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.