June goes to cemetery; sees old boyfriend, not a stray kitten

I worked until 8:30 or 9:00 Friday night, and then I told myself, “You are going to shut down this laptop and not even look at work things all weekend.” And I didn’t. But now I have it back on again and I am willing myself to not look at work until work time, and it’s KILLING ME.

Anyway. I guess the highlight of my weekend is I went to the cemetery with my ex-boyfriend, Ned.

Ned called me recently and mentioned there was a cemetery tour of this old, you know, cemetery near our old house. Back when we were house-hunting, the very first place we looked at was magnificent. Hoity-toity neighborhood. Two stories with a long porch in the front and just a lovely backyard. Hardwood floors, french doors that smoked Gauloises, a den with bookshelves built in, and?

Ned had to think about it.

Those of you who remember the heady days of Ned are all, Yeah. Of course he did. Anyway, we lost that place. But very close by was this old cemetery, and while Ned was THINKING ABOUT IT we talked about how we could take a walk in that cemetery every day.

The house we DID get was pretty close to that cemetery too, so we still ended up taking walks in there when we weren’t screeching at each other. (Our living together did not go well.) Anyway they have formal tours there, where they tell you about important tombstones and tell you about the botany of the place, which is quite advanced. Some guy—and I shoulda paid more attention but you know how I am, but he was some rich important guy—would go in there and plant whatever he wanted. So there are all these rare trees and plants in there.

There are also tombstones falling over from the tree roots of Mr. Plant What May putting things in and not thinking it through. So.

Anyway it was a perfect day to tour a cemetery–not too hot, not too cold.

Ned paid our $10 fee and we stood, masked, around 4 or 5 people waiting for the tour to begin. At the last minute a woman ran up, and naturally she was the sister of someone Ned used to date. Ned is the Hugh Hefner of North Carolina.

Anyway she was nice, and we all had a good time learning about what things mean what on a tombstone, and how some of the really rich people have simple stones, and the difference between a crypt and a mausoleum. (Door. If it has a door, it’s a mausoleum.)

We did find one part of the cemetery we’d never noticed. You know Vick’s Vapo-Rub? It’s my favorite smell, and it was invented right here in Greensboro during the flu pandemic of 1918. The Vick’s family, who you can imagine are rolling in it, have this sectioned-off part behind a brick wall, and it’s kept up beautifully and it’s lovely.

The whole tour kind of reminded me of when I was learning to drive. My Uncle Leo, of all people—and I say that because he is something of a distracted driver—was teaching me to drive when I was 15 going on 16, so we went to a cemetery to learn. The problem is, my Uncle Leo is obsessed with history, so I’d drive maybe a foot and a half, before he’d be all, “Oh! Stop! This is the Hoodebleedee tombstone! They arrived in Saginaw in 1412, and …” and then he’d be off. He did that all morning and incidentally I did not get my license till I was 17.

And no. I did not see any cats during my cemetery tour. I kind of looked. Because I’m low on cats.

I have to go. It’s now time for me to open the work email. I did it! I didn’t look early! Am a rock. Am a tombstone. Am a death parade, as my Uncle Bill would say when he can’t think of “funeral procession.”

XO,
Jube

Blew by you

Remember yesterday, when I said my Google machine mentioned a hurricane statement, like a hurricane got behind a podium with papers and a glass of water?

Dang. I guess I didn’t really think it through. I was all, What’s with all the wind and rain?

I put this video (veeeeedeo) on Instagram yesterday with the caption, Everyone knows it’s windy and then I married self in a simple ceremony and I really need to get over that line.

My power went out about 9:30 yesterday morning. And oh, it tried not to go off. I’ve heard from neighbors we are on the same grid as the hospital, so we hardly ever lose power. Who knows if that’s true, although the hospital is refreshingly close by. But the thing happened where there was a click and it got dark, then it clicked back on, then off, and it was a real struggle between good and evil, there. But finally, my whole house went, RRRrrrrrrr. And died.

“Well, I have plenty of power in my laptop,” I smugged, not realizing I had no internet, and therefore could not download, or upload, or send any work via email. And I don’t know if you’ve gleaned that since the pandemic, my workplace is hardly mellow yellow. They aren’t haha! OK! Well, free day off! Haha!

No.

So I had to somehow think of a way to keep working, without driving over there with the germs and trees falling on my head.

Because, yes, trees were falling. That there is a fallen tree from Forest’s cemetery. I’m glad he wasn’t in it. He was, however, just dying to go out. I was all, Are you fekking kidding me? LOOK at it out there, Forest!

Meeep!

He didn’t care. He totally honey badgered the situation. However, I am taller so I prevailed.

Will you hang on a minute? I need to stand up and adjust my robe so it actually covers me. It’s cold this morning. I guess the hurricane blew in the fall.

…OK.

My phone still had internet, who knows why, but I recently switched plans and it turns out my new plan has no hotspot. A few weeks ago I could have internetted my laptop with my phone. Internetted is a fine word. Also, I remember those few heady months I dated Dick Whitman, he said when choosing dating profiles, any woman who listed Las Vegas as a hotspot was automatically out. Back then, on Match, they had a listing for “favorite hotspots,” which is dumb. I think I said “from my phone” and now we’re full circle lift the baby lion boom.

Eventually I ended up taking a photo of the Word doc I’d fixed and texting it to a coworker, along with a long boring description of what I fixed. The next thing I worked on was blissfully long, so I didn’t have to worry, How Ima get these changes over for many hours. By the time I was done, the power came back on.

So that was yesterday. Oh, I wish you coulda seen the sky. Forest wished the same thing, with his meep! He was totally Helen Hunt in that tornado movie. He was pulling on a little tank top and heading into it all.

My pal Lottie Blanco told me that Helen Hunt movie is a favorite of lesbians because of Helen Hunt’s constant tank top wearage. I had no idea. I can never get past Helen Hunt’s fivehead.

Anyway, the sky. The clouds were in a hurry. They weren’t meandering by as clouds do. They were late for something. I was worried sick about my baby trees but they came through it fine. I have this lineup of little lights on metal poles all along my walkway, and at the end they were all leaning to the left like they were doing a cheer. Lean to the left, lean to the right, stand up, sit down, fight fight fight.

I know there is one person from 6th grade who was on cheerleading with me who sometimes reads this blog and I wonder if she will read it today and be all, Oh my god, lean to the left. And then she’ll picture herself doing it in her black-and-white cheerleading uniform. Our exciting colors were black and white. We had precisely zero black people in our—wait. No. Two. We had precisely two black people in our school: Daphne and Regina. I was friends with Daphne and Regina and I can’t believe I forgot about them. We all traded spend-the-nights at each other’s houses, and at Daphne’s house we found a letter her mom had written some man and we read it out loud. I’m certain her mom would have been delighted to know this. I remember it said she wanted to sit down and work things out. She underlined work things out.

Women are forever thinking you can sit down and work things out, but in my experience with any man, I have never worked anything out with them. In my experience, you talk and you talk and they remain purposely obstuse, or they change the subject, and you end up frustrated and eventually bitter and they say, What do you mean you don’t want to have sex anymore?

That’s my experience.

I hope Daphne’s mom had better luck. I hope she worked things out, underline.

I’d better go. I got groceries yesterday and want to try my new power waffles. I have great hopes for them, much like how I believed Wonder Bread would make me strong because the ads said it would. I would literally eat a piece of Wonder Bread and then say, “Gramma, try to lift me,” and my nice grandmother, not the one I turned into, would make a great show of not being able to pick me up because I had gotten so strong from that white bread and in truth I weighed 17 pounds.

Anyway, if something wonderful happens thanks to my power waffles I will alert you without hesitation.

Meep,
June

P.S. I forgot to say that the headache place canceled because hurricane. They blew me off. BAHAHAHAHA. Anyway now I go Tuesday. Unless there’s another natural disaster.

What blew in

Here’s the mistake I made. I got up, fed all 200 animals in here, showered, made coffee, and sat down to write you some sort of riveting tome when I said, “I’ll just check work emails first.”

Every month, I have a task that takes 10 hours. They usually send it to me on Thursday, and I have to return it Monday before noon. OK, that’s doable, right? Except I keep getting all sorts of other work. “OK, but I have to do that 10-hour thing before Monday noon,” I keep saying. “OK, but after this I have got to get started on the 10-hour thing.”

So I checked email and have three more things to do before I can begin the 10-hour thing. So now I’m in a lather of angst and irked.

Anyway, hi. Let me write you before I begin my Quest for 10 Hours That Don’t End Up Being 5 Hours Saturday and 5 Hours Sunday.

Here’s my current situation, by the way. Forest, who I wasn’t even gonna keep, just adores lying between me and the computer. Also, he PATS at the things moving on screen and I am beginning to see how someone could dump this beautiful fluff at the cemetery.

No, I don’t really. He is the silkiest, sweetest kitty ever, and other than his propensity to sit between me and my screen he is nice but not clingy.

Speaking of black, we are expecting a hurricane or the edges of a hurricane or we’re hurricane-adjacent or something. Today when I was opening the 47 blinds, my Google machine was telling me the crap she always tells me: the time, the temp, the high, the low. Then she finished up with, “A hurricane local statement has been issued. Have a nice day.”

Wait. What?

She’s never said that before. It’s like when I lived in Seattle and worked on the 34th floor. There was a female voice in the elevator, not that I’m hearing voices. I mean there really was. She’d say, “Floor 34,” for example. We called her Mrs. Otis because it was an Otis elevator.

Anyway I worked in that building for years and all she’d ever say is, “Going up” or “Floor 34” or what have you. One day the elevator just stopped. STOPPED! On its way up.

“Do not be alarmed,” Mrs. Otis said. And see, the fact that she said that alarmed me.

I can’t remember what happened after that. Either I crashed to my death or Mrs. Otis got us out of our situation.

Anyway, I asked Google what she meant by a hurricane local statement has been issued, and can’t she use active rather than passive sentences, and all she did was give me the Wikipedia definition of a hurricane local statement.

But I knew something was up anyway because mornings in my kitchen are usually lovely, light-filled times, and today it was this.

Hello, darkness, my old friend. By the way, I can’t wait till I can replace that light. There’s nothing wrong with that light, per se, other than could that light be less June?

I think I want something like this. But not orange. Why are the stripes orange?

Anyway, I had better go and do all the other smaller tasks before that, you know, 10-hour one. I go to the headache doctor today, the specialist, the same one who gave me those nerve block shots that made me turn green 10 years ago. The same guy who told me I should give up caffeine because I have a delicate brain.

I noticed someone rather attitudinally said in the comments the other day, “I cant believe you haven’t considered giving up caffeine for your migraines.”

Dude. I’ve considered it. For 20 years. I’ve tried maybe 60 times. But thanks for the judgement.

I can’t drink. Migraines. I can’t take antidepressants. Migraines. I can’t take ADD medicine. Migraines. I have no fun things anymore. Pandemic. SO COFFEE IS ALL I GOT, man. It’s all I got. But again, can I thank you for the judgement?

Why do people do that? They KNOW they don’t know a person’s whole story yet people do that every day. “Well, why doesn’t she leave? I don’t feel sorry for her.” That’s what a neighbor just said to me about another neighbor who had the crap beaten out of her. I happen to know she has nowhere else to go because her actual family is even worse than the boyfriend. But okay, judge-y.

Anyway. I’m interested in what the headache specialist has to tell me 10 years later. I stopped going last time because among the things we tried were these nerve block shots in my head and neck. I had to get like 20 of them at once, and we were on maybe shot 9 when out of nowhere they made me really nauseated. I’d been lying face-down on a paper sheet thing and when I raised my head I’d left a sweaty Shroud of Greensboro on said paper and at the time I was super extra phobic of throwing up because it had at that point been 28 years since I had barfed and Peg’s norovirus party that broke m’streak was two years away.

So I never went back.

But now these dang things are a daily occurrence and I can’t even stand it another second.

Further reports as developments warrant.

OK, I’m off.

XO,
Hurricane June

May be the last time, I don’t know.

I slept in this morning, till a late late 8:10, then bounded out of bed, fed everyone, and commenced working at 8:30. I’m “at lunch” now, and by “at lunch” I mean I’m talking to you rather than copy editing something.

Yesterday was my 23-year anniversary of being a copy editor. Twenty-three years ago yesterday, I showed up for work at a textbook publishing company outside of Los Angeles. I got the job because Marvin, who had signed up to be my husband and eventually erased his name from the board, saw an ad in the paper for a proofreader at a textbook publishing agency. Remember when we looked at ads in the paper, then printed our resume and cover letter and mailed them and waited for a call? Good gravy.

“You should be a proofreader,” said Marvin, who later said, “You should write a blog.”

Had Marvin stuck around, perhaps he could have thought of a new thing for me to do. Instead I’m over here in suspended animation, being a copy editor for 23 years and a blogger for 14 because Marvin’s not here with the next suggestion.

I can’t recall which job I got that named me a lofty “copy editor” instead of a “proofreader,” but the difference is a copy editor can change words around. A proofreader just looks for spelling and grammar and punctuation, and please stop assuming anything wrong with the language counts as “grammar.”

“I hate to be the grammar police, but that needs a question mark.”

That isn’t grammar, you damp ham.

Anyway, that’s how I became a copy editor, and now I’m a SENIOR copy editor, which means I get Meals on Wheels. And free Pond’s Cold Cream for life. So, a jar of Pond’s Cold Cream.

Get it? That was a senior joke. There’s my next career: Senior jokes, by June.

So other than celebrating my anniversary with a nice batch of things to edit, life has pretty much gone on the same as the day before, and the day before that, dating all the way back to February 17 of this year, which was the last normal day I had before my surgery.

Oh. It’s possible I didn’t mention I had surgery in February. I enjoy keeping things under wraps.

That last day, February 17, I had a good day at work. Things were going well on some writing I was doing—sometimes at work they let me write and not copy edit. I was feeling better physically than I had, which was probably oh hang on neighbors are yelling…

OK, false alarm. The people across the street sometimes just speak loudly and other times they’re legit mad at each other and either way I Gladys Kravitz my way over there or hover on my Ring doorbell to get a load of what’s going on. This was just “I’m yelling from the porch cause it’s raining,” not actual anger words.

Anyway, on February 17, I left work thinking I’d be back in two weeks. I felt so bereft when I left, and I was all, What’s yer problem? You aren’t leaving forever. And here I am, 8 months later, still not back. It’s like somehow I knew.

Have you ever had one of those? Like, somehow you knew but there was no way you could have known? Usually I DON’T know, and I think back on things and think, That was the last time I ever saw that person but I didn’t know it and I was way casual about it.

Not to be obsessed with Marvin, who signed up to be my husband and then erased his name from the board, did I mention? When we separated, he lived fairly near, so every once in awhile he’d come to my house with food and we’d have lunch together. I always go home for lunch. I mean, now of course I STAY home for lunch, but back when I left the house I always came home for lunch, allegedly to let the dog out, a dog who holds it like a camel, and whom you have to force outside and practically milk to get him to pee.

Anyway, one day, and I have no idea the date or the year, but Ima guess 2014, early, Marvin came over for lunch and he of course got my order wrong because that’s what he did. Once when we were married I sent him to Boston Market for turkey and dressing and

I’M LYIN I’M DYIN

he came back with a plate of turkey and a container of French dressing.

Anyway. Whatever day that was, we had our lunch, I’m sure I groused about my wrong order, he left and I never saw Marvin again. Now he lives in Atlanta and is married and a few years back I was IN Atlanta and said, “Hey, we should meet up” and he said no so I will never ask again and odds are I will never see Marvin for as long as I live. And that last time I was just, See ya except I didn’t.

I just had no idea. So that time, I didn’t know.

The day I left work to go have surgery, I somehow knew. I was wistful and couldn’t place why. “It’s only two weeks, you damp ham” I told myself, and damp hams are very big with me today.

The weekend before my surgery, Ned and I went shopping. We got…I can’t remember what we got. But something surgical-preppy, I’d assume. Loose pants or something. But what I remember is we got coffee, and sat in his car outside of Old Navy, drinking our coffee and watching the crowds, and I got one of those weird flashes of happy. You ever get those?

I had no idea why I felt happy. But it was the last time I was in a crowd or a store, so maybe I sort of knew that, as well. I knew it’d be a long time before I was out in a crowd, shopping, with my ex.

I gotta go. I spent the first 30 minutes of my “lunch hour” talking to you, and I want to spend the next 30 showering and dressing. Not French dressing in a container, though.

Wistfully,
June

Well, NOW what do I talk about for the next year?

Most important, at least to my fellow intellectual fellows who watch Real Housewives of Orange County: It looks like Vicki and Steve broke up. They’ve unfollowed each other on social and she hasn’t put a picture up of his bland self in a month. Why anyone would have gotten engaged to that whack a mole Vicki is beyond me in the first place.

I recently found a blog where a person with a degree in psychology writes about which personality disorders each housewife has. It was riveting. I didn’t save it or anything but try Googling around to see if you can find it.

Secondly, we did it. Thank you!!

And look! If it expires November 23 of 2021, doesn’t that tell us I had till November 23rd of 2020 to pay it? Why start just dipping into my checking account this early, WORDPRESS? Get yer hands off my account {slaps WordPress’s hand}.

This is like when my grandmother would get to the airport 9 hours before the flight.

When she lived in Los Angeles, she lived very close to the airport. My cousin Katie was coming to visit me circa 2003, so I asked Grammy if I could spend the night at her place rather than try to drive from my house an hour away on a good day, through LA morning traffic, to pic up my cousin at 10 a.m.

Only my cousin Katie would pick a flight that early when she’s 25 and supposed to be hung over, by the way.

The night before Katie’s arrival, I told Grammy repeatedly, “Now, Katie’s flight gets in a 10:00. I have an alarm set, but remember, I don’t need to get up earlier than 8:00. It’s a 10-minute drive and waking up at 8:00 is FINE.”

The next morning, and does it count as morning if the sun isn’t up yet? Does it count as morning if the roosters are still tucked in? Wearing their talon-y pajamas? Because I was DEEP IN REM when I heard

“June.”

“Juuuune.”

“Juuuuuuuuuune, you’d better get up. Your cousin will be arriving in four and a half hours. You’d better get up, June. You have a 10-minute drive ahead of you.”

I sort of miss my grandmother, despite that. Despite how, at that moment, I’d have gleefully sliced her to ribbons and thrown her in a confetti parade. Those famous confetti parades.

Nothing makes me disproportionately angrier than my sleep being disturbed. Speaking of which, I do not know what was up

THAT

DAMN

FOREST

‘s ass early today, but all this morning, I heard,

“meeep!”

“meeeeep!”

outside my bedroom door. It didn’t really wake me up all the way, as opposed to Grammy circa 2003, but once I did get up, I whipped open the door.

“meeee-oh, hai!” Forest was fine. He was swishing his fluff tail becomingly. THERE WAS NOTHING WRONG. He just wanted to hear himself meep.

{meep}

It’s foggy today, a thing that obsessed me this a.m.

You get my drift. You’re puttin’ on my foghat.

What causes fog? Something must be evaporating or something. I should have paid attention in science, but my science teacher had the world’s worst toupee and it was distracting.

Since we’re looking down the street from me in that last fog picture, lemme tell ya a story. You see the second millhouse, the beige one? Between and behind the white millhouse where the guy who drinks lives and the beige millhouse where the hippie girl who gardens lives is a dead end. A few houses down from the hippie girl is another dead end.

Some days when I take my evening walk, my constitutional, Milhous will follow me. The cat. Not my actual house, which I might have led with. If he does follow me, I restrict my walk to just walking repeatedly down one dead end and then down to another, so he doesn’t start following me in roads with cars involved. If I see one car go by on the dead-end walks it’s something of a shock.

Anyway the other day he was following me and the hippie girl, who is very nice, said hello. As I walked away, Milhous was figure-8ing around her ankles and I just figured he’d go back to following me eventually, but do you know he stayed and figure-8ed her THE ENTIRE TIME? What a traitor.

Also, of course, she said the fox had just been there.

Have I told you how

EVERYONE

in this ENTIRE NEIGHBORHOOD

has seen the fox? I’ve even had friends come to see me and say, “On my way out to my car, I saw your fox.”

EVERYONE HAS SEEN HER BUT ME.

I have purposely sat outside, trying to be quiet because you know how restful I am, for AGES, getting mosquito bites, and no fox. Not once. Also, I feed her out my back fence. There’s an alley behind me, and if I have fruit that’s past its prime like me, or leftovers, I put some out for Trudy and she always eats it. BUT HAVE I SEEN HER?

No. In case you weren’t picking up my foghat. No.

It’s my goal now. I wish to see her, and also her BABY FOX BABY, that have I mentioned everyone has seen like it’s nothing? Also, half the people, OK one. One person here thought seeing a fox was scary and threatening, and I had to call forth my scads of patience to say, “Foxes won’t eat you, and seeing one in the day doesn’t mean it’s rabid. Please don’t tell at Trudy.”

I am certain no one here thinks I’m berserk or anything. I didn’t even NAME her Trudy. My neighbor R did. OK, only after I asked her, “What should we name our fox?” Still.

Probably Trudy hides from me because she’s worried I’ll adopt her and make her live inside and put bows on her which I 100% would. Make her wear little pawsy pajamas.

All right, I’ve gotta go. It’s 9 a.m. and no one has assigned me any work at work and that makes me nervous. It makes me think I’ll get a, “Sorry [insert sideways smile emoji]! I meant to send earlier. Can you copy edit this 80-page thing in a hour!?” message if I don’t say something now and jar jar binx everyone’s memory that I exist.

Foxlessly,
June June Binx

The $300 dilemma

I know this makes some of you nervous, but I have a meeting right at 8:30 this Monday morning, here, which means I have to make sure I’ve said everything on this page, read it over for terrible errors that shame me, hit Publish and then copy/paste this tome to Facebook, all in the next 35 minutes.

I got up this morning thinking, OK, dash through all your things so you can blog, but then I looked up whilst doing my things and it was 10 to 8:00 already and I was all, COME ON, SERIOUSLY? And then for no logical reason I decided to try to blog from my desktop for a change, which I haven’t used in 252 days. My desktop TOLD me this. I got some sort of email.

“You haven’t used your desktop computer in 250 days,” it said, all concerned. Where was I? Was I mad? What had desktop done wrong?

I used to get up every weekday and do all my things (and you know “all my things” means feeding and pilling and letting in and out and in and out and in and out like mama’s squeezebox the pets, right?) and stampede to my desktop computer to blog. But since my surgery (did you know I had surgery?) and this inconvenient pandemic, I have used a laptop provided by my workplace for working from home. We’ve had so much more work that I’ve practically worn this poor laptop right out.

Anyway, I went to my desktop this morning, as I’ve said, but it is smack in the middle of updating something after 252 days and I was all, COME ON, SERIOUSLY? and so I had to set self up with laptop after all and here we are with

{checks time}

Thirty minutes exactly to write and begin said meeting.

So, hello.

Saturday was an absolutely glorious fall day, just the kind of fall day you want, and I had a migraine. Of course I did. It wasn’t that dreadful of one, but it was enough that I didn’t feel like doing anything so I sat outside and read a book when I could. I can’t remember the title. I got it from one of those “leave a book, take a book” little huts people have around town.

It was about a kid with CF, whose mom is a vet at a shelter. They get a dog in the shelter, a large unattractive one, that the kid can sort of read psychically. He can feel what the dog is feeling.

Anyway it was good and I never want to have cystic fibrosis and of all the things I fear I think I can cross that one off the list. I would, however, like to be able to communicate psychically with animals. That would make my life complete, if I could do that. I could head off to the zoo and be all, “Yes. Excuse me. The kinkajou is irritated by the strange-tailed tyrant. Can you move them apart?”

My plan was I’d feel better Sunday and could live my life (meaning go somewhere with my mask on) and then Sunday got here and it was cold and rainy and I said goddammit. I ended up on one of my drives to nowhere, though, and got some frozen custard with my mask on. I’m like a custard superhero.

Are there any just heroes anymore or is everything “super” now, like how there are no more just plain models? If everyone’s a supermodel, no one’s a supermodel.

Also what happened this weekend is my blog. I got an email from the fine folks at WordPress, who say my membership or something is up for renewal, and they tried to just take $300 out of my checking account, but for some mysterious reason it didn’t work. It didn’t “go through,” is I think how they put it.

I’m genuinely curious. Do you just have $300 in your checking account if it’s not right after payday? Because I don’t.

I talked about this on Facebook of June this weekend, and some of you said, “We’ll give you tips, June, so you can renew” and I said, “Hang on. Let me just see what else is out there before you do.”

So I did. And if I took all my blog posts from 2007 till now, which is what I’d want to do, I’d end up spending money anyway to do that because I’d have to hire someone to help me design a new blog. Plus then everyone would have to go to a NEW, FOURTH place. I’ve already gone from blogger to Typepad to here. And if I downgraded to just regular cheaper WordPress, I couldn’t have all my old pictures, nor could I put up new pictures. I’d be out of room.

The problem is I’m big and bulky. I’m almost 14 years old! My first day of blogging was December 15, 2006. Which by the way is right about when Pioneer Woman began blogging and you can see we have a similar trajectory.

I do have to say I just adore my two Pioneer Woman pans. I really do. See how mature I am?

So I think I will put up a tip jar here. If I don’t raise $300 to renew my blog for the year, I’ll figure something else out at that time. If I do, we’ll keep going here with all this riveting material, especially today.

https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/JuneGardens

Let me know if that link doesn’t work. There’s also a tip jar link on the right side of this page. And for heaven’s sake, if you can’t afford it, don’t do it! Don’t tip! Just you reading all this nonsense is enough for me.

Oh, crap. While we’ve been talking, I got a “ping!” and it was that same message from WordPress that I got over the weekend. And then I heard my text ping and I was all, OHMYGODWHAT and it was my credit union thinking it’s fishy that a company is trying to take $300 from me.

Which by the way is nice of them but OHMYGOD I do NOT have $300 to my name right now and now I am tense and they’d better not overdraw my account.

It also makes me tense that their text ended in a comma and not a period, but I will not fret about that now.

OK. Talk to you tomorrow. In case you’re worried, it’s only 8:23, so I have plenty of time to hit Publish. Here’s a photo of Iris as consolation because this was an extra-boring post.

Look how the ottoman/coffee table is ruined. THANKS, MILHOUS.

XO,
June

Sand is just rocks that grew old—June Handy

Mr. Lawn, of the recently neutered Lawns, is highly annoyed that he can’t go outside. The vet instructions said no playing ball in the house and also no going outside. Are we the last generation to get all Brady Bunch references like they’re our second language or will the millennials also know these from reruns?

Also, just to be annoying, Edsel has asked to go out FOUR TIMES this morning and I haven’t been awake an hour yet. So then I have to panickedly let him out in a rush, lest we have the charging of the Forest, and it rankles. The last thing Edsel ever wants to do is rankle me but he did. I swear he goes out there and forgets why he’s in that room.

…Ah. As I’ve typed you, I can see the pain pill is kicking in, a pill I don’t think Forest Lawn needs today but that will ensure he will rest and not tear outside to get dirt in his parts. It’s his last one, so I can’t drug him into submission after this.

Anyway, hi. That’s the last I have to say about that, maybe. I’m at my kitchen table this morning. Below is the current situation, now with drug eyes.

Here’s my outside view, and would it KILL me to put the chairs back facing the right way when I’m done with them??

The yard looks pretty, doesn’t it? Let me tell you what’s back there right now: acorns. The lawn guy fertilized my yard some weeks back, with grass seed, so he can’t BLOW the yard, lest the seeds just blow all over yonder. So although he cut my grass recently, the acorns remain.

And I don’t just mean some acorns. It’s the difference between the Hershey with Almonds and those bars you can buy for a dollar to raise funds, where every millimeter has an almond in it. Walking across my yard is like walking on a beach that has rocks instead of sand. I realize sand is just rocks that got old, but you know what I mean. We’re talking acorns, is what I mean.

Doesn’t it mean a hard winter, if you have a lot of acorns? Do you wish I’d say “acorns” more often?

Does anyone know what kind of winter we’re supposed to have? I was recently on a walk with someone in my quarantine bubble—there are like four people I’ll see—and we happened upon a persimmon tree. “Oh!” I said, because I am Dick, Jane and Sally. “Oh! Oh! If you cut a persimmon, the seed shape inside tells you what kind of winter it’s supposed to be!”

It’s true. Well. You know. “True.” If it looks like a fork, it’s mild weather. Spoon-shaped means lots of snow to shovel. A knife means cutting, bitterly cold. This was maybe a month ago so hang on while I scroll my phone looking for the cut persimmon. Let me get your opinion on this …

OK, what the hell is this? Cause it looks like a seed to me. How the hell can we predict anything with this vague seed? Geez. You try to be scientific.

Is it a spoon? It looks more like a thought bubble.

Anyway, I have to go. As per usual, I have to begin working and also spend the whole day monitoring the door. Doing some deForestation.

God, I’m hilarious.

Love,
June

In which the whole Gardens house is barren once again

I don’t want you to get too excited, but it’s trash day over here at House of June. I have a very bad video of Milhous riding the trash cans, and this is why I get annoyed when I live my life and tell you about it and I get, “No picture, June?” or the one that makes my blood boil and spill all over the stove. “Pics or it didn’t happen.”

IT’S NOT ALWAYS PRACTICAL TO CAPTURE THINGS ON FILM. As I predicted, holding a phone while pulling a full trash can was not easy.

Also, anything I told you happened, happened.

I have a big issue with that. With being accused of being dishonest. Once on Reddit someone said they didn’t believe me that I walked into PetSmart that day back in 2012, walked back out and lo and behold, there in a shoebox was a puppy in my car.

Of all the rotten things people have said about me, that’s the one that annoyed me the most. Why would I make that up? HOW would I have made it up? Did I buy a puppy and a shoe box and a polo shirt and a toy shark to style the whole lie? That’s…going far.

Anyway, in other news that happened, both Forest Lawn and Edsel went to the vet yesterday.

This is not a photo of my dog or my cat at the vet. It’s me because I am full of self and rootage. ^^Here I am, trying to think of a lie like there was a troubador in the parking lot at the vet! No! Someone put a troubador in my car! That’s it!

Clearly I had kind of a wait at the vet. Lots of yer art shots.

I dropped everyone off in the early morning, see, and then they neutered poor Forest, see, and they checked out Edsel’s suspicious mole. See. I kept asking the mole if it had a permit to be in my dog’s face. I asked it for ID.

Anyway, the mole is fine, although the vet says it should come off because likely it bothers him. $500 if I do it when we clean his teefs. And Forest did well and was ready to go at 1:00. So these photos are from when I said, “I’m here” to when they finally brought out my animal companions. I hate that phrase.

Here’s everyone emerging, with Edsel doing his signature leash-in-the-mouth move that he likes. Forest was antsy all afternoon when we got home. He drove me insane, truthfully. I just wanted him to rest, but he wouldn’t. Also he’s jonesing for outside and the vet said no. So now every time I let the dog out it’s like what’s-his-name in Catch Me If You Can. I’m having to sneak that dog out like I’m Miep and he’s the yogurt in Diary of Anne Frank.

They’d given him a pain injection yesterday (Forest, not what’s-his-name from Catch Me if You Can) and also a cone if I saw him licking. I DID see him lick, once, but that cone was a full-on disaster so we did not keep it on. He PANICKED with it on, so we abolished the cone.

Today I gave him a pain pill and here he is right now:

I have typed this whole thing around him; he’s very clingy today. He’s such a beautiful cat, though. Isn’t he?

So basically right now I’m dealing with drunk roommate.

I’d better go. I have to work around Alley of the Dolls, here.

Pulling fish bones out of the trash,
June

Formica, cat food, candy cigarettes and David Sedaris

I probably won’t be able to write you tomorrow morning. I have to get Forest Lawn, cemetery kitty extraordinaire, to the vet.

Here he is eating Iris’s food. I called the vet to ask about this, and they say it’s OK if everyone eats Iris’s food, although Forest needs a daily can of kitten food as well, which he does eat. So at least I feel less nervous about everyone eating it, not to mention annoyed because it costs. But it’ll cost less to try to buy regular cat food, kitten dry food, kitten wet food, and also special Iris stomach food.

Anyway, Forest and I have to be at the vet between 7 and 9 a.m. tomorrow, where they will promptly remove his man parts, and then I can get him in the evening. I have to be “at” work at 8:30, so I really don’t see when I can blog at you tomorrow, unless I am there at the exact time of 7 a.m. and have we met? That is not going to happen.

I’ve never waited till a cat is 7 months old to fix him. I can’t think of when I had an unfixed cat in the house, cause the shelter always insists on doing it before you can take them home. I wonder if Forest has ever gotten to … you know. Bang a gong. I wonder if he tells the other cats about it and they’re all, like, whoa. For realz? We live in cage then get fix and we get zero tail ever.

Perhaps I need to get out more.

But I can’t. Plague. I like how the numbers are getting alarming again and every photo on my social media is people at restaurants and on trips. Are we just incapable of telling ourselves no? Of not socializing? What horrible thing do we think will happen if we tell ourselves no and feel a bit bored and lonely? It won’t kill you, you know, to feel bored and lonely. Coronavirus might actually kill you, though.

But let’s go back to my table. This image is a whole nother day where Forest is over here eating poor Iris’s food. It’s on this table because then Edsel can’t get it. The rest of the cat food, the bowls that go uneaten, are on the dryer for the same reason. I used to have Iris’s food on a counter but she can’t get to it on her own and I always had to lift her to it like I was her personal elevator. Like I was Mrs. Otis. She can get to the table on her own.

Anyway, the table and chairs are from Peg. I am sure they are “good” because she was a designer, but I am really hankering for a Formica table, a small one. I’d like to put it against the window but the fridge would be in the way, which irks.

What do you think? And where can I get a cute Formica table? These chairs above are so bulky, and don’t really fit in the table and are forever banging against it.

Maybe I don’t want Formica. Maybe I just want a small white table where you can bend the leaves down. You know what I mean? Then I’d have more room in the kitchen. Living in a small house is fine for me, but there’s hardly ever a time I’m not squeezing around something.

I act like I have all this money to just buy tables. Did I tell you what happened with m’car payment? They called me last week to say, “You car payment is late.”

Late? I have auto payments.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Really? I swear I … well, OK. I’ll pay it now.”

And I did. Then the very next day? They withdrew my autopayment. My auto autopayment. And just try to get ahold of them. You can’t reach a person unless you enter your PIN, which I don’t have. They THINK I have a PIN because the bank that has my car loan is the bank where Marvin still goes, and he never took me off his bank stuff, so technically I could pay using Marvin’s bank info, which I CAN STILL SEE when I look at my car stuff.

I never do this. Because I am a magnificent person.

Anyway, if I knew HIS PIN I could speak to a representative. But since I do not know it and I can’t talk to anyone to tell them all this, I can’t reach a human at my bank.

The whole thing makes me feel very calm. Centered, is what I feel.

What the hell does that even mean? I want actual, concrete words describing what being centered is. I hate those yoga words. Fold down through your heart. Shut yer namastehole.

See. Just one moment with my bank thoughts and I’m already hostile.

Anyway, once the end of the month gets here and I am not living on whatever’s left over after you make two car payments by accident, I want to look at table solutions.

Can I put Peg’s table in the attic or will it come crashing through the ceiling and kill me? “She stayed home so she would’t die and then her table killed her.”

It seems like a good table, have I said that? And one day maybe I’d regret not having it. When, though? I’m old. I’m practically done. Then my loved ones will have to go to my attic, where by the way I have never gone in this house, and lug down Peg’s table and be all, “What’re we gonna do with this?”

For some reason I am scared to look in my attic. I picture a snake lounge area, where they’re all smoking on chaises. Can snakes climb up your house? They must be able to, right? God, snakes are creepy. How do they light their cigarettes?

This just made me think about how October 5 marked 10 years that Ned stopped smoking. He’d smoked like a snake on a lounge chair for 25 years, then made the decision to stop when he read a David Sedaris book, and then? Stopped. He got Chantix from his doctor but he had terrible nightmares so he didn’t take it long. He just stopped.

In a million years I’d never be able to just stop suddenly like that. I have to go back and forth for ages. I always admired his ability to do that. I never knew Ned as a smoker. Once we smoked candy cigarettes but that was as far as that went.

I think candy cigarettes are my favorite candy, because not only is it the candy you can play with, it also just sends a terrible, terrible message to children, and I am always down with that. I feel the same about toy high heels. Not that you eat those. Unless you do. Oddball.

I’d better go. I have to go to work and then I have to go to bed and then I have to get up and take the cemetery cat to get his headstones removed. I’m swamped.

By the way, I saw the chickens again last night. This time they were literally playing in that yard with three children. They were not at all alarmed by said children, they just plucked along as chickens do while children played. I offered them all candy cigarettes and play high heels.

So I guess they’re OK and I should stop worrying about the loose chickens. Is my point.

Focusedly,
Juan

June Rayburn

There are a few weeks in May and October where I can just shut off the thermostat altogether, and these past two weeks were apparently it, as I woke up today and it was 45 degrees. You know that scene in the Little House books where Mary and Laura wake up and Pa is sweeping snow off the top of their blankets? By the way, for all your roofing needs, seek Pa. Good work, child abuser.

Anyway I had a weekend and now I will tell you about it and that is why you come here. To retain all the dull drivel that makes up a new day. Fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way.

On Friday evening, I took a walk. I have read that exercise helps with ADD and who knows if it’s true but squirrel.

That never gets old.

Anyway, I was rounding a corner a few blocks away from my house when I saw some chickens. Three of them, of varying sizes and colors. They were just climbing a porch like they were about to go Jehovah’s Chickness on someone’s ass.

Why were chickens on a front porch? I wandered past the house to stare in its backyard. No coop. No chicken toys. What the?

I got m’phone and called Mike the Lumbee. Got his voicemail. “Mike? Are you missing some chickens?” I asked. “They’re over here on the corner of Transitioning and Neighborhood.”

The next morning I had to take Milhous for his shots. It’s been two years I been havin’ Milhous, can you believe?

He went right into his carrier. He meowed never on the way there. They told me he’s a perfect weight (me too) (if you’re a chubby chaser) and he’s in tip-top condition. “He purred through his vaccines,” they told me.

I must return to said vet—who might as well name itself June’s Pet Hoarder Clinic—on Wednesday for Forest to get the big chop. The removal of the bits. I’d say he’ll be singing higher but Forest has the cutest high-pitched squeak of a meow.

Anyway on the drive there I saw the chickens again. Oh, DEAR. I called Mike the Lumbee again whom I had just seen on his riding lawn mower, and he did not answer me. Was he AVOIDING me? I won’t be IGNORED, Lumbee.

Anyway, because there’s a plague on I have to drop off said cats at the vet and wait. So on Saturday I took a walk around the vet’s neighborhood. There’s a beautiful Episcopal church there I love. They took up the whole block with various outbuildings like a bookstore and a music school. I think the Episcopalians are a rich bunch.

Also, I always like wind chimes like this, but if I got some would they drive me crazy? Would the neighbors hate me?

Back before it was all the rage to have a plague, I always meant to stop in here for coffee and books and I never did. I don’t even know if this place is even open now.

Eventually, Mike the Lumbee called. “Those chickens belong to the people next door to where you saw them. They wander all the time. It’s illegal for them not to have them in their pen.”

It is also illegal for M the L to have a rooster but that is beside the point. Also I like that rooster. George. The rooster’s name is George. Mike let me name him.

Anyway, after that I voted. I mean, I dropped the cat home first, although I am just having a total flashback. Two years ago, I took Mil for his shots when he was just a kitten, and it was also a cool fall day, and Peg’s funeral was that day but I wanted to vote real quick. So I went to the voting place and THE LINE WAS HUGE and I spent the whole time worrying Milhous was too hot in the car and when I came back out I was fairly hysterical but he was just fine the end.

I went back to that same early voting place and there was a line out the door, so I said fuq thiz.

They also had early voting at the college A&T, which is the largest HBCU in America and it’s right here in my town. I got TV parking—this picture is taken from my car—and got right in, voted, and left. I totally could have cooked Milhous in this car again without incident.

Also I stopped by work to get The Poet’s cards. Her husband died, and people wanted to send her cards and kept asking me for her address and I kept saying, “Just send them to work; I’ll get them and take them to her.”

They must not be delivering mail much at work because there were none in her little mail cubby and I know people sent them. It did not occur to me to see if they put them on her desk a floor down from the cubbies. Anyway remember when I was there a few weeks ago and saw some of the owner’s stuff on a printer so I took it to her hoping she would not be there because she always looks impeccable and I was wearing a cat stole with cat pants?

On Saturday, I was not as fur-covered but I did have on my Baily Bros. Building and Loan sweatshirt and there she was. Our impeccable owner. Looking perfect. We chatted about The Poet awhile and it would appear I am not fired for wearing a Bailey Bros. Building & Loan sweatshirt.

I got it on Instagram. That’s all I know. Instagram knows the depth of me.

Also on Saturday, a dog wandered onto Chris and Lilly’s place. Lilly said it’s skinny and a little beat up and it flinched when Chris had a stick. Z named it Luna and they have decided to keep it and I really wonder if my animal magnetism is rubbing off on them. They seem to find animals more than I do. Remember the pig? And of course the world’s most prolific cat who gave them all those kittens.

Day one. Dog has selected well.

On Sunday I went back to my trail to walk. On the way in, the trees were all sorts of colors. Purple. Magenta. It was amazing.

No.

But once I got IN the trail, the leaves really haven’t changed all that much.

Come ON, leaves. Change. I got people to entertain, here.

Anyway, after that I want you to know that I came home and THERE WERE THE CHICKENS AGAIN. God DAMMIT. Then I watched Match Game ’78. People are forever asking me which place I find shows and here’s the thing: I just speak into my remote and it finds shows for me and I don’t pay attention. I watched three episodes. I saw Bert Convey, as you do. I saw Brett Sommers and Arlene Francis. I saw Debralee Scott, who always struck me as kind of cheap-looking.

Best of all, there was Charles Nelson Riley, Betty White and Richard Dawson, before he got all gross and kissy. Oh, it was a time! Gene Rayburn had his skinny mike. They played the “I’m thinking” music while they filled in the blank. I’d love to know what happened backstage. Did they all do coke together in the green room?

Anyway, five stars. Highly recommend.

I’d better go and get to work. I worked a little yesterday, and by “a little” I mean three hours, so right now there’s no work for me to do but it will be here soon. I can feel it. The way you feel a good storm.

I’ll talk to you tomorrow, when I have adopted and built a coop for those chickens, whom I have already named K, F and C.

Enjoying my free Turtle Wax and brown blender for being a contestant,
June