Women friends. There’s a topic.

There's a woman at work, one of the Alexes who's actually named Alex and not some hapless coworker I've roped into the name because I'm hilarious. This Alex is making a gift basket for someone she knows who's had some rotten stuff to face in this life, even rotten-er luck than having Lottie for a puppy.

Alex asked a bunch of us if we'd contribute to the basket and I said sure. So last night I went to the store to get her a pretty flowered journal and a nice pen. In my mind I was going to spend $20 and Dear Kaye, I AM SORRY. We didn't discuss gifts, really.

The point is, I found out that they really stick it to you with pricing pretty pens. I got her a nice not-too-costly journal, though. It's in the car so I won't forget it, or I'd show it to you.

Anyway. THE REASON I'M TELLING YOU THIS is I saw one of those adult coloring books, and by "adult" I don't mean it's all "Paint the Vagina!" I just mean allegedly they're for adults. I just did a thing at work where I researched if coloring for adults was really good for you or not. Turns out, it really is supposed to be relaxing.

Here's my thing. I don't relax. I don't. Not anymore. I used to. I used to be a copyeditor all day who had two adult dogs and someone to split the bills with. Now I'm single with THE DEVIL HERSELF as a dog, and my job is meet meet meetings and emergencies and OH MY GOD THIS IS DUE NOW YOU DIDN'T KNOW? all day long. And on into the evening. It's totally different from what I did for 19 years.

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And, I mean, then I come home, and when I'm not getting work emails at 11:19 p.m., I'm dealing with this dog. This DEMON of a puppy. Remember how calm Stanley was? What the hell with me? Lottie is awful all the time. All day long. She jumps up and TWIRLS in the air to bite at my face. When I'm here typing, she bites my back through the chair. Iris looks depressed, and poor Edsel is so beleaguered.

I know this part will pass, and perhaps I will actually like Lottie one day, but in the meantime, there is no relaxing at this house. Plus also, I have to jump up and follow her everywhere to make sure she doesn't poop on the floor. I have to bring her into my tiny bathroom with me, and she spends the whole time trying to bite the toilet paper.

I seriously have no relax time. Okay, when she's asleep. But then the work emails. So.

This is why I wanted an adult coloring book. I thought it'd be a good way to maybe have some not-hysterical time. When, I don't know.

BUT I DIDN'T BUY IT, KAYE, because budget. I got my journal and my $2,394,5060 pen and left.

I'd already been home, after work, and noted I had a package but hadn't acknowledged it because I had to feed all the pets and let Lottie in the back yard to worship a goat and so on, but when I got back from the store, I opened my package.

It was an adult coloring book. And pencils.

My birthday is coming up, and I tend to choose two kinds of friends: the first I'm drawn to, over and over, is the Charismatic Attractive. The CA is flashy in some way, usually by being spectacular-looking, sometimes by being funny as shit or whatever, but the point is, I always feel a pull toward this type. "Ooo, who's that?" I'll ask myself, then work to become that person's friend.

And that's what it always is. Work. The Charismatic Attractive ends up being flaky, always, and a bad friend often. This is the type of woman who'll call your ex after you break up. Or say she'll come pick you up when your car breaks down and just never show up. I hate to say this, but my friend Melanie was a Charismatic Attractive. My ex-best friend was a CA. She was supposed to be my maid of honor and throw a bachelorette party for me, and what we ended up doing was just going to a bar. And she sat at another booth.

She also, on my wedding day, came late, then said to the hairdresser doing my hair, "Oh, good! Can you do my nails?"

CA.

The other type I make friends with is the Low-Key Reliable. This is a friendship that generally starts out small. A funny exchange here, a good talk there. It takes a year to two to really catch on. This person is definitely the grownup of the two of us, and generally finds me bemusing, which may be a polite way to say it.

My friend Sandy is an LKR. BRF Alex is an LKR. My friend Marianne, who got me crackers and a shot of whiskey on my wedding day when I felt nervous and my CA maid of honor was having her nails done, is an LKR.

So is The Poet, whose photo I snapped during a (wait for it) meeting yesterday at work. Look at her, just waiting to be reliable.

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The point is, LKRs always remember my birthday. CAs never do.

I try very hard to be an LKR to my friends, but I'm more a Charismatic Awkward-Looking. I flake all the time, and I hate myself for it. I'll have, like, 10 nights with no plans, and on night 11 I'll accidentally make four plans. I do that all the time, and my phone's calendar helps me nonce. I need a Hallmark date book, I really do. Do they still make those?

So I got a birthday present in JUNE from one of my reliable friends, who's the type to mail a July birthday present three weeks early, "just in case."

I tend to send something the day before, via Sweaty Emergency Amazon.

Anyway, here.

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I colored this for all my LKR friends. It's my personal gift to you. Yep. You.are.welcome. I guess it's the crop from a labia farm? Unsure.

Anyway, it was fun. And Lottie tried to eat my pencils so I shot her. Now, THAT was relaxing.

The other thing I got, that I love love love, is a 5-year diary with a question for each day. Yesterday's question was, "What are the last three songs on your Recently Played list?" I had a different answer last night than I do today, because I listened to my iTunes while I colored. Today, that list is:

Age of Consent (New Order)

When the Levee Breaks (Led Zeppelin)

Hazy (Rosi Golan. It also "feat"s someone, but I hate that. Stop saying feat.)

Today's question is, What can you live without right now?

Hmmmm. Probably another puppy.

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Namaste,

June

A Bum Deal

If you have your Big Book of June Events out, you'll know that Ned my ex (NedEx) and I turned 50 right around a year ago. (Didn't we come up with NedEx thinking we were brilliant, and then we never used it again? Do you like how when I screw up, I rope all the rest of you into it? "We.")

Anyway, we made a deal, Ned and I did, a year ago. "You know this is the year we have to have our coloscopies," said Ned, sounding like more of an old man than he already was, being 50 and all.

"Coloscopies?" I asked at the time, and from then on that's what we called them. We promised each other we'd take care of each other during our respective coloscopies. We even considered having them at the same time, like couple's massages, but that wasn't really logical.

When Ned's birthday came along last week, I called to wish him many happy returns, even though there have been several points this year when I wished him precisely zero returns. Zero point zero. But I was being the bigger person. Literally, because Chinese food.

"Did you ever have your coloscopy?" I asked him. I'll be 51 in a couple weeks, and I still haven't scheduled mine. This is due to a combination of fear and the part where any time I take a day off work I end up working during it anyway, and I worry I'll be under and some crisis du jour will happen and it'll be all my fault cause I'm unconscious somewhere with a hose up my ass.

Sounds like my college years! Ba-dump-bump.

Anyway, it turns out he hadn't had his either, but he'd scheduled it, and next thing you know we're promising each other to still take care of one another during our coloscopies.

Yeah, I know. I know it was probably a bad idea. I know we should leave well enough alone and continue our path of not talking but running into each other stupid places like Harris Teeter because we live four minutes apart. But whatever. We'd made a deal.

So yesterday I took the day off, put on something slimming (see above ref to Chinese food) (which I really haven't had because of Kaye's stupid budget, but let me be hilarious, would you?) and headed to Ned's house. Where I used to live. It always tweaks me to be there, which I haven't been since I think winter–no, spring. I was there when that bird was in that nest, remember?

Say, June, that narrows it down. You mean that one time? When a bird was in a nest?

Anyway, it's been awhile. And I didn't go in. I knocked and Pale Ned of the Alabasters answered the door. "Are you scared?" I asked him, and I knew the answer. He nodded.

We headed to the same facility where they looked down my throat last year and determined I was crazy. Remember that? They knocked me out and stuck a tube in my throat cause I can never swallow? I still can't. They still think I'm crazy. WITCH HE NOTT.

Remember that post when I dressed up Francis? Fran wrote a guest post, and he said that. "Big hair and white coat talk to fran like fran crazy WHICH HE NOttT."

Oh my god, anyway.

Once we got to the place and started waiting, I got nervous for Ned. And while he'd spent his whole Monday dropping Mrs. Brown off at the pool, I was now similarly spending my Tuesday rushing to the bathroom at the doctor, for no reason other than I have to make everything about me, even Ned's bowels.

They called him really quickly, and he gave an involuntary, "Oh, no." He asked if there was any point in taking his book with him and they said sure, he'd be waiting awhile, so he bravely went on into the scary Rooms Beyond the Door.

I watched that annoying Kelly Lee or whatever her name is on that morning show, and she had Anderson Cooper on as her guest host, which is good because you can't go wrong with Anderson Cooper. I got involved in a People Magazine as well, because Height of Sophistication.

Then the nurse opened the Door to the Rooms and headed for me. She had Ned's book and reading glasses.

That is when the shit really hit the fan. Oh my god, I was nervous. I got to know that bathroom pretty intimately. I might even be Mrs. Bathroom, of the Check Yo' Ass Healthcare Center Bathrooms, but I don't know yet. Haven't gotten the paperwork.

Nervous, is what I was. Nervous. Eventually, I got thirsty, because I'd been pooping Chinese food, and really what you don't want is me at your medical thing. I am useless, really.

"Excuse me," I said, because I always have to say excuse me like that, whether I'm asking a store clerk or a receptionist or the person serving me the restraining order or whomever. "Excuse me…"

The receptionist at this place was probably like, What IS it, Poop Ass? Wear out our bathrooms a little more, why don't you? We've named it the June Gardens Water Closet, at this point. Yeesch.

"Are there vending machines where I can buy water?" I asked, and when did we all start BUYING water? When did we all get so stupid?

"Yes, in our basement, but who are you here with? If he's in the procedure, you can't leave."

I mean.

If he'd begun to die, which he didn't. I'd have lead with that. But if he'd begun to die, was I on hand to administer last rites? Did I look like June Gardens, CPR expert? June. For all your ass emergencies.

So I was parched by the time they said, "Ned Nickerson family?"

That was me. I was Ned's family. I picked my shattered heart off the floor and went to Room One, after a morning of Number Two.

There was Ned. Completely out and looking sort of awful. He was so…unconscious. I had a momentary panic, where he looked too sick and I didn't think I could handle it and I wanted to run screaming out of the Ass Plus Health Center or whatever.

Have I reminded you to not include me in your medical emergency plans?

After a time, Ned started fussing a bit. He turned this way and that, and reached up for his oxygen thingies. He moved his arms around like he was trying to get out of a straightjacket. You know, like someone had proposed marriage or something.

"Just relax," said the nurse, and you know what I'd be bad at? Nurse-er-ing. Or whatever it's called.

Ned opened his eyes. He saw me but didn't seem to focus on me. I wondered if they could give me any tranquilizers or anything.

"Hey," said Ned, finally.

"Hi, Ned," I said.

"How are you doing?" he asked me, which killed me.

"Well, I'm fine. How are YOU doing, is the question." Please don't be barfy. Please be sans barf emotions. No barf. No barf. Ixnay on the arfbay.

"I feel a little dizzy," he said. "Your blood pressure's pretty low right now," the nurse told him. Hey, did I ever tell you what I'd be bad at? Nurse-ology. "We'll give him a few more minutes," she said, and bustled off.

Ned stared at me. "You look beautiful," he said. I'd rolled out of bed and gotten him, then spent the whole morning doing my Liquid Bummer impresh, and you know what I wasn't?

Beautiful.

Hello, drugs.

"You're so beautiful," said Ned again, weakly. "Will you kiss me?"

"Hello, Mr. Nickerson! I'm Dr. Trouser," the doctor walked in. His name is not remotely Dr. Trouser, but I love myself just a little for making that up.

Turns out, he was the same guy who stuck a tube in my throat last year. "Oh my god! I remember you!" I said to the guy. "I thought you looked familiar," he said, and that is when I proceeded to open my mouth and show him the inside of my throat.

"Usss iss help?" I asked, pointing at my gullet.

June is available for all your medical needs. Call 1-800-June-Sux.

In case you were worried sick, Ned's colon is "unremarkable." ("That's just one man's opinion," I told Ned, then held my own hand fondly.)

Soon enough, we were ready to go home. "I'll draw the curtain and your wife can help you dress," said the nurse, and Ned and I exchanged uncomfortable glances before we giggled like idiots.

My pain. It's hilarious!

On the drive home, he asked if he'd been given any paperwork.

"Ned, yes. The doctor had me sign it and I put it in your book. Remember? I put them in the book you brought."

"The doctor?"

Turns out, he remembered NOTHING. Not the nurse, the doctor, the telling me I was beautiful. "I remember thinking I was glad to see you."

I took him inside. "Wow, that wasn't bad at all," he said contentedly.

He got to sleep and have a hose up in his nethers. I had to have nerves and get called his family and then HIS WIFE. Oh, happy day, this was a breeze.

"Aren't you glad I did it first, so you can see how not-bad it was?"

God help whatever cockamamie thing I'll say to Ned when I first wake up.

June’s milkshake brings all the calves to the yard

"Oooo! I know!" I said to my friend. "Let's drive out to the country to that ice cream place, where you can pet cows and eat ice cream they made right there on the spot!"

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For me, there's a whole afternoon. There's a black-and-white cat who lives there, and I think it's so cute they got a cat with cow colors. And there are Border Collies, or were. Now there's just one who lopes around without a care. Also, peahens.

AND COWS!

So we went.

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I don't even LIKE milk. Wouldn't it be awful if you produced milk and you didn't even like it? She asks tens of readers who've had kids and produced milk all over the place.

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Oh, it's lovely there. I ordered the kids size, meaning, apparently, they give a scoop of butter pecan that is the size of a child between the ages of 18 months and 11 years old. Then you get to sit on chairs and eat your ice cream while grownup cows meander across the street, and the Border Collie lies in the middle of the road.

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Alternatively, you can go kiss the BABY COWS! Guess who I was obsessed with. Was it old brownie, here, wif her eyelashessses? Was I obsessed at all? Was I an idiot? Did I knock a few kids aside who had the nerve to want to come near my new baby cow baby of all babies?

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Caffie be cute.

Oh my god. I was obsessed with her. Did I mention?

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do Caffie look hot?

The whole time I'm writing this, I have the back door open, and that is not a euphemism, and as I write I hear {quiet} {quiet} then GLUMP GLUMP GLUMP {quite} {quiet} GLUMP GLUMP GLUMP. The dogs are doing their full-speed circle around the yard, and when they hit the deck they galumph across it, then tear across the rest of the yard, and soon they'll both burst through the door and drink 79 gallons of water and tear out again.

The point is, I act like I don't already LIVE IN CHAOS and here I am thinking, I could totally get a brown cow baby.

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O, you culd. Caffee agree.

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Cow selfie. It went well.

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Anyway, it was a good day at the creamery. I was nuttery. And that's a surprise.

Everyone's in now. This whole back room is all, "Henh, henh, henh…" Oh, they just went back to the water dish. I'll bet it's tidy and not at all splashy around that dish right now. But yeah, get a baby cow, June. Good plan.

So that happened. And then we went to dinner, and at the restaurant they were playing all grunge songs, like they had some kind of "Gritty Soudns of the 90s" soundtrack on their Pandora or something. But then, after about a hundred SoundPearlPilots songs of Nirvana, they broke into Led Zeppelin.

"What is this, the soundtrack of my life?" I asked, because hey, June, try to be more self-centered. "First we're in Seattle and now we've gone to all the high school basement parties I ever attended."

This got me thinking about if I were going to make a soundtrack of my life, what songs would I put on there, and it's sort of riveting to mull. Here are a few I've thought of so far.

 

Swear to god, this is the first song I thought of, and it's a jingle, and you know, Laura Ingalls Wilder's soundtrack would not include a jingle. But I can hear this playing from the living room TV while I tried to sleep in my room down the hall.

Anyway, it's kind of a fascinating thing to think about. The soundtrack of one's life. So far I'm at toddlerhood, where I was between 18 months and 11 years old.

Also?

 

Oh, shit, Lottie's crying. Gotta go break that shit up.

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lotEE good! she totlee good! she go bak out now?

The kind side of June. HAHAHAHAHA.

Photo on 6-26-16 at 11.33 AM

I went out last night. Slept in m'pearls. I also took Lottie with me, because I'm living like a HERMIT not going places because I feel bad about putting her in a crate too much. And unlike my mother, who has a dog-sitter come all the time when she goes out, I can't do that because not rich.

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So she went with me. I was like Paris Hilton or some similar asshole. We had a good time, and she was fairly well-behaved, actually, but we got home after midnight–we'd let it all hang out–and she went straight to her crate and passed out. Drunk. She had on a little party hat, streamers all over her ruff. Dog phone numbers written on her paw.

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Probably no one does that anymore, look desperately for a pen and then write your number on someone's hand. I remember having a phone number on my knee once, and getting up and heading straight to the pool the next morning, then finally looking down and going, Whose fucking number is that?

Nice. I hope my Lot doesn't have a number on her knee.

Speaking of Lottie, slutty Lottie who may have a drinking problem (she's in there gulping water like a banshee as we speak), I took another laundry basket shot of her.

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May 19. May 19. Well, we can't dance together. No, we can't talk at all. Please take me along when you climb on down.

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June 5. Say, Lottie, why don't you try changing dramatically?

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June 26. She's also grown a fifth paw. Helpful.

Also, in much more important news, this is happening… IMG_0547

Oh my GOD, my life is complete. Remember when I had that idea to feature June's Junk each week, where I review junk food so you don't have to? I wanted to start with the Frito Burrito, which was the greatest thing ever invented and why so chubby. But NOW. NOW we have something to live for. I will report back to you forthwith. Oddly, they're coming out with it on a Monday, which, why?

But now I live for Monday. And the deliciousness that awaits me. There was a Burger King at the end of my street till a few months ago. It closed after more than 30 years. Ned told me that in high school, he and his friends went there for lunch every day. All the other kids went to McDonald's, but they were the alternative kids who went to BK.

Anyway, now it's gone and it's the only time I've needed Burger King. Will do Google search forthwith. Forthwith is a very big word with me today.

In other news that's not nearly as exciting as deep-fried mac and cheese dusted with FUCKING CHEETOS TEENSY ORGASM COULD NOT HELP, I have a friend who's going through the shit right now, the shit that life throws at you sometimes, so yesterday we had lunch and went to the cemetery. Because what's more fun than that?

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As usual, I took photos to keep on hand for potential cat names. Behethland T is a perfect cat name.

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These are m'cats, Bill Friddle and Myrtle Cheek. You totally pictured orange tabbys when I said that, didn't you? Those are orange tabby names. (June makes new plan. New cat import plan. June notes there is no one to stop her.)

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Another excellent cat name. I see a tuxedo tabby. You could even say, "Wherefore art thou, Romeo?" even though that doesn't actually mean "Where are you, Romeo."

Anyway, my friend came up with his own tombstone idea, which will be the Google Map red pointy thing, all shiny and red, with "He has reached his destination" on his tombstone. Which, really, is an excellent idea. "What do you want on your tombstone?" he asked.

"I told you I was sick," I said. Too quickly. Have given too much thought.

We strolled around and decided any time someone had an image on their stone, it was a clue to how they died. One person had a sand dollar on her tombstone. "Someone in her family threw one at her and accidentally sliced her head open," said my friend.

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"Bad frog legs," I said, then planned my own commitment ceremony.

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"Butterfly attack."

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"Her dog ate her."

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"Died from clapping," said my friend, and I honestly don't know why he and I are having stretches of bad luck right now. When bad things happen to good people.

Anyway, I'm just saying, I don't know why more people don't hang at the cemetery, because I just loves it. I invite everyone to come make fun of my stone once it gets here, which will be sooner rather than later once I get addicted to deep-fried mac and cheese.

Dusted in Cheetos. Maybe that should be my epitaph. Dusted in Cheetos.

Anyway, I gotta go. I'm teaching that sensitivity seminar, and then I have my healthy cooking class I lead on weekends.

XO,

Myrtle Cheek

[Intentionally left blank]

Coming out of the shower this morning, I realized that right now, my house smells like a perfect combination of freshly brewed coffee and puppy. What more can you ask for?

Somehow that made me think of: drivin' home this evenin', coulda sworn we had it all worked out.

 

Mostly what that woman did in that video was stare blankly.

Wait, I've emulated it for you. Little music video for your viewing pleasure.

 

This is how men want us. Hot and blank. Like my coffee. Do you remember that friend of mine, The Other June, who I haven't seen in ages, who came over once and I offered her coffee, and I said, "Do you take anything in it?"

"Oh, no," she said, "just cream and sugar."

That has haunted me. It's haunted me all this time. That must have been seven years ago. Oh, no. Just cream and sugar.

WHAT ELSE IS THERE?

Yes. I take abandoned toys and corkscrews in my coffee. You got any?

I love a cabana boy in my coffee.

Oh no. Just cream and sugar.

IT HAUNTS.

It's like that story I know I've told you, where I ran that marathon in Chicago. It was a fundraiser for AIDS Project Los Angeles, where we raised money for them and they flew us to Chicago and put us up in a swank hotel and we all ran the Chicago marathon. As opposed to flying to Chicago and running the Madrid marathon.

Anyway, there was a little party after. Whichever asshole planned the party said, Hey! I know! Let's have everyone run 26.2 miles, then after they've showered and gotten stiff, we'll have a party you have to access by climbing many many many stairs!

You've never seen so many people go upstairs sideways, like crabs.

The point is, once we were up there, mawing on snacks like we'd never seen snacks before, or like we'd, oh, run 26.2 miles that day, one guy said, "Weren't the showers at our hotel fantastic?"

They really were. It was a lovely hotel. The morning of the marathon, I had to get up at like 4:30 or some godawful time that even thinking about it now makes me ill, and I was filling my little running pack with dried fruit and stuff, and I looked out the window. Across the courtyard were so many other lights on, and I knew everyone in them was also running the marathon, and it was so thrilling. It was like Rear Window, but it was more Run Window.

Dear June, Try to at least make sense. Love, Reader.

OH MY GOD ANYWAY. Gay guy at party. Loved the showers. We agreed the showers were good.

"That was the second-most refreshing shower I've ever had," he said.

HAUNTED.

WHAT ELSE HAS HE DONE that there would ever be a shower, anywhere ever, more refreshing than the one you take after running

TWENTY-SIX

POINT

TWO

miles? What? Did he mud wrestle an elephant? Was he abandoned in a rainforest for a week?

WHAT?

I'll never know. I've thought of calling AIDS Project LA, asking for the entire roster of everyone who ran the 2000 Chicago marathon, and calling every man who ran it to ask WERE YOU THE ONE WHO TOOK THE SECOND-MOST REFRESHING SHOWER?

Also, who ranks their showers?

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In completely unrelated news, the elusive two-headed cat came to feast at my dwelling.

Yesterday, I took the day off and ended up working in my lavender nightgown all day. "Oh, I'll just do this a minute," I said, opening my laptop. I closed it at 6:00. "Can I, like, get a refund on my day?" I emailed my boss. She said yes.

So that was relaxing. And then as soon as I took off my sexy nightgown and got on my workout clothes, I got a migraine. I did half of Tracy Gold workout until my head threatened to kill me, and then I lay prone and moaning all evening.

All in all, a fun day. Second-most fun day of my life. No, just cream and sugar.

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While I've been writing you this impressive tome, I looked behind me and noticed this. This is nice. Now they have a window to the stars. It rained like the dickens last night, it rained sad orphans, and as a result the dogs tracked in ALL THE MUD. I mean, there is no more mud out there. They tracked in people's adobes, and mud huts–which are probably the same as adobes–and basically all the earth is here. Clean, is what my floors are.

I wash my floor almost every day now. It's like I'm a clean freak without the clean part.

Believe it or not, this important post must come to an end, and I know it cuts like a knife. I know you wanted more from me. No, not really. Just cream and sugar.

IT HAUNTS.

Luff,

June

June’s Rose Gold

Last night, I got my formidable roots done, and also, we've hired a very cute woman at work who's adorable, with purple roots and then long-ish lavender hair.

Everyone at work wants to be her all of a sudden.

"Remember I've been saying I wanted to get a color like that?" the Alex who sits next to me said. The one with the new dog, thanks to you guys. She HAS been saying that, and she currently sports the ombré hair, with the blonde at the bottom and darker at the top, and it looks fabulous.

"I just asked HR if it's okay for me to have pink hair," Slutty Pancakes from two floors up emailed me. "They said, 'Sounds cute.'"

Every once in awhile, someone comes in and sparks a revolution.

So, I mentioned to New Dog Alex that I had to leave for my hair appointment, and she said, "Why don't you get rose gold hair?" She's very hip, New Dog Alex is, so I take her every utterance very seriously, because deep, over here. Deep June. There's Gandhi, whose hair never looked good, and then there's June. If you're looking for a depth scale.

"Rose gold hair?" I asked, piqued as piqued could be.

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"Oooo!" I said, Google fucking it.

"It'd look good," New Dog Alex said, and have I mentioned I hang on her every fashion word?

"What'dya think of rose gold hair?" I asked my old boss. He paused. "You'd look like an iPhone," he said.

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And that is when I commenced ignoring my old boss.

I started imagining myself with the rose gold hair. I could see me gleaming rosily as the morning sun shone on it. I could see me shaking my gold locks, but not breaking them.

I could see my big wide hair looking pink.

"If I got rose gold hair, would I look like Bozo?" I asked Bitchy Resting Face Alex.

"Possibly," she said, and for your information, we are all freezing out BRF Alex. No one play with BRF Alex.

I texted my hairdresser. "Get out the rose gold!" I wrote. My hairdresser is 100% over me. She did not answer.

I screamed home and let Lottie out of puppy jail. Seven weeks ago when I got my formidable roots done, I took her with me, and she was such a teensy thing that she mostly just slept on my lap. 6a00e54f9367fb883401b8d1e8654b970c-pi
And tugged on my hairdresser robe. We should have known then she'd be World's Dickiest Puppy. She's behind me right now, having found an old hoof from the yard that my other dogs haven't played with since 1999. She's a regular archeologist, finding things my regularly scheduled normal dogs have discarded.

It's a sad day when Edsel starts being the "normal dogs."

Anyway, seven weeks ago I took her with me to the hairdresser and she mostly slept, but I knew if I brought her this time it's be like a Pterodactyl had come to the salon, so I got a puppy-sitter. Yes. I know.

The point is, as I was screaming home, I called my mother. My Aunt Kathy and cousin Katie were there, as well. I asked my mother, "If I get rose gold hair, would I look like Bozo?"

"Possibly," said my mother.

"Put Katie on."

"Possibly," said Katie.

I am a lone wolf. A rebel with no need for family. Or friends. Or coworkers. It's just me and the road. And by "the road," I mean the three miles to the salon.

When I got to the hairdresser, she stood up, ready for battle. "I got out the rose gold, June," she said.

"SQUEEEEEEE!!!" I said, ready for pink sunset hair. I would literally be down at the sunset grill every day. I would be June, bringing the roses, like that sheet music one of you sent me.

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"I gotta tell you something, though," she said, sitting down. "First of all, I have only one tube, which would not be enough for your hair."

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"Also, these fashion colors don't last," she said. "They cost 70 dollars to put on, and they're gone in one or two weeks."

I heard my money manager, Kaye, fainting off in the distance.

"So you don't think I should do it," I said. Oh, I was crestfallen. I was so looking forward to being rosy and goldie. I'd be Goldie Hawn. Like, if she went through a bloated, wide-hair stage.

My hairdresser looked at my crestfallen face. She knows I'm nearly 51, nearly at the end. My life, like my hair, is sunsetting. "I tell you what," she said. "Lemme get some more tubes and I'll do it next time, and I won't charge you the full amount," she said.

AND THAT IS WHY WE HAVE ONLY 7 WEEKS TILL JUNE HAS

ROSE

GOLD

HURR!!!!!!!!!!

{squeeing silently}

"Hey, does your puppy always dog paddle in the water bowl?" the dog-sitter texted me.

And that is when I lost my rose-gold glow.

Luncheon with June

Oh, I was sleeping so NICELY this morning. Lottie did her usual waking at 6:00 thing, which we have down to a science. She whines once, I get up, still asleep, walk her outside, she pees, and without saying a single word to each other we go right back into the bedroom and fall asleep.

But today? I fell asleep for a long, long time after. I was jolted awake by the fact that I felt so rested. "Oh, no," I said, reaching for my phone.

8:37. I'm supposed to be at work at 8:30. It was 8:30fucking7.

"OH, CRAP!" I shouted, getting Lottie out of her jail cell, running to the back door, letting those two hooligans out, dumping food in bowls, letting hooligans back in, showering while they ate, letting them BACK FUCKING OUT while I dressed, and at 8:57, I was ready to leave.

I went to the back yard to see Edsel and Lottie running fast fast fast as they could around the yard, in a big circle, doing that thing where they're both leaning sideways, so fast are they traversing. If I say they were turning to butter, is everyone going to get up in arms that I referenced Little Black Sambo again, a thing I had FORGOTTEN was a ref to that book?

Little Black Sambo. How is it, that in this lifetime, we were able to purchase a book with that title? And think nothing of it! Good gravy.

Anyway. I felt terrible making them come in, but I had to, and they were panting like, you know, a couple of dogs.

"Henh, henh, henh, henh," smiled Lottie as she made her way to the water bowl.

"Huh huh huh huh," breathed Edsel, as he shared the bowl with Lottie. There was no time for alpha wars.

Her little heart was still racing when I dumped her back in her crate, and I felt awful about it, but here I am back at home and she's no worse for the wear. She's back outside, doing Lottie things. She loves a good rock, man. She brings in rocks constantly, and likes to dump them on the floor, scratching it something awful, and stay tuned for a very special episode of Lottie Goes to the Pound coming your way soon.

Like, the more I know her, the more I TOTALLY GET why someone said, "Let's dump her near that gym where all the white people go." They knew some asshole do-gooder would take her in and deal with her punk ass.

Hello, Lottie, two minutes after you were dumped. I am your asshole.

So the point is, I got to work by five after 9:00, and to tell you the truth they're a little loosey goosey about time there, so the whole thing went without incident, other than my cold panic and looking like a homeless person today.

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Hey, hurr.

Good god.

I'm eating lunch while I talk to you. I had a can of Franco-American spaghetti, because I too am Franco and American and I like to eat the food of my people. How is spaghetti remotely French? Is James Franco heir to the spaghetti-in-a-can fortune? If so, why does he work so much? What the hell is wrong with him?

Anyway, I had that, and now I'm having some Pecan Nut-Thins and "Classic" hummus. That's what it reads. Classic. Like it's the Chanel of hummus. The little black dress of hummus. My hummus is The Wizard of Oz. Beetoven's Fifth. Of hummus.

Goddammit. Lottie just brought in another rock. I hate this rock obsession. Maybe, like my hummus, she's into classic rock.

Now I'm having blueberries, and perhaps you're thinking, Wow, June, eat a little smackerel of something, why don't you? Why so thick, June?

Tonight I get my hair done, my roots, as it were, and you can't see them above because I use root spray. But remember that scene in Terms of Endearment when Shirley Maclaine had the roots because Debra Winger was dying? I'm like that underneath this spray. GIVE MY DAUGHTER THE SHOT.

Don't you hate a bitter blueberry? It's so disconcerting.

Okay, I'm glad we had this talk. My mother just called and she's getting her hair done today, too, so it must be genetic. Oh! And in summation, I was able to finish all the episodes of Orange is the New Black last night. Hashtag goals.

What the fuck does Squad Goals mean, and why is everyone saying it? I hate all this meme crap. Whatever, MaryLou; why don't you go work at McDonald's?

Okay, June, out. Should I do something different with my hair tonight? I mean, other than banish the late-for-work-homeless look. Tell all. My hairdresser will adore us. Remember that time I sat down, and with a straight face said, "I'm thinking perm."

June. Cut her hair for the challenge. Stay for the hilarity. And sixty dollars.

Heart hands,

Lunchy June

A loafing June, a jug of La Croix, and thou

I got a lot accomplished this weekend, and by "accomplished," I mean I watched 10 hours of the new season of Orange is the New Black. I'm kind of disappointed in myself that I didn't get all 13 episodes in, but you know, you do what you can to accomplish your goals and if you fall a little short, you reward the effort, not the failure.

I should totally make those awful inspirational posters for work. Like, with a picture of an eagle in flight.

BINGE WATCHING

Reward the effort. The effort of moving less than someone in a coma. All weekend.

Anyway I was toiling away at work on Friday when I remembered it was my BIG DAY, my day that OITNB was coming back. Oh, I was excited. I got everything done as fast as I could and sneaked out of there early.

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Rebel, rebel, you tore your dress.

But I had to do a bunch of stupid STUFF before I could commence watching, and how ANNOYING.

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Things like give my stupid animals stupid FOOD, which, really? Can't you order in? Orange is back. Orange is the new back.

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Goddammit, Lottie. I gots no TIME for you to eat the cat food. MY PRISON SHOW IS JUST WAITING FOR ME. You get the trots, you're on your own. Cause m'show.

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JEEEESUS, it's practically SATURDAY by now.

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I also had to let their stupid asses OUT so they could PEE, which actually probably happened before they ate, but what do you want from me? I downloaded a shit ton of animal pics to my desktop just now. IT'S HARD.

Lottie needs to figure out those ears, man. Like, pick a direction already.

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All I wanted–ALL I WANTED–was to have a nutritious slow-cooked dinner and watch my show. Stupid life. Stupid responsibilities.

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Then I had to walk the goddamn dogs. Who INVENTED this life? If I were one of those hairless-homed people with zero pets, I'd already have been heavily into episode one. Probably already gotten to see some prison titties. But no.

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And walking in such an orderly manner, thanks to June's Iron Fish of Discipline.

Goddammit. FIST. Not June's iron fish. What even is that, even?

Lottie needs to figure out those ears. Did I mention? Say, I know when she could do it. HOW ABOUT WHILE I'M WATCHING ORANGE IS THE NEW BLACK?

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Son of a…fuck YOU, Tracy Chapman! Fuck you all to fuck.

Finally, FINALLY, I could watch my show, and YES I DOWNLOADED A NETFLIX, KAYEEEE. I don't even care. It's my show.

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Fortunately, the rest of my cast members participated in my binging. My pets: enabling me since 2016.

In summation, I watched a lot of TV this weekend. And I'd like to thank the reader who sent me that TV when I moved in here. THANK YOU, reader! You are a good person, and I am able to isolate like a DEMON with that TV.

I gotta go work now, but I need some help with an article I'm writing. It's about how we aren't grownups anymore. Like, where did all the Walter Cronkites go?

I have some good examples, mostly having to do with what idiots we are about politics now (yes, coming up with a brilliant name such as "Obummer" is so much more effective than discussing the issues we disagree on) and about the delightful men I've met online. (And my example in the article is actually about how idiotic Trump protesters are being, in case you think I'm being one-sided.)

But what else? Can you think of other examples? THANKS!

Responsibilityuns,

June

What kind of kid were you?

We somehow got into this discussion at work, and it was a good one. Were you the kid who tore out the door at dawn and didn't come back till the streetlights came on? (Ned.)

Were you the kid who took everything apart to see how it worked? (Marvin.)

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I was weird. I should have warned you to brace yourself. I didn't like other kids all that much, and I grew up to not like people, so what do you know. Anyway, mostly I wanted to sit around and read, or make up stories, and record myself acting them out on my tape recorder.

And cats. I liked to pet cats. I was friends with all the neighborhood cats.

Did I mention I was weird?

So what were you like?

P.S. I was trying to Google old pictures of myself, so I typed byebyepie blog + "june was 8," and this came up and OH MY GOD QUIET TOUCH. Totally forgot about it. There is nothing I like better than old cosmetics ads. If anyone wonders what to get me for my birthday, any Glamour, Cosmopolitan or Teen Magazine from the late '70s would make me shit my own self.

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Also, Ima get that hairdo.

ACK! Oh my god, now I found this!!!

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Okay, well now I've just fallen over dead. Someone get that poor woman away from him. He needs to get back to Oz to guard the door to The Wizard, anyway.

Really leaving now. Tell me what kind of kid you were. I need to stop Googling '70s cosmetics ads.

Obsessively,

June