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.

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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.

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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

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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.

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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.

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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

I really thought y’all were gonna write my name in

What I'm not going to do? Drone on about politics when half of you feel one way, half feel the opposite. Here I am, stuck in the middle with you.

What I am going to do? Make you hear about m'trip home so far. No photos yet cause it's a pain in the ass to search my phone, select photos, email them to myself, get on my email up on mom's laptop, drag the photos onto mom's desktop, then upload them here.

[Whole room dearly wishes I'd talk about politics.]

First of all, I almost missed my damn flight. I stupidly scheduled to leave out of Raleigh, an hour away, fairly early in the day. I gave myself lots of time, but still got stuck in traffic and was 15 miles from the airport with less than an hour till my flight.

If I'd had a theme song right then, it'd have been Mission Impossible. It'd have been Under Pressure.

So I called Delta Dawn to ask that what that flower was they had on while I drove, and of course it was all, "Press one for blah de bloo," which was impossible because I was driving and what companies could do to make everyone happier is hire humans to answer the phone right away. And also to not tell me that I need to pay attention to all the prompts because "our menu has recently changed."

YOUR FUCKING MENU HAS NOT RECENTLY FUCKING CHANGED. HOW STUPID DO YOU THINK WE ARE? YOU JUST WANT US TO GIVE UP AND NOT CALL YOU, DELTA STUPID AIRLINES. AND EVERYBODY ELSE.

Anyway, I kept screeching, "Representative," and finally that worked, and when I got a human I told her the story of how I've never missed a flight before, but I was stuck in traffic and now it's 50 minutes till my departure and I'm at a standstill three exits away.

"We recommend you get to the airport 90 minutes before your flight," she said, and that is when I shot her. But other than that she was helpful, and when I finally got there and drove 39439494 miles in a circle to park and schlepped my suitcase 70 miles and stood in line to check my bag and stood in line for the anal probe and got to the gate, the plane was boarding.

Then in Detroit I got off my plane and my next plane was in a different terminal

…and already boarding.

Mother of god.

Anyway, the good news was I left North Carolina at 9:38 and got to Saginaw at 1:30, ready to kill my own self.

"I brought you Quiznos," said my mother, who knew of my charming day so far. "I looked at the menu and ordered exactly the opposite of what I'd ever get." She handed me my steak and cheese.

She'd wanted me to go terrecktly to her book club with her right from the airport. My stepfather bought me the book they were reading; he was going to book club, too. I read the book (Let the Great World Spin–highly recommend. Don't get bored at first) but I was in no mood. No mood.

I went home and napped while they went to book club.

Then mom and all her hippie friends had an election night party, and you know how Mary Richards' parties always went? This doomed party was right up there with the time Lou Grant and his wife broke up at Mary's party. (The same party that Lars slept with SueAnn Nivens. Do you recall that? I hadn't. Guess who's been binging Mary Tyler Moore?)

I noted on Facebook that I was home, and I don't know why I do this, because 394858493 people from my past always do the, "Oh! You're in town! Why don't you drive 35 miles to my house and we'll catch up from that time we last saw each other in 1982!" thing.

I suppose I should be delighted that this happens, and that people don't say, "Oh my god, I hope June doesn't remember I live here," but it always puts me in this awkward position of, well, no. No, I really can't abandon my actual family and so on to hang out, seeing as I'm home about once a year and usually for around 72 hours and even then I probably won't see everyone who's blood. Because damn Catholics.

However, there was this woman I was good friends with in junior high who saw I was home. We worked the library together for fifth hour in 8th grade. Working in the library was an excellent way to get out of gym. Anyway, she saw I was home, and attending my mom's doomed pantsuit party, and could she come, and I was excited to see her so I said okay to the man.

That line is only funny to When Harry Met Sally fans.

She came? With Kurt Russell wine. "Kurt Russell is my Barry Gibb," she announced to the room at large, and right then they knew. She was my people. 

I was unable to resist doing the pain-in-the-ass practice of uploading a photo of my junior high friend and her Kurt Russell wine for your viewing pleasure, so while I was up I got some more photos for you.

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I mean, did you even know Kurt Russell made wine?

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Aunt Kathy, mom and me at Mom's pantsuit party, before it took a turn. Before it became less a pantsuit and more a prick suit. Andy Sipowitz used to say that on NYPD Blue when he was being crabby. "Sorry, didn't mean to put on my prick suit." I try to work that into conversations as often as I can. It's not easy.

Okay, you seriously have no idea what a pain that is, so no more photos till I get home.

My mother's phone rings all the time. Her home phone. Does your phone ring anymore? I mean, I'm assuming you don't have a home phone; I don't. Your cell phone, though. The only person who calls me, ever, is Ned. Back when we were dating in Round 1, he called every night we didn't see each other and we'd recap our day, and he does so once again in Round 2. But other than that? I mean, my aunts will call maybe once a month. My mother calls. And then I call her back, adding to her ringing phone.

There are also many people bounding in and out of here all day. My mother is way more social than I am. If people wandered in and out at my house I'd be all, WHAT.

I'd love to italicize that "what" to fully emphasize my crabby, like you need that further emphasized, but I can't highlight it and scroll up and hit ital. I am hampered, y'all.

Anyway, I've talked too long as it is, so I will recap more for you tomorrow. This will give you something to look forward to, sort of like Christmas Eve.

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Okay one more. Mom says we look like we're posing for a new Mt. Rushmore. Also, mom needs to give it up on the raised eyebrows look.

Surprisingly,

June

At one with the nail salon. And food.

No human has eaten more than I did today. People have won pie-eating contests and they consumed fewer calories than me.

I am home, in Saginaw, for what would have been my grandmother’s 100th birthday. We decided to celebrate it, and everybody came and it was a good time and also there was food.

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I got in yesterday afternoon, around 5:00, and as we were nearing the airport, we flew right over a pumpkin patch. It was very exciting. I saw all the orange round things in the ground, and right then I knew.

I demanded that we head straight to the manicure place, because of course I hadn’t known I was coming here till like Thursday or something, and I hadn’t had time to get m’brows waxed, and I didn’t want my whole extended family to be all, “When did we become related to Lloyd Bridges?”

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My mother, who is apparently two feet tall, and I went to the manicure place, and I am not sure if I’ve told you about my mother’s problem. When I lived in LA, I used to take her to the nail place in my neighborhood, and right next to it was a cute store that had things in it like clothes and jewelry and incense and soaps. You get my drift. I can no longer recall was it was called, and if anyone knows what that store used to be on Rowena, near Griffith Park, next to Nails Perfections–which I swear to god that’s what the nail place was called–I’d be much obliged.

Anyway, we’d get our nails done and head to the store, and EVERY TIME, EVERY.TIME. my mother would smear her manicure because she looked at something. I’d say to her, “Don’t fuck up your nails” and guess what she’d do.

Yesterday while she was STILL IN THE CHAIR, she fucked up her nails and had to have two fingers re-done. She is incapable of being still. I can be still. I am at one with the nail salon.

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Anyway it was good to be here with decent nails and brows, and to see Gus, my mother’s dog, who has managed to outlive Talulah, which is all he ever wanted anyway, as he attacked poor Talu when she was but a pup. And now Lu resides on my bookshelf, lookin’ ashy, and all is right in Gus’s world.

He was particularly enamored of my eyebrowns.

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My mother and my Aunt Kathy live two houses away, and the festivities were at my aunt’s house. I didn’t really commence eating till I got there. I had a green apple at my mother’s, and that was the last I saw of my healthy living. As soon as I got there I made coffee, and had a cinnamon roll my aunt had made, and then oh look! Cheese! And whaddaya know, guacamole! Ole! 

Those are my cousins, above, who you will note are much thinner than I am. I was the chubby cousin, and I can’t figure out why the stubborn pounds.

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Oh, look. More thin cousins. There was spaghetti and manicotti, and who was I to not take both? Oh, and bread. There was plenty of crusty bread, plus, hey, we can’t let the rest of the cinnamon rolls go to waste.

I took photos for y’all of all my Aunt Kathy’s bathrooms, which when it’s easier for me to upload photos I will do a whole Aunt Kathy’s Bathrooms tour for you. It’s number two on my list.

HAHAHAHAHA.

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Aunt Kathy has two dogs: this is Newbie. She has a brown eye and a blue eye, just like David Bowie. She was humping Iman the whole time we were there. Unnamed-6

This is my Uncle John. He is my aunt and mom’s older brother. He had his DNA done, as did my Aunt Kathy, and if anyone wonders what to get me for Christmas, I so want that Ancestry DNA test. Find out if I have a little black in me. #Goals.

Why don’t I just go ahead and date a man of color already. There was one man of color who asked me out this past year, and he was way cute, but he’s the one who didn’t think “That’s what SHE said” was funny “because I guess this academic just doesn’t see the humor in that stuff.”

So. Man of color who ISN’T a tool.

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Best Aunt Kathy and me photo, ever. I think I’m glad because someone’s pulling out more food.

Anyway, everyone stayed all afternoon, and we looked at old photos, and I got to hang with my OTHER cousin Katy, the non-lesbian one, who lives in Detroit.

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We’re the same age, and I used to go visit her at college, and no shenanigans were ever involved in those weekends. No, sir. Anyway even though years pass and we don’t see each other, once we do we find out we have all the same neuroses and medical issues, no matter where we are in life. Hashtag, Pee When We Sneeze.

Finally, everyone had to get back to their regularly scheduled dwellings in Detroit, and I ate everything so no one would have to clean up food, and now I’m back at my mother’s blogging to you. My plane leaves early tomorrow, so it was a whirlwind trip.

I leave you with photos of Aunt Kathy with Newbie and Uncle Bill with Roxie. I hope you hold on to your hat, but I loved those dogs.

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Talk to you later.

XO, Joon and her food

P.S. I didn’t even MENTION the deviled eggs.

P.P.S. I swear to you, my mother just came in here to ask if I wanted something to eat.