At Two With Nature · Books · Hair · I hate everything · June's stupid life · Neighbors of June · Times I Amused My Own Self

Oh, good. I get to read about someone’s trip.

I hate brunch.

There's the part where you're expected to get up, WITH NO FOOD OR COFFEE IN YOU, and head to some crowded restaurant, then wait in a lobby for a hundred minutes. Then always–ALWAYS!!–some asshole party of 10 is just before you, because hey, what's more fun than a huge GROUP going to brunch where it's already crowded.

Then you have to wait. For more coffee, for your food, for your check, and in the meantime, some asshole is singing Fire and Rain on his acoustic guitar, which is supposed to relax you and make you forget you've waited 45 minutes JUST FOR ONE CUP OF COFFEE SO FAR, when really that song is about a terrible plane crash, so relaxingness, not accomplished.

But I just figured out yesterday, as I waited 250 minutes for an egg, that another reason I hate going to brunch is how awful people look. It's so obvious they've rolled out of bed and just shuffled on in. Dear People At Brunch: Put on some goddamn pants. "Oh, these yoga pants and m'flipflops will suffice."

NO THEY WON'T.

I'm the only person you know who could come back from the beach even crankier than before. I totally need one of those flipflop stickers for my back window, and maybe a "Beach Girl" license plate. If you ever see me with either one of those, you'll know it's time to put me in the home. My ex-mother-in-law used to say that about if we ever saw her out in a sweatsuit.

You know what my ex-MIL would never do? Wear yoga pants to brunch.

Despite that, I did have fun. It was like the perfect vacation. The weather was divine, and I just said "divine." The little place I stayed was perfect, and mercifully empty till this asshole couple arrived on Saturday and decided blaring their music and opening their back doors right next to me was a marvelous idea. They also made out in their bathing suits on the back porch. Our shared back porch. I went outside and pretended they weren't there and read a book. Like the jerk of an old lady that I am.

One of the songs they were blaring was, I'm sad to tell you, I've Had The Time of My Life. You know, from Dirty Dancing? She had some kind of extended dance remix of it, and who knew there was such a thing. When this jerk of a young chippie wasn't carrying a glass–A GLASS–of mimosa to the beach and making out with her boyfriend, whom she continually called, "Baby," she was jamming out to that song. She was singing along. I was reading my book just to irk her back there, and I was all, "Bitch, I was out here in the world hating this song before you were a zygote."

Anyway, they were only there the last full day, as I said, and they left midafternoon and I didn't hear from them again till Sunday morning, which is what drove me to get eggs in public.

Other than that, it really was the perfect vacation.

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Here's my hair on day one.

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Later on day one.

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Day two, then below, days four and five. On day three, I went to town and had civilized hair. If anyone says, "Beach hair don't care," Ima personally drive to your house and make you wait tables at brunch.

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I sat in the giant chair at my rental house and looked at the water and obsessed over the bunnies who could not have hated me more,

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I had a dark-chocolate s'more (not a euphemism), and watched sunsets. I was on a point, so I could see water all around me.

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I saw three shooting stars on various nights, and oh! I saw a dead jellyfish!

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That poor jellyfish. The water was his jam.

I also went to Wilmington, which is right next to the beach I stayed at. Whenever you say you're going to the beach, people here are all, "Oh, what beach?" and then you tell them and I have no idea what they're thinking about you as a result. Do they think that's a tacky beach? That you sound rich cause you picked that beach? I have no idea. So far since I've lived here I've gone to the Outer Banks, and Carolina Beach, and Wrightsville Beach and Virginia Beach and I forget the others and they all look the same to me anyway, water and sand, which also by the way pisses people off. I guess it's like asking what church you go to. It tells a lot about a person.

Anyway, I went to Wilmington for the day, and saw people Halloween-ing, and saw many dogs, and went to a coffee shop and to the book store and bought jewelry I didn't need as opposed to all the people in the world who go without jewelry every single day, and that's the real tragedy we should be addressing in these times.

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Maybe this was a funeral procession for that jellyfish. You can't know, really.

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In a coffee shop window. There are two types of people in the world: People who love to sit in the window of the coffee shop, and people who never would. Guess which type I am.

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Bookstore sitting. I found an '80s Judith Krantz novel I read back when I had a perm, and I didn't buy it but now I wish I had, just to relive the terrible. It was called I'll Take Manhattan. The heroine was rich and beautiful and spirited. It really pisses me off when rich beautiful people think it's daring to be spirited. "Oh, I'm Prince Harry. Look at me rebel! With my bodyguards and my lifelong career as a royal!"

Anyway. You know what my dream is? To own a bookstore and have a bookstore cat. There's just the part where I'd have to know business things like maths and also I hate people. Oooo, I could have a brunch-and-books store. 

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Anyway, it was a good trip, and now I'm home sharing my toast with Edsel, and with each crust, he leaps in the air after it and a squeak of Eds gas comes along with it, which is probably god's way of telling me that Edsel should not be leaping after my toast crust, and what's sad is god speaks to me in dog gas.

This is the word of the Lord. <squeeeeeak>

Thanks be to God.

Oh, and happy Halloween! Boo! My coworkers are all going dressed as Griff this year, which is hilarious, but I was out of town and unable to fashion an ensemble, so I guess I'll just watch from afar this year.

I'll talk to you tomorrow, when I will have far fewer selfies, a thing that I'm sure makes you sad. Talk to you in November. Today's assignment is that we all must rush out and rent Sweet November. The old version with that namby-pamby pale actress. Then we can all get annoyed at how dying just means you nap a lot.

Edsel gas in red font-ly,

June

Fuck natural · Hair · June's stupid life

House O’ Hurr

Yesterday I got my 10,000 steps in, did 35 minutes of Tracy Chapman, and then sat down to watch Real Housewives with a bag of Fritos. And this is why I hate myself.

Oh, also I walked Edsel yesterday, and the people on the corner have an 8-week-old BABY GERMAN SHEPHERD PUPPY. As opposed to an adult puppy.

They did the thing. They were all out in the yard, letting it run free, so I made Edsel stop. "He's okay," they said, meaning their bitty puppy. Sigh.

"He's NOT," I said, meaning my dog-eat-dog-world of a dog. Jesus Christ. Ima start a national campaign. STOP LETTING YOUR DOGS BE LOOSE. NO MATTER WHAT.

My dog is following the rules. He's on a leash. If your free-to-be-you-and-me dog runs up to us, your dog is done for. AND THAT WON'T BE MY FAULT.

If Edsel had eaten that bitty German shepherd puppy snickerdoodle I'd have died of sad.

In other news, this is my last day of work this week. Tomorrow I go on my vacation to the beach. It's supposed to be in the 70s and sunny all week, so yay. I really didn't take vacation this year, except to kill my dog and take Ned to his colonoscopy. So.

Oh, and I meant to ask you. What should I do for my 10-year anniversary of blogging? It's December 15, and I thought I should do something more than what I did for the two-year cotton anniversary in 2008.

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Nice. Also, while I was Google Imaging "ByeByePie" + "Cotton," I found this…

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Did I once give away cupcake floss? Because mmmmmm!

Also, "give away." Did I once promise and never send someone cupcake floss?

Anyway, my 10-year anniversary. Should I have you all over? Should we all go to Hawaii together or something? Do tell me your ideas. A lot has happened in these damn 10 years.

Also too also, I am sick of my hair. I been doing the same damn thing to it for ages.

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My hurr, in 2014

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My hurr with DW's mom, in 2011

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My hurr, 2013. How bad do you want me to stop saying "hurr"?

My friend Jo called last night, ironically, to ask me what she should do with her hair, and one place to go for all your hair advice is my house. June's House O' Hurr. Anyway what she told me is "not a damn thing. Don't change your hair."

Basically Jo doesn't want me to go changin', to try and please her. I've never let her down before.

Oooooo.

What say you? I mean, if I cut it short I'll look like George Washington. If I blow it straight I'll look basic. I can't win.

I gotta go. This whole time I've been trying to write you, a teensy annoying gray paw has been striking me from behind the computer. Is there a 24-hour drive-through put-your-kitten-to-sleep place near here?

I probably won't blog from the beach because I used to be able to email this blog and post that way, but now Typepad claims you can do that but it never actually posts what you emailed. So. I also can no longer reply to comments unless I get on here and comment directly, a thing that always looks good at my desk in the open floor plan.

Talk to you later, when I'll be sure to say hilarious things including "Life's a Beach." Maybe I'll even get one of those "Life's Good" stickers that don't make me want to kill everyone around me or anything. Here's what happens every time I see one of those stickers:

Sticker: Life's Good! : )

June: Fuck you. You fuck sticker.

XO,

Jooooon

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

Pit act-shun

Today's another Astonishing June-Hair Day.

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Iris can't even look at me. See what I did, there? I really need a new back door. The bottom's all rotted off, and have I mentioned how broke? What unexpected car purchase? What two trips to Michigan in one month? What vacation to the beach that I can't really afford? Oy.

I realize you don't feel a bit sorry for me.

Anyway, the weekend. What'd you do? One of you wrote me, I think it was on Pie on the Face, to say you had big hair, and tried to tell your husband you had June Hair, and he was all, "?"

People just don't understand. You know what we all need to stop saying now? "The struggle is real." Let's all stop. Let's also stop saying, "I'll just leave this here" when you post something on Facebook.

Maybe it's not that my hair is big. Maybe it's just cranky.

Anyway, my weekend.

On Saturday I woke up with nary a plan, and I gotta tell you something: I love living alone. I think I even kind of love being single. There is nothing more wonderful than waking up and realizing that, as long as you don't spend much of the $156 you have till Friday, the world is your oyster.

Okay, that sounded depressing. But still. So I had plans to vote, to make America great again, pfft, and get cat food, and once again I promise you I woke up happy even though I'm just a poverty-stricken old maid cat lady. THE POINT IS I got online and realized there was a Pit Bull Awareness Day walk downtown. I got right on the horn with Bitchy Resting Face Alex and we went down there.

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BRF Alex has a pitty mix, with a big pitty smile, and he was so good on the walk. Edsel stayed home. I felt guilty, but you know how he'd have been.

WOOF! WOOF WOOF WOOF                        WOOF!                    

                                                        RRRRWOOOF!                            RRRR!         WOOF!

So.

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Here's BRF Alex doing her impression of the mom in Cat in the Hat, with big black Harper. Anyway, we walked a three-mile loop downtown, for what reason I don't know, and I was thinking we should have been singin' songs and carryin' signs, mostly say hooray for our side. Stop, now, what's that pit.

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We started at ended at this brewery, conveniently, so after everyone went in with their pitties and had a beer. It was really all you could ask for on a blustery fall afternoon.

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A warm bar with wood floors and exposed brick, beer, and pitty pit pits everywhere you look, just getting along and being wide-headed.

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I admired our tableau of drinks: sparkling rosé, because someone can never blend in, beer, and a water dish for dogs.

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I was not at all obsessed with this five-month-old pitty puppy with pawses, whose name was Chunk. They think he's a pit/mastiff mix. "I hate Edsel," I announced to BRF Alex, slugging back my manly sparkling rosé.

Afterward, I walked around downtown, and in your Big Book of June Events, you may recall that Ned used to live downtown, drivin' all the old men crazy, so I spent an hour strolling around half-drunkenly after my one wine, walking to bars and restaurants that Ned and I had been to, and then past his apartment, which was two inches from the railroad tracks. We had a lot of train sex when he lived there, because trains would go by every 14 minutes or something. I was just remembering that when…

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Goddammit. I considered hurling myself in front of said train, but did not.

On Sunday, one of the Alexes who doesn't work at work anymore came by for a few hours, and I took zero pictures of her, so you're just gonna have to believe me and not think I'm just a sad old woman making stuff up. I cleaned the damn house, so it'd be tidy while I'm out of town this week, which makes no sense, and then a lot of this happened while I watched the Mary Tyler Moore Show for hours on end:

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Also occurring was this:

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Not to mention:

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Act-shun, I wanna live! Act-shun I got so much to give. I wanna give it, I wanna get some too.

It's been awhile since we enjoyed that video together. Let's do so now.

I want you to know this never gets old for me. Never. Her hair, her fine outfit, hearing someone actually sing, "act-shun," the excited audience, and mostly her fine dance moves.

Whenever you read me, I want you to picture disco balls glimmering at you from now on.

I gotta go. It's time for my horn-solo dance part.

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Lovin' the nightlife-ly,

June

Health · June's stupid life

Hurl-y Girl-y

You know I hate to complain. But I barfed. You know how I am about that. If you're new here, and really? Barfing is

sort

of

my

phobia.

New paragraphs let you know how serious I am.

I just assume no one's new here. I mean, blogs. They're gone. No one's checking out each other's blog. I'm like the last woman standing. Except I wasn't standing night before last.

So, night before last, and I hope this whole post is just me saying "night before last" a lot, I watched the debates and like most of us got disgusted with the state of America–although you and I may have different reasons for that. But anyway, I snapped off the TV (oh, but not before I took a moment to fall in love with that hot smart commentator on CNN! Who is that guy, and why does he not stop over?) and went to bed.

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I guess his name is Van Jones. I Googled "hot black CNN guy," got this photo, and when I put it up here I saw the name "Van Jones" under his photo, and right then I knew.

I'll tell you who I'm van jonesing for. That's like lusting for someone, but in Dutch.

Anyway, m'barf. I know you wish I'd get right to that.

So I woke up at 2:30 in the morning, in what could be described as night before last, and man. I'd had a slight headache when I went to bed, but I figured I'd "sleep it off." Will you please remind me that any time a migraine is looming before bed, the chances of me "sleeping it off" are about 100 to one?

Wait. Does that mean not very likely? I never know about sports things.

I woke up with a migraine, and usually they're on one side or the other. As opposed to on one side or your mother. I mean, what a stupid phrase. Anyway, this one was on both sides, and it was going BOING BOING BOING in my head and oh, I felt awful.

I felt so awful that I was shaking, which has never happened before. My teeth were chattering. And to make matters worse, each slight movement brought a new wave of nausea, so. Yay.

The point is, despite my medication and so on, I was in so much agony that I couldn't fall asleep, and I just felt worse and worse, and I was running to the bathroom to release the hounds, as it were, till finally I barfed.

I'd banished the animals from the room so I could convalesce to my heart's content, but I swear to you Edsel just stood in the hallway wringing his paws all night. Whenever I'd emerge from one room or the other, I'd pat his head on the way past him, like we were playing a game of nausea duck, duck, goose.

So that was fun. Needless to say I missed work. I pretty much slept all day yesterday till finally I was alert enough to rent episodes of the Mary Tyler Moore Show. I'm on season one, and pretty much every episode so far is about someone taking advantage of her. "Mary, will you do this for me?" "Well, I don't really…oh, okayyyyy." You just want to tell her to grow a pair.

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The Needy Committee was beside themselves over me being home all day. Lily lost her head over it.

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Oh, good. The mailman. And Edsel's hackles. This is relaxing.

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SD got yer growth chart, right here.

The laundry room floor is disgusting. I'll clean it this weekend. In the meantime, try not to barf and I'll talk to you night before last.

Projecting,

June

P.S. Of COURSE I weighed myself after. One measly pound.

Friends · Fuck natural · I am high-maintenance · June's stupid life · My pets

Today I can’t think of a title. Post-migraine fog.

I had this snappy plastic lid that I used to cover the other half of Steely Dan's canned food, as he eats half a can at a time. Correction: he WOLFS half a can at a time. There's no trouble with SD's appetite. He is not a finicky eater. And every time he devours another bowl of food, I make a big fuss. "Oh, what a good kitty! You're going to be so big and strong!"

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tell steelee dan something he don't no.

Anyway, Edsel ate the lid. He got up on his stupid hind legs, took the goddamn lid off the counter, and chewed it up. Now it's a plastic waning gibbous on his bed.

Goddammit.

I had to leave work with a migraine yesterday. I went to lunch in the park with my coworker Molly, and I could feel it coming on then.

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By midafternoon, it was a screaming migraine of alarming proportions.

So I left and slept all afternoon, which was good, and when I woke up, the headache was gone, which is also good. But then I had the lethargy, where I just sat here like a lump, a personality-less lump, till it was socially acceptable to go to bed. I don't know who I was trying to impress. Iris couldn't even SEE me. Or the clock. So.

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I just noticed this in my downloaded pictures from yesterday. This was what I woke up to yesterday afternoon. I don't even remember taking this. Edsel should really look into getting a more pathetic look about him. Probably SD had been pouncing on him all afternoon and I'd slept through it. I can also see that my shirt is at the end of the bed, so I just ripped off my clothes and threw them anywhere before getting into bed. That's always a good sign.

Do you have any bad signs like that? Like, right after Ned and I broke up last year, I went to bed with my trench coat still on, stayed that way for about three hours.

Not a good sign.

Or if the clothes just get tossed to the floor (or, as seen above, the bed) before I fall asleep, I was either sick or drunk. I usually at least attempt to throw them in the hamper. I mean, the tights might be dangling off the sides a tad or whatever.

I keep meaning to tell you that when SDS pounces on one of the big cats, in other words 20 hours a day, and the big cat–whichever disgruntled one it is at the moment–growls? Edsel runs over there to break it up. I think he doesn't want anything happening to his kitten. No matter where he is, he tears into the room and gets between cat and kitten to protect Steely Dan, who if you ask me doesn't need any protecting. That cat is all boy.

Once at a funeral I met a woman who'd babysat Ned when he was a kid. "Oh, I remember you," she said. "You were all boy."

No one's ever said that about me. You know what else no one's ever called me? A tomboy. I know this comes as something of a shock. There was nothing worse than when the only kid available in the neighborhood was one of those awful tomboy girls.

"You wanna climb a tree, break an arm, then shoot something?"

Yeah, no. I got a whole apple barrel full of relatives' leftover makeup, a Barbie that's just DYING to put on some heels and a sparkly dress, and a tape recorder so we can act the whole thing out. Dafuq's wrong with you, teensy lesbian person?

"Ya wanna ride bikes down the trail and play kickball?"

Jesus. [Takes spangled lipstick brush and goes home.]

Don't you wish you could do that now, just go outside and meet friends? It was so easy. Marvin once told me about a new kid in his neighborhood, whom he met by riding his bike past the kid, yelling out, "Gay rider!" and then asking, "You wanna be friends?"

This charming opening line worked, and Marvin is still friends with that guy, as far as I know.

I'd better put on some clothes and get to work. I hope my head doesn't come back. Return of the Head. I went a good two months with zero migraines. SO WHY NOW? WHY? I've no idea.

Did I mention to you that I'm going on a vacation next week? I am. I'm going to the beach. I had no vacation this summer, so I'm going. The only days I took off were to kill my dog and take Ned to his colonoscopy, and this year I have three weeks of vacation so I'm taking advantage. I can't afford it, but I'm going anyway. Fuq it.

I will talk to you tomorrow, gay riders, and I can only hope tomorrow's post will be as pressing and necessary as this one was.

I hate everything · June's stupid life

Free puppies and a shot of tequila

Well, I'm back. That was a whirlwind trip to Michigan. Here is the last photo I took in Michigan. My mother and I were waiting at the airport, and I went to take a selfie, and she decided she'd "look better" if she raised her eyebrows like an insane person.

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Okay,  no.

So now I'm back and I kind of noticed that things aren't going so well.

Like, I try not to talk about work here so I won't be fired, but I switched my duties six months ago, and I suck at my new duties, and it's very disconcerting, having everything you do be awful. So now I feel like I'm not good at anything, and that's a rational response, I know. But it's hard not to feel like a failure AT EVERYTHING.

Also, I've been kind of seeing someone, sort of, and I got home last night and saw him, and that didn't go well, either. One of us was way more into The Big Reunion than the other. Ima let you guess which of us was more anticipatory. One of us had had a particularly bad day at work.

So that sucks. I kind of feel like that Hee Haw song that goes, If it weren't for bad luck I'd have no luck at all.

Woahhh.

Maybe my problem is that I quote Hee Haw songs. Don't you hate people who quote obscure song lyrics on social media? Cut it out. Why not just write, "I know a song you don't"?

I'm considering giving up on men, but I wonder, what is there in this life that gives you the same euphoria you get when you first meet someone? Is there anything? I mean other than drugs. I'm not going to start up on drugs at this late date.

Also, I quit my headache study. I could do the diet itself, that was easy-ish, but I missed work yesterday, then next week I'm scheduled to go on a small trip with The Man Who Wasn't Enthusiastic About Me Last Night so I'm missing three days, and on top of missing all that work, the headache place wants me there every two weeks. They wanted me to go there Wednesday morning. It just got unrealistic, missing work that often, even though technically I have the vacation time.

So, yeah, it just kind of feels like things aren't going quite right, you know what I mean? And I know some of you know the other thing that isn't going right, the thing I mentioned solely on Pie on the Face on Facebook, and let's remember if I tell it there, it's because I want it to be fairly confidential, so don't mention it here okay thank you very much.

I'd better get to the aforementioned work now, and maybe it'll be, like, Best Day Ever or something. Maybe we'll all get free work puppies and a shot of tequila.

I'll talk at you later.

Failing at life,

Joooooob

Family · June's stupid life

At one with the nail salon. And food.

No human has eaten more than I did today. People have won pie-eating contests and they consumed fewer calories than me.

I am home, in Saginaw, for what would have been my grandmother’s 100th birthday. We decided to celebrate it, and everybody came and it was a good time and also there was food.

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I got in yesterday afternoon, around 5:00, and as we were nearing the airport, we flew right over a pumpkin patch. It was very exciting. I saw all the orange round things in the ground, and right then I knew.

I demanded that we head straight to the manicure place, because of course I hadn’t known I was coming here till like Thursday or something, and I hadn’t had time to get m’brows waxed, and I didn’t want my whole extended family to be all, “When did we become related to Lloyd Bridges?”

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My mother, who is apparently two feet tall, and I went to the manicure place, and I am not sure if I’ve told you about my mother’s problem. When I lived in LA, I used to take her to the nail place in my neighborhood, and right next to it was a cute store that had things in it like clothes and jewelry and incense and soaps. You get my drift. I can no longer recall was it was called, and if anyone knows what that store used to be on Rowena, near Griffith Park, next to Nails Perfections–which I swear to god that’s what the nail place was called–I’d be much obliged.

Anyway, we’d get our nails done and head to the store, and EVERY TIME, EVERY.TIME. my mother would smear her manicure because she looked at something. I’d say to her, “Don’t fuck up your nails” and guess what she’d do.

Yesterday while she was STILL IN THE CHAIR, she fucked up her nails and had to have two fingers re-done. She is incapable of being still. I can be still. I am at one with the nail salon.

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Anyway it was good to be here with decent nails and brows, and to see Gus, my mother’s dog, who has managed to outlive Talulah, which is all he ever wanted anyway, as he attacked poor Talu when she was but a pup. And now Lu resides on my bookshelf, lookin’ ashy, and all is right in Gus’s world.

He was particularly enamored of my eyebrowns.

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My mother and my Aunt Kathy live two houses away, and the festivities were at my aunt’s house. I didn’t really commence eating till I got there. I had a green apple at my mother’s, and that was the last I saw of my healthy living. As soon as I got there I made coffee, and had a cinnamon roll my aunt had made, and then oh look! Cheese! And whaddaya know, guacamole! Ole! 

Those are my cousins, above, who you will note are much thinner than I am. I was the chubby cousin, and I can’t figure out why the stubborn pounds.

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Oh, look. More thin cousins. There was spaghetti and manicotti, and who was I to not take both? Oh, and bread. There was plenty of crusty bread, plus, hey, we can’t let the rest of the cinnamon rolls go to waste.

I took photos for y’all of all my Aunt Kathy’s bathrooms, which when it’s easier for me to upload photos I will do a whole Aunt Kathy’s Bathrooms tour for you. It’s number two on my list.

HAHAHAHAHA.

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Aunt Kathy has two dogs: this is Newbie. She has a brown eye and a blue eye, just like David Bowie. She was humping Iman the whole time we were there. Unnamed-6

This is my Uncle John. He is my aunt and mom’s older brother. He had his DNA done, as did my Aunt Kathy, and if anyone wonders what to get me for Christmas, I so want that Ancestry DNA test. Find out if I have a little black in me. #Goals.

Why don’t I just go ahead and date a man of color already. There was one man of color who asked me out this past year, and he was way cute, but he’s the one who didn’t think “That’s what SHE said” was funny “because I guess this academic just doesn’t see the humor in that stuff.”

So. Man of color who ISN’T a tool.

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Best Aunt Kathy and me photo, ever. I think I’m glad because someone’s pulling out more food.

Anyway, everyone stayed all afternoon, and we looked at old photos, and I got to hang with my OTHER cousin Katy, the non-lesbian one, who lives in Detroit.

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We’re the same age, and I used to go visit her at college, and no shenanigans were ever involved in those weekends. No, sir. Anyway even though years pass and we don’t see each other, once we do we find out we have all the same neuroses and medical issues, no matter where we are in life. Hashtag, Pee When We Sneeze.

Finally, everyone had to get back to their regularly scheduled dwellings in Detroit, and I ate everything so no one would have to clean up food, and now I’m back at my mother’s blogging to you. My plane leaves early tomorrow, so it was a whirlwind trip.

I leave you with photos of Aunt Kathy with Newbie and Uncle Bill with Roxie. I hope you hold on to your hat, but I loved those dogs.

Unnamed-8 Unnamed-9

Talk to you later.

XO, Joon and her food

P.S. I didn’t even MENTION the deviled eggs.

P.P.S. I swear to you, my mother just came in here to ask if I wanted something to eat.

...friend/Ned · Fuck natural · June's stupid life

June gets on her soapbox

Lemme tell you how Ned has ruined me. In case you wondered, "Gee. How has Ned ruined June?"

Today I was in the shower, and please try not to get too distracted by the hotness.

Dickinson-dressed-to-kill-shower

Do you know she was 48 when she did this scene? That's Angie Dickenson, for anyone reading this who's 19.

Anyway. I was in the shower today, and my soap is at that point where it's a mere sliver of itself. I always feel bad when I'm at that point, because I hate to waste any of it, but when it keeps SLIPPING OUT OF MY HAND, I get annoyed. I generally have a three-slip rule, and then I throw it away. But today, even though my soap is the size of a quarter, it hung on. I kept the sliver, but once I was out of the shower, I got a new box of it out and squooshed the new soap onto the old and put them in the shower thingie®, that metal thing that hangs over your shower head. Angie, what is it? You're in the shower, up there.

Is Angie Dickinson dead?

HOW NED HAS RUINED ME is that the box? I have to recycle the damn box now, the box the soap came in. Back during my year abroad, the shower was upstairs and the recycling was downstairs, and Ned would keep his empty box of unscented soap for sensitive skin on the windowsill for weeks, on its way to the recycle bin downstairs. I was often tempted to throw it out, but I never did cause I didn't wanna hear about it.

It just seemed so over the top, taking that small box all the way downstairs. It'd be like throwing an anniversary bash for your hamster. I don't know.

And now? I recycle the goddamn soap box. I mean, I'm all on one floor, so. If it were a monumental struggle like taking it all the way downstairs, I'm not sure I'd be so earth-friendly.

I guess that's all I have to tell you. I got paid last night, THANK GOD, and at lunch Ima go get my browns waxed, because Wilford Brimley. Ima see family I ain't seen in five years, and I don't want them to be all, Poor single June. With her pets and her Wilford Brimley eyebrowns.

"Well, we had a nice time at the party, except for June and her eyebrowns."

Who needs to get over saying "eyebrowns," do you think?

Okay, talk at you. I'll be flying tomorrow so maybe Sunday if there's time.

Travelocity-ly,

Joon

...friend/Ned · Family · June's stupid life

June’s deep secret revealed

The jig is up: I'm going to Michigan this weekend, and then again in November. Dear Person I Am Not Related To Who is in Michigan: No, probably not, re seeing you. When I DO get there, I get booked with family things pretty fast.

This coming weekend is what would have been my grandmother's 100th birthday, so my family is having a celebration for her, and I really hope my cousins are reading this because I'm about to say that as gramma's favorite, I really wanted to be there.

But what my mother didn't know is I'd secretly planned to go to Michigan in November for my mother's 70th birthday, so I didn't think I could do both.

Oh, I was being stealthy about my mother's birthday. I was having clandestine talks with my stepfather, which is nearly impossible because land line, no Facebook, shared email account. How do either of them have affairs?

One time I was talking to my stepfather about my plans and in walked my mother. "Well, I hope you feel better," he said. He's a doctor. It would be not unlike me to be calling him for medical advice. "Oh, that was good, Harry!" I said.

Nevertheless, somehow she figured it out.

Goddammit.

That still didn't solve the fact of two trips to Michigan in one month + June's income = sad. I told all this to Ned when I saw him at the old movie theater when I went to see Carrie the other night. Of course he was there. I figured he would be.

The next morning I got an email from him with an itinerary. "You're leaving for Michigan Saturday morning, returning Monday. Can you take Monday off?"

Ned. Not the worst ex-boyfriend anyone ever had.

So that's exciting. Now I'm laundering everything so that I don't have to wear a robe all weekend. I know I just said I had to launder everything the other day. Hashtag one load of the really popular stuff four days ago.

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This whole time I've been talking to you, Iris has been in the window meowing at me for no reason. I mean, I'm certain she thinks she has a reason. But I assure you she does not.

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Perhaps she's protesting this sitch in general.

Anyway, so I'm off. Tomorrow night I have a little cocktail party to attend and then Saturday morning I get on a plane and see my people. My cousin Aunt Katie the Lesbian won't be there–she has to work. She's a nurse. They work a lot.

I wonder if she can get a medical team together to take care of this nose? Oh, dear god, my nose. I hate it so.

I gotta go to work, as I am wont to do. I have negative $63 in checking, so I'm not at all excited about payday tomorrow. Payday? Eh. Take it or leave it. I've got my negative sixty-three dollars. (I keep forgetting I have savings. Oh, good! I'm not as destitute as you'd think.)

Okay, I'm off. What are you gonna do this weekend? Other than pester me because you're only 93 miles from Saginaw and we went to junior high together so wouldn't I have time to get in the car to meet up with you while I'm home for 48 hours.

XO,

Jooom

Jooom. Goddammit.

Death · Dooce envy · Friends · Hair · In the kitchen with June · June doesn't know any ugly people · Other people's pets

Pudding?

Would you like to know what annoys me?

"Wait. June. Something annoys you?"

When people use trite phrases. For example, remember in The Wizard of Oz, when they said, "Lions and tigers and bears–oh, my!" It bugs me when people paraphrase that. Linens and teacups and bags–oh, my! Hail and winds and rain–oh, my!

And this is why I particularly hated myself more than usual when I realized I was out of gel today and said to my own self, "Houston, we have a problem." You've no idea how much I loathed my own self right then, but we really do have a problem, Houston.

I'd turned it upside-down, the gel bottle, and it all ran out onto the sink's surface and dried like There's Something About Mary.

I wish I'd mention more movies today. I get paid thousands of dollars each time I throw one in.

I saw Carrie last night ($$$$!!!!) at my old movie theater I like to go to. I've never seen it in its entirety, and one of the bitchy girls in the movie is actually the woman who was eventually in Ferris Bueller ($$$$$!!!), the principal's assistant who says, "They all say he's a rightous dude."

Anyway, it's a good movie, Carrie is, and the insane mom of Carrie has June Hair. She's also probably younger than me now, which is sad. Everyone's younger than me. My doctor is still older, thank god. But he's, like, half-retired.

Did I mention sad?

Also, I need to work in the phrase "dirty pillows" when referring to women's breasts more often. That's what the mom with June Hair called them. That Carrie mom seemed to have some sort of disorder.

Other than that, yesterday yawned before me with screaming emergencies and then nothing and then another screaming emergency and then nothing again. It's like working in an emergency room, except with words. In between EMERGENCY! NOTHING! I talked to The Poet, and I was telling her that I knew I had to go to the store after work, because I was 100% out of something, and now the end of the day was drawing nigh and I could no longer recall what I was 100% out of.

"Pudding?" she asked.

Pudding. Because once you're out of pudding, you're out of groceries.

It turned out to be Prilosec, which I consume by the gallon, and I should probably really return to the throat guy. He's really tall and long. Wears a lot of turtlenecks. Anyway I never did get any, because I couldn't remember and then I had to scream to Carrie ($$$$!!!!), and now today I will GERD all day. I'll be the hurdy GERDy girl. So.

I wish I could stay and talk about the important issues of our time, but I must be off. We had a yard sale fundraiser thing at work yesterday and I got measuring cups and a bowl and a dish towel, all from my competition, The Pioneer Woman. My own workplace selling the competition.

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That clock back there I got for five years of service. It's very heavy, like an Academy Award.

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My coworker Slutty Pancakes won the bike. There was a pretty bike, and I wanted it even though I can't ride a bike. "You can put your dog in the basket!" I told her resentfully when she went to retrieve it yesterday. I'd already pictured Edsel in that basket.

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"The only dog that'd fit is the cremated one," she told me, and when she got home she texted me this:

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Dying. So to speak.

Okay, I said I was going 72,000 words ago.

XO, Joooon

...friend/Ned · Family · Friends · June's stupid life · June's vast love of eagles

But the liver and child reunion is only a motion away

I probably shouldn't be workout buddies with my ex-boyfriend, but so what. If you'll recall, from your Big Book of June Events, Ned was complaining of neck pain, and with my medical degree and minor in psychology, I determined he had all sorts of repressed feelings that were manifesting in physical sensations,

a thing I informed him of right before the call came that he had a broken neck. Okay, DR. JUNE.

His (actual) doctor told him that he shouldn't go to the gym, or ride his bike as if he's trying to win some race, and as a result Ned is depressed and feels fat. "Can you take walks?" I asked. So now, of course, being Ned, he walks at 10:00, he walks at 3:00, then comes over right after work to walk with Edsel and me, and what he does not know is without discussing it, our walks just got 2,000 times longer.

As soon as he pulls up now, Edsel gets twitterpated, because not only is it UNKKLE NED! O EDSUL GOD!, it also WALK TIMES! O EDSUL GOD!!

Yesterday we saw a downed tree–a whole tree!!–in the park. "Want to walk down there and look at it?" asked Ned. Edsel and I clutched our pearls. "Down that steep hill?"

Ned led Eds and me down that hill, Eds' dainty paws approaching cautiously down. Just as we were near the tree, Ned said, "Watch out for black snakes," and that's when the dog and I had to be revived.

In the meantime, I went back to the headache study place yesterday so they could check me out. Check it out now, funk soul brother. I weigh TWO POUNDS MORE, and why, god? Oh Edsul god. But my blood pressure is 14 over 12.

Here are some things that irk me about being in this study.

  1. "Oh, will you tell me what you're doing for the study? I'll do it too and NO MORE MIGRAINES!" First of all, I'm in one of three groups, so I have no idea if I'm in the real group or not. Second, I'm in the middle of what's clearly a multimillion-dollar study, and giving away their secrets seems …unseemly. "Thank you," said the nurse yesterday when I told her I said no to people who were asking for details and recipes and so on. So my instinct was correct on that.
  2. People think it's a traditional migraine diet. "Can you have chocolate?" "Oh, wait, you're not supposed to have wine, right?" It's not the regular stuff we already associate with being triggers. It's new. That's why it's a study.

When I got to the migraine place yesterday on campus, I was ushered to a room where I sat right underneath a 2015 Liver Transplant Reunion calendar. The nurse bustled in, took my lack of blood pressure, asked me a few questions, but all I could think of was how bad I want a 2015 Liver Transplant Reunion calendar. I imagine in 2017 they will have covered the 2016 reunion, right? And they'll make another calendar, right?

I'm just saying, family. Christmas is right around the corner.

Finally, I admitted to the beleaguered nurse assigned to me for six months how enamored I was of the Liver Reunion calendar. "You know, I've never noticed that before," she said.

I told her about the grandmother I'm turning into having a Holocaust calendar every year. She clearly donated to some organization, and as a reward, they'd send her this cheery Holocaust calendar, a thing that kept arriving even after her death. She would have enjoyed getting a posthumous calendar. The uselessness of it would have tickled her.

And if you knew the grandmother I'm turning into, knowing that her cheery personality had an annual Holocaust calendar is even better. Also, if you knew her, it was highly likely she did not like you.

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After my visit, I passed Chris and Lilly's store on the way home, and once again they were not there, leading me to now believe they do not really OWN a store and just made that up so I wouldn't feel sorry for them. I sent this image to Lilly, saying, "I just shoplifted all this from your store."

I got a mum, obvs, and some bird seed, as I have put the bird feeder on the other side of the window from the cat condo, in a flash of brilliance. Steely Dan likes to sit there with Iris and chitter at birds.

However, the other day I was trying to leave but I could not find SD. I looked in all his regular spots, till finally in desperation I headed to my closet and there he was, on the top shelf, sleeping on one of my purses. HOW DID HE GET UP THERE?

When I got home later I moved the purses and put a little blanket there.

Anyway, I also got a stick of duck jerky for Edsel which was gone so fast I couldn't even photograph him eating it, and finally some lavender rosemary lip balm which is to die for.

The woman at the checkout counter was ringing up someone else, and when he left he said, "I love you."

"I love you too," she said as he left.

"Wow, friendly place," I said, handing her my stuff.

She laughed. "That was my nephew."

I signed for my things and as I headed for the door, I called, "I love you!"

I didn't tell her I knew Chris and Lilly. I spared them that.

I have to go to work now, because gotta keep myself in duck jerky, but yesterday we were kibbitzing around on Facebook and got on the topic of your families and me. Do you tell your family and/or friends about this blog, and if so, are they sick to death of hearing about some woman they've never met?

Do tell. I find myself wanting to quote you guys sometimes and it's just easier to say, "A friend of mine…" "A friend of mine says you can't even get hookers and blow for $40,000 a year." That sort of thing.

See you at the 2016 Liver Reunion.

June

...friend/Ned · Film · Food and Drink · Health · June can't keep a man · June's stupid life · Los Angeles · Marvin · My Bible and Wall Street obsessions · My pets

June’s going to kiss you. She won’t even wait.

I'm trying to think of anything of note that happened to me this weekend after The Hair Incident of Saturday, but mostly I had migraines on and off.

TAAA-DAAAA! Thanks, June. Thank god I'm here today. Took time out to visit yer ass.

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Yesterday was finally a nice day, after 46 days and nights of rain, so Edsel and I took a long walk, and then practiced our non-expressions.

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Then we practiced our "stuffed and mounted" look.

It really was an excellent day yesterday. The kind of fall day where it's still warm, but not remotely oppressive, and you think, "Do I need a coat?" because it's breezy, but then you don't. I had to get some work done yesterday, which sucked because who wants to think of work on a Sunday. Even God doesn't. Even God's all, screw that. I'm restin'. Sittin' on the sofa on a Sunday afternoon. Goin' to the candidate's debate.

But I also went to a very bad movie. It was called The Last Film Festival and even though Jacqueline Bissett is on it with her hoots, it was not worth it. Her hoots are still fabulous. Girlfriend must've had 'em lifted or whatever. They were divine.

The movie was not.

Also, I have to sneak my own popcorn into the movie now, as I am not allowed to eat movie popcorn on my migraine diet. Except the thing is, my popcorn that I make with Parmesan cheese and nutritional yeast is 48 times better than that block of salt they sell at the movies. Shoulda been doing that all along.

I remember one of my very first conversations with Ned was about what we eat at the movies, and he was big into his ice (he likes that choppy ice, what's it called? Where it's like little slivers that you can't avoid? I hate that kind of ice). Re popcorn, we were both strongly non-butter people.

But even without that disgusting butter, eating movie popcorn is like after you've made out with Lot's Wife.

How much have you missed my Lot's Wife humor?

I remember having this conversation with him and being excited that he was rich enough to get snacks at the movies. Marvin used to discourage me from snacks. "Why do we need popcorn?"

We're divorced now.

Did I ever tell you about when we went to the movies in LA, and the ticket taker greeted us from behind the counter? She was seated. "Oh, don't get up," Marvin said, really snotty-like.

We walked over there and she tore our tickets from our wheelchair.

You know that feeling where your blood turns to ice?

Anyway, in summation. BYOP is better than BYOP. Bring Your Own Popcorn/Buy Your Own Popcorn. Down with BYOP. Yeah, you know me.

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In the meantime, I'm trying to find ways to keep the World's Most Rambunctious Kitten amused. He is the cat version of Lottie. I can't have a sedate pet. No one mention Stanley, a thing I regret EVERY DAY. Anyway, he likes bird and squirrel videos, SDSilverman does. He acts just how you WANT a cat to react to them. All my other cats have been bored and look around at everything else when I get these videos out. Not Steely Dan.

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Also, no one wants to play with that spitty ball, Edsel. No one.

I'd better go. Did you watch the ridiculous presidential debate last night? When did we all stop being grownups?

Dignifiedly, in her smoking jacket and ascot,

June

P.S. After I'm done writing these posts, I always go over to my categories and pick some that apply. It just occurred to me that it's the same as hashtagging. God, I'm annoying.

I am berserk · June's stupid life

Hurr-icane

So, it's hurricane-al here. I mean, it's raining nonstop and also hard and the park is flooded and it's blowy out and Edsel won't pee. I had to walk into the yard with him this morning, getting my pajamas wet, and stand there and force him to pee. I considered getting an umbrella for him so he'd go, but then I remembered my pride.

Heh.

The hurricaniacal weather did not stop me from gettin' my hurr done today, because hashtag perseverance. Every time I go to my hairdresser–every time!!–it's raining. I don't know what that is. But she works in this old mill

DOWN BY THE OLD MILL STREAM!

WHERE I FIRST MET YOUUUUU.

Anyway, she works in this old mill, and there's exposed brick and big ol' windows and it's a fabulous place to watch the rain. She got m'roots covered, because portrait of June-ian Gray, over here. Legend of GrayLocks, going on. If I were a tea, I'd be Earl Grey.

Once we were done, she blew me straight, and then I went outside covering my hair like a black woman. I usually don't care that much if my hurr gets wet, because hardcore tomboy, but today I did because new blowout.

How much do you wish I wouldn't say "hurr"? Who am I, Madea?

By the time I crossed the street and the parking lot, I was starting to resemble Garth, of Wayne and Garth. I was Babe-alocious. Not.

Photo on 10-8-16 at 6.27 PM
Hurr of the dog.

I headed to PetSmart, because I needed more Steely Dan kitten food. I've been feeding him canned food and his fur is like velvet now. I stupidly didn't grab any sort of hand cart or anything, mostly because I have no idea where PetSmart puts their carts. Despite this, I loaded up on two sizes of cans, plus a bag of dry kitten food, because trying not to spend a fortune on cans so supplementing a little. It's like Hamburger Helper but for kittens. Furburger Helper.

Wait.

And at the last minute I grabbed 107 of those fur-covered mice, the cheap ones, because SD fucking loves them and they disappear and I blame Edsel, as I saw him eat one once.

The point is, they loaded the 47 cans, bag of food, and 34595934093 fur mice into one plastic bag, which was fine with me because next I had to walk to the grocery store next door. They're in the same strip mall, but it is something of a walk in the blinding wind and rain of a hurricane-ish day.

You can imagine my hurr by the time I entered the store.

I am 100% out of laundry detergent, a thing I've been out of since early this week, and tomorrow I will have to wear my teal homecoming dress from 1982 unless I do laundry tonight.

So I got some laundry stuff and headed to the self-checkout, so I could check myself out and hey, good lookin'. I'll be back to pick myself up later. It'd be funny if it weren't so sad and true. Hashtag WHAT sex in 2016.

The point of this whole story is once I bought the laundry stuff and picked up my bags?

My PetSmart bag broke into a million pieces.

Cat food cans, other cat food cans, cat food cans for days, rolled all over the grocery store. Fur mice flew in all directions. The bag fell to the ground with a FLOOMP.

Everyone ran around trying to catch all the rolling cans and bring them to me, the woman wearing her Girl Scout uniform because everything else was dirty, the woman with gigantic giant big old hurricane hurr, the woman who was clearly

A

Crazy

Cat

Lady.

And right then I knew. My transformation is complete.

Sadly. Harriedly.

June

I hate everything · June's stupid life

June be stress

Yesterday the power went out–a thing that made Edsel scared and I don't know why other than that he could feel my annoyance, probably. He formed a letter C over his breakfast dish and wouldn't eat till I told him to. Anyway, I had to wash my hair and then work from my couch, on my phone, till my hair was dry enough to be presentable.

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In the meantime, my temporary coworkers created a fighty fuss.

Now today I have to get to work early, and Lu annoy, because yesterday wasn't the world's most stressful day or anything. So I'll show you pictures from yesterday and then I gotta go. Am I stressed at all? Jesus.

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Someone on Facebook took this picture IN Michigan of trees looking LIKE Michigan. He put up the photo with a bunch of hashtags like MichiganLove and MichiganForever and MichiganHandJob and so on, and someone left a comment:

"I see Michigan down at the end, there! In the trees!"

Oh my god. I hate people.

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I finished one thing at home, then screamed to work and finished another thing in my hiding place, because as soon as I got there, "Hey June! Did you see this thing online!?" "Hey June! Did you see what we did to this one guy's desk?"

Hey, June!

Oh my god. I hate people.

Then as soon as that was done, I had an hour for lunch and then I had to scream to a book shop, above (note crazed look) for an all-afternoon meeting. On the way there, my phone is all, YOU HAVE A MEETING IN THE OFFICE IN ONE MINUTE!

What?

So I screamed back, trying to call everyone who was in the meeting and I love people who don't pick up and then who further call you back when they haven't listened to your voice mail. Thanks for the efficiency. Sure, I have time to say it all over again. Your time is way more valuable, you're right.

"June, that meeting is tomorrow."

Hey, June.

So WHY DID IT ALERT ME?

Screamed back, met all afternoon.

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Screamed home, got m'Stitch Fix.

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My mirrors don't look disgusting till I take a photo with them.

After that, I just sat here in misery till it was time to go to bed. Now I have to be at work in 8 minutes.

Hey, June.

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

Sloe Gin. Take it easy.

This weekend, I went to this antique shop I like–

…aaaaaand I just bit my canker sore. GODDAMMIT. I've been eating a lot of tomatoes, so naturally then I got a canker sore, and it won't go away, till finally I went to CVS after work yesterday because I COULDN'T STAND IT ANYMORE, and got this $12 medicine that's supposed to make it go away overnight, and now today here it still is plus I've bitten it while I'm eating the daily blueberry flax muffins.

Hate.

Anyway, this weekend, I went to that one antiques store that I told you about before, Adelaide's, to just look at that white vanity again, and of course they were closed and Dear Businesses That Close on Sunday: Fuck you.

So to assuage my sad heart I went to a different store, where I saw a little vase that is the same pattern as my great-grandmother's china, which I have and is my most prized possession. "Oh my god!" I said, excited, then "Oh my god!" I said, crestfallen, because $68.

And then yesterday, Ned bought it for me. "Do you have a highligher?" he asked me last night over the phone, at like 8:30 p.m. He's studying for this thing at work. "I do. I have no idea why," I told him, and what would be really scary is if one of you knew why. "Jooon, don't you remember when you highlighted the world?" (Big Book of June Events) (BBoJE) 

Anyway, he came over with this, the vase that looks like a labia, because I'd told him about it, and now I am much pleased. It's good to have a rich ex-boyfriend.

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Those swans were also my great-grandmother's (mother to the grandmother I'm turning into), and the little bowls are her china pattern. The rosy plates are not, and I forgot where I got those but I like them and I realize I am a grandma in the '50s.

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Also, I still have a kitten. He is the cat version of Lottie. Remember how Lottie was always always always a rambunctious dick?

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Meet Steely Dan Silverman. Rambunctious replacement.

It's like when Alex P. Keaton liked Tracy, and then she left, and they replaced her with another smart, funny, pretty girl.

You know how I took that picture of the cats, above, all eating? SD is still over there eating. It's not even his food. He already had his canned kitten food, garnished by his dry Science Diet that he hates, and now he's onto Grownup Kitty Food For Adults Only Ex Ex Ex You Must Be 18 or Older to Enter.

Right near my hometown, there was an X-rated drive-in, which we were dying to go to. So a bunch of us got in Kevin W's car and drove there, with a bag of popcorn and inevitably some kind of teenage liquor such as sloe gin.

Have you ever, in your adult life, had sloe gin? What about Goldschlåger? It doesn't come up as often as you thought it would.

The point is, the ticket guy was all, "How old are you?"

"Eighteen," I told him, looking right at him, a practiced liar, and hello, mom.

"You?" he asked Donna.

"Oh, 18!" she said, having to be dramatic about it. Like, oh! I am so 18! You wouldn't even believe how 18 I am.

"What year were you born?" he asked Kevin W, throwing a monkey wrench into things.

"Nineteen sixty-fi–oh, shit," said Kevin.

One year. He couldn't have thought fast and taken one damn year off his birth year? ONE YEAR.

We took our popcorn and our Champale and drove home.

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I did eventually get to that drive-in, and I recall one scene where the Cream of Wheat box came to life in this woman's kitchen, and instead of, say, panicking that you'd been making nutritious cereal one minute and a large fictional man with a chef's hat was in your kitchen the next, the star of our fine program enriched his farina, if you know which way my cereal steam is blowing.

Whatever hapless gent took my high school best friend Donna and me to said show was probably ruing the idea, because instead of some hot frizzy-haired three-way in his station wagon that he may have been hoping for (my high school best friend has EXACT-REPLICA JUNE HAIR), instead he got hours of Donna and me being in hysterics over the Cream of Wheat guy just appearing in your kitchen.

"Oh, hello! Love that bow tie. Where'd you get that? Hey, let me get naked and cream your wheat."

"Oh, I'm glad you're here. Poppin' Fresh left me six months ago and I've been so lonely."

I have no idea how I got on this tangent.

Anyway, I guess that's all my news, except it's finally autumnal here and you aren't Elvis in concert by 8 a.m., which is lovely. You aren't Whitney Houston face before you even roll into work.

Before I go, I'd like to just say that I know you were all pulling for me to get the Nobel Prize in physics and by now you must know I was passed over yet again. That does not mean there isn't a next year. One day, the world will see just what a physics pro I've become.

I gotta go. Juan Valdez just showed up in the kitchen. Well, helloooooo!

At Two With Nature · Gardening

Removing the ’70s bush

I know you're sick of hearing me talk about how I'm eating the flaxseed muffins I made myself yesterday, with whole-wheat flour, which who even knew that was a thing. But lemme tell you, I outdid myself. They.Are.Delicious.

I've been eating this damn healthy food for two weeks now, and you all keep asking if my headaches are gone. NOT YET. I mean, I have only had one mild one, on Friday, after that disastrous day, but that's not an unusual amount for me. I can go two or three weeks, and then I'll get 800 in a row.

The point of this study is if this diet affects my head long term. And for all I know, I'm in the control group and I'm doing this stupid whole grains, fresh fruit, lots of fish crap for naught.

In the meantime, let's talk about my yard. Ooo, June! Don't ever stop! You rivet me!

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So here's my yard now, and I know it's cute and all, I do. But remember how my back yard was mud, and all I had was mud, and my name was mud, and if I sang the blues I'd be Muddy Waters? Remember that? I had a series of men come over and tell me what I should do, and one guy had suggestions I didn't want, but when we walked back to his truck, he said, "You know, I could make your front yard so cute."

Then he started telling me his plans. Like, making the monkey grass, there, more symmetrical, and once he mentioned how asymmetrical it was I got bothered by it. And getting rid of my '70s bushes and putting in low hydrangeas and wrapping jasmine around the white posts and I WAS SO SOLD.

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Seventies bushes. Gone. And I'm getting a flower box under the window in the top photo!!

So, first of all I hired him to cut my lawn and he does 20,000 times better of a job than the last guy, who was a nice guy but he didn't edge or blow and this all sounds dirty. My yard makes me pleased every time I come home.

New Lawn Guy (let's call him Lawn Greene) came over this weekend, and drew me a little plan, which I am now obsessed with.

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I mean, I can only pay him do to a very little at a time. Like, step one, go get the jasmine. That's it for now. So, all told, this will take around five years, but what else have I got to do?

Oh, it's so exciting.

I invited the guy in Saturday, so he could draw me his little blueprint, and naturally Edsel greeted him at the door with something in his mouth. Edsel cannot go to the door empty-mouthed, it just wouldn't be fittin'. So instead he brings his toy, or my shoe, or if he's desperate, the remote or a piece of paper.

"Oh, he's friendly now," said the lawn guy.

"Does he bark at you when you're here to cut the lawn?"

"June, I wouldn't be surprised if this dog killed an intruder. He goes to the windows and snarls and shows his teeth and even drools. I've actually seen his dripping fangs."

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not to fuk wif edzul.

This dog. This dog right here. With the doilies and the simpering and the, okay, few puppy attempted murders under his–well, he'd never wear a belt. Under his Ashley Wilkes milksop gold sash.

Edsel is a man of many mysteries. He's a boiling caldron under that rangy frame.

Yesterday was our six-year anniversary, Edsel's and mine. He and I have had quite a stupid year. It was also the one-year anniversary of when I moved out of my year abroad and into Kaye's, a thing I hadn't noted till Google Photos showed me what I was doing a year ago. I think that's a good sign, that I didn't note it and sit in my rocker and be Miss Havisham about it.

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we tuffer than dat

All right, I've got to go. How many of you think I will forget to bring the laptop back to work and have to turn around and go get it once I've arrived? How many?

Bloomingly,

Jooon

I hate everything · June's stupid life

June has a dumb day

The batteries have been dying on this keyboard for weeks, and every day my computer hysterically waves its arms at me and tries to grab me by the lapels so I'll listen. "Your keyboard battery is DYING. DO something about it, June!" [shake shake shake of my lapels]

Of course I ignored it till I got here today and my keyboard was Marcel Marceau. I typed a whole sentence, happily, before I looked up and my screen was as unblemished and untouched as The Hollywood Medium. By a girl, anyway. This is only funny if you're obsessed with The Hollywood Medium as I am. In fact, I could probably get him to communicate with my now-dead battery. "It says you let it go and die alone, but it's at peace now."

Do you know what else annoys me, other than histrionic messages from your computer like that along with, oh, everything? Is when stuff BOUNCES at the bottom of my screen. Like, I plug my phone into the computer, and the photo icon bounce-bounce-bounces at me at the bottom of the screen.

Leave me alone. God. I'm doing stuff.

Anyway, Friday was stupid.

I got up on time, but somehow with feeding Steely Dan separately and changing his litter, then feeding the regularly scheduled cats and changing their litter, then letting out Edsel and letting in Edsel and feeding Edsel, and then making my goddamn smoothie with flax seed in it for my headache diet, all of a sudden it was 8:30 and I'd not come over here to write a thing.

So I screamed to work and just as I was making the last left turn to the driveway of my office, said smoothie FELL out of the bad cupholders (Dear Mini Cooper: Work on those cupholders) and SPLAYED all over my car. My new car. My newish Jewish car.

(He just FEELS Jewish. I know from feeling Jews.)

So when I got to work I had to bring the car rug with me, splooping smoothie all down the parking lot, then I had to rinse it off and go back to my car and blot blot blot the spills and thank god we had carpet cleaner at work (long story) so I used that, and by the time I did all that and got inside and turned on my computer, I realized I was 4 minutes late for a meeting.

Goddammit.

I screamed over to said meeting and there's my boss's boss in said meeting.

Goddammit.

"Oh, good, June's here. Now we can start."

Goddammit.

It turned out to be a meeting about some work I'd done earlier, and now it was being reviewed and it needed some changes and the other person I worked with on it was out for the day and oh, you need to have it done way before end of day because an art person needs to work on it and then it gets reviewed again and goes to the client today no matter what.

Goddammit.

So I had to hide all day and think funny thoughts, trying to be clever under the gun and it was the kind of day where I never even peed or went to lunch or looked up. I got everything done before 4:00, then spent from 4:30 to 5:30 doing the fixes after the next review, and then I had to take my computer home to stay alert to all the other changes that might come my way.

As I was tensely driving home (after a very weird 15 minutes on the floor of my desk-al area, trying to figure out which of the labyrinth of cords was the laptop charger), my phone rang. My new car has this fabulous thing where my phone rings out my radio speakers, then I hit a button with a picture of a phone handle (a phone handle like the kind of handle we haven't spoken into since 1973, oddly) and I can just SIT THERE in my car and SPEAK ALOUD and the person on the other end hears me with my phone in my purse the whole time. Oh, it's like the future.

"Hello," I said, with the warmth of an ice sculpture.

"It's Ned," said Ned. "Dude, we have that play tonight, did you get my email?"

Goddammit.

Ned spent MORE THAN A HUNDRED DOLLARS on theater tickets 17 months ago or something for this play I said I'd go to, which sounded like a great idea 17 months ago when I hadn't had the world's tense-est day.

"Goddammit," I said, for a change, and I told him about my day. It was clear he wasn't going to say, oh, never mind. It's fine if you want to stay home, get in the bath, and open a wrist.

So I got home, ready to finish whatever needed finishing for work, then scream off to the damn play. But when I got to my house, the damn door wouldn't unlock.

GODDAMMIT.

Sometimes it jams, and I warned my tenants back when I had tenants, and once they called me and said, Yeah, we just can't get in the house. It hasn't happened to me in ages, but of course it had to happen then.

"@%%#%$&!!!" I screeched, at the top of my lungs, and have I ever mentioned I think the neighbors just make popcorn and wait?

Oh, I was mad. But just as I finished swearing, the door popped open–it just needed to be yelled at–and on the other side was Edsel, curled into a letter C that was so hard he was practically an O. Oh, he was curled over, and cowering, and I FELT LIKE A DICK.

"Oh, Edsel, I wasn't mad at you!" I said, walking over to him. He wagged his tail hysterically, which is what he does when he's afraid. I petted him and hugged him till he finally got dog-shaped again, then he got a treat, and then I checked the 100 emails from work I'd gotten during my six-minute commute home.

Finally I was done with work, so I showered and put on theater clothes (ill-fitting period pieces) and went to my vanity to put on theater makeup (kabuki), and as soon as I took something off the vanity? The glass in the middle crashed down, causing all my stuff to roll around the floor.

GOD

DAMMIT.

We got to the play on time, but Ned insisted we park in this parking structure because there's a little catwalk from the lot to the playhouse, and I think he just likes the idea of going on it.

"Can you drop me off at the door of the theater and then you park?" I asked. I've never asked Ned to do anything fussy like that before, not when it's raining, not ever, but my knees are KILLING me lately, and I know it's arthritis, but it was tolerable till recently. My heels that night, my theater heels, made them worse.

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At least he fed me after. For dinner, I had wine.

Ned is usually extremely gentlemanly, and I have no idea why he refused, and not only refused, but acted like I was the world's biggest fusspot for asking. It was a weird reaction, and then of course we had to wait in line to pull into said lot, because Friday night, and then any spots near that walkway were of course gone, because everyone else going to play because Friday night.

So we had to park two stories up from that catwalk entry, and then Ned insisted we TAKE THE STAIRS down instead of the elevator, and I literally had to walk sideways the way my grandma used to do. Then we had to walk across another floor to get to the walkway, and once we were in the theater?

Two flights of stairs to the ticket counter. Alternatively, I could have been dropped off at the door ON THE SAME FLOOR as the ticket counter and the stage.

The play was okay, but then after? I said I really had to take the elevator to our parking spot, so we did, but then?

We couldn't find the car. We just couldn't. "I really think it's–" Ned kept saying, "Or maybe it's…"

We walked up and down every flight of stairs in that parking lot at least two times. At this point I wanted to cry, plus also I was getting a migraine because what tension?

"I am so sorry," said Ned, and that is when I pushed him off the parking structure, and I've already been acquitted because when I told this story everyone said, Well, yeah. You go, girl.

Finally I went home and went to bed, all the stuff from my vanity still splayed on the floor.

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Steely Dan played with that stuff all night. Rolled it along the hardwood.

Goddammit.

The end.