...friend/Ned · At Two With Nature · Food and Drink

June’s word is pink gold

I have the best possible news.

My smoothies came.

IMG_8941.jpgI forgot to look in the bathroom mirror this morning and rub my (new) lips like the girl in the commercial, but I did grab a smoothie out of the freezer the way she did. I ordered a bunch of flavors, but here are the ingredients in the one I grabbed:

  • Organic zucchini squash. Why can’t they just say “zucchini”?
  • Organic pumpkin seeds. Organic? Was that necessary?
  • Organic dates. That’s everyone my mom dated in the ’70s.
  • Avocado. Oh, apparently THAT doesn’t need to be organic.
  • ORGANIC coconut milk.
  • ORGANIC cacao powder. Why’re we going around saying “cacao” all of a sudden? It’s like we’re saying it wrong. It’s like we’re from another planet, trying to pass. yes would like hot cacao then take me to leader.
  • ORRRRGANIC coconut.
  • Or–guess what–ganic coconut oil. Sounds fattening. …Twenty-one grams of fat. Jesus.
  • ORRRRRRRRRGANIC pea protein. And yes, I still have no idea what pea protein is. Remember when I made Hulk eat hummus and he had 47 giggles over “chick pea”?
  • Everyone’s favorite, organic cocoa nibs. Would you like some cocoa? Oh, just a nib. How was your organic date with that dude? Well, he had a cocoa nib. …Oh.
  • And, finally, Himalayan pink sea salt. How obnoxious. Bitch, I’m from Saginaw. We get our salt from the girl in the raincoat.

I wish I could make it now, but I’m distinctly not hungry, as I ate a lot last night. I had dinner with Ned.

…Oh.

I remember when Ned and I broke up, which doesn’t narrow it down.

The big time. The time I moved out.

Anyway, when we broke up, I told him, “You know what I’ll never be? I’ll never be part of your harem of exes you keep as friends.”

Ned is friends with several people he dated. I mean, when I met him, he was 46 and never married, so you can imagine the posse of wimmin in his past. I’ve met a couple of his exes, and they were way cool. Lovely people. I would be friends with them in real life. But I wasn’t going to join them in being his pal.

IMG_8920Then guess what I did. I joined them. And yes, my lip IS starting to bruise.

Also, I enjoy this shot…

IMG_8921.jpg…as I look like some kind of villain.

Shut up.

Anyway, Ned-who-I-said-I’d-never-be-friends-with called me at 5:30 last night.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“I’m at work,” I said. “Where are YOU?”

“I’m leaving work.”

Leaving work! Ned! At 5:30! You have no idea how not like him that is.

“Do you want to have dinner?” he asked. I’ve been trying to get rid of my excess of strawberries, so for lunch I’d made a smoothie of strawberries, spinach, frozen blueberries and a little almond butter.

I

WAS

STARVING.

“Yes,” I said, and what I like about myself is I’m a woman of my word.

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He actually ordered something unhealthy!

So I had a french dip, which I can pretty much assure you no French woman would ever order. I also choked on my cranberry juice, and I choke on liquids constantly and I’m over it. I already did the thing where they went down my throat with a tube and there was nothing there SO WHY DO I KEEP CHOKING?

Anyway, I lived, and after dinner and a choke we strolled through the garden near the restaurant.

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Look! It’s a wild hydrant!
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Wow, June. What a fascinating shot of green stuff.
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There’s a dog park part of the park (good sentence) and DO YOU SEE THE PUPPY? He’s getting his neck bitted up.

Actually, I had trouble watching the puppy play with all those big dogs. Edsel has traumatized me. Thanks, Edsel.

“Ooo, take my picture behind the ‘K,’ I commanded Ned.

“K,” he said, because he’s a dissappointed texter.

IMG_8924.jpgAll I needed was the one photo, but you know how Ned is.

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IMG_8935.jpg

There are two kinds of people in the world: People who take one photo and people who think it’s funny to take 129239492 photos.

“You’re wasting film,” I tried.

Anyway, that’s why I’m not quite ready for a smoothie.

Now the weekend yawns before me, a holiday weekend at that, and other than preparing my white pants, I have no plans. I’m a bit tempted to do some sort of house project, like paint the bathroom. Or my bedroom. Ooooo. I could paint the spare bedroom like a pale rose color. I’ve been wanting to do that anyway.

If I paint one more thing pale blue or green Ima retch. Is pale rose too obnoxious?

I know I talked about moving, but now I’m not so sure. I like my little house, and it turns out any house out in the country costs MORE. Turns out they charge you for land. Why? It’s just grass you gotta mow.

Why can’t I meet some hot farmer? Some farmer with the delts?

I stole that line from Sex and the City.

Anyway, then I could just move myself and my 40 animals over to his pad. And maybe he’d have goaties. Or piglets. That he’d slaughter for bacon. Oh, a farm! How wonderful.

I had a dream last night that at my front door was a mom cat, a dad cat, and their kittens, which were newborn. They’d come to my house knowing it was a safe haven.

Note: I WOULD LOVE IF THAT REALLY HAPPENED.

img_8912.pngSpeaking of which, the woman who took Cora has her safely ensconced at home now. Look at her poor shavey tiddies. She had her operation, so no more kids for Cora. Seven is enough to fill our lives with love.

Is everyone waiting for me to mention spending our days like bright and shiny new dimes? What about the plate of homemade wishes on the kitchen windowsill?

I didn’t ask if she’s keeping that name, Cora’s mom, I mean. I think it’s a fitting name, but you’ll be stunned to hear it’s not my decision.

I’ll try to pop in here at some point over the weekend, to see if you’re watching the telethon.

…wait.

Don’t forget to be memorial.

LOFF,
Joob

Aging ungracefully · At Two With Nature · Food and Drink · Fuck natural

Weathered Vain

“Leaves no oily residue,” my eye-makeup remover reads. I just read that this morning while I was washing off the oily residue from my eye-makeup remover.

Just tell the truth. Jesus. “Removes your makeup pretty cheaply because it’s the drug store brand.” You know what I really like is that Clinique eye-makeup remover, but it’s too rich for my blood. Even though I got new lips yesterday like I could afford it.

Wait. What?

On Tuesday, I had a consultation at the same place that I get m’Botox and m’Juvederm. In case you’re local, I go to Barber Center and I see Robin.

You know I hate my lips, right? And I already have a Gor-Tex implant in the top one, from 1998, and lemme show you my lips, former.

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Al Gore-Tex

Okay. Here’s me and my blemish and my lips, fmr. I took this Monday. I’ve no idea why. I’m certain there was a reason at the time. …Oh, I remember. Self-obsession.

So I went to the consultation on Tuesday, and this Robin over there, man does she look good. Not fake cat-lady good, either. The point is, she said, “Thin lips are really hard to bring out. We can add bloo-dee-blah and see if that works, and on top of that, add bleee-dee-bleep-bloo if we wanna keep going.”

That all sounded good to me, but she’s so in demand that she wasn’t available to do it till August 29. “That’s fine,” I thought, and don’t you hate people who say, “I thought to myself”? Who the hell else do you think to?

Anyway, my theory was that’d give me time to save my pennies.

Then yesterday at work, the phone rang.

“Robin has had a cancellation. Do you want to come in today?”

I wonder if we’ve met. Hi, I’m June. I’m impulsive. How do you do? LET’S STREAK.

I mean, I could have said, “Oh, I’ll wait till August till I’ve saved my pennies.”

“I’m taking an early lunch!” I announced, and hightailed it right to the office of beauty and naturalness. The building of aging gracefully.

While I was waiting in the lobby, my old workplace called and up and offered me a job. I am not kidding you. It’s the place I worked at circa 2008–2009. I demurred. Then I went in and had my lips done did. Talk about your dramatic day.

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She don’t lie, she don’t lie, she don’t li-docaine.

This is what she used on me, and look at this bitch. If I had her regular lips, I’d be praising Jesus and all the saints.

“We’ll try Volbella,” Robin-who-looks-great said, (“Volbella.” Good lord.) “and if we want to keep going with other stuff, we can.”

First, I iced my lips, and I don’t mean I murdered them. Then she put this numbing cream on me, and maybe this process was the other way around. It was all a whirl. I woke up yesterday not knowing NEW LIPS were at hand.

IMG_8867.jpgHere’s me yesterday with the numbing gel, waiting for my million shots to the lips. SHOT TO THE LIPS, AND YOU’RE TO BLAME. Darlin’ you give aging a bad name.

I mean, I think you have to hand it to me that with all this last-minute-ness, I thought, Oh, shit, I’ll probably blog about this. I should take a fow-toe. So I did. And flattering lights in there? When the lights, shine down, on the biddy.

How much of that lidocaine you been takin’, honey?

Then she gave me the shots.

Mother of pearl.

Look. I get through Botox like it’s nothing. And I had Ultherapy and wanted to die (I think I’m beginning to see the results of that, by the way). This pain was somewhere in between.

Mostly, the fact that my lips were so numb freaked me out. It felt like they were 11 feet wide, and I worried, “Am I able to breathe? I can’t really feel my breathe parts.”

And then also, and I want you to brace your own self, but having needles poked right in your lips really hurts. But each shot included lidocaine (Take your silver spoon, dig your grave), so it got more numb as time went on.

Who here is hoping hard I keep referencing cocaine songs?

We used up the Volbella, and after some discussion, in which my lips did not actually move, we decided I’ll stay with just this for now, give it two weeks to settle in, and see if I want to add this other stuff on top of it.

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quack

So here they are now.

“It looks very natural,” my Aunt Kathy said, when of course I immediately texted her the results of my day of needles.

“Yeah, that’s the problem,” I wrote her back. “Natural is never my goal.”

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Lip, lack, love

So here’s before, with the flattering numbing cream, and after. I think I will probably go get more shit put in. Because last night Ned stopped by, which by the way, I pulled into my drive just as he did, because I had been out on a very important mission.

IMG_8900.jpgFaithful Reader and now Mother of One of My Foster Kittens LaUral sent me info on this: rosé vodka. You know in the cartoons where someone takes off in a hurry and there’s a little puff of smoke behind them?

“Hi. I’m a girl,” my new lips said to the indifferent woman at the liquor store. “I hear there’s a rosé vodka.”

She sighed and took me over there. To the vagina section of the liquor store. The only good thing that happened was this song came on:

and it turns out, we both love it, if you’ll forgive the pun. So we had us a little dance party in the vagina aisle.

Anyway, so Ned popped over, and I was all, “Oooo! I won’t say a thing, and we’ll see if he notices my new giant lips.”

He didn’t.

Oh, I was pursing them, and smiling with them even though they hurt. I was turning my head in every direction. That male, straight motherfucker.

Photo on 5-23-18 at 7.23 PM
wat rong wif U

Anyway, I can tell, but I will probably add to the lip sitch in a few weeks.

Oh, and yes to the rosé vodka! I tried it straight and it kind of tasted like rosé wine, but then I added it to my PowerAde Zero Fruit Punch flavor, and it was a dream. I hardly ever drink now, because I’m tryina be thin and also wine never fails to make my head hurt, so I think the last time I drank was that party back in early May. The good news is I have one drink and I’m all painting my body gold and singing Wild Irish Rosé.

Don’t give me any lip,
June

ADD is--oooo, shiny! · Aging ungracefully · Am British · Food and Drink · In the kitchen with June · My pets

Oh, you know. Just cats, The Simpsons, and blender-licking.

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You’d think Lily would bite his face off. But needy. Both of ’em.

Some nights, Edsel is just too much. With the flumping dramatically off the bed whenever I move a corpuscle. Then floomping back on a minute later. With the pressing his head on my neck as hard as he can, for pets. At 4 a.m.

So some nights I kick him out. Last night was one of those nights.

But I let Lily stay, which I rarely do, and last night I was reminded why.

Good lord. This cat has some sort of disorder. Some sort of friendliness disorder. You don’t get a cat so it’ll be friendly. You get a cat so it can lie sleekly across the room and glare at you.

“Yes, I’d like to return this cat? Yes, I do have my receipt, hang on. …Well, she’s too friendly. Something’s broken. She needs her bitch meter turned up.”

She constantly–CONSTANTLY!!–pushes her head into your hand. You have no idea how hard a cat can push her head into you till you’ve dealt with this one.

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fek yew

Actual, unretouched photo of Lily right this minute, making an elusive trip to the food bowl.

Meanwhile, in the back of my ranch, Edsel was left to his own devices. When I got up this morning, I saw he’d taken my robe to the couch and slept with it. So now I have to walk through this life knowing Edsel sobbed into my robe all night.

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fuk yew mean it

I just noticed that Lily has moved on to Iris’s dish.

And while nothing is more interesting than hearing about someone’s pets, let’s move on to talk about someone’s work. Wooo! Lemme get more coffee, June.

Busy, is what it was. I literally got 11 hours’ worth of work done in 8 yesterday, and also my blog post was published, the one I was kvetching about doing yesterday. So that was active. After work, I got my hair done because I was shooting moonbeams out my head and not in the good way. What roots?

I should just give up and go gray. If I didn’t dye my hair and didn’t get Botox, I’d save approximately 12 million dollars a month. But I’d look like hell and hate myself. But, see, I already look like hell and hate myself, just underneath “blonde” hair. I should just officially give up and embrace my inner old lady. Which is getting more and more to be my outer old lady.

One day I will look back at photos from this time and think, “I was so young!” That’s depressing.

You know, from age 12 on, I was under the misguided impression that beauty was just around the corner. That I’d just have to get through this one awkward stage and there it would be: my peak of looks. Except that never happened and I spent my whole life looking eh. Eh, she’s all right.

And now I’m on the downward spiral of age and it isn’t going to get better. Although do you watch the Real Housewives? How can you read this blog and not watch the Real Housewives, is what I wanna know. Anyway, Kyle looks particularly good this season, and not fake, either. So if I become a millionaire, maybe then I’ll start an upward spiral.

Speaking of which, I won a dollar playing instant lottery this week. Do you recall, in your Big Book of June Events, that on January 1 I won $100? And I was all, “It’s gonna be MY YEAR!”?

Turns out, it was really everyone’s year and not just mine.

Still, I hadn’t bought a lottery ticket since and the other day I had a dollar so I went to town on the machine at the grocery store and boom. Dollar. Clearly I am on some kind of streak. When I return to the grocery store–

and here is the part where my mother is shocked that two days have gone by since I last went. “Make a list, honey.” But really, what else have I got to do?

Anyway, next time I go to the store I will buy another lottery ticket with my last one, and this is how they get you hooked. Next thing you know, I’m Marge Simpson at the casino.Simpsons_05_10.jpgRemember when she got hooked on the gambling? What do you mean, you didn’t catch that episode in 29 years of that being a show? Is The Simpsons still on?

To be fair, I’ve never once watched an episode of Gunsmoke, which is the second-longest-running show after The Simpsons. But to be fairer, I was a zygote when that show started, and also, who wants to watch a Western?

There is nothing that will make me change a channel quicker than a Western. My grandmother was forever watching Westerns like they were good. Oh, look. A cactus. And a bar. And someone shooting someone. Say, is that an Indian?

HOW IS THAT INTERESTING?

Plus also, anything having to do with the courts or justice or law or murder mysteries. I just don’t care. I read some Agatha Christie when I was a kid because my Aunt Kathy loved then, and what I liked about them was her Britishness. I wanted to hear how she made a spot of tea. I didn’t care who lay prone in the drawing room.

So what I’m saying is, I have also never watched those Law and Onions or whatever they’re called. And those Murder, SUV or whatever. Of course, now I have no TV, so I watch nothing except binges of the Real Housewives, which is good because it’s reality, everyone. I only watch what’s real.

But truth be told, and pull up a chair cause I’m ’bout to tell you a shameful secret. Truth be told, those housewives shows are getting old. It’s the same thing over and over. Someone gets offended and then 8 episodes are devoted to the one woman saying. “We need to talk about how offended I was” and then they offend each other anew, or a new person gets mad, and really in the grand scheme, hoooo care. I just like to see when they pop into the plastic surgeon for a spot of collagen or when they show us how much they spent when they go shopping together. Whoever thought to always show us the cash register at the end is a brilliant person.

Also, Philip Roth died. Did you hear? I’ll bet he was a real fan of the Real Housewives.

All right, I gotta go. I realize this was a pressing post, but oh! My smoothies come today!

collection-smoothies

I don’t know how I got to be part of this demographic, but on Instagram I keep getting the same ad, where this hot young girl in her 20s lives in this million-dollar clearly NY apartment and she gets up every day and inexplicably rubs her lips in her bathroom mirror. “Every morning, I do what I gotta do,” she begins, and apparently that involves rubbing her lips. And she looks good doing it. I’d look like I had a nervous tic.

“Then I have one of my smoothies. It feels like I’m doing something naughty.”

See. That’s how hot 20-year-olds think. I’ll show you something naughty, you vanilla whippersnapper.

Anyway, then she gets this delicious-looking smoothie out her freezer, and she makes it in a fancy blender, and then

LICKS

HER

FANCY

BLENDER

and manages to look adorable doing it. Then she kisses her teensy shitty little dog and leaves.

June. Losing readers with shitty small dogs, since 2018. Just get a cat if you need such a purse-sized dog. See above about what a pleasure cats are.

The point is, I watched this ad until I became convinced that if I just got these smoothies, my life would be transfigured and I would be cute and hot and living in New York with a nervous dog the size of a button. Hashtag goals.

I hope that model isn’t real and that that’s not her real dog, cause then I would feel bad. I guess that shitty small dog is someone’s dog, right?

MY POINT is that I signed up to get these smoothies, and allegedly here is a referral link that means you get three free cups and I do, too. I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess you have to buy some, too. You’ll be stunned to hear I didn’t take time to read all about it.

I’ll report back to you on if they’re good. You can choose what kind of benefits you want and they adjust the ingredients accordingly. I chose beautifying, because I want to be 20 and a millionaire.

Delusionally,
Joon

Food and Drink · Health · I like cats · June's stupid life

Keto, day four. Am I thin yet?

Oooo, man, I did NOT feel well yesterday. They warn you of this when you do the damn keto diet, that you might get what they call the keto flu. It’s when your body is switching over. For some reason your body gets annoyed.

I had a bad headache, I was exhausted, and most important: nauseated as hell. Not barf naus; the other kind. But I had read about this so I drank stupid bone broth and took some Advil and, most important,

Saying “most important” is big with me today.

I drank something I’d never in a million years have dranken: Powerade Zero. I’d never have dranken it, and June please keep saying that, because I abhor diet sodas. I think there is nothing I hate more than the taste of diet soda. Diet sodas make me shiver like a kitten when its formula is too cold.

Perhaps I should use a more universal simile.

But Powerade Zero I purchased, as it has no sugar or carbohydrates in it, but it replaces your electrons or your electoral college or something, and

it

was

delicious.

I couldn’t believe how delicious. And most of the agony went away, although I could barely lift self off couch most of day.

But it did give me time to enjoy the following:

IMG_7912.jpgIMG_7876.jpgIMG_7925.jpgNow that the kittens are nearing six weeks, they can not only walk, which is better than I was doing yesterday and I’ve been alive 52 years, they can also run. I have toys in there for them, but most of the kittens also want to explore.

So when Steely Dan is out (Lily and Iris don’t care), I let one or a few out to explore. And since I was lying on the couch motionless yesterday (or dashing to the bathroom. That was my cardio), I got to observe Edsel the Kitten Prodigy.

If it’s a playful, curious kitten, he walks right up and sniffs it and lets it bat at him and so on. One of the kittens kept playing with his pointy old lady–looking feets, and Eds HATES his feet, his pointy old lady–looking feets, touched.

So every time the kitten would touch him, he’d do the gentlest jerk back with his foot, but he’d never leave. He’d just sit beleaguredly and jerk gently. So to speak.

But if it’s one of the more timid kittens, and I love how quickly they have teensy personalities, oh my god you should see him. He lies in the bed, unmoving, and follows the kitten with his eyes. His dog eyebrows move to and fro, and he stays as still as he can to not scare the kitten. Eventually, they all sniffed Eds and said, “o, dis dog totul wuss. thank bastet wee not puppees.”

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Thank Bastet. Just when I thought love for self could not grow deeper, I pull self back in.

Anyway, clearly this dog has found his calling. I can’t believe how good he is with them. And he’s so proud of his dog self.

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it edz calleeng

The other thing that happened yesterday, while I was here feeling horrific, was I went outside and sat listlessly on Peg’s Adirondack chair that she gave me. I was like what’s-her-name, in Beaches, when she’s near the end.

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Anyway, there I was, nearing the end in my yard, when Lily, LILY, of all people, came running

I’ll give you a moment to gather yourself.

Lily came running across the yard, which is like watching Totie Fields do the 100-yard dash, and the reason she was running was not because I’d left potatoes au gratin on the other side but because she was chasing a mouse.

I will give you another moment to gather yourself. You’re all over the place. Clean it up.

The poor mouse, who can’t have been high on the survival instinct spectrum, given that he decided, oh, this house with

ELEVEN CATS

is the yard I’m going to summer in. Anyway, this mouse ran across the yard, with old John Tuxedo Tabby Belushi chasing after him, and he dove into a clump of foliage.

This was about the time I got my Barbara Seagull Hershey ass off the Adirondack chair and got the camera. For some reason Ned can never remember the name of those chairs, and he calls them hurricane chairs and now I almost do, too. He also recently insisted Edward R. Murrow’s sign-off line was, “Be careful.” “He wasn’t on Hill Street Blues, Ned,” I told him.

But I digress. Because here:

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action shot

You’re gonna have to trust me that Lily was in that bush, and also so was a mouse. She was leaping and hopping on a moon shadow, and I don’t know what was taking her so long to just murder the damn thing.

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wat all the hullbaloo?

But then Edsel caught on that there was drama in the bush, which ought to be my epitaph, so he wandered over to help.

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Eds heer. you SO DED, mowse.

Eventually, I heard rustling in there that lead me to believe Lily got it. I didn’t dare go OVER there for fear it’d leap on me or something.

But then?

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dane to come home. heer it actually intristing heer.
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ware it be. steeeelee kill.
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got steelee mind on steeelee murder and steeelee murder on steelee mind
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Lily: goddammits. Why you let Steelee rooon?

But, given that SD quickly lost interest, I can only surmise mouse was taken care of already. By Lily. That or it escaped and is telling all its mouse friends about its dreadful afternoon.

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intrist wane.

So I got to see that unfold, like I’m a photographer in the wild. Like I work on Wild Kingdom or something.

Tonight, a coworker is having a party and I’ll be there with my delicious flavored water, and parTAY. The roof, the roof, the roof is, well, it’s just fine. Thank heavens, because who can afford a new one?

Then tomorrow I take Josie and the Pussycats, here, to the shelter for a checkup and their shots. It is just now dawning on me that I have to wrangle eight cats into a carrier. Hey, relaxing.

Maybe Edsel can help me wrangle. Maybe he’s like a kitten Border Collie. With his borderline personality.

Further reports as developments warrant,
June

Food and Drink · I am high-maintenance

Day One of Keto, Completed

The good news is I’ve already lost a pound and three ounces. I adore the naysayers who’re all, “It’s water weight!” I don’t care whose weight it is as long as it’s gone.

How I prepared
Before I shopped for keto groceries, I went on a quiz site that reported how many grams of fat, protein and carbs I should have in a day based on my current weight and age and so on. I am sad to tell you that I already know by heart that I should have 1,357 calories, with 20 g of carbs, 72 g of protein and 110 g of fats.

I know, right? It seems so counterintuitive.

Then I got on several sites for ideas for my shopping list. Mostly I looked up no-cook ideas, because you know how I am.

I took my list to the store, and it felt weird, even as bad as my regular diet is, to buy bacon and cream cheese and coconut oil. “I’ma die before Friday,” I thought.

How I’m keeping track of my fat intake
I’ve been using an app that already tells me at the end of each day the fat, carbs and protein I’ve eaten, and should I be irked at the word “carbs”? Why doesn’t it bug me the way “veggies” does? I guess it’s not as cute. Cute words bug me. Cute words are the emojis of language.

Anyway, I always always eat more carbs than anything else, even on days I think I didn’t. Even on days I’ve cheesed out. Still, it’ll tell me, “65% of calories from carbs!” Dammit.

My app is called MyDietCoach, but there’s also MyFitnessPal. Or in my case, MyFatnessPal.

I’ve been using MyDietCoach to record what I eat in the hopes of losing weight, which I have, if you count three fluctuating pounds in five weeks. You get new clothes for your avatar when you record your food or drink your water! I always fall for dressing up an avatar.

And mother of god they are the trampiest clothes. Maybe I’m just an old copy editor who likes a cardigan and some MaryJanes, but who goes out like this? Am I one of Prince’s protegees?

1bb22d335a75e19702999c025c6d8ca0
You drank your water today! Toot-toot, heyyyyy, beep beep!

My point is, armed with m’groceries and m’app, I began keto yesterday.

What my day was like
I had my bulletproof coffee in the morning, drinking it while I blogged at you all, then went into the kitten room, took their quilt outside and shook it, brought it back in and laid it down with seven kittens crawling under it, got clean bowls and mixed up their kitten gruel, washed the old bowls, swept the room, cleaned their litter boxes and made sure to pet each one so they wouldn’t grow up neurotic.

At work I did this all-day, really intense project I have to do every month. It requires extra super concentration, and while I wasn’t hungry, I did feel fairly foggy.

I had a stick of cheese, full-fat cheese, at around 11:00.

At lunch, I had this and then I cleaned litter boxes again, including the boxes of my own regularly scheduled adult cats, played with Edsel in the yard, played with the mom cat so she doesn’t die of boredom, and went back to work on my intense thing.

I took the 3:00 walk we always take, a bunch of us, in the park next door to the office. It’s maybe an 18-minute walk, and while once again I was not starved or anything, I was a tad sluggish during it even though I do that walk every day.

Also, I drank 29492492043 glasses of water yesterday, including cans of LaCroix, because you’re allowed to drink those.

I peed 900 times yesterday.

After work, I went to the grocery store because I wanted to buy ingredients for fat bombs, a thing I’d just learned about. There are a lot of links in today’s post. I’m L!nk. I’mmm coming out, so you better get this keto party started.

I suppose P!nk has had other songs since that one in 2001. Right? I’ve been very busy.

For dinner, I had grass-fed beef, because who doesn’t want to eat grass, and broccoli with butter on it, some pecans and one of my fat bombs for dessert.

I did not feel hungry last night.

I walked Edsel for 25 minutes, and that, my friends, is when I hit a wall.

When I was doing marathon training, they’d talk about a wall and I never knew what they meant. But man, I was drained last night. I did one more clean/feed/pet with the kittens, and I think I was in bed by 9:30. They warn you of this, so I wasn’t surprised.

Yesterday, I had 108 grams of fat, 68 grams of protein and 22 grams of carbohydrates.

How I did
I was supposed to have 110 grams of fat, 72 grams of protein and 20 grams of carbohydrates. So not that far off.

I was supposed to have 1,357 calories, and I consumed 1,316. I also burned a big 141 calories with my two walks. Depressing.

And then today I weighed myself and actually weighed less, so I cannot complain. My weight fluctuates, let’s say between 115 and 120 (HAHAHAHAHA) all the time, and yesterday I weighed “114,” which is to say I’m at a number I almost never am, on day one. So, yay.

And that, everyone, is how day one of keto went, and I promise I won’t write this much about keto ever again. Or, you know, very often, anyway.

Slightly,
June

 

 

 

 

Busy busy busy busy. Thank heavens for Angie's List. · Food and Drink · I like cats

Keto My Heart

Because I don’t have enough going on, today I’m starting the keto diet.

You know it’s a good sign when you don’t get to the grocery store to BUY your keto food till 9 p.m. Which is what I did yesterday. Look, I have a lot of kittening and catting and dog-walking to do after work.

I guess now is a good time to throw in the obligatory kitten pictures. Yesterday afternoon, when I got home from work, which haven’t I said that like 14 times now? Okay, June, we understand you came home from work.

So I got home from work, heh, and when I opened the kitten-room door, all seven kittens were using the three litter boxes. They were having a little litter box party. As you do. Tonight we’re gonna potty like it’s 1999.

You’re welcome.

They’re so much more adept at the box than those last four kittens, and for that? I am grateful.

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i yewse da box

What cat fur on my black pants? Say, June, here’s an idea… How ’bout you ixnay the black ants-pay?

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we frowneee
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RUNT!

IMG_7768.jpgI had trouble getting a photo of her actually sitting still. I’ve already washed that blanket once, I shook it out 394934043 times, and I’m washing it right now as we speak.

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cleen crums, fostir mama. it dispiccccible in heer.

While I was sitting here selecting from the 294839403 kitten photos I took yesterday, I also made my keto coffee, which consists of regularly scheduled coffee (use a french press! they say. fuck off! I say.) with some coconut oil blended in it. It’s kind of delicious but makes my throat hurt. Why does it make my throat hurt?

…I just Google fuckinged it, and it happens to other people, too, though no one can say why. Thanks, world. Helpful.

IMG_7759.jpgHah! I forgot I had this one. Runty is very screechy, and I love her so bad.

That delightfully clean blanket just stopped washing, so I’d better get it in the dryer so they can have it back and soil it as soon as possible, and then I’d better get to work. Then you know what I’ll do?

I’ll come home from work.

I know this was a short and shortie post, but I’m doing a lot. I’m doing it all. I’m every woman, it’s all in me.

And by all, I mean a fat layer.

Talk to you tomorrow, when I will give a full First Day of Keto Report, which I am certain places you at the edge of your seat.

I will leave you with this final, petty annoyance, which should really be the slogan of this non-blog. I was watching Parenthood the other night and got annoyed by how DAMN MANY producers there are on the show. The credits were distracting, there were so many.

Watch and grow annoyed with me, won’t you? Also, why do they think people talking at the same time is fun to sit through?

Annoyedly,
Joop

Keptly,
Goddammit…Autocorrect ruins my life.

KETOLY,
Joom

Food and Drink · Friends · June's stupid life

June Doles Out the Special Banana Post

Were you worried I’d slip and forget the banana story? Did you think I’d peel out of work Friday and forget you? That I’d split and forget about the banana?

What a fruity idea.

June’s readers. Finding June unapPEELing since 2018.

IMG_6300.jpgAs you know, from your Enormous Banana of June Events, my ridik coworker Camilo–whom I’m certain I’ve blog-named in the past but who can remember what I called him. I must be low on potassium.

Anyway, Camilo, my coworker, mashed in from New York all flambé about some shit he learned about bananas. “You guys wouldn’t BELIEVE it,” he said. Look, he’s still green. Banana things excite him.

I don’t know where this news stemmed, but he had something thrilling he learned that was banana-related, and he needed an ACTUAL banana to show us.

No matter how you sliced it, he was making this a huge deal. So after he’d plantain-ed the seed, we were all into learning what the news was. I set up an actual meeting on everyone’s calendar, in an actual meeting room, and every chichita in the place gathered to see what was up.

You could say we were a banana republic.

Dear June:
You’re fired.
Love, All readers everywhere.

So without so much as a yellow, he showed the BUNCH of us the banana.

IMG_6305.jpg“Is it the thing where you peel it from the bottom,” an unenthused coworker, who had a deadline, asked. Clearly she had not been on the banana boat earlier, when he’d already assured us it was WAY BEYOND the old opening-it-from-the-bottom trick.

IMG_6309.jpg“You know how sometimes you have a banana, and you want to share it with others?” he asked.

No. No I don’t. But I’m an only child.

IMG_6310.jpg“Watch this,” he said, about to serve us a banana shakeup. Camilo stuck his thumb in the top of the banana, and pressed down.

Voila. Or, waa-laa, if you want to be …rotten.

IMG_6311.jpgTurns out, if you press the top of a peeled banana, it automatically divides into three sections. “It’s like it’s MADE to be shared,” he said. He wasn’t monkeying around. He handed banana sections to the whole bunch of us.

I know I already used “bunch.” Why don’t you try to think up this many melon-farming banana puns?

So. There it is. I don’t know what kind of bread you can make from this info, but now you have a party trick that’s…bananas.

Daylight come and me wanna go home,
June

P.S. Tuuuuuune in Sunday for “the grid.” I have a migraine. Too many banana daiquiris last night.

Family · Food and Drink

Marshmallow Stars

I’ve been thinking about the shit I ate when I was a kid. Not at home, since if one is at my mother’s, the conversation goes like this:

Me: I’m hungry.
Mom: Eat an apple.

Has there ever been a more depressing answer in the history of time beyond, “Eat an apple”?

Perhaps:

Me: I’m hungry.
Mom: Eat an apple. Also, an anvil is about to crash onto your head.

But I can’t be sure. The latter might be preferable.

I detest apples. Which, by the way, every time I say this to my mother, she says, “No, you don’t” as if I have no concept of what I do or don’t like. Or she expresses surprise, as if I used to be Johnny Appleseed.

I have always hated apples.

The only apple I can stomach is a Granny Smith, and by the way, whoever came up with that name really went to town. Are the green apples in the Witness Protection Program? Granny Smith. Why not Granny Schwinkendorf? Granny Rose Blossom? Granny Horkheimer?

Mild cheddar was the only other readily available snack at my mother’s house, the only other thing that you didn’t have to heat up the oven and get the mixer out to have. It was your only choice beyond the mealy-mouthed red apple.

Mild cheddar. The Melanie Hamilton of cheese.

It’s no wonder I was so thin in my youth. Sally Struthers should have been standing tearfully in front of our house, begging someone to send me some sharp white cheddar.

So, no. I’m talking about the sugar mecca that was gramma’s. If she saw a commercial for something bad for you, you didn’t even have to ask. She’d stampede for it. I remember when I was older, and my cousin Katie the Lesbian was a child, gramma said, “We’re going out to eat. Katie says she’s Wendy’s kind of people.”

That was all it took. Katie knew how she wanted it: hot off the grill.

But that’s ’80s food. I’m talking ’70s food. Back when food was fantastic.

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For example, Snack Packs didn’t have any namby-pamby foil lid. It was a real can, and you could cut your lips off with the lid. But oh, it was worth it.

That’s the problem with kids today. Everything’s too safe. We’re raising a generation of mild cheddars. They don’t have to worry about getting shards of their Click-Clack in their eye,

click_clacks__650x300_a01_11or or doing a unicorn impression with a jart.

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snackpack.jpg

My gramma had her Snack Packs in the bottom of a narrow cupboard between the stove and the sink. There was also a mousetrap down there, so you had the possibility of dinner and a show. And it was a real, cartoon, SNAP mousetrap. It didn’t really dawn on me to be appalled by it. I’d just shout, “GRAMMA!” when a mouse was in there.

“Oh, shit. Okay. I’m coming,” she’d say.

8f5fd768806db3ef7e87d1141b674f1a--product-packaging-retro-packaging

This orange juice came in individual-servings cans, as well, and I believe you had to actually puncture the top of the can with the pointy part of a can opener. I mean, it took some work. You were practically a cave woman, hunting a mastodon.

I always admired the orange women; I thought they were pretty. They seem sort of in on a secret, don’t they? They’re wrong. YOU’RE ALL GETTING JUICED TO DEATH, BITCHES.

Also, in All in the Family, which was on around the time my gramma diet consisted of pudding and orange juice, Archie Bunker was often holding a can, and I thought, man, he drinks a lotta orange juice.

I never said I was a gifted child.

Kaboomsadness.jpg

This was a cereal I insisted gramma get, and then I hated. I don’t know how to tell you this, but it was too sweet. But it had 100% of my minimum requirements of vitamins and iron.

That can’t possibly be true. What, did it have kale in it? How is that possible? Also, this cereal was emoji cereal. No wonder I hated it.

81G4ePq-lEL._SL1500_.jpg

I was just looking at all the other Google images of cereal from the ’70s, and came across this. Oh, FUCK YEAH. Why is this not available right now?

Anyway.

I know a lot of why I loved this stuff was because it was at gramma’s. Her overly warm house, the cuckoo clock, people coming in and out the front door, bringing the Michigan cold in with them. Her mostly empty upstairs, because all the kids had moved out, that housed her Real Romance magazines and my Uncle Jim’s drums that I never, ever touched for fear he would actually break my bones.

You can’t help but enjoy something served to you by a person who thinks you hung the moon, when really all you are is a riby midwestern 8-year-old. You can’t help but enjoy something when you know your arthritic grandmother saw that brightly colored box in the store aisle and bought it, knowing she’d never be eating it and saw no reason for it other than it delighted her granddaughter.

So, bad food equals love. I know that.

But if you served me some Snack Pack Butterscotch at Tarantula Fest, over at the tent where everyone is vomiting cilantro, I’d still stop everything and say, “Goddammit, this is marvelous.”

Busy busy busy busy. Thank heavens for Angie's List. · Chicken · Food and Drink · Friends · My pets

Chicken parm for the marm

Here’s what I like about myself. I mean, other than the obvious “everything.”

I recently got matched with a cool-looking dude on the Bumble, there, and with that particular dating site, they give you 24 hours to write the person after you’ve been matched, and the woman has to write first. This cuts down dramatically on the number of crude hellos one encounters with online dating.

Why are there men who think opening with a line about wanting to stick your previously unseen personal parts into the recipient of your inaugural note would go over well with any non-roofied woman?

So yesterday evening I wrote a man, “I’m just on my way out the door, but I wanted to write before our time expired.” Don’t I sound breezy, and fun, and whirlwind, and like I’m taking a nothing day and suddenly making it all seem worthwhile?

IMG_1502.jpgI was leaving a bar to go to a sandwich truck. Will the adventures never end? That guy probably thinks I’m dashing out to accept my Nobel or hauling water for the Peace Corps or something.

And I like how if we call a sandwich something else, like glamorous “panini,” it sounds better. I had a mozzarella, basil and tomato PANINI. So rather than eat it as I walked to my car, I masticated during my evening constitutional, under the waxing gibbous.

IMG_1489.jpgI’d been at a bar, on a MONDAY, as you do, because it was someone’s last day. Yes, I DID just go out recently because it was someone’s last day. It was another person’s last day. Hundreds of people work there, dude. They come and go, talking of Michelangelo.

It was the same bar I went to last time, where the sun is screaming in at you for the first hour, and you get a free cataract surgery, so intense is the laser of the sun.

IMG_1497.jpg
More of a sunfie, really. A shot of me and my pal Ray. I’m live-streaming. …I got a million of ’em. Give me a ball of fire and I got material for years, sunny.

Not only did I see a lot of the sun, I also saw my handyman Alf. Which was convenient for me, as I was able to cut into his drinking time to alert him that my windows need fixing. Truthfully, Alf looked a little paned when he saw me.

Thank you. I’ll quite literally be here all week. Speaking of which, I was at a restaurant the other night next to a table of the millennials, and really we should just be assigned different restaurants. Or they should have millennial/nonmillennial sections. Anyway, the woman behind me said, “This is literally so good” three times.

I wanted to just turn in my booth and school marm the fuck out of her youthful ass. I did. “What do you mean when you say it’s literally so good, you moronic turn-of-the-century asshole?” I wanted to menopause and reflect all over her bullshitty youthspeak. But I did not. Because my chicken parm was literally so good. Chicken parm for the marm.

I can see that I’m on a nonlinear roll today, so let me stop, let me menopause, and tell you three things right now, before I wander off. I wanted to write you before we expire.

Six months ago, I had my daith pierced, because I am street and also because it’s supposed to help migraines. They told me it’d take a long time to actually heal, and they were right about THAT, but finally it seems better, so on my way home from Atlanta Sunday, I passed the tattoo parlor where I got pierced, and had a real earring put in, as opposed to the training bra I’ve been sporting.

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If we could all just pretend you can’t see my pores from Sputnik. Thanks.

As for the success, I still get migraines, but not as often on that side, which leads me to want to get the other side pierced. I thought of doing it Sunday, since I was already there, but Tuna seemed distracted. Tuna is the piercer, and what has become of my life? Also, is “tattoo parlor” aging me, like when my mother calls them “blue jeans”?

Anyway, while I was in Atlanta I clearly had to stick my dog somewhere, and please see above references to online daters sticking their parts, which has nothing to do with where I stuck my dog, so please hang up on PETA before you alarm them. I stuck him at dog daycare, where he’s been going since birth. When he used to go with Tallulah, he’d follow her everywhere, and she’d act like they’d never met.

guy wif unnerbyte? he still behind Lu? yeah, no idea.

When Lu died, his time at daycare looked, well, less fun. When I’d look at Edsel on the webcam, he always seemed to kind of stand alone, waiting for me to come get him. This weekend I was so busy, with my breezy on-the-go life, that I never checked on him via webcam till yesterday at work.

Screen Shot 2017-10-30 at 12.04.39 PM.pngEvery time I looked at him, he was hanging out with a beagle. I mean, every time.

Screen Shot 2017-10-30 at 12.01.13 PMThey were inseparable, so much so that I was reluctant to get him at lunch, but I knew I had to get my drank on after work, and priorities. When I retrieved him, Dexter the beagle threw his head back and howled at the gate.

I found out his name was Dexter because I asked daycare, who’ve been knowing Edsel since eighteen aught six when I first took him there, “Who’s the beagle he’s actually acknowledging?”

Turns out, Dexter had also been there all weekend, and the two of them were thick as thieves since Saturday.

So you know what I hate? When people add “come to find out” to a story. “He was with that dog, come to find out it was another boy dog. Come to find out, my dog is as gay as the maypole. Come to find out all my suspicions were correct.”

IMG_E1487.JPG
Edsel, falling asleep looking at me when he got home from his weekend Dexter extravaganza

Anyway, I intend to call daycare and get more guff on when Dexter will be there next, as Eds having a friend is just the cutest goddamn thing I can think of. It’s literally so cute.

I think I had more, but I see I’m at 1,059 words, and hello, restless crowd. I close with more photos of my coworkers, and puppies at bars, and I will talk to you tomorrow when there will be a full Kit and June Hand Out Poison Candy Halloween extravaganza throwdown.

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Took by accident, but I think insurance ought to pay for that deviated septum and oh, while they’re in there, that tulip bulb for a nose tip I got going.

Boo.

Joooooooooon

 

Eyebrows Light and Dark · Food and Drink · I hate everything

Sowing my wildly expensive oats

You know what I don’t like?

Yes, June. In fact, I have a comprehensive list. It’s really more of a scroll at this point.

No, there’s a new one.

Sigh. [turns scroll sideways to write in the margin]

Packet oatmeal that makes you work for it. You’re buying DRY OATMEAL in a foil PACKET. Clearly you are not up for whipping up a gourmet breakfast if you’re choosing dry oatmeal in a foil packet.

Add 150-degree purified water, let stand for 48 seconds, put in microwave for 192 seconds, on low, then remove and cover with Sanskrit tomes for 18 seconds under a full moon, 22 seconds if it’s a waxing gibbous. If it’s waning or new, do not eat this product.

My joie de vivre coworker Griff, of Thus Saith Griff fame, hates it when gas pumps tell you to pull the card out quickly, or when you’re microwaving something, to leave it in there sitting for a minute after.

“Don’t tell me what to fuckin’ do,” he says. And see, he’s right. June says, as she crunches her refusing-to-soften-for-some-reason fancy oatmeal.

It has MADAGASCAR vanilla. Oh, fuck off. Isn’t all vanilla from Madagascar? I don’t know what possessed me to purchase such lofty foil breakfast food; I must have been feeling vulnerable. “This oatmeal will solve everything. If I spent 11 dollars on four packs of oatmeal, surely my life will gel marvelously.”

In other news, my father sent me these:

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What are they, June?

They’re socks.

Fuck off, June.

They’re socks with Frida Kahlo on them. And did she really own a monkey? Because goddammit. I want a monkey.

IMG_E1228.JPG
fuk off, joon

I came home from work last night to all three cats clamoring to come in. I had worked late, and they were all looking at their kitty watches, annoyed. Iris limped in. “Why you limpin’ little Irises?” I asked, and once again, I’m certain the neighbors do not abhor me and my cat speak at all.

There is some fur off her little Iris head, and one has to surmise she was in a tuffle during the day, and “tuffle” is a fine word, and while, yes, it may have been her enemy, Orange Cat, it may also have been her very own brother, Gray Asshole.

All night, she just wanted to be on me. I was trying to work out, and she kept stretching over to lie on my lap while I, you know, lifted my leg 800 times.

In the meantime, last night, Steely Dan came home with everyone, had dinner, then immediately stood on the secretary and howled. The piece of furniture, not Henry Kissinger.

Won’t you enjoy my current references?

I let him out, and of course even though it was 2 degrees out, he wouldn’t come home, and since we all know he was very extremely undoubtedly likely to have SLEPT IN ANOTHER HOUSE, he was fine.

He came home today, ravenous. Well, “ravenous.” He was probably fed Madagascar vanilla cat food before he wandered back here. But what he does if he deigns to stay home during the day is get on the spare bed and do this:

IMG_E1230.JPG

He likes to get between the pillows. And he looks so sweet, and like such a nice kitty, that one can’t help but pet his velvety earses and kiss his sweet walnut head and

IMG_E1228
seeeryouslee. fuk off JOON.

Crap.

I’d better go. I woke up at 5:00 today and couldn’t fall back asleep until I DID, and then when the alarm went off at 6:30 I reset it for 7:30 and now I’m late and this is all you get today. Oh!

IMG_1220.jpgBut my flowers and antlers came yesterday, for m’Frida costume, and now my head matches my socks. We will not speak of my curtains or drapes or however that crude saying goes.

It’s carpet, right? Carpet and drapes? What a stupid thing to ask. Whose carpet ever matches their drapes? I guess mine do–I have neither.

Hoooooo-aaaaa. But really, I don’t. I have blinds and hardwoods.

Hooooooo-haaaaaaaaa.

Oh my god.

Frida, out.

Aging ungracefully · Family · Food and Drink · I am a pleasure of life · I am berserk · I am high-maintenance · June can't keep a man · June's stupid life · Money · My pets

You’re never too old for a fur ball.

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

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

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

...friend/Ned · At Two With Nature · Food and Drink · June can't keep a man · Tracy Quartermaine

It was so delicious I decided to listen to it.

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.”

...friend/Ned · Aging ungracefully · Family · Food and Drink · June can't keep a doctor · June's stupid life

At 52, June finally plays with a full deck

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

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

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

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

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

...friend/Ned · Food and Drink · June can't keep a man

Mr. Greensboro

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”

Aging ungracefully · Food and Drink · My pets

Linear. That’s what I am. Yep.

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.

IMG_6355

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:

MEOW!

MEOW!

MEOWWWW!

When the vet walked in, he was very somber. "How is Edsel?" he asked.

"Well, he's–"

"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."

SHUT

UPPPPPP.

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.

IMG_6365

"So, the Prozac is working for him?" the vet asked.

"Not really."

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

IMG_6295
goddammitz

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.

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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.

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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.

Article-2289326-1876C3F2000005DC-48_634x460 Bd6d71622fc93cadcf3977cd0a76f222 LOSS-GRIEF-christian-books

"Did you find everything okay?" the chippie at the checkout counter asked me.

"You were out out Berry LaCroix," I said.

"…What's that?"

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.

Eyebrows Light and Dark · Food and Drink · Friends · Fuck natural · I am high-maintenance · In the kitchen with June · June doesn't know any ugly people · Neighbors of June

Joe Lies

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I be Hutch. Wear be Starskee?

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hahahahahaha

Anyway.

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.

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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.

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Others of us are excited to be reunited after being ripped apart. Like Joe and I were ripped apart.

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.

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Iris and me having an Elliott and E.T. moment. Beeeee good. She's always good. I mean, to everyone but baby birds. And adult birds. Or anyone rodent-ish.

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,

Juan

...friend/Ned · Chicken · Food and Drink · I am berserk

Taquit-oh, June

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.

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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.