June's stupid life

Iris is on my lap, so…

I am speaking this post into my phone. I cannot imagine the horrificness that is going to ensue.

Iris is on my lap, and she is purring and starfish-ing her paws, and I do not have the heart to get up and put her aside to type on my real computer. Continue reading “Iris is on my lap, so…”

Facebook Friend Whore · I hate everything · My pets · OooooooWEEEEEooooooo!!!

June starts out normal, then gets pretty kvetchy at the end

An old boyfriend of mine–from way back in the '90s when we wore clunky black shoes like it was sexy–went on a trip out west recently, and as a result has been showing photos on Facebook. "It's like a new version of making someone watch your vacation slides," he said.

The point is, he showed a photo of a bobcat, in which he said, "Here's a bobcat. Or a Robert Feline, in more formal situations."

A Robert Feline.

You know how some stupid thing strikes you as funny, and you cannot stop giggling about it like an idiot for 109 years? Or does that just happen to me?

A Robert Feline. Oh my god, it kills me. I kept waking up last night, thinking, ROBERT FELINE! then giggling myself back to sleep.

You can imagine what a not-annoying duo we made, back in the '90s, when we all taped NYPD Blue on our VCRs.

Back in the '90s, when we were all up in Susan Powter. Food doesn't make you fat! Fat makes you fat! Gimme another fat-free Entenmanns danish! I don't even NEED Jenny Craig!

Back in the '90s, when we said, Ima cut the sleeves off m'plaid shirt! That's hot. Let me spritz on a little Vanilla Fields and we're good to go!

Disclaimer: I never fucking wore Vanilla Fields.

Hey, it's the '90s! Let me put this Screaming Trees CD on the fancy five-CD changer and we can hang our goats high!

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My Robert Feline, who is SICK AND TIRED of me cramming medicine down her gullet, has started venturing out a bit, and what I like is how I've managed to show you her still-good parts and none of her chawed parts. You don't want to see that; you really don't. Anyway, she's just started wandering out from the bedroom when I'm home. When I'm not, I close her in there so she'll rest and not tussle with Steely Ass.

Speaking of Shitty Dan,

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I went to tie my robe today, and I was all WHAT THE FUCK, as I have nubs for robe ties now. HE ATE MY ROBE TIES.

"You need to put all your clothes away, June."

Oh, shut up.

Look at Edsel back there, feeling guilty because the cat ate my robe ties. Edz so sorry. He neber meen to bring dat cat into dis howse. He take full responsabiltee.

Anyway.

I've got a whole shit-ton of other exciting things happening in my life, none of which I can tell you about, and I'm sitting here thinking, Oooo, I could mention–no, I probably shouldn't. Or I could–nope. Can't tell that either.

Dammit. Just know there's stuff. When you read your tarot cards, when you get a lot of swords (you said, "swords"), it means there's a final flurry before stuff comes to fruition. I'm very sword-y phase right now with a lot of life events.

Sword-y.

Are there a lot of big changes in your life right now, too, or is it just me? Changes at work, changes at home, changes to my neighborhood–what's up? Every woman I know except for my practical friend Lily and probably my equally practical friend Alex would say, "Is Mercury in retrograde or something?" and every man I know would be all, Change happens.

I kind of don't trust men who go in for all that shit we women like. Men who go to psychics or believe in ghosts. I also don't like men who come in for pedicures with their wives. Who started ruining pedicures for us? Whose idea was it to start dragging in their toddlers, resulting in half the pedicure chairs having purple polar bears on them, and who the fuck decided they had to bring their husbands? Can we have ANYTHING that's just us anymore? We can't even have all-women baby showers anymore, not that I like those but you know what I mean.

Anyway, I need men to be the eye-rolling ones over retrograde Mercury and so on, so I can continue to have my aura read and enjoy it. I don't know why, I just do. I need the balance.

I'll catch you later. My goal today is to show up at work with all-the-way dry hair and ALL of my makeup on. None of this finishing it in the bathroom today. Hashtag goals.

Your adult friend (finder),

June

P.S. Awhile back, on I think it was OK Cupid, some idiot wrote me. "Aren't you on AFF?" was all he wrote. I had no idea what that meant, so I didn't answer him. Then he had the nerve to WRITE ME BACK. Twice! "You could have at least responded." So let me tell you what. Then I DID respond. "I'm under no obligation to respond," I wrote, "and besides, your message made no sense." Only THEN did I Google fucking it and discover AFF was Adult Friend Finder, and then I was EVEN MORE MAD.

No, I'm not on Adult Friend Finder, you Immature Friend Finder. What a rude way to begin a conversation. I really feel like that's not how Prince Rainier made his initial move on Grace Kelly. You know who never in a million years would have hit the pedicure place? Prince Rainier.

Okay, bye.

Aging ungracefully · Food and Drink · My pets

Linear. That’s what I am. Yep.

I have a new thing that bugs me.

"WHAT? How can that be POSSIBLE, easygoing June!" [Leans into computer, rapt.]

When someone refers to any emotion being "at a cellular level." Oh, shut up. Yes, my cells know I got kicked out of Brownies when I was six, and they're still celling over it. Jesus Christ.

Disclaimer: I was da BOMB at Brownies. Everyone loved me. I was the best Brownie. Nobody was a better Brownie than me. Have you seen the video (veeedeo) of all the times Donald Trump says he's the best at something? I can't find it, but it's funny. You must trust me on this. Or do a better job Googling. Whichever.

I kind of wish that, when I was typing you in the morning, someone would just stand behind me and lift my bosoms for me. I realize they've invented an article of clothing that will do that, but in the morning I type you in whatever pajamas the cat hasn't eaten, and it's an issue. Do you think I could hire, like, a 16-year-old boy, a foreign exchange student or something?

And that was the day the police burst into June's house.

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Plucky little on-her-6th-or-7th-life Iris and I went to the vet yesterday, to see what condition her condition was in. She's really very good in the car, as opposed to Lily, who once you put her in a carrier observes the following:

MEOW!

MEOW!

MEOWWWW!

When the vet walked in, he was very somber. "How is Edsel?" he asked.

"Well, he's–"

"The Prozac didn't seem to work, eh?" he went on, starting to examine Iris.

HE THOUGHT EDSEL WAS THE DOG ATTACKER!

Edsel! Attacking Iris!

I mean, okay, he eats puppies, but that doesn't make him some kind of monster. "No, no, no!" I said.

That's another thing that bugs me. It bugs me a lot, in fact. People who can't just say "no." They gotta say, "No no no no no no."

SHUT

UPPPPPP.

Anyway, "No, no, no," I said. "Edsel did not attack Iris! Oh my god, no! He's been so concerned about her! He loves the cats!"

And that is when I started overcompensating for Edsel, talking about what a wonderful brother he is, how he provides for our family and we have such good times when he's not in a fang-y rage.

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"So, the Prozac is working for him?" the vet asked.

"Not really."

Anyway, Iris's potassium levels are back to normal. She had one count that was still high, but my girl has a whole lotta muscle and tissue damage and that's to be expected. While we were there, her pain medicine wore off, and she started the walking around growling thing that is both adorable and awful. I gave her more as soon as we got home.

The vet said while she's on her crappy antibiotic, that white liquid stuff that if you have a pet you've given your animal at some point, it'll make her not hungry. I'm still tempting her with Steely Dan kitten food

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goddammitz

and she's willing to at least eat some of that. And speaking of how that cat should not even count as a kitten anymore, speaking of how the Pope should give me a dispensation and let me feed him regular food, when I was at the vet, I was smiling at the cat carrier, because it's one of those ancient hard plastic ones, as opposed to those cute collapsible ones you modern folk have now, and on top of it, in magic marker,

THIS MAGIC MARKER! So different and new!

in magic marker it reads "Ruby." It was the carrier we used to fly her from California to here. And then there's a laminated tag on the carrier that reads, "Henry" from when I took him to the emergency vet once. It's like a little history of my 9,000 cats.

I just remembered something. Yesterday was the anniversary of Ruby's death. Eight years. Okay, weird.

Anyway, for the first time, I noted an envelope taped to the carrier as well. It was Henry's papers from the time he was at the emergency vet, same reason he had the laminated card. The point is, while I was waiting yesterday I opened the envelope. Fully grown adult Henry weighed 7.5 pounds during that vet visit.

Steely Dan is 8 months old. He weighs more than 10 pounds.

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Here's why! Last night I brought food in bed to poor convalescing Iris, who is staying in my room for now. She nibbled at it a bit, but eventually SD came in and, my, what a delightful visitor he is. "Oh! Food gone beggeeeng!"

Did your mother ever say that when something was still left? "Biscuits going begging!' "Potatoes going begging!"

My friend's mom did. Please see above list of things that bug me.

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This picture absolutely kills me. I title it The Indifference of Youth. I also title it, For God's Sake, Get New Curtains, June.

In other news, I walked three miles yesterday. Because you're mine, I walk a mile. Wait. That's not how it goes. Anyway, at work, we have this little walk we do called Fuchs Loop, because Fuchs at work discovered it, and you get to walk past a lot of rich people's houses, and I had time to take that walk in the a.m. and the p.m. I'm like the convenience store. AM/PM June.

Then Edsel and I took our walk and then I went to the grocery store and I was all, man, I feel kind of tired. And right then I knew. I'd walked a lot yesterday.

Also, and here's where you start to feel bad for me. Not my hangdog cat or my insane dog. Not my sad bedroom curtains or my sagging bosoms. No. Here's why.

They were out of my flavor of La Croix.

Article-2289326-1876C3F2000005DC-48_634x460 Bd6d71622fc93cadcf3977cd0a76f222 LOSS-GRIEF-christian-books

"Did you find everything okay?" the chippie at the checkout counter asked me.

"You were out out Berry LaCroix," I said.

"…What's that?"

Okay, don't ASK me if you don't CARE, is what I say. Jesus. So then I got home and watched The Gilmore Girls and all I could think of was how a can of Berry LaCroix sure would be good right now.

I gotta go. I sent a letter to the rotten neighbors who refuse to call to say, "Sorry our dogs are maulers" and I included the receipts for both vet visits, coming to a grand total of $1,968.37. I feel like that letter will be received less willingly than a letter from, say, Publisher's Clearinghouse. I should have gone over there with the invoices and a few balloons.

Okay, June, out.

June's stupid life · My pets

Iris. With some fava beans and a nice Chianti.

This morning I got out of bed and I was all, my leg feels funny. It feels cold on the back. Oh my god, am I BLEEDING or something? Do I have leg cancer? Did I wake up on the wrong side of leg cancer?

A hole. GUESS WHO chewed a HOLE in my pajamas? This means my heady days of owning a dining-room table/laundry-holding facility are over. Goddammit. Not to mention I liked these particular pajamas. They gots the birds on them.

Photo on 3-28-17 at 7.30 AM #2

Bird pajamas. Now with holes!

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In other news, Iris is home. They didn't WANT me to bring her home, they wanted me to schlep her to our regular vet for a day of IV drugs, because they didn't like how her potassium looked, but when I asked how much that would be, they said between $300 and $500. I mean, I've already spent $2,000. I told them I was taking her home, and I was right. She seemed better the minute we walked in.

I let Edsel go in to see her (I have her cloistered in my room), and she immediately rubbed her face on his snout. Then Edsel spent 457 years concernedly sniffing her while she hobbledly paraded back and forth under him. She's all shave-y and you can SEE where the dogs' horrible TEETH got her, but really I think she just needed to come home. We go to the vet today to see how it's going.

Also, could just do me a favor? If you have any temptation to send me a comment, IM, text, email, whatever that begins with , "You should…" or "Have you…?" or "Have the…" could you just, oh, like, write me a description of the sky instead? That would be lovely. Describe your sky.

I know the neighbors with the dogs are responsible. I know the law here. Yes, I've called the police. Yes, I've spoken to animal control. A lot. They hate me now, actually. Yes, they've been over there. Yes, I will take the neighbors to court. I know. I plan to make those neighbors pay, I really do. You think I can afford this? Have we met?

But in the meantime, thanks for all the notes you've sent and the kind words. Iris is so loved. She is such a muffin. I gave her three different kinds of meds yesterday, and while she hadn't eaten all weekend, as soon as she got home she feasted on Steely Dan's canned kitten food.

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she WAT?  

Last night, I was looking in the hall closet for something I'd hoped I'd kept (my youth) (my optimism) (my 24-inch waist) and there was a big old baggie of catnip. I didn't even know I had any catnip, but as soon as I saw it I poured some out, because I'd never seen Steely Dan on the 'nip.

Oh dear god.

If there was ever anyone who didn't need his inhibitions further released. It's like getting me drunk. Why? I spent the next 15 minutes watching that gray animal flop from side to side, desperately attempting to attack his own tail. He looked so cute that I tried to pet him, and now I am typing you with a nub.

Also, if yesterday weren't enough, with the getting up early to retrieve old Charleston Chew, rushing home at lunch to give her more medicine, rushing home after work to check on her again, I also had to drive to Winston-Salem to attend my first two-hour migraine study class, which I did, and I asked Suddenly-All-Up-In-It Ned to stop in after his infernal gym, just to make sure she was doing okay.

It occurred to me he could've spent the whole time on the floor, perusing my diaries, but I doubt he did. He's a boy. I know every girl in America would've.

In fact, let's take a poll. Be honest. Your ex has asked you to come over while he or she is not home. Do you look through the ex's things? If yes, ARE YOU A WOMAN? Because I'm guessing you are.

All right, I have to get ready for work. Thanks to all that freelance work I did and thanks to your donations, I was able to pay Ned back half of that damn vet bill when he was over checking on Iris. I left him a check on my nightstand, because he is my whore. A whore who takes personal checks. In the meantime, he says he's fine with waiting for those assholes to pony up in order to get the rest. I don't know that they'll EVER pony up, but we'll see.

I'll catch you later, with I hope no shocking pet news to report.

...friend/Ned · Munchausen's by Proxy · My pets

Pardon me boy, is this the cat that got-a chew chewed?

I have to get up at a ludicrous hour to get Iris from the emergency vet Monday a.m., as they are an emergency vet clinic and close at, like, 7:30 a.m., so I'm writing this Sunday night. Iris's still not eating, so they wanted to keep her another night in the hopes that she will eat at some point. I went to visit her Sunday afternoon, and even brought over her favorite treats, including a can of Steely Dan's kitten food that she's always coveted, and nothing.

IrisChins

I wish I felt the same way about food. Anyway, look at my kitty girl, all tarted up in a circus towel. Aaaaand under the big top! It's the amazing, apparently delicious Iris! The favorite dining spot of all loose dogs in Greensboro!

Oh, I was so glad to see her. When she couldn't go home Sunday morning, I was really kind of starting to panic. But then I saw her and she totally acted like Iris, mostly. I dragged Ned there for the visit, because at this point he was up in it, and the first thing she did was stumble over (they don't think her pelvis is broken now; rather the soft-tissue injury is what makes her not very walky) and wrap her tail around Ned.

FloorIris

Oh. And hi. If you didn't read this weekend, ya DICK, on Saturday morning Iris was attacked by two damn loose dogs in the neighborhood; they came right to my yard and dragged her out. Two neighbors were driving by and I don't really know what happened after that except I saw them out in my yard and they were attending to Iris and told me what had happened. They almost killed her. The dogs, not my kind neighbors. $2,000 later, it appears she's going to survive. (At first she was afraid, she was petrified.) She's been at the emergency vet place since Saturday morning.

Anyway, when we came to visit, the vet told us to let Iris walk around if she wanted, as walking was actually a thing she hadn't done yet even though they'd tried to get her to. And at first she walked the perimeter of the room several times, growling while she did. I think it hurt. Then after maybe the first 20 minutes, she stopped the Linda Blair growl and just walked. She's all shave-y on the back and you can see where those rotten dogs were chawing on her. Oh, my poor girl.

Also, I wish more people would ask me if the stupid neighbors who let the dogs loose, loose dogs wearing cheap perfume and Candies, are going to pay for all this. Yes, I do know the law. I know it by heart, at this point. Animal Control told me not to approach them, that they would, on Monday, telling them they're responsible for the bill.

In the meantime, I still have to pay for the whole thing when I pick her up Monday, and yes, I will pursue the matter as hard as I can. But be sure to keep sending me emails and texts and IMs and letters and singing telegrams re this. I have never received any telegram ever. Do they still make telegrams?

InsideIris

Here's the inner workings of Iris, in case you were curious. I have a similar x-ray, from the same room, of Talu a year ago. This was the same emergency vet who gave Lu that Certificate of Bravery last year, do you remember that? (Big Book of June Events)

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Anyway, I visited her for about an hour, and I think she enjoyed getting pets from old mom, here. I was so glad to see she was still plucky.

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After, I headed to the garden store and got an iris plant to give to the nice people who saved Iris's life. Really, had they not pulled over, those dogs would have finished her off and I would currently be a complete mess of a person and this whole post would be me screaming. Anyway, one of you suggested I get them an iris plant, and BRILLIANT so off I went.

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I even found a "Double Vision" iris, and when I discovered that was an actual plant, I built the Taj Mahal for myself, so pleased was I.

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I'd like to say the other animals are beside themselves with worry, but they aren't. They seem their usual selves.

HooCare
hashtag hooo care?

So that sums up m'weekend. I'd been so excited to go see Sasha the pit, but instead my weekend was the pits thanks to loose pits. Tonight I start my headache study classes, and I've already gotten Ned to commit to coming over to give Iris any meds, if any need to be given, while I'm gone. I know, but I had to do SOMETHING. I committed to 8 weeks for this study, and I committed to not let Iris, you know, DIE, so.

Anyway, I know some of you have given me tips for the care and let's hope feeding of Iris, and I haven't had a chance to thank you yet, but thank you in advance. This whole thing has been a fiasco and I'm glad to have you all.

It just occurred to me there are several birds, voles, mice, squirrels, rats, small children, bunnies and slow old ladies in heaven, high-fiving each other over Iris's current turn of events, aren't there?

 

June's stupid life · My pets

Saturday at the Maul

Today, two dogs attacked Iris. Ima try to tell you all I can remember, although it's already turning into a blur, thankfully.

Since before my Year Abroad, I haven't been sleeping with the cats. Ned wouldn't allow it, although he and I did have a tradition with Iris. Often I'd go to bed before Ned did, cause he's one of those freaks who retires at 1:00 on a worknight, and I'm more of a 10:30 gal. So I'd get into bed and Iris would come with me. He'd tuck us both in, and Iris and I would press spines all night till Ned's weird-ass retirement time, when he'd pick her up and unceremoniously toss her out of the room. At least that's how I picture it, kind of like how Fred Flintstone would toss that dinosaur cat out, or whatever that thing was. Was it a saber-tooth tiger? I guess so. Dinosaur cat.

The point is, since I moved back home to my double bed, I kept it dogs-only in the bed, lest I be overrun with varmints. If I'd let all the cats in, I'd wake up sideways. I know this from personal experience.

Last night when I crawled into bed, Iris was in there. I didn't have the heart to move her, so she and I pressed spines all night.

I'm so glad now that we did.

Those dang cats want in and out constantly, and Iris probably ran out while Edsel had his morning toilette. He has a little outdoor shower, with a mirror, where he brushes on his shaving cream and slaps on a little French cologne and ties his cravat just so.

I was set to meet one of the Alexes today at noon, because my plan was to head to Kernersville today, a nearby rather stupid town, to see the pit bull who needed a home. I just wanted to SEE her. It was up in the air whether the extremely serious nature of my latest health malady would allow that, but armed with Afrin, I texted Alex, I text Alex, at 9:00 to say, "We're on!" It was gonna be the pits!

Then it really was.

I was just getting out of the shower when I saw Edsel acting insane, which, you know. But he was standing on a chair, growling out the window, hackles up. I still had on a robe and my hair in a towel and I heard all kinds of yelling. I put on my glasses, because I was ready to Gladys Kravitz the shit out of whatever drama was happening outside my house.

A couple were getting out of their car, and their car was parked crookedly right outside my house. "Are they in some sort of fight?" I wondered hopefully. See, this is why bad things happen to me. But they both kept yelling and ran into the corner of my yard.

That's when it got a lot less fun.

I was already full of dread when I whipped open my front door. "Do you have a cat?" the husband yelled. Right away I stated to cry. I mean, right the fuck away. My neighborhood is sick with cats, though, and mine stick to my yard. This was in the bushes at the SIDE of my yard, so old Dee Nigh, over here, kept hoping it was that one orange kitty, or maybe the human-face kitty I like so much. Sometimes there's a tuxedo cat as well. I was opening the door hoping for the tuxedo cat, like I won the prom guy on Mystery Date.

"There's a gray and white cat here who needs a vet fast," the guy said.

"No," I said.

I could not make myself move from my porch. "No," I said again. I couldn't look. I couldn't. "Let me get some clothes on," I said, and shut the door.

I didn't really care that I was in my robe. You know what an exhibitionist I am. I just didn't want it to be true. I was hoping if I shut the door, the whole nightmare would be gone.

I put on a chawed-by-Steely-Dan shirt and some jeans and ran outside with wet hair.

"Two dogs attacked a gray and white cat," the man said, as I ran outside with a towel. "Is this your cat?"

It was Iris. As hard as I kept wishing, Don't let that be my cat, don't let that be my cat, it was my cat. And don't tell anyone, but Iris is my f-a-v-o-r-i-t-e. Oh, god, not Iris. I was like the mom in La Bamba, saying, "NOT MY RICHIE."

A weird thing happens to me in situations like this. I dry up. I had initially been deny-y and then shaky and then weepy, but once I saw her little body on the grass under my bushes, I dried right up. I got her in a towel, realized I sorta knew these neighbors (when you have a dog you get to know a lot of neighbors), thanked them and took her inside. I canceled with Alex–can't remember what I told her–brushed my teeth and swooped Iris back up and into the car.

She was panting and drooling and she'd pooped on herself. I don't even want to think about how terrified she must have been during the attack.

(And let me say something right here. If you're going to be the smug asshole who wants to tell me THIS IS WHY YOU DON'T EVER LET CATS OUT, JUNE, just fucking save it. I see one line of it, I'm deleting it, blocking you forever, and I'm not even gonna read the whole thing. Seriously, I am so not in the mood for that.)

The emergency place is really close, thank god, and they saw her right away, because special June Gardens wing of emergency vet. Henry has been there, Tallulah was there, and now Iris. "Her color looks good, so we're gonna have you stay with her in the lobby while we take care of some other emergencies," they told me. I know they put a dog to sleep while we were waiting–they had the "be quiet" candle lit, and I saw the weeping family leave. Horrible.

Iris stayed on my lap, panting, and a few minutes later those neighbors showed up! "We found the owners of the dogs," they told me. "It was a pit bull and a Corgie type dog. The Corgie was just kind of along for the ride, but he participated," they said. Then they told me details about what they saw, which are awful. They really viciously attacked my poor girl.

They also said the neighbors didn't seem to care that much. "Oh, we've been trying to get them back in for 30 minutes," they apparently said, as they gardened in their yard.

Eventually, the vet called me in, and there was a horrifying few moments where they thought she had head trauma, but it turns out her regularly scheduled wonky eyes made them surmise brain damage.

As they were giving her x-rays, I had a terrible thought. Steely Dan had been outside, too. Oh, just the thought of his velvety purple self lying in a heap somewhere in my yard like a victim at Sharon Tate's house was too much to bear.

Ned still has a key to my house, so I called him. "OH NO!" he screeched when I told him, and then he started to cry, and I was all, "Listen. I need you to not with that right now. I need you to get it together, get to my house, call 'Steely Dan!' He comes to Steely Dan, not 'kitty kitty.' Can you do that?"

I was a drill sergeant at that point. Ned stopped weeping and was at the emergency vet in no time. Steely Dan had come right in, with no problem, and was unharmed. I hope he didn't see the attack.

At that point I had Iris back with me, and when Ned sat down, she mewed for the first time, and struggled to get out of her towel burrito. "Let her do what she wants," I said, as Ned objected.

She hobbled out and sat so she was touching both of us. She just wanted to be between us.

Cats don't know from bad boyfriends.

The verdict is: broken pelvis, liver enzymes are up because of blunt trauma to her liver, lacerations on her back leg and some places on her spine, and they're keeping her overnight because sometimes there's stuff that takes awhile to manifest, so they want to monitor that.

Here's the best part, really: Last night, after killing myself for a week, I stayed up really late and finished that freelance work. And today I get hit with a vet bill for $1800.

Sigh.

So, when I went home I spoke to animal control–the neighbors had already called them–and they said do NOT go over there myself to confront them about the vet bill. They said the animal control officer will go over there Monday to present the bill. In the meantime, Ned paid it and I'm paying him back. You have already sent tips, which is ludicrously kind, and I am paying those right to Ned as they come in.

I don't know how it'll go with those neighbors, but what I really care about now is that Iris gets home to me.

If you want to help, here's what will really help: I apologize in advance if I can't answer many texts or IMs. You can imagine how my phone has already been since I posted this on Facebook. I've tried to give you all the details there are, so if you have further Qs, at this point I don't know the answer, as I've just told it all here. The neighbors said the mean dogs were back home–I drove past that house twice and I don't see the dogs, but I DO see the door to their fence is open.

I talked to a different neighbor who says those dogs are mean and they get out all the time, which is an abomination. I know some people are dead set against cats going outside, and I get that, and I don't happen to agree, but I know this scenario is exactly why people feel this way.

I understand that, and this was awful, and it infuriates me that my little stick-to-the-yard cat sunning herself near the bushes got attacked like this, and that it's just as much my fault as it is the neighbors with the mean dogs. I mean, they broke an actual law and I didn't, but my choice to let her in my yard means I put her in that vulnerable position.

I guess the other way you can help is don't let's get into a debate about this. I'm just so on edge as it is. Thank you.

I've already called the emergency vet once this afternoon and they encouraged me to call as often as I want. I'll call again tonight. I just hate the thought of little Iris in pain and scared. I wish I could get hypnotized to not have to think about it. Poor Mrs. Irises.

Further reports as developments warrant.

Health · June's vast love of eagles

June Gardens’ Day Off

I took the day off yesterday to work on my freelance work, and then I never worked on my freelance work.

Welcome to me. Welcome to the splendor of me.

The first thing I did was get together for coffee with Lilly of Chris and Lilly, and I like how she has to be half a person whenever I refer to her. But here's why: "I'm having coffee with Lilly," I told my mother.

"Your cat Lily?"

You know, technically I have coffee with Cat Lilly every day. You know what I should get? Is a tiger, and name her Tiger Lilly. That wouldn't be confusing at all, to have my tiger named the same thing as my cat. Fortunately for all of us, once I moved old Tiger Lilly in, she'd quickly be the only pet, kind of like the time some yahoo brought a praying mantis to "capture a bug and bring it to the school aquarium" day. We all watched our submissions get eaten, one by one, with just old green Laura Dern remaining in there.

Faithful Reader Paula is watching that Large Giant Lies or whatever it's called, and she's become obsessed with Laura Dern–or as my mother called her, Lorna Doone. My mother is watching that show, too. Stupid White Lies. What's it called?

Anyway, so it was good to see Lilly, even though she pointed out it'd only been 19 days since we'd seen each other and not my usual required 30. But, see, I'd asked her to coffee, so I didn't have to form my huffy, "GOD, I just SAW her" thought.

I'm a delight.

Also, I took a long spring drive in the country, something I have always loved doing. I've always wanted to live in the country. I never have. Movin' to the country, gonna eat a lot of peaches. Movin' to the country, gonna eat a lotta peaches.

PEACHES COME IN A CAN! THEY WERE PUT THERE BY A MAN!

I miss the '90s.

Anyway, the other crucial thing to happen is that the thing happened again. I had ZERO SYMPTOMS and then yesterday I woke up 100% stuffed up, and I can't taste anything, and I am miserable. It got worse yesterday as the day wore on. Why, god? I don't understand how I keep getting these instant colds, just add water.

If you get out your Big Book of June Events (what color do you see the book? I see kind of an old-timey sage green), you'll note I just got OVER the same thing about two weeks ago. What the HELL? I eat right.

God, that bolt of lightening almost hit me.

Anyway, after I drove to the country, ate zero peaches, had coffee with Lilly the person and not the cat, I headed to the grocery store, where it was chicken chili day, so I got a big tub, and then oh yeah, I really should change the filter in my furnace because pets, and oooo, I need coffee for work and I should get decaf and then caf for bad days, and oh geez, my allergy medici–

sploop.

The chili. The chili fell out my hands, y'all. The chili fell out my hands and due to that whole gravity nonsense, sploop.

Oh my god, humiliating.

That didn't stop me from getting chili again anyway.

Is chili fattening?

Anyway, that floor chili was the last thing I remember tasting. Ever since then it's been, Oh, I'm consuming some orange cold liquid that tastes like nothing and, oh, here's hot brown nothing that I'm drinking.

My grandmother was an excellent cook, and the best thing was her mashed potatoes. I lived for those. Eventually, my grandfather retired and they moved to Florida and then North Carolina, my grandparents did, and I didn't see them much. But eventually when I was 25, my father and I drove to North Carolina and had Christmas dinner with them AND I HAD A COLD.

All I'd wanted to do was taste those mashed potatoes, and there I was. Oh, the texture seems fantastic.

Just think. I was in the same state as Ned and didn't know him yet. I could've asked to borrow the car, driven from Asheville to Raleigh, knocked on his stupid college door and said, "In 22 years we're going to meet, and Ima tell you right now: Just KEEP ON WALKIN'. When I write you on OK Cupid, KEEP ON WALKIN'. …Well, see, OK Cupid will be this dating site online. Well, online is going to be…"

Did you ever wonder about people you met at certain times? Like, 1990 me would not have liked 1990 Ned, for shizzle. He didn't have long hair, he wasn't in a band, he was in a fraternity. No way. But I feel like for the first 45 years of my life, no matter when I'd met Marvin, I'd have liked him right away. If I met him now, though, he'd no longer be my type.

Not rich enough. I'm sorry, but that's become important to me in m'twilight years.

While I was writing you, I felt kind of funny, so I turned around and…

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You guys. God knows I love Lily the cat, god KNOWS I do, but holy Christ, she's an idiot. First of all, she doesn't know to meow to get my attention. And she doesn't know how to come in. You go to the door and she just stands there on that shelf. I've even shut the door on her, telling her she HAS to jump down and walk through the door, but it doesn't help.

So sometimes I pick her round football self up, place her on the deck, and she always

ALWAYS

starts heading the wrong way. "Inside is this, way, Lily."

Poor Lily. At least she's pretty.

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On the other end of the spectrum, we have Mr. I Be Smart and Bored and Maybeee a Claw in Edz Would Brake Up Moe Not Nee. Which is a long name. Almost as long as Steely Dan.

Speaking of SD, yesterday Alf, my handyman, came to give me a new gate, because y'all gave me so many tips that I could afford the $165 that cost me! That gate has been a travesty for years. The wood is rotting, and if Edsel had any chutzpah he'd had escaped through it ages ago. Also, you had to…LIFT it UP in order to open and shut it, otherwise it'd drag across the ground in a most undelightful way.

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Bonus: Edsel-peeing shot! It has to weather awhile before Alf can paint it. The gate, not Edsel's pee.

The point is, after Alf my handyman and I exchanged numerous giggly texts:

Alf: The 42" gate is really cheap. Would six inches make that big of a difference?

June: I'LL say it does!

Alf: heeee!

June: heeeeee!

We are both in our 50s.

Anyway, so after we revisited 7th grade a LOT, and even texted "stud" and slayed our own selves, he came over and had the back door open (heeeee) while he worked. This left the screen door with the hole in it (Alf's next project) open all afternoon, which meant Steely Dan could SOAR through the hole like a tiger at the circus, or my pet Tiger Lilly, all afternoon.

He was obsessed.

"That cat is crazy," said Alf, indifferently, as he worked. "Is that the one who was in the tree last time?"

No, that was Iris.

"You've got a lot of cats," mused Alf, and his Obvious Seminar starts next month. Sign up soon.

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At 4:00, Edsel and I retired to the bed, because it was one year exactly that Tallulah died. We talked about our favorite Lu memories, and remembered the good times we had with her, and how much we missed her and then Edsel told me he'd really like a new dog friend and won't I please go get that pitty that needs adopting?

Shut up. He did SO.

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And she's a medium! Look how it'll save me in psycics!

I know. I KNOW. You don't have to tell me.

Okay, I'd better go. I feel awful and my head is stuffy and I feel awful. Did I mention? What the HECK with these colds from nowhere?

Stuffily,

Jooon

Busy busy busy busy. Thank heavens for Angie's List. · Money

June must think of title. June not feeling it right now. June hits Publish anyway.

I worked till 10:00 last night, on freelance stuff, and my real work was busy yesterday, too, but at one point one of you wrote me. "I left you a tip."

"Oh, you did? Wow, thanks!"

Eventually, I got over there, to m'tip jar, and you'd left me enough tips that I don't have to borrow from any random well-off exes! Yay! Thanks, you guys!

Just today, I went to Steely Dan's hallowed Feeding Area® and noted he was on his last can of food. He wouldn't have STARVED, I have dry kitten food, made from real kittens, but he was gonna have to wait on the cans. But now? Cans for that assy cat!

I mentioned this on Facebook yesterday, but I noted yesterday that he is apparently jumping to the shelf atop the closet and chawing the fabric below. "So he's a moth," one of you said.

Yes. Yes, he is. WHY would you even WANT to chew fabric? He's not teething; he already did that, unless he's getting a new row like a shark, and I would not put that past him. A couple times now he's sauntered past me of late, and for a second there I'm all, "Who is that man?" He's getting big, is what I am saying to you.

You know, I love nothing more than a baby animal, yet why do I always own animals that get big in 14 seconds? Roger, Lottie, SD.

Anyway, so now I can, like, get dish soap and more allergy meds and I can LIVE! Live like a regular person who can buy staples! Yay!

Oh, and the other good news is, I know I told you Ned paid that doctor bill for me that inexplicably went to his house even though I have never been to that doctor before last month and there is really no reason they think his address is still my address. But whatever. The point is, him doing that tipped me over into meeting my ridiculous $2,000 deductible already this year, so yay!

I have a lot of yay today.

ALSO, I heard from the headache study I'm doing, and the first part is over–on to the second part. I am not taking any drugs or changing my diet, but that's all I can say about it. This is a whole new approach that I've yet to try, and I'm curious to see how it works.

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And finally, I hate to tell Lily that she can't really see anything. "Lileee patrol yard tooo." Hey, maybe before spring gets here for real (Okay, it IS spring. Shut up.) I can get that screen replaced. What say you? As soon as I do that I'll find a puppy again.

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Or adopt this pittie, with whom I am obsessed. "Cat curious." Oh my god, that kills me. Clearly she's in college. In her experimental years.

Okay, I'm leaving. Oh, one last thing. I got home and started working right away last night, resulting in me forgetting to feed dinner to the pets, which, I KNOW. I'm lucky to be alive. The point is, it was such a nice evening, and at one point I got up to stand on the deck and stretch, and everyone was out there together being so quintessentially themselves.

Edsel kept picking up Blu and dropping it, over and over. Steely Dan kept running at the big tree, seeing how high he could jump on the trunk, then jumping down and trying again.

Lily was on her back, legs splayed rolling in the dirt.

Iris sat on the deck with her paws crossed, surveying her domain. Sort of. As survey-y as you can be when you "can't see fukkin theeng."

So that was cute.

Okay, bye.

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

Living like a college student w/out the cute body I had in college

I'm $54 overdrawn in my account, I get paid in TEN DAYS, and I just called Ned to borrow $100.

I KNOW.

You guys. I cannot keep living like this. If you wanna call that living. Seriously, though, here's how it happened: I got paid last Wednesday. I paid the mortgage because it was due that day. I got my contacts, because they were ready and I hadn't worn contacts in weeks. You'd think I could just blow that off and be glasses girl, but I really have trouble copyediting with glasses on, cause I have to take them off to really see, and scootch way up to the computer, and plus also it hurts to wear headphones with them on, a thing I have to do because open floor plan.

So I got the contacts. Paid the mortgage. Got groceries. GOT THE SIX-DOLLAR EYEBROW WAX.

Then I had $54 till the NEXT payday, which I could deal with, and boom. Auto insurance. Automatic withdrawl. It overdrew me, and the FUCKING BANK charged me $36 for it.

God I hate banks. Why they gotta be such dicks?

The point is, I'm 51. This is insane. I spent until 9:30 last night working, trying to make extra money, but I can't keep working 11-hour days forever. I mean, I guess I could, but I assure you a tired copyeditor is a shitty copyeditor.

And remember when that realtor came? My house is creeping up there in value, but it's still not worth what I paid, and I wouldn't make any money selling it. So that's out.

Anyway. At least I'm rich in pet food. One of you sent me King Kamehameha amounts of it, and this morning I saw Edsel's food tin was low, and I panicked for a minute, but I looked in the closet and there was a huge bag of his Just Sex. I give him this Rachel Ray food called Just Six, but my hilarious joke with myself is to call it Just Sex. I know. All this talent, and I'm destitute.

I don't even know what else to do, you know? I've cut out all fun. I have no TV, I buy groceries and eat at home. I'm devoid of all injectables, which if you ask me is the biggest tragedy. I know a lot of other people feel the same way. Thank heavens we have a new administration to take us in an exciting direction.

…heh.

So say what you will about Ned, he's the only local friend I have who's sick with cash, and he offers to help constantly and I say no constantly, at least I did back when we used to speak. I didn't even know if he'd answer my call, but he did and didn't hesitate to loan me the money, and he also told me that my allergy bill came to our old house (why? I never went to that doctor before. Why did they think that was my house? why??), and it was $250 and he just paid it.

So that's going on. I always get smug judge-y people when I talk about m'cash flow, but my determination is to tell as much of the truth as I can on here without ruining anyone else's life.

Oh, also, Peg's daughter messaged me on Facebook. I'd told Peg my new number but she must have forgotten, and in desperation the daughter found me there. Apparently my full name is on Peg's power of attorney stuff, which I'm glad of.

The point is, in case you're not on Pie on the Face, Peg has been in hospital–as they say in England–and then at this rehab place (she's not DRUNK. Physical rehab) recovering from her ailments, and then yesterday she had another surgery. Peg's surgery yesterday went well, and soon she goes BACK to the rehab place.

Her daughter, who lives in Virginia, I think, has been schlepping here weekly and staying at Peg's, and I told her I'm right next door and can do whatever when she's not here. I also invited her over for coffee and kvetching if she needs to, and she said yes to that, so that'll be nice.

I hope I'll have coffee. "Hi, come on in. I have negative 14 dollars, so do you mind water? If they haven't shut off my water?"

So that's that. Also, we've had big, big changes at work, so that's been kind of stressy. Is the moon in Africa or Saturn or something? Are you going through chaos and upheaval as well? Cause this is weird. Everything's all fruit-basket upset.

I used to have this boss, who didn't like me, and that was a huge phrase with her: fruit-basket upset. It killed me. I'd have said, "fucked up," and right there's the difference between the two of us, and no wonder she didn't like me.

At least I have my youth.

Wait.

…I just got up to get more fascinating decaf (I'm almost totally decaffeinated now! This is the first time since I'm 16!), and I saw two riveting things. First of all, Steely Dan was chewing my flowers, that pretty pink plant Chris and Lilly got me a few weeks ago? (Big Book of June Events) I brought it inside cause it's been so cold, and there was SD, all chawing it, and I did the whole HSSSST! sound I do to scare the cats.

And he looked at me with nary a flinch. Kept chewing. HSSSST! has ALWAYS worked, even on Mr. Horkheimer, but SD? Nary.

So I took the plant back outside, cause it's supposed to be 79 today anyway, and as I was walking back in here, I saw Lily in the back yard, Lily my cat, which is good because if Lilly the person had driven 25 minutes to just stand in my back yard I might get more than a tad creeped out.

The point is, she was all hunched in a hunting position, Lily my cat was, twitching her ample hips this way and that. So I watched to see what would happen next. If I'd been online I'd have clicked here. You won't BELIEVE WHAT–anyway.

She pounced. On nothing. Then she tore away sideways, her ample everything swaying in the breeze.

So that's what Lily does in the yard. Hunts nothing. Somehow this is not shocking information for me.

I'd better go, so I can get to work and maybe scrounge some free food or something. Did I mention I cannot keep living like this? Maybe some 20-year-old college boy needs a room to rent. That sounds really sexy till his first night of binge drinking.

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Fruit-basket upsettedly,

Juan

Current Affairs

June drinks red wine and drones

Hloy CATS.

"Hloy," Goddammit. I haven't even HAD any wine yet. HOLY cats. Jesus.

Photo on 3-19-17 at 9.51 PM #2

In case anyone's thinking of checking me into Promises Malibu or whatever, it's 9:53 at night as I write this. I realize you're likely all in your morning-y routine and all that, all showered and parfumed and sportin' your three-piece woman of power suit with the floppy '80s tie and so on, but I'm writing this on Sunday night. The Wonderful World of Disney is on and my mother is spritzing Hair So New into my tangles and I just had a Hungry Man pot pie.

Because apparently it's Sunday night in 1974.

That's how I remember the Sundays of my youth. Disney, pot pies, Hair So New.

But back to why I was saying Hloy cats.

I took on this freelance assignment, a thing I TOLD you all about last week, a thing I WARNED you would mean I was not going to be reachable for a reacharound,

a thing you all blatantly ignored anyway.

HEY JUNE! I'M TEXTING YOU JUNE! I'M IMing YOU JUNE! JOOON! JUUUUUUUUUN! Hey June what you up to JUUUUUNE? Hunh? Answer me I'm calling you JOOO–

Oh for fucks sake that is when I shot everyone.

So what I'm saying to you is I began this work Friday, and I feel as though I've done little else since and in case anyone is wondering, so far I've made about $580, and I'm on track to get it done on time but it's gonna KILL me, is what it is.

My eyes are literally bleary as I write this. I never should have agreed to this short of a deadline. What happened to self-CARE, June? What happened to BOUNDARIES, June? JUNE? JUNE! I'M TEXTING YOU JUNE HELLO JUUUUUUUUUN.

Photo on 3-19-17 at 9.56 PM #2

So, I told myself I had to stop working at 9:30 tonight, so at 9:35 I quit, even though I was telling myself, Oh just go a little LONGER, June. You can keep GOING, June. If you can't drive with a broken back, at least you can polish the fenders, JUNE.

But I stopped. And after, I was strolling into the kitchen-al area, where all the magic happens, and I happened upon the magic johnson of red wine on the counter, red wine that has been sitting there unopened and closed off and emotionally unavailable to me for weeks that I hadn't even really noticed was there. I don't drink red wine, usually. It's from my dinner party I had awhile back.

Photo on 3-19-17 at 9.49 PM #2
FUGIT.

So then I came up with this brilliant idea that with all my makeupless, stressy-haired self, I would come over here and chat with you while I drank, just like we decided to get together and grab us a brew, other than the part where I will not be asking you anything about YOUR day, so in other words, exactly like we're getting together in real life to grab us a brew.

So, really, other than WORKING and walking poor Edsel,

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[Enclosed please find before and after of Edsel once he's been asked, "You wanna go for a walk?" I don't know why I ask. The answer is always GOD YES MOTHER OF GOD YES THANK YOU YES SWEET LORD YES.]

the only other interesting thing I did this weekend was have a date. Not, like, I ate a fig, which would be sad and hilarious at the same time.

[Pours more wine. Because wine!]

I met a boy on OK Cupid, as I am wont to do, and in case anyone's keeping track, I believe at this point I have gone out with a dozen men from that damn site since that week between Christmas and New Year's of 2015. I'd been back from my year abroad since fall, and I said, Okay. I'll try fucking again.

Here's the thing. That first guy? THERE WAS NOTHING WRONG WITH HIM. He was a delight. But I was so not ready.

Then 2016 was a bad-date fest. I went out with Mr. Write, and Mr. French, remember them? And the younger Olympics man and the older man, and men who were off their meds and told me so, men who never once asked me one Q abut myself the whole date, men who were way too young and TWO men who were half into dudes, and it turns out? As much as I'm all teach tolerance and give peace a chance and yay with your rainbow flag and all? I really can't date the bi dude. I'm sorry. Bye, dude.

So you can IMAGINE my lowed expectations, and lowed is a wonderful word, when I went out with this latest person, a person who will not come up with a good blog name for himself (so far he's presented me with the lovely choices of Skippy McDougal and Joel), but with whom I had the rapport online.

The rapport. We were rapporting all over yonder.

So finally we agreed to meet at this dive bar in my old Year Abroad neighborhood, and he said, "So I should just look for the hair, then?"

Photo on 3-18-17 at 7.06 PM #4
Hurr.

And here's my problem. Hurr's my problem. [glugls more wine in glass. glugls. goddammit.]

HERE'S MY PROBLEM.

I look my worst. My very worst. I'm not doing Latisse, because money. No Botox, because money. No fillers, and LOOK AT MY MARIONETTE CHIN RIGHT NOW. Also, phat. Phat phat. But I gathered my unattractive self and I headed out to the date, thinking, well, this will be like the others, in that there will be something HORRIBLY IRREPARABLE about him,

and then I ended up having a great time.

Remember on New Year's Eve, how I went to my friends' huge party in their bed and breakfast mansion-y place that they own that is so beautiful and so on? Remember that? I sat at the top of the steps that night with a friend of theirs, a married friend who hovered around my age, and he told me a disturbing thing that has haunted me ever since. He told me that men my age who were single were always broken. And that so many of the women were just lovely, and he always felt bad about that.

Well. Son of a BOTCH.

Botch. Son of a botch. Why do you let me drink and compose?

That's tainted my view of men, and it really shouldn't, because that's just one man's opinion. That's, just, like, your opinion, man.

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Me on my golden date.

So, look. I have no idea if this man is broken. Like I'm not? But what I do know is he was cute cute cute, and hilarious, and I loved everything he had on, and we never shut the fuck up, not at the dive bar, not when we went to eat after, and not at the 24-hour diner where we got coffee till the wee hours after. He was smart, he was kind, and he paid for my lamb stew. I don't know what that lamb is so worried about, but she keeps wringing her hoofs.

Am I your favorite drunk blogger, or do you have another one? And I know it's terrible to eat the lambs, Clarice.

So, who knows what's gonna happen. But I can tell you one thing. I realized I hadn't thought about Ned all day today. Not once all day.

And that's nothing to wine about.

Photo on 3-19-17 at 10.57 PM #3

Your makeupless friend and mine,
June

...friend/Ned · Beauty products · Busy busy busy busy. Thank heavens for Angie's List. · Fuck natural

Freelance work is here

For the next week, I will be proofreading a textbook when I'm not at my regularly scheduled job. I will not be here a lot, and also if you know me in real life, I will not be phoning with you a lot. I'll be back when I can!

I took photos of my toilette this morning to tide you over. I know, man. You are welcome.

  Photo on 3-17-17 at 8.19 AM #2 Photo on 3-17-17 at 8.21 AM #2 Photo on 3-17-17 at 8.23 AM Photo on 3-17-17 at 8.25 AM #3 Photo on 3-17-17 at 8.35 AM
TAAA-DAAAAA! (I really don't look good in green. I cheated with kind of a teal today. Also, today marks five years since I've had sex with anyone but Ned. Add THAT to your Big Book o'June Events. Also, mark a spot up ahead, will you? Cause this is bullshit, man. We must work to remedy this sitch.)

(Hi, mom.)

Eyebrows Light and Dark · Food and Drink · Friends · Fuck natural · I am high-maintenance · In the kitchen with June · June doesn't know any ugly people · Neighbors of June

Joe Lies

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I be Hutch. Wear be Starskee?

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hahahahahaha

Anyway.

I hadn't had my eyebrows waxed since Wilford Brimley was a child, so I went to Elegant Nail & Tan, which I realize suggests all kinds of featured services that do not seem to include waxing, but you must trust me on this. While I was waiting, I got to know a woman sitting next to me. We talk talk talked and we're the same age and both single and finally we exchanged numbers and picking up women is super easy.

Why can't I get my eyebrowns, as they say, to look at good as they get them to look? It's completely worth the six dollars.

Other than that, I went to the grocery store and loaded myself up with frozen yogurt bars for the next two weeks, and because I try to get in plant-based foods, one of the boxes was strawberry flavor. The other bars were vanilla, and isn't the vanilla bean a plant? I think it is. So. Diet. Complete.

I have never seen a tanning bed at Elegant Nail & Tan. I'm not saying there isn't maybe one back there, but I've never seen it, and I've never heard anyone come in there and say, Yes, I'm  here to tan? Maybe they need to rethink their moniker. Elegant-ish Nail & Old Magazines.

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At my old seat at work, I looked at an Impressionist-ish painting of fall trees against a blue sky, and now I look at multiple Os. That picture of me on my bulletin board is from this time we had to take selfies for a client presentation, and one day the janitorial staff left a note that read, "Is this trash" on a box, and some jokester put that note on my selfie and an eternal joke was born.

I meant to Google why companies move you around a lot, like, what's the benefit to them, but I forgot. If anyone knows, I'd be curious. Some people at work are really traumatized over it, if they've been at their desks forever and so on.

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Others of us are excited to be reunited after being ripped apart. Like Joe and I were ripped apart.

Name that movie.

Anyway, other than that, I have a gigantic freelance job coming up starting tomorrow and going until next Friday. So if I up and disappear, it means I'm behind and I'm frantically working to get it all done. So be sure to pepper me with IMs and emails. WHERE ARE YOU, JOOOOOOOOOOOOOON? Are you dead, JOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON?

I have already gotten my delightful credi card debt down to the next number. So, like, if I were 11,000 thousand dollars in debt, which I'm not thank god, I'd be down to 10,oooo now. Yay. So I keep plugging away. Which doesn't help pay the bills at all. "June keeps unplugging and plugging her appliances, yet she still has debt."

Shouldn't Tallulah have to pay this? Someone wake her up.

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Iris and me having an Elliott and E.T. moment. Beeeee good. She's always good. I mean, to everyone but baby birds. And adult birds. Or anyone rodent-ish.

Also, I've noticed that there are always cars now at my next-door neighbor Peg's. Sometimes just one extra, sometimes two. Someone's been rolling her trash can to the curb, as well. This worried me, so I called her, and she's never called me back. It's been, like, a week. I don't want to be all Gladys Kravitz and go over there, but I feel like something is definitely up. There has never been a time Peg hasn't called me back.

Maybe she has Noro virus. Hey, June, you ever gonna get over Peg giving you Noro virus?

What do you think?

All right, I have to go to work, try to find my new desk.

Your friend and mine,

Juan

Film · My pets

The many photography talents o’June

Yesterday I asked you for stuff to blog about at lunchtime, but then lunchtime neared and someone I freelance for said, "Can you do this really fast?" and I said, "$ure," and who's sick of my dollar signs for Ses? S's? Sszez?

So that ruined that lunch hour, and now I can't remember what all you wanted me to blog about anyway. Aren't you glad I asked?

I'm all settled into my new space at work, and I'm hoping maybe my new space will bring me luck, and my whole life will fall into place, and no longer will I be haunted by bad relationships, bad debt and poor meal choices. Or, I could just be working one floor up and everything will stay the same. How can you know? Behold action shots of my coworker Molly headed toward me, in our new space, to go for a walk.

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I realize that every photo I take looking that way is going to be a little whatever that is. Sort of too light? I don't know. On the other side of me is the office of my boss, fmr., and that's it, so she'd better be interesting up in there, because I'll be shooting that way a lot.

I also realize the best part of life is the thinner slice, and it don't count for much.

Please, god, take Air Supply out of my head. I don't ask much. But I know I love you. And that may be all I need to learn.

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This creature. If you wanted to know the secret to my incredible success as a blogger, which is like incredible success as a hoop-skirt maker, so antiquated is that idea, what I do is take photos during the day, and then load the ones I like to my desktop. Then when I'm writing, I look at them to see if they jog any memories about things I wanna tell you at all, but seeing as I don't jog…

Anyway, this photo reminded me of what a court jester this cat is. Catten. He's 8 months old now. I just saw someone on social media refer to her child as 25 months, and that is when I got in my car, drove to her state, and bludgeoned her clean in the head with my dick.

AND NO ONE WOULD BLAME ME.

Anyway, during my most productive lunch, which included Chef-Boy-Ar-Dee, and see above ref to my stupid life, I was heard a galumphing noise above me. "That goddamn cat is on the roof again," I thought, and at this point it's just a regular part of my day, and probably the neighbors are all, "That panther is on June's roof again." Or maybe at this point I'm just The Cat Lady. Maybe I've graduated to being neighborhood cat lady.

Yay.

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I tried to get him to come down, and he was all, Bitz, day just starteeng for Steelleee, so I left his ass up there. FINE, then, I said. You know how it goes when I do that.

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As soon as I got home yesterday, he ran down the driveway and jumped in my car. The only other times he's been in my car was to go to the vet, so I've no idea why he just leaped in there like he knew it'd be a good time. But leap he did. I had to beg him to get out of there so I could go inside and revisit Chef-Boy-Ar-Dee. Why the Ar? Is that, like, a family name? "Yes-a! I-a come from-a long-a line of chefs named Ar! Enjoy-a my Beefaroni-a!"

Latest

That's kind of a Hitler mustache he's got going on, there. But I enjoy the jaunty angle of his hat. I wonder what the asterisk is for? Chef Boy-ar-dee, but were afraid to ask.

Hey, June, how about you try to make sense?

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Speaking of homoerotic, the important news is that I went to the movies last night at my old theater, because of course Top Gun was playing. I'd never seen Top Gun, and before you get all, "Really?" just ask yourself, does June seem like the kind of person who schlepped out to the theater in 1984 and got herself a ticket to Top Gun?

So June schlepped to the theater in 2017 and got herself a ticket to Top Gun, and it probably cost more today than it did in 1984.

Turns out, Top Gun is a stupid movie, and Meg Ryan had herself some '80s hair, man, and also, I wish they could have played Highway to the Danger Zone maybe a little more often. No, really. And also, I didn't hear enough of Take My Breath Away.

They were all, Say, let's make a movie, spend 9 million dollars on airplane scenes, and select two songs to feature throughout.

Anyway, now I can say I've seen Top Gun. Also, I can say that they named the one pilot of color "Sundown," so. Go, 1984.

The further on the edge, the hotter the intensity,

June

P.S. I just heard a ruckus behind me and saw this out the door.

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June's stupid life

Help June blog

I overslept. I went to bed last night, as I told a friend of mine, somewhere between old lady and clinically depressed o'clock. The whole migraine weekend screwed me up.

So, do the thing. What do you want me to blog about at noon? …And let's remember that what we read about on Facebook's Pie the Face page stays there.

June. Nudging you dramatically since 2017.

...friend/Ned · Aging ungracefully · Death · Health

The one where June’s family assumes she’s missing, has fit

I woke up Thursday with a migraine, which is annoying. When you wake up with one, there's really nothing you can do. It's often too late to take medicine. But took some I did, and fortunately it worked, so I only had to work with a migraine for, you know, three hours or something comfy like that.

Then on Friday I woke up with a migraine.

Goddammit.

And because I'd had one the day before, that crept back in at night, I'd taken two pills Thursday, which means on Friday I had half a pill left.

Here's the thing about my goddamn medication. You get nine to a pack. That's all they'll sell you. And you could go around with two-and-a-half pills for three weeks before you need more. And they won't do refills till 30 days have passed.

So what ALWAYS HAPPENS is I have a bad day, get down to one or one-and-a-half pills, panic and call the pharmacy and

always.

ALWAYS,

get told I don't have any refills. I swear to you it seems that way. I get migraines constantly, every month, since I'm 25. JUST GIVE ME THE GODDAMN REFILL.

So then I call the doctor, and I have to sit through that

GODDAMN

voice mail, where they

always.

ALWAYS,

tell you to pay attention cause their prompts have changed, and why the fuck do they always do that? Why? They HAVE NEVER CHANGED IN NINE YEARS OF THAT PLACE.

So you finally get the assistant to your doctor, but you never REALLY get her, no. You get a machine, of course, telling you that if this is a real emergency to hang up and dial SUCK MY DICK YOU CONDESCENDING 20-YEAR-OLD NINNY.

THEN, they ask you to be sure to tell them your name, the patient's name, their date of birth, a phone number "where you can be reached"

Oh, really? Because you don't want to FUCK AROUND with voice mail? Really? I wonder what that feels like.

The point is, they go on and on after and you can never remember, by the time it beeps, what all you're supposed to tell them. Also, ALSO, every doctor at that place has at least one day a week that they're gone by noon. At this point I work with THREE doctors there, so often have I called needed a refill and the doctor is out till the next

FUCKING

day.

ALSO, if this weren't enough, they tell you, Prescription refills will be filled within 48 hours.

Why don't you suck my enormous fire hose of a dick.

I HAVE A MIGRAINE! GIVE ME MORE THAN NINE AT A TIME AND GIVE ME REFILLS IF YOU'RE GONNA BE DICKS ABOUT REFILLS OH MY GOD.

So, you see how I maybe got a tad hot under the collar just now? You can imagine my sparkling mood Friday morning when faced with all the above AGAIN, for the NINE HUNDREDTH TIME, and basically the message I left for the "assistant" aka never-ending voice mail contained even more F words than I've already uttered. I was SO ANGRY.

In case my mood wasn't clear. Oh, and also? I'd tried the pharmacy three times to see if they could help, and it just rang and rang, and finally I called customer service. "The pharmacy isn't open yet, ma'am." What is this, 1980? You can't have a MESSAGE saying that? I get machines when I don't want them, and I don't get them when I need them.

Seriously. When you're sick, the last thing you should have to put up with is all that bullshit.

So I left the F-y message with the doctor on my drive to work, then called my stepfather and had HIM call in my goddamn prescription, as he is a doctor and plays one on my blog.

Several hours later, I was working, when my phone rang. It was my doctor's office. By that time I was so mortified about how sweary I'd been that I did not pick up. Now I gotta get a new doctor.

I mean, really. It's bullshit, that place.

I can't remember now what I did on Friday night–oh! I got my fortune told.

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I went to the place I always go, and Ima keep her predictions a secret this time, and let you know later if she was right. "Can June really afford to see a psychic?" everyone's asking, lips pursed. NO, okay? I LEARNED IT FROM YOU, DAD. I learned it from you.

Name that commercial.

On Saturday, I woke up with a migraine.

I KNOW.

Because I'd been so busy psychic-ing on Friday, I'd failed to get my prescription filled, after all that. So go to the pharmacy I did, on Saturday, where next door at PetSmart they were having dog and cat adoption days, and why do you guys let me go to things like that? It'd be like letting the men's Olympic skating team peruse PenisSmart.

There was a large, black, Lab/Newfie-looking mix of a 7-year-old dog there whose people had to go to assisted living, and she was sweet and calm, and see above ref to PenisSmart. Goddammit. I can't seem to forget her. Her WindSong stays on my mind.

Anyway. I also attended a movie with Wedding Alex; we saw Get Out. Have you seen Get Out? There go my chances for ever banging a man of color. Every man of color in America is gonna look at us white girls askance now. Especially me. "Oh, come on home to my liberal therapist family!"

On Sunday I woke up with a migraine.

Mother of god.

I mean, this was a horrendous migraine. Of the don't-throw-up migraines. I literally got out of bed twice Sunday: in the morning to let Edsel out and to feed everyone, and in the evening to let Edsel out and to feed everyone. I ate nothing (of COURSE I weighed myself today. What are you, new?) except for some fizzy water I used to swallow the

NINE HUNDRED PILLS

I took to feel better, none of which worked. Edsel crept gingerly to my bed and licked my temple where it hurts, meaning most likely I have a tumor. Which, GOOD. Then they can fix it or I can at least die.

Finally, at, like, 10 p.m., I looked at my phone for the first time that day.

I had 939485839393 messages.

Oh what the fuck, I wondered, barely able to function.

Seems I'd left a sad image on Instagram Friday, which I did, but mostly cause I thought it was beautiful writing and I wish I could write anything poignant other than "fuck" all the time.

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I also wish I had a tidy little name like Lang Leav. How easy it'd be to sign for things.

Well, anyway, my father saw it, and apparently texted me at some point Sunday, and when I didn't answer, he called, then he called again, and THEN HE CALLED MY MOTHER to say that I was "missing" and then he called my aunt, and then my mother called Ned

to whom I'm not even speaking

and then everyone called me, EXCEPT FOR NED, who apparently does not care that I'm in a shallow grave somewhere.

So, picture it. You've been wishing to die all day, with the pain and the nausea and the sleeping and the more nausea and pain, and then you look at your phone and you have

EIGHT HUNDRED THOUSAND PEOPLE to call or text back with "migraine."

Then everyone calls and texts back. "Oh, good! I was worried you were dead! And also, while I've got you on the phone, blllooopeldy bloop bloo! heeeee! And bloodeldy bloop! What do you think of that, June? …June? Are you there, June?"

Oh my god.

Plus also, I had to call Ned, to whom I'm not speaking in case I hadn't mentioned that, and he was all, "I talked to your mother, and we discussed movies, and then I went down and locked my doors in case you were coming over here to kill me."

It wasn't till much later that I got

THOROUGHLY ANNOYED

that Ned just…LOCKED HIS DOORS and didn't COMB THE STREETS looking for me. JESUS! Locked his doors. Oh my god, irritated.

So that, folks, is how I managed to have drama in my life even when I was lying there dying and minding my own business.

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hoo care. we lock door; we heer you missing.

At Two With Nature · My pets

I foresee terrible trouble. And I stay here just the same.

Now that Edsel's dog brain has snapped and I have to literally go outside with him (as opposed to figuratively going outside with him, the way I used to. "I'm outside with you in spirit, Eds!"), I realize it's really one of my favorite parts of my day.

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It's so pretty back there, with the sun coming in, and so warm at lunchtime. Edsel watches me while he pees now, to make sure I don't slip inside and deceive him. It's like when my father would make me dunk my head under water. "WATCH ME," I'd command. "WATCH ME AND SHOW ME THE DOLLAR."

He always, always had to bribe me to put my head underwater. And you may scoff at the dollar, but that was 3x my weekly salary, so.

Four times? If I made a quarter a week, and it was a dollar, it'd be four times, right?

All this bribery and head-dunking did a lot for my stellar career in finance and math professoring.

"What do you do?"

"Oh, I'm in finance and math professoring." I suppose somewhere out there is someone with that career going on, right? We'd have a lot to say to one another.

SPEAKING of finance, I got another freelance check in the mail yesterday and every penny of it went toward my

GODDAMN

credit card bill, so hey, financeteen. Yeah, we can't dance together. Yeah, we can't talk at all.

I heard another Steely Dan song in the car the other day, not just in my head or coming quietly from the basement to frighten me, and that song was FM, and it dawns on me that for someone who named her cat after a band, she's really not all that up on Steely Dan songs.

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steelee resent. from bowel of hell, he resent.

Oh, hey, I should've warned you, but Steely Dan has been up to shenanigans. I know. Brace.

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I came home last night to goings-on, for a change, and this time they're digging holes all over my neighborhood and doing things with big trucks, and that was probably the name of the project when they budgeted it. "We got the go-ahead to start in with Doing Things With Big Trucks, so let's commence digging the holes."

This goddamn…HOSE was in my driveway, and I drove right over it rebelliously. You put your hose in m'driveway, my car is running it over. Also, "put your hose in m'driveway" sounds vaguely dirty, and is sadly the most action I've had in a spell.

Dirty Work! That's a Steely Dan song? I LOVE that song! (Guess who got distracted and Googled?) (Which will also serve as my epitaph. June. She got distracted and Googled.)

The point is, I was marveling at the holes in the hood and the hose in m'drive, when I saw old SD leap straight into the underworld, from whence he came. This is probably how he gets outside, too: He just leaps back into hell and moseys about then leaps back out from hell once he's outside. It'd be just my luck that my house was built straight over hell, although really, is hell supposed to be underneath all of us or just, you know, straight outta Compton or Madrid or what? They've never given us the parameters. There's not a Google Under Earth to look it up, either.

There's a suburb near here, not that this place needs a suburb at all, and it's ironically called High Point. It's the most depressing place on earth for me. All that new construction, new strip malls, that kind of place. It is so not a high point. It is character-free point. If that's where hell is, it would not surprise me.

Oh my god, anyway. So the cat jumped in the hole, I called him to come out, I snapped his photo, made everyone come home for dinner after their long workday of manual labor, and that sums up that story.

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You hunt 16 doves, whattaya get, another day older and deeper in det.
…wat be det?

I guess that's all my news, except the whole office is abuzz with how everyone's moving. Everyone. Is moving. So my place is being usurped by a new person, and I'm usurping a person, and it's very Faberge Organics with the "and so on." I have no idea what this is going to do for all of us, but we had another terrifying creature sighting yesterday in our "garden level," so I'm just excited to go up where fewer vermin are.

They told us yesterday to bring our chairs to the new spot–it's a BYOC situation. "How're we gonna get them upstairs?" I wondered aloud to my boss's boss, fmr. "I guess we could take the freight elevator. Did you ever see that old movie, or maybe it was just a TV show, where the woman–maybe a couple–murder a man, and the frieght elevator goes right past her living room, so they cover him with a sheet, I think, to get rid of him, but then his ghost keeps riding the freight elevator and sometimes you can see the sheet and hear the guy whistling?"

My boss's boss, fmr., waited for me to finish.

"This has something to do with our move, right?"

What is WRONG with him? Has me met my head? God.

I'd better go, so I can begin my linear, math-y day.

I am not kidding you, as I was preparing to get up from here, I just got this message from OK Cupid:

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Maybe he needs help with his calculus.

Numerically,

June

Hair · Marvin · Money

Somebody better put your bag into your place

Yesterday's family stories were hilarious. I knew I'd like them. All day I wanted to tell you my friend Dave's family story, one of 3949493944 of them that he has, but I was doing that pesky work thing, and then right after work I had my hair, so hello, home at 8:30.

I mean, I always have my hair. You know what I mean.

Also, Dear Mom. I drove home and let him out to pee, then I screamed to the hair appointment 10 minutes late as a result. So you can stop feeling sorry for Edsel.

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nobody no. the trubble edz seen. no body no. edz sorrooo.

Oh, but the story, which I've probably told you before.

My friend Dave has, like, 97 sisters, all of whom are married except for one. When Dave, who is gay gay gay, goes home for Christmas, he and the unmarried sister have to ride everywhere with mom and dad, like they're still kids cause they never married.

One Christmas they were headed somewhere, and we're talking Michigan in December. It's fucking freezing. They stopped to get gas, and Dave's dad was at the pump when his mom noticed dad had a nosebleed. "Your father is bleeding," she kvetched. It was literally too cold to roll down the windows, so she was desperately trying to signal him, to no avail.

As soon as he got back to the car, she announced, "You've got blood on your face."

"You big disgrace!" Dave's sister yelled out.

"WAVIN' YOUR BANNER ALL OVER THE PLACE, SINGIN' WE WILL WE WILL ROCK YOU!" Dave and his sister began singing, delighted.

Their parents ignored them. Most stories like this involve the beleagured, Catholic, we-had-19-kids parents ignoring the shenanigans in the back seat.

That video looks like it was filmed in December in Michigan.

As I was looking for that picture of Edsel all happy on the bed, I came across these images, below. I'd forgotten that the other night, I had a dream that I met Heidi Klum and Seal, except they were literally Heidi from the book, and a seal. I was all, I thought they'd be different.

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What the hell is wrong with me? Like, really, what the hell is wrong with me. Who even thinks about Heidi Klum and/or Seal anymore?

Oh, and I also saw this photo, from last night.

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I was preparing poses for my book jacket, if I ever write a book. I'm like Annie the maid in It's a Wonderful Life. "I was saving for my divorce if ever I get a husband." Also, here is proof I got my roots done yesterday. The straightness. For one night every six weeks, I'm straight. I like just men. I'm strictly dickly.  Then I wash my hair and go back to diggin' the ladies.

I don't have Latisse anymore, part of m'paying off the credit cards, and look at my sad little lashes. It makes me feel incomplete. Sometimes I reach up and touch my little nubs of lashes and grow sad. I realize I need a life. So bad, I do.

Oh, but speaking of getting a divorce if ever I get a husband, the other night for the first time, I signed onto the bank that gives me my car loan. Last month I called them and made them help me set up an account online, so I could pay my bill like it's 2017 rather than mail a check. I was having the hardest time creating an account last month, so I called them in a huff.

I signed on, and it said, Hey, girl. Here's how much you have in checking, and in savings.

I don't have checking or savings at this bank. I have a car loan. Or as some people say, a car note, which always kind of cracks me up. Dear Driver: You have to pay for me now. Love, Car.

"Do I have an old account I forgot about? Cause, ye$!" I thought, literally saying. y-e-dollar sign in my head. I clicked into checking, saw that a literal check had been written lately, so when I clicked on the screen shot?

There was Marvin's handwriting.

Somehow, the goddamn bank had combined my car note with his checking and savings.

Also, Dear Marvin: Since when do you have savings?

"Would you like to pay your bill using one of your BB&T accounts?" the screen asked me.

Why, yes. Yes, I would. Just take this payment out of Marvin's SAVINGS, why don't you? I never sued for alimony.

Of course I did not do that. I paid for my damn car NOTE out of my own money, money that could have gone to something reasonable like Latisse. Then I texted Marvin to alert him to this, and to point out that I am a magnificent person.

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yuu may kiss steelee hand

Oh, crap, I'd better go. Damn work, then after work I have my hair.

See what I did, there?

Surreally,

Jewn

June's stupid life

These darn shoes

Last night, I got home from work at about 6:00, fed everyone, then flumped onto the couch, only to jolt awake at 8:30 after having slept like a toddler all evening.

Then I went to bed last night and slept like a toddler again till, like, now. Hey, doxycycline, how about you invade my whole life?

Since I'm late, let's have family stories day. What's a story that's been in your family forever, that you all tell over and over?

I remember one reader, although now I can't recall who, who told us a story in the comments one day that I am still not over. The reader's father was dying

hey, hilarity,

and everyone was at the hospital. The priest showed up, and he got mom, the reader, and her sisters into the hallway so they could all pray. Why the hallway, I'll never know. The point is, they were all kneeling, and mom had, you know, perhaps a little gas as she stood up. Like, the gas heard round the world. Fhrrrreeeeeeeeeeep! That kind of thing.

Because she was mortified, due to the PRIEST being there and everything, she twisted her patent-leather shoe this way and that. "These darn shoes," she said.

Every time I think of that story I go into hysterics. These darn shoes.

Okay, I gotta go. That damn Steely Dan chewed a hole in my favorite sweater. Tomorrow we'll have "Times you put your pet to sleep because he was annoying" day.

Health · June's stupid life

The one where June gets sick as she types.

I'd just like to thank Dr. Antibiotic, inventor of the antibiotic, in 1512, and you can fact check that. For I flumped into the doctor on Friday feeling truly horrific. I wanted to sleep and not go to the appointment, that's how awful I felt, and whatever happened to home visits or whatever they're called? Housecalls! That's it. Maybe these antibiotics, courtesy of Dr. Antibiotic, are making me a tad fuzzy.

The point is, I went to the doctor, got a prescription, took the stuff, and like two hours later said, Oh. Okay, I'm absolutely well now.

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Okay, ABSOLUTELY well was a stretch, but a lot better. I spent Friday in bed, with the occasional animal. And Blu.

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After my quiet Friday, I had to clean the house and so on because I was having a little dinner party on Saturday night. For a few months now I've thought I should introduce The Other Copy Editor and her husband to Aunt Chris and Uncle Lilly, because they are all early 30s mature business owners and why any of them hang around me is a mystery, other than m'cooking, of course.

That was the hilarious-ist part. Both men in these couples are stellar cooks, and I had to cook for them.

The doctor said I wouldn't be contagious by Saturday night, so I didn't cancel our dinner and soldiered on, because I'm tough but I'm fair. I went to the Italian market, bought special fancy ingredients, and made the spaghetti sauce my friend Renee gave me the recipe for. A recipe she guards so carefully that she made me sit in my car, back in 2003 (I know this because I wrote the recipe on an envelope from old mail and the post date is on there), lest her spies be listening had she given it to me anywhere out in public.

So all day Saturday I cooked and I cleaned and I got everything pretty and I maybe pushed myself too hard because hello exhausted. But I took a little nap before everyone got here and I lived. Clearly. Because otherwise, talk about ghosting.

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Here I am waiting for everyone to arrive on Saturday, and then finally people did arrive, and I didn't have enough dining room chairs so I had to sit on a lawn chair, which was delightful and comfy and not at all metal.

I never took any photos once the guests arrived, because I was busy, you know, enjoying the evening and it didn't occur to me to capture it for social media. I know. Who do I think I am?

But speaking of —

–oh, my god. I was happily typing this post, after having taken my antibiotic on an empty stomach, when all of a sudden (did you ever hear someone say, "All the sudden" before? Don't you want to slap those people clean across the face?) I got

so

nauseated.

I've just spent the last half an hour lying down, taking deep breaths, sipping fizzy water. Oh my god. You know barfing is my phobia. I am sorry to tell you I called Ned. Cause I was scared. I have to stop calling Ned whenever there's a crisis.

"Ned Nickerson," said Ned, because presidential at work.

"I took an antibiotic on an empty stomach and now I'm barfy!" I wailed.

"Oh, no. Your phobia," said Ned. He told me to eat bread, so I did, and now I am up again.

Also, speaking of all the sudden, do you know what else annoys me? "I was taken back by her statement."

IT'S NOT TAKEN BACK. No one took you in a time machine.

Taken ABACK. Not taken back. Jesus Christ.

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Now I'm late for work and I have to shakily try to drive there without barfing. But I wanted to show you the pretty plant Chris and Lilly gave me. It's called a helleborus, which is probably what I do to them. "June, you hella bore us, so here's an appropriate plant."

I made the error of mentioning to everyone that night how I don't like to hob knob that often, that people think I'm more of a extrovert than I am. "Really, if friends want to do something more than once a month, I get annoyed," I said.

Naturally, when everyone left, they were all, We'll talk in 30 days, then! See you in a month!

I should never tell anyone anything.

Man, I feel rotten. Ugh.

Talk at you later. I take back all the nice things I said about Mr. Antibiotic, up there.

Queasily,

Jew Ann

Health · In the kitchen with June · June's stupid life · My pets

3/3/17

I am still sick. I know, man. This it it. Elizabeth, I'm coming to join you, honey. I'm going to the doctor at 4:00. IF I MAKE IT THAT LONG.

In the meantime, a Realtor, and yes that really is a proper noun, is coming at noon to see what my house is worth. I'm hoping $800,000. Dream big. Last night, feeling precisely poopy, I came home and flopped exhaustedly on the couch when I realized this place looked like hell.

So I tidied. Yes, despite being very seriously ill.

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After I took this photo, I put away the cat toys on the floor too. Tidy Tess! Also, nice symmetric pulling of the blinds.

You can see Edsel was a big help.

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That box on the table is cause a faithful reader sent me retro makeup and candy–thanks, FR! I don't want to say her real name, cause I don't know if she uses that as her screen name, and that's always a thing. I don't want to ruin anyone's life, so we'll just call her a faithful reader in case she's an underworld spy or the wife of a close friend.

Wife of a close friend.

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It's not a table unless a cat is on it. I have four people coming for dinner this weekend who are all like, "Yeah, great" right now.

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wut we havin for dinnur?

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I don't know if I told you my dishwasher broke, and guess what else I should have had Alf the handyman fix? Dang.

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I see I still have to wash the cupboard doors, there. Honey and lemon juice from a goddamn piece of salmon the size of a Munchkin's dick. That's what spilled there.

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Pile of crap, now with with cat tail!

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Cat found under pile of crap; story at 11:00.

Son of a–you guys. I just heard a ruckus outside. I know what that ruckus is. Guess who was on the roof?

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As soon as I went out there, he jumped down, and yet refuses to come inside. He just stares at me rebelliously, proudly stomping about, and runs away when I approach him. Asshole. HOW DID HE GET OUT??

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I know this LOOKS like a request to go in, but really he just wants to balance on the screen like he does. Show off his skillz.

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Action shot. Edsel is appalled.

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See? That's all he wanted. He won't come in. This cat is a bigger asshole than Lottie was. Why does God abhor me so? I'm a good per–okay, that's why God abhors me so.

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It was Lottie who tore this screen on, like, day one. See above ref to God's abhorrence.

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not rilly in mood to come in, thanks all same.

Fuckstick.

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Anyway, so now the place is tidy-ish and I will alert you forthwith re if I am going to sell my cute house, which I really don't want to do.

Oh, also, they're moving my workspace. "Seems like June has told us that before," readers are thinking, sipping their espresso and vodka. Yes, it's true. I haven't worked there six years yet and this will be my 10th move. The exciting news is I'm movin' on up. I've spent lo these many years in what they call the Garden Level, which is a delightful euphemism for The Basement. We have been visited by black widows, and I don't mean Coretta Scott King, snakes, mice and also a lack of windows.

I strolled up to my new spot yesterday and…windows!!! I have a window now! Now I gotta obsess about where Ima park. It'll be a whole new world. Also? Closer to the vending machines. Score!

All right, I'd better go. I look forward to conversing with you later, and for the more hysterical of you to worry about Steely Dick Dan, who is clearly magic and we all just need to accept it.

Sniffle-ly,

Juan