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.
I went outside with Edsel just now, and it was such a cool breezy morning that I decided to take pictures. I realize that made no sense. Continue reading “It was so delicious I decided to listen to it.”
“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”
Yesterday was a harrowing workday, which resulted in my shoulders up right on my ears pretty much for 8 hours. When I was done with my GODDAMN DAY, I dearly wanted a drink. I never drink during the week now, part of my weight loss plan that’s resulted in precisely no weight loss. Continue reading “Mr. Greensboro”
My GERD medicine annoys me. Continue reading “WHAT.”
Last night, I finished a freelance project. This is good, as I had negative four dollars in checking yesterday, so. Continue reading “Oh good, cat pictures”
I hate podcasts.
I’m SORRY. I’m sure your sister’s really is magnificent. Continue reading “Lime-a-Ritas with Laura Ingalls Wilder”
I have a new thing that bugs me.
"WHAT? How can that be POSSIBLE, easygoing June!" [Leans into computer, rapt.]
When someone refers to any emotion being "at a cellular level." Oh, shut up. Yes, my cells know I got kicked out of Brownies when I was six, and they're still celling over it. Jesus Christ.
Disclaimer: I was da BOMB at Brownies. Everyone loved me. I was the best Brownie. Nobody was a better Brownie than me. Have you seen the video (veeedeo) of all the times Donald Trump says he's the best at something? I can't find it, but it's funny. You must trust me on this. Or do a better job Googling. Whichever.
I kind of wish that, when I was typing you in the morning, someone would just stand behind me and lift my bosoms for me. I realize they've invented an article of clothing that will do that, but in the morning I type you in whatever pajamas the cat hasn't eaten, and it's an issue. Do you think I could hire, like, a 16-year-old boy, a foreign exchange student or something?
And that was the day the police burst into June's house.
Plucky little on-her-6th-or-7th-life Iris and I went to the vet yesterday, to see what condition her condition was in. She's really very good in the car, as opposed to Lily, who once you put her in a carrier observes the following:
When the vet walked in, he was very somber. "How is Edsel?" he asked.
"The Prozac didn't seem to work, eh?" he went on, starting to examine Iris.
HE THOUGHT EDSEL WAS THE DOG ATTACKER!
Edsel! Attacking Iris!
I mean, okay, he eats puppies, but that doesn't make him some kind of monster. "No, no, no!" I said.
That's another thing that bugs me. It bugs me a lot, in fact. People who can't just say "no." They gotta say, "No no no no no no."
Anyway, "No, no, no," I said. "Edsel did not attack Iris! Oh my god, no! He's been so concerned about her! He loves the cats!"
And that is when I started overcompensating for Edsel, talking about what a wonderful brother he is, how he provides for our family and we have such good times when he's not in a fang-y rage.
"So, the Prozac is working for him?" the vet asked.
Anyway, Iris's potassium levels are back to normal. She had one count that was still high, but my girl has a whole lotta muscle and tissue damage and that's to be expected. While we were there, her pain medicine wore off, and she started the walking around growling thing that is both adorable and awful. I gave her more as soon as we got home.
The vet said while she's on her crappy antibiotic, that white liquid stuff that if you have a pet you've given your animal at some point, it'll make her not hungry. I'm still tempting her with Steely Dan kitten food
and she's willing to at least eat some of that. And speaking of how that cat should not even count as a kitten anymore, speaking of how the Pope should give me a dispensation and let me feed him regular food, when I was at the vet, I was smiling at the cat carrier, because it's one of those ancient hard plastic ones, as opposed to those cute collapsible ones you modern folk have now, and on top of it, in magic marker,
THIS MAGIC MARKER! So different and new!
in magic marker it reads "Ruby." It was the carrier we used to fly her from California to here. And then there's a laminated tag on the carrier that reads, "Henry" from when I took him to the emergency vet once. It's like a little history of my 9,000 cats.
I just remembered something. Yesterday was the anniversary of Ruby's death. Eight years. Okay, weird.
Anyway, for the first time, I noted an envelope taped to the carrier as well. It was Henry's papers from the time he was at the emergency vet, same reason he had the laminated card. The point is, while I was waiting yesterday I opened the envelope. Fully grown adult Henry weighed 7.5 pounds during that vet visit.
Steely Dan is 8 months old. He weighs more than 10 pounds.
Here's why! Last night I brought food in bed to poor convalescing Iris, who is staying in my room for now. She nibbled at it a bit, but eventually SD came in and, my, what a delightful visitor he is. "Oh! Food gone beggeeeng!"
Did your mother ever say that when something was still left? "Biscuits going begging!' "Potatoes going begging!"
My friend's mom did. Please see above list of things that bug me.
This picture absolutely kills me. I title it The Indifference of Youth. I also title it, For God's Sake, Get New Curtains, June.
In other news, I walked three miles yesterday. Because you're mine, I walk a mile. Wait. That's not how it goes. Anyway, at work, we have this little walk we do called Fuchs Loop, because Fuchs at work discovered it, and you get to walk past a lot of rich people's houses, and I had time to take that walk in the a.m. and the p.m. I'm like the convenience store. AM/PM June.
Then Edsel and I took our walk and then I went to the grocery store and I was all, man, I feel kind of tired. And right then I knew. I'd walked a lot yesterday.
Also, and here's where you start to feel bad for me. Not my hangdog cat or my insane dog. Not my sad bedroom curtains or my sagging bosoms. No. Here's why.
They were out of my flavor of La Croix.
"Did you find everything okay?" the chippie at the checkout counter asked me.
"You were out out Berry LaCroix," I said.
Okay, don't ASK me if you don't CARE, is what I say. Jesus. So then I got home and watched The Gilmore Girls and all I could think of was how a can of Berry LaCroix sure would be good right now.
I gotta go. I sent a letter to the rotten neighbors who refuse to call to say, "Sorry our dogs are maulers" and I included the receipts for both vet visits, coming to a grand total of $1,968.37. I feel like that letter will be received less willingly than a letter from, say, Publisher's Clearinghouse. I should have gone over there with the invoices and a few balloons.
Okay, June, out.
I hadn't had my eyebrows waxed since Wilford Brimley was a child, so I went to Elegant Nail & Tan, which I realize suggests all kinds of featured services that do not seem to include waxing, but you must trust me on this. While I was waiting, I got to know a woman sitting next to me. We talk talk talked and we're the same age and both single and finally we exchanged numbers and picking up women is super easy.
Why can't I get my eyebrowns, as they say, to look at good as they get them to look? It's completely worth the six dollars.
Other than that, I went to the grocery store and loaded myself up with frozen yogurt bars for the next two weeks, and because I try to get in plant-based foods, one of the boxes was strawberry flavor. The other bars were vanilla, and isn't the vanilla bean a plant? I think it is. So. Diet. Complete.
I have never seen a tanning bed at Elegant Nail & Tan. I'm not saying there isn't maybe one back there, but I've never seen it, and I've never heard anyone come in there and say, Yes, I'm here to tan? Maybe they need to rethink their moniker. Elegant-ish Nail & Old Magazines.
At my old seat at work, I looked at an Impressionist-ish painting of fall trees against a blue sky, and now I look at multiple Os. That picture of me on my bulletin board is from this time we had to take selfies for a client presentation, and one day the janitorial staff left a note that read, "Is this trash" on a box, and some jokester put that note on my selfie and an eternal joke was born.
I meant to Google why companies move you around a lot, like, what's the benefit to them, but I forgot. If anyone knows, I'd be curious. Some people at work are really traumatized over it, if they've been at their desks forever and so on.
Name that movie.
Anyway, other than that, I have a gigantic freelance job coming up starting tomorrow and going until next Friday. So if I up and disappear, it means I'm behind and I'm frantically working to get it all done. So be sure to pepper me with IMs and emails. WHERE ARE YOU, JOOOOOOOOOOOOOON? Are you dead, JOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON?
I have already gotten my delightful credi card debt down to the next number. So, like, if I were 11,000 thousand dollars in debt, which I'm not thank god, I'd be down to 10,oooo now. Yay. So I keep plugging away. Which doesn't help pay the bills at all. "June keeps unplugging and plugging her appliances, yet she still has debt."
Shouldn't Tallulah have to pay this? Someone wake her up.
Also, I've noticed that there are always cars now at my next-door neighbor Peg's. Sometimes just one extra, sometimes two. Someone's been rolling her trash can to the curb, as well. This worried me, so I called her, and she's never called me back. It's been, like, a week. I don't want to be all Gladys Kravitz and go over there, but I feel like something is definitely up. There has never been a time Peg hasn't called me back.
Maybe she has Noro virus. Hey, June, you ever gonna get over Peg giving you Noro virus?
What do you think?
All right, I have to go to work, try to find my new desk.
Your friend and mine,
Ned has to move. Did I tell you that? Our gaylord–well, HIS gaylord, is selling the place, a thing we distinctly asked him about in 2014 when we moved in, and he said he had no intention of selling.
Of course, I'm one to talk, having kicked out my poor tenant, fmr., after just one year.
Speaking of that whole debacle, since Ned has to move and all, it's thrown him into quite the tizzy. I know you don't KNOW Ned, but perhaps you've been able to glean that change is not something he embraces with glee. Also, decision-making. Not his strong suit.
"I'm going to go look at a house right now," Ned texted (text) me right at the end of the day.
"You want me to come with you?" I asked, knowing that was dumb.
"Yes," he said.
I knew he did. I knew that's why he was telling me. I knew he'd be thrown into panic at having to possibly make a decision, and that he needed someone to remind him of the home's good and bad points so he could obsess for 45 years. I also knew I had no business going to look at a house with Ned.
So I put the address in my phone and off I went. Because wise. Wise old owl. Wise old fat owl, according to some.
It was in his grandparents' neighborhood. They'd lived in a tree-lined part of town with a private trail and lake, which Ned remembers fishing and swimming in as a kid. "Oh, it'd be cool if you lived here. You could go to the same job your grandfather did (Ned works for a family business), live in his neighborhood. You'd be just like your grandfather, except, you know, with no wife or kids or commitment whatsoever."
Hey, passive. How's your aggressive?
There turned out to be a huge monkey mural in the living room, which if you ask me is a selling point, but Ned was not taken with the idea. The good news is he doesn't have to debate whether to take the house. "You want to go to dinner?" he asked, and who am I to turn down a free meal and all of you are shouting "JUST GO HOME, JUNE. YOU HAVE FINE CHEF BOY-AR-DEE PRODUCTS RIGHT AT HOME WHERE IT'S SAFE. JUNE."
So I got in the car and we headed to our Mexican restaurant. "Our," fmr.
It's one of those nondescript places, in a strip of stores, that's really good. TinaDoris and her spouse took us there in 2013 and we've gone ever since. It's the taquito place, Fay.
Ned and I went there one Sunday evening years ago, and I got mad at him–I forget why but I think it had to do with me feeling jealous of another woman because it almost always was–and we argued all the way to my house, where I got out of the car, stomped toward the house, then at the last minute turned around and hurled my leftover taquitos at his car.
Ned backed out of my driveway in a huff, then had to drive all over town to find an all-night car wash, because he could hardly pull up to work Monday with taquito car. The worst part of that story is the next day at lunch I said, "Ooooo, I have those leftover taq–no, I don't."
For some reason Fay loves this story. I guess she enjoys my rage and ridiculousness or something. She brings it up at every opp. I just said opp. Once after our endless breakup Ned called me, and I told Fay, and she asked all Stevie Wonder-ly, "Did he just call. To say. Taquito?"
Then she had a bust made of herself.
Anyway, there we went, Ned and I did, and you'll never guess what I ordered. "You'd better finish the whole thing right here," Ned said.
Careful readers will note not just Ned, of yore, but also the background of this photo. Because who's back there behind blue-shirted guy? Is it my tenant? FMR.? Of yore?
"What are YOU doing here?" I asked her, because of all the margarita joints in all the world, she had to come into mine, fmr. With my boyfriend, fmr. The relationship that ruined her life, fmr. The life she had in her cute little rental house, fmr.
If you were her and you saw me there with the person I broke up with, which as a result rendered her homeless, would you not have pressed my face into the deep fryer?
"It's National Margarita Day!" she announced. Thank god she's taken to drink.
"I'm here with Ned," I told her, because everyone has to know my everything. She and I have plans to do our dreadful workout tonight, which will not begin to burn off the margarita/taquito combo she and I had going, but it's a start.
The point is, I can't do anything clandestine in this town without getting caught. The only other thing I have to tell you is that I was complaining to Ned about how when I get up in the morning, Edsel, Steely Dan and one or both adult cats follow me into the bathroom. Steely Dan stands on my shoulder the whole time, like we're posing for a Very Special Olan Mills portrait.
"I'm surrounded by animals in that tiny bathroom," I kvetched. "I'm like St. Francis of A-piss-i."
Then I called Fay to get the name of her bust worker.