On the third day, she “Rose” again

On Friday at work, they let us leave at 3:00, a delightful habit they’ve gotten into before any holiday weekends. I suppose it’s for normal people with families who want to get on the road to the beach, or whatever normal people do.

What do the normal folk do? …I think craft. Seems like they craft a lot. They also seem to traipse to restaurants in big groups, if Facebook is any indication.

Having never been normal for even 14 seconds, I eschewed the creative team’s early happy hour and went home to do my freelance work. Technically, it’s due today, but I’d been moving along on it and thought, “Well, I’ll just see how far I get Friday.”

And I finished it.

I finished it!

“Well, NOW what do I do?” I thought. It was too late to go to the happy hour. So I streamed Goodbye Christopher Robin, which I thought would maybe be a delightful film re Pooh and so forth, but really was incredibly dark and I kind of liked it better for it.

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wat we watchen?

Saturday dawned and I continued to have nothing to do, and I assumed I had no money to do it with. Payday is tomorrow night, and they picked a fine time to have a holiday weekend.

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holidaay. celebrayte.
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Lillee resent sine.

I took Lily to the vet for her rabies shot, and now the only thing she’s rabid about is food. Speaking of which…

“Do you want to go to Lexington and get barbecue?” Ned asked me on Saturday afternoon, and yes. Hell, yes, I did. We will not pick this moment to talk about what an effing heifer I am, because Lexington is a town famous for its barbecue, and for good reason. And here it was being presented to me by my rich ex.

So we got in the car.

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“Why are you taking a picture of this?” asked Ned, who is clearly new.

IMG_9102IMG_9101IMG_9103.jpgI’m starving to death reviewing these images anew. Mother of god, that was delish.

Say, June, can you store my equipment in those saddlebags?

Anyway, on the way back, I was telling Ned I was considering painting my spare bedroom. Bitchy Resting Face Alex and I had painted it back in 2015, when I moved back after my unfortunate year abroad with Ned, and we’d painted it white and it never really looked fully covered. It was half nude.

“I just don’t think I have enough for paint,” I kvetched, checking my account.

Turns out, I had a few hundred dollars! Because Amazon!

Amazon link. Go shop.

So basically this next part is all you guys’s fault.

IMG_9111.jpgI’d toyed with some colors prior, but when I got to the paint store (and does anyone remember the hot man of color who sold me my Labor Day paint last year? I went there about 40 times that weekend, sort of because I’ma bad planner and sort of because he is so hot. “Could you have more obviously had a crush on that man?” asked Ned after we left the paint store, but WHO CAN BLAME ME.)…

…what the hell was I talking about? Oh, paint. Right.

So somehow I convinced self that

PINK

would be the right color. I wonder what inspired me.

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A color, and a description of me.

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I did not elicit Ned’s help in this scenario, as I have found when we do projects together I mostly want to snap his neck. There’s a whole lot of “Why aren’t you doing it my way” and “Why are you doing this” and “You know what I’D do…” and snap. Neck. Look at the bent neck on Ned.

Pretty much the rest of the weekend was me moving furniture and taping trim and pulling out nails and spreading drop cloths and OH MY GOD CAN WE PAINT YET?

IMG_9113.jpgSomeone we all know, someone in the asshole family, was deeeeeeLIGHTed that shit was being moved around and things were differented up. I thought cats were supposed to be made nervous by change. Not this one. He was pretty much in there every second I was painting, and likely has brain damage from the fumes, but that’s just the kind of mother I am.

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eyeriss bozzered. to not move things pleese.

Finally, after three days, I’d scraped and moved and sanded and trimmed and painted, finally, and then I stepped back to admire my work and was all,

I hate it.

But now I’m stuck with it.

My rule is I have to wait a year before I can paint again.

This might be a nice time to gently remind that I hate advice.

Anyway, then I had to move everything BACK in there, to the room, and I texted my mother to get her advice on where I should put things.

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“I don’t like this arrangement,” my mother announced, and who made HER…oh. I guess me, cause I asked. Also, I see I let one damn doorknob stay brassy, and gets what’s next on my agenda.

“I don’t like it either,” I agreed. “It looks like a ship is tilting and everything went to one side.”

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“No.”

IMG_9136.jpg“This looks like Abraham Lincoln slept here and he had to share the bed with another boarder,” said my mother, who has an active imagination.

IMG_9137.jpg“Why does Steely Dan have to get in every picture?” she asked. “He’s like you.”

IMG_9142.jpgIMG_9145.jpgIn the end, this was the arrangement I went with, and I ordered an area rug…

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…that’ll really tie the room together, harrr.

I also at some point decided I should shop for, oh, lamps and comforters that maybe would butch the room up a bit. Maybe charcoal accents, or black or caramel.

Then everywhere I looked, I was all, Oooooo, look at the pale pink ostrich-feather ottoman! Look at the sparkly chandelier! Oh my god, magenta fluffy carpet!

So. Butching it up did not go well. I don’t know if you’ve noticed this about me, but I’m not good at being butch.

So that’s the news on my cervix guest room. Guest womb. Maybe I’ll invite P!nk over to stay.

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if onlee mom had myrror

Tune in tomorrow, when I will have done something else absurd.

Rosily,
Rosalie

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Give June a doll box from 1972, and you’ve given her the world

I just heard myself tell the dog, “I just washed that floor,” as he skidded in with muddy paws, and now I have officially become my mother.

Then I realized that no, I actually did not wash this floor this weekend, making me officially my grandmother when the dementia set in.

I did wash a lot of floors, though, as folk were traipsing in and out of this abode all weekend to peer at little cats. And I’ve noticed a lot of willy-nilly use of the word “catten” around here, lately, so let’s review.

IMG_4243.jpgThis is a kitten.

IMG_4225.jpgSo is this.

IMG_4231.jpgNot a trick–also a kitten.

IMG_4274.jpgCAT. Now with catnip!

IMG_4220.jpgKittens with a cat.

IMG_4278.jpgKitten. By the way, if you don’t want litter every fucking where, don’t get that Feline Pine. I’ve already replaced it, after spending 394949394 hours sweeping, including sweeping the dog bed, an indignity I did not foresee.

Anyway, back to our review.

IMG_4258.jpgKittens.

IMG_4275CAT. He truly enjoyed his first foray into the ‘nip. You’ll be stunned to hear he’s kind of a mean drunk, with the swinging at me, a behavior that he does not usually indulge in, except with Ned. He always swung at Ned.

Anyway, none of what you just saw were cattens. CATTENS, which I believe is an official made-up term, are almost-grown kittens, like when you have, say, an eight-month old kitten. They’re almost there, in full-grown bitchy catness (see directly above) but not quite there. They’re still a bit gangly.

To sum, my house has a lotta fucking cats in it right now. And yes, I swept up that catnip along with the eleventy pounds of Feline Pine.

This is a video that Alex took, when she was here this weekend, and you will note the Feline Pine ON MY BOOTS. I was Feline-n-Boots.

IMG_4239.jpgAlso arriving this weekend were Chris and Lilly and their offspring, which the kittens were fine with and Edsel wasn’t. At one point, he leaped behind me to hide when a child had the nerve to look at him.

I haven’t had this many visitors in my room in one weekend since college.

I’ll be here all week.

Note I spent all that money on fabric propped up, there, and have never recovered my chair. What the hell is wrong with me?

I left the house only sporadically this weekend, because kittens. Dragged self to that Daniel Day Lewis movie, the one that’s nominated for Best Picture. What the hell’s it called? Anyway, it was good, and weird, which are my favorite kinds of films, but DDLewis annoys.

It just bugs me how everyone goes on about what a fabulous actor he is, and how for three months he just was Abraham Lincoln and so forth. Oh, shut up. Stop being fucking Abraham Lincoln. Just pretend. It’ll have the same effect. No one wants to deal with you going around being Abraham Lincoln, you self-important twit who plays house for a living.

Oh, your craft. Fuck you.

Anyway, so I went to the movies. Saw Daniel Day Lewis. He was a dress designer this time. Do you think he went around making dresses all day, like when we had Fashion Plates?

Screen Shot 2018-01-29 at 8.03.42 AM.pngThat’s some outfit she’s designing. “Yes, I envision a patchwork jumper, with a fine school-bus-orange scoop-neck T under it.”

3ed464f129504811f4c56ecbbdcf791f--childhood-toys-childhood-memories.jpgAlso, while I was up, Googling, “What the hell was that dress-designing toy I had when I was a kid?” I came across this motley crew. I think I had that box, and I’m not sure why, because my Free-to-be-You-and-Me-As-Long-As-You’re-a-Feminist mother was not all that keen on me having Barbie-esque things, which made them all the more tempting. But first of all, which one’s Dawn, and where did she get these jakey friends?

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We’ve got the Hungover, Walk-of-Shame friend.

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Cross-Eyed, Dude-That’s-a-Shirt-Not-a-Dress friend.

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Slept-With-Santa-Souvenir-Belt-n-Boots friend.

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Experimenting-With-Lesbianism friend, whose wellies I do admire.

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Cockeyed-Boobs friend, now with parentheses hair.

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Could this be Dawn? Because she looks like someone who’s rethinking her choices.

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“Jesus, what cockamamie sorority am I even in? Fucking Ken and his goddamn roofie.”

I like how the girls on the box have nothing to do with these yahoos out front. And who’s the fruitcake on guitar? Oh, I see. He’s eyeing up ol’ Snappy Dancer, on the right. Ascot flying. You know you got a live one when his ascot goes flying.

I’m sorry. I may need to reenact all the girls’ dance moves.

Photo on 1-29-18 at 8.17 AM #3.jpgphoto-on-1-29-18-at-8-17-am-4.jpgPhoto on 1-29-18 at 8.18 AM #2.jpgOh, by the way, I couldn’t find the pajama bottom that matched this top, nor the top that matched this bottom, so I said fuck it and wore this to bed. You’re welcome.

Also, the webcam reversed all the moves, which I guess I should have figured out, but spatial relations. So.

Well, it’s been a pleasure, and I’m glad I stuck to one subject and did not at all get distracted. That’s what matters. Also, I kept my dignity.

Your friend of Dawn,

June

Does my new computer make my arse look big? Are you sick of that joke yet?

This is my inaugural post on my new computer. Please note I received said new computer back in December, way back then, but it’s been Sisyphean hell trying to migrate all my old info into the current day. I worked harder on getting to the present day than that guy in Back to the Future.

I worked on getting to the present day harder than Dorothy Gale. Which works better?

How about neither, June.

So I’m on this new keyboard, and you know how when you zipped right out and bought the millennial version of Monopoly and that vellum money didn’t quite feel right? What do you mean I’m the only yahoo who went out and got millennium Monopoly?

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You should see the current-looking cell phone they have, as one of the millennium-edition game pieces. I think the good folks at Monopoly should’ve thought harder about evergreen pieces.

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An iron never goes out of style. Granted, that style of iron was last used by Mary Todd Lincoln, who because she was crazy thought it was a cell phone from the year 2000.

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Poor Mary Todd Lincoln. She probably wasn’t crazy at all. Probably Abraham Lincoln was a love avoidant. THAT WILL MAKE ANY WOMAN SQUIRRELLY.

Abe was probably having outside intrigue with John Wilkes Booth, as part of his love avoidance issue; hence the drama in the theater. I wonder if the people at the theater got their money back?

I didn’t take any Ritalin today.

Come on, June. You can’t be serious. With this laser-sharp post?

No one names their kid Abraham anymore.

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Before I spin into infinity, behold Roundest Raspberry, today’s Clinique Chubby Stick color. Yesterday I photographed Super Strawberry and slid it in, so to speak, at the bottom of yesterday’s post a few hours after I wrote you. So if you read first thing you missed that scintillating shot. You can still see it. A blog post is forever. By Judy Blume.

I’m sorry to tell you we have only two more lip colors to peruse: Voluptuous Violet, and what I really like is when people pronounce it “volumptuous.” THERE IS NO M IN THAT WORD.

And finally, Grand Mal Grape. No. Grandest Grape. I dearly wish I could see. Remember back when you could see? What the hell with that. You could see far away and up close, like it was normal. Now it’s Flight of the Bumble, over here, as I reach for the right glasses.

Anyway, as I was saying 472 paragraphs ago, it’s been Sisyphean trying to get this computer to take on the six years of endless stuff I did to the old machine. I have a total Baby New Year/Old Year situation going, and even when I was a kid, I never understood how a year, who was a year old, got so old in, you know, a year.

old-man-baby-new-year.pngDid I ever tell you my favorite horrible thing I did? It was new year’s day, 2005, and Marvin and I were headed somewhere. On the corner was this poor old man, looking shoddy. And I said, “Oh, look! It’s 2004!”

This is why I’m single.

I also get bugged when they have movies set in some old time, like the Middle Ages, and everything looks old. Like, thatched roofs look old. THEY’D LOOK NEW. The Middle Ages weren’t the Middle Ages for the people living in them. They were RIGHT NOW. And their shit looked new. Their copy of The Power of Now was brand-new.

Say, June, what say you, oh, pop a Ritalin and come back in a few.

OH MY GOD MY POINT, is that last night, I got home from work and had half an hour of freedom before I had yet another call with AppleCare to set this computer up some more, and I feel like people think that a single woman with a full-time job, four pets she solely cares for, freelance work and allegedly an exercise regime has time to talk.

After I fended off 11teen texts and calls for that half an hour, I got on the horn with AppleCare. Our biggest problem was that the photos weren’t switching over. I explained to the latest AppleCare guy–they’re almost always guys–that I blogged, apologized for still blogging, then told him I took photos of my everyday life every day.

“About how many photos do you think you have on your computer, ma’am?”

I did some quick maths.

Oh, June.

Let’s see. I had this computer for six years, and there are 365 days in a year…

“About 3,000,” I announced.

Finally, we located my photos. They HAD transferred over, but they’d landed in a weird place. But there they were, and we opened the Photos app.

And: 32,300. That’s how many photos I had. 32,300.

“That’s, heh, not 3,000,” the AppleCare guy mansplained to me. LIKE I’M AN IDIOT WHO CAN’T DO MATH OR…oh.

The only downside is I seem to have lost any photo I took from December 30 to January 1, but hoooo care. Also, after we hung up last night, I started deleting photos. I don’t NEED to, as this new computer is OHMYGOD so fast, but it’s just the idea. It was bugging me, having that many blurry, dumb, needless photos.

Currently I have 29,931 photos. LOOK AT JUNE GO.

Laura Ingalls Wilder had seven photos her whole life. But okay.

“But June, in the show, she…” Oh, shut up. That goddamned show.

I’d better get to work. That task is back. Remember that task I had that made me miss the work Halloween party, and later the work Christmas party? It’s back. Maybe it’ll make me miss Martin Luther King Day. Last year, we, as usual, did not have the day off, and all the people of color called in sick. It was a very Norma Rae moment, and now this year we have MLK Day off.

I’ll see you tomorrow. I want you to be emotionally prepared for VoluMPTuous Violet Bicks.

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“Oh, this old thing? Why, I only wear it when I don’t care WHAT I wear.”

Violet Bicks was probably raised by a Love Avoidant. Or maybe she was the granddaughter of Abraham Lincoln.

Linearly,

Juan

LDV

I have a new thing that bugs me: Women using that video-making feature where their eyes are huge, and their lips are gigantic, and their voices are distorted. Perhaps you’re hilarious, person making a video while sitting in a car, which, woooo! How could you NOT be, with that original venue? But I see that damn exaggerated-features look, and I can’t even click to hear one word.

Also, the kids who’ve been coached to sound world-weary when they’re four. Stop.

You all have put both of these on the Facebook of June page lately to say, “I hate these,” and I am so with you.

These videos are the 2000s version of Pagemaker. Back in the ’90s, this program got invented that let you create your own invitations and flyers and so forth, called Pagemaker (and not PageMaker. I believe it came before we started the equally annoying trend of naming everything WordThing. WordPress. TypePad. InDesign. StopIt).

Anyway, Pagemaker started the whole Secretary As Artist trend, where everyone was “designing” their own stuff, and it looked horrific. Now we have video cameras in our purses, and little special effects we can use, and suddenly everyone’s a makeshift internet comedian.

Says the woman who still blogs, for god’s sake.

You know what was funny? The woman who’d bought herself the Chewbacca mask. She wasn’t trying to get millions of viewers. She wasn’t trying to hone her “craft.” She wasn’t trying to become an Instagram star so she could quit her day job. She was just a genuinely likable person who happened to capture a funny moment.

And this is the problem, I think. The little girl dancing Gangnam style at a wedding reception is genuine. These “I planned them” videos always look, you know, planned. And they aren’t that funny.

I know I’m not the only curmudgeon, here.

Look who I’m talking to. Of course I’m not.

Other than me hating everything on the planet and still being in an angry phase, that about sums it up. I worked on something all day yesterday at work, which was fun to do, actually, but took a lot out of me. Copy editing. It isn’t laying bricks, but you’d never know that.

Anyway, I came home, realized I was out of soap and water. I am not kidding. Soap and water. So then Edsel and I went to the grocery store. I hated to leave him after I’d just gotten home and he’d started sculpting a bust in my honor and so forth.

Then I got home and said, “Is it an acceptable time to go to bed yet?” like anyone was watching. I made myself stay up till 9:00, didn’t do any freelance and hello panic, and then Eds and I slept all night except for Edsel’s one very urgent call of nature at 12:12 a.m. I swear we were back asleep by 12:14.

The only exciting news I have for you is that several months ago, maybe even a year ago, Faithful Reader Fay sent me a Hello Kitty toaster, which I use quite frequently. I’m quite the connoisseur of toast.

But all this time, I’ve been buying the pretentious bread, a habit I picked up from my…ex, the 404 Error, who gets said bread in the deli section at the store, and it’s full of the nuts and grains and it is delicious.

But this weekend, I was near the Ghetto Lion, and I needed groceries (including water and soap, but who can remember?) (here is where my mother is screeching MAKE A LIST), and they don’t HAVE rough made-in-store bread at the Ghetto Lion, so I got normal-person bread in the bread aisle, and weird, it felt.

The point is, I made toast, and

GUESS

WHAT.

That toaster embeds a little image of Hello Kitty in the toast! My toast was too rough and unrefined and high-school educated to show it before.

IMG_1855.jpgMy life has been transfigured. Also, say “toast” one more time.

I’d better go. I’m taking Eds to the vet today, to figure out why he’s still itching and chewing, and now his stomach seems to be bothering him.

Before you give me all the advice, here’s what we’ve already tried:

  1. Changing his diet. Many times.
  2. Shots
  3. Steroids
  4. Antidepressant
  5. Another kind of antidepressant
  6. Flax seed oil
  7. Allergy medicine
  8. A different kind of allergy medicine

Someone told me to try colloidal silver, and Ima ask the vet about that today.

I can’t help having PTSD about Tallulah, and all the tests we ran, when her tumor was right there visible, had anyone, oh, looked at her little dog vagina. I have never once called it anything other than her “little dog vagina.” I don’t know why. Her LDV.

Have PTSD about a lot of things lately. Remember when life just used to be normal and I wasn’t upset? Me either. But I know it existed.

Okay, talk at you and your little dog vagina soon.

Dancing queen. Old and mean, only 52.

Yesterday at lunchtime, I stampeded across town to the damn dance store, which is its official name. Greensboro’s Damn Dance Store! We’re open stupid times!

When I got there, I realized I’d tensed up, in the worry that they’d be closed Mondays or some other similar irritating thing. But they were not! There they were, all open and shit.

I’d have taken photos, but it was really a small boutique kind of place, and there was one other person in there, a rather demanding-seeming woman over in the kids’ section. Which, by the way, seemed to dominate. And you know how I am. “Oooo, tiaras! …Oh. They’re for kids. Dammit.” “Oooo! Tote bags that read “ballet” in glitter! …Teensy, for kids. Dammit.”

A very helpful saleswoman got me m’shoes,

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Hey. YOU try holding your purse, your phone AND ballet shoes and see how good YOUR photo is, fussy.

and also some yoga pants that I am delighted to report were kind of too big. Naturally, I cut the tags off them before trying them on, because that’s the kind of careful planning that’s resulted in the delicately elegant life I’ve created for myself.

When work ended, I checked the time and locale of my dance class; I’d already emailed the place to reserve a spot. It had been a lovely, warm and blowy–but not THAT kind of blowy–day, and I was happy to have a few minutes to come home and hang with the entourage, the four-legged entourage, my FURBABIES (sigh) before heading to my 7 o’clock class.

IMG_E1158.JPGThis sums up all of my quality time with Steely Dan.

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there just so much of SD to luff. Have to share wif wurld.

But look. Here’s six seconds of autumnal calm, now with falling leaves!

Anyway. At 6:30. I left the house, got downtown–where I will not mention the mental status of any old men–found, like,  TV parking right outside the building, and sauntered into the “cultural” center.

I don’t know why I’m cynical about that. But you know what? I got in there, and it was pretty cool! It was so, you know, cultural. I turned into yogurt, it was so cultured.

IMG_1161.jpgI found the room where my class was to begin at 7:00, and?

Everyone was ballet-ing. Ballet-ing hard. Because the class had started 45 minutes before.

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Flyer for the modern class.

I WANTED Absolute Beginner, Ballet. I read the TIME for Absolute Beginner, Modern.

I needed an Absolut.

So, I sat on a comfy metal bench, right outside the class, and watched my coworker finish his ballet, just like my parents used to have to do when I took ballet from the winged-eyeliner lady circa 1973. I talked to another parent, who was doing her homework and was probably delighted to have to hear my plight about the wrong time and so on. Then I kibitzed with my coworker when he was done, and when I got back outside, after promising to come back AT THE RIGHT TIME next week?

Storm. Don’t know why, there’s no sun up in the sky. Other than the fact that it’s 7:15 in October. Stormy weather, since that man and I ain’t together. It’s raining all the am I blue.

That was only funny if you know my Am I Blue/asking gramma for the lyrics to Stormy Weather story.

You know what I like? People who don’t scroll up. Like, we’ll have a big chain of comments going, here or on Facebook of June, and someone wanders on and asks something we addressed four comments ago. I adore that.

IMG_1165.jpgAnyway, here’s an unretouched photo of JOOON, having been caught in the RAAAAAIN on the way home from dance class where she didn’t DAAAAANCE. I have no idea why I’m talking like that.

It was scary rain, scary driving rain where driving is scary.

Oooo, also, while I was waiting for my coworker last night, I noticed a particularly lovely woman, who actually I’d noticed dancing before she was even milling around after class. She looked the way a ballerina should look, and then after class, she put on the best pair of multicolored chunky heels, and I was in great admiration.

After class, I drove through the driving rain to the grocery store, and guess who was there, over in the wine aisle. So I said, “Hey, I just saw you at that ballet class,” and we ended up talking for a long time, and said, “See you next week,” and soon she will be giving me those shoes, so enamored will she be of All Things June.

Speaking of which, yesterday in Facebook of June, I asked y’all all what the most stalky thing you’ve done was, regarding me and my unblog and my life, such as it is. I’d read this subject on a Reddit thread, titled, “How far is too far for stalking our blog reads” or something like that.

I figured you’d Zillowed my house or Googled my real name or what have you.

But wow!

You’ve researched Marvin’s girlfriends and found Ned’s place of employment. You figured out where TinyTown was and sought out that author I briefly went out with.

But my favorite, my very favorite, was the person who ended up sitting behind Ned and me at a play, after we’d been long broken up and there we were, holding hands. This was last year. I’d like to throw that caveat out there. Last year, before we officially reunited for six weeks or whatever it was.

IMG_1166.JPGAnyway, here we are, NOT KNOWING a reader was behind us, texting our scandalous photo.

It should be noted said reader’s spouse was appalled by her, and this is just how men are, and why they have to be so weird is beyond me. Because of COURSE she took a photo. I would have, too.

I gotta go. Since you’re all behind me right now, you know it’s late and I haven’t showered.

Luff,

Bestalked Juan

 

Oh, good. June.

Heyyyyy. [Walks in, throws coat on your kitchen chair. Opens your cookie jar.] Goddammit, are these raisin?

I’m tryina think of what I have to tell you, and it’s not much, so read on, won’t you?

We had drama in the comments yesterday, which amuuuuused me, because when I wrote yesterday’s brief post about my love of all things dark and intense, and first everyone was all DON’T KILL YOURSELF JOOON and then I had to come back and say, No, see, I just love–oh, never mind.

But then it got dramatic-er from there, and what’s funny about all that is when I wrote yesterday’s thing, I thought, Man, Ima get like six comments today, because this was so brief. Instead I got…hang on. Lemme look…

One hundred-and-nineteen comments!

You know what’s fascinating? Reading someone’s blog about their blog. But the point is, you never know how things will go. I remember occasionally pounding out what I think is a fabulous post: hilarious, pithy, full of the quotable lines.

And?

Nothing.

“Heh. Nice job, Coot.” Like 14 of those, maybe one old school, “You’re so pretty, June.”

And I’ve answered this 149 times in 714 places, but “Nice job, Coot” was a funny family story Faithful Reader Joy told on “Tell your family stories” day. “You’re so pretty, June” is because one day I put a picture of one of the Alexes up, and everyone was all, “She’s so pretty!!!” and I got pissed off and demanded you all say I’m pretty each time you write me. Because I am a pleasure of life.

You know what’s fascinating? Reading someone’s blog about their blog. Also, when someone refers to their work as “yesterday’s thing.”

Let’s look at m’pictures.

IMG_E0984.JPGOne of the Alexes had her last day of work, and I photographed it for posterity. She was one of the Five Minutes of Glory group. One of the people I work with found this absolutely ridiculous unpublished book, and for five minutes every day, we’d gather at 4:30 and read from it for five minutes. You’ve never known a group of people to adore bad writing more than our Five Minutes of Glory group. This particular Alex, above, has a British accent, so we made her be our narrator. ‘Twas classier that way.

IMG_0983.JPGShe celebrated one last banana o’clock, and off she went, to pastures that couldn’t possibly be green as ours.

IMG_E0986.jpgAlso, I captured on film Blind Gladys Knight and her Pips, over there. Dark As Night and the Pips.

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not a pip. resent.

Lily’s eye is getting better, although she still kind of walks around with bitchy resting face. Would you like to annoy me? Call it resting bitch face. THAT MAKES NO SENSE.

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edz do lillee impresh. heeeeeeeee…

IMG_E1018.JPGI gotta hang around more actual people and not four-legged beasts. Look how SD is scrunching poor Iris. fuk persnal spayce.

IMG_1026.jpgIMG_E1022.JPGIMG_1021.JPGI let Edsel go with me to the store to pick up more migraine meds yesterday, and what I like about Eds is that he’s always delighted to see me. A five-minute run to pick up meds and he greets me like (wait for it) Melanie when Ashley returns, all lousy from the war.

Have we already discussed the over/under of Ashley gettin’ a little man love while he was in the trenches? I believe we have, as I seem to recall insinuating that Ashley might not’ve needed a trench situation to rustle up a little man love. I believe I suggested that a Wednesday in the library would be enough for Ashley to decide, “Oh, we’re in a crisis. Let’s kneel.”

“I must admit this latest Proust did not meet my expectations. Perhaps a look at your naked bum would salve my literary wounds.”

One thing you have to admire about me, YOU HAVE TO, is my hatred of folk stays consistent. Although I do have to admit to coming around a little on Price Charles.

Camilla can still suck it.

I’d better go. This is my last free night till Monday, so I plan to live it up with a big night of staying in. Not to be pretentious, not to be Ashley Wilkes and his closet, but have you watched The New Yorker Presents? You can stream it on the Amazon. Not a big woman, but the network.

A real woman could stop you from drinking.

It’d have to be a really big woman.

Name that movie, NOT PAULA.

Loftily,

Juan

Certain the neighbors enjoy me blasting Tom Petty at 7:53 a.m.

Under last night’s waxing gibbous, I found myself at the Full Moon Oyster Bar, in the company of a man. A gentleman caller. A swain.

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This is not he. “Wow, June, he looks just like a bar.”

It was not our first date. I kind of hope it will not be our last. Also, I did not eat any oysters. You know, I used to. Back in my devil-may-care Seattle days.

Do you know what I never actually have had? Is any devil-may-care days. I’ve had younger-and-just-as-neurotic days, sure. Probably the times I had oysters were far drunker times. My devil-may-Coors days.

Anyway, it’s early yet, but so far this guy is pretty good. We had our first date a month ago, a date that involved me meeting him for a drink and realizing on the way there that I was EFFING STARVED, and when I got there, he’d already ordered a cheese, meat and nut plate and it was JUST THE THING I wanted and we had a great time. I mean, not just because cheese and meat, and plus also nuts, although I’m not gonna lie to you, that was a pertinent highlight.

The next morning he wrote to say, “Listen, I know I’m not your type, but I really had a good time, and thank you.”

Here was me:

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See, I love a good gif, but then when I have to watch them over and over again, I get bugged, so let’s go to a new paragraph quickly so we can scroll past it.

Okay, see, we still need more room to scroll.

[scroll scroll scroll]

MAYBE GIFS AREN’T WORTH IT. In unrelated news, I would like to kiss that German shepherd doggie right on his manly head.

Okay. So, yesterday, I finally asked this guy why he’d sent me that weird “I know I’m not your type” text.

“Really?” he asked, shifting uncomfortably. Clearly he was hoping I’d just let that pass. Do you know what I never do? Hey, June, why can’t you keep a man?

“Okay, well, look. I’m not trying to suck your dick,” he began.

See. Right then I knew.

“But I never thought I…deserved anyone like you. You’re incredibly attractive, really smart–very smart–and you’re very, very funny.”

People think I’m smart because I have good diction and a quick wit. But ask me anything about physics.

“I am hilarious,” I agreed, stealing his bread from his plate of oysters. He’d already said I could have it. Shut up. Also, do not mention my  rapidly declining attractiveness and the consumption of bread at 8 p.m. WHEN I WAS ALREADY HAVING VODKA and hey, carbs. Hey, devil-may-carbs.

“But why would you think that?” I asked. This guy is great. He’s funny, he has a job, an actual job (are you out there dating at my age? Because this is actually a going concern. You’ve no idea how many 50-year-old men out there are not exactly gainfully employed, and still they trot themselves out there. Hey, ladies…), he’s been very kind so far, and I don’t know, man. I don’t know why he doesn’t see that. I mean, I see clear as a bell what a catch I am. [plague joke goes here]

Anyway, he probably doesn’t deserve anyone like me, as he seems like a good person who does not warrant having to be to be cast into World of June. So there it is.

Oh, shit. Steely Dan is fighting with a squirrel hang on.

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Unretouched photo of squirrel, sort of, having angrily and quite chirpily retired to his tree. SD stalked off, ears back. They shouldn’t discuss politics.

He–my date, not the squirrel–knows I have a blog but does not know the name of it, and anyway, I told him right off the bat not to read it because Faithful Reader Deb’s husband Peter told me years ago not to whip this monstrosity out too soon–rather someone should get all this delightful pleasure-of-life personality metered out slowly.

Hmph.

But anyway, I said, “I’m probably gonna mention tonight in my blog. Did you remember I have a blog?”

He remembered. Has he read it? “You know what? I have not. You told me not to, so I decided to take your advice.”

There is not a woman in America who would’ve done the same. EVERY WOMAN WOULD STAMPEDE FOR THE BLOG.

“Well, if I do talk about tonight, you’re probably gonna need a blog name,” I said, and careful readers will note I’ve gone 751 words discussing him and haven’t needed a blog name yet.

“Do I get to pick it?” he asked, sipping his manly brown liquor. “Okay, call me Ward. It’s a play on my middle name.”

Ward. Ward and June!

June_and_Ward_Cleaver_Leave_it_to_Beaver_1958.jpg

All 10 of you screeched, “IT’S A SIGN!” and this is why lesbians move in together on the third date. It’s not a sign, for heaven’s sake. But it was a charming coincidence.

Anyway, the point is, it’s nice to be dating someone with potential, and it was two years ago yesterday I left my Year Abroad house, so that was A SIGN. No. But I did note it.

I gotta go. I can’t talk about it, but I am still on jury duty, so. I’m tough but I’m fair.

Before I go, here’s what I think of when I think of Tom Petty.

Back in my devil-may-Coors Seattle days, my then-best-friend Esmerelda came to visit me, and we took a very manly hike up a nearby mountain (the one they show at the beginning of Twin Peaks). After, it was midafternoon and we drove past one of those tiny bars with the gravel parking lots, and we didn’t even need to say a word. We turned the car into the lot.

Our bartender was not what you’d call a handsome woman, because any woman who looks like Tom Petty is not winning any contests. We ordered a pitcher of beer because I had a designated driver date with me, a man much younger who we’d teased relentlessly all day (“If June had been dating you when I got married, I’d totally have asked you to be my ring bearer,” I remember Esmerelda saying).

The bar was my favorite kind: small, dark, with a juke box. We sat there on an absolutely beautiful sunny afternoon, listening to all the Tom Petty songs in that juke box, our feet up on each other’s chairs, drinking bad beer and laughing.

I sincerely thank Tom Petty for that afternoon.

Judiciously,

June

Be happy

I just took my last prednisone that I was prescribed in order to try to break up my current cycle of migraines, and what’s more interesting than hearing about someone’s latest round of meds?

Anyway, maybe a month ago, the doctor also put me back on Topamax for migraine, June says, continuing her riveting diatribe on medication, and our goal was to slowly increase my dosage to a fairly high amount. But as of late, because of said increase in migraines, we upped it more rapidly than planned, and let me tell you. Ever since some point last week, I’ve been feeling what you might call a tad blue. Maybe a tinge under the weather.

I was not keeping my sunny side up.

To put it mildly. Good lord, I’ve been Sylvia Plath without the smooth hair.

Two years ago right at this time, Ned and I broke up, and I moved for six weeks into my friend Kayeeee’s place. She was in Connecticut, and very kindly offered me her house while she was gone. My idea was that I would take those six weeks to begin to sort of heal, to regroup, to figure out what went wrong. I decided I’d work out every day to get my endorphins going, and write in my journal, and never use “journal” as a verb the same way I’d never use “orgasm” as a verb, and do my best to get through those first six terrible weeks.

Of course, I spent those six weeks eating fish sticks and watching Eternal Sunshine till tears fell in my ears every night, and also got immediately on OK Cupid in the hopes that I’d meet someone else right away so I could stop Feeling Things.

You all know how that went. Hey, any relationship ever since.

But I DID meet someone. I met my friend Mark. He lives in Florida. In my extremely healthy attempts to not have to feel bad, I cast a wide net on OK Cupid. That site lets you tell it how many miles away you’d be willing to go to meet someone. I believe at that time I set my availability parameters to “anywhere.” Because, hey, dude in Rome. There’s real possibility here.

My friend Mark, and I’m using his real name and maybe I should change his name to protect the innocent.

…My friend Hamlet, and wow, Random Name Generator, was from Florida, which I’ve already said, and way to move the story along, June. “I know you’re in North Carolina, and we’ll never meet, but your profile is great,” he wrote. So I read his profile, and right then I knew. He was our people. He’s hilarious. You would love him.

And so a friendship was born. We talk on the phone old school, the way Romeo and Juliet did. We forward each other hopeless profiles of people who write us (Love2PutItInU wrote me and I STAMPEDED to text that nice gentlemanly message to Hamlet). I’ve heard about his romances he’s had there, I bothered him relentlessly during the hurricane (because who doesn’t want to get a link to Ridin’ the Storm Out by REO Speedwagon during a hurricane?), and he’s had to hear about my hair and also Edsel, and while I’ve had ZERO LEG via OK Cupid these last two years, I did get me a Hamlet, and I cannot complain about that.

The point of my story, here, is that he happened to call me Saturday. “Hey, how you doing?” he asked, and I burst into tears.

“I feel I may be in a lull,” I said.

“Be happy,” he told me. His daughter, when she was little, used to say that whenever things in life were terse. She thought it might just kind of cure everything, those words: lighten the mood, get her out of trouble, whatever. Be happy. It was so ridiculous that it did kind of make me laugh.

We talked awhile, and agreed I should leave the house, and of course that made me feel better, and then careful readers will recall that a hot young man of color made his move, and who wouldn’t feel better after that?

So, I’m glad I had a Hamlet intervention.

But then yesterday I got all dark tunnel again, and it finally dawned on me: It’s the goddamn Topamax. Any time I’ve taken it, I’m dark-cloud June.

The last time I took it was right after Marvin left. Oh, happy day.

And the time before that was in 2008, and it coincided with my first mammogram, when they called me to say, “We found something very suspicious, and it doesn’t look good, and prepare for the worst” and FOR THREE DAYS I SHOOK ON MY COUCH till my next appointment, when they said, Oh, this is likely nothing, but just in case, come back in six months.

Now, a normal person might, say, put that appointment out of her mind, perhaps, but what I did, because please see above–and by “above” I mean 10+ years of this not blog–and then you tell me if I strike you as a normal person. Because what I did was live under this DAMOCLES SWORD OF DOOM for six months, Googling and Web MD-ing until Marvin no longer allowed it, and then obsessing and so on, and in retrospect, I think part of my days of dark dark black dark doom, over there, were half attributable to the Topamax. I mean, that was a dark dark time of dark. Did I say that already? Have I expressed it was dark? Did I get the point across that it was a total eclipse of the dark?

So, I think I can’t take Topamax. I think it makes me sad. The end.

I’ve left a message for my doctor, she says, not The End-ing, and instead of taking two pills last night, I took one. Usually I take another in the morning, as well, and today I did not. I missed my doctor’s return call last night (he always calls me back during the Edsel walk, and I don’t know why I don’t remember to bring the phone, except I have that dog on two leashes now, plus poop bag, plus squirt bottle, and I’ve got a lot going on, man), so I hope I’m not going off this stuff too fast, but I think I am not wrong about this. Because I already feel slightly less Pit of Despair this morning.

Good gravy. Also, gravy sounds good, because prednisone.

Did I mention what’s more riveting than someone listing off her meds?

Rivetingly,

June, emerging from her pit of despair

 

You’re never too old for a fur ball.

I’m trying to think of what happened this weekend, but it’s such a haze, what with the heroin and all. Or, alternatively, 18 bottles of fizzy strawberry water.

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I’m OBSESSED.

Continue reading “You’re never too old for a fur ball.”

June Prissys her freelance. Also, am I your secret?

I just noticed how much Edsel anticipates my every move in the morning. First he tears down the hall ahead of me to the bathroom, which by the way is the size of a closet, but yet he must stuff his yellow arse in there with me each morning. And to think there used to be TWO dogs with the stuffing and the yellow arses in that miniature Pomeranian bathroom. How we managed that I’ll never know. Continue reading “June Prissys her freelance. Also, am I your secret?”

Spa Day

Thursday, August 3, 2017

6:30 a.m.: Alarm goes off, hit snooze.

6:39: Alarm goes off, hit snooze.

6:48: ”

6:57: “…..

7:33: OH MY GOD. SERIOUSLY? Scream out of bed, dash to shower. Wash hair.

We curly people don’t wash our hair every day. Many of us have a concoction we create in dollar spray bottles purchased at Target. The concoction contains water and lavender oil. Or water and conditioner. Or water and gel. Or water, conditioner, gel and flax seed. Or whiskey.

Some of us have had all of those iterations in our spray bottle from Target. We spray our hair, scrunch it, and go the whole day with our hair looking like shit.

Since I’d had Bernie from Room 222 hair all week, and current references for four decades, yesterday was an actual wash-and-start-over day.

7:45: Put hair in careful microfiber towel for curly people, make coffee, feed animals, go outside with Edsel to watch him pee, as is required by law, lest you deal with a dog who will not go outside ALL DAY, and who hovers near you underbitedly wishing it be tyme to go out and watch Edzul pee alreddy cause he relly haff to go.

7:50 Begin blogging.

9:01: OH MY FUCKING GOD HOW IS IT ALREADY–

9:02: Throw on anything, pop in contacts, pour more coffee, scream out door. Catch reflection in car mirror.

Hair still completely soaked.

9:05–9:11: Drive to work with sunroof open and all windows down. Get to work and glance in mirror.

Hair still completely soaked.

9:12: Turn on computer hurriedly, glance at boss to see if he’s absorbed in work and not noticing lateness (NEWS ALERT: Boss is always absorbed in work), begin five-article project you promised another team that you were supposed to start the day before but were too busy.

9:13: PING! New deadline assigned.

9:14: PING! New deadline assigned.

9:15: PING! New deadline ass–

WHAT THE FUCK.

At work, we have software that, once your part of the task is completed, you check off a box and the next person in line gets an automatic email saying it’s their turn and with a deadline for their part.

Often, for some efficient reason, these deadlines are mythical, so the person before you will then email you personally to say, “Really, this has to be done tomorrow at noon.”

9:16: PING! New deadline assigned.

9:17: PING! New–OH STOP.

Then I started getting the personal emails. Hey, June, don’t make it bad. Take a sad article, and make it better.

In half an hour, I had 11 new assignments. Eleven. I won’t get 11 in a week sometimes. Those were followed up by “These deadlines are legit” emails from the editor before me.

9:30–12:30: Begin work on the 11 new deadlines, ignoring the five articles you still have to do for the other team. Get one done.

12:31: Realize you haven’t peed. In bathroom, glance at self.

Hair is still completely soaked.

12:35–1:30: Drive home, let Edsel out, stand watching Edsel pee as is required by law, realize you’re standing blankly thinking about all that you need to do back at work. Eat something that’s 15 Weight Watchers points (Amy’s Organic 3 Cheese and Kale) because there’s no time to think about thawing a chicken breast right now and that 15-point concoction is right there smiling at you kale-ly from the freezer.

1:37: Return to work, begin slaving on those five articles.

2:09: Email, “Is there any way you can get those articles done early?

2:10: Email from another team: “Did you forget you were going to proof our presentation today?”

3:00: Party for leaving coworker. Everyone heads to conference room to celebrate, except you and your boss. Boss has as much and very likely lots more to do. You sigh, pound your hands on desk, throw head back in annoyance, swear, and at one point, glance over at boss. He’s calmly typing, absorbed in work.

3:11: During yet another dramatic sigh and head throwback, glance down at boss, who is typing and sipping water calmly, like he’s on a meditation retreat or something.

“HOW CAN YOU BE SO CALM?”

“I internalize everything,” says boss, never looking over at you and your still-soaking-wet hair.

‘That’s why you will have seven heart attacks one day.”

Boss finally looks over. “If you have so much to do, why are you talking to me?”

“What’s the point of you being the only person here if I can’t complain to you?”

3:12: Feel like boss is 100% over you.

4:50 p.m.: Person who asked if you’d do the five articles for her, and then if you can do them early, comes over. She is a good sort of a person. Have commiserative talk about how busy everything is, discuss who has cried at work today, smile wanly at each other and continue.

6:35 p.m.: Four of the five articles are done. Sure, there are the 10 others, and that presentation you forgot and have to do Saturday, but four of the five articles are done.

6:37: See The Poet in parking lot. Have commiserative talk. Realize Poet leaves every day at this time, then goes home and writes deep poetry. Realize Poet never once throws head back dramatically at desk.

6:40: Glance at self in mirror of car. Hair has dried into a ‘do not unlike Gene Wilder’s.

6:52: Plunk bag of carrots next to work computer (see above ref to 15-point kale) and begin freelance work.

8:30: Try to stop freelance work.

8:32: Feel too squirrelly about stopping now, when you could finish this whole project tonight.

8:52: Get email from woman at work who you did four our of five articles for. “I hope people tell you how much you’re appreciated.” Smile warmly at email. Coworker is good soul who never writes things like THANKS!! : ). Coworker writes in English. Coworker is bomb.

10:20: Finish current freelance assignment. Email Tank the Miracle Angel Baby, whom you’re working with on said freelance gig, to tell him. “That’s great!” he writes back. “We have one that’s five times as long as that one that we plan to get to you Tuesday.”

10:21: Mentally count dollars. Mentally tell self that if you can’t drive with broken back, at least you can polish fenders.

10:32: REM.

P.S. I forgot the good news, that at lunch, while I was staring blankly at Edsel, I also called my bank and set up a savings account, an account they will automatically add a certain amount to every 15th and 31st, an account I cannot access with my ATM card. Am practically Suze Orman. Plans to smile manically under corporate haircut and tell you all YOU can’t afford it, appearing forthwith.

 

When a broken purse is the least of your woes

Yesterday was a ridiculous day, from my series of June’s Ridiculous Days. Continue reading “When a broken purse is the least of your woes”

June sends loving thoughts to people who hold up the line

Last night I had a ridiculous dream. (Oh, good. Someone’s gonna describe their dream.) I dreamt I met a man and didn’t care for him at first, so when we first were introduced, I gave him my most sarcastic of smiles.

fucknatural.jpg Continue reading “June sends loving thoughts to people who hold up the line”

Chocolate > labs

Today, I was supposed to go to work having fasted, and have blood drawn for our health insurance thing at work. Then 40 minutes later, I was supposed to go to my new doctor and have even more blood drawn for my initial visit with him in a week, unless of course he dies or quits before then. Or I die of italicizing.

The point is, I didn’t feel like it. Continue reading “Chocolate > labs”

We never see Fred Flintstone getting ON the dinosaur, just sliding off at 5:00 on the dot.

What are your feelings about being on time for work? Continue reading “We never see Fred Flintstone getting ON the dinosaur, just sliding off at 5:00 on the dot.”

Beelzebub has a devil cat put aside for me

In case you've been on pins and also the needles re my sore throat, I seem to have rallied. Because I'm tough. But I'm fair.

Also, yesterday I started a new headache study, which I can tell you very little about, so you can ask all the goddamn questions you want, but I'm not gonna answer them, as I cannot. Not allowed. It will be for approximately 10 weeks, I think, and yesterday I had to go in there for the preliminary stuff, which included 94593939300303 questions on top of the 97,000 they already asked me over the phone.

Then? After the Qs and my vitals were taken? (STILL FAT. WHAT THE HELL.) (Says the woman who noted Brown Sugar Cinnamon Pop Tarts in the machine, but who had no cash other than a $5, so she went to the healthy vending machine, which takes five-dollar bills, bought something for a dollar, took the change and went to the UNhealthy vending machine, bought the Pop-Tarts and then ate both items. WHAT A MYSTERY.)

Anyway, after the Qs and my vitals, they had to do this pain threshold thing. I am not making this up. I forget the fancy term they used for it, but basically they inflicted pain on me ("How, June?" Sigh.) for AN HOUR and I had to tell them how much it hurt and so on.

I was really scared of that part. I mean, who wouldn't be? I kept picturing Wesley in the Pit of Despair (aka my head) or whatever it was called in Princess Bride, where he cries at the end.

So, I entered the room for the torture, and? It wasn't that bad.

I think I might have a high tolerance to pain. I know I don't SEEM like the type who would, but I think I do. The guy inFLICTing the pain wouldn't tell me if I had a high tolerance, but I noticed him watching me sometimes, like, seriously? Is she just, like, fine with this?

I might get this from my mother, who no matter what she has done, always says, "It didn't really hurt." She said that about CHILDBIRTH. "It didn't really hurt."

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The place they're doing the headache study is the same place Dick Whitman works, and after I went to the coffee shop Dick Whitman always goes to, where I had a quiche (see above ref to fat) that Edsel just finished and a decaf latte, because I'm a laugh riot. What I'm saying to you is I was Dick Whitman for a day.

Dear Alexes and Everyone Else I Know Who Works in Winston-Salem: I did not know how I'd react to the torture portion of the thing, so I made no plans to get up with anyone and anyway you were all at work it was the middle of the day so get off my back.

Dear Everyone in W-S Who Still Won't Let It Drop: The rest of the study is on weeknights from 6–8, and then I have to drive all the way back to Greensboro after, so no. Let's NOT meet up after. I have a dog. A dog who never wants to go outside, but still.

Am I the least-sociable person you've never met?

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The other exciting news is the receptionist gave me these flowers from her yard. She said they're all blooming early and they'll freeze this weekend, poor things, so she's bringing them in to enjoy them as much as she can.

I just heard that damn demon Steely Dan jump onto the roof. Goddammit. Hang on.

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edz do not get why steelee go owtside when it perfectlee comfterbul in heer.

The good news is that if you call him, he's willing to jump right off and come inside. Be sure to ask me how he does it again. I DON'T KNOW. That cat is pure evil, y'all. But then when he's inside, he's all cuddly and on your lap and purring and acting sweet. Till he deceives you again.

IMG_5515

Here's my tenant, fmr., forcing him into submission just the other night, when she stopped by to torture herself with interval training again. That's what they should have done at my study–just make me do interval training for an hour. Look at SD's fine expression. Soon he'll devise a way to disappear when he's being held, like Clarence when Burt the Cop had him in It's a Wonderful Life.

Speaking of old movies, last night I took my own self to my old theater, for a change, as they were showing Guess Who's Coming to Dinner. As you know (Big Book of June Events), my technique for avoiding Ned at the theater is to get there early, a thing he never does, and get a seat far from our usual seats in the balcony.

I got there at, like, quarter till last night, but Bohemian Rhapsody was playing on my radio, so I sat in my car to hear the rest of it, and as I was Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me, for meee, for meeeeeee!ing, I see a car pull in, and I was all, Is that…? Goddammit.

He pulled in right next to me. I still waited for my song to end, but he waited too. "I could've sung the rest of it for you. I know how it goes," said Ned. I reminded him that he's no Freddie Mercury. The good news is, Ned donated to the theater and therefore has a pass to get in, so it was Guess Who Got in For Free night for old June, here.

The event went without incident, and I love the idea that anyone could be upset that their daughter is marrying a famous elegant doctor from Yale because maybe he's more tan than you. Also, Katharine Hepburn was really very beautiful. ALSO, the maid in that movie is Weezy Jefferson. Also also, I can't THINK what that house in San Francisco would cost today. Like, at least three billion dollars.

I'd better go get ready for work, as I suddenly have an overwhelming amount to do there, and it might even interfere with me telling just everyone about the torture I endured yesterday, which I will not at all exaggerate for dramatic effect.

No one at work likes me.

XO,

Joan

Save June

Yesterday was a queer day. Did you ever see The Color Purple, when Celie says that about the weather? "It was a queer day." I always liked that line. When I was a kid, the word "queer" was all over the book Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, and so one afternoon I told my babysitter she looked queer and she got furious at me. Furious! I had no idea what was so wrong.

She was this big, solid woman who took me fishing a lot, married to this mere slip of a man, and in retrospect I wonder if they had some sort of it's-the-early-'70s arrangement, and now I feel bad. I had no idea the word meant anything but out of the ordinary. I was trying to expand my vocabulary.

Anyway. I got up early yesterday so I could rush off to the doctor to get my allergy test. As I pulled up, there was this college girl in sweats and a messy ponytail, going in with her dad, and I was so over her beleaguered "Oh my gawd, it's EIGHT" attitude. Once I was at the airport and there was a college girl in the same beleaguered getup AT TEN. Give me a break. It was the Greensboro airport, so it's not like she was on a layover having flown in from London or anything.

Okay, see. I can tell already today I will be hard pressed to stick to the subject at hand.

The point is, they stuck my back with allergens, and I had to lie there for 15 minutes, waiting. "You want your phone or a magazine to look at?" the red-haired chippie asked me after she'd poked me all over yonder.

"No, I'm good," I smugged. "I can be alone with my thoughts."

So then she left and here were my thoughts for the next 15 minutes: Ned, money, Ned, what'm I gonna do about money, Ned, Edsel, Ned, wondering what you all were saying about cereal, Ned, wondering why I can't stop with the Ned bullshit and when'm I gonna get over it already, Ned [Hey, good thoughts, JUNE.] and then it was time for the doctor to come look at my back.

Turns out, I have an allergy to dust mites.

I know. Try to relax. It'll be okay.

"That's it? That's all I'm allergic to?"

Yep.

"Did you test me for grapefruit?"

Nope. But they could do a blood test for that if I wanted. I demurred. At this point I'm over grapefruit. If only Ned could be grapefruit.

As soon as I got to work, I told every coworker about my severe allergies, and if you ever wanted to meet a group of people who are 100% over me, you should come see my coworkers.

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Over-Me Coworker #48859

"You know how people are always saying 'I don't want your pity'? I want nothing but your pity," I told everyone. They all seemed to already know this.

As the day wore on, we decided to organize a walk, a June's Dust Mite Allergy Walk, and I'll be getting the pledge forms to you forthwith. Also, I am coming up with a ribbon for you all, an awareness ribbon, so if anyone asks you, you can say, "Oh, do you not know about June's dust mite allergy?"

My idea is, it should be dusty, and dust should fall off of the ribbon, but the "dust" would be glitter! Right? Someone get on making that. We'll be rich. I'll never have to work again, which I shouldn't anyway with this allergy.

Then at lunchtime I took old homo sapien canine to the vet.

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I actually really love that photo of Eds. It captures his goof. Anyway, he's been really down, despite that smile above. He was, in fact, shaking up there while he smiled.

Smile tho' your heart is aching
Smile even tho' it's breaking
When there are clouds in the sky
You'll get by

Anyway. He's been so squirrely lately. Like, yesterday when we got up, and were headed down the hall, and he just stopped and hung his head and wouldn't go any further. And he never, ever goes outside unless I go with him. This past weekend I was looking for him, and he was curled up in a C on the couch, like I was storming over there wielding a sledgehammer.

You could have a steam train
if you'd just lay down your tracks.
You could have an aeroplane flying
if you bring your blue sky back.

I want to be your sledgehammer
why don't you call my name.

Welcome to the inside of my head.

Anyway, thank god he acted squirrely at the vet, so I didn't seem crazy, although given my medical condition I'm sure they'd overlook it. "Might Over Mites" is my slogan, by the way. It'll be on all my t-shirts and hats and support bracelets.

But really. He turned into a letter C there, and jumped on the chair and hid behind me, and cowered and so on the whole time, so the vet is giving him Prozac, which will be good because it'll probably be extra stressful for Eds when he learns about my dust mite allergy, so.

I got to tell the vet how Tallulah died, and then we moved twice, and how he misses Ned (Edsel does. The vet doesn't miss Ned. That I know of. Maybe he and the vet just ended a torrid Brokeback Mountain affair. What do I know?) and how he ate the puppy and knows I was mad at him. So that was cheerful.

Anyway now I have to go on Good RX to find the cheapest place in town to get dog Prozac. There's a thing no one ever said in my grandmothers' day.

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I took old 19th Nervous Breakdown home, and as we pulled up, I don't know what made me look in the tree, but there it was. "Is that…? Oh, son of a BITCH," I said, getting out of my car with my camera for you all. You can't tell how high up that little bastard was; I zoomed in. He was wayyyy the hell up the tree. And when he saw us, he just clambered on down. "HAI!!"

My handyman (The handyman! The handyman can!) found a vent on my house that's missing its screen, and with all my dollars Ima get a new screen so Houdini, up there, can't escape anymore.

Allegedly.

Really, that kitten is magnificent. I mean, I really admire his brains and ingenuity and athleticism and even his dickishness. He's really quite remarkable, and he's burying Lily right now, who mostly sits around and sheds chubbily.

Finally, I talked to a bunch of places about doing freelance, because my money sucks, y'all. I'm dead broke all the time. Further reports as developments warrant.

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In the evening, my tenant, former, came over to work out again, a practice that obsesses Edsel. He cannot wrap his head around why we're on the floor and not willing to make out with him the whole time. Also, you can't see, really, but behind Edsel is my coat hanging off a chair, because tidy, and the whole time he was over there Steely Dan kept reaching from under my coat to smack Eds, and he'd jump up, confused, look around and flump down again and it'd start all over.

Dis part of room pointee.

Finally, last night I decided to snack on some nutritious Fritos, and I noted I had some queso dip in the door of my fridge, from god knows when. Perhaps I purchased it during the Spanish-American war, because while I enjoyed me that dip quite a bit, about an hour later, things weren't pretty.

If I'd been a dog, I'd have been a Shih-tzu.

If I were soda, I'd have been Squirt.

If I were mustard, I'd have been Grey Poupon.

Oh, it was bad. So I went to bed early just so I wouldn't have to think about how sick I felt. Today I'm at a 7–not perfect, but I can function. Which is brave of me, considering my dust mite allergy.

That wraps up my queer day. On a queer day, you can see forever.

Manically,

June