I just laid there. Or lay. You know what sounds good? Lay’s Potato Chips.

Yesterday, I finally relented and called my doctor, because you know how I resist doing that. I’m never one to call the doctor. Or cause a fuss. Anyway, he insisted I get an x-ray of my toe, because apparently if you let it go, occasionally something hellish could happen and all of a sudden Scarlett O’Hara is watching your anesthesia-free amputation.

Fortunately, the x-ray place is literally across the street from work, so all I had to do is hobble over there, and to make a long story agonizingly longer, I have a broken toe, officially.

GettyImages-2642432I know.

So, the good news is, I have to buy “hard-soled shoes,” whatever those are, and when I Google that, I find sort of nerdy Maryjane, I-love-folk-festivals shoes that I have always secretly thought were sort of cute.

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Normally, these shoes are like $115, and I just got the last pair, in red, on Zuilly, for $61, including shipping, which always pisses me off. Shipping.

Anyway, now I have nerd shoes. I hope they don’t reject my feet, seeing as I’m so cool.

I wonder if I’ll start listening to NPR and letting my hair go gray and long. Serve soup in handmade bowls with crusty bread on the side.

My doctor, who is not at all sick of me.

My doctor, who’s got a fever and the only cure is No June.

My doctor said I will be laid up with this major break for six weeks. But if I tape my major break and wear my nerd shoes, I can still walk Edsel. “You’ve got that dog, right?” he said, thinking of my plan for a cure. What’s sad is he knows my ins and outs so well. He also said, “You’re not gonna blog about walking into a dog bone and breaking your toe, are you?”

“Dude. I already wrote about that this morning,” I told him.

“Do you think you’ll lose readers?” he asked. See. I think he thinks the secret to blogging success is to seem, you know, dignified. But if I were dignified, what would be the point of reading me? Oh, I think I’ll wander on over to June to see what dignity she has today. Ima go over and see June handle life with grace.

I mean, zzzzzzzz.

So that happened; I broke a major bone in my body and may never walk again. But now that we know that, and we know that the solution is I have to wear shoes that look like I’m teaching granola making at The Learning Annex, let’s move on to the topics I did not cover yesterday.

Ned and Nancy. Almost Sid, but if Sid were an engineer.

As you know, from your Big Book of June Events, I have been fostering kittens for the local animal shelter, and recently I had a mom cat and her four kittens–all of whom are already adopted; I checked. Anyway, Ned lost his cat in December after 18 years of having her, and he decided to adopt Nancy, the mom to my foster kittens.

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sheee miss uzz, eben tho we poop on ebrything

Oh my god, I DO miss them.

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IMG_4214.jpgI’ve no idea why I’m giving you so much background, like you don’t all know this info. Like someone just got here. Anyway, the mom, Nancy, pooped outside her litter box once or twice here, but once she got to Ned’s, she’s doing it all over yonder.

And why doesn’t everyone ask me if he’s done all the things anyone would do. Yes, he tried other litter boxes. Yes, he tried other litter. Yes, he tried the cat-attracting litter (he told me EVERYONE is asking him that one). Yes, he took her to the vet.

They didn’t find anything physically wrong, but they think she’s a feral cat. They told him to confine her to one room (he did) and put her on Prozac (he did). That’s where it is now, and it’s not going well.

 

IMG_4221.jpgHe will probably not be able to keep her, which is just so sad. I asked Chris and Lilly if they needed a barn cat, but they don’t. Poor sweet Nancy.

Ned called me last night to tell me the latest, about the Prozac, and I told him the sad truth about my major injury. “Do you need anything?” he asked. Ironically, I needed cat food, so he bought some at the store, as opposed to conjuring it up with his mind control, and brought it over.

He’d been at the gym and tending to Nancy and so on, and hadn’t eaten, so I offered him one of my bags of nuts. So to speak.

I buy those 100-calorie packs of nuts to snack on, and I can just HEAR my mother saying, “That’s too expensive,” but I don’t know if she’s met me or not, but you give me a big container of nuts and all of a sudden we’re out of nuts and I’m Templeton at the end of the fair.

templeton_satisfied_by_guttloverz.jpgThe point is, I like the bags of almonds and walnuts–plain, no salt–but Ned crunched a few and asked, “What ARE these?”

“They’re almonds and walnuts.” I thought he’d be happy with them. Ned buys Girl Scout cookies and eats one a day.

One.

A day.

Till they’re gone.

So I thought saltless nuts would delight him. But Ned has never had protein in his house, a fact that has always annoyed me. He works out and then he’s starving and you offer him a stick of cheese and he acts like you’ve offered to brand him with I Heart Ted Nugent or something.

Anyway, deese nuts. “What are they flavored with, the powder of boredom and despair?” he asked, crunching frownily.

The point is, he will try Prozac on Nancy for awhile, but he’s cleaning random poop a hundred times a day and is about to give up.

So that’s THAT happy story.

My Chakras. As Opposed to My Shakiras. Either Way, Hips Told the Truth.

IMG_5439.jpgOn Saturday, I went to a cute local place to have my chakras read.

It’s kind of hard to explain what all we did. We talked a lot about the enneagram first, which is a personality thing I made you all take a few years back. I am a 4 on the enneagram, which if you are too I apologize, but 4s are really the assholes of the enneagram.

Anyway, we talked about ways to make my 4 less horrifically 4, and that was informative, and then I laid on the table (I lay on the table? I never know. Hey, what’s my job, again?) and she swung a pendulum over my chakras

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and determined my crown chakra was blocked and my solar plexus chakra was also too blocked. She did whatever she does to clear them. I just laid there. Lay there? Anyway, story of my life. That could be the title of my autobiography. I Just Laid There, or Lay There, by June Gardens.

When I got home, I Googled what the signs were of having those areas blocked, and the crown chakra, when it’s blocked, causes migraine. The solar plexus chakra, when it’s blocked, makes you depressed and codependent.

TAAAA-DAAAAA!

So I got those cleared up and immediately broke a toe and gave nuts to Ned. So.

While I was writing all this pertinent info to you, I had the gate up back here, because it’s muddy out, and I wanted Edsel to be back here till his paws dried. Meanwhile, Steely Dan

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WUT

LEAPED over the gate, knocking it over as he transcended it, which made it crash, and then he walked to the back door, opened it, and stomped outside, the screen door crashing behind him lustily.

IMG_5521.jpgAnd that’s why Edsel looks like this.

Brokebone mountainly,
Joob

Disjointed

Hang on. I gotta strap on Laila Ali first…

Photo on 2-19-18 at 7.57 AM.jpg
One of my more awful readers once looked at a photo of me sans makeup and wrote, “Is that rosacea?” It is. Mild case. Here’s MY comment: Is that a jerk whose ass would make me a Sunday face®* commenting? (*(C) My gramma. All rights reserved.)

Say, June, weren’t you drying your hair LAST time we talked?

Yes. Yes, I was. Hygiene. It’s repetitive.

Anyway, we haven’t talked since Friday and we have a lot of topics to cover, so I thought today I’d use subheads, so you don’t end up with fucking whiplash while I bounce from topic to topic. We’re going to be organized today.

Shut up.

Okay, topic one.

Wee wee wee, or the F word
I don’t want you to worry or anything. I don’t want a fuss.
Cnv_aLnXYAADoom
Shut up shuttin’ up.

But I BROKE MY TOE. The little one. Last night, I was headed to bed, like a normal person, and BOOM, Lottie’s bone, this big giant lug of a bone–that Edsel unearthed recently–was in the middle of the room and I didn’t see it and

I

IMMEDIATELY

KNEW

something was very wrong. I yelled so loudly that Edsel stood under the table. Which, by the way, we can still see you, Letter C.

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not to yell, mom. make edz curl up.

But speaking of Edsel, it’s weird, because just yesterday afternoon I was walking that cur and we passed the yard where I sprained my ankle four years ago, and I thought about how as soon as I landed on that grass, that grassy knoll–what IS a knoll?–I knew I’d really hurt myself badly. I reflected on that the rest of the walk: What a brave faithful dog Edsel was that day, not leaving my side even though I’d dropped the leash. Tall Boy, who isn’t allowed to talk to me now that he’s married, driving down and lifting me into the car. Because he was staying with me at the time. PLATONICALLY.

Anyway, I worried last night that I wouldn’t be able to sleep, it hurt so fucking much, but I did because I’m Jabba the Hut. I can sleep through anything. I actually have no idea if Jabba the Hut sleeps, as I have not seen any of the Star Wars movies since the first one in 1977. But he strikes me as lazy.

So my plan is to hobble. And complain. That wraps up what Ima do for my broken toe. Doctors can’t do much for it, I already know this. And yes, I know it’s broken. I’ll spare you the details.

Trim
Last week, I was reading some article or another and I found a site called Trim. And no, I did not just link you to a site involving lady bits. Trim can tell you all the stupid things you’re subscribed to, that you may have forgotten about, and they’ll also do things like contact AT&T and say, “Lower her bill.”

As of last week, I quit Stitch Fix (I’d already quit that the week earlier, technically), Weight Watchers, Netflix, Amazon Prime, some support group for other anxious attachers that I joined for $21 a month, HBO, Apple Music and other annoying things I was paying for automatically and not noticing.

It is likely I will lose my mind and rejoin some of those, but for now, nobody is automatically taking anything from my account each month except for my car insurance.

But speaking of money and trim, I came up with an idea yesterday that I presented on Facebook to mixed results.

I had an idea for how I could lose weight OR you would make money. We’d have to have someone hold all the money, maybe send it all to Faithful Reader Paula or something, and I like how I’ve roped her into this without asking, but here is my idea:

I tell you my current horrifying weight and my goal weight. Which believe it or not are not the same. And then I set a date for me to REACH that weight. All of you put $5 in, and if I reach the goal, I get your hard-earned $5.

But if I FAIL to reach it, I not only give you your $5 back, I pay you an additional $5.

Then I have two incentives: To get rich (okay, to get maybe $50) and to not lose money.

See? It’s a good idea! Some of you hated it, though. But those folks don’t have to play. Are you in?

Photos and so on
I’ve spent a great deal of time trying to get this one Golden Girls gif onto my blog, and never could, and does anyone know how to get a gif on your blog? If you tell me to place the embedded code in my HTML I will break your little toe.

My point is, I’ve used up a lot of my morning, and now I hafta go, and I know I have to tell you about m’chakras (my crown chakra was blocked. Now it isn’t) and about Ned and Nancy, but I have run out of the time.

Also, I took many photos this weekend. So here are some of those, and I will fill you in on the rest tomorrow. TUNE IN tomorrow for JUNE’S RIVETING LIFE, part 3,271.

(See. That’s how I run out of time. Because I just had to save this draft, leave this page, go figure out how to discover how many posts I’ve written in this life, then come back and write “3,271” so I’d be accurate.)

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After spending all yesterday morning tryina figure out how I’d lose weight and make you all get involved, I drove to the country and got ice cream. Those stubborn pounds.

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I LOVE YOU COWWWWS

It’s a real dairy, and they make the ice cream on site.

IMG_5486.jpgThere used to be Border Collies there, but they got old and died. Welcome to my happy blog!

IMG_5465.jpgI also spent time with the demon cat.

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I can’t help it. I LOVE HIM SO BAD.
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oh, jeeebus, lady.

He did the thing again, though. I pulled up to my house just as my “you have a text” ding dinged. Come for the ice cream. Stay for the strong writing.

Anyway, it was my friend Sandy, wanting to embrace the Curly Girl method, and I wrote her back from my car, and when I looked up again…

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FUCK

He lives to startle me. He’s my Uncle Jim, in cat form.

“You no, other cat liff here, too. We just so tire.”

I’ll talk to you tomorrow, if I live through this toe pain. If I don’t get hooked on the horse to get me through.

Brokenly,
June

June talks to you while she gets ready for her hot Friday night.

Photo on 2-16-18 at 6.11 PM #2.jpg
6:09 p.m. and I just showered.

I had two plans tonight: coworkers were getting drinks at 5:00, and then other friends invited me over at 8:00-ish. Don’t you hate people who add “ish” to a time? What are we, gay men in the ’60s? That outfit is fab, lover.

Anyway, I eschewed my right-after-work plans because I didn’t work today. I took the day off to go to the doctor in Durham about m’nose. I’ve waited TWO MONTHS to get this appointment to see if I can actually get it fixed, and how much would it be, and so on.

And? Migraine. Woke up with it in the middle of the night. ‘Twas a bad one. Had to cancel my damn appointment.

So, I spent the day instead sleeping till 10:30 and then trying to clean the smell of cat bodily fluids out of my bedroom. Fmr. Because cats.

IMG_5393.jpgI had taken 839395945 books and surrounded the bed, so they couldn’t crawl under there and poop, and instead all I did was make it so they could still go under there and poop, but I couldn’t get under there to clean it. So. Good work, June. Efficient! You can smell my German roots. They smell like cat shit.

IMG_5391.jpgSo I took the opportunity to scrub the empty bookshelves, which is a pleasurable way to spend one’s day off, and then I put the books back up but cannot recall how I organized them with all their gee-gaws and doo-dads that I also have up there.

Last time I arranged my books, my neighbor Peg was here to help me, and we drank wine and she ordered me around and it was a typical evening with Peg.

Now she’s in hospice. HAPPY FRIDAY!

IMG_5402.jpgAnyway, here’s the first bookshelf, and it really needs Peg’s touch, plus also I should always leave that clothes hamper right there. Hot.

So that’s done, and my afternoon of scrubbing the bedroom floor with vinegar, and then drying it by mincing around the room with a beach towel under me, and opening both windows, and turning on a fan, and Sharking it, all that resulted in guess what.

It still smells cat.

IMG_5401 2.jpgSo while the rest of my household, not including Steely Dan because please. It’s Friday, bitch. But while the rest of my household plans them a hot-in-the-city-tonight evening, I’m drying my hair

Photo on 2-16-18 at 6.28 PMwith my GODDAMN UNFIXED NOSE and then Ima put on some makeup and before my plans Ima head to PetSmart

and them Ima come back with some enzyme fluid and see if that works. If it doesn’t, I’m going with Faithful Reader Tee’s suggestion of uninitiated alcohol or whatever she calls it. Indentured servant alcohol. What the hell does she call it?

Also, I need lamps. I have no money for lamps this pay period, but lamps I need. I need one for next to the bed in the guest room, and now one for next to the bed in my room BECAUSE IT GOT POOPED ON, and a stand-up one in the living room for comedy, and maybe one back here because the one back here has no knob–it fell off–and now it flickers and I can’t do anything about that. Because no knob.

I have the hardest time finding lamps and clocks. Every clock I’ve bought for this house has ceased working eventually, and the Lenox clock they gave me at work? The fancy crystal one for 5 years of service?

Stopped working.

I think it’s my nose. It can stop a clock.

Seriously, was looking forward to this nose appointment for TWO MONTHS.

Photo on 2-16-18 at 6.33 PM.jpgIs this dry enough? It isn’t, is it. Goddammit.

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Insert Jeopardy theme

So, other than my plans tonight, half of which I skipped out on, my only other big exciting thing Ima do is get my chakras read tomorrow. Of course I will report back to you. What are you, new?

The first asshole to point out how many lamps I can buy with a chakra reading gets cloudy chakras.

Photo on 2-16-18 at 7.07 PM #2.jpg…Okay, dry enough, man. PetSmart won’t shop itself. That made no sense. As opposed to the sensical smelling of my German roots.

Your number one. And two,
Nosily,
Joon

Hot buff puppy men

Yesterday at lunch, I came home, got my kittens, and took them back to the shelter.

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Vicki, on her way back, clearly gracing us with her WTF face

They were supposed to weigh two pounds apiece in order to be adoptable, and Lexi, the cute light-gray one, did. The rest weighed a little above 1.5. But you guys.

They were pooping just everywhere.

I tried different litters and different boxes, and I piled books, oh so many books, around the bed, so they wouldn’t be able to go under there, as they had been. Clearly what I saw as a bottom of a bed, they saw as Men and Women restroom signs.

So the shelter was willing to take them back, as they have people already interested in them and they’re healthy, and I hope those people can get those kittens litter-trained, because I was in poop hell, is what I was.

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Trixie, doing her Nancy Kerrigan impresh. WHYYYYY.

Despite an entire three weeks of shiitake mushrooms up in here, of coming in number two, depsite being Mr. Spock seeing the Captain’s Log, I was so sad to drive them back. I knew they were getting big enough for new homes, and I felt prepared. But when that volunteer lady carried them back to the vet room, my heart broke.

Can I just put up my favorite pictures of each one? Will you indulge me? Did I mention to you my camera was not automatically deleting photos for some cockamamie reason, so I had to call AppleCare, and what I figured out in that fiasco was that I have taken 1,400 photos this month?

I had the kittens for three weeks. What do YOU think that ratio was?

…I just spent forever looking, and I CAN’T DECIDE which are my favorites. Here are some highlights…

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[sobs quietly into giant pillow]

But, there are new kittens where THEY came from, and yesterday I had Alf, my ridiculous handyman, rehang my door to the old computer room, the one with the bad concrete floor. When I moved out of or back in here, we’d taken the door off to move something or other, and after that the door never shut right. Alf put it back on right, for free.

He’s not that altruistic. He also built me a small fence that I DID pay for.*

The point is, Ima rearrange things, because my oh my, I sure know how to arrange things, and when new kittens come, THAT will be the kitten room, with a washable quilt on the floor (Idea: Cat Rescuer Robyn®), so that if I get another crop o’poopers I can clean it more easily than the dang wood floors.

*IMG_5370.jpgDo you enjoy my clever footnote in the middle of this post, which really takes the foot away from my note? Anyway, when you’re looking at the front of my house, stalker, there’s a cute picket fence on one side…

IMG_5371.jpgAnd I realize these photos are taken from inside my exclusive enclave, but I had on my robe and didn’t wish to go out and give the neighbors even more of a show than they already get at this Cat on a Cold Tile Roof What’s Her Hair Doing Today house. My One-Gray-Gargoyle house. My Her-Blind-Cat’s-Done-Murdered-Our-Chicadees-Again house.

Anyway, on one side is this cute white picket fence, like I’m Theodore Cleaver, and on the other, although you can’t really see it past the foliage, but still, on the other side was this bendy, falling-down, horrific wire fence that if Edsel had half a mind, he’d have escaped from years ago.

The thing about Edsel is, one time the damn lawn men left that gate open, and I didn’t know, and Edsel went in the yard and stayed there the whole time, with the gate wide open to the world. He coulda left me and trotted off to those bathhouses he so often looks up online.

So. He’s a good boy. Also, the last thing he’d find sexy is a bathhouse. Edsel does not enjoy getting clean.

IMG_5370The point is this photo, that I done already showed you but I rambled so here it is again, was put up by the Alf yesterday, and he said I have to wait till

FUCKING AUGUST

to paint it white. Also, I see he’s left some wood behind, hoooo haaaaaa, and now I hafta crankily text him about that.

Anyway, so lunch yesterday was not relaxing, as I had to scream home, get my kittens in a box, talk to Alf, scream to the shelter, then scream to work. On my way back to work I passed a Panda Express, which was A BAD IDEA, JUNE. I got me some teriyaki MSG, with a side of MSG, and got a screeching, screaming migraine and spent my Valentine’s Day evening with an ice pack and my nausea medicine.

Despite this, I had to come home from work and clean up ALL THE CAT POOP that was under the bed, despite the world-of-books fortress I’d built, so that was relaxing. I had to throw out the dog bed that was in there, as well, as they’d peed on not only that, but the cushion under it, as I’d already been washing the cushion fabric and when they saw the innards they said oh good, a new place to pee. So.

Kitten rescue. It’s relaxing.

So now I gotta get a new dog bed, not that Eds doesn’t have two others, but I like for him to have dog beds in each bedroom, because…well, I guess I don’t have a reason. Because I’ll occasionally switch rooms for whatever reason and he can flump onto a dog bed no matter which room, I guess. Dream of hot buff puppy men.

I must go, and get ready for work, even though my head is cloudy and that migraine is not fully gone. Stupid Panda Express. What was I THINKING?

Kittenlessly,
Juan

To Kill a Talking Bird

Dear Women Who Prattle at Movies:

What the hell is wrong with you?

Last night, my old movie theater showed To Kill a Mockingbird, and I got there fairly early in order to get my popcorn (dinner) and get a decent parking spot. Not necessarily in that order, and what I like about myself is my strong writing ability.

My spot in the balcony was secured. I have always sat in the same spot in the balcony there, and when Ned and I broke up, we made a deal that I’d get the balcony and he’d find another spot. Once, after FatGate 2016, I even sat on the main floor during It’s a Wonderful Life, just so I wouldn’t spot him accidentally.

But last night I went to my regular spot, and guess who showed up. I wasn’t even surprised. I knew he’d want to see that movie.

Anyway, that wasn’t the annoying part. The annoying part was these four women directly in front of us. Now, I know that when you women get together, you hen parties, you all like to talk. Excitedly. This is why I don’t generally hang around women. That and the fact that women always expect you to show up with a candle.

Women: Hey, let’s have lunch.

Me (reluctantly): Okay. (The other reason I’m not friends with many women is lunch. Why are they so into it?)

A week later…

Women: Hey! I’m here at lunch with just a little something I found for you. It’s a candle! With a cat on it! LOL!

Why? Why do we have to exchange gifts just because we’re getting together? It never dawns on me to get a gift for anyone unless they’re, you know, having a birthday party or dead.

Okay, it never dawns on me to get gifts for the dead, either.

Married. If they’re having a birthday party or if they’re registered somewhere because they’re getting married. Then it occurs to me to get a gift.

And I know it means they were thinking of me and they love me and wish to hug, and I should be flattered, but are they? Is that true? Or do they think, Oh fuck. Lunch is Tuesday. June’s so looking forward to lunch. I gotta get her ass a candle.

I mean, is it a pain in the ass obligation for these women, or do they truly go shopping and think of other people, which by the way is also something I never do. Ned once told me I’m the only girlfriend he ever had who has bought him zero clothing, and I’m the person he dated the longest time.

Why the hell should I buy him clothing? Am I his mom? Is he 7? Maybe I’m just a terrible person. Also, I’d like to say to the four women in real life that I’m friends with, I don’t mind lunch with you. Well, I do mind lunch. But not you.

But speaking of my terrible towel personality, last night, there was Ned with his beer and his popcorn, and he’s getting all settled in my spot–our spot, fmr.–and this gaggle of women, middle-aged women, is in front of us, and yes I know I’m a middle-aged woman.

What I like about myself are my short, concise sentences, and what a strong writer I am and oh, thanks for the candle.

Anyway, as soon as I sat behind these women, I noticed one of them was chattering. I mean, endlessly. And looking at her tiny cracked iPhone 3 or whatever embarrassing phone she had. She kept checking Facebook at the movie, and chattering to her friends, and I’m telling you she was physically unable to stop talking.

At this point, the organist was still playing (some 40s song that escapes me now, but which I know all the words to, so I was singing along and Ned was quietly howling like a dog, which by the way is exactly the same thing damn Marvin used to do when I sang. I HAVE A LOVELY VOICE) and the announcer person was still announcing (that always goes on too long), so I had some hopes this woman would

SHUT

THE

FUCK

UP

once the movie began.

But no. Oh, no. I wanted to shove her into a ham costume and knock her over in the woods.

Seriously, are people just unaware that you shouldn’t talk in the movies? There was an old couple in their row, who kept trying to sort of unobtrusively stare at her, so she’d get the hint, because it’s the South and other than Dick Whitman, who once turned around and told an old lady to be quiet and I just about died of shock, no one ever directly says anything here. Unless it’s racist. Bah.

Anyway, good movie, but once the lights went up, I saw Ned smirking at me.

“I hate those women,” I groused.

“I knew you did. I knew the whole time,” he said.

Meanwhile, Nancy is still not pooping in her box. He has three–three!!–different styles of boxes and litters now, and he’s taking her to the vet on Thursday.

For me, that’s the dealbreaker. A cat doesn’t use its litter box, it’s over for me. It makes me appreciate the asshole cats I have. And when I say “asshole,” I of course just mean Steely Dan.

Since the kittens got here, I’ve been sleeping in the spare bedroom, and I don’t know why I’m not shutting the door in there the way I did in the real bedroom, but the result is, just everyone’s sleeping with me. I got Edsel, with whom I always sleep, but now Iris and Lily, who are easy to sleep with.

And then it would appear that Steely Dan doesn’t so much sleep with me as he perches atop the headboard and stares down at me, like when Snoopy acts like a vulture.

SnoopyVulture

I say this because at any point that I wake up, he is leering down at me with his shiny eyes of death. That is why I’ve come to the conclusion that that’s all he does. That he never actually curls up against me and purrs or anything. Like a cat that isn’t evil would.

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fuk owf

I gotta go, but I keep forgetting to mention goat yoga to you, which I attended on Sunday.

IMG_5202.jpgIt was at a very muddy farm, as it has rained here for like 412 days.

IMG_5203.jpgThis did not stop the white people. No, sir. There musta been 50 people there, and also there had been goat yoga the day before, as well. It was sold out, that one was.

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Me and Billy McGoat. You’re welcome.

But goatses!

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I LOVE YOU, GOATS!!
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whyyyyyy we gotta do yoga-a-a-a with the wites?
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There were even barn kitties there, because I don’t get enough pussy at home.

So that was fun, and totally worth it, and now I wish for a goat.

I gotta go, which I think I said 20 minutes ago. Ima check in on m’kittens, and get to work.

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fuk awf

Wow, they’re getting so bi–HEY.

Asshole.

Your funny Valentine. If “funny” is a relative term,
June

“June, you forgot to add kitten pictures.”

Relationships are stupid.

I know I sound like my coworker Griff, who thinks everything is stupid–but who is, in fact, in a relationship. But really, they are. Stupid.

IMG_5222.jpgThis weekend, Ned was helping me walk Edsel, and you’re all, What the–WHY WAS NED THERE, and calm down. I will get to it. The point is, I was reminded of a time we’d walked down that street before.

“Remember back when we liked each other, and we walked down this way to the hotel to watch the fireworks on the 4th of July, and we got there and there were no fireworks?” I asked him.

“But we didn’t care, because we liked each other,” he said. “Now I’d be all, ‘What, you didn’t RESEARCH if there were fireworks visible from there?'”

“Yep,” I agreed, which was pretty much just the most redundant sentence on earth.

There was another time that Ned wanted to cook with me, and make homemade salsa as a side dish, and see, nowadays I’d know that Ned and a big, involved plan that includes homemade salsa would be an all-day undertaking, and that I’d end up eating at 2 a.m. for the first time all day. But back then I liked him and went along with it.

If he asked me now to grill out with him and add homemade anything to the mix, I’d bludgeon him with a tiki torch.

And that’s what I mean. Relationships go from fun and frolic and feeling goopy about the person to wanting to stab him with your butter knife. At least that’s how they go with me.

Anyway, here’s why Ned was even over. On Friday, he got Nancy, the mom cat to the kittens I’m fostering.

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And do you know what I am weary of? Is how I have too many channels. I’ll tell you one thing about Nancy and her kittens here, and then on Facebook someone will ask me something I already said about them over here.

Or over on the (Face)Book of June page. Or I said it on Instagram. Or I thought it in my head. The point is, you have to be practically stalking me to get all my guff, and it’s my fault for spreading my love all over social media.

Anyway, the wrap-up is–and when you see someone asking any of these things elsewhere, will you answer for me? Be snippy. Thank you.

The wrap-up is, I have Nancy’s four kittens till next Saturday now, because they have to weigh two pounds each to be adoptable. They all weigh somewhere around a pound and a half, with the exception of the black kitty, who appears to be the runt.

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hey!

Allegedly they will weigh enough by Saturday.

(And can I add something? I noticed this on a much larger scale with Patrick Stewart, when he was fostering a very sweet pit bull. Fostering animals so they’re ready for adoption is a noble task. You don’t undertake such a thing lightly. It costs a fucking fortune,

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shopping cart of a cat lady

your house is chaos, and you know these are fosters, not pets.

IMG_5104.jpgSo if you’re someone enjoying watching the foster, whether in real life or on social media, I think the most supportive thing you can do is NOT pressure the person fostering to adopt. Or say, “If it were ME, I’d keep them ALL.” That sort of thing. It’s not easy, fostering. Pressure to keep them adds to the not-easy part.)

But anyway, Ned, who I never said a WORD to, decided to take Nancy, the mom cat, and they first had to fix her, make her all barren, which turned out to be more grueling than they’d thought.

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was not browken

They had trouble locating her ovaries, and her incision was large, and they wanted to keep her and give her antibiotics and so on. (So that’s why I’m not taking the kittens to see her, as it would hurt her if they tried to suckle.)

But on Friday, she was finally ready to go home. Ned has to keep giving her Clavamox till it’s gone–sometime this week.

But she seems to be reacting to her medication, or something, because she has pooped NOT in the box every time. So he came over to trade litter with me, to see if she likes that better. He also went out and bought like three different kinds of litter boxes. Because he’s Ned. He’s probably fashioning a homemade one. With salsa.

Also, she’s hiding a lot, but she’s slept with him every night. She finally used her box this morning, but Ned said she ran under the bed right after. Poor traumatized Nancy.

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In the meanwhile, here are photos of her children, in case you wanted to see kitten pictures or anything.

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I don’t know why they like this.

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There goes a new lipstick. Or new shoes. Or new anything.
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BUT LOOK AT WHO’S WORTH IT.
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kittee in China? why so many chins?
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to save kittee not fun NOT FUN

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Jesus.

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dat coolest ting Matt eber see. to be cool like gray cat?

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Tomorrow I will tell you about goat yoga, which I also attended this weekend, when I wasn’t attending Kitten Fest 2018. When I got home, Steely Dan slept on me, a unicorn of an occurrence that I always get charmed by.

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And while I didn’t dare move while it was happening, at one point, Lily got on the couch and groomed Steely Dan, and he closed his eyes and purred. I didn’t even know those two were on speaking terms. The things that happen when you’re Mia Farrow and you have too many kids.

Also, Faithful Reader Kris, I can’t tell you how much I love that freaking afghan.

That sums me up. I guess if I were a man, I could have just written, Cats, and been done with this whole post.

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some catz matter more. gray cats mattur.

Feline-ly,

Joon

 

Songs in the key of…where the hell are my keys?

Right before you get to my work is a funeral home. In fact, the buildings surrounding my office are doctor’s offices, an old folks’ home, and this funeral parlor. Because apparently I’m writing to you on a slate, from my log cabin near my potbelly stove with my sassafras and unicycle.

Funeral parlor.

Old folks’ home.

Consarn it.

What I’m saying to you is it’s occurred to me that death is right near me all day long.

In the morning and evenings, it’s generally not busy, the funeral parlor, but sometimes as I come back from lunch in my horseless carriage, people are filing out from a funeral, and that is when I always find myself blaring just the most awful music.

The thing is, it’s so sporadic. You can go months without hitting the funeral procession, so you get lax. But the other day, as Smack My Bitch Up was blaring out my window, I started to think about music.

Not about what a terrible person I am, but about music.

It’s occurred to me lately that most of my taste in music is because of men. (Although I have to admit, my love of Smack My Bitch Up is all my own.)

Anyway, I’m almost certain that I’ve written before about how, while looking through pictures one day, I realized that I used to look like my boyfriends as time went on. I have two photo-booth shots with different boyfriends, and our hair is alike in each one. I changed my hair to match whatever boyfriend’s.

I know I must have written about that, I just know it, but can I find it? I cannot. However, while Googling the shit outta my old blog posts, somehow I found this in Google Images…

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Oh my god I TOTALLY.HAD.THIS. I want to say it was a gift from my Aunt Kathy, but maybe I just bought it for m’self. Anyway, had completely forgotten this stationery and am currently dying. Will have to go to own funeral soon. And someone can blare music past it.

Anyway.

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The reason I like Bob Dylan and The Beatles is because of my father, who would be playing records, literally records, while I was falling asleep, and remember back when adults could just play their records and not coddle the fuck out of children? I’ve been at people’s houses, who INVITED ME OVER, then were all, “Shhhh, the children are trying to sleep.” So the fuck what? Get them used to people talking. It’ll prepare them for the dorm.

What’s your favorite Beatles song? And if you don’t like them, just don’t comment on that. It will make me like you less. I’m serious. It’s like people who say, “I just don’t like animals.” I mean, I won’t disinvite you to my wedding, but you’ll drop a notch.

Also, my Uncle Jim, with his constant listening to records and drumming to them, and how did my grandmother not go upstairs and bludgeon him, was a giant influence. He was also a Beatles person, but what I remember most are these solo songs, which I love…

Fuckin’ Yoko, man.

Anyway, so that’s how it got started, men influencing my song choices, and then I started dating. And then, oh lord, I fell in love with someone who loved music, and there it was.

There isn’t a single Led Zepplin song I don’t love, because whether we were in his room, or down in his finished basement with the fireplace and the pillows, or even over at my house, he was playing music. And it was often Led Zepplin. I hear these songs and it’s winter (IT WAS ALWAYS WINTER in Michigan), with the snowflakes and seeing your breath when you’re making out in the car and the fire in the basement and oh my god, I loved the shit out of that stupid young boy.

Then I went to college.

Pretty much every brooding boyfriend I had (i.e., all of them) liked The Smiths, and also?

I can remember college boyfriend #74855 putting Shpritz Forte in his pompadour

41B3ml+9YuL._SY355_while Squeeze was playing Tempted. I can see him, looking into his dorm room mirror, singing along after spending many many (many) minutes trying to convince me to give him a blowie before we left.

Hey, mom.

Then I got back together with the boy from high school, the Led Zepplin one, and his taste in music had changed, so mine changed along with it.

…It’s taken me ages to find all these songs and plunk them in here, and I have to go, and I know you’re sad I can’t trip down memory lane more, but I blame Ned for liking this…

Since I have to go, why don’t you all be my new boyfriend. What are you listening to lately? Share in the comments.

When did I become someone who says, “Share in the comments”? Click like and share for a chance to win big. Whatever with me. Where is my mind? Heh.

Musically,

June

How to Have a Migraine: A Step-By-Step Guide

Yesterday morning, after I’d gotten up early and stressed own self over adding polls to this here not-blog (good participation, by the way!), I got an email.

“Can you knock this out this morning?”

I wasn’t even at work yet, and already I was anxious. It’s this big, several-tabbed Excel document that I copy edit every month, and of course copy editing is what I do, but this is several rows long, like sometimes 20 rows, and if you know from Excel, it extends all the way to the letter M.

Some squares I have to copy edit. Some I don’t. Some I have to count characters. Some I don’t. And it’s so big that I can’t see it all at once and actually proofread the words in it at the same time, so I have to blow it up and then clunk around on the thing, wondering, “Did I already read that? Did I count characters for this one?”

And always they need it in like two hours.

I keep saying, “Ideally, I’d like five hours to do this thing” but there never are five hours to be spared.

So that makes me tense every month, and there it was, the dreaded spreadsheet. And did I mention I wasn’t even at work yet?

As I was in the middle of that, someone ran up to me. “Can you look at this real fast?” It was a magazine cover. You screw that up, and you cost the company hundreds of thousands of dollars to reprint.

So I stopped the scary thing to look at another scary thing, and as I was doing that, my boss’s boss, fmr., came over. “Come back in 20,” I groused, and just as I was getting that cranky sentence out, the phone rang.

“CAN I CALL YOU BACK.”

Then I finished my scary magazine cover, and my horrifyingly clunky spreadsheet, and addressed the request of my boss’s boss, fmr., and called back the poor person who’d phoned me (I explained to her all that was going on at my desk when she’d called. “You were surprisingly polite, with all that going on,” she said) and boom.

I got an email from a woman I used to work with. “I was hoping we could get a glass of wine or some coffee or something,” she said, and seeing as no one likes me (see above) I agreed immediately. “We can meet somewhere, but also I have four foster kittens at my house, if that’s a thing you’d enjoy.”

I mean, you come to my house right now, you’re gonna be covered in kittens. For some, that is paradise. We’re knocking on heaven’s door. And for others, it sucks. I don’t understand those “others,” either.

Anyway, she agreed that my pad was the place to be.

Meanwhile, I got an immediate-turnaround, emergency article, and it was all financial info that I didn’t understand, and unfortunately for me, there seemed to be a par-tayyy going on at another desk, with everyone talking and laughing, and I was totally Cinderella with her headphones on, tryina concentrate and sweep the hearth.

At 1:00, I finally got done, and headed home for lunch. I’d had one piece of toast all day, and I was feeling decidedly peckish.

But you know how your house seems okay until you know someone is coming over? “Aw, man, I should change the throw rug in the bathroom. Man, I should sweep this floor.”

Next thing you know, almost an hour had passed, and I STILL HAD MY COAT ON, and was taking out the recycling and scrubbing the stove top and oh my god.

I was already late for returning to work when I realized I couldn’t find two of the kittens.

IMG_4771.jpgI was missing goddamn Lexi.

img_4681.jpgAnd motherfucking Vicki, the tortoiseshell. Hey, June, why don’t you recover that chair.

Anyway, having had cats m’whole life, I wasn’t too worried. I looked under chairs, under desks, behind squeezy things.

No cats.

Matt the tabby and Trixie the black one were in their room, being good cats.

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me supeer yer
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mee 2

MY COAT STILL ON, I started shining a flashlight under things, and by the way, did you ever have your lights off and shine a flashlight on your hardwoods?

MOTHER OF GOD with the fur everywhere. I mean, maybe it’s because lately I’ve had nine fricking animals here, but good lord.

I wrote my boss. Current. “Minor emergency, working from home.” And then, even though I’d gotten everything done that was due, I did work. I figured maybe if I sat still, they’d come out.

Then I started having dreadful thoughts. What if I’d washed them with Edsel’s bed? What if I’d taken them out with the trash? I actually went out and searched the trash.

By the end of the day, I was exhausted and worried. “Ima get a migraine,” I thought, because I also hadn’t eaten, and I know the kind of day I had was like a poster: How To Get a Migraine.

Right at 5:00, I heard a mew. I’d been sitting on the couch, proofreading things, and when I get to work today, Ima be bored stiff, I got so far ahead of self. Really, you get a lot more work done at home.

Anyway, “mew!”

Where was it? Where was I hearing it? Was it outside? Oh, no, was it?

“mew!”

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Those mother

FUCKERS

were under the sink. And then of course I had to worry they ate poison, but if they did they seem to be thriving on it, so.

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My chins and me carrying Lexi back to her room. Fucking adventure cat.

IMG_4985.jpgLater, my pal from work came by, and enjoyed her some kittens and an indifferent Iris. Or was appalled by them. Also, I did not ask her if I could put her in said not-blog, so I hope she does not kick my ass.

IMG_4982.jpgIt’s possible she was more appalled than happy.

Right as she was leaving, I felt the first twinge. It ended up being a two-pill migraine, and I went to bed about 9:00. Felt dreadful.

As I was drifting to sleep spooning Steely Dan (don’t tell anyone), I heard a

“meep!”

IMG_4983 2.jpgFucking adventure tortie, seen here with her good pal and biggest fan, Edsel, had escaped the room, despite the 47 pillows I’ve crammed in the space. Like a day in the sink wasn’t fun enough. Now she has to creep about in the night.

So that was my day, and am sincerely hoping today is more copasetic, especially given that I have a migraine hangover.

Searchingly,

June

June polls you. And she didn’t even buy you a drink first

Do you remember the other day–like, two days ago–when I showed you that big tower of canned kitten food I bought?

There are two cans of it left. Yeesch.

Four kittens: Turns out, they eat.

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so wutss?

But that, my rapt audience (“Talk about fekking kittens more, June”), is not why I’ve gathered you all here today, into uncomfortable folding chairs, with your paper plates on your laps. No.

I’ve gathered you here because as you may recall, from your worn, sacred Book of June Events, my boss, fmr., gets Stitch Fix. [Everyone begins flipping pages back.]

We’d decided–and by “we” I mean me and my brain–to force her into trying on her Stitch Fix in front of me and my camera of death, and then we–and by “we” I mean you, me and my brain–get to vote on what she keeps.

In case you don’t know from Stitch Fix, it’s a service you can sign up for where every month (or less, if you choose) they send you clothes and you return whatever you don’t like in their giant addressed, stamped pouch that is a pain in the ass to mail because you have to cram it into a narrow-mouthed public mailbox somewhere and try not to jam up the whole damn thing so all the office workers in that particular complex whose parking-lot mailbox you’re using won’t detest you.

Yesterday, the golden day was upon us, wherein my boss, fmr., got her Stitch Fix. She pointed it out to me excitedly.

“Oh, god, Ima have to remember how to do polls in my blog,” I kvetched, as she tried on her first piece. And that is why I’m sitting here now, kittens climbing my socks (“Talk more about fekking kittens, June, REALLY”)

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eben WE ober you, fozter mom

AND THAT IS WHY I’M SITTING HERE NOW, the sun not up yet, having gotten up early just so I can struggle with doing polls in the body of my damn blog. So please vote. As I worked hard today. She works hard for the…oh, hell, I don’t even make money doing this.

Okay, here is the first piece… The first item. Her threads. Her duds.

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Wrap dress with hydrangeas and shit on it

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Okay, ALLEGEDLY I added a poll button. If it didn’t work, rather than drive me BERSERK while I’m at work with “THE POLLS DON’T WORK!” emails, just say what clothes you like in the comments. But according to my preview button, it worked.

Am sweaty.

Okay, on to the next one!

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Black blouse and green shirt. I should really write a fashion blog. I describe clothes like I’m a dude.


Oh my god. Polls! Embedded! I think! Am internet guru. Maybe.

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Black shell sleeveless top thing

Okay, the necklace was my favorite part…

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Ten thousand spoons when all you need is for June to leave you alone

“You can have cocaine parties!” I enthused.

So those are our clothing choices for my boss, fmr., this month, and please vote early and often. Actually I think I have it set up so you can vote only once, but what do I know.

Meanwhile, kittens.

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This one found Steely Dan’s stash of mouses, and walked around growling at everyone else, lest they take her treasures.

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#&$@, how you find?

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Son of BITZ
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now yuu play wif fire

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Meanwhile, Ned did not get Nancy yesterday, after all. He’s the boy who cried Nancy. Her little kitty operation was harder than they thought it would be, so they just wanted to monitor her for another day or so. So now MAYBE it’s today that he gets her and MAYBE it’s tomorrow.

“I’m supposed to go to dinner with my mom and uncle tomorrow. What if I get Nancy tomorrow?” he fretted.

See. This is the kind of dilemma that flummoxes Ned. He never cancels things. It’s, like, an impossibility to him. “They’ll understand, Ned,” I said. He still wasn’t sure.

As someone once said to my Uncle Jim, peoples is funny. I know I’ve told you this before, but Ned is a pit bull about plans. Once he makes them, they cannot be unmmade. Once, in maybe the first year I was dating him, we had plans to go see Pulp Fiction at the old theater. But Edsel had to have surgery that day, and the night of the event, there was no way I was leaving my dog.

Ned went to the movie anyway. I was so mad. I didn’t say anything, because I didn’t want to seem difficult.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Oh. That’s rich. But I was tryina keep that part under wraps. But in reality, I was all, Jesus, how insensitive is this guy? Why can’t he just come over and hang out with the dog and me? He’s gotta stampede to some old movie we could just rent here?

But see, now I know how he is with plans. The plan was made. He had to go through with it, whether I was going with him or not. Because he made that plan.

He also is forever the last to leave anything, a trait I’ve heard him complain about in others and on my insides I’m all, OH MY GOD YOU WERE THE EXACT SAME WAY ALWAYS. All the credits have rolled. Everyone’s left the party except the hostess and her mom who is staying for the week. The waiters have clocked out. THERE’S NOTHING LEFT. YOU AREN’T GOING TO MISS OUT ON ANYTHING BECAUSE THERE’S NOTHING LEFT TO MISS.

Don’t you hate people who say “exact same”?

Anyway. We’ve covered a lot today. We traversed the world, with our polls and our spoons and our rehab and our kittens.

Oh, and one more thing (JESUS JUNE WE GOTTA GO). Edsel has never liked it when cats fight. Whenever Steely Dan rolls his shoulders and hunches, staring down one of my innocent flower cats, Edsel leaps over to break the whole thing up.

IMG_4907.jpgYou can imagine his angina with four seven-week-old kittens and their play fights. Good lord. He’s Sister Mary Agnes, breaking up all the fun.

That picture where Lily is glaring at you, me, the Guilford County Animal Shelter for drumming up this plan, kittens in general and anyone who isn’t her, in that photo, Edsel is back there breaking up frolic. What a Dog Downer that dog is.

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eyeriss side wif lillee on dis one

Just like a movie star, who gets burned in a three-way script

I’ve been obsessed with a game.

I’m not a game person. I kind of hate games, actually, and for this, I blame my childhood. My mother used to have this game night, see, with her friends.

My whole life, as far back as I can recall–and I can recall being in my crib*, so it goes a ways–my mother has had friends. Not like one friend who we all call “Aunt” or whatever, no. Like, seven thousand friends.

(*I can remember my Uncle Jim leaning over my crib with this scary mask on his face, part of my parents’ official collection of World’s Most Disturbing Art®.)

Her friendships–my mother’s, not the scary African mask’s–are always a result of Whatever She’s Into Right Now, whether it’s her church or her hobbies or her political meetings, like the kind Frank Kennedy and Rhett and Doc Meade and foppy Ashley went to.

(Now, see, that’s funny if you know from Gone With the Wind, because that political meeting was a KKK meeting, and right now my mother is pursing her lips disapprovingly.)

Anyway, Whatever She’s Into Right Now means there are eight thousand new friends of hers calling and popping in and wanting to hug me. If I’m visiting nowadays, and the phone rings–which it does 7,000 times a day there–and I answer, the friends always start off with, “Pam?” because we sound exactly alike. And then I’m the bitch who has to start off every conversation with, “No. This is June.” It always feels so unfriendly to be all, “No.”

They’re always outgoing, these friends of my mother’s. And while people think I’m gregarious and an extrovert just because I’m funny, mostly my days are spent trying to have as much time to brood alone on the couch as possible. It’s always been my goal: If I’ve had a day where I got to spend a good five hours alone brooding on the couch, I give that day one of those stupid 100 emojis.

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What the fuck with those?

Anyway, at some point in my childhood, maybe when I was 7 or 8, my mother started having game night, usually on a Friday, where she’d make popcorn and get out the Gallo Hearty Burgundy, and her outgoing friends would all come over, as would my outgoing Uncle Leo, dragging my Aunt Kathy, who likes to be in bed by 7:30.

Then all night, they’d lounge across my brooding couch and laugh and shout over each other and eat popcorn while they enjoyed them some rousing games of Jeopardy or 10,000 Pyramid. Or Password.

Often, my Aunt Kathy would fall asleep in a spare bed, like a toddler.

I remember being roped into these games occasionally, and sometimes I’d have to be moderator for Jeopardy. I was Alex Trebec and call.

Later, in my teen years, I remember coming home to some of the game nights, and having to pretend I wasn’t drunk as a skunk after a kegger. I’ve no idea if I pulled it off. Also, why did we all stop having keggers?

(Several of my mother’s outgoing friends are my Facebook friends, and I plan to tag them on this particular post, and I ask them: Did I pull it off? Did you have no idea I’d done 16 Miller Lite beer bongs?)

Anyway. Since I associate games with fun and frolic and friends, naturally it doesn’t appeal to me. Millennials seem to be big into games, and back when people at at work liked me, I was constantly being asked to game nights with them, and I’d always say no so I can brood on the couch.

But that’s just what I was doing the other day when I got some sort of targeted ad on my phone. You know how you’re on social media, and you swear you just THOUGHT, only THOUGHT, about how you wish they had high heels for swans, and then you’re scrolling and there’s an ad for Swan Slingbacks or whatever?

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Jesus Christ, really? I just Googled high heels for swans and this came up.

Anyway, I’ve no idea, really, why they targeted me for a game, but maybe they’ve been watching me since childhood, when I was moderating Jeopardy. But anyway, they lured me in by saying, “Play this game to increase your brain power here” and I did, and then I was hooked and I think I paid four dollars for this app, called Peak, that allegedly makes your brain work better, and as you can see from this not-at-all-disjointed post that it’s working like a charm. And also by the fact that I parted with four dollars.

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The game that really got me is called Word Fresh, and they give you some set amount of minutes to make as many words as you can, from a sheet of letters.

This game is perfect for me. I like words, and I like the Mission Impossible pressed-for-time challenge, and plus, I don’t have to talk to or smile at anybody. It can be played at home, by myself, on my couch of sorrows! With zero hugs!

At this point, even my kittens are sick of it.

I can honestly say this is the first time I’ve ever been involved in a game, and the first person who tries to make it social gets glared at by me. The first person who says, Oooo, June, they have a Word Fresh night at Moose Parts Brew Pub or Oooo, June, we all play it together on this one website with a chat room, the first person who does that is the victim of my next political meeting.

Anyway, I know you’ll be irritated with me if I just talk about that and don’t show you any kittens. I’m going over to Ned’s tonight to see Nancy, and I just can’t wait. I wonder if she’d like to play Word Fresh with me?

Here are the kittens. Edsel and Matt are peas and carrots, man.

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