Qualified June

Amazon is being a dick. They sent me this long email that said nothing, about how I need to have “qualified sales” and that I don’t, and I don’t know what “qualified” could mean, seeing as you guys buy a lotta stuff. (Say, thanks!)

I wrote back, and they answered with another vague email (“Once you’ve had three qualified sales…”).

There is an ad for Amazon either on your sidebar or at the bottom of this blog, depending on if you’re on a phone or a desktop. If you’re on a phone, you have to scroll forever to see it–I don’t know why. I asked WordPress to help me, and they did get it so the ad’d show up, but you have to REALLY MEAN IT to see the Amazon ad on a phone or tablet.

The point is, maybe they’re going to cut me off. Without a cent. And they won’t speak English and tell me why. Why aren’t my sales “qualified”?

Oh, look! A link to Amazon! IS THIS A QUALIFIED SALE if three people click on it and buy something on Amazon today? I DON’T KNOW. Because they WON’T GIVE ME A SPECIFIC ANSWER.

Lu annoy.

In other news, I was rejected three different ways yesterday. I can’t go into specifics, but three. I was doing okay with rejections one and two, but once three hit, I was all, COME ON, GOD.

I didn’t even INCLUDE Amazon threatening to reject me.

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Also, this happened. My friend Hamlet and I often send each other images from our thwarted attempts at love, by texting each other the sad/offfensive messages and photos we get from our online dating swains. I recently sent him my nice message from Luv2PutItInU. Which is still not as good as my all-time favorite, G-Spot Hunter.

Hamlet’s latest was a clearly crazy woman in a tiara. Sadly, I happened to have a tiara right at my desk, on top of my Hello Kitty coffeemaker, so I could reenact said photo. There is really no telling which be-tiara-ed woman was really crazier yesterday. Say “really” one more time.

Also, I am sorry to tell you this, but Ward and I did not work out. I know the tone of this post makes it seem like he was one of the rejectors, but he was not. It was me. It wasn’t him, it was me, literally.

But look. It was a short-lived thing, and that’s too bad, but that’s what dating is. You see how it goes with people and you make informed decisions before you get too caught up. I might know from caught up when you shouldn’t be. I might know from that.

I might.

So I may be erring on the side of caution a lot these days. Sue me.

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wat hell, mom? hooo you to be pickee?

Note most of the photos of this creature are when he’s about to eat. This is because it is the only time he is home.

Other than my rejection and my annoyance at Amazon and my slight sadness that it didn’t work out with Ward and my deep and abiding affection for my friend Hamlet and also Steely Dan, because I choose the wrong mencats, I got nothing. I’m not really blue, per se, just sort of stung.

Mencats is totally a thing.

So let’s just scroll through old photos and clap ourselves out.

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Awwww. This is at the very top of my photos. Roger.
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heeeeee

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MISS DOXIE! I should probably not pose with her.

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Seriously, June, stop posing with the Dox

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Kitten Iris

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Lu. Delighted about Violet since never.

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Marvin and Henry in their early-divorce bachelor pad.

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heeeee (again)

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I’ve plowed through a lotta pets.

Okay, I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Try not to reject me today, would ya?

Luff,

Joooooon

 

 

Freelance work is here

For the next week, I will be proofreading a textbook when I'm not at my regularly scheduled job. I will not be here a lot, and also if you know me in real life, I will not be phoning with you a lot. I'll be back when I can!

I took photos of my toilette this morning to tide you over. I know, man. You are welcome.

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TAAA-DAAAAA! (I really don't look good in green. I cheated with kind of a teal today. Also, today marks five years since I've had sex with anyone but Ned. Add THAT to your Big Book o'June Events. Also, mark a spot up ahead, will you? Cause this is bullshit, man. We must work to remedy this sitch.)

(Hi, mom.)

Joe Lies

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I be Hutch. Wear be Starskee?

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hahahahahaha

Anyway.

I hadn't had my eyebrows waxed since Wilford Brimley was a child, so I went to Elegant Nail & Tan, which I realize suggests all kinds of featured services that do not seem to include waxing, but you must trust me on this. While I was waiting, I got to know a woman sitting next to me. We talk talk talked and we're the same age and both single and finally we exchanged numbers and picking up women is super easy.

Why can't I get my eyebrowns, as they say, to look at good as they get them to look? It's completely worth the six dollars.

Other than that, I went to the grocery store and loaded myself up with frozen yogurt bars for the next two weeks, and because I try to get in plant-based foods, one of the boxes was strawberry flavor. The other bars were vanilla, and isn't the vanilla bean a plant? I think it is. So. Diet. Complete.

I have never seen a tanning bed at Elegant Nail & Tan. I'm not saying there isn't maybe one back there, but I've never seen it, and I've never heard anyone come in there and say, Yes, I'm  here to tan? Maybe they need to rethink their moniker. Elegant-ish Nail & Old Magazines.

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At my old seat at work, I looked at an Impressionist-ish painting of fall trees against a blue sky, and now I look at multiple Os. That picture of me on my bulletin board is from this time we had to take selfies for a client presentation, and one day the janitorial staff left a note that read, "Is this trash" on a box, and some jokester put that note on my selfie and an eternal joke was born.

I meant to Google why companies move you around a lot, like, what's the benefit to them, but I forgot. If anyone knows, I'd be curious. Some people at work are really traumatized over it, if they've been at their desks forever and so on.

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

Name that movie.

Anyway, other than that, I have a gigantic freelance job coming up starting tomorrow and going until next Friday. So if I up and disappear, it means I'm behind and I'm frantically working to get it all done. So be sure to pepper me with IMs and emails. WHERE ARE YOU, JOOOOOOOOOOOOOON? Are you dead, JOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON?

I have already gotten my delightful credi card debt down to the next number. So, like, if I were 11,000 thousand dollars in debt, which I'm not thank god, I'd be down to 10,oooo now. Yay. So I keep plugging away. Which doesn't help pay the bills at all. "June keeps unplugging and plugging her appliances, yet she still has debt."

Shouldn't Tallulah have to pay this? Someone wake her up.

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

Also, I've noticed that there are always cars now at my next-door neighbor Peg's. Sometimes just one extra, sometimes two. Someone's been rolling her trash can to the curb, as well. This worried me, so I called her, and she's never called me back. It's been, like, a week. I don't want to be all Gladys Kravitz and go over there, but I feel like something is definitely up. There has never been a time Peg hasn't called me back.

Maybe she has Noro virus. Hey, June, you ever gonna get over Peg giving you Noro virus?

What do you think?

All right, I have to go to work, try to find my new desk.

Your friend and mine,

Juan

What is a “capade,” anyway? Are there ever Land Capades?

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"Oh, good. It's that time of year that June makes us look at her daily Christmas cup. And also at the makeup smudges on her desk."

And her beaming-up dog.

Yesterday was Tallulah's birthday, but I tried not to dwell on that lest I fall into a sobfest. It was also Steely Dan's final round of shots, which looked liked no fun for him. They took him in the back, as they mysteriously do now, and brought him right back. "I'm so sorry," said the flustered tech. "He saw this little dog back there, just a tiny dog, and jumped right out of my arms after it. He arched up and hissed."

They decided to do his shots right in the room. Steely Dan is a bad ass.

He also weighs 7 pounds. Which is not what a 4-month-old (16 weeks) kitten should weigh. See what I did, there? I did the weeks to be annoying. You and your 37-month-old child. They took a gander at his teefs, a thing that similarly thrilled him, and determined he was not born July 11, but May 15.

"That makes perfect sense," I said. "He's so totally a Taurus and not a Cancer." I had to explain, then, that I used to live in LA and we needed to know all the astrology in order to get our driver's license.

While SD and I waited for the vet, he mostly leaped. The cat. Not the vet.

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He leaped off the table.

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Then on.

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Off.

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On.

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You get my drift.

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how bout dis? dis for jumpeeng? it be anytheeng?

Anyway, after they gave him his horrible rabies shots (he bit a guy at work just minutes before his rabies shot. Am looking forward to that guy foaming today) and boosters and deworming medicine, they said, Hey, give us 288 dollars and you can go. (I also got his flea meds.)

The GOOD news is, because he's older than we thought, he's all set for neutering December 30. Yay! New year, no sack. No baby new year for THIS guy. And yes, I am having a de-sacking party for him, as I did for Edsel seven years ago.

I took that poor soon-to-be-sackless baby back home and got to work, and then at lunch I busied myself arranging all my apps by color on my phone.

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RIGHT? How bad do you want to be me right now?!

It's something of a tradition that they let us out early to get ready for the work Christmas party, and yes they call it a Christmas party, so I hurried home to see if the baby kitty was okay, and I couldn't find him and grew alarmed. I looked in his kitten bed…

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…but as usual, Lily was bogarting it.

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I was hoping he was resting in the sun, but it was Iris was in the bedroom, on my oh-so-neatly-made bed. "If you make your bed, the whole room looks neater," Ned often smugs. "It's the biggest piece of furniture in your room."

Oh, shut up.

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Finally, I found him, with an eye mask and a Do Not Disturb sign. Poor Steely Dan. He never did rally, all night. He's a little livelier today, but hasn't eaten much. He thought he wanted to eat, then looked at it and said, Yeah, no.

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Then, I got up with some of the Alexes at the manicure place. They both got a deep burgundy, but one got glitter and one didn't. aka worlds different.

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This Alex had trouble deciding, and finally the manicure lady was all, "Just let your spirit be free," a thing she said with the enthusiasm of a tree sloth, and right then I knew, I loved the manicure lady.

Until, at the end, when all the fun was had, she asked, "Was that your daughter and her friend?"

I mean, YES, I could be their mother, but I get drunk with these people. Dang.

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Old mom, here, got navy nails with one gold glitter nail on each hand. Note my Princess Diana/Kate real sapphire ring not at all from QVC, which is where they got theirs.

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It went with my navy-and-champagne-polka-dot frock I got from Stitch Fix. Also, my vanity mirror is still not put together, and the light bulb is burnt out in the other room with a full-length mirror, so getting ready was a pleasure.

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I put on enough makeup to join the Ice Capades.

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And waited for my Mug Shot date. I just want you to know in real life, he laughs and smiles. You get a camera out and he's all Cell Block H.

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The work CHRISTMAS party is no small feat. It's at this elegant hotel, and everyone's kids are invited, and there's shrimp and that one kind of red meat that's on that giant slab of meat and someone stands there and cuts it. What's that called? And there are presents for everyone under 10, and since I'm a 10 I didn't get one. Anyway, behold The Poet and Jane West, feasting. That is Ned's beer and not The Poet's. The idea of The Poet grabbing herself a brew is just about killing me right now.

The bartender got the beer out the ice, then smacked it onto a napkin and rolled it up. "Did you SEE that?" I asked, Ned, delighted. I don't get out a lot.

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It's also dark in that room. Look what a wide load I am next to skinny Alex. Jesus.

The little kids were all dancing during the dinner music, throwing themselves across the dance floor and sliding and so on. You have no idea how bad I wanted to join them. But I'd have looked drunk, even though I wasn't.

There's one kid I've always been enamored with. I've put a picture of her in here, from a Halloween party in 2011, but I don't have time to search for it because Ned just called me to talk about his fancy president things he has to do, and one person you should really rely on for how to president is me. Nancy Reagan, over here. Just say yes.

If I were First Lady, which one would I be? I want to be Jackie, but let's face it, I'm Betty Ford.

Anyway, she's outgoing and delightful and she wears glasses, this kid who's at every Christmas party. I'm forever asking her dad if she's gonna be there again that year, and I'm certain at this point he's all, What the hell with June and her obsession with my kid?

But she gets out there in her little Christmas dress and leads the kid dancing every year.

This year, she came right over to my table. "I like your polka-dot dress," she told me. Then she turned to Ned. "Hi, I'm Morgan, " she announced confidently. Oh my god.

Anyway, we danced, Kid of Confidence and me. We danced to some song I've never heard in my life, because old and no mainstream music exposure, then we danced to some song from the '70s I was thoroughly enjoying and can no longer recall. Play That Funky Music? I really can't remember. It was 10 hours ago.

"Did you have fun?" asked Ned as we drove home. We were the last people to leave. Poor Ned.

"I did. Except…" I hesitated.

"What is it, sweetheart?"

"I don't feel like there was enough exclaiming by everyone over how pretty I looked."

And that is when Ned decided to just drop me off at my door.

Releasing the splendor of me,

June

Retro June

Yesterday at work I went back to copy editing. I asked if I could do so some months ago, and they said okay, but you have to wait till we get other editors in here, so I waited, and then without further ado or fanfare, it was all, "Can you copy edit this?" and by the end of the day I'd copy edited three and a half articles and three decks. I know that might mean nothing to you, but trust me, that's a lot.

Oh my GOD, it was wonderful. I didn't have one meeting to go to all day! Now, today, I have to write again, so it's a gradual process, but oh it was nice to see my old friend the AP Stylebook, and worry about spaces before ellipses and how do you punctuate an episode of a TV series, not the show itself.

I liked doing the writing, I really did, but the stuff around it was so stressful. Meetings and people wanting to consult with you all the time and having to be creative on demand in a loud room. It just wasn't me. It'd be like asking a chihuahua to do disaster rescue.

I need a quiet little job, where I can worry about teensy things like apostrophes. My insides are loud and chaotic enough as it is, without my outsides being the same.

And the good news is, I still get to do a wee bit of writing, which I did really like, but without the "Get to this meeting, get to this one, think of this idea NOW you have two hours, go" thing. So, best of both worlds!

I guess I'm kind of returning to my old life, aren't I?

I used to be a copy editor, then I switched, and now I copy edit again.

I used to date Ned, then I didn't, and now I do again.

I used to live here, then I didn't, and now I live here again.

I used to have a dog and three cats, then I switched it up to two and two like I was Chuck Wollery, and now I have a dog and three cats again.

God, I'm so retro.

I'm so 2009. Without the husband part. When do I get to the husband part?

And you know, I'm rethinking the husband part. Especially yesterday after you all told me the things that made you irrationally mad and so much of it was, "When my husband … ." I love comment days like that, and I know I irk the people who work around me when I read your comments and laugh out loud. I ell oh ell. I refuse to write those three letters even in jest.

But really, I am, you know, an irritable person. Maybe I'm better off living alone. I adore living alone. I can't begin to tell you how happy it makes me to come here and have my time to myself. Last night I got home with the intention of leaving again and going to the old theater I like and watching Rocky. I even had a brilliant idea: I'd go into the theater with my popcorn, pretend I was looking for a friend, and yell

ADRIAN!

YO, ADRIAN!!!

I was cracking my own self up, for a change.

But then I decided to stay home and do my goddamn stupid yoga DVD that really namas my stay. "Expand your heart, and root down with your shin bones."

What?

The shit they say during a yoga class is ridik. "Really plug into the back of your heart."

Okay, plug into the back of my dick. Can't they just say what they mean? Like, literally, where do you want my leg to be right now. Don't tell me to "root down" anything unless we're suddenly digging for truffles.

I'm the only person you know who gets even angrier when she does yoga.

The point is, I stayed in, and after "really bringing [my] glow forward" texted with my friend M, who comments here sometimes. I met M when we were both single and ready to root our chakras, and plug into our heart center, back last year. He lives in Florida, but he saw my profile, and when you have All This…

"I live in Florida, so we'll never meet, but your profile is great," he wrote me. What kills me is we both shut down our dating sites with a flourish sometime later, so neither of us knows our anniversary, but we know it's sometime in October.

Anyway, we've become friends. In much the same way you and I are, in that we've never actually met. I know all his stupid shit and he knows all mine, and there it is. Anyway, it was a fine evening, hating yoga and hating my friend M because he hates Say Anything, and how can I even be friends with someone with such bad taste in things?

So what do I want to get married for? I might not. I'll let you know if I do. I told Ned I might be just fine if we were just engaged and never went through with it, like Oprah and Steadman. I'm trying to still diddle Gayle, is the point.

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The whole time I've been writing you, Sir Dickus R Puddingcup, over here, has been prancing past me, walking across the keypad and generally getting in my way, as cats are wont to do. Why do I always get the most jerky pets? This kitten is what Lottie was to puppies. Aka, world's most rambunctious. Look at his Great Horned Owl look, up there, and he'll get a REAL horned owl look when I throw him outside for pickup. Old Screechy outside will take this kitten to his nest.

Yesterday I was in the bathroom, and he ran in and leaped onto the shower curtain, and just hung there like a moth, just to see if he could. I watched him sway in the breeze a little, just hanging on the curtain.

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wee exhaust, mom. kittee exhaust.

I gotta go, but I did want to show you the photo Ned just text me. Here is the breathtaking view from his hotel room:

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Ooooooo! God. Lucky. I wish I were president of something and got to travel.

Okay, goodbye. Be sure to root down through your tailbone today. Namaste here and laugh at you when you do.

House O’ Hurr

Yesterday I got my 10,000 steps in, did 35 minutes of Tracy Chapman, and then sat down to watch Real Housewives with a bag of Fritos. And this is why I hate myself.

Oh, also I walked Edsel yesterday, and the people on the corner have an 8-week-old BABY GERMAN SHEPHERD PUPPY. As opposed to an adult puppy.

They did the thing. They were all out in the yard, letting it run free, so I made Edsel stop. "He's okay," they said, meaning their bitty puppy. Sigh.

"He's NOT," I said, meaning my dog-eat-dog-world of a dog. Jesus Christ. Ima start a national campaign. STOP LETTING YOUR DOGS BE LOOSE. NO MATTER WHAT.

My dog is following the rules. He's on a leash. If your free-to-be-you-and-me dog runs up to us, your dog is done for. AND THAT WON'T BE MY FAULT.

If Edsel had eaten that bitty German shepherd puppy snickerdoodle I'd have died of sad.

In other news, this is my last day of work this week. Tomorrow I go on my vacation to the beach. It's supposed to be in the 70s and sunny all week, so yay. I really didn't take vacation this year, except to kill my dog and take Ned to his colonoscopy. So.

Oh, and I meant to ask you. What should I do for my 10-year anniversary of blogging? It's December 15, and I thought I should do something more than what I did for the two-year cotton anniversary in 2008.

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Nice. Also, while I was Google Imaging "ByeByePie" + "Cotton," I found this…

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Did I once give away cupcake floss? Because mmmmmm!

Also, "give away." Did I once promise and never send someone cupcake floss?

Anyway, my 10-year anniversary. Should I have you all over? Should we all go to Hawaii together or something? Do tell me your ideas. A lot has happened in these damn 10 years.

Also too also, I am sick of my hair. I been doing the same damn thing to it for ages.

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My hurr, in 2014

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My hurr with DW's mom, in 2011

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My hurr, 2013. How bad do you want me to stop saying "hurr"?

My friend Jo called last night, ironically, to ask me what she should do with her hair, and one place to go for all your hair advice is my house. June's House O' Hurr. Anyway what she told me is "not a damn thing. Don't change your hair."

Basically Jo doesn't want me to go changin', to try and please her. I've never let her down before.

Oooooo.

What say you? I mean, if I cut it short I'll look like George Washington. If I blow it straight I'll look basic. I can't win.

I gotta go. This whole time I've been trying to write you, a teensy annoying gray paw has been striking me from behind the computer. Is there a 24-hour drive-through put-your-kitten-to-sleep place near here?

I probably won't blog from the beach because I used to be able to email this blog and post that way, but now Typepad claims you can do that but it never actually posts what you emailed. So. I also can no longer reply to comments unless I get on here and comment directly, a thing that always looks good at my desk in the open floor plan.

Talk to you later, when I'll be sure to say hilarious things including "Life's a Beach." Maybe I'll even get one of those "Life's Good" stickers that don't make me want to kill everyone around me or anything. Here's what happens every time I see one of those stickers:

Sticker: Life's Good! : )

June: Fuck you. You fuck sticker.

XO,

Jooooon

Today I can’t think of a title. Post-migraine fog.

I had this snappy plastic lid that I used to cover the other half of Steely Dan's canned food, as he eats half a can at a time. Correction: he WOLFS half a can at a time. There's no trouble with SD's appetite. He is not a finicky eater. And every time he devours another bowl of food, I make a big fuss. "Oh, what a good kitty! You're going to be so big and strong!"

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tell steelee dan something he don't no.

Anyway, Edsel ate the lid. He got up on his stupid hind legs, took the goddamn lid off the counter, and chewed it up. Now it's a plastic waning gibbous on his bed.

Goddammit.

I had to leave work with a migraine yesterday. I went to lunch in the park with my coworker Molly, and I could feel it coming on then.

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By midafternoon, it was a screaming migraine of alarming proportions.

So I left and slept all afternoon, which was good, and when I woke up, the headache was gone, which is also good. But then I had the lethargy, where I just sat here like a lump, a personality-less lump, till it was socially acceptable to go to bed. I don't know who I was trying to impress. Iris couldn't even SEE me. Or the clock. So.

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I just noticed this in my downloaded pictures from yesterday. This was what I woke up to yesterday afternoon. I don't even remember taking this. Edsel should really look into getting a more pathetic look about him. Probably SD had been pouncing on him all afternoon and I'd slept through it. I can also see that my shirt is at the end of the bed, so I just ripped off my clothes and threw them anywhere before getting into bed. That's always a good sign.

Do you have any bad signs like that? Like, right after Ned and I broke up last year, I went to bed with my trench coat still on, stayed that way for about three hours.

Not a good sign.

Or if the clothes just get tossed to the floor (or, as seen above, the bed) before I fall asleep, I was either sick or drunk. I usually at least attempt to throw them in the hamper. I mean, the tights might be dangling off the sides a tad or whatever.

I keep meaning to tell you that when SDS pounces on one of the big cats, in other words 20 hours a day, and the big cat–whichever disgruntled one it is at the moment–growls? Edsel runs over there to break it up. I think he doesn't want anything happening to his kitten. No matter where he is, he tears into the room and gets between cat and kitten to protect Steely Dan, who if you ask me doesn't need any protecting. That cat is all boy.

Once at a funeral I met a woman who'd babysat Ned when he was a kid. "Oh, I remember you," she said. "You were all boy."

No one's ever said that about me. You know what else no one's ever called me? A tomboy. I know this comes as something of a shock. There was nothing worse than when the only kid available in the neighborhood was one of those awful tomboy girls.

"You wanna climb a tree, break an arm, then shoot something?"

Yeah, no. I got a whole apple barrel full of relatives' leftover makeup, a Barbie that's just DYING to put on some heels and a sparkly dress, and a tape recorder so we can act the whole thing out. Dafuq's wrong with you, teensy lesbian person?

"Ya wanna ride bikes down the trail and play kickball?"

Jesus. [Takes spangled lipstick brush and goes home.]

Don't you wish you could do that now, just go outside and meet friends? It was so easy. Marvin once told me about a new kid in his neighborhood, whom he met by riding his bike past the kid, yelling out, "Gay rider!" and then asking, "You wanna be friends?"

This charming opening line worked, and Marvin is still friends with that guy, as far as I know.

I'd better put on some clothes and get to work. I hope my head doesn't come back. Return of the Head. I went a good two months with zero migraines. SO WHY NOW? WHY? I've no idea.

Did I mention to you that I'm going on a vacation next week? I am. I'm going to the beach. I had no vacation this summer, so I'm going. The only days I took off were to kill my dog and take Ned to his colonoscopy, and this year I have three weeks of vacation so I'm taking advantage. I can't afford it, but I'm going anyway. Fuq it.

I will talk to you tomorrow, gay riders, and I can only hope tomorrow's post will be as pressing and necessary as this one was.

June gets on her soapbox

Lemme tell you how Ned has ruined me. In case you wondered, "Gee. How has Ned ruined June?"

Today I was in the shower, and please try not to get too distracted by the hotness.

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Do you know she was 48 when she did this scene? That's Angie Dickenson, for anyone reading this who's 19.

Anyway. I was in the shower today, and my soap is at that point where it's a mere sliver of itself. I always feel bad when I'm at that point, because I hate to waste any of it, but when it keeps SLIPPING OUT OF MY HAND, I get annoyed. I generally have a three-slip rule, and then I throw it away. But today, even though my soap is the size of a quarter, it hung on. I kept the sliver, but once I was out of the shower, I got a new box of it out and squooshed the new soap onto the old and put them in the shower thingie®, that metal thing that hangs over your shower head. Angie, what is it? You're in the shower, up there.

Is Angie Dickinson dead?

HOW NED HAS RUINED ME is that the box? I have to recycle the damn box now, the box the soap came in. Back during my year abroad, the shower was upstairs and the recycling was downstairs, and Ned would keep his empty box of unscented soap for sensitive skin on the windowsill for weeks, on its way to the recycle bin downstairs. I was often tempted to throw it out, but I never did cause I didn't wanna hear about it.

It just seemed so over the top, taking that small box all the way downstairs. It'd be like throwing an anniversary bash for your hamster. I don't know.

And now? I recycle the goddamn soap box. I mean, I'm all on one floor, so. If it were a monumental struggle like taking it all the way downstairs, I'm not sure I'd be so earth-friendly.

I guess that's all I have to tell you. I got paid last night, THANK GOD, and at lunch Ima go get my browns waxed, because Wilford Brimley. Ima see family I ain't seen in five years, and I don't want them to be all, Poor single June. With her pets and her Wilford Brimley eyebrowns.

"Well, we had a nice time at the party, except for June and her eyebrowns."

Who needs to get over saying "eyebrowns," do you think?

Okay, talk at you. I'll be flying tomorrow so maybe Sunday if there's time.

Travelocity-ly,

Joon

Party in a paper

"Did you ever take an actual copyediting class?" my boss asked me, and not in a mean way. We were talking about what we studied in college, and did it have anything to do with what we did for a living. I studied English, and at my school there were three tracks you could go on, or were they tracts? I have no idea. Anyway, teaching, business and literature.

Guess which one I picked? Hey, sensible.

To this day, I can read the shit out of a book.

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Anyway, my boss, featured above–and I realize I used to have a boy boss. I have a whole 'nother boss now. THE POINT IS, she got out her copyediting book from college, from those days of yore, and it was this sort of spiral-bound thing that still talked about picas and point sizes and laying out pages, literally. With your hands. Oh, it was charming.

"You can look at it if you want to!" my boss said, and who wouldn't want to go down pica lane? I spent from 1982 to the year 2000 worrying about picas and leading and kerning and points. Then I didn't. Computers worried about it for me.

She handed this book to me, this book she's kept and treasured all this time, a book that was as pristine as a newborn fawn, which technically would be covered in goop but stay with me.

And I got lipstick on it.

IMMEDIATELY.

A big smear, which much have been on my hand, and hey, corporate ladder. Why so elusive?

Steely Dan Silverman (good idea, y'all) just ran off with the muffin paper from my blueberry flax muffin. I mean, have fun with that. Looks like a party in a paper.

In other news, I'VE GAINED WEIGHT and I have 42 dollars. Payday is tomorrow. I was worried sick when my aunt was here that I'd run out of money running hither and yon to stores and restaurants and the like, but look! Got it just in, at $42. And the headache place gives me a $25 gas card every time I go, and yesterday I was almost on E, used the card, and got three dollars back.

So technically I have 45 dollars.

"Why am I fat?" I emailed my coworker, Austin, who does cross fit like it's fun and also stands around eating raw pepper all day. I was so annoyed, because I've been following this damn headache diet pretty well, with the eating of fish every day and the no processed foods (except yesterday I was upset at a work thing and got Pop Tarts. It was my first really bad cheat. The five potato chips the day before was bad enough), and we decided I can't (a) eat salty snacks even though they're allowed and (2) drink like a sailor.

So last night I had no wine. I was wineless. It was weird.

I went seven years with no wine at all–I didn't drink. But then I took it back up again, because I'm no quitter, and you know I go back and forth on that. Should I drink? Shouldn't I? Should I stay or should I go, now? I haven't had any negative consequences from it, but I worry. I mostly worry because of my father.

A few weeks ago, I forget what post it was, but a commenter got on my blog late at night and left three really nasty comments in a row. They were about how Lottie was better off without me, and I remember the final one read, "Did you ever notice how everyone does better when they're away from June? That includes lovers."

Now, normally when I get a nasty comment, I roll my eyes, sometimes shoot off a reply that I later regret, but mostly it hurts my feelings for maybe half and hour and then I forget about it. I've been doing this almost 10 years. I'm used to mean people popping out sometimes.

But this one was late at night, and I was here doing nothing, so I got on Typepad to see who left it. If you suddenly decide you hate me, but you've left me comments before, even if you disguise your name and email I can see who you are. That's how, years ago, I figured out this WING NUT from my old job was leaving mean messages (not the ones above). Before the mean comments, she'd written me a really

really

long email (we'd worked together about four weeks total) about her life and what was happening and how her dog wasn't convenient anymore, and would I go on my blog and find a home for him?

I declined.

But back to the nasty comments from a few weeks back about my pets and lovers. I got on there to see who'd left them, and it was my father.

Yeah. My father.

We haven't talked in years, because last time we did he also said mean things, and that was enough for me. But that night I was so angry that I wrote him.

He wrote back and said he was ashamed to have had anything to do with me, and that I should just kill myself.

I don't know what this behavior is. For most of my life, we were great friends. He was the person I called first when anything bad happened, as he always made me feel better in a way no one else could. Now he'd made me feel worse than anyone ever could. I'm his only child.

I blame this change of personality on substances, although I can't, of course, be sure. And I don't want to be addicted to anything and 70 and alone and telling my loved ones that they should kill themselves.

I have no idea how I went from lipstick on a copyediting book to all this, but there it is. I got deep, man. To top it off, I'm late for work.

Shhhhhhh-ugar.

June Brought the Rose (Gold)

Last night, I got my rose gold color! It'll only last a few weeks, but here it is!

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I look vaguely like an aging Disney princess. But I like it! It's exciting! Also, I need lip enhancement so bad.

Four hours I was in that chair last night. I screamed home after work and let Lottie and Edsel be in the back room, with the door open so they could go outside if they wanted. A few weeks ago, Lottie figured out she could open the screen door herself, so she spent about an hour standing in front of it, pushing it open, watching it slam close and then pushing it open again.

That was relaxing.

I sent my photo to "Steve," aka The Younger Man in Rio, and noted that I look like dessert. "There are worse food groups you could resemble," he wrote back, and then we spent way too much time talking about what foods would be worse for your hair to look like.

Legumes.

Fish.

Organ meats.

Haggis.

Tripe.

Anything burned.

Mayonnaise-based salads.

One time my Pal From MA was visiting her grandmother. I believe there'd been a celebration of some sort, and she stayed on a few days. By day three, she was dying for a salad.

Do you know what I'm never dying for?

Anyway, her grandmother said, "Well, honey, there's all kinds of salad in the fridge. There's macaroni salad, potato salad, tuna salad…"

Welcome to the Midwest.

Lottie's been tugging on my robe tie the whole time I'm writing this, and is there any sort of 24-hour drive-thru euthanasia place around here? I forgot to tell you that when I had that kitten, I took The Lotissimo with me to PetSmart (I think I did tell you that part) and got kitten toys. They were they spongy, many-sided cubes, which makes no sense,

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but look, there they are. How would YOU describe them, Hemingway? Anyway, the kitten did play with them, and they were strewn on his floor the day I decided to bring him out to sit on my lap in the living room. All the animals came over to meet him except Lottie, who I figured was in the kitten room sniffing around, getting some almond roca from the litterbox, and so on.

I was right, for she emerged from that room with one of these squares on her fang. Just hanging there like it was meant to be. Just trotted around like that, happy as a pig in clover.

Lottie is an asshole.

We need BBP merchandise again, starting with Lottie is an Asshole mugs, shirts and tote bags.

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My asshole dog and I will talk to you later.

Luff,

Pink June