Current situation: My tight-fitting Laila Ali dryer bonnet is atop my head. I’ve got fresh coffee in my favorite mug (for local folk: It’s one of those really thick ones from The Green Bean) and I DID have a dog snout in my lap till just now, when I snapped at my computer.
Does your computer…BOUNCE things at you at the bottom of the screen? First of all, why does everything need updating ALL THE TIME on one’s computer? Surely these aren’t all necessary.
The other day, I finally acquiesced to the CONSTANT bouncing request to update something or other, and after having to shut everything down and wait, then click a bunch of shit to get back on again, once all that was done and I could commence using my computer again, do you know what it did?
It asked if I wanted it to check for updates. Something at the bottom of my screen BOUNCED at me to ask. So you know what I did? I said okay. After being unable to use my computer for 40 minutes so everything could update, I wanted the satisfaction of that damn bouncing thing saying, Sorry. I bounced for no reason. Sorry I’m Tigger.
But you know what happened instead? IT TOLD ME I NEEDED UPDATES.
I HAD JUST UPDATED IT JUST THEN THAT MOMENT.
So that’s why Edsel took his snout away just now. I just got all set up here at my desk when
went two, not one but two, things at the bottom of my screen.
“WHAT,” I snapped, and Edsel has left the lap of luxury. He fears my moods.
I guess in general, I hate being interrupted. I assume this has to do with my attention deficit problem, in that I have a deficit of attention. So once you pull me away from something, I get highly irritated because I know it’s going to be difficult for me to get back where I was. It’s, like, all I can do to stay focused in the first place and now you’re pulling me away to say, “How was your weekend?”
The open floor plan at work vexes me. Can you tell?
Anyway, so I’m back in the swing of everything, if you want to call this swinging. I got to work and had exactly what I like, actually. A ton of stuff due in a just-a-bit-scary-but-doable amount of time, no one rushing in to tell me to set that aside to tackle ANOTHER scary thing, and also there was free dessert from some meeting. So.
Then at night, I went to my old movie theater and saw Rear Window.
Isn’t this like the 20th time you’ve seen Rear Window at that theater, June?
Actually, no. The last time I had planned to go, with Ned, and at the last minute I had a crisis du jour and told him I had to cancel. An hour later, my crisis was averted, and I phoned Ned and he wasn’t there.
This was back in like year one or two, when I still liked Ned and I did not know the way of his people, such as he is a
about plans. He makes a plan, he sticks with said plan. So what did he do? He went to Rear Window without me.
Oooooo, I was mad. I guess I’d wanted him to stay home worried sick about my crisis. Or dash over and help. But instead he just went to the movie. Like in Family Circus, where the gramma does stuff but with the outline of deceased grandpa.
That was the day I Jack Ruby’d Ned.
I TORE down to the movie theater, and I WAITED outside till it was over, and oooooo, I was burning mad. I should have known then how Ned would be the whole relationship. June? I can take her or leave her. June is French dressing.
Anyway, once people started milling out of the theater, Ned said I BURST into the crowd like Jack Ruby, out of nowhere and full of rage.
I didn’t shoot him, though. I just scowled and complained.
I remember Ned calmed me down by saying, “Every time Grace Kelly was on the screen, I thought about you.” That line totally worked on me, and I am with you on the “Bitch, please” you’re uttering right now. What can I tell you? I was smitten.
Anyway, I saw it last night, the movie I mean, not Jack Ruby, and why is Grace Kelly so perfect? Why am I not her? Grace Kelly would never sit in the front seat of her car and eat Long John Silvers.
I have to go to work, and this new 8 a.m. start time is like to kill me. But before I do, I wanted to share with you this.
Did you ever see a TV show where the alarm goes off and the person shuts it off and immediately gets out of bed? Are there really people like that, or is it like TV gifts that are fully wrapped and you just take the top off ?
I used to think those Xs on the bottoms of Christmas trees were a fake TV thing, too, till I moved to LA and that’s how they give you a Christmas tree. Also, you haven’t experienced weird till the sun beats upon you while you’re getting a Christmas tree. With an X on the bottom.
Also, why do you guys let me do math? Why do you leave me alone with math problems?
Yesterday I said there were 108 lives in my house right now, and that I took forever to do that math. Today I woke up, by smacking the alarm and lying there forever like a normal not-in-LA person who has to cram her Christmas tree into an absurdly difficult Christmas tree stand, and figured out I did the math wrong.
Okay. Cats have nine lives.
I have three regularly scheduled cats.
Then I have a mom and seven kittens.
3 + 1 + 7 = 11.
9 lives x 11 cats is 99.
Right? But I said 108. And also, I kept thinking okay, there are 12 cats here (there aren’t) (I don’t think. Hell, if one slipped past the bouncer, who could blame me for not noticing at this point), so it’s 99 + 12.
But it wouldn’t be. It’s be 99 + 9.
Oh my god, hoooo care.
I have kittens.
Today at lunch I am going to scream down to the pet supply and get a bottle and mother’s milk. Like, from a cat, not from my own mother. I worry about this one, who is like a tenth of the size of her (his? her. Because tortoiseshell, right? They’re always girls?) siblings. Her name is Elizabeth–the youngest Walton. Look at her little mustache! It’s not so cute when I have one.
I tried to put all the other kittens in the carrier last night and give her alone with mom time, but she was so not into it. She wanted to wobble around and look at things teensily. Twirl her tiny mustache. And so on.
There’s a lot of competition for food. Not to be obsessed with LA today or anything, but it’s like trying to go to brunch in Santa Monica.
So that’s the update on foster kittens. The Foster Report®.
I wish I had some sort of…Foster Grant to cover the costs of this.
Really, you have sent tips, kitten tips, and that is magnificent of you. Thank you.
Lottie Blanco, m’coworker, brought me cans of kitten food, which I am feeding to the mom. They told me to feed kitten food to nursing cats. And it’ll be a matter of days before they all start eating that food.
I took down my tip jar ages ago, when I put UP that link to shop with Amazon. It seemed annoying to have both. Maybe my problem is I’m not ambitious.
Anyway, I still have a tip jar, it’s just not up. The link to send tips, just the tip, is still
But don’t leave a tip if you can’t afford it. I’m mentioning it now because a few times in the comments these past few days, people have wondered where the tip jar is, and that’s the answer. Maybe I should just put it the hell back up.
But we have other important details to discuss. Today we have:
Photos of my coworkers.
A rundown of the silent movie I saw last night.
And info on my high school boyfriend.
Oh, boy, June. Lemme get my coffee and we can get started. Even though you’ve already spoken for 626 words already.
Another poll. You know my boss, fmr., whose clothes we vote on when she gets her StitchFix? She’s come into a little money as of late, a little pin money. Some hat money. Oh my god June shut up.
…I just want you to know I can NEVER FIND where to add a poll to this blog, and I will not say the struggle is real but oh my hod. (Hod. What is WRONG with me? Oh my Hoda Kobe.)
Photos of my coworkers.
I have recently taken two coworker photos I’ve enjoyed. Here they are.
This coworker came over to show me her cat mug, because she thought I would enjoy it, and what I enjoyed were her pink earrings, pink shirt, pink lipstick AND her pink mug, all at once. So a photo was born.
My coworker Molly was excited about her new t-shirt, and I was taking photos of said shirt for her, but I like this blurry one best. Which is the story of my life.
Slivent. What the hell is wrong with me? Have we discussed yet?
Last night, my old movie theater showed the silent film Sunrise, which I knew nothing about, but I did see the sequel, Sunset.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Oh, June. Lemme get a tissue.
We have the original organ at my theater, from when it opened in 1927, and they have a guy come from Chapel Hill or somewhere to play it during the silent films. He’s really good. I mean, what do I know? But he adds to the suspense and so on with his playing.
Also, who knew this old movie would have me at the edge of my seat, barely able to concentrate on my peanut M&Ms?
There was one scene where some vamp-ish city folk, a word they kept capping in the subtitles, (“Come to the City.” “She was a fast City girl.” You know how lighthearted I am about things like this.) wanted to redo the hair of our country heroine, up there, and she had a fit and didn’t get her hair done. I was over there screaming, GET YOUR HAIR DONE, FOR GOD’S SAKE. I mean, silently. Because silent movie. Plus, peanut M&Ms in my mouth.
It really was a stupid hairdo. When she finally drowns at the end her hair looks way better.
Spoiler alert! You only had 91 years to see this movie, so I understand if your pressing schedule kept you from it.
I act like I didn’t just see it 12 hours ago.
High School Boyfriend
My high school swain, fmr., Cardinal, is in North Carolina, and we are getting together tonight. Naturally there’s something, like, dead in my house. There is this smell. I cannot figure it out. It’s not cat litter, although you’d think it was. The kittens don’t use a box yet, and I’m changing mom’s box twice a day and my OWN cats’ box twice a day.
I took out the trash and the recycling.
It’s driving me insane.
Anyway, this has become less about Cardinal and more about the dead thing that dwells under my house, but there it is.
I’ll talk to you tomorrow, when I hope to cover an equally dizzying array of the pressing topics of our time.
Shutting off the alarm and getting right out of bed. Also going to someone’s house to visit before work, like they do on TV shows and never anywhere else in life,
Why do people say that at the beginning of the month? Sarah Jessica Parker always does (she’s my Instagram friend), and because she does it, I think it’s cute, but all my life I have no idea why people say it.
But isn’t this literally a rabbit, rabbit month? Isn’t Easter this month? My calendar doesn’t tell me.
My mother got me this calendar for Christmas. It’s vintage pictures of dogs, which you’d think Edsel would rip up, given his love for other canines.
Guess who chews it instead.
Anyway, I love an Irish terrier. A friend in LA had two. They were adorable. So wiry! She rode horses, this friend did, and she’d take the Irish terriers to the stable with her, and they were thrilled.
I lived near there, and if you wanted to see my friend, you pretty much had to go to the stables. She once said they should just automatically deposit her paycheck to it.
The point is, I remember going there one night and sitting on the side, there, watching her ride under a full moon, with the hills of Burbank in the background. It’s such a cool memory. When did I go from being a peaceful person to a chaotic one?
Do you think Steely Dan ever laughs, or does he more sort of just smirk?
Speaking of how I need to get out more and stop thinking about my pets, I went to see all the live-action shorts last night. Not that bermudas and gyms were dancing about.
I saw the wrestling competition between madras and culottes!
Oh, can the jorts ever dance. Could you believe?
Speaking of how there’s something wrong with me because I hang around pets too much, I went to the movies last night to see the live-action shorts. Now I’m all set for the Oscars. I’ve seen all the bitches up in there, which is how they plan to announce them.
“And now, all the bitches up in are will be announced.”
The shorts were good, although all of them were incredibly depressing. The khakis pleated with me to nominate them, but I don’t know.
Really, though, when did “good” have to mean “earnestly depressing”? Can’t we just see a nice story in 20 minutes? This year’s crop included a school shooting in America, racism that lead to murder in the ’50s in the South, more murder in Somalia, and a deaf child whose parents suck ass.
These were not Richard Simmons’ cheerful ribbed shorts, man.
But now I can watch smugly, never thinking, “I wonder what this movie was about.”
Also, at work, they asked those of us who are into movies what we thought would win this year, and I don’t want to cockblock their surprise, so I won’t say which one I am, but they had us each reenact one of the movie posters of the best-picture nominees. Let’s just say I had to lie on the studio floor at work. In a dress.
I’d better go. I had some…trouble last night, in the stomach-al arena, and I wouldn’t go to work at all, but I’m in the middle of that huge project that I do at the end of every month that I launch into dramatically on the regular, and no one would be able to just pick it up and finish it, as I have my own method. So. I’ll go. I’ll hobble into work with my broken bone and queasiness, and no one will notice anyway because copy editor? Who cares?
Unless there’s a mistake. That’s how you know you’re good. When no one notices what you do. It’s odd, but it’s true.
I guess this post about seeing the shorts was short.
I could NOT fall asleep, so when the alarm went off this morning, I was exhausted and hit snooze 39493940 times. I went last night to the old theater to see Gold Rush, the Charlie Chaplin silent movie–and I guess ALL of his movies were silent movies and now I’m officially annoying.
Dear June: We need to review with you the date you became annoying. You seem to think that occurred today, when in fact our records show it began somewhere around July of 1965.
Oh, shut up.
Anyway, maybe it was all that live organ playing (when I gave my ticket to the volunteer, she said, “Have a lovely evening. Hope you enjoy the organ” and then I giggled like the 7th-grade little bitch I am), but man, was I ever awake at, you know, MIDNIGHT and then ONE and so on.
So I wasn’t gonna blog today, because I seriously have no time to be sitting here doing this like the 7th-grade little bitch I am, but I knew it was payday last night, which I guess would make it paynight, and just now I checked my checking (heee) and dear June, please see above re date you became annoying.
$547! When I checked my checking in my checkered pajamas while I lay next to a Czech after a rousing game of checkers, I saw my Amazon payment came, and it reflects what you guys bought through my Amazon link in December, and I received $547 today!
Oh my god, thank you. It all goes to paying my taxes, which, wooo! But still.
So that is why I stopped in today, despite making self late for work and making no sense because DID NOT SLEEP for some reason.
Someone gave me a brilliant tip re my Amazon link, and I will share it with you now. Let’s say you’re on your phone and you want to shop on Amazon, and you wish to do me a solid and get to Amazon via my link. The blue photo of seaglass is RIDICULOUS to find on one’s phone. I mean, it even annoys me.
But if you go to the Menu and then the “About” page at the top of my not blog, the link appears right there, and you don’t have to scroll scroll scroll like the 7th-grade little bitch that you are. So that’s what I use, now, when I want to get to my damn link.
Ima actually shower now, and attend work, as I am wont to do.
I leave you with this. The latest work of Steely Dan, and you know, I thought my robe was safe. He’d seemed disinterested in eating it, but I guess he had a change of heart. Well. “Heart.”
From a small-ish town in North Carolina with a loving cat and a hole in m’robe,
P.S. I almost forgot! Due to a pertinent work conversation that involved fairly pornographic paper art of cocker spaniels mating (don’t ask), what do you think is the dog breed of each decade? Like, cocker spaniels. So the 1970s.
Last night, my old movie theater showed To Kill a Mockingbird, and I got there fairly early in order to get my popcorn (dinner) and get a decent parking spot. Not necessarily in that order, and what I like about myself is my strong writing ability.
My spot in the balcony was secured. I have always sat in the same spot in the balcony there, and when Ned and I broke up, we made a deal that I’d get the balcony and he’d find another spot. Once, after FatGate 2016, I even sat on the main floor during It’s a Wonderful Life, just so I wouldn’t spot him accidentally.
But last night I went to my regular spot, and guess who showed up. I wasn’t even surprised. I knew he’d want to see that movie.
Anyway, that wasn’t the annoying part. The annoying part was these four women directly in front of us. Now, I know that when you women get together, you hen parties, you all like to talk. Excitedly. This is why I don’t generally hang around women. That and the fact that women always expect you to show up with a candle.
Women: Hey, let’s have lunch.
Me (reluctantly): Okay. (The other reason I’m not friends with many women is lunch. Why are they so into it?)
A week later…
Women: Hey! I’m here at lunch with just a little something I found for you. It’s a candle! With a cat on it! LOL!
Why? Why do we have to exchange gifts just because we’re getting together? It never dawns on me to get a gift for anyone unless they’re, you know, having a birthday party or dead.
Okay, it never dawns on me to get gifts for the dead, either.
Married. If they’re having a birthday party or if they’re registered somewhere because they’re getting married. Then it occurs to me to get a gift.
And I know it means they were thinking of me and they love me and wish to hug, and I should be flattered, but are they? Is that true? Or do they think, Oh fuck. Lunch is Tuesday. June’s so looking forward to lunch. I gotta get her ass a candle.
I mean, is it a pain in the ass obligation for these women, or do they truly go shopping and think of other people, which by the way is also something I never do. Ned once told me I’m the only girlfriend he ever had who has bought him zero clothing, and I’m the person he dated the longest time.
Why the hell should I buy him clothing? Am I his mom? Is he 7? Maybe I’m just a terrible person. Also, I’d like to say to the four women in real life that I’m friends with, I don’t mind lunch with you. Well, I do mind lunch. But not you.
But speaking of my terrible towel personality, last night, there was Ned with his beer and his popcorn, and he’s getting all settled in my spot–our spot, fmr.–and this gaggle of women, middle-aged women, is in front of us, and yes I know I’m a middle-aged woman.
What I like about myself are my short, concise sentences, and what a strong writer I am and oh, thanks for the candle.
Anyway, as soon as I sat behind these women, I noticed one of them was chattering. I mean, endlessly. And looking at her tiny cracked iPhone 3 or whatever embarrassing phone she had. She kept checking Facebook at the movie, and chattering to her friends, and I’m telling you she was physically unable to stop talking.
At this point, the organist was still playing (some 40s song that escapes me now, but which I know all the words to, so I was singing along and Ned was quietly howling like a dog, which by the way is exactly the same thing damn Marvin used to do when I sang. I HAVE A LOVELY VOICE) and the announcer person was still announcing (that always goes on too long), so I had some hopes this woman would
once the movie began.
But no. Oh, no. I wanted to shove her into a ham costume and knock her over in the woods.
Seriously, are people just unaware that you shouldn’t talk in the movies? There was an old couple in their row, who kept trying to sort of unobtrusively stare at her, so she’d get the hint, because it’s the South and other than Dick Whitman, who once turned around and told an old lady to be quiet and I just about died of shock, no one ever directly says anything here. Unless it’s racist. Bah.
Anyway, good movie, but once the lights went up, I saw Ned smirking at me.
“I hate those women,” I groused.
“I knew you did. I knew the whole time,” he said.
Meanwhile, Nancy is still not pooping in her box. He has three–three!!–different styles of boxes and litters now, and he’s taking her to the vet on Thursday.
For me, that’s the dealbreaker. A cat doesn’t use its litter box, it’s over for me. It makes me appreciate the asshole cats I have. And when I say “asshole,” I of course just mean Steely Dan.
Since the kittens got here, I’ve been sleeping in the spare bedroom, and I don’t know why I’m not shutting the door in there the way I did in the real bedroom, but the result is, just everyone’s sleeping with me. I got Edsel, with whom I always sleep, but now Iris and Lily, who are easy to sleep with.
And then it would appear that Steely Dan doesn’t so much sleep with me as he perches atop the headboard and stares down at me, like when Snoopy acts like a vulture.
I say this because at any point that I wake up, he is leering down at me with his shiny eyes of death. That is why I’ve come to the conclusion that that’s all he does. That he never actually curls up against me and purrs or anything. Like a cat that isn’t evil would.
I gotta go, but I keep forgetting to mention goat yoga to you, which I attended on Sunday.
It was at a very muddy farm, as it has rained here for like 412 days.
This did not stop the white people. No, sir. There musta been 50 people there, and also there had been goat yoga the day before, as well. It was sold out, that one was.
So that was fun, and totally worth it, and now I wish for a goat.
I gotta go, which I think I said 20 minutes ago. Ima check in on m’kittens, and get to work.
Wow, they’re getting so bi–HEY.
Your funny Valentine. If “funny” is a relative term,
Saturday was, like, perfect. Except there was no sex. But what’re you gonna do? I’m old. Those days are over. Now I’m depressed. Fuck Saturday. So to speak.
Anyway, when I woke up, it was warm-ish out. Like, in-the-’50s warmish. Which was lovely, considering I had been living inside a snow globe for the past three days. I’d been living in a window display of Santa’s wonderland. I was like Disner on Ice.
Disner is my old married name. That was only funny if you knew that.
So I woke up, and Dear June: We’re four paragraphs in and you’re not even out of bed yet.
It’s Throwback Monday here on the PieBook. It’s Moronic Life Choices Monday.
This photo is from Friday night, and DEAR JUNE NOW WE’RE GOING BACK IN TIME YOU ASSHOLE.
On Friday night, I met Ned, my ex, NedEx, for a drink because Friday was the anniversary of our first date. At that same place. On those same barstools. We’ve returned every year, except for last year when we weren’t speaking. I had a whiskey sour, same as I had on our first date, and Ned had a Glenlivet on the rocks, which he did not have on our first date but in the past six years he’s become a fancy president and probably has to do things like drink Glenlivet as part of his responsibilities.
Anyway, it was without incident. He had a cold. I don’t even think we hugged in the parking lot at the end.
You know what I don’t want any more of? Being distracted. The whole time I was with Ned, I was preoccupied with anxious thoughts. Is this guy gonna answer my initial Hello email on OK Cupid?
Is he going to ask me out?
Is he ever going to answer that last email I sent?
When am I gonna see him again?
Why isn’t he ready to be exclusive? I certainly am.
Why won’t he tell me he loves me?
Is he ever going to want to see me more than twice a week?
Is he ever going to want to move in with me?
And so on. The whole time.
Now? I mostly think, Should I get up and drive to the cupcake place? Like, that’s the most pressing thought I have. It’s so …relaxing.
By the way, I never do. The cupcake place is pretty much two minutes from my front door and the last time I went there was when my mother was in town in July. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, either. But I like the idea that it’s over there. Cupcakes are just a short drive away.
When I got home from my controversial drink, this was happening. Old Batsheba, here, was up to no good.
Anyway, I GOT UP on Saturday (Oh dear God, June) and it was warmish, so the pets and I played in the yard.
Wow. Look at all that frolicking. They play the way I did as a child. Stand there and wait till you can go back in and watch Bugs Bunny. Okay, so I didn’t capture much play. TRUST ME.
Also, I would like to heartily embrace my lawn guys for moving that chair just into a random spot in the yard like that. I’ve moved it back to its rightful place, to get snowed on in a tidy spot.
I headed out to eat lunch, because who is sick of Lean Cuisine, and when I did, I popped into this little boutique that I always walk past and never go into. It was cute, and two rooms large, and of course I was the only person in there, and
Dear People Who Own or Work at a Store:
Don’t follow the shopper. Don’t follow her and tell her all the specials you’re having. I guarantee you if the person is a bargain shopper, she’ll ask, or look at the signs. And that whole, “Oh, I just happen to be over here admiring our backless dresses at this rack” is fooling no one. Do I LOOK like a shoplifter?
Oh, god, maybe I do.
Anyway, this prompted me to shop in a million little stores Saturday, and I bought nothing, because please see last weekend’s shoe extravaganza. Still, it was fun to browse.
When did I become someone who “browses”? For reading glasses?
THE POINT IS, one of the places I wandered into is a lash place? Where they do tinting and extensions?
Dudes. I thought that was all they did. Turns out, they do Botox and micro-needling and all that bullshit I love to do to myself! And they’re as close as the cupcake place! And, AND, I asked about micro-needling, and they told me what it did, and then said, “That’s not something you really need.” So I trust them, as well.
Ima be Norm on Cheers at that place. Oh my god. Exciting.
Then I headed to the local pet supply place (okay, that was a funny blog post I just linked to. Say, June, up in yourself much?) to get Eds a new collar. His is getting mighty dingy, and who decided cloth collars were a stellar idea for dogs, who roll in red dirt and squirrel bits and so on?
At the pet place, they were having kitten rescue day, and the rescue thing appeared to be put on by a fraternity. I say this because the front of the store was teeming with fraternity boys behind a table. And it was an…African American fraternity. What I’m saying to you is I walked into young hot men of color holding kittens.
“Did you DIE and go to HEAVEN?” asked my mother, when I stampeded to call her.
“Well, we know heaven is out of the question,” I said, admiring young boys like the Elizabeth Smart perv I am.
I know it wasn’t Elizabeth Smart who married her student. What the hell was that woman’s name? She married that kid, and he had a Hawaiian-sounding name like Lava Hulu PooPoo or something. The only other name I can think of is Casey Anthony, and I know that’s wrong too.
Hell. The good news is, Lava Hulu PooPoo is an excellent cat name.
When I got home from my shopping extravaganza, there was a couple looking at Peg’s house, with the man in the couple’s dad along to do dad things like look in the crawl space. Do you know what my dad would never do?
I’d heard someone had bought that house, but maybe it fell through. I don’t know. The point is, they wanted to know things about the house and neighborhood, and just as I was assuring them the ‘hood was great, we all looked up.
Because this was happening.
When I’d pulled out of my driveway Saturday morning, I’d noticed how all the other roofs in my neighborhood were lovely; so perfectly snow-covered. Except mine. Mine was riddled with paw prints.
I’m surprised theirs weren’t, too. I’ve seen this cat on every roof on my side of the street thus far.
“If you move in, I hope you like cats,” I told the people.
“Well, we’ve got a Doberman,” they said, because apparently they are Shaft in 1972. “But he loves cats.”
That is exactly what Steely Dan needs: To leap onto Peg’s roof and have a Doberman smiling up at him. That’ll show him.
I was all set to stay in after that, and play with my app, have it tell me how much I look like a man, or Andy Gibb, when something on my phone popped up telling me about Ultherapy near me for 25% off.
I am not kidding. First of all, how creepy are our phones now. Secondly, you know I’ve been obsessed with saving that damn $3,000 ever since I came up with the idea to get Ultherapy. I called the number, and they had a free consultation that same day, at 5:00. So I left the house, put air in my tire (this is yet another thing I’ve learned to do while single. Change doorknobs, kill roaches, and now put air in m’tires. At this point I might as well become a welder) and screeched over there on my air-filled tires.
But you know what? Even though I’d save money at this new place? I didn’t trust them. It seemed like kind of a sales factory, whereas the other place had a nurse take me in and tell me details, and show me photos and so on, this place was all, “Come in. How you paying?”
So I demurred.
But THEN, I got home, and I got the mail. And for no reason I can think of other than they’re bored with my lack of activity, my credit card company sent me some of those goddamn checks. You know the checks I mean?
When I paid off all my cards this past summer, I gave them all to my mother, so I can’t use them. I saved only my vet credit card (Care Credit) just in case something happens, which it always does, to one of the pets.
But here was a regular card company, saying, “Use these checks for anything!”
Remember that time Jesus was up on that rock or whatever? He always seemed to be hanging out on some rock somewhere. I guess there wasn’t a lot of development yet. He was never hanging at Orange Julius Caesar or whatever.
Anyway, remember when he got tempted? That’s how I felt when I had those checks after I’d just been to the Ultherapy place. Mother of GOD, I could just use these checks!
Remember that time June compared herself to Jesus?
Anyway, if you’re asking WDJD (What Did June Do?), I ripped up said checks. Now I’m stuck with this haggard face till I save $3,000, so thanks a lot.
So that was my perfect Saturday. Sans sex.
On Sunday, I went to a French movie, and I was the only person in the theater, which is why I could take a picture of said movie. I know you’re stunned that the French folk were smoking. Right after, those French folk were fucking. No wonder they stay so thin. That’s all they ever do.
There are never any shower scenes.
After, I bought myself some SweetTart hearts at the Rite Aid, and ate so many that I scraped up the inside of my mouth. I feel like you never hear French women say this. These SweetTarts have [burst] no artificial flavors [burst].
After my daily tending to Edsel, which includes letting him stare at me 40 hours a day, I took a “How’s Your Anxiety?” quiz, which maybe he should take. To get the results, you had to give them your name and email address, which bugs the shit out of me. It’s the equivalent of a store clerk following you around.
A few hours later, I got this email…
Had totally forgotten I’d told them my name was Fuck You.
If you’ve read me for awhile, you’ll know that (a), that means work was called off, although we are expected to “work from home,” and I remember a really bad storm two years ago where I proofread a giant deck–giant–and just as I was finishing it, Iris stepped on my laptop and erased all the changes I had made.
And that is why Iris is mounted on my wall today.
(Also, a deck is a presentation. It is important to never call anything by its name.)
This, by the way, is how Ms. Iris has spent her snow day, aka all days. Her big-game-hunting seems to have dwindled, although to her credit, now when I see something dead on my doorstep–mice, a bird, a hobo–I just assume Steely Dan killed it. I also assume he, and not video, killed the radio star.
I don’t give poor Iris any credit anymore. However, see above. How can she kill things if she’s nodded out on the horse or whatever is going on with her and all cats who can’t seem to stay awake more than 20 minutes at a stretch.
Anyway, they warned us snow was coming, and when did weather get to be such an exact science? Remember in the old days and all the jokes about the weatherman being wrong? Now it’s all, “Snow will begin in your zip code at 4:49 a.m.”
But anyway, yes, they warned us it was coming, so I left work on time-ish and dashed on over to daycare to get my child.
Careful readers will note the ears in the window, and how did he KNOW it was me? It was 5:30 on a Tuesday; every motherfucker on god’s green was coming to get his or her dog, but old Ears up there…maybe that’s why. Maybe the ears tipped him off. He could hear my thoughts or whatever from Spain.
Anyway, my giant nose and I got him home and at some point I turned into a Rembrandt with that collar. I guess it’s a scarf. Still.
I made an enormous pot of pumpkin chili on Monday, because you know what a chef I am, and yes, I just linked to a recipe. Who even am I?
Anyway, I knew I was okay with food in case I had a long winter like Laura Ingalls Wilder. And also like Laura, in her hit book Little Movie at the Shopping Center, I had the dilemma: Should I go to the movies with The Poet as we’d planned, and risk opening the theater doors afterward to see that we lived in a snowglobe?
I sound like a movie trailer. In a world…
But because she is from Iowa and I am from Michigan, we decided to not be a couple of pussies, and we applied the same logic to the size of our popcorn. You’ll be stunned to hear we had some left over.
“Well, I didn’t know you’d eat five pieces and be done,” said The Poet, who apparently really is one of those “where does she put it all” kinds of people, because she gave that bucket the college try and she weighs about 72. Lithe, is what she is. And also currently full of popcorn.
Anyway we saw Lady Bird, and I will not bore you with the fact that we liked it, as everyone likes it, and I wish I could be rebellious and say, “Not enough titties” or whatever, but I cannot. As it was a sweet movie.
Then I got up today, as per usual, and kind of forgot it was supposed to have snown–yes, snown–and went about my normal business, such as navigating the Cat Calcutta that is my hallway first thing.
But I opened the blinds, and I was all, Oh, yay! I forgot that it was supposed to have snowded. Then I checked m’phone and Oh, yay! Work is canceled. Then I checked it further, and Oh, boo. We are expected to work anyway.
So I’m constantly checking my phone to see if work is streaming in, which really cockblocks my original plans of Bailey’s and hot chocolate all day.
So, as I was saying 47 paragraphs ago, if you’ve read me awhile, you’ll know snow means I don’t have to go to work and also winter frolic pictures will occur.
Meanwhile, back inside my ranch, and that joke never gets old, Steely Dan was torn between wanting to venture outside and being highly offended that something outside kept making his paws cold.
I was in the kitchen, doing dishes because hey, dishwasher that works, and Steely Dan kept opening the damn back door, going out, trying to walk on everything that wasn’t snowy, then coming back in getting bored and doing it all over again. I’d have snapped his neck had it not been sort of cute.
He also begged to go out the front, as if maybe it hadn’t snowed in the front yard.
I wonder how many people are waiting for (b). See first paragraph. Then remember whose not-blog you are reading.
A few things. A few matters. Some housekeeping. Don’t you fucking hate people who say that? Is there anything you want to read less about than someone’s “housekeeping matters”? I mean, other than how little you want to hear the “let me back up” details.
I didn’t get to go to my work Christmas party. I had to work, like I was Cinderella. And all the powers that be said to me,”You’d better not stay here and work. We’d better see you at that Christmas party.” But I knew, in my heart of hearts, that I really had to get this thing done or it wouldn’t get done on time. I have to work on it today, too.
Then the next day I felt very sad for self, looking at people’s Instagram shots of our very lovely party at the lovely country club.
Alo, regarding my windfall from our last conversation/poll, June did something responsible.
[I’ll give everyone a moment to gather him- or herself.] [Like there are any hims reading this.]
When I get paid on the 1st, I use that paycheck to cover utilities, credit cards (fmr., as the only credit card I have now is the vet one, which, hello, keeps having a balance and why? Why, one wonders), the car payment, bullshit like that.
And why do I have to pay for electricity AND gas? Aren’t they the same thing, practically? Annoying.
Then the 15th, I pay my mortgage. Technically it’s due on the 1st, but they give you a “grace period” of the 16th. Why not just say it’s due on the 16th, then? I don’t know.
Anyway, I refinanced m’car recently, and they charge me less if I let them do an automatic withdrawal, and they insist on doing that on the 15th. So for several sad months now, my car payment and my mortgage come out of the same paycheck, leaving me with about 11 dollars that pay period.
So because I was flush this time? I paid my mortgage AND all my regular bills, to get myself out of that cycle, and now the first of the month will be sort of sad, but the 15th will always be really good, so I can save
save some of that flush-15th money to tide me over for the billsy 1st.
God, June, tell us more. Tell us about a couple housekeeping matters.
Who sent me this? Weeks ago this was on my doorstep, with treats for the pets and so on, and it was lovely, but no note.
And who sent me this? Came with a note about being glad I had a cyst, but no signature.
Whoever you anonymous gift-givers are, thank you!!
And finally, last night I started my end-of-the-year video, and even though I have 28 more days of this year, I am presenting it to you now, because really, what is going to possibly happen that I’ll need to include it in my veeeedeo? Hmmm? What?
Every time there’s a picture of a table, it’s from yet another date I went on that proved unfruitful. If you wanna see it full screen, click on the video’s title, and it’ll take you to YouTube where you can choose “full screen” in the lower right.
This morning, I spilled coffee grounds all over yonder, WHICH DELIGHTED ME, and I was late getting Edsel’s food. I messed up his skedge. This discombobulated him, as did me saying thing like “skedge,” so he wandered around the cats’ dishes, a little lost, while he waited. Continue reading “Skedge”→
Because the first thing they teach you in kitten school is How to be a Pain in the Ass, my cats all want to go out in the morning, but they all want to go out at different times. Each one saunters to the door, and even if the back door is open and it’s just the screen door, the girl cats mew piteously till I open it. Continue reading “She ran callin’ fireflies”→
Yesterday I asked you for stuff to blog about at lunchtime, but then lunchtime neared and someone I freelance for said, "Can you do this really fast?" and I said, "$ure," and who's sick of my dollar signs for Ses? S's? Sszez?
So that ruined that lunch hour, and now I can't remember what all you wanted me to blog about anyway. Aren't you glad I asked?
I'm all settled into my new space at work, and I'm hoping maybe my new space will bring me luck, and my whole life will fall into place, and no longer will I be haunted by bad relationships, bad debt and poor meal choices. Or, I could just be working one floor up and everything will stay the same. How can you know? Behold action shots of my coworker Molly headed toward me, in our new space, to go for a walk.
I realize that every photo I take looking that way is going to be a little whatever that is. Sort of too light? I don't know. On the other side of me is the office of my boss, fmr., and that's it, so she'd better be interesting up in there, because I'll be shooting that way a lot.
I also realize the best part of life is the thinner slice, and it don't count for much.
Please, god, take Air Supply out of my head. I don't ask much. But I know I love you. And that may be all I need to learn.
This creature. If you wanted to know the secret to my incredible success as a blogger, which is like incredible success as a hoop-skirt maker, so antiquated is that idea, what I do is take photos during the day, and then load the ones I like to my desktop. Then when I'm writing, I look at them to see if they jog any memories about things I wanna tell you at all, but seeing as I don't jog…
Anyway, this photo reminded me of what a court jester this cat is. Catten. He's 8 months old now. I just saw someone on social media refer to her child as 25 months, and that is when I got in my car, drove to her state, and bludgeoned her clean in the head with my dick.
AND NO ONE WOULD BLAME ME.
Anyway, during my most productive lunch, which included Chef-Boy-Ar-Dee, and see above ref to my stupid life, I was heard a galumphing noise above me. "That goddamn cat is on the roof again," I thought, and at this point it's just a regular part of my day, and probably the neighbors are all, "That panther is on June's roof again." Or maybe at this point I'm just The Cat Lady. Maybe I've graduated to being neighborhood cat lady.
I tried to get him to come down, and he was all, Bitz, day just starteeng for Steelleee, so I left his ass up there. FINE, then, I said. You know how it goes when I do that.
As soon as I got home yesterday, he ran down the driveway and jumped in my car. The only other times he's been in my car was to go to the vet, so I've no idea why he just leaped in there like he knew it'd be a good time. But leap he did. I had to beg him to get out of there so I could go inside and revisit Chef-Boy-Ar-Dee. Why the Ar? Is that, like, a family name? "Yes-a! I-a come from-a long-a line of chefs named Ar! Enjoy-a my Beefaroni-a!"
That's kind of a Hitler mustache he's got going on, there. But I enjoy the jaunty angle of his hat. I wonder what the asterisk is for? Chef Boy-ar-dee, but were afraid to ask.
Hey, June, how about you try to make sense?
Speaking of homoerotic, the important news is that I went to the movies last night at my old theater, because of course Top Gun was playing. I'd never seen Top Gun, and before you get all, "Really?" just ask yourself, does June seem like the kind of person who schlepped out to the theater in 1984 and got herself a ticket to Top Gun?
So June schlepped to the theater in 2017 and got herself a ticket to Top Gun, and it probably cost more today than it did in 1984.
Turns out, Top Gun is a stupid movie, and Meg Ryan had herself some '80s hair, man, and also, I wish they could have played Highway to the Danger Zone maybe a little more often. No, really. And also, I didn't hear enough of Take My Breath Away.
They were all, Say, let's make a movie, spend 9 million dollars on airplane scenes, and select two songs to feature throughout.
Anyway, now I can say I've seen Top Gun. Also, I can say that they named the one pilot of color "Sundown," so. Go, 1984.
The further on the edge, the hotter the intensity,
P.S. I just heard a ruckus behind me and saw this out the door.
In case you've been on pins and also the needles re my sore throat, I seem to have rallied. Because I'm tough. But I'm fair.
Also, yesterday I started a new headache study, which I can tell you very little about, so you can ask all the goddamn questions you want, but I'm not gonna answer them, as I cannot. Not allowed. It will be for approximately 10 weeks, I think, and yesterday I had to go in there for the preliminary stuff, which included 94593939300303 questions on top of the 97,000 they already asked me over the phone.
Then? After the Qs and my vitals were taken? (STILL FAT. WHAT THE HELL.) (Says the woman who noted Brown Sugar Cinnamon Pop Tarts in the machine, but who had no cash other than a $5, so she went to the healthy vending machine, which takes five-dollar bills, bought something for a dollar, took the change and went to the UNhealthy vending machine, bought the Pop-Tarts and then ate both items. WHAT A MYSTERY.)
Anyway, after the Qs and my vitals, they had to do this pain threshold thing. I am not making this up. I forget the fancy term they used for it, but basically they inflicted pain on me ("How, June?" Sigh.) for AN HOUR and I had to tell them how much it hurt and so on.
I was really scared of that part. I mean, who wouldn't be? I kept picturing Wesley in the Pit of Despair (aka my head) or whatever it was called in Princess Bride, where he cries at the end.
So, I entered the room for the torture, and? It wasn't that bad.
I think I might have a high tolerance to pain. I know I don't SEEM like the type who would, but I think I do. The guy inFLICTing the pain wouldn't tell me if I had a high tolerance, but I noticed him watching me sometimes, like, seriously? Is she just, like, fine with this?
I might get this from my mother, who no matter what she has done, always says, "It didn't really hurt." She said that about CHILDBIRTH. "It didn't really hurt."
The place they're doing the headache study is the same place Dick Whitman works, and after I went to the coffee shop Dick Whitman always goes to, where I had a quiche (see above ref to fat) that Edsel just finished and a decaf latte, because I'm a laugh riot. What I'm saying to you is I was Dick Whitman for a day.
Dear Alexes and Everyone Else I Know Who Works in Winston-Salem: I did not know how I'd react to the torture portion of the thing, so I made no plans to get up with anyone and anyway you were all at work it was the middle of the day so get off my back.
Dear Everyone in W-S Who Still Won't Let It Drop: The rest of the study is on weeknights from 6–8, and then I have to drive all the way back to Greensboro after, so no. Let's NOT meet up after. I have a dog. A dog who never wants to go outside, but still.
Am I the least-sociable person you've never met?
The other exciting news is the receptionist gave me these flowers from her yard. She said they're all blooming early and they'll freeze this weekend, poor things, so she's bringing them in to enjoy them as much as she can.
I just heard that damn demon Steely Dan jump onto the roof. Goddammit. Hang on.
edz do not get why steelee go owtside when it perfectlee comfterbul in heer.
The good news is that if you call him, he's willing to jump right off and come inside. Be sure to ask me how he does it again. I DON'T KNOW. That cat is pure evil, y'all. But then when he's inside, he's all cuddly and on your lap and purring and acting sweet. Till he deceives you again.
Here's my tenant, fmr., forcing him into submission just the other night, when she stopped by to torture herself with interval training again. That's what they should have done at my study–just make me do interval training for an hour. Look at SD's fine expression. Soon he'll devise a way to disappear when he's being held, like Clarence when Burt the Cop had him in It's a Wonderful Life.
Speaking of old movies, last night I took my own self to my old theater, for a change, as they were showing Guess Who's Coming to Dinner. As you know (Big Book of June Events), my technique for avoiding Ned at the theater is to get there early, a thing he never does, and get a seat far from our usual seats in the balcony.
I got there at, like, quarter till last night, but Bohemian Rhapsody was playing on my radio, so I sat in my car to hear the rest of it, and as I was Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me, for meee, for meeeeeee!ing, I see a car pull in, and I was all, Is that…? Goddammit.
He pulled in right next to me. I still waited for my song to end, but he waited too. "I could've sung the rest of it for you. I know how it goes," said Ned. I reminded him that he's no Freddie Mercury. The good news is, Ned donated to the theater and therefore has a pass to get in, so it was Guess Who Got in For Free night for old June, here.
The event went without incident, and I love the idea that anyone could be upset that their daughter is marrying a famous elegant doctor from Yale because maybe he's more tan than you. Also, Katharine Hepburn was really very beautiful. ALSO, the maid in that movie is Weezy Jefferson. Also also, I can't THINK what that house in San Francisco would cost today. Like, at least three billion dollars.
I'd better go get ready for work, as I suddenly have an overwhelming amount to do there, and it might even interfere with me telling just everyone about the torture I endured yesterday, which I will not at all exaggerate for dramatic effect.
It was 4:00 in the morning, and I'd been half-awake already for whatever reason.
…did I just…did I just hear my name? I waited a second. Nothing. Maybe a cat moaned in a way that sounded like "June." As they do.
"Grrrrrrr," growled Edsel, quietly. His lifted his head from where it has been on my hip. My heart started to pound. Why is everything scarier in the middle of the night? You get diarrhea during the day, it's an inconvenience. You wake up with it, you feel all panicky. Which is what I was feeling then. It was a man's voice, sounded like an older white guy, no one I recognized.
I'd been plugging my phone into the computer at night and using my regular, old-fashioned alarm clock instead, but last night I just happened to bring my phone with me; it was right next to the bed. Should I call 9-1-1? Instead I crept out of bed like I was miming, and I really need to get over that line, minced to the doors and made sure they were locked. Then I decided to look carefully out the window.
I have 97 pair of glasses and I could not find one goddamn pair. Every pair I picked up in the dark were reading glasses, and any time I need reading glasses I can only find real glasses. Finally, yes! There were some real glasses.
First I tried to look through the peephole, and has that ever served you even once? That thing is useless. So then I mince mince minced to the window.
Was he saying June or Jude? And for everyone in the know, he was using my real name, and I'm changing all these stupid names to fit this blog. Is there even one person left out there who does not know my real name at this point? I am a mystery. I am Mona Lisa.
See. I was trying to look mysterious, but instead I look fairly deranged. Also, now that you've seen my picture, you know that I lived through this story and I just took all the tension out of it.
So there I was, at the window, peering through it so teensily, lifting the blind so subtly, that right then I knew. I'd turned into my other grandmother. She used to listen to the police radio, and then if anything was happening nearby, she'd race arthritically to the window and peer around the curtain, as if it were going to be happening right outside her living room.
Anyway, I saw nothing, but Edsel kept going with his low grrrr, so I knew the idiot was still out there. I couldn't tell, as quiet as it was outside, if he was in my yard or across the street. Then I heard a loud boom.
Oh my god. Was that a gunshot?
I called the police. I turned into my old neighbor Alicia (once I was done turning into Gramma). I called the police on his ass.
How often have you called 9-1-1 in your life? Because I feel like I call them inordinate amounts of time. "(Hey, June. 9-1-1. How's Steely Dan?")
I told them the sitch, and as I was telling it I heard that idiot guy again, and this time he was clearly not saying my name. And since he was still out there, I assumed he hadn't shot anyone. I had, however, looked at my phone when I heard the loud noise, in case the police needed to know right when it happened. Once, Nora Ephron was in her kitchen, and she heard a scream, and looked at the clock just in case, and it turns out it WAS a murder, and she was able to say, "I heard it at 1:37 p.m."
I was lying there actually trying to make myself go back to sleep when I heard a small dog yap-yap-yapping. I went back to my Gramma's School of Peering, and lifted one iota of the blind, and there were the police, talking to a man with a tiny dog. The police eventually drove off and the man walked away.
My theory is it was Buffalo Bill with Precious, which is only funny if you're obsessed with Silence of the Lambs as I am. Really, we should have a whole June Movie Film Festival, where we all rent my favorite films and come back to discuss them after. Oh my god I love that idea.
When Harry Met Sally
Silence of the Lambs
It's a Wonderful Life
And as a bonus, Say Anything
The point is, I have no idea why that idiot was shouting outside my neighbor's house, and I guess I never will. But it was a delightful way to be awake from 4:00 till 5:00 today.
There's a fine line between telling the truth as much as you can on a blog, which I try to do, and exposing someone else's story. Just because you choose to tell all your shit on a website (narcissistic disorder) doesn't mean everyone else in your life is signed on.
So yesterday I got on here and told you how–surprise!!!–my reuniting with Ned did not stick. And I told you a little about it, but then I went to work and felt like I had to take a Silkwood shower. As much as I'm not fond of Ned right now, I didn't feel good about exposing our terrible fight to the world.
So I took the post down. And I got on Pie on the Face (on Facebook) and talked to you about it. And remember, we decided to keep that discussion over there.
OVER THERE! OVER THERE! I DON'T KNOW THE RESTOFTHESONG! OVER THERE!
So, yeah. And the thing is, when we first decided to do 90 days, same as cash, I at first thought, "This is insane. I'm just prolonging my Ned agony. This'll never work." But then we spent all this time together, and it was great, and our vacation to the beach was perfect and I actually formed the thought, "Wow, this might really be okay this time."
Then boom. It didn't. So. But thanks for all your support on PieFace yesterday, y'all. For your support over there.
OVER THERE! OVER THERE! What the fuck. Is that song. OVER THERE!
We had our terrific ending on Friday night, Ned and I did, and I took a cab back to my house. A lovely man from West Africa drove me home, and I asked about his life, and why he prefers here to New York, which is where he first came when he got here. He was a very nice man who was probably delighted to be driving my crying ass home and has no excuse for not marrying me, which I suggested. He's probably already on his way back to any corner of Africa. Doesn't have to be west.
Because I have 21 dollars till payday, and I had an empty tank of gas, I spent the weekend watching cat fisticuffs and binging This Is Us. Am obsessed now, like the rest of you. Who's your favorite? Gotta be the boyfriend of Kate, right?
I also did my cards, and I don't mean I had sex with my cards. I opted for jaunty-as-fuck red birds on teal, as you do, and also what I call Christmas in Yer Fuckin' FACE.
IT'S CHRISTMAS, YO. Wait. Wait'll you see the envelopes. If you were here yesterday for my special one-hour collector's edition post, you already saw the envelope, but I imagine you are still reeling. Hang on to your hat.
I SAID CHRISTMAAAAAAS.
[grabs your lapel] DO YOU NOT KNOW THE DATE?
Anyway, I got halfway done, and now I hafta finish my cards tonight with a tasteful charcoal reindeer etching, the polar opposite of GET HAPPY birds and HEY! Santa!!, above. If your last name is A–L, you're all, okay, June. Be more frenetic. If you're an M–Z, you'll think wow, is June ever sedate this year.
I have a lotta people on my list, plus I feel compelled to write a personal note, because what's really the point of a card that's just all "Love, The Johnsons." Yeah, what about you, Johnsons? So I do stupid things like draw family portraits, and there's really no way to not make Edsel look like a rabbit. I guess his teeth are going the wrong way, aren't they? They should go up, not down. Why did I not pursue that career as a painter?
Anyway, considering my relationship is over AGAIN and I was desperately trying not to break into that $21, it was a good weekend. I finally had to charge gas yesterday, as my car has a convenient notification system that tells me how many miles I have to go on that particular tank of gas, and it was saying, "GRAB THE CAN, SISTER."
Then I went to the movies. I am sorry, but seeing It's a Wonderful Life at the old movie theater is my joint, and it was on, and fuck it. So I spent that $7 ($14 left), brought my own popcorn and a bottle of water (shhhh), and even though I got there half an hour early, the parking lot was full. Goddammit.
There was one asshole in a white truck taking up two spots. He was still in his truck, looking at his phone. People looking at their phones pisses me off way out of proportion to reality. I mean, they aren't beating a hobo. Anyway, I got out my car and tapped on his glass. He startled.
"May I pull in? The lot is full."
"I'm savin' this for my mother-in-law," he said.
Wow. Which is what I said. "Wow. Okay." Roooood.
So I had to go to a lot and pay $4 ($10 left), but it was worth it. I sat in the polar opposite place that Ned and I ever sit, and the place was packed, and I was the first person to run out of there like a little bitch, so if, indeed, he was there, I got away with it.
Anyway, tonight I celebrate my love for you and also finish my cards. Just two more nights of not spending my last $10! Can she do it? Will June make it till Thursday morning?
Oh, and Thursday morning, I'll finally show you my damn 10-year anniversary video, now that it's done and I spent forever on it and it's riddled with photos of Ned. I see on YouTube that 10 of you already looked at it, you delayed-gratification-what's-that motherfuckers. we so bore of that veeedeo
I will talk at you tomorrow, unless I starve to death, and also, you realize Mr. Potter is Donald Trump, right? It hit me during his "lazy rabble" speech. And when he grabbed Mary Hatch's vagina.
"Marvin's getting married this weekend," I told Ned, "I feel nothing."
"See? That, right there. That scares the SHIT outta me. What if one day, after all this, you feel nothing for me?" I knew Ned was pointing at me dramatically, even though we were on the phone. He's in Kansas. Kansas, he says, is the name of his star.
Kansas, he says, is the name.of.his.star.
When I get to work today, Ima act like Glinda all day. I'll smile benevolently at everyone with my wand and sing in a really trilly voice. "Noon-ish, she says is the time of her deadline! Noonish, she says, is the time of her deadline."
"June, what time is the meeting?"
"Two two, two!"
My favorite line in that whole movie is, "Toto, too!" We need to incorporate that into our conversations today.
Also, I totally need a pink dress like that. What sleeves?
Anyway. He's in Kansas, Ned is, "slap in the middle of nowhere," is how he actually described it. I never knew I'd date anyone who said, "slap in the middle," but there it is.
And anyway, if you ask me, and you did by default cause you're stuck reading this, the HEALTHY response to your ex-husband getting married should be a feeling of nothing. I mean, if I felt rage or jealousy or deep sadness about the person I divorced five years ago, that might be a bad sign, right? Instead I feel a vague, Oh, good for him. And I'm Facebook friends with his new wife, and she seems cool. So what's the big deal?
Yesterday I had to write about 80 social media posts at work, not as my hobby, so I went to my hiding place. I don't know how other people get their work done in the open floor plan–I'm the only person I know who the headphones don't work for. You know how headphones are the universal sign for Do Not Disturb? About 60 times a day, I get someone gesturing at me between me and the computer screen, and then I take them off and it's all, "So how you doing?"
Seriously, why does anyone want to talk to me? I'm the crabbiest person you know.
So I can't work that way. That is why I got a hiding place at work.
I sit in this doorway, near an emergency exit, and there's a long hallway before you get there, and no reason to go here unless there's a, you know, emergency. Sometimes squirrels and birds go by the door, which is always lovely. I consider this Second Desk.
This time of year it's what you might call sunny.
Oooo, that reminds me, I get my hair cut and colored tonight. What a relief. Not only is it secretly gray, but it's all scraggeldy. I never did go back to the racist hairdresser–imagine how off the chain she is now.
Speaking of now, I've been watching all of the Mary Tyler Moore show. It's funny that they'd have a show they called that, but the lead character is Mary Richards. Anyway, on that show, they keep suggesting they do interesting things to the news, like give their opinion and not be neutral, or have funny segments, and those suggestions are always seen to be so outlandish. Oh, we'd NEVER do that.
Also, Sue Ann Nivens. Oh my god, she's the best.
Okay, I gotta go. Now that we've discussed the pressing issues of our time and all. I gotta slap something on, grab my wand and smile benevolently.
I'm trying to think of anything of note that happened to me this weekend after The Hair Incident of Saturday, but mostly I had migraines on and off.
TAAA-DAAAA! Thanks, June. Thank god I'm here today. Took time out to visit yer ass.
Yesterday was finally a nice day, after 46 days and nights of rain, so Edsel and I took a long walk, and then practiced our non-expressions.
Then we practiced our "stuffed and mounted" look.
It really was an excellent day yesterday. The kind of fall day where it's still warm, but not remotely oppressive, and you think, "Do I need a coat?" because it's breezy, but then you don't. I had to get some work done yesterday, which sucked because who wants to think of work on a Sunday. Even God doesn't. Even God's all, screw that. I'm restin'. Sittin' on the sofa on a Sunday afternoon. Goin' to the candidate's debate.
But I also went to a very bad movie. It was called The Last Film Festival and even though Jacqueline Bissett is on it with her hoots, it was not worth it. Her hoots are still fabulous. Girlfriend must've had 'em lifted or whatever. They were divine.
The movie was not.
Also, I have to sneak my own popcorn into the movie now, as I am not allowed to eat movie popcorn on my migraine diet. Except the thing is, my popcorn that I make with Parmesan cheese and nutritional yeast is 48 times better than that block of salt they sell at the movies. Shoulda been doing that all along.
I remember one of my very first conversations with Ned was about what we eat at the movies, and he was big into his ice (he likes that choppy ice, what's it called? Where it's like little slivers that you can't avoid? I hate that kind of ice). Re popcorn, we were both strongly non-butter people.
But even without that disgusting butter, eating movie popcorn is like after you've made out with Lot's Wife.
How much have you missed my Lot's Wife humor?
I remember having this conversation with him and being excited that he was rich enough to get snacks at the movies. Marvin used to discourage me from snacks. "Why do we need popcorn?"
We're divorced now.
Did I ever tell you about when we went to the movies in LA, and the ticket taker greeted us from behind the counter? She was seated. "Oh, don't get up," Marvin said, really snotty-like.
We walked over there and she tore our tickets from our wheelchair.
You know that feeling where your blood turns to ice?
Anyway, in summation. BYOP is better than BYOP. Bring Your Own Popcorn/Buy Your Own Popcorn. Down with BYOP. Yeah, you know me.
In the meantime, I'm trying to find ways to keep the World's Most Rambunctious Kitten amused. He is the cat version of Lottie. I can't have a sedate pet. No one mention Stanley, a thing I regret EVERY DAY. Anyway, he likes bird and squirrel videos, SDSilverman does. He acts just how you WANT a cat to react to them. All my other cats have been bored and look around at everything else when I get these videos out. Not Steely Dan.
Also, no one wants to play with that spitty ball, Edsel. No one.
I'd better go. Did you watch the ridiculous presidential debate last night? When did we all stop being grownups?
Dignifiedly, in her smoking jacket and ascot,
P.S. After I'm done writing these posts, I always go over to my categories and pick some that apply. It just occurred to me that it's the same as hashtagging. God, I'm annoying.
…aaaaaand I just bit my canker sore. GODDAMMIT. I've been eating a lot of tomatoes, so naturally then I got a canker sore, and it won't go away, till finally I went to CVS after work yesterday because I COULDN'T STAND IT ANYMORE, and got this $12 medicine that's supposed to make it go away overnight, and now today here it still is plus I've bitten it while I'm eating the daily blueberry flax muffins.
Anyway, this weekend, I went to that one antiques store that I told you about before, Adelaide's, to just look at that white vanity again, and of course they were closed and Dear Businesses That Close on Sunday: Fuck you.
So to assuage my sad heart I went to a different store, where I saw a little vase that is the same pattern as my great-grandmother's china, which I have and is my most prized possession. "Oh my god!" I said, excited, then "Oh my god!" I said, crestfallen, because $68.
And then yesterday, Ned bought it for me. "Do you have a highligher?" he asked me last night over the phone, at like 8:30 p.m. He's studying for this thing at work. "I do. I have no idea why," I told him, and what would be really scary is if one of you knew why. "Jooon, don't you remember when you highlighted the world?" (Big Book of June Events) (BBoJE)
Anyway, he came over with this, the vase that looks like a labia, because I'd told him about it, and now I am much pleased. It's good to have a rich ex-boyfriend.
Those swans were also my great-grandmother's (mother to the grandmother I'm turning into), and the little bowls are her china pattern. The rosy plates are not, and I forgot where I got those but I like them and I realize I am a grandma in the '50s.
Also, I still have a kitten. He is the cat version of Lottie. Remember how Lottie was always always always a rambunctious dick?
Meet Steely Dan Silverman. Rambunctious replacement.
It's like when Alex P. Keaton liked Tracy, and then she left, and they replaced her with another smart, funny, pretty girl.
You know how I took that picture of the cats, above, all eating? SD is still over there eating. It's not even his food. He already had his canned kitten food, garnished by his dry Science Diet that he hates, and now he's onto Grownup Kitty Food For Adults Only Ex Ex Ex You Must Be 18 or Older to Enter.
Right near my hometown, there was an X-rated drive-in, which we were dying to go to. So a bunch of us got in Kevin W's car and drove there, with a bag of popcorn and inevitably some kind of teenage liquor such as sloe gin.
Have you ever, in your adult life, had sloe gin? What about Goldschlåger? It doesn't come up as often as you thought it would.
The point is, the ticket guy was all, "How old are you?"
"Eighteen," I told him, looking right at him, a practiced liar, and hello, mom.
"You?" he asked Donna.
"Oh, 18!" she said, having to be dramatic about it. Like, oh! I am so 18! You wouldn't even believe how 18 I am.
"What year were you born?" he asked Kevin W, throwing a monkey wrench into things.
"Nineteen sixty-fi–oh, shit," said Kevin.
One year. He couldn't have thought fast and taken one damn year off his birth year? ONE YEAR.
We took our popcorn and our Champale and drove home.
I did eventually get to that drive-in, and I recall one scene where the Cream of Wheat box came to life in this woman's kitchen, and instead of, say, panicking that you'd been making nutritious cereal one minute and a large fictional man with a chef's hat was in your kitchen the next, the star of our fine program enriched his farina, if you know which way my cereal steam is blowing.
Whatever hapless gent took my high school best friend Donna and me to said show was probably ruing the idea, because instead of some hot frizzy-haired three-way in his station wagon that he may have been hoping for (my high school best friend has EXACT-REPLICA JUNE HAIR), instead he got hours of Donna and me being in hysterics over the Cream of Wheat guy just appearing in your kitchen.
"Oh, hello! Love that bow tie. Where'd you get that? Hey, let me get naked and cream your wheat."
"Oh, I'm glad you're here. Poppin' Fresh left me six months ago and I've been so lonely."
I have no idea how I got on this tangent.
Anyway, I guess that's all my news, except it's finally autumnal here and you aren't Elvis in concert by 8 a.m., which is lovely. You aren't Whitney Houston face before you even roll into work.
Before I go, I'd like to just say that I know you were all pulling for me to get the Nobel Prize in physics and by now you must know I was passed over yet again. That does not mean there isn't a next year. One day, the world will see just what a physics pro I've become.
I gotta go. Juan Valdez just showed up in the kitchen. Well, helloooooo!
First of all, I answered most of your questions you had yesterday in the comments, and I'll go back after this and answer the rest. I had to work more than I thought I would yesterday, and was unable to post at lunch. The lunch I DID have was scarily interrupted by a "You coming to the meeting?" text about a meeting I wasn't alerted to on my alert-me thingy.
Remember when I just proofread all day? Oh, those heady days.
Also, I did something really, really stupid yesterday and now I have a major injury.
The day before yesterday, before I majorly injured myself, I was gonna interview a guy for our company newsletter, and I was waiting to take his photo as he walked through the doors and accidentally took this of myself. My hair has now faded enough that I just look like old Rusty Jones hair. Does anyone from the Midwest remember Rusty Jones?
I did still capture the guy as he walked through the doors. Look at that photojournalism. Oh, hey, D, you're in my blog today. Haiiii.
Anyway, so yesterday was a normal-ish day, in that I was busy for most of it and also that this one guy at work was going to get a kitten. Another person at work has a mom–I mean, we pretty much all do, it's the weirdest thing–and that mom lives next to some people whose cat had kittens. The mom asked if anyone at work would take a kitten and of course I was all I WILL!!!
I didn't, but my coworker did, and I can't remember if I already have a blog name for him or not.
It doesn't matter, though, because what does matter is KITTEN. That's the kitty, on top of this list of dumb names we all came up with. You can barely see my purple pen at the top suggesting Griff. I also later suggested Earl Grey.
This guy. Have I come up with a blog name for him yet? I know you've seen him before. After my major injury, I did not capture on film the arrival of the kitten, and this guy holding said kitten, and it was all the cutest thing and that kitty was so cute, although we still don't know what his kitty name is gonna be. Someone suggested Stoli, because he looks like a Russian Blue kitty, and I liked that one, myself. But let's stampede to my death-defying injury.
Oh, also, Dr. Claw. Love Dr. Claw.
Every day at 3:00, a bunch of us take a walk. It used to be around the building, twice, but then it occurred to us we're right next to a park, and there's a little trail with stairs that leads to said park, and we've only seen a snake on that trail twice, so we go that way, and walk this concrete path that leads to the end of the park, then back again. It takes about 17 minutes.
Yesterday I had on my cute gold MaryJanes, with the t-strap and the heels, and I love them, but I'd accidentally worn home my tennis shoes that I usually put on to do the walk. So I had no walking shoes, and I knew those high heels would kill me, but I really wanted to go on the walk because stress yesterday.
And that is when I decided to just walk in zero shoes.
As soon as I got to the BLISTERINGLY HOT, literally, parking lot of our building, I knew this might have been a mistake. But I did it, I walked the blacktop in August in the South, and then I walked over the wood chips and pine needles and snakes to the concrete path.
Eventually? I had to sit under a tree while Austin ran back and got my shoes. Then I had to hobble back to work on the heels I'd avoided. I'd given myself huge blisters on the bottoms of my feet, and now I can't really even walk. Oh, it's bad.
And for WEEKS–WEEKS!!–I'd been looking forward to last night's movie at my old theater I like to go to. They were showing Metropolis, which is a silent film set in "the future," and man did they ever get that right. It was just exactly like today, mostly the part where men where eye shadow and lipstick and open their eyes dramatically and claw their hands when anything noteworthy happens.
Who told actors to all do that back then? Calm down. Geez.
Anyway, they'd hired an organist to come and play the organ for the whole silent movie, and he was great, and I'd been dying to see all this. And because I am tough, I hobbled to it. In my fashionable tennis shoes. But look at June, dedicated to her cause.
Seriously, though, I feel like crap today. Also, I've had congestion and a terrible cough for days, and I'm assuming it's allergies, and now my feet are destroyed, and remember when Mary Richards won an award for her TV news show and she had a sprained ankle and a cold and her eyelash was falling off when she went to accept the award and she got up there and said, "I usually look so much better than this"? Remember that? That's how I feel now. Although let's face it. I don't really look any better than this, ever, anymore.
edz kind of theenkeng mom reep wat she so.
Oh shut up, Judge-y Edsel.
Talk to you later. Hey, maybe I'll walk on over. Or not.
Yesterday I had to go to a building downtown to attend an all-day meeting. This is the view from the balcony behind the building. Went out there to smoke my 'rette. Man, I was having a nicotine fit.
It was really cool there. They took this whole back area and made it pretty. They took a nothing day and suddenly made it all seem worthwhile. Well it's you, alley, and you should know it. Also, Dear Fay: I will never want that wagon wheel …wagon wheel. Love, June.
Inside were all my loving teammates, and we spent the whole day coming up with new ideas for what we work on, or as I'm sorry to tell you, "ideating." Every time I hear that non-word, my soul dies a little more.
Speaking of soul-killers, because I was gonna be downtown all day, I took Lottie to daycare, and so did the Alex Who Sits Next to Me, the one you helped get a dog a few months back. I mean, she took her OWN dog, not my dog, to daycare. On breaks? We'd whip open our laptops and look at them on the webcam?
They were friends! They hung out together all day! They'd never met before! It was so cute. Out of all the dog daycares in all the world (Greensboro), Alex had to take her dog to mine.
So that was adorable, plus also her dog is an adult and totally looks like Lottie of the Future, so Lot recognized her own kind. Sort of dog-ist–breed-ist–if you ask me. Lottie would build a wall to keep out anyone who didn't have a brown snout. But still.
After our day of "ideating," which was actually pretty fun, we all went two doors down to the brewery, because it was the Alex in the photo above's last day. I screamed over to daycare and got the Lot, and she joined me for, sadly, her fourth time at that pub in four months of life.
Lottie totally needs rehab.
She was pretty good, meeting people and buying them drinks and giving out her dog digits, till some asshole had the nerve to bring his dog in. God. Whoever heard of someone taking their dog to a pub? Lottie had been splayed on the floor asleep and she JUMPED up. BARWARWARWARWAR! BOOF! She's a big "boof"-er. That thing where you don't really open your dog lips all the way, you bark and poof out your cheeks. That. She does that.
Anyway, I got her distracted by upside-down margaritas and next thing you know she was flashing the room for beads, so. Crisis averted. look at lotee teetz!
When I got her home, she kicked off her shoes and was so exhausted she could barely eat. Then I got the brilliant idea to Yoko her and take Lottie/June shots. Because humane. Also, I really need to give up the ghost on those black flats. They are wore out from the floor out.
can lotEE pleeze go bak to sleep now? we stop beeng at olan millz?
do anywon no number for peeta? lotteee beeng waterborded
Finally I gave up for more dignified pursuits.
Oh my god, I give up.
So that's that. There was an Abbott and Costello movie last night at my old theater, but I was tired and I'd been downtown all day, anyway. Tonight's Beach Blanket Bingo, and I'll probably bing-go to that. Except you know what? Tonight's my Hollywood Medium, and I hate to miss him as soon as he airs. God, what a dilemma. How do I juggle it all? Annette's teetz or my little twink's talks with the dead? Goddammit.