Chubby stick

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

Do you remember that?

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

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

Goddammit.

So, tips, please. Diet tips.

Roundly,

Joooooooooon

In the stars

You know what MY problem is (everyone gets out their Giant Scroll of What’s Wrong With June), is that moderation is stupid. I mean, it would appear that I think moderation is stupid. Signs POINT to me thinking moderation is stupid. Except when it comes to exercise.

The woman who sits next to me–and I’m sure at some point I gave her a blog name but who can keep track of 11 years of blog names. Anyway, the woman who sits next to me, Alex, received a giant box of Dean & Deluca treats for Christmas. I think a client or a vendor or someone gave it to her.

page_1.jpgThen she left for the world’s longest Christmas break.

“Did, um, Alex say anything about these treats?” I wondered, one hungry afternoon in late December. As if all my afternoons aren’t hungry. And by “hungry,” I don’t mean Biafra hungry. I mean Bored White Girl hungry.

“Oh, she did. She sent an email about them. Didn’t she include you?”

Humph. See above re No One Likes Me At Work.

“She said the treats were for all of us, and to have at them.”

Well.

Naturally, I opened the good stuff first, right? The obvious dark-chocolate-covered hazelnuts, the shelled pistachios, the tin of 27-year-old muscled bald men of color.

By the time she returned, her hazelnuts were mysteriously lacking. “Oh, no, that’s fine. I told everyone to eat them,” she assured me. “Didn’t I include you on the email?”

Humph.

So here it is, early January, and I’m starting to break into the weird stuff.

And that is how my addiction to Sanded Starfish began.

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Okay, first of all, pretentious Dean ampersand Deluca, if that is your real name, they’re sugared gummy candies shaped like stars.

But oh, man, do they have flavor. Orange is distinctly tangerine-y. I’ve no idea what the others are supposed to be, but I can tell you the famous flavors Blue and Green are to die for.

[Five sanded starfish are five Weight Watchers points. Careful maths will reveal that they are approximately one point per sanded star.]

“Haaa aaaayone ried a arfish?” I asked the room at large, around a mouthful of sanded starfish, which is now my Official Work Language®.

Turns out, no one wants to try them, or if they have, they are not nearly as charmed as I. Which works in my favor.

Meanwhile, back at my ranch, four men were working on m’house yesterday. My ’50s ranch house, which is always in need of something.

IMG_3517.jpgWas not at all annoyed to pull up to my own house and have the driveway so full I couldn’t get in.

Alf was over to put the clothes rod back up in my closet. But for months he’s been telling me I need to fix the fan in my bathroom. Since Day One at this house 10 years ago, the combination fan/light switch/outlet has not worked in that bathroom, and at this point I’m just used to the idea of charging my toothbrush in the kitchen.

I’ve had two other men over to try to fix it but it never gets really fixed.

So I got a sherpa and some trail mix, parked, and hiked over to base camp, aka my house with all the men parked at it–and I hope that’s what Ned thinks it’s like here day and night. All the men parked all over the place, just lounging in my home, waiting to service me however I see fit.

Anyway, first of all, when I walked in, good watchdogging, Edsel.

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Welcomes to howse of mom, strangurs! we gotz starfishz. they sandee.

For the love of all…I SWEPT THAT FLOOR YESTERDAY. Okay, maybe day before yesterday. Still. I give up. Plus, is that Kleenex on my robe? I am happy to report that I washed a Kleenex this past load of laundry, and just this morning was trying to PICK IT OFF all the clean clothes.

Anyway. The electrician used to be a fireman, and he brought two young firemen with him, who are learning how to electrician or whatever, and why is it that I have firemen over more often than even the firehouse?

They were all very nice, and they all had dogs–big manly dogs such as Labs, so Edsel was a refreshing change for them, I like to think.

The good news is, the electrician found the problem! It had to do with the fuses or whatever, outside. Something was loose or missing or something. Simple fix, a big $98 total, and boom, they were done. “It’ll work now. I can pretty much guarantee it,” said the electrician, scratching ecstatic Edsel’s manly head.

One of the young firemen was also admiring Steely Dan, who was clearly showing off for company: fetching his mouse, leaping cleanly in and out of the computer box.

IMG_3540.jpgAs you know, when you set down your Giant Scroll of What’s Wrong with June and pick up your Big Book of June Events, I just got a new computer. My plan was to trade in my old one for a big $155, and they sent a box for me to do just that. When I was gathering it all up to eventually put it in that box that Steely Dan has been obsessed with (chewing the corners, leaping into it from every possible angle and so on), I realized I don’t have the original mouse any longer. That was something they’d asked about when they gave me a value. “Sure, I have a working mouse!” I’d written, not thinking about how it was a pink right-and-left-clicking mouse from Office Depot.

Also, one of the keys of the keyboard was loose. The Q. From all those letters to Queer Eye For the Straight Guy, I suppose.

The point is, I knew I wouldn’t get all $155. When the young firefighter was admiring the cat, I told him what the box was for. “You don’t need a 2011 Mac, do you?” I asked him.

Turns out, he did! And he was so excited! I warned him that thing was slow, but he seemed unconcerned. So that was my good deed for yesterday.

The point is, with all these men crawling about, I was sort of self-conscious about what I ate for lunch. I’d done Pure Barre earlier in the day, so what I WANTED for lunch was that big slab of meat that tips over Fred Flintstone’s car. What I had was Amy’s Organic Vegetable Soup.

While I was pretending to be dainty, I got an email from our receptionist at work.

You know, work doesn’t pay for my phone, and why I decided to include work email on my own phone is beyond me. Anyway, she wondered why the newsletter wasn’t out yet, and of course (Big Book of June Events page 409) I gave up editing the company newsletter way back.

“Holsteder and Frapdorp run the newsletter now,” I informed her, and right when I wrote the two editors’ last names like that, it occurred to me that their names are sort of …comical together.

“Did you get the email from the receptionist wondering where the newsletter was? I forwarded it,” I asked Frapdorp when he walked past my desk yesterday.

He had.

“You know, the two of you, with your names together. They’re such unusual names. You’re like a…I don’t know. Like a pretentious candy company or something.”

Frapdorp paused.

“A pretentious candy company. Is that even a thing? Is that even a genre? A pretentious candy company…” he was getting ALL READY to make fun of me. I could see him winding up.

And that, my faithful readers, is when I was able to grab my nearly empty tin of SANDED FUCKING STARFISH and shove it at him victoriously. I was trying to fill in the gaps that stupid vegetable soup had left in me.

What I lack in willpower I make up for in ready tins of sanded starfish.

Sweetly,

June

June reviews her Christmas dates, and she’s plum tired. BAH.

Last night, I went to bed at 10 to 8:00. That’s the nice thing about migraine–you get your rest.

I am in a streak, a migraine streak, since before I left for Michigan. I’ve had a damn migraine every day since Sunday. Welcome back to Greensboro! So, last night, I trudged home gingerly, as opposed to MaryAnn-ly, fed the 90 pets, and said, “Edsel, I’m just gonna lie down for a bit.”

Not that he didn’t follow me down the hall with Blu once I said that, dropping it dejectedly when he figured out he wasn’t coming with me. And yes, I felt like a dick.

The point is, next thing you know my alarm is going off and I’m in all my clothes. So. Nice. Nothing feels better than waking up in all your clothes, like you were camping.

Oh, and also, speaking of Edsel, who in case you didn’t know is my gay dog, like anyone just got here. But speaking of Edsel, I have a problem…

IMG_2368.JPGI’ve set this room up so that there is now a chair next to the window where the cats eat. This means that stupid Edsel, ON THE DAILY, gets on the chair and eats all the leftover food. Today, he NUDGED LILY OUT OF THE WAY so he could eat her food.

And yes, I yell at him and he turns into a contrite letter C, until the next mealtime, when he gleefully and gayfully does it again.

Surely I can’t be the only person here who owns a cat and a dog. Where do YOU feed your cats so the dog won’t eat it?

IMG_2367.jpgAlso, my building shares office space with a few counseling offices. Say “office” one more time. Anyway, they’re having a toy drive, which is really a bad idea. Adult humans should really be the only ones driving.

Anyway, every day, Elmo, Big Bird and some blue character–did they update their blue character since the Cookie Monster, which is where I left off in 1971? Anyway, every day these three characters are doing something funny at the box. Sometimes they’re just staring through the carton-holder openings.

…Oh my GOD, you guys. See that text, above? I wrote that, and 900 MORE PITHY WORDS this morning, and when I hit “publish,” it published my headline and NOTHING ELSE. All I was able to get back were these first paragraphs, and YOU MISSED ALL MY PITH. So here I am again, 86 calls to WordPress, AT&T and AppleCare later, at lunch, trying to write you again.

What I was telling you, before the goddamn internet ruined my goddamn life, was that tonight is my work Christmas party, and yes, they call it a “Christmas” party.

b253c-6a00e54f9367fb883401543860ae67970c-pi.jpgThe first year I worked there, in 2011, my date was Dick Whitman.

In 2012, they’d laid me off and brought me back as a contractor, and I wasn’t invited to the Christmas party. Hmph.

965838_10152064488943850_1095438410_oIn 2013 and ’14, I went with Ned.

Then we broke up, as we are wont to do, and in 2015 I took The Naughty Professor.

6a00e54f9367fb883401bb0898356d970dAnd then in 2016, I got back together with Ned, as we were wont to do NOT ANYMORE but we were then.

IMG_3920We had both gained eleventy hundred pounds. What stress? And by the way, since Chippiegate 2017, I have done Weight Watchers NOT AT ALL, but I got back on that wagon today. Gained back four of the 10 pounds I’d lost, dammit, but still. I’m thinner than old Big Dot up there in m’polka-dot dress. Old Tri-Chins, up there.

Anyway, this year I’m going alone. Alooooone. ALONNNNNNNNE. I’m going with six fewer pounds and one less man.

download

Oh, it’s fine.

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Really.

This year, the event is at the country club, which is exciting because that’s near my house, given what a fancy neighborhood I live in. I live in fancy-adjacent, really. When I first moved here, I told someone what street I live off of, and I remember the person asking which side of Battleground was I on, which is the dividing street between fancy and not fancy. Why didn’t the person just go ahead and ask, “You got money?”

Which, by the way, I do right now. I got paid last night, and I got my monthly deposit from Amazon THANK YOU OH MY GOD YOU GUYS, and also I got paid yesterday for doing that freelance work I never shut up about last month, a check that has four digits in it.

This means I’m considering getting my new dishwasher, or alternatively, tiling the floor in the terrible room with that concrete floor. I’d like to put in some kind of retro-looking linoleum, which does anyone remember where I found that stuff? The really good pretty linoleum? I talked about it before, but now I’m all, where WAS that, even? Does anyone know? I think it was technically a linoleum company from England. I’ll never find it again I HATE EVERYTHING.

Anyway, which should I do? Ooo, Ima add a poll. That always goes so well, when we do that.

I promise you this post was a lot funnier THIS MORNING before I had to remember what I said and re-create it all crabby-like, but I leave you with this…

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it dooo fit. dooo not a quit.

I put this puppy bed, fmr., on my dining room table, fmr., which now resides in my computer room, fmr., and does anyone local need a very long table? Anyway, I thought it’d be a nice place for cats to lounge in private, and yet? No one used it. My cats never use actual cat BEDS I provide them–they’d prefer Edsel’s bed or my bed or my clean clothes or anything that inconveniences me. Nevertheless, yesterday Steely Dan suddenly embraced the puppy bed, and for that I am grateful.

I leave you now but I’ll be back to give you a poll. Which is what HE said.

Hoping this doesn’t all DISAPPEAR INTO NOWHERE.

Invisible June

LDV

I have a new thing that bugs me: Women using that video-making feature where their eyes are huge, and their lips are gigantic, and their voices are distorted. Perhaps you’re hilarious, person making a video while sitting in a car, which, woooo! How could you NOT be, with that original venue? But I see that damn exaggerated-features look, and I can’t even click to hear one word.

Also, the kids who’ve been coached to sound world-weary when they’re four. Stop.

You all have put both of these on the Facebook of June page lately to say, “I hate these,” and I am so with you.

These videos are the 2000s version of Pagemaker. Back in the ’90s, this program got invented that let you create your own invitations and flyers and so forth, called Pagemaker (and not PageMaker. I believe it came before we started the equally annoying trend of naming everything WordThing. WordPress. TypePad. InDesign. StopIt).

Anyway, Pagemaker started the whole Secretary As Artist trend, where everyone was “designing” their own stuff, and it looked horrific. Now we have video cameras in our purses, and little special effects we can use, and suddenly everyone’s a makeshift internet comedian.

Says the woman who still blogs, for god’s sake.

You know what was funny? The woman who’d bought herself the Chewbacca mask. She wasn’t trying to get millions of viewers. She wasn’t trying to hone her “craft.” She wasn’t trying to become an Instagram star so she could quit her day job. She was just a genuinely likable person who happened to capture a funny moment.

And this is the problem, I think. The little girl dancing Gangnam style at a wedding reception is genuine. These “I planned them” videos always look, you know, planned. And they aren’t that funny.

I know I’m not the only curmudgeon, here.

Look who I’m talking to. Of course I’m not.

Other than me hating everything on the planet and still being in an angry phase, that about sums it up. I worked on something all day yesterday at work, which was fun to do, actually, but took a lot out of me. Copy editing. It isn’t laying bricks, but you’d never know that.

Anyway, I came home, realized I was out of soap and water. I am not kidding. Soap and water. So then Edsel and I went to the grocery store. I hated to leave him after I’d just gotten home and he’d started sculpting a bust in my honor and so forth.

Then I got home and said, “Is it an acceptable time to go to bed yet?” like anyone was watching. I made myself stay up till 9:00, didn’t do any freelance and hello panic, and then Eds and I slept all night except for Edsel’s one very urgent call of nature at 12:12 a.m. I swear we were back asleep by 12:14.

The only exciting news I have for you is that several months ago, maybe even a year ago, Faithful Reader Fay sent me a Hello Kitty toaster, which I use quite frequently. I’m quite the connoisseur of toast.

But all this time, I’ve been buying the pretentious bread, a habit I picked up from my…ex, the 404 Error, who gets said bread in the deli section at the store, and it’s full of the nuts and grains and it is delicious.

But this weekend, I was near the Ghetto Lion, and I needed groceries (including water and soap, but who can remember?) (here is where my mother is screeching MAKE A LIST), and they don’t HAVE rough made-in-store bread at the Ghetto Lion, so I got normal-person bread in the bread aisle, and weird, it felt.

The point is, I made toast, and

GUESS

WHAT.

That toaster embeds a little image of Hello Kitty in the toast! My toast was too rough and unrefined and high-school educated to show it before.

IMG_1855.jpgMy life has been transfigured. Also, say “toast” one more time.

I’d better go. I’m taking Eds to the vet today, to figure out why he’s still itching and chewing, and now his stomach seems to be bothering him.

Before you give me all the advice, here’s what we’ve already tried:

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

Someone told me to try colloidal silver, and Ima ask the vet about that today.

I can’t help having PTSD about Tallulah, and all the tests we ran, when her tumor was right there visible, had anyone, oh, looked at her little dog vagina. I have never once called it anything other than her “little dog vagina.” I don’t know why. Her LDV.

Have PTSD about a lot of things lately. Remember when life just used to be normal and I wasn’t upset? Me either. But I know it existed.

Okay, talk at you and your little dog vagina soon.

Cutlery roasting on an open fire

My weekday mornings do not vary much: The alarm goes off and I resent it, Edsel and I open the door to 800 cats lining the halls expectantly. I trip over at least one of those solid assholes every single day. Hey. Cats are more solid than you’d think, when you’re kicking one down the hall accidentally.

I slop the hogs, make coffee/heroin for myself, then sit down to blog. Usually I open my photos from the day before in order to show you it, whatever “it” may be that day.

(Do you have to “make” heroin? I know in the movies they show someone roasting a spoon over an open flame. So maybe you do. Or maybe when you’re high on the heroin you enjoy a spoon over an open flame. I just have no idea.)

M’point is, today when I opened photos, I enjoyed the fact that almost all of them were selfies. Nice. Proud.

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There’s one sad photo of Kit, there, at the end. You can see I never did get happy with my at-the-bookstore selfie, as I took 70 of them.

IMG_1841.jpgWhat’cha doin’, June?

I went to work yesterday like a normal person, which you know isn’t true because I can’t do anything “like a normal person.”

(Do you consider yourself normal? Any time a man writes that he’s “normal” on a dating profile, I’m all NEXT. First of all, hey, judge-y. Also, hey, boring-y.)

Anyway, I went to work like the person I am, only to realize I had scheduled my Botox at 12:45 and my car repair for my accident at 1:00.

Pfft.

So the car repair got rescheduled for today. Not that I know it even NEEDS repair. Today is when they look at it. Give it the male gaze. They check it out now, funk soul brother. Right about noon, funk soul brother.

So above, there, is me going to the OTHER appointment yesterday, applying the ice to my head, there, before the needle and the damage done.

I need to stop thinking in song lyrics.

In summation, I got went to work yesterday and had Botox at noon. That would be a man’s blog entry thus far. Those two sentences.

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Oh, look. A selfie. This is me after work, in the waiting period. See below. Click here! You won’t BELIEVE what happens next.

At work yesterday, I had some of my delicious high-fiber oatmeal, because Mmmmmm, or Nnnnnnnn, as they say in the Pearl Drops Tooth Polish commercial when they lick their teeth.

( https://youtu.be/m2tYvxEVreI

Sadly, while I was searching for a Pearl Drops commercial, as you do, there were 97 clips from General Hospital available to me, including one with a Leslie and Monica showdown that I really wanted to take time out of my executive schedule to review, but look at June. Staying with the task at hand. If the “task at hand” is to get distracted by “Nnnnnnnnn.”)

So I had the oatmeal, June says, and you’ve already forgotten. “Jesus, WHAT oatmeal?” Then I had my important Botox at noon, so that left me no choice but to get a luncheon Dorito Taco at Taco Bell, and why everyone isn’t just knocking down the doors to get them MORE Dorito tacos is beyond me. Cause, nnnnnnnn.

Then, Kit and I had plans to go to a reading together at the local bookstore after work. We were gonna hear Mr. Write’s new book.

We were meeting at 6:45, so it was easiest to just leave from work, where there were, sadly, no snacks. What kind of workplace doesn’t have snacks?

I got to the bookstore a little early, ordered a glass of chardonnay, and meandered to the back of the store, where readers read when there’s a reading, and that was the day you stopped reading June.

I found a book. I know! At the bookstore. And I sipped my wine and read my book, which in retrospect I shoulda bought cause now I’m over here wondering what happens next. I want to click here on that book.

The point is, by the time Kit arrived, I was drunk.

IMG_1852.jpg
“Oh, good.”

Seriously. I guess oatmeal at 9:00 and a taco at noon were not enough to take on The Wine. Holy cats.

So I slumped drunkenly in my chair as Mr. Write wandered in, followed by an entourage of admirers. I’ve been to several readings read by writers where they read at the bookstore readingly, and, like, when The Poet was there, she had standing room only.

But Mr. Write, who happens to be good-looking, had throngs. Seriously.

IMG_1853.jpgAnd, you know, careful readers will note that we dated. Not you and me, homophobic housewife in Haverford, Mr. Write and me. We dated briefly last year. He was the most “with potential” suitor I’ve had since my 404 Error, but it didn’t work out.

And now he was seeing me for the first time in more than a year, and I’m drunk.

He saw me through the crowd and was very gracious. “Good to see you,” he said to me, while people gazed at him. He really is a Mr. Handsome.

And his reading was great. I’d link to his book or something, but he is, in fact, really private and I feel like he’d be annoyed with me for being all, HERE IS SOMEONE I DATED HERE. HERE. On m’blog.

Anyway, the good news is, he read a lot of stuff, so I had time to sober up. And I thought, What the hell was wrong with me? I could have had Mr. Write to date for awhile, and I was all oh no. Break me off some more of that guy who’s hurt my feelings 400 times instead.

After, I got his book, Mr. Write’s, I mean, and stood in the endless line for him to sign it. I caught up with Kit’s life, which has taken an exciting turn lately, and I similarly feel like she would kick my ass if I splayed that all over yonder, so let’s just say her life is going well now.

Mr. Write and I exchanged pleasantries once I got up to him, but the woman behind me cockblocked our conversation by including herself in our talk, and I wish you all could have been there to see the daggers coming right out my half-drunk eyes.

Kit and I then sat in the window of the store, as that’s the place where you can sit at tables in the window and have yourself a time. “I’ve never sat up here before,” said Kit, who works 11 feet from that store, and how she hasn’t taken advantage of that table window table is beyond me.

The point is, Kit knows everyone in town, and it was like she was on a float. We’d get one sentence out and there she was again, waving gleefully out the window and throwing butterscotch candies.

I guess homecoming queens don’t do that, do they? That’s more clowns at the Knights of Columbus parade.

Whatever. Girlfriend was waving. A lot.

So, in summation, I went to work, got Botox at lunch, then to a reading with Kit after work.

The end.

Briefly,

Juan

 

 

 

Rearing to go

I know you were waiting all night for Installment Two of June Goes to Medical Appointments, and I understand your excitement and anticipation. But something bigger happened yesterday.

Bigger, June? Bigger than an eye exam?

Not that my eye exam wasn’t without incident. I pissed off the front desk by not remembering I had a separate card for eye insurance. Look, I go there once a year, and they mail me this flimsy card from somewhere or another, and who can remember? I found it eventually, didn’t I? Okay, after you already ran my debit card. Still.

I got to work and didn’t take lunch, did my copy editing and so forth, and now I’ve turned into that bad-storytelling woman from yesterday’s example. “He went to college, all that good stuff.”

The point is, Edsel was at daycare all day, hoping for a Dexter sighting. Dexter is his new Beagle friend. We’d missed Dexter by ONE DAY.

Dear Advice-Givers: I HAVE left my number with Dexter’s people and I HAVE asked the daycare to alert me should Dexter be there, with the caveat that I know how FREAKING BUSY that place always is, and that I’d understand if they clean forget, because it is always Grand Dog Central in there.

That made no sense.

Anyway, since I hadn’t taken lunch, I left work at maybe 5:20-ish, which is early for me, and wow, was traffic suck-ass. I also had to take the busy headed-to-downtown road because I had to get the Eds.

I was just around the corner from work, at a complete stop thanks to traffic, when

BOOM

It took me a moment to even register what had happened. I’d heard a big sound, then a second later, see boom above. A car rear-ended the car behind me, who in turn rear-ended me.

“Oh my god!” I said, then, “Ow.” I’d hit my head on the back of the seat rest, hard.

“Geez.” I rubbed my head and got out of the car. The person who hit me was a coworker. “You okay?” I asked.

“Hit my head,” he said.

I got my phone and dialed 9-1-1. As I was speaking to Edna at 9-1-1, the woman who’d hit my coworker got out of her car. “I looked down for just a second,” she was saying, “and then you’d slammed on your brakes.” As if it was my coworker’s fault for braking in bad traffic.

“Do you need an ambulance?” asked Edna the 9-1-1 operator, after she’d asked me how my day was at work and did I need to get Edsel from daycare. I said yes, because my coworker and I had both hit our heads, and I kept thinking of Natasha Richardson.

It was cold and rainy out, so I waited in my car for all the men and women of LAW enforcement (only funny if Marvin forced you to watch every episode of Cops).

Just then, I had an IM on Facebook, my favorite thing. My coworker Ryan had been driving by and had texted me. “I drove by the accident. You okay?” he’d asked, clearly having something more important to do than stop and make sure I was ALIVE, RYAN.

Anyway, I opened the IM, in case it was another coworker or something.

It was a name I didn’t recognize, and it was a long, long message. As I scrolled up to get to the top, I realized it was That Woman. That Woman who’d contacted me at the beginning of October. That Woman who …knew Ned.

She’d gone on Facebook with another account, as I’d blocked her original account, and messaged me THE DETAILS of what she and Ned did while we were together.

The details.

While I was waiting for an ambulance.

She literally added insult to injury.

And you know, I have exciting photos of me at the eye doctor, Eds at day care, and even an exiting action shot of the ambulance, which mercifully came right then (“Say, you got any emergency services for a shattered heart?”), and my stupid computer, which has been acting up for some time, won’t let me put them on here to show you.

Anyway, the ambulance people and the (cute!) firemen made me do a bunch of “does she have a concussion” moves, and also the Cabbage Patch because why not, and they said I could go to the hospital if I WANTED to, and who doesn’t? Both my coworker and I ended up not going, and we’re probably both dead now and this is purgatory.

So, an hour later, I headed to daycare to get Edsel. My car doesn’t LOOK damaged, other than the license plate, but Ima get it checked out for anything horrific that might have happened to its insides. “You made it!” said the daycare woman, who I called to warn that Edsel might be having an impromptu sleepover.

Eds was glad to see me, on a shocking note, and he was even gladder when I did the insane thing.

Because what I did next was, I took my totaled car and my exposed brain from my horrific accident, and I drove all the way down to Ned’s gym. He is nothing if not predictable. I called him as I was nearing the place.

“Where are you?”

“I’m just leaving the gym.”

“Yeah, I know you are. I’m headed there.”

“You’re…what?”

“That Woman messaged me.”

So, in the rain, the cold November rain, I drove to that parking lot, and with my medulla flying just everywhere from being exposed, I gave Ned a piece of my mind.

Literally.

Because it was exposed and all.

“I’m so sorry,” said Ned. “I am 100% responsible for all this,” said Ned. “What can I do?” asked Ned.

“You can just leave me alone,” I replied, and I realize I said, “Leave me alone” to someone who was, in fact, leaving me alone, but there it is. And I may have wept a bit, and mentioned how crazy about him I used to be, and how this was like that last scene in Mother, which I don’t recommend you go see, where Javier Bardem rips the heart out of Jennifer What’s-Her-Name. I may have dramatically mentioned all that, while gray matter plunked onto the parking lot along with the rain.

But the best part of this story is, the whole time I was handing over a piece of my mind? Edsel was

SO

DELIGHTED

to see Uncle Ned.

oh unk ned! oh edzul god it unk ned!! unk ned da bomb! unk ned hello! hello! edz not care how you hurt mom. hullo UNK NED!

And Ned was all, “Yes, hi, Edsel,” while I was over there ranting and railing and speaking in tongues due to my severe head injury.

After about five minutes, I was pretty calm, actually, and got in the car and drove home, finally without incident. Eds was in the back asking me to play the country station so he could find a song that encapsulated what it meant for him to see Unk Ned.

So there it is. I came home and initially announced on Facebook that I had been in a severe accident wherein my car had upturned and caught fire and so on, but after I got 10 IMs in 10 seconds, I realized really that last thing I wanted to do was field questions all night, and what I really wanted to do was hide under the nice afghan Faithful Reader Kris made me, and watch Friends. There is little less taxing to one’s soul than an episode of Friends. They’re all so pretty, and the decor is so ’90s.

But speaking of Facebook, could you all all do me a favor? A flavor, as my friend Tammy always called it?

Sometimes, particularly on Facebook of June, I will post something and it goes awry and I take it down. Some days I post something and it gets too “give June advice”-y. Some days it becomes too, “In fact, I DO have a degree in psychology, so let me analyze people in your life, or even better, slap a label on him or her.” Sometimes it just feels too personal after I’ve posted, and I get squicked out and take it down.

But no matter what, if I post something and take it down, I’ve done so because I felt uncomfortable about said post, so here’s where the favor comes in.

When I’ve posted something and taken it down, could we not go BACK to Facebook of June and ask, “Where is that post?” and make it all dramatic with the shocked-face emoji and the “Someone IM me what happened” and all that? I already feel uncomfortable, and to have it brought back to the page makes me feel bad all over again. Go ahead, gossip about me off that page all you want, I don’t care. But could you not gossip about me in front of me?

Alternatively, you could IM me all the details of how you …know Ned. That’d be much better.

Accidentally,

June and her severed head

If we’re gonna turn back time, can we turn it back to when I was cute?

A delight this time of year is discovering HOW MANY DAMN CLOCKS you own. You think you set them all back, only to enter a room and say, “Oh my god! It’s 8:30??!!” Yeah, no it isn’t. You forgot this one. Now how the fuck do you work THIS one, goddammit?

I gotta make my house more like Las Vegas.

I’m pleased to report that I almost killed myself adjusting my car’s clock while I drove, and hey, June. Unsafe at any speed.

Also too, I set my alarm clock back an hour. Knowing how I am, how I a.m., I brought my phone to bed with me last night, set that alarm as well, to be safe.

This morning, as my phone and I rocked out to Tupelo Honey at really 7:30 but at what the government insists is now 6:30, I thought, hey, why is just my phone going off and not the additional, tinny, you-ordered-this-on-Amazon-and-clearly-it-came-from-China alarm clock?

And right then I knew. I’d somehow fucked up. And that is when I saw my regular Chinese alarm clock said, oh hey, it’s 6:30 p.m., man. Have a cocktail. I’d set the time for p.m. when it was a.m.

Do you know what I haven’t done in forever? Is add any sort of Amazon link, so you’re reminded to click, say, that clock above so you are then on Amazon, and anything you buy I get millions of dollars for.

Anyway, so the time changed, and as you can see, it vexes me. Fortunately, I’m the only person in America who is vexed by the daylight savings. I’m saving daylight for a rainy day.

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o fer fuk sake

Back when time was normal, I did nothing but my freelance work, and what I noticed by Saturday night is the animals were plumb sick of me and also I was depressed from sitting in my house doing freelance work.

So I got dressed and put on lipstick and went to Barnes and Noble at 9:00 on a Saturday night. I know! When I throw down, man… But hey, did you know Barnes and the Noble, there, are open till 11:00? I didn’t. Till I was depressed and wondering where the Sam Hill I could go that late that wasn’t a strip club.

I got some Moleskine notebooks. Oh, wait. What if there were a link to the same kind of notebooks, and you could buy them too and we could be Moleskine members only?

I also bought Judy Blume’s latest book.

Which, okay, is from two years ago, BUT I DIDN’T KNOW THAT.

So that wasn’t so bad, Saturday night wasn’t.

IMG_1558.jpgOn Sunday morning, I got stood up. If any of you know a local 54-year-old man of color named Charles–which I thought was going to be a good sign because that was my grandfather’s name–please tell him he’s a very rude man.

At 10:39, I wrote him via the dating app, as he was nine minutes late. “I’m, um, here!” One should take note of the fact that one did not get a real phone number before said date. One should never go on a date without the person’s actual number. This is my little tip for you.

At 10:45, I wrote him again. “I wait for no man, Charles.” Then I deleted him from my matches. Charles will not be in charge of my days and my nights.

IMG_E1556.JPGSo, since I was already up and sporting real pants and so on on a Sunday morning, I browsed the windows of my friend Kit’s store, and oh my god this chair.

IMG_E1557.JPGPlus also, oh my god, this hat.

I have to stop going to Kit’s store. She night as well not pay for the storefront; she could just drive all of her finds over to my house.

IMG_1546.jpgSo that about sums it up. It’s hard to blog about your life when you’re currently ceasing to have much of one.

Oh, but listen. Be sure to purchase many things via my Amazon, will you? Because my stupid dishwasher is broken and I have to get a new one, I think. I already had a dishwasher repairman here, twice, and it works better, as long as you don’t mind that half the things don’t get clean. I also keep trying to make this computer work nicely, and instead it groans and spools and sings about doom, despair and agony. This computer is six years old. Is that too old?

I leave you with photos of the animals, because remember when I went out and had fun and saw people other than animal people?

Me, either.

IMG_E1572.JPGIMG_E1571.JPG

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get lyfe.

I swear Lily’s not dead. Lemme find any recent Lily photo… I have trouble because she’s always out having athletic adventures.

Oh. Wait.

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maybe lilleee a little bit ded

Okay, bye.

Joooon.

Ruins

I’m trying very hard to not talk about my 404 Error, because my hope is that I can just, oh, continue on with my life, and if I make him the topic of my posts, he’s still in my life, a bit. So I’m trying to write about other things even though I really just want to obsess.

So, hey, getting up to watch sunrises and meditative walks and time with friends and my dog blah blah. Oh, and also, I saw Ned on a dating site last night.

And here’s the argument, right? The, “Well, YOU’RE on a dating site.” Which is the same argument my mother would give me about people running into me at Kmart. “Well, THEY’RE shopping there.” Yes, but I have a stellar reputation to uphold.

What I never had in junior high school: A stellar reputation to uphold.

Anyway, sure I am. Of course I am. I’m on a dating site. At this point I’ve winnowed it to one because Jesus Christ, do they ever not work. And I have about .00004% faith in men being good, at this point. BUT I’M TRYING.

This damn breakup is more than two years old already, and I kept getting drawn back in, and starting to think, Oh, maybe this time it’ll be okay (oh, June), and then what do you know, another heartbreaking thing is discovered. I’m the Christopher Columbus of discovering things. “This is India!” No, it’s not. “This is an okay discovery! I can, you know, live with it!” No, you can’t.

I think I’ve found India, but what I really found was an Indian giver of love.

So, hey, June. Nice going. Good idea, to keep letting yourself get drawn back in. You sure selected the right Let’s Make a Deal door, there, sister. Again.

When I was a kid and watched Let’s Make a Deal, I always thought getting the donkey would be way better than a stupid car.

So anyway, there was Ned’s clever profile, a profile I’d have answered tout suite. And yes, I have a clever profile up, too.

So why was I stung?

I guess in my naive heart, I thought he would think, Wow, I really ruined June. I should sit here and think about why I did that, work on why I keep asking her to come back and then being mean to her. But instead, he’s all, Welp, destroyed her. Tourists can now come visit the June Ruins. Her insides are crumbled and missing and desolate. And even though I keep contacting her even still, asking to talk, I’m also gonna say, NEXT!

So. Perhaps that’s unfair, but that’s how I’m feeling.

IMG_1047.jpg
“Yes, are these the June Ruins? I was told there was a shave-ice truck near here.”

The Poet and I are going to a movie tomorrow. Here we are, yesterday, at a meeting in a very green room.

IMG_1045.jpgWork isn’t the sanctuary it used to be, either. Lately I’ve felt marginalized, ignored, and I’m trying to fix that but I’m not getting very far with it. I don’t know exactly what happened, but it’s disconcerting, because work was my one place that I was happy, at least from 9 to 5ish.

So I’ve been asking for more to do. Throw it all at me, I keep saying. I’m not sure how else to fix whatever I broke other than to make myself fairly indispensable.

I’d better go. I should shower, as that is the sign of someone who isn’t depressed, right? Like, hygiene and so on? Yes. I suppose showering didn’t cheer Janet Leigh all that much.

fbd3b3a1a8f2a92609488386a449838a

Stabbing it with her steely knife but unable to kill the best,

June

Because we need more oompah bands.

IMG_E0936.JPG
a powst about edzul?!

It’s raining today; at the most, it’s going to be 64 degrees. They also call that “the high.” Am become familiar with language of peeple.

Anyway, after Edsel’s a.m. constitutional, and by “constitutional” I mean he peed, he stampeded back inside, as he does. “Edsel, wait,” I said, and he screeched to a halt. That’s one good thing about Edsel. He usually listens to you. “Let me wipe your feets,” I said, and yes, I said “feets.”

Incidentally, who’s delighted she mentioned his scratching trouble yesterday? Hello, 200 pieces of advice.

It’s okay. We’ve been to the vet. Thrice. We’re working on it. Also, I can Google with the best of them. Oooo, also? I finally figured out you can SHUT DOWN MESSENGER on Facebook! You can just shut it off! No more fruitlessly saying, “Can everyone just not message me?” Because I shut if off!

Oh, the freedom. Who even knew that was a thing? I live and breathe this Philadelphia freedom.

I’m free, to do what I want, any old time.

I’m free! Free falling!

If I could get off the Freedom Trail here, the point of my story is, I have a dog towel in this back room, a towel that is allegedly just for dog feets. I have no idea why, other than that meant they got to charge me more. They charged me an arm and a feets.

I also have a for-dogs absorbing mat right at the back door, then another “for dogs” smaller rug at the next threshold, accompanying this alleged dog towel. They’ve formed an oompah band. You’d think my house would be devoid of the muddy prints. The feets prints.

IMG_0973.jpg
stop saying. that not meen what you think it meen.

Oh, look. There’s, like, feets prints between the two rugs. Yeah. Hello, luck.

OH MY GOD ANYWAY. So I said, “Hang on, Edsel, let me wipe your muddy feets.” And I turned to get the towel, and when I came back, Edsel was holding up his foot. His one feets.

HOW CUTE IS THAT?

That story took 350 words. If a man told it–

a man would never tell it.

img_0927.jpgIn other news, this above about sums up m’weekend. Am vaguely depressed, and by “vaguely” I mean I’m depressed. Maybe I’m not depressed so much as I am just sad. And a little panicky.

I realize the best part of life is the thinner slice, and it don’t count for much.

See. Why does my brain have to have Air Supply lyrics in it? No one needs that. Not even the fine members of Air Supply. Ask me about algebra, though. My brain tossed that right out, like a brown avocado.

I realize there is a good chance, maybe an 80% chance, that I will be alone for the rest of my life. I mean, (a), I’m old. And (2), any man who’s single at my age is likely damaged. A thing I have learned the hard way. I’m not saying I’m not damaged. Look at me. But I’m saying I may be doomed.

This makes me sad, although truth be told, usually when I’m in a long-term relationship, I get annoyed with the person, anyway. So maybe I’ll be happier, once I accept this lot in life. But I feel like I’ve failed in some way. Like I’m a spare button that you keep just in case, but really you’re all, Why do I have this button? It goes to nothing.

IMG_E0942.JPG
mom be edsel spare buddon
IMG_E0943.JPG
no, seeeruslee

So I spent most of the weekend here, other than yesterday’s venture downtown, driving all the old men–you know what? I’ll stop. I will spare you that much, at least.IMG_0967.JPGI mentioned this on Facebook last night, but yesterday when Edsel and I were taking our p.m. constitutional, and by “constitutional” I mean an actual walk, we saw a woman several blocks down, lounging on her hammock. She was reading a book, a cat strewn across her. “That looks lovely,” thought, and I noticed that cat was a handsome all-gray, my type, his tail whipping just the way Steely–

goddammit.

And that is how, once again, I’ve found my cat bonding with another family. Why? He doesn’t even like ME that much. Why suck up to other humans?

Anyway. I just hope this whole sad sad crush of doomed sadness won’t make me a boring blogger. People will start leaving in droves. I already learned the hard way–and why I gotta keep learning the hard way?–that everyone here isn’t reading me with love. I stupidly kind of thought you all were. Like, I kind of thought if you bothered to come here, you kind of liked me.

I mean, I thought that about a man who kept insisting he loved me, too, and look where that got me.

Why are people so goddamn complex?

Ima go get ready for work now, and carry on with my life, such as it is. I leave you with this YouTube veeeedeo, that Marvin hepped me to. He keeps putting up old veeedeos (keep saying that, June) from many years ago (this one is from 1998), and Dear Marvin: Does this piss off your wife? I mean, she seems very cool, but if it were me, I’d be all, “Okay, already, with the memory lane bullshit.”

I’m so glad Marvin married someone I like. Granted, it’d be a lot more fun for me to have a whole new enemy, but I’m glad he found a nice person who is sane. Marvin deserves that.

I’ll talk to you later. Tonight I gotta freelance and maybe lie around listlessly. I’m swamped.

Alone again. Naturally.

Coot

See June kvetch

IMG_0933
Glare-ing at you. HAHAHAHAHAHA.

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

IMG_0934

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

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

Hi, mom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hi.

IMG_5925

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

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

My stupid heart. I suppose it will go on.

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

June