The many pants of June

Oddly, I remember what I was doing a year ago today. I mean, as someone who writes what’s going on in her life every day–now without weekends!–I guess it’s not that shocking. But believe it or not, I don’t look at my blog every day and read what I wrote in past years. I also don’t check to see how many comments I got. I read those as emails.

Nevertheless, I remember that last January 31, I went to the allergy doctor, because my throat always feels like it’s closed up. He put all those–

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–what the hell? This just caught my attention out the corner of my eye. Why? What’s fun about jumping up there? You just have to hunch over like Quasimodo. Quasi-meow-do. You’re welcome. That sort of hilarity is why you come here.

As I was saying. The allergist put all those needles in my back, to see what I’m allergic to, if anything. The little chippie in the scrubs said, “Do you want your phone while you lie here with needles in your back and we wait for you to die of allergies?”

I mean, really. If someone can die from kissing someone who had eaten peanut butter earlier, why can’t you die from getting poked with something you might be really allergic to? But no. They leave you in there full of allergens, and go about their business.

“No,” I smugged. “I can be alone with my thoughts.” Ya goddamn millennial. In your fuchsia scrubs.

So she left, probably to go look at her phone, and then I found myself unable to be alone with my thoughts. What if I went into anaphylactic shock because they’ve injected me with pine nuts or whatever? What if nothing ever happens to me, and I die one of those New York deaths where no one knows till the smell drifts into the hallway?

That was from When Harry Met Sally.

I guess what I’m saying to you is, it was one year ago today that we found out I have dust mite allergies. And do you know what I haven’t been doing? Is taking my Allegra.

But what I HAVE been doing is taking stupid Prilosec every morning when I get up. The doctor told me to. I mean, he also told me to take Allegra, but let’s leave that alone now, you nagging bitch.

So, I take it, then I have to wait half an hour before–

IMG_4370.jpgWhat the hell? Why can’t he ever just sit still? And he thinks he wants out, but it’s cold as shit, and the other day he was out and it was cold, and when I opened the back door to call him, he immediately leaped through the hole in the screen door to get in, without waiting for me to take that lengthy stretch that it takes to, oh, open a screen door.

He hates cold. And yet he wants out in it.

He’s an adventure cat.

Anyway. So, I have GERD, along with my dust mite allergy, and really, the part where I go on with life is inspirational. The doctor wants me to take two Prilosec in the morning, then wait half an hour to drink coffee, and has he MET me?

It’s the most difficult half hour of my day, that wait for coffee. More difficult than any half hour of Tracy Anderson I may do.

But now a half hour has passed since I took my goddamn medication, and now I can have my coffee. Hang on. …Oh, sweet elixir that gives me migraines and GERD.

img_4371.jpgI bought this mug when I saw my Aunt Mary at Thanksgiving. It was in a little shop we popped into. News flash: If you’re with my Aunt Mary, you are going to pop into little shops.

Anyway, Owosso is a town in Michigan. When I was a kid, my father went to both Hawaii and the town of Owosso for work. So I used to tell everyone that when I got big, I was going to move to either Hawaii or Owosso. They both sounded so exotic. I had no idea why all the adults were so hog wild over this announcement.

I wonder what my four-year-old self would’ve thought about “Greensboro.”

I think I’ve lived here the longest, out of anyplace since I left Michigan. When I’m 54, I will have lived away from Michigan for as long as I ever lived there. (That’s in a year and a half.)

(Fuck.)

I lived in Seattle for four years and two months, to the day.

I lived in Los Angeles for 10 years and six months, to the day.

I’ve lived in North Carolina for–oh my god! It’ll be 10 years and six months on February 5.

Also, I am weird about knowing dates. It’s irked people my whole life. I met someone in college, with whom I slept, who was also weird about dates the way I was. Turns out, our compatibility started and ended there.

He was, well, he was Marvin’s roommate, okay? I didn’t know I was gonna marry Marvin. Geez. Anyway, once, they were lying around their room, Marvin and his roommate With Whom I Slept, and Marvin said, “I wonder if eventually we will sleep with the same girl” and also he said, “I wonder what day we lined our drawers.”

I mean. That sums Marvin up right there.

They’d lined their drawers with the school newspaper, for which I wrote, by the way, so this whole story is a circle of life. Boom. But anyway, Marvin’s roommate said, “September 29th.”

“How the fuck would you know that?” asked Marvin.

What I wonder is why the fuck two boys in their late teens weren’t out doing heroin and banging women. I guess because I hadn’t shown up yet. With m’horse. But I mean, really. Is this the saddest college conversation you’ve ever sat in on?

That same roommate of Marvin’s (WWIS) and Marvin were home for the weekend once, and they couldn’t find anything going on or anything to do. There they were, on a Saturday night, and Marvin’s grandparents drove up.

“We were looking for your parents. Aren’t they here?”

No. They weren’t. For it was Saturday night.

“We’re on our way out, too,” said Marvin’s 90-year-old grandparents, who literally squealed the tires on their way to their fun night.

And there stood Marvin and his friend (WWIS), still having zero to do on a Saturday. In Detroit. When they had their youth and their health, and more than likely a communicable disease from me.

What was I talking about? Have I become one of those old ladies who you wish would just go down for her nap already?

Oh, I know. The fact that they’d lined their drawers with newspaper meant Marvin’s roommate (WWIS) could open a drawer and prove he was right about the date.

Also, boys. Good lord. Lining their drawer with newspaper. I remember my roommate and I heading to Pier One to decorate our room, where we purchased among other things a large pink parasol to hang from one corner. Our drawer liner had lavender flowers. It may have even smelled nice. We may have been Spartans, but our room was not spartan.

My college roommate slept with everyone else. I took care of Marvin’s dorm room; she took care of all the other rooms. Together, we made a great team.

I gotta go. I realize this was an important and hard-hitting post, one you’ll remember for the rest of time, but it has to end sometime.

Before I leave you, obligatory kitten shots. Also, we’re getting to enjoy shots of The Many Pants of June, which is always a plus.

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My fur pants and I took the mom cat to the shelter yesterday, for her booster shot, and they said she is done producing milk. This does not stop this group of beasts from constantly suckling on what now must surely be her poor worn-out boobs for about 80 hours a day. So the shelter said they can stay here till they stop doing that.

DON’T STOP DOING THAT, LITTLE KITTENSES!!!!

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The story of an Old English

Let’s say you just got here, which continues to be absurd every time I say that. Blogging is over and no one’s just gotten here since 2011.

But maybe you’re on your Rumspringa or something. The English welcome you. And here, Amish person on a break, is my story. The story of an old English. If I were you, I’d be trying a McGriddle, not listening to me, but go ahead, if this is what you want to do. Go ‘head wich yer bad self. That is a saying from 2007, Amish person on a break.

[Amish person runs back to Pennsylvania]

I started dating when I was 14. My friend Beth fixed me up with her boyfriend’s best friend. He was, in fact, hilarious. She and I were in her basement, awaiting the arrival of the boys, who were 10th-graders as opposed to our 9th-grade selves. Her Hitler-youth-looking boyfriend came down like a normal, strong-jawed person. There was a pause.

And then my future boyfriend quite intentionally tumbled down the stairs to make his big entrance.

I also remember that night, he was over by a deck of cards. “God, I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he said, scratching his arm furiously. “I might have the 7 of Clubs itch.” And then the 7 of clubs fell out of his shirt.

(I probably should have just stuck with him. He also came over once, on his way to the mall or something, and I told him to stay a minute, because my mother was on her way home and had wanted to meet him. He went to the bathroom, where my mother always hung her nightgown on the back of the door. My mother came home, and he emerged from the bathroom. In her nightgown.)

We dated I think four months and then it was over. He was my Facebook friend for awhile and maybe two years ago he unfriended me; I’ve no idea why.

After that, I fell in love with Giovanni Leftwich, my one high school boyfriend. Do you watch Victoria? He was a lot like Albert, with the intensity and brooding and floppy hair and so on. When I wasn’t with him, I was dating my other high school boyfriend, Cardinal. The least-intense person on our planet.

Neither of those worked out. They were both Facebook friends, until Giovanni quit Facebook. He can be found on Broodbook.

The last semester of high school, I met a Catholic boy, who went to the Catholic school where all the kids seemed rich but in retrospect weren’t, and we dated for two years. We went to the same college (his stupid idea), and he ended up sleeping with one of my high school friends, a girl who had also slept with Cardinal.

She’s still my Facebook friend.

Then I met Marvin, and originally that didn’t work out either, although I was berserk

BER
SERK

about him. We dated for three terrible months in college (I Yoko’d him and he was indifferent),

John-and-Yoko

and then we got back together 10 years later and married in 1998.

That decade between Marvins, 1986–1996, was full of a lot of relationships that…didn’t work out. The artist with long hair. The smoker with long hair. The recently-separated photographer. The drummer with curly long hair. The poet with long hair. The filmmaker with regular hair. (Oh my god, every one of those men are my Facebook friend. Facebook is my elephant’s graveyard.)

Then I met Marvin again, we got married, and?

It didn’t work out. It took almost 16 years to not work out, but it didn’t.

Then six years ago, I met Ned. We all know how that went.

I don’t know if you’ve noticed that lately I’ve had a dearth of dates. I think the last date I had was four months ago.

I’ve been kind of doing so on purpose (not entirely), but lately, I’ve been deciding something.

I give up.

Not in a bad way, not in a defeated way, and maybe not permanently, but for now?

I give up.

Ever since I fell in love with Giovanni Leftwich in late December of 1981,

OH WHAT A NIGHT. LATE DECEMBER BACK IN ’63. WHAT A VERY SPECIAL NOT-EVEN-A-FETUS-YET TIME FOR ME. AS I REMEMBER WHAT A NIGHT.

Anyway.

Ever since then, I’ve been chasing that feeling. Because when I fell in love with stupid mean Giovanni Leftwich, I was on top of the world. And then I crashed to a halt when he broke up with me three weeks later.

And it’s been the same way ever since. I fall in love, I’m on top of the world, then boom. Failure. And I spend all my time obsessing about when I’ll meet the next person, then I do, and I start all over again.

The thing is, this last relationship was so all-consuming that, well, when I think about it, I guess I’m sorta traumatized. And here I am, 52, I’ve pretty much lost m’looks, and even if I were the hottest 52-year-old ever, 52-year-old men want to date 35-year-old women, because to tell you the truth, in my experience, men kind of suck.

So lately I’ve been noticing that I’m not dating anyone, haven’t for awhile, and I’ve been perfectly fine. I’m not lonely. I’m not crying into my giant pillow. I’m not requesting Nothing Compares to You on the radio.

I remember one of you telling me once, in the comments, how you were in, like, 7th grade, and you had the radio play Nothing Compares to You, because clearly nothing was going to compare to the boy you dated for 9 days in 7th grade.

I’m kind of sick of the up-and-down-ness of it, and of how annoyed I get with the person when he inevitably disappoints me. I sort of don’t want anyone else’s actions to determine if I have a good day or year.

I’ve got no trouble heading to the movies by myself if I feel like going at the last minute. Last night, I spent an hour on the phone with Alicia. It’s not like I don’t have anyone to talk to. I have all you guys!

So that’s what I’m doing. I’m giving up. I haven’t set a lot of rules for myself about this. But mostly I’m just not going to try to do things so that I “meet people,” which has worked zero since I moved here, because see above re 52 and lost her looks and 80-year-old men hitting on 25-year-olds.

I’m not going to keep track of “how long” it’s been since I had a boyfriend, and I couldn’t tell you that anyway, since Ned and I were so nebulous for so long.

My plan is to, oh, life my life without thinking about men and when am I gonna meet a man and

OH,

I do have one rule.

When I’m out with my friends, and the conversation turns to our single status, I’m putting the kibosh on it. No more long nights discussing why this one didn’t like us and why that one would be perfect if only he…whatever. Men never do that. When men are together, I imagine they talk about sports and music and spitting. But if you have a man in your life, go ahead. Ask him how often he and his friends talk about their relationships. Ima guess almost never.

I just feel like for the last few years, I’ve been swimming upstream, hoping to meet someone at this late stage of the game, and the truth of the matter is, most of the men I’ve met are broken in ways that I don’t want to deal with. If a man is middle-aged and single, it’s not because he’s fantastic and undiscovered.

Same with me. I think maybe my flaws are just not conducive to being in a relationship. So I won’t be.

And that’s that.

And I realize we’re hovering on too late, but could you try to stop me from becoming a cat lady?

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wutz?

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Singly,

June

 

 

Give June a doll box from 1972, and you’ve given her the world

I just heard myself tell the dog, “I just washed that floor,” as he skidded in with muddy paws, and now I have officially become my mother.

Then I realized that no, I actually did not wash this floor this weekend, making me officially my grandmother when the dementia set in.

I did wash a lot of floors, though, as folk were traipsing in and out of this abode all weekend to peer at little cats. And I’ve noticed a lot of willy-nilly use of the word “catten” around here, lately, so let’s review.

IMG_4243.jpgThis is a kitten.

IMG_4225.jpgSo is this.

IMG_4231.jpgNot a trick–also a kitten.

IMG_4274.jpgCAT. Now with catnip!

IMG_4220.jpgKittens with a cat.

IMG_4278.jpgKitten. By the way, if you don’t want litter every fucking where, don’t get that Feline Pine. I’ve already replaced it, after spending 394949394 hours sweeping, including sweeping the dog bed, an indignity I did not foresee.

Anyway, back to our review.

IMG_4258.jpgKittens.

IMG_4275CAT. He truly enjoyed his first foray into the ‘nip. You’ll be stunned to hear he’s kind of a mean drunk, with the swinging at me, a behavior that he does not usually indulge in, except with Ned. He always swung at Ned.

Anyway, none of what you just saw were cattens. CATTENS, which I believe is an official made-up term, are almost-grown kittens, like when you have, say, an eight-month old kitten. They’re almost there, in full-grown bitchy catness (see directly above) but not quite there. They’re still a bit gangly.

To sum, my house has a lotta fucking cats in it right now. And yes, I swept up that catnip along with the eleventy pounds of Feline Pine.

This is a video that Alex took, when she was here this weekend, and you will note the Feline Pine ON MY BOOTS. I was Feline-n-Boots.

IMG_4239.jpgAlso arriving this weekend were Chris and Lilly and their offspring, which the kittens were fine with and Edsel wasn’t. At one point, he leaped behind me to hide when a child had the nerve to look at him.

I haven’t had this many visitors in my room in one weekend since college.

I’ll be here all week.

Note I spent all that money on fabric propped up, there, and have never recovered my chair. What the hell is wrong with me?

I left the house only sporadically this weekend, because kittens. Dragged self to that Daniel Day Lewis movie, the one that’s nominated for Best Picture. What the hell’s it called? Anyway, it was good, and weird, which are my favorite kinds of films, but DDLewis annoys.

It just bugs me how everyone goes on about what a fabulous actor he is, and how for three months he just was Abraham Lincoln and so forth. Oh, shut up. Stop being fucking Abraham Lincoln. Just pretend. It’ll have the same effect. No one wants to deal with you going around being Abraham Lincoln, you self-important twit who plays house for a living.

Oh, your craft. Fuck you.

Anyway, so I went to the movies. Saw Daniel Day Lewis. He was a dress designer this time. Do you think he went around making dresses all day, like when we had Fashion Plates?

Screen Shot 2018-01-29 at 8.03.42 AM.pngThat’s some outfit she’s designing. “Yes, I envision a patchwork jumper, with a fine school-bus-orange scoop-neck T under it.”

3ed464f129504811f4c56ecbbdcf791f--childhood-toys-childhood-memories.jpgAlso, while I was up, Googling, “What the hell was that dress-designing toy I had when I was a kid?” I came across this motley crew. I think I had that box, and I’m not sure why, because my Free-to-be-You-and-Me-As-Long-As-You’re-a-Feminist mother was not all that keen on me having Barbie-esque things, which made them all the more tempting. But first of all, which one’s Dawn, and where did she get these jakey friends?

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We’ve got the Hungover, Walk-of-Shame friend.

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Cross-Eyed, Dude-That’s-a-Shirt-Not-a-Dress friend.

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Slept-With-Santa-Souvenir-Belt-n-Boots friend.

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Experimenting-With-Lesbianism friend, whose wellies I do admire.

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Cockeyed-Boobs friend, now with parentheses hair.

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Could this be Dawn? Because she looks like someone who’s rethinking her choices.

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“Jesus, what cockamamie sorority am I even in? Fucking Ken and his goddamn roofie.”

I like how the girls on the box have nothing to do with these yahoos out front. And who’s the fruitcake on guitar? Oh, I see. He’s eyeing up ol’ Snappy Dancer, on the right. Ascot flying. You know you got a live one when his ascot goes flying.

I’m sorry. I may need to reenact all the girls’ dance moves.

Photo on 1-29-18 at 8.17 AM #3.jpgphoto-on-1-29-18-at-8-17-am-4.jpgPhoto on 1-29-18 at 8.18 AM #2.jpgOh, by the way, I couldn’t find the pajama bottom that matched this top, nor the top that matched this bottom, so I said fuck it and wore this to bed. You’re welcome.

Also, the webcam reversed all the moves, which I guess I should have figured out, but spatial relations. So.

Well, it’s been a pleasure, and I’m glad I stuck to one subject and did not at all get distracted. That’s what matters. Also, I kept my dignity.

Your friend of Dawn,

June

Perhaps felines are mentioned briefly

Awhile back, I went to the animal shelter for fun, because I’m the only person in America who goes to the animal shelter for fun. Others play softball. At least that’s what I imagine the normal folk do.

They had a banner up: Fosters for Puppies and Kittens Needed.

It was like the best sentence of my life, along with Free Lipstick, No Purchase Necessary. Which isn’t really a sentence. Neither was “fosters for puppies and kittens needed.”

The best sort-of sentence of my life, along with “I’m Morris Chestnut and I need a woman to climb up on me.” Which actually was a sentence.

Also, hi, mom.

The point is, I volunteered. Not for puppies ALTHOUGH I WOULD. But it seemed like bringing back a puppy carcass, just sort of leaning it on their doorframe, isn’t what they had in mind at the animal shelter.

Last month, I fostered an orange and white kitten named Jodie Foster.

IMG_2954.jpgShe was MEANT to stay in the back bedroom, but that did not happen.

IMG_2938.jpgFortunately, she was a big hit with everyone here. And when she was ready to be adopted, she found a home that same day.

The point of fostering is you take home kittens who aren’t ready yet–they’re too young, they have an upper respiratory thing, that sort of snafu.

IMG_4169.jpgMy current crop, that I got yesterday, is too young. They’re jailbait. That is a disgusting term.

Anyway, I have a mom cat, Nancy,

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#%&&#*
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She gots ear tuftses
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#@@%&!!

and her four babies. The shelter already named them, so all my brilliant Nancy-related names were for naught.

IMG_4042.jpgThe black one is a girl, named Trixie. Because apparently she’s a waitress at a truck stop in the ’50s. Despite this dramatic photo, she is the most laid back one.

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trixeee really do be

IMG_4157.jpgIMG_4166.jpgLexi is gray with some butterscotch, and if anyone is going to wander off on her own, it’s she. She doesn’t need anyone. Well. For like 15 seconds at a time. Then she does.

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lexeee leeving soon

Below is Vicki, a tortoiseshell.

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wat that meen?

IMG_4021.jpgI got the kittens at lunch–screamed down to the shelter, got them all in a carrier, screamed home and set them up in their room, then screamed back to work, where while I was gone I had gotten two will-take-hours jobs that both needed to be done before 4:00. Relaxing. The point is, when I got home–and oh my god I could not wait to get home–Vicki, the little tortoiseshell, was having titty dinner with her mom. On this chair that is fur-free. Good lord.

That’s what my gramma called it. Titty dinner.

When I was a kid, I was friends with a girl named Vicki, and this is all so odd. Because when I was up there describing how I could not wait to get home, this memory flashed, of playing in the backyard at Vicki’s. Her dad owned a business in the back of their house–I think they still do. They had this little building in the way-back part of their yard.

They hired an assistant, this young girl who happened to live next door in a big pretty house they’d turned into apartments. I know she lived there with her boyfriend, and I don’t recall how I knew that. Did he work at that place in the backyard, too? And did they get the jobs first and happen to find a place next door, or did they live next door and happen upon these jobs? These Qs burn in my brain.

The point is, Vicki and I were playing in her yard when that woman got out of work, and she TORE across the backyard to her boyfriend. She didn’t even notice us; she was all aglow, looking over at their house, and you could tell she just couldn’t WAIT to get home. She ran right past us and The Sunshine Family.

That was what I thought of yesterday at work when I was toiling, knowing there were kittens at home. How I just wanted to stare at my house as I ran home. And then I looked up this kitten’s name on the papers I have, and it’s Vicki.

Clearly I am psychic. Or something.

img_4162.jpgimg_4059.jpgAnyway, this is Matt. He’s the only boy in this scenario. He seems pretty fearless, and after you’ve lived with all girls, you’d be fearless too. Actually, is that second picture Lexi? Oh my god, who knows. KITTENS.

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god, foster mom
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GOD, FOSTER MOM

Anyway, pretty much all I want to do is look at kittens.

Today, when I went in there to feed the mom cat, all four kittens came tearing out the door at once. I was literally herding cats.

Steely Dan, who had some suspicions already, happened to be looming largely in the hall when it happened.

He was not amused.

Oh, he’ll come around. I’m not worried. But right now, he’s huffed outside with his ears back.

Meanwhile, all boopy kittens are safely back in their room, with a pillow in that space under the door, the way I jerry-rigged it when Jodie Foster was here, so they don’t escape.

I will talk at you soon, but meanwhile, won’t you enjoy some vicious cat fights?

Insane cat lady-ly,

Jooon

Toot toot, heyyyy, beep beep

Perhaps you’re wondering where I am. Perhaps you’ve gone about your day and you don’t care where I am. Perhaps you’ve been desperately wishing for my death. Whatever with you.

At 2 o’clock this morning, I was fast asleep like a normal person. Edsel was sleeping with me, as he is wont to do. We were doing great until we heard

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP

And also, BEEP.

It was my cacophony of smoke alarms. They were all going off, but not like a siren, just that terrible high-pitched, birdlike beep that they only seem to do in the dark of night, sort of like how you only seem to get diarrhea at three in the morning.

And they weren’t going off simultaneously. One would beep, then the other would answer. Like that duet between Peabo Bryson and Roberta Flack.

Dear June: Do you know what’s sad? Is that you remember the name Peabo Bryson. But just try to remember one single thing from pre-algebra.

The problem is, like that wasn’t problem enough, Edsel is terrified of the smoke alarms. So when they all started beeping at each other and having some sort of high-tech Close Encounters of the Third Kind communication, he begin trembling.

Not only did he begin trembling, he decided lying directly on my head would be his only source of comfort.

So then I had

Beep!

Beep!

Beep!

Peabo Bryson!

And 50 pounds of shaking dog on my skull. What I’m saying to you was last night was relaxing.

It didn’t take me long to figure out that the reason my alarms were beeping at me was not just because I am on God’s list of horrific people, but also because I was out of power. I could hear that it was raining outside, but so what? Why should that make us not have any power?

Nevertheless, here it is midmorning the next day, and I still do not have any power. I am working from home, because I cannot shower or dry my hair. The really good news is that I’ve gotten a shit-ton done. I’ve had no distractions.

When I first got out of bed today, after last night’s beep fest (eventually they stopped beeping. I guess they got bored or passed out or they were just plain beep) (what do you want from me? I had a vibrating dog on my head all night), I had a few minutes of panic when I realized I could not make coffee.

But look who’s resourceful? I french pressed. Oui!

Anyway, I know they’re out there working on getting my power back, because this morning there were several men in my backyard. It was almost like God has answered my prayers, if I weren’t on God’s list of shitty people.

That’s a mighty hard hat you’ve got there, Mister.

“Hey, June, is that a face on your tree?”

So that’s what’s new with me. You’d think I’d be empowered, what with all those women marching and so on. But no.

I’ll write tomorrow, when I hope to charge forth energetically. There will be electricity between us. My post will be so great that there will be a surcharge.

Again, beeping and shaking dog hat. This is the best I can do today.

Powerlessly,

June

The Perfect Day

Saturday was, like, perfect. Except there was no sex. But what’re you gonna do? I’m old. Those days are over. Now I’m depressed. Fuck Saturday. So to speak.

Anyway, when I woke up, it was warm-ish out. Like, in-the-’50s warmish. Which was lovely, considering I had been living inside a snow globe for the past three days. I’d been living in a window display of Santa’s wonderland. I was like Disner on Ice.

Disner is my old married name. That was only funny if you knew that.

So I woke up, and Dear June: We’re four paragraphs in and you’re not even out of bed yet.

IMG_3848.jpgIt’s Throwback Monday here on the PieBook. It’s Moronic Life Choices Monday.

This photo is from Friday night, and DEAR JUNE NOW WE’RE GOING BACK IN TIME YOU ASSHOLE.

On Friday night, I met Ned, my ex, NedEx, for a drink because Friday was the anniversary of our first date. At that same place. On those same barstools. We’ve returned every year, except for last year when we weren’t speaking. I had a whiskey sour, same as I had on our first date, and Ned had a Glenlivet on the rocks, which he did not have on our first date but in the past six years he’s become a fancy president and probably has to do things like drink Glenlivet as part of his responsibilities.

Anyway, it was without incident. He had a cold. I don’t even think we hugged in the parking lot at the end.

You know what I don’t want any more of? Being distracted. The whole time I was with Ned, I was preoccupied with anxious thoughts. Is this guy gonna answer my initial Hello email on OK Cupid?

Is he going to ask me out?

Is he ever going to answer that last email I sent?

When am I gonna see him again?

Why isn’t he ready to be exclusive? I certainly am.

Why won’t he tell me he loves me?

Is he ever going to want to see me more than twice a week?

Is he ever going to want to move in with me?

And so on. The whole time.

Now? I mostly think, Should I get up and drive to the cupcake place? Like, that’s the most pressing thought I have. It’s so …relaxing.

By the way, I never do. The cupcake place is pretty much two minutes from my front door and the last time I went there was when my mother was in town in July. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, either. But I like the idea that it’s over there. Cupcakes are just a short drive away.

IMG_3855.jpgWhen I got home from my controversial drink, this was happening. Old Batsheba, here, was up to no good.

Anyway, I GOT UP on Saturday (Oh dear God, June) and it was warmish, so the pets and I played in the yard.

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goddammitz

IMG_3864.jpgWow. Look at all that frolicking. They play the way I did as a child. Stand there and wait till you can go back in and watch Bugs Bunny. Okay, so I didn’t capture much play. TRUST ME.

Also, I would like to heartily embrace my lawn guys for moving that chair just into a random spot in the yard like that. I’ve moved it back to its rightful place, to get snowed on in a tidy spot.

I headed out to eat lunch, because who is sick of Lean Cuisine, and when I did, I popped into this little boutique that I always walk past and never go into. It was cute, and two rooms large, and of course I was the only person in there, and

Dear People Who Own or Work at a Store:

Don’t follow the shopper. Don’t follow her and tell her all the specials you’re having. I guarantee you if the person is a bargain shopper, she’ll ask, or look at the signs. And that whole, “Oh, I just happen to be over here admiring our backless dresses at this rack” is fooling no one. Do I LOOK like a shoplifter?

Oh, god, maybe I do.

Anyway, this prompted me to shop in a million little stores Saturday, and I bought nothing, because please see last weekend’s shoe extravaganza. Still, it was fun to browse.

 

When did I become someone who “browses”? For reading glasses?

THE POINT IS, one of the places I wandered into is a lash place? Where they do tinting and extensions?

Dudes. I thought that was all they did. Turns out, they do Botox and micro-needling and all that bullshit I love to do to myself! And they’re as close as the cupcake place! And, AND, I asked about micro-needling, and they told me what it did, and then said, “That’s not something you really need.” So I trust them, as well.

Ima be Norm on Cheers at that place. Oh my god. Exciting.

Then I headed to the local pet supply place (okay, that was a funny blog post I just linked to. Say, June, up in yourself much?) to get Eds a new collar. His is getting mighty dingy, and who decided cloth collars were a stellar idea for dogs, who roll in red dirt and squirrel bits and so on?

IMG_3888.jpgAt the pet place, they were having kitten rescue day, and the rescue thing appeared to be put on by a fraternity. I say this because the front of the store was teeming with fraternity boys behind a table. And it was an…African American fraternity. What I’m saying to you is I walked into young hot men of color holding kittens.

“Did you DIE and go to HEAVEN?” asked my mother, when I stampeded to call her.

“Well, we know heaven is out of the question,” I said, admiring young boys like the Elizabeth Smart perv I am.

I know it wasn’t Elizabeth Smart who married her student. What the hell was that woman’s name? She married that kid, and he had a Hawaiian-sounding name like Lava Hulu PooPoo or something. The only other name I can think of is Casey Anthony, and I know that’s wrong too.

Hell. The good news is, Lava Hulu PooPoo is an excellent cat name.

When I got home from my shopping extravaganza, there was a couple looking at Peg’s house, with the man in the couple’s dad along to do dad things like look in the crawl space. Do you know what my dad would never do?

I’d heard someone had bought that house, but maybe it fell through. I don’t know. The point is, they wanted to know things about the house and neighborhood, and just as I was assuring them the ‘hood was great, we all looked up.

IMG_3880.jpgBecause this was happening.

When I’d pulled out of my driveway Saturday morning, I’d noticed how all the other roofs in my neighborhood were lovely; so perfectly snow-covered. Except mine. Mine was riddled with paw prints.

I’m surprised theirs weren’t, too. I’ve seen this cat on every roof on my side of the street thus far.

“If you move in, I hope you like cats,” I told the people.

“Well, we’ve got a Doberman,” they said, because apparently they are Shaft in 1972. “But he loves cats.”

That is exactly what Steely Dan needs: To leap onto Peg’s roof and have a Doberman smiling up at him. That’ll show him.

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I was all set to stay in after that, and play with my app, have it tell me how much I look like a man, or Andy Gibb, when something on my phone popped up telling me about Ultherapy near me for 25% off.

I am not kidding. First of all, how creepy are our phones now. Secondly, you know I’ve been obsessed with saving that damn $3,000 ever since I came up with the idea to get Ultherapy. I called the number, and they had a free consultation that same day, at 5:00. So I left the house, put air in my tire (this is yet another thing I’ve learned to do while single. Change doorknobs, kill roaches, and now put air in m’tires. At this point I might as well become a welder) and screeched over there on my air-filled tires.

But you know what? Even though I’d save money at this new place? I didn’t trust them. It seemed like kind of a sales factory, whereas the other place had a nurse take me in and tell me details, and show me photos and so on, this place was all, “Come in. How you paying?”

So I demurred.

But THEN, I got home, and I got the mail. And for no reason I can think of other than they’re bored with my lack of activity, my credit card company sent me some of those goddamn checks. You know the checks I mean?

When I paid off all my cards this past summer, I gave them all to my mother, so I can’t use them. I saved only my vet credit card (Care Credit) just in case something happens, which it always does, to one of the pets.

But here was a regular card company, saying, “Use these checks for anything!”

Remember that time Jesus was up on that rock or whatever? He always seemed to be hanging out on some rock somewhere. I guess there wasn’t a lot of development yet. He was never hanging at Orange Julius Caesar or whatever.

Anyway, remember when he got tempted? That’s how I felt when I had those checks after I’d just been to the Ultherapy place. Mother of GOD, I could just use these checks!

Remember that time June compared herself to Jesus?

Anyway, if you’re asking WDJD (What Did June Do?), I ripped up said checks. Now I’m stuck with this haggard face till I save $3,000, so thanks a lot.

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how old you eben BE? how yuu still alibe?

So that was my perfect Saturday. Sans sex.

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On Sunday, I went to a French movie, and I was the only person in the theater, which is why I could take a picture of said movie. I know you’re stunned that the French folk were smoking. Right after, those French folk were fucking. No wonder they stay so thin. That’s all they ever do.

There are never any shower scenes.

IMG_3943.jpgAfter, I bought myself some SweetTart hearts at the Rite Aid, and ate so many that I scraped up the inside of my mouth. I feel like you never hear French women say this. These SweetTarts have [burst] no artificial flavors [burst].

IMG_3940.jpgIMG_3933.jpgAfter my daily tending to Edsel, which includes letting him stare at me 40 hours a day, I took a “How’s Your Anxiety?” quiz, which maybe he should take. To get the results, you had to give them your name and email address, which bugs the shit out of me. It’s the equivalent of a store clerk following you around.

A few hours later, I got this email…

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Had totally forgotten I’d told them my name was Fuck You.

I am my own Valentine.

Anxiously,

June

June the snowflake

It snowed.

If you’ve read me for awhile, you’ll know that (a), that means work was called off, although we are expected to “work from home,” and I remember a really bad storm two years ago where I proofread a giant deck–giant–and just as I was finishing it, Iris stepped on my laptop and erased all the changes I had made.

And that is why Iris is mounted on my wall today.

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shut upz

(Also, a deck is a presentation. It is important to never call anything by its name.)

This, by the way, is how Ms. Iris has spent her snow day, aka all days. Her big-game-hunting seems to have dwindled, although to her credit, now when I see something dead on my doorstep–mice, a bird, a hobo–I just assume Steely Dan killed it. I also assume he, and not video, killed the radio star.

I don’t give poor Iris any credit anymore. However, see above. How can she kill things if she’s nodded out on the horse or whatever is going on with her and all cats who can’t seem to stay awake more than 20 minutes at a stretch.

Anyway, they warned us snow was coming, and when did weather get to be such an exact science? Remember in the old days and all the jokes about the weatherman being wrong? Now it’s all, “Snow will begin in your zip code at 4:49 a.m.”

But anyway, yes, they warned us it was coming, so I left work on time-ish and dashed on over to daycare to get my child.

IMG_3678.jpgCareful readers will note the ears in the window, and how did he KNOW it was me? It was 5:30 on a Tuesday; every motherfucker on god’s green was coming to get his or her dog, but old Ears up there…maybe that’s why. Maybe the ears tipped him off. He could hear my thoughts or whatever from Spain.

IMG_3674.jpgAnyway, my giant nose and I got him home and at some point I turned into a Rembrandt with that collar. I guess it’s a scarf. Still.

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Let’s gather thou things and get thou home, Edsel

I made an enormous pot of pumpkin chili on Monday, because you know what a chef I am, and yes, I just linked to a recipe. Who even am I?

Anyway, I knew I was okay with food in case I had a long winter like Laura Ingalls Wilder. And also like Laura, in her hit book Little Movie at the Shopping Center, I had the dilemma: Should I go to the movies with The Poet as we’d planned, and risk opening the theater doors afterward to see that we lived in a snowglobe?

I sound like a movie trailer. In a world

IMG_3679.jpgBut because she is from Iowa and I am from Michigan, we decided to not be a couple of pussies, and we applied the same logic to the size of our popcorn. You’ll be stunned to hear we had some left over.

“Well, I didn’t know you’d eat five pieces and be done,” said The Poet, who apparently really is one of those “where does she put it all” kinds of people, because she gave that bucket the college try and she weighs about 72. Lithe, is what she is. And also currently full of popcorn.

Anyway we saw Lady Bird, and I will not bore you with the fact that we liked it, as everyone likes it, and I wish I could be rebellious and say, “Not enough titties” or whatever, but I cannot. As it was a sweet movie.

IMG_3683.jpgThen I got up today, as per usual, and kind of forgot it was supposed to have snown–yes, snown–and went about my normal business, such as navigating the Cat Calcutta that is my hallway first thing.

IMG_3689.jpgBut I opened the blinds, and I was all, Oh, yay! I forgot that it was supposed to have snowded. Then I checked m’phone and Oh, yay! Work is canceled. Then I checked it further, and Oh, boo. We are expected to work anyway.

So I’m constantly checking my phone to see if work is streaming in, which really cockblocks my original plans of Bailey’s and hot chocolate all day.

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not so much wif dis bullchit

So, as I was saying 47 paragraphs ago, if you’ve read me awhile, you’ll know snow means I don’t have to go to work and also winter frolic pictures will occur.

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offend delicate sense biliteeez
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one dignity shot

IMG_3714.jpgIMG_3712.jpgIMG_3716.jpgIMG_3711.jpgMeanwhile, back inside my ranch, and that joke never gets old, Steely Dan was torn between wanting to venture outside and being highly offended that something outside kept making his paws cold.

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da fuk?

IMG_3724.jpgI was in the kitchen, doing dishes because hey, dishwasher that works, and Steely Dan kept opening the damn back door, going out, trying to walk on everything that wasn’t snowy, then coming back in getting bored and doing it all over again. I’d have snapped his neck had it not been sort of cute.

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get steeeellle fone. he going to menshun dis on next door. dis abominaa shun.

IMG_3740.jpgHe also begged to go out the front, as if maybe it hadn’t snowed in the front yard.

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goddammitz
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Coming home in defeat.

I wonder how many people are waiting for (b). See first paragraph. Then remember whose not-blog you are reading.

There you go.

Your Ice Princess,

June Cassadine

Your Terrible Flaw

Yesterday, or whenever the hell I last wrote to you, I mentioned a very fake hissing noise that actors make only during dirty movies and no other time. Faithful Reader Steve, who I know in real life, told me he didn’t know what I was talking about. He accused me of watching snake porn.

If that is really a thing, I know for a fact that faithful reader Tee has never ever watched it. For she hates a snake.

Also, I am speaking into my phone during my lunch break and do not have time to go back and capitalize “faithful” and “reader.”

Anyway, behold a video of me making the fake sucking-in-through-your-teeth noise that they make only in dirty movies and no one ever makes in real life.

Also, my nose is so horrendous. Seriously, that thing belongs in a museum. Or the Guinness book of world records or something. Speaking into my phone is almost not even a time-saving device, so often do I pause and see things I want to go back and edit, like capping “book” and “world” and “records.”

I went to see the movie I, Tonya this weekend. Did I tell you that? It’s really good. I have also recently seen the shape of water, which I’m certain my phone also will not capitalize so please capitalize it in your head. This entire process is likely to give me a hive.

Tonight, The Poet and I are going to see Lady Bird. What I’m saying to you is I’ve been seeing a lot of movies lately. Good movies, I think.

I have to go back to work now, although I am taking Edsel to dog daycare for the afternoon. Let’s see if he wants to go…

That’s a yes.

Before I leave you, let me ask you something: Is there anything about yourself that you think is sort of crazy or shameful that you try to hide in the hope people don’t realize?

For me, it’s definitely my screwed-up relationships with men. When I was in my teens and 20s and I was dating, I kind of thought these were normal things that happened in relationships. I would be with someone, and feel obsessed and crazy, thinking that whatever man I was with would stop loving me, or would go away, or was cheating on me in some way.

Then we would break up and I would be obsessed and depressed and hysterical, till I met someone else. Then the whole thing would start again.

At the time, I wrote it off to my youth. And I figured everyone had relationships the way I did.

Then I met Marvin, and I didn’t feel that way at all. I completely trusted him and felt completely sure of myself. So when you all met me here on my blog, I was like a sane person. I was sane the entire time I was married. I mean, I could feel the shift in my head. My thoughts didn’t race or anything.

I think I was under the impression that I had grown out of being a crazy person in relationships, but then I got divorced and here it is all over again. I am the same crazy person, just older.

This is my secret thing that I think is crazy and shameful about me and that I hope people don’t figure out.

The part where I’m just up and telling you about it is the part where I’ve decided that’s bullshit. This is my flaw. If this is the worst thing about me, then so be it.

I’m June, and my love relationships are unmanageable. Hi, June.

But does everyone else feel this way? Do you have a thing that you think is sort of awful about you and you hope no one sees it? If so, what is it?

I have to go. Edsel’s singing songs and carrying signs in an attempt to get me to take him to dog daycare.

When I get to work, I will put the webcam link to him playing in the comments.

See you at the snake porn theater. Where we’ll all enjoy Splendor in the Asp.

June

Whole lotta leopard

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wut??

What I admire about Edsel is his unencumbered ability to release 20 seconds of stepped-on-a-duck-sounding gas with nary a flinch.

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edz chillz

I have today off, and yet I am still here, in my leopard footie pajamas, talking to you. I’m supposed to be sitting around thinking about Martin Luther King. Who was something of a philanderer despite all the good he did, and I’ve been thinking about how you can admire people who were also terribly flawed. Like, you know, Woody Allen. I can’t help it; I still like his movies.

Other than those deep thoughts, I spent the weekend spending money I don’t have. I was in a sad bra situation. Steely Dan had, of course, eaten the strap of my favorite one, and my next-favorite was coming apart, so you could see the innards of that bra, which was appealing. Then I have like four uncomfortable ones that make me want to kill myself and give me a rash.

So I went to Soma and found one style I like, after getting measured by the young thing there. A lot of her job is looking at strange women’s jugs. She not only measured me, she came into the room about 46 times and said things like, “You’ve got good lift with this one.”

It was almost a dirty movie except for where we didn’t kiss or make that stupid hissing though our teeth noise that people make always during dirty movies and never in real life. Also, “dirty movies.” Okay, grandma.

IMG_3614.jpgFrom Soma, I noted that you could walk right over to the Chicos next door, without going outside, so right then I knew: Chicos and Soma are somehow related. Like how they found out that Julia Child and Marilyn Monroe are seventh cousins or whatever.

I have always said that if I get so middle-aged that I start popping into Chicos, you know my days of being cool are over for me. I’d like everyone who knew me in my 20s to abstain from pointing out that I have not for one minute been cool.

But really. Back when I used to go shopping, I’d scream into The Gap, Express and J Crew, which just now as I wrote that I realize I solidified that “not for one minute cool” thing.

Now I go into those stores of yore and I’m all, What’s with these weird shirts? Why aren’t there purple mock turtlenecks and black miniskirts like there used to be?

So I went to Chicos. Chicos, don’t be discouraged. I am pleased to say I did not purchase anything, although I did give those leopard pants up there some of my time and thought, which detracted from thinking about Martin Luther King.

Because nothing says “I’m cool” like leopard pants from Chicos. I did not get them.

Then, as if I weren’t the poster child for menopause quite enough, I zipped on into Soft Surroundings.

“I might as well just finish off the day by buying some Replens,” I texted my Aunt Mary after I put on my readers, which I also might as well hang from a chain around my neck. Aunt Mary assured me I’d crossed over into middle age the second I darkened Chicos’… lack of doorstep. It’s weird when stores let you walk in from the other store like that.

I’ve given you an Amazon link using Replens, here, and you are welcome. I will be SHOVING AMAZON UP YOUR ASS LIKE I’M YOUR PERSONAL REPLENS for awhile, cause I’m trying to raise $3,000, and don’t let me forget to tell you why.

Oh my god, anyway. So I got m’bras, and then the other reason I wanted to shop was I really need more shoes that you wear when it’s actually cold out. I have some little ankle boots I bought in 2015 that are a little shoddy at this point, and some really old, maybe circa 2010 other boots that are just cat-fur boots at this point (I am literally puss in boots), and I wanted to upgrade from my Little “Got a Match?” Girl look I had going.

I shoe-shopped for 106 years, and here are the practical, keep-your-feet-warm shoes I decided on, brought to you from my footie pajamas.

IMG_3634.jpgSome blue flats with gold trim. Tensing Norgay wore these to climb Everest, so practical are they for winter.

IMG_3635.jpgAnd some darling little great-in-snow flats with a strap. Also I have to vacuum the closet, I see.

IMG_3616.jpgI also considered these. Not only are they perfect for cold weather, I can also wear them during all my curling matches.

When I wasn’t spending money I don’t actually have,

(Mother of god, click and go to Amazon and shop, please. Also, these are Ivanka Trump pumps. You’re welcome. Again.)

I was watching The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel on Amazon. Have you watched this show? It’s magnificent. And also…

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I was playing with an app called, you know, Google Arts & Culture. I tell you this because even though the image above reads, “Google Arts & Culture,” someone will say, “What the name of the app, JOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO” and then I will kill myself before we get to the N.

You go on the app and it asks you to take a selfie, then it finds art you look like. I like how this one, above, made me way hotter, and technically that’s apparently a boy. A boy who’s hotter than me.

IMG_3621.jpgOld Nose McGowan is more like it, sadly.

IMG_3625.jpgI also thoroughly enjoyed being compared to Jo the Beautiful Irish Girl. June, the Maybe a Six on a Good Day American Girl really enjoyed that.

Oh, but this brings me to my point. Hah. A friend of mine, and I won’t name names, had something done recently called Ultherapy. It’s like these pulses of heat they do to your face and it regrows collagen or something, and while I DO NOT SEEK ADVICE about whether I should get it or not, what I have to do now is save up to get it, and it’s three fucking thousand dollars.

See how mature? June COULD just charge it, but she isn’t, as JUNE WANTS HER COLLAGEN TO GROW. June is delaying her gratification and her collagen. June is going to bug the shit outta you to shop Amazon using her link. THERE IS ALWAYS A LINK AT THE SIDE OF MY BLOG if you’re on your desktop and at the bottom if you scroll for a hundred years if you’re here on your phone.

There is a woman who works for WordPress, who wrote me when I got here and said, “I will help you with all your WordPress needs” and mother of god, does she regret that. I’ve had many WordPress needs. Anyway, she’s gone way above and beyond for me, but neither she nor I can get that Amazon link to appear beautifully under each not-blog post when you’re looking on your phone.

And also, people are forever saying, “I clicked over to Amazon from June’s blog, but I’m not sure it worked.”

If you clicked on any image that I tell you is a link to Amazon, there is a little code that lets Amazon know you came from here, no matter where you go or what you buy. It “went through,” I promise. And I know you think I can see everything you buy, but here’s what it looks like when you buy something…

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There used to be a spreadsheet showing what, exactly, was purchased, in about 6-point font, but damned if I know how to get to that, and also hoooo care. So all your Replens purchases today will be unknown by me.

Anyway, you can see for the last month I’ve made a big $279, and that 383 of you clicked, which THANK YOU. So if I do that well each month (and I won’t because that was Christmas) and I freelance out my ass, I can get Ultherapy by, oh, 2019.

Goddammit.

Anyway, that’s my goal. Maybe I should set up one of those thermometers they use for fundraising.

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I like this one, that’s fairly pornographic. I wonder if the thermostat sucked in air through its teeth first.

I leave you now, mostly because it’s cold AF today and even though I’m in my footie pajamas, I have a chill. Maybe if I put on some of my new sensible shoes…

In search of collagen,

June

Chubby stick

Does anyone recall, in your giant calendar of June events, back in September when I’d lost 10 pounds?

Do you remember that?

I went to the local Pride parade, and I was gonna carry a sign of my own that read, “Lost 10 pounds.” Do you remember that?

October 1 was when I had the latest Ned debacle, and since then I’ve gained it all the hell back.

Goddammit.

So, tips, please. Diet tips.

Roundly,

Joooooooooon

I forgot a damn title

In case anyone was worried sick, my presentation went fine. I had to present to the rest of the creatives–that’s what they call us: “creatives.” I had to show the rest of the CREATIVES why copy editing is necessary and why it takes so damn long.

We copy editors get a lot of, “Can you look at this real quick?” which is just exactly the opposite of what we do, so no. We can’t.

For the presentation, I wrote The World’s Worst Paragraph, with every error, every fact you have to research, every is-this-written-in-the-client’s-voice issue, and all the first person/third person woes you can imagine, to show how just one paragraph might take us two hours to complete.

“Can you look at this real fast? Just do a quick read.” Madre de Dios.

Anyway, it went well, and people laughed, which was my goal. I even used Oprah’s “A new day is ON THE HORIZON” line, so yay. Everyone needs more Oprah impreshes.

IMG_3593.jpgI also forced all the other copy editors, or CEs, and we’re called amongst the CREATIVES, to wear black and red, the official colors of copy editing. Behold The Poet, who even threw in her bunny socks.

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I’ve fatted out of the red shirt I’d planned to wear, which was unwelcome news. But you see I made up for it in accessories.

The Poet is going to the opera, as opposed to the Oprah, this Friday. They stream New York operas to the movie theater, and you can buy a ticket for nine hundred dollars and watch at the movies. I’d expressed interest in it, but in a stunning display of How We Both Are, I can’t join The Fancy Cello-Playing Poet this weekend, because that day I have drag queen bingo.

So.

In other news, I have this one cat named Steely Dan.

IMG_3558.jpgHave you heard about him? For he is ridiculous.

So far this year, it’s been damn cold. Un-The-South-y cold. And the only good part of that is that my wandering Jew stays home.

Steely Dan is not, in fact, a Jew. I always thought Francis might be. Edsel sure is. Steely Dan is all Presbyterian. Maybe working-class Catholic. With zero guilt.

Anyway, he’s been home a lot due to the cold, playing with that giant computer box that he enjoys so much that I’m loath to put it away, and fetching his mice till they all disappear and I have to go buy new ones. It’s lovely having him here, like a wayward husband who has a broken collarbone and has to stay in or something.

The point is, he chews. He chews clothes. He’s a clothes chewer. I’ve never had a cat who did this, but I’ve had other cats who left their mother too soon (See: Jewish Francis) and developed other odd allegedly soothing habits. Fran liked to chew plastic, and also paw euphorically at it while swinging his head from side to side like Stevie Wonder. He’d even eat plastic.

You’ve no idea how many times that cat swished into a room with dry cleaner bags half out his ass. Well. Like, twice. After that we got rid of all dry cleaner bags as soon as they got to the house. Remember when we all had to dry clean everything?

Have I ever told you the “Hello, Garden?” story? It involves doing an impression of an Asian accent, after all that yesterday.

…Actually, there used to be a punchline to this story, but now so many years have passed that I can’t remember it. Still, I used to live in Seattle near this place called Ace Cleaner, which was technically Ace Cleaners but they’d always call themselves Ace Cleaner when they called. And called they did, as I was never getting my clothes once they were ready. Because cost.

As a busy important receptionist at the time, a welcome addition to my wealthy existence was having to dry clean business clothes, which I had to wear every day. I can wear jeans to work now, and it’s funny to think of the long purple blazers over long black skirts because hello ’90s, and also the black hose hose hose out my ass like Fran’s dry cleaner bags. So many pair of hose. We MAY have had casual Friday, but I don’t think so.

Anyway, I was forever taking stuff to Ace Cleaner and then getting the fairly annoyed call. “Hello, Garden. This Ace Cleaner. Your clothes are ready” answering machine message. Because hello ’90s.

They always called me by my last name, but slightly mispronounced. And then I’d go there and just pick up one item, as it was all I could afford. I’m certain I wasn’t annoying at all.

I think they paid me $21,000 a year at that job, and insisted I wear fancy clothes that needed to be dry cleaned. What a rip. They DID pay for my bus card every month, though, so that’s good.

Oh my god, anyway.

So of course we don’t KNOW what tragedy befell Steely Dan’s motherless self, but we DO know that those two adorable gay college students saw a teensy, barely able to walk yet, barely legal all nude Steely Dan was toddling up the sidewalk in the rain two summers ago. So he left mom at a young age for sure, and thank heavens those boys took him in and cared for him, not knowing he’d grow up to be a panther with commitment issues.

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steeeelee heer now. just enjoy momint.

So, whether it’s because his mom left too soon or he’s just a dick, Steely Dan eats clothes, a realization it took me awhile to have. I was all Ace Cleaner with my “just one” item of clothing suddenly having holes a’plenty, and I’d be all, that damn dryer.

That damn moth.

That damn hole punch I got stuck in and forgot.

Eventually I figured it out. I may have actually seen him ecstatically chewing chonies or whatever, but in general he tends to do his clothes chaw when I’m not around. It’s a private moment for The Dan.

So at this point, I’ve Anne Franked my clothes to the Nth degree. I hide the laundry baskets in the spare-room closet with the real door. Yes, he can open doors, but he hasn’t figured out that particular door contains a clothing smorgasbord yet.

I also keep my bedroom door shut AND a spare medicine cabinet–something we all have–shoved against the doors to the closet in there, as they are swingy, hello-I’m-in-a-Western double doors with no knob, for some reason.

Every once in awhile I’ll nap with the bedroom door open and I’ve heard from time to time a soft shove, and there SD will be, just starting to move the damn medicine cabinet to get to his closet.

Because the thing is, see, he loves my bedroom. It’s his home. It’s where he spent his childhood.

When he was a kitten, I kept him back in that room a lot. His canned kitten food was presented to him there, and while he ate, I had to shut the door so Edsel wouldn’t burst over and eat all the kitten food.

Then, unlike other kittens who’ve resided in my room, he was content to leap onto the rocking chair and just hang out alone rather than find a way to get back to all of us in the rest of the house. We matter little to SD, in the grand scheme. And now his goal in life is to reside in his old room, maybe casually meander to the food fest that is behind my swinging Western door closet.

So I’ve been careful to not let him have more clothes to eat, and I’ve even given him a whole SD Chewing Shirt that he’d already ruined. One month my Stitch Fix came, and I left it all in the box, and he got in there and helped himself to a whole shirt that I had to then buy already ruined.

So after I fed him poison razor blades and ran him over repeatedly with the car and he sprang back to life like the Friday the 13th guy, I gave him the damn shirt to chew at his leisure.

News flash: All the time, every moment, is Steely Dan’s leisure.

THE POINT IS, somehow this week, I left out ONE SOCK, one of my new soft Christmas socks with the rubbery stuff on the bottom so I don’t slide, and I discovered SD’s assigned shirt that he’d LEFT ALONE, next to my NEW SOCK chewed to bits.

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fuk yew

And that is why I drink.

Love,

Sockless June

P.S. My new computer has new effects on its webcam, a feature I’ve been wanting to show you and forget to show you. You know how I am. See above.

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Comic-book effect
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Andy Warhol effect
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Steely Dan is evil effect

World’s Worst Person Gets Her Nails Done

People at work have been talking about a new manicure procedure called SOS or S&M or whatever, and apparently it’s powder they dip your nails in to color them. Somehow this creates a manicure that keeps going for two weeks like a 17-year-old boy but allegedly isn’t as terrible for you as a gel manicure.

And that was the day June lost all her butch readers. And got arrested for pedophilia.

I remember one night, my high school boyfriend and I did it three times. THREE TIMES. I’m not talking 7 p.m., 1:00 in the morning and then at dawn. I’m talking, like, 8:00, 9:00 and then 10:00.

Hi, mom.

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Anyway. Powder manicures are fun till you add the “gelous base,” and then it’s all “Where were you?” “Who was that guy I saw you talking to?”

Given that I like to spend my spare time playing basketball and helping others, I hadn’t yet experienced the excitement of powder nails, nails that have to take a powder, but seeing as that $100 I won on New Year’s Day was burning a hole in m’Kate Spade,

[Dear June: Be more basic. Love, Universe]

I decided to take myself out on the town and get one. A powder manicure. Keep up. No, I HAVEN’T taken Ritalin today. What? God.

So Friday after work, I headed out on the town, the manicure-choices town. I’d had a very deep talk with the receptionist at work about which nail place we like to go to. There are a hundred within a three-mile radius of work, and they all have “Nail” in the title.

“I don’t mind Glamor Nail, but Celebrity Nail seems kind of cliquish,” said the receptionist, who prefers a french manicure, whereas I always want something dark and mysterious, to match my exotic nature. With m’Kate Spade wallet.

The point is, she’s right. Any time I’ve ventured into Celebrity Nail, the owner is trés gregarious, and I feel like his claim to fame there is kibitzing jovially with the clientele. Whereas the place I usually frequent, and “usually frequent” is not at all annoyingly redundant.

What? God.

The place I usually frequent, Elegant Nail & Tan (Slogan: We don’t actually offer tanning) has a quiet, businesslike owner who isn’t that outgoing but gives the best massages ever during the pedicure process. I always pray I get him, but usually I get a small, rather angry woman named “Stephanie.” (Slogan: Not remotely really named Stephanie.)

The receptionist and I agreed the only reason we really ever step foot in Celebrity Nail is because it’s closest to work. It’s similar to the Chinese place I get takeout from. (Slogan: Not good, but so close by.)

And that is how I found myself walking into Celebrity Nail on Friday night, because traffic was irkedly snarlsome, and so was I, and I could not possibly have withstood traffic for the four more minutes it’d have taken me to get to Elegant Nail & Tan.

I really love that they don’t offer tanning. It’s like my favorite thing ever. IT’S IN YOUR TITLE, but tan schman. Does anyone tan anymore? I guess people spray tan. Elegant Nail & (Spray) Tan. There you go.

SO THERE I WAS–God, June–at Celebrity Nail, and as usual, the owner was loudly joking with a few customers. I mean, that’s nice and all, but if you’re not a regular there, you can feel a tad left out. I’d never really put a name to that feeling till the receptionist mentioned it. That happens to me a lot, actually.

“Any time I talk to her, I end up feeling bad about myself,” someone once said to me about a mutual acquaintance, and OH MY GOD was that true, and I’d just gone around feeling vaguely bad with that acquaintance and not really acknowledging it.

“This kung pao chicken takes like root beer,” my college roommate’s boyfriend once said to me, as we were eating at this place I went to at least once a week. GODDAMMIT. I hadn’t acknowledged it till he labeled it.

So there I was Friday, finally noticing that this place made me feel kind of bad, and also kind of annoyed. I come to the manicure place to read celebrity gossip, and choose nail colors like I’m making Sophie’s Choice, and to generally sit quietly, which for me is pretty much always my goal.

I go to work hoping to always sit quietly and concentrate. I get my hair done hoping I can sit quietly and have my tresses colored. I want restaurants to be quiet. Maybe I should just isolate more.

The point is, as the evening wore on and I…sat quietly with the manicurist I was given, who had a terrible cold and was spending an hour basically holding my hands, so that was relaxing. As we were over there being quiet, I began to notice one insider over at the popular table was being more…attention-grabbing than the others.

I tried to sort of turn in my chair and see her, but I couldn’t even determine her race. All I saw was a rather thick woman, with dark hair, who based on the tenor of her voice was probably middle-aged. As opposed to how young and svelte I am. BUT AT LEAST I WAS SITTING QUIETLY.

The first thing I couldn’t help but overhear, because she was practically screaming into my soul, was that Red Bull, the energy drink? She alleged it was made from bull sperm. She’d been reading something from the internet, that reliable source, says June, typing at you from the internet.

“WELL. IT’S NOT THE FIRST SPERM I’VE DRANK,” she announced grammatically. Everything was an announcement with this one. I expected, when I turned to look at her, that she would be just a mike and a brick wall behind her. Tip your wait staff.

She started talking about a guy at work who was “Chinese,” and the owner of the salon pressed her for more info. Was he actually Chinese, or was she using that term universally? “What’s his last name?” asked the owner.

“I DON’T KNOW. CHIN?” she asked. And that is about the time my annoyance turned to searing white hate.

“What do you feed your kids?” she eventually asked the owner, who had been joking with her the whole time. “Rice and soy sauce? HA HA HA HA.”

Cold Hands the Mucus-y Manicurist and I exchanged glances.

“You know, everyone at work loves my Asian accent,” she said, and that is when my blood turned to ice. No. No, she’s not gonna…

She did. In a NAIL SALON, with 600 Asian people working there, this stupid white BITCH ASS (I’m assuming she was white. Again, I never saw her. Though in my mind I’d punched her 12 times in her phantom face already) did an ASIAN ACCENT.

She did.

At the nail salon.

My nails turned out just okay. There are some spots that didn’t take the clear coating, and I’m not sure if this is how S&M nails always turn out, or if my poor manicurist was sick and perhaps distracted by the BITCH-ASS RACIST in the nail place.

I do have to say that eventually the outgoing owner said to her, “That’s so racist.”

“No it isn’t,” she said. Because that gets to be up to her, and not the ASIAN PERSON she just mocked.

Maybe they should have two sections at salons: Women who want to talk endlessly and loudly, and a quiet section. A nice-people section and a racist section. A nail section and a tanning section.

Maybe people should just shut the fuck up.

 

Busy executive

I have to give a presentation today at work, so I’m distracted. But when I return to you, to your arms, where will hug in the dark of night, remind me to tell you about sitting next to The World’s Worst Person at the manicure place.

Demonstrably,

June

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Proofreader’s gang sign I made up. It’s a carat. Google fucking it. Also, note the remaining dregs of the Dean & Deluca candy ALWAYS NEARBY. Why so chubby, gansta?

Let’s look at June

Given that it’s Sunday and I’ve already finished preaching my sermon and all, I thought this might be a perfect time to round up all the stupid lipstick pictures I’ve taken, so we can see them all in one setting. Sitting. Whatever.

As you know, and have discussed with your families ad nauseam, I purchased a huge collection of Clinique Chubby Sticks last month, a purchase that was unnecessary and yet has provided all of us with hours of enjoyment.

“Mom, do we HAVE to all gather around and look at June’s daily lipstick picture?”

“Yes, Jeshosephat. It’s a crucial part of your book-learnin’.”

I took a photo of me with every color, I think, and here they all are. I think.

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Richer Raisin. Now with roots!
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Fuller Fig. Frosted follicles.
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Whole Lotta Honey. I’d rather be getting a whole lotta hiney.
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Graped Up. Where even am I in this shot? On a dollar bill?
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Curviest Carmel. This color stuck in my teeth. HAHAHAHAHAHA.
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Mega Melon. And melanoma, given my sun-damaged chestal region, there.
BroadestBerry.jpg
Broadest Berry. I look like a broad in this one. Don’t fuck with me, fella.
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Roomiest Rose. Oh, June. Stop.
ChunkyCherry.jpg
Chunky Cherry and the Capillaries. My new band.
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I just realized that I hadn’t ever put on Mightiest Maraschino, so my nose and I put it on now, having not showered. I liked the part where I smudged it. And the pillow case on the floor. I’m doing laundry. Sue me.
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Mighty Mimosa. No relation to the Mouse of the same first name.
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Pursed lips with Plumed Up Poppy. 
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Whoppin’ Watermelon was wimpy.
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Plumped-Up Pink while feelin’ peckish. You can tell, or at least I can, when that cold set in.
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Pudgy Peony with m’pup.
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Plushest Punch. Pell, no.
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Super Strawberry. I’ll have the soup.
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Roundest Raspberry, readers.
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Grand finale: Grandest Grape.

So there it is, and probably later today you’ll say, man. I wish I could look at more pictures of June’s fucking face.

You need only turn back here.

Anyway, which do you prefer? Most of them are barely really a color. I think perhaps I prefer Pudgy Peony. Possibly.

Stickily,

Joob

In the stars

You know what MY problem is (everyone gets out their Giant Scroll of What’s Wrong With June), is that moderation is stupid. I mean, it would appear that I think moderation is stupid. Signs POINT to me thinking moderation is stupid. Except when it comes to exercise.

The woman who sits next to me–and I’m sure at some point I gave her a blog name but who can keep track of 11 years of blog names. Anyway, the woman who sits next to me, Alex, received a giant box of Dean & Deluca treats for Christmas. I think a client or a vendor or someone gave it to her.

page_1.jpgThen she left for the world’s longest Christmas break.

“Did, um, Alex say anything about these treats?” I wondered, one hungry afternoon in late December. As if all my afternoons aren’t hungry. And by “hungry,” I don’t mean Biafra hungry. I mean Bored White Girl hungry.

“Oh, she did. She sent an email about them. Didn’t she include you?”

Humph. See above re No One Likes Me At Work.

“She said the treats were for all of us, and to have at them.”

Well.

Naturally, I opened the good stuff first, right? The obvious dark-chocolate-covered hazelnuts, the shelled pistachios, the tin of 27-year-old muscled bald men of color.

By the time she returned, her hazelnuts were mysteriously lacking. “Oh, no, that’s fine. I told everyone to eat them,” she assured me. “Didn’t I include you on the email?”

Humph.

So here it is, early January, and I’m starting to break into the weird stuff.

And that is how my addiction to Sanded Starfish began.

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Okay, first of all, pretentious Dean ampersand Deluca, if that is your real name, they’re sugared gummy candies shaped like stars.

But oh, man, do they have flavor. Orange is distinctly tangerine-y. I’ve no idea what the others are supposed to be, but I can tell you the famous flavors Blue and Green are to die for.

[Five sanded starfish are five Weight Watchers points. Careful maths will reveal that they are approximately one point per sanded star.]

“Haaa aaaayone ried a arfish?” I asked the room at large, around a mouthful of sanded starfish, which is now my Official Work Language®.

Turns out, no one wants to try them, or if they have, they are not nearly as charmed as I. Which works in my favor.

Meanwhile, back at my ranch, four men were working on m’house yesterday. My ’50s ranch house, which is always in need of something.

IMG_3517.jpgWas not at all annoyed to pull up to my own house and have the driveway so full I couldn’t get in.

Alf was over to put the clothes rod back up in my closet. But for months he’s been telling me I need to fix the fan in my bathroom. Since Day One at this house 10 years ago, the combination fan/light switch/outlet has not worked in that bathroom, and at this point I’m just used to the idea of charging my toothbrush in the kitchen.

I’ve had two other men over to try to fix it but it never gets really fixed.

So I got a sherpa and some trail mix, parked, and hiked over to base camp, aka my house with all the men parked at it–and I hope that’s what Ned thinks it’s like here day and night. All the men parked all over the place, just lounging in my home, waiting to service me however I see fit.

Anyway, first of all, when I walked in, good watchdogging, Edsel.

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Welcomes to howse of mom, strangurs! we gotz starfishz. they sandee.

For the love of all…I SWEPT THAT FLOOR YESTERDAY. Okay, maybe day before yesterday. Still. I give up. Plus, is that Kleenex on my robe? I am happy to report that I washed a Kleenex this past load of laundry, and just this morning was trying to PICK IT OFF all the clean clothes.

Anyway. The electrician used to be a fireman, and he brought two young firemen with him, who are learning how to electrician or whatever, and why is it that I have firemen over more often than even the firehouse?

They were all very nice, and they all had dogs–big manly dogs such as Labs, so Edsel was a refreshing change for them, I like to think.

The good news is, the electrician found the problem! It had to do with the fuses or whatever, outside. Something was loose or missing or something. Simple fix, a big $98 total, and boom, they were done. “It’ll work now. I can pretty much guarantee it,” said the electrician, scratching ecstatic Edsel’s manly head.

One of the young firemen was also admiring Steely Dan, who was clearly showing off for company: fetching his mouse, leaping cleanly in and out of the computer box.

IMG_3540.jpgAs you know, when you set down your Giant Scroll of What’s Wrong with June and pick up your Big Book of June Events, I just got a new computer. My plan was to trade in my old one for a big $155, and they sent a box for me to do just that. When I was gathering it all up to eventually put it in that box that Steely Dan has been obsessed with (chewing the corners, leaping into it from every possible angle and so on), I realized I don’t have the original mouse any longer. That was something they’d asked about when they gave me a value. “Sure, I have a working mouse!” I’d written, not thinking about how it was a pink right-and-left-clicking mouse from Office Depot.

Also, one of the keys of the keyboard was loose. The Q. From all those letters to Queer Eye For the Straight Guy, I suppose.

The point is, I knew I wouldn’t get all $155. When the young firefighter was admiring the cat, I told him what the box was for. “You don’t need a 2011 Mac, do you?” I asked him.

Turns out, he did! And he was so excited! I warned him that thing was slow, but he seemed unconcerned. So that was my good deed for yesterday.

The point is, with all these men crawling about, I was sort of self-conscious about what I ate for lunch. I’d done Pure Barre earlier in the day, so what I WANTED for lunch was that big slab of meat that tips over Fred Flintstone’s car. What I had was Amy’s Organic Vegetable Soup.

While I was pretending to be dainty, I got an email from our receptionist at work.

You know, work doesn’t pay for my phone, and why I decided to include work email on my own phone is beyond me. Anyway, she wondered why the newsletter wasn’t out yet, and of course (Big Book of June Events page 409) I gave up editing the company newsletter way back.

“Holsteder and Frapdorp run the newsletter now,” I informed her, and right when I wrote the two editors’ last names like that, it occurred to me that their names are sort of …comical together.

“Did you get the email from the receptionist wondering where the newsletter was? I forwarded it,” I asked Frapdorp when he walked past my desk yesterday.

He had.

“You know, the two of you, with your names together. They’re such unusual names. You’re like a…I don’t know. Like a pretentious candy company or something.”

Frapdorp paused.

“A pretentious candy company. Is that even a thing? Is that even a genre? A pretentious candy company…” he was getting ALL READY to make fun of me. I could see him winding up.

And that, my faithful readers, is when I was able to grab my nearly empty tin of SANDED FUCKING STARFISH and shove it at him victoriously. I was trying to fill in the gaps that stupid vegetable soup had left in me.

What I lack in willpower I make up for in ready tins of sanded starfish.

Sweetly,

June

Does my new computer make my arse look big? Are you sick of that joke yet?

This is my inaugural post on my new computer. Please note I received said new computer back in December, way back then, but it’s been Sisyphean hell trying to migrate all my old info into the current day. I worked harder on getting to the present day than that guy in Back to the Future.

I worked on getting to the present day harder than Dorothy Gale. Which works better?

How about neither, June.

So I’m on this new keyboard, and you know how when you zipped right out and bought the millennial version of Monopoly and that vellum money didn’t quite feel right? What do you mean I’m the only yahoo who went out and got millennium Monopoly?

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You should see the current-looking cell phone they have, as one of the millennium-edition game pieces. I think the good folks at Monopoly should’ve thought harder about evergreen pieces.

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An iron never goes out of style. Granted, that style of iron was last used by Mary Todd Lincoln, who because she was crazy thought it was a cell phone from the year 2000.

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Poor Mary Todd Lincoln. She probably wasn’t crazy at all. Probably Abraham Lincoln was a love avoidant. THAT WILL MAKE ANY WOMAN SQUIRRELLY.

Abe was probably having outside intrigue with John Wilkes Booth, as part of his love avoidance issue; hence the drama in the theater. I wonder if the people at the theater got their money back?

I didn’t take any Ritalin today.

Come on, June. You can’t be serious. With this laser-sharp post?

No one names their kid Abraham anymore.

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Before I spin into infinity, behold Roundest Raspberry, today’s Clinique Chubby Stick color. Yesterday I photographed Super Strawberry and slid it in, so to speak, at the bottom of yesterday’s post a few hours after I wrote you. So if you read first thing you missed that scintillating shot. You can still see it. A blog post is forever. By Judy Blume.

I’m sorry to tell you we have only two more lip colors to peruse: Voluptuous Violet, and what I really like is when people pronounce it “volumptuous.” THERE IS NO M IN THAT WORD.

And finally, Grand Mal Grape. No. Grandest Grape. I dearly wish I could see. Remember back when you could see? What the hell with that. You could see far away and up close, like it was normal. Now it’s Flight of the Bumble, over here, as I reach for the right glasses.

Anyway, as I was saying 472 paragraphs ago, it’s been Sisyphean trying to get this computer to take on the six years of endless stuff I did to the old machine. I have a total Baby New Year/Old Year situation going, and even when I was a kid, I never understood how a year, who was a year old, got so old in, you know, a year.

old-man-baby-new-year.pngDid I ever tell you my favorite horrible thing I did? It was new year’s day, 2005, and Marvin and I were headed somewhere. On the corner was this poor old man, looking shoddy. And I said, “Oh, look! It’s 2004!”

This is why I’m single.

I also get bugged when they have movies set in some old time, like the Middle Ages, and everything looks old. Like, thatched roofs look old. THEY’D LOOK NEW. The Middle Ages weren’t the Middle Ages for the people living in them. They were RIGHT NOW. And their shit looked new. Their copy of The Power of Now was brand-new.

Say, June, what say you, oh, pop a Ritalin and come back in a few.

OH MY GOD MY POINT, is that last night, I got home from work and had half an hour of freedom before I had yet another call with AppleCare to set this computer up some more, and I feel like people think that a single woman with a full-time job, four pets she solely cares for, freelance work and allegedly an exercise regime has time to talk.

After I fended off 11teen texts and calls for that half an hour, I got on the horn with AppleCare. Our biggest problem was that the photos weren’t switching over. I explained to the latest AppleCare guy–they’re almost always guys–that I blogged, apologized for still blogging, then told him I took photos of my everyday life every day.

“About how many photos do you think you have on your computer, ma’am?”

I did some quick maths.

Oh, June.

Let’s see. I had this computer for six years, and there are 365 days in a year…

“About 3,000,” I announced.

Finally, we located my photos. They HAD transferred over, but they’d landed in a weird place. But there they were, and we opened the Photos app.

And: 32,300. That’s how many photos I had. 32,300.

“That’s, heh, not 3,000,” the AppleCare guy mansplained to me. LIKE I’M AN IDIOT WHO CAN’T DO MATH OR…oh.

The only downside is I seem to have lost any photo I took from December 30 to January 1, but hoooo care. Also, after we hung up last night, I started deleting photos. I don’t NEED to, as this new computer is OHMYGOD so fast, but it’s just the idea. It was bugging me, having that many blurry, dumb, needless photos.

Currently I have 29,931 photos. LOOK AT JUNE GO.

Laura Ingalls Wilder had seven photos her whole life. But okay.

“But June, in the show, she…” Oh, shut up. That goddamned show.

I’d better get to work. That task is back. Remember that task I had that made me miss the work Halloween party, and later the work Christmas party? It’s back. Maybe it’ll make me miss Martin Luther King Day. Last year, we, as usual, did not have the day off, and all the people of color called in sick. It was a very Norma Rae moment, and now this year we have MLK Day off.

I’ll see you tomorrow. I want you to be emotionally prepared for VoluMPTuous Violet Bicks.

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“Oh, this old thing? Why, I only wear it when I don’t care WHAT I wear.”

Violet Bicks was probably raised by a Love Avoidant. Or maybe she was the granddaughter of Abraham Lincoln.

Linearly,

Juan

Mrs. Garrett was probably younger than me

On the first day of 2011, Ned got out of bed, walked into a wall and broke his toe.

And hey, June, this bodes well. A mention of Ned in the first sentence of your first post of the new year. Yeah, good moving on.

Anyway, he did, and he told himself, “Well, that’s a sign you aren’t going to have a good year. You’d better just keep your head down and muddle through 2011.” And he was right.

He was newly back in his hometown of Greensboro, having spent his adult life in Raleigh (inside guff for outsiders: Raleigh is way cooler to live in than Greensboro), he was working for the family business after a decade of doing something he truly loved

(he’d been a professional beer taster)

(he was hired full time to ogle women)

(they needed an expert salad-eater, and he took on the job)

(he wrote a weekly column titled, “You Know What I’D Do…”)

(okay, I’ll stop),

and he had zero girlfriend.

So he got through 2011, and on the fifth day of 2012, he met me. WHAT. LUCK. REWARD! SILVER LINING!

The point of me telling you this is the very first thing to happen to me today was that my clothes pole…thing in the walk-in closet of my bedroom? Crashed ONTO MY FINGER today. Then after that, all the clothes that had been residing on said pole similarly fell onto my finger.

Inside guff for outsiders: It hurt.

“Oh my god,” I told myself. “I’m Ned in 2011.”

I’d had such high hopes for 2018, too. As you may know, as I very subtly alluded to it earlier this week, I’ve had something of a cold. No big deal, really. I hate to cause a fuss. Anyway, yesterday I ended up being asked to a little celebration, a little reason for the season, and that reason is Prosecco.

But given the precarious nature of my health, I thought I’d better test my reserves, so I took myself to see The Shape of Water first, at the movie theater near my house. I figured if I could sit up and take nourishment (popcorn and a Dr Pepper) for two hours, maybe I was ready for the big leagues, aka a middle-aged mild New Year’s celebration.

First of all, The Shape of Water. Highly recommend. And not just cause everything’s midcentury and you know how I get about that.

So I slapped on the makeup and headed into the middle-aged night and rang in the new year and was in REM by about 12:01. Still. I got out. I didn’t even take 47 Kleenex.

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Me and m’New Year’s makeup and several heavy Instagram filters. You, too can feign rosy health!

So that all seemed to go so well and then boom. Pole on m’finger.

I did not go to my annual ironically named kindness meditation downtown, as it was 870 below zero today, and the only kindness I could meditate on was not doing that to myself given that I just got out of my iron lung with this cold. Instead I paid my bills, wrote in my new journal I got for Xmas (thanks, mom), checked my finger to see if it was turning black, and talked on the phone to my old LA neighbor Alicia for about 700 hours.

This time I wrote down some of the funny English-but-not-quite-English things she said during our 11-hour conversation. I have always loved the way she uses language. She’s like a little angry Spanish poem. Attached below, for your edification, are some of the things she said that I adored so much I wrote them down…

“She had to come up and tell me what she thought. She had to put her five cents on me.”

also

“I have bumped heads with that bitch for years.” This, by the way, was about someone famous, but I cannot, really cannot tell you who. BUT YOU WOULD DIE.

“Finally, we said okay. We bury the hatchets.”

plus also

“She was mad. She did not like that I was in her ass.”

And the grand finale:

“I tell her, ‘Stick it in your ass and shove it.'”

I’m just telling you now. “Stick it in your ass and shove it” is the new “Very nice, Coot.” Although I have to say I grow fonder by the minute of “bury the hatchets.”

I’d been guarding my pole finger jealously all day, assuming the nail was going to turn dramatically black, because I see my finger and I want it painted black. Nevertheless, my finger persisted, and while it’s SORE, it appears I may have exaggerated what I thought would be the effect of that ENTIRE POLE OF CLOTHES crashing down on it.

I took my black finger of death and all the rest of my digits to the grocer’s, and I like how all of a sudden it’s 1950 up in here, with my grocer. Mr. Hooper was waiting for me in his white apron.

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I got my usual Sad Single Girl items, such as Lean Cusine and cat litter.

(I have forever wanted to find this one Nick at Night promo ad they used to have with Sally from the Dick Van Dyke show. I know it went: “Sally is single. Single, single, single.” I can never find it. I always identified with Sally, the wisecracking writer, and now she’s dead and I can’t find that promo and my finger is gangrenous.)

The-Dick-Van-Dyke-Show-26

The point is, I bought my week’s groceries and got this urge to buy an instant lottery ticket. I almost never do this, because (a) I never have cash and (4) I just never remember we have machines at the store. But the universe colluded or whatever, or the Ghost of Sally came over me, because we all know how famous her character was for buying lottery tickets.

Anyway, I won $100. I bought one ticket for one dollar, and I won $100. Can you believe it?! I’m RICH.

I scratched off my ticket in the cold parking lot of the store, of the grocer, and ran back in to tell Mr. Hooper, who has apparently turned into a 20-year-old black kid. When young Mr. Hooper ran the scanner thing over my card, it played a little song and everything. It was so exciting.

“2018 is gonna be my year!” I announced to Mr. Hooper, and stampeded back to my car, where I excitedly plunked back down in the driver’s seat,

on right onto my glasses. Which broke into 90 pieces.

So, you take the good, you take the bad, you take ’em both and there you have 2018 so far.

Happy new year. I hope you will not feel the need to stick this year up your ass and shove it.

P.S. I imagine “promo ad” is redundant, is it not? Son of a bitch. Thank god I have all this money.

P.P.S. Super Strawberry. Dammit. I keep forgetting.