That people stop using "journal" and "orgasm" as verbs.
HAPPY THANKSGIVING, EVERYONE!
On yesterday*, Bitchy Resting Face Alex came over and helped me paint. "Helped" is a curious term. I was totally Tom Sawyer in this scenario.
*When Marvin was a teacher, every Sunday night at 6:00 the phone would ring, back when people had phones in their house that would ring for all to hear, and it would be a recording from his principal. She had a PhD, yet she would say, "On Wednesday we'll have pizza day. On tomorrow, don't forget..."
On tomorrow. I like how my footnote is right at the top of this story.
Good gravy. I guess it's a Southern thing, saying "on tomorrow." But I digress. Hunh.
The room had formerly been a terrible beige that made me want to kill myself. Also, BRF Alex took this photo with HER phone, and I took the first one with MY phone. Enough said about our phones. The person who decorated this house before me--as in the last owner, the bitchy one from New York--had exactly my opposite taste. She was way into brass fixtures, and brownish everything. And faux marble countertops. You know me. I want everything to look like grandma's house in 1950.
Bitchy Resting Face Alex, who's half my age, had to tell me how to paint a room. Like, she said, "Get a flathead screwdriver and remove the faceplates."
So I did all that, although I had to use a knife and not a screwdriver and probably almost electrocuted my own self, and she taped everything off like it was a crime scene, like when they taped off Prince's dad's attempted suicide in Purple Rain. As you do.
Anyway, we brushed and we rolled and when she told me to use the roller slowly so as not to drip, I made a hilarious "slow your roll" joke. I also whipped out a "That's how I roll" room-stopper. I may even have said, "Let's roll." Basically I was Henny Youngman workin' that room. With a roller.
The hours rolled by, and although I still have to paint the whatever it's called, there, on the bottom, this room is mainly done. Poor BRF has to come back next weekend for Room Number 2. So to speak. What a shitty weekend. Bah.
The point is, after all was said and done and we stood in the doorway admiring our handywork, I realized.
It's exactly the same goddamn color as my living room.
So. Yeah. Hell. It's a pretty blue, though. It's called Sleepy Blue. You know what I need now? Is, like, a guest bed and so on. So this isn't just a big empty room, like my soul.
Oh! And I almost forgot!
June's Coworkers' Senior Pictures
Nope. Not over it yet.
Oh, look! We still have boxes in here! How do, like, Army people do this, where they move all the ding-dang time? It's so taxing. But it really is nice to be here, at home, rather than a whole 'nother place. This morning I thought about how when Ned and I got up, we'd open the bedroom door and there's be a cacophony of cats the second the door was open. It was like snakes out of a can. You know how often you open up snakes in a can. I'ma open up a can o'snake-ass.
Anyway, I wish every ding-dang thing didn't remind me of my old house. Plus every time I drift off, I see Ned with another woman and I wake up all panicky. It's fun in my head right now.
The good news is, the Stanley Steamer men came yesterday, and "men" is a strong term. There was a young, gleamingly white-toothed boy who was somewhere between illegal and 22, and a young hot man of color along with him. Who wanted to paint herself pink and do a Neapolitan ice cream imitation with her young suitors, do you think?
Who's taken two young men from the fine offices of Stanley Steamer and turned them into her "suitors"? Hey, lid-flipper. How's your flipped lid?
So my hot young boyfriends, who both desperately want to marry me and whatever shall I do, came over with their big hoses and commenced to getting my furniture hot. And if you think I was ridiculous about them, you should have seen Edsel. "Please forgive my dog. He's gay," I said to the men, who looked concerned about both of us, mostly because we were both rolling on our backs exposing our parts.
Now that I have the gate up, all Eds could do is put his lovelorn paws up on it and move his eyebrows around suggestively. And show off his junk. behold edzul junk. hooo wants to brake off a peece of edz?
Once they...turned on their hoses and cleanser...gushed out, Edsel became less enamored of Crockett and Tubbs. He came in here--where I was having crucial IMs with Faithful Reader Fay--and pressed against me, while still managing to moon longingly at his ebony and ivory dream team.
"If Edsel weren't so scared of all the noise they're making, he'd so be carving Hello heads from clay," I wrote Fay.
It's not every day you see three Afro mullets in one sitting. I need to make that a goal. See more Afro mullets in my day. It's like getting your flax, but superior.
Speaking of things from our past, and the issues of our time that everyone should know about such as the Hello video, I overhead at work yesterday, "What was Cheers about?"
What was CHEERS about? It was about how makin' your way in the world today takes everything you got. THAT'S what it was about. Oy!
Which then lead me to thinking about--noodling about, if you will, and I hope you won't--TV theme songs. They don't really do them so much now, do they? I so rarely watch regular TV. And I know I just sounded like an ass just then, whose monocle just fell off my eye. But in the '60s and '70s, theme songs were the shit. And they were RIDIK. Ridik, if you will, and I kind of hope you won't.
Seeing as there's ONE GUY at work who is my age, at least who sits in my general vicinity, we got on the topic of TV lyrics, in particular the Three's Company theme song, and also the Eight is Enough theme song. Which are both ridik.
If you will.
Wait. When I was talking about Edsel sculpting heads like the Hello video, I Googled "Hello head Lionel Ritchie." When I found the image above, I plunked it in here and didn't look anymore, but just now when I went to Google TV theme lyrics, the Lionel Richie page was still up, and I saw all these ridiculous versions of Hello.
(Dear Mom: In, like, 1985, Lionel Richie, formerly of The Commodores, wrote a song that goes, "Hello? Is it me you're looking for?" In the video for the song, a blind woman sculpts his face in clay and she does a terrible job, as blind sculptors are wont to do. XO, June)
Anyway. TV theme songs. Which is the ridiculousest? Because Three's Company is pretty stupid:
Come and knock on our door
We've been waiting for you
Where the kisses are hers and hers and his
Three's company, too!
Come and dance on our floor
Take a step that is new
We've a lovable space that needs your face
Three's company, too!
Yeah, shut up.
But really, Eight is Enough is way worse.
Dude. If I ever start spending my day like a bright and shiny new dime, you are welcome to tell my boyfriends light and dark that I have expired. You are welcome to open a can o'snake-ass on me. Bright and shiny new dime. Like that's so exciting. What is this, 1932? I gotta go. I've got a plate of homemade wishes on the kitchen windowsill and they're attracting cockroaches.
We spend our days like bright and shiny new dimes
If we're ever puzzled by the changing times
There's a plate of homemade wishes on the kitchen window sill
And eight is enough to fill our lives with love
I bought a new yogurt this weekend; it has flax and pumpkin seeds and Lionel Ritchie and I don't know what all in it.It's a very busy yogurt. This yogurt also informs me that it's gluten-free, and guess what I am sick of. Gluten-free is the fat-free of the '10s.
Remember when we were all obsessed with fat-free? My ex-best friend's husband used to unload the groceries and say, "One hundred dollars' worth of groceries, three grams of fat." Years later, after they divorced, she was at a restaurant and thought, "That looks like Dan, if Dan had gotten fat." Sure enough, it was he. You know why he'd gotten fat? His new wife probably purchased fat.
Anyway, the gluten thing pisses me off. Gluten hate will be a Wacky Wall Walker in no time, and I cannot wait.
Speaking of which, I did not at all have Fritos for dinner or anything. I think they might could have had gluten in them. And fat.
Oh, but wait! Do you know what I forgot to do yesterday?
June's Coworker's Senior Picture Poses
You see here that Wedding Alex has sobered up since Friday and offered us this lovely senior-picture pose. Nothing says I'm-almost-outta-high-school like a flower on your shoulder.
"Did you feel sick on Saturday?" I asked her. I mean, girlfriend had THREE drinks and she was on the floor when I left. "No, I felt fine," she said. My tenant, however, who I ran into at the gay bar the next night, did not fare so well. She was still feeling awful on Monday.
I'm just now realizing that I went to a bar both Friday and Saturday. I am 50 years old. I feel like single life is really good for me. Two bars, Fritos for dinner. Of course, none of you would put Fritos past me on any given day, heartbroken or not.
Speaking of drinks, here's my latest Purple Clover article, about how Halloween parties for adults officially bug me. Not that I'm not above throwing one. Speaking of which, did I tell you I'm having an I'm Gonna Die Alone party in December? It's at my new old house. I'm having it December 5, so if you're local and I haven't invited you, write me. Evites isn't very find-your-friends friendly.
December 5 also happens to be Tallulah's 8th birthday, and let's not even talk about that. I took her back to my old old home, as Ned is back from his trip. The whole time they were here, I was on pins and needles worrying they'd ruin something of Kaye's. Their flapping tails knocked down knicknacks. They tried to get on the couch and bed.
But oh, when I came back (from returning them without incident), the house was so quiet and calm. I kept wishing I'd round a corner and there'd be a flappy tail knocking over Kaye's family heirlooms. I told them over and over I'd be back in a few weeks, and then we'd be together forever again. I wish I could email them a reminder.
What do you think Tallulah's email address would be? FangGrrrl@gmail? PitBoss@gmail? HoooCare@gmail?
Edsul's would be LuffMom!! and he'd be on Hotmail, still.
Last night I was chatting with a friend about really inappropriate-for-me dating sites I could join, and then I am sorry to tell you we came up with absolutely horrid screen names for my new imaginary ChristianMingle account. I know several of you told me there's a site where you can meet farmers, and you know what'd I'd make? An excellent farmer's wife. "Come in from the fields! Fritos are getting cold!" Banging on the triangle.
I'd join JDate if there were more than three Jewish people in the South, one of which I already married. And I'm not going on any Cougar.com. I'm practically dead already, I don't have time to futz around with a Mrs. Robinson situation. I gotta reel in a man so he can help with my funeral arrangements.
I'd better go to work, as I am wont to do.
One of my coworkers has a football at his desk, as though he were OJ Simpson or...some other football player such as Jim Namath. Because they were famous for having footballs on their desks. It's on a little stand--not my coworker, his football--like it has its own three-pronged house or whatever. "Hey, I'll hold the football, and you come running up and kick it!" I said to him. In unrelated news, love for self grows deeper.
Anyway, my coworker was playing with his new football, right there at work, and it's always funny till someone loses an eye. Then all the "I'm sorry"s in the world won't bring back that eye.
Whenever a grownup said that to me, it slayed me; I thought that was hilarious. I loved the idea of someone saying, "I'm sorry," then looking around the room, hoping that eye showed up so you can pop it back in.
One time I was having a tantrum, for a change. I was maybe 7 or 8. I was sobbing and carrying on, and my mother had had it with me. "I've had it with you," she said. "Get in the bathroom, stop that crying, and wash your face with hot soap and water."
First of all, has telling anyone to stop crying ever worked, ever, in the history of time? However, I stopped my crying immediately, because I was all, "Hot soap?"
Dig if you will the picture, of having to be my mother.
Speaking of which, last night I was on the phone with old mom, of the Hot Soap and it's-always-funny-till-someone-loses-an-eye old moms, and somehow I discovered she'd never heard the song Bigmouth Strikes Again, which is one of my all-time favorites.
"Really? You've never heard that song?" I was incredulous. I guess in 1988, when I was out dancing to cover bands and swigging the White Zinfandel, mom was busy being a grownup. "And now I know how Joan of Arc felt/NOW I KNOW HOW JOAN OF ARC FELT!" I sang, and let me tell you what. Singing voice? I got it, man. Did I ever tell you that throughout my marriage, I was not allowed to sing in the house? "Too scrapey," Marvin used to say.
"Well, how DID Joan of Arc feel?" asked mom, and you know, I never know what the hell they say, there. So I looked it up. They say,
And now I know how Joan of Arc felt
Now I know how Joan of Arc felt
As the flames rose to her roman nose
And her Walkman started to melt
Well, that's just nonsense. When you're drunk on the Zin, lyrics don't matter.
Oh my GOD I never, ever get to the point. How can you READ me? SO THIS GUY AT WORK had a FOOTBALL and I have no idea how I went from that to The Smiths and Joan of Arc's Walkman. And he was PLAYING with said football, and it occurred to me that he kind of looked like a senior picture. You know how sometimes senior pictures are all atmospheric? They take you out in a field somewhere, and you pose doing Your Thing? Which for me in my senior year would have included making out with Cardinal while drunk on Reunite Lambrusco. White Zinfandel hadn't been invented yet.
Anyway, my senior picture involved me looking over the shoulder of a blue sweater, sporting a Princess Diana 'do and some lindy star sapphire earrings.
The point is, and now I know how Joan of Arc felt, I made my coworker pose in a senior picture pose, and then I am sorry to tell you I made MORE coworkers pose, and this is where it gets exciting. Gird your loins. I've decided to do
with all of my coworkers, showing you one picture a day till everyone hates me or we run out of senior picturesque poses. Oh my god, I am so excited about this I could smash every tooth in your head. Am hoping to somehow acquire a wagon wheel. You know how inexplicably, some people put their foot up on a wagon wheel? "Oh, here I am, a senior in high school, who just happens to have one leg on a wagon wheel. Hello, future."
My coworker's kind of cute, isn't he? Just another soul y'all can lust after. Oh my god, we totally have to make Ryan do a senior picture pose, right? I mean, his senior year was last year, but whatever. I wonder how he feels about looking thoughtfully into the distance. Maybe considering the wagon wheel.
Is there an app where you can make someone's head float behind a picture of their own head? That's always my most ut. Why I have no pictures of my own head floating behind my head is beyond me. Let me put my foot up on a wagon wheel and consider it.
I'll talk to you tomorrow. Good luck with the guys, and stay sweet.
I forgot my DING-DANG phone at work. My chargers are stupidly packed away, so I have stolen this one guy at work's fine Arab charger while he's in Japan or Tokyo or something. Are those the same place?
Anyway, it's not very long, the power cord, so my phone is often under my desk because that's as far as the cord will stretch. And unless some cleaning person is running around town with an iPhone 6+ wrapped in a bunny case right now, my phone is under my desk at work. Yes, I have a bunny phone case. Why don't you shut up?
This should not affect you in any way other than the part where once again, there will be no pictures in my blog FOR THE THIRD DAY IN A ROW. I do, however, have my laptop and it's not dead for once, so I thought I'd just Google "Bye Bye Pie" and then dumb words, such as xerophthalmia, to see what photos come up, and I'll throw those in so at least you have a visual aid.
See. I have no idea why if you Google "ByeByePie" and "xerophthalmia" you get this photo of youthful me being crabby in heels. But there it is.
Here's what I got when I Googled my blog name plus "single lady," because I am Beyoncé. I am bed, bath and Beyoncé. Cute picture. Was having good hair day.
Yesterday I began my day with the dentist. I gotta tell you, a year or so ago I screwed up ALL MY COURAGE and phoned the dentist's office and said, "I hate to be any trouble. But, um, could we maybe give me a new hygienist?" Dudes, you've heard me complain about that hygienist before. She talks INCESSANTLY. INfuckingCESSfuckingANTLY. From the second you see her in the lobby till she walks you out. Plus also she HURTS me every time.
So six months ago, I had a delightful person work on me, who didn't talk too much, and I barely screamed during the procedure. (It always hurts me to get my teeth cleaned.) Now yesterday, I'm in the lobby, and WHO comes out to retrieve me? "Oh, June! Hey! Haven't seen YOU in awhile! You musta been coming in on Mondays! I don't work Mondays! Today I'm subbing for the Monday gal; she's moving. She had a house out blooo de blooo way? She and her husband flip houses. But they decided this will be their LAST flip. He's got a whole other job, see, but..."
MOTHER OF GOD.
The good news is I need two crowns, and please insert Imperial Margarine joke here.
Here's what comes up when I Google my blog name and "Imperial Margarine." Henry was all adolescent and gangly. Hen. HenHenHen. And if you look in the dark background, there's Franny, too. I have no idea what I'm doing in this photo.
After that charming dental appointment and then work, I had a 90-minute massage that one of my friends gave me. My friend Beige, who I knew from LA.
Here's what comes up when you Google my blog name and "Beige." Anderson and Roger fighting in the angry chair. If you are new to my blog, you're all, "Eh?" "Howzzat?"
Anyway. I have this friend in LA, Beige, and she sent me a massage at a place right near my work. She is being nice to me because my heart is broken, in case you didn't know and I hadn't mentioned it. It's rarely on my mind, so you might be just tuning into this piece of news.
My blog name + "broken heart." For some reason, you get my cat salt-and-pepper shakers in bubble wrap. Dude, what the hell was I even talking about this day that this image needed to be shown? What the hell with me?
OH MY GOD ANYWAY. So Beige sent me a massage, and why don't I say "Beige sent me a massage" one more time. There's Samuel L. Jackson with a gun and a Big Kahuna Burger. The point is, I was lying on the massage table, and I noted they were playing, like, that kind of spa music that's all Native American-y. With the flutes and so on.
From OUT OF THE RECESSES OF MY BRAIN, which had been playing on the monkey bars, I remembered the mid-90s, and this one time when my Seattle boyfriend waltzed in while I was watching some documentary on wolves or something. "What's with this music?" he asked. The wolf documentary I was watching in 1994 was the same kind of pipe-y, flute-y Runaround Sioux song that they were playing at the spa.
"Paaaa-cooooo," sang my 1994 Seattle boyfriend in a ludicrously high voice, to the tune of the music. "Boodle-y-boodley boo. Paaaaa-coooooooo..."
"Oh, shut up," I said, trying to learn about wolves or dream catchers or whatever the hell Indian thing I was watching. But from then on, any time we came across anything remotely southwestern, he'd sing, "Paaaaa-cooooo..."
"Paaaaa-coooooo..." I could hear him trilling, while I lay on a massage table in 2015. I'm telling you, he'd be delighted to know his stupid song was giving me the giggles 21 years later. I kept trying not to think of it while she massaged me. But it was killing me. It's like every funeral I've ever been to, where I know I canNOT get the giggles, and that makes it all the worse.
Here's what comes up when you Google my blog name plus "giggle." My mother and me in 2003, putting giant candy coins on our eyes at a wedding reception. I wonder if people thought we were dead?
I have no idea what gives with my dress. My mother and I sort of match, like we were lesbian dates to Homecoming or something.
I knew it! If you Google my blog name plus "lesbian," you get this picture of me with my cousin Katie the lesbian. Say, have you seen my nude hose? I need to slip them on before I slide into my open-toed Candies.
Okay, I have to go. I hope you enjoyed every moment of this important post, and I leave you with the following announcement:
PAAAA-COOOOOOO. Boodle-y boodle boo.
Along with 47 people named Alex at my job, there are also 15,000 men named Michael in my department. As a result, we call them all by their last names, and then anytime someone says, "Mike," I'm all, "Who?"
One of these souls is Fewks, whose last name is not spelled "Fewks," but it's close enough, and every day I try to pronounce his name in a different way. "Hello, Flucks," I'll say. "Hey, Fooux." "How was your weekend, Frooks?"
No one at work likes me.
So, poor Fewks was getting his hair cut yesterday, and somehow he and the hairdresser got on the topic of the lesbian taco place that I've told you about before. The whole town is abuzz about that place, and that owner is, like, lesbian about town. I see her out, and people flock to her, man. Her and her taco.
"Oh, that place is great," said Fewks to his hairdresser. "I mean, that's where Paul McCartney ate," he noted. It's true. A few months ago, Paul McCartney performed here, and the day he was here, my friend Kit saw him walk downtown RIGHT PAST her store, just his wife and him--is that his wife? Did he get married again after that Heather mistake? I think so.
Back when Paul McCartney was married to Heather, there was some Paul McCartney special on, and they said, "When we return, Paul sings a special song to Heather." Marvin sang, to the tune of My Love Does it Good, "My leg's made of wood."
And that's why Marvin is in hell as we speak.
Anyway, it is a well-known fact that Paul McCartney marched right over to lesbian taco and ate there, and if I were lesbian taco woman, I'd be wearing my Hey, Ladies, Ask Me About When Paul Fucking McCartney Ate At My Restaurant t-shirt.
After Fewks announced this tidbit to his hairdresser, she was unresponsive. I don't mean she was dead, which would be unfortunate because who'd finish his hair, I just mean she didn't pick up on his story.
"I mean, he's a vegetarian, but he was even able to find something good that's vegetarian there," continued Fewks, hoping to garner a response from his audience.
Still crickets. This is when he pulled out the big guns and did his Paul McCartney impression. "Oy, I'm Sir Paul. Blimey, what a delicious taco."
I mean, I heard the impression upon the retelling of this incident. I can assure you I'd have been Easter Island as well, hearing that thing.
It was sometime after the Liverpool accent did not go down that it hit Fewks like a jet, JET, oooOOoooo, that his hairdresser?
Did not know who the fuck Paul McCartney was. It'd be like trying to tell me a cute story about a sports figure or a world leader. Hey, did you hear about when Mikhail Gorbachev went to lesbian taco? "WHO? Wait, is he one of the Mikes at work?"
The point of my story is this. That's appalling. The part where someone doesn't know who Paul McCartney is. And the part where I had to look up how to spell "Mikhail."
Who, in your opinion, as opposed to you leaving a comment with somebody else's opinion, is someone everyone should know, no matter their age? Is it okay to not know who Uma Thurman is? What about Isadora Duncan?
Who in the present should we, as old people, know about that we may not? Like, are you aware of some musician or influencer that as old folk may be passing our generation by? Are we the grandpas sitting in the back of the room saying, "Who are those long-haired hippies on the Ed Sullivan?"
Is it annoying that I just said "influencer"? Let me know all this and more.
The holiday weekend yawned before us with nary a plan, which was delightful news because we'd both had harrowing weeks at work. "I can't TELL you how happy I am to be home with nothing to do," Ned kept telling me all of Friday evening, thereby rendering him a big liar, or at least inaccurate. "I can't BEGIN to tell you."
I'd gotten home several hours before Ned had, as they usually let us out a little early before a holiday, and I love my job. That meant by the time Ned got home, I was well into watching various versions of A Star is Born. "Well, I watched an old one, and now I'm watching the new one," I explained to Ned, who wondered why Barbra Streisand was in his living room. And what's sad is that to me, a movie from 1976 is "new."
"An old version; you mean with Judy Garland?" asked Ned, who is clearly a closet homosexual.
"No, with that other actress."
"There's another version of A Star is Born that doesn't have Judy Garland or Barbra Streisand?" asked Ned, who, okay, maybe is straight after all.
You know how Ned couldn't TELL me how glad he was to be home? I can't TELL you how much Ned hated A Star is Born starring Barbra Streisand. Just this morning, he said, "I hated that movie so much that it's stuck with me. I can't stop thinking about it." Ned, who's dragged me to movies where cats get killed and an entire room full of people--AN ENTIRE ROOM--vomits apples onto a tarp. Oh, and once he took me to a movie where someone cut a prostitute clean across the face.
But Barbara Streisand singing Evergreen. That he can't shake.
That is why I said yes to Ned's suggestion that we look for a headboard yesterday. I felt I owed it to him after he had to watch Barbra jam out to Watch Closely Now. His bed has no headboard, and he's been wanting one for some time, so we headed to The World's Busiest Antique Store with The World's Fucked-Upidiest Parking Lot. On a Saturday. On a holiday weekend.
We had to cut several people clean across the face in order to get a parking spot, and then we had to wedge our way past every embroidered-sweatshirted old lady who's ever been born just to get into the place. It's this big warehouse of "consignment" items, which is supposed to convince you that you got a deal, except everything in there is just as expensive as brand-new stuff. But you know how Ned and I are. We like old.
We vomited apples on the heads of several shoppers so they'd get out of our way and we could get to the headboards, which were conveniently piled on top of each other so that you'd die in a headboard avalanche, which is a heroic way to go.
I can't believe I captured Ned alone in that room. I swear to you every other second we were there was like we were in Disneyland. Our favorite thing we found was this:
What do you think happened? Did he or she marry person number 8, or just get a new bed, or what? Am dying to know.
After defying death like we were Evil-Antique-Shopper Knevil or something, we finally found a headboard we liked. It was a huge four-poster bed, though, and not just a headboard. We debated it for awhile, but it was so pretty, and there was a Labor Day sale, so what the heck. We took the tag to the front counter.
"It'll be $60 for delivery," said the saleswoman, which pretty much negated the sale price. "We can deliver Wednesday at 10:30."
Oh! Wednesday at 10:30! How conveeeeenient! Because everyone's home then!
"Why don't we get one of the trucks from your work and bring it home ourselves?" I asked Ned, because I hate myself. And that is how we ended up going to his job, getting a huge old truck, schlepping the huge truck back to The World's Fucked-Upidest parking lot WHICH WAS SO FUCKING ANNOYING OH MY GOD I HATED THAT FUCKING NEVER-ENDING LOT WITH PEOPLE BACKING OUT AND ENTIRE FAMILIES STANDING UNMOVING WHILE PEOPLE TRIED TO BACK OUT AROUND THEM parking lot.
We schlepped the huge, old, heavy pieces into the truck, drove it home, parked horrifyingly on the narrow street in front of our house and I was CONVINCED someone was gonna smash into us as we were moving the furniture.
We then schlepped it all up the stairs to our porch, then up the stairs to our room, which took forever because TALL OH MY GOD TALL FOUR POSTERS TALL, and also HEAVY HOLY SHIT.
I was covered in sweat by the time we got all the pieces to the bedroom, where I tried to clean it all. "Why have you made it all slippery?" groused Ned, right around the time I discovered the tallest part of the posts came off.
"Goddammit," I said, holding about three feet of the bed in my hands.
"GodDAMMIT," agreed Ned, screwing the slippery heavy pieces of the bed together.
What had started out as a delightful afternoon of antique shopping like we were a couple of old queens ended up with us doing manual labor and swearing a lot. Finally, FINALLY, after a trip to Lowe's and a swearfest when Ned broke off one of the ornamental metal parts that's gonna require a soldering tool, FINALLY, we lifted the box springs up, and sweated and grunted and carried on till we got the mattress up there, too.
And that is when we discovered we had the tallest bed ever invented. The Princess and the Pea's bed was shorter. It's the Mount Everest of beds. Holy shit, that bed is tall.
Tall. Not short, is what we've got in the bed department.
"What the fuck are we gonna do?" asked Ned, whose temper was much shorter than the bed. "I guess we can hire sherpas to get us into bed at night," I said, because let me tell you who was in hysterics. YOU'VE NEVER SEEN A BED SO TALL. In fact, if it's cloudy right now, you might not see us up there at all. Remember in the dorms, when some people made lofts? We totally have a four-poster loft.
"Have you tried addressing your nightstand?" I asked Ned, from my new perch high atop Greensboro. When I reach down to get anything, all the blood rushes to my face.
"How are we gonna have sex?" I worried. We're four inches from the ceiling fan now. One false move and we're decapitated. Talk about giving head.
Did you ever see Love, Actually? Remember that one couple who were stand-ins for dirty movies, and their whole part in the movie is scene after scene of them, fully dressed, pantomiming various sex acts? That was Ned and me last night. Can we do THIS without being decapitated? How about this? For some activities, Ned's gonna need Pinball Wizard shoes.
So that's my tall tale about our new bed, and I hate to be short with you. Hey, if you want to stay over, we have a tent you can pitch right under our bed.
At least I have somewhere new to store my suitcase.
From on high,
A rundown of my evening with no Ned in it...
7 a.m. till 5 p.m.
I was so looking forward to having the house to myself for one night, just to come home and sit quietly and do nothing. Ned's a big do-things guy, and to tell you the truth, I am not that into doing things ALL THE DING-DANG TIME. Like, last Friday, I just wanted to read my book. "Are you just gonna read your book?" asked Ned, like I'd suggested I might medically induce myself into a coma or something.
And Ned is a big reader, but he puts that off till, like, 11:45 p.m. when he's run out of all other things to do.
That's one of the questions you should ask someone at the beginning of a relationship, before you're sucked in by the feelings. How are you at just coming home and reading from, say, 5:00 till bedtime? Cause I'm great with it.
So Ned left yesterday morning, and I wished him well and all that, and then I set about making plans to do nothing all night.
And that is how I ended up doing salsa in the park with two of my coworkers. And it was MY stupid idea!
"Oooo! Tonight's Fitness by the Fountain is salsa! Who's in?" I'm afraid I may have done a sad white-girl salsa dance for everyone.
Out of 49594434 coworkers, two fell for my dance of whiteness, so I came home and got into my sexy workout clothes to meet them downtown, and I TOTALLY FORGOT that you guys got me Amazon gift cards for my birthday, and oh my god, nice, thank you, and I have to buy some better workout clothes.
Here I am, ready to put the sauce in your salsa. As I was getting ready, Ned called. "Isn't it a little hot for salsa by the fountain?"
As soon as I got to the park, there were Fleeta and Flauta, waiting for me. Y'all already know Fleeta, there, on the left, but that's my new coworker who couldn't come up with a blog name, so I told her I'd give her one. I know that I do not know any ugly people. Am aware.
Here was our salsa teacher, god love him. The rhythm is gonna get you, tonight. Once Ned and I somehow got into a discussion about which would be worse, if the rhythm got you, or colon cancer. Don't even ask.
During the class, when we were supposed to be learning salsa and gettin' all coordinated, Fleeta noted a young man of color running shirtless past us, a young man teeming with the muscles. That were sweaty. I can't remember anything else for like an hour after that.
I came home and made myself a turkey burger, and I realize there's no turkey in this picture. I was waiting for it. Once an old boyfriend of mine painted a mural of his whole family at their lake cabin. It was a huge painting of them enjoying everything in the yard and on the lake and so on. He somehow forgot to add his mom to the mural. "Where am I?" she was crestfallen.
"You're inside the cabin," he told her.
The turkey's inside the cabin.
8 p.m. till 9:30 p.m.
After that, I did some freelance work. I'm doing more statistics textbook proofreading. I know! You envy my adventures such as proofreading statistics. What can I tell you? I'm greedy. Since I moved in with Ned, I've paid off my car and one huge, annoying super-interest-y credit card, and I'm less than a month from paying off another. I keep doing extra work to pay everything off as soon as I can. Ned's doing the same thing, and then I get a new nose.
That's my goal. Saving up for a new nose.
I finished my work, which I hadn't planned to do. When I freelance, I make myself a little schedule of so many pages per day, but with Ned gone I just got it done. Will mail it off and invoice the crap outta that place and RICHES WILL BE MINE.
That meant I had plenty of time in my pressing evening to peruse BuzzFeed. I found this stupid page that was titled, like, 27 Things That'll Make You Laugh or something (do NOT ask me to find it again), and usually those don't actually make me laugh because I was born in 1965 and not 1995, but this time I was standing there beside myself over the whole thing.
Like, these stupid things from the news...
Those were funny enough, but then I got to this image of the poor girl who accidentally attached a picture of Nicholas Cage instead of her resume.
I mean, it wasn't just ANY picture of Nicholas Cage, either. At this point I was starting to do that hysterical laughing, where the dogs come in and wonder if you're new.
Oh my god. He liked it so he put a ring on it! I was peeing on my own self, and the dogs were calling the authorities, and that's when my phone rang. It was Ned again.
"Are you okay? You sound a little...stuffed up." I tried to explain about BuzzFeed, but mostly Ned is over me. Who is probably tickled to be in a hotel without my ass for a night?
After we hung up, I was gathering my things to go to bed when I heard the wind. Faithful Reader Happy gave me the most beautiful pale-blue windchimes for my birthday, and they were out there doing the tinkle thing, only like, you know, they meant it. If my windchimes had heads, they'd have been bobbing them. Maybe saying, "Mmmm-HMMMM."
Edsel and I went outside and there was a huge storm on its way. The sky kept lightningning constantly, and that is totally a word. It wasn't raining yet, but it was fixing to. Eds stood next to me on the back porch, proud and loyal. Then right when the first drops hit, he screamed out to the yard, got Blu, and came back next to me.
I guess he wanted to make sure he didn't leave Blu out in the rain, like that cake.
There was loud thunder for a long time, and tough Pit Tallulah came and very casually draped herself under my chair the whole time.
So that was my Nedless night, and tonight we go to a baseball game, because Doing Things. Sigh.
Your caliente pal,
Two old boyfriends contacted me yesterday. Clearly, no one can resist me. I mean, they can, for several years in a row. But then they cannot.
"I was bored, so I Googled you and found your Purple Clover articles. Read a few. Now I wish I had a Bar-B-Que t-shirt," my old boyfriend from Seattle wrote me, the one with all the tattoos. I guess "Seattle" and "all the tattoos" are sort of what you'd call a given. I can't even remember which article mentions my Bar-B-Que t-shirt, but said t-shirt featured a grill with Barbie dolls on it. It was a fine figure of a t-shirt.
The other boyfriend was my high school swain Cardinal, who had a strange pain under his ribs and knew I'd have several horrifying theories about what it could be. At the end, we started discussing where in our home town I'd have him buried. Once in high school, we skipped third hour to go make out at the cemetery, and we came across the grave of Arthur Hill, THE MAN THEY NAMED MY SCHOOL AFTER. So then we felt shamed. Of course, it didn't stop us from making out. We had perseverance. That ant moved a rubber tree plant.
I am so grounded when my mother reads this.
From now on, Ima refer to Cardinal as my "swain." It sounds like a swan who can't poop, to me. But I can take anything and make it a hilarious poop joke. It's where I get my strength, like Tara.
Oh, and the other person I heard from--and by the way, June's blog. Stay for the fascinating "who I heard from yesterday" stories. But I heard from my Aunt Mary, who as of the end of today will be Officially Retired®. When I was born, my Aunt Mary was working at the zoo in my home town, the same zoo of my infamous zoo sign. She has worked for as long as I've known her, even during college. And she's always been one of those people who saves her money.
So, today is her very last day at her job, where she worked for THIRTY YEARS, y'all. Thirty years. They had a party for her yesterday, and she got gifts from people all day, and it's taking three people to do her job now that she's gone. The best part? I got to say,
"You should be Proud, Mary."
Highlight of life. Waited almost 50 years to deliver that line to aunt.
Speaking of proud, last night Ned and I were in his office at home. I like how my room in here is "the spare room" but his gets to be "the office."
He got home late all the nights this week, and had to be at work by 7:30 yesterday morning. Today he's already gone, too, and it's 7:43. I would not want to have such a real job as Ned does. My point is, I'd gone to Tai Chi with one of the Alexes after work, and he'd ridden his bike, so we were finally all, "Oh hey, you exist. How was your day?" But then I saw this.
I sound like click bait. What you see next will INFURIATE you! You won't BELIEVE what happens next! I cried when I saw what happens next! When you see this, your pancreas will blow clean off.
Maybe I sold it too hard. Cat railroad! "Is your phone up here?" I whisper-screamed dramatically to Ned. Imagine living with a person whose every activity involves some kind of whisper-scream delivered dramatically. Do you know what irks me? Is when you see people talking at work, and you hear NO SOUND coming out of them. You KNOW they're gossiping. Inappropriate. They should IM, like the Guy Who Sits Next To Me and I do.
"No," said Ned, who'd worked 59 hours that day and probably wished I'd just shut up and put out. Which, Dear Ned. I so would have, had there not been cat photojournalism and then my old boyfriend called.
My old boyfriends should write a book together, called Cockblocked By Cats. And Exes.
So, I had to mince dramatically over said railroad cats, pounce dramatically on my own phone in the "spare bedroom," mince over them all again like I was miming sneaking over a mine field, and take this shot. Four iotas later, Iris left the scene and stopped being cute, which is what ALL CATS DO when you want to photograph them being cute. o, you wish to catchur on film? Cat leaff now. important cat bizness in next room. next room where it necessary to hold back leg up like chicken and lik.
I also took this picture the other night when we were on a walk. If it's ever late or hot or I don't have time or whatever I at least try to walk the dogs down the greenway to the church. The church is where I turn around, bright eyes. And I don't even know why I took this, but Edsel being possessed by demons when he's too near the house of God is the hilariousest thing ever. You won't BELIEVE what happens next.
Let's make a pact, a Bye Bye, Pie pact. A Pie Pact. That we will all of us, from now on, NEVER click on any story that tries to do that to us. Let's start a movement to eliminate being manipulated that way. We can do this. If one look at Lady Diana's un-hosed legs made us all stop buying baked-bean-colored hose from those plastic eggs at the grocery store, one small blog can stop idiots from click bating us.
I also never, ever read on if a story makes me click the arrow for more.
You know, none of this is why I gathered you here today. I was GONNA talk about books from our pubescence, including all the sex books I got in my youth to make me informed and not scared and a person who'd grow up to be cockblocked by cats.
But I will talk about those books later, including this one, above, which featured telling me about sex with cut-out pieces of paper. That is one sexy paper hairdo she's sporting. I do kind of like their paper quilt. And, I mean, he is paper buff! Look at him! Old Casual Paper Hair scored when she got THAT guy into her bed of pulp.
See what's going to happen? I'm going to start talking about those books, and then Ima be late for work. To top it off, I'm late for work. Lemme tell you what I say when I'm dealing with the funky sidewalk.
Okay, I'm GOING TO GO before I quote all of Double Dutch Bus, but I was GOING to tell you one more thing about Beelzebub Edsel, up there. Last night, Ned did something that annoyed me, god knows what, and I said, "Edsel, sic him! Attack!" You never say "sic" unless you're fake trying to get your dog to attack someone.
Edsel wagged his tail because I was talking to him.
"Eds! Get him! Attack Uncle Ned!" I showed my teeth so Edsel would be inspired. He wagged his tail even harder because I was still talking to him.
"Edsel!" I said, exasperated, and then I took my fangs and headed to Ned, acting like I was going to bite him.
WOOF! said Edsel, running over. I'm telling you, he was gonna defend Ned to the death if he had to. That fucker. He is so on Ned's side now.