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.

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

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

Cream. Get on top. Cream.

Three entire days of a holiday weekend. Twenty thousand climbs up m’stepstool. Five trips to the paint store. Nineteen inappropriate advances made on young paint salesboy.

And? Continue reading “Cream. Get on top. Cream.”

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”

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

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

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.

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