June's stupid life · Munchausen's by Proxy · My pets

The one where I try to kill Iris

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Every morning, and at noon, and then again at night, I am giving Tallulah a cacophony of pills in order to make her well. And along with that, I am of course worried sick about her, and the whole thing has me in a muddle, like the Good Witch. "I'm a little muddled." The Good Witch was so goddamn boring, but I did love her pink dress.

A few days ago, along with Tallulah's Munchausen's by Proxy pills, I also had to de-flea everyone. I know it's winter, but Edsel's been scratching, and he's not allowed to have anything wrong with him other than a flea. He just isn't. I got out the dog flea meds and the cat flea meds, took the vials all out of their boxes, and laid them on the counter. Then I got distracted pilling Lu and didn't de-flea everyone till later.

That night when I got home from work, Iris had big chunks of fur out her side. "Did you and Lily have a fight?" I asked her, pulling fur right off her. The thought flitted though my mind, just flitted. Geez, I hope I didn't put dog flea meds on her. But I figured it was all the same, right? Maybe she'd lose a little fur and that'd be that.

Then yesterday I came home for lunch, thank GOD, because I wanted to check on Talu, who's in good spirits but still has to work really hard to pee. I was outside with Lu when Iris came out the screen door. She was shaking everywhere and walking like she was drunk.

It was awful.

"IRIS!" I yelled, swooping her up. Her whole little cat body was shaking. I didn't even get the cat carrier. I just took her like that right to the emergency vet, WHICH WAS CLOSED, so then we had to go to my real vet, further away. The whole time she was on my lap, both purring and shaking.

When Iris was a kitten at the shelter, she was the kind of kitten who purred when you picked her up, and right then I knew. I didn't care if she had eyeballs, I just cared that she'd be a cool purry cat. And she always has been. I love all my pets, put I have always sincerely liked Iris. She just has a lot of pluck, and bravery, and never feels sorry for herself and her lack of eye-ness-ness.

I was thinking all that when I ran into the vet's office. "It's you again!" one of the nincompoop young receptionists said. There's another receptionist, an older lady with a tight perm, who saw the shaking head in my arms. "We have an emergency!" she called on the microphone. When they took shaking Iris away from me, I worried I'd never see her alive again.

I went back to work because they said they'd have to observe her all afternoon. They bathed the flea meds off her, and gave her some drugs, and I sat at my desk like a crazy person. If I killed Iris, I'd never be the same. I'd never forgive myself.

The vet called, and asked me to be godmother to her children, so close are we at this point, and alerted me that Iris had responded nicely to the drugs and she would be okay. Oh my GOD, I was so relieved. I'd been shaking just like someone had put flea meds on ME. I slept with just Iris last night, a thing that annoyed Talu, who is malingering with that pesky possible-cancer thing she's trying to pull right now, but I wanted Iris to be able to get right next to me without dogs intimidating her.

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My little patients.

In the morning, I let everyone in, and Iris was back to her plucky self. Jesus Christ. So consider this a public service announcement.  I know those damn packages of flea medicine look alike, but be really careful not to mix them up. They are NOT the same chemicals and it can kill your cat. Lucky for Iris, she still has several lives left in her.

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Lillie over Eyeriss getting all attenshun. Eeet earz in prowtest.

The good news is, I got to spend more money at the vet, so.

Exhaustedly,

June

Friends · In the kitchen with June · June's stupid life · My pets

June decides to blame it on the boogie

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This is the best picture I could get of Tallulah enjoying her a burrito last night. It's hard to feed your dog a burrito and take a photo at the same time. Need to go on Amazon and order the Indian goddess arms.

So, I know I wrote briefly yesterday, but what happened was yesterday morning I took Tallulah to the vet for her ultrasound. Hey, did I mention how everyone needs to email me personally with advice re this? On the way there, I kept petting her head and hugging her, which I'm sure was safe, but she was cold and nervous and was shivering so hard her dog teeth were chattering. Poor Lu.

Just as we neared the damn vet, Landslide came on. The good version, not the one where the Dixie Chicks fuck up the lyrics. Dear Dixie Chicks, singing, "even children get old" ruins the meaning of that line, you fucking idiots.

I edit our newsletter at work, and this month I did a roundup of all the employees asking, Which musicians have influenced you? I asked it right after David Bowie died. Anyway, lots of people responded and because EVERY MONTH my coworker Griff adores telling me about an error we missed in said newsletter, I have of late been asking him to take a gander at it before it goes to print.

"Hey, June, you wanna know what you missed? Hey, June." Oh my god, every month he does that.

Anyway, he's really good at catching errors and being a dick, so it's been great. This month he kept coming over to me. "June. Hey, June, this guy's wrong about this band he likes."

"Griff, we can't fix people's opinions. Could you just look for spelling and grammar mistakes? If I gave someone the wrong job title?"

Griff has been an editor for 20 years.

"Hey. June. We can't let this guy say this. He's completely wrong. This band was not the quintessential…"

"GRIFF. GRAMMAR. SPELLING."

Awhile back, I told Griff about this asshole who'd written me on OK Cupid to say, "While a lot of men would be turned off by your profile, I found it wonderful."

Wow, thanks, backhand.

"What's your profile like?" asked Griff. "Is it really, like, bossy and masculine?"

Yeah.

Oh my god anyway. So Landslide came on, and it made me sad, although I have to say so far I haven't cried about all this because nothing's official and also Lexapro.

 

I feel like Lindsay Buckingham is a whiny little bitch. Also, that hairdo has to go. Art Garfunkel called.

Talu went cheerfully with the vet tech, since they're all starting to go way back, as often as we're in there. Lu's all, "hey, sheeela, how's the fammlee?" I tried not to feel tragic while I drove to work, but the truth is, I do. I took my phone with me everywhere yesterday, and when the vet called, what she told me was while everything else looks good, Tallulah has a thickening in the trigone part of her bladder, which is where bladder cancer starts.

It still COULD BE a really bad UTI, she told me. It still could be. We're gonna look again when she finishes her antibiotics.

But after we talked, I googled, of course, and bladder cancer rates are high in Beagles, which she is along with evil Pit. Also, man, she's been on these last-chance antibiotics twice a day since Monday. And she still can't pee. Plus, I did not find one thing on Google where someone was all, My dog had thickening in the trigone and it turned out marvelous. Not one.

What I'm saying is, people who're dismissing this to make me feel better aren't helping. I know I can be, you know, dark about health things, but I've pretty much known in my heart of hearts that something's really wrong since that Saturday she walked up to me, shaking.

Maybe my heart of hearts is wrong because I'm me. Maybe. But what helps is not telling me I'm wrong and she'll be fine. I don't think she will.

If she does have bladder cancer, which by the way COMES FROM GODDAMN FLEA MEDICINE, and can I sue someone? If she does, it's not curable. And I won't put my dog through all kinds of shit just so I can have her longer. She's a dog. She won't know why she feels like crap.

So, we wait for her antibiotic to be done. When that's done, I have to follow her around the yard like an idiot trying to catch her urine. "Oh, my vet told me to just do it with a ladle," said my Aunt Kathy. "Just get one of your ladles…"

One of my ladles.

After Lu's celebratory burrito last night, she and I drove to the store and got water buffalo hooves, I am not making that up, for her and for Edsel. Edsel, who may have to rise to the challenge of being only dog in this house when he's spent his whole life being a Pip, and god help us, everyone.

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Every morning now, after breakfast, these two meet on this chair for their Needy Committee huddle. That chair needs recovering so bad. Those two need Pip recovery so bad.

ANYWAY, after I did all that last night, I headed to The Other Copy Editor's house, as she had invited me before all hell broke loose. TinaDoris was there, too.

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I'm hoping my sweater is just unflattering, because when did I become everyone's wide friend? Anyway, we literally had girl talk. Vaginas, breast feeding, menopause, breasts, catty talk about other women, hair. Then The OCE's husband came down and we had to curtail all that. Talked about sex after that. Which is how it always goes with TOCE's husband.

Okay, I gotta go. I've committed myself to three sets of plans tonight, as I am wont to do and who needs a calendar, a Hallmark datebook, which is what I picture when I say that, and hey, 19. I feel like I will bail on all three. Am reading Mr. Write's book and want to finish it. Is it wrong to tell someone you can't go out with him because you want to finish his book? Really, I do just want to stay here and stare at my dog.

Oy.

Bladderly,

June

June's stupid life · My pets

Update on Tallulah

The vet called. There's a growth at the bottom of her bladder that is either cancer or just a really bad infection. The vet is 50/50 on it. What we do next is give her a new antibiotic and see if that clears up her infection. We go back in about a week.

Anyone who gives me any goddamn advice will get me going Pit on your ass.

June's stupid life · My pets

Taking Tallulah in for her ultrasound now

Results tomorrow.

Have you ever tried telling a sick dog she can't have breakfast, when all her brothers and sisters are merrily chomping away at their delicious brown kibble?

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Talu feel like Olibyr Twists.

I may be a pain in everyone's ass and ask that another vet look at her ultrasound, so I don't have to wait. It's my vet's day off, which, you know, people have to have their days off. But this isn't a hey, does my dog have a cold situation. So.

Okay, we're off. I certainly hope the lobby is full of fluffy teensy white dogs. Lu adores those. In her fangs.

Aging ungracefully · Beauty products · I am a pleasure of life · I am berserk · I am high-maintenance · June doesn't know any ugly people · June's stupid life · Munchausen's by Proxy · My pets

Old paint

I felt distinctly unwell this morning. "Maybe you're pregnant!" said my hilarious mother, and I'd like to once again bring up Shady Pines. But speaking of Shady Pines, my…lady time did not arrive this month. There was no flying of the Japanese flag. I did not check into the Red Roof Inn, which does NOT mean that I am pregnant, but rather that I am old.

A few times this past month, I've been sitting here minding my own business, which you know is never true, and all of a sudden I'll be all, "MOTHER OF GOD WHY IS IT SO GODDAMN HOT IN HURR?"

I was at Ned's at one point, and that drafty old house is always freezing cold all winter, and I was down to a tank top. "HOW ARE YOU NOT BOILING?" I asked Ned, who wears shorts when it's 30 degrees out, and who said, "June. It's 68 in here."

So yeah. I will literally be someone's old lady. And shut up about me being at Ned's. I was getting my pot, remember? Left m'pot there. Couldn't do m'cooking.

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In the meantime, last night this old lady went out to see Molly's band play at this restaurant she plays at every 48th Tuesday of the month. I can never remember which Tuesday it is, and she never promotes herself, so I never C her Next Tuesday. But this time Mr. Write and I went. They know each other, of course, because Molly is one of those people who knows err'body. I have no idea why I'm speaking like that today.

We drank cranberry and sodas. I was wasted.

Also too, before Molly went to play her guitar and be all perfect on stage and so on, she sent me this app she knew I'd be obsessed with. It's called YouCam Makeup, and they went to town on that name. You can upload a photo and add makeup to it, OR you can just turn your camera on yourself and see makeup on you in real time. I hate people who say real time. Almost as much as people who say err'body.

Anyway, Molly was right. Obsessed? Perhaps.

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Then somehow I texted my Aunt Kathy and she got involved.

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Her eyes are fabulous. Err'body can see that.

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My grandmother.

You knew it was only a matter of time, right?

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All dogs need a special Christmas look. Cesar Milan tells you that all the time.

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Somehow a face full of makeup looks way more natural on Edsel. Lu just looks like Buffalo Bill in Silence of the Lambs. "I'd hump me."

Speaking of Lu, her ultrasound is tomorrow, and everyone please email me personally all day tomorrow to ask if I've heard yet. I won't hear till Friday. Whoever told me to put Parmesan cheese on her food was a genius. Works like a mug.

I went to the vet again yesterday for a change to get her a FOURTH antibiotic, and when I pulled up, this absurd dog was out back.

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Yes. Her fur is dyed. Imagine tarting your dog up with paints. Also she did nothing but show her fangs at me and be a real dick the whole time I was photographing her, like she was J Lo or something.

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And then I saw St. Bernard puppy!!! ST. BERNARD PUPPYYYYYYYYY! Dying.

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This is why all dogs should be large. Jesus.

Anyway, that's all my news that's fit to print, so now you can print this and distribute it to all your friends. Please do. With no further explanation. Leave one on everyone's desk today. Or your whole neighborhood, like a flyer for pizza. Do it.

Your sane friend,

June

Games · My pets · Sports

Animals are terrible people

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I spread this afghan on the new couch, so Miss Sickly could get up and sleep on me. ("Specially handmade for you, by Grandma" a tag inside reads. Aw. Gramma. Knittin' me an afghan in the '70s colors. I am so glad I have this.) The vet called yesterday to tell me that as a result of a test they did last week, we should get Lu an ultrasound to make sure she doesn't have The Cancer.

Lemme tell you something. My Lu does not have The Cancer. It is a horrific-ness up with I will not put. The vet called the radiologist, who has to let the vet know when he can come to the office and do said ultrasound, which by the way is $330, tipping Talu's sickness well over the thousand-dollar mark at this point. Jesus.

She's outside right now, squatting in the snow. She seems to just rest her inflamed parts right on the snow, like it gives her some relief. I don't know how any of you can stand having a sick child, if this is how awful it feels to have a sick dog. I mean, I assume if you have a child that you like it a lot and stuff.

Sometimes I consider just running her over with my car, to put her out of her agony. I'm not even kidding you. She just seems so miserable. She goes to her dish and wags politely, then doesn't eat any of it and looks up at me pleadingly. All dogs love food, but food was Tallulah's joint. That chick would eat my strawberry tops. She used to ask to eat my paper towels when I was done. She was like a goat.

Today I added some Mrs. Dash to her food, and she actually ate it. I want you to know those scavengers called Edsel and Iris just wait for her to walk away so they can eat what she didn't. Zero concern for her well-being. Animals are terrible people. In the meantime, Lu looks skinnier every day. All she's usually eating is the almond butter I put her pills in.

Why do colors go in and out of style? Who decides, "Sayyyy, burnt orange and olive are where it's at," and then everything becomes gold and amber and olive and brown for a decade along with giant mounds of pubic hair. Who decides that?

I guess people had '70s bush in the 1870s as well. I suppose eventually they'll look back and be all, "What was with the 2000s, when every woman went around bald as a billiard in her girl bits?"

June's blog. Come for the sad dog news. Stay for the '70s colors and bushes.

Also, it would appear I'm having a Super Bowl party. Because sports. Fewks at work decided it was necessary that I do this, so I got out an evite and started thinking of who at work might be interested, then some of my regularly scheduled friends such as Marty Martin and Tall Boy, and next thing you know I've invited 20 goddamn people over and have you met my living room? Where we gonna sit at? Am I the most disorganized person you know? Does life seem to just constantly hit me in the face like a '70s bush?

I hate to ask for Super Bowl recipes, but if you have any easy ones, tell me. Do not say stupid things like, "You take your food processor" or "Make a reduction."

How do you MAKE a reduction anyway? Why don't they just say "reduce"? Speaking of reduce, I feel like Super Bowl food is not what you'd call heart healthy. Is it? Is seven-layer dip heart healthy? Seven-layer dip is sort of amber and olive, did you ever notice that? 70s-layer dip.

Okay, I gotta go. I got shit to do.

Photo on 1-24-16 at 3.29 PM #2

My webcam is making me look red-faced, and I think in real life I'm actually not, but what do I know. I could ask Edsel, but he always just tells me I'm the most beautiful mom anyone has ever had. Bullshit specially handmade for you, by Edsel.

I'll talk at you. Further reports on Tallulah as developments warrant. Let's talk about colors in the comments today. What was the quintessential color of each decade? I see the '80s as a jewel tone, but then again you got your Don Johnson pink in the '80s. All my decades are pink, though. Which is reflected in my face. Thanks, webcam.

Okay, bye.

...friend/Ned · Busy busy busy busy. Thank heavens for Angie's List. · I am a pleasure of life · June can't keep a man · June doesn't know any ugly people · June's stupid life

Sluttus Americanus

Photo on 1-24-16 at 10.34 PM #3
On Sunday, I technically had three dates. Here I am at the end of the day. I look worn out.

I know, man. When you've got All This. I think what really lures them is when they find out how many pets I have. Wait. You have a blind murder cat, AND a sick dog? Plus also a homo dog, too? Oh my god, where do I sign? AND A FAT NEEDY CAT? Dream girl!

Okay, so the first date was Ned, which I know does not technically count as a date, but he's leaving town for awhile and wanted to say so long. Do you remember last year, when he went out of town on business and I got really mad at him and we broke up and I was going to move out and then I relented at the last minute? Same trip. He's on the same trip.

I'd like to say for the record that that fight and breakup was 90% my fault. He did an assy thing, but I blew it way out of proportion. Wayyyy. I know this stuns you.

The point is, he came over Sunday morning-ish and we had brunch, even though technically I think brunch should go fuck itself. Brunch. Even the word irks. With the mimosas and the guitar-playing asshole in the corner and the fucking LINE OUT THE DOOR when you just want some goddamn eggs on a plate, already.

Fortunately, everyone here was still horrified of the snow, so we got in right away. They had this French toast thing with bourbon butter and pecans that I was eyeing up, and I'd done Tracy Chapman workout so starved, but instead I got this potato casserole thing. The waitress, who let me assure you is no fan of the gents, told me about it. "It's like hash browns, but really it's more of a potato casserole," she said, fingering her I Heart Fingering button.

"That's the most beautiful thing you've ever said to me," I said, flirting with our feminine waitress. Lesbians never seem into me. Perhaps it's my wanton hetero-ness, especially yesterday, my Personal Penis Sunday.

Anyway, it turn out, potato casseroles do be delicious, and afterward, Ned and I went to Belt, as my mother calls it. Or Belk, as everyone else calls it. I bought a sweater and Ned got nothing, which is the story of his life, because after he dropped me at my house and went on his trip and that was that. I understand that I should stop hanging around Ned. Why don't you shut up and scissor a lesbian waitress, if you have so much time on your hands?

After that, I heard from Mr. French, from a few weekends ago. Remember how I went out with that suave French guy, and it seemed like we had fun and then at the end it seemed le nebulous and le keep in le touch? I finally heard from him, and he's asked me to le join him on outings a few times now and I've always been busy. Because All Le This.

So we'd talked about doing something healthy or something with le debauchery, and have you met me? Guess what won out?

Before I get to my stint with Mr. French, I have to tell you that on Friday morning I woke to a message from a guy on OK Cupid, and he was hilarious, and we wrote back and forth ALL DAY Friday. On into the night. And all of Saturday. He's a writer, a fancy one who's written books, and he teaches at a college here. Also, hottie hot hot hot. When I saw his funny email, I thought, This guy is great. I'll bet you anything he's a fattie.

Incidentally, June's Depth Seminar is coming up soon. Sign up to learn how to really dig below the surface and get all peaceful like June.

I answered him before I clicked on his profile pics (let's call him Mr. Write), and when I did I was all, MOTHER OF GOD. Mr. Write's hot.

The point is, I don't know if I've told you we had snow and so on, and we talked about meeting Saturday and I got stuck in my own driveway and Mr. Write got stuck right near his house and had to get strangers to push him. So that sucked. We texted on, all damn weekend, and decided to meet Sunday evening, should the fucking weather allow.

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The weather did allow. So although snow is every effing where, it was in the 40s yesterday and Mr. French and I met at a dive bar and decided to drink outside, so nice was it. Behold our scene of debauch, with his Harry Potter hot chocolate and whiskey shot and my beer in the snow and his cigarettes, all at 3:00 in the afternoon. There was something so tawdry about it; it was wonderful. We were having a great time, and I was holding forth with some story, when I felt…stared at. There on the street a man was stock still, staring at me.

It was Mr. Write. We'd never met, and he had on a winter hat and sunglasses, but I knew. It was Mr. Write.

He'd walked to the healthy pretentious grocery store and was headed home, and saw a yellow Bug in front of the dive bar in his neighborhood, and felt like that was me. He looked, saw hair, and there I was. With another man.

MOTHER OF GOD. I stared at him till he walked away.

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Mr. French and I had a great time, and we played pool, which as you can see from my fine form, I am quite adroit at. Can you be "quite adroit"? Anyway, my new goal in life is to get good at pool, which requires, like, geometry and so on. Ned loves pool and always wanted to play pool, and here I am four months too late, deciding to love pool.

When I got home, I texted Mr. Write. "Was that YOU?" "It was! I wondered if you were on a date, so I didn't say anything. But yellow Bug. Hair. I knew it was you, so I said fuck it, and I stopped."

Weird.

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So your friend June the Tramp met Mr. Write at a bar where we could see if Carolina was going to end up participating in the Super Bowl, a thing that as you can imagine worried me greatly. Almost as much as third person and first person in the same sentence. And guess what. Mr. Write is pretty fucking cool. And he knows Kit, and The Poet, and Molly, and why did none of these people who're allegedly my friends NOT TELL ME ABOUT HIM BEFORE THIS?

Anyway, go…Panthers? Was it the Panthers? Do you know what I wish I had? A baby panther. That's what I need. Ima go look into baby panther adoptions right now.

Your fave slutty cougar,

June

At Two With Nature · Books · June's stupid life · My pets

The one where it snows in North Carolina. EVERYBODY PANIC!

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Dis offend Edzul dellikit sensibilitys.

We had something of a storm. It's not so much how many inches we got, which is the story of MY life, but rather that after it snowed, it then hailed, hailed, the gang was all here, and sleeted, and generally the weather was a dick. We didn't have work yesterday, but I still had to work. They'd told us all to take home our laptops "just in case." Then we got the email that the office was closed, followed by an email from the head of our department, who said, "Stay in your pajamas all day, but keep IM open just in case."

There were a lot of "just in cases" going on in my life yesterday. I got all that info before 8 a.m., and kept the phone with me and decided to rest my eyes just a bit longer. And what woke me up was damn Bitchy Resting Face Alex emailing me some work.

What a jerk.

She'd asked me earlier in the week if I could look at her deck. A deck is a presentation, but we never ever call anything by what it is at work, and you spend the first year there wondering what an MCOW is or a POD. Anyway, all week she was updating me on the condition of her deck, and you can imagine the appropriate responses I sent back.

"Your deck sounds really hard."

"Can't wait to see your deck. Can you send a deck pic?"

But her deck kept not being ready, despite the pills. She was a real deck tease. Finally, of course, when I'm supposed to be drinking spiked hot chocolate (step one: get hot chocolate) (step two: get spikes) IN MY PAJAMAS BECAUSE MY BOSS SAID, instead I spent all afternoon on that damn laptop studying BRF Alex's damn deck.

The BEST part, the VERY BEST PART, is when I was almost done and Iris sat on the laptop and erased everything and I had to start over. I AM NOT KIDDING YOU. Iris is a total deck block.

Anyway, through all that it snowed. Then tinkled icily. All day. Sometimes it was really loud and clanky and disturbing.

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Iris considers.

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Iris decides.

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I went outside in my pajamas, because my boss said, and crunched around in it for awhile, refilled the bird feeder, checked if it was good packing. It isn't.

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I guess a sensible person would have put those chairs up so they wouldn't get snowed on.

Tallulah isn't really eating that much, which worries me, and she's shaking, which similarly worries me, and it dawns on me if she gets really ill, we're stuck here. I tried to leave the house yesterday just to see if I could, with a whole, "Pfft, I'm from Michigan" thing going on, and I got stuck in my own driveway, which is a metaphor for everything in my life.

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She keeps going outside and squatting, often to no avail, and the silver lining is with the snow, at least I can tell when she's successful. The most heartbreaking thing was watching her squat while ice pellets fell on her. I wanted to go out there with an umbrella, like she was P Diddy, and she's Pee Didn't right now, but I knew that would just freak her out and she'd walk away from me.

I guess a sensible person would have brought in that water dish before it became a snow bowl.

Oh my poor Lu. Can't wait for the advice on this. I called the vet, but of course they're closed. So.

So that's the news over here. It's snowing, but I've got a good book (Purity, which I borrowed from Ned and hey, healthy boundaries) and I have a new paint-by-numbers to do because artist, and also my dog to obsess about. I'm all set! You should have heard my mother the night before the storm. "Have you got cat food? Dog food? Litter? Food for you?"

"Pam, I'm 50," I told her.

"That's not seemed to matter so far," she said, and remember when Dorothy used to threaten Sophia with Shady Pines?

Icily,

Joooooooon

Grammar and Spelling · June's stupid life · My pets

Eight paws on my heart. What a jerk.

Brrr
It's super cold and snowy here. And also too, remember when I put the computer in the back in November, when I wasn't thinking how this used to be a back porch? Yeah. Toasty.

And don't feel sorry for that dog. He's already been in and out twice today. He wants to go in the way back and bark with his friend. Everywhere we live, Edsel makes a friend in another yard. Their whole relationship consists of this:

Edsel: Rrrrr…bow-wow-WOW-wow!

Other dog in back: Rrrr, rrr, rrr, rrrr!

Edsel: WOWwowowowowowow!

I sense a relationship pattern.
How does that make you feel
Therapy with Edsel.

These are the leopard footie pajamas my mother got me for Xmas, and you'd better believe I threw these sexy beasts on last night when it was -4949549 below. That's the nice part about being single. You don't have to try to be hot when it's cold as a mug.

Oh, and speaking of mugs…

Photo on 1-21-16 at 7.49 AM #3
My friend Sandy's husband sent me this punctuation/spelling mug. Don't know what made him think of me. For example, it has "we're = we fucking are" and "it's = it fucking is."

Oh my god, so satisfying is this cup.

Do you know what bugs me? People who use yay and yeah wrong. When you are celebrating, it's "yay," not "yeah" and not "yea." Do you know who's not celebrating with you when you write "yeah" and you mean "yay"?

Anyway. So, last night I spoke with the pet psychic. Mostly what we did was visualize Tallulah feeling better, and each morning when I give Lu her cacophony of pills, I have to infuse them with love and imagine them healing her and so on. All the stuff Hulk would hate. But I also got a little insight into my pets.

First of all, my beloved cat, Mr. Horkheimer, came through. She said she felt a lot of tenderness from him toward me. She wondered if I had anything to say to Horkie. I mean, I didn't know I'd run into him. I have a million things to say to that wonderful cat. But what I came up with was that I think about him all the time, and that he was the best cat I've ever had, and I always admired how strong and unflappable he was.

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Me, with Horkie, Francis and Ruby on the back of the chair, circa 2002. Dear Marvin: Did you take those really good juice glasses? Goddammit.

I just noticed I'm proofreading a statistics textbook in that photo. Son of a bitch. All the cats are gone, that chair is gone, the JUICE GLASSES ARE GONE DAMN YOU, MARVIN, but the statistics textbooks remain.

She also told me that Edsel needs to understand his worth, so we had to do this meditation together where I showed Edsel that he had a place in my heart without any of the other pets being there, just him. And when he's needy, I'm supposed to thank him for feeling loved, and thank him for going the fuck across the room and lying down like a normal dog.

Only she said it more nicely.

She also told me that Lily was very excited to be home, and that when she ran away she quickly realized she had no idea what she'd gotten herself into. I had to thank Lily for her homing instincts. Lily was also very excited to know she had a place in my heart with no other pets in it, as well. Iris didn't give a shit.

And then NedKitty came through. She misses us; some of us more than others, she said.

She told me that Tallulah felt like when Ned and I fought, it was her fault. Oh, my poor Lu. And she feels like we're here without Ned because of her. She loved Ned and she misses him, and wonders if she could visit him from time to time, and that's why she's anxious. Oh my god, how heartbreaking is that? The psychic told Lu she can spiritually visit Ned any time, just think of him and check in and say hi, and she assured Tallulah that nothing about my relationship with Ned is her fault.

Lu also worries that I'm not okay without Ned, and the psychic assured her I would be.

She said she saw all my pets with their paws on my heart, bringing healing to me. No wonder I can't sleep. She said she saw eight front paws on my heart. Would everyone move so I can roll over? God.

I did not hear from Francis.

So, really, after that we did energy work on Talu, who seems good today, so.

I'd better go. I have a ton of paws on me and need to shower.

...friend/Ned · June's stupid life · My pets

June sees the inside of a vet’s office, for a change

Almost 10% of college graduates think Judge Judy is on the Supreme Court. I just read that in The Skimm. Do you guys get The Skimm? Subscribe. It tells you the news in little flashes and tells you why it's important and so on. It's good for people who try to keep up with the news but find themselves looking over at the sidebars. "Gwynneth is dating SCOTT DISSIK?" Click.

I have no idea if I spelled either of their names right, and you know who deserves zero searches for their names? Those two.

Judge Judy. Oh my god.

Anyway, guess where I went yesterday, for a change. When the vet walked in, she did this dramatic pause, "You two again?"

I came home for lunch and Lu was shaking, bad. So they did a different urine culture and the results of that will take two days. In the meantime, she's on a third, STRONGER medication for the infection and another STRONGER pain pill. After the results of the culture, depending on what that tells us, we do an ultrasound.

For cancer.

Fuck that. That cannot even be a thing.

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I think she has a demon up inside her, is what I think. The good news is she did NOT shake this morning. She did not shake nor bake.

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All the other animals seem to be very careful with her this week. Even Edsel, who usually tries to hump her 87 times a day. It reminds me of when I was married, really. Poor Lu's just trying to go about her day and there's Edsel, making his move again.

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So. I am sorry to tell you that tonight I am speaking on the phone to a pet psychic. Shut up. Because I haven't spent enough money on this dog this week. But someone at work took HIS dog to this psychic and his dog got better. By the way, that's a kitchen towel in the background of this photo. I had dried my hands on it. Anything I touch, Edsel tries to get his mouth on after so he can drag said item I've touched and rub his head ecstatically on it, over and over.

We are also planning to discuss Edsel, the psychic and I are.

Yes, of COURSE I will tell you tomorrow. What are you, new?

In the meantime, yesterday was my four-year anniversary with Ned. If we weren't, you know, broken up. I am sorry to tell you we met for a drink, which became dinner, not that we drank our dinner, at the place where we first met. Oh, shut up. I know, okay?

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The bartender was the same guy we get every year, and he gave us free dessert even though we told him we'd broken up (two pots de créme) (dark chocolate and Bailey's milk chocolate) (I added that because if you tell a story to Pal From MA she always makes you go back and describe the food. "Wait, wait, wait. What'd you get?" "Wait, what was ON the snack table?" Food in the story is a big thing with Pal From MA, so I thought maybe it was for you).

Anyway, nothing dramatic happened, except Ned told me he's never loved anyone as much as he loves me, and that was sad, and we made a deal that we'd always meet for an anniversary drink at that place every year, no matter what else was going on. "If you bring your new boyfriend next year, you need to know I will punch him right in the jaw," Ned said.

And no, we didn't Do It. Just like our first date, we hugged in the parking lot and I went home and watched Real Housewives and stared at the dog. I never went back to work yesterday after lunch, I just stared at the dog till our vet appointment.

Oh. And I had meat loaf and potato cakes. Ned got mahi on a bed of health. And that sums us up.

I'll talk to you tomorrow. Maybe the pet psychic will also be a reader psychic and she'll have news for each and every one of you. "I sense you have four pets, and also tens of Mammys. I see one of the Mammys needs to check her knee for arthritis." That kind of thing. I like how you've all gone from being my Greek chorus to being my Mammy. I'm sure that makes you happy. Faithful Reader Fay is literally my Greek chorus. Maybe you could all be my Greek yogurt.

Dear Pal From MA: Honey flavor. Or maybe vanilla.

I am my dog's mom,

June

P.S. Oh, I didn't even TELL you about the whole family who was there to say goodbye to their dog. It was heartbreaking. Not at the restaurant, ya mo. At the vet. Keep up.

P.P.S. I had a sex dream about Dick Whitman last night. I KNOW, man.

June's stupid life

Brown-eyed girl

That damn The Poet just came by and brought me two boxes of NutThins, and there goes my diet. Not that I remotely was on a diet. I'm just telling you, NutThins are the shizz. She got me the cheddar ones. Have you had them? I highly recommend as part of your balanced diet.

She's brought me these crackers before, and my coworker Griff has gotten wind of them and has become similarly obsessed. "These crackers are a revolution in snacking," said Griff. He says stuff like that. Anyway, recently he asked if he could have one of my NutThins, and when I said yes he poured a VESUVIUS of crackers onto his hand.

Women would never do that. They'd delicately take one and lust for more.

Anyway, I'm writing you now because (a) I just let the alarm keep going and slept till 8:10, which was relaxing when I realized it. I use my phone as my alarm now, and I have it set to play Led Zeppelin's Going to California. Maybe that's too mellow, though, because hello sleeping through it 20 times.

 

The other reason I didn't blog till now, but I'm not gonna write (b) just to be annoying, is that last night, Tallulah stretched out on top of me and slept with her snout in my hair pretty much all night, and she wanted back on my lap this morning. This is not like her, as you well know. Usually I pet her and she tells me to go fuck myself. Anyway, I petted her till she fell asleep this morning, after her pain meds kicked in, and Edsel had gotten up and snuggled next to her on the bed. He'll take it from here this morning till I come back for lunch.

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As long as her meds are in her, she seems fine. But when they wear off, she still shakes. It's awful.

In other news, last night I came home and ended up watching this Oprah Master Class about race. It was MLK Day, after all, which let's face it, usually for me just means I took the trash out for no reason, because no one gets it on MLK Day. Plus, dammit, where is the mail? …Oh, right, crap. MLK Day.

So yesterday she had this special, Oprah did, Oprah who's making 2016 the year of her best body, and in the special were actors including Sidney Poitier and Dianne Carroll. There were other people, too, like Lenny Kravitz and hello, Lenny Kravitz. Call me. The point is they all had terrible stories about race.

This morning when The Poet brought NutThins to my desk, Fleeta was over here, and we all got on the topic of the show I watched. I told them how Sidney Poitier had moved to Miami from the Bahamas when he was 15, and had no idea what it was like to be black here. He was a deliveryman, and he walked up to this house and knocked on the door to deliver a, you know, package.

"What are you doing at the front door?" the lady of the house demanded.

Sidney Poitier had no idea what he'd done wrong. "I have a package," he said.

"Go around back." She slammed the door in his face. He was befuzzled, and left the package at the front door and left. That night? The fucking Klan came to his house. The Klan! Because he was 15 and new to this country and had the audacity to leave a package at a front door.

He also one night was visiting family till late and decided to hitchhike home. The police stopped, a whole car full, put A GUN TO HIS HEAD, and told him to walk back where he'd come from, and if he turned around even once, they would shoot him. The drove all the way back to his relatives' house, right behind him. He never turned around.

Poor Dianne Carroll grew up in Manhattan. Once she and her mom were on a train, and when they got to Washington DC they had to switch cars. Once they hit DC, the cars were segregated. "That has to be wrong," she told her mother. "This is DC. It's the Capitol." Her mother apologized to her. Not for being black, but for the country.

I was so appalled at these stories (and there were other, more recent examples of racism on that show, as well), but as I told them, Fleeta's face didn't even change. The Poet and I were all ruffled and appalled, and Fleeta said, "I was waiting for these stories to be so much worse. They can be a lot worse than that, you know. I was waiting for ropes."

She told us how big things still happen, but also little things, that she tries not to take personally but she can't help but wonder about. Like, she and some friends were in a bar watching the Carolina game. An older white couple were next to her. "Oh, did you go to Carolina?" one of them asked. She said she sure did.

"Did you graduate?"

I mean. Think about that. Has anyone, if you're reading this and you're white, asked you that question? If I say I went to Michigan State, it means I graduated from there, wouldn't you think? And I'm sure that couple didn't even think about what they were implying. You know? They probably didn't mean to be malicious, but wow.

So. MLK Day ended up making me think a little. I also can't help but picture Oprah with a rockin' bod. I wonder if she'll turn all Megan Fox on us?

Oh! And another thing Oprah had on was this little old white lady, who goes around giving this blue eye/brown eye lecture. She divides people up based on their eye color, then gives this very convincing lecture on how science has proven that people with brown eyes are smarter.

She treats the brown-eyed people better, and when the blue-eyed people get pissed off, she tells them to "act brown-eyed. Don't be so ignorant and rude." After a bit, the brown-eyed people in the lecture start agreeing with her. "I worked with a woman who had blue eyes, and she really was dumb." It doesn't take long for the brown eyes to feel superior.

Eventually she points out that the color of your eyes is determined by melanin and you have no control over it. The color of your skin is determined by melanin and you have no control over it. It is absolutely absurd to think that people are different or superior based on melanin. It was fascinating. She said she's been hit in the face, by a man, during that lecture.

She said the people who get the angriest are the people whose only claim to fame is that they happened to be born white and assume they're superior.

It was riveting. The whole thing was riveting.

Anyway. That's all I have to say about that, but I'd dearly love to hear your racist comments, should you have any. I will send Lu to go shaky Pit on your ass.

Love,

Jooooooon

June's stupid life · My pets

The money Pit. Also, “ludicrous Puggle” might be redundant.

If you have your Big Book of June Events before you and open to page 859, you recall that Tallulah has a urinary tract infection, and as far as I knew she wasn't even seeing anyone, so. The doctor gave her some amoxicillin, which by the way I'm allergic to, so every morning and evening when I dropped a pill in her dish I expected to drop dead after it.

But Saturday morning she walked over to me and was shaking. I took video of it, which I showed you the other day, and it wasn't the horrific mom-and-Unkkle-Ned-in-a-fight trembling she used to do, but she was still Katherine Hepburning it up. So I did the adult thing and cried and called my mother. We decided I should grow a pair and also take her into the emergency place.

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Edsel was worried sick. Really, though, any other time that I'd get her leash and not his would have caused him to whine to all new decibels, and protest in the street with signs (Der something happening heer. Wut it be ain't exacctly cleer. But Eds despondint.), and raise his fist in despair like Scarlet after the radish. But that day he just calmly watched us go. He knew.

Turns out the emergency vet is my joint. Not only do they serve really excellent coffee, of which I drank an urn because I was there ALL AFTERNOON, but also there's an allergist there, and therefore all sorts of people bringing their allergic dogs, with their dog Kleenexes and inhalers.

Oh my god, that was like my porn. I met a most excellent Pitty puppy with a red nose who I would marry; and I met a ludicrous Puggle, whom I watched while his mom went to the bathroom, and by the time she was done I had made the hard and fast decision to never get a fucking Puggle, oh my god.

There was an enormous brindle Pit mix who smiled and put his huge square head on my lap. There was a Pom who looked like a stuffed animal and had such a sweet curly-up tongue.

"Can I just come here and be a greeter?" I asked the receptionist, with whom I became blood sisters, practically. Did I mention I was there all day?

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After they drew my dog's blood with red crayons, and took urine–which was no problem because UTI–they also took some x-rays, and right then I knew: poorhouse. Still, look how you can totally tell that's my Lu, with her swoop. I want to kiss her four hundred thousand dollar x-ray.

Those dark parts are gas, they said. You didn't have to tell ME that.

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Selfie with my dog's bone parts.

So, we learned she has an antibiotic-resistant UTI, which sounds like it must be fun to have, and also arthritis in her back, which ditto. She has stronger antibiotics, she'll stay on Prozac because they noted her anxiety, even though she charmed them by getting her own self up on the x-ray table. "Lu do. She indeeeependint. Also, stay away from Lu bladder, Handsy Fuk."

They awarded her for her behavior with a certificate. My Lu.

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They also loaded her up with fluids so she'd pee a lot, and shot her with heroin or something, because when that dog came out, she was not my dog. She almost scared me, so blank was her look on the drive home. She clearly did not know shit from Shineola on the way home.

Also, I JUST deposited that enormous check I got from the statistics textbook company. In your Big Book O' June Events, I spent all of Christmas proofreading a 500-age statistics textbook so that with the extra money I could make improvements to my house.

It all went to my dog's bladder instead.

I was supposed to give my money Pit her new meds right away with dinner, but when we got home, I put food in her dish and for the first time in her entire life, she didn't eat it. That is when I cried again.

Fortunately, the magic powers of peanut butter worked, and she commenced to lying motionless on the floor for the rest of the night.

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I stayed up till THREE A.M. watching that dog, which was a combo of being worried and urn of coffee. I finally carried her to bed and woke up 70 times to pet her. Which I am certain was not annoying at all.

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In the night, we had a snowstorm. Marty Martin was supposed to come fix my DVD player for me. "I can still come. Let me just get my snow tires on and I'll be there." It's a true friend who braves weather like this, but brave it he did.

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"Am I gonna have to pet him the whole time?" Marty asked. What is he, new? In a piece of info that will shock you, Edsel loved his Unkkle Marteee Martinz.

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Unkkle MM fixed everything and now I have me the Netflix and the Hulus and anything you'd want to see on your TV. This is all great, and when I'm not just watching Bewitched reruns like I usually do, it will come in handy.

But today Tallulah is still shaking even though she on her pain meds. As soon as I'm done talking to you, Ima call the vet because they just opened. I can't stand it that my poor girl is sick. Further reports as developments warrant.

Conceredly,

Jooon

P.S. Oh, crap. Here's my latest Purple Clover. I kind of loved myself for this one.

June's stupid life · Munchausen's by Proxy · My pets

The one where Tallulah ruins June’s whole Saturday

Ima go get the dog right now, then come back and nap because this was a stupid day. Tallulah had some health trouble today and ended up at the emergency vet, and I took a little video of her shaking a little, if you can even tell from it.

 

The good news is she will be fine. The bad news is, all that damn statistics proofreading I did over Christmas will NOT be spent on home improvements.

Hound improvements.

I'll tell you all about it tomorrow. I just want to get her and spoon with her for awhile. Having a sick Tallulah is the Pits. See what I did, there?

Ruff day.

June

I am a pleasure of life · I am high-maintenance · June's stupid life · June's vast love of eagles

Belle Waddling

Gone With the Wind was on TCM last night, did you watch it? I did. I thought I'd tune in to that movie for once, see what it was all about. Am I the only person who watches a movie 496 times like that? I watched it TWO TIMES IN A ROW the day before Thanksgiving, while I was getting ready.

I also texted my Aunt Kathy, who was the person who first dragged me to see it when I was 11. I had no idea what it was gonna be about; I thought it was set in the '60s. And, I mean, it was. The 1860s, but still. Anyway. The part where Mammy says, "Just like a spider" is still the very best part.

 

Mammy was the best. I totally need a Mammy to tell me what's best for me all the time. "Come on in the house before you catch your death of dampness." Death of dampness. Oh, it kills me.

Anyway. Watched it. Continued to abhor Ashley and his red taffeta petticoat. Continued to watch Ashley scrub his vagina throughout the whole movie. Continued to wonder why Ashley didn't lie down for a midafternoon nap along with the rest of the girls. "Oh, we're having brandy in the drawing room and talking about war? Say, are there any wine coolers?"

Ashley and his jaunty fringe belt that Scarlett makes for him. Even though she loves him, she subconsciously knows the score. Let's see. What would Ashley like to take back with him to war? A book of poems? Pomade for his 'do? Yes, yes, all those things, but oh! How about a gold fringy belt he can sling around his hips like a hoochie-goochie girl? He'd adore that.

On days I get off on a GWTW tangent, do you want to smack me like I'm Prissy?

Part of the reason I had all night to watch a four-hour movie is because my DVD player isn't working. And by "isn't working," I mean I didn't bring the right remote with me, and Ima have to go to Ned's to get the right one and I keep putting that off, as you can imagine. So the other night in a fit on ingenuity I put my Tracy Chapman DVD in my computer, and I've been doing her back here on the cold tile floor, but now for some reason my computer is saying there's an error and now I can't even eject the damn thing.

It's times like this I wish I had a man around, and I did call Marty Martin, which I just typed "Marty Marvin" and allegedly he's gonna come help me with all this. Allegedly.

But the point is, since I couldn't work out, I did all my laundry and hung it all up with my new pink velvet hangers I bought (I don't know how I managed to not move enough hangers) and put all my shoes together (I'd had them all in a big "Here's where I threw them" pile that was delightful) and so on. Then I'm sorry to tell you I did three months of finding the hidden picture.

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My mother got me, for Xmas, a Highlights Magazine calendar that's all Find the Hidden Object. So I opened up one month and started finding all the damn bananas and kites and snakes and so on and next thing you know I was in April already so I stopped. Then my movie came on. So. Quite an evening.

I think it's nice that Barack Obama can go to the public pool without much fuss. Swim under a bowl of salad.

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I leave you with cute pictures of my pets, for a change. This morning I cleaned up THREE puddles of Tallulah pee from the back room. I am worried about my girl. My Pee Willie Winky.

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wee the gud pets now.

Talk at you.

Love,

Belle Watling

Film · June's stupid life

Chico, don’t be discouraged

I thought we'd just show film strips today, what say you? God, wasn't that wonderful, when you got to school and they just showed you film strips all day? My elementary school was an old, beautiful building that I never appreciated because I was trying to not get raped by Cossacks (it was kind of a dangerous school), and they had these big, tall windows with what in my mind were giant windowsills. Now that I'm large they probably aren't that big.

What's that other word for windowsills, when they're really wide and you can sit in them? Not window seats, jerk ass. Some other word. Parchment? Gravel? Vestibule? Oh, goddammit.

Anyway. Some days we'd be tooling along, writing letters on that big writing-our-letters paper,

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(this is a 100% genuine example of my writing) and the teacher would say, "Everyone hand your papers up" and then she'd start CLOSING THE BLINDS on those windows, and oooo. We knew a film was coming up. Then everyone would raise his or her hand. "Me! Me!" some kids would say, but I was too cool for that. Plus, I was a good student, so I usually got picked anyway. I was a total Nellie Olsen in elementary.

The POINT is, then the teacher would select one or two kids to come down to the supply room with her and roll up the TV set on a stand, or roll up the reel-to-reel projector, and it was SO EXCITING.

Then you had to watch some bullshit about why you should shower every day, or eat your vegetables, or be nice to the loser kid. I never took any of those messages to heart.

Me saying that photo is a real example of my writing reminded me of something Ned and I used to do. When we'd be at a restaurant or something, and music was piped in, like let's say we were at the Italian place, and some dramatic Italian singer would be bellowing a tune, one of us would say, "That's me singing, by the way."

We got pretty elaborate about it. "This is my work, by the way," I'd tell him, while some rap song was on. "I'm the one in the background going, 'Yeah, yeah.' Remember the other day when I said I was getting a manicure? I was in the studio. I didn't want to brag."

And we all know that's not true because of course I like to brag.

I think one of the filmstrips I watched was how you shouldn't brag. And why did we have to call them film "strips"? Redundant.

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Yesterday morning, before Typepad so rudely cut me off by dying, I was writing to you on my laptop, and by "my" I mean work's, and I took a picture of the sunrise for you, because I'm never sitting there, normally, that time of day and never appreciate the sunrise from there. So I took this photo that did you NO GOOD, and then I got up and took one at the back door where you could see it better.

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That's all. I was gonna show you yesterday but Typepad decided to off itself or whatever and now it's been replaced by child Chico, so whatever. Do you remember that? Am I the only one? When Chico and the Man came on, and it was a big hit, and then Chico shot himself I think accidentally (hello, drugs) and they went ON WITH THE TV SHOW with some little kid named Chico? Tacky.

No one names their child Chico anymore.

Oh, speaking of which, Lilly had a baby! Lilly my friend, of Chris and Lilly fame, not my cat, which I might have lead with. She had a boy. He weighs TEN POUNDS. I am sorry to tell you that I've considered my friend Lilly's girl bits a lot more than I ever thought I would, these past 24 hours. TEN POUNDS. Holy cats.

And finally, in summation, and I know you're gonna wanna print this whole post out and hand it to your friends on alphabet paper (oh my god, I SO NEED alphabet paper stationery), at work we get free books that are, like, books but they're not official, proofread copies yet. I have no idea why. Anyway, these books come to our work and go on the anyone-can-take-it table, and yesterday I took an Eastern medicine book and took the first quiz and it turns out my Qi is stagnant.

I guess you could have told me that.

I have no idea what to DO about that, but I'm hoping it involves Pop-Tarts. I guess I have to keep reading to find out. Hey, it's Eastern medicine. Maybe to unstagnate your Qi you have to eat more sesame chicken. In that case, I'm in.

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I got my roots done the other day and I was taking a picture with my webcam, but it clicked before I got my hair out the Ima shower ponytail, and I should have just plopped this in here so you'd spend the rest of time thinking, "?"

I have to go. I have to try to have a Qi movement before work.

Sayonara,

June

...friend/Ned · June's stupid life

June runs late; behold her new couch

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I went to Target last night to pick up my dog's Prozac, and right there is the saddest sentence ever uttered. It's right up there with Hemingway's whole "baby shoes, never worn" story. The point is, I ran into Ned, who is forever at that pharmacy and I should have known. The good news is, he helped me unpack my NEW COUCH, which arrived yesterday. BEHOLD!

The bad news is, I never wrote my Purple Clover article last night and had to do it this morning. I have, and now I must scream to work. But at least you get to see my new couch, in my new signature color. Remember when I was all pink, all the time?

Since I must run, tell me all your "ran into an ex" stories. Have I mentioned Ned lives literally five minutes from my front door? Oy.

...friend/Ned · Eyebrows Light and Dark · I am a pleasure of life · I am berserk · I am high-maintenance · June can't keep a man · Travel

June sees a psychic. Finds out the future. So after today you won’t have to read this dumb blog anymore. You’ll know what’s gonna happen.

On Sunday, I went with my coworker Alex to see the psychic, the one from 2011. I don't mean the psychic was born in 2011, which would make her something of a prodigy. I also don't mean she's from the band Prodigy.

I mean that I saw her in 2011, came home and blogged about it, read that old post the other day, realized everything she said came effing true, and stampeded to see her again on Sunday. Is what I mean. Why you gotta make everything so difficult?

I'd love to tell you that I took pictures of said time at said psychic, but I forgot to do so, so excited was I to see Miss Stay-bility again. That's how my psychic pronounces "stability." "Stay-bility." She did it again this time. She is cute. I like how now she's "my psychic." Just the other day, The Poet and I were discussing what's the most annoying thing someone can say they have: My lawyer. My agent. My life coach. My pilot. "My psychic" is right up there.

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Although I forgot to photograph the psychic, I did, however, manage to capture on film this sleeping pet condo scenario. I threw new sheets and a new comforter to put on the bed, left for ONE MINUTE (or maybe several hours. Whatdaya want from me?) and came back to find Iris asleep underneath everything and Edsel asleep on top of everything. I wish everyone here would get off the heroin and stop nodding out every second.

Okay, so here's what she said. She told Alex that her current boyfriend is a keeper, and I think he probably is. Very stable, manly, marriageable guy, if you ask me. Hot, too. But that is not the issue at hand. The issue at hand is what is going to happen to JUNE, as we are all invested in JUNE, the hero of our story.

She said I might do some international traveling this year, which, really? I might drink General Foods International Coffee, but that's it.

She said my whole heartbreak with Ned is stagnant right now, but by the end of February I'll be 100% glad I'm gone from that scene. She said more will be revealed that will make me say, oh right. I really did have to go. Great. I can't wait to see what miserable thing happens that makes me say THAT.

THEN, in the spring, your studly pal June will be juggling TWO men: a younger one and an older one. Neither will be quite right for me, but that is fine, as I will be busy being creative (writing a BOOK, maybe??) and having fun and getting my dollars in order.

THEN, and do you wish I'd stop starting paragraphs with "THEN"?

THEN, in 8 to 10 months, so September through November, I WILL MEET A MAN, possibly someone from my past with whom I had a bit of an attraction, and he will be THE MAN FOR ME and we will GET MARRIED NEXT YEAR!!!!

Married! I didn't even THINK to ask if I was gettin' hitched. I was just worried I'd be obsessed with Ned for the rest of time.

Married!

I called Tall Boy on the drive home to tell him everything. "You'd better get all thin for my wedding next year," I told him. "I'm not letting you be Maid of Honor if you're a big fattie." Tall Boy lost 28 pounds this past year, so you can imagine how he adores me for this. However, since he's Tall Boy and all, he discussed what kind of dress he should wear, and how he could get thin enough to please me.

What I like about myself is I stopped off and got two (2!!!!!) celebratory chocolate croissants after, KNOWING FULL WELL MY WEDDING IS COMING UP. I have to focus on the prize, y'all.

As soon as I'm done typing you, I am so starting up a wedding Pinterest page for my own self. What's the new trend in weddings? Because Mason jars at a barn is so done. I need something new. Should I tell the man I meet in 8 to 10 months about my Pinterest page on the first date, or just wait till date number two? Play it cool?

Should I invite Marvin to my wedding? I think he should make it a point to be at all my weddings. Oh my god, maybe Marvin could be mistress of ceremonies and perform the whole thing. Or he could play the music when I walk down the aisle. I've already decided to come down the aisle to Brick House. I mean, right? What else is there?

Oh my god, I gotta get my nose done TOOT SUITE before I have wedding photos that'll last till the end of time. Or, you know, the 20 years I have left till I fall over dead. The 51-year-old bride. Fuckin'-a.

Married!

Oh, this is such exciting news. This is all so sudden!

Ooo! Oooo! And I forgot to tell you. My new husband? HAS MONEY!!! "He's not rich, but he's good with money," said the psychic. Good with money! Just like me! We can sit around and enjoy our riches together! After I show him my Pinterest page, I can tell him how I put a visit to a psychic on my credit card!

So, there it is. June is betrothed. What should I do with my hair? I don't mean till then, I mean on the big day. Perm?

Speaking of my appearance, I forgot to show you before and after asshole bathroom selfie shots I took the other night, when I got ready for my big date.

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Before. Hey, Haggis. Who would marry this tired person?

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After. My best friend in high school's mom used to say, "A little lipstick. A little eye shadow. It's all you need." That and six pounds of foundation, and she's right.

So, anyway, save the date!

Bridally,

June

June can't keep a man · June's stupid life · My pets

Hot B in da howse

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Cat balance. Also, cats are part of your balanced breakfast.

I had a date last night.

I hesitated to blog about it, because I don't want Ned to feel bad, not that he remotely reads my blog. He's told me that since the day we broke up 4 months ago, he's looked at my blog nonce. But I worry. I worry that people in his life will tell him. Dear People in Ned's Life: Don't hurt Ned's feelings by telling him this. I'm sure he's moving on as best he can, too. And don't tell me THAT, either. FTLOG.

Anyway, it wasn't my first date back out here in the damn stupid dating damn world. It's my second. I had one a few weeks ago, and it went well, and then that very same night, Ned called me. Then I was all screwed up and I told the guy I went out with that I wasn't ready to date yet.

Then I met this other guy on OK Cupid a few days ago, this funny French-ish kind of guy, and he was snooty and funny and snarky and smart, and he asked me to meet him for drinks last night "at 8:32." I was so charmed by that that I said okay.

I still have no idea if I'm ready.

But I got there before he did, before 8:32, and I saw him walk up to the restaurant. He looked fantastic. He was all fashionable, in a close-fitting black coat and skinny dark jeans and pointy black boots. He kind of had Lord Byron black messy hair. Ned would have hated him on sight. "Oh, look at Mr. Fancy, over there. What's wrong with Levi's?" Ned would have said.

I sort of miss Ned.

I found him–my date, not Ned–in the huge crowd as he walked into the lobby of the restaurant. "Oh, I DO like your coat," he said. I explained to him what kind of coat I'd be wearing: a navy-blue vintage overcoat with a white fur collar. "I know I sound like your grandma who you're taking to the Kmarts or whatever, but it's a cool coat," I'd said.

"There's a 30-minute wait," I told him. "Dive bar across the street?"

"Good call," he said, and he loped across the parking lot. He's very lanky and tall. I had that feeling I haven't had in a long time, that "Oooo, I'm with a cool date" feeling.

At the dive bar, he ordered Ned's brand of beer, and I tried not to feel sad, and we decided to go outside in the damp cold night and talk out there. He's extremely well-traveled and sophisticated. I was kind of worried my whole, "Hey, I lived in LA, man" schtick would not be good enough.

But one thing I learned from my relationship with Ned was that I can be paralyzed by insecurities. The whole time I was with Ned, I worried that what he really wanted was to be with someone younger, or hotter, or not-me-er. And I also realized, too late, that that was all in my head, and that Ned really did love me, but I'd been so insecure that I helped ruin things with my attitude.

So I was just myself, god help us, everyone, and we had a great time. "Let's to to Europa," he said, after his Ned beer. Europa is this restaurant Ned goes to ALL THE TIME, and he knows everyone there, as do I, now. But I gathered up my courage and I went.

"French-ish!" the bartender called out as we walked in. Apparently this guy was a regular there, too. Weird. The owner greeted him and then saw me. I could tell he was taken aback. "Hello, June," he said, with the warmth of an alligator. "Chardonnay?"

Ned told me that the first time he went there to eat after we broke up, a waiter said, "And where's that wonderful woman in your life?" and it was all he could do to not cry like a bitch right there on his salmon salad.

Jesus.

Despite that, we had a really great time. And oddly enough, someone HE used to date was there. Small town. Wouldn't want to paint it.

We stayed for hours, exchanging stories and laughing. I'm his first OK Cupid date, the first woman he's even talked to on there. "I paid the nine dollars for A-List," he told me. 

"Oh, A-List is worth it," I told him, with my PhD in online dating. With A-List, you get to do more tweaking of your dating search. "Did you know you can set your search to only see absurdly attractive people?"

"I saw that, but who decides that?" he wondered. I said I had no idea, but that I'd always wondered if I showed up with the "Above-average attractiveness" filter going. "Let's do better than that," he said. "Let's see if you show up as hot." There are two filters: above-average and hot.

I was nervous as he got out his phone, went on OKC and changed his search parameters to 50-year-old Greensboro woman, HOT setting.

I WAS THERE!!! There were three of us and I was one of them!

HOT BITCH IN DA HOWSE.

I'm sorry to tell you we high-fived over that.

Anyway, he sipped whiskey and Guinness and we had good eye contact and I thought everything was going great. But at the end of the night, he kissed me on the cheek and said, "Well. Keep in touch" and that was it.

Nothing from him today.

WHAT HAPPENED? I thought everything was going well. I'm not gonna be the needy douchebag who texts him with "I had a good time." Normally I would, only in the afternoon, not the morning, but it ended so weirdly that I don't dare.

Dating, man. The thrill of victory, the agony of "keep in touch."

I leave you now with an important public service announcement video, which announces absolutely nothing other than that I need a life. So bad. Here are my dogs doing horse impressions. Or a horse impresh, as one reader likes me to say often. "Say 'impresh' a lot, June," is I believe her exact quote.

 

Datefullly,

Joon

I hate everything · June's stupid life

June’s keyboard: 2014-2016

I am sitting at my writing desk, speaking into my phone while said phone is hooked up to the computer because it is only at 28% power. Hang on, I’m gonna get socks.

OK, I’m back. These tiles are cold in the winter. I have on some sexy light-blue socks now. And my gray robe. You totally want to have phone sex with me right now, don’t you?

It feels like it’s been so many days since I’ve gotten to talk to you, and now that I’m sitting here with my phone on a leash, I can’t think of a damn thing to tell you. Tallulah seems to be feeling better. Edsel just put his snout on me, and he has cat litter all over his snout and now it’s on me. Disgusting. I’m going to go wash it off. Hang on.

OK, I’m back. Edsel’s watching me speak all this to you, and once I said his name and the word “disgusting,” he folded into his letter C again. In fact, reiterating that story to you right now, he just did it again. I can see the whites of his eyes as he looks up at me in shame. Come here, Edsel. It’s OK, good dog.

So now I have my phone on a leash in one hand, and I have to comfort my neurotic dog with the other hand. A woman’s work is never done.

Speaking of work, we’ve had some changes this week, and now I have a different boss, although my old boss is still there, thank God, because he and I have the most ridiculous conversations any two people have ever had. Thousandman is now my boss. You could do a lot worse than having that guy as your boss. He knows absolutely everything. He’s like our workplace in Cyclopedia. Oh for the love of God, Siri. Encyclopedia. Jesus. What the hell is an in Cyclopedia, anyway?

So I would say meet the new boss, same as the old boss, but that’s not really true. And now that my old boss is no longer my boss, I can be a lot more abusive to him. Win-win!

Won’t you jam out with me to my current term, “workplace encyclopedia”? God forbid I say Google. He’s like our workplace sassafras and moon pies.

I think I’ve told you before that during my year abroad, I was able to pay off my car and two of my credit cards completely. I had the third card paid off as well for about 45 seconds, but then I got here and bought the cowboy chair, and I bought a couch (it’s on its way) and it was making me nervous to have money on that credit card again. So when I got paid on the first of the year, I threw $500 on my credit card. I was expecting that big freelance check to be in the mail any day, and why do I do that to myself? Because of course it isn’t here, and now I have $38. They have emailed me and told me it’s on the way, without me even asking, because after working with me for 13 years they know how I am. Fortunately I have plenty of food, and by “plenty of food,” I mean many cans of Franco-American fine products.

But really. How long have you known me? I do this to myself all the time. Why do I do that? Do I just like to live on the edge? Am I a drama addict? Don’t answer that.

Also, I finally dug my Tracy Anderson DVD out of the drawer, and I don’t mean my underwear, and put it in my DVD player. Again, I don’t mean my underwear. It is the first time I have done Tracy since I moved here. I could not stand my Mrs. Potatohead body one more second.

And that is when I discovered I moved the wrong remote control here. And that is why Marty Martin is coming here on Sunday to help me figure it out.

Ooooo, that reminds me of another thing I wanted to tell you. See? Once I get started I can’t shut up. About a week ago, and who cares when it was, a reader linked me to a blog post I wrote into thousand 11. God dammit, Siri. 2011. Jesus. …Could I be more entitled? Being mad that this magic machine won’t take down every single word I utter? Laura Ingalls Wilder never got to speak into a machine.

Anyway, one of you linked me to a blog post I wrote in 2011, and in that post I had just been to see a psychic. I wrote that post and never looked at it again until the other day, when I realized every single thing that psychic told me came true. Every. Single. Thing.

Iris is now on my lap. Edsel has gotten over his shame and has trotted away. So now I’m on my phone with the leash, in blue socks, with the blind purring cat on my lap.

When I blog this way, it won’t let me add pictures. Otherwise I so would’ve captured on film for you Edsel’s shame face. Anyway. What I ended up doing was calling the place where I got the psychic reading into thousand 11 and made them help me figure out which psychic I saw. Goddamnit again Siri. 2011. Good gravy. The point is, I have an appointment with her on Sunday. Marty Martin said to me, “If the psychic tells you you have only two days to live, I won’t come help you with your DVD player.” Tonight, Marty Martin celebrates his love for himself.

I had better go, and I’m certain you are sad this scintillating post has to come to an end. I spoke with AppleCare yesterday for a very long time, and I am afraid I used my stern voice, and all of AppleCare showed me the whites of their eyes. This resulted in them sending me a free keyboard, which has already been shipped. That means we will be able to blog like normal people very soon.

Well. “Normal.”

Shamefacedly,
Joooooooon