Do you wish to know what annoys me? “Snowmageddon.” Also, “snowpacalypse.” Oh, shut up. Anyway, it’s still snowy here, and behold Edsel playing with Levi, the one-blue-eye, one-brown-eye pit who now lives with the gaybors’ Greyhound, Jackie.
I know you can’t see Levi–they’d been running up and down the length of the fence together, and this was all I was able to capture from my SOCKS in my DOORWAY. I wasn’t traipsing out there in m’robe and sockses.
I met Levi at some point during this—snowpacalypse BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Oh, god that’s funny. Anyway, I met him when I was rolling the snow-covered trash cans back to their rightful spot, and he was staring at me in personal growth, which is only funny if you saw When Harry Met Sally.
He was staring at me from his yard, Levi was, and he was so pretty that I couldn’t help but say, “Well, who are you?” He wagged politely. “Hello!” I said, clomping through the snow, because crazy person. I think this is a pertinent time to point out I had on my fox pajamas, tucked into snow boots.
“That’s Levi,” said the gaybor, who unbeknownst to me had been standing on his back porch. They seem to never just let their dogs out and shut the door. Go in and watch Liberace or whatever. I mean, what’s the point of a fenced-in yard if you can’t slam the door and forget you have a dog for 20 minutes?
Anyway, he was actually nice to me this time, the gaybor was. Me in my fox pajama bottoms and boots. So.
And I’m passionate about Levi.
I also managed this one. In midtear. Still can’t see Levi, and now you’re convinced Edsel and I have manifested him.
So we didn’t have to work again yesterday, although we DID have to work from home.
So, as you know, because you have a poster on your living-room wall that reads Everything June Does, with a marker hanging from a string, I spent thousands of dollars last month to replace the thousands-of-dollars computer I bought in 2011. Through no fault of my own, the 2011 computer got so slow it wasn’t even fun to blog anymore.
So I replaced it. Can I afford that? Hell no. But I freelance a lot, too [you all nod knowingly, glancing at your living room poster], and need a computer for work.
Yesterday when we got the whole Work From Home announcement, I was immediately given an article to read. I wandered into this cold, drafty back room, and whose idea was it to put the computer back here? Must have been my landlord’s.
When I got back here and tried to open the article?
No Word. I have no Microsoft Word. “Sign in here!” it kept telling me. Sign in here! All cheerful.
I got all the Microsoft Office products back in 2011; my friend and faithful reader Steve who works there sent them to me. Now, perhaps this is the time you might feel less angry for me. What’s your problem? You got them free anyway.
Well, the thing is, I NEEDED WORD RIGHT THEN.
After several long talks with Microsoft and Apple, we came to the conclusion that:
A) When I migrated all the info to the new computer, all the Microsoft Office stuff didn’t come with me (not my fault)
B) Microsoft could help me if I had the “product key,” which is a sticker on the box I received in 2011. Oh, I don’t still have the box? Why not? Seven years and two moves? That’s no excuse.
“Why don’t you say in big letters, ‘KEEP THIS BOX’ or something?” I groused at the guy at Microsoft. I was chatting online with Microsoft and on the phone with Apple. It was a whole East Side/West Side thing going on at my computer.
In the end, Apple couldn’t do anything even though their migration instructions didn’t actually work, and Microsoft suggested I buy the new 2016 Office stuff.
Of course they did.
Why are we letting these companies bamboozle us in this fashion?
In the end, my friend/FR Steve is sending them to me again, as I wrote him hysterically to ask if he knew the “product key.” Product key. Key this.
Meanwhile, someone is despondent that grownd still iceyyy. He tries to go out, then comes right back in. He’s bored out of his evil mind.
He chased his tail 109 minutes yesterday, while I watched Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee. When I wasn’t proofreading something on my phone, then writing in a notebook all the errors and then typing those errors back into my phone and emailing them to work.
I gotta get to work. Today is my six-year anniversary of dating Ned, and Ned asked if I wanted to go meet him for a drink at the place where we had our first date.
…My hair just got blown back from all the, “NOOOOOOOOOO”s.
You know what MY problem is (everyone gets out their Giant Scroll of What’s Wrong With June), is that moderation is stupid. I mean, it would appear that I think moderation is stupid. Signs POINT to me thinking moderation is stupid. Except when it comes to exercise.
The woman who sits next to me–and I’m sure at some point I gave her a blog name but who can keep track of 11 years of blog names. Anyway, the woman who sits next to me, Alex, received a giant box of Dean & Deluca treats for Christmas. I think a client or a vendor or someone gave it to her.
Then she left for the world’s longest Christmas break.
“Did, um, Alex say anything about these treats?” I wondered, one hungry afternoon in late December. As if all my afternoons aren’t hungry. And by “hungry,” I don’t mean Biafra hungry. I mean Bored White Girl hungry.
“Oh, she did. She sent an email about them. Didn’t she include you?”
Humph. See above re No One Likes Me At Work.
“She said the treats were for all of us, and to have at them.”
Naturally, I opened the good stuff first, right? The obvious dark-chocolate-covered hazelnuts, the shelled pistachios, the tin of 27-year-old muscled bald men of color.
By the time she returned, her hazelnuts were mysteriously lacking. “Oh, no, that’s fine. I told everyone to eat them,” she assured me. “Didn’t I include you on the email?”
So here it is, early January, and I’m starting to break into the weird stuff.
And that is how my addiction to Sanded Starfish began.
Okay, first of all, pretentious Dean ampersand Deluca, if that is your real name, they’re sugared gummy candies shaped like stars.
But oh, man, do they have flavor. Orange is distinctly tangerine-y. I’ve no idea what the others are supposed to be, but I can tell you the famous flavors Blue and Green are to die for.
[Five sanded starfish are five Weight Watchers points. Careful maths will reveal that they are approximately one point per sanded star.]
“Haaa aaaayone ried a arfish?” I asked the room at large, around a mouthful of sanded starfish, which is now my Official Work Language®.
Turns out, no one wants to try them, or if they have, they are not nearly as charmed as I. Which works in my favor.
Meanwhile, back at my ranch, four men were working on m’house yesterday. My ’50s ranch house, which is always in need of something.
Was not at all annoyed to pull up to my own house and have the driveway so full I couldn’t get in.
Alf was over to put the clothes rod back up in my closet. But for months he’s been telling me I need to fix the fan in my bathroom. Since Day One at this house 10 years ago, the combination fan/light switch/outlet has not worked in that bathroom, and at this point I’m just used to the idea of charging my toothbrush in the kitchen.
I’ve had two other men over to try to fix it but it never gets really fixed.
So I got a sherpa and some trail mix, parked, and hiked over to base camp, aka my house with all the men parked at it–and I hope that’s what Ned thinks it’s like here day and night. All the men parked all over the place, just lounging in my home, waiting to service me however I see fit.
Anyway, first of all, when I walked in, good watchdogging, Edsel.
For the love of all…I SWEPT THAT FLOOR YESTERDAY. Okay, maybe day before yesterday. Still. I give up. Plus, is that Kleenex on my robe? I am happy to report that I washed a Kleenex this past load of laundry, and just this morning was trying to PICK IT OFF all the clean clothes.
Anyway. The electrician used to be a fireman, and he brought two young firemen with him, who are learning how to electrician or whatever, and why is it that I have firemen over more often than even the firehouse?
They were all very nice, and they all had dogs–big manly dogs such as Labs, so Edsel was a refreshing change for them, I like to think.
The good news is, the electrician found the problem! It had to do with the fuses or whatever, outside. Something was loose or missing or something. Simple fix, a big $98 total, and boom, they were done. “It’ll work now. I can pretty much guarantee it,” said the electrician, scratching ecstatic Edsel’s manly head.
One of the young firemen was also admiring Steely Dan, who was clearly showing off for company: fetching his mouse, leaping cleanly in and out of the computer box.
As you know, when you set down your Giant Scroll of What’s Wrong with June and pick up your Big Book of June Events, I just got a new computer. My plan was to trade in my old one for a big $155, and they sent a box for me to do just that. When I was gathering it all up to eventually put it in that box that Steely Dan has been obsessed with (chewing the corners, leaping into it from every possible angle and so on), I realized I don’t have the original mouse any longer. That was something they’d asked about when they gave me a value. “Sure, I have a working mouse!” I’d written, not thinking about how it was a pink right-and-left-clicking mouse from Office Depot.
Also, one of the keys of the keyboard was loose. The Q. From all those letters to Queer Eye For the Straight Guy, I suppose.
The point is, I knew I wouldn’t get all $155. When the young firefighter was admiring the cat, I told him what the box was for. “You don’t need a 2011 Mac, do you?” I asked him.
Turns out, he did! And he was so excited! I warned him that thing was slow, but he seemed unconcerned. So that was my good deed for yesterday.
The point is, with all these men crawling about, I was sort of self-conscious about what I ate for lunch. I’d done Pure Barre earlier in the day, so what I WANTED for lunch was that big slab of meat that tips over Fred Flintstone’s car. What I had was Amy’s Organic Vegetable Soup.
While I was pretending to be dainty, I got an email from our receptionist at work.
You know, work doesn’t pay for my phone, and why I decided to include work email on my own phone is beyond me. Anyway, she wondered why the newsletter wasn’t out yet, and of course (Big Book of June Events page 409) I gave up editing the company newsletter way back.
“Holsteder and Frapdorp run the newsletter now,” I informed her, and right when I wrote the two editors’ last names like that, it occurred to me that their names are sort of …comical together.
“Did you get the email from the receptionist wondering where the newsletter was? I forwarded it,” I asked Frapdorp when he walked past my desk yesterday.
“You know, the two of you, with your names together. They’re such unusual names. You’re like a…I don’t know. Like a pretentious candy company or something.”
“A pretentious candy company. Is that even a thing? Is that even a genre? A pretentious candy company…” he was getting ALL READY to make fun of me. I could see him winding up.
And that, my faithful readers, is when I was able to grab my nearly empty tin of SANDED FUCKING STARFISH and shove it at him victoriously. I was trying to fill in the gaps that stupid vegetable soup had left in me.
What I lack in willpower I make up for in ready tins of sanded starfish.
On the first day of 2011, Ned got out of bed, walked into a wall and broke his toe.
And hey, June, this bodes well. A mention of Ned in the first sentence of your first post of the new year. Yeah, good moving on.
Anyway, he did, and he told himself, “Well, that’s a sign you aren’t going to have a good year. You’d better just keep your head down and muddle through 2011.” And he was right.
He was newly back in his hometown of Greensboro, having spent his adult life in Raleigh (inside guff for outsiders: Raleigh is way cooler to live in than Greensboro), he was working for the family business after a decade of doing something he truly loved
(he’d been a professional beer taster)
(he was hired full time to ogle women)
(they needed an expert salad-eater, and he took on the job)
(he wrote a weekly column titled, “You Know What I’D Do…”)
(okay, I’ll stop),
and he had zero girlfriend.
So he got through 2011, and on the fifth day of 2012, he met me. WHAT. LUCK. REWARD! SILVER LINING!
The point of me telling you this is the very first thing to happen to me today was that my clothes pole…thing in the walk-in closet of my bedroom? Crashed ONTO MY FINGER today. Then after that, all the clothes that had been residing on said pole similarly fell onto my finger.
Inside guff for outsiders: It hurt.
“Oh my god,” I told myself. “I’m Ned in 2011.”
I’d had such high hopes for 2018, too. As you may know, as I very subtly alluded to it earlier this week, I’ve had something of a cold. No big deal, really. I hate to cause a fuss. Anyway, yesterday I ended up being asked to a little celebration, a little reason for the season, and that reason is Prosecco.
But given the precarious nature of my health, I thought I’d better test my reserves, so I took myself to see The Shape of Water first, at the movie theater near my house. I figured if I could sit up and take nourishment (popcorn and a Dr Pepper) for two hours, maybe I was ready for the big leagues, aka a middle-aged mild New Year’s celebration.
First of all, The Shape of Water. Highly recommend. And not just cause everything’s midcentury and you know how I get about that.
So I slapped on the makeup and headed into the middle-aged night and rang in the new year and was in REM by about 12:01. Still. I got out. I didn’t even take 47 Kleenex.
Me and m’New Year’s makeup and several heavy Instagram filters. You, too can feign rosy health!
So that all seemed to go so well and then boom. Pole on m’finger.
I did not go to my annual ironically named kindness meditation downtown, as it was 870 below zero today, and the only kindness I could meditate on was not doing that to myself given that I just got out of my iron lung with this cold. Instead I paid my bills, wrote in my new journal I got for Xmas (thanks, mom), checked my finger to see if it was turning black, and talked on the phone to my old LA neighbor Alicia for about 700 hours.
This time I wrote down some of the funny English-but-not-quite-English things she said during our 11-hour conversation. I have always loved the way she uses language. She’s like a little angry Spanish poem. Attached below, for your edification, are some of the things she said that I adored so much I wrote them down…
“She had to come up and tell me what she thought. She had to put her five cents on me.”
“I have bumped heads with that bitch for years.” This, by the way, was about someone famous, but I cannot, really cannot tell you who. BUT YOU WOULD DIE.
“Finally, we said okay. We bury the hatchets.”
“She was mad. She did not like that I was in her ass.”
And the grand finale:
“I tell her, ‘Stick it in your ass and shove it.'”
I’m just telling you now. “Stick it in your ass and shove it” is the new “Very nice, Coot.” Although I have to say I grow fonder by the minute of “bury the hatchets.”
I’d been guarding my pole finger jealously all day, assuming the nail was going to turn dramatically black, because I see my finger and I want it painted black. Nevertheless, my finger persisted, and while it’s SORE, it appears I may have exaggerated what I thought would be the effect of that ENTIRE POLE OF CLOTHES crashing down on it.
I took my black finger of death and all the rest of my digits to the grocer’s, and I like how all of a sudden it’s 1950 up in here, with my grocer. Mr. Hooper was waiting for me in his white apron.
I got my usual Sad Single Girl items, such as Lean Cusine and cat litter.
(I have forever wanted to find this one Nick at Night promo ad they used to have with Sally from the Dick Van Dyke show. I know it went: “Sally is single. Single, single, single.” I can never find it. I always identified with Sally, the wisecracking writer, and now she’s dead and I can’t find that promo and my finger is gangrenous.)
The point is, I bought my week’s groceries and got this urge to buy an instant lottery ticket. I almost never do this, because (a) I never have cash and (4) I just never remember we have machines at the store. But the universe colluded or whatever, or the Ghost of Sally came over me, because we all know how famous her character was for buying lottery tickets.
Anyway, I won $100. I bought one ticket for one dollar, and I won $100. Can you believe it?! I’m RICH.
I scratched off my ticket in the cold parking lot of the store, of the grocer, and ran back in to tell Mr. Hooper, who has apparently turned into a 20-year-old black kid. When young Mr. Hooper ran the scanner thing over my card, it played a little song and everything. It was so exciting.
“2018 is gonna be my year!” I announced to Mr. Hooper, and stampeded back to my car, where I excitedly plunked back down in the driver’s seat,
on right onto my glasses. Which broke into 90 pieces.
So, you take the good, you take the bad, you take ’em both and there you have 2018 so far.
Happy new year. I hope you will not feel the need to stick this year up your ass and shove it.
P.S. I imagine “promo ad” is redundant, is it not? Son of a bitch. Thank god I have all this money.
P.P.S. Super Strawberry. Dammit. I keep forgetting.
In a stunning display of self-centeredness, and in preparation for my move to another computer, I looked through the webcam photos I have here and came to the conclusion that my six years with (“with”) Ned have aged me.
Above, I had talked to Ned online, but not dated him yet.
On my way to a date with another dude, above, as Ned had said he “wasn’t ready” for exclusivity.
I think at first, as I got all in love and shit, I started to look better.
Our one-year anniversary, where I remember hoping he’d not bring up any ex-girlfriends all night. He did.
Even though I’m all Cell Block H here, I was really happy then.
Right around our two-year anniversary. Is this obsessive, what I’m doing?
We’d moved in together, and trouble was already brewing. We had a terrible blowout on day three. I don’t mean we both got our hair straightened at the hairdresser’s, which woulda been more fun.
I spent Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve in my room, as we fought both those holidays. I’ve no idea why I took a photo of this miserable moment, but I did. I watched Google count down the year from my computer.
My 50th birthday. Half the time I was deliriously in love and the other half I was in fekking agony.
Oh, look, I’m home. Home to Tara. Months from my beloved dog dying. Maybe that’s what aged me.
See? Lookin’ sorta old. Maybe it’s just cause I AM old and has nothing to do with emotional strain. Maybe I’m making all this up.
What’s with me and all the morose photos on St. Patrick’s Day? And why do I stampede to my webcam on that holiday? Luck o’the Apple to ya.
I don’t know. Maybe it’s just m’insides that got old and I don’t look as dreadful as I thought.
Anyway. Have you seen enough photos of me today? Or do you hope for more?
We had our team Christmas party after work yesterday; the creative team, I mean.
That up there is m’coworker Essence, and I did not just use the random name generator or anything. I like her, and I like her earrings maybe more than is healthy.
Am I going to hell for saying, “Advanced-age, curvier Jesus”? Jesus is really embracing his curves.
Advanced-age, curvier June’s plate. I’d like you to admire the plates, as I brought them, along with the matching napkins. Yep. June. Brings so much to a party.
It was nice to see everyone; some even came from our other offices and so on.
But I had to skedaddle out of there fairly early, as I had promised The Other Copy Editor I’d head back to her B&B last night for Wine Wednesday, because last week she was too busy to really talk to me. She and I got there at about the same time, and said one word to each other before…
…we noticed 14 of the Alexes were also there. So we went to one of the rooms, we got a room, as it were, and chatted and giggled and did not at all gossip or discuss sex ad nauseam, as girls do.
TinaDoris, there, second from the right, is who I’ve been going to Pure Barrrrrre with, and yes, I got up with her at 6:00 today and pured our bars already. So once again, we have a Thursday where I’ve packed a lotta living into one day.
Oh, and I almost forgot. At lunch yesterday, I schlepped Jodie Foster back to the shelter, in what is a rapid, convenient drive down the not-at-all-most-congested street in town. She had to get her shots, and I wanted that cold checked out.
She’s fine, but they did give her antibiotics just to be safe. And today I heard big old robust Steely Dan coughing, and I just felt terrible about it. I love that cat so bad.
Speaking of which, Ned called to say he got NedKitty’s remains yesterday. He walked into the vet’s, hoping to see, “Bee or Doris,” he said, like I’d know who they are.
“They’ve seen me come in for years with Murphy,” he said, and yes, that was her real name, “and I was hoping we could talk about her or something.”
Instead, a person he didn’t know handed over DeadKitty, and “no one gave me a hug or anything,” Ned said. It would appear he’s not doing well with the death of that cat.
Meanwhile, he’s still aging me, so.
I gotta get dressed. I got some StitchFix stuff I wanted to show you, but that damn Iris has been sleeping, unmoving, on my wrist this whole time and she is IRKING ME and I have a cramp.
Oh, hell, I gotta take a lipstick picture, don’t I? Okay, I have NO OTHER MAKEUP ON, so be kind. This is Roomiest Rose. What’s with all the big names lately?
Thanks, June. Helpful photo.
I added panicked mascara. And got some in my damn hair. Why do I bother?
Talk to you later. Maybe later we can get together and look at photos of me.
I wish more things could hurt on my body today. Stupid Pure Barre. Also? It turns out? When you get up at 5:20 and you’re used to around, oh, 7:00-ish, you feel really tired all day. Just a little news flash for ye.
“Ye.” Because suddenly I’m in biblical times.
Anyway, Bathsheba, before I forget because you know how I am, let’s delve into my boss, fmr.’s, wardrobe.
My boss, fmr., has an office right outside my open, exposed, raw desk in the open, exposed, raw floor plan that stresses me out on the daily.
“Oh, look, you’re here!”
“Going to lunch?”
“What’s that you’re snacking on?”
“Why you taking antibiotics?”
I’ve no idea who thought making us sit in a huge room with no privacy whatsoever eight hours a day was a stellar idea, an idea that would “inspire” us, because man, do copy editors ever seek inspiration. They don’t at all seek quiet and a place to concentrate. Anyway, whoever thought of it has an office, I guarantee you that.
The point is, my boss, fmr., has an office that she’s never in that’s right next to my exposed-innards desk. I know she’s never there because about 97 times a day, someone says, “Do you know where boss, fmr., is?”
She’s a good boss. She’s the kind who actually answers your emails and takes time out for you and so on, so she’s probably out doing just that, or at meetings, because meetings. There are always the meetings.
Once a month, her Stitch Fix–or is it StitchFix–box comes to work, and as she’s pawing through it, I always take the liberty of stampeding in there to veto her choices. I don’t recall her ever asking me to do that, but let’s face it: she’s in an office. I get like 30 seconds where I’m not exposed, I’ll take it.
This is also why I pee 11 times a day.
Anyway, now a committee of women assault her in this manner when her Stitch Fix–or is it StitchFix–box comes, and that is when I was inspired, in an office and not an inspirational open floor plan, mind you, to
BOSS MY BOSS, FMR.
“What if, every month, you try on all your choices and my readers help you pick?” I asked. And she was all, okay yeah.
Here is her box for this month, wherein she has already decided what to keep and what to get rid of. Ready? Brace yourself. Grab onto the person sitting seven inches from you in your open floor plan.
She is KEEPING the spotty dress!
She said YES to the skirt!!
She is RETURNING the ’80s Forenza-looking sweater with gold thread.
Also, she immediately played up to the camera. For a relatively quiet, unassuming person, it was surprising that you get a camera on her and she’s Princess Diana all of a sudden.
See. This is where we can boss the boss, fmr. next month. Because I wanted her to keep the Blondie Bumstead shirt, totally, for sure, and she returned it.
These boots are cute, but $110. My coworker Poochie, who has 8 million pairs of expensive shoes, was encouraging her to keep them, but I burst in and said, DON’T LISTEN TO POOCHIE. SHE SPENDS 8 MILLION DOLLARS ON SHOES EVERY WEEK.
So that’s a little preview, and next month we’ll actually get to vote. Oooo, ooooo! I can do another SURVEY! We can do a survey for each piece! Is that the best way, do you think? If someone has organizational skillz and can think of a better idea, let me know. LMK, as the kids say. The inarticulate kids.
I meant to show you a photo of today’s Clinique Chubby Stick, but instead I uploaded a photo of my coworker’s dog. I took this photo yesterday, as said dog ate A WHOLE BOWL of chocolates, wrapper and all, so my coworker brought him in so she could make sure he didn’t die. If he had, I’d have lead with that.
HERE we are. This is Graped-Up, and first of all, what does that even mean, and second, it looks like I have no lip color on at all. We have one more boring day of nude-ish colors, then we stampede into some exciting pinks. So.
And speaking of exciting, come back here tomorrow afternoon I MEAN IT. There will be photos of something very exciting. No, not my boobs. Perv.
Before I go, I mentioned this in the comments yesterday but perhaps you didn’t see them, as you were busy asking your coworker who she just called, seeing as she was four inches from you and you heard every word and you KNOW that wasn’t her husband.
My point is, at 6 p.m. today, NedKitty is going to be put to sleep. The vet with the pink hair is going to Ned’s to do the deed. She really isn’t eating anymore–NedKitty, not the vet–and she’s had kidney disease for more than a year.
And yes, I’m going over there while it is happening. And would you like to know what I’m not in the mood for? Opinions re this or anything having to do with Ned. It’s a sad time. And even though we were broken up, when Tallulah died, I called him at 11 p.m. crying so hard he couldn’t understand me and was literally here in less than five minutes. So. I’m going over there for this.
This is the very first picture of NedKitty I ever took, in 2012. She gave me that look for about three years before she decided she liked me. Now I’m the only person who’s allowed to pick her up.
Godspeed, NedKitty. May there be paper bags to wear on your head, and much hair to chew in the kitty afterlife.
Last night, I went to bed at 10 to 8:00. That’s the nice thing about migraine–you get your rest.
I am in a streak, a migraine streak, since before I left for Michigan. I’ve had a damn migraine every day since Sunday. Welcome back to Greensboro! So, last night, I trudged home gingerly, as opposed to MaryAnn-ly, fed the 90 pets, and said, “Edsel, I’m just gonna lie down for a bit.”
Not that he didn’t follow me down the hall with Blu once I said that, dropping it dejectedly when he figured out he wasn’t coming with me. And yes, I felt like a dick.
The point is, next thing you know my alarm is going off and I’m in all my clothes. So. Nice. Nothing feels better than waking up in all your clothes, like you were camping.
Oh, and also, speaking of Edsel, who in case you didn’t know is my gay dog, like anyone just got here. But speaking of Edsel, I have a problem…
I’ve set this room up so that there is now a chair next to the window where the cats eat. This means that stupid Edsel, ON THE DAILY, gets on the chair and eats all the leftover food. Today, he NUDGED LILY OUT OF THE WAY so he could eat her food.
And yes, I yell at him and he turns into a contrite letter C, until the next mealtime, when he gleefully and gayfully does it again.
Surely I can’t be the only person here who owns a cat and a dog. Where do YOU feed your cats so the dog won’t eat it?
Also, my building shares office space with a few counseling offices. Say “office” one more time. Anyway, they’re having a toy drive, which is really a bad idea. Adult humans should really be the only ones driving.
Anyway, every day, Elmo, Big Bird and some blue character–did they update their blue character since the Cookie Monster, which is where I left off in 1971? Anyway, every day these three characters are doing something funny at the box. Sometimes they’re just staring through the carton-holder openings.
…Oh my GOD, you guys. See that text, above? I wrote that, and 900 MORE PITHY WORDS this morning, and when I hit “publish,” it published my headline and NOTHING ELSE. All I was able to get back were these first paragraphs, and YOU MISSED ALL MY PITH. So here I am again, 86 calls to WordPress, AT&T and AppleCare later, at lunch, trying to write you again.
What I was telling you, before the goddamn internet ruined my goddamn life, was that tonight is my work Christmas party, and yes, they call it a “Christmas” party.
The first year I worked there, in 2011, my date was Dick Whitman.
In 2012, they’d laid me off and brought me back as a contractor, and I wasn’t invited to the Christmas party. Hmph.
In 2013 and ’14, I went with Ned.
Then we broke up, as we are wont to do, and in 2015 I took The Naughty Professor.
And then in 2016, I got back together with Ned, as we were wont to do NOT ANYMORE but we were then.
We had both gained eleventy hundred pounds. What stress? And by the way, since Chippiegate 2017, I have done Weight Watchers NOT AT ALL, but I got back on that wagon today. Gained back four of the 10 pounds I’d lost, dammit, but still. I’m thinner than old Big Dot up there in m’polka-dot dress. Old Tri-Chins, up there.
Anyway, this year I’m going alone. Alooooone. ALONNNNNNNNE. I’m going with six fewer pounds and one less man.
Oh, it’s fine.
This year, the event is at the country club, which is exciting because that’s near my house, given what a fancy neighborhood I live in. I live in fancy-adjacent, really. When I first moved here, I told someone what street I live off of, and I remember the person asking which side of Battleground was I on, which is the dividing street between fancy and not fancy. Why didn’t the person just go ahead and ask, “You got money?”
Which, by the way, I do right now. I got paid last night, and I got my monthly deposit from Amazon THANK YOU OH MY GOD YOU GUYS, and also I got paid yesterday for doing that freelance work I never shut up about last month, a check that has four digits in it.
This means I’m considering getting my new dishwasher, or alternatively, tiling the floor in the terrible room with that concrete floor. I’d like to put in some kind of retro-looking linoleum, which does anyone remember where I found that stuff? The really good pretty linoleum? I talked about it before, but now I’m all, where WAS that, even? Does anyone know? I think it was technically a linoleum company from England. I’ll never find it again I HATE EVERYTHING.
Anyway, which should I do? Ooo, Ima add a poll. That always goes so well, when we do that.
I promise you this post was a lot funnier THIS MORNING before I had to remember what I said and re-create it all crabby-like, but I leave you with this…
I put this puppy bed, fmr., on my dining room table, fmr., which now resides in my computer room, fmr., and does anyone local need a very long table? Anyway, I thought it’d be a nice place for cats to lounge in private, and yet? No one used it. My cats never use actual cat BEDS I provide them–they’d prefer Edsel’s bed or my bed or my clean clothes or anything that inconveniences me. Nevertheless, yesterday Steely Dan suddenly embraced the puppy bed, and for that I am grateful.
I leave you now but I’ll be back to give you a poll. Which is what HE said.
Careful readers will note that yesterday I had a mammogram. Or, really, slovenly readers will too, seeing as I just said it yesterday, there, genius.
I tried a new place this year because allegedly–according to their ads–they have same-day mammogram results, but of course only after I’d transferred my files, my D Files, did I learn they do NOT give same-day results in Greensboro.
Greensboro. The city that makes you wait. For results.
But it was really close to work, and very sunny and pretty in there, and once I got called in, each locker where you remove all waist-up clothes was named after a famous woman. I chose the Cher locker.
Two women were in gowns, waiting, as well. “I’m Cher! Who’re you all?”
“I’m Marilyn Monroe,” said a 90-year-old woman, who is probably younger than Marilyn Monroe would be now.
“I’m Elizabeth Taylor,” said another woman, not remotely draped in diamonds. Perhaps she was wearing her White Diamonds. By Coty.
Marilyn, Liz and I waited to be called while I tossed back my hair and showed my ass to servicemen.
The mammogram itself went without incident; I told the person performing it how anxious I am about the waiting thing, and she was very nice. Of course I searched her face for signs of pity when she took the photos.
“She was so young. -ish.”
On the way back to work, I heard from Ned. Goddammit.
He was crying so hard, I could barely understand him. “A vet is coming tonight to discuss putting [NedKitty] down. I found a place that will do it at home.”
I knew this day was coming, and I had plenty, plenty, of salty retorts about chippies and why doesn’t he call a chippie instead of me and also salty chips sound delicious right now. But once I was faced with the reality that NedKitty is finally giving up the fight, I was without salt. “If today’s the day, I’ll come over there,” I said.
I’m the only other person NedKitty loves. She pretty much looks grumpily out at everything in this world, a position in life I can get behind.
I was at work maybe an hour when my phone rang. See. This time between mammogram and letter/email saying all’s clear is my very worst time. The phone rings, I jump. Because the phone call is never good.
“This is Breast Buy calling, and we gave your test to the doctor right away because you’d said you were anxious, and he does see something and wants you to come back in.”
“Today,” I said. “Please get me in today. I’ll lose every moment of all my shit if I have to wait.” So they did, which is really nice, and all I had to do was wait TWO DAMN HOURS to go back and get an ultrasound.
I called Ned, who of course I’d already regaled the “I had a mammogram today” story to, because he knows how I get, and he knew I was trying out The New Place and so on. “Call me when you get the answer. I guess that’s one way to get your results today,” said Ned.
Then? I’m not fucking kidding you, everyone in the WORLD needed to speak with me. I had get-this-done-now work things pop up, and could people not DO THAT? You never know when someone is two hours from a horrifying test.
Then, I swear to you, I heard from a person I dated in Virginia, who’d had a job interview near here, and he wrote to tell me he didn’t get the job. I had to feign interest in anyone’s life but my own, which could be the title of my next book.
Plus also too, I heard from this place I freelance for, with a very detailed message needing to know very detailed info from me RIGHT NOW, and finally? Finally? I got a call from my gym–yes, I have a gym. I know, right? We’d had a dispute, because my membership was up. And even though I called THREE TIMES, offered to COME OVER THERE, to make sure when it officially expired that they’d stop charging me? And they’d said:
“Oh, no, we’re not charging you after October, ma’am. We mean it.” Finally, I got them to email me a document saying my last automatic withdrawal would be in October, and
GUESS WHAT HAPPENED IN NOVEMBER?
So they picked then, that horrifying two-hour window, to get in touch to tell me I was right and they were refunding my money and in my head I’m all HOOO CARE EVERYONE LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE I’M TRYING TO PANIC OH MY GOD.
Finally I drove back to the place, and when I got back up to the lobby,
there was Ned. He was reading a book in that sunny waiting room, which was, in fact, less sunny cause it had been morning and now it was panicky afternoon.
“Ned,” said, finally tearing up.
We sat there silently for a minute, Ned holding my cold clammy hand.
“What are you reading?”
“Oh, it’s nothing.”
“For fucks’s sake tell me about your book or I will beat you with it.” So he did.
It’s a book about Buddhism written by a scientist, which is perfect for Ned because he’s incapable of being remotely spiritual, but science? You throw science at him, and he’s down with that.
“So far, it’s saying that we’re biologically wired to seek pleasure,” said Ned, who never does anything but seek pleasure. And eat salads. Which seems contradictory, but there you go. “And they’ve found that it’s the anticipation of pleasure that’s usually better than the pleasure itself. I don’t know what happens next. I just hope they tell us how to stop doing that,” said Ned, and oh, so many salty things unsaid. The sequel to my third book.
I wish, when I came up with a fake blog name 11 years ago and why the fuck am I still blogging, what’s WRONG with me, that I’d come up with a name you could also mispronounce, so you’d feel my pain. My name, my real name, is forever being mispronounced, and if you know my real name, it does not end in “field.” No, go look at it again. NOT FIELD.
It’s not Jerry Seinfield. It’s not the Zigfield Follies. It’s not Marty Fieldman.
NOT ALL NAMES ARE PRONOUNCED “FIELD,” GODDAMMIT.
“Good luck, sweetheart,” said Ned, and is it possible to want to feel grateful to someone while still wanting to punch them clean in the face? Is there a word for that? I mean other than “dysfunctional.”
I got back to the lockers, and this time I was Princess Diana, which I was hoping was a good sign. I didn’t chat up the other waiters this time, as we were in the diagnostic area, not the hey, it’s our everyday mammogram hoooo care area.
I did, however, have the wherewithal to snap this selfie, in case I lived till today to tell you this tale. I call this Portrait of Petrified. I was hair-i-fied.
Not that that was such a clever name, but do you know what annoys me? Artists who title their work Self Portrait. Wow. Thanks for the effort, there, Snappy.
While I was begowned, waiting, I checked my phone.
“Did you Facebook unfriend me?” my stupid-ass friend Mark wanted to know. He has no idea how close he came to making me stomp my phone to death. I wrote him back, explaining that I’d disabled my Facebook for now, and then he wanted to chat, and that is why I paid a hit man to snap the face right off my now-faceless friend Mark.
I was tense. Yesterday was tense. (Entire contents of my fourth book, actually just an index card, written by a man, because I wore myself out with words.)
Finally, they brought me into a room with an ultrasound, and then the ultrasounder said, “I’ll show this to the doctor and be right back.”
Here was my view, while I waited for the woman or, worse, the doctor, to walk in. I did not check my phone, because I could only imagine the inanity awaiting me on that thing. Instead, I just listened to my heart beating in my ears.
The door opened.
“I bring you nothing but good news,” she said.
Oh, Jesus Christ and all the pleasure-seeking Buddhas.
Seriously, she spoke for 10 seconds before I even caught up with the “good news” part. I was so determined to steel myself against the bad news that good news wasn’t even an option.
In summation, I have a cyst. And we all need to remove our Dust Mite Allergy Awareness pins and slap on a MAMMOGRAMS FUCKING SUCK BUT IT’S A CYST pins.
I stayed a little late at work to make up for the work I missed while I lay dying over at the Hootie and the Blowfish concert. Then I drove right over to Ned’s, where a pink-haired vet was assessing NedKitty.
“Well, her eyes are still bright, and she trotted down the stairs to see me,” said the vet. “Truthfully, I thought she’d be worse.”
Ned had on the coffee table the litany of pills and powders and ointments he uses each day to keep that cat alive. The vet laid out a plan to keep NedKitty comfortable, and a big part of that plan is that Ned is to no longer force as many pills down her cat neck, and she doesn’t have to have that goddamn IV three times a week. The point is for her to feel happy and not sick till she’s ready to go.
Of course, we all know my feelings on the topic. I’d have offed that cat back in February. But it’s not my cat, so I kept quiet, and meandered into the kitchen, where NedKitty was crouched, hoping for a treat.
I gave her about 472 treats. And girlfriend scarfed them. So.
I did not take pictures of her old, bony self last night. She wouldn’t want you all to see her this way. Let’s remember her as the fluffy white bitch she usually was–which incidentally is the title of my biography, to be handed out at my funeral. Which, according to the fine folks who saw way too much of m’boobs yesterday, isn’t going to be any time soon.
While Doctor Pink Hair and my ex-boyfriend discussed NedKitty’s exit plan, I picked up her old bones and held her. She won’t let anyone, not even Ned, pick her up and hold her, but she lets me. I kissed her smelly old head and stroked her cheeks.
She’s got a few weeks left, and they will be comfortable weeks. She still wears bags on her head and insists the tap be turned on so she can stick her head under the water like a lunatic. And when it’s finally time, I will be there with her, the one of two people she likes. Everyone else can fuck off. Which will be the engraving on my tombstone, where I will be buried with the ashes of my 79 dead pets.
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” Ned wept, as the vet left. “Can I take you to dinner?”
“No, Ned,” I said. “All I want to do is get into my owl pajamas, and eat toast, and watch TV.” Truthfully, I was fekking exhausted. I was drained. I was spent.
I hadn’t been home all day, which for me is rare. I almost 100% of the time come home at lunch, even though Edsel almost never pees at lunch, Edsel is a camel, or…some kind of other animal that never has to pee. Do camels pee? I have no idea. I mean, of course they pee, but…
Oh hooo care. The point is, it had been 11 hours that I’d been gone, and I trudged in like Ashley after the war, and hey, June, trot that example out for a change, why don’t you. I kissed Edsel, and fed everyone, except…
Where the fuck was Steely Dan? “STEEEEEEEEEEELY DAN!” I called out the front door. Then the back door. Then back to the front door.
Oh, great. This was gonna be God’s deal. I get to be okay, but I have to lose Steely Dan.
I thought of all the possibilities. He’d been run over. A family finally decided this robust, shiny cat was a “stray” and dragged him inside and locked the door. (Dear Family: Good luck with that. Soon he’ll be outside looking in the window at you, and you’ll have no idea how.) A dog ate him. He left me.
“STEEEEEEEELY DAN!” I called again.
THIRTEEN HOURS that cat was gone, before I heard the telltale THUMP that he’d just left the roof and was back on the deck, waiting to come in. For all I know, he was on the roof for all 13 hours.
I may have overreacted to his return. I may have swooped him up, felt his robust, youthful cat self, kissed his cold ears, and hugged him hard and cried like an idiot.
Dear Steely Dan: I am sorry I took all the emotions of the day out on your bastard self. But mom has a cyst, and she was never so glad to have a cyst in the history of cysts.
Do you like how I keep using “blog” as a verb? You’re welcome.
When we were last together, promising to write while Mister pulled us apart (“NOTHING BUT DEATH COULD KEEP ME FROM IT”),
Dear June: Watch new movies. You’re killing us. Also, “blog” is a noun. Love, All 10 Readers.
I think it was Thanksgiving, or maybe the day after. It’s all a blur, man. A blur of carbs. So I’ll start up where we left off, except for the tiny detail that I can’t recall where we left off.
Dear June: SCROLL DOWN. God. Signed, Nine readers, because one of us got sick of you.
Here are some other things I did on my trip to Michigan other than have Thanksgiving…
Walked with mom. It really wasn’t that cold out, and yet mom was ready to climb Everest with her outdoor garb. She kept texting my stepfather about which base camp we were at.
Shopped with women. I feel like we were super original in this regard, as no other women in the country ventured out to stores on the Friday after Thanksgiving. You will see that my cousin Katie the Lesbian joined us–she hadn’t been at Thanksgiving because she is a nurse and was scheduled to work. I’d be all, fuck that. People can wait. Have you MET stuffing?
It’s funny, I keep thinking the Pope will write me about that sainthood, but he keeps writing back New phone, who dis.
Is it sainthood? Is that what it’s called when someone besaints you? It would appear that I don’t know.
Anyway, my mother and I popped into this vintage/resale/some new stuff store she likes, and careful readers will note that all I ever do is go to vintage/some new/resale stores and what genetics? Anyway, we’d been there awhile, exclaiming over these incredibly bad purses, that had gems and leopard spots and big diamonds for clasps, and wondering what kind of asshole would buy them, when lo and behold who was at the store but my Aunt Kathy and my lesbian cousin Katie.
Uncareful readers will note that Katie is not a lesbian at all, but her niece, as a very small child, asked her if she were a lesbian, assuring her it’s okay to be gay, because she felt Aunt Katie dressed like a lesbian, which continues to be my favorite thing anyone has ever said, other than Ozzy Osbourne saying, “Things could be worse. I could be Sting.”
Say, short sentence. How’re your short sentences treatin’ ya?
The point is, we shopped the store again, as Katie was looking for a chest of drawers, and maybe a chest of a woman, given her wardrobe choices. And HERE’S WHAT HAPPENED. We got up to one of the terrible purses, each one more gaudy than the next, and Katie said, “June, do you not love these? I could so see you with one of these purses.”
SHE WAS SERIOUS.
“What? You like gaudy!”
There’s gaudy and there’s middle-aged, look-how-whimiscal, when-I-am-old-I-shall-wear-purple-at-Olive-Garden-with-20-other-friends gaudy.
My mother and I kept presenting Katie with lovely old chests, and we garnered a few Mardi Gras beads for our efforts. BAH. No. We found midcentury, curvy, painted-pale-green, just lovely dressers, and Katie would be all, “Oh, uh-huh, yeah” with this FEIGNED interest, till she’d come across a jet black dresser with rabbit skulls for drawer pulls. “Oh, this one’s nice,” she’d say. Or the unvarnished one that’d been beaten with Micky’s Big Mouth 40-ouncers for character. “This one’s great.”
Aunt Katie, you dresser like a lesbian.
Aunt Kathy got large sunglasses, and I got this poncho WHAT DO YOU MEAN WHIMSICAL MIDDLE AGE? We tried to pose like fashionable mannequins, but had no dignity.
After, mom and I went to her old house. A sale is pending, but in the meantime, it’s still hers. If I had time, I’d find old photos and compare them to her blank house, but I like to stay active.
The only picture I could find is this shot with Ned in it, and I hope you’re happy that I put this up and then felt physically ill and had to poop. I pooped for you people.
Dear June, Thanks. Signed, Eight of us, because one of us was all, oh good. Bowel talk. And then left.
The good news is that Gus’s obstacle course equipment was still back there, and despite his being 104 and never hearing me when I talked to him this time, he was up in his playground. Gus likes to stay active. He also likes brunch and walks on the beach, and is looking for a partner in crime.
(I hate online dating. In case anyone wonders how that’s going.)
Also in my mother’s basement is an old piano, that is sadly out of tune, and I’m sorry to tell you there are four–FOUR–sad videos of us trying to play heart and soul.
I see that I have droned on for nearly a thousand words already, and I ONLY GOT THROUGH FRIDAY and not even FRIDAY NIGHT, and you know how I love the nightlife. How I’ve got to boogie. Because who’s 52?
So I will report back tomorrow with more riveting highlights of my trip. However, I can’t leave without giving you a convenient Amazon link with which to shop shop shop, because it’s almost Christmas, and it’s time to spend way too much to fill the hollow blackness that lies inside us.
Or maybe that’s just me.
Up there is a link to Amazon, which happens to be more than $500 worth of Mac cosmetics, and talk about filling your empty blackness. I feel like that would do it. For, you know, like an hour!
Pink Uggs would also quiet the unrest.
If you shop using June, you will make a mom happy at Christmas. AND I DO NOT HAVE DEBT ANYMORE. I do need a new dishwasher, however. Oooo, wait…
Okay, seriously? You can get a DISHWASHER on Amazon?
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
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.
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.”
“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.
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
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.