We had a thing at work where, if you brought in cans of food for the less fortunate, you got a free breakfast that they’d ordered in from somewhere. But, see, we had all these snow days and I literally didn’t leave my house for four days, see.
Not to mention you all know how I am.
So when I got to work Wednesday, of course I forgot to bring Unfortunate Cans. Of course I did.
But then everyone kept sallying forth all morning with their breakfast plates, plates with delicious breakfast food on it, plates they deserved because they didn’t forget to bring cans. I grabbed a packet of my depressing high-fiber oatmeal® and headed to the kitchen.
“Aren’t you going to have the breakfast?” my boss’s boss, fmr., asked me.
I told him I forgot to bring cans.
“Oh, I brought cans enough for both of us,” he said. “Go on down there.”
I mean, I know Gallant wouldn’t have gone on down there, but whoever said I was Gallant?
So I brazenly walked canless into the donate-your-cans room, and took me some french toast, and I realize God pursed his lips, okay? I know. I felt it.
I never think Ima like french toast until I HAVE french toast and mother of god is it delicious.
The unfortunate would also like french toast.–God
At 11:00, I had a doctor’s appointment, which is in a very fancy building with two-story-tall ceilings. I always feel like I’m going to a soap opera doctor, although never once has my doctor du jour taken me into her office to discuss my condition from behind her desk while I have on a suit jacket and skirt.
Anyway, after my appointment, I was leaving the doctor’s office and at the same time, across the fancy hall, a very hot age-appropriate man was leaving the offices of Erectile & Dysfunction or whatever. I actually have no idea what sort of old-guy-I-could-actually-date office he was leaving.
The Matlock Fan Club headquarters.
P. Pants & Co.
The FDR Lap Blanket Boutique.
The Old Spice outlet.
The point is, we exchanged glances. I smiled at him, and then he paused and smiled at me.
“I am so appealing,” I smugged, as I sauntered down the stairs. I mean, is there no end to my charisma?
When I told this story to my mother, it was at this point that she asked, “What did you do wrong?”
I’ll tell you what I did wrong.
When I got to my car and strapped m’seat belt on, I noticed I had
down my shirt, so much syrup that the top and the bottom of my shirt had actually gathered together, to form a little syrup pucker. We gather together to hear the lord’s disapproval.
There was an actual FOLD of syrup gluing my shirt together.
I had a syrup strip going all the way down one pant leg. A whole stripe, like I was in a ragtime band or something.
So unless that man has some kind of Aunt Jemima fetish, I think I’ve blown that one.
As you know, from your now-oversized Book of June Events, my washer has been broken and I just went on a trip.
So selecting clothing for the workplace has been my own challenge. I have an inspirational poster about challenges above my increasingly empty closet.
But yesterday, as I listlessly perused my offerings, I found OH! How EXCITING!
I purchased said poncho last year with my Aunt Kathy, at Thanksgiving, when I was visiting home and we popped into a Basic Girl Shoppe.
“Oooo, I forgot I had this,” I said to myself/Edsel/it’s sad. Also, let’s review the part where I forgot I had it when I (a) purchased it less than a year ago, (2) packed it into a box in August, (r) unpacked it a month ago.
Excited, I slipped on said poncho, added jeans so once again I could avoid looking like Porky Pig
and added my brown boots. I was a legend.
So, in my cute surprise ensemble, I headed to work, where I immediately ran into a coworker I’ll call NotPatrick.
I really like NotPatrick. I’ve worked with him at other locales, and his wife has worked with me for years here at this job, then NotPatrick joined up awhile back. He and I voluntarily worked on an ad idea together that got chosen from a bunch of other people coming up with ads.
If you work with me, I certainly have made it a mystery who I mean, here.
Last year I tried to arrange a happy hour with the people at work who were older. I was trying to have a place we could gather and discuss Ruben Kincaid without having to explain who that was.
No one came. EXCEPT NotPatrick and his wife.
So, there he was yesterday, seeming likable, and he said, “I like your poncho.”
“Thanks,” I said, swirling like Stevie Nicks.
“You look like…well…” he trailed off.
I whipped back around. I know when a man fears me. Men fear me often. He was going to say something and then he feared me.
“What,” I said in my Linda Blair voice, a voice that would also have to be explained to people under 40.
“No, nothing, it’s…” he tried to walk away. HE ATTEMPTED ESCAPE. Suddenly, NotPatrick was a bug and I was Iris.
“YOU HAVE TO TELL ME,” I said.
“You sort of look like, I don’t want to say it. You sort of look like Clint Eastwood in The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly,” he said.
Awhile later, I saw my other coworker, Frapdorf, who adopted one of my kittens this summer, that really cute orange one, if you follow my endless parade of kittens on Instagram. One of the ones I had to bottle feed. He also took the orange one’s brother, the black and white one.
Anyone who (a) hates cats and (2) isn’t on Instagram is 100% over me at this juncture.
“Nice poncho,” said Frapdorf.
“Yeah, thanks. NotPatrick says I look like Cli–”
“CLINT EASTWOOD!!” he finished. What’s with men and that movie?
For the rest of the day, Frapdorf would sing…
any time I strolled past.
“You have not gone ahead and made my day,” I told him, and by the way, he HATES the blog name Frapdorf and I had at one point told him I’d change it but NOT TODAY, WHISTLER.
I’ve never actually seen The Good, The Bad, and The Aging is a Natural Process. What’s it about, and why is Clint Eastwood wearing that fruity poncho? Is he on his way to Burning Man after?
I realize everyone else does, and that my not liking to travel is part of the list of things I hate that everyone else treasures: Christmas, brunch, live music, romantic evenings, granite countertops.
If you want me to have sex with you–and I realize I’m 52 and no one wants to have sex with me. But if we traveled–which I hate–through time–which I also hate–and you wanted to have sex with young, actually appealing me, you’d be a lot more likely to find me randy at some inopportune time, like lunch hour or after a funeral. But give me flowers and a dinner out and I will have all the sex drive of a slab of baloney.
I had a harrowing travel experience. I’d tell you about it verbally, via my podcast, but I also hate those.
11 a.m. Yesterday morning I packed a bag, grabbed my purse, and headed to my local airport. “I’m so lucky that travel here is so easy,” I remember thinking, back yesterday when my soul still had light in it.
It’s true, though. It’s a 10-minute drive to the Greensboro airport, and parking is pretty decent. It buries flying in and out of LAX, which sucked worse than Christmas brunch.
My plane took off to Chicago. An easy hour-and-a-half flight. I had a three-hour layover, then I’d get on a plane for my hometown, in Michigan, and land at 8:00. “My nails look awful,” I thought, as I flew. The night before the trip, I did some last-minute grueling work that took me till 10 p.m., and I hadn’t had time to groom properly. “I wonder if I can get my nails done in Chicago.”
Turns out, you can! You CAN have your nails done in Chicago, and if you get the basic manicure, it’s cheap. Hell, I’ll be basic. Paint my basic nails and take my basic money.
Truth be told, money was an object, because I get paid the last day of the month and this was the 30th. My money was not in some vault in stacks, like I was Duck McScrotum or whoever that rich duck was.
How did he make his money, one wonders.
But all I hadda do was fly into Saginaw ( I was going for my cousin’s graduation), and by the next morning, I’d have cash. Yay, paydays! Yay, Payday Candy Bars! Did I also have time to get one of those?
Turns out, I did. Because when I finished my manicure, and popped into the MAC store as well, I looked at the board, and?
Flight was canceled.
5:30 p.m. Canceled? Why? I went to the ride-at-Disneyland-long line at United Customer Service. Apparently, thunderstorms were dotting the area. Bad thunderstorms. There were no flights going to Saginaw till the next day. Maybe. “These small planes are always the first to get canceled,” the beleaguered guy at the counter told me.
BOOM! said the sky.
“Just stay overnight in the airport,” my mother said, when I called her. I looked around. Everyone was stranded due to the weather. There was nowhere to sit, much less lie down. And what if I did find a place to sleep? How would I know my purse would be there when I woke up?
I looked in my bank account. Forty dollars. Stupid manicure. All I’d eaten that day was a bowl of soup before I left. I’d purposely not gone grocery shopping because I knew I’d be gone, and that was the last can of anything in my cupboard.
The plane had offered pretzels. My feelings on pretzels rank up there with live music and cilantro.
8 p.m. “We’ve got you scheduled to fly into Raleigh tonight, leaving at 9 p.m.,” said another beleaguered United worker. With no hope of getting to Michigan or even to Greensboro, the Raleigh flight was a big enough plane that the guy said he was “sure” it would take off.
I just wanted to leave that airport. I’d walked all of whatever they call it, section? Area? Hall? Vein? Whatever. I’d walked all of B and all of C and all of F, just for something to do. And also hoping for a place to sit.
At this point I was so hungry that I knew a migraine was imminent.
“You’re certain,” I said, to the man who said I could at least go near home. I’d have no car and no money in Raleigh, but at least I wouldn’t be in a goddamn airport with 9493582 other stranded passengers all night.
“Yes ma’am,” he told me.
I got the least-expensive thing at McDonald’s (Disclaimer: At an airport, that’s a Happy Meal that costs $207) and stood next to a nice Southern man on the phone with, you guessed it, United.
“I have to be at work tomorrow morning at 8 o’clock no matter what time you people get me home tonight,” he was saying. He sounded authoritative. “And I need my tools. You did this to me a couple months ago, you never did get my tools to me for a week, and you ended up costing me $2,000 in lost work.”
“This poor man,” I thought, munching a fry.
“You’re certain,” he said, sounding like me. “Okay.” He hung up the phone.
“Airline people are the lying-est motherfuckers,” he told me. “Don’t let anyone tell you any different.”
Sure enough, my 9 p.m. flight? Didn’t happen.
I’d arranged with Ned to get me in Raleigh, and I called to tell him that flight wasn’t occurring either.
“Airline people are the lying-est motherfuckers,” he said.
My Uncle Bill flies all the damn time. I’m certain I’ve told you before how he’ll fly to China, get home for a night and leave in the morning for Germany. I don’t know what the hell he does. Maybe he makes Minute Rice, and has to make sure the timing is precise.
What do you want from me right now. Am exhausted.
Anyway, he scored me a room near the airport, with his miles or points or pointy miles or miles of points or Miles Davis and the Pointer Sisters or what have you. The point is, I finally relented and went to it.
Turns out, the hotel had a bar! Everyone in there was also stranded. I was the only loser who had zero carry-on, but not the only loser who was gonna sleep in her contacts. (Those are reading glasses, before you get all UP MY ASS.)
I called beleaguered United again, was on hold for
and two vodka cranberries,
and one flight they thought I’d be able to get on was a Greensboro flight the next morning.
“GIVE IT TO ME,” I said. I just wanted to go home. Then I fell into a dead sleep at midnight.
[BOOM] Why was someone closing a door in my house? I live alone.
I opened my eyes, saw I was in a hotel room, and right then I knew: I was in a hotel room.
I knew who was closing the door at 3:30. One of the nice women at the bar was tryina get to Atlantic City to be with her friend, and her only choice was to stay up, leave at 3:30, and then her friend was 100% gonna expect her to be “on” all day in Atlantic City.
See. That’s why I hate to travel. I hate to be on. The whole thing just makes me nervous and cranky and migrainous.
Also? I never fell asleep again. I should have just gone to Atlantic City, as well.
I finally got out of bed, only to discover my only coffee choice was decaf. Yes, I did call down to the front desk, thanks for asking. No, thanks, really.
Silver lining: Picking out my clothes for the day was a breeze.
I didn’t shower, because I had no hair products and no razor. I brushed my teeth with the toothbrush they give you for free, which was not unlike a prison-issue toothbrush.
Washed face with grapefruit soap, even though I’m allergic.
6:45 a.m. Got on the crammed shuttle to the airport. No one on shuttle was cheerful.
Got through security and to my gate. No one working at the airport was cheerful. In fact, they were downright brusque. There were Disneyland lines at every Starbucks, and when did fucking Starbucks become the only coffee in town? We can’t have a nice Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf? What the hell? It’s not StarBUCKS, it’s StarMONOPOLY MONEY.
What do you want from me? Am exhausted.
Anyway, I decided to have coffee on the plane.
Get on plane. The stewardess informs us the coffee machine isn’t working.
You know how sometimes they show people having fits on planes? It no longer seems so outlandish.
12:30 p.m. It’s official: At this point I could have driven all the way to Saginaw, and back to Greensboro again. I’m not sure why, but whole body hurts. Perhaps the walking for 8 hours at the airport, the standing in lines, the weird bed, the tension. The teensy lack-of-legroom flights. Or maybe I’m dying. At this point it’d be a relief. Take me, Lord, I’m ready. Oh, look, he’s delayed.
Airline has lost my luggage. I am supposed to get it back tomorrow, but see above re lying-est motherfuckers. The luggage claim lady was nice. “Oh, honey, I am so sorry about all this. You call them and get your money back.”
Allegedly, I already have. It’s my mother’s money, but supposedly she will get a “partial” refund for the three canceled flights.
Meanwhile, I have no hair products at all, no razor, no deodorant, no toothbrush and see above re no one wants to have sex with me. Why, though.
I DO have my migraine meds, which is good because you’ll be stunned to hear I got one.
Now I am home and writing you, and I really can’t wait till my next adventure. I love the open road.
Let’s meet for live music at brunch and talk about it soon.
Ned has been out of town a lot lately, with work and family things. “I thought of asking if Nancy could stay with you, but I realize you’re at cat capacity,” he said, and why he thinks 11 cats counts as “capacity” is beyond me.
Vagabond Ned was going to grace his own town with his presence for a one-night-only special appearance Friday, and he wondered if I’d like to have dinner.
“Can we go to the Thai place?” I asked, because ket-no. Keto schmeto. If I see one more piece of food that doesn’t have carbs in it, I’m gonna drive myself to the nearest wheat field and just commence chewing.
Ned agreed, which means he must have been desperate because he hates the Thai place, as apparently they don’t serve good beer. This is a thing I’d never notice, but I’m not old Hoppy Ned. Old barley boyfriend, fmr.
So off we went, and I am delighted to tell you that Ned got pinot noir and I ordered the Kung Pao chicken, which isn’t even Taiwanese (heeeee) but Chinese, and HOOOO CARE because the point is it comes with rice.
I was Condoleezza Rice, is who I was. I was Carbra Streisand. I had it all over me, like I was a toddler. I was mashing it on my hands, it was in my hair. I felt magnificent. Reuniting with rice. That’s nice.
While I was carb loading, I managed to bring up the royal wedding, with which I am obsessed. “It’s only a week away!” I said, wondering if the Thai place also had a bread basket and maybe an oatmeal cart or tortilla tray.
Ned has always insisted that Kate Middleton is the most beautiful woman in the world, but that is where his interest in the royals begins and ends.
“What I want to see is the Kate Middleton sex tape. When’s THAT thing gonna come out?” he asked, over his plate of Thai vegetables and a side salad of vegetables. “Could I get one grain of whole-wheat brown rice?” he’d requested.
“I imagine, Ned, that there are all kinds of Kate Middleton lookalike pornographic films available,” I said from under my I Heart Rice sash I’d fashioned from the pages of my now-useless keto book. “I mean, surely you’ve looked for them.”
Ned put down his forkful of kale.
“I’m disappointed in myself that I’ve never thought to look for that,” he said.
I got out my phone. In general, I don’t look at pornography, because I figure that’s a job for the men of America, but in keeping with my general fascination with the absurd, I do occasionally look up ridiculous themes like Star Wars and My Little Pony porn. Am I the only person here who knows you can find anything–ANYTHING–made dirty by some poor soul? And again, I am looking at you, Broken Men of America.
For example, sometimes I look up the search terms people use to find this blog. Behold the last one:
I feel like the fact that that’s even a thing is the work of men. I do.
Anyway, naturally, I got out my phone right there at the restaurant and Googled “Kate Middleton porn.” And lo and behold, the world and Photoshop and MEN had already addressed the world’s deep need to see Kate Middleton in the altogether.
“Here’s one!” I said brightly, showing Kate’s lovely face surrounded by man bits that had quite recently…lightened their loads, as it were.
“Oh my god–PUT THAT AWAY!” commanded Ned, who can be quite the fussy hen sometimes.
Do you think I put it away? Do you? When I was already on a rice high and thrilled to appall Ned?
There was Kate Middleton, pantsless, leaning on a desk. “In a million years, she’d never wear shoes like that,” I announced, thinking of her vast collection of tasteful nude pumps.
Also captured on film was Kate’s apparent visit to the United Nations, so diverse were the men she was…offering felicitations. Also, for as well-dressed as she normally is, you’d think she’d remember to at least wear, you know, something when greeting these fine gentleman, but she often limited herself to a few lacy bits of lingerie.
I held up for Ned images of Kate Middleton greeting dignitaries at her back door.
Kate Middleton the…orator.
And who knew Kate was such a fan of the ladies in waiting?
“Put that phone away this instant,” commanded Ned, his salad growing cold.
After dinner, we both had to go to Rite Aid for various reasons, and it become one of those Rite Aid visits where you begin browsing, and Ned found himself enamored of a hand-shaped retractable flyswatter, which he kept rapping me with from various distances.
There was also a retractable duster, which the more I think about it, the more likely I am to return and purchase. It’s actually a brilliant invention.
“Attention Rite Aid shoppers,” said the ceiling. “The store will close in three minutes.”
“Oh my god! We’ve shut down Rite Aid!” I said, thrilled. I can’t recall the last time I got a last call announcement. Ned and I high-fived our flyswatters.
“You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here at Rite Aid,” Ned said.
After all that excitement, I barely got up in time to greet the cable guy, who came over Saturday to give me TV. “I haven’t had TV in years,” I told him, “but I’m getting it to watch the royal wedding next Saturday.”
Being a straight man with a blue-collar job, you can imagine the intensity of his interest in the royal wedding. This didn’t stop me from telling him all about my fascination with the royals, and how early I got up at age 15 to watch Diana’s wedding, and how I stayed up for her funeral, as well.
“You’re also getting faster internet as part of the package,” the indifferent cable guy told me. “In fact, why don’t you see if your internet is back up. It should be available now.”
And that is when I got my phone and clicked on Safari, the cable guy looking over my shoulder…
…where a photo of Kate Middleton, her wedding dress hiked up, enjoying adult moments with William and an enormous man of color, flashed on my phone.
People at work have been talking about a new manicure procedure called SOS or S&M or whatever, and apparently it’s powder they dip your nails in to color them. Somehow this creates a manicure that keeps going for two weeks like a 17-year-old boy but allegedly isn’t as terrible for you as a gel manicure.
And that was the day June lost all her butch readers. And got arrested for pedophilia.
I remember one night, my high school boyfriend and I did it three times. THREE TIMES. I’m not talking 7 p.m., 1:00 in the morning and then at dawn. I’m talking, like, 8:00, 9:00 and then 10:00.
Anyway. Powder manicures are fun till you add the “gelous base,” and then it’s all “Where were you?” “Who was that guy I saw you talking to?”
Given that I like to spend my spare time playing basketball and helping others, I hadn’t yet experienced the excitement of powder nails, nails that have to take a powder, but seeing as that $100 I won on New Year’s Day was burning a hole in m’Kate Spade,
[Dear June: Be more basic. Love, Universe]
I decided to take myself out on the town and get one. A powder manicure. Keep up. No, I HAVEN’T taken Ritalin today. What? God.
So Friday after work, I headed out on the town, the manicure-choices town. I’d had a very deep talk with the receptionist at work about which nail place we like to go to. There are a hundred within a three-mile radius of work, and they all have “Nail” in the title.
“I don’t mind Glamor Nail, but Celebrity Nail seems kind of cliquish,” said the receptionist, who prefers a french manicure, whereas I always want something dark and mysterious, to match my exotic nature. With m’Kate Spade wallet.
The point is, she’s right. Any time I’ve ventured into Celebrity Nail, the owner is trés gregarious, and I feel like his claim to fame there is kibitzing jovially with the clientele. Whereas the place I usually frequent, and “usually frequent” is not at all annoyingly redundant.
The place I usually frequent, Elegant Nail & Tan (Slogan: We don’t actually offer tanning) has a quiet, businesslike owner who isn’t that outgoing but gives the best massages ever during the pedicure process. I always pray I get him, but usually I get a small, rather angry woman named “Stephanie.” (Slogan: Not remotely really named Stephanie.)
The receptionist and I agreed the only reason we really ever step foot in Celebrity Nail is because it’s closest to work. It’s similar to the Chinese place I get takeout from. (Slogan: Not good, but so close by.)
And that is how I found myself walking into Celebrity Nail on Friday night, because traffic was irkedly snarlsome, and so was I, and I could not possibly have withstood traffic for the four more minutes it’d have taken me to get to Elegant Nail & Tan.
I really love that they don’t offer tanning. It’s like my favorite thing ever. IT’S IN YOUR TITLE, but tan schman. Does anyone tan anymore? I guess people spray tan. Elegant Nail & (Spray) Tan. There you go.
SO THERE I WAS–God, June–at Celebrity Nail, and as usual, the owner was loudly joking with a few customers. I mean, that’s nice and all, but if you’re not a regular there, you can feel a tad left out. I’d never really put a name to that feeling till the receptionist mentioned it. That happens to me a lot, actually.
“Any time I talk to her, I end up feeling bad about myself,” someone once said to me about a mutual acquaintance, and OH MY GOD was that true, and I’d just gone around feeling vaguely bad with that acquaintance and not really acknowledging it.
“This kung pao chicken takes like root beer,” my college roommate’s boyfriend once said to me, as we were eating at this place I went to at least once a week. GODDAMMIT. I hadn’t acknowledged it till he labeled it.
So there I was Friday, finally noticing that this place made me feel kind of bad, and also kind of annoyed. I come to the manicure place to read celebrity gossip, and choose nail colors like I’m making Sophie’s Choice, and to generally sit quietly, which for me is pretty much always my goal.
I go to work hoping to always sit quietly and concentrate. I get my hair done hoping I can sit quietly and have my tresses colored. I want restaurants to be quiet. Maybe I should just isolate more.
The point is, as the evening wore on and I…sat quietly with the manicurist I was given, who had a terrible cold and was spending an hour basically holding my hands, so that was relaxing. As we were over there being quiet, I began to notice one insider over at the popular table was being more…attention-grabbing than the others.
I tried to sort of turn in my chair and see her, but I couldn’t even determine her race. All I saw was a rather thick woman, with dark hair, who based on the tenor of her voice was probably middle-aged. As opposed to how young and svelte I am. BUT AT LEAST I WAS SITTING QUIETLY.
The first thing I couldn’t help but overhear, because she was practically screaming into my soul, was that Red Bull, the energy drink? She alleged it was made from bull sperm. She’d been reading something from the internet, that reliable source, says June, typing at you from the internet.
“WELL. IT’S NOT THE FIRST SPERM I’VE DRANK,” she announced grammatically. Everything was an announcement with this one. I expected, when I turned to look at her, that she would be just a mike and a brick wall behind her. Tip your wait staff.
She started talking about a guy at work who was “Chinese,” and the owner of the salon pressed her for more info. Was he actually Chinese, or was she using that term universally? “What’s his last name?” asked the owner.
“I DON’T KNOW. CHIN?” she asked. And that is about the time my annoyance turned to searing white hate.
“What do you feed your kids?” she eventually asked the owner, who had been joking with her the whole time. “Rice and soy sauce? HA HA HA HA.”
Cold Hands the Mucus-y Manicurist and I exchanged glances.
“You know, everyone at work loves my Asian accent,” she said, and that is when my blood turned to ice. No. No, she’s not gonna…
She did. In a NAIL SALON, with 600 Asian people working there, this stupid white BITCH ASS (I’m assuming she was white. Again, I never saw her. Though in my mind I’d punched her 12 times in her phantom face already) did an ASIAN ACCENT.
At the nail salon.
My nails turned out just okay. There are some spots that didn’t take the clear coating, and I’m not sure if this is how S&M nails always turn out, or if my poor manicurist was sick and perhaps distracted by the BITCH-ASS RACIST in the nail place.
I do have to say that eventually the outgoing owner said to her, “That’s so racist.”
“No it isn’t,” she said. Because that gets to be up to her, and not the ASIAN PERSON she just mocked.
Maybe they should have two sections at salons: Women who want to talk endlessly and loudly, and a quiet section. A nice-people section and a racist section. A nail section and a tanning section.
I just logged onto Facebook for literally one minute, saw I had SEVENTEEN PERSONAL MESSAGES ON MESSENGER and deactivated again.
I keep saying this, and I’ll say it again. PLEASE don’t message me there. A crazy person left me some messages there in October and November, and they really bothered me.
Please don’t give me advice re that. I already blocked her. She came back with another account. I deleted Messenger. It still tells me I have messages, I just can’t SEE them, which is just as scary, thinking one is hovering there to re-traumatize me.
The best I can do is deactivate my account until seeing I have messages on Facebook doesn’t make me shake and sweat and get nauseated.
So, I’ve said it on Facebook of June. I’ve said it here. I’ve also said it in general posts on Facebook. But ONCE AGAIN, please don’t message me there. Email me here. Leave a comment. Text me if you know me in real life.
(And that goes for messaging me on Instagram too. Unlike everyone else, I use my real name there, which, why doesn’t everyone? Cause if your handle on Instagram is Boop-a-Loop, and I come across your photo of your dinner, how the FUCK am I supposed to know whose dinner this is? “Oh, look what Boop-a-Loop made! Gosh darn her! Whoever the FUCK she is.”)
(Anyway, since I use my name, my fear is, since she was crafty enough to create all new profiles on Facebook in order to contact me, wouldn’t she also consider searching for me on Instagram? So I get my PTSD when I have an Instagram message, too.)
If I spent as much time trying to cure world hunger as I did looking for tweezers, we’d all be trying to lose a few. The whole world. A worldwide, literal Whole 30.
And reading glasses. I’ll go into a room, and all that will be lying around will be real glasses. I don’t NEED real glasses. Already got in my contacts. I just need to see UP CLOSE GOD IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK.
Then the moment I need real glasses, all I’ll be able to find will be readers.
Also too? I have three pill bottles in my purse: m’Ritalin [heart emoji], my migraine meds, and my little-used nausea pills for when I have a bad migraine. Every day–EVERY DAY–I reach in there for the Ritalin and pull out the nausea meds. Every fucking day.
Last week, when I had the moan-aloud migraine, I hunched over nauseatedly to my purse to get out the nausea pills, and?
Pulled out the Ritalin.
There are a lot of goddammits in my house.
In other news, I called my old coworker TinaDoris, because she is forever posting on Instagram how she’s getting up at god’s half acre to work out at Pure Barre, and I realize “god’s half acre” doesn’t mean that. What are you, new here? And since no one sees me naked anymore, I have less incentive to work out, and all of a sudden I look like Ruth Buzzy. Who if I’m not mistaken was sort of thin. But I just mean I look old and like the meat is falling off the bone.
I figured if I worked out with someone, I might show up out of obligation.
After she got over the part where her phone actually rang (Dear Millennials: Get over it. It’s a phone. You spend $700 on a phone. It’s supposed to ring.), she told me the beginner classes were on Sunday morning and Thursdays at god’s half acre o’clock.
So, Saturday night I went to bed early, and set the alarm for acre time, and whomever the asshole was who said, “Early to bed, early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise” never had Netflix when season two of The Crown was premiering.
But I actually got up, slipped on some sexy workout clothes with all m’hips, and crunched hippily out to the car.
It snowed here for more than 24 hours from Friday to Saturday, but then it melted, but then it froze up again Saturday night. This is why, as I grabbed my car’s door handle, nothing happened.
I mean, frozen motherfucker did not budge. “Oh, come ON,” I told myself. “Try harder.” I tugged and I pulled and I pulled and I tugged, and now my door handle and I are in a committed relationship, but I could not get into my car.
“Goddammit,” Isaid, as I stomped back into the house. Then I had to call poor TinaDoris, who probably had her phone disconnected, what with all the jarring ringing it did that week.
But since I already had on a sports bra and everything, I ended up doing my Callanetics video, with that phony Call A Pickaxe or whatever her name is. Oh my god, that workout is hard. As opposed to the boilin’ bag of gravy that is my ass.
Remember boiling bags? My mother used to get them for me when I was in high school. They were fairly disgusting, but I ate them. You could get, like, chipped beef. Boil the whole bag, dump it out.
I love how I’d eat that after school and THEN have dinner, and I weighed 110. Probably because I was so active then.
Anyway, further reports as developments warrant re Pure and its Barre. Maybe TinaDoris and I could just get up early and go to a bar.
In my hometown, back when everyone worked at the factory, and that factory was open 24 hours a day, the bars stayed open, too. So you could get off third shift at 7 a.m. and head to the bar.
I have to go. I got assigned something at 10:30 last night, and a person I feel bad for is our traffic person, who assigns everybody everything. Anyway, the work looks pretty interesting, but lengthy. Like my dick.
I leave you with the following exciting news.
As you know, because you follow my every move (except for no one ever remembering that I do, in fact, have a face in my tree. A face I nailed in myself. And covered ad nauseum on this not blog. But then every time I show a photo of that tree, I get, “I see a face, JOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO–blargh.” That was when I shot the person)…
Anyway, as you know, since you follow my every move, I spent $50 on a tray full of chubby sticks, like my dick, and what I thought we would DO, because we are so whimsical here at house of Jooooooblargh, is I’d try on a new lipstick for you every day.
Let’s try them from left to right.
I took about 11 photos hoping my gray roots wouldn’t show and it turns out, hips don’t lie. Neither do cameras. Anyway, this is Richer Raisin, and I don’t like raisins, but this color isn’t bad. It doesn’t give me a chubby stick, but it’s okay.
I have a new thing that bugs me: Women using that video-making feature where their eyes are huge, and their lips are gigantic, and their voices are distorted. Perhaps you’re hilarious, person making a video while sitting in a car, which, woooo! How could you NOT be, with that original venue? But I see that damn exaggerated-features look, and I can’t even click to hear one word.
Also, the kids who’ve been coached to sound world-weary when they’re four. Stop.
You all have put both of these on the Facebook of June page lately to say, “I hate these,” and I am so with you.
These videos are the 2000s version of Pagemaker. Back in the ’90s, this program got invented that let you create your own invitations and flyers and so forth, called Pagemaker (and not PageMaker. I believe it came before we started the equally annoying trend of naming everything WordThing. WordPress. TypePad. InDesign. StopIt).
Anyway, Pagemaker started the whole Secretary As Artist trend, where everyone was “designing” their own stuff, and it looked horrific. Now we have video cameras in our purses, and little special effects we can use, and suddenly everyone’s a makeshift internet comedian.
Says the woman who still blogs, for god’s sake.
You know what was funny? The woman who’d bought herself the Chewbacca mask. She wasn’t trying to get millions of viewers. She wasn’t trying to hone her “craft.” She wasn’t trying to become an Instagram star so she could quit her day job. She was just a genuinely likable person who happened to capture a funny moment.
And this is the problem, I think. The little girl dancing Gangnam style at a wedding reception is genuine. These “I planned them” videos always look, you know, planned. And they aren’t that funny.
I know I’m not the only curmudgeon, here.
Look who I’m talking to. Of course I’m not.
Other than me hating everything on the planet and still being in an angry phase, that about sums it up. I worked on something all day yesterday at work, which was fun to do, actually, but took a lot out of me. Copy editing. It isn’t laying bricks, but you’d never know that.
Anyway, I came home, realized I was out of soap and water. I am not kidding. Soap and water. So then Edsel and I went to the grocery store. I hated to leave him after I’d just gotten home and he’d started sculpting a bust in my honor and so forth.
Then I got home and said, “Is it an acceptable time to go to bed yet?” like anyone was watching. I made myself stay up till 9:00, didn’t do any freelance and hello panic, and then Eds and I slept all night except for Edsel’s one very urgent call of nature at 12:12 a.m. I swear we were back asleep by 12:14.
The only exciting news I have for you is that several months ago, maybe even a year ago, Faithful Reader Fay sent me a Hello Kitty toaster, which I use quite frequently. I’m quite the connoisseur of toast.
But all this time, I’ve been buying the pretentious bread, a habit I picked up from my…ex, the 404 Error, who gets said bread in the deli section at the store, and it’s full of the nuts and grains and it is delicious.
But this weekend, I was near the Ghetto Lion, and I needed groceries (including water and soap, but who can remember?) (here is where my mother is screeching MAKE A LIST), and they don’t HAVE rough made-in-store bread at the Ghetto Lion, so I got normal-person bread in the bread aisle, and weird, it felt.
The point is, I made toast, and
That toaster embeds a little image of Hello Kitty in the toast! My toast was too rough and unrefined and high-school educated to show it before.
My life has been transfigured. Also, say “toast” one more time.
I’d better go. I’m taking Eds to the vet today, to figure out why he’s still itching and chewing, and now his stomach seems to be bothering him.
Before you give me all the advice, here’s what we’ve already tried:
Changing his diet. Many times.
Another kind of antidepressant
Flax seed oil
A different kind of allergy medicine
Someone told me to try colloidal silver, and Ima ask the vet about that today.
I can’t help having PTSD about Tallulah, and all the tests we ran, when her tumor was right there visible, had anyone, oh, looked at her little dog vagina. I have never once called it anything other than her “little dog vagina.” I don’t know why. Her LDV.
Have PTSD about a lot of things lately. Remember when life just used to be normal and I wasn’t upset? Me either. But I know it existed.
Okay, talk at you and your little dog vagina soon.
I know you were waiting all night for Installment Two of June Goes to Medical Appointments, and I understand your excitement and anticipation. But something bigger happened yesterday.
Bigger, June? Bigger than an eye exam?
Not that my eye exam wasn’t without incident. I pissed off the front desk by not remembering I had a separate card for eye insurance. Look, I go there once a year, and they mail me this flimsy card from somewhere or another, and who can remember? I found it eventually, didn’t I? Okay, after you already ran my debit card. Still.
I got to work and didn’t take lunch, did my copy editing and so forth, and now I’ve turned into that bad-storytelling woman from yesterday’s example. “He went to college, all that good stuff.”
The point is, Edsel was at daycare all day, hoping for a Dexter sighting. Dexter is his new Beagle friend. We’d missed Dexter by ONE DAY.
Dear Advice-Givers: I HAVE left my number with Dexter’s people and I HAVE asked the daycare to alert me should Dexter be there, with the caveat that I know how FREAKING BUSY that place always is, and that I’d understand if they clean forget, because it is always Grand Dog Central in there.
That made no sense.
Anyway, since I hadn’t taken lunch, I left work at maybe 5:20-ish, which is early for me, and wow, was traffic suck-ass. I also had to take the busy headed-to-downtown road because I had to get the Eds.
I was just around the corner from work, at a complete stop thanks to traffic, when
It took me a moment to even register what had happened. I’d heard a big sound, then a second later, see boom above. A car rear-ended the car behind me, who in turn rear-ended me.
“Oh my god!” I said, then, “Ow.” I’d hit my head on the back of the seat rest, hard.
“Geez.” I rubbed my head and got out of the car. The person who hit me was a coworker. “You okay?” I asked.
“Hit my head,” he said.
I got my phone and dialed 9-1-1. As I was speaking to Edna at 9-1-1, the woman who’d hit my coworker got out of her car. “I looked down for just a second,” she was saying, “and then you’d slammed on your brakes.” As if it was my coworker’s fault for braking in bad traffic.
“Do you need an ambulance?” asked Edna the 9-1-1 operator, after she’d asked me how my day was at work and did I need to get Edsel from daycare. I said yes, because my coworker and I had both hit our heads, and I kept thinking of Natasha Richardson.
It was cold and rainy out, so I waited in my car for all the men and women of LAW enforcement (only funny if Marvin forced you to watch every episode of Cops).
Just then, I had an IM on Facebook, my favorite thing. My coworker Ryan had been driving by and had texted me. “I drove by the accident. You okay?” he’d asked, clearly having something more important to do than stop and make sure I was ALIVE, RYAN.
Anyway, I opened the IM, in case it was another coworker or something.
It was a name I didn’t recognize, and it was a long, long message. As I scrolled up to get to the top, I realized it was That Woman. That Woman who’d contacted me at the beginning of October. That Woman who …knew Ned.
She’d gone on Facebook with another account, as I’d blocked her original account, and messaged me THE DETAILS of what she and Ned did while we were together.
While I was waiting for an ambulance.
She literally added insult to injury.
And you know, I have exciting photos of me at the eye doctor, Eds at day care, and even an exiting action shot of the ambulance, which mercifully came right then (“Say, you got any emergency services for a shattered heart?”), and my stupid computer, which has been acting up for some time, won’t let me put them on here to show you.
Anyway, the ambulance people and the (cute!) firemen made me do a bunch of “does she have a concussion” moves, and also the Cabbage Patch because why not, and they said I could go to the hospital if I WANTED to, and who doesn’t? Both my coworker and I ended up not going, and we’re probably both dead now and this is purgatory.
So, an hour later, I headed to daycare to get Edsel. My car doesn’t LOOK damaged, other than the license plate, but Ima get it checked out for anything horrific that might have happened to its insides. “You made it!” said the daycare woman, who I called to warn that Edsel might be having an impromptu sleepover.
Eds was glad to see me, on a shocking note, and he was even gladder when I did the insane thing.
Because what I did next was, I took my totaled car and my exposed brain from my horrific accident, and I drove all the way down to Ned’s gym. He is nothing if not predictable. I called him as I was nearing the place.
“Where are you?”
“I’m just leaving the gym.”
“Yeah, I know you are. I’m headed there.”
“That Woman messaged me.”
So, in the rain, the cold November rain, I drove to that parking lot, and with my medulla flying just everywhere from being exposed, I gave Ned a piece of my mind.
Because it was exposed and all.
“I’m so sorry,” said Ned. “I am 100% responsible for all this,” said Ned. “What can I do?” asked Ned.
“You can just leave me alone,” I replied, and I realize I said, “Leave me alone” to someone who was, in fact, leaving me alone, but there it is. And I may have wept a bit, and mentioned how crazy about him I used to be, and how this was like that last scene in Mother, which I don’t recommend you go see, where Javier Bardem rips the heart out of Jennifer What’s-Her-Name. I may have dramatically mentioned all that, while gray matter plunked onto the parking lot along with the rain.
But the best part of this story is, the whole time I was handing over a piece of my mind? Edsel was
to see Uncle Ned.
oh unk ned! oh edzul god it unk ned!! unk ned da bomb! unk ned hello! hello! edz not care how you hurt mom. hullo UNK NED!
And Ned was all, “Yes, hi, Edsel,” while I was over there ranting and railing and speaking in tongues due to my severe head injury.
After about five minutes, I was pretty calm, actually, and got in the car and drove home, finally without incident. Eds was in the back asking me to play the country station so he could find a song that encapsulated what it meant for him to see Unk Ned.
So there it is. I came home and initially announced on Facebook that I had been in a severe accident wherein my car had upturned and caught fire and so on, but after I got 10 IMs in 10 seconds, I realized really that last thing I wanted to do was field questions all night, and what I really wanted to do was hide under the nice afghan Faithful Reader Kris made me, and watch Friends. There is little less taxing to one’s soul than an episode of Friends. They’re all so pretty, and the decor is so ’90s.
But speaking of Facebook, could you all all do me a favor? A flavor, as my friend Tammy always called it?
Sometimes, particularly on Facebook of June, I will post something and it goes awry and I take it down. Some days I post something and it gets too “give June advice”-y. Some days it becomes too, “In fact, I DO have a degree in psychology, so let me analyze people in your life, or even better, slap a label on him or her.” Sometimes it just feels too personal after I’ve posted, and I get squicked out and take it down.
But no matter what, if I post something and take it down, I’ve done so because I felt uncomfortable about said post, so here’s where the favor comes in.
When I’ve posted something and taken it down, could we not go BACK to Facebook of June and ask, “Where is that post?” and make it all dramatic with the shocked-face emoji and the “Someone IM me what happened” and all that? I already feel uncomfortable, and to have it brought back to the page makes me feel bad all over again. Go ahead, gossip about me off that page all you want, I don’t care. But could you not gossip about me in front of me?
Alternatively, you could IM me all the details of how you …know Ned. That’d be much better.