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!

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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

 

Two ADDs walk into a bar

You know what’s annoying about autumn?

“It’s not autumn yet, June.”

You know what’s annoying about you? Continue reading “Two ADDs walk into a bar”

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”