...friend/Ned · Film · I am berserk · I am high-maintenance · Not Grace Kelly

From underneath Laila Ali

Current situation: My tight-fitting Laila Ali dryer bonnet is atop my head. I’ve got fresh coffee in my favorite mug (for local folk: It’s one of those really thick ones from The Green Bean) and I DID have a dog snout in my lap till just now, when I snapped at my computer.

Does your computer…BOUNCE things at you at the bottom of the screen? First of all, why does everything need updating ALL THE TIME on one’s computer? Surely these aren’t all necessary.

The other day, I finally acquiesced to the CONSTANT bouncing request to update something or other, and after having to shut everything down and wait, then click a bunch of shit to get back on again, once all that was done and I could commence using my computer again, do you know what it did?

It asked if I wanted it to check for updates. Something at the bottom of my screen BOUNCED at me to ask. So you know what I did? I said okay. After being unable to use my computer for 40 minutes so everything could update, I wanted the satisfaction of that damn bouncing thing saying, Sorry. I bounced for no reason. Sorry I’m Tigger.

But you know what happened instead? IT TOLD ME I NEEDED UPDATES.

I HAD JUST UPDATED IT JUST THEN THAT MOMENT.

Goddammit.

So that’s why Edsel took his snout away just now. I just got all set up here at my desk when

BOUNCE

went two, not one but two, things at the bottom of my screen.

“WHAT,” I snapped, and Edsel has left the lap of luxury. He fears my moods.

I guess in general, I hate being interrupted. I assume this has to do with my attention deficit problem, in that I have a deficit of attention. So once you pull me away from something, I get highly irritated because I know it’s going to be difficult for me to get back where I was. It’s, like, all I can do to stay focused in the first place and now you’re pulling me away to say, “How was your weekend?”

The open floor plan at work vexes me. Can you tell?

Anyway, so I’m back in the swing of everything, if you want to call this swinging. I got to work and had exactly what I like, actually. A ton of stuff due in a just-a-bit-scary-but-doable amount of time, no one rushing in to tell me to set that aside to tackle ANOTHER scary thing, and also there was free dessert from some meeting. So.

Then at night, I went to my old movie theater and saw Rear Window.

Isn’t this like the 20th time you’ve seen Rear Window at that theater, June?

Actually, no. The last time I had planned to go, with Ned, and at the last minute I had a crisis du jour and told him I had to cancel. An hour later, my crisis was averted, and I phoned Ned and he wasn’t there.

This was back in like year one or two, when I still liked Ned and I did not know the way of his people, such as he is a

PIT

BULL

about plans. He makes a plan, he sticks with said plan. So what did he do? He went to Rear Window without me.

Oooooo, I was mad. I guess I’d wanted him to stay home worried sick about my crisis. Or dash over and help. But instead he just went to the movie. Like in Family Circus, where the gramma does stuff but with the outline of deceased grandpa.

download

That was the day I Jack Ruby’d Ned.

I TORE down to the movie theater, and I WAITED outside till it was over, and oooooo, I was burning mad. I should have known then how Ned would be the whole relationship. June? I can take her or leave her. June is French dressing.

Anyway, once people started milling out of the theater, Ned said I BURST into the crowd like Jack Ruby, out of nowhere and full of rage.

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I didn’t shoot him, though. I just scowled and complained.

I remember Ned calmed me down by saying, “Every time Grace Kelly was on the screen, I thought about you.” That line totally worked on me, and I am with you on the “Bitch, please” you’re uttering right now. What can I tell you? I was smitten.

Anyway, I saw it last night, the movie I mean, not Jack Ruby, and why is Grace Kelly so perfect? Why am I not her? Grace Kelly would never sit in the front seat of her car and eat Long John Silvers.

I have to go to work, and this new 8 a.m. start time is like to kill me. But before I do, I wanted to share with you this.

You’re welcome.

From out of the crowd,
Joon

I am a pleasure of life · I am berserk · I am high-maintenance · June's stupid life

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

I am berserk

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

THEY

NEVER

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.”

“YES.”

“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.

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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.

alad

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.

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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.

Responsibly,

June

Health · I am a pleasure of life · I am berserk · I am high-maintenance · I hate everything · June's stupid life

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

 

Aging ungracefully · Family · Food and Drink · I am a pleasure of life · I am berserk · I am high-maintenance · June can't keep a man · June's stupid life · Money · My pets

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.”

...friend/Ned · At Two With Nature · Busy busy busy busy. Thank heavens for Angie's List. · Friends · I am a pleasure of life · I am berserk · I am high-maintenance · June can't keep a man · My pets

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”

...friend/Ned · I am a pleasure of life · I am berserk · I am high-maintenance · I hate everything · June's stupid life · Neighbors of June

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”

...friend/Ned · Chicken · Food and Drink · I am berserk

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.

IMG_5546

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.

...friend/Ned · Chicken · Friends · I am berserk · June's stupid life

The Big Game

Yeah, well, so. I saw Ned again.

I KNOW.

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.

HAHAHAHAHA

Anyway.

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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.

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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.

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

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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?

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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.

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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.

Jooooon

...friend/Ned · Death · I am berserk · June can't keep a man · Other people's pets

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.

Dun dun DUNNNNNN.

"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.

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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.

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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.

Eventfully,

June

Friends · I am berserk · June's stupid life

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!

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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?

Obsessively,

June

...friend/Ned · Aging ungracefully · Books · I am berserk · June can't keep a man · Proofreading/Copy editing

Facing June Addiction

Yesterday, I got up early to go to the allergy doctor. I hurried around, and tore over there to be on time, and when I got there, right at 8:00?

They were closed.

I walked up to the door and knocked. No lights on. They'd given me paperwork, so I opened it. "8:00," it read. I left the paperwork in their mailbox in a huff, and went home, annoyed. I could SEE my workplace from the doctor's office, but I'd taken the morning off and goddammit, I was sticking with that. If you don't need half a day off three weeks after Christmas, when do you need half a day off?

At 8:30, I called there, irate. Of course I'd called before then, and got the cloying, "If this is a true medical emergency, please hang up and dial 911."

Why don't you go fuck yourself? I HATE that condescending message. And also, what's with doctor's offices not letting you leave a goddamn message? What is this, 1972?

I also hate, "Please pay close attention, as our prompts have changed." YOUR PROMPTS HAVE NOT FUCKING CHANGED. SHUT UP.

The point is, I finally got someone. "Yes," I said, because I always start these things with"Yes…" I told the woman my woes, and she looked me up on her screen.

Name? I told her.

Date of birth? I told her.

Address? OH MY GOD JUST TELL ME WHAT'S UP.

Turns out my appointment is on the 31st. …yeah. I can remember the appointment lady saying, "How about Monday?" I remember it. I don't know what happened, there. And I even said back, "I'll see you Monday, then!" as I left.

Anyway, the good news is that because I had all that extra time yesterday, I found a freelance gig. They are planning to send me work already, a thing that Faithful Reader LaUral had something to do with, so thanks, LaUral.

This is good, because money? I'm hurtin'. During my year abroad I got all my credit cards and my car paid off, which was great, then I got here and Tallulah got sick and my car broke and hello, country song. Plus all my freelance work dried up, and it kind of saddens me that one has to take extra work beyond work to make ends meet these days.

But there it is, now I have some work, so good. Because my tank is on empty and I have $60 till January 31, which by the way is the day of my doctor visit, GOD. Everyone knows that.

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In the meantime, my tenant, fmr., came over to work out again, a thing my cat, current, thoroughly enjoyed. That's why the Lily is a tramp.

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We had to put old Obssessy McStalkerson, old Fred ASTARE, old Melanie Sniffeth, in the back room, because he is incapable of letting us be while we do Tracy. He down dogs, he rolls around, he sniffs us, he–OH MY GOD EDSEL. So he had a happy new year, in jail. That's only funny if you know It's a Wonderful Life by heart, and who doesn't?

It's nice to have someone hate Tracy with me. "Geez," Tenant, fmr., will say, as Tracy robotically lifts her leg in the same way for the 59th time and looks like she could do 100 more with no problem. Do y'all remember when I made Kaye do Tracy Anderson with me and she almost real-life unfriended me? Anyway, Tenant, fmr., will be here again Wednesday and not the 31st.

I have to go. I had a deal with myself that I'd read 200 books this year, and so far I've read a really dumb Terri McMillan book, a really dumb book I got out of the little take-a-book-leave-a-book library in our park, a book I realized when I was done is a trilogy and now I have to read the rest even though dumb. And now I'm reading a relationship book. I want to keep going on that one this morning before work.

It's really weird. I found the book in my closet–my closet I hardly ever go in. It's a new book, and I'd clearly starting reading it at some point because a page is dog-eared, but I don't remember buying it and I don't remember reading one single word of it.

I even looked in my Amazon emails to see when I got it, and nothing. I showed it to Tenant, fmr., and she didn't leave it here.

Anyway, it's exactly perfect for me. It's exactly the problems I had, and there are ways to fix myself, and I was tempted to contact Ned to say, THIS BOOK IS US. HERE'S HOW WE FIX IT. But (a), we're in a no contact thing for a reason and (2) I don't think he's ready to hear it. Clearly I wasn't when I first got this book. I don't recall one word of it.

It's called Facing Love Addiction, and it talks about the Love Addict/Love Avoidant duo and how they interact with each other, and why they are the way they are and the whole time I was reading it I was all, OH MY GOD! So now I'm at the back of the book where you have to do writing exercises, which I did last night after T,f. left, till my hand hurt.

So, that's exciting. Because between you and me, I was baffled that I could get into something so intense and dramatic and on/off like that. I mean, I did that when I was 22, but I figured well, I'm 22. I had no idea I was capable of something this insane at 51. I thought I'd grown out of acting that way. But clearly I haven't. I have been ashamed, really, of how all-consuming this relationship has been. If I were my friend I'd be so sick of me by now.

So it's good to have hope that I can maybe not do this again.

I'll talk to you tomorrow, or maybe on the 31st.

Aging ungracefully · I am a pleasure of life · I am berserk · I am high-maintenance · I hate everything · June's stupid life

Lord, make me an instrument …that doesn’t gag me

Yesterday, I had to go to the doctor, because my throat is still bothering me. Do you remember about a year and a half ago when they put me out and checked my throat because it always feels like it's CLOSING UP on me? And they were all, "You have GERD." Yeah, thanks. Looking forward to paying $900 for that.

Anyway, it's been bugging me again, so I went to a different doctor, and be sure to tell me things like, "Take Prilosec, June."

The point is, he grabbed a piece of gauze and right away I got panicky. He grabbed my tongue, and stuck that damn mirror thing in the back of my throat.

Next thing I knew, he'd flown across the floor on his little rolly chair, so fast and furiously did I put that man's arm out my mouth and shoved it across the room.

"Sorry," I said, "that makes me panicky."

We tried again.

Roll. Room. Oh my god, did I shove that man out my way.

"We're going to have to use the hooo-dee-frooo-gen-hooogan," he said, then called for his delightfully gay assistant, who had liked me when the day began.

"Is this going to be awful?" I asked, starting to get sweaty. "Well, no, I don't think so," said Delightfully Gay.

And that is when they shoved a tube into my nose with no numbing stuff. I let him do it for maybe 30 seconds before bursting into tears, the kind of tears a four-year-old would burst into. It was ridiculous. I had no idea I was gonna cry like that.

DG handed me some tissue. "Your makeup is just everywhere."

"Well, I didn't get a really good look at your larynx," the doctor said, "but I'm not worried about cancer, and I do know you have sinusitis."

So I'm on a Z-Pack and I have to go back in a week. I'm also supposed to elevate the head of my bed, a thing that last guy said didn't do any good. How Ima do that alone is beyond me. If you don't hear from me, it's because my bed collapsed on me.

When I got to work, my bra was wet, I'd been sweating so much. It was a relaxing doctor visit. They should include that looking-down-your-nose thing as an option at the spa.

In the meantime, that closed group I was on on Facebook? Had another flouncer. I referred to flouncing the other day, but if you didn't see it, it's when someone gets mad a group or a thread online, and instead of just quietly leaving, they announce they are going. A few people have done that here. "I've HAD it with you and your sinusitis, June!" they'll say, slamming the door.

Anyway, in this particular Facebook group, whenever someone flounces, people put up the most hilarious memes.

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Anyway, I got a big kick out of all those, and giggled myself silly, then quietly left the group, because really it's not that nice of a group. It was a childfree-by-choice group, which is great and all, but really it was a "I hate all women with kids, and I hate their children more" group. It wasn't supportive, it was just mean.

I was looking forward to rolling my eyes at the occasional insufferable mom, don't get me wrong. The kind who, when you announce your promotion or trip to the Netherlands or whatever, they'll say, "Magnum pooped in the potty for the first time!" Everything has to be about their kid. Those women. But I wasn't prepared to detest all mothers in the world. I mean, what about Mama Leone? She leaves those nice notes on the door.

And what about all the flowers that you planted, mama, in the back yard? She seems like a nice mother.

And you can't deny the subtle charm of Mother Teresa. So.

I gotta go. I'm running late because I sat here like an idiot watching Anderson Cooper the person not the cat argue with that Kellyanne Conair or whomever and I was riveted. Mostly I was riveted by how she had gloss on her bottom lip and not the top. "Purse your lips," I kept thinking. "Fix that shit."

But before I go, I had one of my "FINE, then" moments this week. I was throwing a ball for Steely Dan this weekend, to celebrate his neutering. I invited, I don't know, 60 people? You know how I get.

So a TON did not RSVP, and that makes me furious. Like, out of proportion to the act furious. It's just so fucking rude. But then 24 people said yes. Which, yay! But then people started changing their minds. "Oh, I forgot. I'm being made pope that day." That sort of thing.

So day before yesterday, I was at my desk, and I got three Nos in a row. Boom boom boom, all within an hour.

"FINE, then" I said, and canceled the whole thing.

It was so something my grandmother would have done.

Then I was inundated with messages. "Are you really canceling?" they'd ask, because you know how those fake cancellations are. "I was planning to come!"

Then I felt sad. All sorts of people wanted to come over, and I got all FINE, then, and I KNEW I was being all FINE, then when I did it. Whenever I feel weepy at the back of my throat, my closed throat, I know I should not make decisions. But there it is, and I'm not having a party, and I've made plans to go out that night with just one friend, and we aren't sure what we're doing other than we decided NOT a color run. So.

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My FINE, thens are really my worst trait. Well. That and this nose.

Talk at you.

FINE, then.

June

...friend/Ned · At Two With Nature · I am berserk · June's stupid life · June's vast love of eagles

For six nights in a row

SCREEEEEEEEECH!

That's what woke me up this morning, a few minutes before my alarm: SCREEEEEEEEECH!

"That's actually coming from outside my head," I realized, and then I wondered if someone was being murdered. Exciting! "Coooo! Cooo! Cooooo!" I heard then, and right then I knew. Either Yoko Ono was gettin' some from my neighbor, Paul, (or god forbid Peg)…

or it was a bird.

June Gardens, Wildlife Expert®.

Naturally, I looked it up, asking Siri, "What kind of bird screeches, then coos?" Usually Siri is a lazy ass sack who never answers a goddamn freaking thing. The difference between my stupid useless Siri and Ned's whoever-she-is on his Samsung Galaxy is astonishing.

"When is the next full moon?" we'll both ask our phones.

"The next full moon is November 14, and it's a rare super moon," his phone will immediately say, a trifle smugly.

"I'm sorry. I could not find runcible spoon," Siri will say. Or if she does hear me, she sends me to an ARTICLE to READ. I don't have time to read. I'm a busy executive. Just fucking tell me. Siri makes everything a hassle. Siri is the Typepad of phones.

I wonder if I could be any more entitled. My PHONE, that I carry WITH me and that has all the information in the WORLD in it, that also takes pictures and can navigate for me, won't tell me what bird screeches and coos. WHO CAN LIVE THIS WAY.

The point is, it did tell me, syphilitic Siri did, and it would appear I have a Great Horned Owl in my yard.

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fuk ant joon

"Don't let the cats out," said Ned as soon as I called him, and apparently Ned and my mom have founded a Tell June the Obvious Club. Anyway, I went outside with Edsel to see if I could see him, my new hoot owl howling by my window now, as I wish to meet him and kiss him on his crabby head and maybe let him live inside, so I could be charmingly eccentric like Uncle Billy in It's a Wonderful Life.

Do you think maybe he'll build a owl nest-y, with owl babies-ses that I can kiss and hug and pet? Soft baby owl-ses? OH MY GOD I WOULD NEVER BE SAD AGAIN. I could run around getting them owl food, because I'd be super good at hauling a couple baby bunnies up a tree. That wouldn't kill me or anything.

Look at his big owl feets. DON'T YOU LOVE HIM SO BAD? Ima name him Das Hoot.

In other news, I'm home. Hello. I unpacked right away, because the image of Faithful Reader Paula unpacking in the middle of the night because she can't rest till everything's put away made me feel guilty. Oh! And the worst thing.

I got to baggage claim and got m'pink huge bag off the thing®. I had a bottle of water with me, and as I got on the escalator, I let go of my bag to take a drink.

Ssssssssssssss FLUMP FLUMP FLUMP FLUMP FLOOMP.

My goddamn BAG fell behind me, and FLOOMPED all the way down the escalator which was thankfully empty, and slid zestfully all the way across baggage claim.

Oh my god.

I mean, what if someone had been behind me? I'd have knocked them off the escalator, too! What if I'd knocked some kid over?

As it was, a hundred million people ran to see what all the floomping was, and there I was, the only woman around for miles, and where was I, Alaska all of a sudden? "That's mine!" I waved eagerly, walking down the stairs to get my humiliated bag.

"Was that just a bag and not a person?" a frazzled airport employee ran over. Oh calm down.

"Yes, it was my bag. I dropped it," I told her, trying to act like all the cool people were doing it. I saw Steve McQueen drop his bag the exact same way in Klute.

I have no idea if Steve McQueen was even in Klute.

"You should do an ad for that bag," said a man nearby, as I retrieved my unscratched bag.

Pink Bags. Tough, But Fair®.

® is a big thing with me today.

Other than that, it's been a relatively sedate homecoming, what with crippled-up Ned and his bulging disks. He's forever raising his arm and flexing his hand and wincing and carrying on.

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Did you have something you wanted to share with the class, Ned?

 "I know you're annoyed by my pain," said Ned, as he winced and carried on.

"No, I'm not," I said, totally annoyed by his wincing and carrying on.

We went to eat last night and the restaurant was playing a duet from the '80s. "Is this a duet with Kenny Loggins?" Ned asked.

"It is. I believe it's with Stevie Nicks," I told him. I always know from what I call Saginaw songs. Like, if it's some top 40 thing from anywhere between 1974 and 1988, I know who sang it and when it was a song. My friend Dave, who also grew up in Saginaw, had a classy boyfriend from Hawaii, and whenever Dave and I were jamming out in the car to something like Hocus Pocus by Focus, the Hawaiian boyfriend would be all, "What even is this? This is a Saginaw song."

The point of my story is, I told Ned about Stevie Nicks and Kenny Loggins and then possibly went into a diatribe about how much I hate the song Leather and Lace, and then furthered my rant about how much Stevie Nicks annoys me in general.

"She's why I can't stand women with blonde hair and brown eyes," I said.

"You…what?"

"Oh, they bug me, women with blonde hair and brown eyes. And it's all Stevie Nicks's fault."

Sometimes Ned looks at me like, What on earth have I done? I was rid of her.

Blonde-haired, brown-eyed women are such a disappointment," I said. "They're the raisin cookie of women."

I suppose it was nice having you as readers, BHBEW. I will miss you all.

Imagine how the BHBEW with horseshoe haircuts must hate me.

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fuk ant june

Look, I'm a gray-haired, blue-eyed woman. Which disappoints everyone.

I'd better go. Now that I've spread all this positivity and love. I will let you know when Roddy MacOwl moves in, and which bedroom he gets, and so on. Maybe if he moves in, I can become one of those people who gets really into woodsy Native American-ish stuff, and wear pine cone earrings and a lot of turquoise and kokopelli the shit outta the whole house. Won't you enjoy my kokopelli couch and kokopelli curtains? I turned this tree log into a coffee table. Sit down and I'll make you some frybread.

SCREEECH! Coo!

June

I am berserk · June's stupid life

Hurr-icane

So, it's hurricane-al here. I mean, it's raining nonstop and also hard and the park is flooded and it's blowy out and Edsel won't pee. I had to walk into the yard with him this morning, getting my pajamas wet, and stand there and force him to pee. I considered getting an umbrella for him so he'd go, but then I remembered my pride.

Heh.

The hurricaniacal weather did not stop me from gettin' my hurr done today, because hashtag perseverance. Every time I go to my hairdresser–every time!!–it's raining. I don't know what that is. But she works in this old mill

DOWN BY THE OLD MILL STREAM!

WHERE I FIRST MET YOUUUUU.

Anyway, she works in this old mill, and there's exposed brick and big ol' windows and it's a fabulous place to watch the rain. She got m'roots covered, because portrait of June-ian Gray, over here. Legend of GrayLocks, going on. If I were a tea, I'd be Earl Grey.

Once we were done, she blew me straight, and then I went outside covering my hair like a black woman. I usually don't care that much if my hurr gets wet, because hardcore tomboy, but today I did because new blowout.

How much do you wish I wouldn't say "hurr"? Who am I, Madea?

By the time I crossed the street and the parking lot, I was starting to resemble Garth, of Wayne and Garth. I was Babe-alocious. Not.

Photo on 10-8-16 at 6.27 PM
Hurr of the dog.

I headed to PetSmart, because I needed more Steely Dan kitten food. I've been feeding him canned food and his fur is like velvet now. I stupidly didn't grab any sort of hand cart or anything, mostly because I have no idea where PetSmart puts their carts. Despite this, I loaded up on two sizes of cans, plus a bag of dry kitten food, because trying not to spend a fortune on cans so supplementing a little. It's like Hamburger Helper but for kittens. Furburger Helper.

Wait.

And at the last minute I grabbed 107 of those fur-covered mice, the cheap ones, because SD fucking loves them and they disappear and I blame Edsel, as I saw him eat one once.

The point is, they loaded the 47 cans, bag of food, and 34595934093 fur mice into one plastic bag, which was fine with me because next I had to walk to the grocery store next door. They're in the same strip mall, but it is something of a walk in the blinding wind and rain of a hurricane-ish day.

You can imagine my hurr by the time I entered the store.

I am 100% out of laundry detergent, a thing I've been out of since early this week, and tomorrow I will have to wear my teal homecoming dress from 1982 unless I do laundry tonight.

So I got some laundry stuff and headed to the self-checkout, so I could check myself out and hey, good lookin'. I'll be back to pick myself up later. It'd be funny if it weren't so sad and true. Hashtag WHAT sex in 2016.

The point of this whole story is once I bought the laundry stuff and picked up my bags?

My PetSmart bag broke into a million pieces.

Cat food cans, other cat food cans, cat food cans for days, rolled all over the grocery store. Fur mice flew in all directions. The bag fell to the ground with a FLOOMP.

Everyone ran around trying to catch all the rolling cans and bring them to me, the woman wearing her Girl Scout uniform because everything else was dirty, the woman with gigantic giant big old hurricane hurr, the woman who was clearly

A

Crazy

Cat

Lady.

And right then I knew. My transformation is complete.

Sadly. Harriedly.

June

...friend/Ned · Faithful Readers · Food and Drink · I am berserk · June's stupid life

Our Lady of Perpetual Calendars

I'm having some Greek honey yogurt with some almonds, and every time I eat Greek yogurt I feel like I'm eating just a teensy piece of Faithful Greek Reader Fay.

Look how this blog has affected my life.

When we last left off, what had I done? …Oh, walked. Right. Fucking walked. I was Walker, Texas Ranger. I was Karen Walker.

Bah.

Well, Saturday night, I decided to try a new restaurant. The woman who sits next to me, The Alex Who Sits Next To Me (TAWSNTM) is very hep. You can imagine how it delights her to be next to my cool self. "No, June, I …haven't read the Twilight books."

Anyway, she likes this one restaurant over by the one college, so I tried it. Dragged a date. An interminable date. At this point, I'm like Mary Richards on the Mary Tyler Moore Show. If you're 70, you'll recall the show, and she always had sort of mannequin good-looking men come get her for dates, then you'd never see them again.

I wonder what Mary Richards did wrong? Like, did she ghost on everyone after the way I do? Was she still hung up on her fiance? Remember she had a fiance, a doctor, and that's how that whole show started? We were supposed to be excited for her that she did that, and that love was all around with Murray Slaughter and a studio apartment with Phyllis as your landlord, but the whole time I was all, You scored a DOCTOR, you maroon.

My mother is shooing herself with a gun from her Phyllis Schlafly Your Daughter Didn't Turn Out Liberated Ha Ha End It Now gun collection.

Oh my god anyway. So, it looks just like a little corner bar, the restaurant does. It's a cool old building, with original glass double doors on the front. And it IS just a tiny corner bar, technically, but everything in there is adorbs.

Yes, I said adorbs.

They have mismatched bar stools ("Honey, honey, honey, you don't like my BAR STOOLS?") that are all vintage. There'll be a green tufted backed one next to a sunny orange backless. Oh, it's marvelous.

Sixties curtains.

And delicious pretentious food.

They infuse their alcohol right there, so I had a margarita made with tequila infused with strawberry and jalapeno. I also had brisket and smashed red potato and salted caramel bread pudding.

I wanted to keep eating after I was wafer-thin-mint full. I wanted to barf so I could order something else and see how THAT tasted. It was so good I can't even begin to tell you, although it looks like I have. I LOVE that place. I will go to that place all the time. And no, I will not tell you the name because I don't want it to get like Hops. Local people will know what I mean. Fucking Hops. "Oh, it's a 26-hour wait."

Then yesterday I dragged Ned to Sully. That was his punishment for making me walk to the folk festival: He had to go to a mainstream movie. And it was even at the shitty basic theater, where they, like, fly in their popcorn rather than make it on site. Ned hates that place.

I always get the nachos with the orange cheese that they pump out of something, perhaps the bowels of hell, and Ned always has 48 fits that I eat that stuff. Yesterday the theater has added a charming thing: They tell you how many calories are in their snacks.

Turns out? My nacho chips and "cheese"? 800 calories!!!

Who knew?

Ned got a small bag of popcorn and a bottle of water. Calories? 350. Fuck Ned.

It was a good movie, although we were both seriously annoyed at the 20 minutes of previews. TWENTY MINUTES. In which I managed to pretty much finish my 800 calories. But I liked the movie, because who doesn't like Tom Hanks, and also I wish to never fly again oh my god.

Do you know what I'd be good at? Air traffic control. Welcome to my cool head and composed nature.

Speaking of work, after that I had some freelance stuff to do for this place I used to work at back in the '90s. They still use me for their proofreading, and I had to proof a magnetic calendar that they send out to all their clients. Not that it has charisma, but rather that it sticks to your file cabinet or whatever.

On the back is a perpetual calendar, and I was your Lady of Perpetual Calendars yesterday, making sure when they said 1910 was the same calendar as 2007, it was true.

It was fun to proofread again. It's so soothing. You look up and three hours have passed and all you've thought of is, "Was 1997 a leap year?"

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Anyway, I was done with that, and was just sitting down to watch a Fred Astaire movie when my doorbell rang. It was already dark, and I wasn't expecting anyone. For the first time in his goddamn life, Edsel didn't bark.

"Who is it?" I asked.

Pause. "It's me." A male voice.

I deadbolted the door. "Uh-uh, you don't say 'It's me' like that. Who is this?" The voice sounded like a teenager, but still.

'It's…Sean, I guess," he said.

"I have a mean dog, I can't answer the door," I said, and the kid left.

I mean, I guess he was a kid. Guess who forgot she had a peephole?

Then after I got scared. Did you ever listen to that awful 911 tape where the woman calls 911 (hence that I called it a 911 tape) and says a strange man had just come to her door claiming to be looking for someone "and I'm an old woman, I live alone," she says BEFORE HER PHONE CLUNKS AND SHE STARTS SCREAMING?

That is what I thought of all night. I called Ned, because calling the police to say, "Someone came to my door" seemed over the top.

"You wanna stay over here?" Ned asked. So then I had the choice between staying here and letting Sean I Guess break in and kill me, or go to Ned's and try not to have sex with him, when I already resisted once and COME ON, god. Because Ned and I fought like demons when we were a couple, but then we were the world's most sexually compatible people. Sex was what we did best. It was our joint.

We were award-winning. We got the Screwlitzer.

We won the Nobel Piece Price.

We got the Good Housekeeping Squeal of Approval.

So, stay here and get murdered, or go to Ned's and have a thousand tiny deaths?

I stayed here. With Mute Fang. Who, fortunately, at least spooned me all night and for once I was glad to grab his clawed feet of Lottie gouging and wrap them closer to me. And here I am, still alive. Maybe Sean I Guess was casing the joint and he'll be back tonight.

I did bring a sledgehammer and put it next to my bed. It's like Peter Gabriel spent the night.

So that's my weekend, and I guess I'd better shower and hope that Sean I Guess doesn't Norman Bates me in there.

Relaxedly,

June

Datedly,

June

Gabrielly,

June

Okay, I'll stop

I am berserk · June's stupid life

June and the lesbian kitten

Here's my problem. (I act like I have only the one.) I get bored, then I set up too much stuff in my life, then I get overwhelmed at the chaos and cut stuff out, and then I get bored again.

What the Sam Hill is wrong with me?

My job, since it changed, is overwhelming, and lately I've been working in my little hiding place in the building because OH MY GOD with people talking to me all day. Yesterday I was trying to work at my desk, and I had on my headphones, which is the universal sign for "Do not disturb" in open-floor-plan speak.

A hand waved between me and my computer screen.

It was Griff. We don't even work on the same account anymore. "What." I asked him, in my approachable way, removing my headphones resentfully.

"You know what I hate? I hate when women fish through their bags all day. I'm in line at the grocery store, and some woman is up there, 'Oh, where's my wallet?'"

Griff's funeral will be held Thursday at 2:00.

Anyway, so work is busy, and a lot of people have busy jobs so that shouldn't be such a big deal, but then also, why the fuck do I know so many people? Like, why not have two or three good friends, and cut out the riffraff? I know no one feels sorry for me, but it's a lot of upkeep, you know what I'm saying? This person is IMing me. This person is texting me. This person is emailing me, and I can't keep up with all that, plus my job, my blog comments, my Pie on the Face page, my 14 pets, my whole house-owning, plus my hobbies like sewing and church.

I think I'm more easily overwhelmed than most people. Do you feel easily overwhelmed, or is it just me?

I always get like this when I'm busy at work.

The whole time I had Lottie I felt way too overwhelmed. I mean, a puppy is a LOT. Now, a kitten? To me, that's easy. Kittens are very set it and forget it. Especially this one. She spends 21 hours a day batting her toys around. This morning, the alarm went off, and she dashed in, knocked my reading glasses off the table, and sideways spider kitty-d her way out the door. kittee see you wen she see you.

The point of my story is, the whole time Lottie was here, which was three months, I felt inches from weeping. It was too much. And then as soon as she was gone and I was over the crushing heartbreak of her absence, I thought, Well, what can I do next?

Chaos. I seem to thrive on and abhor it. What IS that? Do you do that?

Speaking of chaos, I tried to photograph the mercury that is Hazel last night.

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Oh my god. Lu say forget. I took 21 pictures of her (I just counted) and they were all like this.

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Here's one where she flopped down for half a second. She was probably thinking, "What can I do next?" the way I do.

I've been putting her food dish up unless the door is closed to her room, because four times now Edsel has gone in and eaten her kitten food, and I hope his ass gets big as a house. I hope no amount of Tracy Anderson will burn it off, and I'd like to know who wished that on me, you dick. Anyway, this morning I put a huge mess of food in her dish, thinking she could have it all day while I shut her in the room, and when I returned to her room 10 minutes later, she'd eaten the entire thing.

Which I guess is good, because she is NOT HAVING the being shut in the room thing, anyway. She'd rather be out where Iris can hiss at her.

Oh, also, I made a vet appointment for her, and of course I lied to the vet. I didn't want her to judge me. You can. But I didn't want her to. And it wasn't even the vet, it was the vet assistant answering person.

"Hi. I have to make an appointment for my new kitten," I said. "I'm June Gardens. I've been in there with Lottie, Edsel, Lily and Iris." Already I sounded crazy.

"Okay. How old would you say your kitty is?"

"Six weeks."

"Okay, six weeks. That's too young for flea meds, and too young for shots."

(It is? She's already had both.)

"Are you keeping her from the other cats?" the woman asked.

"Oh, yes," I said, as I watched her play on the floor while Iris and Lily glowered at her.

"Aren't my, um, other cats vaccinated against whatever she might have wrong anyway?" I asked.

"No," the vet person said. "They're indoor cats, so you only had them vaccinated against indoor cat issues."

See. This is why you don't lie to your vet. I didn't want to HEAR it from her that I let the cats outside. The problem with people who love animals is the people part. There's nothing more judge-y than other animal people. Probably humans who have human children are worse, but fortunately I don't have to deal with that.

A few years ago, I wrote a Purple Clover about Lily, about how she was 100% an indoor cat, and you know she really was back then, and how one day she just let herself out the screen door, as best I could guess, and had disappeared.

Some woman left a comment about what a terrible person I was. "I always remember to lock the screen door so my kitties can't get out," she smugged, and right when she called her cats her "kitties," I knew everything I needed, although I'd already been tipped off when she felt the need to leave a comment judging me as it was.

She went on about the heroic measures she takes to keep all her "kitties" safe, and all I could do was hope one day her husband unlocked the triple-locked door and escaped himself. Run, husband! Be free!

I sound way crabbier today than I actually feel.

Anyway, Hazel goes to the vet tomorrow, and I find out for sure that she's a girl, even though I'm 90% sure I'm right. She's awfully tomboy-ish, though, and I may have a little lesbian on my hands. My "kitty" is a lesbian.

Crap. I'd better go. Ima be late for work, and thank god I've injected some chaos into my day.

Overwhelmingly,

Jooooon

...friend/Ned · I am berserk · June can't keep a man · June's stupid life · My pets · Other people's pets

June survives horrific car crash, finds kitten. Story at–well, now.

I was going to hyperbole your hat off telling you about how I survived a car accident, escaping death as only June could do, but something so much more interesting has happened now.

So, on Friday afternoon, I was headed back to work after lunch, and I was at a red light when

BOOM!

this old man in a Lexis rear-ended me. Hard. I mean, the crash was. I was lookin' pretty cute that day, so…who knows.

So that was jarring. My head hit the seat rest and I chipped a tooth just a little, which, dang. Now, in LA, if it's just a fender-bender, which in the end this was…

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Scenes from a horrific crash

you just take the person's info and move along. You don't call the police. So that's what I did, and then I drove to a Ready Med, where they refused to see me ("We'd be a third party if we assisted you medically." Assholes. Aren't you supposed to PROVIDE CARE to people?), then I called the PO-lice, who yelled at me about leaving the scene.

Actually, when I was hit, there was a cop RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME, and he drove on. Didn't stop. I thought that was why, cause of the fender-bender rule. Which it turns out is an LA thing. HOW ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO KNOW?

Anyway, I've spoken to Hard-at-80's insurance co. and it looks like it will not be a problem. And the good news is, I discovered in my wallet, while I was searching for my proof of INsurance, as they say here, all kinds of gift cards I've never used. So I spent yesterday using them, which was exciting. I got a vacuum cleaner, which I haven't had all year (I abuse vacuums. Fur.), a shower caddy which I left behind during my year abroad, a digital scale because I'm sorry to tell you I can't quite…see the little lines any longer, and also a Britta pitcher.

Exciting!

So yesterday when I wasn't using gift cards, I noted a stiffness in m'bones, but nothing major. I had planned to exaggerate it mightily for you but KITTEN! KITTEN STORY! USURPS ALL CRIES FOR ATTENTION!

There's a guy at work whose wife I like a lot, and not THAT way, this isn't the Penthouse Forum. I never thought it would happen to me. They invited me to this restaurant downtown, drivin' all the old men crazy, and I went, even though Ned goes there a lot. But I knew he went there on Friday a lot, because routine, and also that UNLESS HE WAS ON A DATE, he'd sit at the bar with one of his pretentious New Yorker magazines.

We sat outside, and as long as I did not go in to pee, I was good. What do you mean, no one wants to see me pee in the bushes? Of course they do.

I had a ham and brie sandwhich, WHICH WAS DELICIOUS, and ate only half because I'm so small. After dinner, it was around 10 p.m. and I was headed to this dive bar in my old year-abroad neighborhood, another Ned risk, but a slight one.

And that is when I saw him. I am the only person in America who'd see a tiny black kitten AT NIGHT, but I did. "Oh!" I said, putting my car in reverse, which I'm certain is legal and why the accidents, June?

He ran away from me at first, as do all men, till finally I got the idea to whip out some ham, and that is not a euphemism.

oh halllooooo! kitty heer! kitty say hai!

Man, that was all it took. He was starving, that little kitten was. I knocked on the door of the house he'd been near (he was on a sidewalk when I found him) but no one answered, and anyway, who lets their teensy kitten out at night when he's black and skinny?

He's the kind of little kitten who purrs when you pick him up, which was what he was doing as he bogarted my sandwich. Had he been a girl I'd have named him Mama Cass. I was holding him and trying to decide what to do when I realized, technically I was on Ned's street.

Remember that scene in Sex and the City, when Miranda is dating that hot black guy, the sports doctor, and Steve goes over there and the doctor has two scantily-clad women over? That's what I pictured Ned had going on at his house. But I worked up my courage and called.

"I have a black kitten in my car and I'm like two blocks away. Can I bring it over?"

"What are you doing with that kitten?" Ned was trepidatious, whereas I was already picturing how sweet it would be to have an all-black cat and an all-white cat such as–oh, just to throw a name out there, NedKitty.

I drove over there and Ned got NedKitty's old lady food out. NedKitty herself glowered from the dining room table, but she wasn't hissing or being a dick or anything. Mostly she just kind of pretended the problem wasn't there, sort of like her dad. "Commitment? Where do you want to have lunch?"

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See, even the paper is encouraging Ned to adopt a kitten. Cats glad to insert…something. Party animals. IT'S ALL A SIGN!

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While Johnny Cats, which is what we named him because he's the man in black, scarfed that old lady food with scary rapidity, Ned and I discussed Johnny's fate. "I'm leaving town for two weeks," he said, which I immediately assumed was due to honeymoon. What I like about myself is my ability to not catastrophize.

Turns out Ned is headed on this huge hiking vacation with his brothers, wherein they do things like hike the national parks for 800 miles a day, and that spells fun. Alternatively, you could stay home and look at kittens. Let me weigh my options, here. Then after that he has a business trip.

"I mean, I could…foster Johnny while you're gone, and then you could take him after."

You'll be stunned to hear that Ned did not commit rapidly. "Let me think about it," he said.

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This is bound to go well. In the meantime, I've asked him to look at NextDoor in his neighborhood, and I've already checked Craigslist. No one has posted anything yet about missing a very small, very hungry kitten.

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Johnny Cats is secluded in the spare room, which is where Lottie used to take her meals, and now someone's in the kitchen with Lottie, someone's in the kitchen I know-ow-ow-ow. Someone's in the kitchen with Lottie, alpha-ing her own Alpo. Edsel is a DICK about Lottie's food, and tries to take it at every turn, which already resulted in Lottie growling while she ate (I stick my hand in her bowl a LOT while she's eating, so she doesn't get aggressive with me over food), and now she has to eat just one room from Edsel and my life is chaos.

WHO FINDS A BLACK CAT AT NIGHT?

Chaos June does. That's who.

...friend/Ned · At Two With Nature · I am berserk · June's stupid life · Neighbors of June · Other people's pets

Old Limey Checks In

7:05 a.m. (Hah! Remembered!)

If you tuned in yesterday, you'll recall, with your sharp precision that knows no bounds, that I said, "I haven't saved the bird yet or seen the muskrat or closed down two more places or gotten to Peg or talked about Boomer the big-headed dog, so I guess I'll write more tomorrow."

Well, here it is. Tomorrow. Let's not adieu any further. Which I think means "goodbye" so that made no sense.

After my near-brush with lawn-guy death on Saturday, Ned and I returned to my abode and did not bid adieu but instead let out aLottie. See what I did, there? We got the leashes and took everyone on a walk, and by "everyone" I don't mean you were the only one not there. I just mean in my dog kingdom.

So we'd rounded the corner toward the park for The Seeing of the Chickens in That One Back Yard That Faces the Park, when I saw a bird just motionless in the middle of the road. "Oh, no," I said to Ned, handing him Lottie's leash without another word. Ned used to walk the dogs with me all the time, although they contained a calm Tallulah and not a berserk Lottie. But he's used to my oh no-ing and handing the leash off thoughtlessly. I'm just glad he didn't lose a hand since our breakup, and my thoughtless leash-handing would have resulted in tragedy.

Why does my brain work that way?

The poor thing was motionless, with his beak open like he was gasping for air, although he didn't seem to be. I used the (unused, calm down) poop bag to try to pick him up, he wriggled away, and so I sat and talked to him for awhile.

And that is when he started following me around.

Oh, it was cute. I'd walk a little and he'd hop after me. Finally I got him, took him to the shade under a person's bush, and I mean, like, foliage, pervy. Then Ned and I screamed the poor dogs home (Edsel was all, wak abort again so mom can save dum burd), got water and a shoe box Ned punched holes in and drove back to the spot.

Ned parked and stayed in the car to search bird rescue places and I got my shoe box, my cup of water, my tiny dish and spoon and was hunching in the bushes talking to a bird when the people who owned the house with the bush drove up.

Yeah.

You know how this hair looks crazy anyway? IMG_0810
"Oh, hai. I was just talking to a bird under your…your…trying to capture and rehabilitate…okay, nice to meet you." Once they arrived, the bird flew off, so then I looked COMPLETELY sane. I was just talking to this imaginary bird in your bush. Hey, you on NextDoor? Me too! Looking forward to the warning about me on there!

Are you guys on that thing? Go see if you have one for your neighborhood. You get all KINDS of good gossip, and all sorts of drama from busybodies. They should've named it Gladys Kravitz, not NextDoor. You also get to see people pictures so you can check if you have any hot neighbors.

News flash: I don't seem to have any hot neighbors. A lot of very involved 42-year-old women, though. "Did anybody hear those sirens? Is everyone okay?" Oh, please. You don't give one fuck. You just want the guff. AS DO I.

After I, you know, got up from under those people's bushes and said my name was Peg so she'd look crazy and not me (and there's a giant chance they'll mistake us at the next block party), Ned and I decided to go ahead and walk in the park anyway, even without my poor dogs, who were probably home ordering giant bones online.

"heyyy. bonez dot com do not haff anytheen edzel wan–well, hai, fyrmenz!"

"Oh my god!" I screeched, and Ned is used to my random screeches as well. But in the creek, there, was a swimming little muskrat! Oh, he was cute. We could see him all sleek and swimmy, and then he got out and showed us his little muskrat head, and I got the water and shoebox and tried to convince him it was great at my house.

Muskrat_(musquash)_fur_backs,_jacket

I Googled to show you a cute picture of a swimming muskrat and came across this horrific picture instead. Are those, like, his innards up top? What IS that? Somewhere, Muskrat Susie is very sad.

Finally, Ned and I stopped looking at the muskrat, and went to our respective homes and showered, because neither of us had yet that day, and it was 10 p.m. when we finally went out to dinner. I'm sure you recall, from your Big Book of June Events, that in June of 2012, we went to a restaurant and sat clean in the dark. Like, they'd failed to light the damn outside portion of the restaurant, and so we sat in utter darkness and despair. Except we didn't, because we'd been dating six months and it wasn't complicated then and oh, June of 2012. How I miss you.

The point is, we ended up closing that place the other night, although this time it was at least lit. This town goes to bed early. Then after, we wanted to try this new brewery, but first I wanted to come home and check on Lottie, and guess who's a pain in my ass.

So when the doorbell rang and it was quite late, I was glad Ned was there. Because scary.

It was Peg. Of the kneel-in-the-bushes-in-people's-yards Pegs. "My lights are out!" she announced, stomping in defiantly. "I see yours aren't."

Ned called Duke Energy, and it turns out most dukes have a ton of energy, and also it turns out 35 houses in my neighborhood were out of power, as was the blinking light on our corner. Something about a bird coming back to life and wreaking havoc on the power lines.

I told Peg she could stay at my house and watch TV, but she demurred. "I'll just go to bed," she said, so Ned and I headed to the brewery. Which we closed down.

And also, at said brewery, right next to us, in a chair like he was a person, was a big big big, big-headed dog named Boomer and I LOVED HIM SO BAD. I  tried to act like I was taking an asshole selfie and get him in the background, but the angles didn't work. OH HE WAS A PUMPKIN.

I kept hearing people ask Boomer's owner, "What kind of dog is that?" and she kept saying, "He's a mix." Yes, we KNOW he's a mix, but get your hundred dollars together to find out he's a Boxer/Pit/Shep/Lab/Golden mix when you know perfectly well he's a Blackmouth Cur and they don't test for that.

Not to be specific. Which of you emailed to tell me Lottie's a Blackmouth Cur? Because I think you're right. Here's a regularly scheduled BMC, below, at three months old.

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Here's my "shepherd mix" at three months and 19 days.

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Yeah.

Anyway, that sums up my adventure-filled Saturday. Yesterday I found a tick on me, so now I'm Yolanda from Real Housewives. You have THAT to look forward to.

From my cryogenic tank,

June

P.S. My latest Purple Clover, about the day I called all my exes and discovered I'm crazy.