Your Terrible Flaw

Yesterday, or whenever the hell I last wrote to you, I mentioned a very fake hissing noise that actors make only during dirty movies and no other time. Faithful Reader Steve, who I know in real life, told me he didn’t know what I was talking about. He accused me of watching snake porn.

If that is really a thing, I know for a fact that faithful reader Tee has never ever watched it. For she hates a snake.

Also, I am speaking into my phone during my lunch break and do not have time to go back and capitalize “faithful” and “reader.”

Anyway, behold a video of me making the fake sucking-in-through-your-teeth noise that they make only in dirty movies and no one ever makes in real life.

Also, my nose is so horrendous. Seriously, that thing belongs in a museum. Or the Guinness book of world records or something. Speaking into my phone is almost not even a time-saving device, so often do I pause and see things I want to go back and edit, like capping “book” and “world” and “records.”

I went to see the movie I, Tonya this weekend. Did I tell you that? It’s really good. I have also recently seen the shape of water, which I’m certain my phone also will not capitalize so please capitalize it in your head. This entire process is likely to give me a hive.

Tonight, The Poet and I are going to see Lady Bird. What I’m saying to you is I’ve been seeing a lot of movies lately. Good movies, I think.

I have to go back to work now, although I am taking Edsel to dog daycare for the afternoon. Let’s see if he wants to go…

That’s a yes.

Before I leave you, let me ask you something: Is there anything about yourself that you think is sort of crazy or shameful that you try to hide in the hope people don’t realize?

For me, it’s definitely my screwed-up relationships with men. When I was in my teens and 20s and I was dating, I kind of thought these were normal things that happened in relationships. I would be with someone, and feel obsessed and crazy, thinking that whatever man I was with would stop loving me, or would go away, or was cheating on me in some way.

Then we would break up and I would be obsessed and depressed and hysterical, till I met someone else. Then the whole thing would start again.

At the time, I wrote it off to my youth. And I figured everyone had relationships the way I did.

Then I met Marvin, and I didn’t feel that way at all. I completely trusted him and felt completely sure of myself. So when you all met me here on my blog, I was like a sane person. I was sane the entire time I was married. I mean, I could feel the shift in my head. My thoughts didn’t race or anything.

I think I was under the impression that I had grown out of being a crazy person in relationships, but then I got divorced and here it is all over again. I am the same crazy person, just older.

This is my secret thing that I think is crazy and shameful about me and that I hope people don’t figure out.

The part where I’m just up and telling you about it is the part where I’ve decided that’s bullshit. This is my flaw. If this is the worst thing about me, then so be it.

I’m June, and my love relationships are unmanageable. Hi, June.

But does everyone else feel this way? Do you have a thing that you think is sort of awful about you and you hope no one sees it? If so, what is it?

I have to go. Edsel’s singing songs and carrying signs in an attempt to get me to take him to dog daycare.

When I get to work, I will put the webcam link to him playing in the comments.

See you at the snake porn theater. Where we’ll all enjoy Splendor in the Asp.

June

Mrs. Garrett was probably younger than me

On the first day of 2011, Ned got out of bed, walked into a wall and broke his toe.

And hey, June, this bodes well. A mention of Ned in the first sentence of your first post of the new year. Yeah, good moving on.

Anyway, he did, and he told himself, “Well, that’s a sign you aren’t going to have a good year. You’d better just keep your head down and muddle through 2011.” And he was right.

He was newly back in his hometown of Greensboro, having spent his adult life in Raleigh (inside guff for outsiders: Raleigh is way cooler to live in than Greensboro), he was working for the family business after a decade of doing something he truly loved

(he’d been a professional beer taster)

(he was hired full time to ogle women)

(they needed an expert salad-eater, and he took on the job)

(he wrote a weekly column titled, “You Know What I’D Do…”)

(okay, I’ll stop),

and he had zero girlfriend.

So he got through 2011, and on the fifth day of 2012, he met me. WHAT. LUCK. REWARD! SILVER LINING!

The point of me telling you this is the very first thing to happen to me today was that my clothes pole…thing in the walk-in closet of my bedroom? Crashed ONTO MY FINGER today. Then after that, all the clothes that had been residing on said pole similarly fell onto my finger.

Inside guff for outsiders: It hurt.

“Oh my god,” I told myself. “I’m Ned in 2011.”

I’d had such high hopes for 2018, too. As you may know, as I very subtly alluded to it earlier this week, I’ve had something of a cold. No big deal, really. I hate to cause a fuss. Anyway, yesterday I ended up being asked to a little celebration, a little reason for the season, and that reason is Prosecco.

But given the precarious nature of my health, I thought I’d better test my reserves, so I took myself to see The Shape of Water first, at the movie theater near my house. I figured if I could sit up and take nourishment (popcorn and a Dr Pepper) for two hours, maybe I was ready for the big leagues, aka a middle-aged mild New Year’s celebration.

First of all, The Shape of Water. Highly recommend. And not just cause everything’s midcentury and you know how I get about that.

So I slapped on the makeup and headed into the middle-aged night and rang in the new year and was in REM by about 12:01. Still. I got out. I didn’t even take 47 Kleenex.

Screen Shot 2018-01-01 at 9.14.16 PM.png

Me and m’New Year’s makeup and several heavy Instagram filters. You, too can feign rosy health!

So that all seemed to go so well and then boom. Pole on m’finger.

I did not go to my annual ironically named kindness meditation downtown, as it was 870 below zero today, and the only kindness I could meditate on was not doing that to myself given that I just got out of my iron lung with this cold. Instead I paid my bills, wrote in my new journal I got for Xmas (thanks, mom), checked my finger to see if it was turning black, and talked on the phone to my old LA neighbor Alicia for about 700 hours.

This time I wrote down some of the funny English-but-not-quite-English things she said during our 11-hour conversation. I have always loved the way she uses language. She’s like a little angry Spanish poem. Attached below, for your edification, are some of the things she said that I adored so much I wrote them down…

“She had to come up and tell me what she thought. She had to put her five cents on me.”

also

“I have bumped heads with that bitch for years.” This, by the way, was about someone famous, but I cannot, really cannot tell you who. BUT YOU WOULD DIE.

“Finally, we said okay. We bury the hatchets.”

plus also

“She was mad. She did not like that I was in her ass.”

And the grand finale:

“I tell her, ‘Stick it in your ass and shove it.'”

I’m just telling you now. “Stick it in your ass and shove it” is the new “Very nice, Coot.” Although I have to say I grow fonder by the minute of “bury the hatchets.”

I’d been guarding my pole finger jealously all day, assuming the nail was going to turn dramatically black, because I see my finger and I want it painted black. Nevertheless, my finger persisted, and while it’s SORE, it appears I may have exaggerated what I thought would be the effect of that ENTIRE POLE OF CLOTHES crashing down on it.

I took my black finger of death and all the rest of my digits to the grocer’s, and I like how all of a sudden it’s 1950 up in here, with my grocer. Mr. Hooper was waiting for me in his white apron.

Unknown

I got my usual Sad Single Girl items, such as Lean Cusine and cat litter.

(I have forever wanted to find this one Nick at Night promo ad they used to have with Sally from the Dick Van Dyke show. I know it went: “Sally is single. Single, single, single.” I can never find it. I always identified with Sally, the wisecracking writer, and now she’s dead and I can’t find that promo and my finger is gangrenous.)

The-Dick-Van-Dyke-Show-26

The point is, I bought my week’s groceries and got this urge to buy an instant lottery ticket. I almost never do this, because (a) I never have cash and (4) I just never remember we have machines at the store. But the universe colluded or whatever, or the Ghost of Sally came over me, because we all know how famous her character was for buying lottery tickets.

Anyway, I won $100. I bought one ticket for one dollar, and I won $100. Can you believe it?! I’m RICH.

I scratched off my ticket in the cold parking lot of the store, of the grocer, and ran back in to tell Mr. Hooper, who has apparently turned into a 20-year-old black kid. When young Mr. Hooper ran the scanner thing over my card, it played a little song and everything. It was so exciting.

“2018 is gonna be my year!” I announced to Mr. Hooper, and stampeded back to my car, where I excitedly plunked back down in the driver’s seat,

on right onto my glasses. Which broke into 90 pieces.

So, you take the good, you take the bad, you take ’em both and there you have 2018 so far.

Happy new year. I hope you will not feel the need to stick this year up your ass and shove it.

P.S. I imagine “promo ad” is redundant, is it not? Son of a bitch. Thank god I have all this money.

P.P.S. Super Strawberry. Dammit. I keep forgetting.

Should auld acquaintance be annoying

Does my new computer make me look fat?Computers. Now with Kleenex! What cold?

I like how there’s a Kleenex on one of my computers. You know I hate to mention it, but I have a cold.

Anyway, you can’t tell if my new Mac makes me look fat yet because you will be stunned to hear I’m having trouble migrating my old computer’s information onto my new computer. Several hours with AppleCare have occurred. Several swears have similarly occurred.

In fact, I put off opening my new computer because I knew it was going to put me in a foul mood, and here I am, in a foul mood.

So here I sit, on the last day of the year, in my drafty computer room looking out at the bare trees, talking into my phone like a crazy person.

I guess people have talked into their phones for years and it’s not so crazy, but I am, in fact, talking to no one. That is the crazy part. The part where I’m speaking into a void.

I really wanted to make an updated end-of-the-year video for you, because even though I said in early December, “What could really happen to me this last month?” I did, in fact, have some interesting things happen. My visit to TinyTown. My foster kitten.

But now my computers are migrating, and picking up work while they can, picking grapes and so on, and I can’t make you a new end-of-the-year video. So I will sit here and speak into your void.

Yesterday, I put Jodie Foster in her little cat carrier, and took her away from the home she has known for two weeks–with cats she adores and a dog she loved to pick on–and back to the shelter.

She was healthy enough and big enough to be adopted. It was really difficult to do, seeing how well she got on with everyone here, and the thought of her shivering in the shelter, scared and confused, was like to kill me.

o fux

But that was the deal I made, and I know I did her some good letting her stay with me.

Yesterday at 5 PM, I couldn’t stand it anymore and I called the shelter.

“Yes,” (because you know I always have to start those phone calls with “yes”), “I fostered a little kitten named Lilly Lu?” (That was her name at the shelter. Lilly Lu. Are you dying?) “And I dropped her back off this morning for adoption. Did anyone happen to adopt her today?”

The worker looked through her papers. She asked me some questions. “The little orange one?” More papers. Oh my god, lady. My heart was racing.

“…Oh, yes, ma’am, she sure did get adopted today.”

OH

THANK

GOD.

I knew it was looking good for her yesterday. While I was waiting for the foster lady to come out, I walked around the shelter and looked at the other cats, and there were barely any left. When I took the kitten to get her booster shot a couple days before Christmas, it was like Calcutta in that shelter. There were people everywhere.

And of course, now I feel sorry for the couple of loser adult cats who didn’t get adopted by anyone for Christmas. But I’m trying to put them out of my mind.

You have no idea how relieved I feel. Jody Foster did not have to even spend one more night in the shelter. She got swooped up.Of coarse she do

After taking that kitten to the shelter, I may or may not have stopped off for a pork chop biscuit that I couldn’t even taste, so basically all of the calories, none of the flavor, and then I bought a new pair of glasses.

I bought my last pair in 2015, and my prescription has changed twice since then. Plus, I don’t know, I was just in the mood. I’ll show them to you when they get in, but the point is, as soon as I got home I found these online and wanted to kill myself.

Yes, those are little diamonds. Well, not real diamonds, but you know what I mean.

doooeng mom impresh

After all that, I felt pretty punky. Is punky even a word? I didn’t feel well. So I came back home and sat with my Kleenex and convalesced.

It has dawned on me this week while I have been sick, and I know I’ve hardly mentioned my sickness, that when I feel like this all I really want is my grandmother. The nice one. Not the one I’m turning into.

I want to be in her very warm, old lady house with the cuckoo clock ticking and the theme song for Days of our Lives in the background.

I want her to bring me orange juice and for her to call me “grandma’s baby.”

That’s all I really want. If I could ever find someone who would dote on me and act so tragic about me having a common cold, then I’ll know I’ve met the person for me.

I thought about that yesterday, and I thought about my kitten. When I was a little kid and had a cold and went to grandma’s and she doted on me, I’m sure at the time all I thought about was that I had a damn cold and felt miserable.

And two weeks ago, when I went to the shelter to foster a kitten, my idea was that she would be this little thing in the back rooms, and that I would go in there and spend time with her. I had no idea she would become such an integral part of all the lives of all the creatures who live here. Including the ear mites.

My point is, when we’re making memories we’re never aware of it. I will go my whole life wanting my grandmother to be back, putting her hand on my forehead and exclaiming how I’m burning up.

And every once in awhile I’ll say, “Remember that time I fostered a kitten for two weeks? And she was so wonderful?”

But we never know what things will turn out to be wonderful memories. We plan a fabulous vacation, and then we get there and it rains every day and we never really remember that vacation. But we go out the door one day just to run errands, and something magical happens that we remember that day forever.

I guess what I’m saying is, I hope 2018 brings you a lot of memories that you don’t even know you’re going to have while you’re sitting here today, with the cold wind and the bare branches around you.

I hope that next year at this time, you look back on the year that was and say, “Wow. There are a lot of good memories from 2018.”

Because even a sick day with bare branches can turn out to be memorable.

See you next year. HAHAHAHAHAHA.

June

Today’s lipstick. It’s something-Punch. I know I look marvelous. What illness?

Because Prosecco

IMG_E3062.JPGHey, June, why so destined for hell?

So Christmastime is here, as the Peanuts would say high-pitchedly, and here’s what I’ve done thus far…

Yesterday, I got this urge to clean the house. I don’t know why. Maybe I’m pregnant and nesting or something miraculous like that. Maybe I’m about to give birth in a manger. The point is, I laundered and dusted and cleaned all fekking afternoon, and there I was, mopping myself into a corner, as I do, when the doorbell rang.

“WOO WOO WOO WOOOO WOOF!” said Edsel, who really has a limited vocabulary.

I literally had no way to get to the door without screwing up the mopping. “Who is it?” I shouted, the way Laverne and Shirley used to while they held their baseball bats.

“It’s Happy,” said Happy, who is a faithful reader and who somehow knows where I live, I forget how. I wish now that’d I’d thought to eat her, as then I could tell you she was my Happy Meal.

“Hang on!” I said, then mince mince minced over the chair and the still-drying floors to the door, which to tell you the truth now that they’re dry don’t really look any different. My wood floors don’t really shine anymore, and hey, Stepford Wife. Nice concerns.

IMG_3074.JPGThe point is, Happy feeds and takes in feral cats, and this one is living in her laundry room at the moment, and she wondered if Ned would want this cat, who looks like NedKitty if NedKitty had dipped her tail in ink.

I SO THINK HE SHOULD. And certainly this personal decision should be mine and not his. Anyway I texted the photo and he hasn’t said either way, which will stun everyone who knows Ned and his lightning-fast decisions.

IMG_E3076.JPGHappy also gave me this jaguar of color, because it reminded her of Steely Dan, and lemme tell you what. Every time I see that thing out the corner of my eye, I think it’s Steely Dan.

IMG_3136.jpgAnd the reason I keep seeing it out the corner of my eye is Dear Happy: I am sorry to tell you that Edsel is obsessed with Jaguar of Color. Obsessed. Like, he slept with it last night. Obsessed. I think you got Edsel a gift, after all.

IMG_3071.jpgAnyway, as the day drew to a close, I left Dickus Americanus, up there, during the .0007 seconds she sleeps a day, and stampeded over to my coworker Austin’s house, as he invited me to a little gathering at his house. Yes, I realize I just told you my coworkers don’t like me, but he resides in the minority. He’s like someone who voted for McGovern or something.

IMG_3083.jpgNot wanting to break our record, I put on my next Chubby Stick color beforehand, in  Mighty Mimosa, which is dumb because mimosas are orange, but I do have to say I enjoy me a mimosa, because getting drunk at breakfast is the way to go.

IMG_3085.jpgI also wore my ridik coursage that Ned’s stepmother gave me years ago, a corsage I adore but that I can’t pin on right, so as soon as I got to Austin’s it fell off and I stuck everyone with m’wayward pins like they were all my voodoo dolls.

IMG_E3088.JPGI like Austin’s friends. This is the guy who also likes old pictures of people he doesn’t know. His wife and I got into a very deep discussion about Highlights Magazine, and she expressed her disdain for The Timbertoes (“I don’t know what they are, and I don’t know what their message is”) and right then I knew, I loved her with all my heart.

timbertoes

Because she’s right. Why are they wooden? Why are they 1800s-looking? WHO THE FUCK ARE THE TIMBERTOES AND WHAT DO THEY WANT WITH US?

“You only ever find Highlights Magazine at the doctor’s,” she pointed out. “And that one Bible Book, which I read once as a kid, not realizing the stories would all have morals,” she said. Then she went on to imitate for me the drawings inside that book, doing a fine imitation of everyone at the crucial moment when they readjust their moral compass, which apparently happens in every story.

Unknown

“Oh my god, that book is ALWAYS THERE at the doctor’s and I never once picked it up,” I said to her. “It’s like those strawberry candies, where the wrapper looks like a strawberry? I sort of know its there, but I also barely even acknowledge it exists.”

There was another woman at the party who, when I asked how she knew Austin and his wife, told me how she was new to town and desperate to make friends, so after a few perfunctory meetings with Austin’s wife, she one day chased after Austin’s wife’s car with a post card, which she eagerly slammed onto the window.

“It had every possible detail,” Austin’s wife told me. “Her shoe size, her kids’ ages, everything.”

At the end of the night, when I was leaving, that same woman came up to me. “I wanted to slam a post card at you but I don’t have any,” she said, and we exchanged numbers and kissed.

Austin’s party gets hot. The real housewives of Greensboro.

IMG_3096.jpgSpeaking of hot, Austin had a fire on his TV, despite actually having a, you know, fireplace. “This is better than a real fire,” said Austin. “It got 5 stars on Netflix.”

This lead us all to want to see a 1-star fire, which we figured would be one guy trying over and over to light wet wood, and eventually just tossing in and burning a Solo cup.

IMG_3102.jpgAustin’s dog continues to be perhaps unhealthily obsessed with Austin, although she did, oddly, give me the time of day, which is rare.

IMG_3099.jpg
fuk yuu, laydeee. you fekkin timber tow.

IMG_E3109.jpgI also took time out of my busy schedule to admire Austin’s kitchen wallpaper, as I always do, and I see the Prosecco had set in at this point, because nice focusing. Austin and I spent about 45 minutes discussing the use of typography on said wallpaper, and would we, as a designer and a copy editor, have been okay with those equals signs, and the cursive/all caps fiasco, and the fact that there is clearly an extra space before “drops,” till finally I announced, “We are the two most boring people in the world.”

IMG_3110.jpg
You really are, June.

This is another friend of Austin’s, who I threatened to put in my blog last night, but I forget why. Because Prosecco. He’s the husband of Post Card Wife.

Anyway, I see I have droned on about Xmas Eve for too long, kind of like my stay at the Prosecco table last night, and I don’t have time to describe Christmas and this has instead become all about Eve, and I would take credit for that joke but really The Poet made that one up, and damn her and her writing awards.

Hey, June, is ensuring good sentence structure part of your job? Because, job. Well done.

IMG_3185I’ll talk to you tomorrow, when I will describe my not-at-all-chaotic Christmas with a Kitten, volume 3949294. ‘Tis not my first Xmas with a kitten. Probably won’t be my last. That doesn’t mean it’s never a pain in the Prosecco, though.

Yule see me later.

June

Have yourself a merry little…

People at work don’t like me.

I know I always joke about it, but people at work really don’t like me. Things have changed.

The teams and how we work, it’s all different, and the once-tight-knit group I was a part of either no longer work there or sit far away, and things have…changed. Which I already said, and hey, June, talk in circles. I wonder why you’re so very not loved.

It’s not my imagination. I’m talking about people are gathered, the hour before the holiday break, and I walk up and suddenly everyone’s phone is compelling and they walk away.

I’m talking weekly references to parties I wasn’t invited to, Instagram photos of happy hours I knew nothing about.

If I didn’t make an effort, I would go the whole day with no one talking to me about anything except, “Can you get this done right now?”

I’m not sure what I did, but at this point it doesn’t matter. Those are the facts, and I just have to muddle through it, keep my head down and do my work, which is why I’m actually there in the first place.

But here’s my problem: I built my social life around that place. When I moved here, I was a married person, and most of what I did was with Marvin. When he left, I started that job within the same month. So, for the last six years my social life was my work people and Ned, mostly.

Now there’s no Ned (although Ned still wants for there to be a Ned), and now suddenly I’m the workplace outcast. It’s probably because I’m older than everyone, or because I’ve been depressed since 2015, when there first was officially Not a Ned®. It’s probably a number of things, but what you can’t do is change anyone other than yourself.

If I knew what I’d done wrong, or even where to begin with who stopped liking me first, I’d ask. But it appears almost universal now, so I just work quietly and try to be pleasant.

Every year at Christmastime, I get blue. I hate this fucking holiday. If I could leave all of December and hang out in Tahiti, I would.

The good thing was, every year the Christmas stuff at work was pretty much the most celebrating I’d do, from the big work party to our team events. Those were fun. I was having fun with my friends.

When I was on the floor I worked on for five Christmases, right when it was time to leave for the holiday, I had a little tradition, just with myself.

I’d stand in the kitchen and look at the treats and the gifts (that’s another thing–just one person gave me a little gift this year. I saw little gifts on other desks, but not mine. And I thought of making little gifts myself, but didn’t want to hand one to someone who doesn’t like me) and give a small thanks to the universe for presenting me with such a great place to work during a time that I needed people. Every year, in the dimming light of the late-December afternoon, with everyone else bustling off to their families, I said thank you for making those people my family.

As I left yesterday without saying much to anyone, there was just one guy still working on my old floor. He’s married to another person at work, and I like them both very much, and they seem to still actually like me. They were the only two people to come to the happy hour I tried to have back in October.

“Merry Christmas,” I said to him as I left.

“I hope you’re going to have a good holiday,” he said, looking up from his work. “I remember how sad you were this past Valentine’s Day.”

I’d forgotten that. I’d forgotten how sad I felt, having zero Valentine for the second year in a row.

After work, I headed to the grocery store, and as I pulled up, I remembered that I’d spent 4th of July here this past year. I had nothing to do, and ended up watching the fireworks with the employees. We had a perfect view, with the vast sky looming over the parking lot.

It’s been a lonely fucking two years. Things are not going the way I thought they would. I thought by now I’d have met someone new. I thought I’d still be lucky enough to consider my coworkers family. I never in a million years thought I’d be alone at 52.

And I realize it must be my fault, some flaw in my character. Probably because my beauty and raw talent and animal sex appeal repel people. It’s probably m’boobs.

And maybe next year at this time, things will have turned around. But I thought that last year. And I thought it at Christmas of 2015. So maybe I’ll be exactly here again next year, and I have to find a way to be okay with that. I try to think about people who have it so much worse than me, people whose problems crush a lonely old lady’s.

If you’re one of them, if you’re one of the people whose Christmas is going to suck, one of the people whose life sucks right now, please know there is a person who is with you on that. Who’s muddling through this goddamn holiday, and this goddamn life, as best she can.

You are not alone.

Merry Christmas.

Astro surf and turfing

I woke up at 2:53 a.m. today, with a migraine. I attribute this to having gotten up at 5:30 yesterday, to go to damn Purrrrre Barrrrre, and one wonders why I think I need to work out when I already look Like This.

Anyway, my sleep pattern was messed up, which is a migraine trigger, and whatever, I had one, hooo care.

I got out of bed and hunched over to the kitchen, and I feel the need to hunch when I’m not feeling well because my Aunt Kathy always does that when she’s not feeling well, which by the way is around 270 days a year. She’s a professional not-feeling-well-er.

IMG_2988.jpg
deer god. wat edzul eber do to deserbe.

The point is, I took my medication and hunched back to bed, where Edsel and Jodie Foster awaited me, and while I was trying to get back to sleep,

boop!

That damn kitten kept booping my face. boop! Oh my god, annoying.

No matter how many times I…gently placed her orange bitch-ass down the bed, and yes, I did want to hurl her with all my might, she kept coming back and

boop!

Here is why I’m insane. I kissed her little walnut head before immigrating with my pillow over to the spare bedroom. That damn kitten drove me out of my own bed, into the vast desert of the spare bedroom, and I still had to kiss her.

IMG_E2987.jpg
okay, she cute in theeeery, but not that irresist.

In the spare bedroom, Steely Dan was lounging across the pillows. Having spent most of my week with Two-Ounce Tillie, up there, all of a sudden his already-enormous self seems even enormous-er, and he also seems this solid paragon of dignity.

IMG_E2572.jpg
it troo. also, good pikktur, mom. wat dis be, mom blawg circa 2009?

I kissed his coconut head and settled in to sleep. When,

BOOP.

That asshole booped me in the face, with all 182 pounds of him.

HE’S NEVER BOOPED ME IN THE FACE EVER BEFORE.

“STEELY DAN,” I said, irritated with the world. He touched his wet cold nose to mine before curling up against me and falling asleep, where as soon as he was unconscious I injected him with lethal gasses.

IMG_E2992.JPG
and yet, heer steelee be

And I’m sorry all my stories are about cats lately. It’s all I’m surrounded by. I’ve all of a sudden become the old lady with cats.

IMG_2980.jpg

IMG_2985.JPG
When did my neck get rings? When did I join the Ringling Brothers on my neck?

The other exciting news is I got my roots dyed yesterday, at lunch, which by the way is super relaxing and you’re not over there nervously checking the clock or anything.

We also had a happy hour team thing after work for a particular account I work on, but I already WENT to one for a DIFFERENT account last week, and just now I typed “last” wrong, and my computer autocorrected it to “astroturfing,” like that’s a thing I say just all the time. I think I can honestly say that is the FIRST time I ever said “astroturfing,” so good going, computer. Good smart-ting.

Anyway, I didn’t go. I was exhausted.

Also, I’ve been invited to two things, one on Christmas Eve and one on Christmas Day, and both hosts say, “Don’t bring anything,” and is that true? What do real people do?

Both are married couples, two kids each, except the Xmas Eve couple has two teenage daughters and the other couple has two little kids. Your thoughts, Hobson?

Also, I’m getting together with Jo and Kit on the 27th, and all of a sudden Jo’s all, Oh I got you two the cutest thing and I was all, “WE’RE GETTING EACH OTHER THINGS?”

“Oh, just regift something,” said Jo, as if I have a whole closet of Gifts That Didn’t Work For Me.

Your thoughts, Hobson? Do you wish I’d quit saying that? It’s from Arthur.

The entire time I’ve been writing you, I’ve been scarfing these chocolate-orange-ball Christmas cookies my mother made me, thereby eliminating all of the work I did at Pureé Bar yesterday. Orange you glad I ate chocolate cookies?

I’d better go. I have to shower, and my whole body hurts, and also migraine hangover, plus also my face was booped repeatedly and Dear People Who Don’t Have Cats Who Are Moments From Annoying Me:

It’s when a cat hits your face with a velvety paw, not to inflict pain. It’s really more a claws-in sitch. They just want to play, so they boop boop boop your face over and over again, and you all of a sudden get how someone could abuse an animal.

Sincerely,

Jone

P.S. Oh, HELL. This is Chunky Cherry, and seriously, Clinique, what’s with all the fat names lately? I have ZERO MAKEUP on again, and I’m SORRY. It’s the MORNING.

IMG_3004.jpg
That color really brings out your broken capillaries.

 

June ages, like a fine wine. Or a bottle of ripple you leave out too long.

In a stunning display of self-centeredness, and in preparation for my move to another computer, I looked through the webcam photos I have here and came to the conclusion that my six years with (“with”) Ned have aged me.

Photo on 1-14-12 at 10.24 PM #2
January 14, 2012

Above, I had talked to Ned online, but not dated him yet.

Photo on 3-17-12 at 4.20 PM #3
St. Patrick’s Day, 2012. 

On my way to a date with another dude, above, as Ned had said he “wasn’t ready” for exclusivity.

Photo on 12-23-12 at 3.44 PM
Christmas of 2012

I think at first, as I got all in love and shit, I started to look better.

Photo on 1-19-13 at 7.15 PM

Our one-year anniversary, where I remember hoping he’d not bring up any ex-girlfriends all night. He did.

Photo on 3-16-13 at 7.07 PM
St. Patrick’s Day 2013. 

Even though I’m all Cell Block H here, I was really happy then.

Photo on 4-13-13 at 7.23 PM #4.jpg
Spring of 2013

See?

Photo on 1-25-14 at 4.38 PM #5.jpg
January 2014

Right around our two-year anniversary. Is this obsessive, what I’m doing?

Photo on 10-23-14 at 8.29 AM
October 2014

We’d moved in together, and trouble was already brewing. We had a terrible blowout on day three. I don’t mean we both got our hair straightened at the hairdresser’s, which woulda been more fun.

Photo on 1-1-15 at 12.03 AM #3
HAPPY NEW YEAR! In jail.

I spent Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve in my room, as we fought both those holidays. I’ve no idea why I took a photo of this miserable moment, but I did. I watched Google count down the year from my computer.

Photo on 7-16-15 at 5.47 PM #3.jpg
July 2015

My 50th birthday. Half the time I was deliriously in love and the other half I was in fekking agony.

Photo on 12-10-15 at 5.41 PM.jpg
December 2015

Oh, look, I’m home. Home to Tara. Months from my beloved dog dying. Maybe that’s what aged me.

Photo on 7-13-16 at 8.22 AM #3
July 2016

See? Lookin’ sorta old. Maybe it’s just cause I AM old and has nothing to do with emotional strain. Maybe I’m making all this up.

Photo on 3-18-17 at 7.04 PM #3.jpg
Cell Block St. Patrick’s Day 2017

What’s with me and all the morose photos on St. Patrick’s Day? And why do I stampede to my webcam on that holiday? Luck o’the Apple to ya.

Photo on 12-10-17 at 4.14 PM #2.jpg
December 2017

I don’t know. Maybe it’s just m’insides that got old and I don’t look as dreadful as I thought.

2012–2017.

Anyway. Have you seen enough photos of me today? Or do you hope for more?

We had our team Christmas party after work yesterday; the creative team, I mean.

IMG_2967.jpg
Oh thank baby and advanced-age, curvier Jesus. A photo of someone else.

That up there is m’coworker Essence, and I did not just use the random name generator or anything. I like her, and I like her earrings maybe more than is healthy.

Am I going to hell for saying, “Advanced-age, curvier Jesus”? Jesus is really embracing his curves.

IMG_2964.jpgAdvanced-age, curvier June’s plate. I’d like you to admire the plates, as I brought them, along with the matching napkins. Yep. June. Brings so much to a party.

IMG_2959.jpgIt was nice to see everyone; some even came from our other offices and so on.

But I had to skedaddle out of there fairly early, as I had promised The Other Copy Editor I’d head back to her B&B last night for Wine Wednesday, because last week she was too busy to really talk to me. She and I got there at about the same time, and said one word to each other before…

IMG_2972.JPG…we noticed 14 of the Alexes were also there. So we went to one of the rooms, we got a room, as it were, and chatted and giggled and did not at all gossip or discuss sex ad nauseam, as girls do.

TinaDoris, there, second from the right, is who I’ve been going to Pure Barrrrrre with, and yes, I got up with her at 6:00 today and pured our bars already. So once again, we have a Thursday where I’ve packed a lotta living into one day.

IMG_2970.jpgOh, and I almost forgot. At lunch yesterday, I schlepped Jodie Foster back to the shelter, in what is a rapid, convenient drive down the not-at-all-most-congested street in town. She had to get her shots, and I wanted that cold checked out.

She’s fine, but they did give her antibiotics just to be safe. And today I heard big old robust Steely Dan coughing, and I just felt terrible about it. I love that cat so bad.

Speaking of which, Ned called to say he got NedKitty’s remains yesterday. He walked into the vet’s, hoping to see, “Bee or Doris,” he said, like I’d know who they are.

“They’ve seen me come in for years with Murphy,” he said, and yes, that was her real name, “and I was hoping we could talk about her or something.”

Instead, a person he didn’t know handed over DeadKitty, and “no one gave me a hug or anything,” Ned said. It would appear he’s not doing well with the death of that cat.

Meanwhile, he’s still aging me, so.

I gotta get dressed. I got some StitchFix stuff I wanted to show you, but that damn Iris has been sleeping, unmoving, on my wrist this whole time and she is IRKING ME and I have a cramp.

Oh, hell, I gotta take a lipstick picture, don’t I? Okay, I have NO OTHER MAKEUP ON, so be kind. This is Roomiest Rose. What’s with all the big names lately?

IMG_2976.JPGThanks, June. Helpful photo.

IMG_2974
Ah, okay.

I added panicked mascara. And got some in my damn hair. Why do I bother?

Talk to you later. Maybe later we can get together and look at photos of me.

XO,

June

Let’s Vote on How We Want Comments to Look

June Gardens, foster mother

When I was a kid, there were two girls down the street who’d been adopted. Their names were Didi and Barbie, and I don’t know if they were acquired from the Michigan Orphanage o’Future Strippers or what with those names.

The point is, I desperately wanted to be adopted as a result. It sounded so dramatic. Also, they had been foster children, and I thought that sounded pretty cool, too.

“Can I be a foster child?” “I want to be adopted.” I would say harangue my parents endlessly.

This prompted my father, who never should have been given a child to fuck with, the idea of telling me that he kept a foster child in his tripod case. “I take her on my trips with me,” he would tell me.

My father was a photographer, and was forever going on these business trips to exciting places like Cleveland, and he always took with him a tripod case that was about the same height I was.

I kind of knew he was fucking with me, and that he had zero coveted foster children anywhere, but I also slightly believed him. When he wasn’t looking, I used to kick that tripod case, just in case that foster bitch was in there.

The point of my story is that I have my own little tripod case now. Last week, on one of my days off, I went to the animal shelter because I am an idiot who does things like go to the animal shelter for fun.

They needed volunteers to foster their puppies and kittens, and we all know how well it goes when I bring home a puppy, but I figured I could bring home a kitten or 12.

This is Jodie Foster. She is my first foster child. It occurs to me now I should have named her Didi or Barbie.

She is a little boop.

I got her at the animal shelter first thing this morning, before they even officially opened, and I was so excited to get her home that I failed to ask many questions. I know she was a stray, but I don’t know what her backstory is.

She’s too young to really be adopted, and she needed a nice home to stay in rather than the stressful shelter.

Here is what I know about her so far. She has pretty much not sit still since I put her in this room. I have to keep her separate from my regularly scheduled cats, so she will be in my main bedroom with the huge walk-in closet. There are tons of places to climb, and warm place to sleep, and these are the two warmest rooms in the house for some reason.

None of my other animals have even noticed there’s a new pet here.

Jodie Foster caught her reflection in the mirror in here and got all puffy. That was hilarious. And while she still isn’t sitting still, she is spending a lot of time cuddling with me.

Here are the things I know you were going to say: June, you are not going to be able to return this cat. You are going to adopt her.

But I know I’m not. I have enough animals. I really can’t afford another one. And I really don’t want to be the person with four fucking cats. This is just something I wanted to do because it’s a nice thing, and I love getting some kitten strange.

I have a lot of freelance work to do today, and some Christmas shopping to get done, which I guess I’m going to be doing online in this room.

This is actually a great excuse to isolate. Go, me!

In a whole circle of life thing, NedKitty did meet her maker last night. I went over to Ned’s house, and was there while it happened. She died on Ned’s lap.

Here’s another thing I know you’re going to say: Ned will take this kitten. He won’t. In a million years, he won’t. He so isn’t ready.

But I say, one’s always ready for some kitten strange.