I was exhausted after my harrowing workday yesterday. I’d planned to make breadless meatloaf per my new diet (pounds lost: zero), but I was so tired I said screw it, I’m driving through Subway, this bad-for-me place, despite what Jared says about it.

The good news is I asked for Baked Lays and they gave me, you know, regular Lays. So that was exciting. Why haven’t I shed even a pound?

After I ate my Subway, exhausted, I lay on the couch, I regular-Lays on the couch, exhausted, until 9:30, which felt like a fairly undepressing time to go to bed. I don’t remember one moment after that until 5:30, when I was wide awake.

Which brings us here, now, together in our torrid embrace.

Yesterday morning, on (Face)book of June–

–if you want to be a member you have to email me and give me your Facebook name so I can invite you because we’re private and extra exclusive. And if you have no profile picture or one friend you ain’t gettin’ on. Same with requests to follow me on Instagram. In what world would someone say, Okay, yeah, weird secretive faceless stranger. Go ahead and follow my private life while you have no identity at all. Yay!

ANYWAY, yesterday on (Face)book of June, I mentioned I hadn’t had time to write a blog post yet (see above re exhaustion) and asked if anyone had ideas for what I could write at lunch. You DID have ideas, but then I didn’t have enough time at lunch to write anything (see above re exhaustion).

And that brings us here, now, in our torrid embrace.

Please stop, June.

It’s early in the a.m., and I was tryin’ to think about what to write you up in here, and I remember someone said, Show us your house, and I was all, Haven’t I already? It’s a small house, y’all. Less than 1,000 square feet. I think you’ve seen it. But maybe I haven’t gone room to room to show you, so here we are. In our torrid embrace.

The thing is, what really makes my house lovely is the light it gets, and it’s dark AF right now. If you ever want to get on my nerves, please say “O’dark-thirty.”

But, since here we are, in our torrid embrace, and you asked for photos of my house and the only time I can seem to get them to you is o’dark-thirty

BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Oh, god, that’s funny.

I show you my House in Darkness.

We start with a 10-second video of the front of my house, because I wanted you to enjoy the pretty stairs that lead to my place. The neighbor across the street has a rooster who crows so often I wonder if I’m Peter, but did that red-combed motherfucker make a SOUND while I was out there? Actually, yes. He did. Just as I was walking back in. Dammit.

Since you can’t see much in that video, here are my pretty steps from another day, and someone please pick up on the theme of these photos, which is that Edsel is obsessed with me.

When I bought this house, they told me it was built in 1932, but now that I’ve gotten to know the neighbors and become obsessed with a woman’s Instagram who lives in a house IDENTICAL TO MINE but on the next block, I think it was really built in the ’20s.

Some of the houses are in not-great shape, but others have been taken care of, including mine, and they are charming.

Here is the view of my living room from the front door. My goal, actually, was to find a house that had some sort of entryway, but I did not, in fact, find that. What I did find was a dirt-cheap house that was in great shape and had character.

The woman whose Instagram I’ve become obsessed with, the one who lives on the next block, showed her doorbell, and it is cool as shit, cool AS, and I KNEW IT WOULD BE when I saw this outline of mine on my door. My new goal? To find one and put it back on the door where it belongs.

From the living room you go to a little square hallway, where you have the choice of going to my bedroom (left) for a torrid embrace, the den (right), the bathroom (straight ahead) (Milhouse often locks himself in there with a magazine, which is why the door is closed at present) or the kitchen (also left, but leftier than the bedroom). It’s the Hallway of Possibilities.

Really, this would be SO MUCH PRETTIER in the daylight. You know what? Let’s revisit this tour when the sun is shining.

But since we’re here, in our tor–

Since we’re here, we can at least now look in my backyard, where a tepid sun is coming up and when is it finally gonna be actually nice out?

Here is the view from my kitchen window, and what you’re looking at is the flimsy fence I have to replace and also the pear tree, and see the other blooming tree behind it? A reader told me that’s a depressed cherry or something like that. They’re both so pretty. That pear tree gets about a million pears on it, and when I moved in in late September I got to eat maybe 10 pears, still.

So that’s partially my house, with more pictures to come when it’s all light and lovely in here.

Half-touringly,
Joop

The other night, I rented that ’80s movie Sex, Lies, and Videotape.

“Videotape” is such a funny, antiquated word now, as is “renting” a movie. I drove down to the Blockbuster, got a chunky videotape, shoved it in my machine, and then afterward I was sure to be kind, rewind.

Anyway, I STREAMED the movie Sex, Lies, and Videotape, a movie that chose to use the Oxford comma.

It’s possible you don’t remember the plot to the movie, or maybe you were the kind of person who only went to see movies like The Terminator in the ’80s, in which case I have nothing to say to you. In the movie, a very cute Andie MacDowell is married to old eyebrows up there, the guy who’s now with Grace on the show Frankie & Grace. Peter-something, I think. But old eyebrows is CHEATING on cute Andie MacDowell, which just goes to show you that when men cheat it’s about them, not the person they’re cheating on. Anyway he’s CHEATING on beautiful-and-yes-she-has-a-bit-of-an-abdomen-but-come-on Andie MacDowell with HER SISTER, played by old gold coat up there, whose name I do not know but I’ve seen her in other things.

Eventually Andie MacDowell runs off with thin James Spader, and good. No one tell her that eyebrow guy ages better.

But telling you the entire plot to that movie was not my point. My POINT is that the sister, old gold coat, lives in a tiny little house and I know you enjoy my use of “tiny little.” She bartends, but then is also an artist and is very sexy and wears cowboy boots a lot.

Edsel and I were watching this show the other night here, and there was a scene where old gold coat is alone in her house, her tiny small house, painting. She’s concentrating so hard on her painting that when the phone rings, she doesn’t even look at it. She lets it ring a few times, then eventually picks it up, never taking her eyes from her work, and says, “Yeah.” She knows it’s likely going to be her brother-in-law, with whom she’s sleeping, probably while wearing those cowboy boots, but she’s more interested in her painting than in him.

I’d completely forgotten this scene. But when I saw it, it all came rushing back to me. Because I remember when this movie came out, in 1989, I was so envious that someone could have, you know, a passion that involved anything other than a man calling.

This is pathetic, but picture this: The year was 1988. I’m in a red, blue, and green plaid robe. And I’m curled in a ball in a rocking chair, just waiting for Giovanni Leftwich to call. I’m not painting or writing or dancing or even taking off my robe and staring at my 1988 body, which was likely something to behold. No. I’m curled in a ball waiting.

That was me from about ninth grade until, well, until I’m not sure when. I know my GOAL for a long time was to be someone who had any other interests besides getting some man to like her, and I know I faked it with friends and jobs and clothes and cats, but really I was just someone who wanted a man to be interested in her.

Usually when you change, it’s usually so gradual you don’t even know it’s happening. Change is not the mom in Poltergeist getting a gray streak overnight.

There was this documentary Marvin liked to watch when he wasn’t watching all the other documentaries on the planet. It was an ’80s film about kids drinking in a parking lot before some heavy metal show. There was one kid in particular who had on zebra-striped pants, and he was the most absurd of them all. He was hanging his goat high. Marvin watched that film about 49 times.

There was a follow-up documentary, and you can imagine Marvin’s glee, where the filmmaker found those kids all grown up. And of all the people, zebra pants was the most depressing. He lived in a house in the suburbs, and had some finance job in the city, wore suits and was 100% humorless about the first movie.

When did that guy change? He couldn’t have had zebra pants on one day and a suit the next.

I once was doing some fact-checking on a story a guy at work, Thousandman, wrote and in doing so, I accidentally came upon his “official work picture” taken at his old job. I knew Thousandman had started eating better, but the change was DRAMATIC when you compared how he looked in the present day to his old official work picture. It was happening in front of me and I wasn’t seeing it.

I also don’t really notice how the Curly Girl method is working, but that photo above with Dick Whitman’s mom, I thought I was having an excellent hair day. This photo above I took yesterday, after I’d slept in my curls, and I took it to make sure my hair didn’t look TOO insane. It’s so much better than that head of cotton candy I used to sport. I do have paint in it, though.

My point is, change does happen, and now I can see it. Because I AM the person who doesn’t wait by the phone anymore. I met, believe it or not, a nice man on Tinder. We had a really funny exchange on Sunday. Then on Tuesday night around 8:00 I got another message from him. “Hey, what happened? I thought we were off to a nice start.”

Since the Sunday I’d talked to him, I’d painted my dresser and written in my journal and gone to work and played with the dog and talked to fencing people and had not even noticed that time had gone by.

“Nothing’s happened,” I wrote back. “I was just over here living my life. What’s new?” And then we looked at the moon together.

So.

I guess the thing we need to think about from all this is, do I need cowboy boots?

Luff,
Juun

P.S. The coastal one. That’s the hand sanitizer I bought. It doesn’t smell like fish. It has that lovely fake water smell.

Last night, I slept eight and a half hours, and only woke up and rolled around fitfully once. Ten years ago, I’d have said, “Oh my god, you guys, I woke up at some point in the night and couldn’t fall back to sleep for like 30 minutes.” Now I’m, yay! It happened only once!

I don’t know why sleeping all night never happens anymore. [sips coffee] [ages]

So now that I’m rested, let’s talk. Does anyone have any pressing issues we want to discuss with the class? Weren’t we going to have a sort of advice room in here, or did I just invent that in my head and never tell y’all about it?

I had an idea that if anyone had any woes, any troubles or annoyances, that person could either tell them in the comments and the rest of us could chime in because GOD KNOWS YOU WILL DID I ASK FOR FENCE ADVICE, NO.

Or, alternatively, you could write me and we could make it a whole blog post and then people could give advice in the comments. Seems more organic to just do it below. Or above. Wherever the comments are. Seems like they switch if you’re on a desktop or a mobile, right?

In other news, when you move somewhere new, it’s nice to get to know the light. At my old place, I knew in the fall the 5 o’clock light in the living room was like to kill you. Here, I notice how pretty it is in the morning in my back yard. MAYBE SHE’LL FIND AN ISLAND WITH A SHADY TREEEE. JUST LIKE THE ONE IN OUR BACK YARD (ahhh-ahhh). Just like the one in our back y-a-a-a-a-rd.

Why was that a song? A song about some dead dog who’d drifted out to sea. Why were we all up in that weird high-pitched song?

There’s always someone with too much time on his or her hands who makes a terrible video to go with old songs.

Anyway. If you have a woe, discuss it below. Hah. Listen to me! I’m Johnny Cochran up in here with my rhymes.

In other news, yesterday at lunch I went to Walgreen’s for Prilosec because the glamor never stops. I also bought hand sanitizer, because it’s MID-MARCH and everyone at work has a cold and I don’t have time for that. [Everyone considers my schedule. Everyone concludes I actually do pretty much have time for that.]

Anyway, which one do you think I bought? Oooo, let’s have a poll! We like polls.

I tried new berry-and-mint-flavored Prilosec, and why. Why did they think that was a flavor combo? Also, you swallow it. You don’t chew it. Why does it need to be a flavor? Why can’t it just be blue with vitamin E flavor?

Oh, and speaking of polls, I forgot to ever tell you the end of our Boss’s Stitch Fix story. She ended up returning everything except the earrings. “I liked those earrings,” my father said this weekend, after informing me he always votes on my boss’s clothes.

I also noticed this at Walgreen’s, and who can take a trip to the drug store and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile? Anyway, “Haunted Ghost” irked me. I took a picture of this because when Marvin was in music school, there was one guy who was obsessed with the band Frozen Ghost. Any time he spoke up in class, he had to refer to Frozen Ghost, and for the 429 years I was married to Marvin, he did an impression of this guy talking about Frozen Ghost. So I sent this to Marvin with the caption (wait for it) “Frozen Ghost.”

How can a ghost be haunted? Who haunts him? Another ghost? Because isn’t that just, like, everyone else in Ghost Town or wherever? Spookane, Washington? Terra Haunt?

I think it’s better for all of us when I sleep seven hours or less.

With that, I bid you adieu. Don’t forget to tell us your woes in the comments, if you have woes, and the rest of us hens will stampede in and tell you what you should do about your fence or whatever.

Love,
Juan

I hardly went anywhere all weekend and it was delightful and I’m turning into the Hermit card in the tarot deck. Or really, anywhere there’s a hermit.

On Friday night, after work, I got up with the Lowe’s guy to see about a fence. The people who moved in next door have a lovely sweet dog that they say is a pit, but I think he’s an Australian cattle dog, and why don’t I go ahead and dogsplain like they don’t know what their dog is. I am an ass.

Anyway, the Lowe’s guy was very nice and I told him I want a six-foot privacy fence and I want it to have a little scallopy thing up top because regular fences depress me and then we went out and measured my giant yard and he said, “Okay, that’ll be $8,600.”

Holy cats.

Then I went to dinner with people from my neighborhood. I think I’ve probably told you before we have a standing appointment at 6:30 on Friday nights at the Mexican restaurant in this neighborhood, and one guy always gets this half a pineapple with chicken and shit. Not literally. The point is, half a pineapple. He used to be a judge, so he has never once picked that half a pineapple up and done a Carmen Miranda impression as I would have.

They had all sorts of ideas for me, like why don’t I use old car parts and build my own fence, or some weird metal. You’ll be stunned to hear those were ideas men came up with.

On Saturday, I drove to Lowe’s to tell them I want them to give me a fence just on the side the dog is on, and little picket fencing with a gate like I had at my old house, in the front of the yard. They will be back on Tuesday to give me a new estimate. I still won’t be able to afford it, but EIGHT THOUSAND DOLLARS? Come on.

While I was there, I gandered at the plant section to see who my next victim would be.

In the end, I got some flowers to put in my flowerbed out front. One neighbor told me I’d have flowers come up there, but that the former owners always supplemented with other flowers. He also expressed dismay that I did not have a giant bonfire and serve hot chocolate on Halloween. He also also offered to put up lights for me at Christmas, as that’s what the people who lived here before did. I took him up on that.

I didn’t buy a lot, for fear I’d crowd whatever flowers are on their way.

When I wasn’t noticing Edsel longing for me, I also painted my dresser this weekend. You know, the horrid pink one? I had to sand it and prime it and mark it with a B.

Anyway, during priming, this happened.

So then I had to take time out of my busy schedule to drive Milhous all the way to the kill shelter. Why do I have pets?

That is after all the painting and planting had been done, so shut up about how awful I look. Your ass would be draggin’ too.

• 

Next weekend I actually have social plans, to circumvent becoming the weirdest old woman in history. I have social plans so I don’t kidnap children and cook them in my oven. Step one, find oven. Was she going to eat the children? Didn’t she already have a candy house? Why do you also need children? Maybe she was craving protein, with all that sugar. I’ve gotten into the plot of Hansel and Gretel, in case you were thrown by my shift in thought.

Luff,
Catwomen hermit June

When you already hate the day and it’s not even 8 a.m. yet, you know it won’t be good.

Wednesday night, I’d listened to this get-to-sleep app that knocked me the heck out like I’d drunk a vat of heroin, then Thursday when the alarm went off I hit snooze. And hit snooze. And STOP BUZZING, GOD, [slap] hit snooze. Finally I looked at the clock.

I’d hit the snooze button FOR AN HOUR.

Goddammit.

Also, you don’t drink heroin, do you? June’s blog. Come for how street she is. Stay for the chicken recipes.

I screamed out of bed and let the dog out after checking for poor Cattle Ass the Potential Edsel Victim next door. I slapped food in everyone’s dish and turned on the shower. And? I could not find a hair tie. I promise you, a month ago I had 9230-2-28392 hair ties. I blame Milhous. I panicked for a bit, looking in long-forgotten drawers for any wayward-black-sheep went-out-to-find-fame-and-fortune hair tie, when I remembered I had a shower cap. I use it once a week to deep condition. I’d be one of those people who, when the parachute pull is on the left side, just keeps desperately tugging the right side and never trying the left till SPLAT.

I took the world’s quickest shower. Firemen have taken quicker showers.

Firemen don’t shower when they’re on their way to a fire, do they? June’s blog. Come for the firehouse knowledge. Stay for the heroin smoothie.

My goal, as I whipped my shower cap off and tossed it behind me as I rushed to get ready, was to do minimal makeup. For me, that includes darkening my eyebrows (and your doorstep). If I don’t do m’brows, I look sickly now, which is ridiculous because I went 49 years with plain and tall eyebrows and was fine. Now I’m all, “When did I become that guy at the end of The Wall?” if I don’t do my brows.

I had JUST GONE to my sketchy beauty supply store, which is marvelously cheap and has good off-brand shit. I’d bought some NYX brow stuff, used it one day, and?

Couldn’t find it. COME ON. Why wasn’t it in the makeup drawer where I’d inexplicably also looked for hair ties? WHY? So I used the too-dark Joan Crawford Collection brow pencil I’d kept in case I had emergencies like this. So now I had damp hair that had been shoved into a cap, Frida Kahlo brows

and? Like a minute to get to work. And what did I do with that minute? I looked at a wine bottle.

You all know how I am. I’d opened the fridge to take SOMETHING to work to eat, like a piece of cheese or an ice cube to suck, whatever, and I noticed this tag on this long-defunct bottle of wine in the door of my fridge. As you know, from your Big Book of–oh you know. As you know, I can’t drink wine without getting a migraine now. So I’ve got this neglected bottle of what is probably pink vinegar formerly known as dry rose, and I noticed a tag on it.

Win prizes! the tag read. You know what would be a prize? Me getting to work on time. Win prizes! the tag beckoned. Win pink diamond earrings, or a rose gold necklace!

A rose gold–pink diamond–OH MY GOD HOW?

And this is why I should be taking my Ritalin, which I never do, and which probably went without saying. The tag on my wine said to go online and put in this code, and with my ONE MINUTE TO GET TO WORK, I went to my computer and did. I am just as jittery about this as you are. You know how on shows the phone rings or someone’s at the door and the person on the show takes forever to answer? I get so nervous when that happens. That’s you right now, isn’t it?

Well, my procrastination and ADD really paid off, because I went on the site, put in the code, and?

“We’re sorry. That code has already been entered.”

NO IT HASN’T! Oh my god. I entered it again and was officially late for work.

“We’re sorry. That code has already been entered.”

Somebody broke into my house, took all the hair ties, absconded with my brow pencil, and entered my wine code to win pink diamonds.

It dawned on me that some sketchy grocery store employee at my sketchy grocery store probably entered ALL the bottles and if I eventually see some clerk over there with pink diamond earrings Ima deck her sketch ass.

I gave up in disgust, cursing the person who entered my code, and was just headed for the door when?

Edsel barfed. Eds never barfs. Bob never vomits at home.

I sighed, cleaned it up, and noticed as I headed for the door YET AGAIN that my sweater was 100% covered in lint. I know it’s Lint right now, but come on. See. That was a Lent joke. That’s how bad things have gotten.

You’ll be relieved to hear that finally I screamed to my car, screamed down the road and when I got to the traffic light, I attempted to turn left just as the light was turning red. Some

ASSHOLE

was similarly screaming, and she RACED through the red light, coming right at me. I had to slam on the breaks and twist my wheel dramatically to avoid being hit by her huge asshole truck, and if SHE shows up in a rose gold necklace I will not just hit her, I will also run her over with her stupid stupid red-light-running stupid truck.

It wasn’t till I got to work and got settled in that I realized I’d forgotten to put on deodorant.

The day was finally looking up when, after lunch, an editor brought pie to work for everyone, to celebrate Pi day. And then?

Thursday was ass.

Does it bug you how often your computer allegedly needs updates? Seriously, why do they need updating this much? Did you do such a bad job at the LAST update?

New people moved in next door, did I tell you? (…This has nothing to do with computer updates. I just had the update annoyance when I sat down to type you. My computer popped up that little rectangle: YOU NEED TO UPDATE! Your mother. I’m busy.)

The person who lived next door when I first moved in was a delight. She was charming, she was quiet, she was neat. But then they sold that house out from under her and the new people who bought it seem lovely, actually. But they have a dog.

When I first moved here, and I realize I keep saying that, but when I first moved here, I was already all, ugh, chainlink fence. But it wasn’t till my actual moving day that I noted the ONE side was not even chainlink, it was this sort of flimsy wire. And technically it isn’t even my fence on that side, it clearly belongs to the house next door.

This is fascinating, June.

The guy who owned this house also owned the house next door, and I was kind of worried he’d go ahead and sell the next-door house and he did. And I worried the new people would have a dog and they do. She looks like an Australian cattle dog to me, which Edsel is as well, 12%, now that I am intimately familiar with his DNA.

And does that help him get along with that dog? Their shared DNA? It does not. So far he’s only seen her from the back door, but he had 29 fits and may have even called her cattle-ass.

Anyway, that dog is a sweetie sweetie pie of sweet, and I realize I am always the one with the asshole dog, and the point is Lowe’s is coming Friday and not Friyay to give me an estimate on a fence. Which I am assuming will be a million dollars, but I literally have no choice to at least put up something beyond Flimsy Skirt Whippoorwill of a Hint of a Fence that will do nothing to stop Eds from murdering that sweet cattle dog with his bare hands.

Meanwhile, the neighbor and I have a dog-exchange deal to not let our dogs out at the same time. Just now I was enjoying the birds singing in the back yard and admiring my budding trees,

• 

• 

when I heard motion in the ocean, or alternatively the neighbor’s back door. So to speak. Anyway, I did a shrill, EDSEL COME and we got in and moments later I saw that sweet cattle dog out back. The neighbor was clearly sort of moving the door handle so I knew it was time. They told me the dog’s name and I promptly forgot it and I asked again what her name was and I’ve forgotten it again. I’m a delight.

They’d lived in the apartment complex right up the road, so this dog has never had a yard before, and so far she has no concept of playing. She is sort of standing there aghast that she has all this space and isn’t on a leash.

I spend too much time thinking about the dog next door, I know.

Let’s move on. Ima have to put that fence on a credit card. You know that. Right? I have no fekking choice. [UPDATE SO I DON’T HAVE TO KEEP HAVING THIS CONVERSATION: I have no credit cards. I will have to use a Lowe’s or a Home Depot card.]

• 

• 

Meanwhile, I’d arranged a few months ago to get my chair recovered. I worked with a woman I’ll call Jeanne, who recovers chairs in her spare time, and she gave me a great deal. She can only do it on weekends, so Ima be Chairless Joe for a bit, but that’s fine. As you can see, this chair was in bad shape, and I adore this chair, and say “chair” one more time, June.

I’d been waiting for her to have more time, and yesterday I got a text:

• 

Anyway, it turned out she was able to come yesterday evening, so I screamed to the fabric store first because she mentioned, oh, “fabric” and I was all shit. I haven’t gotten any fabric.

I’d picked out the …fabric months ago, but didn’t buy it then. I knew exactly where it was in the store. So yesterday I headed out there, to the fabric of our lives, and I went 52 years not ever stepping foot in a fabric store except for when my gramma would occasionally drag me into the Joann Fabrics and I wish I’d say fabric more often.

Anyway in the past year I’ve been haunting these stores like I’m Betsy Ross.

I got there and headed straight for the bolt I’d chosen months ago. I bolted for it, if you will, and?

Silk.

Careful readers will note the LAST time I was recovering a chair, the owner of the store told me to get anything but silk because of my pets, and every single piece of fabric I was attracted to was silk, and why am I such a fekkup?

So then I spent an inordinate amount of time looking for alternative fabric. Opposite fabric. Opposite marriage. Remember when that little Miss America candidate said that? Opposite marriage. What an idiot. As opposed to someone who picks out silk.

The point is, I settled on either a giant hot dog or a sort of rough purple-y pink, and I took a swatch of my other chair’s fabric to make sure they look good together and when did I get so middle-aged.

Then I swear to GOD, I was sitting in my house afterward with a can of raspberry lime fizzy water, looking at m’phone, when I got a text from Jeanne saying, “I’m on my way” and I HONEST TO GOD thought, On her way to do what?

What is wrong with me? I still had fabric in my hair and a giant hot dog in my car and I’d already forgotten. Maybe that dog next door is named Jeanne.

Anyway, here’s my forlorn corner with the chair gone, and yes, the paint DID peel from my moulding or whatever it’s called. I saw it sort of bubbling and started peeling it one day because I’m 7 years old with a memory issue. Should I just get rid of the white and have the natural wood on the trim? It’s the original moulding from 1932. Also, THIS WEEKEND. That dresser gets painted white THIS WEEKEND. I also bought new handles so it’s not ransom note dresser anymore.

Jesus.

Anyway, which I already said, but anyway, that was my day, and I headed to my old theater last night to see The Goonies, which was a stupid movie, but I regret so much not going to see Philadelphia Story there in February that I went anyway. Also, Dear World: Stop talking and looking at your phone during the goddamn movie.

Wordily,
June

Your Big Book of June Events will remind you that I hired a life coach recently, a life coach in London, because I have to make things difficult for myself.

Remember when I got my tax refund, which I keep typing “rax refund” like I’m Astro the dog. Anyway, remember how I said I was going to spend some of it on plumbing, because my shower gets cold fast? Perhaps you don’t remember any of this because it’s boring as shit. Well, to make a boring story even boring-er, the plumber came and he fixed my shit for freeeee! No, I did not sleep with him like I was in a dirty movie. “I’m here to…unclog your pipes.”

It was just a simple fix (we turned up the thermostat or whatever it’s called, in the water tank) and he wants my future business and he’s got it.

So since I had money from NOT spending money on plumbing, I found this life coach and so far I really like his stuff, but here’s what I have to tell you.

Part of what I have to do to be life coached is to write stuff down that’s going on with me, not like how I write all my minutiae down for you, but on a more personal, well, I hate to say level. It bugs me. Everyone’s on a level. That’s on a whole nother level! She took it to a new level! Oh, shut up.

I gotta write down a buncha personal shit, then afterward, I have to write down how it made me…

FEEL.

And here is what I’ve observed: I have no idea. I sit there in silence and think, How do I feel? and I think I feel either nothing or annoyed. Like, those are my two emotions: nothing or annoyed. Sometimes distracted. Is distracted a feeling?

Sometimes I like kittens. Is that a feeling?

So. That seems like it’s probably, you know, not good.

I remember my friend Gertrude, years ago, telling me a story about some boy she was dating, and how she told him how something made her feel, and thinking, “Wow, I would have felt that way, too, but I’d have never noticed I felt it.” And that was, like, in 1994.

Gertrude is phenomenally beautiful so there was always a man so maybe she got good at noting how she felt with them. I’ve come to the conclusion that being phenomenally beautiful isn’t so great. First of all, you only attract the kind of man who thinks he deserves a beautiful woman. Second of all, there’s no time to recover from the last man because you literally go to the bookstore to buy breakup books and someone new picks you up among the stacks.

Gertrude is happily single now and lives in the country with her daughter and dogs and cats and gets to see shooting stars. But men always love her all the time even when she goes to Rite-Aid for toilet paper. As a solid 7 at my peak, this was never an issue.

Although once I was on on the ferry outside Seattle, on my way back from a date, and got asked on another date. I said yes, but this was back when no one had caller ID except me. I had all the phone-related stuff early. I love the phone. Anyway, the guy called to confirm our date FROM A TANNING SALON.

I never called him back. For all I know he’d rushed into the salon to save someone’s life, to save someone from a UV ray crisis, and when he was done he thought, Oh, I should use their phone to call and confirm my date with the ferry slut. But I’ll never know because who wants to date the guy who calls from Tanfastic?

I also once got asked on a date while I on another date. (The bartender.) I totally went on that date with that bartender. He was an absolutely beautiful man of color and I ended up not liking him because he was earnest.

But let’s get back to why I feel no feelings. WHAT EVEN IS THAT? I hadn’t noticed it till this London life coach told me to list them, which is maybe why he did so, I don’t know. I speak with him again via satellite, because London, tomorrow.

Does anyone else have this going on? Why did it happen? Have I always been this way? I wasn’t paying attention.

I have no idea how I feel about it.

Numbly,
Juan

*Name that band

That’s it. I’m moving to a country where aging women are considered beautiful and they don’t have daylight savings.

That alarm went off today and I was all, Oh this is bullshit. Iris thought so too. I felt her flinch in shock when that alarm blanged at us at what was REALLY 5:20. Jesus. Why can’t we just let daylight get here naturally, asks Botox head.

My grandmother always did that. When daylight savings hit, she’d always say what time it REALLY was. And look! Look who I’ve turned into. I just figured out the other day that I am the same age she was when she got cataracts, and while I put the cat in cataracts, I’ve yet to be diagnosed, but I’m just over here waiting.

Speaking of cats, while I’m trying not to mention anyone I used to go out with on this not-blog (Why can’t she just say “blog” naturally? asks Botox head), someone I used to go out with has one of my foster cats, a cat named Nancy, whom we all loved, and that someone I went out with, fmr., texted me this photo over the weekend and it was so cute I had to show it to all y’all all.

Nancy. I’m so glad she’s good.

I’m trying to think of what I did all weekend.

I made this, and who even am I, even? I’ve been on this mysterious diet all week, that’s supposed to hore your moans or moan your horehound or do something or other with your hormones, and mostly it’s just eating a lot of protein and not having a starch till dinner, and it’s manageable but does anyone like their protein powder? Because have you ever seen that cute video where the pretty dog eats all the things and rates them out of 10 points? It’s my favorite for petspeak.

I feel like maybe only people with Facebook will be able to watch that, and what’s with making things Facebook exclusive? You wanna irk me? Have a business that ONLY has a Facebook website.

Anyway, that dog at one point eats a fish and they have him saying, “Lil fishy,” and every morning when I drink that damn smoothie with that damn protein powder, I think, “Lil fishy.”

There’s no FISH in it, but I taste fish. No one wants to drink fish.

Anyway, that chicken I made was okay, but too onion-y. Why do I need a whole onion for four unassuming pieces of chicken? Seems a … lil fishy.

Another thing I did this weekend was observe Mr. Swirl, here, abstaining from the 49 soft cushiony places to sleep in this house and opting for the wood floor. Also, I see carpet fibers near him, which leads me to believe first he clawed my new rug. I had my chance right there to take Mr. Swirl to the pound while he slept and did I do it? I did not.

Also, someone posted a whole thing on how you should adopt grownup cats and not kittens, and this was part of it and I sat here like an idiot and laughed at this for maybe 10 hours. Why can’t she look at Facebook naturally? asks Botox head.

I feel like I didn’t go out much this weekend and I guess I didn’t. It was rainy and shitty. But then Sunday was nice so I headed downtown.

If I get more cats, I’ll turn into this boob-cat-woman. This was like a warning.

If you want to see people be humorless, go ahead and call that statue Mr. Greensboro. “It wasn’t Mr. Greensboro. That was Nathanael Greene, who…”

zzzzzzzzz. Whatever. It’s Mr. Greensboro.

Okay, I gotta go. I gotta head to work in this FOG of this government-imposed time change.

Libertarianally,
Juuup

When the mailroom guy brought up my boss’s Stitch Fix box yesterday, I said, “Oh, this is so exciting! She gets her Stitch Fix, see, then all the people who read me vote on what she should keep or return!”

His look was priceless. Like, everything in that entire sentence was a “?” to him. Men think we’re weird.

Anyway, if you just got here, my boss gets a subscription called Stitch Fix. Every month they send her clothes, and she has the option to buy them all or buy some of them or return the whole dang thing in disgust.

Fortunately, we, the viewing audience, are able to scream at her and tell her what to do with her clothes, which if you ask me makes perfect sense. Let’s begin.

I had photos of her NOT shutting her eyes, but this captures The Joy of Boss. I like it.

• 

• 

• 

Keep in mind that if she buys all of them she gets some sort of discount, and if she returns all of them she’s out $20. You pay $20 every month for this subscription, and if you order anything you get that $20 toward your purchase. Also, I keep typing 420 and not $20 and am on own nerves.

Vote now! She’ll make her pressing clothing (bah) decision this weekend.

And now I have to go because the cat is meowing desperately and I know he’s got himself trapped somewhere, a thing you might find alarming but that happens about 20 times a month, so.

A poll-ing-ly,
June

My whole goal today was to get everything done and start writing by 7:30 a.m., and I did it just exactly at that time. Do you feel like your whole day is just racing against the clock? Or is it more runnin’ against the wind, because you’re Bob Seger reading my blog?

I have deadlines all day, and I find myself nervously looking at the time. Can I really get 60 pages done by 10:00? The answer is always no, not if I want to do it well. But I get it done by 10:00. I do not miss deadlines.

I go home for lunch, and nervously ask my Google Home for the time repeatedly. Google Home is so sick of me. Can I have lunch, play fetch with Blu (and also the dog. Otherwise the neighbors are certainly having a field day looking over here) and eat and get back in an hour?

The answer is no. But I try.

I finally don’t have to look at the time is once I’m home for the night, and so I DON’T look at it, until I do and it’s always later than I want it to be. Mother of GOD how is it already 11:00? Is this any way to live? It is not. But I am not a millionaire, and I think at this point even millionaires look at the time.

Why were we born in the rush era? But not the band. Although technically we are alive during the Rush era. But I try to ignore that.

However, as someone who had a panic attack during a massage and who lies on the beach thinking anxious thoughts on the inside, even if I were independently wealthy and didn’t have to BE places at certain TIMES and so on, I’d still find a way to be nervous about it.

Sigh. Let’s look at pictures. I feel like I haven’t put in any pictures lately. Oh! And while we’re waiting for them to upload, my boss, crnt., is getting her Stitch Fix today! Stay tuned for Stitch Fix voting tomorrow!

Yesterday when I was racing against time and runnin’ against the wind at lunch, I was making a salmon salad, and Mr. Assafrass, over here, immediately jumped on the counter because he has to be right up in everything I do. I was very nervous about what kind of ecstatic fit he’d have when I got out the salmon portion of my lunch, so I … hunched around it to add the salmon. I looked up to see if he had a napkin tied around his neck, but no.

He was munching happily on my avocado. I HOPE it’s poisonous to cats. I’m PRAYING it is.

I accidentally took this while in line at the grocery store, where, ironically, I was buying avocados. I clearly have a deviated septum, so why can’t I get a free nose job?

The only other picture I have since this weekend is a screenshot I took of a man on Tinder who went by the handle “Mr. Goodbar,” and I feel like he missed the point of that book.

Oh, guess who just jumped up on the desk, here. Is it Assafrass himself? My other cats seem like such a delight now in comparison. Whose idea was it to get a goddamn kitten?

It’s 7:45 now, and I’d better leave for work before I’m late. I’m old and strong and I’m still runnin’ against the wind.

Love,
Timely June

Because I’m some sort of chaos junkie, in the past seven days I’ve done the following:

• Started some sort of hormone metabolism diet, from an ad I saw on Instagram. I know you’re gonna ask me, “What diet, Joooooon?” and I don’t rightly know the name. All I know is I get messages on the diet from The Sherpa. Cause it was all through Instagram so I have no trail, man, on this.
• Started a life coaching thing, also from Instagram and I should really stop with those Instagram ads. The specific life coaching thing is for breaking trauma bonds. The coach is in London. I know you’re gonna ask me, “What life coach, JOOOOON?” and at least this one I can find. That was just a link, there.
• Started going to a chiropractor several times a week.
• “What chiropractor, JOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO…”

Anyway, so on Monday at 6:30 a.m., I had my first coaching sesh, and yes I just said “sesh.” It was at 6:30 because London. It was 11:30 in the morning for him. Oh my god, he was insightful. With the insights. So, after our…sesh…that night I had to do about two hours’ worth of video-watching and writing. Now that I’ve seen the videos and they have seen me, I have to continue to write for about half an hour every night for the next four weeks, interspersed with my weekly one-hour sessions (seshes) and new videos, with new assignments.

With m’diet, I have to each morning make a smoothie with spinach, blueberries, flax, almond milk and protein powder and also your mother’s ASS because geez Louise. Time-consuming. You know what’s not time-comsuming? A Pop Tart.

Then at 11:30, 2x a week, I have my chiropractor, and I go to it as my lunch hour. It’s on the next block and I could walk there, but I never do because the weather here has been your mother’s ASS, oh my god. It’s so cold and rainy and then you think, “Oh, maybe tomorrow will be better” and then it’s cold and rainy the next day.

I have a Google Home now, which started out as a gift for my Aunt Mary but she hated it so I kept it. Every morning when I’m drawing the blinds (I have so many sketches of my blinds now) I say, “Good morning, Google,” and it says, “Hi. June.”

It literally calls me June and also he always hesitates awkwardly like that. “Hi. June.” Anyway then he tells me the weather, and for the past two months I’m all motherFUCK. You have got to be fucking kidding me with this fucking weather. Today he added, “And with the wind, it feel like 16 degrees.” SHUT UP.

So I’m not walking to the chiropractor.

Anyway, that takes almost the whole lunch hour, the chiropractor does, and I feel guilty about leaving Edsel, as all of Eds’s life I’ve come home for lunch. When I’ve had jobs in, say, Winston-Salem, I get a dog-sitter. I realize the best part of life is the thinner slice. I also realize I need to get over that line. And also that plenty of dogs go 8 hours and 12 minutes alone with 80 cats while their owners are gone.

That’s how long he’s alone. It’s six minutes each way to work, and then the 8 hours. Oh, wait. It’d be 9 hours and 12 minutes if you include stupid lunch. Oh my god POOR EDSEL. I guess I have to take him to dog daycare on chiropractor days. Even though I come home and he’s not, like, champing at the bit to go pee.

How can he not be? I’d be dying.

So anyway, now that I’m on that hormone diet, I’m doing things like making a spinach salad with homemade dressing and last night I made meat loaf but with zucchini instead of bread in it.

Then after that I have to do stretches that the chiropractor gave me to do, and also I have to ice my neck 47 times a night.

What I’m saying to you is there’s a lot to do lately. Oh! And the chiropractor said, “I want you to do these stretches, but please know a lot of my migraine patients say these stretches trigger migraine at first. You just have to get through that part.”

And you know what? He was right. I did the stretches Monday night for the first time, and I did NOTHING ELSE to trigger a migraine, but woke up with one. Ding-dang it. I took a pill and was fine.

Oh, but it was the worst thing! I often wake up with a migraine, and hunch out to the kitchen to take a pill and go to bed and more often than not I wake up fine.

But on Tuesday morning, I hunched out to the kitchen for m’pill, and noted it was

SIX TEN.

My alarm goes off at 6:20. Oh, I was mad. But I slept for another hour and skipped blogging and when I woke up I was fine.

Anyway, that’s what’s been up with me lately, and it feels like a lot, but in a month I’ll be thin and pain-free and not trauma bonded, so we have THAT to look forward to.

Busily,
Joop

I’m not entirely sure that I sat down at all this weekend. But of course, I must’ve peed at some point, right? You have to sit down to do that. Unless you’re a man. And in case anyone was up in the air on that one, I am not a man. I am also not an animal.

That was yet another hilarious Elephant Man joke, in my famous series of Elephant Man jokes.

On Friday after work, I got The Poet’s hat for her. She had left her hat at a restaurant and I had to go near there anyway, so I told her I would just return her hat to her on Sunday, as we had plans.

The thing is, of course, we had this conversation during the workday, and then about an hour later she mentioned it and I was all, “What hat?”

I could tell this made her nervous. A while later she said that she could just go get the hat herself, and on my insides I was once again thinking “What hat?” But at least this time it popped right back into my head and I said “Oh, no no no no, of course I’ll go get the hat.” (What hat?) “I’m going to be right near there anyway.” (Near WHAT?)

I know everybody here is thinking I forgot to get the damn hat because everybody here knows how I am. But seeing as I already put a picture up of said hat, along, inexplicably, with a piece of bread, you already know the end of the hat story.

Also, I took a picture of how fucking hard it was raining and what I wish I could do is give you some sort of way to feel how damn cold it was too. So not only did I remember to get her hat, I got it during torrential ice rain.

On Saturday, I got up at 6 AM because I had to model at 9:30. I had to give my hair a chance to dry for as long as possible–it takes forever to dry. Then, at 8:30 in the morning, in full makeup and a formal dress, I drove downtown–to drive all the old man crazy.

This modeling gig, and I know you’re sick and tired of hearing about all my modeling gigs, was something for work. We’re sponsoring a charitable cause. It’s a long story. Just know that I had to get all dressed up in full makeup and go to a studio on a Saturday morning.

I didn’t take any pictures of the photoshoot itself, because how can you take a picture of yourself in a photoshoot? But it was really exciting to be in a photo studio, and have someone touch up my makeup, and be all glamorous and everything. This must be what it’s like to be Cheryl Tiegs every day. Also, we are suddenly in 1978. Welcome!

I was in a part of downtown that I never am. It was really cool.

It’s recently been refurbished and it has all these really excellent historic homes and little storefronts and so on. This neighborhood is kind of what I’m hoping my neighborhood will be in a few years. My neighborhood will either be adorable or I will be killed in some sort of crack incident.

After my photoshoot, and I just like to say that, I stopped in at a little diner and got a green smoothie. It seemed like something a model should drink.

There was a woman there with four small children and she was eight months pregnant as well. She was giving them all smoothies. She was in a much better mood than I would have been in had I been with four young children with one on the way. Of course, people putting their necks in the guillotine are in a better mood than I am, generally.

Of course I petted this kitty. What are you, new?

I went home and let Edsel out and so on, then I drove to get my roots done. That always takes about three hours. If I had money I would go there every two weeks. Because what roots two weeks later? What hat?

Sometimes I think about giving up on dyeing my hair. It’s just so ridiculous and expensive and time-consuming. But do I really want to give up and be gray Barbara Bush?

On Sunday I trimmed my hydrangeas (not a euphemism), then took an hour-long walk, because I’m trying to not be such a fat ass. I took a look at all the houses in my neighborhood. Seeing as I live in a mill neighborhood, pretty much all the houses are exactly the same here. This is excellent for stealing decoration ideas. For example, someone whose house looks exactly like mine has lined up little flowers on either side of the walk leading up to their house. It is a great idea as long as I don’t kill said plants. Which is what I do with every plant. So why am I even having this thought?

On Sunday afternoon, I picked up The Poet, returned her hat to her, and carried her to the theater to see Gone With the Wind, which they’re showing right now because it is the 80-year anniversary. People here say “carried” when they mean drove. I don’t know why.

It turns out, Gone With the Wind is still pretty racist. Also, every time I have gone to the movies with TP, she orders this size popcorn (see above) for herself. I believe she also gets butter on it. She weighs, at most, 14 pounds. How is that something that happens in life?

It’s possible that you don’t remember everything Melanie Hamilton wore to the barbecue at Twelve Oaks. Not only did she select this minimalist mutton-sleeve getup, with a sash, and ruffles, and a hat with a bow the size of your large intestines, she also topped off her lewk with some fishnet gloves that are unfortunately not visible here. Also, apparently she took some of The Poet’s popcorn and crammed it into the rim of her bonnet.

There is a scene during the barbecue where Ashley asks her, “Happy?”

I leaned over to The Poet and whispered, “Accessorized?” Then I had an enormous oil painting commissioned of myself like the one Scarlet has at her house with Rhett.

If I could get a painting this large commissioned of myself, I would so totally do it. I know everyone here knows that. Also, what hat?

Anyway, after the movie, I had planned to go grocery shopping but it was raining icy cold rainy ice again and I just decided to go home and eat pie for dinner. I know that is ridiculous but you have no idea how crappy it was outside.

On Sunday evening, I spoke with Ned on the phone. The last time I saw him was on January 19, the 7th anniversary of our first date. We decided then that we should stop hanging around each other so much to try to move on with our lives. When we spoke last night we reiterated that thought.

It wasn’t dramatic and we didn’t yell and scream, we just both kind of agreed that we should stay apart.

So that’s that.

So that was m’weekend, and now we’re all lucky enough to be back at work and productive members of society. Who are at work reading a blog.

Heart,

Joooooon

Tomorrow, I have to model.

Again, June? We’re so sick of your modeling stories.

You know, when I was very small, I modeled. I was Saginaw, Michigan’s finest. My father, being a photographer and all, worked in a place that sometimes needed child models and I hope you’re holding onto your hat but I was shy then and easy to order around, so they used me. I was in a bank ad, with all my money management skills. I was in a milk ad, with my deep love of milk. Oh, I had to drink a ton of milk that day and I look miserable in all the ads.

Mom, do you still have them?

I’d even get money for it, and as soon as that cash was in my hand I searched frenetically for a place to spend it. I remember buying a baton with my modeling income once, and that is how I got started being a majorette.

Anyway, here we are again, with me and the modeling career. I don’t even understand what the hell I’m doing, I just know it’s a charitable event and work is supporting said charity and I have to show up in a little black dress and have my picture made.

Guess what I do not own.

So I’d like to point out to you that I’ve known about this for weeks, and I realize this entire post so far has been full of shocking information. June blew all her money as soon as it was in her hand? June didn’t prepare weeks beforehand? June has created chaos for no discernable reason?

I got asked out on two dates yesterday, and both were for … yesterday. I draw in people who don’t plan. Anyway, apparently my hot level was on high yesterday, and say “yesterday” one more time, Yesterday’s June. The point is, I had to turn down a lotta man bits because I had to go dress shopping. I could just see me on Friday, crying in a dressing room because I couldn’t find a dress.

I headed to White President, Black President, or whatever that store is called, and they gave me a stylist who was really nice to me except she kept talking about how fat I am in really subtle ways. Like, “That one is unforgiving to hips” and “That one is good for women with really flat stomachs.”

Look here, little stylist. Do you know how many men are waiting for me out there? Two. That’s how many.

I took these dressing-room pictures not only because I’m a narcissist, but also because I informed Lottie Blanco that I’d be sending photos to her and to her wife, Lottie Blanco 2, all night.

Neither of the Lottie Blancos give two shits about dresses. Also, I am so over everyone on earth being “a narcissist.” They can’t possibly all be narcissists.

I can, though, so let’s look at more pictures of me.

I don’t know what I’m doing with my hand, but I also know this dress just kind of hung there. Also, it’s hard to take a full-body picture of yourself.

Cleave! Ho! Also, could I look more tired? It had been a long day at work. One of the other copy editors is on vacation this week and it’s intense, man.

I branched out into jumpsuits but kept the odd hand gesture.

I even tried prints (and the revolution), because clearly the little black dress idea was not m’strong suit. I was keeping my pimp hand strong with that one hand, but not my suit of black.

Finally, I found this one, and it’s more of a big black dress, but I think I like it. I put it on hold, and my stylist grew noticeably cooler when I did. At least she stopped harping on how fucking fat I am. Does she realize I could sumo wrestle that skinny bitch to the ground?

I really did like her, actually. I mean, she was a funny person and she was helpful. But dear lord did I feel unattractive leaving there.

I left White Room, Black Curtains and thought I really should go to another store, see if they have any magic “You’re not 53 and fat” dresses. So I went to the God store.

There’s this clothing shop here that sells sort of peasanty hippy dresses and tops that I sometimes end up liking when I’m in the mood for some flow, and the first time I was there I was jamming out to the music when all of a sudden I realized I had some Jesus jams going on. For some reason, it’s like clothing made by God there. Fortunately, they don’t kick me out for being a heathen.

And look who I ran into!

This is Laura, and she’s a faithful reader, and coincidentally the last time I saw her was in 2011 when she and I went to church together on Easter. Now eight years later here we were at the God store.

“You’re on our computer all the time,” her daughter said.

So that was exciting, and she assured me I was not as fat as the stylist said I was, although let’s face it, I must lose weight. I lost weight moving in here, like 10 pounds, and maybe I should start a new career as a professional mover. I’d be fit as a fiddle and making serious bank, I’ll bet.

Anyway, I’ll likely go back tonight to get the dress because my modeling gig starts at 9:30 Saturday morning, and like Linda Evangelista I won’t get out of bed for less than $15,000 and I hope this charity knows it.

Love,
June Crawford

Yesterday put the ridic in ridiculous, and say, June, I don’t think you get how that little wordplay works.

It did, though. It put the ridic in ridiculous.

First of all, I have a friend passing through a crisis, and I love to say that: passing through a crisis. It’s just so dramatic. So I was texting back and forth with We May Never Pass This Way Again about 47 times before 8:00. Then as it neared 8:00, I had to get to work.

Not literally. I’d asked to work from home for part of the morning because I had to take the dog to the vet at 9:30. I really did work from home. I didn’t air quotes work from home. I had–and this will mean nothing to you unless you work in words as I do–seven articles about 11 pages each that had fact-checking and also character counts.

Like three of you are all, Oh, wow. They give you enough time for that?

My job is constantly a fight for getting enough time to do it well. I think people think copy editing is reading. I mean, just reading. I’ve complained about that before, though, and actually they gave me 10 hours to do 7 articles that were about 11 pages apiece with fact-checking and character counts, and that was actually pretty reasonable.

So from 8 to 9:15, I copyedited some stuff. It was an article. About 11 pages. I needed to fact check. Count characters.

(When you’re writing for social media, you sometimes have to write only a certain number of words. Each letter and space counts. I would estimate that this paragraph is 190 characters right now.)

(I just checked. It was 195.)

Then, at 9:15, I got the leash and my pug went insane, and I hooked it on him and he shedded like an Australian shepherd all the way to the vet. Edsel, my German shepherd/Australian shepherd/cattle dog/FUCKING PUG, has seemed stiff in his hips lately. Not willing to get right up from lying down. That sort of thing.

The first thing I did was show my vet his new DNA results. The dog’s, not the vet’s. That would have been weird. “Interesting results,” said the vet, who appears to have seen everything from behind her purple glasses.

As soon as my dog got diagnosed with being a German shepherd, he got diagnosed with hip dysplasia and his spine being out of adjustment. She did an adjustment on

WORLD’S SCAREDEST DOG

and then gave me this fish oil and also these supplements to start with, and if that doesn’t work we’ll use real drugs.

He already seems better after she adjusted his attitude and also his spine.

The thing about my vet is, she’s very learned, and always quotes studies and so on, and she was doing that when

MOTHER OF GOD

I remembered I was getting this fast-turnaround thing around 10 and it was 10:08.

“I HAVE TO GO!” I screeched, taking my pug with me. I called my boss on the way to the office, and she was calm while I was hysterical, and then I got there and Jane West had already done the thing.

Then, because the dog and I are Elliott and E.T., I had a chiropractor appointment at 11:30 on the next block from work. It was going to be my early lunch, and they’d wanted me to come there for an hour and a half, and I was all, Foo, I have a JOB, Foo, that’s why my neck hurts all the time.

So we agreed I’d do the paperwork ahead of time and guess who forgot till JUST THEN at 10:30. I rushed through that paperwork, and Dear People in Doctor’s Offices Who Make Forms: Don’t make me fill out the same info on different forms over and over again. And give me long enough lines.

I liked that chiropractor, though. He talked to me for a long time and explained everything and seems honest and not scammy, and then he adjusted me and I got those little circles stuck on me where they electric shock you for 20 minutes and then I went back to work and worked all day till 5:00.

Do you know what I forgot to do, though? Was eat, really. I munched casually on a sandwich at about 1:00, but I wasn’t feeling it and I was worried about getting my work done, which was 7 articles that were about 11 pages each with fact checking and character counts.

I finished right at 5:00, though, and boom.

Then I had to scream back to the vet because I had literally left without paying or taking my medicine with me, so panicked was I. THEN I had to go to my eye doctor’s place, because I ran out of contacts last week and have been wearing my glasses and I hate wearing glasses. They’re just so heavy and they slip down and make me look like I’m wearing glasses.

My glasses guy and I always end up talking forever about our failed romances. Don’t get excited: We differ politically. And he wears pleated khakis. Anyway, I stayed there longer than I’d anticipated.

Also, I realize that Paula H&B has had seven heart attacks reading this intensely like she does when I have an intense day.

THEN I screamed home at about 5:30, gave supplements and fish oil to the cattle dog, fed the cats, washed my hands for 47 minutes and ate the rest of my sandwich from lunch but I had promised self I’d go to the 6:00 showing of the live-action shorts that got nominated for an Oscar.

I don’t know why the Oscars are awarding clothes, either, and I’d have started with dresses.

Just as I started eating, the phone rang and it was my father. “Hello, daughter,” he said, being retired and in the lap of luxury.

“Hello, father,” I said, while eating.

Then the whole conversation my father kept complaining that I was eating, even though I’d given him the rundown of my timeline, there. I failed to mention the 7 articles I’d gotten done already.

“Well, it’s been fun talking to a horse,” said my father, hanging up to go enjoy the sunset or whatever the retired do.

I screamed into the car and called my mother on the way to tell her about Edsel’s hips. I told her the vet said Eds had many

many

more years to live. I sighed.

“Really, though, as he’s aged, he’s a lot less of an asshole.”

“I keep waiting to say the same about you,” said my mother, and perhaps she and my father could start a comedy school in their retirement years.

And here’s what I have to tell you about those goddamn live-action shorts.

First of all, popular. I think one guy was there working and I was the only patron in the whole theater. It was oddly thrilling and had he been remotely appealing I’d have had theater sex just to say I had.

BUT THOSE SHORTS. Don’t do it. Don’t see them. I mean it. Apparently the new thing is to upset the viewer as much as possible. The only one I liked was the one about the nice old lesbian.

Jesus. Don’t see them. And if you make short films, upsetting people does not equal art. All of them other than the old lesbian had bad things–really bad–happening to kids. I don’t even LIKE kids and those films upset me.

I had to come home and lie listlessly on the couch and recover after.

And that was yesterday and now I literally have two minutes to get to work, and I am sorry, Paula H&B.

Taaa-daaa. I put this on Facebook yesterday and called it “The day we all said, ‘PUG?'”

Also, on Facebook, some people were like, “This isn’t true” and I was all, it’s, you know, pretty science-y, y’all. Do you also think there weren’t dinosaurs?

Anyway, Pug.

Yeah.

I went home and spoke German to Eds, but he found me annoying.

Your favorite mother of a German Cattle Pug Herd,
June

What is a smell you don’t like that other people really do?

I didn’t watch the Oscars. I don’t have TV. I called a couple people and I was all, “You watching the Oscars?” and they were all, “Yep.” And then I waited pregnantly for my invitation and none was forthcoming and goddammit.

Then I tried to get it on my phone. ABC, not friends. But get this—you can’t load the app and view ABC on your phone if you don’t have cable. What the hell? It’s not a cable channel. Why should I need that?

Irritating.

Fortunately, you can immediately see Oscar highlights online, so that worked. Also, everyone I called was a good enough friend that I just could have just said, “I’m coming over to watch with you” but I didn’t do that. Because in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m exceedingly polite.

Actually, I did get invited to one place. Cardinal, my boyfriend from high school, invited me over.

Cardinal is NOT who I wrote about last week when I wrote about things I can’t forgive. Cardinal never called me a flake, despite everyone in the comments having group hysteria and referring to “when Cardinal called you a flake,” even though right there in the post I wrote that my other hs boyfriend, Giovanni Leftwich, called me a flake in 1981. A thing I’m still pissed off about.

I have to tell you that when I just typed that I’m still pissed at Giovanni Leftwich for calling me a flake in 1981 (when HE was being the flake) (still pissed), I immediately got into my head the theme from Ice Castles:

Please, don’t let this feeling end. It’s everything I am. Everything I want to be.

And then I cracked own self up and patted self lovingly, and that pretty much sums up what it’s like to be inside here.

ANYWAY. I did get invited to watch the Oscars, at Cardinal’s. Well, technically his sister’s. Sister of Cardinal. Cardinal lives outside of Seattle, but he’s been in North Carolina for more than a week, as both his parents have died, one month apart. Isn’t that awful?

Careful readers will note I went to his father’s funeral in January, but then his mother died right after that. Exactly one month to the day her husband died.

Cardinal’s sister has been living in NC for awhile, and last week Cardinal and his brother came to clear out the house and do the 10,000 things you have to do when someone dies. Probably the olden days were better when people didn’t have insurance policies and credit cards and executors.

Anyway, I traveled to where Cardinal and his sister were this weekend, and it was the World’s Worst Weather. Oh my god, with the rain. It rained hard and relentlessly, and trucks would go by and splash me, and sometimes I couldn’t see a goddamn thing, and I was June Concrete Shoulders by the time I arrived.

Then we had to get in the car and drive another half hour to Cardinal’s parents’ house. June Marble Shoulders.

Cardinal, as shown above, drove the last rainy part of our rainy journey, and I sat in back peering nervously at the road the entire time. The fact that I’m not driving never makes me any less nervous.

Cardinal’s driving has never upset me, though. There are some people whose driving always nerves me out (Ned), but as long as I can recall, Cardinal has been a careful driver with me, even though I can think of two really dumb car accidents he got into as a youth.

His sister was in the passenger seat. I wasn’t, like, playing limo.

Anyway, they’d done most of the dividing of stuff, but they had some things they thought I might like, including his sister’s pink Love’s Baby Soft Bear that STILL HELD a bottle of Love’s Baby Soft. And also, they returned my tanning blanket, and it’s about time. God.

I totally remember going to Cardinal’s, or him coming to my house, and lying in the sun on this horrific blanket, then going inside to have sex and returning to said blanket because it was still prime tanning hours, and hello, mom.

God, what a perfect afternoon. This was before we fretted about the sun’s rays and HPV. In the future, they’ll look back at this worry-about-everything time as the least-fun time since the Depression.

Cardinal had this aunt and uncle I always really liked. They were childless, and I hate to say this because you’ll think I adore self (see above ref to when I gazed fondly at self for thinking of Ice Castles), but childless couples always have this cool vibe. I guess we could point out I’m not a childless couple. I’m COMPLETELY ALONE. I wish that made me sad but I just got a little thrill of delight and skated around the ice singing my theme song again.

Anyway, his aunt and uncle, who it turns out were his GREAT aunt and uncle, had a cool vibe. I liked going to their house and hanging out on their screened-in porch, and I liked his aunt’s red hair, and her laugh while she held a glass of hard liquor on the rocks.

She had a really elaborate Christmas village that lit up that was really old and I adored it. She gave me a black ’50s embroidered sweater that I still own.

The point is, when she died, they found a bunch of black and green Depression glass that she’d left to Cardinal, and this weekend, I took the green stuff. It’s really pretty. I’d get up and take a picture for you but I’m–oh, FINE.

I should have a Depression party. We can serve bathtub gin and listen to Pink Floyd.

Anyway, that was pretty much my weekend, except that yesterday I went out and got new (white) paint and dresser handles to redo that dresser I ruined. I started sanding it yesterday and got bored. Sanding is terrible.

I also took, from Cardinal’s parents’ house, a full container of never-opened drink umbrellas and I want to do something with them. Like maybe hand them out to mice when it’s raining.

I have to go to work. I took work email off my phone because no one ever said I had to add it in the first place, and every time I get a work email on the weekend I panic, so I said, Screw this and removed it. I had the opposite of the Ice Castles song. Please, let this feeling end.

I really need to get over the theme from Ice Castles.

Obsessively,
June

Last summer, we had a food truck at work.

We have them a couple times a month when it’s warmer, and people from our whole building frequent said food truck, not just my offce.

(Also, as an aside, some days I’ll get something from the truck and return to my desk with a Styrofoam container or a little open food tray with hot food in it, and inevitably someone will say, “Oh, is that from the food truck?”

I realize I am the World’s Crabbiest Person, but this drives me berserk. Where else would it be from? Did you think I just make a Philly cheesesteak at home and put it in an open container for lunch? Even anticipating that question has made me so cranky that I spend my entire food truck lunch tensed up, waiting for 15 people to ask, “Oh, is that from the food truck?” At this point, I get something from the truck and put the usually open container in my car and drive home, just to avoid that conversation.)

But that is not why I’ve gathered you here today.

I’ve gathered you here to talk about forgiveness.

Last summer, the, you know, food truck came to work and parked itself in our parking lot. I traipsed out there, keys in hand, ready to get my food and scurry home, away from The Question, so that Edsel could say, “dat be frum fud truk?”

Anyway, the line was sort of haphazardly formed, and I saw someone I knew and went over to say hello. “Oh, is your food going to come from the food truck?”

The point is, this little

ASSHOLE

from another company said, “Ma’am? Excuse me, ma’am?”

He was talking to me. Don’t ma’am me, you little twit.

“I don’t mean to be rude.”

Any time someone says they don’t mean to be rude, they 100% mean to be rude.

“But, we were here? Behind you? You just cut in line.”

I mean, they hadn’t been behind me. They’d been clustered sort of messily in the general vicinity. But I said, “Oh! I’m so sorry! Of course!” and, humiliated, got behind them in line.

Three young boys they were, probably early 20s, although at this point early 20s and mid-30s look the same to me. Everyone I see under 40 has a beard and skinny jeans and I have no way of knowing if they’re edging toward male-pattern baldness or just got voting rights.

Seconds later, I am not even kidding you, SECONDS LATER, their young stupid friend joined them. “Hey!” he said, all happy to see a coworker, the way I was.

AND THEY LET HIM STAY. THEY LET HIM “cut in line.” Even though they’d just admonished me for the same thing.

Here’s what I have to talk to you about. That was last summer. I AM STILL LIVID.

I really am. I mean, when I even pass another door to another office here in this building, I think of that incident and burn right up. I don’t even smile when I see someone I don’t know in the parking lot, in case they know those horrible boys.

What I want to know is, how do people forgive real things if I can’t even get past the food truck incident? Like, how do Holocaust survivors forgive, and I’m over here still burning mad over millennials?

I’m seriously asking this. Cause, oooooo, I’m mad.

I’m also still angry over something that happened in 1981. There was a boy, Giovanni Leftwich, who like like liked me all spring and all summer and all fall, and he was constantly coming over and making his 10th-grade move and so on. Finally, over Christmas break, finally I came around to his side and liked him back.

We had two glorious 10th-grade-romance weeks, when out of nowhere he broke up with me. He didn’t even break up with me, really, he just disappeared, and I finally had to call him at home to ask what was up. “I don’t like you because you’re a flake,” he yelled, and I burst into tears and was brokenhearted and did my best to carry on and then

THIRTY-FIVE YEARS LATER

it dawned on me.

HE WAS THE DAMN FLAKE.

Oh my god, this sizzles my chaps. HE WAS THE FLAKE. He did nothing but hit on me for months and then when I liked him back? Oh, forget it. Never mind.

Okay, so tell me. How do you not sit around being livid about things that really don’t matter that much?

Also, is that from the lunch truck?

June

Yesterday, my pal Wedding Alex and I headed … north? West? We headed in some direction to the mountains, as the Vanderbilts, personal friends of ours, bilt a mansion in the 1800s, and do you see what I did there?

Wedding Alex was the driver, as she is the grownup. Hey, I’m the one who had the free tickets, thanks to being a world-famous blogger.

We got on the open road with the first light of day (9:30-ish), and off we went. Free! Unencumbered! We had the world by the tail! We…we…

had to pee. We stopped off at a room of rest.

It turns out this restroom was even better than the one I go to to have gay man trysts. It had THE BEST vending machines, and I realize one doesn’t necessarily HAVE to go to the vending machines at a rest stop, but if you don’t you aren’t my type and our homosexual tryst is off.

First of all, it took ATM cards, the vending machine did, and my info is probably being stolen across the land. This land is your land, this card is your card.

Also, when you selected your item, this mechanical arm reached across and got your item, let’s say a Mrs. Freshley’s cupcake just to throw a random scenario out there, then it gently placed the item in the outbox or whatever it’s called, and then it mechanically gave you a reacharound.

“This is going to be my favorite part of this trip,” I announced, because mechanical arm!

Anyway, we finally got to Asheville, like the Edie Brickell/Steve Martin song.

If you’re ever headed to the Biltmore, and you arrive in Asheville, you needn’t worry that you won’t be able to find, you know, the Biltmore. Once I was in the cemetery where they buried Jim Morrison, in Paris. All these other famous people were similarly buried there, but all sorts of tombstones had spraypainted on them “Jim” with an arrow leading you to Jim. Asheville was much the same, leading you to the mansion, except on fancier, less-dead signs.

Once you get to the property, it’s

TWO

MILES

from the front to the actual house. Then, after you’ve driven

TWO

MILES,

it’s an 8-minute walk to the actual house.

Two miles. That’s longer than from my house here to work.

I took a video of us exclaiming over how ridiculous it was to have to drive two miles just to get down your driveway, and we said all sorts of pithy unforgettable things about it, and then you know what? I turned on the video feature of my phone once we were done. See, normally what you’d want to do is turn it on, you know, first.

Anyway, we eventually got there, and felt quite butch making that 8-minute trek through the woods, although W Alex became convinced we’d be kidnapped. You hear of a lot of kidnappings at the entry to the Biltmore, so I get it.

Also too, every time we saw a guard or a traffic guy or a janitor, we’d say, “That guy wanted us.”

It’d be funny if it weren’t so true.

You’re going to be stunned to hear that the Biltmore has a lotta rooms, and a lotta fireplaces, and I can’t begin to imagine what they spend on those Duraflame logs each month.

• 

• 

But what I liked best, beyond the billiard room and the bowling alley and the pool and the gym

was the everyday stuff. Because you know how I am about the everyday. I’m obsessed with it. So, for me, the bathrooms were riveting. The kitchens (they had, like, 10 of them). The maids’ rooms. That’s the stuff I could identify with. Okay, I can’t identify with kitchens. You know what I mean, though. I mean, I can’t say, How does this drawing room differ from mine. But a bathroom? I can identify.

Afterward, we had lunch in the stables, as you do. Even the leftovers be fance.

Then, because we hadn’t spent enough money there, (we’d spent none) (well, lunch. Okay. LUNCH.) (I had bison pot roast. The waiter really buffaloed me into ordering it.) we popped into all the shops, where I am sorry to tell you I bought dark chocolate lavender truffles. I wanted to buy some dark chocolate-covered cashews, but the moment I would have brought them into the car, W Alex would have fallen over dead with her nut allergy and then I’d have had to navigate home and I’m really not good with directions.

In all, ’twas an excellent day looking at rich people’s houses, although I guess technically I looked at rich people’s HOUSE, and it’s hard to believe that was one house.

Now I gotta go the 17 steps from my house to my car, and then drive…well, zero miles to get out of my driveway, seeing as I don’t have one. I DO have a personal alley out back, and can the Vanderbilts say that? Hmmm? Can they?

Wealthily,
June