We had a thing at work where, if you brought in cans of food for the less fortunate, you got a free breakfast that they’d ordered in from somewhere. But, see, we had all these snow days and I literally didn’t leave my house for four days, see.
Not to mention you all know how I am.
So when I got to work Wednesday, of course I forgot to bring Unfortunate Cans. Of course I did.
But then everyone kept sallying forth all morning with their breakfast plates, plates with delicious breakfast food on it, plates they deserved because they didn’t forget to bring cans. I grabbed a packet of my depressing high-fiber oatmeal® and headed to the kitchen.
“Aren’t you going to have the breakfast?” my boss’s boss, fmr., asked me.
I told him I forgot to bring cans.
“Oh, I brought cans enough for both of us,” he said. “Go on down there.”
I mean, I know Gallant wouldn’t have gone on down there, but whoever said I was Gallant?
So I brazenly walked canless into the donate-your-cans room, and took me some french toast, and I realize God pursed his lips, okay? I know. I felt it.
I never think Ima like french toast until I HAVE french toast and mother of god is it delicious.
The unfortunate would also like french toast.–God
At 11:00, I had a doctor’s appointment, which is in a very fancy building with two-story-tall ceilings. I always feel like I’m going to a soap opera doctor, although never once has my doctor du jour taken me into her office to discuss my condition from behind her desk while I have on a suit jacket and skirt.
Anyway, after my appointment, I was leaving the doctor’s office and at the same time, across the fancy hall, a very hot age-appropriate man was leaving the offices of Erectile & Dysfunction or whatever. I actually have no idea what sort of old-guy-I-could-actually-date office he was leaving.
The Matlock Fan Club headquarters.
P. Pants & Co.
The FDR Lap Blanket Boutique.
The Old Spice outlet.
The point is, we exchanged glances. I smiled at him, and then he paused and smiled at me.
“I am so appealing,” I smugged, as I sauntered down the stairs. I mean, is there no end to my charisma?
When I told this story to my mother, it was at this point that she asked, “What did you do wrong?”
I’ll tell you what I did wrong.
When I got to my car and strapped m’seat belt on, I noticed I had
down my shirt, so much syrup that the top and the bottom of my shirt had actually gathered together, to form a little syrup pucker. We gather together to hear the lord’s disapproval.
There was an actual FOLD of syrup gluing my shirt together.
I had a syrup strip going all the way down one pant leg. A whole stripe, like I was in a ragtime band or something.
So unless that man has some kind of Aunt Jemima fetish, I think I’ve blown that one.
When we last left each other, flush from our reunion, I told you that Steely Dan was injured and I’d taken him to the vet. It turns out, it wasn’t a cat fight. It was a rock lobster.
It was a fence or maybe a tree. They think he got caught in a fence. Like he’s a steer or something. Anyway, in his endless quest to be mysterious, it turns out Steely Dan is really easy to pill. Affable Iris, the second-most cheerful cat on earth (after Winston, fmr.), is an
about taking a pill. Evil Steely Dan, who’d just as soon cut you as cuddle with you, is all, Oh. Okay. You can shove that thing in my gullet. Fine. Is there any port?
But here’s the thing. He really. Really. Really. Wants to go out. And the vet has him on antibiotics for a week and wants him to stay in.
He wants out. Though. Is the thing.
And I have to remain ETERNALLY VIGILANT, because he can figure out doors as long as they’re not deadbolted (at least he hasn’t figured out deadbolts…yet. Now he has all this time on his paws to Google it), and so far this has happened twice…
So that’s been relaxing.
Other than my endless parade of animals and their animal drama, today marks 10 years that I moved into this house, and to celebrate, I’m getting a crown.
Dental work scares me. I don’t like it. I’m getting the gas, so I will be fairly oblivious, and that’s for my sake AND the poor dentist’s. I’ve got a new dentist after the whole hygienist-who-never-stopped-prattering fiasco at the last place (if you just got here–heh–I got up all my courage to ask for the other hygienist, and I saw her once, and then the next time I came they gave me the chatterbox again, so I got up my courage and asked AGAIN, and they scheduled me with ol’ Chat Room AGAIN. The End), and he seems pretty highfalutin’ with his equipment and so on, so maybe my crown won’t be so bad.
Other than that, since we haven’t talked in a coon’s age, let’s go see what my photos can tell us about what the HELL I’ve been doing lately…
Do I even wanna know what I was thinking when I took this?
I went to Home Depot, then Lowe’s, then Home Depot again last weekend, because no one else ever thinks to go there on weekends, so it was like a big relaxing cavern, really. I picked up these succulents because I fall for any novelty.
Really I was buying paint and switchplates, but that never stops me from a pink succulent impulse buy.
I also tried to go have tea with my coworker Nefertete, and TEA with NeferTETE was almost too much for me on the cute level, but guess what.
They were CLOSED.
We tried to go to a coffee shop and I want you to gird your loins. CLOSED. Had the world ended? It was Monday at 5:45 p.m.
So we ended up at a bar in a restaurant, and the bartender kept insinuating himself into our conversations, probably because Nefertete is young and hot. And then I choked on my wine, as I am always choking on liquids, and careful readers will recall that I’ve already been knocked out and had a tube down my throat to see why and there’s no reason BUT IT HAPPENS ALL THE TIME. So.
Oooo, and I went to the farmers market this weekend and got my annual plants. These are called frrrrr-deeee-glloooo-de-harbels, and they need pretty much zero care. They feel kind of hard, like a succulent, and apparently it rains just enough here that they thrive in front of my house like this.
I get them every year, and they last April through October.
Then at some point in November I look up and they’re all dying and brown the same way I am, and I throw them out unceremoniously. The way the world has with me.
The point is, while I was marketing like a farmer, the woman who sold me my flowers was young-ish. I can’t tell the difference between 22 and 35 anymore, but she hovered in that general age range. We’d been kibitzing a bit while she rang me up, and she rolled her eyes when she said, “You wanna get hit on by men over 50, this is the place.”
I hadn’t expressed an interest in being hit on, by the way. She said that in response to ANOTHER saleswoman having been hit on.
And right then, it hit me.
Fuck you, men over 50. I mean, really. Fuck you.
Men who are 55 are always going to try for the woman who’s 22. Or they’ll claim they like women their own age but have a leering eye that tells another story.
I know I said a few months back that I’d given up, but right then, at the farmers market which really does not get an apostrophe so don’t get your knickers wadded, right then, I King Kamehameha gave up.
It’s not that I’m not interested in men my age. It’s that I don’t like them. They’re kind of horrible people. And maybe that seems, oh, a tad general, but I’ve been out here tryina meet them since 2015 and have not met very kind men.
They were kind when we were all 32. They were! But I think the kind ones got swooped up in committed relationships. For the most part, what’s out here are men who aren’t good. They’re the evil leftovers. And I guess the same could be said about me, but while I’m flawed, I’m not addicted to porn or leering at 23-year-olds like I actually have a chance.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
But 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.”
Eventually 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.
We have many items to cover today, so let’s get right to business [straightenss her papers the way Walter Cronkite did].
Just so I don’t go all over the place, as I’m wont to do, Ima tell you right now I wish to address the asshole on a dating site, my cool new manicurist, and the answers to our grid yesterday.
Oh, and before I begin (OH MY GOD, JUNE), I do want to tell you that when I woke up today, Edsel was pressed along the length of me, as he does, and at the top, Iris was similarly pressed against me, and Eds was using her as a pillow.
Had I not been pinned in a dog/cat sandwich, and had it not been black as pitch, I’d have captured it on film for you. He loves his cats, Edsel does.
Iris didn’t mind, by the way. She was purring and starfishing her paws.
And also (SERIOUSLY JUNE, TAKE A RITALIN), Camilo my coworker never addressed The Banana yesterday, after ALL THAT BUILDUP the day before. I even sent a very pressing work email about it, and nothing.
I saw on our work Instagram account that he was, like, literally lying on the floor of the studio, setting up an image for a work thing, but I truly feel that bananas should take precedence, when one has PROMOTED the idea that you’ve learned something so new about them that your brain “literally” exploded.
But, as with the majority of the emails I send at work, it went unnoticed. So.
Yes, we have no banana stories.
So, the asshole on the dating site.
A few months ago, I noted that I was done trying to date. I gave up. At least for the time being. But I was procrastinating the other day, and I technically HAD Tinder, I just had it deactivated. So all I hadda do was fire it back up, and that is when I immediately saw Ned, got pissed and decided to stay on it with a vengeance.
Won’t you buy my book, “Mature Reactions, by June Gardens”?
One of the profile photos I have up is from my Frida Kahlo costume, although I think I used one where I’m outside, not this one. It doesn’t matter. Why can’t I just tell a fucking story?
Another photo I have on there is my photo from that app that makes you look about 10 times better than you do. I have written under it, “The photo where I look hot is an app, unfortunately.”
Today I get a message from a new potential swain. “Who’s Frida Kahlo?”
Like, if you’re the kind of guy who doesn’t know who she is, you’re not going to be the kind of guy I like. You’re just not. You probably love watching professional football while at the bar at Applebee’s. You probably love Pixar films, and justify it by saying, “They write them so adults can enjoy them, too.”
You probably claim you were “in all the groups” in high school and you “got along with everybody.”
I don’t have time for the middle of the spectrum. I need an edge.
But look where that’s gotten me thus far. So I responded, with all the patience of a SAINT, “She was an artist. Mostly during the ’40s and ’50s. Was married to Diego Rivera.”
I mean, allow me to Google that for you.
As I was writing that, he wrote, “The one where you’re hot is an app?”
So, after he read the info on Frida, he responded, “Oh, the one with the unibrow.”
Do you get wings and a Bud Lite at Applebee’s, or…?
“And the one where you’re hot,” he repeated. “An app?”
“That’s an app?”
He did that twice. He wrote “an app,” and then followed it up with the extremely necessary “That’s an app?”
“I believe I noted that, verbatim, yes,” I wrote back. Annoyed. Then I couldn’t stand it.
“I also believe repeatedly peppering a woman about the genesis of ‘the one’ photo where she’s hot might not be the smoothest method for meeting someone, particularly when ‘the one’ hot photo was addressed in my profile.”
Then I unmatched his ass. I whip out the sexy school marm vocab when I’m pissed.
I mean, hide your true colors till you’ve got me hooked, like the other men I’ve dated. Geez.
At least I’ve found love in a hand job.
I haven’t had a pedicure since fall, and what with the broken toe and all, I will continue to not have one. I decided, however, to have a manicure last night, because it’s been a hard week of fending off Appleasses. Asslebees.
I usually go, which you know from your Big Book of June Events, to Elegant Nail & Tan (Slogan, “We actually have no way for you to tan”), but there is another nail place closer (Slogan, “We’re two minutes from your door, as opposed to three”) and I’ve never given them a try, so last night I did.
“So, what’s your story?” asked the manicure guy, and we told each other our life stories.
Oh my god, he was da bomb. He’s hilarious, and he loves Italian food, and he made two of my nails reflective metallic!
Anyway, he was hilarious and smart, and also oddly psychic. He mentioned saying something on my blog before I told him I had one. He asked if I needed a phone charge before I realized I did need one. We discussed his blog name and he said, “Señor Kittens.”
“You don’t even HAVE kittens,” said the woman next to him.
Weird. The Oddly Psychic Señor Kittens.
I see that I have droned on and have not addressed our grid from yesterday, wherein you listed all the people from my photos.
I do not have time now to break them all down for you, but tune in tomorrow for a Very Special Saturday June where I reveal all. Maybe I’ll even finally have that banana story. Sounds appealing, June!
Oddly, I remember what I was doing a year ago today. I mean, as someone who writes what’s going on in her life every day–now without weekends!–I guess it’s not that shocking. But believe it or not, I don’t look at my blog every day and read what I wrote in past years. I also don’t check to see how many comments I got. I read those as emails.
Nevertheless, I remember that last January 31, I went to the allergy doctor, because my throat always feels like it’s closed up. He put all those–
–what the hell? This just caught my attention out the corner of my eye. Why? What’s fun about jumping up there? You just have to hunch over like Quasimodo. Quasi-meow-do. You’re welcome. That sort of hilarity is why you come here.
As I was saying. The allergist put all those needles in my back, to see what I’m allergic to, if anything. The little chippie in the scrubs said, “Do you want your phone while you lie here with needles in your back and we wait for you to die of allergies?”
I mean, really. If someone can die from kissing someone who had eaten peanut butter earlier, why can’t you die from getting poked with something you might be really allergic to? But no. They leave you in there full of allergens, and go about their business.
“No,” I smugged. “I can be alone with my thoughts.” Ya goddamn millennial. In your fuchsia scrubs.
So she left, probably to go look at her phone, and then I found myself unable to be alone with my thoughts. What if I went into anaphylactic shock because they’ve injected me with pine nuts or whatever? What if nothing ever happens to me, and I die one of those New York deaths where no one knows till the smell drifts into the hallway?
That was from When Harry Met Sally.
I guess what I’m saying to you is, it was one year ago today that we found out I have dust mite allergies. And do you know what I haven’t been doing? Is taking my Allegra.
But what I HAVE been doing is taking stupid Prilosec every morning when I get up. The doctor told me to. I mean, he also told me to take Allegra, but let’s leave that alone now, you nagging bitch.
So, I take it, then I have to wait half an hour before–
What the hell? Why can’t he ever just sit still? And he thinks he wants out, but it’s cold as shit, and the other day he was out and it was cold, and when I opened the back door to call him, he immediately leaped through the hole in the screen door to get in, without waiting for me to take that lengthy stretch that it takes to, oh, open a screen door.
He hates cold. And yet he wants out in it.
He’s an adventure cat.
Anyway. So, I have GERD, along with my dust mite allergy, and really, the part where I go on with life is inspirational. The doctor wants me to take two Prilosec in the morning, then wait half an hour to drink coffee, and has he MET me?
It’s the most difficult half hour of my day, that wait for coffee. More difficult than any half hour of Tracy Anderson I may do.
But now a half hour has passed since I took my goddamn medication, and now I can have my coffee. Hang on. …Oh, sweet elixir that gives me migraines and GERD.
I bought this mug when I saw my Aunt Mary at Thanksgiving. It was in a little shop we popped into. News flash: If you’re with my Aunt Mary, you are going to pop into little shops.
Anyway, Owosso is a town in Michigan. When I was a kid, my father went to both Hawaii and the town of Owosso for work. So I used to tell everyone that when I got big, I was going to move to either Hawaii or Owosso. They both sounded so exotic. I had no idea why all the adults were so hog wild over this announcement.
I wonder what my four-year-old self would’ve thought about “Greensboro.”
I think I’ve lived here the longest, out of anyplace since I left Michigan. When I’m 54, I will have lived away from Michigan for as long as I ever lived there. (That’s in a year and a half.)
I lived in Seattle for four years and two months, to the day.
I lived in Los Angeles for 10 years and six months, to the day.
I’ve lived in North Carolina for–oh my god! It’ll be 10 years and six months on February 5.
Also, I am weird about knowing dates. It’s irked people my whole life. I met someone in college, with whom I slept, who was also weird about dates the way I was. Turns out, our compatibility started and ended there.
He was, well, he was Marvin’s roommate, okay? I didn’t know I was gonna marry Marvin. Geez. Anyway, once, they were lying around their room, Marvin and his roommate With Whom I Slept, and Marvin said, “I wonder if eventually we will sleep with the same girl” and also he said, “I wonder what day we lined our drawers.”
I mean. That sums Marvin up right there.
They’d lined their drawers with the school newspaper, for which I wrote, by the way, so this whole story is a circle of life. Boom. But anyway, Marvin’s roommate said, “September 29th.”
“How the fuck would you know that?” asked Marvin.
What I wonder is why the fuck two boys in their late teens weren’t out doing heroin and banging women. I guess because I hadn’t shown up yet. With m’horse. But I mean, really. Is this the saddest college conversation you’ve ever sat in on?
That same roommate of Marvin’s (WWIS) and Marvin were home for the weekend once, and they couldn’t find anything going on or anything to do. There they were, on a Saturday night, and Marvin’s grandparents drove up.
“We were looking for your parents. Aren’t they here?”
No. They weren’t. For it was Saturday night.
“We’re on our way out, too,” said Marvin’s 90-year-old grandparents, who literally squealed the tires on their way to their fun night.
And there stood Marvin and his friend (WWIS), still having zero to do on a Saturday. In Detroit. When they had their youth and their health, and more than likely a communicable disease from me.
What was I talking about? Have I become one of those old ladies who you wish would just go down for her nap already?
Oh, I know. The fact that they’d lined their drawers with newspaper meant Marvin’s roommate (WWIS) could open a drawer and prove he was right about the date.
Also, boys. Good lord. Lining their drawer with newspaper. I remember my roommate and I heading to Pier One to decorate our room, where we purchased among other things a large pink parasol to hang from one corner. Our drawer liner had lavender flowers. It may have even smelled nice. We may have been Spartans, but our room was not spartan.
My college roommate slept with everyone else. I took care of Marvin’s dorm room; she took care of all the other rooms. Together, we made a great team.
I gotta go. I realize this was an important and hard-hitting post, one you’ll remember for the rest of time, but it has to end sometime.
Before I leave you, obligatory kitten shots. Also, we’re getting to enjoy shots of The Many Pants of June, which is always a plus.
My fur pants and I took the mom cat to the shelter yesterday, for her booster shot, and they said she is done producing milk. This does not stop this group of beasts from constantly suckling on what now must surely be her poor worn-out boobs for about 80 hours a day. So the shelter said they can stay here till they stop doing that.
Let’s say you just got here, which continues to be absurd every time I say that. Blogging is over and no one’s just gotten here since 2011.
But maybe you’re on your Rumspringa or something. The English welcome you. And here, Amish person on a break, is my story. The story of an old English. If I were you, I’d be trying a McGriddle, not listening to me, but go ahead, if this is what you want to do. Go ‘head wich yer bad self. That is a saying from 2007, Amish person on a break.
[Amish person runs back to Pennsylvania]
I started dating when I was 14. My friend Beth fixed me up with her boyfriend’s best friend. He was, in fact, hilarious. She and I were in her basement, awaiting the arrival of the boys, who were 10th-graders as opposed to our 9th-grade selves. Her Hitler-youth-looking boyfriend came down like a normal, strong-jawed person. There was a pause.
And then my future boyfriend quite intentionally tumbled down the stairs to make his big entrance.
I also remember that night, he was over by a deck of cards. “God, I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he said, scratching his arm furiously. “I might have the 7 of Clubs itch.” And then the 7 of clubs fell out of his shirt.
(I probably should have just stuck with him. He also came over once, on his way to the mall or something, and I told him to stay a minute, because my mother was on her way home and had wanted to meet him. He went to the bathroom, where my mother always hung her nightgown on the back of the door. My mother came home, and he emerged from the bathroom. In her nightgown.)
We dated I think four months and then it was over. He was my Facebook friend for awhile and maybe two years ago he unfriended me; I’ve no idea why.
After that, I fell in love with Giovanni Leftwich, my one high school boyfriend. Do you watch Victoria? He was a lot like Albert, with the intensity and brooding and floppy hair and so on. When I wasn’t with him, I was dating my other high school boyfriend, Cardinal. The least-intense person on our planet.
Neither of those worked out. They were both Facebook friends, until Giovanni quit Facebook. He can be found on Broodbook.
The last semester of high school, I met a Catholic boy, who went to the Catholic school where all the kids seemed rich but in retrospect weren’t, and we dated for two years. We went to the same college (his stupid idea), and he ended up sleeping with one of my high school friends, a girl who had also slept with Cardinal.
She’s still my Facebook friend.
Then I met Marvin, and originally that didn’t work out either, although I was berserk
about him. We dated for three terrible months in college (I Yoko’d him and he was indifferent),
and then we got back together 10 years later and married in 1998.
That decade between Marvins, 1986–1996, was full of a lot of relationships that…didn’t work out. The artist with long hair. The smoker with long hair. The recently-separated photographer. The drummer with curly long hair. The poet with long hair. The filmmaker with regular hair. (Oh my god, every one of those men are my Facebook friend. Facebook is my elephant’s graveyard.)
Then I met Marvin again, we got married, and?
It didn’t work out. It took almost 16 years to not work out, but it didn’t.
Then six years ago, I met Ned. We all know how that went.
I don’t know if you’ve noticed that lately I’ve had a dearth of dates. I think the last date I had was four months ago.
I’ve been kind of doing so on purpose (not entirely), but lately, I’ve been deciding something.
I give up.
Not in a bad way, not in a defeated way, and maybe not permanently, but for now?
I give up.
Ever since I fell in love with Giovanni Leftwich in late December of 1981,
OH WHAT A NIGHT. LATE DECEMBER BACK IN ’63. WHAT A VERY SPECIAL NOT-EVEN-A-FETUS-YET TIME FOR ME. AS I REMEMBER WHAT A NIGHT.
Ever since then, I’ve been chasing that feeling. Because when I fell in love with stupid mean Giovanni Leftwich, I was on top of the world. And then I crashed to a halt when he broke up with me three weeks later.
And it’s been the same way ever since. I fall in love, I’m on top of the world, then boom. Failure. And I spend all my time obsessing about when I’ll meet the next person, then I do, and I start all over again.
The thing is, this last relationship was so all-consuming that, well, when I think about it, I guess I’m sorta traumatized. And here I am, 52, I’ve pretty much lost m’looks, and even if I were the hottest 52-year-old ever, 52-year-old men want to date 35-year-old women, because to tell you the truth, in my experience, men kind of suck.
So lately I’ve been noticing that I’m not dating anyone, haven’t for awhile, and I’ve been perfectly fine. I’m not lonely. I’m not crying into my giant pillow. I’m not requesting Nothing Compares to You on the radio.
I remember one of you telling me once, in the comments, how you were in, like, 7th grade, and you had the radio play Nothing Compares to You, because clearly nothing was going to compare to the boy you dated for 9 days in 7th grade.
I’m kind of sick of the up-and-down-ness of it, and of how annoyed I get with the person when he inevitably disappoints me. I sort of don’t want anyone else’s actions to determine if I have a good day or year.
I’ve got no trouble heading to the movies by myself if I feel like going at the last minute. Last night, I spent an hour on the phone with Alicia. It’s not like I don’t have anyone to talk to. I have all you guys!
So that’s what I’m doing. I’m giving up. I haven’t set a lot of rules for myself about this. But mostly I’m just not going to try to do things so that I “meet people,” which has worked zero since I moved here, because see above re 52 and lost her looks and 80-year-old men hitting on 25-year-olds.
I’m not going to keep track of “how long” it’s been since I had a boyfriend, and I couldn’t tell you that anyway, since Ned and I were so nebulous for so long.
My plan is to, oh, life my life without thinking about men and when am I gonna meet a man and
I do have one rule.
When I’m out with my friends, and the conversation turns to our single status, I’m putting the kibosh on it. No more long nights discussing why this one didn’t like us and why that one would be perfect if only he…whatever. Men never do that. When men are together, I imagine they talk about sports and music and spitting. But if you have a man in your life, go ahead. Ask him how often he and his friends talk about their relationships. Ima guess almost never.
I just feel like for the last few years, I’ve been swimming upstream, hoping to meet someone at this late stage of the game, and the truth of the matter is, most of the men I’ve met are broken in ways that I don’t want to deal with. If a man is middle-aged and single, it’s not because he’s fantastic and undiscovered.
Same with me. I think maybe my flaws are just not conducive to being in a relationship. So I won’t be.
And that’s that.
And I realize we’re hovering on too late, but could you try to stop me from becoming a cat lady?
Saturday was, like, perfect. Except there was no sex. But what’re you gonna do? I’m old. Those days are over. Now I’m depressed. Fuck Saturday. So to speak.
Anyway, when I woke up, it was warm-ish out. Like, in-the-’50s warmish. Which was lovely, considering I had been living inside a snow globe for the past three days. I’d been living in a window display of Santa’s wonderland. I was like Disner on Ice.
Disner is my old married name. That was only funny if you knew that.
So I woke up, and Dear June: We’re four paragraphs in and you’re not even out of bed yet.
It’s Throwback Monday here on the PieBook. It’s Moronic Life Choices Monday.
This photo is from Friday night, and DEAR JUNE NOW WE’RE GOING BACK IN TIME YOU ASSHOLE.
On Friday night, I met Ned, my ex, NedEx, for a drink because Friday was the anniversary of our first date. At that same place. On those same barstools. We’ve returned every year, except for last year when we weren’t speaking. I had a whiskey sour, same as I had on our first date, and Ned had a Glenlivet on the rocks, which he did not have on our first date but in the past six years he’s become a fancy president and probably has to do things like drink Glenlivet as part of his responsibilities.
Anyway, it was without incident. He had a cold. I don’t even think we hugged in the parking lot at the end.
You know what I don’t want any more of? Being distracted. The whole time I was with Ned, I was preoccupied with anxious thoughts. Is this guy gonna answer my initial Hello email on OK Cupid?
Is he going to ask me out?
Is he ever going to answer that last email I sent?
When am I gonna see him again?
Why isn’t he ready to be exclusive? I certainly am.
Why won’t he tell me he loves me?
Is he ever going to want to see me more than twice a week?
Is he ever going to want to move in with me?
And so on. The whole time.
Now? I mostly think, Should I get up and drive to the cupcake place? Like, that’s the most pressing thought I have. It’s so …relaxing.
By the way, I never do. The cupcake place is pretty much two minutes from my front door and the last time I went there was when my mother was in town in July. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, either. But I like the idea that it’s over there. Cupcakes are just a short drive away.
When I got home from my controversial drink, this was happening. Old Batsheba, here, was up to no good.
Anyway, I GOT UP on Saturday (Oh dear God, June) and it was warmish, so the pets and I played in the yard.
Wow. Look at all that frolicking. They play the way I did as a child. Stand there and wait till you can go back in and watch Bugs Bunny. Okay, so I didn’t capture much play. TRUST ME.
Also, I would like to heartily embrace my lawn guys for moving that chair just into a random spot in the yard like that. I’ve moved it back to its rightful place, to get snowed on in a tidy spot.
I headed out to eat lunch, because who is sick of Lean Cuisine, and when I did, I popped into this little boutique that I always walk past and never go into. It was cute, and two rooms large, and of course I was the only person in there, and
Dear People Who Own or Work at a Store:
Don’t follow the shopper. Don’t follow her and tell her all the specials you’re having. I guarantee you if the person is a bargain shopper, she’ll ask, or look at the signs. And that whole, “Oh, I just happen to be over here admiring our backless dresses at this rack” is fooling no one. Do I LOOK like a shoplifter?
Oh, god, maybe I do.
Anyway, this prompted me to shop in a million little stores Saturday, and I bought nothing, because please see last weekend’s shoe extravaganza. Still, it was fun to browse.
When did I become someone who “browses”? For reading glasses?
THE POINT IS, one of the places I wandered into is a lash place? Where they do tinting and extensions?
Dudes. I thought that was all they did. Turns out, they do Botox and micro-needling and all that bullshit I love to do to myself! And they’re as close as the cupcake place! And, AND, I asked about micro-needling, and they told me what it did, and then said, “That’s not something you really need.” So I trust them, as well.
Ima be Norm on Cheers at that place. Oh my god. Exciting.
Then I headed to the local pet supply place (okay, that was a funny blog post I just linked to. Say, June, up in yourself much?) to get Eds a new collar. His is getting mighty dingy, and who decided cloth collars were a stellar idea for dogs, who roll in red dirt and squirrel bits and so on?
At the pet place, they were having kitten rescue day, and the rescue thing appeared to be put on by a fraternity. I say this because the front of the store was teeming with fraternity boys behind a table. And it was an…African American fraternity. What I’m saying to you is I walked into young hot men of color holding kittens.
“Did you DIE and go to HEAVEN?” asked my mother, when I stampeded to call her.
“Well, we know heaven is out of the question,” I said, admiring young boys like the Elizabeth Smart perv I am.
I know it wasn’t Elizabeth Smart who married her student. What the hell was that woman’s name? She married that kid, and he had a Hawaiian-sounding name like Lava Hulu PooPoo or something. The only other name I can think of is Casey Anthony, and I know that’s wrong too.
Hell. The good news is, Lava Hulu PooPoo is an excellent cat name.
When I got home from my shopping extravaganza, there was a couple looking at Peg’s house, with the man in the couple’s dad along to do dad things like look in the crawl space. Do you know what my dad would never do?
I’d heard someone had bought that house, but maybe it fell through. I don’t know. The point is, they wanted to know things about the house and neighborhood, and just as I was assuring them the ‘hood was great, we all looked up.
Because this was happening.
When I’d pulled out of my driveway Saturday morning, I’d noticed how all the other roofs in my neighborhood were lovely; so perfectly snow-covered. Except mine. Mine was riddled with paw prints.
I’m surprised theirs weren’t, too. I’ve seen this cat on every roof on my side of the street thus far.
“If you move in, I hope you like cats,” I told the people.
“Well, we’ve got a Doberman,” they said, because apparently they are Shaft in 1972. “But he loves cats.”
That is exactly what Steely Dan needs: To leap onto Peg’s roof and have a Doberman smiling up at him. That’ll show him.
I was all set to stay in after that, and play with my app, have it tell me how much I look like a man, or Andy Gibb, when something on my phone popped up telling me about Ultherapy near me for 25% off.
I am not kidding. First of all, how creepy are our phones now. Secondly, you know I’ve been obsessed with saving that damn $3,000 ever since I came up with the idea to get Ultherapy. I called the number, and they had a free consultation that same day, at 5:00. So I left the house, put air in my tire (this is yet another thing I’ve learned to do while single. Change doorknobs, kill roaches, and now put air in m’tires. At this point I might as well become a welder) and screeched over there on my air-filled tires.
But you know what? Even though I’d save money at this new place? I didn’t trust them. It seemed like kind of a sales factory, whereas the other place had a nurse take me in and tell me details, and show me photos and so on, this place was all, “Come in. How you paying?”
So I demurred.
But THEN, I got home, and I got the mail. And for no reason I can think of other than they’re bored with my lack of activity, my credit card company sent me some of those goddamn checks. You know the checks I mean?
When I paid off all my cards this past summer, I gave them all to my mother, so I can’t use them. I saved only my vet credit card (Care Credit) just in case something happens, which it always does, to one of the pets.
But here was a regular card company, saying, “Use these checks for anything!”
Remember that time Jesus was up on that rock or whatever? He always seemed to be hanging out on some rock somewhere. I guess there wasn’t a lot of development yet. He was never hanging at Orange Julius Caesar or whatever.
Anyway, remember when he got tempted? That’s how I felt when I had those checks after I’d just been to the Ultherapy place. Mother of GOD, I could just use these checks!
Remember that time June compared herself to Jesus?
Anyway, if you’re asking WDJD (What Did June Do?), I ripped up said checks. Now I’m stuck with this haggard face till I save $3,000, so thanks a lot.
So that was my perfect Saturday. Sans sex.
On Sunday, I went to a French movie, and I was the only person in the theater, which is why I could take a picture of said movie. I know you’re stunned that the French folk were smoking. Right after, those French folk were fucking. No wonder they stay so thin. That’s all they ever do.
There are never any shower scenes.
After, I bought myself some SweetTart hearts at the Rite Aid, and ate so many that I scraped up the inside of my mouth. I feel like you never hear French women say this. These SweetTarts have [burst] no artificial flavors [burst].
After my daily tending to Edsel, which includes letting him stare at me 40 hours a day, I took a “How’s Your Anxiety?” quiz, which maybe he should take. To get the results, you had to give them your name and email address, which bugs the shit out of me. It’s the equivalent of a store clerk following you around.
A few hours later, I got this email…
Had totally forgotten I’d told them my name was Fuck You.
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.
Then 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.”
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?”
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.
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.
Was 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.
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.
As 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.
“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.”
“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.
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…
I’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?
Also, 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.
The 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.
In 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.
And then in 2016, I got back together with Ned, as we were wont to do NOT ANYMORE but we were then.
We 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.
Oh, it’s fine.
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…
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.
I have a new thing that bugs me: Women using that video-making feature where their eyes are huge, and their lips are gigantic, and their voices are distorted. Perhaps you’re hilarious, person making a video while sitting in a car, which, woooo! How could you NOT be, with that original venue? But I see that damn exaggerated-features look, and I can’t even click to hear one word.
Also, the kids who’ve been coached to sound world-weary when they’re four. Stop.
You all have put both of these on the Facebook of June page lately to say, “I hate these,” and I am so with you.
These videos are the 2000s version of Pagemaker. Back in the ’90s, this program got invented that let you create your own invitations and flyers and so forth, called Pagemaker (and not PageMaker. I believe it came before we started the equally annoying trend of naming everything WordThing. WordPress. TypePad. InDesign. StopIt).
Anyway, Pagemaker started the whole Secretary As Artist trend, where everyone was “designing” their own stuff, and it looked horrific. Now we have video cameras in our purses, and little special effects we can use, and suddenly everyone’s a makeshift internet comedian.
Says the woman who still blogs, for god’s sake.
You know what was funny? The woman who’d bought herself the Chewbacca mask. She wasn’t trying to get millions of viewers. She wasn’t trying to hone her “craft.” She wasn’t trying to become an Instagram star so she could quit her day job. She was just a genuinely likable person who happened to capture a funny moment.
And this is the problem, I think. The little girl dancing Gangnam style at a wedding reception is genuine. These “I planned them” videos always look, you know, planned. And they aren’t that funny.
I know I’m not the only curmudgeon, here.
Look who I’m talking to. Of course I’m not.
Other than me hating everything on the planet and still being in an angry phase, that about sums it up. I worked on something all day yesterday at work, which was fun to do, actually, but took a lot out of me. Copy editing. It isn’t laying bricks, but you’d never know that.
Anyway, I came home, realized I was out of soap and water. I am not kidding. Soap and water. So then Edsel and I went to the grocery store. I hated to leave him after I’d just gotten home and he’d started sculpting a bust in my honor and so forth.
Then I got home and said, “Is it an acceptable time to go to bed yet?” like anyone was watching. I made myself stay up till 9:00, didn’t do any freelance and hello panic, and then Eds and I slept all night except for Edsel’s one very urgent call of nature at 12:12 a.m. I swear we were back asleep by 12:14.
The only exciting news I have for you is that several months ago, maybe even a year ago, Faithful Reader Fay sent me a Hello Kitty toaster, which I use quite frequently. I’m quite the connoisseur of toast.
But all this time, I’ve been buying the pretentious bread, a habit I picked up from my…ex, the 404 Error, who gets said bread in the deli section at the store, and it’s full of the nuts and grains and it is delicious.
But this weekend, I was near the Ghetto Lion, and I needed groceries (including water and soap, but who can remember?) (here is where my mother is screeching MAKE A LIST), and they don’t HAVE rough made-in-store bread at the Ghetto Lion, so I got normal-person bread in the bread aisle, and weird, it felt.
The point is, I made toast, and
That toaster embeds a little image of Hello Kitty in the toast! My toast was too rough and unrefined and high-school educated to show it before.
My life has been transfigured. Also, say “toast” one more time.
I’d better go. I’m taking Eds to the vet today, to figure out why he’s still itching and chewing, and now his stomach seems to be bothering him.
Before you give me all the advice, here’s what we’ve already tried:
Changing his diet. Many times.
Another kind of antidepressant
Flax seed oil
A different kind of allergy medicine
Someone told me to try colloidal silver, and Ima ask the vet about that today.
I can’t help having PTSD about Tallulah, and all the tests we ran, when her tumor was right there visible, had anyone, oh, looked at her little dog vagina. I have never once called it anything other than her “little dog vagina.” I don’t know why. Her LDV.
Have PTSD about a lot of things lately. Remember when life just used to be normal and I wasn’t upset? Me either. But I know it existed.
Okay, talk at you and your little dog vagina soon.
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.
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.
What’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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
And, 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.
I know you were waiting all night for Installment Two of June Goes to Medical Appointments, and I understand your excitement and anticipation. But something bigger happened yesterday.
Bigger, June? Bigger than an eye exam?
Not that my eye exam wasn’t without incident. I pissed off the front desk by not remembering I had a separate card for eye insurance. Look, I go there once a year, and they mail me this flimsy card from somewhere or another, and who can remember? I found it eventually, didn’t I? Okay, after you already ran my debit card. Still.
I got to work and didn’t take lunch, did my copy editing and so forth, and now I’ve turned into that bad-storytelling woman from yesterday’s example. “He went to college, all that good stuff.”
The point is, Edsel was at daycare all day, hoping for a Dexter sighting. Dexter is his new Beagle friend. We’d missed Dexter by ONE DAY.
Dear Advice-Givers: I HAVE left my number with Dexter’s people and I HAVE asked the daycare to alert me should Dexter be there, with the caveat that I know how FREAKING BUSY that place always is, and that I’d understand if they clean forget, because it is always Grand Dog Central in there.
That made no sense.
Anyway, since I hadn’t taken lunch, I left work at maybe 5:20-ish, which is early for me, and wow, was traffic suck-ass. I also had to take the busy headed-to-downtown road because I had to get the Eds.
I was just around the corner from work, at a complete stop thanks to traffic, when
It took me a moment to even register what had happened. I’d heard a big sound, then a second later, see boom above. A car rear-ended the car behind me, who in turn rear-ended me.
“Oh my god!” I said, then, “Ow.” I’d hit my head on the back of the seat rest, hard.
“Geez.” I rubbed my head and got out of the car. The person who hit me was a coworker. “You okay?” I asked.
“Hit my head,” he said.
I got my phone and dialed 9-1-1. As I was speaking to Edna at 9-1-1, the woman who’d hit my coworker got out of her car. “I looked down for just a second,” she was saying, “and then you’d slammed on your brakes.” As if it was my coworker’s fault for braking in bad traffic.
“Do you need an ambulance?” asked Edna the 9-1-1 operator, after she’d asked me how my day was at work and did I need to get Edsel from daycare. I said yes, because my coworker and I had both hit our heads, and I kept thinking of Natasha Richardson.
It was cold and rainy out, so I waited in my car for all the men and women of LAW enforcement (only funny if Marvin forced you to watch every episode of Cops).
Just then, I had an IM on Facebook, my favorite thing. My coworker Ryan had been driving by and had texted me. “I drove by the accident. You okay?” he’d asked, clearly having something more important to do than stop and make sure I was ALIVE, RYAN.
Anyway, I opened the IM, in case it was another coworker or something.
It was a name I didn’t recognize, and it was a long, long message. As I scrolled up to get to the top, I realized it was That Woman. That Woman who’d contacted me at the beginning of October. That Woman who …knew Ned.
She’d gone on Facebook with another account, as I’d blocked her original account, and messaged me THE DETAILS of what she and Ned did while we were together.
While I was waiting for an ambulance.
She literally added insult to injury.
And you know, I have exciting photos of me at the eye doctor, Eds at day care, and even an exiting action shot of the ambulance, which mercifully came right then (“Say, you got any emergency services for a shattered heart?”), and my stupid computer, which has been acting up for some time, won’t let me put them on here to show you.
Anyway, the ambulance people and the (cute!) firemen made me do a bunch of “does she have a concussion” moves, and also the Cabbage Patch because why not, and they said I could go to the hospital if I WANTED to, and who doesn’t? Both my coworker and I ended up not going, and we’re probably both dead now and this is purgatory.
So, an hour later, I headed to daycare to get Edsel. My car doesn’t LOOK damaged, other than the license plate, but Ima get it checked out for anything horrific that might have happened to its insides. “You made it!” said the daycare woman, who I called to warn that Edsel might be having an impromptu sleepover.
Eds was glad to see me, on a shocking note, and he was even gladder when I did the insane thing.
Because what I did next was, I took my totaled car and my exposed brain from my horrific accident, and I drove all the way down to Ned’s gym. He is nothing if not predictable. I called him as I was nearing the place.
“Where are you?”
“I’m just leaving the gym.”
“Yeah, I know you are. I’m headed there.”
“That Woman messaged me.”
So, in the rain, the cold November rain, I drove to that parking lot, and with my medulla flying just everywhere from being exposed, I gave Ned a piece of my mind.
Because it was exposed and all.
“I’m so sorry,” said Ned. “I am 100% responsible for all this,” said Ned. “What can I do?” asked Ned.
“You can just leave me alone,” I replied, and I realize I said, “Leave me alone” to someone who was, in fact, leaving me alone, but there it is. And I may have wept a bit, and mentioned how crazy about him I used to be, and how this was like that last scene in Mother, which I don’t recommend you go see, where Javier Bardem rips the heart out of Jennifer What’s-Her-Name. I may have dramatically mentioned all that, while gray matter plunked onto the parking lot along with the rain.
But the best part of this story is, the whole time I was handing over a piece of my mind? Edsel was
to see Uncle Ned.
oh unk ned! oh edzul god it unk ned!! unk ned da bomb! unk ned hello! hello! edz not care how you hurt mom. hullo UNK NED!
And Ned was all, “Yes, hi, Edsel,” while I was over there ranting and railing and speaking in tongues due to my severe head injury.
After about five minutes, I was pretty calm, actually, and got in the car and drove home, finally without incident. Eds was in the back asking me to play the country station so he could find a song that encapsulated what it meant for him to see Unk Ned.
So there it is. I came home and initially announced on Facebook that I had been in a severe accident wherein my car had upturned and caught fire and so on, but after I got 10 IMs in 10 seconds, I realized really that last thing I wanted to do was field questions all night, and what I really wanted to do was hide under the nice afghan Faithful Reader Kris made me, and watch Friends. There is little less taxing to one’s soul than an episode of Friends. They’re all so pretty, and the decor is so ’90s.
But speaking of Facebook, could you all all do me a favor? A flavor, as my friend Tammy always called it?
Sometimes, particularly on Facebook of June, I will post something and it goes awry and I take it down. Some days I post something and it gets too “give June advice”-y. Some days it becomes too, “In fact, I DO have a degree in psychology, so let me analyze people in your life, or even better, slap a label on him or her.” Sometimes it just feels too personal after I’ve posted, and I get squicked out and take it down.
But no matter what, if I post something and take it down, I’ve done so because I felt uncomfortable about said post, so here’s where the favor comes in.
When I’ve posted something and taken it down, could we not go BACK to Facebook of June and ask, “Where is that post?” and make it all dramatic with the shocked-face emoji and the “Someone IM me what happened” and all that? I already feel uncomfortable, and to have it brought back to the page makes me feel bad all over again. Go ahead, gossip about me off that page all you want, I don’t care. But could you not gossip about me in front of me?
Alternatively, you could IM me all the details of how you …know Ned. That’d be much better.
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.
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.
On 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.
So, 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.
Plus 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.
So 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?
I swear Lily’s not dead. Lemme find any recent Lily photo… I have trouble because she’s always out having athletic adventures.
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.
The Poet and I are going to a movie tomorrow. Here we are, yesterday, at a meeting in a very green room.
Work 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.
Stabbing it with her steely knife but unable to kill the best,
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.
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.
In 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.
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.I 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–
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.
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.
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.
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.
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,
I stood in my backyard just now and watched several leaves fall from the branches of my tree and sway all the way to the ground. It was so pretty that I got the phone so I could show you, but of course once I got the damn phone, the leaves stayed tight.
weee not leaf-ing. heeeee!
Leaves are dicks. Nevertheless, I made a video, hoping to capture a leaf falling, like you’ve never seen that before, but instead my video is more let’s say meditative. Till Edsel. You’ll see.
I hate holding the phone vertically to take a video, but the first time when I went up then down to look at the dog, it got sideways.
I’ve been trying to be meditative lately. As you might know, I had jarring news last week, and you only know this because I wrote about it on the Facebooks, on a page called (Face)Book of June, and what was warm, what was really lovely of you, were the four people who joined the page, read my tale of sadness, then promptly quit it again.
So, no. No, I’m not adding anyone else to the page at this time. It was supposed to be for friends of this page. Friends. Of this page. So. I’m a tad wary right now.
But anyway, if you “Don’t have Facebook” (say, Madame 1800s, how are the 1800s going? Is there penicillin yet?) or whatever, suffice it to say that what happened was that I was on the mend, I was headed toward moving on from my last “relationship,” if you even want to call it that. I think I may just refer to that time as, “Those five years and 10 months that I was gravely mistaken,” but that takes too long.
Those years when I had Stockholm Syndrome?
My Not Found 404 Error?
Anyway. I thought I was moving on from it, whatever it was. It officially ended in 2015, but then it kept …hovering there, and I started it back up again last year at this time, then it ended again, badly, in December and I thought, Okay, this is really it.
But then it hovered again. And it’s hard to convince yourself a relationship is over when someone is constantly coming back, telling you he loves you.
Until you find out he doesn’t.
I found out some stuff, some you-were-not-loved information. And I wasn’t told because there was guilt or so much respect that anyone needed to come clean with me.
I found out because the other woman contacted me.
I’ve been in a limbo for two years. A purgatory. And one thing I like about myself is my ability to not be dramatic about everything. But really, this half-broken-up shit is wearisome. So it’s kind of like I’m in a new breakup.
But since I’ve already spent much time grieving and mourning and feeling incredulous about everything, it’s moving along faster than you’d think, this time.
The point is, I’ve been trying to be meditative. When I walk Edsel at night, I’m paying attention to what I smell, what I see, what I hear. And it helps. Because otherwise I could be walking around with my brain spinning, as it has spun each day since I stupidly convinced myself I was in love, way back in March of 2012.
When your overwhelming feeling is more of anxiety that you adore this person and you worry they won’t adore you back? That’s really not so much love as a neurotic coupling. Must remember this.
You must remember this, a diss is still a diss. A lie is just a lie. The fundamental things apply, avoidant guy.
But I’m doing okay. I’m no longer in denial. Well. I’m 99% not in denial. I think I so dearly wanted some way that this would work out that I never quite accepted it was over.
Till now. I accept that it’s over. My plan is to never say one word to my 404 error ever again.
Oh! But while we’re on the topic of that (Face)Book of June page, I noticed yesterday a few people on there with the Facebook silhouette
And one person in particular with that image, and no friends, and the only info on her Facebook page was where she went to school. I say “she” but it’s a clearly fake, neutral name.
It worries me.
Look, I’m over there being me. My real name, my real details. I know this may come as a shock to you, but I’d rather tell that stuff to real people.
Anyway, this particular person has been on my readers-of-my-blog page for six years, so I didn’t just delete her right away. I messaged her. Said the stuff I just said to you, about real and so on, and how it worried me that she/he had no identity. “Is there anything you can tell me to put my mind at ease?” I asked.
So I removed him or her, and also someone who had no info on her page except a picture of the Verizon chick from the commercials. Then I announced on the page at large that if you had a fake profile, or no profile pic, I was going to have to remove you, because it makes me uncomfortable.
Here’s what happened.
“I have a picture of a flower, June! Don’t kick me off.”
“See, no,” I’d explain, “I’m saying if you have NO photo at all, and NO friends, and NO posts on your wall that I can see. That’s when I’m removing folks. Because how is it fair that you set up a fake account so you can lurk my life? No. This page is an exchange,” is what I said.
Then three comments later, I’d get, “I hate how I look, June, so I have a photo of a soccer ball. Please don’t take me off this page.”
“Yeah, see…” I’d say, and explain it all again.
Ten comments later, guess what.
So that was my day yesterday, until finally last night I was face-down on my living room floor, just typing “please scroll up” every 14 minutes or so.
Cats. You’re all cats. I herd cats in my real life, I herd cats in my online life. But I do heart you all, those of you who are real with me, I mean. I know I haven’t met most of you, but dear god, are you part of my every day.
I’ve watched you lose tons of weight, or a husband, or your jobs. I’ve seen your family members get sick or well. I’ve seen you have rotten days and great ones. And even though it’s weird, and impersonal, our relationship, it’s also sort of very personal.
Thank you to those of you who’ve been real, and have seen me through this stupid 404 error, for screaming at your computer DON’T HAVE DINNER WITH HIM, JOOOOB! all these years, thank you. I’ve tried to be as real as I can, and I appreciate how real you are all being, as well.
I guess that’s all I have to say today. My freelance work came early, goddammit, so I ended up having zero free days after all.
Edsel just let himself and all the cats in, which was convenient for me. Last night, late, there was another NextDoor about a “sweet cat” and I didn’t even have to open it. Of course I did.
“This sweet cat followed us home. Is he yours?”
Ima just brand that asshole with my address and a DON’T FEED. Also, “sweet cat.” Could it be possible that he has multiple personalities? Or maybe he just turns on the charm when a potential new food source rears its head.
I can’t solve every mystery today. I gotta just keep moving on.
Under last night’s waxing gibbous, I found myself at the Full Moon Oyster Bar, in the company of a man. A gentleman caller. A swain.
It was not our first date. I kind of hope it will not be our last. Also, I did not eat any oysters. You know, I used to. Back in my devil-may-care Seattle days.
Do you know what I never actually have had? Is any devil-may-care days. I’ve had younger-and-just-as-neurotic days, sure. Probably the times I had oysters were far drunker times. My devil-may-Coors days.
Anyway, it’s early yet, but so far this guy is pretty good. We had our first date a month ago, a date that involved me meeting him for a drink and realizing on the way there that I was EFFING STARVED, and when I got there, he’d already ordered a cheese, meat and nut plate and it was JUST THE THING I wanted and we had a great time. I mean, not just because cheese and meat, and plus also nuts, although I’m not gonna lie to you, that was a pertinent highlight.
The next morning he wrote to say, “Listen, I know I’m not your type, but I really had a good time, and thank you.”
Here was me:
See, I love a good gif, but then when I have to watch them over and over again, I get bugged, so let’s go to a new paragraph quickly so we can scroll past it.
Okay, see, we still need more room to scroll.
[scroll scroll scroll]
MAYBE GIFS AREN’T WORTH IT. In unrelated news, I would like to kiss that German shepherd doggie right on his manly head.
Okay. So, yesterday, I finally asked this guy why he’d sent me that weird “I know I’m not your type” text.
“Really?” he asked, shifting uncomfortably. Clearly he was hoping I’d just let that pass. Do you know what I never do? Hey, June, why can’t you keep a man?
“Okay, well, look. I’m not trying to suck your dick,” he began.
See. Right then I knew.
“But I never thought I…deserved anyone like you. You’re incredibly attractive, really smart–very smart–and you’re very, very funny.”
People think I’m smart because I have good diction and a quick wit. But ask me anything about physics.
“I am hilarious,” I agreed, stealing his bread from his plate of oysters. He’d already said I could have it. Shut up. Also, do not mention my rapidly declining attractiveness and the consumption of bread at 8 p.m. WHEN I WAS ALREADY HAVING VODKA and hey, carbs. Hey, devil-may-carbs.
“But why would you think that?” I asked. This guy is great. He’s funny, he has a job, an actual job (are you out there dating at my age? Because this is actually a going concern. You’ve no idea how many 50-year-old men out there are not exactly gainfully employed, and still they trot themselves out there. Hey, ladies…), he’s been very kind so far, and I don’t know, man. I don’t know why he doesn’t see that. I mean, I see clear as a bell what a catch I am. [plague joke goes here]
Anyway, he probably doesn’t deserve anyone like me, as he seems like a good person who does not warrant having to be to be cast into World of June. So there it is.
Oh, shit. Steely Dan is fighting with a squirrel hang on.
He–my date, not the squirrel–knows I have a blog but does not know the name of it, and anyway, I told him right off the bat not to read it because Faithful Reader Deb’s husband Peter told me years ago not to whip this monstrosity out too soon–rather someone should get all this delightful pleasure-of-life personality metered out slowly.
But anyway, I said, “I’m probably gonna mention tonight in my blog. Did you remember I have a blog?”
He remembered. Has he read it? “You know what? I have not. You told me not to, so I decided to take your advice.”
There is not a woman in America who would’ve done the same. EVERY WOMAN WOULD STAMPEDE FOR THE BLOG.
“Well, if I do talk about tonight, you’re probably gonna need a blog name,” I said, and careful readers will note I’ve gone 751 words discussing him and haven’t needed a blog name yet.
“Do I get to pick it?” he asked, sipping his manly brown liquor. “Okay, call me Ward. It’s a play on my middle name.”
Ward. Ward and June!
All 10 of you screeched, “IT’S A SIGN!” and this is why lesbians move in together on the third date. It’s not a sign, for heaven’s sake. But it was a charming coincidence.
Anyway, the point is, it’s nice to be dating someone with potential, and it was two years ago yesterday I left my Year Abroad house, so that was A SIGN. No. But I did note it.
I gotta go. I can’t talk about it, but I am still on jury duty, so. I’m tough but I’m fair.
Before I go, here’s what I think of when I think of Tom Petty.
Back in my devil-may-Coors Seattle days, my then-best-friend Esmerelda came to visit me, and we took a very manly hike up a nearby mountain (the one they show at the beginning of Twin Peaks). After, it was midafternoon and we drove past one of those tiny bars with the gravel parking lots, and we didn’t even need to say a word. We turned the car into the lot.
Our bartender was not what you’d call a handsome woman, because any woman who looks like Tom Petty is not winning any contests. We ordered a pitcher of beer because I had a designated driver date with me, a man much younger who we’d teased relentlessly all day (“If June had been dating you when I got married, I’d totally have asked you to be my ring bearer,” I remember Esmerelda saying).
The bar was my favorite kind: small, dark, with a juke box. We sat there on an absolutely beautiful sunny afternoon, listening to all the Tom Petty songs in that juke box, our feet up on each other’s chairs, drinking bad beer and laughing.
Tell us about your weekend. We await, riveted. Signed, No one.
We had our work picnic Thursday afternoon, which I realize is not Friday, and I just gave this section a “Friday” subhead and WHAT THE HELL with this blog. The point is, I’m this weird combination of an extroverted introvert, where I sort of dread having to be around people, then I get there and it’s OHMYGOD PEOPLE YAY! and I sort of dash about frenetically visiting this person and that, and then it’s time to go home and I’m drained.
All this to say that Thursday was a lot of socializing, and then Friday I had A Thing. My work sponsors this foundation, and said foundation was having a dinner and a speaker at the country club, and I had to get dressed up and dine at the country club and so forth, and if there’s anything you’re sick of, it’s my “June’s Tales of the Country Club” stories.
The man who spoke at our event had been Harvey Milk’s right-hand man, and he was there when Harvey Milk was killed. Then he watched all his friends die of AIDS. I can’t even imagine what it must have been like to be a gay man in San Francisco in the ’80s. I mean, it’s close, given all the action I get. Still.
So that was kind of a sosh two days, and now that I’ve said “sosh” you will wash your hands of me and I understand. I do. I hope one day we can be friends. M’point is, I was all social activites-d out.
It was bitty boopy blindy-boo Iris’s 6th birthday Saturday, and if you didn’t wash your hands of me before…
Somebody at work put cans of cat food on the “anyone can take it” table, and they were fancy expensive cans of things like buffalo and pheasant. I thought I’d give one to Iris, seeing as most of the time she gets cans of “whatever dregs were in the meat murder room” flavor.
She didn’t even used to EAT cans. I read somewhere that canned food was good for kittens, and I guess that’s true because look how big Steely Dan got, and once she started sniffing cans, and who doesn’t like to do that, she got a hankering. So now I give adult cans to both of them, and I don’t mean that they are somehow dirty.
Lily doesn’t like a can. You’d think she wouldn’t be picky, but she is. She’s like one of those 250-pound women who run marathons and the world judges and it’s like, But you don’t know her.
Anyway, I gave a can of, like, wild boar and sweet potato to Iris, and she was all, “Ware delish dreg fud?” So.
My point is, after I took Iris to Chucky Cheese and she ate the mouse, I spent my Saturday shopping for fabric.
As you may already know, because your hand is up in June’s life, I have this old chair that belonged to my grandmother, the one I’ve turned into. It used to be this burgundy Naugahyde, and then my mother owned it and gave it these baby-blue flowers, which Lottie, my dog, fmr, quickly turned into mud flowers, and I act like “mud flowers” is a thing.
The spring and summer I had Lottie was a rainy one, and my yard is aching for grass the way I am for a martini at 8 a.m., so she brought a lot of mud to the chair situation. And one might think one could tell her puppy to just NOT leap onto the chair, but clearly you have not attended June’s Iron Fist of Dog Discipline yet.
I’ve wanted to recover this poor chair for awhile, but it costs, and funds were tight, but then this year I pretty much took on a second job doing freelance work, and you guys are shopping on Amazon by clicking through my not-blog, and boom. All of a sudden, and it really did seem all of a sudden, I got caught up. I’m not a millionaire, but I’m out of credit card debt and I don’t have to live on four dollars till payday anymore.
So, in a sense, when I recover this chair, it will be the recovery that you built. And I thank you. Most heartily, I do. My point is, I’d never gone to the fabric store before, and hey, overwhelming.
The good news is they’re moving, so every single piece of fabric was on sale, at least 50% off and some as much as 80% off. I tried to like any of the 80%, but it was all “Brady Bunch Plaid Orange” or “Smells Like Grandma” or “Gay Man in the ’80s” patterns, and I just could not.
The man who owns the store helped me, and was very kind, even though he was having a huge sale on a Saturday and was the only person working there. “If you have a dog, don’t get any silk fabrics,” he advised.
Naturally all I wanted after that were the silk fabrics. It’s like dating. I’m trying hard not to be drawn to another love avoidant, and I start chatting men up and after date number two, they’ll be all, “I really want to live alone for the rest of my life” or “I like to be in touch once every nine days” or “I was married once, for 8 months” and WHY DO I KEEP BEING DRAWN TO IT.
I liked this silk love avoidant flowered pattern in the middle, but who am I, Diana Ross? What do I need with a black flowered chair?
Green one’s pretty, and oh, look, silk. This fabric just wants to hang out, nothing serious.
Ultimately, I did get a green pattern, not silk, that wants to take things slow and maybe see other people. I love love love this pattern, and my whole goal while I was shopping was I’d pick a pattern that made me gasp because it was so pretty. This one did. It’ll probably keep texting its ex-girlfriend after we move in together.
The rest of the day was pretty quiet, and I binged Leah Reminy’s series exposing the Scientologists. When I lived in LA, I lived near one of the big Scientology buildings, and they bought up pretty much all the apartment buildings on the blocks around their big building, and I’d see people walking to work, from their Scientology apartments to their jobs at the Scientology building, and now I wish I’d have dragged them into my Bug and saved them all.
They didn’t make Sunday. Because of God. (When Harry Met Sally)
I had to work Sunday, because my work has changed recently and I’m not just on one team anymore; I copy edit for whoever needs it. It’s kind of exciting, but also, each account has different styles and needs and so on, so it’s more intense. I didn’t have to take my work home, but I wanted to so I’d do a good job.
I hope I did a good job. Next thing you’ll hear is me saying, Remember that thing I took home and fucked up?
My hallway was always beige, part of the Beige World Fan Club that the previous owner founded and lovingly ran. It was a labor of beige love. A couple weeks ago, I noted that one wall had annoying beige WALLPAPER, not just paint, so I peeled it off and this happened.
My casual peel cost me eleven million dollars in Alf repair (Alf is my ridiculous handyman), and then yesterday I painted that bitch. Goodbye, Beige Earl.
Sometimes I make zero sense.
So now it’s Sherwin Williams Quietude, the same color I’m painting my spare bedroom, you know, eventually. I still have to paint the trim in here, and that door that is not at all scuffed up from me throwing shoes down there at the end of the day because God forbid I walk all the way in there and put them in the closet I’m pressed for time, you see.
Also, I did not screw up and get paint on the ceiling. That’s where it’s peeling. Nother effing project.
I leave you with two things: My coworker Ryan’s dog, whom he brought to the company picnic. Look at his boopy half a face!
And this. When Ned and I broke up, I tried to unfriend all of his friends on Facebook, because I didn’t want any jarring reminders of him. I forgot about one of his friends, though, but that guy put up this old photo of Ned, and here’s the thing.
Usually I’m okay. You know. Ish. Usually I understand that it didn’t work with Ned, and that it’s sad but it’s okay. But then this photo just hit me, hit my stupid newsfeed, and it knocked me over.
I loved him so fiercely. I forget that sometimes. I’d like to forget it permanently. But oh god, did I love him. And it’s not at all sad that I downloaded this photo and kept it.
I guess that’s all my news that’s fit to not print. The chair guy comes next week to take my chair away and recover it, and I need you to know that when I left that store with my big roll of fabric, I said, “Well, I’m gonna bolt.”