I could NOT fall asleep, so when the alarm went off this morning, I was exhausted and hit snooze 39493940 times. I went last night to the old theater to see Gold Rush, the Charlie Chaplin silent movie–and I guess ALL of his movies were silent movies and now I’m officially annoying.
Dear June: We need to review with you the date you became annoying. You seem to think that occurred today, when in fact our records show it began somewhere around July of 1965.
Oh, shut up.
Anyway, maybe it was all that live organ playing (when I gave my ticket to the volunteer, she said, “Have a lovely evening. Hope you enjoy the organ” and then I giggled like the 7th-grade little bitch I am), but man, was I ever awake at, you know, MIDNIGHT and then ONE and so on.
So I wasn’t gonna blog today, because I seriously have no time to be sitting here doing this like the 7th-grade little bitch I am, but I knew it was payday last night, which I guess would make it paynight, and just now I checked my checking (heee) and dear June, please see above re date you became annoying.
$547! When I checked my checking in my checkered pajamas while I lay next to a Czech after a rousing game of checkers, I saw my Amazon payment came, and it reflects what you guys bought through my Amazon link in December, and I received $547 today!
Oh my god, thank you. It all goes to paying my taxes, which, wooo! But still.
So that is why I stopped in today, despite making self late for work and making no sense because DID NOT SLEEP for some reason.
Someone gave me a brilliant tip re my Amazon link, and I will share it with you now. Let’s say you’re on your phone and you want to shop on Amazon, and you wish to do me a solid and get to Amazon via my link. The blue photo of seaglass is RIDICULOUS to find on one’s phone. I mean, it even annoys me.
But if you go to the Menu and then the “About” page at the top of my not blog, the link appears right there, and you don’t have to scroll scroll scroll like the 7th-grade little bitch that you are. So that’s what I use, now, when I want to get to my damn link.
Ima actually shower now, and attend work, as I am wont to do.
I leave you with this. The latest work of Steely Dan, and you know, I thought my robe was safe. He’d seemed disinterested in eating it, but I guess he had a change of heart. Well. “Heart.”
From a small-ish town in North Carolina with a loving cat and a hole in m’robe,
P.S. I almost forgot! Due to a pertinent work conversation that involved fairly pornographic paper art of cocker spaniels mating (don’t ask), what do you think is the dog breed of each decade? Like, cocker spaniels. So the 1970s.
Just the other day, I came across yet another ad for bullet journals, a thing I was never into in the first place and now I am completely over. (Google fucking it.)
The only people who enjoy a bullet journal are people who are good at drawing, a thing I am not, so it holds no interest for me.
This led me to think about other things I was completely over, like everyone needing “closure.” You don’t need closure. You just want to talk to the person again. Closure. Shut up.
The point is, and I act like I ever have a point, one of my Facebook friends asked last night what word or phrase people hate. All of a sudden my whole world came together beautifully. It gelled. Perhaps you hate that.
It inspired me to ask all of you the same thing. What word or phrase is irking you right now?
One of my friends has 14 strokes when anyone announces being a “proud mama.”
I never, ever want to hear about anyone “ideating” anything. And you know how I feel about taking nouns and making them verbs. If anyone tells me they are going to journal or orgasm, they can just fuck right off.
So now it’s your turn. Ideate on it and we will touch base later.
[Flumps coat and purse in first, slides into booth after.] Have you been here long?
Sometimes, on Mondays, when I haven’t written all weekend, I sit down here at my desk and think, What the fuck did I just do for the last 72 hours? Today is one of those days. Then what I’ll do (tell us more, June. This is riveting.) is plug in my phone to see what pictures I took, and apparently Friday just didn’t exist. I took zero photos.
Remember when the camera (and your flashbulbs) would be on top of the fridge or in a closet or something, and you only got it out at Easter? “Everyone stand in front of this wall, because that wall will be fascinating in years to come.”
Anyway, maybe I had a migraine. Maybe it’s Maybelline.
At least I know what I did Saturday. I did Nancy. Call PETA.
I had to get my eyelashes redone Saturday, because I’m a deep person who does a lot for the world in her spare time. And who understands first- and third-person rules. Anyway, since I was out, I called Ned. “Can I come visit Nancy?”
She’d had FOUR DAYS IN A ROW of pooping in the box. When I was there, it was the start of day five. “Let’s move her up to the computer room now,” I implored, because it was up to me. Nevertheless, that’s what we did, and I hobbled up those steps with cat bowls and so on, and Ned got her all set up.
“Let’s let her wander around while you’re home,” I implored, because any of this was my business.
She was so glad to have the house to wander again. Cooped up in that stupid half bath. Actually, that was always my favorite room when I lived there. Had wainscoting. And a teensy chandelier. And it was my color.
[teensy chandelier not pictured.] [also, this is when I lived here. Ned does not have a fruity pink flamingo or an Eiffel Tower ring-holder.]
Anyway, it was all going great with Nancy till at some point she pooped behind the shower curtain, so she’s in that computer room till further notice.
To find that photo of my bathroom, fmr., I had to scroll back to photos from 2014. This photo was taken on the same day, as I traversed the basement stairs. Back when m’toes functioned.
Anyway, I got my lashes done, and I like how one has already fallen off, here. Also too I look fairly dead here.
When I wasn’t hanging out with my animals or other people’s animals Saturday,
I finally got my broken-toe shoes that the doctor said I had to get. I’d been to all sorts of no-nonsense-shoes stores I never go into.
You Look Like Thom McCann.
Too Many Clarks Bars.
Wayless (attractive) Shoes.
Why do athletic, down-to-earth gals always hate me?
But I finally found luck (“luck”) at the Birkenstock store, where a young salesboy had to hear approximately 47,000 inappropriate Birkenstocks jokes from me.
“I’m not really a Birkenstock person,” I explained to him, first thing, as soon as I hobbled in, like I’m Zsa Zsa Gabor or something, with all this glamor. You know what that whippersnapper at the store would not know? Is who Zsa Zsa Gabor is.
The point is, I got these, for a mere $138. I have $68 till payday now. Who knew granola women paid so much for shoes?
I’ve worn them all weekend, except for late Saturday night, when I was going to bed and stubbed my broken toe on the cat scratcher.
On Sunday, I groomed.
Did some cleaning.
Of course he’s that cat. The play-with-sheets cat. Do you enjoy my Tums? Hot. Tums and enzyme cleaner for cat pee. Hotter.
The shelter wrote me this weekend to see if I wanted to take another mom and her four kittens. I said no. I am so not ready after that last fiasco. See? Sometimes I have impulse control.
Anyway, as I was taking recycling out or something, I looked over at Peg’s and noted…
…her tulip tree’s bloomed. She always bemoaned that tree, because it either didn’t bloom at all or it would too early and then there’d be a freeze and all the buds would die. I sent her this picture, through her daughter. I hope she likes seeing it. I know seeing her house gray will piss her off. She liked the yellow.
I also saw The Post yesterday afternoon, and I think that means I’ve seen all the Oscar-nominated films, including the shorts, so I am all set for Oscar night.
When we left each other yesterday, slamming the door and saying, “IT’S OVER! I MEAN IT THIS TIME!”, I was going to try to come back here and write you at lunch.
That didn’t happen. Work. Tis busy.
So here’s a two-day update on everything that’s happening in my stupid world. I wish to tell you about Ned and Nancy, my broken toe (surprise!), stupid cosmetic things I did and also Steely Dan’s shenanigans. This is like when you go to a fancy event and they show you a little menu of what you’re getting.
Liverwurst finger sandwiches
No, I don’t know what kind of horrific imaginary fancy events I attend, either.
Ned & Nancy. An update.
I wanted to give you a visual, here, so I went to my pictures and searched, “cat,” and then my computer carried on with the guffawing. “Oh, THAT’S specific, June,” it said, as my computer is actually some kind of talking sarcastic animal like on The Flintstones.
Here. And lose the attitude, computer.
As you know–because for generations, your family will be gathering to tell my stories–Ned adopted Nancy, my foster cat. What with the losing her kittens and the going back to the shelter to get spayed and having a terrible time with her operation and possibly with being feral, she got to Ned’s and was not pooping in her box. Like, she was pooping all over yonder, including her food dish.
Ned did everything, seriously everything, so stop “Did he…”-ing me. The vet suggested he confine poor Nancy–which I just wrote as “poop Nancy”–to one small room, and leave her in there.
Guess what. It worked. It took several days, but for the past FOUR days, she has gone exclusively in her box. Ned is encouraged. “This weekend, I’ll move her up to the computer room,” said Ned. He gave Nancy a promotion.
Toe. An update.
As you know, because for generations your family will–oh, stop, June. M’toe is broken.
Yesterday, my doctor-recommended hard-soled shoes came. I worked from home yesterday, because I never thought about it much till it HURT, but it’s a long damn-ass walk from the parking lot to my actual desk, and it involves stairs, and ouch.
So I propped my foot yesterday, I was in the props department, and then when my shoes came, I hobbled to the door to receive them. It was like shoe communion.
There they were. All flowered and shit.
I can’t wear them. I can’t get my foot in that little hole. I mean, I forced myself into said shoe like a wicked stepsister, and then it hurt worse once it was in there. So this weekend, Ima have to hobble over to DSW and look for something clog-ish.
Also, the part where it was almost evening and I was putting on shoes sent Edsel into fits of WE GONNA WALK joy, and I had to crush his dreams rather testily, as I was in pain and he was IRKING me.
Also, this morning, I was drying off after showering
(I’ll give you a moment to stop being turned on.)
and as I was drying off, I half paid attention (my epitaph) and sort of told myself, Remember your big toe is broken when of course
IT’S THE LITTLE TOE MOTHER OF GOD OW.
So now it hurts even more.
June’s a grooming asshole. An update.
Recently, I noted that there are many cute local stores and boutiques near me that I never go into. I always breeze past them as I’m on my way to get something else, usually a sandwich. There’s one sandwich place that’s been there since 1977 and they’ve updated the decor not at all, and I’m deeply in love with the whole atmosphere. I feel like I should be in there with my rainbow jeans and my Bass 100s.
Anyway, a few Saturdays back I decided to spend the whole day just popping into all those shops I never go in, and that is how I discovered the grooming place.
They might as well rename themselves June Store.
They do Botox and microdermabrasion, facial peels and makeup. They do manicures and waxing, they do all the shit I blow all my money on. I was there, innocently getting Botox when I found myself signing up for eyelash extensions.
It takes more than an hour, as you lie there and talk to a woman who sounds precisely like my pal Alicia, who is painstakingly attaching eyelashes to your lid, one by one. It lasts about a month–you’re supposed to go back and get touchups.
But the thing is, they mostly all fell out. And I was all, Well, THAT was a bust, but in fact they texted me to ask how my lashes were working out. And that is the kind of person I am. I get texts asking, How are your lashes working out?
Anyway I told them and they’re redoing them all for free.
The interesting thing, and I may be alone in placing this under the category of “interesting,” is that you’re not allowed to wear mascara with these on, and as these are falling out I’m still not using mascara, because rule-follower.
The point is, I can see my real lashes now, and this is the longest I’ve ever gone without mascara since I’m 24 and went through a hippie phase. I mean, allegedly I take my mascara off, but those of you who groom know it’s never really off. There are always remenenenenants.
My friend’s grandmother could never say that word, so now I can’t NOT say “remenenenants” as well.
THE POINT IS, it’s really off. I mean, I have no mascara on these lashes. And what a set of namby-pamby Melanie Wilkes lashes these are. Holy cats. Why do I have to have seven pounds of hair and caterpillar brows and if I don’t shave my legs every morning I’m Zira from Planet of the Apes but my eyelashes?
NO! Fine and blonde, those are.
…Oh, right. Yes, I’d forgotten that. …Oh, that too? You’re still pissed about that? Geez.
I see I’ve run out of time to tell you about Steely Dan, but I think you and I both know it would go like this:
“I’m just calling to let you know the Russell Stover eggs are available,” I said to my mother, although in truth it was more: “Uh ussel oer eggs are aaailul.” As I was, of course, already eating mine as I pulled out the Rite Aid, there.
“I have four in my cupboard already,” said my mother, and it must be genetics that make those stubborn pounds stay on.
I’d gone to Rite Aid because I’m a glamor girl whose real-life adventures are not to be believed, but also because my coworker, Lottie Blanco, had brought me some soup that her wife, Lottie Blanco, had made, and
and I wanted to put something in the soup container when I returned it, to be a nice person. Yes, I did just feel that shift in the universe. Anyway, I thought candy would be sweet
so I went to the Rite Aid. Which takes fewer steps for the parking and the hobbling to the door, because in case you forgot, my toe is broken.
Oh, and speaking of which, speaking of my major injury, the doctor told me I had to wear hard-soled shoes, and this is where we left off yesterday, promising to write and leaving each other with framed photos of ourselves. “To Reader. Love always, June.”
The cute pottery-making-lesbian-folk-dancer shoes I’d planned to buy, that I showed you yesterday as you slipped your 8×10 colorized photo into a frame for me, were, in fact, not going to be available till MARCH FUCKING 8, and by then I will be over the novelty of my broken toe and onto something else.
So I got these Doc Martens instead. Aren’t they MAGNIFICENT? They will be here tomorrow. Oh my god, I will never be sad again.
…Good lord. Here I am, tryina have my morning and write to you about all the pressing news of the day, and I keep getting “Can you do this today?!?” emails from work. I worked last night, as well. What’s with the busy all of a sudden?
So I guess I’d better wrap this up early, so I can hobble to work, but I wanted to mention something that dawned on me: My grandmother–the nice one, not the one I turned into–was widowed when she was my age.
And she never dated again.
Maybe that’s me. Maybe I’m gramma. Maybe my days will be filled with having my grandchildren over, sewing and crocheting. Making big dinners that involve boiling potatoes.
…Oh. Well, crap. Hey, I can at least boil potatoes.
Anyway, it’s weird to think about, because at the time it never dawned on me that she’d want to get on a 1969 version of Match dot…well, there was no com. What the fuck does “com” mean, anyway? Communications? Commoner? Composed? Book of June dot commoner. No, I have NOT taken my Ritalin yet. Why?
The point is, maybe if there’d been online dating, she’d have been all over that.
“Five-two, brown hair that won’t go gray and why didn’t my granddaughter inherit THAT, loves Days of Our Lives, Cremora and covers for the Kleenex.”
But I don’t think so. I think she was pretty much over men. And maybe I’m following in her arthritic footsteps. See, I DID inherit her knee arthritis.
Speaking of which, my elbow hurts like a motherfucker all the time now. I know I have a trapped ulnar nerve. I mean, I say I know that because I am a medical professional, and by “medical professional” I mean I Googled it.
And I do the exercises I find online, but I don’t see much change. You’d think with all the solid scientifically proven medical attention I’ve paid to this injury that it would be improving. I guess I could phone my beleaguered doctor, who’s probably already worried sick about how many ToeGate phone calls he’s going to receive.
All right, I’m out of here. Off to copy edit something.
Yesterday, I finally relented and called my doctor, because you know how I resist doing that. I’m never one to call the doctor. Or cause a fuss. Anyway, he insisted I get an x-ray of my toe, because apparently if you let it go, occasionally something hellish could happen and all of a sudden Scarlett O’Hara is watching your anesthesia-free amputation.
Fortunately, the x-ray place is literally across the street from work, so all I had to do is hobble over there, and to make a long story agonizingly longer, I have a broken toe, officially.
So, the good news is, I have to buy “hard-soled shoes,” whatever those are, and when I Google that, I find sort of nerdy Maryjane, I-love-folk-festivals shoes that I have always secretly thought were sort of cute.
Normally, these shoes are like $115, and I just got the last pair, in red, on Zuilly, for $61, including shipping, which always pisses me off. Shipping.
Anyway, now I have nerd shoes. I hope they don’t reject my feet, seeing as I’m so cool.
I wonder if I’ll start listening to NPR and letting my hair go gray and long. Serve soup in handmade bowls with crusty bread on the side.
My doctor, who is not at all sick of me.
My doctor, who’s got a fever and the only cure is No June.
My doctor said I will be laid up with this major break for six weeks. But if I tape my major break and wear my nerd shoes, I can still walk Edsel. “You’ve got that dog, right?” he said, thinking of my plan for a cure. What’s sad is he knows my ins and outs so well. He also said, “You’re not gonna blog about walking into a dog bone and breaking your toe, are you?”
“Dude. I already wrote about that this morning,” I told him.
“Do you think you’ll lose readers?” he asked. See. I think he thinks the secret to blogging success is to seem, you know, dignified. But if I were dignified, what would be the point of reading me? Oh, I think I’ll wander on over to June to see what dignity she has today. Ima go over and see June handle life with grace.
I mean, zzzzzzzz.
So that happened; I broke a major bone in my body and may never walk again. But now that we know that, and we know that the solution is I have to wear shoes that look like I’m teaching granola making at The Learning Annex, let’s move on to the topics I did not cover yesterday.
Ned and Nancy. Almost Sid, but if Sid were an engineer.
As you know, from your Big Book of June Events, I have been fostering kittens for the local animal shelter, and recently I had a mom cat and her four kittens–all of whom are already adopted; I checked. Anyway, Ned lost his cat in December after 18 years of having her, and he decided to adopt Nancy, the mom to my foster kittens.
Oh my god, I DO miss them.
I’ve no idea why I’m giving you so much background, like you don’t all know this info. Like someone just got here. Anyway, the mom, Nancy, pooped outside her litter box once or twice here, but once she got to Ned’s, she’s doing it all over yonder.
And why doesn’t everyone ask me if he’s done all the things anyone would do. Yes, he tried other litter boxes. Yes, he tried other litter. Yes, he tried the cat-attracting litter (he told me EVERYONE is asking him that one). Yes, he took her to the vet.
They didn’t find anything physically wrong, but they think she’s a feral cat. They told him to confine her to one room (he did) and put her on Prozac (he did). That’s where it is now, and it’s not going well.
He will probably not be able to keep her, which is just so sad. I asked Chris and Lilly if they needed a barn cat, but they don’t. Poor sweet Nancy.
Ned called me last night to tell me the latest, about the Prozac, and I told him the sad truth about my major injury. “Do you need anything?” he asked. Ironically, I needed cat food, so he bought some at the store, as opposed to conjuring it up with his mind control, and brought it over.
He’d been at the gym and tending to Nancy and so on, and hadn’t eaten, so I offered him one of my bags of nuts. So to speak.
I buy those 100-calorie packs of nuts to snack on, and I can just HEAR my mother saying, “That’s too expensive,” but I don’t know if she’s met me or not, but you give me a big container of nuts and all of a sudden we’re out of nuts and I’m Templeton at the end of the fair.
The point is, I like the bags of almonds and walnuts–plain, no salt–but Ned crunched a few and asked, “What ARE these?”
“They’re almonds and walnuts.” I thought he’d be happy with them. Ned buys Girl Scout cookies and eats one a day.
Till they’re gone.
So I thought saltless nuts would delight him. But Ned has never had protein in his house, a fact that has always annoyed me. He works out and then he’s starving and you offer him a stick of cheese and he acts like you’ve offered to brand him with I Heart Ted Nugent or something.
Anyway, deese nuts. “What are they flavored with, the powder of boredom and despair?” he asked, crunching frownily.
The point is, he will try Prozac on Nancy for awhile, but he’s cleaning random poop a hundred times a day and is about to give up.
So that’s THAT happy story.
My Chakras. As Opposed to My Shakiras. Either Way, Hips Told the Truth.
On Saturday, I went to a cute local place to have my chakras read.
It’s kind of hard to explain what all we did. We talked a lot about the enneagram first, which is a personality thing I made you all take a few years back. I am a 4 on the enneagram, which if you are too I apologize, but 4s are really the assholes of the enneagram.
Anyway, we talked about ways to make my 4 less horrifically 4, and that was informative, and then I laid on the table (I lay on the table? I never know. Hey, what’s my job, again?) and she swung a pendulum over my chakras
and determined my crown chakra was blocked and my solar plexus chakra was also too blocked. She did whatever she does to clear them. I just laid there. Lay there? Anyway, story of my life. That could be the title of my autobiography. I Just Laid There, or Lay There, by June Gardens.
When I got home, I Googled what the signs were of having those areas blocked, and the crown chakra, when it’s blocked, causes migraine. The solar plexus chakra, when it’s blocked, makes you depressed and codependent.
So I got those cleared up and immediately broke a toe and gave nuts to Ned. So.
While I was writing all this pertinent info to you, I had the gate up back here, because it’s muddy out, and I wanted Edsel to be back here till his paws dried. Meanwhile, Steely Dan
LEAPED over the gate, knocking it over as he transcended it, which made it crash, and then he walked to the back door, opened it, and stomped outside, the screen door crashing behind him lustily.
Say, June, weren’t you drying your hair LAST time we talked?
Yes. Yes, I was. Hygiene. It’s repetitive.
Anyway, we haven’t talked since Friday and we have a lot of topics to cover, so I thought today I’d use subheads, so you don’t end up with fucking whiplash while I bounce from topic to topic. We’re going to be organized today.
Okay, topic one.
Wee wee wee, or the F word I don’t want you to worry or anything. I don’t want a fuss.
Shut up shuttin’ up.
But I BROKE MY TOE. The little one. Last night, I was headed to bed, like a normal person, and BOOM, Lottie’s bone, this big giant lug of a bone–that Edsel unearthed recently–was in the middle of the room and I didn’t see it and
something was very wrong. I yelled so loudly that Edsel stood under the table. Which, by the way, we can still see you, Letter C.
But speaking of Edsel, it’s weird, because just yesterday afternoon I was walking that cur and we passed the yard where I sprained my ankle four years ago, and I thought about how as soon as I landed on that grass, that grassy knoll–what IS a knoll?–I knew I’d really hurt myself badly. I reflected on that the rest of the walk: What a brave faithful dog Edsel was that day, not leaving my side even though I’d dropped the leash. Tall Boy, who isn’t allowed to talk to me now that he’s married, driving down and lifting me into the car. Because he was staying with me at the time. PLATONICALLY.
Anyway, I worried last night that I wouldn’t be able to sleep, it hurt so fucking much, but I did because I’m Jabba the Hut. I can sleep through anything. I actually have no idea if Jabba the Hut sleeps, as I have not seen any of the Star Wars movies since the first one in 1977. But he strikes me as lazy.
So my plan is to hobble. And complain. That wraps up what Ima do for my broken toe. Doctors can’t do much for it, I already know this. And yes, I know it’s broken. I’ll spare you the details.
Trim Last week, I was reading some article or another and I found a site called Trim. And no, I did not just link you to a site involving lady bits. Trim can tell you all the stupid things you’re subscribed to, that you may have forgotten about, and they’ll also do things like contact AT&T and say, “Lower her bill.”
As of last week, I quit Stitch Fix (I’d already quit that the week earlier, technically), Weight Watchers, Netflix, Amazon Prime, some support group for other anxious attachers that I joined for $21 a month, HBO, Apple Music and other annoying things I was paying for automatically and not noticing.
It is likely I will lose my mind and rejoin some of those, but for now, nobody is automatically taking anything from my account each month except for my car insurance.
But speaking of money and trim, I came up with an idea yesterday that I presented on Facebook to mixed results.
I had an idea for how I could lose weight OR you would make money. We’d have to have someone hold all the money, maybe send it all to Faithful Reader Paula or something, and I like how I’ve roped her into this without asking, but here is my idea:
I tell you my current horrifying weight and my goal weight. Which believe it or not are not the same. And then I set a date for me to REACH that weight. All of you put $5 in, and if I reach the goal, I get your hard-earned $5.
But if I FAIL to reach it, I not only give you your $5 back, I pay you an additional $5.
Then I have two incentives: To get rich (okay, to get maybe $50) and to not lose money.
See? It’s a good idea! Some of you hated it, though. But those folks don’t have to play. Are you in?
Photos and so on I’ve spent a great deal of time trying to get this one Golden Girls gif onto my blog, and never could, and does anyone know how to get a gif on your blog? If you tell me to place the embedded code in my HTML I will break your little toe.
My point is, I’ve used up a lot of my morning, and now I hafta go, and I know I have to tell you about m’chakras (my crown chakra was blocked. Now it isn’t) and about Ned and Nancy, but I have run out of the time.
Also, I took many photos this weekend. So here are some of those, and I will fill you in on the rest tomorrow. TUNE IN tomorrow for JUNE’S RIVETING LIFE, part 3,271.
(See. That’s how I run out of time. Because I just had to save this draft, leave this page, go figure out how to discover how many posts I’ve written in this life, then come back and write “3,271” so I’d be accurate.)
After spending all yesterday morning tryina figure out how I’d lose weight and make you all get involved, I drove to the country and got ice cream. Those stubborn pounds.
It’s a real dairy, and they make the ice cream on site.
There used to be Border Collies there, but they got old and died. Welcome to my happy blog!
I also spent time with the demon cat.
He did the thing again, though. I pulled up to my house just as my “you have a text” ding dinged. Come for the ice cream. Stay for the strong writing.
Anyway, it was my friend Sandy, wanting to embrace the Curly Girl method, and I wrote her back from my car, and when I looked up again…
He lives to startle me. He’s my Uncle Jim, in cat form.
“You no, other cat liff here, too. We just so tire.”
I’ll talk to you tomorrow, if I live through this toe pain. If I don’t get hooked on the horse to get me through.
I had two plans tonight: coworkers were getting drinks at 5:00, and then other friends invited me over at 8:00-ish. Don’t you hate people who add “ish” to a time? What are we, gay men in the ’60s? That outfit is fab, lover.
Anyway, I eschewed my right-after-work plans because I didn’t work today. I took the day off to go to the doctor in Durham about m’nose. I’ve waited TWO MONTHS to get this appointment to see if I can actually get it fixed, and how much would it be, and so on.
And? Migraine. Woke up with it in the middle of the night. ‘Twas a bad one. Had to cancel my damn appointment.
So, I spent the day instead sleeping till 10:30 and then trying to clean the smell of cat bodily fluids out of my bedroom. Fmr. Because cats.
I had taken 839395945 books and surrounded the bed, so they couldn’t crawl under there and poop, and instead all I did was make it so they could still go under there and poop, but I couldn’t get under there to clean it. So. Good work, June. Efficient! You can smell my German roots. They smell like cat shit.
So I took the opportunity to scrub the empty bookshelves, which is a pleasurable way to spend one’s day off, and then I put the books back up but cannot recall how I organized them with all their gee-gaws and doo-dads that I also have up there.
Last time I arranged my books, my neighbor Peg was here to help me, and we drank wine and she ordered me around and it was a typical evening with Peg.
Now she’s in hospice. HAPPY FRIDAY!
Anyway, here’s the first bookshelf, and it really needs Peg’s touch, plus also I should always leave that clothes hamper right there. Hot.
So that’s done, and my afternoon of scrubbing the bedroom floor with vinegar, and then drying it by mincing around the room with a beach towel under me, and opening both windows, and turning on a fan, and Sharking it, all that resulted in guess what.
It still smells cat.
So while the rest of my household, not including Steely Dan because please. It’s Friday, bitch. But while the rest of my household plans them a hot-in-the-city-tonight evening, I’m drying my hair
with my GODDAMN UNFIXED NOSE and then Ima put on some makeup and before my plans Ima head to PetSmart
and them Ima come back with some enzyme fluid and see if that works. If it doesn’t, I’m going with Faithful Reader Tee’s suggestion of uninitiated alcohol or whatever she calls it. Indentured servant alcohol. What the hell does she call it?
Also, I need lamps. I have no money for lamps this pay period, but lamps I need. I need one for next to the bed in the guest room, and now one for next to the bed in my room BECAUSE IT GOT POOPED ON, and a stand-up one in the living room for comedy, and maybe one back here because the one back here has no knob–it fell off–and now it flickers and I can’t do anything about that. Because no knob.
I have the hardest time finding lamps and clocks. Every clock I’ve bought for this house has ceased working eventually, and the Lenox clock they gave me at work? The fancy crystal one for 5 years of service?
I think it’s my nose. It can stop a clock.
Seriously, was looking forward to this nose appointment for TWO MONTHS.
Is this dry enough? It isn’t, is it. Goddammit.
So, other than my plans tonight, half of which I skipped out on, my only other big exciting thing Ima do is get my chakras read tomorrow. Of course I will report back to you. What are you, new?
The first asshole to point out how many lamps I can buy with a chakra reading gets cloudy chakras.
…Okay, dry enough, man. PetSmart won’t shop itself. That made no sense. As opposed to the sensical smelling of my German roots.
Yesterday at lunch, I came home, got my kittens, and took them back to the shelter.
They were supposed to weigh two pounds apiece in order to be adoptable, and Lexi, the cute light-gray one, did. The rest weighed a little above 1.5. But you guys.
They were pooping just everywhere.
I tried different litters and different boxes, and I piled books, oh so many books, around the bed, so they wouldn’t be able to go under there, as they had been. Clearly what I saw as a bottom of a bed, they saw as Men and Women restroom signs.
So the shelter was willing to take them back, as they have people already interested in them and they’re healthy, and I hope those people can get those kittens litter-trained, because I was in poop hell, is what I was.
Despite an entire three weeks of shiitake mushrooms up in here, of coming in number two, depsite being Mr. Spock seeing the Captain’s Log, I was so sad to drive them back. I knew they were getting big enough for new homes, and I felt prepared. But when that volunteer lady carried them back to the vet room, my heart broke.
Can I just put up my favorite pictures of each one? Will you indulge me? Did I mention to you my camera was not automatically deleting photos for some cockamamie reason, so I had to call AppleCare, and what I figured out in that fiasco was that I have taken 1,400 photos this month?
I had the kittens for three weeks. What do YOU think that ratio was?
…I just spent forever looking, and I CAN’T DECIDE which are my favorites. Here are some highlights…
[sobs quietly into giant pillow]
But, there are new kittens where THEY came from, and yesterday I had Alf, my ridiculous handyman, rehang my door to the old computer room, the one with the bad concrete floor. When I moved out of or back in here, we’d taken the door off to move something or other, and after that the door never shut right. Alf put it back on right, for free.
He’s not that altruistic. He also built me a small fence that I DID pay for.*
The point is, Ima rearrange things, because my oh my, I sure know how to arrange things, and when new kittens come, THAT will be the kitten room, with a washable quilt on the floor (Idea: Cat Rescuer Robyn®), so that if I get another crop o’poopers I can clean it more easily than the dang wood floors.
*Do you enjoy my clever footnote in the middle of this post, which really takes the foot away from my note? Anyway, when you’re looking at the front of my house, stalker, there’s a cute picket fence on one side…
And I realize these photos are taken from inside my exclusive enclave, but I had on my robe and didn’t wish to go out and give the neighbors even more of a show than they already get at this Cat on a Cold Tile Roof What’s Her Hair Doing Today house. My One-Gray-Gargoyle house. My Her-Blind-Cat’s-Done-Murdered-Our-Chicadees-Again house.
Anyway, on one side is this cute white picket fence, like I’m Theodore Cleaver, and on the other, although you can’t really see it past the foliage, but still, on the other side was this bendy, falling-down, horrific wire fence that if Edsel had half a mind, he’d have escaped from years ago.
The thing about Edsel is, one time the damn lawn men left that gate open, and I didn’t know, and Edsel went in the yard and stayed there the whole time, with the gate wide open to the world. He coulda left me and trotted off to those bathhouses he so often looks up online.
So. He’s a good boy. Also, the last thing he’d find sexy is a bathhouse. Edsel does not enjoy getting clean.
The point is this photo, that I done already showed you but I rambled so here it is again, was put up by the Alf yesterday, and he said I have to wait till
to paint it white. Also, I see he’s left some wood behind, hoooo haaaaaa, and now I hafta crankily text him about that.
Anyway, so lunch yesterday was not relaxing, as I had to scream home, get my kittens in a box, talk to Alf, scream to the shelter, then scream to work. On my way back to work I passed a Panda Express, which was A BAD IDEA, JUNE. I got me some teriyaki MSG, with a side of MSG, and got a screeching, screaming migraine and spent my Valentine’s Day evening with an ice pack and my nausea medicine.
Despite this, I had to come home from work and clean up ALL THE CAT POOP that was under the bed, despite the world-of-books fortress I’d built, so that was relaxing. I had to throw out the dog bed that was in there, as well, as they’d peed on not only that, but the cushion under it, as I’d already been washing the cushion fabric and when they saw the innards they said oh good, a new place to pee. So.
Kitten rescue. It’s relaxing.
So now I gotta get a new dog bed, not that Eds doesn’t have two others, but I like for him to have dog beds in each bedroom, because…well, I guess I don’t have a reason. Because I’ll occasionally switch rooms for whatever reason and he can flump onto a dog bed no matter which room, I guess. Dream of hot buff puppy men.
I must go, and get ready for work, even though my head is cloudy and that migraine is not fully gone. Stupid Panda Express. What was I THINKING?
Last night, my old movie theater showed To Kill a Mockingbird, and I got there fairly early in order to get my popcorn (dinner) and get a decent parking spot. Not necessarily in that order, and what I like about myself is my strong writing ability.
My spot in the balcony was secured. I have always sat in the same spot in the balcony there, and when Ned and I broke up, we made a deal that I’d get the balcony and he’d find another spot. Once, after FatGate 2016, I even sat on the main floor during It’s a Wonderful Life, just so I wouldn’t spot him accidentally.
But last night I went to my regular spot, and guess who showed up. I wasn’t even surprised. I knew he’d want to see that movie.
Anyway, that wasn’t the annoying part. The annoying part was these four women directly in front of us. Now, I know that when you women get together, you hen parties, you all like to talk. Excitedly. This is why I don’t generally hang around women. That and the fact that women always expect you to show up with a candle.
Women: Hey, let’s have lunch.
Me (reluctantly): Okay. (The other reason I’m not friends with many women is lunch. Why are they so into it?)
A week later…
Women: Hey! I’m here at lunch with just a little something I found for you. It’s a candle! With a cat on it! LOL!
Why? Why do we have to exchange gifts just because we’re getting together? It never dawns on me to get a gift for anyone unless they’re, you know, having a birthday party or dead.
Okay, it never dawns on me to get gifts for the dead, either.
Married. If they’re having a birthday party or if they’re registered somewhere because they’re getting married. Then it occurs to me to get a gift.
And I know it means they were thinking of me and they love me and wish to hug, and I should be flattered, but are they? Is that true? Or do they think, Oh fuck. Lunch is Tuesday. June’s so looking forward to lunch. I gotta get her ass a candle.
I mean, is it a pain in the ass obligation for these women, or do they truly go shopping and think of other people, which by the way is also something I never do. Ned once told me I’m the only girlfriend he ever had who has bought him zero clothing, and I’m the person he dated the longest time.
Why the hell should I buy him clothing? Am I his mom? Is he 7? Maybe I’m just a terrible person. Also, I’d like to say to the four women in real life that I’m friends with, I don’t mind lunch with you. Well, I do mind lunch. But not you.
But speaking of my terrible towel personality, last night, there was Ned with his beer and his popcorn, and he’s getting all settled in my spot–our spot, fmr.–and this gaggle of women, middle-aged women, is in front of us, and yes I know I’m a middle-aged woman.
What I like about myself are my short, concise sentences, and what a strong writer I am and oh, thanks for the candle.
Anyway, as soon as I sat behind these women, I noticed one of them was chattering. I mean, endlessly. And looking at her tiny cracked iPhone 3 or whatever embarrassing phone she had. She kept checking Facebook at the movie, and chattering to her friends, and I’m telling you she was physically unable to stop talking.
At this point, the organist was still playing (some 40s song that escapes me now, but which I know all the words to, so I was singing along and Ned was quietly howling like a dog, which by the way is exactly the same thing damn Marvin used to do when I sang. I HAVE A LOVELY VOICE) and the announcer person was still announcing (that always goes on too long), so I had some hopes this woman would
once the movie began.
But no. Oh, no. I wanted to shove her into a ham costume and knock her over in the woods.
Seriously, are people just unaware that you shouldn’t talk in the movies? There was an old couple in their row, who kept trying to sort of unobtrusively stare at her, so she’d get the hint, because it’s the South and other than Dick Whitman, who once turned around and told an old lady to be quiet and I just about died of shock, no one ever directly says anything here. Unless it’s racist. Bah.
Anyway, good movie, but once the lights went up, I saw Ned smirking at me.
“I hate those women,” I groused.
“I knew you did. I knew the whole time,” he said.
Meanwhile, Nancy is still not pooping in her box. He has three–three!!–different styles of boxes and litters now, and he’s taking her to the vet on Thursday.
For me, that’s the dealbreaker. A cat doesn’t use its litter box, it’s over for me. It makes me appreciate the asshole cats I have. And when I say “asshole,” I of course just mean Steely Dan.
Since the kittens got here, I’ve been sleeping in the spare bedroom, and I don’t know why I’m not shutting the door in there the way I did in the real bedroom, but the result is, just everyone’s sleeping with me. I got Edsel, with whom I always sleep, but now Iris and Lily, who are easy to sleep with.
And then it would appear that Steely Dan doesn’t so much sleep with me as he perches atop the headboard and stares down at me, like when Snoopy acts like a vulture.
I say this because at any point that I wake up, he is leering down at me with his shiny eyes of death. That is why I’ve come to the conclusion that that’s all he does. That he never actually curls up against me and purrs or anything. Like a cat that isn’t evil would.
I gotta go, but I keep forgetting to mention goat yoga to you, which I attended on Sunday.
It was at a very muddy farm, as it has rained here for like 412 days.
This did not stop the white people. No, sir. There musta been 50 people there, and also there had been goat yoga the day before, as well. It was sold out, that one was.
So that was fun, and totally worth it, and now I wish for a goat.
I gotta go, which I think I said 20 minutes ago. Ima check in on m’kittens, and get to work.
Wow, they’re getting so bi–HEY.
Your funny Valentine. If “funny” is a relative term,
I know I sound like my coworker Griff, who thinks everything is stupid–but who is, in fact, in a relationship. But really, they are. Stupid.
This weekend, Ned was helping me walk Edsel, and you’re all, What the–WHY WAS NED THERE, and calm down. I will get to it. The point is, I was reminded of a time we’d walked down that street before.
“Remember back when we liked each other, and we walked down this way to the hotel to watch the fireworks on the 4th of July, and we got there and there were no fireworks?” I asked him.
“But we didn’t care, because we liked each other,” he said. “Now I’d be all, ‘What, you didn’t RESEARCH if there were fireworks visible from there?'”
“Yep,” I agreed, which was pretty much just the most redundant sentence on earth.
There was another time that Ned wanted to cook with me, and make homemade salsa as a side dish, and see, nowadays I’d know that Ned and a big, involved plan that includes homemade salsa would be an all-day undertaking, and that I’d end up eating at 2 a.m. for the first time all day. But back then I liked him and went along with it.
If he asked me now to grill out with him and add homemade anything to the mix, I’d bludgeon him with a tiki torch.
And that’s what I mean. Relationships go from fun and frolic and feeling goopy about the person to wanting to stab him with your butter knife. At least that’s how they go with me.
Anyway, here’s why Ned was even over. On Friday, he got Nancy, the mom cat to the kittens I’m fostering.
And do you know what I am weary of? Is how I have too many channels. I’ll tell you one thing about Nancy and her kittens here, and then on Facebook someone will ask me something I already said about them over here.
Or over on the (Face)Book of June page. Or I said it on Instagram. Or I thought it in my head. The point is, you have to be practically stalking me to get all my guff, and it’s my fault for spreading my love all over social media.
Anyway, the wrap-up is–and when you see someone asking any of these things elsewhere, will you answer for me? Be snippy. Thank you.
The wrap-up is, I have Nancy’s four kittens till next Saturday now, because they have to weigh two pounds each to be adoptable. They all weigh somewhere around a pound and a half, with the exception of the black kitty, who appears to be the runt.
Allegedly they will weigh enough by Saturday.
(And can I add something? I noticed this on a much larger scale with Patrick Stewart, when he was fostering a very sweet pit bull. Fostering animals so they’re ready for adoption is a noble task. You don’t undertake such a thing lightly. It costs a fucking fortune,
your house is chaos, and you know these are fosters, not pets.
So if you’re someone enjoying watching the foster, whether in real life or on social media, I think the most supportive thing you can do is NOT pressure the person fostering to adopt. Or say, “If it were ME, I’d keep them ALL.” That sort of thing. It’s not easy, fostering. Pressure to keep them adds to the not-easy part.)
But anyway, Ned, who I never said a WORD to, decided to take Nancy, the mom cat, and they first had to fix her, make her all barren, which turned out to be more grueling than they’d thought.
They had trouble locating her ovaries, and her incision was large, and they wanted to keep her and give her antibiotics and so on. (So that’s why I’m not taking the kittens to see her, as it would hurt her if they tried to suckle.)
But on Friday, she was finally ready to go home. Ned has to keep giving her Clavamox till it’s gone–sometime this week.
But she seems to be reacting to her medication, or something, because she has pooped NOT in the box every time. So he came over to trade litter with me, to see if she likes that better. He also went out and bought like three different kinds of litter boxes. Because he’s Ned. He’s probably fashioning a homemade one. With salsa.
Also, she’s hiding a lot, but she’s slept with him every night. She finally used her box this morning, but Ned said she ran under the bed right after. Poor traumatized Nancy.
In the meanwhile, here are photos of her children, in case you wanted to see kitten pictures or anything.
Tomorrow I will tell you about goat yoga, which I also attended this weekend, when I wasn’t attending Kitten Fest 2018. When I got home, Steely Dan slept on me, a unicorn of an occurrence that I always get charmed by.
And while I didn’t dare move while it was happening, at one point, Lily got on the couch and groomed Steely Dan, and he closed his eyes and purred. I didn’t even know those two were on speaking terms. The things that happen when you’re Mia Farrow and you have too many kids.
Also, Faithful Reader Kris, I can’t tell you how much I love that freaking afghan.
That sums me up. I guess if I were a man, I could have just written, Cats, and been done with this whole post.
Right before you get to my work is a funeral home. In fact, the buildings surrounding my office are doctor’s offices, an old folks’ home, and this funeral parlor. Because apparently I’m writing to you on a slate, from my log cabin near my potbelly stove with my sassafras and unicycle.
Old folks’ home.
What I’m saying to you is it’s occurred to me that death is right near me all day long.
In the morning and evenings, it’s generally not busy, the funeral parlor, but sometimes as I come back from lunch in my horseless carriage, people are filing out from a funeral, and that is when I always find myself blaring just the most awful music.
The thing is, it’s so sporadic. You can go months without hitting the funeral procession, so you get lax. But the other day, as Smack My Bitch Up was blaring out my window, I started to think about music.
Not about what a terrible person I am, but about music.
It’s occurred to me lately that most of my taste in music is because of men. (Although I have to admit, my love of Smack My Bitch Up is all my own.)
Anyway, I’m almost certain that I’ve written before about how, while looking through pictures one day, I realized that I used to look like my boyfriends as time went on. I have two photo-booth shots with different boyfriends, and our hair is alike in each one. I changed my hair to match whatever boyfriend’s.
I know I must have written about that, I just know it, but can I find it? I cannot. However, while Googling the shit outta my old blog posts, somehow I found this in Google Images…
Oh my god I TOTALLY.HAD.THIS. I want to say it was a gift from my Aunt Kathy, but maybe I just bought it for m’self. Anyway, had completely forgotten this stationery and am currently dying. Will have to go to own funeral soon. And someone can blare music past it.
The reason I like Bob Dylan and The Beatles is because of my father, who would be playing records, literally records, while I was falling asleep, and remember back when adults could just play their records and not coddle the fuck out of children? I’ve been at people’s houses, who INVITED ME OVER, then were all, “Shhhh, the children are trying to sleep.” So the fuck what? Get them used to people talking. It’ll prepare them for the dorm.
What’s your favorite Beatles song? And if you don’t like them, just don’t comment on that. It will make me like you less. I’m serious. It’s like people who say, “I just don’t like animals.” I mean, I won’t disinvite you to my wedding, but you’ll drop a notch.
Also, my Uncle Jim, with his constant listening to records and drumming to them, and how did my grandmother not go upstairs and bludgeon him, was a giant influence. He was also a Beatles person, but what I remember most are these solo songs, which I love…
Fuckin’ Yoko, man.
Anyway, so that’s how it got started, men influencing my song choices, and then I started dating. And then, oh lord, I fell in love with someone who loved music, and there it was.
There isn’t a single Led Zepplin song I don’t love, because whether we were in his room, or down in his finished basement with the fireplace and the pillows, or even over at my house, he was playing music. And it was often Led Zepplin. I hear these songs and it’s winter (IT WAS ALWAYS WINTER in Michigan), with the snowflakes and seeing your breath when you’re making out in the car and the fire in the basement and oh my god, I loved the shit out of that stupid young boy.
Then I went to college.
Pretty much every brooding boyfriend I had (i.e., all of them) liked The Smiths, and also?
I can remember college boyfriend #74855 putting Shpritz Forte in his pompadour
while Squeeze was playing Tempted. I can see him, looking into his dorm room mirror, singing along after spending many many (many) minutes trying to convince me to give him a blowie before we left.
Then I got back together with the boy from high school, the Led Zepplin one, and his taste in music had changed, so mine changed along with it.
…It’s taken me ages to find all these songs and plunk them in here, and I have to go, and I know you’re sad I can’t trip down memory lane more, but I blame Ned for liking this…
Since I have to go, why don’t you all be my new boyfriend. What are you listening to lately? Share in the comments.
When did I become someone who says, “Share in the comments”? Click like and share for a chance to win big. Whatever with me. Where is my mind? Heh.
Yesterday morning, after I’d gotten up early and stressed own self over adding polls to this here not-blog (good participation, by the way!), I got an email.
“Can you knock this out this morning?”
I wasn’t even at work yet, and already I was anxious. It’s this big, several-tabbed Excel document that I copy edit every month, and of course copy editing is what I do, but this is several rows long, like sometimes 20 rows, and if you know from Excel, it extends all the way to the letter M.
Some squares I have to copy edit. Some I don’t. Some I have to count characters. Some I don’t. And it’s so big that I can’t see it all at once and actually proofread the words in it at the same time, so I have to blow it up and then clunk around on the thing, wondering, “Did I already read that? Did I count characters for this one?”
And always they need it in like two hours.
I keep saying, “Ideally, I’d like five hours to do this thing” but there never are five hours to be spared.
So that makes me tense every month, and there it was, the dreaded spreadsheet. And did I mention I wasn’t even at work yet?
As I was in the middle of that, someone ran up to me. “Can you look at this real fast?” It was a magazine cover. You screw that up, and you cost the company hundreds of thousands of dollars to reprint.
So I stopped the scary thing to look at another scary thing, and as I was doing that, my boss’s boss, fmr., came over. “Come back in 20,” I groused, and just as I was getting that cranky sentence out, the phone rang.
“CAN I CALL YOU BACK.”
Then I finished my scary magazine cover, and my horrifyingly clunky spreadsheet, and addressed the request of my boss’s boss, fmr., and called back the poor person who’d phoned me (I explained to her all that was going on at my desk when she’d called. “You were surprisingly polite, with all that going on,” she said) and boom.
I got an email from a woman I used to work with. “I was hoping we could get a glass of wine or some coffee or something,” she said, and seeing as no one likes me (see above) I agreed immediately. “We can meet somewhere, but also I have four foster kittens at my house, if that’s a thing you’d enjoy.”
I mean, you come to my house right now, you’re gonna be covered in kittens. For some, that is paradise. We’re knocking on heaven’s door. And for others, it sucks. I don’t understand those “others,” either.
Anyway, she agreed that my pad was the place to be.
Meanwhile, I got an immediate-turnaround, emergency article, and it was all financial info that I didn’t understand, and unfortunately for me, there seemed to be a par-tayyy going on at another desk, with everyone talking and laughing, and I was totally Cinderella with her headphones on, tryina concentrate and sweep the hearth.
At 1:00, I finally got done, and headed home for lunch. I’d had one piece of toast all day, and I was feeling decidedly peckish.
But you know how your house seems okay until you know someone is coming over? “Aw, man, I should change the throw rug in the bathroom. Man, I should sweep this floor.”
Next thing you know, almost an hour had passed, and I STILL HAD MY COAT ON, and was taking out the recycling and scrubbing the stove top and oh my god.
I was already late for returning to work when I realized I couldn’t find two of the kittens.
I was missing goddamn Lexi.
And motherfucking Vicki, the tortoiseshell. Hey, June, why don’t you recover that chair.
Anyway, having had cats m’whole life, I wasn’t too worried. I looked under chairs, under desks, behind squeezy things.
Matt the tabby and Trixie the black one were in their room, being good cats.
MY COAT STILL ON, I started shining a flashlight under things, and by the way, did you ever have your lights off and shine a flashlight on your hardwoods?
MOTHER OF GOD with the fur everywhere. I mean, maybe it’s because lately I’ve had nine fricking animals here, but good lord.
I wrote my boss. Current. “Minor emergency, working from home.” And then, even though I’d gotten everything done that was due, I did work. I figured maybe if I sat still, they’d come out.
Then I started having dreadful thoughts. What if I’d washed them with Edsel’s bed? What if I’d taken them out with the trash? I actually went out and searched the trash.
By the end of the day, I was exhausted and worried. “Ima get a migraine,” I thought, because I also hadn’t eaten, and I know the kind of day I had was like a poster: How To Get a Migraine.
Right at 5:00, I heard a mew. I’d been sitting on the couch, proofreading things, and when I get to work today, Ima be bored stiff, I got so far ahead of self. Really, you get a lot more work done at home.
Where was it? Where was I hearing it? Was it outside? Oh, no, was it?
were under the sink. And then of course I had to worry they ate poison, but if they did they seem to be thriving on it, so.
Later, my pal from work came by, and enjoyed her some kittens and an indifferent Iris. Or was appalled by them. Also, I did not ask her if I could put her in said not-blog, so I hope she does not kick my ass.
It’s possible she was more appalled than happy.
Right as she was leaving, I felt the first twinge. It ended up being a two-pill migraine, and I went to bed about 9:00. Felt dreadful.
As I was drifting to sleep spooning Steely Dan (don’t tell anyone), I heard a
Fucking adventure tortie, seen here with her good pal and biggest fan, Edsel, had escaped the room, despite the 47 pillows I’ve crammed in the space. Like a day in the sink wasn’t fun enough. Now she has to creep about in the night.
So that was my day, and am sincerely hoping today is more copasetic, especially given that I have a migraine hangover.
Do you remember the other day–like, two days ago–when I showed you that big tower of canned kitten food I bought?
There are two cans of it left. Yeesch.
Four kittens: Turns out, they eat.
But that, my rapt audience (“Talk about fekking kittens more, June”), is not why I’ve gathered you all here today, into uncomfortable folding chairs, with your paper plates on your laps. No.
I’ve gathered you here because as you may recall, from your worn, sacred Book of June Events, my boss, fmr., gets Stitch Fix. [Everyone begins flipping pages back.]
We’d decided–and by “we” I mean me and my brain–to force her into trying on her Stitch Fix in front of me and my camera of death, and then we–and by “we” I mean you, me and my brain–get to vote on what she keeps.
In case you don’t know from Stitch Fix, it’s a service you can sign up for where every month (or less, if you choose) they send you clothes and you return whatever you don’t like in their giant addressed, stamped pouch that is a pain in the ass to mail because you have to cram it into a narrow-mouthed public mailbox somewhere and try not to jam up the whole damn thing so all the office workers in that particular complex whose parking-lot mailbox you’re using won’t detest you.
Yesterday, the golden day was upon us, wherein my boss, fmr., got her Stitch Fix. She pointed it out to me excitedly.
“Oh, god, Ima have to remember how to do polls in my blog,” I kvetched, as she tried on her first piece. And that is why I’m sitting here now, kittens climbing my socks (“Talk more about fekking kittens, June, REALLY”)
AND THAT IS WHY I’M SITTING HERE NOW, the sun not up yet, having gotten up early just so I can struggle with doing polls in the body of my damn blog. So please vote. As I worked hard today. She works hard for the…oh, hell, I don’t even make money doing this.
Okay, here is the first piece… The first item. Her threads. Her duds.
Okay, ALLEGEDLY I added a poll button. If it didn’t work, rather than drive me BERSERK while I’m at work with “THE POLLS DON’T WORK!” emails, just say what clothes you like in the comments. But according to my preview button, it worked.
Okay, on to the next one!
Oh my god. Polls! Embedded! I think! Am internet guru. Maybe.
Okay, the necklace was my favorite part…
“You can have cocaine parties!” I enthused.
So those are our clothing choices for my boss, fmr., this month, and please vote early and often. Actually I think I have it set up so you can vote only once, but what do I know.
Meanwhile, Ned did not get Nancy yesterday, after all. He’s the boy who cried Nancy. Her little kitty operation was harder than they thought it would be, so they just wanted to monitor her for another day or so. So now MAYBE it’s today that he gets her and MAYBE it’s tomorrow.
“I’m supposed to go to dinner with my mom and uncle tomorrow. What if I get Nancy tomorrow?” he fretted.
See. This is the kind of dilemma that flummoxes Ned. He never cancels things. It’s, like, an impossibility to him. “They’ll understand, Ned,” I said. He still wasn’t sure.
As someone once said to my Uncle Jim, peoples is funny. I know I’ve told you this before, but Ned is a pit bull about plans. Once he makes them, they cannot be unmmade. Once, in maybe the first year I was dating him, we had plans to go see Pulp Fiction at the old theater. But Edsel had to have surgery that day, and the night of the event, there was no way I was leaving my dog.
Ned went to the movie anyway. I was so mad. I didn’t say anything, because I didn’t want to seem difficult.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Oh. That’s rich. But I was tryina keep that part under wraps. But in reality, I was all, Jesus, how insensitive is this guy? Why can’t he just come over and hang out with the dog and me? He’s gotta stampede to some old movie we could just rent here?
But see, now I know how he is with plans. The plan was made. He had to go through with it, whether I was going with him or not. Because he made that plan.
He also is forever the last to leave anything, a trait I’ve heard him complain about in others and on my insides I’m all, OH MY GOD YOU WERE THE EXACT SAME WAY ALWAYS. All the credits have rolled. Everyone’s left the party except the hostess and her mom who is staying for the week. The waiters have clocked out. THERE’S NOTHING LEFT. YOU AREN’T GOING TO MISS OUT ON ANYTHING BECAUSE THERE’S NOTHING LEFT TO MISS.
Don’t you hate people who say “exact same”?
Anyway. We’ve covered a lot today. We traversed the world, with our polls and our spoons and our rehab and our kittens.
Oh, and one more thing (JESUS JUNE WE GOTTA GO). Edsel has never liked it when cats fight. Whenever Steely Dan rolls his shoulders and hunches, staring down one of my innocent flower cats, Edsel leaps over to break the whole thing up.
You can imagine his angina with four seven-week-old kittens and their play fights. Good lord. He’s Sister Mary Agnes, breaking up all the fun.
That picture where Lily is glaring at you, me, the Guilford County Animal Shelter for drumming up this plan, kittens in general and anyone who isn’t her, in that photo, Edsel is back there breaking up frolic. What a Dog Downer that dog is.
I’m not a game person. I kind of hate games, actually, and for this, I blame my childhood. My mother used to have this game night, see, with her friends.
My whole life, as far back as I can recall–and I can recall being in my crib*, so it goes a ways–my mother has had friends. Not like one friend who we all call “Aunt” or whatever, no. Like, seven thousand friends.
(*I can remember my Uncle Jim leaning over my crib with this scary mask on his face, part of my parents’ official collection of World’s Most Disturbing Art®.)
Her friendships–my mother’s, not the scary African mask’s–are always a result of Whatever She’s Into Right Now, whether it’s her church or her hobbies or her political meetings, like the kind Frank Kennedy and Rhett and Doc Meade and foppy Ashley went to.
(Now, see, that’s funny if you know from Gone With the Wind, because that political meeting was a KKK meeting, and right now my mother is pursing her lips disapprovingly.)
Anyway, Whatever She’s Into Right Now means there are eight thousand new friends of hers calling and popping in and wanting to hug me. If I’m visiting nowadays, and the phone rings–which it does 7,000 times a day there–and I answer, the friends always start off with, “Pam?” because we sound exactly alike. And then I’m the bitch who has to start off every conversation with, “No. This is June.” It always feels so unfriendly to be all, “No.”
They’re always outgoing, these friends of my mother’s. And while people think I’m gregarious and an extrovert just because I’m funny, mostly my days are spent trying to have as much time to brood alone on the couch as possible. It’s always been my goal: If I’ve had a day where I got to spend a good five hours alone brooding on the couch, I give that day one of those stupid 100 emojis.
What the fuck with those?
Anyway, at some point in my childhood, maybe when I was 7 or 8, my mother started having game night, usually on a Friday, where she’d make popcorn and get out the Gallo Hearty Burgundy, and her outgoing friends would all come over, as would my outgoing Uncle Leo, dragging my Aunt Kathy, who likes to be in bed by 7:30.
Then all night, they’d lounge across my brooding couch and laugh and shout over each other and eat popcorn while they enjoyed them some rousing games of Jeopardy or 10,000 Pyramid. Or Password.
Often, my Aunt Kathy would fall asleep in a spare bed, like a toddler.
I remember being roped into these games occasionally, and sometimes I’d have to be moderator for Jeopardy. I was Alex Trebec and call.
Later, in my teen years, I remember coming home to some of the game nights, and having to pretend I wasn’t drunk as a skunk after a kegger. I’ve no idea if I pulled it off. Also, why did we all stop having keggers?
(Several of my mother’s outgoing friends are my Facebook friends, and I plan to tag them on this particular post, and I ask them: Did I pull it off? Did you have no idea I’d done 16 Miller Lite beer bongs?)
Anyway. Since I associate games with fun and frolic and friends, naturally it doesn’t appeal to me. Millennials seem to be big into games, and back when people at at work liked me, I was constantly being asked to game nights with them, and I’d always say no so I can brood on the couch.
But that’s just what I was doing the other day when I got some sort of targeted ad on my phone. You know how you’re on social media, and you swear you just THOUGHT, only THOUGHT, about how you wish they had high heels for swans, and then you’re scrolling and there’s an ad for Swan Slingbacks or whatever?
Jesus Christ, really? I just Googled high heels for swans and this came up.
Anyway, I’ve no idea, really, why they targeted me for a game, but maybe they’ve been watching me since childhood, when I was moderating Jeopardy. But anyway, they lured me in by saying, “Play this game to increase your brain power here” and I did, and then I was hooked and I think I paid four dollars for this app, called Peak, that allegedly makes your brain work better, and as you can see from this not-at-all-disjointed post that it’s working like a charm. And also by the fact that I parted with four dollars.
The game that really got me is called Word Fresh, and they give you some set amount of minutes to make as many words as you can, from a sheet of letters.
This game is perfect for me. I like words, and I like the Mission Impossible pressed-for-time challenge, and plus, I don’t have to talk to or smile at anybody. It can be played at home, by myself, on my couch of sorrows! With zero hugs!
At this point, even my kittens are sick of it.
I can honestly say this is the first time I’ve ever been involved in a game, and the first person who tries to make it social gets glared at by me. The first person who says, Oooo, June, they have a Word Fresh night at Moose Parts Brew Pub or Oooo, June, we all play it together on this one website with a chat room, the first person who does that is the victim of my next political meeting.
Anyway, I know you’ll be irritated with me if I just talk about that and don’t show you any kittens. I’m going over to Ned’s tonight to see Nancy, and I just can’t wait. I wonder if she’d like to play Word Fresh with me?
Here are the kittens. Edsel and Matt are peas and carrots, man.
I wanted to jump on here, not literally, and thank everyone for your tips.
When I started volunteering with the shelter to foster kittens, I just assumed they would provide me with food and cat litter. They don’t. But the first time I fostered, it was just one kitten, so hoo care.
When they asked me to take on four kittens and their mom, I figured the kittens would be eating their mother’s milk, a.k.a. titty dinner, TM my grandmother, but no. They also eat real food.
I had to feed both them and the mom kitten food, because everyone needed the calories. They eat dry kitten food, but also these cans, and 10 of those cans cost eight dollars. They are going through three cans a day.
So with your tips, I went to the grocery store tonight and pretty much bought out the store. You guys are the bomb. Thank you.
When I first get up, I feel vaguely like a cafeteria server at the prison, or like Laura Ingalls Wilder when she had to feed the threshers the first day she was married.
“Gee, June, I don’t remember that from the show.”
And that was the day June tore down the street in her chonies and cut out her own tonsils.
Anyway, feeding the threshers. Not that even one of these mofos has helped me thresh even once.
I really have to vacuum that floor. I tried just sweeping it, but I see some leftover Feline Pine. This means Ima have to pull out the vacuum and terrify four kittens. Rewarding!
Anyway, when we left each other on Saturday, I had taken all the kittens and their mom to the shelter, for their shots and so on. When they brought back the cat carrier, I could tell right away that Nancy, the mom, was not in the carrier. “She’s ready to be adopted,” they told me. “Your friend, I think his name was Ned Nickerson? Emailed me to say he wants the mom.”
She knew more than I did. For while I had included Ned in a group email saying the kittens and mom were almost ready, he hadn’t written me to say, “Ima take the mom, for sure.” Or even fo sho. As Ned is forever talking that way. You know how street he is.
So then I came home and wrote to you, and said if anyone wants to fekking leave a tip for June, your old pal June, that would be great, because it turns out four kittens eat a lot and poop a lot, and yay, thank you for your tips thus far!
Then I couldn’t stand it, and I called Ned. “They took the mom cat from me. Are you really adopting her?”
He really is! When I called him, on Saturday morning, he was in Raleigh, and do I want to know why he was in Raleigh that early? I do not. I figure there was some kind of VaginaFest 2018 that he attended that I’d rather not consider.
The point is, while the shelter DICKED HIM AROUND–kept telling him one thing and then he’d get there and learn another (he’s been to the shelter like three times this week), and no one seems to know what anyone else is doing there–he is, in fact, getting Nancy today.
One of the things they did tell him Saturday was that he had to come get her right away, that they could not keep her on hold, so he screamed down there and they were all, “Well, she needs to be spade first.”
Jesus. But that gave Ned, who you may know is something of an unspontaneous person, a chance to go to the pet supply store, even though he already just had a cat for 18 years, and get new litter boxes and a new cat carrier and a little litter-trapping rug and I don’t even know what else, I just know he spent like $200. For a $25 cat from the shelter.
He said Nancy was already in the cats-for-adoption room when he got there the third and final time till he goes back today, just dead asleep, and he said she was probably exhausted from seven weeks of mom-ing. Her surgery is today, which ought to perk her up. Heh. He gets her at 5:00.
Meanwhile, I get to keep her children for two weeks. I don’t see the point, really. If they’re away from their mom, and they’re with me, why can’t they just be in another, permanent home?
Lexi took this one of herself, while I had the camera at the ready this weekend. It’s hard to photograph a kitten, as they are constantly on the go.
At work, one of our clients was, let’s say, a telecommunications company, and every three seconds they had something happening “on the go.” Get your bill on the go. Now you can watch The Big Game on the go. We do this service for you, because we know you’re always on the go.
Guess what I worked hard to recast? In copy editing, instead of just saying, “Re-fucking-write this,” we say, “recast.” Because we’re pretentious. And on the go.
Anyway, whenever evil Steely Dan is outside,
I let the kittens out. He seems appalled by them, and while he was great with Jodie Foster, I don’t want to take a chance with his evil self.
But the point is, Edsel is an excellent kitten-sitter.
Could I look more hagged out in that photo? Hey, I have a lot to take care of right now.
But seriously. When I open the door to the kitten room, he gets this excited whine under his breath, and they all tumble out of there
and climb all over Edsel.
Somebody peed on the bedspread in there, so I just took it off. That room is a mess. I was in there scrubbing the floor with vinegar this weekend, and as I already announced, I see I have to vacuum over by the boxes and food and so on. Good lort.
Anyway, he’s excellent with them. My mother said they’re like Fay Ray and he’s King Kong.
Queen Kong. Who’re we kidding?
So that was my weekend, although I did go out with the four coworkers who still like me.
We met up in a part of town I really like. Everything’s old. I guess it goes without saying that if I really like something, it means it’s old.
The good news is, there was a puppy at the bar, ye olde bar, so thank heavens I left my house of pets to go out and admire pets.
But seriously. IRISH WOLFHOUND!!
I also ended up going to a Super Bowl shindig, and what commercials did you like? I thought the Bud Knight was funny. And I don’t want to see movie trailers during my Super Bowl commercials. Fuck off.
Anyway, when Ned gets Nancy I’ll officially alert you–and yes, he’s keeping the name Nancy. “Well, she already has a name,” he said, like she’s a dog or something. He’s very nervous. He’s only ever had the one cat, and he worries about adjusting to a new cat’s quirks. But Nancy is a delight. Unless she was being polite and once she feels more comfortable, she will be World’s Worst Cat. But you’ll be stunned to hear that I feel like I know from cats, and she’s a good one.
Why would you know from cats, June? Why won’t you go ahead and recover that chair, June? That you already bought fabric for, June?
After a quiet morning, in which I let each kitten come out to play a bit, I put Nancy and her brood in the carrier and took them down to the shelter for their booster shots.
I kibitzed with puppies in the lobby while I waited, and Edsel would like you all to know that he is greatly relieved I did not bring any of those home.
After a while, the volunteer coordinator woman poked her head out the door. “Are they eating real food?” she asked me.
They have been. They’ve been eating me out of house and home, actually. If anyone would care to make a donation, throw a little tip June’s way, that would be beautiful. I’m buying so much kitten food the grocery store probably thinks I’m eating it myself.
Between the five of them, they’d been eating four cans a day, plus dry food.
The volunteer woman went back behind the door again. I visited those puppies, and wandered into the adult cat room, not that there was pornography in there. You know what I mean. Geez.
When she came back with the carrier, I could tell by the way she was holding it that Nancy was no longer with her. Oh, my heart.
“The mom is good to go,” she said. “She’s ready to be adopted.”
I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye to Nancy. I was stunned. I mean, I know these kittens are seven weeks old, and that her milk was dried up, but jeez Louise.
“That friend of yours, Ned… Nickerson? He emailed to say he would take Nancy.”
Earlier this week, I emailed the four people who had expressed tepid interest in my kittens, and I included Ned in the email because he had come over here to look at them all, and had fallen in love with Nancy. She really is a spectacular cat. She is sweet and delicate, but not a lap cat. She’s also fun and will fetch a mouse over and over again. I think Nancy will be a great fit for Ned.
Oh my God. I am lying on the couch in the living room, telling you this story, and I heard a little kitten mew that sounded way too close. The dark tortoiseshell one, Vicky, has just crawled out from under the door!
I would let them roam freely, but Steely Dan is not pleased with this crop of kittens. I don’t know what to tell you about that cat. He loved the last foster.
Anyway, Ned had never answered the email I sent about Nancy’s availability. But I had included the email address of the volunteer coordinator, and clearly he emailed her.
Wait. Y’all. Ned made a decision! That just occurred to me.
So now the kittens are here at my house, momless, for two more weeks. I feel bad for Nancy. But I know she will be in a good home where she will be helicopter parented for the rest of her days. And yes, it has occurred to me to call Ned and ask him to bring Nancy over for a visit.
Meanwhile, I will try to soldier on with four baby kitten heads.
Last night, I had a dream that Steely Dan was wandering the hallways at my work, which isn’t out of the realm. It’s only three miles from here. But anyway, when the alarm went off in real life, I opened my eyes to discover him standing on my headboard, peering down at me.
I managed to discuss my dreams and my cat all in one sentence, thereby becoming the most boring person on earth®, officially. Maybe next I’ll tell my stories with, “Wait, was that Tuesday or…?” And my giant favorite, “Let me back up.”
NO ONE EVER WANTS YOU TO BACK UP. FOR THE LOVE OF LEROY, CAN YOU NOT BACK UP.
Other than work, cats and REM, I’ve got nothing more to tell you. Tonight I celebrate my love for you, and I need you all to go out today and light a candle and pray to our merciful god that I stop thinking of that damn song.
Tonight, I meant to say, a bunch of us from work are going to happy hour at someplace called the Crowded Goat or the Bleating Goat or the Got Your Goat. I don’t know. I’ve been there before. It’s got goat in the title. Other than that, the weekend yawns before me. Bleats before me.
Tomorrow morning, I take the kittens into the shelter for their booster shots, and I suppose there’s a chance people will tell me I’m the lucky one. And we’ve just begun. Think I’m gonna have a son.
They’ll tell me my little kitten heads are ready for adoption. Could they not? Could we just not yet? Please note they’re still pretending to eat titty dinner, even though Nancy is not bringing any milkshakes to their yard at present. But isn’t that reason enough that they should stay with her? Shouldn’t they stay with her until they’re not doing that? (June glues each kitten to mom.)
While I stared at my kittens, I also spent a long time on the phone last night, with the spouse of a friend. With the wife of a close friend, wife of a close friend.
I’m being intentionally vague not because I am having an affair with my friend’s spouse, but because I don’t want people to inundate him the way I inundated him. But to be fair, my friend called me after I wrote a post about how I worry about retirement, and she said, “Do you, you know, know what my husband does?”
“He works at a bank, right?” Turns out he’s a retirement guru.
She totally picked him up at work, by the way. She was in his line every Friday, depositing her check, and when she was ready to make her move, he asked her out. A truly GOOD boyfriend would have added a zero to her check before depositing it, but whatever.
Why is it I never get jobs at the bank?
So anyway, he and I made a plan to talk on the phone, old school, and when my phone actually rang, all four kittens and their mom startled.
For, you know, like a second.
Anyway. We discussed ad nauseum my income, my four oh wonk (Oh, look. Another reason to scream out and light a stop-doing-that candle for June) and my expenses.
He added things, and estimated things, and he did it like he enjoyed it. In the end, he said I wasn’t in that bad a shape, but he said what would really help is if I’d pay off more of my mortgage each month. With all my extra cash.
So, I’ve canceled Stitch Fix. I KNOW! I loved Stitch Fix! But–and here’s where you probably won’t feel sorry for me if you live in, say, California or New York. But my house payment is $870 a month, and I’m tryina pay at least $1,000 a month for now.
“Then, if you can manage that, in a while, just add $20 more, see if that’s okay. It’s just twenty dollars, right?” said my friend’s spouse.
So that’s the plan. I already plop 15% of my check into my four oh wonk each paycheck, and I AM DYING OF LACK OF FUN, but I also don’t want to be babbling to myself with a shopping cart at 80, which let’s face it is (a) Nine minutes away and (b) probably gonna happen anyway.
I’ll just be blogging out loud, to myself, under a bridge. “Oh my god, how did I get on this tangent?” I’ll croak.
Note that I don’t have to sit on the floor anymore, because everyone has learned how to get up on just everything. It was literally one day they couldn’t, next day they could. Oh my god, having kittens is the most funnest thing you could ever imagine.
All my chins and I agree.
Okay, I gotta go. I’ve got to get to work so I can get everything done in order to free up my schedule to get drunk like I’m 27 or something. Back when I was 27, we had a bar in our building at work, which was convenient AF, and then we had free bus passes, so getting home was a breeze. Man, those were the days. The says of busses and chablis.
Oh! Crap! Before I go, here’s an Amazon link. That extra mortgage payment isn’t gonna pay itself.