Apparently, Apple and Microsoft want more of my money. Because they don’t have enough.

IMG_3812.jpgDo you wish to know what annoys me? “Snowmageddon.” Also, “snowpacalypse.” Oh, shut up. Anyway, it’s still snowy here, and behold Edsel playing with Levi, the one-blue-eye, one-brown-eye pit who now lives with the gaybors’ Greyhound, Jackie.

I know you can’t see Levi–they’d been running up and down the length of the fence together, and this was all I was able to capture from my SOCKS in my DOORWAY. I wasn’t traipsing out there in m’robe and sockses.

I met Levi at some point during this—snowpacalypse BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Oh, god that’s funny. Anyway, I met him when I was rolling the snow-covered trash cans back to their rightful spot, and he was staring at me in personal growth, which is only funny if you saw When Harry Met Sally.

He was staring at me from his yard, Levi was, and he was so pretty that I couldn’t help but say, “Well, who are you?” He wagged politely. “Hello!” I said, clomping through the snow, because crazy person. I think this is a pertinent time to point out I had on my fox pajamas, tucked into snow boots.

“That’s Levi,” said the gaybor, who unbeknownst to me had been standing on his back porch. They seem to never just let their dogs out and shut the door. Go in and watch Liberace or whatever. I mean, what’s the point of a fenced-in yard if you can’t slam the door and forget you have a dog for 20 minutes?

Anyway, he was actually nice to me this time, the gaybor was. Me in my fox pajama bottoms and boots. So.

And I’m passionate about Levi.

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I also managed this one. In midtear. Still can’t see Levi, and now you’re convinced Edsel and I have manifested him.

Anyway.

So we didn’t have to work again yesterday, although we DID have to work from home.

So, as you know, because you have a poster on your living-room wall that reads Everything June Does, with a marker hanging from a string, I spent thousands of dollars last month to replace the thousands-of-dollars computer I bought in 2011. Through no fault of my own, the 2011 computer got so slow it wasn’t even fun to blog anymore.

So I replaced it. Can I afford that? Hell no. But I freelance a lot, too [you all nod knowingly, glancing at your living room poster], and need a computer for work.

Yesterday when we got the whole Work From Home announcement, I was immediately given an article to read. I wandered into this cold, drafty back room, and whose idea was it to put the computer back here? Must have been my landlord’s.

When I got back here and tried to open the article?

No Word. I have no Microsoft Word. “Sign in here!” it kept telling me. Sign in here! All cheerful.

I got all the Microsoft Office products back in 2011; my friend and faithful reader Steve who works there sent them to me. Now, perhaps this is the time you might feel less angry for me. What’s your problem? You got them free anyway.

Well, the thing is, I NEEDED WORD RIGHT THEN.

After several long talks with Microsoft and Apple, we came to the conclusion that:

A) When I migrated all the info to the new computer, all the Microsoft Office stuff didn’t come with me (not my fault)

B) Microsoft could help me if I had the “product key,” which is a sticker on the box I received in 2011. Oh, I don’t still have the box? Why not? Seven years and two moves? That’s no excuse.

“Why don’t you say in big letters, ‘KEEP THIS BOX’ or something?” I groused at the guy at Microsoft. I was chatting online with Microsoft and on the phone with Apple. It was a whole East Side/West Side thing going on at my computer.

In the end, Apple couldn’t do anything even though their migration instructions didn’t actually work, and Microsoft suggested I buy the new 2016 Office stuff.

Of course they did.

Why are we letting these companies bamboozle us in this fashion?

In the end, my friend/FR Steve is sending them to me again, as I wrote him hysterically to ask if he knew the “product key.” Product key. Key this.

IMG_3799.jpgMeanwhile, someone is despondent that grownd still iceyyy. He tries to go out, then comes right back in. He’s bored out of his evil mind.

He chased his tail 109 minutes yesterday, while I watched Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee. When I wasn’t proofreading something on my phone, then writing in a notebook all the errors and then typing those errors back into my phone and emailing them to work.

Resent.

I gotta get to work. Today is my six-year anniversary of dating Ned, and Ned asked if I wanted to go meet him for a drink at the place where we had our first date.

…My hair just got blown back from all the, “NOOOOOOOOOO”s.

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Snowmaddegonly,

June

June the snowflake

It snowed.

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

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

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shut upz

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I sound like a movie trailer. In a world

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

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

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

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

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

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

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not so much wif dis bullchit

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

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offend delicate sense biliteeez
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one dignity shot

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

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da fuk?

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

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

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

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goddammitz
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Coming home in defeat.

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

There you go.

Your Ice Princess,

June Cassadine

Your Terrible Flaw

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s a yes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

June

Whole lotta leopard

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wut??

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

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edz chillz

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Goddammit.

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

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

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

In search of collagen,

June

Chubby stick

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

Do you remember that?

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

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

Goddammit.

So, tips, please. Diet tips.

Roundly,

Joooooooooon

I forgot a damn title

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh my god, anyway.

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

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steeeelee heer now. just enjoy momint.

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

That damn moth.

That damn hole punch I got stuck in and forgot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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fuk yew

And that is why I drink.

Love,

Sockless June

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

Photo on 1-6-18 at 8.55 PM #2.jpg
Comic-book effect
Photo on 1-6-18 at 8.51 PM #7.jpg
Andy Warhol effect
Photo on 1-6-18 at 8.56 PM #4
Steely Dan is evil effect

World’s Worst Person Gets Her Nails Done

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

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

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

Hi, mom.

sns-gelous-color-real-nail-5-638

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What? God.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She did.

At the nail salon.

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

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

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

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

Maybe people should just shut the fuck up.

 

Busy executive

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

Demonstrably,

June

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

Let’s look at June

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You need only turn back here.

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

Stickily,

Joob

In the stars

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well.

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

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

Humph.

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

And that is how my addiction to Sanded Starfish began.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He had.

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

Frapdorp paused.

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

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

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

Sweetly,

June