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.

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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.

1969-Gottlieb-Skipper-Pinball-Machine-Tune-up-Kit-_1

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

Monthlies

Let’s talk about people who don’t have full-time jobs, compared to those who do.

“Why aren’t you calling me back?”

or

“Why didn’t you answer my myriad texts where I sent you a cartoon of myself waiting by the phone?”

or

“Did you watch that video I sent you?”

When you work full time, you get home to a luxurious “catching up on everything” time, like, oh, eating and feeding/walking the animals and paying bills and mopping the muddy-footed floor. Then you fall into bed.

And I even have an easy commute!

And weekends? Well, that’s when you do the laundry and the groceries and the cleaning, allegedly, and I DON’T EVEN HAVE KIDS. I can’t imagine what the childfull people do, which I would be if I weren’t barren. Or hadn’t gotten my tubes tied in 1996.

So if you’re reading this, with your “retired” or “part time” or “independently wealthy” or “vagabond in a library” self, please know that is what we 40-hour-a-week people are doing when we don’t jump to observe your every move or watch your every cat video.

SO THAT IS WHY UNWORKY PEOPLE SHOULD NOT CALL AT 7:00 PM AND EXPECT A REPLY BY NOON THE NEXT DAY.

What mood?

I really do hate how people are making themselves into cartoons now, by the way. First of all, you weigh more than your caricature, who are you kidding, and second of all, most cartoonists aren’t even funny, and now you come along and think YOUR cartoon will amuse us? I got two words for you: Marmaduke.

What mood? What angry phase?

IMG_1729.JPGI had to leave rather abruptly yesterday, after I slammed my hands down in the desk and stalked out of here, or alternatively as I had to head to work and ignore the 29394931 IMs and texts and calls I received.

What mood?

Anyway, up there is a photo of a store I’d like to try, a new store downtown, but THEY ARE CLOSED SUNDAYS AND OH MY GOD THAT BUGS ME.

WHY do stores close on the weekend? Close on fucking Monday, when we’re all at work except for the people who have time to send me cat videos and then wonder why I haven’t written back.

Who keeps saying “mood”?

IMG_1733.JPGHere’s that time we ran into Steely Dan while he was at another house, and who always pretends to be glad to see us? Is it that phony Steely Dan? I wonder what the other houses call him, what shit-ass names he’s been given that aren’t nearly as cool as the name I gave him. “Oh, here’s Smokey, back around for his dinner.”

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Smokeee go home wif you. it…dinner time, rite? yeah, he go home wif you.

I also never had time to tell you the thrilling news that I bought a hat this weekend, at my hair place. This woman came in while I was there, to drop a bunch off that she’d knitted, and guess who made a sale 14 seconds later.

IMG_1763.jpgIt has a hole on top, in case you have your hair up, so you can stick your hair through. I would, like, break the hat if I tried that. “Hat, you’re dilated to 10.”

img_1804.jpgI’ve got no reason to show you this other than to say Lily is pretty. Her caricature would be a lithe, sleek gray cat.

So, there. Now I’ve shown you all the photos from my riveting weekend.

I worked like a demon yesterday–you know how they work–and then I came home and did some, oh, work, and I don’t know if I’ve made this clear or not, but every second with my phone last night. PING! with a text and BLOOP! with an email. Finally I just turned the sound off and plugged that thing in in the back room, so I could sit catatonically on the couch for awhile.

When I was at the eye doctor last week, I said, “Do I HAVE to wear dailies?” and the doctor gave me monthlies. He didn’t give me a period, because please see June, old.

So he gave me a pair of monthlies, and stop saying “monthlies,” and I’ve been wearing them, and frankly I hated them. They took forever to put in, which is what she said. They were very uncomfortable, is my point. As monthlies are.

At some point last night, while I was catatonic, I realized I had no contacts in. That the room was, you know, blurry. I must have taken them off and thrown them away at some point without thinking about it.

So, those are gone. Guess I’m back to dailies. And I don’t know if you WEAR dailies, but there’s one brand I abhor and one brand I’d marry, and they both come in blue boxes and they’re named Daily Aqua Moist Daily lenses or something.

What I’m saying to you is half the time I order the wrong brand, and then I have a whole month of dinner plates in my eyes.

…Wait! I just found some of the contacts I HATE, in this desk drawer. PLEASE REMEMBER FOR ME that I hate Dailies Aqua Comfort Plus.

Rolls off the tongue. Also, “comfort.” If by “comfort” you are the Marquis de Sade.

I realize that made little sense.

IMG_1809.jpgSo that brings us to today, which so far seems pretty typical, except that I feel like I’m getting a cold, which it may have been pointed out to me is something I think about 14 times a week, so. Anyway, behold the Shining twins, waiting for breakfast. Also, bonus: Steely Dan trying to claw his way in through the window.

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sheeee going to let Smokeeee Steeleee in, or he hunt that hawk back there?

IMG_1813.jpgIMG_1814.jpgIMG_1815It’s very leapy at House of June.

And perhaps you’re enjoying THE MUDDY FLOOR, which Edsel just brought in. I have that damn towel by the door, and two mud rugs in the back, but he ran in without me noticing the depth and breadth of his muddiness and now I have to Shark the damn floor again.

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edz deepplee sorreee. he get cownsleeng.
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not meen he don’t want owt again

IMG_1827.jpgIMG_1828.jpgHe’s off to bark at the gaybors’ greyhound. I hope that bugs the shit out of them.

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weee go bark too?

All right, I gotta go. I got an extension on my freelance work, because they said I could and yay, so naturally once they told me that, tonight I’m going out with Kit. We’re gonna see someone do a reading, and that someone is a person I dated a few times, which, scandal.

Really, hooo care? I think we’ll both be, like, oh hayyy.

This does not mean I won’t be in full makeup, however.

Talk to you soon. I hope it’s during the workday, via text or IM or call or email or tagging me on Facebook or…

What mood?

Joooon

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

 

What is wrong with this emu?

It was inevitable, I suppose, that during a pertinent conversation with my friend Hamlet, in which we were extolling Patty and Selma from The Simpsons,

58e8c43282fd1b059af72cbb540a08f9--bouvier-the-simpsons

that I was struck by HOW MAGNIFICENT it would be to name cats Patty and Selma. It’s these epiphanies that make me say, Well, I could just jaunt off to the pound, there, get a couple orange cats, call ’em Patty and Selma, because that’s just too good to pass up.

I didn’t do it. This is not a Very Special Book of June, where I get new pets.

Well. A Relatively Regular Book of June, where I get new pets.

IMG_E1134.JPGI did, however, just go ahead and have the scheduled pets, which normally, with my advanced maturity, I’d say isn’t nearly as exciting. But with Steely Dan, it’s always exciting.

You know what I like about him, other than his lust for life? He’s a regular Vincent Cat Gogh. I also like how normally he adores Edsel–I mean, the very first time I let whining, eager Edsel into the room to meet his kitten self, SD was appalled. He puffed all up, all four inches of him, and arched dramatically and so on. But about 47 seconds later he was cool with Edsel, and now he’s forever trying to get Eds to play (after that one claw-in-the-snout incident, that’s been less likely of an event) or standing on his back legs to rub his snout on Edsel’s.

But the times that dog gets, oh, emo, the times the dog emotes, which is often, Steely Dan cannot bear it. If Edsel is ever simpering and whining and acting the fool, SD gets up high somewhere–the sink, a counter–and makes sure to smack old touchy-feely EST feeling-his-feelings Edsel, terrectly on the noggin.

This I like about Steely Dan. It’s how we all feel when Edsel works on that Academy Award.

Anyway. M’weekend.

Oh, one more thing. (GOD, June.) Did you ever notice the iPhone emoji for “dog” looks like Edsel? Go ahead. I’ll wait.

FRIDAY

IMG_E1050.JPGAfter work, a bunch of us went to happy hour, because it was someone’s last day. We go to this place near work, and the weather was, in fact, perfect for it, but the sun. That sun. Did you ever notice it? Go look outside. I’ll wait. I know I was already supposed to wait for you to type “dog” into your phone, but.

This time of year, that first hour of happy hour, and I like how I miss the concept, is ALL SUN ALL THE TIME. It’s Barhenge.

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See. I just invented a Stongehenge-themed bar in my mind, but here one already is. Everything’s already been done.

The point is, as usual, everyone went home or off to, oh, eat, and I was the last person to leave, which is how it always works when I attend a happy “hour.” I had only one drink–I was just busy yammering to people. Also, there was a Great Pyrenees there. Of course I petted it. What are you, new?

Happy hour. It’s an hour on Mercury.

Also, science. I have no idea if time is slower on Mercury. I just kind of assumed. All that science, I don’t understand. Plus, as we know, science isn’t real anyway. Fake news.

SATURDAY

Spent way too much time following old Lust for Life around, trying to capture him on film, and by the way, he abhors the camera. Starts whipping his tail as soon as I aim the phone at him. The OTHER pets, the good pets, look right at me, at this point, and then when I’m somewhere trying to photograph someone else’s pet, as I am wont to do, I get so annoyed that they don’t automatically look at me when I point the camera. WHAT IS WRONG WITH THIS EMU?

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Finally, I did an hour of Callenetics, because it’s 1986 up in here. I was tired of Tracy Anderson, and I was getting injuries, so I ordered me up that old …tape, even though now it’s a DVD, but come on.

Anyway, I just loved it. I love that lady, who was clearly some rich person who thought she was a huge adventurer, what with spending the family money to gallivant all over yonder, and eventually decided to teach exercise classes, which is another “family money” kind of job.

You should read her Wikipedia page. Oh my god. It’s not even a humble brag. It’s just a brag brag. It’s Fort Bragg. Just Google Callan Pinckney. Which by the way, she made up. That name, I mean. It’s not nearly as good of a name as Patty or Selma.

See. I’m doing the thing where I’m trying to tell you about three days and I’m taking for fucking ever. Let’s proceed.

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In the afternoon, I stampeded to the movies to see The Other Side of the Mountain or whatever it’s called, the one that gives you yet another clue that you should never take public transportation with Kate Winslett.

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Does it irk you when you see a photo here that I’ve already put on social media? Are you all GOD, June? Are you always all GOD, June?

I attended said film with my friend The Poet and her friend The Prose, and hang on a minute while I gaze at myself fondly for calling him The Prose.

IMG_1089.jpgThe movie was just okay. There was a dog in it and a hot man of color with a British accent, and we get to see him having sex–the man, not the dog–so two cougars up.

Then I screamed to the damn dance store, of which this town has one, to buy ballet slippers for tonight’s dance class, and they close AT FOUR on Saturdays.

At four. On a Saturday. Four. Yeah. Those nutcrackers.

So instead, I shopped for my Halloween costume, then screamed home and got ready for a partayyy, in which I brought helpful cheese and crackers.

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Yeah, thanks for the…cheese and crackers. Thank god you’re here.

IMG_1108.jpgOne of my coworkers had a little get-together, and the food was delicious, and it was perfect weather for a fire pit, and it turns out, all I really ever want to do is drink around a fire pit. That’s all I ask for in a fall evening.

IMG_E1102 2.JPGAlso, I like the people I work with. I’m like a chubby Mary Richards.

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Fairly drained June, midnight Saturday

SUNDAY (Oh thank god. Will she ever stop?)

I wanted to do Callenetics again, that’s how much I liked it, but it says to do it twice a week, so. Everything hurt, so I put on my athletic shoes (hahahahahahaha) and headed to this trail. Lactic acid burnoff. I considered taking the Eds, but that trail is always sick with dogs, and guess whose miracle cure is wearing off. Guess who decided to put the aggression back in leash aggression.

I’m so glad I didn’t take him, because this asshole came up the trail with her two white fluffy dogs OFF LEASH, one in a pink harness and one is a blue harness (okay, that part was cute), and they ran right up to me and climbed up my leg. By the time that woman sauntered to us, Edsel would have digested and passed her flufferkins, her furbabies, her insert whatever annoying thing she inevitably calls them.

“I just can’t bear to put them on leashes,” she laughed, as she approached me petting her dogs. Oh, how I wanted to tell her. You have no idea. You think you can’t bear to leash them? How would you have felt about finally strolling up to a shaggy Civil War scene? To the remains of the fluff? Cause that’s what woulda happened had I been here with my leashed, legal dog. Barely legal, all nude dog.

I walked for an hour and a half, and stopped at the little lake, there, watched turtles, and then it was time for therapy!

Therapy? June? What with your healthy love relationships? Why waste your money?

And yes, she has hours on Sunday, and who am I to argue with a therapist who might be a workaholic? This is, in fact, the second therapist I’ve had who works Sundays; the last was in LA. They probably have to work seven days, like ranchers in Oklahoma or lobstermen in Maine.

IMG_1140.jpgThe office is downtown, which is convenient, because I hear downtown, all the old men have been driven crazy.

And that was the day I stopped reading June.

IMG_E1141.JPGI like going downtown, even though I was once again approached by someone who was “out of gas” on his “second day in Greensboro,” and should I just keep five dollars in my wallet? Is that the most humane way to deal with this? What if the broken old man who approaches me is finally Jesus and I blow it by walking by indifferently?

Or what if he’s just a broken man who needs help and I walk by indifferently? The problem is, I’m also a little scared, so I don’t want to stay long. So it’s this push/pull of help a person/save one’s ass from mugging.

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Sunday version of fairly drained June. Now with white guilt!

So that sums it up. Tonight I dance. Just a Steeltown girl on a Saturday night. Just an aging girl on a Monday night, lookin’ for the fight of her life. Or dancing shoes at her lunch hour.

She has danced into the danger zone when the dancer becomes the dance. Or sciatica.

Head up, young person.

June

Me and you and a dog with Blu

I did many things this weekend, but one thing I did not do was much sleeping.

Internet: Why, Joon?

Joon: Noneya, Internet.

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Vintage June sports her vintage slip on Friday.

On Friday afternoon, I was toiling at m’desk when the phone rang. “WHAT.” I thought, as I am cheerful and elegant about being interrupted when in a flow.

It was my doctor’s office. I’d had an appointment for them to see how I was doing on my Ritalin. I’d gotten scattered and forgotten. Hello, irony? Are you there, irony? It’s me–OOOO, SHINY THING LOOK!

Fortunately, he’s right across the street, my doctor is, so I screamed over there. He just wanted to see me in personal (did I ever tell you that story? Of the prisoner who wanted to get to know me “in personal”?), just to see if Ritalin made me, you know, too peppy.

Apparently it doesn’t, and he doubled my dose, and we’ll see how it goes from there. The good news is, I took the new double dutch bus amount right away, and screamed home after work and got a lot of freelance done before having fun that night. I never do that. It’s either, Ima go out tonight or Ima freelance tonight. BUT I DID BOTH!

Oh, Ritalin. [Chucks Ritalin under chin]

On Saturday I got a manicure (kind of a green/blue. I know that’s my new color. ….Really? Okay, hang ON).

Photo on 10-9-17 at 8.20 AM #3
I know you can’t get enough of these me-in-the-Laila-Ali-hairdryer shots

Oooo, it’s on sale right now! Click this picture to get to it on Amazon. They, the Amazon people, the Amakazons, sent me a very vague email about how I’m not doing something, and maybe it’s that I’m not touting the wares enough? It was purposely obtuse, if you ask me, and this whole not blog is me assuming you’re asking me everything.

Anyway, on Saturday night I saw Ward, this man I’ve gone out with a few times who came up with the blog name “Ward” without knowing my blog name is June, a thing that sent all 10 of you abuzz.

The point is, Ward has met the animals, and the animals have met Ward. Need I tell you Edsel’s reaction?

damm et, mom
leaf lone, mom

I went outside to try to get Edsel in a “EDS IN LUFF O EDZUL GOD” photo, but he’s out there quite involved with Blu and hasn’t time for us right now. Behold a photo of me taking Blu and dangling it over my head, just so that damn dog would pay me any mind.

Anyway, Edsel has asked for his own Facebook account just so he can update his status to IN RELASHION WIF WARD. Oh, he simpered, he offered his ears up for pets, he’d walk away and come back to be sure of Ward, he flumped to his bed and gazed at him. Edsel is Violet Bicks. He likes every boy.

The good news is, Ward came up with the best Steely Dan voice, sort of a “If Barry White were from Louisiana” thing that OH MY GOD IS SO STEELY DAN’S VOICE. It is totally that cat’s voice. Low, manly, lazy, not-give-a-shit-y.

Perfect. So, now SD has a brand voice.

On Sunday, I gathered up my freelance and headed to the coffee shop, where I get more done because there are distractions here. I can sit down to do my work and realize I’ve spent 21 minutes playing with Edsel’s teeth.

I went to a coffee shop downtown, where everyone pretends to be involved with his or her laptop but looks up any time anyone walks in, lest they be pickupable. Of course, seeing as I’m 89 years old, I do not fall into the pickupable category.

I had a cafe au lait and a chocolate croissant (say, just-not-mentioning-it-to-my Weight-Watchers-app, how’s the cheating going?), and got all my work done, because Ritalin.

It was raining hard out, so I sat on the leopard-spotted couch and watched the rain come down, and the people passing by downtown, and thought about how lucky I am.

And now I must head to work. It’s still rainy and no matter how hard Laila Ali blows me, Ima be frizzy today, but it’s Monday, Blu Monday, and there’s not much you can do about that.

XO,
June

Mum-y blogger

This will surely make the more nervous of you, you know, nervouser, but I can only write you for a few minutes, as I have the jury duty and need to be downtown by 8:15, which, WHAT THE HELL, judicial system? Annoy.

There is, in fact, a sort of major trial starting today in my town, and I wonder if I will be a part of that. Please note that I did not end that sentence with a question mark, as it was not a question.

This is my latest Thing That Bugs.

“I thought you were going to Tijuana?” See, that’s a statement. You do not need that goddamn question mark. ARE you going to Tiajuana is a question. Didn’t you go to Tiajuana is also a question. But a sentence that starts with “I thought” is a statement.

“Help?” Oh my god THAT BUGS. Not a question.

Anyway, this weekend I painted the trim in the hallway, which was exciting and I got to see my cute paint store guy again. Indifferent. He was indifferent. Why is a 23-year-old black kid indifferent to an old white lady?

IMG_0651.JPGI’ve also been reading this book that one of you told me about. It’s written from the perspective of Caroline Ingalls of Little House fame, and the writer did all sorts of research to figure out what Ma was like on the INSIDE. Answer: Nicer than me.

The book store guy was all, “Oh, I loved that show.” Perhaps you will be on the jury where you don’t convict me of murder seeing as I had to snap his neck.

IMG_0670.JPGWhen I wasn’t painting or sitting around in pajamas reading…

IMG_0683 2.JPGI was at the farmers market. “Farmers,” in this case, does not get an apostrophe. I know it FEELS like it should. But they do not own the market.

IMG_0693 2.JPGI perused and eventually purchased mums, for m’front window area, and once I hung it I realized it was way too big and it looks like I’m hanging the be-fro’d head of Helen Willis from The Jeffersons out front of m’house.

Screen Shot 2017-10-02 at 7.51.49 AM.pngWhich believe it or not was not the autumnal feel I was going for.

You’d think with all their money that the Jeffersons would have sprung for a better oil painting.

Anyway, at the farmers no apostrophe market, I also played with the depth feature on my phone.

IMG_0677.JPGIMG_0681.JPGIMG_0689.JPGIMG_0674.JPGI ran into a fun person I worked with at a job two jobs ago, and the last time I ran into her was the time I went to the grocery store in a pajama top, thinking, Oh, no one will see me, and then I saw seriously 9 people during that trip. The day I have on my prom dress and a professional blowout? No one. Bupkis.

I’d better go get ready to be a part of our judicial system.

Tough but fairly,

Judicial June