I just realized my coffee is a metaphor. I like everything intense, smoky and dark.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I just realized my coffee is a metaphor. I like everything intense, smoky and dark.
What the hell is wrong with me?
They’ve changed how they’re doing things at my job: I used to work on just one account, but now they’ve split it, so I’m copy editing for a bunch of different groups. This is kind of more exciting, and also more scary, because every client has a different style, and things they like and hate, and you have to keep track of it all.
Copy editing is the only place I am persnickety. Have you ever noticed that? How incongruous my job is, considering how the rest of me isn’t quite…attentive to detail? Words are the one thing I care about enough to care, if that makes any sense.
In the meantime, my bed hasn’t been made since I threw out my Flicker.
“June, what do you think is wrong with you, that you can just pull products like Flicker out of your ass?”
Well, one thing that’s likely wrong with me is m’shredded anus.
Here is the only photo I took yesterday, and it is decidedly emo, and I just have to sit around and wait to not feel emo, and frankly it’s a Flicker in my ass.
The good news is, I asked a guy at work who is forever traipsing off to dance classes where he GOES to said classes, and I’m going to ballet with him on Monday next. I will become a prima ballerina and live on black coffee and cigarettes and you will all not notice my advanced age and I will take to tutus. “Oh, god, here comes June, wearing that goddamn tutu to take out her trash.”
I will be Desmond Tutu.
I will be tutu much.
I took ballet as a child, you know, for several years. At least to me it felt like several years. It was probably, you know, three. I recall my instructor wore winged eyeliner, and her assistant had little white asterisk designs on her otherwise clear nail polish.
I thought they were both phenomenal.
And I’m certain I was headed to New York with my tutus and my eating disorder, except the winter I was 10, even though my mother denied this until I got out my diary and proved her wrong, I got the chicken pox.
“You never had the chicken pox,” my mother said, last time I mentioned this.
I called my father. “Yeah, I remember you having the chicken pox, sure,” said my father.
My mother said he was wrong. My mother has also said, and I quote, “The dictionary is wrong.”
This is why it’s good I have kept a journal, or back then a diary, pretty much constantly since 1975. So I was able to pull out my yellow Hollie Hobbie number and read about my personal struggle with chicken pox.
The point is, my brush with the pox meant I missed a week of ballet, and the week I missed was, like, THE MOST CRUCIAL WEEK EVER, because that was when they told us we were all headed to toe shoes, but we had to learn all the positions and their French names, not just, you know “second position,” and in a few months, we were all headed to Detroit to take a test in order to climb that ladder to toe shoes and this sentence is not a run-on at all. How dare you?
So I get to class, faintly poxed from my recent ordeal that my own mother denied, and everyone’s all responding to French and pointing their toes, and I WAS BEHIND and instead of, oh, asking my winged instructor to spend four minutes with me after class and catch me up, I panicked and said, “I don’t want to do ballet anymore” and my parents, who’d been attending dance recitals since they threw away their leather strap and straight razor, said, “Okay, SURE!”
It was one of those snap decisions you later regret, which sums up my entire life.
How did I get on this topic, again? [scrolls up] Oh, right! Because I’m going to rekindle my passion for dance, and as we all know, I have a gift. You’ve seen the veeeedeos.
I also have a weekend coming up that is packed with the events. I have a goodbye party on Friday after work for a woman I dearly admired. She was very cool-headed. Enough said. She reminded me of Faithful Reader Fay, in both her looks and her attitude. Unlike Fay, she did not march over and take charge of my life, however. Anyway, she’s headed to another job, and I will miss her no-nonsense self.
Then Saturday day, The Poet and I are penciled in for a movie, the one where Idris Alpaca or whomever is stuck in the snow with Kate Winslett. One thing I would not mind is being stuck in the snow with Iris Aldolph or whatever his name is.
Also, you know how I’m sort of (HAH) into men of color? I failed to mention to you that I was, you know, seeing a man of color for a bit, and I hope it isn’t the last time I do so. While it did not last, it is something I can sorta check off my list, my list of things I always wanted to do, and like ballet, I’d like to return to that particular genre again one day.
I hope I won’t be confronted with some sort of Detroit test re this.
On Saturday night, I have a party to go to, and then on Sunday it is likely I will need to hole up here and decompress from all the people-ing. Open the door and see all the people. Close the door because drained.
I have to go, but before I do, I wanted to mention that my cousin Maria got a new kitten, a kitten the rest of my family is claiming has Steely Dan, well, qualities.
This is Maria’s daughter Anna, of “Aunt Katie, are you a lesbian?” fame. And the alleged Steely Dan spawn.
I love this Satanic video. Also, Maria’s BF isn’t too shabby, either. Maybe next up for me should be a man in his 30s.
Twenties! Aim high, June. Ballerinas can get any man.
I’d better frappe a té out of here, or some other very real ballet term.
It’s raining today; at the most, it’s going to be 64 degrees. They also call that “the high.” Am become familiar with language of peeple.
Anyway, after Edsel’s a.m. constitutional, and by “constitutional” I mean he peed, he stampeded back inside, as he does. “Edsel, wait,” I said, and he screeched to a halt. That’s one good thing about Edsel. He usually listens to you. “Let me wipe your feets,” I said, and yes, I said “feets.”
Incidentally, who’s delighted she mentioned his scratching trouble yesterday? Hello, 200 pieces of advice.
It’s okay. We’ve been to the vet. Thrice. We’re working on it. Also, I can Google with the best of them. Oooo, also? I finally figured out you can SHUT DOWN MESSENGER on Facebook! You can just shut it off! No more fruitlessly saying, “Can everyone just not message me?” Because I shut if off!
Oh, the freedom. Who even knew that was a thing? I live and breathe this Philadelphia freedom.
I’m free, to do what I want, any old time.
I’m free! Free falling!
If I could get off the Freedom Trail here, the point of my story is, I have a dog towel in this back room, a towel that is allegedly just for dog feets. I have no idea why, other than that meant they got to charge me more. They charged me an arm and a feets.
I also have a for-dogs absorbing mat right at the back door, then another “for dogs” smaller rug at the next threshold, accompanying this alleged dog towel. They’ve formed an oompah band. You’d think my house would be devoid of the muddy prints. The feets prints.
Oh, look. There’s, like, feets prints between the two rugs. Yeah. Hello, luck.
OH MY GOD ANYWAY. So I said, “Hang on, Edsel, let me wipe your muddy feets.” And I turned to get the towel, and when I came back, Edsel was holding up his foot. His one feets.
HOW CUTE IS THAT?
That story took 350 words. If a man told it–
a man would never tell it.
In other news, this above about sums up m’weekend. Am vaguely depressed, and by “vaguely” I mean I’m depressed. Maybe I’m not depressed so much as I am just sad. And a little panicky.
I realize the best part of life is the thinner slice, and it don’t count for much.
See. Why does my brain have to have Air Supply lyrics in it? No one needs that. Not even the fine members of Air Supply. Ask me about algebra, though. My brain tossed that right out, like a brown avocado.
I realize there is a good chance, maybe an 80% chance, that I will be alone for the rest of my life. I mean, (a), I’m old. And (2), any man who’s single at my age is likely damaged. A thing I have learned the hard way. I’m not saying I’m not damaged. Look at me. But I’m saying I may be doomed.
This makes me sad, although truth be told, usually when I’m in a long-term relationship, I get annoyed with the person, anyway. So maybe I’ll be happier, once I accept this lot in life. But I feel like I’ve failed in some way. Like I’m a spare button that you keep just in case, but really you’re all, Why do I have this button? It goes to nothing.
So I spent most of the weekend here, other than yesterday’s venture downtown, driving all the old men–you know what? I’ll stop. I will spare you that much, at least.I mentioned this on Facebook last night, but yesterday when Edsel and I were taking our p.m. constitutional, and by “constitutional” I mean an actual walk, we saw a woman several blocks down, lounging on her hammock. She was reading a book, a cat strewn across her. “That looks lovely,” thought, and I noticed that cat was a handsome all-gray, my type, his tail whipping just the way Steely–
And that is how, once again, I’ve found my cat bonding with another family. Why? He doesn’t even like ME that much. Why suck up to other humans?
Anyway. I just hope this whole sad sad crush of doomed sadness won’t make me a boring blogger. People will start leaving in droves. I already learned the hard way–and why I gotta keep learning the hard way?–that everyone here isn’t reading me with love. I stupidly kind of thought you all were. Like, I kind of thought if you bothered to come here, you kind of liked me.
I mean, I thought that about a man who kept insisting he loved me, too, and look where that got me.
Why are people so goddamn complex?
Ima go get ready for work now, and carry on with my life, such as it is. I leave you with this YouTube veeeedeo, that Marvin hepped me to. He keeps putting up old veeedeos (keep saying that, June) from many years ago (this one is from 1998), and Dear Marvin: Does this piss off your wife? I mean, she seems very cool, but if it were me, I’d be all, “Okay, already, with the memory lane bullshit.”
I’m so glad Marvin married someone I like. Granted, it’d be a lot more fun for me to have a whole new enemy, but I’m glad he found a nice person who is sane. Marvin deserves that.
I’ll talk to you later. Tonight I gotta freelance and maybe lie around listlessly. I’m swamped.
Alone again. Naturally.
I’m at the bookstore. I’m in the window. I’m speaking like I’m Dick and Jane. Oh, see. See June work. See June work on her fucking freelance.
I’m sitting in the window of the bookstore again. Also in this window is sort of a hipster man, approximately my age, I think, but then again I see 36-year-old men and figure they’re “around” my age.
When 36-year-old men were born, I was 16. I’d already lost my virginity. I was a fully formed, ruined person.
Anyway, also sharing my window is a lesbian with a bleached mohawk, who came up here with her iced coffee and her laptop, and after awhile a bookstore employee came over and asked, “Who ordered the tuna?”
See June. See June pretend to be mature. See June watch the lesbian say, “I did. The tuna’s mine.” See June regress. See, see. Oh, see.
Not much happened this weekend. I got a sympathy card for Dick Whitman, finally, and a long envelope, because I printed out for him all the comments y’all made on Facebook when I told you his mom died. I made two copies of it–one for him and one for his sister. DW’s mom was a legend around these parts. These tuna parts.
I also bought flax seed oil for Edsel, as I continue to struggle with his red, raw, itchy skin that he now chews as his full-time job. He went on Indeed and filled out an application. Edz a full tyme chewur. Objectibbe: Challenge posish that offur chance to chew back.
I also put air in m’tires, and a very …let’s say rural man tried to help me, and clearly wanted a piece of June’s action. He clearly ordered the tuna, but there was none to be had. He was very kind, though, and as I drove away, I considered how delightful my “type” has been thus far. What’s a little NASCAR if a man is kind?
Yeah, no. I can’t. I can’t NASCAR. I have to draw the line somewhere.
Anyway, I made a deal with myself today that I would come out and do m’freelance till I got to page 20 of this book, and that might not seem very far in to you, but it is, trust me. I have, in fact, gotten to page 20, but now what the hell can I do with myself? I have to go to the grocery store, as I am clean out of garbage bags. So there’s that. Life: fulfilling.
I’ve been single, technically single, for two years. But this latest blow, this latest thing that happened in my nonrelationship, has made things different. If I was ever bored, I could call that Person Who Shall Not Be Named. Often he asked me to do stuff on Sundays: a movie, dinner, whatever. Now there’s a stony silence. On my end. He’s texted twice and written one letter these past two weeks. I’ve not responded.
So I find myself at loose ends. My ends are loose. I asked a few friends if they wanted to hang today, but no one could, promising “next weekend” we could do something. Marty Martin wanted me to come out with him last night, but he asked me at 9 p.m. and I was already clad in pajamas, having rented The Big Sick (highly recommend, by the way).
Today I got an emailed invitation to a party, and I noted I was the second loser to answer. I shoulda played it cooler than that. Anyway, that’s next weekend, and at least I can look forward to that throwdown. That shindig.
So anyway. That’s what’s going on with me right now. It’s a beautiful fall day, I got my work done, someone from Deliverance tried to pick me up, and the evening yawns before me with nary a plan other than the crucial garbage bags purchase and a walk with Eds, of the Chewy Edses. So I thought I’d write and say hi.
Oh! And Google Photos, an establishment that lives to torture me, showed me what I was doing two years ago today. I’d moved out of my house from my year abroad, was staying at Kaye’s, but had to return to my old house for the weekend to watch my own pets. Here’s a photo from that day.
Eds, who looks stoned. And my Lu. Oh, my heart.
My stupid heart. I suppose it will go on.
From a stupid window at a stupid bookstore during the twilight of my stupid life,
I did something I wish I hadn’t.
I agreed via email, while at my regularly scheduled job, to take on a freelance project. I didn’t pay enough attention to the deets and dear June, please say deets, because please see above ref to regularly scheduled job and distracted. They offered me a flat rate, and I already agreed, and it’s not nearly going to be enough for the volume of work Ima have to do.
Crap. Contract is signed. Work is already with me. Crap, I say.
In the meantime, it will keep me out of trouble, and there is SOME money in it. Just not much.
We had our annual pumpkin painting contest at work yesterday.
I never participate, except to go out there and eat the snacks, and judge everyone’s work. I have no visual skillz. Like, seriously none.
Yesterday, when my day of judging pumpkins and pumping kin and so on was done, I meandered to our bustling downtown, which is sort of bustling, actually, and is generally pleasant other than the occasional crazy guy “Excuse me, ma’am”-ing you as you walk by. Maybe it’s because when I’m downtown, I drive all the old men crazy.
A guy asked me if I could get him something to drink. Someone had bought him a plate of Middle-Eastern food, and I could just see this white person, all proud of himself, not thinking OH MY GOD THIS WOULD MAKE YOU THIRSTY, and the point of my story was I ended up buying this man some very pretentious $2.50 water at the local bookstore.
But yesterday, I went down there not to drive all the old men crazy, although that’s a given, but to get my red coat.
I’d admired said red coat at my friend Kit’s store, which you’ll be stunned to hear is called Design Archives. It’s a ’50s, swingy coat, a red-orange color, and I almost bought it but didn’t, because I already HAVE a winter coat, so why do I need another.
“Oh, hell, I’ll give it to you for [insert absurdly low amount here],” said Kit, when I messaged her later. “I’ll tell them to put it on hold for you.”
And that is why I was downtown, driving all the old men crazy, and Dear June: You are not Thin Lizzie. Stop. Love, Readers.
“I want to see your new red coat,” my friend Hamlet wrote me, because everyone must know my everything, so when I got home last night, I slopped the hogs, fed own self, drove all the old men crazy and finally came in here to take a webcam photo of said red coat, to not only give Hamlet the exciting sneak preview, but also to show all y’all today.
The goddamn webcam takes 87 hours to pop up on my computer. There have been plenty of times I’ve wanted to webcam you during a blogging not blogging moment, and said fuck it cause it takes too long. So last night I clicked on the icon for it, then prepared to wait the hundred hours for it to finally work.
When I DID see it was up, I noted that instead of the camera being on, the video thing, veeeeedeo thing, was on, and what I enjoy about myself is my rapid ability to show off.
I am reminded once again of my grandmother saying, “Look at her. She doesn’t need anybody else. Just sits with herself and laughs.”
Anyway, here’s the coat.
After I got my designs from the archives last night, and before I came home to show off for company, I headed back to the bookstore to sit in the window and watch people. Judge their pumpkins. I like how I show you instead a view INSIDE the store, but whatever.
Oooo, also, I forgot to mention that when I took a walk with m’coworkers yesterday, I saw a KITTEN, a black-and-white KITTEN, under a car. “KITTEN!” I said, racing toward it.
“How did she see that?” I heard someone ask.
Anyway it ran away from me, and into these woods, and after work I returned to said woods and “kitty-kittied” myself hoarse and no kitten. Annoy.
The rustling through the woods and the walking downtown in the rain and Dancing This Mess Around and driving all the old men crazy resulted in end-of-day hair that looked like this:
Dear God. Yes, I DID have that shirt on inside-out. You know how I am.
So that about sums it up. I got a weekend yawning before me, as I do, and that’s just fine. I don’t know why no one will dance with me.
I ain’t no limburger.
June, driving all the old men crazy, since whenever I became obsessed with that line.
I stood in my backyard just now and watched several leaves fall from the branches of my tree and sway all the way to the ground. It was so pretty that I got the phone so I could show you, but of course once I got the damn phone, the leaves stayed tight.
weee not leaf-ing. heeeee!
Leaves are dicks. Nevertheless, I made a video, hoping to capture a leaf falling, like you’ve never seen that before, but instead my video is more let’s say meditative. Till Edsel. You’ll see.
I hate holding the phone vertically to take a video, but the first time when I went up then down to look at the dog, it got sideways.
I’ve been trying to be meditative lately. As you might know, I had jarring news last week, and you only know this because I wrote about it on the Facebooks, on a page called (Face)Book of June, and what was warm, what was really lovely of you, were the four people who joined the page, read my tale of sadness, then promptly quit it again.
So, no. No, I’m not adding anyone else to the page at this time. It was supposed to be for friends of this page. Friends. Of this page. So. I’m a tad wary right now.
But anyway, if you “Don’t have Facebook” (say, Madame 1800s, how are the 1800s going? Is there penicillin yet?) or whatever, suffice it to say that what happened was that I was on the mend, I was headed toward moving on from my last “relationship,” if you even want to call it that. I think I may just refer to that time as, “Those five years and 10 months that I was gravely mistaken,” but that takes too long.
Those years when I had Stockholm Syndrome?
My Not Found 404 Error?
Anyway. I thought I was moving on from it, whatever it was. It officially ended in 2015, but then it kept …hovering there, and I started it back up again last year at this time, then it ended again, badly, in December and I thought, Okay, this is really it.
But then it hovered again. And it’s hard to convince yourself a relationship is over when someone is constantly coming back, telling you he loves you.
Until you find out he doesn’t.
I found out some stuff, some you-were-not-loved information. And I wasn’t told because there was guilt or so much respect that anyone needed to come clean with me.
I found out because the other woman contacted me.
I’ve been in a limbo for two years. A purgatory. And one thing I like about myself is my ability to not be dramatic about everything. But really, this half-broken-up shit is wearisome. So it’s kind of like I’m in a new breakup.
But since I’ve already spent much time grieving and mourning and feeling incredulous about everything, it’s moving along faster than you’d think, this time.
The point is, I’ve been trying to be meditative. When I walk Edsel at night, I’m paying attention to what I smell, what I see, what I hear. And it helps. Because otherwise I could be walking around with my brain spinning, as it has spun each day since I stupidly convinced myself I was in love, way back in March of 2012.
When your overwhelming feeling is more of anxiety that you adore this person and you worry they won’t adore you back? That’s really not so much love as a neurotic coupling. Must remember this.
You must remember this, a diss is still a diss. A lie is just a lie. The fundamental things apply, avoidant guy.
But I’m doing okay. I’m no longer in denial. Well. I’m 99% not in denial. I think I so dearly wanted some way that this would work out that I never quite accepted it was over.
Till now. I accept that it’s over. My plan is to never say one word to my 404 error ever again.
Oh! But while we’re on the topic of that (Face)Book of June page, I noticed yesterday a few people on there with the Facebook silhouette
And one person in particular with that image, and no friends, and the only info on her Facebook page was where she went to school. I say “she” but it’s a clearly fake, neutral name.
It worries me.
Look, I’m over there being me. My real name, my real details. I know this may come as a shock to you, but I’d rather tell that stuff to real people.
Anyway, this particular person has been on my readers-of-my-blog page for six years, so I didn’t just delete her right away. I messaged her. Said the stuff I just said to you, about real and so on, and how it worried me that she/he had no identity. “Is there anything you can tell me to put my mind at ease?” I asked.
So I removed him or her, and also someone who had no info on her page except a picture of the Verizon chick from the commercials. Then I announced on the page at large that if you had a fake profile, or no profile pic, I was going to have to remove you, because it makes me uncomfortable.
Here’s what happened.
“I have a picture of a flower, June! Don’t kick me off.”
“See, no,” I’d explain, “I’m saying if you have NO photo at all, and NO friends, and NO posts on your wall that I can see. That’s when I’m removing folks. Because how is it fair that you set up a fake account so you can lurk my life? No. This page is an exchange,” is what I said.
Then three comments later, I’d get, “I hate how I look, June, so I have a photo of a soccer ball. Please don’t take me off this page.”
“Yeah, see…” I’d say, and explain it all again.
Ten comments later, guess what.
So that was my day yesterday, until finally last night I was face-down on my living room floor, just typing “please scroll up” every 14 minutes or so.
Cats. You’re all cats. I herd cats in my real life, I herd cats in my online life. But I do heart you all, those of you who are real with me, I mean. I know I haven’t met most of you, but dear god, are you part of my every day.
I’ve watched you lose tons of weight, or a husband, or your jobs. I’ve seen your family members get sick or well. I’ve seen you have rotten days and great ones. And even though it’s weird, and impersonal, our relationship, it’s also sort of very personal.
Thank you to those of you who’ve been real, and have seen me through this stupid 404 error, for screaming at your computer DON’T HAVE DINNER WITH HIM, JOOOOB! all these years, thank you. I’ve tried to be as real as I can, and I appreciate how real you are all being, as well.
I guess that’s all I have to say today. My freelance work came early, goddammit, so I ended up having zero free days after all.
Edsel just let himself and all the cats in, which was convenient for me. Last night, late, there was another NextDoor about a “sweet cat” and I didn’t even have to open it. Of course I did.
“This sweet cat followed us home. Is he yours?”
Ima just brand that asshole with my address and a DON’T FEED. Also, “sweet cat.” Could it be possible that he has multiple personalities? Or maybe he just turns on the charm when a potential new food source rears its head.
I can’t solve every mystery today. I gotta just keep moving on.
Moving the hell on.
I’ve gotten up, fed all the animals like I’m Fern in Charlotte’s Web. Not that she really fed that many animals other than Wilbur. With a bottle.
Now I want a baby pig.
Anyway, then I showered and ventured in here, to put on my Laila Ali dryer cap and write to you. But I looked outside and everyone was out there being autumnal.
Lily’s eye is all scrinchy right now, a thing I’m assuming is the fault of Steely Dan, who always wants to roughhouse. Horse around. With his shenanigans.
I am 109.
See? As soon as I took this, Steely Dick ran over and bopped poor Lily in the empty head, Lily who never wants to do anything but fluff. And butt her empty head under your hand so you pet her, which is not incredibly annoying in the slightest.
I want to thank Edsel for how pristine that doorknob is. Why do I have to have all these pets?
Anyway, so there was my distraction for today, before my Ritalin kicks in, and WHAT A DELIGHT Ritalin is. Someone ask me where Iris is. I love that. I love taking 394834924002 photos of the animals and someone has to ask where ONE OF THE NINETY is who wasn’t around.
I also love, “I was carrying groceries and juggling oranges and had Edsel on a leash and was dangling the Magna Carta in my fingers when a hummingbird flitted by for .08 seconds.”
“No picture, June?”
Last night, after a full day of working on something intense at work, and I know I like to complain and kvetch and carry on about the intense work, but truthfully I kind of love it. Anyway, I was doing intense work all day, then also I’d promised a guy I’d stay and help him with his stuff, after 5:00. He’s starting a side business and wanted me to zip up his promotional hooo haa words of hoo haa. So I stayed after and helped him, and then I figured, well, I’m already here, I might as well do my freelance work at my desk.
I finished that particular freelance project last night, and another one comes October 16. That gives me
Philadelphia freedom. Philadelphia freedom took me knee-high to a man. What the hell are the lyrics, really?
…Oh, dang, I just looked it up. Those really ARE the lyrics.
I owned that 45. And the reason I owned it is my friend Vicki had an older sister, Ann, and what’s beautiful about all our first names is we don’t have to say a thing. You just look at our names and say, Midcentury. America. Girls.
[Disclaimer: My real name is not June.] [America gasps.]
So, my friend Vicki had a sister, Ann, or maybe it was Anne, but either way, she was older than us and therefore cooler, and as my 10th birthday approached, she said, “You want to ask for the 45 of Philadelphia Freedom, and you want Blue Jeans perfume by Avon.”
Why, I hadn’t known I’d wanted EITHER, so I was glad she cleared it up. If memory serves, I got not the cologne but a powder, which came all in a puff that was self-contained.
…Searching for that did not turn up what I remember getting, and it could be that I kaleidoscoped the memory with another one of another perfumed puff, but what the internet DID do for me was present me with an array of Avon products I had clean forgotten about.
Why was Avon the shit back then? Everyone’s mom and grandma and aunt and sister and transitioning brother had them the Avon. I guess this is before snooty cosmetics counters, aka my Shangri-La, became a thing in every town.
My grandmother had this on her vanity, and I had no idea it was an Avon product. What I DO recall is spraying some on, and by “some” I mean I emerged from the bedroom and my grandmother said, “WHAT ON EARTH DID YOU DO?”
“I sprayed on some of your Rupture,” I said.
And then I watched my grandmother commence with the attempts to breathe again, as she was hysterical for 29 hours. Rupture. Oh, she loved that.
Any time I did something ridiculous, she’d scream to the phone to dial one of her sisters and report it. Gramma would have been great at Facebook updates.
And she never said Hello. “Oh, what’cha doing?” was her opening line. I guess it was a folksy way of saying, “Have you got time to talk?”
Her sisters and aunt always had time to talk. Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk I’m a woman’s man, no time to talk.
Dear Every Single Person I Am Related To: Why the FUCK did you never get me this? How happy would I have been to have received not only a cosmetic, but a CAT cosmetic. A cat cosmetic WITH SPARKLY SHINY EYES? Goddammit. Plus? Box with cat picture.
Dear Family: I mean. DID YOU PURPOSELY HIDE FROM ME THAT THESE ITEMS EXISTED??
I had one of these. My friend, Pal From MA, had a mom who sold Avon, which is yet another reason there was no excuse to get me the sparkly cat or the poodle shown above. Anyway, you lifted this poor blond girl’s head, and inside was some solid Nicole Brown Simpson perfume.
I didn’t have the blond girl, I got the dark-haired Asian girl, maybe because they were trying to encourage me to embrace diversity, or maybe that’s what my friend’s mom had left over. I don’t know the ins and outs, y’all, the solid-perfume-for-brains ins and outs.
I FORGOT ABOUT THIS. Had some iteration of it. Oh my god. I feel like eventually, that puff didn’t puff so well, and you were hitting yourself with a ring of plastic, hoping to get the last bits of powder.
My mother totally had this, and I want to say it was, like, white lipstick once you opened it. Which is quite a look. Hey, I went the entire last decade of the century with brown lips, so.
How did I get off on this tangent? It feels like so long ago. But before I leave you, what I meant to tell you a hundred vintage Avons ago was that when I finally got home last night, there was a box on my porch from my friend Dot. And?
LOOK WHAT SHE FOUND US! She found us another gay porn Santa, for all our Christmas gay-porn needs!
I had this years ago, and it’s supposed to hang over your porch light, and the first year I showed it to y’all someone was all, That looks like a blowup doll Santa, and much like the day we all got into writing Amish erotica (“Plow my fields, Jebediah”), we also had a big time with this in the comments.
Then eventually, because this thing is made of plastic, it fell apart and there was no more gay porn Santa in the land. Amish erotica will always be with us, though. Pull my bonnet, hard.
I gotta go. Look at the time, Brother Yost. You really churn thou butter.
This has been another useful edition of Book of June.
Amazon is being a dick. They sent me this long email that said nothing, about how I need to have “qualified sales” and that I don’t, and I don’t know what “qualified” could mean, seeing as you guys buy a lotta stuff. (Say, thanks!)
I wrote back, and they answered with another vague email (“Once you’ve had three qualified sales…”).
There is an ad for Amazon either on your sidebar or at the bottom of this blog, depending on if you’re on a phone or a desktop. If you’re on a phone, you have to scroll forever to see it–I don’t know why. I asked WordPress to help me, and they did get it so the ad’d show up, but you have to REALLY MEAN IT to see the Amazon ad on a phone or tablet.
The point is, maybe they’re going to cut me off. Without a cent. And they won’t speak English and tell me why. Why aren’t my sales “qualified”?
Oh, look! A link to Amazon! IS THIS A QUALIFIED SALE if three people click on it and buy something on Amazon today? I DON’T KNOW. Because they WON’T GIVE ME A SPECIFIC ANSWER.
In other news, I was rejected three different ways yesterday. I can’t go into specifics, but three. I was doing okay with rejections one and two, but once three hit, I was all, COME ON, GOD.
I didn’t even INCLUDE Amazon threatening to reject me.
Also, this happened. My friend Hamlet and I often send each other images from our thwarted attempts at love, by texting each other the sad/offfensive messages and photos we get from our online dating swains. I recently sent him my nice message from Luv2PutItInU. Which is still not as good as my all-time favorite, G-Spot Hunter.
Hamlet’s latest was a clearly crazy woman in a tiara. Sadly, I happened to have a tiara right at my desk, on top of my Hello Kitty coffeemaker, so I could reenact said photo. There is really no telling which be-tiara-ed woman was really crazier yesterday. Say “really” one more time.
Also, I am sorry to tell you this, but Ward and I did not work out. I know the tone of this post makes it seem like he was one of the rejectors, but he was not. It was me. It wasn’t him, it was me, literally.
But look. It was a short-lived thing, and that’s too bad, but that’s what dating is. You see how it goes with people and you make informed decisions before you get too caught up. I might know from caught up when you shouldn’t be. I might know from that.
So I may be erring on the side of caution a lot these days. Sue me.
Note most of the photos of this creature are when he’s about to eat. This is because it is the only time he is home.
Other than my rejection and my annoyance at Amazon and my slight sadness that it didn’t work out with Ward and my deep and abiding affection for my friend Hamlet and also Steely Dan, because I choose the wrong mencats, I got nothing. I’m not really blue, per se, just sort of stung.
Mencats is totally a thing.
So let’s just scroll through old photos and clap ourselves out.
I’ve plowed through a lotta pets.
Okay, I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Try not to reject me today, would ya?
I did many things this weekend, but one thing I did not do was much sleeping.
Internet: Why, Joon?
Joon: Noneya, Internet.
On Friday afternoon, I was toiling at m’desk when the phone rang. “WHAT.” I thought, as I am cheerful and elegant about being interrupted when in a flow.
It was my doctor’s office. I’d had an appointment for them to see how I was doing on my Ritalin. I’d gotten scattered and forgotten. Hello, irony? Are you there, irony? It’s me–OOOO, SHINY THING LOOK!
Fortunately, he’s right across the street, my doctor is, so I screamed over there. He just wanted to see me in personal (did I ever tell you that story? Of the prisoner who wanted to get to know me “in personal”?), just to see if Ritalin made me, you know, too peppy.
Apparently it doesn’t, and he doubled my dose, and we’ll see how it goes from there. The good news is, I took the new double dutch bus amount right away, and screamed home after work and got a lot of freelance done before having fun that night. I never do that. It’s either, Ima go out tonight or Ima freelance tonight. BUT I DID BOTH!
Oh, Ritalin. [Chucks Ritalin under chin]
On Saturday I got a manicure (kind of a green/blue. I know that’s my new color. ….Really? Okay, hang ON).
Oooo, it’s on sale right now! Click this picture to get to it on Amazon. They, the Amazon people, the Amakazons, sent me a very vague email about how I’m not doing something, and maybe it’s that I’m not touting the wares enough? It was purposely obtuse, if you ask me, and this whole not blog is me assuming you’re asking me everything.
Anyway, on Saturday night I saw Ward, this man I’ve gone out with a few times who came up with the blog name “Ward” without knowing my blog name is June, a thing that sent all 10 of you abuzz.
The point is, Ward has met the animals, and the animals have met Ward. Need I tell you Edsel’s reaction?
I went outside to try to get Edsel in a “EDS IN LUFF O EDZUL GOD” photo, but he’s out there quite involved with Blu and hasn’t time for us right now. Behold a photo of me taking Blu and dangling it over my head, just so that damn dog would pay me any mind.
Anyway, Edsel has asked for his own Facebook account just so he can update his status to IN RELASHION WIF WARD. Oh, he simpered, he offered his ears up for pets, he’d walk away and come back to be sure of Ward, he flumped to his bed and gazed at him. Edsel is Violet Bicks. He likes every boy.
The good news is, Ward came up with the best Steely Dan voice, sort of a “If Barry White were from Louisiana” thing that OH MY GOD IS SO STEELY DAN’S VOICE. It is totally that cat’s voice. Low, manly, lazy, not-give-a-shit-y.
Perfect. So, now SD has a brand voice.
On Sunday, I gathered up my freelance and headed to the coffee shop, where I get more done because there are distractions here. I can sit down to do my work and realize I’ve spent 21 minutes playing with Edsel’s teeth.
I went to a coffee shop downtown, where everyone pretends to be involved with his or her laptop but looks up any time anyone walks in, lest they be pickupable. Of course, seeing as I’m 89 years old, I do not fall into the pickupable category.
I had a cafe au lait and a chocolate croissant (say, just-not-mentioning-it-to-my Weight-Watchers-app, how’s the cheating going?), and got all my work done, because Ritalin.
It was raining hard out, so I sat on the leopard-spotted couch and watched the rain come down, and the people passing by downtown, and thought about how lucky I am.
And now I must head to work. It’s still rainy and no matter how hard Laila Ali blows me, Ima be frizzy today, but it’s Monday, Blu Monday, and there’s not much you can do about that.
I did something bad, and I feel bad about it. Say “bad” one more time. Who am I, Michael Jackson?
In 2011, I briefly dated a guy. Let me think: We met in late May, first date in June, and by July it was all over. We gave it about a month of no contact, and then commenced being friends after that. He, too, was newly separated, in that first year North Carolina makes you sit through till you can get a divorce. We’d go to dinner, to movies, get drinks, shop. He was fun to shop with. We got each other Christmas presents and celebrated each other’s birthdays.
That guy was someone I called Dick Whitman. (He was a huge fan of Mad Men, as was I.)
Anyway, we got pretty close. Then life moved on and I met someone I got serious with, and he did, too, but occasionally we’d still hang, usually with the people we were dating.
In 2015, I ended my serious relationship, AS WE ALL KNOW ALL TOO WELL, and I didn’t hear from Dick Whitman. I wasn’t particularly miffed about that: I hadn’t personally told him, I don’t think, and I assumed he’d figure it out soon enough via social media or something. Eventually, his mom told him.
Because here’s the thing: His mom was fabulous. Also, use of colons with an introductory clause is big with me today.
Dick Whitman talked about his mom all the time, and when we’d been dating, he showed me old pictures of her (he knew I was into that, plus also he’s a photographer, so he had what you might call a few photos here and there), and he and I even made a little video for her, so he could “introduce” me.
Anyway, I finally met her two years after I met Dick Whitman. She was marvelous. We shared a birthday, and a tendency to be outspoken and perhaps unfiltered. I met her two times total, both at Winston-Salem restaurants, as that’s where they both live. And I adored her.
Dick Whitman’s mom became a reader of my blog, and she’d comment here, and on (Face)Book of June. And it was probably one of those places that she learned my relationship was over, and she told her son.
He left me a message then. I was staying at Kaye’s, so it must have been those first six weeks after the breakup. I called him back, but he never returned the call.
During those first six weeks, I also arranged an “I’m Going to Die Alone” party, to be held in December at my house after I’d moved in. I sent out invitations early, probably two months before the party was to commence. Dick Whitman did not reply, but his girlfriend did, saying they’d be there.
But then weeks before the party, she wrote again, saying they’d double-booked and could not come. I never did speak to Dick Whitman, and that is when I got angry at him, for not being there when I really needed a friend.
Look, it was a total chick thing to do, okay? I know that. I was vulnerable. We still have not spoken, except I emailed him last week to say I was sorry that his mother died.
Because she did die. Dick Whitman’s mom’s health declined, and in August I emailed DW’s sister to ask if I could visit. I knew Dick Whitman’s mom was in the hospital, and I wanted to see her. She said yes, please do, she reads your blog, still.
But driving the 40 minutes each way after work wasn’t really feasible, because of my freelance stuff I do at night, and each weekend would just slip by without me getting to Winston. Every weekend I’d say, “I gotta get to Winston” and then I never did.
And then she died.
And now I see Dick Whitman’s sister has unfriended me on Facebook, and I feel terrible. I try to always be the person who comes to the funeral, or who shows up when someone is ill, and I was not that person this time. I know DW’s mom was surrounded by people who loved her, and that she probably didn’t even notice that I wasn’t there, but I wish I’d have been there anyway, as clearly it meant something to DW’s sister that I show up.
So, I was that asshole. And I feel terrible about it, and you don’t have to make me feel better, because I did a bad thing, and it’s okay to feel terrible when you did a bad thing.