My Friend Flicker

They’ve changed how they’re doing things at my job: I used to work on just one account, but now they’ve split it, so I’m copy editing for a bunch of different groups. This is kind of more exciting, and also more scary, because every client has a different style, and things they like and hate, and you have to keep track of it all.

Copy editing is the only place I am persnickety. Have you ever noticed that? How incongruous my job is, considering how the rest of me isn’t quite…attentive to detail? Words are the one thing I care about enough to care, if that makes any sense.

In the meantime, my bed hasn’t been made since I threw out my Flicker.

Flicker-isnt-man-razor-sprayed-pretty-color-ad-quips.jpg

“June, what do you think is wrong with you, that you can just pull products like Flicker out of your ass?”

Well, one thing that’s likely wrong with me is m’shredded anus.

Anyway.

IMG_E0951.JPG

Here is the only photo I took yesterday, and it is decidedly emo, and I just have to sit around and wait to not feel emo, and frankly it’s a Flicker in my ass.

The good news is, I asked a guy at work who is forever traipsing off to dance classes where he GOES to said classes, and I’m going to ballet with him on Monday next. I will become a prima ballerina and live on black coffee and cigarettes and you will all not notice my advanced age and I will take to tutus. “Oh, god, here comes June, wearing that goddamn tutu to take out her trash.”

I will be Desmond Tutu.

I will be tutu much.

I took ballet as a child, you know, for several years. At least to me it felt like several years. It was probably, you know, three. I recall my instructor wore winged eyeliner, and her assistant had little white asterisk designs on her otherwise clear nail polish.

I thought they were both phenomenal.

And I’m certain I was headed to New York with my tutus and my eating disorder, except the winter I was 10, even though my mother denied this until I got out my diary and proved her wrong, I got the chicken pox.

“You never had the chicken pox,” my mother said, last time I mentioned this.

I called my father. “Yeah, I remember you having the chicken pox, sure,” said my father.

My mother said he was wrong. My mother has also said, and I quote, “The dictionary is wrong.”

This is why it’s good I have kept a journal, or back then a diary, pretty much constantly since 1975. So I was able to pull out my yellow Hollie Hobbie number and read about my personal struggle with chicken pox.

The point is, my brush with the pox meant I missed a week of ballet, and the week I missed was, like, THE MOST CRUCIAL WEEK EVER, because that was when they told us we were all headed to toe shoes, but we had to learn all the positions and their French names, not just, you know “second position,” and in a few months, we were all headed to Detroit to take a test in order to climb that ladder to toe shoes and this sentence is not a run-on at all. How dare you?

So I get to class, faintly poxed from my recent ordeal that my own mother denied, and everyone’s all responding to French and pointing their toes, and I WAS BEHIND and instead of, oh, asking my winged instructor to spend four minutes with me after class and catch me up, I panicked and said, “I don’t want to do ballet anymore” and my parents, who’d been attending dance recitals since they threw away their leather strap and straight razor, said, “Okay, SURE!”

It was one of those snap decisions you later regret, which sums up my entire life.

How did I get on this topic, again? [scrolls up] Oh, right! Because I’m going to rekindle my passion for dance, and as we all know, I have a gift. You’ve seen the veeeedeos.

I also have a weekend coming up that is packed with the events. I have a goodbye party on Friday after work for a woman I dearly admired. She was very cool-headed. Enough said. She reminded me of Faithful Reader Fay, in both her looks and her attitude. Unlike Fay, she did not march over and take charge of my life, however. Anyway, she’s headed to another job, and I will miss her no-nonsense self.

Then Saturday day, The Poet and I are penciled in for a movie, the one where Idris Alpaca or whomever is stuck in the snow with Kate Winslett. One thing I would not mind is being stuck in the snow with Iris Aldolph or whatever his name is.

Also, you know how I’m sort of (HAH) into men of color? I failed to mention to you that I was, you know, seeing a man of color for a bit, and I hope it isn’t the last time I do so. While it did not last, it is something I can sorta check off my list, my list of things I always wanted to do, and like ballet, I’d like to return to that particular genre again one day.

I hope I won’t be confronted with some sort of Detroit test re this.

On Saturday night, I have a party to go to, and then on Sunday it is likely I will need to hole up here and decompress from all the people-ing. Open the door and see all the people. Close the door because drained.

I have to go, but before I do, I wanted to mention that my cousin Maria got a new kitten, a kitten the rest of my family is claiming has Steely Dan, well, qualities.

IMG_0977.PNG
See. It’d be funnier if this kitten were at a neighbor’s house doing this.

This is Maria’s daughter Anna, of “Aunt Katie, are you a lesbian?” fame. And the alleged Steely Dan spawn.

I love this Satanic video. Also, Maria’s BF isn’t too shabby, either. Maybe next up for me should be a man in his 30s.

Twenties! Aim high, June. Ballerinas can get any man.

I’d better frappe a té out of here, or some other very real ballet term.

Pad-a-thai,

Le June

How do

The other day, a friend of mine told an absolutely hilarious story about his mother, and then as soon as I was done drying my tears of mirth, he was all, “You can’t tell that on your blog.”

….!

If you ever wanna bug me, go ahead and tell me something fekking hilarious that I can’t use for material. No, go ahead.

But it lead me to today’s inspiration: It’s Tell Your Family Stories day.

I’m fairly certain we’ve done this before, because we’re coming up on the 11-year anniversary of my first blog post, so we’ve done everything before.

I’m not sure if it was tell family stories day or what the deal was when one of you told me my favorite story, though. Is this person still out there? The faithful reader, her mom and her sisters were all at the hospital. I think the faithful reader’s dad was ill.

The priest took the women in the family into the hallway of the hospital to pray, and they all knelt down, and why the hallway I do not know. The point is, once they all stood back up, mom may have had an issue. An issue with the gas.

And it wasn’t a silent issue, either.

In desperation, poor mom began twisting her patent-leather shoe this way and that, in the hopes they’d squeak.

“These darn shoes,” she said.

Oh my god, I love that story. That faithful reader’s probably gonna write in and say I can’t tell that story like my annoying friend. TOO LATE.

Anyway, what are yours?

I think I’ve told you before (see above. Eleven fucking years.) about my Aunt Kathy having an Important Phone Call with an Important Person. I think this was back in the days when she was very angry about a nuclear power plant, and it may have been a reporter or an attorney or some fancy figure like that.

Anyway, they were wrapping it up, which by the way is not Aunt Kathy’s strong suit, and she wanted to finish by acknowledging that they’d meet at 3 o’clock and then she’d say goodbye. A crisp, professional goodbye.

“Good o’clock,” said my Aunt Kathy.

I have another aunt who greeted someone fancy (maybe even a priest) with, “How do.”

So there it is. Thank heavens I am a paragon of dignity and nothing humiliating has ever happened to me. (If one person mentions that maxi pad in my back, I’m come snap your neck.)

Good o’clock,

June

I love things in my own way

Good gravy, I had that migraine all day yesterday. From the moment I woke up till I finally gave up and fell asleep at 9 p.m.

That second sentence was a clarification, in case you were unclear what I meant by “all day.” Me and my big words. Continue reading “I love things in my own way”

Swiss Miss

This makes Faithful Reader Paula quite tense, as opposed to her normally laid-back personality, but I have to hurry today, as I have an 8:20 appointment to get my stitches out from my grueling mole removal. June. Enticing readers with her medical procedures, since 2006. Continue reading “Swiss Miss”

You’re never too old for a fur ball.

I’m trying to think of what happened this weekend, but it’s such a haze, what with the heroin and all. Or, alternatively, 18 bottles of fizzy strawberry water.

672AC316-AC1D-4127-8448-592EFB9DDB72.jpg
I’m OBSESSED.

Continue reading “You’re never too old for a fur ball.”

Finding the silver cloud

Is there anything worse than someone insisting they have an old soul? I believe you misheard: You’re not an old soul, you’re an assholeContinue reading “Finding the silver cloud”

At 52, June finally plays with a full deck

“I have to blog,” I just told my mother. Not that I have a blog.

When I’m visiting her, I always emphasize how, if I’m writing, I don’t like to be interrupted. Ruins m’flow.

“I know you have you write, you’ve told me and told me,” she said from her perch in the living room. I have. I’ve tried to write all the other days she’s been here and as soon as I sit down, she’ll be all, “Where are your spoons?”

So, I said, “Okay, here I go. Really writing now.” I sat down. Stretched my claws. Poised over the keyboard.

“Did you feed Edsel?” Continue reading “At 52, June finally plays with a full deck”

Rare. In the bloody way, not the special way.

Do you think of yourself as normal? I have never once, for as long as I can remember, considered myself to be normal. And I'm glad of it, although I haven't always been. I doubt anyone else finds me normal, either.

There was one woman who was married to my friend, a woman who made it a real point to seem different, kind of like that What's Goin' On chick, you know who I mean? 4nb6

Like, the second you meet her, she's got so much "Look how weird I am" happening with her look that you can't help but think, Hey, bundle of insecurity, how's it going?

Four Non Blondes. That was the name of the What's Goin' On band. I can't tell you how delighted I am that they made "non" stand alone like that. Like the cheese. Standing alone.

The point of my story is my friend's wife–the Hey World, Look at Me wife–found me desperately boring. "Oh, a tattoo on your ankle. How original." Yes, if only I'd had the creativity to get that feminine neck tattoo, Grace Kelly doppelganger, over there.

Other than that bitch, no one finds me all that normal. I don't think. Maybe they do and I just think my insides show, like one of those refrigerators with glass doors.

This might be genetic, this thinking I'm a rare flower. My grandmother, the one I'm turning into–and let's just call a spade a spade and call her The One I've Turned Into already–went to a restaurant when she was a kid, and she ordered a steak, rare, because she thought it meant it was this precious piece of steak or something. That there was no other steak like it in the world. When this bloody hunk of meat appeared on her plate she about died.

I don't know how I got on this tangent, other than I met this man from New York on one of my dating sites, a man from New York who's moved here, and my first thought was why did some fancy New Yorker pick a gal from Michigan like me, who likes sparkles and Real Housewives, and then I remembered the whole not-seeming-normal thing, which is probably refreshing for a New York man surrounded by women with french pedicures, Beach Girl bumper stickers and monogrammed commuter mugs. That was a short sentence.

Not that I'm saying there's a romance brewing in a commuter mug, by the way. I have no idea yet. I was just more stuck on the New Yorker thing.

Did y'all have those York Steakhouses in your malls? Those all dark in there places? I think it had burgundy wallpaper. We did for awhile, and I remember it was delicious after a day of shopping for Lip Smackers and Andy Gibb 45s. Also, welcome to how my brain works. As if you didn't know already.

There's nothing like steak served cafeteria style. If there were a York Steakhouse, I'd march right over there at lunch today. Because ravenous. I did that damn high intensity workout again last night, with my tenant, fmr., and listen to this. We decided to go a little longer, like Big Red. "You want to try two minutes more?" I asked. Believe me, two more minutes feels like to kill you when you're at the end of that thing.

Nevertheless, we persisted.

IMG_5457
In other news, not that I've given you even one piece of news so far, I saw this photo on Facebook–I think Faithful Reader Paula put it up–and was stunned to find Midcentury June. Everything about this photo is Midcentury June. I want to know everything there is to know about this woman. I wonder if she's still alive! She could give Late Century June some advice, such as never, ever get a Boxer.

I love that picture so hard. The more you stare at it, the more shit you find to love.

I'd better get ready for work, as I am wont to do. I finished my latest freelance assignment, but another is coming next week. And I still need to write a Purple Clover this weekend. I can't seem to figure out how to start this particular column. It haunts me. I should probably just start writing and I'll be fine.

Also, I wrote an animal behaviorist about making an appointment for Edsel, and got a VERY snooty note back about how my vet needs to recommend said behaviorist, that I can't just make an appointment, who do I think I am with my generic ankle tattoo. But then I read that Prozac takes 4 weeks to kick in, and it's not been 4 weeks, so I decided to see if he seems better in a week or two. Poor sad Edsel. How many times are we gonna say that? In this life.

He doesn't seem sad right this minute. He's over here developing a real crush on m'toast. Edz can see reel fewchur with towst.

I'd better go, but oh! Last night I started streaming The People v OJ Simpson OH MY GOD, riveting. They didn't make Marcia Clark's hair bad enough, though. I know from bad hair.

I'll catch you later. Let's all meet up at York's, near the Sears entrance to the mall.

Dude looks like a Junie

IMG_4090
I made it all week on my remaining $10, and then payday came and hello mortgage, but still, we got Christmas bonuses this year and you guys donated $10 apiece to celebrate my 10 years of blogging (oh, did you know it was my anniversary of blogging? I never mention it), so I finally had cashola to Christmas shop.

Say, there was a sentence, sentence-maker. Also, thanks, y'all!

I really don't have many people to shop for. My cousin Katie and I have been exchanging good deeds each year in lieu of another shitty candle. She can totally afford to buy me things, and I totally can't, so she's being nice plus also she's that type of hippie who prefers doing good deeds to a gift. I can't get behind people who think that way.

So I did one deed for her and may do another to round it out. It'll be like I got her a shitty candle and also a shitty Christmas ornament. Hey, book club gifts.

That leaves my Aunt Mary and Uncle Stuart, my mother and stepfather, and my stepgrandmother, who always wants something perishable or usable, as she has had enough shitty candles for a lifetime. Lifetime, Shitty Candles for Women.

I hate being a woman. I mean, I don't, because I don't ever want to get drafted or be expected to spit or reign in my emotions. But I hate being a woman in this society. Every woman friend I have, all two of them, are outside the norm. One might even say we're a tad cold, in comparison to the hugging, saw-this-and-thought-of-you, gift-bagging, inspirational-card-giving regular women in the world who, you know, nurture.

Nurturing sucks.

Am I weird? Don't answer that. Also, please don't think about my un-nurturing grandmother who I'm turning into.

"If you're turning into her, why don't you just stop yourself?" Ned asked me in a conversation not long before our terrific breakup-and-a-cab-ride finale.

Yeah, that's easy.

I have been poised over the keyboard for a minute, here, stopping myself from further comment.

Moving on.

What I like about myself is I still haven't even made my first point, which is that I could finally afford to Christmas shop, so last night I started.

Last night I finished.

When my Aunt Mary was here visiting this fall, I took her shopping, as that is her joint, and she wanted to go in this kitchen store you'll be stunned to hear I've never even noticed. Oh my god that store was da bomb! All of a sudden I felt I needed teensy teapots and La Crouton or whatever they are products and knives, oh knives and also avocado pitters. Okay, I actually really could use one of those. I eat a lot of avocado.

Why so chubby?

So what I did was, I memorized the things she picked up and admired, and then I forgot them, and then I went back in there yesterday and remembered some of them and Dear Aunt Mary, don't read this post.

I saw some things for mom in there, and I really admired these blue-green coffee mugs, and I wanted to buy one for her and one for me, which is something my Aunt Kathy always does when she buys gifts, but I did not because $21 apiece for a goddamn mug.

Aunt Kathy had kids of her own. We've never exchanged Christmas gifts. But sometimes she sees things and thinks of me. Then thinks of her.

Mom had specific things she wanted for Christmas, and while I was searching, I met this nice woman from Europe who's just moved here and is cold. Cold cold cold. I could tell she was lonely, as she was the one who started talking, and after we were done it occurred to me I really should've slipped her my digits.

I didn't because I feared she might be nurturing. Then I'd be stuck with one of those women who send you little things all the time and tag you on Facebook with cutesy sayings and then I'd spend all my time wondering how to get out of this European debacle like I was America in 1776. Hand me my fife.

The point is, I got my shopping done in an hour, everyone bought for, and then I came home and took 7 hours to wrap everything, because cats are assholes and also because I have no skills. None. I can't wrap a simple box without it looking like I had it wrapped by the Nubs for Hands Society.

Then I put everything in boxes and today I will assault the guy in the mailroom who already hates me because when you guys send me gifts it comes to work. "Another reader gift," he'll say, floomping a package down. It's always, like, Edsel food or an anvil or something. It's never a gift of air.

The point is, I'm a dude. I mean, I'm a dude in every way with the shopping and not nurturing and explosive temper and dick. The only way I'm not a dude is I can't fix anything.

IMG_4096
This is for everyone who says, "Iris is faking it. She's not blind." She's faking it really well, then.

Look at S Dan, just plotting his next dick move back there.

So, another part of me being broke this month is that I was out of conditioner. I use this specific kind for curls, and it's expensive, so I washed my hair Sunday and then decided I could just deal with it till Thursday when I could get conditioner.

Yesterday when I was done shopping, I remembered the conditioner, so I went to Ulta, which as you can imagine wasn't crowded at all 10 days before Christmas. I was in the forever line, like stamps without the nice picture of Kwanzaa, behind this man with a cute paper shopping list. Like, what is this, 1972? He was crossing things off it, and I saw him glance back at me, and because you know how I am, I was all, I must be lookin' HOT.

IMG_4083

Then I got home and saw my no-conditioner hair. Holy god. He must have been hoping the authorities were on their way. My hair is an octopus.

Also, that nose. You guys. That nose. GODDAMMIT.

Okay, I gotta go. My hair is wet, because you'll be stunned to hear I decided I'd better do something with it.

Nurturingly,

Jooooon