The Weeknd (God, is June hip)

[Flumps coat and purse in first, slides into booth after.] Have you been here long?

Sometimes, on Mondays, when I haven’t written all weekend, I sit down here at my desk and think, What the fuck did I just do for the last 72 hours? Today is one of those days. Then what I’ll do (tell us more, June. This is riveting.) is plug in my phone to see what pictures I took, and apparently Friday just didn’t exist. I took zero photos.

Remember when the camera (and your flashbulbs) would be on top of the fridge or in a closet or something, and you only got it out at Easter? “Everyone stand in front of this wall, because that wall will be fascinating in years to come.”

Anyway, maybe I had a migraine. Maybe it’s Maybelline.

IMG_5603.jpgAt least I know what I did Saturday. I did Nancy. Call PETA.

IMG_5598.jpgIMG_5590.jpgI had to get my eyelashes redone Saturday, because I’m a deep person who does a lot for the world in her spare time. And who understands first- and third-person rules. Anyway, since I was out, I called Ned. “Can I come visit Nancy?”

She’d had FOUR DAYS IN A ROW of pooping in the box. When I was there, it was the start of day five. “Let’s move her up to the computer room now,” I implored, because it was up to me. Nevertheless, that’s what we did, and I hobbled up those steps with cat bowls and so on, and Ned got her all set up.

“Let’s let her wander around while you’re home,” I implored, because any of this was my business.

She was so glad to have the house to wander again. Cooped up in that stupid half bath. Actually, that was always my favorite room when I lived there. Had wainscoting. And a teensy chandelier. And it was my color.

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[teensy chandelier not pictured.] [also, this is when I lived here. Ned does not have a fruity pink flamingo or an Eiffel Tower ring-holder.]

Anyway, it was all going great with Nancy till at some point she pooped behind the shower curtain, so she’s in that computer room till further notice.

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hooo go der?

To find that photo of my bathroom, fmr., I had to scroll back to photos from 2014. This photo was taken on the same day, as I traversed the basement stairs. Back when m’toes functioned.

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Anyway, I got my lashes done, and I like how one has already fallen off, here. Also too I look fairly dead here.

When I wasn’t hanging out with my animals or other people’s animals Saturday,

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Yes, I do know it’s probably nice enough out that I can clean all this furniture again. I’M BROKEN.

I finally got my broken-toe shoes that the doctor said I had to get. I’d been to all sorts of no-nonsense-shoes stores I never go into.

Dowdy ShoeWarehouse.

You Look Like Thom McCann.

Too Many Clarks Bars.

Wayless (attractive) Shoes.

REI‘m Butch.

Why do athletic, down-to-earth gals always hate me?

But I finally found luck (“luck”) at the Birkenstock store, where a young salesboy had to hear approximately 47,000 inappropriate Birkenstocks jokes from me.

“I’m not really a Birkenstock person,” I explained to him, first thing, as soon as I hobbled in, like I’m Zsa Zsa Gabor or something, with all this glamor. You know what that whippersnapper at the store would not know? Is who Zsa Zsa Gabor is.

IMG_5642 2.jpgThe point is, I got these, for a mere $138. I have $68 till payday now. Who knew granola women paid so much for shoes?

I’ve worn them all weekend, except for late Saturday night, when I was going to bed and stubbed my broken toe on the cat scratcher.

God

DAMMIT.

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Hot Saturday night at the Gardens house. The Gardens/Silverman/Frost house. No one here has the same last name. Well, Iris and Lilly both share “Frost” as a last name. What is wrong with me?

IMG_5655.jpgOn Sunday, I groomed.

Did some cleaning.

IMG_5658.jpgIMG_5659.jpgOf course he’s that cat. The play-with-sheets cat. Do you enjoy my Tums? Hot. Tums and enzyme cleaner for cat pee. Hotter.

The shelter wrote me this weekend to see if I wanted to take another mom and her four kittens. I said no. I am so not ready after that last fiasco. See? Sometimes I have impulse control.

Anyway, as I was taking recycling out or something, I looked over at Peg’s and noted…

IMG_5664.jpg…her tulip tree’s bloomed. She always bemoaned that tree, because it either didn’t bloom at all or it would too early and then there’d be a freeze and all the buds would die. I sent her this picture, through her daughter. I hope she likes seeing it. I know seeing her house gray will piss her off. She liked the yellow.

I also saw The Post yesterday afternoon, and I think that means I’ve seen all the Oscar-nominated films, including the shorts, so I am all set for Oscar night.

IMG_5661 2.jpgI even have the shoes.

Whole lotta leopard

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wut??

What I admire about Edsel is his unencumbered ability to release 20 seconds of stepped-on-a-duck-sounding gas with nary a flinch.

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edz chillz

I have today off, and yet I am still here, in my leopard footie pajamas, talking to you. I’m supposed to be sitting around thinking about Martin Luther King. Who was something of a philanderer despite all the good he did, and I’ve been thinking about how you can admire people who were also terribly flawed. Like, you know, Woody Allen. I can’t help it; I still like his movies.

Other than those deep thoughts, I spent the weekend spending money I don’t have. I was in a sad bra situation. Steely Dan had, of course, eaten the strap of my favorite one, and my next-favorite was coming apart, so you could see the innards of that bra, which was appealing. Then I have like four uncomfortable ones that make me want to kill myself and give me a rash.

So I went to Soma and found one style I like, after getting measured by the young thing there. A lot of her job is looking at strange women’s jugs. She not only measured me, she came into the room about 46 times and said things like, “You’ve got good lift with this one.”

It was almost a dirty movie except for where we didn’t kiss or make that stupid hissing though our teeth noise that people make always during dirty movies and never in real life. Also, “dirty movies.” Okay, grandma.

IMG_3614.jpgFrom Soma, I noted that you could walk right over to the Chicos next door, without going outside, so right then I knew: Chicos and Soma are somehow related. Like how they found out that Julia Child and Marilyn Monroe are seventh cousins or whatever.

I have always said that if I get so middle-aged that I start popping into Chicos, you know my days of being cool are over for me. I’d like everyone who knew me in my 20s to abstain from pointing out that I have not for one minute been cool.

But really. Back when I used to go shopping, I’d scream into The Gap, Express and J Crew, which just now as I wrote that I realize I solidified that “not for one minute cool” thing.

Now I go into those stores of yore and I’m all, What’s with these weird shirts? Why aren’t there purple mock turtlenecks and black miniskirts like there used to be?

So I went to Chicos. Chicos, don’t be discouraged. I am pleased to say I did not purchase anything, although I did give those leopard pants up there some of my time and thought, which detracted from thinking about Martin Luther King.

Because nothing says “I’m cool” like leopard pants from Chicos. I did not get them.

Then, as if I weren’t the poster child for menopause quite enough, I zipped on into Soft Surroundings.

“I might as well just finish off the day by buying some Replens,” I texted my Aunt Mary after I put on my readers, which I also might as well hang from a chain around my neck. Aunt Mary assured me I’d crossed over into middle age the second I darkened Chicos’… lack of doorstep. It’s weird when stores let you walk in from the other store like that.

I’ve given you an Amazon link using Replens, here, and you are welcome. I will be SHOVING AMAZON UP YOUR ASS LIKE I’M YOUR PERSONAL REPLENS for awhile, cause I’m trying to raise $3,000, and don’t let me forget to tell you why.

Oh my god, anyway. So I got m’bras, and then the other reason I wanted to shop was I really need more shoes that you wear when it’s actually cold out. I have some little ankle boots I bought in 2015 that are a little shoddy at this point, and some really old, maybe circa 2010 other boots that are just cat-fur boots at this point (I am literally puss in boots), and I wanted to upgrade from my Little “Got a Match?” Girl look I had going.

I shoe-shopped for 106 years, and here are the practical, keep-your-feet-warm shoes I decided on, brought to you from my footie pajamas.

IMG_3634.jpgSome blue flats with gold trim. Tensing Norgay wore these to climb Everest, so practical are they for winter.

IMG_3635.jpgAnd some darling little great-in-snow flats with a strap. Also I have to vacuum the closet, I see.

IMG_3616.jpgI also considered these. Not only are they perfect for cold weather, I can also wear them during all my curling matches.

When I wasn’t spending money I don’t actually have,

(Mother of god, click and go to Amazon and shop, please. Also, these are Ivanka Trump pumps. You’re welcome. Again.)

I was watching The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel on Amazon. Have you watched this show? It’s magnificent. And also…

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I was playing with an app called, you know, Google Arts & Culture. I tell you this because even though the image above reads, “Google Arts & Culture,” someone will say, “What the name of the app, JOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO” and then I will kill myself before we get to the N.

You go on the app and it asks you to take a selfie, then it finds art you look like. I like how this one, above, made me way hotter, and technically that’s apparently a boy. A boy who’s hotter than me.

IMG_3621.jpgOld Nose McGowan is more like it, sadly.

IMG_3625.jpgI also thoroughly enjoyed being compared to Jo the Beautiful Irish Girl. June, the Maybe a Six on a Good Day American Girl really enjoyed that.

Oh, but this brings me to my point. Hah. A friend of mine, and I won’t name names, had something done recently called Ultherapy. It’s like these pulses of heat they do to your face and it regrows collagen or something, and while I DO NOT SEEK ADVICE about whether I should get it or not, what I have to do now is save up to get it, and it’s three fucking thousand dollars.

See how mature? June COULD just charge it, but she isn’t, as JUNE WANTS HER COLLAGEN TO GROW. June is delaying her gratification and her collagen. June is going to bug the shit outta you to shop Amazon using her link. THERE IS ALWAYS A LINK AT THE SIDE OF MY BLOG if you’re on your desktop and at the bottom if you scroll for a hundred years if you’re here on your phone.

There is a woman who works for WordPress, who wrote me when I got here and said, “I will help you with all your WordPress needs” and mother of god, does she regret that. I’ve had many WordPress needs. Anyway, she’s gone way above and beyond for me, but neither she nor I can get that Amazon link to appear beautifully under each not-blog post when you’re looking on your phone.

And also, people are forever saying, “I clicked over to Amazon from June’s blog, but I’m not sure it worked.”

If you clicked on any image that I tell you is a link to Amazon, there is a little code that lets Amazon know you came from here, no matter where you go or what you buy. It “went through,” I promise. And I know you think I can see everything you buy, but here’s what it looks like when you buy something…

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There used to be a spreadsheet showing what, exactly, was purchased, in about 6-point font, but damned if I know how to get to that, and also hoooo care. So all your Replens purchases today will be unknown by me.

Anyway, you can see for the last month I’ve made a big $279, and that 383 of you clicked, which THANK YOU. So if I do that well each month (and I won’t because that was Christmas) and I freelance out my ass, I can get Ultherapy by, oh, 2019.

Goddammit.

Anyway, that’s my goal. Maybe I should set up one of those thermometers they use for fundraising.

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I like this one, that’s fairly pornographic. I wonder if the thermostat sucked in air through its teeth first.

I leave you now, mostly because it’s cold AF today and even though I’m in my footie pajamas, I have a chill. Maybe if I put on some of my new sensible shoes…

In search of collagen,

June

In the stars

You know what MY problem is (everyone gets out their Giant Scroll of What’s Wrong With June), is that moderation is stupid. I mean, it would appear that I think moderation is stupid. Signs POINT to me thinking moderation is stupid. Except when it comes to exercise.

The woman who sits next to me–and I’m sure at some point I gave her a blog name but who can keep track of 11 years of blog names. Anyway, the woman who sits next to me, Alex, received a giant box of Dean & Deluca treats for Christmas. I think a client or a vendor or someone gave it to her.

page_1.jpgThen she left for the world’s longest Christmas break.

“Did, um, Alex say anything about these treats?” I wondered, one hungry afternoon in late December. As if all my afternoons aren’t hungry. And by “hungry,” I don’t mean Biafra hungry. I mean Bored White Girl hungry.

“Oh, she did. She sent an email about them. Didn’t she include you?”

Humph. See above re No One Likes Me At Work.

“She said the treats were for all of us, and to have at them.”

Well.

Naturally, I opened the good stuff first, right? The obvious dark-chocolate-covered hazelnuts, the shelled pistachios, the tin of 27-year-old muscled bald men of color.

By the time she returned, her hazelnuts were mysteriously lacking. “Oh, no, that’s fine. I told everyone to eat them,” she assured me. “Didn’t I include you on the email?”

Humph.

So here it is, early January, and I’m starting to break into the weird stuff.

And that is how my addiction to Sanded Starfish began.

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Okay, first of all, pretentious Dean ampersand Deluca, if that is your real name, they’re sugared gummy candies shaped like stars.

But oh, man, do they have flavor. Orange is distinctly tangerine-y. I’ve no idea what the others are supposed to be, but I can tell you the famous flavors Blue and Green are to die for.

[Five sanded starfish are five Weight Watchers points. Careful maths will reveal that they are approximately one point per sanded star.]

“Haaa aaaayone ried a arfish?” I asked the room at large, around a mouthful of sanded starfish, which is now my Official Work Language®.

Turns out, no one wants to try them, or if they have, they are not nearly as charmed as I. Which works in my favor.

Meanwhile, back at my ranch, four men were working on m’house yesterday. My ’50s ranch house, which is always in need of something.

IMG_3517.jpgWas not at all annoyed to pull up to my own house and have the driveway so full I couldn’t get in.

Alf was over to put the clothes rod back up in my closet. But for months he’s been telling me I need to fix the fan in my bathroom. Since Day One at this house 10 years ago, the combination fan/light switch/outlet has not worked in that bathroom, and at this point I’m just used to the idea of charging my toothbrush in the kitchen.

I’ve had two other men over to try to fix it but it never gets really fixed.

So I got a sherpa and some trail mix, parked, and hiked over to base camp, aka my house with all the men parked at it–and I hope that’s what Ned thinks it’s like here day and night. All the men parked all over the place, just lounging in my home, waiting to service me however I see fit.

Anyway, first of all, when I walked in, good watchdogging, Edsel.

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Welcomes to howse of mom, strangurs! we gotz starfishz. they sandee.

For the love of all…I SWEPT THAT FLOOR YESTERDAY. Okay, maybe day before yesterday. Still. I give up. Plus, is that Kleenex on my robe? I am happy to report that I washed a Kleenex this past load of laundry, and just this morning was trying to PICK IT OFF all the clean clothes.

Anyway. The electrician used to be a fireman, and he brought two young firemen with him, who are learning how to electrician or whatever, and why is it that I have firemen over more often than even the firehouse?

They were all very nice, and they all had dogs–big manly dogs such as Labs, so Edsel was a refreshing change for them, I like to think.

The good news is, the electrician found the problem! It had to do with the fuses or whatever, outside. Something was loose or missing or something. Simple fix, a big $98 total, and boom, they were done. “It’ll work now. I can pretty much guarantee it,” said the electrician, scratching ecstatic Edsel’s manly head.

One of the young firemen was also admiring Steely Dan, who was clearly showing off for company: fetching his mouse, leaping cleanly in and out of the computer box.

IMG_3540.jpgAs you know, when you set down your Giant Scroll of What’s Wrong with June and pick up your Big Book of June Events, I just got a new computer. My plan was to trade in my old one for a big $155, and they sent a box for me to do just that. When I was gathering it all up to eventually put it in that box that Steely Dan has been obsessed with (chewing the corners, leaping into it from every possible angle and so on), I realized I don’t have the original mouse any longer. That was something they’d asked about when they gave me a value. “Sure, I have a working mouse!” I’d written, not thinking about how it was a pink right-and-left-clicking mouse from Office Depot.

Also, one of the keys of the keyboard was loose. The Q. From all those letters to Queer Eye For the Straight Guy, I suppose.

The point is, I knew I wouldn’t get all $155. When the young firefighter was admiring the cat, I told him what the box was for. “You don’t need a 2011 Mac, do you?” I asked him.

Turns out, he did! And he was so excited! I warned him that thing was slow, but he seemed unconcerned. So that was my good deed for yesterday.

The point is, with all these men crawling about, I was sort of self-conscious about what I ate for lunch. I’d done Pure Barre earlier in the day, so what I WANTED for lunch was that big slab of meat that tips over Fred Flintstone’s car. What I had was Amy’s Organic Vegetable Soup.

While I was pretending to be dainty, I got an email from our receptionist at work.

You know, work doesn’t pay for my phone, and why I decided to include work email on my own phone is beyond me. Anyway, she wondered why the newsletter wasn’t out yet, and of course (Big Book of June Events page 409) I gave up editing the company newsletter way back.

“Holsteder and Frapdorp run the newsletter now,” I informed her, and right when I wrote the two editors’ last names like that, it occurred to me that their names are sort of …comical together.

“Did you get the email from the receptionist wondering where the newsletter was? I forwarded it,” I asked Frapdorp when he walked past my desk yesterday.

He had.

“You know, the two of you, with your names together. They’re such unusual names. You’re like a…I don’t know. Like a pretentious candy company or something.”

Frapdorp paused.

“A pretentious candy company. Is that even a thing? Is that even a genre? A pretentious candy company…” he was getting ALL READY to make fun of me. I could see him winding up.

And that, my faithful readers, is when I was able to grab my nearly empty tin of SANDED FUCKING STARFISH and shove it at him victoriously. I was trying to fill in the gaps that stupid vegetable soup had left in me.

What I lack in willpower I make up for in ready tins of sanded starfish.

Sweetly,

June

My Friend Flicker

They’ve changed how they’re doing things at my job: I used to work on just one account, but now they’ve split it, so I’m copy editing for a bunch of different groups. This is kind of more exciting, and also more scary, because every client has a different style, and things they like and hate, and you have to keep track of it all.

Copy editing is the only place I am persnickety. Have you ever noticed that? How incongruous my job is, considering how the rest of me isn’t quite…attentive to detail? Words are the one thing I care about enough to care, if that makes any sense.

In the meantime, my bed hasn’t been made since I threw out my Flicker.

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“June, what do you think is wrong with you, that you can just pull products like Flicker out of your ass?”

Well, one thing that’s likely wrong with me is m’shredded anus.

Anyway.

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Here is the only photo I took yesterday, and it is decidedly emo, and I just have to sit around and wait to not feel emo, and frankly it’s a Flicker in my ass.

The good news is, I asked a guy at work who is forever traipsing off to dance classes where he GOES to said classes, and I’m going to ballet with him on Monday next. I will become a prima ballerina and live on black coffee and cigarettes and you will all not notice my advanced age and I will take to tutus. “Oh, god, here comes June, wearing that goddamn tutu to take out her trash.”

I will be Desmond Tutu.

I will be tutu much.

I took ballet as a child, you know, for several years. At least to me it felt like several years. It was probably, you know, three. I recall my instructor wore winged eyeliner, and her assistant had little white asterisk designs on her otherwise clear nail polish.

I thought they were both phenomenal.

And I’m certain I was headed to New York with my tutus and my eating disorder, except the winter I was 10, even though my mother denied this until I got out my diary and proved her wrong, I got the chicken pox.

“You never had the chicken pox,” my mother said, last time I mentioned this.

I called my father. “Yeah, I remember you having the chicken pox, sure,” said my father.

My mother said he was wrong. My mother has also said, and I quote, “The dictionary is wrong.”

This is why it’s good I have kept a journal, or back then a diary, pretty much constantly since 1975. So I was able to pull out my yellow Hollie Hobbie number and read about my personal struggle with chicken pox.

The point is, my brush with the pox meant I missed a week of ballet, and the week I missed was, like, THE MOST CRUCIAL WEEK EVER, because that was when they told us we were all headed to toe shoes, but we had to learn all the positions and their French names, not just, you know “second position,” and in a few months, we were all headed to Detroit to take a test in order to climb that ladder to toe shoes and this sentence is not a run-on at all. How dare you?

So I get to class, faintly poxed from my recent ordeal that my own mother denied, and everyone’s all responding to French and pointing their toes, and I WAS BEHIND and instead of, oh, asking my winged instructor to spend four minutes with me after class and catch me up, I panicked and said, “I don’t want to do ballet anymore” and my parents, who’d been attending dance recitals since they threw away their leather strap and straight razor, said, “Okay, SURE!”

It was one of those snap decisions you later regret, which sums up my entire life.

How did I get on this topic, again? [scrolls up] Oh, right! Because I’m going to rekindle my passion for dance, and as we all know, I have a gift. You’ve seen the veeeedeos.

I also have a weekend coming up that is packed with the events. I have a goodbye party on Friday after work for a woman I dearly admired. She was very cool-headed. Enough said. She reminded me of Faithful Reader Fay, in both her looks and her attitude. Unlike Fay, she did not march over and take charge of my life, however. Anyway, she’s headed to another job, and I will miss her no-nonsense self.

Then Saturday day, The Poet and I are penciled in for a movie, the one where Idris Alpaca or whomever is stuck in the snow with Kate Winslett. One thing I would not mind is being stuck in the snow with Iris Aldolph or whatever his name is.

Also, you know how I’m sort of (HAH) into men of color? I failed to mention to you that I was, you know, seeing a man of color for a bit, and I hope it isn’t the last time I do so. While it did not last, it is something I can sorta check off my list, my list of things I always wanted to do, and like ballet, I’d like to return to that particular genre again one day.

I hope I won’t be confronted with some sort of Detroit test re this.

On Saturday night, I have a party to go to, and then on Sunday it is likely I will need to hole up here and decompress from all the people-ing. Open the door and see all the people. Close the door because drained.

I have to go, but before I do, I wanted to mention that my cousin Maria got a new kitten, a kitten the rest of my family is claiming has Steely Dan, well, qualities.

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See. It’d be funnier if this kitten were at a neighbor’s house doing this.

This is Maria’s daughter Anna, of “Aunt Katie, are you a lesbian?” fame. And the alleged Steely Dan spawn.

I love this Satanic video. Also, Maria’s BF isn’t too shabby, either. Maybe next up for me should be a man in his 30s.

Twenties! Aim high, June. Ballerinas can get any man.

I’d better frappe a té out of here, or some other very real ballet term.

Pad-a-thai,

Le June

Be happy

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

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

I was not keeping my sunny side up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I feel I may be in a lull,” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rivetingly,

June, emerging from her pit of despair

 

Turn around, bright eyes

Look at the sun, up there. Soooooo smug. Oh, Ima shine on you all day. Like I always do. HAH! We, the audience, know better.

Anyway hi. I’m not at work, and I was luxuriating in bed, thinking how lovely it was to, you know, luxuriate in the bed, when I remembered you guys saying, “The first thing I do when I wake up is read Book of June!” “My day isn’t complete without Book of June!” “I keep an asp in my hand, and if Book of June isn’t up, I let it strike me.” Continue reading “Turn around, bright eyes”

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.”

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”