LDV

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The point is, I made toast, and

GUESS

WHAT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cutlery roasting on an open fire

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

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

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

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

Screen Shot 2017-11-15 at 7.31.11 AM.png

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

IMG_1841.jpgWhat’cha doin’, June?

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

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

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

Pfft.

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

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

I need to stop thinking in song lyrics.

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

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

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

( https://youtu.be/m2tYvxEVreI

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

IMG_1852.jpg
“Oh, good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whatever. Girlfriend was waving. A lot.

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

The end.

Briefly,

Juan

 

 

 

Rearing to go

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

Bigger, June? Bigger than an eye exam?

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

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

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

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

That made no sense.

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

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

BOOM

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

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

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

“Hit my head,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The details.

While I was waiting for an ambulance.

She literally added insult to injury.

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

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

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

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

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

“Where are you?”

“I’m just leaving the gym.”

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

“You’re…what?”

“That Woman messaged me.”

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

Literally.

Because it was exposed and all.

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

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

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

SO

DELIGHTED

to see Uncle Ned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Accidentally,

June and her severed head

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

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

I gotta make my house more like Las Vegas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo on 11-4-17 at 8.55 PM.jpg
o fer fuk sake

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

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

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

I also bought Judy Blume’s latest book.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me, either.

IMG_E1572.JPGIMG_E1571.JPG

IMG_E1564.JPG
get lyfe.

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

Oh. Wait.

IMG_1507.jpg
maybe lilleee a little bit ded

Okay, bye.

Joooon.

Hey, where’s June?

Awhile back I chatted with a very funny person online, who got weird at the last minute so we never met.

This, by the way, could be the title of my life story: Things Got Weird at the Last Minute. Careful readers may recall I’ve already named my life story I Turned the Camera on Myself, but I made that title up before front-facing cameras.

Careful readers will also recall that I’ve told you I want to be called Dimebag Wasabi, and since then I’ve told you I want my new name to be about 40 other things.

Yes, we recall all that, Coot.

Oh my god, the point is, this online guy was really funny before he got weird, which could also be my autobiography: Really Funny Before She Got Weird. Except that’s rude to say about myself, the “really funny” part. I recently saw another online profile where the guy described himself as handsome.

Dude, might that be something we get to decide? I so wanted to write him that. It’s the same as describing yourself as an artist. I don’t think you get to make that call.

I did not take Ritalin today.

Oh, really, Dimebag? Who knew?

Please pretend the last seven paragraphs did not happen.

SO WHILE I NEVER MET THIS WEIRD/FUNNY GUY, one thing I liked about him is that he had a special abhorrence for the little conversation Tommy Lee and Vince Neil have in the middle of the fine tune Girls Girls Girls. Those two are artists. And probably would describe themselves as handsome.

The little conversation goes like this:

(Hey Tommy, check that out, man)
(What, Vince, where?)

He, the guy who was funny and then got weird, told me he and his friends would regularly say that to each other. It got to the point where my opening line to him would be, Hey, Tommy, check that out, man.

Then he’d write back What, Vince, where?

The point of all this is to tell you that today’s post title made me think of those lines. And really, it’s not even that close, but this is the shit you have to tolerate from me sometimes.

I took today off, as I have a lot of freelance to do, and also I am planning a small trip that I am leaving for shortly, which I will describe to you upon my return, or possibly on the Facebook while I’m there. Am vv excited about trip, and think it will be fun.

That there’s some quality writing. “I think it will be fun.” What, Vince, where?

I may even say to myself, on my “think it will be fun” trip, Hey, Coot, check that out.

Anyway, I’ve been scooched up in a not-very-ergonomic position, here, on the couch, with a laptop, trying to get stuff done, and I really ought to get back to it, so I will catch you on the flip side, or later in the weekend, or maybe at a strip club.

Friday night and I need a fight
My motorcycle and a switchblade knife
Handful of grease in my hair feels right
But what I need to get me tight are those
Girls, girls, girls
Long legs and burgundy lips
Girls, girls, girls
Dancin’ down on the Sunset Strip

My burgundy lips will talk to you later.

What, June, when?

P.S. Oh my god, I just remembered! Today is my 20-year anniversary of being a proofreader. I mean, that’s what I was at first: a proofreader. Then I became a copy editor, and I hate to toot my horn and all, but now I’m a SENIOR copy editor. I know. I wear a cap and gown to work every day. Anyway, that’s all. Check me out. What, June, where?

I need to get past this. Please send your thoughts and prayers to get me past this Motley Crue obsession. Where, June, where should we send our thoughts and prayers?

Hey, God, check that out, man.

What, Job, where?

Okay, really leaving.

With her caffeine, her Ritalin, and her pearls. Of wisdom.

That’s really my favorite line from a song.

WHAT is, June? We aren’t actually there in your head. And clearly half the time we don’t read your title.

“With her fog, her amphetamines, and her pearls.” Love that line. Also, do you ever do this? If anyone says to me, “I hate Bob Dylan. Oh, that nasal way he sings,” I just assume that person is dumb. I also never wish to hear that you don’t like the Beatles, because you then plummet into the same category I place “don’t like cats” people.

I can never feel the same about those people again.

What’s your thing, your bottom line, that sort of reduces your opinion of a person irrevocably? Like, I find it utterly baffling that you don’t like tomatoes, but I won’t like you less because of it. Not liking cats, though. See. I gotta take you at least down to the B list, if not the C. You’re my Hilary Swank. You USED to be something.

Last night, I told this guy from work I’d help him with his personal project, which just sounded vaguely dirty and isn’t. Writing is not his jam, see, so for a few nights I’ve stayed after work to help him out, and last night was one of those nights. One of these crazy old nights. We’re gonna find out, pretty mama.

See. I didn’t really hate the Eagles, ever, but once The Poet expressed to me her distaste, their lyrics are becoming noticeably ridiculous to me.

Anyway, it was exactly 5:00, and my phone rang. It was one of the Alexes. “I’m actually leaving work at 5:00!” she exclaimed. “Want to hang?”

We’ve been trying to do something for fucking ever, and she’s always got things going on, as she’s a millennial who grew up here, so she’s got that whole 90210 group of thus-far childless friends she still hangs with. Plus also she’s forever got family things. We live maybe a mile apart and I think the last time we saw each other was last Christmas.

“YES!” I said, excited, and then I remembered. Vilhelm Oyster. I branded my coworker with that name in 2011, and that’s who I promised I’d help. I’d been looking for him, anyway, to see if we were ready to begin our little after-work work, and he hadn’t been around, but then I began searching for him in earnest.

“Vilhlem!” I said, locating him, and I really do call him Vilhelm, which probably irritates everyone around us. “Alex called, and we never ever see each other, and she’s actually available today, right now! Can we work tomorrow?”

“No,” said Vilhelm.

So I moped over to the phone to call Alex and say I couldn’t meet her, but Vilhelm came over and said, YES, I COULD see her after all, and now I gotta find a way to blow him off tonight.

I kid. I will work with him tonight. Probably.

Anyway, I probably went to his B list when I bailed last night.

I took zero photos of Alex being here eating popcorn and drinking wine with me, as I was, oh, in the moment, so you’re gonna have to trust me on this. Also, I have a freelance assignment I want to get done with, and I’m nowhere NEAR done, and yesterday I got offered ANOTHER freelance assignment, and one wonders about my broken back/fenders polishing situation.

While all that wasn’t happening yesterday, I came home at lunch and took action shots of the pets. Act-shun, I wanna live. Wow, June, you’re so not at all predictable, with your lyrics.

IMG_1212.JPGIMG_1213.JPGIMG_1214.JPGPoor blindy Iris. A GOOD mom would have said, “Look out, Irises!” But no.

Also…

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And

IMG_E1203.jpgPerhaps you’re wondering who got a snout full o’claws, but are you? Are you wondering? Or do you know the answer already?

I put in my contacts just now; they’d been resting comfortably in the pocket on my robe. But once I put them on, seeing this screen isn’t easy, as then I need my reading glasses. Hello, 462.

I want you to promise me that no matter how old and feeble I get, still sitting here blogging my goddamn days at you, that the minute I in all seriousness say my age as anything “years young” that you will put me out to pasture with Ferdinand the Bull.

I’m 52 years young! Heh. …Hey, where ya takin’ me?

Anyway, I got up to get reading glasses just now. I noticed my coffee cup was empty (By the way, that Ward guy I dated briefly? Had, like, three cups of espresso before work, then a pot of coffee once he was there. I admired his fortitude), so I filled it, then I looked for pants, because what pants am I gonna wear today? Then I put some stuff in recycling, as I am a filthy liberal snowflake who recycles, and finally I sat back down here.

No reading glasses. I’m typing you from as far back as I can go and still reach the keyboard.

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helloooooo! can you hear me from back here?

What I’m saying to you is the Ritalin has not kicked in yet. Clearly.

I’m still taking a fairly low dose, but it is marvelous, is what it is. Once it begins working, anyway.

Okay, I gotta go. Still on pants quest. It was kind of easier when we were “business casual” and not “hep agency” because the former required nothing from me but eleventeen pairs of black pants. And one gray. For when I was whooping it up.

Whoop, there it is.

Juan

 

 

What is wrong with this emu?

It was inevitable, I suppose, that during a pertinent conversation with my friend Hamlet, in which we were extolling Patty and Selma from The Simpsons,

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that I was struck by HOW MAGNIFICENT it would be to name cats Patty and Selma. It’s these epiphanies that make me say, Well, I could just jaunt off to the pound, there, get a couple orange cats, call ’em Patty and Selma, because that’s just too good to pass up.

I didn’t do it. This is not a Very Special Book of June, where I get new pets.

Well. A Relatively Regular Book of June, where I get new pets.

IMG_E1134.JPGI did, however, just go ahead and have the scheduled pets, which normally, with my advanced maturity, I’d say isn’t nearly as exciting. But with Steely Dan, it’s always exciting.

You know what I like about him, other than his lust for life? He’s a regular Vincent Cat Gogh. I also like how normally he adores Edsel–I mean, the very first time I let whining, eager Edsel into the room to meet his kitten self, SD was appalled. He puffed all up, all four inches of him, and arched dramatically and so on. But about 47 seconds later he was cool with Edsel, and now he’s forever trying to get Eds to play (after that one claw-in-the-snout incident, that’s been less likely of an event) or standing on his back legs to rub his snout on Edsel’s.

But the times that dog gets, oh, emo, the times the dog emotes, which is often, Steely Dan cannot bear it. If Edsel is ever simpering and whining and acting the fool, SD gets up high somewhere–the sink, a counter–and makes sure to smack old touchy-feely EST feeling-his-feelings Edsel, terrectly on the noggin.

This I like about Steely Dan. It’s how we all feel when Edsel works on that Academy Award.

Anyway. M’weekend.

Oh, one more thing. (GOD, June.) Did you ever notice the iPhone emoji for “dog” looks like Edsel? Go ahead. I’ll wait.

FRIDAY

IMG_E1050.JPGAfter work, a bunch of us went to happy hour, because it was someone’s last day. We go to this place near work, and the weather was, in fact, perfect for it, but the sun. That sun. Did you ever notice it? Go look outside. I’ll wait. I know I was already supposed to wait for you to type “dog” into your phone, but.

This time of year, that first hour of happy hour, and I like how I miss the concept, is ALL SUN ALL THE TIME. It’s Barhenge.

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See. I just invented a Stongehenge-themed bar in my mind, but here one already is. Everything’s already been done.

The point is, as usual, everyone went home or off to, oh, eat, and I was the last person to leave, which is how it always works when I attend a happy “hour.” I had only one drink–I was just busy yammering to people. Also, there was a Great Pyrenees there. Of course I petted it. What are you, new?

Happy hour. It’s an hour on Mercury.

Also, science. I have no idea if time is slower on Mercury. I just kind of assumed. All that science, I don’t understand. Plus, as we know, science isn’t real anyway. Fake news.

SATURDAY

Spent way too much time following old Lust for Life around, trying to capture him on film, and by the way, he abhors the camera. Starts whipping his tail as soon as I aim the phone at him. The OTHER pets, the good pets, look right at me, at this point, and then when I’m somewhere trying to photograph someone else’s pet, as I am wont to do, I get so annoyed that they don’t automatically look at me when I point the camera. WHAT IS WRONG WITH THIS EMU?

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Finally, I did an hour of Callenetics, because it’s 1986 up in here. I was tired of Tracy Anderson, and I was getting injuries, so I ordered me up that old …tape, even though now it’s a DVD, but come on.

Anyway, I just loved it. I love that lady, who was clearly some rich person who thought she was a huge adventurer, what with spending the family money to gallivant all over yonder, and eventually decided to teach exercise classes, which is another “family money” kind of job.

You should read her Wikipedia page. Oh my god. It’s not even a humble brag. It’s just a brag brag. It’s Fort Bragg. Just Google Callan Pinckney. Which by the way, she made up. That name, I mean. It’s not nearly as good of a name as Patty or Selma.

See. I’m doing the thing where I’m trying to tell you about three days and I’m taking for fucking ever. Let’s proceed.

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In the afternoon, I stampeded to the movies to see The Other Side of the Mountain or whatever it’s called, the one that gives you yet another clue that you should never take public transportation with Kate Winslett.

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Does it irk you when you see a photo here that I’ve already put on social media? Are you all GOD, June? Are you always all GOD, June?

I attended said film with my friend The Poet and her friend The Prose, and hang on a minute while I gaze at myself fondly for calling him The Prose.

IMG_1089.jpgThe movie was just okay. There was a dog in it and a hot man of color with a British accent, and we get to see him having sex–the man, not the dog–so two cougars up.

Then I screamed to the damn dance store, of which this town has one, to buy ballet slippers for tonight’s dance class, and they close AT FOUR on Saturdays.

At four. On a Saturday. Four. Yeah. Those nutcrackers.

So instead, I shopped for my Halloween costume, then screamed home and got ready for a partayyy, in which I brought helpful cheese and crackers.

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Yeah, thanks for the…cheese and crackers. Thank god you’re here.

IMG_1108.jpgOne of my coworkers had a little get-together, and the food was delicious, and it was perfect weather for a fire pit, and it turns out, all I really ever want to do is drink around a fire pit. That’s all I ask for in a fall evening.

IMG_E1102 2.JPGAlso, I like the people I work with. I’m like a chubby Mary Richards.

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Fairly drained June, midnight Saturday

SUNDAY (Oh thank god. Will she ever stop?)

I wanted to do Callenetics again, that’s how much I liked it, but it says to do it twice a week, so. Everything hurt, so I put on my athletic shoes (hahahahahahaha) and headed to this trail. Lactic acid burnoff. I considered taking the Eds, but that trail is always sick with dogs, and guess whose miracle cure is wearing off. Guess who decided to put the aggression back in leash aggression.

I’m so glad I didn’t take him, because this asshole came up the trail with her two white fluffy dogs OFF LEASH, one in a pink harness and one is a blue harness (okay, that part was cute), and they ran right up to me and climbed up my leg. By the time that woman sauntered to us, Edsel would have digested and passed her flufferkins, her furbabies, her insert whatever annoying thing she inevitably calls them.

“I just can’t bear to put them on leashes,” she laughed, as she approached me petting her dogs. Oh, how I wanted to tell her. You have no idea. You think you can’t bear to leash them? How would you have felt about finally strolling up to a shaggy Civil War scene? To the remains of the fluff? Cause that’s what woulda happened had I been here with my leashed, legal dog. Barely legal, all nude dog.

I walked for an hour and a half, and stopped at the little lake, there, watched turtles, and then it was time for therapy!

Therapy? June? What with your healthy love relationships? Why waste your money?

And yes, she has hours on Sunday, and who am I to argue with a therapist who might be a workaholic? This is, in fact, the second therapist I’ve had who works Sundays; the last was in LA. They probably have to work seven days, like ranchers in Oklahoma or lobstermen in Maine.

IMG_1140.jpgThe office is downtown, which is convenient, because I hear downtown, all the old men have been driven crazy.

And that was the day I stopped reading June.

IMG_E1141.JPGI like going downtown, even though I was once again approached by someone who was “out of gas” on his “second day in Greensboro,” and should I just keep five dollars in my wallet? Is that the most humane way to deal with this? What if the broken old man who approaches me is finally Jesus and I blow it by walking by indifferently?

Or what if he’s just a broken man who needs help and I walk by indifferently? The problem is, I’m also a little scared, so I don’t want to stay long. So it’s this push/pull of help a person/save one’s ass from mugging.

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Sunday version of fairly drained June. Now with white guilt!

So that sums it up. Tonight I dance. Just a Steeltown girl on a Saturday night. Just an aging girl on a Monday night, lookin’ for the fight of her life. Or dancing shoes at her lunch hour.

She has danced into the danger zone when the dancer becomes the dance. Or sciatica.

Head up, young person.

June

Because we need more oompah bands.

IMG_E0936.JPG
a powst about edzul?!

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m free! Free falling!

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

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

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

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

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

HOW CUTE IS THAT?

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

a man would never tell it.

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

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

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

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

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

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mom be edsel spare buddon
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no, seeeruslee

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

goddammit.

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

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

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

Why are people so goddamn complex?

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

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

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

Alone again. Naturally.

Coot

See June kvetch

IMG_0933
Glare-ing at you. HAHAHAHAHAHA.

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

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

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

Hi, mom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hi.

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

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

My stupid heart. I suppose it will go on.

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

June