LumberJune

Years ago, I was on the phone with my oldest friend, Pal From MA. She was on her porch, and who knows what ridik topic we were on, but it compelled her to yell, “HELLO, CLITORIS!” at one point.

And when she did that? A woman walking across the street waved.

This obsessed me. I was so tickled, so to speak. It really pushed my buttons.

I mean, was that her NAME? Did her parents hate her? Did she just think that’s what the cool people were doing now, like it was the new Whatup, Homie?

Was she thinking my Pal From MA was offering up some sort of girl-power hello, like the woman bits in me salute the woman bits in you?

Nubaste.

The reason I’m telling you this is because I woke up at 1:48 a.m. today and thought of this and could not stop giggling.

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I giggled so hard, and for so long, that Iris, who is usually delightful to sleep with, flumped to the end of the bed, where everything was normal and no one was all “If this bed is a-rockin’ it’s because June is chortling uncontrollably about something that happened in 2009.”

Iris is my favorite cat to sleep with. Needy Lily, on the other hand, is all HELLO CLITORIS, so clingy is she and so hard does she want to sleep inside my soul. Fortunately she wasn’t there last night, because she’s the kind of person who ruins your giggling with, “What? What’s so funny?”

Why do people do that? It’s never as funny when you describe it. It’s the same as, “What’re you reading?” Oh, let me put down my book I’m enjoying and give you a verbal summation. Here’s a summation: You’re an asshole.

Anyway, hi. I know I’ve not been here in a few days.

I didn’t blog at you Friday or Monday because I got yet ANOTHER notice from WordPress that I owed them money and I was irked. I just renewed my ($100!!) yearly subscription with them a few weeks ago, but apparently I also upgraded my account last year at this time, because I needed to transfer over 11 years of blog photos and so on, so I owed on that.

I was giving careful consideration to just stopping this blogging deal altogether, so annoyed was I with this SECOND bill, but then I mentioned that on Facebook, and a bunch of you sent tips, even though I no longer have a tip jar on this blog.

That was so nice, and I was all, oh, I’ll blog Tuesday, and then today Steely Dan got injured.

dun dun DUNNNN

He came home last night, which right there was odd enough. He usually eschews me all evening for god knows what. He’s probably out saying, MEOW, CLITORIS, except he’s fixed. But so am I and I carouse, so.

Anyway, he came in last night during Edsel’s final pee of the night, and he was clearly upset. He was whipping his cat tail, his cat eyes were big and he clearly wanted me to stop fekking cat Yoko-ing him.

Then this morning he was Limp Bizkit. He wouldn’t put any weight on his back leg. I rushed him dramatically to the vet, who tells me SD’s been in a cat fight, and I’d just like to mention that Oscar the fluffy Orange Julius of a kitty next door is also an outdoor cat, and I feel like orange you glad you have a new cat to beat up was occurring last night, and I somehow missed it. How did I miss a catfight? Maybe it was one of those new Silent Bob(cat) fights.

He’s at the vet now, and they called me a while ago using his full Christian name. “Steely Dan Silverman is ready for you to get him at 1:00.” So I’m ready to leave in a second to go retrieve Jack Dempsy, over there, with his antibiotics that I feel like he’ll be quite mellow about taking. Like, Dennis Hopper in Blue Velvet mellow.

By the way, there’s a gray parrot at my vet, a gray parrot who meows. As worried as I was this morning, I could not help but be charmed by that parrot. “Meow!” he’d say, lifting his bird foot.

“Mew!” he did a whole ’nother cat voice while he poked at his budgie. This voice was almost kitten-y.

Then he whistled the Andy Griffith theme song to the room at large, and at this point I’m ready to be Mrs. June Gray Gardens Parrot, so enamored am I of this creature.

Meanwhile, my cat died like that little girl in Airplane, where everyone’s singing and not noticing her IV had fallen out.

Screen Shot 2018-04-17 at 1.05.50 PM.pngOh, he was FINE. He was in his carrier. IT WAS A MEOWING BIRD. Who can resist?

So, that’s all for now. I have much to tell you, including that I was in a tornado, and afterward Marvin couldn’t find me because apparently my phone was out for a bit so I did not recieve his call or follow-up oh my god are you dead text, and then I didn’t blog, so all of a sudden Marvin pictured me under a house with stripy socks.

The house began to pitch, and I’m a bitch.

Anyway, it was nice of Marvin to care if I lived or died. The tornado didn’t touch down at my house, but it sure as hell touched down elsewhere in my city. Tornadoes blow.

Tune in for more of this kind of hilarity and a full Steely Dan Silverman update tomorrow.

P.S. I forgot to ask you: Yesterday on (Face)Book of June, we got into a discussion about what our school mascot had been. Faithful Reader Paula’s kids used to be The Warriors, but that became politically incorrect, and since it was a Christian school, they changed it to The Warriors of the Lord, and I AM SORRY THAT IS EVEN BETTER THAN HELLO CLITORIS.

Warriors of the Lord. Oh, that KILLS me.

I was the Lumberjacks (of the Lord). Those of us who identified as female at my school were called—are you ready? Lumberjills.

Of the Lord.

Goodbye, Clitoris.

June declutters

I’m thinking of moving. My neighborhood is hot hot hot right now, for some reason, and I could get a lot of money for it. And I could move into a smaller, less-expensive place, without these rollocking two bedrooms and one bathroom and kitchen the size of a thimble.

Okay, but really. There are smaller houses out there.

Anyway, that part isn’t up for debate, really. But I’ve been thinking about this since right around I guess it was St. Patrick’s Day, because my pal Marianne and I looked at houses that day we were together. And what I want to know is, when did the market get hot?

My house stayed valued at less than I paid for it for years. YEARS. Like, way less than I paid for it. I bought it in April of 2008, which is pretty much the very worst time you could buy a house.

But then just this year–swear!–just this year, it’s gone way up.

And people wanna live in my ‘hood, man. It’s in a good school district or something. And the houses are cute, although not a one is fancy by any stretch. All the houses in my neighborhood were built between 1950 and 1954. I was the second house in this area. Peg’s was first.

Anyway, I’m looking at some cute places in up-and-coming neighborhoods, and a little bit out of town for Steely Dan’s sake. I can’t tell you how much of this is for Steely Dan’s ridiculous sake.

Just this morning I was in the bathroom getting ready and I heard all this pounding in the hall outside, and I thought, oh, Edsel has Blu. But when I opened the door, it was that damn gray cat. I think he was busying himself kicking the corner of the rug with his back evil cat feets. He was all, “wut.” when I opened the door.

Cat needs stimulation. And I’d prefer he’d have it away from, you know, cars and such.

So, Realtors® have been here (you’re welcome for the official way to write Realtor®) and they told me what I could get for my house, possibly, and after I pushed all my hair back down because STANDING ON END, I got really into the idea.

Last night I came home and decluttered a bit, so the real estate photographer can come photograph m’house.

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Before
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After

I also decluttered the kitchen.

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Before. Why the old pictures gotta be so tiny?
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And, welcome to my boring kitchen!
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Boring kitchen, now with dog!

Oh my god, I just had a great idea. I should take all the pink dishes off that exposed shelf. Hang on…

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After

What if I don’t move and just become a minimalist?

Anyway, so that’s what I’m up to, and it’s sort of obsessing.

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Before. Taken in like 1812 or something. Could this be smaller?
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Oh, I’m SUCH a minimalist. Man, do I love minimal shit. pfft.

Maybe I could just take some of those shelves out altogether.

See? You get obsessed.

IMG_6882.jpgAnyway, I’ve got to go. While we’ve been talking, Edsel has been out and in and wants to go out again. Steely Dan also went out, asked to come in, and is now meowing by the door to go out again. I hate everyone.

Talk at you minimally,
Simple June

 

The stitch has been fixed. The eagle has landed.

I ended up getting invited to two things last night, because apparently Tuesday is the hot night now or something, and the point is that over the course of the evening, I had a glass of Prosecco and then two glasses of chardonnay, because I’m a girl. Then at my now-usual wakeup time of 4 a.m., I had a splitting headache and slept in this morning.

There was a time I could have three drinks in preparation for my workday. When did I get so wimpy?

So write fast I must, but I hated to leave you without the stunning results of our StitchFix polls yesterday. It would appear that about 355 of you voted, which is a pretty good turnout when I had (lemme go see) 1,430 readers yesterday. According to my maths, 407% of people participated.

img_6725A stunning 88% of you voted that my boss, fmr., keep that bird shirt. I hope she perches on that decision and spends some bills on this shirt.

The distressed jeans caused some distress, and oh, lort, June, are you gonna do this throughout? Only 55% said to keep them, which distresses me out. June stop.

IMG_6717We were double-breasted on the coat, too. It was pretty much half and half (49% yes, 45% no) on whether it should stay or should it go, now. If it goes it will be double (breasted) and if it stays it will be double (breasted, still).

That’s it, June. I’m leaving.

IMG_6731At least we were all in agreement that we hated a wrinkle in time, over here. A weird 1.36% voted she should keep this. I’d like to hear from this elusive 1.36%. Do you also hate chocolate and Tom Hanks?

IMG_6722And, finally, we didn’t link to this cuff much. 58% said to unhand the cuff.

Oh, June. You shoulda stuck to waitressing. For you were a stellar and unharried waitress with the patience of Job and the focus to remember what your tables wanted.

Did I ever tell you about the time I cried because the soup changed? Remind me.

Sometimes I have nightmares that I’m waitressing again. I’m at some soda gun going, How did I get back here?

Anyway. Thanks for participating, you 355 or so who did. Why didn’t you others? What a bunch of cranks. Perhaps the rest of you are men.

Yesterday, my boss, fmr., and I were discussing her photos on my blog, and the reactions we were getting to the clothes, and my boss’s boss, also fmr., happened upon us.

“I’d rather…go to the dentist, yes, go to the dentist, than have a bunch of people tell me what clothes to buy,” he said. Keep in mind this was the guy who gave me the eagle calendar. All of a sudden we gotta listen to THIS guy.

Boss, fmr. and I stared at him blankly.

“Well, then how do you shop?” we asked him. Pretty much at the same time, like those twins in The Shining.

“How you shop is, you decide you need something, and you go out and get it.”

We stared at him blankly some more. Kind of like those twins in The Shining. Still. Occasionally, after that stunning announcement, I’d kind of see my Eagles-Loving Former Boss’s Boss and then an elevator with blood pouring out of it would cross my vision.

“Now, what now?” I asked.

“If I’m shopping alone, I at least take a selfie in the dressing room and send it to someone for their opinion,” I told him.

“Yeah, of course,” agreed my boss, fmr.

“You’re kidding,” said my boss’s boss, former, lover of eagles. And their calendars.

Later, I asked Ned about this.

“How you shop is, you say, wow I’m out of blue jeans (Ned always calls them “blue jeans” like he’s Grampa Joe or whatever) and then you go out and get the same kind of blue jeans you’ve been buying since 9th grade,” said Ned.

Blood. Elevator. Somewhere in Florida an old man is having a vision under a painting of a naked woman.

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“How is it that we even exist on the same planet?” asked Former Boss of All Eagles.

Anyway, I gotta go. If I’m going to have a wine headache, I’m going to have it at work, where I can complain about it to the world at large.

Givingly,
Joon

Sleeping on top of the peacock

I’ve been up since 4:53 a.m. I didn’t even have to slop any hogs or anything; I just woke up. I’d been sleeping with Steely Dan, because he came in last night at a weird time (as in, at all. He usually leaves at sundown and never returns till dawn), and I wasn’t thinking, and when I went in to bed, there he was splayed across my new peacock chenille bedspread that my coworker Poochie gave me. Hang on, I’ll show it to you.

IMG_6708.jpgOkay, the bed’s not, like, display-floor made. I didn’t know I was gonna bring you all in here this morning.

Anyway, there he was. Splayed. And of course my first thought was, Oh, no. Because you know he eats m’clothes. But it appears he only slept on the peacock, as he was tired after his many roof adventures.
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it exhaust to be steelee

The point is, he was so cute and sleepy, so I let him stay all night.

Here’s the thing. There are two kinds of cats in this world: head-butters and nonhead-butters. Sadly for me, 66% of my cats butt heads.

That’s two-thirds, right? 66%? Don’t ask me to do maths like this.

Solid, huge Steely Dan enjoys cramming his solid, huge head into my face, over and over, with his stupid always-wet nose, and this may be why I awoke at 4:53. Then, when I tried to go back to sleep, birds started chirping because STUPID SPRING and SD draped his tail across my face and then whipped it, because birds because STUPID SPRING.

Whip. Whip. Whip. Big huge solid tail.

The other head-butter, in case you were curious, is giant fat Lily.

The only cat who’s feather-light, who when you pick her up it’s like air and fur, is Iris, who never head butts, probably because she can’t see my head.

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eyeriss SEE thing. she just choowse not to sometime.

But speaking of Iris, I took her to the vet this weekend for her shots, as it was a year ago at this time that she was mauled by old Pitty and Chewie, over here, the neighbor dogs who got out. The vet said she looks really great, and then he said, “Wow, her teeth are wonderful. Have you had them cleaned?”

Pfft. Have I had them cleaned. I used to do that to poor Mr. Horkheimer, till I walked in one day when they were in the middle of cleaning him and it looked like torture. So no.

The vet said that in his experience, when cats have really good teeth, they seem to have good genes in general and live a long time. Yay. Don’t tell anyone, but I like this info because Iris is my f-a-v-o-r-i-t-e.

Anyway, I hope everyone had a lovely, you know, whatever holiday you celebrate.

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This was how I Eastered. I did not PASS OVER the chance to eat these.

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This was also how I Eastered. THEY HAVE GLITTER DYE NOW WHY DOES GOD ADORE ME SO.

I’m tryina think of anything else I did.

IMG_6543.jpgMy mother sent me a dress that really goes for the JUGular.

Also, I went to the antique store near me, looking for lamps in all the wrong places. I say this because I didn’t FIND one. Also I can’t afford one, because do you remember when we had the $99 membership for another year of WordPress? They sent me ANOTHER bill for the upgrade I apparently also did last year.

Sigh.

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If this hadn’t been beige, my least-most-favorite color, I’d have like it.
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Sequence. Oh, kill me now.
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I’m really hoping this fox died in his sleep of natural causes.
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“I didn’t, hooman bitz.”
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“Hey, you’re sitting in our seats.” “I don’t see your NAME on…oh.”

I also once again left my house that had cats and coffee in it to go to a cafe with cats and coffee in it.

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wat.
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dis ideea not my bag
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And I saw this sign and it made me sad.

And finally, after several months, I got a pedicure. I was scared to death it would pain my broken toe, but it mostly didn’t. Because powering through a pedicure with a broken toe is how I tomboy.

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For those of you who actually groom rather than proudly announcing you don’t, have you ever noticed that after you get a pedicure you are obsessed with your feet for a few days?

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Oh, look. M’feet.

I guess the same as there are head-butting cats and…not, there are women who love to groom and women who think it’s frivolous. I find wind surfing frivolous, but you never hear me saying that. Well. Except just now.

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Yu done tawking now?
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Seeryuslee, mom. Yuu done?

I guess I’d better shower and go to work. I have not one but two huge things due today, and they will both take all day, and yet somehow I must do both today. I do not know how I will pull this off, but no matter how I do it, I will do it complainingly.

Butting your head with my words,
Juun

The dodgy tip

It was laundry. That was the smell [see yesterday’s post, ya boob].

Apparently I washed a load of clothes back when I was on the phone with Martha Washington, and I’d forgotten to put those clothes in the dryer, so for 8 centuries they were festering there in the damp, and it’s been warm out.

Guess what’s going now. Is it the washer?

The other news is that for the past three weeks or more, I’ve had a dilemma that I couldn’t tell you about.

Another company wanted me. They desired me. I was IN DEMAND!

It’s a publishing company I’ve freelanced for since 2012. I’m certain you recall March of 2012, when I had a giant project due for them.

Ah, yes, June. That giant–GET OUT’CHER OWN ASS AND CARRY ON, JUAN.

Anyway, I’ve worked for them on and off ever since, and several weeks ago the executive editor wanted to meet in real life, finally, so we got up one night and I thought, “I wonder if she wants a job at my company.”

People are always trying to work at my company. People were always crossing rooms to talk to Maxine (When Harry Met Sally™).

But she wasn’t. She was trying to get me over to her. She wanted me to be a senior editor, and be all fancy, and so on.

So for three weeks, I’ve had that opportunity in front of me, and I had to think about where I work now, and what it’d be like there. So these past few weeks, when I’ve been being hilarious

Let me try that sentence anew.

So these past few weeks, when you’ve smiled wanly at me every once in awhile, I’ve been consumed with the idea that I might switch jobs. I even considered moving to Winston-Salem, where I’d be closer to said publishing house.

But in the end, I stayed at my company. For I like it there, and I’ve been there seven years, and it’s six minutes away. I fit in. Kind of.

Then once I made my final decision, I had to take work home this weekend. Taaa-daaaaa!

For it IS the weekend, for me. We have Good Friday off, and THANK YOU, WEIRD BIBLE BELT. We even got to leave at 3:00 yesterday, although I stayed till about 3:45 to try to get more work done, and THANK YOU, WEIRD JUNE BELT.

As he was leaving, my boss’s boss, fmr., tried to out-Easter-pun me. He’s known as the pun MASTER at work, but walked away, defeated, when I came back at him with,

“Why are you so cross? You’d think it was Maunday, not Thursday.”

Nailed it.

So because I’d had a stressy, thinky several weeks, and because it was warm out, and because we were out at 3:00, I headed downtown. To drive all the old men crazy.

Dear June: GET.OVER.THAT.LINE.

img_6534.jpgI like to go downtown, so to speak. First of all, the mental status of old men is important to me, and also because it keeps growing and changing, so to speak. I can make anything dirty. What is wrong with me? Perhaps the old men have driven me crazy.

On the drive to find parking, I saw two coworkers and then also two young girls kissing against their car, a thing that likely did drive all the old men crazy.

IMG_6531I admired the sites beyond young-girl love, and I also shopped and didn’t buy anything. You’re welcome, fledgling downtown Greensboro!

IMG_6532IMG_6535They have all these cool new stores now over in the once-dodgy end of downtown, a place I never went unless I was desperate to get to the bakery that was way down at the dodgy tip. But now none of it’s dodgy anymore!

I stopped at store (not the store above. That place above is super cool) and had The World’s Worst Tarot Reading®, where I was told my Workers Comp claim will come out in my favor (??) and that I feel trapped in my marriage (??) and won’t move from Greensboro due to my four kids (!!?!).

So.

Do you feel it’s possible that tarot cards are bullshit?

Oh, she also told me three people are very critical of me right now and FUCK YOU, THREE PEOPLE.

IMG_6542Eventually I joined my coworkers for a drink, and I really had a good time, and then when I went home I saw other coworkers on Instagram, drinking at another downtown bar, and I was all, Was there a cooler, subversive happy hour that I was not privy to?

FUCK YOU, OTHER SUBVERSIVE COOLER DRINKERS.

Anyway, now that it’s my day off, I have to go to the grocer, as apparently I need to shop in 1930s London. Maybe I’ll even go to the greengrocer.

My alarm went off today, because I have it set to go off M–F and this is F, but I shut it off and said to Edsel, “You know what we get to do today, Eds? We get to sleep in.” And I swear to you he did his dog sigh/moan and put his snout on my neck and we slept like that for another hour.

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Eds need to unwine. Need dis day off.

Anyway, I hafta go to the grocer because am seriously out of ERR’THANG. I have no beverages. Well, coffee. But that’s not a bev so much as an addic. But last night I had no bottles of water, no soda, no V-8. The only thing in my fridge was a disgusting black beer that Ned left here when he came to get his cat, which is NOT A EUPHEMISM.

The point is, I tried to drink it. So desperate was I. I realize I have a, you know, TAP, but blech.

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IMG_6546That was not a successful jaunt. June’s Legend of Blackbeer.

I like how I have my earrings on with my pajamas. I’m Aladdin, over here.

I will leave you now, and wish you a good Friday.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

heeeee [is risen]

June

Disease Du Jour

I am sitting on my couch, speaking into my phone today, because I am icing my arm. I have a very serious medical condition. You know how this delights me.

Yesterday afternoon, I went to my doctor. Fortunately for me, he’s right across the street from work, so I can just pop in there any old time. At this point, they have a special room for me, and I go in early so I can chat up all the receptionists about their love lives.

I had gone for a followup on my broken toe, and because some of my medication was giving me headaches.

My beleaguered doctor looked at all that stuff, asked me questions from his giant scroll of June medical events, and then at the very last minute, I said, “Oh, by the way, my elbow hurts all the time. Just constantly. I believe it’s elbow cancer.”

My doctor, who is hilarious, has told me that I have two choices: He can be hilarious and I can not ever ever quote him on this blog ever, or he can be all professional and medical with me and I will have nothing to report to you anyway. I have opted for door number one. But just know he has several ridik things to say to me whenever I am there, including my diagnosis of elbow cancer.

My doctor is as over me as any doctor ever is. I have not told him about the streak of doctor suicides I have been responsible for. Or about the two doctors who have quit the medical profession altogether.

Anyway, he was basically not believing there was anything wrong with me, until he touched my elbow. “Wow, it’s swollen!”

After many invasive medical tests and procedures, after a team of experts were flown in from across the globe, it has been determined that I have tennis elbow.

I realize that I have never played tennis in my life, except for when they forced me to in gym class in the 10th grade. Nevertheless, I have a sports injury.

I’ve been trying to think of what repetitive motion I have done to my stupid arm to warrant this major medical condition. As far as I can remember, it just hangs limply on my motionless side. It’s not like I’m out there athletic-ing the world.

I got planter fasciitis when I don’t run. I broke a toe by walking into the dog’s bone. And now I have tennis elbow and I couldn’t even tell you where there’s a tennis court in this town.

Maybe I sleepwalk, and at night I’m a tennis pro somewhere around here. I am Greensboro’s Yvonne Goolagong. My doctor did, in fact, once tell me I had iron-poor blood.

When we were just wrapping up college circa 1989, my roommate Sandy filled out an application for a job, and made the mistake of letting it lie around so I could see it. She listed her hobbies as racquetball and watercolor painting.

When she got home, I chastised her for leaving her racquet all around the house. “And I suppose you’re going to whip up that easel again.”

Anyway, that’s me. Having hobbies that I don’t actually do. That my body is paying for. By the way, she got that job. Worked at that place for 18 years. I always threatened to call and tell them that she had never watercolor-painted one thing in her goddamn life.

Her hobbies included putting on her pajamas and watching “A Current Affair.” And drinking and makeup shopping with me.

Anyway, that sums up my current medical condition. Someone on Facebook last night already determined that our ribbon should be tennis-ball yellow. You guys are wearing a lot of Rubens lately. Ribbons. Jesus. I’ve been wearing a lot of Reubens. What hips?

I leave you with pictures of my animals being aggressive to each other. Last night, Lily was licking the spot on Edsel’s leg that he won’t stop licking. Anyway, it offended Edsel and all of his people through time. All of the ancient Edsels through history rose up from the grave to glare at Lily over this.

Here’s Steely Dan chomping the butt parts of poor Iris.

And that is my life today.

Icily,

Jeb

June Doles Out the Special Banana Post

Were you worried I’d slip and forget the banana story? Did you think I’d peel out of work Friday and forget you? That I’d split and forget about the banana?

What a fruity idea.

June’s readers. Finding June unapPEELing since 2018.

IMG_6300.jpgAs you know, from your Enormous Banana of June Events, my ridik coworker Camilo–whom I’m certain I’ve blog-named in the past but who can remember what I called him. I must be low on potassium.

Anyway, Camilo, my coworker, mashed in from New York all flambé about some shit he learned about bananas. “You guys wouldn’t BELIEVE it,” he said. Look, he’s still green. Banana things excite him.

I don’t know where this news stemmed, but he had something thrilling he learned that was banana-related, and he needed an ACTUAL banana to show us.

No matter how you sliced it, he was making this a huge deal. So after he’d plantain-ed the seed, we were all into learning what the news was. I set up an actual meeting on everyone’s calendar, in an actual meeting room, and every chichita in the place gathered to see what was up.

You could say we were a banana republic.

Dear June:
You’re fired.
Love, All readers everywhere.

So without so much as a yellow, he showed the BUNCH of us the banana.

IMG_6305.jpg“Is it the thing where you peel it from the bottom,” an unenthused coworker, who had a deadline, asked. Clearly she had not been on the banana boat earlier, when he’d already assured us it was WAY BEYOND the old opening-it-from-the-bottom trick.

IMG_6309.jpg“You know how sometimes you have a banana, and you want to share it with others?” he asked.

No. No I don’t. But I’m an only child.

IMG_6310.jpg“Watch this,” he said, about to serve us a banana shakeup. Camilo stuck his thumb in the top of the banana, and pressed down.

Voila. Or, waa-laa, if you want to be …rotten.

IMG_6311.jpgTurns out, if you press the top of a peeled banana, it automatically divides into three sections. “It’s like it’s MADE to be shared,” he said. He wasn’t monkeying around. He handed banana sections to the whole bunch of us.

I know I already used “bunch.” Why don’t you try to think up this many melon-farming banana puns?

So. There it is. I don’t know what kind of bread you can make from this info, but now you have a party trick that’s…bananas.

Daylight come and me wanna go home,
June

P.S. Tuuuuuune in Sunday for “the grid.” I have a migraine. Too many banana daiquiris last night.

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Today, I got up, took my stupid Prilosec and started my half-hour countdown, fed everyone (I let Iris be a bad girl today, because Steely Dan hadn’t deigned to come home yet after a night out, so Iris got to eat up at SD’s dish like a rebel.

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Eyeriss so bad. She need spank. heeeee.

Then, of course, SD let himself in and looked up at his dining establishment, astonished, but he did not kick her ass as I’d feared. I can never figure this cat out. Instead, I fed him over by Lily, and they both took that in stride), showered (she says, after the world’s longest parenthetical), made sure my stupid half-hour had passed and got my coffee all set, sat down here and was like,

Wow. I have nothing to say today.

Oh, I know!

Photo on 3-22-18 at 7.48 AM #2.jpgI got my hairs cut!

I think it might dry while we talk, it’s so short and shortie now, but let’s see what happens. You won’t BELIEVE what happens next. Click here.

My coworker did that to me yesterday. He didn’t cut my hair–I might have led with that. He works in our New York office now, but he’s back this week to do stuff in our studio, and he was all, “Oh my god, you guys, who has a banana? I learned the COOLEST thing about bananas.” No one had one.

We were all, Do you mean the thing where you hold it by the stem. We all said that with the enthusiasm of a tree sloth. Because Oooooo, Mr. New Yorker’s gonna burst in, thinking he’s all big city. With his banana stem thing we all learned years ago. We’re not in Papua New Guinea, dude.

“No, it’s something different! My brain literally exploded!”

“Your brain did not literally explode,” I pointed out, and quest for world’s popular-ist coworker rages on.

Anyway, he built it up in such a “click here” way that I swear 200 people are gonna stop working so we can watch Camilo and the Banana today. I mean, he built this shit up, so it better be good.

“Maybe he finally realizes you eat the inside,” my boss’s boss, fmr., said to me, as we strolled away.

…I’ve been scrolling through my photos, because I know I have a nice one of a bunch of coworkers holding up their bananas at some point, when it was Banana O’Clock at work one day. I can’t find it, of course, but I found a buncha racy ones of me in a pink bra, and who was I trying to impress, I wonder.

Anyway, I also found the following…

IMG_3307.jpgMy grandfather and me, petting a dog. That dog was Sam. I believe he set the template for me liking a medium-size, yellow mutt.

My grandfather would have been my age in that photo. I mean, he wasn’t three. I was three, and he was around 52. My age now. Just eat your banana and stop being clever.

IMG_6115.jpgMe, househunting for a place in Greensboro in 2008. We hadda take Talu on the search, because she was just a baby. She would’ve been four months old then. Lu.

The two-year anniversary of her death is tomorrow. Yay.

IMG_6117.jpgLu and me at this house. I remember walking in and going, “Ooooo!” like it was covered in diamonds or something.

We’re seeing a lotta Lu anus today.

img_6114.jpgThere’s the front of our Lu! Even back then she stood the same way. That Pitty way.

IMG_1455.jpgWhy’d Lu have to up and die? Like Mr. Bojangles’ dog? I hate everything.

When I was trying to find that banana shot, which really, I need to get over, I looked in the category of “people” and this interesting Brady Bunch board came up.

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Here’s an interesting June quiz. Well. “Interesting.” How many of June’s people can you identify? We’ll label them 1–25, going from top-left across. So, the mystery figure in blue, with the buildings behind him, is number one. The mystery figure in the lavender sweater, looking down, is number 25. The winner gets…

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a cat bonnet! And by “gets,” I mean I’ll say you’ll get it and I will never send it. Start playing now!

Don’t you love days when I have nothing to tell you?

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Sadly, I’ve discovered my computer allows me to muck with my photos, a thing I hadn’t discovered previously, and now every photo you see will be all mucked. You’re welcome. Also, I took this in the romantic light of the screen. I do not have a skin condition. But there’s my nearly dry hair.

I gotta go. Ima take Edsel to daycare today, and here’s the link.

Talk at you.
Juan

June’s delusional world

I’m writing you on Sunday night because I have to call the IRS in the morning to figure out if I owe money or I’m getting money back, a thing TurboTax can’t seem to tell me, which makes my ass ache mightily.

Yes, June, that’s a shame. So, what’d you do this weekend?

Well, mostly I hung around Marianne.

In 1992, I moved to Seattle. I knew I wanted to leave Michigan after college, and they read more books there per capita, so I figured I’d fit in.

I did.

I got a job a few days into my move there, by talking up the guy who helped me open a checking account. “I know they need a receptionist on 12. You want me to make some calls?” And a stellar career answering phones on the 12th floor was born.

One of the people who worked with me on that 12th rung of the ladder to success invited me to go to a rugby game with her on a Saturday morning. Anyone who’s read me awhile (See: All of you) knows how often I get up on Saturday and seek out rugby. But I was new in town

and completely desperate for friends. So I got up at some ungodly hour, maybe even 10:00, and went to a damn rugby game.

“We’re going to stop and pick up my friend Marianne,” the woman from the 12th floor said to me. I hate it when you have plans with someone and they throw someone else in like that. In my MIND I’d psychologically PREPARED for it to be just us. But I pretended to be a normal member of society and said okay.

Turns out, Marianne was fairly new to Seattle, as well. And as we stood on that cold rugby…field? Is it a field? Hoooo care. Marianne looked at our other friend getting all into rugby, and said to me, “You wanna go back to the car and drink all the beer?”

And we did. The end.

From then on, we spent every ding-dang weekend together, no matter what. There was a restaurant across from my apartment, and inexplicably it had a mechanical bellhop in front of it, with an arm that moved up and down, sort of guiding you into the diner. We had breakfast there every Saturday. I mean every Saturday.

I’ve no idea what the name of that place was, since all we did on Friday night was sort of drunkenly say, “What time?” and do the bellhop’s arm gesture.

“Eleven.”

Or even, “Oh, god, like, 1:00?”

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Marianne and me, right after Kurt Cobain’s memorial at the Space Needle. I’ve no idea why we were so gleeful. I remember being devastated at the time. We were moody at 27.

She left Seattle a year before I did, to go back to North Carolina. At her goodbye party at Lai Lani Lanes, a Tiki-themed bowling alley we adored, I told Marianne that at my wedding someday (Step One: Get boyfriend), we’d find a way to drink a beer in a car during the reception.

She drove all the way from North Carolina to Michigan to come to my wedding, three years later. At the very end of the night, the band packing up, I sneaked into the kitchen of the B&B and grabbed two beers.

We drank them in the rental car, me in my wedding dress and ridik veil.

Anyway, now here I am, in North Carolina as well, and she’s an hour and a half away and we see each other like once or twice a year and it’s stupid.

On Saturday, I was running my usual errands: taking the kids to soccer, meeting with the prime minister, knitting socks, I texted Marianne. “Wanna meet in Winston-Salem right now?”

She did.

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While I got groceries Saturday, my car made a pal.
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I had no earthly reason to also go to PetSmart Saturday. Other than the important task of getting some strange. I LOVE YOU, HALF-A-PEACHY-FACE KITTY!
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I LOVE YOU, STEELY DANELGANGER!

Anyway, since Marianne was able to drop everything and drive to Winston, off I went.

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We’d sort of forgotten it was St. Patrick’s Day, and by “we” I mean clearly not old Kermit, up there, dressed head-to-toe in green. Marianne has always been more excited about life than I am.

My point is, we went to a restaurant, and they were shamrocking out, man. They even had hootchie-gootchie girls (TM, Ned’s mom) handing out Irish whiskey for free and everything, along with hats, shirts and sunglasses.

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Marianne opted to take all of them.
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I just went for the bowler hat. Because, bowler.

“We probably shouldn’t drink all of this whiskey, because we have to drive,” I old lady-ed.

“Oh, I wasn’t planning to,” doddered Marianne.

“I wonder how many St. Patrick’s Days we’ve spent together,” I said. For some reason, Marianne had, like, this houseful of friends who’d all come over from Ireland together. Their house was magically delicious. And not at all devoid of, you know, parties. Especially on St. Patrick’s Day.

Oddly, we can’t remember any of them. Hmmmm. What could it be? What.could.it.beeeeee that made us forget?

Anyway, our three sips of whiskey in us, we headed to our cars. On the way out, I saw a good-looking man I completely recognized, and we both stopped in our tracks because we clearly knew who each other was, but could not place. He was with a woman, so if he was one of my 39583030402 internet dates I’ve had over the past two and a half years, I didn’t want to stir up any trouble.

“Who was that hot woman in the bowler hat?” I mean. It was inevitable, right?

On the drive home, I was all,

“RON!”

Which means nothing to you, and anyone who actually remembers who Ron is gets a plastic green bowler hat.

He was Marvin’s bandmate. From, like, 2008. Marvin put an ad on Craigslist or something and this really nice guy, Ron, answered the ad, and every Sunday for years they would have band practice here at this house.

Every Sunday for years, I would therefore go to the movies and see some weird independent thing, and Ned and I used to say we MUST have been in the same theater at the same time, as a result, which is weird to think about.

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I tried to find a photo of Marvin practicing with Ron, a thing I know existed, but instead I found the photo of the time I insisted you all call Henry, my cat, fmr., “Henri.”

Am delighted with self anew.

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Ah. Here’s a crystal-clear shot of Ron and Marvin practicing. Pre-bookshelves. Pre-not-beige walls. Weird.

Anyway, the next day I talked to Marvin. “Ron thought that was you, but he wasn’t sure.”

“Is it because I’m so hot now?”

Marvin didn’t answer that. You’d think Ron woulda said, “Man, she’s clearly had Ultherapy.”

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IMG_6176.jpgAnyway, I’m glad I had the brilliant idea to get together with Marianne, and that we had a good time even though we were done by, like, 7:00 rather than just going out at 7:00. It’s good to have people you can grow old with. Even though I’m getting hotter by the minute.

Youthfully,
June

Ned and June Put Edsel to the Test

“I have an all-day meeting and I’m getting out of work early,” said Ned, and “early” for Ned means “a normal time to leave work” in my world. Remind me to never be the president of anything. Except this nonblog.

“Would you like to have dinner? I’ll be early, so you can eat like the elderly, as you like to do.”

Back when we were dating, Ned would call me at, like, 8:00. I am not exaggerating for dramatic effect. He’d work till 6:00 or 6:30, go to the gym, drive home and then call and say, “I am starving.” That noon salad just wasn’t sticking with him eight hours later.

How did I not bludgeon Ned to death every day for four years?

So, him calling me at 8:00 meant he (a) was going to go to a restaurant at that point or (2) make something. From scratch. “I’m going to start the water to boil beans.”

Really, how DIDN’T I bludgeon him to death?

What this meant, when we were dating, was I had to starve till 9:00 in order to eat with him, or I’d eat like regular people, at around 6:00, and then have to hear the appalled speech when I’d announce AT 8:00 ON A WEDNESDAY that I’d already had dinner.

Later, I researched love avoidance and said, Ohhhhh. Okay. (It’s one of the things they do. They busy themselves. Oh, I’m so consumed. I can’t possibly actually sit and give you my undivided attention.)

My point is, here was Ned, willing to feed me on a Wednesday at 5:30.

I know you’ve all been lighting candles and keeping charts, so you know that I’ve had an ATM card saga. While I was out volunteering to make smocks for the homeless a few Friday nights ago, I accidentally lost my ATM card when a giant vat of whiskey sours landed in my throat. It was such a phenomenon. It was like the Northern Lights, with sour mix.

It wasn’t even GOOD sour mix. The whiskey sours I get at the fancy hotel near me? They make their sour mix right there. The whiskey sours I got on Lost ATM Night was shot from one of those soft-drink guns. I blame the pinball. I was so up in it that I didn’t notice I was having 49 drinks.

Oh my god, anyway. So I finally got an ATM card from my bank, and when I called to activate the card, they said, “For your safety, a separate letter with your PIN will be arriving.”

You have got to be fekking kidding me.

So now I have this limp ATM card, which at least allows me to go back to my Jimmy John’s delivery habit, but little else. It’s quite confining–and this is Shamrock Shake season! I realize I could drive to the bank and get out cash like I used to with my mom in 1972, but if I drive to the bank at lunch, pretty much that’s my lunch hour, and I keep saying, Oh, I can scrounge up something at home.

Hang on. Ima show you my exciting June’s-ATM-is-useless food supply at the moment.

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WOOOT! Is it sad that the most abundant thing is cat food? Yes, June. It is.
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The telltale to-go container tells you where this story is going.

I said yes to dinner. “After, can you help me give Edsel some tests?!” I asked. Because that’s the kind of standup person I am. You’ve offered to buy me dinner, and my reply is, “Only if you do something else for me.”

“Of course,” said Ned, as he likes Edsel.

Truth be told, I don’t really like going to restaurants. It’s never been fun to me. I have on-and-off years of panic attacks, and restaurants are a trigger for my panic attacks, because you’re stuck there. You can’t dash out 10 minutes later without making a scene.

I’m not in a panic attack cycle right now, I’m just in my regular low-grade anxiety mode that I’ve been in since I’m 8. I had a giant swath of panic attacks starting when I was 19 and ending when I was around 21.

Then on New Year’s Eve 1999, I had another one on a ferry and was tortured with them for a few years, and I’ve been fine since. Knock all of the wood, please.

The point is, because when I’m having panic attacks, restaurants are among my least-favorite things, I kind of hate them all the time. I dislike a lot of things many other people seem to love: Christmas, travel, live music, babies, football, hugging.

But you saw my cupboards. I went to the restaurant last night. Got spaghetti bolognese. Because I’m watching my figure (turn into Queen Victoria’s).

When we got home, we commenced to giving Edsel another of the Dognition personality tests with which I am so obsessed. This time, we tested his memory.

The first two or three tests I gave him the other night insisted I have a partner, with the caveat “if you don’t have a partner, go to our blog.” Well, I’m already HERE and I already watched the introductory video and NO. I’m not going over to your damn blog. Which is what you all say every day, and yet here you are.

So, despite the world saying I needed a partner, sister did it for herself, and it was fine. But since I HAD a faux partner in Ned (you’ve said a mouthful there, sister), I decided to see if it was easier.

It wasn’t.

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Testing area

The way Dognition works is they tell you what aspect they’re going to test that time, using a brief intro video from the guy who most likely invented this whole idea. “Do you want me to wear my hair like that?” interrupted Ned, while the shaggy millennial spoke.

“Shhh,” I said, then inwardly giggled at the idea of Ned with longish bearded millennial Williamsburg unicycle shaggy hair.

After the intro, they guide you to a page all about this particular test. You can either read the steps, or watch another video where they show you the steps. I kind of do both at once.

“Are those guys gay?” asked Ned, as we watched two millennial men play memory games with their trendy large dog who I promise you they refer to as a “rescue,” a dog inexplicably named Kai.

“Kai? Are they saying Kai? Oh, those two are a couple,” surmised Ned, who really isn’t as homophobic as I’m making him sound.

“SHHH. Ned, I’m watching how to do this,” I said.

And, see, there was our problem. Because while I, superior I, was busy learning how to test Edsel’s memory, Ned was too busy mocking the video, and when I got started, he had the

NERVE

to tell me I was doing it wrong.

“What–why are you–you can’t LIFT the cup. That’s cheating,” Ned would say, having not paid attention to one of Kai’s gay owners LIFTING THE CUP during the video.

Meanwhile, here was Edsel.

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dees too again. why dey not just go no contack?

Eds was SO not into our testing last night. Some of it had to do with Ned and me bickering, and some was the part where you’d show him a treat, put said treat under a cup, then wait as long as two and a half minutes before he could retrieve the treat.

Lemme tell you who 100% forgot treats were ever invented in 2.5 minutes. That would be old steel-trap Edsel, up there.

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In summary, Edsel’s memory sucks. They tried to be polite about it, but later in the description they talked about how wolves and feral dogs have to hunt prey for hours, and while sometimes the prey isn’t in site, these wild animals remember the prey’s general vicinity and keep hunting.

“Edsel doesn’t have this instinct,” they euphemized, pretending it was because he was so well fed at home that he didn’t need it. They can’t come out and say, Your dog is sort of a dunce.

“There is no need to worry! It is just one more piece of evidence that Edsel has his own cognitive style,” they said.

Yes. His own cognitive style. That’s it.

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Yu heer dat, Steeeleee? Eyeriss dyeeeng. Own cognitiff style.

I gotta go. I have to get in the shower and get my own style going. I’ve started Retin-A and remember that scene in Sex and the City where Samantha shows up to Carrie’s book party with the raw face?

Veil down, I think.

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Attractively,
Jeb