Don’t fence me in

When we last left each other, flush from our reunion, I told you that Steely Dan was injured and I’d taken him to the vet. It turns out, it wasn’t a cat fight. It was a rock lobster.

No.

It was a fence or maybe a tree. They think he got caught in a fence. Like he’s a steer or something. Anyway, in his endless quest to be mysterious, it turns out Steely Dan is really easy to pill. Affable Iris, the second-most cheerful cat on earth (after Winston, fmr.), is an

ASSHOLE

about taking a pill. Evil Steely Dan, who’d just as soon cut you as cuddle with you, is all, Oh. Okay. You can shove that thing in my gullet. Fine. Is there any port?

IMG_7084.jpg
dreeem of ouwt

But here’s the thing. He really. Really. Really. Wants to go out. And the vet has him on antibiotics for a week and wants him to stay in.

IMG_7087.jpgHe wants out. Though. Is the thing.

And I have to remain ETERNALLY VIGILANT, because he can figure out doors as long as they’re not deadbolted (at least he hasn’t figured out deadbolts…yet. Now he has all this time on his paws to Google it), and so far this has happened twice…

IMG_7078.jpg
God da–GET BACK IN THE HOUSE
IMG_7088.jpg
Where’s the–GODDAMMIT

So that’s been relaxing.

Other than my endless parade of animals and their animal drama, today marks 10 years that I moved into this house, and to celebrate, I’m getting a crown.

Taaaa-daaaa!

Dental work scares me. I don’t like it. I’m getting the gas, so I will be fairly oblivious, and that’s for my sake AND the poor dentist’s. I’ve got a new dentist after the whole hygienist-who-never-stopped-prattering fiasco at the last place (if you just got here–heh–I got up all my courage to ask for the other hygienist, and I saw her once, and then the next time I came they gave me the chatterbox again, so I got up my courage and asked AGAIN, and they scheduled me with ol’ Chat Room AGAIN. The End), and he seems pretty highfalutin’ with his equipment and so on, so maybe my crown won’t be so bad.

Other than that, since we haven’t talked in a coon’s age, let’s go see what my photos can tell us about what the HELL I’ve been doing lately…

IMG_6980.jpgDo I even wanna know what I was thinking when I took this?

img_6984.jpg
Why must all my screens be useless?

I went to Home Depot, then Lowe’s, then Home Depot again last weekend, because no one else ever thinks to go there on weekends, so it was like a big relaxing cavern, really. I picked up these succulents because I fall for any novelty.

Really I was buying paint and switchplates, but that never stops me from a pink succulent impulse buy.

I also tried to go have tea with my coworker Nefertete, and TEA with NeferTETE was almost too much for me on the cute level, but guess what.

IMG_7038.jpg
And yet? You’re not.

They were CLOSED.

IMG_7036.jpg
Portrait of a Bereft June

We tried to go to a coffee shop and I want you to gird your loins. CLOSED. Had the world ended? It was Monday at 5:45 p.m.

So we ended up at a bar in a restaurant, and the bartender kept insinuating himself into our conversations, probably because Nefertete is young and hot. And then I choked on my wine, as I am always choking on liquids, and careful readers will recall that I’ve already been knocked out and had a tube down my throat to see why and there’s no reason BUT IT HAPPENS ALL THE TIME. So.

IMG_7014.jpgOooo, and I went to the farmers market this weekend and got my annual plants. These are called frrrrr-deeee-glloooo-de-harbels, and they need pretty much zero care. They feel kind of hard, like a succulent, and apparently it rains just enough here that they thrive in front of my house like this.

I get them every year, and they last April through October.

Then at some point in November I look up and they’re all dying and brown the same way I am, and I throw them out unceremoniously. The way the world has with me.

The point is, while I was marketing like a farmer, the woman who sold me my flowers was young-ish. I can’t tell the difference between 22 and 35 anymore, but she hovered in that general age range. We’d been kibitzing a bit while she rang me up, and she rolled her eyes when she said, “You wanna get hit on by men over 50, this is the place.”

I hadn’t expressed an interest in being hit on, by the way. She said that in response to ANOTHER saleswoman having been hit on.

And right then, it hit me.

Fuck you, men over 50. I mean, really. Fuck you.

Men who are 55 are always going to try for the woman who’s 22. Or they’ll claim they like women their own age but have a leering eye that tells another story.

I know I said a few months back that I’d given up, but right then, at the farmers market which really does not get an apostrophe so don’t get your knickers wadded, right then, I King Kamehameha gave up.

It’s not that I’m not interested in men my age. It’s that I don’t like them. They’re kind of horrible people. And maybe that seems, oh, a tad general, but I’ve been out here tryina meet them since 2015 and have not met very kind men.

They were kind when we were all 32. They were! But I think the kind ones got swooped up in committed relationships. For the most part, what’s out here are men who aren’t good. They’re the evil leftovers. And I guess the same could be said about me, but while I’m flawed, I’m not addicted to porn or leering at 23-year-olds like I actually have a chance.

IMG_7049.jpg
How I feel about men, on the inside

So that closes that chapter.

I’ll talk to you later, post crown.

Royally,
June

Heel

img_6733.jpgAs you all know, because you’ve drawn my life story onto the walls of your cave, my pal The Poet is a fancy poet. She’s being sent to London next week, to read her poetry to all of London. She’s big, Ben.

The point is, Fancy The Poet came to my desk the other day, and I was like, “Oh, I like your necklace. Are those ostrich heads?”

Ostrich heads. That’s what I saw.

“Why, no. These are the Towers of Frooo-De-Hoog, from Bluufle Bluffledorf.”

img_6734.jpgAh, yes. Of course. If I recall from my extensive research, those are some of the better towers.

I feel like when I was in high school learning how to hold my Southern Comfort, The Poet was learning things. And that is why no one cares if I ever see London again. Or France. Or anyone’s underpants.

Also, while we’re on the subject of friends at work, my coworker Frapdorp hates the name Frapdorp. “It’s terrible,” he insists.

So because Ima tell a story about him, we must run Frapdorp through the random name generator and see what we come up with.

I65A7G8.jpg

…Okay. It came up with Alex. Dying. Let’s try again…

My coworker Davis Monk has a daughter named Iris, which is cute because maybe you didn’t know this, but I have a cat named Iris. Check your cave wall. Anyway, Davis Monk’s Iris is forever saying really funny, smart things and I like her even though I’ve never met her.

Lately she’s been gunning for a cat, and right then I knew. She was my people.

The point is, they got one. They went to some sort of cat-saving org, and Iris the person fell in love with an adult cat even though bitsy kittens were there, and I have to further admire her for this. Every day now, Davis Monk is telling me the cute things the cat does. It sounds like a bit of a Lily cat. It’s lookin’ for love, this cat is.

Iris also has a cat at her mom’s.

“Why did I never think to try this angle?” I asked Davis Monk. I already had Mittens at my house, Mittens my childhood cat, and YES I NAMED IT I WAS 8 FUCK OFF. But I coulda asked my father if I could have a cat at HIS place, too. Why. Why did that never occur to me?

“I pretty much thought that’s what kids did. They tried to find the angles like that,” said Davis Monk, and now I feel like I have to go back and redo my childhood, which would include not ordering that hot chocolate with whipped cream that I revisited mere moments later in the parking lot of Sambo’s at age 11.

The point of me telling you this is that I tell you all sorts of stupid things so why wouldn’t I tell you this, and also that I DID think of something I got my father to get me without letting on that my mother had already forbade me to get them.

9239f2c162f2fcf0696eb258618031bc

Freaking Candies, man. Now with hose!

Was obsessed. OBSESSED. With getting a pair. And because I was, you know, 14, my mother thought maybe they weren’t appropriate. But this one girl at school [random name generator gets fired up again], Merlene Culp, had them. She had ALL of them.

Merlene Culp was attractive, and she had a similarly attractive older sister, and they lived with their single mom, and I’d heard they all shared clothes. So these 9th- and 10th-grade girls were wearing, “Hey, world, I’m 35 and single in 1978” clothes.

Oh, they had good stuff. High-heeled boots they tucked into their designer jeans. Satin blouses. Gold ID bracelets. I mean, the Culp sisters had it going on.

They even made up dance routines, and at dances would perform them to, say, Rapper’s Delight, and we’d all stand around and think, “If only I had a pair of Candies, I’d be cool like Merlene and Darlene Culp.”

At least that’s where I took it.

After high school, I never saw either one of them again. I think they attractive-d out of Saginaw, Michigan for life.

So I wanted Candies. In the worst way. And mom said no.

But dad said yes! I forget why. Like, in what way did I convince him that high-heeled mules were perfect for a teenage Michigan girl, where it’s 30 degrees out 9 months of the year? But I got red ones, and sexy neutral ones, and I feel like I even might’ve had the blue.

And man, did I clomp through snow and ice in those muthers. I didn’t care. I was sportin’ my Sassoon jeans and my Candies. I was ready to take on the world. Or the Fashion Square Roller Skating Rink over offa Bay Road.

If I had time, I’m certain I could find you photos of me in them. And we would toast the ’70s and a teenage girl’s ability to manipulate her parents. But I do not have time, because time has, in fact, marched on, and now I must clomp to a job in broke-toe folk festival clogs.

Candies, oh. I need you so.
June

She lost her youth and she lost her Tony. Home perm.

There’s a weird smell in my house, and I took out the trash hoping that was it, but I just noticed it again as I came in here, and I can’t help but think, What did a cat murder and bring in here? Like, somewhere the circle of life has circled, and I’ve yet to discover it.

Steely Dan leaps into the attic whenever he can. My theory is there is a rotting mastodon upstairs.

Also, please keep calling the attic “upstairs,” June. You’re not a bit delusional. Say, what are those faded feathers in your hair?

The ’70s had two songs about faded insane women, women who were both probably younger than I am today. Delta Dawn was only 41. No wonder her daddy still called her baby. Whippersnapper.

And I feel like when they were talking about Lola the showgirl, hadn’t 30 years passed since she’d lost her youth and she’d lost her Tony? So girlfriend was likely 50s.

Goddammit.

I also recall being 15, listening to Bob Seger telling us how Sweet 16 had turned 31, and I remember thinking, God how pathetic. You’re 31. Don’t go out. Then I spent every night of being 31 out on the town, pretty much. So.

You shoulda known me in my 30s. Although I was basically this with a smaller living space and hips. And a lot more action. Act-shun. I had a roommate who’d go to work and fill everyone in on the latest with my love life, because it was forever changing. I was 31 when I finally settled on Marvin, and she told me she went to work, and someone asked, and she said, “Oh, she finally met someone she really likes” and they were all, “Oh.” All disappointed.

THANKS, STRANGERS WHO JUST WANTED THE DRAMA.

So anyway, strangers who want the drama, here I am.

I’m icing my arm, a thing that Faithful Reader Paula envisions as me applying frosting to said arm, and harrrrrr-dy harrrrr, FR Paula. In the meantime, I am in extreme pain. As my grandma would say, I can hardly stand the pain.

My grandmother, the one I’m NOT turning into except for this, was a trifle…dramatic about her aches and pains. She had the arthritis really bad, though, and I hear that hurts like a bitch.

There was a nightclub across the street from her house, eventually. It had been some sort of hall, and then there was an actual, like, dance club or something. One night my poor grandmother walked over there, because she had arthritis in her hands and couldn’t open the new childproof caps to take her medicine. Had a bouncer or whatever open it.

Poor grandma. Sweet 16 had turned 61, and she was at the club. With her aspirin.

It was in her knees, too, the arthritis, and I have knee pain all the time now. What the fuck with the being old bullshit? And I don’t know if you’re online-dating, but as you know I took it back up last week like an

EEEEEEDIOT

and

all you see out there are 55-year-old men finishing a mud run, which pisses me off, because stop. Embrace your old age. Says the woman who just got laser beams in her face for two painful hours.

The point is, how can they do all that stuff? Doesn’t everything hurt? Everything hurts on me.

And do you recall a time when you didn’t have to search for

GODDAMN READING GLASSES all the time?

I have a giant jar of reading glasses here AND at work, and yet I always need reading glasses.

img_6517.jpg

I can’t shop for cosmetics without reading glasses (can’t read labels), I can’t go to restaurants without them (had to have the waiter read me the menu once), I can’t do anything in the kitchen (HOW long do you microwave this particular Lean Cuisine?). I can’t look at my phone when I’m sitting in the car possibly waiting to get a Burrito Supreme.

IT’S RIDICULOUS.

So I’ve got them everywhere. Those old ladies with glasses on a chain had the right idea.

IMG_6515.jpg
Oh, what is that SPOT on my little DESK?

img_6522.jpgIMG_6521.jpg

And yet? Two hundred times a day, “Where are my reading glasses?” Can’t they fix this shit? Can’t they make it so this doesn’t happen? What did people do in the olden days when they needed to read and had zero Rite Aids in which to purchase the readers?

Did they just up and not see things? I guess they did. They also fell over with croup all the time, so.

I’ve gotta go. I’ve gotta take my creaky ancient self into the shower, and creak over to work, where everyone is 19 and I’m the dowager, all of a sudden. I remember when I used to be the cute person at work. I mean, you know. I was a solid 6.

Also, while I’ve been writing this, with ice on m’arm, Iris asked to go out. Now she’s mowing to come in. Lily has been doing that purr/meow thing where she wants my attention, and is rubbing her teeth against the chair, my leg, the desk, the air, the world.

IMG_6525.jpg

Finally, I resorted to putting her on my lap and typing around the football that is her figure. She’s been pushing her stupid needy head into my typing hand, and my one good not-being-iced arm, ever since.

img_6527.jpgEdsel has gone in and out and in and out and in and out through the screen door and barked at Jackie the personality-free greyhound so many times that I finally yelled at him and now he’s Vitamin C.

Also, that floor is stained. Is there a way to remove DOG MUD from linoleum? Or am I screwed? This floor has been here for 10 years. Maybe I should replace.

The point is, it’s a sad day when Steely Dan is the good pet. I’ve no idea where he is, which means he’s feasting on the mastodon upstairs or he’s on the neighbor’s roof. Knocking down nests or what have you.

Sweet 16 turned 52. Sweet 16’s got 52 pets.

XO,
Jewb

June’s delusional world

I’m writing you on Sunday night because I have to call the IRS in the morning to figure out if I owe money or I’m getting money back, a thing TurboTax can’t seem to tell me, which makes my ass ache mightily.

Yes, June, that’s a shame. So, what’d you do this weekend?

Well, mostly I hung around Marianne.

In 1992, I moved to Seattle. I knew I wanted to leave Michigan after college, and they read more books there per capita, so I figured I’d fit in.

I did.

I got a job a few days into my move there, by talking up the guy who helped me open a checking account. “I know they need a receptionist on 12. You want me to make some calls?” And a stellar career answering phones on the 12th floor was born.

One of the people who worked with me on that 12th rung of the ladder to success invited me to go to a rugby game with her on a Saturday morning. Anyone who’s read me awhile (See: All of you) knows how often I get up on Saturday and seek out rugby. But I was new in town

and completely desperate for friends. So I got up at some ungodly hour, maybe even 10:00, and went to a damn rugby game.

“We’re going to stop and pick up my friend Marianne,” the woman from the 12th floor said to me. I hate it when you have plans with someone and they throw someone else in like that. In my MIND I’d psychologically PREPARED for it to be just us. But I pretended to be a normal member of society and said okay.

Turns out, Marianne was fairly new to Seattle, as well. And as we stood on that cold rugby…field? Is it a field? Hoooo care. Marianne looked at our other friend getting all into rugby, and said to me, “You wanna go back to the car and drink all the beer?”

And we did. The end.

From then on, we spent every ding-dang weekend together, no matter what. There was a restaurant across from my apartment, and inexplicably it had a mechanical bellhop in front of it, with an arm that moved up and down, sort of guiding you into the diner. We had breakfast there every Saturday. I mean every Saturday.

I’ve no idea what the name of that place was, since all we did on Friday night was sort of drunkenly say, “What time?” and do the bellhop’s arm gesture.

“Eleven.”

Or even, “Oh, god, like, 1:00?”

6a00e54f9367fb8834017d41323869970c.jpg
Marianne and me, right after Kurt Cobain’s memorial at the Space Needle. I’ve no idea why we were so gleeful. I remember being devastated at the time. We were moody at 27.

She left Seattle a year before I did, to go back to North Carolina. At her goodbye party at Lai Lani Lanes, a Tiki-themed bowling alley we adored, I told Marianne that at my wedding someday (Step One: Get boyfriend), we’d find a way to drink a beer in a car during the reception.

She drove all the way from North Carolina to Michigan to come to my wedding, three years later. At the very end of the night, the band packing up, I sneaked into the kitchen of the B&B and grabbed two beers.

We drank them in the rental car, me in my wedding dress and ridik veil.

Anyway, now here I am, in North Carolina as well, and she’s an hour and a half away and we see each other like once or twice a year and it’s stupid.

On Saturday, I was running my usual errands: taking the kids to soccer, meeting with the prime minister, knitting socks, I texted Marianne. “Wanna meet in Winston-Salem right now?”

She did.

IMG_6112.jpg
While I got groceries Saturday, my car made a pal.
IMG_6110.jpg
I had no earthly reason to also go to PetSmart Saturday. Other than the important task of getting some strange. I LOVE YOU, HALF-A-PEACHY-FACE KITTY!
IMG_6108.jpg
I LOVE YOU, STEELY DANELGANGER!

Anyway, since Marianne was able to drop everything and drive to Winston, off I went.

IMG_6131.jpg

We’d sort of forgotten it was St. Patrick’s Day, and by “we” I mean clearly not old Kermit, up there, dressed head-to-toe in green. Marianne has always been more excited about life than I am.

My point is, we went to a restaurant, and they were shamrocking out, man. They even had hootchie-gootchie girls (TM, Ned’s mom) handing out Irish whiskey for free and everything, along with hats, shirts and sunglasses.

IMG_6142.jpg
Marianne opted to take all of them.
IMG_6143.jpg
I just went for the bowler hat. Because, bowler.

“We probably shouldn’t drink all of this whiskey, because we have to drive,” I old lady-ed.

“Oh, I wasn’t planning to,” doddered Marianne.

“I wonder how many St. Patrick’s Days we’ve spent together,” I said. For some reason, Marianne had, like, this houseful of friends who’d all come over from Ireland together. Their house was magically delicious. And not at all devoid of, you know, parties. Especially on St. Patrick’s Day.

Oddly, we can’t remember any of them. Hmmmm. What could it be? What.could.it.beeeeee that made us forget?

Anyway, our three sips of whiskey in us, we headed to our cars. On the way out, I saw a good-looking man I completely recognized, and we both stopped in our tracks because we clearly knew who each other was, but could not place. He was with a woman, so if he was one of my 39583030402 internet dates I’ve had over the past two and a half years, I didn’t want to stir up any trouble.

“Who was that hot woman in the bowler hat?” I mean. It was inevitable, right?

On the drive home, I was all,

“RON!”

Which means nothing to you, and anyone who actually remembers who Ron is gets a plastic green bowler hat.

He was Marvin’s bandmate. From, like, 2008. Marvin put an ad on Craigslist or something and this really nice guy, Ron, answered the ad, and every Sunday for years they would have band practice here at this house.

Every Sunday for years, I would therefore go to the movies and see some weird independent thing, and Ned and I used to say we MUST have been in the same theater at the same time, as a result, which is weird to think about.

6a00e54f9367fb88340120a7b3b36d970b-600wi

I tried to find a photo of Marvin practicing with Ron, a thing I know existed, but instead I found the photo of the time I insisted you all call Henry, my cat, fmr., “Henri.”

Am delighted with self anew.

6a00e54f9367fb883401053613c3ce970b-200pi

Ah. Here’s a crystal-clear shot of Ron and Marvin practicing. Pre-bookshelves. Pre-not-beige walls. Weird.

Anyway, the next day I talked to Marvin. “Ron thought that was you, but he wasn’t sure.”

“Is it because I’m so hot now?”

Marvin didn’t answer that. You’d think Ron woulda said, “Man, she’s clearly had Ultherapy.”

IMG_6136.jpg

IMG_6176.jpgAnyway, I’m glad I had the brilliant idea to get together with Marianne, and that we had a good time even though we were done by, like, 7:00 rather than just going out at 7:00. It’s good to have people you can grow old with. Even though I’m getting hotter by the minute.

Youthfully,
June

Ned and June Put Edsel to the Test

“I have an all-day meeting and I’m getting out of work early,” said Ned, and “early” for Ned means “a normal time to leave work” in my world. Remind me to never be the president of anything. Except this nonblog.

“Would you like to have dinner? I’ll be early, so you can eat like the elderly, as you like to do.”

Back when we were dating, Ned would call me at, like, 8:00. I am not exaggerating for dramatic effect. He’d work till 6:00 or 6:30, go to the gym, drive home and then call and say, “I am starving.” That noon salad just wasn’t sticking with him eight hours later.

How did I not bludgeon Ned to death every day for four years?

So, him calling me at 8:00 meant he (a) was going to go to a restaurant at that point or (2) make something. From scratch. “I’m going to start the water to boil beans.”

Really, how DIDN’T I bludgeon him to death?

What this meant, when we were dating, was I had to starve till 9:00 in order to eat with him, or I’d eat like regular people, at around 6:00, and then have to hear the appalled speech when I’d announce AT 8:00 ON A WEDNESDAY that I’d already had dinner.

Later, I researched love avoidance and said, Ohhhhh. Okay. (It’s one of the things they do. They busy themselves. Oh, I’m so consumed. I can’t possibly actually sit and give you my undivided attention.)

My point is, here was Ned, willing to feed me on a Wednesday at 5:30.

I know you’ve all been lighting candles and keeping charts, so you know that I’ve had an ATM card saga. While I was out volunteering to make smocks for the homeless a few Friday nights ago, I accidentally lost my ATM card when a giant vat of whiskey sours landed in my throat. It was such a phenomenon. It was like the Northern Lights, with sour mix.

It wasn’t even GOOD sour mix. The whiskey sours I get at the fancy hotel near me? They make their sour mix right there. The whiskey sours I got on Lost ATM Night was shot from one of those soft-drink guns. I blame the pinball. I was so up in it that I didn’t notice I was having 49 drinks.

Oh my god, anyway. So I finally got an ATM card from my bank, and when I called to activate the card, they said, “For your safety, a separate letter with your PIN will be arriving.”

You have got to be fekking kidding me.

So now I have this limp ATM card, which at least allows me to go back to my Jimmy John’s delivery habit, but little else. It’s quite confining–and this is Shamrock Shake season! I realize I could drive to the bank and get out cash like I used to with my mom in 1972, but if I drive to the bank at lunch, pretty much that’s my lunch hour, and I keep saying, Oh, I can scrounge up something at home.

Hang on. Ima show you my exciting June’s-ATM-is-useless food supply at the moment.

IMG_6065.jpg
WOOOT! Is it sad that the most abundant thing is cat food? Yes, June. It is.
IMG_6067.jpg
The telltale to-go container tells you where this story is going.

I said yes to dinner. “After, can you help me give Edsel some tests?!” I asked. Because that’s the kind of standup person I am. You’ve offered to buy me dinner, and my reply is, “Only if you do something else for me.”

“Of course,” said Ned, as he likes Edsel.

Truth be told, I don’t really like going to restaurants. It’s never been fun to me. I have on-and-off years of panic attacks, and restaurants are a trigger for my panic attacks, because you’re stuck there. You can’t dash out 10 minutes later without making a scene.

I’m not in a panic attack cycle right now, I’m just in my regular low-grade anxiety mode that I’ve been in since I’m 8. I had a giant swath of panic attacks starting when I was 19 and ending when I was around 21.

Then on New Year’s Eve 1999, I had another one on a ferry and was tortured with them for a few years, and I’ve been fine since. Knock all of the wood, please.

The point is, because when I’m having panic attacks, restaurants are among my least-favorite things, I kind of hate them all the time. I dislike a lot of things many other people seem to love: Christmas, travel, live music, babies, football, hugging.

But you saw my cupboards. I went to the restaurant last night. Got spaghetti bolognese. Because I’m watching my figure (turn into Queen Victoria’s).

When we got home, we commenced to giving Edsel another of the Dognition personality tests with which I am so obsessed. This time, we tested his memory.

The first two or three tests I gave him the other night insisted I have a partner, with the caveat “if you don’t have a partner, go to our blog.” Well, I’m already HERE and I already watched the introductory video and NO. I’m not going over to your damn blog. Which is what you all say every day, and yet here you are.

So, despite the world saying I needed a partner, sister did it for herself, and it was fine. But since I HAD a faux partner in Ned (you’ve said a mouthful there, sister), I decided to see if it was easier.

It wasn’t.

IMG_6057.jpg
Testing area

The way Dognition works is they tell you what aspect they’re going to test that time, using a brief intro video from the guy who most likely invented this whole idea. “Do you want me to wear my hair like that?” interrupted Ned, while the shaggy millennial spoke.

“Shhh,” I said, then inwardly giggled at the idea of Ned with longish bearded millennial Williamsburg unicycle shaggy hair.

After the intro, they guide you to a page all about this particular test. You can either read the steps, or watch another video where they show you the steps. I kind of do both at once.

“Are those guys gay?” asked Ned, as we watched two millennial men play memory games with their trendy large dog who I promise you they refer to as a “rescue,” a dog inexplicably named Kai.

“Kai? Are they saying Kai? Oh, those two are a couple,” surmised Ned, who really isn’t as homophobic as I’m making him sound.

“SHHH. Ned, I’m watching how to do this,” I said.

And, see, there was our problem. Because while I, superior I, was busy learning how to test Edsel’s memory, Ned was too busy mocking the video, and when I got started, he had the

NERVE

to tell me I was doing it wrong.

“What–why are you–you can’t LIFT the cup. That’s cheating,” Ned would say, having not paid attention to one of Kai’s gay owners LIFTING THE CUP during the video.

Meanwhile, here was Edsel.

IMG_6062.jpg
dees too again. why dey not just go no contack?

Eds was SO not into our testing last night. Some of it had to do with Ned and me bickering, and some was the part where you’d show him a treat, put said treat under a cup, then wait as long as two and a half minutes before he could retrieve the treat.

Lemme tell you who 100% forgot treats were ever invented in 2.5 minutes. That would be old steel-trap Edsel, up there.

Screen Shot 2018-03-14 at 8.26.44 PM.png

In summary, Edsel’s memory sucks. They tried to be polite about it, but later in the description they talked about how wolves and feral dogs have to hunt prey for hours, and while sometimes the prey isn’t in site, these wild animals remember the prey’s general vicinity and keep hunting.

“Edsel doesn’t have this instinct,” they euphemized, pretending it was because he was so well fed at home that he didn’t need it. They can’t come out and say, Your dog is sort of a dunce.

“There is no need to worry! It is just one more piece of evidence that Edsel has his own cognitive style,” they said.

Yes. His own cognitive style. That’s it.

IMG_6049.jpg
Yu heer dat, Steeeleee? Eyeriss dyeeeng. Own cognitiff style.

I gotta go. I have to get in the shower and get my own style going. I’ve started Retin-A and remember that scene in Sex and the City where Samantha shows up to Carrie’s book party with the raw face?

Veil down, I think.

Samantha-in-veil_slide.jpg

Attractively,
Jeb

June is generally cranky.

It’s a cold, rainy, miserable Monday following stupid daylight saving, which is the perfect punctuation to a cold, rainy miserable weekend. Later today, it’s going to snow! In March! So then it’ll be a cold, snowy, miserable March Monday. In 11 years of living in NC, I have yet to encounter snow in March.

Right now, the rain is so cold that I took trash out to the bin, with the intention of rolling said bin to the curb, saw there was only one other bag in the bin, and said, “Fuck it.” That’s how cold and miserable it is. I’ll-live-with-trash-in-the-bin-for-another-week miserable.

I’m unsure if I’ve precisely expressed to you the not-pretty that is my weather.

And why’s it gotta be so goddamn early? What the Sam Philistine Fuck?

June’s blog. Come for the inspiration.

Anyway, when last we spoke, I’d had an unnecessary medical procedure guaranteed to make me look younger, which so far hasn’t kicked in. It hurts less, but mostly I have the agony of discomfort and none of the recaptured youth. In fact, with my broken toe–that is now on week 5 but is definitely getting better–I’ve done very little exercise and am starting to abhor self. I look even older and larger than when the weekend began.

Also, Edsel went to the vet Friday, and I say that like he said, “Taakking carr. Bee back soonz” but really I drove him. He had his bordetella, which is a shot dogs get so they can hobnob at daycare and in dog parks and at dog bars and dog sex clubs. It’s the condom of dog shots.

My point is, they weighed him at the vet and he weighs 50, which is an all-time high for the Edz. He weighs this much because we’ve gone on zero walks since The Toe Incident. I think I hobbled to the corner and back with him once or twice, but that’s it. I feel terrible about it, but what can you do? I can’t fekking walk.

So, today is out, because perhaps I didn’t mention the weather, but it’s poorly, the weather is. But tomorrow I’ll put on my folk fest shoes

IMG_5642.jpg
How many shoes must a woman try on. Before you can call her a man.

and try to walk him at least two blocks. See if m’toe can deal.

…Just now, ridiculous Steely Dan asked to go out, and I say “ridiculous” because he IS ridiculous, and also because I asked him if he wanted to go out when I let Eds out in the yard for his morning constitutional, and I asked him again 20 minutes later when I let Eds back in, and both times he glowered at me from a foot away.

Then as soon as I got under Laila Ali

Laila_Ali_by_Gage_Skidmore.jpg
Oooooo!

he started mowing and sounding pitiful and carrying on, so I got OUT from under Laila Ali

Laila_Ali_by_Gage_Skidmore
Darn.

and opened the door.

He sniffed. Put a delicate paw on the cold metal threshold.

IMG_5861.jpg
do steeelee LOOK like fan of watur?

Anyway, I understood his emotion, there, because in case I hadn’t driven it on home, it’s cold and rainy out. And miserable.

I got under Laila again

Laila_Ali_by_Gage_Skidmore
woot!

and seconds later,

meow.

For a big, hulking imposition of a cat, he has the girliest delicate meow. You’d think he’d be one of those Patty-and-Selma-meowing cats, all, MEOW. But he isn’t.

When I was a kid, we’d go to Rose Auto Supply to get gas. I liked going there because I liked the name Rose, and also, this ENORMOUS–I mean HUGE–guy would come to the window.

“Fill it up with regular,” my father would always say, and I never knew what that meant, but I also thought maybe he was saying, “Fill it up with irregular,” and that was even MORE compelling, but my point is, the gas-filler at Rose Auto Supply had

the

highest

voice

you ever heard on a man. He made Snow White sound butch. I was riveted by this anomaly, and in retrospect am certain I was not subtle in my fascination. Probably all kids were riveted by him, and I wonder if the advances in medical science could help that poor guy today, or if even now he’d be Squeaky Fromme.

I was similarly riveted by the waitress at Johnny’s Chick-Inn who had an arm tattoo. And the saleslady at Weichmann’s who had purple hair. No child would bat at eye at either of those today. But in 1968 in Saginaw, those were things to see, man. And why was my local downtown where circus characters all got work, I wonder.

My point is, I got up again and that gray bastard did the same thing all over, and now he’s wailing pitifully again in that squeaky Rose Auto Supply meow,

Photo on 3-12-18 at 8.18 AM #2.jpgand he can go fuck his own sleek self, is what he can do.

In case you wondered about my weekend, and who doesn’t. “I’d LIKE to begin work, but I just wonder what June did this weekend.” In case you wondered, I had a little personal challenge this weekend.

IMG_5955.jpg
yuuu DID?

As you know, from having your finger on the pulse of June and all her events, I lost my ATM card last Friday due to whiskey sours that were FORCED down my throat, and I had to order a new one. ATM card, not throat.

At some point last week, I drove to the bank and wrote a check to Cash like it was 1969. I took out a hundred dollars, bought exactly $80 worth of groceries (I did that thing where I added up groceries as I threw them in the cart, and then knowing my maths worried that I’d get up there and be told, “That will be $467.48, please”) and then spent another 14 on god knows what, and the point is, I got busy Friday and forgot to go back to the bank.

So with $6, no ATM card and not even the ability to order movies and shows (because debit card locked), I couldn’t go anywhere or watch anything, you know what I did?

I watched Hot & Flashy videos. Do you know this woman? She’s our age, and she looks fekking amazing, and she tells you in great detail how she does it. For example, she has 11 cleansing/anti-aging steps each day.

She is my hero. And I’m champing at the bit to buy all her products, but see card, frozen. This is probably good, cause I mighta binged otherwise.

I see it’s already NINE FUCKING O’CLOCK and who set the TIMES forward, so I’d better go to work.

Chilled and not-that-flashily,
Joob

I had Ultherapy. Volume I.

img_5870

I am 52 and single (see above). The longer I am single, the less that bothers me.

Sort of.

The single part? Okay, fine. Although my nightly pet orgy is cause for concern. But the 52 and LOOKING 52 part? Okay, that rankled.

Fortunately, I’ve had a blog (WEBSITE!! IT’S A WEBSI–oh, who are we kidding) since 2006, so I have 4954950305 photos of self, which enables me to watch aging as it creeps angrily across face.

Screen Shot 2018-03-09 at 10.54.16 AM.png
2006. Totally cut you out, there, ex. Sorry. -ish.
img_5898
2009. It’s a blur. BAH.
img_5893
2013. Guess I could remove this ex, too, but am pressed for time.

Perhaps I should be embracing life and being delighted to be alive and not concern myself with the ravages of time, but perhaps there is no way I’m gonna do that. The only people who say that are people who were never cute in the first place. And look. I was never any beauty queen. But sometimes I was okay with my looks. Now I never, ever am.

I once read that if, once all your makeup is on and you’ve DONE YOUR BEST, you STILL feel unhappy with your looks, then it’s time for medical intervention. Gandhi said that. I’ve kept it in mind, and I’ve reached that point.

img_5900.jpg
2008. You guys were right. ALL my pictures back then sucked.
IMG_5895.jpg
2010

Anyway, no matter how much makeup I put on nowadays, no matter what tricks I pulled off, when I was done I didn’t look refreshed. I looked rehashed.

IMG_5803
This week

Okay, that photo was after an exhausting day. Doesn’t count.

BroadestBerry
Grandma’s here.

Okay, here. I believe this was Christmas 2017. Makeup completely applied, and? Eh.

So my friend who gets everything done told me about Ultherapy. It’s this little machine they pass over your face (877 times, in my case) (seriously) that allegedly destroys and then grows your collagen, so that a few months after having it, you look exactly as you did at birth. Yes, I DID attempt to get them to pay for this procedure, knowing that at least 14 people read me. No, that did NOT impress them.

But the good news is now I can tell you all about it honestly.

So, first, my friend told me about how she’d had it done, and was waiting for the full results to kick in, but that she thought she already saw a difference. Interest. Piqued.

Then I read read read about it, and if you go on their website, the fine folks at Ultherapy will send you a simulation of what you’ll look like after, a simulation photo I had but could not find, and why, god. I’m a good person. Look at all the lovely sentiments in this here post.

Anyway, I saw three Ultherapy providers here in my area, and found one I trusted, and who would take a payment plan because of course I can’t afford this, and yes, it costs. It depends how much you have done, but it’s gonna cost at least $2,000.

Yesterday, I went for my procedure.

I didn’t have to do anything to prepare except avoid Retinol for a week and take 9 million milligrams of Motrin. I never take anything but migraine meds, but I happened to own Motrin because of broken toe, Motrin that I never took. I took a little less than she told me to, because I was worried it’d make me sick.

That may have been an error.

I wasn’t even nervous, which is also a mistake, because I find if I worry and obsess about something, it’s usually okay, and if I’m Chester Cheeto about it, whatever I didn’t worry about tends to be hell.

I hobbled in right at 2:00, and she took photos of me, and then we discussed which areas we were going to cover. What bugs me most about self is I have no jawline anymore.

img_3045.jpgHey, June, would you like a jawbreaker? Oh, I…are you even allowed to eat those?

So we were for sure doing that area, and I could have gone down onto my neck and décolletage, but instead I opted to do my cheeks. Just a little pinch between my cheek and gum.

We also did my forehead. I wasn’t expecting to do that, but I did not complain. Well. I DID complain, but we’re getting to that.

Because what I read, in the 2939402032 sites I perused, is there is “some discomfort” and that it “varies from person to person.” Well, I get Botox shot into m’forehead three times a year, and Juvederm as well. And I take it like a man. I say nothing and have a heart attack later.

But this?

She’d revved up her machine, and I was still completely not nervous. I was lying in a reclining chair, like at the dentist, and she’d given me a blanket. Then she said, “Ready? Three, two, one…”

MOTHER OF GOD!

MADRE DE DIOS!

HOLY CATS!

The best way I can describe it is hot needles that had jalapeño on their tips. And that thing was jalapeño business, man. I mean, it has to go deep to RIP OUT all your collagen or whatever, and one thing that was good was the woman administering it, who was great, would count down for me. “Okay, in this area we need to do 60 passes.” And then she’d be all, “We’re at 37.”

Like I didn’t know that. Like I wasn’t counting every terrible pass over my skin. Still, it was nice she did that. And she would move to another area for awhile if I got too tense.

I was in agony knowing that with each part of my face, we’d have to come back and go over it again, and possibly even one more time after that. But the second pass?

Didn’t hurt nearly as much.

And I mean, look. It hurt. But I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream for her to stop. I just lay there covered in SWEAT, is all. But I got through it.

She told me it’d take two hours, and it took precisely that. When I got up, I’d left a Shroud of Turin on the chair. The backs of my jeans were damp.

IMG_5839.jpg
Me, right after. I was thirsty. Hmmm, why? Because I’d sweated like Meat Loaf in concert?
img_5896.jpg
Me, today. My grandmother back there is younger there than I am now. HER skin was good. You think she got Ultherapy on the sly? “Oh, I’m headed out for more elastic-waist beige slacks.”

Anyway, last night I was a little swollen but nothing terrible. My cheeks are numb, which they said to expect. I should start seeing results (more of a jawline, more lift in cheeks, lifted brows) in 90 days, and of course I will keep you apprised of my every nuance re this investment in my future.

“She was the best-looking bag lady I ever saw. So smooth!”

Further reports as developments warrant.

A whole post literally about nothing

Photo on 3-7-18 at 8.01 AM.jpgHang on. I’m strappin’ on Laila Ali.

Photo on 3-7-18 at 8.05 AM.jpg
Girl, you hot

Do you think every time I say I’m strapping on Laila Ali that the real Laila Ali gets a little thrill and doesn’t know why? “Ooo, what is that? Always happens around 8 a.m. Eastern.”

Plus also, do you think the fine folks at The Green Bean coffeehouse will give me cash money for product placement?

Just now, when I linked to the coffeeshop, JUST NOW, after living here TEN YEARS, did I get the name. All this time, I just thought I meant they roasted the beans there or something, and so the beans were green when they got there, but it’s because Greensboro. Right?

Because Greensboro.

Nothing gets past me. If you give me 10 years.

It’s been almost 10 years to the day that I bought this house, and I know I have a really cute picture of me with puppy Tallulah, with her pink leash and leopard collar, standing in front of this house the day we decided to buy it, and I’d like to frame it, but can I find it? I cannot. I KNOW IT EXISTS.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
This is also a picture from that same day. Oh, THIS boring picture, I can find. Sure.

My iPhotos allegedly have a search feature, but here’s what all I got when I searched “puppy.”

img_2525.jpgViolet the puppy, chewing Talu. Also, this was before I had a good iPhone camera.

6a00e54f9367fb8834017744a8129b970d-800wi.jpg
Not a puppy. A GOOF, but not a puppy.
IMG_1985.jpg
Lu with a 12-year-old-looking Ned

Did I tell you about Ned’s crisis during the Academy Awards? I can’t recall.

6a00e54f9367fb883401a5116c2927970c-800wi
Youthful Ned
ad_146999505-e1513329988309.jpg
Youthful Mark Hamill

Apparently, when Ned was young–way way back when Ned was young–people told him he looked like Luke Skywalker all the time. So for some reason, Mark Hamill was all over the ding-dang Oscars the other night, and does anyone really know why? He wasn’t nominated, was he?

Screen Shot 2018-03-07 at 8.26.39 AM.png

da8b3-6a00e54f9367fb883401b8d0f26d89970c-pi.jpg
May the aging be with you.

When Mark Hamill appeared on the Academy Awards, Ned was all, “OH MY GOD, THAT’S WHAT I LOOK LIKE.”

“It’s really not, really. Not exact–”

“IT IS! I LOOK TERRIBLE! Oh my god. I look like aging Mark Hamill.”

I mean, a little. Okay, a tad. But not really. There was no telling Ned this, however.

“Oh, god, there he is AGAIN. Oh my god I look TERRIBLE.” Ned acted like he was looking in a mirror every time he saw Mark Hamill.

And speaking of which, as you know from your Big Book of June Events, about a month ago, an electrician came by and fixed the fan in my bathroom. For 10 years (see above) I been livin’ with a bathroom that has no fan, and as a result it got steamy in there when I showered, and as a result the ceiling paint was peeling, and as a result Alf my ridiculous handyman got mad at me and said CALL THE ELECTRICIAN.

So I did. And it was easy to fix. Then Alf my ridiculous handyman chipped and sanded and painted my ceiling, which I’ll bet was a good time.

The point is, for the first time in 10 years (see above), when I get out the shower, I can see myself in the steam-free bathroom mirror, emerging from the tub.

Remember that scene in The Shining?

Shining+woman

Aging is not for the faint of heart, man. Sometimes I cackle at myself just to add to the effect. Jack Nicholson’s reaction to this old lady is probably his reaction to any woman over 30 who hits on him.

Fucking men.

I see I’ve talked for 600 words now about precisely nothing, so let’s call it a day and look at whatever pictures I took yesterday. See if there’s anything worth mentioning.

IMG_5805.png

Ah, yes. While I’ve no idea who “Karen Sommerfeld” is, and that joke never gets old, I created a poll yesterday to ask about Edsel’s looks. It would appear “goof” is winning out over “handsome.”

Eds resent.

IMG_5796.jpgAlso, my feet were so freezing at work yesterday that I finally just put my mittens on my feet. I figured THAT would be the moment the owner of our company wanted to come to my desk and talk to me, but that did not happen. A shit-ton of regular, nonowner people wanted to discuss what the eff was up with m’feet though. Whatever. Get to work.

I had a harrowing day, work-wise, with people asking if I was busy, me saying yes and them saying, “Well, here are six articles, all due tomorrow” RYAN, so why ask me if I’m busy since that didn’t matter RYAN.

My point is, as soon as work was done I screamed to a coffeeshop named Geeksboro–and see, I get that name, because Greensboro, and they have video games there or whatever you geeky kids call them now–and the point is I met someone there and we had intense talks till pretty late, and then I had to scream home and feed all the pets who hated me for being late, and when I finally got to bed I noticed in my Shining mirror how hagged out and exhausted I looked.

IMG_5803.jpg
Don’t fuck with me, fella

I swear I was smoking zero gange. I had also had zero alcohol. I guess those are proofreader eyes. THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU WORK ME TOO HARD, RYAN.

IMG_5804.jpg
Next dating profile pic

IMG_5810.jpgIMG_5808.jpgI leave you with photos I just took of The Needy Committee, and you see how Edsel is staring into my soul? That’s every minute of every day. When I’m at work, I’ll bet he stares in the general direction of work. No one finds me more riveting than Edsel. In fact, no one FINDS me riveting except Edsel.

Seeing as that’s true, I will go now.

Rivetingly,

Juan

The Weeknd (God, is June hip)

[Flumps coat and purse in first, slides into booth after.] Have you been here long?

Sometimes, on Mondays, when I haven’t written all weekend, I sit down here at my desk and think, What the fuck did I just do for the last 72 hours? Today is one of those days. Then what I’ll do (tell us more, June. This is riveting.) is plug in my phone to see what pictures I took, and apparently Friday just didn’t exist. I took zero photos.

Remember when the camera (and your flashbulbs) would be on top of the fridge or in a closet or something, and you only got it out at Easter? “Everyone stand in front of this wall, because that wall will be fascinating in years to come.”

Anyway, maybe I had a migraine. Maybe it’s Maybelline.

IMG_5603.jpgAt least I know what I did Saturday. I did Nancy. Call PETA.

IMG_5598.jpgIMG_5590.jpgI had to get my eyelashes redone Saturday, because I’m a deep person who does a lot for the world in her spare time. And who understands first- and third-person rules. Anyway, since I was out, I called Ned. “Can I come visit Nancy?”

She’d had FOUR DAYS IN A ROW of pooping in the box. When I was there, it was the start of day five. “Let’s move her up to the computer room now,” I implored, because it was up to me. Nevertheless, that’s what we did, and I hobbled up those steps with cat bowls and so on, and Ned got her all set up.

“Let’s let her wander around while you’re home,” I implored, because any of this was my business.

She was so glad to have the house to wander again. Cooped up in that stupid half bath. Actually, that was always my favorite room when I lived there. Had wainscoting. And a teensy chandelier. And it was my color.

IMG_1899.jpg

[teensy chandelier not pictured.] [also, this is when I lived here. Ned does not have a fruity pink flamingo or an Eiffel Tower ring-holder.]

Anyway, it was all going great with Nancy till at some point she pooped behind the shower curtain, so she’s in that computer room till further notice.

IMG_1896.jpg
hooo go der?

To find that photo of my bathroom, fmr., I had to scroll back to photos from 2014. This photo was taken on the same day, as I traversed the basement stairs. Back when m’toes functioned.

IMG_5645.jpg

Anyway, I got my lashes done, and I like how one has already fallen off, here. Also too I look fairly dead here.

When I wasn’t hanging out with my animals or other people’s animals Saturday,

IMG_5607.jpgIMG_5611.jpg

IMG_5623.jpg
Yes, I do know it’s probably nice enough out that I can clean all this furniture again. I’M BROKEN.

I finally got my broken-toe shoes that the doctor said I had to get. I’d been to all sorts of no-nonsense-shoes stores I never go into.

Dowdy ShoeWarehouse.

You Look Like Thom McCann.

Too Many Clarks Bars.

Wayless (attractive) Shoes.

REI‘m Butch.

Why do athletic, down-to-earth gals always hate me?

But I finally found luck (“luck”) at the Birkenstock store, where a young salesboy had to hear approximately 47,000 inappropriate Birkenstocks jokes from me.

“I’m not really a Birkenstock person,” I explained to him, first thing, as soon as I hobbled in, like I’m Zsa Zsa Gabor or something, with all this glamor. You know what that whippersnapper at the store would not know? Is who Zsa Zsa Gabor is.

IMG_5642 2.jpgThe point is, I got these, for a mere $138. I have $68 till payday now. Who knew granola women paid so much for shoes?

I’ve worn them all weekend, except for late Saturday night, when I was going to bed and stubbed my broken toe on the cat scratcher.

God

DAMMIT.

IMG_5653.jpg
Hot Saturday night at the Gardens house. The Gardens/Silverman/Frost house. No one here has the same last name. Well, Iris and Lilly both share “Frost” as a last name. What is wrong with me?

IMG_5655.jpgOn Sunday, I groomed.

Did some cleaning.

IMG_5658.jpgIMG_5659.jpgOf course he’s that cat. The play-with-sheets cat. Do you enjoy my Tums? Hot. Tums and enzyme cleaner for cat pee. Hotter.

The shelter wrote me this weekend to see if I wanted to take another mom and her four kittens. I said no. I am so not ready after that last fiasco. See? Sometimes I have impulse control.

Anyway, as I was taking recycling out or something, I looked over at Peg’s and noted…

IMG_5664.jpg…her tulip tree’s bloomed. She always bemoaned that tree, because it either didn’t bloom at all or it would too early and then there’d be a freeze and all the buds would die. I sent her this picture, through her daughter. I hope she likes seeing it. I know seeing her house gray will piss her off. She liked the yellow.

I also saw The Post yesterday afternoon, and I think that means I’ve seen all the Oscar-nominated films, including the shorts, so I am all set for Oscar night.

IMG_5661 2.jpgI even have the shoes.

In which aspic is mentioned

When we left each other yesterday, slamming the door and saying, “IT’S OVER! I MEAN IT THIS TIME!”, I was going to try to come back here and write you at lunch.

That didn’t happen. Work. Tis busy.

So here’s a two-day update on everything that’s happening in my stupid world. I wish to tell you about Ned and Nancy, my broken toe (surprise!), stupid cosmetic things I did and also Steely Dan’s shenanigans. This is like when you go to a fancy event and they show you a little menu of what you’re getting.

MENU

Fresh radishes
Liverwurst finger sandwiches
Aspic

No, I don’t know what kind of horrific imaginary fancy events I attend, either.

Ned & Nancy. An update.

I wanted to give you a visual, here, so I went to my pictures and searched, “cat,” and then my computer carried on with the guffawing. “Oh, THAT’S specific, June,” it said, as my computer is actually some kind of talking sarcastic animal like on The Flintstones.

IMG_4112.jpgHere. And lose the attitude, computer.

As you know–because for generations, your family will be gathering to tell my stories–Ned adopted Nancy, my foster cat. What with the losing her kittens and the going back to the shelter to get spayed and having a terrible time with her operation and possibly with being feral, she got to Ned’s and was not pooping in her box. Like, she was pooping all over yonder, including her food dish.

Ned did everything, seriously everything, so stop “Did he…”-ing me. The vet suggested he confine poor Nancy–which I just wrote as “poop Nancy”–to one small room, and leave her in there.

Guess what. It worked. It took several days, but for the past FOUR days, she has gone exclusively in her box. Ned is encouraged. “This weekend, I’ll move her up to the computer room,” said Ned. He gave Nancy a promotion.

Toe. An update.

As you know, because for generations your family will–oh, stop, June. M’toe is broken.

Yesterday, my doctor-recommended hard-soled shoes came. I worked from home yesterday, because I never thought about it much till it HURT, but it’s a long damn-ass walk from the parking lot to my actual desk, and it involves stairs, and ouch.

So I propped my foot yesterday, I was in the props department, and then when my shoes came, I hobbled to the door to receive them. It was like shoe communion.

Screen Shot 2018-02-21 at 7.59.15 AM

There they were. All flowered and shit.

And?

I can’t wear them. I can’t get my foot in that little hole. I mean, I forced myself into said shoe like a wicked stepsister, and then it hurt worse once it was in there. So this weekend, Ima have to hobble over to DSW and look for something clog-ish.

Dammit.

Also, the part where it was almost evening and I was putting on shoes sent Edsel into fits of WE GONNA WALK joy, and I had to crush his dreams rather testily, as I was in pain and he was IRKING me.

Also, this morning, I was drying off after showering

(I’ll give you a moment to stop being turned on.)

1200px-Marcus_Thames_Tigers_2007

and as I was drying off, I half paid attention (my epitaph) and sort of told myself, Remember your big toe is broken when of course

IT’S THE LITTLE TOE MOTHER OF GOD OW.

OWW.

OW.

So now it hurts even more.

And, scene.

June’s a grooming asshole. An update.

Recently, I noted that there are many cute local stores and boutiques near me that I never go into. I always breeze past them as I’m on my way to get something else, usually a sandwich. There’s one sandwich place that’s been there since 1977 and they’ve updated the decor not at all, and I’m deeply in love with the whole atmosphere. I feel like I should be in there with my rainbow jeans and my Bass 100s.

Anyway, a few Saturdays back I decided to spend the whole day just popping into all those shops I never go in, and that is how I discovered the grooming place.

They might as well rename themselves June Store.

They do Botox and microdermabrasion, facial peels and makeup. They do manicures and waxing, they do all the shit I blow all my money on. I was there, innocently getting Botox when I found myself signing up for eyelash extensions.

Yes.

It takes more than an hour, as you lie there and talk to a woman who sounds precisely like my pal Alicia, who is painstakingly attaching eyelashes to your lid, one by one. It lasts about a month–you’re supposed to go back and get touchups.

IMG_5384.jpg
goddamn nose

But the thing is, they mostly all fell out. And I was all, Well, THAT was a bust, but in fact they texted me to ask how my lashes were working out. And that is the kind of person I am. I get texts asking, How are your lashes working out?

Anyway I told them and they’re redoing them all for free.

The interesting thing, and I may be alone in placing this under the category of “interesting,” is that you’re not allowed to wear mascara with these on, and as these are falling out I’m still not using mascara, because rule-follower.

The point is, I can see my real lashes now, and this is the longest I’ve ever gone without mascara since I’m 24 and went through a hippie phase. I mean, allegedly I take my mascara off, but those of you who groom know it’s never really off. There are always remenenenenants.

My friend’s grandmother could never say that word, so now I can’t NOT say “remenenenants” as well.

THE POINT IS, it’s really off. I mean, I have no mascara on these lashes. And what a set of namby-pamby Melanie Wilkes lashes these are. Holy cats. Why do I have to have seven pounds of hair and caterpillar brows and if I don’t shave my legs every morning I’m Zira from Planet of the Apes but my eyelashes?

NO! Fine and blonde, those are.

WHY, GOD.

…Oh, right. Yes, I’d forgotten that. …Oh, that too? You’re still pissed about that? Geez.

IMG_5544.jpg

I see I’ve run out of time to tell you about Steely Dan, but I think you and I both know it would go like this:

SD is an asshole. We all love him for it.

The end.