Some nights, Edsel is just too much. With the flumping dramatically off the bed whenever I move a corpuscle. Then floomping back on a minute later. With the pressing his head on my neck as hard as he can, for pets. At 4 a.m.
So some nights I kick him out. Last night was one of those nights.
But I let Lily stay, which I rarely do, and last night I was reminded why.
Good lord. This cat has some sort of disorder. Some sort of friendliness disorder. You don’t get a cat so it’ll be friendly. You get a cat so it can lie sleekly across the room and glare at you.
“Yes, I’d like to return this cat? Yes, I do have my receipt, hang on. …Well, she’s too friendly. Something’s broken. She needs her bitch meter turned up.”
She constantly–CONSTANTLY!!–pushes her head into your hand. You have no idea how hard a cat can push her head into you till you’ve dealt with this one.
Actual, unretouched photo of Lily right this minute, making an elusive trip to the food bowl.
Meanwhile, in the back of my ranch, Edsel was left to his own devices. When I got up this morning, I saw he’d taken my robe to the couch and slept with it. So now I have to walk through this life knowing Edsel sobbed into my robe all night.
I just noticed that Lily has moved on to Iris’s dish.
And while nothing is more interesting than hearing about someone’s pets, let’s move on to talk about someone’s work. Wooo! Lemme get more coffee, June.
Busy, is what it was. I literally got 11 hours’ worth of work done in 8 yesterday, and also my blog post was published, the one I was kvetching about doing yesterday. So that was active. After work, I got my hair done because I was shooting moonbeams out my head and not in the good way. What roots?
I should just give up and go gray. If I didn’t dye my hair and didn’t get Botox, I’d save approximately 12 million dollars a month. But I’d look like hell and hate myself. But, see, I already look like hell and hate myself, just underneath “blonde” hair. I should just officially give up and embrace my inner old lady. Which is getting more and more to be my outer old lady.
One day I will look back at photos from this time and think, “I was so young!” That’s depressing.
You know, from age 12 on, I was under the misguided impression that beauty was just around the corner. That I’d just have to get through this one awkward stage and there it would be: my peak of looks. Except that never happened and I spent my whole life looking eh. Eh, she’s all right.
And now I’m on the downward spiral of age and it isn’t going to get better. Although do you watch the Real Housewives? How can you read this blog and not watch the Real Housewives, is what I wanna know. Anyway, Kyle looks particularly good this season, and not fake, either. So if I become a millionaire, maybe then I’ll start an upward spiral.
Speaking of which, I won a dollar playing instant lottery this week. Do you recall, in your Big Book of June Events, that on January 1 I won $100? And I was all, “It’s gonna be MY YEAR!”?
Turns out, it was really everyone’s year and not just mine.
Still, I hadn’t bought a lottery ticket since and the other day I had a dollar so I went to town on the machine at the grocery store and boom. Dollar. Clearly I am on some kind of streak. When I return to the grocery store–
and here is the part where my mother is shocked that two days have gone by since I last went. “Make a list, honey.” But really, what else have I got to do?
Anyway, next time I go to the store I will buy another lottery ticket with my last one, and this is how they get you hooked. Next thing you know, I’m Marge Simpson at the casino.
Remember when she got hooked on the gambling? What do you mean, you didn’t catch that episode in 29 years of that being a show? Is The Simpsons still on?
To be fair, I’ve never once watched an episode of Gunsmoke, which is the second-longest-running show after The Simpsons. But to be fairer, I was a zygote when that show started, and also, who wants to watch a Western?
There is nothing that will make me change a channel quicker than a Western. My grandmother was forever watching Westerns like they were good. Oh, look. A cactus. And a bar. And someone shooting someone. Say, is that an Indian?
HOW IS THAT INTERESTING?
Plus also, anything having to do with the courts or justice or law or murder mysteries. I just don’t care. I read some Agatha Christie when I was a kid because my Aunt Kathy loved then, and what I liked about them was her Britishness. I wanted to hear how she made a spot of tea. I didn’t care who lay prone in the drawing room.
So what I’m saying is, I have also never watched those Law and Onions or whatever they’re called. And those Murder, SUV or whatever. Of course, now I have no TV, so I watch nothing except binges of the Real Housewives, which is good because it’s reality, everyone. I only watch what’s real.
But truth be told, and pull up a chair cause I’m ’bout to tell you a shameful secret. Truth be told, those housewives shows are getting old. It’s the same thing over and over. Someone gets offended and then 8 episodes are devoted to the one woman saying. “We need to talk about how offended I was” and then they offend each other anew, or a new person gets mad, and really in the grand scheme, hoooo care. I just like to see when they pop into the plastic surgeon for a spot of collagen or when they show us how much they spent when they go shopping together. Whoever thought to always show us the cash register at the end is a brilliant person.
Also, Philip Roth died. Did you hear? I’ll bet he was a real fan of the Real Housewives.
All right, I gotta go. I realize this was a pressing post, but oh! My smoothies come today!
I don’t know how I got to be part of this demographic, but on Instagram I keep getting the same ad, where this hot young girl in her 20s lives in this million-dollar clearly NY apartment and she gets up every day and inexplicably rubs her lips in her bathroom mirror. “Every morning, I do what I gotta do,” she begins, and apparently that involves rubbing her lips. And she looks good doing it. I’d look like I had a nervous tic.
“Then I have one of my smoothies. It feels like I’m doing something naughty.”
See. That’s how hot 20-year-olds think. I’ll show you something naughty, you vanilla whippersnapper.
Anyway, then she gets this delicious-looking smoothie out her freezer, and she makes it in a fancy blender, and then
LICKS
HER
FANCY
BLENDER
and manages to look adorable doing it. Then she kisses her teensy shitty little dog and leaves.
June. Losing readers with shitty small dogs, since 2018. Just get a cat if you need such a purse-sized dog. See above about what a pleasure cats are.
The point is, I watched this ad until I became convinced that if I just got these smoothies, my life would be transfigured and I would be cute and hot and living in New York with a nervous dog the size of a button. Hashtag goals.
I hope that model isn’t real and that that’s not her real dog, cause then I would feel bad. I guess that shitty small dog is someone’s dog, right?
MY POINT is that I signed up to get these smoothies, and allegedly here is a referral link that means you get three free cups and I do, too. I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess you have to buy some, too. You’ll be stunned to hear I didn’t take time to read all about it.
I’ll report back to you on if they’re good. You can choose what kind of benefits you want and they adjust the ingredients accordingly. I chose beautifying, because I want to be 20 and a millionaire.
Delusionally,
Joon
He wants out. Though. Is the thing.
Do I even wanna know what I was thinking when I took this?
Oooo, and I went to the farmers market this weekend and got my annual plants. These are called frrrrr-deeee-glloooo-de-harbels, and they need pretty much zero care. They feel kind of hard, like a succulent, and apparently it rains just enough here that they thrive in front of my house like this.
Oh, he was FINE. He was in his carrier. IT WAS A MEOWING BIRD. Who can resist?
On Tuesday, Ned went to Taco Bell. As you do. When you’re Ned.
Yesterday I came home for lunch and noticed Edsel’s tooth was loose. That fangy one hanging out. He’s like a 6-year-old human with a loose tooth. Except he’s an 8-year-old dog, and are dogs supposed to have loose teeth? I think not.
Edsel has destroyed every “Can’t be destroyed” toy out there, till one of you–and who was that?–sent Edsel Blu. He’s on Blus #3 and #4 now (he has two, so when one goes missing in the yard or cushions, there’s a backup so he doesn’t get the shakes). It took him years to ruin Blu #1, and we left Blu #2 in Uncle Ned’s yard when we lived there, I think.
Also, this is how I’ve been writing you. With this weasel strewn across me. I just write around her. If you knew how often I just write around a cat.
My mother got me this calendar for Christmas. It’s vintage pictures of dogs, which you’d think Edsel would rip up, given his love for other canines.
Guess who chews it instead.
I leave you with this. The latest work of Steely Dan, and you know, I thought my robe was safe. He’d seemed disinterested in eating it, but I guess he had a change of heart. Well. “Heart.”
I had taken 839395945 books and surrounded the bed, so they couldn’t crawl under there and poop, and instead all I did was make it so they could still go under there and poop, but I couldn’t get under there to clean it. So. Good work, June. Efficient! You can smell my German roots. They smell like cat shit.
So I took the opportunity to scrub the empty bookshelves, which is a pleasurable way to spend one’s day off, and then I put the books back up but cannot recall how I organized them with all their gee-gaws and doo-dads that I also have up there.
Anyway, here’s the first bookshelf, and it really needs Peg’s touch, plus also I should always leave that clothes hamper right there. Hot.
So while the rest of my household, not including Steely Dan because please. It’s Friday, bitch. But while the rest of my household plans them a hot-in-the-city-tonight evening, I’m drying my hair
with my GODDAMN UNFIXED NOSE and then Ima put on some makeup and before my plans Ima head to PetSmart
Is this dry enough? It isn’t, is it. Goddammit.
…Okay, dry enough, man. PetSmart won’t shop itself. That made no sense. As opposed to the sensical smelling of my German roots.
It was at a very muddy farm, as it has rained here for like 412 days.
This did not stop the white people. No, sir. There musta been 50 people there, and also there had been goat yoga the day before, as well. It was sold out, that one was.
Lexi took this one of herself, while I had the camera at the ready this weekend. It’s hard to photograph a kitten, as they are constantly on the go.
But the point is, Edsel is an excellent kitten-sitter.
But seriously. When I open the door to the kitten room, he gets this excited whine under his breath, and they all tumble out of there
Anyway, he’s excellent with them. My mother said they’re like Fay Ray and he’s King Kong.
We met up in a part of town I really like. Everything’s old. I guess it goes without saying that if I really like something, it means it’s old.
The good news is, there was a puppy at the bar, ye olde bar, so thank heavens I left my house of pets to go out and admire pets.
But seriously. IRISH WOLFHOUND!!
Why would you know from cats, June? Why won’t you go ahead and recover that chair, June? That you already bought fabric for, June?
Careful readers will note the ears in the window, and how did he KNOW it was me? It was 5:30 on a Tuesday; every motherfucker on god’s green was coming to get his or her dog, but old Ears up there…maybe that’s why. Maybe the ears tipped him off. He could hear my thoughts or whatever from Spain.
Anyway, my giant nose and I got him home and at some point I turned into a Rembrandt with that collar. I guess it’s a scarf. Still.
But because she is from Iowa and I am from Michigan, we decided to not be a couple of pussies, and we applied the same logic to the size of our popcorn. You’ll be stunned to hear we had some left over.
Then I got up today, as per usual, and kind of forgot it was supposed to have snown–yes, snown–and went about my normal business, such as navigating the Cat Calcutta that is my hallway first thing.
But I opened the blinds, and I was all, Oh, yay! I forgot that it was supposed to have snowded. Then I checked m’phone and Oh, yay! Work is canceled. Then I checked it further, and Oh, boo. We are expected to work anyway.
Meanwhile, back inside my ranch, and that joke never gets old, Steely Dan was torn between wanting to venture outside and being highly offended that something outside kept making his paws cold.
I was in the kitchen, doing dishes because hey, dishwasher that works, and Steely Dan kept opening the damn back door, going out, trying to walk on everything that wasn’t snowy, then coming back in getting bored and doing it all over again. I’d have snapped his neck had it not been sort of cute.
He also begged to go out the front, as if maybe it hadn’t snowed in the front yard.
I also forced all the other copy editors, or CEs, and we’re called amongst the CREATIVES, to wear black and red, the official colors of copy editing. Behold The Poet, who even threw in her bunny socks.
Have you heard about him? For he is ridiculous.
Then she left for the world’s longest Christmas break.
Was not at all annoyed to pull up to my own house and have the driveway so full I couldn’t get in.
As you know, when you set down your Giant Scroll of What’s Wrong with June and pick up your Big Book of June Events, I just got a new computer. My plan was to trade in my old one for a big $155, and they sent a box for me to do just that. When I was gathering it all up to eventually put it in that box that Steely Dan has been obsessed with (chewing the corners, leaping into it from every possible angle and so on), I realized I don’t have the original mouse any longer. That was something they’d asked about when they gave me a value. “Sure, I have a working mouse!” I’d written, not thinking about how it was a pink right-and-left-clicking mouse from Office Depot.
Oh, June.
Today 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.
Also, someone is quite pleased to have a kitten friend.
Today 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.
When we left each other yesterday, dabbing at our eyes the annoying way the Real Housewives do: dab, dab dab–check Kleenex, we said every day we’d try a new lip color from my exciting Clinique set of 20 lip colors that I needfully bought. Because if there’s anything anyone needs, it’s 20 Chubby Sticks.
Since we all know this exciting post is going to end in me showing you today’s color: Fuller Fig (as opposed to yesterday’s color: Richer Raisin), I thought we’d put on our makeup altogether together.
Laura Gellar Baked Balance-n-Brighten, because you know how much I love anything with “n” instead of “and” in the title. My Aunt Mary, whose initials are QVC, sent me my first compact of this in 2015 and I’ve been using it ever since. It’s easy and it works.
Laura Mercier Secret Concealer for Undereye. It’s not a secret anymore.
I really meant to go to the store last night and get root touchup. GodDAMMIT. Anyway, Bobbi Brown eye shadow in Gray. Because it’s my prerogative.
I like how my blog about me is showing pictures of me with a reflection of me in the background. Also, carry on, my wayward sun. Jesus, with that sun. So to speak. Talk about your father, sun and holy shit it’s bright back here.
TAAA-DAAAAA!! FULLER FIG, which I just typed as “Fuller GIF.” Again, it’s not bad. I don’t wanna marry it, be June Fig. But it’s okay.
I leave you with this portrait of ennui that I took last night. Apparently there was a staff meeting no one told me about. Perhaps they’re planning a takeover.
When we left each other yesterday, saying, “No, YOU hang up,” Gus had been doing tricks in my mother’s yard, fmr., and then I might have kissed him with my red lipstick. I remember back in the ’90s, kissing my mother’s fluffy white Samoyed with my then-fushia lipstick, and my poor beleaguered stepfather in the kitchen, patiently washing it off that dog’s head.
Oh, look! A book about how we shouldn’t consume, that if we click on it takes us to Amazon so we can consume. Oh, June, you’re so ironic. Don’tcha think. A little too ironic. Yeah, I really do think.
Some families form a conga line. We form a taco line. [Insert taco/Katie-the-lesbian joke here]
My Aunt Kathy, who is a Virgo, had already decorated for Christmas. Like, that day. She started the day with no Christmas, and by the end of the day she was swinging on her North Pole.
After dinner, my cousin Big June and her husband Hill came to surprise me, and it was so cute to see them. She gets migraines, too. Is plagued by them, actually.
I returned home without incident, late Saturday night. It was too late to get Edsel from daycare, so I slept with Lily, who was beside herself that I’d returned, and if you look carefully, you can see an extremely indifferent Steely Dan down the hall.
The other, more normal, cats were happy to see me, in their cat way. “wee not say hi, but we sleep on you a lots.”
Here’s the annoying part: I’ve already let him in today. But there he is, mysteriously on the other side of the door, as he is wont to be. And yet, he still wishes for me to get up and let him in the traditional way right now. Sneak out whatever way he’s figured out? Sure. But inconveniencing me to come back in? Oh, HELL, sure. So many sures.
And he wasn’t hungry; he’d already eaten. He wasn’t sleepy. Evil rarely sleeps. He just wanted to be sure to remind me that my coffee repels him. My coffee should be stopped. As soon as he can gather funds, he’s going to bribe a lobbyist to get coffee outlawed.
Asshole. Why do I love him so? This sums up all my relationships.
I had a migraine (thanks, world), so he spent the entire day with his snout up on my berobed self. No, seriously. THE ENTIRE DAY.
Steely Dan made barf sounds from across the room and rolled his orange cat eyes.
^^^^^AMAZON LINK!^^^^^^
Not-So-Faithful-Reader Ryan and I took a walk yesterday. “You’re too TALL to photograph,” I kvetched, so he came up with this dramatic scenario so I could fit him into the frame…
Believable. Do you beLIEVE in life after love {after love after love}
Anyway, Nervous Nellie and I visited the vet yesterday, where it turns out that even though I am spending $800 a month on flea meds, the fleas are resisting and now Eds, and most likely his cat backups, are having the fleas. Dammit.
Also, I stepped on Steely Dan last night. I didn’t MEAN to. I didn’t plan a night of STOMP at my house or anything. He was in the hall, and it was dark in the hall, and he is dark, and I know you have gotten the drift and wish I’d move on already.
I leave you with the following Gladys Kravitz news: My youngster neighbor is moving. Or else he’s a lesbian on his third date.