Bye Bye, Pie!

June in June. So to speak.

You know, I ANNOUNCED that I wasn't QUITTING my blog. Could maybe one or two of you have perhaps COMMENTED on that instead of sitting there in silence? God.

Okay, really. Thanks, you guys, for the 394957574 comments. I was expecting at least one, "You're so ANNOYING, June! First you said you were going and now you're STAYING? I.am.sure." But no. Everyone was so nice and said I was funny and now I guarantee you that for the rest of time I will be dull as mud.

"This is my friend June! She's really funny!"

{crickets rest of the evening}

...friend tells me people do that to him, too. Because he can tell a story better than anyone. I wonder if it's a Southern thing, being able to tell a story. Anyway, he can have you on the floor, so to speak, with one of his stories, and he says people say to him, "Tell that story about the time you..." and then he can't tell it well. It has to be spontaneous.

Oh, but speaking of funny, I was emailing with Miss Doxie, who if you just got born or hatched out of that L'eggs egg like Mork, is THE FUNNIEST BLOGGER OF ALL TIME who posts like once a year now because she's, oh, a blissful newlywed and a partner in a law firm and also it takes a lot of time to walk around looking EFFING beautiful, too, I'd imagine. Somehow, last year, and I still don't know how, she found me and emailed me, after I had been reading her blog and being in love with her FOR YEARS.

And then? We tore this shit up. That is a Miss Doxie line and I have no idea what it means. Because we have not literally torn any feces up to my recollection, although when one is with Miss Doxie many cocktails ensue. But I am just saying to you that in this past year, many what we think are hilarious emails have occurred. And deep? Man.

(Our crucial emails have included talks about yogurt, pink lipstick, me sexting her dog Bo, and Miss Doxie sending me purity videos, which apparently they show to teenagers to get them to not have sex. I would not know this, because as a teen I was out having sex.)

"Here's what's on my Google searches on my cell phone," Miss D wrote me, because it was important that I know, and in keeping with the lofty discussions we seem to have.

nancy grace
nancy grace wig
asia 40 year old virgin
red potato salad
Anthony Hopkins nude

"What I need to know is, can you FIND Anthony Hopkins nude?" I asked her. Then I looked in my own search history:

dog runny eyes ("Honest to god," I told her, "Edsel looks like a miraculous Virgin Mary statue.")
weather greensboro
cy twombley (ooo! Look at ME! All arty! And shit.)
Is Beth O pregnant (ooo! Look at me! All up in Howard Stern's bidness. And shit.)
spotting after ablation (mmm!)
Robin Gibb

"Spotting after ablation. There's your new Bye Bye, Pie tag line," said Doxie.

So what I'd like to do today is, anyone who has a cell phone, go look in your search history. Then please report to me. Does anyone else wonder what's out there about Asia 40-year-old virgins? (Dear Miss Doxie, "?")

Come on. Tell all. Don't EDIT the embarassing stuff. I told you about my ablation spotting.

(Oh, and you asked, so yes. The reporter from the Greensboro newspaper called me. She was great. We talked about a half hour, and the article will be out in maybe two weeks. Apparently I am not, you know, hot breaking news. Anyway she said she liked my blog so much that she sent it to several of her friends in Canada, so CANADA IN THE HOWSE! And I know you pronounce it "howse" because I'm from Michigan and I pronounce it that way, too.)

Okay. Go look at your search history, you Anthony-Hopkins-loving pervs. In the howse.

Bye Bye, Pie!

A funny thing happened on my way to quitting this blog. And if you have to hear that original phrase "a funny thing happened on my way to..." one more time will you stab yourself in the head? Because I just provided it for you. Here's your drink sword.

I was going to stop blogging because (1) I've been doing it for five and a half years and (vii) I felt like my life was more private now and plus (c) I felt like this blog wasn't as good without Marvin in it. I mean, let's face it. Me being annoyed with Marvin was funny. Go look at this post. Or this one.

Or this conversation:

"God, I wish I had a Bud Light," I said. Because I am from Michigan. Our first instinct is for a domestic beer. Sue us.

"You want to be a firefly?" asked Marvin, who have I mentioned 20 times is hard of the hearing?

"Not a BUTT LIGHT. A BUD LIGHT. BUD LIGHT ," I told him.

Really looking forward to when we're 80.

I mean, come on. Marvin annoyingness was good stuff.

And I feel like now I have so much I CAN'T say, out of respect for the privacy of the 20 men I'm banging. Okay. I am not banging 20 men. But there was a whole boy I saw for awhile that you never heard one word about, because telling about it would have been scandalous.

I know!

My point is, I felt like this blog was losing something. Because I couldn't be as transparent. And 50% of my funny had moved out, gotten itself a girlfriend and sent me divorce papers.

So I decided to quit. And I meant it! As much as I ever mean things. I mean, I always make decisions and then say, "Oh, man. I should have gone the other way." And I was doing that as soon as I told all y'all all about not blogging.

"I'm nervous about you not blogging anymore," said ...friend, who does not annoy me the way Marvin did and therefore does not provide hilarious blog fodder. Which I just typed "doffer" and what the hell is "doffer"?

"Your blog is so much a part of who you are." he said. "And besides, it kind of seems like you like having an audience."

...!

Does that--well--does that...seem good? I need an audience? I mean, I totally do, but geez, how did I make that obvious in the four and a half months I've known ...friend? You often hear men describing their ideal woman: "Well, she has to be slender, large hoots, blonde hair, and really crave an audience."

Just because my dream job is go-go dancer.

Anyway, if HE was nervous, so was I. The closer I got to this day, the more sort of despondent I got. And then you sent me such nice emails, and comments, and told me not to go and I will tell you what. By yesterday I was standing there beside myself. Which was really annoying, because then Gertrude had to feed two of me at that funeral luncheon.

Really, I didn't know what I was going to do. I was feeling like maybe I really DIDN'T want to quit my blog. Because ...friend is right. At this point it's so much a part of who I am. And maybe I still DO have things to say. And maybe it still IS funny. I'll just have to adjust this blog to be sans Marvin like I adjusted my life to be sans Marvin. Which would be a lot easier to do if you TOOK HIS PHOTOS DOWN AT YOUR HOUSE, MOM.

So there I was, waffling, when I got an email yesterday. "Dear June, My name is Whoo-de-Bloo and I am a columnist for the Greensboro News & Record. I wanted to do a story on your blog, but are you really quitting?"

...! And yes, I have now had TWO annoying "...!"s in my post, but it's kind of a dramatic day.

So the next thing you know old Jed's a millionaire, and also I had written her, "No. I'm not quitting."

And the decision was made. And you know what? I woke up this morning 20 times lighter than I have been for a week. I was so gleeful, getting on here to tell you. And yes, I do realize I am annoying, being the Clash, not knowing whether to stay or go. Sue me. Then get me a Bud Light.

I have no idea what Ima do. Am I gonna post all the time? Am I gonna post about every date I go on, screw the privacy of the 20 men I'm banging? I do not know.

(Dear ...friend. I swear to god I am not--oh, forget it. You know it's just for my much-needed audience that I say these things.)

I just know that this blog, with all of you as a part of it, might be the love of my life.

And in conclusion, I spent over SEVEN HOURS making this end-of-my-blog video. And I realize now it's kind of a middle-of-my-blog video, but dudes. SEVEN+ HOURS. Could you watch it anyway? Thanks.

And thanks for being a part of my dumb blog.

 

If I leave here tomorrow would you still remember me?

I am in my hometown, on mom's super-fast, really extra speedy computer that by the way--wow!--is a quick one. Honest engine, I typed in "iGoogle" to her search bar and the computer went, "ZZZZZZZZ...wut? Dude. ...Wait, wut? It's only 1:30 p.m., man. It's too early."

Anyway, the funeral was really nice, as funerals go. It really was. The minister talked about Gertrude's dad in such a good way. They talked about how much her dad loved nature; when he put in a pool, he made it go all the way around the trees so he wouldn't have to take any down. He sounds like he was a cool guy--I only met him a few times in all these years of being Gertrude's friend, which is odd.

My point is, my mother seems to have a cold, or allergies, or just really wanted to stick in my craw today, because here's how the funeral went:

Pastor: Rich was a generous man...

Mom: COUGH! coughcoughcoughcough. COUGH!

Pastor: He loved nature and--

Mom: HACK! coughcoughcoughcough.

Pastor: --and he was loved by so many--

Mom: coughcoughcoughcoughcoughcough--HAIRBALL--cough.

Jesus Katie Christ. I was never so distracted in all my days. Finally she got up and got a lozenge, which the funeral home actually has in a bowl for just such funeral-ruiners.

At the end of the funeral, once mom had entered the Halls of Medicine, they played Warron Zevon's Keep Me in Your Heart, which, wow. Good song.

 

Then they played a special rendition of everyone's favorite, Would June's Mom Please Stop Fucking Coughing.

Oh!
I saw Hulk. Here is what he wore on his date last night, which he went on before he came to see me for sloppy seconds or whatever. Let's all help Hulk with the shoe issue, shall we? Please?

Anyway. So, I guess tomorrow is it. I have to be honest with you. I don't know if I can do this. I really don't. The closer I get to being done with my blog the more sad I feel. I really don't know if I want to give it up. Is that ludicrous? I did, but then so many of you wrote me nice things, and the reality is hitting me and ack. I really don't know.

I mean, I DO know Hulk needs new shoes. I know that. And that mom needs an iron lung. Those things I know for sure. As Tallulah said in Taluprah Magazine: What Know For Sure. Puggles is Stupid.

Argh.

Talk at you tomorrow. I'd like to note that my mother is in the kitchen and has not coughed once while I wrote this.

I wonder if Hulk met her when he was doily shopping...

Lie-by-pool-at-...friend's-apartment-get-rained-on sex hair. Honestly, my hair is insane. It is certifiably insane. It's over here with a shopping cart, babbling to itself.

Kiss Iris sex hair. Look at her bunny footie.

Do you know why I don't put that many pictures of Iris up? She's really hard to photograph. She doesn't make eye contact with the camera, cause she doesn't have so many eyes, and I guess the best time to get her is when she's sleeping but she doesn't sleep a lot. She just kind of hangs. Blindly.

I've been working on my end-of-my-blog veeedeo, and do you know who never took a bad picture? Seriously. Was Henry.

He was a blogger's dream cat. This photo right above, with his blue kitteny eyes, was the very first picture I ever took of him. AND LOOK AT IT. It was all uphill from there. He is a beautiful kitty. I miss me the Henry.

Thank heavens I talked about that because now I am sad.

Anyway, heyyy! Y'all back at work? How's that feeling? I am not at "work" ("DO NOT EAT") (I air-quoted "work" because hi. Don't really work there.) because I leave for my hometown in a little while. And for everyone FROM my hometown who reads this, I will be there for a funeral and I will be there for 24 hours, so. Don't get all in a wad with yer pantaloons that you don't get a glimpse of the June. The Great and Powerful June. Pay no attention to what's happening behind that curtain of hair.

I did, of course, text Hulk* that I was coming home and he has a DATE tonight! I know! Go Hulkie, it's yer date day. Gonna party like it's yer date day. Drink Bacardi like it's...any old day because you're a big drunk...

The point is, he thinks he'll be able to see me post date, and I sincerely hope he does not have sex hair.

I have not yet packed my bags, although I have IN MY MIND, which means when I do it it'll be fast. I know it makes people nervous that I do not pack till the last minute. Also, I forget something every time. "Oh, I forgot pants. Guess I'll walk around pantsless like Julienne Moore in that movie. Where we saw her goods for like 17 minutes." What movie was that?

Perhaps packing at the last minute and forgetting to pack things ("Oh, I forgot all my meds and makeup." I mean, it's always something major like that) might be related. I am not sure.

The funeral is at Snow Funeral Home, which I'm certain I told you before is where my grandfather was interred. I guess he wasn't literally interred there, but whatever. When we got there--my father, aunt, grandmother and me--Mr. Snow said, "Now, what are we doing with the body?" and at the same time, all four of us thought of my grandfather saying, "When I die, don't make a fuss. Just stick a bone up m'ass and let the dogs drag me away."

I am sorry to tell you this made us all a little giggly.

Then, several days later, my father called Mr. Snow about some technicality, and my aunt and I were there. He must've been doing some word association thing in his head because when Snow Funeral Home answered, he said, "Yes. Is this Jack Frost?"

My aunt and I went into HYSTERICS, falling all over each other and hooting and so on. What I am saying to you is, I think we impressed Mr. Snow quite a bit with our dignity. Looking forward to seeing him again.

Okay, I will get to packin'. If I die in a plane crash, there IS an end-of-my-blog veedeo. Make someone put it up. Oh! Marvin will be here dogsitting. Make him do it.

June, out. Looking forward to posting from mom's Speedy Gonzales computer tomorrow.

 

*Recent text between Hulk and me:

Hulk: Do you know where I can buy doilies?

June: Well, once you're done washing your vagina, you might try Joann's Fabrics.

"DO NOT EAT"

I totally have sex hair right now.

Hey! How are you? It's a holiday, which means it's not the 16% reading, it's the .016%. But all three of you get to see my dumb hair. Congratulations!

So my plane ticket is purchased (thanks, Bank of Mom) (yes, I AM 46 years old and still needing my mom to buy me last-minutes plane tickets); I leave tomorrow, the funeral is Wednesday, and then I leave Wednesday night. It's kind of a whirlwind funeral tour. For a while there, it looked like ...friend was gonna road trip with me to Saginaw, but he had a work thing. Stupid responsibility. Funyuns still outselling Responsibilityuns.

Also, I had to search for something to wear to this shindig. I really never wear dresses, because I'm such a tomboy. Get me out there climbing trees and catching a ball. That's where I really feel at home.

So my mother (Bank of Mom) sent me a dress not long ago, and it's black (yes, mom, it is. She insisted it's blue but it isn't) and it has stripes, which seems kind of festive for a funeral, but it's all I got. The thing is, it'd be super perfect if I had some Spanx, which, dudes, for YEARS I had some in the back of my drawer, and now that I FINALLY need it, do you think it's there? I'll bet you anything I said, "Oh I never wear this Spank" and tossed it. Is the singular of Spanx "Spank"?

Speaking of quotes,

I'd like to know who said "DO NOT EAT." Who said it? Who are we quoting, here? Or is it sarcastic and we should TOTALLY eat the delicious silica gel? Which is it?

What does desiccant mean? Are they saying something negative about Desi Arnaz? What can't he do? Or ccan't he do?

Do you know what I have? Is too much time on my hands.

You know who doesn't, though? Is Lily. She is a wreck with all her responsibilityuns. I kind of want to read that Vermont Country Store catalog, but I guess right now it's literally a CATalog. That made no sense, really. I mean, as opposed to all that Desi Arnaz stuff I said earlier.

So I will try to blog at you tomorrow and then the next day, but I will be on the road again. Just can't wait to get on the road again. The wife I love is making music with my friends. ...Who said that? One of you said you thought those were the words, and it kills me. My point is, will post when I can.

In the meantime, I am off to buy a Spank, and coincidentally the second Shades of Grey book (I KNOW. But now I can't help myself), and some tanning lotion so if I DO wear that dress I do not look like I got bowling pins up under there.

Y'all enjoy the hell out of your Memorial Day. See? I am doing my part to remember what this day means. I am fighting the Battle of the Bulge, with my Spanx. (June. Completely not hilarious since 5.28.12.)

Where was Sunday? It was all suspicious (Thanks, Paula.)

Y'all.

I was gonna blog today about how bad this slays me, and also

how I was JUST TELLING ...friend about my beloved Tinkerbell doll (you know what I must be? Is fascinating on a date) and then I walked into Jo's house yesterday and THERE IT WAS. (I sent this photo to ...friend and he said, "That's Tinkerbell? I thought it was the JonBenet Ramsey doll.")

But instead a good friend's father died. Not sure how many of you know who Gertrude is; she used to comment a lot but she has a daughter and a job and 20 pets and anyway, this morning I've helped her write her dad's obituary, and it looks like I might be on my way to Saginaw for the funeral. 

I will write more tomorrow if I can. Stupid death.

Last Saturday with the 16%

edzul cryeeng about 16 pur sent.

He really IS crying. He looks like a miraculous Virgin Mary statue or something. I guess it's allergies, or maybe that floor is breaking his heart. Concrete floor advice, please.

I must dash; having lunch with Jo in an hour and (surprise!) not showered. Last night ...friend drove me all around town and showed me the houses he grew up in, and places he fished and played sports and did all those things I never once did because I was (a) a girl who (2) stayed inside and read books my entire childhood.

Do you know who I cannot identify with whatsoever? Tomboys.

Anyway, it was cool. It was my idea, because he grew up here and I was all, yeah but where? Because he lives downtown now and I figured he hadn't done THAT his whole life. Anyway, he moved away from here to go to college and never came back till two years ago, for work.

"Greensboro is my Saginaw," he said, when I said I liked Greensboro and it seemed like a good place to grow up. I guess returning is weird, no matter where you're from. Unless you're from Milan. But maybe even THAT'S weird. "Damn Milan. Can't believe I'm back here, driving past my old high school. Home of the Milan Musketeers. Jesus Christ."

Anyway, as much as I would like to sit here and write Farmer Boy, the point of my story is afterward we went to dinner at Proximity, and then I got a horrific migraine and that was the end of that evening.

You know what I am? Fun.

Oh, and before I get in the shower, and I know you wish I'd have June Blogs From the Shower, a very special hot 'n naked Bye Bye Pie, I want to say that a lot of you have written to me via email or Facebook and I WILL write you back, I just haven't had the fortitude, frankly. This is hard. Math is hard. Especially for Edsel.

The FINAL COUNTDOWN! You're welcome.

"I told them," I emailed ...friend, after giving all y'all all my big news yesterday. I sent him the link, too.

"I don't even read your blog that often and I'm even sad," said ...friend, after looking at yesterday's post. And it IS sad, isn't it? I like the beginnings of things, and I dwell sadly on the end. I've done this for so long I won't even know what to do with myself at first.

"You should take a picture of me NOT eating a salad," ...friend said later that day when we were having dinner. How much are you going to miss my crystal-clear photography? I'm not gonna miss all the queries from people who're into photography. "How do you DO it, June? What camera do you use?" I mean, it's exhausting. I have a gift, okay?

Big pile of fried green tomatoes. God, I love the South.

So I took pictures of us not eating salads ("us." Like I am just MADE of salad.) but then I said, "I have to get used to this. I don't need to document my every move anymore."

"You sure you want to do this?"

"No."

And I'm not. Now that I've heard from so many of you, and you were so nice, and some of you even emailed me personally to tell me how much you read me or times my dumb blog got you through stuff, I feel totally torn. I do.

Lu tore too. Liturlee. We getteeng stittchis out soon?

Look at her little shavey leg, where they put an IV. Get away from my dog. With your needles and your knives and so on. We go in an hour and no more cone for Lu. Truthfully I've had it off her for a few days now. She mostly leaves her injury alone. And who needs to maybe trim that foliage in the back yard?

Geez, Lu. Get on it.

Oh, and at my neverending freelance job, I am down to working noon to 5:30, because the guy who had surgery is back half time, and anyway I said, "Tallulah has a vet appointment at 10:30 but I think I'll still be on time." And they were all, "...the office is closed tomorrow."

It IS? I totally would've shown up to an empty office had Lu not had a vet appointment.

Mom dizapoynt lillee. could be more orrganize?

Geez Louise, is that fur by the door, there, in the Lily picture? I shouldn't take pet shots; it just makes me see stuff that needs to get done around here.

Oh! But I asked if there was anything you wanted me to blog about and you said pet psychic. So okay.

When I lived in LA and had the fabulous cat Mr. Horkheimer,

hooo? you know, lillee fabyouluss too.

(somebody asked about Lily, too. Hence the all-Lily, all-the-time-except-for-when-I'm-showing-fried-green-tomatoesness of this post)

ANYWAY, when I lived in LA and had the wonderful Mr. Horkheimer, he got a mysterious illness. I took him to the vet 17 times and they were like, well, it could be his KIDNEY, it might be his LIVER....

Thanks. In the meantime he's spraying blood and losing weight. So, my friend Karina had a horse, and let me tell you something. No woman who has a horse just, oh, has a horse. Every friend I have who owns a horse can never be found anywhere but with that horse. Horses are to women what golfing is to men. Addictive. Is what I mean.

So Karina told me that some pet psychic came to the stables and read all the horses. She said, "Maybe she can tell you what's going on with Horkie."

See. When you live in LA? After awhile people say stuff like that to you and you just go, "Oh, thanks! Good idea!" Like she'd just recommended a plumber. "Yeah, call this guy to snake your pipes. Oh, and this woman here will give you a past-life aura reading and cleanse your toxins!"

So I did. I called Lydia Hibey, pet psychic. And oh! It was so great! She said often animals come into our lives to teach us something. Not Hork. He was there to be admired and pampered. That was it. "How'm I doing on that?" I asked. "Horkie tells me you're an A+!" she said.

The pet psychic even told me that Hork said he hated it when we lived with "those girls." In Seattle, Hork and I lived in a house with Stacy and Paula, and they had a Sheltie. Do you know from Shelties? They are not what you'd call mellow dogs. And Hork? ABHORRED that creature. Oh. Hated. He'd hide on a dining room chair and swat that animal when it trotted by high-strungly.

Anyway, the pet psychic recommended I get these bovine pills from the store and mix them with turkey baby food, and do you know Horkie improved for about a year before he finally just up and died? So I got an extra year of Mr. Horkheimer. And that is good. Because he was magnificent.

we getteeng kind of sik of heereeng about that cat. currint pets magnifsint too. ..not edsel. but rest of us.

Anyway, that's that story. I'd hate to leave you hanging with any untold story. So let me know if there's anything else you want to hear.

I guess I better shower and get all good-looking for the vet's office. Which means I'll be getting to the vet in 1992.

Sigh. June. Kind of sad.

Stick a fork in it

So, I've decided to stop blogging.

I know!

The only people I've told are ...friend and Marvin, who both said, "Oh, you are not." I mean, for five years, five months, and nine days, I have blogged constantly. I posted from LA, then TinyTown, then here. I posted on vacations from ludicrous hotel business centers. I have written to you from my mother's Jurassic Park stone computer with molasses on it. I've posted while still out of it from surgery and divorce.

I've even snuck in a few posts from various jobs. Why can't I hold down employment, again?

From the time I started this till now, I am a different person. I've gotten other viewpoints, been assured of the goodness of most people (most), watched while you guys became friends in the comments, gotten attached to readers and lost them anyway. I even got gifts and cards and people's grandma's Eastern Star tchotchkes!

You can't beat an Eastern Star tchotchke.

But I'm ready. I think. To not document my whole ding-dang life anymore. I mean, my life is 100% different than it was when I started this. Well. Not 100%. I'm not suddenly a cilantro-loving male Eskimo who loves hunting and abhors cats.

(I don't know why I picked "Eskimo" as the 100% different me. Do I strike you as absolutely different from an Eskimo? I guess probably. First of all, not such a fan of rubbing noses.)

I just feel like I've done this for a long time and I want to go live my life rather than write about it. I could be totally wrong. I could feel like I have no anchor if I have no audience. Because you're more than just readers, you're friends. But I hope you're friends who understand.

So I will end with the end of this month. No June in June, as it were. I'm paid up through November, so this blog will be here till then, and who knows? Maybe I won't be able to stand just living my life and not taking pictures of my strawberries before I buy them, in order to show you on my blog. Or whatever.

Ride me, big Sheldon.

So, I'll post until June, and I wondered: is there anything you wished I'd blogged about that I never did? Or maybe I did and it was before your time and you don't want to slog through the 39494949 posts to find it. Anything you wish I'd cover between now and June 1? Or do you just hope the door doesn't hit me?

And of course I'll be saying this a lot over the next six days, but thank you. Thank you for reading, even if you never commented. Thank you for commenting, even if it was mean--which in the grand scheme of things, people rarely were. Thanks for linking me to ludicrous things and for sending me things and for, you know, flying me first class to Hawaii. Thanks for the tips in the tip jar. Thanks for loving my pets as I do and for getting me through my low times.

Just thanks.

I will not forget this experience.

Random shots and a dirty book. Am totally tired of the phrase "random." "That's random!" Oh, shut up.

So I'm reading that dirty book 50 Shades of Grey's Anatomy or whatever, and man is it dumb. And can I put it down? Why do some dumb books suck us in (see: Twilight)?

I mean, I consider myself above average in intelligence. Does everyone think they're above average in intelligence, just like everyone thinks they're a good driver and that they have a sense of humor? But despite the fact I think I am relatively smart (I mean, not compared to Stephen Hawking, okay?) (or even Tim Gunn. Tim Gunn seems kind of smart. Or maybe he's just snooty, is all), I must know what happens to these stupid, not-remotely-realistic people in stupid 50 Shades and Lamps Too.

What is wrong with me?

I even took said dirty book to the BookUp last night, which my friend Jo has every month in a restaurant. I've explained it before, but everyone just comes and brings a book and orders a drink or appetizer and reads. I know that sounds silly, but she was sick and tired of people saying, "I don't have time to read" (and she's written a book, so she's particularly persnickety about this phrase) (how do we get to the e-version of your book, Jo? Tell us in the comments), so she set up an evening where we MAKE time.

 

And what did I read? Right there in front of ...friend and everybody? Stupid 50 Shades of Earl Grey.

Anyway, that's my latest humiliation. In other news, I have a bunch of pictures on my desktop that I keep meaning to put up here, so without further adieu--did you ever see that Naked Gun? Where the guy says to Leslie Neilsen, "I bid you adieu" and Leslie Neilsen says, "Thanks. But I...like my hair the way it is." Anyway, without further hair, here are the photos on my desktop.

This is from Peg's party, which by the way was a potluck and guess who forgot that, with her empty-handed self? Nice. Guess who went to the food table three times anyway? Nice, also. Up here is a watermelon piece with, I don't know, feta, maybe? And Austin, who is the most super-great wonderful party guest possible and I love it when he comes to Peg's parties, stuck hat pins in each piece, because it was, you know, Mad Hatter. Oh, they were plastic. You couldn't imPALE yourself.

Here is Austin. He is a fancy designer and has really good decorating-for-rich-people stories. I heart him. And his teensy hat.

I mean, really? We have to be told this, now?

...friend lives right near my pal Kit's store, and it's exciting to see what her windows are doing whenever I stroll by. In case anyone was wondering, yes, I DO want that pink polka-dotted dress and also the leopard purse. What are you, new?

After my surgery, my mother sent me chocolate-covered strawberries. Oh.Hell.Yes.

I do not know why Edsel acts so weird in the car. He gets all shy and retiring. Yes, that IS a Chik-Fil-A cup. Shut up.

quar skare edzers

Here is Marvin drinking cough syrup in San Francisco in 2005. That's random!

Best hat at Peg's party. And for people who work at my old job, yes that IS your old coworker. I mean, I am your old coworker, but so is she.

From when Pal from MA was here at Christmas. Seriously, I have to clear out this desktop.

Also, love self.

Okay, off to work, which is beginning to be like the three-hour tour on Gilligan's Island. Have totally made a tight SS Minnow dress at this point.

XO,

Jooooon