New birth. New girth.

Dood. Oh my god.

I know I'm a high weight when my thighs touch at the tops, and lately they've been reaching out and touching someone, which bothers. I've been FEELING phat, too, but I've been afraid to weigh myself.

Yesterday I did.

Not just at my high weight, I'm at THE HIGHEST I'VE EVER BEEN. I'm lucky the floor hasn't broken. Good gravy. Literally. I blame my antidepressants, and I don't care if I DO feel great, I'm going off them. This is ridiculous–I've gained 20 pounds since I started them! I'd rather be thin and miserable than fat and happy. Well. "Thin."

Plus also too, on Friday evening I went jeans shopping, which is always a delight, and I did not quite, you know, fit into anything. I finally found some that had once belonged to the circus, and bought those while they asked me if I needed any restorative ice cream since it had clearly been half an hour since I'd had any, but man.

So yesterday I did Tracy Anderson as hard as a person can do her, and took each dog for individual walks, and we will not talk about the Burrito Supreme I had as the day wore on.

Oh, this is a terrible feeling. What a feeling. I can eat it all now I'm dancin' for my life.

Despite m'girth, I had a busy weekend. I went on my date Saturday, which was not a love match.

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This was orange cheesecake, and why so chubby? I think I'm dangerously close to not even being "chubby" anymore, but downright plump. I have no idea what the difference is, but with "chubby" I always think of Nancy Drew's friend Beth, who was cute and chubby and rosy-cheeked. She still got play. Probably most often from Nancy's "tomboy" friend Jo.

Oh, so not a love match. Yeah. For example: "I'll get the check this time, and you can get it next time."

Um.

What's your take on that? My feeling is, unless the man is jobless, and even then if he was the one to ask you out, there should be no QUESTION that he's paying. And that he should pay for a few dates, until we're more or less a couple. For me, it means the man is going to be chivalrous. He's going to be the man in the relationship. I don't go in for the whole "we're equals" crap. Maybe that's old-fashioned of me, but I want the man to take care of me. I want to feel like if a wild boar charged us as we left the restaurant, that he'd do whatever it took to fend it off, not stand behind me and screech. You know?

And I don't mean he has to make all the money while I loll about at home, although that'd be lovely and why does that never happen, but I don't mean that at all. I have friends whose husbands work and they don't and on top of that they have cleaning ladies and complain about how busy they are and I want to smack them clean across the head.

But I have a friend who had no kids, didn't work, but her husband entertained regularly. So it was up to her to have elaborate meals and make everything pretty, and I think that's a fair exchange of work.

I don't know what I'm trying to say, other than for me, if a man wants me to start going dutch right away, I know I'm not going to feel taken care of. He's gonna be the guy I call when the car breaks down who'll say, "What do you want me to do about it?" That's a thing, by the way, that actually happened with someone I dated in the '90s. That pretty much ended things.

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After my not-a-love-match date, I went to my coworker and neighbor's house, a coworker I'll call notLuis, for a Peruvian dinner. I've never been to a Peruvian dinner before and it.was.delicious. "This is how we do dinner in Peru," he told me. "We have wine, we talk, we eat appetizers, we have wine, we talk, we have the first course, we have wine, we talk, then dinner, then wine, and we talk, then wine, then dessert. Then we have wine and talk."

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He wasn't kidding. This was my vision by the end of the night. Bah. No. I accidentally took this and I love it. It was fun, and we should really take a page from their Peruvian book and not eat everything like the building's on fire. I was there till well after 1:00, and they were astonished when I said I had to go. "Already?"

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Here I am at 2 in the morning. Two a.m. in the morning. In my snow leopards. Rwawr. That snow is good packing, with my new girth.

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I ended up sleeping in and having a lazy morning with the needy committee, then I schlepped to Lilly's to see her new baby, as opposed to an old baby, and I need to stop saying that.

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This is not the new baby. This is their regularly scheduled child, Zella, who lives with dogs and cats and chickens, and who has a horse next door that she can walk right up to, and who has a grandmother across the street who gets her every day to help feed the horses and see the barn cats and get eggs. How did she get my life before she was three? Annoyed. I only know she's almost three because I was there the day she was born. I delivered her. Then I made meringue pies for everyone. Which is less believable?

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Look how natural. That child knows he's in trouble. He feels less taken care of than I do on a dutch date. "girth laydee going to forget she holding. girth laydee going to drop graham on flor."

Oh my god, I forgot to tell you that when I was sturdily walking Edsel, trying to burn off my new girth, and say girth one more time, this kid approached me. "Have you seen Helen Keller's new house?" he asked me.

I knew the punchline, but you know how fond I am of Helen Keller jokes, and why does god punish me with girth, do you think? "Nope," I said.

"NEITHER HAS SHE!" and he got such a kick out of himself that I ended up standing on the street with him laughing like a girthy hyena. I wonder if his dad's single? I wonder how his dad feels about girth?

I watched the Academy Awards for awhile last night, but I got tired, and annoyed that the celebrities weren't supposed to thank people but did anyway. Tallulah snored through the whole show. I'd have woken her up if they'd given a lifetime achievement to Lassie or whatever, but they didn't.

I'd better lug myself to work. Everyone will wonder when they hired Jackie Gleason.

Girthfully,

Jooon+

P.S. Crap. Forgot to link to newest Purple Clover article.

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Putting the bitter in sweet

Today is my 8-year anniversary of finding Tallulah. Best day ever. I know this will probably be our last year together, but I'm trying to appreciate that she was up next to me when I woke up this morning, and is sunning herself on the deck as we speak. She seems to feel better since she starting taking the pills they compounded for her, so I may have her for many months to come.

I noticed that, at first, after her diagnosis, my shoulders were up near my ears at all times. When I came home for lunch, I worried she'd be dead. I'd wake up and feel for her breathing in the night. I no longer do that. We seemed resigned to it as best we can be.

And for now, she's still my sweet aloof Lu.

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Yes, you CAN be aloof and sweet at the same time. Lu proves it every day. She's more like a cat. When she wants affection, she's on top of me. If she's not in the mood, she does that shirk-down-from-my-pets thing that cats do what makes you want to cock punch them.

Anyway.

I have a busy weekend up ahead of me. I have a date in less than three hours and I am makeupless right now with my head in a towel. Which makes it hard to see the screen. Bah.

This is not the Lenny Kravitz date; he seems to have ghosted and fuck Lenny Kravitz. This is a regular white guy who seems really cool. Am sort of excited about this one. He lives in Raleigh, and we tried to have a date where he shows up on the train and spends the day here and gets back on the train, which would be so great, but the logistics didn't work. So then we decided to meet exactly halfway between our houses, which would have put us in the side of the road, and way to get killed. So now I'm driving 45 miles and he's driving 39.1, and see what a compromiser?

Further reports as developments warrant. (FRADW)

Tonight I celebrate my love for you, and I also have a Peruvian dinner to go to. The friend who's having it lives right near me, so I'm toying with walking there but it's cold AF and also way to get killed. Again.

I'd better go get started worrying about my makeup and hair and ensemble and so on, so I can look totally casual walking into a restaurant less then three hours from now. "Oh, this old thing?" Actually I am wearing an old thing. I plan to wear my vintage blue-green sweater I got at my friend Kit's shop. I wear the shit outa that sweater, but it's a good color and just hints that there might be some fabulous hoots up under there. I'd wear pasties if it were warm enough, but see above ref to cold AF.

Do you like how I'm jumping on the "AF" train a year later? You're welcome.

Then tomorrow I have Unitarian church with the glitter shirt guy. Then Ima go see Lilly, of Chris and Lilly, and their new baby, as opposed to an old baby. After that my Sunday yawns before me. Oh shit, except I have to write a column. This new site asked me to write (wait for it) relationship columns for them, and my first one is due this weekend. FRADW.

I need to stop saying that. Further reports on how will I cease to say that, as developments warrant.

AF,

Joooooon

June forgets a title. Again.

This came up on my Facebook feed the other day…

 

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Thanks. That's comforting. It doesn't bug me at all that there's an extra space before "handles." I really believe the man of color in the chef's hat is a real photo and not stock. And what about the little twink at the bottom of the page? Yeah. Break him off a piece of some curvy woman. And can he borrow her blush while she's up?

Anyway, that's not why I'm here. I'm here to complain. I KNOW! Let me lift m'girth and settle in.

You may not know this, but I get migraines. I hate to complain about them. Anyway, the other night one was creepin' 'round my back stairs, so I took an Imitrex and discovered I was taking my last one. They give you nine in a pack, and why? Any NORMAL person would scream through nine in a few weeks.

Marvin used to say that to me all the time. "Any NORMAL person would want to have sex by now." Oh, wow. Now I'm hot. Lemme lift m'girth.

So I did what I always do and I called Target pharmacy. We're back to my migraines now. Keep up.

"Oooo, looks like you're out of refills," Anais said. I swear to god there's a tech there named Anais, and when I asked her if she'd read any Anais Nin, she hadn't. I really hate things like that. How can you be named after someone and not check out who you're named after?

The way they give me Imitrx is in a baggie, I have no idea why, and all the pertinent info is on the baggie. So you can carry an annoying baggie in your purse all month, and even if you do that all the pertinent info wears off, or you can toss the baggie and just carry the box in your purse and find out when you're out of refills the way I just had.

"Okay," I said. I know the drill. They call my doctor, he refills me for another year, and in the meantime, if I'm totally out, they'll give me a pill–one pill–to tide me over just in case. They aren't addictive, they don't make you high. They just get rid of a migraine, which lemme tell you, is a good idea.

"Oh, we can't give you a pill without a prescription."

"What? You've given me a pill for years." I've been going there for 8 years now. But they used to have a pharmacist with a cool name, and if he was doing something wrong I don't want to give his name because what he did was merciful, and anyway they have this new blonde young jerk of a woman in there now.

"Could I speak to the pharmacist, please?" I asked intellectually uncurious Anais.

The blonde chippy got to the phone. "Oh, no, we don't loan out pills unless they're everyday pills like blood pressure medication," she said.

"Look, I had a migraine yesterday, and it's going to storm today. I know that there's a huge likelihood I'll get a migraine. If you don't give me this pill, I'll have to sit in the emergency room tonight."

Bitch would not budge. I sincerely wish the world's largest, most awful migraine on her, a migraine where there is not one pill to be found.

"The only thing I can recommend is you call your doctor," she breezed indifferently.

And this is why I hate my doctor's office. "You have reached the nurse assistant for June's doctor. The doctor is not in on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday afternoons." I am not making that up. I AM NOT MAKING THAT UP. You'll be stunned to hear I have a backup doctor there, since mine is never fucking in. I pressed 4 to get her.

"You have reached the nurse assistant for June's backup doctor, the one who should really do something about her hair. The doctor is not in on Wednesday afternoons."

It was Wednesday afternoon.

GODDAMMIT.

I was gonna GET a migraine just trying to get migraine meds.

Anyway, I ended up not getting a migraine, and the next day I got my prescription filled at a new pharmacy. This was a good idea anyway, because Ned goes to the Target pharmacy and now there's one less place I have to worry about a Ned sighting®.

Anyway, that's the latest thing to IRK ME oh my god IRK MEEEEE, and I guess that's all I have to say about that.

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I keep forgetting to put in this picture of Ryan, at my old desk, for all you cougars. I wonder how he feels about curvy women?

Love,

Jooon

June hates something

Do you know what I hate? Oh, wait. I guess I shoulda told you to hang on to your hat. I hate something. Rare.

I hate it when someone tells their woes, and another person answers back, "That's okay, I [insert whatever thing is worse in that person's stupid life]."

"I have flames licking my body."

"THAT'S okay, I had a flat tire!"

"That's okay." Go fuck yourself. Way to invalidate the other person and make it about you. Jesus.

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Hi, ya cinth! I think I make that stupid joke every year.

I had my first hyacinth yesterday. (THAT'S okay, I had a whole bush of lilacs!) It's very exciting and I alerted the president. (THAT'S okay, I'M the president!) (Okay, I'll stop.)

We also, allegedly, had tornadoes whip through the Carolinas, which as a Michigan person was like, eh, and for all the North Carolinians was all MOTHER OF GOD A TORNADO! The good news for me is, a house fell on my sister. Hey, didn't she have on some ruby slippers? Where'd they go? They better not be on any gingham-wearing, sleeping-pill-addled ho.

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I had a date last night and he wore the world's fabulousest shirt. He got it at some vintage store, and it has ribs of glitter in it, can you see? Oh my god, it was the best shirt ever. We had a good time, and we never shut up, and I got home late and we're going to the Unitarian service together at the bookstore this weekend. I have always been meaning to go, and he has, too, so now we're going.

I also have a date with a Lenny Kravitz lookalike later this weekend–we think maybe Saturday day. I've been invited to a dinner Saturday night, and he's out of town Friday, and blah blah blah. The point is, Lenny Kravitz. And no, I will NOT take a picture of him for all of you, GOD. Weirdos.

"THAT'S okay, I have a date with Rhett Butler!"

See what I did, there? I said I'd stop but I didn't.

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Also, someone covered my boss, fmr.'s, computer in green dots, and I am delighted by this turn of events.

My house is a wreck. I've been out too much, doing too many things, and there's a pile of unfolded laundry on the dining room table; the kitchen floor, which I just washed this weekend, is back covered in muddy dog paws; there are piles of animal fur everywhere I look and the whole thing is making me restless. Tonight we have a department happy hour, and afterward Ima come home and drunk clean. Also, the house smells like dog pee, even though I have pee pads, and that is a concern.

Lu seems in good spirits, still, and can't pee, still, so everything's the same there. The pills are at least keeping her pain at bay, it would seem. The pet photographer and once again he is not my pet, sent me the photos of Lu, and I'm to pick some out for printing and so on.

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I don't know when she lost a bottom tooth. I blame her hooves that she loves to gnaw. I love how she's spent her whole life posing as a blog dog, so she's all, wut you want lu to du? she du it.

I will talk at you tomorrow. I hope this whole post was as meaningful for you as it was for me.

Sincerely,

Joon

Mini and Mickey Stroke

I have a first date tonight. I got asked out by someone who said, "Would you like to have a no-pressure drink with me?" I said the only way I'd go is if we had an extremely high-pressure drink–for example, a really, really carbonated beverage, or else coffee and marriage.

After finding ourselves hilarious about this for several email exchanges, we finally decided on whiskey after a building collapses on us. "Bring a straw," he said. "A very long straw."

I've been on a no-contact-at-all-with-Ned thing, and hey, what do you know? That helps. One of my friends broke up with her boyfriend in the summer, yet continued to see him and talk to him and I kept yelling at her about that and doing the same thing. Plus, a guy at work said to me, "Is Ned the person you still wanna tell first when anything really good or really bad happens?"

Yes.

"Yeah, you gotta rely on your friends more."

I mean, that stuff is so simple, and yet so hard to do. But that's what I've been doing, and I have no idea what'll happen tonight, but all you can do is try, right? Well. I guess you could also not try, and wait till you're 100% sure you're ready, but that sounds so boring. And what if you never DO feel ready and you die on your couch and no one finds you till they realize at work that you aren't at that meeting and where's she been, anyway?

Oh! And in other news, I almost fell to my death yesterday. I came home for lunch, to let out Pee Willy Winky, and I was headed back to work with my high-heeled ankle boots and my wet steps. I had just talked dirty to them. Anyway

BOOM

next thing you know I was on my walkway.

I don't know if I missed the last step or slid on a leaf or what, but man. That's just how it was when I sprained my ankle in 2013, it happened so fast I don't even know what I did. Maybe I'm passing out for .08 seconds or something. Maybe I'm having teensy strokes every three years. Do you like how I can't just slip, it has to be a rare brain disorder?

The point is I scraped my right knee, and twisted the crap outta my left ankle. Straight outta ankle. I have no idea what that means. I guess I just had another of my mini-strokes.

I hobbled back inside, feeling like once I took off my boot, my ankle would be the size of Guam, and in the meantime, I called my new boss. I got a new boss a few weeks ago, and he is decidedly not my old boss. He is what you'd call no-nonsense, and is he also what you'd call not in my phone yet. So I had to call the office, proper, and ask to be transferred to him. I didn't even kibbutz with the receptionist, and I wonder if she thought, "Was that June?" when she transferred me.

By the time I did all that and he got to the phone, I realized my ankle wasn't all THAT bad, so my conversation with my boss went like this:

"This is Thousandman."

"Hey, Thousandman, it's June. I just fell off my porch steps and I thought I'd really hurt myself but I think I just twisted my ankle so forget it; I'll be right there."

You know what must be fun? Supervising me.

It does really hurt, though, but not I've-really-injured-it hurt. I had to get my alternate to take over my Lord of the Dance performance this weekend. June Flatley.

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After work, I had a massage, and this was the little card they left for me on the table. I had to have the guy read it to me because I didn't have reading glasses, and when did I become this person? As in old.

Oh! And the OTHER news is that Edsel and Tallulah had a fight last night. I don't mean their general play fight, or even the occasional Tallulah-wishes-Eds-would-stop-humping-her annoyance. I mean they went at it like a couple of bucks, or jackals, or like they were Ron Goldman's dad and OJ or something. It was really scary, and I kept yelling, "HEY! HEY!" like that was gonna help. I think Talu not feeling great didn't help matters. I don't know. It started over that damn hoof, and THEY EACH HAVE ONE, but hooo care.

Anyway, it was over in a minute, and I was a little shaky, and they seemed really disconcerted. "You two say you're sorry," I commanded, with the iron fist of training. "You know you love each other."

They both had their heads down and wouldn't look at each other, but they were both wagging hysterically, too. Edsel was more than a C this time. He was more than a woman. More than a woman of C.

I went back to my hard-hitting watching of Girlfriend's Guide to Divorce, and I noticed a moment later that they were holding hands. They had their paws on top of each other, and they sat like that for a long time. What the hell is Edsel gonna do without Tallulah?

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I've gotta get to work, to my new row. I have given, with my iron fist of organization, two blog names to the woman in back, but the first time I talked about her I called her Eugenia, and that is so absurd I am sticking with it. Eugenia and…and…lemme ask the woman who sits next to me if she has a blog name she wants. She is da bomb. Oh, and see that damn green dot on my "It's not mean if it's hilarious" needlepoint? My old boss keeps putting green dots on all my shit. He hearts himself, and I'll be putting a green dot on a nail bat if he doesn't cut it out.

I have no idea if that's what you call it. You know, one of those clubs with nails in it? What's that called? If no one's come up with a better name for it than "nail bat," Ima call it Eugenia.

I see I've talked forever, and I'm you're one of those people who keeps trying to back away and I keep talking, so goodbye.

XO,

Joooooon

Daugué for Women

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The pet photographer, not that he's my pet, sent me this early. He hasn't edited the other photos yet but he wanted to send this. If you're local, by the way, he's called Lucky Pup Photography. I mean, his mom doesn't call him that. You know what I mean. Look at Lu's big, beautiful head. I can't even stand it, she's so cute.

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After a long day at the studio, Tallulah relaxes at home. Edsel has never once dared to go on the couch, and I've kicked Tallulah off as well, but lately if I'm on there I spread a blanket and let her come up and sleep on me. Last night I came in and she, oh, bent the rules maybe a tad. Jerk.

Yesterday was a busildy day, as Mondays generally are. I wrote next week's Purple Clover, and worked at my regularly scheduled job, and then I may or may not have caught up on my Bravo shows via the Bravo app. Do you have the Bravo app? What on earth is wrong with you? And here's what I have to say to my lofty Real Housewives friends: You know how Yolanda took Lisa and Kyle to that cryogenic tank to get frozen, to reduce inflammation? And how Kyle said her knee felt better after?

Years ago, I was in a bar in Seattle, and this old Russian lady told me I should pour cold water on myself every morning. Turns out, she was right. Inflammation, man. I like how I'm hopping on this inflammation train after it puffily left the station 10 years ago.

Tonight I'm headed to the old movie theater, where they are showing From Here to Eternity. I have never seen this movie before; I know it's the one where they french kiss on the sand, which, crunchy. I am assuming it's about leaving your house to go buy Eternity for Men. I once dated someone who wore Eternity for Men. I rarely date men who wear the man perfume, but I always have liked it. Any time I smell that, I think of that particular guy. Another wore Alfred Sung, and it smelled so good, and I'm sorry to tell you I bought some for Marvin later.

That was pretty creepy of me, now that I write it out loud.

Do you have a signature scent? I fear that right now, mine might be "Dog." "Daugué, for Women." It might even be Daugué Pee. For Women. Yesterday I bought pee pads, to spread on the floor, as opposed to making a prom dress out of them, and I was so worried some cashier would be all, "Oh, do you have a puppy!?" and I'd burst into tears.

My ex-best-friend had a cat that lived to be 25. Toward the end, there, it had to pee on pads cause it couldn't get up, and right there was a case of someone who let their pet live too long. At any rate, once her mom was at the grocery store buying adult diapers for the cat to pee on, and cat food. She said someone gave her a dirty look at the store, like she was feeding an old lady cat food.

I gotta go. But before I do, I wanted to ask you. Will you marry me? No. That is not what I wondered.

Yesterday my friend at work had to take her boyfriend to the airport. "Where's he going"? I asked. "Oh, he's on his way to Nerd Camp. All the engineers go and talk about nerd things. There're discussions, and experiments, and he'll be beside himself the whole time."

That got me to thinking: What would be my nerd camp? Like, what kind of camp would I go to where it'd be all my people all the time? Makeup camp? Kitten camp?

BABY LION CAMP??

Maybe this blog is my nerd camp.

Anyway, what would your camp entail? Like, if you could go away and be among your people, who would they be? Knitters? Math experts? Would it be a sex camp? Craft camp, or as I like to call it, hell? Let me know.

XO,

June

P.S. When I'm done blogging every morning, I stampede over to my categories to pick on or 70 for the day. At the very top of the list is "…friend/Ned." It's at the top, I guess, due to the ellipses. There is no way to delete categories that I can find, so every day the "…friend/Ned" category mocks me. It mocks my pain. That's all. Screen Shot 2016-02-23 at 8.23.09 AM

 

Edsel Jean King

Laundry, done. Oil change, scheduled. Lawn maintenance guy, phoned. I did everything I said I would last time I was here, except for that pesky work-on-my-book thing. What do you want from me?

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The best part of Saturday was when Tallulah and I drove to Winston-Salem together to have her portrait done with the devil camera that stole her soul. She and I took turns driving. Yes, my windshield is cracked. Yes, it costs the same to fix a windshield as it does to get Botox. Why don't you shut the hell up? God.

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The photographer was very nice, even when Talu peed on his floor 17 times. "I'm sorry, it's part of the cancer," I told him, and it turns out, you can pull out that cancer card and it works every time. The photographer had any number of techniques for making Lu look at the camera, including squirrel calls and sound effects coming out of his very own lips.

"Wow, is she ever focused on you," he said. "Can you come sit right next to me so she looks this way?"

People have told me that before, that Tallulah follows me around the room with her eyes. I mean, not literally, because that would be creepy. Teensy set of brown eyeballs on legs behind me all the time.

Anyway, one of his techniques was a squeaky tennis ball. "Does she play with balls?" he asked, and I abstained from 7th-grade jokes. But she doesn't, is the thing. Lu plays with stuffed toys and she'll chew the hell out of any animal parts bone you give her, but balls are not her thing. Lu has been a giant lez her whole life, if you ask me. And I'm going to hell for putting her in a pink collar constantly.

He got out the squeaky ball anyway, and guess who effing loved it? Oh my god, she chased that thing, and caught it in the air. She was obsessed. "You'd never know she was sick," said the photographer, and he was right. At that moment, she was perfect. I think she forgot everything hurt.

When we got to the car, the guy was running across the parking lot after us. "This one is brand new," he said, giving Lu a squeaky tennis ball.

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We brought it home, and guess.who.is.obsessed.with.squeaky.tennis.ball.oh.my.god.

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Edsel's ya-gonna-throw-it? face.

His whole life, he's never been a fetch kind of a dog. Now he is. Lu never played with it, even once, because Mr. Tennis, Alfred Dog Tennyson, was up in it all night. Tennis Hopper. Lucille Ball.

You catch my drift. Now I wonder what sorts of other things Tallulah never gets to enjoy because of Edsel. Like quiet. She never gets to enjoy quiet.

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Speaking of quiet, my neighbor Peg came over, and actually she is a mercifully quiet neighbor. She was at the antique store this weekend and saw these blue midcentury modern wine glasses, so she got them for me. Wasn't that nice? When I packed to move back here, I was what you'd call distraught, and I packed badly. I brought only one wine glass with me. Last time Peg was over, I served her in a Mason jar, not that I was standing in a Mason jar, and I think her designer self was appalled.

So, yay. New/old wineglasses. I like everything new/old. I guess I even date midcentury modern men. Damn.

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Tallulah once again forgot that she abhors Peg, and was all up in her grille the same way Lily always is for anyone who stops by. "Yessss, she likes being petted, doesn't she?" Peg cooed at Tallulah, also forgetting what Lu is usually like. There were times in the past where I actually worried that Lu might just up and bite Peg, and I've never felt that way at any other time. Now it's like all is forgiven. Whatever unforgivable transgression Peg committed back when Lu was a puppy is now water under the bridge. So. Let's all take a page from Lu's book today.

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alternatiff lee, we cud throw ball!!

God help us, everyone.

Put a little birdhouse in your soul

As you've likely surmised, pretty much every second of my existence in this house involves an animal near me or on me. At this point, I don't even really notice. This morning I was delving through the pile of mail I'd thrown in the bowl all week when I heard chittering.

I knew right away it was chittering, and it turns out, Lily was right next to me on the arm of the couch. She was chittering out the window AT THE BIRDHOUSE.

You know how I get. Little brown birds with tan stripes up the sides of their cute heads are building a nest in my birdhouse, which is right near my living room window!! Oh, how exciting. Getting Mormon Tabernacle Choir to follow Iris around to announce her arrival from here on out. Good lord. Iris, in the meantime, is fashioning a high-jump pole and a trampoline to get up there.

Today yawns before me with only one plan. At 4:00, Tallulah and I go to Winston and get her picture made. I found a pet photographer, and no, he's not gonna dress her up as a watermelon like one of those nightmarish Anne Geddes babies or anything. Just a straight-up Lu pic. Because I don't have enough photos of this dog. But I wanted something professional.

Hang on. My keyboard looks filthy.

pprrreesssaaaahhggffddsdss    [[;;'loiuuh                                         [pp9iuuy7uyujnmnnhbbvgk,kl.n       

Okay.

Yesterday after work, a bunch of us went to the fitness room and did a dance video workout with that Daily Burn app. Mother of god. It was kind of a hip-hop class, and in case you were wondering, I am white. Man. I got to nearly 10,000 steps on my Fitbit from that workout alone, though.

Then I came home and showered and joined Mr. French for a drink. We are not dating; we're both getting over our broken hearts and decided a few weeks ago to just be friends. We sat outside in the cold while he smoked and pontificated and we had a great time.

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"You look really good," he said, as I joined him up at the bar. "Oh, thanks. I got my hair blown straight," I told him. Later in the night, he said, "No, you really look good. It's not just the hair." I did not want to tell him I'd gotten my face shot up this week, as I do, and yes I DO owe money for taxes and why don't you shut the hell up? Nobody asked you.

Anyway, since I have sort of a free weekend, I have all sorts of things I WANT to get done and never have time to do. Like, invoice all the places I freelance. Hey, taxes-owing June. And get my oil changed. Do laundry, since today I have to wear my wedding dress. Find someone who will power wash this house. Start making this blog a book. You know, that sort of thing.

Are you looking forward to June's next "I ate chips and binge-watched shows all weekend" post? Me, too.

Expressionlessly,

June

June describes her Thursday. Read on!

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do anywon ever tell mom that she boring as chit?

I had so many things to do yesterday. Do you know what I enjoy? Anyone telling me what's on their "plate." I'll tell ya what you can do with that plate.

First of all, they moved my desk yesterday, and I don't mean emotionally. I was in this private little corner, by the accounting people, who come in and leave exactly on time and have five screens with numbers on them and never fool around. Being in a room full of the "creatives" must delight them. You should see the rest of us, with our ping-pong and our bouncing the ideas off each other. But they were quiet, the numbers people, and I really–call me crazy–need to work in quiet. I grew very fond of my numbers neighbors.

Now I'm back in Times Square with the rest of the "creatives." We're all moving around to make way for more departments to come join us and be "creative." Do you wish I'd add more air quotes today?

So a lot of my day involved packing, which by now I'm an Army wife. This is my ninth move at work, in five years. I try not to get too attached to one spot, like how you try not to love barn kittens. "Where's the spotted one?" "Cow sat on 'im."

My stepfather is from a farm.

The other part of my day involved people being astonished I'd moved to a new desk. "THERE you are! All the way over here, now, eh?"

My new neighbor is Amelia, who I didn't just come up with via a random name generator or anything. She and I are part of the three o'clock walking group, and also she is often up for happy hour. I already know I like Amelia, who will not chat your ear off or anything, so yay.

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Also, someone brought their dog in for a minute, and do you know what charms me? Calm little dogs. You always expect them to be all, HI! hi hi hi hi hi! I love you, oh how I love youuuuu, knights in white satin. You know, like Edsel. But when a little dog is mellow, it's cute as shit. Behold Gaby, who I fell in love with deeply. LOOK AT HER EARSES! Also, when you see her from behind, it's like they took one dog and stuck a different white head on it. She's all gray in the back, party in the back, and white in the front.

Gaby wanted to know why I'm at a different desk.

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Also, I had lunch with my Uncle Bill. He's in town for work, so I had him meet me here at my house so I could let poor Talu out first, then sadly we went to Panera. I wanted to take him somewhere local and fun, but there wasn't time. I never go to Panera, and let me tell you.

Panera

is

delicious.

Who knew? I eschew chains, other than, you know, Hardees. Now I am a new Panera fan. It was a big day. My Uncle Bill liked Panera all along. Also, just now realizing I have an Uncle Bill. And I went out with a Mr. French twice. Maybe later today I'll buffy my nails.

Then I had a dentist appointment. Read on for more! I had to get my permanent crown, and we all know I deserve a crown. If I were Kate Middleton, I'd be wearing that bitch every day. A charity event? Sure. Lemme get m'crown. Land mines? Crown!

I know I've told you before about the hygienist who chatters like a magpie. When I got to the office, she was the only one there. "Didn't you get the text? They had a funeral and they moved your appointment to 2:30," she told me, and I should really read my texts. "Want some cheesecake?" Being early at the dentist. It isn't all bad.

"I'm sort of upset today," she told me. "I worked on this woman, and she went on Facebook and called me 'The chattiest hygienist in North Carolina.' She listed all the things I talked about that day; I think she forgot she was Facebook friends with the doctor."

Now was my time. God was wanting me to tell her. Facebook was wanting me to tell her. The dental world was wanting me to–

"I mean, maybe it's a wakeup call but when I have patients you'd think they'd like to chat I mean all you're doing is sitting there and what else is there to do so I talk to them a little I mean she was talking too and…"

I kept trying to open my mouth to say something profound, but the more she chatted, the more I realized God had already tried to tell her and it had fallen on deaf ears. Ears that had gone deaf from hearing her own self chat. I did feel bad for her, as she is a nice person. But a nice chatty-ass person.

Right after work I had my hairdresser, whom I like, and she did my roots and cut my locks if you catch her in the back seat trying to pick her locks you better send her back to mother in a cardboard box. See? My BRAIN is chatty. What's with chatty, anyway? Why do people do it? I try to be aware of when I'm talking too much, reel it back in. I do this because of my grandmother, whom I've told you about before. She'd get up early, for example, and read all the paper. Then you'd get up and pick up a section and she'd start TELLING YOU WHAT WAS IN THERE.

"Oh, there's a good article in there about the new bridge."

"Really? Oh, I'll look at that right–"

"They say they can't get funding. They say it'll be like that another year. And the MAYOR said…"

Oh my god. LET ME READ IT.

When I'd go visit her, I'd time how long she was silent between stories. The longest I ever got was like 17 seconds. Even hear tea was Constant Comment.

But see what I'm doing? I'm telling you a story I know I've already told you. So now I'm Grammy. Yay, god. Thanks.

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Do you like what the hairdresser did? Does it look natural? IMG_7907
Here it really is–she blew it straight. Hey yoooo. I gotta stop playing with that makeup app. Every once in awhile in this life comes an app you get obsessed with. The sound effects one obsessed me for a long time. Now the makeup one has me hooked.

I guess that sums up my Thursday. I got home after 8:00, because that's how long my hair takes. Then I drank a bottle of Evian because it's 1978, and I went to bed. I just went on my Fitbit page to see how long I slept so I could tell you, because riveting, and there were Ned's stats. Ned was extremely active for .68 hours yesterday. Naturally now I'm obsessed. What was he doing? Who was he being extremely active with? How long is .68 hours?

I Fitbit unfriended Ned.

Talk to you tomorrow.

Your strong black woman friend,

June

Ask June Anything Day

I had a migraine this morning, so I took a pill and lay back down, waiting for it to work. Edsel spent that whole time with his head pressed against me, wiggling ecstatically. Restful.

Since I'm running late, let's have Ask June Anything day, and I will answer in the comments when I can. Go ahead. Ask.

June’s fog, her amphetamines and her pearls

Sometimes I sit at this computer and think, "What the hell was I gonna say today?" This is one of those days. I was worried about Lu last night, as she was panting and moaning just a bit. Going outside, getting on the forbidden couch, and even treats didn't seem to lighten her load any. Well. She lightened up for the treats a little.

Finally I decided to give her another pain pill, even though it wasn't time. Fuck it. Give my daughter the shot.

So I didn't sleep well, because I kept reaching down to make sure I hadn't OD my own dog, so that was restful. She seems okay today, if groggy. She did a groggy harrrrr. So.

The other disturbing news is I'm worried I missed my hurr appointment. I think maybe it was the 15th. My hairdresser, the HAIRDRESSER I share with my coworker Austin, who insists she's a barber, with her aromatherapy salon, usually sends me a reminder, and I didn't get one, so maybe I'm making shit up. But I got roots, man. I'm Alex Haley. I know I make that funny joke every time.

Photo on 2-17-16 at 8.28 AM #2

I was going to show you my roots, but then I got involved with how pretty Lily looks in the sun. You know how gray hair is suddenly the color for the young set? Why can't gray roots be in? I should set a trend. Wait. I think I already am. It's only been six weeks, but there is snow on the silver mountain. I know I also make that joke every time. How sick of me are you?

Actually, someone said something interesting the other day.

That's all. See you tomorrow!

No. Someone said they liked breezy, rambling posts. But then the other day on Pie on the Face (a group on Facebook where you all gather to talk about how much you love my blog, which you never really do, but rather you send in cat videos, which is preferable anyway), someone said they particularly liked that day's post because I stuck to one topic the whole way through, that topic being my dying dog which is hard to not dwell on.

So which do you like? What kind of posts are you all, "Oh, good" and which are you, like, "Jesus, shut up, June. Ima go look at The Bloggess." Is that how you spell it? I love her. She trumps Dooce and her world travels and secrecy about the boyfriend any day, if you ask me.

Once I read someone say that she stops reading a blog if it gets popular. Which annoyed. Hey, I like your blog. But if other people do, I'm out of here. I don't know why I'm talking about blogging today, seeing as four people do it anymore.

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Last night I went to the old theater I like. Up in what they call The Crown, which is the top floor and not a literal crown, which, disappointment, they show art films and the like. Last night was a great documentary about this eccentric old guy who was an artist, who these filmmakers stumbled upon at a Pirogi festival, and whom they filmed for years. They were there for questioning after the movie, and it was great. Don't ask me what it was called. Google fucking it.

I also received an email receipt for my purchase at the concession stand and why so chubby, which was disturbing because I didn't tell them my email address. I paid with my ATM card. How did they know my email address? And they were all Thanks for your purchase of old popcorn at The Crown. Sorry your dog is sick and stop stress eating. You look roomy about the ass, June. You're never gonna catch a man with those hips. Hips don't lie.

I know I make that hilarious joke every time.

So, like, that was weird. About the receipt. I also did my taxes yesterday, AND I finished my statistics textbook and what amphetamines? Go, June. The point is, I perused all last year's bank statements to add up my medical expenses ($4,800. Thanks, kidney stone.), and I was stunned to see what I spend my money on. My bank statements go like this:

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See what I did, there? I made a Large Marge joke.

Anyway. My bank statements, and say "bank statements" one more time.

  • Movies
  • Movie concessions
  • Fast food
  • Fast food
  • FAST FUD
  • Another movie
  • Music on iTunes
  • Fast food
  • Movies

My friend Sandy says she's actually surprised I'm still alive. Oh, also, I owe money for taxes. Goddammit. I did a TON of freelance last year. And go ahead. Tell me I can deduct this room of the house. Do it. I will be so pleased.

The other night at that dinner party, someone mentioned a scenario in which a person was avoiding capital gains, and I said, "Oh, wow! Is that what that means when people say capital gains? I never knew."

I always thought it was when you got a particularly good bottle of laundry detergent.

"You're HOW old?" one of the Baby Boomers at the party asked me. "Thirty-nine? Forty? You should know this stuff by now." She thought she was chastising me, but really I was just excited about the part where she thought I was 39 or 40.

I gotta go. I know a lot was said in this post, and we need to really take some time to step back and think it over calmly.

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See what I did, there? I wasn't calm.

Fast food. Fast food. FAST FUD.

June

The one where June kvetches

I was just cleaning up my desktop–and this is riveting, June! I can't wait to read on! And I saw a screen shot I took for you, because I wanted to complain about something.

This is so unusual, June! I can't wait to read on! Usually you're so chipper!

I pay most of my bills online, as does I think most of the community at large who does not still have dial-up and a rotary phone and a unicycle and a barbershop quartet and 23 skidoo.


As a result, I have some observations about companies. Actually, I now have TWO observations about companies.

This continues to be riveting, June! Ima read on!

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My first observation is about unsubscribing. As you know, from your Big Book of June Events, I have a hater who daily subscribes me to ludicrous things, things that generally make me giggle. Today I had TWENTY-SEVEN new emails from the same religious site, because they have a newsletter for each occasion. How to be a Christian married person. How to be a Christian at work. How to be a depressed Christian. How to be a Christian hater of a blog.

Yesterday I had to unsubscribe from a Russian bride dating service. Not before sending some love to Valeriya for a moment.

The point is, I've gotten adroit at unsubscribing. Companies vary wildly on their ability to let you unsubscribe. Dear FOX Sports: Go fuck yourself. If ONE company makes it easy, why don't all of them?

I mean, really. Is there some yahoo in marketing who thinks if you make it nearly impossible to get out of that company's emails, that one day we will melt over something you sent and eventually buy your shit? BECAUSE NO. What we will DO is FORVER HATE, say, FOX Sports and even if we turn lesbian and start getting way up in the latest volleyball stats, we will NEVER EVER GET SAID STATS FROM FUCKING impossible-to-get-out-of FOX Sports emails.

Some companies have the unsubscribe link right at the top. I love these companies. Not enough to want their emails, but still.

Some companies make you search like Nancy Drew, all over yonder, for how to unsubscribe. And they say annoying things like, "Manage Your Subscriptions." Just call a spade a spade, you dicks. There's not one person in all the world who wants to opt out of one of your riveting emails but, oh, yes, DO send me the Paleo diet updates, still, thanks. Just not the grapefruit-and-vomit diet ones.

THEN there are the assholes who, even though THEY EMAILED YOU, need you to RE-ENTER your email address once you're on their page trying to unsubscribe. Oh, eat a bag of dicks. You KNOW my address. YOU WROTE ME. It's like when a business calls you and you call them back and whomever answers the phone acts like they have no idea why you called. YOU CALLED ME OH MY GOD.

Oh, and the FOLLOW-UP email. Just writing to let you know you won't be receiving any more emails from us.

I JUST DID! I JUST DID NOW JUST NOW I HATE YOU FOX SPORTS.

Anyway.

So that's bad enough, but then there are the places that make it impossible to pay your bill. My mortgage company never sends me a confirmation email, so each month I have to remember their address, and they don't use their company name, Cenlar, as the web address to pay your mortgage. It's something really generic like paymymortgage or billpay or some shit. And then of course the site never remembers my name and password for me, like the whole world is clamoring to get online and pay my mortgage for me, so it has to remain super secret.

It's like, we're going to get REALLY MAD if you miss your mortgage payment, but we're also going to make it REALLY HARD to pay it! Go forth! Be zen!

And it's the same with effing AT&T. My cell phone is on AT&T. My Internet and cable are AT&T. But do you think I can get one bill for all three things? Then you must be high. It feels like every week I'm getting an email from AT&T. "Friendly reminder! Your bill is now due!"

Friendly reminder. No one who's ever said that in the history of time has meant "friendly." It means pay up, ho. You stanky ho.

This month I got a reminder, but when I went to AT&T, it said my bill was paid. I went to my bank statement online, and it said a week before I'd paid $132 to AT&T. Was that the cable bill? Or the phone bill? I have no idea. Was there a follow-up email? No.

THREE PHONE CALLS AND TWO HOURS LATER, after talking to countless people at AT&T and being disconnected and put on hold for eight centuries and getting to know Marie Antoinette but the whole time I had a phone to my ear, they determined the site was screwed up JUST ESPECIALLY FOR ME, and that it was only showing that I paid my cable bill but wasn't allowing me to get to my cell phone bill.

"You can pay over the phone to me, but it's a five-dollar convenience fee," the woman at AT&T said.

A convenience fee.

A CONVENIENCE FEE.

I'd been on the phone for NINE YEARS trying to just fucking pay online, and their site wouldn't LET me, and now they're saying well, hey, pay on the phone, but convenience fee.

Oh my GOD.

I got them to waive the fee, and I paid, and a few minutes later I got this email from AT&T. IMG_7637
Just fucking kill me now.

When that woman started paying her bill online, she was 12. That's a cup of arsenic in her hand. Her hair was straight when the day began, and it curled in anger as the day progressed.

The reason everything's white is because she went to heaven, waiting to pay her bill online.

Anyway, that's June's business column for today. Ima go take my Lexapro. You think?

Click here to manage your subscription,

June

The one where June makes hilarious Presidents Day puns

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Edsel doing his sled dog impression. Or his Mushmouth impresh. Whichever.

It snowed again, which is very exciting for us here. My work is delayed a crummy hour. Given how much sliding down my street I did last night, I thought maybe they'd close the whole thing down. But no. I hope this weather won't interfere with all my day-after-Valentine's-Day flowers I am to get at work. My Presidents Day flowers. Because I'm a capitol gal.

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A lot of this weekend involved watching old movies while trying to avoid my statistics textbook, and feeding Talu whatever she wanted. She's been on this pill for a few days that's supposed to shrink or at least slow her tumor, and she seems to be feeling much better. She even harrrrrred yesterday. That's this thing she does where she buries her snout in the carpet or bed and snurfs around and eventually falls down and rolls and says, "Harrrrr, HARRRRRRR." She's always done it and I have no idea what it's about, other than happy.

Remember when I called that pet psychic the other day? She emailed me to ask if she'd sent me the CD of our session. "No," I wrote back, "but I also haven't paid you. I'm so sorry." I told her about Talu and how I'm forgetting everything other than staring at my dog. "Oh, my god, don't even worry about paying me," she wrote. "Let me talk to Tallulah."

Later, she sent me an email. She said she told Tallulah that her tumor was inoperable, but I would make her comfortable and that a nice woman was coming over to peacefully let her go when it's time. (That same poor soul who used to come make house calls for Francis.)

Then she told me that Tallulah said thank you for telling her what's going on, and for making sure we have more time together. That she will be appreciative when the woman comes to the house to end her pain. She said to tell me she has loved our time together, "You've given me so much" and that she will always be my Tallulah. "I trust you with all of me," Tallulah allegedly said.

OH MY GOD. So that was a sobfest. Despite Lexapro.

Really, I feel like if Tallulah could talk, it would mostly be about food. But what do I know? I see her being food-driven like Ned. "Do mom remember that grouper Lu had in May of 2013?"

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People have sent Lu treats, and tons of emails, and my coworker Slutty Pancakes gave me this Talu picture. Everyone feels bad about dead dogs. That's just how it is. Dogs are so much more appealing than us, I guess, even the bite-y ones.

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ded dawgs. hooo care?

Lily, sittin' on my statistics. Because cats don't give a SHIT what you're doing or when your deadline is.

I did take my statistics and my ass downtown Saturday afternoon, and did my work at the bookstore, where they have coffee and some food. I got (and I hate to sound like Tallulah and Ned) an absolutely delicious ham and cheddar sandwich on focca–foca-foocaa–flat bread. The side was grape tomatoes with olive oil and basil, which I put ON the sandwich and holy mother of Christ.

I sat in the window, not that I'm a bird or a mannequin. They have little tables in the window. I wasn't there 10 minutes before I saw someone I know, and had to converse, but after that I spent three hours in peace, doing my work. There was an unlovely couple there, clearly on a first date, and they seemed to be having a good time. They were similarly unlovely, but as I watched surreptitiously from my table, they both got lovelier because they both seemed to be getting happier as the date went better and better. It was really very sweet, although if you ask me, it wouldn't have killed the woman to have put on something cuter and to knock it off with all the talk about her kid.

Said the person who spent 89 paragraphs on her dog.

Other than proofreading statistics and staring at the dog and watching old movies, my weekend culminated in going to my friend The Other Copy Editor's house to attend her Valentine's Day dinner party last night. Before I got there, I headed to the inconvenience store on my corner, which never has anything except they do have Kendall Jackson Chardonnay, which is good. I don't know if anyone remembers Valentine's Day 2012 in your Big Book of June Events, but Ned and I had just met, had had maybe three dates, when he was felled by illness right before V-Day. I remember he sent me an e-card, and later told me he was in bed that whole day, and the only time he got out was to send me that card and fall back into bed.

Anyway, it was just me and me that V-Day, so I went to the inconvenience store for a romantic dinner with my good friends Kendall and Jackson and maybe some salt-and-vinegar potato chips. There was Harry, the guy who was always my guy at the inconvenience store. He called himself Harry, but his real name was something like AbuDabuGaneshapur or something.

Was that racist?

"Oh, June, are you alone on Valentine's Day?" he asked me.

"Well, sort of. See I've just started seeing–"

"Oh, I am alone, too, Miss June. I am so lonely," he told me. "Why don't I bring a bottle of wine to your house after work? We spend this day together."

And that is how I ended up pulling my car as far up the driveway as possible, to try to hide my YELLOW FREAKING BUG from Harry in case he went looking for me after his lonely shift.

The point is, Harry wasn't there last night, although I was kind of hoping he would be, to bookend that event. Instead it was a kind of hot girl of color who was funny, but that's neither here nor there.

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The inconvenience store was out of Kendall Jackson, clean out, so I had to get some shitty Chardonnay and head to TOCE's house. It was just starting to snow when I got to her street.

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But it was so cozy at her house.

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I love how the Baby Boomers are having a conversation and the Millennials are looking at their phones. Hello, stereotypes.

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I don't know how I managed to get myself in focus and everyone else is a soft blur, but it kind of sums up all my relationships. The food at that party was so good that it was the kind of thing where you just want to be alone with it and stroke your plate lovingly. I'd have gotten up for fourths if I could have. Holy crap.

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I was there for two hours and it managed to snow like a banshee in those two hours. Then I had to slide home terrifyingly (yes, I HAVE forgotten I grew up in Michigan) and had to clomp through this tundra in high-heeled boots to take out my trash and Peg's trash, forgetting that today is Presidents Day and fuck.

I know you wish I'd talk more but now I have to go to work. Happy Presidents Day. In honor of it, I'm Lincoln to my latest Purple Clover. In which I talk about naked teenage boys of color. So. Hope you think my article is da O-bam-a.

Don't Washington your hands of me. I'll Fillmore of your needs tomorrow. And I'll be Nixon this kind of talk. It's Tru, Man.

V-Day! Cupid’s arrow! Love! Lace! Flow–oh, screw it.

This fuckin' day, man.

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(c) Miss Doxie, who apparently spent all day yesterday making old Valentines hilarious.

This is my first man-free Valentine's Day since 1996, and in 1996 I ended up getting secret admirer flowers. It's 3:28 p.m. It looks like I'm getting shit. No one secretly admires my ass, or even blatantly does.

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My family and friends, knowing this was always my favorite holiday, sent me cards and textses–yes, I just said textses–because they're probably all worried Ima off myself. Dear F&F: I'm not gonna off myself. Because Lexapro.

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My Aunt Mary has sent me Valentines stuff since I was a kid, because she enjoyed the part where I had a weird favorite holiday. I have always liked the colors and the romance and the relatively gaudy parts of this day. Anyway, she got me that pretty pink necklace, above.

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And a little block thing that has pretty flowers on it no matter which way you place it. Plus, a romantic remote.

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And a pretty box. So to speak. I can only hope someone will come over soon and say, "What a lovely box, June." Hi, mom. There's mom in the picture, under my pretty box.

Dear Googlers who are disappointed this is just a blog about a nice box: Sorry.

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Love. Lovelovelovelovelove the sparkly heart. I feel like I'm so easy to buy for. Is it pink? Does it sparkle? Does it match her pretty box? Okay, I'll get over it. I want you to know that robe on the bed is not my fault. Edsel pulls that robe off the hook and takes it to the bed where he can ecstatically rub his head in it, over and over.

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luff mom so bad be yur valentyn, sereeously he will. not kiddeeng, maddie.

Anyway. The last time I had no man on Valentine's Day, in 1996 when I got secret admirer flowers, I ended up meeting Marvin later that year. So. Dear Marvin: I do not want to meet you again. But maybe someone Marvin-esque. Well. In that he's willing to make a commitment. Not stuff each drawer with black inexplicable cords.

Tonight my friend is having a small dinner party, to celebrate this shit day. That's how she presented it to me when she invited me. So Ima go. We're having pork tacos, or maybe we're all gonna pork a taco, and I'm fine with it either way.

I have to proofread statistics now so Ima go. While the rest of you get your stupid breakfasts in bed and so on. A bunch of women got flowers on Friday, and a guy I work with pulled these fake ones out of the trash for me, so I wouldn't feel bad. And that sums up my love life.

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Artificially,

Jooooon

I’m not kidding, Juney

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It occurred to me that maybe Tallulah and my vet are in cahoots on the world's most anticipated April Fool's joke. Wouldn't that be great? Dicks.

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Last night I was proofreading my riveting statistics textbook, as I do, once the deadline is hopelessly near, and started taking selfies of Talu and me. Groupies. Petpees.

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hay, mom, maybe you could let lu rest in peece. mom get it? do mom?   IMG_7746

Anyway, after Tallulah threatened to join the cancer-y Witness Protection Program for dogs, the Bitness Protection Program, I let her be and assaulted the other animals. Because no one's more attentive to her statistics textbook.

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edzul down wif attenshun. wy not try edzul? he heer. he heer! hullo mom.

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o happee day. attenshun.

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wat we lookin at?

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leef lillee the eff alone, mom. lillee meen it. not in moood. not kidding, maddi.

Have you seen the "I'm not kidding, Maddi" thing? Some woman got a shrill email from Hilary Clinton, which isn't like her, saying, "I'm not kidding, Maddi, send me a dollar."

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So, Maddi put this on Twitter or whatever the young folk do, and people started making memes.

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I want you to know all of these make me giggle like an idiot.

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That's it. I'm dead.

Speaking of dead, Tallulah seems to be doing well on her Piroxicam. That's what they give dogs with bladder cancer, to slow the growth of the tumor. They tested 69 dogs, and two had complete remission. Say, odds. Anyway, dogs on Piroxicam live about 195 days on it. Who's done too much Googling, do you think?

It's an NSAID, too, so it helps her with pain.

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A faithful reader's dog, Pepper, sent Lu a stuffed toy. Any time we're somewhere you can pick out your own toy: the lobby at dog daycare, PetSmart, other people's houses, Lu selects a stuffed toy. When she was a puppy, she took an Airdale's stuffed hippo, and the woman whose dog it was said, "Oh, let her have it."

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When she took it, that thing was bigger than her head, but she carried it out in her puppy teeth anyway. Here she is, above, at my mother's cottage, with Blue Hippo. And some ribbon she probably swallowed that's likely still wrapped around an intestine. She wasn't even one yet, Lu wasn't.

Anyway, she loves her new stuffed toy. She's been carrying it all over yonder.

I'd better go. I have to go to work, where I'm currently working on something having to do with luxury brands such as Tiffany, and I have to look at jewels from Tiffany and realize it's Valentine's Day and I got no man in sight, for the first time since 1996. This year, I feel like I might send myself something lovely from Tiffany with all my money, and maybe a big romantic plate of nachos.

In fact, I'm sorry to tell you that on Tiffany's website, in case you didn't know, they have a place you can send someone a "hint" from Tiffany. You can put the person's email address in, and then they ask for that person's name, so that they send a lovely animated post card type thing. Dear [insert name here]: June Gardens saw this and loved it. Just a little hint from Tiffany. That sort of thing.

I may have sent a few out to Dear "Buy Me Jewelry, Bitch."

"You sent me the flower ring twice," Ned wrote me back.

"That's God saying buy me two of them. Bitch." I wrote. I see nothing untoward about someone you broke up with five months ago buying you Tiffany jewelry. For the good times. All two of them. One ring for each good time.

I'm not kidding, Maddi.

I hate it when I forget a title

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If I'd have known having a sick dog would get me THIS much attention, I'd have offed her years ago. Look how her tail's still going, even though I know she's waiting for her pain pill to kick in right now. Oh, my girl.

Please don't be offended if I don't answer your email to me, or your instant message on Facebook: At this point, I'd be spending my whole workday answering messages of goodwill for Tallulah, which is a not bad problem to have. There has also been little advice, which is also nice of you, thank you.

I heard from the vet again yesterday, who is now calling herself "Allison" instead of Dr. Insert Name Here, which always struck me as an odd name anyway. I feel like there was a screwup at Ellis Island that her family is continuing to ignore. She'd consulted with an oncologist, because she's a total hypochondriac, and I am hilarious in times of trouble. When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary gets annoyed with me.

Anyway, none of it was what you'd call encouraging news, but I have a new prescription to pick up for Talu at a human pharmacy, not that I'm getting on top of a person and getting pills out of his mouth or anything. It's a fancy kind of pharmacy, called a confounded pharmacy or something, so I guess Yosemite Sam owns it. So I look forward to getting drugs for my varmint there.

Yosemite Sam and Foghorn Leghorn were kind of the same person. Except one of them was a chicken or whatever. But sort of obstinate and full of themselves. Did they ever meet? I feel like Yosemite Sam would have taken one look at Foghorn Leghorn and had himself some delicious wings in no time. Which, as my mother would say, is real rude.

Oh my god, do not let me forget to tell you about my mother and her friend rescuing three starving dogs from a park. I have no time today to go into it, but trust me. And they were literally rescued. Would you like to know what I'm sick of? Everyone's self-congratulatory, "He's a rescue."

He's a rescue. Did you pull him out of a burning building? Look. The only place I want people getting their pets is from a shelter, or perhaps stolen off the side of a road. You bought a dog? That's a bad thing. But can't we just say, oh, maybe, I got him from a shelter? He's a shelter dog? He's a rescue. It annoys. And I'm sure I've said it, myself. It's one of those things where I'm my regular hateful self and all of a sudden it annoyed the shit out of me one day and that was it. It's up there with "I never watch TV." Oh, shut up. Fucking pseudo-intellectual. You never watch TV because you're watching nine hours a day of porn.

I just finished a brownie, because nutrients, and crumpled up the paper towel on which said brownie was resting, and as I kvetched to you, the paper towel scooted out of my sight. Iris was hiding behind the computer and is now the proud owner of a paper towel.

Iris was a rescue.

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In other news, the Alexes got me a Scarlett O'Hara cupcake yesterday. There's this ludicrously good cupcake shop here, as I guess there is everywhere now, and they saw this and knew I had to have it. There's a Rhett Butler cupcake, too, and it has bourbon in it. Guess who may meander to the cupcake store after her trip to the confounded pharmacy?

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It has the radish Scarlett barfed up, right in the center. And yes, that's glitter. Yesterday I ate glitter. Which should be a part of everyone's balanced diet.

Another of the Alexes came over last night and brought me wine and body scrub, and she doesn't even LIKE dogs. Tallulah took a big shine to her, however. Must have been the whole aloof club thing.

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Speaking of aloof, I see the Needy Committee has commenced its morning meeting, and that I have so much blush on it's like I've got Lasa Fever, so I should be off to work.

XO, June. Who needs to be rescued.

My brave money Pit

Throughout this whole Tallulah-being-sick ordeal, she's been licking her girl parts like a champ. Everyone in my family has had hilarious jokes about this, and I'd like to take this moment to thank my family for being a big pack of dicks.

I called the vet's office this weekend, knowing they were closed, and what's sad is I know their phone number, their hours, and my vet's day off. "Hey, it's June," I intoned. "Is there a cream or something we can give Tallulah? She's been licking her little dog vagina constantly, and today I finally looked at it and it's really raw. Thanks."

One thing that doesn't come up all the time is the phrase "little dog vagina." And I'm sure Lu is pleased I'm bringing hers up to all 10 of you. CUNextTuesday, indeed.

My close personal friend and now blood sister, the vet, called yesterday. "Hey, can you just drop her off? We'll take a look." And that is how I spent my lunch hour chauffeuring my dog and her vagina to the vet, as you do. They said it might be a yeast infection, and I've told that dog a hundred times to not wear her pantyhose with no underwear.

I was getting ready to go into a meeting when my phone rang. I love it when people say "go into a meeting" like it's a trance or a fit.

"Hi, June."

And right then, I knew. The vet's voice was unlike any other of our 114 conversations and 114 million dollars in the last month.

She told me that they very quickly found an "abnormality" on Tallulah's urethra, in an unusual place, and it was, indeed, cancer. Inoperable cancer. All those blood tests and ultrasounds and consulting with the devil and all we needed to do was check her undercarriage.

"I am so sorry, honey," the vet said, and that is when I cried. Right at my desk. In the open floor plan. I covered my stupid face and cried for my girl. Goddammit, Tallulah. Why'd you have to be so sweet, and so aloof, and so stoic, and so interesting? Why'd you have to be the coolest dog you could ever pluck off the side of a road?

"I'm ordering her some drugs from the compounding pharmacy," the vet/my wife at this point told me. "They'll reduce her pain and her inflammation."

She also told me that catheterizing a female dog is one of their biggest challenges, and catheterizing a dog with a big angry tumor on her urethra is even harder. And they could tell it made my Lu uncomfortable, but she wagged her tail bravely through the whole thing. She had to get a tech to hold Lu's tail still, so she could finish. "We were so proud of her," the vet told me. "She's such a sweet girl."

I remember one time, when I was running, I'd take one dog a day to run with me, because taking both would have tripped me 60 times apiece. It was always a very big deal to my dogs who got picked, and the other would protest and flop onto the floor and stomp their paws. Singin' songs and carryin' signs. Mostly say hooray for our times.

One day, it was Tallulah's turn, and I'd run less than a block before I noticed she was running on three legs. She'd hurt her paw somehow, and was all, "nope. lu gud. she perfictlee fine. let go!" She was just gonna muddle through.

And that's what she does. She muddles through, uncomplaining, when it hurts. But I know it hurts. I asked the vet if it were her dog, would she put her dog to sleep right now, and she said no. I also asked if it felt like a UTI or a kidney stone, did she think. She said probably more like a UTI, but who wants a UTI for a month and a half?

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I couldn't wait to get out of work, pay the nine hundred million dollars, and get my girl. I just wanted to hug her big neck, which of course she kind of hates because she's my dog. I took her straight to a Happy Meal, which worked for Lu just fine. None of that girly "I'm watching my figure" bullshit from that pit. That regal Beagle.

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Cheeseburger face.

On the drive home, I told her once again how finding her on the side of that road was the best thing that ever happened. She is so over that story.

I apologized for any asshole things I ever did to her. I remember losing patience with her puppy self, and how upset she'd get when Ned and I fought. I told her she'd always be my Lu and I thanked her for all she's done for me. I always feel safe in this house with Lu at the helm. And remember that time she kicked that attacky dog's ass for us?

She listened, sitting side saddle on the car seat because her little dog vagina hurts. I gave her some pain pills when we got home, and she slept in front of me while I sat on the couch last night, talking to Marvin on the phone.

"Part of having a dog is knowing when it's time to let them go," he said, and when did Marvin get so mature? He asked how everything else was going, and I told him how I tried dating, but I'm still in love and having trouble moving on.

"You gotta get over me," Marvin said. "I've moved on."

So, okay, he's not so mature. Thank god. I don't need everything changing at once.

Oh, Lu. Houndy-smelling Lu. I'm going to be lost without her.

Super Bowel

I never even ATE a brownie last night, but this morning I was pleased to see there were some left over and my guests left me an edge. Oh, HELL yeah. Brownie edge.

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I had a few people over for sports night, because sports, and I made a couple plates of vomit.

Actually, this was seven-layer dip, which was seven layers of disappointment. I adore seven-layer dip, you might even say it's my super food, and this was my first sojourn into creating it myself rather than scarfing it compulsively at someone else's party, and eh. I don't know what I did wrong. Too heavy on the beans or something. I don't even think I LIKE refried beans. And refried anything might be my super food, so.

I was gonna have a lot of people over–14, to be exact. But once Tallulah got diagnosed, I felt sad, and could not imagine getting it up to clean intensively and cook a million things when all I want to do is kiss her ears. So I canceled the party, but some of my close friends such as Marty Martin said fuck you, we're coming over anyway, and Kaye said if she saw ONE THING look clean, she'd be mad at me.

So I made chili, and brownies, and bad seven-layer dip, all of which took maybe an hour to prepare, the worst part being I HATE EVERYONE AND EVERYTHING AT THE STORE OH MY GOD. That fucking store on Super Bowl Sunday, when it was our city or county or something that was in said Super Bowl. It was worse than Thanksgiving. Or THANKSgiving, as they say here. Jesus. It was full of the hot sports men, though, and there I was in my Smitten With My Kitten SPCA LA shirt on. Tempting. Come break you off a piece of this.

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So it ended up just being Jo, of course, and Marty and Kayeee, and also my coworker Austin, whose family just moved into my neighborhood this weekend and he just needed a break from moving, already. Please note how when you're at my house, you have no choice but to be Uncle Billy from It's a Wonderful Life at all times, with the animals upon you.

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Why does anyone want to be my friend? Note how the animals migrate from one guest to the next. You may be wondering where the hell Iris is. I ground her up, made her one of the seven layers.

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I don't know why they thought begging would come to fruition. You know what a well-oiled machine these dogs are, with the discipline. "Anyone who wonders if Talu gets treats is high," I announced. "Tallulah gets whatever the hell she wants." Ahead of time I told her to pull out her cancer card as often as she wanted. She asked me to get her a bald wig but there wasn't time.

She did, sadly, pee twice on the floor while people were here. I felt so bad for her, because usually she has dignity. My poor sick Lu.

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Here I am, with my chin. Good lord. Underneath the looming cooter. I hate to sound like The Dude (no, I don't) but that painting really ties the room together. I love my living room now. It's 100% me. Meaning blue and sort of vaginal.

I have no idea who won or lost that sporting event. My favorite commercial was the Sheets one with the asses. Because ass jokes.

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Kayeeeeee and I had cup exchange last night. I had managed to both steal a cup and leave a cup when I stayed with her in the fall. What we did NOT know is this mystical thing would happen with her cup matching her shirt when I returned it to her. Blue and gray stripes are a big thing with Kaye. They are her super foods.

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After everyone left, I found Tallulah drunk in a nest she'd made. Nests of pillows are Talu's super food.

Okay, I'll stop.

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I had a talk with Edsel this morning. We sat on the floor and had an awareness session, like my hippie parents used to do with me. I totally need to look into getting some zigzag carpeting. Anyway, I told him that while I know he knows Tallulah is sick, I need him to be strong right now, and be okay with less attention sometimes.

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fuk dat

By the way, I Googled "byebyepie + zigzag carpeting" and came across a photo of Ned, and thanks, God. Have I ever asked you this before, if you've ever Googled "byebyepie" + any other word and hit "Images" to see what you get? I think we did do that before. Anyway, for me it's fun, except for when I land on the Ned pics. Which reminds me that this weekend, Edsel was sleeping splayed on his back, and I was racking my brain trying to think of which friend I could text a dick pic to, except it'd be Edsel's dick.

I couldn't think of anyone, but now it occurs to me I totally coulda sent that to Faithful Reader Fay. You gotta pick and choose who you share your tasteless jokes with, man. Pick and choose.

In sports,

June

It’s annoying to have cancer around me

Say, guess who I won't leave alone?

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o for luff of god

Good lord, I hate my nose. Can we please take up a collection to get that thing fixed? I'd be doing you all a favor, because you wouldn't have to look at the huge dick on the middle of my face. Do you, if you're a girl, ever imagine what it'd be like to have a man part? Do you imagine that if you had a man part, it'd be just huge, and you'd slap people in the face with it just because you could?

Or is that just me?

Also, I just got an email from Capital One saying they're sending me a new card because there was a data breach at "one" of the places I recently shopped. All my cards are at ZERO POINT ZERO right now, I am pleased to say, but the other day I was in a huge hurry–where was I going? Oh! I  know! I was going to Charlie's party, and of course my "you're out of gas!" light beeped on on my way there. Do other people, like, see that they're at a quarter of a tank or whatever and fill the car proactively? Because I always ignore it completely till it beeps at me and then I'm always in Tibet, or that desert they wander in in Star Wars or whatever. It's always a race against time to find a gas station.

I pulled over in Kernersville, and if you've never gotten the family on a plane and taken them all to Kernersville,  you are absolutely right to not do so.

Kernersville. We feature a BP right off the highway!

For the second time, and I really should, oh, call my bank, when I tried to use my debit card at the pump, it said, Oh no you don't. You do NOT use me at the pump. It nodded its head around dramatically. I went inside and tried to get the cashier to help me, and I felt like the cashier kind of liked me, and do you know anyone else who's more full of herself than me? I act like I still look 22, with a hot mullet perm.

He couldn't get my debit card to work, either, so I finally used my credit card and just paid it off when I got home. Because I'm obsessed with keeping everything ZERO POINT ZERO.

So THAT is the only place I've used my card, and Kernersville. Where the BP tries to steal your identity. Yay!

Why would anyone want to be me?

I guess that's all I have to tell you. I started my statistics textbook last night, and this is the 6th edition of this particular book, so I've read it probably four times already. And as I recall, it goes pretty fast. Oh, and that's good, because MY EDITOR wrote me last night to ask why I'm not coming to LA. He emailed a bunch of us to say he needed some of the writers to come there for this project, and I didn't answer because that's a long damn way and dogs, but he really does want me to come there, so LA, here I come! I have no idea when yet. Soon-ish?

I haven't been to LA since I lived in LA. I remember it being really early in the morning, and Marvin and me getting in the car, giving our vacuum cleaner to the guy next door, who called himself Robert but whose name was not remotely Robert. He was Laotian? Maybe? And I guess his actual name would have been hard to say or something. Anyway, the neighbors on both sides came out to wave to us as we pulled out of Burbank. I guess I thought we'd pretty much come back every year, like we did Michigan, and we never went back again. Marvin was finally there last year, and took sort of a haunting photo of him at dinner with our closest friends, at the restaurant we always went to, and sort of the only thing missing was, well, me. It was weird.

Okay, I gotta go. I've got fiery eyes and dreams no one can steal.

XO,

June

Pee ditty

Would you like to know what annoys me? First of all, gird your loins: Something annoys me. "I heard a noise at 3 a.m. in the morning!"

What do you think a.m. stands for, dillweed? It means THE MORNING. Why would we SAY "a.m." if it was just, you know, a meaningless couple of letters? Oh my god. 3 a.m. in the morning. CUT IT OUT.

I should stay off Facebook.

Please RSVP! That's another one that bugs. WHAT DO YOU THINK RSVP STANDS FOR? It stands for please respond. Please RSVP. Goddammit.

Speaking of RSVPing, I think Ima cancel my Super Bowl party, as much as I love sports. I'm just so sad about the dog, you know? I don't feel like doing stuff. Plus also, I got that new statistics textbook in the mail. I know you will be stunned to hear that just like last time, the package came and I carefully placed it on a chair, two days ago, where it remains unopened. It mocked me all through Real Housewives and The Girlfriend's Guide to Divorce the other night, and it mocked me again last night when I had absolutely nothing better to do than start proofreading a statistics textbook.

How much are you looking forward to June's next installment of, "OH MY GOD, I HAVE TO FINISH THAT STATISTICS TEXTBOOK"?

What sorts of things do you never learn? Do you love the same type of person over and over again? I read this book the therapist recommended (Keeping the Love You Have) about relationships and so on, and I had to write down I think it was three to five major love relationships I've had, which try to winnow down THAT list. I ended up with Giovanni Leftwich from my teens and 20s, Marvin, this guy named Michael from my late 20s and finally Ned. Then I had to list all their good and bad characteristics and do sort of a Venn diagram of what they all had in common.

Smart, funny, immature. Say, have you met my father?

So, yay. Now I know that. Now what? This time Ima go for a stoic British banker? Not so much. A no-nonsense lesbian? June becomes an Indigo Girl.

Maybe I didn't use Michael in that list, now that I think about it. Maybe I listed the guy who got married 10 minutes after we broke up. Say, you know what he was? Smart, funny, immature.

Smart/funny/immature are the gray cats of my love life.

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I was going to show you all the nice stuff TinaDoris gave me, but when I looked at my photos I found this and giggled. Here's Austin at lunch yesterday, eating with all the put-up chairs. I hate to sound First World, but would it KILL the cleaning people to put those back down? And the trash. They empty the trash and leave the trash can out so you bang into it in the morning. Don't even get me started on how tight they pack the paper towels in the dispenser, so you get one ripped one or 47 whole ones when you pull them out.

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Anyway, when I returned from my OWN lunch–which did not involve uppy chairs but rather following my dog around the yard like I was Jane Goodall–I found this bag. By the way, I'm now keeping a Lu pee diary on my phone, per the vet's request. Every day I write a pee ditty about my dog.

Anyway this bag was on my desk.

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TinaDoris got me a nice card, and photos of her dog Penny with Lu. Where did she find time to do all this? She has a baby and a job and so on. People are nicer than me.

News flash.

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She got treats for Lu, which, Dear TinaDoris: Lu got the big eyes. You know how they have a particularly good treat and they get the big eyes? I also gave one to poor Edsel.

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I got a present, too. Did I mention I went to my coworker Alex's wedding in May and still can't be bothered to get online and get her a gift? People are nicer than me.

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It was coconut. It had coconut filling. Oh my god. Delish.

Thank you, TinaDoris. Really, does she have cute boxes and labels on hand? All of that would have taken me a year to pull off. Step one, get a gift bag.

I'd better go. I've been trying to not look like a sad hag at work. I've been trying to not look like a sad hag at work since September. Just like my cousin, who had the terrible thing happen in her life but who decided to shower and put on makeup every day, I have worn makeup to work ever since Ned and I broke up. I have persevered. I am practically Rocky Balboa.

Rocky Balboa probably ate a lot of coconut cupcakes.

Talk to you tomorrow morning in the a.m.

Jooooon