I poured water in the damn coffeepot, put the filter in JUST SO, put the lid on JUST FUCKING SO, turned it on, waited to hear it gurgle, showered, came back, and?
It didn’t brew.
THIS COFFEEPOT IS THE DEATH OF ME.
I had to pick it up and put it back down. Sometimes it’s the only way to get it to begin, you know, making coffee. You know how people say, “You had one job”?
Also, I took this cute photo of the Iris.
So if anyone has suggestions for a NONFUSSY coffeemaker, please advise in the comments.
Meanwhile, I haven’t shown you the rest of my Christmas decorations.
I guess you get my drift.
It’s Christmassy up in here.
When I wasn’t decorating this weekend, I took a drive to the country with Ned.
“This was supposed to be No-Ned November,” I told him. Nevertheless, our friends Bitchy Resting Face Alex and her husband opened a general store in the country, and I’ve been dying to see it.
Ned and BRFAlex’s husband always really liked each other. They both have an element of the ridiculous that they see in each other.
As opposed to me. I have no element of ridiculous.
We didn’t tell them we were coming, didn’t know they’d be there. BRF Alex wasn’t, but her husband was.
Oh my god, I loved their store!
I got a t-shirt I been sleeping in ever since, some locally made pumpkin bread, and some sugar sticks. (See the photo above. It’s the box of “Virginia Beauty.” I have a close-up picture of it, but WordPress is acting squirrely.)
Oh! Did that work? Can you see it? I’ve spent way too much time on sugar sticks, which is what you’d say if you saw me naked.
Anyway, after that, Ned and I drove around in the country a bit, and we came around a bend and Ned said, “Did you just see that mountain with a stone face?!”
“No, I saw it with my regular face,” I said, and then proceeded to laugh at own self for an hour and 45 minutes.
It was Hanging Rock. In case anyone’s gonna ask me and get all geographical on my ass.
Also, I saw an owl on a phone line.
Anyway, I’m glad I got to see the store, and why do all my young friends own things? Meanwhile, here I am, working for the man. Technically, I work for the woman. I work for the largest woman-owned something-or-other in the South or east of the something or something like that.
I should own my own store. A Specific Geographical and Facts Store.
Anyway, I guess that’s all I’ve got to report. This week is my mammogram, so it’s time for my annual mammogram terror. I should get EMDR for mammograms. Do you know what EMDR is? Allegedly it works, although I’ve tried it before and I’m still an anxious pile of dung. Google fucking it.
Current situation: My tight-fitting Laila Ali dryer bonnet is atop my head. I’ve got fresh coffee in my favorite mug (for local folk: It’s one of those really thick ones from The Green Bean) and I DID have a dog snout in my lap till just now, when I snapped at my computer.
Does your computer…BOUNCE things at you at the bottom of the screen? First of all, why does everything need updating ALL THE TIME on one’s computer? Surely these aren’t all necessary.
The other day, I finally acquiesced to the CONSTANT bouncing request to update something or other, and after having to shut everything down and wait, then click a bunch of shit to get back on again, once all that was done and I could commence using my computer again, do you know what it did?
It asked if I wanted it to check for updates. Something at the bottom of my screen BOUNCED at me to ask. So you know what I did? I said okay. After being unable to use my computer for 40 minutes so everything could update, I wanted the satisfaction of that damn bouncing thing saying, Sorry. I bounced for no reason. Sorry I’m Tigger.
But you know what happened instead? IT TOLD ME I NEEDED UPDATES.
I HAD JUST UPDATED IT JUST THEN THAT MOMENT.
So that’s why Edsel took his snout away just now. I just got all set up here at my desk when
went two, not one but two, things at the bottom of my screen.
“WHAT,” I snapped, and Edsel has left the lap of luxury. He fears my moods.
I guess in general, I hate being interrupted. I assume this has to do with my attention deficit problem, in that I have a deficit of attention. So once you pull me away from something, I get highly irritated because I know it’s going to be difficult for me to get back where I was. It’s, like, all I can do to stay focused in the first place and now you’re pulling me away to say, “How was your weekend?”
The open floor plan at work vexes me. Can you tell?
Anyway, so I’m back in the swing of everything, if you want to call this swinging. I got to work and had exactly what I like, actually. A ton of stuff due in a just-a-bit-scary-but-doable amount of time, no one rushing in to tell me to set that aside to tackle ANOTHER scary thing, and also there was free dessert from some meeting. So.
Then at night, I went to my old movie theater and saw Rear Window.
Isn’t this like the 20th time you’ve seen Rear Window at that theater, June?
Actually, no. The last time I had planned to go, with Ned, and at the last minute I had a crisis du jour and told him I had to cancel. An hour later, my crisis was averted, and I phoned Ned and he wasn’t there.
This was back in like year one or two, when I still liked Ned and I did not know the way of his people, such as he is a
about plans. He makes a plan, he sticks with said plan. So what did he do? He went to Rear Window without me.
Oooooo, I was mad. I guess I’d wanted him to stay home worried sick about my crisis. Or dash over and help. But instead he just went to the movie. Like in Family Circus, where the gramma does stuff but with the outline of deceased grandpa.
That was the day I Jack Ruby’d Ned.
I TORE down to the movie theater, and I WAITED outside till it was over, and oooooo, I was burning mad. I should have known then how Ned would be the whole relationship. June? I can take her or leave her. June is French dressing.
Anyway, once people started milling out of the theater, Ned said I BURST into the crowd like Jack Ruby, out of nowhere and full of rage.
I didn’t shoot him, though. I just scowled and complained.
I remember Ned calmed me down by saying, “Every time Grace Kelly was on the screen, I thought about you.” That line totally worked on me, and I am with you on the “Bitch, please” you’re uttering right now. What can I tell you? I was smitten.
Anyway, I saw it last night, the movie I mean, not Jack Ruby, and why is Grace Kelly so perfect? Why am I not her? Grace Kelly would never sit in the front seat of her car and eat Long John Silvers.
I have to go to work, and this new 8 a.m. start time is like to kill me. But before I do, I wanted to share with you this.
First of all, I’m not back together with Ned, and I’m not sleeping with Ned.
As you know, from your Big Book of–oh, hell, like two days ago, I told you that since I changed my mind at the last minute about which house I wanted to buy, I ended up being homeless for about 10 days.
I closed on my house the day a hurricane was coming. The news was obsessed. Flo is on its way! No hurricane in the history of time will be as bad as Florence! You thought Florence from The Jeffersons was bad, wait till you see THIS, sucka!
Didn’t she always call Mr. Jefferson “sucka”? Why wasn’t she terminated?
They ended up moving the time of my closing to earlier in the day so that we could all get our business done before we washed out to sea. I was just excited that if a tree fell on my old house, I’d not be responsible.
Twasn’t an unfounded fear, as a HUGE tree fell in my old neighbor’s yard. It’s still there, last time I creepy crawled my old house. (The new owner’s put up a privacy fence and a screen door in the front and fixed the deck, and when I spoke to her once, she told me she’d painted the whole inside neutral.)
So on the first day of Hurricane Florence, I went to the shabby old downtown office of a shabby old attorney who was clearly suffering from some sort of personality disorder, and we signed the 20204023 papers that he had to reprint because he’d misspelled my name on all of them.
My real name. It’s f-e-l-d. It doesn’t have an “i” in it.
THERE IS NO FIELD IN JUNE GARDENS.
Anyway, after we finished with Mr. Personality, up there, in the law offices of Smile, Chat and Eye Contact, LLC, the rain was starting to fall, and the sky had an otherworldly feel.
I like how this is supposed to be a rundown of my love life and is instead a blow-by-blow account of my closing date.
The point is, they were predicting this giant hurricane and the 40 pets and I had just moved in with Ned temporarily. There were all sorts of dire warnings about not going anywhere, so Ned stocked up on eggs, oranges, beans, rice and beer, while I stocked up on Beefaroni.
And then we were stuck together in a hurricane house for days on end. I mean, we weren’t allowed to go anywhere, which by the way ended up being sort of a hurricane who cried wolf and not that strong here, and then like two weeks later another hurricane
came through and was scary as shit.
Oh my god, June, get to your vagina.
Right, so, Ned and I lived together for 10 days, and we got along great. It was like the first days of our relationship, minus the bone-chilling fear that he’d leave me that I had during those first years. So we were having fun living together, and we were stuck in the house for days, and bing, bang, boom, there it was. We Did It.
But we are not back together by any stretch. We aren’t even speaking, currently, but when we are speaking, I can tell Ned is out there on the prowl. And the greatest part is, I give no shits about that. Go. Find a new person. I hope she’s a succulent. I was an orchid.
I sound bitter. Maybe I am, a bit, because I’d set my sights on him so much. But we’re too different to ever be a thing again.
You know what I want? I want a man who comes over on a Friday and stays through Sunday. Actually, now that I write that, that sounds horrendous. Get the fuck out of my house.
But I want someone who can just hang out, is I guess what I mean. With Ned, we always had to be doing something or have some kind of plan. We were always on a date. We could never just be. We were never just reading our books on the couch, with no plan in mind, not even when we lived together. Ned was always, “What do you want to do now?” and if I didn’t want to do anything, he’d leave. “Well, then I’m gonna ride my bike.”
There was a level of intimacy missing from that. At least that’s how I saw it.
So as for someone new, nope. And I’m not even trying. I’m not on any dating sites right now. I had a bad date on Good Friday, and that’s the last one I recall. Last Saturday I saw Ward, a man I went out with a few times in 2017, but I don’t know if it counts as a date. We’ve texted sporadically since then.
I think maybe at this age, there just aren’t many good men. You know who’d be the best, probably? Widowers. At least they made the relationship work till they offed their wives. I should hang around the funeral homes, or maybe grieving groups.
“What are you grieving?”
“The elasticity of my skin.”
I guess what I’m saying is, I don’t care if I never meet another man or have another relationship. Maybe that sounds sad and dreadful and Miss Havisham-ish to you, but there it is. I don’t feel sad and dreadful, I just feel sort of resigned. Contrary to what they say, there is not a lid for every pot, and I don’t even want anyone to put a lid on me.
It might be that I’m too set in my ways.
So that wraps up June’s love life and oh! For some reason, many people really want to know why Nancy, Ned’s cat, was a twat. There was much interest in the land re Nancy’s twatitude.
When Nancy lived at my house, when I was fostering her kittens, she never met the other pets. Then she moved in with Ned, and then 10 months later we all traipsed in one day and she wasn’t having it.
The other pets were fine with HER, but she was never fine with THEM. She spent 10 days growling.
For a normally cheerful cat, she was just a stripy bag of bitch that whole time. So that dashes any hopes Ned would have for getting a second cat. Not that that wouldn’t take him seven years of “deciding” anyway.
I 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.
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.
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.
Then guess what I did. I joined them. And yes, my lip IS starting to bruise.
Also, I enjoy this shot…
…as I look like some kind of villain.
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.
“Yes,” I said, and what I like about myself is I’m a woman of my word.
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.
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.
All I needed was the one photo, but you know how Ned is.
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.
Speaking 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.
Have you ever noticed that? If you’re bored stiff, your social world is a desert. But if you’ve got shit to do, people are crawling out from every damn crack in the wall. Waving their antennae.
I had a busy week at work last week, but when I got back from lunch on Friday, there wasn’t anything to do. So I emailed a few people. “Do you have any work for me?”
At work, we publish blog posts, but they’re not fun blog posts like mine are. Aren’t you having the time of your life right now, for example? Aren’t I a carnival ride? Anyway, the person who’s in charge of all that said, “Well, I was tryina write a blog post for next week and it isn’t gelling. Do you want to try?”
Do I want to try? Hmph! I am the blog-post master! I’ve written 5,000 posts in 11 years! Gimme dat.
Except the thing is, they aren’t fun blog posts, did I mention that? Did I mention that every time I’ve written “post” today I’ve typed it “pist” and I’m getting pist?
So I had to think of a deep, work-related topic. Then I hadda do research to back it up. The next thing you know, old Jed’s a millionaire, and also I’m knee-deep in this blog post.
When I got to work Monday, I was still working on it. “Hey, you gonna have that today?” the Person in Charge of Blogs (PiCoB) wanted to know.
Am I gonna HAVE that TODAY? Good lord! Maybe I could have asked more questions before I undertook this endeavor, and I know that shocks you. I know you’re aware of how carefully I think things out before I plunge into them. Oh, sure, I’ll be the astronaut who flies to Pluto. What I gotta do? Is it just wear this dome hat? Cause okay.
Because of course Monday I actually got work to do. For clients. So I had to “prioritize” that, and you know what annoys me? Prioritizing when I’m into something else.
So not only was I tryina “prioritize,” like that’s a real thing, but also there was the part where there are people in the world.
“Hey, how was your weekend?” 394,330,930400,003 coworkers wanted to know.
HOOOO CARE how my weekend was? And do people not recognize body language? If someone is bent half an inch from their screen, not looking at you when you walk by HORRIFIC OPEN FLOOR PLAN WHERE PEOPLE WALK BY EVERY SECOND, why do you think that someone looks amenable to coming up and chatting?
And it was particularly bad yesterday, because royal wedding. Although I do have to say, the straight married guy who got into the wedding thanks to my enthusiasm was cute to see. Did I tell you about him? Through the months, me being into it made HIM into it. He read way more about the intricacies of the wedding than I did, as he has always been a thorough person, and would probably not volunteer to write a work blog post in one working day. He wanted to know why they’re the duke and duchess of Sussex, and how the hell should I know?
“I thought you know all about this wedding,” he said, and then I felt guilty that I don’t know the ins and outs of why Sussex.
But aside from The Straight Guy Who Now Likes Royal Weddings, I pretty much wanted to kill everyone else.
And my phone. Y’all.
I’m sorry. But do you have a full-time job, and also friends who do NOT work a full-time job? Because holy cats yesterday. Ten-foot-long texts. Follow-up texts wondering why I wasn’t texting.
800-minute-long voice mails. About nothing.
Four-hundred emails. Ned–NED!!!–emailed 26 times. That is not an exaggeration. Twenty-six times. And he called me at lunch. Except I wasn’t at lunch. Because working.
People tagging me on things. People messaging me things. I mean, it was endless. And I feel like if you don’t respond IMMEDIATELY, people get insulted. So I’d just like to say to everyone in my life:
I am there Monday through Friday. All day. That’s what I’m doing when you email me the song lyrics from Magnet and Steel and wonder why I don’t reply with the next line.
You’re a woman who’s lost to your song. OoooOOOooo…
That really is an excellent song. I hate to be your grandma, but why does Stevie Nicks always have her hair in her face?
“What art and charts are you including with your blog post?” PiCoB wanted to know.
You know what I ought to do? Is ask more questions before I plunge into things. Things like, When is this due? How much effort will it require? Will you be needing charts and images? If you’re 46, why have you never married?
Things like that.
Anyway, I got the damn blog post done, and I got my work for clients done, AND…AND!! I got some last-minute freelance work done that came yesterday and that they wanted back yesterday, for my old workplace in LA. I did that after work, because I felt so fresh.
Then I went home and no one called, texted or emailed me all night.
Of course I took a flattering selfie at the dentist. What are you? New? I feel like I didn’t look that bad in real life, but what do I know?
They have a procedure there where you get the whole crown in one visit–no horrific temporary. No mold where they stick the goop in your head. They built my crown on the computer and made it in the other room and stuck it in my head. I believe I took this while I was waiting for my crown. When AMN’T I waiting for a crown? “Amn’t” is a good word that I made up when I was like two.
Anyway, technology. It’s not just a good idea. It’s the law. Say, June, why don’t you try to make some sense?
Afterward, I thought it was okay. I went to the grocery store and got dog food, cat food, Steely Dan canned food (like he’s not also a cat), and coffee. All the staples. Then I came home and walked Edsel for half an hour, fed everyone, and considered watching another rousing episode of Parenthood (Kristina Braverman is an asshole) when
Oh my god, ow.
It really started to hurt. I mean, he told me it might be “sensitive,” but mother of god. And of course I own zero ibuprofen. Migraine people don’t even bother with it.
And this is why it’s a problem that Ned is four minutes away. Ned, who owns enough ibuprofen to reduce SpongeBob’s inflammation. When he sees a hot sponge girl.
Ned is an old man, who continues to insist upon the gym, so as a result something always hurts on Ned. Not his conscience. Don’t be silly. But the rest of him.
So he came over. Brought me meds. And all the cats rejoiced throughout the land. Well. That’s not entirely true. Steely Dan mostly ignored him, after an initial minute of attempts to have THAT guy let him out, since The Girl is not budging on this matter.
“He’s just looking up at the doorknob,” Ned noted.
Anyway, Ned’s delivery of meds went without incident, and the ibuprofen did work, and maybe I’ll take more today, because while it’s certainly better, it’s not 100% pleased with this coffee hitting it.
The rest of my evening pretty much went like this. Poor Iris and her lack of eyes.
…I just saw an email that work wants me to come in right away and get started on something, so I’d better go early, but while I was convalescing yesterday, I had a thought.
What if Princess Diana isn’t really dead? What if the royal family was sick and tired of her bullshit, and she was sick of attention, so they made up a scheme where they faked her death? No, I’m not smoking the pot. But I have been watching The Royals, that stupid show on E (Exclamation Point).
Did I ever tell you when the economy was booming and I lived in LA, they called me, E Exclamation Point did, to offer me a job? They called me at WORK. I don’t even know how they got my number. But they needed a copy editor, and they wanted me. It wasn’t “Come in for an interview,” it was “Come in for the job.”
And this was all very exciting and flattering, till they asked what I made. I told them. “Are you willing to be flexible on that salary?” they asked. The TELEVISION NETWORK asked. I was working for an independently owned court reporting agency at the time, proofing depositions. Who do YOU think had a bigger budget? Give me a break.
“I’m willing to be flexible about my salary going UP, sure,” I said. And that was the end of my relationship with E Exclamation Point.
And see? I could be starring in the very intelligent The Royals right now. Or I could be proofreading it.
I gotta go.
P.S. My yard is pretty and I keep forgetting to show you. (Oh my GOD, June, you’re supposed to get to work.)
Okay. I’m really going to work now.
hey. GuRl leef compewter onn. dO someWon come to leT steeeelee out? miSTEAK been maade. STeeeleee need owet. OWT. OWWT.
Eds won’t stop acting the fool this morning. “Come sit and chew Blu and be a nice dog,” I just commanded him.
Really, I should put off covering that chair for longer. It’s not disgusting enough. I guess if I recover that chair, putting it by the back door again is out, right? I need, like, a mud chair back here. Or, hey, a dog bed. Look at me. The ideas just keep coming. I’m like Ben Franklin.
Anyway, I’m tryina think of things that’re new that I can actually tell you about.
On Tuesday, Ned went to Taco Bell. As you do. When you’re Ned.
One of the old movies was on at my old theater, and seeing as how we’re old, Ned and I decided to go. “I have to get my hair cut first,” said Ned.
My first date with Ned was January 19, 2012. You’ll recall that was a Thursday.
The reason we went out on a Thursday was because when he asked me out for the first time on a Monday and we were tryina make a plan, he was getting his hair cut on Tuesday, so Tuesday was out. I was having dinner with The Other June on Wednesday. So Thursday it was. I do not know why I remember all this.
My point is, Ned always gets his hair cut on Tuesdays. Every sixth Tuesday. I get my hair done whenever I have money and/or my gray roots are so absurd that I look like Shirley Maclaine when Deborah Winger is dying in Terms of Endearment. I know I always use that line, but it’s so accurate.
So, Ned gets his hair done, a phrase he adores, right near my house on every sixth Tuesday. He’s done around 6:00, and the old-people movie starts at 7:00, so we didn’t have loads of time, and I said, “You wanna go to Taco Bell?” and when he said yes, I fell over dead and I’m writing this while lying in the silk. Next to the astronaut.
He got a taco and a glass of water, which did not annoy me in the slightest.
The movie we saw was Raiders of the Lost Ark, and what amuuuuused me was I got home after, and pretty much every coworker I have posted something from Raiders of the Lost Ark on the social media, there.
One guy took a picture of the organist playing beforehand. “Raiders of the Lost Ark on the big screen? Shut up and take my money,” he wrote.
I did not post to any social media about my movie. I’m just taking 450 words to tell you here.
Yesterday I came home for lunch and noticed Edsel’s tooth was loose. That fangy one hanging out. He’s like a 6-year-old human with a loose tooth. Except he’s an 8-year-old dog, and are dogs supposed to have loose teeth? I think not.
So I took him to the vet, which he enjoys 100% of. Even though he shakes once he sees the building, it ends almost immediately once we’re inside. People talk to him and give him treats, he can glare at other dogs who have the nerve to inhabit the planet. Then he gets a restorative treat after. The whole setup works for the Edz.
That crumpled thing back there is a dress I keep meaning to take to dry cleaning. Ask me how that’s going.
Anyway, $78 later, it turns out he has a very loose tooth, and that it’ll fall out on his own very soon. He needed a rabies shot, anyway, so he got that yesterday, and we refilled his Sentinel. As he is a stoic sentinel.
The vet said as dogs age, those bottom teeth get loose. I know Lu lost one down there too. They asked if he liked to chew, and that is when I got to tell them all about Blu.
Turns out, m’vet’s Corgie also enjoys toys from the company that makes Blu. This would be a good time to add one of my Amazon links I never remember to add.
Edsel has destroyed every “Can’t be destroyed” toy out there, till one of you–and who was that?–sent Edsel Blu. He’s on Blus #3 and #4 now (he has two, so when one goes missing in the yard or cushions, there’s a backup so he doesn’t get the shakes). It took him years to ruin Blu #1, and we left Blu #2 in Uncle Ned’s yard when we lived there, I think.
Anyway, that company makes other toys, too, and if you click that photo, above, you can of course go on Amazon and shop for whatever you want. As long as you click over there by using the image or my seaglass image that’s on every page of this not blog, I will become rich.
Also, this is how I’ve been writing you. With this weasel strewn across me. I just write around her. If you knew how often I just write around a cat.
Last night, I went BACK to the old theater and saw Gillian Welch, which was good, except she said one weird thing.
“I had an interesting experience in your city today,” she began, strumming her guitar. Everyone cheered, all WOOOO! Greensboro!
“I saw what’s left of Proximity and Revolution,” she began.
Okay. What was she talking about? I’ve lived here for 10 years. Proximity is the nice hotel I like to drink at. It’s lovely. The only Revolution I know is that cool mill where I get my hair done NOT every sixth Tuesday. It’s thriving. New apartments have gone in there, and new restaurants and stores. It’s humming with activity. What was she…?
Did she just DISS our city?
The whole audience was stonily silent. I have no idea what she was talking about, but it seemed …not kind. Pretty much everyone I know who lives here likes living here. People always talk about how there’s “enough to do” and that it’s affordable and nearly everything is 10 minutes away. Downtown is booming.
Anyway, it made me mad, although I’m still not clear on where she meant, anyway.
I’d better get to the work, and do the work, like I’m RuPaul or whatever.
It’s Monday morning, and I can’t remember what I did this weekend. Not in a John Lennon “I slept with so many Asian chicks who weren’t my wife” kind of way, although really, you can’t blame him for that. And who knows? Maybe I did sleep with Asian chicks all weekend. Let’s look at this weekend’s photos and find out.
Oh, right! On Friday morning, I met my new next-door neighbor. The New Peg. He’s got the prettiest cat you’ve ever seen, an orange fluffy girl named Oscar. She’s orange and fluffy–did I mention?–and I was a paragon of dignity, meeting her. And this is my neighbor’s friend’s dog, Rex, who was just visiting. He and Eds raised hackles at each other. It was beautiful.
Work was ridick all of Friday. There was some sort of snafu, and the copy editor who sits behind me and I officially had 30 hours’ worth of work to do in one day. We managed to delegate it and/or do it our own selves, and by 5:00, my eyeballs had fallen out and rolled to a bar.
Right after work, I went around the corner to the funeral home. Jo’s brother died last week, and I told her I’d come to either the funeral or the visitation, and the visitation (say “visitation” one more time, June) was literally around the corner from work.
As I got out of my car, another man was, too, not that I’m a man. So even though we didn’t know each other, we became Funeral Buds and stood in the receiving line and introduced each other to people we knew there. He was like my 20-minute husband.
Then I headed home, because I was so busy at work Friday that I never got to come home for lunch, so I let Eds out and fed everyone, and while I was doing that, The New Peg, my neighbor, came out and said, “Would you like to come over for a beer?”
Hell, yes, I would.
When Jo’s visitation was over, and I just made it sound like the angel of the Lord appeared to Jo, she called me and we got up with each other for snacks and moves from very old men.
We’d gone to this wine bar that apparently you must be 45 or older to attend. You know how on rides they’ll have, like, an upright alligator with a jaunty hat that says, “You must be this tall to ride”? At this place, they have a magnifying mirror. “You must have this many wrinkles to enter.”
“You must be able to recite the chorus to The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia to gain admission.”
Anyway, a man who was actually even older than Jo and me sauntered over. “You mind if I join you while I look for wine?” We happened to be near all the bottles, and I’d make some sort of drunk joke here, but Jo is the least-drinky person who actually drinks that I know. “Do they sell half-glasses?” I’ve heard her say.
In case you thought Jo and I eventually acquiesced and ended up in an old-man sandwich, a tongue-and-liverwurst on rye, we did not. We went home to our respectable abodes without incident.
On Saturday, I saw Ned.
Oh, good, June. Good.
We went out for Fruity Pebbles cupcakes, and by “we” I mean I ordered one and he looked on in horror.
Then we went to Target, where my soulmate had clearly been at some point earlier. Hashtag poop! Oh my god, hashtag poop! It’s my new favorite hashtag!
The whole point of seeing Ned was so that I could eventually pop in to see Nancy, and you can see how delighted she was about the visit.
Really, she PHOTOGRAPHS bitchy, but she’s the sweetest cat in the world. She’s always all, o hai! So happy and purry.
And she’s got her litterbox down pat!
Then I came home and some cat had pooped on the floor. I got new litter. I think it didn’t go down well. Irony.
On Sunday I had Alf over to tell me how much it would cost to fix all the things I want fixed. The only really scary cost is the one to put a real door up on my walk-in closet, aka Steely Dan’s Cafeteria Plan.
He’s telling me I need a new deck, Alf is. Edsel doesn’t give one shit. It’s falling apart, the deck is, so now I gotta save my pennies.
This is a time when I remind you that everything we discuss on Facebook of You-Know-Where is not what we necessarily discuss over here.
[June adjusts her papers meaningfully.]
Anyway, that about sums up the weekend. Now Steely Dan, who was out all night, then came in for disgusting canned breakfast and then demanded to go out again, is staring obsessively up in my tree, the one with the face on it.
I keep tryina call him in, because out-all-night kitty and he must be tired (I say that like he didn’t sleep in front of a fire with his other family, or another Asian woman like John Lennon) and he was TRYING to walk back in while never taking his eyes off the tree.
Finally, I looked up there. A cardinal family has been flitting around my house a lot, and they’re both up there, and if that cat eats cardinal babies Ima have his head. I’ll just walk around for the rest of time with that cat’s head on a stick. It’ll be my signature look.
I am sorry to make Faithful Reader Paula tense, but I don’t have much time today. We have a first-thing meeting at work today re our annual evaluations. Our choices were a lunchtime meeting (no, not with free food. We’d have stampeded to that) or a first-thing-in-the-morning shindig. I opted for first thing. You know I like to get a few rounds of golf in at lunch.
But now tens of women and one gay dude across America are tense because I have to blog in my rapid, efficient style and then get in the car and head to my corporation like I’m George Jetson headed to Spacely Sprockets or Milburn Drysdale, getting to the bank.
Hey, June. Shows have happened since 1969.
Anyway, before I try to hand you five dollars and you take my whole wallet, I’ll tell you about this.
I love that sweet cat. If there were a spectrum, cranky NedKitty would be on one end, and sweet Nancy would be on the other.
Ned was out of town on a business trip. And, see. I have all kinds of jokes right now. Jokes about how he’s conducting a series of NedTalks on commitment and so forth.
But I have dignity.
Anyway, he got waylaid. And, see. Oh, the jokes. But I have dignity.
He got held up because he was Customer of the Month at Hoot–no, see. Dignity.
He got his LOYALTY card punched at–nope. I am the bigger person.
I am holding my head high. I am Jackie Kennedy at the funeral, looking regal.
Anyway, apparently Nancy had been at Ned’s vet: Overpriced Cats-Only Clinic.
Helicopter Cat Dad, Inc.
SHE WAS BOARDING AT THE VET. He was headed home yesterday but was going to miss his connection because how can you connect with anyone if you aren’t trustworthy.
And he didn’t want poor Nancy–who probably thought she was being given back–to spend another night at the cat clinic. So I said I’d get her.
Ned was frazzled, so I called the We Take Your Moola Cat Spa and said I was a …friend of Ned’s and that I would be getting Nancy.
“May I have your name?”
“Well, no. I need it for identification and my bank account and so on.”
I’ll be here all week.
Anyway, it turns out I was listed as Ned’s In-Case-of-Cat-Emergency person anyway, so they let me take Nancy and boil her in a pot to get back at Ned.
The place she stay at (have you ever noticed how some people say they “stay” places, while others say they “live” places? If you wanna call this living) happens to be in the same parking lot as my sandwich place, so on the drive over to get her last night, I placed an order for a low-cal BLT.
I’m telling you this because I got home holding a coffee cup, my purse, a BLT, a cat carrier, Nancy food in a Rubbermaid thing and some cat litter, because I was out of litter and figured I’d have to present Nancy with a box in which to allegedly pee. It’s not her strong suit.
Although she’s been doing really well for about two or three weeks.
Anyway, I plunked all of these things into my big chair, and went to the kitchen to get a bowl of water. I thought a manicure was a great idea right then.
I put the bowl in Nancy’s room, and when I returned to the Big Chair With Everything, the Big Chair Deluxe, I wish you could have seen Steely Dan’s head PRESSED against Nancy’s carrier.
Neither of them were being awful, but I did hear a faint, “mmmmMMMMMMmmmmm!” growl, and I don’t know who it came from.
And she may be small, but bitch was a feral. I think SD would have been more surprised than happy had I two-beta-fished the sitch and let her out right then.
But I did not. Nancy recognized her old room, and fell asleep pretty fast. I think she’d probably not slept well at the fancy cat place. Ned told me he gets the deluxe room, and I said that’s probably her cat carrier with a jar of mayonnaise on top of it. “That’ll be 700 dollars, please.”
Eventually Ned got back to Greensboro last night, and was Nancy ever glad to see her daddy. Oh, she loves him already.
People are complex, man. Thank god I’m a simple girl.
Okay, I gotta get ready. I have a shift at the Regal Beagle.
I had a friend who, with her husband, went through some shit. When they were going through said shit, every time a bill came they just threw it in this one black garbage bag. Threw it in there and didn’t acknowledge it.
Just the thought of that makes me nervous.
Eventually, they got their lives in order, and decided to tackle the Huge Black Bag.
“We were horrified, but when all was said and done, we owed, like, 7,000 bucks or something. Had it paid in a year.”
So there you go. Also, they were young and it was the ’90s.
I’ve had a few dreadful tasks I’ve been putting off, although not nearly as awful as facing a garbage bag full of overdue bills. Last year, when I was destitute and got sick and tired of being destitute, I did anything I could to get more money. I freelanced my ass–as my friend Alicia would say–I took surveys for money, and I got this, like, Nielsen box for the internet.
Don’t ask me what the name of the company was, because I can’t remember any longer. Even though the company’s big black box sat behind my TV for a year. But for $60 a month, it monitored what I looked at online for marketing purposes. Since I rarely look at anything nefarious, I did it.
The reason I stopped was because I got caught up and didn’t need to sell my soul and privacy for $60 anymore, and also because every damn month I’d get an email and a text AND a call. “It’s time to recalibrate your box” or whatever, and recalibrating my box was a PAIN IN THE ASS. Am I right, ladies?
June’s blog. Come for the–oh, hell. There’s no earthly reason to come here.
Anyway, I realize it was basically getting 60 bucks for free, but it irked.
So I was supposed to return the box. Like, last October.
They’d sent me a self-addressed, stamped envelope, just like you had to send in to Freakies cereal or whatever, and they also sent instructions for how to send it back.
I never did. The puffy envelope and its instructions mocked me from my secretary. Eventually, I moved them to the top of my microwave, so I’d have NO CHOICE but to send that box back.
Yeah. You know what I had? A choice.
See. The whole setup included a box, and tangled wires, and I figured I’d get really angry tryina figure out which cords belonged to them, so I put it off. And off.
I also, as you know, from your Wall Calendar of June Things, have some confusion with the IRS and this corrected form I got–The Saga of Form 1098 and the Corrective Shoes–and I had to send in a bunch of paperwork to the IRS, and see above. I keep putting it off because I know I’ll get all frustrated, and who wants that when you can lie on your couch and see Ned on Tinder?
Yes. That happened last night.
I swiped left.
I just got ON Tinder last night, in attempts to put off doing the unpleasant tasks listed above, and look what that got me.
So I got up offen the couch and did my put-offs.
And you know what? Probably took an hour, and that included taking two trips with Edsel to the mailbox. The box-that-knows-all-your-internet-secrets (“Wow. She sure seems to enjoy her a makeup tutorial.”) had really clear instructions for their cords-n-such, and they’d even color-coordinated them to their logo color, which, nice.
And TurboTax, who is refunding a great portion of my cash money due to this confusion with my 1098, also had very clear instructions for getting papers to our good friends the IRS.
The only thing that held me up was I did one task, took it to the mailbox, went home and did the next task, and then I was all, ding-dang it. Now I gotta go back to the melon-farming™ mailbox again. (Use of “melon-farming” as a fake swear, (c)Faithful Reader Paula.)
But still. Maybe an hour.
Oprah once timed how long it took to replace the toilet paper roll: seven seconds. But how many people do you know (MARVIN) who place the toilet paper on top rather than just put it on?
How many things do you put off that, if you just faced them, wouldn’t be so bad?
That’s my deep thought for today. It’s the second day of spring, and here’s our current situation in North Carolina:
I guess nature is putting off spring. But Eds will never put off Blu.