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

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

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

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

I’m an idea woman.

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

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

Oh, June, remove the nozzle and continue.

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

I flow into everyone, leaving you refreshed and bitter.

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

June, it’s not even Christmas morning yet.

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krismuffph

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

RING!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

IMG_3156.JPGThen guess what everyone sent me for Christmas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WHAT?

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

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

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

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

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

CLEAN

FORGOT

I wanted that mailbox. Am small child.

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

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

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

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

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

“MEWWWWWWWWW.”

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

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Anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then it was Lilly’s turn.

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

Chris and I exchanged a glance.

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

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

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

A pony for Christmas.

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

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

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I LOVE YOU HORSIE
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I LOVE YOU KITTIES

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Also, THAT would be a really good show.

And that is today’s log for yule.

XO,

Hune

 

 

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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

 

It’s a pretty good crowd for a–oh, shut up.

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steelee disgyze. you cannot see. …pay no attenshun to tale.

Right now, everyone is outside except for old Steely Dickly, here, and it occurs to me that if he were my only pet, I’d be miserable. He’s never HERE. He comes in to eat, maybe sleep with one gray arm strewn across his eyes, chew a few of my beloved clothing items, then leave for 17 hours again.

Also, that brick needs some sort of molding.

Speaking of pets who make me miserable, on Saturday, the trainer came to help me with Edsel.

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Eds not shur

She’d asked me a litany of Qs re Eds and his charming personality before she got here, and then when she arrived, we talked about him some more. When I told her that Tallulah died a year and a half ago, tears pierced the backs of my eyes.

Did you ever have that happen to you? You’re perfectly okay-ish with something, but then you’re in a clinical setting 800 years later and you tell the fact of the matter and it hits you all over again? Anyway that was me Saturday.

“And she was our leader,” I said, hoping I would not need a Kleenex. All the women in my row at work, and I just made it sound like Cell Block H. Who can take a nothing show that lasted maybe one season in 1974 and drag that joke out for 40 years? Anyway all the women in my row at work have colds, and I convinced self I was getting it too, so I purchased an entire SIX-PACK of Kleenex, mostly because it was on special and also at the end of the aisle so I didn’t have to walk very far in, and why so hippy.

“She was our glue,” I told the trainer. “And while she’d BARK at other dogs, like a very angry chesty women such as myself, she’d never actually HURT anyone. And so when any dogs were at our house, no one was ever attacked …UNTIL she was gone.”

The trainer worked with Edsel for awhile and surmised that basically he’s a sweet dog who’s completely unqualified for the position of leader, and I will not make a presidential joke here, and see how mature? She said that while Tallulah was BORN for that position, Edsel’s basically “a huge chicken” who, because he is, overcompensates and blusters and I will continue to not make any references to anyone who may or may not be in the White House.

She said he really has to know he doesn’t have to BE in charge, that I do (I do?), and then she showed me ways to show him that.

Now, here is where I get uncomfortable. Because when I put his little picture on Facebook and a video of him being calm around dogs this weekend, I saw a lot of “tell us EVERYTHING” comments, and then I was all, Oh dear. Do I release the trainer’s state secrets? I mean, I just paid her a shit-ton of money for those.

IMG_0164.JPGSo I’ll …kind of tell you? Will that work?

Okay, so first of all, we yelled at him. I don’t mean I stood over him and told him all the things about this relationship that have bugged me all these years. But when he came near my food, he got a

HEY!!!!

a very sharp

HEY!!!!

that startled him, and let him know he was NOT MY EQUAL (he isn’t?) and that he can’t just, oh, have my yogurt any old time (he can’t?). Oh, he was stunned. He was a letter C, and basically he tried to hide INSIDE one of the wooden chairs.

This lead me to want to go hug him, and tell him he was a good boy, but it turns out that’s how I turned Edsel into the psycho that he is, and I have to be firm with him, yet still love him, and WHO THE HELL KNEW.

So after I’d let him know who’s boss (WHO IS THE BOSS, I THOUGHT IT WAS TONY DANZA), we went on a walk in order to see other dogs and really show Eds the old iron fist.

Lemme tell you something. It was a beautiful Saturday. It was a pretty good crowd for a Saturday, and that lyric has always bothered me, and I realize Billy Joel is a millionaire and I’m not, but what a dumb line. It’s right up there with “Like a knight in shining armor, from a long time ago.” Oh, thanks for the specificity, there, historian.

I mean, WHEN WILL YOU GET A BETTER CROWD AT A PIANO BAR THAN A SATURDAY.

Anyway, my point is, it was a perfect Saturday afternoon in my dogged neighborhood, where every yahoo has a dog, and?

No one. It was like there was a dog strike. We couldn’t FIND a dog. Who did we have to fuck to find a dog around here? I even went to Ava’s house and knocked on the door to see if they’d bring her out, like bait. They weren’t home.

COME ON.

Finally, FINALLY, one woman had an ancient black Lab, and sure enough, Edsel whined like he always does, and the trainer

SNAPPED his two

TWO! (for safety, due to the come-with-me-and-escape-my-collar thing from last time oh my god PTSD)

leashes, said “HEY!”

and even squirted him with a squirt bottle. Oh my god, did he letter C. “Edz haff no idea. Edz totleee sorry. Do Edz need to rite letter to lab? He so will.”

I mean, he got submissive immediately. In the past, when he snarled at dogs, I screamed and yelled, but it never got through to him. I have no idea why.

After that, we headed to the park, in search of more dogs.

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edz gets it! he do!

Y’all. He was  DREAMBOAT. I realize my ass is not what you’d call a dream, but it was a boat. Nor is that SWEATER anything to write home about STEELY DAN GODDAMMIT, but that dog.

IMG_0178.JPGDude, look at that. Two huge dogs over there, and there’s my dog. Oh, just strolling past. IT’S A GODDAMN MIRACLE.

1FA64514-33CD-4F37-AD1B-E4B9A2309E2F.jpgAfterward, he slept for 17 hours.

Yesterday I had to go buy a second leash and Dear Harris Teeter: If you’re thinking, “Oh, we’re good on our supply of leashes for dogs,” you’re deluding yourselves. I had to get him a RED leash, which has zero to do with his whole cool blues and seafoams look he has going with his Gentle Leader and Martingale collar, and I, for one, am aesthetically displeased. But we walked and walked, and for once I was DYING to see a dog, and WHERE THE HELL were all the dogs this weekend?

Finally, we saw his favorite thing, a puppy, and it was DYING to come see us, and Edsel put up his (considerable) ears and I HEY!‘d him, and SNAPPED the leashes and squirted him just once, and?

I was walking a letter C.

The next dogs we saw? Zero incident. And those people know from Edsel and me. I could tell they were surprised. “Is that dog unwell? Did she lobotomize him?”

So that was worth it. If you’re local-ish, I linked to her at the top of this, so if you ask me how to reach her, I will snarl at you like Past Edsel, and I wonder where he got his unpleasant personality.

Love,

June

P.S. I’ve been on Ritalin since Saturday. Having just read this without knowing that, can you tell at all? I can’t tell, but I will say this: RITALIN IS WONDERFUL. Oh my god I’m on the top of the world lookin’ down on creation.

Valley of the Dolls-ly,

June again

I’m in my prime. You are too.

First of all, before we all up and forget, it’s Steely Dan’s birthday. He is one, according to the estimated birth date the vet gave him back when I first brought him in. I would take a picture of old Steely Dan, but he’s outside tripping the elderly or whatever the hell. Continue reading “I’m in my prime. You are too.”

Marzo Thomas

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Look how well my daisies are doing! …I got flowers for our receptionist on Valentine's Day, and I over bought and couldn't fit all of the flowers into one vase, so I was all, "Guess I own daisies now." And it's, according to my math, 279 days later and just look! My fancy flowers I got from one of my many many admirers already died. That was more ranunculus and larkspur, so. Is it possible the daisies grew? Cause I swear I made them shorter than that when I cut them.

June's blog. Come for the flower talk. Stay for the skull talk.

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See? Skull talk. As you know, if you whip out your June's Events Binder, I purchased a Day of the Dead calendar this year, and it's ALMOST as exciting as that vintage Better Homes & Gardens calendar with which I was so enamored in aught eight or nine.

Here is March. I mean, the month and also the skeletal image. Nice, eh? And look at the happy skeletons on bikes down at the bottom! Charmed! I'm sure!

What language is Marzo for March? Is that Spanish? June's blog. Stay for the bilingual action.

Speaking of skeletal, I'm on yet another diet and it's driving me berserk. I eat and then I think, "Wow, when can I eat again?" Every time I think that I think of my mother, who owns Weight Watchers, and who always says, "You shouldn't feel hungry."

WELL I DO. But I'm not on WW. I'm following a diet I found online. The first person to ask what it is has to make me food. Why do you guys do that? WHO CARES? It makes you hungry. Don't go on it.

Basically it's a menu of a few choices for each piddly meal. In the morning I have a smoothie with HALF a banana. Oh, fuck you. Half a banana. Then at lunch I have the saddest little sandwich you've ever seen and at night I get, like, the THOUGHT of salmon or chicken, really just a memory of them, and another goddamn salad.

Last night at around 9:00 I considered which pet to eat first. Lily, obvs.

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we not like way yuu look at us

Yesterday when I got up, I came in here to blog at you, and the Internet would not work for me, so I went ahead and started my foodless day. My Biafra day. Who can take a Biafra day, and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile.

Now I'll get hate mail from Nigeria, and RIGHTFULLY SO. Once years ago I mentioned the potato famine here, and got some scathing, 80-foot-long email from an Irish person, who was hardly magically delicious. "What if I mentioned the Twin Towers?" he leprechauned at me. I mean, okay. The potato famine was 150 years ago, but sure, there, Peter O'Tool.

Someone was cranky without his carbs.

The point is, I'd wanted to tell you that Edsel's vet called day before yesterday, to see how he was doing on Prozac, and I was all, eh. And the vet suggested I get an adult dog for him, which DON'T SAY THINGS LIKE THAT, so instead Eds went to daycare and seemed to have a high time. Maybe that's the solution.

After, I took him out for a pup cup at a fast food place, which now that I think about it was my last decent meal before Calorie Fest, over here, with my "Snacks: apple or hot water" diet.

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It almost looks like he's my conscience, here, on my shoulder like in a cartoon.

Anyway, it cheered him. Stay tuned for me caving and getting an adult dog soon even though I've found a practical, workable solution.

And speaking of my pets ("WHAT? You're speaking of your PETS?"), Alf my handyman came by yesterday and I want you to understand I know Alf is not one of my pets. Also, that really is his name. Alf. And I let him be around the cats anyway.

Bah.

As you know (June Binder), I've had a windfall, not to mention your Wind Song stays on my mind–

Wind Song. How did I go my entire adolescence without thinking about how hilarious the name Wind Song was? Oh, excuse my wind song. I had cabbage.

Anyway, windfall, and as a result I asked Alf to (a) fix the motion lights at the side of my house, especially now that my Next Door informs me this creepy guy is back in the neighborhood. Also, (b or not 2b), fix the DAMN screen thing that is missing from the roof, that we assume Steely Dan is using to escape.

Oh my god. I'm so pulling on my Gloria Vanderbilts right now.

Look how they spelled Escape. Annoying. Lu annoy.

Naturally, when I came home for lunch, there was Alf, who always manages to be at my house right when I'm there, trying to enjoy my one fleck of tuna on a communion wafer, and maybe I should just join one of those dating sites for men who like…curves. That's what we'll call them.

He was on the roof, replacing that screen thing, and we were kibitzing, when he said,"Oh, look at tree cat!"

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Goddammit, Iris.

Anyway, all the things Alf fixed were way cheaper than I thought they'd be, which gave me money left over to (wait for it) (biscuit is on your nose right now) (wait) (wa–oh, fine) TRANSFER MY BLOG over to WordPress! There's a guy at work who, you know, can do this sort of thing and he's working on it today!!!

We discussed it yesterday, and he said, "Go on WordPress and select a theme."

Oh my god.

I obsessed for HOURS about a theme. HOURS. I hope you like my theme. It's not up yet, but the address is gonna be EffJune.wordpress.com. Don't go over there NOW. It's precisely nothing right now.

"Do you really want it to be Eff June?" he asked, because he's a decent member of society.

Okay, I'd better go. I already put this on Facebook, but enclosed please find a photo of Eff June at a party in 1984.

Photo on 2-3-17 at 8.36 PM

I clicked the wrong goddamn photo, but why so angry, June? COULD IT BE HUNGER?

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Here we are. Giovanni Leftwich, my boyfriend ca. 1981–1989 (it was on and off. Thank heavens I have mature, stable relationships now) found this in an old box. At the left, there, is my high school best friend Donna, who I wish would have a drink and loosen up. In the middle was our good friend's girlfriend at the time. We loved her. And there's old chicken hair at the right. Wow.

I remember the shoes I had on that night. They were from the '60s, slingbacks, silver sparkles. I loved those fucking shoes. Also, every single thing Donna has on belongs to me.

Including that girl. She was MY experimental years girl, not Donna's.

I never had experimental years. Did you? Do tell. Let's have lesbian reveal today at the Pie, soon to be Eff June. I'll still keep the name Bye Bye, Pie, don't worry. EffJune was a shorter address, though.

Okay I have to go. Next time we talk I will have eaten maybe a plum and a nut.

As god is my witness,

June. Of the Eff Junes

Taquit-oh, June

Ned has to move. Did I tell you that? Our gaylord–well, HIS gaylord, is selling the place, a thing we distinctly asked him about in 2014 when we moved in, and he said he had no intention of selling.

Of course, I'm one to talk, having kicked out my poor tenant, fmr., after just one year.

Speaking of that whole debacle, since Ned has to move and all, it's thrown him into quite the tizzy. I know you don't KNOW Ned, but perhaps you've been able to glean that change is not something he embraces with glee. Also, decision-making. Not his strong suit.

"I'm going to go look at a house right now," Ned texted (text) me right at the end of the day.

"You want me to come with you?" I asked, knowing that was dumb.

"Yes," he said.

I knew he did. I knew that's why he was telling me. I knew he'd be thrown into panic at having to possibly make a decision, and that he needed someone to remind him of the home's good and bad points so he could obsess for 45 years. I also knew I had no business going to look at a house with Ned.

So I put the address in my phone and off I went. Because wise. Wise old owl. Wise old fat owl, according to some.

It was in his grandparents' neighborhood. They'd lived in a tree-lined part of town with a private trail and lake, which Ned remembers fishing and swimming in as a kid. "Oh, it'd be cool if you lived here. You could go to the same job your grandfather did (Ned works for a family business), live in his neighborhood. You'd be just like your grandfather, except, you know, with no wife or kids or commitment whatsoever."

Hey, passive. How's your aggressive?

There turned out to be a huge monkey mural in the living room, which if you ask me is a selling point, but Ned was not taken with the idea. The good news is he doesn't have to debate whether to take the house. "You want to go to dinner?" he asked, and who am I to turn down a free meal and all of you are shouting "JUST GO HOME, JUNE. YOU HAVE FINE CHEF BOY-AR-DEE PRODUCTS RIGHT AT HOME WHERE IT'S SAFE. JUNE."

So I got in the car and we headed to our Mexican restaurant. "Our," fmr.

It's one of those nondescript places, in a strip of stores, that's really good. TinaDoris and her spouse took us there in 2013 and we've gone ever since. It's the taquito place, Fay.

Ned and I went there one Sunday evening years ago, and I got mad at him–I forget why but I think it had to do with me feeling jealous of another woman because it almost always was–and we argued all the way to my house, where I got out of the car, stomped toward the house, then at the last minute turned around and hurled my leftover taquitos at his car.

Ned backed out of my driveway in a huff, then had to drive all over town to find an all-night car wash, because he could hardly pull up to work Monday with taquito car. The worst part of that story is the next day at lunch I said, "Ooooo, I have those leftover taq–no, I don't."

For some reason Fay loves this story. I guess she enjoys my rage and ridiculousness or something. She brings it up at every opp. I just said opp. Once after our endless breakup Ned called me, and I told Fay, and she asked all Stevie Wonder-ly, "Did he just call. To say. Taquito?"

Then she had a bust made of herself.

Anyway, there we went, Ned and I did, and you'll never guess what I ordered. "You'd better finish the whole thing right here," Ned said.

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Careful readers will note not just Ned, of yore, but also the background of this photo. Because who's back there behind blue-shirted guy? Is it my tenant? FMR.? Of yore?

"What are YOU doing here?" I asked her, because of all the margarita joints in all the world, she had to come into mine, fmr. With my boyfriend, fmr. The relationship that ruined her life, fmr. The life she had in her cute little rental house, fmr.

If you were her and you saw me there with the person I broke up with, which as a result rendered her homeless, would you not have pressed my face into the deep fryer?

"It's National Margarita Day!" she announced. Thank god she's taken to drink.

"I'm here with Ned," I told her, because everyone has to know my everything. She and I have plans to do our dreadful workout tonight, which will not begin to burn off the margarita/taquito combo she and I had going, but it's a start.

The point is, I can't do anything clandestine in this town without getting caught. The only other thing I have to tell you is that I was complaining to Ned about how when I get up in the morning, Edsel, Steely Dan and one or both adult cats follow me into the bathroom. Steely Dan stands on my shoulder the whole time, like we're posing for a Very Special Olan Mills portrait.

"I'm surrounded by animals in that tiny bathroom," I kvetched. "I'm like St. Francis of A-piss-i."

Then I called Fay to get the name of her bust worker.

How many of them hormones you been takin’, honey?

Yesterday evening, after a very busy day that I'm sorry to inform you Ima tell you about, I headed to the grocery store to get cat food, because the cupboard was literally bare in the cat food department. I really have to look into that deliver-pet-food-regularly thing you guys keep telling me is out there on the world wide web. What is it, again? Is it on the Amazon? Because it feels like I'm at the store getting food or litter eleven times a week.

Anyway, while I was there, I got some of this really good chicken salad they sell from this deli in Wilmington, and it's the best goddamn chicken salad you have ever had in your life. I usually don't splurge on it, but goddammit, it sounded delicious.

I got home and dumped the cat food in the bin, put the chicken salad in the refridge, and commenced to doing some freelance work. All I could think of was that chicken salad. "Oh, go have a little," Rotten June said to me, who clearly has a much larger influence over me than Practical June.

"It's too late to be eating anything like chicken salad," Practical June said, her voice hoarse from lack of use.

So I didn't have any, and in the middle of the night I woke with a migraine, which makes sense given my very busy day that I am sorry to inform you Ima tell you about. I stumbled out of bed, got water from the refridge, took a pill and stumbled back to bed.

I woke up with no migraine, but when I got to the kitchen?

I hadn't shut the refridge door all the way. How hard are you gonna slap me for continuing to say "refridge"?

Everything was warm. I can't eat the chicken salad.

GOD

DAMMIT.

Practical June can go fuck herself.

Do you remember during my year abroad when I killed myself to make pumpkin chili and then we forgot to put it in the

refridge

and I had to throw it all away? I hate shit like that.

Anyway, m'weekend. [Everyone pulls chair closer with rapt attention. Or not.]

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Faithful Reader Stacey sent me this photo she found of someone who is clearly related to me. First of all, we look alike, if I weren't currently 87, and second of all she has June Hair and eighth, she totally overdid it with the flowers and sparkly choker and so on, and that right there seals the deal. Distant relative.

"Oh, I know! I'll pair my ruffly Prince shirt with my very involved jacket with an entire bouquet of flowers thrown jauntily over my shoulder and pop some in m'hair as well and don't forget the sparkly choker!"

She would so like Hello Kitty.

Anyway. That happened, and I also got into the show Z on Amazon, which isn't that good but I am riveted by Zelda Fitzgerald so I just want to see what happens next. I've read books on her, so I sort of, you know, know, but I want to watch it on film.

Christina Ricci is totally miscast as Zelda, and then noticed Christina Ricci is the producer and right then I knew. Once I was getting a pedicure in my neighborhood and she and I were the only people in the place. I had to act like I hadn't noticed Christina Ricci and I were the only people in there who weren't employees, read my Glamor all casual like and so on.

The very next day, I was at the grocery store in my neighborhood probably buying fucking cat food, and there she was, in produce.

"Hi," we said to each other, half-heartedly. We both knew. She was probably texting her friends. "June Gardens is totally here at Paint Nail!"

I can't remember what my local pedicure place was called. Any friends who still read me in LA, help a sister out. It was on Rowena and Hyperion, right next to that store that had clothes and jewelry and incense and so on, which I also can't remember the name of.

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NAIL STATION! I just Googled it. It looks like the store next door is gone and that Nail Station has taken over. You go, Nail Station may I hep you. That's always how they answered the phone. "Nail station may I hep you."

Their English is better than my Vietnamese, so maybe I could shut up now.

Oh my god I'm not even on Sunday yet.

So Sunday dawned and it was beautiful out. Sunny, breezy, in the 70s. It was like the perfect day, and my daffodils are just about to bloom. I had plans to see my friend Jo, but she took ill. "I hate feeling awful on a beautiful day," she said. I pointed out to her that there will be other pretty days, unless she dies from her illness, in which case she is shit out of luck.

You know what sounds good? Is some chicken salad.

Anyway, I lounged outside with my cats while I drank my 25% caffeinated coffee (that's going better than I thought it would, by the way).

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Then I did my horrific high-intensity interval training that my horrific co-worker Austin horrifically told me I should do to lose weight, and if it weren't working I'd stop doing it but it is so I soldier on. After that I did Tracy Anderson arms, and then I showered and decided I should really get out of the house on such a nice day, so Edsel and I headed to a trail.

There are about a million parks and trails in this town, resulting in every middle-aged yahoo on dating sites wanting to find a woman who loves the outdoors and hiking and sweating and doing color runs and so on, and what I need to do is move to Ohio and find some nice man who enjoys sitting around and dive bars.

Everyone AND THEIR DOG was out on that trail, and you know how relaxing Edsel is when he sees another dog, so that was fun. We were about 40 minutes in when it occurred to me this trail was not a loop.

Son of a…

So we turned around, bright eyes, and my point is, after my horrific interval training and Tracy Anderson-ing and my 900-minute walk, I was what you might call hungry. Edsel was looking like a delicious duck dinner back there.

I dropped his punk ass off, and I'm totally picturing him letting himself in with his key and waving goodbye while I back out of the driveway. I went to the new park and got a chicken pita with hummus and a lemonade at the little Middle-Eastern stand that they will probably ban any minute. PITA BREAD IS A THREAT TO OUR NATION.

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I offer you the world's least-flattering photo of myself wherein it looks like I'm elegantly mustached. It also looks here like absolutely no one else was at the park, like the whole thing was deserted and I'm Eleanor Rigby, but in fact it was crawling with people.

What I discovered, and this is important, is that that park is EXCELLENT for dog-watching. There's a little dog park there, and yesterday I saw two yellow dachshunds–and who knew they came in that color?–a brindled Whippet, a huge hound of some sort with long long earses, and?

And??

A baby German shepherd.

OH MY GOD, that baby German shepherd! HE WAS SO TOOOT! I LOVED HIM SO BAD!!! With his big floppy earses.

Hang on, I gotta take a moment to glare at Edsel.

Then I went to see La La Land, which I wasn't even that interested in but I like to see all the nominated movies before the Oscars, otherwise I get bored at the Oscars. I act like I'm going there with Cary Grant or something.

Man, was I all in after that. I was too tired to even watch another episode of Z after I did my freelance and debated chicken salad with myself. Some guy at work told me when he's getting over someone he keeps himself so busy that by the time he gets home all he can do is crawl into bed. So.

Hey, I wish I'd talk more. Ima go. Someone tell me about that get-food-delivered site. kthanxbye.

Currently,

June

P.S. (Mother of GOD, June.) I forgot to show you photos of Lily grooming Iris.

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Wut?

The Big Game

Yeah, well, so. I saw Ned again.

I KNOW.

Everything you're gonna tell me, I already know. I KNOW, okay? Goddammit.

On Friday, I went to a goodbye party for one of the Alexes, one who's actually named Alex, and it bugs her when, say, I call our coworker Tiffany "Alex." "I'm the real Alex," Alex will say. The trouble is, there were 72 Alexes there for awhile. Now they're all mostly gone. This particular Alex is moving to Colorado, which is perfect for her, all outdoorsy and hippie-ish and shit.

People come and go so quickly at work. I'm like a classic at this point, with my six years. I'm the Chanel of coworkers. Who needs to get a new joke, do you think? I'm the Tim the Toolman of jokes. "Whuuuuut?"

Anyway. That was fun, and it turns out one of Alex's friends who showed up was this whippernapper I'd talked to on OK Cupid for awhile way back in 2016, so that was kind of funny. Pretty soon I will have almost dated every man in town.

So I left that get-together, which was right after work, after an hour or so, because I had to go home and watch Edsel refuse to go outside. He hates going outside. He won't go. In fact, you're reminding me that he didn't go out last night and he hasn't gone out this morning. Hang on.

I just forced him to go out. I have to take him by the collar and make him go. "And stay out!"

Poor Edsel. I'll let you know when the Prozac kicks in.

Anyway, I got home and Ned called. "You want to go get a drink?" he asked.

You know at the beginning of the Mary Tyler Moore show, when she has the meat, and hesitates about throwing it into her cart, but she does so anyway? That was me.

We met at the controversial scene of our first date, which was not controversial at all other than it was the start of this FIVE-YEAR push-me-pull-me-llama relationship I seem to be in. We were having a fine time sitting up at the bar, which technically I hate doing, but still, we were having fun. Then this DJ started playing I Will Survive and we realized it was old-people disco night. All sorts of people our age got up and shook their groove thing, yeah yeah.

Fortunately, this bar is part of a swank hotel, so we just took our drinks and headed to the fancy lobby, and we sat there for ages–ages!!–just talk talk talking about everything, including my newest obsession. Guest starring The Love Addict and The Love Avoidant!

I mean, there I was talking to Ned, and it was like my whole insides were made of sparkles. I get all sparkly when I'm with Ned, until our NEXT AWFUL FIGHT when I feel like I'm made of silt.

So then the next day he came and got me and we went antique shopping.

Did I mention I KNOW?

We went all over looking for things, neither of us having anything particular in mind. The landlord is selling our old house, so Ned will have to move if he doesn't buy it, which he's considering. He could raise his family there.

HAHAHAHAHA

Anyway.

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Ned bought me this pictures I admired, and oh my god look at them. Why can't everything be from the mid-century? I mean, I am. And look how I turned out.

Then I'm sorry to tell you Ned bought me lunch and then that evening we may or may not have gone to that mysterious speakeasy I told you about. We drove out to the old mill that they've made into restaurants and so on, which were all closed because late, and of course there's no sign or door or anything. But then we saw two well-dressed people going through a door that looked like it led to a utility room or something, and man did we stampede for that door. Then you go down a long hall, type in the code that you have to get from Twitter, and there we were,

It was packed. But we got a table. I had a whiskey sour. I think Zelda Fitzgerald enjoyed a whiskey sour. Actually I'd dearly love to know what she drank, but I think her drink of choice may have fallen into the category of "anything."

Anyway, on Sunday I observed my pets and allegedly cleaned the house, although today it's back to looking fur-covered, so.

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I moved my free ottoman into the spare bedroom, and I read my book in there for awhile Sunday. There's one of those take-one-or-leave-one book things in our park, and I've gotten three books out of there lately that I've read. This one is by the same person who wrote Olive Kitterage, which was a very good book. How did I get fingerprints all over it? Faithful Reader Paula is dying a million deaths right now.

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I like being home with my pets, watching them be evil.

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Here's Iris, trying to intimidate Steely Dan so he gives up his delicious canned kitten food. Not that the food is made from kittens. Also, note there's Steely Dan, not giving one shit about Iris.

Being home gave me plenty of time to do this in my head: I love Ned, STOP IT. I love Ned. STOP IT.

So that was relaxing.

Oh, and speaking of Ned, NedKitty has been taking her eleven thousand medications and Ned said she is eating again and also meowed and flicked her tail. So. Woot! Livin' large. She also climbed to the top of her kitty tower–he sent me a photo.

On our antique-shopping day, we stopped off at that pretentious pet store where the woman with the butch haircut works, the one Edsel loves so bad. Anyway, we went there because Ned was looking for low-phosphate food, and you can imagine what a lightening-fast decision he made about that. That place is overwhelming as it is–they have an entire big room dedicated to just pet food and it's a lot to take in.

Fortunately, there was a woman there who had a teensy baby Goldendoodle puppy named Marvin, and the first person to ask why I didn't whip out my phone and take a photo of a stranger has to live in my chaotic brain for a month. I'll just slip you right in there and you'll have to avoid all my bouncing thoughts. Good luck.

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Last night, my coworker Austin and his wife had me and some other friends over to watch The Big Game. On both accounts I've worked on at work, we've been forced to refer to The Super Bowl as The Big Game, a thing you'll notice a lot of companies do now that I've pointed it out. Apparently The Super Bowl will call the police on your ass like my neighbor Alicia if you say The Super Bowl.

Therefore, Austin and I could not get enough of ourselves and our "big game" references.

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I had a slight fear that Austin, who is the least-obnoxious cross-fitter you know, would have all healthy food at his Big Game party. He's the guy who brings green peppers to work as a snack and does not kill himself and/or stampede for the Famous Amos in the vending machine by noon, which is what I'd do if you forced me to snack on green peppers.

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Oh, shit. Big bowl of carrots. But there was also chili and bean dip and guacamole and beer and cookies and wings. So yay. Guess what I ate all of and guess what I did not touch?

Hey, June, why are your hips in another zip code?

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Obsessed readers will recall that I am particularly enamored of Austin's old-lady wallpaper in the kitchen, a thing they keep wanting to change and then alternately loving. I'd keep it, of course, but I just put three kitchy girl pictures up in my house, so.

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Austin pointed out that if you have time to count out 60 drops, you have time to get to the store and buy a teaspoon.

I have to go. I did not see one commercial last night that I'd write home about. Which is sort of what I'm doing right now, and note me here not writing about any commercials.

I leave you with one question we came up with last night, which is: What do you not want anyone to see you eating? Austin enjoys a peanut butter sandwich dipped in milk, but only standing at the counter and when no one is looking.

You all know I eat Parmesan cheese out the green can. That'd be mine. And another friend buys butter at the grocery store and eats it like a candy bar in the parking lot.

What's yours?

Talk at you.

Jooooon

Suck zinc.

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Well, here we are. My favorite day of the year. No one expects us to be festive, and thank god for that. Do you enjoy my new sugar skull calendar? Remember when I had that vintage Better Homes & Gardens calendar that I was so obsessed with, and I made you look at the picture each month? Expect a lotta sugar skulls in 2017.

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I had a lot of this action over the long weekend.

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And also this. Which is worlds different from the photo above. Someone is 100% well from his de-sacking. Couldn't care less. Full of vim.

When I got out of work whatever the hell day we got out–does time seem weird right now?–I was definitely fighting a cold. In fact, I was miserable. I woke up on New Year's Eve and felt just rotten. I was sad, because my plan had been to go to The Other Copy Editor's open house. She and her husband just bought a huge place and have turned it into a Bed and Breakfast on the same damn street I lived on during my year abroad. They were having their first big party there, with a band and everything.

All day I shivered under blankets, and got up to gargle with warm salt water, and sucked zinc. As you do.

Finally, at around 5:00, I decided I was too ill to go anywhere but I'd better go get something to eat because I was down to salad dressing again (I'd also had plans to take The Poet out for a nondrink, as well. The 31st is her birthday. I called her and said, "Let's do this. It hurts to talk but I'll nod." She demurred).

So I showered, dressed, headed to the store and got chicken, came home, and realized…

I felt perfectly fine.

ALL DAY my throat had been killing me. It hurt to swallow. It hurt to drink water. I WAS DYING and then boom. I wasn't.

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I also noticed my hair had dried particularly well, so I said FUCK IT and got into maniacal ware…

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and went to The Other Copy Editor's open house. I drove AROUND THE WORLD to get to her house without passing my year abroad house. Seriously, I don't even know the cockamamie way I did it, but I did.

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I got there and I was all, Oh HELL yes.

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It was amazing. I met lots of cool people, including the guy I was sitting with at the top of the stairs when I took this photo. It was an excellent place to people watch.

I met a couple who have young twins and a 10-month-old, who were so excited to be out and dressed they almost couldn't stand it. They told me that recently, in the car, they were playing the song Farmer in the Dell, and one of the twins has become obsessed with the idea of the farmer taking a wife.

"The farmer takes a wife, Daddy?"

Yes, he'll tell her.

"The farmer takes a wife?" she'll say, 14 seconds later.

She can't get past it. It haunts her. We discussed cognitive skills, and differences among twins, and finally I summed it up with the brilliant, "I never have reason to play Farmer in the Dell in my car."

I really don't. I've canceled my Sirius radio, in an effort to be fiscally responsible, so maybe I'll pick up the Farmer in the Dell CD. The live version.

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The Other CE and me. I guess now she's B&B owner, not TOCE.

I stayed till just before midnight, as I didn't want it to be all 12:00 and no one to kiss. I decided to not drive around the world with every drunk in America out, so I got all my courage up and drove past Ned's, shielding my eye like a horse blinder, so I wouldn't look at his house when I went past. I did it. Without incident.

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I got into my cougar pajams just as the fireworks went off outside. I stood on my porch with a split of Prosecco and toasted the damn new year. Such as it is.

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Oh. Well, that's good news.

Today Ima go to the store and get groceries for the week, and get all my damn laundry done. Since this infernal endless holiday period began, I've been trying to get all my laundry done and I never do. I have only hand-washables left at his point, so that's what my afternoon looks like. I'm like Indiana Jones, over here, with my adventures.

So, there it is. I got through the holidays and didn't kill myself, so score. Winning. On top of my game.

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Pffffft,

June

Oh, good. Christmas.

Hi! [Breezes in, opens your cookie jar.] This is it? God.

Yesterday morning my damn computer kept spooling at me and groaning and waving a hanky and basically my computer was Ashley Wilkes, neglecting the wood stack and gazing at the sunset, missing 12 Oaks, so I said "Fuck it" and didn't blog.

At lunch I finally shut the damn thing off and started anew, and my computer seems like it's back to full Mammy strength. Who was it who hated my references to Gone With the Wind all the time? Was it Bitchy Resting Face Alex? Because, irony.

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Guess who I just spent the evening with? It was either Ashley Wilkes or BRF Alex. Please note the top of her door. She caught and slaughtered Colonel Sanders. I didn't want to show you the mount she made of him. He's such a beloved figure.

I don't know if it's because I said I never get invited anywhere on my last post, or if I put it into the universe, or–more likely–coincidence, but ever since I was last here, my phone won't shut the fuck up. "Come to this!" "We're having that!" "You're invited!" So that's good. Seriously, I heard from people I haven't heard from in YEARS these past 48 hours. I got so many texts and IMs that I finally got rid of my Facebook message app. Like, my phone was insane. Weird.

Anyway, BRF Alex invited me over to eat some of her delicious chicken pie, which is not a euphemism.

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All these years we been knowing each other and she only ever invited me over one other time, and I stood her up–can't remember why, now–and it had become sort of a joke between us how I was never allowed in her house after that faux pas. But now that I'm the new, in-demand June Gardens, that's all changed.

I spent much time obsessing over her dogs, who don't give you much choice. (Mom, I brought them some of the dog cookies. Am hit amoung BRF Alex's dogs.)

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Here's black-and-white Edsel.

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And black-and-white Tallulah.

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There's her husband, whom I ignored because black-and-white versions of my dogs. We banished him. He remembers The Colonel. He stays on his best behavior.

Isn't their house cute? Doesn't it piss you off that people in their 20s have such a cute place? When I was in my 20s I lived under a bridge with some crack.

Anyway, so yesterday we got out of work early. Now I have four long days here with no real plans except for Christmas day, despite my in-demand self. I am determined to not get depressed. I have a whole list of shit I'm doing, none of it that fun, except I do plan to get my brows waxed. Kaye has forbidden it, but I cannot stand myself a minute longer so Ima go spend that six dollars and FUCK IT, KAYE. It's Christmas!

There's next year's Christmas card.

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Anyway, so since I was home and it was still light out, Edsel got a long walk, in which he snarled at all dogs, which, is that a self-loathing thing? It's like when I hate all show-offy girls.

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We ran into Aunt Peg on our walk. Peg always tries to get Edsel's attention when he's outside, and he never has a word for her.

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fuk yoo ant peg

Peg is headed to her daughter's for Xmas, which is good. I worried. I'm still rolling her trash to the curb each week, and she acts like I've bought her a house. It's really not that big a deal. Still. If we wanna go around talking about what a wonderful person I am, I've no issue with that.

One of the things Ima do this weekend, this endless fucking holiday fucking weekend, is pick out which posts I wanna make a book out of. Hence my new truncated look on my posts. Reading the archives on this thing is a pain in the ass. And I don't own Typepad, so there's not much I can do other than this truncating, and having, like, 100 posts on one page.

And while we're on the subject of this blog and readers and so on, here's a blanket answer to the 2394838484 messages I've gotten:

  1. No, dear reader, I would not like you to take me to my colonoscopy. It's very sweet, but it's a, you know, vulnerable thing. My mother is taking me. As that is her job. That's what she signed on for 67 years ago. IMG_4425
  2. Yes, dear reader, I'm sure your package got here. I think this is the first year gifts from readers outnumbered gifts from people I've met, which is once again very sweet. I have opened exactly zero packages that've arrived these past few weeks, because they're mostly from Amazon and I don't know who they're from, but I assume they're Xmas-related. On Christmas I will open them, and thank you accordingly. I need a bridesmaid over to write down the names and the gift.

People must feel sorry for me this year. Join the club. I feel just terrible for me.

Someone is meowing somewhere. Goddammit. Hang on. We all KNOW who it is…

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He just wanted attention. God help us, everyone. He's one of those head-butting kitties. He likes to be petted. I like that about him. I do not like the "ME BORED!" meow, however.

All right, I gotta go. These eyebrows aren't gonna wax themselves.

Luff,

Joooon

A 51-year-old woman complains bitterly about cat food. Which is not at all sad.

One of you was nice enough to send me a few cases of canned kitten food, which when I think about it musta cost a pretty penny and thank you again. The good news is that Steely Dan just loves it, and his fur is so gleamy and soft.

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Jesus. I thought I'd better get a visual aid, like you don't know what Steely Dan looks like, and just try to get a photo of Mr. Gleamy and Soft when he's in kitten mode, which is all the time. So that was 20 minutes of my day, and this was the best I could get. I deeply enjoy the cat/dog fur on my robe. How'd that happen, do you think?

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The rest of the photos all looked like this.

Anyway. So I've been floomping a small can in his dish every day, and the other times I feed him I give him dry kitten food. "I wonder how much I should actually be feeding him?" I wondered, squinting at the size-two font on the back of the can. Seriously, who can read that?

Apparently, I can, because it read: Up to 20 weeks, give kitten as much as he will eat.

Twenty weeks. Why don't you go fuck yourself. Twenty weeks. That's precisely like people saying their baby is 22 months old. GOD FORBID YOU SAY 'HE'S ALMOST TWO.'

So I had to do the advanced math and I finally figured out what they MEANT was five months. Till a cat is five months old, give him as much as he wants. Which by the way would be fine if I were Croesus. As much as he wants. He'd eat 47 cans a day.

But then. Oh, get this. THEN, when he's 20–30 weeks old, the teensy can reads, feed him "2/3 of an ounce per lb. of body weight per day."

…..?

Two-thirds of…

Oh, go fuck your own self. Are you fucking kidding me? Ima floomp a can in there every day till he's grown up. Jesus. Has this can-writer met America? We're still trying to figure out how a deck of cards can be a serving. Two-thirds of an ounce for every pound. Kindly take your can instrux and stick then where the sun does not shine, and I don't mean Seattle.

I'd just like a sit-down, I really would, with the yahoo who came up with that as a formula. Oh, surely everyone in the world will (a) know what their kitten weighs at all times, and (2) has time to figure out that math and convert the fraction and so on.

Seriously, who is this humorless schmuck? Where is he? Has be been laid EVEN ONCE in this lifetime? If so, how much did the woman weigh when you divide it by two-thirds?

Did NO ONE at his workplace say, hey, Plonathan, I'm wondering if these feeding instructions, not to mention this font, are not quite user-friendly. I wonder, Plonathan, if we can simplify these just a bit for stupid people, aka most of the country.

PEOPLE STILL THINK IT'S "awe" when something's cute! People think it's "at her becon call"! People think it's "for all intensive purposes"! BUT WE'RE SUPPOSED TO FIGURE OUT 2/3 OF AN OUNCE FOR EVERY POUND THE CAT WEIGHS.

Oh, but "for weeks 30 to 52, feed half a can per lb of body weight." Oh, thanks. That's so much easier.

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This is as clearly as I can see it, so this photo is perfect. Maybe it just really IS that blurry.

Honestly, this is a huge thing with me, as you can see. Instructions that make no sense. I got an email just last night that I read three times and still couldn't make sense of. WHY CAN'T WE SPEAK CLEARLY ANYMORE? I think the real sign of intelligence is being able to state your point simply and concisely.

Says the person who just went on 20 paragraphs about cat food.

June tells you what she ate. Riveting.

Because you know how linear I am, I'll describe my weekend for you, Friday through Sunday, and how long do you give me to screw that up?

Does it bug you, you Tidy Tess types, when I'm all over the place the way I am, or does it fascinate you, the way happy, well-adjusted people fascinate me?

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I checked my photos, and this was taken Friday. It's the only photo I took Friday, and I clearly took it by accident. I think that's the ceiling at work. So, I must have accidentally taken it at work. Nothing gets past me. I saw my work ceiling, and right then I knew.

At least I think it's work ceiling. Oh my god, who cares. Let's discuss instead how my skin is sagging around my mouth and how we all need to hit my tip jar to fix that shit. I'm thinking only of all of you. Having to look at that sag award.

At lunchtime on Friday, I came home and did the thing I do to myself occasionally, which is get obsessed with an old movie in the middle of it, watch an hour of it, then have to return to work. This one starred Gregory Peck and Deborah Kerr, who always annoys me a little bit. She's always so convinced that she's smart and cute in every movie. She's always a little smug. With that goddamn smirk.

Anyway, he was F Scott Fitzgerald, and she was some woman named Sheila, which Gregory Peck kept annoyingly pronouncing as "Shilo," and I was all, "Where's Zelda?"

Zelda Fitzgerald has always fascinated me.

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With her whole It Girl of the '20s thing, which is cool enough, to ending up drunk and crazy, and I wonder what was wrong with her, really. I mean, is it something she could be taking a pill for now? Did she have something half our over-posting-on-Facebook-friends have today?

It turns out in the movie, she was already sanitariumed and in Asheville, a thing I didn't even know about her till I went home and rented the whole damn movie because I wanted to know what happened next. Poor F Scott Fitzgerald was on a downward spiral, and no one cared about his writing anymore, and young people thought he was dead, and he was the victim of ageism.

I FEEL YOU, F SCOTT FITZGERALD.

This entire time I've been writing you, Edsel has rested his head on my lap, so I let him out, then he wanted back in and when he did Steely Dan wanted desperately to go out, which of course no. So now Edsel's back with his head on my lap, wriggling the rest of himself, and S Dan is crying pitifully and trying to climb my robe to let me know just what an outrage he finds this.

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Rare Steely-Dan-sleeping pose.

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On Saturday, I dragged some of my friends to the Greek Festival, which is more a food festival, but whatever. We got there just as the dancing was ending for two hours, which reminds me of this woman I worked with at a restaurant in my college town. She didn't go to MSU, and there was a Tommy James and the Shondells concert at MSU. She walked EIGHTY-SEVEN HOURS trying to find the venue on campus, and when she finally got there, she heard, "Mony, mony! Thank you! Goodnight!"

Thank you. Goodnight. That has always killed me.

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So I missed the dancing, but I did not miss getting all the food the Greek gods had to offer. I had some Zeus-y roasted chicken, and it was well-cooked so I don't think I'll get food Poseidon-ing. I took my Nikes right over to the rice and stewed green beans, and had a little Hera the dog with a glass of Greek wine.

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There was this whole NOTHER line for pastries, and it moved one Demeter per hour. I'm sorry to tell you I got five different desserts, and Eros must have made the almond crescent cookies. Mother of Zeus it was delicious.

Naturally, yesterday morning was when that headache study called to ask what I'd eaten the day before, and I was so pleased to say, "Nine hundred Greek pastries."

Dammit, it got late, and I have to go, but yesterday I saw that new Jeff Bridges movie called Hell or High Water, and I know it looks like a boy movie but it's really very good. Highly recommend.

Talk to you later,

F June Fitzgardens

Vonda Shepherd Mix

Last night I had a dream that I was signing Edsel up for the FetLife website. FetLife is, well, let me look it up because I don't actually know.

…Okay. FetLife is like a dating site for people with fetishes, and what saddens me is that I don't know what Edsel's fetish is, although I'll bet it involves biting. Anyway, I was filling out his profile for him as he sat next to me telling me what to write, and the best part of the dream is that I was halfway through when I finally formed the thought, "Wait. Edsel can TALK?"

Then I woke up and he was on top of all the blankets and I was freezing to death. Maybe that's his fetish. Making me miserable.

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do der be a luff mom dot com edz can sine up for?

It was good I felt cold, though, because I came home last night to a broken air conditioner. In August. In the South. Sign me up. Sign me up for FetLife. Overheated mother of god. So, I called the AC place, and for a mere 17 million dollars they came over straightaway and fixed it. My hoooo-deee-frooo-deee-hoogen was broken. He said it's pretty typical. Then he charged me eleventy million dollars.

Which is better than the 17 million I'd stated previously, so.

Oh, also, this.

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I, you know, meandered over to visit the buff kitty again. In jail.

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nobody no. the trubble kitty seen.

Orange you glad I visited her? You shouldn't put kittens this close to me. Don't stand so close to me.

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eyeriss no you heded for cheetin side of town

So that was my evening. Yesterday at work I had a lot of writing to do, so I sneaked off to my hiding place in the building, and what is sad is that you have to hide in order to get your work done. Dear Whomever Invented Open Floor Plans: Fuck you. Oh, I'm sooooooo productive. Produce this.

Anyway it was lovely. Now all I have is the fear of my hiding place being discovered. And what am I gonna do, say, "Hey, this is my illegal work spot!"?

When I worked in Seattle in the '90s, I'd take my high-heeled loafers and clomp on over to the library for lunch. There was this woman at work, this older woman, who sadly was probably around my age now. Anyway, she was obsessed with whatever anyone else was eating. You'd take your lunch to the breakroom and she'd cover her mouth and still talk with her mouth full.

"Oh! What's that?" she'd ask EVERYONE, hand over her mouth. "Is it spicy?" Spicy was a big thing with her, and now that I'm her age and clearly going to reach for a mock turtleneck with patterns soon, as she did, I can understand the worry about spice. Hello, gerd.

Anyway, it drove my friend Paula berserk, to the point that it eventually drove me berserk out of sympathy, so I'd leave to head to the library, where I'd discovered this restaurant on the roof. They had, among other delicious things, this chicken with cashews stir fry that was to die for. I'd take my book, get out of the way of the incessant nagging drizzle of Seattle, and read all lunch. Then I'd clomp my Christopher Columbus shoes back to work.

What was with those high-heeled loafers we all wore? Stupid Ally McBeal.

I BEEN SEARCHIN' MY SOUL TONIGHT! Oh my god, please get that out of my head.

 

 

Anyway, one day I was happily up there, on my rooftop sanctuary, when I heard, "Juuuuune!" And there was the mock turtleneck lady. On my roof. "Oh! That looks good! Is it spicy?!" [mouth cover]

Goddammit. Sanctuary. Ruined.

I have to go to work now, as I am wont to do. I'll probably spend most of the day in my hidey hole. I'll let you know if anyone writes Edsel for a kinky rendezvous.

Fetishly,

June

Hand Jumping June

Yesterday was ridik.

I had to take my car into the shop, which I think I've told you now 800 times, and you'd think I was taking it in to get it tricked out. You'd think my car was transitioning.

Do you know what I'd like? Is a little Fiat. I love those. In some zippy color like yellow or a light blue. I love having a yellow car–I can always find it in parking lots. I think I will never not have a yellow car. That was a beautifully constructed sentence. Anyway, I can't afford a new car. Mine is 8 years old but it has only 82,000 miles on it, so.

I have no idea how I got on that dull tangent.

Oh, so I had to take it in. And that young man of color who works at the desk, there, who checks you in and so forth? Hotteldy hot hot with a side of extra hot. Oh my god. And since I had to get up early, scream around here, take Lottie to daycare because I couldn't come back at noon to let her out of prison, I arrived at the car place with wet hair and halfway-done makeup.

Hey, Man of Color. Fly me.

That did not stop me from flirting like I was Blanche Devereaux, of course, clutching my pearls and rolling my eyes and so on. He got me checked in quickly and into a shuttle van with a woman with the world's worst personality. It was only after the WWWWP and I were on our way that I realized my pants had been unzipped the entire time.

Hey, Man of Color. Fly me.

So then I got to work and had to hurry hurry hurry because I had three articles to write yesterday, plus meetings of course, and I got only two of the three done as a result. If I didn't have to go to meetings to talk about work I had to do, and instead could–oh– do the work, I could get my work done.

Since I couldn't go home for lunch, I walked to the Iron Hen, which is a really good restaurant near me. I got this irrational fear that Ned would be there. His doctor's office is in the same parking lot, as is a liquor store, so all his needs are met right in one lot. The point is, as I was walking there, I was all What if he has an appointment today? What if he's right in that restaurant and I have to see him? Will I walk out? I'd already phoned in my order–pear salad with pecans and grilled chicken. Would I eschew my order to avoid Ned?

Food/Ned. Food/Ned.

I decided I'd be stoic. I'd be Scarlett O'Hara in that field, except I wouldn't quietly vomit my radish.

Anyway, all that buildup was for nothing, because really what were the chances.

I'd planned to eat lunch on The New Bench in this park near work, but right as I approached it, some EFFING BITCH got there too and took it, never looking up from her phone call. She had a paperback romance with her and I detested her entire being. So instead I walked back to work and ate at my desk and had to endure the 792 "Oh, that looks good! Where'd you get that?" questions that BORE INTO MY SOUL.

I HATE that. Do you hate that? Just let me eat pecans in peace.

Then the hot MOC from the auto place called to tell me I'd blown a fuse, and who knew, and had I been in any sort of accident with my car.

"No!" I said. Because I, you know, haven't. I tried to say "no" in an inviting way, though, just in case.

"You're sure?" he asked, "Really?"

Jesus Christ. No, I'm lying to you. I got in an accident and forgot.

That did not stop me from hurling myself at him at the end of the day, after the Woman with the World's Worst Personality brought me back to the shop. By the way, her driving made me nervous as shit. The whole ride, I was all, "Woah, woah, woah! That light has been yellow a long–"

–screech! With her brakes.

Christ.

Anyway, you'll be stunned to hear that Man of Color did not pick up what I was throwing down, and on the drive home I realized my pants had been unzipped again.

No, seriously, fly me.

I got Lottie from daycare after, and the good news there is that that was one exhausted animal. I'd checked on her on the webcam, and she was making friends left and right yesterday. She didn't stand stoically like Lu used to, in a field with her radish. She mixed and mingled.

But as soon as I got home I had to shower and change because I was…going out.

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The good news is, I don't have to figure out what to wear today because I already picked out something cute last night and wore it for only two hours, so. Silver lining.

Since I already spilled the beans, I was out with The Older Man last night. The Younger Man is in Rio, and I have not at all sent 792 references to the song Rio in my texts to him or anything. He is doing something with the Olympics, The Younger Man is, and I feel like that won't narrow it down too much seeing as 792,000 people are doing something with the Olympics right now.

"I'm going to be in Rio as well!" I texted him before he left. "I'm the favorite to win the gold for the hand jump."

He told me there wasn't such a THING as the hand jump, and right then I knew.

"What if you screw up your job, and the Olympics are, like, ruined because of you?" I wrote him yesterday first thing.

"Wow, you ARE supportive," he wrote. "You're like Ike Turner."

"I prefer to think of myself as the husband in Rosemary's Baby," I said. "That was a guy who always had your back."

Really, I don't know why just everyone doesn't want to date me. Remember back when I was first dating again, in 2011, and that reader wrote in to tell me how obnoxious I was and that was why I couldn't keep a man? What a dick. And how clearly wrong he was.

Once I was finally settled in at home,

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and relaxing, I got a text from the headache study. "You haven't filled out your online headache diary!" they wrote, and son of a BITCH. But once I got on there and remembered my participant number and password ("GoldHandJumper"), it was pretty easy.

All right, I gotta go. Edsel, who has already been out and back in again THREE TIMES today, has been staring longingly out the door, but I just got up to let him out again–even though I've already said, "That's IT for going out this morning"–and as soon as I opened the door, he sauntered away. So I have to beat the dog and get in the shower.

Yours,

Ike

The weekend. As told by Joon Gardens.

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This is why you can’t let puppies out your sight for even one minute. This is why my days are spent never deep sitting anymore, but rather bounding up constantly whenever that dog toddles out of the room. And have I lost weight? No.

Also, experts advise that when your puppy is in duress, it’s the most humane to snap a photo for your blog before coming to her aid. My phone happened to be in my HAND. Back off, PETA.

Other than attempted murder by bra, my weekend was fairly copacetic. On Friday, I met up with Kit and we never actually spoke. She invited me to the local bookstore to see a panel of gay people talking about their experiences, which was made even more interesting after the events in Orlando.

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There’s the back of Kit’s head, in white, which is all I saw because I drove around downtown for TWENTY MINUTES looking for ANYWHERE to park, and I had to finally go to the rapey tall garage place and park on the 5th floor, and then I made myself walk down instead of the elevator because fitness guru and the point is I was late and it was standing room only by then.

The talk went on for more than an hour and I was wearing heels because Hashtag Trying to Pick Up Lesbians Just a Teensy Bit, so after awhile my feet hurt and I went to sit in the front window of the store.

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And that is when the fire alarm inexplicably went off, causing the fire department to come, and Hashtag Forget it, Lesbians, June Has a New Goal.

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Also, here was Iris’s weekend. The whole thing. She needs help. Send help. Your donation could help an obsessed Iris today. A few pennies a day will get Iris off the…oh, forget it. Those birds will come out of that house and Iris will be all, “Welcome to Earth” like Will Smith in that one movie with the aliens.

On Saturday, I got up with a friend who said, “Is it possible that we don’t blog about our time together?” which, ?

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So, okay, I won’t. But I ate barbecue and I matched the ceiling at a brewery.

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We were there at maybe 3 in the afternoon and the place was packed. Who are all these yahoos getting their drink on at 3 p.m.? I’d be asleep by 5, like, for the night.

That ring was on the anyone-can-take-it table at work. I took it.

Sunday showed up like it always does, and Lottisimo P. Houndsworthy got up with her trainer and acted perfect again. I get one hour a week where she’s impeccable.

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LOTee impecc eh bull.

The trainer taught her “place,” which means I’m to gesture grandly at the bed and she’s to go to it until I say she can’t. She did it for him 800 times and when he left she got on there for .0000002 seconds and left in a huff. It’s not what I said, it’s how I said it.

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Here she is sitting serenely while the trainer walked all over yonder. He could have walked to the corner store for cigarettes and she’d have waited patiently. If I got out my pistol right now and pointed it at her, she’d still get off the bed. Still, if you practice with her enough, she will mind really well.

“Wow!” said the trainer. “She learns fast. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a pup learn so fast.”

She only likes him.

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edz luff you truuuuly. truuuleee deer.

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After the trainer goes, there’s usually a blissful period where we all rest a bit. I hang from the ceiling, as I am a bat. I love the tableau, of Jo’s book, the inevitable paper towels, the inevitable enzyme spray, water and a notebook for all my pithy pithy thoughts du jour. And a goddamn shoe. WHAT IS SO RIVETING ABOUT MY SHOES?

Then I took the Eds and Lot for separate walks, so Edsel can actually, you know, walk, and Lottie and I ran into Ava’s family.

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She loves the shit outta those kids. “Can we run with her?” they wanted to know. Fuck yeah, you can run with her. Run till she turns to butter, I beg you.

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“I’m thinking of starting a dog-sitting business this summer,” said Joan, whose real name I STILL DON’T KNOW. Anyway, she has her first customer.

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Lottie was loath to let them go.

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edzul miss all fun! heeeeeeee!

So that sums it up. I did Tracy Anderson twice and ate fettuccine Alfredo with blackened chicken three times (1 serving at a restaurant fed me three times) so fitness was a wash.

What’d you do all weekend? Tell all.

Oh, and here’s my latest Purple Clover. It’s about things I miss from childhood. Like being able to eat fettuccine Alfredo and not care.

Carbily,

June

Edsel Joe McAllister

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Lottie is such an asshole.

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I feel like, if we could see her agenda, her datebook, it'd just be filled with appointments to annoy us.

Lottie Day Plannur

nyne fifteeeen: try to hump eyeriss.

five ay yam: wyne and skreech in crate. bownce against crate barrs. yap.

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edsul would not be charged by jury off his peer.

I keep thinking about Stanley, and how sedate he was, and WHAT WAS MY PROBLEM? He was big and he was calm and he was great. But NO! Anyway, if I'd kept Stanley, then I'd have found Lottie and I'd have TWO puppies.

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We gettin nother puppee?

Anyway, as those of you who've had puppies before and who aren't in jail for dog abuse know, they run around like assholes and then they pass out, much like fraternity boys.

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And as much as she claims to hate that crate, which the Tall Boy finally came over and got down for me, Lottie always finds some kind of cave to sleep in, even if it's just burrowing under the couch pillows. Here she is between the couch and the side table, with her head on said table. Comfy.

Anyway, other than obsess over this puppy, here's what I did this weekend.

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On Friday, after work, I went to happy hour with my coworkers. The reason all the drink napkins are wadded up and in the middle of the table is because…

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…one of my drinking buddies kept chewing them. Damn you, Bitchy Resting Face Alex and your love of drink napkins.

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Pervs.

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When I got there, the bartender was all, "Lottie's here!" which is not at all a disturbing statement on my bar-going habits.

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lottee gots a drunk mom. lottee totallee liza minelli rite now.

On Saturday, we headed over to Wedding Alex's house to see her new place, a truly lovely home in which I spent the whole time convinced Lottie was going to poo on. She didn't. You guys have sent her so many gifts, and if I didn't write to thank you it's because a lot of boxes came with no note, but THANK YOU oh my god. The point is, someone sent her this puppy crack: It's real chicken on a chewy stick. I brought one of those, and Lottie sat at my feet like an actual good dog while I visited with Wedding Alex.

Whoever sent me the real chicken on a chewy stick is my hero. It must have been cold there in my shadow.

You should see the stockpile of puppy food I have. I had to put bags in the closet of the computer room, fmr. Who was it the other day who was baffled by what "fmr." could mean? FORMER. It's an abbreviation of FORMER. See.

I also went to the gym yesterday and did NOT take Lottie to that one. I could be the asswipe who takes her puppy to yoga. As you know, all too well, I walk to the gym, and yesterday when I got there I realized you could hear the racquetballs hitting the wall. Back when Lu was really young, Marvin liked to walk her down there, just to mix up the route, and Tallulah always went berserk when she heard those stupid balls. It bugged her. She'd stand there and HARF! at the wall. I heard those stupid racquetballs and had such a wave of missing my Lu. And of remembering she was an asshole when she was a puppy, as well.

Oh! And SPEAKING of walking places, on Friday when I went to happy hour, I parked in this public lot, and A BIG DOG WITH NO OWNER walked up. He had a collar, and he was a friendly pitty pit, and for a minute there I was all, Mother of God. Now Ima come home with a big-headed pit. Edsel will leap off a bridge. He'll be Edsel Joe McAllister.

Fortunately he belonged to someone who was letting him WANDER AROUND OFF LEASH, and you know how I like that.

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I also CLEANED MY PLACE from top to bottom this weekend, because I was letting it get ridiculous, and once my house gets ridiculous I get depressed. So I straightened and I scrubbed and I washed and I cleaned, and as soon as I did, it stormed really bad and the dogs tracked mud in all over.

"The dogs." See? I prefer that in plural. The dogs. The dog never sounded right.

Edsel just had loud gas that filled the room with a cacophony of noise like he was Herb Alpert, over here. What the hell is wrong with me and my chaos-addicted self?

Talk to you TOOT suite.

June

June Gardens, first responder

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Killing season is taxing.

Speaking of which, Eds and I were in the park last night, after Chicken Watch 2016, wherein this time Eds put his paw up like he was some sort of pointer, a thing he almost never does, and I wonder if he's finally realizing chikkens be reel.

Oh my god with me. SO WE WERE IN THE PARK, and we were way back by all the foliage, when this bunny LEAPED away from us with a crash, and we'd had no idea she'd been there. I know it was a girl bunny because she had a Real Housewives carrot koozie. Anyway, it scared the shit outta both of us. I wish I had a video of us leaping out our skins and back into them again.

Speaking of koozies, and I don't know why we call them that, I was poking around on the Facebook yesterday and I noted the Scottish Inn has a traveling-drink-koozie page.

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The Scottish Inn is a RIDICULOUS/fabulous bar in my hometown; it has plaid wallpaper, and it's dark and small and that's where all my friends and I met up the day after Thanksgiving 2012, when I took Ned with me home. It was the only bar that was open at 2 p.m. on a Friday. And people were already drunk. We soon joined them.

I remember actual families, decent people, filing in at dinnertime and there was the whole room, drunk. That's when we left–I was too ashamed of myself.

In my lifetime, I've been to the Scottish Inn only a handful of times, but each time has been pivotal. And now they have a Facebook page where you take your drink koozie, and for the love of god I MUST HAVE A SCOTTISH INN DRINK KOOZIE, and take a photo of it on your trips. Am obsessed. I'd take that bitch everywhere, load up that Facebook page. You know, with all my travels.

I don't travel much, do I? I guess I'm a homebody. Who goes out a lot.

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In other news, here's a photo of me. And my cleave. Jeez. Anyway, we had to take selfies for work, for this project, and "had to" is a stretch–we were asked to. I was the first responder.

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Bitchy-resting-face Alex used my phone to take hers, and Dear BRF Alex: You use my phone, you get put in my blog. If only we could capture BRF Alex sleeping like Iris.

Oh, and speaking of pets, listen.

I really regret not keeping that puppy. I mean, I think about it when I wake up every morning. I think about how he's not here when I get home. I fucking loved that puppy. I think I made a mistake. I even looked on my phone to see if I still had the texts with the woman who'd raised him from being under her porch, just to see if the puppy is okay. Fortunately I deleted those texts, so I don't bug her and assure her of my craziness. But really. I want a puppy. Is that insane?

These past five years have been stupid, man. First Marvin left, which I really didn't think he'd do, but there it was. Then I had no job and I was poor and that was stressful, and I met Ned and fell stupidly in love and we got that beautiful house and that failed–which was devastating–and then my sweet Talu has to up and get fatal cancer when she's just barely 8 years old. Barely legal.

I'm not saying I haven't had one happy minute since five years ago or anything, but I just feel like maybe I broke a mirror and don't remember it or something. I want a reason to wake up and go, Ooooo! I wanna wake up and say, I have a puppy! I want to get to know a new dog personality. AND THAT DOG HAD A GOOD ONE I COULD TELL. Dammit.

Anyway. Regrets. I have a few. This is one of them. Wish I hadn't done it. Which is what, you know, regret is.

Meanwhile, I'm scheduled to get dry needling. The new hygienist also has migraines, and she said it made a huge difference for her. Apparently, she gets migraines and, like, sees an actual migraine doctor and so on. She was all, Who do you see and I was all, I just get migraines and take pills when I get them.

"That's it?"

"Yeah."

I figure going to the doctor about migraines is like going to the doctor about a cold. There's not a hell of a lot you can do, medically. I avoid weird sleep patterns, I avoid MSG, I stay away from rational thought. That's what works for me.

But after a month or two of really good luck, lately I've been plagued again. In fact, as I write this, I have a headache. I've had nine med-necessary migraines in 18 days. So I'll try the dry needling. It's like acupuncture, but in places where your muscles are knotted. It somehow loosens them up, and it's not what you'd call fun, but apparently it really helps. So that's next week. Add it to the list of things I've tried.

Dear Everyone,

When you start to send me the "Have you tried…" email, here's the list: Cupping, acupuncture, Chinese herbs, Botox, biofeedback, Topamax, Chinese tea, food/sleep/exercise tweaks, trying to wean myself from all headache meds, yoga positions, drinking 100 ounces of water a day, magnesium/vitamin B/some other supplement in one pill, experimental drugs, Maxalt, Imitrex, sticking my head in the oven.

So when you send me the "Have you tried/Maybe you should" email, please peruse that list. And if you email me anything about Excedrin I will personally drive to your house and twist your testes.

I'd better go. My hair is wet and I'm makeupless. Looking hot.

Smell ya,

Joooon

June sees an abusive boy; goes Pit on his ass. Story at 11:00.

Edsel and I had kind of an upsetting night last night, and I just inexplicably typed his name "Edseul." He's now phoreign. That's "foreign" with an underbite.

We were on our regularly scheduled walk, and does your dog lose his shit every single day over the walk portion of the evening, even though it's the same goddamn blocks up and down, same stupid Puggle barking at you on the next block, same old lady taking up the sidewalk with her walker, and so on, and has been for the last six years other than one simple year abroad? Just to throw a scenario out there.

That poor old lady. But that's a story for a different day. I once worked with a woman who pronounced it "dimfrent." Also a story for a dimfrent day.

So, we're on our regularly scheduled walk, which is apparently so exciting for one of us that high-pitched whines and ear-splitting barks must be issued forth beforehand, during The Snapping of the Leash part of the event. Once I calm down, we commence the walk.

There's a small park near my house, and if you go in there, you can see several people's fenced-in backyards, including one yard that contains chickens. Not, like, barbecued but rather chickens all formal, in their feathers, struttin' their strudel. Edsel is riveted by the chickens. He doesn't bark at them or try to get them in any way. He stands stock still, not even wagging his incessant tail, and stares at them till I get over it and make him move along, nothing to see here.

We were on the chicken-staring portion of our evening when I noticed the two kids screaming on the playground weren't having fun. And they weren't kids, exactly. I was a ways from them, but they looked maybe teenager-y, or maybe early 20s. I'm so old now that these subtleties are lost on me.

It was a boy and a girl, and they were having an argument. First I just listened in for the sheer joy of hearing someone else's fight. I do have to say that these six months without devastating fights has been, you know, good for my psyche. I used to cry so hard during those fights that the next day my throat would hurt.

The girl was really screaming, and the boy was screaming back. I'd planned to walk past the playground and into the open, grassy part, but it felt weird to walk past that. When I started leaving, I turned around.; something made me look again.

The boy was leaning over the girl, who was on a swing, and he was screaming in her face. She kept trying to get up and he'd block her way. Eventually, she DID get up and he continued to block her so she couldn't leave the scene, and finally he pushed her.

Oh, that DID it. You fucking fuck-ass motherfucker. What I WANTED to do was scream, "HEY!" and old-biddy myself over there, but I was scared of him. He was livid, he was young, and I had Edseul with me, not an intimidating Pit. I feel like Edsel would've wagged at him and handed him his business card. Edsel Pretzel. Heer to luff you. Lu woulda ripped out his throat. And I'd have let her.

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heer to luff you

I turned to go knock on a neighbor's door, because I didn't have my phone, but someone was driving up the street right then. I waved the guy down–I did! I got out and waved him down, asked him to call the police, which he did, and then we waited for the cops to show up. The couple had moved to a bench and were talking quietly at that point, but I still wanted the police to show up to tell that

FUCKING ASSHOLE MOTHERFUCKER

that he can't do that to a girl. I wanted to take that girl home with me and feed her some Parmesan cheese, seeing as that's all I had. Today's payday.

Once I saw the police roll up, I got out of there. I'd been lurking in a bush anyway, while the guy sat in front of the park with his car. "They're just young kids, but that isn't cool," I'd said to the guy. "No, ma'am, it isn't," he'd said back.

That asshole kid. My instinct is to just go over there and punch him in the head, which I realize doesn't make me any better than him EXCEPT FOR THE PART WHERE I DIDN'T ACT ON IT. Asshole kid.

Maybe I need to get another dog. Like, a giant Rottweiler or a tough German shepherd. So I can whip them out during these situations. Maybe I need a shotgun. Just walk the dog with my shotgun. Hey, it's the South.

Oooo, a sword! Hanging from my belt! That won't look crazy. As opposed to the big-haired woman who stops to look at the chickens every day. When did having chickens become a trend?

All right, I gotta go. I'll let you know if I get up in anyone else's business today.

Gladys Kravitz-ly,

Jooooooon

New birth. New girth.

Dood. Oh my god.

I know I'm a high weight when my thighs touch at the tops, and lately they've been reaching out and touching someone, which bothers. I've been FEELING phat, too, but I've been afraid to weigh myself.

Yesterday I did.

Not just at my high weight, I'm at THE HIGHEST I'VE EVER BEEN. I'm lucky the floor hasn't broken. Good gravy. Literally. I blame my antidepressants, and I don't care if I DO feel great, I'm going off them. This is ridiculous–I've gained 20 pounds since I started them! I'd rather be thin and miserable than fat and happy. Well. "Thin."

Plus also too, on Friday evening I went jeans shopping, which is always a delight, and I did not quite, you know, fit into anything. I finally found some that had once belonged to the circus, and bought those while they asked me if I needed any restorative ice cream since it had clearly been half an hour since I'd had any, but man.

So yesterday I did Tracy Anderson as hard as a person can do her, and took each dog for individual walks, and we will not talk about the Burrito Supreme I had as the day wore on.

Oh, this is a terrible feeling. What a feeling. I can eat it all now I'm dancin' for my life.

Despite m'girth, I had a busy weekend. I went on my date Saturday, which was not a love match.

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This was orange cheesecake, and why so chubby? I think I'm dangerously close to not even being "chubby" anymore, but downright plump. I have no idea what the difference is, but with "chubby" I always think of Nancy Drew's friend Beth, who was cute and chubby and rosy-cheeked. She still got play. Probably most often from Nancy's "tomboy" friend Jo.

Oh, so not a love match. Yeah. For example: "I'll get the check this time, and you can get it next time."

Um.

What's your take on that? My feeling is, unless the man is jobless, and even then if he was the one to ask you out, there should be no QUESTION that he's paying. And that he should pay for a few dates, until we're more or less a couple. For me, it means the man is going to be chivalrous. He's going to be the man in the relationship. I don't go in for the whole "we're equals" crap. Maybe that's old-fashioned of me, but I want the man to take care of me. I want to feel like if a wild boar charged us as we left the restaurant, that he'd do whatever it took to fend it off, not stand behind me and screech. You know?

And I don't mean he has to make all the money while I loll about at home, although that'd be lovely and why does that never happen, but I don't mean that at all. I have friends whose husbands work and they don't and on top of that they have cleaning ladies and complain about how busy they are and I want to smack them clean across the head.

But I have a friend who had no kids, didn't work, but her husband entertained regularly. So it was up to her to have elaborate meals and make everything pretty, and I think that's a fair exchange of work.

I don't know what I'm trying to say, other than for me, if a man wants me to start going dutch right away, I know I'm not going to feel taken care of. He's gonna be the guy I call when the car breaks down who'll say, "What do you want me to do about it?" That's a thing, by the way, that actually happened with someone I dated in the '90s. That pretty much ended things.

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After my not-a-love-match date, I went to my coworker and neighbor's house, a coworker I'll call notLuis, for a Peruvian dinner. I've never been to a Peruvian dinner before and it.was.delicious. "This is how we do dinner in Peru," he told me. "We have wine, we talk, we eat appetizers, we have wine, we talk, we have the first course, we have wine, we talk, then dinner, then wine, and we talk, then wine, then dessert. Then we have wine and talk."

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He wasn't kidding. This was my vision by the end of the night. Bah. No. I accidentally took this and I love it. It was fun, and we should really take a page from their Peruvian book and not eat everything like the building's on fire. I was there till well after 1:00, and they were astonished when I said I had to go. "Already?"

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Here I am at 2 in the morning. Two a.m. in the morning. In my snow leopards. Rwawr. That snow is good packing, with my new girth.

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I ended up sleeping in and having a lazy morning with the needy committee, then I schlepped to Lilly's to see her new baby, as opposed to an old baby, and I need to stop saying that.

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This is not the new baby. This is their regularly scheduled child, Zella, who lives with dogs and cats and chickens, and who has a horse next door that she can walk right up to, and who has a grandmother across the street who gets her every day to help feed the horses and see the barn cats and get eggs. How did she get my life before she was three? Annoyed. I only know she's almost three because I was there the day she was born. I delivered her. Then I made meringue pies for everyone. Which is less believable?

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Look how natural. That child knows he's in trouble. He feels less taken care of than I do on a dutch date. "girth laydee going to forget she holding. girth laydee going to drop graham on flor."

Oh my god, I forgot to tell you that when I was sturdily walking Edsel, trying to burn off my new girth, and say girth one more time, this kid approached me. "Have you seen Helen Keller's new house?" he asked me.

I knew the punchline, but you know how fond I am of Helen Keller jokes, and why does god punish me with girth, do you think? "Nope," I said.

"NEITHER HAS SHE!" and he got such a kick out of himself that I ended up standing on the street with him laughing like a girthy hyena. I wonder if his dad's single? I wonder how his dad feels about girth?

I watched the Academy Awards for awhile last night, but I got tired, and annoyed that the celebrities weren't supposed to thank people but did anyway. Tallulah snored through the whole show. I'd have woken her up if they'd given a lifetime achievement to Lassie or whatever, but they didn't.

I'd better lug myself to work. Everyone will wonder when they hired Jackie Gleason.

Girthfully,

Jooon+

P.S. Crap. Forgot to link to newest Purple Clover article.

Longest day of the year, and I had a migraine through all of it.

And I'd just SAID, "It's been a really long time since I've had a migraine." Why do I say things like that? But really. I usually run through my whole prescription in a month, usually to the day. But I'd gone almost TWO months with one prescription.

Not anymore.

The rest of the weekend was okay, though. On Friday, Ned and I were supposed to go to this outdoor concert, and he came home early, and we decided a delightful nap would be in order before we left, and

BOOM!

there was the biggest thunder, and we went to the porch and it was raining sideways. So we ended up going to a fancy restaurant instead, where I had chicken, and I don't know why I'm so fucking boring. You know what my problem is? I want whatever dish has mashed potatoes on the side. I could get something fascinating and ask for mashed potatoes, but I never do.

Really, if I had my druthers, I'd just like a big plate of mashed potatoes, strawberries and avocado pieces. Those are all the things I'm really looking for in a meal.

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On Saturday, one of the young girls at work asked us to come to this young bar to celebrate her young music magazine that she does. "You know we'll be the oldest people there by decades," said Ned, who usually doesn't care about that sort of thing.

We were, though. The bar was in the middle of one of the colleges, UNCG, which Ned said in high school they called UNCGay, which is mature and not at all like how boys in my high school called Flock of Seagulls Flock of Faggots. I wonder why it's hard for boys to come out in high school?

Is it easier now? I hope it is. Our whole culture sucked ass then. So to speak.

Anyway, the bar was technically a pizza place, and it was dark and rebellious in there and would have been exactly the kind of bar I'd have hung out in dramatically in college, hoping to look dark and rebellious with my blonde shoulder-length hair and tendency toward pink.

"Can we actually get pizza?" asked Ned, while I made eyes at college boys of color. "Do your eyes have to be popped out on coils the WHOLE time we're here?" asked Ned, until he saw a raven-haired girl wearing a cropped shirt.

Turns out we could get pizza, although I assure you pizza was not being marketed what you'd call heavily. Pasbt Blue Ribbon was. The menu had a little logo of a puffy-haired, mustached guy.

"Mr. Kotter left teaching and went into pizza-making," I observed. Ned laughed, because you have to humor me.

"You're the only person in here who'd get that joke," I noted.

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Anyway, it turned out to be more fun than we'd thought, and the band was good, and I found myself wondering if they had songs on iTunes, and of course they don't have songs on iTunes, they're a college band, and when did I turn into everyone's grandma with my iTunes and my pizza?

I have to go to work and abort this mission, but remind me to tell you about the Pit Bull/Yorkie I met at the next bar, whom I fell very much in love with.

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So technically, he was a Porkie. His mom was the Pit in that romantic entanglement, thank God. I wish I could have gotten a better picture but it was dark in there. Anyway there were all kinds of dogs in that bar, and it's not every day I fall for the littlest one, but he was super cool, and now I need a Porkie. This is a bar that's near our house and looked cool and we always said we should go in there, so we finally did. And it's a dog bar! All sorts of dogs sitting at the bar, ordering Salty Dogs and Milk Bones from big jars filled with pickle juice. On Saturdays it's Hot Poodles Half Price Drinks night.

Okay, I will talk at you later.

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Here's me at home after, and Ned playing a record. A record. On his turntable. He does HAVE a turntable, but he wasn't really playing a record. I was just being a grandma again. Hold on. You've got something on your face. Let grandma lick her Kleenex and come at you…