Milhous’s newest thing is to go outside with Edsel, where I watch them nervously from the back door, and
after each other around the back yard. Milhous gets a bottle-brush tail and Edsel smiles like a big huge giant baffoon.
I think Milhous was a good addition to this house.
I had my mammogram yesterday. No word yet. WHAT GIVES? It’s been 18 hours! My bra stopped lasting.
At my mammogram place, they have lockers to put your, you know, shirt while you’re in that cape. Each locker has a famous woman’s name on it, so you remember where yours was. I chose Lady Bird Johnson, seeing that we First Lady’d here yesterday. The other women in the waiting room were Calamity Jane and Coco Chanel. I asked. I feel like in real life those two wouldn’t have had much to say to one another. Maybe Lady Bird, being a politician’s wife, would have been good at finding their common ground.
Anyway, so now I wait.
I hate this part.
When I’m anxious like this, I sort of curl into a mental ball and obsess. I’m certain that’s the healthiest way to handle it. Oh, I Google. I think. I imagine. I delight all and sundry.
Anyone who tried to talk to me yesterday, on the inside I was all, what what WHAT? Why you bug? I’m tryina obsess. GOD.
…I just noticed Edsel growling, but in his “Blu stuck under this thing, mom” growl. It’s more of a plaintive moan. I see that Milhous has gone under the footstool and Eds wants him out. I just went to check that Milhous wasn’t horrified that something 86 times his size is sticking its snout at him, but Milhous is under there purring, so.
Yes. Definitely a good edition. If you’re Edsel. Or Milhous.
Let me go check my phone. Maybe they called while I was in the shower. At 7 a.m. Yeah. That sounds likely.
No calls. No emails.
I did, however, notice I left a plate next to the bed last night. I got hungry about 9:00 while I was reading, and got some cheese and crackers. Why so round.
I also just captured this on film. While I was putting the plate in the sink.
Do you think enough time has passed that I can check my phone again? Do you think there are women out there who have alternate seat cushions for holidays such as Christmas? Like, they put the blue ones up somewhere and replace them with red and green? Do you?
…I checked my phone. No new messages. Also, they said they’d send a letter anyway. So the only reason I’m checking my phone is that last year they called, said you need to come back. Not to be obsessive or anything, but they called two hours and 24 minutes after my original appointment last year. You shoulda SEEN me yesterday two hours and 24 minutes after my appointment. I was waiting for the ball to drop in Times Square. Without the joy, but with the chattering teeth.
I’d better get to work. My boss, current/fmr./current again, is considering Stitch Fix, as she had given it up for a time. “You could ask your readers if I should get special boxes,” she said, likely trying to distract me.
Imagine having to supervise June.
“Special boxes?” I asked, while Googling Millions of Ways to Die Waiting for Mammogram results.
“Yeah. You can get, for example, just pants.”
Oooo, just pants!
Or she could get all date-night clothes. Or My-Corporate-Job clothes. I have to look on Stitch Fix and see what all the choices are, then set up a poll for us.
But first I have to obsess.
Talk to you!
Handling it gracefully, Joon
UPDATE: Just got an email. All is well with mammogram! I knew it. It was my positive thinking, and my ability to put it out of my mind.
What day is this? Thursday? Yeah. I think it’s Thursday. Is this week taking forever, or is it just me?
I get good light in my little millhouse, which houses Milhous. At my old house, I could never really see the sunrise or sunset, not to sound too Fiddler on the Roof about it.
But now in the morning I can see the sunrise from the back of the house, and at night the sunset at the front.
IS THIS THE LITTLE GIRL I CARRRRR-RIED; IS THIS THE LITTLE BOY AT PLAYYYYYYY?
Why do I know those lyrics?
When I was in high school, my best friend was way into musicals. It was awful. I remember being at her house on summer afternoons and she’d play these horrendous musicals (redundant) on this tiny 1960s record player (her parents didn’t have a lot of money) and I’d have my Walkman on, listening to some ZZ Top.
I should probably not admit the ZZ Top part. She’s got legs. She knows how to use them.
Profound lyrics. I guess Paul McCartney’s wife would not appreciate those lyrics, but otherwise…
Anyway, maybe when I wasn’t going crazy for a sharp-dressed man some of those musicals seeped into my consciousness.
My best friend had the cutest parents. She’d been a surprise. Her brothers and sisters were like 10 years older and so on. So her parents had been in WWII. My GRANDPARENTS had been in WWII.
And oh my god, the food. Her mom made stuff from scratch every night. They canned things. And there was always too much, a thing I took advantage of forthwith. I was over there a lot, and my best friend’s brother and I would think of all the euphemisms for poop we could. You know I enjoy a poop joke.
Just the other week, when I was in Michigan, my Uncle Bill taught me UFO: unidentified floating object. See. Even as I write this, I am giggling like an idiot.
I am 53 years old.
And apparently, my inner adult, which rears its head nonce, is Pat Nixon. On the inside, I’m Pat Nixon. She was so dignified, standing there while her husband did that weird peace sign thing. She was so coiffed.
Maybe Pat Nixon is my spirit animal.
Oooo, that reminds me. Last night I dreamed foxes and bears were chasing me. I always got away, but at one point they caught a Lab, and the Lab’s owner wrestled the Lab away.
Interpretation, please. Thank you.
Today is my mammogram, and if you’ve been here for, you know, 11 years or anything, you know this is not my favorite. It’s not a day I anticipate, like, say, April Fool’s Day or something great like that.
I just wanna get in there, get m’test, get the letter saying all is well. That’s all I want. I tried to find a place that gives you same-day results, but there aren’t any locally.
Anyway, other than that, other than the part where I am horrified, nothing is new. Oooo, my new glasses get here today, but now that two weeks have passed since I ordered them, I hope they’re not too Elton John.
“Ten minutes at Elton John’s and you’re gay as a maypole.” Name that movie.
I gotta go to work. Pat Nixon didn’t have to work. I mean, she had to First Lady, but whatever. How hard is that?
So I’ll go. But I know. I’ll think of you each step of the wayyyyyy.
But before I go, I wanted to ask you: Is there anything from your past that you swear existed that no one else can remember? Like, the other day, when I mentioned my grandmother, I said in the comments that she had this souvenir, one of 3949492292040048344849293 knickknacks she owned.
It was a phoenix or a roadrunner. My uncle lived in Arizona and she’d visit. Anyway, it wasn’t very large, maybe the size of your hand. But you could open it up, and inside there was–I swear–a Native American wedding going on INSIDE THE BIRD, as you do. And I think the whole thing was sparkly inside.
I mean, she had this tchotchkec circa 1973 and I haven’t seen it since she died in 1985. But NO ONE remembers it but me.
I also swear there was a harmonica you could get at McDonald’s, shaped like a cheeseburger with a bite taken out of it. Can’t find it on the Google.
Am I making these up? Is Pat Nixon in there playing tricks on me? I don’t know.
I poured water in the damn coffeepot, put the filter in JUST SO, put the lid on JUST FUCKING SO, turned it on, waited to hear it gurgle, showered, came back, and?
It didn’t brew.
THIS COFFEEPOT IS THE DEATH OF ME.
I had to pick it up and put it back down. Sometimes it’s the only way to get it to begin, you know, making coffee. You know how people say, “You had one job”?
Also, I took this cute photo of the Iris.
So if anyone has suggestions for a NONFUSSY coffeemaker, please advise in the comments.
Meanwhile, I haven’t shown you the rest of my Christmas decorations.
I guess you get my drift.
It’s Christmassy up in here.
When I wasn’t decorating this weekend, I took a drive to the country with Ned.
“This was supposed to be No-Ned November,” I told him. Nevertheless, our friends Bitchy Resting Face Alex and her husband opened a general store in the country, and I’ve been dying to see it.
Ned and BRFAlex’s husband always really liked each other. They both have an element of the ridiculous that they see in each other.
As opposed to me. I have no element of ridiculous.
We didn’t tell them we were coming, didn’t know they’d be there. BRF Alex wasn’t, but her husband was.
Oh my god, I loved their store!
I got a t-shirt I been sleeping in ever since, some locally made pumpkin bread, and some sugar sticks. (See the photo above. It’s the box of “Virginia Beauty.” I have a close-up picture of it, but WordPress is acting squirrely.)
Oh! Did that work? Can you see it? I’ve spent way too much time on sugar sticks, which is what you’d say if you saw me naked.
Anyway, after that, Ned and I drove around in the country a bit, and we came around a bend and Ned said, “Did you just see that mountain with a stone face?!”
“No, I saw it with my regular face,” I said, and then proceeded to laugh at own self for an hour and 45 minutes.
It was Hanging Rock. In case anyone’s gonna ask me and get all geographical on my ass.
Also, I saw an owl on a phone line.
Anyway, I’m glad I got to see the store, and why do all my young friends own things? Meanwhile, here I am, working for the man. Technically, I work for the woman. I work for the largest woman-owned something-or-other in the South or east of the something or something like that.
I should own my own store. A Specific Geographical and Facts Store.
Anyway, I guess that’s all I’ve got to report. This week is my mammogram, so it’s time for my annual mammogram terror. I should get EMDR for mammograms. Do you know what EMDR is? Allegedly it works, although I’ve tried it before and I’m still an anxious pile of dung. Google fucking it.
I was decorating for Christmas and couldn’t find gramma’s tablecloth.
And by “gramma,” I mean the nice grandma, not the difficult one I’ve turned into.
And by “tablecloth,” I mean not at all a lovely fine Irish lace thing that’s been passed down through the generations or something.
Gramma never had “fine” anything. In fact, if you ever tried to give her something fancy, like let’s aim high and say a housecoat from a department store, she’d declare it “too nice” and keep it in its box, never to come out again. It’d stay pristine at the bottom of the drawer.
So when I say her tablecloth, I don’t mean the dainty linens she used at Christmas under some fine china and silver. I mean a fairly busy Christmas-themed tablecloth she probably got on sale the day after Christmas 1968, a tablecloth that for all the Christmases after she placed food she made from scratch on unbreakable no-nonsense Corelle plates.
I had my gramma for 20 Christmases and can’t remember one Christmas present she ever gave me, except for those Life Saver books that for some reason we all loved.
But I remember hauling her fake tree out the basement with her. Watching her put up the blinking lights to really fancy up the tree. Gramma was never one for white lights.
I remember the cardboard fireplace she’d set out, and the leather reindeer,
the angels with perfectly round, singing mouths. Every year she’d trot out the same decorations and it was like seeing old friends.
Michigan Christmases are cold, and gramma’s house was always warm. She had this stairway (decorated in tinsel) that led up to the bedrooms no one used anymore, because her kids had all married. But it was never lonely there. Even though she lived alone, gramma was never by herself. There wasn’t one day one of us didn’t walk in without knocking.
If I’m ever really sad, I squeeze my eyes shut and pretend I’m at gramma’s. I can hear the cuckoo clock getting ready to go off over the Days of Our Lives’ theme song. I can smell the coffee and see the Cremora on her kitchen table. I can feel the knotty pine of her walls and the velvet of her couch.
But most of all I can feel the love.
When I feel blue and unloved, I squeeze my eyes shut and remember gramma’s house and I know I was loved.
And now I couldn’t find her damn Christmas tablecloth.
Did I lose it in the move? The thought of that panicked me. I have a lot of y’all’s grandmothers’ linens, because you all know I like that sort of thing. I dug through the peach linens and the yellow, the cream with baby-blue needlepoint napkins.
I’d stored all the Christmas tubs in my ancient garage. I walked back to that garage probably five times, hoping another tub was hidden in the shadows.
Finally, in utter desperation, I looked in the closets. One of the movers had filled one closet with boxes, a gesture that baffled me at the time and still does.
There? In the depths of a closet filled with empty suitcases and old papers? Was one of my Christmas tubs. And at the very top was gramma’s tablecloth. That busy, 1960s tablecloth.
I don’t remember one present gramma ever got me for 20 Christmases, but it doesn’t matter. I remember the cozy house. I remember the joy. I remember the love. Gramma was Christmas.
And now she’s sort of here to celebrate it with me.
Before this holiday, back when I was not bloated like a tick, I suggested we send in photos of our THANKSgiving, as they say here, or ThanksGIVing, as normal folk say it. You did, so let’s not ado further…
Am I going to have this much detail with each photo, or will I get burnt out and by the end be all,
What do you think? Read on…
They were all in the beaver creek. [snicker]
Hang on while I try to age 45 years.
Also, note that I tried not to respond to your emails to me with these photos, because I knew when I was in this hell of searching my email that my replies would show up and I would hate self. So please don’t think I was being rooood.
Basically, June, do we just have to hear you complain through this whole post? Yes, yes, you do.
…And that was the day June learned that if she did a mosaic, she can’t caption it. Ding DANG it.
Anyway, these are from Deborah, and she did not tell me but I happen to know that’s her son and her dog, and they are in California and her husband’s name is Peter and I seem way too up in Deborah’s life. Also, no matter what I do, I can’t get rid of the extra space below this paragraph. …Oh, I think it’s okay now. I need a drink.
Okay, it did. Yeesh!
Faithful Reader Paula H&B sent me these, claiming they are the World’s Most Boring Pictures of Turkey and Gravy. Careful readers will note Paula sent beige pictures.
Ned just called me, and I was all, “OH MY GOD WHAT I’M DOING THANKSGIVING PHOTOS” and he knew just what I meant and slunk away in fear. Slinked?
The animals have all migrated in here because it’s obvious Ima be in here for the duration, and I just noted Lily has squeezed her rather sizeable hips into the kitten bed.
No, I won’t upload a photo. Would you enjoy being bludgeoned?
Also, when I finish each photo, I select “Delete” in my email, but the choice right under that is “Block.” If I accidentally block anyone, let me know. Of course, how can you if you’re blocked. Oh, dear.
I need an intern.
Holy cats, we’ll need to hear the end of that story.
God, I’m hungry. I wonder when the last time was I got up and took nourishment?
I’d also like to thank my computer for showing me this last email, as I just noticed the subject line was “Tahanksgiving.” Look how smart my computer is!
Faithful Reader Deborah, who already sent a picture of her kid and dog above, also sent me a photo of the dog nativity that she got because I had it. I don’t think she wanted me to include it, but that’s what came up in my next email and I felt bad not at least mentioning it.
Also, I am an influencer. Right?
I’m tryina think of the last time I felt my ass. So numb.
I thought I was done, but I clicked and there’s another page. Why, god. I try to be a good per–okay, I get why, god.
I love everything about that caption.
Dang it. Karen in Virginia Beach sent a video, but I can’t open it.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Oh my god.
Oh. I’d guess that last one was from Saginaw, Michigan. Or thereabouts.
As I write this, it’s Sunday afternoon. It’s possible someone will send me a late photo, but I MIGHT BE DONE and I might could GET UP from this desk and LIVE again. I’m George Bailey, over here. Help me, God. I wanna live again.
Anyway, I’ll set this post on to brew, and meanwhile, thank you for participating in Send June Your Thanksgiving. When I first started this, people had to get home to load their photos onto their computers, but now we just boop boop boop! send them. Oh, technology.
Talk to you tomorrow, when I force you to look at my Christmas decorations. Oh, technology.
Jan. …Hey, where was Jan in these photos?
P.S. Just when I thought I was done, Friend-in-Real-Life LaUral sent hers.
Yesterday was Thanksgiving. Thank you, good night!
I had dinner with The Other Copy Editor, fmr., and her well-appointed spouse. And their dogs. And their millennial friends, who always seem to be more mature than I was at that age, and I know that’s a stretch to imagine.
But before that, I have a friend who was going through some shit and didn’t have Thanksgiving plans.
“Are you planning to spend the day crying like a little bitch?” I asked, because I’m a sensitive person. Hey, June, you still answering phones at the crisis line?
He said it was more likely he was going to make a TV dinner with turkey in it, which made me cry like a little bitch, so we decided to get together for part of the day. “I’m up for anything,” he said, and the first idea that came out of my head was to have crackers at the cemetery.
“Plus whiskey,” he said, so after a morning of enjoying my not-at-all chaotic home,
off we went.
As usual, there was plenty to enjoy at the cemetery. And it was a beautiful fall day. Perfect for whiskey and/or crackers.
It’s good to go to the cemetery with someone as awful as you. We passed a huge tombstone with the name Clap. “Well, that’s unfortunate,” said my friend. “Here lies Jebediah Chlamydia. “
I don’t know why that tickled me so, other than Jackie Kennedy and I share a sense of humor, but that was killing me, so to speak. I could barely contain my crackers.
I think my favorite thing at the cemetery was this headless child with a headless rocking horse.
Okay, you want to know what’s creepy? It took me FOREVER to add those photos. They wouldn’t upload no matter what. Finally, I got this little note from WordPress saying I was out of room and needed to “upgrade” my account in order to ever add another photo to this site ever again. So I just paid
for a business account here for the year. Do you think the headless child is pissed? Do you think my having to cough up that dough went to her…head?
Anyway, sorry. Here. I know it’s a bad time for this…
Back to being a bad person…
There. Holiday spirit, complete.
Anyway, after the cemetery, we retired to my house to look at pictures of people we don’t know, because believe it or not I’ve found someone else who collects them.
And then I had to go to my actual dinner.
The Other Copy Editor, fmr., and her spouse are the ones who own that really great B&B in town.
Everyone was busy with the preparations when I got to their house, and thank heavens I arrived to tie on an apron and really pitch in.
The Other Copy Editor, fmr., and her husband are the kind of people who actually have crystal decanters for their liquor, like soap opera people.
I’m having the worst time adding captions today, and I sure am glad I just spent $204 on this site.
I brought lame bread and cheese, and why does anyone invite me anywhere?
Everything was delicious, but do you want to know my favorite part?
TOCE, fmr., made her grandmother’s Jello recipe, which called for green Jello, pears, cream cheese and…was that it? No! Cool Whip! And
“This tastes like the color green,” I said, and that is how I got my greens at Thanksgiving.
Meanwhile, your photos are coming in. I’d rather forgotten I’d asked, so you can imagine my surprise yesterday when I had 20 messages on my blog email and hadn’t blogged. Again, email me
Your photo from Thanksgiving
Using the subject THANKSGIVING in your email
Tell me your name or your blog name
And where you are geographically, not “the dining room.”
I guess I should give a deadline. Let’s say 6 p.m. Eastern, Sunday, so I have time to write the post after. These take forever to post, so I can’t make exceptions. Seriously, they take like three hours to write.
But I like getting everyone’s photos. When a new email comes, I’m all, Ooooo! Paula H&B already sent hers. ALL the cool people are doing it.
I’m celebrating Black Friday by getting cat litter. It’s a festive time here at House O’Juan.
If you ever want to irk me, go ahead and be a fussy coffeepot.
My regularly scheduled one, at my old house,
(aw, old house)
died right when I moved. So I went to a kitchen store (who knew there was such a thing) and got a Cusinart little teensy coffee pot on sale
(aw, new house) and guess what.
It’s fussy. You have to have the LID on just so. You have to have the filter in just so. Half the time I get out the shower and it hasn’t worked at all, or has made an inch of coffee and gotten ennui. This does not work with my executive lifestyle.
Speaking of which, I’m going to attempt to stop talking to you early enough that I can scream to the store before work. I have to get bread and cheese and wine, as that is the hard-hitting stuff I’m bringing to my Thanksgiving tomorrow. How the hell do you display cheese? I’m never good at it. It always looks like Frankenstein hacked at it with this hand.
I also have to drive to Tibet after work to cat-sit for my friend who is quickly moving down to B-list. Oh my god she lives far away. Why didn’t she hire a dang cat-sitter? I look forward to her return, when she reads me complaining about her and kicks my ass. The good news is, she’ll have to drive all the way over from Tibet and won’t be able to do much as she will be exhausted.
I can hear cat playing while I type, and little chirps I assume are coming from Milhous.
The only one not having a play FESTIVAL is Iris, who is misunderstood and in her room listening to The Cure. Won’t you enjoy my current musical references?
All right, I’d better go to the store, which ought to be a relaxing time. The store nearest me is the one my old reading-tutor student referred to as The Ghetto Lion, when that man approached her one day while we were TRYINA STUDY to brag about how he managed the Food Lion on [insert street near me here]. “That’s the Ghetto Lion,” she said, dismissing him in one sentence.
I wish I had that kind of bitchiness in me.
We feel like you DO have that kind of bitchiness in you, Joooon.
Oh, fek off.
HAPPY THANKSGIVING! Oooo, let’s do our thing where you send me photos of your holiday.
Email me (firstname.lastname@example.org) with THANKSGIVING as your email subject line so I can find it in all my emails. If you don’t, I won’t find it, won’t put your picture up, and you’ll send me that sad emoji and I will have to drive over and kill you because you know how I feel about emojis.
Then in the email, send the photo, your first name (or your name when you comment on my blog) and where in the world you are.
One time I did this, and people started sending me photos that read, “Bathsheba, in my kitchen.”
We have an exciting day of drama and suspense, for my new shampoo and conditioner arrived!
I just heard all of America scooting their chairs closer. I like how in my mind you’re all at your desktop computers, when probably most of you are on your phone. I’m sure my stats tell me, but stats. Zzzzz. Write in today and tell me if you’re reading on a phone or a desktop or you’re one of the four people who has a tablet.
But I digress. NEW SHAMPOO.
For years now, I’ve used the Deva Curl line of products, because with all this hair I’ve embraced the Curly Girl method, which I’m getting sick of. I think age has made my hair less curly, so every day I’m using these curl-embracing products and scrunching out the crunch and drying my head with a t-shirt instead of a towel and sitting here under a Laila Ali bonnet with ionic something-or-others and?
I mean, I want COILS of SPROINGY curls, and I get sort of half-exhausted curls, like they just ran a 10K. So why am I bothering so much?
To be fair, my hair before Curly Girl was this:
Anyway, during my recent trip to Michigan, I was GOING to pump some of my $11,000 Deva Curl conditioner and shampoo into those travel bottles, but I rushed so I just put the giant tubs in my suitcase, and?
Left them at the hotel on the way there.
I CALLED the hotel less than 24 hours later. “Oh, yes, ma’am, we sure did find those. We throw away toiletries, though.”
Someone in West Virginia, who may or may not work in hotels, has delightful curls now. I’m going to write it off as a charitable donation.
So I knew I was gonna have to buy more of my $11,000 Deva Curl products, and you know how your phone is listening to you now? You know how you’ll say to your friend, “I’m really interested in Sparklefraffle,” and next thing you know old Jed’s a millionaire and also your phone is advertising Sparklefraffle to you?
I immediately got an Instagram ad for shampoo.
And not just ANY shampoo! INDIVIDUALIZED shampoo. Which I keep typing shamppp and I’m like that one Real Housewife who keeps calling champagne “champs” and I want to punch her directly in the face.
It was right up my alley. You take a quiz about your hair, [True/False: You have hair.] and then it COMES UP with a formula JUST FOR YOU. I even got to pick the scent, which I hemmed and hawed about endlessly. They describe their original scent as “powdery,” and if there’s anything I don’t want in this world, it’s to smell powdery. Say, who changed a diaper? I’d like to bang the woman who smells like a diaper!
I can’t wait to see the searches that now will bring people here. Of course, that would involve me looking at m’stats, which, zzzzz. Did I mention?
I told my rather no-nonsense coworker, Lottie Blanco, that my personalized haircare was coming yesterday.
“Your what?” Her wife sends me leftovers sometimes, and yesterday I got chicken pot pie, and that is why June ate lunch at 11:11 yesterday. Who could just WORK knowing HOMEMADE POT PIE was waiting? Who?
I told Lottie Blanco all about filling out the form about m’hair, and how somewhere in Brooklyn a bearded hipster, probably a woman, was creating my individualized formula and it was ON ITS WAY to me for a million dollars.
I forget how much this all was. It was either $60 or $80. I know that sounds exorbitant, but when I buy my Deva products, I can spend more than $100. Those large tubs last me for months, though, and this product claims it will, too.
“Call me when this gets here,” said Lottie Blanco, who probably uses whatever’s on sale at the grocery store for shampoo. IN MY DEFENSE, Lottie Blanco has normal-person straight-ish hair.
IF ANYONE IS EXPECTING A PACKAGE FROM PROSE HAIRCARE, ALERT THE MAILROOM, came the email from the, you know, mailroom.
Lottie Blanco said she was tempted to call and tell them whose it was herself.
The mailroom guy, who is fairly beleaguered because y’all send me gifts at work probably once a month minimum, and he really doesn’t know why strangers send me things, came up with m’box.
“But this says June Gardens on it,” he said, and really the more you try to explain it, the weirder you sound, and the good news is, Lottie Blanco had already arrived like Endora used to, just popping up out of nowhere.
I got shampoo, a mask for my Kabuki theater and also conditioner.
“Oh, I forgot to smell it,” I said. “They had a bunch of choices and I finally went with Tropical.”
I opened the mask. Smelled it.
It smells precisely like an old lady.
“This smells precisely like an old lady,” I announced to the now-growing crowd who’d come over to see my new shampoo. It was much like the birth of Jesus. Cattle were lowing. I handed the mask to one of the shepherds for sniffing. “Oh, it really does.”
“I like it,” said Lottie Blanco. “I mean, I like old-lady scent. Don’t you like that?”
I do when I want to nostalgically recall gramma’s vanity, but not ON MY HEAD ALLA TIME.
Today I burst out of bed, knowing it was time to use my new products. Maybe you get out of bed to embrace life wholeheartedly, and if you do, why on earth are you here on World’s Most Cynical Blog? But today I had purpose.
They wanted me to wet my hair, apply the mask and wait 30 minutes.
WHO HAS THAT KIND OF TIME?
I just heard all 10 of you say, “I feel like YOU have that kind of time, June.”
I think people think I have nothing but time. A friend from work asked me to cat-sit for her while she’s on vacation this week, and it’s 40 MINUTES there and back, plus of course I would never just go in and throw food in a bowl and leave. Then I had to go home, feed my own pets, let the dog out, play fetch with him till my arm falls off, feed myself, do some laundry and then, oh! It’s time for bed. A full-time-job single person with 29 pets doesn’t have 30-minute mask time.
I’ll probably do the mask Sunday, because on Sunday? I have time. Even though a neighbor keeps wanting me to go to church with her, and eventually Ima have to let her know I’m a heathen. I just keep putting off what I know will be her disappointed look.
So instead I just used the shampoo and conditioner. It said to use four pumps of each.
Four pumps? That’s it? What am I, having sex in high school? But they told me four pumps so I pumped four pumps. Then I put it under Laila Ali for as long as I could, and while it’s still damp, here it is:
I watch a lot of YouTube videos because any time I don’t know how to do something around the house, I just YouTube it. Once I watched a video titled, “How to take down a ceiling fan and replace it with a light,” and the whole video was a guy replacing a ceiling fan with another ceiling fan, and also not telling you to turn off the power first. So I’m not saying it’s always a stellar solution.
The point is, you’ve no idea how often YouTube tutorials start off, “Hey, guys.”
This makes me disproportionately furious. Hey, guys! Oh, shut up.
So, hello. Is what I’m saying. Hello. Is it me you’re looking for? …Why?
I thought I’d recap my weekend for you, which includes barf, so why did you come here, again?
On Friday night, because the world was my oyster and I’m living that swinging single life, I prepared my house to paint it Saturday morning. I’m not saying that I painted my house, just the living room. As I was moving shit around, I found this photo of me at a museum, lookin’ at a Calder. I guess this was before I figured out that modern art annoyed me.
Anyway, I took pictures down, I filled nail holes, I scooched furniture, and generally by the end of it was in a mood. I believe I had popcorn for dinner and went to bed.
SATURDAY, or, if you’re something of an ass, CATURDAY
The day dawned with Mr. Obsession obsessing over my every move while I tried to find the painter’s tape, the paint tray, the PAINT, the–OH MY GOD EDSEL GET A HOBBY.
Just when I said that, he came in here and began today’s baleful staring. I guess his hobby is whitening his face. Is he into kabuki theater, or what’s going on with that?
Maybe you could come up with a new line beyond that kabuki one.
Anyway, I’d like to tell you I went crazy with the before and afters, but I was busy. To sum it up, the walls were beige and now they’re Alabaster.
Ooooo, I forgot one crucial thing! Careful readers will recall that I always go to Sherwin Williams, namely because the whippersnapper of color who works there and seriously I think lives there is hot hot hotty hot hot. Oh my god. I can’t tell how old he is, but somewhere between Jail and I Should Be Ashamed.
On Friday, I strolled in there for drop cloths–and I guess I didn’t cover the TV or the terrible pink dresser and oh my god, let’s fix that dresser–but the POINT is, I walked in Friday and he said, “Heyyyy! I know you!”
I know maybe it’s because I PAINT CONSTANTLY and am my own Eldon, but it was still exciting to be recognized by a hot whippersnapper.
I had to return there Saturday, or if you continue to be assy, Caturday, SANS makeup or shower or anything, and I prayed to god he’d have the day off but he LIVES there, I’m assuring you.
Anyway he was still nice to me even though our 70 years’ difference was incredibly apparent. Hey, Russel Crowe.
I was trying to think of someone who always looks puffy.
Hey, country guy who hosts that one talent show people think is cute but to me, he just looks like a guy I went to high school with that I run into at a bad bar.
What’s that guy’s name? I can see him but have no idea. Those talent shows do nothing for me. I enjoy highbrow entertainment such as The Real Housewives.
White living room, now with terrible pink dresser!
First of all, I’m tempted to just mount the TV. I’ve been single a long time. Bah. No, I mean, why do I need a whole clunky thing there anyway? But I need the dresser in general, cause I don’t know if you’ve creepy-crawled my place in your spare time, but it’s not what you’d call roomy.
What did mill workers in the ’30s do with all their DVDs and workout t-shirts? Which is what those drawers have. I wish I knew some, like, organizer, who could come make better use of my tiny space.
I wonder what she’d say about the 700 books in the kitchen cupboard.
Anyway, after the paint was dry and everything was put back, I went out for awhile, even had a glass of wine. And here’s my problem. I don’t drink much wine anymore because it’s Russian roulette for me. You never know when it’ll give me a migraine.
SUNDAY I woke up in the middle of the night, and man was I sick. I had a migraine, a bad one, and I was violently ill. Oh, it was not welcome news.
I had this friend who was on a dating site, and he’d dated this woman for a few weeks till he got a message ON THE DATING SITE, from the woman’s FIANCE. He said finding out they were dating was “not welcome news” and I always loved the understatedness of that term, despite the fucking stalking abilities of that fiance.
I spent a great deal of Sunday recovering from that awfulness. The migraine, not the buying cucumber witch hazel.
Everyone was willing to lie around with me, and Edsel was able to meet his goal of staring at me for at least 70 hours this weekend.
Also, Sunday was Marvin-my-ex-husband’s birthday.
Finally, I rallied enough to go out and get a cheap throw for my new chair that the cats can’t seem to get enough of. Also, I got root spray because the last time I had my hair professionally colored was August, and I look like Shirley Maclaine in Terms of Endearment when Deborah Winger is dying.
Maybe you could get a new line for when your roots are bad.
Did anyone see D Winger being rude to Andy Cohen on Watch What Happens Live? Does she not realize the entire world is on his side?
Anyway, I also got new slippers, and on Instagram I wrote, “New slippers, who dis?” and fell in love with self all over again.
Then as the evening drew to a close I once again got out the Google Art app and someone needs to do an intervention. As usual, I was not pleased.
So I switched angles.
I gotta update my profile.
More hilarious humor and toilet shots on the next Bye Bye June’s Book.
I have many topics, the fresh topics of our day, to discuss with you, and all of them are dull. Read on!
Just so I won’t forget them, because you know how I am, they are:
My winter jackets
Turning into my grandmother, Vol. XIV
Did I not TELL you they were all dull? Let’s begin.
I read a book once, by Stephen King. Or is it Steven King? That guy who scares you. Anyway, he wrote a good book on writing, and he said one thing people love to read about is other people’s work. To which I said, hunh.
Is that true? Did you see that was one of my topics and thrill to the idea, or were you all, I’ll take Winter Jackets for $200, Alex, and by “Alex” I mean all the Alexes at June’s work?
So. Work. I’ve been at my current job for seven years, six months and 15 days. So, I guess you could surmise I must like it, and I often do. But some days? Ridic.
For the first five years, I worked on one account. Then they switched me over, and it’s like that account never existed. Once I was off of it, I was off of it. A clean break. Like the one I had with Ned.
So you can imagine my surprise at 4:59 last night when–bloop!–my computer did what it used to do two and a half years ago, which is pop up with a little assignment from this account.
“You have a task due from [fancy client you’ve heard of]!”
So I opened it. Yep. There it was, looking just as fine as it did in Two Aught 15. I realize that’s not really how you say 2015. Calm down.
Without having any idea why I was getting this, I just started, you know, copy editing it. It was like riding a bike, except I can’t ride a bike.
Then–bloop!! An email.
“Hey, Juan, here’s the task. Let me know if you have any questions.”
Let me know if I have any questions? Okay. How about, is it 2015? Did I just return from some kind of “I’m in the future” amnesia, where I thought I lived for almost three years working on other stuff? If so, did I really move? Who are my pets? I’ve no idea who Ima go home to.
When is this due?
Am I copy editing it, or are we in that six-month period where I edited instead?
Do I have any questions.
Then–BLOOP!–I get another email from another person. “Thanks for working on this!”
Who ARE you? Do you work on this account? Do we know each other? Do you even work in my company?
Then GRIFF shows up. Griff never left that account. “I hear you’re working on our stuff all day tomorrow.”
“Yeah. I won’t be here, though. Just use your common sense.”
My common–oh dear god we’re all doomed.
Finally, FINALLY, I get an email from a ninety-seventh person who asks, “Dear June, Would you have time to work on [insert account you’ve so heard of]? The regular copy editor isn’t available. It’s all due tomorrow.”
Sigh. So I guess I’m having a Flashback Friday today, working on my old account, and if Ima do this, can I go all the way and sit at my old desk, on my old floor, kibbitz with my old ridiculous boss who’d get me on tangents about Ode to Billy Jo? Cause that would be magnificent.
If you could flash back to, say, November 2015, what would you be doing?
I’m glad I did that list, above, because I’d already forgotten what else I was gonna talk about.
Yesterday was my annual eye exam, and man, was I excited to go. First of all, I can tell my eyes are most def worse, and so is my vocab. Plus also, the last time I bought glasses was in 2015, and 2015 is a big year with me today. But in that time, my prescription has DEFINITELY changed, and don’t you hate people who write “defiantly” instead of definitely? Plus also too, in those three years, since the apparently magical year of two aught 15, those glasses have been skidded across the floor by cats, ridden at the bottom of my disgusting purse, been stepped on, etc.
I take terrible care of my things.
So they’re uncomfy and twisted and scratched, and I was so excited to order new ones. I never wear my old glasses, even though they’re black cateyes with diamonds and technically I love the IDEA of them, but it feels like I have a bobcat on my face when I wear them.
You know how THAT feels.
My eye doctor is a jovial sort, and very large. I mean he’s tall and has an enormous frame. He’s just a lot of man. But I like it there because they have equipment that makes it so they don’t have to dilate my eyes, which is crueler than April, the cruelest month. April totally texts about you after you’ve gone.
“Well. You are one nearsighted young lady,” said my eye doctor, and it’s now at the point where when people say, “young lady,” they’re being ironic, like Willard Scott and his 105 years young thing.
“But your eyes are great. They’re strong, they’re clear, you’re doing great. No change.”
No…NO CHANGE? But I was CERTAIN they’ve changed. Not even close up? I can’t read the shampoo bottle close up anymore.
But you know what I did? I used my insurance money to get new glasses anyway. I tried on approximately four billion pair, till the glasses guy started tying a noose, and I decided on these sort of rosy tortoiseshells that I will show you when they get in.
I can’t wait to take terrible care of my glasses.
Coats, Soothes and Relieves
Which brings me to my winter coats. [Everyone scoots chair up, as we’re finally getting to the good part.]
Cold weather is upon us here in North Carolina, and for the first time this season, I reached for a winter jacket recently.
Almost every winter frock I own has something fucking wrong with it. Why don’t I take care of my things? So now I have a plan to fix all of the things I can fix. For example…
My leopard coat, which I believe one of you sent me, has a missing snap. Oh, snap. I am horrific today. Why?
Also, every time I got a coat out to photograph for you, ridiculous Milhous came over and posed with it. Yes, his eye IS red. He got in a fight. With a cat. He deserved it.
The fabulous orangey-red coat I got at Kit’s store is missing a little sew-y piece of thread of the cuff of one arm, so instead of turning up saucily, it droops and flops over.
Blue raincoat: Steely Dan chew mark. Also, fur.
Pink raincoat? Coffee AND lipstick stain. I don’t even know if the pink raincoat can be saved.
I should just wear black garbage bags in winter. It’d be cheaper.
Now I’m late of course but my last topic is this. You know how I’ve turned into my grandmother? When she was living alone, she had a fabulous book holder, so she could sit at her kitchen table and read and eat all at the same time, but not have to hold up her book. Yesterday at lunch I was tryina eat something healthy [Burrito Supreme] and read my book and you know what I craved? A book holder. I know the right answer should have been kale, but there it is.
But I’m having the kind of schedule lately where I’m running from one thing to another and haven’t had time to look, although of course I had time to photograph my coats. Anyway, if you find such an item, please alert me in comments so I can go get one.
Oh my god, I have to be at work in literally two minutes.
As you know, from your now-oversized Book of June Events, my washer has been broken and I just went on a trip.
So selecting clothing for the workplace has been my own challenge. I have an inspirational poster about challenges above my increasingly empty closet.
But yesterday, as I listlessly perused my offerings, I found OH! How EXCITING!
I purchased said poncho last year with my Aunt Kathy, at Thanksgiving, when I was visiting home and we popped into a Basic Girl Shoppe.
“Oooo, I forgot I had this,” I said to myself/Edsel/it’s sad. Also, let’s review the part where I forgot I had it when I (a) purchased it less than a year ago, (2) packed it into a box in August, (r) unpacked it a month ago.
Excited, I slipped on said poncho, added jeans so once again I could avoid looking like Porky Pig
and added my brown boots. I was a legend.
So, in my cute surprise ensemble, I headed to work, where I immediately ran into a coworker I’ll call NotPatrick.
I really like NotPatrick. I’ve worked with him at other locales, and his wife has worked with me for years here at this job, then NotPatrick joined up awhile back. He and I voluntarily worked on an ad idea together that got chosen from a bunch of other people coming up with ads.
If you work with me, I certainly have made it a mystery who I mean, here.
Last year I tried to arrange a happy hour with the people at work who were older. I was trying to have a place we could gather and discuss Ruben Kincaid without having to explain who that was.
No one came. EXCEPT NotPatrick and his wife.
So, there he was yesterday, seeming likable, and he said, “I like your poncho.”
“Thanks,” I said, swirling like Stevie Nicks.
“You look like…well…” he trailed off.
I whipped back around. I know when a man fears me. Men fear me often. He was going to say something and then he feared me.
“What,” I said in my Linda Blair voice, a voice that would also have to be explained to people under 40.
“No, nothing, it’s…” he tried to walk away. HE ATTEMPTED ESCAPE. Suddenly, NotPatrick was a bug and I was Iris.
“YOU HAVE TO TELL ME,” I said.
“You sort of look like, I don’t want to say it. You sort of look like Clint Eastwood in The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly,” he said.
Awhile later, I saw my other coworker, Frapdorf, who adopted one of my kittens this summer, that really cute orange one, if you follow my endless parade of kittens on Instagram. One of the ones I had to bottle feed. He also took the orange one’s brother, the black and white one.
Anyone who (a) hates cats and (2) isn’t on Instagram is 100% over me at this juncture.
“Nice poncho,” said Frapdorf.
“Yeah, thanks. NotPatrick says I look like Cli–”
“CLINT EASTWOOD!!” he finished. What’s with men and that movie?
For the rest of the day, Frapdorf would sing…
any time I strolled past.
“You have not gone ahead and made my day,” I told him, and by the way, he HATES the blog name Frapdorf and I had at one point told him I’d change it but NOT TODAY, WHISTLER.
I’ve never actually seen The Good, The Bad, and The Aging is a Natural Process. What’s it about, and why is Clint Eastwood wearing that fruity poncho? Is he on his way to Burning Man after?
Current situation: My tight-fitting Laila Ali dryer bonnet is atop my head. I’ve got fresh coffee in my favorite mug (for local folk: It’s one of those really thick ones from The Green Bean) and I DID have a dog snout in my lap till just now, when I snapped at my computer.
Does your computer…BOUNCE things at you at the bottom of the screen? First of all, why does everything need updating ALL THE TIME on one’s computer? Surely these aren’t all necessary.
The other day, I finally acquiesced to the CONSTANT bouncing request to update something or other, and after having to shut everything down and wait, then click a bunch of shit to get back on again, once all that was done and I could commence using my computer again, do you know what it did?
It asked if I wanted it to check for updates. Something at the bottom of my screen BOUNCED at me to ask. So you know what I did? I said okay. After being unable to use my computer for 40 minutes so everything could update, I wanted the satisfaction of that damn bouncing thing saying, Sorry. I bounced for no reason. Sorry I’m Tigger.
But you know what happened instead? IT TOLD ME I NEEDED UPDATES.
I HAD JUST UPDATED IT JUST THEN THAT MOMENT.
So that’s why Edsel took his snout away just now. I just got all set up here at my desk when
went two, not one but two, things at the bottom of my screen.
“WHAT,” I snapped, and Edsel has left the lap of luxury. He fears my moods.
I guess in general, I hate being interrupted. I assume this has to do with my attention deficit problem, in that I have a deficit of attention. So once you pull me away from something, I get highly irritated because I know it’s going to be difficult for me to get back where I was. It’s, like, all I can do to stay focused in the first place and now you’re pulling me away to say, “How was your weekend?”
The open floor plan at work vexes me. Can you tell?
Anyway, so I’m back in the swing of everything, if you want to call this swinging. I got to work and had exactly what I like, actually. A ton of stuff due in a just-a-bit-scary-but-doable amount of time, no one rushing in to tell me to set that aside to tackle ANOTHER scary thing, and also there was free dessert from some meeting. So.
Then at night, I went to my old movie theater and saw Rear Window.
Isn’t this like the 20th time you’ve seen Rear Window at that theater, June?
Actually, no. The last time I had planned to go, with Ned, and at the last minute I had a crisis du jour and told him I had to cancel. An hour later, my crisis was averted, and I phoned Ned and he wasn’t there.
This was back in like year one or two, when I still liked Ned and I did not know the way of his people, such as he is a
about plans. He makes a plan, he sticks with said plan. So what did he do? He went to Rear Window without me.
Oooooo, I was mad. I guess I’d wanted him to stay home worried sick about my crisis. Or dash over and help. But instead he just went to the movie. Like in Family Circus, where the gramma does stuff but with the outline of deceased grandpa.
That was the day I Jack Ruby’d Ned.
I TORE down to the movie theater, and I WAITED outside till it was over, and oooooo, I was burning mad. I should have known then how Ned would be the whole relationship. June? I can take her or leave her. June is French dressing.
Anyway, once people started milling out of the theater, Ned said I BURST into the crowd like Jack Ruby, out of nowhere and full of rage.
I didn’t shoot him, though. I just scowled and complained.
I remember Ned calmed me down by saying, “Every time Grace Kelly was on the screen, I thought about you.” That line totally worked on me, and I am with you on the “Bitch, please” you’re uttering right now. What can I tell you? I was smitten.
Anyway, I saw it last night, the movie I mean, not Jack Ruby, and why is Grace Kelly so perfect? Why am I not her? Grace Kelly would never sit in the front seat of her car and eat Long John Silvers.
I have to go to work, and this new 8 a.m. start time is like to kill me. But before I do, I wanted to share with you this.
I honestly don’t even know where to start describing my trip to Michigan, so I’ll just comb through my photos and tell you everything that way. Does anyone have a comb in her back pocket I could use, a comb that you got at CVS (in 1979) that has your name on it?
…Thanks, Jill. Or Laurie. Or Tammy. No one from this generation is named Tammy. Or Karen. Our now-defunct names are the Mildreds of our generation.
I was at Hallmark on my trip. It was my mother’s birthday while I was there, and I know an organized person would have purchased a card beforehand, maybe even gotten a gift and wrapped it all up nicely or had it in a gift bag as you real women seem so wont to have on hand. What’s with y’all and the gift bags? Do you buy them in bulk, LaurieJillTammyKaren?
Anyway, I was lucky I remembered pants and did not have to Porky Pig it to the Hallmark, there, to get my mother a card ON her actual birthday. I had to leave her in her high chair with her cake all over her to get a card. I had to leave her at Chucky Cheese. I had to blindfold her during pin the tail on the donkey and rush out while she couldn’t see me.
The point is, they had…something for sale there on display. The fact that I can no longer recall what is a good sign I didn’t even need to consider buying it. Anyway, whatever it was was personalized. Maybe…necklaces? Let’s say they were necklaces. Or mugs. Maybe giant thick marital aids with your name on them. I forget.
The point is, and I know I already said “the point is” and at this juncture, you’re telling me you really have to go,
but the point is I swirled that display around to the Ks, and instead of my name, they had names like “Kaylen” and “Kafir” and “Krackajawa” but no…well, no NotJune.
Is there anyone out there who still thinks my name is June in real life? Let me get you some tea, Jill.
Oh my god, anyway. My trip.
So as you know, from your Big Book of June Events, I traveled with the dog to Michigan this week, a now-12-hour drive that I broke up into two nights each way.
I’ve never understood people, mostly men, who want to know “which way did you take?” Why? Why do they wish to know this info? Also, I really never know. I’m just lucky I got here. In pants.
But I been living in North Carolina 11 years now, and I been driving home all that time. It always took 13 hours. This time it was less than 12. Or it would have been, had I not hit a terrifying rainstorm in the damn mountains. The Blue Ridge Mountains can suck it.
In the past, what happened was, you leave North Carolina, which doesn’t take long — like an hour. And then you’re in Virginia and sure to get a ticket and FUCK YOU, VIRGINIA. YES, VIRGINIA, THERE IS A FUCK YOU CLAUS.
Anyway, at some point up there past North Carolina, you got you a road called 77, and your phone would say to you, “Take this road for 6,020 miles” and you were golden. I mean, you just drove straight ahead for a day.
But THIS time, my phone kept telling me to take this one road for 19 miles then this one other road for 30 then this road for…and imagine how insane my grandmothers would find me, my grandmothers Evelyn and Nita, who are the KarenJillTammys of their time. Imagine how insane I’d sound saying over and over again that my phone told me what to do. And also that I can’t remember pants.
So there must be a new route to Michigan or something, but to tell you the truth, I’d rather just take one road the whole way and be an hour later. It’s too stressful to be all, Wait. Do I need to be paying attention? Did MY PHONE not TELL me I need to take an exit soon? And is it on the damn right or the damn left?
Anyway, I got there, in record time with 200 different freeways behind me. And then the moment I got there, it started to snow.
It was pretty, actually. And Edsel liked it. He was a perfect dog the whole trip. I don’t even know what he was up to. He didn’t woof ever, and didn’t act the fool, and I worried he wouldn’t poop the whole trip because he’s shy about dropping the Brown Lab off at the pool. But he pooped like a good poop boy!
I realize there isn’t a breed called “Brown Lab.” Now I’m like those people who say Golden Lab. If you ever want to get on my nerves, say “Golden Lab,” or also just exist.
Anyway, I feel like I didn’t really cover much in the way of details, but as you know details are my strong suit, and what’s my job again? Speaking of which, I ought to get off this machine and into a shower, so I can attend said job and find the devil in the deets.
Talk to you tomorrow, when possibly I might make more sense, but let’s not bank on that.
I’m in Michigan, blogging from my phone. With Edsel. I mean, he’s not blogging. Now I picture him tapping his dog phone with his dog claws. edzblawgfromiBone.
We’re having the season’s first real snow today, as it always does on or right near my mother’s birthday, which is today. She is 100 years young. I’m Willard Scott. Enjoy Smuckers.
Anyway. We drove here Wednesday and Thursday, the dog and me, and stayed at a dog-friendly hotel. It was dog-curious.
We drove six hours Wednesday night; as soon as I got out of work we got on the road. It was pitch black the whole drive, and boring AF.
I hadn’t eaten dinner, and when we got to the hotel, they told me the kitchen had just closed. Son of a bitch. I got up to the room, and they had a cute little welcome kit for Edsel.
Oh, sure, they had food for the dog.
Anyway, I called downstairs for a glass of wine to be sent up. “We just had last call, ma’am.”
Son of a bitch.
Eds was very good at the hotel. I worried he might bark at people walking past our room, but he never did even once. He was also good in the car. He was mostly a letter C, I have no idea why.
I’m here for my mother’s birthday and also because there’s the film festival in town. Last night, we went to see The Wife, not that I’m married, and it was at this old movie theater I went to 100 million times when I was a kid and haven’t been to since I saw Wayne’s World in the early 90s.
When I was a teenager, we lived right near that movie theater. In the summer, they would show dollar movies. I must’ve walked down there three or four times a week, because it was cheap, it was entertainment, and most of all it was air-conditioned. This is probably why I still go to movies all the time today. Anyway, it was cool as shit to be back in there.
I have to go get a card for my mother. Look, I was planning a lot to get here. I asked her if she had any spare cards and YOU KNOW SHE DOES cause she’s a mother, but she refuses to give me a spare card. So now I gotta traipse out in this BLIZZARD. God.
Talk to you later. My mother won’t stop talking to me even though I said I was honing my marvelous craft here on my phone.
Edsel is my wingman. We’re going on a road trip together tonight. I have never actually understood what “wingman” means. He’s going to eat my leftover wings? Because Edsel will surely do that.
Anyway, tonight after work, once it’s dark and dangerous, The Eds and I are getting in the car and heading to Michigan. We have a reservation, under his name, at a very nice hotel in West Virginia for the halfway point. I stay there every time I head back, and I know I have many photos of me posing under the bad art in the bar there, but I do not have time to Google that for you right now, as I have to get old Mutt and Jeff to the daycare, where he will be getting bathed, and that is fortunate for all involved, except maybe Edsel.
Also, that was a beautiful and concise sentence, up there.
A housesitter is coming to make sure Iris and Lily do not bludgeon the kitten.
In the meantime, careful readers will note that I have the kind of mail slot that comes in through the door (squeee! Have always wanted. See? Wishes really do come true.) and also that yesterday I told you I had to get my washer fixed.
My reliable and not-ridiculous new handyman, who we will call Not Alf, called me midday. “I’m sorry to call you during work,” he said, because he’s reliable and not ridiculous. “But I’ve been watching YouTube videos all morning to try to figure out what we need to do with your washer. Did you really wear a wedding dress to work today?”
See. I don’t even remember telling him I was going to do that. But you and I both know it’s one of my signature lines. Maybe I could’ve whipped out the Matt-Rick-teal-homecoming-dress new material I developed for y’all yesterday.
Also, stop calling homecoming “HoCo.” Just stop, before I bludgeon you like I’m one of my cats.
Anyway, what he decided was, the washer might be shot, but he’s gonna order this one part and we’re gonna see if we can get one more year out of that thing, and meanwhile he said I can USE my washer, it just won’t, you know, churn the clothes like it ought to.
I HAD to wash clothes because I was so out of clean items that I wore my wedding dress to work.
I’ll give you a second to stitch up your split sides.
But really, I leave for this trip, nothing is clean, it was worrisome. So last night when I got home, I was laundry speed queen. I was meeting The Other Copy Editor, fmr., at 7:00, and I managed one and a half loads before I got up with her.
We had a beer and watched election returns like they were sports, except neither of us would be caught dead watching sports. TOCE, fmr., is the one who owns that nice old bed and breakfast on the same street where I spent my year abroad. She and her husband used to wander down and sit on my front porch there.
I texted her before we met up. “I know you live on the same street as he, but just so you know, this is a No-Ned November, possibly segueing into a No-Ned ’19, so there will be no Ned talk tonight.”
“Oh, I got plenty of my own stuff to talk about,” she said, and she did.
…I don’t know that you can tell, as I was unable to really capture this on …not film. I was unable to capture it on phone. But I just looked up, and the sun is shining on the rain, fmr., on my den window, and it looks like someone pressed a zillion diamonds on my screen, which, that person should maybe look into other hobbies.
I wonder if this diamond-presser is related to Jack Frost? Jack Frost always freaked me the fuck out. Stay away from my window.
Stay away from my back door, too.
Disconnect the telephone lines.
Relax, baby, enjoy that wine.
Me and my important ’70s lyrics must leave you now, but I’ll try to write you from the road. With m’wingdog.
A. I’m dyeing my roots.
B. My mouse battery is very low. This means (I’m not gonna say the struggle is real. If you hear me saying the struggle is real, I want you to impale me with 10 mouses) THE STRUGGLE WAS REAL even getting on here, and it took ages, and NOW I gotta stop and rinse my dye.
I just gotta stop. And tell you what I feel about you, babe. I just gotta stop. The world ain’t right without ya babe. I just gotta stop.
And rinse my roots.
Did EVERYONE have a perm in the early ’80s? Was it the LAW? (June acts like she wasn’t sportin’ the perm. Say it loud, I poodle and I’m proud.)
…Okay. Roots, rinsed. Self, cleansed. Laila Ali hairdryer, on. Looking, fetch.
What’s with me and all the predictable jokes today? Fetch. ’80s perms. Any ref to the ’80s at all.
Would you like to know what bugs the shit out of me? When people make everything about the ’80s. Blue eyeshadow. NOT AN ’80s INVENTION. I remember traipsing to the drug store in the snow to get me some baby-blue eyeshadow in the late ’70s. What might be more accurate is electric-blue eyeliner. Now, that was some ’80s shit.
Anyway, I’m tryina think of what’s new. Oooo! I know one thing.
This weekend, I knew I had to pay bills. Although I’ve read online that least one of you was “so sick” of hearing about how I didn’t have money, and what a strain that must have been for you, to hear about how my husband left me when I was jobless, and how my mother offered to buy my house from me but I wanted to remain independent, so somehow I MANAGED TO NEVER MISS A HOUSE PAYMENT even though I was unemployed. I’m so sorry that annoyed you. Let me guess, husband has always had a good job and you live in a cookie-cutter modern house? Talk-to-the-manager horseshoe hairdo?
June is feisty today.
Anyway, I hadda pay my bills, including the mortgage, for the first time since moving in here.
When I first sold my house and moved in here, I sat in a Subway parking lot during one lunch hour and paid off bill after bill. $500 I owed the lawn guy, boom. Doctor bill I was trying to make payments on, boom. Stupid Ultherapy that didn’t work, boom.
Bill after bill after bill. They were mostly $500 here or $250 there, but they were all over the place. Then I waited for my credit score to go up (why does a BAD thing affect your credit almost immediately, but a GOOD thing takes 60 days to make your score go up?).
But I kind of forgot I did all that as I sat down with my pile of bills. Truthfully, every bill time, I had to set aside several hours, first to gird myself for how anxiety-inducing it was, then to be in a bad panicked mood after. I did that this past Sunday. I had several hours no one expected to hear from me.
So. Mortgage first. …Oh, okay, that’s right. It’s lower than it used to be. Maybe I’ll round it up to the next hundred. Put that on the principal. Principle? Which is it for a mortgage? I’ll round it up to the Mr. Dixon. Because Room 222 references are fetch.
Then I paid the water bill. The electric. My phone. My internet.
I looked around me. I went back to my bill box. There was one thing left in there, under my alarm instructions. A check for $250, something about overpaid mortgage from the last house.
I paid all my bills, have emergency savings, a credit score inching up toward 800, 15% a pay period going to my four-oh-wonk,
AND I HAVE MONEY LEFT OVER after paying the bills.
Oh my god! Who even am I?
Afterward, I celebrated by painting the dresser pink, and that was a mistake. I’d show you photos, but my mouse is hooked up to the same little cable thing that my phone hooks up to the computer with, and there was a marvelously constructed sentence.
The point is, I’m scared to UNplug my mouse to plug in the phone and upload the photos for you.
Anyway, I hate it. Ima try to repaint it Kid Glove, the white-ish color, and I act like something can be white or sort of white. I guess it’s more of an ivory, merchant.
I must go, as it is 7:42 and I have to be at my desk at 8:00, via my new hours. I have no makeup on, and in the ’90s–not the ’80s–when I ventured out sans makeup and just a little sandalwood oil, I was all fresh! and natural! Now I look like I was pulled from the river. On Sunday afternoon I stopped at a coffee shop sans makeup, and a handsome age-appropriate man was walking in as I was walking out. I smiled at him and he looked down, like he’d turn to stone if he looked at anyone that hideous.
No, mom. He was not intimidated by my beauty. Also, he was not gay. Mom pulls out all the stops before she admits someone just wasn’t that into me.
Also, I like how I leave the impression I was there for coffee and not a chocolate croissant. Why so not fetch?
I’ll talk to you tomorrow when I hope I can report I have a fixed washer. The owners, fmr., of this house, left the washer and dryer at my request, but I do believe they’re from the ’70s, not the ’80s, and I washed my comforter in there and broke the damn thing. So my sensible reliable handyman is coming today, because nothing is clean and I have to wear the calf-length teal dress I wore to 10th-grade homecoming to work today, along with the nude low-heel shoes that went with said dress.
That was in the ’80s.
I see pictures of people’s kids at homecoming now, and they’re all hootchie-gootchie girls, and I dressed like one of the Golden Girls at 17. Dear Matt Rick, my homecoming date in 1982: I am sorry I dressed like Rose Nylund and not a go-go dancer at homecoming. At least my Princess Diana hairdo was fetch.
Before I could go to Peg’s funeral on Saturday, I had to take the kitten to the vet.
Not only did Milhous need booster shots, but I also needed to ask what to do about the fact that he hates food.
My vet is pretty good at solving stuff. “Hang on, let me get something,” she said, and returned with a can of sardines, as you do. I thought the only people who had cans of sardines were Finnish folk or your grandpa.
The vet opened that disgusting can, plucked out one of those oversized goldfish, put it in front of Milhous, and?
That cat ate like he hadn’t eaten in a week, which he practically hadn’t.
“I’ll give you the rest of the can,” the vet said, plinking those gross still-having-eyeballs sardines into a plastic baggie.
So now what do I gotta do? Do I gotta buy sardines alla time? Where the hell do you buy sardines? The Old Man Halls Mentholyptus and Sardines Emporium?
SarDine and Deluca?
Once we were done, I screamed home and dropped off the Old Man and the Seafood, there, and got back in the car to vote. It was 12:30, Peg’s funeral was at 2:00, and I figured it’s the midterms. I’ll just pop in and pop out.
Hello, angered nation. Holy cats. There was literally no parking at the rec center. I had to go to the Dollar Store and walk back there, and then I waited in line for an hour. I finally voted. I’d say half of you might be pleased with how I voted.
At this point, I had less than half an hour till Peg’s funeral. I thought of the joke of being late for your own funeral while I screamed home, put on ANY FUCKING THING that was remotely dark and sorry-you’re-dead-looking, and screamed to the church.
I was still five minutes late; the whole thing had already begun. I was very Benjamin in The Graduate, and you can image how delighted everyone was when I dashed into the funeral yelling,
The good news is, no one noticed me slipping in late except the guy who made you sign the guest book. I listened to the very nice Presbyterian minister whilst I plucked the myriad animal fur off my black mourning tights. Mostly I was just going through the motions, till they played a “reflective piece,” according to the program.
Peg had been a member of this church; she was in the choir. I knew pretty much all the members of said choir, as they had regularly attended the many parties Peg had during the 10 years she was my neighbor. There was the woman who stays pretty no matter what age she is. There’s the friend Peg and I went for Mexican food with. They were all there.
When the pianist got up, I expected some somber hymn. But it wasn’t.
It was 100% Peg.
It was upbeat, it was whimsical, it was so absolutely her. I saw all the choir members smile and tap their feet, rockin’ out with their Presbyterian out.
And all of a sudden, the reflective song really became a reflective song. I thought of the day I met Peg, how she told me about all the good shopping in the area. I got right in the car and checked it out, that minute.
I remembered her driving me one night, in the rain, to a housewares store she knew about that sold really great stuff for cheap.
Peg was an absolutely horrifying driver.
I remembered the one, two, three times she helped me decorate my house. Peg was an artist and an interior designer, and she was good. She helped me when I first learned what she did for a living. She drew me diagrams of where things should go in each room.
She helped me again when Marvin moved out. As soon as she heard he was leaving, she took my side, even though she had no idea why he was going. I remember her helping me paint the dining room and never saying ONE WORD to on-his-way-out Marvin.
And finally, when I came back after my year abroad, she saw me get out of my car and her reaction was priceless. “Yay!!! …Ohhhh.” She was happy till she realized why I was moving back. And she helped me unpack by sitting in a chair, with wine, and telling me what to put where.
I did everything she said.
I thought of the parties she had, and all the celebrating we did together: New Year’s Day meditations downtown, Halloween when she dressed as Bob Ross, Christmas when she made the best bacon ever, the royal wedding at 5 a.m.
While that piano player was playing his so-totally-Peg tune, I thought of all that. And from the smiles all around the room, I could tell everyone else was thinking their own happy Peg thoughts.
And I know that in this life, some of us want to have fame, or wealth, or great beauty, and fortunately, I have all those things in spades.
But when you come down to it, you really can’t ask for more than to leave a group of people smiling on a sunny fall afternoon because they’re thinking about who you were while you were here.
As the funeral came to an end, I grabbed my stuff to go to the reception, and it was right then that I remembered what I had in my purse.
Peg, I’m sorry that I came to your funeral with a whole mess of sardine eyeballs staring disdainfully through a baggie.
Is a wash a bad thing? or is it just an even-ing out? What I mean is this day can suck it.
First of all, note I’m here 12 hours late. When we last spoke, swearing we’d stay together forever and exchanging class rings (isn’t mine nice?), I was on the horns of a dilemma re what my new hours at work would be.
I decided on 8 to 5. I get a lot of “Can you do this today?!” requests at, like, 4:00, which is relaxing, so planning on an earlier departure would be for naught.
So, the new schedule started November 1, and in case you aren’t being kept abreast of the dates because you’re in a tower somewhere, like let’s say you’re Rapunzel, or a prisoner of war, or a sex slave or something, this is November 2, so I had to start my new hours forthwith. (Also, you may have bigger fish to fry beyond, “What day is this” and “Which hours did June select for work?”)
The point is, that alarm went off this morning at what felt like 2 a.m. and I wanted to die. Oh, I felt out of it. I was foggy, I was without personality, I had no will to live.
It was 30 minutes earlier than my usual wakeup. Thank god for daylight savings this weekend.
Anyway, I did not blog. Because personality, where is it. Searching for Bloggy Fisher.
I worked from home today, as I was expecting a delivery and also my handyman who is not Alf came over.
Once, a few weeks ago, Alf couldn’t help me out, so I cheated on him, and I found a distinctly NOT ridiculous handyman who is straightforward and dependable, and I am sorry he is not as fun to hear about as Alf, but he put up two light fixtures for me today, to replace a brown-and-brass ceiling fan
and also a fluorescent light, because nothing says Home Sweet Home like an office light.
We didn’t know what we’d find when we removed the old lights, but now he has to come back and
and paint over the discolored rectangle up on m’ceiling. He comes back Monday. See, that would have taken 49 nonsensical texts with Alf to arrange.
Anyway, while all that was going on today I had WORK OUT MY ASS, and I was work work working as hard as I could, I was ROCK-HARD working, I was RAM-STRAIGHT HARD working, and then I hope you’re sitting down but I got a “Can you do this today?!?” email at 4:00 and I ended up working 8:00 TO 5:30, and Lu totally resent.
Mostly I resent because for MONTHS, YEARS, even, ALL MY LIFE, pretty much, I’ve been so, so, so looking forward to today, which is November 2, Rapunzel the Sex Slave, because as you know it’s the day the Freddie Mercury movie premieres and ALL I WANTED was to type in all caps a lot but then also GO TO THAT MOVIE and it started at 5:50 and please see above re working till 5:30, and I still had to slop all the hogs and I looked like shit so I thought, oh, I’ll just go to the 7:00 showing and guess who fell asleep and missed it by five minutes.
This day is a wash.
Tomorrow I take Milhous to the vet, although he is now eating, but he still needs shot boosters. He’ll deign to eat some adult cat food in a can. That’s it. Not that he personally sits in a can, but speaking of which, he FELL into the toilet today and I am so glad I was home. I was all, What sounds barf and it was a kitten plunking into the toilet, and if you ever need a barf sound effect, turns out that’ll do, pig.
Also, speaking of barfing, tomorrow I head off to Peg’s funeral. Cel-e-brate good times, come on!
Did I tell you Peg, my neighbor, fmr., died? Peg was the best. She really was. It’s sad. Everything is sad, honey.
My grandmother said that to me once, when I was in high school. Why so atypically depressed, June?
And after the vet and the funeral, Ima paint. See? I’m finally getting to the paint portion of our blog.
Careful readers will note that most of this house is painted kind of a coffee with cream color. My problem is, this house is way too tasteful. Fortunately for me, I still have a can of Sleepy Blue like I had in my old bedroom, which will go in my …new bedroom. And I have a can of Quietude, which goes in the den. Ned once said I speak of Quietude the way other people speak of the home run they hit in 1979.
But this weekend, I’m painting the living room a color called Alabaster, and I am doing so because a woman whose house I admire said to paint it that color and I’m all, okay. I will do whatever you say. Because your house. I admire.
Also, I am painting my dresser a pinky rose.
Shut up. I don’t care.
I’ve wanted to paint the dresser for awhile. Last weekend, I was at the never-busy Lowe’s paint department, waiting while every woman on god’s earth ordered a light green, a Quietude, if you will, for her walls. They sell furniture paint there that you get a can of and have them make it into a color from their brochure. That’s how my nightstand became seafoam. Don’t it make my nightstand, don’t it make my nightstand, don’t it make my brown nightstand bluuuuee (-green.)
I was planning to have them mix up for me the white-ish color of furniture paint, Kid Glove, but I’ve been walking around with a fabric sample from my new chair in my purse, like that’s just what you do, and since I was there
I matched the fabric of my chair to the paint colors available in their furniture paint,
and by the time it was finally my fucking turn at bat, I said, “Mix me up soma that Morning Coat, and be lively with ya, m’lad.”
Then the guy at Lowe’s cockpunched me.
Don’t you like me better at the end of the day, after a nap and maybe a snort of the hootch? I know I do.
And look here, Miss Beige-y Basic Bitch of the Beige. I don’t CARE that a pink dresser isn’t your taste, and you want me to be tasteful, and do a taste-y freeze on my choices. I just don’t care. This is the joy of being single. You get to paint your dresser Morning Coat, whatever that is.
So that sums me up, I think, and I’ll report back to you post vet/funeral/tape/patch/paint/ooo, pink!
Did you ever see that movie? Sweet November, I mean? It stars a very namby-pamby dying Sandy Dennis, which I guess is redundant. I think they remade it later and I never saw the remake, because remakes annoy me, with the exception of A Star is born, which I have seen twice and will see 700 more times.
Yesterday was Halloween, and I went as a disappointed middle-aged woman. As I was leaving work the night before Halloween, people asked me what my costume was going to be, and I said I didn’t have one.
“WHYYYY?” they were wondering.
“Because I’m an adult,” I said, and for a moment that burned until they remembered who they were talking to. Adult. heeeeee!
Actually, the woman in the next row at work is pregnant, and it was only one day before Halloween that it dawned on me we could have gone as Mia Farrow and Ruth Gordon.
In case anyone’s keeping track, that marks the 54th year I’ve gotten a great idea too late. But next year? Ryan at work, and me. Harold and Maude.
Clearly I just want to be Ruth Gordon. “Love fades.” She says that in Annie Hall, do you remember that? Maybe you would have needed to see Annie Hall 79 times as I have.
Soon I’ll be quoting A Star is Born all the time! Won’t that be refreshing?
Anyway, so other, life-embracing people dressed up at work yesterday, and we had a contest and so on, and then later in the day people brought their kids. I took pictures of people’s kids in 2013, and now whenever these same families come to my desk for candy, I whip out the Google Photos and force them to look at themselves from years back.
Do you enjoy my clever editing skillz, with taking the name plates and making them useless? I’m like a photo editor guru. Every time I say that word, I say it, “guRU,” because there’s a Hallmark commercial where this woman visits her old professor, and he says, “What did you become, an internet guRU?” and she says, “No, a teacher,” and pretty much every Hallmark commercial sends me into fits of the weeps.
Anyway, the copy editor guRU who sits behind me had come to work at FIVE TO 6:00 yesterday morning to get a big thing done, so she left before the kids got there at 4:00, but put this candy right behind me and Dear Children: I am sorry the other copy editor did not leave you any candy. She’s so rooood. Luff Juun.
Anyway, after that I sat on my porch and waited for trick-or-treaters, millhouse edition. My neighbors tell me the people who owned my house used to have a big bonfire and serve hot chocolate, and clearly I am not a life-embracey person as they are.
You know what I like? I adore Day of the Dead. Apparently I’m a death-embracey person.
My point is, I had a few T-or-Ters, but not a lot.
That about sums up yesterday, not that you asked, except as I was getting ready for bed, I wondered what was up with Milhous, who finally ate, like, 10 bites of adult canned cat food and that was better than he WAS doing, so.
Anyway, I was all, why’s he obsessed with my nightstand, which careful readers will note I painted kind of a seafoam.
Anyway, once he got his buff ass pushed off the newly green nightstand, I realized Iris was glowering inside the bowels of it. She’s really not that mad. I mean, she’s not growling or anything. But she wanted her sanctuary, man, and Milhous can’t let her be.
It was kind of a “shove Milhous off things” kinda night.
But in the end, he prevailed.
I will leave now, but I know I have to tell you about paint, and I really know how to lure the reader back for more. Also, they’re having us send in an official thing® at work about what our hours are gonna be, and you can get in any time between 7:00 and 9:30, and you can take half an hour or an hour for lunch, and leave once it’s been 8 hours that you’ve worked.
So which should I go for? Like, 8:00 to 5:00 with an hour for lunch? Or 9:30 to 6:00 with half an hour for lunch? Somewhere in between? I can’t decide.
Meanwhile, Lily has decided the kitten litterbox is again preferable. Sigh.