“June,” “May” We Hear About Your “April” Weekend? Otherwise We’ll “March.”

I’ll wait till you can stop slapping your knee over that headline.

Let’s see. What the hell did I do this weekend while you were here in my computer in suspended animation?

Friday.
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On Friday afternoon, I got an Amazon delivery at work. “I need a blog,” the mailroom guy always says to me, as every delivery I’ve ever gotten is you guys sending me things, usually things that enable my animal habit.

Faithful Reader PJ sent me a most excellent litter scoop (it’s fabulous) (oh, hang on! Entreprenuer June has an idea!).

Oh, look, a link to the scoop! Now YOU can have this excellent scooper, or anything you want on Amazon! All profits go to kitten or lipstick habits.

Also, FR Suburban Correspondent, who really is a faithful reader, sent me some of my kitten food, which I am needing, as they are now eating real food as well as nursing, and they are going through about five cans a day.

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ware a condum

And by “they,” I mean my seven foster kittens. And their mom. In case you’ve been out of the country, and not reading me. Being out of the country means there is no internet. Everyone knows internet is American.

IMG_7743.jpgThey’re doing great, as long as you don’t mind food crumbs everywhere. And they’re ALL getting the hang of the litter box!

IMG_7716.jpgThe runt is my special friend. She wasn’t eating the real food yet, so I started hand-feeding it to her like she was a bird or something, and now as soon as I walk in, she gets on my lap and screeches, MEEEEEEE.

Oh my god, I love that runt.

IMG_7735.jpgI make a gruel, because the internet told me to, of canned kitten food, dry kitten food, kitten milk supplement and water. It looks disgusting but they adore it. And step directly in it. So.

Oh my god, I was talking about Friday.

After work Friday, a very exclusive 187 of us were invited to a happy hour. There’s one guy who’s always funny, and near the end of the day he replied all, “I can’t wait to see all 187 of you tonight. What a reasonable number to invite.”

The good news is, it meant a lot of people were there, and I couldn’t stay long because see 12 animals at my house, above, but I did get to hang a bit.

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Koo-koo-ka-choo

It was Ryan’s birthday, and he is very depressed that he is a year away from being 30. Now he isn’t, because I bludgeoned him with a pickaxe. Forever 29.

Also, I’d asked Wedding Alex if she was going to go, as she and her spouse have been doing Whole 30 all year and it’s illegal or something to drink on Whole 30. By the way, if they’ve been doing it since January 1, at this point it’s more like Whole 120.

“Yeah, I was thinking of going,” she said. “But I gotta look cute first.” Then she pushed her hair from behind her shoulders to in front of her shoulders.

“…That’s it? That’s how you get cute? You move you hair forward?” asked the woman who spent $3228,920304 on Ultherapy.

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Her “cute side.”

The fun thing about Wedding Alex is she’s a terrible drinker. She’s drunk on like five sips. Normally she’s all professional and poised and then you get a mai tai in front of her and she becomes your Irish uncle. It’s one of my more fun hobbies, witnessing Drunk Alex.

Saturday.
There was a fund raiser here for pit bulls–a pitty party, if you will–and Saturday I left my house of animals to attend a fund raiser for animals. Apparently I did not win the raffle or they’re holding out on me to build suspense.

IMG_7708.jpgI photographed self before the event, but once I was in there, surrounded by sweet pitty puppies and big-headed pits and so on, I felt like an idiot saying, “Can I photograph these dogs?”

But, oh. There was a teensy all-gray one who I died over. I’m dead right now, next to bludgeoned Ryan.

After I’d ponied up my raffle money and so on, and headed to the country. Every Friday at work from spring through fall, this produce truck comes to work, and guess who never has cash.

“You should always keep $300 cash on you,” my coworker Griff says, from his loft in Fantasyland.

But everyone’s strawberries looked so good that on Saturday I headed all the way to their actual farm–the produce people’s farm, not my coworkers’–and bought strawberries. Since it was a really pretty day and I was already in the country, I drove around a bit, as that is my bailiwick, driving in the country.

Is your bailiwick a thing you like to do or a thing you’re good at?

Anyway, I found a park with a trail (I could not help but appreciate my grand hiking shoes, which were my pink satin ruffly shoes that’re excellent for a fund raiser AND, apparently, hiking! Versatile.) and a dock and it was lovely and I saw fish jumping, which made me think of how Ned gets annoyed at that Doobie Brothers’ song that goes, “catfish all jumping…” because catfish don’t jump.

The thing is, I go around with my regularly scheduled list of things that irk me, like calling them “veggies” and so on, and then someone lists something new for me to abhor and it’s a whole new world.

I hiked the smaller trail, in my pink satin flats, and did not see a snake, which was my entire goal.

Sunday.
Migraine. Goddammit. Why I always gotta have a migraine? In fact, this weekend I’d stupidly formed the thought, “I haven’t had a migraine in awhile,” which is something my mother-in-law, fmr., taught me is a kina hora, which means you think something like that and you curse yourself.

“Oh, traffic’s not bad today” and boom. There’s traffic. Kina hora.

I really shoulda been Jewish. I’m perfect for it.

I got up, fed everyone in agony and unmatched pajamas, went back to bed and slept till almost 5 p.m. and got up and fed everyone again. Ned came over with two bags of kitten food and a ton of canned kitten food, which was nice, and I will have gone through it in a week, probably.

But thanks to your tips, I’ll just get more!

The shelter should really pay for this. They’d be paying for it if the kittens were there. Also, I’ve been volunteering since November, and in that time two volunteer coordinators have quit. I don’t know what is up, there, but everyone who does work there is really very lovely, if overworked.

While I was lying in misery yesterday, I ordered a Freeze Sleeve.

Actual photo of my body. Also? A link to Amazon.

My elbow has been killing me, and I thought, if only they had an ice sleeve, which sounded like something I made up. My doctor told me to ice my elbow twice a day, and I have been, but when I do, I have to sit motionless with an iced eye mask on my arm. It’s stupid. So in my head I invented a sleeve you can just wear, that’s iced.

It’s like this time in, say, 1989, when my roommate Sandy and I were lying out. It was Michigan, so even though it was probably May, it was still a bit cold.

“This would be perfect if we just had a windwall,” she said.

“A what?”

“A windwall, to keep the wind from blowing on us.” She adjusted her reflective blanket.

“You know you just invented that in your mind, right?”

A windwall.

That was me, with my ice sleeve, but it turns out it’s really a thing, so I ordered one.

Hoping you find your windwall, and get past the torment of turning 29.

June

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Your number-one source for kitten pics and poop stories

Yesterday morning, I headed to the break room at work to put hot water in my oatmeal, like a fairly good person. When I got in there, there was a cupcake holder.

Well.

They were FUNFETTI cupcakes. I’m fun. I’m fetti.

So, what oatmeal? What flax? There was FUNFETTI to be had.

So I ate one and immediately felt sick. I don’t think there was anything wrong with the cupcakes, per se, I think I was already…not right and just didn’t know it till I started eating. Because I was sick immediately.

But I think we can all agree on how stoic I am. I am long-suffering.

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Actual portrait of me, at work. With millennials.

So I soldiered on with sort of a roiling feeling, and lasted through the morning and sort of felt better.

Till lunch.

I came home and had a macaroni and cheese Lean Cuisine, because nothing but the best for me, and a container of applesauce, because see the beginning of this sentence. Also, apparently am toddler.

After I mashed all my food onto my tray with my open palm and knocked over my sippy, I got in the car and headed back to work.

Roil.

Roil and trouble.

I could tell things weren’t going to end well. And I wasn’t so sick that I had to, like, stop working, but I certainly didn’t wanna be, you know, there when Mt. Vesuvius erupted.

“I’m going to work from home,” I announced, taking my laptop and hurrying out of the building.

“Where you going, June? You got cat-scratch fever?” some jokester said to me as I headed out the door.

“Heh. Yeah, I…” I began, but then ROIL.

“I better go,” I said, worrying if I could even MAKE it six minutes to home.

I was on a race against time, is what I was. A race against…two o’clock, if you catch my drift. Mrs. Brown was adamant about getting to the pool.

Fortunately, it was after lunch, so traffic was light, and on a really good day, I can be home in five minutes. On a bad day, it can take 10, and you should see how annoyed I get, like I was never an LA person whose 16-mile commute took more than an hour every day.

But there I was, on the turn that would lead me into my neighborhood. It’s probably less than a minute from that turn to my home.

Past the little park where Edsel and I go unless some asswipe–if you’ll forgive the expression in the middle of this story–has his dog unleashed. “Oh, my dog’s fine!”

Is there anything that irks me more?

Past the house where the people saved Iris.

Past that house where they don’t edge their lawn, and I fell on the uneven part between their grass and their yard, and sprained my ankle in 2013.

Past the people who have Ava.

Then, home.

At least, that was my plan.

But as I rounded the corner to get to my neighborhood, OUT OF NOWHERE?

Old lady in a Thunderbird.

I mean, it was one of those old ladies who was barely tall enough for the steering wheel. And I realize I’m like 18 months from being that old and I should be kind. I realize half the staff at my office thinks I already AM that old.

But girlfriend has lived a bit. In that Thunderbird, which looked like it was from the early ’90s. She bought it new for her 70th birthday.

She shopped for that car with her dear friend King Tut.

Her license plate was hieroglyphics.

She paid for it in clams.

Anyway, I don’t even know how she appeared before me, but there she was. And she was driving four miles an hour. One mile for every millennium she’s lived through.

“Oh, you have GOT to be kidding me,” I said, seconds from liftoff. I mean, we’re talking my innards. Having an unsettling experience. Ready for their photo SHOOT. I had to get something down on paper, if you’re picking up what I’m…throwing down.

Honestly, why do old people drive like that? I know I’m about to find out and all, but I’d like to know before I get there. What makes you say, oh, I’ve lived a bit. Guess I’ll slow down.

I could have WALKED home faster than I was driving behind this Dannon Yogurt ad in front of me. And I would’ve just pulled over and done so, possibly right in front of that woman’s house who always has a fit on NextDoor when someone parks in front of her house. But if I’d gotten out and tried to walk, I’d have been shot right up and over to Winston-Salem. I was already starting to worry about the walk from my driveway to the house.

If I ever fucking GOT THERE.

Finally, FINALLY, like, this MORNING practically, FINALLY we got to my house, and do you know what?

She turned right.

SHE DIDN’T EVEN NEED TO BE IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD.

SHE HAD TO REASON TO BE IN FRONT OF ME OTHER THAN THE UNIVERSE WISHES TO MAKE ME SUFFER.

Anyway. Obviously I made it into the house, and released the hounds, and didn’t feel quite right all night, which was rhyme-y of me and you’re welcome.

So that’s the story, there. I feel like Jackie Kennedy had one similar.

P.S. Obligatory kitten picture:

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With better legs

You know the part where I’m weird?

Now imagine it in high school.

Because I was generally this, just with better legs, in high school. In fact, I was even weirder, as I had not yet learned to rein it in. I wasn’t the deeply sophisticated, subtle woman of mystery brewing before you.

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Oh my god. I really was just this with better thighs. I just Googled myself for some high school photos and my high school column, “I’m Irked,” came up for me.

Classroom habits drive me mad!

I mean, what did I even have to be bitter about yet? But there I was, already annoyed. And in case anyone recalls the diary I recently shared with you–because I give and I give to you people–where I list everything I wore in 1982? Behold the gray cords, above. It’s sad that I know those are the gray cords. They had slanty pockets. And possibly pleats!

Anyway.

I was not what you’d call part of the In Crowd, what with this personality and this hair and those cords. And “I’m Irked.”

That is why it was weird when, in sophomore year, I got a call from Cardinal Hunter.

Cardinal Hunter was the shit, man. Everyone fekking loved him. My Uncle Leo had taught him in 6th grade, and somehow my uncle and Cardinal had stayed friends past, you know, 6th grade. Every so often he’d pop in at my Uncle Leo and Aunt Kathy’s house, and they’d always say to me, “You should meet Cardinal Hunter. He’s your age, and he’s so funny.”

Oh, sure he is, I’d think. I’ve always been a snob about that sort of thing. But someone tells you another person is funny and you check them out and the first thing you see is a hashtag that reads The Struggle is Real and you’re all, see. I knew you weren’t fucking funny. With your Live, Laugh, Love wall decal.

Because I’m clearly Shekky Greene, over here. Who can argue the level of hilarity that comes from old inventing-the-word-sparklefraffle June Gardens?

Me being snooty about funnyness is like being snooty about Dr Pepper when I’m Mr. Pibb.

So, I got to high school, and the entire world was abuzz about how magnificent Cardinal Hunter was, and how hilarious, and how cute, and though I’d yet to meet him I was already completely over him. It’s the same way I feel about geocaching.

Even my boyfriend at the time, Giovanni Leftwich, was all up in him. “Oh, man, have you met Cardinal Hunter yet?” he asked me while we walked home one day. I can see his tube socks as we walked. I don’t know why, but I totally can.

What I wouldn’t give to just re-live one stupid day of 1981 and see what that was like.

Probably like this, with less cankle. And more Scotty Baldwin.

At any rate, there it was, early February of sophomore year, in the early ’80s in the early days of this personality, when I hadn’t learned to rein it in, and perhaps I’ve already mentioned that. And as per usual I was grounded for whatever transgression, so I was home, Giovanni and I were broken up, and the phone rang on a Saturday night.

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It was Cardinal Hunter.

“Good gravy, what does he want?” I thought, although I wonder now what my “good gravy” of the day was. Maybe “wow” or “the struggle is real” or “live, laugh, love AF.” I don’t know.

He’d been back visiting at my Uncle Leo’s, Cardinal had been, and perhaps that seems odd to outsiders, but if you knew my Uncle Leo you could totally see being 15 and popping in to chat. He’s entertaining, Uncle Leo is. That’s why when he and Aunt Kathy divorced, we kept him.

We all apologize, Aunt Kathy. But dude is funny.

The point is, Uncle Leo was making Cardinal watch a slide show, and maybe he’s not as entertaining as we think. My Uncle Leo gets…into things. Like, he gets a hobby, let’s say sailor hats. And then for a year you gotta hear about sailor hats, and when they were invented, and then he starts making his own sailor hats and all you want to do after that year is burn down every sailor and every hat in the nation.

I don’t even know that “sailor hats” are a thing.

But the point is he was into photography then, and he’d taken pictures of me, at 15, dressing up in my grandma’s clothes. Oh, I thought I was hilarious with this. I had on a babushka and her cat-eye sunglasses and her gramma shoes. And Uncle Leo showed these slides to Cardinal.

For some reason, this enticed Cardinal, who has a little weird in him, too. He just hides it better by being socially acceptable. So he called me. And we became a high school thing.

You may have guessed that my romance eventually ended, as I am not mentioning my husband Cardinal that often. You’d think after 11 and a half years of blogging I’d have brought him up.

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But we’ve always been friends. Also, Ima have to recapture and reupload all these damn photos again, because dredging them from my old blog doesn’t really work. I really need you to see every nuance of my 1988 perm and my 1988 white zinfandel, up there, and you cannot.

IMG_7492.jpgIMG_7490.jpgYesterday I saw my high school boyfriend Cardinal Hunter. He lives outside of Seattle, and yes, we both lived there at the same time for awhile. He was here because most of his family lives in North Carolina, which is weird, right? I can’t shake that damn Cardinal Hunter. It’s like tryina get a taffy wrapper off my hands.

He was glad to meet my kittens, and he was way into meeting Edsel. “How many pets do you guys have now?” I asked him, because he’s like me with the pets. “Just two cats and two dogs,” he said.

So, reasonable. When you’re us.

There was one time he had a mastiff and two Newfoundlands. That was small, over at his house, is what it was. What dogs? You have dogs?

IMG_7507 2.jpgHe fell particularly in love with Erin, that tortoiseshell one, as she is a big starer. Eye contact is kind of her jam.

(And in case anyone’s worried, I have been feeding runty Elizabeth a bottle and she’s taking it, so, yay.)

After the kitten intros, we walked Edsel and eventually tried to get a drink somewhere, but my stupid city has decided Wednesday is a big party night, so it took awhile to find anywhere, but we did. We were like that song by Dan Fogelberg, where it’s Christmas Eve and he runs into his ex and they can’t find an open bar and they buy a six-pack at the liquor store.

And they drank it in her car. Which sounds legal.

After our drink, Cardinal had to start driving back to his sister’s place an hour away, so we said our goodbyes. I was just shutting off the lights when the doorbell rang.

“Woof,” remarked Eds.

“I forgot. I got you this,” said Cardinal.

It was a Mallow Cup.

In high school, he’d always go to the party store, which is what we called convenience stores in Michigan, and he’d get a disgusting Cadberry Egg and I’d get a Mallow Cup. And then we’d eat them in his car. Which was probably legal. Other stuff we did in there probably wasn’t.

img_7494.jpgAnd that, my friends, is how a February 1982 phone call resulted in weird June Gardens nostalgically eating marshmallow in a cup in 2018. Just for a moment I was back in school. And felt that old familiar weirdness.

Love,
June

Twirl her tiny mustache

Did you ever see a TV show where the alarm goes off and the person shuts it off and immediately gets out of bed? Are there really people like that, or is it like TV gifts that are fully wrapped and you just take the top off ?

I used to think those Xs on the bottoms of Christmas trees were a fake TV thing, too, till I moved to LA and that’s how they give you a Christmas tree. Also, you haven’t experienced weird till the sun beats upon you while you’re getting a Christmas tree. With an X on the bottom.

Also, why do you guys let me do math? Why do you leave me alone with math problems?

Yesterday I said there were 108 lives in my house right now, and that I took forever to do that math. Today I woke up, by smacking the alarm and lying there forever like a normal not-in-LA person who has to cram her Christmas tree into an absurdly difficult Christmas tree stand, and figured out I did the math wrong.

Okay. Cats have nine lives.

I have three regularly scheduled cats.

Then I have a mom and seven kittens.

3 + 1 + 7 = 11.

9 lives x 11 cats is 99.

Right? But I said 108. And also, I kept thinking okay, there are 12 cats here (there aren’t) (I don’t think. Hell, if one slipped past the bouncer, who could blame me for not noticing at this point), so it’s 99 + 12.

But it wouldn’t be. It’s be 99 + 9.

Oh my god, hoooo care.

So, hi.

I have kittens.

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Today at lunch I am going to scream down to the pet supply and get a bottle and mother’s milk. Like, from a cat, not from my own mother. I worry about this one, who is like a tenth of the size of her (his? her. Because tortoiseshell, right? They’re always girls?) siblings. Her name is Elizabeth–the youngest Walton. Look at her little mustache! It’s not so cute when I have one.

I tried to put all the other kittens in the carrier last night and give her alone with mom time, but she was so not into it. She wanted to wobble around and look at things teensily. Twirl her tiny mustache. And so on.

IMG_7486.jpgThere’s a lot of competition for food. Not to be obsessed with LA today or anything, but it’s like trying to go to brunch in Santa Monica.

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IMG_7475.jpgSo that’s the update on foster kittens. The Foster Report®.

I wish I had some sort of…Foster Grant to cover the costs of this.

HAHAHAHAHAHA.

Really, you have sent tips, kitten tips, and that is magnificent of you. Thank you.

Lottie Blanco, m’coworker, brought me cans of kitten food, which I am feeding to the mom. They told me to feed kitten food to nursing cats. And it’ll be a matter of days before they all start eating that food.

I took down my tip jar ages ago, when I put UP that link to shop with Amazon. It seemed annoying to have both. Maybe my problem is I’m not ambitious.

Anyway, I still have a tip jar, it’s just not up. The link to send tips, just the tip, is still

https://www.paypal.me/JuneGardens.

Or,

But don’t leave a tip if you can’t afford it. I’m mentioning it now because a few times in the comments these past few days, people have wondered where the tip jar is, and that’s the answer. Maybe I should just put it the hell back up.

But we have other important details to discuss. Today we have:

Another poll.

Photos of my coworkers.

A rundown of the silent movie I saw last night.

And info on my high school boyfriend.

Oh, boy, June. Lemme get my coffee and we can get started. Even though you’ve already spoken for 626 words already.

Another poll.
You know my boss, fmr., whose clothes we vote on when she gets her StitchFix? She’s come into a little money as of late, a little pin money. Some hat money. Oh my god June shut up.

Should she:

…I just want you to know I can NEVER FIND where to add a poll to this blog, and I will not say the struggle is real but oh my hod. (Hod. What is WRONG with me? Oh my Hoda Kobe.)

Photos of my coworkers.
I have recently taken two coworker photos I’ve enjoyed. Here they are.

IMG_7188.jpgThis coworker came over to show me her cat mug, because she thought I would enjoy it, and what I enjoyed were her pink earrings, pink shirt, pink lipstick AND her pink mug, all at once. So a photo was born.

IMG_7448.jpgMy coworker Molly was excited about her new t-shirt, and I was taking photos of said shirt for her, but I like this blurry one best. Which is the story of my life.

Slivent Movie.
Slivent. What the hell is wrong with me? Have we discussed yet?

Last night, my old movie theater showed the silent film Sunrise, which I knew nothing about, but I did see the sequel, Sunset.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Oh, June. Lemme get a tissue.

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We have the original organ at my theater, from when it opened in 1927, and they have a guy come from Chapel Hill or somewhere to play it during the silent films. He’s really good. I mean, what do I know? But he adds to the suspense and so on with his playing.

Also, who knew this old movie would have me at the edge of my seat, barely able to concentrate on my peanut M&Ms?

There was one scene where some vamp-ish city folk, a word they kept capping in the subtitles, (“Come to the City.” “She was a fast City girl.” You know how lighthearted I am about things like this.) wanted to redo the hair of our country heroine, up there, and she had a fit and didn’t get her hair done. I was over there screaming, GET YOUR HAIR DONE, FOR GOD’S SAKE. I mean, silently. Because silent movie. Plus, peanut M&Ms in my mouth.

It really was a stupid hairdo. When she finally drowns at the end her hair looks way better.

Spoiler alert! You only had 91 years to see this movie, so I understand if your pressing schedule kept you from it.

I act like I didn’t just see it 12 hours ago.

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yu annoy

High School Boyfriend
My high school swain, fmr., Cardinal, is in North Carolina, and we are getting together tonight. Naturally there’s something, like, dead in my house. There is this smell. I cannot figure it out. It’s not cat litter, although you’d think it was. The kittens don’t use a box yet, and I’m changing mom’s box twice a day and my OWN cats’ box twice a day.

I took out the trash and the recycling.

It’s driving me insane.

Anyway, this has become less about Cardinal and more about the dead thing that dwells under my house, but there it is.

I’ll talk to you tomorrow, when I hope to cover an equally dizzying array of the pressing topics of our time.

Shutting off the alarm and getting right out of bed. Also going to someone’s house to visit before work, like they do on TV shows and never anywhere else in life,
June

 

 

 

I got 99 lives, and also more lives because math

Yesterday I heard from the animal shelter. I was wondering what was taking them so long, because I know kitten season is upon us.

“We have, well, we have 7 kittens and their mom,” they said apologetically, like they were sorry for even asking.

“I’ll be there right after work,” I said. Maybe I’m the only person who thinks she struck gold when she hears, “Seven kittens and a mom cat need to stay with you for a few weeks,” but MOTHER OF GOD.

Or kittens.

So I schlepped through the driving rain, like Dwayne in Annie Hall, which is probably funny to like four of you. It was funny to fewer of you than there are kittens. Anyway, I drove, on the stupidest street we have in Greensboro, at 5 o’clock at night, and Dear Shelter: Why you gotta be somewhere annoying?

Anyway I got there 20 minutes before close and they were packed. There were two guys picking up a cute-headed pit, and they had 494939530204042 questions. “Well, let’s say we’re in Appalachia, and the humidity was 24. What would we do if…?” I mean, with the QUESTIONS already.

So since I had time to, oh, do whatever, what do you think I did?

IMG_7191.jpgIMG_7192.jpgIMG_7190.jpgDid I take that moment to fall in love with a gray grownupeldy minty-eyed kitty named Max? Perhaps I did. I’d have scooped him up if I didn’t currently have

TWELVE

animals in my house at the moment.

Twelve. I have apostles.

Eventually, they were able to hand me over the cat carrier, and I glanced inside, because they’d told me nothing about what COLOR kittens I was getting, so it was like when you pick one door on Let’s Make a Deal or some other similar current reference.

img_7196.jpgOrange!

IMG_7200.jpgEveryone’s orange!

IMG_7229.jpgOkay, well, some of us are tortoiseshell-ish. Which is also orange, just all mixed up like butterscotch. Which makes no sense.

And I want to assure you that floor is not filthy. It’s that damn concrete floor I used to blog in, before my Year Abroad, and while I’ve scraped and painted and carried on with that floor, it peels all the time, rendering it terrible-looking. But I swept in there and put a quilt down, and what you’re seeing is the paint effing peeling, and you know what I need to do? I need to get Alf to put down some tile.

What I want is retro-looking linoleum. Who’s going to be annoyed with me, do you think, when I ask him to lay retro-looking linoleum and not floating clicky easy tiles?

Anyway back to our kittens. Who cares how Alf my ridik handyman feels?

What is not easy is photographing teensy kittens. I think they’re probably three or four weeks old.

Out of 497 photos, here are the only halfway decent ones I got.

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I worry about this runty one, whom I’ve named Elizabeth. I’ve named them all after the Waltons, as there were seven of them. She’s so TEENSY.

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This is Erin
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Mom (Cora Godsey) with John Boy and JimBob

Anyway, as they get older, it’ll be easier to take photos of them.

Meanwhile, the regularly scheduled dog and cat bowls have been moved from the kitchen, and the litterboxes are back here with me. None of my cats care that there are kittens back there. They hear them, but they’re all, eh. Dis agan.

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U not gooeng to eet kiddens, do you, Steelee?

I read my tarot cards every month, and one of the categories is “You in the Environment of the Future.”

Here’s me, in the environment of the present, with KITTENS.

IMG_7253.jpgAnd hurr. It’s been raining.

IMG_7441.jpgWhile we’re on the topic of cats, you know, just a bit, yesterday was the last day of SD’s confinement, as he is now done with his antibiotics. And today? It’s raining cats and cats. I held the door open for him, and as SO BORED OH SO BORED as he is, he wouldn’t go out in it.

IMG_7442.jpgInstead, he is opting to wreak havoc throughout the land. I also caught him coming from the laundry area, so I shudder to think of what he ate.

Clothes-chewing ass.

IMG_7269.jpgSo that’s all my news. There are 108 lives in this house currently.

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You don’t even wanna know how long it took me to figure out the maths of that.

Orange you glad I blogged today?

June. Who you callin’ crazy cat lady?

Skate away

I used to run. Did you know that?

Not fast or anything. I kind of plod. But I took a running class once in college. I probably need some precise amount of credits to get my student loans that term, or something, and I know gym classes were always one credit.

I remember the very first day of class, trying to find my way around the physical education building and somehow opening the door to the men’s locker room.

And right then I knew, I was going to like running.

And I did. Even though I’ve never been fast, or graceful. I’ve never been one of those women you see gliding down the sidewalk in cute athletic garb. But I remember leaving that running class in bike shorts and a purple tie-dyed shirt–because 1989–and going to my work study job at the museum (our offices were in the museum’s warehouse), knowing I looked sort of good. My legs got nice right away.

“How far did you run today?” people at work would ask me. I’d always feel accomplished when I told them. “RIGHTEOUS!” I remember my museum boss saying once, when I told her how long I’d run.

I ended up living in London that summer. I had this English professor I was obsessed with because I admired him so much. He was brilliant and caustic and original, and he returned one of my papers with “See me about a small scholarship to London” across the top. It was one of the best moments of my life.

I saw him about that scholarship. Then I called the bar I’d snootily quit months before, proud of not needing it because of my fancy $7.45 an hour work study bike shorts job at the museum, to ask for some shifts back. They gave them to me, and in a month or two I’d raised enough to get to London to live all summer.

When I think of that summer, I think of reading The Bell Jar in a pub while church bells rang nearby, and I think of my morning runs.

My dorm was in the same park as the London Zoo. I’d run all the way down to that zoo. Once the wolves ran with me, all the way to the end of their cage. And I heard pink flamingoes chattering. I didn’t even know they made any noise. I guess it was because it was just me and them that they felt okay to squawk.

I think it was when I got back that I stopped running that time. If I recall, my new apartment complex had free aerobics or something very early ’90s.

Ten years later, I was in Los Angeles, getting a pedicure at one of my two pedicure hotspots. I went to either RedNailMayIHelpYou near work (that’s how they always answered the phone, with the enthusiasm of warm lettuce) or Nail Station near my house.

I was at Nail Station that time, waiting for my feet to dry, when I saw a pamphlet for AIDS Project Los Angeles’s marathon fundraiser. They’d take six months to train you, and you raised a few thousand dollars for them, and then you’d be flown to Chicago for the marathon in October.

“That seems like pretty much the last thing I’d ever do,” I thought. So I did it.

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What I remember about running for that stretch of time was how I’d eat breakfast and then by 10 a.m. get the receptionist at work to get us grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches from the restaurant across the street. Then two hours later I’d have lunch. I looked magnificent.

I remember waking up early and driving down to the park for our training, and seeing nothing but hundreds of those light necklaces people wear around their necks when they run in the dark.

I remember running 23 miles along the beach. I remember how close my group got, and times we’d have to stop running because we were bent over laughing so hard.

After we’d run the marathon, one big tough guy emailed us all to say we kept him off heroin, that group did. He said he missed us so much it made him cry just typing us.

I wonder how that guy is now. He had gang tattoos, I remember.

On Friday, I pulled on a sports bra and my old running shoes and I got a leash and Edsel and I headed out for a run.

I thought it would be awful, but my old plodding body knew what to do. I knew the first 10 minutes are always the worst. Your lungs hurt, and you feel everything jiggling at you in protest, and you feel like there’s no way you can keep going.

But then you can. Then you do.

I could hear my breath coming in a rhythm I’d forgotten, and my feet pounding on the sidewalk. And as we reached the first mile, I realized why I was running.

I was running because I’m furious. I’m furious that I’m not married at 52. I’m furious that Ned didn’t turn out to be who I wanted him to be, and that Marvin disappointed me too. I feel marginalized at work, and a lot of my friends have moved away, or got married and don’t talk to me (note to self: Stop being friends with people you used to sleep with).

I don’t look the way I did when I was 25, and meeting new people isn’t as easy as a result.

I thought I’d be more financially settled than this by now.

I thought I’d be important, somehow.

Instead, I seem to be shrinking in every way but physically.

So I ran. I ran because I didn’t know what else to do.

And as I did, I thought, Well, maybe you really do have no interest in men now. Maybe it’s not just something you’re saying to get through this lean time. Maybe it’s true. So, have no interest in men.

And maybe you do feel bad about work. It’s still six minutes away, you know how to do it and there are a lot of people there you feel very affectionate about. Still, if you feel bad about it, feel bad about it.

Maybe there aren’t so many friends right now. And maybe you have no interest in making new ones. So, just don’t have so many friends right now.

I could hear my feet. Pound, pound, pound.

I started to notice how pink the trails of planes were as they flew overhead. I smelled the magnolias and smiled at the puppy behind a neighbor’s fence.

I made it the whole way, stopping just once after a hill. Edsel ran next to me like a police dog or something. If you just give that creature something to do, he’s pretty obedient. He smiled the whole time.

Back when I used to run in London, I didn’t have any way to listen to music, so I’d THINK songs. For some reason the song that ran through my head the most was River by Joni Mitchell.

Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on, it goes.

If you lived here, on Friday evening, you may have seen a slightly chubby middle-aged woman running with a goofy smiling dog. Maybe you were wondering why she bothered.

She did it because she found a river she could skate away on.

Hair-ried

I forgot to mention to you that the day Steely Dan was clearly hurt, with the growling when he walked and his big eyes and so on? I called the vet right away, like at 7:30 in the morning, and they said, “Can you have him here by 8:00?” So I took the world’s fastest shower and put on the world’s fastest stupid ensemble and then I scream scream screamed to the vet and went to work and looked like this:

IMG_7079.jpgWow. I don’t know anyone whose hair reflects her every mood the way mine does. This one says, “Harried.” Hair-ried.

But while we’re on the subject of my stupid life, usually when I write you, I’m in my robe, and I will give you a moment to stop being so turned on.

But today, after I showered

[I’ll give you another moment. You must be on fire at this point.]

I thought, You know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna get dressed right away, because that robe is always kind of warm and my bosoms are always in the way

[At this point there’s nothing you can do. You are going to spend the whole day in a heightened state of arousal.]

so why not get dressed now?

So I did, and then I made my avocado toast and bit into it and squirted grape tomato all over my outfit.

And right then I knew, that’s why I fucking wear my robe when I write you. I have to wait till the very last minute to dress, to alleviate the many things that can go wrong with my clothing. The cat hair, the tomato seeds, the toothpaste.

Goddammit.

It’s a good thing I pilled Steely Dan before I showered and dressed, as that was another thing that could have landed on my clothes. I know I told you he takes pills nicely, and compared to my other cats, he still does, but perhaps he’s feeling better or just wasn’t in the mood, because he

SPAT

his pill across the kitchen floor.

I didn’t even know cats could spit. He was like a gray angry llama up in here. Just ptooi across the floor with that pill. But I gathered it up and gave it to him and he was all, FINE and took it without incident.

The fact that he is currently an indoor cat makes me feel better about finding this last night…

IMG_7124.jpgIMG_7123.jpgMy friend Lucy, from TinyTown, gave me this right when I moved into this house, and it’s been in my backyard ever since, and it’s been used ever since. Now, I know Iris isn’t strong enough to, you know, RIP a birdhouse open, and probably SD isn’t, either, but since he was inside (and so was Iris, actually), I know I don’t have to blame my own self for this horrific scene.

I didn’t see feathers or eggs or anything, so maybe whatever animal did this was out of luck. There WAS a nest in there, but that coulda been from last year.

So that was dramatic, and also dramatic yesterday was when an electrician came over. I had a smoke detector hanging from my ceiling by its wires, like I decorated using tips from Crack House Monthly. Like I decorated using pins from Needle-trist. And anyway, Alf my ridiculous handyman said it was going to require an actual electrician to fix it, so I got one to just replace all my smoke detectors, because every single one of them is wired into my ceiling and was either (a) missing because I ripped it down or (2) had a door that was stuck open because they were all old and stupid.

IMG_7118.jpgSo yesterday at lunchtime, the electrician came over and replaced all 6 smoke alarms, and when the new ones went in they would beep a few times to let us all know they may be new but they’re still annoying. And as he did that I was tryina stay out of his way and I saw this.

IMG_7121.jpgPoor Eds was in the bathroom, being a letter C. A few minutes later, I walked past again and the electrician was standing over Eds, rubbing his dog chest. I dearly wanted to say, “May I photograph this moment for my blog?” but YOU try that and see how insane that makes you feel.

But speaking of Edsel, he did get rewarded for his terror last night when Aunt Alex came over. Oh, he was mad when her truck pulled up. He was all making a letter O with his mouth and raising his hackles and carrying on, and Steely Dan, who wants nothing to do with any of us at this point and feels like Pa Ingalls did when he was snowed in for months with his stupid family, glared and hoped the person in the truck was an ax murderer and we’d all be removed from this mortal coil.

IMG_7128.jpgBut it wasn’t an ax murderer. It be Aunt Alex. Note SD in the corner, with his Paw Wash of Disappointment.

“Steely Dan’s inside!” she exclaimed ‘ere he stomped out of sight.

“Apparently you’re not reading my blog,” I said, and it’s always a weird thing when you write about your life every day and then you have friends in real life and you don’t wanna be RUDE and be all, “Do you read my blog?” but you also don’t want to launch into a story they just fekking READ about and then they have to feign interest and it’s really become a thing, basically.

Other than relatives such as my parents, the people who know me in real life don’t read me. It’s probably enough to know All This in real life without having to read All This.

“No, I–I read. I know he got hurt, but then what happened?”

See. She saw it in Facebook, is what she did. It really is a thing, this blogging and having friends. It’s an awkward thing. Maybe I should just go ahead and tell all my stories, and they can interrupt me with, “Yeah, I read this already, bitch,” but who’s gonna do that? Emily Post has never addressed this situation.

Aunt Alex was over to have dinner with me, as I have not seen her in awhile because we don’t work together anymore and she no longer lives a mile away. She and her spouse, who is also good-looking, moved to the country so they can impress the animals with their golden blondeness. They’re like Adam and Summer’s Eve.

And why do all my younger friends get to move to the country and eat a lotta peaches while I’m stuck in the bustling metropolis that is Greensboro? Why I gotta be all urban? I’m dying to live in the (snake-free) country.

They should make snake-free country the way they got the seeds outta grapes. I mean, someone figured that out, and that couldn’t have been easy. Work on it, smart folk.

Oh my god, anyway. The point is, we went to dinner at this little diner that’s been around since 1977 and since they last decorated in 1977. I want it to NEVER CHANGE. I adore it there.

I had quiche, because 1977, and she had a prosciutto and swiss sandwich, and we had a lovely time and talked and laughed and then she took me home and as I walked into my living room, I saw her pull back into my drive.

I went outside.

She got out of her truck. She stared at me, aghast.

“We didn’t pay.”

OH MY GOD WE DIDN’T PAY! We just clean forgot! We just STROLLED out of there without going up to the counter!

Alex went back, and she texted me after. “They weren’t even fazed,” she said.

We totally coulda gotten away with it.

I gotta go, but I wanted to tell you about a lovely experience I had last night. I mean, beyond dining and dashing.

Here’s one of my Amazon links to a CD. Back in the year 2000, which feels like five years ago but was EIGHTEEN, I trained for and ran a marathon. I also had a very fruity therapist, whom I loved, who changed her name from a nice Jewish lady therapist’s name (think something like Myra Goldblum) to something Indian-ish, because she was super duper into meditation and so on, and during some sort of seminar she was given a new name. So she went from Myra Goldblum to Sanguine.

I loved her. She lived in my neighborhood, so I’d walk over to her house once a week and get therapied. She got me to get a Ganesh keychain, and so on. The point is, she loaned me the above CD, there, called Sound Body, Sound Mind, by Dr. Andrew Weil. It’s five minutes of him talking, then an hour or so of really pretty music.

What happens is allegedly while you listen to it, your body heals itself from whatever’s wrong.

I was to take her CD and tape it, and dear Dr. Andrew Weil, don’t arrest me.

So Marvin made me that tape, and he inscribed it, Sound Body, Sound Mind CD from Gurpmaloni Changetrimeshu.

I used that tape like a motherfucker while I was doing my marathon training, because something always hurt on me, and I would giggle

LIKE AN IDIOT

every time I saw Gurpmaloni Changetrimeshu. And that’s really the name he wrote; I can still remember it.

THE POINT IS, eventually I bought the CD so I wouldn’t have to get up and flip the damn tape, and I LOVED it and I think Marvin accidentally stole it in the divorce, because the very last thing he wants is a bunch of fruity meditation music given to me by Gurpmaloni.

I told her that story, by the way, and she giggled. Oh, I adored her.

Anyway, m’tooth was hurting again last night, and I said, Goddammit. I really wish, what would really work, is if I still had that Dr. Andrew Weil CD, and I don’t. But you know what I did? Technology. I got it on iTunes, and I plugged my phone in next to my bed, and when that music started up, I almost started to cry.

I’d listened to that thing so often from, like, 2000 to maybe 2005, and then it got lost, and it was so nice to hear it again. And I fell asleep listening to it, slept like a LOG, and then today my mouth doesn’t hurt.

So I’ll link to it again if you want it. Or you could just iTunes it like I did. It was 12 dollars.

Namaste,
Junemaloni

Royal with cheese

I got my crown.

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Bow down, bitches

Of course I took a flattering selfie at the dentist. What are you? New? I feel like I didn’t look that bad in real life, but what do I know?

They have a procedure there where you get the whole crown in one visit–no horrific temporary. No mold where they stick the goop in your head. They built my crown on the computer and made it in the other room and stuck it in my head. I believe I took this while I was waiting for my crown. When AMN’T I waiting for a crown? “Amn’t” is a good word that I made up when I was like two.

Anyway, technology. It’s not just a good idea. It’s the law. Say, June, why don’t you try to make some sense?

Afterward, I thought it was okay. I went to the grocery store and got dog food, cat food, Steely Dan canned food (like he’s not also a cat), and coffee. All the staples. Then I came home and walked Edsel for half an hour, fed everyone, and considered watching another rousing episode of Parenthood (Kristina Braverman is an asshole) when

ow.

Oh my god, ow.

OW.

It really started to hurt. I mean, he told me it might be “sensitive,” but mother of god. And of course I own zero ibuprofen. Migraine people don’t even bother with it.

And this is why it’s a problem that Ned is four minutes away. Ned, who owns enough ibuprofen to reduce SpongeBob’s inflammation. When he sees a hot sponge girl.

Ned is an old man, who continues to insist upon the gym, so as a result something always hurts on Ned. Not his conscience. Don’t be silly. But the rest of him.

IMG_7112.jpgSo he came over. Brought me meds. And all the cats rejoiced throughout the land. Well. That’s not entirely true. Steely Dan mostly ignored him, after an initial minute of attempts to have THAT guy let him out, since The Girl is not budging on this matter.

“He’s just looking up at the doorknob,” Ned noted.

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so fekking bore
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Even when he’s “resting,” he keeps whipping his tail angrily.

IMG_7080.jpgAnyway, Ned’s delivery of meds went without incident, and the ibuprofen did work, and maybe I’ll take more today, because while it’s certainly better, it’s not 100% pleased with this coffee hitting it.

IMG_7107.jpgThe rest of my evening pretty much went like this. Poor Iris and her lack of eyes.

…I just saw an email that work wants me to come in right away and get started on something, so I’d better go early, but while I was convalescing yesterday, I had a thought.

What if Princess Diana isn’t really dead? What if the royal family was sick and tired of her bullshit, and she was sick of attention, so they made up a scheme where they faked her death? No, I’m not smoking the pot. But I have been watching The Royals, that stupid show on E (Exclamation Point).

Did I ever tell you when the economy was booming and I lived in LA, they called me, E Exclamation Point did, to offer me a job? They called me at WORK. I don’t even know how they got my number. But they needed a copy editor, and they wanted me. It wasn’t “Come in for an interview,” it was “Come in for the job.”

And this was all very exciting and flattering, till they asked what I made. I told them. “Are you willing to be flexible on that salary?” they asked. The TELEVISION NETWORK asked. I was working for an independently owned court reporting agency at the time, proofing depositions. Who do YOU think had a bigger budget? Give me a break.

“I’m willing to be flexible about my salary going UP, sure,” I said. And that was the end of my relationship with E Exclamation Point.

And see? I could be starring in the very intelligent The Royals right now. Or I could be proofreading it.

I gotta go.

Achingly,
Joop

P.S. My yard is pretty and I keep forgetting to show you. (Oh my GOD, June, you’re supposed to get to work.)

IMG_7070
Peg’s tree, at the front, here, has both white AND pink flowers.

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And my drag-queen-colors bushes are in bloom

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Okay. I’m really going to work now.

Joob

hey. GuRl leef compewter onn. dO someWon come to leT steeeelee out? miSTEAK been maade. STeeeleee need owet. OWT. OWWT.

Don’t fence me in

When we last left each other, flush from our reunion, I told you that Steely Dan was injured and I’d taken him to the vet. It turns out, it wasn’t a cat fight. It was a rock lobster.

No.

It was a fence or maybe a tree. They think he got caught in a fence. Like he’s a steer or something. Anyway, in his endless quest to be mysterious, it turns out Steely Dan is really easy to pill. Affable Iris, the second-most cheerful cat on earth (after Winston, fmr.), is an

ASSHOLE

about taking a pill. Evil Steely Dan, who’d just as soon cut you as cuddle with you, is all, Oh. Okay. You can shove that thing in my gullet. Fine. Is there any port?

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dreeem of ouwt

But here’s the thing. He really. Really. Really. Wants to go out. And the vet has him on antibiotics for a week and wants him to stay in.

IMG_7087.jpgHe wants out. Though. Is the thing.

And I have to remain ETERNALLY VIGILANT, because he can figure out doors as long as they’re not deadbolted (at least he hasn’t figured out deadbolts…yet. Now he has all this time on his paws to Google it), and so far this has happened twice…

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God da–GET BACK IN THE HOUSE
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Where’s the–GODDAMMIT

So that’s been relaxing.

Other than my endless parade of animals and their animal drama, today marks 10 years that I moved into this house, and to celebrate, I’m getting a crown.

Taaaa-daaaa!

Dental work scares me. I don’t like it. I’m getting the gas, so I will be fairly oblivious, and that’s for my sake AND the poor dentist’s. I’ve got a new dentist after the whole hygienist-who-never-stopped-prattering fiasco at the last place (if you just got here–heh–I got up all my courage to ask for the other hygienist, and I saw her once, and then the next time I came they gave me the chatterbox again, so I got up my courage and asked AGAIN, and they scheduled me with ol’ Chat Room AGAIN. The End), and he seems pretty highfalutin’ with his equipment and so on, so maybe my crown won’t be so bad.

Other than that, since we haven’t talked in a coon’s age, let’s go see what my photos can tell us about what the HELL I’ve been doing lately…

IMG_6980.jpgDo I even wanna know what I was thinking when I took this?

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Why must all my screens be useless?

I went to Home Depot, then Lowe’s, then Home Depot again last weekend, because no one else ever thinks to go there on weekends, so it was like a big relaxing cavern, really. I picked up these succulents because I fall for any novelty.

Really I was buying paint and switchplates, but that never stops me from a pink succulent impulse buy.

I also tried to go have tea with my coworker Nefertete, and TEA with NeferTETE was almost too much for me on the cute level, but guess what.

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And yet? You’re not.

They were CLOSED.

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Portrait of a Bereft June

We tried to go to a coffee shop and I want you to gird your loins. CLOSED. Had the world ended? It was Monday at 5:45 p.m.

So we ended up at a bar in a restaurant, and the bartender kept insinuating himself into our conversations, probably because Nefertete is young and hot. And then I choked on my wine, as I am always choking on liquids, and careful readers will recall that I’ve already been knocked out and had a tube down my throat to see why and there’s no reason BUT IT HAPPENS ALL THE TIME. So.

IMG_7014.jpgOooo, and I went to the farmers market this weekend and got my annual plants. These are called frrrrr-deeee-glloooo-de-harbels, and they need pretty much zero care. They feel kind of hard, like a succulent, and apparently it rains just enough here that they thrive in front of my house like this.

I get them every year, and they last April through October.

Then at some point in November I look up and they’re all dying and brown the same way I am, and I throw them out unceremoniously. The way the world has with me.

The point is, while I was marketing like a farmer, the woman who sold me my flowers was young-ish. I can’t tell the difference between 22 and 35 anymore, but she hovered in that general age range. We’d been kibitzing a bit while she rang me up, and she rolled her eyes when she said, “You wanna get hit on by men over 50, this is the place.”

I hadn’t expressed an interest in being hit on, by the way. She said that in response to ANOTHER saleswoman having been hit on.

And right then, it hit me.

Fuck you, men over 50. I mean, really. Fuck you.

Men who are 55 are always going to try for the woman who’s 22. Or they’ll claim they like women their own age but have a leering eye that tells another story.

I know I said a few months back that I’d given up, but right then, at the farmers market which really does not get an apostrophe so don’t get your knickers wadded, right then, I King Kamehameha gave up.

It’s not that I’m not interested in men my age. It’s that I don’t like them. They’re kind of horrible people. And maybe that seems, oh, a tad general, but I’ve been out here tryina meet them since 2015 and have not met very kind men.

They were kind when we were all 32. They were! But I think the kind ones got swooped up in committed relationships. For the most part, what’s out here are men who aren’t good. They’re the evil leftovers. And I guess the same could be said about me, but while I’m flawed, I’m not addicted to porn or leering at 23-year-olds like I actually have a chance.

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How I feel about men, on the inside

So that closes that chapter.

I’ll talk to you later, post crown.

Royally,
June

LumberJune

Years ago, I was on the phone with my oldest friend, Pal From MA. She was on her porch, and who knows what ridik topic we were on, but it compelled her to yell, “HELLO, CLITORIS!” at one point.

And when she did that? A woman walking across the street waved.

This obsessed me. I was so tickled, so to speak. It really pushed my buttons.

I mean, was that her NAME? Did her parents hate her? Did she just think that’s what the cool people were doing now, like it was the new Whatup, Homie?

Was she thinking my Pal From MA was offering up some sort of girl-power hello, like the woman bits in me salute the woman bits in you?

Nubaste.

The reason I’m telling you this is because I woke up at 1:48 a.m. today and thought of this and could not stop giggling.

Picture-141

I giggled so hard, and for so long, that Iris, who is usually delightful to sleep with, flumped to the end of the bed, where everything was normal and no one was all “If this bed is a-rockin’ it’s because June is chortling uncontrollably about something that happened in 2009.”

Iris is my favorite cat to sleep with. Needy Lily, on the other hand, is all HELLO CLITORIS, so clingy is she and so hard does she want to sleep inside my soul. Fortunately she wasn’t there last night, because she’s the kind of person who ruins your giggling with, “What? What’s so funny?”

Why do people do that? It’s never as funny when you describe it. It’s the same as, “What’re you reading?” Oh, let me put down my book I’m enjoying and give you a verbal summation. Here’s a summation: You’re an asshole.

Anyway, hi. I know I’ve not been here in a few days.

I didn’t blog at you Friday or Monday because I got yet ANOTHER notice from WordPress that I owed them money and I was irked. I just renewed my ($100!!) yearly subscription with them a few weeks ago, but apparently I also upgraded my account last year at this time, because I needed to transfer over 11 years of blog photos and so on, so I owed on that.

I was giving careful consideration to just stopping this blogging deal altogether, so annoyed was I with this SECOND bill, but then I mentioned that on Facebook, and a bunch of you sent tips, even though I no longer have a tip jar on this blog.

That was so nice, and I was all, oh, I’ll blog Tuesday, and then today Steely Dan got injured.

dun dun DUNNNN

He came home last night, which right there was odd enough. He usually eschews me all evening for god knows what. He’s probably out saying, MEOW, CLITORIS, except he’s fixed. But so am I and I carouse, so.

Anyway, he came in last night during Edsel’s final pee of the night, and he was clearly upset. He was whipping his cat tail, his cat eyes were big and he clearly wanted me to stop fekking cat Yoko-ing him.

Then this morning he was Limp Bizkit. He wouldn’t put any weight on his back leg. I rushed him dramatically to the vet, who tells me SD’s been in a cat fight, and I’d just like to mention that Oscar the fluffy Orange Julius of a kitty next door is also an outdoor cat, and I feel like orange you glad you have a new cat to beat up was occurring last night, and I somehow missed it. How did I miss a catfight? Maybe it was one of those new Silent Bob(cat) fights.

He’s at the vet now, and they called me a while ago using his full Christian name. “Steely Dan Silverman is ready for you to get him at 1:00.” So I’m ready to leave in a second to go retrieve Jack Dempsy, over there, with his antibiotics that I feel like he’ll be quite mellow about taking. Like, Dennis Hopper in Blue Velvet mellow.

By the way, there’s a gray parrot at my vet, a gray parrot who meows. As worried as I was this morning, I could not help but be charmed by that parrot. “Meow!” he’d say, lifting his bird foot.

“Mew!” he did a whole ’nother cat voice while he poked at his budgie. This voice was almost kitten-y.

Then he whistled the Andy Griffith theme song to the room at large, and at this point I’m ready to be Mrs. June Gray Gardens Parrot, so enamored am I of this creature.

Meanwhile, my cat died like that little girl in Airplane, where everyone’s singing and not noticing her IV had fallen out.

Screen Shot 2018-04-17 at 1.05.50 PM.pngOh, he was FINE. He was in his carrier. IT WAS A MEOWING BIRD. Who can resist?

So, that’s all for now. I have much to tell you, including that I was in a tornado, and afterward Marvin couldn’t find me because apparently my phone was out for a bit so I did not recieve his call or follow-up oh my god are you dead text, and then I didn’t blog, so all of a sudden Marvin pictured me under a house with stripy socks.

The house began to pitch, and I’m a bitch.

Anyway, it was nice of Marvin to care if I lived or died. The tornado didn’t touch down at my house, but it sure as hell touched down elsewhere in my city. Tornadoes blow.

Tune in for more of this kind of hilarity and a full Steely Dan Silverman update tomorrow.

P.S. I forgot to ask you: Yesterday on (Face)Book of June, we got into a discussion about what our school mascot had been. Faithful Reader Paula’s kids used to be The Warriors, but that became politically incorrect, and since it was a Christian school, they changed it to The Warriors of the Lord, and I AM SORRY THAT IS EVEN BETTER THAN HELLO CLITORIS.

Warriors of the Lord. Oh, that KILLS me.

I was the Lumberjacks (of the Lord). Those of us who identified as female at my school were called—are you ready? Lumberjills.

Of the Lord.

Goodbye, Clitoris.

Next to the astronaut

Eds won’t stop acting the fool this morning. “Come sit and chew Blu and be a nice dog,” I just commanded him.

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Edz ALWEEZ nice dog.

Really, I should put off covering that chair for longer. It’s not disgusting enough. I guess if I recover that chair, putting it by the back door again is out, right? I need, like, a mud chair back here. Or, hey, a dog bed. Look at me. The ideas just keep coming. I’m like Ben Franklin.

Anyway, I’m tryina think of things that’re new that I can actually tell you about.

IMG_6897.jpgOn Tuesday, Ned went to Taco Bell. As you do. When you’re Ned.

One of the old movies was on at my old theater, and seeing as how we’re old, Ned and I decided to go. “I have to get my hair cut first,” said Ned.

My first date with Ned was January 19, 2012. You’ll recall that was a Thursday.

The reason we went out on a Thursday was because when he asked me out for the first time on a Monday and we were tryina make a plan, he was getting his hair cut on Tuesday, so Tuesday was out. I was having dinner with The Other June on Wednesday. So Thursday it was. I do not know why I remember all this.

My point is, Ned always gets his hair cut on Tuesdays. Every sixth Tuesday. I get my hair done whenever I have money and/or my gray roots are so absurd that I look like Shirley Maclaine when Deborah Winger is dying in Terms of Endearment. I know I always use that line,  but it’s so accurate.

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I’m lying here next to the astronaut.

So, Ned gets his hair done, a phrase he adores, right near my house on every sixth Tuesday. He’s done around 6:00, and the old-people movie starts at 7:00, so we didn’t have loads of time, and I said, “You wanna go to Taco Bell?” and when he said yes, I fell over dead and I’m writing this while lying in the silk. Next to the astronaut.

He got a taco and a glass of water, which did not annoy me in the slightest.

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Who even knew water was available at Taco Bell?

The movie we saw was Raiders of the Lost Ark, and what amuuuuused me was I got home after, and pretty much every coworker I have posted something from Raiders of the Lost Ark on the social media, there.

One guy took a picture of the organist playing beforehand. “Raiders of the Lost Ark on the big screen? Shut up and take my money,” he wrote.

I did not post to any social media about my movie. I’m just taking 450 words to tell you here.

IMG_6905.jpgYesterday I came home for lunch and noticed Edsel’s tooth was loose. That fangy one hanging out. He’s like a 6-year-old human with a loose tooth. Except he’s an 8-year-old dog, and are dogs supposed to have loose teeth? I think not.

So I took him to the vet, which he enjoys 100% of. Even though he shakes once he sees the building, it ends almost immediately once we’re inside. People talk to him and give him treats, he can glare at other dogs who have the nerve to inhabit the planet. Then he gets a restorative treat after. The whole setup works for the Edz.

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Ooo, we goin’ to bets!

That crumpled thing back there is a dress I keep meaning to take to dry cleaning. Ask me how that’s going.

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Oooo, we at bets! BEST TING EBER!!
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MARRGLPH, marrrglph. Hush puppeee after bets! Marrrgulph.

Anyway, $78 later, it turns out he has a very loose tooth, and that it’ll fall out on his own very soon. He needed a rabies shot, anyway, so he got that yesterday, and we refilled his Sentinel. As he is a stoic sentinel.

The vet said as dogs age, those bottom teeth get loose. I know Lu lost one down there too. They asked if he liked to chew, and that is when I got to tell them all about Blu.

Turns out, m’vet’s Corgie also enjoys toys from the company that makes Blu. This would be a good time to add one of my Amazon links I never remember to add.

Edsel has destroyed every “Can’t be destroyed” toy out there, till one of you–and who was that?–sent Edsel Blu. He’s on Blus #3 and #4 now (he has two, so when one goes missing in the yard or cushions, there’s a backup so he doesn’t get the shakes). It took him years to ruin Blu #1, and we left Blu #2 in Uncle Ned’s yard when we lived there, I think.

Anyway, that company makes other toys, too, and if you click that photo, above, you can of course go on Amazon and shop for whatever you want. As long as you click over there by using the image or my seaglass image that’s on every page of this not blog, I will become rich.

Photo on 4-12-18 at 8.27 AM.jpgAlso, this is how I’ve been writing you. With this weasel strewn across me. I just write around her. If you knew how often I just write around a cat.

Last night, I went BACK to the old theater and saw Gillian Welch, which was good, except she said one weird thing.

“I had an interesting experience in your city today,” she began, strumming her guitar. Everyone cheered, all WOOOO! Greensboro!

“I saw what’s left of Proximity and Revolution,” she began.

Okay. What was she talking about? I’ve lived here for 10 years. Proximity is the nice hotel I like to drink at. It’s lovely. The only Revolution I know is that cool mill where I get my hair done NOT every sixth Tuesday. It’s thriving. New apartments have gone in there, and new restaurants and stores. It’s humming with activity. What was she…?

Did she just DISS our city?

The whole audience was stonily silent. I have no idea what she was talking about, but it seemed …not kind. Pretty much everyone I know who lives here likes living here. People always talk about how there’s “enough to do” and that it’s affordable and nearly everything is 10 minutes away. Downtown is booming.

Anyway, it made me mad, although I’m still not clear on where she meant, anyway.

I’d better get to the work, and do the work, like I’m RuPaul or whatever.

Current references-ly,
June

June declutters

I’m thinking of moving. My neighborhood is hot hot hot right now, for some reason, and I could get a lot of money for it. And I could move into a smaller, less-expensive place, without these rollocking two bedrooms and one bathroom and kitchen the size of a thimble.

Okay, but really. There are smaller houses out there.

Anyway, that part isn’t up for debate, really. But I’ve been thinking about this since right around I guess it was St. Patrick’s Day, because my pal Marianne and I looked at houses that day we were together. And what I want to know is, when did the market get hot?

My house stayed valued at less than I paid for it for years. YEARS. Like, way less than I paid for it. I bought it in April of 2008, which is pretty much the very worst time you could buy a house.

But then just this year–swear!–just this year, it’s gone way up.

And people wanna live in my ‘hood, man. It’s in a good school district or something. And the houses are cute, although not a one is fancy by any stretch. All the houses in my neighborhood were built between 1950 and 1954. I was the second house in this area. Peg’s was first.

Anyway, I’m looking at some cute places in up-and-coming neighborhoods, and a little bit out of town for Steely Dan’s sake. I can’t tell you how much of this is for Steely Dan’s ridiculous sake.

Just this morning I was in the bathroom getting ready and I heard all this pounding in the hall outside, and I thought, oh, Edsel has Blu. But when I opened the door, it was that damn gray cat. I think he was busying himself kicking the corner of the rug with his back evil cat feets. He was all, “wut.” when I opened the door.

Cat needs stimulation. And I’d prefer he’d have it away from, you know, cars and such.

So, Realtors® have been here (you’re welcome for the official way to write Realtor®) and they told me what I could get for my house, possibly, and after I pushed all my hair back down because STANDING ON END, I got really into the idea.

Last night I came home and decluttered a bit, so the real estate photographer can come photograph m’house.

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Before
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After

I also decluttered the kitchen.

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Before. Why the old pictures gotta be so tiny?
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And, welcome to my boring kitchen!
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Boring kitchen, now with dog!

Oh my god, I just had a great idea. I should take all the pink dishes off that exposed shelf. Hang on…

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After

What if I don’t move and just become a minimalist?

Anyway, so that’s what I’m up to, and it’s sort of obsessing.

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Before. Taken in like 1812 or something. Could this be smaller?
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Oh, I’m SUCH a minimalist. Man, do I love minimal shit. pfft.

Maybe I could just take some of those shelves out altogether.

See? You get obsessed.

IMG_6882.jpgAnyway, I’ve got to go. While we’ve been talking, Edsel has been out and in and wants to go out again. Steely Dan also went out, asked to come in, and is now meowing by the door to go out again. I hate everyone.

Talk at you minimally,
Simple June

 

Hashtag Poop

It’s Monday morning, and I can’t remember what I did this weekend. Not in a John Lennon “I slept with so many Asian chicks who weren’t my wife” kind of way, although really, you can’t blame him for that. And who knows? Maybe I did sleep with Asian chicks all weekend. Let’s look at this weekend’s photos and find out.

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Nobody noooo, the trubble dog seeeeen…

Oh, right! On Friday morning, I met my new next-door neighbor. The New Peg. He’s got the prettiest cat you’ve ever seen, an orange fluffy girl named Oscar. She’s orange and fluffy–did I mention?–and I was a paragon of dignity, meeting her. And this is my neighbor’s friend’s dog, Rex, who was just visiting. He and Eds raised hackles at each other. It was beautiful.

Work was ridick all of Friday. There was some sort of snafu, and the copy editor who sits behind me and I officially had 30 hours’ worth of work to do in one day. We managed to delegate it and/or do it our own selves, and by 5:00, my eyeballs had fallen out and rolled to a bar.

Right after work, I went around the corner to the funeral home. Jo’s brother died last week, and I told her I’d come to either the funeral or the visitation, and the visitation (say “visitation” one more time, June) was literally around the corner from work.

As I got out of my car, another man was, too, not that I’m a man. So even though we didn’t know each other, we became Funeral Buds and stood in the receiving line and introduced each other to people we knew there. He was like my 20-minute husband.

Then I headed home, because I was so busy at work Friday that I never got to come home for lunch, so I let Eds out and fed everyone, and while I was doing that, The New Peg, my neighbor, came out and said, “Would you like to come over for a beer?”

Hell, yes, I would.

IMG_6803.jpgWhen Jo’s visitation was over, and I just made it sound like the angel of the Lord appeared to Jo, she called me and we got up with each other for snacks and moves from very old men.

We’d gone to this wine bar that apparently you must be 45 or older to attend. You know how on rides they’ll have, like, an upright alligator with a jaunty hat that says, “You must be this tall to ride”? At this place, they have a magnifying mirror. “You must have this many wrinkles to enter.”

“You must be able to recite the chorus to The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia to gain admission.”

Anyway, a man who was actually even older than Jo and me sauntered over. “You mind if I join you while I look for wine?” We happened to be near all the bottles, and I’d make some sort of drunk joke here, but Jo is the least-drinky person who actually drinks that I know. “Do they sell half-glasses?” I’ve heard her say.

In case you thought Jo and I eventually acquiesced and ended up in an old-man sandwich, a tongue-and-liverwurst on rye, we did not. We went home to our respectable abodes without incident.

IMG_6814.jpgOn Saturday, I saw Ned.

Oh, good, June. Good.

IMG_6812.jpgWe went out for Fruity Pebbles cupcakes, and by “we” I mean I ordered one and he looked on in horror.

IMG_6817.jpgThen we went to Target, where my soulmate had clearly been at some point earlier. Hashtag poop! Oh my god, hashtag poop! It’s my new favorite hashtag!

IMG_6827.jpgThe whole point of seeing Ned was so that I could eventually pop in to see Nancy, and you can see how delighted she was about the visit.

Really, she PHOTOGRAPHS bitchy, but she’s the sweetest cat in the world. She’s always all, o hai! So happy and purry.

IMG_6825.jpgAnd she’s got her litterbox down pat!

Then I came home and some cat had pooped on the floor. I got new litter. I think it didn’t go down well. Irony.

IMG_6830.jpgOn Sunday I had Alf over to tell me how much it would cost to fix all the things I want fixed. The only really scary cost is the one to put a real door up on my walk-in closet, aka Steely Dan’s Cafeteria Plan.

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“syco” is how Alf spelled a particular…descriptor of Edsel that he didn’t want to say out loud in front of poor Eds. Eds would be all, “least Edz can spell. kind of.”

He’s telling me I need a new deck, Alf is. Edsel doesn’t give one shit. It’s falling apart, the deck is, so now I gotta save my pennies.

This is a time when I remind you that everything we discuss on Facebook of You-Know-Where is not what we necessarily discuss over here.

 

[June adjusts her papers meaningfully.]

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edz not syko. ok, he look little syko heer.

IMG_6850.jpgAnyway, that about sums up the weekend. Now Steely Dan, who was out all night, then came in for disgusting canned breakfast and then demanded to go out again, is staring obsessively up in my tree, the one with the face on it.

I keep tryina call him in, because out-all-night kitty and he must be tired (I say that like he didn’t sleep in front of a fire with his other family, or another Asian woman like John Lennon) and he was TRYING to walk back in while never taking his eyes off the tree.

Finally, I looked up there. A cardinal family has been flitting around my house a lot, and they’re both up there, and if that cat eats cardinal babies Ima have his head. I’ll just walk around for the rest of time with that cat’s head on a stick. It’ll be my signature look.

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wate. der cardenuls heer?

Murderously,
House of June

Eyes that talk like cats

Turns out, I locked Steely Dan in the attic all night, so I’m feeling pretty good about my cat mothering skills.

I went up there for some paperwork, which I FOUND, by the way, and then I took it downstairs (there I go again, calling the attic “upstairs” like a giant nutbar) and pored over it obsessively. (I was trying to see how old my roof is. Let’s say it’s, oh, 21. Not only can your roof drink, but also your roof might need replacing, right?) (Crap.)

I didn’t think about how that gray ass GOES UP THERE, goes upstairs, every chance he gets.

Last night, before bed, I opened the front door and tried calling him in, a fruitless effort I make nightly. Well, he’s with his other family, I thought, shutting the door and giving up.

That’s why it alarmed me when I heard him meowing this morning. Usually when I get up, he’s staring at me through some window, with the intensity of a thousand suns. But he never meows to come in. That would be undignified. Unseemly.

“Steely Daaaan!” I called out my front door this morning, a reprise of last night’s siren song. Am certain the neighbors can’t get enough of me. “Who’s she gonna call next, Kajagoogoo?”

I was really worried. Why was he meowing so loudly? Was my gray prince of a kitten hurt? Don’t tell him I said that.

“Steely Daaaan! Kitty!?” I called out the back door, which is not a euphemism.

And then I saw the papers on my table. And right then I knew.

He wasn’t even that huffy about it, till he discovered I’m also out of canned food. After spending a night in an attic like a bat, he was rewarded with dry GIRL food that he only eats to annoy Iris and Lily. He enjoys sticking his head in their bowls when they’re eating, just to be an asshole.

The reason I’m out of cat food is I’m on a very strict $16-a-day budget till next Friday. I’m having a crown put on, and I think we can all agree I’ve deserved one of those for years. But it’s going to cost me $750 out of pocket–not that I ever put money in my pockets because look what happened to my ATM card when I put IT in my pocket on whiskey sour night–so in order to pay for  it, I have to live small this pay period.

So far, I’ve failed terribly at living on $16 a day. On Monday I managed till I filled a prescription at $22.

Then on Tuesday I ran out of gas. I don’t mean you saw me on the side of the highway carrying a can, but I was on the last dot of m’gage. So I pulled in to the dodgy gas station that’s on my way home from work, a gas station I almost never go to because they let some random dude run over and offer to fill your tank for you, a guy who doesn’t work there. And then I always tip him because he filled my tank for me and I know that’s how he’s eeking out a living, but the whole thing makes me uncomfortable, and it ends up costing me more.

But of course on Tuesday he wasn’t there. I guess he felt he’s earned vacation time. And this was the ONE TIME I coulda used that guy, because I put my card in, and it asked me if it was credit or debit, and then it said, “Card rejected. Please see cashier.”

Once, this friend of mine in LA asked me to take her to this event, and she lived seriously far from me, and driving to take a friend somewhere is no small task in LA. We’re talking this will be an extra hour both there and back. But I didn’t want to seem like a giant bitch (oh, June…), so I said okay. I drove an hour home from work, ate whatever standing up, then got BACK in the car to pick up HER ass so we could go to our event.

I ran out of gas that day, too, and had to go to this really dodgy gas station in Hollywood, and the next day my identity was stolen. There’s someone going around right now saying, “No, I’M June Gardens!”

So I’m suspicious of gas pumps in general, and I’m REALLY suspicious when it says, “Please see cashier.” So what I did Tuesday was, I got in the car and left.

With guess what. The flappy thing open on my car and the gas cap on my roof.

I drove about a block before it dawned on me I’d done that, so I pulled into a parking lot and walked along the gutter back to the dodgy gas station, looking for that cap.

I found it. It had been run over already.

So I took what’s left of my gas cap and went to the gas station I’ve always resented because they shut off my gas one time when I looked at my phone while pumping. Oh fuck you, explosion police.

So Tuesday cost me gas and a gas cap.

Yesterday I managed to spend nothing, but I did also manage to close my cat in an attic for 12 hours, so.

Just seven more days till I get paid again, but I still have to live small, because crown. I have to pay for this crown. On the 18th. The 18th is crown day. Oooo, what if the royal baby is born on my crown day? That’ll mean I’m royalty.

Oh, June. Delusional June.

Tonight, with my allotted $16, my pal Jo and I are possibly painting the town. Her brother died, which is really sad. I met him, and he was cool. The visitation is tonight, and I’m going to that, and then if there’s time, afterward we’re going to go to the First Friday stuff downtown so she can kind of have a break. We might even pop in on Kit, who of course has to work the First Friday stuff downtown, as she owns a, you know, store there.

Also, someone has moved into Peg’s. They’re busy unpacking and I think building something in the back, there. I’d introduce myself but every time I’ve seen them they look busy or I’m in a robe, so.

I’d better get to work. I have so much to do there that I forget to go pee. By the end of the day lately, my eyes are exhausted. They’re like, no to make us see to drive home. We done seeing.

Eye talk. I don’t know why eyes talk like cats. Especially 52-year-old eyes.

See you. BAH.
Joob

 

 

 

Heel

img_6733.jpgAs you all know, because you’ve drawn my life story onto the walls of your cave, my pal The Poet is a fancy poet. She’s being sent to London next week, to read her poetry to all of London. She’s big, Ben.

The point is, Fancy The Poet came to my desk the other day, and I was like, “Oh, I like your necklace. Are those ostrich heads?”

Ostrich heads. That’s what I saw.

“Why, no. These are the Towers of Frooo-De-Hoog, from Bluufle Bluffledorf.”

img_6734.jpgAh, yes. Of course. If I recall from my extensive research, those are some of the better towers.

I feel like when I was in high school learning how to hold my Southern Comfort, The Poet was learning things. And that is why no one cares if I ever see London again. Or France. Or anyone’s underpants.

Also, while we’re on the subject of friends at work, my coworker Frapdorp hates the name Frapdorp. “It’s terrible,” he insists.

So because Ima tell a story about him, we must run Frapdorp through the random name generator and see what we come up with.

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…Okay. It came up with Alex. Dying. Let’s try again…

My coworker Davis Monk has a daughter named Iris, which is cute because maybe you didn’t know this, but I have a cat named Iris. Check your cave wall. Anyway, Davis Monk’s Iris is forever saying really funny, smart things and I like her even though I’ve never met her.

Lately she’s been gunning for a cat, and right then I knew. She was my people.

The point is, they got one. They went to some sort of cat-saving org, and Iris the person fell in love with an adult cat even though bitsy kittens were there, and I have to further admire her for this. Every day now, Davis Monk is telling me the cute things the cat does. It sounds like a bit of a Lily cat. It’s lookin’ for love, this cat is.

Iris also has a cat at her mom’s.

“Why did I never think to try this angle?” I asked Davis Monk. I already had Mittens at my house, Mittens my childhood cat, and YES I NAMED IT I WAS 8 FUCK OFF. But I coulda asked my father if I could have a cat at HIS place, too. Why. Why did that never occur to me?

“I pretty much thought that’s what kids did. They tried to find the angles like that,” said Davis Monk, and now I feel like I have to go back and redo my childhood, which would include not ordering that hot chocolate with whipped cream that I revisited mere moments later in the parking lot of Sambo’s at age 11.

The point of me telling you this is that I tell you all sorts of stupid things so why wouldn’t I tell you this, and also that I DID think of something I got my father to get me without letting on that my mother had already forbade me to get them.

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Freaking Candies, man. Now with hose!

Was obsessed. OBSESSED. With getting a pair. And because I was, you know, 14, my mother thought maybe they weren’t appropriate. But this one girl at school [random name generator gets fired up again], Merlene Culp, had them. She had ALL of them.

Merlene Culp was attractive, and she had a similarly attractive older sister, and they lived with their single mom, and I’d heard they all shared clothes. So these 9th- and 10th-grade girls were wearing, “Hey, world, I’m 35 and single in 1978” clothes.

Oh, they had good stuff. High-heeled boots they tucked into their designer jeans. Satin blouses. Gold ID bracelets. I mean, the Culp sisters had it going on.

They even made up dance routines, and at dances would perform them to, say, Rapper’s Delight, and we’d all stand around and think, “If only I had a pair of Candies, I’d be cool like Merlene and Darlene Culp.”

At least that’s where I took it.

After high school, I never saw either one of them again. I think they attractive-d out of Saginaw, Michigan for life.

So I wanted Candies. In the worst way. And mom said no.

But dad said yes! I forget why. Like, in what way did I convince him that high-heeled mules were perfect for a teenage Michigan girl, where it’s 30 degrees out 9 months of the year? But I got red ones, and sexy neutral ones, and I feel like I even might’ve had the blue.

And man, did I clomp through snow and ice in those muthers. I didn’t care. I was sportin’ my Sassoon jeans and my Candies. I was ready to take on the world. Or the Fashion Square Roller Skating Rink over offa Bay Road.

If I had time, I’m certain I could find you photos of me in them. And we would toast the ’70s and a teenage girl’s ability to manipulate her parents. But I do not have time, because time has, in fact, marched on, and now I must clomp to a job in broke-toe folk festival clogs.

Candies, oh. I need you so.
June

The stitch has been fixed. The eagle has landed.

I ended up getting invited to two things last night, because apparently Tuesday is the hot night now or something, and the point is that over the course of the evening, I had a glass of Prosecco and then two glasses of chardonnay, because I’m a girl. Then at my now-usual wakeup time of 4 a.m., I had a splitting headache and slept in this morning.

There was a time I could have three drinks in preparation for my workday. When did I get so wimpy?

So write fast I must, but I hated to leave you without the stunning results of our StitchFix polls yesterday. It would appear that about 355 of you voted, which is a pretty good turnout when I had (lemme go see) 1,430 readers yesterday. According to my maths, 407% of people participated.

img_6725A stunning 88% of you voted that my boss, fmr., keep that bird shirt. I hope she perches on that decision and spends some bills on this shirt.

The distressed jeans caused some distress, and oh, lort, June, are you gonna do this throughout? Only 55% said to keep them, which distresses me out. June stop.

IMG_6717We were double-breasted on the coat, too. It was pretty much half and half (49% yes, 45% no) on whether it should stay or should it go, now. If it goes it will be double (breasted) and if it stays it will be double (breasted, still).

That’s it, June. I’m leaving.

IMG_6731At least we were all in agreement that we hated a wrinkle in time, over here. A weird 1.36% voted she should keep this. I’d like to hear from this elusive 1.36%. Do you also hate chocolate and Tom Hanks?

IMG_6722And, finally, we didn’t link to this cuff much. 58% said to unhand the cuff.

Oh, June. You shoulda stuck to waitressing. For you were a stellar and unharried waitress with the patience of Job and the focus to remember what your tables wanted.

Did I ever tell you about the time I cried because the soup changed? Remind me.

Sometimes I have nightmares that I’m waitressing again. I’m at some soda gun going, How did I get back here?

Anyway. Thanks for participating, you 355 or so who did. Why didn’t you others? What a bunch of cranks. Perhaps the rest of you are men.

Yesterday, my boss, fmr., and I were discussing her photos on my blog, and the reactions we were getting to the clothes, and my boss’s boss, also fmr., happened upon us.

“I’d rather…go to the dentist, yes, go to the dentist, than have a bunch of people tell me what clothes to buy,” he said. Keep in mind this was the guy who gave me the eagle calendar. All of a sudden we gotta listen to THIS guy.

Boss, fmr. and I stared at him blankly.

“Well, then how do you shop?” we asked him. Pretty much at the same time, like those twins in The Shining.

“How you shop is, you decide you need something, and you go out and get it.”

We stared at him blankly some more. Kind of like those twins in The Shining. Still. Occasionally, after that stunning announcement, I’d kind of see my Eagles-Loving Former Boss’s Boss and then an elevator with blood pouring out of it would cross my vision.

“Now, what now?” I asked.

“If I’m shopping alone, I at least take a selfie in the dressing room and send it to someone for their opinion,” I told him.

“Yeah, of course,” agreed my boss, fmr.

“You’re kidding,” said my boss’s boss, former, lover of eagles. And their calendars.

Later, I asked Ned about this.

“How you shop is, you say, wow I’m out of blue jeans (Ned always calls them “blue jeans” like he’s Grampa Joe or whatever) and then you go out and get the same kind of blue jeans you’ve been buying since 9th grade,” said Ned.

Blood. Elevator. Somewhere in Florida an old man is having a vision under a painting of a naked woman.

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“How is it that we even exist on the same planet?” asked Former Boss of All Eagles.

Anyway, I gotta go. If I’m going to have a wine headache, I’m going to have it at work, where I can complain about it to the world at large.

Givingly,
Joon

Gettin’ our Stitch Fix. See what I did, there?

My boss, fmr., got her new StitchFix for April. Let’s judge!

img_6712I ran into her office and watched her open her box like it was Xmas morning. X-Files morning. Like a morning with my ex.

I was a big fan of this shirt with birds, as I enjoy a bird on anything. Except perhaps on my esophagus. A bird on one’s esophagus would blow.

“Should I put on the blouse with the jeans that came in the box, too?” she asked.

Yes.

Also, I had no time for this. I proofread so hard yesterday that my contacts were prunes by 5:00.

“These jeans actually fit!” she said. “Mail-order jeans that fit!”

So let’s vote.

Can we vote on whether adding polls is a pain in my ASS?

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“This coat is oddly…wintery for an April shipment.”
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“My mom would tell me to buy this for winter, so I’ll have it.”

Survey says…

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“I like the color, but it’d need to be ironed.”

And finally, we have an accessory. Bracelet yourselves…

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“It says it’s adjustable but I don’t know if it really is.”

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Please vote early and often. Why do people say that? Anyway, vote before I blog again. Stop her, before she blogs again!

Fixedly,
Juan

Sleeping on top of the peacock

I’ve been up since 4:53 a.m. I didn’t even have to slop any hogs or anything; I just woke up. I’d been sleeping with Steely Dan, because he came in last night at a weird time (as in, at all. He usually leaves at sundown and never returns till dawn), and I wasn’t thinking, and when I went in to bed, there he was splayed across my new peacock chenille bedspread that my coworker Poochie gave me. Hang on, I’ll show it to you.

IMG_6708.jpgOkay, the bed’s not, like, display-floor made. I didn’t know I was gonna bring you all in here this morning.

Anyway, there he was. Splayed. And of course my first thought was, Oh, no. Because you know he eats m’clothes. But it appears he only slept on the peacock, as he was tired after his many roof adventures.
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it exhaust to be steelee

The point is, he was so cute and sleepy, so I let him stay all night.

Here’s the thing. There are two kinds of cats in this world: head-butters and nonhead-butters. Sadly for me, 66% of my cats butt heads.

That’s two-thirds, right? 66%? Don’t ask me to do maths like this.

Solid, huge Steely Dan enjoys cramming his solid, huge head into my face, over and over, with his stupid always-wet nose, and this may be why I awoke at 4:53. Then, when I tried to go back to sleep, birds started chirping because STUPID SPRING and SD draped his tail across my face and then whipped it, because birds because STUPID SPRING.

Whip. Whip. Whip. Big huge solid tail.

The other head-butter, in case you were curious, is giant fat Lily.

The only cat who’s feather-light, who when you pick her up it’s like air and fur, is Iris, who never head butts, probably because she can’t see my head.

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eyeriss SEE thing. she just choowse not to sometime.

But speaking of Iris, I took her to the vet this weekend for her shots, as it was a year ago at this time that she was mauled by old Pitty and Chewie, over here, the neighbor dogs who got out. The vet said she looks really great, and then he said, “Wow, her teeth are wonderful. Have you had them cleaned?”

Pfft. Have I had them cleaned. I used to do that to poor Mr. Horkheimer, till I walked in one day when they were in the middle of cleaning him and it looked like torture. So no.

The vet said that in his experience, when cats have really good teeth, they seem to have good genes in general and live a long time. Yay. Don’t tell anyone, but I like this info because Iris is my f-a-v-o-r-i-t-e.

Anyway, I hope everyone had a lovely, you know, whatever holiday you celebrate.

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This was how I Eastered. I did not PASS OVER the chance to eat these.

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This was also how I Eastered. THEY HAVE GLITTER DYE NOW WHY DOES GOD ADORE ME SO.

I’m tryina think of anything else I did.

IMG_6543.jpgMy mother sent me a dress that really goes for the JUGular.

Also, I went to the antique store near me, looking for lamps in all the wrong places. I say this because I didn’t FIND one. Also I can’t afford one, because do you remember when we had the $99 membership for another year of WordPress? They sent me ANOTHER bill for the upgrade I apparently also did last year.

Sigh.

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If this hadn’t been beige, my least-most-favorite color, I’d have like it.
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Sequence. Oh, kill me now.
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I’m really hoping this fox died in his sleep of natural causes.
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“I didn’t, hooman bitz.”
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“Hey, you’re sitting in our seats.” “I don’t see your NAME on…oh.”

I also once again left my house that had cats and coffee in it to go to a cafe with cats and coffee in it.

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wat.
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dis ideea not my bag
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And I saw this sign and it made me sad.

And finally, after several months, I got a pedicure. I was scared to death it would pain my broken toe, but it mostly didn’t. Because powering through a pedicure with a broken toe is how I tomboy.

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For those of you who actually groom rather than proudly announcing you don’t, have you ever noticed that after you get a pedicure you are obsessed with your feet for a few days?

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Oh, look. M’feet.

I guess the same as there are head-butting cats and…not, there are women who love to groom and women who think it’s frivolous. I find wind surfing frivolous, but you never hear me saying that. Well. Except just now.

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Yu done tawking now?
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Seeryuslee, mom. Yuu done?

I guess I’d better shower and go to work. I have not one but two huge things due today, and they will both take all day, and yet somehow I must do both today. I do not know how I will pull this off, but no matter how I do it, I will do it complainingly.

Butting your head with my words,
Juun