Vonda Shepherd Mix

Last night I had a dream that I was signing Edsel up for the FetLife website. FetLife is, well, let me look it up because I don't actually know.

…Okay. FetLife is like a dating site for people with fetishes, and what saddens me is that I don't know what Edsel's fetish is, although I'll bet it involves biting. Anyway, I was filling out his profile for him as he sat next to me telling me what to write, and the best part of the dream is that I was halfway through when I finally formed the thought, "Wait. Edsel can TALK?"

Then I woke up and he was on top of all the blankets and I was freezing to death. Maybe that's his fetish. Making me miserable.

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do der be a luff mom dot com edz can sine up for?

It was good I felt cold, though, because I came home last night to a broken air conditioner. In August. In the South. Sign me up. Sign me up for FetLife. Overheated mother of god. So, I called the AC place, and for a mere 17 million dollars they came over straightaway and fixed it. My hoooo-deee-frooo-deee-hoogen was broken. He said it's pretty typical. Then he charged me eleventy million dollars.

Which is better than the 17 million I'd stated previously, so.

Oh, also, this.

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I, you know, meandered over to visit the buff kitty again. In jail.

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nobody no. the trubble kitty seen.

Orange you glad I visited her? You shouldn't put kittens this close to me. Don't stand so close to me.

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eyeriss no you heded for cheetin side of town

So that was my evening. Yesterday at work I had a lot of writing to do, so I sneaked off to my hiding place in the building, and what is sad is that you have to hide in order to get your work done. Dear Whomever Invented Open Floor Plans: Fuck you. Oh, I'm sooooooo productive. Produce this.

Anyway it was lovely. Now all I have is the fear of my hiding place being discovered. And what am I gonna do, say, "Hey, this is my illegal work spot!"?

When I worked in Seattle in the '90s, I'd take my high-heeled loafers and clomp on over to the library for lunch. There was this woman at work, this older woman, who sadly was probably around my age now. Anyway, she was obsessed with whatever anyone else was eating. You'd take your lunch to the breakroom and she'd cover her mouth and still talk with her mouth full.

"Oh! What's that?" she'd ask EVERYONE, hand over her mouth. "Is it spicy?" Spicy was a big thing with her, and now that I'm her age and clearly going to reach for a mock turtleneck with patterns soon, as she did, I can understand the worry about spice. Hello, gerd.

Anyway, it drove my friend Paula berserk, to the point that it eventually drove me berserk out of sympathy, so I'd leave to head to the library, where I'd discovered this restaurant on the roof. They had, among other delicious things, this chicken with cashews stir fry that was to die for. I'd take my book, get out of the way of the incessant nagging drizzle of Seattle, and read all lunch. Then I'd clomp my Christopher Columbus shoes back to work.

What was with those high-heeled loafers we all wore? Stupid Ally McBeal.

I BEEN SEARCHIN' MY SOUL TONIGHT! Oh my god, please get that out of my head.

 

 

Anyway, one day I was happily up there, on my rooftop sanctuary, when I heard, "Juuuuune!" And there was the mock turtleneck lady. On my roof. "Oh! That looks good! Is it spicy?!" [mouth cover]

Goddammit. Sanctuary. Ruined.

I have to go to work now, as I am wont to do. I'll probably spend most of the day in my hidey hole. I'll let you know if anyone writes Edsel for a kinky rendezvous.

Fetishly,

June

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June holds a kitten. Story at 11:00.

8:06 a.m.

I woke up late, and now Faithful Reader Paula is going to feel nervous through this whole post because I have to hurry. I've showered, and selected what I'm wearing, and also I'd like to mention that when I opened the bathroom door, I fully expected Lottie to be flumped against the door as she always was, waiting for me.

Goddammit.

Last night I went to PetSmart, because I gave Edsel a Sentinel, not literally, at the beginning of this month. "Controls heartworm and flea populations," it read. Okay, so I took care of everything in one pill. He scritch scritch scritch scritch scritch scritched his way through August. Finally, I called the vet.

Turns out? I was supposed to know that "controls flea populations" does not mean he was protected against fleas. Hunh. Yeah. Okay.

So two weeks ago, I bathed him and I bathed Lottie, and I put flea drops on them, and then Edsel scritch scritch scritch scritched his way through these past two weeks. So yesterday I got him a Capstar, which I can never remember the name of because first of all, Ned always called it Catstar, like he was an old lady.

"NedKitty's got fleas again. I'm gonna get her one of those Catstar pills."

In case you are a normal person with no pets, Capstar is a pill you give your animal and it kills the fleas right away. It's safe to give even if they have flea drops on.

(Paula, it's 8:15.)

Anyway, I call it Capchat and Snapcat and Catsnat and when did I become my grandma? The whole point is, I schlepped to PetSmart and got Eds one, and while I was there I met a kitten.

I know.

They were cleaning out the cages at PetSmart (they have animals from shelters there, and volunteers come every day, morning and night, to clean the cages) and the woman volunteering said, "You want to come in and hold this one while I clean her cage?"

Do I want to come in and hold this one.

She was a buff tabby, with a little white chest, and her name was Lantana, which is a horrible name BUT IT'S A FLOWER NAME, and was she ever sweet. Oh, she purred and didn't mind being held. Eventually, I put her down and let her play with one of those dreadful plastic balls with the bells in it, and as she batted that thing around, another kitten reached out of its cage to pat at her, and without even much of a glance, she gave the teensiest hiss and kept playing.

fuk off. kittee playeeng.

Don't even ask me how I am not home with a Lantana right now. Oh my goodness. I thought maybe I'd pop in and see her tonight. Shut up.

Daisy? Marigold? Daffodil? A yellow flower name.

Anyway, tonight after work we have a happy hour, as one of my coworkers is moving to New York. He was the guy who originally came up to me a year and a half ago and said, "Would you be interested in doing some writing and not just proofreading?" So I like that guy.

(Paula, it's 8:21. My hair is still wet.)

I guess I'd better go. My announcements to Paula have made me nervous.

Efficiently,

June

The dingo ate my baby

So, this week I was sick, with some horrid Disease of the Coughs, where all I did was try to sleep but I couldn't because cough, and I had to sleep sitting up like the Elephant Man, which in case you wondered was not restful.

Also, I was sad, because Lottie, and then because mean commenters, so that pretty much sums up my week.

Oh, and also, I tried to love Edsel rather than drive him directly over to Jeb's Animal Testing and Pelts, as I oft fantasized about doing. Then I'd cough.

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Some of us here didn't give a shit about any of this. My house is so EMPTY now, what with three measly pets. Who can LIVE like this, with this empty house, three teensy pets rattling around? I don't know if you've ever noticed, but having a cat hardly counts as having a pet. See above. It's just mostly like having a pillow that purrs.

I'm on two Facebook groups for Edsel breeds: one is called American Dingo Club, and the other is Carolina Dogs. They're both the same damn group; they should just merge, but who am I to tell anyone what to do, seeing as I seem to be the only person who's got an underbitey dingo. Anyway, mostly these groups, which I call Edsel Support Groups, show pictures of their straight-teethed Edsel dogs and we discuss their weirdnesses, but I haven't had the nerve to ask, "Does anyone else's dingo eat puppies?" for fear I'd have to see 53 photos of everyone else's American Carolina Dog Dingo embracing puppies like Mary and baby Jesus. Although truth be told you mostly just see pictures of her reeling in all the gifts ("More myrrh!?! You shouldn't have!") while poor Jesus lies there alone on that hay bed, which let's face it must be itchy.

Do you think anyone got him any fun onesies instead of that oh-so-babyproof frankincense? (Frankincense! Ages 17 months and up!) Onesies that said things like, Ask Me About My Father or Who Invited All These Sinners? Imagine how obnoxious Mary's Facebook posts would be about her new baby. We're talking smug.

This is why I should not be alone with my thoughts for a week, sleeping sitting up.

Ned, who when you last tuned in came to help with my dog crises last week (Lottie's new people have kept in touch and she seems so happy. Maybe a little too happy. Maybe I could make one of those horrible videos about how she should call me, like that one woman did to her poor kid who had the nerve to be adjusting to college and not calling her ass every minute–did you see that video? That poor beleaguered kid) told me to call if I needed anything. Finally yesterday I could not sit upright in my sick bed another minute longer, so I called him.

"Let's go do something," I said.

"What do you want to do?" he asked.

"I don't know. Oh! Let's drive past all your houses!" Ned did this for me before, drove me past where he lived as a kid, then where they moved to when his family got bigger, and so on. But the last time was 2012, and now I know more stories from each house, so I wanted to see them again.

We got to the first house, and I asked where his tree was. He had a tree in the backyard that he claimed as his own, and he assigned his poor little brother the other tree. Once, though, his brother decided to climb up Ned's tree, and as soon as he was able to reach him, Ned reached down and kicked his brother out of the tree, who then hit every branch on his way down, like the marble in Ker-Plunk.

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I really feel like dad, up there, might be faking his mirth a tad. And really? Tantalizing? Really?

"My tree looks kind of bad," Ned noted. It was true; it was kind of gnarled and bony. "Your brother's tree looks great!" I pointed out, kindly. "It's flourishing!"

We stared at the trees for a minute. "You should totally call your brother and tell him his tree is doing better at life, just like real life." Ned's brother is happily married and has two kids in college already, and the third one will grow up to be, like, a cult leader or president or something. Kid's got charisma.

"I really should," Ned said, laughing.

Then we went to these woods across from his old house. "I wasn't supposed to cross the street to play here, but of course I did all the time," he said. Ned was the kind of kid who was outdoors all day, catching frogs and playing football. I had record low vitamin D levels, most likely, what with my basement-and-a-book childhood.

"I always wondered why they never developed these woods," said Ned. "I mean, I'm glad, but how'd they get away with it?" We saw one of those green-and-gold signs, the kind that let you know you're at some sort of historical marker, which always sends my Uncle Leo into fits of ecstasy and we always ALWAYS have to stop and read them.

The sign at Ned's woods said this was an area that marked some dumb thing that happened during the Revolutionary War, and also this was a site of the Underground Railroad.

And right then, we knew.

"Hunh," I said. "I wonder if it's still under here."

"What?"

"The Underground Railroad. Is it still there? Can we see it?" I sort of half-heartedly looked for a trap door or something.

Ned put the car in park so he could turn all the way in his seat.

"June. What do you think the Underground Railroad was?"

God. This is just like when my mother says things like, "The White House is in Washington D.C." "It was when a bunch of white people helped slaves escape. So, like, there was a big tunnel across America that they were all in on. I always pictured one nice woman digging a hole at the back of her pantry, and she dug under her house and all the way to the next white person's–"

When I saw the look on Ned's face, I realized my terrible truth. "Are you saying the Underground Railroad was never under the ground?" I asked.

Ned looked mortified.

"WELL WHY DID THEY NAME IT THAT, THEN?" I asked. "Next thing you know, you're gonna tell me it wasn't a railroad, either!"

"June, never, ever tell anyone this," he said gravely.

I mean, why not just name everything something it isn't? Hey, it's the Civil War, but really it's not civil at all. It's Roe vs Wade, but there's no water involved. I mean, how was I supposed to know? Why does everything have to be so confusing? Naturally, I told this story to my mother, who said, "Never, ever tell anyone that, June."

So I'm only telling you. I trust you can keep this underground.

Brightly,

June

Lottie is gone, and I am ruined

I didn't go to work today. I spent all night crying and coughing, and now I am just waking up from a migraine.

As you know, Edsel was sometimes attacking Lottie, and that the trainer and the vet said this sort of thing happens at the beginning when you have an adult dog and a puppy, and it's best to let them work it out themselves within reason.

And I did. Mostly Lottie and Edsel got along, and I know Eds enjoyed running around the yard with her in the mornings. I'd see him smiling; he looked gloriously happy. But every once in awhile he'd get fed up and bite her in the face, and she'd screech, and it was awful, but I did what they told me to do, which is not mollycoddle Lottie and not get mad at Edsel.

She had a little scar on her snout from what I assume is Edsel. The cats would give her a whack sometimes, too, and trust me, she deserved those. She was not mean to the cats, but she had no idea her…Lottie bulk was intimidating when she tried to play with them. When she'd plunk all 40 pounds on them and be all, why you not play?

And just Saturday night, on what I did not know would be my last walk with Lottie, I passed Ava's house, and thought about how sturdy Lottie was, and how I was glad she was my puppy if Edsel was going to be an asshole. She clomped her big paws on the ground contentedly while we walked, and I thought about how much I love her.

On Sunday morning, I let her out of her crate, and we were going back outside after breakfast. They went outside together and for no reason that I could see, Edsel pinned her down and attacked her. And it wasn't just one bite, it was several. I ran outside half-dressed and got her away from him. She had a bad gouge on the side of her face, near her eye.

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I got on Facebook and started asking you what I should be doing. Lottie was sort of cowering around Edsel sometimes, and I didn't like the fact that he was seriously damaging her, and not just warning her about her place in the pack.

I was reading your advice posts about an hour later when Lottie jumped off the couch and as far as I could see, just tried to walk past Edsel. That's all she was doing.

All I can remember is that Edsel had Lottie pinned down after that, and bit her over and over. She did her terrible screech, then she did this low cry that I will never forget. I was screaming as loudly as I could, pulling Edsel by his scruff, and I know from over there all quiet at your computer, you're saying, "You need to be calm in these situations. You need to speak to him quietly." Try it in real life, is all I can say. My dog was trying to kill my puppy, and I'm not being dramatic. He wanted her dead.

I can't remember what happened next, except I stopped breathing. I have this weird…cough thing, that I thought was maybe allergies, and I'm starting to think might be asthma or something? I don't know. But I'm coughing constantly, and while I screamed and bent over to get Edsel off Lottie, something closed up in my throat and I found myself not able to breathe. I don't know if that got Edsel's attention or what. I just know she ran to the back room, screaming, and my living room was dog pee and blood, and when I got my breath back I said to Edsel in an unnaturally calm voice, "Go outside."

And he did. He walked right out the door and stayed there. I ran to Lottie, who wouldn't come out from behind the chair. I was crying and gasping for breath and I didn't even think about it, I just grabbed the phone while I was still crouched at the chair, and when Ned answered he didn't even say hello, he just said, "Oh my god, what happened?"

"Please come over now," I said, and he did. He lives four minutes away and he was here in four minutes. Lottie came out, finally, and her whole face was…I won't even tell you. Ned got hydrogen peroxide and cotton and we cleaned her little face, and as I held her, I said, "She can't live like this."

I knew it was true. I called my old trainer, who said to at least keep them apart for two days, and then maybe try to re-introduce them, but there was no way I trusted Edsel. His attack came from nowhere. She hadn't goaded him, there was no toy or food in the way.

I found friends of friends who are middle-aged, childless, and who had lost their 11-year-old dog four months ago. He wants a big dog and she wants a little one, so they took Lottie ("a dog who'll ride in my truck with me") and they're going to get a little puppy for her.

"Lottie would love a puppy friend," I told them when they came over yesterday afternoon. By this time she was back to being Lottie. Swollen-faced Lottie, but Lottie. She freaking adored the guy, a big sweet alpha guy who's had dogs his whole life. She was all up on him, wriggling and flirting. They live right near the woman's parents, who also have a puppy Goldendoodle, so right away she'll have a puppy friend.

They took her bed, her food, her dishes and her sweet pink and purple collars I had ready for when she got big enough for them. They took what toys we could find, but mostly Lottie buries her toys in the yard, which I warned them about. They have a huge yard, in the country-ish, and they said, "We don't have kids, so we love our pets like they're our kids."

And now my kid is gone. This house is so empty and quiet. I've tried to not hate Edsel, and I've petted and hugged him and didn't punch him clean in the face when I finally let him in from the back room and he started looking for Lottie.

I can go maybe 15 minutes before I curl into a fetal position and cry again. Lottie was a ridiculous puppy. She was full of energy like I'd never seen, and her absence is so obvious. There was no one wriggling under the toilet paper roll every time I go to the bathroom. There were no noises as she turned around in her crate last night. Ned quietly took the crate apart and put it in the attic for me while I wasn't looking.

Only one dog to feed, and the screen door didn't burst open when I let Edsel out this morning. He just walked calmly through it.

There's no joy in this house. Lottie took all that with her.

Like I blister in the sun

First of all, I answered most of your questions you had yesterday in the comments, and I'll go back after this and answer the rest. I had to work more than I thought I would yesterday, and was unable to post at lunch. The lunch I DID have was scarily interrupted by a "You coming to the meeting?" text about a meeting I wasn't alerted to on my alert-me thingy.

Remember when I just proofread all day? Oh, those heady days.

Also, I did something really, really stupid yesterday and now I have a major injury.

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The day before yesterday, before I majorly injured myself, I was gonna interview a guy for our company newsletter, and I was waiting to take his photo as he walked through the doors and accidentally took this of myself. My hair has now faded enough that I just look like old Rusty Jones hair. Does anyone from the Midwest remember Rusty Jones?

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I did still capture the guy as he walked through the doors. Look at that photojournalism. Oh, hey, D, you're in my blog today. Haiiii.

Anyway, so yesterday was a normal-ish day, in that I was busy for most of it and also that this one guy at work was going to get a kitten. Another person at work has a mom–I mean, we pretty much all do, it's the weirdest thing–and that mom lives next to some people whose cat had kittens. The mom asked if anyone at work would take a kitten and of course I was all I WILL!!!

I didn't, but my coworker did, and I can't remember if I already have a blog name for him or not.

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It doesn't matter, though, because what does matter is KITTEN. That's the kitty, on top of this list of dumb names we all came up with. You can barely see my purple pen at the top suggesting Griff. I also later suggested Earl Grey.

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This guy. Have I come up with a blog name for him yet? I know you've seen him before. After my major injury, I did not capture on film the arrival of the kitten, and this guy holding said kitten, and it was all the cutest thing and that kitty was so cute, although we still don't know what his kitty name is gonna be. Someone suggested Stoli, because he looks like a Russian Blue kitty, and I liked that one, myself. But let's stampede to my death-defying injury.

Oh, also, Dr. Claw. Love Dr. Claw.

Every day at 3:00, a bunch of us take a walk. It used to be around the building, twice, but then it occurred to us we're right next to a park, and there's a little trail with stairs that leads to said park, and we've only seen a snake on that trail twice, so we go that way, and walk this concrete path that leads to the end of the park, then back again. It takes about 17 minutes.

Yesterday I had on my cute gold MaryJanes, with the t-strap and the heels, and I love them, but I'd accidentally worn home my tennis shoes that I usually put on to do the walk. So I had no walking shoes, and I knew those high heels would kill me, but I really wanted to go on the walk because stress yesterday.

And that is when I decided to just walk in zero shoes.

As soon as I got to the BLISTERINGLY HOT, literally, parking lot of our building, I knew this might have been a mistake. But I did it, I walked the blacktop in August in the South, and then I walked over the wood chips and pine needles and snakes to the concrete path.

Eventually? I had to sit under a tree while Austin ran back and got my shoes. Then I had to hobble back to work on the heels I'd avoided. I'd given myself huge blisters on the bottoms of my feet, and now I can't really even walk. Oh, it's bad.

And for WEEKS–WEEKS!!–I'd been looking forward to last night's movie at my old theater I like to go to. They were showing Metropolis, which is a silent film set in "the future," and man did they ever get that right. It was just exactly like today, mostly the part where men where eye shadow and lipstick and open their eyes dramatically and claw their hands when anything noteworthy happens.

Who told actors to all do that back then? Calm down. Geez.

Anyway, they'd hired an organist to come and play the organ for the whole silent movie, and he was great, and I'd been dying to see all this. And because I am tough, I hobbled to it. In my fashionable tennis shoes. But look at June, dedicated to her cause.

Seriously, though, I feel like crap today. Also, I've had congestion and a terrible cough for days, and I'm assuming it's allergies, and now my feet are destroyed, and remember when Mary Richards won an award for her TV news show and she had a sprained ankle and a cold and her eyelash was falling off when she went to accept the award and she got up there and said, "I usually look so much better than this"? Remember that? That's how I feel now. Although let's face it. I don't really look any better than this, ever, anymore.

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edz kind of theenkeng mom reep wat she so.

Oh shut up, Judge-y Edsel.

Talk to you later. Hey, maybe I'll walk on over. Or not.

June goes downtown, which is not a euphemism

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Yesterday I had to go to a building downtown to attend an all-day meeting. This is the view from the balcony behind the building. Went out there to smoke my 'rette. Man, I was having a nicotine fit.

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It was really cool there. They took this whole back area and made it pretty. They took a nothing day and suddenly made it all seem worthwhile. Well it's you, alley, and you should know it. Also, Dear Fay: I will never want that wagon wheel …wagon wheel. Love, June.

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Inside were all my loving teammates, and we spent the whole day coming up with new ideas for what we work on, or as I'm sorry to tell you, "ideating." Every time I hear that non-word, my soul dies a little more.

Speaking of soul-killers, because I was gonna be downtown all day, I took Lottie to daycare, and so did the Alex Who Sits Next to Me, the one you helped get a dog a few months back. I mean, she took her OWN dog, not my dog, to daycare. On breaks? We'd whip open our laptops and look at them on the webcam?

They were friends! They hung out together all day! They'd never met before! It was so cute. Out of all the dog daycares in all the world (Greensboro), Alex had to take her dog to mine.

So that was adorable, plus also her dog is an adult and totally looks like Lottie of the Future, so Lot recognized her own kind. Sort of dog-ist–breed-ist–if you ask me. Lottie would build a wall to keep out anyone who didn't have a brown snout. But still.

After our day of "ideating," which was actually pretty fun, we all went two doors down to the brewery, because it was the Alex in the photo above's last day. I screamed over to daycare and got the Lot, and she joined me for, sadly, her fourth time at that pub in four months of life.

Lottie totally needs rehab.

She was pretty good, meeting people and buying them drinks and giving out her dog digits, till some asshole had the nerve to bring his dog in. God. Whoever heard of someone taking their dog to a pub? Lottie had been splayed on the floor asleep and she JUMPED up. BARWARWARWARWAR! BOOF! She's a big "boof"-er. That thing where you don't really open your dog lips all the way, you bark and poof out your cheeks. That. She does that.

Anyway, I got her distracted by upside-down margaritas and next thing you know she was flashing the room for beads, so. Crisis averted. look at lotee teetz!

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When I got her home, she kicked off her shoes and was so exhausted she could barely eat. Then I got the brilliant idea to Yoko her and take Lottie/June shots. Because humane. Also, I really need to give up the ghost on those black flats. They are wore out from the floor out.

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can lotEE pleeze go bak to sleep now? we stop beeng at olan millz?

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do anywon no number for peeta? lotteee beeng waterborded

Finally I gave up for more dignified pursuits.

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Oh my god, I give up.

So that's that. There was an Abbott and Costello movie last night at my old theater, but I was tired and I'd been downtown all day, anyway. Tonight's Beach Blanket Bingo, and I'll probably bing-go to that. Except you know what? Tonight's my Hollywood Medium, and I hate to miss him as soon as he airs. God, what a dilemma. How do I juggle it all? Annette's teetz or my little twink's talks with the dead? Goddammit.

Stay tuned for the stunning conclusion tomorrow.

Lottie and the Big-Girl Bed

Last night, when I headed to bed, Lottie was already in there, fast asleep. She looked so cute, and she's been doing so well with not going in the house, that I thought, "Maybe she can sleep in the big-girl bed tonight." Sadly, every night I sleep in that bed it's the big-girl bed. What M&Ms yesterday?

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lotEE be gud! she sleep in big gurl bed! mom can trust lotEE!

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{mentally high fives Satan}

She really was good, though, until SIX FIFTY SEVEN, which is THREE MINUTES before we get up. I heard her get up and I was paralyzed by sleep for a minute. Peed on the new mud rug, pooped in the living room. Goddammit.

Look at that last photo, where she's high-fiving Satan. You can see her real fang trying to come in. Oh, poor Lottice! That must hurt! See. Now she's got my sympathy again. That dog really is all snout. I wonder when she's gonna get a face? I wonder if she'll always have that snout scar?

She's headed to daycare today, Lottie is, because I have an all-day, offsite meeting and won't be able to come here at lunch to let her out. That meeting is costing me $20. But here. Look at Lottie on the webcam. She'll be there about 8:30 till 5:00.

In other news, I think it's over with me and The Younger Man, the one in Rio. I told this to my mother. "The last thing he texted me was Sunday, early, and it read, You're mean," I told her.

"What'd you do?" asked my mother, and then we laughed for 45 minutes. Good mom-ing. Not, "That's preposterous!" Not "How could he SAY such a thing?" No. "What'd you do?"

Which, you know, I know you all just asked the same thing.

Okay, so I called him a dick, but YOU KNOW HOW I AM. If you're too lily-livered to handle me calling you a dick in an I'm-giving-you-shit text, you're too lily-livered to deal with when I'm actually being bitchy. One good thing about Ned was, no matter how bitchy I got, he was always all, "Oh fuck you, June." He was unflapped.

Is unflapped a word?

So, that was that. Darn, that's the end.

I can hear Edsel and Lottie wrestling outside, and I want to go look, but as soon as I do, they always stop and look at me instead, so I just have to listen to them being funny without being witness. Sometimes if I'm out there with them, they'll commence wrestling in front of me, but I can't walk in on it.

I just heard them tear across the deck. They just tore across again. Goddammit. This must have been what it was like to be on The Dating Game. YOU JUST WANNA SEE.

That would really suck, to get the hideous guy on The Dating Game. Did you know Maurice Gibb was on that show? He won. Couldn't you just have some friend in the audience signal to you which bachelor was cutest? Seems like it'd be easy to cheat. But maybe they didn't HAVE a studio audience. I don't know, man. I can't figure it all out right now.

I'd better go get the Lot to daycare and head to my ALL DAY meeting. Maybe while I'm there, I can be mean.

XO,

Jooon

Undercover June

Morning.

Do I sound intimidating? I've been watching a lot of Undercover Boss, and thank god my weekends mean a lot lately. Undercover Boss is where a CEO or president or whatever hoo-hah of a major company (7-Eleven, 1-800-Flowers, Waste Management, the Chicago Cubs) (not that I watched 109 of these this weekend or anything) pretends to be looking for entry-level work at the age of 60, as you do, and then he's down with the people for awhile and sees what really goes on with his company.

Or hers. Every 10th show, an actual woman is in charge, usually because she started the damn company her own self. Like that jewelry company everyone is a part of on Facebook. Stanford and Dash or whatever.

Oh, it's fascinating. And I noticed once they're the hoo-hah again–and they call these poor unsuspecting workers in to (a) give them diarrhea and (2) to say, That whole time you were in a hairnet is going to be on TV for everyone to see–once they're CEOs again, they almost always walk in with a fairly unfriendly, "Morning." Like, I'm the CEO. I say when it's morning.

The phrase "good morning" annoys me anyway. And you know how I hate all men who send me good morning texts. 

So that sums up my weekend. Fascinating, June. Oh! And also, when I woke up yesterday morning, I realized I'd left the broiler on all night, and my mother just fainted, and I was all, Oh, damn. So then half an hour later I went in to "make toast."

I don't have a toaster. I got rid of it during my year abroad, and that toaster at Ned's house was Ned's. I've never gotten another, which is dumb because I make toast all the time, and all my LA friends are appalled I eat bread right now.

So I broil it. I put bread in the broiler and have to flip it, like it's steak. But it's bread.

Twenty minutes later, I was all, Oh my god I forgot the bread! But when I went in there, I realized I hadn't turned on the broiler. After having had it on all night. Goddammit. Ten minutes after that, I was all, THE BREAD! and I ran in there and opened the broiler.

I'd forgotten to put in bread. I'd opened the bread, forgotten to get any out, and put the bread away.

Dementia runs in my family. I will miss you all.

In other news, I went to the grocery store at 9 p.m. last night. That's the time to do it. Late on Sunday. No one else is in there except for other terribly single people who don't have to watch The Wonderful World of Disney with their kids on Sunday nights. If some cable show knew what it was doing, it'd rerun WWoD on Sundays at 7:00, so everyone could have that "It's Sunday and Wonderful World of Disney" is on dread.

I noticed, in my weekend of solitude and nothingness, that many of my friends have up and gone all at once. Jo lives an hour away now, and Naughty Professor moved to Charlotte with his man. Tall Boy is still here, but he has a girlfriend, so. BRF Alex works in Winston now, so while she's HERE she's still spending most of her time far away. Roy and Nancy moved to Pennsylvania, and Charlie moved to Boston.

Ned moved to ex-boyfriend world.

Ryan has a girlfriend in Raleigh, so he's always with her. And The Other Copy Editor and her spouse just bought a gigantic mansion that they're turning into a B&B, so they're busy, and no, no one has any idea how they can afford it, but there they are, having done it.

Fleeta left work Friday, as she is moving to China. CHINA! And the other Alex, who I do yoga with? Her last day is Tuesday, and she's also going to be working in Winston.

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solitary, pink-haired June

I don't mind isolating, I really don't, but probably I should get out more and do things. I've been thinking of going to the Unitarians on Sundays, but why do they have to meet so godawful early? Whoever heard of doing something at 11:00 on a Sunday? Can't they have, like, later meetings for people who drink?

Come to the Unitarian church. We meet at 11:00 for normal people, and at 4:00 for drinkers.

Actually, as part of my big weight loss plan, I have not been drinking at all, except for weekend evenings. That's my rule. I've lost five pounds! Allegedly. My new digital scale seems to be all over the place. One day it'll read 120 and the next day 125.

Oh, did I not mention my digital scale tells you what you weighed in 1990? It's like Facebook's time hop feature.

I'd better get to work. Tomorrow I have to be in my 8:00 for a meeting, which lasts till 8:45, and then from 9 to 5 I have a meeting. All day. 9 to 5. Lord.

I leave you with the caliber of messages I've been getting online…

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…yeah.

June Brought the Rose (Gold)

Last night, I got my rose gold color! It'll only last a few weeks, but here it is!

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I look vaguely like an aging Disney princess. But I like it! It's exciting! Also, I need lip enhancement so bad.

Four hours I was in that chair last night. I screamed home after work and let Lottie and Edsel be in the back room, with the door open so they could go outside if they wanted. A few weeks ago, Lottie figured out she could open the screen door herself, so she spent about an hour standing in front of it, pushing it open, watching it slam close and then pushing it open again.

That was relaxing.

I sent my photo to "Steve," aka The Younger Man in Rio, and noted that I look like dessert. "There are worse food groups you could resemble," he wrote back, and then we spent way too much time talking about what foods would be worse for your hair to look like.

Legumes.

Fish.

Organ meats.

Haggis.

Tripe.

Anything burned.

Mayonnaise-based salads.

One time my Pal From MA was visiting her grandmother. I believe there'd been a celebration of some sort, and she stayed on a few days. By day three, she was dying for a salad.

Do you know what I'm never dying for?

Anyway, her grandmother said, "Well, honey, there's all kinds of salad in the fridge. There's macaroni salad, potato salad, tuna salad…"

Welcome to the Midwest.

Lottie's been tugging on my robe tie the whole time I'm writing this, and is there any sort of 24-hour drive-thru euthanasia place around here? I forgot to tell you that when I had that kitten, I took The Lotissimo with me to PetSmart (I think I did tell you that part) and got kitten toys. They were they spongy, many-sided cubes, which makes no sense,

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but look, there they are. How would YOU describe them, Hemingway? Anyway, the kitten did play with them, and they were strewn on his floor the day I decided to bring him out to sit on my lap in the living room. All the animals came over to meet him except Lottie, who I figured was in the kitten room sniffing around, getting some almond roca from the litterbox, and so on.

I was right, for she emerged from that room with one of these squares on her fang. Just hanging there like it was meant to be. Just trotted around like that, happy as a pig in clover.

Lottie is an asshole.

We need BBP merchandise again, starting with Lottie is an Asshole mugs, shirts and tote bags.

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resent

My asshole dog and I will talk to you later.

Luff,

Pink June

Say “mulch” one more time

I had ideas about what I was gonna write about today and then I sat down and …blank. …Oh! Mulch! Yes.

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I came home for lunch and there was poor Chris of Chris and Lilly, unloading m'mulch. With a big pitchfork, like he was the devil. The devil who made my yard so pretty it's a sin!

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Mulchchritudinous.

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It's mulch improved.

While Chris was here, I went inside to have a delicious lunch full of nutrients, and usually I watch Gilmore Girls, but I got home a little late, so I flipped around, not literally, but with TV channels. And that is when I came upon a show called Paranormal Witness.

Mother of god.

So this couple? They had weird stuff going on in their house? I don't know what, cause I hadn't seen that part. What I saw was an exorcist or a priest–which isn't that the same thing?–or Judge Judy or someone came over and allegedly cleared the house of spirits. Mine is too. Totally out of wine.

So, the man was saying goodbye to the exorcist, high-crossing him or whatever, and when he came back in, his wife was sitting in a chair with her head down. Just still, in the chair.

"Honey? Are you okay?"

She looked up. Her eyes were entirely black.

MOTHER OF GOD.

"I'M FINE," she said, BUT IN A DEVIL VOICE. The devil uses Arial Black font.

And that is when I wondered if it'd be inappropriate to make Chris come hold me. It was the middle of the day! It was lunchtime! And I was frozen in terror.

I'M FINE.

MOTHER OF GOD!!!!!

Speaking of the devil, this morning when I went to photograph the mulch for you, and I don't know mulch, but I know I love you, I took this eight-second video of Edsel keeping his pimp hand strong.

 

Oh. It'd said 8 seconds on my photos, but once I got it up, so to speak, it was 44. Sue me. I love how she eventually turns away in fear. What the hell is he telling her with his subtle body language? Who knew Edsel had it in him?

I say "subtle body language" because my high school boyfriend Giovanni used to say, "When I'm with a woman, I try to use subtle body language," and then he'd point heartily at his man bits.

I've always known how to pick 'em.

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Also, I'm throwing in this mug shot of The Poet just because I love it. Don't eff with the poet. She will iambic your pentameter. She will meta your phor. There's no rhyme or reason to what The Poet will do.

This week is the meteor shower, the really good one, and it's been rainy and cloudy here. Annoyed.

Back when I was dating Marvin in the '80s, I schlepped out to a cow field with my mother and stepfather, and we got on the hood of the car and watched the shooting stars. I kept getting bored and looking away and missing every damn one of them. I came home and wrote Marvin, who was 50 miles away, a big letter about it, including a lovely stick figure drawing of me looking down while stars shot over my head.

When Marvin and I broke up that same year, he tore up and burned every one of my letters in a fit of drama…except that one. That one he saved. LITTLE DID HE KNOW he'd be temporarily married to me and would want those letters back.

Whatever, Marvin. Why don't you go to McDonald's?

I gotta go. I've got to get to work, where a huge group of people are meeting over how much everyone hates an article I wrote, so that'll be relaxing.

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hooo care

I'll talk at you tomorrow. Oh! My free digital scale came! Oh my god I have to cease eating. Also, Lottie weighs 34.8 pounds currently. Me too. If I were on Pluto.

XO,

Jooooon

[this space intentionally left blank]

There are two birds singing outside the window, and some sort of low-buzzing bug. Nope, there's a crow. So now it's three kinds of birds. Iris is quietly eating in the kitchen window. There's a plate of homemade wishes on the kitchen windowsill. And eight is enough to fill our lives with love.

I'll bet I could cure colds if I didn't have lyrics all up in my head, ruining everything.

My kitty left yesterday. I keep thinking he's just down the hall, and all I have to do is open the bedroom door and there he'll be, with his big orangey-green eyes and his little teensy meow when he sees me.

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You know what, though? I think he's gonna be good.

So, I guess that's done, till I find some other animal god knows where.

In other news, Chris of Chris and Lilly is coming over today to mulch my yard. Since I couldn't afford a deck and it's still muddy as shit out there, this was the best compromise. He came over the other day to check out the yard and give me an estimate, and he was pretty impressed with my manly alarm system.

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Look how muddy that damn door is. SEE WHAT I MEAN? Mud. Dogs. Dogs and mud. Christ.

Anyway, that's mulch to be excited about. You're welcome. I'll stop with mulch jokes. I know you'd mulch appreciate it.

In other other news, I am BESIDE OWN SELF about Tyler Henry, the Hollywood Medium, coming back on TV tonight. Oh my god, are you watching that show? He's even better than Teresa Caputo, and why don't you shut up, lofty judgy? You know if either one of them stopped you and said, "I have a message from beyond" you'd be all Oh my god, from WHOM??? I'd get one from someone I don't care about, such as Jerry Garcia. "He says to tell you he's still a filthy hippie with old bong water on his coffee table."

Anyway, they're finally taking 30 minutes out of the relentless All Kardashians All the Time schedule on E! (Dear E!: Fuck you with your konstant Kardashians. I mean, I'll watch a Kardashian. I'm not above it. But ALL THE FUCKING TIME? Did Ryan Seacrest lose his mind, or do the Kardashians own E! and have no sense of how to back the fuck off or what?) to show my show tonight. I don't even know what time yet. I'm even missing Grease at my old theater, though, so I don't miss a moment of Tyler Henry.

All right, I gotta go. It's a big day. Mulch and mediums, man. Mulch and mediums.

P.S. Lottie was near her laundry basket–she has a ton of clothes–so I took another measuring picture.

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June 26

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August 10

11:40, a sacred time everyone knew about but June. Oh, also, kitten.

My problem is, I'm not attracted to wealth and power. Like, look at Candace Bergen. She married two men who weren't that pretty, but rich? Hells yeah, they were rich. And she must have slept with them, right? Or how else could she have a baby and/or kept that marriage afloat? Why can't I be Candace Bergen? This whole attracted to funny, well-read men who are cute sort of blows. It's not workin' for me.

Maybe if we all get our energy together, like we did that time to find Hulk a woman and you see how that worked, we can all ask the universe, Hey, let's send June a kind, rich man who she also wants to bang. God really likes it when you say "bang."

What would you ask the universe for? Maybe we could put in requests, and then every day I can assign us a thought to direct to the universe.

Anyway, in the meantime, Edsel pooped on the floor today. Yeah.

Is it that the kitten was one toke over the line? Is he finally completely over Lottie, and who isn't? I don't know. I just know we all woke up, Lottie went outside, Edsel wouldn't, and when I walked into the computer room, there was Edsel's calling card. When I went to look for him he was standing under my desk, like he expected an earthquake.

I petted him for a long time. Poor Edsel.

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There's a cute couple from work–they both work there–who came to meet Johnny Cats last night. They're considering taking him, and wanted to mull it over, so further reports as developments warrant. He's such a cool little cat, did I mention? Last night I was worried about him being bored in the back room, so I was sitting in there with him, and he was on my lap while I fired up a video of gymnastics at the Olympics. I watch because I can do all those things the gymnasts do, I just choose not to show you.

The point is, I realized that Johnny was watching the video with me. So I went to YouTube and showed him videos for cats, and he loved those. He'd put his little kitten paw on the screen at the birds and squirrels.

I love him. News flash. But I can't keep him, because Edsel pooped on the floor, among other things.

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Eventually, I brought him to the living room so he could meet everyone. Iris hissed and fled. Lily sat right next to us and acted like the kitten did not exist. Lottie barked, and Edsel drooled.

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Seriously, eh drooled. He was so dying to get to know Johnny, and ask him all about himself, and get him a refreshment. IMG_1513

Kitty was not so amenable.

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Poor Johnny. Good lord.

After I'd thoroughly traumatized the kitten, I put him back in the room

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dat suk

and came out for a meeting of The Needy Committee.

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I'd forgotten they usually meet on Mondays while The Real Housewives are on, except STUPID OLYMPICS usurped my show. Goddammit. Stupid people's hopes and dreams. WHAT ABOUT MY HOUSEWIVES? They have dreams, too.

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meeeeteng a jern

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Speaking of committees, I'd forgotten to tell you that ironically, on Friday morning before my accident, I got Korean medicine for my neck pain. We have a massage therapist who comes on Fridays, and she taped some mustard seeds to my finger to relieve neck pain, and I was to leave it on for five hours and then be sure to have two tons smash into me from behind at a high speed. Wedding Alex, who got mad at me once because I signed up for her time to get massages, and "everyone knows my massage time is 11:40," was also mustard seeded. We were Mustard Seed Sisters.

That reminds me. They hired someone new at work. Guess what her name is. I am not even kidding.

By the way, who here knew that Wedding Alex's massage time was 11:40? Did you see it displayed in Times Square? Cause I was so embarrassed I missed it. Did you see them running with the Olympic torch that at the end burst into a flame display that spelled out: Alex's Massage Time is 11:40?

Flame display. If I'm sick of hearing about one thing, it's flame displays.

I'd better go. I have 50 animals to deal with. Oh! Before I go, I was thinking that if I ever got one of those tattoos that say something in your arm, you know the ones that look like someone wrote it, or in typeface, that girls get? I like those. What would mine say? Other than what I plan to get, which is "11:40."

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Yeah, no. That makes no fekking sense.

Tell me.

XO,

Jooooon

Kitten Report 2016

Ima have to call AppleCare, which always puts me in a sparkling mood, because my computer keeps saying, "Update your iTunes!" so I do, then it says, "Cannot locate your phone." And I'm all IT'S RIGHT HERE UNDERNEATH YOU. IT'S ATTACHED TO THE BACK OF YOU, YA MO'.

So that's something to look forward to, like Christmas.

In the meantime, kitten.

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This is why you have to read on weekends, folks. It's when all the act-shun happens. Act-shun, I wanna live. Act-shun I got–okay, I'll stop.

He is a SWEET kitty. You can pet his kitten stomach, and he's friendly without being overbearing. (cough Lily cough)

You'll be stunned to hear Ned hasn't committed yet. "Let me talk to my uncle," he said. "Get his opinion."

"But you're leaving town for two weeks. I can't have this kitten here for two weeks without knowing where he's going. I'll get stupidly attached. I can't have three cats, Ned."

"Don't pressure me," Ned said, and I'd like to introduce you to my entire dynamic with Ned. He's probably out looking at younger kittens to see if they're a better deal. So, if he doesn't tell me anything today, before he leaves, I'm putting an ad up, and you are the first to get the offer. ANYONE WANT A SWEET BLACK MALE KITTEN?

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Lottie and I went to PetSmart yesterday, where she jumped on just everyone so that's going well, to get kitten food and toys for Johnny Cats. For the first few hours, he was so disinterested in those toys that I was all, money well spent. Then last night he started batting at them and getting all sideways spider kitty over them, and there was great joy in the land.

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I have taken 394949204 pictures of him and he moves too fast or is too black to capture on film. IMG_1469
Proceed

Ned came over not once but twice to look at the kitten yesterday, and the second time I decided he might as well make himself useful. "Help me walk the dogs," I commanded. I have Johnny confined to the back bedroom, and Lottie knows something's up. She flumps in front of that door the whole time I'm in there, always sticking at least one paw under the door, and sometimes two, and also sometimes we'll have Special Guest Star: Lottie's Tail under there, as well.

There is no way I'm exposing that poor kitten to the terror that is Lottie. Can you imagine?

So Ned took Edsel, and Lottie was really being a dick about loose-leash walking, because Edsel's never there when we do our walks, so having him there required that she strain to keep up with him, and pull to jump on him, and hover her claw just over his haunches. "I'm not touching you! See? I'm not touching you!"

Oh my god. So finally I told Ned to walk ahead and Lottie and I were gonna go in circles, like how the trainer taught me back when I had a trainer, till she walked nicely again. Which we did till I turned to butter, and here's where everyone's gonna talk about that terrible book and I CAN'T HELP IT, tigers turning to butter is burned in my brain from childhood, when we didn't think about how dreadful that book is that I won't even say the name of to avoid offending my new kitten.

Ned's new kitten.

Anyway, what Ned told me was two charming things. He walked out of my sight while I was circling with Lottie. He took off to find the footlights, I took off to find the sky.

And the point is, as I walked Lottie, who walks great once she's not In Search Of…Edsel, I didn't see Ned at all. What I didn't know is, Ned and Edsel eventually turned down a street Lottie and I had just been on, and we know this because once they rounded the corner there we were. But the point is, Edsel got the scent of Lottie and me, and Ned said he's never seen Edsel act that way. Tallulah was a real sniffer on a walk. She had Beagle in her, and her nose was to the ground the whole way. Edsel more or less just smiles goofily the whole way.

But not yesterday. Yesterday he was sniffing and zigzagging and carrying on. And when he SAW me, Ned said he never saw anything like it. He choked himself on his collar the whole way back. The other part is, when they rounded the corner and saw us, Ned was all, Heyyyyyy, who's THAT? And then he realized it was just me.

In the end, as we neared the house, Ned let Edsel go at the porch steps and I was still oblivious that they were behind us. Edsel tore over to me. He's such a good boy.
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Edz luff mom.

Wait'll he finds out I got him a kitten.

June survives horrific car crash, finds kitten. Story at–well, now.

I was going to hyperbole your hat off telling you about how I survived a car accident, escaping death as only June could do, but something so much more interesting has happened now.

So, on Friday afternoon, I was headed back to work after lunch, and I was at a red light when

BOOM!

this old man in a Lexis rear-ended me. Hard. I mean, the crash was. I was lookin' pretty cute that day, so…who knows.

So that was jarring. My head hit the seat rest and I chipped a tooth just a little, which, dang. Now, in LA, if it's just a fender-bender, which in the end this was…

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Scenes from a horrific crash

you just take the person's info and move along. You don't call the police. So that's what I did, and then I drove to a Ready Med, where they refused to see me ("We'd be a third party if we assisted you medically." Assholes. Aren't you supposed to PROVIDE CARE to people?), then I called the PO-lice, who yelled at me about leaving the scene.

Actually, when I was hit, there was a cop RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME, and he drove on. Didn't stop. I thought that was why, cause of the fender-bender rule. Which it turns out is an LA thing. HOW ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO KNOW?

Anyway, I've spoken to Hard-at-80's insurance co. and it looks like it will not be a problem. And the good news is, I discovered in my wallet, while I was searching for my proof of INsurance, as they say here, all kinds of gift cards I've never used. So I spent yesterday using them, which was exciting. I got a vacuum cleaner, which I haven't had all year (I abuse vacuums. Fur.), a shower caddy which I left behind during my year abroad, a digital scale because I'm sorry to tell you I can't quite…see the little lines any longer, and also a Britta pitcher.

Exciting!

So yesterday when I wasn't using gift cards, I noted a stiffness in m'bones, but nothing major. I had planned to exaggerate it mightily for you but KITTEN! KITTEN STORY! USURPS ALL CRIES FOR ATTENTION!

There's a guy at work whose wife I like a lot, and not THAT way, this isn't the Penthouse Forum. I never thought it would happen to me. They invited me to this restaurant downtown, drivin' all the old men crazy, and I went, even though Ned goes there a lot. But I knew he went there on Friday a lot, because routine, and also that UNLESS HE WAS ON A DATE, he'd sit at the bar with one of his pretentious New Yorker magazines.

We sat outside, and as long as I did not go in to pee, I was good. What do you mean, no one wants to see me pee in the bushes? Of course they do.

I had a ham and brie sandwhich, WHICH WAS DELICIOUS, and ate only half because I'm so small. After dinner, it was around 10 p.m. and I was headed to this dive bar in my old year-abroad neighborhood, another Ned risk, but a slight one.

And that is when I saw him. I am the only person in America who'd see a tiny black kitten AT NIGHT, but I did. "Oh!" I said, putting my car in reverse, which I'm certain is legal and why the accidents, June?

He ran away from me at first, as do all men, till finally I got the idea to whip out some ham, and that is not a euphemism.

oh halllooooo! kitty heer! kitty say hai!

Man, that was all it took. He was starving, that little kitten was. I knocked on the door of the house he'd been near (he was on a sidewalk when I found him) but no one answered, and anyway, who lets their teensy kitten out at night when he's black and skinny?

He's the kind of little kitten who purrs when you pick him up, which was what he was doing as he bogarted my sandwich. Had he been a girl I'd have named him Mama Cass. I was holding him and trying to decide what to do when I realized, technically I was on Ned's street.

Remember that scene in Sex and the City, when Miranda is dating that hot black guy, the sports doctor, and Steve goes over there and the doctor has two scantily-clad women over? That's what I pictured Ned had going on at his house. But I worked up my courage and called.

"I have a black kitten in my car and I'm like two blocks away. Can I bring it over?"

"What are you doing with that kitten?" Ned was trepidatious, whereas I was already picturing how sweet it would be to have an all-black cat and an all-white cat such as–oh, just to throw a name out there, NedKitty.

I drove over there and Ned got NedKitty's old lady food out. NedKitty herself glowered from the dining room table, but she wasn't hissing or being a dick or anything. Mostly she just kind of pretended the problem wasn't there, sort of like her dad. "Commitment? Where do you want to have lunch?"

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See, even the paper is encouraging Ned to adopt a kitten. Cats glad to insert…something. Party animals. IT'S ALL A SIGN!

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While Johnny Cats, which is what we named him because he's the man in black, scarfed that old lady food with scary rapidity, Ned and I discussed Johnny's fate. "I'm leaving town for two weeks," he said, which I immediately assumed was due to honeymoon. What I like about myself is my ability to not catastrophize.

Turns out Ned is headed on this huge hiking vacation with his brothers, wherein they do things like hike the national parks for 800 miles a day, and that spells fun. Alternatively, you could stay home and look at kittens. Let me weigh my options, here. Then after that he has a business trip.

"I mean, I could…foster Johnny while you're gone, and then you could take him after."

You'll be stunned to hear that Ned did not commit rapidly. "Let me think about it," he said.

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This is bound to go well. In the meantime, I've asked him to look at NextDoor in his neighborhood, and I've already checked Craigslist. No one has posted anything yet about missing a very small, very hungry kitten.

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Johnny Cats is secluded in the spare room, which is where Lottie used to take her meals, and now someone's in the kitchen with Lottie, someone's in the kitchen I know-ow-ow-ow. Someone's in the kitchen with Lottie, alpha-ing her own Alpo. Edsel is a DICK about Lottie's food, and tries to take it at every turn, which already resulted in Lottie growling while she ate (I stick my hand in her bowl a LOT while she's eating, so she doesn't get aggressive with me over food), and now she has to eat just one room from Edsel and my life is chaos.

WHO FINDS A BLACK CAT AT NIGHT?

Chaos June does. That's who.

John Wayne, Marco Polo and boredom

Yesterday, I was texting The Younger Man, who first of all needs a blog name.

"What do you want your blog name to be?" I asked him, because he's not at all busy being in the Olympics or whatever.

"Steve," he wrote back, and when your Olympics don't happen, you'll know this is why. "Head of Olympics Kibitzes with June. Olympics Ruined."

I like how now he's the head of the Olympics. Say Olympics one more time.

"I feel like I could do better than that," he wrote, and we came up with other brilliant names like Hortense, but in the end he's Steve, which has nothing to do with his real name and there you go.

Anyway, the good news is, yesterday I kept texting him all the ways that he could die at the Olympics.

"Olympics Canceled This Year. World Blames June." Would you like to hear my list?

Impaled by javelin

Allergic to sequins

Tripped over gymnast

Told male figure skater that Lady Gaga sucks

(The first person to get all humorless with me about it being the summer games gets impaled with Bruce Jenner's dick)

Dorthy Hamill's psychotic break

Burned by torch

Oh, I had a million of them. You know who you never, ever want to text with while you're inventing all the Olympics? Is me.

While I've been typing you this impressive tome, both Edsel and Lottie

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Edsel

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Lottie

have gone to the water dish, which is currently right next to me. Here's how Edsel drinks water:

Lap. Lap lap lap lap lap lap lap. Lap.

Here's how Lottie drinks water:

GULPGULPGULPgulpgulpgulpgulp yeeeeeee-hahhhh!!!! GULP GULP {spill water everywhere} WOOOOT! FUCK YEAH! GULP gulpgulpgulp. {walk away trailing water}

It's a sad day when Edsel is the dignified one. It's been a sad day since May 11. I guess we're coming up on my three-month Lottieversary. It's been three months since my soul died.

Isn't that a cute picture of puppy Eds? Faithful Reader Laurie took that back when, you know, Edsel was a puppy. What a skinny little thing he was. He's never been a beefy dog. He's, you know, delicate. He's a figure skater.

You know what I need? Another chair for this computer. This one I got at the vintage store is not cutting it. The damn caster never stays on, plus it leans back too far and I always feel like Ima topple over. Lemme go look at m'cash and see if I can get another chair…

I have $456 to my name. Payday is 10 days away.

Goddammit.

I see my last charge was to dog daycare. When I took Lottie there the other day, I still had visits on my pass, so her stay was free except for her nail trim, her pawdicure, which was ten dollars. Her nails look great. Good lord that animal needed her claws of death done.

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Eff you, mom. still gotz fangz.

Last night I went to the old theater I like to go to. I think I already told you that when Tallulah died, some faithful readers donated to that theater in Talu's name, so I have a pass to go to the movies. I feel very fancy whipping out my card. Anyway, it was a John Wayne movie, which I wasn't even that interested in going to but I like going there, so I went. It turned out to be interesting.

John Wayne was in it, which is what made it a John Wayne movie, see, and I hope you've braced yourself but it took place in the Old West. There was a stagecoach headed through the, you know, Old West and so on, and in the stagecoach was a prostitute who was pretty, a fussy woman who was zero fun and who kept dabbing at her face with a hanky. Hey, Whitney Houston.

Then there was a Snidely Whiplash character who the boring hanky woman so wanted to bone, you could tell, but she was married.

Oh, and Scarlett O'Hara's dad was on there. He was a drunk doctor.

There were other boring people on the stagecoach as well, but the point is they were all worried sick about Geronimo. Allegedly Geronimo was passing through and just couldn't wait to scalp all the white people, which I'm sure was not hyperbole at all. Can you imagine if they'd had Facebook then? SHARE if you think Geronimo should show his birth certificate and email!

Did you see that pantsuit Geronimo's wife had on? John Wayne's woman is hotter.

So, eventually the fussy woman gave birth (don't ask), Scarlett O'Hara's dad barfed, Snidely Whiplash almost killed the fussy woman to spare her from Geronimo, and John Wayne married the prostitute, who apparently owned one outfit. I was all, change your CLOTHES already. I'll bet I know what she got married in.

I was not at all bitter that John Wayne knew ol' Prossie for three days before he proposed. I was all, SHE DOESN'T EVEN HAVE CLOTHES. Yet she scores a husband. SHE'S A HOOKER! And yet? Betrothed.

Every time they said "Geronimo" I waited for someone to jump out a plane. I wish my name would become something people screech, like Geronimo or Marco Polo, or that they sing about like Lizzie Borden. I guess I have to kill someone. I'm already coming up with death at the Olympics plans.

It occurred to me I actually had no idea what Marco Polo ever did. Did he lead a country to war or something? Turns out he just enjoyed travel. And while I generally hate Wikipedia (or I did when I was a proofreader. "But Wikipedia says…" Oh my GOD. Schlubs such as you or I can write a Wikipedia page. I need a Wikipedia page. I should totally make a June Gardens Wikipedia), I looked up Marco Polo and I beg you, I beg you, to click on that page and listen to the guy pronounce his name. First of all, like the pronunciation is any mystery. Second, could he be more bored with life?

Oh my god, I've listened a hundred times. It's like his mom made him record it or something. "Marco Polo." He is so over life. His soul died. Maybe he used to own Lottie.

I wish I had more brilliant insights for you, but I don't and I must go. I've made avocado toast and it needs my full attention.

Marco!

Polo!

June

P.S. I just looked at the date. I moved to North Carolina nine years ago today. Holy cats. It's funny. I breezed in here all married, but now the way I see it, I picture Ned poised here on a coil, waiting just like a spider, to ruin my life. You know how spiders enjoy coils.

Hand Jumping June

Yesterday was ridik.

I had to take my car into the shop, which I think I've told you now 800 times, and you'd think I was taking it in to get it tricked out. You'd think my car was transitioning.

Do you know what I'd like? Is a little Fiat. I love those. In some zippy color like yellow or a light blue. I love having a yellow car–I can always find it in parking lots. I think I will never not have a yellow car. That was a beautifully constructed sentence. Anyway, I can't afford a new car. Mine is 8 years old but it has only 82,000 miles on it, so.

I have no idea how I got on that dull tangent.

Oh, so I had to take it in. And that young man of color who works at the desk, there, who checks you in and so forth? Hotteldy hot hot with a side of extra hot. Oh my god. And since I had to get up early, scream around here, take Lottie to daycare because I couldn't come back at noon to let her out of prison, I arrived at the car place with wet hair and halfway-done makeup.

Hey, Man of Color. Fly me.

That did not stop me from flirting like I was Blanche Devereaux, of course, clutching my pearls and rolling my eyes and so on. He got me checked in quickly and into a shuttle van with a woman with the world's worst personality. It was only after the WWWWP and I were on our way that I realized my pants had been unzipped the entire time.

Hey, Man of Color. Fly me.

So then I got to work and had to hurry hurry hurry because I had three articles to write yesterday, plus meetings of course, and I got only two of the three done as a result. If I didn't have to go to meetings to talk about work I had to do, and instead could–oh– do the work, I could get my work done.

Since I couldn't go home for lunch, I walked to the Iron Hen, which is a really good restaurant near me. I got this irrational fear that Ned would be there. His doctor's office is in the same parking lot, as is a liquor store, so all his needs are met right in one lot. The point is, as I was walking there, I was all What if he has an appointment today? What if he's right in that restaurant and I have to see him? Will I walk out? I'd already phoned in my order–pear salad with pecans and grilled chicken. Would I eschew my order to avoid Ned?

Food/Ned. Food/Ned.

I decided I'd be stoic. I'd be Scarlett O'Hara in that field, except I wouldn't quietly vomit my radish.

Anyway, all that buildup was for nothing, because really what were the chances.

I'd planned to eat lunch on The New Bench in this park near work, but right as I approached it, some EFFING BITCH got there too and took it, never looking up from her phone call. She had a paperback romance with her and I detested her entire being. So instead I walked back to work and ate at my desk and had to endure the 792 "Oh, that looks good! Where'd you get that?" questions that BORE INTO MY SOUL.

I HATE that. Do you hate that? Just let me eat pecans in peace.

Then the hot MOC from the auto place called to tell me I'd blown a fuse, and who knew, and had I been in any sort of accident with my car.

"No!" I said. Because I, you know, haven't. I tried to say "no" in an inviting way, though, just in case.

"You're sure?" he asked, "Really?"

Jesus Christ. No, I'm lying to you. I got in an accident and forgot.

That did not stop me from hurling myself at him at the end of the day, after the Woman with the World's Worst Personality brought me back to the shop. By the way, her driving made me nervous as shit. The whole ride, I was all, "Woah, woah, woah! That light has been yellow a long–"

–screech! With her brakes.

Christ.

Anyway, you'll be stunned to hear that Man of Color did not pick up what I was throwing down, and on the drive home I realized my pants had been unzipped again.

No, seriously, fly me.

I got Lottie from daycare after, and the good news there is that that was one exhausted animal. I'd checked on her on the webcam, and she was making friends left and right yesterday. She didn't stand stoically like Lu used to, in a field with her radish. She mixed and mingled.

But as soon as I got home I had to shower and change because I was…going out.

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The good news is, I don't have to figure out what to wear today because I already picked out something cute last night and wore it for only two hours, so. Silver lining.

Since I already spilled the beans, I was out with The Older Man last night. The Younger Man is in Rio, and I have not at all sent 792 references to the song Rio in my texts to him or anything. He is doing something with the Olympics, The Younger Man is, and I feel like that won't narrow it down too much seeing as 792,000 people are doing something with the Olympics right now.

"I'm going to be in Rio as well!" I texted him before he left. "I'm the favorite to win the gold for the hand jump."

He told me there wasn't such a THING as the hand jump, and right then I knew.

"What if you screw up your job, and the Olympics are, like, ruined because of you?" I wrote him yesterday first thing.

"Wow, you ARE supportive," he wrote. "You're like Ike Turner."

"I prefer to think of myself as the husband in Rosemary's Baby," I said. "That was a guy who always had your back."

Really, I don't know why just everyone doesn't want to date me. Remember back when I was first dating again, in 2011, and that reader wrote in to tell me how obnoxious I was and that was why I couldn't keep a man? What a dick. And how clearly wrong he was.

Once I was finally settled in at home,

IMG_1332

and relaxing, I got a text from the headache study. "You haven't filled out your online headache diary!" they wrote, and son of a BITCH. But once I got on there and remembered my participant number and password ("GoldHandJumper"), it was pretty easy.

All right, I gotta go. Edsel, who has already been out and back in again THREE TIMES today, has been staring longingly out the door, but I just got up to let him out again–even though I've already said, "That's IT for going out this morning"–and as soon as I opened the door, he sauntered away. So I have to beat the dog and get in the shower.

Yours,

Ike

The one where June is annoying

9:32 p.m.

It's Tuesday night, as opposed to TOOOOOOOSDAY AFTERNOOON. What is that song?

 

The songs of my childhood are sad. Why'd I have to grow up in the drug era? Couldn't I have grown up in the nice '20s, when everyone was drinking illegal hootch? Or how about the cheerful '30s, when there was no money so people drank dirt and old buttons or whatever?

Anyway, I'm writing you now because I have to leave early in the morning tomorrow and there JUST ISN'T TIME. I got got got got no time.

So, I didn't tell you about going to the headache clinic and being part of a migraine study, so now I can. I know! Exciting.

A few weeks ago, Jo sent me a link. She said for five long years, she thought I was her man. And she found out, I'm just a link in her chain. It was all very dramatic.

A link to a WEBSITE, see, about taking part in a migraine study. It pays, first of all, so yay, and the point of the study is they're going to give me a specific diet to see if it affects the level of my pain and the number of times I get migraine-y in a month. And they supply two meals and two snacks a day, for four months.

I KNOW, right? I think Ima have to cook, which, ??

So, today I left work early and headed to Chapel Hill, which contains no chapels that I saw and it wasn't that hilly. The whole time I was driving to the place, I was all, Why have I been here before, and then I remembered I had dinner with Marvin in Chapel Hill last year, and I'll bet you anything I made that hilarious joke then, too.

Finally I got to the campus of whatever the hell college is in Chapel Hill, and people around here act like you should just know all this, and there are a hundred million schools here and also hoooo care. So you'll ask someone where they went to school, and they'll be all, "In Boone" and you're all WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT EVEN MEAN, EVEN?

So I got to the campus and was at a red light, and when the light changed my car stalled. I mean, I took ONE SECOND to turn the car on again and this BUS behind me started BEEPING at me, and I was all giving him the finger and yelling at him when he drove by, fucking asshole bus driver fuckety headed fuck.

I have no idea why I get migraines.

Anyway, after a LABYRINTH of a parking garage sitch and a RIDICULOUS walk to try to find the place, and Dear Campuses: Why do you have to be so dickly about things? Why so hard to find stuff on a campus? HUNH?

I have no idea why I get migraines.

I found the place, and answered 394924923949320 questions about my head, and got my vitals (I have shrunk again, which does not please me seeing as I keep gaining weight, which means I'm turning into a Shrinky Dink) and so forth.

The doctor came in, and I liked him right away. He was one of those dry humor people, and he seemed to find me amusing. I answered 495939249 more questions about my migraines. "Are you sick of hearing about people's migraines?" I asked him.

He paused. "I've been doing this for decades, and no one's ever asked me that," he said. "I guess I'm just used to hearing about them."

He asked me things no one has ever asked me before, like why the light bulb in the grass? Okay, he didn't ask me that, that doesn't even make sense, why would he ask me that? Are you touched in the HEAD? God.

Speaking of which, he also made sure I wasn't touched in the head. He did all kinds of neurological things to me, and he also asked me if I had a significant other.

"I don't," I said. "Do you know anyone nice?"

"Do you think you might be depressed?" he asked me.

Do I think I might be depressed. Some stupid MAN, who I loved to BITS, turned out to be a huge disappointment, and that was only after my whole MARRIAGE failed, and now I'm old and fat and shrinky-dinky, and I own a house I can't afford to keep up, and apparently I have Rosemary's BABY for a puppy, and my beloved Tallulah fell over dead from nowhere and YES. I might be a bit DEPRESSED.

I have no idea why I get migraines.

So, be sure to ask me a million annoying detailed questions about the migraine trial, but in summation, I keep a diary, a headache diary, and then in a few weeks I get my new diet and then

MY LIFE WILL BE TRANSFIGURED

and all will be well.

Dear Headache Diary: I was throbbing to talk to you. It was a real pain I couldn't get to you till now. It made my ass burn.

On the drive home, once I made it through the LABYRINTH that is that campus of wherever the fuck I was, I called my mother to tell her about starting the headache study. "Oh, how'd it go?" asked mom, who didn't really care, but whatever.

"Oh, good. You know I enjoy medical attention," I said.

"Or, really, any attention," said mom. I have no idea why I'm depressed.

While we were talking, I noticed I was driving right past Chris and Lilly's store, which is on this cute two-lane highway that's pretty and all country-ish and way more fun than the highway. That highway only leads to the danger zone. I need to get over that joke.

Anyway, naturally I stopped in, and Chris was just leaving for the day, so we stood and kibitzed for awhile and he promised to fill my yard with mulch, seeing as I can't afford a dang new deck yet but I can at least afford damn mulch. So that's exciting. I can't wait to mulch that over with him. There will be mulch ado about something. I don't know mulch, but I know I love youuuuu.

So now I have to hope I get a migraine so my headache diary is exciting. This will be the first month since I was 20 years old that I will get zero migraines, just wait.

I guess that's all I have to say about that. Oh! But when I was talking to my mother, I told her how I was starving and wondered why there was no fast food on those country roads, and we got into a discussion about which fast food place we'd LEAST stop at, and which would be our first choice.

"I'm not crazy about any of them," my mother said.

"I'd go with Long John Silver's, first and foremost," I announced.

"I'm not crazy about any of them," my mother said.

"Zaxby's would be my last choice." I really mulched over my choices.

"I'm not crazy about any of them," my mother said.

So that's where we stand, and I'm still not clear on my mother's thoughts on fast food, but what about you? What are your first and last fast food choices on the road?

Mulch on over to the comments and tell me.

Mulch love,

June

June’s privates

Signs-full-wtf-17

So how is everyone?

I know most of you saw this already on Facebook, but here. Here is a snapshot of my life, below, except it's a five-second veeeedeo of my life, but still.

 

So that's how I'm doing. In case you wondered.

There seems to be a lot of speculation about my love life, and frankly it's getting on my nerves. So here's everything that's up lately, okay?

I am not back together with Ned. Ned is not in my bed. That is why I TOLD you that story, because it was poignant that Ned was not in my bed. Ned will not magically change and become all the things I need my person to be, so there is no Ned.

In fact, the last time I spoke to Ned, I told him the most loving thing he could do for me was to let me be. Let me pursue the things I need, like, oh, someone who wants to marry me. And he can pursue whatever the fuck it is he wants. (Still angry, June? Oh, perhaps.)

And I don't even know that I want marriage. I really love living alone. But I guess I want to know my person would marry me if he had the chance. I told Ned I wanted to marry him, and asked him how that made him feel, and he said, "It makes me feel like (gasp) 'Oh GOD!'" in the kind of voice you'd have if someone handed you a bouquet of snakes.

I want someone to be devoted to me, and me to him, and not be spending my time wondering if he's off doing things that would make me feel bad if I knew about them. When I was with Marvin, I never worried. I never caught Marvin in a single lie. I knew he was good. But it annoyed me to live with him. Too many black cords in perfectly good kitchen drawers.

So, I guess at this point, my ideal would be a relationship where I get to live here, he gets to live nearby, we see each other most nights, we know we're in it till we're dead, and maybe one day we get married, but that's not as important as the feeling that yep, here's my person. And I can trust him. I can set it and forget it. I don't have to feel sick and scared about what Ima find out about next.

That's what I want right now.

And yes, I am dating people. I've met one person who is older than me, one person who is younger than me. Please refer to my psychic reading in January. Her timing was off. She said I'd be through with Ned in February, I'd be glad he was gone, and I'm still not there yet.

She said in the spring I'd be seeing someone older than me, and someone younger.

So, heh. Yeah.

But see, I didn't really want to go into that, because I didn't want anyone to feel bad. Which is why I was trying to keep it private-ish. It's hard to have a blog, where you talk about your life, and keep some parts not so public. But I was trying, Lord, I was trying.

And no to your other question. I have not slept with anyone since Ned.

So now you know everything.

Oh, also? We have had just one accident in three–or four??–days in this house, and that was cause I had to go really bad. Bah.

The reason there was one accident was because there was a Busy Bone incident where Edsel attacked poor sweet Lottie, and the only time I ever think of her that way is when she's under the tooth of Edsel. God, he's awful sometimes. When Lu was alive, all she'd do is just take good things like Busy Bones. She'd take them both, put them in her mouth at the same time like that one picture with all the cigarettes in that guy's mouth.

Do you know what picture I'm talking about? It's an old photo. Can't find it. Crap.

The point is, she never attacked Edsel, not once. She just took things brattily.

Anyway, he was biting Lottie, Edsel was, and she cut her poor puppy eye, and she peed because she was scared. IMG_1323
Here she is right now, sniffing Lily, and you can see her little cuts. Well, you can see one of them. Poor sweet puppy. IMG_1322
Scritches on her nose. Edsel is terrible. I'm actually not sure those scritches aren't from cats, actually. But I know the eye came from Edsel. Lottie is everyone's punching bag. Lottie often deserves it. But not over a Busy Bone.

Anyway, that's when she peed. I'd have peed, too, if something twice my size were attacking me. Well. If something…

Oh my god, maths. She weighs 34 pounds. Edsel weighs 48 pounds. How much bigger is Edsel? Show your work.

I have to go. I have to get to work. Try not to bite anyone's eye today.

Luffff,

Joan

(redundant)

I don't get why people like fantasy and science fiction. It's so not interesting to me. I don't see how you can get riveted by things that don't exist. Oh! There's a curse from the Land of Dumblethworp and it's going to affect all the Kasimotos!

Who gives a fuck? I don't even know the name of the street a block over from me. I'm supposed to remember who the Kasimotos are?

My cousin Katie, who similarly teaches tolerance, sent me a text this weekend that merely read, "I don't understand gladiator sandals."

Actually, while we're on the subject of my love-everyone friends and family, I got a SERIES (a SERIES!!) of texts from my friend Paula in Seattle. She was out to dinner with her husband Saturday night, and they pretty much spent the whole evening detesting the annoying hipster woman (redundant) next to them.

First, the woman told the waiter her husband wanted "a simple wine," while she wanted "something more structured."

Dear annoying hipster woman (redundant): Yes, it's Saturday night and I'm trying to wait on 50 people and there's a line out the door. But let me sit around and decide which of our wines has more structure.

Then she regaled the waiter with all of her idiosyncrasies during her second glass, when she wanted just "something red."

I'd give her something red.

Finally, (in between those, Paula texted me that her asshole had permanently puckered. This was a nod, a structured nod, to my grandmother, who when she got mad said things made her asshole pucker up and twitch. Which reminds me, I watched a documentary on Jackie O last night, followed by one on Princess Diana, and it was pretty much my ultimate evening other than no one handed me a kitten at the end of it).
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Lottie. So not into Jackie O or Princess Di, since 2016. Currently she's all head, like one of those parades with all the, you know, big heads.

Oh my god, back to my sentence. So, finally, at the end of the meal, the annoying hipster woman (redundant) claimed to be too full for dessert, unless the waiter had "something that amazes me."

OH MY FUCKING GOD I'D HAVE CHOPPED HER UP AND PUT HER GIZZARD IN THE PIZZA OVEN. You know what amazes me? Is that she's still alive, and no one has seen fit to chop her face clean off.

The best part of all this is picturing my already-cantankerous friend Paula getting cantankerous-er by the minute. And her husband's such a lover of people, as well. Oscar the Grouch's character is modeled after her husband. He was five at the time.

Other than that, I pretty much photographed the whole weekend for you; scroll down to this weekend's posts if'n you don't believe me.
Junegoesout

Here's one I took with my desktop camera, wherein I must have heard something interesting. Lu was the queen of the head tilt. She did it all the time. She did it when you said "Obama." I don't know why. She never told me.

Oh, also this weekend, I woke up in the middle of the night to hear Lily having one of her Vietnam flashbacks. Ever since she ran away for those 52 days in 2014, she'll have an occasional middle-of-the-night meowfest, where she makes this noise she never makes any other time. It's awful.

Anyway, she was doing that in the night, and when I half woke up and heard it, my instinct was to call her. Not on the phone. Hallooo? You haff reeech Lilee voice mayl.

To call her into the ROOM, genius, but I didn't wanna wake Ned. I could feel him pressed up behind me and I knew if I called Lily in, he'd wake up. Just as I was thinking that I heard a dog moan, and I realized it was Edsel up against me.

And right then I knew. Ned and I broke up 11 months ago. He hasn't been in the bed since God wore the short trousers.

That was disconcerting. And sad. Which sums up my life.

I leave you with some sounds of not silence. I filmed, for your pleasure, a ribbed, six-second video of the cicadas last night.

 

It was way louder in person. And whoever that car was, I hate you. It was probably the annoying hipster woman

(redundant)

driving by. Also, I did not at all come home from walking Lottie, sweatily take her leash off her and sweatily put it on Edsel, caring not for his humiliation or anything.

Also, this morning, speaking of sounds, as I was typing you, there was some sort of crow fest outside and I recorded that. It's super Hitchcock creepy, if you ask me.

 

The most important thing to take from this video is, what the fuck kind of a name is "Tippi"? Was she the family dog?   

I guess that's all I have to tell you. Tomorrow I'm taking the afternoon off to start a headache study, and remind me to tell you about that. How many days in a row do you give me to forget before I tell you? I say the study will be over before I remember.

Go off and prosper or whatever science-fiction bullshitty thing you want me to say,

June