You know those annoying posts where I put on my makeup and talk to you, because I’m tryina do everything at once?
So, if you read yesterday’s post about my humiliation, you know I have TV now.
Turns out, TV SUCKS, man. I haven’t watched TV in, what, two years? Is that how long it’s been?
First of all, almost all the channels are just commercials disguised as channels. QVC, old-lady makeup network, a cheerful channel called Dealing With Cancer. What happened to, you know, shows?
Then when you DO get a channel, like, I stopped on E!–E exclamation point–there are all these terrible POP-UPS at the bottom of the screen that distort the real show and distract you annoyingly.
Do TV people realize we can all just stream things now? That they should be getting BETTER, not worse? Why do we PAY for this bullshit?
One good thing I found was a network that showed me old Warner Bros. cartoons. I saw one where a poor homeless hound dog needed shelter, so he found a house in the woods that ended up belonging to a skunk, and the whole thing was the two of them duking it out and being friends in the end.
I guess maybe in retrospect, the skunk was squatting in the house same as the hound dog, because there was a vanity with perfume, and why would the skunk have a vanity?
Also the next one was a dog who got abandoned in a field, and I WAS ALL NO YOU ARE NOT SHOWING ME THIS, who wanders over to Porky Pig’s farm and tries to get P. Pig to adopt him. The dog is all, “I’m 50% Pointer–there it is, there it is. I’m 50% setter (he sits down). 50% boxer (he starts boxing).” Oh my god, it was magnificent.
Also, Porky Pig is not humane. He was mean to that poor dog. I guess to be a pig who owns a farm you gotta be pretty cutthroat.
Finally, last night I watched Mildred Pierce on Turner Classic Movies. What happened to the old guy? There was always an old guy named I think Robert who introduced you to the film and told you the inside guff. Now they’ve got some preppy whippersnapper.
So I’ll probably get ridda TV once the royal wedding is done, because this is bullshit.
Television industry, you have one week to get me hooked again.
It seems like such a dad thing to do, and my father doesn’t do a lot of those dad things, like have elbow patches or put memes up about how he’s going to murder all my dates.
Those always seem creepy to me. Same as the shrill “Open Letter to the Future Bitches Who’ll Have the Nerve to Want a Healthy Adult Relationship with My Son” essays women pass around on Freudbook or wherever.
Anyway, the trick egg. It was plastic, and it stood on end. It balanced. And on the first day of spring or fall, he’d always find some yahoo to dupe. “On the very first day of [insert season here], the earth is such that eggs balance. It’s true.” He’d sound so convincing.
“Hang on. Let me get an egg out of the fridge.”
I would not wish for you to know that I was among the first people duped by this. I was 24.
And, AND, I helped him sneak the trick egg into my poor grandparents’ fridge so we could fool them. I deserve everything that happens to me.
The point is, every first day of spring or first day of fall, not only do I have to get annoyed by Facebook updates that capitalize the season (It’s Spring! I love Fall!) (Well, you’ve ruined the season for me, USELESS CAPPER), I also find myself wondering if I have that trick egg.
I never HAD the trick egg, except for that brief afternoon in 1989, when I had it in the pocket of my black cable-knit Gap cardigan, on its way to my unsuspecting grandparents’ egg tray. Back when fridges had egg trays. And the Gap had cable-knit.
But somehow, the idea of the egg stuck with me. I thought of it again today, on the first day of spring.
(I also fell for what my father told me about those dolphins people hang from their rearview mirrors. “Are those dolphins just for looks, or are they air fresheners?” I wondered one day when we were driving around LA. “They’re a compass. They always twist around to point to the ocean,” he told me.
I was 35.)
There are some things in life that I keep wishing I had, things I didn’t usually have for very long. Barry Gibb once said in an interview that any time he passes a barbershop, he sort of wistfully wonders if they have Brylcreem. He KNOWS they actually don’t, and yet he wonders about it.
That’s how I feel about the egg, and also about this…
I owned two bottles of this. I’ve no idea why, other than of course I was seeking the liquid way to blush all day. Did someone give me both bottles? Was I on a shopping binge at 13? Because that’s how old I was when I owned this “cheek color.” Because it was gleamy. Never greasy. I looked just-blushed fresh.
I had a pink shade, and also a weird ginger, and I wore the weird ginger whenever I had on something brown. Which was often, because 1978. Am certain, in retrospect, that it did not flatter.
It’s safe to say I’ve owned a hundred blushes–sorry, CHEEK COLORS–since then, and I don’t even know that I LIKED this one that much, and yet it’s stuck with me. As has…
Aw, man. If I just had a little Bonne Bell “blushing gel,” just a pinch between m’cheek and gums, I’d be all set, man. That’s me: Subtile et durable.
I think my problem stems from my magazine habit in the late ’70s. I’d walk home from junior high (someone in the break room at work the other day didn’t know what “junior high” meant) in what I recall as always, always being the dead of winter (it was Michigan. There’s a 9 out of 12 chance it WAS winter), and there in the mailbox would be one of the many excellent magazines my grandmother had hooked me up with.
The very-originally named competition, ‘Teen.
Do you know what I was doing when I holed up in our apartment reading Teen after school? I was getting more out of life.
I further received Young Miss. Grammy musta been blowin’ her pension on magazines for me, and was I ever grateful? No.
She really was born to act. And she knew the right way to blow hyphen dry her hair. I saw Kristy McNichol once, at a Marie Callendars in the Valley. She looked pretty much like that. She was 42.
My grandmother even got me the hard stuff:
Aw, man, I wouldn’t even wait to thaw. I’d throw my puffy 1978 winter coat down, grab me some peanut butter and marshmallow fluff, and commence to reading every page of these magazines after school. Which explains your stellar math skills to this day, “Homework, Schmomework” gal. And I’m certain I read the stupid articles (Who could put down “How to have a great bottom”?), but what really got to me were the ads.
And lemme tell you something: The person who wrote those Bonne Bell ads knew witchcraft or something, because there wasn’t a straight girl alive in 1979 who wouldn’t sell BOTH ARMS to get her some Bonne Bell action. I’ll put that shit on with m’toes. Give me that Bonne Bell.
That copywriter knew how to bore into the soul of a teenager. It’s impressive work, really.
I remember wanting this the way I want a snow leopard now. It was going to be a party! For my LIPS! Do you even underSTAND how wonderful that was going to BE?
Eventually, I babysat enough horrific children that I had the two-fifty needed to purchase this necessary object. I can still taste it. It was a total party for my lips. Bianca Jagger rode a horse right across my lips.
THAT’S how big of a party it was.
Asked for it for my 13th birthday. GOT IT. Because it was important I get a super-dark tan in a hurry. I had places to go. Like the marshmallow fluff store. And the melanoma doctor.
I came into some money, like seven dollars or something, and walked all the way down to the GOOD drugstore on Court Street, there, next to Roy’s Steakhouse (The three people who read me in my hometown are all, yeah. Hell, yeah.) to get me some Ten-O-Six lotion. It was brown alcohol in a bottle. But those demons at Bonne Bell brainwashed me. My brain was washed in 70s-brown alcohol.
Oh, I’d dearly love to sniff a bottle of Ten-O-Six. I’ll bet it smells like 1978.
I had all of them. Many, many children across Saginaw, Michigan were ignored, at a dollar an hour, in order to support my Bonne Bell habit.
And I know they make ’em now. But some asshole bought the company, and Dear Asshole Who Bought Bonne Bell:
You don’t fool us. Those lip smackers you sell at Target got NOTHING on the excellent flavors the real lip smackers used to have. Yours taste of plastic and ambition. Fuck you, buyers of Bonne Bell. You messed with our memories.
I don’t even LIKE Good and Plenty, and yet I still bought Good and Plenty. My best friend Beth had Bit-o-Honey, and I coveted.
So, I guess what I’m saying is, Bonne Bell is my trick egg. Bonne Bell is my Brylcreem. Hey, there are worse things. At least my lips weren’t hungry for flavor.
“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.
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:
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.
What I admire about Edsel is his unencumbered ability to release 20 seconds of stepped-on-a-duck-sounding gas with nary a flinch.
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.
From 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.
Some blue flats with gold trim. Tensing Norgay wore these to climb Everest, so practical are they for winter.
And some darling little great-in-snow flats with a strap. Also I have to vacuum the closet, I see.
I 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…
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.
Old Nose McGowan is more like it, sadly.
I 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…
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.
Anyway, that’s my goal. Maybe I should set up one of those thermometers they use for fundraising.
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…
People at work have been talking about a new manicure procedure called SOS or S&M or whatever, and apparently it’s powder they dip your nails in to color them. Somehow this creates a manicure that keeps going for two weeks like a 17-year-old boy but allegedly isn’t as terrible for you as a gel manicure.
And that was the day June lost all her butch readers. And got arrested for pedophilia.
I remember one night, my high school boyfriend and I did it three times. THREE TIMES. I’m not talking 7 p.m., 1:00 in the morning and then at dawn. I’m talking, like, 8:00, 9:00 and then 10:00.
Anyway. Powder manicures are fun till you add the “gelous base,” and then it’s all “Where were you?” “Who was that guy I saw you talking to?”
Given that I like to spend my spare time playing basketball and helping others, I hadn’t yet experienced the excitement of powder nails, nails that have to take a powder, but seeing as that $100 I won on New Year’s Day was burning a hole in m’Kate Spade,
[Dear June: Be more basic. Love, Universe]
I decided to take myself out on the town and get one. A powder manicure. Keep up. No, I HAVEN’T taken Ritalin today. What? God.
So Friday after work, I headed out on the town, the manicure-choices town. I’d had a very deep talk with the receptionist at work about which nail place we like to go to. There are a hundred within a three-mile radius of work, and they all have “Nail” in the title.
“I don’t mind Glamor Nail, but Celebrity Nail seems kind of cliquish,” said the receptionist, who prefers a french manicure, whereas I always want something dark and mysterious, to match my exotic nature. With m’Kate Spade wallet.
The point is, she’s right. Any time I’ve ventured into Celebrity Nail, the owner is trés gregarious, and I feel like his claim to fame there is kibitzing jovially with the clientele. Whereas the place I usually frequent, and “usually frequent” is not at all annoyingly redundant.
The place I usually frequent, Elegant Nail & Tan (Slogan: We don’t actually offer tanning) has a quiet, businesslike owner who isn’t that outgoing but gives the best massages ever during the pedicure process. I always pray I get him, but usually I get a small, rather angry woman named “Stephanie.” (Slogan: Not remotely really named Stephanie.)
The receptionist and I agreed the only reason we really ever step foot in Celebrity Nail is because it’s closest to work. It’s similar to the Chinese place I get takeout from. (Slogan: Not good, but so close by.)
And that is how I found myself walking into Celebrity Nail on Friday night, because traffic was irkedly snarlsome, and so was I, and I could not possibly have withstood traffic for the four more minutes it’d have taken me to get to Elegant Nail & Tan.
I really love that they don’t offer tanning. It’s like my favorite thing ever. IT’S IN YOUR TITLE, but tan schman. Does anyone tan anymore? I guess people spray tan. Elegant Nail & (Spray) Tan. There you go.
SO THERE I WAS–God, June–at Celebrity Nail, and as usual, the owner was loudly joking with a few customers. I mean, that’s nice and all, but if you’re not a regular there, you can feel a tad left out. I’d never really put a name to that feeling till the receptionist mentioned it. That happens to me a lot, actually.
“Any time I talk to her, I end up feeling bad about myself,” someone once said to me about a mutual acquaintance, and OH MY GOD was that true, and I’d just gone around feeling vaguely bad with that acquaintance and not really acknowledging it.
“This kung pao chicken takes like root beer,” my college roommate’s boyfriend once said to me, as we were eating at this place I went to at least once a week. GODDAMMIT. I hadn’t acknowledged it till he labeled it.
So there I was Friday, finally noticing that this place made me feel kind of bad, and also kind of annoyed. I come to the manicure place to read celebrity gossip, and choose nail colors like I’m making Sophie’s Choice, and to generally sit quietly, which for me is pretty much always my goal.
I go to work hoping to always sit quietly and concentrate. I get my hair done hoping I can sit quietly and have my tresses colored. I want restaurants to be quiet. Maybe I should just isolate more.
The point is, as the evening wore on and I…sat quietly with the manicurist I was given, who had a terrible cold and was spending an hour basically holding my hands, so that was relaxing. As we were over there being quiet, I began to notice one insider over at the popular table was being more…attention-grabbing than the others.
I tried to sort of turn in my chair and see her, but I couldn’t even determine her race. All I saw was a rather thick woman, with dark hair, who based on the tenor of her voice was probably middle-aged. As opposed to how young and svelte I am. BUT AT LEAST I WAS SITTING QUIETLY.
The first thing I couldn’t help but overhear, because she was practically screaming into my soul, was that Red Bull, the energy drink? She alleged it was made from bull sperm. She’d been reading something from the internet, that reliable source, says June, typing at you from the internet.
“WELL. IT’S NOT THE FIRST SPERM I’VE DRANK,” she announced grammatically. Everything was an announcement with this one. I expected, when I turned to look at her, that she would be just a mike and a brick wall behind her. Tip your wait staff.
She started talking about a guy at work who was “Chinese,” and the owner of the salon pressed her for more info. Was he actually Chinese, or was she using that term universally? “What’s his last name?” asked the owner.
“I DON’T KNOW. CHIN?” she asked. And that is about the time my annoyance turned to searing white hate.
“What do you feed your kids?” she eventually asked the owner, who had been joking with her the whole time. “Rice and soy sauce? HA HA HA HA.”
Cold Hands the Mucus-y Manicurist and I exchanged glances.
“You know, everyone at work loves my Asian accent,” she said, and that is when my blood turned to ice. No. No, she’s not gonna…
She did. In a NAIL SALON, with 600 Asian people working there, this stupid white BITCH ASS (I’m assuming she was white. Again, I never saw her. Though in my mind I’d punched her 12 times in her phantom face already) did an ASIAN ACCENT.
At the nail salon.
My nails turned out just okay. There are some spots that didn’t take the clear coating, and I’m not sure if this is how S&M nails always turn out, or if my poor manicurist was sick and perhaps distracted by the BITCH-ASS RACIST in the nail place.
I do have to say that eventually the outgoing owner said to her, “That’s so racist.”
“No it isn’t,” she said. Because that gets to be up to her, and not the ASIAN PERSON she just mocked.
Maybe they should have two sections at salons: Women who want to talk endlessly and loudly, and a quiet section. A nice-people section and a racist section. A nail section and a tanning section.
Given that it’s Sunday and I’ve already finished preaching my sermon and all, I thought this might be a perfect time to round up all the stupid lipstick pictures I’ve taken, so we can see them all in one setting. Sitting. Whatever.
As you know, and have discussed with your families ad nauseam, I purchased a huge collection of Clinique Chubby Sticks last month, a purchase that was unnecessary and yet has provided all of us with hours of enjoyment.
“Mom, do we HAVE to all gather around and look at June’s daily lipstick picture?”
“Yes, Jeshosephat. It’s a crucial part of your book-learnin’.”
I took a photo of me with every color, I think, and here they all are. I think.
So there it is, and probably later today you’ll say, man. I wish I could look at more pictures of June’s fucking face.
You need only turn back here.
Anyway, which do you prefer? Most of them are barely really a color. I think perhaps I prefer Pudgy Peony. Possibly.
So Christmastime is here, as the Peanuts would say high-pitchedly, and here’s what I’ve done thus far…
Yesterday, I got this urge to clean the house. I don’t know why. Maybe I’m pregnant and nesting or something miraculous like that. Maybe I’m about to give birth in a manger. The point is, I laundered and dusted and cleaned all fekking afternoon, and there I was, mopping myself into a corner, as I do, when the doorbell rang.
“WOO WOO WOO WOOOO WOOF!” said Edsel, who really has a limited vocabulary.
I literally had no way to get to the door without screwing up the mopping. “Who is it?” I shouted, the way Laverne and Shirley used to while they held their baseball bats.
“It’s Happy,” said Happy, who is a faithful reader and who somehow knows where I live, I forget how. I wish now that’d I’d thought to eat her, as then I could tell you she was my Happy Meal.
“Hang on!” I said, then mince mince minced over the chair and the still-drying floors to the door, which to tell you the truth now that they’re dry don’t really look any different. My wood floors don’t really shine anymore, and hey, Stepford Wife. Nice concerns.
The point is, Happy feeds and takes in feral cats, and this one is living in her laundry room at the moment, and she wondered if Ned would want this cat, who looks like NedKitty if NedKitty had dipped her tail in ink.
I SO THINK HE SHOULD. And certainly this personal decision should be mine and not his. Anyway I texted the photo and he hasn’t said either way, which will stun everyone who knows Ned and his lightning-fast decisions.
Happy also gave me this jaguar of color, because it reminded her of Steely Dan, and lemme tell you what. Every time I see that thing out the corner of my eye, I think it’s Steely Dan.
And the reason I keep seeing it out the corner of my eye is Dear Happy: I am sorry to tell you that Edsel is obsessed with Jaguar of Color. Obsessed. Like, he slept with it last night. Obsessed. I think you got Edsel a gift, after all.
Anyway, as the day drew to a close, I left Dickus Americanus, up there, during the .0007 seconds she sleeps a day, and stampeded over to my coworker Austin’s house, as he invited me to a little gathering at his house. Yes, I realize I just told you my coworkers don’t like me, but he resides in the minority. He’s like someone who voted for McGovern or something.
Not wanting to break our record, I put on my next Chubby Stick color beforehand, in Mighty Mimosa, which is dumb because mimosas are orange, but I do have to say I enjoy me a mimosa, because getting drunk at breakfast is the way to go.
I also wore my ridik coursage that Ned’s stepmother gave me years ago, a corsage I adore but that I can’t pin on right, so as soon as I got to Austin’s it fell off and I stuck everyone with m’wayward pins like they were all my voodoo dolls.
I like Austin’s friends. This is the guy who also likes old pictures of people he doesn’t know. His wife and I got into a very deep discussion about Highlights Magazine, and she expressed her disdain for The Timbertoes (“I don’t know what they are, and I don’t know what their message is”) and right then I knew, I loved her with all my heart.
Because she’s right. Why are they wooden? Why are they 1800s-looking? WHO THE FUCK ARE THE TIMBERTOES AND WHAT DO THEY WANT WITH US?
“You only ever find Highlights Magazine at the doctor’s,” she pointed out. “And that one Bible Book, which I read once as a kid, not realizing the stories would all have morals,” she said. Then she went on to imitate for me the drawings inside that book, doing a fine imitation of everyone at the crucial moment when they readjust their moral compass, which apparently happens in every story.
“Oh my god, that book is ALWAYS THERE at the doctor’s and I never once picked it up,” I said to her. “It’s like those strawberry candies, where the wrapper looks like a strawberry? I sort of know its there, but I also barely even acknowledge it exists.”
There was another woman at the party who, when I asked how she knew Austin and his wife, told me how she was new to town and desperate to make friends, so after a few perfunctory meetings with Austin’s wife, she one day chased after Austin’s wife’s car with a post card, which she eagerly slammed onto the window.
“It had every possible detail,” Austin’s wife told me. “Her shoe size, her kids’ ages, everything.”
At the end of the night, when I was leaving, that same woman came up to me. “I wanted to slam a post card at you but I don’t have any,” she said, and we exchanged numbers and kissed.
Austin’s party gets hot. The real housewives of Greensboro.
Speaking of hot, Austin had a fire on his TV, despite actually having a, you know, fireplace. “This is better than a real fire,” said Austin. “It got 5 stars on Netflix.”
This lead us all to want to see a 1-star fire, which we figured would be one guy trying over and over to light wet wood, and eventually just tossing in and burning a Solo cup.
Austin’s dog continues to be perhaps unhealthily obsessed with Austin, although she did, oddly, give me the time of day, which is rare.
I also took time out of my busy schedule to admire Austin’s kitchen wallpaper, as I always do, and I see the Prosecco had set in at this point, because nice focusing. Austin and I spent about 45 minutes discussing the use of typography on said wallpaper, and would we, as a designer and a copy editor, have been okay with those equals signs, and the cursive/all caps fiasco, and the fact that there is clearly an extra space before “drops,” till finally I announced, “We are the two most boring people in the world.”
This is another friend of Austin’s, who I threatened to put in my blog last night, but I forget why. Because Prosecco. He’s the husband of Post Card Wife.
Anyway, I see I have droned on about Xmas Eve for too long, kind of like my stay at the Prosecco table last night, and I don’t have time to describe Christmas and this has instead become all about Eve, and I would take credit for that joke but really The Poet made that one up, and damn her and her writing awards.
Hey, June, is ensuring good sentence structure part of your job? Because, job. Well done.
I’ll talk to you tomorrow, when I will describe my not-at-all-chaotic Christmas with a Kitten, volume 3949294. ‘Tis not my first Xmas with a kitten. Probably won’t be my last. That doesn’t mean it’s never a pain in the Prosecco, though.
I wish more things could hurt on my body today. Stupid Pure Barre. Also? It turns out? When you get up at 5:20 and you’re used to around, oh, 7:00-ish, you feel really tired all day. Just a little news flash for ye.
“Ye.” Because suddenly I’m in biblical times.
Anyway, Bathsheba, before I forget because you know how I am, let’s delve into my boss, fmr.’s, wardrobe.
My boss, fmr., has an office right outside my open, exposed, raw desk in the open, exposed, raw floor plan that stresses me out on the daily.
“Oh, look, you’re here!”
“Going to lunch?”
“What’s that you’re snacking on?”
“Why you taking antibiotics?”
I’ve no idea who thought making us sit in a huge room with no privacy whatsoever eight hours a day was a stellar idea, an idea that would “inspire” us, because man, do copy editors ever seek inspiration. They don’t at all seek quiet and a place to concentrate. Anyway, whoever thought of it has an office, I guarantee you that.
The point is, my boss, fmr., has an office that she’s never in that’s right next to my exposed-innards desk. I know she’s never there because about 97 times a day, someone says, “Do you know where boss, fmr., is?”
She’s a good boss. She’s the kind who actually answers your emails and takes time out for you and so on, so she’s probably out doing just that, or at meetings, because meetings. There are always the meetings.
Once a month, her Stitch Fix–or is it StitchFix–box comes to work, and as she’s pawing through it, I always take the liberty of stampeding in there to veto her choices. I don’t recall her ever asking me to do that, but let’s face it: she’s in an office. I get like 30 seconds where I’m not exposed, I’ll take it.
This is also why I pee 11 times a day.
Anyway, now a committee of women assault her in this manner when her Stitch Fix–or is it StitchFix–box comes, and that is when I was inspired, in an office and not an inspirational open floor plan, mind you, to
BOSS MY BOSS, FMR.
“What if, every month, you try on all your choices and my readers help you pick?” I asked. And she was all, okay yeah.
Here is her box for this month, wherein she has already decided what to keep and what to get rid of. Ready? Brace yourself. Grab onto the person sitting seven inches from you in your open floor plan.
She is KEEPING the spotty dress!
She said YES to the skirt!!
She is RETURNING the ’80s Forenza-looking sweater with gold thread.
Also, she immediately played up to the camera. For a relatively quiet, unassuming person, it was surprising that you get a camera on her and she’s Princess Diana all of a sudden.
See. This is where we can boss the boss, fmr. next month. Because I wanted her to keep the Blondie Bumstead shirt, totally, for sure, and she returned it.
These boots are cute, but $110. My coworker Poochie, who has 8 million pairs of expensive shoes, was encouraging her to keep them, but I burst in and said, DON’T LISTEN TO POOCHIE. SHE SPENDS 8 MILLION DOLLARS ON SHOES EVERY WEEK.
So that’s a little preview, and next month we’ll actually get to vote. Oooo, ooooo! I can do another SURVEY! We can do a survey for each piece! Is that the best way, do you think? If someone has organizational skillz and can think of a better idea, let me know. LMK, as the kids say. The inarticulate kids.
I meant to show you a photo of today’s Clinique Chubby Stick, but instead I uploaded a photo of my coworker’s dog. I took this photo yesterday, as said dog ate A WHOLE BOWL of chocolates, wrapper and all, so my coworker brought him in so she could make sure he didn’t die. If he had, I’d have lead with that.
HERE we are. This is Graped-Up, and first of all, what does that even mean, and second, it looks like I have no lip color on at all. We have one more boring day of nude-ish colors, then we stampede into some exciting pinks. So.
And speaking of exciting, come back here tomorrow afternoon I MEAN IT. There will be photos of something very exciting. No, not my boobs. Perv.
Before I go, I mentioned this in the comments yesterday but perhaps you didn’t see them, as you were busy asking your coworker who she just called, seeing as she was four inches from you and you heard every word and you KNOW that wasn’t her husband.
My point is, at 6 p.m. today, NedKitty is going to be put to sleep. The vet with the pink hair is going to Ned’s to do the deed. She really isn’t eating anymore–NedKitty, not the vet–and she’s had kidney disease for more than a year.
And yes, I’m going over there while it is happening. And would you like to know what I’m not in the mood for? Opinions re this or anything having to do with Ned. It’s a sad time. And even though we were broken up, when Tallulah died, I called him at 11 p.m. crying so hard he couldn’t understand me and was literally here in less than five minutes. So. I’m going over there for this.
This is the very first picture of NedKitty I ever took, in 2012. She gave me that look for about three years before she decided she liked me. Now I’m the only person who’s allowed to pick her up.
Godspeed, NedKitty. May there be paper bags to wear on your head, and much hair to chew in the kitty afterlife.
A good part about how they’ve put me on multiple accounts at work is that I’ve gotten to know more coworkers who aren’t Griff. Also, I’ve gotten to know people I’ve worked with all these years, but rarely talked to because we weren’t on the same account.
It can get (ready?) siloed at work.
One of those corporate terms I love.
What they mean is everyone’s working on their own shit so you don’t talk. But they changed that up now, and I’m on three or four accounts at any given time, and yes, everything DOES come to me all at once and everyone needs everything immediately, but that’s not important right now.
What’s important is I’ve gotten to know people I didn’t know before, including a coworker who I will call
Oh my god.
I just ran her through the Random Name Generator, and they want me to call her Lottie Blanco, which I know is slightly confusing given that I had a dog named Lottie,
but it’s such a marvelous name that I can’t help but use it.
So, my coworker, Lottie Blanco, is married to a woman with the same name. The Lottie Blanco I work with is a very down-to-earth-seeming person, at least compared to me, which does not set the bar high. Miss Piggy is more down-to-earth than me. But really, Lottie Blanco is the type who wanders over calmly and says, “Welp. I got 26 articles for you to read by 5:00” and then stands there emotionlessly, whereas I would deliver this news with a shaking hanky and a paper bag to breathe into.
The point is, she hates snakes. ALERT, FAITHFUL READER TEE. ALERT. SNAKE STORY.
Lottie Blanco and her wife Lottie Blanco live near some woods, and for awhile they had mice, despite having two very cute cats. I mean, really, they are extraordinarily cute–both blonde, one fluffier than the other. The fluffy one was wandering around skinny and homeless and looking like Ren when they got her. The point is, eventually the mice went away, and they were all, hunh. Well, good.
One afternoon my coworker Lottie Blanco was up in the attic, taking a box down for a yard sale they were gonna have, and when she lifted the box
was curled up under it. According to my coworker Lottie Blanco, she actually managed to step on her wife Lottie Blanco’s HEAD while screaming and screeching out of the attic like a screaming screeching person.
And this is why I like working on different accounts.
The point is, and yes there is a point besides that stellar story, is yesterday Lottie Blanco The Snake Hater asked me to join a little team celebration at a downtown bar/arcade called Boxcar.
Everyone raves on about that place, but I never went, because what do I care about an arcade?
Except nobody told me THERE WERE PINBALL MACHINES.
When I was a kid, we HAD a pinball machine. It was called Skipper, and my father bought it somewhere or other. Maybe at sea. Maybe from Gilligan. I just don’t know.
This is a terrible picture of Skipper. Let me Google fucking it some more.
It’s for identification only. It’s NOT part of the kit! I have no idea what that means.
The point is, I spent approximately 11,000 youthful hours in my basement, playing Skipper, and what I wouldn’t give to have that particular game back. Pinball machines were simpler then, as was life, other than that racism and sexism and homophobia stuff that has SO CLEARLY gone away now. Thank god that’s been cleared up.
Despite the fact that today’s pinball machine is now really dark and you can’t see where the goddamn ball is anymore, I took my complimentary tokens and played me some pinball for, oh, an hour and a half. Oh, how I love it.
And it all came back to me. I’d say “like riding a bike” except I don’t know how to ride a bike. But I won two free games, and I got the highest score of the week on one machine, and got to put m’name in!
I also summarily beat Lottie Blanco at air hockey. I did this by slipping into a snake costume when she wasn’t expecting it.
Hey, June, say “Lottie Blanco” one more time.
I left downtown, as all the old men had been reported as 5150s, and on over to The Other Copy Editor’s bed and breakfast, where she was having her regular Wine Wednesday event, this time with a band that was apparently quite popular, seeing as I had to park on the corner of Rape and Mug and walk 200 miles. No one bothered me because I still had on m’snake suit.
It was my coworker Molly’s idea to go there, and of course she’s one of those people like my grandfather who knows every single person in town, which begs the question why can’t she think of one nice man to set me up with? Not that my grandfather was any help in that department, either.
Anyway, the band really was good, but I hadda go, because I needed to get up at 5:20.
You what? Great Lottie Blancos in the morning.
I promised my stupid friend TinaDoris that I’d meet her at stupid Pure Barre at a stupid 6 a.m. stupid class. When the alarm went off, I rolled over and said, “Edsel.”
Oh my god, did that poor dog ever startle awake. gud graby, it 7:00 alreddee?
The cats are always lined up along the hallway when I open the bedroom door, but this morning there was nary a cat in sight.
In case you don’t have one in your town or something, and you know what I hate? Is when people say, “If you’ve been living under a rock…”
In case you don’t know what Pure Barre is, it’s a one-hour exercise program designed to make you wish for your own swift death right there at a ballet barre.
TinaDoris goes six days a week. TinaDoris looks magnificent. TinaDoris can suck it.
I came home at 7:03 (silver lining: Pure Barre is stupidly close to my house) and ate all the toast. There is no toast anywhere in the country.
“Hey, where’s the toast?”
“Pure Junne ate it.”
So that’s been my last 24 hours, and try to cram some activity in, Juan. But despite my run-aroundy life of music and pinball and allegedly burning calories that get replaced immediately by toast, I did NOT forget our lipstick pact. Today we try Whole Lotta Honey.
Also, before I forget, we’re going to have an exciting new feature here at Book of Pies. My boss, fmr., is going to show us her Stitch Fix box every month, and we get to vote on what she should keep and what she should return! She already decided on this month’s shipment, which I will feature for you tomorrow, so you’ve got that to live for.
And listen. If you do anything, check in with me Saturday this week. I have something SO STUPIDLY EXCITING to show you then.
It will be 11 years Friday that I’ve done this dang…website. Other than June’s Live Sex Tape, I’ve pretty much done it all on this thing.
[Considers June’s Live Sex Tape.] [Step one: Get sex life.]
When we left each other yesterday, dabbing at our eyes the annoying way the Real Housewives do: dab, dab dab–check Kleenex, we said every day we’d try a new lip color from my exciting Clinique set of 20 lip colors that I needfully bought. Because if there’s anything anyone needs, it’s 20 Chubby Sticks.
Step one: Get one chubby stick.
Hey, mom. [Sees mom in her head. Sees mom’s pursed lips. You know what would unpurse them? A Chubby Stick, by Clinique!]
Since we all know this exciting post is going to end in me showing you today’s color: Fuller Fig (as opposed to yesterday’s color: Richer Raisin), I thought we’d put on our makeup altogether together.
Oh, June. With the play on words.
So I started up there with my grocery-store-purchased Revlon Brow Fantasy, and if you’re really having fantasies about eyebrows, consult your nearest medical professional.
I am using Light Brown, or as the fancy people call it, Brun Clair. Why is my eyebrow pencil also French? Do a lot of your French folk schlep to the grocery store for their cosmetic needs?
In real life, when I have the dollars, I prefer the Anastasia brow products called DIPBROW™. Look at me, even adding the TM.
Laura Gellar Baked Balance-n-Brighten, because you know how much I love anything with “n” instead of “and” in the title. My Aunt Mary, whose initials are QVC, sent me my first compact of this in 2015 and I’ve been using it ever since. It’s easy and it works.
Also, since I moved my computer in my quest to photograph anything OTHER THAN THE RAYS OF THE SCREAMING SUN, please note my poor succulent back there. It seems to be drooping. As you can see, it’s not like it’s NOT GETTING ANY SUN, so does anyone have succulent advice? I know to not water it often; that’s why I HAVE a succulent. Have you met my attentive nature?
Laura Mercier Secret Concealer for Undereye. It’s not a secret anymore.
I wonder if Laura Gellar and Laura Mercier duke it out in my cosmetics bag?
I really meant to go to the store last night and get root touchup. GodDAMMIT. Anyway, Bobbi Brown eye shadow in Gray. Because it’s my prerogative.
Do I make that joke every time? What do you want from me? I’m an old woman. Also, note my gray eye shadow and my gray roots do not match. Apparently there really are 50 shades of gray.
I like how my blog about me is showing pictures of me with a reflection of me in the background. Also, carry on, my wayward sun. Jesus, with that sun. So to speak. Talk about your father, sun and holy shit it’s bright back here.
Anyway, Revlon ColorStay eye pencil in Black/Brown, or as they also like to call it, Noir/Brun. Okay, Revlon. Get over your not-French self.
Followed by DiorShow Blackout mascara, and the color is apparently 099. That’s warm and personal.
Ninety-nine. I’ve been waiiiting so long. Oh, 99, where did we go wrong. Oh, 99.
We need to hear more from Toto. Whatever happened to them? We cast aside our musical heroes so fast. Toss ’em aside and call them 099.
Incidentally, while I’m writing to you and doing my makeup, what I know for sure is that eating six Jeno’s Pizza Rolls for breakfast is not good for you.
That is why I’m having six Totino’s Pizza Rolls.
TAAA-DAAAAA!! FULLER FIG, which I just typed as “Fuller GIF.” Again, it’s not bad. I don’t wanna marry it, be June Fig. But it’s okay.
What’s not okay: gray fucking roots.
So there it is: A simple makeup routine that, if you also blog about it and photograph it and eat pizza rolls during it, takes a mere hour and a half.
I leave you with this portrait of ennui that I took last night. Apparently there was a staff meeting no one told me about. Perhaps they’re planning a takeover.
Fine with me. I hate being in charge around here. Let THEM figure out how to afford flea meds for four.
Talk to you tomorrow, when we shall delve into the exciting world of Clinique’s Whole Lotta Honey.
If you’re just getting back from your Thanksgiving holiday, and I say “holiday” like we’re all British, there are several days of my posts for you to catch up on and I wish you luck. I wish you luck mucking through all my ins and outs.
For the rest of you, who kept up with me like good readers, here’s the rest of my trip back to Michigan…
When we left each other yesterday, saying, “No, YOU hang up,” Gus had been doing tricks in my mother’s yard, fmr., and then I might have kissed him with my red lipstick. I remember back in the ’90s, kissing my mother’s fluffy white Samoyed with my then-fushia lipstick, and my poor beleaguered stepfather in the kitchen, patiently washing it off that dog’s head.
Oooo, speaking of lipstick…
Both on the way to Michigan and on the way back, I may have looked with rapt interest in the Mac store at Chicago airport, noting these lipsticks were all for sale as one unit, a unit someone might like, if someone were trying to determine what June Would Like For Christmas, a query that’s burning in the brains of just er’one.
I’d look like an asshole in the second-from-the-left one. That burnt orange look does not appeal. But speaking of needless purchases, isn’t it Cyber Monday? Wouldn’t this be an excellent time to link to Amazon, so you can purchase like a mo?
Oh, look! A book about how we shouldn’t consume, that if we click on it takes us to Amazon so we can consume. Oh, June, you’re so ironic. Don’tcha think. A little too ironic. Yeah, I really do think.
But I digress.
On Friday night of my trip to Michigan, my Aunt Kathy had us over for tacos, and by “my Aunt Kathy,” I mean my Uncle Bill made tacos.
Some families form a conga line. We form a taco line. [Insert taco/Katie-the-lesbian joke here]
My Aunt Kathy, who is a Virgo, had already decorated for Christmas. Like, that day. She started the day with no Christmas, and by the end of the day she was swinging on her North Pole.
Do you remember that guy Ward who I went out with like three times or something, and then it didn’t work out? He texted me over the holiday (British), and I answered him, telling him how all the women in my family prattle endlessly and all the men are sort of quiet and introspective. Okay, not my Uncle Leo. But the other men. Anyway, below is yet another piano-playing video, this time not horrific like the last one, where one of the men is being deep and yet you can hear women prattling in the background. I recorded this for his listening pleasure. I think it was around then that he stopped texting.
After dinner, my cousin Big June and her husband Hill came to surprise me, and it was so cute to see them. She gets migraines, too. Is plagued by them, actually.
Maybe had I not been named after her I wouldn’t have migraines. Maybe they could have named me after a tennis star or something instead. Step one: Get tennis star in family.
Also, here is my aunt’s cat, Tom Thumbs. Did not at all follow Tom Thumbs around like an idiot, scooting across floor with phone out like a moron. That would not be fittin’. Did not at all call him kitty head or sweet kitten or kitty hitchhiker kitten face wif thumbses.
Finally, it was Saturday and time for me to go, but not before Hulk rejected me for sports. Also, Dear June: *of.
I returned home without incident, late Saturday night. It was too late to get Edsel from daycare, so I slept with Lily, who was beside herself that I’d returned, and if you look carefully, you can see an extremely indifferent Steely Dan down the hall.
The other, more normal, cats were happy to see me, in their cat way. “wee not say hi, but we sleep on you a lots.”
The cat-sitter told me that every day, SD and Lily would come blinking down the hall, like, O, do someone bee heer? And every time, Iris was asleep in the dog bed.
Speaking of my cats, I was writing you in my regular fashion, not that I’m pooping, when I saw this shadow…
Here’s the annoying part: I’ve already let him in today. But there he is, mysteriously on the other side of the door, as he is wont to be. And yet, he still wishes for me to get up and let him in the traditional way right now. Sneak out whatever way he’s figured out? Sure. But inconveniencing me to come back in? Oh, HELL, sure. So many sures.
And he wasn’t hungry; he’d already eaten. He wasn’t sleepy. Evil rarely sleeps. He just wanted to be sure to remind me that my coffee repels him. My coffee should be stopped. As soon as he can gather funds, he’s going to bribe a lobbyist to get coffee outlawed.
Asshole. Why do I love him so? This sums up all my relationships.
I’d better get to work, which I am actually looking forward to doing. Tomorrow is my mammogram, which has not haunted and terrified me since I made the appointment or anything. Do you all know from EMDR? It’s a kind of therapy they do for trauma. I really think I should get EMDR so I’m not so
during mammogram week. Am considering.
Meanwhile, here’s an Amazon link again, in case it inconveniences you to scroll up. I want to make it was easy as I can for you, so that I will become a millionaire. Also, I got my new credit score today, and it’s in the high 700s.
You know, at the beginning of the year, I made the New Year’s resolution to fix my finances, and I actually did it. I worked freelance jobs ALL YEAR LONG. And I got my debt cleared. And I upped my contribution to my four oh wonk.
I still don’t make a lot of money, but at least I don’t have debt haunting me. Just mammograms.
Anyway, here’s your second Amazon link.
Resent. Also, wish Crazy Cat Lady ornament did not look so much like self.
P.S. Someone will ask, so I will assure you I got the Eds from daycare Sunday, and he was…enthused about seeing me.
I had a migraine (thanks, world), so he spent the entire day with his snout up on my berobed self. No, seriously. THE ENTIRE DAY.
Steely Dan made barf sounds from across the room and rolled his orange cat eyes.
Do you like how I keep using “blog” as a verb? You’re welcome.
When we were last together, promising to write while Mister pulled us apart (“NOTHING BUT DEATH COULD KEEP ME FROM IT”),
Dear June: Watch new movies. You’re killing us. Also, “blog” is a noun. Love, All 10 Readers.
I think it was Thanksgiving, or maybe the day after. It’s all a blur, man. A blur of carbs. So I’ll start up where we left off, except for the tiny detail that I can’t recall where we left off.
Dear June: SCROLL DOWN. God. Signed, Nine readers, because one of us got sick of you.
Here are some other things I did on my trip to Michigan other than have Thanksgiving…
Walked with mom. It really wasn’t that cold out, and yet mom was ready to climb Everest with her outdoor garb. She kept texting my stepfather about which base camp we were at.
Shopped with women. I feel like we were super original in this regard, as no other women in the country ventured out to stores on the Friday after Thanksgiving. You will see that my cousin Katie the Lesbian joined us–she hadn’t been at Thanksgiving because she is a nurse and was scheduled to work. I’d be all, fuck that. People can wait. Have you MET stuffing?
It’s funny, I keep thinking the Pope will write me about that sainthood, but he keeps writing back New phone, who dis.
Is it sainthood? Is that what it’s called when someone besaints you? It would appear that I don’t know.
Anyway, my mother and I popped into this vintage/resale/some new stuff store she likes, and careful readers will note that all I ever do is go to vintage/some new/resale stores and what genetics? Anyway, we’d been there awhile, exclaiming over these incredibly bad purses, that had gems and leopard spots and big diamonds for clasps, and wondering what kind of asshole would buy them, when lo and behold who was at the store but my Aunt Kathy and my lesbian cousin Katie.
Uncareful readers will note that Katie is not a lesbian at all, but her niece, as a very small child, asked her if she were a lesbian, assuring her it’s okay to be gay, because she felt Aunt Katie dressed like a lesbian, which continues to be my favorite thing anyone has ever said, other than Ozzy Osbourne saying, “Things could be worse. I could be Sting.”
Say, short sentence. How’re your short sentences treatin’ ya?
The point is, we shopped the store again, as Katie was looking for a chest of drawers, and maybe a chest of a woman, given her wardrobe choices. And HERE’S WHAT HAPPENED. We got up to one of the terrible purses, each one more gaudy than the next, and Katie said, “June, do you not love these? I could so see you with one of these purses.”
SHE WAS SERIOUS.
“What? You like gaudy!”
There’s gaudy and there’s middle-aged, look-how-whimiscal, when-I-am-old-I-shall-wear-purple-at-Olive-Garden-with-20-other-friends gaudy.
My mother and I kept presenting Katie with lovely old chests, and we garnered a few Mardi Gras beads for our efforts. BAH. No. We found midcentury, curvy, painted-pale-green, just lovely dressers, and Katie would be all, “Oh, uh-huh, yeah” with this FEIGNED interest, till she’d come across a jet black dresser with rabbit skulls for drawer pulls. “Oh, this one’s nice,” she’d say. Or the unvarnished one that’d been beaten with Micky’s Big Mouth 40-ouncers for character. “This one’s great.”
Aunt Katie, you dresser like a lesbian.
Aunt Kathy got large sunglasses, and I got this poncho WHAT DO YOU MEAN WHIMSICAL MIDDLE AGE? We tried to pose like fashionable mannequins, but had no dignity.
After, mom and I went to her old house. A sale is pending, but in the meantime, it’s still hers. If I had time, I’d find old photos and compare them to her blank house, but I like to stay active.
The only picture I could find is this shot with Ned in it, and I hope you’re happy that I put this up and then felt physically ill and had to poop. I pooped for you people.
Dear June, Thanks. Signed, Eight of us, because one of us was all, oh good. Bowel talk. And then left.
The good news is that Gus’s obstacle course equipment was still back there, and despite his being 104 and never hearing me when I talked to him this time, he was up in his playground. Gus likes to stay active. He also likes brunch and walks on the beach, and is looking for a partner in crime.
(I hate online dating. In case anyone wonders how that’s going.)
Also in my mother’s basement is an old piano, that is sadly out of tune, and I’m sorry to tell you there are four–FOUR–sad videos of us trying to play heart and soul.
I see that I have droned on for nearly a thousand words already, and I ONLY GOT THROUGH FRIDAY and not even FRIDAY NIGHT, and you know how I love the nightlife. How I’ve got to boogie. Because who’s 52?
So I will report back tomorrow with more riveting highlights of my trip. However, I can’t leave without giving you a convenient Amazon link with which to shop shop shop, because it’s almost Christmas, and it’s time to spend way too much to fill the hollow blackness that lies inside us.
Or maybe that’s just me.
Up there is a link to Amazon, which happens to be more than $500 worth of Mac cosmetics, and talk about filling your empty blackness. I feel like that would do it. For, you know, like an hour!
Pink Uggs would also quiet the unrest.
If you shop using June, you will make a mom happy at Christmas. AND I DO NOT HAVE DEBT ANYMORE. I do need a new dishwasher, however. Oooo, wait…
Okay, seriously? You can get a DISHWASHER on Amazon?
For the next week, I will be proofreading a textbook when I'm not at my regularly scheduled job. I will not be here a lot, and also if you know me in real life, I will not be phoning with you a lot. I'll be back when I can!
I took photos of my toilette this morning to tide you over. I know, man. You are welcome.
TAAA-DAAAAA! (I really don't look good in green. I cheated with kind of a teal today. Also, today marks five years since I've had sex with anyone but Ned. Add THAT to your Big Book o'June Events. Also, mark a spot up ahead, will you? Cause this is bullshit, man. We must work to remedy this sitch.)
The other day, I was doing some crucial cosmetics shopping with my equally deep friend Alex from work. (I ended up getting a color-correcting stick that makes me look like Kabuki theater, and a brown lipstick I thought would be delightfully nude but instead looks like I'm pooping straight out my mouth.)
I had to put on reading glasses to see any of the product info, and really, when it gets to that point, shouldn't you just give up on trying to look pretty? At this point I'm just the last part of Lola the Showgirl, with faded feathers in her hair. Now it's a disco. But not for Lola.
I watched 27-year-old Alex, or however the hell old she is, I just say in my mind that they're all 27 cause what's the difference. It's all the same from 20 to 34, for me anymore. Anyway, I watched her pick up mascara tubes and read the back like it was nothing. "How the hell can you do that?" I asked, reaching in my purse.
Out of the 39494958333204 reading glasses I own, the only ones in my purse were my tinted Miss Blankenship-from-Mad-Men ones they gave me at work.
Actual, unretouched photo of Miss Blankenship glasses. Miss Gardenship.
Youthful Alex was debating volumizing shampoos, a thing I could not help her with at all, but when she finally looked up at me, she interrupted herself in midsentence to say, "Wait. Why are you Bono now?"
I do not know why, but in these last few suicidal gaping maw days, that sentence creeps into my head and I giggle like an idiot.
I like how you can see a reflection of me in my Blankenspecs. It is a metaphor for my life.
In other news, Edsel is goofy.
Good job on making him sit first. I suppose most of you saw Eds's french fry face on Facebook, and hey, June, alliterate. But I wanted to be sure to share it with the masses. The tens of you who read me and aren't on Facebook. Basically any time I show you something on Facebook and then here the next day it's mostly because I know my mother hasn't seen it.
Of course, now my mother's going to say something like, "You can make french fries at home, yourself. Save money."
Yes. Let me just go purchase potatoes, purchase whatever the hell you need to make them that shape–would that be a knife?–purchase oil, salt and pepper and then boil them in said oil or whatever the hell you do. Sounds convenient.
Following is a list of things my mother has told me I could just make at home to save money:
Those protein packs from Oscar Meyer, with the cheese, turkey cubes and nuts in it. Yes, after I've rustled up that turkey, I so could!
Okay, I got off track, but "ottoman" did remind me of some magnificent news. I know I've told you before I joined NextDoor (Big Book of June Events page 1337), a site where you and all your neighbors can speak electronically rather than in real life because face to face is horrifying. Anyway, you get to go on there to discuss when you all hear a siren or a scream because someone chopped off their own hand making homemade coal.
You also get to read about people "rehoming" their dogs, and I realize I rehomed one–47–of them just this year, but it was because they'd be so dead otherwise. ("You know, honey, you can make a dead dog at home. Saves money.") Anyway, despite all that, I get to sit in lofty judgment of all the "rehomers."
THE POINT IS, I saw a notice on Sunday that someone was getting rid of their ottoman because they're moving, and I got right in my car in my pajama top and got it.
Look! Look, look! Oh, see June's ottoman.
I loaded that big-ass motherfucker into my car all by myself. It was some feat. Also, the top opens so you can store stuff, but I haven't decided what needs storing. Maybe I'll just put the cats there till I need them.
Why the hell is that dog on the couch? June's Iron Fist Dog Discipline School. Branches are opening near you! Sign up now!
Anyway. Ima go. I'm wearing a skirt today. Though it might cheer me up to be able to bend over and look straight at m'cooch. You gotta get joy where you can find it these days.
Oh, before I go, I will show you this.
Every day at 3:00 at work, we take a walk in the park nearby. I took this photo yesterday and I love it. That's Austin's kid in front, there. She worked with us for awhile yesterday because Martin Luther King said she had to. I like that kid. I guess Austin can't show her she's in a world-famous blog (Serving 15 readers!) because I have just said "cooch" and "motherfucker" in the last minute and a half.
Catch you later, from down here in the Silence of the Lambs pit,