Whole lotta leopard

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wut??

What I admire about Edsel is his unencumbered ability to release 20 seconds of stepped-on-a-duck-sounding gas with nary a flinch.

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edz chillz

I have today off, and yet I am still here, in my leopard footie pajamas, talking to you. I’m supposed to be sitting around thinking about Martin Luther King. Who was something of a philanderer despite all the good he did, and I’ve been thinking about how you can admire people who were also terribly flawed. Like, you know, Woody Allen. I can’t help it; I still like his movies.

Other than those deep thoughts, I spent the weekend spending money I don’t have. I was in a sad bra situation. Steely Dan had, of course, eaten the strap of my favorite one, and my next-favorite was coming apart, so you could see the innards of that bra, which was appealing. Then I have like four uncomfortable ones that make me want to kill myself and give me a rash.

So I went to Soma and found one style I like, after getting measured by the young thing there. A lot of her job is looking at strange women’s jugs. She not only measured me, she came into the room about 46 times and said things like, “You’ve got good lift with this one.”

It was almost a dirty movie except for where we didn’t kiss or make that stupid hissing though our teeth noise that people make always during dirty movies and never in real life. Also, “dirty movies.” Okay, grandma.

IMG_3614.jpgFrom Soma, I noted that you could walk right over to the Chicos next door, without going outside, so right then I knew: Chicos and Soma are somehow related. Like how they found out that Julia Child and Marilyn Monroe are seventh cousins or whatever.

I have always said that if I get so middle-aged that I start popping into Chicos, you know my days of being cool are over for me. I’d like everyone who knew me in my 20s to abstain from pointing out that I have not for one minute been cool.

But really. Back when I used to go shopping, I’d scream into The Gap, Express and J Crew, which just now as I wrote that I realize I solidified that “not for one minute cool” thing.

Now I go into those stores of yore and I’m all, What’s with these weird shirts? Why aren’t there purple mock turtlenecks and black miniskirts like there used to be?

So I went to Chicos. Chicos, don’t be discouraged. I am pleased to say I did not purchase anything, although I did give those leopard pants up there some of my time and thought, which detracted from thinking about Martin Luther King.

Because nothing says “I’m cool” like leopard pants from Chicos. I did not get them.

Then, as if I weren’t the poster child for menopause quite enough, I zipped on into Soft Surroundings.

“I might as well just finish off the day by buying some Replens,” I texted my Aunt Mary after I put on my readers, which I also might as well hang from a chain around my neck. Aunt Mary assured me I’d crossed over into middle age the second I darkened Chicos’… lack of doorstep. It’s weird when stores let you walk in from the other store like that.

I’ve given you an Amazon link using Replens, here, and you are welcome. I will be SHOVING AMAZON UP YOUR ASS LIKE I’M YOUR PERSONAL REPLENS for awhile, cause I’m trying to raise $3,000, and don’t let me forget to tell you why.

Oh my god, anyway. So I got m’bras, and then the other reason I wanted to shop was I really need more shoes that you wear when it’s actually cold out. I have some little ankle boots I bought in 2015 that are a little shoddy at this point, and some really old, maybe circa 2010 other boots that are just cat-fur boots at this point (I am literally puss in boots), and I wanted to upgrade from my Little “Got a Match?” Girl look I had going.

I shoe-shopped for 106 years, and here are the practical, keep-your-feet-warm shoes I decided on, brought to you from my footie pajamas.

IMG_3634.jpgSome blue flats with gold trim. Tensing Norgay wore these to climb Everest, so practical are they for winter.

IMG_3635.jpgAnd some darling little great-in-snow flats with a strap. Also I have to vacuum the closet, I see.

IMG_3616.jpgI also considered these. Not only are they perfect for cold weather, I can also wear them during all my curling matches.

When I wasn’t spending money I don’t actually have,

(Mother of god, click and go to Amazon and shop, please. Also, these are Ivanka Trump pumps. You’re welcome. Again.)

I was watching The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel on Amazon. Have you watched this show? It’s magnificent. And also…

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I was playing with an app called, you know, Google Arts & Culture. I tell you this because even though the image above reads, “Google Arts & Culture,” someone will say, “What the name of the app, JOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO” and then I will kill myself before we get to the N.

You go on the app and it asks you to take a selfie, then it finds art you look like. I like how this one, above, made me way hotter, and technically that’s apparently a boy. A boy who’s hotter than me.

IMG_3621.jpgOld Nose McGowan is more like it, sadly.

IMG_3625.jpgI also thoroughly enjoyed being compared to Jo the Beautiful Irish Girl. June, the Maybe a Six on a Good Day American Girl really enjoyed that.

Oh, but this brings me to my point. Hah. A friend of mine, and I won’t name names, had something done recently called Ultherapy. It’s like these pulses of heat they do to your face and it regrows collagen or something, and while I DO NOT SEEK ADVICE about whether I should get it or not, what I have to do now is save up to get it, and it’s three fucking thousand dollars.

See how mature? June COULD just charge it, but she isn’t, as JUNE WANTS HER COLLAGEN TO GROW. June is delaying her gratification and her collagen. June is going to bug the shit outta you to shop Amazon using her link. THERE IS ALWAYS A LINK AT THE SIDE OF MY BLOG if you’re on your desktop and at the bottom if you scroll for a hundred years if you’re here on your phone.

There is a woman who works for WordPress, who wrote me when I got here and said, “I will help you with all your WordPress needs” and mother of god, does she regret that. I’ve had many WordPress needs. Anyway, she’s gone way above and beyond for me, but neither she nor I can get that Amazon link to appear beautifully under each not-blog post when you’re looking on your phone.

And also, people are forever saying, “I clicked over to Amazon from June’s blog, but I’m not sure it worked.”

If you clicked on any image that I tell you is a link to Amazon, there is a little code that lets Amazon know you came from here, no matter where you go or what you buy. It “went through,” I promise. And I know you think I can see everything you buy, but here’s what it looks like when you buy something…

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There used to be a spreadsheet showing what, exactly, was purchased, in about 6-point font, but damned if I know how to get to that, and also hoooo care. So all your Replens purchases today will be unknown by me.

Anyway, you can see for the last month I’ve made a big $279, and that 383 of you clicked, which THANK YOU. So if I do that well each month (and I won’t because that was Christmas) and I freelance out my ass, I can get Ultherapy by, oh, 2019.

Goddammit.

Anyway, that’s my goal. Maybe I should set up one of those thermometers they use for fundraising.

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I like this one, that’s fairly pornographic. I wonder if the thermostat sucked in air through its teeth first.

I leave you now, mostly because it’s cold AF today and even though I’m in my footie pajamas, I have a chill. Maybe if I put on some of my new sensible shoes…

In search of collagen,

June

Chubby stick

Does anyone recall, in your giant calendar of June events, back in September when I’d lost 10 pounds?

Do you remember that?

I went to the local Pride parade, and I was gonna carry a sign of my own that read, “Lost 10 pounds.” Do you remember that?

October 1 was when I had the latest Ned debacle, and since then I’ve gained it all the hell back.

Goddammit.

So, tips, please. Diet tips.

Roundly,

Joooooooooon

For Dramatic Effect

What are we on? Like, day 193 of this cold? That’s my estimate.

Yesterday at work, I minced over to one of the seven people who are actually working this week, and announced, “I have a cold.” I may’ve even brought m’Kleenex box over, for dramatic effect. Which should be the title of my book: For Dramatic Effect.

“I guess I do too,” said my coworker, his Kleenex box off in the distance.

He guesses. He guesses he does too. Oh, stop being so low key.

Before we get onto other topics, like delving further into my cold, and by the way, you need to get home and get some rest. There’s no point pacing the halls worrying about me. I’ll need your strength when I regain consciousness.

Anyway, before we create a poll titled, How sorry do you feel for June, let’s look at today’s lipstick.

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Say, June, we’ve enjoyed that blemish as much as a human can.

Today’s OFFICIAL color is Whoppin’ Watermelon, and I had to get THIS CLOSE to even show that I HAD a color on. I’m like that guy at work. I guess I have lipstick on.

IMG_3326.JPGSo, because that was so boring, we stampeded to Pudgy Peony, and also Edsel’s undying love for me. I think he senses the end is near for me.

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to putt kitteee DOWN, pudgeee peee oh nee.

I don’t want you to get excited or anything, but tomorrow is Plushest Punch. If I live that long.

IMG_3314.JPGI saw this yesterday at the gas station, and I was all, Really? Cause I’m doubting that.

Also happening tomorrow, besides my continued silent suffering with this cold and Plushest Punch, is The Return of the Foster Kitten. She will be done with her antibiotics tomorrow, and when I take her back, on a Saturday morning, she will be the only kitten currently available.

This bodes well for her future.

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Taken right this second.

IMG_3334.JPGIMG_3338.JPGSay, June, is it gonna kill you to take her to a shelter and drive away? Why, yes. Yes, it do be.

Also, she photographs big. In all pictures, she looks almost like a catten, when in fact she’s just a teensy boop. Half the time I don’t know where she is, she’s so teensy.

So that should be devoid of tears, anyway, and I’m sure I’ll handle it as stoically as I do all colds.

Today is the last day before the New Year’s holiday, so I hope we get out early, because I feel magnificent. Ironically, I was invited to a happy hour, after all that fuss last week, and I’m too sick to go. Ned once told me I want to be asked to do things just so I can say no: Attend parties, happy hours, sex. Whatever with Ned.

The point of all this is two things: One: My new computer, which I can ill afford, is on its way to work today. I’m glad I had it sent there because someone on Next Door has one of those paranoid cameras on her front porch, and she shared video of some kid stealing her package, so to speak.

So I have all weekend to figure out how to transfer all my shit from one computer to another, and it’s good Jodie Foster is leaving, because no child needs to hear that many swears.

The other point is, yesterday I was sitting there with the seven other people who came to work, and I was all, “This is the seventh Christmas I’ve worked. There is only one copy editor who’s worked here longer than me. (The first is The Poet, who has worked there since 18 aught 9.) I’M SICK, and I have FIVE vacation days I did not take this year.

“WHY THE FUCK AM I AT WORK?”

So you know what I did? I went into our little system and requested December 26, 27 and 28 off for 2018.

BOOM.

IMG_E3322.JPGBefore I go, two things. Didn’t we just do a “two things”? Faithful Reader Deborah, look what’s on my table!

And deux, you know I adore my banner picture at the top of this not-a-blog. I love it so hard. But I thought for New Year’s, I’d throw in a different, seasonal shot. There were SO MANY I couldn’t choose! I thought I’d share them with the crowd. Also, can someone bring me more coffee? Jodie Foster is purring on my lap and I feel bad moving her.

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She’s been my little orange companion

Okay, here are the photos I loved. And I realize I’m the only freak who loves looking at old photos of people she doesn’t know, so you can probably just close your laptop now and check back tomorrow.

32e19e31fe29556f12626e94d51d5e83--happy-new-year-pictures-photos-vintage

Oh my god, right? In all my friendships, I’m Pudgy Peony, up there.

d025e8c5f0550ddf85c770b4cbc6d64f--happy-new-years-eve-happy-new-year-everyone.jpgAnd although I know this, I still secretly see myself looking like this every New Year’s Eve. Blowing into a flashlight.

bc7441ad4ac5f4cc4d5ef3fb84dc2d05--new-years-eve-basementsOh my god, take me to this party. I’ll give my cold to everyone. That woman on the right is looking at old pictures of people she doesn’t know.

Celebrating New Year's Eve

Our problem is, we don’t get drunk enough anymore. My father once told me about a party he went to with younger people, and they kept turning DOWN the music. That’s when he knew. This next generation is zero fun.

991ec58db7ed638ffe700bc15fa57869--vintage-ladies-vintage-stuff.jpgOh, THERE’S my soulmate. Also, LEOPARD PUMPS.

a78da0df05ace7bd7cf5ac421d4aba01--new-years-eve-happy-new-year.jpgOkay. That’s it. My life is FUCKING COMPLETE. The last two pictures are my perfect How I see Myself/How I Actually Am, including the cankles.

I’d better get to work, as it is important that I martyr as much as possible before the year is through. I figured it out, and I made 28% more money this year, due to the freelancing.

DAMN, Daniel.

I also had like zero free evenings, so. I had zero free evenings to learn phrases other than the tired Damn, Daniel.

I gotta go. Talk to you tomorrow, after I drop off Jodie Foster. Someone zip over to the animal shelter here and get her.

Coldly,

Juan

Oh, did sleigh bells ring? I had my ringer off.

Welp. Christmas. We got through it, and now my throat hurts, so the one holiday I can kind of get behind, New Year’s, will be rooooooooned.

Do you know people who pronounce ruined like that? “Rooooooned.” I think Marvin did. The memory is starting to escape me, like Kate Winslet and Jim Carey on the ice that cracks in two during Eternal Sunshine.

IMG_3114.JPGAnyway, Christmas. I let myself open one gift on Xmas Eve, and the fine people of Summer’s Eve ought to consider making special, like, pine and berry feminine products for Christmas, call it Christmas’s Eve.

I’m an idea woman.

The gift, and you can tell already we’re in for a long haul today, was two of my vintage romance magazines from Faithful Reader Paula, who knows what I like. This time they were Christmas themed, like m’douche.

If you didn’t tune in to my last post, I spent Christmas, you know, Eve at my coworker Austin’s, and I got his family a game–it’s just Concentration, but with Eames furniture and designs instead of shitty flowers that you come across on a …summer’s eve.

Oh, June, remove the nozzle and continue.

IMG_3262.JPGThe point is, they sent me this photo. “We’re playing the game you got us, but because we know how you hate this holiday, we’re playing it joylessly.”

I flow into everyone, leaving you refreshed and bitter.

See what I did, there? More feminine humor. MERRY CHRISTMAS!

June, it’s not even Christmas morning yet.

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krismuffph

Christmas morning arrived (oh thank GOD) and that damn kitten was a pain in my ass. Before it was even dawn, she started pounce pounce pouncing on the bed, and whose idea was it to foster a goddamn kitten? Finally, after like TWO HOURS of just drifting off again only to POUNCE awake, I threw her into the hall, stuffed a quilt under the door so she couldn’t just slither under the door like she does, and WAS JUST DRIFTING OFF AGAIN when

RING!

I knew that ring. Do you ever do that? You know who it is even though it isn’t a special ringtone? You know that ring? It was my mother, of the Obsessed with Christmas mothers, AND I KNEW IT.

“Ima Jon-Benet Ramsey your ass,” I said, Christmas cheerily.

My mother made me stay on the phone with her while I opened my gifts, so I couldn’t photograph my every item like I usually do, and I CAN HEAR YOUR FAKE “I’m so disappointed” groans, all of you, and shut up.

IMG_E3143.jpgIMG_3141.jpgIMG_3140.jpgBut you must trust me. Chaos ensued. It was like having real children there. And do you like my method? I used the laundry basket to hold all the wrapping paper and other stuff that could be recycled. At the end of the festivities (“festivities”), I just dumped the laundry basket in the recycle bin outside.

Home Hacks from Hune. Maybe I should change my name to Hune and start a whole homemaking blog. Hone Your Home With Hune.

I had cat litter on the lapel of my robe this morning. So I think it’s a given that you all want my home hacks.

IMG_E3161.JPGI believe I said to you all the other day that this back room where I write is a cold room, much like my heart at Xmas, and that I really needed socks. So I went on Amazon, through my own link, and got me three or four pair of fuzzy, slouchy socks.

IMG_3156.JPGThen guess what everyone sent me for Christmas.

IMG_E3163.JPG(This seems as good a time as any to remind people that sentences that start with “Guess what” or “I wonder” do NOT NEED A QUESTION MARK AT THE END. They are STATEMENTS. A statement is a declarative sentence, such as, “Hune has a stick up her ass.”)

IMG_3165.jpgAnyway, I got up yesterday and walked around with cold feet and didn’t marry anyone, till I remembered, “Hey, Hune’s got socks comin’ out her …hass!” So I got me some socks on. I rocked out with my socks out.

IMG_E3167.JPGIt wouldn’t be the most…wonderful time of the year without me putting a ribbon or bow on a pet, and this would be an excellent time for me to offer a retrospective of all the years of pets with bows, but I have to get to work, needy.

IMG_3169.JPGIMG_E3168.JPGThe point is, this year Edsel got Hune’s Holiday Humiliation, Now With Claws!

As I pen this, Steely Dan and Jodie Foster have been stampeding around the house as they do, and just now I heard the broom in the laundry room topple over, followed by two very different-sized, ears-back cats dashing out of there.

I wonder what happened. See? That was a statement. You do not need to write, “I wonder what happened?” It’s not a question. You are wondering what happened.

Do you know what I’ve noticed? When people who aren’t, you know, English teachers or editors ponder sentence structure, they say the weirdest stuff, as if they know a rule, a grammar rule, that in fact isn’t anything at all.

“Well, but it’s stating a question, and it’s emphasizing the…”

WHAT?

Grammar isn’t that hard. Punctuation isn’t that hard. And spelling? You can look that up, you know. M-W dot com. I’m on there about 400 times a day.

I know you want to say “object of the preposition” and sound brilliant, but you don’t need to. There are a few really simple rules, and a lot of them are going away, which is what happens with language. If we didn’t let it flow, we’d all still be speaking Olde Englishe. See what I did, there? We’d all be talking like Chaucer.

Anyway, it’s easier than you’re making it, is my point. And what you learned in third grade, there, Menopause, is not a hard-and-fast rule that is still definitely right.

June. It’s like not NOON yet on December 25. We have to get to work.

IMG_E3180.JPGMy favorite gift was one I picked out myself but forgot I picked out. My mother and I saw this at that little boutique we went to the day after Thanksgiving, but then we ran into my cousin Katie and my Aunt Kathy, who once again is not that woman drinking at the top of my blog, and anyway I was so excited that I

CLEAN

FORGOT

I wanted that mailbox. Am small child.

IMG_3181.JPGAnyway, after I opened my gifts, I went outside and screwed a mailbox.

Here is the next Clinique color in our Chune Checks out Chubby Sticks Even on Christmas project…

IMG_3194.jpgIt’s some kind of way-too-orange color, which I cannot find in the bowels of my purse to tell you what the color is called, but I think we can all agree it’s not a keeper for anyone, unless you are Doris Day.

You’ll note, however, that I’m in the car, here, and that is because I was headed to Chris and Lilly’s to have dinner with them, because they felt sorry for Old Lady June having–

Geeez. Steely Dan is kicking that kitten’s ASS right now, and they break it up too fast for me to take a photo, but just now he was grabbing her whole kitten body and she was saying,

“MEWWWWWWWWW.”

Do not worry about that kitten. For she is an asshole, and also they are deeply in love, and yes, I do already feel bad for him when she goes and no I am not keeping her.

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Anyway.

IMG_3198.jpgChris cooked for us, cause it’s his thing, and it was all DELICIOUS. They roasted a chicken, and by “they” I mean Chris. There were vegetables, and he even cooks those so they’re delicious. And also, red velvet cake, a thing that obsessed Z, who I think was totally in it just for cake.

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Did you hear there’s red cake, Miss Hune?

At dinner, we discussed our favorite Christmas gift, ever.

For Chris, it was his Easy Bake Oven, which kills me. But really, I had one, too, and they were cool as shit.

For me, for some reason my little greenhouse stands out. It was see-through, shaped just like a greenhouse, and divided into three. It came with seeds, and little tools, and you could watch your seeds’ roots and sprouts and it turned me into the plant expert I am today.

Really, I’m not good at anything, am I?

Then it was Lilly’s turn.

“Well,” she hemmed. “I guess it has to be, um, when I, um, got a pony.”

Chris and I exchanged a glance.

Lilly went on to tell us how her parents did the whole Presentation of the Pony on Christmas morning, and no, it wasn’t sleeping under the tree, which is what I immediately envisioned, but there it was, in the barn, with a banner announcing it was Lilly’s.

“So, yeah, I was that girl. The girl who got a pony, for real, on Christmas.”

And that is when I helped Chris gather a few of his things, and we took the kids and left Lilly there at the table. Forever.

A pony for Christmas.

IMG_3197.jpgAfter dinner and resentment, we headed over to the barn to feed the horses, which you can imagine did not delight me in the slightest. Also there: BARN KITTIES!

I took them all home. I probably should have lead with the fact that two horses live here now. Hey, maybe THEY knocked over the broom.

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I LOVE YOU HORSIE
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I LOVE YOU KITTIES

While Lilly busied herself with horse things, her son G decided the cats did not have enough food. So…

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What, is Lily the cat on her way to dinner?

IMG_3215.jpgWe also visited the chickens, and that was the day June was complete.

IMG_3217.jpgAfter, we made a bonfire, and I’m happy to tell you I got a shot of my jowls by the fire. Hune’s howls.

IMG_3219.jpgHave a holly jowly Christmas. We need to take up a collection to fix that shit, y’all. Go. Fund me.

IMG_3221.jpgFor no reason whatsoever other than she is a poor judge of character, Z is a Fan o’June. She is a Junello.

IMG_E3230.jpgAnyway, that sums up Christmas, and what annoys me is Z said about 109 funny things that I was going to repeat to you and I forgot them all like I did my mailbox. Everything just sieves out my brain now, and oh!

At one point this week, I was on the phone to my mother and reported to her that I was streaming Long Island Medium, because that is a really good show and you are wrong. IT IS.

The point is, at the end of the conversation, she said, “Okay, then, go back to watching Long Island Madame.” So that’s where I get it.

Also, THAT would be a really good show.

And that is today’s log for yule.

XO,

Hune

 

 

Astro surf and turfing

I woke up at 2:53 a.m. today, with a migraine. I attribute this to having gotten up at 5:30 yesterday, to go to damn Purrrrre Barrrrre, and one wonders why I think I need to work out when I already look Like This.

Anyway, my sleep pattern was messed up, which is a migraine trigger, and whatever, I had one, hooo care.

I got out of bed and hunched over to the kitchen, and I feel the need to hunch when I’m not feeling well because my Aunt Kathy always does that when she’s not feeling well, which by the way is around 270 days a year. She’s a professional not-feeling-well-er.

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deer god. wat edzul eber do to deserbe.

The point is, I took my medication and hunched back to bed, where Edsel and Jodie Foster awaited me, and while I was trying to get back to sleep,

boop!

That damn kitten kept booping my face. boop! Oh my god, annoying.

No matter how many times I…gently placed her orange bitch-ass down the bed, and yes, I did want to hurl her with all my might, she kept coming back and

boop!

Here is why I’m insane. I kissed her little walnut head before immigrating with my pillow over to the spare bedroom. That damn kitten drove me out of my own bed, into the vast desert of the spare bedroom, and I still had to kiss her.

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okay, she cute in theeeery, but not that irresist.

In the spare bedroom, Steely Dan was lounging across the pillows. Having spent most of my week with Two-Ounce Tillie, up there, all of a sudden his already-enormous self seems even enormous-er, and he also seems this solid paragon of dignity.

IMG_E2572.jpg
it troo. also, good pikktur, mom. wat dis be, mom blawg circa 2009?

I kissed his coconut head and settled in to sleep. When,

BOOP.

That asshole booped me in the face, with all 182 pounds of him.

HE’S NEVER BOOPED ME IN THE FACE EVER BEFORE.

“STEELY DAN,” I said, irritated with the world. He touched his wet cold nose to mine before curling up against me and falling asleep, where as soon as he was unconscious I injected him with lethal gasses.

IMG_E2992.JPG
and yet, heer steelee be

And I’m sorry all my stories are about cats lately. It’s all I’m surrounded by. I’ve all of a sudden become the old lady with cats.

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When did my neck get rings? When did I join the Ringling Brothers on my neck?

The other exciting news is I got my roots dyed yesterday, at lunch, which by the way is super relaxing and you’re not over there nervously checking the clock or anything.

We also had a happy hour team thing after work for a particular account I work on, but I already WENT to one for a DIFFERENT account last week, and just now I typed “last” wrong, and my computer autocorrected it to “astroturfing,” like that’s a thing I say just all the time. I think I can honestly say that is the FIRST time I ever said “astroturfing,” so good going, computer. Good smart-ting.

Anyway, I didn’t go. I was exhausted.

Also, I’ve been invited to two things, one on Christmas Eve and one on Christmas Day, and both hosts say, “Don’t bring anything,” and is that true? What do real people do?

Both are married couples, two kids each, except the Xmas Eve couple has two teenage daughters and the other couple has two little kids. Your thoughts, Hobson?

Also, I’m getting together with Jo and Kit on the 27th, and all of a sudden Jo’s all, Oh I got you two the cutest thing and I was all, “WE’RE GETTING EACH OTHER THINGS?”

“Oh, just regift something,” said Jo, as if I have a whole closet of Gifts That Didn’t Work For Me.

Your thoughts, Hobson? Do you wish I’d quit saying that? It’s from Arthur.

The entire time I’ve been writing you, I’ve been scarfing these chocolate-orange-ball Christmas cookies my mother made me, thereby eliminating all of the work I did at Pureé Bar yesterday. Orange you glad I ate chocolate cookies?

I’d better go. I have to shower, and my whole body hurts, and also migraine hangover, plus also my face was booped repeatedly and Dear People Who Don’t Have Cats Who Are Moments From Annoying Me:

It’s when a cat hits your face with a velvety paw, not to inflict pain. It’s really more a claws-in sitch. They just want to play, so they boop boop boop your face over and over again, and you all of a sudden get how someone could abuse an animal.

Sincerely,

Jone

P.S. Oh, HELL. This is Chunky Cherry, and seriously, Clinique, what’s with all the fat names lately? I have ZERO MAKEUP on again, and I’m SORRY. It’s the MORNING.

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That color really brings out your broken capillaries.

 

June ages, like a fine wine. Or a bottle of ripple you leave out too long.

In a stunning display of self-centeredness, and in preparation for my move to another computer, I looked through the webcam photos I have here and came to the conclusion that my six years with (“with”) Ned have aged me.

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January 14, 2012

Above, I had talked to Ned online, but not dated him yet.

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St. Patrick’s Day, 2012. 

On my way to a date with another dude, above, as Ned had said he “wasn’t ready” for exclusivity.

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Christmas of 2012

I think at first, as I got all in love and shit, I started to look better.

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Our one-year anniversary, where I remember hoping he’d not bring up any ex-girlfriends all night. He did.

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St. Patrick’s Day 2013. 

Even though I’m all Cell Block H here, I was really happy then.

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Spring of 2013

See?

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January 2014

Right around our two-year anniversary. Is this obsessive, what I’m doing?

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October 2014

We’d moved in together, and trouble was already brewing. We had a terrible blowout on day three. I don’t mean we both got our hair straightened at the hairdresser’s, which woulda been more fun.

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HAPPY NEW YEAR! In jail.

I spent Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve in my room, as we fought both those holidays. I’ve no idea why I took a photo of this miserable moment, but I did. I watched Google count down the year from my computer.

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July 2015

My 50th birthday. Half the time I was deliriously in love and the other half I was in fekking agony.

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December 2015

Oh, look, I’m home. Home to Tara. Months from my beloved dog dying. Maybe that’s what aged me.

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July 2016

See? Lookin’ sorta old. Maybe it’s just cause I AM old and has nothing to do with emotional strain. Maybe I’m making all this up.

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Cell Block St. Patrick’s Day 2017

What’s with me and all the morose photos on St. Patrick’s Day? And why do I stampede to my webcam on that holiday? Luck o’the Apple to ya.

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December 2017

I don’t know. Maybe it’s just m’insides that got old and I don’t look as dreadful as I thought.

2012–2017.

Anyway. Have you seen enough photos of me today? Or do you hope for more?

We had our team Christmas party after work yesterday; the creative team, I mean.

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Oh thank baby and advanced-age, curvier Jesus. A photo of someone else.

That up there is m’coworker Essence, and I did not just use the random name generator or anything. I like her, and I like her earrings maybe more than is healthy.

Am I going to hell for saying, “Advanced-age, curvier Jesus”? Jesus is really embracing his curves.

IMG_2964.jpgAdvanced-age, curvier June’s plate. I’d like you to admire the plates, as I brought them, along with the matching napkins. Yep. June. Brings so much to a party.

IMG_2959.jpgIt was nice to see everyone; some even came from our other offices and so on.

But I had to skedaddle out of there fairly early, as I had promised The Other Copy Editor I’d head back to her B&B last night for Wine Wednesday, because last week she was too busy to really talk to me. She and I got there at about the same time, and said one word to each other before…

IMG_2972.JPG…we noticed 14 of the Alexes were also there. So we went to one of the rooms, we got a room, as it were, and chatted and giggled and did not at all gossip or discuss sex ad nauseam, as girls do.

TinaDoris, there, second from the right, is who I’ve been going to Pure Barrrrrre with, and yes, I got up with her at 6:00 today and pured our bars already. So once again, we have a Thursday where I’ve packed a lotta living into one day.

IMG_2970.jpgOh, and I almost forgot. At lunch yesterday, I schlepped Jodie Foster back to the shelter, in what is a rapid, convenient drive down the not-at-all-most-congested street in town. She had to get her shots, and I wanted that cold checked out.

She’s fine, but they did give her antibiotics just to be safe. And today I heard big old robust Steely Dan coughing, and I just felt terrible about it. I love that cat so bad.

Speaking of which, Ned called to say he got NedKitty’s remains yesterday. He walked into the vet’s, hoping to see, “Bee or Doris,” he said, like I’d know who they are.

“They’ve seen me come in for years with Murphy,” he said, and yes, that was her real name, “and I was hoping we could talk about her or something.”

Instead, a person he didn’t know handed over DeadKitty, and “no one gave me a hug or anything,” Ned said. It would appear he’s not doing well with the death of that cat.

Meanwhile, he’s still aging me, so.

I gotta get dressed. I got some StitchFix stuff I wanted to show you, but that damn Iris has been sleeping, unmoving, on my wrist this whole time and she is IRKING ME and I have a cramp.

Oh, hell, I gotta take a lipstick picture, don’t I? Okay, I have NO OTHER MAKEUP ON, so be kind. This is Roomiest Rose. What’s with all the big names lately?

IMG_2976.JPGThanks, June. Helpful photo.

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Ah, okay.

I added panicked mascara. And got some in my damn hair. Why do I bother?

Talk to you later. Maybe later we can get together and look at photos of me.

XO,

June

Gettin’ above my richer raisin

If I spent as much time trying to cure world hunger as I did looking for tweezers, we’d all be trying to lose a few. The whole world. A worldwide, literal Whole 30.

Jesus.

And reading glasses. I’ll go into a room, and all that will be lying around will be real glasses. I don’t NEED real glasses. Already got in my contacts. I just need to see UP CLOSE GOD IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK.

Then the moment I need real glasses, all I’ll be able to find will be readers.

Also too? I have three pill bottles in my purse: m’Ritalin [heart emoji], my migraine meds, and my little-used nausea pills for when I have a bad migraine. Every day–EVERY DAY–I reach in there for the Ritalin and pull out the nausea meds. Every fucking day.

Last week, when I had the moan-aloud migraine, I hunched over nauseatedly to my purse to get out the nausea pills, and?

Pulled out the Ritalin.

There are a lot of goddammits in my house.

In other news, I called my old coworker TinaDoris, because she is forever posting on Instagram how she’s getting up at god’s half acre to work out at Pure Barre, and I realize “god’s half acre” doesn’t mean that. What are you, new here? And since no one sees me naked anymore, I have less incentive to work out, and all of a sudden I look like Ruth Buzzy. Who if I’m not mistaken was sort of thin. But I just mean I look old and like the meat is falling off the bone.

I figured if I worked out with someone, I might show up out of obligation.

After she got over the part where her phone actually rang (Dear Millennials: Get over it. It’s a phone. You spend $700 on a phone. It’s supposed to ring.), she told me the beginner classes were on Sunday morning and Thursdays at god’s half acre o’clock.

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behold.

So, Saturday night I went to bed early, and set the alarm for acre time, and whomever the asshole was who said, “Early to bed, early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise” never had Netflix when season two of The Crown was premiering.

But I actually got up, slipped on some sexy workout clothes with all m’hips, and crunched hippily out to the car.

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This is not me. It’s another hip-blessed female in this house.

It snowed here for more than 24 hours from Friday to Saturday, but then it melted, but then it froze up again Saturday night. This is why, as I grabbed my car’s door handle, nothing happened.

Nothing.

I mean, frozen motherfucker did not budge. “Oh, come ON,” I told myself. “Try harder.” I tugged and I pulled and I pulled and I tugged, and now my door handle and I are in a committed relationship, but I could not get into my car.

Goddammit,” I said, as I stomped back into the house. Then I had to call poor TinaDoris, who probably had her phone disconnected, what with all the jarring ringing it did that week.

But since I already had on a sports bra and everything, I ended up doing my Callanetics video, with that phony Call A Pickaxe or whatever her name is. Oh my god, that workout is hard. As opposed to the boilin’ bag of gravy that is my ass.

Remember boiling bags? My mother used to get them for me when I was in high school. They were fairly disgusting, but I ate them. You could get, like, chipped beef. Boil the whole bag, dump it out.

chippedbeef1.jpgI love how I’d eat that after school and THEN have dinner, and I weighed 110. Probably because I was so active then.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Anyway, further reports as developments warrant re Pure and its Barre. Maybe TinaDoris and I could just get up early and go to a bar.

In my hometown, back when everyone worked at the factory, and that factory was open 24 hours a day, the bars stayed open, too. So you could get off third shift at 7 a.m. and head to the bar.

Nice.

I have to go. I got assigned something at 10:30 last night, and a person I feel bad for is our traffic person, who assigns everybody everything. Anyway, the work looks pretty interesting, but lengthy. Like my dick.

I leave you with the following exciting news.

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As you know, because you follow my every move (except for no one ever remembering that I do, in fact, have a face in my tree. A face I nailed in myself. And covered ad nauseum on this not blog. But then every time I show a photo of that tree, I get, “I see a face, JOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO–blargh.” That was when I shot the person)…

Anyway, as you know, since you follow my every move, I spent $50 on a tray full of chubby sticks, like my dick, and what I thought we would DO, because we are so whimsical here at house of Jooooooblargh, is I’d try on a new lipstick for you every day.

I KNOW!

Let’s try them from left to right.

Photo on 12-12-17 at 9.03 AM #2.jpgI took about 11 photos hoping my gray roots wouldn’t show and it turns out, hips don’t lie. Neither do cameras. Anyway, this is Richer Raisin, and I don’t like raisins, but this color isn’t bad. It doesn’t give me a chubby stick, but it’s okay.

Stay tuned for Fuller Fig tomorrow!!!!

Oh, Jooooo. How dull you are.

Noon June

It’s Monday at lunch, and I tried to write you all this morning, but stuff kept happening and I never got around to it. But here I am! The one that you love! Asking for another dayyyyy.

In case you were gone this weekend, or trying heroin or the FedEx delivery man, I wrote about my trip to TinyTown this weekend. It’s the post below this one. I also just linked to it. So you won’t have to be all, What happened in TinyTown, JOOOOOOOOOON??? Why didn’t you write about TinyTown, JOOOOOOONN. In my head, the more I write “JOOOOON,” the harsher you sound saying it.

Other than that, here is what else I’ve been up to…

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Oh my god, June, NO ONE CARES.

I headed out yonder to visit my friends Chris and Lilly, who are 100% over me but have to tolerate me because they’re nice people.

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“Is she gone yet? Don’t look over there. …Did she go?”

They made a nice plate of snacks, which I was indulging in despite my clean diet.

HAHAHAHAHAHA.

Anyway, there I was, indulging, when we all…smelled something.

“So you smell that?” asked Chris, and they probably worried about the contents of my adult diaper, so old am I compared to them. In the grand scheme of things, I’m Ruth Gordon to their Mia Farrow. Try the mouse.

“It’s just me!” announced their child, Z, from the hallway. She leaned into the room. “I just wanted a little company!”

IMG_E2467.JPGTurns out Z felt the…call of nature, so she brought her…call of nature chair into the hallway, right outside of the living room, to, you know. Answer nature. It was more a social event than a private event, for her. It was the social event of the season, really.

Also, I got my hair cut. I go to a regular hairdresser who colors and cuts my hair, but she doesn’t do the Deva cuts, which is a specific cut for curly hair that you have to get a certificate in and so on.

I could see my hair wasn’t…bouncing as it can, and the curls were getting heavy, so I Googled the closest place that does Deva cuts, made an appointment, and walked in this week…

…to an African American salon.

Okay. So.

I guess I never thought about it before, but once I walked into that place, the only BETTY WHITE in there, the only person who was BEYOND THE PALE, it dawned on me. I saw the light, and it was my skin. Maybe there are salons specifically for women of color, and maybe I just walked into one.

White girl walks into a salon.

But here’s the thing. A, they didn’t kick me out, and 2, they were really nice to me and 12, here’s my new hair:

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June. Stop.

No, really, HERE is my new hair:

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Right?

Here it is on another day:IMG_2458.jpgRight right? She did a great job! As Faithful Reader Fay says, I have gone black and I will not go back. I’ll still go to my color person, ironically, for color. But I’m sticking with this hairdresser for cuts.

Then finally yesterday, I tried getting back on Facebook after a few-week hiatus, but almost instantly, people started messaging me, which of course is why I got off Facebook.

(Just to catch you up, in case this was your season to try heroin, or the FedEx delivery man, a person kept sending me messages on Facebook, messages to do with Ned, and when I blocked her, she created a new profile and messaged me again. This gave me the PTSD any time my message indicator came on Facebook.

I wrote here, and on Facebook, and on the page Facebook of June, asking for people to not send me personal messages, but it kept happening. So, knowing I can’t change anyone, I just got off there. I was hoping when I got back on that I just wouldn’t get many messages, but I did, and they made me anxious again, so I left. Again.) (And shutting off messenger doesn’t help. It still tells you you have messages.)

So that was a long stint back on there. Hey, 12 hours!

And finally. In summation. To wrap up. You will note on the side of this page (if you’re on your desktop computer) or at the bottom of this page (if you’re on your phone) that there is a new feature here. It’s called From the Beginning, and it will eventually list all my categories in chronological order.

I have all kinds of stupid categories from this blog: Ned, my pets, my health, Tracy Quartermaine. But if you wanted to just sit down and read about a particular topic, you’d have to read from the present day and scroll down. Read backwards, as it were.

This annoyed me, which is saying a lot because we all know what a long fuse I have. But there’s a woman named Elizabeth who works for WordPress, who offered me her services when I came over here, and she has been magnificent, and I asked her, “Is there a way we can show some stuff in order, and not backwards?”

So she made the little From the Beginning section, and we started with the …friend/Ned category, dating back from January of 2012 when I met his ass, and ending with whenever I last wrote about him.

As I learn how the hell to add the other categories, I will add them. She did this one for me, because did I mention magnificent?

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You rilly sort of dullist person on erf.
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do not bor furthir

So that SORT of sums things up, although I have other things to tell you, but I will save them up. Savor them. Build the anticipation.

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mom blawg. fale.

Talk to you soon, from the warm supportive bosom of my pet family.

Jooooooon

June reviews her Christmas dates, and she’s plum tired. BAH.

Last night, I went to bed at 10 to 8:00. That’s the nice thing about migraine–you get your rest.

I am in a streak, a migraine streak, since before I left for Michigan. I’ve had a damn migraine every day since Sunday. Welcome back to Greensboro! So, last night, I trudged home gingerly, as opposed to MaryAnn-ly, fed the 90 pets, and said, “Edsel, I’m just gonna lie down for a bit.”

Not that he didn’t follow me down the hall with Blu once I said that, dropping it dejectedly when he figured out he wasn’t coming with me. And yes, I felt like a dick.

The point is, next thing you know my alarm is going off and I’m in all my clothes. So. Nice. Nothing feels better than waking up in all your clothes, like you were camping.

Oh, and also, speaking of Edsel, who in case you didn’t know is my gay dog, like anyone just got here. But speaking of Edsel, I have a problem…

IMG_2368.JPGI’ve set this room up so that there is now a chair next to the window where the cats eat. This means that stupid Edsel, ON THE DAILY, gets on the chair and eats all the leftover food. Today, he NUDGED LILY OUT OF THE WAY so he could eat her food.

And yes, I yell at him and he turns into a contrite letter C, until the next mealtime, when he gleefully and gayfully does it again.

Surely I can’t be the only person here who owns a cat and a dog. Where do YOU feed your cats so the dog won’t eat it?

IMG_2367.jpgAlso, my building shares office space with a few counseling offices. Say “office” one more time. Anyway, they’re having a toy drive, which is really a bad idea. Adult humans should really be the only ones driving.

Anyway, every day, Elmo, Big Bird and some blue character–did they update their blue character since the Cookie Monster, which is where I left off in 1971? Anyway, every day these three characters are doing something funny at the box. Sometimes they’re just staring through the carton-holder openings.

…Oh my GOD, you guys. See that text, above? I wrote that, and 900 MORE PITHY WORDS this morning, and when I hit “publish,” it published my headline and NOTHING ELSE. All I was able to get back were these first paragraphs, and YOU MISSED ALL MY PITH. So here I am again, 86 calls to WordPress, AT&T and AppleCare later, at lunch, trying to write you again.

What I was telling you, before the goddamn internet ruined my goddamn life, was that tonight is my work Christmas party, and yes, they call it a “Christmas” party.

b253c-6a00e54f9367fb883401543860ae67970c-pi.jpgThe first year I worked there, in 2011, my date was Dick Whitman.

In 2012, they’d laid me off and brought me back as a contractor, and I wasn’t invited to the Christmas party. Hmph.

965838_10152064488943850_1095438410_oIn 2013 and ’14, I went with Ned.

Then we broke up, as we are wont to do, and in 2015 I took The Naughty Professor.

6a00e54f9367fb883401bb0898356d970dAnd then in 2016, I got back together with Ned, as we were wont to do NOT ANYMORE but we were then.

IMG_3920We had both gained eleventy hundred pounds. What stress? And by the way, since Chippiegate 2017, I have done Weight Watchers NOT AT ALL, but I got back on that wagon today. Gained back four of the 10 pounds I’d lost, dammit, but still. I’m thinner than old Big Dot up there in m’polka-dot dress. Old Tri-Chins, up there.

Anyway, this year I’m going alone. Alooooone. ALONNNNNNNNE. I’m going with six fewer pounds and one less man.

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Oh, it’s fine.

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Really.

This year, the event is at the country club, which is exciting because that’s near my house, given what a fancy neighborhood I live in. I live in fancy-adjacent, really. When I first moved here, I told someone what street I live off of, and I remember the person asking which side of Battleground was I on, which is the dividing street between fancy and not fancy. Why didn’t the person just go ahead and ask, “You got money?”

Which, by the way, I do right now. I got paid last night, and I got my monthly deposit from Amazon THANK YOU OH MY GOD YOU GUYS, and also I got paid yesterday for doing that freelance work I never shut up about last month, a check that has four digits in it.

This means I’m considering getting my new dishwasher, or alternatively, tiling the floor in the terrible room with that concrete floor. I’d like to put in some kind of retro-looking linoleum, which does anyone remember where I found that stuff? The really good pretty linoleum? I talked about it before, but now I’m all, where WAS that, even? Does anyone know? I think it was technically a linoleum company from England. I’ll never find it again I HATE EVERYTHING.

Anyway, which should I do? Ooo, Ima add a poll. That always goes so well, when we do that.

I promise you this post was a lot funnier THIS MORNING before I had to remember what I said and re-create it all crabby-like, but I leave you with this…

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it dooo fit. dooo not a quit.

I put this puppy bed, fmr., on my dining room table, fmr., which now resides in my computer room, fmr., and does anyone local need a very long table? Anyway, I thought it’d be a nice place for cats to lounge in private, and yet? No one used it. My cats never use actual cat BEDS I provide them–they’d prefer Edsel’s bed or my bed or my clean clothes or anything that inconveniences me. Nevertheless, yesterday Steely Dan suddenly embraced the puppy bed, and for that I am grateful.

I leave you now but I’ll be back to give you a poll. Which is what HE said.

Hoping this doesn’t all DISAPPEAR INTO NOWHERE.

Invisible June

Weekend recap! Oh, June. Zzzzzz.

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On Friday night, my many wrinkles and I stayed home and copy edited, but NOT before I screwed up at work and felt just awful about it.

Do you remember that project I took home last weekend? The point of taking it home was so that when it came back from the printer and I looked it over one last time, I wouldn’t find that it had ONE MORE ERROR after all, the way I did LAST month.

Of course that thing came back from the printer at seven minutes to 5:00 Friday, and guess what I found.

Spelling error. DAMMIT.

I’ve spent the whole weekend trying to figure out how I could have done the job perfectly. I know people think, “Isn’t that what a copy editor does? Isn’t her whole job to check spelling errors?”

Oh, honey. It so isn’t all I do.

And maybe that’s the problem, I’ve decided. Maybe one person needs to check all the facts; the other all the art; the last one the spelling, grammar, and punctuation. And maybe something that cumbersome should not be looked at by one copy editor, but three or four.

I’ll stop talking about it now so you don’t die of boredom. But everyone was working late Friday, including our president. Not of the country, of the company. And I talked to him about this error, and how upset it made me, and awhile later I was obsessing at my desk and he came over.

“Hey, I know I told you not to sweat it, and that the important thing is you still found it before it went to print. But you know what? Thank you for sweating it. Thank you for caring.”

Then I had to go home and freelance.

The point is, pretty much every morning for the last two years I wake up with dread, because my romance sitch is so precarious. Even when we actually reunited officially last year, I woke up in dread, and had to take a moment to tell myself, “No, it’s okay. You’re back together.”

The point is, every so often lately I do NOT wake up in dread. Saturday I woke up and said, “You know what? You’ve been in this endless terrible relationship, and you made a mistake at work. You could look at it that way, or you could think, Well, it looks like I’m finishing a relationship that wasn’t good for me, and the president of my company knows I care about my work.”

So. That’s what I did. I opted for door number two.

IMG_1687.jpgIMG_1689.jpgOn Saturday morning, I schlepped my arse out to the country to hang with one of the Alexes, who makes funny needlepoint in her spare time, to sell at craft shows. I know you’d think I’d feel competitive, what with all m’crafts, but I don’t. I mean, nothing compares to my decoupage. So.

We sat for awhile behind her display, which sounds dirty but was just barely so, and caught up on each other’s gossip. Then I had to go.

IMG_1695.jpgI got up with Marty Martin, who is neither an old man with a walker or a ’50s strip mall, but for some reason all I photographed was my walk INto the coffee shop and not M Martin himself. And Dear M Martin: Could you REMIND me I have a blog and need to photograph everything, next time? GOD.

Wait. Does that old guy have a walker or just stripey pants?

Also also, this dick-ass popular hamburger place moved in there, but did nothing to improve the parking, and now you can’t park there to save your life. There are about 10 other stores besides Dick-Ass Popular Hamburgers, but do they care? No. For that reason alone, I never eat there.

IMG_1696.jpgIMG_1700.jpgAfter that, I screamed over to the old mill stream, where I first met you, or alternatively, the old mill where I get my hair done.

IMG_1701.jpgPoor Marty Martin was all, Well, if your appointment is at 1:00, we could meet after, at like 2:00 or something.

Oh, honey. Oh hairless honey. 2:00. He probably also thinks all copy editors do is check spelling.

IMG_1705.jpgHere we are at the dry-it-straight portion of our evening, and by that time it literally was evening.

IMG_1710.jpgWhen I got back to my car, I was amused by the dregs of my run-aroundy day.

IMG_1718Edsel at confession. Why do I try to have a screen?

On Sunday, Peg-my-neighbor’s daughter called me, as they are painting and fixing Peg’s house to eventually sell it. She wanted me to see it all cleared out.

IMG_1724.jpgAw, man. I just tried to find you photos of Peg’s house, which I know I have, but instead I just keep finding fun pictures of Peg through the years.

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Here she is in 2010, at our combo dress-as-your-biggest-fear party.

6a00e54f9367fb8834014e8825f96c970d.jpgHere she is at 5:00 in the morning, when we had our royal wedding get-together at her house.

Seeing her house all shiny and bare. Oh, man.

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This computer is like to kill me, and now it’s late and I gotta go before I can tell you how cool the building is where I have therapy. Even the ELEVATOR BUTTONS are cool.

Okay, talk to you later.

Wordily,

June