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.
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?”
Late last week, I finished a freelance project, and now tonight I’m going to get another big one, which is what she said. Continue reading “Grace Kelly Bluebook”
Thursday, August 3, 2017
6:30 a.m.: Alarm goes off, hit snooze.
6:39: Alarm goes off, hit snooze.
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.
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.
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”
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.
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”
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.”
I hate podcasts.
I’m SORRY. I’m sure your sister’s really is magnificent. Continue reading “Lime-a-Ritas with Laura Ingalls Wilder”
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."
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?
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.
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.
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.