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

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Day One of Keto, Completed

The good news is I’ve already lost a pound and three ounces. I adore the naysayers who’re all, “It’s water weight!” I don’t care whose weight it is as long as it’s gone.

How I prepared
Before I shopped for keto groceries, I went on a quiz site that reported how many grams of fat, protein and carbs I should have in a day based on my current weight and age and so on. I am sad to tell you that I already know by heart that I should have 1,357 calories, with 20 g of carbs, 72 g of protein and 110 g of fats.

I know, right? It seems so counterintuitive.

Then I got on several sites for ideas for my shopping list. Mostly I looked up no-cook ideas, because you know how I am.

I took my list to the store, and it felt weird, even as bad as my regular diet is, to buy bacon and cream cheese and coconut oil. “I’ma die before Friday,” I thought.

How I’m keeping track of my fat intake
I’ve been using an app that already tells me at the end of each day the fat, carbs and protein I’ve eaten, and should I be irked at the word “carbs”? Why doesn’t it bug me the way “veggies” does? I guess it’s not as cute. Cute words bug me. Cute words are the emojis of language.

Anyway, I always always eat more carbs than anything else, even on days I think I didn’t. Even on days I’ve cheesed out. Still, it’ll tell me, “65% of calories from carbs!” Dammit.

My app is called MyDietCoach, but there’s also MyFitnessPal. Or in my case, MyFatnessPal.

I’ve been using MyDietCoach to record what I eat in the hopes of losing weight, which I have, if you count three fluctuating pounds in five weeks. You get new clothes for your avatar when you record your food or drink your water! I always fall for dressing up an avatar.

And mother of god they are the trampiest clothes. Maybe I’m just an old copy editor who likes a cardigan and some MaryJanes, but who goes out like this? Am I one of Prince’s protegees?

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You drank your water today! Toot-toot, heyyyyy, beep beep!

My point is, armed with m’groceries and m’app, I began keto yesterday.

What my day was like
I had my bulletproof coffee in the morning, drinking it while I blogged at you all, then went into the kitten room, took their quilt outside and shook it, brought it back in and laid it down with seven kittens crawling under it, got clean bowls and mixed up their kitten gruel, washed the old bowls, swept the room, cleaned their litter boxes and made sure to pet each one so they wouldn’t grow up neurotic.

At work I did this all-day, really intense project I have to do every month. It requires extra super concentration, and while I wasn’t hungry, I did feel fairly foggy.

I had a stick of cheese, full-fat cheese, at around 11:00.

At lunch, I had this and then I cleaned litter boxes again, including the boxes of my own regularly scheduled adult cats, played with Edsel in the yard, played with the mom cat so she doesn’t die of boredom, and went back to work on my intense thing.

I took the 3:00 walk we always take, a bunch of us, in the park next door to the office. It’s maybe an 18-minute walk, and while once again I was not starved or anything, I was a tad sluggish during it even though I do that walk every day.

Also, I drank 29492492043 glasses of water yesterday, including cans of LaCroix, because you’re allowed to drink those.

I peed 900 times yesterday.

After work, I went to the grocery store because I wanted to buy ingredients for fat bombs, a thing I’d just learned about. There are a lot of links in today’s post. I’m L!nk. I’mmm coming out, so you better get this keto party started.

I suppose P!nk has had other songs since that one in 2001. Right? I’ve been very busy.

For dinner, I had grass-fed beef, because who doesn’t want to eat grass, and broccoli with butter on it, some pecans and one of my fat bombs for dessert.

I did not feel hungry last night.

I walked Edsel for 25 minutes, and that, my friends, is when I hit a wall.

When I was doing marathon training, they’d talk about a wall and I never knew what they meant. But man, I was drained last night. I did one more clean/feed/pet with the kittens, and I think I was in bed by 9:30. They warn you of this, so I wasn’t surprised.

Yesterday, I had 108 grams of fat, 68 grams of protein and 22 grams of carbohydrates.

How I did
I was supposed to have 110 grams of fat, 72 grams of protein and 20 grams of carbohydrates. So not that far off.

I was supposed to have 1,357 calories, and I consumed 1,316. I also burned a big 141 calories with my two walks. Depressing.

And then today I weighed myself and actually weighed less, so I cannot complain. My weight fluctuates, let’s say between 115 and 120 (HAHAHAHAHA) all the time, and yesterday I weighed “114,” which is to say I’m at a number I almost never am, on day one. So, yay.

And that, everyone, is how day one of keto went, and I promise I won’t write this much about keto ever again. Or, you know, very often, anyway.

Slightly,
June

 

 

 

 

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”

June’s Room of Her Own

Do you ever wish everyone would just stop talking to you? I don’t mean blog comments–I can honestly say that there hasn’t been one time I’ve gotten a blog comment and gone, UGH. A COMMENT. Goddammit. Not once. I’m always glad to get those. Continue reading “June’s Room of Her Own”

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”

We never see Fred Flintstone getting ON the dinosaur, just sliding off at 5:00 on the dot.

What are your feelings about being on time for work? Continue reading “We never see Fred Flintstone getting ON the dinosaur, just sliding off at 5:00 on the dot.”

Joe Lies

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I be Hutch. Wear be Starskee?

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hahahahahaha

Anyway.

I hadn't had my eyebrows waxed since Wilford Brimley was a child, so I went to Elegant Nail & Tan, which I realize suggests all kinds of featured services that do not seem to include waxing, but you must trust me on this. While I was waiting, I got to know a woman sitting next to me. We talk talk talked and we're the same age and both single and finally we exchanged numbers and picking up women is super easy.

Why can't I get my eyebrowns, as they say, to look at good as they get them to look? It's completely worth the six dollars.

Other than that, I went to the grocery store and loaded myself up with frozen yogurt bars for the next two weeks, and because I try to get in plant-based foods, one of the boxes was strawberry flavor. The other bars were vanilla, and isn't the vanilla bean a plant? I think it is. So. Diet. Complete.

I have never seen a tanning bed at Elegant Nail & Tan. I'm not saying there isn't maybe one back there, but I've never seen it, and I've never heard anyone come in there and say, Yes, I'm  here to tan? Maybe they need to rethink their moniker. Elegant-ish Nail & Old Magazines.

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At my old seat at work, I looked at an Impressionist-ish painting of fall trees against a blue sky, and now I look at multiple Os. That picture of me on my bulletin board is from this time we had to take selfies for a client presentation, and one day the janitorial staff left a note that read, "Is this trash" on a box, and some jokester put that note on my selfie and an eternal joke was born.

I meant to Google why companies move you around a lot, like, what's the benefit to them, but I forgot. If anyone knows, I'd be curious. Some people at work are really traumatized over it, if they've been at their desks forever and so on.

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Others of us are excited to be reunited after being ripped apart. Like Joe and I were ripped apart.

Name that movie.

Anyway, other than that, I have a gigantic freelance job coming up starting tomorrow and going until next Friday. So if I up and disappear, it means I'm behind and I'm frantically working to get it all done. So be sure to pepper me with IMs and emails. WHERE ARE YOU, JOOOOOOOOOOOOOON? Are you dead, JOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON?

I have already gotten my delightful credi card debt down to the next number. So, like, if I were 11,000 thousand dollars in debt, which I'm not thank god, I'd be down to 10,oooo now. Yay. So I keep plugging away. Which doesn't help pay the bills at all. "June keeps unplugging and plugging her appliances, yet she still has debt."

Shouldn't Tallulah have to pay this? Someone wake her up.

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Iris and me having an Elliott and E.T. moment. Beeeee good. She's always good. I mean, to everyone but baby birds. And adult birds. Or anyone rodent-ish.

Also, I've noticed that there are always cars now at my next-door neighbor Peg's. Sometimes just one extra, sometimes two. Someone's been rolling her trash can to the curb, as well. This worried me, so I called her, and she's never called me back. It's been, like, a week. I don't want to be all Gladys Kravitz and go over there, but I feel like something is definitely up. There has never been a time Peg hasn't called me back.

Maybe she has Noro virus. Hey, June, you ever gonna get over Peg giving you Noro virus?

What do you think?

All right, I have to go to work, try to find my new desk.

Your friend and mine,

Juan

Be cool, Edsel

You know how I hate for anyone to make a fuss, but my throat hurts. All I ask is that you stampede to your local Catholic church and light a candle. Or put one of those vague posts on social media about how you "need prayers" for some undisclosed or unknown-to-us person.

Dear God: For some reason, this person on Facebook needs prayers. Catch ya.

God's all, That was helpful. Like I don't have enough to do.

Anyway, none of this matters because what does is my throat hurts. My hairapist texted me Thursday that she needed prayers. No. She didn't. She texted me that she had a cold, and if I wanted to cancel that would be okay, but given how tough and no nonsense I am, I went anyway.

And now look at me. LOOK AT ME. There goes my tombstone. No name or anything. Just Look At Me. Or, Needs Prayers. At that point I guess it'd be too late.

So. My weekend.

I was determined to Stay Busy, as people tell you to do, but then I became obsessed with this other series on OJ, this many-parted documentary that Hulk told me about, and I always listen to Hulk. Oh my god it's riveting. And I was, like, into the third hour of it, the whole time going, Who is that WOMAN they keep talking to? What did she have to do with anything?

It was Marcia Clark. Hello, plastic surgery. She looks great. I mean, compared to the poodle/boxer mix look she had in the '90s. She def got the eye bags taken care of and for this I applaud her. Really, the longer I watch this documentary and the other one I saw, the more I'm like. Oh. I so get it, black people. I'd be pissed, too. I'd root for him too.

He still did it, of course. But I get what they're saying.

On Friday night, I decided I could not have one more fish stick, so I went to the store and got salmon, and little red potatoes, and salad things, and made an elaborate dinner for myself. I mean, elaborate for me, in that it did not involve slapping something frozen on a plate and microwaving it.

I asked the–what's he called? Chef? Barber? BUTCHER, god, the butcher to cut the skin off the back of the salmon, a thing my mother said I should do, but every time I ask for that, they act the way Steely Dan does around a coffee cup. In other words, appalled. They probably scratch around where I was standing, when I leave.

Speaking of SD, this morning I was putting one of my cowgirl band-aids on a blister, and one band-aid fell in the toilet.

This fascinated Steely ridiculous Dan. He spent the next 10 minutes trying to fish it out of there, sticking his head way in and sneezing when he hit water. When I finally had to leave the bathroom, I shut the lid lest he drown himself like Narcissus.

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The reason I have a blister is that both days of this weekend I took Edsel on enormously long walks, longer than my dick, even. Here he is with his usual lack of cool, trying to befriend one of the neighborhood cats. Every day we encounter then, and every day he whines and wags his tail and wants to shake paws with them and drop off an Avon catalog, and every day all the cats say fuck off. Actually, there's one exceedingly mellow cat at Ava's house who is willing to walk right up to Eds, but then he gets too excited and the cat huffs off.

Edsel. Be cool.

On Saturday night I had a date, which you'll be surprised to hear I was "eh" about. HOW MANY DATES before I'm not "eh"? HOW MANY? What if I go the rest of my life not liking anyone but Ned, who will be married to a 26-year-old with zero hips? That's whom he's banging in my mind. She never has any hips at all. And he doesn't even like really skinny women.

We went to an Arthur Miller play, because cheerful, and then out for a drink, which turned into Let's order appetizers, which turned into me eating bacon cheese tater tots at 11 p.m., and why so chubby?

It also turned into me taking the leftovers home, and why so chubby again?

Sunday was a really pretty day, so Edsel and I got in the car to go to Country Park, which is where I used to take Tallulah every single evening back when I was a new dog owner and totally into it. I'd take her to day care all day, then for a long walk in the park followed by the dog park part where she'd run around for like an hour or two, and now it's all Edsel's lucky if I even feed him.

The point is, as soon as we got there I got sweaty. The place was teeming–teeming!!–with dogs, which, what did I expect with the beautiful day and all? We walked the loop all the way around the park, which was probably a 45-minute walk, and every few seconds there'd be another goddamn dog.

And?

He was fine. Oh, sure, there was one idiot I passed twice who had her Beagle on a retractable leash that was 400 feet out and that thing got right in our lane. Edsel knitted a very, very tall-eared pussy hat and took to the street shouting over that one, but other than that? He'd maybe whine a little if another dog made eye contact, but he never once barked and snarled and carried on as he usually does. I couldn't believe it. And he walked right next to me, even a little behind me, like a well-trained dog.

It wasn't till we were driving home that it hit me. Prozac. I think his Prozac kicked in!

The other thing to happen at that park was that I was down by the little lake when I heard my name. This woman way up on another trail was all, "JUNE! JUNE!" Waving frantically with both arms and all. "Hi, June!"

"Well, hi!" I said, waving frantically back.

I have no idea who it was. The woman used my real name, and I feel like a reader would say June even knowing my name is not June.

Unsolved Mysteries. Remember that show?

And the first person to say Hey, June, why didn't you also take your phone with you when you had Edsel on a leash and a bottle of water and no pockets? Why? Why didn't you take pictures? Why, June? Why? No pictures, June?

The first person to say that gets snarled at.

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I did take my phone and go all the way next door, to Peg's because her tulip tree is blooming. Which doesn't always happen. And then half the time when it does bloom, there's a freeze and they all die. Tulip tree. A brilliant idea for this region, on someone's part.

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Also, why?

I leave you now so I can go watch more of the OJ documentary, and I'm going to be sad when it's over and I can't think about Broncos and DNA and Ron Goldman's stoicism. Good lord. Go back to your barber shop quartet, dude. Sing about Daisy, Daisy giving you her answer, do.

I'll talk to you tomorrow if I'm still alive, what with dealing with this sore throat and all. Dear Mom: I already did. Warm salt water. Did it.

Throatily,

Juan

Rare. In the bloody way, not the special way.

Do you think of yourself as normal? I have never once, for as long as I can remember, considered myself to be normal. And I'm glad of it, although I haven't always been. I doubt anyone else finds me normal, either.

There was one woman who was married to my friend, a woman who made it a real point to seem different, kind of like that What's Goin' On chick, you know who I mean? 4nb6

Like, the second you meet her, she's got so much "Look how weird I am" happening with her look that you can't help but think, Hey, bundle of insecurity, how's it going?

Four Non Blondes. That was the name of the What's Goin' On band. I can't tell you how delighted I am that they made "non" stand alone like that. Like the cheese. Standing alone.

The point of my story is my friend's wife–the Hey World, Look at Me wife–found me desperately boring. "Oh, a tattoo on your ankle. How original." Yes, if only I'd had the creativity to get that feminine neck tattoo, Grace Kelly doppelganger, over there.

Other than that bitch, no one finds me all that normal. I don't think. Maybe they do and I just think my insides show, like one of those refrigerators with glass doors.

This might be genetic, this thinking I'm a rare flower. My grandmother, the one I'm turning into–and let's just call a spade a spade and call her The One I've Turned Into already–went to a restaurant when she was a kid, and she ordered a steak, rare, because she thought it meant it was this precious piece of steak or something. That there was no other steak like it in the world. When this bloody hunk of meat appeared on her plate she about died.

I don't know how I got on this tangent, other than I met this man from New York on one of my dating sites, a man from New York who's moved here, and my first thought was why did some fancy New Yorker pick a gal from Michigan like me, who likes sparkles and Real Housewives, and then I remembered the whole not-seeming-normal thing, which is probably refreshing for a New York man surrounded by women with french pedicures, Beach Girl bumper stickers and monogrammed commuter mugs. That was a short sentence.

Not that I'm saying there's a romance brewing in a commuter mug, by the way. I have no idea yet. I was just more stuck on the New Yorker thing.

Did y'all have those York Steakhouses in your malls? Those all dark in there places? I think it had burgundy wallpaper. We did for awhile, and I remember it was delicious after a day of shopping for Lip Smackers and Andy Gibb 45s. Also, welcome to how my brain works. As if you didn't know already.

There's nothing like steak served cafeteria style. If there were a York Steakhouse, I'd march right over there at lunch today. Because ravenous. I did that damn high intensity workout again last night, with my tenant, fmr., and listen to this. We decided to go a little longer, like Big Red. "You want to try two minutes more?" I asked. Believe me, two more minutes feels like to kill you when you're at the end of that thing.

Nevertheless, we persisted.

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In other news, not that I've given you even one piece of news so far, I saw this photo on Facebook–I think Faithful Reader Paula put it up–and was stunned to find Midcentury June. Everything about this photo is Midcentury June. I want to know everything there is to know about this woman. I wonder if she's still alive! She could give Late Century June some advice, such as never, ever get a Boxer.

I love that picture so hard. The more you stare at it, the more shit you find to love.

I'd better get ready for work, as I am wont to do. I finished my latest freelance assignment, but another is coming next week. And I still need to write a Purple Clover this weekend. I can't seem to figure out how to start this particular column. It haunts me. I should probably just start writing and I'll be fine.

Also, I wrote an animal behaviorist about making an appointment for Edsel, and got a VERY snooty note back about how my vet needs to recommend said behaviorist, that I can't just make an appointment, who do I think I am with my generic ankle tattoo. But then I read that Prozac takes 4 weeks to kick in, and it's not been 4 weeks, so I decided to see if he seems better in a week or two. Poor sad Edsel. How many times are we gonna say that? In this life.

He doesn't seem sad right this minute. He's over here developing a real crush on m'toast. Edz can see reel fewchur with towst.

I'd better go, but oh! Last night I started streaming The People v OJ Simpson OH MY GOD, riveting. They didn't make Marcia Clark's hair bad enough, though. I know from bad hair.

I'll catch you later. Let's all meet up at York's, near the Sears entrance to the mall.

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