Do you know what annoys me?
Everyone gasped just now. She's usually so happy-go-lucky! Actually, that phrase annoys me too. What the fuck does that even mean?
What annoys me is my coffee can be a crapshoot. Heck, I made it too strong today. Or, what the hell, did I just wave the idea of coffee around the coffeemaker today? It's weaker than John Travolta's handshake.
So sometimes I think, hey, I could measure it, and then it'd taste the same every time. Nothing gets past me. Except have you ever read the instructions on your coffee? One scoop for every six ounces of water or something like that. Oh, six ounces! Yes! I'm acutely aware of how many FUCKING OUNCES of coffee I'm putting in.
What the Christ.
They clarify by saying. ""(180 ml)." OH! WELL! AND RIGHT THEN I KNEW! That's clear as a fucking BELL now!
Why can't they just speak English? Why can't they just be clear? Tell me how many scoops to put in for half a pot or a pot, for example. Like I'm supposed to know when I've filled the pot with six ounces of fucking water.
Here's an extremely helpful and cogent tip from a coffee website: To determine the amount of water to be used with fractional amounts of coffee, multiply the weight of the coffee by the following factors: 16 (0.0625 is the inverse factor) to get fluid ounces of water: 16.6945 (0.0599 is the inverse factor) for grams to get CCs of water.
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME. So now my coffee is a story problem.
So that pretty much sums up my whole life right now. My whole life is a story problem.
In other news, work is still INSANE OH MY GOD, and what I enjoy are A. people who don't read my original emails thoroughly so they write back with more questions THAT WERE ALREADY ADDRESSED and B. people in my non-work life thinking I can talk. I believe I've done a clear job, clear like coffee instructions, of letting everyone know WORK IS INSANE till August. And yet?
"Hey, why haven't I heard from you?"
"Did you see my meme I put on your wall?"
"Hey, can you forward me that stuff we talked about in 1972?"
Oh, fuck off.
I just saw an annoying thing ("she's usually so happy-go-lucky!") on Facebook the other day; it was a meme about how Someone Isn't Avoiding You. Maybe They Have…and it was a rolling list of other things that person might be up to rather than avoiding you, like "personal sturggles" or "physical pain" or "a life."
REALLY? Really? As adults we need to be told that, still? People really think, "Oh, she's avoiiiiiiiiding me!"?? How fucking self-centered can you get?
Oh, and finally, I went to the Apple Store yesterday, and yes, "Store" is capped. I got my cracked screen replaced. and if anyone is thinking, "Say, I sure would like to donate to June today," NOW IS A GOOD FUCKING TIME.
("But, happy-go-lucky!") (June Gardens' Happy-Go-Lucky fund)
The point is, I had to make an appointment at the "Genius Bar," a name that is not at all cloying and WHAT mood, June, instead of just, oh, drop it the fuck off and pick it the fuck up. I'd been told on the phone that they'd have to ship it off, so I called another off-brand phone fixing place, who wanted to charge me "about 30 dollars more" and ship it off for three or four business days.
"Apple wants $129 to fix the screen. What do you charge?"
"About 30 dollars more, ma'am. It's 179."
"That's…fifty dollars more, sir."
It's a sad day when I'm the mathematician in a scenario.
Just now I noticed Lottie sitting still next to my chair, her back to me. Any time she alights, I try to praise her for, you know, actually alighting.
"Look at my sweet girl," I said, scratching her chest, which is getting barrel-y. "What a sweet doggie. See? You can be a good girl!"
As soon as I said that, she turned around and bit my arm.
Anyway, the good news is the young guy at the genius bar looked down my shirt, twice, and I got it back in an hour and a half. The phone, not my bosom. I did not, however, take any photos yesterday as a result of that big 90-minute lapse in phone-having, so in order for this important blog post to have a photo in it to draw in illiterate readers, Ima go into my photos and pick out the 129th photo. Hang on.
Why is June always late for work?
I posted last night–I gave some aptitude tests to Lottie that I shared on film. Yes, you really ARE welcome. Scroll down to see.
But I gathered you all here today to hear about my severe eye injury. I was walking with my coworker Austin yesterday, through the park. Usually a big group of us walks but everyone was too busy or they thought it was too hot. Ninety-seven is a lovely temp for a stroll.
Anyway, we were almost done when
a bug flew right into my eye. Right into it!
"Ow!" I said. And then I smelled that smell Stink Bugs emit.
And right then I knew. A fucking STINK BUG had flown into my eye. And emitted its…juice or whatever right into my socket.
"Goddammit," I said.
It seemed like an inconvenient truth, but that it'd be no big deal, no bug deal, but it turns out stupid Stink Bug juice REALLY EFFING HURTS when it's sprayed into your EYE, and all of a sudden I was Juice Newton, over there, with the burning and the watering and the pain, oh the pain.
Naturally I took this opportunity to tell just everyone at work, because when bad things happen to marginally good people, it's cause for sympathy-eliciting.
The point is, I was back at my desk, trying to see out my eye, when my coworker Fewks came over.
"Hey!" he said. "You givin' me the stink-eye?"
And that is right about when I stopped liking Fewks.
Anyway, today it hurts to the touch and it's slightly purple, but I think I will, you know, keep the eye. You know I hate to make a big deal out of things. I'd hate to bug you.
Doin' the stanky leg,
The problem is, I get cockamamie ideas.
I decided to give Lottie a puppy aptitude test tonight (Google fucking "Puppy Aptitude Test"), kind of a personality test, to see if she will grow up to be psycho. In the test, they offer a series of activities to see how your pup–or, oh, spawn of Satan–reacts.
Her usual reaction to everything is "eat the cat." So.
Naturally I videotaped all of it.
Here's the intro veeeeedeo. Someone tell the newcomers why I pronounce it veeeeedeo like an asshole.
I had to call her to see if she comes cheerfully. She'd come if I put an apple in the cats' mouths.
So, she came to me. She can't be all bad. Or can she….? DUN DUN DUNNNNNN.
The next test? See if she'll follow when I leave the room. Warning: My impression of Charles Nelson Riley is so good you'll feel like he's back from the dead. Like I dug him up. Put a jaunty scarf 'round his bonez.
Is CNR actually dead?
I was so pleased, and so annoyed with myself that that video was 36 seconds, that I did it again. Oops I did it again.
Okay, she's been pretty cute, actually. When will she fuck up?! The shadow knows.
The next test involved holding that creature of Satan ON HER BACK for a full 30 SECONDS to see what she'd do. I'll tell you what I thought she'd do, and that was get out her teensy puppy gun and shoot me dead. Is what I thought she'd do.
Here are the chilling results.
So, she fussed a little and then was all, eh. Why bozzer. LOTee no she in chargg.
In the next test, I was to pet her from head to tail, to see how she'd react. I KNEW how she'd react. She'd bite the crap out of me. That's what she does when you try to be NICE and make a NICE DINNER for us to have TOGETHER and instead you decide to WORK LATE with that TRAMP from accounting.
Here's what happened. Watch what happens live.
I explain the next test, in which I must hold Lottie aloft and try to live through it. In the second video, you get quite a trip to June's bosoms. You're most welcome.
I will not show you any more after this, but there were several. My evening involved me throwing a toy and seeing if she reacted to it. I also had to bang pans and throw towels and basically I was useless all night. But here are the riveting results of the toy throw…
Finally, after all Lottie testing was done, here are the results…
And her opinion…
I have to get to work early, and I won't be able to post at all tomorrow. I have to go early to the car place and get my headlight and taillight replaced. Yes, both are out. On two different sides.
In a week or so, it won't be so berserk at work, possibly. My car will stop doing things like breaking, possibly, too. The windshield is still cracked, though. Gotta fix that eventually.
So, while I'm toiling away, let's have another day where we tell our secrets. Eventually, when we get enough comments, I'll go on and tell one of mine as well. We can all sign in as anonymous or NoneYa or whatever, so our secrets remain just that.
It's been several years since our last one of these, and I'm hoping people who didn't have the nerve last time will have it this time, and people who weren't here last time can participate now.
They can be small secrets or large. Doesn't matter.
I am currently drinking coffee–what addiction?–out of my Mr. Tea mug that Marty and Kaye got me some years back, that remains one of my favorites. Do you have favorite mugs? Do you wait till it's that mug's turn in the cupboard, or do you reach for it first if it's clean? I make my mugs wait their turn. Then all the shitty ones are way in the back and I'll have to be all, Crap. Really? It's thin-mug-that-burns-my-hand day?
When we last spoke, I was debating new shoes, because all of mine were peed on or slightly chewed or just old. Lottie really hasn't ruined any shoes yet, as I am careful to at least place them up high, when walking all the way to the closet is just too exhausting to contemplate.
The other day I was walking at work with Austin, and I told him how I woke up in the middle of the night recently with horrific pain in my back teeth. I knew I'd been grinding them and the pain was exquisite. If I owned aspirin, I'd have taken some. What I did instead was get up and put in my night guard.
"You have a night guard? And you didn't have it in already?" asked Austin, who has a full-time job, two kids, a house, a dog, a cat, a wife and does Cross Fit every single day. Plus he prepares 79 individual containers of healthy snacks for himself that he eats all day at work. You walk into the kitchen and he's, like, wolfing raw brussels sprouts out of a container he brought.
"I was too exhausted to walk to the bathroom to put it in that night," I explained.
The look he gave me was priceless.
Anyway, here. Shut up.
Your basic black middle-aged-divorced-woman wedges. I once heard a group of young bitches teasing one of the other young women at the table for wearing wedges like she's a mom. I tucked mine under my chair. I'm not gonna teeter in pumps for no good reason. I put on a pump, there better be the promise of penis.
Every day at work, we take a walk through the park, something The Other Copy Editor invented, daily walks, and we've kept going with it. But my cankles feel stiff in the morning now and I wonder if it's because I'm clomping around the park in divorce wedges. So. Got these. In my color. You'll see they're already soiled, as I walked the curs in them. The Black Mouth cur and the other cur.
And finally. The peace of resistance. How much do you like me right now?
Ta-DAAAAA! I know, right???! Oh my god, so pleased.
I got to wear the basic black wedges to Alex's little party on Saturday. She recently bought a house and she had a get-together.
When I was out…getting my iPhone fixed (which in some parts of the country is code for buying shoes), I stopped at Ulta ("I thought you hated Ulta, June") because my hairdresser is at the beach, and it's only been three or four weeks anyway, and what roots? Oh my god. Snow on the silver mountain. Rootin' for turnips.
Root root rootin' for the home team.
If you catch my drift.
So I got some root cover, is what I did, because, roots? Root you talkin' 'bout, Willis?
The point is, they had hair powder for $4.99. They had bright blue, pink, and …
lavender. So I sported that at the party, and I am not at all just wearing a bra in this picture. "Honey, You're such an exhibitionist." I can so hear my mom. Also, mom, I got your messages. I kept saying I would call you next, in my own head, in my mind, but then I was busy again. Mostly pulling Lottie off things. But also with this…
It all started yesterday morning, on Facebook, because middle-aged divorced woman. Anyway, I'm on two Edsel support group pages: American Dingo and Carolina Dogs. On one of those pages, we were all grousing about our weird dogs, and someone said her dog destroys every toy. And every other Edsel owner nodded sympathetically and we got up from our folding chairs and had a group hug.
That's when I mentioned Blu. To stop the group hug. "West Paw design makes a toy that's nearly indestructible!" I said, adding the link. "We're on Blu number three, and we're only on three because we left Blu Two somewhere."
I did not go into my own heartbreaking history of moving in with Ned and the tragic demise and how I forgot Blu in my fog of disappointment and agony. And that clearly Jesus the lawn guy tossed Blu, as it is just not in that yard any longer.
Jesus will take your Blu away.
The point is, after I posted that on Facebook, I started wondering how many pictures I could drum up of Edsel with Blu, and I started gathering them, then four hours later I'd made a whole stupid video. Do you have any idea how many "blue" songs I considered? Mr. Blue Sky, but it's really long. Tangled Up in Blue. Also a long song. Blue Monday, but come on.
But this song is perfect. It's kind of gay, plus they SAY gay, and it's jaunty like Edsel. Gay and jaunty like Edsel.
Could not get enough of self that Talu gets Blu in the end, and takes a bow. She only ever played with Blu to piss off Edsel. It was totally obvious. She's totally Lucy and poor Eds is Linus with his blanket.
I fucking love the song Blue Monday. Oh my god, I am so dancing at some bar in Saginaw when this comes on. I wonder if all the dancing I did then negated the 394949494 calories from all my white zinfandel? Probably, as I was 23.
Anyway, that's all my news. I gotta put on my prick suit and get to work. I have no idea why I said that, except Andy Sipowicz used to say that and I always loved it. "Guy put on his prick suit this morning."
Andy Sipowicz is an excellent cat name.
That's what woke me up today. Lottie did her usual crying to get out of her crate at 6:30, and I was half-asleep when I took her out, fed her, then slammed my damn bedroom door so I could sleep JUST A LITTLE GODDAMN LONGER, PLEASE GOD.
And I did sleep, knowing full well she could be out there wreaking all kinds of havoc, but there's no bringing her to bed to nap with you, unless you find having your face bitten soothing, and putting her back in the crate would have been repeated renditions of Yappy Days Are Here Again. So.
I got up, wondering if perhaps she was dead, and then I could get the sympathy vote and some sleep. But no. There she was, smiling at me as soon as I opened the bedroom door. Often she sleeps up against the door of the bedroom or bathroom if I close her out, a thing that always charms me before she twirls in the air and bites my face again.
"What did you DO, Lottie?" She pranced down the hall, having completely forgotten whatever she'd done.
Cracked. The screen of my nine hundred million dollar iPhone. Cracked. She knocked it off the couch.
By the way, I was having trouble finding a screen that was blank enough to show you the cracks, so I went into my notes and erased one. This page was me coming up with puppy names for that pitty puppy I almost got. One of the choices was Lottie.
I really thought I'd thought of that on the spot, when I found her in a…lot. You know, I've never looked to see what the name of the business was that she was trespassing on. I wonder if it was Demon, Inc. or D. E. Ville & Miss Jones Advertising or HELLena Rubenstein or something.
I'll go look today.
So I have an appointment at the Apple store today. $129 it's gonna cost me to fix this bullshit. It's coming out of that dog's allowance.
Since I was up, I made spaghetti for breakfast, because I was out of everything else, and I did two loads of laundry, organized my unmentionables, which I just mentioned, so in my case they'd be my mentionables. I put my shoes back in order and came to the conclusion that I really need new shoes. They're all in terrible shape, Lottie hasn't chewed any, yet, but she's peed on two pair. I just got a refund from the state (I overpaid my taxes. It's like I got a good Community Chest card).
But right then I remembered. Fucking $129 for my iPhone. Goddammit.
Anyway. I also swept the floors and Sharked them. El Diablo is napping. The beast builds her strength for the next terror.
My iTunes is workin' it today. First it played…
which I've shared with you before. I love that song.
Then it played…
which just about kills me whenever I hear it. Then it was all,
I feel like my iTunes has a sense of humor. Hey, high school. How's it going? Lemme get on my reversible raincoat with whales on one side and we can go.
I have to get ready to appear at the Apple Store. Appearing now! June Gardens at Apple! Then after I have a little party, a little soiree, and how much do you abhor me for saying soiree? Anyway, I do have one to go to, and I plan to raise the roof and bring my hands together and make some noise.
I can't think of who I was talking to recently (I suspect one of my interminable OK Cupid dates) who hates it when you're somewhere and they say, "Are ya having a good time?" and the crowd is, like, "Woooo!" And they say, "Not good enough. I said, ARE YOU HAVING FUN?"
Whoever it was said he hates that like hell. Don't TELL me how much noise to make. Don't RATE my woooo. And now I will feel the same way.
What's your hobby, June? Oh, I gather things to resent.
I will talk at you later. Who wants to place bets on whether June relents and gets new shoes anyway, while she's in the same shopping center as the Apple store? And…go.
I had a dream that I was helping Jesus build a wall to keep out foreigners. I kept saying, "Really? Cause this doesn't seem like something you'd–okay. Hand me a nail. YOU'RE the carpenter, here, but okay."
Maybe I shouldn't have watched the RNC.
I also dreamed my cousin Katy (yes, I have a Katie and a Katy in my family. We're a wildly original people. There are also two Junes, and fortunately I am Little June) was getting married again, in some big old beautiful building, except the wedding was outside, so kind of like my wedding.
The point is, it was all very Irish-themed (she's Irish on her mom's side. Irish people always celebrate their Irishness, but you never see anyone being all French-Canadians! Yay! Which is what our side is), and she was serving
as the hors d'oeuvre before the wedding. Dear Next Wedding I Go To: Do that. I don't even know if those are a thing, but make it happen. Like Jesus's wall. Get the fuck away from me, be ye Mexican. I only like Americans.
Really, I should have read a book or something.
We should really bring back the "ye." Ye guys in?
In other news, a few of you recommended toys that would keep Lottie out of juvenile detention, so I got them, and they got here yesterday and is there anything better than Amazon? I know they abuse their employees, but hey, fast service.
So, first I played with their new, like, big fishing line that has a toy at the end, and I really need someone to come film Edsel playing with that thing, because I know you all want me to just be RECORDING EVERY MOMENT ("Why didn't you take a picture of the grocery store clerk, June?"), but there is no physical way to play with the dogs with that thing and hold a camera. I'd have to strap on a GoPro (I'm a NoPro) or develop six arms like the goddess I am.
Anyway, he was BESIDE himself. And here's what he said. BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK!
Oh my god. He had a crazed expression, and ALL HE WANTED IN THIS LIFE was to catch that toy, and he did, and poor Lottie barely got to play with it at all. Finally I put him inside and played with just her, and you know what he said?
BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! Goddammit, BARK!
I was totally Buffalo Bill outside, mocking him. Baaark. Baaaark.
I need to stop watching Silence of the Lambs and the RNC, both.
Anyway, then we went inside (my mosquitoes are terrible. Are yours? Even bug spray won't work. I'd call in some kind of service but I don't want them to kill the lightning bugs) and I got that cube, and Lottie loved it, except for the part where Edsel decided she could have no part of it. And then he strapped one on and got all manly about the sitch.
Eventually, he went outside and Lottie got the huge cube of cheese once more, and you know when you were a kid and your dad came home and you were in trouble? Jesus Katie Christ and his toolbelt.
He walked in so slowly and deliberately, and I like how he's trying to be tough while Lily brushes against him. It'd be like if a cowboy sauntered through the bar doors with a balloon bouquet.
But look at him! He's such a dick.
And poor Lottie was just cowering, all Yes, sir. It's just not right. What is this shift lately?
So, basically, so much drama in the GSO.
My hair and I took a selfie after. Yesterday was an exhausting day. Basically I'm working on two huge projects that're coming to fruition on the same day. That day is nigh, which is a day between Monday and Pooh Day.
In fact, Edsel and I were on our walk last night, and we saw Ava's grandmother, who was trying to wave at me and unload groceries at the same time, and a big jug of milk toppled out of the back of the car. "No use crying over it," I said, and no one likes me.
Anyway, she told me Ava had an upset dog stomach but now she's fine, and that her housebreaking isn't going that well (Ava's, not the grandmother's), and while we were talking, their absolutely beautiful calico sauntered down the driveway. "Is she gonna come over here?" I asked.
"Oh, yes, she's used to big dogs." They have three dogs including Ava, one of which is this thick, solid Pit who lets Ava hang off his jowls. He's super cool. Gray pit. Oh, I love him.
Anyway, yep, sure enough, that splotchy-face kitty came right over, and Edsel?
Oh hai! Hai hai hai! How it hang? I do be Edsel, it so good to–may I sniff you a lot? A lot? Heer Edz snowt. May Edsz snurfle your–wear you go?
Which is pretty much how it goes whenever I meet anyone. "Oh, hello! Have you ever tried Ben-Wa balls?"
Okay, then, I'm off to another relaxing day. Remember when all I did was proofread all day, and my biggest stressor was missing a comma? Remember those heady days? Oh, heady days. Heady days of yore.
A time. Morning-ish.
When we last spoke–and why didn't you ever call me last night to say you got in okay?–I said I'd tell about all the places I stopped working at, and how I yelled at someone in a wheelchair, and how I am a magnificent person.
But before I do, let me just tell you I was making coffee this morning.
It's hilarious every time I do that.
And I noted that Lottie had…alighted. She was just lying on the kitchen floor. Let me tell you something: For Lottie to be still and not (a) dead or (b) completely asleep in the puppy pass-out, is weird. I'd go so far as to say it's never happened. So it got my attention. It's like when a hummingbird stops.
"Wow," I thought, a teensy light of encouragement seeping just ever so slightly into the dark corner where my soul died by the time she was 9 weeks old. "Maybe she's calming down!"
She was lying right in front of the room where my computer used to be, the room with the bad concrete floor. Edsel was in that room, finishing his breakfast. He'd ordered the brown sugar waffles and a mimosa, extra light on the champagne, with a flower garnish. Anyway, what I realized is she wasn't lying so much as cowering.
"Lottie!" I said, sort of alarmed, sort of delighted to see her remotely cowed by anything in life. "What's–"
And that is when Edsel stalked out of the room, with a holster on his hips, talking like John Wayne or Clint Eastwood or something. He walked by her without a glance, and she cowered further, simpering, like someone had beaten her or something, and I wondered if all the times I've beaten her in mind had somehow made itself clear to her.
She followed Edsel while they both walked toward me, and her tail was curled under her, and her entire body was brought to you by the letter C.
I have no idea what Edsel did to make her that way. They did not fight, as I've been three feet from their eight feet all morning. But Ima guess some shade was thrown over Edsel's Belgian waffles, and Lottie understood from the deep recesses of her dark soul. Every once in awhile today, Edsel's been showing her his teef. Well, he always shows everyone his teefs, but this time he's also showing the top ones. The fangy ones. Tough. Clint Edselwood.
She really loves to dig a hole, Lottie does, and she has a huge one at the side of the house. My theory is she's trying to get back to hell, from whence she came. So it's exciting to see Edsel trying to take control of the situation.
So, for those of you on Pie on the Face, you know I told you I'd be writing this week's Purple Clover about families, and I asked, "Tell me about your families," and as usual you all had answers–thank god–and what I love is when you all just keep talking way into the night as if I wouldn't be, oh, writing the damn column by then. It's like when people used to stay at my mother's game night parties forever. I'd wake up in what felt like the middle of the night and was probably 10:30, and people would still be talking, and I'd roll over and go back to sleep.
But I'm glad everyone participates in those questions I ask you when I'm trying to write something. I always get one or two gems to use after.
As I write you, my back door is open to the screen door, and I just heard a train go by in the distance. Do you remember how Ned's apartment was literally just feet from the train tracks, and it was a whistle stop, so whenever a train went by they had to blow the whistle? It was SO IN OUR EARS, and sometimes there'd be a guy who'd blow his stupid horn forever, and we'd both say, "THAT guy was a dick."
And now it's off in the distance, that whistle, which is metaphoric, and I am deep.
I can hear birds and cicadas, too. Aren't cicadas only supposed to be at night? What's that buzzing, then? I wish I knew how to record things with my phone, then upload said recording onto my blog so you guys could say, "Oh, no, June, that's a Right-Winged FrooDeGloogen, not a bug."
Right-Winged FrooDeGloogen. That bird totally supports Trump.
Oh my god why do you read me.
SO I WROTE MY PURPLE CLOVER COLUMN, about families, and MY EDITOR said, "Yeah, not so much with this one, June. It's kind of all over the place."
I could see that. It kind of was. But the thing is, I've been writing for them every week and then every other week for three years. That's 874 columns, by my maths. And I notice they never put me on their Facebook page anymore, so I just kind of wonder if maybe I'm columned out. Which is what I wrote him, and he said, Yeah. Maybe. So why don't you just write for us when you have a really good idea. And I said, yeah, okay, that sounds good.
So that's that. Now, watch, I'll be CONSTANTLY INSPIRED. Maybe I'll make a little book for myself of my columns. You know how you can do that? I've always wanted to do that with this blog, except it would literally cost 9 hundred million dollars at this point, because we're coming up on my 10-year anniversary of blogging.
Isn't that weird?
So, on the same day I got an email from the statistics textbook company. They've been boughten. Yes, that is so totally a word, and 9 hundred million dollars is so totally what they got bought for. The point is, since 2003 I've been proofreading those books, and grousing about it, and getting the dollars after and shutting right up, so it's the end of an era.
I'll kind of miss those books. The part where it gets here and I either tear into it right away or I torture myself with the unopened box for three days. The little schedule I make for myself. "I have to read 74 pages a day!"
Then finally, when I was on my trip last weekend, we got to the hotel and parking was an issue. The place we were supposed to park was full, and there was a guy in a booth. We drove up to it and knocked on the window. The guy ignored us. We knocked again. He turned his head toward us, but just continued on with his busywork.
When he finally DID talk to us, he was a total dick. He probably also pulls the whistle at train stops. Oh my god, he was rude. He asked, "Did the sign say 'Full'?" Yes, it did. "Well, there you go," he said, and slammed his window shut.
I called the hotel and they said we had every right to park there, and that there were spots reserved for the likes of us, so that guy was totally in the wrong. I was very old biddy-ish and I said, "That man was very rude" to the hotel clerk. Who'd probably love being called a clerk.
"That guy was in a wheelchair," said my…travel companion. I totally feel like Brenda Starr right now.
"Well, I don't care!" I said, because nice. But I did sort of feel like, well, okay.
Anyway, when we checked out, funk soul brother, we left that parking lot and guess who was back. He never even LOOKED at us, just took our ticket and kept going. It was then, as we drove away, that I yelled, "FUCK YOU" at him.
My…travel companion was, you know, maybe aghast. As we headed back, he said, "I think I'll always remember this as the trip you told a man in a wheelchair to fuck off."
Technically, I didn't tell HIM to fuck off. I just said fuck you. There's a huge difference.
So now you know all my stories, and we are all caught up until next time, when–
I almost forgot to show you Iris's crossy feets of casual.
I love that cat so much I almost can't stand it. Crossy feets.
The alarm went off at 6:40 today. By 6:42 I was sick of Lottie. So there's that. Honestly, there is no joy to be had with this creature. You can't even pet her, because she's just trying to bite you the whole time.
I look forward to her dog years.
Oh! And another thing about Lottie. The whole time I've lived here, I had a chair next to the cat window.
The chair is on the OTHER side, the back-room side, and it's technically so the cats can jump up and get their food, although I think they could just do it without the chair, because they're cats. Young cats. Cats with gusto.
The point is, Tallulah's entire life, six years of Edsel's life, it never occurred to either one of them to jump on the chair and eat the cat food.
It occurred to Lottie.
You'll see I've moved the chair and it's still occurring to her. That chair belonged to my great-grandmother. Another chair I can't afford to recover.
Speaking of which, I decided not to get the new deck. The amount it would break me was making me depressed. So now I'm back to putting ground cover back there, I guess.
Anyway, yesterday went like this. Something major was due at work, something I've been working on nonstop for a month. I felt like it was ready, but then there were meetings to review it, so then there were last-minute changes, and then calls, "Is the thing ready? Is it ready? Is it ready?" except I was in meetings from the very minute I got there till lunch, and then another meeting right at 1:00, which meant I killed myself to get back early.
Then I finally got the thing done, and I was all, "Whew, when's the next one of those due ?" and they were all, Friday.
Friday. The next one is due Friday.
So then once work was done, I screamed home to this whirling dervish that is Lottie, let her out, did the whole, "YAY, LOTTIE!" thing when she peed outside, let her in, watched her pee inside, fed her while she bit me, fed everyone else, watched Lottie tear back into the living room and pee on the floor.
Then I took her outside for her loose-leash training, which she's good at, except she hurls herself in the air to get the treats I'm holding and often bites the crap out of my hand. No amount of NO! or LEAVE IT! or DOWN! affects her. She reminds me of when Wilbur was twirling.
After 20 minutes of training, we came inside and she peed on the floor.
Then I tried to eat while she jumped in the air to get at my food.
Then I had to write Purple Clover, so I put her outside and petted poor Edsel's head while I wrote, and Lottie screeched and whined and had 40 fits that she was outside.
After, I did Tracy Anderson, with Edsel and Lottie fenced in the back room, and she screamed and yelled and wrote her Congressman about the cruelties of a woman who'd spend 27 minutes doing a workout DVD while a perfectly good puppy was confined to a back room with toys, water, a bed, a chair, another dog and access to outside. Lottie's Life Matters.
Then we took a walk.
Then I killed myself and went to bed.
But, see? Then you look over and she's a sleepy pumpkin and you're all, Ohhhhh. Look at that muffiny muffin head.
Except just now I got up and she's pooped in the back room.
Also? We all need to re-read Charlotte's Web. What say you? Oh, it's such a good book. Let's do it. So to speak.
The first person to read it all gets a free puppy.
Sunday, 6:53 p.m.
I went away this weekend, to celebrate the splendor of me and the date of my birth. Tonight I am home, having just picked up the dogs at their daycare where they summered this weekend. I got there just under the wire of the place still being open, saving me having to pay yet another $63 to let them stay another damn night.
Sixty-three dollars. Marvin used to make me stay in motels that were less expensive. Remember how he'd pick the most nightmarish cheap motels possible and try to play them off as "fun"? Remember the various Hotels du Crack I was a guest in?
Not this weekend. I swear I'm not wearing mom jeans here. It looks like I am. I'M NOT; STOP.
This is not where I stayed. This is, however, my new house. Happy birthday to me!
Actually, that place up there is one of the Vanderbilt's mansions, called Biltmore, and you know who doesn't need to biltmore money are the Vanderbilts. I totally shoulda worn my lavender Vanderbilt corduroy jeans I owned in 1981; maybe they'd have let me in for free. I wonder if Anderson Cooper gets in free? What if he had on my lavender cords?
We toured said mansion, and there are 65 fireplaces there. SIXTY-FIVE. Also, if the Vanderbilts had a cat, they'd never fucking see it.
"Where's the cat?"
"I saw her in one of our five music rooms back in February."
They also had gardens and vineyards and of course shops, because they need us to spend money there, the Vanderbilts do, as they clearly are hurtin'. I noted their statue of Diana involved a Lottie-looking dog, and note how it jumps like Lottie, too.
Oh, look, it's trying to bite my face.
And speaking of Lottie, I took her to dog daycare on Friday for a few hours, to see if she'd be okay, then I took her there Saturday morning for her big weekend jaunt, with Edsel. The place was teeming with dogs. Teeming. Lottie went in a corner and looked hunched. It's weird to see her scared of anything. I stayed awhile and watched her, worried sick. But Edsel made the rounds, waving at his old friends and high-fouring and so on, then he came to Lottie's corner of terror and touched her with his snout.
Every time I checked in on them via webcam this weekend, he'd check in on her every few minutes. Walk over and sniff her. He's a good boy. He needn't have bothered, as she pranced around there without a care all weekend, eventually climbing atop the plastic bridge they have in there. "It gud now. LOTee in chargg."
Then when I went to get her today with my under-the-wire pickup time, I was all OH MY GOD. She looked so tall. Let's do laundry basket measuring again.
I like how when we read this, none of us were concerned that she left her small children alone. Hey, the fish will take over, if necessary. Was there a sale on Mary Janes that she just had to get to? I wonder if she'd been at my house. Looks like hair on her coat.
Why does she always sit like that, with one leg down? She didn't when she was a teensy pup, up above, for those seven minutes that she was a teensy pup.
Anyway, the good news is, both dogs are exhausted, and have been sleeping constantly this evening, giving me much time to get things done like eat everything.
Speaking of which, as I was headed to the mountains for my vacation, mini, I fielded many phone calls and texts from family because birthday, mine. One such call was from my cousin Katie.
"I just got finished with my Shakeology and wanted to call to say happy birthday!" she said. She is forever saying things like that. My mother has noted that my Aunt Kathy (Katie's mother) is forever announcing her next move, as if we are all on tenterhooks. "I guess I'll get up and have more pie," she'll say, heading to the kitchen. I feel like Katie is following in her mother's announce-y footsteps.
As Mother Teresa was famous for saying, I said, "What the fuck is Shakeology?" Is it, like, the study of shakes?
"Oh, you don't know about Shakeology?" she asked, perhaps a trifle smugly. "Well, it's a meal replacement shake. Except I'm not replacing any meals with it."
And there, folks, is the iron fist of discipline that is evident with all my family. An entire family of women who bemoan the size of their hips, drink a meal replacement and then have a meal.
She also, however, announced to me that she's been doing The Fix, some sort of cockamamie workout routine that sounds too hard for my brittle old bones. "I've lost 15 inches!" she said.
"From your dick?" I asked, and I'm quoting Mother Teresa all over the place today.
"No, my hips, my thighs, even my butt!"
My family is completely over me and my shenanigans, in case you hadn't noticed.
Naturally, when I got home today and picked up the tall dog and the helpful dog, I Googled both Shakeology and The Fix, and am interested in neither. Then I got my own shakeology, at McDonald's.
I still seem to have these troublesome hips.
Oh! Also! June says, not on 27 topics at all today, there was a doggie at my hotel! An ADOPTABLE doggie! Apparently, this place always keeps one foster dog there. This one's name is Petey and I was obsessed not at all. At the end of the night last night, we came back to the hotel for a night hat, and we were sitting in the hotel balcony. Right where we were seated, you could see into one of the offices, and someone was working late, so the light was on and I could SEE PETEY IN THE OFFICE, working overtime. His little crate was in there, and a blanket by the window, but mostly he was staring at the person working late and every once in awhile the person would talk to Petey.
Was obsessed. With Petey. OBSESSED. You know how I am. I was hella fun to have a night hat with. "Look at Petey! Look at his little bed! Hello, Petey!!"
All right, I'd better go. By the time you read this it'll be July 18, which means it's my 18th wedding anniversary, former.
Maybe Marvin will get us a nice motel where we can celebrate.
Bonne Bell 10:06 Lotion p.m.
Let me tell you something. Work has been kicking my ASS this week, and it's not likely to get better anytime soon. So I was really looking forward to leaving work today and heading out to see Chris and Lilly, who live in the country. I love it there.
I did have some fun at work today (I'm writing this at night. Lottie is getting her final shots in the early a.m., and Edsel is getting his bordetella.) (I don't mean Lottie is getting some kind of shot that will kill her, although the temptation is there), when we decided to reenact this stupid picture that came with a frame. For no reason. Other than there is something deeply wrong with us.
Also, the guy who was supposed to bring the alphabet magnets to work for our important photo reenactment totally forgot. Some phony thing about having three toddlers at home. Pfft.
Even more sad, the art guys touched this picture up and made it even better, and now the woman who sits next to me has the original photo and our photo, both on display at her desk. Because deeply troubled. Did I mention?
So I've been stressed and exhausted and I'm grinding my teeth at night and EVERYONE IN THE PHOTO ABOVE has also got stress right now, but I knew at least I could head to the country tonight. When I take the drive to Chris and Lilly's, as soon as it looks country-ish, my shoulders drop. I feel so much better. I sometimes wish I had really moved to their little house they had for me, and kept renting out my actual house. Remember when I was going to do that? I think I would have loved living out there.
So, I had, like, one blissful hour with Lottie and Lilly and Chris and their daughter Zella, who was immediately afraid of Lottie and who can blame her. Lottie, who smells fear on people like a snake or a leopard or a shark or Judge Judy, barked loudly at Z every time that poor child got her courage up to look at her.
C & L also have a large shiny black Lab, who…tolerated Lottie but really wished she was elsewhere. "That's how everybody feels about Lottie, except you," said stupid Ned, who I called later because of what happened, and I'm getting to it.
The point is, that hour in the country was the only peace I had this week, and as I was leaving I looked at my phone to get directions to home (I've been there 900 times and I can never remember because everything is GREEN and COUNTRY and it all looks the same.) I had, like, 48 texts and IMs and missed calls and so on.
YOU HAVE TO BE HOME AT 8:00!!!!! they all read.
I was all, what? I knew I had my online birthday party at 8:00, and I was IN THE BALLPARK of getting home right then, but if I was five minutes late, hooo care?
YOU HAVE TO BE HOME! GO HOME! Faithful Reader Stupid Annoying Fay wrote me.
Then I got mad.
You know, I've had ONE PEACEFUL HOUR all week, and it just ended, and can you not STRESS ME OUT about getting home for an ONLINE thing? I wrote. Because nice.
OH MY GOD NO, YOU HAVE TO BE THERE RIGHT AT 8:00!!!! She wrote.
Jesus Katie Christ. Well, I probably would. I kept driving through windy country roads, till I got to the train tracks, and there?
Was a stopped train. Stopped. Not moving.
I did a U-turn and went to the front of the train. I beeped and waved. The poor conductor opened his window.
"Yes, hi," I said. "I have to be somewhere."
I didn't dare tell him I had to be at an online birthday party.
"When will this train move again?" I mean, seriously? WHY???
"About 20 minutes," he said. He was practically chawing a piece of hay. I mean, WHY ARE YOU UNMOVING? WHY?
I got my GPS to give me an alternate route, and I
home down windy roads, which made Lottie carsick, and made me slighty weepy, because WHY IS THERE ALWAYS STRESS? WHYYYYYYY? Why did this person club my knee?
So then I got home, and Lottie and Edsel acted like Lottie was Ashley coming home from the war, and I was just getting online to be all, I'MHOMEWHAT, when
My doorbell rang. The dogs were in the backyard, making out.
"Hello, June, do you remember me?" It was someone in a fire department t-shirt.
"I'm one of the firemen you gave Sparkles to. Violet," he said.
VIOLET! Of the in-my-car Violets!
If you're just tuning in, four years ago I went to PetSmart for just one thing, so I left my windows down because I had Tallulah with me, and when I returned, there was a box on my front seat. In the box? A teensy black-and-white puppy who I LOVED and gave to the fire department because they were in need of a new firehouse dog.
There she was, all grown up, in my driveway, along with cupcakes and a card from a bunch of you!
Edsel was beeeeeeeeSIDE himself with the barking at poor Violet, whom he lived with for THREE DAYS, but clearly has forgotten. Lottie barked too, for no reason other than to be an idiot.
Oh, it was delightful. I mean, other than Bob Barker, above. We had cupcakes (also a surprise from readers) and we talked about Violet and we talked about how I found her and we just had us a time.
It was just when everyone was getting ready to go that I realized my shirt was on inside-out. And right then I knew.
"Did you guys notice my shirt was on inside-out?" I asked, still trying to look cool.
"Well, yes, ma'am, we did."
Goddammit. I can't have nothin' nice.
But I got to see Violet!!!
Thanks, you guys. Thanks for my hour with Violet the swearing puppy. Best surprise ever.
P.S. at 8:51 a.m. Just got back from a FOUR HUNDRED AND SEVEN DOLLAR VET VISIT, so therefore Lottie is on her way to dog daycare for the morning, but not poor Edsel. I have to try her out there today, they told me, before I can board here there this weekend. Anyway, in a few minutes, look for her here.
Yesterday was a stupid day that resulted in Ned breaking into my house and me working till 8:30.
I had a meeting at noon, except I'd gotten the invitation to the meeting one night after midnight and it woke me up with the trill of a meeting to accept or decline. I got three notices that night, and there's a meeting also today with almost the same name, so I thought the one yesterday had been rescheduled, which happens all the time. So I declined yesterday's and accepted today's.
Both were at lunchtime. I have my time blocked from noon till one so I can come let out Lottie, but apparently that is irrelevant. So yesterday, because I didn't KNOW I had that meeting till 15 minutes before said meeting, I panicked. I'd had to go in early as it was, so poor Lottie would have already been in that crate for four hours by 12:20. I wasn't gonna get home till after 1:00.
Oh, just the thought of her poor self in there, feeling uncomfortable, it made me want to cry. I texted Ned.
"Do you still have a key to my house?" He wasn't sure. But he said he'd leave work and go break in if he had to. He's the president of his company, so with all this SPARE TIME, he went over there.
"Turns out I did have a key!" He sent me a photo of Lottie in the yard.
But then at the end of the day, I got a whole bunch of work that had to be done before noon today, and someone else has to LOOK at all of the work first and inevitably make changes, so I really had to get it done last night. It was Bitchy Resting Face Alex's going away party yesterday, and I so wanted to go. She was my favorite person at work, and now she's gone.
I took my laptop home and worked while bored, hadn't-been-walked, devil-in-Miss-Jones Lottie attempted to eat:
- The vintage Real Romance magazines Faithful Reader Paula just sent me
- My Laura Ingalls Wilder autobiography, Pioneer Girl
- My gold wedge heel
- My reading glasses
- A pair of scissors. This she ran off with and I had to chase her. She literally ran with scissors.
Finally I got to walk her, just as the sun was setting. When we went outside, my neighborhood was berserk. Everyone in the world was out there with their phones, playing that damn Pokemon computer game. Could I sound more like your Grandma Millie right now?
"BUWF!" said Lottie, at the Snowflake children, who I am sorry to tell you are all teenagers and pre-teens now. No, I did NOT have my phone, Miss Why Isn't Every One of Your Moments a Photograph, June?
"Hi!" I said, excited to see them.
"BOOF!" Lottie said again. She really didn't sound friendly. They looked at this teensy devil of a puppy, appalled. They went back to their phones and Peek-a-Choo or whatever he's called. Pink Atchu. Pee Catch You.
I hate modern culture.
Ima have to train that out of her, though, the angry boof at children. Iron fish of discipline. I did it again. Iron fish. Goddammit.
Let's look at pictures. I have a ton on my desktop and need to get them off, so to speak. I'M NOT IN THE MOOD TO GET THEM OFF.
It turns out, Blu is dishwasher safe. It turns out, when you want your phone to focus on Blu, it instead focuses on your yellow towel. Turns out, my phone is a dick.
I really like the lavender-haired girl at work. She's young but composed. I am neither.
The cat condo came. Alliterative. It's from the Mrs. Robinson collection.
Someone just asked me on here the other day where Lily was, and whenever you guys ask where one of the pets is, I always assume that you think I just drove him or her to a field and dropped him or her off and have failed to mention it. Say "him or her" one more time. Anyway, one thing that's easy to capture is a cat in that window. They both kept moving around. This was the best I could do, but here's proof I haven't offed her yet.
She'd hardly be at the top of my Field List, anyway. I think you know what I mean.
I just looked over and there she was in that pose. Perfect.
Here they were last night, sitting side by side chewing their toys in unison. You'll never guess what Edsel had. Hint: It's dishwasher-safe.
My birthday presents are rolling in. This perfect towel is from The Poet. I want to have it framed. Also, Faithful Reader LisaPie, did you send me the gramma print bath mat I asked for on my wish list? I think you did, and thank you!!!
If someone else sent me that, write in and bitch me out.
Oh, and PJ, I got your tip as well! Not your actual penis. You know what I mean. THANK YOU TO YOU TOO!!!
Speaking of which, tonight is my online birthday party and you are invited. It wasn't my idea. Not that I'm above celebrating the splendor of me. But you have to be a member of Pie on the Face on Facebook. So go join. Then apparently all day, there will be a big party, and I am joining at 8 p.m. eastern time.
At work yesterday, I was all, "I can't work late tomorrow because I have an online birthday party."
June. Making sense since 1965.
I opened my gifts from my Aunt Mary already, because Ima be gone on my real birthday, and she sent me a bunch of photos and correspondence from my grandmother, I saw photos of me I've never seen before. Here I am in the '90s, getting a toilet bowl cleaner for Christmas. I can just hear me saying, "You know what I really need…?"
Look how cute I was. Time is cruel.
Oh my god! Faithful Reader LaUral! I just got the Sephora gift card!!!! SQUEEEEEE! Thank you!
I heart my birthday.
I'll talk at you later. Tomorrow morning early I have to take Edsel and Lottie in for their shots. If Edsel and Lottie ordered shots, what would they each get?
The point is, I may have to blog at noon or something. Also, after their shots, they both go to dog daycare for the day, so I'll at least check in with the web address so you can see them. Here it is in advance. Go to webcams and look in the front room. I'll link to it directly tomorrow–I wanted you to see Tallulah on the home page, though.
THE FIRST PERSON TO THINK YOU CAN SEE THEM TODAY GETS A TOILET SCRUBBER UP HER ASS.
I is kind, I is important, I is a bitch.
I had to get up early today, because we had to be, well, on time at work today. The start time at work is 8:30, and once some old biddy asked in a meeting, "What's our start time?" which was a pointed way of saying people roll in at all hours. But WE WERE TOLD that we are adults and if that means you gotta get there at 8:45 and leave at 5:45, that's cool. Just get yer work done.
Take THAT, Gladys Kravitz.
The person who asked that was actually a friend of mine, and he's a young guy WHO'S STILL AN OLD BIDDY AT HEART. What's our start time. Ah, shuddap.
Anyway, I do always roll in at like quarter till, but I actually pay attention and try to stay as late as I came in. It's like my little rule with myself.
OH MY GOD ANYWAY. So we had this big thing at work we had to be on time for. I got up, screamed around here feeding everyone and letting them out through my NEW SCREEN DOOR thanks to mom…
…which by the way the dogs already know how to open themselves. When I was screaming around this morning, I thought how nice it is that I can put them out and they stay out, and right then I heard the CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK! of eight paws, and there they were in the kitchen with me, smiling, and right then I knew.
Goddammit. I have to guess Edsel figured it out, because can Lottie get to that doorknob yet? I doubt it.
So I screamed around, found a grownup outfit, put on full makeup which I'm about to show you, below, dried my hair all the way–rare for me cause it gets huge when I do that–and got to work ON TIME. I saw my boss's boss across the room at the big work thing, and thought we'd made eye contact and that she was thinking, Oh, look how nice June looks. Look at June, showing up for the big work thing. My, how fond I am of June. I should put June in charge of just everything.
After the work thing, I went to my desk and a few minutes later, my boss's boss came over.
"We missed you at the big work thing, June!" she said.
Naturally I told her this whole story, because she has all the time in the world to listen to my bullshit. "You know I'm gonna blog about this," I told her, and she found my pain hilarious, as everyone does.
Anyway, so when I'm not INVISIBLE, I put on my makeup. This morning when I knew I had to hurry, I took pictures of my makeup routine and thought I'd make that a fast post, but it turns out I didn't even have time for that. So now here we are at luxurious lunch, and I will show you it.
I wash my face with an appropriate cleanser. For me, I use ANTI AGING OH MY GOD FIND MY YOUTH ANTI AGING PLEASE TURN BACK TIME LIKE I'M CHER cleanser. For oily skin. Why am I the only person with the ravages of time on my face AND oily skin? Why? Why am I punished? I'm such a good person.
Then after my cleanser (right now I'm using Mary Kay. They don't test on animals. They were the first not to.) I use ANTI FUCKING AGING OH MY GOD DON'T LET ME AGE PLEASE GOD WITH THE WHOLE TURNING BACK TIME THING serum.
Right now I'm using Philosophy. I am brand loyal to no one.
8:00 a.m. Here's me, makeup free and cleansed. I swear I am not as red as this desktop camera makes me look. At least I hope not. But maybe all that STOP AGING ALREADY stuff makes me red. I don't know.
8:01 a.m. I hate you and what you did to our family. Alternatively, here's a photo after I've done my eyebrows. Dipbrow Pomade in taupe. I love how sometimes in these pictures you see a wayward dog.
8:03 a.m. Tinted primer and powder. Usually I do more, but I was in a hurry. Laura Geller primer, ProMinerals powder. Do you really think this powder is a pro? Toot-ttoot, heyyyy, beep beep. I also love Laura Geller Baked Balance NNNNN Brighten powder. Love it. Would maybe not marry it, but at least date it.
I should probably use better lighting for these. This room sucks for morning light. It's actually where the morning light IS, but it fucks up my pictures.
8:05 a.m. Just a little eyelid primer (NYX proofit!) and my NEW Maybelline Blushed Nudes thanks to Faithful Reader Anita. The colors don't have names, but I used a pale pink on my lid, because who doesn't want to look like a rabbit, and a steel gray in the crease.
8:08 a.m. No. 7 Exquisite Curl mascara, which someone must have given me as a gift, because the color is brown/black and you know how I feel about brown mascara. Let's all say it. FUCK NATURAL. Most of my makeup right now is a gift from my Aunt Mary or bought at the grocery store, because single mother of four.
8:22 a.m. Roots covered with this stuff called Style Edit, hair dry, in a blur. Lips: A Burt's Bees tinted balm, because I'm a Burt's Bees lesbian. I once heard someone described that way and I loved it. Can't you so see which type of lesbian that is? Rachel Maddow is a Burt's Bees lesbian.
I'm more of an Aunt Bee lesbian at this point.
ANTI-AGING. OH MY GOD ANTI and also AGING.
My lunchtime is over, but I'm glad we could get together and feel more spiritual this way.
But at noon Ima show you my BEAUTY ROUTINE!!!
I know, right?
So, how is everyone? Don't answer. I don't actually care. Don't you wish you could say that to the coworker who actually tells you how their weekend was?
Speaking of coworkers, the woman who sits next to me is great. I love sitting next to her. One of the things I like is that she's quiet and another is that she's so not basic. She runs this super-cool local music magazine, and she has perfect winged eyeliner every day, and she's intimidating because she's not all smiley "Hiii!" girl, thank god.
And that is why when she went out of town, we Basic Bitched her desk. I wrote to everyone I could think of to ask if they had pink, girly things we could put on her desk in place of the all black and gray things she had on there. Someone brought a teddy bear in a shadow box. That's how committed we got.
Here's my favorite juxtaposition: her regularly scheduled coffee cup against the pink-and-polka-dotted "Yay!" cup. Oh my god, that there is a "Yay!" cup anywhere in the world makes me crabby.
My boss donated this nice hot pink picture frame–she can have it for keeps!!–and three of us at work have decided to reenact the photo for her, so she can replace this pose with the three of us doing this pose. I even found someone at work who owns magnetic refridge magnets made of–
Magnetic refridge magnets. God I hate myself.
–those magnets all kids have. The letter magnets. I asked one woman who has, like, a three-year-old, and when she told me they don't have those, I told her I was calling Child Protective Services.
No one at work likes me.
Anyway, my goal is to get those letters and spell out Fuck Alex or something with them, for that special touch. And needless to say, I am the woman in this pose, above. And I had a black wig for ages, in the drawer, here, and now that I need it I can't find it.
Yay! That describes those two coffee cups up there, too. Fuck. Yay!
Speaking of my mood swings, do you know what makes me extraordinarily mad? I mean, out of proportion mad. When I start laundry, and it swirls around a couple times, then it makes the door open and the dryer stops. Oh, that makes me so fucking furious. I always stomp over there and slam the door shut. I'll show that dryer.
So you have an out-of-proportion rage about anything? Like, if someone brings 11 items to the 10 items or fewer line. Or what about in the car? Why do people get so berserk in the car?
I have a ridiculous left turn right before I get to work. There's no light, and it's a really busy road and there should be a light. Sometimes you're sitting there for two or three minutes before you can turn. I get rage-y when someone is crawling just enough so that I can't turn, and behind them is a shit-ton of traffic, so I know I have eleventy more minutes to wait thanks to their crawly asses.
I'm getting all kinds of birthday presents, and if you sent one and haven't heard from me, it means there was no little card in the box. Tell me, and I will thank you properly. My mother's friend, Not Gwen, sent me six pair of cute reading glasses. Am beside self.
Ned bought me hanging plants. I put these same kinds of plants in my yard every year, and they never ever ever ever have a tag saying what they are, but they're this blooming succulent that works perfectly right there. I never have to water them–the rain here is enough–and they last May through October, except I never got them in May and I was bemoaning that and now boom. M'plants.
Tonight I have one of my old movies at the movie theater. In fact, there's a movie there every night this week, but I did not go last night because it was Rope and I just saw Rope last year. I have so many suggestions for that theater, like Towering Inferno and also two hours of old Warner Bros. cartoons. Wouldn't you so go to two hours of, like, Barber of Seville and the one where Marc Anthony the big dog finds that tiny kitten and he thinks his human mom made kitten cookies? Remember that one? I love that one.
Oh my god, I FOUND IT! Yay!
7:05 a.m. (Hah! Remembered!)
If you tuned in yesterday, you'll recall, with your sharp precision that knows no bounds, that I said, "I haven't saved the bird yet or seen the muskrat or closed down two more places or gotten to Peg or talked about Boomer the big-headed dog, so I guess I'll write more tomorrow."
Well, here it is. Tomorrow. Let's not adieu any further. Which I think means "goodbye" so that made no sense.
After my near-brush with lawn-guy death on Saturday, Ned and I returned to my abode and did not bid adieu but instead let out aLottie. See what I did, there? We got the leashes and took everyone on a walk, and by "everyone" I don't mean you were the only one not there. I just mean in my dog kingdom.
So we'd rounded the corner toward the park for The Seeing of the Chickens in That One Back Yard That Faces the Park, when I saw a bird just motionless in the middle of the road. "Oh, no," I said to Ned, handing him Lottie's leash without another word. Ned used to walk the dogs with me all the time, although they contained a calm Tallulah and not a berserk Lottie. But he's used to my oh no-ing and handing the leash off thoughtlessly. I'm just glad he didn't lose a hand since our breakup, and my thoughtless leash-handing would have resulted in tragedy.
Why does my brain work that way?
The poor thing was motionless, with his beak open like he was gasping for air, although he didn't seem to be. I used the (unused, calm down) poop bag to try to pick him up, he wriggled away, and so I sat and talked to him for awhile.
And that is when he started following me around.
Oh, it was cute. I'd walk a little and he'd hop after me. Finally I got him, took him to the shade under a person's bush, and I mean, like, foliage, pervy. Then Ned and I screamed the poor dogs home (Edsel was all, wak abort again so mom can save dum burd), got water and a shoe box Ned punched holes in and drove back to the spot.
Ned parked and stayed in the car to search bird rescue places and I got my shoe box, my cup of water, my tiny dish and spoon and was hunching in the bushes talking to a bird when the people who owned the house with the bush drove up.
You know how this hair looks crazy anyway?
"Oh, hai. I was just talking to a bird under your…your…trying to capture and rehabilitate…okay, nice to meet you." Once they arrived, the bird flew off, so then I looked COMPLETELY sane. I was just talking to this imaginary bird in your bush. Hey, you on NextDoor? Me too! Looking forward to the warning about me on there!
Are you guys on that thing? Go see if you have one for your neighborhood. You get all KINDS of good gossip, and all sorts of drama from busybodies. They should've named it Gladys Kravitz, not NextDoor. You also get to see people pictures so you can check if you have any hot neighbors.
News flash: I don't seem to have any hot neighbors. A lot of very involved 42-year-old women, though. "Did anybody hear those sirens? Is everyone okay?" Oh, please. You don't give one fuck. You just want the guff. AS DO I.
After I, you know, got up from under those people's bushes and said my name was Peg so she'd look crazy and not me (and there's a giant chance they'll mistake us at the next block party), Ned and I decided to go ahead and walk in the park anyway, even without my poor dogs, who were probably home ordering giant bones online.
"heyyy. bonez dot com do not haff anytheen edzel wan–well, hai, fyrmenz!"
"Oh my god!" I screeched, and Ned is used to my random screeches as well. But in the creek, there, was a swimming little muskrat! Oh, he was cute. We could see him all sleek and swimmy, and then he got out and showed us his little muskrat head, and I got the water and shoebox and tried to convince him it was great at my house.
I Googled to show you a cute picture of a swimming muskrat and came across this horrific picture instead. Are those, like, his innards up top? What IS that? Somewhere, Muskrat Susie is very sad.
Finally, Ned and I stopped looking at the muskrat, and went to our respective homes and showered, because neither of us had yet that day, and it was 10 p.m. when we finally went out to dinner. I'm sure you recall, from your Big Book of June Events, that in June of 2012, we went to a restaurant and sat clean in the dark. Like, they'd failed to light the damn outside portion of the restaurant, and so we sat in utter darkness and despair. Except we didn't, because we'd been dating six months and it wasn't complicated then and oh, June of 2012. How I miss you.
The point is, we ended up closing that place the other night, although this time it was at least lit. This town goes to bed early. Then after, we wanted to try this new brewery, but first I wanted to come home and check on Lottie, and guess who's a pain in my ass.
So when the doorbell rang and it was quite late, I was glad Ned was there. Because scary.
It was Peg. Of the kneel-in-the-bushes-in-people's-yards Pegs. "My lights are out!" she announced, stomping in defiantly. "I see yours aren't."
Ned called Duke Energy, and it turns out most dukes have a ton of energy, and also it turns out 35 houses in my neighborhood were out of power, as was the blinking light on our corner. Something about a bird coming back to life and wreaking havoc on the power lines.
I told Peg she could stay at my house and watch TV, but she demurred. "I'll just go to bed," she said, so Ned and I headed to the brewery. Which we closed down.
And also, at said brewery, right next to us, in a chair like he was a person, was a big big big, big-headed dog named Boomer and I LOVED HIM SO BAD. I tried to act like I was taking an asshole selfie and get him in the background, but the angles didn't work. OH HE WAS A PUMPKIN.
I kept hearing people ask Boomer's owner, "What kind of dog is that?" and she kept saying, "He's a mix." Yes, we KNOW he's a mix, but get your hundred dollars together to find out he's a Boxer/Pit/Shep/Lab/Golden mix when you know perfectly well he's a Blackmouth Cur and they don't test for that.
Not to be specific. Which of you emailed to tell me Lottie's a Blackmouth Cur? Because I think you're right. Here's a regularly scheduled BMC, below, at three months old.
Here's my "shepherd mix" at three months and 19 days.
Anyway, that sums up my adventure-filled Saturday. Yesterday I found a tick on me, so now I'm Yolanda from Real Housewives. You have THAT to look forward to.
From my cryogenic tank,
P.S. My latest Purple Clover, about the day I called all my exes and discovered I'm crazy.
Yesterday I had many little things happen that were sort of exciting. I mean, not Indiana Jones exciting–you know how I am. I get excited when it's new-bar-of-soap day. So.
I've been migrainous, so I got up when Lottie did yesterday, took her outside with my screaming head, let her back in and fed everyone, then left the back door open so she could go outside to pee. I let her run around while I slept with the bedroom door closed. I was worried but didn't know how else I could sleep. If I'd put that energy-of-a-thousand-suns back in her crate she'd have had a fit.
When I woke up again? She'd been fine. She was lying outside my bedroom door, waiting for me. No accidents anywhere.
Anyway, as I was struggling to wake up and so on, the phone rang. It was Ned.
"I was just calling to see how you were doing." And that is when I asked him to come make the gate we'd bought two years ago into a smaller gate, so that I can keep Lottie in this back room, with access to the back yard. That way every once in awhile I can, oh, gather my sanity for a bit while she runs around like a chilly fool back here.
Twenty minutes later, there was Ned with his tools, and that is not a euphemism.
He shortened the gate so I can keep it right here, and in fact that's just what I did when he and I left to go to Lowe's. He needed new string lights for his backyard, and I'd left that dog bed out, the one in the living room that was half-chewed anyway. I'd been cleaning the floor in there, for a change (no one cleans a floor more often or more fruitlessly than me, old Sisyphus, here.) and it started to storm out and I was not only ridin' the storm out, I was leavin' the bed out. I needed a new one.
So we headed to Lowe's on a Saturday at 2:00, which as you can imagine rendered it completely empty in there. "We could have BROUGHT Lottie," I pointed out, and Ned looked weary. I've already taken her there once, although I really shouldn't because parvo. She gets her final round of shots this week and she can go just everywhere after that. The day I took her to Lowe's it was another "I just got home and I can't possibly put that poor dog back in a crate" sitch.
Single motherhood. It's not for everyone.
The point is, while I exposed her to yards and yards of parvo in every aisle, she was like the Lowe's greeter. Holy shit with that dog and the smiling and the wagging and then when someone stopped to pet her, of course you couldn't actually pet her because of the jumping and wriggling and that is why puppies are the worst.
Turns out, they don't SELL dog beds at Lowe's. I was at HOME DEPOT and saw on-sale dog beds. Why the hell don't those two just merge? It would help my confusion tremendously. The good news is, Ned found his string lights, and I met TWO boxer doggies who were together. To tell you the truth I was never much of a boxer person–and now I dearly wish I had Photoshop skills so I could pop in a photo of me with a boxer face–but anyway, now I'm suddenly all, Look at his boxer Lottie earses. Look at his Lottie chest, all boxer-y.
Their owner told me they calmed down at age 4. God help us, everyone.
So Ned and I went to TJ Maxx, which, really? When did I become the person who spends her Saturdays at chain stores? I used to go to cool coffee shops and restaurants and have sex all day. Now I go to TJ Maxx.
But it turns out, TJ MAXX IS FANTASTIC. Who fucking knew? They have a WHOLE SECTION of pet stuff, and I got a new bed, two bins for pet food, which I've been wanting forever because ants, and also a microfiber towel that allegedly wipes more mud from dog feet.
The stupidest thing I ever did was give to Goodwill that huge, mud-trapping entryway rug my mother got me five years ago. They cost like a hundred dollars and WHY DID I DO THAT?
I moved abroad with Ned. That's why.
"The stupidest thing I ever did was get rid of all that stuff to move in with your ass," I announced to Ned, who was perusing pillows. He just got a new mattress, to bang all those women on because swinging bachelor. "I got rid of all kinds of books I regret," he said, WHICH REALLY ISN'T THE SAME.
Anyway, we were armed with our fabulous TJ Maxx goods, and we got the max for the minimum and I just made that up. We were headed back to my house when we noted our barbecue place was BOARDED UP.
"Stamey's is boarded up!" I said, and right then Ned knew. We pulled in to the parking lot, and there was a little sign announcing they'd had a fire, but won't we go to their food truck? And right in the lot was the food truck, and right then we knew again.
"We totally should," I said, because altruistic. So Ned, of the salad Neds, had a barbecue sandwich with cole slaw on it, fries, and a bottle of Cheerwine in a glass bottle for lunch. Am certain this made him nervous. Am certain he is still thinking about his triglycerides as we speak.
We got back to my house and the gate worked! I know we're teetering on the day Lottie just jumps over the thing, and that is the day I get a big chain and a tire and she lives tethered in my back yard. I'll throw a few scraps out there every day or so.
"We should get ice cream," I said, and that is when Ned, whose soul has left his body, said okay and off we went. The place we like to go to is near his house, and they take only cash, so we pulled up to his house so he could run in and get the many many stacks of dollars he keeps behind that picture over the fireplace, where the code is…
When we pulled up, two men were in the driveway getting out of a pickup truck. "Who's that?" I asked. "I don't know. Stay here," said Ned, because he knows I carry and my trigger finger is ITCHY, man.
He got back in the car after a minute, looking disconcerted. Even more disconcerted than he had when he realized he was following up a bottle of Cheerwine with some ice cream, and that it was likely they weren't going to have lettuce flavor as he was hoping.
"That was really weird," he said. The men said they were there to do yard work, but since the day we moved in this guy Jesus had done the yard work. When Ned asked who'd sent them, they mentioned someone named Mike, so maybe my chair guy sent them. Or my screen door guy. "I told them to not work on my yard," said Ned.
We sat on the stoop of the ice cream shop and he ate thoughtfully. We'd gotten there five minutes before they closed, and Ned noted we'd closed two places down. Last weekend when we went to that bar and ran into my friends, they left and Ned and I stayed and talked, till we noticed it was just us, the bartender and some guy waxing the floor. I'm certain the bartender was not wishing to corkscrew our heads or anything.
We ate our cones (peach for him, butter pecan for me) and discussed the men at his house. There WAS a handyman named Mike who'd do things around the house. Could he have sent the men? "That was really weird," Ned kept saying, till a garbage bag got thrown at us. It missed us by an inch.
"Score!" said the bearded millennial from the doorway. He'd clearly been trying to clean up and wanted to get the bag near the trash can or something. Then he saw us.
"God, I am so sorry, guys. But I saw you there and you just made me so damn mad."
And that is when we loved the millennial ice cream guy.
We decided to swing past Ned's house again, and THERE WERE THE MEN back in his driveway. Ned was really upset, so we pulled around the corner and called 911. He has this, like, fancy thing now where if he's on the phone in his car, it automatically becomes a speakerphone sitch over his radio. "What do I tell her?" Ned asked, once the operator came on.
"Two men, one smelling of alcohol, are in my friend's driveway without authorization," I said authoritatively to 911, who probably knows me from all the other annoying times I've called.
"Yes, how do you clarify butter?"
"I'm leaving the car here," said Ned. "I'm going back there to confront those men, and I want you to stay here in case it gets dangerous."
Naturally, I was delighted by all this, because drama is my friend. But while he stalked off to, I don't know, have a knowledge-of-literature-off with the strange men, a triglyceride-off, it occurred to me, maybe our gaylord would have some info. I still have his number on my phone.
"Well, hey, June!" said my gaylord, former, who told me he had the phone IN HIS HAND to call Ned and tell him that (1) Jesus quit and (4) two men were coming to trim the ivy, clean the gutters and prune the bushes.
And right then I knew.
I ran–RAN!!–to the house, calling 911 in the meantime to stop the presses. "It's okay!" I bellowed, as I saw Ned confronting the poor men in the driveway.
In the end, Ned felt like a jerk, the men think we're crazy, 911 is over me and my former gaylord is all, Why was she at Ned's?
As we pulled away, Ned asked, "I just wonder why Jesus quit."
"He probably doesn't need to work anymore, Ned," I said. "After all, Jesus saves."
And right then I knew. I am my own soulmate.
So, I've already written 1700 damn words, and I haven't saved the bird yet or seen the muskrat or closed down two more places or gotten to Peg or talked about Boomer the big-headed dog, so I guess I'll write more tomorrow.
I'm very delighted with my new "add the time" thing I'm doing. I'm blogging at night because I have to be at work early tomorrow. I thought I'd get the whole blogging thing in so it doesn't trip me up tomorrow, which it often does. I'll get all, "Let me just put in one last picture" and then I'm late. And then you guys will be all, "Why didn't you take a picture of the man who sped behind you on the freeway, Jone?"
"Why didn't you take a PICTURE of the Tooth Fairy?" "I sure would love to have seen a photo of God when you prayed to him to take Lottie away."
"June, I can't believe you didn't snap a photo of your rape trial."
The woman who wrote Eat/Pray/Love is getting divorced, and she put out a statement saying she was sorry she wasn't going to go into detail but to remember this is a story she's living, not a story she's telling. I was all, SING IT, SISTER!
…Oh, hell. Phone call.
TALK TO YOU SOON.
Caption this for me while you're thinking about what an unsatisfying post.