Spa Day

Thursday, August 3, 2017

6:30 a.m.: Alarm goes off, hit snooze.

6:39: Alarm goes off, hit snooze.

6:48: ”

6:57: “…..

7:33: OH MY GOD. SERIOUSLY? Scream out of bed, dash to shower. Wash hair.

We curly people don’t wash our hair every day. Many of us have a concoction we create in dollar spray bottles purchased at Target. The concoction contains water and lavender oil. Or water and conditioner. Or water and gel. Or water, conditioner, gel and flax seed. Or whiskey.

Some of us have had all of those iterations in our spray bottle from Target. We spray our hair, scrunch it, and go the whole day with our hair looking like shit.

Since I’d had Bernie from Room 222 hair all week, and current references for four decades, yesterday was an actual wash-and-start-over day.

7:45: Put hair in careful microfiber towel for curly people, make coffee, feed animals, go outside with Edsel to watch him pee, as is required by law, lest you deal with a dog who will not go outside ALL DAY, and who hovers near you underbitedly wishing it be tyme to go out and watch Edzul pee alreddy cause he relly haff to go.

7:50 Begin blogging.

9:01: OH MY FUCKING GOD HOW IS IT ALREADY–

9:02: Throw on anything, pop in contacts, pour more coffee, scream out door. Catch reflection in car mirror.

Hair still completely soaked.

9:05–9:11: Drive to work with sunroof open and all windows down. Get to work and glance in mirror.

Hair still completely soaked.

9:12: Turn on computer hurriedly, glance at boss to see if he’s absorbed in work and not noticing lateness (NEWS ALERT: Boss is always absorbed in work), begin five-article project you promised another team that you were supposed to start the day before but were too busy.

9:13: PING! New deadline assigned.

9:14: PING! New deadline assigned.

9:15: PING! New deadline ass–

WHAT THE FUCK.

At work, we have software that, once your part of the task is completed, you check off a box and the next person in line gets an automatic email saying it’s their turn and with a deadline for their part.

Often, for some efficient reason, these deadlines are mythical, so the person before you will then email you personally to say, “Really, this has to be done tomorrow at noon.”

9:16: PING! New deadline assigned.

9:17: PING! New–OH STOP.

Then I started getting the personal emails. Hey, June, don’t make it bad. Take a sad article, and make it better.

In half an hour, I had 11 new assignments. Eleven. I won’t get 11 in a week sometimes. Those were followed up by “These deadlines are legit” emails from the editor before me.

9:30–12:30: Begin work on the 11 new deadlines, ignoring the five articles you still have to do for the other team. Get one done.

12:31: Realize you haven’t peed. In bathroom, glance at self.

Hair is still completely soaked.

12:35–1:30: Drive home, let Edsel out, stand watching Edsel pee as is required by law, realize you’re standing blankly thinking about all that you need to do back at work. Eat something that’s 15 Weight Watchers points (Amy’s Organic 3 Cheese and Kale) because there’s no time to think about thawing a chicken breast right now and that 15-point concoction is right there smiling at you kale-ly from the freezer.

1:37: Return to work, begin slaving on those five articles.

2:09: Email, “Is there any way you can get those articles done early?

2:10: Email from another team: “Did you forget you were going to proof our presentation today?”

3:00: Party for leaving coworker. Everyone heads to conference room to celebrate, except you and your boss. Boss has as much and very likely lots more to do. You sigh, pound your hands on desk, throw head back in annoyance, swear, and at one point, glance over at boss. He’s calmly typing, absorbed in work.

3:11: During yet another dramatic sigh and head throwback, glance down at boss, who is typing and sipping water calmly, like he’s on a meditation retreat or something.

“HOW CAN YOU BE SO CALM?”

“I internalize everything,” says boss, never looking over at you and your still-soaking-wet hair.

‘That’s why you will have seven heart attacks one day.”

Boss finally looks over. “If you have so much to do, why are you talking to me?”

“What’s the point of you being the only person here if I can’t complain to you?”

3:12: Feel like boss is 100% over you.

4:50 p.m.: Person who asked if you’d do the five articles for her, and then if you can do them early, comes over. She is a good sort of a person. Have commiserative talk about how busy everything is, discuss who has cried at work today, smile wanly at each other and continue.

6:35 p.m.: Four of the five articles are done. Sure, there are the 10 others, and that presentation you forgot and have to do Saturday, but four of the five articles are done.

6:37: See The Poet in parking lot. Have commiserative talk. Realize Poet leaves every day at this time, then goes home and writes deep poetry. Realize Poet never once throws head back dramatically at desk.

6:40: Glance at self in mirror of car. Hair has dried into a ‘do not unlike Gene Wilder’s.

6:52: Plunk bag of carrots next to work computer (see above ref to 15-point kale) and begin freelance work.

8:30: Try to stop freelance work.

8:32: Feel too squirrelly about stopping now, when you could finish this whole project tonight.

8:52: Get email from woman at work who you did four our of five articles for. “I hope people tell you how much you’re appreciated.” Smile warmly at email. Coworker is good soul who never writes things like THANKS!! : ). Coworker writes in English. Coworker is bomb.

10:20: Finish current freelance assignment. Email Tank the Miracle Angel Baby, whom you’re working with on said freelance gig, to tell him. “That’s great!” he writes back. “We have one that’s five times as long as that one that we plan to get to you Tuesday.”

10:21: Mentally count dollars. Mentally tell self that if you can’t drive with broken back, at least you can polish fenders.

10:32: REM.

P.S. I forgot the good news, that at lunch, while I was staring blankly at Edsel, I also called my bank and set up a savings account, an account they will automatically add a certain amount to every 15th and 31st, an account I cannot access with my ATM card. Am practically Suze Orman. Plans to smile manically under corporate haircut and tell you all YOU can’t afford it, appearing forthwith.

 

June’s Room of Her Own

Do you ever wish everyone would just stop talking to you? I don’t mean blog comments–I can honestly say that there hasn’t been one time I’ve gotten a blog comment and gone, UGH. A COMMENT. Goddammit. Not once. I’m always glad to get those. Continue reading “June’s Room of Her Own”

June must think of title. June not feeling it right now. June hits Publish anyway.

I worked till 10:00 last night, on freelance stuff, and my real work was busy yesterday, too, but at one point one of you wrote me. "I left you a tip."

"Oh, you did? Wow, thanks!"

Eventually, I got over there, to m'tip jar, and you'd left me enough tips that I don't have to borrow from any random well-off exes! Yay! Thanks, you guys!

Just today, I went to Steely Dan's hallowed Feeding Area® and noted he was on his last can of food. He wouldn't have STARVED, I have dry kitten food, made from real kittens, but he was gonna have to wait on the cans. But now? Cans for that assy cat!

I mentioned this on Facebook yesterday, but I noted yesterday that he is apparently jumping to the shelf atop the closet and chawing the fabric below. "So he's a moth," one of you said.

Yes. Yes, he is. WHY would you even WANT to chew fabric? He's not teething; he already did that, unless he's getting a new row like a shark, and I would not put that past him. A couple times now he's sauntered past me of late, and for a second there I'm all, "Who is that man?" He's getting big, is what I am saying to you.

You know, I love nothing more than a baby animal, yet why do I always own animals that get big in 14 seconds? Roger, Lottie, SD.

Anyway, so now I can, like, get dish soap and more allergy meds and I can LIVE! Live like a regular person who can buy staples! Yay!

Oh, and the other good news is, I know I told you Ned paid that doctor bill for me that inexplicably went to his house even though I have never been to that doctor before last month and there is really no reason they think his address is still my address. But whatever. The point is, him doing that tipped me over into meeting my ridiculous $2,000 deductible already this year, so yay!

I have a lot of yay today.

ALSO, I heard from the headache study I'm doing, and the first part is over–on to the second part. I am not taking any drugs or changing my diet, but that's all I can say about it. This is a whole new approach that I've yet to try, and I'm curious to see how it works.

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And finally, I hate to tell Lily that she can't really see anything. "Lileee patrol yard tooo." Hey, maybe before spring gets here for real (Okay, it IS spring. Shut up.) I can get that screen replaced. What say you? As soon as I do that I'll find a puppy again.

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Or adopt this pittie, with whom I am obsessed. "Cat curious." Oh my god, that kills me. Clearly she's in college. In her experimental years.

Okay, I'm leaving. Oh, one last thing. I got home and started working right away last night, resulting in me forgetting to feed dinner to the pets, which, I KNOW. I'm lucky to be alive. The point is, it was such a nice evening, and at one point I got up to stand on the deck and stretch, and everyone was out there together being so quintessentially themselves.

Edsel kept picking up Blu and dropping it, over and over. Steely Dan kept running at the big tree, seeing how high he could jump on the trunk, then jumping down and trying again.

Lily was on her back, legs splayed rolling in the dirt.

Iris sat on the deck with her paws crossed, surveying her domain. Sort of. As survey-y as you can be when you "can't see fukkin theeng."

So that was cute.

Okay, bye.

Living like a college student w/out the cute body I had in college

I'm $54 overdrawn in my account, I get paid in TEN DAYS, and I just called Ned to borrow $100.

I KNOW.

You guys. I cannot keep living like this. If you wanna call that living. Seriously, though, here's how it happened: I got paid last Wednesday. I paid the mortgage because it was due that day. I got my contacts, because they were ready and I hadn't worn contacts in weeks. You'd think I could just blow that off and be glasses girl, but I really have trouble copyediting with glasses on, cause I have to take them off to really see, and scootch way up to the computer, and plus also it hurts to wear headphones with them on, a thing I have to do because open floor plan.

So I got the contacts. Paid the mortgage. Got groceries. GOT THE SIX-DOLLAR EYEBROW WAX.

Then I had $54 till the NEXT payday, which I could deal with, and boom. Auto insurance. Automatic withdrawl. It overdrew me, and the FUCKING BANK charged me $36 for it.

God I hate banks. Why they gotta be such dicks?

The point is, I'm 51. This is insane. I spent until 9:30 last night working, trying to make extra money, but I can't keep working 11-hour days forever. I mean, I guess I could, but I assure you a tired copyeditor is a shitty copyeditor.

And remember when that realtor came? My house is creeping up there in value, but it's still not worth what I paid, and I wouldn't make any money selling it. So that's out.

Anyway. At least I'm rich in pet food. One of you sent me King Kamehameha amounts of it, and this morning I saw Edsel's food tin was low, and I panicked for a minute, but I looked in the closet and there was a huge bag of his Just Sex. I give him this Rachel Ray food called Just Six, but my hilarious joke with myself is to call it Just Sex. I know. All this talent, and I'm destitute.

I don't even know what else to do, you know? I've cut out all fun. I have no TV, I buy groceries and eat at home. I'm devoid of all injectables, which if you ask me is the biggest tragedy. I know a lot of other people feel the same way. Thank heavens we have a new administration to take us in an exciting direction.

…heh.

So say what you will about Ned, he's the only local friend I have who's sick with cash, and he offers to help constantly and I say no constantly, at least I did back when we used to speak. I didn't even know if he'd answer my call, but he did and didn't hesitate to loan me the money, and he also told me that my allergy bill came to our old house (why? I never went to that doctor before. Why did they think that was my house? why??), and it was $250 and he just paid it.

So that's going on. I always get smug judge-y people when I talk about m'cash flow, but my determination is to tell as much of the truth as I can on here without ruining anyone else's life.

Oh, also, Peg's daughter messaged me on Facebook. I'd told Peg my new number but she must have forgotten, and in desperation the daughter found me there. Apparently my full name is on Peg's power of attorney stuff, which I'm glad of.

The point is, in case you're not on Pie on the Face, Peg has been in hospital–as they say in England–and then at this rehab place (she's not DRUNK. Physical rehab) recovering from her ailments, and then yesterday she had another surgery. Peg's surgery yesterday went well, and soon she goes BACK to the rehab place.

Her daughter, who lives in Virginia, I think, has been schlepping here weekly and staying at Peg's, and I told her I'm right next door and can do whatever when she's not here. I also invited her over for coffee and kvetching if she needs to, and she said yes to that, so that'll be nice.

I hope I'll have coffee. "Hi, come on in. I have negative 14 dollars, so do you mind water? If they haven't shut off my water?"

So that's that. Also, we've had big, big changes at work, so that's been kind of stressy. Is the moon in Africa or Saturn or something? Are you going through chaos and upheaval as well? Cause this is weird. Everything's all fruit-basket upset.

I used to have this boss, who didn't like me, and that was a huge phrase with her: fruit-basket upset. It killed me. I'd have said, "fucked up," and right there's the difference between the two of us, and no wonder she didn't like me.

At least I have my youth.

Wait.

…I just got up to get more fascinating decaf (I'm almost totally decaffeinated now! This is the first time since I'm 16!), and I saw two riveting things. First of all, Steely Dan was chewing my flowers, that pretty pink plant Chris and Lilly got me a few weeks ago? (Big Book of June Events) I brought it inside cause it's been so cold, and there was SD, all chawing it, and I did the whole HSSSST! sound I do to scare the cats.

And he looked at me with nary a flinch. Kept chewing. HSSSST! has ALWAYS worked, even on Mr. Horkheimer, but SD? Nary.

So I took the plant back outside, cause it's supposed to be 79 today anyway, and as I was walking back in here, I saw Lily in the back yard, Lily my cat, which is good because if Lilly the person had driven 25 minutes to just stand in my back yard I might get more than a tad creeped out.

The point is, she was all hunched in a hunting position, Lily my cat was, twitching her ample hips this way and that. So I watched to see what would happen next. If I'd been online I'd have clicked here. You won't BELIEVE WHAT–anyway.

She pounced. On nothing. Then she tore away sideways, her ample everything swaying in the breeze.

So that's what Lily does in the yard. Hunts nothing. Somehow this is not shocking information for me.

I'd better go, so I can get to work and maybe scrounge some free food or something. Did I mention I cannot keep living like this? Maybe some 20-year-old college boy needs a room to rent. That sounds really sexy till his first night of binge drinking.

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Fruit-basket upsettedly,

Juan

Somebody better put your bag into your place

Yesterday's family stories were hilarious. I knew I'd like them. All day I wanted to tell you my friend Dave's family story, one of 3949493944 of them that he has, but I was doing that pesky work thing, and then right after work I had my hair, so hello, home at 8:30.

I mean, I always have my hair. You know what I mean.

Also, Dear Mom. I drove home and let him out to pee, then I screamed to the hair appointment 10 minutes late as a result. So you can stop feeling sorry for Edsel.

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nobody no. the trubble edz seen. no body no. edz sorrooo.

Oh, but the story, which I've probably told you before.

My friend Dave has, like, 97 sisters, all of whom are married except for one. When Dave, who is gay gay gay, goes home for Christmas, he and the unmarried sister have to ride everywhere with mom and dad, like they're still kids cause they never married.

One Christmas they were headed somewhere, and we're talking Michigan in December. It's fucking freezing. They stopped to get gas, and Dave's dad was at the pump when his mom noticed dad had a nosebleed. "Your father is bleeding," she kvetched. It was literally too cold to roll down the windows, so she was desperately trying to signal him, to no avail.

As soon as he got back to the car, she announced, "You've got blood on your face."

"You big disgrace!" Dave's sister yelled out.

"WAVIN' YOUR BANNER ALL OVER THE PLACE, SINGIN' WE WILL WE WILL ROCK YOU!" Dave and his sister began singing, delighted.

Their parents ignored them. Most stories like this involve the beleagured, Catholic, we-had-19-kids parents ignoring the shenanigans in the back seat.

That video looks like it was filmed in December in Michigan.

As I was looking for that picture of Edsel all happy on the bed, I came across these images, below. I'd forgotten that the other night, I had a dream that I met Heidi Klum and Seal, except they were literally Heidi from the book, and a seal. I was all, I thought they'd be different.

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What the hell is wrong with me? Like, really, what the hell is wrong with me. Who even thinks about Heidi Klum and/or Seal anymore?

Oh, and I also saw this photo, from last night.

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I was preparing poses for my book jacket, if I ever write a book. I'm like Annie the maid in It's a Wonderful Life. "I was saving for my divorce if ever I get a husband." Also, here is proof I got my roots done yesterday. The straightness. For one night every six weeks, I'm straight. I like just men. I'm strictly dickly.  Then I wash my hair and go back to diggin' the ladies.

I don't have Latisse anymore, part of m'paying off the credit cards, and look at my sad little lashes. It makes me feel incomplete. Sometimes I reach up and touch my little nubs of lashes and grow sad. I realize I need a life. So bad, I do.

Oh, but speaking of getting a divorce if ever I get a husband, the other night for the first time, I signed onto the bank that gives me my car loan. Last month I called them and made them help me set up an account online, so I could pay my bill like it's 2017 rather than mail a check. I was having the hardest time creating an account last month, so I called them in a huff.

I signed on, and it said, Hey, girl. Here's how much you have in checking, and in savings.

I don't have checking or savings at this bank. I have a car loan. Or as some people say, a car note, which always kind of cracks me up. Dear Driver: You have to pay for me now. Love, Car.

"Do I have an old account I forgot about? Cause, ye$!" I thought, literally saying. y-e-dollar sign in my head. I clicked into checking, saw that a literal check had been written lately, so when I clicked on the screen shot?

There was Marvin's handwriting.

Somehow, the goddamn bank had combined my car note with his checking and savings.

Also, Dear Marvin: Since when do you have savings?

"Would you like to pay your bill using one of your BB&T accounts?" the screen asked me.

Why, yes. Yes, I would. Just take this payment out of Marvin's SAVINGS, why don't you? I never sued for alimony.

Of course I did not do that. I paid for my damn car NOTE out of my own money, money that could have gone to something reasonable like Latisse. Then I texted Marvin to alert him to this, and to point out that I am a magnificent person.

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yuu may kiss steelee hand

Oh, crap, I'd better go. Damn work, then after work I have my hair.

See what I did, there?

Surreally,

Jewn

Take a survey; control June’s life

I haven't wanted to ruin what I'm certain has been a stellar weekend for you, but I've been under the weather. I know. See? I knew your mood would plummet.

Turning to your Big Binder of June Events (at this point it pretty much has to be a binder), you'll recall that my throat hurt earlier in the week, and then I rallied, and then boom. I had a sinus infection. I won't disgust you with the details, but I am not bringing sexy back. I never even purchased sexy in the first place, this weekend.

But my chills and aches are not why I brought you all here today, although you'll surely catch those now that you're Inside June. I brought you here today to help me with my windfall. M'windfall, as some might say. And those some are assholes.

I hunched out to the mailbox yesterday afternoon, because when I fell ill it's important that I walk all hunched over, so the cats feel bad for me and so on. I almost didn't open the letter from my mortgage company, because all I do is save the unopened bill to remind me to pay it, then pay it over the phone each month. But for some reason I did open it.

A check fell out.

I figured it was one of those phony checks, where if you get yourself more into debt you can cash it. But in fact, just like in Monopoly, they overestimated my escrow, whatever that means, and I had a big $524 coming to me.

If you're as broke as I am, this is big news. So now the check is just sitting there, waiting to be spent, and I can't decide what to do with it? Do I save it? (borrrrrring) Do I throw it at the credit card debt, which by the way will be a spit in the ocean but still?

Do I spend it on things that need doing around the home? For example, my motion light at the side of the house burnt out, and my handyman Alf will have to get up on big-ass ladder or a cherry picker or something to replace it. Also he found a screen in part of the roof that fell out, which could be the gateway to hell for Steely Beelzebub and his great escapes.

Alternatively, I need my chair recovered, which is supposed to cost $700, but I could throw $524 at the problem and come up with the rest.

So, what say you? Fortunately, here is a survey for you to fill out, and if you have an alternative suggestion, you could leave that in my comments.

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Click here for the link to the survey.

Thanks! Come back tomorrow for my snotty comments on the Oscars, both literally and figuratively.

Lily meowed the whole time I wrote this. Annoy.

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Having a kitten isn't as much fun as they tell you it's gonna be. I'd like to speak to the manager (swings horseshoe hair).

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Anyway. Why would you even WANT to attack the paper towel roll? At least it wasn't one of my highfalutin Alyssa Milano paper towels, from the Alyssa Milano Collection. I want you to know nothing kills me more than Alyssa Milano having a "collection" of anything, and I wish to collect anything she collects.

But I can't. Cause broke.

This is why I gathered you all here today. My last-minute trip to Michigan for my grandmother's birthday (+ pet-sitting); my next trip for my mother's [insert major number here] birthday (+ pet-sitting); my beach trip (+ pet-sitting), which I'd planned for ages; my sudden purchase of a car; plus the part where I no longer write for Purple Clover mean I am not as wealthy as I'd been. Wealthy. Pfft.

I maxed out my credit cards when Tallulah got sick. They'd been at zero, all three of them at zero, as of the first of this year, and it was January 1 that I came home and saw for the first time that Lu had peed on the floor. "Well, I wonder what THAT'S all about?" I remember thinking. I knew Edsel hadn't peed, cause he'd have turned into a guilty letter C. He did today when I walked in on the claw-ridden paper towel extravaganza.

So. Yeah. Broke. Sucks.

I wanted to ask you about your money sitch, not how much you make or anything like that, but how do you feel about it? Do you feel secure? This week when I got home from my trip, I called around all afternoon and canceled all my extras, which I had done months earlier with Kaye, but there were some things that I'd set up when I moved here last November that I was stuck with till the year was up, and now it's November again, so. So no cable at all, slower internet than I already had (I'd knocked it down a peg when Kaye did my budget), I'm polish-less, with no future manicures or pedicures in sight, and I'm thinking of looking in the want ads to see what Edsel can do. Maybe he could do dog modeling. You think?

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O. AbfoLOOTlee.

Oh, and also, my blog dues are up. Every year, I have to pay Typepad $180, and I have to do so around November 15. I can ill afford this right now, but will try, but I know some of you hit the tip jar from time to time, and if you can afford it, please consider throwing money in there. You know I don't enjoy asking, but right now, $180 is a ton for me. If you can't afford it, for heaven's sake, do not donate.

But let's discuss. Do you feel like, yeah, I'm okay with money, or are you still shaky after the whole 2008 debacle? I was already kind of hurting in 2008, as we'd just moved here from Los Angeles and I was just starting a new job and we bought a house. But things really got ugly once Marvin left. I had no job, a mortgage and a COBRA. I can't help it–no matter what I have to have my snake.

When I moved in with Ned, I was golden. Oh my god, I remember buying clothes at the real store, not Target, because we each paid $600 a month in rent, and my car was paid off, and Ned made more than me by a lot, so he paid for dinners out and so on. Those were m'salad days, and that was how I got all my cards paid off.

Then we broke up. And I moved back here. And Tallulah got sick.

So what about you? What's your story with cash money? Are you as vulnerable to what's happening outside your world as I am, or do you have a solid plan in place even if the dog gets sick or the move is inevitable or what have you? And if so, why are you such a goddamn grownup?

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In summation, I leave you with this photo of Iris in disguise. Apparently it fooled Steely Dan. ware eyeriss be? wish to bop her face relentless-lee.

I'll talk at you tomorrow. Oh! And I voted yesterday, and there wasn't even a bad line, and why they had cocaine at the voting place was beyond me.

Hilariously,

Jooooon

June. No longer a Bug. Now more of a Mini. A chubby Mini.

When I woke up yesterday, I did not know I'd be buying a car. But there it is.

Now my life is officially a country song: the man I loved done left, m'dog died, and my VW Bug up and quit on me. I just need a train off in the distance and a jail sentence.

It didn't officially quit, but the "Check Engine" light came on, which is always slightly horrifying.

"Maybe the light itself is just broken," I told myself, because I'm good at denial. "Maybe a wire got crossed or something."

Yeah. That's the ticket. You go, June.

I had a bunch of writing to do for work, so I just took my laptop and went to the car place. I was able to finish everything, in fact, while I was there. A whole car place was quieter than the open floor plan.

Finally, they called me over. "Ma'am? It isn't good."

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Oh! Just $2,753.81? Pus tax? Is that all? I have that on me.

I did what any adult would do. I texted Marvin, because he was in charge of Car Things, and he was in charge of the purchase of this car eight years ago. "Get a Mini Cooper," he said. Marvin was never one to avoid buying a car. He knows I love Mini Coopers.

I called my stepfather. Told him the deets. He asked me to never, ever say "deets." Then he said, "Sounds like maybe you should just trade it in and get another car."

When we hung up and I was talking with the car place, my mother called. "FIX THAT CAR!" she said. My mother always goes for the thrifty option. Although in this case it was hardly thrifty. I mean, my fear was if I got all these repairs, and the car is almost nine years old, won't it need expensive repairs in another year? That was my fear.

Anyway, after a whole day of obsessing about it, and asking the boys I work with because they're boys, and also asking Ned, who of course suggested I think on it for a month and a half, I did this…

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I traded in my poor yellow Bug and got a yellow Mini Cooper. It's actually one of the larger Mini Coopers, so it's, like, a not-so-Mini Cooper. It's like this one woman I worked with, who dressed like Li'l Kim, only she had some curves, so the guys in the copy room called her Medium Kim. I bought Medium Kim.

I was certainly enjoying not having a car payment every month. I went one year not having one.

Turns out, to have avoided this problem, every time my dealership sent me those phony, "It's time for your 30,000 mile checkup" or whatever? I should have actually gone to those. Who knew? See, this is why I need adult supervision.

So I'm a little sick about having to have, you know, BOUGHT A CAR, but oh god, it's cute.

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hullo, I'm cute!

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even my dashbored is cute! meedyum kim almost do pet speek, but it car speek insted.

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even my kee is cute!

That's the key! You slide that disk in and push a button. It's like the future!

Anyway, I had to clear out my regularly scheduled car, and it made me so sad. Why do we get so sad about our cars? I was in the back seat, which I hardly ever was and then I felt sad about never being in the back seat all those years, and I was pushing the seats forward to look for odds and ends that had dropped (found one Mary Kay mascara sample and this Weight Watchers key fob that looked like a sex toy) and I saw all sorts of Tallulah fur under the seats. Oh, Talu.

I also found in the back pocket of the driver's side the large book of maps Ned wasted his money buying me. Also the tire inflate-y stuff and some spare motor oil. Do you think maybe all that time Ned thought I was a lesbian? Oh, lemme get m'map, and while I change the oil, I can find out how to best drive us to the Isle of Lesbos.

I had that Bug a long time. I got it in August of 2008, when I was still married. 6a00e54f9367fb883401bb0798f0e5970d-pi

I found Tallulah in that car. Oh, wait. No I didn't. I found her in the blue Bug. Okay, but I drove Tallulah around in that car. I made out with Ned in that car. We'd meet at our old movie theater, and I'd drive him home afterward, when he lived downtown. We'd kiss in his parking lot. Which probably delighted that guard who had to work there all night.

By the time I actually made the decision and signed all the papers and so on, it was dark, so before my Aunt Mary gets here today Ima read the manual and find out where all the things are on it. Like, how do I switch over to Sirius radio, which came free? The important stuff.

Oh. Have I not mentioned my Aunt Mary is coming? She is, along with my Uncle Stuart. They'll be here through Tuesday. I took today and tomorrow off, which turned out to be stupid because their flight doesn't get in till 3:30, and really I shoulda taken off tomorrow and Friday. But there you go.

Oh, and thanks for telling me your ages and so on yesterday! I never looked to see how many comments there were total, but "a lot" seemed to fit the bill. One person was all, "I can't wait to see the results once you compile everything!"

COMPILE everything? What am I, made of time? Good gravy. Here's what we know: two of you are men. The rest of you are chicks. Amen.

I'll talk to you later. Maybe I can have Aunt Mary do an interview for my blog. I remember back when she came to visit me in Seattle, a bunch of gay guys I was friends with threw her a little party, and included an Aunt Mary handshake. Then we took her to the gay bar and then bowling, and she had a great time.

This time she gets to look at my car and meet 8,000 pets. Ain't we lucky we got 'em. Good times. Yeahhhh.

Car-ily,

June