TWO LOVERS IN LOVE

Two lovers in love
laughed at the sea,
laughed as the waves splashed the shore.
The water was cold
and it tickled their toes
and they laughed
and sang la la la laa.

Two lovers in love
loved though as one, and
laughed as the waves splashed the shore.
The water was warm
and it licked at their toes
and they laughed
and sang la la la laa.

Two lovers in love
labored as one, and
laughed as the waves splashed the shore.
The waters burst last
and fell to the floor.
They laughed at the shore,
three laughed, and then four
and they laughed
and sang la la la laa.

A LOVE POEM FOR A MONDAY

Two lovers in love

laughed at the sea,

laughed as the waves 

splashed the shore.

The water was cold

and it tickled their toes

and they laughed

and sang la la la laa.

Two lovers in love

loved though as one, and

laughed as the waves splashed the shore.

The water was warm

and it licked at their toes

and they laughed

and sang la la la laa.

Two lovers in love

labored as one, and

laughed as the waves splashed the shore.

The waters burst forth

and fell to the floor.

They laughed at the shore,

three laughed, and then four

and they laughed

and sang la la la laa.

AFTER PAINTING: THERE'S A CERTAIN SLANT OF LIGHT

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

It took a while, but Favorite Young Man finished painting some rooms in my house. They looked pretty bad. The final two to receive the FYM treatment were the master bath and the office.

Here's Favorite Young Man at work in the bathroom:

This is my favorite photo of him.

As you can see, the bathroom ceiling was white. I can't find a "before" photo of the walls, but I described the color as pale piss.

Here's the finished bathroom:

We started with a lighter color on the walls and decided
darker would be better.

I like the bold color choice FYM made for the ceiling:

The walls in the office were the worst in the house. I forgot to photograph them, but I wouldn't even describe the color as pale piss. They were a colorless color. One wall looked as if someone had thrown a drink on it. And no, I did not throw a drink on the wall so just wipe that idea out of your heads this minute.

Why? Because I'm the mom, and I say so.

Favorite Young Man selected the color for the office. I love it!

Faith was a Mother's Day gift from Middle Child.
MOM (I'm sorry it has a glare on it) was a
Mother's Day gift from blog child.
They didn't plan it, but don't the two pieces look
good together?



 

I gave this WVU football thingy to Willy Dunne Wooters for Christmas because West Virginia is his team:

Thank God he doesn't watch NFL games, too.

Here's my favorite artwork in the room. It's on the wall to the right of the chair where I sit when I'm working. I can look up to see it any time I like. It was painted by my beloved Jenny Matlock, who blogs at Jenny Matlock. I wonder how she came up with that title for her blog. Anypainting, it's the first stanza of a poem I wrote for Willy Dunne Wooters. Jenny painted it on two boards so the two are individuals, but they're together.

They say:

Two lovers in love
laughed at the sea,
laughed as the waves
splashed the shore.
The water was cold
and it tickled their toes
and they laughed
and sang la la la laa.

Thank you, Jenny. I love you dearly.

If you would like to read the entire poem, please go to http://goo.gl/fhSBw7.

That's all the painting for now. Favorite Young Man does a great job. Thank you, FYM.


Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

BUT WHAT'S A PRINCESS TO DO?

Gentle Readers,

After I told you yesterday not to bother with the movie The Queen's Sister, I got to thinking about Princess Margaret. By the time she died, she wasn't exactly popular in Great Britain. In fact, quite a few people complained about supporting her lavish lifestyle when she didn't do much of anything, other than sell tabloids by creating scandals.

But, really, what's a princess to do? She was raised as Her Royal Highness Princess Margaret Rose, but I imagine that when her father assumed the throne, she began to learn that she was always going to be in second place behind her older sister, Elizabeth. And then Elizabeth had children and Princess Margaret wasn't even in second place any more. She really didn't have a place of importance in the royal hierarchy.

Yes, she was on the Civil List, meaning she got paid by her country to be a princess and attend the openings of hospital wings and such, probably when they couldn't get somebody more interesting. And she had a lovely island getaway and people did things for her because she was royalty, but she had to endure increasing scrutiny and criticism over the years.

I feel a bit sorry for Princess Margaret. When she was a young woman -- and quite the captivating beauty -- she fell in love with a married man, Peter Townsend. And he fell in love with her and decided or had already decided to get a divorce. But her family told Margaret that if she married this divorced man, she couldn't get married in The Church of England, of which her sister is the head, she would lose her place in the line of succession, and she would be cut off and lose everything. She may have even feared she would no longer be received by her own family -- the fate of her Uncle David, who gave up the crown to marry Wallis Simpson.

So she gave in. She made a radio address to the nation stating that she would do her duty and not marry Townsend. Margaret gave up the man she loved for her country and then became increasingly reviled when her life didn't work out so great.

She married and divorced after having two children. Her husband fooled around on her a lot, and she fooled around too, and it was just all downhill from there. Her husband, a commoner named Antony Armstrong-Jones, who became Lord Snowdon when he married Margaret, remarried right after the divorce.

Margaret was alone. She took lovers and was a patroness of the fine arts in Great Britain, something that didn't really interest her sister. Reportedly, she sang well and played the piano and could have been a marvelous actress -- but royalty doesn't go on the stage or play parts in movies.

It's probably very difficult for someone who has been raised royally to achieve true intimacy.

So, Great Britain, after Princess Margaret did as she was supposed to do and gave up her true love, why did you turn on her? I know some of you read me. It's in my stats. So please feel free to speak up about the lost princess.

Explanation wanted, please.

Infinities of love,

Lola

WHAT? MONDAY

Dear Readers,

Today's What? Monday question is

What kind of neighbors do you have? Also, have you had neighbors at any time who were especially strange or sweet? Please share your stories with us.

I hope Bouncin' Barb   feels better because she's told some hilarious stories about her neighbors.

When I moved to Florida, having neighbors was new to me. I hadn't had neighbors in almost 20 years. We lived in Western Maryland for 12 years. The lots in our neighborhood were very large. I could look outside and see other houses, but it's not as if my neighbors would be out wandering around and cross through my yard. It was kind of nice that they were there, but I seldom had to deal with them (which ended up being a good thing because a number of moms had jealousy issues when The Hurricane experienced success in school).

After Maryland, we lived in the country in Illinois. It was pretty isolated. We saw people around in their pickup trucks (rural area, lots of farming going on), but we didn't actually have neighbors. I learned to do the farmer wave when I was out in my car, which means waving to everyone you see just in case it's someone you know. If it's someone you know and you don't wave, the person will be offended. 

Oh, and if you came across real farmers driving their pickup trucks, they didn't lift their hands to wave. Rather, they lifted one finger (and no, they weren't flipping us the bird; they lifted the index finger) from the steering wheel. The true farmer wave was a joke enjoyed by people who lived in the bustling metropolis of Springfield.

Then I moved to Florida, where I live in an actual neighborhood. I waved to everyone on my street. I said, What's wrong with these people? No one waves back.

Favorite Young Man said, Mom, people don't do that here.

Well, all righty then.

The lots in our neighborhood aren't very big so the houses are close together. At first I would look outside and think, Oh Dear Lord, I can see someone from the window! What shall I do?

But gradually, I got used to seeing creatures wandering around, including lots of feral cats and many dogs because my neighborhood is filled with dog lovers. And now, I LOVE MY NEIGHBORS! 

On one side of my house I have Kurt and Kitty, who are very quiet and seldom seen. Kitty is in a motorized wheel chair. I've spoken to her two or three times (her daughter Sandra said she's not very sociable). Just before Christmas 2010, Kurt came over and introduced himself and gave me fudge. I think it was homemade and OH MY GOODNESS it was so delicious. 

The first 18 months I was here, Sandra, her husband who has no discernible name, and their daughter Hannah lived with Kurt and Kitty. Sandra helped me so much with the dogs. Harper was going through his dig under the fence phase and that would take him to Kurt and Kitty's yard, and he would take off from there. Sandra started keeping their gate closed so if Harper went under the fence, he was stuck in their yard. Then Sandra would ring my door bell and say, Are you missing a dog?


I put paving bricks and concrete along the bottom of the fence to keep Harper home. Even though I didn't need Sandra's help anymore, I was sorry when she and Hannah and No Name moved out. Sandra was super nice and friendly.

Next to Kurt and Kitty is the stupendous Suzanne who took the dead dove out of my house when Harper brought it to me as an offering. I baked lots of chocolate chip cookies for Suzanne after that. She has two cute young children and yet another husband named No Name.

On the other side of my house, I have dear, sweet Allison and Anthony. They are so pleasant and friendly and tell me all the time that if I need anything to let them know. Well, just in case they end up requesting an invitation to this blog, I'm telling them what I want: Allison, I like you, but go away. I want Hot Young Anthony in my bed. Allison, you are young enough and pretty enough to find another  man. Demonstrate how neighborly you are, Allison, by disappearing and leaving Anthony with me.

I love it so much when Anthony takes his shirt off while working in his yard. What a cheap thrill. I like his slender body and very large muscles -- muscles that could be put to such good use in my bed. 

But the best part of all is that Anthony is so friendly. He's nice to my dogs. He goes out of his way to chat with me when we both happen to be outside (sometimes a coincidence planned on my part because I see him start some yard work and all  of a sudden I realize, I have to go someplace). So out I go and Anthony calls, Hello! How are you? 

Obviously, "Hello! How are you?" actually means, I want my wife to run away from home so I can love you and only you forever, Janie. Anthony and what's her name have a cute little dog. He could join my pack. I think Anthony would fit in me my house perfectly.

Hot, hot young Anthony. How I do adore thee.


I also have a number of other kind neighbors who, if they are at home, will hurry out to help if the dogs get out of the yard. I thank God for such good neighbors.

So now I'm accustomed to having neighbors and no one on my street is loud or nasty. I hope you can say the same. So please tell us


What kind of neighbors do you have? Also, have you had neighbors at any time who were especially strange or sweet? Please share your stories with us.

Later in the week I might tell you a bit more about neighbors I've had in other places.

Bon voyage.

Infinities of love,

Janie

P.S. Do you get the feeling from my description of Anthony that Lola is not completely dead and gone? I can channel her from time to time.
 

FAVORITE YOUNG MAN AND I SPENT A DELIGHTFUL EVENING WITH GARRISON KEILLOR

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Earlier tonight, when it was still Tuesday, I dragged myself out of my sick bed (or if you're Andi Filante I drug myself out of my sick bed) because Favorite Young Man and I had tickets to see Garrison Keillor.

I love Garrison Keillor. Favorite Young Man loves Garrison Keillor.

I don't know if everyone loves Garrison Keillor. Please raise your hand if you love Garrison Keillor. If you don't love Garrison Keillor, then do you think it's a cultural thing? And by "cultural," I mean raised in the Midwest, Lutheran, morbid sense of humor, like jokes including risque.

A happy memory from Favorite Young Man's and The Hurricane's youth is that we listened to A Prairie Home Companion on Saturday evenings while we ate supper.

Then last night, the night before the show, I became ill (bad, bad tummy), and I haven't recovered completely. But I love G.K. and I spent $120 on those two tickets, and I wasn't letting a case of the shits diarrhea keep me from the man. It would be like flushing the 120 down the toilet with the you-know-what.

I managed to drink a little diet coke, and at 5 p.m. I ate some toast. It didn't cause much agony, so I decided to go, albeit with toilet paper stuffed up my arse in case of wet gas.

Garrison Keillor was not doing his radio show. He came out and sang and talked and told stories and jokes. The evening ended with a singalong. Many of the stories he told could be part of a Lake Wobegone newscast, but he didn't do The News From Lake Wobegone.

He started by singing a great song about dying someday and if he learns there's no God he will be pissed he wasn't an atheist.

He told a couple of jokes about Ole and Lena, whose names might as well be Lyle and Lois Goltz.

Ole is on his deathbed. He asks if Lena is here. Yes, of course. Is Sven here? Yes, everyone is here. Ole goes through some more names, asking if those people are here. The group assures him, We are all here. Ole says, Then why are the lights on in the living room?

If you don't get that, then I think you are too young, or you don't understand the kind of humor we Midwesterners tend to share.

Lena baked a rhubarb pie. Ole could smell it, and he wanted one last taste of rhubarb pie. So he crawls to the kitchen and gets out a knife and crawls to the pie. Lena comes up behind him and smacks him on the head and says, Leave that alone. It's for the funeral.

Oh, how I laughed. So did Favorite Young Man.

G.K. also said that no matter how bad things are, Midwesterners will always say, Well, it could be worse.

The show reached its charming conclusion. FYM and I headed out into the rain to walk to the car. FYM commented on how cold it was. Yah, I said, but it could be worse.

Then it occurred to me that I had done exactly what G.K. said I would do, so we laughed some more.

I told FYM I had such a great time that I might be in a good mood for ten or fifteen minutes.

Oh, but something happened that made me crazy. FYM dropped me off at the theater and went to park the car. I went in the building and turned to the right to get the tickets. When FYM came in he said that right after I got out of the car that Garrison Keillor walked by the car and went in the door to the theater. He was to the left of the car. I was to the right. I did not see him. Why does it matter? I saw him onstage. But it's fun to see celebrities get out of cars and act like regular people who stroll through the lobby.

I said to FYM, I love you unconditionally, but right now I am really fucking pissed off that you got to see Garrison Keillor walk into the building and I didn't. Really. Really pissed. BUT I LOVE YOU UNCONDITIONALLY.

I'm also upset because I wore the pink cashmere gloves I got for Christmas and I moved the garbage cans from their spot at the curb where the garbage men empty them back to their usual home in the backyard. When we got to the theater, I noticed that the palms and fingers of the gloves had turned black. Oi! Was I upset! I don't think I can get the black off. That's what happens when you look forward to Garrison Keillor and you hope you don't have diarrhea that ruins the whole thing and you're such a good citizen that you don't leave your garbage cans out at the curb.

And yes, I've already looked online, and I can't find the exact same gloves that have a matching pink hat.

II forgot to say that yes, he wore red tennis shoes. I wish my dad could have been there. He loved Garrison Keillor. We're just a family of Keillor lovers.


Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug


I'll try to finish the story about Jimmy Kimmel, Jimmy Fallon, and Jim Morrison later today. It will depend on whether I have the strength to do anything when I get out of bed. And it's definitely WHEN I get out of bed and not IF I get out of bed because Franklin needs care.

THE FIRST STORY I SOLD FOR ACTUAL MONEY

Once upon a time, I became a published writer. But the first few pieces I had published were printed in journals that didn't pay anything.

And then I had my breakthrough. It was 1998. I wrote a story about how a cat joined our family. It took me about 20 minutes to write it. I sent it off to a cat lovers' magazine, it was accepted, and I received $125 and five copies of the magazine.

Writing is addictive. I love to write.

But I admit, I really love writing and getting paid for it.

Anyhow, I thought you might enjoy reading the very first story for which I was paid. It's called "the mice, the cat, and me."

I hated cats. I had been raised to hate cats. My mother had taught me that cats were slimy and disgusting and that they had lizard eyes. She didn't understand how anyone could love a cat, and neither did I.


Consequently, no cat ever entered my house. But mice did. First, a few parachuted in to conduct reconnaissance missions. They held inspections and sent word to the troops that mine was a safe house. Their army invaded, marching and counter-marching as their drillmaster squeaked out orders. They conducted maneuvers under the refrigerator.


My husband suggested a cat. He loved cats. Now, he saw his opportunity, and he took it. "A cat could defeat the mice," he whispered in my ear, fearing their spies might be listening. "A cat could break their ranks and force a retreat. Why, one cat alone could stop an entire division of mice."


His fervent praise left me wondering if he might be working with the mice. Maybe he had invited them in. Maybe he had even led the first strike, all so that he might obtain a cat.


"No cats," I cried. I thought I heard the mice huzzah, a chilling sound, but it couldn't change my mind -- yet.


I fought valiantly with glue boards and with traps. Just when I thought I had them licked, the mice call in their reserves and struck greater blows with their never-ending supply of droppings. My pantry became their mess hall, my entire kitchen their beachhead. I was surrounded. I considered "For Sale" signs. Maybe we could just unload the house on some unsuspecting buyer . . . . 


However, our children learned of their father's plan to acquire a cat. They took up his battle cry. "Yes," they trumpeted, "a cat could rout the mice. We don't want to move. And cats are so cute and cuddly."


Cute and cuddly? Slimy and disgusting. But I really didn't want to move either. Combat fatigue combined with the thought of packing all those boxes made me wave a white flag. My family had defeated me with the help of a battalion of mice. We would look for a cat.


We decided to adopt and found an ad in the newspaper. A woman who worked for the pound took cats into her home, and, yes, we could see them the next day.


I approached the woman's house with fear and loathing in my heart. The place crawled with cats. We looked them over and chose a little male tabby that seemed bold and daring; he had asked our four-year-old daughter to pet him. The woman told us he had been thrown in the garbage with his mother and his sister. Someone had rescued them and brought them to the pound. My heart quivered. Not even a cat deserved such treatment.


On our way home, my husband suggested we name the cat Milhous because it was Richard Nixon's middle name. "No doubt this cat will be as tricky in handling mice as President Nixon was in dealing with his enemies," my husband promised. I had to admit I liked the name.


Milhous entered his new home and ran behind the couch. So much for bold and daring. Unfortunately, we soon realized that the warrior on whom our hopes rested was sick. His breathing sounded labored. His nose ran. Something dripped from his eyes. I took him to the vet. "I don't think he'll make it through the night," she told me. "You should take him back where you got him."


Milhous looked up at me and meowed pitifully. Strangely enough, he didn't have lizard eyes. His eyes were large and green and, though I hardly dared think it, sweet. He seemed tiny and helpless. I felt something strange and new: sympathy for a cat.


"No," I said to the vet, surprising myself. "He's my cat now, and I'll take care of him." We left her office with a large bill, medicine and feeding instructions.


The vet had warned me Milhous wouldn't want to eat while he was ill, but that he needed to do so. She recommended baby food, given to him on my fingers. So there I sat in what had once been my kitchen, mice in camouflage conducting drills at my feet, and a sick cat on my lap -- a sick, soft cat, that is. He wasn't slimy, after all. He licked some food from my finger. The sensation of his rough little tongue wasn't at all disgusting. Milhous himself wasn't at all disgusting. My mother had been wrong. I cuddled him closer. Milhous had won my heart without killing a single mouse.


Milhous lived through the night, and when he had recovered completely, the mice met their Waterloo. Their ground forces went AWOL; their navy gave up the sink; their air force couldn't even get to their planes. In short, Milhous mopped up the kitchen. The mice never returned.


Milhous achieved more victories than William the Conqueror at Hastings. He prevailed over my prejudice, he defeated the mice, and he even won over my mother when she came for a visit. Although she never developed a desire to own a cat, she did go home saying that he was the prettiest, funniest cat she had ever seen. Milhous has been with us for eight years now. Our cute, cuddly gladiator guards the kitchen by day and guards our daughter by night. He sleeps on her pillow, curled around her head. He also paved the way for two other cats that joined our family -- but that's another story.


Please be with us tomorrow for the Thursday post in which our guest, Charlotte A. Martin, answers my questions: What is love? What is intimacy?

BATTLE OF THE BANDS: MY WAY

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

It's time for the June 15, 2015, smack down of the Battle of the Bands. Mr. Stephen T. McCarthy provides us with this information about the bloghop:

The whole thing is really quite simple: You select two different versions of the same song (versions you feel might give each other some competition in the voting) and you post them on the 1st and the 15th of each month.

On the 7th and 21st of each month, you add your own personal vote to the mix, total up all the votes and announce the winner on your blog.

Beyond that, just try to have fun with it and let your readers/voters have fun with it.

Paul Anka, a successful singer in his own right, wrote English lyrics to a French song and called it My Way. Anka angered his own recording company by offering the song to Frank Sinatra, who recorded it in 1968 and released it in 1969. 

Because Sinatra is so closely associated with My Way, we'll begin with his version:




Sinatra died in 1998, a legend in his own mind time. I was never a Sinatra fan. His voice just didn't do it for me. He seemed so full of himself. It must be tough to live with all that adulation and not develop a sense of grandiosity.

A bit of trivia: Sinatra's mother, known as "Dolly," was an abortionist. She did not charge women for her services. She was arrested several times and convicted twice.

And now for something completely different, even though it's sort of the same song. Here's Sid Vicious after leaving the punk rock band, the Sex Pistols:






Sid's (John Simon Ritchie's) recording of My Way was released in 1978––nine years after Sinatra's. The same year, Vicious awoke in The Chelsea Hotel in New York to find his girlfriend Nancy Spungen––his equal in the unconventional and repellent––dead from a stab wound. Spungen is credited with introducing Vicious to heroin, but his mother already supplied him with a variety of drugs.  

Police arrested Vicious for murdering Spungen, but he drew a Get Out of Jail Free card when Mick Jagger paid his bail. In 1979, after detoxing and spending time in notorious Rikers Island, Vicious partied with his new girlfriend and some friends, including his mum, and overdosed on heroin. He was twenty-one.

I don't know if I'll vote for Sinatra or Vicious. Sinatra sang and danced in movies and won the Best Supporting Actor Academy Award for From Here to Eternity. He sang the conventional ballads loved by millions and was considered a brilliant stylist. Yet, I never liked him, and I've read many accounts of his cruelty to "friends" and lovers. The man had a vicious temper.

But Sid Vicious? He wasn't a real singer. He was all attitude. The Sex Pistols' "songs" leaned toward the nastay. Vicious helped introduce a new crudeness to music. Punk gave outcasts and rejects a home of their own. 

The Ramones, Patti Smith, the Sex Pistols: They led the way toward bands such as Nirvana. 

Courtney Love, formerly of Hole, is practically Nancy Spungen's clone.

I don't think many people would say Sid Vicious was a nice guy, but he was part of something new and different. He had a Sinatra temper.

Please vote in your comments. Do you prefer Frank Sinatra or Sid Vicious on My Way?

I'll cast my own vote on June 21st and tell you the winner.


Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

THE CEPHALOPOD COFFEEHOUSE: MOMMY TRIED TO KILL ME BY SUZY SORO

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Welcome one and all to the Cephalopod Coffeehouse, a cozy gathering of book lovers, meeting to discuss their thoughts regarding the works they enjoyed most over the previous month.  Pull up a chair, order your cappuccino and join in the fun. This blog hop is hosted by The Armchair Squid. Click on the link to sign up and join us.

The best book that I finished this month is Mommy Tried To Kill Me: Why It's Never Too Early To Start Drinking In Paris by Suzy Soro.

Suzy Soro is my favorite celebrity I've "met" online (she's also the only one who has ever responded to my emails or to tweets in which I mention her). She's hilarious, and I wish she still blogged. When I learned she had a new book out, I bought it immediately.

Suzy and her sister Lindy spent parts of their childhood living in France with their mother, who had gotten divorced from their father after twenty-nine years of marriage, and later married a Frenchman named Jean. But now little Suzy and Lindy are all grown up, and their mother is not running around Paris with Jean (thank God because he's dead). But she has become a lady of elderly or at least older status, who can still pull what Suzy and Lindy call "The French-Face: an eye roll up to the left, an almost imperceptible shake of the head, and a contemptuous, dismissive shrug. I'm a standup comic: I can recognize signs of contempt from space."

So the older lady who can French-Face with the best of them is eighty-nine, refuses to live in the United States so she can be near Suzy and Lindy, she's fallen in her Paris home and she doesn't have one of those buttons to push to say I've fallen and I can't get up (let me clue you in on something: those buttons are worthless because when I worked in the nursing home, we played host to a load of people who had fallen and couldn't get up and they had the button but couldn't remember how to push it or maybe their thumbs got cut off when they fell), so someone scooped her up and took her to the hospital. Suzy and Lindy travel to Paris to see their mother, and Suzy stays on to clean out the apartment her mother has decided to sell and to help darling French-Face Mommy recover. 

This book is Suzy's memoir about her stay in Paris, doing the best she can to assist someone who does not want her assistance, and whose every conversation with Suzy "invariable devolves into what I'm doing wrong with my life, like how I never got a real job. And don't have a 401(k). Or at the very least, a husband with a real job and a 401(k)." Suzy also reveals plenty of interesting and unusual family secrets, including stories about her father's numerous wives.

Mommy Tried To Kill Me is poignant and Sorodonic (my combination of Soro and sardonic) by turns. When it gets too sad––as stories about elderly people who are injured and sinking into dementia must do, especially when they pick on the daughter who is doing her utmost to help out while freezing to death in Paris and trying to remember the French that has pretty much absented itself from her brain––you can count on Suzy to come up with a Sorokism (my combination of Soro, which means funny in some language other than French, and some sarcasm): "If parents want to hide something, they should attach it to their keys. They can never find those."

Mommy Tried To Kill Me: Why It's Never Too Early To Start Drinking In Paris earns The Janie Junebug Seal Of Highest Hilarical Tinged By Whimsy And Weirdness Approval.

You can purchase it on Amazon at https://goo.gl/zWy0Qy. You can also buy Suzy Soro's first book, Celebrity sTalker, on Amazon at https://goo.gl/9QgSvP, but you'll have to buy the Kindle version unless you want one of the four paperbacks they say are available for $59.99 and up. Or I'll consider selling my autographed copy of this hilarious book for about a million bucks. It's negotiable, but my rock-bottom price is $999,999.


Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

Hey, you. Yeah, you, the person who read my post all the way to the end. The people who quit early are going to wonder where I am during April. Well, you are in the know if you read a tiny bit more. I don't blog during April because I leave the cruelest month to the A to Z-ers. I'm editing a book, and should have one or two more to work on soon. If you have a grammatical emergency or want to beg me to edit your book, please email me at dumpedfirstwife@gmail.com. I'll be back on blog patrol in May. Be there or be square.

HELP! I NEED SOMEBODY! HELP! NOT JUST ANYBODY! HEEEEEEEEELP ME!

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

We all need help sometimes, and I need YOUR help right now. My (former) mother-in-law will celebrate her 80th birthday during December, and I want to send her 80 birthday cards. So I'm asking my neighbors and friends and lovers (well, lover) and all of you in the blogosphere to send me a birthday card to pass on to Margaret.

Some of you have already volunteered, but I need more help to get to 80.

Let me tell you a little bit about Margaret. She had an unusually difficult childhood, but she worked hard and earned a master's degree in education. For a long time I thought that she and my father-in-law hated me because X told me they did. It wasn't true. We could have had a great relationship for years if X hadn't messed it up.

A few days after X left me, I called my in-laws to tell them. They were very upset and immediately offered me financial help. My father-in-law has since passed away, but I stay in touch with Margaret. She has been unfailingly kind to me, and extremely generous with my children. I cry for the years of estrangement we experienced, yet I rejoice in having a good relationship with her now.

If you can't afford a card or a stamp, then please let me know and I will send you a birthday card and a stamp. You don't have to sign your full name. You don't have to put your return address on the envelope. You can maintain your privacy, but it would be nice if you'd write a short note, such as Happy Birthday, Margaret, or, Best Wishes to you on your special day, Margaret.

Margaret is the kind of person who likes sweet, sentimental cards–especially cards with a Christian theme. She is devoted to God and always prays for my friends when I ask her to do so.

Moreover, by sending a card to Margaret, you can earn ten entries in my giveaway. Yes, TEN entries. That's how important this is to me. I really want to honor Margaret on her birthday, and I think this is a cool way to do it.

Prizes in the giveaway are three books I edited, or assisted in editing; an Editor's Tip t-shirt, your choice of style, size, and color; two $25 Amazon gift cards; and $150 worth of editing performed by me. If you win a prize and don't want it, you can always give it to someone else.

The giveaway is open to residents of the U.S., Canada, the U.K., and Australia, and now extended to New Zealand. So c'mon and jump in. The water is fine. You might earn a prize, and you'll be doing a good deed.

Send birthday cards for Margaret to

Janie Goltz
PO Box 61371
Jacksonville FL 32236

Heeeeeeeelp! And thank you for your kind attention. You know, if you've already sent a card, please feel free to send another one. I have a long way to go to get to 80 cards, just as Margaret has walked a long path to reach 80 years of life.


Infinities of love,
Janie Junebug

CAROL'S DAVID PUT TOGETHER MY HAMMOCK

Lovers . . . and Other Strangers,

Today my buddy Carol's David, as opposed to someone else's David, came over to put together my hammock and help me with some other stuff because he's good at those things and I'm not and I pay him money.

After he finished the hammock, I insisted that he test it. He begged me to run in the house to grab my teddy bear and camera and take the following photos of him, which I already posted on Facebook:

I am now a little bit afraid that Carol's David will never help me out again. (He is Carol's David because he is her son. I hope that eliminates any confusion.)

So, anydavid, if you live in or around Jacksonville, Florida (during the winter), or in or around Milwaukee, Wisconsin (during the summer), and you need a superior carpenter and all around great guy who even took me to the post office to send a box to The Hurricane that was too heavy for me to carry, let me know. I'll help you get in touch with him so you can hire him.

Man, his foot looks gigantic in that second photo.

I thank you for your kind attention to THIS POST about Brandon Ax's books. His sale on the first two books in the Light Bringer saga runs through tomorrow, which is Tuesday, April 21st.

Brandon says:

In celebration of the cover and the new book, I am doing a sale for both Elemental and Ashes. The sale starts today April 17 and ends Tuesday, April 21. I hope any who has not had a chance to read any of the books in the Light Bringer Saga, can catch up before book three. 

I'm quite proud to be Brandon's editor. It makes me happy when you buy his books. His plots are so interesting that I can't help smiling while I edit his books, except when the story gets a little scary and then I use my anxious face.

Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

P.S. I miss you all. I am hard at work and hope to return to you on a regular basis some time during May.

MOVIE MOVIE WEEKEND

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

I have two quick movie reviews for your weekend, and I'm afraid I'm not too high on either one of these films.

First is Safe House, starring the dashing Denzel. It's a thriller, but it didn't thrill me all that much. I don't think I gasped even once while watching it.

It has quite a good cast; the acting is fine; but I want plot twists in a thriller. Some people might think this movie is twisty, but nothing really surprised me -- not even when colleagues attacked each other.

It's difficult for me to say definitively that you won't like this me, but I wasn't wild about it, in spite of the presence of Denzel. We should have better films for one of our finest actors.

Safe House has The Janie Junebug Seal of Meh.

Second is Wanderlust, starring Jennifer Aniston and Paul Rudd. Aniston and Rudd play New York-lovers who are forced to leave the city and end up joining a commune. The movie wasn't as funny as I thought it would be. Too much free love for my taste.

I felt particularly annoyed by Alan Alda, playing an old geezer who helped found the commune. Alan Alda is much too vital to be believed as a somewhat senile old guy in a motorized wheelchair.

I also disliked the resident nudist, whose penis was on constant display. I simply do not want to look at a strange penis in my movies, and by "strange" I mean attached to a stranger. (Of course, strange could also mean weird, but the penis is not attached to Bill Clinton, who supposedly has a kink in his.)  Every time I looked, here was this guy's winkie staring at me. Bleah.

The movie amused me a bit at the end. I believe I even barked out a laugh. Again, I feel uncomfortable about disapproving of this movie because if you want to laugh at something silly this weekend, Wanderlust might be perfect for you. I guess I'm just in a meh mood because I also give this movie The Janie Junebug Seal of Meh.

Special note to Dee: I feel quite certain you would not like these movies.

I think you can find something better to watch. For example, the Closing Ceremonies of the Olympics will be on this weekend. I hope it's better than the opening. I'm going to watch it and find out. No more Danny Boyle freaky babies, please. I'll also be reading, writing, and editing.

Onward, ever onward, rode the Junebug.

Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

THE CEPHALOPOD COFFEEHOUSE: STATE OF WONDER BY ANN PATCHETT

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Welcome one and all to the Cephalopod Coffeehouse, a cozy gathering of book lovers meeting to discuss their thoughts regarding the works they enjoyed most over the previous month.  Pull up a chair, order your cappuccino, and join in the fun. This blog hop is hosted by The Armchair Squid. Click on the link to sign up to join us.

The best book that I finished this month is State of Wonder by Ann Patchett.

State of Wonder begins: The news of Anders Eckman's death came by way of Aerogram, a piece of bright blue airmail paper that served as both the stationery and, when folded over and sealed along the edges, the envelope.

Anders Eckman's research partner, Dr. Marina Singh, receives this news at the pharmacological company in Minnesota where the two researchers shared a lab for seven years. Eckman died when the company sent him to Brazil to find Dr. Annick Swenson, the leader of a research project funded by the company.  Dr. Swenson has long held a prominent position in Dr. Singh's memory as the professor whose criticism ended Dr. Singh's medical career.

Now Marina Singh departs for the Amazon to learn where Anders is buried and to tell Dr. Swenson that she must end her research, which has gone on far too long. Soon, Marina finds herself in a state of wonder, where she befriends a deaf boy named Easter and discovers a world quite different from any she has encountered before:

Easter and Marina liked the river best at six o'clock when the sun was spreading out long across the water and the birds had just begun to make their way home for the night. They sat on the damp banks, as far away as they could from the heat of the Lakashi's fire. It was too early to eat and still she wanted to leave the lab for a while, stretch her legs and roll her neck. Sometimes she would sit for twenty minutes, thirty minutes, and other nights she would stay until it was dark. 

In this state of wonder, Marina encounters poisonous insects, rescues Easter from the grasp of an anaconda by using her medical training, delivers a baby, deals with the Dr. Swenson of the present and the past, and learns the truth behind Dr. Swenson's mysterious research with the women of the Lakashi tribe.

Ann Patchett writes so beautifully that I almost couldn't bear to put down this book and deal with my own dull life. I was much happier in the jungle with Marina Singh.

State of Wonder earns The Janie Junebug Seal of Highest Truth And Beauty Approval.

Happy reading!


Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

QUE BELLA LUNA

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Willy Dunne Wooters and I decided to watch Moonstruck Saturday evening. It's a movie I love, and WDW had never seen it.




He took a shower before we watched. He came into the TV room draped in two towels, and lay down on the floor to hug Franklin.

The two lovers were right in front of me, and I noticed that WDW's little pink bottom was partially exposed. I leaned over and goosed him.

He was surprised. I laughed and said, You mooned me. Que bella luna!

He laughed. We enjoyed the movie.


Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

Old Man: La bella luna! The moon brings the woman to the man. Capice?

JE T'AIME LE MOVIES FRANCAISE

Gentle Readers,

Your Lola finally got a little sleep early this morning and awoke to a disaster: Someone chewed off most of one of the handles on the rocking horse Lola's Dad made for Favorite Young Man long, long ago. Who would sneak into Lola's house and do such a thing? Perhaps a certain dog will have to start sleeping in his crate if he is not going to warn Lola that intruders are chewing on treasured artifacts. What a disappointment for all of us.

Now let's get down to business. I like French movies. I have no idea if I spelled my Title correctly, but I still love French movies. I have ever since Favorite Young Woman introduced me to Amelie, starring Audrey Tautou. It's so wonderfully whimsical. If you'll be spending a quiet night at home on New Year's Eve, as I will, I strongly recommend Amelie. Je t'adore, and it has a happy ending.

Boy, it's a good thing I don't get any hits from France. The French certainly would not tolerate my bad French.

I also recommend two other movies starring Audrey Tautou of the big, black adorable eyes. First, A Very Long Engagement, about a young woman whose beloved seems to have died during WWI. She sets out to discover what happened to him. Supposedly, he was executed by being tossed into No Man's Land following his court martial for self-mutilation. Our heroine doggedly tracks every one of the men and their wives, girlfriends, or lovers, who suffered that horror. The twists and turns of A Very Long Engagement are fascinating, making this film as good as Amelie, but in a different way. Je t'adore, and it has a happy ending.

The third Audrey Tautou movie is Coco Before Chanel, a biopic that examine parts of Gabrielle's Chanel's life before she became the famous designer. I learned quite a bit, all of it interesting, about Coco Chanel, and then I googled her to learn even more. Please do not confuse this movie with a Lifetime movie that was on TV during the last year or so. Coco Before Chanel is much better than a Lifetime movie.

And you do understand, do you not, that these French movies are in French? It's o.k. You can read the subtitles. Just don't expect to multi-task when you're watching a movie with subtitles.

These three movies all feature women who deserve to be on WOMEN: WE SHALL OVERCOME, and the fourth is no exception: Marion Cotillard's Academy Award-winning performance as the great and passionate, but troubled, Edith Piaf in La Vie En Rose. Wow! My only regret is that Audrey Tautou doesn't have her own Academy Award. F.Y.W. recommends not watching the extended version of this film; stick with the theatrical version. F.Y.W. says the extended version goes on and on forever.

And finally we get to a French movie I have probably mentioned before because I think it's the most amazing movie I have ever seen: The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. It's based on a memoir of the same title about a Frenchman who had a stroke -- this is a true story -- and was able to move only one eye. Much of the film is shown to us from his P.O.V. Although the main character here is a man, the woman who teaches him to communicate by blinking his remaining good eye is also an extremely important part of the story. She helped him write the memoir on which the movie is based. Sadly, or perhaps happily for him, he died soon after completing his book.

Well, now I've prepared you for New Year's Eve. You have no reason to complain that you are lonely or bored. Cuddle up to a good dog or cat and watch a wonderful French movie.

Infinities of amour,

Lola