Do you wake up with dread? I do. Every morning. I have no idea why. But my first thought when I wake up is always, Oh good LORD, now what?
If anyone just wakes up happy, I’d like to know your secret beyond, Well, I married rich.
I’ve had a fairly chaotic week already.
The guy next door had a cat and a girlfriend. One is gone, and the other remains. He did not want the cat, and here’s the irony. When I moved in here, that cat was just a kitten, a calico kitten, and I coveted her mightily. She was so cute.
Then I got Milhous.
Anyway, the guy next door did not want the cat, and I’ve been deflea-ing it all along, and I’ve been giving him food to give the cat lately, but he was really looking to get rid of it. So on Sunday, I took it to the shelter for him, as he does not have a car. See previous mentions–mentions, prvs.–re marginal neighborhood.
Oh, it liked to KILL me, taking her there. I mean, at least now she’ll get her shots, and she’ll find a good home, and so on.
On Sunday night, there was a knock at my door. There is always a knock at my door in this neighborhood, and does anyone have a cure for that? Because I can’t relax in my house for even one lunch hour or evening.
Anyway, it was the cat guy. He missed his cat and felt like he made a mistake.
So three times yesterday I tried to call that DAMN shelter, and they never answer their phones, and they never called me back.
When I got home last night, the guy next door was in my yard, raking my leaves with the guy in my hood who regularly rakes my leaves. I have a large tree. It takes two, I guess.
“I called three times about your cat,” I said.
He also doesn’t have a phone. See above re marginal hood.
“Oh, they can keep it,” he said.
So that was emotionally exhausting.
Also, I worked like a demon yesterday, a DEMON 404 error, and I had to dash home, get something to eat (leftover chicken pie and a spinach salad. I still fear romaine), and scream to the theater because Miracle on 34th Street was playing. I figured Ned would be there but I got to the theater a half-hour early because I knew there’d be crowds.
I live in a new neighborhood now, in case you hadn’t heard that, and I’m like Faithful Reader Paula when she was moving some years back and all of her comments were about moving.
Anyway, the point is, I have to take a new way to get to my old theater because I live in the opposite direction from there now.
That meant I got to see our pretty depot, which always reminds me of when I took possibly still FR Laurie, who used to live here, to the train station early one morning. I took Edsel and Tallulah with me, and why did I do that? How obnoxious.
Anyway, Talu insisted on sitting on her and when she got out of the car, her entire pants were fur pants. I mean, she looked absurd.
You’re welcome! Any time!
I also passed Ned’s old apartment building. I used to show you those trees, there, when they were in bloom in spring.
This is like when you go to visit someone and they take you on a tour of boring things. “And here’s where I used to work. No, that building behind it.”
Anyway. Miracle on 34th Street was good, and oh! Look! I forgot!
Santa was at the theater! And he saw me! He waved! I had a total celebrity sighting.
I really have no idea what was up. My theory was he worked at Macy’s all day or something and just wanted to go to the damn movies after.
Anyway, I also saw Ned there, of course. I fekking knew he’d be there.
There are Xmas movies at my old theater all week, and after a discussion about it in front of the theater last night, it would appear I will be seeing Ned at the old theater all week.
I don’t know that I ever actually even watched Cell Block H. But it kind of looks like Cell Block H was the Orange is the New Black of its time. Consarn it.
Anyway, that sums up yesterday, including the part where I had to kick 40 animals off my bed before I could sleep. I leave you with this…
My LA friend, Cat, and her LA dog. Oh my god, this is my favorite Christmas card, ever. It looks Frida-esque to me.
It’s Sunday night. Does 6:48 p.m. count as Sunday night? In 12 minutes, The Wonderful World of Disney would be coming on if this were real life, because 1973 is real life and I don’t know what the hell this is. Anyway, it would be coming on, and my mother would be preparing a Swanson’s TV dinner for me, and I’d mos def have the “It’s Sunday night” angst, so I say 6:48 p.m. counts as Sunday night.
If this were a Saturday at 6:48 p.m., it’d totally just be early evening.
Anyway, it’s Sunday and not 1973, and I do not have a Swanson’s dinner for myself.
Nor a Libbyland Sundown Supper, which I ate like it was good back then, and which I’m quite certain was devoid of the chemicals.
I did, however, just now prepare another large pot of pumpkin chili to last me this week, and I used Libby brand pumpkin, as it was on display at the Ghetto Lion grocery store I now go to in my new marginal hood. It was up there with the pie crust and whipped cream, and I suppose it’s someone’s whole job to make those little displays at the grocery store. “Here’s everything to make fruit salad.”
“Here’s all you need to make lasagna, in one convenient display.”
“Ass itch? Here are the ointments for you, plus a doughnut to sit on!”
They oughta have the “You’re single and you know it” display, where they sell 40s of malt liquor and Mallowmars. Videotapes of Sleepless in Seattle.
Anyway, last Thursday night, we had our work Christmas party.
“Yes, June, you already told us about that.”
No, I didn’t. That was the work Christmas party for the whole office. THIS was the work Christmas party for my department. The creative department. We’re the creatives. How much do you suppose everyone else hates our Fame, I’m Gonna Live Forever guts? Like, how annoying does accounting think we are, do you think?
We had the party at a gallery downtown. So you could eat and drink, but then also shop for shit. In all, a perfect way to have a party.
And, like, let’s say all of a sudden you’re becoming an introvert when your whole life you were an extrovert and you’re all, Maybe she’s born with it, Maybe it’s clinical depression. You don’t know. All you know is everything is different all of a sudden. Let’s say the idea of going out now repels you when it used to compel you.
But look! Here’s a party where you can leave the crowd and sniff soap!
Also, I got to wander off with Lottie Blanco and Jane West, who every time we came across a gaudy sparkly item, they would say, “This looks like you, June.”
Hmpf. (Secretly wanted every sparkly gaudy item.)
Anyway, eventually, I got into the swing of things. Then went home and crawled into ball for 72 hours.
Actually, I pretty much did. I went to work Friday, but awoke with a migrane that day. I blamed it on the
of wine I had Thursday. I really cannot drink at all anymore. Not even a drop. I get a migraine every time. I took a pill and the headache went away, mostly.
So then I ended up working late, and coming home and wisely having Chinese, which, by the way…
…this can’t be good. Right? I mean, it’s been nice knowin’ ya.
Anyway, I went to bed at a reasonable hour and woke up Saturday with
migraine. Oh my god. It lasted ALL DAY. I stayed in bed all day long. I got up only to let the dog out and slap pet food in bowls.
This gave the animals ample opportunity to observe me. I swear they have to report back to some sort of headquarters.
And because I know that EVEN WITH a 24-hour MIGRAINE I managed to photograph three of the pets, SOMEone will still be all, “Where’s Lily?”
I think she loves Milhous.
Anyway, then today I had to cram in all the errands I meant to run all weekend into ONE DAY, and here it is now 7:08 p.m. and I’m all, Can I just get to the part where I can lie around and enjoy my own self today?
So Ima wrap this up, but before I can lie around and watch Poldark like it’s good, which it’s not but now I have to know what happens–though really I don’t care what happens, I just kind of want Poldark to take off his shirt. Before any of that, Ima make some avocado salad dressing that I read about that sounds good.
What you’re gonna wanna do is not add cilantro to that recipe. Because cilantro can suck it.
I don’t KNOW what’s up with me and the actual cooking lately. I’m like Rachel — no, I can’t even say that about myself. I love self too much to E-V-O-go there.
I leave you with this squirrel standing on St. Francis’s head, a thing St. Francis probably liked, unless he’s on the rag or had to get a lot done or something, in which case he’s probably all, Goddammit.
We had a thing at work where, if you brought in cans of food for the less fortunate, you got a free breakfast that they’d ordered in from somewhere. But, see, we had all these snow days and I literally didn’t leave my house for four days, see.
Not to mention you all know how I am.
So when I got to work Wednesday, of course I forgot to bring Unfortunate Cans. Of course I did.
But then everyone kept sallying forth all morning with their breakfast plates, plates with delicious breakfast food on it, plates they deserved because they didn’t forget to bring cans. I grabbed a packet of my depressing high-fiber oatmeal® and headed to the kitchen.
“Aren’t you going to have the breakfast?” my boss’s boss, fmr., asked me.
I told him I forgot to bring cans.
“Oh, I brought cans enough for both of us,” he said. “Go on down there.”
I mean, I know Gallant wouldn’t have gone on down there, but whoever said I was Gallant?
So I brazenly walked canless into the donate-your-cans room, and took me some french toast, and I realize God pursed his lips, okay? I know. I felt it.
I never think Ima like french toast until I HAVE french toast and mother of god is it delicious.
The unfortunate would also like french toast.–God
At 11:00, I had a doctor’s appointment, which is in a very fancy building with two-story-tall ceilings. I always feel like I’m going to a soap opera doctor, although never once has my doctor du jour taken me into her office to discuss my condition from behind her desk while I have on a suit jacket and skirt.
Anyway, after my appointment, I was leaving the doctor’s office and at the same time, across the fancy hall, a very hot age-appropriate man was leaving the offices of Erectile & Dysfunction or whatever. I actually have no idea what sort of old-guy-I-could-actually-date office he was leaving.
The Matlock Fan Club headquarters.
P. Pants & Co.
The FDR Lap Blanket Boutique.
The Old Spice outlet.
The point is, we exchanged glances. I smiled at him, and then he paused and smiled at me.
“I am so appealing,” I smugged, as I sauntered down the stairs. I mean, is there no end to my charisma?
When I told this story to my mother, it was at this point that she asked, “What did you do wrong?”
I’ll tell you what I did wrong.
When I got to my car and strapped m’seat belt on, I noticed I had
down my shirt, so much syrup that the top and the bottom of my shirt had actually gathered together, to form a little syrup pucker. We gather together to hear the lord’s disapproval.
There was an actual FOLD of syrup gluing my shirt together.
I had a syrup strip going all the way down one pant leg. A whole stripe, like I was in a ragtime band or something.
So unless that man has some kind of Aunt Jemima fetish, I think I’ve blown that one.
I never did make it to work after I wrote you last. The road in my neighborhood was too icy, so I worked from home. And, annoyingly, there was once again a ton of work. I literally worked from home.
And that is why I’m writing to you on Tuesday night. I still have much to do Wednesday morning, and I’m worried I’ll write for too long tomorrow and be late for work and miss my deadline.
To add to my angina, I have an 11:00 doctor’s appointment, so I really have to get my work done around that. I’m asking my doctor about that new migraine shot to see if I can try it. I called to see if I could just ask my doctor on the phone, but they were all No, you have to come in. THANKS.
I suppose I could have sneaked this all past you and just pretended I’m writing you on Wednesday morning. But what if I write my usual lighthearted and uplifting pith and set this to publish and then early Wed. morning The Wicked Witch flies through the sky with some ominous message and then there’s my post acting like nothing’s happened because for me nothing HAS happened yet but you wouldn’t KNOW that and you’d think I was insensitive.
“She never once mentioned that Dorothy is gonna have to surrender, not once in that whole post.”
No, I haven’t been smoking endo and sippin’ on gin and juice. I have no idea what’s wrong with me.
At the end of my work-from-home day today, I had an appointment to meet with the woman who owns my home, fmr. I called and told her I wasn’t sure if I could get out my neighborhood or not but if I could I’d be right over. Then I pulled on m’boots and trudged outside.
My front yard was pristine and I hated to ruin my snow look, but I did. It’s the kind of snow that has that layer of ice over top, so each step was
Oddly, my car did something I’ve never seen. This…dome of ice formed from the top of my roof to the front of my hood, like a snowglobe shape, and it covered my car but mostly didn’t touch the actual surface of my car. I got to pull the ice and snow off in large, thin icy chunks. It was really weird.
I’d planned to go out there and clean the car off, maybe warm it up, then go back in and change from the LUDICROUS ensemble I had on, which was fleece-lined yoga pants and a giant braless sweatshirt.
But have you met me? I forgot.
So I arrived at my old house
looking like an EEEEEEDIOT.
I rang the bell and thought, Aw, there’ll be no bark when this doorbell rings. And then
There was a dog.
The owner of my house, fmr., has a beige shaggy dog who is cute, and he matches the walls, because she painted everything beige. “This is the same color it was when I moved in,” I told her.
She’d had the horrendous shed removed from the backyard, which is good, and she replaced the attic pull-down thingy, which is also good because it was never flush with the ceiling and I’m certain leaking cold.
She replaced the terrible concrete floor.
I managed to take a quick photo of it while, yes, looking like an
a braless eeeeediot, but it looks better. I mean, of course it looks better. That goddamn floor.
I thought it’d be really sad to be at my old house, but I wasn’t. I did get to see my old tree, my tree, fmr., in the backyard, as opposed to in the bathroom or whatever. I told her how when I moved out, I held it together till it was time to say goodbye to my tree.
Anyway, I got my mail, and my Amazon box that had come for me, which is why I went there. All the mail was super-scary stuff that came to the wrong goddamn address and Dear Post Office, What was the point of telling you my address had changed if you didn’t forward stuff to my, oh I don’t know, CHANGED ADDRESS?
There were bills there dating from September. There was mortgage and new insurance info there. I got all sorts of terrifying things that I thought I’d probably taken care of on my own even without a letter, but I wasn’t sure.
I was kind of sick till I got home and went through each letter and called or looked online to make sure everything is copasetic and I’m not sitting here with an uninsured house or car.
Anyway, I guess I’ve adjusted to my new house, and I’m not as sad about leaving my old house as I worried I’d be. Today I saw my neighbor two doors down whom I’ve not met. She was out shoveling. She waved at me, but I only saw the tail end and by the time I waved back she wasn’t looking anymore, so now she probably thinks I’m a fucking B.
Now Ima have to walk back and forth in front of her house like I’m picketing till she sees me and we can redo the wave.
I guess that’s all I have to tell you, other than since I’ve been snowed in and didn’t go anywhere from Saturday through Tuesday I did my end-of-the-year video. I tried to sneak it onto YouTube because according to what it shows there I have ONE subscriber, so I thought who’s gonna know I put it there.
Apparently six of you in the first half hour. That’s who. WHO ARE YOU? WHY ARE YOU CREEPING MY VIDEO?
It’s possible I’m the most irritable person on earth.
BREAKING NEWS: TSUNAMI CREATED WHEN TENS OF READERS NOD ‘YES’ AT SAME TIME.
But something new irritates me and I want you to hang on to your hat.
Oh my god, we know you’re pregnant. Everyone on planet Earth knows you’re effing pregnant. STOP. Put your HANDS down.
And I’d love to join crabby chatrooms about this but then I’m exposed to the words “baby bump” and “belly,” which also make me want to run screaming from the room.
Perhaps my tombstone might read: June. She was annoyed.
Can anyone recall all the things I’ve insisted be on my tombstone at this point? Maybe we can get one of those fold-out ones we’ve heard so much about. An expandable tombstone.
Speaking of expandable, I picked up Milhous today
to weigh him, because I like to keep abreast. You know, just keep one handy in case one of mine falls off. Anyway, he’s not SCREAMING up the scale the way Steely Dan did when he was a kitten and they kept moving back his birth date. “We know we said he was born in July, but maybe he was born in May.”
Anyway, Milhous weighs 5 pounds, which for a five-month-old is fine. But when I first got on the scale with him this morning, after three days of eating chili and lying about reading, my first thought was that Milhous had gained a ton of weight. That he was turning into such a big boy!
For I placed him down and lumbered back on the scale and madre de dios. It’s not chili up in there, it a whole Chilean miner or something.
It’s not storming here anymore, so we have work starting at 10:00 today, and who wants to place bets on me being late anyway? I have to give myself an hour and 40 minutes just to scrape the car.
You know, I HAVE a garage. Okay, it’s a 1932 garage, but it still works. Why did I not place my car in said garage when the storm was brewing? Think of how convenient that’d be. This is my first garage since I lived in Burbank circa 2006. I never parked my car in that, either.
Have garages just become storage sheds for all our crap? Why do we have so much crap? Why do we buy stuff and 10 months later it’s crap?
Anyway, speaking of Steely Dan, which I did seventeen paragraphs ago, the woman who owns my house, fmr., called me last night. She has the same first name as me.
“This is June who owns the house on [insert street name, fmr.].”
All of a sudden I got teary. Oh my god! Was Steely Dan back? I’d left her my number to call me for just that.
“An Amazon box came here for you,” she said.
I’m going there tonight to get it, and she told me about all the changes she made to the house, and I know you’ll all be “take pictures” and this is one of those occasions where you guys forget I’m a real person who will seem
if I do that.
Anyway, she’s replaced all of the floors, and I loved those floors, although she did also replace the terrible concrete floor with floating wood or Natalie Wood or something. Then she told me the house needs special drains because something was happening underneath, which the inspector didn’t catch, and that when the specialist came, he found
five cat carcasses
under my house.
“Maybe one of them is your cat,” she said, and that is pretty much when I wanted to scream and rip off my skin and fall to my knees and shout, “Not my Richie.”
What the hell?
There were five dead cats under my house?
Then I wondered if the guy was on the SIDES of the house and dug up Francis and Ruby. That didn’t occur to me till after we hung up. But why would you dig there?
Five dead cats? Please don’t let one be SD.
HOW DID THEY GET THERE, and why didn’t I HEAR them, and of all the things in the world why cats? Why couldn’t they have found Gwyneth Paltrow’s bones or something that wouldn’t have upset me? Why couldn’t they have found the bones of words like baby bump and snowpocalypse?
Oh. And while I’m being annoyed by things, here’s another one.
If you’re a good storyteller, you just progress the story. We don’t need you to say, “Fast forward to…”
Or, god forbid, “FLASH forward to.” Oh my god shut up.
Perhaps you wonder how it feels to spend your whole day in a lather.
And you already know my other thing, which is when someone tells a story and they say, “So he asked me, ‘You know what?’ and I said, ‘What?'”
WE DON’T NEED TO HEAR WHAT YOU ANSWERED WHEN YOU’RE ASKED A RHETORICAL QUESTION.
Oh, crap, the guy across the street is 100% stuck in his driveway, spinning his tires. We are three blocks of dead ends followed by train tracks; no one is ever coming to plow this street. I wonder if I’ll be stuck, too?
The guy across the street has a sweet pale yellow El Camino, by the way. It’s really cool. But right now it’s one El stuck motherfucker.
I’d better go. I might could be in for a struggle. I will not say anything about a struggle being real.
There are two kinds of people during a snowstorm: Junes and Neds.
When I found out we were getting a foot of snow, I was delighted. I got a bunch of stuff to make pumpkin chili, and some white grape juice because I have a white grape juice ISSUE, and also some orange Milanos that are mysteriously gone already.
I stayed up late looking for the first snowflake, then slept only six hours because I was too excited to sleep. I LEAPED out of bed and squealed at our 11 inches, and stop already, seventh-grader. Then I made a list of things I wanted to get accomplished since I was snowbound, and I did them.
(Inside-out dresses mean less cat fur when I finally put them on. What I am is appealing.)
I wrote my Christmas cards.
I also frolicked with my dog, who apparently has zero Husky in him because he is not appreciating falling through the ground with every icy step. Also, when he tried to drop anchor (TM LaUral), he had serious difficulty. Everywhere he went was icy.
I’ve figured out why his tooth isn’t falling out. I’ve been observing it. When he eats or plays with Blu, those bottom teeth stick out so far that he doesn’t really use them. So there’s nothing to make that tooth go. And if I try to touch it he writes his Congressman.
Anyway, I kept self busy all day and was DELIGHTED when I heard more snow and ice are coming. Like, for me, this is as good as it gets. No one expects me to do a damn thing. I can hole up here and eat chili all I want.
Then there’s Ned. And the people like Ned.
“I wish I’d ridden my bicycle Saturday, knowing this storm was coming,” kvetched Ned, in his first of 47 calls to me yesterday. “Maybe I’ll go out and take a walk in this.”
Take a walk. In the foot of snow with its icy layer for added crunch. For HER pleasure.
And you know what he did? He took a walk.
“I actually just did some work,” Ned said, in call number 104. Meanwhile, whenever the phone rang I was all WHAT, because I could not have been more content in my cozy home with my books (finished one, started another) and my Christmas cards and my organizing. I even started my end-of-the-year blog video!
Today no one has to go to work, but now with stupid technology we all have to “work from home.” I have two meetings this morning and I already looked at some bluelines.
That doesn’t mean I just stared at a blue line. It’s when something is at the printer and it’s REALLY DONE and REALLY SUPER READY to be printed, so I get one more look at you, as Kris Kristofferson would say, before it goes to print and if I find a mistake it’s like $50 per mistake we have to pay and guess what?
Just like Kris Kristofferson, when I take one more look at you, I find a flaw. Always. Every time. It’s like my psychology is different once it’s a blueline and I find something I didn’t see before. They should just lie to me and tell me the first round is a blueline and I’d find everything wrong straight away.
I think if Sir Leslie Ward, up there, is so bored, he could teach himself how NOT to take an old-man selfie. A grumpie. A curmudgeonlie.
Anyway, I just got something to review and WHY CAN’T WE HAVE A REAL SNOW DAY? Would that be so bad? God. I gotta move somewhere like Spain where they never do anything but drink wine and have bullfights and sleep for three hours in the afternoon. Step one: Learn Spanish. Step two: Develop a taste for olives. Don’t they eat a lot of olives in Spain?
I’ll talk to you later. I’ll talk to Ned before I talk to all of you, though, I’ll bet.
Depending on what weather app you look at, we’re going to get anywhere from 8 to 194 inches. They’re telling us to stay home, because while this is just a day in March in Michigan, here they don’t know what to do with themselves and fall over in a panic.
So I made a list of shit I want to do during the storm while I’m homebound. While I’m a shut-in. Which, let’s face it, is just a day in March for me. But because I HAVE to stay in, I made a to-do list. First on that list is Morris Chestnut.
I also put down “do all laundry,” and I’m just washing my very last load as we speak.
Then I have my Christmas cards ready to write out next. If I’d taken my Adderall I’d be done with the cards by now, but just a moment ago I saw two wadded-up hang-to-dry shirts on the washer, their hangers three inches away. Apparently, the siren song of Anything Else called me away before I could take those 17 seconds and actually hang my hang-to-drys.
But the point of me writing you today, why I’ve gathered you all here, is that another thing on my Adderall-free snowed-in list is to finally figure out what the
to do with my shoes. I’m hoping some of you more organized folk can offer advice. Yes, I just asked for advice.
Here’s the setup: This house has 1,000 square feet, and some cool jazzy feet, as well. Bah. No, really. Small 1932 house. It has one weird useless closet in the bedroom where I store my laundry basket because it’s the only place to hide said basket.
There are two giant closets in the den
which have rendered the room mostly useless because the walls are closets. In this closet are all my winter coats, and sweaters and shirts for winter. On the floor are things like a fan, throw pillows I don’t use, my luggage and other odds and ends.
I have pants, summer shirts and dresses AND SHOES in this closet below. The space in the middle I use for sheets and bedspreads. This is the only place I could think of for my shoes, which I have dumped out to show you.
The weird useless closet in my bedroom really needs to hide my laundry basket and Morris Chestnut. IN MY MIND. But really, if I don’t put it there you see the laundry basket in my room and that’s depressing for the tens of men who are in there.
Here is all the other storage space in the house…
There’s also my hope chest in the den; it holds heavy blankets and it’s a pain in the ass to get into and I find myself not getting the blankets out because pain in the ass.
So, my MAIN GOAL is to find somewhere to put my shoes where they’re not just piled up like drunk sorority girls at night’s end. But if you can think of ways to organize where I have everything in a better way, let me know that too.
Thank you for your prompt attention to this matter. I have to go write Xmas cards now, and go out to my yard with a yardstick like some sort of nincompoop. Last time I was out there, we’d gotten seven inches. I hope we get Morris Chestnut 12 inches, which is what he has going
IN MY MIND.
Keep June’s mind occupied. Give her some hints on where to put all her stuff.
Snowily, All work and no play make June a dull girl
Update: I cleared out some of the bedroom drawers and put the sheets in there. I also moved the socks that are in the living room into the bedroom. So now my bedroom has the joy of socks. And the pièce de résistance? I used that middle thing for shoes!
Every year, at Christmas, my workplace has its annual holiday party.
How much do you hate me for that redundant-ass sentence up there? I should really write a book.
Last night was my workplace Christmas party, and yes they call it “Christmas party,” as opposed to when I lived in LA and it was the annual gathering of winter or something we could all agree on.
They let us go at 3:00, because the party started at 5:00 at the country club, which by the way is fancy. It’s one of the fancy country clubs, not the dodgy country clubs you go to.
The point is, we were allowed to leave early so we could get our families ready and so on, and I know you’re wondering right now how does June do it all, with the high-powered executive career and her many children who are always turned out in their Christmas finery on the regular. Annually. At Christmas. Every year.
The first thing I did after work was scream over to the glasses store, because my new not-worm-color glasses were in, which 15 times now I typed “gasses.”
Do you know what annoys me? On Instagram, when you read the comments, and someone comments about how they either misread something or thought a celebrity was their friend.
“I misread that as dick ass!”
“I thought this photo of Clark Gable was you, @myfriendisanasshole!”
Who gives a FUCK what you thought if it was wrong. Other than you and old Clark Lookalike, your close friend, who probably didn’t want to be tagged.
After I got my glasses, my gasses, I was in my old neighborhood, where everything seems so nice and not sketchy-neigborhood-y now, so I went to my old grocery store and got supplies. We’re allegedly getting like 52 inches of snow this weekend, a fact that delights and thrills me, except that my old boyfriend from high school will be in another part of the state and that will shoot any get-together plans all to hell.
“I knew when I heard 13″ were coming that you were on your way,” I texted him, and the hilarity never stops over at Text of June.
But here’s the thing. It’s a snowstorm in the South. TRY FINDING AN ONION. Because not only does everyone buy up the goddamn bread and milk, they also all make chili, as I was doing. I had to buy a white onion and I can only hope my chili survives.
So I got home right at 4:00, because the line at the grocery store was like the line for the end of time. You know how THOSE lines are.
When I got home, my Chewy box had come, not that I chewed the box. So I had to open cat-food bags and dump them in the cat-food tin, lug litter, and generally curse the animals. MERRY CHRISTMAS!
Then I had the groceries to put away.
And everyone had to get fed.
I took The Poet as my date, and it’s like this whole event was set up to convenience us. First of all, we both live five minutes from work. She probably lives three minutes from work, as it took me two minutes to drive the mile to her apartment.
She invited me in and I admired her brains.
Anyway, then we got in the car, drove across the street, and we were at the country club. I’m not even making this up. It was one minute to her house, one minute to the club, and you’d think we’d both be avid members and all, it being so close.
The first person we saw was Boss, crnt.
The food was delicious, and someone noted that I selected all the options for children, such as the macaroni and cheese and the chicken tenders. Look, they were excellent chicken tenders.
At the end of the evening I saw The Poet putting rolls in her purse. I mean, I AM out of bread. And a storm IS coming. Apparently, you need bread. “I wish I had some kind of napkin to put them in,” I kvetched.
And that’s when The Poet whipped out 79 country club napkins, just for taking home rolls. Then when we searched our purses for our coat check tickets, we had to remove said rolls and did not at all look like doddering old ladies. Which, come on. How far off are we?
Anyway, it was a good time, did I mention? And I always like to see everyone in their finery. I wish I’d taken a photo of Wedding Alex’s sparkly skirt. You’d have all died and then who would read me.
When I got home, I put the rolls on the counter, and Edsel promptly ate them. Then I took him to the all night euthanasia drive-thru.
Mostly I’ve been thinking a lot about what I want because someone asked me what I want. Mostly up till then I was just trying to go to work and keep up with my hand-washables. I hadn’t stopped to consider. And when I got asked, I was all, hunh. I wonder what I want.
This summer I traipsed to a new therapist, one of 87 in a line of the many many therapists I’ve seen in this lifetime, and I told her how I’d been married, but that being married annoyed me.
Then I told her that a year after my husband left I met a man and fell stupidly in love, stupid stupid stupid gaze-at-him in love, but he was not the marrying kind and that broke my heart so we broke up. Mostly. Sort of. I told her how he keeps coming around even though he doesn’t want to commit. That it’s been 7 years now of breaking up and him coming back, like a clog in your drain.
“Well, what do you want?” she asked. “Being married annoyed you, but being with someone who didn’t want to get married was unfulfilling, too.”
“Also, it sounds kind of like you really like living alone. Do you?”
Oh my god, yes. I adore living alone. I told her how much I enjoy walking into an empty house, if you count 16 other legs there as “empty.”
Not including fleas.
If you count 4,974 legs there as “empty.”
“Not everyone does, you know,” she said. “Not everyone likes living alone.”
God, really? I consider it one of my luxuries, like other women might consider a bath and an Almond Roca. I adore living alone. Have I said that yet?
But I don’t know if I want to be relationship-less. However, I’ve also put in like 3% effort into finding another person this year. I sometimes vaguely turned on my dating profile here and there. Barely answered anyone because they were always the type who’d wear sunglasses on their baseball cap.
And I’ve never done that before. Since 8th grade I’ve pretty much dedicated myself full time to finding a boyfriend and then when my commitment light came on in my late 20s, to finding a husband.
Then when I was single again in my mid-40s, I went back to trying to find a boyfriend.
Now the whole idea of a relationship sounds like too much work. Do you have any idea how many books there are to read? Not to mention we’re in some sort of creative peak with TV shows, although Dear TV Maker People: Stop fucking thinking 8 episodes are a season. Fuck you. Fuck you totally. For sure. (That was only funny if you loved Valley Girl.)
Books never sext another woman.
TV shows don’t get annoyed because you don’t want to go on a hike.
My whole life, asshole-y smug types who’ve been married since 7th grade have always told me, You have to be happy just being alone. Then they go home to their 14 kids.
So, okay, I did it. I got happy being alone. Maybe a little too happy. I don’t feel lonely at all. If anything, I’ve got too many people wanting me to actually leave the house and do things, when most of the time I’m content to be home with the 4,974 legs.
But what if I turn into some sort of weird loner with fleas? What if I’m Lola the Showgirl 30 years later looking for Tony?
Is anyone else feeling the same way? Are you feelin’, feelin’ that way too? Or am I just, am I just a fool?
You’re dramatic. That’s enough. It already means what you think “overdramatic” means. Stop it.
People are also seeming to have trouble with their prepositions. I love the Long Island Medium, I’m sorry but I do, but in every episode, she says, “Before I begin I like to talk on how I read and receive messages…”
About. You like to talk ABOUT how you read and receive messages. Every time she says that I get the shivers. “I like to talk on…” STOP.
I realize “about” is an adverb. LEAVE IT. LEEEEAVE IT. Good reader.
Speaking of which, this morning I was playing Two Blu with Edsel in the backyard. He won’t fucking fetch. You throw Blu and he runs around joyfully–he smiles on how he receives Blu–but he won’t give it back. He runs up to me and then runs away. But one day I discovered if I have BOTH Blus, I can throw one and when he runs back, I throw the other, and then we’re golden. Two Blu is an excellent game.
Edsel fekking loves Two Blu. It’s the happiest he is all day.
I threw Blu into the neighbor’s yard. I felt weird about TRAIPSING into the guy’s yard unannounced, and even weirder about knocking on his door before 7 a.m. Come and knock on our door. We’ve been hatin’ on you.
Come and knock on our door. Eds is waitin’ for Blu.
Come and knock on our door; we’ll play music at 2:00.
Anyway, you can imagine. Edsel could SEE Blu just on other side of metal theeng, mom. it ther. it rite ther. go get, mom. stop singeeng 3 Compnee, mom.
So now he’s curled in World’s Most Dejected Ball behind me, a thing I’d photograph for you but I’m charging my phone.
In my room, I have one of those long pluggy things with all the plugs in it. What’s that called? Anyway, it’s next to my bed, because a lot of the plugs in this 1932 house have the two-hole situation, and all the things I own need three holes to plug in, and let’s not delve into the 7th-grade humor we’re all dying to delve into.
Come and knock on our door. We’ve got three holes for you.
POWER STRIP. I have a power strip next to my bed, for the lamp and allegedly to power my phone at night, but all of a sudden my phone won’t charge there. I have no idea what’s wrong, but I discovered it when my phone’s alarm didn’t go off one morning because it was dead.
Come and knock on our door, we’re dead.
Come and knock on our door. Work’s been waitin’ for you.
So now I use a regular alarm clock like it’s 2005 or something, and if I don’t remember to charge my phone at night I have to plug it in in the morning, in the kitchen, and what this blog is is fascinating.
Come and knock on my blog. I’ve been boring to you.
In other news, today is Tallulah’s birthday. She would have been 11. ELEVEN! Can you imagine? I can’t.
Goddammit. Why did Tallulah have to get sick and die? She was my favorite thing in the world. Look at her square head. I can’t stand it. I loved that dog.
Anyway, that sums up today. Things annoy me and my dog is dead.
–and could I take this time to once again thank the people online who said they were “so sick” of hearing about how destitute I was before? That was kind. You’re kind. Be proud. Also, going on a website to complain about bloggers means your life is full. Yep.
Anyway, now that I’ve moved into this marginal neighborhood and my mortgage is practically nothing and so forth, I am able to buy things like a normal person, such as bread and hair gel and a handgun. Here’s a rundown of my latest conspicuous consumer purchases:
I don’t know why I’m so bitter today. I guess I woke up this way. And by the way, the first thing I did this morning was punch Iris when I went to shut off the alarm. Maybe I’m bitter because too many goddamn animals sleep with me. When I was a kid, I slept with my 79 stuffed animals. I had no idea I was training for real life.
Anyway, blueberry hummus.
I went to the grocery store last night for my regular shopping and saw this on the shelf. There was a man also similarly looking at hummus. “Should I try blueberry hummus?” I asked him, pulling if off the shelf. “What have you got to lose?” he said. He was a jovial type.
I mean. $4.99. That’s what I’ve got to lose. But I got it, and as I walked away the man yelled, “See? I’ll try black bean hummus! We’ll report back to each other!”
Like black bean hummus is such a stretch. Come on. Clearly I am the adventurer in this relationship.
The point is, I got home and tried it immediately because have you met my impulse control? And blueberry hummus
Oh my god, I adore blueberry hummus! It has a definite tang to it, and I ate it with crackers–regular rice crackers, not graham crackers as they suggested as I am not a toddler. Well. Other than my impulse control.
Prose hair products.
About a week ago, I told you that I fell for an ad on Instagram, and really I fall for ALL THE ADS on the Instagram. They know my thoughts. Just this weekend I mentioned I’d like to buy another paint-by-numbers, and lo and behold, Instagram gave me a paint-by-numbers-for-adults ad.
I don’t mean it was a paint-by-numbers dick. It was a nice impressionist painting. I want one.
But the ad I fell for that I’m talking about here is Prose hair products. You answer Qs and they MAKE THE PRODUCTS just for YOU! You know how I am. I’m Donald Trump. I love things about me.
I told them about my hair (worrysome) and they came up with shampoo, conditioner and a hair kabuki mask, which by the way is not the same blend as they came up with for Rebecca, up there in the photo. “Outdoor athlete.” Usually, when people describe me, that’s their first descriptor.
Anyway, at first I was on the fence about Prose, but that was before I used the hair mask. The hair mask made the difference.
I think I like Prose. My hair looks more normal-person-ish.
“It’s like your hair is a whole different texture!” my hairdresser exclaimed, ‘ere she drove out of sight.
Happy hair products to all, and to all a good night.
As you know, from your Big Book of June Events, which I guess is just “this blog,” I purchased a small Cuisinart coffeemaker when I moved in here, as my previous one conveniently died right when I was moving. I was all, Good. One less thing. But that new coffeemaker VEXES me. It’s fussy, and half the time won’t brew because it’s not in the mood or it’s taking a mental health day.
So this weekend I was buying a padlock for my garage (see above re marginal neighborhood) and I saw coffee pots were on sale at the Target, and I got a programmable Mr. Coffee for like $18. WOOOOO! And when the alarm goes off and I punch a pet each morning, I can hear the coffeemaker already workin’ for me.
My life has been transfigured. I put that French high-maintenance bastard Cuisinart in the cupboard, for coffee emergencies, even though I also have a french press for the same reason. I got a backup for my backup. What addiction?
That sums up m’purchases, although while I’ve been writing this, my (hot) mailman (of color) just dropped off three pair of reading glasses I ordered, as I have gotten more blind and have to, you know, read every day for work. I wonder if I can deduct these?
I’m a 2.25 strength, if anyone wonders. And yes, my eye doctor does blame my career choice for why my eyes are bad, although my mother practically wore glasses in the womb, as did my Aunt Mary. My grandmother that I’ve turned into always felt so guilty, because she took my young Aunt Mary to the eye doctor, and Aunt M put on her new glasses and kept squeaking, “I can see! I can see!”
Anyway, I can’t wait to get to work today and copy edit something that I can actually see.
Hello, supervisor who reads my blog.
What have you bought lately? Should I try it? Should I wait till Instagram advertises it to me?
The first thing I did this morning was punch Edsel in the face, as I reached to shut off the alarm. Merrrrry Christmas!
Oh, he’s fine. If you can’t take a punch, you have no reason to be my dog. Plus, must he BE .07 INCHES from me at all times? It results in tragedy like this.
This was a busildy weekend, starting with me getting the wrong glasses.
I waited 16 days for my new glasses to come in, and I’d ordered a rosy tortoiseshell, and the mirror was behind the desk at the glasses place, and it wasn’t till I got to a restaurant after that I was all, heyyyyy. These aren’t tortoiseshell.
Nothing gets past me.
So then I had to take them back, and I could tell they didn’t believe me that I didn’t pick out these worm-colored frames, but I didn’t. But then I couldn’t find the rose-colored tortoiseshells, and I was cursing my whole “Don’t print a receipt” from 16 days ago, because every time I have something printed I picture the polar bear on a tiny piece of ice and I can’t even stand it.
So instead of ruining our ecosystem or whatever, I ruined my appearance.
Anyway, I ended up getting these, which look like every pair of glasses I ever pick out.
And now I’m my grandmother even more than I was.
Back in her day, polar bears had plenty of ice. As did her veins. Also, in the photo of her, there’s my small-person head at the bottom. Good lord, I had every color of those beads for your hair that you can think of. I believe I secretly thought every day should be pink-bead day.
Saturday was one of those days where you run from one thing to the next. On Saturday mornings, I like to dump out the disgusting litterbox altogether and scrub it and hose it out and dry it and sweep the litter that’s all over yonder and wash the floor in there, and for some reason that takes a damn hour.
Then I had to scream Lily to the vet, as she and Milhous managed to trap themselves in the bathroom one night last week, and the following morning, a morning I’d overslept, I tore into the bathroom to shower as quickly has humanly possible and not only were two cats in there, but poor Lily, because she’s a good girl and did not know what else to do, pooped in the shower.
This led me to the discovery that there is a tapeworm up in Lily, which means there’s a tapeworm in everyone and why do I have pets.
If you’re not familiar, all you have to do is give them all a pill and it’s over with. But the vet had not yet met Lily, as I quit my last vet in a huff about six months ago (they seriously sent me “It’s time for [insert pet’s name here]’s appointment!” emails at least once a week, and when there are four pets that gets old, and also it was never actually really time for an appointment. It was always the sort of thing where okay, we could go in now, if I wanted to spend every weekend at the vet. I called twice to say, I only want to take in each pet once a year, barring emergencies, so can you knock it off with those false alarms and they always said, No, we can’t. We have NO CONTROL over how often we send you these. I even gathered them all up on one screenshot to show how often they were–)
I know. I’m being a let-me-speak-to-your-manager Karen.
So the new vet, who does not bug me with emails, insisted she see Lily before she just gave her a pill. She’s seen everyone else. The point is, she insists Lily is overweight.
I’m TELLING you, she doesn’t eat that much. But she’s a round mound of meow, as Ned would say. Apparently that’s a sports joke.
So she got cans of special diet food that she refuses to eat, and that the other cats also similarly too refuse to eat, so now I have cans of rejected diet food, which is what I’ve been hoping and praying for all along.
As soon as I got Round Lily keeps on turnin’ back home, I had to scream to the hair place, as it was time for my roots. Last time I was there, I was going to move into a whole different house, and I’d link to that post where I tell you about the 17 houses I considered, but I’m pressed for the time because I was occupied with punching the dog this morning.
The point is that I hadn’t gotten my roots done in four months, and was living on $7 root cover, and it was dire. It was dire, wolf.
We decided to go a little darker, like my moods, and voila.
I not only have darker hair, I have on 16 pounds of makeup. I was invited to my coworker Lottie Blanco’s Christmas party, that she and her wife, also named Lottie Blanco, throw every year. Before the party and after my hair dye, I ran to the candy store to get them a hostess gift and when I whipped open the candy-store door, there was The Poet, buying boxes of candy that reached up over her head.
“Are you getting everyone candy for Christmas?” I asked.
“No, this is just for me,” said The Poet from behind her boxes. The Poet weighs at most 17 pounds.
Anyway, I drove to Lottie Blanco’s and once I got to her neighborhood, I pretty much guessed which house was hers.
It was the house with the subtle nod to Christmas.
“You’re certainly going to have the most festive shoes,” Lottie B told me she thought, when she saw my black velvet shoes with sparkly ties. Those shoes ROCK. Those shoes hurt like fuck.
“Hey, everyone, this is Lottie’s straight friend!” Lottie Blanco’s wife, Lottie Blanco, said.
Who is never going to get over the part where I’ve blog-named them both Lottie Blanco? Is it me?
Anyway, we had a great time. The food was to die for, and there was nothing un-Christmassed in that house. When they begin a theme, they follow it through, the Lottie Blancos do.
At one point, the back door just up and broke. It leads to a screened-in porch, where a lot of people had stored their drinks, and that damn thing would neither open or close. It was just stuck. Poor Lottie Blanco my coworker was stuck behind it, on the porch, with all the drinks.
“Is this going in your blog?” she asked, from behind the door.
Eventually, about 450 of her friends came to help her and they eventually had to take the whole damn thing off. “How many lesbians does it take to open a door?” someone joked, and that is when I thought maybe I should help and bust that stereotype, but I want you to brace yourself: I had no idea what was wrong with that fucking door.
The rest of the night was spent watching Lottie B’s corgis try to figure out why the door was weird, and leap over it with their tiny stump legs. They’re corgis, so they have to stump over everything.
In unrelated news, I would like a corgi.
I have to get to work, which is a shame because I wanted to tell you what a
Iris is about taking a pill, but suffice it to say everyone here is medicated, and some of us are foaming at the jerky mouth.
I’ll talk at you later. Try not to poop in the bathtub today. Or punch your dog.
Milhous’s newest thing is to go outside with Edsel, where I watch them nervously from the back door, and
after each other around the back yard. Milhous gets a bottle-brush tail and Edsel smiles like a big huge giant baffoon.
I think Milhous was a good addition to this house.
I had my mammogram yesterday. No word yet. WHAT GIVES? It’s been 18 hours! My bra stopped lasting.
At my mammogram place, they have lockers to put your, you know, shirt while you’re in that cape. Each locker has a famous woman’s name on it, so you remember where yours was. I chose Lady Bird Johnson, seeing that we First Lady’d here yesterday. The other women in the waiting room were Calamity Jane and Coco Chanel. I asked. I feel like in real life those two wouldn’t have had much to say to one another. Maybe Lady Bird, being a politician’s wife, would have been good at finding their common ground.
Anyway, so now I wait.
I hate this part.
When I’m anxious like this, I sort of curl into a mental ball and obsess. I’m certain that’s the healthiest way to handle it. Oh, I Google. I think. I imagine. I delight all and sundry.
Anyone who tried to talk to me yesterday, on the inside I was all, what what WHAT? Why you bug? I’m tryina obsess. GOD.
…I just noticed Edsel growling, but in his “Blu stuck under this thing, mom” growl. It’s more of a plaintive moan. I see that Milhous has gone under the footstool and Eds wants him out. I just went to check that Milhous wasn’t horrified that something 86 times his size is sticking its snout at him, but Milhous is under there purring, so.
Yes. Definitely a good edition. If you’re Edsel. Or Milhous.
Let me go check my phone. Maybe they called while I was in the shower. At 7 a.m. Yeah. That sounds likely.
No calls. No emails.
I did, however, notice I left a plate next to the bed last night. I got hungry about 9:00 while I was reading, and got some cheese and crackers. Why so round.
I also just captured this on film. While I was putting the plate in the sink.
Do you think enough time has passed that I can check my phone again? Do you think there are women out there who have alternate seat cushions for holidays such as Christmas? Like, they put the blue ones up somewhere and replace them with red and green? Do you?
…I checked my phone. No new messages. Also, they said they’d send a letter anyway. So the only reason I’m checking my phone is that last year they called, said you need to come back. Not to be obsessive or anything, but they called two hours and 24 minutes after my original appointment last year. You shoulda SEEN me yesterday two hours and 24 minutes after my appointment. I was waiting for the ball to drop in Times Square. Without the joy, but with the chattering teeth.
I’d better get to work. My boss, current/fmr./current again, is considering Stitch Fix, as she had given it up for a time. “You could ask your readers if I should get special boxes,” she said, likely trying to distract me.
Imagine having to supervise June.
“Special boxes?” I asked, while Googling Millions of Ways to Die Waiting for Mammogram results.
“Yeah. You can get, for example, just pants.”
Oooo, just pants!
Or she could get all date-night clothes. Or My-Corporate-Job clothes. I have to look on Stitch Fix and see what all the choices are, then set up a poll for us.
But first I have to obsess.
Talk to you!
Handling it gracefully, Joon
UPDATE: Just got an email. All is well with mammogram! I knew it. It was my positive thinking, and my ability to put it out of my mind.
What day is this? Thursday? Yeah. I think it’s Thursday. Is this week taking forever, or is it just me?
I get good light in my little millhouse, which houses Milhous. At my old house, I could never really see the sunrise or sunset, not to sound too Fiddler on the Roof about it.
But now in the morning I can see the sunrise from the back of the house, and at night the sunset at the front.
IS THIS THE LITTLE GIRL I CARRRRR-RIED; IS THIS THE LITTLE BOY AT PLAYYYYYYY?
Why do I know those lyrics?
When I was in high school, my best friend was way into musicals. It was awful. I remember being at her house on summer afternoons and she’d play these horrendous musicals (redundant) on this tiny 1960s record player (her parents didn’t have a lot of money) and I’d have my Walkman on, listening to some ZZ Top.
I should probably not admit the ZZ Top part. She’s got legs. She knows how to use them.
Profound lyrics. I guess Paul McCartney’s wife would not appreciate those lyrics, but otherwise…
Anyway, maybe when I wasn’t going crazy for a sharp-dressed man some of those musicals seeped into my consciousness.
My best friend had the cutest parents. She’d been a surprise. Her brothers and sisters were like 10 years older and so on. So her parents had been in WWII. My GRANDPARENTS had been in WWII.
And oh my god, the food. Her mom made stuff from scratch every night. They canned things. And there was always too much, a thing I took advantage of forthwith. I was over there a lot, and my best friend’s brother and I would think of all the euphemisms for poop we could. You know I enjoy a poop joke.
Just the other week, when I was in Michigan, my Uncle Bill taught me UFO: unidentified floating object. See. Even as I write this, I am giggling like an idiot.
I am 53 years old.
And apparently, my inner adult, which rears its head nonce, is Pat Nixon. On the inside, I’m Pat Nixon. She was so dignified, standing there while her husband did that weird peace sign thing. She was so coiffed.
Maybe Pat Nixon is my spirit animal.
Oooo, that reminds me. Last night I dreamed foxes and bears were chasing me. I always got away, but at one point they caught a Lab, and the Lab’s owner wrestled the Lab away.
Interpretation, please. Thank you.
Today is my mammogram, and if you’ve been here for, you know, 11 years or anything, you know this is not my favorite. It’s not a day I anticipate, like, say, April Fool’s Day or something great like that.
I just wanna get in there, get m’test, get the letter saying all is well. That’s all I want. I tried to find a place that gives you same-day results, but there aren’t any locally.
Anyway, other than that, other than the part where I am horrified, nothing is new. Oooo, my new glasses get here today, but now that two weeks have passed since I ordered them, I hope they’re not too Elton John.
“Ten minutes at Elton John’s and you’re gay as a maypole.” Name that movie.
I gotta go to work. Pat Nixon didn’t have to work. I mean, she had to First Lady, but whatever. How hard is that?
So I’ll go. But I know. I’ll think of you each step of the wayyyyyy.
But before I go, I wanted to ask you: Is there anything from your past that you swear existed that no one else can remember? Like, the other day, when I mentioned my grandmother, I said in the comments that she had this souvenir, one of 3949492292040048344849293 knickknacks she owned.
It was a phoenix or a roadrunner. My uncle lived in Arizona and she’d visit. Anyway, it wasn’t very large, maybe the size of your hand. But you could open it up, and inside there was–I swear–a Native American wedding going on INSIDE THE BIRD, as you do. And I think the whole thing was sparkly inside.
I mean, she had this tchotchkec circa 1973 and I haven’t seen it since she died in 1985. But NO ONE remembers it but me.
I also swear there was a harmonica you could get at McDonald’s, shaped like a cheeseburger with a bite taken out of it. Can’t find it on the Google.
Am I making these up? Is Pat Nixon in there playing tricks on me? I don’t know.
I poured water in the damn coffeepot, put the filter in JUST SO, put the lid on JUST FUCKING SO, turned it on, waited to hear it gurgle, showered, came back, and?
It didn’t brew.
THIS COFFEEPOT IS THE DEATH OF ME.
I had to pick it up and put it back down. Sometimes it’s the only way to get it to begin, you know, making coffee. You know how people say, “You had one job”?
Also, I took this cute photo of the Iris.
So if anyone has suggestions for a NONFUSSY coffeemaker, please advise in the comments.
Meanwhile, I haven’t shown you the rest of my Christmas decorations.
I guess you get my drift.
It’s Christmassy up in here.
When I wasn’t decorating this weekend, I took a drive to the country with Ned.
“This was supposed to be No-Ned November,” I told him. Nevertheless, our friends Bitchy Resting Face Alex and her husband opened a general store in the country, and I’ve been dying to see it.
Ned and BRFAlex’s husband always really liked each other. They both have an element of the ridiculous that they see in each other.
As opposed to me. I have no element of ridiculous.
We didn’t tell them we were coming, didn’t know they’d be there. BRF Alex wasn’t, but her husband was.
Oh my god, I loved their store!
I got a t-shirt I been sleeping in ever since, some locally made pumpkin bread, and some sugar sticks. (See the photo above. It’s the box of “Virginia Beauty.” I have a close-up picture of it, but WordPress is acting squirrely.)
Oh! Did that work? Can you see it? I’ve spent way too much time on sugar sticks, which is what you’d say if you saw me naked.
Anyway, after that, Ned and I drove around in the country a bit, and we came around a bend and Ned said, “Did you just see that mountain with a stone face?!”
“No, I saw it with my regular face,” I said, and then proceeded to laugh at own self for an hour and 45 minutes.
It was Hanging Rock. In case anyone’s gonna ask me and get all geographical on my ass.
Also, I saw an owl on a phone line.
Anyway, I’m glad I got to see the store, and why do all my young friends own things? Meanwhile, here I am, working for the man. Technically, I work for the woman. I work for the largest woman-owned something-or-other in the South or east of the something or something like that.
I should own my own store. A Specific Geographical and Facts Store.
Anyway, I guess that’s all I’ve got to report. This week is my mammogram, so it’s time for my annual mammogram terror. I should get EMDR for mammograms. Do you know what EMDR is? Allegedly it works, although I’ve tried it before and I’m still an anxious pile of dung. Google fucking it.
I was decorating for Christmas and couldn’t find gramma’s tablecloth.
And by “gramma,” I mean the nice grandma, not the difficult one I’ve turned into.
And by “tablecloth,” I mean not at all a lovely fine Irish lace thing that’s been passed down through the generations or something.
Gramma never had “fine” anything. In fact, if you ever tried to give her something fancy, like let’s aim high and say a housecoat from a department store, she’d declare it “too nice” and keep it in its box, never to come out again. It’d stay pristine at the bottom of the drawer.
So when I say her tablecloth, I don’t mean the dainty linens she used at Christmas under some fine china and silver. I mean a fairly busy Christmas-themed tablecloth she probably got on sale the day after Christmas 1968, a tablecloth that for all the Christmases after she placed food she made from scratch on unbreakable no-nonsense Corelle plates.
I had my gramma for 20 Christmases and can’t remember one Christmas present she ever gave me, except for those Life Saver books that for some reason we all loved.
But I remember hauling her fake tree out the basement with her. Watching her put up the blinking lights to really fancy up the tree. Gramma was never one for white lights.
I remember the cardboard fireplace she’d set out, and the leather reindeer,
the angels with perfectly round, singing mouths. Every year she’d trot out the same decorations and it was like seeing old friends.
Michigan Christmases are cold, and gramma’s house was always warm. She had this stairway (decorated in tinsel) that led up to the bedrooms no one used anymore, because her kids had all married. But it was never lonely there. Even though she lived alone, gramma was never by herself. There wasn’t one day one of us didn’t walk in without knocking.
If I’m ever really sad, I squeeze my eyes shut and pretend I’m at gramma’s. I can hear the cuckoo clock getting ready to go off over the Days of Our Lives’ theme song. I can smell the coffee and see the Cremora on her kitchen table. I can feel the knotty pine of her walls and the velvet of her couch.
But most of all I can feel the love.
When I feel blue and unloved, I squeeze my eyes shut and remember gramma’s house and I know I was loved.
And now I couldn’t find her damn Christmas tablecloth.
Did I lose it in the move? The thought of that panicked me. I have a lot of y’all’s grandmothers’ linens, because you all know I like that sort of thing. I dug through the peach linens and the yellow, the cream with baby-blue needlepoint napkins.
I’d stored all the Christmas tubs in my ancient garage. I walked back to that garage probably five times, hoping another tub was hidden in the shadows.
Finally, in utter desperation, I looked in the closets. One of the movers had filled one closet with boxes, a gesture that baffled me at the time and still does.
There? In the depths of a closet filled with empty suitcases and old papers? Was one of my Christmas tubs. And at the very top was gramma’s tablecloth. That busy, 1960s tablecloth.
I don’t remember one present gramma ever got me for 20 Christmases, but it doesn’t matter. I remember the cozy house. I remember the joy. I remember the love. Gramma was Christmas.
And now she’s sort of here to celebrate it with me.
Before this holiday, back when I was not bloated like a tick, I suggested we send in photos of our THANKSgiving, as they say here, or ThanksGIVing, as normal folk say it. You did, so let’s not ado further…
Am I going to have this much detail with each photo, or will I get burnt out and by the end be all,
What do you think? Read on…
They were all in the beaver creek. [snicker]
Hang on while I try to age 45 years.
Also, note that I tried not to respond to your emails to me with these photos, because I knew when I was in this hell of searching my email that my replies would show up and I would hate self. So please don’t think I was being rooood.
Basically, June, do we just have to hear you complain through this whole post? Yes, yes, you do.
…And that was the day June learned that if she did a mosaic, she can’t caption it. Ding DANG it.
Anyway, these are from Deborah, and she did not tell me but I happen to know that’s her son and her dog, and they are in California and her husband’s name is Peter and I seem way too up in Deborah’s life. Also, no matter what I do, I can’t get rid of the extra space below this paragraph. …Oh, I think it’s okay now. I need a drink.
Okay, it did. Yeesh!
Faithful Reader Paula H&B sent me these, claiming they are the World’s Most Boring Pictures of Turkey and Gravy. Careful readers will note Paula sent beige pictures.
Ned just called me, and I was all, “OH MY GOD WHAT I’M DOING THANKSGIVING PHOTOS” and he knew just what I meant and slunk away in fear. Slinked?
The animals have all migrated in here because it’s obvious Ima be in here for the duration, and I just noted Lily has squeezed her rather sizeable hips into the kitten bed.
No, I won’t upload a photo. Would you enjoy being bludgeoned?
Also, when I finish each photo, I select “Delete” in my email, but the choice right under that is “Block.” If I accidentally block anyone, let me know. Of course, how can you if you’re blocked. Oh, dear.
I need an intern.
Holy cats, we’ll need to hear the end of that story.
God, I’m hungry. I wonder when the last time was I got up and took nourishment?
I’d also like to thank my computer for showing me this last email, as I just noticed the subject line was “Tahanksgiving.” Look how smart my computer is!
Faithful Reader Deborah, who already sent a picture of her kid and dog above, also sent me a photo of the dog nativity that she got because I had it. I don’t think she wanted me to include it, but that’s what came up in my next email and I felt bad not at least mentioning it.
Also, I am an influencer. Right?
I’m tryina think of the last time I felt my ass. So numb.
I thought I was done, but I clicked and there’s another page. Why, god. I try to be a good per–okay, I get why, god.
I love everything about that caption.
Dang it. Karen in Virginia Beach sent a video, but I can’t open it.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Oh my god.
Oh. I’d guess that last one was from Saginaw, Michigan. Or thereabouts.
As I write this, it’s Sunday afternoon. It’s possible someone will send me a late photo, but I MIGHT BE DONE and I might could GET UP from this desk and LIVE again. I’m George Bailey, over here. Help me, God. I wanna live again.
Anyway, I’ll set this post on to brew, and meanwhile, thank you for participating in Send June Your Thanksgiving. When I first started this, people had to get home to load their photos onto their computers, but now we just boop boop boop! send them. Oh, technology.
Talk to you tomorrow, when I force you to look at my Christmas decorations. Oh, technology.
Jan. …Hey, where was Jan in these photos?
P.S. Just when I thought I was done, Friend-in-Real-Life LaUral sent hers.
Yesterday was Thanksgiving. Thank you, good night!
I had dinner with The Other Copy Editor, fmr., and her well-appointed spouse. And their dogs. And their millennial friends, who always seem to be more mature than I was at that age, and I know that’s a stretch to imagine.
But before that, I have a friend who was going through some shit and didn’t have Thanksgiving plans.
“Are you planning to spend the day crying like a little bitch?” I asked, because I’m a sensitive person. Hey, June, you still answering phones at the crisis line?
He said it was more likely he was going to make a TV dinner with turkey in it, which made me cry like a little bitch, so we decided to get together for part of the day. “I’m up for anything,” he said, and the first idea that came out of my head was to have crackers at the cemetery.
“Plus whiskey,” he said, so after a morning of enjoying my not-at-all chaotic home,
off we went.
As usual, there was plenty to enjoy at the cemetery. And it was a beautiful fall day. Perfect for whiskey and/or crackers.
It’s good to go to the cemetery with someone as awful as you. We passed a huge tombstone with the name Clap. “Well, that’s unfortunate,” said my friend. “Here lies Jebediah Chlamydia. “
I don’t know why that tickled me so, other than Jackie Kennedy and I share a sense of humor, but that was killing me, so to speak. I could barely contain my crackers.
I think my favorite thing at the cemetery was this headless child with a headless rocking horse.
Okay, you want to know what’s creepy? It took me FOREVER to add those photos. They wouldn’t upload no matter what. Finally, I got this little note from WordPress saying I was out of room and needed to “upgrade” my account in order to ever add another photo to this site ever again. So I just paid
for a business account here for the year. Do you think the headless child is pissed? Do you think my having to cough up that dough went to her…head?
Anyway, sorry. Here. I know it’s a bad time for this…
Back to being a bad person…
There. Holiday spirit, complete.
Anyway, after the cemetery, we retired to my house to look at pictures of people we don’t know, because believe it or not I’ve found someone else who collects them.
And then I had to go to my actual dinner.
The Other Copy Editor, fmr., and her spouse are the ones who own that really great B&B in town.
Everyone was busy with the preparations when I got to their house, and thank heavens I arrived to tie on an apron and really pitch in.
The Other Copy Editor, fmr., and her husband are the kind of people who actually have crystal decanters for their liquor, like soap opera people.
I’m having the worst time adding captions today, and I sure am glad I just spent $204 on this site.
I brought lame bread and cheese, and why does anyone invite me anywhere?
Everything was delicious, but do you want to know my favorite part?
TOCE, fmr., made her grandmother’s Jello recipe, which called for green Jello, pears, cream cheese and…was that it? No! Cool Whip! And
“This tastes like the color green,” I said, and that is how I got my greens at Thanksgiving.
Meanwhile, your photos are coming in. I’d rather forgotten I’d asked, so you can imagine my surprise yesterday when I had 20 messages on my blog email and hadn’t blogged. Again, email me
Your photo from Thanksgiving
Using the subject THANKSGIVING in your email
Tell me your name or your blog name
And where you are geographically, not “the dining room.”
I guess I should give a deadline. Let’s say 6 p.m. Eastern, Sunday, so I have time to write the post after. These take forever to post, so I can’t make exceptions. Seriously, they take like three hours to write.
But I like getting everyone’s photos. When a new email comes, I’m all, Ooooo! Paula H&B already sent hers. ALL the cool people are doing it.
I’m celebrating Black Friday by getting cat litter. It’s a festive time here at House O’Juan.
If you ever want to irk me, go ahead and be a fussy coffeepot.
My regularly scheduled one, at my old house,
(aw, old house)
died right when I moved. So I went to a kitchen store (who knew there was such a thing) and got a Cusinart little teensy coffee pot on sale
(aw, new house) and guess what.
It’s fussy. You have to have the LID on just so. You have to have the filter in just so. Half the time I get out the shower and it hasn’t worked at all, or has made an inch of coffee and gotten ennui. This does not work with my executive lifestyle.
Speaking of which, I’m going to attempt to stop talking to you early enough that I can scream to the store before work. I have to get bread and cheese and wine, as that is the hard-hitting stuff I’m bringing to my Thanksgiving tomorrow. How the hell do you display cheese? I’m never good at it. It always looks like Frankenstein hacked at it with this hand.
I also have to drive to Tibet after work to cat-sit for my friend who is quickly moving down to B-list. Oh my god she lives far away. Why didn’t she hire a dang cat-sitter? I look forward to her return, when she reads me complaining about her and kicks my ass. The good news is, she’ll have to drive all the way over from Tibet and won’t be able to do much as she will be exhausted.
I can hear cat playing while I type, and little chirps I assume are coming from Milhous.
The only one not having a play FESTIVAL is Iris, who is misunderstood and in her room listening to The Cure. Won’t you enjoy my current musical references?
All right, I’d better go to the store, which ought to be a relaxing time. The store nearest me is the one my old reading-tutor student referred to as The Ghetto Lion, when that man approached her one day while we were TRYINA STUDY to brag about how he managed the Food Lion on [insert street near me here]. “That’s the Ghetto Lion,” she said, dismissing him in one sentence.
I wish I had that kind of bitchiness in me.
We feel like you DO have that kind of bitchiness in you, Joooon.
Oh, fek off.
HAPPY THANKSGIVING! Oooo, let’s do our thing where you send me photos of your holiday.
Email me (email@example.com) with THANKSGIVING as your email subject line so I can find it in all my emails. If you don’t, I won’t find it, won’t put your picture up, and you’ll send me that sad emoji and I will have to drive over and kill you because you know how I feel about emojis.
Then in the email, send the photo, your first name (or your name when you comment on my blog) and where in the world you are.
One time I did this, and people started sending me photos that read, “Bathsheba, in my kitchen.”
We have an exciting day of drama and suspense, for my new shampoo and conditioner arrived!
I just heard all of America scooting their chairs closer. I like how in my mind you’re all at your desktop computers, when probably most of you are on your phone. I’m sure my stats tell me, but stats. Zzzzz. Write in today and tell me if you’re reading on a phone or a desktop or you’re one of the four people who has a tablet.
But I digress. NEW SHAMPOO.
For years now, I’ve used the Deva Curl line of products, because with all this hair I’ve embraced the Curly Girl method, which I’m getting sick of. I think age has made my hair less curly, so every day I’m using these curl-embracing products and scrunching out the crunch and drying my head with a t-shirt instead of a towel and sitting here under a Laila Ali bonnet with ionic something-or-others and?
I mean, I want COILS of SPROINGY curls, and I get sort of half-exhausted curls, like they just ran a 10K. So why am I bothering so much?
To be fair, my hair before Curly Girl was this:
Anyway, during my recent trip to Michigan, I was GOING to pump some of my $11,000 Deva Curl conditioner and shampoo into those travel bottles, but I rushed so I just put the giant tubs in my suitcase, and?
Left them at the hotel on the way there.
I CALLED the hotel less than 24 hours later. “Oh, yes, ma’am, we sure did find those. We throw away toiletries, though.”
Someone in West Virginia, who may or may not work in hotels, has delightful curls now. I’m going to write it off as a charitable donation.
So I knew I was gonna have to buy more of my $11,000 Deva Curl products, and you know how your phone is listening to you now? You know how you’ll say to your friend, “I’m really interested in Sparklefraffle,” and next thing you know old Jed’s a millionaire and also your phone is advertising Sparklefraffle to you?
I immediately got an Instagram ad for shampoo.
And not just ANY shampoo! INDIVIDUALIZED shampoo. Which I keep typing shamppp and I’m like that one Real Housewife who keeps calling champagne “champs” and I want to punch her directly in the face.
It was right up my alley. You take a quiz about your hair, [True/False: You have hair.] and then it COMES UP with a formula JUST FOR YOU. I even got to pick the scent, which I hemmed and hawed about endlessly. They describe their original scent as “powdery,” and if there’s anything I don’t want in this world, it’s to smell powdery. Say, who changed a diaper? I’d like to bang the woman who smells like a diaper!
I can’t wait to see the searches that now will bring people here. Of course, that would involve me looking at m’stats, which, zzzzz. Did I mention?
I told my rather no-nonsense coworker, Lottie Blanco, that my personalized haircare was coming yesterday.
“Your what?” Her wife sends me leftovers sometimes, and yesterday I got chicken pot pie, and that is why June ate lunch at 11:11 yesterday. Who could just WORK knowing HOMEMADE POT PIE was waiting? Who?
I told Lottie Blanco all about filling out the form about m’hair, and how somewhere in Brooklyn a bearded hipster, probably a woman, was creating my individualized formula and it was ON ITS WAY to me for a million dollars.
I forget how much this all was. It was either $60 or $80. I know that sounds exorbitant, but when I buy my Deva products, I can spend more than $100. Those large tubs last me for months, though, and this product claims it will, too.
“Call me when this gets here,” said Lottie Blanco, who probably uses whatever’s on sale at the grocery store for shampoo. IN MY DEFENSE, Lottie Blanco has normal-person straight-ish hair.
IF ANYONE IS EXPECTING A PACKAGE FROM PROSE HAIRCARE, ALERT THE MAILROOM, came the email from the, you know, mailroom.
Lottie Blanco said she was tempted to call and tell them whose it was herself.
The mailroom guy, who is fairly beleaguered because y’all send me gifts at work probably once a month minimum, and he really doesn’t know why strangers send me things, came up with m’box.
“But this says June Gardens on it,” he said, and really the more you try to explain it, the weirder you sound, and the good news is, Lottie Blanco had already arrived like Endora used to, just popping up out of nowhere.
I got shampoo, a mask for my Kabuki theater and also conditioner.
“Oh, I forgot to smell it,” I said. “They had a bunch of choices and I finally went with Tropical.”
I opened the mask. Smelled it.
It smells precisely like an old lady.
“This smells precisely like an old lady,” I announced to the now-growing crowd who’d come over to see my new shampoo. It was much like the birth of Jesus. Cattle were lowing. I handed the mask to one of the shepherds for sniffing. “Oh, it really does.”
“I like it,” said Lottie Blanco. “I mean, I like old-lady scent. Don’t you like that?”
I do when I want to nostalgically recall gramma’s vanity, but not ON MY HEAD ALLA TIME.
Today I burst out of bed, knowing it was time to use my new products. Maybe you get out of bed to embrace life wholeheartedly, and if you do, why on earth are you here on World’s Most Cynical Blog? But today I had purpose.
They wanted me to wet my hair, apply the mask and wait 30 minutes.
WHO HAS THAT KIND OF TIME?
I just heard all 10 of you say, “I feel like YOU have that kind of time, June.”
I think people think I have nothing but time. A friend from work asked me to cat-sit for her while she’s on vacation this week, and it’s 40 MINUTES there and back, plus of course I would never just go in and throw food in a bowl and leave. Then I had to go home, feed my own pets, let the dog out, play fetch with him till my arm falls off, feed myself, do some laundry and then, oh! It’s time for bed. A full-time-job single person with 29 pets doesn’t have 30-minute mask time.
I’ll probably do the mask Sunday, because on Sunday? I have time. Even though a neighbor keeps wanting me to go to church with her, and eventually Ima have to let her know I’m a heathen. I just keep putting off what I know will be her disappointed look.
So instead I just used the shampoo and conditioner. It said to use four pumps of each.
Four pumps? That’s it? What am I, having sex in high school? But they told me four pumps so I pumped four pumps. Then I put it under Laila Ali for as long as I could, and while it’s still damp, here it is: