June's stupid life

Should auld acquaintance be annoying

Does my new computer make me look fat?Computers. Now with Kleenex! What cold?

I like how there’s a Kleenex on one of my computers. You know I hate to mention it, but I have a cold.

Anyway, you can’t tell if my new Mac makes me look fat yet because you will be stunned to hear I’m having trouble migrating my old computer’s information onto my new computer. Several hours with AppleCare have occurred. Several swears have similarly occurred.

In fact, I put off opening my new computer because I knew it was going to put me in a foul mood, and here I am, in a foul mood.

So here I sit, on the last day of the year, in my drafty computer room looking out at the bare trees, talking into my phone like a crazy person.

I guess people have talked into their phones for years and it’s not so crazy, but I am, in fact, talking to no one. That is the crazy part. The part where I’m speaking into a void.

I really wanted to make an updated end-of-the-year video for you, because even though I said in early December, “What could really happen to me this last month?” I did, in fact, have some interesting things happen. My visit to TinyTown. My foster kitten.

But now my computers are migrating, and picking up work while they can, picking grapes and so on, and I can’t make you a new end-of-the-year video. So I will sit here and speak into your void.

Yesterday, I put Jodie Foster in her little cat carrier, and took her away from the home she has known for two weeks–with cats she adores and a dog she loved to pick on–and back to the shelter.

She was healthy enough and big enough to be adopted. It was really difficult to do, seeing how well she got on with everyone here, and the thought of her shivering in the shelter, scared and confused, was like to kill me.

o fux

But that was the deal I made, and I know I did her some good letting her stay with me.

Yesterday at 5 PM, I couldn’t stand it anymore and I called the shelter.

“Yes,” (because you know I always have to start those phone calls with “yes”), “I fostered a little kitten named Lilly Lu?” (That was her name at the shelter. Lilly Lu. Are you dying?) “And I dropped her back off this morning for adoption. Did anyone happen to adopt her today?”

The worker looked through her papers. She asked me some questions. “The little orange one?” More papers. Oh my god, lady. My heart was racing.

“…Oh, yes, ma’am, she sure did get adopted today.”

OH

THANK

GOD.

I knew it was looking good for her yesterday. While I was waiting for the foster lady to come out, I walked around the shelter and looked at the other cats, and there were barely any left. When I took the kitten to get her booster shot a couple days before Christmas, it was like Calcutta in that shelter. There were people everywhere.

And of course, now I feel sorry for the couple of loser adult cats who didn’t get adopted by anyone for Christmas. But I’m trying to put them out of my mind.

You have no idea how relieved I feel. Jody Foster did not have to even spend one more night in the shelter. She got swooped up.Of coarse she do

After taking that kitten to the shelter, I may or may not have stopped off for a pork chop biscuit that I couldn’t even taste, so basically all of the calories, none of the flavor, and then I bought a new pair of glasses.

I bought my last pair in 2015, and my prescription has changed twice since then. Plus, I don’t know, I was just in the mood. I’ll show them to you when they get in, but the point is, as soon as I got home I found these online and wanted to kill myself.

Yes, those are little diamonds. Well, not real diamonds, but you know what I mean.

doooeng mom impresh

After all that, I felt pretty punky. Is punky even a word? I didn’t feel well. So I came back home and sat with my Kleenex and convalesced.

It has dawned on me this week while I have been sick, and I know I’ve hardly mentioned my sickness, that when I feel like this all I really want is my grandmother. The nice one. Not the one I’m turning into.

I want to be in her very warm, old lady house with the cuckoo clock ticking and the theme song for Days of our Lives in the background.

I want her to bring me orange juice and for her to call me “grandma’s baby.”

That’s all I really want. If I could ever find someone who would dote on me and act so tragic about me having a common cold, then I’ll know I’ve met the person for me.

I thought about that yesterday, and I thought about my kitten. When I was a little kid and had a cold and went to grandma’s and she doted on me, I’m sure at the time all I thought about was that I had a damn cold and felt miserable.

And two weeks ago, when I went to the shelter to foster a kitten, my idea was that she would be this little thing in the back rooms, and that I would go in there and spend time with her. I had no idea she would become such an integral part of all the lives of all the creatures who live here. Including the ear mites.

My point is, when we’re making memories we’re never aware of it. I will go my whole life wanting my grandmother to be back, putting her hand on my forehead and exclaiming how I’m burning up.

And every once in awhile I’ll say, “Remember that time I fostered a kitten for two weeks? And she was so wonderful?”

But we never know what things will turn out to be wonderful memories. We plan a fabulous vacation, and then we get there and it rains every day and we never really remember that vacation. But we go out the door one day just to run errands, and something magical happens that we remember that day forever.

I guess what I’m saying is, I hope 2018 brings you a lot of memories that you don’t even know you’re going to have while you’re sitting here today, with the cold wind and the bare branches around you.

I hope that next year at this time, you look back on the year that was and say, “Wow. There are a lot of good memories from 2018.”

Because even a sick day with bare branches can turn out to be memorable.

See you next year. HAHAHAHAHAHA.

June

Today’s lipstick. It’s something-Punch. I know I look marvelous. What illness?

Aging ungracefully · Busy busy busy busy. Thank heavens for Angie's List. · Health · I like cats

For Dramatic Effect

What are we on? Like, day 193 of this cold? That’s my estimate.

Yesterday at work, I minced over to one of the seven people who are actually working this week, and announced, “I have a cold.” I may’ve even brought m’Kleenex box over, for dramatic effect. Which should be the title of my book: For Dramatic Effect.

“I guess I do too,” said my coworker, his Kleenex box off in the distance.

He guesses. He guesses he does too. Oh, stop being so low key.

Before we get onto other topics, like delving further into my cold, and by the way, you need to get home and get some rest. There’s no point pacing the halls worrying about me. I’ll need your strength when I regain consciousness.

Anyway, before we create a poll titled, How sorry do you feel for June, let’s look at today’s lipstick.

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Say, June, we’ve enjoyed that blemish as much as a human can.

Today’s OFFICIAL color is Whoppin’ Watermelon, and I had to get THIS CLOSE to even show that I HAD a color on. I’m like that guy at work. I guess I have lipstick on.

IMG_3326.JPGSo, because that was so boring, we stampeded to Pudgy Peony, and also Edsel’s undying love for me. I think he senses the end is near for me.

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to putt kitteee DOWN, pudgeee peee oh nee.

I don’t want you to get excited or anything, but tomorrow is Plushest Punch. If I live that long.

IMG_3314.JPGI saw this yesterday at the gas station, and I was all, Really? Cause I’m doubting that.

Also happening tomorrow, besides my continued silent suffering with this cold and Plushest Punch, is The Return of the Foster Kitten. She will be done with her antibiotics tomorrow, and when I take her back, on a Saturday morning, she will be the only kitten currently available.

This bodes well for her future.

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Taken right this second.

IMG_3334.JPGIMG_3338.JPGSay, June, is it gonna kill you to take her to a shelter and drive away? Why, yes. Yes, it do be.

Also, she photographs big. In all pictures, she looks almost like a catten, when in fact she’s just a teensy boop. Half the time I don’t know where she is, she’s so teensy.

So that should be devoid of tears, anyway, and I’m sure I’ll handle it as stoically as I do all colds.

Today is the last day before the New Year’s holiday, so I hope we get out early, because I feel magnificent. Ironically, I was invited to a happy hour, after all that fuss last week, and I’m too sick to go. Ned once told me I want to be asked to do things just so I can say no: Attend parties, happy hours, sex. Whatever with Ned.

The point of all this is two things: One: My new computer, which I can ill afford, is on its way to work today. I’m glad I had it sent there because someone on Next Door has one of those paranoid cameras on her front porch, and she shared video of some kid stealing her package, so to speak.

So I have all weekend to figure out how to transfer all my shit from one computer to another, and it’s good Jodie Foster is leaving, because no child needs to hear that many swears.

The other point is, yesterday I was sitting there with the seven other people who came to work, and I was all, “This is the seventh Christmas I’ve worked. There is only one copy editor who’s worked here longer than me. (The first is The Poet, who has worked there since 18 aught 9.) I’M SICK, and I have FIVE vacation days I did not take this year.

“WHY THE FUCK AM I AT WORK?”

So you know what I did? I went into our little system and requested December 26, 27 and 28 off for 2018.

BOOM.

IMG_E3322.JPGBefore I go, two things. Didn’t we just do a “two things”? Faithful Reader Deborah, look what’s on my table!

And deux, you know I adore my banner picture at the top of this not-a-blog. I love it so hard. But I thought for New Year’s, I’d throw in a different, seasonal shot. There were SO MANY I couldn’t choose! I thought I’d share them with the crowd. Also, can someone bring me more coffee? Jodie Foster is purring on my lap and I feel bad moving her.

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She’s been my little orange companion

Okay, here are the photos I loved. And I realize I’m the only freak who loves looking at old photos of people she doesn’t know, so you can probably just close your laptop now and check back tomorrow.

32e19e31fe29556f12626e94d51d5e83--happy-new-year-pictures-photos-vintage

Oh my god, right? In all my friendships, I’m Pudgy Peony, up there.

d025e8c5f0550ddf85c770b4cbc6d64f--happy-new-years-eve-happy-new-year-everyone.jpgAnd although I know this, I still secretly see myself looking like this every New Year’s Eve. Blowing into a flashlight.

bc7441ad4ac5f4cc4d5ef3fb84dc2d05--new-years-eve-basementsOh my god, take me to this party. I’ll give my cold to everyone. That woman on the right is looking at old pictures of people she doesn’t know.

Celebrating New Year's Eve

Our problem is, we don’t get drunk enough anymore. My father once told me about a party he went to with younger people, and they kept turning DOWN the music. That’s when he knew. This next generation is zero fun.

991ec58db7ed638ffe700bc15fa57869--vintage-ladies-vintage-stuff.jpgOh, THERE’S my soulmate. Also, LEOPARD PUMPS.

a78da0df05ace7bd7cf5ac421d4aba01--new-years-eve-happy-new-year.jpgOkay. That’s it. My life is FUCKING COMPLETE. The last two pictures are my perfect How I see Myself/How I Actually Am, including the cankles.

I’d better get to work, as it is important that I martyr as much as possible before the year is through. I figured it out, and I made 28% more money this year, due to the freelancing.

DAMN, Daniel.

I also had like zero free evenings, so. I had zero free evenings to learn phrases other than the tired Damn, Daniel.

I gotta go. Talk to you tomorrow, after I drop off Jodie Foster. Someone zip over to the animal shelter here and get her.

Coldly,

Juan

Friends · Health

Sufferin’ Juneotash

I hate to burst in and destroy your 2018, like Godzilla stomping through your city, but I have a cold.

My throat hurts, I’m all achy, my ears have that thing where they itch way on the inside and you can’t scratch them cause it’s really your brain that itches or whatever.

IMG_3289.JPGIMG_3291.JPGYou’d think my cats would be holding an eternal vigil, but they are not.

You know, sitting here, the floor and the washer don’t LOOK dirty, but I take a photo and I’m all, wow, that washer needs to be, like, wiped down or whatever.

Plus, there’s a spot on that linoleum that’s just forever stained. See it, the second blue square in from Jodie Foster? It’s just permanently sort of brown. I blame Lottie.

Good lord, this house has hosted the animals.

IMG_3265.jpgAnyway, despite my raging cold, I schlepped into work yesterday and the first person I saw was the mailroom guy. “Oh, I have a package for you,” he said, and handed me a box. It’s this great clock from a faithful reader! Isn’t it magnificent?! It was on my wish list, my Amazon Wish List. Oooo, I should link to Amazon.

“I want a clock just like Hune’s! If I click on this green clock, I can be on Amazon and buy just anything, and Hune gets rich! Maybe if she gets rich enough, she’ll stop saying ‘Hune.'”

Do you know anyone worse at remembering she’s an Amazon Associate? Anyone?

Bueller? You know what that is? ‘Nother link.

Oh my god anyway, I love my clock, and I put it in the living room because I never ever know what time it is in there, like it’s Las Vegas.

Then at night, despite my killing-me throat and my general aches and pains of having a major cold, I —

Just now, Lily, whom I’ve already let out and back in again today, asked to go out again. I opened the main door, then stood at the screen while Lily pondered the meaning of going outside, and considered if she really meant it and so forth, when

BOOM

Steely Dan burst past us, got on his hind legs and pushed the door open, and ran out, all in one smooth gesture.

Lily kind of waddled after him.

Anyway, because trouper, last night I drove to this restaurant I’d never been to to get up with Kit and Jo. Ko.

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Kit
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Jo
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Me. I never let on I wasn’t feeling well.

On the way there, my friend Beige called me. Her name isn’t actually Beige, but I’ve always called her that and that’s how she’s in my phone. “I’m right near this restaurant, but I can’t find it,” I told her. “I’ll call you later.”

As soon as I sat down, Faithful Reader Happy texted me with a video of that white cat she has, that Ned might like. Then after the video she sent two more texts. “Boop!” said my phone, then “boop!” followed by “boop!”

“At dinner, talk later,” I wrote hurriedly, as gifts were exchanged among us. Jo is a real gifty type.

IMG_3282.jpg
heeeeee

Then my father called.

Then Miss Doxie texted.

Then Fay texted.

Not to mention my blog comments were blowing up last night.

Then TinaDoris answered my earlier text about how I was feeling ill and wasn’t going to Pure Barrrrre Thursday morning. She texted three times.

Then Ned called.

Then I got the World’s Longest Email from a new reader, which, Dear New Reader: I haven’t read yet.

Then I SWEAR TO YOU, someone I went to school with in fourth grade wrote me to say she had an old photo of us, and where should she send it.

Seriously, that all happened within the first 30 minutes I was there. It was like all of a sudden everyone I’d ever known wanted to speak with me between 7 and 8 p.m. on a Wednesday. I like how I said “30 minutes” then “7 and 8.” Maths.

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Old photo my classmate sent me.

Okay, this is the greatest thing ever. The “R” is for “Redeemer.” There’s religious June, gettin’ her Redeemer on. (I went to a Lutheran elementary school. Yes, I did.)

I am the top girl (I sure am) on the right, in the pigtails. I was able to name everyone else in this photo except I can’t remember the girl in the middle’s first name. Doreece? Dorrena? I know her last name was Hopeck. Her mom was our Brownie leader. Her name was…Mrs. Hopeck. You’re welcome.

Hell. Or, Redeemer. I wish I could recall that girl’s name.

Anyway, after my Hour of Popularity, and after Ko and I discussed everything from talking dirty to Dick Whitman’s mom–fortunately we did not combine those subjects–it was time for me to go. Jit, over there, the Kit and Jo combo, were gonna move on to a bar, but I was in need of an IV drip, so ill was I, and plus also it was 9:30 already, so.

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“Orange you glad our mom izzn’t a puzzy?” “Orange you thinkeeng maybe she DO be a puzzy?”

As I drove home, I told my phone to call Beige back.

“Calling Beee-aaage,” said my phone, who can’t speak fucking English. If you’re gonna be in this country, man. English is our language, man. (I love people.)

My phone also tells me to take the exit toward the airport sometimes? But it pronounces it “Peedmont Inter-na-seeeee-on-all.” Kills me every time. Why doesn’t it know “international”?

I realize it’s, like, miraculous that I can take my phone with me and not have to drag the cord onto the stairway like I did circa 1982. I realize that the fact that my phone can TALK to me and CALL PEOPLE FOR ME is also, you know, exciting.

Still. Get it right. Beeee-age. Pfft.

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She’s so sweet WHEN SHE’S UNCONSCIOUS

Actually, while I’m thinking of it, you know that cool photo my old schoolmate wanted to send me? She’s not the first person to email me via the “Contact me” feature on my blog to wonder how to get in contact with me, so let me just say now that the contact me feature is just an email address, so anything you want to email me, that’s where to do it.

I think if you’re gonna attach a photo, you might have to write me once, then I write back, and THEN it becomes just a regular email between us and you can attach a photo.

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o edzul god. shut upz, mom.

I’d better go back to work and martyr through my day. Probably I should be certain to bring a giant box of Kleenex to really drive the point home. Perhaps I could even arrive in slippers, for added effect.

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Portrait of a cold sufferer

Here is our Clinique Chubby Stick of the day in Plumped-Up Pink. This will look good when I’m in my casket.

Stoically,

Joon

I hate everything

Just a reminder

I just logged onto Facebook for literally one minute, saw I had SEVENTEEN PERSONAL MESSAGES ON MESSENGER and deactivated again.

I keep saying this, and I’ll say it again. PLEASE don’t message me there. A crazy person left me some messages there in October and November, and they really bothered me.

Please don’t give me advice re that. I already blocked her. She came back with another account. I deleted Messenger. It still tells me I have messages, I just can’t SEE them, which is just as scary, thinking one is hovering there to re-traumatize me.

The best I can do is deactivate my account until seeing I have messages on Facebook doesn’t make me shake and sweat and get nauseated.

So, I’ve said it on Facebook of June. I’ve said it here. I’ve also said it in general posts on Facebook. But ONCE AGAIN, please don’t message me there. Email me here. Leave a comment. Text me if you know me in real life.

(And that goes for messaging me on Instagram too. Unlike everyone else, I use my real name there, which, why doesn’t everyone? Cause if your handle on Instagram is Boop-a-Loop, and I come across your photo of your dinner, how the FUCK am I supposed to know whose dinner this is? “Oh, look what Boop-a-Loop made! Gosh darn her! Whoever the FUCK she is.”)

(Anyway, since I use my name, my fear is, since she was crafty enough to create all new profiles on Facebook in order to contact me, wouldn’t she also consider searching for me on Instagram? So I get my PTSD when I have an Instagram message, too.)

THANKS!

Shakily,

Jooon, aka Boop-a-Loop

Aging ungracefully · Chicken · Family · Friends

Oh, did sleigh bells ring? I had my ringer off.

Welp. Christmas. We got through it, and now my throat hurts, so the one holiday I can kind of get behind, New Year’s, will be rooooooooned.

Do you know people who pronounce ruined like that? “Rooooooned.” I think Marvin did. The memory is starting to escape me, like Kate Winslet and Jim Carey on the ice that cracks in two during Eternal Sunshine.

IMG_3114.JPGAnyway, Christmas. I let myself open one gift on Xmas Eve, and the fine people of Summer’s Eve ought to consider making special, like, pine and berry feminine products for Christmas, call it Christmas’s Eve.

I’m an idea woman.

The gift, and you can tell already we’re in for a long haul today, was two of my vintage romance magazines from Faithful Reader Paula, who knows what I like. This time they were Christmas themed, like m’douche.

If you didn’t tune in to my last post, I spent Christmas, you know, Eve at my coworker Austin’s, and I got his family a game–it’s just Concentration, but with Eames furniture and designs instead of shitty flowers that you come across on a …summer’s eve.

Oh, June, remove the nozzle and continue.

IMG_3262.JPGThe point is, they sent me this photo. “We’re playing the game you got us, but because we know how you hate this holiday, we’re playing it joylessly.”

I flow into everyone, leaving you refreshed and bitter.

See what I did, there? More feminine humor. MERRY CHRISTMAS!

June, it’s not even Christmas morning yet.

IMG_E3138.jpg
krismuffph

Christmas morning arrived (oh thank GOD) and that damn kitten was a pain in my ass. Before it was even dawn, she started pounce pounce pouncing on the bed, and whose idea was it to foster a goddamn kitten? Finally, after like TWO HOURS of just drifting off again only to POUNCE awake, I threw her into the hall, stuffed a quilt under the door so she couldn’t just slither under the door like she does, and WAS JUST DRIFTING OFF AGAIN when

RING!

I knew that ring. Do you ever do that? You know who it is even though it isn’t a special ringtone? You know that ring? It was my mother, of the Obsessed with Christmas mothers, AND I KNEW IT.

“Ima Jon-Benet Ramsey your ass,” I said, Christmas cheerily.

My mother made me stay on the phone with her while I opened my gifts, so I couldn’t photograph my every item like I usually do, and I CAN HEAR YOUR FAKE “I’m so disappointed” groans, all of you, and shut up.

IMG_E3143.jpgIMG_3141.jpgIMG_3140.jpgBut you must trust me. Chaos ensued. It was like having real children there. And do you like my method? I used the laundry basket to hold all the wrapping paper and other stuff that could be recycled. At the end of the festivities (“festivities”), I just dumped the laundry basket in the recycle bin outside.

Home Hacks from Hune. Maybe I should change my name to Hune and start a whole homemaking blog. Hone Your Home With Hune.

I had cat litter on the lapel of my robe this morning. So I think it’s a given that you all want my home hacks.

IMG_E3161.JPGI believe I said to you all the other day that this back room where I write is a cold room, much like my heart at Xmas, and that I really needed socks. So I went on Amazon, through my own link, and got me three or four pair of fuzzy, slouchy socks.

IMG_3156.JPGThen guess what everyone sent me for Christmas.

IMG_E3163.JPG(This seems as good a time as any to remind people that sentences that start with “Guess what” or “I wonder” do NOT NEED A QUESTION MARK AT THE END. They are STATEMENTS. A statement is a declarative sentence, such as, “Hune has a stick up her ass.”)

IMG_3165.jpgAnyway, I got up yesterday and walked around with cold feet and didn’t marry anyone, till I remembered, “Hey, Hune’s got socks comin’ out her …hass!” So I got me some socks on. I rocked out with my socks out.

IMG_E3167.JPGIt wouldn’t be the most…wonderful time of the year without me putting a ribbon or bow on a pet, and this would be an excellent time for me to offer a retrospective of all the years of pets with bows, but I have to get to work, needy.

IMG_3169.JPGIMG_E3168.JPGThe point is, this year Edsel got Hune’s Holiday Humiliation, Now With Claws!

As I pen this, Steely Dan and Jodie Foster have been stampeding around the house as they do, and just now I heard the broom in the laundry room topple over, followed by two very different-sized, ears-back cats dashing out of there.

I wonder what happened. See? That was a statement. You do not need to write, “I wonder what happened?” It’s not a question. You are wondering what happened.

Do you know what I’ve noticed? When people who aren’t, you know, English teachers or editors ponder sentence structure, they say the weirdest stuff, as if they know a rule, a grammar rule, that in fact isn’t anything at all.

“Well, but it’s stating a question, and it’s emphasizing the…”

WHAT?

Grammar isn’t that hard. Punctuation isn’t that hard. And spelling? You can look that up, you know. M-W dot com. I’m on there about 400 times a day.

I know you want to say “object of the preposition” and sound brilliant, but you don’t need to. There are a few really simple rules, and a lot of them are going away, which is what happens with language. If we didn’t let it flow, we’d all still be speaking Olde Englishe. See what I did, there? We’d all be talking like Chaucer.

Anyway, it’s easier than you’re making it, is my point. And what you learned in third grade, there, Menopause, is not a hard-and-fast rule that is still definitely right.

June. It’s like not NOON yet on December 25. We have to get to work.

IMG_E3180.JPGMy favorite gift was one I picked out myself but forgot I picked out. My mother and I saw this at that little boutique we went to the day after Thanksgiving, but then we ran into my cousin Katie and my Aunt Kathy, who once again is not that woman drinking at the top of my blog, and anyway I was so excited that I

CLEAN

FORGOT

I wanted that mailbox. Am small child.

IMG_3181.JPGAnyway, after I opened my gifts, I went outside and screwed a mailbox.

Here is the next Clinique color in our Chune Checks out Chubby Sticks Even on Christmas project…

IMG_3194.jpgIt’s some kind of way-too-orange color, which I cannot find in the bowels of my purse to tell you what the color is called, but I think we can all agree it’s not a keeper for anyone, unless you are Doris Day.

You’ll note, however, that I’m in the car, here, and that is because I was headed to Chris and Lilly’s to have dinner with them, because they felt sorry for Old Lady June having–

Geeez. Steely Dan is kicking that kitten’s ASS right now, and they break it up too fast for me to take a photo, but just now he was grabbing her whole kitten body and she was saying,

“MEWWWWWWWWW.”

Do not worry about that kitten. For she is an asshole, and also they are deeply in love, and yes, I do already feel bad for him when she goes and no I am not keeping her.

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Anyway.

IMG_3198.jpgChris cooked for us, cause it’s his thing, and it was all DELICIOUS. They roasted a chicken, and by “they” I mean Chris. There were vegetables, and he even cooks those so they’re delicious. And also, red velvet cake, a thing that obsessed Z, who I think was totally in it just for cake.

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Did you hear there’s red cake, Miss Hune?

At dinner, we discussed our favorite Christmas gift, ever.

For Chris, it was his Easy Bake Oven, which kills me. But really, I had one, too, and they were cool as shit.

For me, for some reason my little greenhouse stands out. It was see-through, shaped just like a greenhouse, and divided into three. It came with seeds, and little tools, and you could watch your seeds’ roots and sprouts and it turned me into the plant expert I am today.

Really, I’m not good at anything, am I?

Then it was Lilly’s turn.

“Well,” she hemmed. “I guess it has to be, um, when I, um, got a pony.”

Chris and I exchanged a glance.

Lilly went on to tell us how her parents did the whole Presentation of the Pony on Christmas morning, and no, it wasn’t sleeping under the tree, which is what I immediately envisioned, but there it was, in the barn, with a banner announcing it was Lilly’s.

“So, yeah, I was that girl. The girl who got a pony, for real, on Christmas.”

And that is when I helped Chris gather a few of his things, and we took the kids and left Lilly there at the table. Forever.

A pony for Christmas.

IMG_3197.jpgAfter dinner and resentment, we headed over to the barn to feed the horses, which you can imagine did not delight me in the slightest. Also there: BARN KITTIES!

I took them all home. I probably should have lead with the fact that two horses live here now. Hey, maybe THEY knocked over the broom.

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I LOVE YOU HORSIE
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I LOVE YOU KITTIES

While Lilly busied herself with horse things, her son G decided the cats did not have enough food. So…

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What, is Lily the cat on her way to dinner?

IMG_3215.jpgWe also visited the chickens, and that was the day June was complete.

IMG_3217.jpgAfter, we made a bonfire, and I’m happy to tell you I got a shot of my jowls by the fire. Hune’s howls.

IMG_3219.jpgHave a holly jowly Christmas. We need to take up a collection to fix that shit, y’all. Go. Fund me.

IMG_3221.jpgFor no reason whatsoever other than she is a poor judge of character, Z is a Fan o’June. She is a Junello.

IMG_E3230.jpgAnyway, that sums up Christmas, and what annoys me is Z said about 109 funny things that I was going to repeat to you and I forgot them all like I did my mailbox. Everything just sieves out my brain now, and oh!

At one point this week, I was on the phone to my mother and reported to her that I was streaming Long Island Medium, because that is a really good show and you are wrong. IT IS.

The point is, at the end of the conversation, she said, “Okay, then, go back to watching Long Island Madame.” So that’s where I get it.

Also, THAT would be a really good show.

And that is today’s log for yule.

XO,

Hune

 

 

Beauty products · Friends · In the kitchen with June · June's stupid life

Because Prosecco

IMG_E3062.JPGHey, June, why so destined for hell?

So Christmastime is here, as the Peanuts would say high-pitchedly, and here’s what I’ve done thus far…

Yesterday, I got this urge to clean the house. I don’t know why. Maybe I’m pregnant and nesting or something miraculous like that. Maybe I’m about to give birth in a manger. The point is, I laundered and dusted and cleaned all fekking afternoon, and there I was, mopping myself into a corner, as I do, when the doorbell rang.

“WOO WOO WOO WOOOO WOOF!” said Edsel, who really has a limited vocabulary.

I literally had no way to get to the door without screwing up the mopping. “Who is it?” I shouted, the way Laverne and Shirley used to while they held their baseball bats.

“It’s Happy,” said Happy, who is a faithful reader and who somehow knows where I live, I forget how. I wish now that’d I’d thought to eat her, as then I could tell you she was my Happy Meal.

“Hang on!” I said, then mince mince minced over the chair and the still-drying floors to the door, which to tell you the truth now that they’re dry don’t really look any different. My wood floors don’t really shine anymore, and hey, Stepford Wife. Nice concerns.

IMG_3074.JPGThe point is, Happy feeds and takes in feral cats, and this one is living in her laundry room at the moment, and she wondered if Ned would want this cat, who looks like NedKitty if NedKitty had dipped her tail in ink.

I SO THINK HE SHOULD. And certainly this personal decision should be mine and not his. Anyway I texted the photo and he hasn’t said either way, which will stun everyone who knows Ned and his lightning-fast decisions.

IMG_E3076.JPGHappy also gave me this jaguar of color, because it reminded her of Steely Dan, and lemme tell you what. Every time I see that thing out the corner of my eye, I think it’s Steely Dan.

IMG_3136.jpgAnd the reason I keep seeing it out the corner of my eye is Dear Happy: I am sorry to tell you that Edsel is obsessed with Jaguar of Color. Obsessed. Like, he slept with it last night. Obsessed. I think you got Edsel a gift, after all.

IMG_3071.jpgAnyway, as the day drew to a close, I left Dickus Americanus, up there, during the .0007 seconds she sleeps a day, and stampeded over to my coworker Austin’s house, as he invited me to a little gathering at his house. Yes, I realize I just told you my coworkers don’t like me, but he resides in the minority. He’s like someone who voted for McGovern or something.

IMG_3083.jpgNot wanting to break our record, I put on my next Chubby Stick color beforehand, in  Mighty Mimosa, which is dumb because mimosas are orange, but I do have to say I enjoy me a mimosa, because getting drunk at breakfast is the way to go.

IMG_3085.jpgI also wore my ridik coursage that Ned’s stepmother gave me years ago, a corsage I adore but that I can’t pin on right, so as soon as I got to Austin’s it fell off and I stuck everyone with m’wayward pins like they were all my voodoo dolls.

IMG_E3088.JPGI like Austin’s friends. This is the guy who also likes old pictures of people he doesn’t know. His wife and I got into a very deep discussion about Highlights Magazine, and she expressed her disdain for The Timbertoes (“I don’t know what they are, and I don’t know what their message is”) and right then I knew, I loved her with all my heart.

timbertoes

Because she’s right. Why are they wooden? Why are they 1800s-looking? WHO THE FUCK ARE THE TIMBERTOES AND WHAT DO THEY WANT WITH US?

“You only ever find Highlights Magazine at the doctor’s,” she pointed out. “And that one Bible Book, which I read once as a kid, not realizing the stories would all have morals,” she said. Then she went on to imitate for me the drawings inside that book, doing a fine imitation of everyone at the crucial moment when they readjust their moral compass, which apparently happens in every story.

Unknown

“Oh my god, that book is ALWAYS THERE at the doctor’s and I never once picked it up,” I said to her. “It’s like those strawberry candies, where the wrapper looks like a strawberry? I sort of know its there, but I also barely even acknowledge it exists.”

There was another woman at the party who, when I asked how she knew Austin and his wife, told me how she was new to town and desperate to make friends, so after a few perfunctory meetings with Austin’s wife, she one day chased after Austin’s wife’s car with a post card, which she eagerly slammed onto the window.

“It had every possible detail,” Austin’s wife told me. “Her shoe size, her kids’ ages, everything.”

At the end of the night, when I was leaving, that same woman came up to me. “I wanted to slam a post card at you but I don’t have any,” she said, and we exchanged numbers and kissed.

Austin’s party gets hot. The real housewives of Greensboro.

IMG_3096.jpgSpeaking of hot, Austin had a fire on his TV, despite actually having a, you know, fireplace. “This is better than a real fire,” said Austin. “It got 5 stars on Netflix.”

This lead us all to want to see a 1-star fire, which we figured would be one guy trying over and over to light wet wood, and eventually just tossing in and burning a Solo cup.

IMG_3102.jpgAustin’s dog continues to be perhaps unhealthily obsessed with Austin, although she did, oddly, give me the time of day, which is rare.

IMG_3099.jpg
fuk yuu, laydeee. you fekkin timber tow.

IMG_E3109.jpgI also took time out of my busy schedule to admire Austin’s kitchen wallpaper, as I always do, and I see the Prosecco had set in at this point, because nice focusing. Austin and I spent about 45 minutes discussing the use of typography on said wallpaper, and would we, as a designer and a copy editor, have been okay with those equals signs, and the cursive/all caps fiasco, and the fact that there is clearly an extra space before “drops,” till finally I announced, “We are the two most boring people in the world.”

IMG_3110.jpg
You really are, June.

This is another friend of Austin’s, who I threatened to put in my blog last night, but I forget why. Because Prosecco. He’s the husband of Post Card Wife.

Anyway, I see I have droned on about Xmas Eve for too long, kind of like my stay at the Prosecco table last night, and I don’t have time to describe Christmas and this has instead become all about Eve, and I would take credit for that joke but really The Poet made that one up, and damn her and her writing awards.

Hey, June, is ensuring good sentence structure part of your job? Because, job. Well done.

IMG_3185I’ll talk to you tomorrow, when I will describe my not-at-all-chaotic Christmas with a Kitten, volume 3949294. ‘Tis not my first Xmas with a kitten. Probably won’t be my last. That doesn’t mean it’s never a pain in the Prosecco, though.

Yule see me later.

June

June's stupid life

Have yourself a merry little…

People at work don’t like me.

I know I always joke about it, but people at work really don’t like me. Things have changed.

The teams and how we work, it’s all different, and the once-tight-knit group I was a part of either no longer work there or sit far away, and things have…changed. Which I already said, and hey, June, talk in circles. I wonder why you’re so very not loved.

It’s not my imagination. I’m talking about people are gathered, the hour before the holiday break, and I walk up and suddenly everyone’s phone is compelling and they walk away.

I’m talking weekly references to parties I wasn’t invited to, Instagram photos of happy hours I knew nothing about.

If I didn’t make an effort, I would go the whole day with no one talking to me about anything except, “Can you get this done right now?”

I’m not sure what I did, but at this point it doesn’t matter. Those are the facts, and I just have to muddle through it, keep my head down and do my work, which is why I’m actually there in the first place.

But here’s my problem: I built my social life around that place. When I moved here, I was a married person, and most of what I did was with Marvin. When he left, I started that job within the same month. So, for the last six years my social life was my work people and Ned, mostly.

Now there’s no Ned (although Ned still wants for there to be a Ned), and now suddenly I’m the workplace outcast. It’s probably because I’m older than everyone, or because I’ve been depressed since 2015, when there first was officially Not a Ned®. It’s probably a number of things, but what you can’t do is change anyone other than yourself.

If I knew what I’d done wrong, or even where to begin with who stopped liking me first, I’d ask. But it appears almost universal now, so I just work quietly and try to be pleasant.

Every year at Christmastime, I get blue. I hate this fucking holiday. If I could leave all of December and hang out in Tahiti, I would.

The good thing was, every year the Christmas stuff at work was pretty much the most celebrating I’d do, from the big work party to our team events. Those were fun. I was having fun with my friends.

When I was on the floor I worked on for five Christmases, right when it was time to leave for the holiday, I had a little tradition, just with myself.

I’d stand in the kitchen and look at the treats and the gifts (that’s another thing–just one person gave me a little gift this year. I saw little gifts on other desks, but not mine. And I thought of making little gifts myself, but didn’t want to hand one to someone who doesn’t like me) and give a small thanks to the universe for presenting me with such a great place to work during a time that I needed people. Every year, in the dimming light of the late-December afternoon, with everyone else bustling off to their families, I said thank you for making those people my family.

As I left yesterday without saying much to anyone, there was just one guy still working on my old floor. He’s married to another person at work, and I like them both very much, and they seem to still actually like me. They were the only two people to come to the happy hour I tried to have back in October.

“Merry Christmas,” I said to him as I left.

“I hope you’re going to have a good holiday,” he said, looking up from his work. “I remember how sad you were this past Valentine’s Day.”

I’d forgotten that. I’d forgotten how sad I felt, having zero Valentine for the second year in a row.

After work, I headed to the grocery store, and as I pulled up, I remembered that I’d spent 4th of July here this past year. I had nothing to do, and ended up watching the fireworks with the employees. We had a perfect view, with the vast sky looming over the parking lot.

It’s been a lonely fucking two years. Things are not going the way I thought they would. I thought by now I’d have met someone new. I thought I’d still be lucky enough to consider my coworkers family. I never in a million years thought I’d be alone at 52.

And I realize it must be my fault, some flaw in my character. Probably because my beauty and raw talent and animal sex appeal repel people. It’s probably m’boobs.

And maybe next year at this time, things will have turned around. But I thought that last year. And I thought it at Christmas of 2015. So maybe I’ll be exactly here again next year, and I have to find a way to be okay with that. I try to think about people who have it so much worse than me, people whose problems crush a lonely old lady’s.

If you’re one of them, if you’re one of the people whose Christmas is going to suck, one of the people whose life sucks right now, please know there is a person who is with you on that. Who’s muddling through this goddamn holiday, and this goddamn life, as best she can.

You are not alone.

Merry Christmas.

Aging ungracefully · Friends · I like cats · June's stupid life · My pets

Astro surf and turfing

I woke up at 2:53 a.m. today, with a migraine. I attribute this to having gotten up at 5:30 yesterday, to go to damn Purrrrre Barrrrre, and one wonders why I think I need to work out when I already look Like This.

Anyway, my sleep pattern was messed up, which is a migraine trigger, and whatever, I had one, hooo care.

I got out of bed and hunched over to the kitchen, and I feel the need to hunch when I’m not feeling well because my Aunt Kathy always does that when she’s not feeling well, which by the way is around 270 days a year. She’s a professional not-feeling-well-er.

IMG_2988.jpg
deer god. wat edzul eber do to deserbe.

The point is, I took my medication and hunched back to bed, where Edsel and Jodie Foster awaited me, and while I was trying to get back to sleep,

boop!

That damn kitten kept booping my face. boop! Oh my god, annoying.

No matter how many times I…gently placed her orange bitch-ass down the bed, and yes, I did want to hurl her with all my might, she kept coming back and

boop!

Here is why I’m insane. I kissed her little walnut head before immigrating with my pillow over to the spare bedroom. That damn kitten drove me out of my own bed, into the vast desert of the spare bedroom, and I still had to kiss her.

IMG_E2987.jpg
okay, she cute in theeeery, but not that irresist.

In the spare bedroom, Steely Dan was lounging across the pillows. Having spent most of my week with Two-Ounce Tillie, up there, all of a sudden his already-enormous self seems even enormous-er, and he also seems this solid paragon of dignity.

IMG_E2572.jpg
it troo. also, good pikktur, mom. wat dis be, mom blawg circa 2009?

I kissed his coconut head and settled in to sleep. When,

BOOP.

That asshole booped me in the face, with all 182 pounds of him.

HE’S NEVER BOOPED ME IN THE FACE EVER BEFORE.

“STEELY DAN,” I said, irritated with the world. He touched his wet cold nose to mine before curling up against me and falling asleep, where as soon as he was unconscious I injected him with lethal gasses.

IMG_E2992.JPG
and yet, heer steelee be

And I’m sorry all my stories are about cats lately. It’s all I’m surrounded by. I’ve all of a sudden become the old lady with cats.

IMG_2980.jpg

IMG_2985.JPG
When did my neck get rings? When did I join the Ringling Brothers on my neck?

The other exciting news is I got my roots dyed yesterday, at lunch, which by the way is super relaxing and you’re not over there nervously checking the clock or anything.

We also had a happy hour team thing after work for a particular account I work on, but I already WENT to one for a DIFFERENT account last week, and just now I typed “last” wrong, and my computer autocorrected it to “astroturfing,” like that’s a thing I say just all the time. I think I can honestly say that is the FIRST time I ever said “astroturfing,” so good going, computer. Good smart-ting.

Anyway, I didn’t go. I was exhausted.

Also, I’ve been invited to two things, one on Christmas Eve and one on Christmas Day, and both hosts say, “Don’t bring anything,” and is that true? What do real people do?

Both are married couples, two kids each, except the Xmas Eve couple has two teenage daughters and the other couple has two little kids. Your thoughts, Hobson?

Also, I’m getting together with Jo and Kit on the 27th, and all of a sudden Jo’s all, Oh I got you two the cutest thing and I was all, “WE’RE GETTING EACH OTHER THINGS?”

“Oh, just regift something,” said Jo, as if I have a whole closet of Gifts That Didn’t Work For Me.

Your thoughts, Hobson? Do you wish I’d quit saying that? It’s from Arthur.

The entire time I’ve been writing you, I’ve been scarfing these chocolate-orange-ball Christmas cookies my mother made me, thereby eliminating all of the work I did at Pureé Bar yesterday. Orange you glad I ate chocolate cookies?

I’d better go. I have to shower, and my whole body hurts, and also migraine hangover, plus also my face was booped repeatedly and Dear People Who Don’t Have Cats Who Are Moments From Annoying Me:

It’s when a cat hits your face with a velvety paw, not to inflict pain. It’s really more a claws-in sitch. They just want to play, so they boop boop boop your face over and over again, and you all of a sudden get how someone could abuse an animal.

Sincerely,

Jone

P.S. Oh, HELL. This is Chunky Cherry, and seriously, Clinique, what’s with all the fat names lately? I have ZERO MAKEUP on again, and I’m SORRY. It’s the MORNING.

IMG_3004.jpg
That color really brings out your broken capillaries.

 

...friend/Ned · Aging ungracefully · Busy busy busy busy. Thank heavens for Angie's List. · Friends · June's stupid life

June ages, like a fine wine. Or a bottle of ripple you leave out too long.

In a stunning display of self-centeredness, and in preparation for my move to another computer, I looked through the webcam photos I have here and came to the conclusion that my six years with (“with”) Ned have aged me.

Photo on 1-14-12 at 10.24 PM #2
January 14, 2012

Above, I had talked to Ned online, but not dated him yet.

Photo on 3-17-12 at 4.20 PM #3
St. Patrick’s Day, 2012. 

On my way to a date with another dude, above, as Ned had said he “wasn’t ready” for exclusivity.

Photo on 12-23-12 at 3.44 PM
Christmas of 2012

I think at first, as I got all in love and shit, I started to look better.

Photo on 1-19-13 at 7.15 PM

Our one-year anniversary, where I remember hoping he’d not bring up any ex-girlfriends all night. He did.

Photo on 3-16-13 at 7.07 PM
St. Patrick’s Day 2013. 

Even though I’m all Cell Block H here, I was really happy then.

Photo on 4-13-13 at 7.23 PM #4.jpg
Spring of 2013

See?

Photo on 1-25-14 at 4.38 PM #5.jpg
January 2014

Right around our two-year anniversary. Is this obsessive, what I’m doing?

Photo on 10-23-14 at 8.29 AM
October 2014

We’d moved in together, and trouble was already brewing. We had a terrible blowout on day three. I don’t mean we both got our hair straightened at the hairdresser’s, which woulda been more fun.

Photo on 1-1-15 at 12.03 AM #3
HAPPY NEW YEAR! In jail.

I spent Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve in my room, as we fought both those holidays. I’ve no idea why I took a photo of this miserable moment, but I did. I watched Google count down the year from my computer.

Photo on 7-16-15 at 5.47 PM #3.jpg
July 2015

My 50th birthday. Half the time I was deliriously in love and the other half I was in fekking agony.

Photo on 12-10-15 at 5.41 PM.jpg
December 2015

Oh, look, I’m home. Home to Tara. Months from my beloved dog dying. Maybe that’s what aged me.

Photo on 7-13-16 at 8.22 AM #3
July 2016

See? Lookin’ sorta old. Maybe it’s just cause I AM old and has nothing to do with emotional strain. Maybe I’m making all this up.

Photo on 3-18-17 at 7.04 PM #3.jpg
Cell Block St. Patrick’s Day 2017

What’s with me and all the morose photos on St. Patrick’s Day? And why do I stampede to my webcam on that holiday? Luck o’the Apple to ya.

Photo on 12-10-17 at 4.14 PM #2.jpg
December 2017

I don’t know. Maybe it’s just m’insides that got old and I don’t look as dreadful as I thought.

2012–2017.

Anyway. Have you seen enough photos of me today? Or do you hope for more?

We had our team Christmas party after work yesterday; the creative team, I mean.

IMG_2967.jpg
Oh thank baby and advanced-age, curvier Jesus. A photo of someone else.

That up there is m’coworker Essence, and I did not just use the random name generator or anything. I like her, and I like her earrings maybe more than is healthy.

Am I going to hell for saying, “Advanced-age, curvier Jesus”? Jesus is really embracing his curves.

IMG_2964.jpgAdvanced-age, curvier June’s plate. I’d like you to admire the plates, as I brought them, along with the matching napkins. Yep. June. Brings so much to a party.

IMG_2959.jpgIt was nice to see everyone; some even came from our other offices and so on.

But I had to skedaddle out of there fairly early, as I had promised The Other Copy Editor I’d head back to her B&B last night for Wine Wednesday, because last week she was too busy to really talk to me. She and I got there at about the same time, and said one word to each other before…

IMG_2972.JPG…we noticed 14 of the Alexes were also there. So we went to one of the rooms, we got a room, as it were, and chatted and giggled and did not at all gossip or discuss sex ad nauseam, as girls do.

TinaDoris, there, second from the right, is who I’ve been going to Pure Barrrrrre with, and yes, I got up with her at 6:00 today and pured our bars already. So once again, we have a Thursday where I’ve packed a lotta living into one day.

IMG_2970.jpgOh, and I almost forgot. At lunch yesterday, I schlepped Jodie Foster back to the shelter, in what is a rapid, convenient drive down the not-at-all-most-congested street in town. She had to get her shots, and I wanted that cold checked out.

She’s fine, but they did give her antibiotics just to be safe. And today I heard big old robust Steely Dan coughing, and I just felt terrible about it. I love that cat so bad.

Speaking of which, Ned called to say he got NedKitty’s remains yesterday. He walked into the vet’s, hoping to see, “Bee or Doris,” he said, like I’d know who they are.

“They’ve seen me come in for years with Murphy,” he said, and yes, that was her real name, “and I was hoping we could talk about her or something.”

Instead, a person he didn’t know handed over DeadKitty, and “no one gave me a hug or anything,” Ned said. It would appear he’s not doing well with the death of that cat.

Meanwhile, he’s still aging me, so.

I gotta get dressed. I got some StitchFix stuff I wanted to show you, but that damn Iris has been sleeping, unmoving, on my wrist this whole time and she is IRKING ME and I have a cramp.

Oh, hell, I gotta take a lipstick picture, don’t I? Okay, I have NO OTHER MAKEUP ON, so be kind. This is Roomiest Rose. What’s with all the big names lately?

IMG_2976.JPGThanks, June. Helpful photo.

IMG_2974
Ah, okay.

I added panicked mascara. And got some in my damn hair. Why do I bother?

Talk to you later. Maybe later we can get together and look at photos of me.

XO,

June

I like cats · June's vast love of eagles · My pets · Other people's pets

Going Ham

Remember the guy at work who gave me the eagle calendar last year? I’m tryina find a picture of him but OH MY GOD with this slow computer, which is my other news.

6a00e54f9367fb883401bb096125c3970d-500wi

Here he is. He’s had several funny lines on this here not-blog through the years, and anyway my point is, he brings the same lunch every day.

EVERY

DAY.

Peanut butter on whole wheat, a baggie of tortilla chips, an apple, and a depressing glass of water. “I don’t know why you say my glass of water is depressing,” he said when I was inevitably remarking on it.

It’s depressing because it’s a glass, see-through John Deere mug, which should be used for coffee, that he’s using for water. Drinking water out of a mug says, “I have no available dishes.” Drinking water out of a mug says you’re clinically depressed, or 20 and in your first apartment.

Which he is not. My coworker is far from clinically depressed. Or in his first apartment, as he is elderly like me. He just likes a routine.

Anyway, the other day I had a work question for him, but there was that sad mug o’water. “I hate to bother you during your exotic lunch…” I began. And really how much did I hate to bother him, since I was forging ahead with my query.

“Actually, today I have a ham sandwich,” he announced.

What the Mama Cass?

“Every so often I’ll bring in a ham sandwich instead. My kids call it ‘Going Ham.’ ”

Going Ham.

And that is why I like my workplace.

Also, he wandered over to my desk yesterday to say that he “sort of” reads my blog, but lurks on it just enough that he didn’t feel justified commenting yesterday. “Besides, me commenting defeats the very notion of lurking.”

Speaking of yesterday, let’s discuss a few things regarding our discussion at hand. [Arranges her papers like Walter Cronkite]

At the bottom of every post are little icons. Those are so you can share my brilliance with your friends. Ima go out on a limb and assume you have friends.

Someone said my blog was “hard to share” so I wanted to point those out.

Also, I’ve yet to go to my survey from yesterday about how to arrange the comments (scroll down; it’s under this post) but last I looked you seemed to be voting for the comments to be in thread form, which means you can reply to someone, and that reply will be tucked up under that person’s comment.

The other option was to just splat them out there chronologically, which some like because then if they return that day, they don’t have to scroll up and down to see all the new comments.

But PLEASE NOTE, when you leave a comment, there is a box you can check so that if you want, you can get all the comments delivered to you via email. So you can read them all that way if you want eleventy emails.

And finally, at the bottom right of each post you can click “Follow,” and you can get emails that tell you I’ve blogged, so you don’t have to come looking for me, ever.

That is all. And that’s the news today, Wednesday, December 20, 2017.

Except there’s other news. But that was the news re my stupid blog.

The other news is that I had to buy a new goddamn computer. Like, I started this post right at 8:00, and if you look up and see that photo of my coworker? Getting to Safari, getting to this website, starting a post, then going to Google to find his photo?

Took until 8:13. I timed it.

It’s not even fun to write anymore, because this machine just GROANS along, and spools, and doesn’t move, and sometimes I wrote a particularly pithy line, if you ask me, and I look up and it didn’t type. It just didn’t type! Because the machine hasn’t caught up with me yet. Which is the title of my new book.

Heh.

Anyway, this computer is more than six years old, and I hope you all remember my excitement when I got it, and how delighted I was to use the webcam. Let me take 49 minutes out of my morning to fire up the webcam and find the very first picture I took on here…

Photo on 9-24-11 at 4.48 PM #3Oh, June.

This photo is dated 9/24/11 at 4:48 p.m. There are two videos that precede this photo because I didn’t know I was making a video rather than a picture, but god help me if I try to upload a video. I’ll miss my whole day of work, waiting.

Anyway, the convenient part about Apple is I was able to call them and get pretty much the same computer, just the 2017 version, delivered right to my workplace next week. It’ll be faster, but the same size. Which is what she said.

Did I WANT to spend my hard-earned cash on a new computer? I did not. But I literally could not really use this one any longer, and careful readers will note that week back in the early fall when AppleCare and I spent forever trying to get this old lady speeded up.

It didn’t much work.

Also, I traded this one in. So.

IMG_2903.jpgToday at noon I take everyone’s favorite foster sister back to the shelter to get her booster shot and to have her cold checked out. You can see it has not slowed her asshole level down even a bit.

IMG_E2928.jpgAlso, someone is quite pleased to have a kitten friend.

IMG_2937.JPGIMG_2930.jpg

IMG_E2920.JPG
it not tru. steeeleee dan haf dignitee.

I leave you with today’s lip color: Broadest Berry. Lu resent.

IMG_2941.jpgToday we have a Christmas party for the creative team, and then after I am screaming over to my friend The Other Copy Editor’s B&B because last week she was too busy to talk to me and allegedly this week there will be time for us to make out.

Then allegedly I am getting up for 6 a.m. Pure Barre tomorrow, and “allegedly” is a big word with me today.

After Pure Barre, I am totally Going Ham.

Luff,

Juan

P.S. Two things that are already irking me: Your comment yesterday did not “disappear.” The comments only go to 100, then you have to click “See older” or whatever it says, at the top of the comments.

At the top of my not-blog I’ve changed the photo. Earlier, the tag line below referenced my Aunt Kathy, whom you’ve all seen a millioon times (go look at Thanksgiving, for example). She was having trouble finding this page so it was just a joke.

However, that woman in the photo is clearly not her. I changed the tag line today so as not to keep getting OH MY GOD IS THAT AUNT KATHY? WHO SUDDENLY IS AN OLD LADY IN A 1957 PHOTO BUT STILL A VIABLE NOT-ANCIENT PERSON TODAY? WE JUST SAW HER THANKSGIVING BUT IS THAT SOMEHOW HER IN THAT 60-YEAR-OLD PHOTO? So. Yeah.

 

 

June's stupid life

Let’s Vote on How We Want Comments to Look

Faithful Readers · I like cats · Other people's pets

IRL

I feel like no one reads me anymore.

I mean, “no one” is a stretch, but there are definitely fewer people around here, at least comment-wise. I know back in this not-blog’s heyday, like 2011-2012-ish, I’d get hundreds of comments, and around 2,000 readers a day.

But then sitemeter died, and we in the not-blogging world were all left bereft, because that thing was excellent. It told you how many people were on right then, it used individual IP addresses with cities, so I saw when Ned’s ex-girlfriend started reading me. I saw when NED was reading me.

It was a great stalking-who-stalks-me technique. But it died. And I’ve been without sitemeter for at least a year.

Then this year I switched over to WordPress, PressingWords, and the meter is either a lot more sensitive (like, if you look at me twice in one day, it knows your IP address and won’t count you as two readers) or else no one likes me anymore.

What do you think it is? Is it that no one blogs anymore, so they don’t come over here in hopes I come over there? Is it boring that I’m single and not all that ready to mingle? What gives, do you think?

This also leads me to to ask this question: If you know me  in real life, leave a comment today. I mean, really, leave a comment. You don’t have to leave an email address to leave a comment even though it says to.

I was wondering who, in real life, still reads me. Because when you write about your everyday life every day, it can be awkward with people who really know you.

Like, you meet up with a person and start telling one of your better stories, and you get the sense they want you to wrap it up because they’ve already read this. “Oh, did you read about this already?”

“Yeah.”

But see, how do you know? You can’t ask every person, “Do you read my stupid blog?” cause that seems like pressure.

But then, like, you’re talking to your grandmother or someone and they say, “Oh, you and Ned broke up?”

Or, “You have a dog?”

And it’s like, DO YOU NEVER READ ME OH MY GOD.

So, two things: Why is my blog boring now, or else why are my numbers down, and (2), if you know me, please really leave me a comment today. You don’t have to say your name, just how we know each other.

“We had a one-night-stand at Michigan State, June.” That sort of thing.

Meanwhile. And don’t you hate people who say, “Meanwhile, back at the ranch.” Oh, har har har. HARRRRR de HAR.

Meanwhile, back at my ranch-style house…IMG_2879.jpgI present you with Mega Melon. My lipstick, and also m’boobs.

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not in MUUUUUD

I was taking a selfie, when a little orange sprite caught my eye. She really is a little sprite. So full of the vim. Look at her already learning how to reject my advances.

I am the Harvey Weinstein of kitten.

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Every cat. Always, with that window to the kitchen.
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Where is the kitten? Has anyone seen the kitten?
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THERE she is! Say, guess who’s an asshole around kittens?

IMG_2859.JPGAnd because we don’t talk about animals enough here, someone else brought her dog to work. Nothing says “dedicated to her work June” more than someone trotting an animal past me.

BLUE EYE AND BROWN EYE!!!

IMG_2862.jpgI love you so BAD.

IMG_2857IMG_E2853

Also, Faithful Reader BamaCarol sent me a leopard coat that happened to be on June Gardens’ Amazon Wishlist! Oh my god, I was so excited. I didn’t think anyone would actually GET it for me. It was a pipe dream! I was dreaming of pipes.

IMG_2871.jpgI better go. Last night, I closed myself in the bedroom to do my freelance work and hang with Jodie Foster, and maybe an hour in I thought, Hey, where IS that kitten, anyway?

She’d slipped under the door again. Was hanging with the big pets. I WAS IN THERE ALONE.

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heeee. jodeeee foster kind of a dik.

Talk to you later. And don’t forget to comment if you actually know me.

Really, how well can you know another person?

Deeply,

Juan

I like cats

Hey, ya like cats? Cause we got a post about cats for ya.

What’s more interesting:

IMG_2846.jpgToday’s riveting lip color in Curviest Caramel

IMG_E2845.JPGor my foster kitten?

She gotses a cold! And if you’d been around me all weekend, you too could have heard JUNE’S ASSHOLE KITTEN VOICE!

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cud you nott?

Shelter kittens get upper respiratory infections a lot lot lot, so I’m not surprised she has one, and I left a message AND an email with the shelter, to see if I need to bring her in.

IMG_E2833.JPGIt hasn’t broken her spirit, and let me tell you just how much it hasn’t. One thing they want you to do is keep your shelter fosters separate from your regularly scheduled cats, so no one makes the other sick. And I was down with that plan. In fact, when I brought her in in her carrier, my pets didn’t even notice anything was up.

And at one point, I was bringing something in the kitten’s room and caught stupid-ass Iris wandering in in the 14 seconds I had the door open, and the best part was she walked right by the kitten and didn’t notice.

Limited-vision cats. They’re good for something.

So everything was copacetic: Jodie Foster was good in her bedroom/walk-in closet combo, and the regular cats were oblivious.

Until they weren’t. And what a surprise that Steely Dick was the first to catch on.

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wat-eber

I still didn’t let them meet, but when all the big cats went outside–and I just made them sound like pumas or something–I let the kitten come out just for a minute. I figured it’d be good for her to meet a dog, so if she moves in with one, she’ll be cool.

IMG_2815.jpgIMG_2816.jpgShe loved her little adventure, and all was right in the land. And seeing as I’d pretty much spent every second with her all weekend except for ANOTHERRE PURRE BARRE CLASSE Sunday morning, I went to the new Woody Allen movie yesterday afternoon. The theater is literally five minutes away, so I was gone less than two hours.

And when I came home?

There she was. On the back of the couch with everyone else.

THERE SHE WAS.

oh, hai.

Clearly, I have no control over my cats.

“Oh my GOD!” I said, horrified. Her door was SHUT. Had I let her slip out when I left? I was certain I hadn’t. Had been paranoid AF about her slipping past me.

I mean, she was just on the back of the couch, all casual. Steely Dan was loftily lounging on Edsel’s bed (“Edsel’s bed.” Who we kidding at this point?), Edsel was on the couch right near the kitten, and Lily and Iris were splayed in the dining room, as you do.

Like, NO ONE CARED that there was a little sprite in their midst. I guess at this point, my pets are new-petted out. Still. That could have been a disaster.

Shaken, I put her back in the room and shut the door.

IMG_2812.jpgI was in the kitchen feeding everyone moments later, when I turned around and

THERE SHE WAS

in that window in my kitchen, the one that leads to the back room. oh, hai. again.

And right then I knew. She was crawling out from under the door.

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June Problem-Solves

So all my cats are gonna have colds now. Hey, whose bright idea was this, anyway, this kitten-fostering thing? I blame Sue.

I’m just glad Steely Dan is nicer than he seems. Maybe Edsel made sure Jodie Foster was okay. I don’t know.

It reminds me of the Tallulah and Francis days.

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Francis
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Tallulah

Francis was SO MEAN to Tallulah from DAY ONE that Lu didn’t dare even LOOK at Fran throughout their whole lives. That cat put the fear in that dog from puppyhood. I remember Francis slap-slap-slapping puppy Tallulah’s snout, claws out, three times in a row.

The point is, we’d had years of Lu acquiesing to Francis when I finally got kitten Henry. One day Henry, who was teensy then, toddled his orange self right near cranky old Francis, who at that point never did anything but mince off his angry chair and to his litter box. But Henry got himself in that path.

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Henry. Henry never took a bad picture.

Anyway, Francis hissed, and sucked his hiss back in and hissed again, fangs bared. Henry was in big trouble. But TALLULAH ran back there, barking, got OVER Henry, just stood over him, and growled right in that mean cat’s face.

I can’t imagine how terrified Lu musta been underneath her pit growl.

Francis minced back to his angry chair without another word.

IMG_2760.jpgAnyway, fostering kittens is fun. Is my point. And a bit chaotic. Is my other point.

If anyone local is looking for a lively, smart, make-bicuits-in-your-hair kitten, I got one going begging.

Talk to you later. Oh! And if you’re gonna wrap up your Christmas shopping, let me assist you with a link to get to Amazon. (Oh my god, she actually remembered. She has the biggest shopping time of the year and forgets all month. June: money-making machine.)

Ima buy these for myself today, because whose bright idea was it to put the computer back in a drafty room that used to be a screened-in porch? A room with a tile floor? A room I have to go in every morning half-naked so I can write? Hmmmm? Whose idea was it?

And who ordered all these pets?

[Looks around. Sees no one else. Shit.]

Luff,

June the excellent kitten foster, and creator of an un-chaotic life

June's stupid life

June Gardens, foster mother

When I was a kid, there were two girls down the street who’d been adopted. Their names were Didi and Barbie, and I don’t know if they were acquired from the Michigan Orphanage o’Future Strippers or what with those names.

The point is, I desperately wanted to be adopted as a result. It sounded so dramatic. Also, they had been foster children, and I thought that sounded pretty cool, too.

“Can I be a foster child?” “I want to be adopted.” I would say harangue my parents endlessly.

This prompted my father, who never should have been given a child to fuck with, the idea of telling me that he kept a foster child in his tripod case. “I take her on my trips with me,” he would tell me.

My father was a photographer, and was forever going on these business trips to exciting places like Cleveland, and he always took with him a tripod case that was about the same height I was.

I kind of knew he was fucking with me, and that he had zero coveted foster children anywhere, but I also slightly believed him. When he wasn’t looking, I used to kick that tripod case, just in case that foster bitch was in there.

The point of my story is that I have my own little tripod case now. Last week, on one of my days off, I went to the animal shelter because I am an idiot who does things like go to the animal shelter for fun.

They needed volunteers to foster their puppies and kittens, and we all know how well it goes when I bring home a puppy, but I figured I could bring home a kitten or 12.

This is Jodie Foster. She is my first foster child. It occurs to me now I should have named her Didi or Barbie.

She is a little boop.

I got her at the animal shelter first thing this morning, before they even officially opened, and I was so excited to get her home that I failed to ask many questions. I know she was a stray, but I don’t know what her backstory is.

She’s too young to really be adopted, and she needed a nice home to stay in rather than the stressful shelter.

Here is what I know about her so far. She has pretty much not sit still since I put her in this room. I have to keep her separate from my regularly scheduled cats, so she will be in my main bedroom with the huge walk-in closet. There are tons of places to climb, and warm place to sleep, and these are the two warmest rooms in the house for some reason.

None of my other animals have even noticed there’s a new pet here.

Jodie Foster caught her reflection in the mirror in here and got all puffy. That was hilarious. And while she still isn’t sitting still, she is spending a lot of time cuddling with me.

Here are the things I know you were going to say: June, you are not going to be able to return this cat. You are going to adopt her.

But I know I’m not. I have enough animals. I really can’t afford another one. And I really don’t want to be the person with four fucking cats. This is just something I wanted to do because it’s a nice thing, and I love getting some kitten strange.

I have a lot of freelance work to do today, and some Christmas shopping to get done, which I guess I’m going to be doing online in this room.

This is actually a great excuse to isolate. Go, me!

In a whole circle of life thing, NedKitty did meet her maker last night. I went over to Ned’s house, and was there while it happened. She died on Ned’s lap.

Here’s another thing I know you’re going to say: Ned will take this kitten. He won’t. In a million years, he won’t. He so isn’t ready.

But I say, one’s always ready for some kitten strange.

...friend/Ned · Beauty products · Friends

When Grape-Up Becomes a Thing

I wish more things could hurt on my body today. Stupid Pure Barre. Also? It turns out? When you get up at 5:20 and you’re used to around, oh, 7:00-ish, you feel really tired all day. Just a little news flash for ye.

“Ye.” Because suddenly I’m in biblical times.

Anyway, Bathsheba, before I forget because you know how I am, let’s delve into my boss, fmr.’s, wardrobe.

My boss, fmr., has an office right outside my open, exposed, raw desk in the open, exposed, raw floor plan that stresses me out on the daily.

“Oh, look, you’re here!”

“Going to lunch?”

“What’s that you’re snacking on?”

“Why you taking antibiotics?”

I’ve no idea who thought making us sit in a huge room with no privacy whatsoever eight hours a day was a stellar idea, an idea that would “inspire” us, because man, do copy editors ever seek inspiration. They don’t at all seek quiet and a place to concentrate. Anyway, whoever thought of it has an office, I guarantee you that.

The point is, my boss, fmr., has an office that she’s never in that’s right next to my exposed-innards desk. I know she’s never there because about 97 times a day, someone says, “Do you know where boss, fmr., is?”

She’s a good boss. She’s the kind who actually answers your emails and takes time out for you and so on, so she’s probably out doing just that, or at meetings, because meetings. There are always the meetings.

Once a month, her Stitch Fix–or is it StitchFix–box comes to work, and as she’s pawing through it, I always take the liberty of stampeding in there to veto her choices. I don’t recall her ever asking me to do that, but let’s face it: she’s in an office. I get like 30 seconds where I’m not exposed, I’ll take it.

This is also why I pee 11 times a day.

Anyway, now a committee of women assault her in this manner when her Stitch Fix–or is it StitchFix–box comes, and that is when I was inspired, in an office and not an inspirational open floor plan, mind you, to

BOSS MY BOSS, FMR.

“What if, every month, you try on all your choices and my readers help you pick?” I asked. And she was all, okay yeah.

Here is her box for this month, wherein she has already decided what to keep and what to get rid of. Ready? Brace yourself. Grab onto the person sitting seven inches from you in your open floor plan.

IMG_E2617.JPGShe is KEEPING the spotty dress!

IMG_E2620.JPGShe said YES to the skirt!!

IMG_E2621.JPGShe is RETURNING the ’80s Forenza-looking sweater with gold thread.

Also, she immediately played up to the camera. For a relatively quiet, unassuming person, it was surprising that you get a camera on her and she’s Princess Diana all of a sudden.

IMG_E2622.JPGSee. This is where we can boss the boss, fmr. next month. Because I wanted her to keep the Blondie Bumstead shirt, totally, for sure, and she returned it.

IMG_E2624.JPGThese boots are cute, but $110. My coworker Poochie, who has 8 million pairs of expensive shoes, was encouraging her to keep them, but I burst in and said, DON’T LISTEN TO POOCHIE. SHE SPENDS 8 MILLION DOLLARS ON SHOES EVERY WEEK.

So that’s a little preview, and next month we’ll actually get to vote. Oooo, ooooo! I can do another SURVEY! We can do a survey for each piece! Is that the best way, do you think? If someone has organizational skillz and can think of a better idea, let me know. LMK, as the kids say. The inarticulate kids.

IMG_E2666.JPGI meant to show you a photo of today’s Clinique Chubby Stick, but instead I uploaded a photo of my coworker’s dog. I took this photo yesterday, as said dog ate A WHOLE BOWL of chocolates, wrapper and all, so my coworker brought him in so she could make sure he didn’t die. If he had, I’d have lead with that.

IMG_2668.jpgHERE we are. This is Graped-Up, and first of all, what does that even mean, and second, it looks like I have no lip color on at all. We have one more boring day of nude-ish colors, then we stampede into some exciting pinks. So.

And speaking of exciting, come back here tomorrow afternoon I MEAN IT. There will be photos of something very exciting. No, not my boobs. Perv.

Before I go, I mentioned this in the comments yesterday but perhaps you didn’t see them, as you were busy asking your coworker who she just called, seeing as she was four inches from you and you heard every word and you KNOW that wasn’t her husband.

My point is, at 6 p.m. today, NedKitty is going to be put to sleep. The vet with the pink hair is going to Ned’s to do the deed. She really isn’t eating anymore–NedKitty, not the vet–and she’s had kidney disease for more than a year.

And yes, I’m going over there while it is happening. And would you like to know what I’m not in the mood for? Opinions re this or anything having to do with Ned. It’s a sad time. And even though we were broken up, when Tallulah died, I called him at 11 p.m. crying so hard he couldn’t understand me and was literally here in less than five minutes. So. I’m going over there for this.

IMG_0716.JPGThis is the very first picture of NedKitty I ever took, in 2012. She gave me that look for about three years before she decided she liked me. Now I’m the only person who’s allowed to pick her up.

Godspeed, NedKitty. May there be paper bags to wear on your head, and much hair to chew in the kitty afterlife.IMG_2585.JPGIMG_1791.JPGIMG_5479IMG_2140.JPGimg_4335.jpg

Beauty products · Busy busy busy busy. Thank heavens for Angie's List. · Friends · June doesn't know any ugly people · Lottie = El Diablo

Drivin’ all the old men crazy.

A good part about how they’ve put me on multiple accounts at work is that I’ve gotten to know more coworkers who aren’t Griff. Also, I’ve gotten to know people I’ve worked with all these years, but rarely talked to because we weren’t on the same account.

It can get (ready?) siloed at work.

One of those corporate terms I love.

What they mean is everyone’s working on their own shit so you don’t talk. But they changed that up now, and I’m on three or four accounts at any given time, and yes, everything DOES come to me all at once and everyone needs everything immediately, but that’s not important right now.

What’s important is I’ve gotten to know people I didn’t know before, including a coworker who I will call

Oh my god.

I just ran her through the Random Name Generator, and they want me to call her Lottie Blanco, which I know is slightly confusing given that I had a dog named Lottie,

IMG_E2660.JPG
She was delicious

but it’s such a marvelous name that I can’t help but use it.

So, my coworker, Lottie Blanco, is married to a woman with the same name. The Lottie Blanco I work with is a very down-to-earth-seeming person, at least compared to me, which does not set the bar high. Miss Piggy is more down-to-earth than me. But really, Lottie Blanco is the type who wanders over calmly and says, “Welp. I got 26 articles for you to read by 5:00” and then stands there emotionlessly, whereas I would deliver this news with a shaking hanky and a paper bag to breathe into.

The point is, she hates snakes. ALERT, FAITHFUL READER TEE. ALERT. SNAKE STORY.

Lottie Blanco and her wife Lottie Blanco live near some woods, and for awhile they had mice, despite having two very cute cats. I mean, really, they are extraordinarily cute–both blonde, one fluffier than the other. The fluffy one was wandering around skinny and homeless and looking like Ren when they got her. The point is, eventually the mice went away, and they were all, hunh. Well, good.

One afternoon my coworker Lottie Blanco was up in the attic, taking a box down for a yard sale they were gonna have, and when she lifted the box

A

GIANT

RAT

SNAKE

was curled up under it. According to my coworker Lottie Blanco, she actually managed to step on her wife Lottie Blanco’s HEAD while screaming and screeching out of the attic like a screaming screeching person.

And this is why I like working on different accounts.

The point is, and yes there is a point besides that stellar story, is yesterday Lottie Blanco The Snake Hater asked me to join a little team celebration at a downtown bar/arcade called Boxcar.

IMG_2625.jpg
June downtown. Driving all the old men crazy.

Everyone raves on about that place, but I never went, because what do I care about an arcade?

IMG_2627.JPGExcept nobody told me THERE WERE PINBALL MACHINES.

When I was a kid, we HAD a pinball machine. It was called Skipper, and my father bought it somewhere or other. Maybe at sea. Maybe from Gilligan. I just don’t know.

download.jpg

This is a terrible picture of Skipper. Let me Google fucking it some more.

1969-Gottlieb-Skipper-Pinball-Machine-Tune-up-Kit-_1

It’s for identification only. It’s NOT part of the kit! I have no idea what that means.

The point is, I spent approximately 11,000 youthful hours in my basement, playing Skipper, and what I wouldn’t give to have that particular game back. Pinball machines were simpler then, as was life, other than that racism and sexism and homophobia stuff that has SO CLEARLY gone away now. Thank god that’s been cleared up.

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Photo credit: Lottie Blanco

Despite the fact that today’s pinball machine is now really dark and you can’t see where the goddamn ball is anymore, I took my complimentary tokens and played me some pinball for, oh, an hour and a half. Oh, how I love it.

And it all came back to me. I’d say “like riding a bike” except I don’t know how to ride a bike. But I won two free games, and I got the highest score of the week on one machine, and got to put m’name in!

I also summarily beat Lottie Blanco at air hockey. I did this by slipping into a snake costume when she wasn’t expecting it.

Hey, June, say “Lottie Blanco” one more time.

IMG_2632.jpgimg_2631.jpgI left downtown, as all the old men had been reported as 5150s, and on over to The Other Copy Editor’s bed and breakfast, where she was having her regular Wine Wednesday event, this time with a band that was apparently quite popular, seeing as I had to park on the corner of Rape and Mug and walk 200 miles. No one bothered me because I still had on m’snake suit.

IMG_E2647.JPGIt was my coworker Molly’s idea to go there, and of course she’s one of those people like my grandfather who knows every single person in town, which begs the question why can’t she think of one nice man to set me up with? Not that my grandfather was any help in that department, either.

IMG_2648.jpgAnyway, the band really was good, but I hadda go, because I needed to get up at 5:20.

You what? Great Lottie Blancos in the morning.

I promised my stupid friend TinaDoris that I’d meet her at stupid Pure Barre at a stupid 6 a.m. stupid class. When the alarm went off, I rolled over and said, “Edsel.”

Oh my god, did that poor dog ever startle awake. gud graby, it 7:00 alreddee?

The cats are always lined up along the hallway when I open the bedroom door, but this morning there was nary a cat in sight.

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eyeriss can’t eben wif dis time of day. she TRYING to eben, but she can’t eben.

In case you don’t have one in your town or something, and you know what I hate? Is when people say, “If you’ve been living under a rock…”

Oh, hohohohoho!!! God, that’s original. Lemme stitch m’sides.

Anyway.

In case you don’t know what Pure Barre is, it’s a one-hour exercise program designed to make you wish for your own swift death right there at a ballet barre.

Holy shit.

TinaDoris goes six days a week. TinaDoris looks magnificent. TinaDoris can suck it.

I came home at 7:03 (silver lining: Pure Barre is stupidly close to my house) and ate all the toast. There is no toast anywhere in the country.

“Hey, where’s the toast?”

“Pure Junne ate it.”

So that’s been my last 24 hours, and try to cram some activity in, Juan. But despite my run-aroundy life of music and pinball and allegedly burning calories that get replaced immediately by toast, I did NOT forget our lipstick pact. Today we try Whole Lotta Honey.

IMG_E2620.JPGAlso, before I forget, we’re going to have an exciting new feature here at Book of Pies. My boss, fmr., is going to show us her Stitch Fix box every month, and we get to vote on what she should keep and what she should return! She already decided on this month’s shipment, which I will feature for you tomorrow, so you’ve got that to live for.

And listen. If you do anything, check in with me Saturday this week. I have something SO STUPIDLY EXCITING to show you then.

Meanwhile, Whole Lotta Honey…

IMG_2663.jpgHunh. Yeah, okay. Whole lotta eh.

Wet-harriedly,

June

Beauty products · Fuck natural · My pets

June does her makeup and talks to you. Yes, again.

It will be 11 years Friday that I’ve done this dang…website. Other than June’s Live Sex Tape, I’ve pretty much done it all on this thing.

[Considers June’s Live Sex Tape.] [Step one: Get sex life.]

Photo on 12-13-17 at 8.18 AM.jpgWhen we left each other yesterday, dabbing at our eyes the annoying way the Real Housewives do: dab, dab dab–check Kleenex, we said every day we’d try a new lip color from my exciting Clinique set of 20 lip colors that I needfully bought. Because if there’s anything anyone needs, it’s 20 Chubby Sticks.

Step one: Get one chubby stick.

Hey, mom. [Sees mom in her head. Sees mom’s pursed lips. You know what would unpurse them? A Chubby Stick, by Clinique!]

Photo on 12-13-17 at 8.21 AMSince we all know this exciting post is going to end in me showing you today’s color: Fuller Fig (as opposed to yesterday’s color: Richer Raisin), I thought we’d put on our makeup altogether together.

Oh, June. With the play on words.

So I started up there with my grocery-store-purchased Revlon Brow Fantasy, and if you’re really having fantasies about eyebrows, consult your nearest medical professional.

I am using Light Brown, or as the fancy people call it, Brun Clair. Why is my eyebrow pencil also French? Do a lot of your French folk schlep to the grocery store for their cosmetic needs?

In real life, when I have the dollars, I prefer the Anastasia brow products called DIPBROW™. Look at me, even adding the TM.

Photo on 12-13-17 at 8.27 AM #4Laura Gellar Baked Balance-n-Brighten, because you know how much I love anything with “n” instead of “and” in the title. My Aunt Mary, whose initials are QVC, sent me my first compact of this in 2015 and I’ve been using it ever since. It’s easy and it works.

Also, since I moved my computer in my quest to photograph anything OTHER THAN THE RAYS OF THE SCREAMING SUN, please note my poor succulent back there. It seems to be drooping. As you can see, it’s not like it’s NOT GETTING ANY SUN, so does anyone have succulent advice? I know to not water it often; that’s why I HAVE a succulent. Have you met my attentive nature?

Photo on 12-13-17 at 8.32 AM #2Laura Mercier Secret Concealer for Undereye. It’s not a secret anymore.

I wonder if Laura Gellar and Laura Mercier duke it out in my cosmetics bag?

Photo on 12-13-17 at 8.34 AM #2I really meant to go to the store last night and get root touchup. GodDAMMIT. Anyway, Bobbi Brown eye shadow in Gray. Because it’s my prerogative.

Do I make that joke every time? What do you want from me? I’m an old woman. Also, note my gray eye shadow and my gray roots do not match. Apparently there really are 50 shades of gray.

Photo on 12-13-17 at 8.38 AM.jpgI like how my blog about me is showing pictures of me with a reflection of me in the background. Also, carry on, my wayward sun. Jesus, with that sun. So to speak. Talk about your father, sun and holy shit it’s bright back here.

Anyway, Revlon ColorStay eye pencil in Black/Brown, or as they also like to call it, Noir/Brun. Okay, Revlon. Get over your not-French self.

Followed by DiorShow Blackout mascara, and the color is apparently 099. That’s warm and personal.

Ninety-nine. I’ve been waiiiting so long. Oh, 99, where did we go wrong. Oh, 99.

We need to hear more from Toto. Whatever happened to them? We cast aside our musical heroes so fast. Toss ’em aside and call them 099.

Incidentally, while I’m writing to you and doing my makeup, what I know for sure is that eating six Jeno’s Pizza Rolls for breakfast is not good for you.

That is why I’m having six Totino’s Pizza Rolls.

IMG_2616.jpgTAAA-DAAAAA!! FULLER FIG, which I just typed as “Fuller GIF.” Again, it’s not bad. I don’t wanna marry it, be June Fig. But it’s okay.

What’s not okay: gray fucking roots.

So there it is: A simple makeup routine that, if you also blog about it and photograph it and eat pizza rolls during it, takes a mere hour and a half.

IMG_E2612.JPGI leave you with this portrait of ennui that I took last night. Apparently there was a staff meeting no one told me about. Perhaps they’re planning a takeover.

Fine with me. I hate being in charge around here. Let THEM figure out how to afford flea meds for four.

Talk to you tomorrow, when we shall delve into the exciting world of Clinique’s Whole Lotta Honey.

WAYYYYYYY down inside. WOman. Youuuuu neeeed.

LOOOOOOOOOOVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV….

XO,
June Fig

Aging ungracefully · I hate everything

Gettin’ above my richer raisin

If I spent as much time trying to cure world hunger as I did looking for tweezers, we’d all be trying to lose a few. The whole world. A worldwide, literal Whole 30.

Jesus.

And reading glasses. I’ll go into a room, and all that will be lying around will be real glasses. I don’t NEED real glasses. Already got in my contacts. I just need to see UP CLOSE GOD IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK.

Then the moment I need real glasses, all I’ll be able to find will be readers.

Also too? I have three pill bottles in my purse: m’Ritalin [heart emoji], my migraine meds, and my little-used nausea pills for when I have a bad migraine. Every day–EVERY DAY–I reach in there for the Ritalin and pull out the nausea meds. Every fucking day.

Last week, when I had the moan-aloud migraine, I hunched over nauseatedly to my purse to get out the nausea pills, and?

Pulled out the Ritalin.

There are a lot of goddammits in my house.

In other news, I called my old coworker TinaDoris, because she is forever posting on Instagram how she’s getting up at god’s half acre to work out at Pure Barre, and I realize “god’s half acre” doesn’t mean that. What are you, new here? And since no one sees me naked anymore, I have less incentive to work out, and all of a sudden I look like Ruth Buzzy. Who if I’m not mistaken was sort of thin. But I just mean I look old and like the meat is falling off the bone.

I figured if I worked out with someone, I might show up out of obligation.

After she got over the part where her phone actually rang (Dear Millennials: Get over it. It’s a phone. You spend $700 on a phone. It’s supposed to ring.), she told me the beginner classes were on Sunday morning and Thursdays at god’s half acre o’clock.

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behold.

So, Saturday night I went to bed early, and set the alarm for acre time, and whomever the asshole was who said, “Early to bed, early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise” never had Netflix when season two of The Crown was premiering.

But I actually got up, slipped on some sexy workout clothes with all m’hips, and crunched hippily out to the car.

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This is not me. It’s another hip-blessed female in this house.

It snowed here for more than 24 hours from Friday to Saturday, but then it melted, but then it froze up again Saturday night. This is why, as I grabbed my car’s door handle, nothing happened.

Nothing.

I mean, frozen motherfucker did not budge. “Oh, come ON,” I told myself. “Try harder.” I tugged and I pulled and I pulled and I tugged, and now my door handle and I are in a committed relationship, but I could not get into my car.

Goddammit,” I said, as I stomped back into the house. Then I had to call poor TinaDoris, who probably had her phone disconnected, what with all the jarring ringing it did that week.

But since I already had on a sports bra and everything, I ended up doing my Callanetics video, with that phony Call A Pickaxe or whatever her name is. Oh my god, that workout is hard. As opposed to the boilin’ bag of gravy that is my ass.

Remember boiling bags? My mother used to get them for me when I was in high school. They were fairly disgusting, but I ate them. You could get, like, chipped beef. Boil the whole bag, dump it out.

chippedbeef1.jpgI love how I’d eat that after school and THEN have dinner, and I weighed 110. Probably because I was so active then.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Anyway, further reports as developments warrant re Pure and its Barre. Maybe TinaDoris and I could just get up early and go to a bar.

In my hometown, back when everyone worked at the factory, and that factory was open 24 hours a day, the bars stayed open, too. So you could get off third shift at 7 a.m. and head to the bar.

Nice.

I have to go. I got assigned something at 10:30 last night, and a person I feel bad for is our traffic person, who assigns everybody everything. Anyway, the work looks pretty interesting, but lengthy. Like my dick.

I leave you with the following exciting news.

IMG_E2398

As you know, because you follow my every move (except for no one ever remembering that I do, in fact, have a face in my tree. A face I nailed in myself. And covered ad nauseum on this not blog. But then every time I show a photo of that tree, I get, “I see a face, JOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO–blargh.” That was when I shot the person)…

Anyway, as you know, since you follow my every move, I spent $50 on a tray full of chubby sticks, like my dick, and what I thought we would DO, because we are so whimsical here at house of Jooooooblargh, is I’d try on a new lipstick for you every day.

I KNOW!

Let’s try them from left to right.

Photo on 12-12-17 at 9.03 AM #2.jpgI took about 11 photos hoping my gray roots wouldn’t show and it turns out, hips don’t lie. Neither do cameras. Anyway, this is Richer Raisin, and I don’t like raisins, but this color isn’t bad. It doesn’t give me a chubby stick, but it’s okay.

Stay tuned for Fuller Fig tomorrow!!!!

Oh, Jooooo. How dull you are.

Aging ungracefully · Friends · Hair

Noon June

It’s Monday at lunch, and I tried to write you all this morning, but stuff kept happening and I never got around to it. But here I am! The one that you love! Asking for another dayyyyy.

In case you were gone this weekend, or trying heroin or the FedEx delivery man, I wrote about my trip to TinyTown this weekend. It’s the post below this one. I also just linked to it. So you won’t have to be all, What happened in TinyTown, JOOOOOOOOOON??? Why didn’t you write about TinyTown, JOOOOOOONN. In my head, the more I write “JOOOOON,” the harsher you sound saying it.

Other than that, here is what else I’ve been up to…

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Oh my god, June, NO ONE CARES.

I headed out yonder to visit my friends Chris and Lilly, who are 100% over me but have to tolerate me because they’re nice people.

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“Is she gone yet? Don’t look over there. …Did she go?”

They made a nice plate of snacks, which I was indulging in despite my clean diet.

HAHAHAHAHAHA.

Anyway, there I was, indulging, when we all…smelled something.

“So you smell that?” asked Chris, and they probably worried about the contents of my adult diaper, so old am I compared to them. In the grand scheme of things, I’m Ruth Gordon to their Mia Farrow. Try the mouse.

“It’s just me!” announced their child, Z, from the hallway. She leaned into the room. “I just wanted a little company!”

IMG_E2467.JPGTurns out Z felt the…call of nature, so she brought her…call of nature chair into the hallway, right outside of the living room, to, you know. Answer nature. It was more a social event than a private event, for her. It was the social event of the season, really.

Also, I got my hair cut. I go to a regular hairdresser who colors and cuts my hair, but she doesn’t do the Deva cuts, which is a specific cut for curly hair that you have to get a certificate in and so on.

I could see my hair wasn’t…bouncing as it can, and the curls were getting heavy, so I Googled the closest place that does Deva cuts, made an appointment, and walked in this week…

…to an African American salon.

Okay. So.

I guess I never thought about it before, but once I walked into that place, the only BETTY WHITE in there, the only person who was BEYOND THE PALE, it dawned on me. I saw the light, and it was my skin. Maybe there are salons specifically for women of color, and maybe I just walked into one.

White girl walks into a salon.

But here’s the thing. A, they didn’t kick me out, and 2, they were really nice to me and 12, here’s my new hair:

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June. Stop.

No, really, HERE is my new hair:

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Right?

Here it is on another day:IMG_2458.jpgRight right? She did a great job! As Faithful Reader Fay says, I have gone black and I will not go back. I’ll still go to my color person, ironically, for color. But I’m sticking with this hairdresser for cuts.

Then finally yesterday, I tried getting back on Facebook after a few-week hiatus, but almost instantly, people started messaging me, which of course is why I got off Facebook.

(Just to catch you up, in case this was your season to try heroin, or the FedEx delivery man, a person kept sending me messages on Facebook, messages to do with Ned, and when I blocked her, she created a new profile and messaged me again. This gave me the PTSD any time my message indicator came on Facebook.

I wrote here, and on Facebook, and on the page Facebook of June, asking for people to not send me personal messages, but it kept happening. So, knowing I can’t change anyone, I just got off there. I was hoping when I got back on that I just wouldn’t get many messages, but I did, and they made me anxious again, so I left. Again.) (And shutting off messenger doesn’t help. It still tells you you have messages.)

So that was a long stint back on there. Hey, 12 hours!

And finally. In summation. To wrap up. You will note on the side of this page (if you’re on your desktop computer) or at the bottom of this page (if you’re on your phone) that there is a new feature here. It’s called From the Beginning, and it will eventually list all my categories in chronological order.

I have all kinds of stupid categories from this blog: Ned, my pets, my health, Tracy Quartermaine. But if you wanted to just sit down and read about a particular topic, you’d have to read from the present day and scroll down. Read backwards, as it were.

This annoyed me, which is saying a lot because we all know what a long fuse I have. But there’s a woman named Elizabeth who works for WordPress, who offered me her services when I came over here, and she has been magnificent, and I asked her, “Is there a way we can show some stuff in order, and not backwards?”

So she made the little From the Beginning section, and we started with the …friend/Ned category, dating back from January of 2012 when I met his ass, and ending with whenever I last wrote about him.

As I learn how the hell to add the other categories, I will add them. She did this one for me, because did I mention magnificent?

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You rilly sort of dullist person on erf.
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do not bor furthir

So that SORT of sums things up, although I have other things to tell you, but I will save them up. Savor them. Build the anticipation.

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mom blawg. fale.

Talk to you soon, from the warm supportive bosom of my pet family.

Jooooooon