Going Ham

Remember the guy at work who gave me the eagle calendar last year? I’m tryina find a picture of him but OH MY GOD with this slow computer, which is my other news.

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Here he is. He’s had several funny lines on this here not-blog through the years, and anyway my point is, he brings the same lunch every day.

EVERY

DAY.

Peanut butter on whole wheat, a baggie of tortilla chips, an apple, and a depressing glass of water. “I don’t know why you say my glass of water is depressing,” he said when I was inevitably remarking on it.

It’s depressing because it’s a glass, see-through John Deere mug, which should be used for coffee, that he’s using for water. Drinking water out of a mug says, “I have no available dishes.” Drinking water out of a mug says you’re clinically depressed, or 20 and in your first apartment.

Which he is not. My coworker is far from clinically depressed. Or in his first apartment, as he is elderly like me. He just likes a routine.

Anyway, the other day I had a work question for him, but there was that sad mug o’water. “I hate to bother you during your exotic lunch…” I began. And really how much did I hate to bother him, since I was forging ahead with my query.

“Actually, today I have a ham sandwich,” he announced.

What the Mama Cass?

“Every so often I’ll bring in a ham sandwich instead. My kids call it ‘Going Ham.’ ”

Going Ham.

And that is why I like my workplace.

Also, he wandered over to my desk yesterday to say that he “sort of” reads my blog, but lurks on it just enough that he didn’t feel justified commenting yesterday. “Besides, me commenting defeats the very notion of lurking.”

Speaking of yesterday, let’s discuss a few things regarding our discussion at hand. [Arranges her papers like Walter Cronkite]

At the bottom of every post are little icons. Those are so you can share my brilliance with your friends. Ima go out on a limb and assume you have friends.

Someone said my blog was “hard to share” so I wanted to point those out.

Also, I’ve yet to go to my survey from yesterday about how to arrange the comments (scroll down; it’s under this post) but last I looked you seemed to be voting for the comments to be in thread form, which means you can reply to someone, and that reply will be tucked up under that person’s comment.

The other option was to just splat them out there chronologically, which some like because then if they return that day, they don’t have to scroll up and down to see all the new comments.

But PLEASE NOTE, when you leave a comment, there is a box you can check so that if you want, you can get all the comments delivered to you via email. So you can read them all that way if you want eleventy emails.

And finally, at the bottom right of each post you can click “Follow,” and you can get emails that tell you I’ve blogged, so you don’t have to come looking for me, ever.

That is all. And that’s the news today, Wednesday, December 20, 2017.

Except there’s other news. But that was the news re my stupid blog.

The other news is that I had to buy a new goddamn computer. Like, I started this post right at 8:00, and if you look up and see that photo of my coworker? Getting to Safari, getting to this website, starting a post, then going to Google to find his photo?

Took until 8:13. I timed it.

It’s not even fun to write anymore, because this machine just GROANS along, and spools, and doesn’t move, and sometimes I wrote a particularly pithy line, if you ask me, and I look up and it didn’t type. It just didn’t type! Because the machine hasn’t caught up with me yet. Which is the title of my new book.

Heh.

Anyway, this computer is more than six years old, and I hope you all remember my excitement when I got it, and how delighted I was to use the webcam. Let me take 49 minutes out of my morning to fire up the webcam and find the very first picture I took on here…

Photo on 9-24-11 at 4.48 PM #3Oh, June.

This photo is dated 9/24/11 at 4:48 p.m. There are two videos that precede this photo because I didn’t know I was making a video rather than a picture, but god help me if I try to upload a video. I’ll miss my whole day of work, waiting.

Anyway, the convenient part about Apple is I was able to call them and get pretty much the same computer, just the 2017 version, delivered right to my workplace next week. It’ll be faster, but the same size. Which is what she said.

Did I WANT to spend my hard-earned cash on a new computer? I did not. But I literally could not really use this one any longer, and careful readers will note that week back in the early fall when AppleCare and I spent forever trying to get this old lady speeded up.

It didn’t much work.

Also, I traded this one in. So.

IMG_2903.jpgToday at noon I take everyone’s favorite foster sister back to the shelter to get her booster shot and to have her cold checked out. You can see it has not slowed her asshole level down even a bit.

IMG_E2928.jpgAlso, someone is quite pleased to have a kitten friend.

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it not tru. steeeleee dan haf dignitee.

I leave you with today’s lip color: Broadest Berry. Lu resent.

IMG_2941.jpgToday we have a Christmas party for the creative team, and then after I am screaming over to my friend The Other Copy Editor’s B&B because last week she was too busy to talk to me and allegedly this week there will be time for us to make out.

Then allegedly I am getting up for 6 a.m. Pure Barre tomorrow, and “allegedly” is a big word with me today.

After Pure Barre, I am totally Going Ham.

Luff,

Juan

P.S. Two things that are already irking me: Your comment yesterday did not “disappear.” The comments only go to 100, then you have to click “See older” or whatever it says, at the top of the comments.

At the top of my not-blog I’ve changed the photo. Earlier, the tag line below referenced my Aunt Kathy, whom you’ve all seen a millioon times (go look at Thanksgiving, for example). She was having trouble finding this page so it was just a joke.

However, that woman in the photo is clearly not her. I changed the tag line today so as not to keep getting OH MY GOD IS THAT AUNT KATHY? WHO SUDDENLY IS AN OLD LADY IN A 1957 PHOTO BUT STILL A VIABLE NOT-ANCIENT PERSON TODAY? WE JUST SAW HER THANKSGIVING BUT IS THAT SOMEHOW HER IN THAT 60-YEAR-OLD PHOTO? So. Yeah.

 

 

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Mark your calendars! (heeee)

My boss, fmr., and I just had a conversation that inspired me. She was my muse, as it were.

We’re having our first Book of June contest! Between now and the very last day of 2017, send me

THE WORST (FREE) 2018 CALENDAR YOU CAN FIND.

The winner gets 11 hundred million thousand dollars, or a mention on Book of June, whichever’s more valuable.

The good news is, I’ll keep the winner, and then anyone who knows me in real life? I’m sending you the dregs! So, however many other free terrible calendars there are left over, depending on how related you are to me (i.e., mom, there’s no way you’re escaping. Mom’s cousin? You might not get one), you will also receive a FREE TERRIBLE CALENDAR!

I’m not sure if we’ll vote together on the winner or if I will make an executive decision. We’ll just have to wait and see how many bad ones we get.

So, comb the offices of your insurance company, your mechanic, your priest. See if they’re giving away terrible calendars, and I will work on getting a P.O. box, which I should have had years ago anyway. Email me ONLY IF YOU HAVE ONE TO SEND FTLOG and I will give you the address.

I look forward to you finding the worst life has to offer!FullSizeRender.jpg

Pain Bryant

I can’t really go into my headache study all that much, because of confidentiality and so on. But–and please don’t ask for more clarification, I can FEEL you all asking for more clarification–at the beginning of the study, I had to do a pain-threshold series of tests. Yes, they inflicted pain on me. Continue reading “Pain Bryant”

Sort of a complainy post. (“What??”)

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“So. There you go,” texted Ned (“text” Ned), as he sent me the image above.

For all the complaining I do about people saying “text” as a past-tense form of, you know, “text,” I still hear it all the time. Continue reading “Sort of a complainy post. (“What??”)”

June Gardens’ Day Off

I took the day off yesterday to work on my freelance work, and then I never worked on my freelance work.

Welcome to me. Welcome to the splendor of me.

The first thing I did was get together for coffee with Lilly of Chris and Lilly, and I like how she has to be half a person whenever I refer to her. But here's why: "I'm having coffee with Lilly," I told my mother.

"Your cat Lily?"

You know, technically I have coffee with Cat Lilly every day. You know what I should get? Is a tiger, and name her Tiger Lilly. That wouldn't be confusing at all, to have my tiger named the same thing as my cat. Fortunately for all of us, once I moved old Tiger Lilly in, she'd quickly be the only pet, kind of like the time some yahoo brought a praying mantis to "capture a bug and bring it to the school aquarium" day. We all watched our submissions get eaten, one by one, with just old green Laura Dern remaining in there.

Faithful Reader Paula is watching that Large Giant Lies or whatever it's called, and she's become obsessed with Laura Dern–or as my mother called her, Lorna Doone. My mother is watching that show, too. Stupid White Lies. What's it called?

Anyway, so it was good to see Lilly, even though she pointed out it'd only been 19 days since we'd seen each other and not my usual required 30. But, see, I'd asked her to coffee, so I didn't have to form my huffy, "GOD, I just SAW her" thought.

I'm a delight.

Also, I took a long spring drive in the country, something I have always loved doing. I've always wanted to live in the country. I never have. Movin' to the country, gonna eat a lot of peaches. Movin' to the country, gonna eat a lotta peaches.

PEACHES COME IN A CAN! THEY WERE PUT THERE BY A MAN!

I miss the '90s.

Anyway, the other crucial thing to happen is that the thing happened again. I had ZERO SYMPTOMS and then yesterday I woke up 100% stuffed up, and I can't taste anything, and I am miserable. It got worse yesterday as the day wore on. Why, god? I don't understand how I keep getting these instant colds, just add water.

If you get out your Big Book of June Events (what color do you see the book? I see kind of an old-timey sage green), you'll note I just got OVER the same thing about two weeks ago. What the HELL? I eat right.

God, that bolt of lightening almost hit me.

Anyway, after I drove to the country, ate zero peaches, had coffee with Lilly the person and not the cat, I headed to the grocery store, where it was chicken chili day, so I got a big tub, and then oh yeah, I really should change the filter in my furnace because pets, and oooo, I need coffee for work and I should get decaf and then caf for bad days, and oh geez, my allergy medici–

sploop.

The chili. The chili fell out my hands, y'all. The chili fell out my hands and due to that whole gravity nonsense, sploop.

Oh my god, humiliating.

That didn't stop me from getting chili again anyway.

Is chili fattening?

Anyway, that floor chili was the last thing I remember tasting. Ever since then it's been, Oh, I'm consuming some orange cold liquid that tastes like nothing and, oh, here's hot brown nothing that I'm drinking.

My grandmother was an excellent cook, and the best thing was her mashed potatoes. I lived for those. Eventually, my grandfather retired and they moved to Florida and then North Carolina, my grandparents did, and I didn't see them much. But eventually when I was 25, my father and I drove to North Carolina and had Christmas dinner with them AND I HAD A COLD.

All I'd wanted to do was taste those mashed potatoes, and there I was. Oh, the texture seems fantastic.

Just think. I was in the same state as Ned and didn't know him yet. I could've asked to borrow the car, driven from Asheville to Raleigh, knocked on his stupid college door and said, "In 22 years we're going to meet, and Ima tell you right now: Just KEEP ON WALKIN'. When I write you on OK Cupid, KEEP ON WALKIN'. …Well, see, OK Cupid will be this dating site online. Well, online is going to be…"

Did you ever wonder about people you met at certain times? Like, 1990 me would not have liked 1990 Ned, for shizzle. He didn't have long hair, he wasn't in a band, he was in a fraternity. No way. But I feel like for the first 45 years of my life, no matter when I'd met Marvin, I'd have liked him right away. If I met him now, though, he'd no longer be my type.

Not rich enough. I'm sorry, but that's become important to me in m'twilight years.

While I was writing you, I felt kind of funny, so I turned around and…

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You guys. God knows I love Lily the cat, god KNOWS I do, but holy Christ, she's an idiot. First of all, she doesn't know to meow to get my attention. And she doesn't know how to come in. You go to the door and she just stands there on that shelf. I've even shut the door on her, telling her she HAS to jump down and walk through the door, but it doesn't help.

So sometimes I pick her round football self up, place her on the deck, and she always

ALWAYS

starts heading the wrong way. "Inside is this, way, Lily."

Poor Lily. At least she's pretty.

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On the other end of the spectrum, we have Mr. I Be Smart and Bored and Maybeee a Claw in Edz Would Brake Up Moe Not Nee. Which is a long name. Almost as long as Steely Dan.

Speaking of SD, yesterday Alf, my handyman, came to give me a new gate, because y'all gave me so many tips that I could afford the $165 that cost me! That gate has been a travesty for years. The wood is rotting, and if Edsel had any chutzpah he'd had escaped through it ages ago. Also, you had to…LIFT it UP in order to open and shut it, otherwise it'd drag across the ground in a most undelightful way.

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Bonus: Edsel-peeing shot! It has to weather awhile before Alf can paint it. The gate, not Edsel's pee.

The point is, after Alf my handyman and I exchanged numerous giggly texts:

Alf: The 42" gate is really cheap. Would six inches make that big of a difference?

June: I'LL say it does!

Alf: heeee!

June: heeeeee!

We are both in our 50s.

Anyway, so after we revisited 7th grade a LOT, and even texted "stud" and slayed our own selves, he came over and had the back door open (heeeee) while he worked. This left the screen door with the hole in it (Alf's next project) open all afternoon, which meant Steely Dan could SOAR through the hole like a tiger at the circus, or my pet Tiger Lilly, all afternoon.

He was obsessed.

"That cat is crazy," said Alf, indifferently, as he worked. "Is that the one who was in the tree last time?"

No, that was Iris.

"You've got a lot of cats," mused Alf, and his Obvious Seminar starts next month. Sign up soon.

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At 4:00, Edsel and I retired to the bed, because it was one year exactly that Tallulah died. We talked about our favorite Lu memories, and remembered the good times we had with her, and how much we missed her and then Edsel told me he'd really like a new dog friend and won't I please go get that pitty that needs adopting?

Shut up. He did SO.

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And she's a medium! Look how it'll save me in psycics!

I know. I KNOW. You don't have to tell me.

Okay, I'd better go. I feel awful and my head is stuffy and I feel awful. Did I mention? What the HECK with these colds from nowhere?

Stuffily,

Jooon

For six nights in a row

SCREEEEEEEEECH!

That's what woke me up this morning, a few minutes before my alarm: SCREEEEEEEEECH!

"That's actually coming from outside my head," I realized, and then I wondered if someone was being murdered. Exciting! "Coooo! Cooo! Cooooo!" I heard then, and right then I knew. Either Yoko Ono was gettin' some from my neighbor, Paul, (or god forbid Peg)…

or it was a bird.

June Gardens, Wildlife Expert®.

Naturally, I looked it up, asking Siri, "What kind of bird screeches, then coos?" Usually Siri is a lazy ass sack who never answers a goddamn freaking thing. The difference between my stupid useless Siri and Ned's whoever-she-is on his Samsung Galaxy is astonishing.

"When is the next full moon?" we'll both ask our phones.

"The next full moon is November 14, and it's a rare super moon," his phone will immediately say, a trifle smugly.

"I'm sorry. I could not find runcible spoon," Siri will say. Or if she does hear me, she sends me to an ARTICLE to READ. I don't have time to read. I'm a busy executive. Just fucking tell me. Siri makes everything a hassle. Siri is the Typepad of phones.

I wonder if I could be any more entitled. My PHONE, that I carry WITH me and that has all the information in the WORLD in it, that also takes pictures and can navigate for me, won't tell me what bird screeches and coos. WHO CAN LIVE THIS WAY.

The point is, it did tell me, syphilitic Siri did, and it would appear I have a Great Horned Owl in my yard.

0712GreatHornedOwl-S
fuk ant joon

"Don't let the cats out," said Ned as soon as I called him, and apparently Ned and my mom have founded a Tell June the Obvious Club. Anyway, I went outside with Edsel to see if I could see him, my new hoot owl howling by my window now, as I wish to meet him and kiss him on his crabby head and maybe let him live inside, so I could be charmingly eccentric like Uncle Billy in It's a Wonderful Life.

Do you think maybe he'll build a owl nest-y, with owl babies-ses that I can kiss and hug and pet? Soft baby owl-ses? OH MY GOD I WOULD NEVER BE SAD AGAIN. I could run around getting them owl food, because I'd be super good at hauling a couple baby bunnies up a tree. That wouldn't kill me or anything.

Look at his big owl feets. DON'T YOU LOVE HIM SO BAD? Ima name him Das Hoot.

In other news, I'm home. Hello. I unpacked right away, because the image of Faithful Reader Paula unpacking in the middle of the night because she can't rest till everything's put away made me feel guilty. Oh! And the worst thing.

I got to baggage claim and got m'pink huge bag off the thing®. I had a bottle of water with me, and as I got on the escalator, I let go of my bag to take a drink.

Ssssssssssssss FLUMP FLUMP FLUMP FLUMP FLOOMP.

My goddamn BAG fell behind me, and FLOOMPED all the way down the escalator which was thankfully empty, and slid zestfully all the way across baggage claim.

Oh my god.

I mean, what if someone had been behind me? I'd have knocked them off the escalator, too! What if I'd knocked some kid over?

As it was, a hundred million people ran to see what all the floomping was, and there I was, the only woman around for miles, and where was I, Alaska all of a sudden? "That's mine!" I waved eagerly, walking down the stairs to get my humiliated bag.

"Was that just a bag and not a person?" a frazzled airport employee ran over. Oh calm down.

"Yes, it was my bag. I dropped it," I told her, trying to act like all the cool people were doing it. I saw Steve McQueen drop his bag the exact same way in Klute.

I have no idea if Steve McQueen was even in Klute.

"You should do an ad for that bag," said a man nearby, as I retrieved my unscratched bag.

Pink Bags. Tough, But Fair®.

® is a big thing with me today.

Other than that, it's been a relatively sedate homecoming, what with crippled-up Ned and his bulging disks. He's forever raising his arm and flexing his hand and wincing and carrying on.

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Did you have something you wanted to share with the class, Ned?

 "I know you're annoyed by my pain," said Ned, as he winced and carried on.

"No, I'm not," I said, totally annoyed by his wincing and carrying on.

We went to eat last night and the restaurant was playing a duet from the '80s. "Is this a duet with Kenny Loggins?" Ned asked.

"It is. I believe it's with Stevie Nicks," I told him. I always know from what I call Saginaw songs. Like, if it's some top 40 thing from anywhere between 1974 and 1988, I know who sang it and when it was a song. My friend Dave, who also grew up in Saginaw, had a classy boyfriend from Hawaii, and whenever Dave and I were jamming out in the car to something like Hocus Pocus by Focus, the Hawaiian boyfriend would be all, "What even is this? This is a Saginaw song."

The point of my story is, I told Ned about Stevie Nicks and Kenny Loggins and then possibly went into a diatribe about how much I hate the song Leather and Lace, and then furthered my rant about how much Stevie Nicks annoys me in general.

"She's why I can't stand women with blonde hair and brown eyes," I said.

"You…what?"

"Oh, they bug me, women with blonde hair and brown eyes. And it's all Stevie Nicks's fault."

Sometimes Ned looks at me like, What on earth have I done? I was rid of her.

Blonde-haired, brown-eyed women are such a disappointment," I said. "They're the raisin cookie of women."

I suppose it was nice having you as readers, BHBEW. I will miss you all.

Imagine how the BHBEW with horseshoe haircuts must hate me.

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fuk ant june

Look, I'm a gray-haired, blue-eyed woman. Which disappoints everyone.

I'd better go. Now that I've spread all this positivity and love. I will let you know when Roddy MacOwl moves in, and which bedroom he gets, and so on. Maybe if he moves in, I can become one of those people who gets really into woodsy Native American-ish stuff, and wear pine cone earrings and a lot of turquoise and kokopelli the shit outta the whole house. Won't you enjoy my kokopelli couch and kokopelli curtains? I turned this tree log into a coffee table. Sit down and I'll make you some frybread.

SCREEECH! Coo!

June

But the liver and child reunion is only a motion away

I probably shouldn't be workout buddies with my ex-boyfriend, but so what. If you'll recall, from your Big Book of June Events, Ned was complaining of neck pain, and with my medical degree and minor in psychology, I determined he had all sorts of repressed feelings that were manifesting in physical sensations,

a thing I informed him of right before the call came that he had a broken neck. Okay, DR. JUNE.

His (actual) doctor told him that he shouldn't go to the gym, or ride his bike as if he's trying to win some race, and as a result Ned is depressed and feels fat. "Can you take walks?" I asked. So now, of course, being Ned, he walks at 10:00, he walks at 3:00, then comes over right after work to walk with Edsel and me, and what he does not know is without discussing it, our walks just got 2,000 times longer.

As soon as he pulls up now, Edsel gets twitterpated, because not only is it UNKKLE NED! O EDSUL GOD!, it also WALK TIMES! O EDSUL GOD!!

Yesterday we saw a downed tree–a whole tree!!–in the park. "Want to walk down there and look at it?" asked Ned. Edsel and I clutched our pearls. "Down that steep hill?"

Ned led Eds and me down that hill, Eds' dainty paws approaching cautiously down. Just as we were near the tree, Ned said, "Watch out for black snakes," and that's when the dog and I had to be revived.

In the meantime, I went back to the headache study place yesterday so they could check me out. Check it out now, funk soul brother. I weigh TWO POUNDS MORE, and why, god? Oh Edsul god. But my blood pressure is 14 over 12.

Here are some things that irk me about being in this study.

  1. "Oh, will you tell me what you're doing for the study? I'll do it too and NO MORE MIGRAINES!" First of all, I'm in one of three groups, so I have no idea if I'm in the real group or not. Second, I'm in the middle of what's clearly a multimillion-dollar study, and giving away their secrets seems …unseemly. "Thank you," said the nurse yesterday when I told her I said no to people who were asking for details and recipes and so on. So my instinct was correct on that.
  2. People think it's a traditional migraine diet. "Can you have chocolate?" "Oh, wait, you're not supposed to have wine, right?" It's not the regular stuff we already associate with being triggers. It's new. That's why it's a study.

When I got to the migraine place yesterday on campus, I was ushered to a room where I sat right underneath a 2015 Liver Transplant Reunion calendar. The nurse bustled in, took my lack of blood pressure, asked me a few questions, but all I could think of was how bad I want a 2015 Liver Transplant Reunion calendar. I imagine in 2017 they will have covered the 2016 reunion, right? And they'll make another calendar, right?

I'm just saying, family. Christmas is right around the corner.

Finally, I admitted to the beleaguered nurse assigned to me for six months how enamored I was of the Liver Reunion calendar. "You know, I've never noticed that before," she said.

I told her about the grandmother I'm turning into having a Holocaust calendar every year. She clearly donated to some organization, and as a reward, they'd send her this cheery Holocaust calendar, a thing that kept arriving even after her death. She would have enjoyed getting a posthumous calendar. The uselessness of it would have tickled her.

And if you knew the grandmother I'm turning into, knowing that her cheery personality had an annual Holocaust calendar is even better. Also, if you knew her, it was highly likely she did not like you.

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After my visit, I passed Chris and Lilly's store on the way home, and once again they were not there, leading me to now believe they do not really OWN a store and just made that up so I wouldn't feel sorry for them. I sent this image to Lilly, saying, "I just shoplifted all this from your store."

I got a mum, obvs, and some bird seed, as I have put the bird feeder on the other side of the window from the cat condo, in a flash of brilliance. Steely Dan likes to sit there with Iris and chitter at birds.

However, the other day I was trying to leave but I could not find SD. I looked in all his regular spots, till finally in desperation I headed to my closet and there he was, on the top shelf, sleeping on one of my purses. HOW DID HE GET UP THERE?

When I got home later I moved the purses and put a little blanket there.

Anyway, I also got a stick of duck jerky for Edsel which was gone so fast I couldn't even photograph him eating it, and finally some lavender rosemary lip balm which is to die for.

The woman at the checkout counter was ringing up someone else, and when he left he said, "I love you."

"I love you too," she said as he left.

"Wow, friendly place," I said, handing her my stuff.

She laughed. "That was my nephew."

I signed for my things and as I headed for the door, I called, "I love you!"

I didn't tell her I knew Chris and Lilly. I spared them that.

I have to go to work now, because gotta keep myself in duck jerky, but yesterday we were kibbitzing around on Facebook and got on the topic of your families and me. Do you tell your family and/or friends about this blog, and if so, are they sick to death of hearing about some woman they've never met?

Do tell. I find myself wanting to quote you guys sometimes and it's just easier to say, "A friend of mine…" "A friend of mine says you can't even get hookers and blow for $40,000 a year." That sort of thing.

See you at the 2016 Liver Reunion.

June

Wall E

I had a dream that I was helping Jesus build a wall to keep out foreigners. I kept saying, "Really? Cause this doesn't seem like something you'd–okay. Hand me a nail. YOU'RE the carpenter, here, but okay."

Maybe I shouldn't have watched the RNC.

I also dreamed my cousin Katy (yes, I have a Katie and a Katy in my family. We're a wildly original people. There are also two Junes, and fortunately I am Little June) was getting married again, in some big old beautiful building, except the wedding was outside, so kind of like my wedding.

The point is, it was all very Irish-themed (she's Irish on her mom's side. Irish people always celebrate their Irishness, but you never see anyone being all French-Canadians! Yay! Which is what our side is), and she was serving

Thin

Mint

Ice Cream

Sandwiches

as the hors d'oeuvre before the wedding. Dear Next Wedding I Go To: Do that. I don't even know if those are a thing, but make it happen. Like Jesus's wall. Get the fuck away from me, be ye Mexican. I only like Americans.

Really, I should have read a book or something.

We should really bring back the "ye." Ye guys in?

In other news, a few of you recommended toys that would keep Lottie out of juvenile detention, so I got them, and they got here yesterday and is there anything better than Amazon? I know they abuse their employees, but hey, fast service.

Anyway. This one cube, which looks like an enormous square of cheese–and would that it were–has a hole where you hide treats in it. IMG_1061
LOTee just love cheese. Rully she do.

So, first I played with their new, like, big fishing line that has a toy at the end, and I really need someone to come film Edsel playing with that thing, because I know you all want me to just be RECORDING EVERY MOMENT ("Why didn't you take a picture of the grocery store clerk, June?"), but there is no physical way to play with the dogs with that thing and hold a camera. I'd have to strap on a GoPro (I'm a NoPro) or develop six arms like the goddess I am.

Anyway, he was BESIDE himself. And here's what he said. BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK!

Oh my god. He had a crazed expression, and ALL HE WANTED IN THIS LIFE was to catch that toy, and he did, and poor Lottie barely got to play with it at all. Finally I put him inside and played with just her, and you know what he said?

BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! Goddammit, BARK!

I was totally Buffalo Bill outside, mocking him. Baaark. Baaaark.

I need to stop watching Silence of the Lambs and the RNC, both.

Anyway, then we went inside (my mosquitoes are terrible. Are yours? Even bug spray won't work. I'd call in some kind of service but I don't want them to kill the lightning bugs) and I got that cube, and Lottie loved it, except for the part where Edsel decided she could have no part of it. And then he strapped one on and got all manly about the sitch.

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dis do be suk, mom

Eventually, he went outside and Lottie got the huge cube of cheese once more, and you know when you were a kid and your dad came home and you were in trouble? Jesus Katie Christ and his toolbelt.

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He walked in so slowly and deliberately, and I like how he's trying to be tough while Lily brushes against him. It'd be like if a cowboy sauntered through the bar doors with a balloon bouquet.

But look at him! He's such a dick.

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I was on the couch, holding the camera near the floor so I could try to capture this evil on film. He looks like a gay, rabid wolf.

And poor Lottie was just cowering, all Yes, sir. It's just not right. What is this shift lately?

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LOTee few churr seem unsertin.

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o fuk dat. it onlee matter of tyme.

So, basically, so much drama in the GSO.

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My hair and I took a selfie after. Yesterday was an exhausting day. Basically I'm working on two huge projects that're coming to fruition on the same day. That day is nigh, which is a day between Monday and Pooh Day.

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mom work skedule not as importint as Edz becomeeng magnificint master of howse. He master of all–hey, do dat be a kitty?

In fact, Edsel and I were on our walk last night, and we saw Ava's grandmother, who was trying to wave at me and unload groceries at the same time, and a big jug of milk toppled out of the back of the car. "No use crying over it," I said, and no one likes me.

Anyway, she told me Ava had an upset dog stomach but now she's fine, and that her housebreaking isn't going that well (Ava's, not the grandmother's), and while we were talking, their absolutely beautiful calico sauntered down the driveway. "Is she gonna come over here?" I asked.

"Oh, yes, she's used to big dogs." They have three dogs including Ava, one of which is this thick, solid Pit who lets Ava hang off his jowls. He's super cool. Gray pit. Oh, I love him.

Anyway, yep, sure enough, that splotchy-face kitty came right over, and Edsel?

Blew it.

Oh hai! Hai hai hai! How it hang? I do be Edsel, it so good to–may I sniff you a lot? A lot? Heer Edz snowt. May Edsz snurfle your–wear you go?

Which is pretty much how it goes whenever I meet anyone. "Oh, hello! Have you ever tried Ben-Wa balls?"

So.

Okay, then, I'm off to another relaxing day. Remember when all I did was proofread all day, and my biggest stressor was missing a comma? Remember those heady days? Oh, heady days. Heady days of yore.

Yore what?

June

June accidentally records her life. As opposed to this tome.

I was just uploading photos from my phone onto my computer

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mom boreeng

and I saw among the photos a video on there that was half an hour long. "?" I asked myself.

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seer y uslee, we so ober this story

I clicked play. It was a blank screen the whole time. You could hear me, what do you know, about to take Tallulah on a walk first, and Edsel had to wait, a thing I had to remind him 39495929 times. My theory is I musta been looking at my phone, accidentally hit the record button, then placed said phone face-down on the couch before taking Lu on her walk.

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do anywon have stiff shot of wiskey? eyeriss just want story to end.

You can hear me snapping on Tallulah's leash, and telling distraught Edsel he has to wait (I can't handle them both. I used to be able to, but when they see another dog, they now attack each other, and what I have here is a pack of geniuses), and then you have THIRTY MINUTES of Edsel whining and barking.

Good lord. I had no idea he carried on that much when I left with Talu. Really, it was more 10 minutes of him whining and barking. As I listened to this recording today, both dogs came in, curious. hoo da hell barkeeng? wat a dik.

Eventually you hear him flump onto the couch, dejected, till I finally come in. You hear him jump off the couch, WHICH HE'S NOT SUPPOSED TO BE ON, you hear me say hello to Eds and announce my return, and then I snap his leash on. Then I pick up the phone and it's over.

I'm just glad I didn't hear any ghost noises or anything while I was gone because my whole face would just fall off in fear if that had happened.

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lillee take lyfe

Okay, FINE. I'm done with that story. God.

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o thank godz

I have to get to work. We have a two-hour meeting right during lunch with no lunch served, and of course I have no take-it-with-you-how-convenient things to snack on in order to live through that, so I have to go scrounge my cupboards like I'm a bear in a cabin.

Everyone tell me a story of a time you were humiliated in your youth. I always like when we have "everyone tell me stories" day. Those after-someone-dies stories the other day were EFFING RIVETING. As opposed to my story above.

Fascinatingly,

June

June’s fog, her amphetamines and her pearls

Sometimes I sit at this computer and think, "What the hell was I gonna say today?" This is one of those days. I was worried about Lu last night, as she was panting and moaning just a bit. Going outside, getting on the forbidden couch, and even treats didn't seem to lighten her load any. Well. She lightened up for the treats a little.

Finally I decided to give her another pain pill, even though it wasn't time. Fuck it. Give my daughter the shot.

So I didn't sleep well, because I kept reaching down to make sure I hadn't OD my own dog, so that was restful. She seems okay today, if groggy. She did a groggy harrrrr. So.

The other disturbing news is I'm worried I missed my hurr appointment. I think maybe it was the 15th. My hairdresser, the HAIRDRESSER I share with my coworker Austin, who insists she's a barber, with her aromatherapy salon, usually sends me a reminder, and I didn't get one, so maybe I'm making shit up. But I got roots, man. I'm Alex Haley. I know I make that funny joke every time.

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I was going to show you my roots, but then I got involved with how pretty Lily looks in the sun. You know how gray hair is suddenly the color for the young set? Why can't gray roots be in? I should set a trend. Wait. I think I already am. It's only been six weeks, but there is snow on the silver mountain. I know I also make that joke every time. How sick of me are you?

Actually, someone said something interesting the other day.

That's all. See you tomorrow!

No. Someone said they liked breezy, rambling posts. But then the other day on Pie on the Face (a group on Facebook where you all gather to talk about how much you love my blog, which you never really do, but rather you send in cat videos, which is preferable anyway), someone said they particularly liked that day's post because I stuck to one topic the whole way through, that topic being my dying dog which is hard to not dwell on.

So which do you like? What kind of posts are you all, "Oh, good" and which are you, like, "Jesus, shut up, June. Ima go look at The Bloggess." Is that how you spell it? I love her. She trumps Dooce and her world travels and secrecy about the boyfriend any day, if you ask me.

Once I read someone say that she stops reading a blog if it gets popular. Which annoyed. Hey, I like your blog. But if other people do, I'm out of here. I don't know why I'm talking about blogging today, seeing as four people do it anymore.

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Last night I went to the old theater I like. Up in what they call The Crown, which is the top floor and not a literal crown, which, disappointment, they show art films and the like. Last night was a great documentary about this eccentric old guy who was an artist, who these filmmakers stumbled upon at a Pirogi festival, and whom they filmed for years. They were there for questioning after the movie, and it was great. Don't ask me what it was called. Google fucking it.

I also received an email receipt for my purchase at the concession stand and why so chubby, which was disturbing because I didn't tell them my email address. I paid with my ATM card. How did they know my email address? And they were all Thanks for your purchase of old popcorn at The Crown. Sorry your dog is sick and stop stress eating. You look roomy about the ass, June. You're never gonna catch a man with those hips. Hips don't lie.

I know I make that hilarious joke every time.

So, like, that was weird. About the receipt. I also did my taxes yesterday, AND I finished my statistics textbook and what amphetamines? Go, June. The point is, I perused all last year's bank statements to add up my medical expenses ($4,800. Thanks, kidney stone.), and I was stunned to see what I spend my money on. My bank statements go like this:

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See what I did, there? I made a Large Marge joke.

Anyway. My bank statements, and say "bank statements" one more time.

  • Movies
  • Movie concessions
  • Fast food
  • Fast food
  • FAST FUD
  • Another movie
  • Music on iTunes
  • Fast food
  • Movies

My friend Sandy says she's actually surprised I'm still alive. Oh, also, I owe money for taxes. Goddammit. I did a TON of freelance last year. And go ahead. Tell me I can deduct this room of the house. Do it. I will be so pleased.

The other night at that dinner party, someone mentioned a scenario in which a person was avoiding capital gains, and I said, "Oh, wow! Is that what that means when people say capital gains? I never knew."

I always thought it was when you got a particularly good bottle of laundry detergent.

"You're HOW old?" one of the Baby Boomers at the party asked me. "Thirty-nine? Forty? You should know this stuff by now." She thought she was chastising me, but really I was just excited about the part where she thought I was 39 or 40.

I gotta go. I know a lot was said in this post, and we need to really take some time to step back and think it over calmly.

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See what I did, there? I wasn't calm.

Fast food. Fast food. FAST FUD.

June

Belle Waddling

Gone With the Wind was on TCM last night, did you watch it? I did. I thought I'd tune in to that movie for once, see what it was all about. Am I the only person who watches a movie 496 times like that? I watched it TWO TIMES IN A ROW the day before Thanksgiving, while I was getting ready.

I also texted my Aunt Kathy, who was the person who first dragged me to see it when I was 11. I had no idea what it was gonna be about; I thought it was set in the '60s. And, I mean, it was. The 1860s, but still. Anyway. The part where Mammy says, "Just like a spider" is still the very best part.

 

Mammy was the best. I totally need a Mammy to tell me what's best for me all the time. "Come on in the house before you catch your death of dampness." Death of dampness. Oh, it kills me.

Anyway. Watched it. Continued to abhor Ashley and his red taffeta petticoat. Continued to watch Ashley scrub his vagina throughout the whole movie. Continued to wonder why Ashley didn't lie down for a midafternoon nap along with the rest of the girls. "Oh, we're having brandy in the drawing room and talking about war? Say, are there any wine coolers?"

Ashley and his jaunty fringe belt that Scarlett makes for him. Even though she loves him, she subconsciously knows the score. Let's see. What would Ashley like to take back with him to war? A book of poems? Pomade for his 'do? Yes, yes, all those things, but oh! How about a gold fringy belt he can sling around his hips like a hoochie-goochie girl? He'd adore that.

On days I get off on a GWTW tangent, do you want to smack me like I'm Prissy?

Part of the reason I had all night to watch a four-hour movie is because my DVD player isn't working. And by "isn't working," I mean I didn't bring the right remote with me, and Ima have to go to Ned's to get the right one and I keep putting that off, as you can imagine. So the other night in a fit on ingenuity I put my Tracy Chapman DVD in my computer, and I've been doing her back here on the cold tile floor, but now for some reason my computer is saying there's an error and now I can't even eject the damn thing.

It's times like this I wish I had a man around, and I did call Marty Martin, which I just typed "Marty Marvin" and allegedly he's gonna come help me with all this. Allegedly.

But the point is, since I couldn't work out, I did all my laundry and hung it all up with my new pink velvet hangers I bought (I don't know how I managed to not move enough hangers) and put all my shoes together (I'd had them all in a big "Here's where I threw them" pile that was delightful) and so on. Then I'm sorry to tell you I did three months of finding the hidden picture.

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My mother got me, for Xmas, a Highlights Magazine calendar that's all Find the Hidden Object. So I opened up one month and started finding all the damn bananas and kites and snakes and so on and next thing you know I was in April already so I stopped. Then my movie came on. So. Quite an evening.

I think it's nice that Barack Obama can go to the public pool without much fuss. Swim under a bowl of salad.

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I leave you with cute pictures of my pets, for a change. This morning I cleaned up THREE puddles of Tallulah pee from the back room. I am worried about my girl. My Pee Willie Winky.

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wee the gud pets now.

Talk at you.

Love,

Belle Watling

Oh, just wear your pajamas to the store, I said. What can happen? I said.

Between you and me, I was feeling a little out of sorts yesterday. A little under the weather. A little peckish. Is "peckish" hungry? Okay, then not that. I was achy, and tired, and my insides were not happy with me. If I were a mushroom, I'd be a shiitake, if you're picking up what I'm throwing down.

If I were a toy, I'd be a Lincoln Log.

If I were a sailor, I'd have been on the poop deck.

If I were a gambling man, I'd be playing craps.

I hope you're catching my subtle clues.

The point is, I was out of coffee. I don't fuck around with nonsense like that. I'm out of cat food? The cats can have tuna for dinner. I'm out of toilet paper? Hello, paper towel. But out of coffee means action. Act-shun. I wanna live. Act-shun I got so much to give.

I pulled on some jeans, but the idea of taking off my pajama tops–my Eiffel Towers–and putting on a bra just sounded exhausting. I know Grace Kelly never once thought putting on a bra was exhausting, but I'm not rich like she was. She was refined. I was on the poop deck.

And that is why I pulled on the blue sweater from the day before over my pajams. Oh, hooo care, I thought, and headed to the store.

The second I walked in, THE VERY SECOND, there was Bitchy Resting Face Alex and her husband. "Oh, hi!" they called out, all cheerful.

"I'm in my pajama top," I announced. Better to cut it off at the pass, I say. I pulled my Eiffel Tower pajama collar up like I was Katherine Hepburn. Clinically depressed Katherine Hepburn.

"I have my pajamas on too!" said BRF Alex's husband, who in the glow of youth and unpoopy health just looked like maybe he had on workout clothes. He looked absolutely fine in his ensemble. I was Delta Dawn.

After that humiliation, I headed to the coffee aisle, where immediately–IMMEDIATELY!!–I heard, "June?"

Son of a…

There was a woman I used to work with. I always liked her. "I'm wearing my pajama top," I announced again, and at this point I may as well have just gone on the PA at the store. "There's a sale on avocados, and also, June is in the coffee aisle, rockin' her Eiffel Tower pajams."

"I'm not wearing a bra!" my friend from my old job said, shaking her maracas. Did I mention I've always liked her?

And that is when her girlfriend, with whom I also worked, walked up. "June!"

OH SON OF A…

We all talked about how it was Sunday, after a holiday, and that we were entitled to wear Eiffel Tower pajama tops to the store. Then we talked about the new year, and eating healthier, and I hate to mention to you that on the way to the coffee, I had picked up 10 cans of Franco-American products. Hey, they were 10 for 8 dollars. Plus, an American wearing Eiffel Towers. I had a theme going.

"This IS healthy eating, for me," I explained to them.

Humiliated, I schlepped to the checkout stand, me, my 10 cans of canned pasta, my coffee and my sleepwear, when I heard, "June!"

OH COME ON, GOD.

There was a woman I work with currently, who's very what you'd call dignified, and despite the fact that she has 14 kids under the age of three, she was all done up and groomed. Okay, two. She has two little kids. Still. It's a lot more than I had going on, which was zero kids and general dropping Mrs. Brown off at the pool. And yet there she was, with her hair done and clothes on and so forth.

I honestly expected it to be an episode of This Is Your Life in the parking lot at that point, but fortunately I got to my car without incident. I drove home and unloaded my car.

"June! You're back!"

It was my cute, single, age-appropriate neighbor, who I hadn't seen yet.

And that is when I threw myself off the Eiffel Tower.

June Gardens, master of the sky

"I know I'm supposed to be embracing technology and all that, but this coming year, I'm getting a calendar again. Like a regular hang-on-the-wall calendar. I missed approximately 259 birthdays this year. And appointments! I missed appointments. I hate phone calendars and electronic reminders."

My boss's boss sits behind me and therefore has to hear my every thought. You can imagine what his days are like. He's probably wishing they were more numbered than they are.

"I have a couple 2016 calendars. I'll give you one of mine," he said, and see. Right there is where I should have hesitated. Because you know how men are. Aesthetics. Not necessarily their strong suit. Remember that story I have, about the day after Christmas, when the cards were 50% off, and I was standing in front of all the Christmas cards with every other woman on earth, as we perused them? We picked up cards with pretty pictures on them, but the message was stupid. Or the envelopes were red. No one wants to press their pen that hard so the addresses show up on stupid red envelopes. Dear cardmakers: Stop being so festive.

Anyway, as we all stood there for hours getting just the right cards, at one point a guy burst through. "Excuse me," he said, and WITHOUT EVEN LOOKING, grabbed a box of Christmas cards and left. Like he was getting eggs. Although that's a bad example. Ned used to lift the carton and touch EACH EGG, to ensure they weren't broken. It was more like he was selecting Faberge eggs, really.

Anyway, men. Not into aesthetics. That man who grabbed the cards haunts me, because I assume his wife had had an appendectomy or something and sent him out to get cards, and he came back with those '90s-looking Hallmark snowmen and blue envelopes and she's still pissed off about Christmas Card Debacle 2006.

Mostly when I look for 50% off cards, I look for glitter. Which is another in the 4935959394593-word-long epitaph I have asked you to string together. "She looked for glitter." By the time y'all read off my whole epitaph, the rapture will be here and I'll be back on earth to finish the reading.

Do people come back during the rapture? Or does God just show up on his own? My grandmother used to have perfume from Avon named Rapture and I always called it Rupture by accident, one of the many things she'd make me trot out and tell visitors. "What's Grandma's perfume, honey?"

Oh my god, anyway.

So the next day my boss's boss comes to work with a calendar for me.

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I think if you're at all able, you should play this mood music to get you all ambianced for the rest of this post. If you can't turn on the nice music, just remember PAAAA COOOO! Boobble di booobble di booooo.

"You're giving me an…eagle calendar?" I asked.

"Well, yes," said my boss's boss. "I also have an Impressionist paintings calendar, but you're so outdoorsy, I…" See. Even he couldn't finish that line without cracking himself up. Without howling, as it were, although eagles don't howl. There's been a hoot owl howlin' by my window now for six nights in a row/He's calling for MEEEE, I know/And on Wildfire we're both gonna go.

That line has always irritated the bejeesus out of me. It's a HOOT owl. Clearly it HOOTS. But no. That guy, who runs callin' things, has a hoot owl HOWLING. Or howlin'.

"Okay, I wanted to keep the Impressionist paintings calendar for myself," my boss's boss admitted. Which means the eagle has landed. On my desk. For all of 2016.

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we do eagle-ectric slide now?

Grammy, the grandmother I'm turning into, for years received a Holocaust calendar thanks to her contributions to bring back the Holocaust or whatever it was she was doing, over there. I know you don't know Grammy, and I assure you if she were alive you still wouldn't know her. In fact, if she were alive, she would highly disapprove of this blog. "Why do you want all those sluts knowing your business?" is what she'd say. Everyone who's reading this who knew her is shaking his or her head in agreement right now.

But I'll tell you. That Holocaust calendar was ridiculous, and so cheerful. And so HER. Had she known what goth was, she would have embraced it. Run to Rite Aid and gotten her some black nail polish and turned up the Morrisssey.

The point is, this eagle calendar might be even ridiculouser.

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Dig if you will the picture of the gay eagle or whatever, but what I also like about this is the little Native American design next to the month. It is so me.

I think as a result, I should get super into all things Native American and eagle all of 2016. That'll be my resolution, to be Pocahontas-y all year long. I'll get me some moccasins, maybe y'all could resent me and send me smallpox blankets. It'll be a whole thing. I just hope by embracing the eagle, I don't go bald.

Get it? I'll prey on you till you do. Maybe all next year I should blog in Eagleese, somehow.

Guess which talon I'm holding up?

Maybe I should ADOPT an eagle, which sounds legal, make it live with my part Beagle. We'll be regal.

You can send your thanks for all this to my boss's boss. His email and home address are available upon request.

I gotta go feather my hair.