At 52, June finally plays with a full deck

“I have to blog,” I just told my mother. Not that I have a blog.

When I’m visiting her, I always emphasize how, if I’m writing, I don’t like to be interrupted. Ruins m’flow.

“I know you have you write, you’ve told me and told me,” she said from her perch in the living room. I have. I’ve tried to write all the other days she’s been here and as soon as I sit down, she’ll be all, “Where are your spoons?”

So, I said, “Okay, here I go. Really writing now.” I sat down. Stretched my claws. Poised over the keyboard.

“Did you feed Edsel?” Continue reading “At 52, June finally plays with a full deck”

In real life, vowels are free

Even though I have allegedly set it up so that when I plug my phone into my computer–and there’s something anyone said, ever, in 1947–my photos should pop right up, they never do. They USED to. I’ve no idea what’s gone wrong. Continue reading “In real life, vowels are free”

Try to guess the swear word I use when I hit Publish then realize I’ve not added a title.

I knew I was going to a party yesterday afternoon, so I planned my ensemble in my mind so that I could do my freelance work in peace. I showered, did my hair, put on my kabuki makeup

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Fuck with me and die

Continue reading “Try to guess the swear word I use when I hit Publish then realize I’ve not added a title.”

June plays it safe with an unoffensive title

So far this Easter weekend I’ve had to call the emergency number for the gas company so that I wouldn’t blow up, told Ned we have to not talk for a few months, put up a bat house, heard from two men from my past, and ordered two new bras. 36D in the howse! Actually, 36D in the mail. Continue reading “June plays it safe with an unoffensive title”

That Crone is Thinner Than Me

“Hello, petty.” That was a message I got from a tuxedo’d man on Tinder last night. Yes, now I’m on Tinder. It’s not as hook-uppy as you’d think. I’m sure he meant to write, “You’re so pretty, June” but instead he wrote “Hello, petty,” and that sums me up so much better. Continue reading “That Crone is Thinner Than Me”

Let’s just act like we’ve always been here.

Oh, hey! (I’m waving like I know somebody across the room, cause we’re all such regulars here at WordPress. Oh my god, chicken skewers with peanut sauce again?)

(You know what sounds really good right now?) Continue reading “Let’s just act like we’ve always been here.”

Linear. That’s what I am. Yep.

I have a new thing that bugs me.

"WHAT? How can that be POSSIBLE, easygoing June!" [Leans into computer, rapt.]

When someone refers to any emotion being "at a cellular level." Oh, shut up. Yes, my cells know I got kicked out of Brownies when I was six, and they're still celling over it. Jesus Christ.

Disclaimer: I was da BOMB at Brownies. Everyone loved me. I was the best Brownie. Nobody was a better Brownie than me. Have you seen the video (veeedeo) of all the times Donald Trump says he's the best at something? I can't find it, but it's funny. You must trust me on this. Or do a better job Googling. Whichever.

I kind of wish that, when I was typing you in the morning, someone would just stand behind me and lift my bosoms for me. I realize they've invented an article of clothing that will do that, but in the morning I type you in whatever pajamas the cat hasn't eaten, and it's an issue. Do you think I could hire, like, a 16-year-old boy, a foreign exchange student or something?

And that was the day the police burst into June's house.

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Plucky little on-her-6th-or-7th-life Iris and I went to the vet yesterday, to see what condition her condition was in. She's really very good in the car, as opposed to Lily, who once you put her in a carrier observes the following:

MEOW!

MEOW!

MEOWWWW!

When the vet walked in, he was very somber. "How is Edsel?" he asked.

"Well, he's–"

"The Prozac didn't seem to work, eh?" he went on, starting to examine Iris.

HE THOUGHT EDSEL WAS THE DOG ATTACKER!

Edsel! Attacking Iris!

I mean, okay, he eats puppies, but that doesn't make him some kind of monster. "No, no, no!" I said.

That's another thing that bugs me. It bugs me a lot, in fact. People who can't just say "no." They gotta say, "No no no no no no."

SHUT

UPPPPPP.

Anyway, "No, no, no," I said. "Edsel did not attack Iris! Oh my god, no! He's been so concerned about her! He loves the cats!"

And that is when I started overcompensating for Edsel, talking about what a wonderful brother he is, how he provides for our family and we have such good times when he's not in a fang-y rage.

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"So, the Prozac is working for him?" the vet asked.

"Not really."

Anyway, Iris's potassium levels are back to normal. She had one count that was still high, but my girl has a whole lotta muscle and tissue damage and that's to be expected. While we were there, her pain medicine wore off, and she started the walking around growling thing that is both adorable and awful. I gave her more as soon as we got home.

The vet said while she's on her crappy antibiotic, that white liquid stuff that if you have a pet you've given your animal at some point, it'll make her not hungry. I'm still tempting her with Steely Dan kitten food

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goddammitz

and she's willing to at least eat some of that. And speaking of how that cat should not even count as a kitten anymore, speaking of how the Pope should give me a dispensation and let me feed him regular food, when I was at the vet, I was smiling at the cat carrier, because it's one of those ancient hard plastic ones, as opposed to those cute collapsible ones you modern folk have now, and on top of it, in magic marker,

THIS MAGIC MARKER! So different and new!

in magic marker it reads "Ruby." It was the carrier we used to fly her from California to here. And then there's a laminated tag on the carrier that reads, "Henry" from when I took him to the emergency vet once. It's like a little history of my 9,000 cats.

I just remembered something. Yesterday was the anniversary of Ruby's death. Eight years. Okay, weird.

Anyway, for the first time, I noted an envelope taped to the carrier as well. It was Henry's papers from the time he was at the emergency vet, same reason he had the laminated card. The point is, while I was waiting yesterday I opened the envelope. Fully grown adult Henry weighed 7.5 pounds during that vet visit.

Steely Dan is 8 months old. He weighs more than 10 pounds.

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Here's why! Last night I brought food in bed to poor convalescing Iris, who is staying in my room for now. She nibbled at it a bit, but eventually SD came in and, my, what a delightful visitor he is. "Oh! Food gone beggeeeng!"

Did your mother ever say that when something was still left? "Biscuits going begging!' "Potatoes going begging!"

My friend's mom did. Please see above list of things that bug me.

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This picture absolutely kills me. I title it The Indifference of Youth. I also title it, For God's Sake, Get New Curtains, June.

In other news, I walked three miles yesterday. Because you're mine, I walk a mile. Wait. That's not how it goes. Anyway, at work, we have this little walk we do called Fuchs Loop, because Fuchs at work discovered it, and you get to walk past a lot of rich people's houses, and I had time to take that walk in the a.m. and the p.m. I'm like the convenience store. AM/PM June.

Then Edsel and I took our walk and then I went to the grocery store and I was all, man, I feel kind of tired. And right then I knew. I'd walked a lot yesterday.

Also, and here's where you start to feel bad for me. Not my hangdog cat or my insane dog. Not my sad bedroom curtains or my sagging bosoms. No. Here's why.

They were out of my flavor of La Croix.

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"Did you find everything okay?" the chippie at the checkout counter asked me.

"You were out out Berry LaCroix," I said.

"…What's that?"

Okay, don't ASK me if you don't CARE, is what I say. Jesus. So then I got home and watched The Gilmore Girls and all I could think of was how a can of Berry LaCroix sure would be good right now.

I gotta go. I sent a letter to the rotten neighbors who refuse to call to say, "Sorry our dogs are maulers" and I included the receipts for both vet visits, coming to a grand total of $1,968.37. I feel like that letter will be received less willingly than a letter from, say, Publisher's Clearinghouse. I should have gone over there with the invoices and a few balloons.

Okay, June, out.

The one where June’s family assumes she’s missing, has fit

I woke up Thursday with a migraine, which is annoying. When you wake up with one, there's really nothing you can do. It's often too late to take medicine. But took some I did, and fortunately it worked, so I only had to work with a migraine for, you know, three hours or something comfy like that.

Then on Friday I woke up with a migraine.

Goddammit.

And because I'd had one the day before, that crept back in at night, I'd taken two pills Thursday, which means on Friday I had half a pill left.

Here's the thing about my goddamn medication. You get nine to a pack. That's all they'll sell you. And you could go around with two-and-a-half pills for three weeks before you need more. And they won't do refills till 30 days have passed.

So what ALWAYS HAPPENS is I have a bad day, get down to one or one-and-a-half pills, panic and call the pharmacy and

always.

ALWAYS,

get told I don't have any refills. I swear to you it seems that way. I get migraines constantly, every month, since I'm 25. JUST GIVE ME THE GODDAMN REFILL.

So then I call the doctor, and I have to sit through that

GODDAMN

voice mail, where they

always.

ALWAYS,

tell you to pay attention cause their prompts have changed, and why the fuck do they always do that? Why? They HAVE NEVER CHANGED IN NINE YEARS OF THAT PLACE.

So you finally get the assistant to your doctor, but you never REALLY get her, no. You get a machine, of course, telling you that if this is a real emergency to hang up and dial SUCK MY DICK YOU CONDESCENDING 20-YEAR-OLD NINNY.

THEN, they ask you to be sure to tell them your name, the patient's name, their date of birth, a phone number "where you can be reached"

Oh, really? Because you don't want to FUCK AROUND with voice mail? Really? I wonder what that feels like.

The point is, they go on and on after and you can never remember, by the time it beeps, what all you're supposed to tell them. Also, ALSO, every doctor at that place has at least one day a week that they're gone by noon. At this point I work with THREE doctors there, so often have I called needed a refill and the doctor is out till the next

FUCKING

day.

ALSO, if this weren't enough, they tell you, Prescription refills will be filled within 48 hours.

Why don't you suck my enormous fire hose of a dick.

I HAVE A MIGRAINE! GIVE ME MORE THAN NINE AT A TIME AND GIVE ME REFILLS IF YOU'RE GONNA BE DICKS ABOUT REFILLS OH MY GOD.

So, you see how I maybe got a tad hot under the collar just now? You can imagine my sparkling mood Friday morning when faced with all the above AGAIN, for the NINE HUNDREDTH TIME, and basically the message I left for the "assistant" aka never-ending voice mail contained even more F words than I've already uttered. I was SO ANGRY.

In case my mood wasn't clear. Oh, and also? I'd tried the pharmacy three times to see if they could help, and it just rang and rang, and finally I called customer service. "The pharmacy isn't open yet, ma'am." What is this, 1980? You can't have a MESSAGE saying that? I get machines when I don't want them, and I don't get them when I need them.

Seriously. When you're sick, the last thing you should have to put up with is all that bullshit.

So I left the F-y message with the doctor on my drive to work, then called my stepfather and had HIM call in my goddamn prescription, as he is a doctor and plays one on my blog.

Several hours later, I was working, when my phone rang. It was my doctor's office. By that time I was so mortified about how sweary I'd been that I did not pick up. Now I gotta get a new doctor.

I mean, really. It's bullshit, that place.

I can't remember now what I did on Friday night–oh! I got my fortune told.

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I went to the place I always go, and Ima keep her predictions a secret this time, and let you know later if she was right. "Can June really afford to see a psychic?" everyone's asking, lips pursed. NO, okay? I LEARNED IT FROM YOU, DAD. I learned it from you.

Name that commercial.

On Saturday, I woke up with a migraine.

I KNOW.

Because I'd been so busy psychic-ing on Friday, I'd failed to get my prescription filled, after all that. So go to the pharmacy I did, on Saturday, where next door at PetSmart they were having dog and cat adoption days, and why do you guys let me go to things like that? It'd be like letting the men's Olympic skating team peruse PenisSmart.

There was a large, black, Lab/Newfie-looking mix of a 7-year-old dog there whose people had to go to assisted living, and she was sweet and calm, and see above ref to PenisSmart. Goddammit. I can't seem to forget her. Her WindSong stays on my mind.

Anyway. I also attended a movie with Wedding Alex; we saw Get Out. Have you seen Get Out? There go my chances for ever banging a man of color. Every man of color in America is gonna look at us white girls askance now. Especially me. "Oh, come on home to my liberal therapist family!"

On Sunday I woke up with a migraine.

Mother of god.

I mean, this was a horrendous migraine. Of the don't-throw-up migraines. I literally got out of bed twice Sunday: in the morning to let Edsel out and to feed everyone, and in the evening to let Edsel out and to feed everyone. I ate nothing (of COURSE I weighed myself today. What are you, new?) except for some fizzy water I used to swallow the

NINE HUNDRED PILLS

I took to feel better, none of which worked. Edsel crept gingerly to my bed and licked my temple where it hurts, meaning most likely I have a tumor. Which, GOOD. Then they can fix it or I can at least die.

Finally, at, like, 10 p.m., I looked at my phone for the first time that day.

I had 939485839393 messages.

Oh what the fuck, I wondered, barely able to function.

Seems I'd left a sad image on Instagram Friday, which I did, but mostly cause I thought it was beautiful writing and I wish I could write anything poignant other than "fuck" all the time.

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I also wish I had a tidy little name like Lang Leav. How easy it'd be to sign for things.

Well, anyway, my father saw it, and apparently texted me at some point Sunday, and when I didn't answer, he called, then he called again, and THEN HE CALLED MY MOTHER to say that I was "missing" and then he called my aunt, and then my mother called Ned

to whom I'm not even speaking

and then everyone called me, EXCEPT FOR NED, who apparently does not care that I'm in a shallow grave somewhere.

So, picture it. You've been wishing to die all day, with the pain and the nausea and the sleeping and the more nausea and pain, and then you look at your phone and you have

EIGHT HUNDRED THOUSAND PEOPLE to call or text back with "migraine."

Then everyone calls and texts back. "Oh, good! I was worried you were dead! And also, while I've got you on the phone, blllooopeldy bloop bloo! heeeee! And bloodeldy bloop! What do you think of that, June? …June? Are you there, June?"

Oh my god.

Plus also, I had to call Ned, to whom I'm not speaking in case I hadn't mentioned that, and he was all, "I talked to your mother, and we discussed movies, and then I went down and locked my doors in case you were coming over here to kill me."

It wasn't till much later that I got

THOROUGHLY ANNOYED

that Ned just…LOCKED HIS DOORS and didn't COMB THE STREETS looking for me. JESUS! Locked his doors. Oh my god, irritated.

So that, folks, is how I managed to have drama in my life even when I was lying there dying and minding my own business.

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hoo care. we lock door; we heer you missing.