June's stupid life

June. She was annoyed.

It’s possible I’m the most irritable person on earth.

BREAKING NEWS: TSUNAMI CREATED WHEN TENS OF READERS NOD ‘YES’ AT SAME TIME.

But something new irritates me and I want you to hang on to your hat.

Meghan Markle.

Stop it.

STOP.

IT.

Oh my god, we know you’re pregnant. Everyone on planet Earth knows you’re effing pregnant. STOP. Put your HANDS down.

And I’d love to join crabby chatrooms about this but then I’m exposed to the words “baby bump” and “belly,” which also make me want to run screaming from the room.

Perhaps my tombstone might read: June. She was annoyed.

Can anyone recall all the things I’ve insisted be on my tombstone at this point? Maybe we can get one of those fold-out ones we’ve heard so much about. An expandable tombstone.

Speaking of expandable, I picked up Milhous today

 

IMG_0624
Hey, good lookin’. Whatchu got on?

to weigh him, because I like to keep abreast. You know, just keep one handy in case one of mine falls off. Anyway, he’s not SCREAMING up the scale the way Steely Dan did when he was a kitten and they kept moving back his birth date. “We know we said he was born in July, but maybe he was born in May.”

He wasn’t.

Anyway, Milhous weighs 5 pounds, which for a five-month-old is fine. But when I first got on the scale with him this morning, after three days of eating chili and lying about reading, my first thought was that Milhous had gained a ton of weight. That he was turning into such a big boy!

He wasn’t.

For I placed him down and lumbered back on the scale and madre de dios. It’s not chili up in there, it a whole Chilean miner or something.

IMG_0851.jpegIt’s not storming here anymore, so we have work starting at 10:00 today, and who wants to place bets on me being late anyway? I have to give myself an hour and 40 minutes just to scrape the car.

You know, I HAVE a garage. Okay, it’s a 1932 garage, but it still works. Why did I not place my car in said garage when the storm was brewing? Think of how convenient that’d be. This is my first garage since I lived in Burbank circa 2006. I never parked my car in that, either.

Have garages just become storage sheds for all our crap? Why do we have so much crap? Why do we buy stuff and 10 months later it’s crap?

Anyway, speaking of Steely Dan, which I did seventeen paragraphs ago, the woman who owns my house, fmr., called me last night. She has the same first name as me.

“This is June who owns the house on [insert street name, fmr.].”

All of a sudden I got teary. Oh my god! Was Steely Dan back? I’d left her my number to call me for just that.

“An Amazon box came here for you,” she said.

I’m going there tonight to get it, and she told me about all the changes she made to the house, and I know you’ll all be “take pictures” and this is one of those occasions where you guys forget I’m a real person who will seem

BERSERK

if I do that.

Anyway, she’s replaced all of the floors, and I loved those floors, although she did also replace the terrible concrete floor with floating wood or Natalie Wood or something. Then she told me the house needs special drains because something was happening underneath, which the inspector didn’t catch, and that when the specialist came, he found

five cat carcasses

under my house.

“Maybe one of them is your cat,” she said, and that is pretty much when I wanted to scream and rip off my skin and fall to my knees and shout, “Not my Richie.”

What the hell?

There were five dead cats under my house?

Then I wondered if the guy was on the SIDES of the house and dug up Francis and Ruby. That didn’t occur to me till after we hung up. But why would you dig there?

Five dead cats? Please don’t let one be SD.

HOW DID THEY GET THERE, and why didn’t I HEAR them, and of all the things in the world why cats? Why couldn’t they have found Gwyneth Paltrow’s bones or something that wouldn’t have upset me? Why couldn’t they have found the bones of words like baby bump and snowpocalypse?

Oh. And while I’m being annoyed by things, here’s another one.

If you’re a good storyteller, you just progress the story. We don’t need you to say, “Fast forward to…”

Or, god forbid, “FLASH forward to.” Oh my god shut up.

Perhaps you wonder how it feels to spend your whole day in a lather.

And you already know my other thing, which is when someone tells a story and they say, “So he asked me, ‘You know what?’ and I said, ‘What?'”

WE DON’T NEED TO HEAR WHAT YOU ANSWERED WHEN YOU’RE ASKED A RHETORICAL QUESTION.

Oh, crap, the guy across the street is 100% stuck in his driveway, spinning his tires. We are three blocks of dead ends followed by train tracks; no one is ever coming to plow this street. I wonder if I’ll be stuck, too?

The guy across the street has a sweet pale yellow El Camino, by the way. It’s really cool. But right now it’s one El stuck motherfucker.

I’d better go. I might could be in for a struggle. I will not say anything about a struggle being real.

Edgily,
Joop

June's stupid life

Please don’t say “Snowmageddon”

My eternal debate: Remove color-clashing alarm sign and risk death and sodomy so my house front looks better?

There are two kinds of people during a snowstorm: Junes and Neds.

When I found out we were getting a foot of snow, I was delighted. I got a bunch of stuff to make pumpkin chili, and some white grape juice because I have a white grape juice ISSUE, and also some orange Milanos that are mysteriously gone already.

I stayed up late looking for the first snowflake, then slept only six hours because I was too excited to sleep. I LEAPED out of bed and squealed at our 11 inches, and stop already, seventh-grader. Then I made a list of things I wanted to get accomplished since I was snowbound, and I did them.

(Inside-out dresses mean less cat fur when I finally put them on. What I am is appealing.)

I wrote my Christmas cards.

fuq it cowld

I also frolicked with my dog, who apparently has zero Husky in him because he is not appreciating falling through the ground with every icy step. Also, when he tried to drop anchor (TM LaUral), he had serious difficulty. Everywhere he went was icy. 

I’ve figured out why his tooth isn’t falling out. I’ve been observing it. When he eats or plays with Blu, those bottom teeth stick out so far that he doesn’t really use them. So there’s nothing to make that tooth go. And if I try to touch it he writes his Congressman.

Anyway, I kept self busy all day and was DELIGHTED when I heard more snow and ice are coming. Like, for me, this is as good as it gets. No one expects me to do a damn thing. I can hole up here and eat chili all I want.

Then there’s Ned. And the people like Ned.

Oh my god, Ned is bored.

“I wish I’d ridden my bicycle Saturday, knowing this storm was coming,” kvetched Ned, in his first of 47 calls to me yesterday. “Maybe I’ll go out and take a walk in this.”

Take a walk. In the foot of snow with its icy layer for added crunch. For HER pleasure.

And you know what he did? He took a walk.

“I actually just did some work,” Ned said, in call number 104. Meanwhile, whenever the phone rang I was all WHAT, because I could not have been more content in my cozy home with my books (finished one, started another) and my Christmas cards and my organizing. I even started my end-of-the-year blog video!

Today no one has to go to work, but now with stupid technology we all have to “work from home.” I have two meetings this morning and I already looked at some bluelines.

That doesn’t mean I just stared at a blue line. It’s when something is at the printer and it’s REALLY DONE and REALLY SUPER READY to be printed, so I get one more look at you, as Kris Kristofferson would say, before it goes to print and if I find a mistake it’s like $50 per mistake we have to pay and guess what?

Just like Kris Kristofferson, when I take one more look at you, I find a flaw. Always. Every time. It’s like my psychology is different once it’s a blueline and I find something I didn’t see before. They should just lie to me and tell me the first round is a blueline and I’d find everything wrong straight away.

I think if Sir Leslie Ward, up there, is so bored, he could teach himself how NOT to take an old-man selfie. A grumpie. A curmudgeonlie.

Anyway, I just got something to review and WHY CAN’T WE HAVE A REAL SNOW DAY? Would that be so bad? God. I gotta move somewhere like Spain where they never do anything but drink wine and have bullfights and sleep for three hours in the afternoon. Step one: Learn Spanish. Step two: Develop a taste for olives. Don’t they eat a lot of olives in Spain?

I’ll talk to you later. I’ll talk to Ned before I talk to all of you, though, I’ll bet.

Contentedly,
Snow June

June's stupid life

Special Snowy Sunday…Sost. I wanted to be alliterative.

St. Francis has a snow collar. Or a ghost is ass-raping him. One or the other. Happy Sunday! Merrrrrrry Christmas!

It’s snowing here.

wat fuk?

Depending on what weather app you look at, we’re going to get anywhere from 8 to 194 inches. They’re telling us to stay home, because while this is just a day in March in Michigan, here they don’t know what to do with themselves and fall over in a panic.

So I made a list of shit I want to do during the storm while I’m homebound. While I’m a shut-in. Which, let’s face it, is just a day in March for me. But because I HAVE to stay in, I made a to-do list. First on that list is Morris Chestnut.

I also put down “do all laundry,” and I’m just washing my very last load as we speak.

Then I have my Christmas cards ready to write out next. If I’d taken my Adderall I’d be done with the cards by now, but just a moment ago I saw two wadded-up hang-to-dry shirts on the washer, their hangers three inches away. Apparently, the siren song of Anything Else called me away before I could take those 17 seconds and actually hang my hang-to-drys.

But the point of me writing you today, why I’ve gathered you all here, is that another thing on my Adderall-free snowed-in list is to finally figure out what the

FUCK

to do with my shoes. I’m hoping some of you more organized folk can offer advice. Yes, I just asked for advice.

Here’s the setup: This house has 1,000 square feet, and some cool jazzy feet, as well. Bah. No, really. Small 1932 house. It has one weird useless closet in the bedroom where I store my laundry basket because it’s the only place to hide said basket.

There are two giant closets in the den

which have rendered the room mostly useless because the walls are closets. In this closet are all my winter coats, and sweaters and shirts for winter. On the floor are things like a fan, throw pillows I don’t use, my luggage and other odds and ends.

I have pants, summer shirts and dresses AND SHOES in this closet below. The space in the middle I use for sheets and bedspreads. This is the only place I could think of for my shoes, which I have dumped out to show you.

The weird useless closet in my bedroom really needs to hide my laundry basket and Morris Chestnut. IN MY MIND. But really, if I don’t put it there you see the laundry basket in my room and that’s depressing for the tens of men who are in there.

Here is all the other storage space in the house…

There’s also my hope chest in the den; it holds heavy blankets and it’s a pain in the ass to get into and I find myself not getting the blankets out because pain in the ass.

So, my MAIN GOAL is to find somewhere to put my shoes where they’re not just piled up like drunk sorority girls at night’s end. But if you can think of ways to organize where I have everything in a better way, let me know that too.

Thank you for your prompt attention to this matter. I have to go write Xmas cards now, and go out to my yard with a yardstick like some sort of nincompoop. Last time I was out there, we’d gotten seven inches. I hope we get Morris Chestnut 12 inches, which is what he has going

IN MY MIND.

Keep June’s mind occupied. Give her some hints on where to put all her stuff.

Snowily,
All work and no play make June a dull girl

Update: I cleared out some of the bedroom drawers and put the sheets in there. I also moved the socks that are in the living room into the bedroom. So now my bedroom has the joy of socks. And the pièce de résistance? I used that middle thing for shoes!

June's stupid life

June and her ADD get ready for a party

Every year, at Christmas, my workplace has its annual holiday party.

How much do you hate me for that redundant-ass sentence up there? I should really write a book.

Last night was my workplace Christmas party, and yes they call it “Christmas party,” as opposed to when I lived in LA and it was the annual gathering of winter or something we could all agree on.

They let us go at 3:00, because the party started at 5:00 at the country club, which by the way is fancy. It’s one of the fancy country clubs, not the dodgy country clubs you go to.

The point is, we were allowed to leave early so we could get our families ready and so on, and I know you’re wondering right now how does June do it all, with the high-powered executive career and her many children who are always turned out in their Christmas finery on the regular. Annually. At Christmas. Every year.

New glasses who dis. I need to get past that line.

The first thing I did after work was scream over to the glasses store, because my new not-worm-color glasses were in, which 15 times now I typed “gasses.”

Do you know what annoys me? On Instagram, when you read the comments, and someone comments about how they either misread something or thought a celebrity was their friend.

“I misread that as dick ass!”

“I thought this photo of Clark Gable was you, @myfriendisanasshole!”

Who gives a FUCK what you thought if it was wrong. Other than you and old Clark Lookalike, your close friend, who probably didn’t want to be tagged.

Merry Christmas!

After I got my glasses, my gasses, I was in my old neighborhood, where everything seems so nice and not sketchy-neigborhood-y now, so I went to my old grocery store and got supplies. We’re allegedly getting like 52 inches of snow this weekend, a fact that delights and thrills me, except that my old boyfriend from high school will be in another part of the state and that will shoot any get-together plans all to hell.

“I knew when I heard 13″ were coming that you were on your way,” I texted him, and the hilarity never stops over at Text of June.

But here’s the thing. It’s a snowstorm in the South. TRY FINDING AN ONION. Because not only does everyone buy up the goddamn bread and milk, they also all make chili, as I was doing. I had to buy a white onion and I can only hope my chili survives.

Beleaguered Juan. Mary and her manger had nothing on Beleaguered Juan.

So I got home right at 4:00, because the line at the grocery store was like the line for the end of time. You know how THOSE lines are.

When I got home, my Chewy box had come, not that I chewed the box. So I had to open cat-food bags and dump them in the cat-food tin, lug litter, and generally curse the animals. MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Then I had the groceries to put away.

And animals to greet.

And everyone had to get fed.

Bout tyme.
wut hell, mom. edz starv.
Well, crap, I might as well put the dishes away. 
I’m never home this time of day. Look how pretty the light is at–OH MY GOD IS THAT THE TIME?
Beleaguered June is late for the party.

I took The Poet as my date, and it’s like this whole event was set up to convenience us. First of all, we both live five minutes from work. She probably lives three minutes from work, as it took me two minutes to drive the mile to her apartment.

Look how cute her place is. They set up the front to look just like a dashboard.

She invited me in and I admired her brains.

Anyway, then we got in the car, drove across the street, and we were at the country club. I’m not even making this up. It was one minute to her house, one minute to the club, and you’d think we’d both be avid members and all, it being so close.

“Welcome Members of the Month, June and Poet.”

The first person we saw was Boss, crnt.

Boss, crnt., is very photogenic. This is the only picture I took of her and look at her!
We sat next to Griff, who actually DOES belong to the country club. “Do you ever just, like, come here for lunch?” “If they’re having oysters,” he said. Well, sure.

The food was delicious, and someone noted that I selected all the options for children, such as the macaroni and cheese and the chicken tenders. Look, they were excellent chicken tenders.

At the end of the evening I saw The Poet putting rolls in her purse. I mean, I AM out of bread. And a storm IS coming. Apparently, you need bread. “I wish I had some kind of napkin to put them in,” I kvetched.

And that’s when The Poet whipped out 79 country club napkins, just for taking home rolls. Then when we searched our purses for our coat check tickets, we had to remove said rolls and did not at all look like doddering old ladies. Which, come on. How far off are we?

Anyway, it was a good time, did I mention? And I always like to see everyone in their finery. I wish I’d taken a photo of Wedding Alex’s sparkly skirt. You’d have all died and then who would read me.

When I got home, I put the rolls on the counter, and Edsel promptly ate them. Then I took him to the all night euthanasia drive-thru. 

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

June's stupid life

The 4,974 legs

I’ve been thinking a lot about what I want.

Mostly I’ve been thinking a lot about what I want because someone asked me what I want. Mostly up till then I was just trying to go to work and keep up with my hand-washables. I hadn’t stopped to consider. And when I got asked, I was all, hunh. I wonder what I want.

This summer I traipsed to a new therapist, one of 87 in a line of the many many therapists I’ve seen in this lifetime, and I told her how I’d been married, but that being married annoyed me.

Then I told her that a year after my husband left I met a man and fell stupidly in love, stupid stupid stupid gaze-at-him in love, but he was not the marrying kind and that broke my heart so we broke up. Mostly. Sort of. I told her how he keeps coming around even though he doesn’t want to commit. That it’s been 7 years now of breaking up and him coming back, like a clog in your drain.

“Well, what do you want?” she asked. “Being married annoyed you, but being with someone who didn’t want to get married was unfulfilling, too.”

Hunh.

“Also, it sounds kind of like you really like living alone. Do you?”

Oh my god, yes. I adore living alone. I told her how much I enjoy walking into an empty house, if you count 16 other legs there as “empty.”

Not including fleas.

If you count 4,974 legs there as “empty.”

“Not everyone does, you know,” she said. “Not everyone likes living alone.”

God, really? I consider it one of my luxuries, like other women might consider a bath and an Almond Roca. I adore living alone. Have I said that yet?

But I don’t know if I want to be relationship-less. However, I’ve also put in like 3% effort into finding another person this year. I sometimes vaguely turned on my dating profile here and there. Barely answered anyone because they were always the type who’d wear sunglasses on their baseball cap.

And I’ve never done that before. Since 8th grade I’ve pretty much dedicated myself full time to finding a boyfriend and then when my commitment light came on in my late 20s, to finding a husband.

Then when I was single again in my mid-40s, I went back to trying to find a boyfriend.

Now the whole idea of a relationship sounds like too much work. Do you have any idea how many books there are to read? Not to mention we’re in some sort of creative peak with TV shows, although Dear TV Maker People: Stop fucking thinking 8 episodes are a season. Fuck you. Fuck you totally. For sure. (That was only funny if you loved Valley Girl.)

Books never sext another woman.

TV shows don’t get annoyed because you don’t want to go on a hike.

My whole life, asshole-y smug types who’ve been married since 7th grade have always told me, You have to be happy just being alone. Then they go home to their 14 kids.

So, okay, I did it. I got happy being alone. Maybe a little too happy. I don’t feel lonely at all. If anything, I’ve got too many people wanting me to actually leave the house and do things, when most of the time I’m content to be home with the 4,974 legs.

But what if I turn into some sort of weird loner with fleas? What if I’m Lola the Showgirl 30 years later looking for Tony?

Is anyone else feeling the same way? Are you feelin’, feelin’ that way too? Or am I just, am I just a fool?

Journey-ly,
June

June's stupid life

Come and knock on our…oh, cut it out, June

Would you like to know what annoys me?

“Overdramatic.”

You’re dramatic. That’s enough. It already means what you think “overdramatic” means. Stop it.

People are also seeming to have trouble with their prepositions. I love the Long Island Medium, I’m sorry but I do, but in every episode, she says, “Before I begin I like to talk on how I read and receive messages…”

About. You like to talk ABOUT how you read and receive messages. Every time she says that I get the shivers. “I like to talk on…” STOP.

I realize “about” is an adverb. LEAVE IT. LEEEEAVE IT. Good reader. 

Speaking of which, this morning I was playing Two Blu with Edsel in the backyard. He won’t fucking fetch. You throw Blu and he runs around joyfully–he smiles on how he receives Blu–but he won’t give it back. He runs up to me and then runs away. But one day I discovered if I have BOTH Blus, I can throw one and when he runs back, I throw the other, and then we’re golden. Two Blu is an excellent game.

Edsel fekking loves Two Blu. It’s the happiest he is all day.

Today?

I threw Blu into the neighbor’s yard. I felt weird about TRAIPSING into the guy’s yard unannounced, and even weirder about knocking on his door before 7 a.m. Come and knock on our door. We’ve been hatin’ on you.

Come and knock on our door. Eds is waitin’ for Blu.

Come and knock on our door; we’ll play music at 2:00.

Anyway, you can imagine. Edsel could SEE Blu just on other side of metal theeng, mom. it ther. it rite ther. go get, mom. stop singeeng 3 Compnee, mom.

So now he’s curled in World’s Most Dejected Ball behind me, a thing I’d photograph for you but I’m charging my phone.

In my room, I have one of those long pluggy things with all the plugs in it. What’s that called? Anyway, it’s next to my bed, because a lot of the plugs in this 1932 house have the two-hole situation, and all the things I own need three holes to plug in, and let’s not delve into the 7th-grade humor we’re all dying to delve into.

Come and knock on our door. We’ve got three holes for you.

POWER STRIP. I have a power strip next to my bed, for the lamp and allegedly to power my phone at night, but all of a sudden my phone won’t charge there. I have no idea what’s wrong, but I discovered it when my phone’s alarm didn’t go off one morning because it was dead

Come and knock on our door, we’re dead.

Come and knock on our door. Work’s been waitin’ for you.

So now I use a regular alarm clock like it’s 2005 or something, and if I don’t remember to charge my phone at night I have to plug it in in the morning, in the kitchen, and what this blog is is fascinating.

Come and knock on my blog. I’ve been boring to you.

In other news, today is Tallulah’s birthday. She would have been 11. ELEVEN! Can you imagine? I can’t.

Everyone in this photo is dead, except for Edsel who will never ever ever die ever.

Goddammit. Why did Tallulah have to get sick and die? She was my favorite thing in the world. Look at her square head. I can’t stand it. I loved that dog.

Anyway, that sums up today. Things annoy me and my dog is dead.

Come and knock on my–OH MY GOD STOP,
Joon

June's stupid life

Important things June has bought lately (aka Prose hair products update)

Now that I’m not destitute

–and could I take this time to once again thank the people online who said they were “so sick” of hearing about how destitute I was before? That was kind. You’re kind. Be proud. Also, going on a website to complain about bloggers means your life is full. Yep.

Anyway, now that I’ve moved into this marginal neighborhood and my mortgage is practically nothing and so forth, I am able to buy things like a normal person, such as bread and hair gel and a handgun. Here’s a rundown of my latest conspicuous consumer purchases:

Blueberry hummus.

See. You thought I was making that up, didn’t you? Just like the reader who said I made it up that someone put Violet in my car.

I don’t know why I’m so bitter today. I guess I woke up this way. And by the way, the first thing I did this morning was punch Iris when I went to shut off the alarm. Maybe I’m bitter because too many goddamn animals sleep with me. When I was a kid, I slept with my 79 stuffed animals. I had no idea I was training for real life.

Anyway, blueberry hummus.

I went to the grocery store last night for my regular shopping and saw this on the shelf. There was a man also similarly looking at hummus. “Should I try blueberry hummus?” I asked him, pulling if off the shelf. “What have you got to lose?” he said. He was a jovial type.

I mean. $4.99. That’s what I’ve got to lose. But I got it, and as I walked away the man yelled, “See? I’ll try black bean hummus! We’ll report back to each other!” 

Like black bean hummus is such a stretch. Come on. Clearly I am the adventurer in this relationship.

The point is, I got home and tried it immediately because have you met my impulse control? And blueberry hummus

is

delicious.

Oh my god, I adore blueberry hummus! It has a definite tang to it, and I ate it with crackers–regular rice crackers, not graham crackers as they suggested as I am not a toddler. Well. Other than my impulse control.

Prose hair products.

About a week ago, I told you that I fell for an ad on Instagram, and really I fall for ALL THE ADS on the Instagram. They know my thoughts. Just this weekend I mentioned I’d like to buy another paint-by-numbers, and lo and behold, Instagram gave me a paint-by-numbers-for-adults ad.

I don’t mean it was a paint-by-numbers dick. It was a nice impressionist painting. I want one.

But the ad I fell for that I’m talking about here is Prose hair products. You answer Qs and they MAKE THE PRODUCTS just for YOU! You know how I am. I’m Donald Trump. I love things about me.

I told them about my hair (worrysome) and they came up with shampoo, conditioner and a hair kabuki mask, which by the way is not the same blend as they came up with for Rebecca, up there in the photo. “Outdoor athlete.” Usually, when people describe me, that’s their first descriptor.

Anyway, at first I was on the fence about Prose, but that was before I used the hair mask. The hair mask made the difference.

I think I like Prose. My hair looks more normal-person-ish.

“It’s like your hair is a whole different texture!” my hairdresser exclaimed, ‘ere she drove out of sight.

Happy hair products to all, and to all a good night.

Coffeemaker.

As you know, from your Big Book of June Events, which I guess is just “this blog,” I purchased a small Cuisinart coffeemaker when I moved in here, as my previous one conveniently died right when I was moving. I was all, Good. One less thing. But that new coffeemaker VEXES me. It’s fussy, and half the time won’t brew because it’s not in the mood or it’s taking a mental health day.

So this weekend I was buying a padlock for my garage (see above re marginal neighborhood) and I saw coffee pots were on sale at the Target, and I got a programmable Mr. Coffee for like $18. WOOOOO! And when the alarm goes off and I punch a pet each morning, I can hear the coffeemaker already workin’ for me.

i not fuzsy!

My life has been transfigured. I put that French high-maintenance bastard Cuisinart in the cupboard, for coffee emergencies, even though I also have a french press for the same reason. I got a backup for my backup. What addiction?

That sums up m’purchases, although while I’ve been writing this, my (hot) mailman (of color) just dropped off three pair of reading glasses I ordered, as I have gotten more blind and have to, you know, read every day for work. I wonder if I can deduct these? 

I’m a 2.25 strength, if anyone wonders. And yes, my eye doctor does blame my career choice for why my eyes are bad, although my mother practically wore glasses in the womb, as did my Aunt Mary. My grandmother that I’ve turned into always felt so guilty, because she took my young Aunt Mary to the eye doctor, and Aunt M put on her new glasses and kept squeaking, “I can see! I can see!”

Anyway, I can’t wait to get to work today and copy edit something that I can actually see.

Hello, supervisor who reads my blog.

What have you bought lately? Should I try it? Should I wait till Instagram advertises it to me?

Consumerly,
Juun

June's stupid life

Punch and Junie

The first thing I did this morning was punch Edsel in the face, as I reached to shut off the alarm. Merrrrry Christmas! 

Oh, he’s fine. If you can’t take a punch, you have no reason to be my dog. Plus, must he BE .07 INCHES from me at all times? It results in tragedy like this.

Anyway.

This was a busildy weekend, starting with me getting the wrong glasses.

Hi. I’m bland.

I waited 16 days for my new glasses to come in, and I’d ordered a rosy tortoiseshell, and the mirror was behind the desk at the glasses place, and it wasn’t till I got to a restaurant after that I was all, heyyyyy. These aren’t tortoiseshell.

Nothing gets past me.

So then I had to take them back, and I could tell they didn’t believe me that I didn’t pick out these worm-colored frames, but I didn’t. But then I couldn’t find the rose-colored tortoiseshells, and I was cursing my whole “Don’t print a receipt” from 16 days ago, because every time I have something printed I picture the polar bear on a tiny piece of ice and I can’t even stand it.

So instead of ruining our ecosystem or whatever, I ruined my appearance.

Anyway, I ended up getting these, which look like every pair of glasses I ever pick out.

And now I’m my grandmother even more than I was.

Back in her day, polar bears had plenty of ice. As did her veins. Also, in the photo of her, there’s my small-person head at the bottom. Good lord, I had every color of those beads for your hair that you can think of. I believe I secretly thought every day should be pink-bead day.

Saturday was one of those days where you run from one thing to the next. On Saturday mornings, I like to dump out the disgusting litterbox altogether and scrub it and hose it out and dry it and sweep the litter that’s all over yonder and wash the floor in there, and for some reason that takes a damn hour.

Then I had to scream Lily to the vet, as she and Milhous managed to trap themselves in the bathroom one night last week, and the following morning, a morning I’d overslept, I tore into the bathroom to shower as quickly has humanly possible and not only were two cats in there, but poor Lily, because she’s a good girl and did not know what else to do, pooped in the shower.

This led me to the discovery that there is a tapeworm up in Lily, which means there’s a tapeworm in everyone and why do I have pets.

If you’re not familiar, all you have to do is give them all a pill and it’s over with. But the vet had not yet met Lily, as I quit my last vet in a huff about six months ago (they seriously sent me “It’s time for [insert pet’s name here]’s appointment!” emails at least once a week, and when there are four pets that gets old, and also it was never actually really time for an appointment. It was always the sort of thing where okay, we could go in now, if I wanted to spend every weekend at the vet. I called twice to say, I only want to take in each pet once a year, barring emergencies, so can you knock it off with those false alarms and they always said, No, we can’t. We have NO CONTROL over how often we send you these. I even gathered them all up on one screenshot to show how often they were–)

I know. I’m being a let-me-speak-to-your-manager Karen.

So the new vet, who does not bug me with emails, insisted she see Lily before she just gave her a pill. She’s seen everyone else. The point is, she insists Lily is overweight.

hmpf!

I’m TELLING you, she doesn’t eat that much. But she’s a round mound of meow, as Ned would say. Apparently that’s a sports joke.

So she got cans of special diet food that she refuses to eat, and that the other cats also similarly too refuse to eat, so now I have cans of rejected diet food, which is what I’ve been hoping and praying for all along.

As soon as I got Round Lily keeps on turnin’ back home, I had to scream to the hair place, as it was time for my roots. Last time I was there, I was going to move into a whole different house, and I’d link to that post where I tell you about the 17 houses I considered, but I’m pressed for the time because I was occupied with punching the dog this morning.

The point is that I hadn’t gotten my roots done in four months, and was living on $7 root cover, and it was dire. It was dire, wolf.

How do I look with silver hair?

We decided to go a little darker, like my moods, and voila.

I not only have darker hair, I have on 16 pounds of makeup. I was invited to my coworker Lottie Blanco’s Christmas party, that she and her wife, also named Lottie Blanco, throw every year. Before the party and after my hair dye, I ran to the candy store to get them a hostess gift and when I whipped open the candy-store door, there was The Poet, buying boxes of candy that reached up over her head.

“Are you getting everyone candy for Christmas?” I asked.

“No, this is just for me,” said The Poet from behind her boxes. The Poet weighs at most 17 pounds.

Anyway, I drove to Lottie Blanco’s and once I got to her neighborhood, I pretty much guessed which house was hers.

It was the house with the subtle nod to Christmas.

“You’re certainly going to have the most festive shoes,” Lottie B told me she thought, when she saw my black velvet shoes with sparkly ties. Those shoes ROCK. Those shoes hurt like fuck.

“Hey, everyone, this is Lottie’s straight friend!” Lottie Blanco’s wife, Lottie Blanco, said.

Who is never going to get over the part where I’ve blog-named them both Lottie Blanco? Is it me?

Anyway, we had a great time. The food was to die for, and there was nothing un-Christmassed in that house. When they begin a theme, they follow it through, the Lottie Blancos do.

At one point, the back door just up and broke. It leads to a screened-in porch, where a lot of people had stored their drinks, and that damn thing would neither open or close. It was just stuck. Poor Lottie Blanco my coworker was stuck behind it, on the porch, with all the drinks.

“Is this going in your blog?” she asked, from behind the door.

Eventually, about 450 of her friends came to help her and they eventually had to take the whole damn thing off. “How many lesbians does it take to open a door?” someone joked, and that is when I thought maybe I should help and bust that stereotype, but I want you to brace yourself: I had no idea what was wrong with that fucking door.

The rest of the night was spent watching Lottie B’s corgis try to figure out why the door was weird, and leap over it with their tiny stump legs. They’re corgis, so they have to stump over everything.

In unrelated news, I would like a corgi.

I have to get to work, which is a shame because I wanted to tell you what a

JERK

Iris is about taking a pill, but suffice it to say everyone here is medicated, and some of us are foaming at the jerky mouth.

we not. we the gud cats. if you do not count that bafroom insidint.

I’ll talk at you later. Try not to poop in the bathtub today. Or punch your dog.

Love,
Joon