Humbug.

Hey Kids,

I know it's been quite a while since I've updated but what can I say? Boredom sure has kept me catatonic busy.

So what have I been up to? I'll give you my generic answer first: "Oh I've been great! Keeping busy with freelance writing and training to become a trainer! I KNOW! IT'S GREAT!!!!"

Now the real answer: It's been better--but not great. I have been doing some freelance writing, but though it keeps me busy one or two days a week, it does nothing to ease the fear that I will never achieve the professional success that I'd long dreamed of. You know? the type of success that isn't measured in money alone but in fulfillment. A freedom to buy the shoes I want, book the trip I'd longed for or just stare at my increasing balance all while being exhausted from the job I love so much.

So I've been gearing up for grad school. Why? Why not. Nothing better to do. Plus it may give my existence some meaning. The training part? Also true. You see I don't ever want to not have something to fall back on again. Really I don't. Plus physical activity has been a great stress reliever, though apparently not a sufficient one.

All this time, I'd neglected my own health it seems. My flo hasn't been flowing, and my libido well has been running, er, dry. So I did what any empowered 21st century gal would, I called my vaginacologist. Ready for an easy, honest conversation about any and all sexual details, I was unprepared for the physical exam. Ever see that SATC episode where Charlotte's vagina is depressed? Well mine is stressed. As in "I have a tight knot in my back, OUCH it hurts when you touch it!" type of stressed. My husband is NOT amused.

Lady Doctor: "June, are you under a lot of stress"?"

June: "Does Goldman Sachs write bonus checks?"

LD "I see. It's worse than I thought."

J: "Hmmph."

LD: "Do you anticipate the stress levels in your life going down?"

J: "Hold on a sec doc while I page Ben Bernanke and ask."

LD: "You may need to try other ways to alleviate the stress in your life: acupuncture, yoga, massage..."

J: "Lemme tell you something about yoga... "

LD: "Your nerves have become crossed and you may need to reactivate the wiring between your brain and your vagina."

J: "Do you mean 'crossed' the way the British do or are you referring to 'crossed' in the Biblical sense?"

LD: "I'd also like you to experiment with using tampons everyday, and with gradually increasing the size of your vibrator--all while using ample lubrication of course."

J: Crickets.

So while the country--nay, the world-- is hoping for another bailout, I'll be working on my very own stimulus package.

Only me folks, only me.

June

You Shut Your Facebook When You're Talking to Me

uck this.

Thanks to the ridiculous nature of "marketing" these days, no one is safe from the all-encompassing, privacy-shattering, big brother that's simply known as "social networking."

Let me start off by saying I HATE twitter, and I HATE Facebook. MySpace is--thankfully--dying on its own and does not need my help.

Don't let the fact that I fraternize with the enemy fool you, I am a silent Web assassin that would terminate them both if given the chance, but alas, I have resorted to the Matrix way of conquering my foe: by infiltrating their ranks.

What drives me up a wall is that social media has now become a make-it or break-it aspect of any interview. Oh you can cure cancer? Great! But can you effectively tweet about it to the masses? No? Sorry, YOU LOSE.

What started off innocently as a way to share pictures and musings has now become the one (and in some ways, the only) method of showing the world who you are. Don't have 700 friends? You must be a recluse. No pictures of you stumbling home drunk? You must have no social life and we can't have that because we're looking for a team player.

I'd ask you not get me started on Twitter but I already am. Who the fuck needs to know what you're doing or thinking that often? Latest Twitter Feed: June is about to refrain from smacking someone: //tinyURL/ShootMe.

My latest nightmare seems less far-fetched.

Coming soon to a drive-through near you: twitter you order, then update your Facebook status to simultaneously reflect your gluttony! Invite your friends to follow by utilizing our paid ads! We haven't figured out how to make money yet but don't tell anyone!

The only question is, can I communicate three whoppers, twelve large pizzas and a family size bucket (with all the sides) in 140 characters or less? I have a feeling that very soon, some celebrity trainer is going to invent the twitter diet. "I tell all my clients, if they can't list all they're eating in 140 characters or less, they have no business consuming that. Nicole, Jennifer and Kate love my plan."

Bracing myself for more obnoxious interviews (and the inevitable twitter diet in next week's US weekly),

June

Chick View

I've coined a new phrase: Chick View. Follow my faulty logic along, will you?

Any movie starring women = Chick Flick

Any book that merely mentions romantic entanglements = Chick Lit

All interviews I've been on = Chick View

What do these things have in common? Something feminine, something new, a flight of fantasy and lots of blue--as in navy pantsuits to wear for interviews.

It always starts out so promisingly, as do most romantic comedies: an email response, a flirtatious phone call, and invitation to meet.

A girl's mind immediately starts to race, picking out the dress (or skirt and shirt), flowers (or briefcase/professional-looking bag), shoes (for confident strutting), the size of the ring (salary, cash bonus and 401k offer), and the honeymoon (do they or don't they offer health care coverage?)

Will you take this job for better or worse?

Admit it, who reading this hasn't pictured that hot Ivy-League grad who just bought you a drink in a tuxedo? I often commit similar fantasy crimes when I picture the director of Human Resources asking me for a salary range. It goes something like this:

"What sort of compensation were you looking for?"

"F--"

"Five hundred thousand to start? Great! That's just what we were about to offer you."

"When would you like me to start?"

"Oh, please take your time. Go home and call us when you're ready, but in the meantime, let me take your direct deposit information to deliver your first paycheck right this second right now."

"Thank you?"

"No June, THANK YOU. Now go home and enjoy that extended money-worry-free vacation you deserve."

Sigh.

A girl can dream, can't she?

Don't answer that.

Ridiculously yours,

June

Hemptons Hell

It's official, I've now been to the The Hamptons and let me tell you: it's exactly like that hellish episode of Sex and the City where Charlotte gets crabs.

My mother-in-law wanted to have all us "kids" gathered for shits and giggles at a "fabulous summer rental I found online!"

So let's explore some myths and realities shall we? Let's call this a game of Puff Daddy vs. in-law reality. (Yes, I am aware that it's Diddy, but can you blame a girl for clinging to a pre-recession, golden-age, white-party past???)

Myth: "It's such a beautiful drive!"

Reality: 176 hours in the car will suck the beauty out of anything.

Myth: "The cleaning crew just left."

Reality: Cobwebs as dated as Fendi Baguettes, bugs the size of New York City rats and a kitchen floor so dirty, my white page jeans are still black on the bottom--after two clorox intensive washes.

Myth: "Everyone should pitch in and make dinner one night."

Reality: A refrigerator so inept at keeping things cool and dry that my crisp greens emerged soaked. Oh and that pasta didn't have sauce when it went in there. Really the fridge should be rechristened THE LAGOON.

Myth: "There's a gorgeous ocean breeze."

Reality: It was so fucking hot and humid I briefly considered hiding in THE LAGOON.

Myth: "There are three full baths in the house."

Reality: The only shower worth considering was the sun shower. If you know me, you know I don't do anything outside.

Myth: "Everyone here is so relaxed and the kids are having a great time."

Reality: The children, including the baby, were allowed to eat things off the aforementioned floor, had dirt under their nails that was never washed off, and felt the need to stick their grimy fingers into every possible bag of chips, bowl of snacks and item of food.

Oh and one last anecdote I must share: While eating on the patio, my brother-in-law was to busy focusing on eating his steamed shellfish ("my favorite food everrrrr") to notice that his naked, filthy toddler was crawling toward a chicken bone that had been there for at least two days (that I could count), and which was covered in swarming flies.

His reaction? "Oh," reaching over for more grub before exclaiming: "That's not a good idea."

I couldn't have said it better myself.

June

Big My Secret

On a muggy, disgusting, rainy Sunday, we thought seeing a movie was too predictable. A jaunt to the mall on Father's Day it is!

We made a deal, the hubby and I, a quick dash to Victoria's Secret for me (trust that I could hold the world record when it comes to shopping--NOBODY is quicker), before a never-ending visit to the electronics store for him.

Enter we did, amid all the semi-annual bla bla signs featuring Heidi and Co. in their skivvies. I came upon the style I was looking for before an annoying woman chased me down and asked what size I needed. "34D," I informed her*. Without skipping a beat she told me they were out of that size, but "why don't you try a 36C? You know they're sister sizes," as she pulled up the offending garment.

The hubby, in an iPhone stupor, simply snickered, as if knowing what I was about to say next.

"Let me ask you something," I said as I turned to Nostradamus, "what size shoe do you wear?"

"7.5 " was her reply.

"Narrow or Wide?"

"Narrow."

"So you wouldn't be a 7 wide, now would you?"

Long pause. "I guess not."

"I didn't think so."

Shifting gears, she tried to steer me toward a different style. "Well I do have your size in this pushup demi." The flimsy, cushiony, lacy mess had no relation whatsoever to the everyday (ok, purposely unsexy) garment I had been seeking. "A pushup kinda defeats the purpose with these bad boys, don't you think?" I could hear her brain freeze, in a Microsoft Vista fashion.

Someone needs to explain the following: Do most women go to work in push-me-up-so-high-I-spill-over boulder holders? I long ago noticed that European lingerie lines focus on pretty fabrics and sexy styles without all the muss and fuss that VS seems to be obsessed with: Bigger! Rounder! Higher! Is this an American thing? Because let me tell you, yes La Perla is pricey, but whether you're A or C cup, they love you just the same.

As we walked out, I resigned myself to the fact that I would leave the mall empty boobed handed. But those VS models wearing wings? They got nothing on my angel. He got me a shiny new toy today. Why? Just 'cause.

Yep, a great (sugar) daddy he will be.

Mrs. Cleavege Cleaver,

June

*Cleavage size has been changed to protect the innocent.

The Housewife Chronicles

W (no relation to Georgie) is one of my best friends. Married young, she is having baby "issues," i.e. her husband is as excited about the prospect as you or I about cleaning the toilet bowl.

I am also having issues with my own hubby, who views the prospect of procreating with a mixture of wonder and horror: the same expression one has while watching a volcanic eruption--"how beautiful from a distance, but goddamn it I'm so glad I'm nowhere near that." That type of thing.

So W's husband asked her to go off the pill, which was promising. But then a funny thing happened on the way to the baby forum: he stopped sleeping with her. Now you could blame that on stress, anxiety, the normal ebb and flow of married sex-life or, a silent protest against going through with baby-making deed. Well, that and the fact that he's gained 30 pounds to his already rotund frame throughout the course of their marriage. I believe the term is "mobility issues."

Why is this? I thought it was typically men who insisted on kids, with little understanding for the sacrifices (professional and personal) that most women make when carrying a baby for 40 weeks (that's TEN months, not nine).

It's official: men are the new women.

This far away from buying a pack and lighting up,

June

Taking it Off

Anyone who knows me knows that my nails are always done. I will go without food and clean clothes to visit the nail salon where they know my name (yes, nail spas are my Cheers, though I'm still working on the theme song).

While getting a polish change a few weeks ago, my beloved Rosie--whose disposition matches her name--noticed that my nails were patchy and slightly, shudder, yellow. "It's because you always have polish on," she said. Now in the midst of a full-blown existential crisis--"without my fancy polish what am I?!"--I filed this information away for another time, outwardly remaining calm while quietly panic-strucken.

A few weeks went by; as I went in yesterday and signed in for a mani/pedi service, it was as much of a shock to me as to Rosie when she asked me to pick out my color, only to hear my reply: "no color today."

This must sound silly to the majority of you who:

a. get your nails done only once in a while

b. have enough in your life to keep you otherwise busy and fulfilled.

But for little ol' June, this is a tectonic shift on a scale unseen since I dusted off my flat iron and attempted to do my own hair--to no avail. Now I just walk around with a vintage scarf and big earrings to detract from "the hair."

So how does it feel? Free, liberating, and gosh-darn-it, I'd forgotten just how cute my toes were, unencumbered by bright red polish. Who knows? This may force me to stop trying to make everything else in my life seem "right" and just accept the pretty within. Or not.

Always striving for better,

June