Funeral glitter

Summer’s here, but I don’t think the time is ever right for dancin’ in the streets. Seems obnoxious. And possibly risky.

Dancing in the streets. Fekking hippies. Get out of the road. Get a job. Unless one gets a job in a parade, and then one’s job would literally be dancin’ in the streets.

…I realize that summer is not technically here yet, which was always something Ned had to point out.

Me: [sample kvetch] It’s spring. Why is it so cold?

Ned: [sample mansplain] ACTUALLY, spring is in 12 days.

Ned: It’s not autumn until the 21st.

Ned: No, it isn’t. It’s still technically not the vernal equinox.

And that is why Ned is in a shallow grave.

Also, he always had to correct me saying, “rug” when I apparently meant “carpet,” or maybe it’s vice versa. Whatever. Apparently one covers the whole floor and the other is for an area. You’d think as a copy editor I’d care about this, but the depth of my caring about this is as deep as Ned’s shallow grave.

But ALSO, Ned insists on calling the living room “the den.” I think this came from having grown up richer than me, and having one of those fancy living rooms no one ever goes in–and what is the point of those?–and then the room everyone gathers in to watch TV–which probably no one does anymore but that was the plaid-walled idea in 1967–is called “the den.”

You’d think as a copy editor I’d care about the structure of that alarming sentence, but the depth of my caring is about this is as deep as Ned’s shallow grave.

Anyway, it always bugged me when he lived in an apartment and referred to his living room as “the den,” particularly because he had a two-bedroom apt., and there was the bedroom he slept in, and then another bedroom that just had a couch and a desk and his computer, and THAT, to me, would be a den.

But he never called that room a den.

I harangued him about this for a long time, till one day I was around his brother, who referred to his mother’s living room as the den.

And right then I knew.

It was a family thing.

Marvin used to always leave the foil top on things. You know how when you open peanut butter or new aspirin or what have you, and it has the annoying foil lid on top of it for no reason other than the Tylenol scare of 1812? Marvin would peel it back, but not remove it entirely. Then for the rest of time, you had to wrestle that foil lid, like a teensy obstacle course. I think he thought it kept the aspirin fresher or something.

Once I was at his mother’s, and got something out of the cupboard, and sure enough.

The half-on foil lid.

It was a family thing.

Years after he left, I got some spice out of the cupboard, and you can imagine how much spices get used in this House of Lean Cuisine. But I got down Chaucer’s Choice Ye Olde Spice Blennde, purchased with bones because money hadn’t been invented yet, and there?

Was a half-on foil lid, left over from Marvin days.

I ripped it off. It was so satisfying.

But I was talking about summer being here.

June, I’ve been meaning to ask, are you still taking Ritalin?

No. It gave me migraines. What doesn’t? Hey, is that something glittery?

That reminds me. I have a stone I got from someone’s funeral. The person collected stones and rocks, and at his funeral they had a basket of them, and you could take one as a memento of this person. I have it at my desk at work–it’s sort of pink with gray lacing through it.

At my funeral, I want everyone to get a little bag of glitter, and you can all toss glitter at my casket as I pass by. Or keep it forever.

“What’s that?”

“Funeral glitter.”

Anyway, summer. Edsel and I heard our first cicada the other night, and what’s really cool is I think we heard its first-ever song or buzz or whatever it is, as it gave this sort of introductory throat-clearing and did this weird instruments-tuning-up hum, then

ZZZZ!!ZZZ!!ZZZZ!!zzzzzzzzzzz…. of the cicada.

We also have been seeing lightning bugs this week, and the magnolias are bloomed, plus also the mimosa trees, a tree I would dearly like in my own yard. I have never understood the joyless people who don’t like a flowering tree because it leaves a “mess.” Good gravy. Rip off the foil lid and enjoy yourself. Flowers are never a mess.

flat,800x800,070,f.u1.jpgIn case you don’t get mimosa trees in your region, here is what they look like. And apparently it is very important to James Brotherton, sisterton, that we know he took this shot, as he has BRANDED it into the corner.

Anyway, they also smell really good, mimosas do, and if I had scratch and my chair would get recovered, then I’d have Alf plant a mimosa in place of the poor tree that’s on its last limbs out in the front of my yard. I’d make him plant one that big.

Don’t you wish you could do that? Plant giant trees? And also get your hair cut long?

Waiting for things to happen is the worst.

Just ask my Chaucer spice.

Summer. Felt.
June

Advertisements

Oh, you know. Just cats, The Simpsons, and blender-licking.

IMG_8853.jpg
You’d think Lily would bite his face off. But needy. Both of ’em.

Some nights, Edsel is just too much. With the flumping dramatically off the bed whenever I move a corpuscle. Then floomping back on a minute later. With the pressing his head on my neck as hard as he can, for pets. At 4 a.m.

So some nights I kick him out. Last night was one of those nights.

But I let Lily stay, which I rarely do, and last night I was reminded why.

Good lord. This cat has some sort of disorder. Some sort of friendliness disorder. You don’t get a cat so it’ll be friendly. You get a cat so it can lie sleekly across the room and glare at you.

“Yes, I’d like to return this cat? Yes, I do have my receipt, hang on. …Well, she’s too friendly. Something’s broken. She needs her bitch meter turned up.”

She constantly–CONSTANTLY!!–pushes her head into your hand. You have no idea how hard a cat can push her head into you till you’ve dealt with this one.

IMG_8862.jpg
fek yew

Actual, unretouched photo of Lily right this minute, making an elusive trip to the food bowl.

Meanwhile, in the back of my ranch, Edsel was left to his own devices. When I got up this morning, I saw he’d taken my robe to the couch and slept with it. So now I have to walk through this life knowing Edsel sobbed into my robe all night.

IMG_8865.jpg
fuk yew mean it

I just noticed that Lily has moved on to Iris’s dish.

And while nothing is more interesting than hearing about someone’s pets, let’s move on to talk about someone’s work. Wooo! Lemme get more coffee, June.

Busy, is what it was. I literally got 11 hours’ worth of work done in 8 yesterday, and also my blog post was published, the one I was kvetching about doing yesterday. So that was active. After work, I got my hair done because I was shooting moonbeams out my head and not in the good way. What roots?

I should just give up and go gray. If I didn’t dye my hair and didn’t get Botox, I’d save approximately 12 million dollars a month. But I’d look like hell and hate myself. But, see, I already look like hell and hate myself, just underneath “blonde” hair. I should just officially give up and embrace my inner old lady. Which is getting more and more to be my outer old lady.

One day I will look back at photos from this time and think, “I was so young!” That’s depressing.

You know, from age 12 on, I was under the misguided impression that beauty was just around the corner. That I’d just have to get through this one awkward stage and there it would be: my peak of looks. Except that never happened and I spent my whole life looking eh. Eh, she’s all right.

And now I’m on the downward spiral of age and it isn’t going to get better. Although do you watch the Real Housewives? How can you read this blog and not watch the Real Housewives, is what I wanna know. Anyway, Kyle looks particularly good this season, and not fake, either. So if I become a millionaire, maybe then I’ll start an upward spiral.

Speaking of which, I won a dollar playing instant lottery this week. Do you recall, in your Big Book of June Events, that on January 1 I won $100? And I was all, “It’s gonna be MY YEAR!”?

Turns out, it was really everyone’s year and not just mine.

Still, I hadn’t bought a lottery ticket since and the other day I had a dollar so I went to town on the machine at the grocery store and boom. Dollar. Clearly I am on some kind of streak. When I return to the grocery store–

and here is the part where my mother is shocked that two days have gone by since I last went. “Make a list, honey.” But really, what else have I got to do?

Anyway, next time I go to the store I will buy another lottery ticket with my last one, and this is how they get you hooked. Next thing you know, I’m Marge Simpson at the casino.Simpsons_05_10.jpgRemember when she got hooked on the gambling? What do you mean, you didn’t catch that episode in 29 years of that being a show? Is The Simpsons still on?

To be fair, I’ve never once watched an episode of Gunsmoke, which is the second-longest-running show after The Simpsons. But to be fairer, I was a zygote when that show started, and also, who wants to watch a Western?

There is nothing that will make me change a channel quicker than a Western. My grandmother was forever watching Westerns like they were good. Oh, look. A cactus. And a bar. And someone shooting someone. Say, is that an Indian?

HOW IS THAT INTERESTING?

Plus also, anything having to do with the courts or justice or law or murder mysteries. I just don’t care. I read some Agatha Christie when I was a kid because my Aunt Kathy loved then, and what I liked about them was her Britishness. I wanted to hear how she made a spot of tea. I didn’t care who lay prone in the drawing room.

So what I’m saying is, I have also never watched those Law and Onions or whatever they’re called. And those Murder, SUV or whatever. Of course, now I have no TV, so I watch nothing except binges of the Real Housewives, which is good because it’s reality, everyone. I only watch what’s real.

But truth be told, and pull up a chair cause I’m ’bout to tell you a shameful secret. Truth be told, those housewives shows are getting old. It’s the same thing over and over. Someone gets offended and then 8 episodes are devoted to the one woman saying. “We need to talk about how offended I was” and then they offend each other anew, or a new person gets mad, and really in the grand scheme, hoooo care. I just like to see when they pop into the plastic surgeon for a spot of collagen or when they show us how much they spent when they go shopping together. Whoever thought to always show us the cash register at the end is a brilliant person.

Also, Philip Roth died. Did you hear? I’ll bet he was a real fan of the Real Housewives.

All right, I gotta go. I realize this was a pressing post, but oh! My smoothies come today!

collection-smoothies

I don’t know how I got to be part of this demographic, but on Instagram I keep getting the same ad, where this hot young girl in her 20s lives in this million-dollar clearly NY apartment and she gets up every day and inexplicably rubs her lips in her bathroom mirror. “Every morning, I do what I gotta do,” she begins, and apparently that involves rubbing her lips. And she looks good doing it. I’d look like I had a nervous tic.

“Then I have one of my smoothies. It feels like I’m doing something naughty.”

See. That’s how hot 20-year-olds think. I’ll show you something naughty, you vanilla whippersnapper.

Anyway, then she gets this delicious-looking smoothie out her freezer, and she makes it in a fancy blender, and then

LICKS

HER

FANCY

BLENDER

and manages to look adorable doing it. Then she kisses her teensy shitty little dog and leaves.

June. Losing readers with shitty small dogs, since 2018. Just get a cat if you need such a purse-sized dog. See above about what a pleasure cats are.

The point is, I watched this ad until I became convinced that if I just got these smoothies, my life would be transfigured and I would be cute and hot and living in New York with a nervous dog the size of a button. Hashtag goals.

I hope that model isn’t real and that that’s not her real dog, cause then I would feel bad. I guess that shitty small dog is someone’s dog, right?

MY POINT is that I signed up to get these smoothies, and allegedly here is a referral link that means you get three free cups and I do, too. I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess you have to buy some, too. You’ll be stunned to hear I didn’t take time to read all about it.

I’ll report back to you on if they’re good. You can choose what kind of benefits you want and they adjust the ingredients accordingly. I chose beautifying, because I want to be 20 and a millionaire.

Delusionally,
Joon

Andy Voltaire

IMG_3814.JPGGoogle Photos likes to show me what I’ve been up to in other years. Three years ago today, mom came to visit me in my Year Abroad house. Tallulah was happy to see her gramma.

Oh, Talu.

IMG_8553.jpgSomeone mentioned in the comments the other day that they wondered if my more curls/less Voltaire hair was a result of doing Curly Girl, and yes.

D'après_Nicolas_de_Largillière,_portrait_de_Voltaire_(Institut_et_Musée_Voltaire)_-001
I’m Mike Voltaire. I got June hair. [Disclaimer: I have no idea what Voltaire’s first name is.]
Chuck Voltaire liked him some layers.

I have been reticent to do a How To Do Curly Girl tutorial because I didn’t want to steal from the person who actually WROTE the book The Curly Girl Method

(here’s a link to it on Amazon) who is trying to sell a book and so on.

But everyone and their curlies has put online how to do this method, so if you want me to, I will, too. It varies by person, which products work and which methods, but for me almost all of the stuff they tell me to do in the book works.

I just won’t plop. I refuse to plop. If you want me to do a tutorial you will learn what plopping is and why plopping can suck it.

IMG_8611.jpg

Not that every day is a perfect hair day for me, but this above was second-day hair, meaning I didn’t co-wash it and start all over again with products. But it was also a rainy day, and trust me, my hair could look a lot worse than this. It’s like my cleaning lady Alicia’s best comment to me: There are a lot of people who look a lot worse than you.

Also, hey, June, why don’t you try to turn your camera OFF sometimes rather than take 29 accidental selfies a day.

IMG_8625.jpg
Day THREE hair, which, really, I was pushing it at that point. Also, rain. Can you tell it rained? Why is my head a weather vane?

Anyway, please let me know in the comments or through telepathy if you’d like that. A tutorial. I mean.

IMG_8570.jpg
Selfie I DID mean to take. My little eyeless kitty girl. I love her so.

Anyway, I’m tryina think of what’s new, over here. I’ve been busy at work, but the good kind of busy, where there’s a lot to do but you aren’t OH MY GOD WHO CAN DO ALL THIS. There’s a new-ish but not Jewish copy editor who sits behind me now, and maybe if you asked her she’d say I sit behind her.

The point is, we’ve become a little bit of a team. We work on a whole bunch of accounts–which differs from how I used to work. I used to be dedicated to just one client. Now I’m spreading my talents all over town, like my college roommate.

So, they pretty much assign everything to both of us, and we dive on it like jackals. Or, alternatively, we both shy away from it like my kittens are doing with the dry, less-expensive kitten food. Oh my god they won’t eat that damn Kitten Chow. I leave it there overnight and when I get up, most of it’s gone, but they don’t mean it. It’s just to tide those motherfuckers over till the eleventy cans arrive.

img_8614.jpg
ware fud?

Does anyone else follow Love and Hisses? Did you ever notice her kitten room is pristine? Believe it or not, that floor is swept and I Shark it often, but that floor looks a mess.

When the kittens DO go back to the shelter, I AM GETTING THAT FLOOR REDONE. I’ve got a little freelance work to do this month, and that’s where my big dollahs are going. Toward a real floor. How long have you known me to hate that floor? Six centuries?

Does anyone remember in 2014, when our president didn’t tweet and I was preparing to rent my home out for my Year Abroad? I scraped and prepared and painted that floor with alleged paint that was JUST for concrete, then I sealed it and died of exhaustion?

Does anyone remember that?

6a00e54f9367fb883401a511d895df970c-200pi
July, 2014. DON’T DO IT, JUNE! DON’T MOVE! Stay and enjoy your floor!

Yeah. That lasted. The floor lasted as long as my relationship.

I want old-looking linoleum, which I may have mentioned, but even if I haven’t I can’t imagine you’d be shocked at this info. June likes old stuff? June likes it vintage? She always struck me as sleek and minimal.

Alf my ridiculous handyman says I’m not allowed to measure or purchase tiles without his participation, and I am down with that plan. Because maths. “Alf, the room is 38484 by 31. I need one tile.”

I guess that pretty much sums it up, although technically I’ve told you nothing.

I had a guest over last night, to try to socialize the shy kittens, but they’re really effing shy. Do you recall a month or so ago when I was offered a job by the company I freelance for? I’ve gotten friendly with the person who offered me the job, and she stopped by last night to drop off m’freelance (under/over on how long June stares at her freelance work and doesn’t start till she’s panicked?) and meet the kittens.

She’s allergic to kittens, incidentally. And even though Ben and MaryEllen and Donald Trump barely let her touch them before dashing off hysterically to hide under the chair (I have no patience for shy anything), she still broke out in welts.

“I knew I would. But I don’t care! KITTENS!” she said. For she is my people. There really is something incredibly rewarding about touching their little walnut heads. Even when their walnut heads are shy and you have to drag them out from under a bus to pet them.

Other than that, I finally got a pedicure…

IMG_8521.jpg
June comes to the realization that she painted her toes the same damn color blue she chooses for everything. June’s next BF will be from The Blue Man Group. She will never see him perform.

…and tonight I was gonna go to the cat cafe, because I don’t see enough cats, and then maybe the hookah bar with Wedding Alex, where I planned to ask her, “Whooooo are youuuuu?” but now she has to work, so I will come home and look at my freelance and put it off till I’m panicked.

And that’s the way it is, Wednesday, May something, 2018.

Love,
June Voltaire

Twirl her tiny mustache

Did you ever see a TV show where the alarm goes off and the person shuts it off and immediately gets out of bed? Are there really people like that, or is it like TV gifts that are fully wrapped and you just take the top off ?

I used to think those Xs on the bottoms of Christmas trees were a fake TV thing, too, till I moved to LA and that’s how they give you a Christmas tree. Also, you haven’t experienced weird till the sun beats upon you while you’re getting a Christmas tree. With an X on the bottom.

Also, why do you guys let me do math? Why do you leave me alone with math problems?

Yesterday I said there were 108 lives in my house right now, and that I took forever to do that math. Today I woke up, by smacking the alarm and lying there forever like a normal not-in-LA person who has to cram her Christmas tree into an absurdly difficult Christmas tree stand, and figured out I did the math wrong.

Okay. Cats have nine lives.

I have three regularly scheduled cats.

Then I have a mom and seven kittens.

3 + 1 + 7 = 11.

9 lives x 11 cats is 99.

Right? But I said 108. And also, I kept thinking okay, there are 12 cats here (there aren’t) (I don’t think. Hell, if one slipped past the bouncer, who could blame me for not noticing at this point), so it’s 99 + 12.

But it wouldn’t be. It’s be 99 + 9.

Oh my god, hoooo care.

So, hi.

I have kittens.

IMG_7463.jpg

Today at lunch I am going to scream down to the pet supply and get a bottle and mother’s milk. Like, from a cat, not from my own mother. I worry about this one, who is like a tenth of the size of her (his? her. Because tortoiseshell, right? They’re always girls?) siblings. Her name is Elizabeth–the youngest Walton. Look at her little mustache! It’s not so cute when I have one.

I tried to put all the other kittens in the carrier last night and give her alone with mom time, but she was so not into it. She wanted to wobble around and look at things teensily. Twirl her tiny mustache. And so on.

IMG_7486.jpgThere’s a lot of competition for food. Not to be obsessed with LA today or anything, but it’s like trying to go to brunch in Santa Monica.

IMG_7467.jpg

IMG_7475.jpgSo that’s the update on foster kittens. The Foster Report®.

I wish I had some sort of…Foster Grant to cover the costs of this.

HAHAHAHAHAHA.

Really, you have sent tips, kitten tips, and that is magnificent of you. Thank you.

Lottie Blanco, m’coworker, brought me cans of kitten food, which I am feeding to the mom. They told me to feed kitten food to nursing cats. And it’ll be a matter of days before they all start eating that food.

I took down my tip jar ages ago, when I put UP that link to shop with Amazon. It seemed annoying to have both. Maybe my problem is I’m not ambitious.

Anyway, I still have a tip jar, it’s just not up. The link to send tips, just the tip, is still

https://www.paypal.me/JuneGardens.

Or,

But don’t leave a tip if you can’t afford it. I’m mentioning it now because a few times in the comments these past few days, people have wondered where the tip jar is, and that’s the answer. Maybe I should just put it the hell back up.

But we have other important details to discuss. Today we have:

Another poll.

Photos of my coworkers.

A rundown of the silent movie I saw last night.

And info on my high school boyfriend.

Oh, boy, June. Lemme get my coffee and we can get started. Even though you’ve already spoken for 626 words already.

Another poll.
You know my boss, fmr., whose clothes we vote on when she gets her StitchFix? She’s come into a little money as of late, a little pin money. Some hat money. Oh my god June shut up.

Should she:

…I just want you to know I can NEVER FIND where to add a poll to this blog, and I will not say the struggle is real but oh my hod. (Hod. What is WRONG with me? Oh my Hoda Kobe.)

Photos of my coworkers.
I have recently taken two coworker photos I’ve enjoyed. Here they are.

IMG_7188.jpgThis coworker came over to show me her cat mug, because she thought I would enjoy it, and what I enjoyed were her pink earrings, pink shirt, pink lipstick AND her pink mug, all at once. So a photo was born.

IMG_7448.jpgMy coworker Molly was excited about her new t-shirt, and I was taking photos of said shirt for her, but I like this blurry one best. Which is the story of my life.

Slivent Movie.
Slivent. What the hell is wrong with me? Have we discussed yet?

Last night, my old movie theater showed the silent film Sunrise, which I knew nothing about, but I did see the sequel, Sunset.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Oh, June. Lemme get a tissue.

7cd7029ff6bd03a6466e5197176bce61

We have the original organ at my theater, from when it opened in 1927, and they have a guy come from Chapel Hill or somewhere to play it during the silent films. He’s really good. I mean, what do I know? But he adds to the suspense and so on with his playing.

Also, who knew this old movie would have me at the edge of my seat, barely able to concentrate on my peanut M&Ms?

There was one scene where some vamp-ish city folk, a word they kept capping in the subtitles, (“Come to the City.” “She was a fast City girl.” You know how lighthearted I am about things like this.) wanted to redo the hair of our country heroine, up there, and she had a fit and didn’t get her hair done. I was over there screaming, GET YOUR HAIR DONE, FOR GOD’S SAKE. I mean, silently. Because silent movie. Plus, peanut M&Ms in my mouth.

It really was a stupid hairdo. When she finally drowns at the end her hair looks way better.

Spoiler alert! You only had 91 years to see this movie, so I understand if your pressing schedule kept you from it.

I act like I didn’t just see it 12 hours ago.

IMG_7487.jpg
yu annoy

High School Boyfriend
My high school swain, fmr., Cardinal, is in North Carolina, and we are getting together tonight. Naturally there’s something, like, dead in my house. There is this smell. I cannot figure it out. It’s not cat litter, although you’d think it was. The kittens don’t use a box yet, and I’m changing mom’s box twice a day and my OWN cats’ box twice a day.

I took out the trash and the recycling.

It’s driving me insane.

Anyway, this has become less about Cardinal and more about the dead thing that dwells under my house, but there it is.

I’ll talk to you tomorrow, when I hope to cover an equally dizzying array of the pressing topics of our time.

Shutting off the alarm and getting right out of bed. Also going to someone’s house to visit before work, like they do on TV shows and never anywhere else in life,
June

 

 

 

The Oddly Psychic Señor Kittens

We have many items to cover today, so let’s get right to business [straightenss her papers the way Walter Cronkite did].

6a00d8341c630a53ef0133f2563aa0970b

Just so I don’t go all over the place, as I’m wont to do, Ima tell you right now I wish to address the asshole on a dating site, my cool new manicurist, and the answers to our grid yesterday.

Oh, and before I begin (OH MY GOD, JUNE), I do want to tell you that when I woke up today, Edsel was pressed along the length of me, as he does, and at the top, Iris was similarly pressed against me, and Eds was using her as a pillow.

Had I not been pinned in a dog/cat sandwich, and had it not been black as pitch, I’d have captured it on film for you. He loves his cats, Edsel does.

Iris didn’t mind, by the way. She was purring and starfishing her paws.

And also (SERIOUSLY JUNE, TAKE A RITALIN), Camilo my coworker never addressed The Banana yesterday, after ALL THAT BUILDUP the day before. I even sent a very pressing work email about it, and nothing.

I saw on our work Instagram account that he was, like, literally lying on the floor of the studio, setting up an image for a work thing, but I truly feel that bananas should take precedence, when one has PROMOTED the idea that you’ve learned something so new about them that your brain “literally” exploded.

But, as with the majority of the emails I send at work, it went unnoticed. So.

Yes, we have no banana stories.

So, the asshole on the dating site.

A few months ago, I noted that I was done trying to date. I gave up. At least for the time being. But I was procrastinating the other day, and I technically HAD Tinder, I just had it deactivated. So all I hadda do was fire it back up, and that is when I immediately saw Ned, got pissed and decided to stay on it with a vengeance.

Won’t you buy my book, “Mature Reactions, by June Gardens”?

Screen Shot 2018-03-23 at 7.33.12 AM.pngOne of the profile photos I have up is from my Frida Kahlo costume, although I think I used one where I’m outside, not this one. It doesn’t matter. Why can’t I just tell a fucking story?

Screen Shot 2018-03-23 at 7.36.58 AM.pngAnother photo I have on there is my photo from that app that makes you look about 10 times better than you do. I have written under it, “The photo where I look hot is an app, unfortunately.”

Today I get a message from a new potential swain. “Who’s Frida Kahlo?”

See. Okay.

Like, if you’re the kind of guy who doesn’t know who she is, you’re not going to be the kind of guy I like. You’re just not. You probably love watching professional football while at the bar at Applebee’s. You probably love Pixar films, and justify it by saying, “They write them so adults can enjoy them, too.”

You probably claim you were “in all the groups” in high school and you “got along with everybody.”

I don’t have time for the middle of the spectrum. I need an edge.

But look where that’s gotten me thus far. So I responded, with all the patience of a SAINT, “She was an artist. Mostly during the ’40s and ’50s. Was married to Diego Rivera.”

I mean, allow me to Google that for you.

As I was writing that, he wrote, “The one where you’re hot is an app?”

Wow.

So, after he read the info on Frida, he responded, “Oh, the one with the unibrow.”

Do you get wings and a Bud Lite at Applebee’s, or…?

“And the one where you’re hot,” he repeated. “An app?”

“That’s an app?”

He did that twice. He wrote “an app,” and then followed it up with the extremely necessary “That’s an app?”

“I believe I noted that, verbatim, yes,” I wrote back. Annoyed. Then I couldn’t stand it.

“I also believe repeatedly peppering a woman about the genesis of ‘the one’ photo where she’s hot might not be the smoothest method for meeting someone, particularly when ‘the one’ hot photo was addressed in my profile.”

Then I unmatched his ass. I whip out the sexy school marm vocab when I’m pissed.

I mean, hide your true colors till you’ve got me hooked, like the other men I’ve dated. Geez.

At least I’ve found love in a hand job.

I haven’t had a pedicure since fall, and what with the broken toe and all, I will continue to not have one. I decided, however, to have a manicure last night, because it’s been a hard week of fending off Appleasses. Asslebees.

I usually go, which you know from your Big Book of June Events, to Elegant Nail & Tan (Slogan, “We actually have no way for you to tan”), but there is another nail place closer (Slogan, “We’re two minutes from your door, as opposed to three”) and I’ve never given them a try, so last night I did.

“So, what’s your story?” asked the manicure guy, and we told each other our life stories.

IMG_6254.jpgOh my god, he was da bomb. He’s hilarious, and he loves Italian food, and he made two of my nails reflective metallic!

IMG_6267.jpg
It turns out, it’s really hard to photograph your hand.
IMG_6268.jpg
Okay, see? One’s like a hologram. And I know my cuticles are terrible. I bite them.

Anyway, he was hilarious and smart, and also oddly psychic. He mentioned saying something on my blog before I told him I had one. He asked if I needed a phone charge before I realized I did need one. We discussed his blog name and he said, “Señor Kittens.”

“You don’t even HAVE kittens,” said the woman next to him.

Weird. The Oddly Psychic Señor Kittens.

I see that I have droned on and have not addressed our grid from yesterday, wherein you listed all the people from my photos.

Screen Shot 2018-03-22 at 8.10.11 AM.png

I do not have time now to break them all down for you, but tune in tomorrow for a Very Special Saturday June where I reveal all. Maybe I’ll even finally have that banana story. Sounds appealing, June!

The one-hot-photo gal,
June

 

 

What it’s like to clean your house when you have ADD

I’ve got the ADD. I’m just glad my doctor officially diagnosed me last year. One has to have a written prescription for ADD meds. They’re addictive, or something. A few weeks after my initial appointment with my new doctor, in which we discussed everything, he called.

“I called in your migraine and GERD prescriptions, but I forgot to write you that Ritalin,” he said. “Can you stop by and pick it up one day?”

Months went by. Another call.

“You know you still haven’t picked up this Ritalin prescription, right?”

I kept forgetting, see. Is the thing. Because, you know, ADD. Finally, he had to mail it. Then I took months to remember to get it filled.

Anyway, I love my Ritalin, but it always gives me a bad headache, so I don’t take it any longer. I keep meaning to call my doctor to see what I can do about that.

But I forget.

IMG_5744.jpgSo, today I took a look around this place and said, “What a dump.” I always have laundry to do, and here’s why: I forget I’m doing it. I’ll open the washer and there will be clothes I washed in 18 aught seven and left in there. Every time. Recently I got a brilliant idea: set the timer on my phone. So now, when I’m doing laundry, after 25 minutes, my phone dings at me, and I have to get up RIGHT AWAY, no matter WHAT, and attend to the laundry. This seems to be working for me.

My laundry started and my timer going, I noticed the rest of the house.

IMG_5743.jpgNow, see, when you’ve got ADD, a thing like your coat hanging on the dining room chair? I know a regular individual would probably pick up the coat, walk to the closet and hang it up.

Heh.

Yeah.

For me, I’ll walk over there, talk to the cat, notice there’s mail on the table. There isn’t in this photo, but we’re being hypothetical. Calm down.

I’ll start perusing that mail. Come across a catalog.

That will remind me that I keep meaning to buy a new rug for my hallway, because in September, I painted my hallway green and my blue rug no longer looks good in there. I have a perfect rug in a shopping cart over on Overstock, but I never remember to buy it come payday.

So I’ll go over to my phone to finally buy the rug, but the thought of my green hallway will remind me that I still don’t know what color to paint the living room, so I’ll start researching colors online, and downloading paint apps, and possibly even leave the house to head to the paint store.

Then, if I do that, I’ll start driving and think, “Where the hell am I going?” and end up getting a manicure.

Then I’ll come home and notice my coat is on my dining room chair. “I should hang that up,” I’ll think.

IMG_5741.jpgIMG_5742.jpgSo my new tactic is to make myself stick to dealing with one room at a time. No matter what tempts me as I enter other rooms to put stuff away, I just have to remind myself, NO. You’re not IN this room.

Today I started cleaning my living room at 2 p.m. I recycled that box up there, I put those clothes in my car to take to the dry cleaner, I hung up that door draft thingy because I won’t need it till fall, and I opened that drawer, there, and got out all my checks.

When I get paper checks, from freelancing or whatever, I deposit them using my bank’s mobile app, then I save the checks in the hopes that one day I’ll take time to ensure they all really got deposited. I tried to do all that today online, but it was annoying, and I could never find any of the checks in my account, and the calendar thingie on the app kept bouncing back to March 2018 and IT WAS IRKSOME. So I called India and explained all that to the woman on the phone.

She paused.

“You wish to make a deposit, ma’am?”

Does this make anyone else outlandishly angry, when they do that? I just told you this DIATRIBE, and you listened to none of it.

Finally, after explaining self three cranky times, she picked up what I was throwing down, and it turns out? Every paper check I’ve deposited since last July has, in fact, actually been deposited.

Then I cleaned out the living room closet, swept in there, moved all the furniture and swept and vacuumed, polished the furniture while

DING!

my phone kept going off, and I’d put laundry away, but COMMAND self to return to living room rather than going off on some, “I should alphabetize my shoes” tangent in my closet.

IMG_5750.jpgNow it is 11:00 p.m., and for no reason I can think of other than I’m berserk, I have rearranged the furniture.

I have cleaned no other rooms today, which was my original intent.

Tomorrow, I will forget that, though, so that’s a relief.

Yours, till I — hey, look at that!