Hair · Money

June-o Vannelli

A. I’m dyeing my roots.
B. My mouse battery is very low. This means (I’m not gonna say the struggle is real. If you hear me saying the struggle is real, I want you to impale me with 10 mouses) THE STRUGGLE WAS REAL even getting on here, and it took ages, and NOW I gotta stop and rinse my dye.

I just gotta stop. And tell you what I feel about you, babe. I just gotta stop. The world ain’t right without ya babe. I just gotta stop.

And rinse my roots.

Did EVERYONE have a perm in the early ’80s? Was it the LAW? (June acts like she wasn’t sportin’ the perm. Say it loud, I poodle and I’m proud.)

…Okay. Roots, rinsed. Self, cleansed. Laila Ali hairdryer, on. Looking, fetch.

What’s with me and all the predictable jokes today? Fetch. ’80s perms. Any ref to the ’80s at all.

Would you like to know what bugs the shit out of me? When people make everything about the ’80s. Blue eyeshadow. NOT AN ’80s INVENTION. I remember traipsing to the drug store in the snow to get me some baby-blue eyeshadow in the late ’70s. What might be more accurate is electric-blue eyeliner. Now, that was some ’80s shit.

Anyway, I’m tryina think of what’s new. Oooo! I know one thing.

This weekend, I knew I had to pay bills. Although I’ve read online that least one of you was “so sick” of hearing about how I didn’t have money, and what a strain that must have been for you, to hear about how my husband left me when I was jobless, and how my mother offered to buy my house from me but I wanted to remain independent, so somehow I MANAGED TO NEVER MISS A HOUSE PAYMENT even though I was unemployed. I’m so sorry that annoyed you. Let me guess, husband has always had a good job and you live in a cookie-cutter modern house? Talk-to-the-manager horseshoe hairdo?

June is feisty today.

Anyway, I hadda pay my bills, including the mortgage, for the first time since moving in here.

When I first sold my house and moved in here, I sat in a Subway parking lot during one lunch hour and paid off bill after bill. $500 I owed the lawn guy, boom. Doctor bill I was trying to make payments on, boom. Stupid Ultherapy that didn’t work, boom.

Bill after bill after bill. They were mostly $500 here or $250 there, but they were all over the place. Then I waited for my credit score to go up (why does a BAD thing affect your credit almost immediately, but a GOOD thing takes 60 days to make your score go up?).

But I kind of forgot I did all that as I sat down with my pile of bills. Truthfully, every bill time, I had to set aside several hours, first to gird myself for how anxiety-inducing it was, then to be in a bad panicked mood after. I did that this past Sunday. I had several hours no one expected to hear from me.

So. Mortgage first. …Oh, okay, that’s right. It’s lower than it used to be. Maybe I’ll round it up to the next hundred. Put that on the principal. Principle? Which is it for a mortgage? I’ll round it up to the Mr. Dixon. Because Room 222 references are fetch.

Then I paid the water bill. The electric. My phone. My internet.

Well! But…

I looked around me. I went back to my bill box. There was one thing left in there, under my alarm instructions. A check for $250, something about overpaid mortgage from the last house.

I paid all my bills, have emergency savings, a credit score inching up toward 800, 15% a pay period going to my four-oh-wonk,

AND I HAVE MONEY LEFT OVER after paying the bills.

Oh my god! Who even am I?

Afterward, I celebrated by painting the dresser pink, and that was a mistake. I’d show you photos, but my mouse is hooked up to the same little cable thing that my phone hooks up to the computer with, and there was a marvelously constructed sentence.

The point is, I’m scared to UNplug my mouse to plug in the phone and upload the photos for you.

Anyway, I hate it. Ima try to repaint it Kid Glove, the white-ish color, and I act like something can be white or sort of white. I guess it’s more of an ivory, merchant.

I must go, as it is 7:42 and I have to be at my desk at 8:00, via my new hours. I have no makeup on, and in the ’90s–not the ’80s–when I ventured out sans makeup and just a little sandalwood oil, I was all fresh! and natural! Now I look like I was pulled from the river. On Sunday afternoon I stopped at a coffee shop sans makeup, and a handsome age-appropriate man was walking in as I was walking out. I smiled at him and he looked down, like he’d turn to stone if he looked at anyone that hideous.

No, mom. He was not intimidated by my beauty. Also, he was not gay. Mom pulls out all the stops before she admits someone just wasn’t that into me.

Also, I like how I leave the impression I was there for coffee and not a chocolate croissant. Why so not fetch?

I’ll talk to you tomorrow when I hope I can report I have a fixed washer. The owners, fmr., of this house, left the washer and dryer at my request, but I do believe they’re from the ’70s, not the ’80s, and I washed my comforter in there and broke the damn thing. So my sensible reliable handyman is coming today, because nothing is clean and I have to wear the calf-length teal dress I wore to 10th-grade homecoming to work today, along with the nude low-heel shoes that went with said dress.

That was in the ’80s.

I see pictures of people’s kids at homecoming now, and they’re all hootchie-gootchie girls, and I dressed like one of the Golden Girls at 17. Dear Matt Rick, my homecoming date in 1982: I am sorry I dressed like Rose Nylund and not a go-go dancer at homecoming. At least my Princess Diana hairdo was fetch.

Okay, really going now.

Juan

Hair · June's stupid life

Untitled

Today, I got up, took my stupid Prilosec and started my half-hour countdown, fed everyone (I let Iris be a bad girl today, because Steely Dan hadn’t deigned to come home yet after a night out, so Iris got to eat up at SD’s dish like a rebel.

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Eyeriss so bad. She need spank. heeeee.

Then, of course, SD let himself in and looked up at his dining establishment, astonished, but he did not kick her ass as I’d feared. I can never figure this cat out. Instead, I fed him over by Lily, and they both took that in stride), showered (she says, after the world’s longest parenthetical), made sure my stupid half-hour had passed and got my coffee all set, sat down here and was like,

Wow. I have nothing to say today.

Oh, I know!

Photo on 3-22-18 at 7.48 AM #2.jpgI got my hairs cut!

I think it might dry while we talk, it’s so short and shortie now, but let’s see what happens. You won’t BELIEVE what happens next. Click here.

My coworker did that to me yesterday. He didn’t cut my hair–I might have led with that. He works in our New York office now, but he’s back this week to do stuff in our studio, and he was all, “Oh my god, you guys, who has a banana? I learned the COOLEST thing about bananas.” No one had one.

We were all, Do you mean the thing where you hold it by the stem. We all said that with the enthusiasm of a tree sloth. Because Oooooo, Mr. New Yorker’s gonna burst in, thinking he’s all big city. With his banana stem thing we all learned years ago. We’re not in Papua New Guinea, dude.

“No, it’s something different! My brain literally exploded!”

“Your brain did not literally explode,” I pointed out, and quest for world’s popular-ist coworker rages on.

Anyway, he built it up in such a “click here” way that I swear 200 people are gonna stop working so we can watch Camilo and the Banana today. I mean, he built this shit up, so it better be good.

“Maybe he finally realizes you eat the inside,” my boss’s boss, fmr., said to me, as we strolled away.

…I’ve been scrolling through my photos, because I know I have a nice one of a bunch of coworkers holding up their bananas at some point, when it was Banana O’Clock at work one day. I can’t find it, of course, but I found a buncha racy ones of me in a pink bra, and who was I trying to impress, I wonder.

Anyway, I also found the following…

IMG_3307.jpgMy grandfather and me, petting a dog. That dog was Sam. I believe he set the template for me liking a medium-size, yellow mutt.

My grandfather would have been my age in that photo. I mean, he wasn’t three. I was three, and he was around 52. My age now. Just eat your banana and stop being clever.

IMG_6115.jpgMe, househunting for a place in Greensboro in 2008. We hadda take Talu on the search, because she was just a baby. She would’ve been four months old then. Lu.

The two-year anniversary of her death is tomorrow. Yay.

IMG_6117.jpgLu and me at this house. I remember walking in and going, “Ooooo!” like it was covered in diamonds or something.

We’re seeing a lotta Lu anus today.

img_6114.jpgThere’s the front of our Lu! Even back then she stood the same way. That Pitty way.

IMG_1455.jpgWhy’d Lu have to up and die? Like Mr. Bojangles’ dog? I hate everything.

When I was trying to find that banana shot, which really, I need to get over, I looked in the category of “people” and this interesting Brady Bunch board came up.

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Here’s an interesting June quiz. Well. “Interesting.” How many of June’s people can you identify? We’ll label them 1–25, going from top-left across. So, the mystery figure in blue, with the buildings behind him, is number one. The mystery figure in the lavender sweater, looking down, is number 25. The winner gets…

cat-bonnet-tabby_650x

a cat bonnet! And by “gets,” I mean I’ll say you’ll get it and I will never send it. Start playing now!

Don’t you love days when I have nothing to tell you?

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Sadly, I’ve discovered my computer allows me to muck with my photos, a thing I hadn’t discovered previously, and now every photo you see will be all mucked. You’re welcome. Also, I took this in the romantic light of the screen. I do not have a skin condition. But there’s my nearly dry hair.

I gotta go. Ima take Edsel to daycare today, and here’s the link.

Talk at you.
Juan

Aging ungracefully · Friends · Hair

Noon June

It’s Monday at lunch, and I tried to write you all this morning, but stuff kept happening and I never got around to it. But here I am! The one that you love! Asking for another dayyyyy.

In case you were gone this weekend, or trying heroin or the FedEx delivery man, I wrote about my trip to TinyTown this weekend. It’s the post below this one. I also just linked to it. So you won’t have to be all, What happened in TinyTown, JOOOOOOOOOON??? Why didn’t you write about TinyTown, JOOOOOOONN. In my head, the more I write “JOOOOON,” the harsher you sound saying it.

Other than that, here is what else I’ve been up to…

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Oh my god, June, NO ONE CARES.

I headed out yonder to visit my friends Chris and Lilly, who are 100% over me but have to tolerate me because they’re nice people.

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“Is she gone yet? Don’t look over there. …Did she go?”

They made a nice plate of snacks, which I was indulging in despite my clean diet.

HAHAHAHAHAHA.

Anyway, there I was, indulging, when we all…smelled something.

“So you smell that?” asked Chris, and they probably worried about the contents of my adult diaper, so old am I compared to them. In the grand scheme of things, I’m Ruth Gordon to their Mia Farrow. Try the mouse.

“It’s just me!” announced their child, Z, from the hallway. She leaned into the room. “I just wanted a little company!”

IMG_E2467.JPGTurns out Z felt the…call of nature, so she brought her…call of nature chair into the hallway, right outside of the living room, to, you know. Answer nature. It was more a social event than a private event, for her. It was the social event of the season, really.

Also, I got my hair cut. I go to a regular hairdresser who colors and cuts my hair, but she doesn’t do the Deva cuts, which is a specific cut for curly hair that you have to get a certificate in and so on.

I could see my hair wasn’t…bouncing as it can, and the curls were getting heavy, so I Googled the closest place that does Deva cuts, made an appointment, and walked in this week…

…to an African American salon.

Okay. So.

I guess I never thought about it before, but once I walked into that place, the only BETTY WHITE in there, the only person who was BEYOND THE PALE, it dawned on me. I saw the light, and it was my skin. Maybe there are salons specifically for women of color, and maybe I just walked into one.

White girl walks into a salon.

But here’s the thing. A, they didn’t kick me out, and 2, they were really nice to me and 12, here’s my new hair:

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June. Stop.

No, really, HERE is my new hair:

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Right?

Here it is on another day:IMG_2458.jpgRight right? She did a great job! As Faithful Reader Fay says, I have gone black and I will not go back. I’ll still go to my color person, ironically, for color. But I’m sticking with this hairdresser for cuts.

Then finally yesterday, I tried getting back on Facebook after a few-week hiatus, but almost instantly, people started messaging me, which of course is why I got off Facebook.

(Just to catch you up, in case this was your season to try heroin, or the FedEx delivery man, a person kept sending me messages on Facebook, messages to do with Ned, and when I blocked her, she created a new profile and messaged me again. This gave me the PTSD any time my message indicator came on Facebook.

I wrote here, and on Facebook, and on the page Facebook of June, asking for people to not send me personal messages, but it kept happening. So, knowing I can’t change anyone, I just got off there. I was hoping when I got back on that I just wouldn’t get many messages, but I did, and they made me anxious again, so I left. Again.) (And shutting off messenger doesn’t help. It still tells you you have messages.)

So that was a long stint back on there. Hey, 12 hours!

And finally. In summation. To wrap up. You will note on the side of this page (if you’re on your desktop computer) or at the bottom of this page (if you’re on your phone) that there is a new feature here. It’s called From the Beginning, and it will eventually list all my categories in chronological order.

I have all kinds of stupid categories from this blog: Ned, my pets, my health, Tracy Quartermaine. But if you wanted to just sit down and read about a particular topic, you’d have to read from the present day and scroll down. Read backwards, as it were.

This annoyed me, which is saying a lot because we all know what a long fuse I have. But there’s a woman named Elizabeth who works for WordPress, who offered me her services when I came over here, and she has been magnificent, and I asked her, “Is there a way we can show some stuff in order, and not backwards?”

So she made the little From the Beginning section, and we started with the …friend/Ned category, dating back from January of 2012 when I met his ass, and ending with whenever I last wrote about him.

As I learn how the hell to add the other categories, I will add them. She did this one for me, because did I mention magnificent?

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You rilly sort of dullist person on erf.
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do not bor furthir

So that SORT of sums things up, although I have other things to tell you, but I will save them up. Savor them. Build the anticipation.

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mom blawg. fale.

Talk to you soon, from the warm supportive bosom of my pet family.

Jooooooon

Hair

When a story really gels

I’ve not mentioned this, but work is busy. And this week, what arrived but a book, a whole book, for me to freelance copyedit. They wanted me to do that in a week, but I called that place and said YA TRYINA KILL ME? And now I have till the 17th.

The point is, when things get busy, I have some physical reactions, re-act-shuns, and that’s the story Ima tell you today.

So, for the last week, it’s been, you know, hectic at work. Stuff is coming at me before I even get there, then all day I think I know what I have to get done and that I’ve got it under control and then even more stuff comes my way.

We had a big meeting this week about how important it is that everything gets copy edited, yet there are still the same number of copy editors there, and mother of god.

And I agree, is the thing. Everything should get copy edited. So I can’t turn my back on my religion, there, even though it’s stressy.

Yesterday morning I was showering, and not at all thinking about all the things I had to do that day, when my bathroom door burst open. It was another one of those situations that let me know when a murderer really does burst in, Ima be frozen like a deer when your headlights are barreling toward it.

As someone was opening the doorknob, and I was recalling that I do, in fact, live alone, I stood naked and frozen in the shower. BOOM, went the door as it opened, and

TAAA-DAAAA

went the universe, as Steely Dan stood in the threshold, paws victoriously on his hips. heeeer i be.

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was thurstee

And go ahead. Notice that that bath rug should probably be exchanged for a cleaner one. My house is ludicrous right now, with the busy. Just last night I finally got sick of stepping over my open suitcase on the bedroom floor, and finally unpacked it all the way and put it away, in the closet. Those antlers had been staring at me judgmentally all week from the bowels of my case.

Anyway, all that cat wanted was to drink from the toilet, and he wanted it NOWWW, so he, you know, got on his hind legs and turned a crystal doorknob with his evil paws. As you do. When you’re thumbless.

The point is, that was the serene way I began my day, and it got better from there.

IMG_1526.jpgHere’s m’boss, fmr., and me, at a meeting yesterday. Apparently it was “Wear muted purple” day.

IMG_1523.jpgHere’s another coworker and me noting we have on similar shoes. Apparently it was “Wear pointy shoes” day.

Wait. Which?

Anyway, it was busy, which I believe I’ve mentioned, and if I DID pee all day, I don’t recall it, and the whole point of this story is it was 5:30 and I was getting ready to leave. I was at my car, in fact, with plans to go to the grocery store before going home. I  realized I needed to pee; went back in to do so.

It was then, finally, after a whole day of stressing, and knowing what happens to me when I’m stressing, that I looked in the mirror and

MOTHER

OF

GOD.

My hair.

My hair was insane. And no. I did not photograph it.

When you have ludicrous hair like mine, the latest thing is to use sulfate-free products, and to shampoo with conditioner (yes, it still has some cleansing agents), and so on. But every once in awhile you have to use a clarifying shampoo, because eventually your hair just gets kind of Rosie the Robot doing her impression of Miss Judy. The-Jetsons-and-Rosie-the-Robot.jpgDoes anyone remember that impression? Where she’s beleaguered and bent over and exhausted? I can’t find it online.

Anyway, yesterday morning I clarified, because what with the extra product that I used for making my Frida costume believable and so on, my hair was looking distinctly sad and hangdog.

And then when I was done clarifying, I realized, oh. I’m pretty much out of gel, the good gel, the sulfate-and-alcohol-free good gel, so I used this kind I hate. All that plus work stress, and my 5:30

MOTHER

OF

GOD

with my hair. It wasn’t just big. It was big and frizzy. It was big and frizzy and was seriously lacking in, you know, any shape. When I stress, my hair stresses with me. Always has.

This art guy was still in his office when I left the bathroom. “All day I’ve been looking like this, and no one said anything about my, you know, hair looking like this.”

The art guy looked at my hair awhile. “They were being kind, I guess,” he surmised.

Last night I bought the good gel, and even tried to come home and wet it and USE said good gel, but I couldn’t even get my hands through my… angry bush, there. If you’ll forgive the disgusting imagery.

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neeeedee commitee, um, sit heer. away from harr.

So that is why today, even though I don’t usually GET my hair wet two days in a row, I just got in the shower and began anew.

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After all, tomorrow is another hair day.

Wish me luck.

Aging ungracefully · At Two With Nature · Hair · June's stupid life

I ran out of Ritalin. You can totally tell.

I did something I wish I hadn’t.

I agreed via email, while at my regularly scheduled job, to take on a freelance project. I didn’t pay enough attention to the deets and dear June, please say deets, because please see above ref to regularly scheduled job and distracted. They offered me a flat rate, and I already agreed, and it’s not nearly going to be enough for the volume of work Ima have to do.

Crap. Contract is signed. Work is already with me. Crap, I say.

In the meantime, it will keep me out of trouble, and there is SOME money in it. Just not much.

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Me, at work. With Molly, of the at-work Mollys. Shown for no reason other than this photo kind of amuses me.

We had our annual pumpkin painting contest at work yesterday.

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I never participate, except to go out there and eat the snacks, and judge everyone’s work. I have no visual skillz. Like, seriously none.

Yesterday, when my day of judging pumpkins and pumping kin and so on was done, I meandered to our bustling downtown, which is sort of bustling, actually, and is generally pleasant other than the occasional crazy guy “Excuse me, ma’am”-ing you as you walk by. Maybe it’s because when I’m downtown, I drive all the old men crazy.

A guy asked me if I could get him something to drink. Someone had bought him a plate of Middle-Eastern food, and I could just see this white person, all proud of himself, not thinking OH MY GOD THIS WOULD MAKE YOU THIRSTY, and the point of my story was I ended up buying this man some very pretentious $2.50 water at the local bookstore.

But yesterday, I went down there not to drive all the old men crazy, although that’s a given, but to get my red coat.

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I’d admired said red coat at my friend Kit’s store, which you’ll be stunned to hear is called Design Archives. It’s a ’50s, swingy coat, a red-orange color, and I almost bought it but didn’t, because I already HAVE a winter coat, so why do I need another.

“Oh, hell, I’ll give it to you for [insert absurdly low amount here],” said Kit, when I messaged her later. “I’ll tell them to put it on hold for you.”

And that is why I was downtown, driving all the old men crazy, and Dear June: You are not Thin Lizzie. Stop. Love, Readers.

“I want to see your new red coat,” my friend Hamlet wrote me, because everyone must know my everything, so when I got home last night, I slopped the hogs, fed own self, drove all the old men crazy and finally came in here to take a webcam photo of said red coat, to not only give Hamlet the exciting sneak preview, but also to show all y’all today.

The goddamn webcam takes 87 hours to pop up on my computer. There have been plenty of times I’ve wanted to webcam you during a blogging not blogging moment, and said fuck it cause it takes too long. So last night I clicked on the icon for it, then prepared to wait the hundred hours for it to finally work.

When I DID see it was up, I noted that instead of the camera being on, the video thing, veeeeedeo thing, was on, and what I enjoy about myself is my rapid ability to show off.

I am reminded once again of my grandmother saying, “Look at her. She doesn’t need anybody else. Just sits with herself and laughs.”

Photo on 10-12-17 at 8.04 PM #2.jpgAnyway, here’s the coat.

IMG_0909.jpgAfter I got my designs from the archives last night, and before I came home to show off for company, I headed back to the bookstore to sit in the window and watch people. Judge their pumpkins. I like how I show you instead a view INSIDE the store, but whatever.

IMG_0906.jpgOooo, also, I forgot to mention that when I took a walk with m’coworkers yesterday, I saw a KITTEN, a black-and-white KITTEN, under a car. “KITTEN!” I said, racing toward it.

“How did she see that?” I heard someone ask.

Anyway it ran away from me, and into these woods, and after work I returned to said woods and “kitty-kittied” myself hoarse and no kitten. Annoy.

The rustling through the woods and the walking downtown in the rain and Dancing This Mess Around and driving all the old men crazy resulted in end-of-day hair that looked like this:

IMG_0915.jpgDear God. Yes, I DID have that shirt on inside-out. You know how I am.

So that about sums it up. I got a weekend yawning before me, as I do, and that’s just fine. I don’t know why no one will dance with me.

I ain’t no limburger.

June, driving all the old men crazy, since whenever I became obsessed with that line.

Busy busy busy busy. Thank heavens for Angie's List. · Current Affairs · Hair · June can't keep a doctor

Me and you and a dog with Blu

I did many things this weekend, but one thing I did not do was much sleeping.

Internet: Why, Joon?

Joon: Noneya, Internet.

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Vintage June sports her vintage slip on Friday.

On Friday afternoon, I was toiling at m’desk when the phone rang. “WHAT.” I thought, as I am cheerful and elegant about being interrupted when in a flow.

It was my doctor’s office. I’d had an appointment for them to see how I was doing on my Ritalin. I’d gotten scattered and forgotten. Hello, irony? Are you there, irony? It’s me–OOOO, SHINY THING LOOK!

Fortunately, he’s right across the street, my doctor is, so I screamed over there. He just wanted to see me in personal (did I ever tell you that story? Of the prisoner who wanted to get to know me “in personal”?), just to see if Ritalin made me, you know, too peppy.

Apparently it doesn’t, and he doubled my dose, and we’ll see how it goes from there. The good news is, I took the new double dutch bus amount right away, and screamed home after work and got a lot of freelance done before having fun that night. I never do that. It’s either, Ima go out tonight or Ima freelance tonight. BUT I DID BOTH!

Oh, Ritalin. [Chucks Ritalin under chin]

On Saturday I got a manicure (kind of a green/blue. I know that’s my new color. ….Really? Okay, hang ON).

Photo on 10-9-17 at 8.20 AM #3
I know you can’t get enough of these me-in-the-Laila-Ali-hairdryer shots

Oooo, it’s on sale right now! Click this picture to get to it on Amazon. They, the Amazon people, the Amakazons, sent me a very vague email about how I’m not doing something, and maybe it’s that I’m not touting the wares enough? It was purposely obtuse, if you ask me, and this whole not blog is me assuming you’re asking me everything.

Anyway, on Saturday night I saw Ward, this man I’ve gone out with a few times who came up with the blog name “Ward” without knowing my blog name is June, a thing that sent all 10 of you abuzz.

The point is, Ward has met the animals, and the animals have met Ward. Need I tell you Edsel’s reaction?

damm et, mom
leaf lone, mom

I went outside to try to get Edsel in a “EDS IN LUFF O EDZUL GOD” photo, but he’s out there quite involved with Blu and hasn’t time for us right now. Behold a photo of me taking Blu and dangling it over my head, just so that damn dog would pay me any mind.

Anyway, Edsel has asked for his own Facebook account just so he can update his status to IN RELASHION WIF WARD. Oh, he simpered, he offered his ears up for pets, he’d walk away and come back to be sure of Ward, he flumped to his bed and gazed at him. Edsel is Violet Bicks. He likes every boy.

The good news is, Ward came up with the best Steely Dan voice, sort of a “If Barry White were from Louisiana” thing that OH MY GOD IS SO STEELY DAN’S VOICE. It is totally that cat’s voice. Low, manly, lazy, not-give-a-shit-y.

Perfect. So, now SD has a brand voice.

On Sunday, I gathered up my freelance and headed to the coffee shop, where I get more done because there are distractions here. I can sit down to do my work and realize I’ve spent 21 minutes playing with Edsel’s teeth.

I went to a coffee shop downtown, where everyone pretends to be involved with his or her laptop but looks up any time anyone walks in, lest they be pickupable. Of course, seeing as I’m 89 years old, I do not fall into the pickupable category.

I had a cafe au lait and a chocolate croissant (say, just-not-mentioning-it-to-my Weight-Watchers-app, how’s the cheating going?), and got all my work done, because Ritalin.

It was raining hard out, so I sat on the leopard-spotted couch and watched the rain come down, and the people passing by downtown, and thought about how lucky I am.

And now I must head to work. It’s still rainy and no matter how hard Laila Ali blows me, Ima be frizzy today, but it’s Monday, Blu Monday, and there’s not much you can do about that.

XO,
June

Hair

Ion the greatest

Photo on 9-21-17 at 7.57 AMI’m blogging (not blogging) at you while I’m drying my hair with my new Laila Ali ionic bonnet dryer! Oh, June, will your riveting ionic adventures never end?

As you know, I have hair. And my choices before work are: run some kind of water through it and look vaguely okay, if looking like King Charles II qualifies as “okay.”

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Also, Nair.

And we’re talking that’s if it dries well. Because let’s say I don’t add enough gel, or I drive to work with the windows down, or I ACCIDENTALLY TOUCH IT STOP DON’T TOUCH IT STOP DON’T TAKE THE CAR, YOU’LL KILL YOURSEEEEEEE…

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You touched it. You touched your hair. Now Peter Frampton knows you’re imitating him, and he has to show you his junk. And borrow a shirt from Strawberry Shortcake.

Also, “Don’t take the car, you’ll kill yourseeeeee” is from my favorite public service announcement:

Just one iota of a second. That’s all they needed to do, was cut this one iota of a second later, and I wouldn’t have spent the rest of my life obsessing.

Anyway. My other option is to wash my hair entirely, which means my coworkers have to watch in horror as I arrive to work with completely wet hair, even though it’s usually been two hours between the time I’ve washed it and when I actually arrive.

They’re still watching in horror at noon.

Or, I could blow it dry.

Troy-Polamalu-gets-hair-insured-1million-dollarsBut Faithful Reader Beverly, who is in the same Women With …Hurr support group on Facebook as me, uses a bonnet dryer, and because I must BE Beverly, and live in her skin, I decided to get one, too.

Behold the Laila Ali Ionic Soft Bonnet Hair Dryer, below. I’m glad it’s ionic, because I enjoy irony as much as the next person.

And of course this is a link to Amazon. You know what a marketing genius I am.

When I first got the idea to live in Beverly’s skin and be her hair, I got on Amazon (not through my blog, because who has time for that bullshit?) and searched for bonnet dryers, and the first one to appear was this one above.

The fact that Muhammad Ali’s daughter was hawking hair dryers was kind of funny to me. Would this make me tough? She’s also pretty–would I be pretty if I used it? That’s generally my question for everything, though. If I use this/spend all my money on this/withstand this horrific outpatient procedure, will I be pretty?

But something came over me, something adult-ish this way comes, and I said, No. I’m not just going to impulsively purchase the very first bonnet dryer that the Ali family trots out, like some kind of willy-nilly bonnet purchaser. Ima be more like Ned, and research, and take my time, and never commit to just one.

Bitter? The Bitter party? Your table’s ready.

So I looked at reviews and read up and researched, and?

It said to get the Laila Ali Ionic Soft Bonnet Dryer. I got it on sale, somehow, and I see the one I linked you to is $45, and I’m sorry. It’s the only one they gave me to give you. Clearly Laila Ali and I are in cahoots, and we are fist bumping as I speak to you, and also, were you aware that sitting under a bonnet dryer makes you sort of sweaty?

When my grandmother, the one I have officially turned into®, used to sit under her bonnet dryer, one of her many cats would come sit on her lap, next to the dryer, I think because it was warm.

She would always have on her zip-up robe during dry-the-hair time–my grandmother did, not the cat–and always, always with her open-toed slippers.

Those kinds of slippers are exclusive only to grandmothers, as are zip-up robes, for that matter, along with those hard candies that have the strawberry wrapper on the outside, Pond’s Cold Cream, and disposable rain bonnets.

il_570xN.354520724_3iioI adored these, and my grandmother had them at the ready, inexplicably, because it was important that y’do stay fresh when you are 3. Maybe my grandmother didn’t want to sit around till noon watching my hair dry.

Also, try cramming that cute rain bonnet back in that container. No, go ahead. I’ve been trying since 1968, but go ahead.

Okay, it’s been half an hour…

Photo on 9-21-17 at 8.32 AM #4Oh my god, m’hair’s dry! And it’s cute-ish!

Thank you, Laila Ali. Thank you and your whole overachieving family. You are an ionic family, is what you are, and my hair appreciates your efforts.

Curlishly,

June

...friend/Ned · At Two With Nature · Hair · I am high-maintenance · I hate everything · Other people's pets

Turn around, bright eyes

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

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

Hair · Marvin · Money

Somebody better put your bag into your place

Yesterday's family stories were hilarious. I knew I'd like them. All day I wanted to tell you my friend Dave's family story, one of 3949493944 of them that he has, but I was doing that pesky work thing, and then right after work I had my hair, so hello, home at 8:30.

I mean, I always have my hair. You know what I mean.

Also, Dear Mom. I drove home and let him out to pee, then I screamed to the hair appointment 10 minutes late as a result. So you can stop feeling sorry for Edsel.

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nobody no. the trubble edz seen. no body no. edz sorrooo.

Oh, but the story, which I've probably told you before.

My friend Dave has, like, 97 sisters, all of whom are married except for one. When Dave, who is gay gay gay, goes home for Christmas, he and the unmarried sister have to ride everywhere with mom and dad, like they're still kids cause they never married.

One Christmas they were headed somewhere, and we're talking Michigan in December. It's fucking freezing. They stopped to get gas, and Dave's dad was at the pump when his mom noticed dad had a nosebleed. "Your father is bleeding," she kvetched. It was literally too cold to roll down the windows, so she was desperately trying to signal him, to no avail.

As soon as he got back to the car, she announced, "You've got blood on your face."

"You big disgrace!" Dave's sister yelled out.

"WAVIN' YOUR BANNER ALL OVER THE PLACE, SINGIN' WE WILL WE WILL ROCK YOU!" Dave and his sister began singing, delighted.

Their parents ignored them. Most stories like this involve the beleagured, Catholic, we-had-19-kids parents ignoring the shenanigans in the back seat.

That video looks like it was filmed in December in Michigan.

As I was looking for that picture of Edsel all happy on the bed, I came across these images, below. I'd forgotten that the other night, I had a dream that I met Heidi Klum and Seal, except they were literally Heidi from the book, and a seal. I was all, I thought they'd be different.

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What the hell is wrong with me? Like, really, what the hell is wrong with me. Who even thinks about Heidi Klum and/or Seal anymore?

Oh, and I also saw this photo, from last night.

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I was preparing poses for my book jacket, if I ever write a book. I'm like Annie the maid in It's a Wonderful Life. "I was saving for my divorce if ever I get a husband." Also, here is proof I got my roots done yesterday. The straightness. For one night every six weeks, I'm straight. I like just men. I'm strictly dickly.  Then I wash my hair and go back to diggin' the ladies.

I don't have Latisse anymore, part of m'paying off the credit cards, and look at my sad little lashes. It makes me feel incomplete. Sometimes I reach up and touch my little nubs of lashes and grow sad. I realize I need a life. So bad, I do.

Oh, but speaking of getting a divorce if ever I get a husband, the other night for the first time, I signed onto the bank that gives me my car loan. Last month I called them and made them help me set up an account online, so I could pay my bill like it's 2017 rather than mail a check. I was having the hardest time creating an account last month, so I called them in a huff.

I signed on, and it said, Hey, girl. Here's how much you have in checking, and in savings.

I don't have checking or savings at this bank. I have a car loan. Or as some people say, a car note, which always kind of cracks me up. Dear Driver: You have to pay for me now. Love, Car.

"Do I have an old account I forgot about? Cause, ye$!" I thought, literally saying. y-e-dollar sign in my head. I clicked into checking, saw that a literal check had been written lately, so when I clicked on the screen shot?

There was Marvin's handwriting.

Somehow, the goddamn bank had combined my car note with his checking and savings.

Also, Dear Marvin: Since when do you have savings?

"Would you like to pay your bill using one of your BB&T accounts?" the screen asked me.

Why, yes. Yes, I would. Just take this payment out of Marvin's SAVINGS, why don't you? I never sued for alimony.

Of course I did not do that. I paid for my damn car NOTE out of my own money, money that could have gone to something reasonable like Latisse. Then I texted Marvin to alert him to this, and to point out that I am a magnificent person.

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yuu may kiss steelee hand

Oh, crap, I'd better go. Damn work, then after work I have my hair.

See what I did, there?

Surreally,

Jewn

Aging ungracefully · Chicken · Hair · June doesn't know any ugly people · My pets

Marzo Thomas

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Look how well my daisies are doing! …I got flowers for our receptionist on Valentine's Day, and I over bought and couldn't fit all of the flowers into one vase, so I was all, "Guess I own daisies now." And it's, according to my math, 279 days later and just look! My fancy flowers I got from one of my many many admirers already died. That was more ranunculus and larkspur, so. Is it possible the daisies grew? Cause I swear I made them shorter than that when I cut them.

June's blog. Come for the flower talk. Stay for the skull talk.

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See? Skull talk. As you know, if you whip out your June's Events Binder, I purchased a Day of the Dead calendar this year, and it's ALMOST as exciting as that vintage Better Homes & Gardens calendar with which I was so enamored in aught eight or nine.

Here is March. I mean, the month and also the skeletal image. Nice, eh? And look at the happy skeletons on bikes down at the bottom! Charmed! I'm sure!

What language is Marzo for March? Is that Spanish? June's blog. Stay for the bilingual action.

Speaking of skeletal, I'm on yet another diet and it's driving me berserk. I eat and then I think, "Wow, when can I eat again?" Every time I think that I think of my mother, who owns Weight Watchers, and who always says, "You shouldn't feel hungry."

WELL I DO. But I'm not on WW. I'm following a diet I found online. The first person to ask what it is has to make me food. Why do you guys do that? WHO CARES? It makes you hungry. Don't go on it.

Basically it's a menu of a few choices for each piddly meal. In the morning I have a smoothie with HALF a banana. Oh, fuck you. Half a banana. Then at lunch I have the saddest little sandwich you've ever seen and at night I get, like, the THOUGHT of salmon or chicken, really just a memory of them, and another goddamn salad.

Last night at around 9:00 I considered which pet to eat first. Lily, obvs.

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we not like way yuu look at us

Yesterday when I got up, I came in here to blog at you, and the Internet would not work for me, so I went ahead and started my foodless day. My Biafra day. Who can take a Biafra day, and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile.

Now I'll get hate mail from Nigeria, and RIGHTFULLY SO. Once years ago I mentioned the potato famine here, and got some scathing, 80-foot-long email from an Irish person, who was hardly magically delicious. "What if I mentioned the Twin Towers?" he leprechauned at me. I mean, okay. The potato famine was 150 years ago, but sure, there, Peter O'Tool.

Someone was cranky without his carbs.

The point is, I'd wanted to tell you that Edsel's vet called day before yesterday, to see how he was doing on Prozac, and I was all, eh. And the vet suggested I get an adult dog for him, which DON'T SAY THINGS LIKE THAT, so instead Eds went to daycare and seemed to have a high time. Maybe that's the solution.

After, I took him out for a pup cup at a fast food place, which now that I think about it was my last decent meal before Calorie Fest, over here, with my "Snacks: apple or hot water" diet.

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It almost looks like he's my conscience, here, on my shoulder like in a cartoon.

Anyway, it cheered him. Stay tuned for me caving and getting an adult dog soon even though I've found a practical, workable solution.

And speaking of my pets ("WHAT? You're speaking of your PETS?"), Alf my handyman came by yesterday and I want you to understand I know Alf is not one of my pets. Also, that really is his name. Alf. And I let him be around the cats anyway.

Bah.

As you know (June Binder), I've had a windfall, not to mention your Wind Song stays on my mind–

Wind Song. How did I go my entire adolescence without thinking about how hilarious the name Wind Song was? Oh, excuse my wind song. I had cabbage.

Anyway, windfall, and as a result I asked Alf to (a) fix the motion lights at the side of my house, especially now that my Next Door informs me this creepy guy is back in the neighborhood. Also, (b or not 2b), fix the DAMN screen thing that is missing from the roof, that we assume Steely Dan is using to escape.

Oh my god. I'm so pulling on my Gloria Vanderbilts right now.

Look how they spelled Escape. Annoying. Lu annoy.

Naturally, when I came home for lunch, there was Alf, who always manages to be at my house right when I'm there, trying to enjoy my one fleck of tuna on a communion wafer, and maybe I should just join one of those dating sites for men who like…curves. That's what we'll call them.

He was on the roof, replacing that screen thing, and we were kibitzing, when he said,"Oh, look at tree cat!"

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Goddammit, Iris.

Anyway, all the things Alf fixed were way cheaper than I thought they'd be, which gave me money left over to (wait for it) (biscuit is on your nose right now) (wait) (wa–oh, fine) TRANSFER MY BLOG over to WordPress! There's a guy at work who, you know, can do this sort of thing and he's working on it today!!!

We discussed it yesterday, and he said, "Go on WordPress and select a theme."

Oh my god.

I obsessed for HOURS about a theme. HOURS. I hope you like my theme. It's not up yet, but the address is gonna be EffJune.wordpress.com. Don't go over there NOW. It's precisely nothing right now.

"Do you really want it to be Eff June?" he asked, because he's a decent member of society.

Okay, I'd better go. I already put this on Facebook, but enclosed please find a photo of Eff June at a party in 1984.

Photo on 2-3-17 at 8.36 PM

I clicked the wrong goddamn photo, but why so angry, June? COULD IT BE HUNGER?

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Here we are. Giovanni Leftwich, my boyfriend ca. 1981–1989 (it was on and off. Thank heavens I have mature, stable relationships now) found this in an old box. At the left, there, is my high school best friend Donna, who I wish would have a drink and loosen up. In the middle was our good friend's girlfriend at the time. We loved her. And there's old chicken hair at the right. Wow.

I remember the shoes I had on that night. They were from the '60s, slingbacks, silver sparkles. I loved those fucking shoes. Also, every single thing Donna has on belongs to me.

Including that girl. She was MY experimental years girl, not Donna's.

I never had experimental years. Did you? Do tell. Let's have lesbian reveal today at the Pie, soon to be Eff June. I'll still keep the name Bye Bye, Pie, don't worry. EffJune was a shorter address, though.

Okay I have to go. Next time we talk I will have eaten maybe a plum and a nut.

As god is my witness,

June. Of the Eff Junes

Family · Food and Drink · Hair · I am high-maintenance · My pets · Not Grace Kelly · Television

Rare. In the bloody way, not the special way.

Do you think of yourself as normal? I have never once, for as long as I can remember, considered myself to be normal. And I'm glad of it, although I haven't always been. I doubt anyone else finds me normal, either.

There was one woman who was married to my friend, a woman who made it a real point to seem different, kind of like that What's Goin' On chick, you know who I mean? 4nb6

Like, the second you meet her, she's got so much "Look how weird I am" happening with her look that you can't help but think, Hey, bundle of insecurity, how's it going?

Four Non Blondes. That was the name of the What's Goin' On band. I can't tell you how delighted I am that they made "non" stand alone like that. Like the cheese. Standing alone.

The point of my story is my friend's wife–the Hey World, Look at Me wife–found me desperately boring. "Oh, a tattoo on your ankle. How original." Yes, if only I'd had the creativity to get that feminine neck tattoo, Grace Kelly doppelganger, over there.

Other than that bitch, no one finds me all that normal. I don't think. Maybe they do and I just think my insides show, like one of those refrigerators with glass doors.

This might be genetic, this thinking I'm a rare flower. My grandmother, the one I'm turning into–and let's just call a spade a spade and call her The One I've Turned Into already–went to a restaurant when she was a kid, and she ordered a steak, rare, because she thought it meant it was this precious piece of steak or something. That there was no other steak like it in the world. When this bloody hunk of meat appeared on her plate she about died.

I don't know how I got on this tangent, other than I met this man from New York on one of my dating sites, a man from New York who's moved here, and my first thought was why did some fancy New Yorker pick a gal from Michigan like me, who likes sparkles and Real Housewives, and then I remembered the whole not-seeming-normal thing, which is probably refreshing for a New York man surrounded by women with french pedicures, Beach Girl bumper stickers and monogrammed commuter mugs. That was a short sentence.

Not that I'm saying there's a romance brewing in a commuter mug, by the way. I have no idea yet. I was just more stuck on the New Yorker thing.

Did y'all have those York Steakhouses in your malls? Those all dark in there places? I think it had burgundy wallpaper. We did for awhile, and I remember it was delicious after a day of shopping for Lip Smackers and Andy Gibb 45s. Also, welcome to how my brain works. As if you didn't know already.

There's nothing like steak served cafeteria style. If there were a York Steakhouse, I'd march right over there at lunch today. Because ravenous. I did that damn high intensity workout again last night, with my tenant, fmr., and listen to this. We decided to go a little longer, like Big Red. "You want to try two minutes more?" I asked. Believe me, two more minutes feels like to kill you when you're at the end of that thing.

Nevertheless, we persisted.

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In other news, not that I've given you even one piece of news so far, I saw this photo on Facebook–I think Faithful Reader Paula put it up–and was stunned to find Midcentury June. Everything about this photo is Midcentury June. I want to know everything there is to know about this woman. I wonder if she's still alive! She could give Late Century June some advice, such as never, ever get a Boxer.

I love that picture so hard. The more you stare at it, the more shit you find to love.

I'd better get ready for work, as I am wont to do. I finished my latest freelance assignment, but another is coming next week. And I still need to write a Purple Clover this weekend. I can't seem to figure out how to start this particular column. It haunts me. I should probably just start writing and I'll be fine.

Also, I wrote an animal behaviorist about making an appointment for Edsel, and got a VERY snooty note back about how my vet needs to recommend said behaviorist, that I can't just make an appointment, who do I think I am with my generic ankle tattoo. But then I read that Prozac takes 4 weeks to kick in, and it's not been 4 weeks, so I decided to see if he seems better in a week or two. Poor sad Edsel. How many times are we gonna say that? In this life.

He doesn't seem sad right this minute. He's over here developing a real crush on m'toast. Edz can see reel fewchur with towst.

I'd better go, but oh! Last night I started streaming The People v OJ Simpson OH MY GOD, riveting. They didn't make Marcia Clark's hair bad enough, though. I know from bad hair.

I'll catch you later. Let's all meet up at York's, near the Sears entrance to the mall.

Aging ungracefully · Beauty products · Family · Hair · June's stupid life

Dude looks like a Junie

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I made it all week on my remaining $10, and then payday came and hello mortgage, but still, we got Christmas bonuses this year and you guys donated $10 apiece to celebrate my 10 years of blogging (oh, did you know it was my anniversary of blogging? I never mention it), so I finally had cashola to Christmas shop.

Say, there was a sentence, sentence-maker. Also, thanks, y'all!

I really don't have many people to shop for. My cousin Katie and I have been exchanging good deeds each year in lieu of another shitty candle. She can totally afford to buy me things, and I totally can't, so she's being nice plus also she's that type of hippie who prefers doing good deeds to a gift. I can't get behind people who think that way.

So I did one deed for her and may do another to round it out. It'll be like I got her a shitty candle and also a shitty Christmas ornament. Hey, book club gifts.

That leaves my Aunt Mary and Uncle Stuart, my mother and stepfather, and my stepgrandmother, who always wants something perishable or usable, as she has had enough shitty candles for a lifetime. Lifetime, Shitty Candles for Women.

I hate being a woman. I mean, I don't, because I don't ever want to get drafted or be expected to spit or reign in my emotions. But I hate being a woman in this society. Every woman friend I have, all two of them, are outside the norm. One might even say we're a tad cold, in comparison to the hugging, saw-this-and-thought-of-you, gift-bagging, inspirational-card-giving regular women in the world who, you know, nurture.

Nurturing sucks.

Am I weird? Don't answer that. Also, please don't think about my un-nurturing grandmother who I'm turning into.

"If you're turning into her, why don't you just stop yourself?" Ned asked me in a conversation not long before our terrific breakup-and-a-cab-ride finale.

Yeah, that's easy.

I have been poised over the keyboard for a minute, here, stopping myself from further comment.

Moving on.

What I like about myself is I still haven't even made my first point, which is that I could finally afford to Christmas shop, so last night I started.

Last night I finished.

When my Aunt Mary was here visiting this fall, I took her shopping, as that is her joint, and she wanted to go in this kitchen store you'll be stunned to hear I've never even noticed. Oh my god that store was da bomb! All of a sudden I felt I needed teensy teapots and La Crouton or whatever they are products and knives, oh knives and also avocado pitters. Okay, I actually really could use one of those. I eat a lot of avocado.

Why so chubby?

So what I did was, I memorized the things she picked up and admired, and then I forgot them, and then I went back in there yesterday and remembered some of them and Dear Aunt Mary, don't read this post.

I saw some things for mom in there, and I really admired these blue-green coffee mugs, and I wanted to buy one for her and one for me, which is something my Aunt Kathy always does when she buys gifts, but I did not because $21 apiece for a goddamn mug.

Aunt Kathy had kids of her own. We've never exchanged Christmas gifts. But sometimes she sees things and thinks of me. Then thinks of her.

Mom had specific things she wanted for Christmas, and while I was searching, I met this nice woman from Europe who's just moved here and is cold. Cold cold cold. I could tell she was lonely, as she was the one who started talking, and after we were done it occurred to me I really should've slipped her my digits.

I didn't because I feared she might be nurturing. Then I'd be stuck with one of those women who send you little things all the time and tag you on Facebook with cutesy sayings and then I'd spend all my time wondering how to get out of this European debacle like I was America in 1776. Hand me my fife.

The point is, I got my shopping done in an hour, everyone bought for, and then I came home and took 7 hours to wrap everything, because cats are assholes and also because I have no skills. None. I can't wrap a simple box without it looking like I had it wrapped by the Nubs for Hands Society.

Then I put everything in boxes and today I will assault the guy in the mailroom who already hates me because when you guys send me gifts it comes to work. "Another reader gift," he'll say, floomping a package down. It's always, like, Edsel food or an anvil or something. It's never a gift of air.

The point is, I'm a dude. I mean, I'm a dude in every way with the shopping and not nurturing and explosive temper and dick. The only way I'm not a dude is I can't fix anything.

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This is for everyone who says, "Iris is faking it. She's not blind." She's faking it really well, then.

Look at S Dan, just plotting his next dick move back there.

So, another part of me being broke this month is that I was out of conditioner. I use this specific kind for curls, and it's expensive, so I washed my hair Sunday and then decided I could just deal with it till Thursday when I could get conditioner.

Yesterday when I was done shopping, I remembered the conditioner, so I went to Ulta, which as you can imagine wasn't crowded at all 10 days before Christmas. I was in the forever line, like stamps without the nice picture of Kwanzaa, behind this man with a cute paper shopping list. Like, what is this, 1972? He was crossing things off it, and I saw him glance back at me, and because you know how I am, I was all, I must be lookin' HOT.

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Then I got home and saw my no-conditioner hair. Holy god. He must have been hoping the authorities were on their way. My hair is an octopus.

Also, that nose. You guys. That nose. GODDAMMIT.

Okay, I gotta go. My hair is wet, because you'll be stunned to hear I decided I'd better do something with it.

Nurturingly,

Jooooon

At Two With Nature · Books · Hair · I hate everything · June's stupid life · Neighbors of June · Times I Amused My Own Self

Oh, good. I get to read about someone’s trip.

I hate brunch.

There's the part where you're expected to get up, WITH NO FOOD OR COFFEE IN YOU, and head to some crowded restaurant, then wait in a lobby for a hundred minutes. Then always–ALWAYS!!–some asshole party of 10 is just before you, because hey, what's more fun than a huge GROUP going to brunch where it's already crowded.

Then you have to wait. For more coffee, for your food, for your check, and in the meantime, some asshole is singing Fire and Rain on his acoustic guitar, which is supposed to relax you and make you forget you've waited 45 minutes JUST FOR ONE CUP OF COFFEE SO FAR, when really that song is about a terrible plane crash, so relaxingness, not accomplished.

But I just figured out yesterday, as I waited 250 minutes for an egg, that another reason I hate going to brunch is how awful people look. It's so obvious they've rolled out of bed and just shuffled on in. Dear People At Brunch: Put on some goddamn pants. "Oh, these yoga pants and m'flipflops will suffice."

NO THEY WON'T.

I'm the only person you know who could come back from the beach even crankier than before. I totally need one of those flipflop stickers for my back window, and maybe a "Beach Girl" license plate. If you ever see me with either one of those, you'll know it's time to put me in the home. My ex-mother-in-law used to say that about if we ever saw her out in a sweatsuit.

You know what my ex-MIL would never do? Wear yoga pants to brunch.

Despite that, I did have fun. It was like the perfect vacation. The weather was divine, and I just said "divine." The little place I stayed was perfect, and mercifully empty till this asshole couple arrived on Saturday and decided blaring their music and opening their back doors right next to me was a marvelous idea. They also made out in their bathing suits on the back porch. Our shared back porch. I went outside and pretended they weren't there and read a book. Like the jerk of an old lady that I am.

One of the songs they were blaring was, I'm sad to tell you, I've Had The Time of My Life. You know, from Dirty Dancing? She had some kind of extended dance remix of it, and who knew there was such a thing. When this jerk of a young chippie wasn't carrying a glass–A GLASS–of mimosa to the beach and making out with her boyfriend, whom she continually called, "Baby," she was jamming out to that song. She was singing along. I was reading my book just to irk her back there, and I was all, "Bitch, I was out here in the world hating this song before you were a zygote."

Anyway, they were only there the last full day, as I said, and they left midafternoon and I didn't hear from them again till Sunday morning, which is what drove me to get eggs in public.

Other than that, it really was the perfect vacation.

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Here's my hair on day one.

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Later on day one.

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Day two, then below, days four and five. On day three, I went to town and had civilized hair. If anyone says, "Beach hair don't care," Ima personally drive to your house and make you wait tables at brunch.

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I sat in the giant chair at my rental house and looked at the water and obsessed over the bunnies who could not have hated me more,

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I had a dark-chocolate s'more (not a euphemism), and watched sunsets. I was on a point, so I could see water all around me.

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I saw three shooting stars on various nights, and oh! I saw a dead jellyfish!

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That poor jellyfish. The water was his jam.

I also went to Wilmington, which is right next to the beach I stayed at. Whenever you say you're going to the beach, people here are all, "Oh, what beach?" and then you tell them and I have no idea what they're thinking about you as a result. Do they think that's a tacky beach? That you sound rich cause you picked that beach? I have no idea. So far since I've lived here I've gone to the Outer Banks, and Carolina Beach, and Wrightsville Beach and Virginia Beach and I forget the others and they all look the same to me anyway, water and sand, which also by the way pisses people off. I guess it's like asking what church you go to. It tells a lot about a person.

Anyway, I went to Wilmington for the day, and saw people Halloween-ing, and saw many dogs, and went to a coffee shop and to the book store and bought jewelry I didn't need as opposed to all the people in the world who go without jewelry every single day, and that's the real tragedy we should be addressing in these times.

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Maybe this was a funeral procession for that jellyfish. You can't know, really.

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In a coffee shop window. There are two types of people in the world: People who love to sit in the window of the coffee shop, and people who never would. Guess which type I am.

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Bookstore sitting. I found an '80s Judith Krantz novel I read back when I had a perm, and I didn't buy it but now I wish I had, just to relive the terrible. It was called I'll Take Manhattan. The heroine was rich and beautiful and spirited. It really pisses me off when rich beautiful people think it's daring to be spirited. "Oh, I'm Prince Harry. Look at me rebel! With my bodyguards and my lifelong career as a royal!"

Anyway. You know what my dream is? To own a bookstore and have a bookstore cat. There's just the part where I'd have to know business things like maths and also I hate people. Oooo, I could have a brunch-and-books store. 

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Anyway, it was a good trip, and now I'm home sharing my toast with Edsel, and with each crust, he leaps in the air after it and a squeak of Eds gas comes along with it, which is probably god's way of telling me that Edsel should not be leaping after my toast crust, and what's sad is god speaks to me in dog gas.

This is the word of the Lord. <squeeeeeak>

Thanks be to God.

Oh, and happy Halloween! Boo! My coworkers are all going dressed as Griff this year, which is hilarious, but I was out of town and unable to fashion an ensemble, so I guess I'll just watch from afar this year.

I'll talk to you tomorrow, when I will have far fewer selfies, a thing that I'm sure makes you sad. Talk to you in November. Today's assignment is that we all must rush out and rent Sweet November. The old version with that namby-pamby pale actress. Then we can all get annoyed at how dying just means you nap a lot.

Edsel gas in red font-ly,

June

Fuck natural · Hair · June's stupid life

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

Hair · June can't keep a man · June's stupid life · Music · My pets

Pit act-shun

Today's another Astonishing June-Hair Day.

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Iris can't even look at me. See what I did, there? I really need a new back door. The bottom's all rotted off, and have I mentioned how broke? What unexpected car purchase? What two trips to Michigan in one month? What vacation to the beach that I can't really afford? Oy.

I realize you don't feel a bit sorry for me.

Anyway, the weekend. What'd you do? One of you wrote me, I think it was on Pie on the Face, to say you had big hair, and tried to tell your husband you had June Hair, and he was all, "?"

People just don't understand. You know what we all need to stop saying now? "The struggle is real." Let's all stop. Let's also stop saying, "I'll just leave this here" when you post something on Facebook.

Maybe it's not that my hair is big. Maybe it's just cranky.

Anyway, my weekend.

On Saturday I woke up with nary a plan, and I gotta tell you something: I love living alone. I think I even kind of love being single. There is nothing more wonderful than waking up and realizing that, as long as you don't spend much of the $156 you have till Friday, the world is your oyster.

Okay, that sounded depressing. But still. So I had plans to vote, to make America great again, pfft, and get cat food, and once again I promise you I woke up happy even though I'm just a poverty-stricken old maid cat lady. THE POINT IS I got online and realized there was a Pit Bull Awareness Day walk downtown. I got right on the horn with Bitchy Resting Face Alex and we went down there.

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BRF Alex has a pitty mix, with a big pitty smile, and he was so good on the walk. Edsel stayed home. I felt guilty, but you know how he'd have been.

WOOF! WOOF WOOF WOOF                        WOOF!                    

                                                        RRRRWOOOF!                            RRRR!         WOOF!

So.

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Here's BRF Alex doing her impression of the mom in Cat in the Hat, with big black Harper. Anyway, we walked a three-mile loop downtown, for what reason I don't know, and I was thinking we should have been singin' songs and carryin' signs, mostly say hooray for our side. Stop, now, what's that pit.

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We started at ended at this brewery, conveniently, so after everyone went in with their pitties and had a beer. It was really all you could ask for on a blustery fall afternoon.

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A warm bar with wood floors and exposed brick, beer, and pitty pit pits everywhere you look, just getting along and being wide-headed.

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I admired our tableau of drinks: sparkling rosé, because someone can never blend in, beer, and a water dish for dogs.

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I was not at all obsessed with this five-month-old pitty puppy with pawses, whose name was Chunk. They think he's a pit/mastiff mix. "I hate Edsel," I announced to BRF Alex, slugging back my manly sparkling rosé.

Afterward, I walked around downtown, and in your Big Book of June Events, you may recall that Ned used to live downtown, drivin' all the old men crazy, so I spent an hour strolling around half-drunkenly after my one wine, walking to bars and restaurants that Ned and I had been to, and then past his apartment, which was two inches from the railroad tracks. We had a lot of train sex when he lived there, because trains would go by every 14 minutes or something. I was just remembering that when…

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Goddammit. I considered hurling myself in front of said train, but did not.

On Sunday, one of the Alexes who doesn't work at work anymore came by for a few hours, and I took zero pictures of her, so you're just gonna have to believe me and not think I'm just a sad old woman making stuff up. I cleaned the damn house, so it'd be tidy while I'm out of town this week, which makes no sense, and then a lot of this happened while I watched the Mary Tyler Moore Show for hours on end:

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Also occurring was this:

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Not to mention:

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Act-shun, I wanna live! Act-shun I got so much to give. I wanna give it, I wanna get some too.

It's been awhile since we enjoyed that video together. Let's do so now.

I want you to know this never gets old for me. Never. Her hair, her fine outfit, hearing someone actually sing, "act-shun," the excited audience, and mostly her fine dance moves.

Whenever you read me, I want you to picture disco balls glimmering at you from now on.

I gotta go. It's time for my horn-solo dance part.

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Lovin' the nightlife-ly,

June

Death · Dooce envy · Friends · Hair · In the kitchen with June · June doesn't know any ugly people · Other people's pets

Pudding?

Would you like to know what annoys me?

"Wait. June. Something annoys you?"

When people use trite phrases. For example, remember in The Wizard of Oz, when they said, "Lions and tigers and bears–oh, my!" It bugs me when people paraphrase that. Linens and teacups and bags–oh, my! Hail and winds and rain–oh, my!

And this is why I particularly hated myself more than usual when I realized I was out of gel today and said to my own self, "Houston, we have a problem." You've no idea how much I loathed my own self right then, but we really do have a problem, Houston.

I'd turned it upside-down, the gel bottle, and it all ran out onto the sink's surface and dried like There's Something About Mary.

I wish I'd mention more movies today. I get paid thousands of dollars each time I throw one in.

I saw Carrie last night ($$$$!!!!) at my old movie theater I like to go to. I've never seen it in its entirety, and one of the bitchy girls in the movie is actually the woman who was eventually in Ferris Bueller ($$$$$!!!), the principal's assistant who says, "They all say he's a rightous dude."

Anyway, it's a good movie, Carrie is, and the insane mom of Carrie has June Hair. She's also probably younger than me now, which is sad. Everyone's younger than me. My doctor is still older, thank god. But he's, like, half-retired.

Did I mention sad?

Also, I need to work in the phrase "dirty pillows" when referring to women's breasts more often. That's what the mom with June Hair called them. That Carrie mom seemed to have some sort of disorder.

Other than that, yesterday yawned before me with screaming emergencies and then nothing and then another screaming emergency and then nothing again. It's like working in an emergency room, except with words. In between EMERGENCY! NOTHING! I talked to The Poet, and I was telling her that I knew I had to go to the store after work, because I was 100% out of something, and now the end of the day was drawing nigh and I could no longer recall what I was 100% out of.

"Pudding?" she asked.

Pudding. Because once you're out of pudding, you're out of groceries.

It turned out to be Prilosec, which I consume by the gallon, and I should probably really return to the throat guy. He's really tall and long. Wears a lot of turtlenecks. Anyway I never did get any, because I couldn't remember and then I had to scream to Carrie ($$$$!!!!), and now today I will GERD all day. I'll be the hurdy GERDy girl. So.

I wish I could stay and talk about the important issues of our time, but I must be off. We had a yard sale fundraiser thing at work yesterday and I got measuring cups and a bowl and a dish towel, all from my competition, The Pioneer Woman. My own workplace selling the competition.

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That clock back there I got for five years of service. It's very heavy, like an Academy Award.

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My coworker Slutty Pancakes won the bike. There was a pretty bike, and I wanted it even though I can't ride a bike. "You can put your dog in the basket!" I told her resentfully when she went to retrieve it yesterday. I'd already pictured Edsel in that basket.

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"The only dog that'd fit is the cremated one," she told me, and when she got home she texted me this:

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Dying. So to speak.

Okay, I said I was going 72,000 words ago.

XO, Joooon

...friend/Ned · Aging ungracefully · At Two With Nature · Death · Hair · I am a pleasure of life · I am high-maintenance · June can't keep a man · June's stupid life · My pets

It’s a pretty good crowd for a Saturday

Yes, I'm posting on Saturday. Hello! {hello hello hello hello} Echo! {echo echo echo echo}

I don't know why I bother. But hello, one and a half people who are homebound for whatever reason.

I guess now that it's half an hour away, I can tell you that I am supposed to be in New York right now, for a friend's surprise 50th, and I'm so sad I'm not there. His wife invited me, and I wanted to bring our mutual friend Sandy to doubly surprise him, but I just couldn't afford boarding Edsel, flying there, staying in a NEW YORK HOTEL HELLO EXPENSIVE, and so on. I tried. It makes me sad. I'd love to see his face when he gets surprised today. It'd probably be the same face he got back in college when he learned everyone didn't have a maid.

So, crap.

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Yesterday at work, we got surprised as well, except I knew about it cause I planned it. But an account we work on at work has a dog model, a 176-pound dog model named Moose, and I wrote a story about Moose for said account, and got to know Moose's owner, who is local. He offered to bring Moose to the office, and I knew that would be a big hit, but I had no idea how big of a hit.

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Fucking EVERYONE got up to meet Moose. And there's really no way to show, to scale, how dang big that dog is. On his hind legs, he's 5'10". And he's just so docile. It was like Snufalupagus came in to work. "hullo. moowse heer. sigh." He is the very definition of laid back.

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I listened to people ask his owner the same questions over and over again. How much does he eat? How old is he, again? Where does he sleep? (Not that much, actually, 7 and a half, and on the bed, natch.)

Oh my god, we all loved us the Moose.

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Petite. That's what he was. A mere slip of a thing.

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My mere slip of a thing seems to be doing better since his shots took everything out of him. And Iris seems to be more resigned to her little-brother fate, although she's still giving one last hiss before she walks out the door. If she were in a band, she'd paint her face black and white and join Hiss.

If she were a holiday, she'd be Hissmass.

She's thinking of running for off-hiss.

You get my drift.

She puts on a blue conservative hissmass suit and a floppy tie, because she's a hissmass woman.

I need to get over it.

If she drank beer, she'd drink it out of a growler.

Dear June: We hate you. Love, Readers.

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When I got home last night, it was an exciting mail day. I got my new phone cover, which makes me officially Single White Female-ing Faithful Reader Beverly. She got one first. Is my point. If she were Iris, she'd say, "Firsssssst."

Don't you just loves it, though? Oh my god, how bad do you want to be me right now?

Don't answer that.

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I also got my first Stitch Fix box. It's this place? Where nobody dares to go? You needed the world to know. They are in Xanadu.

Oooo.

Oh my god.

So, at work, I edit the company newsletter, because powerful, and when I was planning September's issue, I emailed the newsletter staff with "September newsletter: Fashion Edition" just to be funny.

See, most fashion and beauty magazines have an extra-thick edition in September, ya lesbian, full of the latest styles and trends and so on. This came in real handy during my coming-up years in Saginaw. "Oooo, I'd better tear this open, read it cover to cover, then head to the mall for more Sasson jeans and Candies."

Anyway, I wrote that as a joke, but then decided it'd be fun to have a fashion edition of the company newsletter, so I went around randomly interviewing and photographing my coworkers. Two very cute women said they got their outfits that day from Stitch Fix.

So, you go on the site, and the first person to not just Google fucking it gets stitches after I visit your abode, and tell them a bit about yourself (Dear Stitch Fix: I am old and fat) and they send you clothes you can keep or return.

Right? I know!

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Oh, you're welcome.

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I got this pretty gold necklace, and BRF Alex always wears gold necklaces, and she's fashionable, and now I wonder if I should be like her, except old and fat. It's like how my cousin Katie orders things from Athleta and once she puts them on, she's all, "Oh, look at the fat girl in athletic garb."

Anyway. I took pictures, and none of these look flattering in the pictures but they really are cute in real life. As real as this life is, what with my denial that I'm a homosexual man and all.

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I love this little top, and I think maybe if I didn't wear it with blue cargo pants and a black bra…

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Polka-dotted shirt, also cute if I had anything form-fitting on with it and didn't look like one of those clowns they're finding in the woods.

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I like the idea of this dress, but it looks like someone threw up flowers on it.

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steelee dan waring his gray sweater again.

That placemat never looks filthy till I photograph it, and then it always looks like I'm feeding animals in a Third World country or something. Note that SD is generally eating all the time. Also, what do you think of canned food for kittens? I hear it's healthier. I've never done it but I keep reading it's preferable.

After I tried on all my ensembles, Ned wanted to go to the goddamn folk festival. "We can walk from my house," said Ned, like that'd be fun.

Last year, we went to the folk festival, had a terrible time, and broke up the next morning. Not because we had a terrible time, but because, well, you know sort of all the reasons we broke up. Anyway, it's exactly a year later and Ned was hoping we could redo it or something.

One way to put me in a sparkling mood was to make me walk in the 90-degree heat to TIBET and back, only so we could stand in a crowd and then walk home again.

But I fucking did it. Oh my god, I was cranky. My feet were scraping in my shoes, even though Ned insisted I wear tennis shoes, and it was hot, and THAT WALK WAS INTERMINABLE. Also, I am a good sport. Is the thing. I go along to get along. That's me.

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When we finally got downtown, a hundred and ninety seven years after we took off from Ned's house of torment and bad ideas, we stopped in to see Kit at her store.

"Remember last week, when I was cheerful and drunk?" I asked her. My hair had gotten sweaty and it was 75 feet wide. When I told her we'd walked from Ned's (she lives in Ned's neighborhood), she was appalled for me, and that made everything worthwhile.

"You should get drunk again," she advised.

Ned made me go to THREE FUCKING STAGES to see THREE FUCKING BANDS ("If we weren't already broken up, I'd have broken up with him over this," I groused to Kit.), and at the third stage, we noted that's where we'd been last year when we were having a rotten time. In our 2016 version of Going to the Folk Festival, Ned had found us drinks, and we were sitting on the grass playing "Would You" with all the people walking by. News flash: Ned and I mostly "would" with anyone under 30. Also, I totally "Would You'd" both men AND woman, but Ned stayed steadfastly pervy about women.

"Last year we hated each other, and this year we're picking out people to fuck," mused Ned.

"It's like we're growing," I said, looking for a first aid tent so they could amputate my legs after that walk, kind of like that poor guy in Gone With the Wind.

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We noted we were right near the ironically named Goodyear sign, having just had a shit-ass year. Neither of us have met anyone else, and apparently Ned is still trying to kill me for it.

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On the equally interminable walk back, we stopped at the neighborhood bar that still counts for Ned as a neighborhood bar, and for me as a "bar from my old neighborhood."

Ned paid. Damn straight he did.

So that's my weekend. Ned wants to walk back to the fucking festival today, and let me tell you who's Hans Solo today. Let me tell you who will never walk alone, except he's walking alone today. Let me tell you who said "folk you" to Ned.

Talk to you later.

Athletically,

June

Aging ungracefully · Friends · Hair · June doesn't know any ugly people · June's stupid life · My pets · Times I Amused My Own Self

I pity the Blu

7:28 a.m.

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I am currently drinking coffee–what addiction?–out of my Mr. Tea mug that Marty and Kaye got me some years back, that remains one of my favorites. Do you have favorite mugs? Do you wait till it's that mug's turn in the cupboard, or do you reach for it first if it's clean? I make my mugs wait their turn. Then all the shitty ones are way in the back and I'll have to be all, Crap. Really? It's thin-mug-that-burns-my-hand day?

When we last spoke, I was debating new shoes, because all of mine were peed on or slightly chewed or just old. Lottie really hasn't ruined any shoes yet, as I am careful to at least place them up high, when walking all the way to the closet is just too exhausting to contemplate.

The other day I was walking at work with Austin, and I told him how I woke up in the middle of the night recently with horrific pain in my back teeth. I knew I'd been grinding them and the pain was exquisite. If I owned aspirin, I'd have taken some. What I did instead was get up and put in my night guard.

"You have a night guard? And you didn't have it in already?" asked Austin, who has a full-time job, two kids, a house, a dog, a cat, a wife and does Cross Fit every single day. Plus he prepares 79 individual containers of healthy snacks for himself that he eats all day at work. You walk into the kitchen and he's, like, wolfing raw brussels sprouts out of a container he brought.

"I was too exhausted to walk to the bathroom to put it in that night," I explained.

The look he gave me was priceless.

Anyway, here. Shut up.

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Your basic black middle-aged-divorced-woman wedges. I once heard a group of young bitches teasing one of the other young women at the table for wearing wedges like she's a mom. I tucked mine under my chair. I'm not gonna teeter in pumps for no good reason. I put on a pump, there better be the promise of penis.

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Every day at work, we take a walk through the park, something The Other Copy Editor invented, daily walks, and we've kept going with it. But my cankles feel stiff in the morning now and I wonder if it's because I'm clomping around the park in divorce wedges. So. Got these. In my color. You'll see they're already soiled, as I walked the curs in them. The Black Mouth cur and the other cur.

And finally. The peace of resistance. How much do you like me right now?

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Ta-DAAAAA! I know, right???! Oh my god, so pleased.

I got to wear the basic black wedges to Alex's little party on Saturday. She recently bought a house and she had a get-together.

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"Won't you enjoy my…tomatoes?"

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All the Alexes were there. Also, microwaved flowers! Mmmmm!

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Not an Alex. But standing near an Alex!

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June basks in the rays coming from Alex's head.

When I was out…getting my iPhone fixed (which in some parts of the country is code for buying shoes), I stopped at Ulta ("I thought you hated Ulta, June") because my hairdresser is at the beach, and it's only been three or four weeks anyway, and what roots? Oh my god. Snow on the silver mountain. Rootin' for turnips.

Roots.

Root root rootin' for the home team.

If you catch my drift.

So I got some root cover, is what I did, because, roots? Root you talkin' 'bout, Willis?

The point is, they had hair powder for $4.99. They had bright blue, pink, and …

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lavender. So I sported that at the party, and I am not at all just wearing a bra in this picture. "Honey, You're such an exhibitionist." I can so hear my mom. Also, mom, I got your messages. I kept saying I would call you next, in my own head, in my mind, but then I was busy again. Mostly pulling Lottie off things. But also with this…

 

It all started yesterday morning, on Facebook, because middle-aged divorced woman. Anyway, I'm on two Edsel support group pages: American Dingo and Carolina Dogs. On one of those pages, we were all grousing about our weird dogs, and someone said her dog destroys every toy. And every other Edsel owner nodded sympathetically and we got up from our folding chairs and had a group hug.

That's when I mentioned Blu. To stop the group hug. "West Paw design makes a toy that's nearly indestructible!" I said, adding the link. "We're on Blu number three, and we're only on three because we left Blu Two somewhere."

I did not go into my own heartbreaking history of moving in with Ned and the tragic demise and how I forgot Blu in my fog of disappointment and agony. And that clearly Jesus the lawn guy tossed Blu, as it is just not in that yard any longer.

Jesus will take your Blu away.

The point is, after I posted that on Facebook, I started wondering how many pictures I could drum up of Edsel with Blu, and I started gathering them, then four hours later I'd made a whole stupid video. Do you have any idea how many "blue" songs I considered? Mr. Blue Sky, but it's really long. Tangled Up in Blue. Also a long song. Blue Monday, but come on.

But this song is perfect. It's kind of gay, plus they SAY gay, and it's jaunty like Edsel. Gay and jaunty like Edsel.

Could not get enough of self that Talu gets Blu in the end, and takes a bow. She only ever played with Blu to piss off Edsel. It was totally obvious. She's totally Lucy and poor Eds is Linus with his blanket.

I fucking love the song Blue Monday. Oh my god, I am so dancing at some bar in Saginaw when this comes on. I wonder if all the dancing I did then negated the 394949494 calories from all my white zinfandel? Probably, as I was 23.

Goddammit.

Anyway, that's all my news. I gotta put on my prick suit and get to work. I have no idea why I said that, except Andy Sipowicz used to say that and I always loved it. "Guy put on his prick suit this morning."

Andy Sipowicz is an excellent cat name.

Prick Suitedly,

Jooooon