Death · June's stupid life

June. Silently bearing her cold since…oh, shut up.

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I still have a cold.

Oh my GOD, I feel miserable. I'm all cloudy and achy, and I absolutely have to go to work today; there's a big meeting with big bigwigs from bigwig-ness at work, of which I am the subject. Well, not me. But my newsletter. I'm sure you know I am the editor of my company newsletter, not that I like to brag. Anyway, it's going digital and today is the day the development team shows it off. And since it's MY newsletter, I can hardly not show.

But, oh, how I wish to be shivering in bed all day. But you know how stoic I am. I'll muddle through. I'll carry on. And no one sitting around me will be privy to my suffering at all.

In the meantime, I've showered nonce and have Halle-Barry-at-the-Oscars hair.

WHAT WAS WITH THE HAIR? It was like it was Sunday afternoon and she was watching HGTV in her pajamas and said, "Oh, HELL, I have the Oscars. I clean forgot." Then pulled on a dress and forgot her hair.

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Other than that, Halle Barry is doing a good job of still looking good, which is more than I can say for myself right now.

Oh! Also, 348 of you took my Survey Monkey thing, and it turns out when you opt for the free version of Survey Monkey, those motherfuckers only show you the first 100 responses.

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As you can sort of see (does it look blurry to you or is that my fever talking?), most of you selected "home improvement" for what I should do with my big $524. I have texted Alf, my handyman, and I am not kidding, his name is Alf. When he's done eating cats he said he'd give me an estimate.

I really wish I could see all 348 responses, because I'd love to justify blowing it on cosmetics. Since Kayeeee laid down the law, I have finished not one but TWO things of foundation in my drawer, used up god knows how many tubes of mascara that'd been lingering in there, and my lipstick choices are abominable at the moment. Let's review…

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This is a color called Cafe Au Lait, and I don't mind the color, but it's coffee-flavored, and who wants to taste like coffee?

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This is Azalea. I look insane when I have it on. Seriously. One swipe and I'm certifiable. I blend it with other, less awful, colors.

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Apparently, "Dusty Rose" is a euphemism for "burnt orange that makes you look like 1979 grandma."

That's it! Those are the dregs. In my purse I have a tinted Burt's Bees I wear constantly and a brown, yes, brown, I had no business buying that was applied once and I still have PTSD over it.

Anyway. I can't wait to plow through those so I can get more, along with foundation, and also all my eye shadow is sad.

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Dang. That's a lot of eye shadow. I'm never gonna qualify for new stuff.

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But back to my illness. Because I'd hate for you to forget. Is there ever NOT something hanging on the dining room chair? Anyway. Steely Dickus took full advantage of having a feverish lap to lounge on. He was there all day; at one point, Lily was on me, and he just sat on her face, like she wasn't even existing. He doesn't care. And she LET him! Lily was all, "Well. Guess Lilee live in fur wurld now."

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Also, Edsel tolerated a tail flapping on his head. Why does everyone here let this interloper order them around? I guess they needed a new leader since Tallulah. Yesterday was the 9th anniversary of the day I found Tallulah. That was a good time to think about.

I'd better cloudily get in the shower and foggily get dressed so I can be chipper at that important meeting today. I'll bear it silently for the rest of the day, as I do. No one will be the wiser. I hate to burden others with my illness.

…I just tried to find a still image of Scarlet O'Hara in bed after her miscarriage, looking dramatic, but I couldn't find one. What I DID find was this, and now I'm irritated.

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That pasty, namby-pamby…

You know what she'd do? She'd bear her cold silently, work hard at her desk, till she fell over from it. "I'm all right," she'd whisper, as the color drained from her…oh. Right. Well, still. She's say she was all right. You'd never be able to tell. Say, Melanie looks alabaster and lifeless. Wonder what's for lunch?

Here I am, off to work. Don't worry about me.

I'll…

…be….

….fine

Fw_fainting-victorian-lady1

June's stupid life · Money

Take a survey; control June’s life

I haven't wanted to ruin what I'm certain has been a stellar weekend for you, but I've been under the weather. I know. See? I knew your mood would plummet.

Turning to your Big Binder of June Events (at this point it pretty much has to be a binder), you'll recall that my throat hurt earlier in the week, and then I rallied, and then boom. I had a sinus infection. I won't disgust you with the details, but I am not bringing sexy back. I never even purchased sexy in the first place, this weekend.

But my chills and aches are not why I brought you all here today, although you'll surely catch those now that you're Inside June. I brought you here today to help me with my windfall. M'windfall, as some might say. And those some are assholes.

I hunched out to the mailbox yesterday afternoon, because when I fell ill it's important that I walk all hunched over, so the cats feel bad for me and so on. I almost didn't open the letter from my mortgage company, because all I do is save the unopened bill to remind me to pay it, then pay it over the phone each month. But for some reason I did open it.

A check fell out.

I figured it was one of those phony checks, where if you get yourself more into debt you can cash it. But in fact, just like in Monopoly, they overestimated my escrow, whatever that means, and I had a big $524 coming to me.

If you're as broke as I am, this is big news. So now the check is just sitting there, waiting to be spent, and I can't decide what to do with it? Do I save it? (borrrrrring) Do I throw it at the credit card debt, which by the way will be a spit in the ocean but still?

Do I spend it on things that need doing around the home? For example, my motion light at the side of the house burnt out, and my handyman Alf will have to get up on big-ass ladder or a cherry picker or something to replace it. Also he found a screen in part of the roof that fell out, which could be the gateway to hell for Steely Beelzebub and his great escapes.

Alternatively, I need my chair recovered, which is supposed to cost $700, but I could throw $524 at the problem and come up with the rest.

So, what say you? Fortunately, here is a survey for you to fill out, and if you have an alternative suggestion, you could leave that in my comments.

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Click here for the link to the survey.

Thanks! Come back tomorrow for my snotty comments on the Oscars, both literally and figuratively.

...friend/Ned · Chicken · Food and Drink · I am berserk

Taquit-oh, June

Ned has to move. Did I tell you that? Our gaylord–well, HIS gaylord, is selling the place, a thing we distinctly asked him about in 2014 when we moved in, and he said he had no intention of selling.

Of course, I'm one to talk, having kicked out my poor tenant, fmr., after just one year.

Speaking of that whole debacle, since Ned has to move and all, it's thrown him into quite the tizzy. I know you don't KNOW Ned, but perhaps you've been able to glean that change is not something he embraces with glee. Also, decision-making. Not his strong suit.

"I'm going to go look at a house right now," Ned texted (text) me right at the end of the day.

"You want me to come with you?" I asked, knowing that was dumb.

"Yes," he said.

I knew he did. I knew that's why he was telling me. I knew he'd be thrown into panic at having to possibly make a decision, and that he needed someone to remind him of the home's good and bad points so he could obsess for 45 years. I also knew I had no business going to look at a house with Ned.

So I put the address in my phone and off I went. Because wise. Wise old owl. Wise old fat owl, according to some.

It was in his grandparents' neighborhood. They'd lived in a tree-lined part of town with a private trail and lake, which Ned remembers fishing and swimming in as a kid. "Oh, it'd be cool if you lived here. You could go to the same job your grandfather did (Ned works for a family business), live in his neighborhood. You'd be just like your grandfather, except, you know, with no wife or kids or commitment whatsoever."

Hey, passive. How's your aggressive?

There turned out to be a huge monkey mural in the living room, which if you ask me is a selling point, but Ned was not taken with the idea. The good news is he doesn't have to debate whether to take the house. "You want to go to dinner?" he asked, and who am I to turn down a free meal and all of you are shouting "JUST GO HOME, JUNE. YOU HAVE FINE CHEF BOY-AR-DEE PRODUCTS RIGHT AT HOME WHERE IT'S SAFE. JUNE."

So I got in the car and we headed to our Mexican restaurant. "Our," fmr.

It's one of those nondescript places, in a strip of stores, that's really good. TinaDoris and her spouse took us there in 2013 and we've gone ever since. It's the taquito place, Fay.

Ned and I went there one Sunday evening years ago, and I got mad at him–I forget why but I think it had to do with me feeling jealous of another woman because it almost always was–and we argued all the way to my house, where I got out of the car, stomped toward the house, then at the last minute turned around and hurled my leftover taquitos at his car.

Ned backed out of my driveway in a huff, then had to drive all over town to find an all-night car wash, because he could hardly pull up to work Monday with taquito car. The worst part of that story is the next day at lunch I said, "Ooooo, I have those leftover taq–no, I don't."

For some reason Fay loves this story. I guess she enjoys my rage and ridiculousness or something. She brings it up at every opp. I just said opp. Once after our endless breakup Ned called me, and I told Fay, and she asked all Stevie Wonder-ly, "Did he just call. To say. Taquito?"

Then she had a bust made of herself.

Anyway, there we went, Ned and I did, and you'll never guess what I ordered. "You'd better finish the whole thing right here," Ned said.

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Careful readers will note not just Ned, of yore, but also the background of this photo. Because who's back there behind blue-shirted guy? Is it my tenant? FMR.? Of yore?

"What are YOU doing here?" I asked her, because of all the margarita joints in all the world, she had to come into mine, fmr. With my boyfriend, fmr. The relationship that ruined her life, fmr. The life she had in her cute little rental house, fmr.

If you were her and you saw me there with the person I broke up with, which as a result rendered her homeless, would you not have pressed my face into the deep fryer?

"It's National Margarita Day!" she announced. Thank god she's taken to drink.

"I'm here with Ned," I told her, because everyone has to know my everything. She and I have plans to do our dreadful workout tonight, which will not begin to burn off the margarita/taquito combo she and I had going, but it's a start.

The point is, I can't do anything clandestine in this town without getting caught. The only other thing I have to tell you is that I was complaining to Ned about how when I get up in the morning, Edsel, Steely Dan and one or both adult cats follow me into the bathroom. Steely Dan stands on my shoulder the whole time, like we're posing for a Very Special Olan Mills portrait.

"I'm surrounded by animals in that tiny bathroom," I kvetched. "I'm like St. Francis of A-piss-i."

Then I called Fay to get the name of her bust worker.

...friend/Ned · Film · Health · I am a pleasure of life · June can't keep a man · My pets

Beelzebub has a devil cat put aside for me

In case you've been on pins and also the needles re my sore throat, I seem to have rallied. Because I'm tough. But I'm fair.

Also, yesterday I started a new headache study, which I can tell you very little about, so you can ask all the goddamn questions you want, but I'm not gonna answer them, as I cannot. Not allowed. It will be for approximately 10 weeks, I think, and yesterday I had to go in there for the preliminary stuff, which included 94593939300303 questions on top of the 97,000 they already asked me over the phone.

Then? After the Qs and my vitals were taken? (STILL FAT. WHAT THE HELL.) (Says the woman who noted Brown Sugar Cinnamon Pop Tarts in the machine, but who had no cash other than a $5, so she went to the healthy vending machine, which takes five-dollar bills, bought something for a dollar, took the change and went to the UNhealthy vending machine, bought the Pop-Tarts and then ate both items. WHAT A MYSTERY.)

Anyway, after the Qs and my vitals, they had to do this pain threshold thing. I am not making this up. I forget the fancy term they used for it, but basically they inflicted pain on me ("How, June?" Sigh.) for AN HOUR and I had to tell them how much it hurt and so on.

I was really scared of that part. I mean, who wouldn't be? I kept picturing Wesley in the Pit of Despair (aka my head) or whatever it was called in Princess Bride, where he cries at the end.

So, I entered the room for the torture, and? It wasn't that bad.

I think I might have a high tolerance to pain. I know I don't SEEM like the type who would, but I think I do. The guy inFLICTing the pain wouldn't tell me if I had a high tolerance, but I noticed him watching me sometimes, like, seriously? Is she just, like, fine with this?

I might get this from my mother, who no matter what she has done, always says, "It didn't really hurt." She said that about CHILDBIRTH. "It didn't really hurt."

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The place they're doing the headache study is the same place Dick Whitman works, and after I went to the coffee shop Dick Whitman always goes to, where I had a quiche (see above ref to fat) that Edsel just finished and a decaf latte, because I'm a laugh riot. What I'm saying to you is I was Dick Whitman for a day.

Dear Alexes and Everyone Else I Know Who Works in Winston-Salem: I did not know how I'd react to the torture portion of the thing, so I made no plans to get up with anyone and anyway you were all at work it was the middle of the day so get off my back.

Dear Everyone in W-S Who Still Won't Let It Drop: The rest of the study is on weeknights from 6–8, and then I have to drive all the way back to Greensboro after, so no. Let's NOT meet up after. I have a dog. A dog who never wants to go outside, but still.

Am I the least-sociable person you've never met?

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The other exciting news is the receptionist gave me these flowers from her yard. She said they're all blooming early and they'll freeze this weekend, poor things, so she's bringing them in to enjoy them as much as she can.

I just heard that damn demon Steely Dan jump onto the roof. Goddammit. Hang on.

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edz do not get why steelee go owtside when it perfectlee comfterbul in heer.

The good news is that if you call him, he's willing to jump right off and come inside. Be sure to ask me how he does it again. I DON'T KNOW. That cat is pure evil, y'all. But then when he's inside, he's all cuddly and on your lap and purring and acting sweet. Till he deceives you again.

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Here's my tenant, fmr., forcing him into submission just the other night, when she stopped by to torture herself with interval training again. That's what they should have done at my study–just make me do interval training for an hour. Look at SD's fine expression. Soon he'll devise a way to disappear when he's being held, like Clarence when Burt the Cop had him in It's a Wonderful Life.

Speaking of old movies, last night I took my own self to my old theater, for a change, as they were showing Guess Who's Coming to Dinner. As you know (Big Book of June Events), my technique for avoiding Ned at the theater is to get there early, a thing he never does, and get a seat far from our usual seats in the balcony.

I got there at, like, quarter till last night, but Bohemian Rhapsody was playing on my radio, so I sat in my car to hear the rest of it, and as I was Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me, for meee, for meeeeeee!ing, I see a car pull in, and I was all, Is that…? Goddammit.

He pulled in right next to me. I still waited for my song to end, but he waited too. "I could've sung the rest of it for you. I know how it goes," said Ned. I reminded him that he's no Freddie Mercury. The good news is, Ned donated to the theater and therefore has a pass to get in, so it was Guess Who Got in For Free night for old June, here.

The event went without incident, and I love the idea that anyone could be upset that their daughter is marrying a famous elegant doctor from Yale because maybe he's more tan than you. Also, Katharine Hepburn was really very beautiful. ALSO, the maid in that movie is Weezy Jefferson. Also also, I can't THINK what that house in San Francisco would cost today. Like, at least three billion dollars.

I'd better go get ready for work, as I suddenly have an overwhelming amount to do there, and it might even interfere with me telling just everyone about the torture I endured yesterday, which I will not at all exaggerate for dramatic effect.

No one at work likes me.

XO,

Joan

At Two With Nature · Health · Hulk's sex life · I am high-maintenance

Be cool, Edsel

You know how I hate for anyone to make a fuss, but my throat hurts. All I ask is that you stampede to your local Catholic church and light a candle. Or put one of those vague posts on social media about how you "need prayers" for some undisclosed or unknown-to-us person.

Dear God: For some reason, this person on Facebook needs prayers. Catch ya.

God's all, That was helpful. Like I don't have enough to do.

Anyway, none of this matters because what does is my throat hurts. My hairapist texted me Thursday that she needed prayers. No. She didn't. She texted me that she had a cold, and if I wanted to cancel that would be okay, but given how tough and no nonsense I am, I went anyway.

And now look at me. LOOK AT ME. There goes my tombstone. No name or anything. Just Look At Me. Or, Needs Prayers. At that point I guess it'd be too late.

So. My weekend.

I was determined to Stay Busy, as people tell you to do, but then I became obsessed with this other series on OJ, this many-parted documentary that Hulk told me about, and I always listen to Hulk. Oh my god it's riveting. And I was, like, into the third hour of it, the whole time going, Who is that WOMAN they keep talking to? What did she have to do with anything?

It was Marcia Clark. Hello, plastic surgery. She looks great. I mean, compared to the poodle/boxer mix look she had in the '90s. She def got the eye bags taken care of and for this I applaud her. Really, the longer I watch this documentary and the other one I saw, the more I'm like. Oh. I so get it, black people. I'd be pissed, too. I'd root for him too.

He still did it, of course. But I get what they're saying.

On Friday night, I decided I could not have one more fish stick, so I went to the store and got salmon, and little red potatoes, and salad things, and made an elaborate dinner for myself. I mean, elaborate for me, in that it did not involve slapping something frozen on a plate and microwaving it.

I asked the–what's he called? Chef? Barber? BUTCHER, god, the butcher to cut the skin off the back of the salmon, a thing my mother said I should do, but every time I ask for that, they act the way Steely Dan does around a coffee cup. In other words, appalled. They probably scratch around where I was standing, when I leave.

Speaking of SD, this morning I was putting one of my cowgirl band-aids on a blister, and one band-aid fell in the toilet.

This fascinated Steely ridiculous Dan. He spent the next 10 minutes trying to fish it out of there, sticking his head way in and sneezing when he hit water. When I finally had to leave the bathroom, I shut the lid lest he drown himself like Narcissus.

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The reason I have a blister is that both days of this weekend I took Edsel on enormously long walks, longer than my dick, even. Here he is with his usual lack of cool, trying to befriend one of the neighborhood cats. Every day we encounter then, and every day he whines and wags his tail and wants to shake paws with them and drop off an Avon catalog, and every day all the cats say fuck off. Actually, there's one exceedingly mellow cat at Ava's house who is willing to walk right up to Eds, but then he gets too excited and the cat huffs off.

Edsel. Be cool.

On Saturday night I had a date, which you'll be surprised to hear I was "eh" about. HOW MANY DATES before I'm not "eh"? HOW MANY? What if I go the rest of my life not liking anyone but Ned, who will be married to a 26-year-old with zero hips? That's whom he's banging in my mind. She never has any hips at all. And he doesn't even like really skinny women.

We went to an Arthur Miller play, because cheerful, and then out for a drink, which turned into Let's order appetizers, which turned into me eating bacon cheese tater tots at 11 p.m., and why so chubby?

It also turned into me taking the leftovers home, and why so chubby again?

Sunday was a really pretty day, so Edsel and I got in the car to go to Country Park, which is where I used to take Tallulah every single evening back when I was a new dog owner and totally into it. I'd take her to day care all day, then for a long walk in the park followed by the dog park part where she'd run around for like an hour or two, and now it's all Edsel's lucky if I even feed him.

The point is, as soon as we got there I got sweaty. The place was teeming–teeming!!–with dogs, which, what did I expect with the beautiful day and all? We walked the loop all the way around the park, which was probably a 45-minute walk, and every few seconds there'd be another goddamn dog.

And?

He was fine. Oh, sure, there was one idiot I passed twice who had her Beagle on a retractable leash that was 400 feet out and that thing got right in our lane. Edsel knitted a very, very tall-eared pussy hat and took to the street shouting over that one, but other than that? He'd maybe whine a little if another dog made eye contact, but he never once barked and snarled and carried on as he usually does. I couldn't believe it. And he walked right next to me, even a little behind me, like a well-trained dog.

It wasn't till we were driving home that it hit me. Prozac. I think his Prozac kicked in!

The other thing to happen at that park was that I was down by the little lake when I heard my name. This woman way up on another trail was all, "JUNE! JUNE!" Waving frantically with both arms and all. "Hi, June!"

"Well, hi!" I said, waving frantically back.

I have no idea who it was. The woman used my real name, and I feel like a reader would say June even knowing my name is not June.

Unsolved Mysteries. Remember that show?

And the first person to say Hey, June, why didn't you also take your phone with you when you had Edsel on a leash and a bottle of water and no pockets? Why? Why didn't you take pictures? Why, June? Why? No pictures, June?

The first person to say that gets snarled at.

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I did take my phone and go all the way next door, to Peg's because her tulip tree is blooming. Which doesn't always happen. And then half the time when it does bloom, there's a freeze and they all die. Tulip tree. A brilliant idea for this region, on someone's part.

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Also, why?

I leave you now so I can go watch more of the OJ documentary, and I'm going to be sad when it's over and I can't think about Broncos and DNA and Ron Goldman's stoicism. Good lord. Go back to your barber shop quartet, dude. Sing about Daisy, Daisy giving you her answer, do.

I'll talk to you tomorrow if I'm still alive, what with dealing with this sore throat and all. Dear Mom: I already did. Warm salt water. Did it.

Throatily,

Juan

Family · Food and Drink · Hair · I am high-maintenance · My pets · Not Grace Kelly · Television

Rare. In the bloody way, not the special way.

Do you think of yourself as normal? I have never once, for as long as I can remember, considered myself to be normal. And I'm glad of it, although I haven't always been. I doubt anyone else finds me normal, either.

There was one woman who was married to my friend, a woman who made it a real point to seem different, kind of like that What's Goin' On chick, you know who I mean? 4nb6

Like, the second you meet her, she's got so much "Look how weird I am" happening with her look that you can't help but think, Hey, bundle of insecurity, how's it going?

Four Non Blondes. That was the name of the What's Goin' On band. I can't tell you how delighted I am that they made "non" stand alone like that. Like the cheese. Standing alone.

The point of my story is my friend's wife–the Hey World, Look at Me wife–found me desperately boring. "Oh, a tattoo on your ankle. How original." Yes, if only I'd had the creativity to get that feminine neck tattoo, Grace Kelly doppelganger, over there.

Other than that bitch, no one finds me all that normal. I don't think. Maybe they do and I just think my insides show, like one of those refrigerators with glass doors.

This might be genetic, this thinking I'm a rare flower. My grandmother, the one I'm turning into–and let's just call a spade a spade and call her The One I've Turned Into already–went to a restaurant when she was a kid, and she ordered a steak, rare, because she thought it meant it was this precious piece of steak or something. That there was no other steak like it in the world. When this bloody hunk of meat appeared on her plate she about died.

I don't know how I got on this tangent, other than I met this man from New York on one of my dating sites, a man from New York who's moved here, and my first thought was why did some fancy New Yorker pick a gal from Michigan like me, who likes sparkles and Real Housewives, and then I remembered the whole not-seeming-normal thing, which is probably refreshing for a New York man surrounded by women with french pedicures, Beach Girl bumper stickers and monogrammed commuter mugs. That was a short sentence.

Not that I'm saying there's a romance brewing in a commuter mug, by the way. I have no idea yet. I was just more stuck on the New Yorker thing.

Did y'all have those York Steakhouses in your malls? Those all dark in there places? I think it had burgundy wallpaper. We did for awhile, and I remember it was delicious after a day of shopping for Lip Smackers and Andy Gibb 45s. Also, welcome to how my brain works. As if you didn't know already.

There's nothing like steak served cafeteria style. If there were a York Steakhouse, I'd march right over there at lunch today. Because ravenous. I did that damn high intensity workout again last night, with my tenant, fmr., and listen to this. We decided to go a little longer, like Big Red. "You want to try two minutes more?" I asked. Believe me, two more minutes feels like to kill you when you're at the end of that thing.

Nevertheless, we persisted.

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In other news, not that I've given you even one piece of news so far, I saw this photo on Facebook–I think Faithful Reader Paula put it up–and was stunned to find Midcentury June. Everything about this photo is Midcentury June. I want to know everything there is to know about this woman. I wonder if she's still alive! She could give Late Century June some advice, such as never, ever get a Boxer.

I love that picture so hard. The more you stare at it, the more shit you find to love.

I'd better get ready for work, as I am wont to do. I finished my latest freelance assignment, but another is coming next week. And I still need to write a Purple Clover this weekend. I can't seem to figure out how to start this particular column. It haunts me. I should probably just start writing and I'll be fine.

Also, I wrote an animal behaviorist about making an appointment for Edsel, and got a VERY snooty note back about how my vet needs to recommend said behaviorist, that I can't just make an appointment, who do I think I am with my generic ankle tattoo. But then I read that Prozac takes 4 weeks to kick in, and it's not been 4 weeks, so I decided to see if he seems better in a week or two. Poor sad Edsel. How many times are we gonna say that? In this life.

He doesn't seem sad right this minute. He's over here developing a real crush on m'toast. Edz can see reel fewchur with towst.

I'd better go, but oh! Last night I started streaming The People v OJ Simpson OH MY GOD, riveting. They didn't make Marcia Clark's hair bad enough, though. I know from bad hair.

I'll catch you later. Let's all meet up at York's, near the Sears entrance to the mall.

Aging ungracefully · At Two With Nature · Chicken · June's stupid life

How many of them hormones you been takin’, honey?

Yesterday evening, after a very busy day that I'm sorry to inform you Ima tell you about, I headed to the grocery store to get cat food, because the cupboard was literally bare in the cat food department. I really have to look into that deliver-pet-food-regularly thing you guys keep telling me is out there on the world wide web. What is it, again? Is it on the Amazon? Because it feels like I'm at the store getting food or litter eleven times a week.

Anyway, while I was there, I got some of this really good chicken salad they sell from this deli in Wilmington, and it's the best goddamn chicken salad you have ever had in your life. I usually don't splurge on it, but goddammit, it sounded delicious.

I got home and dumped the cat food in the bin, put the chicken salad in the refridge, and commenced to doing some freelance work. All I could think of was that chicken salad. "Oh, go have a little," Rotten June said to me, who clearly has a much larger influence over me than Practical June.

"It's too late to be eating anything like chicken salad," Practical June said, her voice hoarse from lack of use.

So I didn't have any, and in the middle of the night I woke with a migraine, which makes sense given my very busy day that I am sorry to inform you Ima tell you about. I stumbled out of bed, got water from the refridge, took a pill and stumbled back to bed.

I woke up with no migraine, but when I got to the kitchen?

I hadn't shut the refridge door all the way. How hard are you gonna slap me for continuing to say "refridge"?

Everything was warm. I can't eat the chicken salad.

GOD

DAMMIT.

Practical June can go fuck herself.

Do you remember during my year abroad when I killed myself to make pumpkin chili and then we forgot to put it in the

refridge

and I had to throw it all away? I hate shit like that.

Anyway, m'weekend. [Everyone pulls chair closer with rapt attention. Or not.]

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Faithful Reader Stacey sent me this photo she found of someone who is clearly related to me. First of all, we look alike, if I weren't currently 87, and second of all she has June Hair and eighth, she totally overdid it with the flowers and sparkly choker and so on, and that right there seals the deal. Distant relative.

"Oh, I know! I'll pair my ruffly Prince shirt with my very involved jacket with an entire bouquet of flowers thrown jauntily over my shoulder and pop some in m'hair as well and don't forget the sparkly choker!"

She would so like Hello Kitty.

Anyway. That happened, and I also got into the show Z on Amazon, which isn't that good but I am riveted by Zelda Fitzgerald so I just want to see what happens next. I've read books on her, so I sort of, you know, know, but I want to watch it on film.

Christina Ricci is totally miscast as Zelda, and then noticed Christina Ricci is the producer and right then I knew. Once I was getting a pedicure in my neighborhood and she and I were the only people in the place. I had to act like I hadn't noticed Christina Ricci and I were the only people in there who weren't employees, read my Glamor all casual like and so on.

The very next day, I was at the grocery store in my neighborhood probably buying fucking cat food, and there she was, in produce.

"Hi," we said to each other, half-heartedly. We both knew. She was probably texting her friends. "June Gardens is totally here at Paint Nail!"

I can't remember what my local pedicure place was called. Any friends who still read me in LA, help a sister out. It was on Rowena and Hyperion, right next to that store that had clothes and jewelry and incense and so on, which I also can't remember the name of.

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NAIL STATION! I just Googled it. It looks like the store next door is gone and that Nail Station has taken over. You go, Nail Station may I hep you. That's always how they answered the phone. "Nail station may I hep you."

Their English is better than my Vietnamese, so maybe I could shut up now.

Oh my god I'm not even on Sunday yet.

So Sunday dawned and it was beautiful out. Sunny, breezy, in the 70s. It was like the perfect day, and my daffodils are just about to bloom. I had plans to see my friend Jo, but she took ill. "I hate feeling awful on a beautiful day," she said. I pointed out to her that there will be other pretty days, unless she dies from her illness, in which case she is shit out of luck.

You know what sounds good? Is some chicken salad.

Anyway, I lounged outside with my cats while I drank my 25% caffeinated coffee (that's going better than I thought it would, by the way).

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Then I did my horrific high-intensity interval training that my horrific co-worker Austin horrifically told me I should do to lose weight, and if it weren't working I'd stop doing it but it is so I soldier on. After that I did Tracy Anderson arms, and then I showered and decided I should really get out of the house on such a nice day, so Edsel and I headed to a trail.

There are about a million parks and trails in this town, resulting in every middle-aged yahoo on dating sites wanting to find a woman who loves the outdoors and hiking and sweating and doing color runs and so on, and what I need to do is move to Ohio and find some nice man who enjoys sitting around and dive bars.

Everyone AND THEIR DOG was out on that trail, and you know how relaxing Edsel is when he sees another dog, so that was fun. We were about 40 minutes in when it occurred to me this trail was not a loop.

Son of a…

So we turned around, bright eyes, and my point is, after my horrific interval training and Tracy Anderson-ing and my 900-minute walk, I was what you might call hungry. Edsel was looking like a delicious duck dinner back there.

I dropped his punk ass off, and I'm totally picturing him letting himself in with his key and waving goodbye while I back out of the driveway. I went to the new park and got a chicken pita with hummus and a lemonade at the little Middle-Eastern stand that they will probably ban any minute. PITA BREAD IS A THREAT TO OUR NATION.

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I offer you the world's least-flattering photo of myself wherein it looks like I'm elegantly mustached. It also looks here like absolutely no one else was at the park, like the whole thing was deserted and I'm Eleanor Rigby, but in fact it was crawling with people.

What I discovered, and this is important, is that that park is EXCELLENT for dog-watching. There's a little dog park there, and yesterday I saw two yellow dachshunds–and who knew they came in that color?–a brindled Whippet, a huge hound of some sort with long long earses, and?

And??

A baby German shepherd.

OH MY GOD, that baby German shepherd! HE WAS SO TOOOT! I LOVED HIM SO BAD!!! With his big floppy earses.

Hang on, I gotta take a moment to glare at Edsel.

Then I went to see La La Land, which I wasn't even that interested in but I like to see all the nominated movies before the Oscars, otherwise I get bored at the Oscars. I act like I'm going there with Cary Grant or something.

Man, was I all in after that. I was too tired to even watch another episode of Z after I did my freelance and debated chicken salad with myself. Some guy at work told me when he's getting over someone he keeps himself so busy that by the time he gets home all he can do is crawl into bed. So.

Hey, I wish I'd talk more. Ima go. Someone tell me about that get-food-delivered site. kthanxbye.

Currently,

June

P.S. (Mother of GOD, June.) I forgot to show you photos of Lily grooming Iris.

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Wut?

Busy busy busy busy. Thank heavens for Angie's List. · June's stupid life

Thank heaven for Angie’s List

I've been working.

You know how I told you money is tight? Like, hello boa constrictor tight? Like, night before payday I can't have dinner tight?

One of the millennials at work told me you can take surveys online for cash, so I've been doing that like a banshee. You know how banshees take the surveys. So now I think like this: Oooo, her outfit. Do I strongly agree, agree, neither agree nor disagree, disagree, or strongly disagree that it is wack?

I totally just said wack.

I also ask myself if, in the last six months I or ANYONE IN MY HOUSEHOLD have done anything.

So that's been sort of fun, and if you're my demographic, you can comfort yourself with the fact that I'm out there forming our world with my opinions.

I'm also getting this thing hooked up to my internet box, which sounds dirtier than it is. It's like Nielsen ratings for the internet. Sixty bucks a month. PREPARE TO ENJOY ALL MY PORN, NIELSEN!

Also, I've gotten two freelance jobs, which I have been doing in droves, as you know how those droves freelance. One is a copy editing job and one is writing.

Oh, and I pitched an idea to MY EDITOR at Purple Clover and he said yes, so I'll be writing that, too.

I realize that if you can't drive with a broken back, at least you can polish the fenders. I mean, I can't live like this forever, as I am old and infirm, but I just need to do it till I get caught back up.

At the beginning of 2016, my car was paid off and my credit cards were all at zero. But Tallulah kept needing medical help and eventually I had to start putting that shit on a card, then the next card, and now I have $8,000 of credit card debt AND I had to buy a car so now I have no cash.

Hey, June, they invented this thing called "savings." Where you use it when your dog gets bladder cancer. Check it out!

So that's my goal. Work like this till I make $8,000, and at least then the car payments won't kill me so much every month. Or maybe I'll become a workaholic like Katie in The Way We Were.

Oh! Oh, oh! And as part of my regularly scheduled job, I had to interview a few animal behavior consultants, which was riveting. With one of them, we were kind of wrapping up, and I said, "I can't imagine how much people must ask you for free advice. I mean, parties must be hell for you."

"You have no idea," she said.

There was a pause.

"Oh, go ahead," she said.

Here's what she told me. Lottie was 5 months old when Edsel ate her. At 5 months, puppies' hormones change enough that dogs see them as dogs then. Before that, dog see puppies as puppies and kind of let them get away with shit. At 5 months, Edsel finally said, "Hey! You be a dog! Edzul hayte yuu now." And that's why that happened when it happened.

Right? Wow!

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mom not a puppeee. edz luff mom so bad he do.

Is his face getting white? Goddammit.

In the meantime, everyone over here is pretty much acting like everyone here always does.

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Oh, and yes, I did see Ned once, briefly this week and we did not hanky-pank so get over it. The good news is, NedKitty has rallied a bit. She's eating, and she even came downstairs. She hadn't been downstairs in months. So that's good. Ned has given her that damn IV and has shoved that syringe into her cat mouth and those things seem to work.
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We are not dating. The cats are back together with him, though.

Okay, I gotta go. I'm late. FOR MY PERIOD. By about 14 months.

XO,

Joon

...friend/Ned · Chicken · Friends · I am berserk · June's stupid life

The Big Game

Yeah, well, so. I saw Ned again.

I KNOW.

Everything you're gonna tell me, I already know. I KNOW, okay? Goddammit.

On Friday, I went to a goodbye party for one of the Alexes, one who's actually named Alex, and it bugs her when, say, I call our coworker Tiffany "Alex." "I'm the real Alex," Alex will say. The trouble is, there were 72 Alexes there for awhile. Now they're all mostly gone. This particular Alex is moving to Colorado, which is perfect for her, all outdoorsy and hippie-ish and shit.

People come and go so quickly at work. I'm like a classic at this point, with my six years. I'm the Chanel of coworkers. Who needs to get a new joke, do you think? I'm the Tim the Toolman of jokes. "Whuuuuut?"

Anyway. That was fun, and it turns out one of Alex's friends who showed up was this whippernapper I'd talked to on OK Cupid for awhile way back in 2016, so that was kind of funny. Pretty soon I will have almost dated every man in town.

So I left that get-together, which was right after work, after an hour or so, because I had to go home and watch Edsel refuse to go outside. He hates going outside. He won't go. In fact, you're reminding me that he didn't go out last night and he hasn't gone out this morning. Hang on.

I just forced him to go out. I have to take him by the collar and make him go. "And stay out!"

Poor Edsel. I'll let you know when the Prozac kicks in.

Anyway, I got home and Ned called. "You want to go get a drink?" he asked.

You know at the beginning of the Mary Tyler Moore show, when she has the meat, and hesitates about throwing it into her cart, but she does so anyway? That was me.

We met at the controversial scene of our first date, which was not controversial at all other than it was the start of this FIVE-YEAR push-me-pull-me-llama relationship I seem to be in. We were having a fine time sitting up at the bar, which technically I hate doing, but still, we were having fun. Then this DJ started playing I Will Survive and we realized it was old-people disco night. All sorts of people our age got up and shook their groove thing, yeah yeah.

Fortunately, this bar is part of a swank hotel, so we just took our drinks and headed to the fancy lobby, and we sat there for ages–ages!!–just talk talk talking about everything, including my newest obsession. Guest starring The Love Addict and The Love Avoidant!

I mean, there I was talking to Ned, and it was like my whole insides were made of sparkles. I get all sparkly when I'm with Ned, until our NEXT AWFUL FIGHT when I feel like I'm made of silt.

So then the next day he came and got me and we went antique shopping.

Did I mention I KNOW?

We went all over looking for things, neither of us having anything particular in mind. The landlord is selling our old house, so Ned will have to move if he doesn't buy it, which he's considering. He could raise his family there.

HAHAHAHAHA

Anyway.

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Ned bought me this pictures I admired, and oh my god look at them. Why can't everything be from the mid-century? I mean, I am. And look how I turned out.

Then I'm sorry to tell you Ned bought me lunch and then that evening we may or may not have gone to that mysterious speakeasy I told you about. We drove out to the old mill that they've made into restaurants and so on, which were all closed because late, and of course there's no sign or door or anything. But then we saw two well-dressed people going through a door that looked like it led to a utility room or something, and man did we stampede for that door. Then you go down a long hall, type in the code that you have to get from Twitter, and there we were,

It was packed. But we got a table. I had a whiskey sour. I think Zelda Fitzgerald enjoyed a whiskey sour. Actually I'd dearly love to know what she drank, but I think her drink of choice may have fallen into the category of "anything."

Anyway, on Sunday I observed my pets and allegedly cleaned the house, although today it's back to looking fur-covered, so.

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I moved my free ottoman into the spare bedroom, and I read my book in there for awhile Sunday. There's one of those take-one-or-leave-one book things in our park, and I've gotten three books out of there lately that I've read. This one is by the same person who wrote Olive Kitterage, which was a very good book. How did I get fingerprints all over it? Faithful Reader Paula is dying a million deaths right now.

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I like being home with my pets, watching them be evil.

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Here's Iris, trying to intimidate Steely Dan so he gives up his delicious canned kitten food. Not that the food is made from kittens. Also, note there's Steely Dan, not giving one shit about Iris.

Being home gave me plenty of time to do this in my head: I love Ned, STOP IT. I love Ned. STOP IT.

So that was relaxing.

Oh, and speaking of Ned, NedKitty has been taking her eleven thousand medications and Ned said she is eating again and also meowed and flicked her tail. So. Woot! Livin' large. She also climbed to the top of her kitty tower–he sent me a photo.

On our antique-shopping day, we stopped off at that pretentious pet store where the woman with the butch haircut works, the one Edsel loves so bad. Anyway, we went there because Ned was looking for low-phosphate food, and you can imagine what a lightening-fast decision he made about that. That place is overwhelming as it is–they have an entire big room dedicated to just pet food and it's a lot to take in.

Fortunately, there was a woman there who had a teensy baby Goldendoodle puppy named Marvin, and the first person to ask why I didn't whip out my phone and take a photo of a stranger has to live in my chaotic brain for a month. I'll just slip you right in there and you'll have to avoid all my bouncing thoughts. Good luck.

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Last night, my coworker Austin and his wife had me and some other friends over to watch The Big Game. On both accounts I've worked on at work, we've been forced to refer to The Super Bowl as The Big Game, a thing you'll notice a lot of companies do now that I've pointed it out. Apparently The Super Bowl will call the police on your ass like my neighbor Alicia if you say The Super Bowl.

Therefore, Austin and I could not get enough of ourselves and our "big game" references.

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I had a slight fear that Austin, who is the least-obnoxious cross-fitter you know, would have all healthy food at his Big Game party. He's the guy who brings green peppers to work as a snack and does not kill himself and/or stampede for the Famous Amos in the vending machine by noon, which is what I'd do if you forced me to snack on green peppers.

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Oh, shit. Big bowl of carrots. But there was also chili and bean dip and guacamole and beer and cookies and wings. So yay. Guess what I ate all of and guess what I did not touch?

Hey, June, why are your hips in another zip code?

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Obsessed readers will recall that I am particularly enamored of Austin's old-lady wallpaper in the kitchen, a thing they keep wanting to change and then alternately loving. I'd keep it, of course, but I just put three kitchy girl pictures up in my house, so.

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Austin pointed out that if you have time to count out 60 drops, you have time to get to the store and buy a teaspoon.

I have to go. I did not see one commercial last night that I'd write home about. Which is sort of what I'm doing right now, and note me here not writing about any commercials.

I leave you with one question we came up with last night, which is: What do you not want anyone to see you eating? Austin enjoys a peanut butter sandwich dipped in milk, but only standing at the counter and when no one is looking.

You all know I eat Parmesan cheese out the green can. That'd be mine. And another friend buys butter at the grocery store and eats it like a candy bar in the parking lot.

What's yours?

Talk at you.

Jooooon

...friend/Ned · Death · I am berserk · June can't keep a man · Other people's pets

Ned sighting

I saw Ned.

Fifty-five days I've been alternately avoiding running into him or, on difficult days, hoping I do. Fifty-five days I've been obsessing, and being angry, and then missing him, then feeling determined and OH HELL THIS IS RIDICULOUS.


I was driving to work yesterday, and there's one point, right near work, where you have to get in this left-turn lane and it takes for fucking ever to turn. You could live whole lifetimes waiting to turn. I was about 12 cars back from the front, so I looked at my phone.

There was an email from Ned, addressed to both my personal mail and work.

Dun dun DUNNNNNN.

"You must have me blocked on your phone. [I did.] It's about NedKitty." Of course he didn't SAY "NedKitty," as that is not her name. But we had a deal, made long ago, that if anything ever happened with that cat, that I'd go with him for the, you know. The meeting of the maker.

"Oh, god," I said, feeling weepy about NedKitty. Girlfriend is 17. Last I'd seen her, she was getting mighty bony and not running around much. She was mostly kind of in a ball in a corner. Somebody puts NedKitty in a corner, and that somebody is the march of time. Naturally Ned had taken her to the vet, because see: Helicopter Dad/Ned's photo. Her kidneys were not doing well, last I'd heard.

So I called him. He was a wreck. "I'm taking her to the vet right now. She's not good," he said.

"Do you want me to come there?" I asked, mentally reviewing how I looked. Skirt, little sweater, boots, full makeup. Hair, not that bad. Maybe a B+.

Fat? Yes, still.

"Yes," he said.

So I did a U-turn, an illegal one, at the stupid left turn, called work to tell them and got to the vet.

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There was his car, the car I'd been worried sick about seeing for the last 55 days. I rushed in and they showed me to the room. There was Ned. And poor, oh, poor NedKitty.

She weighs 5 pounds now. She was all bones and she was in her ball, her new position of choice. "Why's her head wet?" I asked him.

"She took a shower with me." We both laughed. NedKitty loves to stand on the bathtub and stick her head under the shower. It's her thing. I was glad she was still being herself a bit.

Ned told me about all NK's symptoms, and finally the vet came in, looking grim. She wanted to run some tests on NedKitty to see "where we are" in this poor cat's decline. She took NedKitty, who went with zero fuss, and that in itself was worrying. She has a Mr. Yuck sticker on her file, with a big warning about how you need hawk gloves and a strong disposition to deal with her. And there she was, gentle as a lamb.

Ned was a mess. It was alternately bizarre and totally normal to be in there with him. Mostly I just felt like I was gonna hurl. The whole thing was upsetting.

He told me some good and some very bad things that have been going on in his life. Naturally I took time out to tell him about my dust mite allergy. Boy, did he feel stupid about his dying cat then. I also told him that Edsel was depressed without him. "Oh, no!" said Ned. "You want me to visit him?"

Oh, god. Do I? I hear all 10 of you screaming, "NOOOOOO!"

We kept it light, as light as you can keep a situation like this. I mean, he's apologized to me 700 times about that fight, sent me roses at work. And I continue to say, You can't apologize for that and have it be okay. So there was no need to rehash all that.

I told him how I watch the beer aisle at the store, and he said he has very specific times he'll go there, and he certainly never goes when he's coming from a direction that requires passing my house. "I didn't want to see your car not there and wonder where you were, or see some man's car in the driveway."

This led me to wonder how he'd determine it was a man's car. Would it be, like, a tank or something? Maybe a pickup. A pickup would have to be a man. Or a really big woman. I guess some sort of vintage sports car would definitely be a man. But let's say a Honda was in my drive. That could be anyone. Well. Not Hulk. But anyone else.

Apparently one of his friends told him I'd been on a date, so I guess in his mind I've been whooping it up all over town. Getting more chins than a Chinese phone book. I realize that's not a euphemism for having a lot of sex but I can't think of one. All I can think of is a vaguely racist joke about chins.

Also, who's sort of a little delighted that she got one of his friends to read her blog? June's blog for the WIN.

The point is, the vet came back and said IF Ned wanted to hook this cat up to an IV three times a week and IF he wanted to shoot this syringe of stuff into her mouth twice a day and IF he would give her this special food, they could keep going.

"You mean I get to take her home with me? Okay," said Ned, weeping.

Here was the inside of my head: !!!!!????!!!

But look, it's his cat and his decision. So he put her bony old self back in the carrier and off he went with $848586775 worth of medication.

So. You can judge me all you want for going. I went because I said I would, and because I know how it feels to lose a beloved pet, and because of course I could not resist seeing Ned. So how you have all the reasons. I told one friend and got The Judgement immediately, so I expect nothing less from the rest of you.

But remember. When your friend confides in you and you loft from your perch with your happy life, and offer no words of empathy or comfort or understanding, there's pretty much a 100% chance that friend won't confide in you again.

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Here was me at the end of yesterday, sort of depleted. I kind of wanted to be in a ball in a corner like NedKitty. So.

Eventfully,

June

...friend/Ned · Aging ungracefully · Busy busy busy busy. Thank heavens for Angie's List. · Health · I hate everything · June's stupid life

She’s mite-y mite-y, just lettin’ it all hang out

I know that since you got the news yesterday about my dust mite allergy that you've been hoping and praying and writing your congressmen and so on, but I'm still here. I want my bravery to inspire others. I particularly liked it when you told me in the comments that it's okay to let go.

Hey, did I ever show you guys m'bunny slippers? Hang on; my cankles and I will be right back with them…

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Right? Adorbs. I am 51 years old. But a young 51. One might even say a stunted 51.

Yesterday was another run-aroundeldy day that included me having to go to the store and buy absolutely everything.

It was payday, thank god, so I got

  • toilet paper (have been using black party napkins from my Ima Die Alone party, WHICH IS SEEMING NOT SO FUNNY NOW)
  • cat food (we were 100% out as of yesterday morning, and you wanna talk about writing your congressman. There was some very pointed sitting in the window thing and staring going on at my abode)
  • and also hair gel. Was completely out of hair gel. You know that's never good when it comes to Voltaire Hair, over here.

I go to that store now like some sort of underworld spy. It's not Ned's first store choice, in fact it's probably his third or fourth, but it's not like he never goes in there. I keep my eye on the beer aisle like a hawk. Did you ever watch those nature shows where hawks watch the beer aisle?

I also had to buy decaf. THANKS, GOD. The doctor convinced me caffeine's terrible for my GERD and my migraines, so I'm–oh god–WEANING off of it. Today, instead of two and a half scoops of wonderful real coffee, I had one and a half real and one fake fake fakety knockoff Prada unreal can't be trusted decaf. It's like I'm drinking the second Chris from The Partridge Family.

Dammit. "Your migraines will be so much better," he said, and what the fuck does he know. Stupid medical degree.

Everything I love is leaving.

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At least I have this nose. And this yahoo of a catten. I look exhausted. I was exhausted. On top of my King Kamehameha trip to the store, I also distributed the newsletter at work, which is three floors of offices. Well. Three floors of horrible open floor plan, and because people ended up needing more and so on, I ended up going up and down those three flights, like, five times and MY KNEES OH MY GOD.

I've turned into one of those old people who discusses her ailments.

Look how Steely Dan is already learning that you look at the phone when it's pointed at you. What a good blog kitty.

I guess I'd better get ready for work and so on, power through the dust mite allergy. I just have to keep on keepin' on. Tote the weary load.

How many of you are sick of me yet? Is this it? Or can I keep on going? Cause you know Ima keep on going.

Oh, and in case you wondered, I dropped off Edsel's Prozac prescription yesterday to my dynamic pharmacist, and as usual she wants to "call the doctor" about something first. Calling the doctor is very big with her. As big as her personality. Actually yesterday she actually spoke sentences to me, told me a little story about her life. Maybe she's someone who's kind of beige till she gets to know you and then you finally get to taste her rainbow once she's comfortable.

I hate people like that. Get over it. Just be dynamic right away. Repel everyone with every nuance of your personality within minutes, the way I do.

There's a woman who sits behind me now in the endless open floor plan. She's only been there a few weeks. At the end of the day recently, I said, "If anyone's looking for me tomorrow, I have a doctor's appointment." Naturally, I took time out to interrupt her flow at work to tell her about my allergy test. Of course, neither one of us would have any idea how tragic the results were going to be.

"So when you finally do get in tomorrow, you'll be in a bad mood," she said. Then she paused. "I mean, why should tomorrow be different?"

Oh! We have a SOUPY SALES in our midst, apparently! Hmph! Bad mood. I mean, just cause I tell everyone not to say "good morning" to me, and I hate "Thank you!" emails.

Oh god, I do. We get ENOUGH email in a day. Then you send someone something, in other words you do your job, and you get YET ANOTHER email.

Thank you! : )

Fuck my very existence.

I had the last round of millennials fully versed in the don't-send-June-a-thank-you-email, but since then we have pretty much all new Alexes who need to learn anew how to avoid the crabby elderly lady over there in the cardigan.

Oh, god. Have I become the office character? No. That's still Griff, right?

Decaffeinatedly,

June

...friend/Ned · Death · Food and Drink · Health · I am a pleasure of life · June's stupid life

Save June

Yesterday was a queer day. Did you ever see The Color Purple, when Celie says that about the weather? "It was a queer day." I always liked that line. When I was a kid, the word "queer" was all over the book Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, and so one afternoon I told my babysitter she looked queer and she got furious at me. Furious! I had no idea what was so wrong.

She was this big, solid woman who took me fishing a lot, married to this mere slip of a man, and in retrospect I wonder if they had some sort of it's-the-early-'70s arrangement, and now I feel bad. I had no idea the word meant anything but out of the ordinary. I was trying to expand my vocabulary.

Anyway. I got up early yesterday so I could rush off to the doctor to get my allergy test. As I pulled up, there was this college girl in sweats and a messy ponytail, going in with her dad, and I was so over her beleaguered "Oh my gawd, it's EIGHT" attitude. Once I was at the airport and there was a college girl in the same beleaguered getup AT TEN. Give me a break. It was the Greensboro airport, so it's not like she was on a layover having flown in from London or anything.

Okay, see. I can tell already today I will be hard pressed to stick to the subject at hand.

The point is, they stuck my back with allergens, and I had to lie there for 15 minutes, waiting. "You want your phone or a magazine to look at?" the red-haired chippie asked me after she'd poked me all over yonder.

"No, I'm good," I smugged. "I can be alone with my thoughts."

So then she left and here were my thoughts for the next 15 minutes: Ned, money, Ned, what'm I gonna do about money, Ned, Edsel, Ned, wondering what you all were saying about cereal, Ned, wondering why I can't stop with the Ned bullshit and when'm I gonna get over it already, Ned [Hey, good thoughts, JUNE.] and then it was time for the doctor to come look at my back.

Turns out, I have an allergy to dust mites.

I know. Try to relax. It'll be okay.

"That's it? That's all I'm allergic to?"

Yep.

"Did you test me for grapefruit?"

Nope. But they could do a blood test for that if I wanted. I demurred. At this point I'm over grapefruit. If only Ned could be grapefruit.

As soon as I got to work, I told every coworker about my severe allergies, and if you ever wanted to meet a group of people who are 100% over me, you should come see my coworkers.

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Over-Me Coworker #48859

"You know how people are always saying 'I don't want your pity'? I want nothing but your pity," I told everyone. They all seemed to already know this.

As the day wore on, we decided to organize a walk, a June's Dust Mite Allergy Walk, and I'll be getting the pledge forms to you forthwith. Also, I am coming up with a ribbon for you all, an awareness ribbon, so if anyone asks you, you can say, "Oh, do you not know about June's dust mite allergy?"

My idea is, it should be dusty, and dust should fall off of the ribbon, but the "dust" would be glitter! Right? Someone get on making that. We'll be rich. I'll never have to work again, which I shouldn't anyway with this allergy.

Then at lunchtime I took old homo sapien canine to the vet.

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I actually really love that photo of Eds. It captures his goof. Anyway, he's been really down, despite that smile above. He was, in fact, shaking up there while he smiled.

Smile tho' your heart is aching
Smile even tho' it's breaking
When there are clouds in the sky
You'll get by

Anyway. He's been so squirrely lately. Like, yesterday when we got up, and were headed down the hall, and he just stopped and hung his head and wouldn't go any further. And he never, ever goes outside unless I go with him. This past weekend I was looking for him, and he was curled up in a C on the couch, like I was storming over there wielding a sledgehammer.

You could have a steam train
if you'd just lay down your tracks.
You could have an aeroplane flying
if you bring your blue sky back.

I want to be your sledgehammer
why don't you call my name.

Welcome to the inside of my head.

Anyway, thank god he acted squirrely at the vet, so I didn't seem crazy, although given my medical condition I'm sure they'd overlook it. "Might Over Mites" is my slogan, by the way. It'll be on all my t-shirts and hats and support bracelets.

But really. He turned into a letter C there, and jumped on the chair and hid behind me, and cowered and so on the whole time, so the vet is giving him Prozac, which will be good because it'll probably be extra stressful for Eds when he learns about my dust mite allergy, so.

I got to tell the vet how Tallulah died, and then we moved twice, and how he misses Ned (Edsel does. The vet doesn't miss Ned. That I know of. Maybe he and the vet just ended a torrid Brokeback Mountain affair. What do I know?) and how he ate the puppy and knows I was mad at him. So that was cheerful.

Anyway now I have to go on Good RX to find the cheapest place in town to get dog Prozac. There's a thing no one ever said in my grandmothers' day.

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I took old 19th Nervous Breakdown home, and as we pulled up, I don't know what made me look in the tree, but there it was. "Is that…? Oh, son of a BITCH," I said, getting out of my car with my camera for you all. You can't tell how high up that little bastard was; I zoomed in. He was wayyyy the hell up the tree. And when he saw us, he just clambered on down. "HAI!!"

My handyman (The handyman! The handyman can!) found a vent on my house that's missing its screen, and with all my dollars Ima get a new screen so Houdini, up there, can't escape anymore.

Allegedly.

Really, that kitten is magnificent. I mean, I really admire his brains and ingenuity and athleticism and even his dickishness. He's really quite remarkable, and he's burying Lily right now, who mostly sits around and sheds chubbily.

Finally, I talked to a bunch of places about doing freelance, because my money sucks, y'all. I'm dead broke all the time. Further reports as developments warrant.

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In the evening, my tenant, former, came over to work out again, a practice that obsesses Edsel. He cannot wrap his head around why we're on the floor and not willing to make out with him the whole time. Also, you can't see, really, but behind Edsel is my coat hanging off a chair, because tidy, and the whole time he was over there Steely Dan kept reaching from under my coat to smack Eds, and he'd jump up, confused, look around and flump down again and it'd start all over.

Dis part of room pointee.

Finally, last night I decided to snack on some nutritious Fritos, and I noted I had some queso dip in the door of my fridge, from god knows when. Perhaps I purchased it during the Spanish-American war, because while I enjoyed me that dip quite a bit, about an hour later, things weren't pretty.

If I'd been a dog, I'd have been a Shih-tzu.

If I were soda, I'd have been Squirt.

If I were mustard, I'd have been Grey Poupon.

Oh, it was bad. So I went to bed early just so I wouldn't have to think about how sick I felt. Today I'm at a 7–not perfect, but I can function. Which is brave of me, considering my dust mite allergy.

That wraps up my queer day. On a queer day, you can see forever.

Manically,

June