Cat out of the bag

I knew this would happen.

When Steely Dan was a tiny kitten who should’ve still been with his mother, he wobbled up to two college boys who could not leave a tiny kitten on a sidewalk in the rain. So they brought him home, marveled at how brave and playful he was, and realized that with school and job–and I’m going to go out on a limb and say beer–they really didn’t have time or funds to give to a kitten.

So they gave him to me. They gave me his a-boy-bought-this blue bowl and too-big litter box and yellow polka-dot scratching pad that he actually used constantly.

IMG_6791.pngAs soon as I held him, I said, “Oh, this is a good one.”

For I don’t know if you know this about me, but I have cats. I’ve always had cats. I know from cats. And I could tell, in my bones, that he was my type.

I like a no-nonsense cat, I guess to offset my own nonsense. I like a solid, stoic, unflappable, brave cat. I guess to offset my flappyness.

Mr. Horkheimer was that way, and so was Winston. So was Roger. Solid cats.

IMG_6792.jpgI believe in letting cats out, a thing that would have caused nary a raised eyebrow in, say, 1975, and that now causes people to gasp in horror. Since 9/11, we’ve become an incredibly overprotective society, if you ask me. Kids don’t play. They get shuttled to school in cars rather than walking. And animals are put in sweaters and kept indoors. Everything we love has become a dollhouse creature that we keep shuttered away for safety.

My way of thinking doesn’t jibe with this. Nevertheless, my goal was to leave SD in till he was year old, till he knew where he lived and so on. After that, I wanted him to feel the grass under his paws, to lift his head and sniff at birds, and to get his fur warm in the sun.

Oh, how I didn’t know him yet. Because within months, that cat started escaping the house. I’d look outside and there he’d be. And then I’d look again and he’d be IN the house.

Were there two gray cattens in the neighborhood? Was I seeing things? Was I finally just hallucinating cats?

Turns out, he can not only open doors, that cat found an open something-or-other in the roof that led to the attic, then (I saw him do this. Stood in the hall horrified) he’d …bounce on the closed attic steps till they gave way enough that he could squeeze out of the ceiling and leap into my hallway. Boom. Home.

He figured this all out when he was maybe five months old.

And right then I knew: Steely Dan was no ordinary cat.

IMG_6779.jpgHe didn’t feel the grass under his paws; he soared above it. He didn’t lift his nose to the birds; he joined them.

IMG_0379.jpgIMG_5184.jpgIMG_8163.jpgSteely Dan was the kind of cat who rarely came home. When it’s warm, some mornings he’ll stare at me through the back window, come in and gobble breakfast, then jump through the hole in the screen and go back out all day.

He’s like kids back in the ’70s. He was free.

I’ve had this cat for two years, and since then he’s gotten famous in the neighborhood. He’s very friendly, and sometimes tries to come right in. On NextDoor, there were at first a lot of hysterical, WHO IS THIS HOMELESS (MUSCLED, SHINY) KITTY? notices, but people started saying, “Oh, that’s just Steely Dan.”

But I knew that with this spirit of adventure, there might be trouble.

IMG_3871.jpgIMG_1174.jpgI knew that with a cat who lived hard, there could come a morning I’d look for his face at the back window, and if it wasn’t there, expect him to leap from the roof once I opened the door, and he wouldn’t be up there.

Friday was that day.

After my harrowing travel experience Thursday, I came home and opened the back door to let all the cats out. Lily and Iris are content with my yard. They just want to cross their paws in the shade somewhere, maybe murder a bee or something.

Not Steely Dan. And while I had been gone Wednesday and Thursday, Ned had come over to feed the cats, and said he literally caught Steely Dan in midair as he tried to leap out the door. To say SD was nonplussed about being indoors in an understatement.

So I knew when I got home Thursday afternoon that he’d be champing at the bit to leave.

Because I know letting him roam is dangerous, usually when he leaves, I say something to him. I tell him what a magnificent kitty he is, or that I can’t wait till he comes back. Just something so that if he didn’t return, I wouldn’t feel as bad.

On Thursday, I said nothing. I don’t even really remember letting him out. I was so tired, and angry about my missing luggage, which is still not here, by the way. But if I have a choice between my favorite clothes and my $150 Retin-A that’s in that bag, and seeing my cat again, my Retin-A can suck it.

IMG_8253.jpgAnd yes, I’ve done all the things you’re supposed to do when your cat is missing. I notified NextDoor, I’ve driven to the shelter (where I saw two of my orange fosters languishing there, a thing that haunts me), I’ve called the emergency vet, and I’ve gone to ask my neighbors if I can call into their sheds and crawl spaces. “Oh, that cat? I see that cat all the time,” they all tell me. “Walked right into my house once.”

I know there’s a chance he’ll still come back, just like my wayward bag. I know someone will leave an asshole comment about this, too. Something smug and shrill and probably containing the term “furbabies.”

But what I mostly know is I adore that cat. And I wanted him to have a happy life, even if it wasn’t the safest, most coddled life.

IMG_9142.jpgIMG_0021.jpgIMG_9089.jpgIMG_0072.jpgSo if I never get a chance to tell him, I’ll tell you. Steely Dan is a magnificent cat, and I can’t wait to see him again. I’ll keep his polka-dot scratching pad waiting, just in case.

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Shelter pics of my kittens. Aka Riveting June.

Despite another busy day at work, I called the animal shelter Wednesday.

“Yes,” I said, because it’s my signature move to begin all my business-y calls with “yes.”

“Yes, I’m fostering seven kittens and their mom, because am self-loathing nincompoop, and I have two people possibly interested in adopting one kitten each. How should they do that?”

I wonder if my mother would pronounce that word “nincom-go-to-the-bathroom.” Do you remember when she said Ned should “Go to the bathroom or get off the pot” re marrying me? Harsh words from a stern taskmaster.

“What are the names of your kittens?” asked the poor recipient of my “Yes…” call.

Their names? They had names?

The last two batches of kittens I received came with paperwork, but these did not. So I had to go home and make up names for them, which is how I came up with Cora Godsey and the seven Walton children, although let’s face it, I always call that one big one Donald Trump and that runt “Runty.”

But all along they had regularly scheduled names?

Using my name and date of birth and social security number and ATM PIN and password to my 401(k), we figured out which kittens I have, and the nice “Yes” recipient gave me the shelter ID number of the mom cat, for future identification. Then she told me how my potential adoptees could get their potential cats, potentially.

The point of my telling you this rather tedious tale is that when we hung up the phone it occurred to me, she’d grown up just like me. My “Yes” recipient was just like me.

AND THE CAT’S IN THE CRADLE AND THE SILVER SPPON.

You’re welcome.

IT OCCURRED TO ME that I could go on the shelter’s website, where on their homepage, in blue, they’ve written “See adoptable animals” and then in BLACK they’ve written “Click Here,” which is just about the most cockamamie link design I have ever seen.

Or, is my mother would call it, genital-amamie.

Despite this, I realized that with the mom’s ID, I could find all the first-day-at-the-shelter mug shots of the mom and all her teensy babies, ALONG WITH THEIR REAL NAMES, and I am dying and also I feel I must show this to all of you.

The level of thrilled I was with this discovery was not nearly commensurate with reality, but that about sums me up. That and, “I hate everyone except people made of glitter.”

Without further ado, I present you my foster kittens way back four weeks ago when they arrived at the shelter, naked and afraid, and an accompanying photo from this current moment in their lives.

Mom Cat/aka Nikita/aka Cora

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Mug shot. Wanted for being tawny and prolific with the chillins. No man could resist her tawny stare. It was arresting.
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yuu shud be arrest for dis chippy floor.

Nikita is my coworker Ryan’s girlfriend’s name, so this kills me extra particularly.

Rembrant/aka Donald Trump
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dis dark kittee a immigrint. must abollesh.

I AM DYING. Oh my god, I love that I discovered their mug shots from kitty jail. And they’re all getting so big big big! They got to the shelter April 20, and I got them April 21. So they looked like these jail pics when I picked them up. I can’t even remember them being so bitty!

Claude Monet/aka JimBob (two names you often mention in same breath)
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Yuu want kittee to do wat…?
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…no. not gooeng to paint you like french gurl. zzzzzzz…

Andy Warhol/aka BenIMG_8699

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do dis be kiteee 15 minnit of fame?

Edgar Degas/aka JasonIMG_8698.png

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Did not lyke to be pick up fore week ago. do not lyke now. to put down degas jason. spready toes on degas jason. get hint. do degas jason need to paint pictur?

Caitlyn/aka Elizabeth/aka Runty/ aka Runtis Americanus
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do not have room to tat-two all dese names on kittee

Blythe/aka ErinIMG_8701.png

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wate. do kitttee be Gwinnith Paltrowe mom? son of BITZ.

Azra/aka MaryEllen/aka FR LaUral’s soon-to-be kittenIMG_8703

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wyy kittee gotta share screen tyme wif Ben Warhol? Dis bullchit.

So there they are, my foster kittens’ mugshots. I hope I was not alone in being delighted I discovered these. I know Hulk, at least, will be happy to see more cat pics.

Also wondering what the fuck an Azra is,
June

Andy Voltaire

IMG_3814.JPGGoogle Photos likes to show me what I’ve been up to in other years. Three years ago today, mom came to visit me in my Year Abroad house. Tallulah was happy to see her gramma.

Oh, Talu.

IMG_8553.jpgSomeone mentioned in the comments the other day that they wondered if my more curls/less Voltaire hair was a result of doing Curly Girl, and yes.

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I’m Mike Voltaire. I got June hair. [Disclaimer: I have no idea what Voltaire’s first name is.]
Chuck Voltaire liked him some layers.

I have been reticent to do a How To Do Curly Girl tutorial because I didn’t want to steal from the person who actually WROTE the book The Curly Girl Method

(here’s a link to it on Amazon) who is trying to sell a book and so on.

But everyone and their curlies has put online how to do this method, so if you want me to, I will, too. It varies by person, which products work and which methods, but for me almost all of the stuff they tell me to do in the book works.

I just won’t plop. I refuse to plop. If you want me to do a tutorial you will learn what plopping is and why plopping can suck it.

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Not that every day is a perfect hair day for me, but this above was second-day hair, meaning I didn’t co-wash it and start all over again with products. But it was also a rainy day, and trust me, my hair could look a lot worse than this. It’s like my cleaning lady Alicia’s best comment to me: There are a lot of people who look a lot worse than you.

Also, hey, June, why don’t you try to turn your camera OFF sometimes rather than take 29 accidental selfies a day.

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Day THREE hair, which, really, I was pushing it at that point. Also, rain. Can you tell it rained? Why is my head a weather vane?

Anyway, please let me know in the comments or through telepathy if you’d like that. A tutorial. I mean.

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Selfie I DID mean to take. My little eyeless kitty girl. I love her so.

Anyway, I’m tryina think of what’s new, over here. I’ve been busy at work, but the good kind of busy, where there’s a lot to do but you aren’t OH MY GOD WHO CAN DO ALL THIS. There’s a new-ish but not Jewish copy editor who sits behind me now, and maybe if you asked her she’d say I sit behind her.

The point is, we’ve become a little bit of a team. We work on a whole bunch of accounts–which differs from how I used to work. I used to be dedicated to just one client. Now I’m spreading my talents all over town, like my college roommate.

So, they pretty much assign everything to both of us, and we dive on it like jackals. Or, alternatively, we both shy away from it like my kittens are doing with the dry, less-expensive kitten food. Oh my god they won’t eat that damn Kitten Chow. I leave it there overnight and when I get up, most of it’s gone, but they don’t mean it. It’s just to tide those motherfuckers over till the eleventy cans arrive.

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ware fud?

Does anyone else follow Love and Hisses? Did you ever notice her kitten room is pristine? Believe it or not, that floor is swept and I Shark it often, but that floor looks a mess.

When the kittens DO go back to the shelter, I AM GETTING THAT FLOOR REDONE. I’ve got a little freelance work to do this month, and that’s where my big dollahs are going. Toward a real floor. How long have you known me to hate that floor? Six centuries?

Does anyone remember in 2014, when our president didn’t tweet and I was preparing to rent my home out for my Year Abroad? I scraped and prepared and painted that floor with alleged paint that was JUST for concrete, then I sealed it and died of exhaustion?

Does anyone remember that?

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July, 2014. DON’T DO IT, JUNE! DON’T MOVE! Stay and enjoy your floor!

Yeah. That lasted. The floor lasted as long as my relationship.

I want old-looking linoleum, which I may have mentioned, but even if I haven’t I can’t imagine you’d be shocked at this info. June likes old stuff? June likes it vintage? She always struck me as sleek and minimal.

Alf my ridiculous handyman says I’m not allowed to measure or purchase tiles without his participation, and I am down with that plan. Because maths. “Alf, the room is 38484 by 31. I need one tile.”

I guess that pretty much sums it up, although technically I’ve told you nothing.

I had a guest over last night, to try to socialize the shy kittens, but they’re really effing shy. Do you recall a month or so ago when I was offered a job by the company I freelance for? I’ve gotten friendly with the person who offered me the job, and she stopped by last night to drop off m’freelance (under/over on how long June stares at her freelance work and doesn’t start till she’s panicked?) and meet the kittens.

She’s allergic to kittens, incidentally. And even though Ben and MaryEllen and Donald Trump barely let her touch them before dashing off hysterically to hide under the chair (I have no patience for shy anything), she still broke out in welts.

“I knew I would. But I don’t care! KITTENS!” she said. For she is my people. There really is something incredibly rewarding about touching their little walnut heads. Even when their walnut heads are shy and you have to drag them out from under a bus to pet them.

Other than that, I finally got a pedicure…

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June comes to the realization that she painted her toes the same damn color blue she chooses for everything. June’s next BF will be from The Blue Man Group. She will never see him perform.

…and tonight I was gonna go to the cat cafe, because I don’t see enough cats, and then maybe the hookah bar with Wedding Alex, where I planned to ask her, “Whooooo are youuuuu?” but now she has to work, so I will come home and look at my freelance and put it off till I’m panicked.

And that’s the way it is, Wednesday, May something, 2018.

Love,
June Voltaire

Toasted since 1964

I just timed how long it takes for me to take care of all the current animals: 15 minutes. I didn’t get any time to just sit with and pet all the kittens, so without, you know, being kind to kittens, just basic feeding and scooping and changing water, it’s 15 minutes.

I guess that’s not so bad, except the whole getting-ready-for-work thing is always something of a rush, especially if you’re someone who also says, Hey, I guess I’ll sit down and write about my life to a couple-thousand people before I dash off to work.

Anyway, here’s what I did this dang weekend. What about you?

Friday.
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My coworker had a partay, and do you wish I’d stop saying “partay” already? Anyway, she did, and careful readers will note I go to this party (partayy) every year at this time, as it is this coworker’s birthday but she never says that.

IMG_7954.jpgI’d planned to stay maybe an hour or two, then get back to my 97 kittens, but careful readers will see that day turned into night, night divides the day. Try to run, try to hide, break on through to the other side.

And yes. That is a coworker with a light balanced on her head. It seemed to be the thing to do.

img_7943.jpgI left that to the younger crowd.

IMG_7961.jpgI got home to my kittens and their kitten crumbs pretty late, and the mom was waiting for me with a rolling pin.

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“ware you bin?”
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“yuu haff any ideeee wat time it be?”
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“it okaaa. mom do it all herself. she fine. …SYYYY.”

Saturday.
When my high school swain, Cardinal, was here a few weeks ago, he told me about this really cool cemetery in Milton, NC, and you know what sounds good are pastries from Milton the toaster. Hey, June, how’s keto going?

Still on it. But I’d slap your grandpappy’s half uncle for a Pop-Tart.

So I drove there. To Milton. Hoping to meet Mr. Toaster. Tell me I’m not the only person who remembers Milton the Toaster.

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He always seemed to have a touch of the rosacea.

I remember this one just bitch of a reader, who couldn’t wait to say mean things to me whenever she could, and what is that? What makes your life so empty that you take time to find a blog, then hate what the person wrote, and stick around so you can be angry?

Anyway, I had some makeupless picture up and she commented, “Is that rosacea?”

I’m tryina think of the other bitch-ass things she wrote over the years till I blocked her. But that’s the only one I can recall now.

I also recall in my first year of being separated, dating someone for, like, a week, and it didn’t work out, but that same weekend of deciding that torrid one-week affair wasn’t going to work, going on another date and kissing that second date goodnight, and coming back here to tell you all that it went well, and someone said they’d never read again because “all the drama” was “dangerous.”

Good lord with people. Good lord with my short sentences like the one above.

But back to my cemetery.

IMG_7999.jpgBefore I got to get in the car and head to the dead, I had to take Cora Godsey and her seven Walton children to the shelter, for their checkups and shots. Steely Dan didn’t join us. But I like this photo of him. When he’s indoors, he’s just longing to go out.

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ruk roff. eeeting.

So he can do this. He caught some sort of rodent Saturday morning, and what berserk eyes of murder? Good lord. More delightful updates on that in a moment. Stay tuned!

Anyway, I took the 2,000 kittens to the shelter, and they’re all doing well. I go back in two weeks with them for another checkup, and I would not be surprised if by then they will be adoptable. That’s also the day of the royal wedding, and also the baseball thing here (Official Name®) is giving away Prince Harry bobbleheads to the first 1,000 visitors and of COURSE I’m going, so two Saturdays from now will be big with me.

After I got 101 Kittmations back home and situated, I got on the road to see the dead people.

June, knowing how to throw down. June, toasted like Milton the toaster, since 1964.

The drive there was all country roads, which I love.

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And the town of Milton was cute!

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Keep scrolling. BAHAHAHAHA.
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I guess I should’ve, you know, stepped back, but these are trees growing out of an old building.

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IMG_8030.jpgI even met goaties!

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“You come here often?”
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I promised I’d send them this after I took it and still haven’t.

Anyway, finally I found the cemetery.

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IMG_8060.jpgIf you ever want to be horrible to me, like if that “Is that rosacea” woman is in charge of me after I depart the earth, put me in a treeless cemetery with fake flowers on the graves. THAT would be horrible, to me.

Sunday.
On Sunday, I acknowledged the 900 animals here.

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IMG_8083.jpgIMG_8107.jpgFaithful Readers Happy and LaUral both came by to see kittens, and you know, I CALL them faithful readers, but I have no idea if they actually read my blog/not blog or just saw kittens on Instagram or whatever. Hoooo care.

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[Potentially] FR Happy, whose philosophy is, Why photograph a kitten when you have your thumb?
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[Maybe] FR LaUrual, who is not going to be IGNORED by Eds.
Anyway, LaUral was somewhat in the market for another cat, because you can never have enough cats, just ask me. And she landed on MaryEllen.

Not literally.

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MaryEllen is brave, and seems to be good with dogs, which is good because LaUral has a giant white 4,500-pound dog, so.
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And they have similar coloring.
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Family portrait. It’s Olan Mills at my house. That’s a fake bookshelf behind them.

Once I take the kittens back to the shelter, I’ll tell them I have a person who wants to adopt one, and they’ll set it up. Just six to go, plus a mom!

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kittee feeel confident she find home. look at all dis.

IMG_8140.jpgThe rest of the afternoon was quiet, and as evening approached, I headed to the grocery store to buy more damn keto food. Steely Dan was hunkering over by the trash cans, which isn’t like him. I petted his velvety head and left.

I ran into my doctor at the store, of all things, and he was glad I was going keto. “It really burns fat if you stick with it,” he said, as he reached for skim milk and I reached for heavy whipping cream.

When I got home, SD was still by the trash cans. Was he injured or something? I had to take the trash cans out of there, anyway, so I went over to talk to him and he seemed fine.

Then I rolled the first totally full recycle bin. I rolled it

OVER

A

BABY

CHIPMUNK.

That’s why that jerk was stationed at the trash cans! For at least 45 minutes! That’s why! And I FINISHED IT OFF FOR HIM with my trash can!

Oh my god, I was devastated.

You shoulda seen that evil cat, poking at the poor thing. he really ded? 

That cat practically high pawed me. Gave me the high four.

We’re like Bonnie and Clyde now.

Goddammit. I will never get over that. I feel horrible. Also, this is three dead rodents in a weekend, and they may all have been chipmunks, and is there some kind of chipmunk colony in my yard? If so, they picked the wrong yard.

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Edz didn’t get to eet any chipmonks

I gotta go, but I guess I’ve filled you in on all the happs over here. Also, Dear June: Don’t say “happs.”

Happs,
June

Keto, day four. Am I thin yet?

Oooo, man, I did NOT feel well yesterday. They warn you of this when you do the damn keto diet, that you might get what they call the keto flu. It’s when your body is switching over. For some reason your body gets annoyed.

I had a bad headache, I was exhausted, and most important: nauseated as hell. Not barf naus; the other kind. But I had read about this so I drank stupid bone broth and took some Advil and, most important,

Saying “most important” is big with me today.

I drank something I’d never in a million years have dranken: Powerade Zero. I’d never have dranken it, and June please keep saying that, because I abhor diet sodas. I think there is nothing I hate more than the taste of diet soda. Diet sodas make me shiver like a kitten when its formula is too cold.

Perhaps I should use a more universal simile.

But Powerade Zero I purchased, as it has no sugar or carbohydrates in it, but it replaces your electrons or your electoral college or something, and

it

was

delicious.

I couldn’t believe how delicious. And most of the agony went away, although I could barely lift self off couch most of day.

But it did give me time to enjoy the following:

IMG_7912.jpgIMG_7876.jpgIMG_7925.jpgNow that the kittens are nearing six weeks, they can not only walk, which is better than I was doing yesterday and I’ve been alive 52 years, they can also run. I have toys in there for them, but most of the kittens also want to explore.

So when Steely Dan is out (Lily and Iris don’t care), I let one or a few out to explore. And since I was lying on the couch motionless yesterday (or dashing to the bathroom. That was my cardio), I got to observe Edsel the Kitten Prodigy.

If it’s a playful, curious kitten, he walks right up and sniffs it and lets it bat at him and so on. One of the kittens kept playing with his pointy old lady–looking feets, and Eds HATES his feet, his pointy old lady–looking feets, touched.

So every time the kitten would touch him, he’d do the gentlest jerk back with his foot, but he’d never leave. He’d just sit beleaguredly and jerk gently. So to speak.

But if it’s one of the more timid kittens, and I love how quickly they have teensy personalities, oh my god you should see him. He lies in the bed, unmoving, and follows the kitten with his eyes. His dog eyebrows move to and fro, and he stays as still as he can to not scare the kitten. Eventually, they all sniffed Eds and said, “o, dis dog totul wuss. thank bastet wee not puppees.”

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Thank Bastet. Just when I thought love for self could not grow deeper, I pull self back in.

Anyway, clearly this dog has found his calling. I can’t believe how good he is with them. And he’s so proud of his dog self.

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it edz calleeng

The other thing that happened yesterday, while I was here feeling horrific, was I went outside and sat listlessly on Peg’s Adirondack chair that she gave me. I was like what’s-her-name, in Beaches, when she’s near the end.

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Anyway, there I was, nearing the end in my yard, when Lily, LILY, of all people, came running

I’ll give you a moment to gather yourself.

Lily came running across the yard, which is like watching Totie Fields do the 100-yard dash, and the reason she was running was not because I’d left potatoes au gratin on the other side but because she was chasing a mouse.

I will give you another moment to gather yourself. You’re all over the place. Clean it up.

The poor mouse, who can’t have been high on the survival instinct spectrum, given that he decided, oh, this house with

ELEVEN CATS

is the yard I’m going to summer in. Anyway, this mouse ran across the yard, with old John Tuxedo Tabby Belushi chasing after him, and he dove into a clump of foliage.

This was about the time I got my Barbara Seagull Hershey ass off the Adirondack chair and got the camera. For some reason Ned can never remember the name of those chairs, and he calls them hurricane chairs and now I almost do, too. He also recently insisted Edward R. Murrow’s sign-off line was, “Be careful.” “He wasn’t on Hill Street Blues, Ned,” I told him.

But I digress. Because here:

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action shot

You’re gonna have to trust me that Lily was in that bush, and also so was a mouse. She was leaping and hopping on a moon shadow, and I don’t know what was taking her so long to just murder the damn thing.

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wat all the hullbaloo?

But then Edsel caught on that there was drama in the bush, which ought to be my epitaph, so he wandered over to help.

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Eds heer. you SO DED, mowse.

Eventually, I heard rustling in there that lead me to believe Lily got it. I didn’t dare go OVER there for fear it’d leap on me or something.

But then?

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dane to come home. heer it actually intristing heer.
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ware it be. steeeelee kill.
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got steelee mind on steeelee murder and steeelee murder on steelee mind
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Lily: goddammits. Why you let Steelee rooon?

But, given that SD quickly lost interest, I can only surmise mouse was taken care of already. By Lily. That or it escaped and is telling all its mouse friends about its dreadful afternoon.

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intrist wane.

So I got to see that unfold, like I’m a photographer in the wild. Like I work on Wild Kingdom or something.

Tonight, a coworker is having a party and I’ll be there with my delicious flavored water, and parTAY. The roof, the roof, the roof is, well, it’s just fine. Thank heavens, because who can afford a new one?

Then tomorrow I take Josie and the Pussycats, here, to the shelter for a checkup and their shots. It is just now dawning on me that I have to wrangle eight cats into a carrier. Hey, relaxing.

Maybe Edsel can help me wrangle. Maybe he’s like a kitten Border Collie. With his borderline personality.

Further reports as developments warrant,
June

Keto My Heart

Because I don’t have enough going on, today I’m starting the keto diet.

You know it’s a good sign when you don’t get to the grocery store to BUY your keto food till 9 p.m. Which is what I did yesterday. Look, I have a lot of kittening and catting and dog-walking to do after work.

I guess now is a good time to throw in the obligatory kitten pictures. Yesterday afternoon, when I got home from work, which haven’t I said that like 14 times now? Okay, June, we understand you came home from work.

So I got home from work, heh, and when I opened the kitten-room door, all seven kittens were using the three litter boxes. They were having a little litter box party. As you do. Tonight we’re gonna potty like it’s 1999.

You’re welcome.

They’re so much more adept at the box than those last four kittens, and for that? I am grateful.

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i yewse da box

What cat fur on my black pants? Say, June, here’s an idea… How ’bout you ixnay the black ants-pay?

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we frowneee
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RUNT!

IMG_7768.jpgI had trouble getting a photo of her actually sitting still. I’ve already washed that blanket once, I shook it out 394934043 times, and I’m washing it right now as we speak.

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cleen crums, fostir mama. it dispiccccible in heer.

While I was sitting here selecting from the 294839403 kitten photos I took yesterday, I also made my keto coffee, which consists of regularly scheduled coffee (use a french press! they say. fuck off! I say.) with some coconut oil blended in it. It’s kind of delicious but makes my throat hurt. Why does it make my throat hurt?

…I just Google fuckinged it, and it happens to other people, too, though no one can say why. Thanks, world. Helpful.

IMG_7759.jpgHah! I forgot I had this one. Runty is very screechy, and I love her so bad.

That delightfully clean blanket just stopped washing, so I’d better get it in the dryer so they can have it back and soil it as soon as possible, and then I’d better get to work. Then you know what I’ll do?

I’ll come home from work.

I know this was a short and shortie post, but I’m doing a lot. I’m doing it all. I’m every woman, it’s all in me.

And by all, I mean a fat layer.

Talk to you tomorrow, when I will give a full First Day of Keto Report, which I am certain places you at the edge of your seat.

I will leave you with this final, petty annoyance, which should really be the slogan of this non-blog. I was watching Parenthood the other night and got annoyed by how DAMN MANY producers there are on the show. The credits were distracting, there were so many.

Watch and grow annoyed with me, won’t you? Also, why do they think people talking at the same time is fun to sit through?

Annoyedly,
Joop

Keptly,
Goddammit…Autocorrect ruins my life.

KETOLY,
Joom

Twirl her tiny mustache

Did you ever see a TV show where the alarm goes off and the person shuts it off and immediately gets out of bed? Are there really people like that, or is it like TV gifts that are fully wrapped and you just take the top off ?

I used to think those Xs on the bottoms of Christmas trees were a fake TV thing, too, till I moved to LA and that’s how they give you a Christmas tree. Also, you haven’t experienced weird till the sun beats upon you while you’re getting a Christmas tree. With an X on the bottom.

Also, why do you guys let me do math? Why do you leave me alone with math problems?

Yesterday I said there were 108 lives in my house right now, and that I took forever to do that math. Today I woke up, by smacking the alarm and lying there forever like a normal not-in-LA person who has to cram her Christmas tree into an absurdly difficult Christmas tree stand, and figured out I did the math wrong.

Okay. Cats have nine lives.

I have three regularly scheduled cats.

Then I have a mom and seven kittens.

3 + 1 + 7 = 11.

9 lives x 11 cats is 99.

Right? But I said 108. And also, I kept thinking okay, there are 12 cats here (there aren’t) (I don’t think. Hell, if one slipped past the bouncer, who could blame me for not noticing at this point), so it’s 99 + 12.

But it wouldn’t be. It’s be 99 + 9.

Oh my god, hoooo care.

So, hi.

I have kittens.

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Today at lunch I am going to scream down to the pet supply and get a bottle and mother’s milk. Like, from a cat, not from my own mother. I worry about this one, who is like a tenth of the size of her (his? her. Because tortoiseshell, right? They’re always girls?) siblings. Her name is Elizabeth–the youngest Walton. Look at her little mustache! It’s not so cute when I have one.

I tried to put all the other kittens in the carrier last night and give her alone with mom time, but she was so not into it. She wanted to wobble around and look at things teensily. Twirl her tiny mustache. And so on.

IMG_7486.jpgThere’s a lot of competition for food. Not to be obsessed with LA today or anything, but it’s like trying to go to brunch in Santa Monica.

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IMG_7475.jpgSo that’s the update on foster kittens. The Foster Report®.

I wish I had some sort of…Foster Grant to cover the costs of this.

HAHAHAHAHAHA.

Really, you have sent tips, kitten tips, and that is magnificent of you. Thank you.

Lottie Blanco, m’coworker, brought me cans of kitten food, which I am feeding to the mom. They told me to feed kitten food to nursing cats. And it’ll be a matter of days before they all start eating that food.

I took down my tip jar ages ago, when I put UP that link to shop with Amazon. It seemed annoying to have both. Maybe my problem is I’m not ambitious.

Anyway, I still have a tip jar, it’s just not up. The link to send tips, just the tip, is still

https://www.paypal.me/JuneGardens.

Or,

But don’t leave a tip if you can’t afford it. I’m mentioning it now because a few times in the comments these past few days, people have wondered where the tip jar is, and that’s the answer. Maybe I should just put it the hell back up.

But we have other important details to discuss. Today we have:

Another poll.

Photos of my coworkers.

A rundown of the silent movie I saw last night.

And info on my high school boyfriend.

Oh, boy, June. Lemme get my coffee and we can get started. Even though you’ve already spoken for 626 words already.

Another poll.
You know my boss, fmr., whose clothes we vote on when she gets her StitchFix? She’s come into a little money as of late, a little pin money. Some hat money. Oh my god June shut up.

Should she:

…I just want you to know I can NEVER FIND where to add a poll to this blog, and I will not say the struggle is real but oh my hod. (Hod. What is WRONG with me? Oh my Hoda Kobe.)

Photos of my coworkers.
I have recently taken two coworker photos I’ve enjoyed. Here they are.

IMG_7188.jpgThis coworker came over to show me her cat mug, because she thought I would enjoy it, and what I enjoyed were her pink earrings, pink shirt, pink lipstick AND her pink mug, all at once. So a photo was born.

IMG_7448.jpgMy coworker Molly was excited about her new t-shirt, and I was taking photos of said shirt for her, but I like this blurry one best. Which is the story of my life.

Slivent Movie.
Slivent. What the hell is wrong with me? Have we discussed yet?

Last night, my old movie theater showed the silent film Sunrise, which I knew nothing about, but I did see the sequel, Sunset.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Oh, June. Lemme get a tissue.

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We have the original organ at my theater, from when it opened in 1927, and they have a guy come from Chapel Hill or somewhere to play it during the silent films. He’s really good. I mean, what do I know? But he adds to the suspense and so on with his playing.

Also, who knew this old movie would have me at the edge of my seat, barely able to concentrate on my peanut M&Ms?

There was one scene where some vamp-ish city folk, a word they kept capping in the subtitles, (“Come to the City.” “She was a fast City girl.” You know how lighthearted I am about things like this.) wanted to redo the hair of our country heroine, up there, and she had a fit and didn’t get her hair done. I was over there screaming, GET YOUR HAIR DONE, FOR GOD’S SAKE. I mean, silently. Because silent movie. Plus, peanut M&Ms in my mouth.

It really was a stupid hairdo. When she finally drowns at the end her hair looks way better.

Spoiler alert! You only had 91 years to see this movie, so I understand if your pressing schedule kept you from it.

I act like I didn’t just see it 12 hours ago.

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yu annoy

High School Boyfriend
My high school swain, fmr., Cardinal, is in North Carolina, and we are getting together tonight. Naturally there’s something, like, dead in my house. There is this smell. I cannot figure it out. It’s not cat litter, although you’d think it was. The kittens don’t use a box yet, and I’m changing mom’s box twice a day and my OWN cats’ box twice a day.

I took out the trash and the recycling.

It’s driving me insane.

Anyway, this has become less about Cardinal and more about the dead thing that dwells under my house, but there it is.

I’ll talk to you tomorrow, when I hope to cover an equally dizzying array of the pressing topics of our time.

Shutting off the alarm and getting right out of bed. Also going to someone’s house to visit before work, like they do on TV shows and never anywhere else in life,
June

 

 

 

I got 99 lives, and also more lives because math

Yesterday I heard from the animal shelter. I was wondering what was taking them so long, because I know kitten season is upon us.

“We have, well, we have 7 kittens and their mom,” they said apologetically, like they were sorry for even asking.

“I’ll be there right after work,” I said. Maybe I’m the only person who thinks she struck gold when she hears, “Seven kittens and a mom cat need to stay with you for a few weeks,” but MOTHER OF GOD.

Or kittens.

So I schlepped through the driving rain, like Dwayne in Annie Hall, which is probably funny to like four of you. It was funny to fewer of you than there are kittens. Anyway, I drove, on the stupidest street we have in Greensboro, at 5 o’clock at night, and Dear Shelter: Why you gotta be somewhere annoying?

Anyway I got there 20 minutes before close and they were packed. There were two guys picking up a cute-headed pit, and they had 494939530204042 questions. “Well, let’s say we’re in Appalachia, and the humidity was 24. What would we do if…?” I mean, with the QUESTIONS already.

So since I had time to, oh, do whatever, what do you think I did?

IMG_7191.jpgIMG_7192.jpgIMG_7190.jpgDid I take that moment to fall in love with a gray grownupeldy minty-eyed kitty named Max? Perhaps I did. I’d have scooped him up if I didn’t currently have

TWELVE

animals in my house at the moment.

Twelve. I have apostles.

Eventually, they were able to hand me over the cat carrier, and I glanced inside, because they’d told me nothing about what COLOR kittens I was getting, so it was like when you pick one door on Let’s Make a Deal or some other similar current reference.

img_7196.jpgOrange!

IMG_7200.jpgEveryone’s orange!

IMG_7229.jpgOkay, well, some of us are tortoiseshell-ish. Which is also orange, just all mixed up like butterscotch. Which makes no sense.

And I want to assure you that floor is not filthy. It’s that damn concrete floor I used to blog in, before my Year Abroad, and while I’ve scraped and painted and carried on with that floor, it peels all the time, rendering it terrible-looking. But I swept in there and put a quilt down, and what you’re seeing is the paint effing peeling, and you know what I need to do? I need to get Alf to put down some tile.

What I want is retro-looking linoleum. Who’s going to be annoyed with me, do you think, when I ask him to lay retro-looking linoleum and not floating clicky easy tiles?

Anyway back to our kittens. Who cares how Alf my ridik handyman feels?

What is not easy is photographing teensy kittens. I think they’re probably three or four weeks old.

Out of 497 photos, here are the only halfway decent ones I got.

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I worry about this runty one, whom I’ve named Elizabeth. I’ve named them all after the Waltons, as there were seven of them. She’s so TEENSY.

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This is Erin
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Mom (Cora Godsey) with John Boy and JimBob

Anyway, as they get older, it’ll be easier to take photos of them.

Meanwhile, the regularly scheduled dog and cat bowls have been moved from the kitchen, and the litterboxes are back here with me. None of my cats care that there are kittens back there. They hear them, but they’re all, eh. Dis agan.

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U not gooeng to eet kiddens, do you, Steelee?

I read my tarot cards every month, and one of the categories is “You in the Environment of the Future.”

Here’s me, in the environment of the present, with KITTENS.

IMG_7253.jpgAnd hurr. It’s been raining.

IMG_7441.jpgWhile we’re on the topic of cats, you know, just a bit, yesterday was the last day of SD’s confinement, as he is now done with his antibiotics. And today? It’s raining cats and cats. I held the door open for him, and as SO BORED OH SO BORED as he is, he wouldn’t go out in it.

IMG_7442.jpgInstead, he is opting to wreak havoc throughout the land. I also caught him coming from the laundry area, so I shudder to think of what he ate.

Clothes-chewing ass.

IMG_7269.jpgSo that’s all my news. There are 108 lives in this house currently.

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You don’t even wanna know how long it took me to figure out the maths of that.

Orange you glad I blogged today?

June. Who you callin’ crazy cat lady?

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!

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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Foster update. As opposed to Foster’s Lager.

After a quiet morning, in which I let each kitten come out to play a bit, I put Nancy and her brood in the carrier and took them down to the shelter for their booster shots.

I kibitzed with puppies in the lobby while I waited, and Edsel would like you all to know that he is greatly relieved I did not bring any of those home.

Eds got nuff on plate.

After a while, the volunteer coordinator woman poked her head out the door. “Are they eating real food?” she asked me.

They have been. They’ve been eating me out of house and home, actually. If anyone would care to make a donation, throw a little tip June’s way, that would be beautiful. I’m buying so much kitten food the grocery store probably thinks I’m eating it myself.

Between the five of them, they’d been eating four cans a day, plus dry food.

The volunteer woman went back behind the door again. I visited those puppies, and wandered into the adult cat room, not that there was pornography in there. You know what I mean. Geez.

When she came back with the carrier, I could tell by the way she was holding it that Nancy was no longer with her. Oh, my heart.

“The mom is good to go,” she said. “She’s ready to be adopted.”

I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye to Nancy. I was stunned. I mean, I know these kittens are seven weeks old, and that her milk was dried up, but jeez Louise.

“That friend of yours, Ned… Nickerson? He emailed to say he would take Nancy.”

Earlier this week, I emailed the four people who had expressed tepid interest in my kittens, and I included Ned in the email because he had come over here to look at them all, and had fallen in love with Nancy. She really is a spectacular cat. She is sweet and delicate, but not a lap cat. She’s also fun and will fetch a mouse over and over again. I think Nancy will be a great fit for Ned.

Oh my God. I am lying on the couch in the living room, telling you this story, and I heard a little kitten mew that sounded way too close. The dark tortoiseshell one, Vicky, has just crawled out from under the door!

I would let them roam freely, but Steely Dan is not pleased with this crop of kittens. I don’t know what to tell you about that cat. He loved the last foster.

Fek yuuu, kiddenz.

Anyway, Ned had never answered the email I sent about Nancy’s availability. But I had included the email address of the volunteer coordinator, and clearly he emailed her.

Wait. Y’all. Ned made a decision! That just occurred to me.

So now the kittens are here at my house, momless, for two more weeks. I feel bad for Nancy. But I know she will be in a good home where she will be helicopter parented for the rest of her days. And yes, it has occurred to me to call Ned and ask him to bring Nancy over for a visit.

Meanwhile, I will try to soldier on with four baby kitten heads.

Emotionally,
June