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.”

Oh my god, I am so fancy

Oh, hey, how did you find me here? I, um, I’m not cheating on you or anything! No! Lemme just, um, put m’clothes on, and…

So, here we are. In a new blog spot that isn’t Blogspot. Continue reading “Oh my god, I am so fancy”

June drinks red wine and drones

Hloy CATS.

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

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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.

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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.

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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?"

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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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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.

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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.

IMG_4967

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.