ned's Money, although tonight after some riveting sports event that Ned is beside himself about, we are going to see Argo, because it's the one Best Picture nominee we haven't seen, other than Les Mis, which doesn't count. You know who'd be Les Mis? Is Ned and me at that picture.
So, because I had nothing to blog about, and because I don't have time to load more of your 800 million photos you sent in or do a makeup tutorial, because Ima pay bills and buy groceries today and WOOO! the fun never stops at House of June, I thought what I'd do instead is dig into my photo box titled 1965-1992 and see what hideous photos I can show you.
Dad and me, in what I would estimate was 1987. I am guessing based on the perm, and yes that IS a perm. On me, not dad. We're standing on the roof of his building in Atlanta, where he used to live. Also we heart ourselves. I think this was a photo we specifically took to send to my grandmother, framed, for her birthday. See above reference to we heart ourselves.
This was in 2002, not anywhere close to 1965-1992. You know what I have? A super-organized photo box. This was my stepsister's wedding, and I remember I specifically lost weight for it, but I still have front butt. Goddammit. I look good otherwise, though. Other than the part where I'm clearly keeping Kanga from Winnie the Pooh.
For the love of God, June. Have a drink. This was 1992, and I know the date from the boyfriend in the picture. Some go by moons; I go by men. Sometimes you tell the days by the bottle that you drink. Sometimes when you're alone and all you do is think.
A bunch of us went dancing at a gay bar in Detroit, and then got what I'm certain was heart-healthy food at this diner. And somehow my bra needed to be taken off and bitten. As you do.
If I went out dancing all night and then ate diner food, I'd be destroyed the whole next day. I'll bet you anything that 26-year-old June got up the next day, picked her bra out of her teeth, and just went on like it was nothing.
Okay, last one.
One year, I was Madonna for Halloween. June. Continuing to love herself since 1965. June. Putting the "pre" in Madonna since 1965. I see my roommate Larry back there, who went as a Larry Krishna, and Sleeping Beauty's boyfriend who came as a TV dinner. We were hilarious. Why aren't there more Halloween parties for 47-year-olds? Of course, by the time Halloween rolls around again I will be 48.
The cones are divining rods at this point.
So I guess that's all. I leave you with these photos from years gone by, with the bras and the pouches and the paternal strangling. I will talk at you tomorrow, when Ooooo! I guess Ned and I will pick our Oscar thingamajigs.
June. Getting into the grove and out of here.
Last night I had dinner with my friend and coworker The Poet. We've been TRYING to go to tea together, but clearly God is over us and our tea plans. First, we picked Proximity, which is a fancy hotel near me--and how ironic would it be if a place called Proximity were far away from me--but they only serve tea until 5:00, and we, you know, work. Apparently they only cater to ladies who tea.
Then I suggested this place called The Secret Tea Room, where The Other June and I went and had crab cakes, thereby eating our astrological sign. Yes, I realize I say that every time I have crab. It's my big line. Sue me. Crack my shell and put butter on me. I guess that's more lobster, isn't it? Point is, Effing Secret Tea Room. Closed on Monday.
"GodDAMMIT," I said, glaring at my computer. "You want to just go to the fancy dessert place instead?" So we agreed to do that. Then when work was over and we were finally ready, we decided we wanted actual dinner and that's the end of that story.
How come you can be a crab but not a lobster as your astrological sign? I guess there were no constellations that looked like a lobster. Although if you ask me whoever made up what the constellations looked like was totally making shit up, like the dad from Calvin and Hobbes. "See there? That's an archer." Okay, high-on. I see a star here and three little spots over yonder. If that's an archer to you, go on wit' yer bad self.
Anyway, that was pretty much the highlight of yesterday. Having dinner with The Poet. I like The Poet. When they first sat me next to her at work I was worried she'd be all deep and only speak in poems or something. There's nothing worse than putting me next to a deep person. The juxtaposition is so, you know, jarring. But it was fine. She keeps her deep on the downlow when she's around me.
I just went into my photos on my computer to see if I took other photos of The Poet (answer: no) (and she really is a poet. Like, she's all published and stuff. And she tours around reading her poems and so forth) (maybe one day she'll be famous and I'll be a footnote in her biography. "Inexplicably, The Poet hung around shallow blogger June Gardens. Occasionally they tried to get tea.").
At any rate, I found this picture I somehow managed to take of my phone lockscreen, and by the way can anyone tell me how I did this? But I'm glad, because I have as my lock screen that terrible painting from the hotel we stayed at in West Virginia.
Am obsessed with that awful painting. And every once in awhile Ned says, "She kind of looks like you," which just makes me mad.
Now am interested in what's here in my photos that I haven't shown you.
I never did show you a photo of the chocolate-chip cookies I made for Ned for Valentine's Day. I mean, I actually made them. I did not just cut cookies off a tube. In fact, I was AT the store, buying foreign things like "flour" and "baking soda," and I saw the dang tubes in the frozen-food aisle, and I was all, Why didn't I just do that? But I wanted to make an effort, because Ned is nice to me.
You can see I had a lot of duds in this batch, but I took all the bad ones to work and people descended on them like jackals. If I had left a dead antelope out, I mean. I don't know that jackals would descend on cookies. I don't know if my fake coworkers WOULDN'T descend on an antelope, either. I've seen them eat mayonnaise-based sandwiches that have been sitting out all day.
Here's Tallulah trying to stare intently at me while I eat something but falling asleep in the meantime. Girlfriend would never catch her a jackal. She enjoys the nap too much. You should see how she is when I come home at lunch. Edsel is always at the door, striking up the band and dropping the ticker tape, while five minutes after I'm in the door Talu clicks down the hall with pillow marks creasing her face. "o. yu heer? it noons alreddy? talu just...tydee up in bedrum."
I guess those are all the faintly interesting photos I have in my computer. Currently I have 5,474 photos on said computer, and that's not even counting the 10839294 you've sent me of yourselves that I haven't put up yet. Remember when we just had photo albums and took 12 pictures at a time or whatever? Yeah.
Talk at you tomorrow. Oh! And in case anyone was worried sick and didn't read the comments, and I love it when the answer is in the comments but you ask anyway, the official name for Ned's movie reviews is Nedflix, thanks to witty Faithful Reader Letha. We are going to another movie Wednesday, Ned and me, not Letha and me, so there could be a Nedflix coming your way soon. Wooo!