Well, you used to shake ’em down, now you stop and think about your dignity. Or not.

Okay, I hate to be obsessed, but now Google Photos is making little stories from my pictures. Look at this nice one!

I know. I need to get over it. Every poor sap who comes to my desk has to look at the lastest thing Google is doing to my photos. Does this mean someone at Google has seen my boobs? Because remember when I sent my friend Charlie that boob picture?

In the meantime, what's new with you? I'm waiting to get in the shower till Ned goes, because he will be going on a business trip overnight and please do not murder me while he's gone. First you're gonna have to pry the fangs of Tallulah out you before you get to me.

"You know you're gonna have to clean the litter boxes tomorrow," Ned just said. Like we can't go ONE DAY without cleaning them. Whatever, Ned. I'll just send the dogs in there. Take care of THAT in a hurry. Almond Roca for everyone.

You know, I always assume it's Talu who'd protect me, but several times now, Edsel has kicked the ASS of dogs who charge at us on our walks. And could I once again let you know how much I enjoy you people who let your dogs off leash. "Oh, he's fine." That's great. My dogs will murder your free-range dog in cold blood, and I hope you're happy about it, because WE'RE ON A  LEASH LIKE DECENT PEOPLE.

What if Ned's not going on a business trip at all, and he's meeting some floozy at a cheap motel tonight? And I'm over here all, Oh, have a good trip! I'm all slipping love notes in his bag and he's out getting syphilis. Rude.

Oooo, I have an idea. Let's all tell our worst someone-cheated-on-me-and-I-found-out-horrifically stories. Most of mine, no ALL of mine involve my old boyfriend Cardinal from high school. The best one was when he went out of town to work for a few weeks before we started our senior year, and when he came back he brought a girl with him.

Yeah.

"How is your hair on the top of my dresser?" asked Ned just now. He should really just accept that hair's gonna be everywhere. He said he found my hair on him AT THE GYM, which is not really possible but it happened, and at least part of me's at a gym.

"Sometimes when you're gone, I lie my head on your dresser," I called back.

He probably totally thinks I do. And still, he's gonna meet some two-bit blousy trollop for the next 24 hours. In my mind she's wearing huge orange hoop earrings. And spandex capris with heels. What should we name her? We just had a discussion at work the other day, Griff and I did, about what's the cheapest-sounding name. Griff thinks the name Jessica is sexy, and to me, Jessica wears wool sweaters from a fine department store and smells like Ivory soap.

I'd throw out some of my votes for cheapest-sounding name, but then I'll get the angry comments from everyone named Brandi.

I gotta go. I'm very much looking forward to a night alone here, not that I don't like Ned, but novelty. I loved living alone. I mean, as alone as you can be with 47 pets. Let me know your cheatin' heart stories and also your names for Ned's floozy.

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I like how I say "floozy" and stampede to a photo of TinaDoris. Look who brought her already-thin self and Borbala Rut to work yesterday! It was bring-your-Borbala-to-work day. Yeah, of course TinaDoris had a cute baby. Have you observed TinaDoris?

Alone again, naturally,

Jooooooon

Beaches. But not in a Barbara Hershey’s dead kinda way.

Did you miss me? Have you been holding a vigil? Did I ever tell you about when my friend Dot and I went to see Snow White? This was in college, when we were not at all full of ourselves or anything. This woman behind us had the nerve to bring her kids there, god, and she'd read to them the times they'd put up a little narrative screen that moved the plot along.

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The point is, when Snow White has that bad acid trip or whatever and she's dead dead dead, they put up one of those screens about how the dwarfs kind of freakily could not face putting Snow White in the ground, so they set up a glass coffin and held "an eternal vigil."

"And the dwarfs held an eternal vyyyyy-gul," the poor mom behind us read to her kids.

Well. You've never seen two snotty college girls get over something less rapidly. To this day, Dottie and I still pronounce it vyyyyy-gul.

Anyway. I'm back from the beach, like I'm Annette Junecello or something,

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On the day we were headed to said beach, Ned got in the shower, and when he emerged, I was talking to him for quite awhile before I looked at him, and

ACCCCCK!

he'd shaved off his facial hair. "I wanted the sun on my whole face," he said, while I had seven strokes. Ned looks like he's 17 or something now. I wonder how he got it all off? Did he use my Nair for Faces? Because, pissed.

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All in all it was a pretty mellow week. Just, you know, 20 of Ned's family members. Really, though, it was fun. I like Ned's people. They're always nice to me. If they hate my guts, I have no idea, which is how it should be.

Speaking of people who don't hate my guts and I'm glad, Marvin's parents sent me a birthday card, did I tell you that? They signed it XMIL and XFIL, as whenever I see my ex-mother-in-law on Facebook I always call her XMIL. There are still times when only my XMIL will do to talk to, like when there's particularly good celebrity gossip, or a new lipstick or something.

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The thing about Ned's family is they have no fear. Ned's six-year-old niece, who is officially the world's most charming child®, was in the water and being fearless all week. At one point, we sat on the edge of the water and let the waves come at us. Of course, I was scared. "These are pretty big waves," I told her. "I think we can handle them, Uncle June," she said. She called me Uncle June. AND STOP BEING MORE BRAVE THAN ME YOU'RE SIX.

At some point, my mother called me. "This family is free of fear," I told her. "That's a good way to be," said mom.

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"You're not in the sun, are you?" she asked. "You'll get cancer. And don't go in the water! You'll be eaten by a shark!"

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There were many activities all week. I brought metallic tattoos, and made everyone put them on.

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Ned's stepmother put one on her collarbone, because she's street. She is da bomb–she's the one who gave me that huge, pink and gold jingle corsage at Christmas, do you remember that thing? I have it all ready for this year.

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Speaking of Christmas, I went with Ned's sister to the nearby Christmas store. Ned did not accompany us. There were a ton of sparkly reindeer that I desperately wanted to buy but did not. I am all up in the sparkly reindeer, man. Ned's sister is more like my mother, in that she is into traditional red and green. She does not decorate for Christmas like she is a gay man from 1978. Which, why?

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My hair and I DID buy this sparkly little disk necklace, that goes under my T-for-Tallulah necklace that I wear all the time. Dudes, my hair was all over the place this week. Some days it was huge, some days it was angry. Some days it was huge and angry.

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Never, ever take my hair to the beach.

On the last night there, we had a spectacular thunderstorm, with huge bolts of lightning, and a rainbow, and several times the lightning would strike the middle of the rainbow. I'm sure that's symbolic somehow, but what do I know? I can't even pronounce "vigil" right anymore.

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I managed to read one and a half trashy books, start and lose 14 cans of soda, see two shooting stars and sleep like the dead every night.

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When I got home yesterday, I immediately went out and got a Sweet-Tart pedicure.

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Ned unpacked and exercised and did practical things. Oh! And in the mail was a gift from Faithful Reader Paula H&B. She sent me TWO MORE Real Romance magazines, one from 1971 and one from 1980. I read them BOTH from COVER TO COVER and may or may not have made Ned listen to a few, and I'd even do different voices for the characters. You should hear my sexy, husky voice. Turned on? You don't even KNOW from turned on till you've heard my husky, sexy voice.

Ned may have also opened a beer during my dramatic readings. A beer or two. "Oh, let me read you this one, Ned!"

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The whole point of this picture was to show you the animals survived, or at least two of them did, but what I noticed is my Real Romance magazines, one of which is open, and Ned's careful placing of the remotes on them, perhaps to discourage further reading. All I want to do now is read more of those magazines. Dear Paula H&B: Ned wonders why you didn't send us any vintage Penthouse Forums to read. Love, June.

So that sums up my week, and now I am a fat-ass with a tan, which is all you can hope for in a week at the beach.

Sandily,

Uncle June

Elvis Jesus. And party every day.

"You can't just turn FIFTY and not CELEBRATE it!" screeched one of the Alexes a few weeks ago. I was really kind of depressed about turning old, and for once did not wanna do much of anything. "We're going for drinks that Friday after your birthday," she said, because bossy.

"Well, let's just have it at my house, then, so we can hear ourselves think," I said, because crotchety.

And that is how t549493-2394942-repf049i5t-340404 people ended up at my house from right after work until midnight last night.

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I like how Alex, whose idea this whole thing was, can't even be bothered to listen to what I'm sure is a riveting story on my part. A story of cheeks. My famous cheek story. And look how Ned has turned to booze to dull the pain.

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Really, I didn't take any good photos yesterday, because I was having fun and kept forgetting.

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Thank heavens I was able to capture this super-casual one where Alex and Boy Alex had no idea I was photographing them.

We all brought snacks and everyone brought their own drinks, which means I now have 740 cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon in my refridge, and 950 salty bags of salt snacks with salt. By the end of this weekend, I will be Elvis.

Which reminds me, at one point we were telling our beleaguered guests how Jesus does our lawn, and I'm sure he pronounces his name "Hay Seuss," but of course we just call him Jesus. When he's been over, we say hilarious things like, "Jesus is just all right with me" or "Jesus saves…the lawn clippings" and so on. It's comedy gold, is what it is.

The point is, one of the Alexes said HER friend ALSO has a guy named Jesus who does HER lawn, and it's probably the same guy and just as we were about to describe Jesus our lawn guy (how he doesn't get his robes caught in the lawn mower is beyond us), she said, "Oh, wait. No. That guy's name is Elvis."

So.

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I gave this Alex one of my chocolate-covered strawberries, to soothe the manic episode she is clearly having. Yes, I admire Alex's shoulders, as well. Alex goes to the gym 940 times a week. If we went to the gym 940 times a week, and if incidentally we were 28, we'd look like Alex, too. But we don't look like Alex. Some of us drink because we're NOT poets.

Name that fine film.

Eventually, someone decided we all needed pizza, so pizza was gotten, and next thing you know it's midnight and I'm sure the neighbors adored us. When the last guests left, we looked at our kitchen.

"Fuck it," said Ned, and we cleaned it this morning.

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Mr. and Mrs. Fuck It.

I am sorry to tell you that my old ass may or may not be draggin' today, but we did manage to clean the damn kitchen.

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Dear Less-Than-30-Year-Old-Person: You left your Miller 64 cooler thing here. Do not worry. I will not steal it.

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The party's over. But my exhaustion lives on.

Hugging broccoli

Although it's a national holiday, a day where we all try to blow off body parts and scare the country's dogs half to death, I thought I'd check in. Don't you hate people who say "check in"?

Because I'm not trying to scream this out before work, which I'm always late for anyway, because I have the luxury of time, except for the part where Ned and I have plans and eventually he'll say something indirect (aka Southern) like, "Were we still gonna go to that thing, or…?"

I forgot where I was going with that sentence.

…Oh! Right!! Because I have time, I thought I'd show you all the pictures I have saved up, to blog about "later," and you know how I am about thinking about something tomorrow.

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I am often taking photos by accident on my phone, because I forget to turn off the taking-pictures part. I enjoy this one, the Journey Up My Nostril photo. There's a woman whose website I enjoy very much, and she's really very beautiful, but every picture she takes of herself, she's looking off to the side like this. It makes one wonder if she lives in the Land of Periphery or something. It must be her best angle or something. I don't know that this is my best angle. You know what my best angle is? 1989.

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I have no idea what's happened here, but this kills me. Ned looks high as a kite. This is probably what it's like to date Matthew McConaughay.
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Speaking of drugs, I bought new glasses while I was under the influence. Remember a few weeks ago, when I had that procedure and they gave me Propofol? They said, you may FEEL just fine. But don't go making any life-altering decisions or drive a car or anything for 24 hours. So Ned drove me over to pick up my contacts, and I waltzed in there, tried these on an ordered them, like I'm just MADE of $230, which is what these cost with the lenses and so on.

When they called to tell me my glasses were in, I was all, OHMYGOD, I ordered glasses! and I said to Ned, "Why didn't you STOP me?" and he was all, "Dude, I was in a chair reading Elle. I had no idea what you were up to." Since Ned was an adolescent, he's perused the women's magazines hoping for the occasional exposed breast.

Could you care less about looking at naked men? It does nothing for me, naked men. I would not once consider perusing a magazine to see a naked man. Okay, a naked black man. That I would seek out. But then I'd say, Oooo! and go on with my day. I wouldn't move mountains for it or anything.

Anyway, I had to wait to get them, my new glasses, till the next pay period, and it turns out I kind of like them! So yay. The last new glasses I bought were in 2011, when you all helped me.

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Me, in 2011.

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The other day, Ned sent me an email telling me to relax, and boy, that's guaranteed to relax me. Anyway, I sent him this photo as a result. HERE I AM SO SO RELAXED, MOTHERFUCKER.

Which I just typed as "otherfucker," and that is hilarious to me.

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I was not at all walking Edsel at 9 o'clock at night in order to get my 10,000 steps in or anything. Guess who hates me? Here's Eds with the moon on the water, because MOON IS UP, MAYBE GO HOME JUNE.

My wrist buzzed me as I walked home that night. SUCCESS. What do you mean, meds?

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I have one sports bra left, and it has hair dye all over it. I have no idea why. Probably one weekend I worked out and then did my roots before I took a shower. The point is, I went out in public like this the other night to do that free Fitness by the Fountain that I go to. Anytime I go to it, I think of that dog meme: Fitness whole pizza in my mouth.

The point is, need new sports brassiere. I look insane.

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We had the day off yesterday, and on Thursday, we got out of work at 3:30. The Other Copy Editor, fmr., invited a few of us over AT THREE-THIRTY IN THE AFTERNOON. By the time Ned arrived at 5:30, things were definitely out of hand.   IMG_4632_2 IMG_4637 IMG_4639
Might could be in love with TOCE fmr.'s pugs.

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Yesterday, one of the Alexes from work and I drove all the damn-ass way to Charlotte to buy cards. I mean, there is a super-really-cool card store there that also has things like necklaces and coffee mugs and purses and bottle openers and girl things, and I bought some metallic tattoos and 2484393294 greeting cards and Dear Aunt Mary, Maybe your birthday gift.

And then we had lunch. As girls do.

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And THEN we went to Ikea. I know, man!

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Alex had a whole list of what she needed. The Frudenhugen table. The AbbaBlondeHottenTotten picture frames. Some baby gifts. And the SwedishChefengruasen floating shelves.

"Wait, why do we need baby gifts?" I asked. Her best friend is having a baby. So we checked out the stuffed animals, and there was a stuffed carrot and a stuffed broccoli. As you do.

Alex held both to her. "Which is better?" she asked, hugging Broccoli. I suggested both, because sensible, but in the end, she got the broccoli. It had big puffy broccoli floret hair, really June hair if you think about it, and a smiley broccoli face.

We zoomed through that store and got each thing on Alex's list, and headed for the checkout. "I kind of feel like we just made Ikea our bitch," she said, loading everything on the conveyor belt.

"Wait. Is Broccoli a GIRL?" she asked. Her friend is having a boy. I guess she was concerned about bringing a woman home to him this soon. Alex stuck her hand under Broccoli's skirt.

"Did you just finger Broccoli?" I asked, scandalized.

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I guess I'd better wrap it up with these pictures, as I hear Ned walking around downstairs, and I can FEEL his "Are we still going, or…?" welling up inside him. Have a lovely day of independence from your digits, and I will talk to you tomorrow. -ish.

Downtown Juney Brown

I got to stay home today, seeing as in a smidgeon of time I will be knocked unconscious and any number of instruments will be crammed down my throat, such as a harp. I will literally be a harpy, finally.

Today is the day of my endoscopy; it's at 10:30. I had to go all of yesterday not eating anything red or purple, which turned out to be super-annoying. First there was the Damn, there-are-blueberries-in-my-flaxy-so-you-can-poop oatmeal that I eat every day. Then at lunch I had leftover tomato and spinach pizza, which, nope. Red.

So I went to that hippie, NPR, give peace a chance grocery store near me that never fails to get on my FUCKING nerves, and headed to the salad bar. Turkey chili. Nope. Has tomatoes in it.

GODDAMMIT.

Salad! Oh. Some of these leaves are pretty red and purple, because hippie pretentious lettuce. Just to freak people out one day, that place should just chop up a big batch of iceberg. WE HAVE A HIPPIE DOWN! HIPPIE DOWN AT THE SALAD BAR!

By the way, this time there were two men having an awareness session or something DIRECTLY IN FRONT of the salad bar. At 12:20 on a weekday. Look here, Feather Sky and English Leather Necklace, I understand your whole life you've been a part-time professor over at the community college, but most of us are SCREAMING THROUGH LUNCH HOUR at 12:20 on a Wednesday. You lilly-livered pretentious salad-bar-standing dinks.

So I loaded up on chicken, spinach, carrots and a buttermilk biscuit, all of which are distinctly not red or purple. I had to contort myself like I was in the Blue Man Group to get around the two men hugging it out at the salad bar, but finally I had my beige-family food.

After work, a bunch of us from work went to a really cool new place downtown (Downtown!). When you're alone and life is making you lonely, you can always go downtown!

Ned loves that song. I don't know what to tell you about Ned.

The point is, I just stayed for a bit, but when Ned came home from work, I told him about the place and he said, "Let's have dinner there!" and seeing it was my last night on earth, I said why not.

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Here's something you never see, and I was pleased to capture it on film.

I spent a lot of time looking for food that wasn't purple or red. Eventually, I had a turkey sandwich (beige) and some mac and cheese (orange).

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Am I blue? This was Ned's camera, and look how it isn't as good as my new one. Am pleased with my iPhone 6. Dear iPhone people: Send me free shit now.

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I wasn't stalking the hostess, THAT YOU KNOW OF, I was just wanting you to see how pretty it was in there.

"This place is so pretty. I can't believe this sat here empty for years," I said, between beige bites.

"It was some kind of bookstore that was never open," said Ned, who lived downtown (DOWNTOWN!) for years.

Have you ever heard the B52's version of Downtown? I like it.

 

That Fred guy from the B52s kills me every time. I want him to narrate my life story, when they make one, which should be fascinating. June. She had cats.

The point is, when we got home, I had an email from someone who'd read my latest Purple Clover and had nice things to say to me. When people email me about Purple Clover, it means they clicked on my name over there, looked at the little writeup about me that's one sentence long, cut and pasted my blog address because PC doesn't link to my blog and I wish they would, then once they're at my blog they have to find the "email me!" button. I mean, they have to really want to talk to me, is what I'm sayin'.

So that was nice, and it occurred to me that that article must be up on PC's Facebook page, because that's usually when I get contacted by people, is once it's up there. I mean, Purple Clover on Facebook at this point has close to 2 million Likes, which if I start to think about that many people potentially reading my crap, I get sort of poopy-feeling.

See? My stomach just rumbled. I had to stop drinking liquids at 8:30, and girl, you know I had that coffee cup in my hand till PRECISELY 8:30, because addict. But now I'm typing you, and I always always have coffee while I'm typing to you, and this is dreadful. I don't know how people do this.

So, I stupidly went on Facebook's Purple Clover, and looked at my article, and they'd in fact run two of mine yesterday, and what do you know. MORE MEAN COMMENTS.

Why do I do that to myself? Why do I look?

Ned was on our front porch, and I galumphed out there like I was Snuffleupagus. "I suck," I said to Ned. "I'm the worst writer in the world. I am useless, and now my looks are gone." I slumped in the chair dramatically.

"Were you looking at Facebook, then?" asked Ned.

I HAVE TO STOP LOOKING AT THOSE. And no one tell me what you saw over there. The last time I had this people-are-mean crisis, you have no idea how many people gleefully reported back to me what was going on, like I wanted to hear that mess.

Sigh.

Anyway. What can you do? People are mean. I have never once, in my life, left a comment that was mean on anything anyone wrote. And I'm a terrible person! But I've never felt the desire to do that. I don't understand the impetus. These must be people who don't write, themselves. They have no idea what it's like to put something in the universe that you slaved over, just to get, "This was dumb."

Okay, slaved over is a bit of a stretch. Usually I just sit down and write and it takes me 30 minutes. STILL. They're a very concentrate-y 30 minutes. And I write stuff in my mind for days before I write it, sometimes.

For some reason, this reminds me of Marvin's mom, who doesn't cook very often, and once when we came to visit, she'd made a key lime pie, Marvin's favorite. I have made that guy a key lime pie, and let me tell you, it isn't easy. Do you have any idea how TINY key limes are? Plus, you have to grate the metal key part.

Anyway, she set it in front of Marvin and he said, "This looks like a quiche."

I mean, it did, but it was delicious, and I think of her slaving away in a kitchen, which was not her forte, just to be told her pie looked like a quiche. Poor Marvin's mom.

Ima go get ready to take Propofol now. I hope Ned doesn't record me coming out of the anesthesia, because have you met my inhibitions? Imagine my inhibitions on drugs.

Do you know where this surgery center isn't?

DOWNTOWN.

Throatily,

June

P.S. OH! Oh guess what. As we were leaving the restaurant last night, up at the bar was midcentury modern furniture guy. We made eye contact and as I was about to say hello, he looked away. ACK! HE KNOWS. HE KNOWWWWWWS.

You know where he lives and works?

DOWNTOWN.

A remaining pip of toilet paper

I've been out doing things all day, and in preparation for my evening, I just put toner on my face, toner that's supposed to clear away dull flakes to uncover skin that's fresh and glowing. Every time I put it on, I look in the mirror hoping to see the skin I had when I was 9, and what I saw today was skin with a teensy bit of toilet paper left on it from when I wiped the toner on myself.

I'm out of cotton balls.

The last bag of cotton balls I had was given to me by Ned, who'd bought a whole bag of them to remove the black nail polish he had on when he dressed as Sid Vicious for Halloween one year, then realized the next day that he had no idea how to remove nail polish, but then somehow figured it out. I also have his nail polish remover.

Do you suppose he Googled it? "How do you remove black nail polish?" The point is, I used up those cotton balls maybe a year ago and have been Charmin-ing it ever since.

IMG_3363But that is not why I gathered you all here today. I gathered you to tell you about going to dinner at Chris and Lilly's last night, a dinner where I may have gotten engaged to one of their dogs. A dog who is clearly over me and our impending nuptuals, but I don't care.

IMG_3360Do you guys remember two years ago, when I was taking care of business every day and also Ned when he had his wisdom teeth removed, and while Ned was convalescing I got an email or call or something from Lilly saying, I just had a freakin' baby, come see me for the 15 minutes they're letting me stay here till they kick us out on the street. Do you remember that? I do. The point is, back then they had this infant and now they have a human who says words.

IMG_3368She came out in her pajamas at 6:30, because apparently she is not a night owl despite her pajamas to the contrary, she said a few inspirational words such as "chicken" and "noisy" and also "kitty," then Lilly told her it was time to go to bed so she grabbed a glass of sherry and a book and we never heard from her again.

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Here's why she said "kitty." Ned was obsessed with this cat, who reminded him of NedKitty, and I don't know if I've ever mentioned Ned's deep and abiding love for ridiculous NedKitty. This cat swatted at us, which then reminded ME of NedKitty. She's pretty, though.

IMG_3356Chris and Lilly have two dogs and a cat, even though they live in the country so they could have 72 more pets. You know what C and L are? Reasonable people. I'd be all, MORE ROOM FOR PETS! and head off to the 24-hour kitten store.

IMG_3367America's favorite reasonable couple.

IMG_3374We also went fishing, because did I mention they live in the country? They had roosters crowing while we fished, and I kept calling them chickens, just like their kid did, and it occurs to me her life is an actual The Farmer Says toy.

Farmer See n Say 300Oh my god, I played the shit out of that toy.

IMG_3380You can imagine how I eagerly dipped my hand right into the bucket o'worms and gleefully put said wriggling worm on my hook. A million dollars you could offer me and still I couldn't touch a worm. Fortunately, I also caught nothing, so I didn't have to worry about touching fish, either.

IMG_3383Ned was a regular Old Man and the Sea, however. He was a regular seaman. He caught two and threw 'em back in. Cause nothing's more humane than dragging something out of its oxygen source via a hook in its mouth, then throwing it back in. We're animal lovers.

IMG_3381Everyone's a comedian. He's a regular Joan Rivers. Get it? Do you?

IMG_3402We had a good time with Chris and Lilly. We always do. And they made hamburgers that were freaking delicious. They said the secret was to fry them in butter, which if you ask me is the secret to everything. And one of our topping choices was avocado, and if it were legal to mate with an avocado, I would. I would give birth to guacamole. I would give birth to Brad Pitt. I'm done now.

Ned and I can't decide what to do tonight. He proposed grilling something, but here's what happens when Ned suggests we grill at 6:00 at night. We eat at 10:00. That's what happens. So. Then he suggested we walk to the baseball game, which I am only in it for the hot dogs, but there's a chance of thunderstorms tonight. Maybe we should just drive back out to Chris and Lilly's and see if they'll feed us again.

Maybe I should just rub toner on this day and see if it comes back with a more youthful glow. Or a remaining pip of toilet paper. Maybe I should fry this day in butter.

Reasonably,

Joooooooooon

Our nation breathes a sigh of relief

My Fitbit logged my sleep! I know! I slept 8 hours and 21 minutes and woke up twice, once because I had a dream that I slid open the shower curtain and when I did, someone grabbed my neck and strangled me. Happy.

Fitbit did not say anything about that.

You know, it's exciting to have a device that records what I ate and how many calories I've burned and so on, but I'd really like a Fitbit to tell me things like what I need to stop obsessing about, and am I living up to my potential, and what's my rating on a scale of 1-10. Have I still got it?

Maybe I don't want Fitbit to tell me that.

In related 1-to-10 news, you know how you guys say I don't know anyone ugly?

Screen Shot 2015-01-09 at 7.32.17 AMWell, I can finally debunk that myth. Meet my hideous coworker, Austin.

I've worked with him for awhile, but really didn't talk to him that often till they moved us this last time and now we're in the same room. As soon as we had even a modicum of knowledge of each other, I was all, "I'm putting you in my blog." Poor Austin, who is relatively normal, was like, "Um. Okay."

What kills me about this particular picture is he took it while out with his wife and kids at Christmastime (yes, of course his wife is hot, too, what did you think?) and his friends all gave him shit on Facebook for being a Mr. Handsome and looking vaguely like a criminal, here. They did things like this to his picture.

Screen Shot 2015-01-09 at 7.35.38 AM Screen Shot 2015-01-09 at 7.39.08 AMI think I love his friends.

Anyway, that's Austin. So you can shut up now about me not knowing any ugly people. I took him in just to seem deeper.

And finally, in summary, have you seen this woman from Saturday Night Live? I just discovered her yesterday and I'm dying. Below, here's her impression of Justin Bieber.

 

I am dead. Am typing you from the ground.

Finally, and didn't I already say finally? Yesterday was the coldest ding-dang day,

IMG_2439(Yes, I DO use Weather Whiskers as my weather app. What about it?), but it was also Elvis's 80th birthday, and they were showing Viva Las Vegas at the old movie theater.

IMG_2442They gave us all leis, and you got to pick your own color. Also, hello, front-facing camera. Wow, you're good. Every detail, captured. Oh, did I mention I'm an Impressionist painting now?

IMG_2441Viva Ned's attitude.

The whole point of the movie appeared to be Ann-Mrgt and her lack of letters in her name dancing with as few clothes on as possible, and as frenetically as possible. Here, I can do am impresh for you. Just imagine I'm hot and young and have red hair and not enough letters in my name.

 

Iris. Unimpressed.

Speaking of Iris, after the movie, we came home and made a fire, which I'd like to say I sat in front of, but I was trying to get my 10,000 steps in to please my master Fitbit, so I paced in front of the fire instead.

IMG_2447But Iris did what you're supposed to do in front of a fire, mostly because Iris doesn't have a Fitbit. Yet. "You slept 22 hours and 52 minutes today!"

Okay, Jn, out.