Bye Bye, Pie!

The one where June never ever lets you forget you're a man.

I was extra busy sleeping this morning, so I didn't blog. I only got in eight-and-a-half hours, and I know you're wondering, "God, how does she do it all?" Cause I mean, after that brief rest, after that if-you-wanna-call-that-SLEEP sleep, I had to flurp some kibble into FOUR BOWLS before my six-minute commute to fake work.

I've been making up a lot of words lately. I've been onomatopoeeing all over myself.

At any rate, Ned continued to, you know, recover from his major oral surgery and not get dry sockets, although he DID make the mistake of asking me what they DO when you get dry sockets, and I told him, and then he was all STOP STOP STOP DON'T WANNA HEAR ANY MORE STOP.

The good news is, he was well enough to go with me Saturday to go partayy with Dick Whitman and one of DW's friends, who did not want her picture on my blog and who can figure that kind of thing out? What do you mean, privacy and dignity? Do not get.

Anyway, here's Dick Whitman holding some kind of chalice of girly drink, and you may think this is blurry but I'll have you know it was PITCH BLACK in that bar, so the fact that I got ANY picture at ALL is saying something.

Ned had scotch on the rocks, and I really think he may be the most manly person I have ever dated. Also, the part where there's a hole in the table, near his manly drink? Led me to tell him yet another plot of a Sex and the City episode: the one where Aiden makes the love seat, and it has a flaw, and Carrie uses the example of the flaw in the wood to get him to not break up with her despite the part where she'd been humping Mr. Big.

Spoiler alert. Thirteen-year-old spoiler alert.

But Aiden would have none of it. Till he came back, that is.

Spoiler al--oh screw it.

My point is, someone may be over hearing about every plot of Sex and the City.

But in my defense, I believe I sat through three, or maybe four, basketball games this weekend.

Don't you love that picture? How bored with me is Ned? I have always kind of been like a prize in the Cracker Jack. Novel, kind of cheap, and you're over it before too long. Marvin was the only person who kept for 16 years his 100% plastic magnifying glass that magnifies .008 of an inch of something. His temporary tattoo that doesn't all transfer onto your skin.

His bird whistle that doesn't quite blow. So to speak.

Despite this depressing image of us, things are going very well with Ned, who by the way I like. Yesterday we schlepped BACK TO WINSTON-SALEM, for the THIRD TIME THIS WEEK, to go to my friend Charlie's fundraiser.

And oh, with the rain. To say it was raining would be to say I have a bit of hair. To say there was a downpour would be like saying sometimes Edsel is enthusiastic. To say we had some precipitation would be like saying Hulk is fond of sports.

You get my drift. You see my point.

Eyeriss not. She not see poynt. Thank for bringeeng up again.

God. Iris makes everything about her.

So it was raining, if you're picking up what I'm throwing down, and Ned was driving, which means we had no GPS, and we kept SLIDING all over the dang road, and sometimes we couldn't see because the whole windshield was WET WET WET HELLO RAIN WET, and then we got there and couldn't find the place.

I mean we just couldn't.

The exit I wrote down did not exist, and we drove near where we thought it might be, and the rain was raining and the slidey was sliding and after awhile we gave up and went to a restaurant for some soup.

And I do not know what to tell you, but for some reason we stayed there for hours, although the part where there was a TV on with ding-dang sports may have had something to do with it, and waiting for the rain to cease was another part, but we ordered food TWICE, we were there so long, talking and sporting-event-ing and people watching and so on. We saw a shift change of the staff. I mean, we were a part of that restaurant. And it became a part of us.

I emailed Charlie AND his girlfriend today, to see if he has PayPal, and if not, Ima send your donations to his house directly. I am sad I couldn't find it. Part of the day's events included contra dancing, and I wore a swingy skirt for just that reason, and I even YouTubed a how-to-contra-dance video and made Edsel practice with me. He is terrible at dosey do-ing.

Oh! And speaking of sporting events, at fake work we're doing that bracket thing? That apparently people do when it's basketball-y out? And Ned filled mine out for me, and I got to pick who wins the whole thing so naturally I picked Michigan State, because I went to school there, though Ned had to ask me, "Do you want to pick Michigan State?" because of course I had no idea they were participating in this thing and my point is today I got an email and I am in the lead, over everyone here at work.

Dying.

I think I stand to win $800,000 or something. Am so gonna get rich and get all Real Housewife of Greensboro on your asses.

Which, ooooooo! Season finale tonight! And reunion show! BEST NIGHT EVER! I cannot wait. Maybe I'll call Ned after and run it down for him. Do you think I'll get the crossy-arms-stony-look again?

I have to eat something for lunch and get back on the road to commute to the office again. I mean, she commutes, she blogs at lunch, she operates on 8.5 hours of sleep--she's like the Enjoli commercial. What a wonder woman.

 

XO, June. The eight-hour blogger.

In which June makes an "Orange you glad" joke.

I was super-busy Ned-ing yesterday and never had a minute to write. So now I gotta cram everything that happened Saturday and yesterday into one post, and who knows how to draw the reader in and beg for more? Nothing's more compelling than "...now I gotta cram everything..."

Speaking of which, Hulk's date was not what you'd call successful. He can tell you about it in the comments if he wishes. He didn't say, "Oh, and put THIS on your blog! And tell them all THAT part, too." Although I do tell all my friends in real life that everything they tell me is blog material unless they warn me otherwise. Then I get all offended when they tell me something King Kamehameha personal and then say, "Don't put this on your blog."

"It turns out I like wearing my child's tutu and lip syncing Carmen like that orange from Sesame Street. DON'T PUT THIS ON YOUR BLOG!"

 

See, I just kind of made it seem like that's something personal Hulk told me, and it isn't, but now am PICTURING Hulk in not-Chloe's tutu singing Carmen and am dying. I can't see Chloe owning a tutu, however, as she is not June Girly.

Oh my god, I said I had to cram and have told you zero so far.

On Saturday, Ned and I had a Gift of the Magi thing going on where we had been really excited to finally have a weekend together without his pesky WORK and WORK TRIPS getting in the way, and he told his brother he couldn't go to a basketball game and I was feeling guilty that my friend Daniel Boone was in town for his kid's concert. Yes, Daniel Boone has kids. Three of them. I don't KNOW why it's never come up. He's actually very involved with his kids and has some custody of them, but I never met them. I did see them the time he was on the freeway and refused to wave at me.

Anyway, I finally said, "You wanna hang out with Daniel Boone Saturday afternoon after his kid's concert?" and Ned was all, "Oh! Is he gonna be here? I was supposed to go to this sporting event..." He calls every sporting event a "sporting event" since he started hanging around me, and I also caught him calling something "King Kamehameha" the other day.

So our deal was he'd call when he got home and all three of us would go to dinner or something, and in the meantime D Boone got to my house at around 5:00.

I answered the door in my sexy workout clothes, all sweaty, my hair 50 different directions, and basically super appealing. King Kamehameha appealing, if you will.

"So, you waited till I GOT here to shower so I could sit here and wait for you?"

"Yes."

Really I'd been a poor manager of my time, having been with Ned for most of the day. The point is, D Boone ended up watching me put on my makeup, and because his ex-wife did not WEAR makeup (Dear Women Who Wear No Makeup: I do not understand you. Love, June), he was riveted.

"What're you doing now?"

"Primer. You have to prime the pump, as it were, before foundation." I do a whole involved kabuki makeup, as you can imagine. Doing my makeup is my favorite part of my day. I know that is sad.

"What are all those TUBES?"

"These are my mascara choices. I have many kinds. For the Many Moods of June."

"Oh, you'll need more tubes than THAT, then."

Finally my mask was on and we headed to the dessert place. There's a lovely dessert place near me that has all kinds of decadent stuff, and big comfy couches and lounge chairs and fireplaces and it's great. Daniel Boone had never been there but he was beside himself because they have about 20 kinds of cake.

Portrait of Sugar Happiness

"We can't--oh my god. Should we--oh my GOD. We can't just-- LET'S GET THREE!!"

Daniel Boone ended up getting three slices of cake--we got birthday cake, banana pudding cake and carrot cake which thank all that is holy was sans raisins. There is no reason for a raisin.

After, we had to run to Target because I am a fun nondate, and DB bought all the stupid things I purchased there. Then he insisted we go to the grocery store to replace Ned's red wine he drank while he was at my house, and he also bought me coffee, and basically Daniel Boone was literally my sugar daddy. By the time Ned got back into town, D Boone had to go, as his dog needs antibiotics (allergies) (I knew someone out there would Need to Know).

"So, I got to be here for your getting-ready routine and your errands, and now I'm leaving so you can go have a great night with Ned? Is that how this just worked?"

It totally did. Ned and I went to dinner and talked and had just a lovely night. And Ned got free wine.

On Sunday, we went to see all the short films that have been nominated for an Oscar. We have a $900,000 bet about which one will win, and I guess I don't know what'll happen if neither of us is right, but I already OWE Ned $900,000 from a bet we placed about one of our waitresses somewhere or another, so if he loses we'll be even.

Then I am sorry to tell you I watched the goddamn Super Bowl. I just wanted to see the commercials, which were disappointing, if you ask me. I wanted the purple team to win, because the red team had said something homophobic in the weeks leading to the Super Bowl and that pissed me off. At 9:00, I went home and watched Downton Abby.

In fact, when Hulk called me to tell me his date was a bust, the first thing out of his mouth was, "If you make Ned watch Downtown Abby tonight instead of the Super Bowl, I will never be friends with you again."

Oooo, what a threat.

"DOWNTON. It's DOWNTON," I told him, and I totally shoulda let him hang thinking I would do that to Ned or that Ned would LET me do that to him.

My point is, even though I was back at my house all by myself, when Downton Abby was over I turned the station back to the goddamn Super Bowl. What is happening to me? And the purple team won so yay.

Oh, I did like that Paul Harvey farmer ad. Were there any you liked? I never saw my Budweiser baby horse commercial; must have come on during DOWTOWN Abby. Who's annoying? Is it Hulk?

So there was my cram post. I did not say one funny thing this entire post, did I? Orange you glad there are other blogs out there?

In which you say, "We have to hear about ANOTHER football game June attended? We totally read about this already in her 1982 post."

So, my friend TinaDoris had tickets to the football game, and she IMd me at work.

(Dear Work,

Usually TinaDoris and I keep our noses to the grindstone. Love, June. Worky June.)

"Would Ned want tickets to the NC State game this Saturday?" she asked, knowing that's where Ned went to school and knowing he likes him the sports things.

"I'll ask," I wrote back, then returned to work because HELLO FAKE WORK. Please hire me back full time. Thanks.

Also, how lazy are TinaDoris and me? We work in the same OFFICE. On the same FLOOR. But God forbid we get up and have a conversation directly. I'd love to make a comment now like, "No wonder TinaDoris has an ass the size of Guam," but in fact she has a cute figure and you kind of want to hate her for being all young and thin. I think she gave us the tickets because she had a metabolism convention or something.

My point is, Saturday dawned here in North Carolina and I did what I so often do--I got ready for a day of footballing. When Ned asked if I wanted to go, I said, "Sure. Now, where do we go to get someone to buy for us?"

"What?"

"Well, the LAST time I went to a football game, I was a senior in high school, and before football games you always go to 7-Eleven or whatever and stand there till someone looks nice, then ask them to buy beer for you. Where do we go here to do that?"

"Just be ready at noon, June."

Even more exciting than being able to buy our own beer was the part where we were meeting one of Ned's oldest friends there. I had heard about this guy 10,934 times and was dying to see him in personal. Did I ever tell you about the time that prisoner wrote me and said he wanted to get to know me in personal? It's a whole other STORY about a whole different DAY, so why don't you leave me alone and let me tell the story at hand?

GOD.

So we get to the restaurant where we're meeting Ned's friend, and before we walked in, this bearded, chaming guy says, "Ned!"

It was another friend of Ned's, who I have also heard about, and he starts to hug Ned but then he sees me and comes over and embraces me like I was his sweet embraceable his.

"I love the stuff you write on Facebook!" he says, still hugging me. I loved that guy. I know I am weird about the hugs, but that's just when it's some old friend who I actually KNOW hugging me. If it's some stranger who might be a trifle drunk I'm fine with it.

What do you mean, "therapy"?

Anyway, loved that guy. He thanked me for making Ned a--I can't remember. He said something like thanks for making an honest man out of Ned or thanks for humping Ned or some such thing. All I know is everyone I have met who knows Ned seems to love the shit out of Ned and really care about his well-being, which to me is a good sign about Ned. Don't you think?

Once the drunk guy left, Ned's regularly scheduled friend showed up, and he was funny and Southern and just delightful. We went in the friend's car, and his 11-year-old son was along with us, and guess who knew a lot more about football than me. Was it that 11-year-old? Was it, in fact, every human within a 10-mile radius?

Let me tell you what about football games. At Arthur Hill High School, you just pulled up in Steve Feit's Chevette, hid your beer under a jacket in the hatch, and walked right in. Not so much with the college football. It took us 11 thousand hours to get to our parking place, and yes, we had a designated parking place.

And the other thing? Seriously, dawgs. Every.human.being.there. had on red. Red. I felt my BLOOD PRESSURE go up. It was like the whole afternoon had been heavily copy edited. Red. Lots of red.

Ned, who did NOT have on red, and I got out the car and went to the back of his friend's SUV, where Doritos and Dr Pepper and Budweiser were served, and I totally watched snobby Ned drink a Budweiser like it was good.

Did you know cans of Budweiser have a little crown on them now? "Why do you think that's there?" asked Ned, who has never in my presence had beer that wasn't black as night. "The King of BEERS," I said, being from Michigan.

God.

Ned quickly segued to black as pitch beer and all felt right with the world. Then we went in to our sporting event.

Okay.

First of all, this team Ned likes? They are the wolfpack, one word, and every EIGHT SECONDS they had the fakest wolf cry you've ever heard coming over the speakers, there.

"That is the fakest wolf cry ever invented," I said, over the WOOOOO-HO-HO-HOOO! "Have you HEARD a lot of wolves howling?" asked Ned, who doesn't know from anything because YES, in fact I HAVE. When I still lived in my home town, the zoo had a wolf and when the noon church bells rang, he always threw his head back and howled. I worked right near there so I'd make a point of going to lunch a little before noon, and I'd STAMPEDE over to the zoo parking lot to listen. I freaking loved that wolf.

Guess who was sorry he asked.

At any rate, Ned kind of explained to me how football went.

I had seen these things before when I watched the Super Bowl with a bunch of gay guys back in LA. We were all about the food and commercials and no one there knew from football whatsoever. "What're those ORANGE things?" someone asked. We all decided those were the restroom keys, so you wouldn't take the key with you.

I had told this to Ned a long time ago, and when he explained football to me, he kept saying, "So the restroom key is over there, and..."

Mostly the whole time he was talking I kept thinking, "Ned is so cute. I like Ned. How long do we have to sit here before I can get Ned into a room and make out with him?"

So, football. Learned a lot.

The good news is, there is an intermission thing and you get to go back out to your car and drink.

They give you this pink card to take with you so you can get back in to your sporting event. It's a Mothers Against Drunk Driving card, and you take this with you while you drink at your car, then stumble back in to your sports and red people.

I saw a LOT of drunk college girls, is what I did. Two were crying, several were doing that "I can barely hold my eyes open and it's 3 p.m." thing while they talked loudly to boys, and ONE was being held by the arm and led to the bathroom. I feel like that wasn't gonna end pretty.

Here's the thing. I was often drunk in college. But I always maintained. Maybe that's not something to be proud of, but I am nonetheless. Drunk as hay on the inside, maintaining on the outside.

It was a really lovely day, by the way, sunny and 70. By the second part, the sun had gone down and it was chilly all of a sudden. "Wow, it's like we just crossed the equator," I said, loving myself.

Ned paused. "You know, it'd still be hot if you were crossing the equator."

"I KNOW that," I said, "I was being, you know, funny. Maybe I should have said it's like we crossed into another hemisphere."

"Or, it's like the sun went down."

Why do I like Ned?

Anyway, they won, Ned's team did, and he thanked me, like, 40 times for going. It was really fine. There were plenty of people to stare at, and I was RIVETED by the cheerleaders. First of all, you better make sure you are UP TO DATE on your waxing if you're gonna be a cheerleader. And secondly, wouldn't you be SCARED to have people TOSSING you about like that? You could break your NECK. Jesus.

I guess that's all I have to say about football, except I think when you pick a team, you should make sure you look good in whatever their colors are. Are there any pink teams? Cause I look good in pink.

Sportingly,

June

You better WORK. (I am so busy I've turned into RuPaul.)

I wish I could tell you all the things I wish to today, but I have to work before I go to work, then after work Ima do some work. I haven't even TOUCHED my Polish stuff, which is not a eupemism, in days.

If I had time to blog, I would:

• Show you those emails between Ned and me, but that's an hour of cutting and pasting right there.
• Tell you how I've managed to accidentally French kiss two of my four pets--one of them twice.
• Fill you in on the part where my coworker said, "And I'm on the Rare Fruit Committee!"

I know.

• Complain in horrific detail about the cold I am getting.
• Get you up to date on my weekend, which includes old June, here, attending a sporting event. No one is roofie-ing me to attend. I said I'd go. Voluntarily.
• Oh, and I'd also tell you how Ned and I bought pomegranates, and that is not a euphemism, and have I created a pomegranate MONSTER? "I'm eating more of the pustules. GODAMMIT, this is delicious!"

He keeps calling the seeds "pustules." Which by the way is not right. Or a euphemism.

But I cannot tell you any of these things. Back to statistics. And sore throating. Yay.

P.S. Everyone say happy birthday to my mother! She is 87 years young today. (Guess who just halved her Christmas gifts in one funny funny sentence?)

Texting Hulk during the Super Bowl. Or, poking the tiger.

Yesterday I had a relatively normal Sunday for me. Cry, have coffee, see Dick Whitman. Yes, my life is stupid.

I really should stop hanging around Dick Whitman.

At any rate, my pal Hulk was already on my mind because DW and I had Indian food and I knew how Hulk would be envying us.

It could have been yours, Hulk, had you been with us!

My point is, by late afternoon, Dick Whitman was gone, and I couldn't decide what to do with myself. Oh, sure, I had plans to cry, but what else? Was there anything on TV?

That's when I remembered the stupid Super Bowl was on, and I decided what would be more fun for Hulk, who is the teensiest bit obsessed with sports, than to get texts from me during the whole thing?

The teensiest bit. If he could have married a basketball, he would have. The only reason he read The Great Gatsby was because the word "Sport" was in it so much. Same reason he watched The Courtship of Eddie's Father.

How annoying was that, that Eddie's father called Eddie "Sport"? Would you want anyone calling you "Sport"? And I just realized that Eddie's father was Bill Bixby, who went on to be...The Hulk.

The CIRCLE of life!

BOOM!

Who is pleased with me? Also, must EVERY CAT be obsessed with that closet back there? They can all open those doors and they all have. They like to sit on the shelves. Why? They're all wire-y.

My cats and their weird habits are irrelevant right now. Because I had to text Hulk. During the biggest sporting event of the year.

June: Why do they have to shuffle around during the National Anthem? Also, do you hope I text you all night?

Hulk: Nervous energy. And no.

June: Are they tossing a coin to decide whether they're gonna play tonight or just go home? LOVE YOU!!! ...When does this stupid thing START??

Really you guys. There was all this CRAP they made you sit through. All these introductions and people talking and JUST START THE BORING THING ALREADY.

Hulk: 6:29. Enjoy the anticipation.

June: 6:29?? What a weird-ass time.

Hulk (at 6:29): Here we go! Gotta shotgun the kickoff.

I have no idea what he meant, either.

Hulk: Oh, and I love you, too. Root for the combined score to be more than 54 total points.

June: Okay, If that happens do they get free coffee or something?

Hulk: I get $50. ...free coffee. God.

June: That one guy has a beekeeper mask on. Why does he have a beekeeper masker on?

No, seriously. One guy had this, like, black net over his face like he was a widow at a funeral in 1940 or something. Was he being dramatic?

Hulk: Beekeeper. You need help.

You know. How does Hulk expect me to KNOW things about football if he won't EXPLAIN them to me?

June: That guy is gonna catch his death of a cold if he keeps licking his fingers and touching the football.

It was gross. And he did that CONSTANTLY. And I didn't see a little thing of Purell hanging off his suit. It couldn't have been sanitary. Was it a nervous habit? Why don't his loved ones tell him to stop doing that on national TV?

By the way, Edsel was way into the sporting event with me.

Hulk: Good Doritos commercial.

June: Really good. And I liked how before the commercial they changed the OPP song to be that one guy's initials.

Hulk: YEAH YOU KNOW ME!

 

Can I just interject to say this song always reminds me of some friends of mine in LA? We were at a wedding reception, all of us middle-aged and stone-cold sober, and I wish you could have seen us dancing to this song. Dignified? Yes. I remember my one friend pretending to have a lasso to rope me in then spin me away.

White? Yes. Yes we are. Also pretty.

Anyway, during the fascinating football game one guy got hurt.

June: That guy is faking. I would. I would fake injury as soon as I could.

Hulk: Football hurts.

Then that commercial with David Beckham came on.

June: Hang on. Touching self.

Hulk: We don't care about guys or soccer. Why is that commercial on? Token to keep wives quiet. ...Hold on. Am still picturing you touching self.

June: Good gravy.

Hulk: Annnnnd done.

June: Now I want gravy.

June: Oh, good! Madonna!

As soon as the first, you know, gladiator gay guy came out:

Hulk: WTF!?!?!

June: Okay, but she's like 60.

Hulk: That just makes it worse.

June: Her dancing makes me nervous.

Hulk: She's me. Like a virgin.

June: She's me. A ray of light.

Hulk: She's you. Material girl.

June: Crap.

Hulk: I win.

June: Totally.

Later:

June: WTF does all this 1st and 3rd crap mean?

Hulk: Dude, I can't explain it to you via text. When we are married I'll explain it.

June: THERE'S an exciting wedding night.

Hulk: We won't get married when there's a GAME on.

So there you go. My exciting night of bugging Hulk. And they didn't get free coffee, because they didn't get 54 points. I feel bad for them. They all played so hard.

Mr. Blue Pants

Happy Barry Gibb's birthday! I am taking time out of this day of festivities to write you.

I told Daniel Boone it's Barry Gibb's birthday, and I said, "I gotta get home and put up my tree."

"Really?" he said. "I was thinking more a fur-covered pole."

Everyone's mean to my Barry.

In the meantime, my coworker Vilhelm Oyster tried to kill me last night. You know how a bunch of us at work have been doing this workout DVD? It's called Insanity and it lives up to its effing name. Last night I finally Googled it, and its claim to fame? "The hardest workout DVD you'll ever do." Oh! Sign me up!

And the worst part is Vilhelm, who is extra fit, popped in level effing TWO last night. It was just the two of us. "Did you set it to a hard level?" I trepidated. "No!" he smiled.

Vilhelm is evil.

Then the FREAK who is the instructor--wait. Let me see if there are photos of this drill sargent torturer sadist...

There he is. And it's like looking in a mirror, seeing those abs.

Also? While I was looking for this ding-dang image? I saw a disclaimer: Remember, the Insanity workout is not for the beginner!

Yeah. Really?

Anyway, there we were. Supposedly doing pushups with one leg in the air, or doing a pushup then leaping right up after, and EVEN VILHELM eventually collapsed on the floor, dead.

So that was a good time. And my hair? Small.

Then after I got home and ATE THE WORLD, Marvin came over for the mortgage check and yes we ARE switching it this month so it comes right out of my account. The first person to give me advice on that has to do the Insanity workout twice. I will come to your house and lord over you with a pick axe and make you do one-legged pushups.

The POINT is, after Edsel lept in the air for 45 minutes, then humped Marvin, then wept and wrote a poem about the whole experience, I said, "Unfortunately I have to walk them now." Because could I have been more dead tired? So Marvin went with me, when what I was really hoping was that he'd say, "I'll walk them. You rest. You want Steak and Shake while I'm up?"

That did not happen.

Anyway, walk the dogs we did and we saw Paul, my 96-year-old neighbor. We chatted awhile and he invited us to sit down, but we demurred. It occurs to me Paul must think I am the biggest slut, as I have walked past there with Dick Whitman and Daniel Boone and now Marvin in the past few weeks. Or maybe he just sees some dark-haired middle-aged man with me and assumes it's the same person. We can hope.

If that weren't enough activity, and trust me, that workout and then that walk with 100 pounds of pulling dog was enough, Marvin said, "Let's go to Target! I need new headphones and blue pants."

So off we went, in his giant pink 1966 car that every time I am in it I think of how we have no airbags. I reassure myself with the thought that the car is the size of Judy Garland's medicine cabinet and persevere.

The first thing that happened was Marvin took an hour and 45 minutes to back out the driveway. I do not know if he was trying not to scrape his ridiculous car, or he was avoiding running over ants, or just trying to drive me berserk with his trademark slowness, but eventually I said, "Take your time backing out."

"You know who I miss? You." said Marvin, as he continued to back out an inch per hour like he was at driver's training.

Then we got there and I am happy to report Marvin bought me some new earbuds as mine only played out one ear and I might as well have lugged a Victrola with me instead of an iPod, with that fine stereo sound. I got Paul Frank earbuds!

I will let you guess which color I selected. I heart Paul Frank stuff. I remember when it wasn't that famous and I thought I had made a teensy discovery. Am glad it hit the big time.

At any rate, here is what I forgot about Marvin.

He meanders.

I mean, there are no words to explain to you how TIRED my body was from Vilhelm's murder attempt. My COLLARBONE hurt. My HAIR was sleepy. I was exhausted. And the thing is? When I trained for that marathon way before you knew me? My long runs were on Saturday mornings, and Marvin would do this same thing to me later in the day. He'd drag an errand out 47 years.

Oh, he paused at the groceries. "You don't need groceries. You're leaving in two days," I groused. Marvin's niece is being bat mitzvhaed. She was born a month after we were married and we stayed at the hospital all night waiting for her to be born at 5:00 the next day. Why do babies always wait till weird times to be born? Marvin videotaped the entire night, and I should really get him to let me show it here, because it is funny, us stuck in a hospital all night.

Anyway, because I complained? Guess who SLOWED HIS PACE EVEN MORE? Oh, he paused over the milk, like he'd never seen such a newfangled idea as milk in a jug. He ruminated over the cereals. He considered the candy.

"CAN WE GO GET YOUR BLUE PANTS NOW?!" I scowled.

I hear we have a new black president. And that there is some weird woman named Lady Gaga now? I missed all this while we MADE OUR WAY TO THE BLUE PANTS SECTION.

We had a cart, because as bitchy as I'm being Marvin also got me big bags of food for my pets, so I had to stand in the aisle, across from the Kim Kardashian-looking heels, waiting for Mr. Blue Pants. After awhile, I started wondering if I would ever wear those heels. They were kind of sexy. I should really be a person who wears heels more, now that I am out trolling again.

"Girl, I like her. She is straight up. I like a straight-up person. Umm-hmmm! That's what I said! She tell it like it is!"

Either an insane person or a person wearing one of those awful BlueTooth things walked by me while I waited. The last time I had been outside of Target, people were sending smoke signals to communicate.

I could see Marvin thinking about blue pants as though he were deciding on a condo, so I glared at him as hard as I could, hoping he'd feel my annoyance and move faster. This worked so well in 13 years of marriage. He already had blue pants thrown jauntily over his shoulder and was observing khaki.

"You said blue! You HAVE blue! Can we go?"

Finally, FINALLY, we left Target. Women outside were wearing short hair! I never. Did they have the scarlett fever? Where were everyone's togas? And someone must have stolen our team of horses.

"You wanna get frozen custard?" asked Marvin, putting his blue pants in the 39494939-foot-wide trunk of his 1966 car, which was new when the evening began.

"Of course," I said. "We don't have to walk over there, do we?"

You guys. I had to walk, like, six stores down to the frozen yogurt. Will the torment never end? I told Marvin it reminded me of the time after my marathon in Chicago, when he made me walk back to the hotel after.

"It was just a mile," he said.

And that is when I shoved Marvin in the frozen custard twisty machine, and now you can get chocolate/Marvin swirl at your local Ruth's Custard.