I’ve sat here for two days making little changes to this now-defunct site. “Should I start this up again?” I ask myself. Then I think about all the ways people could be unkind and I walk into the next room, all sweaty.
To be fair, I’m menopausin’, so I walk into every room all sweaty these days. Mother of GOD.
While I menopause and reflect, I also think about nice people. The nice people outweighed the not-nice ones up in here. Not literally. I mean, I don’t know how much you weigh. Maybe that would be a nice place to start. Let’s all get reacquainted by writing in and saying what we weigh!
So if I do come back, what do you want to know? Because I could sit here and recap the whole dang four and a half months and bore you to tears if you wanted. Also, the good news is, maybe five people will even see this site is up so there won’t be that many questions, and maybe I can write one nice, concise, here’s-what’s-you-wanted-to-know post and we can move forward from there.
Meanwhile, what’s new with you, five people? Tell all. Including your weight.
I seriously didn’t mean to write “Jooob,” with a b, but it was nice to get that typo back, just like old times.
“Leaves no oily residue,” my eye-makeup remover reads. I just read that this morning while I was washing off the oily residue from my eye-makeup remover.
Just tell the truth. Jesus. “Removes your makeup pretty cheaply because it’s the drug store brand.” You know what I really like is that Clinique eye-makeup remover, but it’s too rich for my blood. Even though I got new lips yesterday like I could afford it.
On Tuesday, I had a consultation at the same place that I get m’Botox and m’Juvederm. In case you’re local, I go to Barber Center and I see Robin.
You know I hate my lips, right? And I already have a Gor-Tex implant in the top one, from 1998, and lemme show you my lips, former.
Okay. Here’s me and my blemish and my lips, fmr. I took this Monday. I’ve no idea why. I’m certain there was a reason at the time. …Oh, I remember. Self-obsession.
So I went to the consultation on Tuesday, and this Robin over there, man does she look good. Not fake cat-lady good, either. The point is, she said, “Thin lips are really hard to bring out. We can add bloo-dee-blah and see if that works, and on top of that, add bleee-dee-bleep-bloo if we wanna keep going.”
That all sounded good to me, but she’s so in demand that she wasn’t available to do it till August 29. “That’s fine,” I thought, and don’t you hate people who say, “I thought to myself”? Who the hell else do you think to?
Anyway, my theory was that’d give me time to save my pennies.
Then yesterday at work, the phone rang.
“Robin has had a cancellation. Do you want to come in today?”
I wonder if we’ve met. Hi, I’m June. I’m impulsive. How do you do? LET’S STREAK.
I mean, I could have said, “Oh, I’ll wait till August till I’ve saved my pennies.”
“I’m taking an early lunch!” I announced, and hightailed it right to the office of beauty and naturalness. The building of aging gracefully.
While I was waiting in the lobby, my old workplace called and up and offered me a job. I am not kidding you. It’s the place I worked at circa 2008–2009. I demurred. Then I went in and had my lips done did. Talk about your dramatic day.
This is what she used on me, and look at this bitch. If I had her regular lips, I’d be praising Jesus and all the saints.
“We’ll try Volbella,” Robin-who-looks-great said, (“Volbella.” Good lord.) “and if we want to keep going with other stuff, we can.”
First, I iced my lips, and I don’t mean I murdered them. Then she put this numbing cream on me, and maybe this process was the other way around. It was all a whirl. I woke up yesterday not knowing NEW LIPS were at hand.
Here’s me yesterday with the numbing gel, waiting for my million shots to the lips. SHOT TO THE LIPS, AND YOU’RE TO BLAME. Darlin’ you give aging a bad name.
I mean, I think you have to hand it to me that with all this last-minute-ness, I thought, Oh, shit, I’ll probably blog about this. I should take a fow-toe. So I did. And flattering lights in there? When the lights, shine down, on the biddy.
How much of that lidocaine you been takin’, honey?
Then she gave me the shots.
Mother of pearl.
Look. I get through Botox like it’s nothing. And I had Ultherapy and wanted to die (I think I’m beginning to see the results of that, by the way). This pain was somewhere in between.
Mostly, the fact that my lips were so numb freaked me out. It felt like they were 11 feet wide, and I worried, “Am I able to breathe? I can’t really feel my breathe parts.”
And then also, and I want you to brace your own self, but having needles poked right in your lips really hurts. But each shot included lidocaine (Take your silver spoon, dig your grave), so it got more numb as time went on.
Who here is hoping hard I keep referencing cocaine songs?
We used up the Volbella, and after some discussion, in which my lips did not actually move, we decided I’ll stay with just this for now, give it two weeks to settle in, and see if I want to add this other stuff on top of it.
So here they are now.
“It looks very natural,” my Aunt Kathy said, when of course I immediately texted her the results of my day of needles.
“Yeah, that’s the problem,” I wrote her back. “Natural is never my goal.”
So here’s before, with the flattering numbing cream, and after. I think I will probably go get more shit put in. Because last night Ned stopped by, which by the way, I pulled into my drive just as he did, because I had been out on a very important mission.
Faithful Reader and now Mother of One of My Foster Kittens LaUral sent me info on this: rosé vodka. You know in the cartoons where someone takes off in a hurry and there’s a little puff of smoke behind them?
“Hi. I’m a girl,” my new lips said to the indifferent woman at the liquor store. “I hear there’s a rosé vodka.”
She sighed and took me over there. To the vagina section of the liquor store. The only good thing that happened was this song came on:
and it turns out, we both love it, if you’ll forgive the pun. So we had us a little dance party in the vagina aisle.
Anyway, so Ned popped over, and I was all, “Oooo! I won’t say a thing, and we’ll see if he notices my new giant lips.”
Oh, I was pursing them, and smiling with them even though they hurt. I was turning my head in every direction. That male, straight motherfucker.
Anyway, I can tell, but I will probably add to the lip sitch in a few weeks.
Oh, and yes to the rosé vodka! I tried it straight and it kind of tasted like rosé wine, but then I added it to my PowerAde Zero Fruit Punch flavor, and it was a dream. I hardly ever drink now, because I’m tryina be thin and also wine never fails to make my head hurt, so I think the last time I drank was that party back in early May. The good news is I have one drink and I’m all painting my body gold and singing Wild Irish Rosé.
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.
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.
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.Remember 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!
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
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.
Not fast or anything. I kind of plod. But I took a running class once in college. I probably need some precise amount of credits to get my student loans that term, or something, and I know gym classes were always one credit.
I remember the very first day of class, trying to find my way around the physical education building and somehow opening the door to the men’s locker room.
And right then I knew, I was going to like running.
And I did. Even though I’ve never been fast, or graceful. I’ve never been one of those women you see gliding down the sidewalk in cute athletic garb. But I remember leaving that running class in bike shorts and a purple tie-dyed shirt–because 1989–and going to my work study job at the museum (our offices were in the museum’s warehouse), knowing I looked sort of good. My legs got nice right away.
“How far did you run today?” people at work would ask me. I’d always feel accomplished when I told them. “RIGHTEOUS!” I remember my museum boss saying once, when I told her how long I’d run.
I ended up living in London that summer. I had this English professor I was obsessed with because I admired him so much. He was brilliant and caustic and original, and he returned one of my papers with “See me about a small scholarship to London” across the top. It was one of the best moments of my life.
I saw him about that scholarship. Then I called the bar I’d snootily quit months before, proud of not needing it because of my fancy $7.45 an hour work study bike shorts job at the museum, to ask for some shifts back. They gave them to me, and in a month or two I’d raised enough to get to London to live all summer.
When I think of that summer, I think of reading The Bell Jar in a pub while church bells rang nearby, and I think of my morning runs.
My dorm was in the same park as the London Zoo. I’d run all the way down to that zoo. Once the wolves ran with me, all the way to the end of their cage. And I heard pink flamingoes chattering. I didn’t even know they made any noise. I guess it was because it was just me and them that they felt okay to squawk.
I think it was when I got back that I stopped running that time. If I recall, my new apartment complex had free aerobics or something very early ’90s.
Ten years later, I was in Los Angeles, getting a pedicure at one of my two pedicure hotspots. I went to either RedNailMayIHelpYou near work (that’s how they always answered the phone, with the enthusiasm of warm lettuce) or Nail Station near my house.
I was at Nail Station that time, waiting for my feet to dry, when I saw a pamphlet for AIDS Project Los Angeles’s marathon fundraiser. They’d take six months to train you, and you raised a few thousand dollars for them, and then you’d be flown to Chicago for the marathon in October.
“That seems like pretty much the last thing I’d ever do,” I thought. So I did it.
What I remember about running for that stretch of time was how I’d eat breakfast and then by 10 a.m. get the receptionist at work to get us grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches from the restaurant across the street. Then two hours later I’d have lunch. I looked magnificent.
I remember waking up early and driving down to the park for our training, and seeing nothing but hundreds of those light necklaces people wear around their necks when they run in the dark.
I remember running 23 miles along the beach. I remember how close my group got, and times we’d have to stop running because we were bent over laughing so hard.
After we’d run the marathon, one big tough guy emailed us all to say we kept him off heroin, that group did. He said he missed us so much it made him cry just typing us.
I wonder how that guy is now. He had gang tattoos, I remember.
On Friday, I pulled on a sports bra and my old running shoes and I got a leash and Edsel and I headed out for a run.
I thought it would be awful, but my old plodding body knew what to do. I knew the first 10 minutes are always the worst. Your lungs hurt, and you feel everything jiggling at you in protest, and you feel like there’s no way you can keep going.
But then you can. Then you do.
I could hear my breath coming in a rhythm I’d forgotten, and my feet pounding on the sidewalk. And as we reached the first mile, I realized why I was running.
I was running because I’m furious. I’m furious that I’m not married at 52. I’m furious that Ned didn’t turn out to be who I wanted him to be, and that Marvin disappointed me too. I feel marginalized at work, and a lot of my friends have moved away, or got married and don’t talk to me (note to self: Stop being friends with people you used to sleep with).
I don’t look the way I did when I was 25, and meeting new people isn’t as easy as a result.
I thought I’d be more financially settled than this by now.
I thought I’d be important, somehow.
Instead, I seem to be shrinking in every way but physically.
So I ran. I ran because I didn’t know what else to do.
And as I did, I thought, Well, maybe you really do have no interest in men now. Maybe it’s not just something you’re saying to get through this lean time. Maybe it’s true. So, have no interest in men.
And maybe you do feel bad about work. It’s still six minutes away, you know how to do it and there are a lot of people there you feel very affectionate about. Still, if you feel bad about it, feel bad about it.
Maybe there aren’t so many friends right now. And maybe you have no interest in making new ones. So, just don’t have so many friends right now.
I could hear my feet. Pound, pound, pound.
I started to notice how pink the trails of planes were as they flew overhead. I smelled the magnolias and smiled at the puppy behind a neighbor’s fence.
I made it the whole way, stopping just once after a hill. Edsel ran next to me like a police dog or something. If you just give that creature something to do, he’s pretty obedient. He smiled the whole time.
Back when I used to run in London, I didn’t have any way to listen to music, so I’d THINK songs. For some reason the song that ran through my head the most was River by Joni Mitchell.
Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on, it goes.
If you lived here, on Friday evening, you may have seen a slightly chubby middle-aged woman running with a goofy smiling dog. Maybe you were wondering why she bothered.
She did it because she found a river she could skate away on.
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.
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
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?
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.
He 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…
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.
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…
Do I even wanna know what I was thinking when I took this?
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.
They were CLOSED.
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.
Oooo, 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.
As 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.”
Ah, 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.
…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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
So I’ve got them everywhere. Those old ladies with glasses on a chain had the right idea.
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.
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.
Edsel 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.
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?
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 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.
Or even, “Oh, god, like, 1:00?”
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?”
Anyway, since Marianne was able to drop everything and drive to Winston, off I went.
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.
“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,
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.
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.
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.”
Anyway, 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.
“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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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?
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
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
he started mowing and sounding pitiful and carrying on, so I got OUT from under Laila Ali
and opened the door.
He sniffed. Put a delicate paw on the cold metal threshold.
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
and seconds later,
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
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,
and 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.
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.
I am 52 and single (see above). The longer I am single, the less that bothers me.
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.
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.
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.
Okay, that photo was after an exhausting day. Doesn’t count.
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.
Hey, 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.
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!
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.
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!”
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?
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.
My iPhotos allegedly have a search feature, but here’s what all I got when I searched “puppy.”
Violet the puppy, chewing Talu. Also, this was before I had a good iPhone camera.
Did I tell you about Ned’s crisis during the Academy Awards? I can’t recall.
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?
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?
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.
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.
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.”
Also, 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.
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.
I 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.
[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.
At least I know what I did Saturday. I did Nancy. Call PETA.
I 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.
[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.
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.
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,
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.
You Look Like Thom McCann.
Too Many Clarks Bars.
Wayless (attractive) Shoes.
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.
The 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.
On Sunday, I groomed.
Did some cleaning.
Of 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…
…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.
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.
Liverwurst finger sandwiches
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.
Here. 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.
There they were. All flowered and shit.
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.
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.)
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.
So now it hurts even more.
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.
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.
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.
…Oh, right. Yes, I’d forgotten that. …Oh, that too? You’re still pissed about that? Geez.
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:
“I’m just calling to let you know the Russell Stover eggs are available,” I said to my mother, although in truth it was more: “Uh ussel oer eggs are aaailul.” As I was, of course, already eating mine as I pulled out the Rite Aid, there.
“I have four in my cupboard already,” said my mother, and it must be genetics that make those stubborn pounds stay on.
I’d gone to Rite Aid because I’m a glamor girl whose real-life adventures are not to be believed, but also because my coworker, Lottie Blanco, had brought me some soup that her wife, Lottie Blanco, had made, and
and I wanted to put something in the soup container when I returned it, to be a nice person. Yes, I did just feel that shift in the universe. Anyway, I thought candy would be sweet
so I went to the Rite Aid. Which takes fewer steps for the parking and the hobbling to the door, because in case you forgot, my toe is broken.
Oh, and speaking of which, speaking of my major injury, the doctor told me I had to wear hard-soled shoes, and this is where we left off yesterday, promising to write and leaving each other with framed photos of ourselves. “To Reader. Love always, June.”
The cute pottery-making-lesbian-folk-dancer shoes I’d planned to buy, that I showed you yesterday as you slipped your 8×10 colorized photo into a frame for me, were, in fact, not going to be available till MARCH FUCKING 8, and by then I will be over the novelty of my broken toe and onto something else.
So I got these Doc Martens instead. Aren’t they MAGNIFICENT? They will be here tomorrow. Oh my god, I will never be sad again.
…Good lord. Here I am, tryina have my morning and write to you about all the pressing news of the day, and I keep getting “Can you do this today?!?” emails from work. I worked last night, as well. What’s with the busy all of a sudden?
So I guess I’d better wrap this up early, so I can hobble to work, but I wanted to mention something that dawned on me: My grandmother–the nice one, not the one I turned into–was widowed when she was my age.
And she never dated again.
Maybe that’s me. Maybe I’m gramma. Maybe my days will be filled with having my grandchildren over, sewing and crocheting. Making big dinners that involve boiling potatoes.
…Oh. Well, crap. Hey, I can at least boil potatoes.
Anyway, it’s weird to think about, because at the time it never dawned on me that she’d want to get on a 1969 version of Match dot…well, there was no com. What the fuck does “com” mean, anyway? Communications? Commoner? Composed? Book of June dot commoner. No, I have NOT taken my Ritalin yet. Why?
The point is, maybe if there’d been online dating, she’d have been all over that.
“Five-two, brown hair that won’t go gray and why didn’t my granddaughter inherit THAT, loves Days of Our Lives, Cremora and covers for the Kleenex.”
But I don’t think so. I think she was pretty much over men. And maybe I’m following in her arthritic footsteps. See, I DID inherit her knee arthritis.
Speaking of which, my elbow hurts like a motherfucker all the time now. I know I have a trapped ulnar nerve. I mean, I say I know that because I am a medical professional, and by “medical professional” I mean I Googled it.
And I do the exercises I find online, but I don’t see much change. You’d think with all the solid scientifically proven medical attention I’ve paid to this injury that it would be improving. I guess I could phone my beleaguered doctor, who’s probably already worried sick about how many ToeGate phone calls he’s going to receive.
All right, I’m out of here. Off to copy edit something.
Yesterday, I finally relented and called my doctor, because you know how I resist doing that. I’m never one to call the doctor. Or cause a fuss. Anyway, he insisted I get an x-ray of my toe, because apparently if you let it go, occasionally something hellish could happen and all of a sudden Scarlett O’Hara is watching your anesthesia-free amputation.
Fortunately, the x-ray place is literally across the street from work, so all I had to do is hobble over there, and to make a long story agonizingly longer, I have a broken toe, officially.
So, the good news is, I have to buy “hard-soled shoes,” whatever those are, and when I Google that, I find sort of nerdy Maryjane, I-love-folk-festivals shoes that I have always secretly thought were sort of cute.
Normally, these shoes are like $115, and I just got the last pair, in red, on Zuilly, for $61, including shipping, which always pisses me off. Shipping.
Anyway, now I have nerd shoes. I hope they don’t reject my feet, seeing as I’m so cool.
I wonder if I’ll start listening to NPR and letting my hair go gray and long. Serve soup in handmade bowls with crusty bread on the side.
My doctor, who is not at all sick of me.
My doctor, who’s got a fever and the only cure is No June.
My doctor said I will be laid up with this major break for six weeks. But if I tape my major break and wear my nerd shoes, I can still walk Edsel. “You’ve got that dog, right?” he said, thinking of my plan for a cure. What’s sad is he knows my ins and outs so well. He also said, “You’re not gonna blog about walking into a dog bone and breaking your toe, are you?”
“Dude. I already wrote about that this morning,” I told him.
“Do you think you’ll lose readers?” he asked. See. I think he thinks the secret to blogging success is to seem, you know, dignified. But if I were dignified, what would be the point of reading me? Oh, I think I’ll wander on over to June to see what dignity she has today. Ima go over and see June handle life with grace.
I mean, zzzzzzzz.
So that happened; I broke a major bone in my body and may never walk again. But now that we know that, and we know that the solution is I have to wear shoes that look like I’m teaching granola making at The Learning Annex, let’s move on to the topics I did not cover yesterday.
Ned and Nancy. Almost Sid, but if Sid were an engineer.
As you know, from your Big Book of June Events, I have been fostering kittens for the local animal shelter, and recently I had a mom cat and her four kittens–all of whom are already adopted; I checked. Anyway, Ned lost his cat in December after 18 years of having her, and he decided to adopt Nancy, the mom to my foster kittens.
Oh my god, I DO miss them.
I’ve no idea why I’m giving you so much background, like you don’t all know this info. Like someone just got here. Anyway, the mom, Nancy, pooped outside her litter box once or twice here, but once she got to Ned’s, she’s doing it all over yonder.
And why doesn’t everyone ask me if he’s done all the things anyone would do. Yes, he tried other litter boxes. Yes, he tried other litter. Yes, he tried the cat-attracting litter (he told me EVERYONE is asking him that one). Yes, he took her to the vet.
They didn’t find anything physically wrong, but they think she’s a feral cat. They told him to confine her to one room (he did) and put her on Prozac (he did). That’s where it is now, and it’s not going well.
He will probably not be able to keep her, which is just so sad. I asked Chris and Lilly if they needed a barn cat, but they don’t. Poor sweet Nancy.
Ned called me last night to tell me the latest, about the Prozac, and I told him the sad truth about my major injury. “Do you need anything?” he asked. Ironically, I needed cat food, so he bought some at the store, as opposed to conjuring it up with his mind control, and brought it over.
He’d been at the gym and tending to Nancy and so on, and hadn’t eaten, so I offered him one of my bags of nuts. So to speak.
I buy those 100-calorie packs of nuts to snack on, and I can just HEAR my mother saying, “That’s too expensive,” but I don’t know if she’s met me or not, but you give me a big container of nuts and all of a sudden we’re out of nuts and I’m Templeton at the end of the fair.
The point is, I like the bags of almonds and walnuts–plain, no salt–but Ned crunched a few and asked, “What ARE these?”
“They’re almonds and walnuts.” I thought he’d be happy with them. Ned buys Girl Scout cookies and eats one a day.
Till they’re gone.
So I thought saltless nuts would delight him. But Ned has never had protein in his house, a fact that has always annoyed me. He works out and then he’s starving and you offer him a stick of cheese and he acts like you’ve offered to brand him with I Heart Ted Nugent or something.
Anyway, deese nuts. “What are they flavored with, the powder of boredom and despair?” he asked, crunching frownily.
The point is, he will try Prozac on Nancy for awhile, but he’s cleaning random poop a hundred times a day and is about to give up.
So that’s THAT happy story.
My Chakras. As Opposed to My Shakiras. Either Way, Hips Told the Truth.
On Saturday, I went to a cute local place to have my chakras read.
It’s kind of hard to explain what all we did. We talked a lot about the enneagram first, which is a personality thing I made you all take a few years back. I am a 4 on the enneagram, which if you are too I apologize, but 4s are really the assholes of the enneagram.
Anyway, we talked about ways to make my 4 less horrifically 4, and that was informative, and then I laid on the table (I lay on the table? I never know. Hey, what’s my job, again?) and she swung a pendulum over my chakras
and determined my crown chakra was blocked and my solar plexus chakra was also too blocked. She did whatever she does to clear them. I just laid there. Lay there? Anyway, story of my life. That could be the title of my autobiography. I Just Laid There, or Lay There, by June Gardens.
When I got home, I Googled what the signs were of having those areas blocked, and the crown chakra, when it’s blocked, causes migraine. The solar plexus chakra, when it’s blocked, makes you depressed and codependent.
So I got those cleared up and immediately broke a toe and gave nuts to Ned. So.
While I was writing all this pertinent info to you, I had the gate up back here, because it’s muddy out, and I wanted Edsel to be back here till his paws dried. Meanwhile, Steely Dan
LEAPED over the gate, knocking it over as he transcended it, which made it crash, and then he walked to the back door, opened it, and stomped outside, the screen door crashing behind him lustily.
Say, June, weren’t you drying your hair LAST time we talked?
Yes. Yes, I was. Hygiene. It’s repetitive.
Anyway, we haven’t talked since Friday and we have a lot of topics to cover, so I thought today I’d use subheads, so you don’t end up with fucking whiplash while I bounce from topic to topic. We’re going to be organized today.
Okay, topic one.
Wee wee wee, or the F word I don’t want you to worry or anything. I don’t want a fuss.
Shut up shuttin’ up.
But I BROKE MY TOE. The little one. Last night, I was headed to bed, like a normal person, and BOOM, Lottie’s bone, this big giant lug of a bone–that Edsel unearthed recently–was in the middle of the room and I didn’t see it and
something was very wrong. I yelled so loudly that Edsel stood under the table. Which, by the way, we can still see you, Letter C.
But speaking of Edsel, it’s weird, because just yesterday afternoon I was walking that cur and we passed the yard where I sprained my ankle four years ago, and I thought about how as soon as I landed on that grass, that grassy knoll–what IS a knoll?–I knew I’d really hurt myself badly. I reflected on that the rest of the walk: What a brave faithful dog Edsel was that day, not leaving my side even though I’d dropped the leash. Tall Boy, who isn’t allowed to talk to me now that he’s married, driving down and lifting me into the car. Because he was staying with me at the time. PLATONICALLY.
Anyway, I worried last night that I wouldn’t be able to sleep, it hurt so fucking much, but I did because I’m Jabba the Hut. I can sleep through anything. I actually have no idea if Jabba the Hut sleeps, as I have not seen any of the Star Wars movies since the first one in 1977. But he strikes me as lazy.
So my plan is to hobble. And complain. That wraps up what Ima do for my broken toe. Doctors can’t do much for it, I already know this. And yes, I know it’s broken. I’ll spare you the details.
Trim Last week, I was reading some article or another and I found a site called Trim. And no, I did not just link you to a site involving lady bits. Trim can tell you all the stupid things you’re subscribed to, that you may have forgotten about, and they’ll also do things like contact AT&T and say, “Lower her bill.”
As of last week, I quit Stitch Fix (I’d already quit that the week earlier, technically), Weight Watchers, Netflix, Amazon Prime, some support group for other anxious attachers that I joined for $21 a month, HBO, Apple Music and other annoying things I was paying for automatically and not noticing.
It is likely I will lose my mind and rejoin some of those, but for now, nobody is automatically taking anything from my account each month except for my car insurance.
But speaking of money and trim, I came up with an idea yesterday that I presented on Facebook to mixed results.
I had an idea for how I could lose weight OR you would make money. We’d have to have someone hold all the money, maybe send it all to Faithful Reader Paula or something, and I like how I’ve roped her into this without asking, but here is my idea:
I tell you my current horrifying weight and my goal weight. Which believe it or not are not the same. And then I set a date for me to REACH that weight. All of you put $5 in, and if I reach the goal, I get your hard-earned $5.
But if I FAIL to reach it, I not only give you your $5 back, I pay you an additional $5.
Then I have two incentives: To get rich (okay, to get maybe $50) and to not lose money.
See? It’s a good idea! Some of you hated it, though. But those folks don’t have to play. Are you in?
Photos and so on I’ve spent a great deal of time trying to get this one Golden Girls gif onto my blog, and never could, and does anyone know how to get a gif on your blog? If you tell me to place the embedded code in my HTML I will break your little toe.
My point is, I’ve used up a lot of my morning, and now I hafta go, and I know I have to tell you about m’chakras (my crown chakra was blocked. Now it isn’t) and about Ned and Nancy, but I have run out of the time.
Also, I took many photos this weekend. So here are some of those, and I will fill you in on the rest tomorrow. TUNE IN tomorrow for JUNE’S RIVETING LIFE, part 3,271.
(See. That’s how I run out of time. Because I just had to save this draft, leave this page, go figure out how to discover how many posts I’ve written in this life, then come back and write “3,271” so I’d be accurate.)
After spending all yesterday morning tryina figure out how I’d lose weight and make you all get involved, I drove to the country and got ice cream. Those stubborn pounds.
It’s a real dairy, and they make the ice cream on site.
There used to be Border Collies there, but they got old and died. Welcome to my happy blog!
I also spent time with the demon cat.
He did the thing again, though. I pulled up to my house just as my “you have a text” ding dinged. Come for the ice cream. Stay for the strong writing.
Anyway, it was my friend Sandy, wanting to embrace the Curly Girl method, and I wrote her back from my car, and when I looked up again…
He lives to startle me. He’s my Uncle Jim, in cat form.
“You no, other cat liff here, too. We just so tire.”
I’ll talk to you tomorrow, if I live through this toe pain. If I don’t get hooked on the horse to get me through.
I had two plans tonight: coworkers were getting drinks at 5:00, and then other friends invited me over at 8:00-ish. Don’t you hate people who add “ish” to a time? What are we, gay men in the ’60s? That outfit is fab, lover.
Anyway, I eschewed my right-after-work plans because I didn’t work today. I took the day off to go to the doctor in Durham about m’nose. I’ve waited TWO MONTHS to get this appointment to see if I can actually get it fixed, and how much would it be, and so on.
And? Migraine. Woke up with it in the middle of the night. ‘Twas a bad one. Had to cancel my damn appointment.
So, I spent the day instead sleeping till 10:30 and then trying to clean the smell of cat bodily fluids out of my bedroom. Fmr. Because cats.
I had taken 839395945 books and surrounded the bed, so they couldn’t crawl under there and poop, and instead all I did was make it so they could still go under there and poop, but I couldn’t get under there to clean it. So. Good work, June. Efficient! You can smell my German roots. They smell like cat shit.
So I took the opportunity to scrub the empty bookshelves, which is a pleasurable way to spend one’s day off, and then I put the books back up but cannot recall how I organized them with all their gee-gaws and doo-dads that I also have up there.
Last time I arranged my books, my neighbor Peg was here to help me, and we drank wine and she ordered me around and it was a typical evening with Peg.
Now she’s in hospice. HAPPY FRIDAY!
Anyway, here’s the first bookshelf, and it really needs Peg’s touch, plus also I should always leave that clothes hamper right there. Hot.
So that’s done, and my afternoon of scrubbing the bedroom floor with vinegar, and then drying it by mincing around the room with a beach towel under me, and opening both windows, and turning on a fan, and Sharking it, all that resulted in guess what.
It still smells cat.
So while the rest of my household, not including Steely Dan because please. It’s Friday, bitch. But while the rest of my household plans them a hot-in-the-city-tonight evening, I’m drying my hair
with my GODDAMN UNFIXED NOSE and then Ima put on some makeup and before my plans Ima head to PetSmart
and them Ima come back with some enzyme fluid and see if that works. If it doesn’t, I’m going with Faithful Reader Tee’s suggestion of uninitiated alcohol or whatever she calls it. Indentured servant alcohol. What the hell does she call it?
Also, I need lamps. I have no money for lamps this pay period, but lamps I need. I need one for next to the bed in the guest room, and now one for next to the bed in my room BECAUSE IT GOT POOPED ON, and a stand-up one in the living room for comedy, and maybe one back here because the one back here has no knob–it fell off–and now it flickers and I can’t do anything about that. Because no knob.
I have the hardest time finding lamps and clocks. Every clock I’ve bought for this house has ceased working eventually, and the Lenox clock they gave me at work? The fancy crystal one for 5 years of service?
I think it’s my nose. It can stop a clock.
Seriously, was looking forward to this nose appointment for TWO MONTHS.
Is this dry enough? It isn’t, is it. Goddammit.
So, other than my plans tonight, half of which I skipped out on, my only other big exciting thing Ima do is get my chakras read tomorrow. Of course I will report back to you. What are you, new?
The first asshole to point out how many lamps I can buy with a chakra reading gets cloudy chakras.
…Okay, dry enough, man. PetSmart won’t shop itself. That made no sense. As opposed to the sensical smelling of my German roots.
Last night, I had a dream that Steely Dan was wandering the hallways at my work, which isn’t out of the realm. It’s only three miles from here. But anyway, when the alarm went off in real life, I opened my eyes to discover him standing on my headboard, peering down at me.
I managed to discuss my dreams and my cat all in one sentence, thereby becoming the most boring person on earth®, officially. Maybe next I’ll tell my stories with, “Wait, was that Tuesday or…?” And my giant favorite, “Let me back up.”
NO ONE EVER WANTS YOU TO BACK UP. FOR THE LOVE OF LEROY, CAN YOU NOT BACK UP.
Other than work, cats and REM, I’ve got nothing more to tell you. Tonight I celebrate my love for you, and I need you all to go out today and light a candle and pray to our merciful god that I stop thinking of that damn song.
Tonight, I meant to say, a bunch of us from work are going to happy hour at someplace called the Crowded Goat or the Bleating Goat or the Got Your Goat. I don’t know. I’ve been there before. It’s got goat in the title. Other than that, the weekend yawns before me. Bleats before me.
Tomorrow morning, I take the kittens into the shelter for their booster shots, and I suppose there’s a chance people will tell me I’m the lucky one. And we’ve just begun. Think I’m gonna have a son.
They’ll tell me my little kitten heads are ready for adoption. Could they not? Could we just not yet? Please note they’re still pretending to eat titty dinner, even though Nancy is not bringing any milkshakes to their yard at present. But isn’t that reason enough that they should stay with her? Shouldn’t they stay with her until they’re not doing that? (June glues each kitten to mom.)
While I stared at my kittens, I also spent a long time on the phone last night, with the spouse of a friend. With the wife of a close friend, wife of a close friend.
I’m being intentionally vague not because I am having an affair with my friend’s spouse, but because I don’t want people to inundate him the way I inundated him. But to be fair, my friend called me after I wrote a post about how I worry about retirement, and she said, “Do you, you know, know what my husband does?”
“He works at a bank, right?” Turns out he’s a retirement guru.
She totally picked him up at work, by the way. She was in his line every Friday, depositing her check, and when she was ready to make her move, he asked her out. A truly GOOD boyfriend would have added a zero to her check before depositing it, but whatever.
Why is it I never get jobs at the bank?
So anyway, he and I made a plan to talk on the phone, old school, and when my phone actually rang, all four kittens and their mom startled.
For, you know, like a second.
Anyway. We discussed ad nauseum my income, my four oh wonk (Oh, look. Another reason to scream out and light a stop-doing-that candle for June) and my expenses.
He added things, and estimated things, and he did it like he enjoyed it. In the end, he said I wasn’t in that bad a shape, but he said what would really help is if I’d pay off more of my mortgage each month. With all my extra cash.
So, I’ve canceled Stitch Fix. I KNOW! I loved Stitch Fix! But–and here’s where you probably won’t feel sorry for me if you live in, say, California or New York. But my house payment is $870 a month, and I’m tryina pay at least $1,000 a month for now.
“Then, if you can manage that, in a while, just add $20 more, see if that’s okay. It’s just twenty dollars, right?” said my friend’s spouse.
So that’s the plan. I already plop 15% of my check into my four oh wonk each paycheck, and I AM DYING OF LACK OF FUN, but I also don’t want to be babbling to myself with a shopping cart at 80, which let’s face it is (a) Nine minutes away and (b) probably gonna happen anyway.
I’ll just be blogging out loud, to myself, under a bridge. “Oh my god, how did I get on this tangent?” I’ll croak.
Note that I don’t have to sit on the floor anymore, because everyone has learned how to get up on just everything. It was literally one day they couldn’t, next day they could. Oh my god, having kittens is the most funnest thing you could ever imagine.
All my chins and I agree.
Okay, I gotta go. I’ve got to get to work so I can get everything done in order to free up my schedule to get drunk like I’m 27 or something. Back when I was 27, we had a bar in our building at work, which was convenient AF, and then we had free bus passes, so getting home was a breeze. Man, those were the days. The says of busses and chablis.
Oh! Crap! Before I go, here’s an Amazon link. That extra mortgage payment isn’t gonna pay itself.
Saturday was, like, perfect. Except there was no sex. But what’re you gonna do? I’m old. Those days are over. Now I’m depressed. Fuck Saturday. So to speak.
Anyway, when I woke up, it was warm-ish out. Like, in-the-’50s warmish. Which was lovely, considering I had been living inside a snow globe for the past three days. I’d been living in a window display of Santa’s wonderland. I was like Disner on Ice.
Disner is my old married name. That was only funny if you knew that.
So I woke up, and Dear June: We’re four paragraphs in and you’re not even out of bed yet.
It’s Throwback Monday here on the PieBook. It’s Moronic Life Choices Monday.
This photo is from Friday night, and DEAR JUNE NOW WE’RE GOING BACK IN TIME YOU ASSHOLE.
On Friday night, I met Ned, my ex, NedEx, for a drink because Friday was the anniversary of our first date. At that same place. On those same barstools. We’ve returned every year, except for last year when we weren’t speaking. I had a whiskey sour, same as I had on our first date, and Ned had a Glenlivet on the rocks, which he did not have on our first date but in the past six years he’s become a fancy president and probably has to do things like drink Glenlivet as part of his responsibilities.
Anyway, it was without incident. He had a cold. I don’t even think we hugged in the parking lot at the end.
You know what I don’t want any more of? Being distracted. The whole time I was with Ned, I was preoccupied with anxious thoughts. Is this guy gonna answer my initial Hello email on OK Cupid?
Is he going to ask me out?
Is he ever going to answer that last email I sent?
When am I gonna see him again?
Why isn’t he ready to be exclusive? I certainly am.
Why won’t he tell me he loves me?
Is he ever going to want to see me more than twice a week?
Is he ever going to want to move in with me?
And so on. The whole time.
Now? I mostly think, Should I get up and drive to the cupcake place? Like, that’s the most pressing thought I have. It’s so …relaxing.
By the way, I never do. The cupcake place is pretty much two minutes from my front door and the last time I went there was when my mother was in town in July. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, either. But I like the idea that it’s over there. Cupcakes are just a short drive away.
When I got home from my controversial drink, this was happening. Old Batsheba, here, was up to no good.
Anyway, I GOT UP on Saturday (Oh dear God, June) and it was warmish, so the pets and I played in the yard.
Wow. Look at all that frolicking. They play the way I did as a child. Stand there and wait till you can go back in and watch Bugs Bunny. Okay, so I didn’t capture much play. TRUST ME.
Also, I would like to heartily embrace my lawn guys for moving that chair just into a random spot in the yard like that. I’ve moved it back to its rightful place, to get snowed on in a tidy spot.
I headed out to eat lunch, because who is sick of Lean Cuisine, and when I did, I popped into this little boutique that I always walk past and never go into. It was cute, and two rooms large, and of course I was the only person in there, and
Dear People Who Own or Work at a Store:
Don’t follow the shopper. Don’t follow her and tell her all the specials you’re having. I guarantee you if the person is a bargain shopper, she’ll ask, or look at the signs. And that whole, “Oh, I just happen to be over here admiring our backless dresses at this rack” is fooling no one. Do I LOOK like a shoplifter?
Oh, god, maybe I do.
Anyway, this prompted me to shop in a million little stores Saturday, and I bought nothing, because please see last weekend’s shoe extravaganza. Still, it was fun to browse.
When did I become someone who “browses”? For reading glasses?
THE POINT IS, one of the places I wandered into is a lash place? Where they do tinting and extensions?
Dudes. I thought that was all they did. Turns out, they do Botox and micro-needling and all that bullshit I love to do to myself! And they’re as close as the cupcake place! And, AND, I asked about micro-needling, and they told me what it did, and then said, “That’s not something you really need.” So I trust them, as well.
Ima be Norm on Cheers at that place. Oh my god. Exciting.
Then I headed to the local pet supply place (okay, that was a funny blog post I just linked to. Say, June, up in yourself much?) to get Eds a new collar. His is getting mighty dingy, and who decided cloth collars were a stellar idea for dogs, who roll in red dirt and squirrel bits and so on?
At the pet place, they were having kitten rescue day, and the rescue thing appeared to be put on by a fraternity. I say this because the front of the store was teeming with fraternity boys behind a table. And it was an…African American fraternity. What I’m saying to you is I walked into young hot men of color holding kittens.
“Did you DIE and go to HEAVEN?” asked my mother, when I stampeded to call her.
“Well, we know heaven is out of the question,” I said, admiring young boys like the Elizabeth Smart perv I am.
I know it wasn’t Elizabeth Smart who married her student. What the hell was that woman’s name? She married that kid, and he had a Hawaiian-sounding name like Lava Hulu PooPoo or something. The only other name I can think of is Casey Anthony, and I know that’s wrong too.
Hell. The good news is, Lava Hulu PooPoo is an excellent cat name.
When I got home from my shopping extravaganza, there was a couple looking at Peg’s house, with the man in the couple’s dad along to do dad things like look in the crawl space. Do you know what my dad would never do?
I’d heard someone had bought that house, but maybe it fell through. I don’t know. The point is, they wanted to know things about the house and neighborhood, and just as I was assuring them the ‘hood was great, we all looked up.
Because this was happening.
When I’d pulled out of my driveway Saturday morning, I’d noticed how all the other roofs in my neighborhood were lovely; so perfectly snow-covered. Except mine. Mine was riddled with paw prints.
I’m surprised theirs weren’t, too. I’ve seen this cat on every roof on my side of the street thus far.
“If you move in, I hope you like cats,” I told the people.
“Well, we’ve got a Doberman,” they said, because apparently they are Shaft in 1972. “But he loves cats.”
That is exactly what Steely Dan needs: To leap onto Peg’s roof and have a Doberman smiling up at him. That’ll show him.
I was all set to stay in after that, and play with my app, have it tell me how much I look like a man, or Andy Gibb, when something on my phone popped up telling me about Ultherapy near me for 25% off.
I am not kidding. First of all, how creepy are our phones now. Secondly, you know I’ve been obsessed with saving that damn $3,000 ever since I came up with the idea to get Ultherapy. I called the number, and they had a free consultation that same day, at 5:00. So I left the house, put air in my tire (this is yet another thing I’ve learned to do while single. Change doorknobs, kill roaches, and now put air in m’tires. At this point I might as well become a welder) and screeched over there on my air-filled tires.
But you know what? Even though I’d save money at this new place? I didn’t trust them. It seemed like kind of a sales factory, whereas the other place had a nurse take me in and tell me details, and show me photos and so on, this place was all, “Come in. How you paying?”
So I demurred.
But THEN, I got home, and I got the mail. And for no reason I can think of other than they’re bored with my lack of activity, my credit card company sent me some of those goddamn checks. You know the checks I mean?
When I paid off all my cards this past summer, I gave them all to my mother, so I can’t use them. I saved only my vet credit card (Care Credit) just in case something happens, which it always does, to one of the pets.
But here was a regular card company, saying, “Use these checks for anything!”
Remember that time Jesus was up on that rock or whatever? He always seemed to be hanging out on some rock somewhere. I guess there wasn’t a lot of development yet. He was never hanging at Orange Julius Caesar or whatever.
Anyway, remember when he got tempted? That’s how I felt when I had those checks after I’d just been to the Ultherapy place. Mother of GOD, I could just use these checks!
Remember that time June compared herself to Jesus?
Anyway, if you’re asking WDJD (What Did June Do?), I ripped up said checks. Now I’m stuck with this haggard face till I save $3,000, so thanks a lot.
So that was my perfect Saturday. Sans sex.
On Sunday, I went to a French movie, and I was the only person in the theater, which is why I could take a picture of said movie. I know you’re stunned that the French folk were smoking. Right after, those French folk were fucking. No wonder they stay so thin. That’s all they ever do.
There are never any shower scenes.
After, I bought myself some SweetTart hearts at the Rite Aid, and ate so many that I scraped up the inside of my mouth. I feel like you never hear French women say this. These SweetTarts have [burst] no artificial flavors [burst].
After my daily tending to Edsel, which includes letting him stare at me 40 hours a day, I took a “How’s Your Anxiety?” quiz, which maybe he should take. To get the results, you had to give them your name and email address, which bugs the shit out of me. It’s the equivalent of a store clerk following you around.
A few hours later, I got this email…
Had totally forgotten I’d told them my name was Fuck You.