Chubby stick

Does anyone recall, in your giant calendar of June events, back in September when I’d lost 10 pounds?

Do you remember that?

I went to the local Pride parade, and I was gonna carry a sign of my own that read, “Lost 10 pounds.” Do you remember that?

October 1 was when I had the latest Ned debacle, and since then I’ve gained it all the hell back.

Goddammit.

So, tips, please. Diet tips.

Roundly,

Joooooooooon

World’s Worst Person Gets Her Nails Done

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.

Hi, mom.

sns-gelous-color-real-nail-5-638

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.

What? God.

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.

She did.

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.

Maybe people should just shut the fuck up.

 

Just a reminder

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.)

THANKS!

Shakily,

Jooon, aka Boop-a-Loop

Gettin’ above my richer raisin

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.

Jesus.

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.

IMG_2587.jpg
behold.

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.

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This is not me. It’s another hip-blessed female in this house.

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.

Nothing.

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,” I said, 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.

chippedbeef1.jpgI love how I’d eat that after school and THEN have dinner, and I weighed 110. Probably because I was so active then.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

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.

Nice.

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.

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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.

I KNOW!

Let’s try them from left to right.

Photo on 12-12-17 at 9.03 AM #2.jpgI 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.

Stay tuned for Fuller Fig tomorrow!!!!

Oh, Jooooo. How dull you are.

LDV

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

GUESS

WHAT.

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.

IMG_1855.jpgMy 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:

  1. Changing his diet. Many times.
  2. Shots
  3. Steroids
  4. Antidepressant
  5. Another kind of antidepressant
  6. Flax seed oil
  7. Allergy medicine
  8. 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.

Rearing to go

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

BOOM

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.

The details.

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.”

“You’re…what?”

“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.

Literally.

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

SO

DELIGHTED

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.

Accidentally,

June and her severed head

Sowing my wildly expensive oats

You know what I don’t like?

Yes, June. In fact, I have a comprehensive list. It’s really more of a scroll at this point.

No, there’s a new one.

Sigh. [turns scroll sideways to write in the margin]

Packet oatmeal that makes you work for it. You’re buying DRY OATMEAL in a foil PACKET. Clearly you are not up for whipping up a gourmet breakfast if you’re choosing dry oatmeal in a foil packet.

Add 150-degree purified water, let stand for 48 seconds, put in microwave for 192 seconds, on low, then remove and cover with Sanskrit tomes for 18 seconds under a full moon, 22 seconds if it’s a waxing gibbous. If it’s waning or new, do not eat this product.

My joie de vivre coworker Griff, of Thus Saith Griff fame, hates it when gas pumps tell you to pull the card out quickly, or when you’re microwaving something, to leave it in there sitting for a minute after.

“Don’t tell me what to fuckin’ do,” he says. And see, he’s right. June says, as she crunches her refusing-to-soften-for-some-reason fancy oatmeal.

It has MADAGASCAR vanilla. Oh, fuck off. Isn’t all vanilla from Madagascar? I don’t know what possessed me to purchase such lofty foil breakfast food; I must have been feeling vulnerable. “This oatmeal will solve everything. If I spent 11 dollars on four packs of oatmeal, surely my life will gel marvelously.”

In other news, my father sent me these:

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What are they, June?

They’re socks.

Fuck off, June.

They’re socks with Frida Kahlo on them. And did she really own a monkey? Because goddammit. I want a monkey.

IMG_E1228.JPG
fuk off, joon

I came home from work last night to all three cats clamoring to come in. I had worked late, and they were all looking at their kitty watches, annoyed. Iris limped in. “Why you limpin’ little Irises?” I asked, and once again, I’m certain the neighbors do not abhor me and my cat speak at all.

There is some fur off her little Iris head, and one has to surmise she was in a tuffle during the day, and “tuffle” is a fine word, and while, yes, it may have been her enemy, Orange Cat, it may also have been her very own brother, Gray Asshole.

All night, she just wanted to be on me. I was trying to work out, and she kept stretching over to lie on my lap while I, you know, lifted my leg 800 times.

In the meantime, last night, Steely Dan came home with everyone, had dinner, then immediately stood on the secretary and howled. The piece of furniture, not Henry Kissinger.

Won’t you enjoy my current references?

I let him out, and of course even though it was 2 degrees out, he wouldn’t come home, and since we all know he was very extremely undoubtedly likely to have SLEPT IN ANOTHER HOUSE, he was fine.

He came home today, ravenous. Well, “ravenous.” He was probably fed Madagascar vanilla cat food before he wandered back here. But what he does if he deigns to stay home during the day is get on the spare bed and do this:

IMG_E1230.JPG

He likes to get between the pillows. And he looks so sweet, and like such a nice kitty, that one can’t help but pet his velvety earses and kiss his sweet walnut head and

IMG_E1228
seeeryouslee. fuk off JOON.

Crap.

I’d better go. I woke up at 5:00 today and couldn’t fall back asleep until I DID, and then when the alarm went off at 6:30 I reset it for 7:30 and now I’m late and this is all you get today. Oh!

IMG_1220.jpgBut my flowers and antlers came yesterday, for m’Frida costume, and now my head matches my socks. We will not speak of my curtains or drapes or however that crude saying goes.

It’s carpet, right? Carpet and drapes? What a stupid thing to ask. Whose carpet ever matches their drapes? I guess mine do–I have neither.

Hoooooo-aaaaa. But really, I don’t. I have blinds and hardwoods.

Hooooooo-haaaaaaaaa.

Oh my god.

Frida, out.

See June kvetch

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Glare-ing at you. HAHAHAHAHAHA.

I’m at the bookstore. I’m in the window. I’m speaking like I’m Dick and Jane. Oh, see. See June work. See June work on her fucking freelance.

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I’m sitting in the window of the bookstore again. Also in this window is sort of a hipster man, approximately my age, I think, but then again I see 36-year-old men and figure they’re “around” my age.

When 36-year-old men were born, I was 16. I’d already lost my virginity. I was a fully formed, ruined person.

Hi, mom.

Anyway, also sharing my window is a lesbian with a bleached mohawk, who came up here with her iced coffee and her laptop, and after awhile a bookstore employee came over and asked, “Who ordered the tuna?”

See June. See June pretend to be mature. See June watch the lesbian say, “I did. The tuna’s mine.” See June regress. See, see. Oh, see.

Not much happened this weekend. I got a sympathy card for Dick Whitman, finally, and a long envelope, because I printed out for him all the comments y’all made on Facebook when I told you his mom died. I made two copies of it–one for him and one for his sister. DW’s mom was a legend around these parts. These tuna parts.

I also bought flax seed oil for Edsel, as I continue to struggle with his red, raw, itchy skin that he now chews as his full-time job. He went on Indeed and filled out an application. Edz a full tyme chewur. Objectibbe: Challenge posish that offur chance to chew back.

I also put air in m’tires, and a very …let’s say rural man tried to help me, and clearly wanted a piece of June’s action. He clearly ordered the tuna, but there was none to be had. He was very kind, though, and as I drove away, I considered how delightful my “type” has been thus far. What’s a little NASCAR if a man is kind?

Yeah, no. I can’t. I can’t NASCAR. I have to draw the line somewhere.

Anyway, I made a deal with myself today that I would come out and do m’freelance till I got to page 20 of this book, and that might not seem very far in to you, but it is, trust me. I have, in fact, gotten to page 20, but now what the hell can I do with myself? I have to go to the grocery store, as I am clean out of garbage bags. So there’s that. Life: fulfilling.

I’ve been single, technically single, for two years. But this latest blow, this latest thing that happened in my nonrelationship, has made things different. If I was ever bored, I could call that Person Who Shall Not Be Named. Often he asked me to do stuff on Sundays: a movie, dinner, whatever. Now there’s a stony silence. On my end. He’s texted twice and written one letter these past two weeks. I’ve not responded.

So I find myself at loose ends. My ends are loose. I asked a few friends if they wanted to hang today, but no one could, promising “next weekend” we could do something. Marty Martin wanted me to come out with him last night, but he asked me at 9 p.m. and I was already clad in pajamas, having rented The Big Sick (highly recommend, by the way).

Today I got an emailed invitation to a party, and I noted I was the second loser to answer. I shoulda played it cooler than that. Anyway, that’s next weekend, and at least I can look forward to that throwdown. That shindig.

So anyway. That’s what’s going on with me right now. It’s a beautiful fall day, I got my work done, someone from Deliverance tried to pick me up, and the evening yawns before me with nary a plan other than the crucial garbage bags purchase and a walk with Eds, of the Chewy Edses. So I thought I’d write and say hi.

Hi.

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Oh! And Google Photos, an establishment that lives to torture me, showed me what I was doing two years ago today. I’d moved out of my house from my year abroad, was staying at Kaye’s, but had to return to my old house for the weekend to watch my own pets. Here’s a photo from that day.

Eds, who looks stoned. And my Lu. Oh, my heart.

My stupid heart. I suppose it will go on.

From a stupid window at a stupid bookstore during the twilight of my stupid life,

June

 

 

 

 

June picks a bad day to stop sniffing glue

Yesterday, I wrote about some, oh, personal stuff, and then I felt bad about it being so public, so I deleted this post and pasted it to (Face)Book of June, a secret page on Facebook.

For awhile, (Face)Book of June was just a closed group, meaning no one could wander over there and see all our top-secret thoughts. Sometimes it’s the only place we can safely complain about the people in our lives, as those people are often found on the REST of Facebook.

So, your drunk uncle is pontificating on your Facebook wall? You get to come over to (Face)Book of June to kvetch. He can’t see it!

But then we made it a secret group, which means you can’t even search for it. “CAN MY UNCLE SEE I COMPLAINED ABOUT HIM?”

No. He can’t even see this page exists.

We’ve waffled with it being closed/secret for awhile, and I just couldn’t recall our current status when I posted yesterday morning, and I had to go.

So when I deleted the post here (and yes, thank you all [all] [allllll] for telling me the email subscribers could still read it. That’s fine. I just didn’t want the…person at hand to read it, nor that person’s people, and if they’re weird enough to email subscribe to me, then that’s their problem), and announced it could be read on (Face)Book of June, I then screamed over to the courthouse for jury duty, a place that absolutely 100% totally for sure forbids any phone use. I guess I assumed everyone knew that, but apparently not.

In the mid-morning, they give you a break, so I turned on my phone and oh my god.

JUNE! I CAN’T FIND YOUR POST!

IT’S NOT THERE, JUNE!

WHERE IS FACEBOOK OF JUNE, JOOOOON?

I had written that you should EITHER look for (Face)Book of June (and say that one more time) OR FRIEND REQUEST ME, but no one got to phase two. Instead they contacted me and bellowed.

So here’s the story. I accepted friend requests and added folks to the secret group as much as I could yesterday. There are still some outstanding and I will get to those as soon as I can. But I am vetting you first.

But if you have no profile pic, or a picture of the sky or something, and you have 0–10 friends, you ain’t gettin’ in. If you aren’t a real person who’s on Facebook already, I do not trust that you are joining this group as “Oh, I’d love to add Book of June shenanigans to my already rewarding Facebook time.” I think instead you may be a hater, or a lurker, or just someone nefarious who is going to sell us Ray-Bans.

Also, if you “can’t figure out Facebook” or how to add a friend or whatever, I am sorry, dude, but I picked a bad day to bring all this on myself, and you’re gonna have to adult and figure it out on your own. I’m just a blogger with a full-time job and a murder trial on her hands. I am not the IT department or a life coach.

Oh! And also! If you were a member before and you left, you can’t get back on. I can’t add you, and since it’s secret you can’t request to be added. Sorry. That was a snafu I didn’t know about. Also, why’d you leave, ass lips?

Thank god I just spent 600 words on that riveting topic.

The other news is, I am done with jury duty. And yes, it was a murder trial. I was excused because I just don’t believe in the death penalty. But I was in that courtroom all day Monday through Wednesday, and I heard a lot, and I am glad I didn’t end up being on that trial. I think I’d have ended up traumatized, and I just accidentally wrote “Neded up being traumatized” and thank you, Freud.

I was done around 4:00, so I didn’t head to work, I just came home and sat here, rather drained. It was a lot. I can’t imagine the toll it will take on the actual jurors.

IMG_0734.JPGEventually, I got up to walk the cur, which always makes me feel better unless her eats a baby or whatever.

IMG_0736June. Now with less drainage.

IMG_0726.JPGIt really alleviated my stress when I shot the dog. Just what the doctor ordered.

(He and Tallulah were big on rubbing their faces on the ground when that Gentle Leader is on. I know that thing must be annoying. But please note: If he’d had it on that one day, he’d never have gotten loose to attack that dog, so.)

IMG_0746.JPGAlso, do you have these all over yonder in your town? These are bikes anyone can use; you just have to scan something or other with your phone, and they charge you. I was tempted to put Eds in the basket and Wicked Witch all through the neighborhood.

IT PUTS THE CANINE IN THE BASKET.

OR ELSE IT GETS THE HOSE AGAIN.

Thanks, June. It’s been too long since you’ve needlessly referenced a film. One of the same five films you ever reference.

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When I got home, I texted with my pal Hamlet, which resulted in me giggling like an idiot. Murder, she texted! Heeeeee!

I finally get to go to real work today, and I am glad. First of all, driving downtown is a pain in the ass. Parking downtown is worse. Having to be in a courtroom and not snack or pee when you feel like it is a real pain, as well.

I’d better get in the shower, and I know the idea of me naked has you all twitterpated now, and I’m sorry to get you in a lather. See what I did, there?

Your Facebook friend, unless you have a scammy profile,

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