What are you putting off?

I had a friend who, with her husband, went through some shit. When they were going through said shit, every time a bill came they just threw it in this one black garbage bag. Threw it in there and didn’t acknowledge it.

Just the thought of that makes me nervous.

Eventually, they got their lives in order, and decided to tackle the Huge Black Bag.

“We were horrified, but when all was said and done, we owed, like, 7,000 bucks or something. Had it paid in a year.”

So there you go. Also, they were young and it was the ’90s.

I’ve had a few dreadful tasks I’ve been putting off, although not nearly as awful as facing a garbage bag full of overdue bills. Last year, when I was destitute and got sick and tired of being destitute, I did anything I could to get more money. I freelanced my ass–as my friend Alicia would say–I took surveys for money, and I got this, like, Nielsen box for the internet.

Don’t ask me what the name of the company was, because I can’t remember any longer. Even though the company’s big black box sat behind my TV for a year. But for $60 a month, it monitored what I looked at online for marketing purposes. Since I rarely look at anything nefarious, I did it.

The reason I stopped was because I got caught up and didn’t need to sell my soul and privacy for $60 anymore, and also because every damn month I’d get an email and a text AND a call. “It’s time to recalibrate your box” or whatever, and recalibrating my box was a PAIN IN THE ASS. Am I right, ladies?

June’s blog. Come for the–oh, hell. There’s no earthly reason to come here.

Anyway, I realize it was basically getting 60 bucks for free, but it irked.

So I was supposed to return the box. Like, last October.

They’d sent me a self-addressed, stamped envelope, just like you had to send in to Freakies cereal or whatever, and they also sent instructions for how to send it back.

I never did. The puffy envelope and its instructions mocked me from my secretary. Eventually, I moved them to the top of my microwave, so I’d have NO CHOICE but to send that box back.

Yeah. You know what I had? A choice.

See. The whole setup included a box, and tangled wires, and I figured I’d get really angry tryina figure out which cords belonged to them, so I put it off. And off.

And off.

I also, as you know, from your Wall Calendar of June Things, have some confusion with the IRS and this corrected form I got–The Saga of Form 1098 and the Corrective Shoes–and I had to send in a bunch of paperwork to the IRS, and see above. I keep putting it off because I know I’ll get all frustrated, and who wants that when you can lie on your couch and see Ned on Tinder?

Yes. That happened last night.

I swiped left.

I just got ON Tinder last night, in attempts to put off doing the unpleasant tasks listed above, and look what that got me.

So I got up offen the couch and did my put-offs.

And you know what? Probably took an hour, and that included taking two trips with Edsel to the mailbox. The box-that-knows-all-your-internet-secrets (“Wow. She sure seems to enjoy her a makeup tutorial.”) had really clear instructions for their cords-n-such, and they’d even color-coordinated them to their logo color, which, nice.

And TurboTax, who is refunding a great portion of my cash money due to this confusion with my 1098, also had very clear instructions for getting papers to our good friends the IRS.

The only thing that held me up was I did one task, took it to the mailbox, went home and did the next task, and then I was all, ding-dang it. Now I gotta go back to the melon-farming™ mailbox again. (Use of “melon-farming” as a fake swear, (c)Faithful Reader Paula.)

But still. Maybe an hour.

Oprah once timed how long it took to replace the toilet paper roll: seven seconds. But how many people do you know (MARVIN) who place the toilet paper on top rather than just put it on?

How many things do you put off that, if you just faced them, wouldn’t be so bad?

That’s my deep thought for today. It’s the second day of spring, and here’s our current situation in North Carolina:

I guess nature is putting off spring. But Eds will never put off Blu.

Offputtingly,
Joon

Ruins

I’m trying very hard to not talk about my 404 Error, because my hope is that I can just, oh, continue on with my life, and if I make him the topic of my posts, he’s still in my life, a bit. So I’m trying to write about other things even though I really just want to obsess.

So, hey, getting up to watch sunrises and meditative walks and time with friends and my dog blah blah. Oh, and also, I saw Ned on a dating site last night.

And here’s the argument, right? The, “Well, YOU’RE on a dating site.” Which is the same argument my mother would give me about people running into me at Kmart. “Well, THEY’RE shopping there.” Yes, but I have a stellar reputation to uphold.

What I never had in junior high school: A stellar reputation to uphold.

Anyway, sure I am. Of course I am. I’m on a dating site. At this point I’ve winnowed it to one because Jesus Christ, do they ever not work. And I have about .00004% faith in men being good, at this point. BUT I’M TRYING.

This damn breakup is more than two years old already, and I kept getting drawn back in, and starting to think, Oh, maybe this time it’ll be okay (oh, June), and then what do you know, another heartbreaking thing is discovered. I’m the Christopher Columbus of discovering things. “This is India!” No, it’s not. “This is an okay discovery! I can, you know, live with it!” No, you can’t.

I think I’ve found India, but what I really found was an Indian giver of love.

So, hey, June. Nice going. Good idea, to keep letting yourself get drawn back in. You sure selected the right Let’s Make a Deal door, there, sister. Again.

When I was a kid and watched Let’s Make a Deal, I always thought getting the donkey would be way better than a stupid car.

So anyway, there was Ned’s clever profile, a profile I’d have answered tout suite. And yes, I have a clever profile up, too.

So why was I stung?

I guess in my naive heart, I thought he would think, Wow, I really ruined June. I should sit here and think about why I did that, work on why I keep asking her to come back and then being mean to her. But instead, he’s all, Welp, destroyed her. Tourists can now come visit the June Ruins. Her insides are crumbled and missing and desolate. And even though I keep contacting her even still, asking to talk, I’m also gonna say, NEXT!

So. Perhaps that’s unfair, but that’s how I’m feeling.

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“Yes, are these the June Ruins? I was told there was a shave-ice truck near here.”

The Poet and I are going to a movie tomorrow. Here we are, yesterday, at a meeting in a very green room.

IMG_1045.jpgWork isn’t the sanctuary it used to be, either. Lately I’ve felt marginalized, ignored, and I’m trying to fix that but I’m not getting very far with it. I don’t know exactly what happened, but it’s disconcerting, because work was my one place that I was happy, at least from 9 to 5ish.

So I’ve been asking for more to do. Throw it all at me, I keep saying. I’m not sure how else to fix whatever I broke other than to make myself fairly indispensable.

I’d better go. I should shower, as that is the sign of someone who isn’t depressed, right? Like, hygiene and so on? Yes. I suppose showering didn’t cheer Janet Leigh all that much.

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Stabbing it with her steely knife but unable to kill the best,

June

Me and you and a dog with Blu

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

Internet: Why, Joon?

Joon: Noneya, Internet.

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Vintage June sports her vintage slip on Friday.

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

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

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

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

Oh, Ritalin. [Chucks Ritalin under chin]

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

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I know you can’t get enough of these me-in-the-Laila-Ali-hairdryer shots

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

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

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

damm et, mom
leaf lone, mom

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

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

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

Perfect. So, now SD has a brand voice.

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

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

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

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

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

XO,
June

Let’s just act like we’ve always been here.

Oh, hey! (I’m waving like I know somebody across the room, cause we’re all such regulars here at WordPress. Oh my god, chicken skewers with peanut sauce again?)

(You know what sounds really good right now?) Continue reading “Let’s just act like we’ve always been here.”

June drinks red wine and drones

Hloy CATS.

"Hloy," Goddammit. I haven't even HAD any wine yet. HOLY cats. Jesus.

Photo on 3-19-17 at 9.51 PM #2

In case anyone's thinking of checking me into Promises Malibu or whatever, it's 9:53 at night as I write this. I realize you're likely all in your morning-y routine and all that, all showered and parfumed and sportin' your three-piece woman of power suit with the floppy '80s tie and so on, but I'm writing this on Sunday night. The Wonderful World of Disney is on and my mother is spritzing Hair So New into my tangles and I just had a Hungry Man pot pie.

Because apparently it's Sunday night in 1974.

That's how I remember the Sundays of my youth. Disney, pot pies, Hair So New.

But back to why I was saying Hloy cats.

I took on this freelance assignment, a thing I TOLD you all about last week, a thing I WARNED you would mean I was not going to be reachable for a reacharound,

a thing you all blatantly ignored anyway.

HEY JUNE! I'M TEXTING YOU JUNE! I'M IMing YOU JUNE! JOOON! JUUUUUUUUUN! Hey June what you up to JUUUUUNE? Hunh? Answer me I'm calling you JOOO–

Oh for fucks sake that is when I shot everyone.

So what I'm saying to you is I began this work Friday, and I feel as though I've done little else since and in case anyone is wondering, so far I've made about $580, and I'm on track to get it done on time but it's gonna KILL me, is what it is.

My eyes are literally bleary as I write this. I never should have agreed to this short of a deadline. What happened to self-CARE, June? What happened to BOUNDARIES, June? JUNE? JUNE! I'M TEXTING YOU JUNE HELLO JUUUUUUUUUN.

Photo on 3-19-17 at 9.56 PM #2

So, I told myself I had to stop working at 9:30 tonight, so at 9:35 I quit, even though I was telling myself, Oh just go a little LONGER, June. You can keep GOING, June. If you can't drive with a broken back, at least you can polish the fenders, JUNE.

But I stopped. And after, I was strolling into the kitchen-al area, where all the magic happens, and I happened upon the magic johnson of red wine on the counter, red wine that has been sitting there unopened and closed off and emotionally unavailable to me for weeks that I hadn't even really noticed was there. I don't drink red wine, usually. It's from my dinner party I had awhile back.

Photo on 3-19-17 at 9.49 PM #2
FUGIT.

So then I came up with this brilliant idea that with all my makeupless, stressy-haired self, I would come over here and chat with you while I drank, just like we decided to get together and grab us a brew, other than the part where I will not be asking you anything about YOUR day, so in other words, exactly like we're getting together in real life to grab us a brew.

So, really, other than WORKING and walking poor Edsel,

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[Enclosed please find before and after of Edsel once he's been asked, "You wanna go for a walk?" I don't know why I ask. The answer is always GOD YES MOTHER OF GOD YES THANK YOU YES SWEET LORD YES.]

the only other interesting thing I did this weekend was have a date. Not, like, I ate a fig, which would be sad and hilarious at the same time.

[Pours more wine. Because wine!]

I met a boy on OK Cupid, as I am wont to do, and in case anyone's keeping track, I believe at this point I have gone out with a dozen men from that damn site since that week between Christmas and New Year's of 2015. I'd been back from my year abroad since fall, and I said, Okay. I'll try fucking again.

Here's the thing. That first guy? THERE WAS NOTHING WRONG WITH HIM. He was a delight. But I was so not ready.

Then 2016 was a bad-date fest. I went out with Mr. Write, and Mr. French, remember them? And the younger Olympics man and the older man, and men who were off their meds and told me so, men who never once asked me one Q abut myself the whole date, men who were way too young and TWO men who were half into dudes, and it turns out? As much as I'm all teach tolerance and give peace a chance and yay with your rainbow flag and all? I really can't date the bi dude. I'm sorry. Bye, dude.

So you can IMAGINE my lowed expectations, and lowed is a wonderful word, when I went out with this latest person, a person who will not come up with a good blog name for himself (so far he's presented me with the lovely choices of Skippy McDougal and Joel), but with whom I had the rapport online.

The rapport. We were rapporting all over yonder.

So finally we agreed to meet at this dive bar in my old Year Abroad neighborhood, and he said, "So I should just look for the hair, then?"

Photo on 3-18-17 at 7.06 PM #4
Hurr.

And here's my problem. Hurr's my problem. [glugls more wine in glass. glugls. goddammit.]

HERE'S MY PROBLEM.

I look my worst. My very worst. I'm not doing Latisse, because money. No Botox, because money. No fillers, and LOOK AT MY MARIONETTE CHIN RIGHT NOW. Also, phat. Phat phat. But I gathered my unattractive self and I headed out to the date, thinking, well, this will be like the others, in that there will be something HORRIBLY IRREPARABLE about him,

and then I ended up having a great time.

Remember on New Year's Eve, how I went to my friends' huge party in their bed and breakfast mansion-y place that they own that is so beautiful and so on? Remember that? I sat at the top of the steps that night with a friend of theirs, a married friend who hovered around my age, and he told me a disturbing thing that has haunted me ever since. He told me that men my age who were single were always broken. And that so many of the women were just lovely, and he always felt bad about that.

Well. Son of a BOTCH.

Botch. Son of a botch. Why do you let me drink and compose?

That's tainted my view of men, and it really shouldn't, because that's just one man's opinion. That's, just, like, your opinion, man.

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Me on my golden date.

So, look. I have no idea if this man is broken. Like I'm not? But what I do know is he was cute cute cute, and hilarious, and I loved everything he had on, and we never shut the fuck up, not at the dive bar, not when we went to eat after, and not at the 24-hour diner where we got coffee till the wee hours after. He was smart, he was kind, and he paid for my lamb stew. I don't know what that lamb is so worried about, but she keeps wringing her hoofs.

Am I your favorite drunk blogger, or do you have another one? And I know it's terrible to eat the lambs, Clarice.

So, who knows what's gonna happen. But I can tell you one thing. I realized I hadn't thought about Ned all day today. Not once all day.

And that's nothing to wine about.

Photo on 3-19-17 at 10.57 PM #3

Your makeupless friend and mine,
June

Flounce and Fisher

Do you know what it means to flounce? People have done it here a few times: It's when something on the Internet bugs you, and instead of just not returning the site anymore, you announce to the group at large that YOU ARE OUT, and you AREN'T COMING BACK, and then you…flounce off.

There's a group on Facebook I'm a part of, and would you mind very much if I didn't reveal what it was? Sometimes I just wanna play on the Internet and not be June Gardens. As it is, I got women lookin' at my OKCupid, and I KNOW you're readers. You could at least HIT on me, 37-year-old chick from Florida or whomever.

Anyway. My point is, I'm in a group on Facebook and yesterday someone flounced. "Guess this group just can't [insert rest of passive-aggressive statement here]. I'm out."

Happens all the time, and it's needlessly dramatic and attention-seeking, which are two of my food groups, however I'm proud to say I've never flounced, I don't think. My POINT is, people started putting up memes in response to the flouncer, and they were KILLING me.

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You can imagine. At this point I was giggling like an idiot. The Golden Flounce Award!

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I really think my personal favorite was this last one…Simple and elegant.

Anyway, it served to amuse me greatly, and there was much snortling in the land.

In the meantime, I think I'm getting a cold. Everyone at work in these past weeks has been felled by a cold, and today I awoke with that sore throat-y feeling, which annoys me because I have a party to attend tonight and also a New Year's Eve thing I want to go to, and now I'm going to be FELLED, and there will be great moaning in the land. If I were you, I'd flounce till this cold is over. I'd flounce the land.

If I write a book, I should have a whole section on when I complain during my colds. Isn't it true that there are, like, a million different colds you can get and you get a different one each time? Did I invent that in my head? You don't want to be in here. In my land. Save yourself.

I returned to work yesterday, one of .0004 people who did at my office, and I found something to do, at least, but I also took two walks with Griff, which is always inspiring and positive. You'd think two curmudgeons could make a right, and we did make a right, right into Complainland. I like Griff, though. He's my people.

I had one more day off coming to me this year, and my boss, who of course showed up because he's hard-working and organized and sensible, said it didn't really matter which day I took, so I took today. Now probably tomorrow I'll be FELLED by illness and wishing I'd taken tomorrow off.

Once I got everything done at work that I could, I started perusing Target.com, as I'd gotten a gift card to there and didn't know what to buy. My boss, who did I mention sensible and level-headed, came over and said, "Why don't you just wait till you need something rather than look for something to buy?"

This is why he's the boss and I'm the minion. Also because I'm yellow.

Speaking of things in popular culture that I'm not a part of (I don't actually know what Minions are from. I just know they look like Twinkies and are from some movie. Probably one of those movies where people say, "They make it funny so adults enjoy it, too." Yeah. Right.)

But SPEAKING of popular culture, I saw the original Star Wars, once, in 1977, and no other iteration of it after that.

I am not taking Carrie Fisher's death personally because I admired her in a gold bikini or whatever people are into. I admired her writing. Go read Postcards From the Edge. Go read Delusions of Grandma. She and Nora Ephron are the people who, if I could just be half as clever as them, I'd have been happy. Pretty much everything that comes out of my mouth, and that's a lot, is derivative of something Carrie Fisher said first.

My favorite? Instant gratification takes too long.

Not to mention she was my favorite part of my favorite movie: When Harry Met Sally. All the very best lines are hers. I guess she and Nora Ephron must have at least known each other. I'd have stood there like an idiot. I would have said, "LOL" or something similarly embarrassing if I'd been there. "You two are funny." Something awful like that.

What I liked about Carrie Fisher was how she didn't care what you thought of her. And she didn't sugar-coat anything, except probably her sugar, cause it sounds like she enjoyed her a sweet or two, as addicts are wont to do. What I liked about Carrie Fisher is we all knew she was a recovering addict. We all knew she had bipolar disorder. It wasn't some dark bag of secrets she tried to tamp down.

When she had her one-woman show in LA, Wishful Drinking, I went by myself because Marvin was working. There was one part where she talks about working on the set of the movie Shampoo, and I believe she'd been up to that performance saying that she slept with Warren Beatty, which let's face it, she probably did. But at my particular show that I attended, Warren Beatty walked in. He walked in, stood in the aisle with his arms crossed, and when she got to that part, she said Warren Beatty hit on her 19-year-old self, but later told her he was "only kidding."

After that, Warren Beatty uncrossed his arms and left the theater.

And see, that's why I like her. Liked. Goddammit. Because she never felt the need to make herself look any better than she was, and it was BECAUSE she did that that she was more likeable than, say, a phony-ass Warren Beatty who wants to seem like a good guy 30 years after we all know perfectly well he probably gleefully bedded a teenager.

I imagine that she, like me, was probably exhausting to actually hang around, but you sure wanted to hear from her as often as possible, because you couldn't wait for her next pithy observation that you wish you'd have thought of first.

In short, I wish I could be Carrie Fisher. Except not dead. She's right up there for me with Laura Ingalls Wilder, who incidentally would have hated us both.

I'm out. [flounce]

Who you voting for? BE NICE.

My stupid computer is acting wonky, like Iris's eye, and now it's 8:23 and I'm just commencing to typing.

So since I have to GO now, and THANKS, Internet, let's just ask…

Who you voting for? For president, smarty. And why?

Keep your answers civil. Anyone's mean to anyone else? Delete. I won't just delete you, I'll come to your house and punch your family dog.

Keep your answers substantiated. Any talk of anyone being a liar or a criminal or what have you had better link to a CREDIBLE, neutral news source, all two of them left in the universe. Not some site made up by some wingnut sitting at home just anywhere. The Internet has been terrible for us, newswisely. Just yesterday on Facebook, I saw a person linking to an article accusing one candidate of something awful in the headline. "This is why I'd never vote for this person," she wrote.

The whole article was about how that particular accusation was unfounded (nice click-baiting, by the way, stupid article). The poster hadn't even read the article, just cheerily went along spreading a lie.

On that happy note, okay, go!

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ForgotTitle

When Ned and I weren't letting love lift us up where we belong this weekend, we were playing with an app. I know. We've turned into those people. We might as well get a leather sectional.

It's called Karen, and she's a life coach, and she's, you know, like a live person. Well, not really live, but she's real and you answer questions and she responds accordingly. Ned read about it in one of the many pretentious things he reads such as The New Yorker, or maybe he heard it on Nose in the Air on NPR. I forget.

Karen-app-promo

"Oh, it's time for me to talk to my app," he kept saying, and some British woman would chat with him and I'd get annoyed, wishing that app would get off Ned for god's sake. The app talks to you for awhile, and you answer a few questions about how you feel about life and so on, but then she says, "Come back later to finish this talk." I have no idea why. Then your phone will tell you you can open the app again at, say, 11:00 the next day.

I couldn't STAND it after awhile and got the damn thing on my own phone. Then I figured out I could go into my settings and tell my phone it was the next day at 11:00 so I could keep playing. I'm sure the fact that I cheated the system while Ned played along dutifully at the times he was assigned means something about us.

Anyway, it's been riveting. Let me know if you get it. I am not being paid for this. WHY AM I NEVER PAID FOR THIS?

Oh, and we also found a sex fantasies app. It's called UnderCovers, and you know what I'm tired of? You know what I'm NOT having a sex fantasy about? Is this new trend with all Internet-related objects to be called NounVerb. Or AdjectiveVerb. What I'm saying is, I'm sick of two words squished together and capitalized. StopIt.

Anyway, you sit there alone and tell it which fantasies work for you. And they aren't just fantasies, either, they're acts. Like, in case you wondered if I'm super into the idea of someone peeing on me, I am not. So I Xd off that one. NoPee.

Then, when I was done, I send a message to Ned, telling him to use this code and answer them all himself. What I get, then, are only the answers he likes and I like, none of the ones we both don't. BarryGibbFantasies.

"Did you say you wanted a hot one-night stand with a stranger?" I asked, perusing our matches. The annoying part is, unless you pay $2.99, you only get to see one of your matches a day. HighwayRobbery.

"Oh, nooooo," said stupid fucking Ned. "Of COURSE not."

I hate Ned.

I totally said yes to that one, too, by the way. But I wouldn't really do it because disease. Plus, have you ever slept with a stranger or relative stranger and had a good time? I'm a girl and have to be comfortable with the person first. Although once there was this bike messenger. BikeMessenger.

I was a receptionist at an accounting firm, (I totally sound like the Penthouse Forum right now) and you can imagine how I fit in. In Seattle, they had these bike messengers who'd ride around all day delivering papers and so on from office to office. I wonder if they're all out of a job now that there's email? That's sad, because I was 27 and looking at bike messengers all day and each and every one of them was hot, like soccer players or firemen.

Anyway, one time this guy came in to deliver something, and I can't even remember what he looked like anymore, although cute, I assure you cute. And I was SO ATTRACTED TO HIM I couldn't even function. I was leaving for lunch, so we rode the elevator down together, and it was all I could do not to attack him on the 34-floor ride down. HotRideDown.

I was determined to ask him out next time he delivered something, and he never came back. I wonder if he's balding and drunk and middle-aged now. He's probably one of those guys who move to Boulder and never grow up. He probably wakes and bakes.

So that's been my weekend, playing with apps. Ned got a NewComputer and had to put it all together, which did not at all involve the swears. Eventually, his nice brother came over and helped him. Ned's brother is a saint. Once we got into a discussion over who was the better brother, and I was all, Look. I'm dating you, but even I think your brother is the better brother.

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Also, I was gonna tell you today about my coworker's ridiculously funny Twitter page, and this whole post has been computer-centric, hasn't it? ComputerCentric. He mentioned it to me on one of our group walks at work, and I went back and perused it and did one of those laugh-so-hard-you-look-like-an-idiot things. Here are some of his tweets. I've become the sort of person who says, "tweets." That leather sectional should have liftable arms to store my wine coolers while I watch HGTV.

What I do on LinkedIn: sign in, accept invitation, scroll "people you may know," think "yes, I do know many of these people," sign out.

To get his eyes looking like they do, Benicio del Toro sleeps in a mask made of fire ants.

Check out this tersely worded letter: I

Did you know if you catch someone pronouncing La Croix "la kroy" instead of "la kwa" you can legally run them over in your Mercedes?

That last one was my fault. Austin, my {pretentious} coworker, brought a whole case of that water everyone and their dog's vagina is drinking, and Dear Austin: To tell you the truth, we were standing at the Anyone Can Take It Table when that case of La Croyyyyyuxxx water was in front of me, and I didn't know it was yours. So when I so boldly reached in and took one, I had no idea it was your personal stash.

Love, June La Crwaaa.

Croix-sparkling-water-berry-92138

I don't even feel bad, though, because have you guys tried this stuff? I expected to hate it, because rebel who'd never buy a leather couch or get a french pedicure, and OH MY GOD I bought a case this weekend. It's calorie free and migraine-causing free and it's StupidlyDelicious.

Anyway, my coworker's Twitter is funny. Is what I was trying to say.

God, this whole post was like Goop.

Well, you used to shake ’em down, now you stop and think about your dignity. Or not.

Okay, I hate to be obsessed, but now Google Photos is making little stories from my pictures. Look at this nice one!

I know. I need to get over it. Every poor sap who comes to my desk has to look at the lastest thing Google is doing to my photos. Does this mean someone at Google has seen my boobs? Because remember when I sent my friend Charlie that boob picture?

In the meantime, what's new with you? I'm waiting to get in the shower till Ned goes, because he will be going on a business trip overnight and please do not murder me while he's gone. First you're gonna have to pry the fangs of Tallulah out you before you get to me.

"You know you're gonna have to clean the litter boxes tomorrow," Ned just said. Like we can't go ONE DAY without cleaning them. Whatever, Ned. I'll just send the dogs in there. Take care of THAT in a hurry. Almond Roca for everyone.

You know, I always assume it's Talu who'd protect me, but several times now, Edsel has kicked the ASS of dogs who charge at us on our walks. And could I once again let you know how much I enjoy you people who let your dogs off leash. "Oh, he's fine." That's great. My dogs will murder your free-range dog in cold blood, and I hope you're happy about it, because WE'RE ON A  LEASH LIKE DECENT PEOPLE.

What if Ned's not going on a business trip at all, and he's meeting some floozy at a cheap motel tonight? And I'm over here all, Oh, have a good trip! I'm all slipping love notes in his bag and he's out getting syphilis. Rude.

Oooo, I have an idea. Let's all tell our worst someone-cheated-on-me-and-I-found-out-horrifically stories. Most of mine, no ALL of mine involve my old boyfriend Cardinal from high school. The best one was when he went out of town to work for a few weeks before we started our senior year, and when he came back he brought a girl with him.

Yeah.

"How is your hair on the top of my dresser?" asked Ned just now. He should really just accept that hair's gonna be everywhere. He said he found my hair on him AT THE GYM, which is not really possible but it happened, and at least part of me's at a gym.

"Sometimes when you're gone, I lie my head on your dresser," I called back.

He probably totally thinks I do. And still, he's gonna meet some two-bit blousy trollop for the next 24 hours. In my mind she's wearing huge orange hoop earrings. And spandex capris with heels. What should we name her? We just had a discussion at work the other day, Griff and I did, about what's the cheapest-sounding name. Griff thinks the name Jessica is sexy, and to me, Jessica wears wool sweaters from a fine department store and smells like Ivory soap.

I'd throw out some of my votes for cheapest-sounding name, but then I'll get the angry comments from everyone named Brandi.

I gotta go. I'm very much looking forward to a night alone here, not that I don't like Ned, but novelty. I loved living alone. I mean, as alone as you can be with 47 pets. Let me know your cheatin' heart stories and also your names for Ned's floozy.

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I like how I say "floozy" and stampede to a photo of TinaDoris. Look who brought her already-thin self and Borbala Rut to work yesterday! It was bring-your-Borbala-to-work day. Yeah, of course TinaDoris had a cute baby. Have you observed TinaDoris?

Alone again, naturally,

Jooooooon

Free speech

I've been writing this blog ever since it was fashionable to have a blog–I started in 2006. It's only recently that I've been censored, however.

People are using this blog in unhealthy ways. To check up on old relationships. To ruin current ones. People are reading this blog without my best interests at heart, which is stunning to me, because other than that wingnut stalker Kelly from Manhattan and that unfortunate Carin person from several years back, most readers HAVE seemed supportive, and I've been naive enough to assume I'm talking to friends, here. I've gotten comfortable.

Now I feel a little bit like Snidely Whiplash is reading me, twisting his mustache and looking for objectionable material.

More than one person–more than one woman, because men would never do shit like this, let's face it–has objected to my content because they think my writing affects them. And nothing could be further from the truth. I'm writing because I love to, and because in all seriousness, I have to. Back before I had a blog, my friends were regularly assaulted with rambling letters detailing my every nuance, and they are probably all grateful to the powers that be that blogs were invented.

I write for me, and to entertain you. I don't write to hurt anyone's feelings. I certainly don't write to be vindictive. Despite my general crankiness and curmudgeonly attitude, I am easily hurt, and I would never want to hurt someone else just for kicks. Okay, maybe if you have that horseshoe, fortune-cookie short hairdo. But other than that.

That said, if my blog makes you upset, don't read my blog. It isn't healthy, and it leads nowhere. Why do women pick at scabs?

I do it, too.

When I first met Ned, of course I perused his Facebook friends to see if I could figure out who in there he'd slept with. Hint: About 400 of his 200 friends. But after awhile, I stopped. Not because I'm some paragon of maturity, but because he told me how important I was to him, and I believed him. And because looking at people he'd slept with made me feel sort of terrible.

Maybe two years into the relationship, Ned and I were on the phone, and we were both on Facebook at the same time. Some old boyfriend had done something interesting, so we both got on that guy's page. "Wow, I've never done this to you before, looked at your people like this," said Ned. "This feels wrong."

Men are so funny. They're so different from us. There's not a woman alive who doesn't stalk the exes or the new loves. I know that. And why? What are we hoping to gain? Does it ever make us feel better?

One wonders how much involvement with the past is healthy. I'm starting to lean toward zero. Zero involvement. Now I sound like The Count. Zero! Ah ah ah ah.

This differs from how I used to think. I have always remained friends with any exes who choose to remain friends with me. I have never once wanted any of them back.

Let me repeat that. I HAVE NEVER ONCE WANTED ANY OF THEM BACK. I do not desire any exes. But now I can also see how people can think, What the hell? Why must you keep this person around? Move on. And social media is making it harder for us to move on.

Have I stayed friends with exes because there was a tiny part of me that hoped they still saw me as desirable, and I enjoyed the attention? I think maybe so. Is that healthy? I think maybe not. But I'm sitting here running through my exes: Marc, Steve, Dean, Jay, Jeff, and I don't think in a million years any of us would go back to a relationship for anything. For all the tea in China, and I like how that's someone's example of something great they could offer you. Oh, thanks! 900 tons of tea! Tempting. I'll be knee-deep in Lipton. Mmmm!

I guess I'm saying all this because these recent events have flummoxed me, and because I heartily resent being told what I can and cannot say on my own goddamn blog about my own goddamn life. Not long ago I edited something I wrote, something that was true, in order to not hurt the feelings of someone. I have never done that before and I'll never do it again. All I can do is tell the truth about life from my perspective, and while I will never strive to be cruel, I will also not alter my writing to avoid ruffled feathers.

My desire to be liked will not supersede my desire to be genuine.

In a way, I'm really just kind of over here minding my own business. And if my business bothers you, I am going to go out on a limb and assume you are not strapped down with your eyes forced open by toothpicks, with this blog before you. Go forth and think happy thoughts, live in the present, and don't look for drama here.

Well. THAT kind of drama, anyway.

Celebrity Gossip with June

I just read an article yesterday, in my hard-hitting Entertainment Weekly, because I think it's important to stay abreast of the news. In it, a gay actor (that guy from Girls, you know the one? I love him) said young gay people don't go to gay bars anymore. They make fun of gay bars.

I mean, this is good. I like it that gay and straight people are living in harmony and teaching the world to sing and gay people don't need their own bars anymore. But man, do I love a good gay bar. Plus, gay bars have those great names: Woody's (there was a Woody's in my old neighborhood in LA), The Empty Closet, The Bangkok. Fudge.

I guess nothing stays the same. I should have lived in New York in the late '70s, when all the gay men were the most fabulous and still alive. How a 14-year-old could have afforded her own New York apartment is beyond me. Brooke Shields did, though.

I just started the last four paragraphs with "I."

Oh, speaking of The News, a reader, and I forget who, emailed me awhile back and said, "Joooooon. Have you looked at that gossip site, Crazy Days and Nights?" She said it was written by an entertainment lawyer or something, and they have a section called Blind Items Revealed that is to die for. Navigating the site is a NIGHTMARE, but it's full of the gossip.

I knew about poor Jennifer Garner and Ben Affliction or whatever months ago. I also knew about Jon Hamm.

Because Jon Hamm is available, did you see that? Okay, he's 90 days out of rehab. Hooo care? Actually, I'd be interested to know when exactly they broke up, because your first year of sobriety you aren't supposed to break up with or meet anyone. So I'd love to judge if he's doing it wrong. Poor Jon Hamm.

Actually, what I read was, he told his girlfriend of SIXTEEN YEARS that he doesn't want kids after all, and girlfriend is 42, so what's she supposed to do now? I mean, ship has sailed. You know what the very worst thing would be? Is if he meets someone else, marries her right away, and they have kids. I've heard of that happening. I don't know how, if a man does that to you, you can stop yourself from driving over to his house and killing him right in the head.

Fortunately, the siren song of having children never called to me, so this was never an issue. But did I ever tell you about how I got pregnant when I was married? Oh, I was so annoyed.

I've never wanted kids. Not once. Not for an iota of a second. Someone in my family did a family tree, and it's amazing how many of my women, back in the 1800s and early 1900s, didn't have kids, either. My Aunt Mary also doesn't have kids. We have no maternal gene.

Anyway, when I was 31 and already dating Marvin and it looked marriage-y, I got my tubes tied. The pill and Depo shots gave me migraines, and insurance covered it. This was back when insurance covered stuff. Remember those heady days? The whole operation cost me $40.

That was in 1996, and in the year 2000, I ran a marathon in Chicago. I got back November 1, I remember this, and hadn't seen Marvin in a week, so boom.

It was less than two weeks later that I started to feel what you might call logy. I'd get out the car to go to work and it seemed like the whole parking lot was tilted. Dizzy? You don't know the half of it. I'd get off the elevator and even though I wasn't in the door of the office yet, I'd think, "God, who brought doughnuts? Yuck." I could smell

EVERYTHING

and everything made me sick. "I think I'm pregnant," I said to Marvin, who didn't want kids either, and that's why I married him. Well, that and Annie Hall was his favorite movie. "You're not pregnant." Marvin stampeded to the computer to Ask Jeeves or whatever we did in 2000. "There's a .05 percent chance you could ever get pregnant after a tubal litigation." Marvin was forever screwing up words and finding himself hilarious.

I called my doctor, who has now quit the profession, and she said the same thing, but to come in and they'd do a blood test because it was too soon to tell with a urine test back then. I'd had my period during the marathon, which by the way was a lot of fun and super convenient.

I continued to smell each cleaning product, individually, in the grocery aisle, and in fact, I was AT the grocery store when I saw a homeless man holding and rocking an invisible baby. "That is IT," I said, and bought a pregnancy test.

I got home and peed on a stick, and I'll bet you're glad you tuned in today. June's blog. Come for the body fluids. So to speak.

When that damn test showed a plus sign, I screamed. Screamed. Then I ran into the dining room, where I remember Mr. Horkheimer sizing my screamy self up. "God. Get hold of self, Hair."

Right then the phone rang, and I sobbily answered. It was my doctor. "Honey?" she said, and I KNEW BY HER DAMN HONEY that she had what was for me bad news. Goddammit.

And here's the worst part. The part I will never forgive. NEVER FORGIVE. When I called Marvin with my news, he was all, "Really!?"

HE WAS HAPPY. HE WAS GODDAMN HAPPY.

Oh, I was mad at him. The whole POINT of Marvin was that he didn't want kids, either. Next thing you know he'd be telling me his favorite movie was really Cocktail.

So, I decided I was going to have a baby. Oh, I didn't want to. I was bracing myself. I figured I was financially okay, I was happily married, I was an adult. Ish. And right when I accepted the idea, I had a miscarriage.

Dear God: What the hell?

So that's that story. I will not go into what happens next, but it involved Marvin sitting on a bag of frozen peas for a weekend.

Heck, it's 8:32 already. I was gonna tell you how I went to the movies last night and saw Pretty Woman, and guess what? Early '90s fashion. Not good. Not good at all.

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Love, Joooooon

Mostly I just like to say, “Solange.”

Sorry I'm late today. I was super busy beating up my brother-in-law in an elevator.

By now I hope you've seen the delightful and riveting video of Beyonce's sister, Solange, beating up poor Jay Z, who always struck me as a normal person but what do I know? I thought Lamar Odom was normal, too, and it turns out he's all hooked on phonics or hair-oyn or something. Of course, if I had to be married to Khloe Kardashian, the Horse might be looking mighty tempting to me, too. I might be all "I been through the desert on a horse with no name."

Do you enjoy my heroin references? Are you reeling at how hep I am? I once knew someone who was getting off the hair-oyn, and I know you wish I'd keep pronouncing it that way, and he said, "The monkey is off my back, but the circus is still in town." I loved that guy. 

Anyway, Beyonce. And her delightful family. I said yesterday on Facebook, where I discuss all the crucial News of the Day, that my theory was Solange really, really wanted to be the one to push the button. I tell you what, something was chapping her hide, anyway.

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Anyway, this is just the sort of thing that's right up my alley. I love drama, I love celebrities, and you bring me celebrity drama, my whole day is complete. And there's nothing more perfect than the fact that his signature song is I Got 99 Problems But a Bitch Ain't One. It's just all too perfect.

I know as a world-famous blogger celebrity I should be on his side. You never know when some relative might backhand me on an escalator at Belk.

Did anyone watch that Jay Z video? I want to go in and kiss those Pit Bills. I got 99 problems but a lip ain't one.

Oh, and speaking of Pit Bulls, I went to dog daycare yesterday at lunch and retrieved my curs, who summered there while I was at the beach this weekend. Let me tell you something. When those dogs have had four days of nothing but play, when they emerge from that room and into the lobby, they're what you might call keyed up. When the poor 15-pound girl they hired to retrieve your personal pet comes out of there all pulled by dogs like she's doing her Ouiser impression, I always think, "Man. Maybe I should have just, you know, never come to get them."

But I could never do that, because while I pay with two bucking lunatics pulling my wrist off, the sounds emanating from Edsel are ridiculous, and if I ever abandoned him at day care he'd just expire of a broken heart.

Yesterday he whined and squealed and cried and looked up at me with weepy eyes and presented me with a poem on the drive home.

POE-UM FOR MOM

Rozes red

Viol--LOVE MOM SO BAD EDSUL DO! LOVE MOM! EDZ LOVE MOM! MOM

So that was nice.

Last night I slept with 100 pounds of dog, and tripped over 100 pounds of dog on my way to the bathroom, and shared my teensy tiny small bathroom with two dog heads, and everything is back to normal over here. 

Oh, and does anyone have any theories about why I cannot keep a goddamn shower curtain rod up? No matter what I do it keeps falling and I'm ready to borrow Karen Silkwood's shower, I'm getting so annoyed. Let me know your thoughts.

Solange,

June

Gwynneth Paltrow. Irking me since 1995.

Gwynneth Paltrow is such a tool. I KNEW she and that Coldplay guy were gonna break up, because I'd read rumors of her affair, as I stay on top of the news, and once some celebrity couple starts saying "Oh, we're fine. Nothing could be further from the truth" you know they're doomed. So that was bad enough, but then she had to out out a statement ON HER WEBSITE (tool) saying they were going to "consciously uncouple."

Gwynneth Paltrow, THIS is why everyone hates you. You were baffled by it (I read Vanity Fair, honey) and here is why. BECAUSE YOU SAY ASSHOLE THINGS LIKE "CONSCIOUSLY UNCOUPLE." What a nimrod. Like the rest of us just wake up one day and notice our relationship ended, finally.

Anyway.

Last night, Ned and I schlepped over to Winston-Salem, as we are wont to do 97 times a week. We finally saw the Saul Leiter documentary, and it was so worth it to scream home, feed the dogs hysterically, scream into the car and scream 30 miles to a movie.

Oh, Saul Leiter was the bomb. He said in the movie that he may not like the way he looks once he watches the film, because he looked better when he was younger, "But maybe I'm not being fair to the way I look now."

He was curmudgeonly, didn't take himself remotely seriously and had a lovely cat. Here is a picture he took, which you may think I took, because it looks just like my photography. I wish I had a real camera. Yes, I'm blaming my tools.

Saul-leiter-3-448x660Saul Leiter lived in the same neighborhood for more than 60 years, and mostly what he did was go out and take photos right out his front door. His apartment looked just like my landlord's, Mr. Kaiser's, who had also lived in his place for 60 years. Crap everywhere and you just wanted to start straightening up. But while Mr. K's apartment was filled with old matchbooks from bathhouses, Saul Leiter's was filled with negatives. FILLED WITH NEGATIVES! Just like my brain.

He died in November, Saul Leiter did, and I cannot imagine going through all those negatives and organizing them. Someone much manlier than I am is doing that right now. And I hope someone is taking care of that cat.

Anyway, after the movie, Ned and I went out to eat in Winston-Salem, and someone was sitting in the window of the restaurant, where I like to sit, so eventually I stabbed them with my steely knife. The good news is they served us anyway and we got sent to the back of the restaurant, where Ned said, "Isn't that LaUral, over there?"

Sure enough, there was LaUral, having dinner with someone, and naturally she came over and climbed on my man.

IMG_0101Did I mention the flash on my camera is broken? I should really haul it into Apple, shouldn't I? Or Google it. I did try to Google it, though, and didn't find anything about how to fix it. The point is, those two better consciously uncouple soon.

I have to go and get ready for work in my jeans. I still haven't taken all the dressy clothes out my closet and replaced then with casual-yet-worky clothes. I hope to consciously uncouple my closet this weekend.

Clearly I will never get over this.

Consciously,

June

Blup

Yesterday, after work, about 50 people from my office went out for cocktails, and who am I to buck that trend? So we all piled in to this huge bar while it stormed outside, and one wonders if it could have been more humid in that dwelling.

I had been wearing this very light lavender/gray cover-up thing, which is hard to describe but oh, wait. I can show you a picture of me in it. I know! Hang on.

6a00e54f9367fb88340177438693c2970d-800wiHere I am wearing it back in July, and it is so not germane to the story, so thank heavens I went to all this trouble.

Ever since Ned saw these pictures from this event back then, he has eschewed that green shirt cause he says it looks like he's wearing a sack. Does anyone remember that Ned scored high in vanity on that narcissism quiz?

I, however, scored high on exhibitionism, and I removed that gray/purple thing as quickly as possible, so everyone got a lovely view of my undercarriage and so forth with the skimpy shirt I had on under. Dudes, I would taken THAT off too, and shaved my head and worn pasties, it was so close in that place.

My POINT is, eventually I stopped talking to just everyone and settled on people from my department, mostly the Spanish team. We have a whole group who does everything I do, only in Spanish. Madre de Dios!

I am not saying I do the work of a whole department. I just mean if I edit something, they do too. Only in Spanish. Oh, hoo care. Hoo-o care-o.

So I'm talking to the boyfriend of one of the Spanish team, and he says, "Yeah, come here, June. You gotta look at my phone. Here's my friend's picture on Facebook. Look at her! Don't you look alike?"

Any time anyone has a friend with a bulbous nose and big hair, I have a twin all of a sudden. And this chick did have my blup/hair look. Blup/hair. Good typing skills, June. From now on, when I describe myself, I'm just gonna use "blup" and you'll all know what I mean. BULB. BULB/hair. God. Anyway, "Yeah, I can see it," I said, wishing I could afford a nose job so bad.

"I know, right? She could be your daughter!"

 

And even more cheer-inducing, the girl was THIRTY-TWO. So if I'd have been a mom at 16…

Did I mention

?

Anyway. Eventually Ned showed up at World's Humidist Bar and we went out for lesbian tacos. I got an appetizer that's big giant huge large pieces of bacon that had been baked in maple syrup, presented to me sticking out of a Mason jar.

 

In unrelated news, I don't know why I can't retain my youthful look.

Oh, but look! Guess what Ima do now? I'm going to ACTUALLY REMEMBER to tell you something I said remind me to tell you about. I know! It's Miracle Day here at Bye Bye, Pie. It's Miracle/Blup day.

I found this map day before yesterday that shows you how we say SO MANY THINGS differently in different parts of the country. Click on the link to see it.

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Oh, it was riveting. Ned says all kinds of things different from me, like "paj-aaaaaaahhh-mas" whereas I say "pa-jehehehehehe-mas." Basically, as a Michigan native, any time I can take a word and make it more nasal, I will.

He also says THANKSgiving and I say ThanksGIVing, and he says UMBrella and INSurance. These things are wrong. And the Spanish team at work, just last night while all the moisture left our bodies and stayed there on the surface of our skin never to evaporate, talked about their pretty names and how our American words for their names totally ruined them. Like, Alexandra, when one speaks Spanish, is "Ahhllleehandlaa." Of course, I say "EhhhhhlexANDraaaa" because, nasal. Especially coming out this blup of a nose.

So, yay. Go look at the maps. I think maybe I will shower. Which I pronounce "shaaaaawurrrr."

In which June seems kind of obsessed with tacos.

I woke up before the stupid alarm went off and thought I was late because the sun was up. Stupid daylight savings. WHY do we have to have it, again? Wasn't it when we were all farmers that we needed to save our daylight up? I don't even have Farmers insurance.

I'm not even that fond of Frances Farmer.

I don't even have a farm in Africa.

Okay, I'm done.

There's not even a farmer in my dell.

Okay. Seriously. Done.

So did you vote yet? You can do it early, you know, some places. I did, and that was a quick stop. Holy cats. Which I just mistyped "holy cars" and that makes a ton of sense. As much as holy cats, if you really consider it.

I'd gone to lunch with Ned at the new pretentious Mexican place in his neigborhood–the taco place that was closed the other night. OH! It was good. It was way more than tacos, although that's what I got. And between you and me I wanted the tuna taco, but that sounded so dirty I couldn't bring myself to ask for it. "I'll order it for you," said Ned, who is more mature than me, believe it or not.

"No! YOU asking for a tuna taco is way worse!" I said, although I do believe our waitress enjoyed her the ladies, so really ME asking for it–oh, who cares. Point is, I got the chicken tacos. And they were good.

I  had one left, so I had to put my taco in a box, and see, there we go again with me giggling and nudging you. Then I stormed off to Country Park to vote at the rec center, which is precisely where Edsel took his boy-did-THAT-stick obedience training.

Really, he's not disobedient, though. If you tell him something he's generally mortified and does it, hoping against all hope you will love him as a result. It's just that he spends every waking second being the most enthusiastic dog you've ever met.

My point is, the line to vote. I mean, were they showing Jaws in there? Was this 1974? Good gravy. Eventually I bonded with the man and the woman in front of me. The guy behind me was reading a magazine and never spoke.

Then I tried to surmise who everyone was voting for based on appearance. The guy behind me had a ponytail: Obama. The guy in front of me was wearing a Burberry shirt and loafers on a Saturday: Romney.

I figured all the black people were voting for Obama. Is that racist? I did, though.

I was in that line for an HOUR and FORTY MINUTES. But finally I got up there and voted for people with interesting names, like when you bet on a horse.

My mother just fainted dead away.

No, no. I got up there and and put down my vote. Mitt all the way!

My mom just woke up so she could get to the nearest gun.

The point is, I worried my not-tuna taco would be turning poison in my car, but in fact I ate it when I got home and here I still am, so.

Anyway, tomorrow should be interesting, mostly because my coworker Not Wes and I are getting together after work and I've been excited about that for awhile. Oh, and we're getting a president. Both of those things should be covered pretty extensively tomorrow in the news.

Okay, have to go to fake all-day work now. Hope you and your tacos are well.

Seventh-gradely,

June

Pick Flick

Ask me how that statistics textbook is going.

NOT WELL. NOT WELL AT ALL. Have you SEEN the index on this thing? They'll list one word and give you 84929492949395 pages where that word appears. And because this is a reprint, it's not on the page they say. Which means I have to FIND it in all that riveting statistics text.

This means I have to go now and look at that stupid thing till it's time to go to fake work. So I will be brief.

Here is what I want to know today. I asked this four years ago, too.

Who are you voting for? For president. Not for America Idol.

And BE NICE. If there is a not-nice comment, I will DELETE your ass. DELETE. I know you're scared now.

Okay. Tell.

Bloop de Bloo Bloo

I have been very busy working on a new project. I created a folder on my desktop called, "Hi. I've slept with you." Then I went on Facebook and downloaded photos of my exes.

Do you have any idea how many people I have dated who were in bands? In fact, most of them are STILL in bands. Clearly I have a type. In my folder now are several pictures of relatively old men standing on a stage.

And what's funny is I'll be perusing my list of FB friends and stampede right over someone and then a few minutes later go, "Oh! Bloop de Bloo Bloo! You forgot you slept with him and he belongs in the folder!" Perhaps that's not so much funny as tragic. What's even more tragic is that I could be attracted to someone named Bloop de Bloo Bloo. He had a really nice car.

Obviously, not everyone I've slept with is my Facebook friend. There are some exes who hate my guts, and some whose guts I am not particularly fond of. Some of the gut-haters (Daniel Boone) are on Facebook anyway, so I can steal their souls and photos for this useful project. Others are NOT on Facebook, and this means I have to troll the Internet looking for middle-aged white men with totally common names. You think this is easy? Why didn't I go for fewer John Smiths and more Bloop de Bloo Bloos?

And oh. Yes, I DO have a statistics textbook to edit right now. What do you mean I always find stupid things to do when I have a statistics book to work on?

MY POINT IS, and at this point you need to get dinner ready, I know, I Googled an ex and found he is, well, not a celebrity but sort of known in his region. So there was a writeup about him, and his accomplishments (they didn't mention the accomplishment of "wore a beret in college and no one kicked his ass"), and it ended with "He lives with his husband and two dogs in…"

So there it is. The first official gay ex-boyfriend. I mean, we all must have them. Well. Okay. A lot of us must have them. Which leads me to an interesting thing I read on Dooce yesterday. She has a blog post from a Mormon woman who is divorcing her gay husband. She knew he was gay when she married him.

That post led to a post from a gay Mormon man who is staying in his marriage to a woman.

And you know what? Don't judge either of them till you've read their stories. Because I was all ready to embrace the divorcer and detest the stayer, and I ended up totally feeling both of them. Look, it's not my religion, you know? I am not Mormon, do not pretend to be, do not have ANY IDEA what it's like to believe the stuff they believe. But I try VERY HARD to live and let live, and guess what? This guy is hurting no one. Not even himself.

Did you know I wasn't Mormon? I mean, based on the enormous new folder on my desktop? Is it politically incorrect to say "Mormon"? Am I supposed to say LSD or whatever they call themselves? If so, why? Is it the polygamy thing? I really don't know.

Whatever. Let's look at pictures.

100_1398lillee shoot lazers at Iriss. try to fix eyeballs. dis work, you think?

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Have I ever told you that …friend's cat, who you all cleverly named …kitty, walks around with bags on her head? Apparently she has always done this. She sheds the bag, looks around to see where she is, then puts it back on. She can even leap to the top of the fridge with a bag on her head. She is The Unknown …Kitty.

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And you know what's funny? I mean, you won't be stitching your sides because of this, but it's funny in a sort of interesting way, is …friend's cat doesn't automatically look at the camera, as my photographed-every-day pets do. (Did you ever notice that, Hulk? That I take my pets' photos sort of often? Has that ever bugged you? You never say so in the comments.) Do you think my pets know they're microcosmically famous and that's why they look at the camera? Or do they just know by now that if they look I will leave them the Sam Hill alone, finally. Is that it?

And to conclude, in summation, finally (FINALLY), yesterday was Faithful Reader Dawn's 46th birthday–and Dawn? Hang on to 46. HANG ON TO IT. Because I will be effing 47 in less than a month.* Anyway, Dawn's sister wrote me and asked if I'd say happy birthday, and just to suck up and ensure I'd do so, she said, "You and your uvula are our heros!"

Photo on 6-19-12 at 10.11 AM
So happy birthday, Dawn. My uvula and I celebrate our love for you. And yes, it is after 10:00 and I'm not dressed yet.

*Yes, of COURSE I added to my Amazon Wish List. Because I am a horrible woman who is greedy.

Q.E. + B.W. = TLA

Am taking a break from my hard-hitting morning of reading BOOK RIDICULOUS THREE of that stupid Fifty Slaps of Grey or whatever, and I guess hard-hitting was an appropriate term. Do you know who I'd like to spank? That author.

As if reading THAT trilogy of fine literature weren't enough, yesterday I went to Barnes & Noble with …friend, because we really know how to throw down, and I picked up (yes), The Thorn Birds for our very sophisticated book club here at Bye Bye, Pie. I found myself telling the checkout clerk, "I'm reading this as a joke, sort of." Because I'm certain the clerk cared deeply. Still. It's like the time in the '80s when I bought a Def Leppard tape.

When we were at Barnes & Noble, I happened to see a magazine all about Queen Elizabeth's Diamond Jubilee, and by the way where is mine? Where is my Diamond Jubilee? Could I just go somewhere and you all throw diamonds at me? Because I'm just as dowdy as Queen Elizabeth. Don't I deserve something?

I sat through Rent. Right there makes me Diamond Jubilee-deservable.

Okay, I never sat through Rent. I just thought it was a good line.

Anyway, you will be shocked to hear that as a boy who is straight, …friend is not what you'd call knowledgeable about the royal family, which to me is an abomination. He also knew absolutely, 100% nothing about Laura Ingalls Wilder, and guess who had to sit at my dining room table for 17 hours getting a brief rundown on Laura? Guess who probably wishes he had faked some knowledge, there?

At any rate, I was perusing the magazine and inexplicably, …friend was looking at it, too, and asking stupid questions like "Is Queen Elizabeth married?" when I came upon this.

QueenWhiskey.Tango.Foxtrot.

"Is that Queen Elizabeth?" asked …friend. "Why is she next to Bruce Willis? That seems tasteless. What's she got to do with Bruce Willis?"

I am just saying to you. My birthday is coming right up. Could someone please arrange to send me Queen Elizabeth/Bruce Willis Chia Pets or whatever these are? You know what we need? June Chia Pets. We could make sure the plant grows something giant. Like a Redwood or something. Can Chia Pets grow tumbleweeds?

In other news, yesterday I gave allergy pills to all my pets, and oh, right, thanks for all the unsolicited pet advice the other day. I LOVE that. Love!! Anyway, the vet gave us allergy meds since everyone is still itching and Tallulah? Pill in canned food. "scarf scarf scarf scarf snurfle."

Edsel? Pill in canned food. "smack smack smack smack–der more?"

Lily? Pill in canned food. "lick lick lick cause I a cat, lick–pill gone!"

Then I got to Iris. My sweet unseeing Iris. I mean, even better, right? She can't SEE the pill. And yet? "lick lick lick lick–ebrytheeng gone but pill, mom!"

So I tried again. "lick lick lick. dis gud! throw pill away, tho."

Finally, I had to do the shove-it-in-her-gullet trick. Guess what Iris did? Sweet unseeing Iris?

Photo on 6-14-12 at 2.46 PM i fowm, mama. i fowm till pill gones.

What a DINK. I HATE it when cats do that. And it's the sweetest ones, I swear! You got a bad cat? Somehow you can get a pill down 'em. A nice one turns into exorcist kitty. pill not gone, mom. sow is myne.

Okay, I'm off. I will close with a lovely photo taken last night during dog walk time. After Barnes & Noble, which I have now mentioned three times like it was the highlight of my life, I went to the Clinique counter for my soap, and they had a "Hey! Buy stuff and get a whole bunch of makeup you don't need, including that moisturizer no one ever uses!" deal. So I got home and put ALL my new makeup on, even though I already HAD makeup on for my romantic date at B&N.

So there I was with two layers of makeup on, and it was like Ru Paul was walking the dogs. "You better walk." I tried to photograph it but the makeup doesn't translate. Nevertheless the entire juxtaposition of this photo kind of slays me. I get to say "juxtaposition" because I hang out at Barnes & Noble. And buy The Thorn Birds.

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God, Edsel's eyes look awful. HE'S TAKING BENEDRYL. But be sure to send more…you know.