HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SON OF JUNEBUG

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Today is my favorite young man's birthday. I'm not telling you how old he is because it might lead you to suspect that I am very old.

I was an immature and not particularly good parent, but he continues to tolerate me.

The rest of this post is a newspaper column I wrote about my boy back when I was a reporter, about a hundred years ago. I posted this once before, I think.

When I took my little red-haired boy to preschool, we met the teachers and looked at the toys. We sang some songs. Then it was time for me to leave.

The boy threw his arms around my knees and cried, "But I want to stay with you!"

I reminded him that we had talked about going to preschool. I reminded him that he needed to spend time with other kids, that I would return soon and we would spend the rest of the day together.

He kissed me good-bye and went off to build a tower of blocks with his new classmates. I rushed out the door, thankful we had just taken the first successful step toward his independence. 

But the boy needed to learn to dress himself. Every morning, he sat down, pulled his pants over his legs and tried to stand up before they were over his feet.

"I'll have to go to college with him to dress him," I grumbled.

With practice, though, he learned to dress himself. Another step toward independence.

The boy went to kindergarten. I removed the training wheels from his first bike. He rode around the block alone. He stopped asking me to marry him. He learned how to read.

I stood on a basketball court for hours while he threw ball after ball up and toward the hoop. None went through. I passed the ball back to him and waited while he threw it again. One day the ball finally went through the hoop.

He played basketball with the other boys. He didn't need me to rebound for him anymore. I breathed a sigh of relief. More steps.

Fourth grade and he started to play the trombone. The sound hurt. I helped him learn to read music. I played the piano; he played along on the trombone. The sound improved. He didn't need my help with the trombone.

Middle school years, and someone on the school bus teased a girl. She blamed the boy and put gum in his hair. The bus driver gave the boy's name to the principal. We practiced at home so the boy knew how to explain to the principal. The principal let the boy go. I didn't have to visit the school. A big step.

High school: Clear the roads -- he's learned how to drive. I felt frightened, then happy. He didn't need me to be his chauffeur. I could go where I wanted, when I wanted.

But so could he. More independence for him and more worries for me.

He had his ears pierced -- six times. He seemed to have trouble pulling up his pants again but he didn't ask for help with his clothes or with anything else.

I fought to stay involved in his life. Could this independence thing really be a good idea?

"Aren't you glad you know I'm independent and I don't listen to you?" he asked me one day as I was trying to gain his cooperation in some endeavor such as cleaning up his bedroom.

"Yeah, I'm glad you don't listen to me," I answered. I laughed, but I really was glad. Wasn't his independence what I had sought all along? Wasn't it what I had raised him to seek?

I insisted he hold down a job and pay for his own car insurance if he wanted to drive. He played on basketball teams, chose his own clothes, spoke up for himself, even became a trombonist in a ska band. And he did it all without me.

We went to college orientation and picked up our name tags. "Students to the right; parents to the left," a young woman told us.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Students go to a meeting in the room to the right and parents go to a meeting in the room to the left."

They were splitting us up.

I threw my arms around his waist and cried, "But I want to stay with you!"

"You'll be OK with the other parents. I'll be back soon and we'll spend the rest of the day together," he reminded me.

He hugged me. Then he walked away to be with the other students. I went to the meting with the parents, but not to build a tower. I had already built one. It was six-feet three inches tall and had red hair. 

On Jan. 15, he stood at the altar of a church. He didn't hold my hand; I didn't hold his. He took the hand of the most beautiful bride I've ever seen and vowed to be her husband for the rest of his life. I sat -- an onlooker in the drama of his life, missing him, but grateful for his independence.

Note: Sadly, the marriage ended after ten years. His ex-wife remains my Facebook friend. I love her very much and will always miss her.

JOB WELL DONE

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

You are great with the reviews of Woman on the Verge of Puberty Ecstasy Slut Shaming Paradise by Robyn Alana Engel, my new partner in hilariousness.

Robyn wants fifty reviews on Amazon so Jeff Bezos will promote her book. He promised to do it himself. I asked him. He capitulated after a nice blow job (notice I never said I provided the BJ). If he doesn't come through with the promotion, we'll never shop on Amazon again.

That oughta scare him.

Here's the big news: Robyn is up to forty-eight reviews.

And more reviews are coming in.

Robyn will give you a copy of Woman on the Verge of losing her virginity Paradise in exchange for an honest review posted on Amazon.

You can find Robyn at her adorable blog, Life By Chocolate. Click on the link, if you dare, and request a book.

Thank you for making Robyn's dream come true.

I wish you a blessed Easter.


Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

SUPER IMPORTANT: GET A FREE BOOK & WRITE AN AMAZON REVIEW

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Listen up, book lovers. Our girl Robyn Alana Engel has a book out that's doing pretty well. Robyn blogs at Life By Chocolate.

Her memoir-ish book is Woman on the Verge of Paradise.

Please go to Life By Chocolate to request a free copy of Woman on the Verge of Paradise. Then pretty please with sugar on it, review the book on Amazon. Here's what can happen:

Robyn says "I need five more. Just five more reviews, til Amazon promotes my book. I can get five, right? Five is all I need. Do I have five volunteers to read - or pretend to read and love - my book and write an Amazon review? I only need five!"

Do this for Robyn, and when she and I replace Tina Fey and Amy Poehler as the Mistresses of Mirth, we will mention your name on an awards show. How cool is that?

And if you have the book and haven't reviewed it, come on. You can do it! 


Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

RWNJ & NOT FEELIN' SO GOOD

Dear Ones,

I learned that RWNJ means Right-Wing Nut Job. Does a similar doo-hickey exist for us liberals? Maybe something super obscene and profoundly profane that will make us laugh?

I challenge you to come up with a counterpoint to RWNJ. Share it in a comment on this post, and I'll love you forever if you can make me feel better for even two seconds.

I'm going through side effects from a new medication. I feel kinda barfy (don't care it's TMI), but worse, I have terrible body aches. I'll appreciate prayers and positive thoughts and something that makes me smile.

Love you all, including RWNJs (notice that the plural does NOT have an apostrophe),

Janie Junebug

For those of you who still think you want to watch Downton Abbey, get on with it. These photos and the video provide a guide to help you get started. Ya know, you can spend the entire Easter weekend watching Downton. I might make this weekend my third time through the show. No such thing as enough always-on-the-rag Lady Mary and the dead diplomat and Edith's long ode road to floy joy.

Take my word for it: Downton Abbey is not a snore, but I like this video:

Snore (Downton Abbey) - watch more funny videos

Thanks, Willy Dunne Wooters.

I'M NOT SCARED

Sorry I confused you if you saw my earlier post.

I tried to do something creative to follow-up on my poem about a certain presidential candidate, but I messed it up and it didn't work.

Let's all be happy, happy, happy! We're not scared!

Whoo-hoo!

Hey, I know something cool! Remember Robyn Alana Engel who blogs at Life By Chocolate?

Remember that Robyn Alana Engel wrote a memoir-ish book called Woman on the Verge of Paradise? You can buy it on Amazon at http://goo.gl/0P1X8V.

Go ahead. Go buy it. I'll wait for you before I write the rest of the post.

Time's up. Here's the something cool:

Robyn Alana Engel has an advert for her book in Kirkus Reviews!

Robyn Alana Engel quotes ME in the advert! I don't think I really said it, though, because it's such a good quotation. But if Robyn Alana Engel put me in the advert, then I must have said it or written it in icing on a sugar cookie.

Here's the link: https://goo.gl/lrXCR1

If you can't find the ad in the bottom right corner of the page, then go to Life By Chocolate to tell Robyn Alana Engel that you want to see my words in her shit stuff book advert.

Notice how I use advert most of the time. It's because Madonna and I are the same age, and she grew a British accent while she lived in England, so she probably uses British slang, too, and that means I do what Madonna does, except––get naked and have photos taken that I put in a book (okay, maybe once I had a naked photo taken but it is NOT in a book, just a magazine); pretend to be posh and British because I married a British director who now calls me a monster; think I can sing and dance when my dancing is simply striking a pose but kajillions of people watch me and pay the rent money for tickets to my show; and, last but certainly not least, wear a cone bra and hump the stage.

Robyn Alana Engel and I have also discovered we're a pretty good comedy team. We will replace Tina what's her name and Amy what's her name and host awards shows on TV and be on Saturday Night Live occasionally but only occasionally because we're so cool we've outgrown that crap and write books that sell a little bit more than Woman on the Verge of Paradise, which deserves more sales.

So there.


Love,

Janie Tina Junefey

BREAK BROKE BROKEN

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

I keep saying I need a blogging break, but every time I take one, I end up blogging at least part time.

I said that for the rest of March, I would only post for Battle of the Bands. Did I stick to that vow?

Of course not.

Hi! My name is Jane Junebug, and I've been blogging when I said I wouldn't.

So, although today it's time for Battle of the Bands, I hereby do declare that I am not going to blog until early May, unless it's an emergency post. I don't know what might qualify as an emergency post. I guess we'll find out if I write one.

Franklin and Penelope say they'll sit on me if I attempt to write a blog post.

Look at how Franklin pretends to be unaware of what I do, while Penelope keeps an eye on me. She'll whisper in Franklin's ear if mom mom is up to no good.


Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

No comments. If you need to get in touch with me, please email me at dumpedfirstwife@gmail.com. As Franklin says, Mom has a megraine.

HE'S GONE, AND I DIDN'T KNOW IT UNTIL TODAY

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

When I answered the Question of the Month, I wrote about meeting author Pat Conroy. I had no idea he had died a few days before. I learned it from some of your comments on my post.

I didn't intend to be online today. I'm supposed to be on a blogging break so I can get mucho stuff done, but I remembered that for the umpteenth week in a row, I haven't answered a question about grammar.

So I hop online and learn that Mr. Conroy, who told me to call him Pat, who was so kind to me, who wrote such beautiful inscriptions in my copies of his books--he's gone.

In My Reading Life, he writes of his mother: Peg Conroy used reading as a text of liberation, a way out of the sourceless labyrinth that devoured poor Southern girls like herself. She directed me to every book I ever read until I graduated from the eighth grade at Blessed Sacrament School in Alexandria, Virginia. When I won the Martin T. Quinn Scholarship for Academic Achievement, Mom thought she had produced a genius in the rough.

On the title page of my copy of My Reading Life, he wrote

To Janie,

For the love of story,

Pat Conroy

I think it might have been the love of story that kept him alive. His youngest brother committed suicide. He often mentioned his depression. He grew up with a father who beat Pat until his blue eyes burned with hatred every time his father entered a room. [As] I live out a life too sad by half, he wrote. He thought of Madame Bovary and Anna Karenina when he was suicidal or in despair, and used the characters as a reminder that suicide wasn't the answer.

His mother pointed Pat in the right direction. Pat Conroy wrote of his mother's devotion to words, and her devotion to his reading and writing. She didn't finish college, but she read every book assigned to Pat in his high school and college classes.

Pancreatic cancer took his life.

I don't think I like a world without Pat Conroy.

Loss. So much loss.

And once again, you don't get a post with an answer to a grammatical concern because I have tears for Pat, for the famous artist who treated me as if he were honored to meet me, the man who shook my son's hand and thanked him for bringing me to, what was for me, one of the most magical nights of my life.


Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

I take it as an article of faith that the novels I've loved will live inside me forever--Pat Conroy.