Enter rambling

You know what I want for Christmas? One of those paper towel holders that you stand up on your counter.

^^^^^AMAZON LINK!^^^^^^

Several months ago, one of you said, Hey, June. Why don’t you become an Amazon Associate to earn more money? And so I did. I put up a permanent link to Amazon on my sidebar (See? See it? Are you looking at my side bar? [slap] Keep your eyes off my side bar. Perv).

And sometimes I’d throw in an Amazon image here in the post that, if you click on it, you get to Amazon, and say Amazon one more time.

And by the way, for some reason I can’t ever put a link to Amazon with words on it. Like, one of these…

//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ac&ref=tf_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=booko04-20&marketplace=amazon&region=US&placement=B000G62YE8&asins=B000G62YE8&linkId=2f1089c847f0610c1fab92ac91e31505&show_border=false&link_opens_in_new_window=false&price_color=333333&title_color=0066c0&bg_color=ffffff

See.

THE POINT IS, I am forever forgetting to add links to Amazon in my posts.

  1. So, click these images
  2. You’ll get to Amazon.
  3. If you shop after you’ve clicked over,
  4. I get cash.
  5. Cold cash.
  6. Don’t you have Christmas shopping to do or whatever?

Forgetting to add Amazon links is why I don’t have money. I’m not ambitious enough.

And speaking of numbers, yesterday I was talking to a reader who said, “The number of comments you get don’t represent how many readers you get.”

….!

Of COURSE it doesn’t. Did she really think that 50 people read me a day? That’s so sad. Also, I forget that not everyone works in social media the way I do.

Anyway, I told her how many readers I get normally, and then she looked at how many comments I get normally.

I rarely check how many comments I get. I just get emails from you when you comment and go, “Heh, yeah” or “HAHAHAHAHA” or “Oh, fuck YOU” or whatever. Anyway, she figured out it’s like one comment for every 35 or 52 readers or something.

It was maths. Reader, can you remember the exact ratio? Cause you know how I get with numbers. They come to me on gossamer wings and flitter out my head dusting rose-gold glitter.

IMG_1871.jpgNot-So-Faithful-Reader Ryan and I took a walk yesterday. “You’re too TALL to photograph,” I kvetched, so he came up with this dramatic scenario so I could fit him into the frame…

IMG_1872.jpgBelievable. Do you beLIEVE in life after love {after love after love}

I guess mostly what I did today was enter here rambling, and talking about Amazon and numbers and hooo care, then plunk you into the middle of my yesterday and not be linear at all.

I once took an African literature class, which is something you do in college when you’re all high on the gange, which actually I never was but roll with it, so to speak. Anyway, I read a story where this person wandered a village, and each hut had a number, and he’d visit Hut 4 then Hut 86 then Hut 3, and all the American people were all OH MY GOD VISIT IN ORDER.

Which was a thing we didn’t even NOTICE was bugging us till the professor pointed out we were being, I don’t know, not African or something.

So thank heavens at least 10 of my 50 readers are in Africa.

IMG_1860.jpgAnyway, Nervous Nellie and I visited the vet yesterday, where it turns out that even though I am spending $800 a month on flea meds, the fleas are resisting and now Eds, and most likely his cat backups, are having the fleas. Dammit.

And here’s what happened. Yesterday after said vet appointment, I got on Facebook and I was all Diagnosis: Fleas. And then I said the vet had to prescribe something.

This was followed by 939549323 comments with people telling me what flea medication to get.

“But I–”

“See, I already–”

“Yeah, I got–”

I give up.

I also, on Facebook, asked everyone to not IM me, and one person I don’t actually know in real life wrote, “Oh, but I IM you to show my eternal love” or whatever, and I wrote back and said, “Yeah. that’s great, but an unbalanced person contacted me that way, twice, and now every time my IM thing lights up, I get shaky and sick thinking she’s back.”

I understand, she wrote.

The very next day she sent an IM. No apology, no “I know you don’t want IMs,” nothing. And it was a goddamn animated thing about Christmas. Hey, unfriend.

I mean, I could not have expressed my needs and why I had them more clearly. Jesus.

IMG_1878IMG_1874IMG_1875Also, I stepped on Steely Dan last night. I didn’t MEAN to. I didn’t plan a night of STOMP at my house or anything. He was in the hall, and it was dark in the hall, and he is dark, and I know you have gotten the drift and wish I’d move on already.

I TRIPPED over him with one foot, then STOMPED terrecktly on his tail and oh, did he HISS and run off.

Did you ever chase after a cat you were just accidentally mean to? It’s so fruitless.

“I’M SORRY STEELY DAN! I LOVE YOU HONEY. MAMA’s SO SORRY!” He did not give one shit. It was not possible for him to have put his ears back any more fiercely.

As you can see, above, he forgave me enough to lurk on the fridge for breakfast. So. We’re working past it, with time and counseling.

How many photos of cats in that window ARE there, do you think?

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Oh my god, Francis was SUCH a dick.

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Anyway, I know I had other things to tell you, but I am Africa today, so I’m all over the place.  I have GOT to get my freelance work done this weekend, and I have a hundred pages to go, followed by spellchecking it and looking for consistencies throughout, which means I only have about 86 hours to go.

And no, I’m NOT being paid by the hour. I got a flat fee. This whole book was so stressful that instead of using the money I earn for something practical, I’m getting a kilo of weed, a willing lawn boy and Boston Market delivered to my door.

Can you even buy weed by the “kilo”? I should probably get into drugs briefly so these references remotely ring true.

IMG_1873.jpgI leave you with the following Gladys Kravitz news: My youngster neighbor is moving. Or else he’s a lesbian on his third date.

Not that I’m glued to my window like a shut-in or anything, but I noted his girlfriend left awhile back, and maybe he’s going wherever she went.

That’s the house where the lady would come home from third-shift nursing in the morning, with a paper bag of fast food, and I wanted to run over and tell her, “You’re moving more and more slowly, and it’s this fast food that’s killing you,” because as we all know, my food pyramid is banging.

Turns out, she was dying. She got diagnosed on Halloween, was dead by New Year’s day. She no longer felt hale and Hardee’s.

This is why I have bad luck.

So then this whippersnapper moved in a few years back, and I guess he’ll be selling the house, or god forbid renting it to his delinquent friends. But whatever happens, I hope that nice couch stays on the curb just forever. Total Joey and Chandler couch.

Okay, talk at you. I’ll try to write this weekend, as I will be isolating to get my work done and if I don’t somehow contact the outside world, I will get weird. Which you can see I’m far from.

Normally,

June

LDV

I have a new thing that bugs me: Women using that video-making feature where their eyes are huge, and their lips are gigantic, and their voices are distorted. Perhaps you’re hilarious, person making a video while sitting in a car, which, woooo! How could you NOT be, with that original venue? But I see that damn exaggerated-features look, and I can’t even click to hear one word.

Also, the kids who’ve been coached to sound world-weary when they’re four. Stop.

You all have put both of these on the Facebook of June page lately to say, “I hate these,” and I am so with you.

These videos are the 2000s version of Pagemaker. Back in the ’90s, this program got invented that let you create your own invitations and flyers and so forth, called Pagemaker (and not PageMaker. I believe it came before we started the equally annoying trend of naming everything WordThing. WordPress. TypePad. InDesign. StopIt).

Anyway, Pagemaker started the whole Secretary As Artist trend, where everyone was “designing” their own stuff, and it looked horrific. Now we have video cameras in our purses, and little special effects we can use, and suddenly everyone’s a makeshift internet comedian.

Says the woman who still blogs, for god’s sake.

You know what was funny? The woman who’d bought herself the Chewbacca mask. She wasn’t trying to get millions of viewers. She wasn’t trying to hone her “craft.” She wasn’t trying to become an Instagram star so she could quit her day job. She was just a genuinely likable person who happened to capture a funny moment.

And this is the problem, I think. The little girl dancing Gangnam style at a wedding reception is genuine. These “I planned them” videos always look, you know, planned. And they aren’t that funny.

I know I’m not the only curmudgeon, here.

Look who I’m talking to. Of course I’m not.

Other than me hating everything on the planet and still being in an angry phase, that about sums it up. I worked on something all day yesterday at work, which was fun to do, actually, but took a lot out of me. Copy editing. It isn’t laying bricks, but you’d never know that.

Anyway, I came home, realized I was out of soap and water. I am not kidding. Soap and water. So then Edsel and I went to the grocery store. I hated to leave him after I’d just gotten home and he’d started sculpting a bust in my honor and so forth.

Then I got home and said, “Is it an acceptable time to go to bed yet?” like anyone was watching. I made myself stay up till 9:00, didn’t do any freelance and hello panic, and then Eds and I slept all night except for Edsel’s one very urgent call of nature at 12:12 a.m. I swear we were back asleep by 12:14.

The only exciting news I have for you is that several months ago, maybe even a year ago, Faithful Reader Fay sent me a Hello Kitty toaster, which I use quite frequently. I’m quite the connoisseur of toast.

But all this time, I’ve been buying the pretentious bread, a habit I picked up from my…ex, the 404 Error, who gets said bread in the deli section at the store, and it’s full of the nuts and grains and it is delicious.

But this weekend, I was near the Ghetto Lion, and I needed groceries (including water and soap, but who can remember?) (here is where my mother is screeching MAKE A LIST), and they don’t HAVE rough made-in-store bread at the Ghetto Lion, so I got normal-person bread in the bread aisle, and weird, it felt.

The point is, I made toast, and

GUESS

WHAT.

That toaster embeds a little image of Hello Kitty in the toast! My toast was too rough and unrefined and high-school educated to show it before.

IMG_1855.jpgMy life has been transfigured. Also, say “toast” one more time.

I’d better go. I’m taking Eds to the vet today, to figure out why he’s still itching and chewing, and now his stomach seems to be bothering him.

Before you give me all the advice, here’s what we’ve already tried:

  1. Changing his diet. Many times.
  2. Shots
  3. Steroids
  4. Antidepressant
  5. Another kind of antidepressant
  6. Flax seed oil
  7. Allergy medicine
  8. A different kind of allergy medicine

Someone told me to try colloidal silver, and Ima ask the vet about that today.

I can’t help having PTSD about Tallulah, and all the tests we ran, when her tumor was right there visible, had anyone, oh, looked at her little dog vagina. I have never once called it anything other than her “little dog vagina.” I don’t know why. Her LDV.

Have PTSD about a lot of things lately. Remember when life just used to be normal and I wasn’t upset? Me either. But I know it existed.

Okay, talk at you and your little dog vagina soon.

Cutlery roasting on an open fire

My weekday mornings do not vary much: The alarm goes off and I resent it, Edsel and I open the door to 800 cats lining the halls expectantly. I trip over at least one of those solid assholes every single day. Hey. Cats are more solid than you’d think, when you’re kicking one down the hall accidentally.

I slop the hogs, make coffee/heroin for myself, then sit down to blog. Usually I open my photos from the day before in order to show you it, whatever “it” may be that day.

(Do you have to “make” heroin? I know in the movies they show someone roasting a spoon over an open flame. So maybe you do. Or maybe when you’re high on the heroin you enjoy a spoon over an open flame. I just have no idea.)

M’point is, today when I opened photos, I enjoyed the fact that almost all of them were selfies. Nice. Proud.

Screen Shot 2017-11-15 at 7.31.11 AM.png

There’s one sad photo of Kit, there, at the end. You can see I never did get happy with my at-the-bookstore selfie, as I took 70 of them.

IMG_1841.jpgWhat’cha doin’, June?

I went to work yesterday like a normal person, which you know isn’t true because I can’t do anything “like a normal person.”

(Do you consider yourself normal? Any time a man writes that he’s “normal” on a dating profile, I’m all NEXT. First of all, hey, judge-y. Also, hey, boring-y.)

Anyway, I went to work like the person I am, only to realize I had scheduled my Botox at 12:45 and my car repair for my accident at 1:00.

Pfft.

So the car repair got rescheduled for today. Not that I know it even NEEDS repair. Today is when they look at it. Give it the male gaze. They check it out now, funk soul brother. Right about noon, funk soul brother.

So above, there, is me going to the OTHER appointment yesterday, applying the ice to my head, there, before the needle and the damage done.

I need to stop thinking in song lyrics.

In summation, I got went to work yesterday and had Botox at noon. That would be a man’s blog entry thus far. Those two sentences.

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Oh, look. A selfie. This is me after work, in the waiting period. See below. Click here! You won’t BELIEVE what happens next.

At work yesterday, I had some of my delicious high-fiber oatmeal, because Mmmmmm, or Nnnnnnnn, as they say in the Pearl Drops Tooth Polish commercial when they lick their teeth.

( https://youtu.be/m2tYvxEVreI

Sadly, while I was searching for a Pearl Drops commercial, as you do, there were 97 clips from General Hospital available to me, including one with a Leslie and Monica showdown that I really wanted to take time out of my executive schedule to review, but look at June. Staying with the task at hand. If the “task at hand” is to get distracted by “Nnnnnnnnn.”)

So I had the oatmeal, June says, and you’ve already forgotten. “Jesus, WHAT oatmeal?” Then I had my important Botox at noon, so that left me no choice but to get a luncheon Dorito Taco at Taco Bell, and why everyone isn’t just knocking down the doors to get them MORE Dorito tacos is beyond me. Cause, nnnnnnnn.

Then, Kit and I had plans to go to a reading together at the local bookstore after work. We were gonna hear Mr. Write’s new book.

We were meeting at 6:45, so it was easiest to just leave from work, where there were, sadly, no snacks. What kind of workplace doesn’t have snacks?

I got to the bookstore a little early, ordered a glass of chardonnay, and meandered to the back of the store, where readers read when there’s a reading, and that was the day you stopped reading June.

I found a book. I know! At the bookstore. And I sipped my wine and read my book, which in retrospect I shoulda bought cause now I’m over here wondering what happens next. I want to click here on that book.

The point is, by the time Kit arrived, I was drunk.

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“Oh, good.”

Seriously. I guess oatmeal at 9:00 and a taco at noon were not enough to take on The Wine. Holy cats.

So I slumped drunkenly in my chair as Mr. Write wandered in, followed by an entourage of admirers. I’ve been to several readings read by writers where they read at the bookstore readingly, and, like, when The Poet was there, she had standing room only.

But Mr. Write, who happens to be good-looking, had throngs. Seriously.

IMG_1853.jpgAnd, you know, careful readers will note that we dated. Not you and me, homophobic housewife in Haverford, Mr. Write and me. We dated briefly last year. He was the most “with potential” suitor I’ve had since my 404 Error, but it didn’t work out.

And now he was seeing me for the first time in more than a year, and I’m drunk.

He saw me through the crowd and was very gracious. “Good to see you,” he said to me, while people gazed at him. He really is a Mr. Handsome.

And his reading was great. I’d link to his book or something, but he is, in fact, really private and I feel like he’d be annoyed with me for being all, HERE IS SOMEONE I DATED HERE. HERE. On m’blog.

Anyway, the good news is, he read a lot of stuff, so I had time to sober up. And I thought, What the hell was wrong with me? I could have had Mr. Write to date for awhile, and I was all oh no. Break me off some more of that guy who’s hurt my feelings 400 times instead.

After, I got his book, Mr. Write’s, I mean, and stood in the endless line for him to sign it. I caught up with Kit’s life, which has taken an exciting turn lately, and I similarly feel like she would kick my ass if I splayed that all over yonder, so let’s just say her life is going well now.

Mr. Write and I exchanged pleasantries once I got up to him, but the woman behind me cockblocked our conversation by including herself in our talk, and I wish you all could have been there to see the daggers coming right out my half-drunk eyes.

Kit and I then sat in the window of the store, as that’s the place where you can sit at tables in the window and have yourself a time. “I’ve never sat up here before,” said Kit, who works 11 feet from that store, and how she hasn’t taken advantage of that table window table is beyond me.

The point is, Kit knows everyone in town, and it was like she was on a float. We’d get one sentence out and there she was again, waving gleefully out the window and throwing butterscotch candies.

I guess homecoming queens don’t do that, do they? That’s more clowns at the Knights of Columbus parade.

Whatever. Girlfriend was waving. A lot.

So, in summation, I went to work, got Botox at lunch, then to a reading with Kit after work.

The end.

Briefly,

Juan

 

 

 

Monthlies

Let’s talk about people who don’t have full-time jobs, compared to those who do.

“Why aren’t you calling me back?”

or

“Why didn’t you answer my myriad texts where I sent you a cartoon of myself waiting by the phone?”

or

“Did you watch that video I sent you?”

When you work full time, you get home to a luxurious “catching up on everything” time, like, oh, eating and feeding/walking the animals and paying bills and mopping the muddy-footed floor. Then you fall into bed.

And I even have an easy commute!

And weekends? Well, that’s when you do the laundry and the groceries and the cleaning, allegedly, and I DON’T EVEN HAVE KIDS. I can’t imagine what the childfull people do, which I would be if I weren’t barren. Or hadn’t gotten my tubes tied in 1996.

So if you’re reading this, with your “retired” or “part time” or “independently wealthy” or “vagabond in a library” self, please know that is what we 40-hour-a-week people are doing when we don’t jump to observe your every move or watch your every cat video.

SO THAT IS WHY UNWORKY PEOPLE SHOULD NOT CALL AT 7:00 PM AND EXPECT A REPLY BY NOON THE NEXT DAY.

What mood?

I really do hate how people are making themselves into cartoons now, by the way. First of all, you weigh more than your caricature, who are you kidding, and second of all, most cartoonists aren’t even funny, and now you come along and think YOUR cartoon will amuse us? I got two words for you: Marmaduke.

What mood? What angry phase?

IMG_1729.JPGI had to leave rather abruptly yesterday, after I slammed my hands down in the desk and stalked out of here, or alternatively as I had to head to work and ignore the 29394931 IMs and texts and calls I received.

What mood?

Anyway, up there is a photo of a store I’d like to try, a new store downtown, but THEY ARE CLOSED SUNDAYS AND OH MY GOD THAT BUGS ME.

WHY do stores close on the weekend? Close on fucking Monday, when we’re all at work except for the people who have time to send me cat videos and then wonder why I haven’t written back.

Who keeps saying “mood”?

IMG_1733.JPGHere’s that time we ran into Steely Dan while he was at another house, and who always pretends to be glad to see us? Is it that phony Steely Dan? I wonder what the other houses call him, what shit-ass names he’s been given that aren’t nearly as cool as the name I gave him. “Oh, here’s Smokey, back around for his dinner.”

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Smokeee go home wif you. it…dinner time, rite? yeah, he go home wif you.

I also never had time to tell you the thrilling news that I bought a hat this weekend, at my hair place. This woman came in while I was there, to drop a bunch off that she’d knitted, and guess who made a sale 14 seconds later.

IMG_1763.jpgIt has a hole on top, in case you have your hair up, so you can stick your hair through. I would, like, break the hat if I tried that. “Hat, you’re dilated to 10.”

img_1804.jpgI’ve got no reason to show you this other than to say Lily is pretty. Her caricature would be a lithe, sleek gray cat.

So, there. Now I’ve shown you all the photos from my riveting weekend.

I worked like a demon yesterday–you know how they work–and then I came home and did some, oh, work, and I don’t know if I’ve made this clear or not, but every second with my phone last night. PING! with a text and BLOOP! with an email. Finally I just turned the sound off and plugged that thing in in the back room, so I could sit catatonically on the couch for awhile.

When I was at the eye doctor last week, I said, “Do I HAVE to wear dailies?” and the doctor gave me monthlies. He didn’t give me a period, because please see June, old.

So he gave me a pair of monthlies, and stop saying “monthlies,” and I’ve been wearing them, and frankly I hated them. They took forever to put in, which is what she said. They were very uncomfortable, is my point. As monthlies are.

At some point last night, while I was catatonic, I realized I had no contacts in. That the room was, you know, blurry. I must have taken them off and thrown them away at some point without thinking about it.

So, those are gone. Guess I’m back to dailies. And I don’t know if you WEAR dailies, but there’s one brand I abhor and one brand I’d marry, and they both come in blue boxes and they’re named Daily Aqua Moist Daily lenses or something.

What I’m saying to you is half the time I order the wrong brand, and then I have a whole month of dinner plates in my eyes.

…Wait! I just found some of the contacts I HATE, in this desk drawer. PLEASE REMEMBER FOR ME that I hate Dailies Aqua Comfort Plus.

Rolls off the tongue. Also, “comfort.” If by “comfort” you are the Marquis de Sade.

I realize that made little sense.

IMG_1809.jpgSo that brings us to today, which so far seems pretty typical, except that I feel like I’m getting a cold, which it may have been pointed out to me is something I think about 14 times a week, so. Anyway, behold the Shining twins, waiting for breakfast. Also, bonus: Steely Dan trying to claw his way in through the window.

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sheeee going to let Smokeeee Steeleee in, or he hunt that hawk back there?

IMG_1813.jpgIMG_1814.jpgIMG_1815It’s very leapy at House of June.

And perhaps you’re enjoying THE MUDDY FLOOR, which Edsel just brought in. I have that damn towel by the door, and two mud rugs in the back, but he ran in without me noticing the depth and breadth of his muddiness and now I have to Shark the damn floor again.

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edz deepplee sorreee. he get cownsleeng.
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not meen he don’t want owt again

IMG_1827.jpgIMG_1828.jpgHe’s off to bark at the gaybors’ greyhound. I hope that bugs the shit out of them.

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weee go bark too?

All right, I gotta go. I got an extension on my freelance work, because they said I could and yay, so naturally once they told me that, tonight I’m going out with Kit. We’re gonna see someone do a reading, and that someone is a person I dated a few times, which, scandal.

Really, hooo care? I think we’ll both be, like, oh hayyy.

This does not mean I won’t be in full makeup, however.

Talk to you soon. I hope it’s during the workday, via text or IM or call or email or tagging me on Facebook or…

What mood?

Joooon

Weekend recap! Oh, June. Zzzzzz.

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On Friday night, my many wrinkles and I stayed home and copy edited, but NOT before I screwed up at work and felt just awful about it.

Do you remember that project I took home last weekend? The point of taking it home was so that when it came back from the printer and I looked it over one last time, I wouldn’t find that it had ONE MORE ERROR after all, the way I did LAST month.

Of course that thing came back from the printer at seven minutes to 5:00 Friday, and guess what I found.

Spelling error. DAMMIT.

I’ve spent the whole weekend trying to figure out how I could have done the job perfectly. I know people think, “Isn’t that what a copy editor does? Isn’t her whole job to check spelling errors?”

Oh, honey. It so isn’t all I do.

And maybe that’s the problem, I’ve decided. Maybe one person needs to check all the facts; the other all the art; the last one the spelling, grammar, and punctuation. And maybe something that cumbersome should not be looked at by one copy editor, but three or four.

I’ll stop talking about it now so you don’t die of boredom. But everyone was working late Friday, including our president. Not of the country, of the company. And I talked to him about this error, and how upset it made me, and awhile later I was obsessing at my desk and he came over.

“Hey, I know I told you not to sweat it, and that the important thing is you still found it before it went to print. But you know what? Thank you for sweating it. Thank you for caring.”

Then I had to go home and freelance.

The point is, pretty much every morning for the last two years I wake up with dread, because my romance sitch is so precarious. Even when we actually reunited officially last year, I woke up in dread, and had to take a moment to tell myself, “No, it’s okay. You’re back together.”

The point is, every so often lately I do NOT wake up in dread. Saturday I woke up and said, “You know what? You’ve been in this endless terrible relationship, and you made a mistake at work. You could look at it that way, or you could think, Well, it looks like I’m finishing a relationship that wasn’t good for me, and the president of my company knows I care about my work.”

So. That’s what I did. I opted for door number two.

IMG_1687.jpgIMG_1689.jpgOn Saturday morning, I schlepped my arse out to the country to hang with one of the Alexes, who makes funny needlepoint in her spare time, to sell at craft shows. I know you’d think I’d feel competitive, what with all m’crafts, but I don’t. I mean, nothing compares to my decoupage. So.

We sat for awhile behind her display, which sounds dirty but was just barely so, and caught up on each other’s gossip. Then I had to go.

IMG_1695.jpgI got up with Marty Martin, who is neither an old man with a walker or a ’50s strip mall, but for some reason all I photographed was my walk INto the coffee shop and not M Martin himself. And Dear M Martin: Could you REMIND me I have a blog and need to photograph everything, next time? GOD.

Wait. Does that old guy have a walker or just stripey pants?

Also also, this dick-ass popular hamburger place moved in there, but did nothing to improve the parking, and now you can’t park there to save your life. There are about 10 other stores besides Dick-Ass Popular Hamburgers, but do they care? No. For that reason alone, I never eat there.

IMG_1696.jpgIMG_1700.jpgAfter that, I screamed over to the old mill stream, where I first met you, or alternatively, the old mill where I get my hair done.

IMG_1701.jpgPoor Marty Martin was all, Well, if your appointment is at 1:00, we could meet after, at like 2:00 or something.

Oh, honey. Oh hairless honey. 2:00. He probably also thinks all copy editors do is check spelling.

IMG_1705.jpgHere we are at the dry-it-straight portion of our evening, and by that time it literally was evening.

IMG_1710.jpgWhen I got back to my car, I was amused by the dregs of my run-aroundy day.

IMG_1718Edsel at confession. Why do I try to have a screen?

On Sunday, Peg-my-neighbor’s daughter called me, as they are painting and fixing Peg’s house to eventually sell it. She wanted me to see it all cleared out.

IMG_1724.jpgAw, man. I just tried to find you photos of Peg’s house, which I know I have, but instead I just keep finding fun pictures of Peg through the years.

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Here she is in 2010, at our combo dress-as-your-biggest-fear party.

6a00e54f9367fb8834014e8825f96c970d.jpgHere she is at 5:00 in the morning, when we had our royal wedding get-together at her house.

Seeing her house all shiny and bare. Oh, man.

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This computer is like to kill me, and now it’s late and I gotta go before I can tell you how cool the building is where I have therapy. Even the ELEVATOR BUTTONS are cool.

Okay, talk to you later.

Wordily,

June

Computer’s Last Stand

Everything’s broken. My bathroom fan needs to be fixed, according to my ridiculous handyman Alf, because the bathroom CEILING will fall in if I don’t. Oh, is that all?

He also had to come fix all of the 206 windows back here, as they would not stay open or lock. That’s safe.IMG_1640.jpg

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The 206 windows back here. Or, four. Alf coming to fix those cost me a cool $35.

Plus also, my dishwasher needs replacing, and this computer is clearly on its last…stand. It’s Computer’s Last Stand. I spent three or four ENTIRE days a few months ago with AppleCare, wherein we made my computer unusable while trying to install or uninstall or SOMETHING in order to make this thing not slow as the dickens, and we all know how slow the dickens are.

When these things happen, I try to think of my favorite person, Anne Lamott, and what she says about these things…

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So while something big and lovely is trying to be born, I’m over here dealing with a pain in my ass. Several pains in my ass.

Last night, I turned off this computer completely, by being needy and texting it a lot. No.

I turned it off, removed the plug, which GOOD writers might call “unplugging it,” waited a bit, plugged it back in and turned it on to see if maybe my iPhotos would finally work.

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There’s an Anne Lamott for everything. And any smart thought can be made basic and Pinterest-y if you get the right picture behind it.

Also? My favorite.

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Anyway. This morning when I got to my computer, all the attempts I made yesterday to drag photos onto my desktop?

Worked.

And now I have 400,034 pictures there, and we’re gonna look at ALL OF THEM YAY!

Oh, June. Must we?

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I tried these glasses on at the eye doctor the other day. Please ignore that I have no eye makeup on; I knew he was gonna do all that crap they do that makes your eyes water, so. My fear is wearing colored glasses that seem “whimsical” and I become one of those middle-aged women you feel sorry for, with leopard frames (I WOULD LOVE LEOPARD FRAMES) and tiaras and–oh my god I’m already that woman. I’m wearing a fucking pom-pom necklace up there, and I’m all, I don’t want to seem undignified in my old age.

And SPEAKING of which, I was at the grocery store last night buying dog food, some of that Rachel Ray’s Just Sex that I get for Edsel,

Oh, might that be a link to Amazon, that photo of Just Sex dog food? Might it? Might you want to click over there and buy you some Amazon? Because June needs a new dishwasher and computer.

Anyway, the checkout girl complimented my coat, which is a pink trench given to me by the fine folks at Stitch Fix, and I thought SHE thought I was mighty hot in it, till she said, “Do you need the senior discount today?”

How fast do you think I asked Siri, “What’s the age limit for Harris Teeter’s senior discount?” Was it before I got to my car? Was it?

SIXTY. Bitch thought I was SIXTY. I was so cute in m’pink trench. Cute like Clara Peller, apparently.

IMG_1621 2.jpgHere’s my ambulance from my very serious car accident the other night. Now with mail! Maybe the mail truck came in case I had POSTtraumatic stress.

BAHAHAHAHAHA.

I’m hilarious at 60. Sixty is the new 52.

IMG_1636.PNGOver there on the left is lone wolf Edsel, waiting for Dexter. This is a screen shot I took while he was at daycare the other day. He acts exactly the same way I did at daycare.

IMG_1553.jpgI’ve no idea when I took this, probably 1957 when I was born, but I look annoyed. Oh, I think that was before my last date. The one where I got stood up. And I hadn’t even been stood up yet! Maybe this expression is why I never saw him.

You’ll be glad to hear that’s all for the photos I attempted to drag over and finally did, two days later. There’s a video, of Edsel and me doing our “find the treat” game, but it might be a pipe dream to hope that this exhausted old computer can actually show you that.

Crap.

Tomorrow, by the way, is the two-year anniversary of when I moved back in here. If you’d have told me two years ago that I’d STILL be in the last gasps of this Ned debacle, I’d have been shocked. And horrified. And kind of not that surprised. Now, if you tell me that two years from NOW I’ll still be in it, Ima have to come over there and slap you.

Oh, good. The Edsel veeeeedeo did not load, but this three-second one of how I thought the light was pretty did.

I’m glad to be back here at my house, even though any time I ever went back to the house I shared with Ned I’d get sad and think, “I WANT TO BE BACK AT THIS HOUSE.” Maybe I just want to live in any house I’m in, which would make me a terrible Jehovah’s Witness.

CAN I MOVE IN? Have a pamphlet. CAN I MOVE IN?

Do you like how, in the video above, you can see 47 copies of my whimsical-glasses selfie? Thanks, computer.

I’d better get ready for work, with my senior discount and my whimsy. I got a full weekend of freelance copy editing ahead of me, but also Ima see my friend Alex at her craft shindig, and also Marty Martin even though he has no crafts, and plus too also I have a hair appointment and not to mention therapy. My weekend is full!

“What’d you do this weekend?”

“Therapy.”

“Oooo! Sounds fun!”

Talk at you.

Juan

P.S. By the way, they painted Peg’s house. Alf my ridiculous handyman was very thrown by it. “Didn’t the house next door used to be yella?” he texted. He always has to text stupid words, to annoy me. Anyway this was just the primer coat but trust me, it’s gray now.

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Her house used to match my dogs. Now it matches my cats.

Really going now,

Juan

Rearing to go

I know you were waiting all night for Installment Two of June Goes to Medical Appointments, and I understand your excitement and anticipation. But something bigger happened yesterday.

Bigger, June? Bigger than an eye exam?

Not that my eye exam wasn’t without incident. I pissed off the front desk by not remembering I had a separate card for eye insurance. Look, I go there once a year, and they mail me this flimsy card from somewhere or another, and who can remember? I found it eventually, didn’t I? Okay, after you already ran my debit card. Still.

I got to work and didn’t take lunch, did my copy editing and so forth, and now I’ve turned into that bad-storytelling woman from yesterday’s example. “He went to college, all that good stuff.”

The point is, Edsel was at daycare all day, hoping for a Dexter sighting. Dexter is his new Beagle friend. We’d missed Dexter by ONE DAY.

Dear Advice-Givers: I HAVE left my number with Dexter’s people and I HAVE asked the daycare to alert me should Dexter be there, with the caveat that I know how FREAKING BUSY that place always is, and that I’d understand if they clean forget, because it is always Grand Dog Central in there.

That made no sense.

Anyway, since I hadn’t taken lunch, I left work at maybe 5:20-ish, which is early for me, and wow, was traffic suck-ass. I also had to take the busy headed-to-downtown road because I had to get the Eds.

I was just around the corner from work, at a complete stop thanks to traffic, when

BOOM

It took me a moment to even register what had happened. I’d heard a big sound, then a second later, see boom above. A car rear-ended the car behind me, who in turn rear-ended me.

“Oh my god!” I said, then, “Ow.” I’d hit my head on the back of the seat rest, hard.

“Geez.” I rubbed my head and got out of the car. The person who hit me was a coworker. “You okay?” I asked.

“Hit my head,” he said.

I got my phone and dialed 9-1-1. As I was speaking to Edna at 9-1-1, the woman who’d hit my coworker got out of her car. “I looked down for just a second,” she was saying, “and then you’d slammed on your brakes.” As if it was my coworker’s fault for braking in bad traffic.

“Do you need an ambulance?” asked Edna the 9-1-1 operator, after she’d asked me how my day was at work and did I need to get Edsel from daycare. I said yes, because my coworker and I had both hit our heads, and I kept thinking of Natasha Richardson.

It was cold and rainy out, so I waited in my car for all the men and women of LAW enforcement (only funny if Marvin forced you to watch every episode of Cops).

Just then, I had an IM on Facebook, my favorite thing. My coworker Ryan had been driving by and had texted me. “I drove by the accident. You okay?” he’d asked, clearly having something more important to do than stop and make sure I was ALIVE, RYAN.

Anyway, I opened the IM, in case it was another coworker or something.

It was a name I didn’t recognize, and it was a long, long message. As I scrolled up to get to the top, I realized it was That Woman. That Woman who’d contacted me at the beginning of October. That Woman who …knew Ned.

She’d gone on Facebook with another account, as I’d blocked her original account, and messaged me THE DETAILS of what she and Ned did while we were together.

The details.

While I was waiting for an ambulance.

She literally added insult to injury.

And you know, I have exciting photos of me at the eye doctor, Eds at day care, and even an exiting action shot of the ambulance, which mercifully came right then (“Say, you got any emergency services for a shattered heart?”), and my stupid computer, which has been acting up for some time, won’t let me put them on here to show you.

Anyway, the ambulance people and the (cute!) firemen made me do a bunch of “does she have a concussion” moves, and also the Cabbage Patch because why not, and they said I could go to the hospital if I WANTED to, and who doesn’t? Both my coworker and I ended up not going, and we’re probably both dead now and this is purgatory.

So, an hour later, I headed to daycare to get Edsel. My car doesn’t LOOK damaged, other than the license plate, but Ima get it checked out for anything horrific that might have happened to its insides. “You made it!” said the daycare woman, who I called to warn that Edsel might be having an impromptu sleepover.

Eds was glad to see me, on a shocking note, and he was even gladder when I did the insane thing.

Because what I did next was, I took my totaled car and my exposed brain from my horrific accident, and I drove all the way down to Ned’s gym. He is nothing if not predictable. I called him as I was nearing the place.

“Where are you?”

“I’m just leaving the gym.”

“Yeah, I know you are. I’m headed there.”

“You’re…what?”

“That Woman messaged me.”

So, in the rain, the cold November rain, I drove to that parking lot, and with my medulla flying just everywhere from being exposed, I gave Ned a piece of my mind.

Literally.

Because it was exposed and all.

“I’m so sorry,” said Ned. “I am 100% responsible for all this,” said Ned. “What can I do?” asked Ned.

“You can just leave me alone,” I replied, and I realize I said, “Leave me alone” to someone who was, in fact, leaving me alone, but there it is. And I may have wept a bit, and mentioned how crazy about him I used to be, and how this was like that last scene in Mother, which I don’t recommend you go see, where Javier Bardem rips the heart out of Jennifer What’s-Her-Name. I may have dramatically mentioned all that, while gray matter plunked onto the parking lot along with the rain.

But the best part of this story is, the whole time I was handing over a piece of my mind? Edsel was

SO

DELIGHTED

to see Uncle Ned.

oh unk ned! oh edzul god it unk ned!! unk ned da bomb! unk ned hello! hello! edz not care how you hurt mom. hullo UNK NED!

And Ned was all, “Yes, hi, Edsel,” while I was over there ranting and railing and speaking in tongues due to my severe head injury.

After about five minutes, I was pretty calm, actually, and got in the car and drove home, finally without incident. Eds was in the back asking me to play the country station so he could find a song that encapsulated what it meant for him to see Unk Ned.

So there it is. I came home and initially announced on Facebook that I had been in a severe accident wherein my car had upturned and caught fire and so on, but after I got 10 IMs in 10 seconds, I realized really that last thing I wanted to do was field questions all night, and what I really wanted to do was hide under the nice afghan Faithful Reader Kris made me, and watch Friends. There is little less taxing to one’s soul than an episode of Friends. They’re all so pretty, and the decor is so ’90s.

But speaking of Facebook, could you all all do me a favor? A flavor, as my friend Tammy always called it?

Sometimes, particularly on Facebook of June, I will post something and it goes awry and I take it down. Some days I post something and it gets too “give June advice”-y. Some days it becomes too, “In fact, I DO have a degree in psychology, so let me analyze people in your life, or even better, slap a label on him or her.” Sometimes it just feels too personal after I’ve posted, and I get squicked out and take it down.

But no matter what, if I post something and take it down, I’ve done so because I felt uncomfortable about said post, so here’s where the favor comes in.

When I’ve posted something and taken it down, could we not go BACK to Facebook of June and ask, “Where is that post?” and make it all dramatic with the shocked-face emoji and the “Someone IM me what happened” and all that? I already feel uncomfortable, and to have it brought back to the page makes me feel bad all over again. Go ahead, gossip about me off that page all you want, I don’t care. But could you not gossip about me in front of me?

Alternatively, you could IM me all the details of how you …know Ned. That’d be much better.

Accidentally,

June and her severed head

Toothy

Seeing as medical checkups are my hobby and all, this is really a stellar month.

Yesterday, I went to my new dentist. In half an hour, I go to my eye doctor, a fact that will not at all make Faithful Reader Paula nervous. She doesn’t like it when I’m writing and have to go somewhere or am in any way rushed.

Dear Faithful Reader Paula: I write these before work. I am pretty much always rushed.

In a few weeks, I get my mammogram, which in truth I’ve put off. That thing terrifies me.

Anyway, yesterday I saw my new dentist because the old one, whom I started going to as soon as we moved into this city–Marvin found him–was just fine, but the hygienist gave me angina.

I’ve told you about her before. She not only hurt me, she also seriously–SERIOUSLY–had some sort of disorder where she could not stop talking.

Dear Women of America: It’s okay to have silences. It’s also okay to not tell every detail.

I have Sirius radio, says June, telling every detail, and at lunchtime there’s really not much good on there, talk-radio-wise. I was listening to some stupid call-in show recently, and a person called in under the topic of How Did You Meet Your Significant Other.

“Hi, Jenny, thanks for taking my call. I just love you. I listen to you when I…”

See. Already she was bugging me. THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE ARE LISTENING. YOU’RE NOT JUST TALKING TO JENNY. YOU’RE THE ENTERTAINMENT.

“I met my husband when he was a junior and I was a freshman.”

See. “I met my husband in high school.” That was all we needed.

“He went away to the state school, and he played soccer and had friends and all that good stuff.”

Oh! All that good stuff! Well, that’s descriptive. Also, is this remotely germane to the story?

By the time I’d heard her whole tale, I retold it in my head using three sentences. I can’t help it. I edit for a living.

This pales in comparison to that hygienist at the old place. She was so bad that she’d already read a complaint someone had made about her on Facebook, about her…talking problem, and you know what she did?

She talked to me about it.

So, after, you know, SEVEN YEARS of this hygienist, I got up all my courage, and I mean I really had to get some courage re this. I had to talk myself into it. But not in a chatty way.

“Dude, you’re the patient,” I told myself. “You have a right to request the other hygienist. It will be okay. The first hygienist probably won’t even know.” So, heart pounding, two years ago I called my dentist’s office, where they already don’t like me.

(I just tried to link to that blog post about when the funeral happened at my dentist’s office, and the woman who answers the phone was the one throwing said funeral for one of her family members, and I called and referred to “some funeral” screwing up my appointment, does anyone remember that? And then I realized my error and called back to say, “Donna, I’m so sorry. I just realized I flippantly referred to a funeral you all are going to, and that that funeral was for your brother-in-law, and it was insensitive of me and I really apologize.” and she said, “My name is Dana.” Does anyone recall that horrificness?)

Anyway, June says, doing the woman-talking-thing, I got up the nerve to call there and say, “May I please have Esmerelda as my hygienist instead of Simone?” And I was shaky and scared, but they said yes, and I saw blissfully quiet Esmerelda once. ONCE. And then that funeral story above happened, and the only person IN THE WHOLE OFFICE not at the funeral was Simone the Chatty Hygienist, and then I was back in the loop of seeing her again.

So six months ago I called again. I did my famous “starting with Yes” that I do when I call these places.

“Yes, I requested Esmerelda to be my hygienist? And I got back in the schedule with Simone? Can we go back to Esmerelda?” I mean, I had douche chills asking.

“She’s all booked up, but we’ll call you when there’s a cancellation.”

So they called me, and booked me recently, and it wasn’t till the day before that I thought to check everything out to be sure.

“Yes. Hi, DANA. I have a cleaning tomorrow, but may I just check who my hygienist will be?”

It was with Lady Chatterly. It was with Miss Wordsworth. It was with Story Spelling. They’d put me back on her loop GODDAMMIT. It was like trying to get a taffy wrapper off your hands.

So that is how I got a new dentist.

I like it there. The office is really close to me; right behind where NedKitty goes to the vet. I say that like you’re all, Ohhhhh. Therrrrrre. Yeah.

It’s fancy, and there are People Magazines in the lobby, and they took individual photos of every single tooth. “Did I look fat in those pictures?” I asked, and because I’m new to them, they weren’t sick of me yet, and they laughed. I saw EVERY ONE of my teeth on a big screen and man, have I had a lot of crowns and fillings and “onlays,” whatever those were.

They also did that gum reading where they say, “2, 2, 1. 1, 2, 3.” I used to like it, back in LA, when they’d say my area code, which was 323.

Anyway, it all looks good, and then the hygienist came in to clean me, and you know what?

She was quiet.

Yay.

Tune in tomorrow for June Reports on her Eye Doctor Appointment, which is now in 18 minutes.

God, we can’t wait, June.

June gets murdered up.

Friday night here in Greensboro was a wet affair. It was exactly how fall nights should be: windy, occasionally rainy, the damp leaves shivering on the trees.

I was acutely aware of the night, because I was sitting silently in my house, catching up on some freelance editing. I’ve had freelance work almost every single day this year, a fact that is reflected in both my credit rating (yay) and cuticles (nay). My scores are up but my nails are shredded.

It’s not a stressful task, but you do have to give the work your total concentration, which is why I was so annoyed when I started to hear the singing.

“Wheel in the sky keeps on turnin’.'”

I looked up from my papers.

“Don’t know where I’ll be tomORRRRRoowwww.”

Well. That was a drunk person. And it sounded like he was really close by. I figured it was some kid walking by. He sounded young. He sounded like a young white kid, probably went to a football game at the high school, maybe was walking back. I can assure you I never once left a high school football game sober, back in my day. Probably left singing Wheel in the Sky, as well.

“Carry on my wayward sonnnnn. There’ll be peace when you are done.”

Goddammit.

I had just gotten back into my work when another song started up. Edsel lifted his head from his bed.

Hrrrrr,” said Edsel, his neck getting all dinosaur-y. Whenever he’s pissed off, the first hackle to rise is the neck hackle-dy area. If he’s infuriated, a whole line of fur rises up along his spine, and he looks just like a

just like a

oh, that one kind of dinosaur. With the hackles.

Anyway, that bothered me. The hrrrrrr did. Usually Eds is indifferent to noises like that, unless said person making noise has the nerve to be singing with a dog, like if Mr. Bojangles walked by or what have you.

The guy was singing way, way off key, and as I said before, drunkenly. And he wasn’t moving from his spot right outside my house. I tried the peephole on my door, which somehow renders everything outside 10 times darker than it is anyway, and a rainy fall night isn’t what you’d call full of the light as it is.

So, annoyed, I decided to whip open my door and glare out of it. That’d show him.

“Don’t know where I’ll be tomorrrrroowwwwwww.”

I could hear him, but I couldn’t see him. He was close by, like maybe across the street.

“Wheel in the sky…”

SLAM.

Was he just walking toward me? Did it sound like he was coming closer, with this bad singing and his classic rock? Was he headed OVER HERE?

“Hrrrrrrr, wowww wow!” Edsel started to bark.

And that is when I called 9-1-1.

Look, I know it was a tad hysterical. But it was so fucking creepy. He’d been out there singing for at least 10 minutes, not moving, and then when I opened the door, it sounded like he’d started walking over.

“9-1-1, hello, June. Did you try that new curly girl product I told you about last time?”

“Heh. Yeah, hey, Edna. Listen, I know this sounds insane, but…”

I told the 9-1-1 operator my tale of woe. She sounded bored and said they’d send someone out as soon as they could. And see, once? I accidentally and wish I hadn’t? Listened to this terrible 9-1-1 call, where and old lady called because someone had come to her door asking for someone who didn’t live there, and it didn’t sit right with her, it seemed odd, and you’re listening to this thing thinking, Get a life, old lady, kind of like what you’re thinking reading this.

And then? There’s a clunk in the recording?

AND ALL YOU HEAR ARE THE OLD LADY’S SCREAMS. That guy at the door came in and murdered her. For no reason. As opposed to all the valid reasons to murder an old woman.

This is what I was thinking of when the bored operator hung up. “You’re just being silly,” I told myself, trying not to observe Edsel’s hackle sitch, over there.

Hrrrrrrr,” said Edsel, jumping off the chair and running to the back door.

And that is when my back door opened.

CALL NED CALL NED CALL NED CALL NED, my innards were screeching at me. For years now, any time there’s been a major emergency, such as a cockroach on the wall, I have called Ned, who is literally four minutes away and who loved screaming over to rescue me.

I did not call Ned. Please see above references to strong black woman.

I did, however, call 9-1-1. I was already picturing my YouTube recordings, where the first time I sound fairly alarmed and the second one I am a screeching wet hen.

“SOMEONE JUST TRIED TO OPEN MY BACK DOOR!” I cackled at 9-1-1.

“Okay, ma’am, your address?”

Don’t they keep a LOG or something? The second operator had no idea I’d just called. I figured once my number came up it’d give a whole history.

JUNE LOG

Well, she was married to Marvin, and back then she called 9-1-1 when her dog had cornered a possum. But then they divorced, and…

The operator stayed on the line with me till the policeman came. I saw him wandering my yard before he knocked, shining his flashlight everywhere like at the beginning of Columbo. He was probably looking for my current cultural references.

My point is, he and I searched everywhere, and found nothing. “Did your motion sensor come on?” he wanted to know. I have no idea. I was too busy having ice needles in my anus to notice my lights.

We searched high and low, and there was no evidence anyone had been over, other than me hearing my fekking back door open. The cop clearly thought I was insane, which, come on.

He bid me a good night, and drove off into the wet fall night.

The singing had completely stopped.

If we’re gonna turn back time, can we turn it back to when I was cute?

A delight this time of year is discovering HOW MANY DAMN CLOCKS you own. You think you set them all back, only to enter a room and say, “Oh my god! It’s 8:30??!!” Yeah, no it isn’t. You forgot this one. Now how the fuck do you work THIS one, goddammit?

I gotta make my house more like Las Vegas.

I’m pleased to report that I almost killed myself adjusting my car’s clock while I drove, and hey, June. Unsafe at any speed.

Also too, I set my alarm clock back an hour. Knowing how I am, how I a.m., I brought my phone to bed with me last night, set that alarm as well, to be safe.

This morning, as my phone and I rocked out to Tupelo Honey at really 7:30 but at what the government insists is now 6:30, I thought, hey, why is just my phone going off and not the additional, tinny, you-ordered-this-on-Amazon-and-clearly-it-came-from-China alarm clock?

And right then I knew. I’d somehow fucked up. And that is when I saw my regular Chinese alarm clock said, oh hey, it’s 6:30 p.m., man. Have a cocktail. I’d set the time for p.m. when it was a.m.

Do you know what I haven’t done in forever? Is add any sort of Amazon link, so you’re reminded to click, say, that clock above so you are then on Amazon, and anything you buy I get millions of dollars for.

Anyway, so the time changed, and as you can see, it vexes me. Fortunately, I’m the only person in America who is vexed by the daylight savings. I’m saving daylight for a rainy day.

Photo on 11-4-17 at 8.55 PM.jpg
o fer fuk sake

Back when time was normal, I did nothing but my freelance work, and what I noticed by Saturday night is the animals were plumb sick of me and also I was depressed from sitting in my house doing freelance work.

So I got dressed and put on lipstick and went to Barnes and Noble at 9:00 on a Saturday night. I know! When I throw down, man… But hey, did you know Barnes and the Noble, there, are open till 11:00? I didn’t. Till I was depressed and wondering where the Sam Hill I could go that late that wasn’t a strip club.

I got some Moleskine notebooks. Oh, wait. What if there were a link to the same kind of notebooks, and you could buy them too and we could be Moleskine members only?

I also bought Judy Blume’s latest book.

Which, okay, is from two years ago, BUT I DIDN’T KNOW THAT.

So that wasn’t so bad, Saturday night wasn’t.

IMG_1558.jpgOn Sunday morning, I got stood up. If any of you know a local 54-year-old man of color named Charles–which I thought was going to be a good sign because that was my grandfather’s name–please tell him he’s a very rude man.

At 10:39, I wrote him via the dating app, as he was nine minutes late. “I’m, um, here!” One should take note of the fact that one did not get a real phone number before said date. One should never go on a date without the person’s actual number. This is my little tip for you.

At 10:45, I wrote him again. “I wait for no man, Charles.” Then I deleted him from my matches. Charles will not be in charge of my days and my nights.

IMG_E1556.JPGSo, since I was already up and sporting real pants and so on on a Sunday morning, I browsed the windows of my friend Kit’s store, and oh my god this chair.

IMG_E1557.JPGPlus also, oh my god, this hat.

I have to stop going to Kit’s store. She night as well not pay for the storefront; she could just drive all of her finds over to my house.

IMG_1546.jpgSo that about sums it up. It’s hard to blog about your life when you’re currently ceasing to have much of one.

Oh, but listen. Be sure to purchase many things via my Amazon, will you? Because my stupid dishwasher is broken and I have to get a new one, I think. I already had a dishwasher repairman here, twice, and it works better, as long as you don’t mind that half the things don’t get clean. I also keep trying to make this computer work nicely, and instead it groans and spools and sings about doom, despair and agony. This computer is six years old. Is that too old?

I leave you with photos of the animals, because remember when I went out and had fun and saw people other than animal people?

Me, either.

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get lyfe.

I swear Lily’s not dead. Lemme find any recent Lily photo… I have trouble because she’s always out having athletic adventures.

Oh. Wait.

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maybe lilleee a little bit ded

Okay, bye.

Joooon.