...friend/Ned · Health · June can't keep a doctor

World’s Dramatic-ist Day

Careful readers will note that yesterday I had a mammogram. Or, really, slovenly readers will too, seeing as I just said it yesterday, there, genius.

I tried a new place this year because allegedly–according to their ads–they have same-day mammogram results, but of course only after I’d transferred my files, my D Files, did I learn they do NOT give same-day results in Greensboro.

Greensboro. The city that makes you wait. For results.

But it was really close to work, and very sunny and pretty in there, and once I got called in, each locker where you remove all waist-up clothes was named after a famous woman. I chose the Cher locker.

Two women were in gowns, waiting, as well. “I’m Cher! Who’re you all?”

“I’m Marilyn Monroe,” said a 90-year-old woman, who is probably younger than Marilyn Monroe would be now.

“I’m Elizabeth Taylor,” said another woman, not remotely draped in diamonds. Perhaps she was wearing her White Diamonds. By Coty.

Marilyn, Liz and I waited to be called while I tossed back my hair and showed my ass to servicemen.

The mammogram itself went without incident; I told the person performing it how anxious I am about the waiting thing, and she was very nice. Of course I searched her face for signs of pity when she took the photos.

“She was so young. -ish.”

On the way back to work, I heard from Ned. Goddammit.

He was crying so hard, I could barely understand him. “A vet is coming tonight to discuss putting [NedKitty] down. I found a place that will do it at home.”

I knew this day was coming, and I had plenty, plenty, of salty retorts about chippies and why doesn’t he call a chippie instead of me and also salty chips sound delicious right now. But once I was faced with the reality that NedKitty is finally giving up the fight, I was without salt. “If today’s the day, I’ll come over there,” I said.

I’m the only other person NedKitty loves. She pretty much looks grumpily out at everything in this world, a position in life I can get behind.

I was at work maybe an hour when my phone rang. See. This time between mammogram and letter/email saying all’s clear is my very worst time. The phone rings, I jump. Because the phone call is never good.

“This is Breast Buy calling, and we gave your test to the doctor right away because you’d said you were anxious, and he does see something and wants you to come back in.”

God

DAMMIT.

“Today,” I said. “Please get me in today. I’ll lose every moment of all my shit if I have to wait.” So they did, which is really nice, and all I had to do was wait TWO DAMN HOURS to go back and get an ultrasound.

I called Ned, who of course I’d already regaled the “I had a mammogram today” story to, because he knows how I get, and he knew I was trying out The New Place and so on. “Call me when you get the answer. I guess that’s one way to get your results today,” said Ned.

Then? I’m not fucking kidding you, everyone in the WORLD needed to speak with me. I had get-this-done-now work things pop up, and could people not DO THAT? You never know when someone is two hours from a horrifying test.

Then, I swear to you, I heard from a person I dated in Virginia, who’d had a job interview near here, and he wrote to tell me he didn’t get the job. I had to feign interest in anyone’s life but my own, which could be the title of my next book.

“Next” book.

Plus also too, I heard from this place I freelance for, with a very detailed message needing to know very detailed info from me RIGHT NOW, and finally? Finally? I got a call from my gym–yes, I have a gym. I know, right? We’d had a dispute, because my membership was up. And even though I called THREE TIMES, offered to COME OVER THERE, to make sure when it officially expired that they’d stop charging me? And they’d said:

“Oh, no, we’re not charging you after October, ma’am. We mean it.” Finally, I got them to email me a document saying my last automatic withdrawal would be in October, and

GUESS WHAT HAPPENED IN NOVEMBER?

So they picked then, that horrifying two-hour window, to get in touch to tell me I was right and they were refunding my money and in my head I’m all HOOO CARE EVERYONE LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE I’M TRYING TO PANIC OH MY GOD.

Finally I drove back to the place, and when I got back up to the lobby,

there was Ned. He was reading a book in that sunny waiting room, which was, in fact, less sunny cause it had been morning and now it was panicky afternoon.

“Ned,” said, finally tearing up.

We sat there silently for a minute, Ned holding my cold clammy hand.

“What are you reading?”

“Oh, it’s nothing.”

“For fucks’s sake tell me about your book or I will beat you with it.” So he did.

It’s a book about Buddhism written by a scientist, which is perfect for Ned because he’s incapable of being remotely spiritual, but science? You throw science at him, and he’s down with that.

Happens to be a link to Amazon. I know! June shills, even in panic.

“So far, it’s saying that we’re biologically wired to seek pleasure,” said Ned, who never does anything but seek pleasure. And eat salads. Which seems contradictory, but there you go. “And they’ve found that it’s the anticipation of pleasure that’s usually better than the pleasure itself. I don’t know what happens next. I just hope they tell us how to stop doing that,” said Ned, and oh, so many salty things unsaid. The sequel to my third book.

“Mrs. Gardeeens?”

I wish, when I came up with a fake blog name 11 years ago and why the fuck am I still blogging, what’s WRONG with me, that I’d come up with a name you could also mispronounce, so you’d feel my pain. My name, my real name, is forever being mispronounced, and if you know my real name, it does not end in “field.” No, go look at it again. NOT FIELD.

It’s not Jerry Seinfield. It’s not the Zigfield Follies. It’s not Marty Fieldman.

NOT ALL NAMES ARE PRONOUNCED “FIELD,” GODDAMMIT.

“Good luck, sweetheart,” said Ned, and is it possible to want to feel grateful to someone while still wanting to punch them clean in the face? Is there a word for that? I mean other than “dysfunctional.”

I got back to the lockers, and this time I was Princess Diana, which I was hoping was a good sign. I didn’t chat up the other waiters this time, as we were in the diagnostic area, not the hey, it’s our everyday mammogram hoooo care area.

IMG_2289.jpgI did, however, have the wherewithal to snap this selfie, in case I lived till today to tell you this tale. I call this Portrait of Petrified. I was hair-i-fied.

Not that that was such a clever name, but do you know what annoys me? Artists who title their work Self Portrait. Wow. Thanks for the effort, there, Snappy.

While I was begowned, waiting, I checked my phone.

“Did you Facebook unfriend me?” my stupid-ass friend Mark wanted to know. He has no idea how close he came to making me stomp my phone to death. I wrote him back, explaining that I’d disabled my Facebook for now, and then he wanted to chat, and that is why I paid a hit man to snap the face right off my now-faceless friend Mark.

I was tense. Yesterday was tense. (Entire contents of my fourth book, actually just an index card, written by a man, because I wore myself out with words.)

Finally, they brought me into a room with an ultrasound, and then the ultrasounder said, “I’ll show this to the doctor and be right back.”

IMG_2290.jpgHere was my view, while I waited for the woman or, worse, the doctor, to walk in. I did not check my phone, because I could only imagine the inanity awaiting me on that thing. Instead, I just listened to my heart beating in my ears.

The door opened.

“I bring you nothing but good news,” she said.

Oh, Jesus Christ and all the pleasure-seeking Buddhas.

Seriously, she spoke for 10 seconds before I even caught up with the “good news” part. I was so determined to steel myself against the bad news that good news wasn’t even an option.

In summation, I have a cyst. And we all need to remove our Dust Mite Allergy Awareness pins and slap on a MAMMOGRAMS FUCKING SUCK BUT IT’S A CYST  pins.

I stayed a little late at work to make up for the work I missed while I lay dying over at the Hootie and the Blowfish concert. Then I drove right over to Ned’s, where a pink-haired vet was assessing NedKitty.

“Well, her eyes are still bright, and she trotted down the stairs to see me,” said the vet. “Truthfully, I thought she’d be worse.”

Ned had on the coffee table the litany of pills and powders and ointments he uses each day to keep that cat alive. The vet laid out a plan to keep NedKitty comfortable, and a big part of that plan is that Ned is to no longer force as many pills down her cat neck, and she doesn’t have to have that goddamn IV three times a week. The point is for her to feel happy and not sick till she’s ready to go.

Of course, we all know my feelings on the topic. I’d have offed that cat back in February. But it’s not my cat, so I kept quiet, and meandered into the kitchen, where NedKitty was crouched, hoping for a treat.

I gave her about 472 treats. And girlfriend scarfed them. So.

6a00e54f9367fb883401b8d08e6b51970c-600wiI did not take pictures of her old, bony self last night. She wouldn’t want you all to see her this way. Let’s remember her as the fluffy white bitch she usually was–which incidentally is the title of my biography, to be handed out at my funeral. Which, according to the fine folks who saw way too much of m’boobs yesterday, isn’t going to be any time soon.

6a00e54f9367fb883401b7c74b8f14970b.jpgWhile Doctor Pink Hair and my ex-boyfriend discussed NedKitty’s exit plan, I picked up her old bones and held her. She won’t let anyone, not even Ned, pick her up and hold her, but she lets me. I kissed her smelly old head and stroked her cheeks.

She’s got a few weeks left, and they will be comfortable weeks. She still wears bags on her head and insists the tap be turned on so she can stick her head under the water like a lunatic. And when it’s finally time, I will be there with her, the one of two people she likes. Everyone else can fuck off. Which will be the engraving on my tombstone, where I will be buried with the ashes of my 79 dead pets.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” Ned wept, as the vet left. “Can I take you to dinner?”

“No, Ned,” I said. “All I want to do is get into my owl pajamas, and eat toast, and watch TV.” Truthfully, I was fekking exhausted. I was drained. I was spent.

I hadn’t been home all day, which for me is rare. I almost 100% of the time come home at lunch, even though Edsel almost never pees at lunch, Edsel is a camel, or…some kind of other animal that never has to pee. Do camels pee? I have no idea. I mean, of course they pee, but…

Oh hooo care. The point is, it had been 11 hours that I’d been gone, and I trudged in like Ashley after the war, and hey, June, trot that example out for a change, why don’t you. I kissed Edsel, and fed everyone, except…

Where the fuck was Steely Dan? “STEEEEEEEEEEELY DAN!” I called out the front door. Then the back door. Then back to the front door.

Oh, great. This was gonna be God’s deal. I get to be okay, but I have to lose Steely Dan.

I thought of all the possibilities. He’d been run over. A family finally decided this robust, shiny cat was a “stray” and dragged him inside and locked the door. (Dear Family: Good luck with that. Soon he’ll be outside looking in the window at you, and you’ll have no idea how.) A dog ate him. He left me.

“STEEEEEEEELY DAN!” I called again.

IMG_2294.jpg
That dog bed isn’t even Edsel’s anymore.

THIRTEEN HOURS that cat was gone, before I heard the telltale THUMP that he’d just left the roof and was back on the deck, waiting to come in. For all I know, he was on the roof for all 13 hours.

I may have overreacted to his return. I may have swooped him up, felt his robust, youthful cat self, kissed his cold ears, and hugged him hard and cried like an idiot.

IMG_0414.JPG
wat da fuk

Dear Steely Dan: I am sorry I took all the emotions of the day out on your bastard self. But mom has a cyst, and she was never so glad to have a cyst in the history of cysts.

Love,

Jooon

Health

Smashed

Well, here it is. The day of my mammogram, which careful readers will note is one of my very very favorite days.

I’ve talked a lot about careful readers lately. You know what else you are? Annoyed readers.

Back in aught eight, when I was already 43 and shoulda been havin’ mammograms for three years, I finally went with a group from work, at my old job, to get mammograms together. I don’t mean we disrobed and smashed out in front of one another. But they sent limos to work and served us sparkling cider in the cars, and drove us to the local mammogram place, so it was kind of more fun.

Heh. Yeah.

That was a Wednesday, if I recall, the week before Thanksgiving. I remember this vague, “Where’s my post card?” feeling that weekend, as they’d said that’s what they’d do. They’d send a post card saying everything was okay.

I wasn’t worried, though, till I got a call on Monday. “This is Ma’am O’Gram,” said the operator, who did not call it that at all, but maybe that’s what they should do: Give these places funner names. “Are you getting yours at Yes, Ma’am’s or are you going to AppleSqueeze?”

“Oh, my family has always gone to Booby Tuesdays.”

I like how they all have to be bad chains. Because eventually they would be. Someone would have a local, boutique mammogram place that would get bought out by The Man.

“Back when HootieFlats was local, their gowns were artisan.”

Anyway.

When Boob Evans called me the following Monday, my first thought was, I musta left my coat there. Because denial. It’s what’s for dinner. And of course I hadn’t left my coat there; if I had I wouldn’t be telling you this endless story. What they said is they found something and could I return for another gander.

And see, I was fairly new to blogging then, so I rushed back here and told y’all, a thing I’d know not to do now, because oh, with the horror stories, and then one of you said, “You need to know every detail. You need to call them back and find out what they saw.”

See. That was terrible advice. And I took it.

“Say, receptionist at Bad MaamaJaama’s, what all did the doctor think he saw?” I asked. And she read my report, which indicated a spiculated density, except the brain scientist receptionist called it a “speculated density.” “Aw, that’s okay, he’s just speculating that there’s a density!” she said brightly.

Oh, honey.

So not only did I Google spiculated density and SCARE MYSELF TO DEATH, I also had the mammogram place call my terrible doctor, who called me that night to say, “This sounds bad. Prepare for the worst.”

And that is how I spent 72 hours shaking and crying. In a fetal position. Because I’m nothing if not all the way with my dramatic reactions.

Then I went to a new place with a better reputation, my old images in hand, and they did an ultrasound and said, “You’re fine, but come back in six months” and Marvin can tell you. Oh, how he can tell you. I SPENT SIX MONTHS OBSESSING. I mean, that’s all I did. Oh, I Googled and I checked chat rooms and I thought and I worried and I carried on, and why so divorced?

IMG_2287.JPG
Speaking of Marvin, he just sent me this. This is what I made for him one Valentine’s Day. See, I’m not that bad. Sort of. That was our real rent at the time. Good gravy, man.

Then I was fine at that appointment, and hey, six months later, I went back for a regular mammogram and

GUESS

WHAT.

They called me back again. This time for the other side. When they called me that second time, I burst into tears and asked, “How could you do this to me?”

Turns out that was normal, too, but if I could describe to you the depths of my terror when they call me back, you’d be sitting here reading this post. Is what you’d be doing.

I’ve had normal results since then, but then for the last couple years I just didn’t go, because I was sad about breaking up with Ned and I KNOW THAT’S RIDICULOUS, but I was all, I feel bad enough without adding this terror, so I didn’t go.

I KNOW SHUT UP.

At the beginning of this year, not only did I say I had to get my finances in order, but also I had to get a PAP smear (another thing I’d been putting off), get my colonoscopy (I was two years late for that) and finally, get the dreaded mammogram.

PAP, check. Colonoscopy, check.

And that brings us to today. I switched places because their radio ad said they gave you same-day results, had my records switched over and everything, so when I get there the Bay City Rollers will be on.

I’ll be here all week.

But when I made the actual appointment, they said they “don’t do same-day at the Greensboro office” and FUCK EVERYTHING. So now I know I have ice-cold terror to live through for maybe, you know, a week.

Goddammit.

…I just heard a loud thump, which means Steely Dan is done being on the roof for now.

IMG_2286But I don’t see him. That was all jarring and annoying, but when I looked, there was nothing.

Kind of like how I hope today turns out.

Am British · Beauty products · Family · Hulk's sex life · June doesn't know any ugly people · Money · My pets

June wraps up her trip; bored nation rejoices

If you’re just getting back from your Thanksgiving holiday, and I say “holiday” like we’re all British, there are several days of my posts for you to catch up on and I wish you luck. I wish you luck mucking through all my ins and outs.

For the rest of you, who kept up with me like good readers, here’s the rest of my trip back to Michigan…

IMG_E2204.JPGWhen we left each other yesterday, saying, “No, YOU hang up,” Gus had been doing tricks in my mother’s yard, fmr., and then I might have kissed him with my red lipstick. I remember back in the ’90s, kissing my mother’s fluffy white Samoyed with my then-fushia lipstick, and my poor beleaguered stepfather in the kitchen, patiently washing it off that dog’s head.

Oooo, speaking of lipstick…

IMG_E2231.JPG

Both on the way to Michigan and on the way back, I may have looked with rapt interest in the Mac store at Chicago airport, noting these lipsticks were all for sale as one unit, a unit someone might like, if someone were trying to determine what June Would Like For Christmas, a query that’s burning in the brains of just er’one.

I’d look like an asshole in the second-from-the-left one. That burnt orange look does not appeal. But speaking of needless purchases, isn’t it Cyber Monday? Wouldn’t this be an excellent time to link to Amazon, so you can purchase like a mo?

Oh, look! A book about how we shouldn’t consume, that if we click on it takes us to Amazon so we can consume. Oh, June, you’re so ironic. Don’tcha think. A little too ironic. Yeah, I really do think.

But I digress.

On Friday night of my trip to Michigan, my Aunt Kathy had us over for tacos, and by “my Aunt Kathy,” I mean my Uncle Bill made tacos.

IMG_2211 2.jpgSome families form a conga line. We form a taco line. [Insert taco/Katie-the-lesbian joke here]

IMG_2212.jpgMy Aunt Kathy, who is a Virgo, had already decorated for Christmas. Like, that day. She started the day with no Christmas, and by the end of the day she was swinging on her North Pole.

Do you remember that guy Ward who I went out with like three times or something, and then it didn’t work out? He texted me over the holiday (British), and I answered him, telling him how all the women in my family prattle endlessly and all the men are sort of quiet and introspective. Okay, not my Uncle Leo. But the other men. Anyway, below is yet another piano-playing video, this time not horrific like the last one, where one of the men is being deep and yet you can hear women prattling in the background. I recorded this for his listening pleasure. I think it was around then that he stopped texting.

In summation.

IMG_2217.jpgAfter dinner, my cousin Big June and her husband Hill came to surprise me, and it was so cute to see them. She gets migraines, too. Is plagued by them, actually.

Maybe had I not been named after her I wouldn’t have migraines. Maybe they could have named me after a tennis star or something instead. Step one: Get tennis star in family.

IMG_2220.JPG
fukking schtopz

Also, here is my aunt’s cat, Tom Thumbs. Did not at all follow Tom Thumbs around like an idiot, scooting across floor with phone out like a moron. That would not be fittin’. Did not at all call him kitty head or sweet kitten or kitty hitchhiker kitten face wif thumbses.

IMG_2233

Finally, it was Saturday and time for me to go, but not before Hulk rejected me for sports. Also, Dear June: *of.

IMG_2239.jpgI returned home without incident, late Saturday night. It was too late to get Edsel from daycare, so I slept with Lily, who was beside herself that I’d returned, and if you look carefully, you can see an extremely indifferent Steely Dan down the hall.

IMG_2242.jpg
hooo gif shit

IMG_E2246.JPGThe other, more normal, cats were happy to see me, in their cat way. “wee not say hi, but we sleep on you a lots.”

The cat-sitter told me that every day, SD and Lily would come blinking down the hall, like, O, do someone bee heer? And every time, Iris was asleep in the dog bed.

Speaking of my cats, I was writing you in my regular fashion, not that I’m pooping, when I saw this shadow…

IMG_2264.jpgHere’s the annoying part: I’ve already let him in today. But there he is, mysteriously on the other side of the door, as he is wont to be. And yet, he still wishes for me to get up and let him in the traditional way right now. Sneak out whatever way he’s figured out? Sure. But inconveniencing me to come back in? Oh, HELL, sure. So many sures.

IMG_E2274.JPGIMG_E2275.JPGAnd he wasn’t hungry; he’d already eaten. He wasn’t sleepy. Evil rarely sleeps. He just wanted to be sure to remind me that my coffee repels him. My coffee should be stopped. As soon as he can gather funds, he’s going to bribe a lobbyist to get coffee outlawed.

IMG_2278.jpgAsshole. Why do I love him so? This sums up all my relationships.

I’d better get to work, which I am actually looking forward to doing. Tomorrow is my mammogram, which has not haunted and terrified me since I made the appointment or anything. Do you all know from EMDR? It’s a kind of therapy they do for trauma. I really think I should get EMDR so I’m not so

EFFING

INSANE

during mammogram week. Am considering.

Meanwhile, here’s an Amazon link again, in case it inconveniences you to scroll up. I want to make it was easy as I can for you, so that I will become a millionaire. Also, I got my new credit score today, and it’s in the high 700s.

You know, at the beginning of the year, I made the New Year’s resolution to fix my finances, and I actually did it. I worked freelance jobs ALL YEAR LONG. And I got my debt cleared. And I upped my contribution to my four oh wonk.

I still don’t make a lot of money, but at least I don’t have debt haunting me. Just mammograms.

Anyway, here’s your second Amazon link.

Resent. Also, wish Crazy Cat Lady ornament did not look so much like self.

Sanely,

Juuun

P.S. Someone will ask, so I will assure you I got the Eds from daycare Sunday, and he was…enthused about seeing me.

IMG_2249.jpgI had a migraine (thanks, world), so he spent the entire day with his snout up on my berobed self. No, seriously. THE ENTIRE DAY.

IMG_2254.jpgSteely Dan made barf sounds from across the room and rolled his orange cat eyes.

1136 words, dear god,

Jooon

...friend/Ned · Beauty products · Family · June doesn't know any ugly people

June blogs from home

Do you like how I keep using “blog” as a verb? You’re welcome.

When we were last together, promising to write while Mister pulled us apart (“NOTHING BUT DEATH COULD KEEP ME FROM IT”),

Dear June: Watch new movies. You’re killing us. Also, “blog” is a noun. Love, All 10 Readers.

I think it was Thanksgiving, or maybe the day after. It’s all a blur, man. A blur of carbs. So I’ll start up where we left off, except for the tiny detail that I can’t recall where we left off.

Dear June: SCROLL DOWN. God. Signed, Nine readers, because one of us got sick of you.

Here are some other things I did on my trip to Michigan other than have Thanksgiving…

IMG_2161.jpgWalked with mom. It really wasn’t that cold out, and yet mom was ready to climb Everest with her outdoor garb. She kept texting my stepfather about which base camp we were at.

IMG_2167.jpgShopped with women. I feel like we were super original in this regard, as no other women in the country ventured out to stores on the Friday after Thanksgiving. You will see that my cousin Katie the Lesbian joined us–she hadn’t been at Thanksgiving because she is a nurse and was scheduled to work. I’d be all, fuck that. People can wait. Have you MET stuffing?

It’s funny, I keep thinking the Pope will write me about that sainthood, but he keeps writing back New phone, who dis.

Is it sainthood? Is that what it’s called when someone besaints you? It would appear that I don’t know.

Anyway, my mother and I popped into this vintage/resale/some new stuff store she likes, and careful readers will note that all I ever do is go to vintage/some new/resale stores and what genetics? Anyway, we’d been there awhile, exclaiming over these incredibly bad purses, that had gems and leopard spots and big diamonds for clasps, and wondering what kind of asshole would buy them, when lo and behold who was at the store but my Aunt Kathy and my lesbian cousin Katie.

Uncareful readers will note that Katie is not a lesbian at all, but her niece, as a very small child, asked her if she were a lesbian, assuring her it’s okay to be gay, because she felt Aunt Katie dressed like a lesbian, which continues to be my favorite thing anyone has ever said, other than Ozzy Osbourne saying, “Things could be worse. I could be Sting.”

Say, short sentence. How’re your short sentences treatin’ ya?

IMG_2165.JPGThe point is, we shopped the store again, as Katie was looking for a chest of drawers, and maybe a chest of a woman, given her wardrobe choices. And HERE’S WHAT HAPPENED. We got up to one of the terrible purses, each one more gaudy than the next, and Katie said, “June, do you not love these? I could so see you with one of these purses.”

SHE WAS SERIOUS.

What? You like gaudy!”

I mean.

There’s gaudy and there’s middle-aged, look-how-whimiscal, when-I-am-old-I-shall-wear-purple-at-Olive-Garden-with-20-other-friends gaudy.

My mother and I kept presenting Katie with lovely old chests, and we garnered a few Mardi Gras beads for our efforts. BAH. No. We found midcentury, curvy, painted-pale-green, just lovely dressers, and Katie would be all, “Oh, uh-huh, yeah” with this FEIGNED interest, till she’d come across a jet black dresser with rabbit skulls for drawer pulls. “Oh, this one’s nice,” she’d say. Or the unvarnished one that’d been beaten with Micky’s Big Mouth 40-ouncers for character. “This one’s great.”

Aunt Katie, you dresser like a lesbian.

IMG_2173Aunt Kathy got large sunglasses, and I got this poncho WHAT DO YOU MEAN WHIMSICAL MIDDLE AGE? We tried to pose like fashionable mannequins, but had no dignity.

IMG_2171.jpg
Dignity.
IMG_2170.jpg
Dignity deux.
IMG_E2175.jpg
I don’t look good in sunglasses. I look like a man. Or a bug. Or a man who bugs me, aka everyone with a peen.

After, mom and I went to her old house. A sale is pending, but in the meantime, it’s still hers. If I had time, I’d find old photos and compare them to her blank house, but I like to stay active.

HAHAHAHAHAHA.

IMG_2179.jpg
Dining room, mostly empty.
6a00e54f9367fb8834017c33fa6410970b-800wi
Dining room, now with painful memories!

The only picture I could find is this shot with Ned in it, and I hope you’re happy that I put this up and then felt physically ill and had to poop. I pooped for you people.

Dear June, Thanks. Signed, Eight of us, because one of us was all, oh good. Bowel talk. And then left.

IMG_2178.jpg
Empty living room. I guess the buyer is keeping some of the furniture.
IMG_2182.jpg
Hello. I’m the kitchen, here to make you sad.
IMG_2180.jpg
Sigh.
IMG_E2185.JPG
“Everything is sad, honey.” A-mom-ican Gothic.

IMG_2190.jpgIMG_E2191.jpgThe good news is that Gus’s obstacle course equipment was still back there, and despite his being 104 and never hearing me when I talked to him this time, he was up in his playground. Gus likes to stay active. He also likes brunch and walks on the beach, and is looking for a partner in crime.

(I hate online dating. In case anyone wonders how that’s going.)

IMG_2195.jpg
“lookeeeng for dog hooo really take care of herself.”
IMG_2199.jpg
giv ups, human sistur. yuu past peek.

Also in my mother’s basement is an old piano, that is sadly out of tune, and I’m sorry to tell you there are four–FOUR–sad videos of us trying to play heart and soul.

I see that I have droned on for nearly a thousand words already, and I ONLY GOT THROUGH FRIDAY and not even FRIDAY NIGHT, and you know how I love the nightlife. How I’ve got to boogie. Because who’s 52?

So I will report back tomorrow with more riveting highlights of my trip. However, I can’t leave without giving you a convenient Amazon link with which to shop shop shop, because it’s almost Christmas, and it’s time to spend way too much to fill the hollow blackness that lies inside us.

Or maybe that’s just me.

Up there is a link to Amazon, which happens to be more than $500 worth of Mac cosmetics, and talk about filling your empty blackness. I feel like that would do it. For, you know, like an hour!

Pink Uggs would also quiet the unrest.

IMG_E2229.JPG
“Best Christmas of all? Not having to bail June’s ass out of debtor’s prison. Again.” –Mom

If you shop using June, you will make a mom happy at Christmas. AND I DO NOT HAVE DEBT ANYMORE. I do need a new dishwasher, however. Oooo, wait…

Okay, seriously? You can get a DISHWASHER on Amazon?

Talk at you tomorrow.

Homily,

Joon

Family · In the kitchen with June

June blogs from the guest bedroom

Kim Jong-il in da house.

“So where all have you gone since you’ve been back in Saginaw? Which bars?”

….?

I’m 52. People keep asking me all about the nightlife I’m experiencing here in the mecca of nightlife that is Saginaw, Michigan, and so far my answer continues to be, I’m 52. Show me that bar scene! Fifty-two-year-old, tearin’ up mid-Michigan!

So it appears that it’s Thanksgiving, or it was, anyway. My Uncle Bill, seen here kibitzing with my stepfather who is a saint, got here early to bring a roaster and also too the turkey, which was convenient. Then it was ready before everything else and every time I looked over at my Uncle Bill, he was eating that damn turkey. By the time dinner was served, there were merely the picked-clean bones left by Uncle Vulture.

Speaking of people my Aunt Kathy has been married to, my Uncle Leo also arrived, with sweet potatoes. My mother somehow scammed all the men into cooking, with her ERA bumper stickers and her consciousness raising and so on. We were all very Free to be You and Me at House of Family of June today.

Dooooods. I so totally wanted to insert an Amazon link right here (for Free to be You and Me, of course), because it’s Thanksgiving, and you’ll be shopping soon, and what a fine time to remind everyone I have an Amazon link. But apparently I can’t do that from my phone. Remember there are links to Amazon on the sides and bottom of my page. I am a terrible marketer.

You really are.

Aunt Kathy made pie, and also a salad with walnuts and apples in it, which was delicious. Mostly my part was I ate things, and got in the way, and kissed Gus.

Finally, it was time to eat, and my mother and I had to sit at the kid table while the adults talked stock markets and war. I’ve really no idea what adults talk about.

I took selfies after we ate, like I was Kim Kardashian. Kim Kar-sit-ian.

Uncle Leo and me.

Aunt K and mom and, you know, me.

Mom’s friend Gwen and oh look. Me.

Gwen is an excellent audience. She laughs at all my lines, whereas the rest of my family is over me.

After dinner, my Uncle Leo and Gwen and I were in the kitchen, and my Uncle Leo set up the scene for what looked to be a very long story. He started talking about his family history, and who begat whom, starting from when his family were cave people and so on, and then he paused and asked, “What story was I going to tell?”

And that sums up my family.

Gus not no you peeple.

The evening was drawing to a close and everybody was getting their coats off of my bed, because God forbid I have a room of my own, and someone asked, “So, you going out dancing tonight?”

I’M 52!!!! I’d break a hip. Going out dancing. Who am I, Lola the Showgirl?

Dood get lyfe

So that was Thanksgiving ’78 or whatever year this is. I’d stay and talk but I gotta pop a coupla mollies and hit a rave.

Go buy things via Amazon.

Love, 52

June's stupid life

June blogs from A&W

I’m just driving back from spending an afternoon with my Aunt Mary. In real life, my aunt lives in Colorado. But she just happens to be in Michigan visiting her husband’s family, so we met in the middle and had lunch today.

When I was a kid, my father would go on business trips to Hawaii, and also to a town in the middle of Michigan called Owosso. This led me to tell people that when I grew up, I was going to move to either Hawaii or Owosso. I did not understand why grownups thought this was so fucking funny.

So I schlepped out there today, through the country roads, and the country houses, and the Country Time Lemonade, listening to new country music, which ought to be banned. Goddamnit, new country is horrific music.

June. Driving all of her new country music fans away since 2017. All two of them.

As soon as I got out of my car, the first person I saw was my Aunt Mary. I have no idea how she happened to be standing right there, but there she was.

We went to a very cute place for lunch, and who knew Owosso had gotten all charming? No wonder it was my dream destination when I was a kid.

Also, she gave me a whole bunch of her rings. My Aunt Mary has what you might call a few rings. She enjoys her a ring. That ring in the picture above is my great grandmother’s engagement ring. I guess my Aunt Mary and I are engaged now. At least I’m getting married again.

We went to all the cute downtown shops that are mostly really old stores that they have refurbished.

Could I? Could I please drink vodka out of an emoji? I can’t think of anything I’d like better.

“When we are done with this afternoon, we are going to end up saying the best store was this liquor store,” I said. I was not wrong.

We went to chocolate shops, shoe stores, a wonderful bakery where we each bought some sort of foreign baked good that I would marry. And we also returned to the general store that time forgot, a store we went to two years ago When we were similarly in the same state at the same time. I don’t think anyone has updated it since 1962. Photos below…

How YOU doin’?

“I think we are at the very bottom edge of the age allowed in here,” I told Mary. “I think you have to be at least 50 to come into this store.”

I love that place. It is a total grandma store.

Finally, we found a diner where we could have coffee with our foreign baked treats.

They were baked treats by Foreigner. Susie went and left us for some foreign guy. They were foreign objects. I’ll stop.

After, it was getting late and we both had to go back to our respective temporary homes. I was driving back through the country, looking at acres of country, thinking about a country crock, when I saw an A&W.

Careful readers will note that I had lunch, a baked good, and signs point to probably something from the chocolate shop, leading careful readers to note there was really no absolute medical necessity for me to stop at A&W. Careful readers should go fuck themselves.

Ima head home now, where I hope my mother has made something for dinner.

Slightly, June

June's stupid life

June blogs from Chicago

I can hear the nasal tones of my people, as I am officially back in the Midwest. I’m at O’Hare airport, and I adore people who call it “O’Hara.” As god is my witness, I’ll never fly Southwest again. (Vomits radish.) (I like Southwest, actually. They’re funny.)

I have an hour before my next plane. Silver bird takes me cross the sky. Just one more hour and I’ll be home and dry.

Sadly, that song enters my head whenever I fly. Who sings that? Gerry Rafferty?

The good news is, there’s a salad vending machine here. It was a perfect healthy place to stop while I looked for a Coke machine.

I took Edsel to daycare for the week. Weekcare. Dexter wasn’t there. I was so hoping he would be. I threw the cats in the freezer. So they stay fresh.

O, just try. Bitz.

I disabled my Facebook for awhile–I was too traumatized by those weird messages I got awhile back from that woman. I asked people to just not IM me, but today as I sat here in Chicago of all places, I got an IM and, shaking, just disabled the whole damn thing. It wasn’t from her, but I hate that whole heart-racing feeling.

If Facebook is how you remember to read me, remember that you can get email alerts every time I post here.

Can anyone out there who does email alerts tell everyone else out there how they do it? I don’t know how you do it. So to speak. Can everyone tell me how they Do It? With photos? Thanks.

y so fekkin pervy.

Before I left today, I spent much time admiring Mr. Sleek, up there. Mr. Sleekstack.

BURD!!!!!

I’ll talk at you from my mother’s computer, which I–

Oh my god. Someone behind me coughs just the way my grandma did. Here I am back in the Midwest, and now I hear grandma. I’m too afraid to see who it is.

Seriously, get the Creamora. Gramma’s here.

Okay, happy Thanksgiving eve. Eve. Talk to you soon.

There was a service puppy in line today, by the way, and here are all my I’m-not-crazy photos I took of him. He wasn’t sad. I think he was looking for things to eat off the floor. Which, sanitary.

Okay, bye for real.

June doesn't know any ugly people · My pets · Neighbors of June

Enter rambling

You know what I want for Christmas? One of those paper towel holders that you stand up on your counter.

^^^^^AMAZON LINK!^^^^^^

Several months ago, one of you said, Hey, June. Why don’t you become an Amazon Associate to earn more money? And so I did. I put up a permanent link to Amazon on my sidebar (See? See it? Are you looking at my side bar? [slap] Keep your eyes off my side bar. Perv).

And sometimes I’d throw in an Amazon image here in the post that, if you click on it, you get to Amazon, and say Amazon one more time.

And by the way, for some reason I can’t ever put a link to Amazon with words on it. Like, one of these…

//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ac&ref=tf_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=booko04-20&marketplace=amazon&region=US&placement=B000G62YE8&asins=B000G62YE8&linkId=2f1089c847f0610c1fab92ac91e31505&show_border=false&link_opens_in_new_window=false&price_color=333333&title_color=0066c0&bg_color=ffffff

See.

THE POINT IS, I am forever forgetting to add links to Amazon in my posts.

  1. So, click these images
  2. You’ll get to Amazon.
  3. If you shop after you’ve clicked over,
  4. I get cash.
  5. Cold cash.
  6. Don’t you have Christmas shopping to do or whatever?

Forgetting to add Amazon links is why I don’t have money. I’m not ambitious enough.

And speaking of numbers, yesterday I was talking to a reader who said, “The number of comments you get don’t represent how many readers you get.”

….!

Of COURSE it doesn’t. Did she really think that 50 people read me a day? That’s so sad. Also, I forget that not everyone works in social media the way I do.

Anyway, I told her how many readers I get normally, and then she looked at how many comments I get normally.

I rarely check how many comments I get. I just get emails from you when you comment and go, “Heh, yeah” or “HAHAHAHAHA” or “Oh, fuck YOU” or whatever. Anyway, she figured out it’s like one comment for every 35 or 52 readers or something.

It was maths. Reader, can you remember the exact ratio? Cause you know how I get with numbers. They come to me on gossamer wings and flitter out my head dusting rose-gold glitter.

IMG_1871.jpgNot-So-Faithful-Reader Ryan and I took a walk yesterday. “You’re too TALL to photograph,” I kvetched, so he came up with this dramatic scenario so I could fit him into the frame…

IMG_1872.jpgBelievable. Do you beLIEVE in life after love {after love after love}

I guess mostly what I did today was enter here rambling, and talking about Amazon and numbers and hooo care, then plunk you into the middle of my yesterday and not be linear at all.

I once took an African literature class, which is something you do in college when you’re all high on the gange, which actually I never was but roll with it, so to speak. Anyway, I read a story where this person wandered a village, and each hut had a number, and he’d visit Hut 4 then Hut 86 then Hut 3, and all the American people were all OH MY GOD VISIT IN ORDER.

Which was a thing we didn’t even NOTICE was bugging us till the professor pointed out we were being, I don’t know, not African or something.

So thank heavens at least 10 of my 50 readers are in Africa.

IMG_1860.jpgAnyway, Nervous Nellie and I visited the vet yesterday, where it turns out that even though I am spending $800 a month on flea meds, the fleas are resisting and now Eds, and most likely his cat backups, are having the fleas. Dammit.

And here’s what happened. Yesterday after said vet appointment, I got on Facebook and I was all Diagnosis: Fleas. And then I said the vet had to prescribe something.

This was followed by 939549323 comments with people telling me what flea medication to get.

“But I–”

“See, I already–”

“Yeah, I got–”

I give up.

I also, on Facebook, asked everyone to not IM me, and one person I don’t actually know in real life wrote, “Oh, but I IM you to show my eternal love” or whatever, and I wrote back and said, “Yeah. that’s great, but an unbalanced person contacted me that way, twice, and now every time my IM thing lights up, I get shaky and sick thinking she’s back.”

I understand, she wrote.

The very next day she sent an IM. No apology, no “I know you don’t want IMs,” nothing. And it was a goddamn animated thing about Christmas. Hey, unfriend.

I mean, I could not have expressed my needs and why I had them more clearly. Jesus.

IMG_1878IMG_1874IMG_1875Also, I stepped on Steely Dan last night. I didn’t MEAN to. I didn’t plan a night of STOMP at my house or anything. He was in the hall, and it was dark in the hall, and he is dark, and I know you have gotten the drift and wish I’d move on already.

I TRIPPED over him with one foot, then STOMPED terrecktly on his tail and oh, did he HISS and run off.

Did you ever chase after a cat you were just accidentally mean to? It’s so fruitless.

“I’M SORRY STEELY DAN! I LOVE YOU HONEY. MAMA’s SO SORRY!” He did not give one shit. It was not possible for him to have put his ears back any more fiercely.

As you can see, above, he forgave me enough to lurk on the fridge for breakfast. So. We’re working past it, with time and counseling.

How many photos of cats in that window ARE there, do you think?

6a00e54f9367fb883401bb09003daf970d-500widownload

6a00e54f9367fb883401156f19bf09970c-600wi.jpg
Oh my god, Francis was SUCH a dick.

6a00e54f9367fb883401b8d1e67be6970c-500wi

Anyway, I know I had other things to tell you, but I am Africa today, so I’m all over the place.  I have GOT to get my freelance work done this weekend, and I have a hundred pages to go, followed by spellchecking it and looking for consistencies throughout, which means I only have about 86 hours to go.

And no, I’m NOT being paid by the hour. I got a flat fee. This whole book was so stressful that instead of using the money I earn for something practical, I’m getting a kilo of weed, a willing lawn boy and Boston Market delivered to my door.

Can you even buy weed by the “kilo”? I should probably get into drugs briefly so these references remotely ring true.

IMG_1873.jpgI leave you with the following Gladys Kravitz news: My youngster neighbor is moving. Or else he’s a lesbian on his third date.

Not that I’m glued to my window like a shut-in or anything, but I noted his girlfriend left awhile back, and maybe he’s going wherever she went.

That’s the house where the lady would come home from third-shift nursing in the morning, with a paper bag of fast food, and I wanted to run over and tell her, “You’re moving more and more slowly, and it’s this fast food that’s killing you,” because as we all know, my food pyramid is banging.

Turns out, she was dying. She got diagnosed on Halloween, was dead by New Year’s day. She no longer felt hale and Hardee’s.

This is why I have bad luck.

So then this whippersnapper moved in a few years back, and I guess he’ll be selling the house, or god forbid renting it to his delinquent friends. But whatever happens, I hope that nice couch stays on the curb just forever. Total Joey and Chandler couch.

Okay, talk at you. I’ll try to write this weekend, as I will be isolating to get my work done and if I don’t somehow contact the outside world, I will get weird. Which you can see I’m far from.

Normally,

June

I am a pleasure of life · I hate everything · June can't keep a man · June's stupid life · My pets

LDV

I have a new thing that bugs me: Women using that video-making feature where their eyes are huge, and their lips are gigantic, and their voices are distorted. Perhaps you’re hilarious, person making a video while sitting in a car, which, woooo! How could you NOT be, with that original venue? But I see that damn exaggerated-features look, and I can’t even click to hear one word.

Also, the kids who’ve been coached to sound world-weary when they’re four. Stop.

You all have put both of these on the Facebook of June page lately to say, “I hate these,” and I am so with you.

These videos are the 2000s version of Pagemaker. Back in the ’90s, this program got invented that let you create your own invitations and flyers and so forth, called Pagemaker (and not PageMaker. I believe it came before we started the equally annoying trend of naming everything WordThing. WordPress. TypePad. InDesign. StopIt).

Anyway, Pagemaker started the whole Secretary As Artist trend, where everyone was “designing” their own stuff, and it looked horrific. Now we have video cameras in our purses, and little special effects we can use, and suddenly everyone’s a makeshift internet comedian.

Says the woman who still blogs, for god’s sake.

You know what was funny? The woman who’d bought herself the Chewbacca mask. She wasn’t trying to get millions of viewers. She wasn’t trying to hone her “craft.” She wasn’t trying to become an Instagram star so she could quit her day job. She was just a genuinely likable person who happened to capture a funny moment.

And this is the problem, I think. The little girl dancing Gangnam style at a wedding reception is genuine. These “I planned them” videos always look, you know, planned. And they aren’t that funny.

I know I’m not the only curmudgeon, here.

Look who I’m talking to. Of course I’m not.

Other than me hating everything on the planet and still being in an angry phase, that about sums it up. I worked on something all day yesterday at work, which was fun to do, actually, but took a lot out of me. Copy editing. It isn’t laying bricks, but you’d never know that.

Anyway, I came home, realized I was out of soap and water. I am not kidding. Soap and water. So then Edsel and I went to the grocery store. I hated to leave him after I’d just gotten home and he’d started sculpting a bust in my honor and so forth.

Then I got home and said, “Is it an acceptable time to go to bed yet?” like anyone was watching. I made myself stay up till 9:00, didn’t do any freelance and hello panic, and then Eds and I slept all night except for Edsel’s one very urgent call of nature at 12:12 a.m. I swear we were back asleep by 12:14.

The only exciting news I have for you is that several months ago, maybe even a year ago, Faithful Reader Fay sent me a Hello Kitty toaster, which I use quite frequently. I’m quite the connoisseur of toast.

But all this time, I’ve been buying the pretentious bread, a habit I picked up from my…ex, the 404 Error, who gets said bread in the deli section at the store, and it’s full of the nuts and grains and it is delicious.

But this weekend, I was near the Ghetto Lion, and I needed groceries (including water and soap, but who can remember?) (here is where my mother is screeching MAKE A LIST), and they don’t HAVE rough made-in-store bread at the Ghetto Lion, so I got normal-person bread in the bread aisle, and weird, it felt.

The point is, I made toast, and

GUESS

WHAT.

That toaster embeds a little image of Hello Kitty in the toast! My toast was too rough and unrefined and high-school educated to show it before.

IMG_1855.jpgMy life has been transfigured. Also, say “toast” one more time.

I’d better go. I’m taking Eds to the vet today, to figure out why he’s still itching and chewing, and now his stomach seems to be bothering him.

Before you give me all the advice, here’s what we’ve already tried:

  1. Changing his diet. Many times.
  2. Shots
  3. Steroids
  4. Antidepressant
  5. Another kind of antidepressant
  6. Flax seed oil
  7. Allergy medicine
  8. A different kind of allergy medicine

Someone told me to try colloidal silver, and Ima ask the vet about that today.

I can’t help having PTSD about Tallulah, and all the tests we ran, when her tumor was right there visible, had anyone, oh, looked at her little dog vagina. I have never once called it anything other than her “little dog vagina.” I don’t know why. Her LDV.

Have PTSD about a lot of things lately. Remember when life just used to be normal and I wasn’t upset? Me either. But I know it existed.

Okay, talk at you and your little dog vagina soon.

Friends · June can't keep a man · June's stupid life

Cutlery roasting on an open fire

My weekday mornings do not vary much: The alarm goes off and I resent it, Edsel and I open the door to 800 cats lining the halls expectantly. I trip over at least one of those solid assholes every single day. Hey. Cats are more solid than you’d think, when you’re kicking one down the hall accidentally.

I slop the hogs, make coffee/heroin for myself, then sit down to blog. Usually I open my photos from the day before in order to show you it, whatever “it” may be that day.

(Do you have to “make” heroin? I know in the movies they show someone roasting a spoon over an open flame. So maybe you do. Or maybe when you’re high on the heroin you enjoy a spoon over an open flame. I just have no idea.)

M’point is, today when I opened photos, I enjoyed the fact that almost all of them were selfies. Nice. Proud.

Screen Shot 2017-11-15 at 7.31.11 AM.png

There’s one sad photo of Kit, there, at the end. You can see I never did get happy with my at-the-bookstore selfie, as I took 70 of them.

IMG_1841.jpgWhat’cha doin’, June?

I went to work yesterday like a normal person, which you know isn’t true because I can’t do anything “like a normal person.”

(Do you consider yourself normal? Any time a man writes that he’s “normal” on a dating profile, I’m all NEXT. First of all, hey, judge-y. Also, hey, boring-y.)

Anyway, I went to work like the person I am, only to realize I had scheduled my Botox at 12:45 and my car repair for my accident at 1:00.

Pfft.

So the car repair got rescheduled for today. Not that I know it even NEEDS repair. Today is when they look at it. Give it the male gaze. They check it out now, funk soul brother. Right about noon, funk soul brother.

So above, there, is me going to the OTHER appointment yesterday, applying the ice to my head, there, before the needle and the damage done.

I need to stop thinking in song lyrics.

In summation, I got went to work yesterday and had Botox at noon. That would be a man’s blog entry thus far. Those two sentences.

IMG_1844.jpg
Oh, look. A selfie. This is me after work, in the waiting period. See below. Click here! You won’t BELIEVE what happens next.

At work yesterday, I had some of my delicious high-fiber oatmeal, because Mmmmmm, or Nnnnnnnn, as they say in the Pearl Drops Tooth Polish commercial when they lick their teeth.

( https://youtu.be/m2tYvxEVreI

Sadly, while I was searching for a Pearl Drops commercial, as you do, there were 97 clips from General Hospital available to me, including one with a Leslie and Monica showdown that I really wanted to take time out of my executive schedule to review, but look at June. Staying with the task at hand. If the “task at hand” is to get distracted by “Nnnnnnnnn.”)

So I had the oatmeal, June says, and you’ve already forgotten. “Jesus, WHAT oatmeal?” Then I had my important Botox at noon, so that left me no choice but to get a luncheon Dorito Taco at Taco Bell, and why everyone isn’t just knocking down the doors to get them MORE Dorito tacos is beyond me. Cause, nnnnnnnn.

Then, Kit and I had plans to go to a reading together at the local bookstore after work. We were gonna hear Mr. Write’s new book.

We were meeting at 6:45, so it was easiest to just leave from work, where there were, sadly, no snacks. What kind of workplace doesn’t have snacks?

I got to the bookstore a little early, ordered a glass of chardonnay, and meandered to the back of the store, where readers read when there’s a reading, and that was the day you stopped reading June.

I found a book. I know! At the bookstore. And I sipped my wine and read my book, which in retrospect I shoulda bought cause now I’m over here wondering what happens next. I want to click here on that book.

The point is, by the time Kit arrived, I was drunk.

IMG_1852.jpg
“Oh, good.”

Seriously. I guess oatmeal at 9:00 and a taco at noon were not enough to take on The Wine. Holy cats.

So I slumped drunkenly in my chair as Mr. Write wandered in, followed by an entourage of admirers. I’ve been to several readings read by writers where they read at the bookstore readingly, and, like, when The Poet was there, she had standing room only.

But Mr. Write, who happens to be good-looking, had throngs. Seriously.

IMG_1853.jpgAnd, you know, careful readers will note that we dated. Not you and me, homophobic housewife in Haverford, Mr. Write and me. We dated briefly last year. He was the most “with potential” suitor I’ve had since my 404 Error, but it didn’t work out.

And now he was seeing me for the first time in more than a year, and I’m drunk.

He saw me through the crowd and was very gracious. “Good to see you,” he said to me, while people gazed at him. He really is a Mr. Handsome.

And his reading was great. I’d link to his book or something, but he is, in fact, really private and I feel like he’d be annoyed with me for being all, HERE IS SOMEONE I DATED HERE. HERE. On m’blog.

Anyway, the good news is, he read a lot of stuff, so I had time to sober up. And I thought, What the hell was wrong with me? I could have had Mr. Write to date for awhile, and I was all oh no. Break me off some more of that guy who’s hurt my feelings 400 times instead.

After, I got his book, Mr. Write’s, I mean, and stood in the endless line for him to sign it. I caught up with Kit’s life, which has taken an exciting turn lately, and I similarly feel like she would kick my ass if I splayed that all over yonder, so let’s just say her life is going well now.

Mr. Write and I exchanged pleasantries once I got up to him, but the woman behind me cockblocked our conversation by including herself in our talk, and I wish you all could have been there to see the daggers coming right out my half-drunk eyes.

Kit and I then sat in the window of the store, as that’s the place where you can sit at tables in the window and have yourself a time. “I’ve never sat up here before,” said Kit, who works 11 feet from that store, and how she hasn’t taken advantage of that table window table is beyond me.

The point is, Kit knows everyone in town, and it was like she was on a float. We’d get one sentence out and there she was again, waving gleefully out the window and throwing butterscotch candies.

I guess homecoming queens don’t do that, do they? That’s more clowns at the Knights of Columbus parade.

Whatever. Girlfriend was waving. A lot.

So, in summation, I went to work, got Botox at lunch, then to a reading with Kit after work.

The end.

Briefly,

Juan

 

 

 

Aging ungracefully · Busy busy busy busy. Thank heavens for Angie's List. · Friends · June doesn't know any ugly people

Weekend recap! Oh, June. Zzzzzz.

IMG_1651.jpg

On Friday night, my many wrinkles and I stayed home and copy edited, but NOT before I screwed up at work and felt just awful about it.

Do you remember that project I took home last weekend? The point of taking it home was so that when it came back from the printer and I looked it over one last time, I wouldn’t find that it had ONE MORE ERROR after all, the way I did LAST month.

Of course that thing came back from the printer at seven minutes to 5:00 Friday, and guess what I found.

Spelling error. DAMMIT.

I’ve spent the whole weekend trying to figure out how I could have done the job perfectly. I know people think, “Isn’t that what a copy editor does? Isn’t her whole job to check spelling errors?”

Oh, honey. It so isn’t all I do.

And maybe that’s the problem, I’ve decided. Maybe one person needs to check all the facts; the other all the art; the last one the spelling, grammar, and punctuation. And maybe something that cumbersome should not be looked at by one copy editor, but three or four.

I’ll stop talking about it now so you don’t die of boredom. But everyone was working late Friday, including our president. Not of the country, of the company. And I talked to him about this error, and how upset it made me, and awhile later I was obsessing at my desk and he came over.

“Hey, I know I told you not to sweat it, and that the important thing is you still found it before it went to print. But you know what? Thank you for sweating it. Thank you for caring.”

Then I had to go home and freelance.

The point is, pretty much every morning for the last two years I wake up with dread, because my romance sitch is so precarious. Even when we actually reunited officially last year, I woke up in dread, and had to take a moment to tell myself, “No, it’s okay. You’re back together.”

The point is, every so often lately I do NOT wake up in dread. Saturday I woke up and said, “You know what? You’ve been in this endless terrible relationship, and you made a mistake at work. You could look at it that way, or you could think, Well, it looks like I’m finishing a relationship that wasn’t good for me, and the president of my company knows I care about my work.”

So. That’s what I did. I opted for door number two.

IMG_1687.jpgIMG_1689.jpgOn Saturday morning, I schlepped my arse out to the country to hang with one of the Alexes, who makes funny needlepoint in her spare time, to sell at craft shows. I know you’d think I’d feel competitive, what with all m’crafts, but I don’t. I mean, nothing compares to my decoupage. So.

We sat for awhile behind her display, which sounds dirty but was just barely so, and caught up on each other’s gossip. Then I had to go.

IMG_1695.jpgI got up with Marty Martin, who is neither an old man with a walker or a ’50s strip mall, but for some reason all I photographed was my walk INto the coffee shop and not M Martin himself. And Dear M Martin: Could you REMIND me I have a blog and need to photograph everything, next time? GOD.

Wait. Does that old guy have a walker or just stripey pants?

Also also, this dick-ass popular hamburger place moved in there, but did nothing to improve the parking, and now you can’t park there to save your life. There are about 10 other stores besides Dick-Ass Popular Hamburgers, but do they care? No. For that reason alone, I never eat there.

IMG_1696.jpgIMG_1700.jpgAfter that, I screamed over to the old mill stream, where I first met you, or alternatively, the old mill where I get my hair done.

IMG_1701.jpgPoor Marty Martin was all, Well, if your appointment is at 1:00, we could meet after, at like 2:00 or something.

Oh, honey. Oh hairless honey. 2:00. He probably also thinks all copy editors do is check spelling.

IMG_1705.jpgHere we are at the dry-it-straight portion of our evening, and by that time it literally was evening.

IMG_1710.jpgWhen I got back to my car, I was amused by the dregs of my run-aroundy day.

IMG_1718Edsel at confession. Why do I try to have a screen?

On Sunday, Peg-my-neighbor’s daughter called me, as they are painting and fixing Peg’s house to eventually sell it. She wanted me to see it all cleared out.

IMG_1724.jpgAw, man. I just tried to find you photos of Peg’s house, which I know I have, but instead I just keep finding fun pictures of Peg through the years.

6a00e54f9367fb88340133f0e87751970b.jpg

Here she is in 2010, at our combo dress-as-your-biggest-fear party.

6a00e54f9367fb8834014e8825f96c970d.jpgHere she is at 5:00 in the morning, when we had our royal wedding get-together at her house.

Seeing her house all shiny and bare. Oh, man.

IMG_1728.jpg

This computer is like to kill me, and now it’s late and I gotta go before I can tell you how cool the building is where I have therapy. Even the ELEVATOR BUTTONS are cool.

Okay, talk to you later.

Wordily,

June

Aging ungracefully

Computer’s Last Stand

Everything’s broken. My bathroom fan needs to be fixed, according to my ridiculous handyman Alf, because the bathroom CEILING will fall in if I don’t. Oh, is that all?

He also had to come fix all of the 206 windows back here, as they would not stay open or lock. That’s safe.IMG_1640.jpg

IMG_1641.jpg
The 206 windows back here. Or, four. Alf coming to fix those cost me a cool $35.

Plus also, my dishwasher needs replacing, and this computer is clearly on its last…stand. It’s Computer’s Last Stand. I spent three or four ENTIRE days a few months ago with AppleCare, wherein we made my computer unusable while trying to install or uninstall or SOMETHING in order to make this thing not slow as the dickens, and we all know how slow the dickens are.

When these things happen, I try to think of my favorite person, Anne Lamott, and what she says about these things…

1508243.png

So while something big and lovely is trying to be born, I’m over here dealing with a pain in my ass. Several pains in my ass.

Last night, I turned off this computer completely, by being needy and texting it a lot. No.

I turned it off, removed the plug, which GOOD writers might call “unplugging it,” waited a bit, plugged it back in and turned it on to see if maybe my iPhotos would finally work.

ace4d4f60f3a5885df8a62ca38f672ef

There’s an Anne Lamott for everything. And any smart thought can be made basic and Pinterest-y if you get the right picture behind it.

Also? My favorite.

10507997_607276816053570_297492840_n.jpg

Anyway. This morning when I got to my computer, all the attempts I made yesterday to drag photos onto my desktop?

Worked.

And now I have 400,034 pictures there, and we’re gonna look at ALL OF THEM YAY!

Oh, June. Must we?

IMG_1619 2.jpg

I tried these glasses on at the eye doctor the other day. Please ignore that I have no eye makeup on; I knew he was gonna do all that crap they do that makes your eyes water, so. My fear is wearing colored glasses that seem “whimsical” and I become one of those middle-aged women you feel sorry for, with leopard frames (I WOULD LOVE LEOPARD FRAMES) and tiaras and–oh my god I’m already that woman. I’m wearing a fucking pom-pom necklace up there, and I’m all, I don’t want to seem undignified in my old age.

And SPEAKING of which, I was at the grocery store last night buying dog food, some of that Rachel Ray’s Just Sex that I get for Edsel,

Oh, might that be a link to Amazon, that photo of Just Sex dog food? Might it? Might you want to click over there and buy you some Amazon? Because June needs a new dishwasher and computer.

Anyway, the checkout girl complimented my coat, which is a pink trench given to me by the fine folks at Stitch Fix, and I thought SHE thought I was mighty hot in it, till she said, “Do you need the senior discount today?”

How fast do you think I asked Siri, “What’s the age limit for Harris Teeter’s senior discount?” Was it before I got to my car? Was it?

SIXTY. Bitch thought I was SIXTY. I was so cute in m’pink trench. Cute like Clara Peller, apparently.

IMG_1621 2.jpgHere’s my ambulance from my very serious car accident the other night. Now with mail! Maybe the mail truck came in case I had POSTtraumatic stress.

BAHAHAHAHAHA.

I’m hilarious at 60. Sixty is the new 52.

IMG_1636.PNGOver there on the left is lone wolf Edsel, waiting for Dexter. This is a screen shot I took while he was at daycare the other day. He acts exactly the same way I did at daycare.

IMG_1553.jpgI’ve no idea when I took this, probably 1957 when I was born, but I look annoyed. Oh, I think that was before my last date. The one where I got stood up. And I hadn’t even been stood up yet! Maybe this expression is why I never saw him.

You’ll be glad to hear that’s all for the photos I attempted to drag over and finally did, two days later. There’s a video, of Edsel and me doing our “find the treat” game, but it might be a pipe dream to hope that this exhausted old computer can actually show you that.

Crap.

Tomorrow, by the way, is the two-year anniversary of when I moved back in here. If you’d have told me two years ago that I’d STILL be in the last gasps of this Ned debacle, I’d have been shocked. And horrified. And kind of not that surprised. Now, if you tell me that two years from NOW I’ll still be in it, Ima have to come over there and slap you.

Oh, good. The Edsel veeeeedeo did not load, but this three-second one of how I thought the light was pretty did.

I’m glad to be back here at my house, even though any time I ever went back to the house I shared with Ned I’d get sad and think, “I WANT TO BE BACK AT THIS HOUSE.” Maybe I just want to live in any house I’m in, which would make me a terrible Jehovah’s Witness.

CAN I MOVE IN? Have a pamphlet. CAN I MOVE IN?

Do you like how, in the video above, you can see 47 copies of my whimsical-glasses selfie? Thanks, computer.

I’d better get ready for work, with my senior discount and my whimsy. I got a full weekend of freelance copy editing ahead of me, but also Ima see my friend Alex at her craft shindig, and also Marty Martin even though he has no crafts, and plus too also I have a hair appointment and not to mention therapy. My weekend is full!

“What’d you do this weekend?”

“Therapy.”

“Oooo! Sounds fun!”

Talk at you.

Juan

P.S. By the way, they painted Peg’s house. Alf my ridiculous handyman was very thrown by it. “Didn’t the house next door used to be yella?” he texted. He always has to text stupid words, to annoy me. Anyway this was just the primer coat but trust me, it’s gray now.

IMG_1576.jpg

Her house used to match my dogs. Now it matches my cats.

Really going now,

Juan

...friend/Ned · I hate everything · June can't keep a man · June's stupid life

Rearing to go

I know you were waiting all night for Installment Two of June Goes to Medical Appointments, and I understand your excitement and anticipation. But something bigger happened yesterday.

Bigger, June? Bigger than an eye exam?

Not that my eye exam wasn’t without incident. I pissed off the front desk by not remembering I had a separate card for eye insurance. Look, I go there once a year, and they mail me this flimsy card from somewhere or another, and who can remember? I found it eventually, didn’t I? Okay, after you already ran my debit card. Still.

I got to work and didn’t take lunch, did my copy editing and so forth, and now I’ve turned into that bad-storytelling woman from yesterday’s example. “He went to college, all that good stuff.”

The point is, Edsel was at daycare all day, hoping for a Dexter sighting. Dexter is his new Beagle friend. We’d missed Dexter by ONE DAY.

Dear Advice-Givers: I HAVE left my number with Dexter’s people and I HAVE asked the daycare to alert me should Dexter be there, with the caveat that I know how FREAKING BUSY that place always is, and that I’d understand if they clean forget, because it is always Grand Dog Central in there.

That made no sense.

Anyway, since I hadn’t taken lunch, I left work at maybe 5:20-ish, which is early for me, and wow, was traffic suck-ass. I also had to take the busy headed-to-downtown road because I had to get the Eds.

I was just around the corner from work, at a complete stop thanks to traffic, when

BOOM

It took me a moment to even register what had happened. I’d heard a big sound, then a second later, see boom above. A car rear-ended the car behind me, who in turn rear-ended me.

“Oh my god!” I said, then, “Ow.” I’d hit my head on the back of the seat rest, hard.

“Geez.” I rubbed my head and got out of the car. The person who hit me was a coworker. “You okay?” I asked.

“Hit my head,” he said.

I got my phone and dialed 9-1-1. As I was speaking to Edna at 9-1-1, the woman who’d hit my coworker got out of her car. “I looked down for just a second,” she was saying, “and then you’d slammed on your brakes.” As if it was my coworker’s fault for braking in bad traffic.

“Do you need an ambulance?” asked Edna the 9-1-1 operator, after she’d asked me how my day was at work and did I need to get Edsel from daycare. I said yes, because my coworker and I had both hit our heads, and I kept thinking of Natasha Richardson.

It was cold and rainy out, so I waited in my car for all the men and women of LAW enforcement (only funny if Marvin forced you to watch every episode of Cops).

Just then, I had an IM on Facebook, my favorite thing. My coworker Ryan had been driving by and had texted me. “I drove by the accident. You okay?” he’d asked, clearly having something more important to do than stop and make sure I was ALIVE, RYAN.

Anyway, I opened the IM, in case it was another coworker or something.

It was a name I didn’t recognize, and it was a long, long message. As I scrolled up to get to the top, I realized it was That Woman. That Woman who’d contacted me at the beginning of October. That Woman who …knew Ned.

She’d gone on Facebook with another account, as I’d blocked her original account, and messaged me THE DETAILS of what she and Ned did while we were together.

The details.

While I was waiting for an ambulance.

She literally added insult to injury.

And you know, I have exciting photos of me at the eye doctor, Eds at day care, and even an exiting action shot of the ambulance, which mercifully came right then (“Say, you got any emergency services for a shattered heart?”), and my stupid computer, which has been acting up for some time, won’t let me put them on here to show you.

Anyway, the ambulance people and the (cute!) firemen made me do a bunch of “does she have a concussion” moves, and also the Cabbage Patch because why not, and they said I could go to the hospital if I WANTED to, and who doesn’t? Both my coworker and I ended up not going, and we’re probably both dead now and this is purgatory.

So, an hour later, I headed to daycare to get Edsel. My car doesn’t LOOK damaged, other than the license plate, but Ima get it checked out for anything horrific that might have happened to its insides. “You made it!” said the daycare woman, who I called to warn that Edsel might be having an impromptu sleepover.

Eds was glad to see me, on a shocking note, and he was even gladder when I did the insane thing.

Because what I did next was, I took my totaled car and my exposed brain from my horrific accident, and I drove all the way down to Ned’s gym. He is nothing if not predictable. I called him as I was nearing the place.

“Where are you?”

“I’m just leaving the gym.”

“Yeah, I know you are. I’m headed there.”

“You’re…what?”

“That Woman messaged me.”

So, in the rain, the cold November rain, I drove to that parking lot, and with my medulla flying just everywhere from being exposed, I gave Ned a piece of my mind.

Literally.

Because it was exposed and all.

“I’m so sorry,” said Ned. “I am 100% responsible for all this,” said Ned. “What can I do?” asked Ned.

“You can just leave me alone,” I replied, and I realize I said, “Leave me alone” to someone who was, in fact, leaving me alone, but there it is. And I may have wept a bit, and mentioned how crazy about him I used to be, and how this was like that last scene in Mother, which I don’t recommend you go see, where Javier Bardem rips the heart out of Jennifer What’s-Her-Name. I may have dramatically mentioned all that, while gray matter plunked onto the parking lot along with the rain.

But the best part of this story is, the whole time I was handing over a piece of my mind? Edsel was

SO

DELIGHTED

to see Uncle Ned.

oh unk ned! oh edzul god it unk ned!! unk ned da bomb! unk ned hello! hello! edz not care how you hurt mom. hullo UNK NED!

And Ned was all, “Yes, hi, Edsel,” while I was over there ranting and railing and speaking in tongues due to my severe head injury.

After about five minutes, I was pretty calm, actually, and got in the car and drove home, finally without incident. Eds was in the back asking me to play the country station so he could find a song that encapsulated what it meant for him to see Unk Ned.

So there it is. I came home and initially announced on Facebook that I had been in a severe accident wherein my car had upturned and caught fire and so on, but after I got 10 IMs in 10 seconds, I realized really that last thing I wanted to do was field questions all night, and what I really wanted to do was hide under the nice afghan Faithful Reader Kris made me, and watch Friends. There is little less taxing to one’s soul than an episode of Friends. They’re all so pretty, and the decor is so ’90s.

But speaking of Facebook, could you all all do me a favor? A flavor, as my friend Tammy always called it?

Sometimes, particularly on Facebook of June, I will post something and it goes awry and I take it down. Some days I post something and it gets too “give June advice”-y. Some days it becomes too, “In fact, I DO have a degree in psychology, so let me analyze people in your life, or even better, slap a label on him or her.” Sometimes it just feels too personal after I’ve posted, and I get squicked out and take it down.

But no matter what, if I post something and take it down, I’ve done so because I felt uncomfortable about said post, so here’s where the favor comes in.

When I’ve posted something and taken it down, could we not go BACK to Facebook of June and ask, “Where is that post?” and make it all dramatic with the shocked-face emoji and the “Someone IM me what happened” and all that? I already feel uncomfortable, and to have it brought back to the page makes me feel bad all over again. Go ahead, gossip about me off that page all you want, I don’t care. But could you not gossip about me in front of me?

Alternatively, you could IM me all the details of how you …know Ned. That’d be much better.

Accidentally,

June and her severed head

June can't keep a doctor

Toothy

Seeing as medical checkups are my hobby and all, this is really a stellar month.

Yesterday, I went to my new dentist. In half an hour, I go to my eye doctor, a fact that will not at all make Faithful Reader Paula nervous. She doesn’t like it when I’m writing and have to go somewhere or am in any way rushed.

Dear Faithful Reader Paula: I write these before work. I am pretty much always rushed.

In a few weeks, I get my mammogram, which in truth I’ve put off. That thing terrifies me.

Anyway, yesterday I saw my new dentist because the old one, whom I started going to as soon as we moved into this city–Marvin found him–was just fine, but the hygienist gave me angina.

I’ve told you about her before. She not only hurt me, she also seriously–SERIOUSLY–had some sort of disorder where she could not stop talking.

Dear Women of America: It’s okay to have silences. It’s also okay to not tell every detail.

I have Sirius radio, says June, telling every detail, and at lunchtime there’s really not much good on there, talk-radio-wise. I was listening to some stupid call-in show recently, and a person called in under the topic of How Did You Meet Your Significant Other.

“Hi, Jenny, thanks for taking my call. I just love you. I listen to you when I…”

See. Already she was bugging me. THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE ARE LISTENING. YOU’RE NOT JUST TALKING TO JENNY. YOU’RE THE ENTERTAINMENT.

“I met my husband when he was a junior and I was a freshman.”

See. “I met my husband in high school.” That was all we needed.

“He went away to the state school, and he played soccer and had friends and all that good stuff.”

Oh! All that good stuff! Well, that’s descriptive. Also, is this remotely germane to the story?

By the time I’d heard her whole tale, I retold it in my head using three sentences. I can’t help it. I edit for a living.

This pales in comparison to that hygienist at the old place. She was so bad that she’d already read a complaint someone had made about her on Facebook, about her…talking problem, and you know what she did?

She talked to me about it.

So, after, you know, SEVEN YEARS of this hygienist, I got up all my courage, and I mean I really had to get some courage re this. I had to talk myself into it. But not in a chatty way.

“Dude, you’re the patient,” I told myself. “You have a right to request the other hygienist. It will be okay. The first hygienist probably won’t even know.” So, heart pounding, two years ago I called my dentist’s office, where they already don’t like me.

(I just tried to link to that blog post about when the funeral happened at my dentist’s office, and the woman who answers the phone was the one throwing said funeral for one of her family members, and I called and referred to “some funeral” screwing up my appointment, does anyone remember that? And then I realized my error and called back to say, “Donna, I’m so sorry. I just realized I flippantly referred to a funeral you all are going to, and that that funeral was for your brother-in-law, and it was insensitive of me and I really apologize.” and she said, “My name is Dana.” Does anyone recall that horrificness?)

Anyway, June says, doing the woman-talking-thing, I got up the nerve to call there and say, “May I please have Esmerelda as my hygienist instead of Simone?” And I was shaky and scared, but they said yes, and I saw blissfully quiet Esmerelda once. ONCE. And then that funeral story above happened, and the only person IN THE WHOLE OFFICE not at the funeral was Simone the Chatty Hygienist, and then I was back in the loop of seeing her again.

So six months ago I called again. I did my famous “starting with Yes” that I do when I call these places.

“Yes, I requested Esmerelda to be my hygienist? And I got back in the schedule with Simone? Can we go back to Esmerelda?” I mean, I had douche chills asking.

“She’s all booked up, but we’ll call you when there’s a cancellation.”

So they called me, and booked me recently, and it wasn’t till the day before that I thought to check everything out to be sure.

“Yes. Hi, DANA. I have a cleaning tomorrow, but may I just check who my hygienist will be?”

It was with Lady Chatterly. It was with Miss Wordsworth. It was with Story Spelling. They’d put me back on her loop GODDAMMIT. It was like trying to get a taffy wrapper off your hands.

So that is how I got a new dentist.

I like it there. The office is really close to me; right behind where NedKitty goes to the vet. I say that like you’re all, Ohhhhh. Therrrrrre. Yeah.

It’s fancy, and there are People Magazines in the lobby, and they took individual photos of every single tooth. “Did I look fat in those pictures?” I asked, and because I’m new to them, they weren’t sick of me yet, and they laughed. I saw EVERY ONE of my teeth on a big screen and man, have I had a lot of crowns and fillings and “onlays,” whatever those were.

They also did that gum reading where they say, “2, 2, 1. 1, 2, 3.” I used to like it, back in LA, when they’d say my area code, which was 323.

Anyway, it all looks good, and then the hygienist came in to clean me, and you know what?

She was quiet.

Yay.

Tune in tomorrow for June Reports on her Eye Doctor Appointment, which is now in 18 minutes.

God, we can’t wait, June.

OooooooWEEEEEooooooo!!!

June gets murdered up.

Friday night here in Greensboro was a wet affair. It was exactly how fall nights should be: windy, occasionally rainy, the damp leaves shivering on the trees.

I was acutely aware of the night, because I was sitting silently in my house, catching up on some freelance editing. I’ve had freelance work almost every single day this year, a fact that is reflected in both my credit rating (yay) and cuticles (nay). My scores are up but my nails are shredded.

It’s not a stressful task, but you do have to give the work your total concentration, which is why I was so annoyed when I started to hear the singing.

“Wheel in the sky keeps on turnin’.'”

I looked up from my papers.

“Don’t know where I’ll be tomORRRRRoowwww.”

Well. That was a drunk person. And it sounded like he was really close by. I figured it was some kid walking by. He sounded young. He sounded like a young white kid, probably went to a football game at the high school, maybe was walking back. I can assure you I never once left a high school football game sober, back in my day. Probably left singing Wheel in the Sky, as well.

“Carry on my wayward sonnnnn. There’ll be peace when you are done.”

Goddammit.

I had just gotten back into my work when another song started up. Edsel lifted his head from his bed.

Hrrrrr,” said Edsel, his neck getting all dinosaur-y. Whenever he’s pissed off, the first hackle to rise is the neck hackle-dy area. If he’s infuriated, a whole line of fur rises up along his spine, and he looks just like a

just like a

oh, that one kind of dinosaur. With the hackles.

Anyway, that bothered me. The hrrrrrr did. Usually Eds is indifferent to noises like that, unless said person making noise has the nerve to be singing with a dog, like if Mr. Bojangles walked by or what have you.

The guy was singing way, way off key, and as I said before, drunkenly. And he wasn’t moving from his spot right outside my house. I tried the peephole on my door, which somehow renders everything outside 10 times darker than it is anyway, and a rainy fall night isn’t what you’d call full of the light as it is.

So, annoyed, I decided to whip open my door and glare out of it. That’d show him.

“Don’t know where I’ll be tomorrrrroowwwwwww.”

I could hear him, but I couldn’t see him. He was close by, like maybe across the street.

“Wheel in the sky…”

SLAM.

Was he just walking toward me? Did it sound like he was coming closer, with this bad singing and his classic rock? Was he headed OVER HERE?

“Hrrrrrrr, wowww wow!” Edsel started to bark.

And that is when I called 9-1-1.

Look, I know it was a tad hysterical. But it was so fucking creepy. He’d been out there singing for at least 10 minutes, not moving, and then when I opened the door, it sounded like he’d started walking over.

“9-1-1, hello, June. Did you try that new curly girl product I told you about last time?”

“Heh. Yeah, hey, Edna. Listen, I know this sounds insane, but…”

I told the 9-1-1 operator my tale of woe. She sounded bored and said they’d send someone out as soon as they could. And see, once? I accidentally and wish I hadn’t? Listened to this terrible 9-1-1 call, where and old lady called because someone had come to her door asking for someone who didn’t live there, and it didn’t sit right with her, it seemed odd, and you’re listening to this thing thinking, Get a life, old lady, kind of like what you’re thinking reading this.

And then? There’s a clunk in the recording?

AND ALL YOU HEAR ARE THE OLD LADY’S SCREAMS. That guy at the door came in and murdered her. For no reason. As opposed to all the valid reasons to murder an old woman.

This is what I was thinking of when the bored operator hung up. “You’re just being silly,” I told myself, trying not to observe Edsel’s hackle sitch, over there.

Hrrrrrrr,” said Edsel, jumping off the chair and running to the back door.

And that is when my back door opened.

CALL NED CALL NED CALL NED CALL NED, my innards were screeching at me. For years now, any time there’s been a major emergency, such as a cockroach on the wall, I have called Ned, who is literally four minutes away and who loved screaming over to rescue me.

I did not call Ned. Please see above references to strong black woman.

I did, however, call 9-1-1. I was already picturing my YouTube recordings, where the first time I sound fairly alarmed and the second one I am a screeching wet hen.

“SOMEONE JUST TRIED TO OPEN MY BACK DOOR!” I cackled at 9-1-1.

“Okay, ma’am, your address?”

Don’t they keep a LOG or something? The second operator had no idea I’d just called. I figured once my number came up it’d give a whole history.

JUNE LOG

Well, she was married to Marvin, and back then she called 9-1-1 when her dog had cornered a possum. But then they divorced, and…

The operator stayed on the line with me till the policeman came. I saw him wandering my yard before he knocked, shining his flashlight everywhere like at the beginning of Columbo. He was probably looking for my current cultural references.

My point is, he and I searched everywhere, and found nothing. “Did your motion sensor come on?” he wanted to know. I have no idea. I was too busy having ice needles in my anus to notice my lights.

We searched high and low, and there was no evidence anyone had been over, other than me hearing my fekking back door open. The cop clearly thought I was insane, which, come on.

He bid me a good night, and drove off into the wet fall night.

The singing had completely stopped.

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

If we’re gonna turn back time, can we turn it back to when I was cute?

A delight this time of year is discovering HOW MANY DAMN CLOCKS you own. You think you set them all back, only to enter a room and say, “Oh my god! It’s 8:30??!!” Yeah, no it isn’t. You forgot this one. Now how the fuck do you work THIS one, goddammit?

I gotta make my house more like Las Vegas.

I’m pleased to report that I almost killed myself adjusting my car’s clock while I drove, and hey, June. Unsafe at any speed.

Also too, I set my alarm clock back an hour. Knowing how I am, how I a.m., I brought my phone to bed with me last night, set that alarm as well, to be safe.

This morning, as my phone and I rocked out to Tupelo Honey at really 7:30 but at what the government insists is now 6:30, I thought, hey, why is just my phone going off and not the additional, tinny, you-ordered-this-on-Amazon-and-clearly-it-came-from-China alarm clock?

And right then I knew. I’d somehow fucked up. And that is when I saw my regular Chinese alarm clock said, oh hey, it’s 6:30 p.m., man. Have a cocktail. I’d set the time for p.m. when it was a.m.

Do you know what I haven’t done in forever? Is add any sort of Amazon link, so you’re reminded to click, say, that clock above so you are then on Amazon, and anything you buy I get millions of dollars for.

Anyway, so the time changed, and as you can see, it vexes me. Fortunately, I’m the only person in America who is vexed by the daylight savings. I’m saving daylight for a rainy day.

Photo on 11-4-17 at 8.55 PM.jpg
o fer fuk sake

Back when time was normal, I did nothing but my freelance work, and what I noticed by Saturday night is the animals were plumb sick of me and also I was depressed from sitting in my house doing freelance work.

So I got dressed and put on lipstick and went to Barnes and Noble at 9:00 on a Saturday night. I know! When I throw down, man… But hey, did you know Barnes and the Noble, there, are open till 11:00? I didn’t. Till I was depressed and wondering where the Sam Hill I could go that late that wasn’t a strip club.

I got some Moleskine notebooks. Oh, wait. What if there were a link to the same kind of notebooks, and you could buy them too and we could be Moleskine members only?

I also bought Judy Blume’s latest book.

Which, okay, is from two years ago, BUT I DIDN’T KNOW THAT.

So that wasn’t so bad, Saturday night wasn’t.

IMG_1558.jpgOn Sunday morning, I got stood up. If any of you know a local 54-year-old man of color named Charles–which I thought was going to be a good sign because that was my grandfather’s name–please tell him he’s a very rude man.

At 10:39, I wrote him via the dating app, as he was nine minutes late. “I’m, um, here!” One should take note of the fact that one did not get a real phone number before said date. One should never go on a date without the person’s actual number. This is my little tip for you.

At 10:45, I wrote him again. “I wait for no man, Charles.” Then I deleted him from my matches. Charles will not be in charge of my days and my nights.

IMG_E1556.JPGSo, since I was already up and sporting real pants and so on on a Sunday morning, I browsed the windows of my friend Kit’s store, and oh my god this chair.

IMG_E1557.JPGPlus also, oh my god, this hat.

I have to stop going to Kit’s store. She night as well not pay for the storefront; she could just drive all of her finds over to my house.

IMG_1546.jpgSo that about sums it up. It’s hard to blog about your life when you’re currently ceasing to have much of one.

Oh, but listen. Be sure to purchase many things via my Amazon, will you? Because my stupid dishwasher is broken and I have to get a new one, I think. I already had a dishwasher repairman here, twice, and it works better, as long as you don’t mind that half the things don’t get clean. I also keep trying to make this computer work nicely, and instead it groans and spools and sings about doom, despair and agony. This computer is six years old. Is that too old?

I leave you with photos of the animals, because remember when I went out and had fun and saw people other than animal people?

Me, either.

IMG_E1572.JPGIMG_E1571.JPG

IMG_E1564.JPG
get lyfe.

I swear Lily’s not dead. Lemme find any recent Lily photo… I have trouble because she’s always out having athletic adventures.

Oh. Wait.

IMG_1507.jpg
maybe lilleee a little bit ded

Okay, bye.

Joooon.

Hair

When a story really gels

I’ve not mentioned this, but work is busy. And this week, what arrived but a book, a whole book, for me to freelance copyedit. They wanted me to do that in a week, but I called that place and said YA TRYINA KILL ME? And now I have till the 17th.

The point is, when things get busy, I have some physical reactions, re-act-shuns, and that’s the story Ima tell you today.

So, for the last week, it’s been, you know, hectic at work. Stuff is coming at me before I even get there, then all day I think I know what I have to get done and that I’ve got it under control and then even more stuff comes my way.

We had a big meeting this week about how important it is that everything gets copy edited, yet there are still the same number of copy editors there, and mother of god.

And I agree, is the thing. Everything should get copy edited. So I can’t turn my back on my religion, there, even though it’s stressy.

Yesterday morning I was showering, and not at all thinking about all the things I had to do that day, when my bathroom door burst open. It was another one of those situations that let me know when a murderer really does burst in, Ima be frozen like a deer when your headlights are barreling toward it.

As someone was opening the doorknob, and I was recalling that I do, in fact, live alone, I stood naked and frozen in the shower. BOOM, went the door as it opened, and

TAAA-DAAAA

went the universe, as Steely Dan stood in the threshold, paws victoriously on his hips. heeeer i be.

IMG_E1520.jpg
was thurstee

And go ahead. Notice that that bath rug should probably be exchanged for a cleaner one. My house is ludicrous right now, with the busy. Just last night I finally got sick of stepping over my open suitcase on the bedroom floor, and finally unpacked it all the way and put it away, in the closet. Those antlers had been staring at me judgmentally all week from the bowels of my case.

Anyway, all that cat wanted was to drink from the toilet, and he wanted it NOWWW, so he, you know, got on his hind legs and turned a crystal doorknob with his evil paws. As you do. When you’re thumbless.

The point is, that was the serene way I began my day, and it got better from there.

IMG_1526.jpgHere’s m’boss, fmr., and me, at a meeting yesterday. Apparently it was “Wear muted purple” day.

IMG_1523.jpgHere’s another coworker and me noting we have on similar shoes. Apparently it was “Wear pointy shoes” day.

Wait. Which?

Anyway, it was busy, which I believe I’ve mentioned, and if I DID pee all day, I don’t recall it, and the whole point of this story is it was 5:30 and I was getting ready to leave. I was at my car, in fact, with plans to go to the grocery store before going home. I  realized I needed to pee; went back in to do so.

It was then, finally, after a whole day of stressing, and knowing what happens to me when I’m stressing, that I looked in the mirror and

MOTHER

OF

GOD.

My hair.

My hair was insane. And no. I did not photograph it.

When you have ludicrous hair like mine, the latest thing is to use sulfate-free products, and to shampoo with conditioner (yes, it still has some cleansing agents), and so on. But every once in awhile you have to use a clarifying shampoo, because eventually your hair just gets kind of Rosie the Robot doing her impression of Miss Judy. The-Jetsons-and-Rosie-the-Robot.jpgDoes anyone remember that impression? Where she’s beleaguered and bent over and exhausted? I can’t find it online.

Anyway, yesterday morning I clarified, because what with the extra product that I used for making my Frida costume believable and so on, my hair was looking distinctly sad and hangdog.

And then when I was done clarifying, I realized, oh. I’m pretty much out of gel, the good gel, the sulfate-and-alcohol-free good gel, so I used this kind I hate. All that plus work stress, and my 5:30

MOTHER

OF

GOD

with my hair. It wasn’t just big. It was big and frizzy. It was big and frizzy and was seriously lacking in, you know, any shape. When I stress, my hair stresses with me. Always has.

This art guy was still in his office when I left the bathroom. “All day I’ve been looking like this, and no one said anything about my, you know, hair looking like this.”

The art guy looked at my hair awhile. “They were being kind, I guess,” he surmised.

Last night I bought the good gel, and even tried to come home and wet it and USE said good gel, but I couldn’t even get my hands through my… angry bush, there. If you’ll forgive the disgusting imagery.

IMG_E1537.JPG
neeeedee commitee, um, sit heer. away from harr.

So that is why today, even though I don’t usually GET my hair wet two days in a row, I just got in the shower and began anew.

IMG_1541.jpg
After all, tomorrow is another hair day.

Wish me luck.

Aging ungracefully · Busy busy busy busy. Thank heavens for Angie's List. · Neighbors of June · Proofreading/Copy editing

The one where June misses Halloween

For years, we’ve been doing this project at work that is what you might call detailed.

If you’re a proofreader or a copy editor, all three of you, it has everything that takes time. Names you need to check? Yes. Numbers? Yes. Details that’re listed in several places and they all must match? Yes. Fact-checking up the ying? Oui.

Is it really important, so you can’t mess up? Yes, yes, yes.

I hadn’t worked on this thing in years, but last month I did, and found all sorts of errors that would excite only another copy editor (a word was lowercase in a few places, then capped in a few others, then…ready, three copy editors?…BACK TO CAPS AGAIN!) and I was extremely in love with self. This is the shit that gives us life.

So, I found all these errors, and was excited, then I got the thing again at blueline and found an extra word (“to”) in a paragraph.

What’s a blueline, June? This is riveting, we promise.

It’s the final, final version of something before it goes to print. And lots of what we do at work anymore doesn’t even GET printed, but print is scary. You screw up with print, that mistake is there forever. Or worse, that mistake means you have to reprint, and that’s never good.

The point is, because this thing is so huge and detailed and so on, I worked with the manager of the project and we worked out a schedule to determine when I’d read this thing, and when I’d again reread it, because detailed.

That schedule started yesterday. I’d had it on my calendar for weeks: Big project starts today. I was supposed to take all day yesterday and all day today on it.

Then next weekend I take it home and read it again.

When I got to work yesterday, it wasn’t ready yet, as everyone working on it is on business trips. They’re working on it from said trips, so it’d be with me any second.

“Hey, June, here’s another project. Can you work on this today?”

Well.

The thing is, I was just sitting there waiting, unsure of when it’d get to me. So I hemmed and I hawed, and I finally took the project, which turned out to be (wait for it) a lot of stuff, and detailed, and so on.

Naturally, the second I began, I got an email. “You can start that other big project now!”

Yeah.

Then I got two other emails from two other accounts I work on. “Here’s some work. Can we also discuss it in detail?”

And, “Here’s a project. Can you not just edit it, but write this and this? Here’s what I was thinking and what I want and…”

I had to write both those poor folks back and say, I can’t even read this whole email right now.

So I worked. And worked. I hadn’t put on my Frida costume yet, because everything that could have gone wrong yesterday morning DID go wrong, including THE CITY SHUTTING DOWN MY FREEWAY EXIT to get to work, so the plan was I’d get dressed at lunch.

Naturally I worked through lunch, then when I did get away, I had to run errands, so okay. I wouldn’t dress up.

“The costume contest is starting on the dock,” I heard the front desk announce, at 2:00. For the first time in my seven Halloweens there, I did not watch the contest, much less participate, as I had planned. I don’t even know what people dressed up as.

At 4:00, kids were coming for candy, so around 3:00 I just took my computer and went home, so I could work in peace. I was that curmudgeon.

Kit was supposed to come over last night, help me hand out the candies, and I had to cancel on her.

And by the way, just like my morning, everything that COULD go wrong with me getting the work and doing the work, did go wrong.

And truth be told, by 6:00, I was done. I could not make myself think any more. I’d been thinking so intensely. So I shut off the computer and lay blankly for awhile, till

“Trick or treat!

“Wooo! WOO WOO WOOO WO!” snarled Eds.

If Edsel were a normal dog, we could do things like I could dress up as Little Red Riding Hood (Medium-to-Large, Depending, Red Riding Hood) and he could dress as the big, bad wolf. He could sit next to me nicely, with his gummy fangs or whatever, and everyone who came to trick or treat could say “Oh, there’s that cute dog that we pet on his walks” and so on.

IMG_1512.jpg
would like salty dog, or maybe banana dakkeri.

Instead, Edsel dressed as banished-to-the-back-room guy.

IMG_1513.JPG
wate. dis not jist for blawg? eds really back heer?

I did not photograph trick or treaters, even though you want me to be the weird woman who photographs every fucking thing, because how, exactly, was I going to ask, “Can I photograph your children and put them online?”

The best parts were the one kid who said, “Oh, please, not a Snickers.” I gave that child coal I had left over from my own Christmas stocking.

And then this very small person just started barreling in. “You have a doggie!” she said, and my reputation precedes me. “Yes, I–”

“I want to see the doggie!” Her parents were all Ebony, don’t go in that lady’s house. Ebony didn’t give a shit. She wanted to see the doggie.

IMG_1511.jpg
let chyld see doggie. it totlee safe.

And finally, I saw Ava’s family. Of course, I recognized Jane right away, with her June hair and her attitude. In years past, she’s been Katniss or whoever that is, and other popular costumes of the day, and I’m all, Why aren’t you dressed in a pumpkin head or a plastic mask from the grocery store the way I would have been at your age?

2af763176ff8df959c4b6414b5c12089.jpg

But this year, she was just barely dressed as anything, and was taking a smaller child around, so I guess she’s aging out of this process. Jane is, I’d estimate, between seven and 19 years old.

Her brother I met way, way back, when I just had Tallulah. He’s the kid I ran into on a walk once, when Talu had been rolling in the blackberries or boysenberries or whatever the fuck grows in my yard that she used to roll in and get purple spots.

“I wish I had a yellow and blue dog,” I remember him saying. He asked about Lu’s breed for awhile, and told me about his dog. “What kind of dog is he?” I asked. I hadn’t met his dog yet, who in fact is an enormous, calm, steel-gray 100% pit who is Ava’s best friend.

“Oh, he’s a pet bull and a beagle,” that kid said at the time. And that is when I knew he was full of the shit.

The point is, a group of teenaged boys came to the door, boys who really should not even be trying to trick or treat, and he had cool hair, but I didn’t register that was old pet-bull-and-a-beagle, there.

“Ava’s gotten really big,” he said to me, and right then I knew. Oh, it’s that kid!

He’s somewhere between 11 and 32.

So, in reality, I guess I had the kind of Halloween most adults have who don’t work at a creative agency. I mean, I worked all day and handed out candy at night and The End. BUT I’M USED TO COSTUMES AND PARTIES AT WORK.

I gotta go. I’m slap in the middle of that project, and when you think of June today, and you will, think of me bent unergonomically over details. Deets. June checks the deets.

I know that seems scary in general, but when it comes to copy editing, I am stellar at the deets. Copy editing and stalking boyfriends: June is the deets master at those.

Okay, boo.

IMG_1509.jpg
edz can come out nows?

You’re so already out, Eds.

Luff,

Joooon