Hi Hi Bi!

Marvin Gardens and I drove to Albemarle yesterday, to go to Harris Teeter. In case you didn't understand a single word of that sentence, Harris Teeter is a fancy grocery store, kind of the Whole Foods of the South, if you will. Although nothing can match the hippie pretentiousness and overpricedness of my beloved Whole Foods. Once I heard a woman there say, "This is the worst olive bar I've ever been to."

Like she goes olive bar hopping or something.

So, Albemarle is like 15 miles away, but really, what else did we have to do, and I seriously could not go back to our local "We sell only iceberg lettuce" grocery store. Iceberg lettuce. 1971 called. It wants its salad back. Got any French dressing to go with that?

Albemarle is where Kellie Pickler is from. (For my mother: she was on American Idol. I know you are too cool to watch anything but Face the Nation or whatever boring cerebral show you watch.) They had all kinds of bumper stickers and license plate holders celebrating Kellie Pickler, all of which I wanted to buy right up, but did not, because I stick to my stupid plans.

And there was no reason that Kellie Pickler should not have known what salmon was. They had some right there at the Harris Teeter. Maybe her family went to Food Lion all the time. Got them some iceberg lettuce.

At any rate, if you read this blog regularly -- and if so, why? How bored are you at work? -- you know that I have really bad eyes and that now I am losing my closeup vision. I had considered LASIK, but it is not really a medical NECESSITY, per se, although I am a proofreader, so being able to see is kind of important.

Anyway, yesterday I finally had my contacts in and I was therefore able to check out...bifocals at the Harris Teeter there. They even had a little eye test where you looked into this thing (do you like my skillful writing? "this thing." Do you feel like you were right there with me?) and you saw a page from a phone book, then you twisted a dial until you could see the letters.

Happily, I am prescription strength 1.0 for now. Which is the weakest. You'll be pleased to hear that I selected blue cat eyes, with rhinestones on the ends. No, really. This will delight my friend Blanche.

Blanche and I worked together in Seattle, and on my last day there we had a goodbye lunch. Right next to us were these old ladies and we said, "Look! There's us in 40 years!" One old lady had on a tasteful beige pantsuit and nice hair. That, um, would be Blanche. The other old lady -- me -- had on what I'm SURE she thought was a cutting-edge sparkly sweatsuit and some HOT blue sparkly glasses.

I am living up to my end of our future, Blanche. Got any beige, over there?

So, June marches on, into the world of middle-agedom. Soon I will get a prescription for Prilosec and jeans with an elastic waistband. I guess those will have to wait until January 1...

By popular demand...

...if the request of one person can be classified as "popular demand," here is THE HILL THAT KILLS.

Okay. So this is the first hump I have to walk over, which isn't bad, really. And also? Proportion? Not so easy to achieve, here, when trying to photograph a hill. Trust me, it goes up, this road. Enough to make you run out of breath.

But HERE is the bad part. See all the way at the back of this photo? That is ALL ROAD going UP.

I know that I am not any Francisco Scavullo, who is the only famous photographer I could think of, and he was a fashion photographer so it's a bad example. But anyway, trust me. Hill is steep.

June Eats. At a RESTAURANT.

I cheated today. I had a LUNCH DATE with the woman I met at book club a few weeks back. I do not care, I mean I really do not give two flying rat's hoots or whatever, that I cheated. Girlfriend needed an activity, over here.

(And can I just tell you all HOW MUCH I enjoy your comments cheering me up? It really does help me tremendously; thank you.)

There is the one restaurant in town (there are others on the busy freeway, but they are mostly just fast food). As you may know, we only have one car now, and of course Marvin had it at work. So I had to walk, WALK, up the GIANT HILL that leads to the uptown area.

I got my crampons and my carabiners. I had my matterhorn going, and my oxygen mask...

A few times I called out, "Ricola!"

Seriously. That thing is ludicrous. It is the STEEPEST hill you have ever seen. And have I mentioned to you that there are no sidewalks? So you're walking in the road, unless a car comes, and then you have to walk in the grass, which I did, until I.....

stepped

over

a

SNAKE. A snaaaaaaaaaakkkkkke was right under my little leopard-skin flats and my VULNERABLE ankles. A SNAKE! AAAAAAAAAACCCCKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You can imagine how manly I was about this. And it was just a little baby snake. But you know they are born with their venom.

I do have to tell you that a very nice person pulled over and asked if I wanted a ride uphill, and I also have to tell you this is not the first time someone has just offered me a ride. I always say no, because, hi, from LA. In my mind, you are from the Manson family. You just rode in from Spawn Ranch to creepycrawl a house. But it is a nice gesture.

When I crested that peak, after spending some time at base camp to acclimate, and I saw the restaurant, oh. I was happy. When I got there, a guy got out of his car and said, "Did I just see you walk up that whole hill, honey?" I mean, we're talking steep.

Anyway, you can imagine how pretty I was when I got there. My new friend must have thought I was having hot flashes, or that I was really turned on at seeing her or something. I had been so careful with my appearance, too. I glazed my hair (my Aunt Mary sent me that John Freida glaze for 'redheads' and I cannot recommend it enough), I had done foundation AND concealer, two kinds of eye shadow, and all of it was running down my face like I was Alice Cooper or a Dali painting or something. And we needn't discuss the hair. You know. You saw it if you were in the Western Hemisphere.

Nevertheless, we had a lovely little lunch (I had pork chops, mashed potatoes, green beans and a biscuit. Oh, and pink lemonade. Hey, I don't get out much. This is news) and after she took me to a local shop to introduce me around.

I think our husbands are basically gonna fall in love.

Oh, and she sees snakes all the time and isn't afraid. I do not understand that in a person.

June Volunteers

I know you don't feel sorry for me that I have been working for 12 hours. Have I done nothing but complain that I have had NO work for a month?! Don't you totally want to cut me right now?

The place I talked about the other day? That emails you jobs and says, "Here's work. Want it?" ObSESSed with it. Can't turn anything down. So far today I have proofread a letter to the president of Iran, a paper on Beowulf, a paper on the German economy and some introduction about Tennyson, a palace and art.

Total raked in? Like $200. Again, have I mentioned the pay is sucky sucky suck pants?

Do you like how I have titled this "June Volunteers" and all I've done is talk about my paying job? Good focusing.

So I went to the assisted living place to do my visiting. The auctioneer director of activity whirled by, all papers and crafts and doilies and words. Kind of like a sweet Tasmanian Devil. "WellHI,sweetheart,IrememberyoufromyesterdayyoucomeoninIhaveamillionpeopleonholdbutyouwaitrightthereandI'llgettoya."

Love her.

So I visited with the old people just hanging. One woman and I discussed how nice the breeze was out on the porch. Another discussed her arthritis in her leg. Seems her meds wear off fast. Seriously, when I get old, don't give me any of that arthritis. Doesn't it sound awful?

Then I heard music playing.

Okay, you must understand. I am depressed. I am crying at the drop of a hat. I am crying at the drop of a visor, for heaven's sake. I had already misted up at the St. Teresa Prayer hanging on the wall there:

May today there be peace within. May you trust God that you are exactly where you are meant to be....Let this presence settle into your bones, and allow your soul the freedom to sing, dance, praise and love. It is there for each and every one of us.

So I go into the rec room, and there, alone, was a woman playing the piano. Now, sadly, she only has a few music books, including a Christmas songbook. She was playing "I'll Be Home for Christmas."

This song kills me on a good day. On a day like this? Drop the visor day? Oh, lord. I sat at a table near her and sobbed, sobbed, I tell you, until my tears formed a beautiful stairway, leading to the path to happiness. Until an ocean formed, and glittering unicorns swam to my rescue, lifting me to the pink sky above. Until that poor old lady saw me and said, "I'll play something else."

She was not even a nice old lady. We talked for a long time, and she asked my name and said, "What is the origin of that name?" I told her it is a Jewish name and she said, "You don't look like a Jew!" and I told her I wasn't but my husband is. She then proceeded to tell me how dreadful "interracial" marriages were.

But the thing is about old people? For me they're a lot like cats. Even the ornery ones, who hiss and swing at you? I still love them more than anything. And this old lady? She has been EVERYWHERE. Russia, Europe, you name it, traveling with Big Bands and eating figgy pudding and such. Also, she knows everybody in this town, she knew the lady who owns this house, said I was gonna have lots of daffodils in the yard come spring.

Okay, she's a bigot. She's MY bigot. I can't help that I liked her racist ass.

Oh. And speaking of my crying thing? Have you guys seen that ABC thing where people do a video using just three words? http://ugv.abcnews.go.com/player.aspx?id=694149

You are gonna DIE of weeping. Isn't that something to look forward to?

Hanging with the shorties is free. Wait. Are shorties little kids?

It is 11:21 at night, and just Francis and I are up. Francis is on the guest bed, sitting like a man with his legs out in front of him, all bent over his 21-pound stomach, having a bath. I am in my robe, having never gotten dressed today, drinking a Hi-C Grabbin' Grape juice box.

Perhaps you wonder why a childless couple in their 40s would have Hi-C juice boxes. I'll tell you why. They're good.

One of our rules for not spending this year was if we bought juice at the store, it had to be 100% juice. Upon reading this box, I see that we have completely broken this rule with a TEN PERCENT juice. Man.

And why does grape juice have pear juice in it?

Anyway, I wanted to tell you what I did today, so that I am more obligated to follow through.

As you know, I have been blue. (Did you enjoy my special effect, there? Wooo! George Lucas called. He wants his skills back.)

My Aunt Kathy is blue, as well. A year ago, she and her husband (aka my Uncle Bill, but not the guy from Family Affair) moved to Vermont. She is retired and doesn't know anyone there and basically we are in similar boats. Blue, blue boats. So we like to call each other and kvetch.

But she came up with a really good idea. She said she was going to call a nursing home in her town and ask if anyone there needed a visitor.

So today I got the hymnal-sized phone book for this little town (the yellow and the white pages are both in one book. It is small. Rhode Island could kick the crap out of it in a war. We're talking small.) (that is from Arthur, the funniest movie in the history of time) and looked up nursing homes.

Then I went on line and figured out the difference between nursing homes and assisted living facilities. Then I decided which place I could fairly easily walk to. Then I split the atom and read War and Peace and finally, I called Meadowview Terrace and talked to the fastest-talking director of activities you have ever talked to in your life. She was practically an auctioneer. Rhode Island could kick the crap out of her in a war. No, no.

Anyway, I am proud to tell you that (a) I understood most of what she said and (2) I told her I would pay a visit as soon as I could. She said a lot of people need visitors there, and that she would introduce me around until I had chemistry with someone. She said she could just assign me to a person, but instead she'd leave it up to God.

How much did I love the auctioneer activities director?

Anyway, of all the luck it looks like my old workplace FINALLY sent me work (they, um, forgot to actually attach the job), so if it is all due tomorrow or something, I won't be able to get to old Meadowview Terrace (which, by the way, has neither a view of a meadow or a terrace, I think).

But do not let me go until Friday without getting over there, you hear?

You mean Shaquille O'Neal is AVAILABLE?

Do you think it is futuristic or pathetic that I was feeling sad, but reading dcrmom's blog today cheered me up? I mean, I have never actually spoken to dcrmom. But I consider her a dear friend who I check in with every day.

Seriously. Am I turning into a recluse? Am I becoming Miss Havisham?

To ward off plummeting any further than I have, I am happy to report that I have been working a bit. I had forgotten that back when I freelanced, I had worked a little for this company who emails you work that you can take or not.

How it works is, customers go on this company's website and say, "Here is my dissertation or my letter of recommendation or my novel or my website" (if you really said ALL those things at once, they may worry that you are biting off a bit much).

You turn said work in, and they email all the proofreaders (we had to take a RIGOROUS test to be one of their proofers). If you want the work, you go on their site and download it.

I had seriously kind of forgotten about them until Sunday night, when I instant messaged them and ended up getting some work immediately. I guess they still need people.

So, I've made like $112 so far, which I admit is not stellar, but it is better than watching our four TV channels and obsessively looking for work in Charlotte, which if you'll recall I said I would not do because it is an hour and a half away and I did not move from Los Angeles, where all I did was drive, to a place that has no eyelash perming or cranial sacral therapy (and yes, Catherine, I have had that done) to ALSO drive three hours a day. But there you go.

So that's what's happening over here. And oh. Does anyone have any idea how I can dredge up more readers? I seem stalled at about 110 a day. Which isn't bad, but for the first part of this year it was rising steadily and now I'm stalled. Have I become boring in my depression and ennui?

I See Gloria Vanderbilt and I Want to Paint her Black

I have found Utopia, and it is Black Mountain, North Carolina.

We went to the mountains yesterday, specifically to see a town called Asheville. I have heard about this town for 20 years. My grandparents were obsessed with it (they pronounced it "Ayshevull"), mostly because there is a Vanderbilt mansion there that they loved to visit. The driveway of the place is three miles long. Those Vanderbilts made a fortune selling those jeans, didn't they? BAH!

I had me some Gloria Vanderbilt perfume in 11th grade. I smelled some at CVS the other day. I was right back at my little vanity, surrounded by my Paper Moon Graphics cards (did anyone else love those?), Billy Squire playing, sporting my Jordache jeans.

But I digress.

Everyone on earth has been telling us about Asheville. They say it is like Ann Arbor (a cool town in Michigan) or Seattle (a cool town in Washington) or San Francisco (a cool town in California) or Paris (a cool town in general). So we went.

And you know it was full of your filthy hippies? Don't get me wrong. I enjoy being among the hippies, visiting the hippie stores and watching the drum circles and seeing the liberal bumper stickers ("These Colors Don't Run...Other Countries"). But I already LIVED in Seattle. I already dated patchouli boys, getting smacked in the face with their dreadlocks. I am too old and, frankly, too intolerant for that sort of a thing anymore. I want to say, "Do you even THINK about having a 401(k)?" or "How do you think those tattoos up your arm are gonna look when you're a gramma?"

I do not know when I became this person. As a child of hippies, I spent 74,000 weekends in the aforementioned Ann Arbor, protesting the war or Nixon or nukes or whatever we were pissed about at the time. I ran around naked, giving peace a chance and such. I guess I got over it.

Anyway, we liked Asheville, but when we were leaving, we decided to visit the next town over, Black Mountain. I should have known I'd like it because it had "Black" in the title. Four of my favorite songs have "Black" in the title (Black Dog, Black Hole Sun, Paint it Black, and especially Black [by Pearl Jam]).

Oh, was it ever cute there. You are absolutely surrounded by green mountains (I really didn't SEE a black mountain) and cute cute cute little stores: chocolate shops, hardware stores that had really cool things (oh! Did I want to buy the lip gloss at said hardware store! They had Baby Ruth flavor, Razzle flavor, Bit O Honey flavor...), antique emporiums, coffee bars...

We DID buy a table at an antique shop, but get your knickers out of your nether regions (I am crude today, aren't I?). We had no kitchen or dining room table. The one we had in Burbank broke so we donated it to charity. Nice. "Hey, poor person! Have a cracked table!" (It was just wobbly. It'd work well enough in a pinch. We just didn't want to move it all the way here.)

Anyway, we got us a gray Formica and chrome 1950s table with a hidden leaf built inside of it. Oh! It is cool. Here is a picture of KIND of what it looks like. Ours is more of a butterfly, boomerang sort of pattern.

Sadly, we have no chairs to go with it yet, but that is our next project.

And finally, I did get up the nerve to count our money, which I knew would be lessened after this cross-country move. We have $11,217.40 to our name, as of today. Which is still better than the $500 we had at the beginning of the year. So perhaps I should calm down. Maybe I should be more of a hippie...