Press One for I Hate Automated Operators

You know how when you call a place now, you never, ever get a person? I’m in the rare and elusive crowd who finds that annoying. I know most people adore it.

What I hope is that when I’m having my…exchange with these automated systems that they are not, in fact, recording my responses, because it’s never pretty on my end. For example, my bank. Naturally, they never answer. And they also claim they can understand me if I speak “in just a few words” but



DO. Because my midwest accent is so unusual.

“I’m sorry,” the automated reply will say to me, 100% condescendingly. “I’m sorry; I didn’t get that.”

“Of course you didn’t, you automated piece of shit,” I’ll snap back.

“Are you calling about checking? Say yes or no.”


“I’m sorry; I didn’t get that. In a few words, describe why you’re calling.”

“I’M CALLING BECAUSE YOUR MOTHER’S A WHORE,” I’ll shriek at that point.

The point of my telling you this is that when I get mad at the automated thing, it scares the dog. I’m so busy being angry that I forget this every time, till I look over and he has his pleeze not to beet Edz look. Then I feel like crap. I am not zen enough for a dog this sensitive.

iz dellikit flower

Also, I was calling my bank because on Friday, I may have indulged in the demon rum. Not literally rum. I was being euphemistic. But one of you will ask, “What kind of rum?” and then I’ll have to be all, “No, see, I was just using a phrase to indicate…”

I got kind of tipsy.

IMG_5729.jpgI went to a barcade with about 20 coworkers. This is how we drove there. BAH.

“I’m sorry; I didn’t get that. Just say yes or no. Is June hilarious?”

A barcade is an arcade that serves drinks, which is as it should be. They should have done this over at Aladdin’s Castle at the mall in 1975, where I would need the step stool to get to my pinball game.


A little Miller Lite woulda gone a long way toward my victory over Fireball.

Screen Shot 2018-03-06 at 8.24.46 AM.pngAnyway, on Friday at the barcade, I don’t know if I hadn’t eaten enough or I drank too fast, but I sure was playing a mean pinball Friday. That deaf, drunk and blind kid. I remember going to the token machine and then dropping scads of tokens on people I knew. “HAVE SOME TOKENS!” I’d screech. I was making it rain, man.

I also told everyone to “PUT IT ON MY TAB!” perhaps a tad lustily.

I didn’t drive, which may have had something to do with my libationsnessness, which is a FINE word.

“I’m sorry; I didn’t get that.”

But I was sincerely baffled when I awoke the next morning with a terrible headache. Why so pained, I wondered. Then I reviewed evening. Counted drinks.

“In a few words, say why you’re calling.”

“You drank too much and that’s why the headache.”

“I’m sorry; I didn’t get that. I’m in denial.”

THE POINT, is that somehow–and can you believe this? Somehow, I lost my ATM card that night. My theory is they handed me back my card at the, oh, bar, where I never ever was except for those 16 times, and that I put my card in my leopard coat pocket (compliments on coat that night, from strangers: 2. Thank-yous in the form of GO HAVE A DRINK ON MY TAB: 2), because I was too busy of an executive to put it back all the way in my wallet, and given how often I FLUNG, FLINGDED, WHATEVER my coat on video games and backs of chairs and as a blanket while I made out with 25-year-old boys in the parking lot,

“I’m sorry; I didn’t get that. I’m in denial.”

who KNOWS where that card ended up.

Once I figured out it was gone, I sweatily looked at my bank stuff online, but no one has used the card, so then I called the bank to cancel it and had the exchange above, where I may have accused the automated teller’s mother of putting on her red light.

Don Jesus, June, just finish this story.

So, a new card is on its way, and I’ll have to memorize different numbers, which I guess is good for my brain, much like 19 whiskey sours was good for my brain on Friday.

Now for the next six months, every time I order something on Amazon,

(Oh, look, one of June’s hilarious Amazon links)

or something from Jimmy John’s

I’ll have to re-key a new card into the system, and does anyone understand what a burden this will be? And all because some MANIAC stole my card right out from under me while I was volunteering Friday night. You try to do good in this world.

I’d better go. My maturity seminar that I lead begins in 10.



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?


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.


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

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”

Taquit-oh, June

Ned has to move. Did I tell you that? Our gaylord–well, HIS gaylord, is selling the place, a thing we distinctly asked him about in 2014 when we moved in, and he said he had no intention of selling.

Of course, I'm one to talk, having kicked out my poor tenant, fmr., after just one year.

Speaking of that whole debacle, since Ned has to move and all, it's thrown him into quite the tizzy. I know you don't KNOW Ned, but perhaps you've been able to glean that change is not something he embraces with glee. Also, decision-making. Not his strong suit.

"I'm going to go look at a house right now," Ned texted (text) me right at the end of the day.

"You want me to come with you?" I asked, knowing that was dumb.

"Yes," he said.

I knew he did. I knew that's why he was telling me. I knew he'd be thrown into panic at having to possibly make a decision, and that he needed someone to remind him of the home's good and bad points so he could obsess for 45 years. I also knew I had no business going to look at a house with Ned.

So I put the address in my phone and off I went. Because wise. Wise old owl. Wise old fat owl, according to some.

It was in his grandparents' neighborhood. They'd lived in a tree-lined part of town with a private trail and lake, which Ned remembers fishing and swimming in as a kid. "Oh, it'd be cool if you lived here. You could go to the same job your grandfather did (Ned works for a family business), live in his neighborhood. You'd be just like your grandfather, except, you know, with no wife or kids or commitment whatsoever."

Hey, passive. How's your aggressive?

There turned out to be a huge monkey mural in the living room, which if you ask me is a selling point, but Ned was not taken with the idea. The good news is he doesn't have to debate whether to take the house. "You want to go to dinner?" he asked, and who am I to turn down a free meal and all of you are shouting "JUST GO HOME, JUNE. YOU HAVE FINE CHEF BOY-AR-DEE PRODUCTS RIGHT AT HOME WHERE IT'S SAFE. JUNE."

So I got in the car and we headed to our Mexican restaurant. "Our," fmr.

It's one of those nondescript places, in a strip of stores, that's really good. TinaDoris and her spouse took us there in 2013 and we've gone ever since. It's the taquito place, Fay.

Ned and I went there one Sunday evening years ago, and I got mad at him–I forget why but I think it had to do with me feeling jealous of another woman because it almost always was–and we argued all the way to my house, where I got out of the car, stomped toward the house, then at the last minute turned around and hurled my leftover taquitos at his car.

Ned backed out of my driveway in a huff, then had to drive all over town to find an all-night car wash, because he could hardly pull up to work Monday with taquito car. The worst part of that story is the next day at lunch I said, "Ooooo, I have those leftover taq–no, I don't."

For some reason Fay loves this story. I guess she enjoys my rage and ridiculousness or something. She brings it up at every opp. I just said opp. Once after our endless breakup Ned called me, and I told Fay, and she asked all Stevie Wonder-ly, "Did he just call. To say. Taquito?"

Then she had a bust made of herself.

Anyway, there we went, Ned and I did, and you'll never guess what I ordered. "You'd better finish the whole thing right here," Ned said.


Careful readers will note not just Ned, of yore, but also the background of this photo. Because who's back there behind blue-shirted guy? Is it my tenant? FMR.? Of yore?

"What are YOU doing here?" I asked her, because of all the margarita joints in all the world, she had to come into mine, fmr. With my boyfriend, fmr. The relationship that ruined her life, fmr. The life she had in her cute little rental house, fmr.

If you were her and you saw me there with the person I broke up with, which as a result rendered her homeless, would you not have pressed my face into the deep fryer?

"It's National Margarita Day!" she announced. Thank god she's taken to drink.

"I'm here with Ned," I told her, because everyone has to know my everything. She and I have plans to do our dreadful workout tonight, which will not begin to burn off the margarita/taquito combo she and I had going, but it's a start.

The point is, I can't do anything clandestine in this town without getting caught. The only other thing I have to tell you is that I was complaining to Ned about how when I get up in the morning, Edsel, Steely Dan and one or both adult cats follow me into the bathroom. Steely Dan stands on my shoulder the whole time, like we're posing for a Very Special Olan Mills portrait.

"I'm surrounded by animals in that tiny bathroom," I kvetched. "I'm like St. Francis of A-piss-i."

Then I called Fay to get the name of her bust worker.

The Big Game

Yeah, well, so. I saw Ned again.


Everything you're gonna tell me, I already know. I KNOW, okay? Goddammit.

On Friday, I went to a goodbye party for one of the Alexes, one who's actually named Alex, and it bugs her when, say, I call our coworker Tiffany "Alex." "I'm the real Alex," Alex will say. The trouble is, there were 72 Alexes there for awhile. Now they're all mostly gone. This particular Alex is moving to Colorado, which is perfect for her, all outdoorsy and hippie-ish and shit.

People come and go so quickly at work. I'm like a classic at this point, with my six years. I'm the Chanel of coworkers. Who needs to get a new joke, do you think? I'm the Tim the Toolman of jokes. "Whuuuuut?"

Anyway. That was fun, and it turns out one of Alex's friends who showed up was this whippernapper I'd talked to on OK Cupid for awhile way back in 2016, so that was kind of funny. Pretty soon I will have almost dated every man in town.

So I left that get-together, which was right after work, after an hour or so, because I had to go home and watch Edsel refuse to go outside. He hates going outside. He won't go. In fact, you're reminding me that he didn't go out last night and he hasn't gone out this morning. Hang on.

I just forced him to go out. I have to take him by the collar and make him go. "And stay out!"

Poor Edsel. I'll let you know when the Prozac kicks in.

Anyway, I got home and Ned called. "You want to go get a drink?" he asked.

You know at the beginning of the Mary Tyler Moore show, when she has the meat, and hesitates about throwing it into her cart, but she does so anyway? That was me.

We met at the controversial scene of our first date, which was not controversial at all other than it was the start of this FIVE-YEAR push-me-pull-me-llama relationship I seem to be in. We were having a fine time sitting up at the bar, which technically I hate doing, but still, we were having fun. Then this DJ started playing I Will Survive and we realized it was old-people disco night. All sorts of people our age got up and shook their groove thing, yeah yeah.

Fortunately, this bar is part of a swank hotel, so we just took our drinks and headed to the fancy lobby, and we sat there for ages–ages!!–just talk talk talking about everything, including my newest obsession. Guest starring The Love Addict and The Love Avoidant!

I mean, there I was talking to Ned, and it was like my whole insides were made of sparkles. I get all sparkly when I'm with Ned, until our NEXT AWFUL FIGHT when I feel like I'm made of silt.

So then the next day he came and got me and we went antique shopping.

Did I mention I KNOW?

We went all over looking for things, neither of us having anything particular in mind. The landlord is selling our old house, so Ned will have to move if he doesn't buy it, which he's considering. He could raise his family there.




Ned bought me this pictures I admired, and oh my god look at them. Why can't everything be from the mid-century? I mean, I am. And look how I turned out.

Then I'm sorry to tell you Ned bought me lunch and then that evening we may or may not have gone to that mysterious speakeasy I told you about. We drove out to the old mill that they've made into restaurants and so on, which were all closed because late, and of course there's no sign or door or anything. But then we saw two well-dressed people going through a door that looked like it led to a utility room or something, and man did we stampede for that door. Then you go down a long hall, type in the code that you have to get from Twitter, and there we were,

It was packed. But we got a table. I had a whiskey sour. I think Zelda Fitzgerald enjoyed a whiskey sour. Actually I'd dearly love to know what she drank, but I think her drink of choice may have fallen into the category of "anything."

Anyway, on Sunday I observed my pets and allegedly cleaned the house, although today it's back to looking fur-covered, so.


I moved my free ottoman into the spare bedroom, and I read my book in there for awhile Sunday. There's one of those take-one-or-leave-one book things in our park, and I've gotten three books out of there lately that I've read. This one is by the same person who wrote Olive Kitterage, which was a very good book. How did I get fingerprints all over it? Faithful Reader Paula is dying a million deaths right now.

I like being home with my pets, watching them be evil.


Here's Iris, trying to intimidate Steely Dan so he gives up his delicious canned kitten food. Not that the food is made from kittens. Also, note there's Steely Dan, not giving one shit about Iris.

Being home gave me plenty of time to do this in my head: I love Ned, STOP IT. I love Ned. STOP IT.

So that was relaxing.

Oh, and speaking of Ned, NedKitty has been taking her eleven thousand medications and Ned said she is eating again and also meowed and flicked her tail. So. Woot! Livin' large. She also climbed to the top of her kitty tower–he sent me a photo.

On our antique-shopping day, we stopped off at that pretentious pet store where the woman with the butch haircut works, the one Edsel loves so bad. Anyway, we went there because Ned was looking for low-phosphate food, and you can imagine what a lightening-fast decision he made about that. That place is overwhelming as it is–they have an entire big room dedicated to just pet food and it's a lot to take in.

Fortunately, there was a woman there who had a teensy baby Goldendoodle puppy named Marvin, and the first person to ask why I didn't whip out my phone and take a photo of a stranger has to live in my chaotic brain for a month. I'll just slip you right in there and you'll have to avoid all my bouncing thoughts. Good luck.

IMG_5278 IMG_5273
Last night, my coworker Austin and his wife had me and some other friends over to watch The Big Game. On both accounts I've worked on at work, we've been forced to refer to The Super Bowl as The Big Game, a thing you'll notice a lot of companies do now that I've pointed it out. Apparently The Super Bowl will call the police on your ass like my neighbor Alicia if you say The Super Bowl.

Therefore, Austin and I could not get enough of ourselves and our "big game" references.


I had a slight fear that Austin, who is the least-obnoxious cross-fitter you know, would have all healthy food at his Big Game party. He's the guy who brings green peppers to work as a snack and does not kill himself and/or stampede for the Famous Amos in the vending machine by noon, which is what I'd do if you forced me to snack on green peppers.


Oh, shit. Big bowl of carrots. But there was also chili and bean dip and guacamole and beer and cookies and wings. So yay. Guess what I ate all of and guess what I did not touch?

Hey, June, why are your hips in another zip code?


Obsessed readers will recall that I am particularly enamored of Austin's old-lady wallpaper in the kitchen, a thing they keep wanting to change and then alternately loving. I'd keep it, of course, but I just put three kitchy girl pictures up in my house, so.


Austin pointed out that if you have time to count out 60 drops, you have time to get to the store and buy a teaspoon.

I have to go. I did not see one commercial last night that I'd write home about. Which is sort of what I'm doing right now, and note me here not writing about any commercials.

I leave you with one question we came up with last night, which is: What do you not want anyone to see you eating? Austin enjoys a peanut butter sandwich dipped in milk, but only standing at the counter and when no one is looking.

You all know I eat Parmesan cheese out the green can. That'd be mine. And another friend buys butter at the grocery store and eats it like a candy bar in the parking lot.

What's yours?

Talk at you.


Ned sighting

I saw Ned.

Fifty-five days I've been alternately avoiding running into him or, on difficult days, hoping I do. Fifty-five days I've been obsessing, and being angry, and then missing him, then feeling determined and OH HELL THIS IS RIDICULOUS.

I was driving to work yesterday, and there's one point, right near work, where you have to get in this left-turn lane and it takes for fucking ever to turn. You could live whole lifetimes waiting to turn. I was about 12 cars back from the front, so I looked at my phone.

There was an email from Ned, addressed to both my personal mail and work.


"You must have me blocked on your phone. [I did.] It's about NedKitty." Of course he didn't SAY "NedKitty," as that is not her name. But we had a deal, made long ago, that if anything ever happened with that cat, that I'd go with him for the, you know. The meeting of the maker.

"Oh, god," I said, feeling weepy about NedKitty. Girlfriend is 17. Last I'd seen her, she was getting mighty bony and not running around much. She was mostly kind of in a ball in a corner. Somebody puts NedKitty in a corner, and that somebody is the march of time. Naturally Ned had taken her to the vet, because see: Helicopter Dad/Ned's photo. Her kidneys were not doing well, last I'd heard.

So I called him. He was a wreck. "I'm taking her to the vet right now. She's not good," he said.

"Do you want me to come there?" I asked, mentally reviewing how I looked. Skirt, little sweater, boots, full makeup. Hair, not that bad. Maybe a B+.

Fat? Yes, still.

"Yes," he said.

So I did a U-turn, an illegal one, at the stupid left turn, called work to tell them and got to the vet.


There was his car, the car I'd been worried sick about seeing for the last 55 days. I rushed in and they showed me to the room. There was Ned. And poor, oh, poor NedKitty.

She weighs 5 pounds now. She was all bones and she was in her ball, her new position of choice. "Why's her head wet?" I asked him.

"She took a shower with me." We both laughed. NedKitty loves to stand on the bathtub and stick her head under the shower. It's her thing. I was glad she was still being herself a bit.

Ned told me about all NK's symptoms, and finally the vet came in, looking grim. She wanted to run some tests on NedKitty to see "where we are" in this poor cat's decline. She took NedKitty, who went with zero fuss, and that in itself was worrying. She has a Mr. Yuck sticker on her file, with a big warning about how you need hawk gloves and a strong disposition to deal with her. And there she was, gentle as a lamb.

Ned was a mess. It was alternately bizarre and totally normal to be in there with him. Mostly I just felt like I was gonna hurl. The whole thing was upsetting.

He told me some good and some very bad things that have been going on in his life. Naturally I took time out to tell him about my dust mite allergy. Boy, did he feel stupid about his dying cat then. I also told him that Edsel was depressed without him. "Oh, no!" said Ned. "You want me to visit him?"

Oh, god. Do I? I hear all 10 of you screaming, "NOOOOOO!"

We kept it light, as light as you can keep a situation like this. I mean, he's apologized to me 700 times about that fight, sent me roses at work. And I continue to say, You can't apologize for that and have it be okay. So there was no need to rehash all that.

I told him how I watch the beer aisle at the store, and he said he has very specific times he'll go there, and he certainly never goes when he's coming from a direction that requires passing my house. "I didn't want to see your car not there and wonder where you were, or see some man's car in the driveway."

This led me to wonder how he'd determine it was a man's car. Would it be, like, a tank or something? Maybe a pickup. A pickup would have to be a man. Or a really big woman. I guess some sort of vintage sports car would definitely be a man. But let's say a Honda was in my drive. That could be anyone. Well. Not Hulk. But anyone else.

Apparently one of his friends told him I'd been on a date, so I guess in his mind I've been whooping it up all over town. Getting more chins than a Chinese phone book. I realize that's not a euphemism for having a lot of sex but I can't think of one. All I can think of is a vaguely racist joke about chins.

Also, who's sort of a little delighted that she got one of his friends to read her blog? June's blog for the WIN.

The point is, the vet came back and said IF Ned wanted to hook this cat up to an IV three times a week and IF he wanted to shoot this syringe of stuff into her mouth twice a day and IF he would give her this special food, they could keep going.

"You mean I get to take her home with me? Okay," said Ned, weeping.

Here was the inside of my head: !!!!!????!!!

But look, it's his cat and his decision. So he put her bony old self back in the carrier and off he went with $848586775 worth of medication.

So. You can judge me all you want for going. I went because I said I would, and because I know how it feels to lose a beloved pet, and because of course I could not resist seeing Ned. So how you have all the reasons. I told one friend and got The Judgement immediately, so I expect nothing less from the rest of you.

But remember. When your friend confides in you and you loft from your perch with your happy life, and offer no words of empathy or comfort or understanding, there's pretty much a 100% chance that friend won't confide in you again.


Here was me at the end of yesterday, sort of depleted. I kind of wanted to be in a ball in a corner like NedKitty. So.



June gets stuck on a thing

I'm trying to think of what I did all weekend that kept me from blogging. Since blogs are out, shouldn't I come up with another verb? Website-ing.

By the way, there's a woman at work who's our social person, and I don't mean she has the gift of gab and is a marvelous hostess. I mean she handles all the social media stuff. Anyway, she says I really need to, you know, get off Typepad and actually have a modern-day place to write. She said people might come here and see how dated this all is and not take me seriously.

As if anyone takes me seriously.

Another guy at work who does things like this said he'll transfer me and my freaking 10 years of blog posts over to WordPress or Squarespace or whatever for a hundred bucks.

Step one: Get a hundred bucks. But I figure I can do that fairly soon. Bake sale!

Anyway, the weekend. Did I just black out through it or something?

Hang on and I'll upload my pictures from this weekend for a little reminder.

I know I left for Raleigh soon after work Friday–nothing exciting, just had to do some stuff there. Not a date or anything cool like that. I've gotten off the OK ridiculous Cupid for now and made the decision to not date for awhile. So naturally some man harassed Edsel and me on our walk Saturday. I mean, he not only thought I was pretty, but he even said, "Nice dog," which, come on.

By the way, Carrie Bradshaw and Mr. Big totally had a Love Addict/Love Avoidant relationship. Not that I'm obsessed or anything. But they did. I watched reruns this weekend, for a change.

Hey! I just finally thought of something I did this weekend! Dog walk, harassment, Sex and the City, Love Addict obsessing!


My damn pictures finally uploaded, and from this weekend, I found many, many photos of The World's Saddest Dog. Even Iris is concerned at this point. Or perhaps she's waiting for enough ennui that she can attack. Either way.


You've no idea how many times a day he presses his head on me for hugs. You know how I feel about hugs, but I allow it from dogs. Poor Edsel. I just don't know what to do for him. He's lonely, even if he does have a rambunctious cat friend. I realize it's his fault, but he doesn't know that part.

rambunctious cat friend

Note the holes in my snow leopard pajamas. They were among my favorites, and this was the first time I've slipped them on all winter, and holes. I have one word for you: That goddamn Lottie. I wore them one last beautiful time, then tossed them. There were holes everywhere. Have I said That goddamn Lottie yet?

Anyway, I spent a lot of time reading this weekend, and doing some writing about the Love Addict/Love Avoidant, because it's my new obsession and it's kind of nice to figure out what the FUCK is wrong with you, but here's my complaint. You read about this–what do you want to call it? Character flaw? Anyway, anything you read about it, it tells you over and over again what it IS, with very little concrete answers for what the hell you DO about it.

"Work on your self-esteem." Oh, fuck off. Okay, let me go "work" on that. Out in the garage. With my tool chest. I mean, everything I read just sort of says vague stuff like that. Probably because the real answer is, you're doomed.

"Practice self-acceptance." Oh, thanks! Clear as a bell.

Actually what they say is one thing Love Addicts can do (and "addict" is kind of a dramatic term. What it really is is an anxious attachment style, which sounds hot. Hello! I'm anxiously attached! Let's go!) is find someone who's securely attached. They said Love Avoidants never really do that, because secure people aren't interesting to them. But that the Love Addict can find a secure attachment person, which is what I did when I found Marvin.

So. There's hope. -ish.

At least I have a new hobby.


Yesterday, when I wasn't obsessing about my disorder, I very Love Addict-ly went to The Other Copy Editor's new old bed and breakfast. I mean, it's an old house that they just got. Above is the soap in the bathroom, which I must find because it was the best-smelling soap, ever. Oh my god.

Anyway, her husband, who is gregarious AF, of course had three friends of his own over, and that was fun, and at some point in the afternoon it dawned on me that those two are around the same ages as Chris and Lilly, and they own a business as do Chris and Lilly, and that maybe they'd all like each other.

So now I'm having them all over for dinner, even though every single person in this scenario actually knows how to cook and I do not. Also, C & L will be forever traumatized by The Edsel Incident, but they're coming over anyway. (I tried to find the old blog post for you but could not. But once, Chris and Lilly were coming for dinner, and Edsel licked the lasagna before they got here. I should have probably not blogged about that, but there you go.)

I'd better go to work and so on, but I'll talk to you tomorrow, when maybe I'll have sad pictures of Edsel to show you. Poor Edsel. I wonder if he's a Love Addict?