Next to the astronaut

Eds won’t stop acting the fool this morning. “Come sit and chew Blu and be a nice dog,” I just commanded him.

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Edz ALWEEZ nice dog.

Really, I should put off covering that chair for longer. It’s not disgusting enough. I guess if I recover that chair, putting it by the back door again is out, right? I need, like, a mud chair back here. Or, hey, a dog bed. Look at me. The ideas just keep coming. I’m like Ben Franklin.

Anyway, I’m tryina think of things that’re new that I can actually tell you about.

IMG_6897.jpgOn Tuesday, Ned went to Taco Bell. As you do. When you’re Ned.

One of the old movies was on at my old theater, and seeing as how we’re old, Ned and I decided to go. “I have to get my hair cut first,” said Ned.

My first date with Ned was January 19, 2012. You’ll recall that was a Thursday.

The reason we went out on a Thursday was because when he asked me out for the first time on a Monday and we were tryina make a plan, he was getting his hair cut on Tuesday, so Tuesday was out. I was having dinner with The Other June on Wednesday. So Thursday it was. I do not know why I remember all this.

My point is, Ned always gets his hair cut on Tuesdays. Every sixth Tuesday. I get my hair done whenever I have money and/or my gray roots are so absurd that I look like Shirley Maclaine when Deborah Winger is dying in Terms of Endearment. I know I always use that line,  but it’s so accurate.

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I’m lying here next to the astronaut.

So, Ned gets his hair done, a phrase he adores, right near my house on every sixth Tuesday. He’s done around 6:00, and the old-people movie starts at 7:00, so we didn’t have loads of time, and I said, “You wanna go to Taco Bell?” and when he said yes, I fell over dead and I’m writing this while lying in the silk. Next to the astronaut.

He got a taco and a glass of water, which did not annoy me in the slightest.

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Who even knew water was available at Taco Bell?

The movie we saw was Raiders of the Lost Ark, and what amuuuuused me was I got home after, and pretty much every coworker I have posted something from Raiders of the Lost Ark on the social media, there.

One guy took a picture of the organist playing beforehand. “Raiders of the Lost Ark on the big screen? Shut up and take my money,” he wrote.

I did not post to any social media about my movie. I’m just taking 450 words to tell you here.

IMG_6905.jpgYesterday I came home for lunch and noticed Edsel’s tooth was loose. That fangy one hanging out. He’s like a 6-year-old human with a loose tooth. Except he’s an 8-year-old dog, and are dogs supposed to have loose teeth? I think not.

So I took him to the vet, which he enjoys 100% of. Even though he shakes once he sees the building, it ends almost immediately once we’re inside. People talk to him and give him treats, he can glare at other dogs who have the nerve to inhabit the planet. Then he gets a restorative treat after. The whole setup works for the Edz.

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Ooo, we goin’ to bets!

That crumpled thing back there is a dress I keep meaning to take to dry cleaning. Ask me how that’s going.

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Oooo, we at bets! BEST TING EBER!!
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MARRGLPH, marrrglph. Hush puppeee after bets! Marrrgulph.

Anyway, $78 later, it turns out he has a very loose tooth, and that it’ll fall out on his own very soon. He needed a rabies shot, anyway, so he got that yesterday, and we refilled his Sentinel. As he is a stoic sentinel.

The vet said as dogs age, those bottom teeth get loose. I know Lu lost one down there too. They asked if he liked to chew, and that is when I got to tell them all about Blu.

Turns out, m’vet’s Corgie also enjoys toys from the company that makes Blu. This would be a good time to add one of my Amazon links I never remember to add.

Edsel has destroyed every “Can’t be destroyed” toy out there, till one of you–and who was that?–sent Edsel Blu. He’s on Blus #3 and #4 now (he has two, so when one goes missing in the yard or cushions, there’s a backup so he doesn’t get the shakes). It took him years to ruin Blu #1, and we left Blu #2 in Uncle Ned’s yard when we lived there, I think.

Anyway, that company makes other toys, too, and if you click that photo, above, you can of course go on Amazon and shop for whatever you want. As long as you click over there by using the image or my seaglass image that’s on every page of this not blog, I will become rich.

Photo on 4-12-18 at 8.27 AM.jpgAlso, this is how I’ve been writing you. With this weasel strewn across me. I just write around her. If you knew how often I just write around a cat.

Last night, I went BACK to the old theater and saw Gillian Welch, which was good, except she said one weird thing.

“I had an interesting experience in your city today,” she began, strumming her guitar. Everyone cheered, all WOOOO! Greensboro!

“I saw what’s left of Proximity and Revolution,” she began.

Okay. What was she talking about? I’ve lived here for 10 years. Proximity is the nice hotel I like to drink at. It’s lovely. The only Revolution I know is that cool mill where I get my hair done NOT every sixth Tuesday. It’s thriving. New apartments have gone in there, and new restaurants and stores. It’s humming with activity. What was she…?

Did she just DISS our city?

The whole audience was stonily silent. I have no idea what she was talking about, but it seemed …not kind. Pretty much everyone I know who lives here likes living here. People always talk about how there’s “enough to do” and that it’s affordable and nearly everything is 10 minutes away. Downtown is booming.

Anyway, it made me mad, although I’m still not clear on where she meant, anyway.

I’d better get to the work, and do the work, like I’m RuPaul or whatever.

Current references-ly,
June

Gettin’ our Stitch Fix. See what I did, there?

My boss, fmr., got her new StitchFix for April. Let’s judge!

img_6712I ran into her office and watched her open her box like it was Xmas morning. X-Files morning. Like a morning with my ex.

I was a big fan of this shirt with birds, as I enjoy a bird on anything. Except perhaps on my esophagus. A bird on one’s esophagus would blow.

“Should I put on the blouse with the jeans that came in the box, too?” she asked.

Yes.

Also, I had no time for this. I proofread so hard yesterday that my contacts were prunes by 5:00.

“These jeans actually fit!” she said. “Mail-order jeans that fit!”

So let’s vote.

Can we vote on whether adding polls is a pain in my ASS?

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“This coat is oddly…wintery for an April shipment.”
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“My mom would tell me to buy this for winter, so I’ll have it.”

Survey says…

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“I like the color, but it’d need to be ironed.”

And finally, we have an accessory. Bracelet yourselves…

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“It says it’s adjustable but I don’t know if it really is.”

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Please vote early and often. Why do people say that? Anyway, vote before I blog again. Stop her, before she blogs again!

Fixedly,
Juan

A whole post literally about nothing

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

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Girl, you hot

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

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

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

Because Greensboro.

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

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

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

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

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

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Not a puppy. A GOOF, but not a puppy.
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Lu with a 12-year-old-looking Ned

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

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Youthful Ned
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Youthful Mark Hamill

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

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May the aging be with you.

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

“It’s really not, really. Not exact–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Remember that scene in The Shining?

Shining+woman

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

Fucking men.

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

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

Eds resent.

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

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

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

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Don’t fuck with me, fella

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

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Next dating profile pic

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

Seeing as that’s true, I will go now.

Rivetingly,

Juan

How to Have a Migraine: A Step-By-Step Guide

Yesterday morning, after I’d gotten up early and stressed own self over adding polls to this here not-blog (good participation, by the way!), I got an email.

“Can you knock this out this morning?”

I wasn’t even at work yet, and already I was anxious. It’s this big, several-tabbed Excel document that I copy edit every month, and of course copy editing is what I do, but this is several rows long, like sometimes 20 rows, and if you know from Excel, it extends all the way to the letter M.

Some squares I have to copy edit. Some I don’t. Some I have to count characters. Some I don’t. And it’s so big that I can’t see it all at once and actually proofread the words in it at the same time, so I have to blow it up and then clunk around on the thing, wondering, “Did I already read that? Did I count characters for this one?”

And always they need it in like two hours.

I keep saying, “Ideally, I’d like five hours to do this thing” but there never are five hours to be spared.

So that makes me tense every month, and there it was, the dreaded spreadsheet. And did I mention I wasn’t even at work yet?

As I was in the middle of that, someone ran up to me. “Can you look at this real fast?” It was a magazine cover. You screw that up, and you cost the company hundreds of thousands of dollars to reprint.

So I stopped the scary thing to look at another scary thing, and as I was doing that, my boss’s boss, fmr., came over. “Come back in 20,” I groused, and just as I was getting that cranky sentence out, the phone rang.

“CAN I CALL YOU BACK.”

Then I finished my scary magazine cover, and my horrifyingly clunky spreadsheet, and addressed the request of my boss’s boss, fmr., and called back the poor person who’d phoned me (I explained to her all that was going on at my desk when she’d called. “You were surprisingly polite, with all that going on,” she said) and boom.

I got an email from a woman I used to work with. “I was hoping we could get a glass of wine or some coffee or something,” she said, and seeing as no one likes me (see above) I agreed immediately. “We can meet somewhere, but also I have four foster kittens at my house, if that’s a thing you’d enjoy.”

I mean, you come to my house right now, you’re gonna be covered in kittens. For some, that is paradise. We’re knocking on heaven’s door. And for others, it sucks. I don’t understand those “others,” either.

Anyway, she agreed that my pad was the place to be.

Meanwhile, I got an immediate-turnaround, emergency article, and it was all financial info that I didn’t understand, and unfortunately for me, there seemed to be a par-tayyy going on at another desk, with everyone talking and laughing, and I was totally Cinderella with her headphones on, tryina concentrate and sweep the hearth.

At 1:00, I finally got done, and headed home for lunch. I’d had one piece of toast all day, and I was feeling decidedly peckish.

But you know how your house seems okay until you know someone is coming over? “Aw, man, I should change the throw rug in the bathroom. Man, I should sweep this floor.”

Next thing you know, almost an hour had passed, and I STILL HAD MY COAT ON, and was taking out the recycling and scrubbing the stove top and oh my god.

I was already late for returning to work when I realized I couldn’t find two of the kittens.

IMG_4771.jpgI was missing goddamn Lexi.

img_4681.jpgAnd motherfucking Vicki, the tortoiseshell. Hey, June, why don’t you recover that chair.

Anyway, having had cats m’whole life, I wasn’t too worried. I looked under chairs, under desks, behind squeezy things.

No cats.

Matt the tabby and Trixie the black one were in their room, being good cats.

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me supeer yer
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mee 2

MY COAT STILL ON, I started shining a flashlight under things, and by the way, did you ever have your lights off and shine a flashlight on your hardwoods?

MOTHER OF GOD with the fur everywhere. I mean, maybe it’s because lately I’ve had nine fricking animals here, but good lord.

I wrote my boss. Current. “Minor emergency, working from home.” And then, even though I’d gotten everything done that was due, I did work. I figured maybe if I sat still, they’d come out.

Then I started having dreadful thoughts. What if I’d washed them with Edsel’s bed? What if I’d taken them out with the trash? I actually went out and searched the trash.

By the end of the day, I was exhausted and worried. “Ima get a migraine,” I thought, because I also hadn’t eaten, and I know the kind of day I had was like a poster: How To Get a Migraine.

Right at 5:00, I heard a mew. I’d been sitting on the couch, proofreading things, and when I get to work today, Ima be bored stiff, I got so far ahead of self. Really, you get a lot more work done at home.

Anyway, “mew!”

Where was it? Where was I hearing it? Was it outside? Oh, no, was it?

“mew!”

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Those mother

FUCKERS

were under the sink. And then of course I had to worry they ate poison, but if they did they seem to be thriving on it, so.

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My chins and me carrying Lexi back to her room. Fucking adventure cat.

IMG_4985.jpgLater, my pal from work came by, and enjoyed her some kittens and an indifferent Iris. Or was appalled by them. Also, I did not ask her if I could put her in said not-blog, so I hope she does not kick my ass.

IMG_4982.jpgIt’s possible she was more appalled than happy.

Right as she was leaving, I felt the first twinge. It ended up being a two-pill migraine, and I went to bed about 9:00. Felt dreadful.

As I was drifting to sleep spooning Steely Dan (don’t tell anyone), I heard a

“meep!”

IMG_4983 2.jpgFucking adventure tortie, seen here with her good pal and biggest fan, Edsel, had escaped the room, despite the 47 pillows I’ve crammed in the space. Like a day in the sink wasn’t fun enough. Now she has to creep about in the night.

So that was my day, and am sincerely hoping today is more copasetic, especially given that I have a migraine hangover.

Searchingly,

June

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

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

Drivin’ all the old men crazy.

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,

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She was delicious

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

A

GIANT

RAT

SNAKE

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.

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June downtown. Driving all the old men crazy.

Everyone raves on about that place, but I never went, because what do I care about an arcade?

IMG_2627.JPGExcept 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.

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This is a terrible picture of Skipper. Let me Google fucking it some more.

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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.

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Photo credit: Lottie Blanco

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.

IMG_2632.jpgimg_2631.jpgI 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.

IMG_E2647.JPGIt 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.

IMG_2648.jpgAnyway, 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.

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eyeriss can’t eben wif dis time of day. she TRYING to eben, but she can’t eben.

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…”

Oh, hohohohoho!!! God, that’s original. Lemme stitch m’sides.

Anyway.

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.

Holy shit.

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.

IMG_E2620.JPGAlso, 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.

Meanwhile, Whole Lotta Honey…

IMG_2663.jpgHunh. Yeah, okay. Whole lotta eh.

Wet-harriedly,

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

The one where June misses Halloween

For years, we’ve been doing this project at work that is what you might call detailed.

If you’re a proofreader or a copy editor, all three of you, it has everything that takes time. Names you need to check? Yes. Numbers? Yes. Details that’re listed in several places and they all must match? Yes. Fact-checking up the ying? Oui.

Is it really important, so you can’t mess up? Yes, yes, yes.

I hadn’t worked on this thing in years, but last month I did, and found all sorts of errors that would excite only another copy editor (a word was lowercase in a few places, then capped in a few others, then…ready, three copy editors?…BACK TO CAPS AGAIN!) and I was extremely in love with self. This is the shit that gives us life.

So, I found all these errors, and was excited, then I got the thing again at blueline and found an extra word (“to”) in a paragraph.

What’s a blueline, June? This is riveting, we promise.

It’s the final, final version of something before it goes to print. And lots of what we do at work anymore doesn’t even GET printed, but print is scary. You screw up with print, that mistake is there forever. Or worse, that mistake means you have to reprint, and that’s never good.

The point is, because this thing is so huge and detailed and so on, I worked with the manager of the project and we worked out a schedule to determine when I’d read this thing, and when I’d again reread it, because detailed.

That schedule started yesterday. I’d had it on my calendar for weeks: Big project starts today. I was supposed to take all day yesterday and all day today on it.

Then next weekend I take it home and read it again.

When I got to work yesterday, it wasn’t ready yet, as everyone working on it is on business trips. They’re working on it from said trips, so it’d be with me any second.

“Hey, June, here’s another project. Can you work on this today?”

Well.

The thing is, I was just sitting there waiting, unsure of when it’d get to me. So I hemmed and I hawed, and I finally took the project, which turned out to be (wait for it) a lot of stuff, and detailed, and so on.

Naturally, the second I began, I got an email. “You can start that other big project now!”

Yeah.

Then I got two other emails from two other accounts I work on. “Here’s some work. Can we also discuss it in detail?”

And, “Here’s a project. Can you not just edit it, but write this and this? Here’s what I was thinking and what I want and…”

I had to write both those poor folks back and say, I can’t even read this whole email right now.

So I worked. And worked. I hadn’t put on my Frida costume yet, because everything that could have gone wrong yesterday morning DID go wrong, including THE CITY SHUTTING DOWN MY FREEWAY EXIT to get to work, so the plan was I’d get dressed at lunch.

Naturally I worked through lunch, then when I did get away, I had to run errands, so okay. I wouldn’t dress up.

“The costume contest is starting on the dock,” I heard the front desk announce, at 2:00. For the first time in my seven Halloweens there, I did not watch the contest, much less participate, as I had planned. I don’t even know what people dressed up as.

At 4:00, kids were coming for candy, so around 3:00 I just took my computer and went home, so I could work in peace. I was that curmudgeon.

Kit was supposed to come over last night, help me hand out the candies, and I had to cancel on her.

And by the way, just like my morning, everything that COULD go wrong with me getting the work and doing the work, did go wrong.

And truth be told, by 6:00, I was done. I could not make myself think any more. I’d been thinking so intensely. So I shut off the computer and lay blankly for awhile, till

“Trick or treat!

“Wooo! WOO WOO WOOO WO!” snarled Eds.

If Edsel were a normal dog, we could do things like I could dress up as Little Red Riding Hood (Medium-to-Large, Depending, Red Riding Hood) and he could dress as the big, bad wolf. He could sit next to me nicely, with his gummy fangs or whatever, and everyone who came to trick or treat could say “Oh, there’s that cute dog that we pet on his walks” and so on.

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would like salty dog, or maybe banana dakkeri.

Instead, Edsel dressed as banished-to-the-back-room guy.

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wate. dis not jist for blawg? eds really back heer?

I did not photograph trick or treaters, even though you want me to be the weird woman who photographs every fucking thing, because how, exactly, was I going to ask, “Can I photograph your children and put them online?”

The best parts were the one kid who said, “Oh, please, not a Snickers.” I gave that child coal I had left over from my own Christmas stocking.

And then this very small person just started barreling in. “You have a doggie!” she said, and my reputation precedes me. “Yes, I–”

“I want to see the doggie!” Her parents were all Ebony, don’t go in that lady’s house. Ebony didn’t give a shit. She wanted to see the doggie.

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let chyld see doggie. it totlee safe.

And finally, I saw Ava’s family. Of course, I recognized Jane right away, with her June hair and her attitude. In years past, she’s been Katniss or whoever that is, and other popular costumes of the day, and I’m all, Why aren’t you dressed in a pumpkin head or a plastic mask from the grocery store the way I would have been at your age?

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But this year, she was just barely dressed as anything, and was taking a smaller child around, so I guess she’s aging out of this process. Jane is, I’d estimate, between seven and 19 years old.

Her brother I met way, way back, when I just had Tallulah. He’s the kid I ran into on a walk once, when Talu had been rolling in the blackberries or boysenberries or whatever the fuck grows in my yard that she used to roll in and get purple spots.

“I wish I had a yellow and blue dog,” I remember him saying. He asked about Lu’s breed for awhile, and told me about his dog. “What kind of dog is he?” I asked. I hadn’t met his dog yet, who in fact is an enormous, calm, steel-gray 100% pit who is Ava’s best friend.

“Oh, he’s a pet bull and a beagle,” that kid said at the time. And that is when I knew he was full of the shit.

The point is, a group of teenaged boys came to the door, boys who really should not even be trying to trick or treat, and he had cool hair, but I didn’t register that was old pet-bull-and-a-beagle, there.

“Ava’s gotten really big,” he said to me, and right then I knew. Oh, it’s that kid!

He’s somewhere between 11 and 32.

So, in reality, I guess I had the kind of Halloween most adults have who don’t work at a creative agency. I mean, I worked all day and handed out candy at night and The End. BUT I’M USED TO COSTUMES AND PARTIES AT WORK.

I gotta go. I’m slap in the middle of that project, and when you think of June today, and you will, think of me bent unergonomically over details. Deets. June checks the deets.

I know that seems scary in general, but when it comes to copy editing, I am stellar at the deets. Copy editing and stalking boyfriends: June is the deets master at those.

Okay, boo.

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edz can come out nows?

You’re so already out, Eds.

Luff,

Joooon

 

 

 

Chicken parm for the marm

Here’s what I like about myself. I mean, other than the obvious “everything.”

I recently got matched with a cool-looking dude on the Bumble, there, and with that particular dating site, they give you 24 hours to write the person after you’ve been matched, and the woman has to write first. This cuts down dramatically on the number of crude hellos one encounters with online dating.

Why are there men who think opening with a line about wanting to stick your previously unseen personal parts into the recipient of your inaugural note would go over well with any non-roofied woman?

So yesterday evening I wrote a man, “I’m just on my way out the door, but I wanted to write before our time expired.” Don’t I sound breezy, and fun, and whirlwind, and like I’m taking a nothing day and suddenly making it all seem worthwhile?

IMG_1502.jpgI was leaving a bar to go to a sandwich truck. Will the adventures never end? That guy probably thinks I’m dashing out to accept my Nobel or hauling water for the Peace Corps or something.

And I like how if we call a sandwich something else, like glamorous “panini,” it sounds better. I had a mozzarella, basil and tomato PANINI. So rather than eat it as I walked to my car, I masticated during my evening constitutional, under the waxing gibbous.

IMG_1489.jpgI’d been at a bar, on a MONDAY, as you do, because it was someone’s last day. Yes, I DID just go out recently because it was someone’s last day. It was another person’s last day. Hundreds of people work there, dude. They come and go, talking of Michelangelo.

It was the same bar I went to last time, where the sun is screaming in at you for the first hour, and you get a free cataract surgery, so intense is the laser of the sun.

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More of a sunfie, really. A shot of me and my pal Ray. I’m live-streaming. …I got a million of ’em. Give me a ball of fire and I got material for years, sunny.

Not only did I see a lot of the sun, I also saw my handyman Alf. Which was convenient for me, as I was able to cut into his drinking time to alert him that my windows need fixing. Truthfully, Alf looked a little paned when he saw me.

Thank you. I’ll quite literally be here all week. Speaking of which, I was at a restaurant the other night next to a table of the millennials, and really we should just be assigned different restaurants. Or they should have millennial/nonmillennial sections. Anyway, the woman behind me said, “This is literally so good” three times.

I wanted to just turn in my booth and school marm the fuck out of her youthful ass. I did. “What do you mean when you say it’s literally so good, you moronic turn-of-the-century asshole?” I wanted to menopause and reflect all over her bullshitty youthspeak. But I did not. Because my chicken parm was literally so good. Chicken parm for the marm.

I can see that I’m on a nonlinear roll today, so let me stop, let me menopause, and tell you three things right now, before I wander off. I wanted to write you before we expire.

Six months ago, I had my daith pierced, because I am street and also because it’s supposed to help migraines. They told me it’d take a long time to actually heal, and they were right about THAT, but finally it seems better, so on my way home from Atlanta Sunday, I passed the tattoo parlor where I got pierced, and had a real earring put in, as opposed to the training bra I’ve been sporting.

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If we could all just pretend you can’t see my pores from Sputnik. Thanks.

As for the success, I still get migraines, but not as often on that side, which leads me to want to get the other side pierced. I thought of doing it Sunday, since I was already there, but Tuna seemed distracted. Tuna is the piercer, and what has become of my life? Also, is “tattoo parlor” aging me, like when my mother calls them “blue jeans”?

Anyway, while I was in Atlanta I clearly had to stick my dog somewhere, and please see above references to online daters sticking their parts, which has nothing to do with where I stuck my dog, so please hang up on PETA before you alarm them. I stuck him at dog daycare, where he’s been going since birth. When he used to go with Tallulah, he’d follow her everywhere, and she’d act like they’d never met.

guy wif unnerbyte? he still behind Lu? yeah, no idea.

When Lu died, his time at daycare looked, well, less fun. When I’d look at Edsel on the webcam, he always seemed to kind of stand alone, waiting for me to come get him. This weekend I was so busy, with my breezy on-the-go life, that I never checked on him via webcam till yesterday at work.

Screen Shot 2017-10-30 at 12.04.39 PM.pngEvery time I looked at him, he was hanging out with a beagle. I mean, every time.

Screen Shot 2017-10-30 at 12.01.13 PMThey were inseparable, so much so that I was reluctant to get him at lunch, but I knew I had to get my drank on after work, and priorities. When I retrieved him, Dexter the beagle threw his head back and howled at the gate.

I found out his name was Dexter because I asked daycare, who’ve been knowing Edsel since eighteen aught six when I first took him there, “Who’s the beagle he’s actually acknowledging?”

Turns out, Dexter had also been there all weekend, and the two of them were thick as thieves since Saturday.

So you know what I hate? When people add “come to find out” to a story. “He was with that dog, come to find out it was another boy dog. Come to find out, my dog is as gay as the maypole. Come to find out all my suspicions were correct.”

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Edsel, falling asleep looking at me when he got home from his weekend Dexter extravaganza

Anyway, I intend to call daycare and get more guff on when Dexter will be there next, as Eds having a friend is just the cutest goddamn thing I can think of. It’s literally so cute.

I think I had more, but I see I’m at 1,059 words, and hello, restless crowd. I close with more photos of my coworkers, and puppies at bars, and I will talk to you tomorrow when there will be a full Kit and June Hand Out Poison Candy Halloween extravaganza throwdown.

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Took by accident, but I think insurance ought to pay for that deviated septum and oh, while they’re in there, that tulip bulb for a nose tip I got going.

Boo.

Joooooooooon