Royal with cheese

I got my crown.

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Bow down, bitches

Of course I took a flattering selfie at the dentist. What are you? New? I feel like I didn’t look that bad in real life, but what do I know?

They have a procedure there where you get the whole crown in one visit–no horrific temporary. No mold where they stick the goop in your head. They built my crown on the computer and made it in the other room and stuck it in my head. I believe I took this while I was waiting for my crown. When AMN’T I waiting for a crown? “Amn’t” is a good word that I made up when I was like two.

Anyway, technology. It’s not just a good idea. It’s the law. Say, June, why don’t you try to make some sense?

Afterward, I thought it was okay. I went to the grocery store and got dog food, cat food, Steely Dan canned food (like he’s not also a cat), and coffee. All the staples. Then I came home and walked Edsel for half an hour, fed everyone, and considered watching another rousing episode of Parenthood (Kristina Braverman is an asshole) when

ow.

Oh my god, ow.

OW.

It really started to hurt. I mean, he told me it might be “sensitive,” but mother of god. And of course I own zero ibuprofen. Migraine people don’t even bother with it.

And this is why it’s a problem that Ned is four minutes away. Ned, who owns enough ibuprofen to reduce SpongeBob’s inflammation. When he sees a hot sponge girl.

Ned is an old man, who continues to insist upon the gym, so as a result something always hurts on Ned. Not his conscience. Don’t be silly. But the rest of him.

IMG_7112.jpgSo he came over. Brought me meds. And all the cats rejoiced throughout the land. Well. That’s not entirely true. Steely Dan mostly ignored him, after an initial minute of attempts to have THAT guy let him out, since The Girl is not budging on this matter.

“He’s just looking up at the doorknob,” Ned noted.

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so fekking bore
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Even when he’s “resting,” he keeps whipping his tail angrily.

IMG_7080.jpgAnyway, Ned’s delivery of meds went without incident, and the ibuprofen did work, and maybe I’ll take more today, because while it’s certainly better, it’s not 100% pleased with this coffee hitting it.

IMG_7107.jpgThe rest of my evening pretty much went like this. Poor Iris and her lack of eyes.

…I just saw an email that work wants me to come in right away and get started on something, so I’d better go early, but while I was convalescing yesterday, I had a thought.

What if Princess Diana isn’t really dead? What if the royal family was sick and tired of her bullshit, and she was sick of attention, so they made up a scheme where they faked her death? No, I’m not smoking the pot. But I have been watching The Royals, that stupid show on E (Exclamation Point).

Did I ever tell you when the economy was booming and I lived in LA, they called me, E Exclamation Point did, to offer me a job? They called me at WORK. I don’t even know how they got my number. But they needed a copy editor, and they wanted me. It wasn’t “Come in for an interview,” it was “Come in for the job.”

And this was all very exciting and flattering, till they asked what I made. I told them. “Are you willing to be flexible on that salary?” they asked. The TELEVISION NETWORK asked. I was working for an independently owned court reporting agency at the time, proofing depositions. Who do YOU think had a bigger budget? Give me a break.

“I’m willing to be flexible about my salary going UP, sure,” I said. And that was the end of my relationship with E Exclamation Point.

And see? I could be starring in the very intelligent The Royals right now. Or I could be proofreading it.

I gotta go.

Achingly,
Joop

P.S. My yard is pretty and I keep forgetting to show you. (Oh my GOD, June, you’re supposed to get to work.)

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Peg’s tree, at the front, here, has both white AND pink flowers.

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And my drag-queen-colors bushes are in bloom

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Okay. I’m really going to work now.

Joob

hey. GuRl leef compewter onn. dO someWon come to leT steeeelee out? miSTEAK been maade. STeeeleee need owet. OWT. OWWT.

Heel

img_6733.jpgAs you all know, because you’ve drawn my life story onto the walls of your cave, my pal The Poet is a fancy poet. She’s being sent to London next week, to read her poetry to all of London. She’s big, Ben.

The point is, Fancy The Poet came to my desk the other day, and I was like, “Oh, I like your necklace. Are those ostrich heads?”

Ostrich heads. That’s what I saw.

“Why, no. These are the Towers of Frooo-De-Hoog, from Bluufle Bluffledorf.”

img_6734.jpgAh, yes. Of course. If I recall from my extensive research, those are some of the better towers.

I feel like when I was in high school learning how to hold my Southern Comfort, The Poet was learning things. And that is why no one cares if I ever see London again. Or France. Or anyone’s underpants.

Also, while we’re on the subject of friends at work, my coworker Frapdorp hates the name Frapdorp. “It’s terrible,” he insists.

So because Ima tell a story about him, we must run Frapdorp through the random name generator and see what we come up with.

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…Okay. It came up with Alex. Dying. Let’s try again…

My coworker Davis Monk has a daughter named Iris, which is cute because maybe you didn’t know this, but I have a cat named Iris. Check your cave wall. Anyway, Davis Monk’s Iris is forever saying really funny, smart things and I like her even though I’ve never met her.

Lately she’s been gunning for a cat, and right then I knew. She was my people.

The point is, they got one. They went to some sort of cat-saving org, and Iris the person fell in love with an adult cat even though bitsy kittens were there, and I have to further admire her for this. Every day now, Davis Monk is telling me the cute things the cat does. It sounds like a bit of a Lily cat. It’s lookin’ for love, this cat is.

Iris also has a cat at her mom’s.

“Why did I never think to try this angle?” I asked Davis Monk. I already had Mittens at my house, Mittens my childhood cat, and YES I NAMED IT I WAS 8 FUCK OFF. But I coulda asked my father if I could have a cat at HIS place, too. Why. Why did that never occur to me?

“I pretty much thought that’s what kids did. They tried to find the angles like that,” said Davis Monk, and now I feel like I have to go back and redo my childhood, which would include not ordering that hot chocolate with whipped cream that I revisited mere moments later in the parking lot of Sambo’s at age 11.

The point of me telling you this is that I tell you all sorts of stupid things so why wouldn’t I tell you this, and also that I DID think of something I got my father to get me without letting on that my mother had already forbade me to get them.

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Freaking Candies, man. Now with hose!

Was obsessed. OBSESSED. With getting a pair. And because I was, you know, 14, my mother thought maybe they weren’t appropriate. But this one girl at school [random name generator gets fired up again], Merlene Culp, had them. She had ALL of them.

Merlene Culp was attractive, and she had a similarly attractive older sister, and they lived with their single mom, and I’d heard they all shared clothes. So these 9th- and 10th-grade girls were wearing, “Hey, world, I’m 35 and single in 1978” clothes.

Oh, they had good stuff. High-heeled boots they tucked into their designer jeans. Satin blouses. Gold ID bracelets. I mean, the Culp sisters had it going on.

They even made up dance routines, and at dances would perform them to, say, Rapper’s Delight, and we’d all stand around and think, “If only I had a pair of Candies, I’d be cool like Merlene and Darlene Culp.”

At least that’s where I took it.

After high school, I never saw either one of them again. I think they attractive-d out of Saginaw, Michigan for life.

So I wanted Candies. In the worst way. And mom said no.

But dad said yes! I forget why. Like, in what way did I convince him that high-heeled mules were perfect for a teenage Michigan girl, where it’s 30 degrees out 9 months of the year? But I got red ones, and sexy neutral ones, and I feel like I even might’ve had the blue.

And man, did I clomp through snow and ice in those muthers. I didn’t care. I was sportin’ my Sassoon jeans and my Candies. I was ready to take on the world. Or the Fashion Square Roller Skating Rink over offa Bay Road.

If I had time, I’m certain I could find you photos of me in them. And we would toast the ’70s and a teenage girl’s ability to manipulate her parents. But I do not have time, because time has, in fact, marched on, and now I must clomp to a job in broke-toe folk festival clogs.

Candies, oh. I need you so.
June

NedTalks

I am sorry to make Faithful Reader Paula tense, but I don’t have much time today. We have a first-thing meeting at work today re our annual evaluations. Our choices were a lunchtime meeting (no, not with free food. We’d have stampeded to that) or a first-thing-in-the-morning shindig. I opted for first thing. You know I like to get a few rounds of golf in at lunch.

But now tens of women and one gay dude across America are tense because I have to blog in my rapid, efficient style and then get in the car and head to my corporation like I’m George Jetson headed to Spacely Sprockets or Milburn Drysdale, getting to the bank.

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Hey, June. Shows have happened since 1969.

Anyway, before I try to hand you five dollars and you take my whole wallet, I’ll tell you about this.

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Yes, my bed is unmade. I didn’t know you were all coming over.

Nancy sighting!

I love that sweet cat. If there were a spectrum, cranky NedKitty would be on one end, and sweet Nancy would be on the other.

Ned was out of town on a business trip. And, see. I have all kinds of jokes right now. Jokes about how he’s conducting a series of NedTalks on commitment and so forth.

But I have dignity.

Anyway, he got waylaid. And, see. Oh, the jokes. But I have dignity.

He got held up because he was Customer of the Month at Hoot–no, see. Dignity.

He got his LOYALTY card punched at–nope. I am the bigger person.

I am holding my head high. I am Jackie Kennedy at the funeral, looking regal.

Anyway, apparently Nancy had been at Ned’s vet: Overpriced Cats-Only Clinic.

Helicopter Cat Dad, Inc.

SHE WAS BOARDING AT THE VET. He was headed home yesterday but was going to miss his connection because how can you connect with anyone if you aren’t trustworthy.

Dignity.

And he didn’t want poor Nancy–who probably thought she was being given back–to spend another night at the cat clinic. So I said I’d get her.

Ned was frazzled, so I called the We Take Your Moola Cat Spa and said I was a …friend of Ned’s and that I would be getting Nancy.

“May I have your name?”

“Well, no. I need it for identification and my bank account and so on.”

I’ll be here all week.

Anyway, it turns out I was listed as Ned’s In-Case-of-Cat-Emergency person anyway, so they let me take Nancy and boil her in a pot to get back at Ned.

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Try it, nowse bitz

The place she stay at (have you ever noticed how some people say they “stay” places, while others say they “live” places? If you wanna call this living) happens to be in the same parking lot as my sandwich place, so on the drive over to get her last night, I placed an order for a low-cal BLT.

I’m telling you this because I got home holding a coffee cup, my purse, a BLT, a cat carrier, Nancy food in a Rubbermaid thing and some cat litter, because I was out of litter and figured I’d have to present Nancy with a box in which to allegedly pee. It’s not her strong suit.

Although she’s been doing really well for about two or three weeks.

Anyway, I plunked all of these things into my big chair, and went to the kitchen to get a bowl of water. I thought a manicure was a great idea right then.

No.

I put the bowl in Nancy’s room, and when I returned to the Big Chair With Everything, the Big Chair Deluxe, I wish you could have seen Steely Dan’s head PRESSED against Nancy’s carrier.

Neither of them were being awful, but I did hear a faint, “mmmmMMMMMMmmmmm!” growl, and I don’t know who it came from.

And she may be small, but bitch was a feral. I think SD would have been more surprised than happy had I two-beta-fished the sitch and let her out right then.

IMG_6473.jpgBut I did not. Nancy recognized her old room, and fell asleep pretty fast. I think she’d probably not slept well at the fancy cat place. Ned told me he gets the deluxe room, and I said that’s probably her cat carrier with a jar of mayonnaise on top of it. “That’ll be 700 dollars, please.”

IMG_6479.jpgEventually Ned got back to Greensboro last night, and was Nancy ever glad to see her daddy. Oh, she loves him already.

People are complex, man. Thank god I’m a simple girl.

Okay, I gotta get ready. I have a shift at the Regal Beagle.

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stop tawkin shit about my daddee, ant jooon

Simply,
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.

Disjointed

Hang on. I gotta strap on Laila Ali first…

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One of my more awful readers once looked at a photo of me sans makeup and wrote, “Is that rosacea?” It is. Mild case. Here’s MY comment: Is that a jerk whose ass would make me a Sunday face®* commenting? (*(C) My gramma. All rights reserved.)

Say, June, weren’t you drying your hair LAST time we talked?

Yes. Yes, I was. Hygiene. It’s repetitive.

Anyway, we haven’t talked since Friday and we have a lot of topics to cover, so I thought today I’d use subheads, so you don’t end up with fucking whiplash while I bounce from topic to topic. We’re going to be organized today.

Shut up.

Okay, topic one.

Wee wee wee, or the F word
I don’t want you to worry or anything. I don’t want a fuss.
Cnv_aLnXYAADoom
Shut up shuttin’ up.

But I BROKE MY TOE. The little one. Last night, I was headed to bed, like a normal person, and BOOM, Lottie’s bone, this big giant lug of a bone–that Edsel unearthed recently–was in the middle of the room and I didn’t see it and

I

IMMEDIATELY

KNEW

something was very wrong. I yelled so loudly that Edsel stood under the table. Which, by the way, we can still see you, Letter C.

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not to yell, mom. make edz curl up.

But speaking of Edsel, it’s weird, because just yesterday afternoon I was walking that cur and we passed the yard where I sprained my ankle four years ago, and I thought about how as soon as I landed on that grass, that grassy knoll–what IS a knoll?–I knew I’d really hurt myself badly. I reflected on that the rest of the walk: What a brave faithful dog Edsel was that day, not leaving my side even though I’d dropped the leash. Tall Boy, who isn’t allowed to talk to me now that he’s married, driving down and lifting me into the car. Because he was staying with me at the time. PLATONICALLY.

Anyway, I worried last night that I wouldn’t be able to sleep, it hurt so fucking much, but I did because I’m Jabba the Hut. I can sleep through anything. I actually have no idea if Jabba the Hut sleeps, as I have not seen any of the Star Wars movies since the first one in 1977. But he strikes me as lazy.

So my plan is to hobble. And complain. That wraps up what Ima do for my broken toe. Doctors can’t do much for it, I already know this. And yes, I know it’s broken. I’ll spare you the details.

Trim
Last week, I was reading some article or another and I found a site called Trim. And no, I did not just link you to a site involving lady bits. Trim can tell you all the stupid things you’re subscribed to, that you may have forgotten about, and they’ll also do things like contact AT&T and say, “Lower her bill.”

As of last week, I quit Stitch Fix (I’d already quit that the week earlier, technically), Weight Watchers, Netflix, Amazon Prime, some support group for other anxious attachers that I joined for $21 a month, HBO, Apple Music and other annoying things I was paying for automatically and not noticing.

It is likely I will lose my mind and rejoin some of those, but for now, nobody is automatically taking anything from my account each month except for my car insurance.

But speaking of money and trim, I came up with an idea yesterday that I presented on Facebook to mixed results.

I had an idea for how I could lose weight OR you would make money. We’d have to have someone hold all the money, maybe send it all to Faithful Reader Paula or something, and I like how I’ve roped her into this without asking, but here is my idea:

I tell you my current horrifying weight and my goal weight. Which believe it or not are not the same. And then I set a date for me to REACH that weight. All of you put $5 in, and if I reach the goal, I get your hard-earned $5.

But if I FAIL to reach it, I not only give you your $5 back, I pay you an additional $5.

Then I have two incentives: To get rich (okay, to get maybe $50) and to not lose money.

See? It’s a good idea! Some of you hated it, though. But those folks don’t have to play. Are you in?

Photos and so on
I’ve spent a great deal of time trying to get this one Golden Girls gif onto my blog, and never could, and does anyone know how to get a gif on your blog? If you tell me to place the embedded code in my HTML I will break your little toe.

My point is, I’ve used up a lot of my morning, and now I hafta go, and I know I have to tell you about m’chakras (my crown chakra was blocked. Now it isn’t) and about Ned and Nancy, but I have run out of the time.

Also, I took many photos this weekend. So here are some of those, and I will fill you in on the rest tomorrow. TUNE IN tomorrow for JUNE’S RIVETING LIFE, part 3,271.

(See. That’s how I run out of time. Because I just had to save this draft, leave this page, go figure out how to discover how many posts I’ve written in this life, then come back and write “3,271” so I’d be accurate.)

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After spending all yesterday morning tryina figure out how I’d lose weight and make you all get involved, I drove to the country and got ice cream. Those stubborn pounds.

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I LOVE YOU COWWWWS

It’s a real dairy, and they make the ice cream on site.

IMG_5486.jpgThere used to be Border Collies there, but they got old and died. Welcome to my happy blog!

IMG_5465.jpgI also spent time with the demon cat.

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I can’t help it. I LOVE HIM SO BAD.
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oh, jeeebus, lady.

He did the thing again, though. I pulled up to my house just as my “you have a text” ding dinged. Come for the ice cream. Stay for the strong writing.

Anyway, it was my friend Sandy, wanting to embrace the Curly Girl method, and I wrote her back from my car, and when I looked up again…

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FUCK

He lives to startle me. He’s my Uncle Jim, in cat form.

“You no, other cat liff here, too. We just so tire.”

I’ll talk to you tomorrow, if I live through this toe pain. If I don’t get hooked on the horse to get me through.

Brokenly,
June

Hot buff puppy men

Yesterday at lunch, I came home, got my kittens, and took them back to the shelter.

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Vicki, on her way back, clearly gracing us with her WTF face

They were supposed to weigh two pounds apiece in order to be adoptable, and Lexi, the cute light-gray one, did. The rest weighed a little above 1.5. But you guys.

They were pooping just everywhere.

I tried different litters and different boxes, and I piled books, oh so many books, around the bed, so they wouldn’t be able to go under there, as they had been. Clearly what I saw as a bottom of a bed, they saw as Men and Women restroom signs.

So the shelter was willing to take them back, as they have people already interested in them and they’re healthy, and I hope those people can get those kittens litter-trained, because I was in poop hell, is what I was.

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Trixie, doing her Nancy Kerrigan impresh. WHYYYYY.

Despite an entire three weeks of shiitake mushrooms up in here, of coming in number two, depsite being Mr. Spock seeing the Captain’s Log, I was so sad to drive them back. I knew they were getting big enough for new homes, and I felt prepared. But when that volunteer lady carried them back to the vet room, my heart broke.

Can I just put up my favorite pictures of each one? Will you indulge me? Did I mention to you my camera was not automatically deleting photos for some cockamamie reason, so I had to call AppleCare, and what I figured out in that fiasco was that I have taken 1,400 photos this month?

I had the kittens for three weeks. What do YOU think that ratio was?

…I just spent forever looking, and I CAN’T DECIDE which are my favorites. Here are some highlights…

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[sobs quietly into giant pillow]

But, there are new kittens where THEY came from, and yesterday I had Alf, my ridiculous handyman, rehang my door to the old computer room, the one with the bad concrete floor. When I moved out of or back in here, we’d taken the door off to move something or other, and after that the door never shut right. Alf put it back on right, for free.

He’s not that altruistic. He also built me a small fence that I DID pay for.*

The point is, Ima rearrange things, because my oh my, I sure know how to arrange things, and when new kittens come, THAT will be the kitten room, with a washable quilt on the floor (Idea: Cat Rescuer Robyn®), so that if I get another crop o’poopers I can clean it more easily than the dang wood floors.

*IMG_5370.jpgDo you enjoy my clever footnote in the middle of this post, which really takes the foot away from my note? Anyway, when you’re looking at the front of my house, stalker, there’s a cute picket fence on one side…

IMG_5371.jpgAnd I realize these photos are taken from inside my exclusive enclave, but I had on my robe and didn’t wish to go out and give the neighbors even more of a show than they already get at this Cat on a Cold Tile Roof What’s Her Hair Doing Today house. My One-Gray-Gargoyle house. My Her-Blind-Cat’s-Done-Murdered-Our-Chicadees-Again house.

Anyway, on one side is this cute white picket fence, like I’m Theodore Cleaver, and on the other, although you can’t really see it past the foliage, but still, on the other side was this bendy, falling-down, horrific wire fence that if Edsel had half a mind, he’d have escaped from years ago.

The thing about Edsel is, one time the damn lawn men left that gate open, and I didn’t know, and Edsel went in the yard and stayed there the whole time, with the gate wide open to the world. He coulda left me and trotted off to those bathhouses he so often looks up online.

So. He’s a good boy. Also, the last thing he’d find sexy is a bathhouse. Edsel does not enjoy getting clean.

IMG_5370The point is this photo, that I done already showed you but I rambled so here it is again, was put up by the Alf yesterday, and he said I have to wait till

FUCKING AUGUST

to paint it white. Also, I see he’s left some wood behind, hoooo haaaaaa, and now I hafta crankily text him about that.

Anyway, so lunch yesterday was not relaxing, as I had to scream home, get my kittens in a box, talk to Alf, scream to the shelter, then scream to work. On my way back to work I passed a Panda Express, which was A BAD IDEA, JUNE. I got me some teriyaki MSG, with a side of MSG, and got a screeching, screaming migraine and spent my Valentine’s Day evening with an ice pack and my nausea medicine.

Despite this, I had to come home from work and clean up ALL THE CAT POOP that was under the bed, despite the world-of-books fortress I’d built, so that was relaxing. I had to throw out the dog bed that was in there, as well, as they’d peed on not only that, but the cushion under it, as I’d already been washing the cushion fabric and when they saw the innards they said oh good, a new place to pee. So.

Kitten rescue. It’s relaxing.

So now I gotta get a new dog bed, not that Eds doesn’t have two others, but I like for him to have dog beds in each bedroom, because…well, I guess I don’t have a reason. Because I’ll occasionally switch rooms for whatever reason and he can flump onto a dog bed no matter which room, I guess. Dream of hot buff puppy men.

I must go, and get ready for work, even though my head is cloudy and that migraine is not fully gone. Stupid Panda Express. What was I THINKING?

Kittenlessly,
Juan

“June, you forgot to add kitten pictures.”

Relationships are stupid.

I know I sound like my coworker Griff, who thinks everything is stupid–but who is, in fact, in a relationship. But really, they are. Stupid.

IMG_5222.jpgThis weekend, Ned was helping me walk Edsel, and you’re all, What the–WHY WAS NED THERE, and calm down. I will get to it. The point is, I was reminded of a time we’d walked down that street before.

“Remember back when we liked each other, and we walked down this way to the hotel to watch the fireworks on the 4th of July, and we got there and there were no fireworks?” I asked him.

“But we didn’t care, because we liked each other,” he said. “Now I’d be all, ‘What, you didn’t RESEARCH if there were fireworks visible from there?'”

“Yep,” I agreed, which was pretty much just the most redundant sentence on earth.

There was another time that Ned wanted to cook with me, and make homemade salsa as a side dish, and see, nowadays I’d know that Ned and a big, involved plan that includes homemade salsa would be an all-day undertaking, and that I’d end up eating at 2 a.m. for the first time all day. But back then I liked him and went along with it.

If he asked me now to grill out with him and add homemade anything to the mix, I’d bludgeon him with a tiki torch.

And that’s what I mean. Relationships go from fun and frolic and feeling goopy about the person to wanting to stab him with your butter knife. At least that’s how they go with me.

Anyway, here’s why Ned was even over. On Friday, he got Nancy, the mom cat to the kittens I’m fostering.

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And do you know what I am weary of? Is how I have too many channels. I’ll tell you one thing about Nancy and her kittens here, and then on Facebook someone will ask me something I already said about them over here.

Or over on the (Face)Book of June page. Or I said it on Instagram. Or I thought it in my head. The point is, you have to be practically stalking me to get all my guff, and it’s my fault for spreading my love all over social media.

Anyway, the wrap-up is–and when you see someone asking any of these things elsewhere, will you answer for me? Be snippy. Thank you.

The wrap-up is, I have Nancy’s four kittens till next Saturday now, because they have to weigh two pounds each to be adoptable. They all weigh somewhere around a pound and a half, with the exception of the black kitty, who appears to be the runt.

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hey!

Allegedly they will weigh enough by Saturday.

(And can I add something? I noticed this on a much larger scale with Patrick Stewart, when he was fostering a very sweet pit bull. Fostering animals so they’re ready for adoption is a noble task. You don’t undertake such a thing lightly. It costs a fucking fortune,

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shopping cart of a cat lady

your house is chaos, and you know these are fosters, not pets.

IMG_5104.jpgSo if you’re someone enjoying watching the foster, whether in real life or on social media, I think the most supportive thing you can do is NOT pressure the person fostering to adopt. Or say, “If it were ME, I’d keep them ALL.” That sort of thing. It’s not easy, fostering. Pressure to keep them adds to the not-easy part.)

But anyway, Ned, who I never said a WORD to, decided to take Nancy, the mom cat, and they first had to fix her, make her all barren, which turned out to be more grueling than they’d thought.

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was not browken

They had trouble locating her ovaries, and her incision was large, and they wanted to keep her and give her antibiotics and so on. (So that’s why I’m not taking the kittens to see her, as it would hurt her if they tried to suckle.)

But on Friday, she was finally ready to go home. Ned has to keep giving her Clavamox till it’s gone–sometime this week.

But she seems to be reacting to her medication, or something, because she has pooped NOT in the box every time. So he came over to trade litter with me, to see if she likes that better. He also went out and bought like three different kinds of litter boxes. Because he’s Ned. He’s probably fashioning a homemade one. With salsa.

Also, she’s hiding a lot, but she’s slept with him every night. She finally used her box this morning, but Ned said she ran under the bed right after. Poor traumatized Nancy.

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In the meanwhile, here are photos of her children, in case you wanted to see kitten pictures or anything.

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I don’t know why they like this.

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There goes a new lipstick. Or new shoes. Or new anything.
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BUT LOOK AT WHO’S WORTH IT.
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kittee in China? why so many chins?
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to save kittee not fun NOT FUN

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Jesus.

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dat coolest ting Matt eber see. to be cool like gray cat?

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Tomorrow I will tell you about goat yoga, which I also attended this weekend, when I wasn’t attending Kitten Fest 2018. When I got home, Steely Dan slept on me, a unicorn of an occurrence that I always get charmed by.

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And while I didn’t dare move while it was happening, at one point, Lily got on the couch and groomed Steely Dan, and he closed his eyes and purred. I didn’t even know those two were on speaking terms. The things that happen when you’re Mia Farrow and you have too many kids.

Also, Faithful Reader Kris, I can’t tell you how much I love that freaking afghan.

That sums me up. I guess if I were a man, I could have just written, Cats, and been done with this whole post.

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some catz matter more. gray cats mattur.

Feline-ly,

Joon

 

June polls you. And she didn’t even buy you a drink first

Do you remember the other day–like, two days ago–when I showed you that big tower of canned kitten food I bought?

There are two cans of it left. Yeesch.

Four kittens: Turns out, they eat.

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so wutss?

But that, my rapt audience (“Talk about fekking kittens more, June”), is not why I’ve gathered you all here today, into uncomfortable folding chairs, with your paper plates on your laps. No.

I’ve gathered you here because as you may recall, from your worn, sacred Book of June Events, my boss, fmr., gets Stitch Fix. [Everyone begins flipping pages back.]

We’d decided–and by “we” I mean me and my brain–to force her into trying on her Stitch Fix in front of me and my camera of death, and then we–and by “we” I mean you, me and my brain–get to vote on what she keeps.

In case you don’t know from Stitch Fix, it’s a service you can sign up for where every month (or less, if you choose) they send you clothes and you return whatever you don’t like in their giant addressed, stamped pouch that is a pain in the ass to mail because you have to cram it into a narrow-mouthed public mailbox somewhere and try not to jam up the whole damn thing so all the office workers in that particular complex whose parking-lot mailbox you’re using won’t detest you.

Yesterday, the golden day was upon us, wherein my boss, fmr., got her Stitch Fix. She pointed it out to me excitedly.

“Oh, god, Ima have to remember how to do polls in my blog,” I kvetched, as she tried on her first piece. And that is why I’m sitting here now, kittens climbing my socks (“Talk more about fekking kittens, June, REALLY”)

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eben WE ober you, fozter mom

AND THAT IS WHY I’M SITTING HERE NOW, the sun not up yet, having gotten up early just so I can struggle with doing polls in the body of my damn blog. So please vote. As I worked hard today. She works hard for the…oh, hell, I don’t even make money doing this.

Okay, here is the first piece… The first item. Her threads. Her duds.

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Wrap dress with hydrangeas and shit on it

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Okay, ALLEGEDLY I added a poll button. If it didn’t work, rather than drive me BERSERK while I’m at work with “THE POLLS DON’T WORK!” emails, just say what clothes you like in the comments. But according to my preview button, it worked.

Am sweaty.

Okay, on to the next one!

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Black blouse and green shirt. I should really write a fashion blog. I describe clothes like I’m a dude.


Oh my god. Polls! Embedded! I think! Am internet guru. Maybe.

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Black shell sleeveless top thing

Okay, the necklace was my favorite part…

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Ten thousand spoons when all you need is for June to leave you alone

“You can have cocaine parties!” I enthused.

So those are our clothing choices for my boss, fmr., this month, and please vote early and often. Actually I think I have it set up so you can vote only once, but what do I know.

Meanwhile, kittens.

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This one found Steely Dan’s stash of mouses, and walked around growling at everyone else, lest they take her treasures.

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#&$@, how you find?

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Son of BITZ
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now yuu play wif fire

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Meanwhile, Ned did not get Nancy yesterday, after all. He’s the boy who cried Nancy. Her little kitty operation was harder than they thought it would be, so they just wanted to monitor her for another day or so. So now MAYBE it’s today that he gets her and MAYBE it’s tomorrow.

“I’m supposed to go to dinner with my mom and uncle tomorrow. What if I get Nancy tomorrow?” he fretted.

See. This is the kind of dilemma that flummoxes Ned. He never cancels things. It’s, like, an impossibility to him. “They’ll understand, Ned,” I said. He still wasn’t sure.

As someone once said to my Uncle Jim, peoples is funny. I know I’ve told you this before, but Ned is a pit bull about plans. Once he makes them, they cannot be unmmade. Once, in maybe the first year I was dating him, we had plans to go see Pulp Fiction at the old theater. But Edsel had to have surgery that day, and the night of the event, there was no way I was leaving my dog.

Ned went to the movie anyway. I was so mad. I didn’t say anything, because I didn’t want to seem difficult.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Oh. That’s rich. But I was tryina keep that part under wraps. But in reality, I was all, Jesus, how insensitive is this guy? Why can’t he just come over and hang out with the dog and me? He’s gotta stampede to some old movie we could just rent here?

But see, now I know how he is with plans. The plan was made. He had to go through with it, whether I was going with him or not. Because he made that plan.

He also is forever the last to leave anything, a trait I’ve heard him complain about in others and on my insides I’m all, OH MY GOD YOU WERE THE EXACT SAME WAY ALWAYS. All the credits have rolled. Everyone’s left the party except the hostess and her mom who is staying for the week. The waiters have clocked out. THERE’S NOTHING LEFT. YOU AREN’T GOING TO MISS OUT ON ANYTHING BECAUSE THERE’S NOTHING LEFT TO MISS.

Don’t you hate people who say “exact same”?

Anyway. We’ve covered a lot today. We traversed the world, with our polls and our spoons and our rehab and our kittens.

Oh, and one more thing (JESUS JUNE WE GOTTA GO). Edsel has never liked it when cats fight. Whenever Steely Dan rolls his shoulders and hunches, staring down one of my innocent flower cats, Edsel leaps over to break the whole thing up.

IMG_4907.jpgYou can imagine his angina with four seven-week-old kittens and their play fights. Good lord. He’s Sister Mary Agnes, breaking up all the fun.

That picture where Lily is glaring at you, me, the Guilford County Animal Shelter for drumming up this plan, kittens in general and anyone who isn’t her, in that photo, Edsel is back there breaking up frolic. What a Dog Downer that dog is.

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eyeriss side wif lillee on dis one

Just like a movie star, who gets burned in a three-way script

I’ve been obsessed with a game.

I’m not a game person. I kind of hate games, actually, and for this, I blame my childhood. My mother used to have this game night, see, with her friends.

My whole life, as far back as I can recall–and I can recall being in my crib*, so it goes a ways–my mother has had friends. Not like one friend who we all call “Aunt” or whatever, no. Like, seven thousand friends.

(*I can remember my Uncle Jim leaning over my crib with this scary mask on his face, part of my parents’ official collection of World’s Most Disturbing Art®.)

Her friendships–my mother’s, not the scary African mask’s–are always a result of Whatever She’s Into Right Now, whether it’s her church or her hobbies or her political meetings, like the kind Frank Kennedy and Rhett and Doc Meade and foppy Ashley went to.

(Now, see, that’s funny if you know from Gone With the Wind, because that political meeting was a KKK meeting, and right now my mother is pursing her lips disapprovingly.)

Anyway, Whatever She’s Into Right Now means there are eight thousand new friends of hers calling and popping in and wanting to hug me. If I’m visiting nowadays, and the phone rings–which it does 7,000 times a day there–and I answer, the friends always start off with, “Pam?” because we sound exactly alike. And then I’m the bitch who has to start off every conversation with, “No. This is June.” It always feels so unfriendly to be all, “No.”

They’re always outgoing, these friends of my mother’s. And while people think I’m gregarious and an extrovert just because I’m funny, mostly my days are spent trying to have as much time to brood alone on the couch as possible. It’s always been my goal: If I’ve had a day where I got to spend a good five hours alone brooding on the couch, I give that day one of those stupid 100 emojis.

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What the fuck with those?

Anyway, at some point in my childhood, maybe when I was 7 or 8, my mother started having game night, usually on a Friday, where she’d make popcorn and get out the Gallo Hearty Burgundy, and her outgoing friends would all come over, as would my outgoing Uncle Leo, dragging my Aunt Kathy, who likes to be in bed by 7:30.

Then all night, they’d lounge across my brooding couch and laugh and shout over each other and eat popcorn while they enjoyed them some rousing games of Jeopardy or 10,000 Pyramid. Or Password.

Often, my Aunt Kathy would fall asleep in a spare bed, like a toddler.

I remember being roped into these games occasionally, and sometimes I’d have to be moderator for Jeopardy. I was Alex Trebec and call.

Later, in my teen years, I remember coming home to some of the game nights, and having to pretend I wasn’t drunk as a skunk after a kegger. I’ve no idea if I pulled it off. Also, why did we all stop having keggers?

(Several of my mother’s outgoing friends are my Facebook friends, and I plan to tag them on this particular post, and I ask them: Did I pull it off? Did you have no idea I’d done 16 Miller Lite beer bongs?)

Anyway. Since I associate games with fun and frolic and friends, naturally it doesn’t appeal to me. Millennials seem to be big into games, and back when people at at work liked me, I was constantly being asked to game nights with them, and I’d always say no so I can brood on the couch.

But that’s just what I was doing the other day when I got some sort of targeted ad on my phone. You know how you’re on social media, and you swear you just THOUGHT, only THOUGHT, about how you wish they had high heels for swans, and then you’re scrolling and there’s an ad for Swan Slingbacks or whatever?

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Jesus Christ, really? I just Googled high heels for swans and this came up.

Anyway, I’ve no idea, really, why they targeted me for a game, but maybe they’ve been watching me since childhood, when I was moderating Jeopardy. But anyway, they lured me in by saying, “Play this game to increase your brain power here” and I did, and then I was hooked and I think I paid four dollars for this app, called Peak, that allegedly makes your brain work better, and as you can see from this not-at-all-disjointed post that it’s working like a charm. And also by the fact that I parted with four dollars.

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The game that really got me is called Word Fresh, and they give you some set amount of minutes to make as many words as you can, from a sheet of letters.

This game is perfect for me. I like words, and I like the Mission Impossible pressed-for-time challenge, and plus, I don’t have to talk to or smile at anybody. It can be played at home, by myself, on my couch of sorrows! With zero hugs!

At this point, even my kittens are sick of it.

I can honestly say this is the first time I’ve ever been involved in a game, and the first person who tries to make it social gets glared at by me. The first person who says, Oooo, June, they have a Word Fresh night at Moose Parts Brew Pub or Oooo, June, we all play it together on this one website with a chat room, the first person who does that is the victim of my next political meeting.

Anyway, I know you’ll be irritated with me if I just talk about that and don’t show you any kittens. I’m going over to Ned’s tonight to see Nancy, and I just can’t wait. I wonder if she’d like to play Word Fresh with me?

Here are the kittens. Edsel and Matt are peas and carrots, man.

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Queen Kong

When I first get up, I feel vaguely like a cafeteria server at the prison, or like Laura Ingalls Wilder when she had to feed the threshers the first day she was married.

“Gee, June, I don’t remember that from the show.”

And that was the day June tore down the street in her chonies and cut out her own tonsils.

Anyway, feeding the threshers. Not that even one of these mofos has helped me thresh even once.

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o shut upz feeed steeleee
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to be blawg dawg not always good tyme.
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to stop effing round, mom. you not see lillee starve.
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nomnomnomnom

I really have to vacuum that floor. I tried just sweeping it, but I see some leftover Feline Pine. This means Ima have to pull out the vacuum and terrify four kittens. Rewarding!

Anyway, when we left each other on Saturday, I had taken all the kittens and their mom to the shelter, for their shots and so on. When they brought back the cat carrier, I could tell right away that Nancy, the mom, was not in the carrier. “She’s ready to be adopted,” they told me. “Your friend, I think his name was Ned Nickerson? Emailed me to say he wants the mom.”

She knew more than I did. For while I had included Ned in a group email saying the kittens and mom were almost ready, he hadn’t written me to say, “Ima take the mom, for sure.” Or even fo sho. As Ned is forever talking that way. You know how street he is.

So then I came home and wrote to you, and said if anyone wants to fekking leave a tip for June, your old pal June, that would be great, because it turns out four kittens eat a lot and poop a lot, and yay, thank you for your tips thus far!

Another year of effing June. Not literally.

$11.00

Then I couldn’t stand it, and I called Ned. “They took the mom cat from me. Are you really adopting her?”

He really is! When I called him, on Saturday morning, he was in Raleigh, and do I want to know why he was in Raleigh that early? I do not. I figure there was some kind of VaginaFest 2018 that he attended that I’d rather not consider.

The point is, while the shelter DICKED HIM AROUND–kept telling him one thing and then he’d get there and learn another (he’s been to the shelter like three times this week), and no one seems to know what anyone else is doing there–he is, in fact, getting Nancy today.

One of the things they did tell him Saturday was that he had to come get her right away, that they could not keep her on hold, so he screamed down there and they were all, “Well, she needs to be spade first.”

Jesus. But that gave Ned, who you may know is something of an unspontaneous person, a chance to go to the pet supply store, even though he already just had a cat for 18 years, and get new litter boxes and a new cat carrier and a little litter-trapping rug and I don’t even know what else, I just know he spent like $200. For a $25 cat from the shelter.

He said Nancy was already in the cats-for-adoption room when he got there the third and final time till he goes back today, just dead asleep, and he said she was probably exhausted from seven weeks of mom-ing. Her surgery is today, which ought to perk her up. Heh. He gets her at 5:00.

Meanwhile, I get to keep her children for two weeks. I don’t see the point, really. If they’re away from their mom, and they’re with me, why can’t they just be in another, permanent home?

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Not that I’m complaining.

IMG_4650.jpgLexi took this one of herself, while I had the camera at the ready this weekend. It’s hard to photograph a kitten, as they are constantly on the go.

At work, one of our clients was, let’s say, a telecommunications company, and every three seconds they had something happening “on the go.” Get your bill on the go. Now you can watch The Big Game on the go. We do this service for you, because we know you’re always on the go.

Guess what I worked hard to recast? In copy editing, instead of just saying, “Re-fucking-write this,” we say, “recast.” Because we’re pretentious. And on the go.

Anyway, whenever evil Steely Dan is outside,

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Here he is, not outside. The side of SD he doesn’t want you to see. Click here!

I let the kittens out. He seems appalled by them, and while he was great with Jodie Foster, I don’t want to take a chance with his evil self.

IMG_4608.jpgBut the point is, Edsel is an excellent kitten-sitter.

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Edz try

Could I look more hagged out in that photo? Hey, I have a lot to take care of right now.

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See?

IMG_4598.jpgIMG_4623.jpgBut seriously. When I open the door to the kitten room, he gets this excited whine under his breath, and they all tumble out of there

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[except for Lexi]
and climb all over Edsel.

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Somebody peed on the bedspread in there, so I just took it off. That room is a mess. I was in there scrubbing the floor with vinegar this weekend, and as I already announced, I see I have to vacuum over by the boxes and food and so on. Good lort.

IMG_4603.jpgAnyway, he’s excellent with them. My mother said they’re like Fay Ray and he’s King Kong.

Queen Kong. Who’re we kidding?

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So that was my weekend, although I did go out with the four coworkers who still like me.

IMG_4431.jpgWe met up in a part of town I really like. Everything’s old. I guess it goes without saying that if I really like something, it means it’s old.

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See? Old.
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See? Old.

IMG_4427.jpgThe good news is, there was a puppy at the bar, ye olde bar, so thank heavens I left my house of pets to go out and admire pets.

IMG_4426.jpgBut seriously. IRISH WOLFHOUND!!

I also ended up going to a Super Bowl shindig, and what commercials did you like? I thought the Bud Knight was funny. And I don’t want to see movie trailers during my Super Bowl commercials. Fuck off.

Anyway, when Ned gets Nancy I’ll officially alert you–and yes, he’s keeping the name Nancy. “Well, she already has a name,” he said, like she’s a dog or something. He’s very nervous. He’s only ever had the one cat, and he worries about adjusting to a new cat’s quirks. But Nancy is a delight. Unless she was being polite and once she feels more comfortable, she will be World’s Worst Cat. But you’ll be stunned to hear that I feel like I know from cats, and she’s a good one.

IMG_4673.jpgWhy would you know from cats, June? Why won’t you go ahead and recover that chair, June? That you already bought fabric for, June?

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edz habing happee day. o, so happee day.

Catly,

June

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