Rearing to go

I know you were waiting all night for Installment Two of June Goes to Medical Appointments, and I understand your excitement and anticipation. But something bigger happened yesterday.

Bigger, June? Bigger than an eye exam?

Not that my eye exam wasn’t without incident. I pissed off the front desk by not remembering I had a separate card for eye insurance. Look, I go there once a year, and they mail me this flimsy card from somewhere or another, and who can remember? I found it eventually, didn’t I? Okay, after you already ran my debit card. Still.

I got to work and didn’t take lunch, did my copy editing and so forth, and now I’ve turned into that bad-storytelling woman from yesterday’s example. “He went to college, all that good stuff.”

The point is, Edsel was at daycare all day, hoping for a Dexter sighting. Dexter is his new Beagle friend. We’d missed Dexter by ONE DAY.

Dear Advice-Givers: I HAVE left my number with Dexter’s people and I HAVE asked the daycare to alert me should Dexter be there, with the caveat that I know how FREAKING BUSY that place always is, and that I’d understand if they clean forget, because it is always Grand Dog Central in there.

That made no sense.

Anyway, since I hadn’t taken lunch, I left work at maybe 5:20-ish, which is early for me, and wow, was traffic suck-ass. I also had to take the busy headed-to-downtown road because I had to get the Eds.

I was just around the corner from work, at a complete stop thanks to traffic, when

BOOM

It took me a moment to even register what had happened. I’d heard a big sound, then a second later, see boom above. A car rear-ended the car behind me, who in turn rear-ended me.

“Oh my god!” I said, then, “Ow.” I’d hit my head on the back of the seat rest, hard.

“Geez.” I rubbed my head and got out of the car. The person who hit me was a coworker. “You okay?” I asked.

“Hit my head,” he said.

I got my phone and dialed 9-1-1. As I was speaking to Edna at 9-1-1, the woman who’d hit my coworker got out of her car. “I looked down for just a second,” she was saying, “and then you’d slammed on your brakes.” As if it was my coworker’s fault for braking in bad traffic.

“Do you need an ambulance?” asked Edna the 9-1-1 operator, after she’d asked me how my day was at work and did I need to get Edsel from daycare. I said yes, because my coworker and I had both hit our heads, and I kept thinking of Natasha Richardson.

It was cold and rainy out, so I waited in my car for all the men and women of LAW enforcement (only funny if Marvin forced you to watch every episode of Cops).

Just then, I had an IM on Facebook, my favorite thing. My coworker Ryan had been driving by and had texted me. “I drove by the accident. You okay?” he’d asked, clearly having something more important to do than stop and make sure I was ALIVE, RYAN.

Anyway, I opened the IM, in case it was another coworker or something.

It was a name I didn’t recognize, and it was a long, long message. As I scrolled up to get to the top, I realized it was That Woman. That Woman who’d contacted me at the beginning of October. That Woman who …knew Ned.

She’d gone on Facebook with another account, as I’d blocked her original account, and messaged me THE DETAILS of what she and Ned did while we were together.

The details.

While I was waiting for an ambulance.

She literally added insult to injury.

And you know, I have exciting photos of me at the eye doctor, Eds at day care, and even an exiting action shot of the ambulance, which mercifully came right then (“Say, you got any emergency services for a shattered heart?”), and my stupid computer, which has been acting up for some time, won’t let me put them on here to show you.

Anyway, the ambulance people and the (cute!) firemen made me do a bunch of “does she have a concussion” moves, and also the Cabbage Patch because why not, and they said I could go to the hospital if I WANTED to, and who doesn’t? Both my coworker and I ended up not going, and we’re probably both dead now and this is purgatory.

So, an hour later, I headed to daycare to get Edsel. My car doesn’t LOOK damaged, other than the license plate, but Ima get it checked out for anything horrific that might have happened to its insides. “You made it!” said the daycare woman, who I called to warn that Edsel might be having an impromptu sleepover.

Eds was glad to see me, on a shocking note, and he was even gladder when I did the insane thing.

Because what I did next was, I took my totaled car and my exposed brain from my horrific accident, and I drove all the way down to Ned’s gym. He is nothing if not predictable. I called him as I was nearing the place.

“Where are you?”

“I’m just leaving the gym.”

“Yeah, I know you are. I’m headed there.”

“You’re…what?”

“That Woman messaged me.”

So, in the rain, the cold November rain, I drove to that parking lot, and with my medulla flying just everywhere from being exposed, I gave Ned a piece of my mind.

Literally.

Because it was exposed and all.

“I’m so sorry,” said Ned. “I am 100% responsible for all this,” said Ned. “What can I do?” asked Ned.

“You can just leave me alone,” I replied, and I realize I said, “Leave me alone” to someone who was, in fact, leaving me alone, but there it is. And I may have wept a bit, and mentioned how crazy about him I used to be, and how this was like that last scene in Mother, which I don’t recommend you go see, where Javier Bardem rips the heart out of Jennifer What’s-Her-Name. I may have dramatically mentioned all that, while gray matter plunked onto the parking lot along with the rain.

But the best part of this story is, the whole time I was handing over a piece of my mind? Edsel was

SO

DELIGHTED

to see Uncle Ned.

oh unk ned! oh edzul god it unk ned!! unk ned da bomb! unk ned hello! hello! edz not care how you hurt mom. hullo UNK NED!

And Ned was all, “Yes, hi, Edsel,” while I was over there ranting and railing and speaking in tongues due to my severe head injury.

After about five minutes, I was pretty calm, actually, and got in the car and drove home, finally without incident. Eds was in the back asking me to play the country station so he could find a song that encapsulated what it meant for him to see Unk Ned.

So there it is. I came home and initially announced on Facebook that I had been in a severe accident wherein my car had upturned and caught fire and so on, but after I got 10 IMs in 10 seconds, I realized really that last thing I wanted to do was field questions all night, and what I really wanted to do was hide under the nice afghan Faithful Reader Kris made me, and watch Friends. There is little less taxing to one’s soul than an episode of Friends. They’re all so pretty, and the decor is so ’90s.

But speaking of Facebook, could you all all do me a favor? A flavor, as my friend Tammy always called it?

Sometimes, particularly on Facebook of June, I will post something and it goes awry and I take it down. Some days I post something and it gets too “give June advice”-y. Some days it becomes too, “In fact, I DO have a degree in psychology, so let me analyze people in your life, or even better, slap a label on him or her.” Sometimes it just feels too personal after I’ve posted, and I get squicked out and take it down.

But no matter what, if I post something and take it down, I’ve done so because I felt uncomfortable about said post, so here’s where the favor comes in.

When I’ve posted something and taken it down, could we not go BACK to Facebook of June and ask, “Where is that post?” and make it all dramatic with the shocked-face emoji and the “Someone IM me what happened” and all that? I already feel uncomfortable, and to have it brought back to the page makes me feel bad all over again. Go ahead, gossip about me off that page all you want, I don’t care. But could you not gossip about me in front of me?

Alternatively, you could IM me all the details of how you …know Ned. That’d be much better.

Accidentally,

June and her severed head

Ruins

I’m trying very hard to not talk about my 404 Error, because my hope is that I can just, oh, continue on with my life, and if I make him the topic of my posts, he’s still in my life, a bit. So I’m trying to write about other things even though I really just want to obsess.

So, hey, getting up to watch sunrises and meditative walks and time with friends and my dog blah blah. Oh, and also, I saw Ned on a dating site last night.

And here’s the argument, right? The, “Well, YOU’RE on a dating site.” Which is the same argument my mother would give me about people running into me at Kmart. “Well, THEY’RE shopping there.” Yes, but I have a stellar reputation to uphold.

What I never had in junior high school: A stellar reputation to uphold.

Anyway, sure I am. Of course I am. I’m on a dating site. At this point I’ve winnowed it to one because Jesus Christ, do they ever not work. And I have about .00004% faith in men being good, at this point. BUT I’M TRYING.

This damn breakup is more than two years old already, and I kept getting drawn back in, and starting to think, Oh, maybe this time it’ll be okay (oh, June), and then what do you know, another heartbreaking thing is discovered. I’m the Christopher Columbus of discovering things. “This is India!” No, it’s not. “This is an okay discovery! I can, you know, live with it!” No, you can’t.

I think I’ve found India, but what I really found was an Indian giver of love.

So, hey, June. Nice going. Good idea, to keep letting yourself get drawn back in. You sure selected the right Let’s Make a Deal door, there, sister. Again.

When I was a kid and watched Let’s Make a Deal, I always thought getting the donkey would be way better than a stupid car.

So anyway, there was Ned’s clever profile, a profile I’d have answered tout suite. And yes, I have a clever profile up, too.

So why was I stung?

I guess in my naive heart, I thought he would think, Wow, I really ruined June. I should sit here and think about why I did that, work on why I keep asking her to come back and then being mean to her. But instead, he’s all, Welp, destroyed her. Tourists can now come visit the June Ruins. Her insides are crumbled and missing and desolate. And even though I keep contacting her even still, asking to talk, I’m also gonna say, NEXT!

So. Perhaps that’s unfair, but that’s how I’m feeling.

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“Yes, are these the June Ruins? I was told there was a shave-ice truck near here.”

The Poet and I are going to a movie tomorrow. Here we are, yesterday, at a meeting in a very green room.

IMG_1045.jpgWork isn’t the sanctuary it used to be, either. Lately I’ve felt marginalized, ignored, and I’m trying to fix that but I’m not getting very far with it. I don’t know exactly what happened, but it’s disconcerting, because work was my one place that I was happy, at least from 9 to 5ish.

So I’ve been asking for more to do. Throw it all at me, I keep saying. I’m not sure how else to fix whatever I broke other than to make myself fairly indispensable.

I’d better go. I should shower, as that is the sign of someone who isn’t depressed, right? Like, hygiene and so on? Yes. I suppose showering didn’t cheer Janet Leigh all that much.

fbd3b3a1a8f2a92609488386a449838a

Stabbing it with her steely knife but unable to kill the best,

June

June re-creates her neuroses via her animal kingdom

I’ve turned my not-blog boring before by mentioning this,* but again, you do NOT have to add an email address to leave a comment. I set up the commenting to be as easy as possible, and just because it SAYS “email” in one of the lines, it is not required that you put one in.

And see? That is how we should be in life. Question authority.

*I like how I act like otherwise, this thing is riveting.

Yesterday after breakfast, Steely Dan stomped out, the way he does, into the yard and beyond. When I got home for lunch, he was nowhere to be seen. If Lily and Iris go outside, by lunch they’re delighted to see me, as they’ve been lounging in the back yard, or hiding under Peg’s magnolia, or…well, no, that’s about it. That’s all they do.

But not Steely Dan.

I can always go outside and spot my other cats.

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Got up and took this just now.

Not him.

After work yesterday, I had to get my hair done at 5:15, so I didn’t have a chance to go home.

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Before. My whole life is a Before picture.
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During. What was the period-related commercial where they said, “Before, during, AND after!”? Midol? Was it Midol? Pamprin? There’s a name. Pamprin.

I forgot to take an after. Hey, it was late. Roots are done, okay? That’s it.

IMG_0561.JPGI like where I get my hair done–it’s an old mill, like everything is here, because we used to be cotton here. We were the touch, the feel, of cotton. The fabric of our lives. And then, just like in Michigan where I grew up, someone got greedy or something, and all those jobs dried up and now mills are all other things. The point is, it’s pretty where I get my hair done, and I drive from an old mill where I work to an old mill to get m’hairs done, and then to my regular house where I mill about.

When I got home at 7:30, Edsel was champing at the bit for dinner, as it was two hours late. Of course he didn’t have to go outside, because he never goes outside. The only way that dog goes outside is if we’re on a walk or if I open the back door and walk outside with him. Then he gleefully pees on his pee tree, and hangs his head in shame to go off to the bushes to do the…other thing that he does not like me to see. It’s part of his breed. His weird, weird breed. They poop very secretively. HE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A SHEPHERD MIX. That’s going on his tombstone.

Oh my god, anyway.

When I got home and took care of Edsel, I was annoyed that Steely Dan had not deigned to come home FOR 12 HOURS. I called and called, and finally I heard a pound on the back door. He likes to let himself in and out via the screen door, but when it’s shut, he stands back there and opens the screen over and over, so it bangs, which makes me think of Ned saying, “I’d like to bang her like a screen door in a thunderstorm,” which was a good line even though I wished to punch him clean in the mouth every time he announced to me anyone else he wanted to bang.

Anyway, there he was, Steely Dan, I mean, no worse for the wear, having done god knows what with god knows whom. He ate his disgusting canned food (careful readers will note that I mentioned on Facebook that he would not eat his new food, and pardon me boy, is that the cat who eschews his new food.

I was waiting him out and leaving the old stuff in his bowl and not giving him new food, like Joan Crawford, till he got hungry enough to eat it. He never did. That food sat there drying and untouched. I caved and Edsel gladly ate that can of old dry cat food).

IMG_0568.JPGand then before I could even NOTICE, before 10 minutes had PASSED,

BANG.

Screen door in a thunderstorm. He left the house again.

“Steely DAN,” I fishwifed after him, as he sauntered off into the night.

I tried to call him before I went to bed, but he wouldn’t answer my texts.

This morning when I got up, all my regularly scheduled pets were happy to see me. When I open the door of my room, they’re all splayed out hopefully on the hall rug, and one day I should try to remember to take my camera to bed with me. Which sounds dirty. But I mean so that in the morning I can remember to photograph them all splayed in the hall, waiting.

You know what I’ll never remember to do?

I fed no-fuss Lily and no-trouble Iris, then got Edsel’s litany of pills ready and fed him his eleven thousand dollar grain-free food that isn’t helping his raw, red skin and itches and smellyness, and went to the back door.

“Kittykittykittykittykitty! SteeeeeeleeeeDAN! SteeeeeeeeleeDAN! Come on, honey.”

Nothing.

Goddammit.

So while I was writing you about not having to add an email to leave a comment, I heard some crunching.

IMG_0564.JPGI didn’t even hear him come IN, and that’s how he operates. He’s stealthy. He opened that door without a peep and came in. And you KNOW he’s hungry when he deigns to eat the girl cats’ dry food. I should have left that disgusting pile of ancient canned for him. He’d have eaten it, you know, by day 14 or something.

The thing is,

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gurl cat food disgust. can. can. can. can. CAN.
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CAN

Now he’s got me right where he wants me. Because those rare moments when he’s home, I’m so goddamn happy to see him that he can get away with anything. Can? Even though mealtime is over? Sure. You want to chew my wedding dress? Let me get it out of the wrapping.

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#&$^&@

So now I’ve got myself a love avoidant cat. I mean, all cats are love avoidant, except Lily, who has some sort of pet-me disorder. But the more he avoids coming home and sitting on me, the more desperately I wish for him to be home and sitting on me. The more indifferent he is, the more I love him.

HE IS EVERY MAN I’VE EVER DATED. That photo up there could be my homecoming picture, my prom photo, my wedding snaps, every photo I ever took of Ned and me.

(Actually, I think Marvin was a secure attacher. He was not love avoidant. AND LOOK HOW THAT WENT.)

I just looked around, and I see that he’s left again, stealthily. I walked into the yard, despondent, and all that’s back there is Lily, who looked at me like, “Oooo, you thinking to pet Lilleeee?”

And because she’s too available, I turned my back on her and slammed the door.

 

Goodbye, Beige Earl

Dear June:

Tell us about your weekend. We await, riveted. Signed, No one.

FRIDAY

IMG_0449.JPGWe had our work picnic Thursday afternoon, which I realize is not Friday, and I just gave this section a “Friday” subhead and WHAT THE HELL with this blog. The point is, I’m this weird combination of an extroverted introvert, where I sort of dread having to be around people, then I get there and it’s OHMYGOD PEOPLE YAY! and I sort of dash about frenetically visiting this person and that, and then it’s time to go home and I’m drained.

All this to say that Thursday was a lot of socializing, and then Friday I had A Thing. My work sponsors this foundation, and said foundation was having a dinner and a speaker at the country club, and I had to get dressed up and dine at the country club and so forth, and if there’s anything you’re sick of, it’s my “June’s Tales of the Country Club” stories.

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Me–did you know this was me?–after, in my go-to polkadot dress. Sadly, I own three polkadot dresses in varying sleeve lengths. Polkadots are big with me. Less big now that I’m down 10 pounds. Bah. I should stop talking in the caption now.

The man who spoke at our event had been Harvey Milk’s right-hand man, and he was there when Harvey Milk was killed. Then he watched all his friends die of AIDS. I can’t even imagine what it must have been like to be a gay man in San Francisco in the ’80s. I mean, it’s close, given all the action I get. Still.

SATURDAY

So that was kind of a sosh two days, and now that I’ve said “sosh” you will wash your hands of me and I understand. I do. I hope one day we can be friends. M’point is, I was all social activites-d out.

IMG_0482.JPGIt was bitty boopy blindy-boo Iris’s 6th birthday Saturday, and if you didn’t wash your hands of me before

Somebody at work put cans of cat food on the “anyone can take it” table, and they were fancy expensive cans of things like buffalo and pheasant. I thought I’d give one to Iris, seeing as most of the time she gets cans of “whatever dregs were in the meat murder room” flavor.

She didn’t even used to EAT cans. I read somewhere that canned food was good for kittens, and I guess that’s true because look how big Steely Dan got, and once she started sniffing cans, and who doesn’t like to do that, she got a hankering. So now I give adult cans to both of them, and I don’t mean that they are somehow dirty.

Lily doesn’t like a can. You’d think she wouldn’t be picky, but she is. She’s like one of those 250-pound women who run marathons and the world judges and it’s like, But you don’t know her.

Anyway, I gave a can of, like, wild boar and sweet potato to Iris, and she was all, “Ware delish dreg fud?” So.

My point is, after I took Iris to Chucky Cheese and she ate the mouse, I spent my Saturday shopping for fabric.

IMG_0511.jpgAs you may already know, because your hand is up in June’s life, I have this old chair that belonged to my grandmother, the one I’ve turned into. It used to be this burgundy Naugahyde, and then my mother owned it and gave it these baby-blue flowers, which Lottie, my dog, fmr, quickly turned into mud flowers, and I act like “mud flowers” is a thing.

The spring and summer I had Lottie was a rainy one, and my yard is aching for grass the way I am for a martini at 8 a.m., so she brought a lot of mud to the chair situation. And one might think one could tell her puppy to just NOT leap onto the chair, but clearly you have not attended June’s Iron Fist of Dog Discipline yet.

I’ve wanted to recover this poor chair for awhile, but it costs, and funds were tight, but then this year I pretty much took on a second job doing freelance work, and you guys are shopping on Amazon by clicking through my not-blog, and boom. All of a sudden, and it really did seem all of a sudden, I got caught up. I’m not a millionaire, but I’m out of credit card debt and I don’t have to live on four dollars till payday anymore.

IMG_0491.JPGSo, in a sense, when I recover this chair, it will be the recovery that you built. And I thank you. Most heartily, I do. My point is, I’d never gone to the fabric store before, and hey, overwhelming.

The good news is they’re moving, so every single piece of fabric was on sale, at least 50% off and some as much as 80% off. I tried to like any of the 80%, but it was all “Brady Bunch Plaid Orange” or “Smells Like Grandma” or “Gay Man in the ’80s” patterns, and I just could not.

The man who owns the store helped me, and was very kind, even though he was having a huge sale on a Saturday and was the only person working there. “If you have a dog, don’t get any silk fabrics,” he advised.

Naturally all I wanted after that were the silk fabrics. It’s like dating. I’m trying hard not to be drawn to another love avoidant, and I start chatting men up and after date number two, they’ll be all, “I really want to live alone for the rest of my life” or “I like to be in touch once every nine days” or “I was married once, for 8 months” and WHY DO I KEEP BEING DRAWN TO IT.

IMG_0487I liked this silk love avoidant flowered pattern in the middle, but who am I, Diana Ross? What do I need with a black flowered chair?

IMG_0488.JPGGreen one’s pretty, and oh, look, silk. This fabric just wants to hang out, nothing serious.

IMG_0493.JPGUltimately, I did get a green pattern, not silk, that wants to take things slow and maybe see other people. I love love love this pattern, and my whole goal while I was shopping was I’d pick a pattern that made me gasp because it was so pretty. This one did. It’ll probably keep texting its ex-girlfriend after we move in together.

IMG_0502.JPGThe rest of the day was pretty quiet, and I binged Leah Reminy’s series exposing the Scientologists. When I lived in LA, I lived near one of the big Scientology buildings, and they bought up pretty much all the apartment buildings on the blocks around their big building, and I’d see people walking to work, from their Scientology apartments to their jobs at the Scientology building, and now I wish I’d have dragged them into my Bug and saved them all.

SUNDAY

They didn’t make Sunday. Because of God. (When Harry Met Sally)

I had to work Sunday, because my work has changed recently and I’m not just on one team anymore; I copy edit for whoever needs it. It’s kind of exciting, but also, each account has different styles and needs and so on, so it’s more intense. I didn’t have to take my work home, but I wanted to so I’d do a good job.

I hope I did a good job. Next thing you’ll hear is me saying, Remember that thing I took home and fucked up?

IMG_9992.JPGMy hallway was always beige, part of the Beige World Fan Club that the previous owner founded and lovingly ran. It was a labor of beige love. A couple weeks ago, I noted that one wall had annoying beige WALLPAPER, not just paint, so I peeled it off and this happened.

My casual peel cost me eleven million dollars in Alf repair (Alf is my ridiculous handyman), and then yesterday I painted that bitch. Goodbye, Beige Earl.

Sometimes I make zero sense.

IMG_0517.JPGSo now it’s Sherwin Williams Quietude, the same color I’m painting my spare bedroom, you know, eventually. I still have to paint the trim in here, and that door that is not at all scuffed up from me throwing shoes down there at the end of the day because God forbid I walk all the way in there and put them in the closet I’m pressed for time, you see.

Also, I did not screw up and get paint on the ceiling. That’s where it’s peeling. Nother effing project.

IMG_0444.JPGI leave you with two things: My coworker Ryan’s dog, whom he brought to the company picnic. Look at his boopy half a face!

IMG_0439.JPGAnd this. When Ned and I broke up, I tried to unfriend all of his friends on Facebook, because I didn’t want any jarring reminders of him. I forgot about one of his friends, though, but that guy put up this old photo of Ned, and here’s the thing.

Usually I’m okay. You know. Ish. Usually I understand that it didn’t work with Ned, and that it’s sad but it’s okay. But then this photo just hit me, hit my stupid newsfeed, and it knocked me over.

I loved him so fiercely. I forget that sometimes. I’d like to forget it permanently. But oh god, did I love him. And it’s not at all sad that I downloaded this photo and kept it.

I guess that’s all my news that’s fit to not print. The chair guy comes next week to take my chair away and recover it, and I need you to know that when I left that store with my big roll of fabric, I said, “Well, I’m gonna bolt.”

No one likes me.

Well, I’m gonna bolt,

Joon

Brass-n-beige

It’s official: Ned owns our house. Fmr. His house. Crnt. It took months of dickering with his gaylord, who is a lawyer and was therefore a dick every step of the way. He used to like that guy. Continue reading “Brass-n-beige”

The People Who Must Look at June’s Nose

I just hit snooze for an hour, then when I finally did get up, I put my contacts in the wrong eyes. I don’t mean I woke up Vladimir Putin and put my contacts in his eyes. You know what I mean. Continue reading “The People Who Must Look at June’s Nose”

Turn around, bright eyes

Look at the sun, up there. Soooooo smug. Oh, Ima shine on you all day. Like I always do. HAH! We, the audience, know better.

Anyway hi. I’m not at work, and I was luxuriating in bed, thinking how lovely it was to, you know, luxuriate in the bed, when I remembered you guys saying, “The first thing I do when I wake up is read Book of June!” “My day isn’t complete without Book of June!” “I keep an asp in my hand, and if Book of June isn’t up, I let it strike me.” Continue reading “Turn around, bright eyes”

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.”

When a broken purse is the least of your woes

Yesterday was a ridiculous day, from my series of June’s Ridiculous Days. Continue reading “When a broken purse is the least of your woes”